The Fulton County Grand Jury said Friday an investigation of Atlanta's recent primary election produced ``no evidence'' that any irregularities took place.
The jury further said in term end presentments that the City Executive Committee, which had over-all charge of the election, ``deserves the praise and thanks of the City of Atlanta'' for the manner in which the election was conducted.
The September October term jury had been charged by Fulton Superior Court Judge Durwood Pye to investigate reports of possible ``irregularities'' in the hard-fought primary which was won by Mayor-nominate Ivan Allen Jr..
``Only a relative handful of such reports was received'', the jury said, ``considering the widespread interest in the election, the number of voters and the size of this city''.
The jury said it did find that many of Georgia's registration and election laws ``are outmoded or inadequate and often ambiguous''.
It recommended that Fulton legislators act ``to have these laws studied and revised to the end of modernizing and improving them''.
The grand jury commented on a number of other topics, among them the Atlanta and Fulton County purchasing departments which it said ``are well operated and follow generally accepted practices which inure to the best interest of both governments''.
However, the jury said it believes ``these two offices should be combined to achieve greater efficiency and reduce the cost of administration''.
The City Purchasing Department, the jury said, ``is lacking in experienced clerical personnel as a result of city personnel policies''.
Implementation of Georgia's automobile title law was also recommended by the outgoing jury.
It urged that the next Legislature ``provide enabling funds and re-set the effective date so that an orderly implementation of the law may be effected''.
The grand jury took a swipe at the State Welfare Department's handling of federal funds granted for child welfare services in foster homes.
``This is one of the major items in the Fulton County general assistance program'', the jury said, but the State Welfare Department ``has seen fit to distribute these funds through the welfare departments of all the counties in the state with the exception of Fulton County, which receives none of this money.
The jurors said they realize ``a proportionate distribution of these funds might disable this program in our less populous counties''.
Nevertheless, ``we feel that in the future Fulton County should receive some portion of these available funds'', the jurors said.
``Failure to do this will continue to place a disproportionate burden'' on Fulton taxpayers.
The jury also commented on the Fulton ordinary's court which has been under fire for its practices in the appointment of appraisers, guardians and administrators and the awarding of fees and compensation.
The jury said it found the court ``has incorporated into its operating procedures the recommendations'' of two previous grand juries, the Atlanta Bar Association and an interim citizens committee.
Regarding Atlanta's new million dollar airport, the jury recommended ``that when the new management takes charge Jan. 1 the airport be operated in a manner that will eliminate political influences''.
The jury did not elaborate, but it added that ``there should be periodic surveillance of the pricing practices of the concessionaires for the purpose of keeping the prices reasonable''.
On other matters, the jury recommended that:
Four additional deputies be employed at the Fulton County Jail and ``a doctor, medical intern or extern be employed for night and weekend duty at the jail''.
Fulton legislators ``work with city officials to pass enabling legislation that will permit the establishment of a fair and equitable'' pension plan for city employes.
The jury praised the administration and operation of the Atlanta Police Department, the Fulton Tax Commissioner's Office, the Bellwood and Alpharetta prison farms, Grady Hospital and the Fulton Health Department.
Mayor William B. Hartsfield filed suit for divorce from his wife, Pearl Williams Hartsfield, in Fulton Superior Court Friday.
His petition charged mental cruelty.
The couple was married Aug. 2, 1913.
Attorneys for the mayor said that an amicable property settlement has been agreed upon.
The petition listed the mayor's occupation as ``attorney'' and his age as 71.
It listed his wife's age as 74 and place of birth as Opelika, Ala..
The petition said that the couple has not lived together as man and wife for more than a year.
The Hartsfield home is at 637 E. Pelham Rd. NE.
Henry L. Bowden was listed on the petition as the mayor's attorney.
Hartsfield has been mayor of Atlanta, with exception of one brief interlude, since 1937.
His political career goes back to his election to city council in 1923.
The mayor's present term of office expires Jan. 1.
Georgia Republicans are getting strong encouragement to enter a candidate in the 1962 governor's race, a top official said Wednesday.
Robert Snodgrass, state GOP chairman, said a meeting held Tuesday night in Blue Ridge brought enthusiastic responses from the audience.
State Party Chairman James W. Dorsey added that enthusiasm was picking up for a state rally to be held Sept. 8 in Savannah at which newly elected Texas Sen. John Tower will be the featured speaker.
In the Blue Ridge meeting, the audience was warned that entering a candidate for governor would force it to take petitions out into voting precincts to obtain the signatures of registered voters.
Despite the warning, there was a unanimous vote to enter a candidate, according to Republicans who attended.
When the crowd was asked whether it wanted to wait one more term to make the race, it voted no - and there were no dissents.
The largest hurdle the Republicans would have to face is a state law which says that before making a first race, one of two alternative courses must be taken:
Five per cent of the voters in each county must sign petitions requesting that the Republicans be allowed to place names of candidates on the general election ballot, or The Republicans must hold a primary under the county unit system - a system which the party opposes in its platform.
Sam Caldwell, State Highway Department public relations director, resigned Tuesday to work for Lt. Gov. Garland Byrd's campaign.
He will be succeeded by Rob Ledford of Gainesville, who has been an assistant more than three years.
When the gubernatorial campaign starts, Caldwell is expected to become a campaign coordinator for Byrd.
The Georgia Legislature will wind up its 1961 session Monday and head for home - where some of the highway bond money it approved will follow shortly.
Before adjournment Monday afternoon, the Senate is expected to approve a study of the number of legislators allotted to rural and urban areas to determine what adjustments should be made.
Gov. Vandiver is expected to make the traditional visit to both chambers as they work toward adjournment.
Vandiver likely will mention the $ 100 million highway bond issue approved earlier in the session as his first priority item.
Meanwhile, it was learned the State Highway Department is very near being ready to issue the first $ 30 million worth of highway reconstruction bonds.
The bond issue will go to the state courts for a friendly test suit to test the validity of the act, and then the sales will begin and contracts let for repair work on some of Georgia's most heavily traveled highways.
A Highway Department source said there also is a plan there to issue some $ 3 million to $ 4 million worth of Rural Roads Authority bonds for rural road construction work.
Vandiver opened his race for governor in 1958 with a battle in the Legislature against the issuance of $ 50 million worth of additional rural roads bonds proposed by then Gov. Marvin Griffin.
The Highway Department source told The Constitution, however, that Vandiver has not been consulted yet about the plans to issue the new rural roads bonds.
Schley County Rep. B. D. Pelham will offer a resolution Monday in the House to rescind the body's action of Friday in voting itself a $ 10 per day increase in expense allowances.
Pelham said Sunday night there was research being done on whether the ``quickie'' vote on the increase can be repealed outright or whether notice would have to first be given that reconsideration of the action would be sought.
While emphasizing that technical details were not fully worked out, Pelham said his resolution would seek to set aside the privilege resolution which the House voted through 87 - 31.
A similar resolution passed in the Senate by a vote of 29 - 5.
As of Sunday night, there was no word of a resolution being offered there to rescind the action.
Pelham pointed out that Georgia voters last November rejected a constitutional amendment to allow legislators to vote on pay raises for future Legislature sessions.
A veteran Jackson County legislator will ask the Georgia House Monday to back federal aid to education, something it has consistently opposed in the past.
Barber, who is in his 13th year as a legislator, said there ``are some members of our congressional delegation in Washington who would like to see it (the resolution) passed''.
But he added that none of Georgia's congressmen specifically asked him to offer the resolution.
The resolution, which Barber tossed into the House hopper Friday, will be formally read Monday.
It says that ``in the event Congress does provide this increase in federal funds'', the State Board of Education should be directed to ``give priority'' to teacher pay raises.
After a long, hot controversy, Miller County has a new school superintendent, elected, as a policeman put it, in the ``coolest election I ever saw in this county''.
The new school superintendent is Harry Davis, a veteran agriculture teacher, who defeated Felix Bush, a school principal and chairman of the Miller County Democratic Executive Committee.
Davis received 1119 votes in Saturday's election, and Bush got 402.
Ordinary Carey Williams, armed with a pistol, stood by at the polls to insure order.
``This was the coolest, calmest election I ever saw'', Colquitt Policeman Tom Williams said.
I didn't smell a drop of liquor, and we didn't have a bit of trouble''.
The campaign leading to the election was not so quiet, however.
It was marked by controversy, anonymous midnight phone calls and veiled threats of violence.
The former county school superintendent, George P. Callan, shot himself to death March 18, four days after he resigned his post in a dispute with the county school board.
During the election campaign, both candidates, Davis and Bush, reportedly received anonymous telephone calls.
Ordinary Williams said he, too, was subjected to anonymous calls soon after he scheduled the election.
Many local citizens feared that there would be irregularities at the polls, and Williams got himself a permit to carry a gun and promised an orderly election.
Sheriff Felix Tabb said the ordinary apparently made good his promise.
``Everything went real smooth'', the sheriff said.
Committee approval of Gov. Price Daniel's ``abandoned property'' act seemed certain Thursday despite the adamant protests of Texas bankers.
Daniel personally led the fight for the measure, which he had watered down considerably since its rejection by two previous Legislatures, in a public hearing before the House Committee on Revenue and Taxation.
Under committee rules, it went automatically to a subcommittee for one week.
But questions with which committee members taunted bankers appearing as witnesses left little doubt that they will recommend passage of it.
Daniel termed ``extremely conservative'' his estimate that it would produce 17 million dollars to help erase an anticipated deficit of 63 million dollars at the end of the current fiscal year next Aug. 31.
He told the committee the measure would merely provide means of enforcing the escheat law which has been on the books ``since Texas was a republic''.
It permits the state to take over bank accounts, stocks and other personal property of persons missing for seven years or more.
The bill, which Daniel said he drafted personally, would force banks, insurance firms, pipeline companies and other corporations to report such property to the state treasurer.
The escheat law cannot be enforced now because it is almost impossible to locate such property, Daniel declared.
``If you destroy confidence in banks, you do something to the economy'', he said.
``You take out of circulation many millions of dollars''.
Rep. Charles E. Hughes of Sherman, sponsor of the bill, said a failure to enact it would ``amount to making a gift out of the taxpayers' pockets to banks, insurance and pipeline companies''.
His contention was denied by several bankers, including Scott Hudson of Sherman, Gaynor B. Jones of Houston, J. B. Brady of Harlingen and Howard Cox of Austin.
Cox argued that the bill is ``probably unconstitutional'' since, he said, it would impair contracts.
He also complained that not enough notice was given on the hearing, since the bill was introduced only last Monday.
Senators unanimously approved Thursday the bill of Sen. George Parkhouse of Dallas authorizing establishment of day schools for the deaf in Dallas and the four other largest counties.
The bill is designed to provide special schooling for more deaf students in the scholastic age at a reduced cost to the state.
There was no debate as the Senate passed the bill on to the House.
Operating budget for the day schools in the five counties of Dallas, Harris, Bexar, Tarrant and El Paso would be $ 451500, which would be a savings of $ 157460 yearly after the first year's capital outlay of $ 88000 was absorbed, Parkhouse told the Senate.
The TEA estimated there would be 182 scholastics to attend the day school in Dallas County, saving them from coming to Austin to live in the state deaf school.
Dallas may get to hear a debate on horse race parimutuels soon between Reps. V. E. Red Berry and Joe Ratcliff.
While details are still be to worked out, Ratcliff said he expects to tell home folks in Dallas why he thinks Berry's proposed constitutional amendment should be rejected.
``We're getting more' pro' letters than' con' on horse race betting'', said Ratcliff.
``But I believe if people were better informed on this question, most of them would oppose it also.
I'm willing to stake my political career on it''.
Rep. Berry, an ex gambler from San Antonio, got elected on his advocacy of betting on the ponies.
A House committee which heard his local option proposal is expected to give it a favorable report, although the resolution faces hard sledding later.
The Senate quickly whipped through its meager fare of House bills approved by committees, passing the three on the calendar.
One validated acts of school districts.
Another enlarged authority of the Beaumont Navigation District.
The third amended the enabling act for creation of the Lamar county Hospital District, for which a special constitutional amendment previously was adopted.
Without dissent, senators passed a bill by Sen. A. R. Schwartz of Galveston authorizing establishment in the future of a school for the mentally retarded in the Gulf Coast district.
Money for its construction will be sought later on but in the meantime the State Hospital board can accept gifts and donations of a site.
Two tax revision bills were passed.
One, by Sen. Louis Crump of San Saba, would aid more than 17000 retailers who pay a group of miscellaneous excise taxes by eliminating the requirement that each return be notarized.
Instead, retailers would sign a certificate of correctness, violation of which would carry a penalty of one to five years in prison, plus a $ 1000 fine.
The other bill, by Sen. A. M. Aikin Jr. of Paris, would relieve real estate brokers, who pay their own annual licensing fee, from the $ 12 annual occupation license on brokers in such as stocks and bonds.
Natural gas public utility companies would be given the right of eminent domain, under a bill by Sen. Frank Owen /3, of El Paso, to acquire sites for underground storage reservoirs for gas.
Marshall Formby of Plainview, former chairman of the Texas Highway Commission, suggested a plan to fill by appointment future vacancies in the Legislature and Congress, eliminating the need for costly special elections.
Under Formby's plan, an appointee would be selected by a board composed of the governor, lieutenant governor, speaker of the House, attorney general and chief justice of the Texas Supreme Court.
State representatives decided Thursday against taking a poll on what kind of taxes Texans would prefer to pay.
An adverse vote of 81 to 65 kept in the State Affairs Committee a bill which would order the referendum on the April 4 ballot, when Texas votes on a U.S. senator.
Rep. Wesley Roberts of Seminole, sponsor of the poll idea, said that further delay in the committee can kill the bill.
The West Texan reported that he had finally gotten Chairman Bill Hollowell of the committee to set it for public hearing on Feb. 22.
The proposal would have to receive final legislative approval, by two-thirds majorities, before March 1 to be printed on the April 4 ballot, Roberts said.
All Dallas members voted with Roberts, except Rep. Bill Jones, who was absent.
Paradise lost to the alleged water needs of Texas' big cities Thursday.
Rep. James Cotten of Weatherford insisted that a water development bill passed by the Texas House of Representatives was an effort by big cities like Dallas and Fort Worth to cover up places like Paradise, a Wise County hamlet of 250 people.
When the shouting ended, the bill passed, 114 to 4, sending it to the Senate, where a similar proposal is being sponsored by Sen. George Parkhouse of Dallas.
Most of the fire was directed by Cotten against Dallas and Sen. Parkhouse.
The bill would increase from $ 5000000 to $ 15000000 the maximum loan the state could make to a local water project.
Cotten construed this as a veiled effort by Parkhouse to help Dallas and other large cities get money which Cotten felt could better be spent providing water for rural Texas.
Statements by other legislators that Dallas is paying for all its water program by local bonds, and that less populous places would benefit most by the pending bill, did not sway Cotten's attack.
The bill's defenders were mostly small-town legislators like J. W. Buchanan of Dumas, Eligio (Kika) de la Garza of Mission, Sam F. Collins of Newton and Joe Chapman of Sulphur Springs.
``Dallas and Fort Worth can vote bonds.
This would help the little peanut districts''.
A Houston teacher, now serving in the Legislature, proposed Thursday a law reducing the time spent learning ``educational methods''.
Rep. Henry C. Grover, who teaches history in the Houston public schools, would reduce from 24 to 12 semester hours the so-called ``teaching methods'' courses required to obtain a junior or senior high school teaching certificate.
A normal year's work in college is 30 semester hours.
Grover also would require junior senior high teachers to have at least 24 semester hours credit in the subject they are teaching.
The remainder of the 4 - year college requirement would be in general subjects.
``A person with a master's degree in physics, chemistry, math or English, yet who has not taken Education courses, is not permitted to teach in the public schools'', said Grover.
College teachers in Texas are not required to have the Education courses.
The board of regents of Paris Junior College has named Dr. Clarence Charles Clark of Hays, Kan. as the school's new president.
Dr. Clark will succeed Dr. J. R. McLemore, who will retire at the close of the present school term.
Dr. Clark holds an earned Doctor of Education degree from the University of Oklahoma.
He also received a Master of Science degree from Texas A+I College and a Bachelor of Science degree from Southwestern State College, Weatherford, Okla..
In addition, Dr. Clark has studied at Rhode Island State College and Massachusetts Institute of Technology.
During his college career, Dr. Clark was captain of his basketball team and was a football letterman.
Dr. Clark has served as teacher and principal in Oklahoma high schools, as teacher and athletic director at Raymondville, Texas, High School, as an instructor at the University of Oklahoma, and as an associate professor of education at Fort Hays, Kan., State College.
He has served as a border patrolman and was in the Signal Corps of the U. S. Army.
Principals of the 13 schools in the Denton Independent School District have been re-elected for the 1961 - 62 session upon the recommendation of Supt. Chester O. Strickland.
The report, culminating a year long study of the ADC program in Cook county by a New York City welfare consulting firm, listed 10 long range recommendations designed to reduce the soaring ADC case load.
The report called racial discrimination in employment ``one of the most serious causes of family breakdown, desertion, and ADC dependency''.
The monthly cost of ADC to more than 100000 recipients in the county is 4.4 million dollars, said C. Virgil Martin, president of Carson Pirie Scott + Co., committee chairman.
``We must solve the problems which have forced these people to depend upon ADC for subsistence'', Martin said.
The volume of ADC cases will decrease, Martin reported, when the community is able to deal effectively with two problems : Relatively limited skills and discrimination in employment because of color.
These, he said, are ``two of the principal underlying causes for family breakups leading to ADC''.
Other recommendations made by the committee are:
Extension of the ADC program to all children in need living with any relatives, including both parents, as a means of preserving family unity.
Research projects as soon as possible on the causes and prevention of dependency and illegitimacy.
Indications as late as the top of the sixth were that the Birds were to end their victory drought as they coasted along with a 3 - to-o advantage.
Over the first five frames, Jack Fisher, the big righthander who figures to be in the middle of Oriole plans for a drive on the 1961 American League pennant, held the A's scoreless while yielding three scattered hits.
Then Dick Hyde, submarine ball hurler, entered the contest and only five batters needed to face him before there existed a 3 - to 3 deadlock.
A two run homer by Norm Siebern and a solo blast by Bill Tuttle tied the game, and single runs in the eighth and ninth gave the Athletics their fifth victory in eight starts.
With one down in the eighth, Marv Throneberry drew a walk and stole second as Hyde fanned Tuttle.
Catcher Frank House's throw in an effort to nab Throneberry was wide and in the dirt.
Then Heywood Sullivan, Kansas City catcher, singled up the middle and Throneberry was across with what proved to be the winning run.
Rookie southpaw George Stepanovich relieved Hyde at the start of the ninth and gave up the A's fifth tally on a walk to second baseman Dick Howser, a wild pitch, and Frank Cipriani's single under Shortstop Jerry Adair's glove into center.
The Orioles once again performed at the plate in powderpuff fashion, gathering only seven blows off the offerings of three Kansas City pitchers.
Bill Kunkel, Bob Hartman and Ed Keegan did the mound chores for the club down from West Palm Beach to play the game before 767 paying customers in Miami Stadium.
The Birds got five hits and all three of their runs off Kunkel before Hartman took over in the top of the fourth.
Hartman, purchased by the A's from the Milwaukee Braves last fall, allowed no hits in his scoreless three inning appearance, and merited the triumph.
Keegan, a 6 - foot - 3 - inch 158 - pounder, gave up the Orioles' last two safeties over the final three frames, escaping a load of trouble in the ninth when the Birds threatened but failed to tally.
In the ninth, Robinson led off with his second double of the night, a blast off the fence 375 feet deep into left.
Whitey Herzog, performing in right as the Orioles fielded possibly their strongest team of the spring, worked Keegan for a base on balls.
Then three consecutive pinch hitters failed to produce.
Pete Ward was sent in for House and, after failing in a bunt attempt, popped to Howser on the grass back of short.
John Powell, batting for Adair, fanned after fouling off two 2 - and 2 pitches, and Buddy Barker, up for Stepanovich, bounced out sharply to Jerry Lumpe at second to end the 2 - hour and - 27 - minute contest.
The Flock added a pair of tallies in the third on three straight hits after two were out.
Jackie Brandt singled deep into the hole at short to start the rally.
Jim Gentile bounced a hard shot off Kunkel's glove and beat it out for a single, and when Lumpe grabbed the ball and threw it over first baseman Throneberry's head Brandt took third and Gentile second on the error.
Then Robinson slammed a long double to left center to score both runners.
When Robinson tried to stretch his blow into a triple, he was cut down in a close play at third, Tuttle to Andy Carey.
The detailed rundown on the Kansas City scoring in the sixth went like this:
Lumpe worked a walk as the first batter to face Hyde and romped around as Siebern blasted Hyde's next toss 415 feet over the scoreboard in right center.
Carey singled on a slow bouncing ball to short which Robinson cut across to field and threw wide to first.
It was ruled a difficult chance and a hit.
Breeding to Adair to Gentile, setting up Tuttle's 390 - foot homer over the wall in left center.
If the Orioles are to break their losing streak within the next two days, it will have to be at the expense of the American League champion New York Yankees, who come in here tomorrow for a night game and a single test Sunday afternoon.
The flavor of Baltimore's Florida Grapefruit League news ripened considerably late today when the Orioles were advised that Ron Hansen has fulfilled his obligations under the Army's military training program and is ready for belated spring training.
Hansen, who slugged the 1960 Oriole high of 22 homers and drove in 86 runs on a .255 freshman average, completes the Birds' spring squad at 49 players.
The big, 22 - year old shortstop, the 1960 American league ``rookie of the year'', flew here late this afternoon from Baltimore, signed his contract for an estimated $ 15000 and was a spectator at tonight's 5 - to 3 loss to Kansas City - the winless Birds' sixth setback in a row.
The 6 - foot 3 inch Hansen checked in close to 200 pounds, 15 pounds lighter than his reporting weight last spring.
He hopes to melt off an additional eight pounds before the Flock breaks camp three weeks hence.
When he was inducted into the Army at Fort Knox, Ky., Hansen's weight had dropped to 180 - ``too light for me to be at my best'' he said.
``I feel good physically'', Hansen added, ``but I think I'll move better carrying a little less weight than I'm carrying now''.
``I think I can do a better job with the glove, now that I know the hitters around the league a little better'', he said.
Hansen will engage in his first workout at Miami Stadium prior to the opening tomorrow night of a two game weekend series with the New York Yankees.
Skinny Brown and Hoyt Wilhelm, the Flock's veteran knuckleball specialists, are slated to oppose the American League champions in tomorrow's 8 P.M. contest.
Ryne Duren and Roland Sheldon, a rookie righthander who posted a 15 - 1 record last year for the Yanks' Auburn (N.Y.) farm club of the Class - D New York-Pennsylvania League, are the probable rival pitchers.
Twenty-one year old Milt Pappas and Jerry Walker, 22, are scheduled to share the Oriole mound chores against the Bombers' Art Ditmar in Sunday's 2 P.M. encounter.
Ralph Houk, successor to Casey Stengel at the Yankee helm, plans to bring the entire New York squad here from St. Petersburg, including Joe Dimaggio and large crowds are anticipated for both weekend games.
The famed Yankee Clipper, now retired, has been assisting as a batting coach.
Pitcher Steve Barber joined the club one week ago after completing his hitch under the Army's accelerated wintertime military course, also at Fort Knox, Ky..
The 22 - year old southpaw enlisted earlier last fall than did Hansen.
``Take a ride on this one'', Brooks Robinson greeted Hansen as the Bird third sacker grabbed a bat, headed for the plate and bounced a third inning two run double off the left centerfield wall tonight.
It was the first of two doubles by Robinson, who was in a mood to celebrate.
Just before game time, Robinson's pretty wife, Connie informed him that an addition to the family can be expected late next summer.
Unfortunately, Brooks' teammates were not in such festive mood as the Orioles expired before the seven hit pitching of three Kansas City rookie hurlers.
Hansen arrived just before nightfall, two hours late, in company with Lee MacPhail; J. A. W. Iglehart, chairman of the Oriole board of directors, and Public Relations Director Jack Dunn.
Their flight was delayed, Dunn said, when a boarding ramp inflicted some minor damage to the wing of the plane.
Ex Oriole Clint Courtney, now catching for the A's is all for the American League's 1961 expansion to the West Coast.
``But they shouldda brought in Tokyo, too'', added Old Scrapiron.
``Then we'd really have someplace to go''.
Toying with her field in the early stages, Garden Fresh was asked for top speed only in the stretch by Jockey Philip Grimm and won by a length and a half in 1.24 3 - 5 for the 7 furlongs.
Richard M. Forbes's Paget, which had what seemed to be a substantial lead in the early stages, tired rapidly nearing the wire and was able to save place money only a head in front of Glen T. Hallowell's Milties Miss.
A bright sun and brisk wind had the track in a fast condition for the first time this week and 8280 St. Patty Day celebrants bet $ 842617 on the well prepared program.
Prior to the featured race, the stewards announced that apprentice James P. Verrone is suspended ten days for crowding horses and crossing the field sharply in two races on Wednesday.
Garden Fresh, the result of a mating of Better Self and Rosy Fingered, seems to improve with each start and appeared to win the St. Patrick's Day Purse with some speed in reserve.
She was moving up to the allowance department after winning a $ 10000 claiming event.
George Kerr, the swift striding Jamaican, set a meet record in the 600 - yard run in the Knights of Columbus track meet tonight, beating Purdue's Dave Mills in a hot duel in 1.10.1.
Kerr, who set the world record earlier this month in New York with a clocking of 1.09.3, wiped out Mills's early pace and beat the young Big 10 quarter-mile king by 5 yards.
Both were under the meet mark of 1.10.8 set in 1950 by Mal Whitfield.
Then Kerr, a graduate student from Illinois, moved past him on a straightaway and held off Mills's challenge on the final turn.
Mills was timed in 1.10.4.
The crowd at the twenty-first annual K. of C. Games, final indoor meet of the season, got a thrill a few minutes earlier when a slender, bespectacled woman broke the one week old world record in the half-mile run.
Mrs. Grace Butcher, of nearby Chardon, a 27 - year old housewife who has two children, finished in 2.21.6.
She snapped five tenths of a second off the mark set by Helen Shipley, of Wellsley College, in the National A.A.U. meet in Columbus, Ohio.
Bobby Waters of Sylvania, Ga., relief quarterback for the San Francisco 49ers of the National Football League, will undergo a knee operation tomorrow at Franklin Hospital here.
Waters injured his left knee in the last game of the 1960 season.
While working out in Sylvania a swelling developed in the knee and he came here to consult the team physician.
Two errors by New York Yankee shortstop Tony Kubek in the eleventh inning donated four unearned runs and a 5 - to 2 victory to the Chicago White Sox today.
Time stands still every time Moritz, a 26 - year old Army Signal Corps veteran, goes into the field.
Although he never gets to play while the clock is running, he gets a big kick - several every Saturday, in fact - out of football.
Moritz doesn't even have a nose guard or hip pads but he's one of the most valuable members of the Longhorn team that will be heavily favored Saturday over Oklahoma in the cotton bowl.
That's because he already has kicked 14 extra points in 15 tries.
He ran his string of successful conversions this season to 13 straight before one went astray last Saturday night in the 41 - 8 slaughter of Washington State.
Moritz is listed on the Longhorn roster as a right halfback, the position at which he lettered on the 1956 team.
But ask coach Darrell Royal what position he plays and you'll get the quick response, ``place kicker''.
A 208 - pound, 6 - foot 1 - inch senior from Stamford, Moritz practices nothing but place-kicking.
Last year, when he worked out at halfback all season, he didn't get into a single game.
``So I started practicing on it in spring training.
Moritz was bothered during the first two games this year by a pulled muscle in the thigh of his right (kicking) leg and, as a result, several of his successful conversions have gone barely far enough.
Moritz said Monday his leg feels fine and, as a result, he hopes to start practicing field goals this week.
He kicked several while playing at Stamford High School, including one that beat Anson, 3 - 0, in a 1953 district game.
``I kicked about 110 extra points in 135 tries during three years in high school'', he said, ``and made 26 in a row at one time.
I never did miss one in a playoff game - I kicked about 20 in the five playoff games my last two years''.
Moritz came to Texas in 1954 but his freshman football efforts were hampered by a knee injury.
He missed the 1955 season because of an operation on the ailing knee, then played 77 minutes in 1956.
His statistical record that year, when Texas won only one game and lost nine, was far from impressive : he carried the ball three times for a net gain of 10 yards, punted once for 39 yards and caught one pass for 13 yards.
But he was scholastically ineligible in 1959 and merely present last season.
Place kicking is largely a matter of timing, Moritz declared.
``Once you get the feel of it, there's not much to it.
I've tried to teach some of the other boys to kick and some of them can't seem to get the feel.
Practice helps you to get your timing down.
``It's kind of like golf - if you don't swing a club very often, your timing gets off''.
Moritz, however, kicks only about 10 or 12 extra points during each practice session.
``If you kick too much, your leg gets kinda dead'', he explained.
In their first three games, the Longhorns have had the ball 41 times and scored 16 times, or 40 per cent their total passing yardage in three games, 447 on 30 completions in 56 attempts, is only 22 yards short of their total passing yardage in 1959, when they made 469 on 37 completions in 86 tries.
Saxton has made only one second-half appearance this season and that was in the Washington State game, for four plays : he returned the kickoff 30 yards, gained five yards through the line and then uncorked a 56 - yard touchdown run before retiring to the bench.
Wingback Jack Collins injured a knee in the Washington State game but insists he'll be ready for Oklahoma.
Last week, when Royal was informed that three Longhorns were among the conference's top four in rushing, he said : ``That won't last long''.
It did n't; Monday, he had four Longhorns in the top four.
A good feeling prevailed on the SMU coaching staff Monday, but attention quickly turned from Saturday's victory to next week's problem : Rice University.
The Mustangs don't play this week.
``We're just real happy for the players'', Coach Bill Meek said of the 9 - 7 victory over the Air Force Academy.
``I think the big thing about the game was that our kids for the third straight week stayed in there pitching and kept the pressure on.
It was the first time we've been ahead this season (when John Richey kicked what proved to be the winning field goal)''.
We needed it and we got it''.
Meek expressed particular gratification at the defensive performances of end Happy Nelson and halfback Billy Gannon.
Both turned in top jobs for the second straight game.
``Nelson played magnificent football'', Meek praised.
``He knocked down the interference and made key stops lots of times.
And he caused the fumble that set up our touchdown.
He broke that boy (Air Force fullback Nick Arshinkoff) in two and knocked him loose from the football''.
Gannon contributed saving plays on the Falcons' aerial thrusts in the late stages.
One was on a fourth down screen pass from the Mustang 21 after an incomplete pass into Gannon's territory.
``He timed it just right and broke through there before the boy (halfback Terry Isaacson) had time to turn around.
He really crucified him.
He nailed it for a yard loss''.
The Air Force's, and the game 's, final play, was a long pass by quarterback Bob McNaughton which Gannon intercepted on his own 44 and returned 22 yards.
``He just lay back there and waited for it'', Meek said.
``He almost brought it back all the way''.
Except for sophomore center Mike Kelsey and fullback Mike Rice, Meek expects the squad to be physically sound for Rice.
``Kelsey is very doubtful for the Rice game'', Meek said.
``He'll be out of action all this week.
There is definitely some ligament damage in his knee''.
Rice has not played since injuring a knee in the opener with Maryland.
``He's looking a lot better, and he's able to run'', Meek explained.
``We'll let him do a lot of running this week, but I don't know if he'll be able to play''.
The game players saw the Air Force film Monday, ran for 30 minutes, then went in, while the reserves scrimmaged for 45 minutes.
``We'll work hard Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday'', Meek said, ``and probably will have a good scrimmage Friday.
We'll work out about an hour on Saturday, then we'll work Monday and Tuesday of next week, then taper off''.
SMU will play the Owls at Rice Stadium in Houston in a night game Saturday, Oct. 21.
- Held out of Texas Tech's sweat suits drill Monday at Lubbock was tackle Richard Stafford, who is undergoing treatment for a leg injury suffered in the Raiders' 38 - 7 loss to Texas A+M.
End Gene Raesz, who broke a hand in the Owl's game with LSU, was back working out with Rice Monday, and John Nichols, sophomore guard, moved back into action after a week's idleness with an ankle injury.
The Texas Aggies got a day off Monday - a special gift from Coach Jim Myers for its conference victory last Saturday night, but Myers announced that halfback George Hargett, shaken up in the Tech game, would not play against Trinity Saturday.
Halfback Bud Priddy, slowed for almost a month by a slowly mending sprained ankle, joined TCU's workout Monday.
The Dallas Texans were back home Monday with their third victory in four American Football League starts - a 19 - 12 triumph over the Denver Broncos - but their visit will be a short one.
The Texans have two more road games - at Buffalo and Houston - before they play for the home folks again, and it looks as if coach Hank Stram's men will meet the Bills just as they are developing into the kind of team they were expected to be in pre-season reckonings.
Buffalo coach Buster Ramsey, who has become one of the game's greatest collectors of quarterbacks, apparently now has found a productive pair in two ex National Football Leaguers, M. C. Reynolds and Warren Rabb.
Rabb, the former Louisiana State field general, came off the bench for his debut with the Bills Sunday and directed his new team to a 22 - 12 upset victory over the Houston Oilers, defending league champions.
``Just our luck''! exclaimed Stram.
``Buster would solve that quarterback problem just as we head that way''.
``Our interior line and our linebackers played exceptionally well'', said Stram Monday after he and his staff reviewed movies of the game.
``In fact our whole defensive unit did a good job''.
The Texans won the game through ball control, with Quarterback Cotton Davidson throwing only 17 passes.
``We always like to keep the ball as much as we can against Denver because they have such an explosive attack'', explained Stram.
``They can be going along, doing little damage, then bang, bang - they can hit a couple of passes on you for touchdowns and put you in trouble''.
The Broncs did hit two quick strikes in the final period against the Texans, but Dallas had enough of a lead to hold them off.
The principal tactic in controlling the ball was giving it to Abner Haynes, the flashy halfback.
He was called upon 26 times - more than all of the other ball carriers combined - and delivered 145 yards.
The Texans made themselves a comforting break on the opening kickoff when Denver's Al Carmichael was jarred loose from the ball when Dave Grayson, the speedy halfback, hit him and Guard Al Reynolds claimed it for Dallas.
``That permitted us to start controlling the ball right away'', said Stram, quipping, ``I think I'll put that play in the book''.
The early Southwest Conference football leaders - Texas, Arkansas and Texas A+M - made a big dent in the statistics last week.
Texas' 545 - yard spree against Washington State gave the Longhorns a 3 - game total offense of 1512 yards (1065 rushing and 447 passing) a new SWC high.
Arkansas combined 280 yards rushing with 64 yards passing (on 5 completions in 7 tosses) and a tough defense to whip TCU, and A+M, with a 38 - point bulge against Texas Tech ran up its biggest total loop play since 1950.
Completing 12 of 15 passes for 174 yards, the Aggies had a total offense of 361 yards.
Texas leads in per game rushing averages, 355 yards, and passing 149 (to Baylor's 126), but idle Baylor has the best defensive record (187.5 yards per game to Texas' 189).
A+M has the best defense against passes, 34.7 yards per game.
Not satisfied with various unofficial checks on the liveliness of baseballs currently in use, the major leagues have ordered their own tests, which are in progress at Massachusetts Institute of Technology.
Rookie Ron Nischwitz continued his pinpoint pitching Monday night as the Bears made it two straight over Indianapolis, 5 - 3.
It was Nischwitz' third straight victory of the new season and ran the Grizzlies' winning streak to four straight.
They now lead Louisville by a full game on top of the American Association pack.
Nischwitz fanned six and walked only Charley Hinton in the third inning.
He has given only the one pass in his 27 innings, an unusual characteristic for a southpaw.
The Bears took the lead in the first inning, as they did in Sunday's opener, and never lagged.
Dick McAuliffe cracked the first of his two doubles against Lefty Don Rudolph to open the Bear's attack.
After Al Paschal grounded out, Jay Cooke walked and Jim McDaniel singled home McAuliffe.
Alusik then moved Cooke across with a line drive to left.
Jay Porter drew a base on balls to fill the bases but Don Wert's smash was knocked down by Rudolph for the putout.
Nischwitz was working on a 3 hitter when the Indians bunched three of their eight hits for two runs in the sixth.
Chuck Hinton tripled to the rightfield corner, Cliff Cook and Dan Pavletich singled and Gaines' infielder roller accounted for the tallies.
The Bears added their last run in the sixth on Alusik's double and outfield flies by Porter and Wert.
Gaines hammered the ball over the left fence for the third Indianapolis run in the ninth.
Despite the 45 - degree weather the game was clicked off in 1 : 48, thanks to only three bases on balls and some good infield play.
Chico Ruiz made a spectacular play on Alusik's grounder in the hole in the fourth and Wert came up with some good stops and showed a strong arm at third base.
Cliff Cook accounted for three of the Tribe's eight hits.
It was the season's first night game and an obvious refocusing of the lights are in order.
The infield was well flooded but the expanded outfield was much too dark.
Among the spectators was the noted exotic dancer, Patti Waggin who is Mrs. Don Rudolph when off the stage.
Lefty Wyman Carey, another Denver rookie, will be on the mound against veteran John Tsitouris at 8 o'clock Tuesday night.
Ed Donnelly is still bothered by a side injury and will miss his starting turn.
Kenny Lane of Muskegon, Mich., world's seventh ranked lightweight, had little trouble in taking a unanimous decision over Rip Randall of Tyler, Tex., here Monday night.
Billy Gardner's line double, which just eluded the diving Minnie Minoso in left field, drove in Jim Lemon with the winning run with two out in the last of the ninth to give the Minnesota Twins a 6 - 5 victory over the Chicago White Sox Monday.
Lemon was on with his fourth single of the game, a liner to center.
He came all the way around on Gardner's hit before 5777 fans.
It was Gardner's second run batted in of the game and his only ones of the year.
Turk Lown was tagged with the loss, his second against no victories, while Ray Moore won his second game against a single loss.
The White Sox had taken a 5 - 4 lead in the top of the sixth on a pair of pop fly hits - a triple by Roy Sievers and single by Camilo Carreon - a walk and a sacrifice fly.
Jim Landis' 380 - foot home run over left in the first inning gave the Sox a 1 - 0 lead, but Harmon Killebrew came back in the bottom of the first with his second homer in two days with the walking Bob Allison aboard.
Al Smith's 340 - blast over left in the fourth - his fourth homer of the campaign - tied the score and Carreon's first major league home run in the fifth put the Sox back in front.
A double by Green, Allison's run scoring 2 baser, an infield single by Lemon and Gardner's solid single to center put the Twins back in front in the last of the fifth.
Boston Red Sox Outfielder Jackie Jensen said Monday night he was through playing baseball.
``I've had it'', he told a newsman.
``I know when my reflexes are gone and I'm not going to be any 25th man on the ball club''.
This was the first word from Jensen on his sudden walkout.
Jensen got only six hits in 46 at-bats for a .130 batting average in the first 12 games.
She said, when she learned Jackie was heading home:
``I'm just speculating, but I have to think Jack feels he's hurting Boston's chances''.
The Union Pacific Railroad streamliner, City of San Francisco, stopped in Ogden, Utah, for a few minutes.
Sports Writer Ensign Ritchie of the Ogden Standard Examiner went to his compartment to talk with him.
The conductor said to Ritchie : ``I don't think you want to talk to him.
You'll probably get a ball bat on the head.
He's mad at the world''.
But Jackie had gone into the station.
Ritchie walked up to him at the magazine stand.
But he warmed up after a while.
I told him what Liston had said and he said Liston was a double-crosser and said anything he (Liston) got was through a keyhole.
He said he had never talked to Liston''.
Liston is Bill Liston, baseball writer for the Boston Traveler, who quoted Jensen as saying:
``I can't hit anymore.
I can't run.
I can't throw.
Suddenly my reflexes are gone.
Just when it seems baseball might be losing its grip on the masses up pops heroics to start millions of tongues to wagging.
Both, of course, were remarkable feats and further embossed the fact that baseball rightfully is the national pastime.
Of the two cherished achievements the elderly Spahn's hitless pitching probably reached the most hearts.
It was a real stimulant to a lot of guys I know who have moved past the 2 - score year milestone.
And one of the Milwaukee rookies sighed and remarked, ``Wish I was 40, and a top grade big leaguer.
THE MODEST AND HAPPY Spahn waved off his new laurels as one of those good days.
But there surely can be no doubt about the slender southpaw belonging with the all time great lefthanders in the game's history.
Yes, with Bob Grove, Carl Hubbell, Herb Pennock, Art Nehf, Vernon Gomez, et al.
Spahn not only is a superior pitcher but a gentlemanly fine fellow, a ball player's ball player, as they say in the trade.
I remember his beardown performance in a meaningless exhibition game at Bears Stadium Oct. 14, 1951, before a new record crowd for the period of 18792.
The spectacular Mays, who reaches a decade in the big leagues come May 25, joined six other sluggers who walloped four home runs in a span of nine innings.
Incidentally, only two did it before a home audience.
Bobby Lowe of Boston was the first to hit four at home and Gil Hodges turned the trick in Brooklyn's Ebbetts Field.
Ed Delahanty and Chuck Klein of the Phillies, the Braves' Joe Adcock, Lou Gehrig of the Yankees, Pat Seerey of the White Sox and Rocky Colavito, then with Cleveland, made their history on the road.
Willie's big day revived the running argument about the relative merits of Mays and Mickey Mantle.
This is an issue which boils down to a matter of opinion, depending on whether you're an American or National fan and anti or pro Yankee.
The record books, however, would favor the Giants' ace.
In four of his nine previous seasons Mays hit as many as 25 home runs and stole as many as 25 bases.
Once the figure was 30 - 30.
The Giants who had been anemic with the bat in their windy Candlestick Park suddenly found the formula in Milwaukee's park.
It will forever be a baseball mystery how a team will suddenly start hitting after a distressing slump.
THE DENVER-AREA TV audience was privileged to see Mays' four home runs, thanks to a new arrangement made by Bob Howsam that the games are not to be blacked out when his Bears are playing at home.
This rule providing for a blackout of televised baseball 30 minutes before the start of a major or minor league game in any area comes from the game's top rulers.
The last couple of years the Bears management got the business from the ``Living Room Athletic Club'' when games were cut off.
Actually they were helpless to do anything about the nationwide policy.
This year, I am told, the CBS network will continue to abide by the rule but NBC will play to a conclusion here.
There are two more Sunday afternoons when the situation will arise.
It is an irritable rule that does baseball more harm than good, especially at the minor league level.
This dissatisfaction led to Howsam's request that the video not be terminated before the end of the game.
The powerful New York Yankees won their 19th world series in a 5 - game romp over outclassed Cincinnati, crushing the Reds in a humiliating 13 - 5 barrage Monday in the loosely played finale.
With Mickey Mantle and Yogi Berra both out of action due to injuries, the American League champs still mounted a 15 - hit attack against a parade of eight Cincinnati pitchers, the most ever used by one team in a series game.
Johnny Blanchard, Mantle's replacement, slammed a 2 - run homer as the Yankees routed loser Joey Jay in a 5 - run first inning.
Hector Lopez, subbing for Berra, smashed a 3 - run homer off Bill Henry during another 5 - run explosion in the fourth.
The Yanks also took advantage of three Cincinnati errors.
The crowd of 32589 had only two chances to applaud.
In the third Frank Robinson hammered a long home run deep into the corner of the bleachers in right center, about 400 feet away, with two men on.
Momentarily the Reds were back in the ball game, trailing only 6 - 3, but the drive fizzled when John Edwards fouled out with men on second and third and two out.
The Yankee triumph made Ralph Houk only the third man to lead a team to both a pennant and a World Series victory in his first year as a manager.
Only Bucky Harris, the ``boy manager'' of Washington in 1924, and Eddie Dyer of the St. Louis Cardinals in 1946 had accomplished the feat.
Nick Skorich, the line coach for the football champion Philadelphia Eagles, was elevated today to head coach.
Skorich received a three year contract at a salary believed to be between $ 20000 and $ 25000 a year.
He succeeds Buck Shaw, who retired at the end of last season.
The appointment was announced at a news conference at which Skorich said he would retain two members of Shaw's staff - Jerry Williams and Charlie Gauer.
Williams is a defensive coach.
Gauer works with the ends.
The selection had been expected.
Van Brocklin, the quarterback who led the Eagles to the title, was signed by the Vikings last Wednesday.
Philadelphia permitted him to seek a better connection after he had refused to reconsider his decision to end his career as a player.
With Skorich at the helm, the Eagles are expected to put more emphasis on running, rather than passing.
In the past the club depended largely on Van Brocklin's aerials.
Skorich, however, is a strong advocate of a balanced attack - split between running and passing.
Skorich, who is 39 years old, played football at Cincinnati University and then had a three year professional career as a lineman under Jock Sutherland with the Pittsburgh Steelers.
An injury forced Skorich to quit after the 1948 season.
He began his coaching career at Pittsburgh Central Catholic High School in 1949.
He remained there for four years before moving to Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute in Troy, N. Y..
Four years later he resigned to take a similar job with the Green Bay Packers.
The Eagles signed him for Shaw's staff in 1959.
Skorich began his new job auspiciously today.
At a ceremony in the reception room of Mayor Richardson Dilworth, the Eagles were honored for winning the championship.
Shaw and Skorich headed a group of players, coaches and team officials who received an engrossed copy of an official city citation and a pair of silver cufflinks shaped like a football.
With the announcement of a ``special achievement award'' to William A. Bill Shea, the awards list was completed yesterday for Sunday night's thirty-eighth annual dinner and show of the New York Chapter, Baseball Writers Association of America, at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel.
Shea, the chairman of Mayor Wagner's Baseball Committee, will be joined on the dais by Warren Spahn, the southpaw pitching ace of the Milwaukee Braves; Frank Graham, the Journal-American sports columnist; Bill Mazeroski, the World Series hero of the Pittsburgh Pirates, and Casey Stengel, the former manager of the Yankees.
Stengel will receive the Ben Epstein Good Guy Award.
Mazeroski, whose homer beat the Yankees in the final series game, will receive the Babe Ruth Award as the outstanding player in the 1960 world series.
To Spahn will go the Sid Mercer Memorial Award as the chapter's player of the year.
A crowd of 1400 is expected for the ceremonies, which will be followed by the show in which the writers will lampoon baseball personalities in skit, dance and song.
The 53 - year old Shea, a prominent corporation lawyer with a sports background, is generally recognized as the man most responsible for the imminent return of a National League club to New York.
Named by Mayor Wagner three years ago to head a committee that included James A. Farley, Bernard Gimbel and Clint Blume, Shea worked relentlessly.
His goal was to obtain a National League team for this city.
The departure of the Giants and the Dodgers to California left New York with only the Yankees.
Despite countless barriers and disappointments, Shea moved forward.
When he was unable to bring about immediate expansion, he sought to convince another National League club to move here.
When that failed, he enlisted Branch Rickey's aid in the formation of a third major league, the Continental, with New York as the key franchise.
The New York franchise is headed by Mrs. Charles Shipman Payson.
A big-league municipal stadium at Flushing Meadow Park is in the works, and once the lease is signed the local club will be formally recognized by Commissioner Ford C. Frick.
Shea's efforts figure prominently in the new stadium.
Shea and his wife, Nori, make their home at Sands Point, L. I..
Bill Jr., 20; Kathy, 15, and Patricia, 9, round out the Shea family.
Shea was born in Manhattan.
He attended New York University before switching to Georgetown University in Washington.
He played basketball there while working toward a law degree.
Later, Shea owned and operated the Long Island Indians, a minor league professional football team.
All was quiet in the office of the Yankees and the local National Leaguers yesterday.
On Friday, Roger Maris, the Yankee outfielder and winner of the American League's most-valuable-player award, will meet with Roy Hamey, the general manager.
Maris is in line for a big raise.
Arnold Palmer and Sam Snead will be among those honored at the national awards dinner of the Metropolitan Golf Writers Association tonight.
The dinner will be held at the Hotel Pierre.
Palmer, golf's leading money winner in 1960, and Snead will be saluted as the winning team in the Canada Cup matches last June in Dublin.
Deane Beman, the National Amateur champion, and all the metropolitan district champions, including Bob Gardner, the amateur title-holder, also will receive awards.
The writers' Gold Tee Award will go to John McAuliffe of Plainfield, N. J., and Palm Beach, Fla., for his sponsorship of charity tournaments.
Horton Smith of Detroit, a former president of the Professional Golfers Association, will receive the Ben Hogan Trophy for his comeback following a recent illness.
Arnold Palmer has been a blazing figure in golf over the past twelve months.
He won the Masters, the United States Open and a record $ 80738 in prize money.
He was heralded as ``Sportsman of the Year'' by Sports Illustrated, and last night was acclaimed in Rochester as the ``Professional Athlete of the Year'', a distinction that earned for him the $ 10000 diamond - studded Hickok Belt.
But he also achieved something that endeared him to every duffer who ever flubbed a shot.
A couple of weeks ago, he scored a monstrous 12 on a par 5 hole.
It made him human.
And it also stayed the hands of thousands of brooding incompetents who were meditating the abandonment of a sport whose frustrations were driving them to despair.
If such a paragon of perfection as Palmer could commit such a scoring sacrilege, there was hope left for all.
It was neither a spirit of self-sacrifice nor a yen to encourage the downtrodden that motivated Arnold.
The world's best golfer, shooting below par, came to the last hole of the opening round of the Los Angeles open with every intention of delivering a final crusher.
He boomed a 280 - yard drive.
Then the pixies and the zombies took over while the banshees wailed in the distance.
On the narrow fairway of a 508 - yard hole, Arnold whipped into his second shot.
The ball went off in a majestic arc, an out-of-bounds slice.
He tried again and once more sliced out of bounds.
He hooked the next two out of bounds on the opposite side.
``It is possible that I over corrected'', he said ruefully.
Each of the four wayward shots cost him two strokes.
``It was a nice round figure, that 12'', he said as he headed for the clubhouse, not too much perturbed.
From the standpoint of the army of duffers, however, this was easily the most heartening exhibition they had had since Ben Hogan fell upon evil ways during his heyday and scored an 11 in the Texas open.
The idol of the hackers, of course, is Ray Ainsley, who achieved a 19 in the United States Open.
Their secondary hero is another pro, Willie Chisholm, who drank his lunch during another Open and tried to blast his way out of a rock strewn gully.
Willie's partner was Long Jim Barnes, who tried to keep count.
``How many is that, Jim'' ? asked Willie at one stage of his excavation project.
``Thirteen'', said Long Jim.
``Nae, man'', said Willie, ``ye must be countin' the echoes''.
He had a 16.
Nor were there any rules to save him.
If there had been, he would have found a loophole, because Arnold is one golfer who knows the code as thoroughly as the man who wrote the book.
This knowledge has come in handy, too.
His first shot in the Open last year landed in a brook that flowed along the right side of the fairway.
The ball floated downstream.
A spectator picked up the ball and handed it to a small boy, who dropped this suddenly hot potato in a very playable lie.
Arnold sent for Joe Dey, the executive secretary of the golf association.
Joe naturally ruled that a ball be dropped from alongside the spot where it had originally entered the stream.
``I knew it all along'', confessed Arnold with a grin, ``but I just happened to think how much nicer it would be to drop one way up there''.
Yet he remains the fiercest of competitors.
He'll even bull head-on into the rules when he is sure he's right.
That's how he first won the Masters in 1958.
It happened on the twelfth hole, a 155 - yarder.
Arnold's iron shot from the tee burrowed into the bunker guarding the green, an embankment that had become soft and spongy from the rains, thereby bringing local rules into force.
``I can remove the ball, can't I'' ? asked Palmer of an official.
``No'', said the official.
``You must play it where it lies''.
``You're wrong'', said Arnold, a man who knows the rules.
He scored a 4 for the embedded ball, a 3 with the provisional one.
The golfing fathers ruled in his favor.
So he picked up a stroke with the provisional ball and won the tournament by the margin of that stroke.
Until a few weeks ago, however, Arnold Palmer was some god-like creature who had nothing in common with the duffers.
But after that 12 at Los Angeles he became one of the boys, a bigger hero than he ever had been before.
A formula to supply players for the new Minneapolis Vikings and the problem of increasing the 1961 schedule to fourteen games will be discussed by National Football League owners at a meeting at the Hotel Warwick today.
Other items on the agenda during the meetings, which are expected to continue through Saturday, concern television, rules changes, professional football's hall of fame, players' benefits and constitutional amendments.
The owners would like each club in the fourteen team league to play a home and home series with teams in its division, plus two games against teams in the other division.
However, this would require a lengthening of the season from thirteen to fourteen weeks.
``We'll have the problem of baseball at one end and weather at the other''.
Nine of the league's teams play in baseball parks and therefore face an early season conflict in dates.
If the Cardinals heed Manager Gene Mauch of the Phillies, they won't be misled by the Pirates' slower start this season.
``Pittsburgh definitely is the team to beat'', Mauch said here the other day.
``The Pirates showed they could outclass the field last year.
They have the same men, no age problem, no injuries and they also have Vinegar Bend Mizell for the full season, along with Bobby Shantz''.
Tonight at 8 o'clock the Cardinals, who gave the Pirates as much trouble as anyone did in 1960, breaking even with them, will get their first 1961 shot at baseball's world champions.
The Pirates have a 9 - 6 record this year and the Redbirds are 7 - 9.
Solly Hemus announced a switch in his starting pitcher, from Bob Gibson to Ernie Broglio, for several reasons:
Broglio's 4 - 0 won-lost record and 1.24 earned-run mark against Pittsburgh a year ago; 2.
The desire to give Broglio as many starts as possible; 3.
The Redbirds' disheartening 11 - 7 collapse against the Phillies Sunday.
Manager Hemus, eager to end a pitching slump that has brought four losses in the five games on the current home stand, moved Gibson to the Wednesday night starting assignment.
After Thursday's open date, Solly plans to open with Larry Jackson against the Cubs here Friday night.
Harvey Haddix, set back by the flu this season, will start against his former Cardinal mates, who might be playing without captain Kenny Boyer in tonight's game at Busch Stadium.
Boyer is suffering from a stiff neck.
Haddix has a 13 - 8 record against the Redbirds, despite only a 1 - 3 mark in 1960.
Pirate Manager Danny Murtaugh said he hadn't decided between Mizell and Vern Law for Wednesday's game.
After a lengthy workout yesterday, an open date, Hemus said that Bob Nieman definitely would stay in the lineup.
That means Stan Musial probably will ride the bench on the seventh anniversary of his record five home run day against the Giants.
``I have to stay with Nieman for a while'', Hemus said.
``Bill White (sore ankles) should be ready.
With a lefthander going for Pittsburgh, I may use Don Taussig in center''.
``Lindy McDaniel threw batting practice about 25 minutes, and he looked good'', Hemus said.
``He should be getting back in the groove before long.
Our pitching is much better than it has shown''.
The statistics hardly indicated that the Pirates needed extra batting practice, but Murtaugh also turned his men loose at Busch Stadium yesterday.
Despite the recession, Pittsburgh came into town with this imposing list of averages : Smoky Burgess .455, Gino Cimoli .389, Bill Virdon .340, Bob Clemente and Dick Groat, each .323, Dick Stuart .306, Don Hoak .280 and Bob Skinner .267.
Bill Mazeroski with .179 and Hal Smith with .143 were the only Pirates dragging their feet.
Perhaps the Pirate who will be the unhappiest over the news that Musial probably will sit out most of the series is Bob Friend, who was beaten by The Man twice last season on dramatic home runs.
Friend is off to a great start with a 4 - 0 record but isn't likely to see action here this week.
``We're getting Friend some runs for a change, and he has been pitching good'', Murtaugh said.
``Virdon has been blasting the ball.
No plunkers for him''.
The Pirates jumped off to an 11 - 3 start by May 1 last year, when the Redbirds as well as the Dodgers held them even over the season.
On last May 1, the Cardinals stood at 7 - 6, ending a two season fall-off on that milestone.
A year later they were 4 - 13.
Since 1949, the St. Louis club has been below .500 on May 1 just four times.
The '49 team was off to a so-so 5 - 5 beginning, then fell as low as 12 - 17 on May 23 before finishing with 96 victories.
The '52 Cards were 6 - 7 on May 1 but ended with 88 triumphs, the club's top since 1949.
Then last season the Birds tumbled as low as 11 - 18 on May 19 before recovering to make a race of it and total 86 victories.
Since 1949, the only National League club that got off to a hot start and made a runaway of the race was the '55 Dodger team.
Those Dodgers won their first 10 games and owned a 21 - 2 mark and a nine game lead by May 8.
The club that overcame the worst start in a comparable period to win the pennant was New York's '51 Giants, who dropped 11 of their first 13.
They honored the battling Billikens last night.
The most valuable player award was split three ways, among Glen Mankowski, Gordon Hartweger and Tom Kieffer.
In addition, a special award was given to Bob (Bevo) Nordmann, the 6 - foot - 10 center who missed much of the season because of a knee injury.
``You often hear people talk about team spirit and that sort of thing'', Benington said in a conversation after the ceremonies, ``but what this team had was a little different.
The boys had a tremendous respect for each other's ability.
They knew what they could do and it was often a little more than I thought they could do.
``Several times I found the players pepping me up, where it usually is the coach who is supposed to deliver the fight talk.
We'd be losing at halftime to a good team and Hartweger would say,' Don't worry, Coach - we'll get 'em all right'''.
The trio who shared the most-valuable honors were introduced by Bob Broeg, sports editor of the Post-Dispatch.
Kieffer, the only junior in the group, was commended for his ability to hit in the clutch, as well as his all-round excellent play.
Benington said, ``I've never seen a player have a game as great as Mankowski did against Bradley that day''.
Benington recalled that he once told Hartweger that he doubted Gordon would ever play much for him because he seemed to be lacking in all of the accepted basketball skills.
After the coach listed all the boy's faults, Hartweger said, ``Coach before I leave here, you'll get to like me''.
Mrs. Benington admired Gordon's spirit and did what she could to persuade her husband that the boy might help the team.
As Hartweger accepted his silver bowl, he said, ``I want to thank coach's wife for talking him into letting me play''.
Bob Burnes, sports editor of the Globe-Democrat, presented Bob Nordmann with his award.
Bevo was congratulated for his efforts to stay in shape so that he could help the team if his knee healed in time.
Within a week after the injury, suffered in St. Louis's victory in the final game of the Kentucky tournament, Nordmann was sitting on the Bill's bench doing what he could to help Benington.
On the clock given him was the inscription, ``For Outstanding Contribution to Billiken Basketball, 1960 - 61''.
``This team set a precedent that could be valuable in the future'', Benington pointed out.
``By winning against Bradley, Kentucky and Notre Dame on those teams' home courts, they showed that the home court advantage can be overcome anywhere and that it doesn's take a super team to do it''.
St. Louis University found a way to win a baseball game.
Larry Scherer last night pitched a no-hit game, said to be the first in Billiken baseball history, as the Blue and White beat Southeast Missouri State College, 5 - 1, at Crystal City.
The victory was the first of the season for the Billikens after nine defeats and a tie.
The tie was against Southeast Missouri last Friday.
Scherer also had a big night at bat with four hits in five trips including a double, Len Boehmer also was 4 - for - 5 with two doubles and Dave Ritchie had a home run and a triple.
St. Louis U. was to be in action again today with a game scheduled at 4 against Washington University at Ligget Field.
The game opened a busy week for Washington.
If it's true that contented cows give more milk, why shouldn't happy ball players produce more base hits?
The two top talents of the time, Mickey Mantle and Willie Mays, have hit the ball harder and more successfully so far this early season than at any period in careers which, to be frank about it, never have quite reached expectations.
And that's meant as a boost, not a knock.
Mays and Mantle, both 10 - year men at 30, have so much ability that, baseball men agree, they've never hit the heights.
Their heights, that is.
Mantle, the bull-necked blond switch-hitter, had one sensational triple-crown season, 1959, when he batted .365 and also led the American League in home runs, 52, and RBIs, 130.
Like the Yankees' slugger, Mays, the terror of the Giants, has had seasons that would be considered the ultimate by most players, but not by - or for - Willie.
His best years were 1954 when he hit .345 with 41 homers and '55 when he belted 51 home runs, drove in 127 and stole 24 bases.
Now, apparently happier under new managers, Mays and Mantle, the perfect players, are behaving as though they're going to pass those previous peaks.
The truth is, though, that men react differently to different treatment.
For that matter, Stan Musial is rare, possessing the disposition that enabled him to put out the same for seven managers, reserving his opinions, but not his effort.
Mantle, it's apparent, resented Casey Stengel's attempts to push and prod him into the perfection the veteran manager saw as a thrilling possibility.
The old man was almost too possessive.
Stengel inherited DiMaggio, Rizzuto, but he brought up Mantle from Class C to the majors, from Joplin to New York.
With the speed and power of the body beautiful he saw before him, Ol' Case wanted No. 7 to be not only the best homerun hitter, but also the best bunter, base-runner and outfielder.
Stengel probably preached too much in the early days when the kid wanted to pop his bubble gum and sow his oats.
Inheriting a more mature Mantle, who now has seen the sights on and off Broadway, Ralph Houk quietly bestowed, no pun intended, the mantle of authority on Mickey.
The Major decided that, rather than be led, the slugger could lead.
The opinion continues here that with a 162 - game schedule, pitching spread thin through a 10 - team league and a most inviting target in Los Angeles' Wrigley Field Jr., Mantle just might break the most glamorous record on the books, Babe Ruth's 60 homers of 1927.
Mays' day came a day earlier for Willie than for the kids and Commies this year.
Willie's wonderful walloping Sunday - four home runs - served merely to emphasize how happy he is to be playing for Alvin Dark.
Next to Leo Durocher, Dark taught Mays the most when he was a grass green rookie rushed up to the Polo Grounds 10 years ago this month, to help the Giants win a dramatic pennant.
Sizzling temperatures and hot summer pavements are anything but kind to the feet.
That is why it is important to invest in comfortable, airy types of shoes.
There are many soft and light shoe leathers available.
Many styles have perforations and an almost weightlessness achieved via unlined leathers.
Softness is found in crushed textures.
Heels place emphasis on the long legged silhouette.
Wine glass heels are to be found in both high and semi-heights.
Stacked heels are also popular on dressy or tailored shoes.
Just the barest suggestion of a heel is found on teenage pumps.
While white is the coolest summer shade, there are lots of pastel hues along with tintable fabrics that will blend with any wardrobe color.
In the tintable group are high and little heels, squared and oval throats, and shantung like textures.
Don't overlook the straws this year.
They come in crisp basket weaves in natural honey hues, along with lacy open weaves with a lustre finish in natural, white, black and a whole range of colors.
In the casual field straws feature wedge heels of cork or carved wood in a variety of styles.
The citrus tones popular in clothing are also to be found afoot.
Orange and lemon are considered important as are such pastels as blue and lilac.
In a brighter nautical vein is Ile de France blue.
Contrast trim provides other touches of color.
Spectators in white crush textures dip toe and heel in smooth black, navy and taffy tan.
Designed for summer comfort are the shoes illustrated.
At the left is a pair of dressy straw pumps in a light, but crisp texture.
In a lacy open weave shoes have a luster finish, braided collar and bow highlight on the squared throat.
At right is a casual style in a crushed unlined white leather.
An electric toothbrush (Broxodent) may soon take its place next to the electric razor in the American bathroom.
The brush moves up and down and is small enough to clean every dental surface, including the back of the teeth.
In addition, the motor has the seal of approval of the Underwriters Laboratories, which means it is safe.
The unit consists of a small motor that goes on as soon as it is plugged in.
The speed is controlled by pressing on the two brake buttons located where the index finger and thumb are placed when holding the motor.
The brushes can be cleaned and sterilized by boiling and are detachable so that every member of the family can have his own.
Most of us brush our teeth by hand.
The same can be said of shaving yet the electric razor has proved useful to many men.
The electric toothbrush moves in a vertical direction, the way dentists recommend.
The bristles are soft enough to massage the gums and not scratch the enamel.
It is conceivable that Broxodent could do a better job than ordinary brushing, especially in those who do not brush their teeth properly.
Several dentists and patients with special dental problems have experimented with the device.
The results were good although they are difficult to compare with hand brushing, particularly when the individual knows how to brush his teeth properly.
The electric gadget is most helpful when there are many crowned teeth and in individuals who are elderly, bedfast with a chronic disease, or are handicapped by disorders such as cerebral palsy or muscular dystrophy.
But for many of us, it will prove an enjoyable luxury.
It is not as convenient as the old type toothbrush and the paste tends to shimmy of the bristles.
Since the apparatus is new, it requires experimentation and changes in technique.
writes : Does numbness in the left hand at night, which awakens the person, indicate brain tumor?
This is a common symptom and the cause usually is pressure on the nerve leading to the affected hand.
The pressure may come from muscles, tendons, or bones anywhere from the neck to the hand.
writes : Do steam baths have any health value?
No, other than cleaning out the pores and making the sweat glands work harder.
An ordinary hot bath or shower will do the same.
writes : What makes my hands numb when sewing?
There are many possibilities, including poor circulation, a variety of neurological conditions, and functional disorders.
This manifestation may be an early sign of multiple sclerosis or the beginning of sewer's cramp.
writes : Does a brace help in sciatica?
writes : Does the cholesterol go down when most of the thyroid gland is removed?
No.
It usually goes up.
The cholesterol level in the blood is influenced by the glands of the body.
It is low when the thyroid is overactive and high when the gland is sluggish.
The latter is likely to occur when the thyroid is removed.
The gap between the bookshelf and the record cabinet grows smaller with each new recording catalogue.
There's more reading and instruction to be heard on discs than ever before, although the spoken rather than the sung word is as old as Thomas Alva Edison's first experiment in recorded sound.
Edison could hardly have guessed, however, that Sophocles would one day appear in stereo.
And he will avoid eye-strain in the process.
Everything from poetry to phonetics, history to histrionics, philosophy to party games has been adapted to the turntable.
For sheer ambition, take the Decca series titled modestly ``Wisdom''.
Volumes One and Two, selected from the sound tracks of a television series, contain ``conversations with the elder wise men of our day''.
These sages include poet Carl Sandburg, statesman Jawaharlal Nehru and sculptor Jacques Lipchitz, in Volume One, and playwright Sean O'Casey, David Ben-Gurion, philosopher Bertrand Russell and the late Frank Lloyd Wright in the second set.
Hugh Downs is heard interviewing Wright, for an added prestige fillip.
There's more specialization and a narrower purpose in two albums recently issued by Dover Publications.
Dover ``publishes'' what the company calls ``Listen and Learn'' productions designed to teach foreign languages.
Previous presentations have been on French, Spanish, Russian, Italian, German and Japanese.
The respective vocabularies ``essential for travel'' are available in separate albums.
Thanks to Spoken Arts Records, history buffs may hear Lincoln's ``most memorable speeches and letters'' in a two disc set, interpreted by Lincoln authority and lecturer Roy P. Basler.
As a contemporary bonus, the set includes Carl Sandburg's address at a joint session of Congress, delivered on Lincoln's birthday two years ago.
For those who ``like poetry but never get around to reading it'', the Library of Congress makes it possible for poets to be heard reading their own work.
The program was instituted in 1940, and releases are available only from the Recording Laboratory of the Library of Congress, Washington 25, D. C. A catalogue is available on request.
Newest on the list are John Ciardi, W. D. Snodgrass, I. A. Richards, Oscar Williams, Robert Hillyer, John Hall Wheelock, Stephen Vincent Benet, Edwin Muir, John Peal Bishop and Maxwell Bodenheim.
Two poets are paired on each record, in the order given above.
Decca is not the only large commercial company to impart instruction.
RCA Victor has an ambitious and useful project in a stereo series called ``Adventures in Music'', which is an instructional record library for elementary schools.
Teaching guides are included with each record.
In an effort to fortify himself against the unforeseen upsets sure to arise in the future, Herbert A. Leggett, banker editor of the Phoenix ``Arizona Progress'', reflects upon a few of the depressing experiences of the feverish fifties.
One of the roughest was the TV quiz shows, which gave him inferiority complexes.
Though it was a great relief when the big brains on these shows turned out to be frauds and phonies, it did irreparable damage to the ego of the editor and many another intelligent, well-informed American.
But the one that upset the financially wise was the professional dancer who related in a book how he parlayed his earnings into a $ 2000000 profit on the stock market.
Every man who dabbles in the market to make a little easy money on the side and suffers losses could at the time hardly face his wife who was wondering how her husband could be so dumb.
Investors breathed more freely when it was learned that this acrobatic dancer had turned magician and was only doing a best seller book to make some dough.
People who take us for suckers are like the Westerner who had on exhibit his superior marksmanship in the form of a number of bull's-eye achievements.
The promoter who wanted to sign him up for the circus asked him how he was able to do it.
He just shot at the board and then drew circles around the holes to form a bull's-eye.
One of the obstacles to the easy control of a 2 - year old child is a lack of verbal communication.
The child understands no.
He senses his mother's disapproval.
But explanations leave him confused and unmoved.
If his mother loves him, he clings to that love as a ballast.
It motivates his behavior.
He wants Mommy to think him a good boy.
He doesn't want her to look frowningly at him, or speak to him angrily.
He wants to be called sweet, good, considerate and mother's little helper.
But even mother's loving attitude will not always prevent misbehavior.
His desires are so strong that he needs constant reassurance of his mother's love for him and what she expects of him, in order to overcome them.
His own inner voice, which should tell him what not to do, has not developed.
It won't develop until he has words with which to clothe it.
The conscience is non-existent in the 2 - year old.
What can a mother do then to prevent misbehavior?
She can decrease the number of temptations.
She can remove all knick-knacks within reach.
She should offer substitutes for the temptations which seem overwhelmingly desirable to the child.
If he can't play with Mommy's magazines, he should have some old numbers of his own.
If Daddy's books are out of bounds his own picture books are not.
Toys he has can be made to act as substitutes for family temptations such as refrigerator and gas stove.
During this precarious period of development the mother should continue to influence the growth of the child's conscience.
She tells him of the consequences of his behavior.
If he bites a playmate she says, ``Danny won't like you''.
If he snatches a toy, she says, ``Caroline wants her own truck just as you do''.
There is no use trying to ``Explain'' to a 2 - year old.
Remove temptations.
Remove the child from the scene of his misbehavior.
Substitute approved objects for forbidden ones and keep telling him how he is to act.
He won't submit to his natural desires all the time, and it's Mother's love that is responsible for his good behavior.
The nuclear war is already being fought, except that the bombs are not being dropped on enemy targets - not yet.
It is being fought, moreover, in fairly close correspondence with the predictions of the soothsayers of the think factories.
They predicted escalation, and escalation is what we are getting.
The biggest nuclear device the United States has exploded measured some 15 megatons, although our B-52s are said to be carrying two 20 - megaton bombs apiece.
Some time ago, however, Mr. Khrushchev decided that when bigger bombs were made, the Soviet Union would make them.
And now, of course, the hue and cry for counter escalation is being raised on our side.
Khrushchev threatens us with a 100 - megaton bomb?
So be it - then we must embark on a crash program for 200 - megaton bombs of the common or hydrogen variety, and neutron bombs, which do not exist but are said to be the coming thing.
So escalation proceeds, ad infinitum or, more accurately, until the contestants begin dropping them on each other instead of on their respective proving grounds.
What is needed, Philip Morrison writes in The Cornell Daily Sun (October 26) is a discontinuity.
The escalation must end sometime, and probably quite soon.
``Only a discontinuity can end it'', Professor Morrison writes.
``The discontinuity can either be that of war to destruction, or that of diplomatic policy''.
Morrison points out that since our country is more urbanized than the Soviet Union or Red China, it is the most vulnerable of the great powers - Europe of course must be written off out of hand.
His proposal is opposed to that of Richard Nixon, Governor Rockefeller, past chairmen Strauss and McCone of the Atomic Energy Commission, Dr. Edward Teller and those others now enjoying their hour of triumph in the exacerbation of the cold war.
These gentlemen are calling for a resumption of testing - in the atmosphere - on the greatest possible scale, all in the name of national security.
Escalation is their first love and their last; they will be faithful unto death.
Capable as their minds may be in some directions, these guardians of the nation's security are incapable of learning, or even of observing.
If this capacity had not failed them, they would see that their enemy has made a disastrous miscalculation.
He has gained only one thing - he has exploded a 50 - megaton bomb and he probably has rockets with sufficient thrust to lob it over the shorter intercontinental ranges.
But if his purpose was to inspire terror, his action could hardly have miscarried more obviously.
Not terror, but anger and resentment have been the general reaction outside the Soviet sphere.
Khrushchev himself is reported to be concerned by the surge of animosity he has aroused, yet our own nuclear statesmen seem intent on following compulsively in his footsteps.
Thus, when the Russians sent up their first sputnik, American chagrin was human enough, and American determination to put American satellites into orbit was perfectly understandable.
But to imitate an opponent when he has made the mistake of his life would be a new high in statesmanlike folly.
When East Germans fled to the West by the thousands, paeans of joy rose from the throats of Western publicists.
They are less vocal now, when it is the West Berliners who are migrating.
The flood is not as great - only 700 a week according to one apparently conservative account - but it is symptomatic.
West Berlin morale is low and, in age distribution, the situation is unfavorable.
Nearly 18 per cent of West Berlin's 2200000 residents are sixty-five or older, only 12.8 per cent are under fifteen.
R. H. S. Crossman, M.P., writing in The Manchester Guardian, states that departures from West Berlin are now running at the rate not of 700, but of 1700 a week, and applications to leave have risen to 1900 a week.
The official statistics show that 60 per cent are employed workers or independent professional people.
The weekly loss is partly counterbalanced by 500 arrivals each week from West Germany, but the hard truth, says Crossman, is that ``The closing off of East Berlin without interference from the West and with the use only of East German, as distinct from Russian, troops was a major Communist victory, which dealt West Berlin a deadly, possibly a fatal, blow.
The gallant half city is dying on its feet''.
Another piece of evidence appears in a dispatch from Bonn in the Observer (London).
Mark Arnold-Foster writes : ``People are leaving [ West Berlin ] because they think it is dying.
They are leaving so fast that the president of the West German Employers' Federation issued an appeal this week to factory workers in the West to volunteer for six months' front-line work in factories in West Berlin.
Berlin's resilience is amazing, but if it has to hire its labor in the West the struggle will be hard indeed''.
The handwriting is on the wall.
The only hope for West Berlin lies in a compromise which will bring down the wall and reunite the city.
State Department officials refusing to show their passes at the boundary, and driving two blocks into East Berlin under military escort, will not avail.
The materials for compromise are at hand : The Nation, Walter Lippmann and other sober commentators (see Alan Clark on p. 367) have spelled them out again and again.
A compromise will leave both sides without the glow of triumph, but it will save Berlin.
Or the city can be a graveyard monument to Western intransigence, if that is what the West wants.
The removal of Stalin's body from the mausoleum he shared with Lenin to less distinguished quarters in the Kremlin wall is not unprecedented in history.
It is, in fact, a relatively mild chastisement of the dead.
A British writer, Richard Haestier, in a book, Dead Men Tell Tales, recalls that in the turmoil preceding French Revolution the body of Henry /4, who had died nearly 180 years earlier, was torn to pieces by a mob.
And in England, after the Restoration, the body of Cromwell was disinterred and hanged at Tyburn.
The head was then fixed on a pole at Westminster, and the rest of the body was buried under the gallows.
Contemplating these posthumous punishments, Stalin should not lose all hope.
Nikita Khrushchev, however, has created yet another problem for himself.
The Lenin tomb is obviously adequate for double occupancy, Moscow is a crowded city, and the creed of communism deplores waste.
Who will take Stalin's place beside Lenin?
There is Karl Marx, of course, buried in London.
The Macmillan government might be willing to let him go, but he has been dead seventy-eight years and even the Soviet morticians could not make him look presentable.
Who, then, is of sufficient stature to lodge with Lenin?
Who but Nikita himself?
Since he has just shown who is top dog, he may not be ready to receive this highest honor in the gift of the Soviet people.
Besides, he can hardly avoid musing on the instability of death which, what with exhumations and rehabilitations, seems to match that of life.
If some future Khrushchev decided to rake up the misdeeds of his revered predecessor, would not the factory workers pass the same resolutions applauding his dispossession?
When a man is laid to rest, he is entitled to stay put.
If Nikita buys a small plot in some modest rural cemetery, everyone will understand.
The appointment of U Thant of Burma as the U.N.'s Acting Secretary General - at this writing, the choice appears to be certain - offers further proof that in politics it is more important to have no influential enemies than to have influential friends.
Mongi Slim of Tunisia and Frederick Boland of Ireland were early favorites in the running, but France didn't like the former and the Soviet Union would have none of the latter.
With the neutralists maintaining pressure for one of their own to succeed Mr. Hammarskjold, U Thant emerged as the only possible candidate unlikely to be waylaid by a veto.
What is interesting is that his positive qualifications for the post were revealed only as a kind of tail to his candidacy.
In all the bitter in-fighting, the squabbles over election procedures, the complicated numbers game that East and West played on the assistant secretaries' theme, the gentleman from Burma showed himself both as a man of principle and a skilled diplomat.
He has, moreover, another qualification which augurs well for the future.
U Thant of course, will hold office until the spring of 1963, when Mr. Hammarskjold's term would have come to an end.
Whether the compromises - on both sides - that made possible the interim appointment can then be repeated remains to be seen.
Mr. Khrushchev's demand for a troika is dormant, not dead; the West may or not remain satisfied with the kind of neutralism that U Thant represents.
In a sense, the showdown promised by Mr. Hammarskjold's sudden and tragic death has been avoided; no precedents have been set as yet; structurally, the U.N. is still fluid, vulnerable to the pressures that its new and enlarged membership are bringing to bear upon it.
But at least the pessimists who believed that the world organization had plunged to its death in that plane crash in the Congo have been proved wrong.
No one who has studied the radical Right can suppose that words are their sole staple in trade.
These are mentalities which crave action - and they are beginning to get it, as Messrs. Salsich and Engh report on page 372.
Even in areas where political connotations are (deliberately ?)
left vague, the spirit of vigilantism is spreading.
``If the day should ever come that foreign invaders swarm ashore along the Gulf Coast'', the account reads, ``they can count on heavy opposition from a group of commando trained telephone employees - all girls.
Heavily armed and mobilized as a fast moving Civil Defense outfit, 23 operators and office personnel stand ready to move into action at a minute's notice''.
According to Friends, the unit was organized by John Snook, a former World War /2, commando who is vice president and general manager of the telephone company.
The girls, very fetching in their uniforms, are shown firing rockets from a launcher mounted on a dump truck; they are also trained with carbines, automatic weapons, pistols, rifles and other such ladies' accessories.
This may be opera bouffe now, but it will become more serious should the cold war mount in frenzy.
The country is committed to the doctrine of security by military means.
The doctrine has never worked; it is not working now.
The official military establishment can only threaten to use its nuclear arms; it cannot bring them into actual play.
A more dangerous formula for national frustration cannot be imagined.
Soon they will begin to hunt down the traitors they are assured are in our midst.
It is not news that Nathan Milstein is a wizard of the violin.
Certainly not in Orchestra hall where he has played countless recitals, and where Thursday night he celebrated his 20th season with the Chicago Symphony orchestra, playing the Brahms Concerto with his own slashing, demon-ridden cadenza melting into the high, pale, pure and lovely song with which a violinist unlocks the heart of the music, or forever finds it closed.
There was about that song something incandescent, for this Brahms was Milstein at white heat.
Not the noblest performance we have heard him play, or the most spacious, or even the most eloquent.
Those would be reserved for the orchestra's great nights when the soloist can surpass himself.
This time the orchestra gave him some superb support fired by response to his own high mood.
But he had in Walter Hendl a willing conductor able only up to a point.
That is, when Mr. Milstein thrust straight to the core of the music, sparks flying, bow shredding, violin singing, glittering and sometimes spitting, Mr. Hendl could go along.
He flounders and lets music sprawl.
There was in the Brahms none of the mysterious and marvelous alchemy by which a great conductor can bring soloist, orchestra and music to ultimate fusion.
So we had some dazzling and memorable Milstein, but not great Brahms.
The concert opened with another big romantic score, Schumann's Overture to Manfred, which suffered fate, this time with orchestral thrusts to the Byronic point to keep it afloat.
Hindemith's joust with Weber tunes was a considerably more serious misfortune, for it demands translucent textures, buoyant rhythms, and astringent wit.
It got the kind of scrambled, coarsened performance that can happen to best of orchestras when the man with the baton lacks technique and style.
The Bayreuth Festival opens July 23 with a new production of ``Tannhaeuser'' staged by Wieland Wagner, who is doing all the operas this time, and conducted by Wolfgang Sawallisch.
Sawalisch also conducts ``The Flying Dutch'', opening July 24.
``Parsifal'' follows July 25, with Hans Knappertsbusch conducting, and he also conducts ``Die Meistersinger'', to be presented Aug. 8 and 12.
Rudolf Kempe conducts.
No casts are listed, but Lotte Lehmann sent word that the Negro soprano, Grace Bumbry, will sing Venus in ``Tannhaeuser''.
Remember how BY a series of booking absurdities Chicago missed seeing the Bolshoi Ballet?
Remember how by lack of two big theaters Chicago missed the first visit of the Royal Danish Ballet?
Well, now we have two big theaters.
But barring a miracle, and don't hold your breath for it, Chicago will not see the Leningrad-Kirov Ballet, which stems from the ballet cradle of the Maryinsky and is one of the great companies of the world.
Before you let loose a howl saying we announced its coming, not once but several times, indeed we did.
The engagement was supposed to be all set for the big theater in McCormick Place, which Sol Hurok, ballet booker extraordinary, considers the finest house of its kind in the country - and of course he doesn't weep at the capacity, either.
It was all set.
Later the Hurok office made it Dec. 8 thru 17, a nice, long booking for the full repertory.
But if you keep a calendar of events, as we do, you noticed a conflict.
Allied Arts had booked Marlene Dietrich into McCormick Place Dec. 8 and 9.
Something had to give.
Not La Dietrich.
Allied Arts then notified us that the Kirov would cut short its Los Angeles booking, fly here to open Nov. 28, and close Dec. 2.
Shorter booking, but still a booking.
We printed it.
A couple of days later a balletomane told me he had telephoned Allied Arts for ticket information and was told ``the newspapers had made a mistake''.
These are the results.
The Kirov Ballet is firmly booked into the Shrine Auditorium, Los Angeles, Nov. 21 thru Dec. 4.
Not a chance of opening here Nov. 28 - barring that miracle.
Then why not the juicy booking Hurok had held for us?
Well, Dietrich won't budge from McCormick Place.
Then how about the Civic Opera house?
Well, Allied Arts has booked Lena Horne there for a week starting Dec. 4.
Queried about the impasse, Allied Arts said : ``Better cancel the Kirov for the time being.
It's all up in the air again''.
Will somebody please reopen the Auditorium?
Paintings and drawings by Marie Moore of St. Thomas, Virgin Islands, are shown thru Nov. 5 at the Meadows gallery, 3211 Ellis Ave., week days, 3 p.m. to 8 p.m., Sundays 3 p.m. to 6 p.m., closed Mondays.
An exhibition of Evelyn Cibula's paintings will open with a reception Nov. 5 at the Evanston Community center, 828 Davis st..
It will continue all month.
Abstractions and semi abstractions by Everett McNear are being exhibited by the University gallery of Notre Dame until Nov. 5.
In the line of operatic trades to cushion the budget, the Dallas Civic Opera will use San Francisco's new Leni Bauer-Ecsy production of ``Lucia di Lammermoor'' this season, returning the favor next season when San Francisco uses the Dallas ``Don Giovanni'', designed by Franco Zeffirelli.
H. E. Bates has scribbled a farce called ``Hark, Hark, the Lark''!
It is one of the most entertaining and irresponsible novels of the season.
If there is a moral lurking among the shenanigans, it is hard to find.
Anyway, a number of them meet here in devastating collisions.
One is an imperial London stockbroker called Jerebohm.
Another is a wily countryman called Larkin, whose blandly boisterous progress has been chronicled, I believe, in earlier volumes of Mr. Bates' comedie humaine.
What's up now?
Well, Jerebohm and his wife Pinkie have reached the stage of affluence that stirs a longing for the more atrociously expensive rustic simplicities.
They want to own a junior-grade castle, or a manor house, or some modest little place where Shakespeare might once have staged a pageant for Great Elizabeth and all her bearded courtiers.
They are willing to settle, however, in anything that offers pheasants to shoot at and peasants to work at.
And of course Larkin has just the thing they want.
It's a horror.
That's not precisely the way Larkin urges them to look at it, though.
He conjures herds of deer, and wild birds crowding the air.
He suggests that Gore Court embodies all the glories of Tudor splendor.
The stained-glass windows may have developed unpremeditated patinas, the paneling may be no more durable than the planks in a political platform.
The vast, dungeon kitchens may seem hardly worth using except on occasions when one is faced with a thousand unexpected guests for lunch.
Larkin has an answer to all that.
The spaciousness of the Tudor cooking areas, for example, will provide needed space for the extra television sets required by modern butlers, cooks and maids.
Also, perhaps, table-tennis and other indoor sports to keep them fit and contented.
It's a wonder, really, to how much mendacious trouble Larkin puts himself to sell the Jerebohms that preposterous manse.
For Larkin is already wonderfully contented with his lot.
He has a glorious wife and many children.
When he needs money to buy something like, say, the Rolls-Royce he keeps near his vegetable patch, he takes a flyer in the sale of surplus army supplies.
One of those capital-gains ventures, in fact, has saddled him with Gore Court.
He is willing to sell it just to get it off his hands.
And the Jerebohms are more than willing to buy it.
They plan to become county people who know the proper way to terminate a fox's life on earth.
If, in Larkin's eyes, they are nothing but Piccadilly farmers, he has as much to learn about them as they have to learn about the ways of truly rural living.
Mr. Bates shows us how this mutual education spreads its inevitable havoc.
First the Larkins are ahead, then the Jerebohms.
After Larkin has been persuaded to restock his tangled acres with pheasants, he poaches only what he needs for the nourishment of his family and local callers.
One of the local callers, a retired brigadier apparently left over from Kipling's tales of India, does not approve of the way Larkin gets his birds.
He doesn't think that potting them from a deck chair on the south side of the house with a quart glass of beer for sustenance is entirely sporting.
But the brigadier dines on the birds with relish.
It is truly odd and ironic that the most handsome and impressive film yet made from Miguel de Cervantes' ``Don Quixote'' is the brilliant Russian spectacle, done in wide screen and color, which opened yesterday at the Fifty-fifth Street and Sixty-eighth Street Playhouses.
More than a beautiful visualization of the illustrious adventures and escapades of the tragi-comic knight-errant and his squire, Sancho Panza, in seventeenth century Spain, this inevitably abbreviated rendering of the classic satire on chivalry is an affectingly warm and human exposition of character.
Nikolai Cherkasov, the Russian actor who has played such heroic roles as Alexander Nevsky and Ivan the Terrible, performs the lanky Don Quixote, and does so with a simple dignity that bridges the inner nobility and the surface absurdity of this poignant man.
His addle-brained knight-errant, self appointed to the ridiculous position in an age when armor had already been relegated to museums and the chivalrous code of knight-errantry had become a joke, is, as Cervantes no doubt intended, a gaunt but gracious symbol of good, moving soberly and sincerely in a world of cynics, hypocrites and rogues.
He treats this deep-eyed, bearded, bony crackpot with tangible affection and respect.
Directed by Grigory Kozintsev in a tempo that is studiously slow, he develops a sense of a high tradition shining brightly and passing gravely through an impious world.
The complexities of communication have been considerably abetted in this case by appropriately stilted English language that has been excellently dubbed in place of the Russian dialogue.
The voices of all the characters, including that of Cherkasov, have richness, roughness or color to conform with the personalities.
And the subtleties of the dialogue are most helpfully conveyed.
Since Russian was being spoken instead of Spanish, there is no violation of artistry or logic here.
Splendid, too, is the performance of Yuri Tolubeyev, one of Russia's leading comedians, as Sancho Panza, the fat, grotesque ``squire''.
Though his character is broader and more comically rounded than the don, he gives it a firmness and toughness - a sort of peasant dignity - too.
It is really as though the Russians have seen in this character the oftentimes underlying vitality and courage of supposed buffoons.
True, the pattern and flow of the drama have strong literary qualities that are a bit wearisome in the first half, before Don Quixote goes to the duke's court.
But strength and poignancy develop thenceforth, and the windmill and deathbed episodes gather the threads of realization of the wonderfulness of the old boy.
There are other good representations of peasants and people of the court by actors who are finely costumed and magnificently photographed in this last of the Russian films to reach this country in the program of joint cultural exchange.
Also on the bill at the Fifty-fifth Street is a nice ten minute color film called ``Sunday in Greenwich Village'', a tour of the haunts and joints.
Television has yet to work out a living arrangement with jazz, which comes to the medium more as an uneasy guest than as a relaxed member of the family.
There seems to be an unfortunate assumption that an hour of Chicago style jazz in prime evening time, for example, could not be justified without the trimmings of a portentous documentary.
At least this seemed to be the working hypothesis for ``Chicago and All That Jazz'', presented on NBC - TV Nov. 26.
The program came out of the NBC Special Projects department, and was slotted in the Du Pont Show of the Week series.
Perhaps Special Projects necessarily thinks along documentary lines.
As a matter of fact, this latter approach has already been tried, and with pleasing results.
A few years ago a ``Timex All Star Jazz Show'' offered a broad range of styles, ranging from Lionel Hampton's big band to the free-wheeling Dukes of Dixieland.
An enthusiastic audience confirmed the ``live'' character of the hour, and provided the interaction between musician and hearer which almost always seems to improve the quality of performance.
About that same time John Crosby's TV series on the popular arts proved again that giving jazz ample breathing space is one of the most sensible things a producer can do.
In an hour remembered for its almost rudderless movement, a score of jazz luminaries went before the cameras for lengthy periods.
The program had been arranged to permit the establishment of a mood of intense concentration on the music.
Cameras stared at soloists' faces in extreme closeups, then considerately pulled back for full views of ensemble work.
``Chicago and All That Jazz'' could not be faulted on the choice of artists.
Some of the in-person performers were Jack Teagarden, Gene Krupa, Bud Freeman, Pee Wee Russell, Johnny St. Cyr, Joe Sullivan, Red Allen, Lil Armstrong, Blossom Seeley.
Furthermore, Garry Moore makes an ideal master of ceremonies.
(He played host at the Timex show already mentioned .)
One of the script's big problems was how to blend pictures and music of the past with live performances by musicians of today.
NBC had gathered a lot of historical material which it was eager to share.
For example, there was sheet music with the word ``jazz'' in the title, to illustrate how a word of uncertain origin took hold.
Samples zoomed into closeup range in regular succession, like telephone poles passing on the highway, while representative music reinforced the mood of the late teens and 1920's.
However well chosen and cleverly arranged, such memorabilia unfortunately amounted to more of an interruption than an auxiliary to the evening's main business, which (considering the talent at hand) should probably have been the gathering of fresh samples of the Chicago style.
Another source of NBC pride was its rare film clip of Bix Beiderbecke, but this view of the great trumpeter flew by so fast that a prolonged wink would have blotted out the entire glimpse.
Similarly, in presenting still photographs of early jazz groups, the program allowed no time for a close perusal.
By trying to be both a serious survey of a bygone era and a showcase for today's artists, the program turned out to be a not quite perfect example of either.
Still, the network's willingness to experiment in this musical field is to be commended, and future essays happily anticipated.
Even Joan Sutherland may not have anticipated the tremendous reception she received from the Metropolitan Opera audience attending her debut as Lucia in Donizetti's ``Lucia di Lammermoor'' Sunday night.
The crowd staged its own mad scene in salvos of cheers and applause and finally a standing ovation as Miss Sutherland took curtain call after curtain call following a fantastic ``Mad Scene'' created on her own and with the help of the composer and the other performers.
Her entrance in Scene 2, Act 1, brought some disconcerting applause even before she had sung a note.
Thereafter the audience waxed applause happy, but discriminating operagoers reserved judgment as her singing showed signs of strain, her musicianship some questionable procedure and her acting uncomfortable stylization.
As she gained composure during the second act, her technical resourcefulness emerged stronger, though she had already revealed a trill almost unprecedented in years of performances of ``Lucia''.
She topped the sextet brilliantly.
Each high note had the crowd in ecstasy so that it stopped the show midway in the ``Mad Scene'', but the real reason was a realization of the extraordinary performance unfolding at the moment.
What followed the outburst brought almost breathless silence as Miss Sutherland revealed her mastery of a voice probably unique among sopranos today.
This big, flexible voice with uncommon range has been superbly disciplined.
Nervousness at the start must have caused the blemishes of her first scene, or she may warm up slowly.
In the fullness of her vocal splendor, however, she could sing the famous scene magnificently.
Technically it was fascinating, aurally spell-binding, and dramatically quite realistic.
Many years have passed since a Metropolitan audience heard anything comparable.
Her debut over, perhaps the earlier scenes will emerge equally fine.
The performance also marked the debut of a most promising young conductor, Silvio Varviso.
He injected more vitality into the score than it has revealed in many years.
Richard Tucker sang Edgardo in glorious voice.
His bel canto style gave the performance a special distinction.
The remainder of the cast fulfilled its assignments no more than satisfactorily just as the old production and limited stage direction proved only serviceable.
Miss Sutherland first sang Lucia at Covent Garden in 1959.
(The first Metropolitan Opera broadcast on Dec. 9 will introduce her as Lucia .)
She has since turned to Bellini, whose opera ``Beatrice di Tenda'' in a concert version with the American Opera Society introduced her to New York last season.
She will sing ``La Sonambula'' with it here next week.
Anyone for musical Ping-pong?
It's really quite fun - as long as you like games.
There are 12 of these to choose from, all of them of popular music except for the star release, Pass in Review (SP 44001).
This features the marching songs of several nations, recorded as though the various national bands were marching by your reviewing stand.
Complete with crowd effects, interruptions by jet planes, and sundry other touches of realism, this disc displays London's new technique to the best effect.
All of the jackets carry a fairly technical and detailed explanation of this new recording program.
No reference is made to the possibility of recording other than popular music in this manner, and it would not seem to lend itself well to serious music.
Directionality is greatly exaggerated most of the time; but when the sounds of the two speakers are allowed to mix, there is excellent depth and dimension to the music.
You definitely hear some of the instruments close up and others farther back, with the difference in placement apparently more distinct than would result from the nearer instruments merely being louder than the ones farther back.
This is a characteristic of good stereo recording and one of its tremendous advantages over monaural sound.
London explains that the very distinct directional effect in the Phase 4 series is due in large part to their novel methods of microphoning and recording the music on a number of separate tape channels.
In some of the numbers the instrumental parts have even been recorded at different times and then later combined on the master tape to produce special effects.
Some clue to the character of London's approach in these discs may be gained immediately from the fact that ten of the 12 titles include the word ``percussion'' or ``percussive''.
Drums, xylophones, castanets, and other percussive instruments are reproduced remarkably well.
Only too often, however, you have the feeling that you are sitting in a room with some of the instruments lined up on one wall to your left and others facing them on the wall to your right.
They are definitely in the same room with you, but your head starts to swing as though you were sitting on the very edge of a tennis court watching a spirited volley.
The Percussive Twenties (SP 44006) stirs pleasant memories with well-known songs of that day, and Johnny Keating's Kombo gives forth with tingling jazz in Percussive Moods (SP 44005).
Big Band Percussion (SP 44002) seemed one of the least attractive discs - the arrangements just didn't have so much character as the others.
There is an extraordinary sense of presence in all of these recordings, apparently obtained at least in part by emphasizing the middle and high frequencies.
The penalty for this is noticeable in the big, bold, brilliant, but brassy piano sounds in Melody and Percussion for Two Pianos (SP 44007).
Pass in Review practically guarantees enjoyment, and is a dramatic demonstration of the potentialities of any stereo music system.
Many Hollywood films manage somehow to be authentic, but not realistic.
Strange, but true - authenticity and realism often aren't related at all.
Almost every film bearing the imprimatur of Hollywood is physically authentic - in fact, impeccably so.
In any given period piece the costumes, bric-a-brac, vehicles, and decor, bear the stamp of unimpeachable authenticity.
The major studios maintain a cadre of film librarians and research specialists who look to this matter.
During the making recently of an important Biblical film, some 40 volumes of research material and sketches not only of costumes and interiors, but of architectural developments, sports arenas, vehicles, and other paraphernalia were compiled, consulted, and complied with.
But, alas, the authenticity seems to stop at the set's edge.
The drama itself - and this seems to be lavishly true of Biblical drama - often has hardly any relationship with authenticity at all.
Thus, in ``The Story of Ruth'' we have Ruth, Naomi, and Boaz and sets that are meticulously authentic.
But except for a vague adherence to the basic storyline - i.e., that Ruth remained with Naomi and finally wound up with Boaz - the film version has little to do with the Bible.
And in the new ``King of Kings'' the plot involves intrigues and twists and turns that cannot be traced to the Gospels.
Earlier this month Edward R. Murrow, director of the United States Information Agency, came to Hollywood and had dinner with more than 100 leaders of the motion picture industry.
He talked about unauthentic storylines too.
He intimated that they weren't doing the country much good in the Cold War.
And to an industry that prides itself on authenticity, he urged greater realism.
``in many corners of the globe'', he said, ``the major source of impressions about this country are in the movies they meet.
Would we want a future-day Gibbon or Macaulay recounting the saga of America with movies as his prime source of knowledge?
If a man totally ignorant of America were to judge our land and its civilization based on Hollywood alone, what conclusions do you think he might come to?
The Theatre-By-The-Sea, Matunuck, presents ``King of Hearts'' by Jean Kerr and Eleanor Brooke.
Directed by Michael Murray; settings by William David Roberts.
The cast:
Producer John Holmes has chosen a delightful comedy for his season's opener at Matunuck in Jean Kerr's ``King of Hearts''.
The dialogue is sharp, witty and candid - typical ``don't eat the daisies'' material - which has stamped the author throughout her books and plays, and it was obvious that the Theatre-by-the-Sea audience liked it.
The story is of a famous strip cartoonist, an arty individual, whose specialty is the American boy and who adopts a 10 - year old to provide him with fresh idea material.
This is when his troubles begin, not to mention a fledgling artist who he hires, and who turns out to have ideas of his own, with particular respect to the hero's sweetheart secretary.
John Heffernan, playing Larry Larkin, the cartoonist, carries the show in marvelous fashion.
This may be unfortunate, perhaps, from the standpoint of David Hedison, Providence's contribution to Hollywood, who is appearing by special arrangement with 20th Century-Fox.
Not that Mr. Hedison does not make the most of his role.
He does, and more.
But the book is written around a somewhat dizzy cartoonist, and it has to be that way.
A word should be said for Gary Morgan, a Broadway youngsters who, as the adopted son, makes life miserable for nearly everybody and Larkin in particular.
And for his playmate, Francis Coletta of West Warwick, who has a bit part, Billy.
On the whole, audiences will like this performance.
It is a tremendous book, lively, constantly moving, and the Matunuck cast does well by it.
The Newport Playhouse presents ``Epitaph For George Dillon'' by John Osborne and Anthony Creighton, directed by Wallace Gray.
The angriest young man in Newport last night was at the Playhouse, where ``Epitaph for George Dillon'' opened as the jazz festival closed.
For the hero of this work by John Osborne and Anthony Creighton is a chap embittered by more than the lack of beer during a jam session.
He's mad at a world he did not make.
Furthermore, he's something of a scoundrel, an artist whose mind and feelings are all finger-tips.
This is in contrast to the family with whom he boards.
They not only think and feel cliches but live cliches as well.
It is into this household, one eroded by irritations that have tortured the souls out of its people, that George Dillon enters at the beginning of the play.
An unsuccessful playwright and actor, he has faith only in himself and in a talent he is not sure exists.
By the end of the third act, the artist is dead but the body lingers on, a shell among other shells.
It is awfully talky, for instance, and not all of the talk is terribly impressive.
But it strikes sparks on occasion and their light causes all else to be forgotten.
There is a fine second act, as an example, one in which Samuel Groom, as Dillon, has an opportunity to blaze away in one impassioned passage after another.
This is an exciting young actor to watch.
Just as exciting but in a more technically proficient way is Laura Stuart, whose complete control of her every movement is lovely to watch.
Miss Stuart is as intensely vibrant as one could wish, almost an icy shriek threatening to explode at any moment.
Also fine are Sue Lawless, as a mother more protective and belligerent than a female spider and just as destructive, Harold Cherry, as her scratchy spouse, and Hildy Weissman, as a vegetable in human form.
Wallace Gray has directed a difficult play here, usually well, but with just a bit too much physical movement in the first act for my taste.
Still, his finale is put together with taste and a most sensitive projection of that pale sustenance, despair.
with music and lyrics by Frank Loesser, directed by Christopher Hewett, choreography by Peter Conlow, musical direction by Samuel Matlowsky.
The cast:
Everybody fell in love with Amy again last night at the Warwick Musical Theater, and Shelley Berman was to blame.
One of the finest soft shoe tunes ever invented, ``Once in Love with Amy'' is also, of course, one of the most tantalizingly persistent of light love lyrics to come out of American musical comedy in our era.
So the audience last night was all ears and eyes just after Act 2, got a rousing opening chorus, ``Where's Charley ?''
, and Berman sifted out all alone on the stage with the ambling chords and beat of the song just whispering into being.
It is greatly to Berman's credit that he made no attempt to outdo Ray Bolger.
He dropped his earlier and delightful hamming, which is about the only way to handle the old war horse called ``Charley's Aunt'', and let himself go with as an appealing an ``Amy'' as anybody could ask.
In brief, Berman played himself and not Bolger.
The whole production this week is fresh and lively.
The costumes are stunning evocations of the voluminous gowns and picture hats of the Gibson Girl days.
The ballet work is on the nose, especially in the opening number by ``The New Ashmolean Marching Society and Students' Conservatory Band'', along with a fiery and sultry Brazilian fantasia later.
Berman, whose fame has rested in recent years on his skills as a night club monologist, proved himself very much at home in musical comedy.
Sparrow size Virginia Gibson, with sparkling blue eyes and a cheerful smile, made a suitably perky Amy, while Melisande Congdon, as the real aunt, was positively monumental in the very best Gibson Girl manner.
All told, ``Where's Charley ?'' ought not to be missed.
It has a fast pace, excellent music, expert direction, and not only a good comedian, but an appealing person in his own right, Mr. Berman.
The Broadway Theater League of Rhode Island presents C. Edwin Knill's and Martin Tahse's production of ``Fiorello!''
at Veterans Memorial Auditorium.
The cast:
This is one of the happier events of the season.
The company which performed the Pulitzer Prize musical here last night and will repeat it twice today is full of bounce, the politicians are in fine voice, the chorines evoke happy memories, and the Little Flower rides to break a lance again.
I saw ``Fiorello!'' performed in New York by the original cast and I think this company is every bit as good, and perhaps better.
Certainly in the matter of principals there is nothing lacking.
Bob Carroll may not bear quite as close a physical resemblance to LaGuardia as Tom Bosley does, but I was amazed at the way he became more and more Fiorello as the evening progressed, until one had to catch one's self up and remember that this wasn't really LaGuardia come back among us again.
Then Rudy Bond was simply grand as Ben, the distraught Republican Party district chieftain.
And Paul Lipson, as Morris, the faithful one who never gets home to his Shirley's dinner, was fine, too.
As for the ladies, they were full of charm, and sincerity, and deep and abiding affection for this hurrying driving, honest, little man.
Jen Nelson, as Thea, his first wife, managed to make that short role impressive.
And little Zeme North, a Dora with real spirit and verve, was fascinating whether she was singing of her love for Floyd, the cop who becomes sewer commissioner and then is promoted into garbage, or just dancing to display her exuberant feelings.
Such fascinating novelties in the score as the fugual treatment of ``On the Side of the Angels'' and ``Politics and Poker'' were handled splendidly, and I thought Rudy Bond and his band of tuneful ward-heelers made ``Little Tin Box'' even better than it was done by the New York cast; all the words of its clever lyrics came through with perfect clarity.
The party at Floyd's penthouse gave the ``chorines'' a chance for a nostalgic frolic through all those hackneyed routines which have become a classic choreographic statement of the era's nonsense.
LaGuardia's multi lingual rallies, when he is running for Congress, are well staged, and wind up in a wild Jewish folk-dance that is really great musical theater.
Martin Tahse has established quite a reputation for himself as a successful stager of touring productions.
Not a corner has been visibly cut in this one.
The sets are remarkably elaborate for a road-show that doesn't pause long in any one place, and they are devised so that they shift with a minimum of interruption or obtrusiveness.
(Several times recently I have wondered whether shows were being staged for the sake of the script or just to entertain the audience with the spectacle of scenery being shifted right in front of their eyes.
)
It has all been done in superb style, and the result is a show which deserves the support of every person hereabouts who enjoys good musical theater.
Loew's Theater presents ``Where the Boys are'', an MGM picture produced by Joe Pasternak and directed by Henry Levin from a screenplay by George Wells.
The cast:
Since the hero, a sterling and upright fellow, is a rich Brown senior, while two Yalies are cast as virtual rapists, I suppose I should disqualify myself from sitting in judgment on ``Where the Boys are'', but I shall do nothing of the sort.
Instead - and not just to prove my objectivity - I hasten to report that it's a highly amusing film which probably does a fairly accurate job of reporting on the Easter vacation shenanigans of collegians down in Fort Lauderdale, and that it seems to come to grips quite honestly with the moral problem that most commonly vexes youngsters in this age group - that is to say, sex.
The answers the girls give struck me as reasonably varied and healthily individual.
If most of them weren't exactly specific - well, that's the way it is in life, I guess.
But at least it's reassuring to see some teenagers who don't profess to know all the answers and are thinking about their problems instead.
There are some sharp and whipping lines and some hilariously funny situations - the best of the latter being a mass impromptu plunge into a nightclub tank where a ``mermaid'' is performing.
Most of the female faces are new, or at least not too familiar.
Dolores Hart, is charming in a leading role, and quite believable.
I was delighted with Paula Prentiss' comedy performance, which was as fresh and unstilted as one's highest hopes might ask.
A couple of the males made good comedy, too - Jim Hutton and Frank Gorshin.
The only performance which was too soft for me was that of Yvette Mimieux, but since someone had to become the victim of despoilers, just to emphasize that such things do happen at these fracases, I suppose this was the attitude the part called for.
I must say, however, that I preferred the acting that had something of a biting edge to it.
To anyone who remembers Newport at its less than maximum violence, this view of what the boys and girls do in the springtime before they wing north for the Jazz Festival ought to prove entertaining.
The second feature, ``The Price of Silence'', is a British detective story that will talk your head off.
Just what is meant by ``spirit'' and by ``matter''?
The terms are generally taken for granted as though they referred to direct and axiomatic elements in the common experience of all.
Yet in the contemporary context this is precisely what one must not do.
For in the modern world neither ``spirit'' nor ``matter'' refer to any generally agreed-upon elements of experience.
We are in a transitional stage in which many of the connotations of former usage have had to be revised or rejected.
When the words are used, we are never sure which of the traditional meanings the user may have in mind, or to what extent his revisions and rejections of former understandings correspond to ours.
One of the most widespread features of contemporary thought is the almost universal disbelief in the reality of spirit.
Just a few centuries ago the world of spirits was as populous and real as the world of material entities.
Not only in popular thought but in that of the highly educated as well was this true.
In such a world the words ``matter'' and ``spirit'' both referred to directly known realities in the common experience of all.
In it important elements of Christianity and of the Biblical view of reality in general, which now cause us much difficulty, could be responded to quite naturally and spontaneously.
The progress of science over these last few centuries and the gradual replacement of Biblical by scientific categories of reality have to a large extent emptied the spirit world of the entities which previously populated it.
In carrying out this program science has undoubtedly performed a very considerable service for which it can claim due credit.
The objectification of the world of spirit in popular superstition had certainly gone far beyond what the experience of spirit could justify or support.
Science is fully competent to deal with any element of experience which arises from an object in space and time.
When, therefore, it turned its attention to the concrete entities with which popular imagination had peopled the world of spirit, these entities soon lost whatever status they had enjoyed as actual elements of external reality.
In doing so science has unquestionably cleared up widespread misconceptions, removed extraneous and illusory sources of fear, and dispelled many undesirable popular superstitions.
There have been, indeed, many important and valuable gains from the development of our present scientific view of the world for which we may be rightly grateful.
The scientific debunking of the spirit world has been in a way too successful and too thorough.
The house has been swept so clean that contemporary man has been left with no means, or at best with wholly inadequate means, for dealing with his experience of spirit.
Although the particular form of conceptualization which popular imagination had made in response to the experience of spirit was undoubtedly defective, the raw experience itself which led to such excesses remains with us as vividly as ever.
We simply find ourselves in the position of having no means for inquiring into the structure and meaning of this range of our experience.
There is no framework or structure of thought with respect to which we can organize it and no part of reality, as we know and apprehend it, with respect to which we can refer this experience.
Science has simply left us helpless and powerless in this important sector of our lives.
The situation in which we find ourselves is brought out with dramatic force in Arthur Miller's play The Crucible, which deals with the Salem witch trials.
As the play opens the audience is introduced to the community of Salem in Puritan America at the end of the eighteenth century.
Aside from a quaint concern with witches and devils which provides the immediate problem in the opening scene, it is a quite normal community.
There is no occasion to feel uneasy or disturbed about these people.
Instead, the audience can sit back at ease and, from the perspective of an enlightened time which no longer believes in such things, enjoy the dead seriousness with which the characters in the play take the witches and devils which are under discussion.
A teenage girl, Abigail Williams, is being sharply questioned by her minister uncle, the Reverend Samuel Parris, about a wild night affair in the woods in which she and some other girls had seemed to have had contact with these evil beings.
For all involved in this discussion the devil is a real entity who can really be confronted in the woods on a dark night, the demon world is populated with real creatures, and witches actually can be seen flying through the air.
As the play unfolds, however, the audience is subtly brought into the grip of an awful evil which grows with ominously gathering power and soon engulfs the community.
Everyone in Salem, saint and sinner alike, is swept up by it.
It is like a mysterious epidemic which, starting first with Abigail and Parris, spreads inexorably with a dreadfully growing virulence through the whole town until all have been infected by it.
It grows terribly and unavoidably in power and leaves in its wake a trail of misery, moral disintegration, and destruction.
The audience leaves the play under a spell, It is the kind of spell which the exposure to spirit in its living active manifestation always evokes.
This is not to attempt to say what spirit is, but only to employ a commonly used word to designate or simply identify a common experience.
In the end the good man, John Proctor, expresses what the audience has already come to feel when he says, ``A fire, a fire is burning!
I hear the boot of Lucifer, I see his filthy face''!
The tragic irony of the play is that the very belief in and concern with a devil who could be met in the woods and combatted with formulae set out in books was the very thing that prevented them from detecting the real devil when he came among them.
We marvel at their blindness for not seeing this.
Yet are not we of the mid twentieth century, who rightly do not believe there is any such ``thing'' as the devil, just as bad off as they - only in a different way?
In our disbelief we think that we can no longer even use the word and so are unable to even name the elemental power which is so vividly real in this play.
We are left helpless to cope with it because we do not dare speak of it as anything real for fear that to do so would imply a commitment to that which has already been discredited and proved false.
Even Mr. Miller himself seems uncertain on this score.
And his belief is not to his discredit.
Better minds than Hale's were - and still are - convinced that there is a society of spirits beyond our ken''.
(page 33) On the other hand, a little later on he says:
``Since 1692 a great but superficial change has wiped out God's beard and the Devil's horns, but the world is still gripped between two diametrically opposed absolutes.
The concept of unity, in which positive and negative are attributes of the same force, in which good and evil are relative, ever-changing, and always joined to the same phenomenon - such a concept is still reserved to the physical sciences and to the few who have grasped the history of ideas.
When we see the steady and methodical inculcation into humanity of the idea of man's worthlessness - until redeemed - the necessity of the Devil may become evident as a weapon, a weapon designed and used time and time again in every age to whip men into a surrender to a particular church or church-state''.
Apparently he does not intend that those who read or view this play should think of the devil as being actually real.
Yet such is the dramatic power of his writing that the audience is nevertheless left in the grip of the terrible power and potency of that which came over Salem.
It casts a spell upon them so that they leave with a feeling of having been in the mysterious presence of an evil power.
For this does not account for the integral, elemental power of that which grows with abounding vigor as the play unfolds, nor does it explain the strange numinous sense of presentness which comes over those who watch the play like a spell.
The reality of spirit emerges in this play in spite of the author's convictions to the contrary.
There is nothing in the whole range of human experience more widely known and universally felt than spirit.
Apart from spirit there could be no community, for it is spirit which draws men into community and gives to any community its unity, cohesiveness, and permanence.
Think, for example, of the spirit of the Marine Corps.
Surely this is a reality we all acknowledge.
We cannot, of course, assign it any substance.
It is not material and is not a ``thing'' occupying space and time.
Yet it exists and has an objective reality which can be experienced and known.
Every community, if it is alive has a spirit, and that spirit is the center of its unity and identity.
In searching for clues which might lead us to a fresh apprehension of the reality of spirit, the close connection between spirit and community is likely to prove the most fruitful.
For it is primarily in community that we know and experience spirit.
It is spirit which gives life to a community and causes it to cohere.
It is the spirit which is the source of a community's drawing power by means of which others are drawn into it from the world outside so that the community grows and prospers.
Yet the spirit which lives in community is not identical with the community.
The idea of community and the idea of spirit are two distinct and separable ideas.
One characteristic of the spirit in community is its givenness.
The members of the community do not create the spirit but rather find it present and waiting for them.
The spirit of the Marine Corps was present and operative before any of the present members of it came into it.
It is they, of course, who keep it alive and preserve it so the same spirit will continue to be present in the Corps for future recruits to find as they come into it.
If the content of faith is to be presented today in a form that can be ``understanded of the people'' - and this, it must not be forgotten, is one of the goals of the perennial theological task - there is no other choice but to abandon completely a mythological manner of representation.
This does not mean that mythological language as such can no longer be used in theology and preaching.
The absurd notion that demythologization entails the expurgation of all mythological concepts completely misrepresents Bultmann's intention.
His point is not that mythology may not be used, but that it may no longer be regarded as the only or even the most appropriate conceptuality for expressing the Christian kerygma.
When we say that a mythological mode of thought must be completely abandoned, we mean it must be abandoned as the sole or proper means for presenting the Christian understanding of existence.
Mythological concepts may by all means still be used, but they can be used responsibly only as ``symbols'' or ``ciphers'', that is, only if they are also constantly interpreted in non mythological (or existential) terms.
The statement is often made that when Bultmann argues in this way, he ``overestimates the intellectual stumbling-block which myth is supposed to put in the way of accepting the Christian faith''.
If Bultmann's own definition of myth is strictly adhered to (and it is interesting that this is almost never done by those who make such pronouncements), the evidence is overwhelming that he does not at all exaggerate the extent to which the mythological concepts of traditional theology have become incredible and irrelevant.
Nor is it necessary to look for such evidence in the great urban centers of our culture that are admittedly almost entirely secularized and so profoundly estranged from the conventional forms in which the gospel has been communicated.
On the contrary, even in the heart of ``the Bible belt'' itself, as can be attested by any one who is called to work there, the industrial and technological revolutions have long been under way, together with the corresponding changes in man's picture of himself and his world.
In fact, it is in just such a situation that the profundity of Bultmann's argument is disclosed.
Although the theological forms of the past continue to exist in a way they do not in a more secularized situation, the striking thing is the rapidity with which they are being reduced to a marginal existence.
This is especially in evidence among the present generation of the suburban middle class.
Time and again in counseling and teaching, one encounters members of this group whose attempts to bring into some kind of unity the insubstantial mythologies of their ``fundamentalist'' heritage and the stubborn reality of the modern world are only too painfully obvious.
The same thing is also evidenced by the extreme ``culture Protestantism'' so often observed to characterize the preaching and teaching of the American churches.
In the absence of a truly adequate conceptuality in which the gospel can be expressed, the unavoidable need to demythologize it makes use of whatever resources are at hand - and this usually means one or another of the various forms of ``folk religion'' current in the situation.
But it is to say that this need is far more important for such infatuation than most of the pundits seem to have suspected.
However, even if the latent demand for demythologization is not nearly as widespread as we are claiming, at least among the cultured elements of the population there tends to be an almost complete indifference to the church and its traditional message of sin and grace.
To be sure, when this is pointed out, a common response among certain churchmen is to fulminate about ``the little flock'' and ``the great crowd'' and to take solace from Paul's castigation of the ``wisdom of the wise'' in the opening chapter of First Corinthians.
But can we any longer afford the luxury of such smug indignation?
Can the church risk assuming that the ``folly'' of men is as dear to God as their ``wisdom'', or, as is also commonly implied, that ``the foolishness of God'' and ``the foolishness of men'' are simply two ways of talking about the same thing?
Can we continue to alienate precisely those whose gifts we so desperately need and apart from whose co-operation our mission in the world must become increasingly precarious?
There is an ancient and venerable tradition in the church (which derives, however, from the heritage of the Greeks rather than from the Bible) that God is completely independent of his creation and so has no need of men for accomplishing his work in the world.
by analogy, the church also has been regarded as entirely independent of the ``world'' in the sense of requiring nothing from it in order to be the church.
But, as Scripture everywhere reminds us, God does have need of his creatures, and the church, a fortiori, can ill afford to do without the talents with which the world, by God's providence, presents it.
Until we translate this gospel into a language that enlightened men today can understand, we are depriving ourselves of the very resources on which the continued success of our witness most certainly depends.
In arguing in this way, we are obviously taking for granted that a demythologized restatement of the kerygma can be achieved; and that we firmly believe this will presently become evident when we set forth reasons to justify such a conviction.
But the main point here is that even if such a restatement were not possible, the demand to demythologize the kerygma would still be unavoidable.
This is what we mean when we say this demand must be accepted without condition.
If to be a Christian means to say yes where I otherwise say no, or where I do not have the right to say anything at all, then my only choice is to refuse to be a Christian.
Expressed differently : if the price for becoming a faithful follower of Jesus Christ is some form of self-destruction, whether of the body or of the mind - sacrificium corporis, sacrificium intellectus - then there is no alternative but that the price remain unpaid.
This must be stressed because it is absolutely essential to the argument of this concluding chapter.
Modern man, as Dietrich Bonhoeffer has told us, has ``come of age''; and though this process by no means represents an unambiguous gain and is, in fact, marked by the estrangement from the depths that seems to be the cost of human maturation, it is still a positive step forward; and those of us who so richly benefit from it should be the last to despise it.
In any event, it is an irreversible step, and if we are at all honest with ourselves, we will know we have no other alternative than to live in the world in which God has seen fit to place us.
We have aligned ourselves with that ``liberal'' tradition in Protestant Christianity that counts among the great names in its history those of Schleiermacher, Ritschl, Herrmann, Harnack, and Troeltsch, and more recently, Schweitzer and the early Barth and, in part at least, Bultmann.
It is to this same tradition that most of the creative figures in the last century and a half of American theology also belong.
For we must number here not only the names of Bushnell, Clarke, and Rauschenbusch, not to mention those of ``the Chicago School'' and Macintosh, but those of the brothers Niebuhr and (if America may claim him!)
Tillich as well.
Finally, we may also mention the several members of the self-consciously ``neoliberal'' movement that developed at the University of Chicago and is heavily indebted philosophically to the creative work of Alfred North Whitehead.
What makes this long and diverse tradition essentially one is that those who have belonged to it have been profoundly in earnest about being modern men in a distinctively modern world.
Although they have also been concerned to stand squarely within the tradition of the apostolic church, they have exhibited no willingness whatever to sacrifice their modernity to their Christianity.
They have insisted, rather, on living fully and completely within modern culture and, so far from considering this treason to God, have looked upon it as the only way they could be faithful to him.
When we say, then, that today, in our situation, the demand for demythologization must be accepted without condition, we are simply saying that at least this much of the liberal tradition is an enduring achievement.
In affirming this we have already taken the decisive step in breaking the deadlock into which Bultmann's attempt to formulate such a theology has led.
For we have said, in effect, that of the two alternatives to his position variously represented by the other participants in the demythologizing discussion, only one is really an alternative.
If the demand for demythologization is unavoidable and so must be accepted by theology unconditionally, the position of the ``right'' is clearly untenable.
Whereas Bultmann's ``center'' position is structurally inconsistent and is therefore indefensible on formal grounds alone, the general position of the ``right'', as represented, say, by Karl Barth, involves the rejection or at least qualification of the demand for demythologization and so is invalidated on the material grounds we have just considered.
It follows, then, provided the possibilities have been exhausted, that the only real alternative is the general viewpoint of the ``left'', which has been represented on the Continent by Fritz Buri and, to some extent at least, is found in much that is significant in American and English theology.
In order to make the implications of our position as clear as possible, we may develop this argument at greater length.
We may show, first, that there cannot possibly be an alternative other than the three typically represented by Bultmann, Barth, and Buri.
To do this, it is sufficient to point out that if the principle in terms of which alternatives are to be conceived is such as to exclude more than two, then the question of a ``third'' possibility is a meaningless question.
Thus, if what is at issue is whether ``All S is P'', it is indifferent whether ``Some S is not P'' or ``No S is P'', since in either case the judgment in question is false.
Therefore, the only conceivable alternatives are those represented, on the one hand, by the two at least apparently self-consistent but mutually exclusive positions of Buri and Barth and, on the other hand, by the third but really pseudo position (analogous to a round square) of Bultmann.
A second point requires more extended comment.
It will be recalled from the discussion in Section 7 that the position of the ``right'', as represented by Barth, rests on the following thesis : The only tenable alternative to Bultmann's position is a theology that (1) rejects or at least qualifies his unconditioned demand for demythologization and existential interpretation; (2) accepts instead a special biblical hermeneutics or method of interpretation; and (3) in so doing, frees itself to give appropriate emphasis to the event Jesus Christ by means of statements that, from Bultmann's point of view, are mythological.
One hundred years ago there existed in England the Association for the Promotion of the Unity of Christendom.
Representing as it did the efforts of only unauthorized individuals of the Roman and Anglican Churches, and urging a communion of prayer unacceptable to Rome, this association produced little fruit, and, in fact, was condemned by the Holy Office in 1864.
Now again in 1961, in England, there is perhaps nothing in the religious sphere so popularly discussed as Christian unity.
The Church Unity Octave, January 18 - 25, was enthusiastically devoted to prayer and discussion by the various churches.
Many people seem hopeful, yet it is difficult to predict whether or not there will be any more real attainment of Christian unity in 1961 than there was in 1861.
But it must be readily seen that the religious picture in England has so greatly changed during these hundred years as to engender hope, at least on the Catholic side.
I came to England last summer to do research on the unpublished letters of Cardinal Newman.
As an American Catholic of Irish ancestry, I came with certain preconceptions and expectations; being intellectually influenced by Newman and the general 19th century literature of England, I knew only a Protestant dominated country.
Since arriving here, however, I have formed a far different religious picture of present-day England.
In representing part of this new picture, I will be recounting some of my own personal experiences, reactions and judgments; but my primary aim is to transcribe what Englishmen themselves are saying and writing and implying about the Roman and Anglican Churches and about the present religious state of England.
Since the Protestant clergy for the most part wear gray or some variant from the wholly black suit, my Roman collar and black garb usually identify me in England as a Roman Catholic cleric.
In any case, I have always been treated with the utmost courtesy by Englishmen, even in Devonshire and Cornwall, where anti Catholic feeling has supposedly existed the strongest and longest.
Nowhere have I seen public expression of anti-Catholicism.
On my first Guy Fawkes Day here, I found Catholics as well as non Catholics celebrating with the traditional fireworks and bonfires, and was told that most Englishmen either do not know or are not concerned with the historical significance of the day.
A Birmingham newspaper printed in a column for children an article entitled ``The True Story of Guy Fawkes'', which began:
In the 355 years since the first Guy Fawkes Night, much of the story has been forgotten, so here is a reminder''.
The article proceeded to give an inaccurate account of a catholic plot to kill King James /1 1,.
In spite of the increase in numbers and prestige brought about by the conversions of Newman and other Tractarians of the 1840's and 1850 's, the Catholic segment of England one hundred years ago was a very small one (four per cent, or 800000) which did not enjoy a gracious hearing from the general public.
The return of the Catholic hierarchy in 1850 was looked upon with indignant disapprobation and, in fact, was charged with being a gesture of disloyalty.
In 1864 Newman professedly had to write his Apologia with his keenest feelings in order to be believed and to command a fair hearing from English readers.
Now, in 1961, the Catholic population of England is still quite small (ten per cent, or 5 million); yet it represents a very considerable percentage of the churchgoing population.
A Protestant woman marveled to me over the large crowds going in and out of the Birmingham Oratory (Catholic) Church on Sunday mornings.
She found this a marvel because, as she said, only six per cent of English people are churchgoers.
She may not have been exact on this number, but others here feel quite certain that the percentage would be less than ten.
A Catholic priest recently recounted how in the chapel of a large city university, following Anglican evensong, at which there was a congregation of twelve, he celebrated Mass before more than a hundred.
The Protestants themselves are the first to admit the great falling off in effective membership in their churches.
According to a newspaper report of the 1961 statistics of the Church of England, the ``total of confirmed members is 9748000, but only 2887671 are registered on the parochial church rolls'', and ``over 27 million people in England are baptized into the Church of England, but roughly only a tenth of them continue''.
An amazing article in the Manchester Guardian of last November, entitled ``Fate of Redundant Churches'', states than an Archbishops' Commission ``reported last month that in the Church of England alone there are 790 churches which are redundant now, or will be in 20 years' time.
A further 260 Anglican churches have been demolished since 1948''.
And in the last five years, the ``Methodist chapel committee has authorized the demolition or, more often, the sale of 764 chapels''.
Most of these former churches are now used as warehouses, but ``neither Anglicans nor Nonconformists object to selling churches to Roman Catholics'', and have done so.
While it must be said that these same Protestants have built some new churches during this period, and that religious population shifts have emptied churches, a principal reason for this phenomenon of redundancy is that fewer Protestants are going to church.
It should be admitted, too, that there is a good percentage of lapsed or nonchurchgoing Catholics (one paper writes 50 per cent).
An Anglican clergyman in Oxford sadly but frankly acknowledged to me that this is true.
A century ago, Newman saw that liberalism (what we now might call secularism) would gradually but definitely make its mark on English Protestantism, and that even high Anglicanism would someday no longer be a ``serviceable breakwater against doctrinal errors more fundamental than its own''.
That day is perhaps today, 1961, and it seems no longer very meaningful to call England a ``Protestant country''.
One of the ironies of the present crusade for Christian unity is that there are not, relatively speaking, many real Christians to unite.
Many English Catholics are proud of their Catholicism and know that they are in a new ascendancy.
The London Universe devoted its centenary issue last December 8 to mapping out various aspects of Catholic progress during the last one hundred years.
With traditional nationalistic spirit, some Englishmen claim that English Catholicism is Catholicism at its best.
I have found myself saying with other foreigners here that English Catholics are good Catholics.
It has been my experience to find as many men as women in church, and to hear almost everyone in church congregations reciting the Latin prayers and responses at Mass.
``O Blessed Virgin Mary, Mother of God and our most gentle queen and mother, look down in mercy upon England, thy'' dowry ``, and upon us all who greatly hope and trust in thee.
Intercede for our separated brethren, that with us in the one true fold they may be united to the chief Shepherd, the vicar of thy Son''.
A hymn often to be heard in Catholic churches is ``Faith of our Fathers'', which glories in England's ancient faith that endured persecution, and which proclaims:
``Faith of our Fathers : Mary's prayers / Shall win our country back to thee''.
The English saints are widely venerated, quite naturally, and now there is great hope that the Forty Martyrs and Cardinal Newman will soon be canonized.
Because they have kept the faith of their medieval fathers, English Catholics have always strongly resented the charge of being ``English''.
I have not seen this charge made during my stay here, but apparently it is still in the air.
For example, a writer in a recent number of The Queen hyperbolically states that ``of the myriad imprecations the only one which the English Catholics really resent is the suggestion that they are' un English'''.
In this connection, it has been observed that the increasing number of Irish Catholics, priests and laity, in England, while certainly seen as good for Catholicism, is nevertheless a source of embarrassment for some of the more nationalistic English Catholics, especially when these Irishmen offer to remind their Christian brethren of this good.
At Oxford one hundred years ago there were very few Catholics, partly because religious tests were removed only in 1854.
Moreover, for those few there was almost no ecclesiastical representation in the city to care for their religious needs.
Now, not only are there considerably more laity as students and professors at Oxford, but there are also numerous houses of religious orders existing in respectable and friendly relations with the non Catholic members of the University.
Some Catholic priests lecture there; Catholic seminarians attend tutorials and row on the Cherwell with non-Catholic students.
Further evidence that Roman Catholicism enjoys a more favorable position today than in 1861 is the respectful attention given to it in the mass media of England.
The general tone of articles appearing in such important newspapers as the Manchester Guardian and the Sunday Observer implies a kindly recognition that the Catholic Church is now at least of equal stature in England with the Protestant churches.
On successive Sundays during October, 1960, Paul Ferris (a non-Catholic) wrote articles in the Observer depicting clergymen of the Church of England, the Church of Rome and the Nonconformist Church.
The Catholic priest, though somewhat superficially drawn, easily came out the best.
There were many letters of strong protest against the portrait of the Anglican clergyman, who was indeed portrayed as a man not particularly concerned with religious matters and without really very much to do as clergyman.
There was so much interest shown in this present-day venture that it was continued on B.B.C., where comments were equally made by an Anglican parson, a Free Church minister and a Catholic priest.
Catholic priests have frequently appeared on television programs, sometimes discussing the Christian faith on an equal footing with Protestant clergymen.
A notable example of this was the discussion of Christian unity by the Catholic Archbishop of Liverpool, Dr. Heenan, and the Anglican Archbishop of York, Dr. Ramsey, recently appointed Archbishop of Canterbury.
The good feeling which exists between these two important church figures is now well known in England.
The Holy Sacrifice of the Mass with commentary has been televised several times in recent months.
And it was interesting to observe that B.B.C. .'s television film on Christmas Eve was The Bells of St. Mary's.
Of course, the crowning event that has dramatically upset the traditional pattern of English religious history was the friendly visit paid by Dr. Fisher, then Anglican Archbishop of Canterbury, to the Vatican last December.
It was the first time an English Primate has done this since the 14th century.
English Catholics reacted to this event with moderate but real hope.
The death of a man is unique, and yet it is universal.
The straight line would symbolize its uniqueness, the circle its universality.
But how can one figure symbolize both?
Christianity declares that in the life and death of Jesus Christ the unique and the universal concur.
Perhaps no church father saw this concurrence of the unique and the universal as clearly, or formulated it as precisely, as Irenaeus.
To be the Savior and the Lord, Jesus Christ has to be a historical individual with a biography all his own; he dare not be a cosmic aeon that swoops to earth for a while but never identifies itself with man's history.
Yet this utterly individual historical person must also contain within himself the common history of mankind.
His history is his alone, yet each man must recognize his own history in it.
His death is his alone, yet each man can see his own death in the crucifixion of Jesus.
Not a circle, then, nor a straight line, but a spiral represents the shape of death as Irenaeus sees it; for a spiral has motion as well as recurrence.
As represented by a spiral, history may, in some sense, be said to repeat itself; yet each historical event remains unique.
Christ is both unique and universal.
The first turn of the spiral is the primeval history of humanity in Adam.
As Origen interprets the end of history on the basis of its beginning, so Irenaeus portrays the story of Adam on the basis of the story of Christ.
``Whence, then, comes the substance of the first man?
From God's Will and Wisdom, and from virgin earth.
For' God had not rained ', says the Scripture, before man was made,' and there was no man to till the earth'.
From this earth, then, while it was still virgin God took dust and fashioned the man, the beginning of humanity''.
Adam and Eve were perfect, not in the sense that they possessed perfection, but in the sense that they were capable of development toward perfection.
They were, in fact, children.
Irenaeus does not claim pre-existence for the human soul; therefore there is no need for him, as there is for Origen, to identify existence itself with the fall.
Existence is created and willed by God and is not the consequence of a pre-existent rebellion or of a cosmic descent from eternity into history.
Historical existence is a created good.
The biblical symbol for this affirmation is expressed in the words : ``So God created man in his own image; in the similitude of God he created him''.
There are some passages in the writings of Irenaeus where the image of God and the similitude are sharply distinguished, so most notably in the statement : ``If the [ Holy ] Spirit is absent from the soul, such a man is indeed of an animal nature; and, being left carnal, he will be an imperfect being, possessing the image [ of God ] in his formation, but not receiving the similitude [ of God ] through the Spirit''.
Thus the image of God is that which makes a man a man and not an oyster; the similitude of God, by contrast, is that which makes a man a child of God and not merely a rational creature.
Recent research on Irenaeus, however, makes it evident that he does not consistently maintain this distinction.
Therefore Irenaeus describes man's creation as follows:
``So that the man should not have thoughts of grandeur, and become lifted up, as if he had no lord, because of the dominion that had been given to him, and the freedom, fall into sin against God his Creator, overstepping his bounds, and take up an attitude of self-conceited arrogance towards God, a law was given him by God, that he might know that he had for lord the lord of all.
And He laid down for him certain conditions : so that, if he kept the command of God, then he would always remain as he was, that is, immortal; but if he did not, he would become mortal, melting into earth, whence his frame had been taken''.
These conditions man did not keep, and thus he became mortal; yet he did not stop being human as a result.
There is no justification for systematizing the random statements of Irenaeus about the image of God beyond this, nor for reading into his imprecise usage the later theological distinction between the image of God (humanity) and the similitude of God (immortality).
Man was created with the capacity for immortality, but the devil's promise of immortality in exchange for disobedience cost Adam his immortality.
He was, in the words of Irenaeus, ``beguiled by another under the pretext of immortality''.
The true way to immortality lay through obedience, but man did not believe this.
``Eve was disobedient; for she did not obey when as yet she was a virgin.
Because he interprets the primitive state of man as one of mere potentiality or capacity and believes that Adam and Eve were created as children, Irenaeus often seems inclined to extenuate their disobedience as being ``due, no doubt, to carelessness, but still wicked''.
His interpretation of the beginning on the basis of the end prompts him to draw these parallels between the Virgin Eve and the Virgin Mary.
That parallelism affects his picture of man's disobedience too; for as it was Christ, the Word of God, who came to rescue man, so it was disobedience to the word of God in the beginning that brought death into the world, and all our woe.
With this act of disobedience, and not with the inception of his individual existence, man began the downward circuit on the spiral of history, descending from the created capacity for immortality to an inescapable mortality.
At the nadir of that circuit is death.
``Along with the fruit they did also fall under the power of death, because they did eat in disobedience; and disobedience to God entails death.
Wherefore, as they became forfeit to death, from that [ moment ] they were handed over to it''.
This leads Irenaeus to the somewhat startling notion that Adam and Eve died on the same day that they disobeyed, namely, on a Friday, as a parallel to the death of Christ on Good Friday; he sees a parallel also to the Jewish day of preparation for the Sabbath.
In any case, though they had been promised immortality if they ate of the tree, they obtained mortality instead.
Man's life, originally shaped for immortality and for communion with God, must now be conformed to the shape of death.
Nevertheless, even at the nadir of the circuit the spiral of history belongs to God, and he still rules.
Even death, therefore, has a providential as well as a punitive function.
``Wherefore also He [ God ] drove him [ man ] out of Paradise, and removed him far from the tree of life, not because He envied him the tree of life, as some venture to assert, but because He pitied him, [ and did not desire ] that he should continue a sinner for ever, nor that the sin which surrounded him should be immortal, and evil interminable and irremediable.
But He set a bound to his [ state of ] sin, by interposing death, and thus causing sin to cease, putting an end to it by the dissolution of the flesh, which should take place in the earth, so that man, ceasing at length to live in sin, and dying to it, might live to God''.
This idea, which occurs in both Tatian and Cyprian, fits especially well into the scheme of Irenaeus' theology; for it prepares the way for the passage from life through death to life that is achieved in Christ.
As man can live only by dying, so it was only by his dying that Christ could bring many to life.
It is probably fair to say that the idea of death is more profound in Irenaeus than the idea of sin is.
This applies to his picture of Adam.
It becomes most evident in his description of Christ as the second Adam, who does indeed come to destroy sin, but whose work culminates in the achievement of immortality.
This emphasis upon death rather than sin as man's fundamental problem Irenaeus shares with many early theologians, especially the Greek speaking ones.
They speak of the work of Christ as the bestowal of incorruptibility, which can mean (though it does not have to mean) deliverance from time and history.
Death reminds man of his sin, but it reminds him also of his transience.
It represents a punishment that he knows he deserves, but it also symbolizes most dramatically that he lives his life within the process of time.
These two aspects of death cannot be successfully separated, but they dare not be confused or identified.
The repeated efforts in Christian history to describe death as altogether the consequence of human sin show that these two aspects of death cannot be separated.
Such efforts almost always find themselves compelled to ask whether Adam was created capable of growing old and then older and then still older, in short, whether Adam's life was intended to be part of the process of time.
If it was, then it must have been God's intention to translate him at a certain point from time to eternity.
The embarrassment of these theories over the naturalness of death is an illustration of the thesis that death cannot be only a punishment, for some termination seems necessary in a life that is lived within the natural order of time and change.
On the other hand, Christian faith knows that death is more than the natural termination of temporal existence.
It is the wages of sin, and its sting is the law.
If this aspect of death as punishment is not distinguished from the idea of death as natural termination, the conclusion seems inevitable that temporal existence itself is a form of punishment rather than the state into which man is put by the will of the Creator.
This seems to have been the conclusion to which Origen was forced.
If death receives more than its share of attention from the theologian and if sin receives less than its share, the gift of the life eternal through Christ begins to look like the divinely appointed means of rescue from temporal, i.e., created, existence.
Such an interpretation of death radically alters the Christian view of creation; for it teaches salvation from, not salvation in, time and history.
Because Christianity teaches not only salvation in history, but salvation by the history of Christ, such an interpretation of death would require a drastic revision of the Christian understanding of the work of Christ.
Too often a beginning bodybuilder has to do his training secretly either because his parents don't want sonny-boy to ``lift all those old barbell things'' because ``you'll stunt your growth'' or because childish taunts from his schoolmates, like ``Hey, lookit Mr. America, whaddya gonna do with all those muscles (of which he has none at the time)''?
Therefore it's a genuine pleasure to tell you about an entirely happy bodybuilder who has never had to train in secret; has never heard one unkind word from his parents; and never has been taunted by his schoolmates!
This happy, always smiling lad with the sunny disposition is our new Junior Mr. Canada - Henri de Courcy.
Far from discouraging Henri, his parents urge him on to greater and greater accomplishments.
Instead of admonishing him to let the weights alone they personally took him to that master Montreal bodybuilding authority, Professor Roland Claude.
And they couldn't have entrusted Henri to better hands because ``le professeur'' knows his muscles from the sterno-cleido mastoideus of the neck right down to the tibialis anticus of the leg - and better still, he knows just what exercises work best for them and what Weider principles to combine them with for fast, fast muscle growth.
That's because the good professor teaches only Weider methods at his famous Montreal Health Studio which is located at 1821 Mt. Royal East in Montreal.
Undoubtedly you have read the case histories of some of his prize winning pupils (every pupil has a physique title of some kind or other).
There's Gaetan d'Amours who is our newest Mr. Canada; Jean-Paul Senesac, whose story appeared here two issues ago; Jack Boissoneault, who was with us last month; Charles Harve, who recently won the ``Most Muscular Man'' subdivision award in the Mr. Canada event; and a host of others.
Yesiree, the professor knows his muscles!
About that time he began reading Mr. America and Muscle Builder and he learned of the famous Weider way to fast weight gaining.
Seeing so many illustrations and reading so many testimonials to the value of Quick-Wate and Super-Protein, those two wonder-working Weider food supplements, he decided to try them and see what they could do for him.
Well, sir, they did real great!
For in almost less time than it takes to tell it, Henri's body weight was increasing rapidly.
Of course he did some exercising - he's crazy about water skiing and swimming and this vigorous exercise in conjunction with the added food supplements packed pounds of solid muscle on his skinny frame.
Henri has always had shapely legs from swimming and water skiing and really doesn't have to work them very much.
But he was totally dissatisfied with his upper body.
It was muscular but it wasn't symmetrical.
``A real' nothing' torso'', says Henri.
That's when he went to Professor Claude.
And at once Claude saw what the trouble was and he knew just how to correct it.
In his gym the professor has some of the most ``knocked out'' equipment since Vic Tanny.
Mr. Claude is a specialist in torso development and he has long favored the now famous Weider Push-Pull Super-Set technique in which one exercise of the Super-Set is a pressing or ``pushing'' movement which accents one sector of a muscle group in a specific way, followed by a ``pulling'' exercise which works the opposing sector of the same muscle group.
So right away Claude introduced Henri to his famous ``moon'' bench and proceeded to teach him his first Push-Pull Super-Set consisting of the wide grip Straight-Arm Pullover (the ``pull'' part of the Push-Pull Super-Set) which dramatically widens the rib cage and strongly affects the muscles of the upper back and chest, and the collar-to-collar Bench Press which specifically works on the chest to build those wide, Reeves-type ``gladiator'' pecs, while stimulating the upper lats and frontal deltoids.
As you can see, in this Push-Pull Super Set the entire chest back shoulder area is vigorously exercised in alternate sectors by alternate exercises, so the complete torso remains pumped-up all the time!
Now when Henri has completed four complete Push-Pull Super-Sets No. 1, the professor allows him about a five minute rest period before starting him on four complete Push-Pull Super-Sets No. 2.
Super-Set No. 2 is made up of similar exercises, but this time done with dumbbells, and using both ``moon'' and flat benches.
The ``push'' exercise of this Push-Pull Super-Set is the Bench Press done with elbows well pulled back and with a greater downward stretch of the pectorals not possible with the barbell variation.
The dumbbell variation develops a most classically sculptured outline to the pecs.
The ``pull'' exercise in this Super-Set is the one dumbbell Bent-Arm Pullover.
(Note how strongly the upper lats and serratus are worked in this fine exercise because of the pin point concentration of force which the dumbbell variation affords).
In the third Push-Pull Super-Set the ``push'' exercise is the wide grip Pushup Between Bars, while the ``pull'' exercise is the Moon Bench Lateral Raise with bent arms.
The Pushup done in this manner is the greatest pectoral rib cage stretcher ever invented!
This is true only if a very wide grip is used and only when the greatest possible stretch is achieved.
You'll know when you've made the greatest stretch because your shoulder blades will touch!
As you see, the professor has designed a piece of apparatus that forces the bodybuilder to use a wide grip.
He has to; he just cann't do anything about it at all!
The last exercise of Roland Claude's prescribed program for Henri is a single exercise, done in individual sets with a bit longer pause between sets.
By this time Henri's entire chest back - lat shoulder area is pumped-up to almost bursting point, and Claude takes time to do a bit more pectoral front deltoid shaping work.
He has Henri do from four to six sets of the Incline Bench Press (note the high incline).
This gives a wide flare to the pecs, causing them to flow dramatically upward into deltoids and dramatically downward into the serratus and lats.
This is the kind of chest that invariably wins contests that steel edged ``carved out of solid rock'' looks of the great champions.
So with four complete Push-Pull Super-Sets No. 1, four of No. 2, four of No. 3 and four to six sets of the Incline Bench Press, you can see that Henri de Courcy has had a terrific mass building, muscle shaping, torso defining workout that cannot be improved upon.
Physique contests are rarely won on muscle size alone.
Rarer still is a Mr. America or Mr. Universe of true Herculean build.
The aspects of physical development that catch the judges' eyes and which rightfully influence their decisions are symmetry and that hallmark of the true champion - superior definition of the muscles.
But contest definition - that dramatic muscular separation of every muscle group that seems as though it must have been carved by a sculptor's chisel - is something quite different.
This comes not alone from high-set, high-rep training, but from certain definition specialization exercises which the champion selects for himself with the knowledge of exactly what works best for him.
Often these exercises work well for some bodybuilders but less spectacularly for others.
Because they are ``minority'' exercises and have but a limited appeal they soon find themselves in the limbo of the forgotten.
Only when the newest Mr. America or Mr. Universe rediscovers them and puts them into practice are we reacquainted with them and once again see how effective they really are.
The exercise I shall discuss in this - the first of a new series of articles on muscle definition specialization of a particular body part - is the One Leg Lunge.
Why it was ever forgotten for even a moment I cannot say because it works perfectly for everyone, no matter whether he has short or long thigh-bone lengths!
It is the one exercise that drastically influences the definition of the thighs at the hipline - that mark of the champion that sets him apart from all other bodybuilders - a criterion of muscle ``drama'' that is unforgettable to judges and audiences alike - the facet of muscular development that wins prizes.
Definition of the thighs at the uppermost part is quite commonly seen in most championship Olympic lifters which is easily understandable.
But for purely definition purposes - used in conjunction with your regular Squatting, Leg Curling, Leg Extensor programs - a heavy weight is not needed.
Indeed, a lighter weight works much better because a greater, more extensive split can be performed.
Used in several sets of high reps once or twice each week it will not be long before your entire upper leg takes on a razor-sharp definition in which the muscles look like wire cables writhing and twisting under the skin!
Really there is no reason why this fine exercise should not find its way into your leg program at all times, for the following suggestions show why it is so effective:
It's a complete thigh contraction extension exercise.
It places terrific tension on the leg muscles from start to finish of each repetition.
It improves over-all balance and control for the bodybuilder, and helps to make Squats more easily and more correctly performed.
It increases flexibility of the legs.
It speeds muscle growth and power development even for the advanced bodybuilder because each hip and leg is exercised separately, thus enabling a massive, concentrated effort to be focused on each.
Place your Power Stands in position and adjust their height so that this will correspond to the height of your shoulders when you are in a deep leg split as for a heavy Clean.
Place a suitably loaded barbell across them; grasp the bar (which will rest against the back of your neck); extend your feet forward and backward until you are in a deep leg split.
Now raise the weight by straightening your front leg, without moving your feet.
When the front knee is straight and locked, allow it to bend again until you feel the bar come lightly into contact with the sides of the Power Stands.
After you have taken a breather, reverse the position of your legs so that the front thigh of the previous exercise is now to the rear, and the rear thigh now to the front, and perform the same movement in the same manner.
That's the One-Leg Lunge in a nutshell.
You should have a couple of training partners to stand by when you make your first experiments, just for safety.
You should also begin this exercise with a very light barbell until you become accustomed to it balance wise.
Oh, you'll wobble and weave quite a bit at first.
Before your first training experiment has ended there will be a big improvement and almost before you know it you'll be raising and lowering yourself just like a veteran!
Although I suggested that you hold the bar at the back of the neck there's no reason why you shouldn't make some experiments with the bar held in front of the neck.
Squat style lifters and leg split lifters would both benefit enormously by practicing those variations providing that they remember to make alternate sets with the left and right leg to the front.
The most beautiful bed of pansies I've seen was in a South Dakota yard on a sizzling day.
Pansies are supposed to like it cool, but those great velvety flowers were healthy and perky in the glaring sun.
I sought out the gardener and asked him what he did to produce such beauties in that weather.
He seemed puzzled by my question.
``I just love them'', he said.
The more I talked with him, the more convinced I became that that was the secret of their riotous blooming.
He planted the pansy seeds himself, buying them from a pansy specialist.
These specialists, I learned, have done a great deal of work to improve the size and health of the plants and the resulting flowers.
Their seeds produce vigorous blooming plants half again the size of the unimproved strains.
I asked him if he took seeds from his own plants.
Occasionally, when he had an unusual flower that he wanted more of he did; but pansy seeds, he told me, soon ``run down''.
It's best to buy them fresh from a dealer who is working to improve them.
His soil was ``nothing special'', just prairie land, but he had harrowed in compost until it was loose, spongy and brown black.
I fingered it and had the feeling of adequacy that comes with the right texture, tilth and body.
It isn't easy to describe it, but every gardener knows it when his fingers touch such soil.
They germinate quickly, the tiny plants appearing in a week, and grow along lustily.
It doesn't really matter which month of the year you sow them, but they germinate best when they have a wide variation of temperature, very warm followed by cool in the same 24 hours.
I like to make a seedbed right in the open, though many people start them successfully in cold frames.
Pansies don't have to be coddled; they'd rather have things rugged, with only moderate protection on the coldest days.
If you do use a cold frame be sure that its ventilation is adequate.
For my seedbed I use good garden soil with a little sand added to encourage rooting.
I dig it, rake it smooth, sow the seeds and wet them down with a fog spray.
Then I cover the sowing with a board.
This keeps it cool and moist and protects it from birds.
When the first sprinkling of green appears I remove the board.
A light, porous mulch applied now keeps the roots cool and the soil soft during these early days of growth.
I like sawdust for this, or hay.
When they have 4 to 6 leaves and are thrifty little plants, it's time to set them out where they are to remain.
Every time you transplant a pansy you cause its flowers to become smaller.
The moral is : don't transplant it any oftener than you must.
As soon as they are large enough to move, I put mine 9 inches apart where they are to bloom.
I put a little scoop of pulverized phosphate rock or steamed bone meal into each hole with the plant.
That encourages rooting, and the better developed the roots, the larger and more plentiful the flowers.
I doubt if it is possible to overfeed them.
I spade lots of compost into their bed; lacking that, decayed manure spread over the bed is fine.
One year I simply set the plants in the remains of a compost pile, to which a little sand had been added, and I had the most beautiful pansies in my, or any of my neighbors' experience.
In addition to the rich soil they benefit by feedings of manure water every other week, diluted to the color of weak tea.
As a substitute for this, organic fertilizer dissolved in water to half the strength in the directions, may be used.
They need mulch.
We put a light mulch over the seedlings; now we must use a heavy one.
Three inches of porous material will do a good job of keeping weeds down and the soil moist and cool.
When winter comes be ready with additional mulch.
That keeps in the cold, retains moisture and prevents the heaving of alternate freezing and thawing.
Don't miss the pansies that appear from time to time through the winter.
Whenever there is a thaw or a few sunny days, you'll be likely to find a brave little blossom or two.
If those aren't enough for you, why not grow some just for winter blooming?
The pansies I cherished most bloomed for me in February during a particularly cold winter.
I started the seed in a flat in June and set out the little pansies in a cold frame.
(An unheated greenhouse would have been better, if I had had one .)
The plants took zero nights in their stride, with nothing but a mat of straw over the glass to protect them.
In response to the lengthening days of February they budded, then bloomed their 4 - inch velvety flowers.
Like strawberries in December, pansies are far more exciting in February than in May.
Try that late winter pickup when you are so tired of cold and snow that you feel you just can't take another day of it.
The day will come, in midsummer, when you find your plants becoming ``leggy'', running to tall-growing foliage at the expense of blossoms.
Try pegging down each separate branch to the earth, using a bobby pin to hold it there.
Pick the flowers, keep the soil dampened, and each of the pegged-down branches will take root and become a little plant and go on blooming for the rest of the season.
As soon as an experimental tug assures you that roots have taken over, cut it off from the mother plant.
A second and also good practice is to shear off the tops, leaving an inch high stub with just a leaf or two on each branch.
These cut-down plants will bud and blossom in record time and will behave just as they did in early spring.
I like to shear half my plants at a time, leaving one half of them to blossom while the second half is getting started on its new round of blooming.
Nature's aim, different from ours, is to provide for the coming generation.
That done, her work is accomplished and she ignores the plant.
Here is a word of advice when you go shopping for your pansy seeds.
Go to a reputable grower, preferably a pansy specialist.
It is no harder to raise big, healthy, blooming plants than weak, sickly little things; in fact it is easier.
But you will never get better flowers than the seed you grow.
Many people think that pansies last only a few weeks, then their period of growth and bloom is over.
That is not true.
If the plants are cared for and protected over the winter, the second year is more prolific than the first.
Remove about half the branches from each plant, leaving only the strongest with the largest buds.
The flowers will be huge.
Pansies have character.
They stick to their principles, insist upon their due, but grow and bloom with dependable regularity if given it.
Treat them right and they'll make a showing every month in the year except the frigid ones.
Give them food, some shade, mulch, water and more food, and they'll repay your solicitude with beauty.
A salad with greens and tomato is a popular and wonderfully healthful addition to a meal, but add an avocado and you have something really special.
This delightful tropical fruit has become well-known in the past thirty years because modern transportation methods have made it possible to ship avocado anywhere in the United States.
It has a great many assets to recommend it and if you haven't made avocado a part of your diet yet, you really should.
It is roughly shaped like a large pear, and when properly ripened, its dark green skin covers a meaty, melon like pulp that has about the consistency of a ripe Bartlett pear, but oily.
The avocado should have a ``give'' to it, as you hold it, when it is ripe.
The flavor is neither sweet, like a pear, nor tart like an orange; it is subtle and rather bland, nut like.
It is a flavor that might take a little getting used to - not because it is unpleasant, but because the flavor is hard to define in the light of our experience with other fruits.
Sometimes it takes several ``eatings'' of avocado to catch that delightful quality in taste that has made it such a favorite throughout the world.
Once you become an avocado fan, you will look forward to the season each year with eager anticipation.
Today, refrigerated carriers have made the shipping of avocados possible to any place in the world.
The fruit is allowed to mature on the tree, but it is still firm at this point.
It is brought to packing houses, cleaned and graded as to size and quality, and packed in protective excelsior.
This cooling does not change the avocado in any way, it just delays the natural softening of the fruit until a grove like temperature (room temperature) is restored.
This happens on the grocer's shelf or in your kitchen.
One of the most attractive things about avocados is that they do not require processing of any kind.
There is no dyeing or waxing or gassing needed.
If the temperature is controlled properly, the avocado will delay its ripening until needed.
And unlike other fruits, one cannot eat the skin of the avocado.
It is thick, much like an egg plant's skin, so that poison sprays, if they are used, present no hazard to the consumer.
Good taste and versatility, plus safety from spray poisons would be enough to recommend the frequent use of such a fruit, even if its nutritional values were limited.
Avocados, however, are very rich in nutrients.
Aside from this, the average portion contains some protein, an appreciable amount of vitamins and C - about one-tenth of the minimum daily requirement, and about a third of the official vitamin E requirement.
The B vitamins are well represented, especially thiamin and riboflavin.
Calcium, phosphorus and iron are present in worthwhile amounts, and eleven other minerals also have been found in varying trace amounts.
None of these values is destroyed, not significantly altered by refrigeration storage.
Dr. Wilson C. Grant, of the Veterans' Administration Hospital, Coral Gables, Florida, and the University of Miami School of Medicine, set out to discover if avocados, because of their high content of unsaturated fatty acids, would reduce the cholesterol of the blood in selected patients.
The study comprised 16 male patients, ranging in age from 27 to 72.
They were put on control diets to determine as accurately as possible, the normal cholesterol level of their blood.
Then they were given 1 2 to 1 - 1 2 avocados per day as a substitute for part of their dietary fat consumption.
The lyric beauties of Schubert's Trout Quintet - its elemental rhythms and infectious melodies - make it a source of pure pleasure for almost all music listeners.
Since it requires only five players, it would seem to fall into the category of chamber music - yet it calls for a double bass, an instrument generally regarded as symphonic.
Moreover, the piece is written in five movements, rather than the conventional four of most quintets, and this gives the opus a serenade or divertimento flavor.
The many and frequent performances of the Trout serve to emphasize the dual nature of its writing.
Some renditions are of symphonic dimensions, with the contrabass given free rein.
Other interpretations present the music as an essentially intimate creation.
In these readings, the double bass is either kept discreetly in the background, or it is dressed in clown's attire - the musical equivalent of a bull in a china shop.
Recently I was struck anew by the divergent approaches, when in the course of one afternoon and evening I listened to no fewer than ten different performances.
The occasion for this marathon : Angel's long awaited reissue in its ``Great Recordings of the Century'' series of the Schnabel-Pro Arte version.
Let me say at the outset that the music sounded as sparkling on the last playing as it did on the first.
Artur Schnabel was one of the greatest Schubert-Beethoven-Mozart players of all time, and any commentary of his on this repertory is valuable.
But Schnabel was a great teacher in addition to being a great performer, and the fact that four of the ten versions I listened to are by Schnabel pupils (Clifford Curzon, Frank Glazer, Adrian Aeschbacher, and Victor Babin) also sheds light on the master's pedagogical skills.
Certain pianistic traits are common to all five Schnabelian renditions, most notably the ``Schnabel trill'' (which differs from the conventional trill in that the two notes are struck simultaneously).
But the most impressive testimony to Schnabel's distinction as a teacher is reflected by the individuality which marks each student's approach as distinctly his own.
Schnabel's emphasis on structural clarity, his innate rhythmic vibrancy, and impetuous intensity all tend to stamp his reading as a symphonic one.
Yet no detail was too small to receive attention from this master, and as a result the playing here has humor, delicacy, and radiant humanity.
This is a serious minded interpretation, but it is never strait-laced.
And although Schnabel's pianism bristles with excitement, it is meticulously faithful to Schubert's dynamic markings and phrase indications.
The piano performance on this Trout is one that really demands a search for superlatives.
I, for one, rather regret that Schnabel didn't collaborate with the Budapest Quartet, whose rugged, athletic playing was a good deal closer to this pianist's interpretative outlook than the style of the Belgian group.
From a technical standpoint, the string playing is good, but the Pro Arte people fail to enter into the spirit of things here.
The violinist, in particular, is very indulgent with swoops and slides, and his tone is pinched and edgy.
The twenty-five year old recording offers rather faded string tone, but the balance between the instruments is good and the transfer is very quiet.
There is a break in continuity just before the fourth variation in the ``Forellen'' movement, and I suspect that this is due to imperfect splicing between sides of the original SPs.
Turning to the more modern versions, Curzon's (London) offers the most sophisticated keyboard work.
Every detail in his interpretation has been beautifully thought out, and of these I would especially cite the delicious landler touch the pianist brings to the fifth variation (an obvious indication that he is playing with Viennese musicians), and the gossamer shading throughout.
Some of Curzon's playing strikes me as finicky, however.
Why, for example, does he favor two tempos, rather than one, for the third movement?
(Special compliments to the double bass playing of Johann Krumpp:
his scrawny, tottering sound adds a delightful hilarity to the performance .)
The Glazer-Fine Arts edition (Concert-Disc) is a model of lucidity and organization.
It is, moreover, a perfectly integrated ensemble effort.
But having lived with the disc for some time now, I find the performance less exciting than either Schnabel's or Fleisher's (whose superb performance with the Budapest Quartet has still to be recorded) and a good deal less filled with humor than Curzon's.
Aeschbacher's work is very much akin to Schnabel 's, but the sound on his Decca disc is dated, and you will have a hard time locating a copy of it.
The Hephzibah Menuhin-Amadeus Quartet (Angel) and Victor Babin-Festival Quartet (RCA Victor) editions give us superlative string playing (both in symphonic style) crippled by unimaginative piano playing.
(Babin has acquired some of Schnabel's keyboard manner, but his playing is of limited insight .)
Badura-Skoda-Vienna Konzerthaus (Westminster) and Demus-Schubert Quartet (Deutsche Grammophon) are both warm toned, pleasantly lyrical, but rather slack and tensionless.
Telefunken has accorded him beautiful sound, and this bargain-priced disc (it sells for $ 2.98) is worthy of consideration.
Returning once again to the Schnabel reissue, I am beguiled anew by the magnificence of this pianist's musical penetration.
Here is truly a ``Great Recording of the Century'', and its greatness is by no means diminished by the fact that it is not quite perfect.
This recording surely belongs in everyone's collection.
Must records always sound like records?
From the beginning of commercial recording, new discs purported to be indistinguishable from The Real Thing have regularly been put in circulation.
Seen in perspective, many of these releases have a genuine claim to be milestones.
Although lacking absolute verisimilitude, they supply the ear and the imagination with all necessary materials for re-creation of the original.
On the basis of what they give us we can know how the young Caruso sang, appreciate the distinctive qualities of Parsifal under Karl Muck's baton, or sense the type of ensemble Toscanini created in his years with the New York Philharmonic.
In many cases the revolutionary production has offered no more than sensational effects:
the first hearing was fascinating and the second disillusioning as the gap between sound and substance became clearer.
Other innovations with better claims to musical interest survived rehearing to acquire in time the status of classics.
If we return to them today, we have no difficulty spotting their weaknesses but we find them still pleasing.
Records sound like records because they provide a different sort of experience than live music.
This difference is made up of many factors.
Some of them are obvious, such as the fact that we associate recorded and live music with our responses and behavior in different types of environments and social settings.
(Music often sounds best to me when I can dress informally and sit in something more comfortable than a theatre seat .)
From the technical standpoint, records differ from live music to the degree that they fail to convey the true color, texture, complexity, range, intensity, pulse, and pitch of the original.
Yet it is the accumulation of distortion, the fitting together of fractional bits until the total reaches the threshold of our awareness, that makes records sound like records.
The sound may be good; but if you know The Real Thing, you know that what you are hearing is only a clever imitation.
Command's new Brahms Second is a major effort to make a record that sounds like a real orchestra rather than a copy of one.
Like the recent Scheherazade from London (High Fidelity, Sept. 1961), it is successful because emphasis has been placed on good musical and engineering practices rather than on creating sensational effects.
Because of this, only those with truly fine equipment will be able to appreciate the exact degree of the engineers' triumph.
The easiest way to describe this release is to say that it reproduces an interesting and effective Steinberg performance with minimal alteration of its musical values.
The engineering as such never obtrudes upon your consciousness.
The effect of the recording is very open and natural, with the frequency emphasis exactly what you would expect from a live performance.
This absence of peaky highs and beefed-up bass not only produces greater fidelity, but it eliminates listener fatigue.
The orchestra is far enough away from you that you miss the bow scrapes, valve clicks, and other noises incidental to playing.
Yet you feel the orchestra is near at hand, and the individual instruments have the same firm presence associated with listening from a good seat in an acoustically perfect hall.
Command has achieved the ideal amount of reverberation.
The music is always allowed the living space needed to attain its full sonority; yet the hall never intrudes as a quasi performer.
The timbre remains that of the instruments unclouded by resonance.
All of this would be wasted, of course, if the performance lacked authority and musical distinction.
For me it has more of both elements than the majority of its competitors.
Steinberg seems to have gone directly back to the score, discounting tradition, and has built his performance on the intention to reproduce as faithfully as possible exactly what Brahms set down on paper.
Those accustomed to broader, more romantic statements of the symphony can be expected to react strongly when they hear this one.
The Presto ma non assai of the first trio of the scherzo is taken literally and may shock you, as the real Allegro con spirito of the finale is likely to bring you to your feet.
In the end, however, the thing about this performance that is most striking is the way it sings.
Steinberg obviously has concluded that it is the lyric element which must dominate in this score, and he manages at times to create the effect of the whole orchestra bursting into song.
The engineering provides exactly the support needed for such a result.
Too many records seem to reduce a work of symphonic complexity to a melody and its accompaniment.
The Command technique invites you to listen to the depth of the orchestration.
Your ear takes you into the ensemble, and you may well become aware of instrumental details which previously were apparent only in the score.
It is this sort of experience that makes the concept of high fidelity of real musical significance for the home music listener.
The first substantially complete stereo Giselle (and the only one of its scope since Feyer's four-sided LP edition of 1958 for Angel), this set is, I'm afraid, likely to provide more horrid fascination than enjoyment.
And in its engineers' frantic attempts to achieve maximum dynamic impact and earsplitting brilliance, the recording sounds as though it had been ``doctored for super high fidelity''.
The home listener is overpowered, all right, but the experience is a far from pleasant one.
As with the penultimate Giselle release (Wolff's abridgment for RCA Victor) I find the cleaner, less razor edged monophonic version, for all its lack of big stage spaciousness, the more aurally tolerable - but this may be the result of processing defects in my SD copies.
Most recreation work calls for a good deal of pre planning.
This is particularly true in site selection.
You must know before you start what the needs and objectives of your organization are; you must have a list of requirements on where, how many, and what type sites are needed.
With such a program you can make constructive selections of the best sites available.
Begin the examination of a site with a good map and aerial photos if possible.
These are becoming more and more available through the work of counties and other government agencies.
These are inexpensive and available from the U. S. Geological Society, washington 25, D. C..
In recent years many counties and the U. S. Forest Service have taken aerial photos which show features in detail and are very good for planning use.
Most counties also have maps available from the county engineer showing roads and other features and from the assessor's office showing ownerships of land.
Inspect the site in the field during the time of the year when the area will be most heavily used for recreation.
This gives you a better opportunity to get the feel of the climate conditions, the exposure to the sun and wind, the water interests, etcetera, which vary greatly with the seasons.
It is usually helpful to make a sketch map in the field, showing the size and location of the features of interest and to take photographs at the site.
These are a great aid for planning use back at the office.
For site planning work, it is best to have a qualified and experienced park planner to carry through the study.
However, there is also much to be gained by making use of the abilities of the local people who are available and interested in recreation.
A visit to the site by a group of several persons can usually bring out new ideas or verify opinions most helpful to the planning study of any recreation area.
How much study is required?
This, of course, depends on the character of the site itself, the previous experience of the investigator, and the number of factors needed to arrive at a good decision.
It is too easy for the inexperienced person to make a quick judgment of a few values of the area and base a decision on these alone.
Usually there are more factors to good site planning than first impressions.
A site may be a rundown slum or a desolate piece of desert in appearance today but have excellent potentials for the future with a little development or water.
The same is true of areas which at first look good because of a few existing recreation features but may actually be poor areas to develop for general public use.
In looking for the best sites available that meet the requirements, you need information to compare the site with others.
You need answers to four important questions.
How well can the site be developed?
How useful will it be to the public?
Is this site available?
Check the quantity and quality of all of the recreation interests already existing at the site.
Naturally, a park site with scenic views, a good lake, trees, and sand dunes, will attract more people than a nearby area with only trees and dunes.
Quality is vitally important.
Frontage on a body of clear, clean water will be vastly different from the same amount of frontage on polluted water.
Some recreation features, such as scenic values and water interest, also have greater overall value than other interests.
One of the most desirable features for a park are beautiful views or scenery.
A site which overlooks a harbor or river may offer interest in the activities of boating traffic.
An area on the coast may have relaxing views of the surf rolling in on a beach.
A site may also be attractive just through the beauty of its trees and shrubs.
Note extent of these interests and how available they will be for the public to enjoy.
Water interest is one of the most valuable factors you can find for a recreation site.
Most park planners look to water frontage for basic park areas.
This follows naturally since frontage on an ocean, stream, or lake provides scenic values and opportunities for the very popular recreation activities of bathing, fishing, boating, and other water sports.
A body of water is usually the center of interest at parks which attract the greatest picnic and camping use.
It also cools the air in summer and nourishes the trees and wildlife.
A restricted frontage may be too crowded an area for public use.
The quantity of water flow may be critical; a stream or pond which is attractive in the springtime may become stagnant or dry in late summer.
If the site is on a reservoir, the level of the water at various seasons as it affects recreation should be studied.
Check the quality of the water.
A stream which has all of its watershed within a national forest or other lands under good conservation practices is less likely to be affected by pollution than one passing through unrestricted logging or past an industrial area.
Other factors, such as water temperature, depth of water, the fish life it supports, wave action, flooding, etcetera, will affect its recreation value.
Other natural features which can be of high interest are the forests, canyons, mountains, deserts, seacoast, beaches, sand dunes, waterfalls, springs, etcetera with which the area is blessed.
Just as the national and state parks place emphasis on features which are of national or state significance, counties should seek out these features which are distinctive of their area.
Although the site may not contain the features themselves, there are often opportunities to include them as additional interest to the site.
A group of native trees or plants which are outstanding in a particular county can be featured at the site.
The fish, animals, and birds which may be found at the site are another interest.
Fishing interest calls for a check of the species found, quantity and size, the season they are available, and the stocking program of the fish commission.
Animals may be present at the site or provide hunting in nearby areas.
The site may be on one of the major flyways of migratory birds or have its own resident bird life.
Clams, crabs, and other marine life may add interest at coastal areas.
Each area has its own historical interests with which much can be done.
Park visitors are always eager to learn more about the area they are in.
The historical sign tells its story, but nothing gets interest across as well as some of the original historical items or places themselves which still have the character of the period covered.
Those which tell a story of the earth's formation in each area can add geological interest to the recreation sites.
An old shipwreck, a high dam, an old covered bridge, a place to find agates or other semi-precious stones or a place to pan gold, etcetera may be of interest.
Some areas may provide archeological values such as ancient Indian village sites or hunting areas, caves, artifacts, etcetera.
How well can the site be developed?
Look at the physical features of the land to determine how desirable it is for use, what can be done to correct the faults, and what it will cost to make the area meet your needs in comparison to other sites.
Many things need to be checked.
The size of the area alone can be a determining factor.
An area may be too small for the needs of the project.
Areas should be large enough to include the attractions, have ample space for the use of facilities needed, and have room around the edges to protect the values of the area from encroachment by private developments.
Shape of the area is also related to the use attractions and needs of the development.
A large picnic area or camping development is most efficient in shape as a square or rectangle several hundred feet in width in preference to a long narrow area less than one hundred feet wide.
This is true because of savings in utility lines and the fact that your buildings have a useful radius equal in all directions.
However, a narrow strip may be very practical for small developments, or to provide additional stream frontage for a fisherman's trail, or include scenic strips within the park unit.
The values of the site may be affected by the appearance of the adjoining lands, ownership and use of the land, and the utilities available there.
For instance, a site adjoining other publicly owned lands, such as a national forest or a public road, may be desirable, whereas a site next to an industrial plant might not.
The utilities available nearby may provide a savings in the cost of extending electricity or water to the site.
- Topography is very important.
Check the elevation of the ground, degree and direction of slopes, drainage, rock outcrops, topsoil types and quality, as well as subsoil.
Determine how much topography limits useful area or what the costs of earth moving or grading might be.
- In addition to its recreation interests, water is needed for drinking, sanitation, and irrigation.
The quantity and quality of water sources is often a big factor in site selection.
The area may provide good springs or opportunities for a well or be near to municipal water lines.
Figure the cost of providing water to the use areas.
- The existing plant growth calls for thorough checking.
Look at the trees as to size and interest, the amount of shade they provide, how healthy they are, the problems of maintenance, fire hazards, wind throw, etcetera.
An area may have been partially logged and requires removal of stumps or clean up.
Some shrubs may be of good landscaping value, other areas of brush may need to be cleared.
- How much will wind, rain, sun, and temperature affect the use?
An area sheltered from strong winds may be highly desirable for recreation use.
The direction, velocity, and season of these winds should be noted as to just how they will affect the recreation use and your maintenance and operation of the area.
Lack of rainfall and extreme temperatures may call for the development of shade and irrigation of a site to make it useable.
Sometimes, you have a choice of exposure for sites where the topography or trees of the area will provide afternoon shade, morning sun, or whatever may be most desirable for the use intended.
- Some areas may already have been improved and contain buildings, roads, utilities, cleared land, etcetera which may raise the cost of the site.
The Russian gymnasts beat the tar out of the American gymnasts in the 1960 Olympics for one reason - they were better.
They were better trained, better looking, better built, better disciplined - and something else - they were better dancers.
Our athletes are only just beginning to learn that they must study dance.
But why gymnastics at all?
And is the sport really important?
After all, we did pretty well in some other areas of the Olympics competition.
But if it is important, what can we do to improve ourselves?
It is more than just lack of dance training that is our problem, for just as gymnastics can learn from dance, dance has some very important things to learn from gymnastics.
Taking first things first, let's understand the sport called gymnastics.
It is made up of tumbling, which might be said to start with a somersault, run through such stunts as headstands, handstands, cartwheels, backbends, and culminate in nearly impossible combinations of aerial flips and twists and apparatus work.
The apparatus used by gymnasts was once a common sight in American gyms, but about 1930 it was in favor of games.
The parallel bars, horse, buck, springboard, horizontal bar, rings, and mats formerly in the school gyms were replaced by baseball, volleyball, basketball and football.
The gymnast must develop strength, flexibility, coordination, timing, rhythm, courage, discipline, persistence and the desire for perfection.
In short, gymnastics uses every part of the body and requires a great deal of character as well.
The addition of endurance training later, when the body is mature enough to benefit from it without danger of injury, provides that final quality that makes the top athlete, soldier or citizen.
Another reason gymnastic study is valuable is that it can be started very early in life.
(An enterprising teacher or parent could start training a healthy child at the age of seven days.
Most Europeans have been exercising newborn infants for centuries .)
In most sports, as in most walks of life, the angels are on the side of those who begin young, and the Russian competitor of 16 has at least thirteen years of training behind him.
The American is very lucky if he has three.
If a nation wished to get a head start in physical fitness over all other nations, it would start its kindergarten students on a program of gymnastics the day they entered and thus eliminate a large number of the problems that plague American schools.
Oddly enough, it is proven that there would be less reading difficulty.
Certainly there would be less anxiety, fewer accidents (it is the clumsy child who sustains the worst injuries), and higher scholastic averages, since alert children work better.
Russia knows this, and that is why there were over 800000 competing for places as candidates for the Olympic gymnastic team.
Eighty thousand won top honors and a chance to try for the team itself.
We could scarcely find eighty in our great land of over 180 million people.
And what has dancing to do with all this?
A great deal.
Russia's young gymnasts have studied dance before having the rigorous training on apparatus.
Well stretched, trained in posture and coordinated movement, and wedded to rhythm, they presented the audiences in Rome with one of the most beautiful sights ever seen at any Olympic contest.
They saw completely masculine and obviously virile men performing with incredible grace.
They were further stripped of old wives' tales by seeing the slender, lovely Russian girls performing feats requiring tremendous strength - and with not one bulging muscle.
President Kennedy has asked that we become a physically fit nation.
If we wait until children are in junior high or high school, we will never manage it.
To be fit, one has to start early with young children, and today the only person who really reaches such children is the teacher of dance.
If the dance teachers of America make it their business to prepare their young charges for the gymnastics that must come some day if our schools are really responsible, we will be that much ahead.
School teachers, all too unprepared for the job they must do, will need demonstrators.
There should be youngsters who know how to do a headstand, and also how to help other children learn it.
They should know simple exercises that could prepare less fortunate children for the sports we will demand be taught.
Very little in today's living provides the strength we need, and nothing provides the flexibility.
Dancers do have flexibility.
They often fail, however, to develop real abdominal, back, chest, shoulder and arm strength.
Ask any group of ballerinas to do ten push-ups or three chin-ups and the results, considering the amount of physical training they have had, will be very disappointing.
Even the boys will not be outstanding in these areas.
This isn't surprising when we consider that over 29 percent of the 11 - year old boys in America cannot chin themselves once, and that English school girls outdo them in almost every test (even dashes and endurance).
The only area in which American boys hold their own is the baseball throw.
For arm and shoulder strength a chinning bar is recommended.
It should be installed over a door that is in full view of everyone, and a chair should be placed under it, a little to one side.
Those who are too weak, should climb on the chair and, starting at the top of the chin, let themselves slowly down.
When they can take ten seconds to accomplish the descent, they will have the strength to chin up.
Parents should be informed about this system and encouraged to do the same with the whole family at home.
Arm, shoulder, chest, upper and lower back strength will be aided with the Horse Kick.
Start on hands and feet.
Keeping the hands in the starting position, run in place to a quick rhythm.
After this has become easy, use slower and slower rhythms, kicking higher and higher.
Follow this by crossing from one corner of the room to the other on all fours, kicking as high as possible.
Push-ups are essential, but few have the strength for them at first.
Fall slowly forward onto the hands and let the body down to rest on the floor.
Push back up and repeat.
Do this exercise six times each class period.
As strength improves start in a standing position with legs wide apart and upper body bent forward.
Start by falling forward to a point close to the feet, and, as strength improves, fall farther and farther out.
Try to push back to the stand position from the stretched position without any intermediate pushes from the hands.
The push-up itself can be taught by starting at the top of the push-up with legs spread wide.
Let the body down slowly, taking at least five seconds for the letting down.
Five of these done daily for about a week will develop the strength for one push-up.
Of course those who have developed more will find them easier.
Start with the class standing in a circle, with weight on the right foot and the left extended a little way into the circle.
At first each child should do a kick up by himself so that the teacher can determine those ready to work alone, and those who need help.
Drop both hands to the floor and at the same time kick the right foot up in back.
The left will follow at once.
The right will land first, followed by the left.
Return to the standing position.
Care should be taken to see that the hands are placed on the floor before the kick starts and also that the landing foot is brought as close to the hands as possible.
This will prevent flat falls and toe injuries.
Eventually the class will be able to kick up high enough so that the teacher can catch the leading leg.
The child should then bring both legs together overhead, point the toes and tighten the seat muscles.
Be sure that the landing foot is brought close to the hands and that only one foot lands at a time.
The backbend is of extreme importance to any form of free gymnastics, and, as with all acrobatics, the sooner begun the better the results.
Have the class lie supine with knees apart and bent.
Place flat palms on either side of the head a few inches away from the ears, fingers pointing toward the shoulders.
Arch the back upwards to make a bridge.
Be sure the head drops backward so that the child looks at the floor rather than toward the ceiling.
As flexibility improves, the feet will move closer to the hands and the bridge rise higher.
To further increase back flexibility, work on the back circle.
Have the class lie prone.
Place the hands in front of the chest.
Keep the legs straight and the toes pointed.
Straighten the arms slowly, this arches the back.
At the peak of the arch, tip the head back and bend the knees in an effort to touch toes to head.
Improvement can be measured by the lessening distance between toes and head.
The last essential to the beginner's gymnastic program is the somersault, or forward roll.
This used to be part of every child's bag of tricks, but few children can do it today; some are actually incapable of rolling forward and are completely confused when not sitting or standing upright.
After it has been seen, have the child start on a mat on hands and knees (a thin, inexpensive mat is quite sufficient for anything that does not require falling).
He places the hands on either side of the head, keeping the chin down on the chest.
He then pushes his seat into the air and the teacher guides it over.
One or two practice runs should be sufficient for solo.
If, however, the child is weak, overweight, or afraid, more help will be needed.
When the child raises his seat into the air, the teacher takes hold under both sides of the pelvis; then no matter what happens, the child's performance will be controlled.
By lifting the seat upwards a little, the weight is taken off the neck and the back is kept rounded.
These are beginnings, but correctly learned they prepare for satisfying and exciting stunts that can be performed by a strong, flexible body (we are not talking of eccentric extremes).
Even if gymnastics are not the ultimate goal, the good tumbler will be a better dancer, a better athlete, and a human being with a greater margin of safety in any activity.
And dancing school, so helpful in artistic and psychological development, also contributes to this essential early training - and can contribute even more.
The controversy of the last few years over whether architects or interior designers should plan the interiors of modern buildings has brought clearly into focus one important difference of opinion.
The architects do not believe that the education of the interior designer is sufficiently good or sufficiently extended to compare with that of the architect and that, therefore, the interior designer is incapable of understanding the architectural principles involved in planning the interior of a building.
Ordinary politeness may have militated against this opinion being stated so badly but anyone with a wide acquaintance in both groups and who has sat through the many round tables, workshops or panel discussions - whatever they are called - on this subject will recognize that the final, boiled down crux of the matter is education.
It is true that most architectural schools have five year courses, some even have six or more.
The element of public danger which enters so largely into architectural certification, however, would demand a prolonged study of structure.
This would, naturally, lengthen their courses far beyond the largely esthetic demands of interior designer's training.
We may then dismiss the time difference between these courses and the usual four year course of the interior design student as not having serious bearing on the subject.
The real question that follows is - how are those four years used and what is their value as training?
An examination of some forty catalogs of schools offering courses in interior design, for the most part schools accredited by membership in the National Association of Schools of Art, and a further ``on the spot'' inspection of a number of schools, show their courses adhere pretty closely to the recommendations.
One or two of the schools have a five year curriculum, but the usual pattern of American education has limited most of them to the four year plan which seems to be the minimum in acceptable institutions.
The suggested course of the A.I.D. was based on the usual course offered and on the opinion of many educators as to curricular necessities.
Obviously, the four year provision limits this to fundamentals and much desirable material must be eliminated.
Without comparing the relative merits of the two courses - architecture versus interior design - let us examine the educational needs of the interior designer.
To begin with, what is an interior designer?
``The Dictionary of Occupational Titles'' published by the U. S. Department of Labor describes him as follows:
``Designs, plans and furnishes interiors of houses, commercial and institutional structures, hotels, clubs, ships, theaters, as well as set decorations for motion picture arts and television.
Makes drawings and plans of rooms showing placement of furniture, floor coverings, wall decorations, and determines color schemes.
Makes necessary purchases, places contracts, supervises construction, installation, finishing and placement of furniture, fixtures and other correlated furnishings, and follows through to completion of project ``.
In addition to this the U. S. Civil Service Bureau, when examining applicants for government positions as interior designers, expects that ``when various needed objects are not obtainable on the market he will design them.
He must be capable of designing for and supervising the manufacture of any craft materials needed in the furnishings''.
This seems like a large order.
The interior designer, then, must first be an artist but also understand carpentry and painting and lighting and plumbing and finance.
Yet nobody will question the necessity of all this and any reputable interior designer does know all this and does practice it.
And further he must understand his obligation to the client to not only meet his physical necessities but also to enhance and improve his life and to enlarge the cultural horizon of our society.
Few will quarrel with the aim of the schools or with the wording of their curriculum.
It is in the quality of the teaching of all this that a question may arise.
Yet even here many a problem is presented; as in a recent design competition with a floor plan and the simple command - ``design a luxury apartment''; no description of the client or his cultural level, no assertion of geographical area or local social necessities - simply ``a luxury apartment''.
Working in a vacuum of minimal information can result only in show pieces that look good in exhibitions and catalogs and may please the public relations department but have little to do with the essence of interior design.
It is possible, of course, to work on extant or projected buildings where either architect or owner will explain their necessities so that the student may get ``the feel'' of real interior design demands.
Unfortunately, the purely synthetic problem is the rule.
It is like medical schools in India where, in that fairy land of religious inhibition, the dissection of dead bodies is frowned upon.
Instead they learn their dissection on the bulbs of plants.
Thus technical efficiency is achieved at the expense of actual experience.
In the earlier years of training certain phases of the work must be covered and the synthetic problem has its use.
But to continue to divorce advanced students from reality is inexcusable.
Fortunately, although only a few years ago they held the student at arms length, today the business houses welcome the opportunity to aid the student, not only from an increased sense of community responsibility but also from the realization that the student of today is the interior designer of tomorrow - that the student already is ``in the trade''.
Even the ``history of furniture'' can hardly be taught exclusively from photographs and lantern slides.
Here, too, the reality of actual furniture must be experienced.
The professional organizations such as American Institute of Interior Designers, National Society of Interior Designers, Home Fashions League and various trade associations, can and do aid greatly in this work.
Certainly every educator involved in interior design should be a member and active in the work of one of these organizations.
Not only should every educator above the rank of instructor be expected to be a member of one of the professional organizations, but his first qualification for membership as an educator should be so sharply scrutinized that membership would be equivalent to certification to teach the subject.
Participation for the educator in this case, however, would have to be raised to full and complete membership.
The largest of these organizations at present denies to the full time educator any vote on the conduct and standards of the group and, indeed, refuses him even the right to attach the customary initials after his name in the college catalog.
This anomalous status of the educator cannot fail to lower his standing in the eyes of the students.
This seems somewhat shortsighted since if the absolute educational qualifications for membership which the organizations profess are ever enforced, the educator will have the molding of the entire profession in his hands.
In one way the Institutes and Societies do a disservice to the schools.
That is in the continuance of the ``grandfather clauses'' in their membership requirements.
When these groups were first formed many prominent and accomplished decorators could not have had the advantage of school training since interior design courses were rare and undeveloped during their youth.
Long hard years of ``on the job'' training had brought them to their competence.
The necessity of that day has long disappeared.
There is plenty of opportunity for proper education today.
It is discouraging for students to realize that the societies do not truly uphold the standards for which they are supposed to stand.
The reason and the day of ``grandfather clauses'' has long since passed.
Beyond any question of curriculum and approach to subject must be the quality of the teachers themselves.
It will occur to anyone that the teacher must have adequate education, a depth and breadth of knowledge far beyond the immediate necessities of his course plus complete dedication to his subject and to his students.
The local decorator who rushes in for a few hours of teaching may but more likely may not have these qualifications.
Nor will the hack, the Jack-of-all-trades, still found in some of the smaller art schools, suffice.
Only a few years ago a middle western college circulated a request for a teacher of interior design.
At the end of its letter was the information that applicants for this position ``must also be prepared to teach costume design and advertising art''.
This kind of irresponsibility toward their students can scarcely build a strong professional attitude in the future designer.
We must build a corps of highly professional teachers of interior design who have had education, experience in the profession and are willing to take on the usual accompaniments of teaching - minimal income and minimal status among their confreres.
Considerable specialization in teaching subjects such as architecture, furniture design, textiles and color is also desirable.
It is only fair to demand that teachers of courses in English, history, psychology and so on be as well informed in matters of art, especially interior design, as are the art teachers educated in the academic subjects.
The proper correlation of the art with the academic can be achieved only if this standard is observed.
The matter of sympathy of the academic professors for art objectives also must be taken into account.
One technical question of school organization comes to mind here.
For proper accreditation of schools, teachers in any course must have a degree at least one level above that for which the student is a candidate.
Since there are almost no schools in the country offering graduate work in interior design this rule cannot at present be observed.
Indeed, it has only been a matter of the last few years that reputable schools of art have granted degrees at all.
The question, however, cannot be ignored for long.
The basic problem involved is that a college setting up a graduate school must have an entirely separate faculty for the advanced degree.
One solution is the acquisition of degrees in education but it is a poor substitute.
It is a sort of academic ring-around-a rosy and you solve it.
This brings us to the question of accreditation of art schools in general.
Only the independent art schools, that is, those not connected with any university or college, receive severe and separate investigation before accreditation by the various regional organizations.
It has been the custom for most universities to stretch the blanket of accreditation for their liberal arts school to cover the shivering body of their fine arts department.
This, plus the habit of many schools of simply adding interior design to the many subjects of their home economics department, yet, nevertheless, claiming that they teach interior design, has contributed to the low repute of many university courses in interior design.
In spite of this, many universities offer adequate and even distinguished courses in the subject.
There will be no mitigation of these offences until all art schools, whether independent or attached to universities have separate accreditation - as do medical schools - by an art accreditation group such as the ``National Association of Schools of Art''.
Independent art schools granting degrees must, naturally, follow this with academic accreditation by the appropriate regional group.
You explain, ``I have the strangest feeling of having lived through this very same event before.
I cann't tell when, but I'm positive I witnessed this same scene of this particular gathering at some time in the past''!
This experience will have happened to many of you.
Emerson, in his lecture, refers to the ``startling experience which almost every person confesses in daylight, that particular passages of conversation and action have occurred to him in the same order before, whether dreaming or waking, a suspicion that they have been with precisely these persons in precisely this room, and heard precisely this dialogue, at some former hour, they know not when''.
Most psychiatrists dismiss these instances of that weird feeling as the deja vu (already seen) illusion, just as they dismiss dream previsions as coincidences.
In this manner they side-step the seemingly hopeless investigation of the greater depths of mystery in which all of us grope continually.
When a man recognizes a certain experience as the exact pattern of a previous dream, we have an instance of deja vu, except for the fact that he knows just why the experience seems familiar.
Occasionally there are examples of prevision which cannot be pushed aside without confessing an unscientific attitude.
One day Maeterlinck, coming with a friend upon an event which he recognized as the exact pattern of a previous dream, detailed the ensuing occurrences in advance so accurately that his companion was completely mystified.
The famous author tells us of the strange incident in Something About Myself.
One day when he attended a war memorial ceremony in Westminster Abbey his view was obstructed by a stout man on his left, his attention turned to the irregular pattern of the rough slab flooring and someone, clasping him by the arm, whispered, ``I want a word with you, please''.
At that moment Kipling was overwhelmed with awed amazement, suddenly recalling that these identical details of scene, action and word had occurred to him in a dream six weeks earlier.
Freud probably contributed more than anyone else to the understanding of dreams, enabling us to recognize their equivalents in our wakeful thoughts.
However, readers who accept Freud's findings and believe that he has solved completely the mystery of dreams, should ponder over the following words in his Interpretation Of Dreams, Chapter 1, : ``as a matter of fact no such complete solution of the dream has ever been accomplished in any case, and what is more, every one attempting such solution has found that in most cases there have remained a great many components of the dream the source of which he has been unable to explain, nor is the discussion closed on the subject of the mantic or prophetic power of dreams''.
Dreams present many mysteries of telepathy, clairvoyance, prevision and retrovision.
The basic mystery of dreams, which embraces all the others and challenges us from even the most common typical dream, is in the fact that they are original, visual continuities.
I recall the startling, vivid realism of a dream in which I lived through the horror of the bombing of a little Korean town.
I am sure that nothing within me is capable of composing that life-like sequence, so complete in detail, from the hodge-podge of news pictures I have seen.
Skeptics may deny the more startling phenomena of dreams as things they have never personally observed, but failure to wonder at their basic mystery is outright avoidance of routine evidence.
The question becomes, ``What is a dream''?
Is a dream simply a mental or cerebral movie?
Every dream, and this is true of a mental image of any type even though it may be readily interpreted into its equivalent of wakeful thought, is a psychic phenomenon for which no explanation is available.
In most cases we recognize certain words, persons, animals or objects.
But these are dreamed in original action, in some particular continuity which we don't remember having seen in real life.
For instance, the dreamer sees himself seated behind neighbor Smith and, with photographic realism, sees Smith driving the car; whereas, it is a matter of fact that Smith cannot drive a car.
There is nothing to suggest that the brain can alter past impressions to fit into an original, realistic and unbroken continuity like we experience in dreams.
The entire concept of cerebral imagery as the physical basis of a mental image can find no logical support.
Dreams that display events of the future with photographic detail call for a theory explaining their basic mystery and all its components, including that weird feeling of deja vu, inevitably fantastic though that theory must seem.
As in the theory of perception, established in psycho-physiology, the eye is recognized as an integral part of the brain.
But then this theory confesses that it is completely at a loss as to how the image can possibly be received by the brain.
The opening paragraph of the chapter titled The Theory Of Representative Perception, in the book Philosophies Of Science by Albert G. Ramsperger says, ``passed on to the brain, and there, by some unexplained process, it causes the mind to have a perception''.
But why is it necessary to reproduce the retinal image within the brain?
As retinal images are conceded to be an integral function of the brain it seems logical to suppose that the nerves, between the inner brain and the eyes, carry the direct drive for cooperation from the various brain centers - rather than to theorize on the transmission of an image which is already in required location.
Hereby, the external object viewed by the eyes remains the thing that is seen, not the retinal image, the purpose of which would be to achieve perceptive cooperation by stirring sympathetic impulses in the other sensory centers, motor tensions, associated word symbols, and consciousness.
Modern physics has developed the theory that all matter consists of minute waves of energy.
We know that the number of radio and television impulses, sound waves, ultra-violet rays, etc., that may occupy the very same space, each solitary upon its own frequency, is infinite.
This theory makes it possible for any event throughout eternity to be continuously available at any moment to consciousness.
Space in any form is completely measured by the three dimensions.
If the fourth dimension is a physical concept and not purely metaphysical, through what medium does it extend?
It is not through space nor time that the time machine most approved by science fiction must travel for a visit to the permanent prehistoric past, or the ever existent past fantasy future.
Three seconds flat is the usual time, and the space is crossed by moderate mileage, while the overwhelming immensity of such journeys must be conceived as a static pulsation through an enormous number of coexistent frequencies which perpetuate all events.
The body, senses and brain, in common with all matter, have their counterpart on each of a countless number of frequencies.
The senses in each counterpart bear the impression only of phenomena that share its own frequency, whereas those upon all other frequencies are invisible, inaudible and intactible to them.
Consciousness is the factor that provides the progressive continuity to sensory impressions.
When consciousness deserts the sleeping body and the wakeful world, it continues in the myriad progressions of the ever-present past and future, in a life as vibrant and real as the one left when the body tired and required sleep.
Dr. H. V. Hilprecht, Professor of Assyrian at the University of Pennsylvania, dreamed that a Babylonian priest, associated with the king Kurigalzu, (1300 B.C. .) escorted him to the treasure chamber of the temple of Bel, gave him six novel points of information about a certain broken relic, and corrected an error in its identification.
As a matter of fact, the incorrect classification, the result of many weeks of labor by Dr. Hilprecht, was about to be published by him the following day.
Some time later the missing part of the relic was found and the complete inscription, together with other new evidence, fully corroborated the ancient priest's information.
Dr. Hilprecht was uncertain as to the language used by the ancient priest in his dream.
He was almost positive it was not Assyrian nor Cassite, and imagined it must have been German or English.
We may conclude that all six points of information, ostensibly given by the dream priest, could have been furnished by Dr. Hilprecht's subconscious reasoning.
But, in denying any physical reality for this dream, how could the brain possibly compose that realistic, vividly visual continuity uninterrupted by misty fadeout, violent break or sudden substitution?
Which theory is more fantastic : 1.
that the perfect continuity was composed from the job lot of memory impressions in the professor's brain, or 2.
The degree of circumstance, the ratio of memory to forgetfulness, determines whether a dream will be a recognized, fulfilled prevision, or the vaguely, effective source of the weird deja vu feeling.
No doubt some experiences vanish so completely as to leave no trace on the sleeper's mind.
Probably less than one percent of our previsions escape final obliteration before we wake.
When we arrive at the events concerned in the vanished majority, they, of course, cannot impress us as anything familiar.
Nevertheless, there are notably frequent instances of deja vu, in which our recognition of an entirely novel event is a feeling of having lived through it before, a feeling which, though vague, withstands the verbal barrage from the most impressive corps of psychologists.
If deja vu is an illusion, then peculiarly, it is a most prevalent mental disturbance affecting even the most level-headed people.
Chauncey Depew, one-time runner-up for the Republican Presidential nomination, was attending a convention at Saratoga, where he was scheduled to nominate Colonel Theodore Roosevelt for Governor of New York when he noticed that the temporary chairman was a man he had never met.
After the preliminary business affair was finished Depew arose and delivered the convincing speech that clinched the nomination for Roosevelt.
If Depew had told any academic psychologist that he had a weird feeling of having lived through that identical convention session at some time in the past, he would have been informed that he was a victim of deja vu.
He remembered exactly when he had lived through it before, and he had something to prove he had.
One week before the convention, Depew was seated on the porch of a country home on the Hudson, gazing at the opposite shore.
Franklin D. Lee proved a man of prompt action when Mrs. Claire Shaefer, accompanied by a friend, visited him in Bakersfield, California, several months ago as a prospective patient.
``Doctor'' Lee asked her to lie down on a bed and remove her shoes.
Then, by squeezing her foot three times, he came up - presto - with a different diagnosis with each squeeze.
She had - he informed her - kidney trouble, liver trouble, and a severe female disorder.
(He explained that he could diagnose these ailments from squeezing her foot because all of the nervous system was connected to it .)
He knew just the thing for her - a treatment from his ``cosmic light ozone generator'' machine.
As he applied the applicator extending from the machine - which consisted of seven differently colored neon tubes superimposed on a rectangular base - to the supposedly diseased portions of Mrs. Shaefer's body, Lee kept up a steady stream of pseudo scientific mumbo-jumbo.
Did she know, he asked, why the colors of the tubes were important to people's health?
The human body - he pointed out, for example - required 33 units of blue light.
For that reason, he informed her, the Lord made the sky blue.
Continuing glibly in this vein, he paused to comfort her:
``Don't you worry.
This machine will cure your cancer ridden body''.
``Cancer''!
Mrs. Shaefer practically shrieked.
``You didn't tell me I had cancer''.
But as long as you can have treatment from my machine you have nothing to worry about.
Why, I once used this machine to cure a woman with 97 pounds of cancer in her body''.
He urged her to buy one of his machines - for $ 300.
When she said that she didn't have the money, he said that she could come in for treatment with his office model until she was ready to buy one.
He then sold her minerals to cure her kidney ailment, a can of sage ``to make her look like a girl again'', and an application of plain mud to take her wrinkles away.
Lee renewed his pressure on Mrs. Shaefer to buy his machine when she visited him the next day.
After another treatment with the machine, he told her that ``her entire body was shot through with tumors and cysts''.
He then sold her some capsules that he asserted would take care of the tumors and cysts until she could collect the money for buying his machine.
When she submitted to his treatment with the capsules, Mrs. Shaefer felt intense pain.
For several days, she was ill as a result of Lee's treatment.
Mrs. Shaefer never got around to joining the thousand or so people who paid Lee some $ 30000 for his ozone machines.
For Mrs. Shaefer - who had been given a clean bill of health by her own physician at the time she visited Lee - and her friend were agents for the California Pure Food and Drug Inspection Bureau.
And she felt amply rewarded for her suffering when the evidence of Lee's quack shenanigans, gathered by the tape recorder under her friend's clothing, proved adequate in court for convicting Franklin D. Lee.
The charge : violation of the California Medical Practices Act by practicing medicine without a license and selling misbranded drugs.
The sentence : 360 days' confinement in the county jail.
An isolated case of quackery?
By no means.
Rather, it is typical of the thousands of quacks who use phony therapeutic devices to fatten themselves on the miseries of hundreds of thousands of Americans by robbing them of millions of dollars and luring them away from legitimate, ethical medical treatment of serious diseases.
With these gadgets - impressive to the gullible because of their flashing light bulbs, ticks, and buzzes - he then carries out a vicious medical con game, capitalizing on people's respect for the electrical and atomic wonders of our scientific age.
He milks the latest scientific advances, translating them into his own special Buck Rogers vocabulary to huckster his fake machines as a cure-all for everything from hay fever to sexual impotence and cancer.
The gadget faker operates or sells his phony machines for $ 5 to $ 10000 - anything the traffic will bear.
He may call himself a naprapath, a physiotherapist, an electrotherapist, a naturopath, a sanipractor, a medical cultist, a masseur, a ``doctor'' - or what have you.
Not only do these quacks assume impressive titles, but represent themselves as being associated with various scientific or impressive foundations - foundations which often have little more than a letterhead existence.
The medical device pirate of today, of course, is a far more sophisticated operator than his predecessor of yesteryear - the gallus snapping hawker of snake oil and other patent medicines.
His plunder is therefore far higher - running into hundreds of millions.
According to the Food and Drug Administration (FDA), ``Doctor'' Ghadiali, Dr. Albert Abrams and his clique, and Dr. Wilhelm Reich - to name three notorious device quacks - succeeded, respectively, in distributing 10000, 5000, and 2000 fake health machines.
Authorities believe that many of the Doctor Frauds using these false health gadgets are still in business.
Sarah Gross, a dress shop proprietor, paid $ 1020 to a masseur, and Mr. A., a laborer, paid $ 4200 to a chiropractor for treatment with two fake health machines - the ``radioclast'' and the ``diagnometer''.
Multiply these figures by the millions of people known to be conned by medical pirates annually.
You will come up with a frightening total.
That's why the FDA, the American Medical Association (AMA), and the National Better Business Bureau (BBB) have estimated the toll of mechanical quackery to be a substantial portion of the $ 610 million or so paid to medical charlatans annually.
The Postmaster General recently reported that mail order frauds - among which fake therapeutic devices figure prominently - are at the highest level in history.
Similarly, the American Cancer Society (ACS), the Arthritis and Rheumatism Foundation, and the BBB have each stated lately that medical quackery is at a new high.
For example, the BBB has reported it was receiving four times as many inquiries about quack devices and 10 times as many complaints compared with two years ago.
Authorities hesitate to quote exact figures, however, believing that any sum they come up with is only a surface manifestation - turned up by their inevitably limited policing - of the real loot of the medical racketeer.
In this sense, authorities believe that all estimates of phony device quackery are conservative.
But it is our health - more precious than all the money in the world - that these modern witch doctors with their fake therapeutic gadgets are gambling away.
By preying on the sick, by playing callously on the hopes of the desperate, by causing the sufferer to delay proper medical care, these medical ghouls create pain and misery by their very activity.
Typically, Sarah Gross and Mr. A both lost more than their money as the result of their experiences with their Cleveland quacks.
Sarah Gross found that the treatments given her for a nervous ailment by the masseur were not helping her.
As a result, she consulted medical authorities and learned that the devices her quack ``doctor'' was using were phony.
She suffered a nervous breakdown and had to be institutionalized.
Mr. A., her fellow townsman, also experienced a nervous breakdown just as soon as he discovered that he had been bilked of his life savings by the limited practitioner who had been treating his wife - a woman suffering from an incurable disease, multiple sclerosis - and himself.
Mr. A has recovered, but he is, justifiably, a bitter man.
``That's a lot of hard earned money to lose'', he says today.
And there was the case of Tom Hepker, a machinist, who was referred by a friend to a health machine quack who treated him with a so-called diagnostic machine for what Doctor Fraud said was a system full of arsenic and strychnine.
After his pains got worse, Tom decided to see a real doctor, from whom he learned he was suffering from cancer of the lung.
Yes, Tom caught it in time to stay alive.
But he's a welfare case now - a human wreck - thanks to this modern witch doctor.
But the machine quack can cause far more than just suffering.
In such diseases as cancer, tuberculosis, and heart disease, early diagnosis and treatment are so vital that the waste of time by the patient with Doctor Fraud's cure-all gadget can prove fatal.
Moreover, the diabetic patient who relies on cure by the quack device and therefore cuts off his insulin intake can be committing suicide.
For instance:
In Chicago, some time ago, Mr. H., age 27, a diabetic since he was six, stopped using insulin because he had bought a ``magic spike'' - a glass tube about the size of a pencil filled with barium chloride worth a small fraction of a cent - sold by the Vrilium Company of Chicago for $ 306 as a cure-all.
Mr. H. is dead today because he followed this advice.
Doris Hull, suffering from tuberculosis, was taken by her husband to see Otis G. Carroll, a sanipractor - a licensed drugless healer - in Spokane.
Carroll diagnosed Mrs. Hull by taking a drop of blood from her ear and putting it on his ``radionic'' machine and twirling some knobs (fee $ 50).
His prescription : hot and cold compresses to increase her absorption of water.
Although she weighed only 108 pounds when she visited him, Carroll permitted her to go on a 10 - day fast in which she took nothing but water.
Inevitably, Mrs. Hull died of starvation and tuberculosis, weighing 60 pounds.
Moreover, her husband and child contracted T.B. from her.
(Small wonder a Spokane jury awarded the husband $ 35823 for his wife's death .)
In California, a few years ago, a ghoul by the name of H. F. Bell sold electric blankets as a cure for cancer.
When authorities convicted him of practicing medicine without a license (he got off with a suspended sentence of three years because of his advanced age of 77), one of his victims was not around to testify : He was dead of cancer.
By no means are these isolated cases.
``Unfortunately'', says Chief Postal Inspector David H. Stephens, who has prosecuted many device quacks, ``the ghouls who trade on the hopes of the desperately ill often cannot be successfully prosecuted because the patients who are the chief witnesses die before the case is called up in court''.
Death!
Have no doubt about it.
That's where device quackery can lead.
The evidence shows that fake therapeutic machines, substituted for valid medical cures, have hastened the deaths of thousands.
Who are the victims of the device quacks?
Authorities say that oldsters are a prime target.
People who have not been able to get relief from regular medical doctors are especially apt to be taken in by quacks''.
The victims of the quacks are frequently poor people, like Mr. A., who scrape up their life savings to offer as a sacrifice to Doctor Fraud's avarice.
They are often ignorant as well as underprivileged.
The popularity of folklore in America stands in direct proportion to the popularity of nationalism in America.
And the emphasis on nationalism in America is in proportion to the growth of American influence across the world.
Thus, if we are to observe American folklore in the twentieth century, we will do well to establish the relationships between folklore, nationalism and imperialism at the outset.
Historians have come to recognize two cardinal facts concerning nationalism and international influence.
1) Every age rewrites the events of its history in terms of what should have been, creating legends about itself that rationalize contemporary beliefs and excuse contemporary actions.
What actually occurred in the past is seldom as important as what a given generation feels must have occurred.
Its folklore and legend, usually disguised as history, are allowed to account for group actions, to provide a focal point for group loyalty, and to become a cohesive force for national identification.
One can apply these facts to Britain in the late eighteenth and nineteenth centuries as she spread her dominion over palm and pine, and they can be applied again to the United States in more recent years.
The popularity of local color literature before the Spanish-American War, the steady currency of the Lincoln myth, the increased emphasis on the frontier west in our mass media are cases in point.
Nor is it an accident that baseball, growing into the national game in the last 75 years, has become a microcosm of American life, that learned societies such as the American Folklore Society and the American Historical Association were founded in the 1880's, or that courses in American literature, American civilization, American anything have swept our school and college curricula.
Of course, nationalism has really outlived its usefulness in a country as world oriented as ours, and its continued existence reflects one of the major culture lags of the twentieth century United States.
Yet nationalism has lost few of its charms for the historian, writer or man in the street.
It is an understandable paradox that most American history and most American literature is today written from an essentially egocentric and isolationistic point of view at the very time America is spreading her dominion over palm and pine.
After all, the average American as he lies and waits for the enemy in Korea or as she scans the newspaper in some vain hope of personal contact with the front is unconcerned that his or her plight is the result of a complex of personal, economic and governmental actions far beyond the normal citizen's comprehension and control.
Anyone's identification with an international struggle, whether warlike or peaceful, requires absurd oversimplification and intense emotional involvement.
In America, such self-deception has served a particularly useful purpose.
A heterogeneous people have needed it to attain an element of cultural and political cohesion in a new and ever changing land.
But we must never forget, most of the appropriate heroes and their legends were created overnight, to answer immediate needs, almost always with conscious aims and ends.
Parson Weems's George Washington became the symbol of honesty and the father image of the uniting States.
Abraham Lincoln emerged as an incarnation of the national Constitution.
Robert E. Lee represented the dignity needed by a rebelling confederacy.
And their roles are paralleled by those of Patrick Henry, Nathan Hale, Andrew Jackson, Davy Crockett, Theodore Roosevelt and many, many more.
Therefore, the scholar, as he looks at our national folklore of the last 60 years, will be mindful of two facts.
1) Most of the legends that are created to fan the fires of patriotism are essentially propagandistic and are not folk legends at all.
Folklore is individually created art that a homogeneous group of people preserve, vary and recreate through oral transmission.
It has come to mean myths, legends, tales, songs, proverbs, riddles, superstitions, rhymes and such literary forms of expression.
Related to written literature, and often remaining temporarily frozen in written form, it loses its vitality when transcribed or removed from its oral existence.
Though it may exist in either literate or illiterate societies, it assumes a role of true cultural importance only in the latter.
In its propagandistic and commercial haste to discover our folk heritage, the public has remained ignorant of definitions such as this.
Enthusiastically, Americans have swept subliterary and bogus materials like Paul Bunyan tales, Abe Lincoln anecdotes and labor union songs up as true products of our American oral tradition.
Nor have we remembered that in the melting pot of America the hundreds of isolated and semi isolated ethnic, regional and occupational groups did not fuse into a homogeneous national unit until long after education and industrialization had caused them to cast oral tradition aside as a means of carrying culturally significant material.
Naturally, such scholarly facts are of little concern to the man trying to make money or fan patriotism by means of folklore.
That much of what he calls folklore is the result of beliefs carefully sown among the people with the conscious aim of producing a desired mass emotional reaction to a particular situation or set of situations is irrelevant.
From all this we can now see that two streams of development run through the history of twentieth century American folklore.
On the one side we have the university professors and their students, trained in Teutonic methods of research, who have sought out, collected and studied the true products of the oral traditions of the ethnic, regional and occupational groups that make up this nation.
On the other we have the flag wavers and the national sentimentalists who have been willing to use any patriotic, ``frontier western'' or colonial material willy-nilly.
Unfortunately, few of the artists (writers, movie producers, dramatists and musicians) who have used American folklore since 1900 have known enough to distinguish between the two streams even in the most general of ways.
After all, the field is large, difficult to define and seldom taught properly to American undergraduates.
In addition, this country has been settled by many peoples of many heritages and their lore has become acculturated slowly, in an age of print and easy communication, within an ever expanding and changing society.
The problems confuse even the experts.
For that matter, the experts themselves are a mixed breed.
Anthropologists, housewives, historians and such by profession, they approach their discipline as amateurs, collectors, commercial propagandists, analysts or some combination of the four.
They have little ``esprit de corps''.
The outlook for the amateur, for instance, is usually dependent on his fondness for local history or for the picturesque.
His love of folklore has romanticism in it, and he doesn't care much about the dollar sign or the footnote.
Folklore is his hobby, and he, all too rightly, wishes it to remain as such.
The amateur is closely related to the collector, who is actually no more than the amateur who has taken to the field.
The collector enjoys the contact with rural life; he hunts folklore for the very ``field and stream'' reasons that many persons hunt game; and only rarely is he acutely concerned with the meaning of what he has located.
Fundamentally, both these types, the amateur and the collector, are uncritical and many of them don't distinguish well between real folklore and bogus material.
But there are also the commercial propagandists and the analysts - one dominated by money, the other by nineteenth century German scholarship.
Both are primarily concerned with the uses that can be made of the material that the collector has found.
The commercial propagandist, who cann't afford to be critical, gets along well with the amateur, from whom he feeds, but he frequently steps on the analyst's toes by refusing to keep his material genuine.
His standards are, of course, completely foreign to those of the analyst.
To both the amateur and the commercial progandist the analyst lacks a soul, lacks appreciation with his endless probings and classifications.
Dominated by the vicious circle of the university promotion system, the analyst looks down on and gets along poorly with the other three groups, although he cannot deny his debt to the collector.
The knowledge that most Americans have of folklore comes through contact with commercial propagandists and a few energetic amateurs and collectors.
The work done by the analysts, the men who really know what folklore is all about, has no more appeal than any other work of a truly scientific sort and reaches a limited, learned audience.
Publishers want books that will sell, recording studios want discs that will not seem strange to ears used to hillbilly and jazz music, grade and high schools want quaint, but moral, material.
The analyst is apt to be too honest to fit in.
As a result, most people don't have more than a vague idea what folklore actually is; they see it as a potpourri of charming, moral legends and patriotic anecdotes, with a superstition or remedy thrown in here and there.
If one wishes to discuss a literary figure who uses folklore in his work, the first thing he must realize is that the literary figure is probably part of this ignorant American public.
And while every writer must be dealt with as a special case, the interested student will want to ask himself a number of questions about each.
Does the writer know the difference between an ``ersatz'' ballad or tall tale and a true product of the folk?
When the writer uses material does he tamper with it to improve its commercial effect or does he leave it pure?
Is the writer propagandistic?
Is he swept away by sentiment and nostalgia for an America that was?
Or does he sincerely want to tap the real springs of American attitude and culture regardless of how unpopular and embarrassing they may be?
When he gets the answers to his questions he will be discouraged.
In the first place, a good many writers who are said to use folklore, do not, unless one counts an occasional superstition or tale.
This has not, however, prevented publishers from labeling him a ``folk poet'', simply because he is a rural one.
In the second place, a large number of writers, making a more direct claim than Frost to being ``folk writers'' of one sort or another, clearly make no distinctions between genuine and bogus material.
Stephen Vincent Benet's John Brown's Body comes immediately to mind in this connection, as does John Steinbeck's The Grapes of Wrath and Carl Sandburg's The People, Yes.
The last two writers introduce strong political bias into their works, and not unlike the union leaders that we will discuss soon, see folklore as a reservoir of protest by a downtrodden and publically silenced mass.
Folklore, as used by such writers, really reflects images engraved into it by the very person using it.
The folk are simply not homogeneous with respect to nation or political attitude.
In fact, there is much evidence to indicate they don't care a bit about anything beyond their particular regional, ethnic and occupational limits.
Nevertheless, with a reading public that longs for ``the good old days'' and with an awareness of our expanding international interests, it is easy for the Benets to obtain a magnified position in literature by use of all sorts of Americana, real or fake, and it is easy for the Steinbecks and Sandburgs to support their messages of reform by reading messages of reform into the minds of the folk.
Color was delayed until 1935, the wide screen until the early fifties.
Each film consisted of fifty feet, which gives a running time of about one minute on the screen.
As long as audiences came to see the movement, there seemed little reason to adventure further.
Motion-picture exhibitions took place in stores in a general atmosphere like that of the penny arcade which can still be found in such urban areas as Times Square.
Brief snips of actual events were shown : parades, dances, street scenes.
The sensational and frightening enjoyed popularity:
a train rushes straight at the audience, or a great wave threatens to break over the seats.
An early Edison production was The Execution of Mary Queen of Scotts.
The unfortunate queen mounted the scaffold; the headsman swung his axe; the head dropped off; end of film.
An early film by a competitor of the Wizard of Menlo Park simply showed a long kiss performed by two actors of the contemporary stage.
In response, the industry allowed the discovery of the motion picture as a form of fiction and thus gave the movies the essential form they have had to this day.
Despite the sheer beauty and spectacle of numerous documentaries, art films, and travelogues, despite the impressive financial success of such a recent development as Cinerama, the movies are at heart a form of fiction, like the play, the novel, or the short story.
Moreover, the most artistically successful of the nonfiction films have invariably borrowed the narrative form from the fiction feature.
Thus such great American documentaries as The River and The Plow That Broke the Plains were composed as visual stories rather than as illustrated lectures.
The discovery that movies are a form of fiction was made in the early years of this century and it was made chiefly by two men, a French magician, Georges Melies, and an American employee of Edison, Edwin S. Porter.
Of the two, Porter is justly the better known, for he went far beyond the vital finding of fiction for films to take the first step toward fashioning a language of film, toward making the motion picture the intricate, efficient time machine that it has remained since, even in the most inept hands.
Melies, however, out of his professional instincts as a magician, discovered and made use of a number of illusionary techniques that remain part of the vocabulary of film.
One of these is the ``dissolve'', which makes possible a visually smooth transition from scene to scene.
As the first scene begins to fade, the succeeding scene begins to appear.
In a series of fairy tales and fantasies, Melies demonstrated that the film is superbly equipped to tell a straightforward story, with beginning, middle and end, complications, resolutions, climaxes, and conclusions.
Immediately, the film improved and it improved because in narrative it found a content based on time to complement its own unbreakable connection with time.
Physically, a movie is possible because a series of images is projected one at a time at such a speed that the eye ``remembers'' the one that has gone before even as it registers the one now appearing.
Linking the smoothly changing images together, the eye itself endows them with the illusion of movement.
The ``projection'' time of painting and sculpture is highly subjective, varying from person to person and even varying for a given person on different occasions.
So is the time of the novel.
The drama in the theater and the concert in the hall both have a fixed time, but the time is fixed by the director and the players, the conductor and the instrumentalists, subject, therefore, to much variation, as record collectors well know.
The time of the motion picture is fixed absolutely.
The film consists of a series of still, transparent photographs, or ``frames'', 35 - mm. - wide.
This is the rate of projection; it is also the rate of photographing.
Time is built into the motion picture, which cannot exist without time.
Now time is also the concern of the fictional narrative, which is, at its simplest, the story of an action with, usually, a beginning, a middle, and an end - elements which demand time as the first condition for their existence.
The ``moving'' picture of the train or the wave coming at the audience is, to be sure, more intense than a still picture of the same subject, but the difference is really one of degree; the cinematic element of time is merely used to increase the realism of an object which would still be reasonably realistic in a still photo.
In narrative, time is essential, as it is in film.
Almost everything about the movies that is peculiarly of the movies derives from a tension created and maintained between narrative time and film time.
This discovery of Melies was vastly more important than his sometimes dazzling, magician's tricks produced on film.
It was Porter, however, who produced the very first movie whose name has lived on through the half century of film history that has since ensued.
The movie was The Great Train Robbery and its effects on the young industry and art were all but incalculable.
The Great Train Robbery is a one reel film.
One reel - from eight to twelve minutes - became the standard length from the year of Robbery, 1903, until Griffith shattered that limit forever with Birth of a Nation in 1915.
The reel itself became and still is the standard of measure for the movies.
The material of the Porter film is simplicity itself; much of it has continued to be used over the years and the heart of it - good guys and bad guys in the old West - pretty well dominated television toward the end of the 1950's.
A band of robbers enters a railroad station, overpowers and ties up the telegraph operator, holds up the train and escapes.
A posse is formed and pursues the robbers, who, having made their escape, are whooping it up with some wild, wild women in a honky-tonk hide-out.
The robbers run from the hide-out, take cover in a wooded declivity, and are shot dead by the posse.
As a finale is appended a close-up of one of the band taking aim and firing his revolver straight at the audience.
All this is simple enough, but in telling the story Porter did two important things that had not been done before.
The plane of the action in the scene is not parallel with the plane of the film in the camera or on the screen.
If the change, at first sight, seems minor, we may recall that it took the Italian painters about two hundred years to make an analogous change, and the Italian painters, by universal consent, were the most brilliant group of geniuses any art has seen.
In that apparently simple shift Porter opened the way to the sensitive use of the camera as an instrument of art as well as a mechanical recording device.
He did more than that.
He revealed the potential value of the ``cut'' as the basic technique in the art of the film.
Cutting, of course, takes place automatically in the creation of a film.
The meaning of the word is quite physical, to begin with.
The physical film is cut with a knife at the end of one complete sequence, and the cut edge is joined physically, by cement, to the cut edge of the beginning of the next sequence.
If, as a home movie maker, you shoot the inevitable footage of your child taking its first steps, you have merely recorded an historical event.
This is what Porter did.
As the robbers leave the looted train, the film suddenly cuts back to the station, where the telegrapher's little daughter arrives with her father's dinner pail only to find him bound on the floor.
She dashes around in alarm.
The two events are taking place at the same time.
Time and space have both become cinematic.
We leap from event to event - including the formation of the posse - even though the events, in ``reality'' are taking place not in sequence but simultaneously, and not near each other but at a considerable distance.
The ``chase'' as a standard film device probably dates from The Great Train Robbery, and there is a reason for the continued popularity of the device.
The chase in itself is a narrative; it presumes both speed and urgency and it demands cutting - both from pursued to pursuer and from stage to stage of the journey of both.
The simple, naked idea of one man chasing another is of its nature better fitted for the film than it is for any other form of fiction.
There still remained the need for one great film artist to explore the full potential of the new form and to make it an art.
The man was D.W. Griffith.
When he came to the movies - more or less by accident - they were still cheap entertainment capable of enthralling the unthinking for an idle few minutes.
In about seven years Griffith either invented or first realized the possibilities of virtually every resource at the disposal of the film maker.
Before he was forty Griffith had created the art of the film.
Not that there had not been attempts, mostly European, to do exactly that.
But in general the European efforts to make an art of the entertainment had ignored the slowly emerging language of the film itself.
Staggeringly condensed versions of famous novels and famous plays were presented.
Great actors and actresses - the most notable being Sarah Bernhardt - were hired to repeat their stage performances before the camera.
The phonograph today, for all its high fidelity and stereophonic sound, is precisely what the early art purveyors in the movies wished to make of the camera.
Not surprisingly, this approach did not work.
The effort produced a valuable record of stage techniques in the early years of the century and some interesting records of great theater figures who would otherwise be only names.
But no art at all was born of the art effort in the early movies.
Northern liberals are the chief supporters of civil rights and of integration.
They have also led the nation in the direction of a welfare state.
And both in their objectives of non-discrimination and of social progress they have had ranged against them the Southerners who are called Bourbons.
The name presumably derives from the French royal house which never learned and never forgot; since Bourbon whiskey, though of Kentucky origin, is at least as much favored by liberals in the North as by conservatives in the South.
The nature of the opposition between liberals and Bourbons is too little understood in the North.
It is these other differences between North and South - other, that is, than those which concern discrimination or social welfare - which I chiefly discuss herein.
I write about Northern liberals from considerable personal experience.
A Southerner married to a New Englander, I have lived for many years in a Connecticut commuting town with a high percentage of artists, writers, publicity men, and business executives of egghead tastes.
Most of them are Democrats and nearly all consider themselves, and are viewed as, liberals.
This is puzzling to an outsider conscious of the classic tradition of liberalism, because it is clear that these Democrats who are left-of-center are at opposite poles from the liberal Jefferson, who held that the best government was the least government.
Yet paradoxically my liberal friends continue to view Jefferson as one of their patron saints.
When I question them as to what they mean by concepts like liberty and democracy, I find that they fall into two categories : the simpler ones who have simply accepted the shibboleths of their faith without analysis; and the intelligent, cynical ones who scornfully reply that these things don't count any more in the world of to-day.
I am naive, they say, to make use of such words.
I take this to mean that the intelligent - and therefore necessarily cynical?
This seems like an attitude favoring a sort of totalitarian bureaucracy which, under a President of the same stamp, would try to coerce an uncooperative Congress or Supreme Court.
As for states' rights, they have never counted in the thinking of my liberal friends except as irritations of a minor and immoral nature which exist now only as anachronisms.
The American liberal may, in the world of to-day, have a strong case; but he presents it publicly so enmeshed in hypocrisy that it is not an honest one.
Why, in the first place, call himself a liberal if he is against laissez-faire and favors an authoritarian central government with womb-to-tomb controls over everybody?
If he attaches little importance to personal liberty, why not make this known to the world?
And if he is so scornful of the rights of states, why not advocate a different sort of constitution that he could more sincerely support?
I am concerned here, however, with the Northern liberal's attitude toward the South.
It appears to be one of intense dislike, which he makes little effort to conceal even in the presence of Southern friends.
His assumption seems to be that any such friends, being tolerable humans, must be more liberal than most Southerners and therefore at least partly in sympathy with his views.
This, for the liberals I know, would be an understatement.
Theirs is no mere lack of sympathy, but something closer to the passionate hatred that was directed against Fascism.
I do not think that my experience would be typical for Southerners living in the North.
In business circles, usually conservative, this sort of atmosphere would hardly be found.
But in our case - and neither my wife nor I have extreme views on integration, nor are we given to emotional outbursts - the situation has ruined one or two valued friendships and come close to wrecking several more.
In fact it has caused us to give serious thought to moving our residence south, because it is not easy for the most objective Southerner to sit calmly by when his host is telling a roomful of people that the only way to deal with Southerners who oppose integration is to send in troops and shoot the bastards down.
Accounts have been published of Northern liberals in the South up against segregationist prejudice, especially in state-supported universities where pressure may be strong to uphold the majority view.
But these accounts do not show that Northerners have been subjected to embarrassment or provocation by Yankee hatred displayed in social gatherings.
From my wife's experience and other sources, this seems to be rarely encountered in educated circles.
And social relations arising out of business ties impose courtesy, if not sympathy, toward resident and visiting Northerners.
Also, among the latter a large percentage soon acquire the prevalent Southern attitude on most social problems.
There are of course many Souths; but for this discussion the most important division is between those who have been reconstructed and those who haven't.
My definition of this much abused adjective is that a reconstructed rebel is one who is glad that the North won the War.
Nobody knows how many Southerners there are in this category.
I suspect that there are far more unreconstructed ones than the North likes to believe.
I never heard of a poll being taken on the question.
No doubt such a thing would be considered unpatriotic.
Prior to 1954 I imagine that a majority of Southerners would have voted against the Confederacy.
Belief in the traditional way of life persists much more in the older states than in the new ones.
Probably a larger percentage of Virginians and South Carolinians remain unreconstructed than elsewhere, with Georgia, North Carolina, and Alabama following along after them.
Old attitudes are held more tenaciously in the Tidewater than the Piedmont; so that a line running down the length of the South marking the upper limits of tidewater would roughly divide the Old South from the new, but with, of course, important minority enclaves.
The long settled areas of states like Virginia and South Carolina developed the ante-bellum culture to its richest flowering, and there the memory is more precious, and the consciousness of loss the greater.
Also, we should not even to-day discount the fact that a region such as the coastal lowlands centering on Charleston had closer ties with England and the West Indies than with the North even after independence.
The social and psychological consequences of this continue to affect the area.
In certain respects defeat increased the persistent Anglophilia of the Old South.
Poor where they had once been rich, humbled where they had been arrogant, having no longer any hope of sharing in the leadership of the nation, the rebels who would not surrender in spirit drew comfort from the sympathy they felt extended to them by the mother country.
And no doubt many people in states like the Carolinas and Georgia, which were among the most Tory in sentiment in the eighteenth century, bitterly regretted the revolt against the Crown.
All Southerners agree that slavery had to go; but many historians maintain that except for Northern meddling it would have ended in states like Virginia years before it did.
Southern resentment has been over the method of its ending, the invasion, and Reconstruction; their fears now are of miscegenation and Negro political control in many counties.
But apart from racial problems, the old unreconstructed South - to use the moderate words favored by Mr. Thomas Griffith - finds itself unsympathetic to most of what is different about the civilization of the North.
And this, in effect, means most of modern America.
It is hard to see how the situation could be otherwise.
And therein, I feel, many Northerners delude themselves about the South.
For one thing, this is not a subject often discussed or analyzed.
There seems to be almost a conspiracy of silence veiling it.
I suppose the reason is a kind of wishful thinking : don't talk about the final stages of Reconstruction and they will take care of themselves.
If the circumstances are faced frankly it is not reasonable to expect this to be true.
The situation of the South since 1865 has been unique in the western world.
Regardless of rights and wrongs, a population and an area appropriate to a pre World War I, great power have been, following conquest, ruled against their will by a neighboring people, and have had imposed upon them social and economic controls they dislike.
And the great majority of these people are of Anglo-Saxon or Celtic descent.
This is the only case in modern history of a people of Britannic origin submitting without continued struggle to what they view as foreign domination.
The fact is due mainly to international wars, both hot and cold.
In every war of the United States since the Civil War the South was more belligerent than the rest of the country.
So instead of being tests of the South's loyalty, the Spanish War, the two World Wars, and the Korean War all served to overcome old grievances and cement reunion.
And there is no section of the nation more ardent than the South in the cold war against Communism.
It is extraordinary that a people as proud and warlike as Southerners should have been as docile as they have.
The North should thank its stars that such has been the case; but at the same time it should not draw false inferences therefrom.
The two main charges levelled against the Bourbons by liberals is that they are racists and social reactionaries.
There is much truth in both these charges, and not many Bourbons deny them.
Whatever their faults, they are not hypocrites.
Most of them sincerely believe that the Anglo-Saxon is the best race in the world and that it should remain pure.
Many Northerners believe this, too, but few of them will say so publicly.
The Bourbon economic philosophy, moreover, is not very different from that of Northern conservatives.
But those among the Bourbons who remain unreconstructed go much further than this.
As it is, they consider that the North is now reaping the fruits of excess egalitarianism, that in spite of its high standard of living the ``American way'' has been proved inferior to the English and Scandinavian ways, although they disapprove of the socialistic features of the latter.
The South's antipathy to Northern civilization includes such charges as poor manners, harsh accents, lack of appreciation of the arts of living like gastronomy and the use of leisure.
Their own easier, slower tempo is especially dear to Southerners; and I have heard many say that they are content to earn a half or a third as much as they could up North because they so much prefer the quieter habits of their home town.
As cells coalesced into organisms, they built new ``unnatural'' and internally controlled environments to cope even more successfully with the entropy increasing properties of the external world.
The useful suggestion of Professor David Hawkins which considers culture as a third stage in biological evolution fits quite beautifully then with our suggestion that science has provided us with a rather successful technique for building protective artificial environments.
One wonders about its applicability to people.
Will advances in human sciences help us build social structures and governments which will enable us to cope with people as effectively as the primitive combination of protein and nucleic acid built a structure of molecules which enabled it to adapt to a sea of molecular interaction?
The answer is of course yes.
For the family is the simplest example of just such a unit, composed of people, which gives us both some immunity from, and a way of dealing with, other people.
But it has been during the last two centuries, during the scientific revolution, that our independence from the physical environment has made the most rapid strides.
We have ample light when the sun sets; the temperature of our homes is independent of the seasons; we fly through the air, although gravity pulls us down; the range of our voice ignores distance.
At what stage are social sciences then?
Is the future of psychology akin to the rich future of physics at the time of Newton?
There is a haunting resemblance between the notion of cause in Copernicus and in Freud.
And it is certainly no slight to either of them to compare both their achievements and their impact.
Political theoretical understanding, although almost at a standstill during this century, did develop during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, and resulted in a flood of inventions which increased the possibility for man to coexist with man.
Constitutional government, popular vote, trial by jury, public education, labor unions, cooperatives, communes, socialized ownership, world courts, and the veto power in world councils are but a few examples.
Most of these, with horrible exceptions, were conceived as is a ship, not as an attempt to quell the ocean of mankind, nor to deny its force, but as a means to survive and enjoy it.
Just as present technology had to await the explanations of physics, so one might expect that social invention will follow growing sociological understanding.
We are desperately in the need of such invention, for man is still very much at the mercy of man.
In fact the accumulation of the hardware of destruction is day by day increasing our fear of each other.
I want, therefore, to discuss a second and quite different fruit of science, the connection between scientific understanding and fear.
There are certainly large areas of understanding in the human sciences which in themselves and even without political invention can help to dispel our present fears.
Lucretius has remarked : ``The reason why all Mortals are so gripped by fear is that they see all sorts of things happening in the earth and sky with no discernable cause, and these they attribute to the will of God''.
Perhaps things were even worse then.
It is difficult to reconstruct the primeval fears of man.
We get some clue from a few remembrances of childhood and from the circumstance that we are probably not much more afraid of people now than man ever was.
The bombs are as harmless as an automobile in a garage.
We are worried about what people may do with them - that some crazy fool may ``push the button''.
I am certainly not adequately trained to describe or enlarge on human fears, but there are certain features of the fears dispelled by scientific explanations that stand out quite clearly.
They are in general those fears that once seemed to have been amenable to prayer or ritual.
They include both individual fears and collective ones.
They arise in situations in which one believes that what happens depends not only on the external world, but also on the precise pattern of behavior of the individual or group.
Often it is recognized that all the details of the pattern may not be essential to the outcome but, because the pattern was empirically determined and not developed through theoretical understanding, one is never quite certain which behavior elements are effective, and the whole pattern becomes ritualized.
Yet often fear persists because, even with the most rigid ritual, one is never quite free from the uneasy feeling that one might make some mistake or that in every previous execution one had been unaware of the really decisive act.
To say that science had reduced many such fears merely reiterates the obvious and frequent statement that science eliminated much of magic and superstition.
The frequently postulated antique worry that the daylight hours might dwindle to complete darkness apparently gave rise to a ritual and celebration which we still recognize.
It is curious that even centuries of repetition of the yearly cycle did not induce a sufficient degree of confidence to allow people to abandon the ceremonies of the winter solstice.
This and other fears of the solar system have disappeared gradually, first, with the Ptolemaic system and its built-in concept of periodicity and then, more firmly, with the Newtonian innovation of an universal force that could account quantitatively for both terrestrial and celestial motions.
This understanding provides a very simple example of the fact that one can eliminate fear without instituting any controls.
In fact, although we have dispelled the fear, we have not necessarily assured ourselves that there are no dangers.
There is still the remote possibility of planetoid collision.
A meteor could fall on San Francisco.
Solar activities could presumably bring long periods of flood or drought.
Our understanding of the solar system has taught us to replace our former elaborate rituals with the appropriate action which, in this case, amounts to doing nothing.
This almost trivial example is nevertheless suggestive, for there are some elements in common between the antique fear that the days would get shorter and shorter and our present fear of war.
We, in our country, think of war as an external threat which, if it occurs, will not be primarily of our own doing.
And yet we obviously also believe that the avoidance of the disaster depends in some obscure or at least uncertain way on the details of how we behave.
What elements of our behavior are decisive?
Our weapons production, our world prestige, our ideas of democracy, our actions of trust or stubbornness or secrecy or espionage?
We have staved off a war and, since our behavior has involved all these elements, we can only keep adding to our ritual without daring to abandon any part of it, since we have not the slightest notion which parts are effective.
I think that we are here also talking of the kind of fear that a young boy has for a group of boys who are approaching at night along the streets of a large city.
If an automobile were approaching him, he would know what was required of him, even though he might not be able to act quickly enough.
With the group of boys it is different.
When confronted with a drunk or an insane person I have no notion of what any one of them might do to me or to himself or to others.
I believe that what I do has some effect on his actions and I have learned, in a way, to commune with drunks, but certainly my actions seem to resemble more nearly the performance of a rain dance than the carrying out of an experiment in physics.
I am usually filled with an uneasiness that through some unwitting slip all hell may break loose.
Our inability to explain why certain people are fond of us frequently induces the same kind of ritual and malaise.
We are forced, in our behavior towards others, to adopt empirically successful patterns in toto because we have such a minimal understanding of their essential elements.
Our collective policies, group and national, are similarly based on voodoo, but here we often lack even the empirically successful rituals and are still engaged in determining them.
We use terms from our personal experience with individuals such as ``trust'', ``cheat'', and ``get tough''.
We talk about national character in the same way that Copernicus talked of the compulsions of celestial bodies to move in circles.
We perform elaborate international exhortations and ceremonies with virtually no understanding of social cause and effect.
The achievements which dispelled our fears of the cosmos took place three centuries ago.
What additional roles has the scientific understanding of the 19th and 20th centuries played?
In the physical sciences, these achievements concern electricity, chemistry, and atomic physics.
In the life sciences, there has been an enormous increase in our understanding of disease, in the mechanisms of heredity, and in bio - and physiological chemistry.
The major effect of these advances appears to lie in the part they have played in the industrial revolution and in the tools which scientific understanding has given us to build and manipulate a more protective environment.
In addition, our way of dealing directly with natural phenomena has also changed.
Even in domains where detailed and predictive understanding is still lacking, but where some explanations are possible, as with lightning and weather and earthquakes, the appropriate kind of human action has been more adequately indicated.
Apparently the population as a whole eventually acquires enough confidence in the explanations of the scientists to modify its procedures and its fears.
How and why this process occurs would provide an interesting separate subject for study.
In agriculture, for example, despite the advances in biology, elaborate rituals tend to persist along with a continued sense of the imminence of some natural disaster.
In child care, the opposite extreme prevails; procedures change rapidly and parental confidence probably exceeds anything warranted by established psychological theory.
There are many domains in which understanding has brought about widespread and quite appropriate reduction in ritual and fear.
Much of the former extreme uneasiness associated with visions and hallucinations and with death has disappeared.
The persistent horror of having a malformed child has, I believe, been reduced, not because we have gained any control over this misfortune, but precisely because we have learned that we have so little control over it.
In fact, the recent warnings about the use of X-rays have introduced fears and ambiguities of action which now require more detailed understanding, and thus in this instance, science has momentarily aggravated our fears.
In fact, insofar as science generates any fear, it stems not so much from scientific prowess and gadgets but from the fact that new unanswered questions arise, which, until they are understood, create uncertainty.
Perhaps the most illuminating example of the reduction of fear through understanding is derived from our increased knowledge of the nature of disease.
The situation with regard to our attitude and ``control'' of disease contains close analogies to problems confronting us with respect to people.
It is worth dwelling in some detail on the crisis of this story, because it brings together a number of characteristic elements and makes of them a curious, riddling compound obscurely but centrally significant for Mann's work.
The wife, Amra, and her lover are both savagely portrayed, she as incarnate sensuality, ``voluptuous'' and ``indolent'', possibly ``a mischief maker'', with ``a kind of luxurious cunning'' to set against her apparent simplicity, her ``bird like brain''.
La^utner, for his part, ``belonged to the present-day race of small artists, who do not demand the utmost of themselves'', and the bitter description of the type includes such epithets as ``wretched little poseurs'', the devastating indictment ``they do not know how to be wretched decently and in order'', and the somewhat extreme prophecy, so far not fulfilled : ``They will be destroyed''.
The trick these two play upon Jacoby reveals their want not simply of decency but of imagination as well.
His appearance as Lizzy evokes not amusement but horror in the audience; it is a spectacle absolutely painful, an epiphany of the suffering flesh unredeemed by spirit, untouched by any spirit other than abasement and humiliation.
At the same time the multiple transvestitism involved - the fat man as girl and as baby, as coquette pretending to be a baby - touches for a moment horrifyingly upon the secret sources of a life like Jacoby 's, upon the sinister dreams which form the sources of any human life.
The music which La^utner has composed for this episode is for the most part ``rather pretty and perfectly banal''.
But it is characteristic of him, we are told, ``his little artifice'', to be able to introduce ``into a fairly vulgar and humorous piece of hackwork a sudden phrase of genuine creative art''.
And this occurs now, at the refrain of Jacoby's song - at the point, in fact, of the name ``Lizzy'' -; a modulation described as ``almost a stroke of genius''.
It is this modulation which reveals to Jacoby his own frightful abjection and, simultaneously, his wife's infidelity.
By the same means he perceives this fact as having communicated itself to the audience; he collapses, and dies.
In the work of every artist, I suppose, there may be found one or more moments which strike the student as absolutely decisive, ultimately emblematic of what it is all about; not less strikingly so for being mysterious, as though some deeply hidden constatation of thoughts were enciphered in a single image, a single moment.
So here.
The horrifying humor, the specifically sexual embarrassment of the joke gone wrong, the monstrous image of the fat man dressed up as a whore dressing up as a baby; the epiphany of that quivering flesh; the bringing together around it of the secret liaison between indolent, mindless sensuality and sharp, shrewd talent, cleverness with an occasional touch of genius (which, however, does not know ``how to attack the problem of suffering''); the miraculous way in which music, revelation and death are associated in a single instant - all this seems a triumph of art, a rather desperate art, in itself; beyond itself, also, it evokes numerous and distant resonances from the entire body of Mann's work.
When I try to work out my reasons for feeling that this passage is of critical significance, I come up with the following ideas, which I shall express very briefly here and revert to in a later essay.
Love is the crucial dilemma of experience for Mann's heroes.
The dramatic construction of his stories characteristically turns on a situation in which someone is simultaneously compelled and forbidden to love.
The release, the freedom, involved in loving another is either terribly difficult or else absolutely impossible; and the motion toward it brings disaster.
The specific analogy to the dilemma of love is the problem of the ``breakthrough'' in the realm of art.
Again, the sufferings and disasters produced by any transgression against the commandment not to love are almost invariably associated in one way or another with childhood, with the figure of a child.
Finally, the theatrical (and perversely erotic) notions of dressing up, cosmetics, disguise, and especially change of costume (or singularity of costume, as with Cipolla), are characteristically associated with the catastrophes of Mann's stories.
We shall return to these statements and deal with them more fully as the evidence for them accumulates.
For the present it is enough to note that in the grotesque figure of Jacoby, at the moment of his collapse, all these elements come together in prophetic parody.
Professionally a lawyer, that is to say associated with dignity, reserve, discipline, with much that is essentially middle-class, he is compelled by an impossible love to exhibit himself dressed up, disguised - that is, paradoxically, revealed - as a child, and, worse, as a whore masquerading as a child.
That this abandonment takes place on a stage, during an' artistic' performance, is enough to associate Jacoby with art, and to bring down upon him the punishment for art; that is, he is suspect, guilty, punishable, as is anyone in Mann's stories who produces illusion, and this is true even though the constant elements of the artist nature, technique, magic, guilt and suffering, are divided in this story between Jacoby and La^utner.
It appears that the dominant tendency of Mann's early tales, however pictorial or even picturesque the surface, is already toward the symbolic, the emblematic, the expressionistic.
In a certain perfectly definite way, the method and the theme of his stories are one and the same.
There is no more ``plot'' than that; only slightly more, perhaps, than a newspaper account of such an incident would give.
The artistic interest, then, lies in what the encounter may be made to represent, in the power of some central significance to draw the details into relevance and meaningfulness.
The first sentence, with its platitudinous irony, announces an emblematic intent : ``The way to the churchyard ran along beside the highroad, ran beside it all the way to the end; that is to say, to the churchyard''.
And the action is consistently presented with regard for this distinction.
The highroad, one might say at first, belongs to life, while the way to the churchyard belongs to death.
But that is too simple, and won't hold up.
As the first sentence suggests, both roads belong to death in the end.
But the highroad, according to the description of its traffic, belongs to life as it is lived in unawareness of death, while the way to the churchyard belongs to some other sort of life:
a suffering form, an existence wholly comprised in the awareness of death.
This man's isolation is not merely momentary, it is permanent.
He is a widower, his three children are dead, he has no one left on earth; also he is a drunk, and has lost his job on that account.
His name is Praisegod Piepsam, and he is rather fully described as to his clothing and physiognomy in a way which relates him to a sinister type in the author's repertory - he is a forerunner of those enigmatic strangers in ``Death in Venice'', for example, who represent some combination of cadaver, exotic, and psychopomp.
This strange person quarrels with a cyclist because the latter is using the path rather than the highroad.
The cyclist, a sufficiently commonplace young fellow, is not named but identified simply as ``Life'' - that and a license number, which Piepsam uses in addressing him.
``Life'' points out that ``everybody uses this path'', and starts to ride on.
Piepsam tries to stop him by force, receives a push in the chest from ``Life'', and is left standing in impotent and growing rage, while a crowd begins to gather.
His rage assumes a religious form; that is, on the basis of his own sinfulness and abject wretchedness, Piepsam becomes a prophet who in his ecstasy and in the name of God imprecates doom on Life - not only the cyclist now, but the audience, the world, as well : ``all you light-headed breed''.
This passion brings on a fit which proves fatal.
This is simple enough, but several more points of interest may be mentioned as relevant.
The season, between spring and summer, belongs to life in its carefree aspect.
Piepsam's fatal rage arises not only because he cannot stop the cyclist, but also because God will not stop him; as Piepsam says to the crowd in his last moments : ``His justice is not of this world''.
Life is further characterized, in antithesis to Piepsam, as animal : the image of a dog, which appears at several places, is first given as the criterion of amiable, irrelevant interest aroused by life considered simply as a spectacle : a dog in a wagon is ``admirable'', ``a pleasure to contemplate''; another wagon has no dog, and therefore is ``devoid of interest''.
Piepsam calls the cyclist ``cur'' and ``puppy'' among other things, and at the crisis of his fit a little fox-terrier stands before him and howls into his face.
The ambulance is drawn by two ``charming'' little horses.
Piepsam is not, certainly, religious in any conventional sense.
His religiousness is intimately, or dialectically, connected with his sinfulness; the two may in fact be identical.
His unsuccessful strivings to give up drink are represented as religious strivings; he keeps a bottle in a wardrobe at home, and ``before this wardrobe Praisegod Piepsam had before now gone literally on his knees, and in his wrestlings had bitten his tongue - and still in the end capitulated''.
``He made no claims to belong to the great and mighty of this earth''.
Piepsam is grotesque, a disturbing parody; his end is ridiculous and trivial.
He is ``a man raving mad on the way to the churchyard''.
But he is more interesting than the others, the ones who come from the highroad to watch him, more interesting than Life considered as a cyclist.
And if I have gone into so much detail about so small a work, that is because it is also so typical a work, representing the germinal form of a conflict which remains essential in Mann's writing:
the crude sketch of Piepsam contains, in its critical, destructive and self-destructive tendencies, much that is enlarged and illuminated in the figures of, for instance, Naphta and Leverku^hn.
In method as well as in theme this little anecdote with its details selected as much for expressiveness and allegory as for ``realism'', anticipates a kind of musical composition, as well as a kind of fictional composition, in which, as Leverku^hn says, ``there shall be nothing unthematic''.
It resembles, too, pictures such as Du^rer and Bruegel did, in which all that looks at first to be solely pictorial proves on inspection to be also literary, the representation of a proverb, for example, or a deadly sin.
``Gladius Dei'' (1902) resembles ``The Way to the Churchyard'' in its representation of a conflict between light and dark, between ``Life'' and a spirit of criticism, negation, melancholy, but it goes considerably further in characterizing the elements of this conflict.
Hieronymus, like Piepsam, makes his protest quite in vain, and his rejection, though not fatal, is ridiculous and humiliating; he is simply thrown out of the shop by the porter.
On the street outside, Hieronymus envisions a holocaust of the vanities of this world, such a burning of artistic and erotic productions as his namesake actually brought to pass in Florence, and prophetically he issues his curse : ``Gladius Dei super terram cito et velociter''.
The Office of Business Economics (OBE) of the U.S. Department of Commerce provides basic measures of the national economy and current analysis of short-run changes in the economic situation and business outlook.
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Such measures are essential to its job of presenting business and Government with the facts required to meet the objective of expanding business and improving the operation of the economy.
For further information contact Director, Office of Business Economics, U.S. Department of Commerce, Washington 25, D.C..
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The Farm Credit Administration, an independent agency located within the Department of Agriculture, supervises and coordinates a cooperative credit system for agriculture.
The system is composed of three credit services, Federal Land Banks and National Farm Loan Associations, Federal Intermediate (short-term) Credit Banks, and Banks for Cooperatives.
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The credit provdied by the first two services in the system outlined above is primarily for general agricultural purposes.
The third credit service, Banks for Cooperatives, exists under authority of the Farm Credit Act of 1933.
The Banks for Cooperatives were established to provide a permanent source of credit on a sound basis for farmers' cooperatives.
Three distinct classes of loans are made available to farmers' cooperatives by the Banks for Cooperatives:
Commodity loans, operating capital loans, and facility loans.
Interest rates are determined by the board of directors of the bank with the approval of the Farm Credit Administration.
For further information, contact the Bank for Cooperatives serving the region, or the Farm Credit Administration, Research and Information Division, Washington 25, D.C..
Available, on request, from U.S. Department of Agriculture, Washington 25, D.C., are : Cooperative Farm Credit Can Assist in Rural Development (Circular No. 44), and The Cooperative Farm Credit System (Circular No. 36 - A).
To encourage exploration for domestic sources of minerals, the Office of Minerals Exploration (OME) of the U.S. Department of the Interior offers financial assistance to firms and individuals who desire to explore their properties or claims for 1 or more of the 32 mineral commodities listed in the OME regulations.
This help is offered to applicants who ordinarily would not undertake the exploration under present conditions or circumstances at their sole expense and who are unable to obtain funds from commercial sources on reasonable terms.
Each applicant is required to own or have sufficient interest in the property to be explored.
The Government will contract with an eligible applicant to pay up to one-half of the cost of approved exploration work as it progresses.
The applicant pays the rest of the cost, but his own time spent on the work and charges for the use of equipment which he owns may be applied toward his share of the cost.
Funds contributed by the Government are repaid by a royalty on production from the property.
A 5 - percent royalty is paid on any production during the period the contract is in effect; if the Government certifies that production may be possible from the property, the royalty obligation continues for the 10 - year period usually specified in the contract or until the Government's contribution is repaid with interest.
The royalty applies to both principal and interest, but it never exceeds 5 percent.
Information, application forms, and assistance in filing may be obtained from the Office of Minerals Exploration, U.S. Department of the Interior, Washington 25, D.C., or from the appropriate regional office listed below:
It has recently become practical to use the radio emission of the moon and planets as a new source of information about these bodies and their atmospheres.
The results of present observations of the thermal radio emission of the moon are consistent with the very low thermal conductivity of the surface layer which was derived from the variation in the infrared emission during eclipses (e.g., Garstung, 1958).
When sufficiently accurate and complete measurements are available, it will be possible to set limits on the thermal and electrical characteristics of the surface and subsurface materials of the moon.
Observations of the radio emission of a planet which has an extensive atmosphere will probe the atmosphere to a greater extent than those using shorter wave lengths and should in some cases give otherwise unobtainable information about the characteristics of the solid surface.
Radio observations of Venus and Jupiter have already supplied unexpected experimental data on the physical conditions of these planets.
The observed intensity of the radio emission of Venus is much higher than the expected thermal intensity, although the spectrum indicated by measurements at wave lengths near 3 cm and 10 cm is like that of a black body at about 600 ` K.
For the case of Jupiter, the radio emission spectrum is definitely not like the spectrum of a black-body radiator, and it seems very likely that the radiation reaching the earth is a combination of thermal radiation from the atmosphere and non thermal components.
Of the remaining planets, only Mars and Saturn have been observed as radio sources, and not very much information is available.
Mars has been observed twice at about 3 - cm wave length, and the intensity of the observed radiation is in reasonable agreement with the thermal radiation which might be predicted on the basis of the known temperature of Mars.
The low intensity of the radiation from Saturn has limited observations, but again the measured radiation seems to be consistent with a thermal origin.
No attempts to measure the radio emission of the remaining planets have been reported, and, because of their distances, small diameters, or low temperatures, the thermal radiation at radio wave lengths reaching the earth from these sources is expected to be of very low intensity.
In spite of this, the very large radio reflectors and improved amplifying techniques which are now becoming available should make it possible to observe the radio emission of most of the planets in a few years.
The study of the radio emission of the moon and planets began with the detection of the thermal radiation of the moon at 1.25 - cm wave length by Dicke and Beringer (1946).
This was followed by a comprehensive series of observations of the 1.25 - cm emission of the moon over three lunar cycles by Piddington and Minnett (1949).
They deduced from their measurements that the radio emission from the whole disk of the moon varied during a lunation in a roughly sinusoidal fashion; that the amplitude of the variation was considerably less than the amplitude of the variation in the infrared emission as measured by Pettit and Nicholson (1930) and Pettit (1935); and that the maximum of the radio emission came about 3 - 1 2 days after Full Moon, which is again in contrast to the infrared emission, which reaches its maximum at Full Moon.
The infrared emission could then be assumed to originate at the surface of the moon, while the radio emission originates at some depth beneath the surface, where the temperature variation due to solar radiation is reduced in amplitude and shifted in phase.
Since the absorption of radio waves in rocklike material varies with wave length, it should be possible to sample the temperature variation at different depths beneath the surface and possibly detect changes in the structure or composition of the lunar surface material.
The radio emission of a planet was first detected in 1955, when Burke and Franklin (1955) identified the origin of interference like radio noise on their records at about 15 meters wave length as emission from Jupiter.
This sporadic type of planetary radiation is discussed by Burke (chap. 13) and Gallet (chap. 14).
Steady radiation which was presumably of thermal origin was observed from Venus at 3.15 and 9.4 cm, and from Mars and Jupiter at 3.15 cm in 1956 (Mayer, McCullough, and Sloanaker, 1958 a, b, c), and from Saturn at 3.75 cm in 1957 (Drake and Ewen, 1958).
In the relatively short time since these early observations, Venus has been observed at additional wave lengths in the range from 0.8 to 10.2 cm, and Jupiter has been observed over the wave-length range from 3.03 to 68 cm.
The observable characteristics of planetary radio radiation are the intensity, the polarization, and the direction of arrival of the waves.
The maximum angular diameter of any planetary disk as observed from the earth is about 1 minute of arc.
This is much smaller than the highest resolution of even the very large reflectors now under construction, and consequently the radio emission of different regions of the disk cannot be resolved.
Measurements of polarization are presently limited by apparatus sensitivity and will remain difficult because of the low intensity of the planetary radiation at the earth.
There have been few measurements specifically for the determination of the polarization of planetary radiation.
The measurements made with the NRL 50 - foot reflector, which is altitude azimuth mounted, would have shown a systematic change with local hour angle in the measured intensities of Venus and Jupiter if a substantial part of the radiation had been linearly polarized.
Recent interferometer measurements (Radhakrishnan and Roberts, 1960) have shown the 960 - Mc emission of Jupiter to be partially polarized and to originate in a region of larger diameter than the visible disk.
Other than this very significant result, most of the information now available about the radio emission of the planets is restricted to the intensity of the radiation.
The concept of apparent black-body temperature is used to describe the radiation received from the moon and the planets.
The received radiation is compared with the radiation from a hypothetical black-body which subtends the same solid angle as the visible disk of the planet.
The apparent black-body disk temperature is the temperature which must be assumed for the black body in order that the intensity of its radiation should equal that of the observed radiation.
The use of this concept does not specify the origin of the radiation, and only if the planet really radiates as a black body, will the apparent black-body temperature correspond to the physical temperature of the emitting material.
The quiescent level of centimeter wave-length solar radiation would increase the average disk brightness temperature by less than 1 ` K.
At meter wave lengths and increase of the order of 10 ` K in the average disk temperatures of the nearer planets would be expected.
Therefore, neglecting the extreme outbursts, reflected solar radiation is not expected to cause sizable errors in the measurements of planetary radiation in the centimeter - and decimeter wave-length range.
Radio observations of the moon have been made over the range of wave lengths from 4.3 mm to 75 cm, and the results are summarized in Table 1.
Observations have also been made at 1.5 mm using optical techniques (Sinton, 1955, 1956,; see also chap. 11).
Not all the observers have used the same procedures or made the same assumptions about the lunar brightness distribution when reducing the data, and this, together with differences in the methods of calibrating the antennae and receivers, must account for much of the disagreement in the measured radio brightness temperatures.
In the observations at 4.3 mm (Coates, 1959 a), the diameter of the antenna beam, 6' .7, was small enough to allow resolution of some of the larger features of the lunar surface, and contour diagrams have been made of the lunar brightness distribution at three lunar phases.
These observations indicate that the lunar maria heat up more rapidly and also cool off more rapidly than do the mountainous regions.
Mare Imbrium seems to be an exception and remains cooler than the regions which surround it.
Very recently, observations have been made at 8 - mm wave length with a reflector 22 meters in diameter with a resultant beam width of only about 2' (Amenitskii, Noskova, and Salomonovich, 1960).
The constant temperature contours are much smoother than those observed at 4.3 mm by Coates (1959 a), and apparently the emission at 8 mm is not nearly so sensitive to differences in surface features.
Such high-resolution observations as these are needed at several wave lengths in order that the radio emission of the moon can be properly interpreted.
The observations of Mayer, McCullough, and Sloanaker at 3.15 cm and of Sloanaker at 10.3 cm have not previously been published and will be briefly described.
Measurements at 3.15 cm were obtained on 11 days spread over the interval May 3 to June 19, 1956, using the 50 - foot reflector at the U.S. Naval Research Laboratory in Washington.
The half-intensity diameter of the antenna beam was about 9 ', and the angle subtended by the moon included the entire main beam and part of the first side lobes.
The antenna patterns and the power gain at the peak of the beam were both measured (Mayer, McCullough, and Sloanaker, 1958 b), so that the absolute power sensitivity of the antenna beam over the solid angle of the moon was known.
The ratio of the measured antenna temperature change during a drift scan across the moon to the average brightness temperature of the moon over the antenna beam (assuming that the brightness temperature of the sky is negligible) was found, by graphical integration of the antenna directivity diagram, to be 0.85.
The measured brightness temperature is a good approximation to the brightness temperature at the center of the lunar disk because of the narrow antenna beam and because the temperature distribution over the central portion of the moon's disk is nearly uniform.
This result is plotted along with the 8.6 - mm observations of Gibson (1958) in figure 1, a.
The variation in the 3 - cm emission of the moon during a lunation is very much less than the variation in the 8.6 - mm emission, as would be expected from the explanation of Piddington and Minnett (1949).
In the discussion which follows, the time average of the radio emission will be referred to as the constant component, and the superimposed periodic variation will be called the variable component.
The 10.3 - cm observation of Sloanaker was made on May 20, 1958, using the 84 - foot reflector at the Maryland Point Observatory of the U.S. Naval Research Laboratory.
The age of the moon was about 2 days.
The half-intensity diameter of the main lobe of the antenna was about 18' .5, and the brightness temperature was reduced by assuming a Gaussian shape for the antenna beam and a uniformly bright disk for the moon.
Experiments were made on an electric arc applying a porous graphite anode cooled by a transpiring gas (Argon).
Thus, the energy transferred from the arc to the anode was partly fed back into the arc.
It was shown that by proper anode design the net energy loss of the arc to the anode could be reduced to approximately 15 % of the total arc energy A detailed energy balance of the anode was established.
The dependence of the arc voltage upon the mass flow velocity of the transpirating gas was investigated for various arc lengths and currents between 100 Amp and 200 Amp.
Qualitative observations were made and high-speed motion pictures were taken to study flow phenomena in the arc at various mass flow velocities.
The high heat fluxes existing at the electrode surfaces of electric arcs necessitate extensive cooling to prevent electrode ablation.
The cooling requirements are particularly severe at the anode.
In free burning electric arcs, for instance, approximately 90 % of the total arc power is transferred to the anode giving rise to local heat fluxes in excess of **f as measured by the authors - the exact value depending on the arc atmosphere.
In plasma generators as currently commercially available for industrial use or as high temperature research tools often more than 50 % of the total energy input is being transferred to the cooling medium of the anode.
The higher heat transfer rates at the anode compared with those at the cathode can be explained by the physical phenomena occurring in free burning arcs.
In plasma generators the superimposed forced convection may modify the picture somewhat.
The heat transfer to the anode is due to the following effects : 1.
This energy transfer depends on the current, the temperature in the arc column, the anode material, and the conditions in the anode sheath.
2.
Heat transfer by molecular conduction as well as by radiation from the arc column.
The heat transfer to the anode in free burning arcs is enhanced by a hot gas jet flowing from the cathode towards the anode with velocities up **f.
This phenomenon has been experimentally investigated in detail by Maecker (Ref. 1).
The pressure gradient producing the jet is due to the nature of the magnetic field in the arc (rapid decrease of current density from cathode to the anode).
Hence, the flow conditions at the anode of free burning arcs resemble those near a stagnation point.
it is apparent from the above and from experimental evidence that the cooling requirements for the anode of free burning arcs are large compared with those for the cathode.
The gas flow through a plasma generator will modify these conditions; however, the anode is still the part receiving the largest heat flux.
The following possibilities exist for achieving this : 1.
The use of high voltages and low currents by proper design to reduce electron heat transfer to the anode for a given power output.
2.
Continuous motion of the arc contact area at the anode by flow or magnetic forces.
3.
Feed back of the energy transferred to the anode by applying gas transpiration through the anode.
The third method was, to our knowledge, successfully applied for the first time by C. Sheer and co-workers (Ref. 2).
The purpose of the present study is to study the thermal conditions and to establish an energy balance for a transpiration cooled anode as well as the effect of blowing on the arc voltage.
Gas injection through a porous anode (transpiration cooling) not only feeds back the energy transferred to the anode by the above mentioned processes, but also modifies the conditions in the arc itself.
Argon was used as a blowing gas to exclude any effects of dissociation or chemical reaction.
The anode material was porous graphite.
Sintered porous metals should be usable in principle.
However, technical difficulties arise by melting at local hot spots.
The experimental arrangement as described below is based on the geometry of free burning arcs.
Thus, direct comparisons can be drawn with free burning arcs which have been studied in detail during the past years and decades by numerous investigators (Ref. 3).
Figures 1 to 3 show photographic and schematic views of the test stand and of two different models of the anode holder.
The cathode consisted of a 1/4'' diameter thoriated tungsten rod attached to a water cooled copper tube.
This tube could be adjusted in its axial direction by an electric drive to establish the required electrode spacing.
The transpiring gas ejected from the anode formed a jet directed axially towards the cathode below.
Inflow of air from the surrounding atmosphere was prevented by the two disks shown in figure 2.
Argon was also blown at low velocities (mass flow rate **f) through a tube coaxial with the cathode as an additional precaution against contamination of the arc by air.
The anode consisted of a 1/2 inch diameter porous graphite plug, 1/4 inch long.
The graphite was National Carbon NC 60, which has a porosity of 50 % and an average pore size of 30 This small pore size was required to ensure uniformity of the flow leaving the anode.
The anode plug (Figure 2) was inserted into a carbon anode holder.
A shielded thermocouple was used to measure the upstream temperature of the transpiring gas.
It was exposed to a high velocity gas jet.
A plug and a tube with holes in its cylindrical walls divided the chamber above the porous plug into two parts.
Two pyrometers shown in figure 1 and 2 (Pyrometer Instrument Co. Model 95) served for simultaneous measurement of the anode surface temperature and the temperature distribution along the anode holder.
Three thermocouples were placed at different locations in the aluminum disk surrounding the anode holder to determine its temperature.
Another anode holder used in the experiments is shown in figure 3.
In this design the anode holder is water cooled and the heat losses by conduction from the anode were determined by measuring the temperature rise of the coolant.
To reduce heat transfer from the hot gas to this anode holder outside the region of the arc, a carbon shield was attached to the surface providing an air gap of 1/16 inch between the plate and the surface of the anode holder.
In addition, the inner surface of the carbon shield was covered with aluminum foil to reduce radiation.
Temperatures of the shield and of the surface of the water cooled anode holder were measured by thermocouples to account for heat received by the coolant but not originating from the anode plug.
The argon flow from commercial bottles was regulated by a pressure regulator and measured with a gas flow rator.
The power source was a commercial D.C. rectifier.
The current was regulated by means of a variable resistor and measured with a 50 mV shunt and millivoltmeter.
The arc voltage was measured with a voltmeter whose terminals were connected to the anode and cathode holders.
Because of the falling characteristic of the rectifier, no ballast resistor was required for stability of operation.
A high frequency starter was used to start the arc.
The anode holder shown in figure 2 was designed with two goals in mind.
The heat losses of the holder were to be reduced as far as possible and they should be such that an accurate heat balance can be made.
In order to reduce the number of variable parameters, all experiments were made with a constant arc length of 0.5'' and a current of 100 Amp.
The argon flow through the porous anode was varied systematically between **f.
and **f.
The upper limit was determined by the difficulty of measuring the characteristic anode surface temperature (see below) since only a small region of the anode was struck by the arc.
This region which had a higher temperature than the rest of the anode surface changed size and location continuously.
For each mass flow rate the arc voltage was measured.
To measure the surface temperature of the anode plug, the surface was scanned with a pyrometer.
As it turned out, a very hot region occurred on the plug.
Its temperature was denoted by **f.
The size of this hot region was estimated by eye.
The rest of the surface had a temperature which decreased towards the outer diameter of the plug.
The mean temperature of this region was approximated by the temperature measured halfways between the edge of the hot spot and the rim of the plug.
The mean temperature of the surface was then computed according to the following relation : **f where x is the fraction of the plug area covered by the hot spot.
Assuming thermal equilibrium between the anode surface and the transpiring argon, the gas enthalpy rise through the anode was calculated according to the relation **f whereby the specific heat of argon was taken as **f.
This calculation results in an enthalpy rise which is somewhat high because it assumes a mass flow equally distributed over the plug cross section whereas in reality the mass velocity is expected to be smaller in the regions of higher temperatures.
The upstream gas temperature measured with the thermocouple shown in figure 2 was **f.
The **f values are listed in Table 1 together with the measured surface temperatures and arc voltages.
Simultaneously with the anode surface temperature and voltage measurements pyrometer readings were taken along the cylindrical surface of the carbon anode holder as indicated on figure 2.
Some of these temperatures are plotted in figure 4.
They showed no marked dependence on the flow rate within the accuracy of these measurements.
Thus, the dotted line shown in figure 4 was taken as typical for the temperature distribution for all blowing rates.
This temperature was taken as environmental temperature to which the anode holder was exposed as far as radiation is concerned.
It is sufficiently small compared with the surface temperature of the anode holder, to make the energy flux radiated from the environment toward the anode holder negligible within the accuracy of the present measurements.
The reflection of radiation originating from the anode holder and reflected back to it by the surrounding metal surfaces should also be small because of the specular characteristic of the metal surfaces and of the specific geometry.
The total heat loss through the anode holder included also the heat conducted through the base of the cylindrical piece into the adjacent metal parts.
It was calculated from the temperature gradient **f at **f inch as **f.
The total heat flux from the porous plug into the plug holder is thereby **f The temperature distribution of figure 4 gives **f for all blowing rates, assuming **f.
The temperature dependent value of |e was taken from Ref. 7.
The radiation loss from the anode surface was computed according to **f where **f is the mean of the fourth powers of the temperatures **f and **f calculated analogously to equation (1).
A band viscometer is shown in Figure 2.
There is a small well in the top in which the fluid or paste to be tested is placed.
A tape of cellulose acetate is pulled between the blocks and the tape pulls the fluid or paste with it between the parallel faces of the blocks.
In normal use weights are hung on the end of the tape and allowed to pull the tape and the material to be tested between the blocks.
After it has reached terminal velocity, the time for the tape to travel a known distance is recorded.
By the use of various weights, data for a force rate of shear graph can be obtained.
The instrument used for this work was a slight modification of that previously described.
In this test a * * f tape was pulled between the blocks with a motor and pulley at a rate of * * f with a clearance of 0.002'' on each side of the tape.
This gives a rate of shear of * * f.
This, however, can only be considered approximate, as the diameter of the pulley was increased by the build-up of tape and the tape was occasionally removed from the pulley during the runs.
Although there were only four fluids tested, it was apparent that there were two distinct types.
Two of the fluids showed a high positive normal pressure when undergoing shear, and two showed small negative pressures which were negligible in comparison with the amount of the positive pressures generated by the other two.
Figure 3 shows the data on a silicone fluid, labeled 12500 cps which gave a high positive normal pressure.
Although the tape was run for over 1 hr., a steady state was not reached, and it was concluded that the reason for this was that the back pressure of the manometer was built up from the material fed from between the blocks and this was available at a very slow rate.
A system had to be used which did not depend upon the feeding of the fluid into the manometer if measurements of the normal pressure were to be made in a reasonable time.
A back pressure was then introduced, and the rise or fall of the material in the manometer indicated which was greater, the normal pressure in the block or the back pressure.
By this method it was determined that the normal pressure exerted by a sample of polybutene (molecular weight reported to be 770) was over half an atmosphere.
The actual pressure was not determined because the pressure was beyond the upper limit of the apparatus on hand.
The two fluids which gave the small negative pressures were polybutenes with molecular weights which were stated to be 520 and 300.
The maximum suction was 3.25'' of test fluid measured from the top of the block, and steady states were apparently reached with these fluids.
It is presumed that this negative head was associated with some geometric factor of the assembly, since different readings were obtained with the same fluid and the only apparent difference was the assembly and disassembly of the apparatus.
This negative pressure is not explained by the velocity head * * f since this is not sufficient to explain the readings by several magnitudes.
These experiments can be considered exploratory only.
However, they do demonstrate the presence of large normal pressures in the presence of flat shear fields which were forecast by the theory in the first part of the paper.
They also give information which will aid in the design of a more satisfactory instrument for the measurement of the normal pressures.
Such an instrument would be useful for the characterization of many commercial materials as well as theoretical studies.
The elasticity as a parameter of fluids which is not subject to simple measurement at present, and it is a parameter which is probably varying in an unknown manner with many commercial materials.
Such an instrument is expected to be especially useful if it could be used to measure the elasticity of heavy pastes such as printing inks, paints, adhesives, molten plastics, and bread dough, for the elasticity is related to those various properties termed ``length'', ``shortness'', ``spinnability'', etc., which are usually judged by subjective methods at present.
If the volume is the molal volume, then * * f is obtained on a molal basis which is the customary terminology of the chemists.
Although the * * f calculation is obvious by analogy with that for gravitational field and osmotic pressure, it is interesting to confirm it by a method which can be generalized to include related effects.
Consider a shear field with a height of H and a cross-sectional area of A opposed by a manometer with a height of h (referred to the same base as H) and a cross-sectional area of a.
If * * f is the change per unit volume in Gibbs function caused by the shear field at constant P and T, and |r is the density of the fluid, then the total potential energy of the system above the reference height is * * f.
* * f is the work necessary to fill the manometer column from the reference height to h.
The total volume of the system above the reference height is * * f, and h can be eliminated to obtain an equation for the total potential energy of the system in terms of H.
The minimum total potential energy is found by taking the derivative with respect to H and equating to zero.
This gives * * f, which is the pressure.
This is interesting for it combines both the thermodynamic concept of a minimum Gibbs function for equilibrium and minimum mechanical potential energy for equilibrium.
The relation between osmotic pressure and the Gibbs function may also be developed in an analogous way.
In the above development we have applied the thermodynamics of equilibrium (referred to by some as thermostatics) to the steady state.
This can be justified thermodynamically in this case, and this will be done in a separate paper which is being prepared.
This has an interesting analogy with the assumption stated by Philippoff that ``the deformational mechanics of elastic solids can be applied to flowing solutions''.
There is one exception to the above statement as has been pointed out, and that is that fluids can relax by flowing into fields of lower rates of shear, so the statement should be modified by stating that the mechanics are similar.
If the mechanics are similar, we can also infer that the thermodynamics will also be similar.
The concept of the strain energy as a Gibbs function difference * * f and exerting a force normal to the shearing face is compatible with the information obtained from optical birefringence studies of fluids undergoing shear.
Essentially these birefringence studies show that at low rates of shear a tension is present at 45 ` to the direction of shear, and as the rate of shear increases, the direction of the maximum tension moves asymptotically toward the direction of shear.
According to Philippoff, the recoverable shear s is given by * * f where |c is the angle of extinction.
There is another means which should show the direction and relative value of the stresses in viscoelastic fluids that is not mentioned as such in the literature, and that is the shape of the suspended drops of low viscosity fluids in shear fields.
These droplets are distorted by the normal forces just as a balloon would be pulled or pressed out of shape in one's hands.
These droplets appear to be ellipsoids, and it is mathematically convenient to assume that they are.
If they are not ellipsoids, the conclusions will be a reasonable approximation.
The direction of the tension of minimum pressure is, of course, given by the direction of the major axis of the ellipsoids.
Mason and Taylor both show that the major axis of the ellipsoids is at 45 ` at low rates of shear and that it approaches the direction of shear with increased rates of shear.
(Some suspensions break up before they are near to the direction of shear, and some become asymptotic to it without breakup .)
This is, of course, a similar type of behavior to that indicated by birefringence studies.
The relative forces can be calculated from the various radii of curvature if we assume : (A) The surface tension is uniform on the surface of the drop.
(C) The kinetic effects are negligible.
(D) Since the shape of the drop conforms to the force field, it does not appreciably affect the distribution of forces in the fluid.
These are reasonable assumptions with low viscosity fluids suspended in high viscosity fluids which are subjected to low rates of shear.
Just as the pressure exerted by surface tension in a spherical drop is * * f and the pressure exerted by surface tension on a cylindrical shape is * * f, the pressure exerted by any curved surface is * * f, where |g is the interfacial tension and * * f and * * f are the two radii of curvature.
This formula is given by Rumscheidt and Mason.
If a is the major axis of an ellipsoid and b and c are the other two axes, the radius of curvature in the ab plane at the end of the axis is * * f, and the difference in pressure along the a and b axes is * * f.
There are no data published in the literature on the shape of low viscosity drops to confirm the above formulas.
However, there are photographs of suspended drops of cyclohexanol phthalate (viscosity 155 poises) suspended in corn syrup of 71 poises in a paper by Mason and Bartok.
This viscosity of the material in the drops is, of course, not negligible.
If it is assumed that the formula given by Lodge of * * f, cosec 2lc applies, the pressure difference along the major axes can be calculated from the angle of inclination of the major axis, and from this the interfacial tension can be calculated.
Its value was * * f from the above data.
This appears to be high, as would be expected from the appreciable viscosity of the material in the drops.
It is appropriate to call attention to certain thermodynamic properties of an ideal gas that are analogous to rubber-like deformation.
The internal energy of an ideal gas depends on temperature only and is independent of pressure or volume.
In other words, if an ideal gas is compressed and kept at constant temperature, the work done in compressing it is completely converted into heat and transferred to the surrounding heat sink.
This means that work equals q which in turn equals * * f.
There is a well-known relationship between probability and entropy which states that * * f, where \q is the probability that state (i.e., volume for an ideal gas) could be reached by chance alone.
this is known as conformational entropy.
Note that though the ideal gas itself contains no additional energy, the compressed gas does exert an increased pressure.
The energy for any isothermal work done by the perfect gas must come as thermal energy from its surroundings.
A proton magnetic resonance study of polycrystalline **f as a function of magnetic field and temperature is presented.
**f is paramagnetic, and electron paramagnetic dipole as well as nuclear dipole effects lead to line broadening.
The lines are asymmetric and over the range of field **f gauss and temperature **f the asymmetry increases with increasing **f and decreasing T.
An isotropic resonance shift of **f to lower applied fields indicates a weak isotropic hyperfine contact interaction.
The general theory of resonance shifts is used to derive a general expression for the second moment **f of a polycrystalline paramagnetic sample and is specialized to **f.
The theory predicts a linear dependence of **f on **f, where |j is the experimentally determined Curie-Weiss constant.
The experimental second moment **f conforms to the relation **f in agreement with theory.
The paramagnetic dipole effects provide some information on the particle shapes.
The nuclear dipole effects provide some information on the motions of the hydrogen nuclei, but the symmetry of the **f bond in **f remains in doubt.
The magnetic moment of an unpaired electron associated nearby may have a tremendous influence on the magnetic resonance properties of nuclei.
It is important to consider and experimentally verify this influence since quantitative nuclear resonance is becoming increasingly used in investigations of structure.
**f appeared to be well suited for the study of these matters, since it is a normal paramagnet, with three unpaired electrons on the chromium, its crystal structure is very simple, and the unknown position of the hydrogen in the strong **f bond provides structural interest.
We first discuss the **f bond in **f.
We then outline the theory of the interaction of paramagnetic dipoles with nuclei and show that the theory is in excellent agreement with experiment.
Indeed it is possible to separate electron paramagnetic from nuclear effects.
The information provided by the electron paramagnetic effects is then discussed, and finally the nuclear effects are interpreted in terms of various motional modified models of the **f bond in **f.
Moreover, it will be asymmetric until a certain critical **f distance is reached, below which it will become symmetric.
There is ample evidence from many sources that the **f bond in **f is symmetric.
The **f distance in **f is 2.26 A.
There is evidence, though less convincing than for **f, that the **f bond in nickel dimethylglyoxime is symmetric.
Here the **f distance is 2.44 A.
A number of semiempirical estimates by various workers lead to the conclusion that the **f bond becomes symmetric when the **f bond length is about 2.4 to 2.5 A, but aside from the possible example of nickel dimethylglyoxime there have been no convincing reports of symmetric **f bonds.
Douglass has studied the crystal structure of **f by x-ray diffraction.
He finds the structure contains an **f bond with the **f distance of **f.
There is, then, the possibility that this **f bond is symmetric, although Douglass was unable to determine its symmetry from his x-ray data.
X-ray and experimental density showed one formula unit in the unit cell, corresponding to a paramagnetic ion density of **f.
The x-ray data did not permit Douglass to determine uniquely the space group, but a negative test for piezoelectricity led him to assume a center of symmetry.
Under this assumption the space group must be **f and the following are the positions of the atoms in the unit cell.
**f.
This space group requires the hydrogen bond to be symmetric.
Douglass found powder intensity calculations and measurements to agree best for **f.
These data lead to a structure in which sheets of Cr atoms lie between two sheets of O atoms.
The O atoms in each sheet are close packed and each Cr atom is surrounded by a distorted octahedron of O atoms.
The **f layers are stacked normal to the [ 111 ] axis with the lower oxygens of one layer directly above the upper oxygens of the neighboring lower layer, in such a manner that the repeat is every three layers.
A drawing of the structure is to be found in reference 6.
The gross details of the structure appear reasonable.
The structure appears to be unique among ROOH compounds, but is the same as that assumed by **f.
The bond angles and distances are all within the expected limits and the volume per oxygen is about normal.
However, the possible absence of a center of symmetry not only moves the hydrogen atom off **f, but also allows the oxygen atoms to become nonequivalent, with **f at **f and **f at **f (space group **f), where **f represents the oxygens on one side of the **f layers and **f those on the other side.
However, any oxygen nonequivalence would shorten either the already extremely short **f interlayer distance of 2.55 A or the non hydrogen bonded **f interlayer interactions which are already quite short at 2.58 A.
Hence it is difficult to conceive of a packing of the atoms in this material in which the oxygen atoms are far from geometrical equivalence.
The only effect of lack of a center would then be to release the hydrogen atoms to occupy general, rather than special, positions along the [ 111 ] axis.
If the **f bond is linear then there are three reasonable positions for the hydrogen atoms : (1) The hydrogen atoms are centered and hence all lie on a sheet midway between the oxygen sheets; (2) all hydrogen atoms lie on a sheet, but the sheet is closer to one oxygen sheet than to the other; (3) hydrogen atoms are asymmetrically placed, either randomly or in an ordered way, so that some hydrogen atoms are closer to the upper oxygen atoms while others are closer to the lower oxygen atoms.
A randomization of ``ups'' and ``downs'' is more likely than ordered ``ups'' and ``downs'' in position (3) since the hydrogen atoms are well separated and so the position of one could hardly affect the position of another, and also since ordered ``up'' and ``down'' implies a larger unit cell, for which no evidence exists.
Therefore, the only unknown structural feature would appear to be whether the hydrogen atoms are located symmetrically (1) or asymmetrically (3).
Douglass prepared his sample of **f by thermal decomposition of aqueous chromic acid at 300 - 325 ` C.
Dr. Douglass was kind enough to lend us about 5 grams of his material.
This material proved to be unsatisfactory, since we could not obtain reproducible results on various portions of the sample.
Subsequently, we learned from Douglass that his sample contained a few percent **f impurity.
Since **f is ferromagnetic, we felt that any results obtained from the magnetically contaminated **f would be suspect.
Plane suggested another preparation of **f which we used here.
500 ml of 1 M aqueous **f with 1 g **f added are heated in a bomb at 170 ` C for 48 hours.
Differential thermal analysis showed a very small endothermic reaction at 340 ` C and a large endothermic reaction at 470 ` C.
This latter reaction is in accord with the reported decomposition of **f.
Thermogravimetric analysis showed a weight loss of 1.8 % centered at 337 ` C and another weight loss of 10.8 % at 463 ` C.
The expected weight loss for **f going to **f and **f is 10.6 %.
Mass spectrometric analysis of gases evolved upon heating to 410 ` C indicated nitrogen oxides and water vapor.
The small reaction occurring at 337 ` C is probably caused by decomposition of occluded nitrates, and perhaps by a small amount of some hydrous material other than **f.
All subsequent measurements were made on material which had been heated to 375 ` C for one hour.
Emission spectra indicated **f calcium and all other impurities much lower.
Chromium analysis gave 58.8 % Cr as compared with 61.2 % theory.
The x-ray diffraction pattern of the material, taken with CuKla radiation, indicated the presence of no extra lines and was in good agreement with the pattern of Douglass.
Magnetic analyses by R. G. Meisenheimer of this laboratory indicated no ferromagnetic impurities.
**f was found to be paramagnetic with three unpaired electron per chromium atom and a molecular susceptibility of **f, where **f.
For exactly three unpaired electrons the coefficient would be 3.10.
An infrared spectrum, obtained by H. A. Benesi and R. G. Snyder of this laboratory, showed bands in the positions found by Jones.
Electron microscopic examination of the **f sample showed it to be composed of nearly isotropic particles about 0.3 lm in diameter.
The particles appeared rough and undoubtedly the single crystal domains are smaller than this.
The x-ray data are consistent with particle sizes of 1000 A or greater.
We found no obvious effects due to preferred orientation of the crystallites in this sample nor would we expect to on the basis of the shape found from electron microscopic examination.
One measurement at 40 Mc / sec was obtained with the Varian model **f unit.
A bridged-T type of bridge was used in the 10 - 16 Mc / sec range.
The rf power level was maintained small enough at all times to prevent obvious line shape distortions by saturation effects.
A modulation frequency of 40 cps with an amplitude as small as possible, commensurate with reasonably good signal-to-noise quality, was used.
Background spectra were obtained in all cases.
The spectrometer was adjusted to minimize the amount of dispersion mode mixed in with the absorption signal.
A single value of the thermal relaxation time **f at room temperature was measured by the progressive saturation method.
The value of **f estimated at 470 gauss was **f microseconds.
A single measurement of the spin spin relaxation time **f was obtained at 10 Mc / sec by pulse methods.
The value derived was 16 microseconds.
Field shifts were derived from the mean value of the resonance line, defined as the field about which the first moment is zero.
Second moments of the spectra were computed by numerical integration.
Corrections were applied for modulation broadening, apparatus background, and field shift.
Spectra were obtained over the temperature range of 77 - 294 ` K.
For the low-temperature measurements the sample was cooled by a cold nitrogen gas flow method similar to that of Andrew and Eades.
The temperature was maintained to within about **f for the period of time required to make the measurement (usually about one hour).
One sample, which had been exposed to the atmosphere after evacuation at 375 ` C, showed the presence of adsorbed water (about 0.3 wt %) as evidenced by a weak resonance line which was very narrow at room temperature and which disappeared, due to broadening, at low temperature.
The data reported here are either from spectra from which the adsorbed water resonance could easily be eliminated or from spectra of samples evacuated and sealed off at 375 ` C which contain no adsorbed water.
Such a density corresponds to a paramagnetic ion density of about **f.
Spectra were obtained from a powdered sample having the shape of a right circular cylinder with a height to diameter ratio of 4 : 1.
The top of the sample was nearly flat and the bottom hemispherical.
Spectra were also obtained from a sample in a spherical container which was made by blowing a bubble on the end of a capillary glass tube.
The bubble was filled to the top and special precautions were taken to prevent any sample from remaining in the capillary.
Spectra were also obtained from a third sample of **f which had been diluted to three times its original volume with powdered, anhydrous alundum (**f).
This sample was contained in a cylindrical container similar to that described above.
Polyphosphates gave renewed life to soap products at a time when surfactants were a threat though expensive, and these same polyphosphates spelled the decline of soap usage when the synergism between polyphosphates and synthetic detergent actives was recognized and exploited.
The market today for detergent builders is quite diverse.
These widely advertised products, which are used primarily for washing clothes, are based on high-sudsing, synthetic organic actives (sodium alkylbenzenesulfonates) and contain up to 50 % by weight of sodium tripolyphosphate or a mixture of sodium tripolyphosphate and tetrasodium pyrophosphate.
In the household market, there are also low-sudsing detergent formulations based on nonionic actives with about the same amount of phosphate builder; light-duty synthetic detergents with much less builder; and the dwindling built soap powders as well as soap flakes and granules, none of which are now nationally advertised.
A well publicized entrant which has achieved success only recently is the built liquid detergent, with which the major problem today is incorporation of builder and active into a small volume using a sufficiently high builder / active ratio.
Hard surface cleaning in household application is represented by two classes of alkaline products : (1) the formulations made expressly for machine dishwashers, and (2) the general-purpose cleaners used for walls and woodwork.
The better quality products in both of these lines contain phosphate builders.
In addition, many of the hard surface cleaners used for walls and woodwork had their genesis in trisodium orthophosphate, which is still the major ingredient of a number of such products.
Many scouring powders now also contain phosphates.
These hard surface cleaners are discussed in Chapter 28.
Cleaning or detergent action is entirely a matter of surfaces.
An oversimplified differentiation between soft - and hard surface cleaning lies in the magnitude and kind of surface involved.
One gram of cotton has been found to have a specific surface area of * * f.
In contrast, a metal coupon * * f in size would have a magnitude from 100000 to a million less.
Even here there is room for some variation, for metal surfaces vary in smoothness, absorptive capacity, and chemical reactivity.
Spring used a Brush surface analyzer in a metal cleaning study and showed considerable differences in soil removal, depending upon surface roughness.
There are considerable differences between the requirements for textile and hard surface cleaning.
Exclusive of esthetic values, such as high - or low foam level, perfume content, etc., the requirements for the organic active used in washing textiles are high.
No matter how they are formulated, a large number of organic actives are simply not suitable for this application, since they do not give adequate soil removal.
This is best demonstrated by practical washing tests in which cloth articles are repeatedly washed with the same detergent formulation.
Since practical washing procedures are both lengthy and expensive, a number of laboratory tests have been developed for the numerical evaluation of detergents.
Harris has indicated that two devices, the Launder-Ometer and Terg-O-Tometer are most widely used for rapid detergent testing, and he has listed the commercially available standard soiled fabrics.
Also given are several laboratory wash procedures in general use.
The soiled fabrics used for rapid testing of detergent formulations are made in such a way that only part of the soil is removed by even the best detergent formulation in a single wash.
In this way, numerical values for the relative efficacy of various detergent formulations can be obtained by measuring the reflectance (whiteness) of the cloth swatches before and after washing.
Soil redeposition is evaluated by washing clean swatches with the dirty ones.
As is the case with the surface-active agent, the requirements for builders to be used in detergent compositions for washing textiles are also high.
Large numbers of potential builders have been investigated, but none have been found to be as effective as the polyphosphates over the relatively wide range of conditions met in practice.
The problems of hard surface cleaning are not nearly as complex.
Indeed, when the proper inorganic constituents are employed, practically any wetting or surface-active agent will do a reasonably good job when present in sufficient amount in a hard surface cleaning formulation.
Hydroxides, orthophosphates, borates, carbonates, and silicates are important inorganic ingredients of hard surface cleaners.
In addition, the polyphosphates are also used, probably acting more as peptizing agents than anything else.
The importance of the inorganic constituents in hard surface cleaning has been emphasized in a number of papers.
Although there is no question but that the process of washing fabrics involves a number of phenomena which are related together in an extremely complicated way and that these phenomena and their interrelations are not well understood at the present, this section attempts to present briefly an up-to-date picture of the physical chemistry of washing either fabrics or hard surfaces.
The purpose of washing is, obviously, to remove soils which are arbitrarily classed in the four major categories given below:
Dirt, which is here defined as particulate material which is usually inorganic and is very often extremely finely divided so as to exhibit colloidal properties.
Greasy soils, which are typified by hydrocarbons and fats (esters of glycerol with long chain organic acids).
Stains, which include the wide variety of nonparticulate materials which give color even when present in very low concentration on the soiled object.
The dirt on the soiled objects is mechanically held by surface irregularities to some extent.
However, a major factor in binding dirt is the attraction between surfaces that goes under the name of van der Waal's forces.
This is a theoretically complicated dipole interaction which causes any extremely small uncharged particle to agglomerate with other small uncharged particles, or to stick to an uncharged surface.
Obviously, if colloidal particles bear charges of opposite sign or, if one kind is charged and the other kind is not, the attraction will be intensified and the tendency to agglomerate will be greatly reinforced.
Likewise, a charged particle will tend to stick to an uncharged surface and vice versa, and a charged particle will be very strongly attracted to a surface exhibiting an opposite charge.
In addition, dirt particles can be held onto a soiled surface by sticky substances or by the surface tension of liquids, including liquid greases.
Greases, stains, and miscellaneous soils are usually sorbed onto the soiled surface.
In most cases, these soils are taken up as liquids through capillary action.
In an essentially static system, an oil cannot be replaced by water on a surface unless the interfacial tensions of the water phase are reduced by a surface-active agent.
Greasy soils are hardly removed by washing in plain water; and natural waters, in addition, often contain impurities such as calcium salts which can react with soils to make them more difficult to remove.
Therefore, detergents are used.
The detergent active is that substance which primarily acts to remove greasy soils.
The other constituents in a built detergent assist in this and in the removal of dirty stains and the hydrophilic sticky or dried soils.
As is well known, detergent actives belong to the chemical class consisting of moderately high molecular weight and highly polar molecules which exhibit the property of forming micelles in solution.
Physicochemical investigations of anionic surfactants, including the soaps, have shown that there is little polymerization or agglomeration of the chain anions below a certain region of concentration called the critical micelle concentration.
(1) Below the critical micelle concentration, monomers and some dimers are present.
(2) In the critical micelle region, there is a rapid agglomeration or polymerization to give the micelles, which have a degree of polymerization averaging around 60 - 80.
(3) For anionics, these micelles appear to be roughly spherical assemblages in which the hydrocarbon tails come together so that the polar groups (the ionized ends) face outward towards the aqueous continuous phase.
Micelles can imbibe and hold a considerable amount of oleophilic substances so that the micelle volume may be increased as much as approximately two-fold.
Although the matter has not been unequivocally demonstrated, the available data show that micelles in themselves do not contribute significantly to the detergency process.
Related to micelle formation is the technologically important ability of detergent actives to congregate at oil water interfaces in such a manner that the polar (or ionized) end of the molecule is directed towards the aqueous phase and the hydrocarbon chain towards the oily phase.
In the cleaning process, sorbed greasy soils become coated in this manner with an oriented film of surfactant.
Then during washing, the greasy soil rolls back at the edges so that emulsified droplets can disengage themselves from the sorbed oil mass, with the aid of mechanical action, and enter the aqueous phase.
Obviously, a substance which is permanently or temporarily sorbed on the surface in place of the soil will tend to accelerate this process and effectively push off the greasy soil.
Substances other than detergent actives also tend to be strongly sorbed from aqueous media onto surfaces of other contiguous condensed phases.
This is particularly true of highly charged ions, especially those ions which fall into the class of polyelectrolytes.
Whereas the usual organic surface-active agent is strongly sorbed at oil-water interfaces, the highly charged ions are most strongly sorbed at interfaces between water and insoluble materials exhibiting an ionic structure (see Table 26 - 2 on p. 1678).
From the equilibrium sorption data which are available, it seems logical to expect that polyphosphate ions would be strongly sorbed on the surface of the dirt (especially clay soils) so as to give it a greatly increased negative charge.
The charged particles then repel each other and are also repelled from the charged surface, which almost invariably bears a negative charge under washing conditions.
The negatively charged dirt particles then leave the surface and go into the aqueous phase.
This hypothesis is evolved in analogy to the demonstrated action of organic actives in detergency.
It does not consider the kinetic effects of the phosphate builders on sorption desorption phenomena which will be discussed later (see pp. 1746 - 1748).
The crude picture of the detergency process thus far developed can be represented as : * * f The influence of mechanical action on the particles of free soil may be compared to that of kinetic energy on a molecular scale.
Freed soil must be dispersed and protected against flocculation.
Cleaned cloth must be protected against the redeposition of dispersed soil.
It is evident that the requirements imposed by these effects upon any one detergent constituent acting alone are severe.
In the over-all process, it is difficult to assign a ``pure'' role to each constituent of a built detergent formulation; and, indeed, there is no more reason to separate the interrelated roles of the active, builder, antiredeposition agent, etc. than there is to assign individual actions to each of the numerous isomers making up a given commercial organic active.
The thermal exchange of chlorine between * * f and liquid * * f is readily measurable at temperatures in the range of 180 ` and above.
The photochemical exchange occurs with a quantum yield of the order of unity in the liquid phase at 65 ` using light absorbed only by the * * f.
In the gas phase, with * * f of * * f and * * f of * * f, quantum yields of the order of * * f have been observed at 85 `.
Despite extensive attempts to obtain highly pure reagents, serious difficulty was experienced in obtaining reproducible rates of reaction.
It appears possible to set a lower limit of about * * f for the activation energy of the abstraction of a chlorine atom from a carbon tetrachloride molecule by a chlorine atom to form * * f radical.
The rate of the gas phase exchange reaction appears to be proportional to the first power of the absorbed light intensity indicating that the radical intermediates are removed at the walls or by reaction with an impurity rather than by bimolecular radical combination reactions.
Because of the simplicity of the molecules, isotopic exchange reactions between elemental halogens and the corresponding carbon tetrahalides would appear to offer particularly fruitful possibilities for obtaining unambiguous basic kinetic data.
It would appear that it should be possible to determine unique mechanisms for the thermal and photochemical reactions in both the liquid and gas phases and to determine values for activation energies of some of the intermediate reactions of atoms and free radicals, as well as information on the heat of dissociation of the carbon halogen bond.
It should be possible to prepare very pure chlorine by oxidation of inorganic chlorides on a vacuum system followed by multiple distillation of the liquid.
It should be possible to free carbon tetrachloride of any interfering substances by the usual purification methods followed by prechlorination prior to addition of radioactive chlorine.
Furthermore, the exchange would not be expected to be sensitive to trace amounts of impurities because it would not be apt to be a chain reaction since the activation energy for abstraction of chlorine by a chlorine atom would be expected to be too high; also it would be expected that * * f would compete very effectively with any impurities as a scavenger for * * f radicals.
Contrary to these expectations we have found it impossible to obtain the degree of reproducibility one would wish, even with extensive efforts to prepare especially pure reagents.
We are reporting these investigations here briefly because of their relevancy to problems of the study of apparently simple exchange reactions of chlorine and because the results furnish some information on the activation energy for abstraction of chlorine atoms from carbon tetrachloride.
Matheson highest purity tank chlorine was passed through a tube of resublimed * * f into an evacuated Pyrex system where it was condensed with liquid air.
It was then distilled at least three times from a trap at - 78 ` to a liquid air trap with only a small middle fraction being retained in each distillation.
The purified product was stored at - 78 ` in a tube equipped with a break seal.
Of several methods employed for tagging chlorine with radiochlorine, the exchange of inactive chlorine with tagged aluminum chloride at room temperature was found to be the most satisfactory.
The silver chloride was fused under vacuum in the presence of aluminum chips with the resultant product of * * f which was sublimed into a flask on the vacuum line.
Previously purified chlorine was subsequently admitted and the exchange was allowed to take place.
The radiochlorine was stored at - 78 ` in a tube equipped with a break seal.
Liter quantities of Mallinckrodt, low sulfur, reagent grade carbon tetrachloride were saturated with * * f and * * f and illuminated for about 50 hours with a 1000 watt tungsten lamp at a distance of a few inches.
The mixture was then extracted with alkali and with water following which the carbon tetrachloride was distilled on a Vigreux column, a 25 % center cut being retained which was then degassed under vacuum in the presence of * * f.
Purified inactive chlorine was then added from one of the tubes described above and the mixture frozen out and sealed off in a flask equipped with a break seal.
This chlorine carbon tetrachloride solution was illuminated for a day following which the flask was resealed onto a vacuum system and the excess chlorine distilled off.
The required amount of carbon tetrachloride was distilled into a series of reaction cells on a manifold on a vacuum line.
The desired amounts of inactive chlorine and radioactive chlorine were likewise condensed in these cells on the vacuum line following which they were frozen down and the manifold as a whole was sealed off.
The reactants for the gas phase experiments were first frozen out in a side arm attached to the manifold and then allowed to distill slowly into the manifold of pre-cooled reaction cells before sealing off.
This method in general solved the problem of obtaining fairly equal concentrations of reactants in each of the six cells from a set.
The samples for liquid phase thermal reaction studies were prepared in Pyrex capillary tubing 2.5 mm. i.d. and about 15 cm. long.
In a few experiments the tubes were made from standard 6 mm. i.d. Pyrex tubing of 1 mm. wall thickness.
Both types of tube withstood the pressure of approximately 20 atmospheres exerted by the carbon tetrachloride at 220 `.
The photochemical reaction cells consisted of 10 mm. i.d. Pyrex tubing, 5.5 cm. long, diffraction effects being minimized by the fact that the light passed through only liquid glass interfaces and not gas glass interfaces.
These cells were used rather than square Pyrex tubing because of the tendency of the latter to shatter when thawing frozen carbon tetrachloride.
The round cells were reproducibly positioned in the light beam which entered the thermostated mineral oil bath through a window.
Two types of light source were used, a thousand watt projection lamp and an AH6 high pressure mercury arc.
Relative incident light intensities were measured with a thermopile potentiometer system.
Changes of intensity on the cell were achieved by use of a wire screen and by varying the distance of the light source from the cell.
Following reaction the cells were scratched with a file and opened under a 20 % aqueous sodium iodide solution.
Carrier * * f was added and the aqueous and organic phases were separated (cells containing gaseous reactants were immersed in liquid air before opening under sodium iodide).
After titration of the liberated * * f with * * f, aliquots of the aqueous and of the organic phase were counted in a solution type Geiger tube.
In the liquid phase runs the amount of carbon tetrachloride in each reaction tube was determined by weighing the tube before opening and weighing the fragments after emptying.
The fraction of exchange was determined as the ratio of the counts / minute observed in the carbon tetrachloride to the counts / minute calculated for the carbon tetrachloride fractions for equilibrium distribution of the activity between the chlorine and carbon tetrachloride, empirically determined correction being made for the difference in counting efficiency of * * f in * * f and * * f.
In studying the liquid phase thermal reaction, some 70 tubes from 12 different manifold fillings were prepared and analyzed.
Experiments were done at 180, 200, 210, 220 `.
In addition to the method described in the section above, chlorine and radiochlorine were prepared by the electrolysis of a * * f eutectic on the vacuum line, and by exchange of * * f with molten * * f.
Calcium hydride was substituted for * * f as a drying agent for carbon tetrachloride.
No correlation between these variables and the irreproducibility of the results was found.
The reaction rates observed at 200 ` ranged from * * f of the chlorine exchanged per hour to 0.7 exchanged per hour.
In most cases the chlorine concentration was about * * f.
Sets of reaction tubes containing 0.2 of an atmosphere of added oxygen in one case and added moisture in another, both gave reaction rates in the range of 0.1 to 0.4 of the chlorine exchanged per hour.
No detectable reaction was found at room temperature for reaction mixtures allowed to stand up to 5 hours.
The liquid phase photochemical exchange between chlorine and carbon tetrachloride was more reproducible than the thermal exchange, although still erratic.
The improvement was most noticeable in the greater consistency among reaction cells prepared as a group on the same manifold.
Some 80 reaction tubes from 13 manifold fillings were illuminated in the temperature range from 40 to 85 ` in a further endeavor to determine the cause of the irreproducibility and to obtain information on the activation energy and the effect of light intensity.
In all cases there was readily measurable exchange after as little as one hour of illumination.
By comparing reaction cells sealed from the same manifold temperature dependency corresponding to activation energies ranging from 11 to 18 * * f was observed while dependence on the first power of the light intensity seemed to be indicated in most cases.
It was possible to make estimates of the quantum yield by observing the extent of reduction of a uranyl oxalate actinometer solution illuminated for a known time in a typical reaction cell and making appropriate conversions based on the differences in the absorption spectra of uranyl oxalate and of chlorine, and considering the spectral distribution of the light source.
These estimates indicated that the quantum yield for the exchange of chlorine with liquid carbon tetrachloride at 65 ` is of the order of magnitude of unity.
When typical reaction cells to which 0.3 of an atmosphere of oxygen had been added were illuminated, chlorine and phosgene were produced.
Exchange was also observed in these cells, which had chlorine present at * * f.
Although there was some variation in results which must be attributed either to trace impurities or to variation in wall effects, the photochemical exchange in the gas phase was sufficiently reproducible so that it seemed meaningful to compare the reaction rates in different series of reaction tubes for the purpose of obtaining information on the effect of chlorine concentration and of carbon tetrachloride concentration on the reaction rate.
Data on such comparisons together with data on the effect of light intensity are given in Table /1.
In series /1, the relative light intensity was varied by varying the distance of the lamp from the reaction cell over the range from 14.7 to 29.2 cm..
The last column shows the rate of exchange that would have been observed at a relative intensity of 4 (14.7 cm. distance) calculated on the assumptions that the incident light intensity is inversely proportional to the square of the distance of the lamp from the cell and that the rate is directly proportional to the incident light intensity.
Direct proportionality of the rate to the incident intensity has also been assumed in obtaining the value in the last column for the fourth sample of series /2, where the light intensity was reduced by use of a screen.
The Poynting-Robertson effect (Robertson, 1937; Wyatt and Whipple, 1950), which is a retardation of the orbital motion of particles by the relativistic aberration of the repulsive force of the impinging solar radiation, causes the dust to spiral into the sun in times much shorter than the age of the Earth.
The radial velocity varies inversely as the particle size - a 1000 - | m diameter particle near the orbit of Mars would reach the sun in about 60 million years.
Whipple (1955) extends the effects to include the solar corpuscular radiation pressure, which increases both the minimum particle size and the drag.
Further, the corpuscular radiation, i.e., the solar wind protons, must sputter away the surface atoms of the dust and cause a slow diminution in size, with a resultant increase in both the Poynting-Robertson effect and the ratio of the repulsive force to the gravitational force.
The Poynting-Robertson effect causes the semi major axis of orbits to diminish more rapidly than the semi-minor axis, with a consequent tendency toward circular orbits as the particles move toward the sun.
Also, planetary gravitational attraction increases the dust concentration near the plane of the ecliptic as the sun is approached.
If such is the case, the particles within a distance of about * * f km of the Earth will have, relative to the Earth, a kinetic energy less than their potential energy and they will be captured into orbits about the Earth.
De Jager (1955) has calculated the times required for these particles to reach the atmosphere under the influence of the Poynting-Robertson effect, which in this case causes the orbits to become more and more eccentric without changing the semi major axis.
This effect can give rise to a blanket of micrometeorites around the Earth.
Since there is a continual loss of micrometeoritic material in space because of the radiation effects, there must be a continual replenishment : otherwise, micrometeorites would have disappeared from interplanetary space.
There are several possible sources.
According to Whipple (1955), cometary debris is sufficient to replenish the material spiraling into the sun, maintaining a fairly steady state.
Asteroidal collisions are also thought to contribute material.
It is also possible that some of the dust in the vicinity of the Earth originated from meteoritic impacts upon the moon.
One cannot make a very satisfactory guess about the micrometeorite flux in space.
This large discrepancy demonstrates the inadequacies of the experimental methods and the lack of understanding of the various phenomena involved.
Beyond a few million kilometers from the Earth, but still in the region of the Earth's orbit, a prediction of the flux of dust is even more unreliable.
At greater distances from the sun, the situation is still less certain.
There are several sources of evidence on the micrometeorite environment.
Direct information has been obtained from rockets and satellites equipped with impact sensors.
In addition, the size distribution obtained from visual and radar observations of meteors may be extrapolated to the micrometeorite domain.
From the brightness of the F component of the solar corona and the brightness of the zodiacal light, an estimate of the particle sizes, concentrations, and spatial distribution can be derived for regions of space near the ecliptic plane.
Another important source of evidence only recently receiving much attention is the analysis of atmospheric dust for a meteoritic component.
The cores of deep sea sediments and content of collectors in remote regions are valuable in this category.
The direct evidence on the micrometeorite environment near the Earth is obtained from piezoelectric sensors (essentially microphones) and from wire gages; these instruments are installed on rockets, satellites, and space probes.
Statistically, the most significant data have been collected from the sensors on 1958 Alpha (Explorer 1,), 1958 Delta 2 (Sputnik 3,), and 1959 Eta (Vanguard 3,).
These vehicles, with large sensitive areas, have collected data for long enough times to give reliable impact rates for the periods of exposure.
Many other vehicles with smaller sensitive area exposure time products contribute some information.
The impact rate on 1958 Alpha for 153 events was * * f for particles of mass greater than * * f (Dubin, 1960); this mass threshold was derived from the detector calibration and an assumed impact velocity of * * f.
The data show daily and diurnal variations.
Ninety per cent of the 153 recorded impacts occurred between midnight and noon, and from day to day the variation of the rate was as much as an order of magnitude.
One may conclude that most of the detected micrometeoritic material is concentrated in orbital streams which intersect the Earth's orbit.
There have been contradictory reports from 1958 Delta 2, and the data quoted here are believed to be the more reliable.
The data for the first day indicate a meteor stream with a very high concentration of particles and may have led to the high estimates of micrometeorite flux.
Preliminary data from 1959 Eta give an average impact rate of * * f for masses larger than * * f for about 1000 events in a 22 - day period (LaGow and Alexander, 1960).
The day-to-day rate varied by less than a factor of 4.5.
The data have not yet been analyzed for diurnal variations.
Note that the mass threshold is four times that of 1958 Alpha and that the flux is one fifth as large.
If one assumes that the average flux did not change between measurements, a mass distribution curve is obtained which relates the flux of particles larger than a given radius to the inverse 7 2 power of the radius.
Space probes have yielded little information.
Pioneer 1, recorded a decrease in flux with distance from the Earth on the basis of 11 counts in 9 hours.
With detectors sensitive to three mass intervals and based on a few counts, the second and third Russian space probes indicate that the flux of the smallest particles detected is less than that of larger ones.
The calibration of piezoelectric sensors in terms of the particle parameters is very uncertain.
Many workers believe that the response is proportional to the incident momentum of the particles, a relation deduced from laboratory results linearly extrapolated to meteoritic velocities.
However, one must expect that vaporization and ejection of material by hypervelocity impacts would cause a deviation from a linear relationship.
In the United States, most of the sensors are calibrated by dropping small spheres on their sensitive surfaces.
The Russian experimenters claim that only a small fraction of the impulse from the sensors is caused by the incident momentum with the remainder being momentum of ejected material from the sensor.
This ``ejection'' momentum is linearly related to the particle energy.
They quote about the same mass threshold as that of the U.S. apparatus, but a momentum threshold about 40 times greater.
There is a difference in the experimental arrangement, in that the U.S. microphones are attached directly to the vehicle skin while the Russian instruments are isolated from the skin.
The threshold mass is derived from the momentum threshold with the assumption of a mean impact velocity of * * f in the U.S. work and * * f in the U.S.S.R. work.
However, the conversion from mass to size is unreliable, since many photographic meteors give evidence of a fluffy, loosely bound meteorite structure with densities as low as * * f.
To what extent such low density applies to micrometeorites is unknown.
The velocity value used is also open to some question; if a substantial fraction of the dust is orbiting about the Earth, only about one third the above mentioned average velocity should be used in deriving the mass.
Zodiacal light and the gegenschein give some evidence for such a dust blanket, a phenomenon also to be expected if the dust before capture is in circular orbits about the sun, as indicated by the trend of the smaller visible meteors.
The diurnal variation in the observed flux may be partly due to the dependence of the detector sensitivity on the incident velocity.
The flux of micrometeorites in the neighborhood of the Earth can be estimated by extrapolation from radar and visual meteor data.
A summary of meteorite data, prepared by Whipple (1958) on the basis of photographic, visual, and radar evidence, is given in Table 5 - 1.
From an estimated mass of 25 g for a zero magnitude meteorite, the other masses are derived with the assumption of a mass decrease by a factor of 2.512 for each unit increase in magnitude.
The radius is calculated from the mass by assuming spheres of density * * f except for the smallest particles, which must have a higher mass density to remain in the solar system in the presence of solar radiation pressure.
It is assumed that the flux values increase by a factor of 2.512 per magnitude, in accordance with the opinion that the total mass flux in each unit range in magnitude is constant.
The values agree with the data from 1958 Alpha and 1959 Eta.
The figures in the next-to-last column are derived with the assumption of 50 per cent shielding by the Earth; hence, these figures apply immediately above the Earth's atmosphere.
The unshielded flux is given in the last column; these figures constitute the best estimate for the flux in interplanetary space near the Earth.
Of course, if there is a dust blanket around the Earth, the fluxes in interplanetary space should be less than the figures given here.
Note that the mass scale is one to two orders of magnitude greater than some previously used; for example, Jacchia (1948) derived a scale of 0.15 g for a * * f, zero magnitude meteorite.
The older scales were based on theoretical estimates of the conversion efficiency of kinetic energy into light.
The mass scale used in Table 5 - 1 was derived on the assumption that the motion of the glowing trail is related to the momentum transfer to the trail by the meteorite, permitting the calculation of the mass if the velocity is known (Cook and Whipple, 1958).
A concentration distribution has been derived from radar observations sensitive to the fifteenth magnitude (Manning and Eshleman, 1959).
The approximate equation is * * f, where n is the number of * * f with electron line density greater than or equal to * * f, and q is proportional to the mass of the meteorite.
Therefore, n is inversely proportional to the radius cubed and in fair agreement with the inverse 7 2 power derived from 1958 Alpha and 1959 Eta data.
At the fifteenth magnitude, * * f, and at the twenty-fifth magnitude, * * f.
These extrapolated fluxes are about an order of magnitude less than the values from the satellite data and the figures in Whipple's table.
The extrapolation may be in error for several reasons.
The observational data determining the concentration distribution have a range of error which is magnified in the extension into the micrometeorite region.
The solar electromagnetic - and corpuscular-radiation pressure and the associated Poynting-Robertson effect increase in effectiveness as the particle size decreases and modify the distribution and limit sizes to larger than a few microns.
Also, it has been suggested that the source of all or part of the dust may not be the same as that for visual or radar meteorites (Best, 1960), and the same distribution would not be expected.
A measure of the total mass accretion of meteoritic material by the Earth is obtained from analyses of deep sea sediments and dust collected in remote regions (Pettersson, 1960).
For all meteorites, the average nickel content is about 2.5 per cent.
This is much higher than the nickel content of terrestrial dusts and sediments and provides a basis for the determination of the meteoritic mass influx.
Present data indicate an accretion of about * * f tons per year over the entire globe, or about * * f.
Biological warfare is the intentional use of living microorganisms or their toxic products for the purpose of destroying or reducing the military effectiveness of man.
It is the exploitation of the inherent potential of infectious disease agents by scientific research and development, resulting in the production of BW weapons systems.
Man may also be injured secondarily by damage to his food crops or domestic animals.
Biological warfare is considered to be primarily a strategic weapon.
The major reason for this is that it has no quick kill effect.
The incubation period of infectious disease, plus a variable period of illness even before a lethal effect, render this weapon unsuitable for hand-to-hand encounter.
Thus, an enemy would probably use this weapon for attack on static population centers such as large cities.
An important operational procedure in BW for an enemy would be to create an aerosol or cloud of agent over the target area.
This concept has stimulated much basic research concerning the behavior of particulate biological materials, the pathogenesis of respiratory infections, the medical management of such diseases and defense against their occurrence.
The biological and physical properties of infectious particles have been studied intensively during the past fifteen years.
Much new equipment and many unique techniques have been developed for the quantitative exposure of experimental animals to aerosols of infectious agents contained in particles of specified dimensional characteristics.
Much information has been gathered relative to quantitative sampling and assessment techniques.
Much of the older experimental work on respiratory infections was accomplished by very artificial procedures.
The intra nasal instillation of a fluid suspension of infectious agent in an anesthetized animal is far different from exposure, through natural respiration, to aerosolized organisms.
The importance of particle size in such aerosols has been thoroughly demonstrated.
Very small particles, however, in a size range of 1 to 4 microns in diameter are capable of passing these impinging barriers and entering the alveolar bed of the lungs.
This area is highly susceptible to infection.
The entrance and retention of infectious particles in the alveoli amounts almost to an intra tissue inoculation.
The relationship between particle size and infectious dose is illustrated in Table 1.
In considering BW defense, it must be recognized that a number of critical meteorological parameters must be met for an aerosol to exhibit optimum effect.
For example, bright sunlight is rapidly destructive for living microorganisms suspended in air.
There are optimal humidity requirements for various agents when airborne.
Neutral or inversion meteorological conditions are necessary for a cloud to travel along the surface.
It will rise during lapse conditions.
Certain other properties of small particles, in addition to those already mentioned in connection with penetration of the respiratory tract, are noteworthy in defense considerations.
The smaller the particle the further it will travel downwind before settling out.
An aerosol of such small particles.
moreover, diffuses through structures in much the same manner as a gas.
There may be a number of secondary effects resulting from diffusion through buildings such as widespread contamination of kitchens, restaurants, food stores, hospitals, etc..
Depending on the organism, there may be multiplication in some food or beverage products, i.e., in milk for example.
The secondary consequences from this could be very serious and must be taken into consideration in planning for defense.
Something of the behavior of clouds of small particles can be illustrated by the following field trials:
In the first trial an inert substance was disseminated from a boat travelling some ten miles off shore under appropriately selected meteorological conditions.
This material fluoresces under ultraviolet light which facilitates its sampling and assessment.
Four hundred and fifty pounds was disseminated while the ship was traveling a distance of 156 miles.
Figure 1 describes the results obtained in this trial.
The particles traveled a maximum detected distance of some 450 miles.
From these dosage isopleths it can be seen that an area of over 34000 square miles was covered.
These dosages could have been increased by increasing the source strength which was small in this case.
The behavior of a biological aerosol, on a much smaller scale, is illustrated by a specific field trial conducted with a non pathogenic organism.
An aqueous suspension of the spores of B. subtilis, var. niger, generally known as Bacillus globigii, was aerosolized using commercially available nozzles.
A satisfactory cloud was produced even though these nozzles were only about 5 per cent efficient in producing an initial cloud in the size range of 1 to 5 microns.
The spraying operation was conducted from the rear deck of a small Naval vessel, cruising two miles off-shore and vertical to an on-shore breeze.
Spraying continued along a two mile course.
This operation was started at 5 : 00 p.m. and lasted for 29 minutes.
There was a slight lapse condition, a moderate fog, and 100 per cent relative humidity.
A network of sampling stations had been set up on shore.
These were located at the homes of Government employees, in Government Offices, buildings and reservations within the trial area.
A rough attempt was made to characterize the vertical profile of the cloud by taking samples from outside the windows on the first, ninth, and fifteenth floors of a Government office building.
All samplers were operated for a period of two hours except one, which was operated for four hours.
In this instance, there was a dosage of 562 during the first two hours and a total dosage of 1980 for the four hour period, a four-fold increase.
As can be seen from Figure 2, an extensive area was covered by this aerosol.
The maximum distance sampled was 23 miles from the source.
As can be seen from these dosage isopleths, approximately 100 square miles was covered within the area sampled.
It is quite likely that an even greater area was covered, particularly downwind.
The dosages in the three levels of the vertical profile were : * * f This was not, of course, enough sampling to give a satisfactory description of the vertical diffusion of the aerosol.
A number of unique medical problems might be created when man is exposed to an infectious agent through the respiratory route rather than by the natural portal of entry.
Some agents have been shown to be much more toxic or infectious to experimental animals when exposed to aerosols of optimum particle size than by the natural portal.
Botulinal toxin, for example, is several thousand-fold more toxic by this route than when given per os.
In some instances a different clinical disease picture may result from this route of exposure, making diagnosis difficult.
An enemy would obviously choose an agent that is believed to be highly infectious.
Agents that are known to cause frequent infections among laboratory workers such as those causing Q fever, tularemia, brucellosis, glanders, coccidioidomycosis, etc., belong in this category.
An agent would likely be selected which would possess sufficient viability and virulence stability to meet realistic minimal logistic requirements.
It is, obviously, a proper goal of research to improve on this property.
In this connection it should be capable of being disseminated without excessive destruction.
Moreover, it should not be so fastidious in its growth requirements as to make production on a militarily significant scale improbable.
An aggressor would use an agent against which there was a minimal naturally acquired or artificially induced immunity in a target population.
A solid immunity is the one effective circumstance whereby attack by a specific agent can be neutralized.
It must be remembered, however, that there are many agents for which there is no solid immunity and a partial or low-grade immunity may be broken by an appropriate dose of agent.
An enemy might choose an acutely debilitating microorganism, a chronic disease producer or one causing a high rate of lethality.
It is possible that certain mutational forms may be produced such as antibiotic resistant strains.
Mutants may also be developed with changes in biochemical properties that are of importance in identification.
All of these considerations are of critical importance in considering defense and medical management.
Biological agents are, of course, highly host specific.
They do not destroy physical structures as is true of high explosives.
This may be of overriding importance in considering military objectives.
The question of epidemic disease merits some discussion.
Only a limited effort has been devoted to this problem.
They then point out that with our present lack of knowledge of all the factors concerned in the rise and fall of epidemics, it is unlikely that a planned episode could be initiated.
They argue further (and somewhat contradictorily) that our knowledge and resources in preventive medicine would make it possible to control such an outbreak of disease.
this is why this approach to BW defense has not been given major attention.
Our major problem is what an enemy might accomplish in an initial attack on a target.
This, of course, does not eliminate from consideration for this purpose agents that are associated naturally with epidemic disease.
A hypothetical example will illustrate this point.
Let us assume that it would be possible for an enemy to create an aerosol of the causative agent of epidemic typhus (Rickettsia prowazwki) over City A and that a large number of cases of typhus fever resulted therefrom.
No epidemic was initiated nor was one expected because the population in City A was not lousy.
Lousiness is a prerequisite for epidemic typhus.
This was done with full knowledge that there would be no epidemic.
On the other hand, a similar attack might have been made on City B whose population was known to be lousy.
One might expect some spread of the disease in this case resulting in increased effectiveness of the attack.
The major defensive problems are concerned with the possibility of overt military delivery of biological agents from appropriate disseminating devices.
It should be no more difficult to deliver such devices than other weapons.
The same delivery vehicles - whether they be airplanes, submarines or guided missiles - should be usable.
If it is possible for an enemy to put an atomic bomb on a city, it should be equally possible to put a cloud of biological agent over that city.
Biological agents are, moreover, suitable for delivery through enemy sabotage which imposes many problems in defense.
A few obvious target areas of great importance might be mentioned.
America is rapidly becoming a nation that uses processed, precooked and even predigested foods.
This is an enormous industry that is subject to sabotage.
One must include the preparation of soft drinks and the processing of milk and milk products.
Huge industries are involved also in the production of biological products, drugs and cosmetics which are liable to this type of attack.
A variety of techniques have been directed toward the isolation and study of blood group antibodies.
These include low-temperature ethanol (Cohn) fractionation, electrophoresis, ultracentrifugation and column chromatography on ion exchange celluloses.
Modifications of the last technique have been applied by several groups of investigators.
Abelson and Rawson, using a stepwise elution scheme, fractionated whole sera containing ABO and Rh antibodies on diethylaminoethyl DEAE cellulose and carboxymethyl cellulose.
Speer and coworkers, in a similar study of blood group antibodies of whole sera, used a series of gradients for elution from DEAE-cellulose.
In the present work whole sera have been fractionated by chromatography on DEAE-cellulose using single gradients similar to those described by Sober and Peterson, and certain chemical and serological properties of the fractions containing antibodies of the ABO and Rh systems have been described.
Serum samples were obtained from normal group A, group B and group O donors.
Three of the anti - Rh sera used were taken from recently sensitized individuals.
One contained complete antibody and had a titer of 1 : 512 in saline.
The second contained incomplete antibody and showed titers of 1 : 256 in albumin and 1 : 2048 by the indirect Coombs test.
The third, containing the mixed type of complete and incomplete antibodies, had titers of 1 : 256 in saline, 1 : 512 in albumin and 1 : 1024 by the indirect Coombs test.
In addition one serum was obtained from a donor (R. E. .) who had been sensitized 6 years previously.
This serum exhibited titers of 1 : 16 in albumin and 1 : 256 by the indirect Coombs test.
These antibody titers were determined by reaction with homozygous * * f red cells.
One drop of each sample was added to one drop of a 2 % suspension of group * * f or group B red cells in a small * * f test tube.
In several instances group O cells were also used as controls.
The red cells were used within 2 days after donation and were washed with large amounts of saline before use.
The mixtures of sample plus cell suspension were allowed to stand at room temperature for 1 hr.
the tubes were then centrifuged at 1000 rpm for 1 min and examined macroscopically for agglutination.
For the albumin method, equal volumes of 30 % bovine albumin, sample and 2 % cells suspended in saline were allowed to stand at room temperature for 1 hr and then were centrifuged at 1000 rpm for 1 min.
All samples were tested by both the saline and albumin methods.
The activities of fractions of sera containing Rh antibodies were tested by the saline, albumin and indirect Coombs techniques.
Homozygous and heterozygous * * f cells, * * f and homozygous and heterozygous * * f cells were used to test each sample; however, in the interest of clarity and conciseness only the results obtained with homozygous * * f and homozygous * * f cells will be presented here.
The saline tubes were saved and used for the indirect Coombs test in the following manner.
The cells were washed three times with saline, anti human serum was added, the cells were resuspended, and the mixture was centrifuged at 1000 rpm for 1 min and examined for agglutination.
The anti human sera used were prepared by injecting whole human serum into rabbits.
Those antisera shown by immunoelectrophoresis to be of the ``broad spectrum'' type were selected for used in the present study.
The red cells for the Rh antibody tests were used within 3 days after drawing except for the * * f cells, which had been glycerolized and stored at - 20 ` C for approximately 1 year.
These cells were thawed at 37 ` C for 30 min and were deglycerolized by alternately centrifuging and mixing with descending concentrations of glycerol solutions (20, 18, 10, 8, 4 and 2 %).
The cells were then washed three times with saline and resuspended to 2 % in saline.
Blood samples were allowed to clot at room temperature for 3 hr, centrifuged and the serum was removed.
The serum was measured volumetrically and subsequently dialyzed in the cold for at least 24 hr against three to four changes, approximately 750 ml each, of ``starting buffer''.
After dialysis the sample was centrifuged and the supernatant placed on a * * f cm column of DEAE-cellulose equilibrated with starting buffer.
The DEAE-cellulose, containing 0.78 mEq of N / g, was prepared in our laboratory by the method of Peterson and Sober (7) from powdered cellulose, 100 - 230 mesh.
The small amount of insoluble material which precipitated during dialysis was suspended in approximately 5 ml of starting buffer, centrifuged, resuspended in 2.5 ml of isotonic saline and tested for antibody activity.
The chromatography was done at 6 ` C using gradient elution, essentially according to Sober and Peterson.
The deep concave gradient employed (fig. 2) was obtained with a nine chambered gradient elution device (``Varigrad'', reference (8)) and has been described elsewhere.
the other, a shallow concave gradient (Fig. 1), was produced with a so-called ``cone sphere'' apparatus, the ``cone'' being a 2 - liter Erlenmeyer flask and the ``sphere,'' a 2 - liter round-bottom flask.
Each initially contained 1700 ml of buffer; in the sphere was starting buffer and in the cone was final buffer, 0.50 M in both * * f and Tris, pH 4.1.
A flow rate of 72 * * f was used and 12 ml fractions were collected.
Approximately 165 fractions were obtained from each column.
For protein identification, fractions from the column were concentrated by pervaporation against a stream of air at 5 ` C or by negative pressure dialysis in an apparatus which permitted simultaneous concentration of the protein and dialysis against isotonic saline.
During the latter procedure the temperature was maintained at 2 ` C by surrounding the apparatus with ice.
Because negative pressure dialysis gave better recovery of proteins, permitted detection of proteins concentrated from very dilute solutions and was a gentler procedure, it was used in all but the earliest experiments.
Paper electrophoresis was carried out on the concentrated samples in a Spinco model R cell using barbital buffer, pH 8.6, ionic strength 0.075, at room temperature on Whatman 3 MM filter paper.
Five milliamperes / cell were applied for 18 hr, after which the strips were stained with bromophenol blue and densitometry was carried out using a Spinco Analytrol.
When paper electrophoresis was to be used for preparation, eight strips of a whole serum sample or a chromatographic fraction concentrated by negative pressure dialysis were run / chamber under the conditions described above.
At the end of the run, the strips in the third and sixth positions in each chamber were dried, stained for 1 hr, washed and dried, while the other strips were maintained in a horizontal position at 1 ` C.
The unstained strips were then marked, using the stained ones as a guide, and cut transversely so as to separate the various protein bands.
The strip sections containing a given protein were pooled, eluted with 0.5 ml of isotonic saline, and the eluates were tested for antibody activity.
They were then centrifuged at 59780 rpm for 35 to 80 min at 20 ` C in a Spinco model E ultracentrifuge at a protein concentration of 1.00 to 1.25 %.
Sedimentation coefficients were computed as * * f values and relative amounts of the various components were calculated from the Schlieren patterns.
For preparative ultracentrifugation, fractions from the column were concentrated by negative pressure dialysis to volumes of 1 ml or less, transferred to cellulose tubes and diluted to 12 ml with isotonic saline.
Ultracentrifugation was then carried out in a Spinco model L ultracentrifuge at 40000 rpm for 125 to 150 min, refrigeration being used throughout the run.
Successive 1 - ml fractions were then drawn off with a hypodermic syringe, starting at the top of the tube, and tested for agglutinin activity.
Other methods will be described below.
The insoluble material which precipitated during dialysis against starting buffer always showed intense agglutinin activity, regardless of the blood group of the donor.
With either of the gradients described, chromatography on DEAE-cellulose separated agglutinins of the ABO series into at least three regions (Figs. 1 and 2):
one of extremely low anionic binding capacity, one of low anionic binding capacity and one of high anionic binding capacity.
When the early part of the gradient was flattened, either by using the gradient shown in Fig. 2 or by allowing the ``cone sphere'' gradient to become established more slowly, Region 2 activity could sometimes be separated into two areas (donors P. J. and R. S., Fig. 1 and E. M., Fig. 2).
The latter procedure gave rise to a small active protein peak (Region 1a) between Regions 1 and 2.
In 2 of 15 experiments on whole serum a region of agglutinin activity with intermediate anionic binding capacity was detected (Region 3, Fig. 1).
Moreover, after concentration using negative pressure dialysis, agglutinin activity could sometimes be detected in the region designated 2a (donors P. J., D. A., and J. F., Fig. 1).
Not all these regions exhibited equal agglutinating activity, as evidenced by titer and the extent of the active areas.
In all cases, most of the activity lay in the region of high anionic binding capacity.
This was particularly noticeable in group A and group B sera, in which cases activity in Regions 1 and 2 was usually not detectable without prior concentration and occasionally could not be detected at all.
There appeared to be no difference in the distribution of anti - A and anti - B activity in group O serum, though in two group O donors (J. F. and E. M.) only one type of agglutinin was found in the regions of low anionic binding capacity (Figs. 1 and 2).
Several samples of citrated plasma were fractionated in our laboratory by Method 6 of Cohn et al.
As expected, most of the activity was found in Fraction * * f, with slight activity seen in Fraction 4, - 1.
A sample of Fraction * * f from group O plasma was dissolved in starting buffer, dialyzed against this buffer and subjected to chromatography using the gradient shown in Fig. 2.
Once again, both anti - A and anti - B activities were found in the insoluble material precipitated during dialysis.
Similarly, both types of antibodies were found in three regions of the chromatographic eluate, having extremely low, low, and high anionic binding capacity, respectively (Fig. 3).
Chromatography of whole sera revealed that the areas of Rh antibody activity were generally continuous and wide.
The incomplete antibody activity appeared in the early part of the chromatogram; the complete, in the latter part.
The serum containing the mixed type of complete and incomplete antibodies showed activity in both regions (Fig. 1).
In all cases the activity against * * f cells was spread over a wider area than that with * * f cells, regardless of the type of test (saline, albumin, indirect Coombs) used for comparison.
The insoluble material resulting from dialysis against starting buffer always showed strong activity.
This was later known to be the result of concentrating the minute amount of complete antibody found in these sera; when the insoluble fraction was suspended in a volume of saline equal to that of the original serum sample, no complete antibody activity could be detected.
Apart from the honeybee, practically all bees and bumblebees hibernate in a state of torpor.
Occasionally, you may come across one or two bumblebees in the cold season, when you are turning over sods in your garden, but you have to be a really keen observer to see them at all.
They keep their wings and feet pressed tightly against their bodies, and in spite of their often colorful attire you may very well mistake them for lumps of dirt.
I must add at once that these animals are what we call ``queens'', young females that have mated in the previous summer or autumn.
It is on them alone that the future of their race depends, for all their relatives (mothers, husbands, brothers, and unmated sisters) have perished with the arrival of the cold weather.
Even some of the queens will die before the winter is over, falling prey to enemies or disease.
The survivors emerge on some nice, sunny day in March or April, when the temperature is close to 50 ` F and there is not too much wind.
Now the thing for us to do is to find ourselves a couple of those wonderful flowering currants such as the red Ribes sanguineum of our Pacific Northwest, or otherwise a good sloe tree, or perhaps some nice pussy willow in bloom, preferably one with male or staminate catkins.
It is a happy, buzzing crowd.
Each male willow catkin is composed of a large number of small flowers.
It is not difficult to see that the stamens of the catkin are always arranged in pairs, and that each individual flower is nothing but one such pair standing on a green, black tipped little scale.
By scrutinizing the flowers, one can also notice that the scale bears one or two tiny warts.
Those are the nectaries or honey glands (Fig. 26, page 74).
The staminate willow catkins, then, provide their visitors with both nectar and pollen; a marvelous arrangement, for it provides exactly what the bee queens need to make their beebread, a combination of honey and pollen with which the young of all species are fed.
The only exception to this is certain bees that have become parasites.
I will deal with these later on.
Quite often, honeybees form a majority on the willow catkins.
Let us not try to key them out at this stage of the game, and let us just call them Bombus; there must be several dozen species in the United States alone.
If you really insist on knowing their names, an excellent book on the North American species is Bumblebees and Their Ways by O. E. Plath.
If we manage to keep track of a Bombus queen after she has left her feeding place, we may discover the snug little hideout which she has fixed up for herself when she woke up from her winter sleep.
As befits a queen, a bumblebee female is rather choosy and may spend considerable time searching for a suitable nesting place.
Most species seem to prefer a ready-made hollow such as a deserted mouse nest, a bird house, or the hole made by a woodpecker; some show a definite liking for making their nest in moss.
Once she has made up her mind, the queen starts out by constructing, in her chosen abode, a small ``floor'' of dried grass or some woolly material.
On this, she builds an ``egg compartment'' or ``egg cell'' which is filled with that famous pollen and nectar mixture called beebread.
She also builds one or two waxen cups which she fills with honey.
Then, a group of eggs is deposited in a cavity in the beebread loaf and the egg compartment is closed.
When the larvae hatch, they feed on the beebread, although they also receive extra honey meals from their mother.
She continues to add to the pollen supply as needed.
The larvae, kept warm by the queen, are full grown in about ten days.
Each now makes a tough, papery cocoon and pupates.
After another two weeks, the first young emerge, four to eight small daughters that begin to play the role of worker bees, collecting pollen and nectar in the field and caring for the new young generation while the queen retires to a life of egg laying.
The first worker bees do not mate or lay eggs; males and mating females do not emerge until later in the season.
The broods of workers that appear later tend to be bigger than the first ones, probably because they are better fed.
By the middle of the summer, many of the larvae apparently receive such a good diet that it is ``optimal'', and it is then that young queens begin to appear.
Simultaneously, males or drones are produced, mostly from the unfertilized eggs of workers, although a few may be produced by the queen.
It is an amazing fact that in some species this will happen while the summer is still in full swing, for instance, in August.
The temperature then is still very high.
At the old nest, the queen will in the early fall cease to lay the fertilized eggs that will produce females.
As a result, the proportion of males (which leave the nest) increases, and eventually the old colony will die out completely.
The nest itself, the structure that in some cases housed about 2000 individuals when the season was at its peak, is now rapidly destroyed by the scavenging larvae of certain beetles and moths.
Not always, though, does the development of a bumblebee colony take place in the smooth fashion we have just described.
Some members of the bee family have become idlers, social parasites that live at the expense of their hardworking relatives.
Bumblebees can thus suffer severely from the onslaughts of Psithyrus, the ``cuckoo bumblebee'' as it is called in some European countries.
Female individuals of Psithyrus look deceptively like the workers and queens of the bumblebees they victimize.
The female parasite spends much time in her efforts to find a nest of her host.
When she succeeds, she usually manages to slip in unobtrusively, to deposit an egg on a completed loaf of beebread before the bumblebees seal the egg compartment.
The hosts never seem to recognize that something is amiss, so that the compartment afterward is sealed normally.
Thus, the larvae of the intruder can develop at the expense of the rightful inhabitants and the store of beebread.
Later on, they and the mother Psithyrus are fed by the Bombus workers.
Worse still, in a number of cases it has been claimed that the Psithyrus female kills off the Bombus queen.
But let us return, after this gruesome interlude, to our willow catkins in the spring; there are other wild bees that command our attention.
It is almost certain that some of these, usually a trifle smaller than the honeybees, are andrenas or mining bees.
There are about 200 different kinds of Andrena in Europe alone.
The females like to burrow in the short turf of well-kept lawns, where their little mounds of earth often appear by the hundreds.
Almost equal in size to a honeybee.
A. armata is much more beautiful in color, at least in the female of the species : a rich, velvety, rusty red.
The males are much duller.
After having mated, an Andrena female digs a hole straight down into the ground, forming a burrow about the size of a lead pencil.
The bottom part of a burrow has a number of side tunnels or ``cells'', each of which is provided with an egg plus a store of beebread.
The development of the Andrena larvae is very rapid, so that by the end of spring they have already pupated and become adults.
But they are still enclosed in their larval cells and remain there throughout the summer, fall, and winter.
Their appearance, next spring, coincides in an almost uncanny way with the flowering of their host plants.
This must be due to a completely identical response to the weather, in the plant and the animal.
After the male and female andrenas have mated, the cycle is repeated.
Although Andrena is gregarious, so that we may find hundreds and hundreds of burrows together, we must still call it a solitary bee.
Its life history is much simpler than that of the truly colonial bumblebees and can serve as an example of the life cycle of many other species.
After all, social life in the group of the bees is by no means general, although it certainly is a striking feature.
On the basis of its life history, we like to think that Andrena is more primitive than the bumblebees.
The way in which it transports its pollen is not so perfect, either.
It lacks pollen baskets and possesses only a large number of long, branched hairs on its legs, on which the pollen grains will collect.
Still Andrena will do a reasonably good job, so that an animal with a full pollen load looks like a gay little piece of yellow down floating in the wind.
Nomia melanderi can be found in tremendous numbers in certain parts of the United States west of the Great Plains, for example, in Utah and central Washington.
In the United States Department of Agriculture's Yearbook of Agriculture, 1952, which is devoted entirely to insects, George E. Bohart mentions a site in Utah which was estimated to contain 200000 nesting females.
Often the burrows are only an inch or two apart, and the bee cities cover several acres.
The life history of the alkali bee is similar to that of Andrena, but the first activity of the adults does not take place until summer, and the individuals hibernate in the prepupal stage.
In most places, there are two generations a year, a second brood of adults appearing late in the summer.
I must plead guilty to a special sympathy for nomias.
This may just be pride in my adopted State of Washington, but certainly I love to visit their mound cities near Yakima and Prosser in July or August, when the bees are in their most active period.
The name ``alkali bee'' indicates that one has to look for them in rather inhospitable places.
Sometimes, although by no means always, these are indeed alkaline.
They dislike dense vegetation.
Where does one find such conditions?
The best chance, of course, is offered by gently sloping terrain where the water remains close to the surface and where the air is dry, so that a high evaporation leaves salty deposits which permit only sparse plant growth.
Many other (probably nearly all) snakes at maturity are already more than half their final length.
Laurence M . Klauber put length at maturity at two thirds the ultimate length for some rattlesnakes, and Charles C . Carpenter's data on Michigan garter and ribbon snakes (Thamnophis) show that the smallest gravid females are more than half as long as the biggest adults.
Felix Kopstein states that ``when the snake reaches its maturity it has already reached about its maximal length'', but goes on to cite the reticulate python as an exception, with maximum length approximately three times that at maturity.
It is hard to understand how he concluded that most snakes do not grow appreciably after attaining maturity; he was working with species of Java, so perhaps some tropical snakes are unusual in this respect.
Certain individual giants recorded later did fail to show a reasonable difference after maturity, but it is impossible to know whether this is due to captive conditions.
Additional records of slow growth have been omitted.
There seems to be a rough correlation between the initial and ultimate lengths, starting with the smallest (boa constrictor) and ending with the largest (anaconda).
Data on the former are scanty, but there can be little doubt that the latter is sometimes born at a length greater than that of any of the others, thereby lending support to the belief that the anaconda does, indeed, attain the greatest length.
For four of the six (the anaconda and the amethystine python cannot be included for lack of data) there is also a correlation between size at maturity and maximum length, the boa constrictor being the smallest and the Indian python the next in size at the former stage.
Let us speculate a little on the maximum size of the anaconda.
If, in a certain part of the range, it starts life 1 foot longer than do any of the other (relatively large) giants, and reaches maturity at, let us guess, 18 inches longer than the others, a quadrupling of the maturity length would result in a maximum of (nearly) 40 feet.
When it comes to rate of early growth, the Indian python leads with a figure of about 3 feet 6 inches per year for the first two years, more or less.
The African rock python, a close second, is followed in turn by the reticulate python.
There are few data on the boa constrictor, those for the anaconda are unconvincing, and there is nothing at all on the amethystine python.
It seems likely that the Indian python comes out ahead because records of its growth have been made more carefully and frequently; it responds exceptionally well to captivity and does not reach proportions that make it hard to keep.
Until better records have been kept over longer periods of time and much more is known about the maximum dimensions, it will be wise to refrain from drawing conclusions.
It is often stated that the largest snakes require five years to attain maturity, but this apparently is an overestimation.
The best way to determine the correct figure (in captives) is by direct observation of pairs isolated from birth, a method that produced surprising results : maturing of a male Indian python in less than two years, his mate in less than three; data on the boa constrictor about match this.
Another approach is to estimate from the rate of growth and the smallest size at maturity.
Results from this approach amply confirm the direct observations:
about three years are required, there being a possible slight difference between males and females in the time required.
Only the amethystine python and the anaconda must be excluded for lack or paucity of data.
The following information on snakes varying greatly in size (but all with less than a 10 - foot maximum) shows, when considered with the foregoing, that there is probably no correlation between the length of a snake and the time required for it to mature.
Oliver, in his summary of the habits of the snakes of the United States, could supply data on the maturing period for only three species in addition to the rattlers, which I shall consider separately.
Klauber investigated the rattlesnakes carefully himself and also summarized what others have found.
He concluded that in the southern species, which are rapidly growing types, females mate at the age of two and a half and bear the first young when they are three.
Other herpetologists have ascertained that in the northern United States the prairie rattlesnake may not give first birth until it is four or even five years old, and that the young may be born every other year, rather than annually.
Carpenter's study showed that female common garter and ribbon snakes of Michigan mature at about the age of two.
Oversized monsters are never brought home either alive or preserved, and field measurements are obviously open to doubt because of the universal tendency to exaggerate dimensions.
Measurements of skins are of little value; every snake hide is noticeably longer than its carcass and intentional stretching presents no difficulty to the unscrupulous explorer.
In spite of all the pitfalls, there is a certain amount of agreement on some of the giants.
The anaconda proves to be the fly in the ointment, but the reason for this is not clear; the relatively wild conditions still found in tropical South America might be responsible.
There are three levels on which to treat the subject.
This approach rejects virtually all field measurements.
The next level attempts to weigh varied evidence and come to a balanced, sensible conclusion; field measurements by experienced explorers are not rejected, and even reports of a less scientific nature are duly evaluated.
The third level leans on a belief that a lot of smoke means some fire.
The argument against this last approach is comparable to that which rejects stories about hoop snakes, about snakes that break themselves into many pieces and join up again, or even of ghosts that chase people out of graveyards; the mere piling up of testimony does not prove, to the scientific mind, the existence of hoop snakes, joint snakes, or ghosts.
Oliver has recently used the second level approach with the largest snakes, and has come to these conclusions:
the anaconda reaches a length of at least 37 feet, the reticulate python 33, the African rock python 25, the amethystine python at least 22, the Indian python 20, and the boa constrictor 18 - 1 2.
Bernard Heuvelmans also treats of the largest snakes, but on the third level, and is chiefly concerned with the anaconda.
He reasons that as anacondas 30 feet long are often found, some might be 38, and occasional ``monstrous freaks'' over 50.
He rejects dimensions of 70 feet and more.
Detailed information on record lengths of the giants is given in the section that follows.
Discussions of the giants one by one will include, as far as possible, data on these aspects of growth:
size at which life is started and at which sexual maturity is reached; time required to reach maturity; rate of growth both before and after this crucial stage; and maximum length, with confirmation or amplification of Oliver's figures.
Definite information on the growth of senile individuals is lacking.
At birth, this species varies considerably in size.
A brood of twenty-eight born at Brookfield Zoo, near Chicago, ranged in length from 22 to 33 - 1 2 inches and averaged 29 inches.
Lawrence E . Griffin gives measurements of nineteen young anacondas, presumably members of a brood, from ``South America''; the extreme measurements of these fall between the lower limit of the Brookfield brood and its average.
Raymond L . Ditmars had two broods that averaged 27 inches.
R . R . Mole and F . W . Urich give approximately 20 inches as the average length of a brood of thirty from the region of the Orinoco estuaries.
In contrast, Ditmars recorded the average length of seventy-two young of a 19 - foot female as 38 inches, and four young were born in London at a length of 35 or 36 inches and a weight of from 14 to 16 ounces.
Beebe had a 3 - foot anaconda that weighed only 9.8 ounces.
A difference between subspecies might explain the great range in size.
I have little information on the anaconda's rate of growth.
Hans Schweizer had one that increased from 19 - 1 2 inches to 5 feet 3 inches in five years, and J . J . Quelch records a growth of from less than 4 feet to nearly 10 in about six years.
It is very unlikely that either of these anacondas was growing at a normal rate.
In 1948, Afranio do Amaral, the noted Brazilian herpetologist, wrote a technical paper on the giant snakes.
He concluded that the anaconda's maximum length is 12 or 13 (perhaps 14) meters, which would approximate from 39 to 42 feet (14 meters is slightly less that 46 feet).
Thus, his estimate lies between Oliver's suggestion of at least 37 feet and the 50 - foot ``monstrous freaks'' intimated by Heuvelmans.
However, as a field measurement, it is open to question.
Oliver's 37 - 1 2 feet is partly based on this report and can be accepted as probable.
However, many herpetologists remain skeptical and would prefer a tentative maximum of about 30 feet.
It is possible that especially large anacondas will prove to belong to subspecies limited to a small area.
In snakes difference in size is a common characteristic of subspecies.
A Colombian female's brood of sixteen boa constrictors born in the Staten Island Zoo averaged 20 inches.
This birth length seems to be typical.
When some thirteen records of newly and recently born individuals are collated, little or no correlation between length and distribution can be detected.
The range is from 14 to 25 inches; the former figure is based on a somewhat unusual birth of four by a Central American female (see chapter on Laying, Brooding, Hatching, and Birth), the latter on a ``normal'' newly born individual.
Alphonse R . Hoge's measurements of several very young specimens from Brazil suggest that at birth the female is slightly larger than the male.
I have surprisingly little information on the size and age at maturity.
Carl Kauffeld has written to me of sexual activity in February 1943 of young born in March 1940.
One female, collected on an island off the coast of Nicaragua, was gravid and measured 4 feet 8 inches from snout to vent (her tail should be between 6 and 7 inches long).
The female from Central America which gave birth to four was only 3 feet 11 inches long.
What data there are on growth indicate considerable variation in rate; unfortunately, no one has kept complete records of one individual, whereas many have been made for a very short period of time.
The results are too varied to allow generalization.
The bronchus and pulmonary artery in this lung type maintain a close relationship throughout.
The pulmonary vein, however, without the limiting supportive tissue septa as in type 1, follows a more direct path to the hilum and does not maintain this close relationship (figs. 8, 22).
The pulmonary artery, in addition to supplying the distal portion of the respiratory bronchiole, the alveolar duct, and the alveoli, continues on and directly supplies the thin pleura (fig. 8).
The bronchial artery, except for a small number of short branches in the hilum, contributes none of the pleural blood supply.
It does, as in type 1, supply the hilar lymph nodes, the pulmonary artery, the pulmonary vein, the bronchi, and the bronchioles - terminating in a common capillary bed with the pulmonary artery at the level of the respiratory bronchiole.
No bronchial artery pulmonary artery anastomoses were noted in this group.
Lung type 3, (fig. 3) is to some degree a composite of types 1, and 2,.
It is characterized by the presence of incompletely developed secondary lobules; well defined, but haphazardly arranged, interlobular septa and a thick, remarkably vascular pleura (fig. 9).
The most distal airways are similar to those found in type 1, being composed of numerous, apparently true terminal bronchioles and occasional, poorly developed respiratory bronchioles (figs. 14, 15).
In this instance, because of incomplete septation, the secondary lobule does not constitute in itself what appears to be a small individual lung as in type 1,.
Air drifts from one area to another are, therefore, conceivable.
This relationship, however, is not maintained centrally.
Here the pulmonary vein, as in type 2, is noted to draw away from the bronchus, and to follow a more direct, independent course to the hilum (figs. 23, 24).
The bronchial artery in its course and distribution differs somewhat from that found in other mammals.
As seen in types 1, and 2, it supplies the hilar lymph nodes, vasa vasorum to the pulmonary artery and vein, the bronchi and the terminal bronchioles.
As in type 1, it provides arterial blood to the interlobular septa, and an extremely rich anastomotic pleural supply is seen (figs. 9, 10).
This pleural supply is derived both from hilar and interlobular bronchial artery branches.
Such a dual derivation was strikingly demonstrated during the injection process where initial filling would be noted to occur in several isolated pleural vessels at once.
Some of these were obviously filling from interlobular branches of the bronchial arteries while others were filling from direct hilar branches following along the pleural surface.
With completion of filling, net-like anastomoses were noted to be present between these separately derived branches.
This was accounted for primarily by the presence of a bronchial artery closely following the pulmonary artery.
The diameter of this bronchial artery was much too large for it to be a mere vasa vasorum (figs. 16, 23, 24).
In distal regions its diameter would be one-fourth to one-fifth that of the pulmonary artery.
This vessel could be followed to the parenchyma where it directly provided bronchial arterial blood to the alveolar capillary bed (figs. 17, 18).
Also three other direct pathways of alveolar bronchial arterial supply were noted : via the pleura; through the interlobular septa; and along the terminal bronchiole (figs. 14, 17, 18, 19).
One bronchial arteriolar pulmonary arteriolar anastomosis was noted at the terminal bronchiolar level (fig. 26).
It is evident that many marked and striking differences exist between lungs when an inter-species comparison is made.
The significance of these differences has not been studied nor has the existence of corresponding physiologic differences been determined.
However, the dynamics of airflow, from morphologic considerations alone, may conceivably be different in the monkey than in the horse.
Also, interlobular air drifts may be all but nonexistent in the cow; probably occur in the horse much as in the human being; and, in contrast are present to a relatively immense degree on a segmental basis in the dog where lobules are absent (Van Allen and Lindskog,' 31).
A reason for such wide variation in the pulmonary morphology is entirely lacking at present.
Within certain wide limits anatomy dictates function and, if one is permitted to speculate, potential pathology should be included in this statement as well.
For example, the marked susceptibility of the monkey to respiratory infection might be related to its delicate, long alveolar ducts and short, large bronchioles situated within a parenchyma entirely lacking in protective supportive tissue barriers such as those found in types 1, and 3,.
One might also wonder if monkeys are capable of developing bronchiolitis as we know it in man or the horse.
In addition, it would be difficult to imagine chronic generalized emphysema occurring in a cow, considering its marked lobular development but, conversely, not difficult to imagine this occurring in the horse or the dog.
Anatomically, the horse lung appears to be remarkably like that of man, insofar as this can be ascertained from comparison of our findings in the horse with those of others (Birnbaum,' 54) in the human being.
The only area in which one might find major disagreement in this matter is in regard to the alveolar distribution of the bronchial arteries.
As early as 1858, Le Fort claimed an alveolar distribution of the bronchial arteries in human beings.
The opposition to this point of view has its staunchest support in the work of Miller (' 50).
Apparently, however, Miller has relied heavily on the anatomy in dogs and cats, and he has been criticized for using pathologic human material in his normal study (Loosli,' 38).
Although Miller noted in 1907 that a difference in the pleural blood supply existed between animals, nowhere in his published works is it found that he did a comparative study of the intrapulmonary features of various mammalian lungs other than in the dog and cat (Miller,' 13 ;' 25).
The meaning of this variation in distribution of the bronchial artery as found in the horse is not clear.
However, this artery is known to be a nutrient vessel with a distribution primarily to the proximal airways and supportive tissues of the lung.
The alveoli and respiratory bronchioles are primarily diffusing tissues.
Theoretically, they are capable of extracting their required oxygen either from the surrounding air (Ghoreyeb and Karsner,' 13) or from pulmonary arterial blood (Comroe,' 58).
Therefore, an explanation of this alveolar bronchial artery supply might be the nutritive requirement of an increased amount of supportive tissue, not primarily diffusing in nature, in the region of the alveolus.
If this be true, the possibility exists that an occlusive lesion of the bronchial arteries might cause widespread degeneration of supportive tissue similar to that seen in generalized emphysema.
The presence of normally occurring bronchial artery pulmonary artery anastomoses was first noted in 1721 by Ruysch, and thereafter by many others.
Nakamura (' 58), Verloop (' 48), Marchand, Gilroy and Watson (' 50), von Hayek (' 53), and Tobin (' 52) have all claimed their normal but relatively nonfunctional existence in the human being.
Miller (' 50) is the principal antagonist of this viewpoint.
In criticism of the latter's views, his conclusions were based upon dog lung injection studies in which all of the vascular channels were first filled with a solution under pressure and then were injected with various sized colored particles designed to stop at the arteriolar level.
As early as 1913 Ghoreyeb and Karsner demonstrated with perfusion studies in dogs that bronchial artery flow would remain constant at a certain low level when pressure was maintained in the pulmonary artery and vein, but that increases in bronchial artery flow would occur in response to a relative drop in pulmonary artery pressure.
Berry, Brailsford and Daly in 1931 and Nakamura in 1958 reaffirmed this.
Our own studies in which bronchial artery pulmonary artery anastomoses were demonstrated, were accomplished by injecting the bronchial artery first with no pressure on the pulmonary artery or vein, and then by injecting the pulmonary artery and vein afterwards.
It is distinctly possible, therefore, that simultaneous pressures in all three vessels would have rendered the shunts inoperable and hence, uninjectable.
This viewpoint is further supported by Verloop's (' 48) demonstration of thickened bronchial artery and arteriolar muscular coats which are capable of acting as valves.
In addition, little work has been done on a comparative basis in regard to the normal existence of bronchial artery pulmonary artery anastomoses.
Verloop (' 48 ;' 49) found these shunts in the human being but was unable to find them in rats.
Ellis, Grindlay and Edwards (' 52) also were unable to find them in rats.
Nakamura (' 58) was unable to demonstrate their existence, either by anatomic or physiologic methods, in dogs.
The possibility that the absence or presence of these shunts is species dependent is therefore inferred.
Certainly, the mere fact of failing to demonstrate them in one or another species does not conclusively deny their existence in that species.
It is, however, highly suggestive and agrees well with our own findings in which we also failed to demonstrate normally occurring bronchial artery pulmonary artery shunts in certain species, especially the dog.
In conclusion, these findings suggest the need for a comparative physiology, pathology, and histology of mammalian lungs.
In addition, a detailed interspecies survey of the incidence of generalized pulmonary emphysema in mammals would be interesting and pertinent.
This is especially so if the dog, cat or monkey are to be used, in view of their marked anatomical differences from man.
Finally, it is suggested that in many respects the horse lung may be anatomically more comparable to that of the human than any other presently known species.
The main subgross anatomical features of the lungs of various mammals are presented.
A tabulation of these features permits the lungs to be grouped into three distinctive subgross types.
Type 1, is represented by the cow, sheep, and pig; type 2, by the dog, cat, and monkey; type 3, by the horse.
Lobularity is extremely well developed in type 1,; absent in type 2,; imperfectly developed in type 3,.
The pleura and interlobular septa are thick in types 1, and 3,.
The pleura is extremely thin in type 2, and septa are absent.
Arterial supply to the pleura in types 1, and 3, is provided by the bronchial artery, and in type 2, by the pulmonary artery.
In type 3, the bronchial artery also provides blood directly to the alveolar capillary bed.
True terminal bronchioles comprise the most frequent form taken by the distal airways in types 1, and 3, although small numbers of poorly developed respiratory bronchioles are present.
Well developed respiratory bronchioles, on the other hand, appear to be the only form taken by the distal airways in type 2,.
In type 1, the pulmonary vein closely follows the course of the bronchus and the pulmonary artery from the periphery to the hilum.
This maybe due to the heavy interlobular connective tissue barriers present.
In type 3, this general relationship is maintained peripherally but not centrally where the pulmonary vein follows a more independent path to the hilum as is the case throughout the lung in type 2,.
Some of the features of the top portions of Figure 1 and Figure 2 were mentioned in discussing Table 1.
First, the Onset Profile spreads across approximately 12 years for boys and 10 years for girls.
In contrast, 20 of the 21 lines in the Completion Profile (excluding center 5 for boys and 4 for girls) are bunched and extend over a much shorter period, approximately 30 months for boys and 40 months for girls.
Second, for both sexes, the 21 transverse lines in the Onset Profile vary more in individual spread than those in the Completion Profile.
Although the standard deviation values on which spread of the lines are based are relatively larger for those centers which begin to ossify early (Table 1), there are considerable differences in this value between centers having the closely timed Onsets.
Third, the process of calcification is seen to begin later and to continue much longer for these boys than for the girls, a fact which confirms data for other groups of children.
The Onset Profile and Completion Profile are constructed to serve as norms for children.
It is convenient to classify a child's onset ages and completion ages as ``advanced'', ``moderate'' (modal), or ``delayed'' according to whether the child's age equivalent ``dots'' appeared to the left of, upon, or to the right of the appropriate short transverse line.
When a dot appears close to the end of the transverse line, the ``moderate'' rating may be further classified according to the position of the dot with respect to the vertical marking denoting the mean age.
Such classifications may be called ``somewhat advanced'' or ``somewhat delayed'', as the case may be, reserving ``moderate'' for dots upon or close to the mean.
In the lower portion of each Chart, the Skeletal Age (Hand) of boy 34 and girl 2 may be similarly classified.
There the middle one of the three curves denotes ``mean Skeletal Age'' for the Maturity Series boys and girls.
Thus, a child's Skeletal Age ``dots'' may be classified as ``advanced'' when they appear above the middle curve, ``moderate'' when they appear immediately above or below the middle curve, and ``delayed'' when they appear below the lower curve.
To summarize the purpose of the Skeletal Maturity Chart : each contains two kinds of skeletal maturity norms which show two quite different methods of depicting developmental level of growth centers.
First, the upper portion requires series of films for every child, consisting of those from Hand, Elbow, Shoulder, Knee, and Foot.
The lower portion necessitates only films of Hand.
Second, the upper portion permits comparison of maturity levels of an equal number of growth centers from the long, short, and round bones of the five regions.
The lower portion permits comparison of maturity levels of short and round bones predominantly, since only two long bones are included in Hand and Wrist as a region.
Third, the upper portion deals with only two indicators of developmental level, Onset and Completion.
The lower portion utilizes the full complement of intermediate maturity indicators of each Hand center as well as their Onset and Completion.
Fourth, the two indicators are for the most part widely separated chronologically, with the extensive age gap occurring during childhood for all but one growth center.
Onsets, Completions, and Skeletal Ages (Hand) of boy 34 and girl 2 may be directly compared and classified, using only those Skeletal Ages which appear immediately below the Onset Profile and the Completion Profile.
It may be assumed that differences in ratings due to selection of growth centers from specific regions of the body will be small, according to existing tables of onset age and completion age for centers throughout the body.
Accordingly, maturity level ratings by means of the upper portion and lower portion of the Chart, respectively, should be somewhat similar since Skeletal Age assessments are dependent upon Onsets during infancy and upon Completions during adolescence.
It is clear that there are some differences in the ratings, but there is substantial agreement.
Since a Skeletal Age rating can be made at any age during growth, from Elbow, Shoulder, Knee, or Foot as well as Hand, it seems to be the method of choice when one wishes to study most aspects of skeletal developmental progress during childhood.
As stated earlier in the paper, Onsets and Completions - particularly the former - provide a different tool or indicator of expectancy in osseous development, each within a limited age period.
Such an indicator, or indicators, are needed as means of recognizing specific periods of delay in skeletal developmental progress.
It was stated earlier that one purpose of this study was to extend the analysis of variability of Onset and Completion in each of the 21 growth centers somewhat beyond that provided by the data in Tables 1 and 2.
As one approach to doing this, Figures 3 and 4 have been constructed from the mean ages and the individual onset and completion ages for boy 34 and girl 2.
The data for boy 34 appear in Figure 3, and for girl 2 in Figure 4.
The numbering system used in Tables 1 and 2 and Figures 1 and 2 was continued for the 21 growth centers.
The ``dot'' on one end of each arrow indicates extent of difference in months between the child's onset age and the corresponding mean age for the growth center.
The ``tip'' of the arrow represents extent of difference between the child's completion age and the corresponding mean age for the growth center.
Thus, the alignment of the ``dots'' and ``tips'', respectively, indicate individual variability of the 21 growth centers of each child with respect to the mean values for these boys and girls.
The direction in which the arrow points shows how the maturity level of the growth center was changed at Completion from the level at Onset.
When the ``dot'' and ``tip'' coincide, the classification used in this paper is ``same schedule''.
The length of the arrow indicates amount of slowing or acceleration at Completion over that at Onset, and the difference in months can be read roughly by referring the arrow to the age scale along the base of each figure, or more precisely by referring to the original data in the appropriate tables.
The difference between the sequence of Onset of ossification for the sexes governs the numbering sequence in Figures 3 and 4.
For example, arrow 17 in Figure 3 portrays the proximal radial epiphysis for boy 34, whereas the same epiphysis for girl 2 is portrayed by arrow 18 in Figure 4.
For the boy, this epiphysis was markedly delayed at Onset but near the mean at Completion.
Thus, the Span of its ossification was shortened and the center's ability to ``catch up'' in ossification is demonstrated.
In contrast, for the girl the epiphysis was slightly advanced at Onset and delayed at Completion.
Obviously, the slowing for her may have occurred at any point between Onset and Completion.
The Skeletal Age curve in the lower portion of Figure 2 shows that slowing may have occurred for her during the prepubescent period.
Length of the shaft of these arrows may be evaluated according to the standard deviation values for each center in Table 1.
We have attempted to simplify the extensive task of analyzing onset ages and completion ages of each child - more than 1700 values for the entire group - by constructing figures for each of the 21 centers so that the data for all 34 boys and 34 of the girls will appear together for each growth center.
Figures 5 and 6 are examples of our method of analyzing the results for each growth center.
The principles used in making each arrow for Figures 3 and 4 were applied to the construction of Figures 5 and 6 as well as all figures in the Appendix.
One growth center in a short bone - distal phalanx of the second finger - was chosen as an example for discussion here, primarily because epiphyseal diaphyseal fusion, the maturity indicator for Completion in long and short bones, occurs in this center for girls near the menarche and for boys near their comparable pubescent stage.
Its Completion thus becomes one of the convenient maturity indicators to include in studies of growth, dietary patterns, and health during adolescence.
The following summary, based on Figures 5 and 6, is an example of one way of interpreting the 42 figures constructed from onset ages and completion ages of individual children with respect to the appropriate mean age for each growth center.
At the top of Figure 5, for example, the Onset range and Completion range lines for the chosen growth center have been drawn for girls according to their mean and standard deviation values in Table 1.
The 34 arrows, denoting onset age plus completion age deviations, have been arrayed in an Onset sequence which begins with girl 18 who had the earliest Onset of the 34 girls.
The growth center depicted here, in the distal phalanx of the second finger, is listed as the fifth of those in the seven short bones.
The mean onset age was 25.3 months (Table 1), and the average Span of the osseous stage was 133 months.
The correlation (Table 2) between onset age and completion age was + .50, and that between onset age and Span was - .10.
Accordingly, girls 31, 29, 33, 21, 26, 13, 3, 4, 14, 32, 24, 25, 34, 23, 6, 15, 22, and 16 may be said to have the ``same schedule'' at Onset and Completion.
It seems clear, from the counter-balanced shape of the series of arrows in Figure 5 that there was about an equal number of early and late Onsets and Completions for the 34 girls.
Accordingly, if epiphyseal diaphyseal fusion occurs in this phalanx near menarche, early and late menarches might have been forecast rather precisely at the time of Onset of ossification for the 18 girls with ``same schedule''.
As an example of the interpretation of an arrow in the figure which exceeds four months in shaft length in conjunction with its position in the figure : girl 2 had a delayed Onset and further delayed Completion.
It is of interest that her menarche was somewhat later than the average for the girls in this group.
A similar analysis of Figure 6 for the 34 boys would necessitate quite a different conclusion about the predictive value of onset age in forecasting their attainment of the pubescent stage.
Boys 32, 23, 31, 17, 30, 19, and 24 had ``same schedule'' at Onset and Completion; thus early forecasting of the pubescent stage would appear possible for only seven boys.
Boy 34, like girl 2, did not have ``same schedule''; his arrow crosses the line denoting the mean.
The ``dot'' on his arrow indicates early Onset and the ``tip'' indicates relatively later Completion.
Interestingly enough, the effect of the digitalis glycosides is inhibited by a high concentration of potassium in the incubation medium and is enhanced by the absence of potassium (Wolff, 1960).
The precise mechanism for organification of iodine in the thyroid is not as yet completely understood.
However, the formation of organically bound iodine, mainly mono-iodotyrosine, can be accomplished in cell-free systems.
In the absence of additions to the homogenate, the product formed is an iodinated particulate protein (Fawcett and Kirkwood, 1953; Taurog, Potter and Chaikoff, 1955; Taurog, Potter, Tong, and Chaikoff, 1956; Serif and Kirkwood, 1958; De Groot and Carvalho, 1960).
This iodoprotein does not appear to be the same as what is normally present in the thyroid, and there is no evidence so far that thyroglobulin can be iodinated in vitro by cell-free systems.
In addition, the iodoamino acid formed in largest quantity in the intact thyroid is di-iodotyrosine.
If tyrosine and a system generating hydrogen peroxide are added to a cell-free homogenate of the thyroid, large quantities of free mono-iodotyrosine can be formed (Alexander, 1959).
It is not clear whether this system bears any resemblance to the in vivo iodinating mechanism, and a system generating peroxide has not been identified in thyroid tissue.
On chemical grounds it seems most likely that iodide is first converted to * * f and then to * * f as the active iodinating species.
Iodination of tyrosine, however, is not enough for the synthesis of hormone.
The mono - and di-iodotyrosine must be coupled to form tri-iodothyronine and thyroxine.
The mechanism of this coupling has been studied in some detail with non-enzymatic systems in vitro and can be simulated by certain di-iodotyrosine analogues (Pitt-Rivers and James, 1958).
There is so far no evidence to indicate conclusively that this coupling is under enzymatic control.
The chemical nature of the iodocompounds is discussed below (pp. 76 et seq.).
Little is known of the synthetic mechanisms for formation of thyroglobulin.
Its synthesis has not been demonstrated in cell-free systems, nor has its synthesis by systems with intact thyroid cells in vitro been unequivocally proven.
There is some reason to think that thyroglobulin synthesis may proceed independently of iodination, for in certain transplantable tumours of the rat thyroid containing essentially no iodinated thyroglobulin, a protein that appears to be thyroglobulin has been observed in ultracentrifuge experiments (Wolff, Robbins and Rall, 1959).
Similar findings have been noted in a patient with congenital absence of the organification enzymes, whose thyroid tissue could only concentrate iodide.
Since the circulating thyroid hormones are the amino acids thyroxine and tri-iodothyronine (cf. Section C), it is clear that some mechanism must exist in the thyroid gland for their release from proteins before secretion.
The presence of several proteases and peptidases has been demonstrated in the thyroid.
One of the proteases has pH optimum of about 3.7 and another of about 5.7 (McQuillan, Stanley and Trikojus, 1954; Alpers, Robbins and Rall, 1955).
The finding that the concentration of one of these proteases is increased in thyroid glands from TSH treated animals suggests that this protease may be active in vivo.
There is no conclusive evidence yet that either of the proteases has been prepared in highly purified form nor is their specificity known.
A study of their activity on thyroglobulin has shown that thyroxine is not preferentially released and that the degradation proceeds stepwise with the formation of macromolecular intermediates (Alpers, Petermann and Rall, 1956).
Besides proteolytic enzymes the thyroid possesses de-iodinating enzymes.
A microsomal de-iodinase with a pH optimum of around 8, and requiring reduced triphosphopyridine nucleotide for activity, has been identified in the thyroid (Stanbury, 1957).
This de-iodinating enzyme is effective against mono - and di-iodotyrosine, but does not de-iodinate thyroxine or tri-iodothyronine.
The thyroxine and tri-iodothyronine released by proteolysis and so escaping de-iodination presumably diffuse into the blood stream.
It has been shown that thyroglobulin binds thyroxine, but the binding does not appear to be particularly strong.
It has been suggested that the plasma thyroxine binding proteins, which have an extremely high affinity for thyroxine, compete with thyroglobulin for thyroxine (Ingbar and Freinkel, 1957).
Antithyroid drugs are of two general types.
One type has a small univalent anion of the thiocyanate perchlorate fluoroboride type.
This ion inhibits thyroid hormone synthesis by interfering with iodide concentration in the thyroid.
It does not appear to affect the iodinating mechanism as such.
The other group of antithyroid agents or drugs is typified by thiouracil.
These drugs have no effect on the iodide concentrating mechanism, but they inhibit organification.
On the other hand, there are a few antithyroid drugs of this same general type, such as resorcinol, possessing no reducing activity and possibly acting through formation of a complex with molecular iodine.
Any of the antithyroid drugs, of either type, if given in large enough doses for a long period of time will cause goitre, owing to inhibition of thyroid hormone synthesis, with production of hypothyroidism.
The anterior lobe of the pituitary then responds by an increased output of TSH, causing the thyroid to enlarge.
The effect of drugs that act on the iodide concentrating mechanism can be counteracted by addition of relatively large amounts of iodine to the diet.
The antithyroid drugs of the thiouracil type, however, are not antagonised by such means.
Besides those of the thiouracil and resorcinol types, certain antithyroid drugs have been found in naturally occurring foods.
The most conclusively identified is L - 5 - vinyl - 2 - thio oxazolidone, which was isolated from rutabaga (Greer, 1950).
It is presumed to occur in other members of the Brassica family.
There is some evidence that naturally occurring goitrogens may play a role in the development of goitre, particularly in Tasmania and Australia (Clements and Wishart, 1956).
Besides the presence of goitrogens in the diet, the level of iodine itself in the diet plays a major role in governing the activity of the thyroid gland.
In the experimental animal and in man gross deficiency in dietary iodine causes thyroid hyperplasia, hypertrophy and increased thyroid activity (Money, Rall and Rawson, 1952; Stanbury, Brownell, Riggs, Perinetti, Itoiz, and Del Castillo, 1954).
In man the normal level of iodine in the diet and the level necessary to prevent development of goitre is about 100 | mg per day.
With lower levels, thyroid hypertrophy and increased thyroid blood flow enable the thyroid to accumulate a larger proportion of the daily intake of iodine.
Further, the gland is able to re-use a larger fraction of the thyroid hormone de-iodinated peripherally.
In the presence of a low iodine intake, thyroglobulin labelled in vivo with * * f is found to contain more mono-iodotyrosine than normal, the amounts of di-iodotyrosine and iodothyronines being correspondingly reduced.
This appears to result from both a reduced amount of the iodine substrate and a more rapid secretion of newly iodinated thyroglobulin.
If the deficiency persists long enough, it is reasonable to suppose that the * * f label will reflect the * * f distribution in the thyroglobulin.
Similar results might be expected from the influence of drugs or pathological conditions that limit iodide trapping, or organification, or accelerate thyroglobulin proteolysis.
The hormone has also been called thyrotrophin or thyrotrophic hormone.
At the present time we do not know by what biochemical mechanism TSH acts on the thyroid, but for bio-assay of the hormone there are a number of properties by which its activity may be estimated, including release of iodine from the thyroid, increase in thyroid weight, increase in mean height of the follicular cells and increase in the thyroidal uptake of * * f.
Here we shall restrict discussion to those methods that appear sufficiently sensitive and precise for determining the concentration of TSH in blood.
Brown (1959) has reviewed generally the various methods of assaying TSH, and the reader is referred to her paper for further information on the subject.
As long ago as 1851 it was pointed out by Niepce (1851) that there is a connection between the pituitary and the thyroid.
.
This connection was clarified by Smith and Smith (1922), who showed that saline extracts of fresh bovine pituitary glands could re-activate the atrophied thyroids of hypophysectomised tadpoles.
The first attempts to isolate TSH came a decade later, when Janssen and Loeser (1931) used trichloroacetic acid to separate the soluble TSH from insoluble impurities.
After their work other investigators applied salt fractionation techniques to the problem, as well as fractionation with organic solvents, such as acetone.
Much of this work has been reviewed by White (1944) and by Albert (1949).
Developments up to about 1957 have been discussed by Sonenberg (1958).
In the last few years, the application of chromatographic and other modern techniques to the problem of isolating TSH has led to further purification (Bates and Condliffe, 1960; Pierce, Carsten and Wynston, 1960).
The most active preparations obtained by these two groups of investigators appear to be similar in potency, composition and physical properties.
Two problems present themselves in considering any hormone in blood.
First, is the circulating form of the hormone the same as that found in the gland where it is synthesised and stored?
Second, what is its concentration in normal circumstances and in what circumstances will this concentration depart from the normal level and in which direction?
It is therefore necessary to consider the properties of pituitary TSH if the fragmentary chemical information about blood TSH is to be discussed rationally.
The importance of knowing in what chemical forms the hormone may exist is accentuated by the recent observation that there exists an abnormally long-acting TSH in blood drawn from many thyrotoxic patients (Adams, 1958).
In evaluating data on the concentration of TSH in blood, one must examine critically the bio-assay methods used to obtain them.
The introduction of the United States Pharmacopoeia reference standard in 1952 and the redefinition and equating of the USP and international units of thyroid stimulating activity have made it possible to compare results published by different investigators since that time.
We should like to re-emphasise the importance of stating results solely in terms of international units of TSH activity and of avoiding the re-introduction of biological units.
For the most part, this discussion will be confined to results obtained since the introduction of the reference standard.
The international unit (u .), adopted to make possible the comparison of results from different laboratories (Mussett and Perry, 1955), has been defined as the amount of activity present in 13.5 mg of the International Standard Preparation.
The international unit is equipotent with the USP unit adopted in 1952, which was defined as the amount of activity present in 20 mg of the USP reference substance.
Muscle weakness is now recognized as an uncommon though serious complication of steroid therapy, with most of the synthetic adrenal corticosteroids in clinical use.
Although biopsies have shown structural changes in some of the reported cases of steroid induced weakness, this case provides the only example known to us in which necropsy afforded the opportunity for extensive study of multiple muscle groups.
The case described in this paper is that of an older man who developed disabling muscular weakness while receiving a variety of steroids for a refractory anemia.
In 1953 the patient developed an unexplained anemia for which 15 blood transfusions were given over a period of 4 years.
Splenomegaly was first noted in 1956, and a sternal marrow biopsy at that time showed ``scattered foci of fibrosis'' suggestive of myelofibrosis.
No additional transfusions were necessary after the institution of prednisone in July, 1957, in an initial dose of 40 mg. daily with gradual tapering to 10 mg. daily.
This medication was continued until February, 1958.
In February, 1958, the patient suffered a myocardial infarction complicated by pulmonary edema.
Additional findings at this time included cardiomegaly, peripheral arteriosclerosis obliterans, and cholelithiasis.
The hemoglobin was 11.6 gm..
Therapy included digitalization and anticoagulation.
Later, chlorothiazide and salt restriction became necessary to control the edema of chronic congestive failure.
In september, 1958, the patient developed generalized weakness and fatigue which was concurrent with exacerbation of his anemia; the hemoglobin was 10.6 gm..
In an attempt to reverse the downhill trend by stimulating the bone marrow and controlling any hemolytic component, triamcinolone, 16 mg. daily, was begun on Sept. 26, 1958, and continued until Feb. 18, 1959.
At first the patient felt stronger, and the hemoglobin rose to 13.8 gm., but on Oct. 20, 1958, he complained of ``caving in'' in his knees.
By Nov. 8, 1958, weakness, specifically involving the pelvic and thigh musculature, was pronounced, and a common complaint was ``difficulty in stepping up on to curbs''.
Prednisone, 30 mg. daily, was substituted for triamcinolone from Nov. 22 until Dec. 1, 1958, without any improvement in the weakness.
Serum potassium at this time was 3.8 mEq. per liter, and the hemoglobin was 13.9 gm. By Dec. 1, 1958, the weakness in the pelvic and quadriceps muscle groups was appreciably worse, and it became difficult for the patient to rise unaided from a sitting or reclining position.
Triamcinolone, 16 mg. daily, was resumed and maintained until Feb. 18, 1959.
Chlorothiazide was omitted for a 2 - week period, but there was no change in the muscle weakness.
At this time a detailed neuromuscular examination revealed diffuse muscle atrophy that was moderate in the hands and feet, but more marked in the shoulders, hips, and pelvic girdle, with hypoactive deep tendon reflexes.
Electromyography revealed no evidence of lower motor neuron disease.
Thyroid function tests yielded normal results.
The protein bound iodine was 6.6 | mg. %, and the radioactive iodine uptake over the thyroid gland was 46 % in 24 hours, with a conversion ratio of 12 %.
A Schilling test demonstrated normal absorption of vitamin * * f.
In February, 1959, during the second admission to The New York Hospital, a biopsy specimen of the left gastrocnemius showed striking increase in the sarcolemmal sheath nuclei and shrunken muscle fibers in several sections.
Serial serum potassium levels remained normal; the serum glutamic oxaloacetic transaminase was 10 units per ml. per min..
The clinical impression at this time was either muscular dystrophy or polymyositis.
On Feb. 12, 1959, purified corticotropin (ACTH Gel), 20 units daily intramuscularly, was started but had to be discontinued 3 weeks later because of excessive fluid retention.
From March 3 to May 1, 1949, the patient was maintained on dexamethasone, 3 to 6 mg. daily.
Muscle weakness did not improve, and the patient needed first a cane, then crutches.
In spite of normal thyroid function tests, a trial of propylthiouracil, 400 mg. daily for one week, was given but served only to intensify muscle weakness.
Repeated attempts to withdraw steroids entirely were unsuccessful because increased muscle weakness resulted, as well as fever, malaise, anorexia, anxiety, and an exacerbation of the anemia.
These reactions were interpreted as being manifestations of hypoadrenocorticism.
Severe back pain in June, 1959, prompted a third hospital admission.
Extensive osteoporosis with partial collapse of D8 was found.
A high protein diet, calcium lactate supplements, and norethandrolone failed to change the skeletal complaint or the severe muscle weakness.
The terminal hospital admission on June 27, 1959, was necessitated by continued weakness and debility complicated by urinary retention and painful thrombosed hemorrhoids.
X-ray films of the vertebral column showed progression of the demineralization.
The body was that of a well developed, somewhat debilitated white man weighing 108 lb. There were bilateral pterygia and arcus senilis, and the mouth was edentulous.
The heart weighed 510 gm., and at the outflow tracts the left and right ventricles measured 19 and 3 mm., respectively.
The coronary arteries were sclerotic and diffusely narrowed throughout their courses, and the right coronary artery was virtually occluded by a yellow atheromatous plaque 1.5 cm. distal to its origin.
The myocardium of the posterior base of the left ventricle was replaced by gray scar tissue over a 7.5 cm. area.
The valves were normal except for thin yellow plaques on the inferior surface of the mitral leaflets.
Microscopically, sections from the posterior base of the left ventricle of the heart showed several large areas of replacement of muscle by fibrous tissue.
In addition, other sections contained focal areas of recent myocardial necrosis that were infiltrated with neutrophils.
Many of the myocardial fibers were hypertrophied and had large, irregular, basophilic nuclei.
The intima of the larger coronary arteries was thickened by fibrous tissue containing fusiform clefts and mononuclear cells.
In particular, the orifices of the right renal and celiac arteries were virtually occluded, and both calcified common iliac arteries were completely occluded.
The lungs weighed together 950 gm..
On the surfaces of both lungs there were emphysematous blebs measuring up to 3 cm. in diameter.
The parenchyma was slightly hyperemic in the apex of the left lung, and there were several firm, gray, fibrocalcific nodules measuring as large as 3 mm..
Microscopically, there was emphysema, fibrosis, and vascular congestion.
Macrophages laden with brown pigment were seen in some of the alveoli, and the intima of some of the small arteries was thickened by fibrous tissue.
The firm red spleen weighed 410 gm., and its surface was mottled by discrete, small patches of white material.
The endothelial cells lining the sinusoids were prominent, and many contained large quantities of hemosiderin.
Some of the sinusoids contained large numbers of nucleated red cells, and cells of the granulocytic series were found in small numbers.
The liver weighed 2090 gm., was brown in color, and the cut surface was mottled by irregular pale areas.
Microscopically, there was hyperemia of the central veins, and there was some atrophy of adjacent parenchyma.
Some liver cord cells contained vacuolated cytoplasm, while others had small amounts of brown hemosiderin pigment.
The gallbladder contained about 40 cc. of green brown bile and 3 smooth, dark-green calculi measuring up to 1 cm. in diameter.
The mucosa of the stomach was atrophic and irregularly blackened over a 14 cm. area.
The small and large intestines were filled with gas, and the jejunum was dilated to about 2 times its normal circumference.
The small intestine and colon contained approximately 300 cc. of foul-smelling, sanguineous material, and the mucosa throughout was hyperemic and mottled green brown.
A careful search failed to show occlusion of any of the mesenteric vessels.
Microscopically, the mucosa of the stomach showed extensive cytolysis and contained large numbers of Gram-negative bacterial rods.
The mucosa of the jejunum and ileum showed similar changes, and in some areas the submucosa was edematous and contained considerable numbers of neutrophils.
Some of the small vessels were filled with fibrin thrombi, and there was extensive interstitial hemorrhage.
A section of the colon revealed intense hyperemia and extensive focal ulcerations of the mucosa, associated with much fibrin and many neutrophils.
Cultures taken from the jejunum yielded Monilia albicans, Pseudomonas pyocanea, Aerobacter aerogenes, and Streptococcus anhemolyticus.
The kidneys were pale and weighed right, 110 gm., and left, 230 gm..
The surfaces were coarsely and finely granular and punctuated by clear, fluid filled cysts measuring up to 3 cm. in diameter.
On the surface of the right kidney there were also 2 yellow, firm, friable raised areas measuring up to 2 cm. in diameter.
Microscopically, both kidneys showed many small cortical scars in which there was glomerular and interstitial fibrosis, tubular atrophy, and an infiltration of lymphocytes and plasma cells.
Occasional tubules contained hyaline casts admixed with neutrophils.
These changes were more marked in the atrophic right kidney than in the left.
In addition, there were 2 small papillary adenomas in the right kidney.
The bone of the vertebral bodies, ribs, and sternum was soft and was easily compressed.
The marrow of the vertebral bodies was pale and showed areas of fatty replacement.
Microscopically, there were many areas of hypercellularity alternating with areas of hypocellularity.
The cells of the erythroid, myeloid, and megakaryocytic series were normal except for their numbers.
There was no evidence of fibrosis.
The muscles of the extremities, chest wall, neck, and abdominal wall were soft, pale, and atrophic.
Microscopic studies of the gastrocnemius, pectoralis major, transversus abdominis, biceps brachii, and diaphragm showed atrophy as well as varying degrees of injury ranging from swelling and vacuolization to focal necrosis of the muscle fibers.
In the gastrocnemius and biceps there were many swollen and homogeneous necrotic fibers such as that shown in Figure 2.
Such swollen fibers were deeply eosinophilic, contained a few pyknotic nuclei, and showed loss of cross striations, obliteration of myofibrils, and prominent vacuolization.
The necrosis often involved only a portion of the length of a given fiber, and usually the immediately adjacent fibers were normal.
As shown in Figure 3, the protoplasm of other fibers was pale, granular, or flocculated and invaded by phagocytes.
Inflammatory cells were strikingly absent.
In association with these changes in the fibers, there were striking alterations in the muscle nuclei.
These were increased both in number and in size, contained prominent nucleoli, and were distributed throughout the fiber (Figs. 2 - 5).
In contrast to the nuclear changes described above, another change in muscle nuclei was seen, usually occurring in fibers that were somewhat smaller than normal but that showed distinct cross striations and myofibrillae.
The nuclei of these fibers, as is shown in Figures 3 and 4, showed remarkable proliferation and were closely approximated, forming a chain like structure at either the center or the periphery of the fiber.
At times, clumps of 10 to 15 closely packed nuclei were also observed.
Occasionally there were small basophilic fibers that were devoid of myofibrillae and contained many vesicular nuclei with prominent nucleoli (Fig. 5).
These were thought to represent regenerating fibers.
Trichrome stains failed to show fibrosis in the involved muscles.
In all of the sections examined, the arterioles and small arteries were essentially normal.
In attempting to improve specificity of staining, the fluorescein labeled antisera used in both direct and indirect methods were treated in one of several ways : (1) They were passed through Dowex-2-chloride twice and treated with acetone insoluble powders (Coons, 1958) prepared from mouse liver or from healthy sweet clover stems or crown gall tissue produced by Agrobacterium tumefaciens (E. F. Smith + Townsend) Conn, on sweet clover stems.
(2) The conjugates as well as the intermediate sera were absorbed for 30 minutes with 20 - 50 mg of proteins extracted from healthy sweet clover stems.
The proteins were extracted with 3 volumes of * * f in * * f to give a nearly neutral extract and precipitated by 80 % saturation with * * f.
The precipitate was washed twice with an 80 % saturated solution of * * f, dissolved in a small quantity of 0.1 M neutral phosphate buffer, dialyzed against cold distilled water till free from ammonium ions, and lyophilized using liquid nitrogen.
(4) The conjugates were passed through a diethylaminoethyl (DEAE -) cellulose column equilibrated with neutral phosphate buffer (PBS) containing * * f potassium phosphate and * * f.
The technique of cutting sections was essentially the same as that described by Coons et al. (1951).
Root and stem tumors from sweet clover plants infected with WTV were quick-frozen in liquid nitrogen, embedded in ice, and cut at 3 - 6 | m in a cryostat maintained at - 16 ` to - 20 `.
The sections were mounted on cold slides smeared with Haupts' adhesive (Johansen, 1940) in earlier experiments, and in later experiments with a different mixture of the same components reported by Schramm and Rottger (1959).
The latter adhesive was found to be much more satisfactory.
The sections were then thawed by placing a finger under the slide and dried under a fan for 30 minutes; until used they were stored for as long as 2 weeks.
The sections were fixed in acetone for 15 minutes and dried at 37 ` for 30 minutes.
Some of them were then covered with a drop of * * f in a moist chamber at 24 ` for 30 - 40 minutes.
As controls other sections were similarly covered with NS.
After blotting out most of the saline around the sections, a drop of * * f was layered over each of the sections, allowed to react for 30 minutes, and then washed with PBS for 15 - 30 minutes.
After blotting out most of the liquid around the sections, the latter were mounted in buffered glycerine (7 parts glycerine to 3 parts of PBS).
After drying the sections under the fan, fixing in acetone, and drying at 37 ` as in the indirect method, the sections were treated with conjugated * * f or * * f (undiluted unless mentioned otherwise) for 5 - 30 minutes.
As controls, other sections were similarly treated with * * f or conjugated antiserum to the New York strain of potato yellow-dwarf virus (Wolcyrz and Black, 1956).
The sections were then washed with PBS for 15 - 30 minutes and mounted in buffered glycerine.
Stained or unstained sections were examined under dark field illumination in a Zeiss fluorescence microscope equipped with a mercury vapor lamp (Osram HBO 200).
The light beam from the lamp was filtered through a half standard thickness Corning 1840 filter.
In the eyepiece a Wratten 2 B filter was used to filter off residual ultra-violet light.
A red filter, Zeiss barrier filter with the code (Schott) designation BG 23, was also used in the ocular lens assembly as it improved the contrast between specific and nonspecific fluorescence.
The intermediate sera were also similarly absorbed with tissue powder.
Sections of sweet clover stem and root tumors were treated with 1 : 10 solution of * * f for 30 minutes, washed in buffered saline for 15 minutes, stained with * * f for 30 minutes, and washed for 15 minutes in PBS.
Such sections showed bright yellow-green specific fluorescence in the cells of the pseudophloem tissue (Lee and Black, 1955).
This specific fluorescence was readily distinguished from the light green nonspecific fluorescence in consecutive sections stained with 1 : 10 dilution of NS and * * f or with * * f alone.
Unstained sections mounted in buffered glycerine or sections treated only with NS or * * f did not show such green fluorescence.
Sections of crown gall tissue similarly stained with either * * f and * * f or NS and * * f also showed only the light green nonspecific fluorescence.
However, the nonspecific staining by the * * f in tumor sections was considered bright enough to be confused with the staining of small amounts of WTV antigen.
Two absorptions of * * f with ethyl acetate or two absorptions of * * f (which had been passed through Dowex-2-chloride), NS and * * f with crown gall tissue powder, or mouse liver powder did not further improve the specificity of staining.
Treatment of all the sera with sweet clover proteins greatly reduced nonspecific fluorescence, especially when the treated conjugate was diluted to 1 : 2 with 0.85 % saline.
Rinsing the sections with PBS before layering the intermediate sera did not improve the staining reaction.
In addition to other treatments, treating the sections with normal sheep serum for half an hour before layering * * f did not reduce nonspecific staining.
The only treatment by which nonspecific staining could be satisfactorily removed was by passing the conjugate through a DEAE-cellulose column.
When 1 ml of conjugate was passed through a column (* * f), the first and second milliliter fractions collected were the most specific and gave no nonspecific staining in some experiments, and very little in others.
In the latter cases an additional treatment of the DEAE cellulose treated * * f with 50 mg of sweet clover stem tissue powder further improved the specificity.
After these treatments the conjugate did not stain healthy or crown gall sweet clover tissues or stained them a very faint green which was easily distinguishable from the bright yellow-green specific staining.
With this purified conjugate the best staining procedure consisted of treating the sections with 1 : 10 dilution of * * f for 30 minutes, washing with PBS for 15 minutes, staining with * * f for 30 minutes, and washing with PBS for 15 minutes.
The specificity of staining in WTV tumors with * * f and * * f but not with NS and * * f or with antiserum to potato yellow-dwarf virus and * * f, and the absence of such staining in crown gall tumor tissue from sweet-clover, indicate that an antigen of WTV was being stained.
* * f was first conjugated with 50 mg of FITC per gram of globulin.
In all cases a disturbing amount of nonspecific staining was still present although it was still distinguishable from specific fluorescence.
In later experiments, * * f and * * f were prepared by conjugating 8 mg of FITC per gram of globulin.
These conjugates * * f had much less nonspecific staining than the previous conjugate (with 50 mg FITC per gram of globulin) while the specific staining was similar in both cases.
Nonspecific staining could be satisfactorily eliminated by passing these conjugates through a DEAE-cellulose column as described for * * f.
The best staining procedure with this purified * * f consisted of staining with the conjugate for 30 minutes and washing in PBS for 15 minutes.
The specificity of staining with * * f was established as follows : * * f specifically stained tumor sections but not sections of healthy sweet clover stems or of crown gall tumor tissue from sweet clover.
Sections of tumors incited by WTV were not similarly stained with conjugated normal serum or conjugated antiserum to potato yellow-dwarf virus.
After passing * * f through DEAE-cellulose, the titer of antibodies to WTV in the specific fraction was 1 : 4 of the titer before such passage (precipitin ring tests by R. F. Whitcomb); but mere dilution of the conjugate to 1 : 4 did not satisfactorily remove nonspecific staining.
This indicates that increase in specificity of * * f after passing it through DEAE-cellulose was not merely due to dilution.
This was chiefly because of the bluish white autofluorescence from the cells.
The autofluorescence from the walls of the xylem cells was particularly brilliant.
Results of specific staining by the direct and the indirect methods were similar and showed the localization of WTV antigen in certain tissues of tumors.
The virus antigen was concentrated in the pseudophloem tissue.
Frequently a few isolated thick walled cells or, rarely, groups of such cells in the xylem region, were also specifically stained, but there was no such staining in epidermis, cortex, most xylem cells, ray cells, or pith.
Within the pseudophloem cells the distribution of WTV antigen was irregular in the cytoplasm.
No antigen was detectable in certain dark spherical areas in most cells.
These areas are thought to represent the nuclei.
In some tumor sections small spherical bodies, possibly inclusion bodies (Littau and Black, 1952) stained more intensely than the rest of cytoplasm and probably contained more antigen.
In both the direct and indirect methods of staining, the conjugates had nonspecifically staining fractions.
In the indirect method, this was evident from the fact that tumor sections were stained light green even when stained with NS and * * f or with * * f only.
In the direct method, * * f, not further treated, stained certain tissues of healthy sweet clover stems nonspecifically and WTV tumor sections were similarly stained by comparable * * f.
After * * f and * * f were passed through Dowex-2-chloride twice and treated twice with healthy sweet clover tissue powder, nonspecific staining was greatly reduced but a disturbing amount of such staining was still present.
Treatment of the conjugates with ethyl acetate, and the conjugates (which had been passed through Dowex-2-chloride) with mouse liver powder, sweet clover crown gall tissue powder, or healthy sweet clover proteins did not satisfactorily remove nonspecifically staining substances in the conjugates.
Such treatments of the conjugates have usually been successful in eliminating nonspecific staining in several other systems (Coons, 1958).
Schramm and Rottger (1959) did not report any such nonspecific staining of plant tissues with fluorescein isocyanate labeled antiserum to tobacco mosaic virus.
The reason for the failure of these treatments to eliminate nonspecific staining in the conjugates in our system is not known.
In our work the best procedure for removing substances causing nonspecific staining in order to obtain specific conjugates was to pass the conjugates through a DEAE-cellulose column and in some cases to absorb the first and second milliliter fractions with sweet clover tissue powder.
A study of the distribution of WTV antigen within the pseudophloem cells indicates that it is irregularly distributed in the cytoplasm.
Wound tumor virus is a leafhopper transmitted virus not easily transmissible by mechanical inoculation (Black, 1944; Brakke et al., 1954).
The concentration and apparent localization of the WTV antigen in pseudophloem tissue of the tumor may indicate that the virus preferentially multiplies in the phloem and may need to be directly placed in this tissue in order to infect plants.
Since emotional reactions in the higher vertebrates depend on individual experience and are aroused in man, in addition, by complex symbols, one would expect that the hypothalamus could be excited from the cortex.
In experiments with topical application of strychnine on the cerebral cortex, the transmission of impulses from the cortex to the hypothalamus was demonstrated.
Moreover, the responsiveness of the hypothalamus to nociceptive stimulation is greatly increased under these conditions.
Even more complex and obviously cortically induced forms of emotional arousal could be elicited in monkey A on seeing monkey B (but not a rabbit) in emotional stress.
A previously extinguished conditioned reaction was restored in monkey A and was associated with typical signs of emotional excitement including sympathetic discharges.
It seems to follow that by and large an antagonism exists between the paleo - and the neocortex as far as emotional reactivity is concerned, and that the balance between the two systems determines the emotional responsiveness of the organism.
But even in relatively primitive laboratory animals such as the rat, sex activity closely identified with the hypothalamus and the visceral brain is enhanced by the neocortex.
MacLean stressed correctly the importance of the visceral brain for preservation of the individual and the species, as evidenced by the influence of the limbic brain (including the hypothalamus) on emotions related to fight and flight and also on sexual functions.
It should be added that in man neocortical hypothalamic interrelations probably play a role in the fusion of emotional processes with those underlying perception, memory, imagination, and creativity.
Previous experiences are obviously of great importance for the qualitative and quantitative emotional response.
The visceral brain as well as the neocortex is known to contribute to memory, but this topic is beyond the scope of this paper.
After this brief discussion of neo -, paleocortical, and cortico-hypothalamic relations, let us return once more to the problem of hypothalamic balance and its physiological and pathological significance.
Facilitatory processes take place between neocortex and hypothalamus via ascending and descending pathways.
Thus cortico-fugal discharges induced by topical application of strychnine to a minute area in the neocortex summate with spikes present in the hypothalamus and cause increased convulsive discharges.
On the other hand, the temporary reduction in hypothalamic excitability through the injection of a barbiturate into the posterior hypothalamus causes a lessening in frequency and amplitude of cortical strychnine spikes until the hypothalamic excitability is restored.
Consequently, if for any reason the hypothalamic excitability falls below the physiological level, the lessened hypothalamic cortical discharges lead to a diminished state of activity in the cortex with consequent reduction in the cortico-fugal discharges.
Obviously, a vicious cycle develops.
This tendency can be broken either by restoring hypothalamic excitability directly or via cortico-hypothalamic pathways.
It is believed that drug therapy and electroshock involve the former and psychotherapy the latter mechanism.
Before we comment further on these pathological conditions, we should remember that changes in the state of the hypothalamus within physiological limits distinguish sleep from wakefulness.
Thus, a low intensity of hypothalamic cortical discharges prevails in sleep and a high one during wakefulness, resulting in synchronous EEG potentials in the former and asynchrony in the latter condition.
Moreover, the dominance in parasympathetic action (with reciprocal inhibition of the sympathetic) at the hypothalamic level induces, by its peripheral action, the autonomic symptoms of sleep and, by its action on the cortex, a lessening in the reactivity of the sensory and motor apparatus of the somatic nervous system.
With the dominance of the sympathetic division of the hypothalamus, the opposite changes occur.
Since electrical stimulation of the posterior hypothalamus produces the effects of wakefulness while stimulation of the anterior hypothalamus induces sleep, it may be said that the reactivity of the whole organism is altered by a change in the autonomic reactivity of the hypothalamus.
Of particular importance is the study of the actions of drugs in this respect.
Although no drugs act exclusively on the hypothalamus or a part of it, there is sufficient specificity to distinguish drugs which shift the hypothalamic balance to the sympathetic side from those which produce a parasympathetic dominance.
The former comprise analeptic and psychoactive drugs, the latter the tranquilizers.
Specific differences exist in the action of different drugs belonging to the same group as, for instance, between reserpine and chlorpromazine.
Important as these differences are, they should not obscure the basic fact that by shifting the hypothalamic balance sufficiently to the parasympathetic side, we produce depressions, whereas a shift in the opposite direction causes excitatory effects and, eventually, maniclike changes.
The emotional states produced by drugs influence the cortical potentials in a characteristic manner; synchrony prevails in the EEG of the experimental animal after administration of tranquilizers, but asynchrony after application of analeptic and psychoactive drugs.
The shock therapies act likewise on the hypothalamic balance.
Physiological experiments and clinical observations have shown that these procedures influence the hypothalamically controlled hypophyseal secretions and increase sympathetic discharges.
They shift the hypothalamic balance to the sympathetic side.
Some investigators have found a parallelism between remissions and return of the sympathetic reactivity of the hypothalamus to the normal level as indicated by the Mecholyl test and, conversely, between clinical impairment and increasing deviation of this test from the norm.
Nevertheless, the theory that the determining influence of the hypothalamic balance has a profound influence on the clinical behavior of neuropsychiatric patients has not yet been tested on an adequate number of patients.
The Mecholyl and noradrenalin tests applied with certain precautions are reliable indicators of this central autonomic balance, but for the sake of correlating autonomic and clinical states, and of studying the effect of certain therapeutic procedures on central autonomic reactions, additional tests seem to be desirable.
It was assumed that the shift in autonomic hypothalamic balance occurring spontaneously in neuropsychiatric patients from the application of certain therapeutic procedures follows the pattern known from the sleep wakefulness cycle.
A change in the balance to the parasympathetic side leads in the normal individual to sleep or, in special circumstances, to cardiovascular collapse or nausea and vomiting.
In both conditions the emotional and perceptual sensitivity is diminished, but no depression occurs such as is seen clinically or may be produced in normal persons by drugs.
The fundamental differences between physiological and pathological states of parasympathetic (and also of sympathetic) dominance remain to be elucidated.
Perhaps a clue to these and related problems lies in the fact that changes in the intensity of hypothalamic discharges which are associated with changes in its balance lead also to qualitative alterations in reactivity.
A state of parasympathetic ``tuning'' of the hypothalamus induced experimentally causes not only an increase in the parasympathetic reactivity this structure to direct and reflexly induced stimuli, but leads also to an autonomic reversal : a stimulus acting sympathetically under control conditions elicits in this state of tuning a parasympathetic response!
If, for instance, such a change is produced by one or a few insulin comas or electroshocks, previously inhibited conditioned reactions reappear.
However, if these procedures are applied more often, conditioned emotional responses are temporarily abolished.
In other studies, loss of differentiation in previously established conditioned reflexes resulted from repeated convulsive (metrazol) treatments, suggesting a fundamental disturbance in the balance between excitatory and inhibitory cerebral processes.
It has further been shown that : (1) an experimental neurosis in its initial stages is associated with a reversible shift in the central autonomic balance; (2) drugs altering the hypothalamic balance alter conditioned reactions; (3) in a state of depression, the positive conditioned stimulus may fail to elicit a conditioned reaction but cause an increased synchrony instead of the excitatory desynchronizing (alerting) effect on the EEG.
These are few and seemingly disjointed data, but they illustrate the important fact that fundamental alterations in conditioned reactions occur in a variety of states in which the hypothalamic balance has been altered by physiological experimentation, pharmacological action, or clinical processes.
The foregoing remarks imply that the hypothalamic balance plays a crucial role at the crossroads between physiological and pathological forms of emotion.
If this is the case, one would expect that not only the various procedures just mentioned which alter the hypothalamic balance would influence emotional state and behavior but that emotion itself would act likewise.
We pointed out that emotional excitement may lead to psychosomatic disorders and neurotic symptoms, particularly in certain types of personality, but it is also known that the reliving of a strong emotion (``abreaction'') may cure a battle neurosis.
This phenomenon raises the question whether the guidance of the emotions for therapeutic ends may not have an even wider application in the area of the neuroses.
Wolpe's experiments and therapeutic work lie in this area.
He showed convincingly that anxiety is a learned (conditioned) reaction and is the basis of experimental and clinical neuroses and assumed, therefore, that the neuronal changes which underlie the neuroses are functional and reversible.
An important observation of Pavlov served as a guide post to achieve such a reversibility by physiological means.
In a conditioning experiment, he demonstrated the antagonism between feeding and pain.
A mild electrical shock served as a conditioned stimulus and was followed by feeding.
The pain became thus the symbol for food and elicited salivary secretion (conditioned reflex).
Even when the intensity of the shocks was increased gradually, it failed to evoke any signs of pain.
Since strong nociceptive stimuli produce an experimental neurosis during which the animals fail to eat in the experimental situation, Wolpe thought that he could utilize the feeding pain antagonism to inhibit the neurotic symptoms through feeding.
Appropriate experiments showed that this is, indeed, possible.
He took advantage of the antagonism between aggressive assertiveness and anxiety and found a relatively rapid disappearance of anxiety when the former attitude was established.
For the interpretation of these significant investigations, it should be remembered that reciprocal relations exist in the hypothalamus with respect to autonomic and somatic functions which are closely associated with the emotions.
The feeding pain antagonism seems to be based on this reciprocal relation between the tropho - and ergotropic systems.
Furthermore, a functional antagonism exists between an aggressive attitude and a state of anxiety.
Although in both emotions sympathetic symptoms are present, different autonomic somatic patterns underlie aggression and anxiety, respectively, as indicated by the rate of the excretion of the catecholamines, the state of the muscle tone, and the Mecholyl test.
The psychological incompatibility of these emotional states seems to be reflected in, or based on, this marked difference.
In our attempt to interpret the emotions in their physiological and pathological range, we emphasized the importance of the degree of activity of the parasympathetic and sympathetic divisions of the hypothalamic system and their influence on the inhibitory and excitatory systems, respectively.
We stressed the reciprocal relation of these systems with respect to the autonomic somatic downward discharge as well as regarding the hypothalamic cortical discharge.
Although we are still far from a complete understanding of these problems, as a first approximation, it is suggested that alterations in the hypothalamic balance with consequent changes in the hypothalamic cortical discharges account for major changes in behavior seen in various moods and states of emotions in man and beast under physiological circumstances, in experimental and clinical neurosis, and as the result of psychopharmacological agents.
We are trying to study a linear operator T on the finite dimensional space V, by decomposing T into a direct sum of operators which are in some sense elementary.
We can do this through the characteristic values and vectors of T in certain special cases, i.e., when the minimal polynomial for T factors over the scalar field F into a product of distinct monic polynomials of degree 1.
What can we do with the general T?
If we try to study T using characteristic values, we are confronted with two problems.
First, T may not have a single characteristic value; this is really a deficiency in the scalar field, namely, that it is not algebraically closed.
Second, even if the characteristic polynomial factors completely over F into a product of polynomials of degree 1, there may not be enough characteristic vectors for T to span the space V; this is clearly a deficiency in T.
The second situation is illustrated by the operator T on * * f (F any field) represented in the standard basis by * * f.
The characteristic polynomial for A is * * f and this is plainly also the minimal polynomial for A (or for T).
Thus T is not diagonalizable.
On the other hand, the null space of * * f and the null space of * * f together span V, the former being the subspace spanned by * * f and the latter the subspace spanned by * * f and * * f.
This will be more or less our general method for the second problem.
If (remember this is an assumption) the minimal polynomial for T decomposes * * f where * * f are distinct elements of F, then we shall show that the space V is the direct sum of the null spaces of * * f.
The diagonalizable operator is the special case of this in which * * f for each i.
The theorem which we prove is more general than what we have described, since it works with the primary decomposition of the minimal polynomial, whether or not the primes which enter are all of first degree.
The reader will find it helpful to think of the special case when the primes are of degree 1, and even more particularly, to think of the proof of Theorem 10, a special case of this theorem.
Let T be a linear operator on the finite dimensional vector space V over the field F.
Let p be the minimal polynomial for T, * * f where the * * f are distinct irreducible monic polynomials over F and the * * f are positive integers.
Let * * f be the null space of * * f.
The idea of the proof is this.
If the direct sum decomposition (a) is valid, how can we get hold of the projections * * f associated with the decomposition?
The projection * * f will be the identity on * * f and zero on the other * * f.
We shall find a polynomial * * f such that * * f is the identity on * * f and is zero on the other * * f, and so that * * f, etc..
For each i, let * * f.
Since * * f are distinct prime polynomials, the polynomials * * f are relatively prime (Theorem 8, Chapter 4).
Thus there are polynomials * * f such that * * f.
Note also that if * * f, then * * f is divisible by the polynomial p, because * * f contains each * * f as a factor.
We shall show that the polynomials * * f behave in the manner described in the first paragraph of the proof.
Since * * f and p divides * * f for * * f, we have * * f.
Thus the * * f are projections which correspond to some direct sum decomposition of the space V.
We wish to show that the range of * * f is exactly the subspace * * f.
It is clear that each vector in the range of * * f is in * * f for if |a is in the range of * * f, then * * f and so * * f because * * f is divisible by the minimal polynomial p.
Conversely, suppose that |a is in the null space of * * f.
If * * f, then * * f is divisible by * * f and so * * f, i.e., * * f.
But then it is immediate that * * f, i.e., that |a is in the range of * * f.
This completes the proof of statement (a).
It is certainly clear that the subspaces * * f are invariant under T.
This shows that the minimal polynomial for * * f divides * * f.
Conversely, let g be any polynomial such that * * f.
Then * * f.
Thus * * f is divisible by the minimal polynomial p of T, i.e., * * f divides * * f.
It is easily seen that * * f divides g.
Hence the minimal polynomial for * * f is * * f.
If * * f are the projections associated with the primary decomposition of T, then each * * f is a polynomial in T, and accordingly if a linear operator U commutes with T then U commutes with each of the * * f i.e., each subspace * * f is invariant under U.
In the notation of the proof of Theorem 12, let us take a look at the special case in which the minimal polynomial for T is a product of first degree polynomials, i.e., the case in which each * * f is of the form * * f.
Now the range of * * f is the null space * * f of * * f.
By Theorem 10, D is a diagonalizable operator which we shall call the diagonalizable part of T.
Let us look at the operator * * f.
Now * * f * * f so * * f.
The reader should be familiar enough with projections by now so that he sees that * * f and in general that * * f.
When * * f for each i, we shall have * * f, because the operator * * f will then be 0 on the range of * * f.
Let N be a linear operator on the vector space V.
We say that N is nilpotent if there is some positive integer r such that * * f.
Let T be a linear operator on the finite dimensional vector space V over the field F.
Suppose that the minimal polynomial for T decomposes over F into a product of linear polynomials.
The diagonalizable operator D and the nilpotent operator N are uniquely determined by (a) and (b) and each of them is a polynomial in T.
We have just observed that we can write * * f where D is diagonalizable and N is nilpotent, and where D and N not only commute but are polynomials in T.
Now suppose that we also have * * f where D' is diagonalizable, N' is nilpotent, and * * f.
We shall prove that * * f.
Since D' and N' commute with one another and * * f, we see that D' and N' commute with T.
Thus D' and N' commute with any polynomial in T; hence they commute with D and with N.
Now we have * * f or * * f and all four of these operators commute with one another.
Since D and D' are both diagonalizable and they commute, they are simultaneously diagonalizable, and * * f is diagonalizable.
Since N and N' are both nilpotent and they commute, the operator * * f is nilpotent; for, using the fact that N and N' commute * * f and so when r is sufficiently large every term in this expression for * * f will be 0.
It then follows that * * f is large enough, but this is not obvious from the above expression .)
Now * * f is a diagonalizable operator which is also nilpotent.
Such an operator is obviously the zero operator; for since it is nilpotent, the minimal polynomial for this operator is of the form * * f for some * * f; but then since the operator is diagonalizable, the minimal polynomial cannot have a repeated root; hence * * f and the minimal polynomial is simply x, which says the operator is 0.
Thus we see that * * f and * * f.
Let V be a finite dimensional vector space over an algebraically closed field F, e.g., the field of complex numbers.
Then every linear operator T on V can be written as the sum of a diagonalizable operator D and a nilpotent operator N which commute.
These operators D and N are unique and each is a polynomial in T.
From these results, one sees that the study of linear operators on vector spaces over an algebraically closed field is essentially reduced to the study of nilpotent operators.
For vector spaces over non algebraically closed fields, we still need to find some substitute for characteristic values and vectors.
In concluding this section, we should like to give an example which illustrates some of the ideas of the primary decomposition theorem.
We have chosen to give it at the end of the section since it deals with differential equations and thus is not purely linear algebra.
In the primary decomposition theorem, it is not necessary that the vector space V be finite dimensional, nor is it necessary for parts (a) and (b) that p be the minimal polynomial for T.
If T is a linear operator on an arbitrary vector space and if there is a monic polynomial p such that * * f, then parts (a) and (b) of Theorem 12 are valid for T with the proof which we gave.
Let n be a positive integer and let V be the space of all n times continuously differentiable functions f on the real line which satisfy the differential equation * * f where * * f are some fixed constants.
If * * f denotes the space of n times continuously differentiable functions, then the space V of solutions of this differential equation is a subspace of * * f.
If D denotes the differentiation operator and p is the polynomial * * f then V is the null space of the operator p (D), because * * f simply says * * f.
Let us now regard D as a linear operator on the subspace V.
Then * * f.
We now write * * f where * * f are distinct complex numbers.
If * * f is the null space of * * f, then Theorem 12 says that * * f.
In other words, if f satisfies the differential equation * * f, then f is uniquely expressible in the form * * f where * * f satisfies the differential equation * * f.
Thus, the study of the solutions to the equation * * f is reduced to the study of the space of solutions of a differential equation of the form * * f.
This reduction has been accomplished by the general methods of linear algebra, i.e., by the primary decomposition theorem.
To describe the space of solutions to * * f, one must know something about differential equations, that is, one must know something about D other than the fact that it is a linear operator.
However, one does not need to know very much.
It is very easy to establish by induction on r that if f is in * * f then * * f that is, * * f, etc..
Thus * * f if and only if * * f.
Thus f satisfies * * f if and only if f has the form * * f.
Accordingly, the' functions' * * f span the space of solutions of * * f.
Since * * f are linearly independent functions and the exponential function has no zeros, these r functions * * f, form a basis for the space of solutions.
Some experiments are composed of repetitions of independent trials, each with two possible outcomes.
The binomial probability distribution may describe the variation that occurs from one set of trials of such a binomial experiment to another.
We devote a chapter to the binomial distribution not only because it is a mathematical model for an enormous variety of real life phenomena, but also because it has important properties that recur in many other probability models.
We begin with a few examples of binomial experiments.
A trained marksman shooting five rounds at a target, all under practically the same conditions, may hit the bull's-eye from 0 to 5 times.
In repeated sets of five shots his numbers of bull's-eyes vary.
In litters of eight mice from similar parents, the number of mice with straight instead of wavy hair is an integer from 0 to 8.
What probabilities should be attached to these possible outcomes?
When three dice are tossed repeatedly, what is the probability that the number of aces is 0 (or 1, or 2, or 3)?
More generally, suppose that an experiment consists of a number of independent trials, that each trial results in either a ``success'' or a ``non success'' (``failure''), and that the probability of success remains constant from trial to trial.
In the examples above, the occurrence of a bull's-eye, a straight haired mouse, or an ace could be called a ``success''.
In general, any outcome we choose may be labeled ``success''.
The major question in this chapter is : What is the probability of exactly x successes in n trials?
In Chapters 3 and 4 we answered questions like those in the examples, usually by counting points in a sample space.
Fortunately, a general formula of wide applicability solves all problems of this kind.
Experiments are often composed of several identical trials, and sometimes experiments themselves are repeated.
In the marksmanship example, a trial consists of ``one round shot at a target'' with outcome either one bull's-eye (success) or none (failure).
Further, an experiment might consist of five rounds, and several sets of five rounds might be regarded as a super experiment composed of several repetitions of the five round experiment.
If three dice are tossed, a trial is one toss of one die and the experiment is composed of three trials.
Or, what amounts to the same thing, if one die is tossed three times, each toss is a trial, and the three tosses form the experiment.
Mathematically, we shall not distinguish the experiment of three dice tossed once from that of one die tossed three times.
These examples are illustrative of the use of the words ``trial'' and ``experiment'' as they are used in this chapter, but they are quite flexible words and it is well not to restrict them too narrowly.
Ten students act as managers for a high-school football team, and of these managers a proportion p are licensed drivers.
Each Friday one manager is chosen by lot to stay late and load the equipment on a truck.
Considering only these Fridays, what is the probability that the coach had drivers all 3 times?
Exactly 2 times?
1 time?
0 time?
Note that there are 3 trials of interest.
Each trial consists of choosing a student manager at random.
The 2 possible outcomes on each trial are ``driver'' or ``nondriver''.
Since the choice is by lot each week, the outcomes of different trials are independent.
The managers stay the same, so that * * f is the same for all weeks.
For an experiment to qualify as a binomial experiment, it must have four properties : (1) there must be a fixed number of trials, (2) each trial must result in a ``success'' or a ``failure'' (a binomial trial), (3) all trials must have identical probabilities of success, (4) the trials must be independent of each other.
Below we use our earlier examples to describe and illustrate these four properties.
We also give, for each property, an example where the property is absent.
The language and notation introduced are standard throughout the chapter.
For the marksman, we study sets of five shots (* * f); for the mice, we restrict attention to litters of eight (* * f); and for the aces, we toss three dice (* * f).
Toss a die until an ace appears.
Here the number of trials is a random variable, not a fixed number.
Each of the n trials is either a success or a failure.
``Success'' and ``failure'' are just convenient labels for the two categories of outcomes when we talk about binomial trials in general.
It is natural from the marksman's viewpoint to call a bull's-eye a success, but in the mice example it is arbitrary which category corresponds to straight hair in a mouse.
The word ``binomial'' means ``of two names'' or ``of two terms'', and both usages apply in our work : the first to the names of the two outcomes of a binomial trial, and the second to the terms p and * * f that represent the probabilities of ``success'' and ``failure''.
Sometimes when there are many outcomes for a single trial, we group these outcomes into two classes, as in the example of the die, where we have arbitrarily constructed the classes ``ace'' and ``not ace''.
We classify mice as ``straight haired'' or ``wavy haired'', but a hairless mouse appears.
We can escape from such a difficulty by ruling out the animal as not constituting a trial, but such a solution is not always satisfactory.
Each die has probability * * f of producing an ace; the marksman has some probability p, perhaps 0.1, of making a bull's-eye.
Note that we need not know the value of p, for the experiment to be binomial.
During a round of target practice the sun comes from behind a cloud and dazzles the marksman, lowering his chance of a bull's-eye.
Strictly speaking, this means that the probability for each possible outcome of the experiment can be computed by multiplying together the probabilities of the possible outcomes of the single binomial trials.
Experimentally, we expect independence when the trials have nothing to do with one another.
A family of five plans to go together either to the beach or to the mountains, and a coin is tossed to decide.
We want to know the number of people going to the mountains.
When this experiment is viewed as composed of five binomial trials, one for each member of the family, the outcomes of the trials are obviously not independent.
Indeed, the experiment is better viewed as consisting of one binomial trial for the entire family.
The following is a less extreme example of dependence.
Consider couples visiting an art museum.
Each person votes for one of a pair of pictures to receive a popular prize.
Voting for one picture may be called ``success'', for the other ``failure''.
In repetitions of the experiment from couple to couple, the votes of the two persons in a couple probably agree more often than independence would imply, because couples who visit the museum together are more likely to have similar tastes than are a random pair of people drawn from the entire population of visitors.
Table 7 - 1 illustrates the point.
The table shows that 0.6 of the boys and 0.6 of the girls vote for picture A.
Therefore, under independent voting, * * f or 0.36 of the couples would cast two votes for picture A, and * * f or 0.16 would cast two votes for picture B.
Thus in independent voting, * * f or 0.52 of the couples would agree.
But Table 7 - 1 shows that * * f or 0.70 agree, too many for independent voting.
Each performance of an n-trial binomial experiment results in some whole number from 0 through n as the value of the random variable X, where * * f.
We want to study the probability function of this random variable.
For example, we are interested in the number of bull's-eyes, not which shots were bull's-eyes.
For example, the marksman gets 5 shots, but we take his score to be the number of shots before his first bull's-eye, that is, 0, 1, 2, 3, 4 (or 5, if he gets no bull's-eye).
Thus we do not score the number of bull's-eyes, and the random variable is not the number of successes.
The constancy of p and the independence are the conditions most likely to give trouble in practice.
Obviously, very slight changes in p do not change the probabilities much, and a slight lack of independence may not make an appreciable difference.
(For instance, see Example 2 of Section 5 - 5, on red cards in hands of 5 .)
On the other hand, even when the binomial model does not describe well the physical phenomenon being studied, the binomial model may still be used as a baseline for comparative purposes; that is, we may discuss the phenomenon in terms of its departures from the binomial model.
A binomial experiment consists of * * f independent binomial trials, all with the same probability * * f of yielding a success.
The outcome of the experiment is X successes.
The random variable X takes the values * * f with probabilities * * f or, more briefly * * f.
When each number of successes x is paired with its probability of occurrence * * f, the set of pairs * * f, is a probability function called a binomial distribution.
The choice of p and n determines the binomial distribution uniquely, and different choices always produce different distributions (except when * * f; then the number of successes is always 0).
The set of all binomial distributions is called the family of binomial distributions, but in general discussions this expression is often shortened to ``the binomial distribution'', or even ``the binomial'' when the context is clear.
Binomial distributions were treated by James Bernoulli about 1700, and for this reason binomial trials are sometimes called Bernoulli trials.
Each binomial trial of a binomial experiment produces either 0 or 1 success.
Therefore each binomial trial can be thought of as producing a value of a random variable associated with that trial and taking the values 0 and 1, with probabilities q and p respectively.
The several trials of a binomial experiment produce a new random variable X, the total number of successes, which is just the sum of the random variables associated with the single trials.
The marksman gets two bull's-eyes, one on his third shot and one on his fifth.
The numbers of successes on the five individual shots are, then, 0, 0, 1, 0, 1.
Their sum is X, the total number of successes, which in this experiment has the value * * f.
Consider a simple, closed, plane curve C which is a real analytic image of the unit circle, and which is given by **f.
These are real analytic periodic functions with period T.
In the following paper it is shown that in a certain definite sense, exactly an odd number of squares can be inscribed in every such curve which does not contain an infinite number of inscribed squares.
This theorem is similar to the theorem of Kakutani that there exists a circumscribing cube around any closed, bounded convex set in **f.
The latter theorem has been generalized by Yamabe and Yujobo, and Cairns to show that in **f there are families of such cubes.
Here, for the case of squares inscribed in plane curves, we remove the restriction to convexity and give certain other results.
A square inscribed in a curve C means a square with its four corner points on the curve, though it may not lie entirely in the interior of C.
Indeed, the spiral **f, with the two endpoints connected by a straight line possesses only one inscribed square.
On C, from the point P at **f to the point Q at **f, we construct the chord, and upon the chord as a side erect a square in such a way that as s approaches zero the square is inside C.
As s increases we consider the two free corner points of the square, **f and **f, adjacent to P and Q respectively.
As s approaches T the square will be outside C and therefore both **f and **f must cross C an odd number of times as s varies from zero to T.
The points may also touch C without crossing.
Suppose **f crosses C when **f.
We now have certain squares with three corners on C.
For any such square the middle corner of these will be called the vertex of the square and the corner not on the curve will be called the diagonal point of the square.
Each point on C, as a vertex, may possess a finite number of corresponding diagonal points by the above construction.
To each paired vertex and diagonal point there corresponds a unique forward corner point, i.e., the corner on C reached first by proceeding along C from the vertex in the direction of increasing t.
The set of intersections of **f, the rotated curve, with the original curve C consists of just the set of forward corner points on C corresponding to the vertex at **f, plus the vertex itself.
We note that two such curves C and **f, cannot coincide at more than a finite number of points; otherwise, being analytic, they would coincide at all points, which is impossible since they do not coincide near **f.
With each vertex we associate certain numerical values, namely the set of positive differences in the parameter t between the vertex and its corresponding forward corner points.
For the vertex at **f, these values will be denoted by **f.
The function f (t) defined in this way is multi valued.
We consider now the graph of the function f (t) on **f.
We will refer to the plane of C and **f as the C-plane and to the plane of the graph as the f-plane.
The graph, as a set, may have a finite number of components.
We will denote the values of f (t) on different components by **f.
There are two types of such intersections, depending essentially on whether the curves cross at the point of intersection.
An ordinary point will be any point of intersection A such that in every neighborhood of A in the C-plane, **f meets both the interior and the exterior of C.
Any other point of intersection between C and **f will be called a tangent point.
This terminology will also be applied to the corresponding points in the f-plane.
We can now prove several lemmas.
In some neighborhood in the f-plane of any ordinary point of the graph, the function f is a single valued, continuous function.
We first show that the function is single valued in some neighborhood.
With the vertex at **f in the C-plane we assume that **f is the parametric location on C of an ordinary intersection Q between C and **f.
In the f-plane the coordinates of the corresponding point are **f.
In the C-plane we construct a set of rectangular Cartesian coordinates u, v with the origin at Q and such that both C and **f have finite slope at Q.
Near Q, both curves can be represented by analytic functions of u.
In a neighborhood of Q the difference between these functions is also a single valued, analytic function of u.
Furthermore, one can find a neighborhood of Q in which the difference function is monotone, for since it is analytic it can have only a finite number of extrema in any interval.
Now, to find **f, one needs the intersection of C and **f near Q.
But **f is just the curve **f translated without rotation through a small arc, for **f is always obtained by rotating C through exactly 90 `.
The arc is itself a segment of an analytic curve.
Thus if e is sufficiently small, there can be only one intersection of C and **f near Q, for if there were more than one intersection for every e then the difference between C and **f near Q would not be a monotone function.
Therefore, **f is single valued near Q.
Thus **f is also continuous at **f, and in a neighborhood of **f which does not contain a tangent point.
We turn now to the set of tangent points on the graph.
This set must consist of isolated points and closed intervals.
The fact that there can not be any limit points of the set except in closed intervals follows from the argument used in Lemma 1, namely, that near any tangent point in the C-plane the curves C and **f are analytic, and therefore the difference between them must be a monotone function in some neighborhood on either side of the tangent point.
This prevents the occurrence of an infinite sequence of isolated tangent points.
In some neighborhood of an isolated tangent point in the f-plane, say **f, the function **f is either double valued or has no values defined, except at the tangent point itself, where it is single valued.
A tangent point Q in the C-plane occurs when C and **f are tangent to one another.
A continuous change in t through an amount e results in a translation along an analytic arc of the curve **f.
There are three possibilities : (a) **f remains tangent to C as it is translated; (b) **f moves away from C and does not intersect it at all for **f; (c) **f cuts across C and there are two ordinary intersections for every t in **f.
In the second category the function **f has no values defined in a neighborhood **f.
In the third category the function is double valued in this interval.
The same remarks apply to an interval on the other side of **f.
Again, the analyticity of the two curves guarantee that such intervals exist.
In the neighborhood of an end point of an interval of tangent points in the f-plane the function is two valued or no valued on one side, and is a single valued function consisting entirely of tangent points on the other side.
With the above results we can make the following remarks about the graph of f.
First, for any value of t for which all values of f (t) are ordinary points the number of values of f (t) must be odd.
For it is clear that the total number of ordinary intersections of C and **f must be even (otherwise, starting in the interior of C, **f could not finally return to the interior), and the center of rotation at t is the argument of the function, not a value.
Therefore, for any value of t the number of values of f (t) is equal to the (finite) number of tangent points corresponding to the argument t plus an odd number.
The graph of f has at least one component whose support is the entire interval [ 0, T ].
We suppose not.
Then every component of the graph of f must be defined over a bounded sub-interval.
Suppose **f is defined in the sub-interval **f.
Now **f and **f must both be tangent points on the nth component in the f-plane; otherwise by Lemma 1 the component would extend beyond these points.
Further, we see by Lemma 2 that the multiplicity of f can only change at a tangent point, and at such a point can only change by an even integer.
Thus the multiplicity of **f for a given t must be an even number.
This is true of all components which have such a bounded support.
But this is a contradiction, for we know that the multiplicity of f (t) is odd for every t.
There must be an odd number of such components, which will be called complete components.
The remaining (incomplete) components all have an even number of ordinary points at any argument, and are defined only on a proper sub-interval of [ 0, T ].
We must now show that on some component of the graph there exist two points for which the corresponding diagonal points in the C-plane are on opposite sides of C.
We again consider a fixed point P at **f and a variable point Q at **f on C.
We erect a square with PQ as a side and with free corners **f and **f adjacent to P and Q respectively.
As s varies from zero to T, the values of s for which **f and **f cross C will be denoted by **f and **f respectively.
We have **f, plus tangent points.
These s-values are just the ordinary values of **f.
The values **f are the ordinary values at **f of a multi valued function g (t) which has components corresponding to those of f (t).
The functions f and b have exactly the same multiplicity at every argument t.
Now with P fixed at **f, **f-values occur when the corner **f crosses C, and are among the values of s such that **f.
The roots of this equation are just the ordinates of the intersections of the graph of b with a straight line of unit slope through **f in the b-plane (the plane of the graph of b).
We define these values as **f, and define g (t) in the same way for each t.
Thus we obtain g (t) by introducing an oblique g (t) - axis in the b-plane.
These societies can expect to face difficult times.
As the historic processes of modernization gradually gain momentum, their cohesion will be threatened by divisive forces, the gaps between rulers and subjects, town and country, will widen; new aspirants for power will emerge whose ambitions far exceed their competence; old rulers may lose their nerve and their sense of direction.
National leaders will have to display the highest skills of statesmanship to guide their people through times of uncertainty and confusion which destroy men's sense of identity.
Feelings of a community of interest will have to be recreated - in some of the new nations, indeed, they must be built for the first time - on a new basis which looks toward the future and does not rely only on shared memories of the past.
The United States can help by communicating a genuine concern with the problems these countries face and a readiness to provide technical and other appropriate forms of assistance where possible.
Our central goal should be to provide the greatest positive incentive for these societies to tackle boldly the tasks which they face.
At the same time, we should recognize that the obstacles to change and the lack of cohesion and stability which characterize these countries may make them particularly prone to diversions and external adventures of all sorts.
It may seem to some of them that success can be purchased much less dearly by fishing in the murky waters of international politics than by facing up to the intractable tasks at home.
We should do what we can to discourage this conclusion, both by offering assistance for their domestic needs and by reacting firmly to irresponsible actions on the world scene.
When necessary, we should make it clear that countries which choose to derive marginal advantages from the cold war or to exploit their potential for disrupting the security of the world will not only lose our sympathy but also risk their own prospects for orderly development.
As a nation, we feel an obligation to assist other countries in their development; but this obligation pertains only to countries which are honestly seeking to become responsible members of a stable and forward-moving world community.
When we look at countries like Iran, Iraq, Pakistan, and Burma, where substantial progress has been made in creating a minimum supply of modern men and of social overhead capital, and where institutions of centralized government exist, we find a second category of countries with a different set of problems and hence different priorities for policy.
The men in power are committed in principle to modernization, but economic and social changes are proceeding only erratically.
The society is likely to be characterized by having a fairly modernized urban sector and a relatively untouched rural sector, with very poor communications between the two.
Progress is impeded by psychological inhibitions to effective action among those in power and by a failure on their part to understand how local resources, human and material, can be mobilized to achieve the national goals of modernization already symbolically accepted.
Most countries in this second category share the difficulty of having many of the structures of a modern political and social system without the modern standards of performance required to make them effective.
In these rapidly changing societies there is also too little appreciation of the need for effort to achieve goals.
The colonial period has generally left people believing that government can, if it wishes, provide all manner of services for them - and that with independence free men do not have to work to realize the benefits of modern life.
For example, in accordance with the fashion of the times, most transitional societies have announced economic development plans of varying numbers of years; such is the mystique of planning that people expect that fulfillment of the plan will follow automatically upon its announcement.
The civil services in such societies are generally inadequate to deal competently with the problems facing them; and their members often equate a government career with security and status rather than with sacrifice, self-discipline, and competence.
American policy should press constantly the view that until these governments demand efficiency and effectiveness of their bureaucracies there is not the slightest hope that they will either modernize of democratize their societies.
We should spread the view that planning and national development are serious matters which call for effort as well as enthusiasm.
Only within the framework of a mature relationship characterized by honest appraisals of performance can we provide telling assistance.
With respect to those countries whose leaders prefer to live with their illusions, we can afford to wait, for in time their comparative lack of progress will become clear for all to see.
Our technical assistance to these countries should place special emphasis on inducing the central governments to assume the role of advisor and guide which at an earlier stage foreign experts assumed in dealing with the central governments.
We should encourage the governments to develop their own technical assistance to communities, state and provincial governments, rural communities, and other smaller groups, making certain that no important segment of the economy is neglected.
Simultaneously we should be underlining the interrelationships of technical progress in various fields, showing how agricultural training can be introduced into education, how health affects labor productivity, how small business can benefit the rural farm community, and, above all, how progress in each field relates to national progress.
Efforts such as the Community Development Program in the Philippines have demonstrated that transitional societies can work toward balanced national development.
To achieve this goal of balanced development, communications between the central government and the local communities must be such that the needs and aspirations of the people themselves are effectively taken into account.
If modernization programs are imposed from above, without the understanding and cooperation of the people, they will encounter grave difficulties.
Land reform is likely to be a pressing issue in many of these countries.
As an isolated policy, land reform is likely to be politically disruptive; as part of a larger development effort, however, it may gain wide acceptance.
It should also be recognized that the problem of rural tenancy cannot be solved by administrative decrees alone.
Land reform programs need to be supplemented with programs for promoting rural credits and technical assistance in agriculture.
Lastly, governmental and private planners will at this stage begin to see large capital requirements looming ahead.
By holding out prospects for external capital assistance, the United States can provide strong incentives to prepare for the concerted economic drive necessary to achieve self-sustaining growth.
At a third stage in the modernization process are such countries as India, Brazil, the Philippines, and Taiwan, which are ready and committed to move into the stage of self-sustaining growth.
They must continue to satisfy basic capital needs; and there persists the dual problem of maintaining operational unity around a national program of modernization while simultaneously decentralizing participation in the program to wider and wider groups.
But these countries have made big strides toward developing the necessary human and social overhead capital; they have established reasonably stable and effective governmental institutions at national and local levels; and they have begun to develop a capacity to deal realistically and simultaneously with all the major sectors of their economies.
On the economic front, the first priority of these countries is to mobilize a vastly increased volume of resources.
These countries must formulate a comprehensive, long-term program covering the objectives of both the private and the public sectors of the economy.
They must in their planning be able to count on at least tentative commitments of foreign capital assistance over periods of several years.
Capital imports drawn from a number of sources must be employed and combined skillfully enough to permit domestic investment programming to go forward.
Capital flows must be coordinated with national needs and planning.
Finally, a balance must be effected among project finance, utilization of agricultural surpluses, and general balance of payments support.
Thus, although the agenda of external assistance in the economic sphere are cumulative, and many of the policies suggested for nations in the earlier stages remain relevant, the basic purpose of American economic policy during the later stages of development should be to assure that movement into a stage of self-sustaining growth is not prevented by lack of foreign exchange.
There remain many political and administrative problems to be solved.
For one thing, although considerable numbers of men have been trained, bureaucracies are still deficient in many respects; even the famed Indian Civil Service is not fully adequate to the tremendous range of tasks it has undertaken.
Technical assistance in training middle - and upper-level management personnel is still needed in many cases.
This is the stage at which democratic developments must take place if the society is to become an open community of creative people.
Nevertheless, impulses still exist among the ruling elite to rationalize and thus to perpetuate the need for centralized and authoritarian practices.
Another great danger is that the emerging middle class will feel itself increasingly alienated from the political leaders who still justify their dominance by reference to the struggle for independence or the early phase of nationalism.
The capacity of intellectuals and members of the new professional classes to contribute creatively to national development is likely to be destroyed by a constraining sense of inferiority toward both their own political class and their colleagues and professional counterparts in the West.
Particularly when based upon a single dominant party, governments may respond to such a situation by claiming a monopoly of understanding about the national interest.
Convinced of the wisdom of their own actions, and reassured by the promises of their economic development programs, governments may fail to push outward to win more and more people to the national effort, becoming instead rigid and inflexible in their policies.
American policy toward such societies should stress our sympathy for the emerging social and professional classes.
It should attempt to communicate both an appreciation of professional standards and an understanding of the tremendous powers and potentialities of genuinely open and pluralistic societies.
We have every obligation to take seriously their claims to being democratic and free countries; we also have, in consequence, the duty to appraise realistically and honestly their performance and to communicate our judgments to their leaders in frank but friendly ways.
With the exception of treaty making, foreign relations were historically concerned for the most part with conditions of short or at least measurable duration.
Foreign policy now takes on a different perspective and must become skilled not merely at response but also at projection.
American and free-world policies can marginally affect the pace of transition; but basically that pace depends on changes in the supply of resources and in the human attitudes, political institutions, and social structure which each society must generate.
It follows that any effective policy toward the underdeveloped countries must have a realistically long working horizon.
It must be marked by a patience and persistence which have not always been its trademark.
This condition affects not only the conception but also the legislative and financial support of foreign policy, especially in the context of economic aid.
The place of religion in the simple, preliterate societies is quite definite; as a complex it fits into the whole social organization and functions dominantly in every part of it.
In societies like ours, however, its place is less clear and more complex.
With the diversity of religious viewpoints, there are differences of opinion as to the essential features of religion; and there are different opinions as to the essential functions of religion.
Although the inner functions of religion are not of direct significance in social organization, they have important indirect consequences.
If the inner functions of religion are performed, the individual is a composed, ordered, motivated, and emotionally secure associate; he is not greatly frustrated, and he is not anomic; he is better fitted to perform his social life among his fellows.
There are several closely related inner functions.
In the last analysis, religion is the means of inducing, formulating, expressing, enhancing, implementing, and perpetuating man's deepest experience - the religious.
Man is first religious; the instrumentalities follow.
Religion seeks to satisfy human needs of great pertinence.
The significant things in it, at the higher religious levels, are the inner emotional, mental, and spiritual occurrences that fill the pressing human needs of self-preservation, self pacification, and self completion.
The chief experience is the sensing of communion, and in the higher religions, of a harmonious relationship with the supernatural power.
Related to this is the fact that most of the higher religions define for the individual his place in the universe and give him a feeling that he is relatively secure in an ordered, dependable universe.
The universe is a safe and permanent home.
A number of religions also satisfy for many the need of being linked with the ultimate and eternal.
Death is not permanent defeat and disappearance; man has a second chance.
He is not lost in the abyss of endless time; he has endless being.
Religion at its best also offers the experience of spiritual fulfillment by inviting man into the highest realm of the spirit.
Religion can summate, epitomize, relate, and conserve all the highest ideals and values - ethical, aesthetic, and religious - of man formed in his culture.
There is also the possibility, among higher religions, of experiencing consistent meaning in life and enjoying guidance and expansiveness.
The kind of religious experience that most moderns seek not only provides, clarifies, and relates human yearnings, values, ideals, and purposes; it also provides facilities and incitements for the development of personality, sociality, and creativeness.
Under the religious impulse, whether theistic or humanistic, men have joy in living; life leads somewhere.
At the same time that religion binds the individual helpfully to the supernatural and gives him cosmic peace and a sense of supreme fulfillment, it also has great therapeutic value for him.
It gives him aid, comfort, even solace, in meeting mundane life situations where his own unassisted practical knowledge and skill are felt by him to be inadequate.
He is confronted with the recurrent crises, such as great natural catastrophes and the great transitions of life - marriage, incurable disease, widowhood, old age, the certainty of death.
He has to cope with frustration and other emotional disturbance and anomie.
His religious beliefs provide him with plausible explanations for many conditions which cause him great concern, and his religious faith makes possible fortitude, equanimity, and consolation, enabling him to endure colossal misfortune, fear, frustration, uncertainty, suffering, evil, and danger.
Religion usually also includes a principle of compensation, mainly in a promised perfect future state.
The belief in immortality, where held, functions as a redress for the ills and disappointments of the here and now.
The tensions accompanying a repressive consciousness of wrongdoing or sinning or some tormenting secret are relieved for the less self-contained or self-sufficient by confession, repentance, and penance.
The feeling of individual inferiority, defeat, or humilation growing out of various social situations or individual deficiencies or failures is compensated for by communion in worship or prayer with a friendly, but all-victorious Father-God, as well as by sympathetic fellowship with others who share this faith, and by opportunities in religious acts for giving vent to emotions and energies.
In addition to the functions of religion within man, there have always been the outer social functions for the community and society.
The two have never been separable.
Religion is vitally necessary in both societal maintenance and regulation.
The value-system of a community or society is always correlated with, and to a degree dependent upon, a more or less shared system of religious beliefs and convictions.
The religion supports, re-enforces, reaffirms, and maintains the fundamental values.
Even in the united states, with its freedom of religious belief and worship and its vast denominational differentiation, there is a general consensus regarding the basic Christian values.
This is demonstrated especially when there is awareness of radically different value orientation elsewhere; for example Americans rally to Christian values vis-a-vis those of atheistic communism.
In America also all of our major religious bodies officially sanction a universalistic ethic which is reflective of our common religion.
Even the non church members - the freewheelers, marginal religionists and so on - have the values of Christian civilization internalized in them.
Finally, it gives sanctity, more than human legitimacy, and even, through super empirical reference, transcendent and supernatural importance to some values; for example, marriage as a sacrament, much law-breaking as sinful, occasionally the state as a divine instrument.
It places certain values at least beyond questioning and tampering.
Closely related to this function is the fact that the religious system provides a body of ultimate ends for the society, which are compatible with the supreme eternal ends.
This something leads to a conception of an over-all Social Plan with a meaning interpretable in terms of ultimate ends; for example, a plan that fulfills the will of God, which advances the Kingdom of God, which involves social life as part of the Grand Design.
This explains some group ends and provides a justification of their primacy.
It gives social guidance and direction and makes for programs of social action.
Finally, it gives meaning to much social endeavor, and logic, consistency, and meaning to life.
In general, there is no society so secularized as to be completely without religiously inspired transcendental ends.
Religion integrates and unifies.
These groups have varied widely from mere families, primitive, totemic groups, and small modern cults and sects, to the memberships of great denominations, and great, widely dispersed world religions.
Religion fosters group life in various ways.
The common ultimate values, ends and goals fostered by religion are a most important factor.
Without a system of values there can be no society.
Where such a value system prevails, it always unifies all who possess it; it enables members of the society to operate as a system.
The beliefs of a religion also reflecting the values are expressed in creeds, dogmas, and doctrines, and form what Durkheim calls a credo.
As he points out, a religious group cannot exist without a collective credo, and the more extensive the credo, the more unified and strong is the group.
The credo unifies and socializes men by attaching them completely to an identical body of doctrine; the more extensive and firm the body of doctrine, the firmer the group.
The religious symbolism, and especially the closely related rites and worship forms, constitute a powerful bond for the members of the particular faith.
The common codes, for religious action as such and in their ethical aspects for everyday moral behavior, bind the devotees together.
These are ways of jointly participating in significantly symbolized, standardized, and ordered religiously sanctified behavior.
The codes are mechanism for training in, and directing and enforcing, uniform social interaction, and for continually and publicly reasserting the solidarity of the group.
Durkheim noted long ago that religion as ``a unified system of beliefs and practices relative to sacred things - unite [ s ] into one single moral community - all those who adhere to them''.
His view is that every religion pertains to a community, and, conversely, every community is in one aspect a religious unit.
This is brought out in the common religious ethos that prevails even in the denominationally diverse audiences at many secular semi-public and public occasions in the United States; and it is evidenced in the prayers offered, in the frequent religious allusions, and in the confirmation of points on religious grounds.
The unifying effect of religion is also brought out in the fact that historically peoples have clung together as more or less cohesive cultural units, with religion as the dominant bond, even though spatially dispersed and not politically organized.
The Jews for 2500 years have been a prime example, though the adherents of any world or inter people religion are cases in point.
it might be pointed out that the integrating function of religion, for good or ill, has often supported or been identified with other groupings - political, nationality, language, class, racial, sociability, even economic.
As such it acts as an anchor for the people.
There is a marked tendency for religions, once firmly established, to resist change, not only in their own doctrines and policies and practices, but also in secular affairs having religious relevance.
It has thus been a significant factor in the conservation of social values, though also in some measure, an obstacle to the creation or diffusion of new ones.
It tends to support the longstanding precious sentiments, the traditional ways of thinking, and the customary ways of living.
As Yinger has pointed out, the ``reliance on symbols, on tradition, on sacred writings, on the cultivation of emotional feelings of identity and harmony with sacred values, turns one to the past far more than to the future''.
Historically, religion has also functioned as a tremendous engine of vindication, enforcement, sanction, and perpetuation of various other institutions.
At the same time that religion exercises a conserving influence, it also energizes and motivates both individuals and groups.
Much of the important individual and social action has been owing to religious incentives.
The great ultimate ends of religion have served as magnificent beacon lights that lured people toward them with an almost irresistible force, mobilizing energies and inducing sacrifices; for example, the Crusades, mission efforts, just wars.
The insuperable reward systems that most religions embody have great motivating effects.
Religion provides the most attractive rewards, either in this world or the next, for those who not merely abide by its norms, but who engage in good works.
Religion usually acts as a powerful aid in social control, enforcing what men should or should not do.
Among primitive peoples the sanctions and dictates of religion were more binding than any of the other controls exercised by the group; and in modern societies such influence is still great.
Religion has its own supernatural prescriptions that are at the same time codes of behavior for the here and now.
An analysis of the election falls naturally in four parts.
First is the long and still somewhat obscure process of preparation, planning and discussion.
Preparation began slightly more than a year after independence with the first steps to organize rural communes.
All political interests supported electoral planning, although there are some signs that the inherent uncertainties of a popular judgment led to some procrastination.
Considerable technical skill was used and the administration of the elections was generally above reproach.
However, the regionally differentiated results, which appear below in tables, are interesting evidence of the problems of developing self-government under even the most favorable circumstances.
A third aspect, and probably the one open to most controversy, is the results of the election.
The electoral procedure prevented the ready identification of party affiliation, but all vitally interested parties, including the government itself, were busily engaged in determining the party identifications of all successful candidates the month following the elections.
The fourth and concluding point will be to estimate the long-run significance of the elections and how they figure in the current pattern of internal politics.
Elections have figured prominently in nearly every government program and official address since independence.
They were stressed in the speeches of Si Mubarak Bekkai when the first Council of Ministers was formed and again when the Istiqlal took a leading role in the second Council.
King Muhammad /5, was known to be most sympathetic to the formation of local self-government and made the first firm promise of elections on May Day, 1957.
There followed a long and sometimes bitter discussion of the feasibility of elections for the fall of 1957, in which it appears that the Minister of the Interior took the most pessimistic view and that the Istiqlal was something less than enthusiastic.
From the very beginning the electoral discussions raised fundamental issues in Moroccan politics, precisely the type of questions that were most difficult to resolve in the new government.
Until the Charter of Liberties was issued in the fall of 1958, there were no guarantees of the right to assemble or to organize for political purposes.
The Istiqlal was still firmly united in 1957, but the P.D.I. (Parti Democratique de l'Independance), the most important minor party at the time, objected to the Istiqlal's predominance in the civil service and influence in Radio Maroc.
There were rumors that the Ministry of the Interior favored an arbitrary, ``non-political'' process, which were indirectly affirmed when the King personally intervened in the planned meetings.
The day following his intervention the palace issued a statement reassuring the citizens that ``the possibility of introducing appeals concerning the establishment of electoral lists, lists of candidates and finally the holding of the consultation itself'' would be supported by the King himself.
The Ifni crisis in the fall of 1957 postponed further consideration of elections, but French consultants were called in and notices of further investigation appeared from time to time.
In January, 1958, the Minister of the Interior announced that an election law was ready to be submitted to the King, the rumors of election dates appeared once again, first for spring of 1958 and later for the summer.
Although the government was probably prepared for elections by mid - 1958, the first decision was no doubt made more difficult as party strife multiplied.
In late 1957 the M.P. (Mouvement Populaire) appeared and in the spring of 1958 the internal strains of the Istiqlal was revealed when the third Council of Government under Balafrej was formed without support from progressive elements in the party.
Despite the internal and international crises that harassed Morocco the elections remained a central issue.
They figured prominently in the Balafrej government of May, 1958, which the King was reportedly determined to keep in office until elections could be held.
But the eagerly sought ``homogeneity'' of the Balafrej Council of Government was never achieved as the Istiqlal quarreled over foreign policy, labor politics and economic development.
By December, 1958, when' Abdallah Ibrahim became President of the Council, elections had even greater importance.
They were increasingly looked upon as a means of establishing the new rural communes as the focus of a new, constructive national effort.
To minimize the chances of repeating the Balafrej debacle the Ibrahim government was formed a titre personnel and a special office was created in the Ministry of the Interior to plan and to conduct the elections.
By this time there is little doubt but what election plans were complete.
There remained only the delicate task of maneuvering the laws through the labyrinth of Palace politics and making a small number of policy decisions.
From the rather tortuous history of electoral planning in Morocco an important point emerges concerning the first elections in a developing country and evaluating their results.
In the absence of a reservoir of political consensus each organized political group hopes that the elections will give them new prominence, but in a system where there is as yet no place for the less prominent.
Lacking the respected and effective institutions that consensus helps provide, minority parties, such as the P.D.I. in 1957 and the progressive Istiqlal faction in 1958, clamor for elections when out of power, but are not at all certain they wish to be controlled by popular choice when in power.
Those in power tend to procrastinate and even to repudiate the electoral process.
The tendency to treat elections as an instrument of self-interest rather than an instrument of national interest had two important effects on electoral planning in Morocco.
At the central level the scrutin uninominal voting system was selected over some form of the scrutin de liste system, even though the latter had been recommended by Duverger and favored by all political parties.
The choice of the single member district was dictated to a certain extent by problems of communication and understanding in the more remote areas of the country, but it also served to minimize the national political value of the elections.
Although the elections were for local officials, it was not necessary to conduct the elections so as to prevent parties from publicly identifying their candidates.
With multiple member districts the still fragmentary local party organizations could have operated more effectively and parties might have been encouraged to state their positions more clearly.
Both parties and the Ministry of the Interior were busily at work after the elections trying to unearth the political affiliations of the successful candidates and, thereby, give the elections a confidential but known degree of national political significance.
The general setting of the Moroccan election may also encourage the deterioration of local party organization.
The concentration of effective power in Rabat leads not only to party bickering, but to distraction from local activity that might have had many auxiliary benefits in addition to contributing to more meaningful elections.
Interesting evidence can be found in the results of the Chamber of Commerce elections, which took place three weeks before national elections.
The Istiqlal sponsored U.M.C.I.A. (L'Union Marocaine des Commercants, Industrialistes et Artisans) was opposed by candidates of the new U.N.F.P. (L'Union National des Forces Populaires) in nearly all urban centers.
As the more conservative group with strong backing from wealthy businessmen, the U.M.C.I.A. was generally favored against the more progressive, labor based U.N.F.P. The newer party campaigned heavily, while the older, more confident party expected the Moroccan merchants and small businessmen to support them as they had done for many years.
The local Istiqlal and U.M.C.I.A. offices did not campaign and lost heavily.
The value of the elections was lost, both as an experiment in increased political participation and as a reliable indicator of commercial interest, as shown in Table /1,.
The chamber of Commerce elections were, of course, an important event in the preparation for rural commune elections.
The U.N.F.P. learned that its urban organization, which depends heavily on U.M.T. support, was most effective.
The overall effect was probably to stimulate more party activity in the communal elections than might have otherwise taken place.
A second major point of this essay is to examine the formal arrangements for the elections.
Although a somewhat technical subject, it has important political implications as the above discussion of the voting system indicated.
Furthermore, the problems and solutions devised in the electoral experiences of the rapidly changing countries are often of comparative value and essential to evaluating election results.
The sine qua non of the elections was naturally an impartial and standardized procedure.
As the background discussion indicated there were frequently expressed doubts that a government dominated by either party could fairly administer elections.
The P.D.I. and later the Popular Movement protected the Istiqlal's ``privileged position'' until the fall of Balafrej, and then the Istiqlal used the same argument, which it had previously ignored, against the pro U.N.F.P. tendencies of the Ibrahim government.
The bulk of the preparation had, of course, proceeded under the supervision of the Ministry of the Interior, whose officials are barred from party activity and probably generally disinterested in party politics.
Apart from some areas of recurring trouble, like Bani Mellal, where inexperienced officials had been appointed, there is little evidence that local officials intervened in the electoral process.
The King decided to remove Ibrahim a week before elections and to institute a non-party Council of Government under his personal direction.
Although the monarch had frequently asserted that the elections were to be without party significance, his action was an implicit admission that party identifications were a factor.
The new Council was itself inescapably of political meaning, which was most clearly revealed in the absence of any U.N.F.P. members and the presence of several Istiqlal leaders.
Since the details of the elections were settled the change of government had no direct effect on the technical aspects of the elections, and may have been more important as an indication of royal displeasure with the U.N.F.P.
Voting preparations began in the fall of 1959, although the actual demarcation and planning for the rural communes was completed in 1958.
There were three major administrative tasks : the fixing of electoral districts, the registration of voters and the registration of candidates.
Voter registration began in late November 1959 and continued until early January, 1960.
The government was most anxious that there be a respectable response.
Periodic bulletins of the accomplishment in each province made the registration process into a kind of competition among provincial officials.
The qualifications to vote were kept very simple.
Both men and women of twenty-one years of age could register and vote upon presenting proof of residence and identification.
There were liberal provisions for dispensation where documents or records were lacking.
The police were disqualified along with certain categories of naturalized citizens, criminals and those punished for Protectorate activities.
The registration figures given in Table 2 must be interpreted with caution since the estimate for eligible electors were made without the benefit of a reliable census.
But neither was the statement empirical, for goodness was not a quality like red or squeaky that could be seen or heard.
What were they to do, then, with these awkward judgments of value?
To find a place for them in their theory of knowledge would require them to revise the theory radically, and yet that theory was what they regarded as their most important discovery.
It appeared that the theory could be saved in one way only.
This is the course the positivists took.
They explained value judgments by explaining them away.
Now I do not think their view will do.
But before discussing it, I should like to record one vote of thanks to them for the clarity with which they have stated their case.
It has been said of John Stuart Mill that he wrote so clearly that he could be found out.
This theory has been put so clearly and precisely that it deserves criticism of the same kind, and this I will do my best to supply.
The theory claims to show by analysis that when we say, ``That is good'', we do not mean to assert a character of the subject of which we are thinking.
I shall argue that we do mean to do just that.
Let us work through an example, and the simpler and commoner the better.
Let us take a set of circumstances in which I happen to be interested on the legislative side and in which I think every one of us might naturally make such a statement.
We come upon a rabbit that has been caught in one of the brutal traps in common use.
There are signs that it has struggled for days to escape and that in a frenzy of hunger, pain, and fear, it has all but eaten off its own leg.
The attempt failed : the animal is now dead.
As we think of the long and excruciating pain it must have suffered, we are very likely to say : ``It was a bad thing that the little animal should suffer so''.
The positivist tells us that when we say this we are only expressing our present emotion.
I hold, on the contrary, that we mean to assert something of the pain itself, namely, that it was bad - bad when and as it occurred.
Consider what follows from the positivist view.
On that view, nothing good or bad happened in the case until I came on the scene and made my remark.
The pain of the rabbit was not itself bad; nothing evil was happening when that pain was being endured; badness, in the only sense in which it is involved at all, waited for its appearance till I came and looked and felt.
Now that this is at odds with our meaning may be shown as follows.
Let us put to ourselves the hypothesis that we had not come on the scene and that the rabbit never was discovered.
Are we prepared to say that in that case nothing bad occurred in the sense in which we said it did?
Clearly not.
Indeed we should say, on the contrary, that the accident of our later discovery made no difference whatever to the badness of the animal's pain, that it would have been every whit as bad whether a chance passer-by happened later to discover the body and feel repugnance or not.
If so, then it is clear that in saying the suffering was bad we are not expressing our feelings only.
We are saying that the pain was bad when and as it occurred and before anyone took an attitude toward it.
The first argument is thus an ideal experiment in which we use the method of difference.
The second argument applies the method in the reverse way.
It ideally removes the past event, and shows that this would render false what we mean to say, whereas on positivist grounds it should not.
Let us suppose that the animal did not in fact fall into the trap and did not suffer at all, but that we mistakenly believe it did, and say as before that its suffering was an evil thing.
On the positivist theory, everything I sought to express by calling it evil in the first case is still present in the second.
In the only sense in which badness is involved at all, whatever was bad in the first case is still present in its entirety, since all that is expressed in either case is a state of feeling, and that feeling is still there.
And our question is, is such an implication consistent with what we meant?
Clearly it is not.
If anyone asked us, after we made the remark that the suffering was a bad thing, whether we should think it relevant to what we said to learn that the incident had never occurred and no pain had been suffered at all, we should say that it made all the difference in the world, that what we were asserting to be bad was precisely the suffering we thought had occurred back there, that if this had not occurred, there was nothing left to be bad, and that our assertion was in that case mistaken.
The suggestion that in saying something evil had occurred we were after all making no mistake, because we had never meant anyhow to say anything about the past suffering, seems to me merely frivolous.
On the theory before us, such relief would be groundless, for in that suffering itself there was nothing bad at all, and hence in its nonoccurrence there would be nothing to be relieved about.
The positivist theory would here distort our meaning beyond recognition.
So far as I can see, there is only one way out for the positivist.
He holds that goodness and badness lie in feelings of approval or disapproval.
And there is a way in which he might hold that badness did in this case precede our own feeling of disapproval without belonging to the pain itself.
The pain in itself was neutral; but unfortunately the rabbit, on no grounds at all, took up toward this neutral object an attitude of disapproval and that made it for the first time, and in the only intelligible sense, bad.
This way of escape is theoretically possible, but since it has grave difficulties of its own and has not, so far as I know, been urged by positivists, it is perhaps best not to spend time over it.
I come now to a third argument, which again is very simple.
When we come upon the rabbit and make our remark about its suffering being a bad thing, we presumably make it with some feeling; the positivists are plainly right in saying that such remarks do usually express feeling.
And suppose that the circumstances have now so changed that the feeling with which we made the remark in the first place has faded.
The pathetic evidence is no longer before us; and we are now so fatigued in body and mind that feeling is, as we say, quite dead.
In these circumstances, since what was expressed by the remark when first made is, on the theory before us, simply absent, the remark now expresses nothing.
It is as empty as the word ``Hurrah'' would be when there was no enthusiasm behind it.
And this seems to me untrue.
When we repeat the remark that such suffering was a bad thing, the feeling with which we made it last week may be at or near the vanishing point, but if we were asked whether we meant to say what we did before, we should certainly answer Yes.
We should say that we made our point with feeling the first time and little or no feeling the second time, but that it was the same point we were making.
And if we can see that what we meant to say remains the same, while the feeling varies from intensity to near zero, it is not the feeling that we primarily meant to express.
I come now to a fourth consideration.
Broad and Ross have lately contended that this fitness is one of the main facts of ethics, and I suspect they are right.
But that is not exactly my point.
My point is this:
whether there is such fitness or not, we all assume that there is, and if we do, we express in moral judgments more than the subjectivists say we do.
Let me illustrate.
In his novel The House of the Dead, Dostoevsky tells of his experiences in a Siberian prison camp.
Whatever the unhappy inmates of such camps are like today, Dostoevsky's companions were about as grim a lot as can be imagined.
``I have heard stories'', he writes, ``of the most terrible, the most unnatural actions, of the most monstrous murders, told with the most spontaneous, childishly merry laughter''.
Most of us would say that in this delight at the killing of others or the causing of suffering there is something very unfitting.
Now on the subjectivist view, this answer is ruled out.
For before someone takes up an attitude toward death, suffering, or their infliction, they have no moral quality at all.
There is therefore nothing about them to which an attitude of approval or condemnation could be fitting.
They are in themselves neutral, and, so far as they get a moral quality, they get it only through being invested with it by the attitude of the onlooker.
But if that is true, why is any attitude more fitting than any other?
Would applause, for example, be fitting if, apart from the applause, there were nothing good to applaud?
Would condemnation be fitting if, independently of the condemnation, there were nothing bad to condemn?
In such a case, any attitude would be as fitting or unfitting as any other, which means that the notion of fitness has lost all point.
Indeed we are forced to go much farther.
If there is nothing evil in these things, if they get their moral complexion only from our feeling about them, why shouldn't they be greeted with a cheer?
To greet them with repulsion would turn what before was neutral into something bad; it would needlessly bring badness into the world; and even on subjectivist assumptions that does not seem very bright.
On the other hand, to greet them with delight would convert what before was neutral into something good; it would bring goodness into the world.
The injured German veteran was a former miner, twenty-four years old, who had been wounded by shrapnel in the back of the head.
This resulted in damage to the occipital lobe and very probably to the left side of the cerebellum also.
In any event, the extraordinary result of this injury was that he became ``psychically blind'', while at the same time, apparently, the sense of touch remained essentially intact.
Psychical blindness is a condition in which there is a total absence of visual memory-images, a condition in which, for example, one is unable to remember something just seen or to conjure up a memory-picture of the visible appearance of a well-known friend in his absence.
This circumstance in the patient's case plus the fact that his tactual capacity remained basically in sound working order constitutes its exceptional value for the problem at hand since the evidence presented by the authors is overwhelming that, when the patient closed his eyes, he had absolutely no spatial (that is, third-dimensional) awareness whatsoever.
The necessary inference, as the authors themselves interpret it, would seem to be this : ``(1) Spatial qualities are not among those grasped by the sense of touch, as such.
(2) Spatiality becomes part of the tactual sensation only by way of visual representations; that is, there is, in the true sense, only a visual space''.
The underlying assumption, of course, is that only sight and touch enable us, in any precise and fully dependable way, to locate objects in space beyond us, the other senses being decidedly inferior, if not totally inadequate, in this regard.
This is an assumption with which few would be disposed to quarrel.
Therefore, if the sense of touch is functioning normally and there is a complete absence of spatial awareness in a psychically blind person when the eyes are closed and an object is handled, the conclusion seems unavoidable that touch by itself cannot focus and take possession of the third-dimensionality of things and that actual sight or visual representations are necessary.
The force of the authors' analysis (if indeed it has any force) can be felt by the reader, I believe, only after three questions have been successfully answered.
(1) What allows us to think that the patient had no third-dimensional representations when his eyes were closed?
(2) What evidence is there that he was psychically blind?
(3) How can we be sure that his sense of touch was not profoundly disturbed by his head injury?
We shall consider these in the inverse order of their presentation.
The answer the authors give to it, therefore, is of supreme importance.
It is as follows : ``The usual sensitivity tests showed that the specific qualities of skin-perceptiveness (pressure, pain, temperature), as well as the kinesthetic sensations (muscular feelings, feelings in the tendons and joints), were, as such, essentially intact, although they seemed, in comparison with normal reactions, to be somewhat diminished over the entire body.
The supposed tactual sense of spatial location and orientation in the patient and his ability to specify the location of a member, as well as the direction and scope of a movement, passively executed (with one of his members), proved to have been, on the contrary, very considerably affected''.
The authors insist, however, that these abnormalities in the sense of touch were due absolutely to no organic disorders in that sense faculty but rather to the injuries which the patient had sustained to the sense of sight.
First of all, what is their evidence that the tactual apparatus was fundamentally undamaged?
(1) When an object was placed in the patient's hand, he had no difficulty determining whether it was warm or cold, sharp or blunt, rough or smooth, flexible, soft, or hard; and he could tell, simply by the feel of it, whether it was made of wood, iron, cloth, rubber, and so on.
And he could recognize, by touch alone, articles which he had handled immediately before, even though they were altogether unfamiliar to him and could not be identified by him; that is, he was unaware what kind of objects they were or what their use was.
(2) The patient attained an astonishing efficiency in a new trade.
Because of his brain injury and the extreme damage suffered to his sight, the patient had to train himself for a new line of work, that of a portfolio maker, an occupation requiring a great deal of precision in the making of measurements and a fairly well developed sense of form and contour.
And so the authors conclude : ``The conduct of the patient in his every-day life and in his work, even more than the foregoing facts [ mentioned above under 1 ], leave positively no room for doubt that the sense of touch, in the ordinary sense of the word, was unaffected; or, to put the same thing in physiological terms, that the performance capacity of the tactual apparatus, from the periphery up to the tactual centers in the brain, - that is, from one end to the other - was unimpaired''.
If the argument is accepted as essentially sound up to this point, it remains for us to consider whether the patient's difficulties in orienting himself spatially and in locating objects in space with the sense of touch can be explained by his defective visual condition.
But before we can do this, we must first find answers to our original questions 1 and 2; then we shall perhaps be in a position to provide something like a complete answer to the question at hand.
In what ways, then, did the patient's psychical blindness manifest itself?
He could not see objects as unified, self-contained, and organized figures, as a person does with normal vision.
The meaning of this, as we shall see, is that he had no fund of visual memory-images of objects as objects; and, therefore, he could not recognize even long-familiar things upon seeing them again.
Instead, he constantly became lost in parts and components of them, confused some of their details with those of neighboring objects, and so on, unless he allowed time to ``trace'' the object in question through minute movements of the head and hands and in this way to discover its contours.
According to his own testimony, he never actually saw things as shaped but only as generally amorphous ``blots'' of color of a more or less indefinite size; at their edges they slipped pretty much out of focus altogether.
But by the tracing procedure, he could, in a strange obviously kinesthetic manner, find the unseen form; could piece, as it were, the jumbled mass together into an organized whole and then recognize it as a man or a triangle or whatever it turned out to be.
This meant, concretely, that the patient could not read at all without making writing like movements of the head or body, became easily confused by ``hasher marks'' inserted between hand-written words and thus confused the mark for one of the letters, and could recognize a simple straight line or a curved one only by tracing it.
The patient himself denied that he had any visual imagery at all; and there was ample evidence of the following sort to corroborate him.
After a conversation with another man, he was able to recount practically everything that had been said but could not describe at all what the other man looked like.
Nor could he call up memory-pictures of close friends or relatives.
In short, both his own declarations and his figural blindness, when he looked at objects, seem to present undeniable evidence that he had simply no visual memory at all.
He was oblivious of the form of the object actually being viewed, precisely because he could not assign it to a visual shape, already learned and held in visual memory, as persons of normal vision do.
He could not recognize it; he was absolutely unfamiliar with it because he had no visual memory at all.
Therefore, his only recourse was to learn the shape all over again for each new visual experience of the same individual object or type of object; and this he could do only by going over its mass with the tracing procedure.
Then he might finally recognize it, apparently by combining the visual blot, actually being seen, with tactual feelings in the head or body accompanying the tracing movements.
As one would surmise, the procedure, however, could be repeated with the same object or with the same type of object often enough, so that the corresponding visual blots and the merest beginning of the tracing movement would provide clues as to the actual shape, which the patient then immediately could determine by a kind of inference.
Men, trees, automobiles, houses, and so on - objects continually confronted in everyday life - had each its characteristic blot appearance and became easily recognizable, at the very beginning of tracing, by an inference as to what each was.
Dice, for example, he inferred from black dots on a white surface.
He evidently could not actually see the corners of these objects, but their size and the dots gave them away.
And the authors give numerous instances of calculated guessing on the patient's part to show how large a role it played in his process of readapting himself and how proficient he became at it.
Often he seems even to have been able to guess correctly, without the tracing motions, solely on the basis of qualitative differences among the blot like things which appeared in his visual experience.
Perhaps the very important question - What is, then, exactly the role of kinesthetic sensations in the patient's ability to recognize forms and shapes by means of the tracing movements when he is actually looking at things?
- has now been raised in the reader's mind and in the following form.
If the patient can perceive figure kinesthetically when he cannot perceive it visually, then, it would seem, the sense of touch has immediate contact with the spatial aspects of things in independence of visual representations, at least in regard to two dimensions, and, as we shall see, even this much spatial awareness on the part of unaided touch is denied by the authors.
The authors set about answering this fundamental question through a detailed investigation of the patient's ability, tactually, (1) to perceive figure and (2) to locate objects in space, with his eyes closed (or turned away from the object concerned).
Quite naturally, they make the investigation, first, by prohibiting the patient from making any movements at all and then, later, by repeating it and allowing the patient to move in any way he wanted to.
When the patient was not allowed to move his body in any way at all, the following striking results occurred.
Whenever artists, indeed, turned to actual representations or molded three-dimensional figures, which were rare down to 800 B.C., they tended to reflect reality (see Plate 6a, 9b); a schematic, abstract treatment of men and animals, by intent, rose only in the late eighth century.
To speak of this underlying view of the world is to embark upon matters of subjective judgment.
At the least, however, one may conclude that Geometric potters sensed a logical order; their principles of composition stand very close to those which appear in the Homeric epics and the hexameter line.
Their world, again, was a still simple, traditional age which was only slowly beginning to appreciate the complexity of life.
And perhaps an observer of the vases will not go too far in deducing that the outlook of their makers and users was basically stable and secure.
The storms of the past had died away, and the great upheaval which was to mark the following century had not yet begun to disturb men's minds.
In the vases this spirit may perhaps at times bore or repel one in its internal self-satisfaction, but the best of the Geometric pins have rightly been considered among the most beautiful ever made in the Greek world.
The ninth century was in its artistic work ``the spiritually freest and most self-sufficient between past and future'', and the loving skill spent by its artists upon their products is a testimonial to their sense that what they were doing was important and was appreciated.
Geometric pottery has not yet received the thorough, detailed study which it deserves, partly because the task is a mammoth one and partly because some of its local manifestations, as at Argos, are only now coming to light.
From even a cursory inspection of its many aspects, however, the historian can deduce several fundamental conclusions about the progress of the Aegean world down to 800 B.C.
The general intellectual outlook which had appeared in the eleventh century was now consolidated to a significant degree.
Much which was in embryo in 1000 had become reasonably well developed by 800.
In this process the Minoan Mycenaean inheritance had been transmuted or finally rejected; the Aegean world which had existed before 1000 differed from that which rises more clearly in our vision after 800.
Those modern scholars who urge that we must keep in mind the fundamental continuity of Aegean development from earliest times - granted occasional irruptions of peoples and ideas from outside - are correct; but all too many observers have been misled by this fact into minimizing the degree of change which took place in the early first millennium.
The focus of novelty in this world now lay in the south-eastern districts of the Greek mainland, and by 800 virtually the entire Aegean, always excepting its northern shores, had accepted the Geometric style of pottery.
In their place came local variations within the common style - tentative, as it were, in Protogeometric products but truly distinct and sharply defined as the Geometric spirit developed.
Attica, though important, was not the only teacher of this age.
One can take a vase of about 800 B.C. and, without any knowledge of its place of origin, venture to assign it to a specific area; imitation and borrowing of motifs now become ascertainable.
The potters of the Aegean islands thus stood apart from those of the mainland, and in Greece itself Argive, Corinthian, Attic, Boeotian, and other Geometric sequences have each their own hallmarks.
These local variations were to become ever sharper in the next century and a half.
The same conclusions can be drawn from the other physical evidence of the Dark ages, from linguistic distribution, and from the survivals of early social, political, and religious patterns into later ages.
By 800 B.C. the Aegean was an area of common tongue and of common culture.
On these pillars rested that solid basis for life and thought which was soon to be manifested in the remarkably unlimited ken of the Iliad.
Everywhere within the common pattern, however, one finds local diversity; Greek history and culture were enduringly fertilized, and plagued, by the interplay of these conjoined yet opposed factors.
Many aspects of civilization were not yet sufficiently crystallized to find expression, nor could the simple economic and social foundations of this world support a lofty structure.
The epic poems, the consolidation of the Greek pantheon, the rise of firm political units, the self-awareness which could permit painted and sculptured representations of men - all these had to await the progress of following decades.
What we have seen in this chapter, we have seen only dimly, and yet the results, however general, are worth the search.
These are the centuries in which the inhabitants of the Aegean world settled firmly into their minds and into their institutions the foundations of the Hellenic outlook, independent of outside forces.
To interpret, indeed, the era from 1000 to 800 as a period mainly of consolidation may be a necessary but unfortunate defect born of our lack of detailed information; if we could see more deeply, we probably would find many side issues and wrong turnings which came to an end within the period.
The historian can only point out those lines which were major enough to find reflection in our limited evidence, and must hope that future excavations will enrich our understanding.
Throughout the Dark ages, it is clear, the Greek world had been developing slowly but consistently.
The pace could now be accelerated, for the inhabitants of the Aegean stood on firm ground.
The landscape of Greek history broadens widely, and rather abruptly, in the eighth century B.C., the age of Homer's ``rosy fingered Dawn''.
For this period, as for earlier centuries, pottery remains the most secure source; the ceramic material of the age is more abundant, more diversified, and more indicative of the hopes and fears of its makers, who begin to show scenes of human life and death.
Figurines and simple chapels presage the emergence of sculpture and architecture in Greece; objects in gold, ivory, and bronze grow more numerous.
Since writing was practiced in the Aegean before the end of the century, we may hope that the details of tradition will now be occasionally useful.
Though it is not easy to apply the evidence of the Iliad to any specific era, this marvelous product of the epic tradition had certainly taken definitive shape by 750.
The Dipylon Geometric pottery of Athens and the Iliad are amazing manifestations of the inherent potentialities of Greek civilization; but both were among the last products of a phase which was ending.
Greek civilization was swirling toward its great revolution, in which the developed qualities of the Hellenic outlook were suddenly to break forth.
The revolution was well under way before 700 B.C., and premonitory signs go back virtually across the century.
The era, however, is Janus-faced.
While many tokens point forward, the main achievements stand as a culmination of the simple patterns of the Dark ages.
The modern student, who knows what was to come next, is likely to place first the factors of change which are visible in the eighth century.
Not all men of the period would have accepted this emphasis.
Many potters clung to the past the more determinedly as they were confronted with radically new ideas; the poet of the Iliad deliberately archaized.
Although it is not possible to sunder old and new in this era, I shall consider in the present chapter primarily the first decades of the eighth century and shall interpret them as an apogee of the first stage of Greek civilization.
On this principle of division I must postpone the evolution of sculpture, architecture, society, and politics; for the developments in these areas make sense only if they are connected to the age of revolution itself.
The growing contacts between Aegean and Orient are also a phase which should be linked primarily to the remarkable broadening of Hellenic culture after 750.
We shall not be able entirely to pass over these connections to the East as we consider Ripe Geometric pottery, the epic and the myth, and the religious evolution of early Greece; the important point, however, is that these magnificent achievements, unlike those of later decades, were only incidentally influenced by Oriental models.
The antecedents of Dipylon vases and of the Iliad lie in the Aegean past.
The pottery of the first half of the eighth century is commonly called Ripe Geometric.
The vases which resulted had different shapes, far more complex decoration, and a larger sense of style.
Beyond the aesthetic and technical aspects of this expansion we must consider the change in pottery style on broader lines.
In earlier centuries men had had enough to do in rebuilding a fundamental sense of order after chaos.
They had had to work on very simple foundations and had not dared to give rein to impulses.
The potters, in particular, had virtually eschewed freehand drawing, elaborate motifs, and the curving lines of nature, while yet expressing a belief that there was order in the universe.
In their vases were embodied the basic aesthetic and logical characteristics of Greek civilization, at first hesitantly in Protogeometric work, and then more confidently in the initial stages of the Geometric style.
By 800 social and cultural security had been achieved, at least on a simple plane; it was time to take bigger steps, to venture on experiments.
Ripe Geometric potters continued to employ the old syntax of ornaments and shapes and made use of the well-defined though limited range of motifs which they had inherited.
In these respects the vases of the early eighth century represent a culmination of earlier lines of progress.
Painters left less and less of a vase in a plain dark color; instead they divided the surface into many bands or covered it by all-over patterns into which freehand drawing began to creep.
Wavy lines, feather like patterns, rosettes of indefinitely floral nature, birds either singly or in stylized rows, animals in solemn frieze bands (see Plates 11 - 12) - all these turned up in the more developed fabrics as preliminary signs that the potters were broadening their gaze.
The rows of animals and birds, in particular, suggest awareness of Oriental animal friezes, transmitted perhaps via Syrian silver bowls and textiles, but the specific forms of these rows on local vases and metal products are nonetheless Greek.
Though the spread of this type of decoration in the Aegean has not yet been precisely determined, it seems to appear first in the Cyclades, which were among the leading exporters of pottery throughout the century.
As the material at the command of the potters grew and the volume of their production increased, the local variations within a common style became more evident.
Plate 12 illustrates four examples, which are Ripe or Late Geometric work of common spirit but of different schools.
Cook had discovered a beef in his possession a few days earlier and, when he could not show the hide, arrested him.
Thinking the evidence insufficient to get a conviction, he later released him.
Even while suffering the trip to his home, Cook swore to Moore and Lane that he would kill the Indian.
Arriving at daybreak, they found Julio in his corral and demanded that he surrender.
Instead, he whirled and ran to his house for a gun forcing them to kill him, Cook reported.
Both Cook's and Russell's lives were threatened by the Mexicans following the killing, but the company officers felt that in the end, it would serve to quiet them despite their immediate emotion.
General manager Pels even suggested that it might be wise to keep the Mexicans in suspense rather than accept their offers to sell out and move away, and try to have a few punished.
On February 17, Russell and Cook were sent to the Pena Flor community on the Vermejo to see about renting out ranches the company had purchased.
While talking with Julian M. Beall, Francisco Archuleta and Juan Marcus appeared, both heavily armed, and after watching the house for a while, rode away.
It was nearly sundown before they finished the business with Beall and began riding down the stream.
They had traveled only a short distance when they spotted five Mexicans riding along a horse-trail across the stream just ahead of them.
Suspecting an ambush, the two deputies decided to ride up a side canyon taking a short cut into Catskill.
They stayed with a rancher Friday night and by eleven o'clock Saturday morning passed the old Garnett Lee ranch.
Half a mile below at the mouth of Salyer's Canyon was an old ranch that the company had purchased from A. J. Armstrong, occupied by a Mexican, his wife, and an old trapper.
There were three houses in Salyer's Canyon just at the foot of a low bluff, the road winding along the top, entering above, and then passing down in front of the houses, thence to the Vermejo.
To the west of this road was another low bluff, forty or fifty feet high, covered with scrub oak and other brush.
As they were riding along this winding road on the bench of land between the two bluffs, a volley of rifle fire suddenly crashed around the two officers.
Not a bullet touched Cook who was nearer the ambush, but one hit Russell in the leg and another broke his arm, passing on through his body.
With the first reports, Russell's horse wheeled to the right and ran towards the buildings while Cook, followed by a hail of bullets, raced towards the arroyo of Salyer's Canyon immediately in front of him, just reaching it as his horse fell.
Grabbing his Winchester from its sheath, Cook prepared to fight from behind the arroyo bank.
Bullets were so thick, throwing sand in his face, that he found it difficult to return the fire.
At a very shallow place, two Mexicans rushed into the open for a shot.
Dropping to one knee, Cook felled one, and the other struggled off with his comrade, sending no further fire in his direction.
Just before leaving the arroyo where he was partially concealed, he did hear shots down at the house.
Russell had reached the house as Cook surmised, dismounted, but just as the old trapper opened the door to receive him, he fell into the trapper's arms - dead.
A bullet fired by one of the Mexicans hiding in a little chicken house had passed through his head, tearing a hole two inches square on the outgoing side.
Finding him dead, Cook caught Russell's horse and rode to the cattle foreman's house to report the incident and request bloodhounds to trail the assassins.
Before daylight Sunday morning, a posse of twenty-three men under the leadership of Deputy Sheriff Frank MacPherson of Catskill followed the trail to the house of Francisco Chaves, where 100 to 150 Mexicans had gathered.
MacPherson boldly approached the fortified adobe house and demanded entrance.
The men inside informed him that they had some wounded men among them but he would not be allowed to see them even though he offered medical aid.
Since the strength of the Mexicans had been underrated, too small a posse had been collected, and since the deputy had not been provided with search warrants, MacPherson and his men decided it was much wiser to withdraw.
The posse's retreat encouraged the Mexicans to be overbearing and impudent.
During the following week, six tons of hay belonging to one rancher were burned; some buildings, farm tools, two horses, plows, and hay owned by Bonito Lavato, a friendly interpreter for the company, and Pedro Chavez' hay were stolen or destroyed; and a store was broken into and robbed.
District Attorney M. W. Mills warned that he would vigorously prosecute persons caught committing these crimes or carrying arms - he just didn't catch anyone.
Increasing threats on his life finally convinced Cook that he should leave New Mexico.
His friends advised that it would be only a question of time until either the Mexicans killed him by ambuscade or he would be compelled to kill them in self-defense, perpetuating the troubles.
By early summer, he wrote from Laramie that he was suffering from the wound inflicted in the ambush and was in a bad way financially, so Pels sent him a draft for $ 100, warning that it was still not wise for him to return.
Pels also sent a check for $ 100 to Russell's widow and had a white marble monument erected on his grave.
Cattle stealing and killing, again serious during the spring of 1891, placed the land grant company officers in a perplexing position.
And the law virtually ignored the situation.
The judge became ill just as the Colfax District Court convened, no substitute was brought in, no criminal cases heard, only 5 out of 122 cases docketed were tried, and court adjourned sine die after sitting a few days instead of the usual three weeks.
Pels complained:
``Litigants and witnesses were put to the expense and inconvenience of going long distances to transact business; public money spent; justice delayed; nothing accomplished, and the whole distribution of justice in this county seems to be an absolute farce''.
Word reached the company that the man behind these depredations was Manuel Gonzales, a man with many followers, including a number who were kept in line through fear of him.
Although wanted by the sheriff for killing an old man named Asher Jones, the warrant for his arrest had never been served.
On May 19, a deputy sheriff's posse of eight men left Maxwell City and rode thirty-five miles up the Vermejo where they were joined by Juan Jose Martinez.
By 3 : 00 A.M. they reached his house and found it vacant.
When they were refused entrance to his brother's house nearby, they smashed down the door, broke the window, and threw lighted clothes wet with kerosene into the room.
About 300 yards up the creek was a cluster of Mexican houses containing six rooms in the form of a square.
While prowling around these buildings, two of the posse recognized the voice of Gonzales speaking to the people inside.
He was promised that no harm would befall him if he would come out, but he cursed and replied that he would shoot any man coming near the door.
The posse then asked that he send out the women and children as the building would be fired or torn down over his head if necessary to take him dead or alive.
Again he refused.
In deadly earnest, the besiegers methodically stripped away portions of the roof and tossed lighted rags inside, only to have most stamped out by the women as soon as they hit the floor.
When it became obvious that he could stay inside no longer, taking a thousand to one chance Gonzales rushed outside, square against the muzzle of a Winchester.
Shot near the heart, he turned to one side and plunged for a door to another room several feet away, three bullets following him.
As he pushed open the door he fell on his face, one of his comrades pulling him inside.
Receiving no answer, they set the fire.
When the house was about half consumed, his comrade ran to the door and threw up his hands, declaring repeatedly that he did not know the whereabouts of Manuel.
Finding it true that he was not inside, the deputies returned to the first house and tore holes through the side and the roof until they could see a body on the bed covered by a blanket.
Several slugs fired into the bed jerked aside the blanket to reveal an apparently lifeless hand.
Shot six or eight times the body was draped with Russell's pistol, belt, and cartridges.
There was no extra horse so it was left to his comrades who, though numbering in the fifties, had stood around on the hillside nearby without firing a shot during the entire attack.
Early the next morning, a Mexican telephoned Pels that Celso Chavez, one of the posse members, was surrounded by ten Mexicans at his father's home on the upper Vermejo.
The sheriff and District Attorney Mills hastily swore out a number of warrants against men who had been riding about armed, according to signed statements by Chavez and Dr. I. P. George, and ordered Deputy Barney Clark of Raton to rescue the posseman.
Traveling all night, Clark and twelve men arrived at about seven o'clock May 22.
A Mexican justice of the peace had issue a writ against Chavez for taking part in the ``murder'' of Manuel Gonzales so he and his father were anxious to be taken out of danger.
The men helped them gather their belongings and escorted them to Raton along with three other families desiring to leave.
The ten or more dangerous parties singled out for prosecution were still at large, and Pels realized that if these men entrenched themselves in their adobe houses, defending themselves through loopholes, it would be most difficult to capture them.
Thus he wired J. P. Lower and Sons of Denver : ``Have you any percussion hand grenades for throwing in a house or across a well loaded with balls or shrapnel shot?
If not, how long to order and what is the price''?
He wisely decided that it would be foolish to create a disturbance during the coming roundup, particularly since the Mexicans were on their guard.
His problem then became one of restraining the American fighters who wanted to clean out the Vermejo by force immediately.
The plant was located west of the Battenkill and south of the location of the former electric light plant.
The Manchester Depot Sewer Company issued 214 shares of stock at $ 10 each for construction of a sewer in that locality, and assessments were made for its maintenance.
Fire District No. 1 discussed its possible purchase in 1945, but considered it an unwise investment.
The sewer on Bonnet Street was constructed when there were only a few houses on the street.
as new homes were built they were connected so that all residences south of School Street are served by it.
B. J. Connell is the present treasurer and manager.
The 1946 town meeting voted to have the Selectmen appoint a committee to investigate and report on the feasibility of some system of sewage disposal and a disposal plant to serve Manchester Center, Depot, and Way's Lane.
The committee submitted a report signed by Louis Martin and Leon Wiley with a map published in the 1946 town report.
The layout of the sewer lines was designed by Henry W. Taylor, who was the engineer for the Manchester Village disposal plant.
No figures were submitted with the report and no action was taken on it by the town.
The 1958 town meeting directed town authorities to seek federal and state funds with which to conduct a preliminary survey of a proposed sewage plant with its attendant facilities.
There the matter stands with the prospect that soon Manchester may be removed from the roster of towns contributing raw sewage to its main streams.
Manchester's unusual interest in telegraphy has often been attributed to the fact that the Rev. J. D. Wickham, headmaster of Burr and Burton Seminary, was a personal friend and correspondent of the inventor, Samuel F. B. Morse.
At any rate, Manchester did not lag far behind the first commercial system which was set up in 1844 between Baltimore and Washington.
In 1846 Matthew B. Goodwin, jeweler and watchmaker, became the town's first telegrapher in a dwelling he built for himself and his business ``two doors north of the Equinox House'' or ``one door north of the Bank, Manchester, Vermont''.
Goodwin was telegrapher for the ``American Telegraph Company'' and the ``Troy and Canada Junction Telegraph Company''.
Shares of capital stock at $ 15 each in the latter company were payable at the Bank of Manchester or at various other Vermont banks.
A message of less than fifteen words to Bennington cost twenty-five cents.
By 1871 L. C. Orvis, manager of the ``Western Union Telegraph Company'', expressed willingness to send emergency telegrams on Sundays from his Village drugstore.
Orvis even needed to hire an assistant, Clark J. Wait.
In the fall of 1878, the ``Popular Telegraph Line'' was established between Manchester and Factory Point by the owners, Paul W. Orvis, Henry Gray, J. N. Hard, and Clark J. Wait.
The line soon lived up to its name, as local messages of moderate length could be sent for a dime and the company was quickly able to declare very liberal dividends on its capital stock.
In 1879 the same Clark Wait, with H. H. Holley of South Dorset, formed the ``American Telegraph Line'', extending from Manchester Depot via Factory Point and South Dorset to Dorset.
Besides being most convenient, the line ``soon proved a good investment for the owners''.
Telegraphers at the Depot at this time were Aaron C. Burr and Mark Manley of ``Burr and Manley'', dealers in lumber and dry goods.
Early equipment was very flimsy; the smallest gusts of wind toppled poles, making communications impossible.
But companies continued to spring up.
By 1883 the ``Battenkill Telegraph Company'' was in existence and Alvin Pettibone was its president.
Operating in 1887 was the ``Valley Telegraph Line'', officers of which were E. C. Orvis, president; H. K. Fowler, vice-president and secretary; J. N. Hard, treasurer; F. H. Walker, superintendent; H. S. Walker, assistant superintendent.
Operators were Arthur Koop and Norman Taylor.
Still existing on a ``Northern Union'' telegraph form is a typical peremptory message from Peru grocer J. J. Hapgood to Burton and Graves' store in Manchester - ``Get and send by stage sure four pounds best Porterhouse or sirloin steak, for Mrs. Hapgood send six sweet oranges''.
About 1888 J. E. McNaughton of Barnumville and E. G. Bacon became proprietors of the ``Green Mountain Telegraph Company'', connecting all offices on the Western Union line and extending over the mountain from Barnumville to Peru, Londonderry, South Londonderry, Lowell Lake, Windham, North Windham, Grafton, Cambridgeport, Saxton's River, and Bellows Falls.
From 1896 until 1910 John H. Whipple was manager of Western Union at the Center in the drugstore he purchased from Clark Wait.
The Village office of Western Union with George Towsley as manager and telegrapher continued in Hard's drugstore until 1905.
During the summers, Towsley often needed the assistance of a company operator.
These were the years when people flocked to Manchester not only to play golf, which had come into vogue, but also to witness the Ekwanok Country Club tournaments.
New Yorkers were kept informed of scores by reporters who telegraphed fifteen to twenty thousand words daily to the metropolitan newspapers.
This boosted local telegraph business and Manchester basked in all the free advertising.
In his wake came the District Traffic Supervisor and the cream of the telegraphic profession, ten of Boston's best, chosen for their long experience and thorough knowledge of golf.
During that tournament alone, some 250000 words winged their way out of Manchester.
The old Morse system was replaced locally by the Simplex modern automatic method in 1929, when Ellamae Heckman (Wilcox) was manager of the Western Union office.
During summers, business was so brisk that Mrs. Wilcox had two assistants and a messenger.
She was succeeded by Clarence Goyette.
Since that time the telegraph office has shifted in location from the railroad station at the Depot and shops at the Center back to the town clerk's office and drugstore at the Village.
After being located for some years in the Village at the Equinox Pharmacy under the supervision of Mrs. Harry Mercier, it is presently located in the Hill and Dale Shop, Manchester Center.
The first known telephone line in Manchester was established in July 1883 between Burr and Manley's store at Manchester Depot and the Kent and Root Marble Company in South Dorset.
This was extended the following year to include the railroad station agent's office and Thayer's Hotel at Factory Point.
Telephone wires from Louis Dufresne's house in East Manchester to the Dufresne lumber job near Bourn Pond were up about 1895.
Eber L. Taylor of Manchester Depot recorded the setting of phone poles in East Dorset and Barnumville in his diary for 1906.
These must have been for local calls strictly, as in May 1900 the ``only long distance telephone'' in town was transferred from C. B. Carleton's to Young's shoe store.
A small single switchboard was installed in the Village over Woodcock's hardware store (later E. H. Hemenway's).
George Woodcock was manager and troubleshooter; Elizabeth Way was the first operator; and a night operator was also employed.
Anyone fortunate enough to have one of those early phones advertised the fact along with the telephone number in the Manchester Journal.
In 1918 the New England Telephone Company began erecting a building to house its operations on the corner of U. S. Rte. 7 and what is now Memorial Avenue at Manchester Center.
Service running through Barnumville and to Bennington County towns east of the mountains was in the hands of the ``Gleason Telephone Company'' in 1925, but major supervision of telephone lines in Manchester was with the New England Telephone and Telegraph Company, which eventually gained all control.
More aerial and underground equipment was installed as well as office improvements to take care of the expanding business.
William Hitchcock, who retired in 1938, was a veteran of thirty-four years' local service.
Another veteran telephone operator was Edith Fleming Blackmer, who had been in the office forty years at the time of her death in 1960.
In 1932 Dorset received its own exchange, which made business easier for the Manchester office, but it was not until February 1953 that area service was extended to include Manchester and Dorset.
This eliminated toll calls between the two towns.
Within a month, calls were up seventy per cent.
Electricity plays such an important part in community life today that it is difficult to envision a time when current was not available for daily use.
Yet one has to go back only some sixty years.
The first mention of an electric plant in Manchester seems to be one installed in Reuben Colvin's and Houghton's gristmill on the West Branch in Factory Point.
No records are available as to the date or extent of installation, but it may have been in 1896.
This was working by the end of August and giving satisfactory service.
In November 1900 surveying was done under John Marsden on the east mountains to ascertain if it would be possible to get sufficient water and fall to operate an electric power plant.
Nothing came of it, perhaps due to lack of opportunity for water storage.
The next step was construction by the Manchester Light and Power Company of a plant on the west bank of the Battenkill south of Union Street bridge.
This was nearly completed May 23, 1901 with a promise of lights by June 10, but the first light did not go on until September 28.
It was at the end of the sidewalk in front of the Dellwood Cemetery cottage.
The first directors of the Manchester Light and Power Company were John Marsden, M. L. Manley, William F. Orvis, George Smith, and John Blackmer.
The officers were John Marsden, president; John C. Blackmer, vice-president; George Smith, treasurer; and William F. Orvis, secretary.
Marsden was manager of the company for ten years and manager of its successor company, the Colonial Light and Power Company, for one year.
Manchester then had two competing power companies until 1904, when the Manchester Light and Power Company purchased the transmission system of the Vail Company.
This was fortunate, as the Vail plant burned in 1905.
The Colonial Light and Power Company was succeeded by the Vermont Hydro-Electric Corporation, which in turn was absorbed by the Central Vermont Public Service Corporation.
The latter now furnishes the area with electricity distributed from a modern sub-station at Manchester Depot which was put into operation February 19, 1930 and was improved in January 1942 by the installation of larger transformers.
For a time following the abandonment of the local plant, electric current for Manchester was brought in from the south with an emergency tie-in with the Vermont Marble Company system to the north.
Some who have written on Utopia have treated it as ``a learned diversion of a learned world'', ``a phantasy with which More amused himself'', ``a holiday work, a spontaneous overflow of intellectual high spirits, a revel of debate, paradox, comedy and invention''.
With respect to this view, two points are worth making.
First, it appears to be based on the fact that on its title page Utopia is described as ``festivus'', ``gay''.
It overlooks the other fact that it is described as ``Nec minus salutaris quam festivus'', ``no less salutary than gay''.
More believed that a man could be both serious and gay.
That a writer who is gay cannot be serious is a common professional illusion, sedulously fostered by all too many academics who mistakenly believe that their frivolous efforts should be taken seriously because they are expressed with that dreary solemnity which is the only mode of expression their authors are capable of.
Secondly, to find a learned diversion and a pleasing joke in More's account of the stupid brutalities of early sixteenth century wars, of the anguish of the poor and dispossessed, of the insolence and cruelty of the rich and powerful requires a callousness toward suffering and sin that would be surprising in a moral imbecile and most surprising in More himself.
Indeed, it is even surprising in the Canon of Christ Church and Regius Professor of Ecclesiastical History, who fathered this most peculiar view, and in the brilliant Professor of Medieval and Renaissance English at Cambridge, who inherited it and is now its most eminent proponent.
But to return to the main line of our inquiry.
It is doubtful that Utopia is still widely read because More was medieval or even because he was a martyr - indeed, it is likely that these days many who read Utopia with interest do not even know that its author was a martyr.
Utopia is still widely read because in a sense More stood on the margin of modernity.
And if he did stand on the margins of modernity, it was not in dying a martyr for such unity as Papal supremacy might be able to force on Western Christendom.
It was not even in writing Latin epigrams, sometimes bawdy ones, or in translating Lucian from Greek into Latin or in defending the study of Greek against the attack of conservative academics, or in attacking the conservative theologians who opposed Erasmus's philological study of the New Testament.
Had More's writings been wholly limited to such exercises, they would be almost as dimly remembered as those of a dozen or so other authors living in his time, whose works tenuously survive in the minds of the few hundred scholars who each decade in pursuit of their very specialized occasions read those works.
More stands on the margins of modernity for one reason alone - because he wrote Utopia.
And the evidence that he does, indeed, stand there derives quite simply from the vigorous interest with which rather casual readers have responded to that book for the past century or so.
Only one other contemporary of More's evokes so immediate and direct a response, and only one other contemporary work - Niccolo Machiavelli and The Prince.
Can we discover what it is in Utopia that has evoked this response?
Remember that in seeking the modern in Utopia we do not deny the existence of the medieval and the Renaissance there; we do not even need to commit ourselves to assessing on the same inconceivable scale the relative importance of the medieval, the Renaissance, and the modern.
The medieval was the most important to Chambers because he sought to place Thomas More, the author of Utopia, in some intelligible relation with St. Thomas More, the martyr.
To others whose concern it is to penetrate the significance of Christian Humanism, the Renaissance elements are of primary concern.
But here we have a distinctly modern preoccupation; we want to know why that book has kept on selling the way it has; we want to know what is perennially new about Utopia.
To that question the answer is simple; it can be made in two words, Utopian communism.
But it is an answer which opens the door wide to an onrush of objections and denials.
Surely there is nothing new about communism.
We find it in Plato's republic, and in Utopia More acknowledges his debt to that book.
We find it in that ``common way of life pleasing to Christ and still in use among the truest societies of Christians'', that is, the better monasteries which made it easier to convert the Utopians to Christianity.
We find it in the later Stoic conception of man's natural condition which included the community of all possessions.
This conception was taken up by the early Church Fathers and by canon lawyers and theologians in the Middle Ages; and More was far too well read not to have come across it in one or several of the forms thus given it.
But although the idea of communism is very old even in More's day and did not spring full-clad from his imagination in 1515, it is not communism as such that we are concerned with.
We are concerned not with the genus communism nor with other species of the genus:
Perhaps one way to sharpen our sense of the modernity of Utopian communism is to contrast it with the principal earlier types of communistic theory.
We will achieve a more vivid sense of what it is by realizing what it is not.
In Plato's Republic communism is - to speak anachronistically - a communism of Janissaries.
Its function is to separate from the base ruled mass, among whom private ownership prevails, the governing warrior elite.
Moreover, it is too readily forgotten that in the Republic what gave the initial impetus to Plato's excursus into the construction of an imaginary commonwealth with its ruling-class communism of goods, wives, and children, was his quest for a canon for the proper ordering of the individual human psyche; and it is to this problem that the Republic ultimately returns.
In More's Utopia communism is not a means of separating out a warrior elite from the lumpish mass.
Utopian communism applies to all Utopians.
And in the economy of the book it is not peripheral but central.
The concern of Utopia is with the optimo reipublicae statu, the best ordering of a civil society; and it is again and again made clear that Utopian communism provides the institutional array indispensable to that best ordering.
in the Republic we have to do with an elite of physical and intellectual athletes, in the apostolic and monastic communities with an elite of spiritual and religious athletes.
The apostolic community was literally an elite : chosen by Christ himself.
And the monastic communities were supposed to be made up of volunteers selected only after a novitiate which would test their religious aptitude for monastic rigors, their spiritual athleticism.
Finally, the conception of the natural community of all possessions which originated with the Stoics was firmly fixed in a tradition by More's time, although it was not accepted by all the theologian philosophers of the Middle Ages.
In that tradition communism lay a safe distance back in the age of innocence before the Fall of Man.
It did not serve to contrast the existing order of society with a possible alternative order, because the age of innocence was not a possible alternative once man had sinned.
The actual function of patristic civilian canonist scholastic communism was adequately set forth by St. Gregory almost a millennium before More wrote Utopia.
``The soil is common to all men.
When we give the necessities of life to the poor, we restore to them what is already theirs.
Because community not severalty of property is the law of nature no man can assert an absolutely unalterable right to what is his.
Indeed, of all that is his every man is by nature and reason and therefore by conscience obligated to regard himself as a custodian.
He is a trustee for the common good, however feeble the safeguards which the positive or municipal law of property provides against his misuse of that share of the common fund, wisely or unwisely, entrusted to his keeping.
In contrast to this Stoic patristic view, Utopia implies that the nature of man is such that to rely on individual conscience to supply the deficiencies of municipal law is to embark on the bottomless sea of human sinfulness in a sieve.
The Utopians brace conscience with legal sanctions.
In a properly ordered society the massive force of public law performs the function which in natural law theory ineptly is left altogether to a small voice so often still.
In all the respects just indicated Utopian communism differs from previous conceptions in which community of possessions and living plays a role.
Neither from one of these conceptions nor from a combination of them can it be deduced.
We do not deny originality to the Agamemnon because Aeschylus found the tales of the house of Atreus among the folk lore of the Greeks.
It is not merely a new thing; it is one of the very few new things in Utopia; most of the rest is medieval or humanist or part of an old tradition of social criticism.
But to say that at a moment in history something is new is not necessarily to say that it is modern; and for this statement the best evidence comes within the five years following the publication of Utopia, when Martin Luther elaborates a new perception of the nature of the Divine's encounter with man.
New, indeed, is Luther's perception, but not modern, as anyone knows who has ever tried to make intelligible to modern students what Luther was getting at.
Although Utopian communism is both new in 1516 and also modern, it is not modern communism or even modern socialism, as they exist or have ever existed in theory or in practice.
Consider the features of Utopian communism:
generous public provision for the infirm; democratic and secret elections of all officers including priests, meals taken publicly in common refectories; a common habit or uniform prescribed for all citizens; even houses changed once a decade; six hours of manual labor a day for all but a handful of magistrates and scholars, and careful measures to prevent anyone from shirking; no private property, no money; no sort of pricing at all for any goods or services, and therefore no market in the economic sense of the term.
Whatever the merits of its intent, Utopian communism is far too naive, far too crude, to suit any modern socialist or communist.
It is not the details of Utopian communism that make Utopia modern, it is the spirit, the attitude of mind that informs those details.
What that spirit and attitude were we can best understand if we see more precisely how it contrasts with the communist tradition with the longest continuous history, the one which reached Christianity by the way of Stoicism through the Church Fathers of Late Antiquity.
During the Brown trial, however, the state's most powerful Democratic newspaper, the Providence Daily Post, stated that Brown was a murderer, a man of blood, and that he and his associates, with the assistance of Republicans and Abolitionists, had plotted not only the liberation of the slaves but also the overthrow of state and federal governments.
The Providence Daily Journal answered the Daily Post by stating that the raid of John Brown was characteristic of Democratic acts of violence and that ``He was acting in direct opposition to the Republican Party, who proclaim as one of their cardinal principles that they do not interfere with slavery in the states''.
The two major newspapers in Providence continued, throughout the crisis, to accuse each other of misrepresenting the facts and attempting to falsify history.
While the Daily Post continued to accuse Republicans and the Daily Journal continued to accuse Democrats, the Woonsocket Patriot complained that the Virginia authorities showed indecent and cowardly haste to condemn Brown and his men.
Editor Foss stated, ``Of their guilt there can be no doubt but they are entitled to sufficient time to prepare for trial, and a fair trial''.
The Providence Daily Post thought that there were probably good reasons for the haste in which the trial was being conducted and that the only thing gained by a delay would be calmer feelings.
The Providence Daily Journal stated that although the guilt of Brown was evident, the South must guarantee him a fair trial to preserve domestic peace.
On October 31, 1859, John Brown was found guilty of treason against the state of Virginia, inciting slave rebellion, and murder.
For these crimes he was sentenced to be hanged in public on Friday, December 2, 1859.
Although Rhode Islanders were preparing for the state elections, they watched John Brown's trial with extreme interest.
On Wednesday morning, November 2, 1859, the Providence Daily Journal stated that although Brown justly deserved the extreme penalty, no man, however criminal, ought to suffer the penalty without a fairer trial.
The editor's main criticism of the trial was the haste with which it was conducted.
The readers of the Providence Daily Post, however, learned that it was generally conceded that ``Old Brown'' had a fair trial.
Concerning the sentence the editor asked, ``What else can Virginia do than to hang the men who have defied her laws, organized treason, and butchered her citizens''.
In the eastern section of the state the newspapers' reaction to Brown's trial and sentence were basically identical.
J. Wheaton Smith, editor of the Warren Telegraph stated that ``the ends of justice must be satisfied, a solitary example must be set, in order that all those misnamed philantropists [ sic ], who, actuated by a blind zeal, dare to instigate riot, treason, and murder, may heed it and shape their future course accordingly''.
The editor of the Newport Advertiser could discover no evidence of extenuating circumstances in the Brown trial which would warrant making an exception to the infliction of capital punishment.
In direct contrast to the other Rhode Island editors, Samuel S. Foss of the Woonsocket Patriot outwardly condemned the trial as being completely unfair.
Despite the excitement being caused by the trial and sentence of John Brown, Rhode Islanders turned their attention to the state elections.
The state had elected Republican candidates in the past two years.
There was no doubt as to the control the Republican party exercised throughout the state.
If it failed on occasion to elect its candidates for general state offices by majorities, the failure was due to a lingering remnant of the Know-Nothing party, which called itself the American Republican party.
The American Republicans and the Republicans both nominated lieutenant-governor Turner for governor.
Elisha R. Potter was the Democratic candidate.
The results of the election of 1859 found Republican candidates not only winning the offices of governor and lieutenant-governor but also obtaining the two Congressional offices from the eastern and western sections of the state.
During the month of November hardly a day passed when there was not some mention of John Brown in the Rhode Island newspapers.
On November 7, 1859, the Providence Daily Journal reprinted a letter sent to John Brown from ``E. B.'', a Quaker lady in Newport.
``E. B.'' compared John Brown to Moses in that they were both acting to deliver millions from oppression.
In contrast to ``E. B.'', most Rhode Islanders hardly thought of John Brown as being another Moses.
Most attempts to develop any sympathy for Brown and his actions found an unresponsive audience in Rhode Island.
On Wednesday evening, November 23, 1859, in Warren, Rev. Mark Trafton of New Bedford, gave a ``Mission of Sympathy'' lecture in which he favorably viewed the Harper's Ferry insurrection.
The Warren Telegraph stated that many of Rev. Trafton's remarks were inappropriate and savored strongly of radicalism and fanaticism.
In its account of the Trafton lecture, the Providence Daily Post said that the remarks of Rev. Trafton made the people indignant.
No sympathy or admiration for Brown could be found in the Providence Daily Post, for the editor claimed that there were a score of men in the state prison who were a thousand times more deserving of sympathy.
The Providence Daily Journal, however, stated that Brown's courage, bravery, and heroism ``in a good cause would make a man a martyr; it gives something of dignity even to a bad one''.
The Woonsocket Patriot admitted that John Brown might deserve punishment or imprisonment ``but he should no more be hung than Henry A. Wise or James Buchanan''.
In her letter to John Brown, ``E. B.'', the Quakeress from Newport, had suggested that the American people owed more honor to John Brown for seeking to free the slaves than they did to George Washington.
During the latter days of November to the day of Brown's execution, it seems that most Rhode Islanders did not concur in ``E. B.'s'' suggestion.
On November 22, 1859, the Providence Daily Journal stated that although Brown's ``pluck'' and honest fanaticism must be admired, any honor paid to Brown would only induce other fanatics to imitate his actions.
A week later the Daily Journal had discovered the initial plans of some Providence citizens to hold a meeting honoring John Brown on the day of his execution.
The editor of the Daily Journal warned, ``that if such a demonstration be made, it will not find support or countenance from any of the men whose names are recognized as having a right to speak for Providence''.
The Providence Daily Post's editor wrote that he could not believe that a meeting honoring Brown was to be held in Providence.
He further called upon the people of Providence to rebuke the meeting and avoid disgrace.
On December 2, 1859, John Brown was hanged at Charles Town, Virginia.
Extraordinary precautions were taken so that no stranger be allowed in the city and no citizen within the enclosure surrounding the scaffold.
Such was not the case in Rhode Island.
The only public demonstration in honor of John Brown was held at Pratt's Hall in Providence, on the day of his execution.
Despite the opposition of the city newspapers, the Pratt Hall meeting ``brought together a very respectable audience, composed in part of those who had been distinguished for years for their radical views upon the subject of slavery, of many of our colored citizens, and of those who were attracted to the place by the novelty of such a gathering''.
Seated on the platform were Amos C. Barstow, ex-mayor of Providence and a wealthy Republican stove manufacturer; Thomas Davis, an uncompromising Garrisonian; the Reverend Augustus Woodbury, a Unitarian minister; the Reverend George T. Day, a Free-Will Baptist; Daniel w. Vaughan, and William H. H. Clements.
The latter two were appointed secretaries.
The first speaker was Amos C. Barstow who had been unanimously chosen president of the meeting.
He spoke of his desire to promote the abolition of slavery by peaceable means and he compared John Brown of Harper's Ferry to the John Brown of Rhode Island's colonial period.
Barstow concluded that as Rhode Island's John Brown became a canonized hero, if not a saint, so would it be with John Brown of Harper's Ferry.
The next speaker was George T. Day.
Following Day was Woodbury who spoke of his disapproval of Brown's attempt at servile insurrection, his admiration of Brown's character, and his opposition to slavery.
Woodbury's remarks were applauded by a portion of the audience several times and once there was hissing.
The fourth and last speaker was Thomas Davis.
By this time large numbers of the audience had left the hall.
Davis commenced his remarks by an allusion to the general feeling of opposition which the meeting had encountered from many of the citizens and all the newspapers of the city.
He said that the propriety or impropriety of such a gathering was a question that was to be settled by every man in accordance with the convictions of private judgments.
In the remainder of his speech Davis spoke of his admiration for Brown and warned those who took part in the meeting that they ``are liable to the charge that they are supporting traitors and upholding men whom the laws have condemned''.
He recalled that in Rhode Island a party opposed to the state's condemnation of a man (Thomas W. Dorr) proclaimed the state's action as a violation of the law of the land and the principles of human liberty.
At the close of Davis' speech the following preamble and resolutions were read by the president, and on the question of their adoption passed unanimously:
Therefore ,
Resolved that, while we most decidedly disapprove the methods he adopted to accomplish his objects, yet in his willingness to die in aid of the great cause of human freedom, we still recognize the qualities of a noble nature and the exercise of a spirit which true men have always admired and which history never fails to honor.
Resolved that his wrongs and bereavements in Kansas, occasioned by the violence and brutality of those who were intent on the propagation of slavery in that territory, call for a charitable judgment upon his recent efforts in Virginia to undermine the despotism from which he had suffered, and commend his family to the special sympathy and aid of all who pity suffering and reverence justice.
Resolved that the anti slavery sentiment is becoming ripe for resolute action.
Resolved, that we find in this fearful tragedy at Harper's Ferry a reason for more earnest effort to remove the evil of slavery from the whole land as speedily as possible.
On the morning following the Pratt Hall meeting the editor of the Providence Daily Journal wrote that although the meeting was milder and less extreme than those held in other areas for similar purposes, it could have been avoided completely.
Rather than being deceived, the eye is puzzled; instead of seeing objects in space, it sees nothing more than - a picture.
Through 1911 and 1912, as the Cubist facet-plane's tendency to adhere to the literal surface became harder and harder to deny, the task of keeping the surface at arm's length fell all the more to eye-undeceiving contrivances.
To reinforce, and sometimes to replace, the simulated typography, Braque and Picasso began to mix sand and other foreign substances with their paint; the granular texture thus created likewise called attention to the reality of the surface and was effective over much larger areas.
These areas by virtue of their abrupt density of pattern, stated the literal surface with such new and superior force that the resulting contrast drove the simulated printing into a depth from which it could be rescued - and set to shuttling again - only by conventional perspective; that is, by being placed in such relation to the forms depicted within the illusion that these forms left no room for the typography except near the surface.
The accumulation of such devices, however, soon had the effect of telescoping, even while separating, surface and depth.
The process of flattening seemed inexorable, and it became necessary to emphasize the surface still further in order to prevent it from fusing with the illusion.
It was for this reason, and no other that I can see, that in September 1912, Braque took the radical and revolutionary step of pasting actual pieces of imitation woodgrain wallpaper to a drawing on paper, instead of trying to simulate its texture in paint.
Picasso says that he himself had already made his first collage toward the end of 1911, when he glued a piece of imitation caning oilcloth to a painting on canvas.
It is true that his first collage looks more Analytical than Braque 's, which would confirm the date he assigns it.
But it is also true that Braque was the consistent pioneer in the use of simulated textures as well as of typography; and moreover, he had already begun to broaden and simplify the facet-planes of Analytical Cubism as far back as the end of 1910.
When we examine what each master says was his first collage we see that much the same thing happens in each.
(It makes no real difference that Braque's collage is on paper and eked out in charcoal, while Picasso's is on canvas and eked out in oil .)
But here again, the surface declaring device both overshoots and falls short of its aim.
For the illusion of depth created by the contrast between the affixed material and everything else gives way immediately to an illusion of forms in bas-relief, which gives way in turn, and with equal immediacy, to an illusion that seems to contain both - or neither.
Because of the size of the areas it covers, the pasted paper establishes undepicted flatness bodily, as more than an indication or sign.
Literal flatness now tends to assert itself as the main event of the picture, and the device boomerangs : the illusion of depth is rendered even more precarious than before.
Instead of isolating the literal flatness by specifying and circumscribing it, the pasted paper or cloth releases and spreads it, and the artist seems to have nothing left but this undepicted flatness with which to finish as well as start his picture.
The actual surface becomes both ground and background, and it turns out - suddenly and paradoxically - that the only place left for a three-dimensional illusion is in front of, upon, the surface.
In their very first collages, Braque and Picasso draw or paint over and on the affixed paper or cloth, so that certain of the principal features of their subjects as depicted seem to thrust out into real, bas-relief space - or to be about to do so - while the rest of the subject remains imbedded in, or flat upon, the surface.
And the surface is driven back, in its very surfaceness, only by this contrast.
In the upper center of Braque's first collage, Fruit Dish (in Douglas Cooper's collection), a bunch of grapes is rendered with such conventionally vivid sculptural effect as to lift it practically off the picture plane.
Yet the violent immediacy of the wallpaper strips pasted to the paper, and the only lesser immediacy of block capitals that simulate window lettering, manage somehow to push the grape cluster back into place on the picture plane so that it does not ``jump''.
At the same time, the wallpaper strips themselves seem to be pushed into depth by the lines and patches of shading charcoaled upon them, and by their placing in relation to the block capitals; and these capitals seem in turn to be pushed back by their placing, and by contrast with the corporeality of the woodgraining.
Thus every part and plane of the picture keeps changing place in relative depth with every other part and plane; and it is as if the only stable relation left among the different parts of the picture is the ambivalent and ambiguous one that each has with the surface.
And the same thing, more or less, can be said of the contents of Picasso's first collage.
In later collages of both masters, a variety of extraneous materials are used, sometimes in the same work, and almost always in conjunction with every other eye-deceiving and eye-undeceiving device they can think of.
The area adjacent to one edge of a piece of affixed material - or simply of a painted in form - will be shaded to pry that edge away from the surface, while something will be drawn, painted or even pasted over another part of the same shape to drive it back into depth.
Planes defined as parallel to the surface also cut through it into real space, and a depth is suggested optically which is greater than that established pictorially.
All this expands the oscillation between surface and depth so as to encompass fictive space in front of the surface as well as behind it.
Flatness may now monopolize everything, but it is a flatness become so ambiguous and expanded as to turn into illusion itself - at least an optical if not, properly speaking, a pictorial illusion.
Out of this re-created literalness, the Cubist subject reemerged.
For it had turned out, by a further paradox of Cubism, that the means to an illusion of depth and plasticity had now become widely divergent from the means of representation or imaging.
In the Analytical phase of their Cubism, Braque and Picasso had not only had to minimize three-dimensionality simply in order to preserve it; they had also had to generalize it - to the point, finally, where the illusion of depth and relief became abstracted from specific three-dimensional entities and was rendered largely as the illusion of depth and relief as such : as a disembodied attribute and expropriated property detached from everything not itself.
In order to be saved, plasticity had had to be isolated; and as the aspect of the subject was transposed into those clusters of more or less interchangeable and contour obliterating facet-planes by which plasticity was isolated under the Cubist method, the subject itself became largely unrecognizable.
Cubism, in its 1911 - 1912 phase (which the French, with justice, call ``hermetic'') was on the verge of abstract art.
It was then that Picasso and Braque were confronted with a unique dilemma : they had to choose between illusion and representation.
If they opted for illusion, it could only be illusion per se - an illusion of depth, and of relief, so general and abstracted as to exclude the representation of individual objects.
If, on the other hand, they opted for representation, it had to be representation per se - representation as image pure and simple, without connotations (at least, without more than schematic ones) of the three-dimensional space in which the objects represented originally existed.
It was the collage that made the terms of this dilemma clear : the representational could be restored and preserved only on the flat and literal surface now that illusion and representation had become, for the first time, mutually exclusive alternatives.
(This provides whatever real justification there is for the talk about ``reality'' .)
But the inner, formal logic of Cubism, as it worked itself out through the collage, had just as much to do with shaping their decision.
When the smaller facet-planes of Analytical Cubism were placed upon or juxtaposed with the large, dense shapes formed by the affixed materials of the collage, they had to coalesce - become ``synthesized'' - into larger planar shapes themselves simply in order to maintain the integrity of the picture plane.
Left in their previous atom-like smallness, they would have cut away too abruptly into depth; and the broad, opaque shapes of pasted paper would have been isolated in such a way as to make them jump out of plane.
Large planes juxtaposed with other large planes tend to assert themselves as independent shapes, and to the extent that they are flat, they also assert themselves as silhouettes; and independent silhouettes are apt to coincide with the recognizable contours of the subject from which a picture starts (if it does start from a subject).
It was because of this chain-reaction as much as for any other reason - that is, because of the growing independence of the planar unit in collage as a shape - that the identity of depicted objects, or at least parts of them, re-emerged in Braque's and Picasso's papiers colles and continued to remain more conspicuous there - but only as flattened silhouettes - than in any of their paintings done wholly in oil before the end of 1913.
Analytical Cubism came to an end in the collage, but not conclusively; nor did Synthetic Cubism fully begin there.
Only when the collage had been exhaustively translated into oil, and transformed by this translation, did Cubism become an affair of positive color and flat, interlocking silhouettes whose legibility and placement created allusions to, if not the illusion of, unmistakable three-dimensional identities.
Synthetic Cubism began with Picasso alone, late in 1913 or early in 1914; this was the point at which he finally took the lead in Cubist innovation away from Braque, never again to relinquish it.
It was as though, in that instant, he had felt the flatness of collage as too constricting and had suddenly tried to escape all the way back - or forward - to literal three-dimensionality.
This he did by using utterly literal means to carry the forward push of the collage (and of Cubism in general) literally into the literal space in front of the picture plane.
Some time in 1912, Picasso cut out and folded a piece of paper in the shape of a guitar; to this he glued and fitted other pieces of paper and four taut strings, thus creating a sequence of flat surfaces in real and sculptural space to which there clung only the vestige of a picture plane.
The affixed elements of collage were extruded, as it were, and cut off from the literal pictorial surface to form a bas-relief.
(Los Angeles in 1957 finally bowed to the skyscraper .)
And without high density in the core, rapid-transit systems cannot be maintained economically, let alone built from scratch at today's prices.
However, the building of freeways and garages cannot continue forever.
The new interchange among the four Los Angeles freeways, including the grade-constructed accesses, occupies by itself no less than eighty acres of downtown land, one-eighth of a square mile, an area about the size of Rockefeller Center in New York.
It is hard to believe that this mass of intertwined concrete constitutes what the law calls ``the highest and best use'' of centrally located urban land.
Subways improved land values without taking away land; freeways boost valuation less (because the garages they require are not prime buildings by a long shot), and reduce the acreage that can be taxed.
Downtown Los Angeles is already two-thirds freeway, interchange, street, parking lot and garage - one of those preposterous ``if'' statistics has already come to pass.
The freeway with narrowly spaced interchanges concentrates and mitigates the access problem, but it also acts inevitably as an artificial, isolating boundary.
City planners do not always use this boundary as effectively as they might.
Less ambitious freeway plans may be more successful - especially when the roadways and interchanges are raised, allowing for cross access at many points and providing parking areas below the ramp.
Meanwhile, the automobile and its friend the truck have cost the central city some of its industrial dominance.
In ever greater numbers, factories are locating in the suburbs or in ``industrial parks'' removed from the city's political jurisdiction.
The appeal of the suburb is particularly strong for heavy industry, which must move bulky objects along a lengthy assembly line and wants enough land area to do the entire job on one floor.
To light industry, the economies of being on one floor are much slighter, but efficiency engineers usually believe in them, and manufacturers looking for ways to cut costs cannot be prevented from turning to efficiency engineers.
It is merely the latest example of the leapfrog growth which formed the pattern of virtually all American cities.
The big factories which are relatively near the centers of our cities - the rubber factories in Akron, Chrysler's Detroit plants, U. S. Steel's Pittsburgh works - often began on these sites at a time when that was the edge of the city, yet close to transport (river), storage (piers) and power (river).
The ``leapfrog'' was a phenomenon of the railroad and the steam turbine, and the time when the belts of residence surrounding the old factory area were not yet blighted.
The truck and the car gave the manufacturer a new degree of freedom in selecting his plant site.
Until internal combustion became cheap, he had to be near a railroad siding and a trolley line or an existing large community of lower-class homes.
The railroad siding is still important - it is usually, though not always, true that long-haul shipment by rail is cheaper than trucking.
But anybody who promises a substantial volume of business can get a railroad to run a short spur to his plant these days, and many businesses can live without the railroad.
And there are now many millions of workers for whom the factory with the big parking lot, which can be reached by driving across or against the usual pattern of rush hour traffic and grille route bus lines, is actually more convenient than the walk-to factory.
Willow Run, General Electric's enormous installations at Louisville and Syracuse, the Pentagon, Boeing in Seattle, Douglas and Lockheed in Los Angeles, the new automobile assembly plants everywhere - none of these is substantially served by any sort of conventional mass rapid transit.
And wherever the new thruways go up their banks are lined by neat glass and metal and colored brick light industry.
The drive along Massachusetts' Route 128, the by-pass which makes an arc about twenty miles from downtown Boston, may be a vision of the future.
The future could be worse.
The plants along Route 128 are mostly well designed and nicely set against the New England rocks and trees.
They can even be rather grand, like Edward Land's monument to the astonishing success of Polaroid.
But they deny the values of the city - the crowded, competitive, tolerant city, the ``melting pot'' which gave off so many of the most admirable American qualities.
They are segregated businesses, combining again on one site the factory and the office, drawing their work force from segregated communities.
It is interesting to note how many of the plants on Massachusetts' Route 128 draw most of their income either from the government in non-competitive cost-plus arrangements, or from the exploitation of patents which grant at least a partial monopoly.
While the factories were always the center of the labor market, they were often on the city's periphery.
Even the loss of hotel business to the outskirt's motel has been relatively painless; the hotel-motel demarcation is becoming harder to find every year.
What hurts most is the damage the automobile has done to central-city retailing, especially in those cities where public transit is feeble.
Some retailing, of course, always spreads with the population - grocery stores, drugstores, local haberdasheries and dress shops, candy stores and the like.
But whenever a major purchase was contemplated forty years ago - a new bedroom set or a winter coat, an Easter bonnet, a bicycle for Junior - the family set off for the downtown department store, where the selection would be greatest.
Department stores congregated in the ``one hundred per cent location'', where all the transit lines converged.
These stores are still there, but the volume of the ``downtown store'' has been on a relative decline, while in many cities the suburban ``branch'' sells more and more dry goods.
If the retailer and hotelman's downtown unit sales have been decreasing, however, his dollar volume continues to rise, and it is dollars which you put in the bank.
In most discussions of this phenomenon, the figures are substantially inflated.
No suburban shopping-center branch - not even Hudson's vast Northland outside Detroit - does anything like the unit volume of business or carries anything like the variety of merchandise to be found in the home store.
the suburbanite naturally calls a local rather than a central city number if both are listed in an advertisement, especially if the local call eliminates city sales tax.
The suburban branch is thereby credited with a sale which would have been made even if its glass doors had never opened.
Accounting procedures which continue to charge a disproportionate overhead and warehouse expense to the main store make the branches seem more profitable than they are.
In many cases that statement ``We break even on our downtown operation and make money on our branches'' would be turned around if the cost analysis were recalculated on terms less prejudicial to the old store.
Fear of the competition - always a great motivating force in the American economy - makes retailers who do not have suburban operations exaggerate both the volume and the profitability of their rival's shiny new branches.
The fact seems to be that very many large branch stores are uneconomical, that the choice of location in the suburbs is as important as it was downtown, and that even highly suburbanized cities will support only so many big branches.
Moreover, the cost of operations is always high in any new store, as the conservative bankers who act as controllers for retail giants are beginning to discover.
When all has been said, however, the big branch store remains a major break with history in the development of American retailing.
Just as the suburban factory may be more convenient than the downtown plant to the worker with a car, the trip to the shopping center may seem far easier than to the downtown department store, though both are the same distance from home.
Raymond Vernon reports that residents of East St. Louis have been driving across the Mississippi, through the heart of downtown St. Louis and out to the western suburbs for major shopping, simply because parking is easier at the big branches than it is in the heart of town.
To the extent that the problem is merely parking, an aggressive downtown management, like that of Lazarus Brothers in Columbus, Ohio, can fight back successfully by building a garage on the lot next door.
If the distant patron of the suburban branch has been frightened away from downtown by traffic problems, however, the city store can only pressure the politicians to do something about the highways or await the completion of the federal highway program.
And if the affection for the suburban branch reflects a desire to shop with ``nice people'', rather than with the indiscriminate urban mass which supports the downtown department store, the central location may be in serious trouble.
Today, according to land economist Homer Hoyt, shopping centers and their associated parking lots cover some 46000 acres of land, which is almost exactly the total land area in all the nation's Central Business Districts put together.
The downtown store continues to offer the great inducement of variety, both within its gates and across the street, where other department stores are immediately convenient for the shopper who wants to see what is available before making up her mind.
If anything may be predicted in the quicksilver world of retailing, it seems likely that the suburban branch will come to dominate children's clothing (taking the kid downtown is too much of a production), household gadgetry and the discount business in big-ticket items.
Department stores were built on dry goods, especially ladies' fashions, and in this area, in the long run, the suburban branches will be hard put to compete against downtown.
If this analysis is correct, the suburban branches will turn out to be what management's cost accountants refuse to acknowledge, marginal operations rather than major factors.
``How ya gonna keep' em down on the farm''?
was a question that had to be asked long before they saw Paree.
Though Americans usually lived in groups segregated by national origin or religious belief, they liked to work and shop in the noise and vitality of downtown.
Only a radical change in the nature of the population in the central city would be likely to destroy this preference - and we must now turn our attention to the question of whether such a change, gloomily foreseen by so many urban diagnosticians, is actually upon us.
In their book American Skyline, Christopher Tunnard and Henry Hope Reed argue that Franklin Roosevelt's New Deal was what made the modern suburb a possibility - a fine ironical argument, when you consider how suburbanites tend to vote.
The first superhighways - New York's Henry Hudson and Chicago's Lake Shore, San Francisco's Bay Bridge and its approaches, a good slice of the Pennsylvania Turnpike - were built as part of the federal works program which was going to cure the depression.
At the same time, Roosevelt's Federal Housing Administration, coupled with Henry Morgenthau's cheap-money policy, permitted ordinary lower-middle-class families to build their own homes.
Bankers who had been reluctant to lend without better security than the house itself got that security from the U. S. government; householders who had been unable to pick up the burden of short-term high interest mortgages found they could borrow for twenty-five years at 4 per cent, under government aegis.
In the midwest, oxidation ponds are used extensively for the treatment of domestic sewage from suburban areas.
Research at Fayette, Missouri on oxidation ponds has shown that the BOD in the treated effluent varied from 30 to 53 mg / l with loadings from 8 to 120 lb BOD / day / acre.
Since experience indicates that effluents from oxidation ponds do not create major problems at these BOD concentrations, the goal for the effluent quality of the accelerated treatment system was the same as from conventional oxidation ponds.
Recent studies by Weston and Stack had indicated that a turbine aerator could be added to an oxidation pond to increase the rate of oxygen transfer.
Their study showed that it was possible to transfer 3 to 4 lb of oxygen / hr / hp.
O'Connor and Eckenfelder discussed the use of aerated lagoons for treating organic wastes.
They indicated that a 4 - day retention, aerated lagoon would give 60 to 76 per cent BOD reduction.
Later, Eckenfelder increased the efficiency of treatment to between 75 and 85 per cent in the summer months.
It appeared from the limited information available that the aerated lagoon might offer a satisfactory means of increasing the capacity of existing oxidation ponds as well as providing the same degree of treatment in a smaller volume.
With the development of the Red Bridge Subdivision south of Kansas City, Missouri, the developer was faced with the problem of providing adequate sewage disposal.
This necessitated the construction of temporary sewage treatment facilities with an expected life from 5 to 15 yrs..
For the initial development an oxidation pond was constructed as shown in Figure 1.
The oxidation pond has a surface area of 4.77 acres and a depth of 4 ft.
The pond is currently serving 1230 persons or 260 persons per acre.
In the summer of 1960 the oxidation pond became completely septic and emitted obnoxious odors.
It was possible to maintain aerobic conditions in the pond by regular additions of sodium nitrate until the temperature decreased and the algae population changed from blue-green to green algae.
The anaerobic conditions in the existing oxidation pond necessitated examination of other methods for supplying additional oxygen than by sodium nitrate.
At the same time further expansion in the Red Bridge Subdivision required the construction of additional sewage treatment facilities.
The large land areas required for oxidation ponds made this type of treatment financially unattractive to the developer.
The lack of adequate data on the aerated lagoon system prompted the developer to construct an aerated lagoon pilot plant to determine its feasibility for treating domestic sewage.
The pilot plant was a circular lagoon 81 ft in diam at the surface and 65 ft in diam at the bottom, 4 ft below the surface, with a volume of 121000 gal.
The side slopes were coated with fiberglas matting coated with asphalt to prevent erosion.
The pilot lagoon was located as shown in Figure 1 to serve the area just south of the existing housing area.
The major contributor was a shopping center with houses being added to the system as the subdivision developed.
The pilot lagoon was designed to handle the wastes from 314 persons with a 4 - day aeration period.
Initially, the wastewater would be entirely from the shopping center with the domestic sewage from the houses increasing over an 18 - month period.
This operation would permit evaluation of the pilot plant, with a slowly increasing load, over a reasonable period of time.
The pilot plant was equipped with a 3 - hp turbine aerator (Figure 2).
The sewage flow into the treatment plant was metered and continuously recorded on 24 - hr charts.
The raw sewage was introduced directly under the turbine aerator to insure maximum mixing of the raw sewage with the aeration tank contents.
The effluent was collected through two pipes and discharged to the Blue River through a surface drainage ditch.
Composite samples were collected at weekly intervals.
The long retention period and the complete mixing concept prevented rapid changes in either the mixed liquor or in the effluent.
Weekly samples would make any changes more readily discernible than daily samples.
The composite samples were normally collected over a 6 - hr period, but an occasional 24 - hr composite was made.
Examination of the operations of the shopping center permitted correlation of the 6 - hr composite samples with 24 - hr operations.
The data indicated that the organic load during the 6 - hr composites was essentially 50 per cent of the 24 - hr organic load.
Efforts were made to take the grab samples at random periods so that the mass of data could be treated as a 6 - hr composite sample.
A single 24 - hr composite sample indicated that the sewage flow pattern and characteristics were typical.
The BOD of the influent to the pilot plant varied between 110 and 710 mg / l with an average of 350 mg / l.
This was equivalent to 240 mg / l BOD on a 24 - hr basis.
The BOD of the raw sewage was typical of domestic sewage from a subdivision.
The BOD in the effluent averaged 58 mg / l, a 76 - per cent reduction over the 24 - hr period.
Examination of the data in Table 1, shows that a few samples contributed to raising the effluent BOD.
The periods of high effluent BOD occurred during cold periods when operational problems with the aerator resulted.
Ice caused the aerator to overload, straining the drive belts.
The organic loading on the unit averaged 32 lb of BOD / day or about 2 lb BOD / day 1000 cu ft aeration capacity.
Needless to say, the organic load was very low on a volumetric basis, but was 270 lb BOD / day / acre on a surface loading basis.
It seems that the aerated lagoon was a very heavily loaded oxidation pond or a lightly loaded activated sludge system.
The flow rate remained relatively constant during the winter months as shown in Table 1,.
With the spring rains the flow rose rapidly due to infiltration in open sewers.
As construction progresses, the volume of storm drainage will be sharply reduced.
The retention period in the aerated lagoon ranged from 9.8 to 2.6 days, averaging 6.4 days.
The large amount of vegetable grindings from the grocery store in the shopping center created a suspended solids problem.
The vegetables were not readily metabolized by the bacteria in the aeration unit and tended to float on the surface.
The average volatile suspended solids in the effluent was 75 mg / l while MLSS averaged 170 mg / l volatile suspended solids.
The average sludge age based on displacement of solids was calculated to be 14.5 days.
The oxygen uptake rate in the mixed liquor averaged 0.8 mg / l / hr during the first four months of this study.
Variations in aerator speeds during the latter two months of this study caused increased mixing and increased oxygen demand.
The increase in oxygen uptake rates from 1.2 to 2.6 mg / l / hr which followed an increase in rotor speed was believed to be related to resuspension of solids which had settled at the lower rotor speeds.
It appeared that most of the mixed liquor suspended solids were active microbial solids with the heavier, less active solids settling out.
The suspended solids discharged in the effluent were found to be the major source of the BOD.
Removal of the suspended solids by a membrane filter yielded an average effluent containing only 20 mg / l BOD.
The BOD in the drainage ditch receiving the pilot plant effluent averaged 12 mg / l.
Routine microscopic examinations were made of the mixed liquor as indicated by McKinney and Gram for the various types of protozoa.
It was found that the aerated lagoon was an activated sludge system rather than an oxidation pond.
At no time were algae found in the mixed liquor.
The bacteria formed typical activated sludge floc.
The floc particles were all small as the heavier floc settled out.
Initially, the flagellated protozoa predominated, but they soon gave way to the free swimming ciliated protozoa.
As the temperature decreased, the number of free swimming ciliated protozoa decreased.
Very little protozoa activity existed below 40 ` F.
When the temperature reached 32 ` F all protozoan activity ceased; but as the temperature rose, the numbers of protozoa increased rapidly.
The predomination of free swimming ciliated protozoa is indicative of a high bacterial population.
One of the important aspects of this study was to determine the oxygen transfer relationships of the mechanical aerator.
Routine determinations were made for dissolved oxygen in the mixed liquor and for oxygen uptake rates.
The data given in Table 2, show the routine operation of the aerator.
The dissolved oxygen in the aeration unit was consistently high until January 29, 1961.
An extended cold spell caused ice to build up on the aerator which was mounted on a floating platform and caused the entire platform to sink lower in the water.
The added resistance to the rotor damaged the drive belts and reduced the oxygen transfer capacity.
It was approximately one month before the belt problem was noticed and corrected, but at no time was there a deficiency of dissolved oxygen.
A series of eight special tests were conducted at different rotor speeds to determine the oxygen transfer rate.
The rate of oxygen transfer at 1.0 - mg / l dissolved oxygen concentration and 10 ` C for various rotor speeds is given in Table 3,.
The maximum rate of oxygen transfer at 1.0 mg / l dissolved oxygen was calculated as 220 lb / day at a maximum rate of 9.3 mg / l / hr.
The actual power requirements indicated 2 lb oxygen transfer / hr / hp.
The polyethylene cover reduced the oxygen transfer rate by 10 per cent, indicating that the maximum oxygen transfer is at the rotor rather than through the surface.
During this study septic conditions developed in the oxidation pond in the spring when the ice melted.
Shortly after this study ended septic conditions resulted which required the addition of sodium nitrate.
The location of the oxidation pond in a high value residential area makes odor nuisances a sensitive problem for the developer.
The organic concentration in the influent raw sewage ranged from 160 to 270 mg / l of BOD with an average of 230 mg / l.
The BOD data are given in Table 4,.
The daily sewage volume to the oxidation pond averaged 147000 gpd, giving a retention period of 42 days.
The organic loading on the pond was slightly under 60 lb BOD / day / acre.
The effluent BOD averaged 34 mg / l, a little lower than that of the study at Fayette indicated for a loading of 60 lb BOD / day / acre.
The BOD of the effluent ranged from a minimum of 13 to a maximum of 47 mg / l.
Microscopic examination of the effluent showed that minimum BOD occurred when the algae began to decrease with cold weather.
When the algae began to build up again, the effluent BOD rose.
During the two weeks when the algae disappeared from the effluent BOD's in the effluent were 18 and 16 mg / l.
Scotty did not go back to school.
His parents talked seriously and lengthily to their own doctor and to a specialist at the University Hospital - Mr. McKinley was entitled to a discount for members of his family - and it was decided it would be best for him to take the remainder of the term off, spend a lot of time in bed and, for the rest, do pretty much as he chose - provided, of course, he chose to do nothing too exciting or too debilitating.
Scotty accepted the decision with indifference and did not enter the arguments.
He was discharged from the hospital after a two day checkup and he and his parents had what Mr. McKinley described as a ``celebration lunch'' at the cafeteria on the campus.
Rachel wore a smart hat and, because she had been warned recently about smoking, puffed at her cigarettes through a long ivory holder stained with lipstick.
Scotty's father sat sprawled in his chair, angular, alert as a cricket, looking about at the huge stainless-steel appointments of the room with an expression of proprietorship.
Teachers - men who wore brown suits and had gray hair and pleasant smiles - came to their table to talk shop and to be introduced to Scotty and Rachel.
Rachel was polite, Scotty indifferent.
They ate the cafeteria food with its orange sauces and Scotty gazed without interest at his food, the teachers, the heroic baronial windows, and the bright ranks of college banners.
His father tried to make the food a topic.
``The blueberry pie is good, Scotty.
He looked at his son, his face worried.
Scotty murmured, ``No, thanks'', so softly his father had to bend his gaunt height across the table and turn a round brown ear to him.
Scotty regarded the ear and the grizzled hair around it with a moment of interest.
He said more loudly, ``I'm full, old Pop''.
He had eaten almost nothing on the crested, three sectioned plate and had drunk about half the milk in its paper container.
``He's all right, Craig'', Rachel said.
``I can fix him something later in the afternoon when we get home''.
Since his seizure, Scotty had had little appetite; yet his changed appearance, surprisingly, was one of plumpness.
His face was fuller; his lips and the usually sharp lines of his jaw had become swollen looking.
Even his neck seemed thicker and therefore shorter.
His hands, which had been as quick as a pair of fluttering birds, were now neither active nor really relaxed.
They lay on his lap, palms up, stiffly motionless, the tapered fingers a little thick at the joints.
Altogether he had, since the seizure, the appearance of a boy who overindulged in food and took no exercise.
He looked lazy, spoiled, a little querulous.
Rachel had little to say.
She greeted her husband's colleagues with smiling politeness, offering nothing.
Mr. McKinley, for all his sprawling and his easy familiarity, was completely alert to his son, eyes always on the still face, jumping to anticipate Scotty's desires.
It was a strained, silent lunch.
The doctors had suggested Scotty remain most of every afternoon in bed until he was stronger.
Since Mr. McKinley had to give a lecture, Rachel and Scotty drove home alone in the Plymouth.
They did not speak much.
Scotty gazed out at ugly gray slums and said softly, ``Look at those stupid kids''.
It was a Negro section of peeling row houses, store-front churches and ragged children.
Rachel had to bend toward Scotty and ask him to repeat.
He said, ``Nothing''.
And then : ``There are lots of kids around here''.
Scotty looked at the children, his mouth slightly opened, his eyes dull.
The days seemed short, perhaps because his routine was, each day, almost the same.
He rose late and went down in his bathrobe and slippers to have breakfast either alone or with Rachel.
Virginia treated him with attention and tried to tempt his appetite with special food : biscuits, cookies, candies - the result of devoted hours in the tiled kitchen.
She would hover over him and, looking like her brother, anxiously watch the progress of Scotty's fork or spoon.
``You don't eat enough, honey.
Try to get that down''.
Rachel, observing, would say, ``He has to rediscover his own capacity.
It'll take time''.
Virginia and Rachel talked to each other quietly now, as allies who are political rather than natural might in a war atmosphere.
Scotty was neutral.
He did not resent their supervision or Virginia's sometimes tiring sympathy.
He ate what he felt like, slept as much or as little as he pleased, and moved about the draughty rooms of the house, when he was not in bed, with slow dubious steps, like an elderly tourist in a cathedral.
His energy was gone.
He was able, now, to sit for hours in a chair in the living room and stare out at the bleak yard without moving.
His hands lay loosely, yet stiffly - they were like wax hands : almost lifelike, not quite - folded in his lap; his mouth hung slightly open.
When he was asked a question or addressed in such a way that some response was inescapable, he would answer; if, as often happened, he had to repeat because he had spoken too softly, he would repeat his words in the same way, without emphasis or impatience, only a little louder.
He had not mentioned Kate.
He had not even thought about her much except once or twice at night in bed when his slowly ranging thoughts would abruptly, almost accidentally, encounter her.
He was calm, drugged, and lazy.
He did not care.
Rachel mentioned Kate.
She said, ``I notice the girl from across the street hasn't bothered to phone or visit''.
Scotty said, ``That's all right.
Kate's all right''.
He thought about it briefly, then deliberately turned the talk to something else.
Once, sitting at the front window in his parents' room, he saw Kate come out of her house.
She was with Elizabeth.
The heavy branches in his front yard would hide and then reveal them.
They turned at the bottom of Kate's steps and moved off in the direction of the park.
He thought he saw - it awakened and, for a moment, interested him - that Elizabeth held a leash in her hand and that a round fuzzy puppy was on the end of the leash.
Then they disappeared and Scotty got up and went into his own room and got into bed.
By the time he was under the covers he had forgotten about seeing Kate.
The doctor, since Scotty was no longer allowed to make his regular trips into town to see him, came often and informally to the house.
He would sit, slim-waisted and spare, on the edge of Scotty's bed, his legs crossed so elaborately that the crossed foot could tap the floor.
Scotty did not mind the doctor's unsmiling teasing as he used to.
``Husky young man'', he said with mock distaste.
``I don't go to school any more''.
``Pardon''?
The doctor had to bend close to hear; his delicate hand, as veined as a moth's wing, rested absently on Scotty's chest.
Scotty said the same words more loudly.
``Oh.
Well, we're taking a little vacation, that's all''.
He turned unsmilingly to Rachel.
``I think by the end of next week he could get out in the air a little.
He could now but the weakness is very definite; it would exhaust him further and unnecessarily.
His stethoscope was on the table by Scotty's bed and he picked it up and wagged it at Scotty.
He said fussily, ``Just keep the cap on those strong emotions''.
The stethoscope glinted silver in the darkening room.
``I'll drop by again in a few days''.
Rachel stayed on after the doctor had gone.
She smoothed the covers on Scotty's bed and picked things up from the floor.
She did not touch him.
Scotty watched with disinterest.
He did not speak.
She said, ``Do you think you'll miss school''?
He had noticed how formal and irritably exact Rachel had grown.
He did not care.
He felt her irritability did not concern him, yet he knew he would not care even if it did.
He shook his head.
``We've had any number of calls about you.
You could win a popularity contest at that school without any trouble.
Miss Estherson called twice.
She wants to pay you a visit.
Apparently you were the light of their lives''.
Scotty shrugged slightly.
Rachel came close to the bed, bent as if she would kiss him, then moved away.
She was frowning.
``That doctor annoys me''.
She seemed to speak to herself.
``Do you suppose his self-consciousness is characteristic of the new Negro professionals or merely of doctors in general''?
She turned to him again.
``Well, Mrs. Charles - Sally - has phoned too.
Rachel's tone was dry.
``She didn't really say'' - She glanced away at the floor, then swooped gracefully and picked up one of Scotty's slippers.
``I mean, do you feel like seeing Kate''?
Scotty said, ``I don't know''.
It was true.
He did not.
There was the slight pain, but it was no different from the throbbing in his head.
``Well, there's time, in any case.
We'll wait till you're stronger and then talk about it''.
Scotty said, ``Okay''.
This time Rachel kissed him lightly on the forehead.
Scotty was pleased.
His father was a constant visitor.
Scotty would hear the front door in the evening and then his father's deep slow voice; it floated up the stairs.
``How's Scotty''?
And Rachel's or Virginia's reply : ``Better.
He's getting plenty of rest''.
``Is his appetite improved''?
The exchange was almost invariable, and Scotty, in his bed, could hear every word of it.
He never smiled.
It required an energy he no longer possessed to be satirical about his father.
His father would come upstairs and stand self-consciously at the foot of the bed and look at his son.
After a pause, during which he studied Scotty's face as if Scotty were not there and could not study him too, Mr. McKinley would ask the same questions he had asked downstairs.
Scotty would reply softly and his father, apologetically, would ask him to repeat.
``I'm eating more'', he would say.
Or : ``I walk around the house a lot''.
``Perhaps you should get out a little''.
He was not irritated.
He did not mind the useless, kindly questions.
He looked at the lined face with vague interest; he felt he was noting it, as if it were something he might think about when he grew stronger.
Mr. McKinley examined everything with critical care, seeking something material to blame for his son's illness.
``Have you got enough blankets''?
And another time, without accusation : ``You never wore that scarf I bought you''.
Where their sharp edges seemed restless as sea waves thrusting themselves upward in angry motion, Papa-san sat glacier like, his smooth solidity, his very immobility defying all the turmoil about him.
``Our objective'', the colonel had said that day of the briefing, ``is Papa-san''.
There the objective sat, brooding over all.
Between the ponderous hulk and himself, in the valley over which Papa-san reigned, men had hidden high explosives, booby traps, and mines.
The raped valley was a pregnant womb awaiting abortion.
On the forward slope in front of his own post stretched two rows of barbed wire.
At the slope's base coils of concertina stretched out of eye range like a wild tangle of children's hoops, stopped simultaneously, weirdly poised as if awaiting the magic of the child's touch to start them all rolling again.
Closer still, regular barricades of barbed wire hung on timber supports.
Was it all vain labor?
Who would clean up the mess when the war was over?
Smiling at his quixotic thoughts, Warren turned back from the opening and lit a cigarette before sitting down.
Tonight a group of men, tomorrow night he himself, would go out there somewhere and wait.
Was this what he had expected?
He hadn't realized that there would be so much time to think, so many lulls.
Somehow he had forgotten what he must have been told, that combat was an intermittent activity.
Now he knew that the moment illuminated by the vision on the train would have to be approached.
It could take place tomorrow night, or it might occur months from now.
There was just too much time.
Time to become afraid.
White's suggestion flattered, but he did not like the identity.
He did not spill over with hatred for the enemy.
Pressing his cigarette out in the earth, Warren walked to the slit and scanned the jagged hills.
He saw no life, but still stood there for a time peering at the unlovely hills, his gaze continually returning to Papa-san.
He had come here in order to test himself.
While most of his beliefs were still unsettled, he knew that he did not believe in killing.
Yet, he was here.
He had come because he could not live out his life feeling that he had been a coward.
There were ten men on the patrol which Sergeant Prevot led out that next night.
The beaming rok was carrying a thirty caliber machine gun; another man lugged the tripod and a box of ammunition.
Warren and White each carried, in addition to their own weapons and ammo, a box of ammo for the ROK's machine gun.
Prevot had briefed the two new men that afternoon.
``We just sit quiet and wait'', Prevot had said.
``Be sure the man nearest you is awake.
If Joe doesn't show up, we'll all be back here at 0600 hours.
Otherwise, we hold a reception.
Then we pull out under our mortar and artillery cover, but nobody pulls out until I say so.
Remember what I said about going out to get anybody left behind?
That still holds.
We bring back all dead and wounded''.
Then began the journey through their own mine fields.
Mines.
Ours were kinder than theirs, some said.
They set bouncing betties to jump and explode at testicle level while we more mercifully had them go off at the head.
Mines.
Big ones and little.
The crude wooden boxes of the enemy, our nicely turned gray metal disks.
But theirs defied the detectors.
Mines.
Mines.
All sizes : big ones, some wired to set off a whole field, little ones, hand grenade size.
Booby traps to fill the head with chunks of metal.
Warren tried to shake off the jumble of his fears by looking at the sky.
It was dark.
Prevot had said that the searchlights would be bounced off the clouds at 2230 hours, ``which gives us time to get settled in position''.
Because they were new men and to be sure that they didn't get lost, Prevot had placed Warren and White in the center of the patrol as it filed out.
His eyes now fixed on White's solid figure, Warren could hear behind him the tread of another.
He could also hear the stream which he had seen from his position.
``It's safe'', Prevot had said, ``and it provides cover for our noise''.
Soon they were picking their way along the edge of the stream which glowed in the night.
On their right rose the embankment covered with brush and trees.
If a branch extended out too far, each man held it back for the next, and if they met a low overhang, each warned the other.
Thus, stealthily they advanced upstream; then they turned to the right, climbed the embankment, and walked into the valley again.
There was no cover here, only grass sighing against pant-legs.
And with each sigh, like a whip in the hand of an expert, the grass stripped something from Warren.
The gentle whir of each footstep left him more naked than before, until he felt his unprotected flesh tremble, chilled by each new sound.
The shapes of the men ahead of him lacked solidity, as if the whip had stripped them of their very flesh.
The warped, broken trees in the valley assumed wraith-like shapes.
Clumps of brush that they passed were so many enchained demons straining in anger to tear and gnaw on his bones.
Looming over all, Papa-san leered down at him, threatening a hundred hidden malevolencies.
Off in the distance a searchlight flashed on, its beam slashing the sky.
The sharp ray was absorbed by a cloud, then reflected to the earth in a softer, diffused radiance.
Somewhere over there another patrol had need of light.
Warren thought of all the men out that night who, like himself, had left their protective ridge and - fear working at their guts - picked their way into the area beyond.
From the east to the west coast of the Korean peninsula was a strip of land in which fear filled men were at that same moment furtively crawling through the night, sitting in sweaty anticipation of any movement or sound, or shouting amidst confused rifle flashes and muzzle blasts.
White's arm went up and Warren raised his own.
Prevot came up ``Take that spot over there'', he whispered, pointing to a small clump of blackness.
``Give me your machine gun ammo''.
Warren handed him the metal box and Prevot quietly disappeared down the line.
Lying in the grass behind the brush clump, Warren looked about.
The others likewise had hidden themselves in the grass and the brush.
Over his shoulder he could see Prevot with the machine gun crew.
Even at this short distance they were only vague shapes, setting up the machine gun on a small knoll so that it could fire above the heads of the rest of the patrol.
Warren eased his rifle's safety off and gently, slowly sneaked another clip of ammunition from one of the cloth bandoleers that marked the upper part of his body with an X.
This he placed within quick reach.
Although the armored vest fitted the upper part of his body snugly, he felt no security.
Figures seemed to crouch in the surrounding dark; in the distance he saw a band of men who seemed to advance and retreat even as he watched.
Certain this menace was only imaginary, he yet stared in fascinated horror, his hand sticky against the stock of his weapon.
He was aware of insistent inner beatings, as if prisoners within sought release from his rigid body.
Above, the glowing ivory baton of their searchlight pointed at the clouds, diluting the valley's dark to a pallid light.
Then the figures which held his attention became a group of shattered trees, standing like the grotesques of a medieval damnation scene.
Even so, he could not ease the tension of his body; the rough surface of the earth itself seemed to resist every attempt on his part to relax.
Sensing the unseen presence of the other men in the patrol, he felt mutely united to these nine near strangers sharing this pinpoint of being with him.
He sensed something precious in the perilous moment, something akin to the knowledge gained on his bicycle trip through the French countryside, a knowledge imprisoned in speechlessness.
They were poems in a strange language, of which he could barely touch a meaning - enough to make his being ache with the desire for the fullness he sensed there.
Brittany, that stone-gray mystery through which he traveled for thirty days, sleeping in the barns of farmers or alongside roads, had worked some subtle change in him, he knew, and it was in Brittany that he had met Pierre.
Pierre had no hands; they had been severed at the wrists.
With leather cups fitted in his handlebars, he steered his bicycle.
He and Warren had traveled together for four days.
They visited the shipyards at Brest and Pierre had to sign the register, vouching for the integrity of the visiting foreigner.
He took the pen in his stumps and began to write.
``Wait!
Wait''! cried the guard who ran from the hut to shout to other men standing about outside.
``C'est formidable'', they exclaimed.
``Mais, oui.
C'est merveilleux''.
And then the questions came, eager, interested questions, and many compliments on his having overcome his infirmity.
``Doesn't it ever bother you'', Warren had asked, ``to have people always asking you about your hands''?
``Oh, the French are a very curious people'', Pierre had laughed.
``They are also honest seekers after truth.
Now the English are painfully silent about my missing hands.
They refuse to mention or to notice that they are not there.
I'm used to all three, but I think the French have the healthiest attitude''.
That was the day that Pierre had told Warren about the Abbey of Solesmes.
``You are looking tired and there you can rest.
It will be good for you.
I think, too'', he said, his dark eyes mischievous, ``that you will find there some clue to the secret of the cathedrals about which you have spoken''.
Within two weeks Warren was ringing the bell at the abbey gate.
The monk who opened the door immediately calmed his worries about his reception : ``I speak English'', the old man said, ``but I do not hear it very well''.
He smiled and stuck a large finger with white hairs sprouting on it into his ear as though that might help.
Smiling at Warren's protestations, the old monk took his grip from him and led him down a corridor to a small parlor.
Mickie sat over his second whisky-on-the-rocks in a little bar next to the funeral parlor on Pennsylvania Avenue.
Al's Little Cafe was small, dark, narrow, and filled with the mingled scent of beer, tobacco smoke, and Italian cooking.
Hanging over the bar was an oil painting of a nude Al had accepted from a student at the Corcoran Gallery who needed to eat and drink and was broke.
The nude was small and black-haired and elfin, and was called ``Eloise''.
This was one place where Moonan could go for a drink in a back booth without anyone noticing him, or at least coming up and hanging around and wanting to know all the low-down.
The other patrons were taxi drivers and art students and small shopkeepers.
The reporters had not yet discovered that this was his hideaway.
His friend Jane was with him.
She was wise enough to realize a man could be good company even if he did weigh too much and didn't own the mint.
This meant sorting out press clippings and the like.
Jane sat receptive and interested.
Mickie had a pleasant glow as he said, ``You see, both of them, I mean the President and Jeff Lawrence, are romantics.
A romantic is one who thinks the world is divinely inspired and all he has to do is find the right key, and then divine justice and altruism will appear.
It's like focusing a camera; the distant ship isn't there until you get the focus.
You know what I'm talking about.
I'm sure all girls feel this way about men until they live with them.
``But when it comes to war, the Colonel knows what it is and Jeff doesn't.
Mr. Christiansen knows that a soldier will get the Distinguished Service Medal for conduct that would land him in prison for life or the electric chair as a civilian.
That's to say, he was trigger happy.
He'd shoot at anything if it was the rear end of a horse or his own sentry.
He was a wiry, inscrutable, silent country boy from the red clay of rural Alabama, and he spoke with the broad drawl that others normally make fun of.
But not in front of Trig.
I heard of some that tried it back in the States, and he'd knock them clear across the room.
There'd been a pretty bad incident back at the Marine base.
A New York kid, a refugee from one of the Harlem gangs, made fun of Trig's accent, and drew a knife.
Before the fight was over, the Harlem boy had a concussion and Trig was cut up badly.
They caught Trig stealing liquor from the officers' mess, and he got a couple of girls in trouble.
It wasn't there.
It was left out of him at birth.
This is why he made such a magnificent soldier.
He wasn't troubled with the ordinary, rank-and-file fear that overcomes and paralyzes and sends individual soldiers and whole companies under fire running in panic.
It just didn't occur to Trig that anything serious would happen to him.
Do you get the picture of the kind of fellow he was''?
Jane nodded with a pleasant smile.
``All right.
There was a sniper's nest in a mountain cave, and it was picking off our men with devilish accuracy.
Trig was one of the five volunteers.
The patrol snaked around in back of the cave, approached it from above and dropped in suddenly with wild howls.
You could hear them from our outpost.
There was a lot of shooting.
We knew the enemy was subdued, because a flare was fired as the signal.
So we hurried over.
Two of our men were killed, a third was wounded.
Trig and a very black colored boy from Detroit had killed or put out of action ten guerrillas by grenades and hand-to-hand fighting.
When we got there, Trig and the Negro were quarreling over possession of a gold crucifix around the neck of a wounded Filipino.
We do n't' low nigras to walk on the same sidewalk with white men where I come from'.
``The Negro got a bad slice on his chest from the knife wound''.
``What did the Colonel do about the men''?
Jane asked in her placid, interested way.
Mickie laughed.
``He recommended both of them for the DSM and the Detroit fellow for the Purple Heart, too, for a combat inflicted wound.
So you see Mr. Christiansen knows what it's all about.
But not Jeff Lawrence.
When he was in the war, he was in Law or Supplies or something like that, and an old buddy of his told me he would come down on Sundays to the Pentagon and read the citations for medals - just like the one we sent in for Trig - and go away with a real glow.
Jefferson Lawrence was alone at the small, perfectly appointed table by the window looking out over the river.
He had dinner and sat there over his coffee watching the winding pattern of traffic as it crossed the bridge and spread out like a serpent with two heads.
Open beside him was Mrs. Dalloway.
He thought how this dainty, fragile older woman threading her way through the streets of Westminster on a day in June, enjoying the flowers in the shops, the greetings from old friends, but never really drawing a deep, passionate breath, was so like himself.
He, and Mrs. Dalloway, too, had never permitted themselves the luxury of joys that dug into the bone marrow of the spirit.
He had not because he was both poor and ambitious.
Poverty imposes a kind of chastity on the ambitious.
They cannot stop to grasp and embrace and sit in the back seat of cars along a dark country lane.
No, they must look the other way and climb one more painful step up the ladder.
At any cost, he must leave the dreary Pennsylvania mining town where his father was a pharmacist.
And so he had, so he had.
At State College, he had no time to walk among the violets on the water's edge.
From his room he could look out in springtime and see the couples hand in hand walking slowly, deliciously, across the campus, and he could smell the sweet vernal winds.
He was not stone.
He was not unmoved.
He had to teach himself patiently that these traps were not for him.
He must mentally pull the blinds and close the window, so that all that existed was in the books before him.
At law school, the same.
By the time he was prosperous enough - his goals were high - he was bald and afraid of women.
The only one who would have him was his cripple, the strange unhappy woman who became his wife.
Perhaps it was right; perhaps it was just.
He had dared to defy nature, to turn his back to the Lorelei, and he was punished.
Like Mrs. Dalloway, with her regrets about Peter Walsh, he had his moments of melancholy over a youth too well spent.
If he had had a son, he would tell him, ``Gather ye rosebuds while ye may.
This same flower that smiles today tomorrow will be dying''.
But then his son could afford it.
Lawrence was waiting for Bill Boxell.
He said the matter was urgent.
The Secretary was uneasy about the visit.
He did not like Boxell.
He suspected something underhanded and furtive about him.
Lawrence could not put his finger on it precisely, and this worried him.
When you disliked or distrusted a man, you should have a reason.
Human nature was not a piece of meat you could tell was bad by its smell.
Lawrence stared a minute at the lighted ribbon of traffic, hoping that a clue to his dislike of the Vice President would appear.
It did not.
A half hour later the Vice President arrived.
He looked very carefully at every piece of furnishing, as though hoping to store this information carefully in his mind.
He observed the Florentine vase in the hall, the Renoir painting in the library, as well as the long shelves of well-bound volumes; the pattern of the Oriental rug, the delicate cut-glass chandelier.
He said to the Secretary, ``I understand you came from a little Pennsylvania town near Wilkes-Barre.
How did you find out about this''?
He waved his arm around at the furnishings.
It was not a discourteous question, Lawrence decided.
This young man had so little time to learn he had to be curious; he had to find out.
The Secretary did not tell him at what cost, at what loneliness, he learned these things.
The Vice President said, ``If you hear of any names that would fix me cheap in return for advertising they decorated the Vice President's home, let me know.
I can do business with that kind''.
Again, Lawrence thought a little sadly, these were the fees of poverty and ambition.
Boxell did not have the chance to grow up graciously.
He had to acquire everything he was going to get in four years.
They had brandy in the library.
Boxell looked at Lawrence with a searching glance, the kind that a prosecuting attorney would give a man on trial.
What are your weaknesses?
Where will you break?
The Vice President said with a slight bluster, ``There isn't anyone who loves the President more than I do.
Old Chris is my ideal.
At the same time, you have to face facts and realize that a man who's been in the Marine Corps all his life doesn't understand much about politics.
What does a monk know about sex''?
Lawrence listened with the practiced, deceptive calm of the lawyer, but his face was in the shadow.
``So, we have to protect the old man for his own good.
You see what I mean.
Congress is full of politicians, and if you want to get along with them, you have to be politic.
This is why I say we just can't go ahead and disarm the Germans and pull down our own defenses.
A fellow came up to me, a Senator, I don't have to tell you his name, and he told me,' I love the President like a brother, but God damn it, he's crucifying me.
I've got a quarter of a million Germans in my state, and those krautheads tune in on Father Werther every night, and if he tells them to go out and piss in the public square, that's what they do.
He's telling them now to write letters to their Congressmen opposing the disarmament of Germany'.
And another one comes to me and he says,' Look here, there's a mill in my state employs five thousand people making uniforms for the Navy.
The Bishop looked at him coldly and said ``Take it or leave it''!
Literally, there was nothing else to do.
He was caught in a machine.
But Sojourner was not easily excited or upset and said quite calmly : ``Let's go and see what it's like''.
Annisberg was about seventy-five miles west of Birmingham, near the Georgia border and on the Tallahoosa River, a small and dirty stream.
But it had, as was usual in southern cities of this sort, a Black Bottom, a low region near the river where the Negroes lived - servants and laborers huddled together in a region with no sewage save the river, where streets and sidewalks were neglected and where there was much poverty and crime.
Wilson came by train from Birmingham and looked the city over; the rather pleasant white city was on the hill where the chief stores were.
Beyond were industries and factories.
Then they went down to Black Bottom.
In the midst of this crowded region was the Allen African Methodist Episcopal Church.
It was an old and dirty wooden structure, sadly in need of repair.
But it was a landmark.
It had been there 50 years or more and everybody in town, black and white, knew of it.
It had just suffered a calamity, the final crisis in a long series of calamities.
He was a loud-voiced man, once vigorous but for many years now declining in strength and ability.
He was stern and overbearing with his flock, but obsequious and conciliatory with the whites, especially the rich who partly supported the church.
The Deacon Board, headed by a black man named Carlson, had practically taken over as the pastor grew old, and had its way with the support of the Amen corner.
The characteristic thing about this church was its Amen corner and the weekly religious orgy.
A knot of old worshippers, chiefly women, listened weekly to a sermon.
It began invariably in low tones, almost conversational, and then gradually worked up to high, shrill appeals to God and man.
And then the Amen corner took hold, re-enacting a form of group participation in worship that stemmed from years before the Greek chorus, spreading down through the African forest, overseas to the West Indies, and then here in Alabama.
With shout and slow dance, with tears and song, with scream and contortion, the corner group was beset by hysteria and shivering, wailing, shouting, possession of something that seemed like an alien and outside force.
It spread to most of the audience and was often viewed by visiting whites who snickered behind handkerchief and afterward discussed Negro religion.
To most of those who composed the Amen corner it was a magnificent and beautiful experience, something for which they lived from week to week.
It was often re-enacted in less wild form at the Wednesday night prayer meeting.
Wilson, on his first Sunday, witnessed this with something like disgust.
He had preached a short sermon, trying to talk man-to-man to the audience, to tell them who he was, what he had done in Macon and Birmingham, and what he proposed to do here.
He sympathized with them on the loss of their old pastor.
But then, at mention of that name, the Amen corner broke loose.
He had no chance to say another word.
At the very end, when the audience was silent and breathless, a collection was taken and then slowly everyone filed out.
The audience did not think much of the new pastor, and what the new pastor thought of the audience he did not dare at the time to say.
First of all there was the parsonage, an utterly impossible place for civilized people to live in, originally poorly conceived, apparently not repaired for years, with no plumbing or sewage, with rat-holes and rot.
It was arranged that he would board in the home of one of the old members of the church, a woman named Catt who, as Wilson afterward found, was briefly referred to as The Cat because of her sharp tongue and fierce initiative.
Ann Catt was a lonely, devoted soul, never married, conducting a spotless home and devoted to her church, but a perpetual dissenter and born critic.
She soared over the new pastor like an avenging angel lest he stray from the path and not know all the truth and gossip of which she was chief repository.
Then Wilson looked over the church and studied its condition.
The salary of the pastor had for years been $ 500 annually and even this was in arrears.
Wilson made up his mind that he must receive at least $ 2500, but when he mentioned this to the Deacons they said nothing.
The church itself must be repaired.
It was dirty and neglected.
Meanwhile, the city itself should be talked to.
The streets in the colored section were dirty.
There was typhoid and malaria.
The children had nowhere to go and no place to play, not even sidewalks.
The school was small, dark and ill-equipped.
The teacher was a pliant fool.
There were two liquor saloons not very far from the church, one white, that is conducted for white people with a side entrance for Negroes; the other exclusively Negro.
Undoubtedly, there was a good deal of gambling in both.
On the other side of the church was a quiet, well-kept house with shutters and recently painted.
It was called Kent House.
The deacon of the church, Carlson, was its janitor.
One of the leading members of the Amen corner was cook; there were two or three colored maids employed there.
Wilson was told that it was a sort of hotel for white people, which seemed to him rather queer.
Why should a white hotel be set down in the center of Black Bottom?
But nevertheless it looked respectable.
He was glad to have it there.
The rest of Black Bottom was a rabbit warren of homes in every condition of neglect, disrepair and careful upkeep.
Dives, carefully repaired huts, and nicely painted and ornamented cottages were jumbled together cheek by jowl with little distinction.
The yards, front and back, were narrow; some were trash dumps, some had flower gardens.
Behind were privies, for there was no sewage system.
After looking about a bit, Wilson discovered beyond Black Bottom, across the river and far removed from the white city, a considerable tract of land, and it occurred to him that the church and the better Negro homes might gradually be moved to this plot.
He talked about it to the Presiding Elder.
The Presiding Elder looked him over rather carefully.
He was not sure what kind of a man he had in hand.
But there was one thing that he had to stress, and that was that the contribution to the general church expenses, the dollar money, had been seriously falling behind in this church, and that must be looked after immediately.
In fact, he intimated clearly that that was the reason that Wilson had been sent here - to make a larger contribution of dollar money.
Wilson stressed the fact that clear as this was, they must have a better church, a more business-like conduct of the church organization, and an effort to get this religious center out of its rut of wild worship into a modern church organization.
The Presiding Elder was sure that that would be impossible.
But he told Wilson to ``go ahead and try''.
And Wilson tried.
It did seem impossible.
The bank which held the mortgage on the old church declared that the interest was considerably in arrears, and the real estate people said flatly that the land across the river was being held for an eventual development for white working people who were coming in, and that none would be sold to colored folk.
When it was proposed to rebuild the church, Wilson found that the terms for a new mortgage were very high.
He was sure that he could do better if he went to Atlanta to get the deal financed.
But when this proposal was made to his Deacon Board, he met unanimous opposition.
The church certainly would not be removed.
It had been here fifty years.
It was going to stay forever.
It was hardly possible to get any argument on the subject.
As for rebuilding, well, that might be looked into, but there was no hurry, no hurry at all.
Wilson again went downtown to a different banker, an intelligent young white man who seemed rather sympathetic, but he shook his head.
``Reverend'', he said, ``I think you don't quite understand the situation here.
Don't you see the amount of money that has been invested by whites around that church?
Tenements, stores, saloons, some gambling, I hope not too much.
The colored people are getting employment at Kent House and other places, and they are near their places of employment.
Now, if I were you I would just plan to repair the old church so it would last for five or ten years.
By that time, perhaps something better can be done''.
Then Wilson asked, ``What about this Kent House which you mention?
I don't understand why a white hotel should be down here''.
The young banker looked at him with a certain surprise, and then he said flatly : ``I'm afraid I can't tell you anything in particular about Kent House.
You'll have to find out about it on your own.
Hope to see you again''.
And he dismissed the colored pastor.
It was next day that Sojourner came and sat beside him and took his hand.
``No'', said Wilson, ``I don't.
I was just asking about it.
What is it''?
``It's a house of prostitution for white men with white girls as inmates.
They hire a good deal of local labor, including two members of our Trustee Board.
They buy some supplies from our colored grocers and they are patronized by some of the best white gentlemen in town''.
Wilson stared at her.
``My dear, you must be mistaken''.
``Talk to Mrs. Catt'', she said.
This, of course, was the sort of thing that used to take place in Southern cities - putting white houses of prostitution colored girls in colored neighborhoods and carrying them on openly.
But it had largely disappeared on account of protest by the whites and through growing resentment on the part of the Negroes as they became more educated and got better wages.
But this situation of Kent House was more subtle.
The wages involved were larger and more regular.
The inmates were white and from out of town, avoiding local friction.
The backing from the white town was greater and there was little publicity.
Good wages, patronage and subscription of various kinds stopped open protest from Negroes.
And yet Wilson knew that this place must go or he must go.
And for him to leave this job now without accomplishing anything would mean practically the end of his career in the Methodist church, if not in all churches.
There was a fog, which increased the darkness of the night.
Two gas lamps were no more than a misleading glow.
He might have been anywhere or nowhere.
The pretence was that he was delivering a prescription from Dr. Verdi.
Secretary of State Seward was a sick man.
The idea had come from Herold, who had once been a chemist's clerk.
The sick were always receiving medicines.
No one would question such an errand.
The bottle was filled up with flour.
Now it would have another death.
From the outside it was an ordinary enough house of the gentry.
He clomped heavily up the stoop and rang the bell.
Like the bell at Mass, the doorbell was pitched too high.
It was still Good Friday, after all.
A nigger boy opened the door.
Payne did not notice him.
He was thinking chiefly of Cap.
If their schedules were to synchronize, there was no point in wasting time.
For a moment the hall confused him.
This was the largest house he had ever been in, almost the largest building, except for a hotel.
He had no idea where Seward's room would be.
In the half darkness the banisters gleamed, and the hall seemed enormous.
Above him somewhere were the bedrooms.
Seward would be up there.
He explained his errand, but without bothering much to make it plausible, for he felt something well up in him which was the reason why he had fled the army.
He did not really want to kill, but as in the sexual act, there was a moment when the impulse took over and could not be downed, even while you watched yourself giving way to it.
He was no longer worried.
He knew that in this mood he could not be stopped.
Still, the sensation always surprised him.
It was a thrill he felt no part in.
He could only watch with a sort of gentle dismay while his body did these quick, appalling, and efficient things.
He brushed by the idiotic boy and lumbered heavily up the stairs.
They were carpeted, but made for pumps and congress gaiters, not the great clodhoppers he wore.
The sound of his footsteps was like a muffled drum.
At the top of the stairs he ran into somebody standing there angrily in a dressing gown.
He stopped and whispered his errand.
Panting a little, Payne shook his head.
Dr. Verdi had told him to deliver his package in person.
Frederick Seward said his father was sleeping, and then went through a pantomime at his father's door, to prove the statement.
``Very well'', Payne said.
``I will go''.
He smiled, but now that he knew where the elder Seward was, he did not intend to go.
He pulled out his pistol and fired it.
It made no sound.
It had misfired.
It was the first blow that was always difficult.
After that, violence was exultantly easy.
He got caught up into it and became a different person.
Only afterwards did an act like that become meaningless, so that he would puzzle over it for days, whereas at the time it had seemed quite real.
The nigger boy fled down the stairs, screaming, ``Murder''.
It was not murder at all.
Payne was more methodical than that.
He was merely clearing a way to what he had to do.
He ran for the sick room, found his pistol was broken, and threw it away.
From childhood he had known all about knives.
Someone blocked the door from inside.
He smashed it in and tumbled into darkness.
He saw only dimly moving figures, but when he slashed them they yelled and fled.
He went for the bed, jumped on it, and struck where he could, repeatedly.
It was like finally getting into one's own nightmares to punish one's dreams.
Two men pulled him off.
Nobody said anything.
Payne hacked at their arms.
He would not have wanted to hurt a lady.
Another man approached, this one fully dressed.
When the knife went into his chest, he went down at once.
``I'm mad'', shouted Payne, as he ran out into the hall.
``I'm mad'', and only wished he had been.
That would have made things so much easier.
But he was not mad.
He was only dreaming.
He clattered down the stairs and out of the door.
One always wakes up, even from one's own dreams.
The clammy air revived him.
Herold, he saw, had fled.
Well, one did not expect much of people like Herold.
He unhitched his horse, walked it away, mounted, and spurred it on.
The nigger boy was close behind him.
Then the nigger boy turned back and he was alone.
He rode on and on.
He had no idea where he was.
An open field was better than a building, that was for sure, so he dismounted, turned off the horse, and plunged through the grass.
He felt curiously sleepy, the world seemed far away; he knew he should get to Cap, but he didn't know how.
He was sure, for he had done as he was told, hadn't he?
Cap would find him and take care of him.
So choosing a good tree, he clambered up into it, found a comfortable notch, and curled up in it to sleep, like the tousled bear he was, with his hands across his chest, as though surfeited with honey.
Violence always made him tired, but he was not frightened.
In Boston, Edwin Booth was winding up a performance of A New Way to Pay Old Debts.
It was a part so familiar to him that he did not bother to think about it any more.
Acting soothed him.
As Sir Giles Overreach (how often had he had to play that part, who did not believe a word of it), he raised his arm and declaimed : ``Where is my honour now''?
That was one of the high spots of the play.
The audience, as usual, loved it.
He was delighted to see them so happy.
If he had any worries, it was only the small ones, about Mother in New York, and his daughter Edwina and what she might be doing at this hour, with her Aunt Asia, in Philadelphia.
Everyone is ambivalent about his profession, if he has practised it long enough, but there were still moments when he loved the stage and all those unseen people out there, who might cheer you or boo you, but that was largely, though not entirely, up to you.
They made the world seem friendly somehow, though he knew it was not.
Wilkes was quite right about one thing.
Laura Keene had been in the green room.
Since she could not act, one part suited her as well as any other, and so she was the first person to offer Mr. Lincoln a glass of water, holding it up to the box, high above her head, to Miss Harris, who had asked for it.
She had been one of the first to collect her wits.
It was not so much that the shot had stunned the audience, as that they had been stunned already.
Most of them had seen Our American Cousin before, and unless Miss Keene was on stage, there was not much to it.
The theatre was hot and they were drugged with boredom.
The stage had been empty, except for Harry Hawk, doing his star monologue.
The audience was fond of Harry Hawk, he was a dear, in or out of character, but he was not particularly funny.
At the end of the monologue the audience would applaud.
Meanwhile it looked at the scenery.
There was always a pause here, before the next line.
That was when the gun went off.
Yet even that explosion did not mean much.
Guns were going off all over Washington City these days, because of the celebrations, and the theatre was not soundproof.
Then the audience saw a small, dim figure appear at the edge of the Presidential box.
``Sic semper tyrannis'', it said mildly.
Booth had delivered his line.
Behind him billowed a small pungent cloud of smoke.
They strained forward.
They had been sitting too long to be able to stand up easily.
The figure leapt from the box, almost lost its balance, the flag draped there tore in the air, the figure landed on its left leg, fell on its hands, and pressed itself up.
Harry Hawk still had his arm raised towards the wings.
His speech faltered.
He did not lower his arm.
The figure was so theatrically dressed, that it was as though a character from some other play had blundered into this one.
The play for Saturday night was to be a benefit performance of The Octoroon.
This figure looked like the slave dealer from that.
But it also looked like a toad, hopping away from the light.
Then it disappeared into the wings.
Harry Hawk had not shifted position, but he at last lowered his arm.
Mrs. Lincoln screamed.
There was no mistaking that scream.
It was what anyone who had ever seen her had always expected her to do.
Yet this scream had a different note in it.
That absence of an urgent self-indulgence dashed them awake like a pail of water.
Clara Harris, one of the guests in the box, stood up and demanded water.
Her action was involuntary.
Mrs. Lincoln screamed again.
In the Presidential box someone leaned over the balustrade and yelled : ``He has shot the President''!
That got everybody up.
On the stage, Harry Hawk began to weep.
Laura Keene brushed by him with the glass of water.
The crowd began to move.
In Washington City everyone lived in a bubble of plots, and one death might attract another.
It was not exactly panic they gave way to, but they could not just sit there.
The beehive voices, for no one could bear silence, drowned out the sound of Mrs. Lincoln's weeping.
It would not give.
A Dr. Charles Taft clambered up on the stage and got the actors to hoist him up to the box.
In the audience a man named Ferguson lost his head and tried to rescue a little girl from the mob, on the same principle which had led Miss Harris to demand water.
Someone opened the corridor door from the inside, and called for a doctor.
Somehow Dr. Charles Leale was forced through the mob and squeezed out into the dingy corridor.
He went straight to the Presidential box.
As usual, Mrs. Lincoln had lost her head, but nobody blamed her for doing so now.
There was a little blood on the hem of her dress, for the assassin had slashed Miss Harris's companion, Major Rathbone, with a knife.
Rathbone said he was bleeding to death.
With a sneer, the man spread his legs and, a third time, confronted them.
Once more, Katie reared, and whinnied in fear.
For a moment, boy and mount hung in midair.
Stevie twisted and, frantically, commanded the mare to leap straight ahead.
But the stranger was nimbler still.
With a bold arm, he dared once more to obstruct them.
Katie reared a third time, then, trembling, descended.
The stranger leered.
Seizing the bridle, he tugged with all his might and forced Katie to her knees.
Stevie could feel himself toppling.
He saw the ground coming up - and the stranger's head.
With incredible ferocity, he brought his fists together and struck.
The blow encountered silky hair and hard bone.
The man uttered a weird cry, spun about, and collapsed in the sand.
Katie scrambled to her feet, Stevie agilely retaining his seat.
Again Katie reared, and now, wickedly, he compelled her to bring her hooves down again and again upon the sprawled figure of the stranger.
He could feel his own feet, iron-shod, striking repeatedly until the body was limp.
He gloated, and his lips slavered.
They rode around and around to trample the figure into the sand.
Only the top of the head, with a spot bare and white as a clamshell, remained visible.
Stevie was shouting triumphantly.
A train hooted.
Instantly, he chilled.
They were pursuing him.
He was frightened; his fists clutched so tightly that his knuckles hurt.
Then Katie stumbled, and again he was falling, falling!
``Stevie!
His mother was nudging him, but he was still falling.
His head hung over the boards of Katie's stall; before it was sprawled the mangled corpse of the bearded stranger.
``Stevie, wake up now!
We're nearly there''.
He had been dreaming.
He was safe in his Mama's arms.
The train had slowed.
Houses winked as the cars rolled beside a little depot.
``Po' Chavis''! the trainman called.
Bong!
Bong!
startled him awake.
The room vibrated as if a giant hand had rocked it.
Bong!
a dull boom and a throbbing echo.
The walls bulged, the floor trembled, the windowpanes rattled.
He stared at the far morning, expecting a pendulum to swing across the horizon.
Bong!
Bong!
the wood was old, the paint alligatored.
Bong!
A fresh breeze saluted him.
Six o'clock!
He put his his head out.
There was the slate roof of the church; ivy climbed the red brick walls like a green scaled monster.
The clock which had struck presented an innocent face.
In the kitchen Mama was wiping the cupboards.
And the loudest clock in the whole world''!
``I know, Stephen'', she smiled.
``They say that our steeple is one hundred and sixty-two feet high.
The clock you heard strike - it's really the town clock - was installed last April by Mrs. Shorter, on her birthday''.
He dressed, and sped outdoors.
He crossed Broome Street to Orange Square.
The steeple leaned backward, while the church advanced like a headless creature in a long, shapeless coat.
The spire seemed to hold up the sky.
Port Jervis, basking in the foothills, was the city of God.
The Catholics had the largest cemetery, near the Neversink River where Main Street ran south; Stevie whistled when he passed these alien grounds.
God was everywhere, in the belfry, in the steeple, in the clouds, in the trees, and in the mountains hulking on the horizon.
Somewhere, beyond, where shadows lurked, must be the yawning pit of which Papa preached and the dreadful Lake of Fire.
So, walking in awe, he became familiar with God, who resided chiefly in Drew Centennial Church with its high steeple and clock.
There was no church like Drew Church, no preacher like Papa, who was intimate with Him, and could consign sinners to hellfire.
To know God he must follow in Papa's footsteps.
He was fortunate, and proud.
The veterans, idling on their benches in the Square, beneath the soldiers' monument, got to their feet when Papa approached : ``Morning, Reverend''!
His being and His will - Stevie could not divide God from his Papa - illumined every parish face, turned the choir into a band of angels, and the pulpit into the tollgate to Heaven.
When Papa went out to do God's work, Stevie often accompanied him in the buggy, which was drawn by Violet, the new black mare.
Although they journeyed westerly as far as Germantown, beyond the Erie roundhouse and the machine shop, and along the Delaware and Hudson Canal, and northward to Brooklyn, below Point Peter, he could see the church spire wherever he looked back.
Sometimes they went south and rolled past the tollhouse - ``Afternoon, Reverend''!
- and crossed the suspension bridge to Matamoras; that was Pennsylvania.
In the Delaware River, three long islands were overgrown with greening trees and underbrush.
South of Laurel Grove Cemetery, and below the junction of the Neversink and the Delaware, was the Tri-State Rock, from which Stevie could spy New Jersey and Pennsylvania, as well as New York, simply by spinning around on his heel.
On these excursions, Papa instructed him on man's chief end, which was his duty to God and his own salvation.
However, a boy's lively eyes might rove.
Where Cuddleback Brook purled into the Neversink was a magnificent swimming hole.
Stevie saw no idols; it troubled him that he couldn't always see what Papa saw.
He was torn between the excitement in the sun inflamed waters and a little engine chugging northward on the Monticello Branch.
``Where you been today''?
Ludie inquired every evening, pretending that he did not care.
``He'll make a preacher out of you''!
``No, he won't''!
Stevie flared.
``Not me''!
``Somebody's got to be a preacher in the family.
I heard them!
Uncle and Aunt Howe were the witnesses''.
``Will he die''?
``Everybody does''.
Ludie could be hateful.
To speak of Papa dying was a sin.
It could never happen as long as God was alert and the Drew steeple stood guard with its peaked lance.
Stevie was constantly slipping into the church.
He pulled with all his strength at the heavy, brass bound door, and shuffled along the wainscoted wall.
At the end of a shaft of light, the pews appeared to be broad stairs in a long dungeon.
Far away, standing before a curtained window in the study room, was his father, hands tucked under his coattails, and staring into the dark church.
The figure was wreathed in an extraordinary luminescence.
The boy shuddered at the deathly pale countenance with its wrinkles and gray hair.
Would Papa really die?
The mouth was thin lipped and wide, the long cleft in the upper lip like a slide.
When Papa's slender fingers removed the spectacles, there were red indentations on the bridge of the strong nose.
``It's time you began to think on God, Stephen.
Perhaps one day He will choose you as He chose me, long ago.
Open your heart to Him and pray, Stephen, pray!
For His mercy and His guidance to spare you from evil and eternal punishment in the Lake of Fire''.
Stevie had heard these words many times, yet on each occasion they caused him to tremble.
For he feared the Lake of Fire.
He strove to think of God and His eternal wrath; he must pray to be spared.
Papa was disappointed that none of the brothers had heard the Call.
Not George, Townley, or Ted, certainly not Ludie.
Burt was at Hackettstown and Will at Albany Law School, where they surely could not hear it.
Someday God would choose him.
The stern face would relax, the black clad arms would embrace him, ``My son''!
Yet how might he know the Call when it came?
Probably, as in Scriptures, a still, small voice would whisper.
It would summon him once; if he missed it, never again.
What if it came when he was playing, or was asleep and dreaming?
He must not fail to hear it.
He was Papa's chosen; therefore, nothing but good could happen to him, even in God's wrathful storms.
When the skies grew dark and thunder rolled across the valley, he was unafraid.
Aggie might fly into a closet, shut the door and bury her head in the clothes; he dared to wait for the lightning.
But he was good.
He clenched his fists and faced the terror.
Thunder crashed; barrels tumbled down the mountainsides, and bounced and bounced till their own fury split them open.
Lightning might strike the steeples of the other churches; not of Drew Church.
A flash illumined the trees as a crooked bolt twigged in several directions.
Violet whinnied from the stable.
He ran out into the downpour, sped across the yard and into the buggy room.
``Don't be afraid, Violet''!
he shouted, and was aghast at the echoes.
He would save her.
If there was a fire or a flood he would save Mama first and Violet next.
Drenched and shaking, he stood near the sweet-smelling stall and dared to pat her muzzle.
``Don't you be afraid, Violet''!
After the storm, the sky cleared blue and cool, and fragrant air swept the hills.
When the sun came out, Stevie strode proudly into Orange Square, smiling like a landlord on industrious tenants.
The fountain had brimmed over, the cannon were wet, the soldiers' monument glistened.
Even before the benches had dried, the Civil War veterans were straggling back to their places.
The great spire shone as if the lightning had polished it.
The pointed shadow had nearly touched him.
He trailed Ludie to the baseball game in the lot on Kingston Street near the Dutch Reformed.
``Go on home''!
Ludie screeched at him.
``Someone'll tell Papa''!
No one told on Ludie, not even when he slipped live grasshoppers into the mite-box.
Ludie did as he pleased.
Ludie took his slingshot and climbed to the rooftop to shoot at crows.
Ludie chewed roofer's tar.
Ludie hopped rides on freight cars, and was chased by Mr. Yankton, the railroad guard.
He came home overheated, ran straight to the ice-chest, and gulped shivery cold water.
Stevie envied him.
That Ludie!
He, too, cocked his cap at a jaunty angle, jingled marbles in his pocket, and swaggered down Main Street.
On the Christophers' lawn, little girls in white pinafores were playing grownups at a tea party.
A Newfoundland sat solemnly beside a doghouse half his size.
Stevie yearned for a dog.
He wondered whether God had a dog in the sky.
He crossed the tracks to Delaware House, where ladies in gay dresses and men in straw boaters and waxed mustaches crowded the verandah.
A tall lady, with a ruffled collar very low on her bosom, turned insolent green eyes upon him.
She was taller than Aggie.
She was so beautiful with her rosy mouth and haughty air that she had to be wicked.
Fiddles screeched; a piano tinkled.
``P.J.'' - as Ludie called the town - was crowded with summer people who came to the mountains to escape the heat in the big cities.
They stayed at hotels and boardinghouses, or at private homes.
Rich people went to Delaware House, Opera House, American House or Fowler House.
If the crummy bastard could write!
It's those two fucken niggers!
Krist, I wish they could write!
Nigger pussy.
He thought of sweet wet nigger pussy.
Oh, sweet land of heaven, haint there just nothin like sweet nigger pussy!
He thought of her, the first one.
He had caught her coming out of the shack.
She was a juicy one.
Oh how they bounced!
Man how I love nigger pussy!
The snow came a little faster now, he noted.
He thought of Joe Harris, the nigger who had gone after his sister.
He chuckled, the memory vivid.
Jee - sus, We Fixed him!
Yooee, we fixed him!
The snow again.
If only the fucken weather wasn't so lousy!
Goddamn niggers, Lord.
Sonuvabitch, I cann't figure out what in hell for they went and put niggers in my squad for.
Only one worth a shit, and that's Brandon.
He ain't so bad.
His thoughts turned to other things.
The big shock everybody had when they found ol Slater and those others done for.
Kaboom for.
He had been pretty scared himself, wondering what the hell was coming off.
But he soon saw which way the ball was bouncing.
Soon came back to his senses.
I was the first to get my squad on the ball, and anybody thinkin it was easy is pretty damn dumb.
Look at thum.
That goddamn redheader was the worst.
He kept sayin, not me, not me, I don't wanta wind up like em.
But I told him, goddammit.
``I told him'', he said aloud.
``They'll get the guys that done it.
That'll put the place back to normal.
Normal, by God.
Maybe they'll stop it now, once for all.
Clean the place up.
They're doin it now.
I hear the whole bunch is croakin out in the snow.
They'll get the guys that done it''.
There was something troubling him though : as yet they hadn't.
Five days.
Keerist.
Prickly twinges of annoyance ran through him.
A tune began to whirl inside his head.
One of his favorites : ``Guitar Boogie''.
It always came on, faithfully, just like a radio or juke box, whenever he started to worry too much about something, when the bad things tried to push their way into him.
The music drove them off, or away, and he was free to walk on air in a very few moments, humming and jiving within, beating the rhythm within.
He glowed with anticipation about what would happen to the culprits when they caught them.
Turn the bastards over to me - to me and my boys - no nigger ever got what would be comin to them - reactionary bastards.
He had never heard the word reactionary before his life as a POW began.
It was a word he was proud of, a word that meant much to him, and he used it with great pleasure, almost as if it were an exclusive possession, and more : he sensed himself to be very highly educated, four cuts above any of the folks back home.
``Four cuts at least'', he chuckled to himself, ``and I owe it all to them''.
He used it very effectively when he wanted to get his squad on the ball.
It came up again and again in the discussion sessions.
Lousy Reactionary bastards been tryin to fuck up the Program for months.
Months.
Hired, hard lackeys of the Warmongering Capitalists.
Not captured, sent here.
To fuck up the Program.
You guys remember that.
Remember that.
He saw himself before them delivering the speech.
He laughed, suddenly, feeling a surge of power telling him of his hold over them, seeing himself before them, receiving utmost respect and attention.
One day, Ching had told him (smiling, patting him on the back) as they walked to the weekly conference of squad leaders, ``Keep it up, your squad is good, one of the best, keep it up, keep up the good work''.
He would!
That was really something, coming from Ching.
``Really something'', he said, aloud.
Dirty Reactionary bastards comin down here in the night and bumpin off ol Slater and those other poor bastards.
``They'll get them by God and let them bring them down here to me, just let them, God I'll slice their balls right off''.
His arm moved swiftly, violently, once, twice.
He was tingling within.
Before him, mutilated, bleeding to death, they lay.
It was as if it had been done.
``Bastards'', he said aloud, spitting on them.
He halted, and looked around.
Rivers of cold sweat were suddenly unleashed within him.
The thought came back, the one nagging at him these past four days.
He tried to stifle it.
But the words were forming.
He braced himself.
Somebody'll hafta start thinkin.
He fought it, seeking to kill the last few words, but on they came ``bout takin - his''.
He was trembling, a strange feeling upon him, fully expecting some catastrophe to strike him dead on the spot.
But it didn't.
And he took heart; the final word came forth ``place''.
Now he heard it, fully : ``bout takin his place''.
He listened, waited, nothing happened.
He felt good.
The music arrived, taking him, its rhythm stroked him, snaked all through him, the lyrics lifted him, took him from one magic isle to another, stopping briefly at each.
Brandon.
He is good.
Damn good.
But a nigger.
Johnson.
Jesus, the guy says he is trying.
But he isn't with it, not at all with it.
When I talked to Ching about it, he said, Everyone can learn, if he is not a Reactionary or lazy.
That's what he said.
He oughta know.
It is plain as hell Johnson is no Reactionary.
So you're not tryin, Johnson, you bastard you.
He looked over at him, lying there, asleep, and he felt a wave of revulsion.
How he loathed him.
Sleepy-eyed, soft-spoken Johnson.
Biggest thorn in my side of the whole fucken squad.
He was the guy what always goofed at Question Time.
Why me?
Why didn't the damn Reactionaries bump him off?
Why Slater?
Like a particle drawn to a magnet he returned to that which was pressing so hard in his mind.
The music surged up, but it failed to check it.
Who is the man to take His place?
The guy with most on the Ball.
Most on the Ball.
Handle men.
Knows the score.
With a supreme effort, he broke it off.
He turned to the window again.
A gnawing and gnashing within him.
The snow was tumbling down furiously now.
Huge glob-flakes hitting the ground, piling higher and higher.
He stared at it, amazed, alarmed.
The whole fucken sky's cavin in!
Keeeerist!
Cover the whole building, bury us all, by nightfall.
Jesus!
Somebody, got to be somebody.
If I don't put my two cents in soon, somebody else will.
I know they're waitin only for one thing:
for the bastards what done it to be nailed.
Maybe they already got them.
He was again tingling with pleasure, seeing himself clearly in Slater's shoes.
Top dog, sleeping and eating right there with the Staff.
Top dog.
Poor ol Slater.
Jesus, imagine, the crummy bastards, they'll get em, they'll get what's comin to em * * h He whirled about suddenly.
It was nothing, though his heart was thumping wildly.
Somebody was up.
That was all.
``Boy, you're stirrin early'', a sleepy voice said.
``Yehhh'', said Coughlin, testily, eyeing him up and down.
``Lookit that come down, willya'', said the man, scratching himself, yawning.
The man moved away.
That's the way.
They'll toe the line.
Goddamn it.
Keep the chatter to a minimum, short answers, one word, if possible.
Less bull the more you can do with um.
That's Brown's trouble.
All he does is to bullshit with his squad, and they are the stupidest bastards around.
Just about to get their asses kicked into hut Seven.
All those dumb 8 - Balls croaked.
You can do anything with these dumb fucks if you know how.
Anything.
They'd cut their mothers' belly open.
Give um the works.
See, he's already snapping it up, the dumb jerk * * h Coughlin grinned, feeling supremely on top of things * * h He watched the snow once again.
It infuriated him.
It made no sense to him * * h He whirled around, suddenly hot all over, finding the man who had been standing before him a few moments back, nailing him to the spot on which he now stood, open-mouthed -
``You - Listen!
Quick - Quick - Now''!
The man shrank before the hot fury, searching frantically for the answer * * h Finnegan woke up.
There was a hell of a noise this time of morning.
He stared out the window.
For Christ's sake!
The whole fucken sky's caved in!
He looked for the source of the noise that had awakened him * * h It was that prick Coughlin.
What the hell was he up to now?
Why didn't he drop dead?
How?
* * h Then he was asking himself the usual early morning questions : What the Hell am I doin here?
Is this a nut-house?
Am I nuts?
Is this for real?
Am I dreamin?
* * h From somewhere in the hut came Coughlin's voice.
``How long did you study?
How long, buddy''?
``Don't Christsake me, buddy!
Just answer.
C'mon - c'mon!''
* * h I'm no hero.
Did I start the damn war?
* * h Automatically, Finnegan started going over today's lesson * * h Capitalism rots from the core.
Did I start the damn war?
Who did?
That's a good one.
Why don't Uncle Sam mind his own fucken business?
I'll bet both together did.
I bet.
So fuck them both.
Goddamn.
Goddammit.
Just let me go home to Jersey, back to the shore, oh, Jesus, the shore.
The waves breakin in on you and your girl at night there on the warm beach in the moonlight even Jesus sweet Mary.
If I hafta do this to stay alive by God I'll do it.
All pricks like Coughlin run it anyway, one way or another.
Fuck them * * h He rolled over and tried to shut out the noise, now much louder.
He snuggled into the blanket * * h Brandon dreamed.
He was sitting on top of a log which was spinning round and around in the water.
A river, wide as the Missouri, where it ran by his place.
The log was spinning.
But he was not.
So what?
Why should I be spinning just because the goddamn log is spinning?
Over on the bank, the west bank, a man stood, calling to him.
He couldn't make out what he was saying.
No doubt it had to do with the log.
Why should he be concerned?
Rousseau is so persuasive that Voltaire is almost convinced that he should burn his books, too.
But while the two men are riding into the country, where they are going to dinner, they are attacked in the dark of the forest by a band of thieves, who strip them of everything, including most of their clothes.
``You must be a very learned man'', says Voltaire to one of the bandits.
``A learned man'' ? the bandit laughs in his face.
But Voltaire perseveres.
``At what university did you study'' ? he asks.
He refuses to believe that the bandit chief never attended a higher institution.
``To have become so corrupt'', he says, ``surely you must have studied many arts and sciences''.
The chief, annoyed by these questions, knocks Voltaire down and shouts at him that he not only never went to any school, but never even learned how to read.
When finally the two bedraggled men reach their friend's home, Voltaire's fears are once again aroused.
For it is such a distinguished place, with such fine works of art and such a big library, that there can be little doubt but that the owner has become depraved by all this culture.
To Voltaire's surprise, however, their host gives them fresh clothes to put on, opens his purse to lend them money and sits them down before a good dinner.
Immediately after dinner, however, Rousseau asks for still another favor.
Could he have pen and paper, please?
Such was the impromptu that Voltaire gave to howls of laughter at Sans Souci and that was soon circulated in manuscript throughout the literary circles of Europe, to be printed sometime later, but with the name of Timon of Athens, the famous misanthrope, substituted for that of Rousseau.
How cruel!
But at the same time how understandable.
How could the rich, for whom life was made so simple, ever understand the subterfuges, the lies, the frauds, the errors, sins and even crimes to which the poor were driven in their efforts to overcome the great advantages the rich had in the race of life?
How, for example, could a Voltaire understand the strange predicament in which a Rousseau would find himself when, soon after the furor of his first Discourse, he acquired still another title to fame?
This time as a musician.
As a composer.
Ever since he had first begun to study music and to teach it, Rousseau had dreamed of piercing through to fame as the result of a successful opera.
But his facility in this genre was not great.
And for good reasons.
His operatic music had little merit.
But then one day, while on a week's visit to the country home of a retired Swiss jeweler, Rousseau amused the company with a few little melodies he had written, to which he attached no great importance.
He was really amazed to discover the other guests so excited about these delicate little songs.
``Put a few such songs together'', they urged him.
``String them onto some sort of little plot, and you'll have a delightful operetta''.
He didn't believe them.
``Nonsense'', he said.
``This is the sort of stuff I write and then throw away''!
``You must make an opera out of this material''.
And they wouldn't leave off arguing and pleading until he had promised.
Oh, the irony and the bitterness of it!
That after all his years of effort to become a composer, he should now, now when he was still stoutly replying to the critics of his Discourse on the Arts and Sciences, be so close to a success in music and have to reject it.
Or at least appear to reject it!
But what else could he do?
You couldn't on the one hand decry the arts and at the same time practice them, could you?
Well, yes, perhaps in literature, since you could argue that you couldn't keep silent about your feelings against literature and so were involved in spite of yourself.
But now music too?
That would be too much!
And the fault, of course, was Rameau's.
The fault was Rameau's and that of the whole culture of this Parisian age.
For it was Rameau's type of music that he had been trying to write, and that he couldn't write.
These little songs, however, were sweet nothings from the heart, tender memories of his childhood, little melodies that anyone could hum and that would make one want to weep.
But no.
He couldn't appear as a composer now.
That glory, craved for so long, was now forbidden to him.
Still, just for the ladies, and just for this once, for this one weekend in the country, he would make a little piece out of his melodies.
And everyone went to work to learn the parts which he wrote.
But then, after the little operetta had been given its feeble amateur rendering, everyone insisted that it was too good to be lost forever, and that the Royal Academy of Music must now have the manuscript in order to give it the really first-rate performance it merited.
Rousseau was aware that he must seem like a hypocrite, standing there and arguing that he could not possibly permit a public performance.
The ladies especially couldn't understand what troubled him.
A contradiction?
Bah, what was a contradiction in one's life?
Every woman has had the experience of saying no when she meant yes, and saying yes when she meant no.
Rousseau had to admit that though he couldn't agree to a public performance, he would indeed, just for his own private satisfaction, dearly love to know how his work would sound when done by professional musicians and by trained voices.
``I'd simply like to know if it is as good as you kind people seem to think'', he said.
The musicians of the Royal Opera would not rehearse a work merely to see how it would sound.
Merely to satisfy the author's curiosity.
Rousseau agreed.
But he recalled that Rameau had once had a private performance of his opera Armide, behind closed doors, just for himself alone.
Duclos understood what was bothering Rousseau : that the writer of the Prosopopoeia of Fabricius should now become known as the writer of an amusing little operetta.
That would certainly be paradoxical.
But Duclos thought he saw a way out.
``Let me do the submitting to the Royal Academy'', he suggested.
``Your name will never appear.
To that Rousseau could agree.
But now what crazy twists and turns of his emotions!
Afraid at one and the same time that his work might be turned down - which would be a blow to his pride even though no one knew he was the author - and that the work would be accepted, and then that his violent feelings in the matter would certainly betray how deeply concerned he was in spite of himself.
And how anxious this lover of obscurity was for applause!
And thus torn between his desire to be known as the composer of a successful opera and the necessity of remaining true to his proclaimed desire for anonymity, Rousseau suffered through several painful weeks.
All these emotions were screwed up to new heights when, after acceptance and the first rehearsals, there ensued such a buzz of excitement among Parisian music lovers that Duclos had to come running to Rousseau to inform him that the news had reached the superintendent of the King's amusements, and that he was now demanding that the work be offered first at the royal summer palace of Fontainebleau.
Imagine the honor of it!
``What was your answer''?
Jean Jacques asked, striving to appear unimpressed.
``What else could I do?
Monsieur de Cury was incensed, of course.
But I said I would first have to get the author's permission.
And I was certain he would refuse''.
How infuriating all this was!
Why had not this success come to him before he had plunged into his Discourse, and before he had committed himself to a life of austerity and denial?
Now, when everything was opening up to him - even the court of Louis / 15 15,!
- he had to play a role of self-effacement.
Back and forth Duclos had to go, between M. de Cury and Jean Jacques and between the Duke d'Aumont and Jean Jacques again, as his little operetta, The Village Soothsayer, though still unperformed, took on ever more importance.
But they, naturally, kept his secret well, and the public at large knew only of a great excitement in musical and court circles.
How titillating it was to go among people who did not know him as the composer, but who talked in the most glowing terms of the promise of the piece after having heard the first rehearsals.
The furor was such that people who could not possibly have squirmed their way into the rehearsals were pretending that they were intimate with the whole affair and that it would be sensational.
And listening to such a conversation one morning while taking a cup of chocolate in a cafe, Rousseau found himself bathed in perspiration, trembling lest his authorship become known, and at the same time dreaming of the startling effect he would make if he should proclaim himself suddenly as the composer.
He felt himself now, as he himself says in his Confessions, at a crucial point of his life.
And that was why, on the day of the performance, when a carriage from the royal stables called to take him to the palace, he did not bother to shave.
On the contrary, he was pleased that his face showed a neglect of several days.
Seeing him in that condition, and about to enter the hall where the King, the Queen, the whole royal family and all the members of the highest aristocracy would be present, Grimm and the Abbe Raynal and others tried to stop him.
``You cann't go in that way''! they cried.
Jean Jacques asked.
``Who is going to stop me''?
``You haven't dressed for the occasion''! they pointed out to him.
``I'm dressed as I always am'', Rousseau said.
``Neither better nor worse''.
``At home, yes'', they argued.
``But here you are in the palace.
There's the King.
And Madame de Pompadour''.
``And even more right.
Since I am the composer''!
``But in such a slovenly condition''.
``What is slovenly about me''?
Rousseau asked.
``Is it because of my slovenliness that hair grows on my face?
Surely it would grow there whether I washed myself or not.
A hundred years ago I would have worn a beard with pride.
And those without beards would have stood out as not dressed for the occasion.
That's the fashion.
And fashion is the real king here.
Not Louis / 15, since even he obeys.
Now, if you don't mind, I should like to hear my own piece performed''.
But of course behind his boldness he didn't feel bold at all.
He trembled lest his piece should fail.
And this in addition to his usual fear of being among people of high society.
His fear of making some inane or inappropriate remark.
And even deeper than that:
Could he walk out in the midst of his piece?
Here, before the court?
Before the King?
It was the first time any of us had laughed since the morning began.
The rider from Concord was as good as his word.
He came spurring and whooping down the road, his horse kicking up clouds of dust, shouting:
``They're a-coming!
By God, they're a-coming, they are''!
We heard him before he ever showed, and we heard him yelling after he was out of sight.
I think you could have heard him a mile away, and he was bursting at every seam with importance.
I have observed that being up on a horse changes the whole character of a man, and when a very small man is up on a saddle, he'd like as not prefer to eat his meals there.
That's understandable, and I appreciate the sentiment.
As for this rider, I never saw him before or afterwards and never saw him dismounted, so whether he stood tall or short in his shoes, I cann't say; but I do know that he gave the day tone and distinction.
The last thing in the world that resembled a war was our line of farmers and storekeepers and mechanics perched on top of a stone wall, and this dashing rider made us feel a good deal sharper and more alert to the situation.
We came down off the wall as if he had toppled all of us, and we crouched behind it.
I have heard people talk with contempt about the British regulars, but that only proves that a lot of people talk about things of which they are deplorably ignorant.
Whatever we felt about the redcoats, we respected them in terms of their trade, which was killing; and I know that I, myself, was nauseated with apprehension and fear and that my hands were soaking wet where they held my gun.
I wanted to wipe my flint, but I didn't dare to, the state my hands were in, just as I didn't dare to do anything about the priming.
I put a lot more trust in my two legs than in the gun, because the most important thing I had learned about war was that you could run away and survive to talk about it.
The gunfire, which was so near that it seemed just a piece up the road now, stopped for long enough to count to twenty; and in that brief interval, a redcoat officer came tearing down the road, whipping his horse fit to kill.
I don't know whether he was after our rider, who had gone by a minute before, or whether he was simply scouting conditions; but when he passed us by, a musket roared, and he reared his horse, swung it around, and began to whip it back in the direction from which he had come.
He was a fine and showy rider, but his skill was wasted on us.
From above me and somewhere behind me, a rifle cracked.
The redcoat officer collapsed like a punctured bolster, and the horse reared and threw him from the saddle, except that one booted foot caught in the stirrup.
Half crazed by the weight dragging, the dust, and the heat, the horse leaped our wall, dashing out the rider's brains against it, and leaving him lying there among us - while the horse crashed away through the brush.
It was my initiation to war and the insane symphony war plays; for what had happened on the common was only terror and flight; but this grinning, broken head, not ten feet away from me, was the sharp definition of what my reality had become.
And now the redcoats were coming, and the gunfire was a part of the dust cloud on the road to the west of us.
In my recollection, there was a long interval between the death of the officer and the appearance of the first of the retreating redcoats, and in that interval the dust cloud over the road seems to hover indefinitely.
Yet it could not have been more than a matter of seconds, and then the front of the British army came into view.
It was only hours since I had last seen them, but they had changed and I had changed.
In the very front rank, two men were wounded and staggered along, trailing blood behind them.
No drummers here, no pipers, and the red coats were covered with a fine film of dust.
They marched with bayonets fixed, and as fixed on their faces was anger, fear, and torment.
Rank after rank of them came down the road, and the faces were all the same, and they walked in a sea of dust.
``Committeemen, hold your fire!
Hold your fire''!
The front of their column had already passed us, when another officer came riding down the side of the road, not five paces from where we were.
My Cousin Simmons carried a musket, but he had loaded it with bird shot, and as the officer came opposite him, he rose up behind the wall and fired.
One moment there was a man in the saddle; the next a headless horror on a horse that bolted through the redcoat ranks, and during the next second or two, we all of us fired into the suddenly disorganized column of soldiers.
One moment, the road was filled with disciplined troops, marching four by four with a purpose as implacable as death; the next, a cloud of gun smoke covered a screaming fury of sound, out of which the redcoat soldiers emerged with their bayonets and their cursing fury.
In the course of this, they had fired on us; but I have no memory of that.
I had squeezed the trigger of my own gun, and to my amazement, it had fired and kicked back into my shoulder with the force of an angry mule; and then I was adding my own voice to the crescendo of sound, hurling more vile language than I ever thought I knew, sobbing and shouting, and aware that if I had passed water before, it was not enough, for my pants were soaking wet.
I would have stood there and died there if left to myself, but Cousin Simmons grabbed my arm in his viselike grip and fairly plucked me out of there; and then I came to some sanity and plunged away with such extraordinary speed that I outdistanced Cousin Simmons by far.
Everyone else was running.
Later we realized that the redcoats had stopped their charge at the wall.
We tumbled to a stop in Deacon Gordon's cow hole, a low-lying bit of pasture with a muddy pool of water in its middle.
A dozen cows mooed sadly and regarded us as if we were insane, as perhaps we were at that moment, with the crazy excitement of our first encounter, the yelling and shooting still continuing up at the road, and the thirst of some of the men, which was so great that they waded into the muddy water and scooped up handfuls of it.
Isaac Pitt, one of the men from Lincoln, had taken a musket ball in his belly; and though he had found the strength to run with us, now he collapsed and lay on the ground, dying, the Reverend holding his head and wiping his hot brow.
It may appear that we were cruel and callous, but no one had time to spend sympathizing with poor Isaac - except the Reverend.
I know that I myself felt that it was a mortal shame for a man to be torn open by a British musket ball, as Isaac had been, yet I also felt relieved and lucky that it had been him and not myself.
I was drunk with excitement and the smell of gunpowder that came floating down from the road, and the fact that I was not afraid now, but only waiting to know what to do next.
Meanwhile, I reloaded my gun, as the other men were doing.
We were less than a quarter of a mile from the road, and we could trace its shape from the ribbon of powder smoke and dust that hung over it.
Wherever you looked, you saw Committeemen running across the meadows, some away from the road, some toward it, some parallel to it; and about a mile to the west a cluster of at least fifty militia were making their way in our direction.
I didn't offer any advice, but I certainly did not want to go back to where the officer lay with his brains dashed out.
Someone said that while we were standing here and arguing about it, the British would be gone; but Cousin Simmons said he had watched them marching west early in the morning, and moving at a much brisker pace it had still taken half an hour for their column to pass, what with the narrowness of the road and their baggage and ammunition carts.
While this was being discussed, we saw the militia to the west of us fanning out and breaking into little clusters of two and three men as they approached the road.
It was the opinion of some of us that these must be part of the Committeemen who had been in the Battle of the North Bridge, which entitled them to a sort of veteran status, and we felt that if they employed this tactic, it was likely enough the best one.
Mattathias Dover said:
``It makes sense.
If we cluster together, the redcoats can make an advantage out of it, but there's not a blessed thing they can do with two or three of us except chase us, and we can outrun them''.
That settled it, and we broke into parties of two and three.
Cousin Joshua Dover decided to remain with the Reverend and poor Isaac Pitt until life passed away - and he was hurt so badly he did not seem for long in this world.
``Good heavens, Adam'', he said, ``I thought one thing you'd have no trouble learning is when to get out of a place''.
``I learned that now'', I said.
We ran east for about half a mile before we turned back to the road, panting from the effort and soaked with sweat.
There was a clump of trees that appeared to provide cover right up to the road, and the shouting and gunfire never slackened.
Under the trees, there was a dead redcoat, a young boy with a pasty white skin and a face full of pimples, who had taken a rifle ball directly between the eyes.
Three men were around him.
They had stripped him of his musket and equipment, and now they were pulling his boots and jacket off.
Cousin Simmons grabbed one of them by the shoulder and flung him away.
``God's name, what are you to rob the dead with the fight going on''!
They tried to outface him, but Joseph Simmons was as wide as two average men, and it would have taken braver men than these were to outface him.
That summer the gambling houses were closed, despite the threats of Pierre Ameaux, a gaming-card manufacturer.
Dancing was no longer permitted in the streets.
The Bordel and other places of prostitution were emptied.
The slit breeches had to go.
Drunkenness was no longer tolerated.
In defiance, a chinless reprobate, Jake Camaret, marched down the aisle in St. Peter's one Sunday morning, followed by one of the women from the Bordel, whose dress and walk plainly showed the lack of any shame.
Plunking themselves down on the front bench, they turned to smirk at those around them.
John's first impulse was to denounce their blasphemy.
Calmly he opened the Bible and read of the woman at the well.
He finished the worship service as if there had been no brazen attempt to dishonor God and man.
The next morning, as the clock struck nine, he appeared at the Council meeting in the Town Hall and insisted that the couple would have to be punished if the Church was to be respected.
``I have told you before, and I tell you again'', Monsieur Favre said rudely.
``Stick to the preaching of the Gospel''!
John stiffened in anger.
``That is the answer the ungodly will always make when the Church points its fingers at their sins.
I say to you that the Church will ever decry evil''!
John's reply was like a declaration of war.
Ablard Corne, a short man with a rotunda of stomach, rose.
Every eye was on him as he began to speak.
``What Master Calvin says is true.
How can we have a good city unless we respect morality''?
Abel Poupin, a tall man with sunken cheeks and deep-set eyes, got to his feet.
``We all know that Jake Camaret and the woman are brazenly living together.
It would be well to show the populace how we deal with adulterers''.
Philibert Berthelier, the son of the famous patriot, disagreed.
``Do not listen to that Frenchman.
John was quietly insistent.
``There can be no compromise when souls are in jeopardy''.
A week later the sentence of the Council was carried out : Jake Camaret and the woman were marched naked through the streets past a mocking populace.
Before them stalked the beadle, proclaiming as he went, ``Thus the Council deals with those who break its laws - adulterers, thieves, murderers, and lewd persons.
Let evildoers contemplate their ways, and let every man beware''!
John's thoughts raced painfully into the past as he read the letter he had just received from his sister Mary.
Charles had died two weeks before, in early November, without being reconciled to the Church.
The canons, in a body, had tried to force him on his deathbed to let them give him the last rites of the Church, but he had died still proclaiming salvation by faith.
Burial had taken place at night in the ground at the public crossroads under the gibbet, so that his enemies could not find his body and have it dug up and burned.
John closed his eyes and saw once again the little niche in his mother's bedroom, where she had knelt to tell the good Virgin of her needs.
The blue draped Virgin was still there, but no one knelt before her now.
Not even Varnessa; she, too, prayed only to God.
For an instant John longed for the sound of the bells of Noyon-la-Sainte, the touch of his mother's hand, the lilt of Charles's voice in the square raftered rooms, his father's bass tones rumbling to the canons, and the sight of the beloved bishop.
But he had to follow the light.
Unless God expected a man to believe the Holy Scriptures, why had He given them to him?
The white clad trees stood like specters in the February night.
Snow buried the streets and covered the slanting rooftops, as John trudged toward St. Peter's.
A carriage crunched by, its dim lights filtering through the gloom.
The city had recently given him a small salary, but it was not enough to supply even necessities.
As he neared the square, a round figure muffled in a long, black cape whisked by.
John recognized Ablard Corne and called out a greeting.
How grateful he was to such men!
There were several on the Council who tried to live like Christians.
Despite their efforts, the problems seemed to grow graver all the time.
Quickening his steps, John entered the vast church and climbed the tower steps to the bells.
Underneath the big one, in the silent moonlight, lay a dead pigeon, and on the smaller bell, the Clemence, two gray and white birds slept huddled together in the cold winter air.
John leaned upon the stone balustrade.
Below the moon splashed world rolled away to insurmountable white peaks; above him the deep blue sky glittered with stars.
He stood very still, his arms at his sides, staring up at the heavens, then down at the blinking lights below.
``How long, my Lord?
How long?
I have never asked for an easy task, but I am weary of the strife''.
Sleep was difficult these days.
Indigestion plagued him.
Severe headaches were frequent.
Loneliness tore through him like a physical pain whenever he thought of Peter Robert, Nerien, Nicholas Cop, Martin Bucer, and even the compromising Louis du Tillet.
Letters came regularly from Nerien, Nicholas, and Martin.
He had Anthony and William to confide in and consult.
But William continued to find a bitter joy in smashing images and tearing down symbols sacred to the Old Church.
John found it difficult, but he held him in check.
And Anthony was busy most of the time courting this girl and that.
His easy good looks made him a favorite with the ladies.
Geneva, instead of becoming the City of God, as John had dreamed, had in the two years since he had been there, continued to be a godless place where all manner of vice flourished.
Refugees poured in, signing the Confession and rules in order to remain, and then disregarding them.
Dice rolled, prostitutes plied their trade, thieves stole, murderers stabbed, and the ungodly blasphemed.
Libertines recalled the heroism of the past and demanded : ``Are we going to allow the Protestant Pope, Master Calvin, to curtail our liberty?
Why, oh why, doesn't he stick to preaching the Gospel, instead of meddling in civic affairs, politics, economics, and social issues that are no concern of the Church''?
And John's reply was always the same : ``Anything that affects souls is the concern of the Church!
We will have righteousness''!
Tears burned behind his eyes as he prayed and meditated tonight.
Unless the confusion cleared, he would not be coming here much longer.
Monsieur Favre's threat would become a reality, for he continued to proclaim loudly that the city must rid itself of ``that Frenchman''.
The slow tapping of a cane on the stone steps coming up to the tower interrupted his reverie.
Faint at first, the tapping grew until it sounded loud against the wind.
John thought.
What is he doing here at this hour?
He started down the steps to meet the near-blind preacher, who had been one of the early Gospelers in Paris.
``John?
Is that you?
I came to warn you of a plot''!
John stood above him, his face ashen.
What now?
Slowly, like a man grown old, he took Eli's hand and led him below to the tower study, guiding him to a chair beside the little hearth where a fire still burned.
John asked tiredly.
``Monsieur Favre just paid me a visit.
I went to your rooms, and Anthony told me you were here.
Two Anabaptists, Caroli and Benoit, are to challenge you and William to a debate before the Council.
It is to be a trap.
You know the law : if you lose the debate after accepting a challenge, you will be banished''!
``What will be the subject''?
``You are to be accused of Arianism to confuse the religious who remain loyal''.
Anger and fear fused in John.
Those who refused to believe that He was the eternal Son of God were termed Arianists.
Peter Caroli had come to Geneva, saying that he had been a bishop of the Church of Rome and had been persecuted in Paris for his Reformed faith.
He asked to be appointed a preacher.
But Michael Sept had unmasked him, revealing he had never been a bishop, but was an Anabaptist, afraid to state his faith, because he knew John Calvin had written a book against their belief that the soul slept after death.
So John had refused to agree to his appointment as a preacher, and now Caroli sought revenge.
John sighed.
``If William agrees, we should insist on a public debate'', he said at length.
``There is more to the conspiracy.
Bern demands that the Lord's Supper be administered here as it used to be, with unleavened bread.
``It was always the spirit with Christ; matters such as leavened or unleavened bread are inconsequential.
Geneva must remain a sovereign state.
We will not yield to the demands of Bern''!
The firelight played over Eli's flowing white locks and rugged features.
``Monsieur Favre indicated that if I would co-operate, after you and William are banished, following the debate, I will be given a place of influence''.
``What was your reply to that''?
``That I would rather be banished with two such Christians than be made the Chief Syndic''!
The following morning, as John entered the Place Molard on his way to visit a sick refugee, he had a premonition of danger.
Then suddenly a group of men and dogs circled him.
He stood very still, his heart thumping wildly.
On the outskirts of the rabble the Camaret brothers and Gaspard Favre shook their fists.
``Are you going to comply with the demands of Bern''?
the chinless Jake called.
``Arianist''! a rowdy with a big blob of a nose roared.
``Heretic''!
John lifted his hand for silence.
``Know this : the ministers will not yield to the demands of Bern''.
His voice shook a little.
For an instant John was stunned.
When he felt the side of his head, his fingers came away covered with blood.
Before he could duck, another stone struck him.
And another.
``let him be now''!
Pierre Ameaux, the gaming-card manufacturer said, his little pig eyes glaring.
``We have taught him a lesson''.
The crowd moved back and John started dizzily down the hill.
Fists pummeled him as he staggered forward.
At once a bevy of dogs was snapping and snarling around him.
One, more horrible than the rest, lunged, growling deep in his throat, his hair bristling.
With great difficulty John clambered to his feet and started to run, sweat pouring down his face.
Standing in the shelter of the tent - a rejected hospital tent on which the rain now dripped, no longer drumming - Adam watched his own hands touch the objects on the improvised counter of boards laid across two beef barrels.
There was, of course, no real need to rearrange everything.
A quarter inch this way or that for the hardbake, or the toffee, or the barley sugar, or the sardines, or the bitters, or the condensed milk, or the stationery, or the needles - what could it mean?
Adam watched his own hands make the caressing, anxious movement that, when rain falls and nobody comes, and ruin draws close like a cat rubbing against the ankles, has been the ritual of stall vendors, forever.
He recognized the gesture.
He knew its meaning.
Back in Bavaria he had seen that gesture, and at that sight his heart had always died within him.
On such occasions he had not had the courage to look at the face above the hand, whatever face it might be.
Now the face was his own.
He wondered what expression, as he made that gesture, was on his face.
He wondered if it wore the old anxiety, or the old, taut stoicism.
But there was no need, he remembered, for his hand to reach out, for his face to show concern or stoicism.
It was nothing to him if rain fell and nobody came.
Then why was he assuming the role - the gesture and the suffering?
What was he expiating?
This was Virginia.
He looked out of the tent at the company street.
The rain dripped on the freezing loblolly of the street.
Beyond that misty gray of the rain, he saw the stretching hutment, low diminutive log cabins, chinked with mud, with doorways a man would have to crouch to get through, with roofs of tenting laid over boughs or boards from hardtack boxes, or fence rails, with cranky chimneys of sticks and dried mud.
The chimney of the hut across from him was surmounted by a beef barrel with ends knocked out.
In this heavy air, however, that device did not seem to help.
The smoke from that chimney rose as sluggishly as smoke from any other, and hung as sadly in the drizzle, creeping back down along the sopping canvas of the roof.
Over the door was a board with large, inept lettering:
Home Sweet Home.
The men were huddled in those lairs.
Adam knew the names of some.
He knew the faces of all, hairy or shaven, old or young, fat or thin, suffering or hardened, sad or gay, good or bad.
When they stood about his tent, chaffing each other, exchanging their obscenities, cursing command or weather, he had studied their faces.
He had had the need to understand what life lurked behind the mask of flesh, behind the oath, the banter, the sadness.
Once covertly looking at Simms Purdew, the only man in the world whom he hated, he had seen the heavy, slack, bestubbled jaw open and close to emit the cruel, obscene banter, and had seen the pale blue eyes go watery with whisky and merriment, and suddenly he was not seeing the face of that vile creature.
He was seeing, somehow, the face of a young boy, the boy Simms Purdew must once have been, a boy with sorrel hair, and blue eyes dancing with gaiety, and the boy mouth grinning trustfully among the freckles.
In that moment of vision Adam heard the voice within himself saying : I must not hate him, I must not hate him or I shall die.
His heart suddenly opened to joy.
If Simms Purdew would turn to him and say : ``Adam, you know when I was a boy, it was a funny thing happened.
Lemme tell you now'' -
If only Simms Purdew could do that, whatever the thing he remembered and told.
It would be a sign for the untellable, and he, Adam, would understand.
Now, Adam, in the gray light of afternoon, stared across at the hut opposite his tent, and thought of Simms Purdew lying in there in the gloom, snoring on his bunk, with the fumes of whisky choking the air.
He saw the sign above the door of the hut : Home Sweet Home.
He saw the figure of a man in a poncho coming up the company street, with an armful of wood.
It was Pullen James, the campmate of Simms Purdew.
He carried the wood, carried the water, did the cooking, cleaning and mending, and occasionally got a kick in the butt for his pains.
It gave the rubberized fabric a dull gleam, like metal.
Pullen James humbly lowered his head, pushed aside the hardtack box door of the hut, and was gone from sight.
Adam stared at the door and remembered that Simms Purdew had been awarded the Medal of Honor for gallantry at Antietam.
The street was again empty.
The drizzle was slacking off now, but the light was grayer.
With enormous interest, Adam watched his hands as they touched and shifted the objects on the board directly before him.
Into the emptiness of the street, and his spirit, moved a form.
The form was swathed in an army blanket, much patched, fastened at the neck with a cord.
From under the shapeless huddle of blanket the feet moved in the mud.
The head was wrapped in a turban and on top of the turban rode a great hamper across which a piece of poncho had been flung.
The gray face stared straight ahead in the drizzle.
Moisture ran down the cheeks, gathered at the tip of the nose, and at the chin.
The figure was close enough now for him to see the nose twitching to dislodge the drop clinging there.
The figure stopped and one hand was perilously freed from the hamper to scratch the nose.
Then the figure moved on.
This was one of the Irish women who had built their own huts down near the river.
They did washing.
Adam recognized this one.
``Slice o' mutton, bhoy'' ? she had queried in her soft guttural.
``Slice o' mutton''?
Her name was Mollie.
They called her Mollie the Mutton, and laughed.
Looking down the street after her, Adam saw that she had again stopped and again removed one hand from the basket.
He could not make out, but he knew that again she was scratching her nose.
Mollie the Mutton was scratching her nose.
The words ran crazily in his head : Mollie the Mutton is scratching her nose in the rain.
Then the words fell into a pattern : ``Mollie the Mutton is scratching her nose, Scratching her nose in the rain.
The pattern would not stop.
It came again and again.
He felt trapped in that pattern, in the repetition.
Suddenly he thought he might weep.
``What's the matter with me'' ? he demanded out loud.
He looked wildly around, at the now empty street, at the mud, at the rain.
``Oh, what's the matter with me'' ? he demanded.
When he had stored his stock in the great oak chest, locked the two big hasps and secured the additional chain, tied the fly of the tent, and picked up the cash box, he moved up the darkening street.
He would consign the cash box into the hands of Jed Hawksworth, then stand by while his employer checked the contents and the list of items sold.
Then what?
He did not know.
His mind closed on that prospect, as though fog had descended to blot out a valley.
Far off, in the dusk, he heard voices singing, muffled but strong.
In one of the huts a group of men were huddled together, singing.
He stopped.
He strained to hear.
He heard the words : ``Rock of Ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in Thee!
Let the water and the blood From Thy riven side''.
He was standing there, he thought, in Virginia, in the thickening dusk, in a costly greatcoat that had belonged to another Jew.
That other Jew, a young man too, had left that greatcoat behind, in a rich house, and marched away.
He had crossed the river which now, beyond the woods yonder, was sliding darkly under the mist.
He had plunged into the dark woods beyond.
He had died there.
What had that man, that other young Jew, felt as he stood in the twilight and heard other men, far away, singing together?
.
Adam thought of the hutments, regiment after regiment, row after row, the thousands of huts, stretching away into the night.
He thought of the men, the nameless thousands, huddling in them.
He thought of Simms Purdew, who once had risen at the edge of a cornfield, a maniacal scream on his lips, and swung a clubbed musket like a flail to beat down the swirl of Rebel bayonets about him.
He thought of Simms Purdew rising up, fearless in glory.
He felt the sweetness of pity flood through him, veining his very flesh.
Those men, lying in the huts, they did not know.
They did not know who they were or know their own worth.
In the pity for them his loneliness was gone.
Then he thought of Aaron Blaustein standing in his rich house saying : ``God is tired of taking the blame.
He is going to let History take the blame for a while''.
He thought of the old man laughing under the glitter of the great chandelier.
Adam rose from the crouch necessary to enter the hut.
He saw Mose squatting by the hearth, breaking up hardtack into a pan.
A pot was boiling on the coals.
``Done give Ole Buckra all his money''?
Mose asked softly.
Adam nodded.
``Yeah'', Mose murmured, ``yeah.
And look what he done give us''.
Adam looked at the pot.
``Chicken'', Mose said, and theatrically licked his lips.
``Gre't big fat chicken, yeah''.
He licked his lips again.
Then : ``Yeah.
A chicken with six tits and a tail lak a corkscrew.
And hit squealed for slop''.
Mose giggled.
``Fooled you, huh?
It is the same ole same, tell me hit's name.
It is salt po'k.
It is salt po'k and skippers.
That po'k, it was so full of skippers it would jump and run and not come when you say,' Hoo-pig'.
Had to put my foot on it to hole it down while I cut it up fer the lob-scuse''.
He dumped the pan of crumbled hardtack into the boiling pot of lobscouse.
``Good ole lob-scuse'', he mumbled, and stirred the pot.
He stopped stirring and looked over his shoulder.
``Know what Ole Buckra et tonight'' ? he demanded.
``Know what I had to fix fer Ole Him''?
``Chicken'', Mose said.
She was a child too much a part of her environment, too eager to grow and learn and experience.
Once, they were at Easthampton for the summer (again, Fritzie said, a good place, even though they were being robbed).
One soft evening - that marvelous sea blessed time when the sun's departing warmth lingers and a smell of spume and wrack haunts everything - Amy had picked herself off the floor and begun to walk.
Fritzie was on the couch reading; Laura was sitting in an easy chair about eight feet away.
The infant, in white terry-cloth bathrobe, her face intense and purposeful, had essayed a few wobbly steps toward her father.
``Y'all wanna walk - walk'', he said.
Then, gently, he shoved her behind toward Laura.
Amy walked - making it halfway across the cottage floor.
Then Laura took her gently and shoved her off again, toward Fritzie:
Amy did not laugh - this was work, concentration, achievement.
In a few minutes she was making the ten foot hike unaided; soon she was parading around the house, flaunting her new skill.
Some liar's logic, a wisp of optimism as fragile as the scent of tropical blossoms that came through the window (a euphoria perhaps engendered by the pill Fritzie had given her), consoled her for a moment.
Amy had to be safe, had to come back to them - if only to reap that share of life's experiences that were her due, if only to give her parents another chance to do better by her.
Through the swathings of terror, she jabbed deceit's sharp point - Amy would be reborn, a new child, with new parents, living under new circumstances.
The comfort was short-lived, yet she found herself returning to the assurance whenever her imagination forced images on her too awful to contemplate without the prop of illusion.
Gazing at her husband's drugged body, his chest rising and falling in mindless rhythms, she saw the grandeur of his fictional world, that lush garden from which he plucked flowers and herbs.
She envied him.
In the darkness, she saw him stirring.
He seemed to be muttering, his voice surprisingly clear.
``Y'all should have let me take that money out'', Andrus said.
``' Nother minute I'd have been fine.
Y'all should have let me do it''.
Laura touched his hand.
``Yes, I know, Fritzie.
I should have''.
The heat intensified on Tuesday.
It could continue this way, hitting 106 and more in the Valley, Joe McFeeley knew, into October.
He and Irvin Moll were sipping coffee at the breakfast bar.
Both had been up since 7 : 00 - Irv on the early morning watch, McFeeley unable to sleep during his four hour relief.
The night before, they had telephoned the Andrus maid, Selena Masters, and she had arrived early, bursting her vigorous presence into the silent house with an assurance that amused McFeeley and confounded Moll.
The latter, thanking her for the coffee, had winked and muttered, ``Sure' nuff, honey''.
Selena was the wrong woman for these crudities.
With a hard eye, she informed Moll : ``Don't sure' nuff me, officer.
I'm honey only to my husband, understand''?
Sergeant Moll understood.
Her speech was barren of southernisms; she was one of Eliot Sparling's neutralized minorities, adopting the rolling R's and constricted vowels of Los Angeles.
Not seeing her dark intelligent face, one would have gauged the voice as that of a Westwood Village matron, ten years out of Iowa.
After she had served the detectives coffee and toast (they politely declined eggs, uncomfortable about their tenancy), she settled down with a morning newspaper and began reading the stock market quotations.
While she was thus engaged, McFeeley questioned her about her whereabouts the previous day, any recollections she had of people hanging around, of overcurious delivery boys or repairmen, of strange cars cruising the neighborhood.
She answered him precisely, missing not a beat in her scrutiny of the financial reports.
Selena Masters, Joe realized, was her own woman.
She was the only kind of Negro Laura Andrus would want around : independent, unservile, probably charging double what ordinary maids did for housework - and doubly efficient.
When the parents emerged from the bedroom a few minutes later, the maid greeted them quietly.
``I'm awful sorry about what's happened'', Selena said.
She charged off to the bedrooms.
Moll took his coffee into the nursery.
During the night, a phone company technician had deadened the bells and installed red blinkers on the phones.
Someone would have to remain in the office continually.
McFeeley greeted the parents, then studied his notebook.
He wanted to take the mother to headquarters at once and start her on the mug file.
``Sleep well'' ? he asked.
Andrus did not answer him.
His face was bloated with drugging, redder than normal.
``Oh - we managed'', she said.
``I'm a little groggy.
Did anything happen during the night''?
``Few crank calls'', McFeeley said.
``A couple of tips we're running down - nothing promising.
We can expect more of the same.
Too bad your number is in the directory''.
``Didn't occur to me my child would be kidnaped when I had it listed'', Andrus muttered.
He settled on the sofa with his coffee, warming his hands on the cup, although the room was heavy with heat.
The previous night's horror - the absolute failure, overcast with the intrusions of the press, had left them all with a wan sense of uselessness, of play-acting.
Sipping their coffee, discussing the weather, the day's shopping, Fritzie's commitments at the network (all of which he would cancel), they avoided the radio, the morning TV news show, even the front page of the Santa Luisa Register, resting on the kitchen bar.
Kidnapper Spurns Ransom; Amy Still Missing.
Once, Andrus walked by it, hastily scanned the bold black headline and the five column lead of the article (by Duane Bosch, staff correspondent - age not given), and muttered : ``We a buncha national celebrities''.
McFeeley told the parents he would escort them to police headquarters in a half hour.
Before that, he wanted to talk to the neighbors.
He did not want to bring the Andruses to the station house too early - Rheinholdt had summoned a press conference, and he didn't want them subjected to the reporters again.
He could think of nothing else to tell them : no assurances, no hopeful hints at great discoveries that day.
When the detective left, Andrus phoned his secretary to cancel his work and to advise the network to get a substitute director for his current project.
Outside, only a handful of reporters remained.
The bulk of the press corps was covering Rheinholdt's conference.
In contrast to the caravan of the previous night, there were only four cars parked across the street.
Two men he did not recognize were sipping coffee and munching sweet rolls.
He did not see Sparling, or DeGroot, or Ringel, or any of the feverish crew that had so harassed him twelve hours ago.
However, the litter remained, augmented by several dozen lunchroom suppers.
The street cleaner had not yet been around.
One of the reporters called to him : ``Anything new, Lieutenant''?
And he ignored him, skirting the parked cars and walking up the path to the Skopas house.
McFeeley identified himself.
The master of the house, his nourished face unrevealing, consented to postpone his departure a few minutes to talk to the detective.
Inside, as soon as Mr. Skopas had disclosed - in a hoarse whisper - the detective's errand, his family gathered in a huddle, forming a mass of dark flesh on and around a brocaded sofa which stood at one side of a baroque fireplace.
Flanked by marble urns and alabaster lamps, they seemed to be posing for a tribal portrait.
It was amazing how they had herded together for protection : an enormous matriarch in a quilted silk wrapper, rising from the breakfast table; a gross boy in his teens, shuffling in from the kitchen with a sandwich in his hands; a girl in her twenties, fat and sullen, descending the marble staircase; then all four gathering on the sofa to face the inquisitor.
They answered him in monosyllables, nods, occasionally muttering in Greek to one another, awaiting the word from Papa, who restlessly cracked his knuckles, anxious to stuff himself into his white Cadillac and burst off to the freeway.
No, they hadn't seen anyone around; no, they didn't know the Andrus family; yes, they had read about the case; yes, they had let some reporters use their phone, but they would no longer.
They offered no opinions, volunteered nothing, betrayed no emotions.
Studying them, McFeeley could not help make comparison with the Andrus couple.
He imagined they were the kind whose tax returns were never examined (if they were, they were never penalized), whose children had no unhappy romances, whose names never knew scandal.
The equation was simple : wealth brought them happiness, and their united front to the world was their warning that they meant to keep everything they had, let no one in on the secrets.
By comparison, Fritzie and Laura Andrus were quivering fledglings.
They possessed no outer fortifications, no hard shells of confidence; they had enough difficulty getting from day to day, let alone having an awful crime thrust upon them.
Skopas expressed no curiosity over the case, offered no expression of sympathy, made no move to escort McFeeley to the door.
All four remained impacted on the sofa until he had left.
He had spoken to Mrs. Emerson the previous day.
There remained a family named Kahler, owners of a two story Tudor style house on the south side of the Andrus home.
Their names had not come up in any discussions with Laura, and he had no idea what they would be like.
The door was answered by a slender man in his sixties - straight backed, somewhat clerical in manner, wearing rimless glasses.
When Joe identified himself, he nodded, unsmiling, and ushered him into a sedate living room.
Mrs. Kahler joined them.
She had a dried-out quality - a gray, lean woman, not unattractive.
Both were dressed rather formally.
The man wore a vest and a tie, the woman had on a dark green dress and three strands of pearls.
``Funny thing'', Mr. Kahler said, when they were seated, ``when I heard you ringing, I figured it was that guy down the block, Hausman''.
McFeeley looked puzzled.
Kahler continued : ``I fixed his dog the other day and I guess he's sore, so I expected him to come barging in''.
The dog refused to be scared off, so Kahler had purchased some small firecrackers.
He would lay in wait in the garage, and when the terrier came scratching around, he'd let fly with a cherry bomb.
``Scared the hell out of him'', Kahler grinned.
``I hit him in the ass once''.
Both grinned at the detective.
``Finally, all I needed was to throw a little piece of red wood that looked like a firecracker and that dumb dog would run ki-yi-ing for his life''.
In the dim underwater light they dressed and straightened up the room, and then they went across the hall to the kitchen.
She was intimidated by the stove.
He found the pilot light and turned on one of the burners for her.
They found the teakettle and put water on to boil and then searched through the icebox.
Several sections of a loaf of dark bread; butter; jam; a tiny cake of ice.
In their search for what turned out to be the right breakfast china but the wrong table silver, they opened every cupboard door in the kitchen and pantry.
While she was settling the teacart, he went back across the hall to their bedroom, opened one of the suitcases, and took out powdered coffee and sugar.
She appeared with the teacart and he opened the windows.
``Do you want to call Eugene''?
He did n't, but it was not really a question, and so he left the room, walked down the hall to the front of the apartment, hesitated, and then knocked lightly on the closed door of the study.
A sleepy voice answered.
``Le petit dejeuner'', Harold said, in an accent that did credit to Miss Sloan, his high-school French teacher.
Since ordinary breakfast-table conversation was impossible, it was at least something that they were able to offer Eugene the sugar bowl with their sugar in it, and the plate of bread and butter, and that Eugene could return the pitcher of hot milk to them handle first.
Eugene put a spoonful of powdered coffee into his cup and then filled it with hot water.
Stirring, he said : ``I am sorry that my work prevents me from doing anything with you today''.
They assured him that they did not expect or need to be entertained.
Harold put a teaspoonful of powdered coffee in his cup and filled it with hot water, and then, stirring, he sat back in his chair.
The chair creaked.
Every time he moved or said something, the chair creaked again.
Eugene was not entirely silent, or openly rude - unless asking Harold to move to another chair and placing himself in the fauteuil that creaked so alarmingly was an act of rudeness.
It went right on creaking under his own considerable weight, and all it needed, Harold thought, was for somebody to fling himself back in a fit of laughter and that would be the end of it.
Harold indicated the photograph on the wall and asked what church the stone sculpture was in.
Eugene told him and he promptly forgot.
They passed the marmalade, the bread, the black-market butter, back and forth.
Nothing was said about hotels or train journeys.
Eugene offered Harold his car, to use at any time he cared to, and when this offer was not accepted, the armchair creaked.
They all three had another cup of coffee.
Eugene was in his pajamas and dressing gown, and on his large feet he wore yellow Turkish slippers that turned up at the toes.
``Ex-cuse me'', he said in Berlitz English, and got up and left them, to bathe and dress.
The first shrill ring of the telephone brought Harold out into the hall.
At that moment the bathroom door flew open and Eugene came out, with his face lathered for shaving, and strode down the hall, tying the sash of his dressing gown as he went.
The telephone was in the study but the ringing came from the hall.
Between the telephone and the wall plug there was sixty feet of cord, and when the conversation came to an end, Eugene carried the instrument with him the whole length of the apartment, to his bathroom, where it rang three more times while he was shaving and in the tub.
Before he left the apartment he knocked on their door and asked if there was anything he could do for them.
Harold shook his head.
``Sabine called a few minutes ago'', Eugene said.
``She wants you and Barbara to have dinner with her tomorrow night''.
He handed Harold a key to the front door, and cautioned him against leaving it unlocked while they were out of the apartment.
When enough time had elapsed so that there was little likelihood of his returning for something he had forgotten, Harold went out into the hall and stood looking into one room after another.
It was the most important-looking cradle he had ever seen.
Then came their bathroom, and then a bedroom that, judging by the photographs on the walls, must belong to Mme Cestre.
A young woman who looked like Alix, with her two children.
Alix and Eugene on their wedding day.
Matching photographs in oval frames of Mme Bonenfant and an elderly man who must be Alix's grandfather.
Mme Vienot, considerably younger and very different.
The schoolboy.
And a gray-haired man whose glance - direct, lifelike, and mildly accusing - was contradicted by the gilt and black frame.
It was the kind of frame that is only put around the photograph of a dead person.
With the metal shutters closed, the dining room was so dark that it seemed still night in there.
One of the drawing-room shutters was partly open and he made out the shapes of chairs and sofas, which seemed to be upholstered in brown or russet velvet.
The curtains were of the same material, and there were some big oil paintings - portraits in the style of Lancret and Boucher.
Though, taken individually, the big rooms were, or seemed to be, square, the apartment as a whole formed a triangle.
The apex, the study where Eugene slept, was light and bright and airy and cheerful.
The window looked out on the Place Redoute - it was the only window of the apartment that did.
Looking around slowly, he saw a marble fireplace, a desk, a low bookcase of mahogany with criss-crossed brass wire instead of glass panes in the doors.
The daybed Eugene had slept in, made up now with its dark-brown velours cover and pillows.
The portable record player with a pile of classical records beside it.
Da-da-da-dum.
Music could not be Eugene's passion.
Besides, the records were dusty.
He tried the doors of the bookcase.
Locked.
The titles he could read easily through the criss-crossed wires : works on theology, astral physics, history, biology, political science.
No poetry.
No novels.
He moved over to the desk and stood looking at the papers on it but not touching anything.
The concierge called out to them as they were passing through the foyer.
Her quarters were on the right as you walked into the building, and her small front room was clogged with heavy furniture - a big, round, oak dining table and chairs, a buffet, with a row of unclaimed letters inserted between the mirror and its frame.
The suitcases had come while they were out, and had been put in their room, the concierge said.
He waited until they were inside the elevator and then said : ``Now what do we do''?
``Call the Vouillemont, I guess''.
``I guess''.
Rather than sit around waiting for the suitcases to be delivered, they had gone sight-seeing.
They went to the Flea Market, expecting to find the treasures of Europe, and found instead a duplication of that long double row of booths in Tours.
Cheap clothing and junk of every sort, as far as the eye could see.
Looked at everything.
Barbara bought some cotton aprons, and Harold bought shoestrings.
They had lunch at a sidewalk cafe overlooking the intersection of two broad, busy, unpicturesque streets, and coming home they got lost in the Metro; it took them over an hour to get back to the station where they should have changed, in order to take the line that went to the Place Redoute.
It was the end of the afternoon when he took the huge key out of his pocket and inserted it into the keyhole.
When he opened the door, there stood Eugene, on his way out of the apartment.
He was wearing sneakers and shorts and an open-collared shirt, and in his hand he carried a little black bag.
He did not explain where he was going, and they did not ask.
Instead, they went on down the hall to their room.
``Do you think he could be having an affair''?
``Oh no'', Harold said, shocked.
``Well, this is France, after all''.
``I know, but there must be some other explanation.
He's probably spending the evening with friends''.
``And for that he needs a little bag''?
They went shopping in the neighborhood, and bought two loaves of bread with the ration coupons they had been given in Blois, and some cheese, and a dozen eggs, and a bag of oranges from a peddler in the Place Redoute - the first oranges they had seen since they landed.
They had Vermouth, sitting in front of a cafe.
When they got home Harold was grateful for the stillness in the apartment, and thought how, under different circumstances, they might have stayed on here, in these old-fashioned, high-ceilinged rooms that reminded him of the Irelands' apartment in the East Eighties.
They could have been perfectly happy here for ten whole days.
He felt them.
They were damp.
He reached out and felt the bath towel hanging on the towel rack over the tub.
Damp also.
He looked around the room and then called out:
``Come here, quick''?
``What is it''?
Barbara asked, standing in the doorway.
``I've solved the mystery of the little bag.
But where do people go swimming in Paris?
That boat in the river, maybe''.
``What boat''?
``There's a big boat anchored near the Place de la Concorde, with a swimming pool in it - didn't you notice it?
But if he has time to go swimming, he had time to be with us''.
She looked at him in surprise.
``I know'', he said, reading her mind.
``I don't know what I'm going to do with you''.
``It's because we are in France'', he said, ``and know so few people.
Also, he was so nice when he was nice''.
``All because I didn't feel like dancing''.
``I don't think it was that, really''.
``Then what was it''?
``I don't know.
I wish I did.
The tweed coat, maybe.
The thing about Eugene is that he's very proud''.
And the thing about hurt feelings, the wet bathing suit pointed out, is that the person who has them is not quite the innocent party he believes himself to be.
Fortunately, the embarrassing questions raised by objects do not need to be answered, or we would all have to go sleep in the open fields.
And in any case, answers may clarify but they do not change anything.
He brought with him a mixture of myrrh and aloes, of about a hundred pounds' weight.
They took Jesus's body, then, and wrapped it in winding-clothes with the spices; that is how the Jews prepare a body for burial.
Listed as present at the Descent were Mary, Mary's sister, Mary Magdalene, John, Joseph of Arimathea, Nicodemus.
Search as he might, he could find no place where the Bible spoke of a moment when Mary could have been alone with Jesus.
Mostly the scene was crowded with mourners, such as the dramatic Dell'Arca Lamentation in Bologna, where the grief-stricken spectators had usurped Mary's last poignant moment.
In his concept there could be no one else present.
His first desire was to create a mother and son alone in the universe.
Perhaps after the soldiers had laid him on the ground, while Joseph of Arimathea was at Pontius Pilate's asking for Christ's body, Nicodemus was gathering his mixture of myrrh and aloes, and the others had gone home to mourn.
Those who saw his finished Pieta would take the place of the biblical witnesses.
They would feel what Mary was undergoing.
There would be no halos, no angels.
These would be two human beings, whom God had chosen.
He felt close to Mary, having spent so long concentrating on the beginning of her journey.
Now she was intensely alive, anguished; her son was dead.
Even though he would later be resurrected, he was at this moment dead indeed, the expression on his face reflecting what he had gone through on the cross.
In his sculpture therefore it would not be possible for him to project anything of what Jesus felt for his mother; only what Mary felt for her son.
Mary would have to carry the human communication.
This seemed right to him.
It was a relief to shift in his mind to technical problems.
Since his Christ was to be life size, how was Mary to hold him on her lap without the relationship seeming ungainly?
His Mary would be slender of limb and delicate of proportion, yet she must hold this full-grown man as securely and convincingly as she would a child.
There was only one way to accomplish this : by design, by drawing diagrams and sketches in which he probed the remotest corner of his mind for creative ideas to carry his concept.
He started by making free sketches to loosen up his thinking so that images would appear on paper.
Visually, these approximated what he was feeling within himself.
At the same time he started walking the streets, peering at the people passing or shopping at the stalls, storing up fresh impressions of what they looked like, how they moved.
Discovering that draperies could be designed to serve structural purposes, he began a study of the anatomy of folds.
He improvised as he went along, completing a life-size clay figure, then bought yards of an inexpensive material from a draper, wet the lightweight cloth in a basin and covered it over with clay that Argiento brought from the bank of the Tiber, to the consistency of thick mud.
No fold could be accidental, each turn of the drapery had to serve organically, to cover the Madonna's slender legs and feet so that they would give substantive support to Christ's body, to intensify her inner turmoil.
When the cloth dried and stiffened, he saw what adjustments had to be made.
``So that's sculpture'', commented Argiento wryly, when he had sluiced down the floor for a week, ``making mud pies''.
Michelangelo grinned.
``See, Argiento, if you control the way these folds are bunched, like this, or made to flow, you can enrich the body attitudes.
They can have as much tactile appeal as flesh and bone''.
He went into the Jewish quarter, wanting to draw Hebraic faces so that he could reach a visual understanding of how Christ might have looked.
The colony had been small until the Spanish Inquisition of 1492 drove many Jews into Rome.
Here, for the most part, they were well treated, as a ``reminder of the Old Testament heritage of Christianity''; many of their gifted members were prominent in the Vatican as physicians, musicians, bankers.
The men did not object to his sketching them while they went about their work, but no one could be persuaded to come to his studio to pose.
He was told to ask for Rabbi Melzi at the synagogue on Saturday afternoon.
Michelangelo found the rabbi in the room of study, a gentle old man with a white beard and luminous grey eyes, robed in black gabardine with a skullcap on his head.
He was reading from the Talmud with a group of men from his congregation.
When Michelangelo explained why he had come, Rabbi Melzi replied gravely:
``The Bible forbids us to bow down to or to make graven images.
That is why our creative people give their time to literature, not to painting or sculpture''.
``Not at all.
Each religion has its own tenets''.
``I am carving a Pieta from white Carrara marble.
I wish to make Jesus an authentic Jew.
I cannot accomplish this if you will not help me''.
The rabbi said thoughtfully, ``I would not want my people to get in trouble with the Church''.
``I am working for the Cardinal of San Dionigi.
I'm sure he would approve''.
``What kind of models would you prefer''?
In their mid thirties.
Not bulky laborers, but sinewy men.
With intelligence.
And sensitivity''.
Rabbi Melzi smiled at him with infinitely old but merry eyes.
``Leave me your address.
I will send you the best the quarter has to offer''.
Michelangelo hurried to Sangallo's solitary bachelor room with his sketches, asked the architect to design a stand which would simulate the seated Madonna.
Sangallo studied the drawings and improvised a trestle couch.
Together he and Argiento built the stand, covering it with blankets.
His first model arrived at dusk.
He hesitated for a moment when Michelangelo asked him to disrobe, so Michelangelo gave him a piece of toweling to wrap around his loins, led him to the kitchen to take off his clothes.
He then draped him over the rough stand, explained that he was supposed to be recently dead, and was being held on his mother's lap.
The model quite plainly thought Michelangelo crazy; only the instructions from his rabbi kept him from bolting.
But at the end of the sitting, when Michelangelo showed him the quick, free drawings, with the mother roughed in, holding her son, the model grasped what Michelangelo was after, and promised to speak to his friends.
He worked for two hours a day with each model sent by the rabbi.
Mary presented quite a different problem.
Though this sculpture must take place thirty-three years after her moment of decision, he could not conceive of her as a woman in her mid-fifties, old, wrinkled, broken in body and face by labor or worry.
Jacopo Galli introduced him into several Roman homes.
Here he sketched, sitting in their flowing gowns of linen and silk, young girls not yet twenty, some about to be married, some married a year or two.
Since the Santo Spirito hospital had taken only men, he had had no experience in the study of female anatomy; but he had sketched the women of Tuscany in their fields and homes.
He was able to discern the body lines of the Roman women under their robes.
He spent concentrated weeks putting his two figures together : a Mary who would be young and sensitive, yet strong enough to hold her son on her lap; and a Jesus who, though lean, was strong even in death - a look he remembered well from his experience in the dead room of Santo Spirito.
He drew toward the composite design from his meticulously accurate memory, without need to consult his sketches.
Soon he was ready to go into a three-dimensional figure in clay.
Here he would have free expression because the material could be moved to distort forms.
When he wanted to emphasize, or get greater intensity, he added or subtracted clay.
He respected each of these approach techniques, and kept them in character:
his quill drawings had a scratchiness, suggesting skin texture; the clay he used plastically to suggest soft moving flesh, as in an abdomen, in a reclining torso; the wax he smoothed over to give the body surface an elastic pull.
Yet he never allowed these models to become fixed in his mind; they remained rough starting points.
When carving he was charged with spontaneous energy; too careful or detailed studies in clay and wax would have glued him down to a mere enlarging of his model.
The true surge had to be inside the marble itself.
Drawing and models were his thinking.
Carving was action.
The arrangement with Argiento was working well, except that sometimes Michelangelo could not figure who was master and who apprentice.
Argiento had been trained so rigorously by the Jesuits that Michelangelo was unable to change his habits : up before dawn to scrub the floors, whether they were dirty or not; water boiling on the fire for washing laundry every day, the pots scoured with river sand after each meal.
``You're too clean.
Scrub the studio once a week.
That's enough''.
``No'', said Argiento stolidly.
``Every day.
Before dawn.
I was taught''.
``And God help anyone who tries to unteach you''!
grumbled Michelangelo; yet he knew that he had nothing to grumble about, for Argiento made few demands on him.
On Sundays he would walk miles into the campagna to visit with them, and in particular to see their horses.
The one thing he missed from his farm in the Po Valley was the animals; frequently he would take his leave of Michelangelo by announcing:
``Today I go see the horses''.
It took a piece of bad luck to show Michelangelo that the boy was devoted to him.
He was crouched over his anvil in the courtyard getting his chisels into trim, when a splinter of steel flew into his eye and imbedded itself in his pupil.
He stumbled into the house, eyes burning like fire.
Argiento made him lie down on the bed, brought a pan of hot water, dipped some clean white linen cloth and applied it to extract the splinter.
Though the pain was considerable Michelangelo was not too concerned.
He assumed he could blink the splinter out.
Argiento never left his side, keeping the water boiled, applying hot compresses throughout the night.
By the second day Michelangelo began to worry; and by the second night he was in a state of panic : he could see nothing out of the afflicted eye.
At dawn Argiento went to Jacopo Galli.
Galli arrived with his family surgeon, Maestro Lippi.
The surgeon carried a cage of live pigeons.
He told Argiento to take a bird out of the cage, cut a large vein under its wing, let the blood gush into Michelangelo's injured eye.
The surgeon came back at dusk, cut the vein of a second pigeon, again washed out the eye.
Beth was very still and her breath came in small jerking gasps.
The thin legs twitched convulsively once, then Kate felt the little body stiffening in her arms and heard one strangled sound.
The child was gone.
When Juanita awoke, Kate was still rocking the dead child, still crooning in disbelief, ``No, no, oh, no!''
They put Kate to bed and wired Jonathan and sent for the young Presbyterian minister.
He sat beside Kate's bed with the others throughout the morning, talking, talking of God's will, while Kate lay staring angrily at him.
When he told her God had called the child to Him, she rejected his words rebelliously.
Few of the neighbors came, but Mrs. Tussle came, called by tragedy.
``It always comes in threes'', she sighed heavily.
``Trouble never comes but in threes''.
They held the funeral the next morning from the crossroads church and buried the little box in the quiet family plot.
She would not accept the death of such a little child.
``God called her to Him'', the minister had said.
God would not do that, Kate thought stubbornly.
Jonathan's letter came, as she knew it would, and he had accepted their child's death as another judgment from God against both Kate and himself.
In blind panic of grief she accepted Jonathan's dictum, and believed in her desperation that she had been cursed by God.
She held Jonathan's letter, his words burning like a brand, and knew suddenly that the bonds between them were severed.
She had nothing left but her duty to his land and his son.
Joel came and sat mutely with her, sharing her pain and anguish, averting his eyes from the ice packs on her bosom.
Juanita and Mrs. Tussle kept Kate in bed a week until her milk dried.
She disciplined herself daily to do what must be done.
She had even steeled herself to keep Juanita upstairs in the nurse's room off the empty nursery, although the girl tried to insist on moving back to the quarters to spare Kate remembrance of the baby's death.
Juanita drooped about the place, wearing a haunted, brooding look, which Kate attributed to the baby's death, until the day a letter came for her addressed to ``Miss Juanita Fitzroy'', bearing a Grafton postmark.
Seeing the slanting hand, Kate knew uneasily that it was from the Yankee colonel.
The Federal forces had taken Parkersburg and Grafton from the Rebels and were moving to take all the mountains.
Kate tried to contain her curiosity and foreboding at what the letter portended, at what involvement existed for Juanita.
Uncle Randolph and Joel had replanted the bottom lands with difficulty, for more of the slaves, including Annie, had sneaked off when the soldiers broke camp.
Joel worked like a field hand in the afternoons after school.
He had been at lessons in the schoolhouse since they returned from Harpers Ferry.
She loved him and missed his company.
Uncle Randolph had been riding out every evening on some secret business of his own.
What it was Kate could not fathom.
He claimed to be visiting the waterfront saloon at the crossroads to play cards and drink with his cronies, but Kate had not smelled brandy on him since Mrs. Lattimer's funeral.
Joel knew what he was about, however.
``You're gonna get caught'', she heard Joel say to Uncle Randolph by the pump one morning.
``Not this old fox'', chuckled Uncle Randolph.
``Everybody knows I'm just a harmless, deaf old man who takes to drink.
I aim to keep a little whisky still back in the ridge for my pleasure''.
``You're back there riding with the guerrillas, the Moccasin Rangers''.
``Hush'', said Uncle Randolph, smiling, ``or I'll give you another black eye''.
He patted the eye Joel had had blackened in a fight over being Rebel at the crossroads some days back.
Kate had no idea what they were talking of, although she had seen the blue lights and strange fires burning and winking on the ridges at night, had heard horsemen on the River Road and hill trails through the nights till dawn.
Stranger, Uncle Randolph began riding home nights with a jug strapped to his saddle, drunkenly singing ``Old Dan Tucker'' at the top of his voice.
Hearing his voice ring raucously up from the road, Kate would await him anxiously and watch perplexed as he walked into the house, cold sober.
What he was about became clear to her with the circulation of another broadside proclamation by General McClellan, threatening reprisals against Rebel guerrillas.
She was taken up in worry for the reckless old man.
Kate drew more and more on her affection for Joel through the hot days of summer work.
Kate had walked past the school on her morning chores and had seen the whole incident, had seen Joel's burning humiliation before Miss Snow's cold, bespectacled wrath.
He had the hardest pains of growing before him now, as he approached twelve.
These would be his hardest years, she knew, and he missed his father desperately.
She tried to find some way to draw him out, to help him.
Whenever she found time, she went blackberry picking with him, and they would come home together, mouths purple, arms and faces scratched, tired enough to forget grief for another day.
He tended the new colts Beau had sired.
He helped Kate and Juanita enlarge the flower garden in the side yard, where they sometimes sat in the still evenings watching the last fat bees working against the summer's purple dusk.
No one went much to the crossroads now except Uncle Randolph.
They stayed in their own world on the bluff, waiting for letters and the peddler, bringing the news.
The men were restive, he wrote, ready to take the battle to the enemy as Jackson wished.
The peddler came bawling his wares and told them of the convention in Wheeling, Which had formed a new state government by declaring the government at Richmond in the east illegal because they were traitors.
Dangling his gaudy trinkets before them, he told of the Rebel losses in the mountains, at Cheat and Rich mountains both, and the Federal march on Beverly.
``Cleaned all them Rebs out'n the hills, they did!
They won't never git over inter loyal western Virginia, them traitors!
The Federals is making everybody take the oath of loyalty around these parts too'', he crowed.
After he had gone, Kate asked Uncle Randolph proudly, ``Would you take their oath''?
And the old man had given a sly and wicked laugh and said, ``Hell, yes!
I think I've taken it about fifty times already''! winking at Joel's look of shock.
Maj. Anderson of Fort Sumter is home and recruiting volunteers for the U.S. Army.
In spite of the fact that the state legislature voted us neutral, John Hunt Morgan is openly flying the Confederate flag over his woolen factory''!
Rumor of a big battle spread like a grassfire up the valley.
Accounts were garbled at the telegraph office when they sent old George down to Parkersburg for the news.
``All dey know down dere is it were at Manassas Junction and it were a big fight'', the old man told them.
In the next few days they had cause to rejoice.
It had been a big battle, and the Confederate forces had won.
Jonathan and Ben were not on the lists of the dead or on that of the missing.
Kate and Mrs. Tussle waited for letters anxiously.
When Kate hurried in alarm to tell him to put it out, she saw other dots of flames among the western Virginia hills from the few scattered fires of the faithful.
They all prayed now that the North would realize that peace must come, for Virginia had defended her land victoriously.
The week after Manassas the sound of horses in the yard brought Kate up in shock from an afternoon's rest when she saw the Federal soldiers from her upstairs window.
They had already lost most of their corn, she thought.
Were they to be insulted again because of the South's great victory?
She remembered McClellan's last proclamation as she hurried fearfully down the stairs.
At the landing she saw Juanita, her face flushed pink with excitement, run down the hall from the kitchen to the front door.
Juanita stopped just inside the open door, her hand to her mouth.
As Kate came swiftly down the stairs to the hall she saw Colonel Marsh framed in the doorway, his face set in the same vulnerable look Juanita wore.
``What brings you here again, Colonel Marsh'' ? she asked, taking him and Juanita into the parlor where the shutters were closed against the afternoon sun.
``I stopped to say goodbye, Mrs. Lattimer, and to tell you how sorry I was to hear about your baby.
I wish our doctor could have saved her''.
``It was a terrible loss to me'', said Kate quietly, feeling the pain twist again at the mention, knowing now that Juanita must have written to him at Grafton.
``Where will you go now that you're leaving Parkersburg''?
she asked him, seeing Juanita's eyes grow bleak.
``As you know, General McClellan has been occupying Beverly.
He has notified me that he has orders to go to Washington to take over the Army of the Potomac.
I am to go to Washington to serve with him''.
Kate asked, watching them both now anxiously.
Their eyes betrayed too much of their emotions, she thought sadly.
``Tomorrow.
Would you permit Juanita to walk about the grounds with me for a short spell, Mrs. Lattimer''?
``Stay here in the parlor where it's cool'', she said, trying to be calm.
It would be better for Joel and Uncle Randolph and Mrs. Tussle not to see them.
Kate went back and reminded the kitchen women of the supper preparations.
Then she took iced lemonade to Marsh's young aide where he sat in the cool of the big trees around the flower garden.
When Marsh called to his aide and the pair rode off down the River Road where the gentians burned blue, Juanita was shaken and trying not to cry.
``He wants me to go with him tomorrow'', she told Kate.
``What do you want to do''?
Kate asked, uneasy at the gravity of the girl's dilemma.
``I could go with him.
He knows me as your niece, which, of course, I am.
But I am a slave!
You own me.
It's your decision'', said Juanita, holding her face very still, trying to contain the bitterness of her voice as she enunciated her words too distinctly.
``No, the decision is yours.
The red glow from the cove had died out of the sky.
The two in the bed knew each other as old people know the partners with whom they have shared the same bed for many years, and they needed to say no more.
The things left unsaid they both felt deeply, and with a sigh they fell back on the well stuffed pillows.
Anita put out the remaining candles with a long snuffer, and in the smell of scented candlewick, the comforting awareness of each other's bodies, the retained pattern of dancers and guests remembered, their minds grew numb and then empty of images.
They slept - Mynheer with a marvelously high-pitched snoring, the damn seahorse ivory teeth watching him from a bedside table.
In the ballroom below, the dark had given way to moonlight coming in through the bank of French windows.
It was a delayed moon, but now the sky had cleared of scudding black and the stars sugared the silver-gray sky.
Martha Schuyler, old, slow, careful of foot, came down the great staircase, dressed in her best lace-drawn black silk, her jeweled shoe buckles held forward.
``Well, I'm here at last'', she said, addressing the old portraits on the walls.
I am getting deaf, I must admit it''.
She came to the ballroom and stood on the two carpeted steps that led down to it.
``Where is everyone?
I say, where is everyone?
Peter, you lummox, you've forgot to order the musicians''.
She stood there, a large old woman, smiling at the things she would say to him in the morning, this big foolish baby of a son.
There were times now, like this, when she lost control of the time count and moved freely back and forth into three generations.
Was it a birthday ball?
When Peter had reached his majority at eighteen?
And this handsome booby, staring and sweating, was he her bridegroom?
Martha picked up the hem of her gown and with eyes closed she slowly began to dance a stately minuet around the ballroom.
David Cortlandt was tired beyond almost the limits of his flesh.
He had ridden hard from Boston, and he was not used to horseback.
Now, driving the horse and sulky borrowed from Mynheer Schuyler, he felt as if every bone was topped by burning oil and that every muscle was ready to dissolve into jelly and leave his big body helpless and unable to move.
The road leading south along the river was shaded with old trees, and in the moonlight the silvery landscape was like a setting for trolls and wood gods rather than the Hudson River Valley of his boyhood memories.
He slapped the reins on the back of the powerful gray horse and held on as the sulky's wheels hit a pothole and came out with a jolt and went on.
He would cross to Manhattan, to Harlem Heights, before morning.
There a certain farmhouse was a station for the Sons of Liberty.
And he would sleep, sleep, and never think of roads and horses' sore haunches, of colonial wars.
Strange how everything here fitted back into his life, even if he had been away so long.
Mynheer, Sir Francis, the valley society, the very smell of the river on his right purling along to the bay past fish weirs and rocks, and ahead the sleepy ribbon of moon drenched road.
A mist was walking on the water, white as cotton, but with a blending and merging grace.
Ahead there was a stirring of sudden movement at a crossroads.
David reached for the pair of pistols in the saddlebags at his feet.
He pulled out one of them and cocked it.
A strange wood creature came floating up from a patch of berry bushes.
It was a grotesque hen, five or six feet tall.
It ran, this apocalyptic beast, on two thin legs, and its wings - were they feathered arms?
- flapped as it ran.
Its groin was bloody.
Black strips of skin hung from it.
The horse shied at the dreadful thing and flared its nostrils.
David took a firm hand with it.
The creature in feathers looked around and David saw the mad eyes, glazed with an insane fear.
The ungainly bird thing ran away, and to David its croaking sounded like the crowing of a tormented rooster.
Then it was gone.
The Sons were out tonight.
New York lay bleaching in the summer sun, and the morning fish hawk, flying in the heated air, saw below him the long triangular wedge of Manhattan Island.
It was thickly settled by fifteen thousand citizens and laid out into pig infested streets, mostly around the Battery, going bravely north to Wall Street, but giving up and becoming fields and farms in the region of Harlem Heights.
From there it looked across at Westchester County and the Hudson River where the manor houses, estates, and big farms of the original (non Indian) landowners began.
On the east side of the island of Manhattan the indifferent hawk knew the East River that connected New York Bay with Long Island Sound.
On the western tip of Long Island protruded Brooklyn Heights.
It commanded a view over Manhattan and the harbor.
A fringe of housing and gardens bearded the top of the heights, and behind it were sandy roads leading past farms and hayfields.
Husbandry was bounded by snake-rail fences, and there were grazing cattle.
The morning hawk, hungry for any eatable, killable, digestible item, kept his eyes on the ring of anchored ships that lay off the shores in the bay, sheltered by the Jersey inlets.
They often threw tidbits overboard.
The larger ships were near Paulus Hook, already being called, by a few, Jersey City.
These were the ships of His Majesty's Navy, herding the hulks of the East Indies merchants and the yachts and ketches of the loyalists.
The news of battle on Breed's Hill had already seeped through, and New York itself was now left in the hands of the local Provincial Congress.
The fish hawk, his wings not moving, circled and glided lower.
The gilt sterns of the men-of-war becoming clearer to him, the sides of the wooden sea walls alternately painted yellow and black, the bronze cannon at the ports.
The captain's gig of H.M.S. Mercury was being rowed to H.M.S. Neptune.
On shore ``the freed slaves to despotism'' - the town dwellers - watched the ships and waited.
Across the bay the Palisades were heavy in green timber; their rock paths led down to the Hudson.
Below in the open bay facing Manhattan was Staten Island, gritty with clam shells and mud flats behind which nested farms, cattle barns, and berry thickets.
Along Wappinger Creek in Dutchess County, past the white church at Fishkill, past Verplanck's Point on the east bank of the Hudson, to the white salt crusted roads of the Long Island Rockaways there was a watching and an activity of preparing for something explosive to happen.
Today, tomorrow, six months, even perhaps a year.
The fish hawk flew on and was lost from sight.
The British ships rolled at anchor, sent out picket boats and waited for orders from London.
Waited for more ships, more lobster-backed infantry, and asked what was to be done with a war of rebellion?
David Cortlandt, having slept away a day and a night, came awake in a plank farmhouse on the Harlem River near Spuyten Duyvil.
He looked out through windowpanes turned a faint violet by sun and weather, looked out at King's Bridge toward Westchester.
The wraith-like events of the last few days flooded David's mind and he rubbed his unshaved chin and felt again the ache in his kidneys caused by his saddle odyssey from Boston.
Pensive, introspective, he ached.
He had sent the dispatches downtown to the proper people and had slept.
Now there was more to do.
Orders not written down had to be transmitted to the local provincial government.
He scratched his mosquito plagued neck.
From the saddlebags, hung on a Hitchcock chair, David took out a good English razor, a present from John Hunter.
He found tepid water in a pitcher and a last bit of soap, and he lathered his face and stood stropping the razor on his broad leather belt, its buckle held firm by a knob of the bedpost.
He hoped he was free of self-deception.
There would be great need soon for his skill as surgeon, but somehow he had not planned to use his knowledge merely for war.
David Cortlandt had certain psychic intuitions that this rebellion was not wholly what it appeared on the surface.
He knew that many were using it for their own ends.
But it did not matter.
He stropped the razor slowly; what mattered was that a new concept of Americans was being born.
That some men did not want it he could understand.
The moral aridity of merchants made them loyal usually to their ledgers.
Yet some, like Morris Manderscheid, would bankrupt themselves for the new ideas.
Unique circumstances would test us all, he decided.
No doubt John Hancock would do well now; war was a smugglers' heaven.
And what of that poor tarred and feathered wretch he had seen on the road driving down from Schuyler's?
Things like that would increase rather than be done away with.
One had to believe in final events or one was stranded in the abyss of nothing.
He saw with John Hunter now that the perfectability of man was a dream.
Life was a short play of tenebrous shadows.
David began to shave with great sweeping strokes.
Time plays an essential part in our mortality, and suddenly for no reason he could imagine (or admit) the image of Peg laughing filled his mind - so desirable, so lusty, so full of nuances of pleasure and joy.
He drove sensual patterns off, carefully shaving his long upper lip.
David finished shaving, washed his face clean of lather, and combed and retied his hair.
He was proud that he had never worn a wig.
More and more of the colonials were wearing their own hair and not using powder.
He felt cheerful again, refreshed; presentable in his wide-cut brown suit, the well-made riding boots.
It is so easy to falsify sentiment.
In the meadow below, militia officers shouted at their men and on King's Bridge two boys sat fishing.
The future would happen; he did not have to hurry it by thinking too much.
A man could be tossed outside the dimension of time by a stray bullet these days.
He began to pack the saddlebags.
Burly leathered men and wrinkled women in drab black rags carried on in a primitive way, almost unchanged from feudal times.
Peasants puzzled Andrei.
He wondered how they could go on in poverty, superstition, ignorance, with a complete lack of desire to make either their land or their lives flourish.
Andrei remembered a Bathyran meeting long ago.
Tolek Alterman had returned from the colonies in Palestine and, before the national leadership, exalted the miracles of drying up swamps and irrigating the desert.
A fund-raising drive to buy tractors and machinery was launched.
Andrei remembered that his own reaction had been one of indifference.
Had he found the meaning too late?
It aggravated him.
In the unfertile land in Palestine humans broke their backs pushing will power to the brink.
He had sat beside Alexander Brandel at the rostrum of a congress of Zionists.
All of them were there in this loosely knit association of diversified ideologies, and each berated the other and beat his breast for his own approaches.
When Alexander Brandel rose to speak, the hall became silent.
``I do not care if your beliefs take you along a path of religion or a path of labor or a path of activism.
We are here because all our paths travel a blind course through a thick forest, seeking human dignity.
Beyond the forest all our paths merge into a single great highway which ends in the barren, eroded hills of Judea.
This is our singular goal.
How we travel through the forest is for each man's conscience.
We all seek the same thing through different ways - an end to this long night of two thousand years of darkness and unspeakable abuses which will continue to plague us until the Star of David flies over Zion''.
This was how Alexander Brandel expressed pure Zionism.
It had sounded good to Andrei, but he did not believe it.
In his heart he had no desire to go to Palestine.
He loathed the idea of drying up swamps or the chills of malaria or of leaving his natural birthright.
Before he went into battle Andrei had told Alex, ``I only want to be a Pole.
Warsaw is my city, not Tel Aviv''.
And now Andrei sat on a train on the way to Lublin and wondered if he was not being punished for his lack of belief.
Warsaw!
They had let this black hole of death in Warsaw's heart exist without a cry of protest.
Once there had been big glittering rooms where Ulanys bowed and kissed the ladies' hands as they flirted from behind their fans.
Warsaw!
Warsaw!
``Miss Rak.
I am a Jew''.
Day by day, week by week, month by month, the betrayal gnawed at Andrei's heart.
He ground his teeth together.
I hate Warsaw, he said to himself.
All of Poland is a coffin.
The terrible vision of the ghetto streets flooded his mind.
What matters now?
What is beyond this fog?
Only Palestine, and I will never live to see Palestine because I did not believe.
By late afternoon the train inched into the marshaling yards in the railhead at Lublin, which was filled with lines of cars poised to pour the tools of war to the Russian front.
At a siding, another train which was a familiar sight these days.
Deportees.
Jews.
They were not Poles.
He guessed by their appearance that they were Rumanians.
He walked toward the center of the city to keep his rendezvous with Styka.
Of all the places in Poland, Andrei hated Lublin the most.
The Bathyrans were all gone.
Few of the native Jews who had lived in Lublin were still in the ghetto.
From the moment of the occupation Lublin became a focal point.
He and Ana watched it carefully.
Lublin generally was the forerunner of what would happen elsewhere.
The Bathyrans ran a check on Globocnik and had only to conclude that he was in a tug of war with Hans Frank and the civilian administrators.
Globocnik built the Death's-Head Corps.
Lublin was the seed of action for the ``final solution'' of the Jewish problem.
As the messages from Himmler, Heydrich, and Eichmann came in through Alfred Funk, Lublin's fountainhead spouted.
A bevy of interlacing lagers, work camps, concentration camps erupted in the area.
Sixty thousand Jewish prisoners of war disappeared into Lublin's web.
Plans went in and out of Lublin, indicating German confusion.
A tale of a massive reservation in the Uplands to hold several million Jews.
A tale of a plan to ship all Jews to the island of Madagascar.
Lipowa 7, Sobibor, Chelmno, Poltawa, Belzec, Krzywy-Rog, Budzyn, Krasnik.
Ice baths, electric shocks, lashings, wild dogs, testicle crushers.
The Death's-Head Corps took in Ukrainian and Baltic Auxiliaries, and the Einsatzkommandos waded knee-deep in blood and turned into drunken, dope ridden maniacs.
Lublin was their heart.
In the spring of 1942 Operation Reinhard began in Lublin.
The ghetto, a miniature of Warsaw 's, was emptied into the camp in the Majdan-Tartarski suburb called Majdanek.
As the camp emptied, it was refilled by a draining of the camps and towns around Lublin, then by deportees from outside Poland.
In and in and in they poured through the gates of Majdanek, but they never left, and Majdanek was not growing any larger.
What was happening in Majdanek?
Was there another Majdanek in the Warsaw area, as they suspected?
Andrei stopped at Litowski Place and looked around quickly at the boundary of civil buildings.
His watch told him he was still early.
Down the boulevard he could see a portion of the ghetto wall.
He found an empty bench, opened a newspaper, and stretched his legs before him.
Krakow Boulevard was filled with black Nazi uniforms and the dirty brownish ones of their Auxiliaries.
``Captain Androfski''!
Andrei glanced up over the top of the paper and looked into the mustached, homely face of Sergeant Styka.
Styka sat beside him and pumped his hand excitedly.
I thought you might get in on a morning train''.
``It's good to see you again, Styka''.
Styka studied his captain.
He almost broke into tears.
To him, Andrei Androfski had always been the living symbol of a Polish officer.
His captain was thin and haggard and his beautiful boots were worn and shabby.
``Remember to call me Jan'', Andrei said.
Styka nodded and sniffed and blew his nose vociferously.
``When that woman found me and told me that you needed me I was never so happy since before the war''.
Styka grumbled about fate.
``For a time I thought of trying to reach the Free Polish Forces, but one thing led to another.
I got a girl in trouble and we had to get married.
Not a bad girl.
So we have three children and responsibilities.
I work at the granary.
Nothing like the old days in the army, but I get by.
Who complains?
Many times I tried to reach you, but I never knew how.
``I understand''.
Styka blew his nose again.
``Were you able to make the arrangements''?
Andrei asked.
``There is a man named Grabski who is the foreman in charge of the bricklayers at Majdanek.
I did exactly as instructed.
I told him you are on orders from the Home Army to get inside Majdanek so you can make a report to the government in exile in London''.
``His answer''?
``Ten thousand zlotys''.
``He is aware he will not live for twenty-four hours if he betrays you''.
``Good man, Styka''.
``Captain Jan, must you go inside Majdanek?
The stories.
Everyone really knows what is happening there''.
``Not everyone, Styka''.
``What good will it really do''?
``I don't know.
Perhaps - perhaps - there is a shred of conscience left in the human race.
``Do you really believe that, Jan''?
``I have to believe it''.
Styka shook his head slowly.
``I am only a simple soldier.
I cannot think things out too well.
Until I was transferred into the Seventh Ulanys I was like every other Pole in my feeling about Jews.
I hated you when I first came in.
But my captain might have been a Jew, but he wasn't a Jew.
What I mean is, he was a Pole and the greatest soldier in the Ulanys.
The men of our company had a dozen fights defending your name.
You never knew about it, but by God, we taught them respect for Captain Androfski''.
Andrei smiled.
``Since the war I have seen the way the Germans have behaved and I think, Holy Mother, we have behaved like this for hundreds of years.
Why''?
``How can you tell an insane man to reason or a blind man to see''?
``But we are neither blind nor insane.
The men of your company would not allow your name dishonored.
Why do we let the Germans do this''?
All I ever wanted was to be a free man in my own country.
I've lost faith, Styka.
I used to love this country and believe that someday we'd win our battle for equality.
But now I think I hate it very much''.
``And do you really think that the world outside Poland will care any more than we do''?
The question frightened Andrei.
``Please don't go inside Majdanek''.
``I'm still a soldier in a very small way, Styka''.
It was an answer that Styka understood.
Grabski sat in a sweat saturated undershirt, cursing the excessive heat which clamped an uneasy stillness before sundown.
He was a square brick of a man with a moon round face and sunken Polish features.
Flies swarmed around the bowl of lentils in which he mopped thick black bread.
Half of it dripped down his chin.
He washed it down with beer and produced a deep-seated belch.
``Well''?
Andrei demanded.
Grabski looked at the pair of them.
He grunted a sort of ``yes'' answer.
He can make you work papers.
It will take a few days.
I will get you inside the guard camp as a member of my crew.
I don't know if I can get you into the inner camp.
Maybe yes, maybe no, but you can observe everything from the roof of a barrack we are building''.
Grabski slurped his way to the bottom of the soup bowl.
``Can't understand why the hell anyone wants to go inside that son-of-a-bitch place''.
``Orders from the Home Army''.
``Why?
Andrei shrugged.
``We get strange orders''.
``Well - what about the money''?
Andrei peeled off five one-thousand-zloty notes.
Grabski had never seen so much money.
His broad flat fingers, petrified into massive sausages by years of bricklaying, snatched the bills clumsily.
``This ain't enough''.
``You get the rest when I'm safely out of Majdanek''.
``I ain't taking no goddamned chances for no Jew business''.
She was getting real dramatic.
I'd have been more impressed if I hadn't remembered that she'd played Hedda Gabler in her highschool dramatics course.
I didn't want her back on that broken record.
``Nothing's free in the whole goddam world'', was all I could think of to say.
When I'd delivered myself of that gem there was nothing to do but order up another drink.
``I am'', she said.
I'd forgotten all about Thelma and the Kentucky Derby and how it was Thelma's fifty dollars I was spending.
It was just me and Eileen getting drunk together like we used to in the old days, and me staring at her across the table crazy to get my hands on her partly because I wanted to wring her neck because she was so ornery but mostly because she was so wonderful to touch.
Drunk or sober she was the most attractive woman in the world for me.
It was the call of the wild all right.
That evening turned out to be hell like all the others.
We moved down Broadway from ginmill to ginmill.
It was the same old routine.
Eileen got to dancing, just a little tiny dancing step to a hummed tune that you could hardly notice, and trying to pick up strange men, but each time I was ready to say to hell with it and walk out she'd pull herself together and talk so understandingly in that sweet husky voice about the good times and the happiness we'd had together and there I was back on the hook.
I did have the decency to call up Thelma and tell her I'd met old friends and would be home late.
``I could scratch her eyes out'', Eileen cried and stamped her foot when I came back from the phone booth.
``You know I don't like my men to have other women.
I hate it.
She got so drunk I had to take her home.
It was a walk up on Hudson Street.
She just about made me carry her upstairs and then she clung to me and wouldn't let me go.
There was a man's jacket on the chair and a straw hat on the table.
The place smelt of some kind of hair lotion these pimp like characters use.
``What about Ballestre''?
I had to shake her to make her listen.
``Precious.
What about him''?
``Precious and I allow each other absolute freedom.
We are above being jealous.
He's used to me bringing home strange men.
I'll just tell him you're my husband.
He cann't object to that''.
``Well I object.
If he pokes his nose in here I'll slug him''.
``That really would be funny''.
She began to laugh.
After all I'm made of flesh and blood.
I'm not a plaster saint.
Waking up was horrible.
Never in my life have I felt so remorseful about anything I've done as I did about spending that night with my own wife.
We both had hangovers.
Eileen declared she couldn't lift her head from the pillow.
She lay under the covers making jabbing motions with her forefinger telling me where to look for the coffeepot.
I was stumbling in my undershirt trying to find my way around her damn kitchenette when I smelt that sickish sweet hairtonic smell.
There was somebody else in the apartment.
Honest I could feel the hair stand up on the back of my neck like a dog's that is going to get into a fight.
I turned around with the percolator in my hand.
My eyes were so bleary I could barely see him but there he was, a little smooth olivefaced guy in a new spring overcoat and a taffy colored fedora.
Brown eyes, eyebrow mustache.
Oval face without an expression in the world.
We didn't have time to speak before Eileen's voice was screeching at us from the bed.
``Joseph Maria Ballestre meet Francis Xavier Bowman.
Exboyfriend meet exhusband''.
She gave the nastiest laugh I ever heard.
If you want to fight, go down on the sidewalk''.
She was enjoying the situation.
Imagine that.
Eileen was a psychologist all right.
Instead of wanting to sock the poor bastard I found myself having a fellow-feeling for him.
Maybe he felt the same way.
I never felt such a lowdown hound in my life.
First thing I knew he was in the kitchenette cooking up the breakfast and I was handing Eileen her coffee-cup and she was lying there handsome as a queen among her courtiers.
I couldn't face Thelma after that night.
I wrote her that I'd met up with Eileen and that old bonds had proved too strong and asked her to send my clothes down by express.
Of course I had to give her Eileen's address, but she never came near us.
All she did was write me a pleasant little note about how it was beautiful while it lasted but that now life had parted our ways and it was goodbye forever.
She never said a word about the fifty dollars.
She added a postscript begging me to be careful about drinking.
I must know that that was my greatest weakness underlined three times.
Afterwards I learned that Eileen had called Thelma on the telephone and made a big scene about Thelma trying to take her husband away.
That finished me with Thelma.
Trust Eileen to squeeze all the drama out of a situation.
I use the phrase advisedly because there was something positively indecent about our relationship.
I felt it and it ate on me all the time, but I didn't know how right I was till later.
What I did know was that Precious was always around.
He slept in the hall bedroom at the head of the stairs.
``Who do you think pays the rent?
You wouldn't have me throw the poor boy out on the street'', Eileen said when I needled her about it.
I said sure that was what I wanted her to do but she paid no attention.
Eileen had a wonderful way of not listening to things she didn't want to hear.
Still I didn't think she was twotiming me with Precious right then.
Precious had me worried.
I couldn't make out what his racket was.
I'd thought him a pimp or procurer but he didn't seem to be.
He was smooth and civil spoken but it seemed to me there was something tough under his self-effacing manner.
Still he let Eileen treat him like a valet.
Whenever the place was cleaned or a meal served it was Precious who did the work.
I never could find out what his business was.
He always seemed to have money in his pocket.
The phone had been disconnected but telegrams came for him and notes by special messenger.
``Connections'' was all he would say with that smooth hurt smile when I put leading questions.
``Oh he's just an international spy'', Eileen would shout with her screechy laugh.
Poor devil he cann't have been too happy either.
He got no relief from drink because, though sometimes Precious would buy himself a drink if he went out with us in the evening, he'd leave it on the table untouched.
When I was in liquor I rode him pretty hard I guess.
Occasionally if I pushed him too far he'd give me a look out of narrowed eyes and the hard cruel bony skull would show through that smooth face of his.
``Some day'', I told Eileen, ``that guy will kill us both''.
She just wouldn't listen.
Getting drunk every night was the only way I could handle the situation.
We still had that much in common.
The trouble was drinking cost money.
The way Eileen and I were hitting it up, we needed ten or fifteen dollars an evening.
Eileen must have wheedled a little out of Precious.
I raised some kale by hocking the good clothes I had left over from my respectable uptown life, but when that was gone I didn't have a cent.
I don't know what we would have done if Pat O'Dwyer hadn't come to town.
Pat O'Dwyer looked like a heavier Jim.
He had the same bullet head of curly reddish hair but he didn't have Jim's poker-faced humor or his brains or his charm.
He was a big thick beefy violent man.
Those O'Dwyers had that Irish clannishness that made them stick together in spite of politics and everything.
Pat took Eileen and me out to dinner at a swell steak house and told us with tears in his eyes how happy he was we had come together again.
``Whom God hath joined'' etcetera.
The O'Dwyers were real religious people except for Kate.
Now it would be up to me to keep the little girl out of mischief.
Pat had been worried as hell ever since she'd lost her job on that fashion magazine.
It had gone big with the Hollywood girls when he told them his sister was an editor of Art and Apparel.
How about me trying to help her get her job back?
All evening Eileen had been as demure as a little girl getting ready for her first communion.
``But brother I cann't take a job right now'', she said with her eyes on her ice cream, ``I'm going to have a baby, Francis Xavier's baby, my own husband's baby''.
My first thought was how had it happened so soon, but I counted back on my fingers and sure enough we'd been living together six weeks.
Pat meanwhile was bubbling over with sentiment.
Greatest thing that ever happened.
Now Eileen really would have to settle down to love honor and obey, and she'd have to quit drinking.
He'd come East for the christening, by God he would.
When we separated that evening Pat pushed a hundred dollar bill into Eileen's hand to help towards a layette.
Before he left town Pat saw to it that I was fixed up with a job.
Pat had contacts all over the labor movement.
The portwatchers were retired longshoremen and small time seafarers off towboats and barges who acted as watchmen on the wharves.
Most of them were elderly men.
It was responsible and sometimes dangerous work because the thieving is awful in the port of New York.
They weren't as well paid as they should have been.
One reason the portwatchers let Sposato take them over was to get the protection of his musclemen.
Sposato needed a front, some labor stiff with a clean record to act as business agent of the Redhook local.
There I was a retired wobbly and structural iron worker who'd never gouged a cent off a fellow worker in my thirty years in the movement.
For once radicalism was a recommendation.
Sposato couldn't wait to get me hired.
The things a man will do for a woman.
There was one fact which Rector could not overlook, one truth which he could not deny.
As long as there were two human beings working together on the same project, there would be competition and you could no more escape it than you could expect to escape the grave.
No matter how devoted a man was, no matter how fully he gave his life to the Lord, he could never extinguish that one spark of pride that gave him definition as an individual.
All of the jobs in the mission might be equal in the eyes of the Lord, but they were certainly not equal in the eyes of the Lord's servants.
It was only natural that Fletcher would strive for a position in which he could make the decisions.
Even Rector himself was prey to this spirit of competition and he knew it, not for a more exalted office in the hierarchy of the church - his ambitions for the bishopry had died very early in his career - but for the one clear victory he had talked about to the colonel.
He was not sure how much of this desire was due to his devotion to the church and how much was his own ego, demanding to be satisfied, for the two were intertwined and could not be separated.
He wanted desperately to see Kayabashi defeated, the Communists in the village rooted out, the mission standing triumphant, for in the triumph of the Lord he himself would be triumphant, too.
He sighed.
How foolish it was to try to fathom the truth in an area where only faith would suffice.
He would have to work without questioning the motives which made him work and content himself with the thought that the eventual victory, however it was brought about, would be sweet indeed.
His first move was to send Hino to the village to spend a few days.
His arm had been giving him some trouble and Rector was not enough of a medical expert to determine whether it had healed improperly or whether Hino was simply rebelling against the tedious work in the print shop, using the stiffness in his arm as an excuse.
In any event Rector sent him to the local hospital to have it checked, telling him to keep his ears open while he was in the village to see if he could find out what Kayabashi was planning.
Hino was elated at the prospect.
He was allowed to spend his nights at an inn near the hospital and he was given some extra money to go to the pachinko parlor - an excellent place to make contact with the enemy.
He left with all the joyous spirit of a child going on a holiday, nodding attentively as Rector gave him his final instructions.
It was a ridiculous situation and Rector knew it, for Hino, frankly partisan, openly gregarious, would make a poor espionage agent.
If he wanted to know anything, he would end up asking about it point-blank, but in this guileless manner he would probably receive more truthful answers than if he tried to get them by indirection.
In all of his experience in the mission field Rector had never seen a convert quite like Hino.
From the moment that Hino had first walked into the mission to ask for a job, any job - his qualifications neatly written on a piece of paper in a precise hand - he had been ready to become a Christian.
He had already been studying the Bible; he knew the fundamentals, and after studying with Fletcher for a time he approached Rector, announced that he wanted to be baptized and that was that.
Rector had never been able to find out much about Hino's past.
Hino talked very little about himself except for the infrequent times when he used a personal illustration in connection with another subject.
Putting the pieces of this mosaic together, Rector had the vague outlines of a biography.
Hino was the fourth son of an elderly farmer who lived on the coast, in Chiba, and divided his life between the land and the sea, supplementing the marginal livelihood on his small rented farm with seasonal employment on a fishing boat.
He had gone into the Japanese navy, had been trained as an officer, had participated in one or two battles - he never went into detail regarding his military experience - and at the age of twenty-five, quite as a bolt out of the blue, he had walked into the mission as if he belonged here and had become a Christian.
Rector was often curious; often tempted to ask questions but he never did.
If and when Hino decided to tell him about his experiences, he would do so unasked.
Rector had no doubt that Hino would come back from the village bursting with information, ready to impart it with his customary gusto, liberally embellished with his active imagnation.
When the telephone rang on the day after Hino went down to the village, Rector had a hunch it would be Hino with some morsel of information too important to wait until his return, for there were few telephones in the village and the phone in Rector's office rarely rang unless it was important.
He was surprised to find Kayabashi's secretary on the other end of the line.
He was even more startled when he heard what Kayabashi wanted.
The oyabun was entertaining a group of dignitaries, the secretary said, businessmen from Tokyo for the most part, and Kayabashi wished to show them the mission.
They had never seen one before and had expressed a curiosity about it.
Rector said.
``I guess it will be all right.
When would the oyabun like to bring his guests up here''?
``This afternoon'', the secretary said.
``At three o'clock if it will be of convenience to you at that time''.
``All right'', Rector said.
``I will be expecting them''.
He was about to hang up the phone, but a note of hesitancy in the secretary's voice left the conversation open.
He had something more to say.
Rector laughed despite himself.
``Unless the oyabun has been working on it'', he said, then checked himself and added : ``You can tell Kayabashi-san that the back road is in very good condition and will be quite safe for his party to use''.
``Arigato gosaimasu''.
The secretary sighed with relief and then the telephone clicked in Rector's hand.
Rector had no idea why Kayabashi wanted to visit the mission.
For the oyabun to make such a trip was either a sign of great weakness or an indication of equally great confidence, and from all the available information it was probably the latter.
Kayabashi must feel fairly certain of his victory in order to make a visit like this, a trip which could be so easily misinterpreted by the people in the village.
At the same time, it was unlikely that any businessmen would spend a day in a Christian mission out of mere curiosity.
No, Kayabashi was bringing his associates here for a specific purpose and Rector would not be able to fathom it until they arrived.
Fujimoto had a pile of cuttings near one side of the lawn.
Rector asked him to move it for the time being; he wanted the mission compound to be effortlessly spotless.
A good initial impression would be important now.
He went into the print shop, where Fletcher had just finished cleaning the press.
``How many pamphlets do we have in stock''?
Rector said.
``I should say about a hundred thousand'', Fletcher said.
``Why''?
``I would like to enact a little tableau this afternoon'', Rector said, He explained about the visit and the effect he wished to create, the picture of a very busy mission.
Fletcher nodded as he listened to the instructions and said he would arrange the things Rector requested.
Rector's next stop was at the schoolroom, where Mavis was monitoring a test.
He beckoned to her from the door and she slipped quietly outside.
He told her of the visitors and then of his plans.
``How many children do you have present today'' ? he said.
She looked back toward the schoolroom.
``Fifteen'', she said.
``No, only fourteen.
The little Ito girl had to go home.
``I would like them to appear very busy today, not busy exactly, but joyous, exuberant, full of life.
I want to create the impression of a compound full of children.
Do you think you can manage it''?
Mavis smiled.
``I'll try''.
As Rector was walking back toward the residential hall, Johnson came out of the basement and bounded up to him.
The altercation in the coffee house had done little to dampen his spirits, but he was still a little wary around Rector for they had not yet discussed the incident.
``I think I've fixed the pump so we won't have to worry about it for a long time'', he said.
``I've adjusted the gauge so that the pump cuts out before the water gets too low''.
He looked out over the expanse of the compound.
It was going to take a lot of activity to fill it.
``Have you ever operated a transit'' ? he said.
``No, sir'', Johnson said.
``You are about to become a first-class surveyor'', Rector said.
``When Konishi gets back with the jeep, I want you to round up two or three Japanese boys.
Konishi can help you.
You'll find an old transit in the basement.
The glass is out of it, but that won't matter.
He went on to explain what he had in mind.
Johnson nodded.
He said he could do it.
Rector was warming to his over-all strategy by the time he got back to the residential hall.
It was rather a childish game, all in all, but everybody seemed to be getting into the spirit of the thing and he could not remember when he had enjoyed planning anything quite so much.
He was not sure what effect it would have, but that was really beside the point when you got right down to it.
He was not going to lose the mission by default, and whatever reason Kayabashi had for bringing his little sight-seeing group to the mission, he was going to be in for a surprise.
He found Elizabeth in the parlor and asked her to make sure everything was in order in the residential hall, and then to take charge of the office while the party was here.
When everything had been done, Rector went back to his desk to occupy himself with his monthly report until three o'clock.
Then Rector, attired in his best blue serge suit, sat in a chair out on the lawn, in the shade of a tree, smoking a cigarette and waiting.
The air was cooler here, and the lacy pattern of the trees threw a dappled shadow on the grass, an effect which he found pleasant.
She concluded by asking him to name another hour should this one be inconvenient.
The fish took the bait.
He replied that he could not imagine what importance there might be in thus meeting with a stranger, but - joy of joys, he would be at home at the hour mentioned.
But when she called he had thought better of the matter and decided not to involve himself in a new entanglement.
She was told by the manservant who opened the door that his lordship was engaged on work from which he had left strict orders he was not to be disturbed.
Claire was bitterly disappointed but determined not to let the rebuff daunt her purpose.
She wrote again and now, abandoning for the moment the theme of love, she asked for help in the matter of her career.
His lordship was concerned in the management of Drury Lane but, if there were no opportunities there, would he read and criticize her novel?
At last he consented to meet her, and following that brief interview Claire wrote him a yet more remarkable proposal:
Have you any objection to the following plan?
On Thursday evening we may go out of town together by some stage or mail about the distance of ten or twelve miles.
There we shall be free and unknown; we can return the following morning.
She concluded by asking for a brief interview - ``to settle with you where'' - and she threw in a tribute to his ``gentle manners'' and ``the wild originality of your countenance''.
She opened his reply with trembling fingers.
He agreed!
And he would see her that evening.
At their meeting he told her not to bother about ``where'' - he would attend to that.
There was one of the new forte-pianos in the room and, as Claire rose to go, he asked her to sing him one song before she left.
She sang him Scott's charming ballad ``Rosabelle'', which was the vogue of the moment.
She had never sung better.
``Your voice is delightful'', he approved with a warm smile.
``Tomorrow will be a new experience - I have never before made love to a nightingale.
There have been cooing doves, chattering magpies, thieving jackdaws, a proud peacock, a silly goose, and a harpy eagle - whom I was silly enough to mate with and who is now busy tearing at my vitals''.
And so they went, he choosing of all places an inn near Medmenham Abbey, scene a generation ago of the obscene orgies of the Hellfire Club.
He regaled Claire with an account of the mock mass performed by the cassocked bloods, which he had had at firsthand from old Bud Dodington, one of the leaders of the so-called ``Order''.
Naked girls danced in the chancel of the Abbey, the youngest and seemingly the most innocent being chosen to read a sermon filled with veiled depravities.
The jaded amorist conjured up pictures of the blasphemous rites with relish.
Alas, all that belonged to the age of ``Devil Dashwood'' and ``Wicked Wilkes'', abbot and beadsman of the Order!
The casual seduction of a seventeen year old bluestocking seemed tame by comparison.
They passed close by the turn to Bishopsgate.
A scant half mile away Shelley and Mary were doubtless sitting on their diminutive terrace, the air about them scented with stock, and listening to the nightingale who had nested in the big lime tree at the foot of the garden.
Charming and peaceful - but what were charm and peace compared to high adventure?
Alone with the fabulous Byron!
How many women had longed for the privilege that was hers.
To be passive, to be girlishly shy was palpably absurd.
She was the pursuer as clearly as was Venus in Shakespeare's poem.
And while her Adonis did not suffer from inexperience, satiety might well be an equal handicap.
No, she would not pretend modesty, but neither must she be crudely bold.
Mystery - that was the thing.
In the bedroom she would insist on darkness.
With his club foot he might well be grateful.
At the inn, which was situated close to a broad weir, Byron was greeted by the landlord with obsequious deference and addressed as ``milord''.
The place was evidently a familiar haunt and Claire wondered what other illicit loves had been celebrated in the comfortable rooms to which they were shown.
``What about the bedroom''?
Byron inquired.
``Seems to me last time I was here the grate bellowed out smoke as it might have been preparing us for hell''.
``We found some owls had built a nest in the chimney, milord, but I promise you you'll never have trouble of that sort again''.
So, not only had he been here before, but it seemed he might well come again.
Claire felt suddenly small and cheap, heroine of a trivial episode in the voluminous history of Don Juan.
A cold supper was ordered and a bottle of port.
When Napoleon's ship had borne him to Elba, French wines had started to cross the Channel, the first shipments in a dozen war-ridden years, but the supplies had not yet reached rural hostelries where the sweet wines of the Spanish peninsula still ruled.
As they waited for supper they sat by the fire, glasses in hand, while Byron philosophized as much for his own entertainment as hers.
``The great Greek tragedies are concerned with man against Fate, not man against man for the prize of a woman's body.
So don't see yourself as a heroine or fancy this little adventure is an event of major importance''.
``The gods seemed to think sex pretty important'', she rebutted.
``Mars and Venus, Bacchus and Ariadne, Jupiter and Io, Byron and the nymph of the owl's nest.
That would be Minerva, I suppose.
Wasn't the owl her symbol''?
Byron laughed.
``So you know something of the classics, do you''?
``Tell me about Minerva, how she behaved, what she did to please you''.
I don't ask you who' tis you're being unfaithful to, husband or lover.
Frankly, I don't care''.
For a moment she thought of answering with the truth but she knew there were men who shied away from virginity, who demanded some degree of education in body as well as mind.
``Very well'', she said, ``I'll not catechize you.
What matter the others so long as I have my place in history''.
She was striking the right note.
No man ever had a better opinion of himself and indeed, with one so favored, flattery could hardly seem overdone.
Brains and beauty, high position in both the social and intellectual worlds, athlete, fabled lover - if ever the world was any man's oyster it was his.
The light supper over, Claire went to him and, slipping an arm about his shoulder, sat on his knee.
Her lips, moist and parted, spoke his name.
``Byron''!
His hand went to her shoulder and pushed aside the knotted scarf that surmounted the striped poplin gown; then, to better purpose, he took hold of the knot and with dextrous fingers, untied it.
The bodice beneath was buttoned and, withdrawing his lips from hers, he set her upright on his knee and started to undo it, unhurriedly as if she were a child.
But, kindled by his kiss, his caressing hand, her desire was aflame.
She sprang up and went swiftly to the bedroom.
Lord Byron poured himself another glass of wine and held it up to the candle flame admiring the rich color.
He drank slowly with due appreciation.
It was an excellent vintage.
Pausing in the doorway he said : ``The form of the human female, unlike her mind and her spirit, is the most challenging loveliness in all nature''.
When Claire returned to Bishopsgate she longed to tell them she had become Byron's mistress.
By odd coincidence, on the evening of her return Shelley chose to read Parisina, which was the latest of the titled poet's successes.
As he declaimed the sonorous measures, it was as much as Claire could do to restrain herself from bursting out with her dramatic tidings.
``Although it is not the best of which he is capable'', said Shelley as he closed the book, ``it is still poetry of a high order''.
``If he would only leave the East'', said Mary.
``I am tired of sultans and scimitars''.
``The hero of his next poem is Napoleon Bonaparte'', said Claire, with slightly overdone carelessness.
``How do you know that'' ? demanded Mary.
``I mustn't tell, I mustn't tell'', she repeated to herself.
``I promised him I wouldn't''.
Winter came, and with it Mary's baby - a boy as she had wished.
William, he was called, in honor of the man who was at once Shelley's pensioner and his most bitter detractor.
With a pardonable irony Shelley wrote to the father who had publicly disowned his daughter:
``Fanny and Mrs. Godwin will probably be glad to hear that Mary has safely recovered from a very favorable confinement, and that her child is well''.
At the same time another child - this one of Shelley's brain - was given to the world : Alastor, a poem of pervading beauty in which the reader may gaze into the still depths of a fine mind's musings.
Alastor was published only to be savagely attacked, contemptuously ignored.
Shelley sent a copy to Southey, a former friend, and another to Godwin.
Only Mary's praise sustained him in his disappointment.
She understood completely.
Not a thought nor a cadence was missed in her summary of appreciation.
``You have made the labor worth while'', he said to her, smiling.
``And in the future, since I write for a public of one, I can save the poor publishers from wasting their money''.
``A public of one'', Mary echoed reprovingly.
``how can you say such a thing?
There will be thousands who will thrill to the loveliness of Alastor.
There are some even now.
I am sure he is in raptures''.
``Poor Mr. Thynne, he always has to be trotted out for my encouragement''.
``There are other Mr. Thynnes.
Not everyone is bewitched by Byron's caliphs and harem beauties''.
Mary's super critical attitude toward Byron had nothing to do with his moral disrepute.
She was resentful of his easy success as compared with Shelley's failure.
The same month that Alastor was published, Murray sold twenty thousand copies of The Siege of Corinth, a slovenly bit of Byronism that even Shelley's generosity rebelled at.
The lordly poet was at low-water mark.
The careless writing was in keeping with his mood of savage discontent.
The previous scandals, gaily diverting as they were, had only served to increase his popularity.
Now, under the impact of his wife's disclosures, he was brought suddenly to the realization that there was a limit to tolerance, however brilliant, however far-famed the offender might be.
He tried defiance and openly flaunted his devotion to his half sister, but he soon saw, as did she, that this course if persisted in would involve them in a common ruin.
For the moment there was no woman in his life, and it was this vacuum that had given Claire her opportunity.
But the liaison successfully started in the last days of autumn was now languishing.
Byron, since the separation from his wife had been living in a smallish house in Piccadilly Terrace.
He refused to bring Claire to it even as an occasional visitor, claiming that his every move was watched by spies of the Milbankes.
Beckworth handed the pass to the colonel.
He had thought that the suggestion of taking it himself would tip the colonel in the direction of serving his own order, but the slip of paper was folded and absently thrust into the colonel's belt.
He would remain in the tent, waiting impatiently, occupied by some trivial task.
- Beckworth.
- Sir?
- Fetch me the copies of everything B and C companies have requisitioned in the last six months.
- The last six months, sir?
- You heard me.
There's a lot of waste going on here.
It's got to stop.
I want to take a look.
Get busy.
- Yes, sir.
Beckworth left the tent.
Below he could see the bright torches lighting the riverbank.
He glanced back.
The colonel crouched tensely on one of the folding chairs, methodically tearing at his thumbnail.
The bombproof was a low-ceilinged structure of heavy timbers covered with earth.
It stood some fifty paces from the edge of the bank.
From the outside, it seemed no more than a low drumlin, a lump on the dark earth.
Two slits enabled observers to watch across the river.
The place smelled strongly of rank, fertile earth, rotting wood and urine.
The plank floor was slimed beneath Watson's boots.
At least the Union officer had been decent enough to provide a candle.
There was no place to sit, but Watson walked slowly from the ladder to the window slits and back, stooping slightly to avoid striking his head on the heavy beams.
In the corner was the soldier with the white flag.
He stood stiffly erect, clutching the staff, his body half hidden by the limp cloth.
Watson hardly looked at him.
The man had come floundering aboard the flat-bottomed barge at the last instant, brandishing the flag of truce.
An officer with a squad of men had been waiting on the bank.
The men in the boats had started yelling happily at first sight of the officer, two of them calling him Billy.
When the boat had touched, the weaker ones and the two wounded men had been lifted out and carried away by the soldiers.
Watson had presented his pouch and been led to the bombproof.
The officer had told him that both lists must be checked.
Watson had given his name and asked for a safe-conduct pass.
The officer, surprised, said he would have to see.
Watson had nodded absently and muttered that he would check the lists himself later.
He had peered through the darkness at the rampart.
He wanted no part of the emotions of the exchange, no memory of the joy and gratitude that other men felt.
He had hoped to be alone in the bombproof, but the soldier had followed him.
Though Watson carefully ignored the man, he could not deny his presence.
Perhaps it would be better to speak to him, since silence could not exorcise his form.
Watson glanced briefly at him, seeing only a body rigidly erect behind the languid banner.
- We won't be too long.
If my pass is approved, I may be a half hour.
The soldier answered in a curious, muffled voice, his lips barely moving.
Watson turned away and did not see the man's knees buckle and his body sag.
He had acknowledged the man.
It was easier to think now, Watson decided.
The stiff figure in the corner no longer blocked his thoughts.
He paced slowly, stooping, staring at the damp, slippery floor.
He tried to order the words of the three Union officers, seeking to create some coherent portrait of the dead boy.
But he groped blindly.
His lack of success steadily eroded his interest.
He stopped pacing, leaned against the dank, timbered wall and let his mind drift.
A feeling of futility, an enervation of mind greater than any fatigue he had ever known, seeped through him.
Why had he crossed the dark water, to bring back a group of reclaimed soldiers or to skulk in a foul-smelling hole?
He grew annoyed and at the same time surprised at that emotion.
He was conscious of a growing sense of absurdity.
Hillman had written it all out, hadn't he?
Wasn't the report official enough?
What did he hope to accomplish here?
Hillman had ordered him not to leave the far bank.
Prompted by a guilty urge, he had disobeyed the order of a man he respected.
For what?
The figure in the corner belched loudly, a deep, liquid eruption.
Watson snorted and then laughed aloud.
Exactly!
The soldier's voice was muffled again, stricken with chagrin.
He clutched the staff, and his dark eyes blinked apologetically.
-' Scuse me, sir.
- Let's get out of here.
Watson ran up the ladder and stood for a second sucking in the cool air that smelled of mud and river weeds.
To his left, the two skiffs dented their sharp bows into the soft bank.
A soldier held the end of a frayed rope.
Three Union guards appeared, carrying their rifles at ready.
Watson stared at them curiously.
They were stocky men, well fed and clean-shaven, with neat uniforms and sturdy boots.
Behind them shambled a long column of weak, tattered men.
The thin gray figures raised a hoarse, cawing cry like the call of a bird flock.
They moved toward the skiffs with shocking eagerness, elbowing and shoving.
Four men were knocked down, but did not attempt to rise.
They crept down the muddy slope toward the waiting boats.
The crawling men tried to rise and fell again.
No one moved to them.
Watson watched two of them flounder into the shallow water and listened to their voices beg shrilly.
In a confused, soaked and stumbling shift of bodies and lifting arms, the two men were dragged into the same skiff.
The third crawling man forced himself erect.
He swayed like a drunkard, his arms milling in slow circles.
He paced forward unsteadily, leaning too far back, his head tilted oddly.
His steps were short and stiff, and, with his head thrown back, his progress was a supercilious strut.
He appeared to be peering haughtily down his nose at the crowded and unclean vessel that would carry him to freedom.
Watson looked for the fourth man.
He had reached the three passive guards; he crept in an incertain manner, patting the ground before him.
The guards did not look at him.
The figure on the earth halted, seemingly bewildered.
He sank back on his thin haunches like a weary hound.
Then he began to crawl again.
Watson watched the creeping figure.
He felt a spectator interest.
Would the man make it or not?
If he failed to reach the riverbank in five minutes, say, then the skiffs would pull away and leave him groping in the mud.
Say three minutes to make it sporting.
Still the guards did not move, but stood inert, aloof from the slow scrambling man.
The figure halted, and Watson gasped.
The man began to creep in the wrong direction, deceived by a slight rise in the ground!
He turned slowly and began to crawl back up the bank toward the rampart.
Watson raced for him, his boots slamming the soft earth.
The guards came to life with astonishing menace.
They spun and flung their rifles up.
One man dropped to his knee for better aim.
- Let me help him, for the love of God!
The guards lowered their rifles and their rifles and peered at Watson with sullen, puzzled faces.
Watson pounded to the crawling man and stopped, panting heavily.
He reached down and closed his fingers on the man's upper arm.
Beneath his clutch, a flat strip of muscle surged on the bone.
Watson bent awkwardly and lifted the man to his feet.
Watson stared into a cadaverous face.
Two clotted balls the color of mucus rolled between fiery lids.
The man's voice was a sweet, patient whisper.
- Henry said that he'd take my arm and get me right there.
But you ain't Henry.
- No.
- It don't matter.
Is it far?
How far could it be, Watson thought bleakly, how far can a blind man crawl?
Another body length or all the rest of his nighted life?
- Not far.
Not like us fellas.
It raises the voice, bein in camp.
You Secesh?
- Yes.
Come on, now.
Can you walk?
- Why, course I can.
I can walk real good.
Watson stumbled down the bank.
He was no heavier than a child.
Watson paused for breath.
The man wheezed weakly, his fetid breath beating softly against Watson's neck.
His sweet whisper came after great effort.
- Oh, Christ.
I wish you was Henry.
He promised to take me.
- Hush.
We're almost there.
The man swayed on a thwart, turning his ruined eyes from side to side.
Watson turned away, sickened for the first time in many months.
He heard the patient voice calling.
- Henry?
Where are you, Henry?
- Make him lie down!
Watson snatched a deep breath.
He had not meant to shout.
He stood with his back to the skiff.
Watson spoke bewilderedly to the dark night flecked with pine-knot torches.
- Goddamn you!
What do you do to them?
Intelligence jabbed at him accusingly.
He was angry, sickened.
He had not felt that during the afternoon.
No, nor later.
All his emotions had been inward, self-conscious.
In war, on a night like this, it was only the outward emotions that mattered, what could be flung out into the darkness to damage others.
That was it.
He was sure of it.
John's type of man allowed this sort of thing to happen.
What a fool he had been to think of his brother!
So Charles was dead.
What did it matter?
His name had been crossed off a list.
Already his cool body lay in the ground.
What words had any meaning?
To confess with a canvas chair as a prie-dieu, gouging at his heart until a rough and stupid hand bade him rise and go?
Men were slaughtered every day, tumbled into eternity like so many torn parcels flung down a portable chute.
What made him think John had a right to witness his brother's humiliation?
What right had John to any special consideration?
Was John better, more deserving?
To hell with John.
Let him chafe with impatience to see Charles, rip open the note with trembling hands and read the formal report in Hillman's beautiful, schoolmaster's hand.
John would curse.
He believed that brave boys didn't cry.
He was grimly satisfied.
He had stupidly thought himself compelled to ease his brother's pain.
Now he knew perfectly that he had but longed to increase his own suffering.
I would not want to be one of those writers who begin each morning by exclaiming, ``O Gogol, O Chekhov, O Thackeray and Dickens, what would you have made of a bomb shelter ornamented with four plaster-of-Paris ducks, a birdbath, and three composition gnomes with long beards and red mobcaps''?
As I say, I wouldn't want to begin a day like this, but I often wonder what the dead would have done.
But the shelter is as much a part of my landscape as the beech and horse-chestnut trees that grow on the ridge.
I can see it from this window where I write.
It was built by the Pasterns, and stands on the acre of ground that adjoins our property.
It bulks under a veil of thin, new grass, like some embarrassing fact of physicalness, and I think Mrs. Pastern set out the statuary to soften its meaning.
She was a pale woman.
Sitting on her terrace, sitting in her parlor, sitting anywhere, she ground an axe of self-esteem.
Offer her a cup of tea and she would say, ``Why, these cups look just like a set I gave to the Salvation Army last year''.
Show her the new swimming pool and she would say, slapping her ankle, ``I suppose this must be where you breed your gigantic mosquitoes''.
Hand her a chair and she would say, ``Why, it's a nice imitation of those Queen Anne chairs I inherited from Grandmother Delancy''.
These trumps were more touching than they were anything else, and seemed to imply that the nights were long, her children ungrateful, and her marriage bewilderingly threadbare.
Twenty years ago, she would have been known as a golf widow, and the sum of her manner was perhaps one of bereavement.
She usually wore weeds, and a stranger watching her board a train might have guessed that Mr. Pastern was dead, but Mr. Pastern was far from dead.
He was marching up and down the locker room of the Grassy Brae Golf Club shouting, ``Bomb Cuba!
Let's throw a little nuclear hardware at them and show them who's boss''.
He was brigadier of the club's locker-room light infantry, and at one time or another declared war on Russia, Czechoslovakia, Yugoslavia, and China.
It all began on an autumn afternoon - and who, after all these centuries, can describe the fineness of an autumn day?
One might pretend never to have seen one before, or, to more purpose, that there would never be another like it.
The clear and searching sweep of sun on the lawns was like a climax of the year's lights.
Leaves were burning somewhere and the smoke smelled, for all its ammoniac acidity, of beginnings.
The boundless blue air was stretched over the zenith like the skin of a drum.
Leaving her house one late afternoon, Mrs. Pastern stopped to admire the October light.
It was the day to canvass for infectious hepatitis.
It was her work to go among her neighbors and collect their checks.
Her house stood on a rise of ground, and before she got into her car she looked at the houses below.
Charity as she knew it was complex and reciprocal, and almost every roof she saw signified charity.
Mrs. Balcolm worked for the brain.
Mrs. Ten Eyke did mental health.
Mrs. Trenchard worked for the blind.
Mrs. Horowitz was in charge of diseases of the nose and throat.
Mrs. Trempler was tuberculosis, Mrs. Surcliffe was Mothers' March of Dimes, Mrs. Craven was cancer, and Mrs. Gilkson did the kidney.
Mrs. Hewlitt led the birthcontrol league, Mrs. Ryerson was arthritis, and way in the distance could be seen the slate roof of Ethel Littleton's house, a roof that signified gout.
It was her destiny; it was her life.
Her mother had done it before her, and even her old grandmother, who had collected money for smallpox and unwed mothers.
Mrs. Pastern had telephoned most of her neighbors in advance, and most of them were ready for her.
She experienced none of the suspense of some poor stranger selling encyclopedias.
Here and there she stayed to visit and drink a glass of sherry.
The contributions were ahead of what she had got the previous year, and while the money, of course, was not hers, it excited her to stuff her kit with big checks.
She stopped at the Surcliffes' after dusk, and had a Scotch-and-soda.
She stayed too late, and when she left, it was dark and time to go home and cook supper for her husband.
``I got a hundred and sixty dollars for the hepatitis fund'', she said excitedly when he walked in.
I want to get my kit in tomorrow morning - would you mind doing them while I cook the dinner''?
``But I don't know the Flannagans'', Charlie Pastern said.
``Nobody does, but they gave me ten last year''.
He was tired, he had his business worries, and the sight of his wife arranging pork chops in the broiler only seemed like an extension of a boring day.
He was happy enough to take the convertible and race up the hill to the Blevins ', thinking that they might give him a drink.
But the Blevins were away; their maid gave him an envelope with a check in it and shut the door.
Turning in at the Flannagans' driveway, he tried to remember if he had ever met them.
The name encouraged him, because he always felt that he could handle the Irish.
There was a glass pane in the front door, and through this he could see into a hallway where a plump woman with red hair was arranging flowers.
She took a good look at herself in the mirror before she turned and, walking with very small steps, started toward the door.
``Oh, please come in'', she said.
The girlish voice was nearly a whisper.
She was not a girl, he could see.
Her hair was dyed, and her bloom was fading, and she must have been crowding forty, but she seemed to be one of those women who cling to the manners and graces of a pretty child of eight.
``Your wife just called'', she said, separating one word from another, exactly like a child.
``And I am not sure that I have any cash - any money, that is - but if you will wait just a minute I will write you out a check if I can find my checkbook.
Won't you step into the living room, where it's cozier''?
A fire had just been lighted, he saw, and things had been set out for drinks, and, like any stray, his response to these comforts was instantaneous.
Travelling home on a late train?
Changing his clothes upstairs?
Taking a shower?
At the end of the room there was a desk heaped with papers, and she began to riffle these, making sighs and and noises of girlish exasperation.
``I am terribly sorry to keep you waiting'', she said, ``but won't you make yourself a little drink while you wait?
Everything's on the table''.
``What train does Mr. Flannagan come out on''?
``Mr. Flannagan is away'', she said.
Her voice dropped.
``I'll have a drink, then, if you'll have one with me''.
``If you will promise to make it weak''.
``Sit down'', he said, ``and enjoy your drink and look for your checkbook later.
The only way to find things is to relax''.
All in all, they had six drinks.
She described herself and her circumstances unhesitatingly.
Mr. Flannagan manufactured plastic tongue depressors.
He travelled all over the world.
She didn't like to travel.
She and her husband had formerly lived in New York, where she had many friends, but Mr. Flannagan thought the country would be safer in case of war.
She would rather live in danger than die of loneliness and boredom.
She had no children; she had made no friends.
``I've seen you, though, before'', she said with enormous coyness, patting his knee.
``I've seen you walking your dogs on Sunday and driving by in the convertible''.
The thought of this lonely woman sitting at her window touched him, although he was even more touched by her plumpness.
Sheer plumpness, he knew, is not a vital part of the body and has no procreative functions.
It serves merely as an excess cushion for the rest of the carcass.
And knowing its humble place in the scale of things, why did he, at this time of life, seem almost ready to sell his soul for plumpness?
``I've never done this before'', she said later, when he was arranging himself to leave.
Her voice shook with feeling, and he thought it lovely.
He didn't doubt her truthfulness, although he had heard the words a hundred times.
``I've never done this before'', they always said, shaking their dresses down over their white shoulders.
``I've never done this before'', they always said, waiting for the elevator in the hotel corridor.
``I've never done this before'', they always said, pouring another whiskey.
``I've never done this before'', they always said, putting on their stockings.
On ships at sea, on railroad trains, in summer hotels with mountain views, they always said, ``I've never done this before''.
``Where have you been''?
``It's after eleven''.
``I had a drink with the Flannagans''.
``She told me he was in Germany''.
``He came home unexpectedly''.
Charlie ate some supper in the kitchen and went into the TV room to hear the news.
``Bomb them''! he shouted.
``Throw a little nuclear hardware at them!
Show them who's boss''!
But in bed he had trouble sleeping.
He loved them.
It was the only meaning of the word that he had ever known.
Then he played nine imaginary holes of golf, choosing his handicap, his irons, his stance, his opponents, and his weather in detail, but the green of the links seemed faded in the light of his business worries.
His money was tied up in a Nassau hotel, an Ohio pottery works, and a detergent for window-washing, and luck had been running against him.
His worries harried him up out of bed, and he lighted a cigarette and went to the window.
In the starlight he could see the trees stripped of their leaves.
During the summer he had tried to repair some of his losses at the track, and the bare trees reminded him that his pari-mutuel tickets would still be lying, like leaves, in the gutters near Belmont and Saratoga.
Maple and ash, beech and elm, one hundred to win on Three in the fourth, fifty to win on Six in the third, one hundred to win on Two in the eighth.
Children walking home from school would scuff through what seemed to be his foliage.
There are, he thought, so few true means of forgetfulness in this life that why should he shun the medicine even when the medicine seemed, as it did, a little crude?
It was not as though she noted clearly that her nephews had not been to see her for ten years, not since their last journey eastward to witness their Uncle Izaak being lowered into the rocky soil; that aside from due notification of certain major events in their lives (two marriages, two births, one divorce), Christmas and Easter cards of the traditional sort had been the only thin link she had with them through the widowed years.
Her thoughts were not discrete.
But there was a look about her mouth as though she were tasting lemons.
She grasped the chair arms and brought her thin body upright, like a bird alert for flight.
She turned and walked stiffly into the parlor to the dainty legged escritoire, warped and cracked now from fifty years in an atmosphere of sea spray.
There she extracted two limp vellum sheets and wrote off the letters, one to Abel, one to Mark.
Once her trembling hand, with the pen grasped tight in it, was pressed against the paper the words came sharply, smoothly, as authoritatively as they would dropping from her own lips.
And the stiffly regal look of them, she saw grimly, lacked the quaver of age which, thwarting the efforts of her amazing will, ran through her spoken words like a thin ragged string.
To Abel:
``I am afraid there is not much to amuse small children here.
I should be obliged if you could make other arrangements for your daughters.
You may stay as long as you wish, of course, but if arranging for the care of the girls must take time into account, I think a day or two should be enough to finish our business in''.
To Mark : ``Please give my regards to Myra''.
She signed the letters quickly, stamped them, and placed them on the hall table for Raphael to mail in town.
Then she went back to the wicker chair and resolutely adjusted her eyes to the glare on the water.
``My nephews will be coming down'', she said that evening as Angelina brought her dinner into the dining room, the whole meal on a vast linen covered tray.
She looked at the girl speculatively from eyes which had paled with the years; from the early evening lights of them which had first startled Izaak to look at her in an uncousinly way, they had faded to a near absence of color which had, possibly from her constant looking at the water, something of the light of the sea in them.
She smiled, and the teeth gleamed in her beautifully modeled olive face.
``That will be so nice for you, Mrs. Packard'', she said.
Her voice was ripe and full and her teeth flashed again in Sicilian brilliance before the warm curved lips met and her mouth settled in repose.
``Um'', said the old lady, and brought her eyes down to the tray.
``You remember them, I suppose''?
She glinted suspiciously at the dish before her : ``Blowfish.
I hope Raphael bought them whole''.
Angelina stepped back, her eyes roaming the tray for omissions.
Then she looked at the old woman again, her eyes calm.
I used to play with the older one sometimes, when he'd let me.
Abel''?
The name fell with lazy affectionate remembrance from her lips.
For an instant the old aunt felt something indefinable flash through her smile.
She would have said triumph.
Then Angelina turned and with an easy grace walked toward the kitchen.
Jessica Packard lifted her head and followed the retreating figure, her eyes resting nearly closed on the unself-conscious rise and fall of the rounded hips.
For a moment she held her face to the empty doorway; then she snorted and groped for her fork.
There's no greater catastrophe in the universe, she reflected dourly, impaling tender green beans on the silver fork, than the dwindling away of a family.
When the fate of the individual is visited on the group, then (the warm sweet butter dripped from her raised trembling fork and she pushed her head forward belligerently), ah, then the true bitterness of existence could be tasted.
And indeed the young garden beans were brackish in her mouth.
She was the last living of the older generation.
What had once been a widespread family - at one time, she knew, there were enough Packards to populate an entire county - had now narrowed down to the two boys, Abel and Mark.
She swung her eyes up to the blue of the window, her jaws gently mashing the bitter beans.
What hope lay in the nephews, she asked the intensifying light out there, with one married to a barren woman and the other divorced, having sired two girl children, with none to bear on the Packard name?
She ate.
It seemed to her, as it seemed each night, that the gloom drew itself in and became densest at the table's empty chairs, giving her the frequent illusion that she dined with shadows.
Here, too, she talked low, quirking her head at one or another of the places, most often at Izaak's armchair which faced her across the long table.
She thought again of her children, those two who had died young, before the later science which might have saved them could attach even a label to their separate malignancies.
The girl, her first, she barely remembered.
It could have been anyone's infant, for it had not survived the bassinet.
But the boy, the boy had been alive yesterday.
Each successive movement in his growing was recorded on the unreeling film inside her.
He ran on his plump sticks of legs, freezing now and again into the sudden startled attitudes which the camera had caught and held on the paling photographs, all carefully placed and glued and labeled, resting in the fat plush album in the bottom drawer of the escritoire.
In the cruel clearness of her memory the boy remained unchanged, quick with the delight of laughter, and the pain with which she recalled that short destroyed childhood was still unendurable to her.
It was one with the desolate rocks and the alien water on those days when she hated the sea.
The brothers drove down together in Mark's small red sports car, Mark at the wheel.
Abel sat and regarded the farm country which, spreading out from both sides of the road, rolled greenly up to where the silent white houses and long barns and silos nested into the tilled fields.
He saw the land with a stranger's eyes, all the old familiarness gone.
And it presented itself to him as it would to any stranger, impervious, complete in itself.
There was stability there, too - a color which his life had had once.
That is what childhood is, he told himself.
Solid, settled, lost.
In the stiff neutral lines of the telephone poles he saw the no-nonsense pen strokes of Aunt Jessica's letter.
What bad grace, what incredible selfishness he and Mark had shown.
The boyhood summers preceding their uncle's funeral might never have been.
The small car flew on relentlessly.
The old woman, stubbornly reigning in the house above the crashing waters took on an ominous reality.
Abel moved and adjusted his long legs.
``I suppose it has to do with the property'', Mark had said over the telephone when they had discussed their receipt of the letters.
Not until the words had been spoken did Abel suddenly see the old house and the insistent sea, and feel his contrition blotted out in one shameful moment of covetousness.
He and Mark were the last of the family, and there lay the Cape Ann property which had seemed to have no end, stretching from horizon to horizon, in those golden days of summer.
Now Abel turned his head to look at his brother.
Mark held the wheel loosely, but his fingers curved around it in a purposeful way and the deliberate set of his body spoke plainly of the figure he'd make in the years to come.
His sandy hair was already beginning to thin and recede at the sides, and Abel looked quickly away.
The vacation traffic was becoming heavier as they approached the sea.
``She didn't mention bringing Myra'', Mark said, maneuvering the car into the next lane.
``She's probably getting old - crotchety, I mean - and we figured uh-uh, better not.
They've never met, you know.
But Myra wouldn't budge without an express invitation.
I feel kind of bad about it''.
He gave Abel a quick glance and moved closer to the wheel, hugging it to him, and Abel caught this briefest of allusions to guilt.
``I imagine the old girl hasn't missed us much'', Mark added, his eyes on the road.
Abel ignored the half expressed bid for confirmation.
It was barely possible that his brother was right.
He could tell they were approaching the sea.
The air took on a special strength now that they'd left the fecund warmth of the farmland behind.
There was the smell of the coast, like a primeval memory, composed of equal parts salt water, clams, seaweed and northern air.
He turned from the flying trees to look ahead and saw with an inward boy's eye again the great fieldstone house which, built on one of the many acres of ancestral land bordering the west harbor, had been Izaak's bride-gift to his cousin wife as the last century ended.
Mark's thoughts must have been keeping silent pace beside his own, climbing the same crags in dirty white sneakers, clambering out on top of the headland and coming upon the sudden glinting water at the same instant.
``Remember the Starbird ?''
Mark asked, and Abel lifted his eyes from the double lines in the middle of the road, the twin white ribbons which the car swallowed rapidly as it ascended the crest of the hill and came down.
``The Starbird,'' Abel said.
The two of them had developed into a remarkable sailing team.
All of this happening in a time of their lives when their youth and their brotherhood knitted them together as no other time or circumstance could.
They seemed then to have had a single mind and body, a mutuality which had been accepted with the fact of their youth, casually.
He saw the Starbird as she lay, her slender mast up and gently turning, its point describing constant languid circles against a cumulus sky.
Both of them had known the feeling of the small life in her waiting, ready, for the two of them to run up her sails.
The Starbird had been long at the bottom of the bay.
They came unexpectedly upon the sea.
Meeting it without preparation as they did, robbed of anticipation, a common disappointment seized them.
They were climbing the hill in the night when the headlights abruptly probed solid blackness, became two parallel luminous tubes which broadened out into a faint mist of light and ended.
His eyes were old and they never saw well, but heated with whisky they'd glare at my noise, growing red and raising up his rage.
I decided I hated the Pedersen kid too, dying in our kitchen while I was away where I couldn't watch, dying just to entertain Hans and making me go up snapping steps and down a drafty hall, Pa lumped under the covers at the end like dung covered with snow, snoring and whistling.
Oh he'd not care about the Pedersen kid.
He'd not care about getting waked so he could give up some of his whisky to a slit of a kid and maybe lose one of his hiding places in the bargain.
That would make him mad enough if he was sober.
I didn't hurry though it was cold and the Pedersen kid was in the kitchen.
He was all shoveled up like I thought he'd be.
I pushed at his shoulder, calling his name.
I think his name stopped the snoring but he didn't move except to roll a little when I shoved him.
I couldn't be sure he was still asleep.
He was a cagey sonofabitch.
I shook him a little harder and made some noise.
``Pap-pap-pap-hey'', I said.
I was leaning too far over.
I knew better.
He always slept close to the wall so you had to lean to reach him.
Oh he was smart.
It put you off.
When his arm came up I ducked away but it caught me on the side of the neck, watering my eyes, and I backed off to cough.
Pa was on his side, looking at me, his eyes winking, the hand that had hit me a fist in the pillow.
``Get the hell out of here''.
I didn't say anything, trying to get my throat clear, but I watched him.
He was like a mean horse to come at from the rear.
It was better, though, he'd hit me.
He was bitter when he missed.
``Get the hell out of here''.
``Big Hans sent me.
``A fat hell on Big Hans.
Get out of here''.
``He found the Pedersen kid by the crib''.
``Get the hell out''.
Pa pulled at the covers.
He was tasting his mouth.
``The kid's froze good.
Hans is rubbing him with snow.
He's got him in the kitchen''.
``No, Pa.
It's the Pedersen kid.
The kid''.
``Nothing to steal from the crib''.
``Not stealing, Pa.
He was just lying there.
Hans found him froze.
That's where he was when Hans found him''.
Pa laughed.
``You don't understand, Pa.
The Pedersen kid.
The kid'' -
``I god damn well understand''.
Pa had his head up, glaring, his teeth gnawing at the place where he'd grown a mustache once.
``I god damn well understand.
You know I don't want to see Pedersen.
That cock.
Why should I?
God dammit, get.
And don't come back.
Find out something.
You're a fool.
Both you and Hans.
Pedersen.
That cock.
Don't come back.
Out.
He was shouting and breathing hard and closing his fist on the pillow.
He had long black hairs on his wrist.
They curled around the cuff of his nightshirt.
``Big Hans made me come.
Big Hans said'' -
``A fat hell on Big Hans.
He's an even bigger fool than you are.
Fat, hey?
I taught him, dammit, and I'll teach you.
You want me to drop my pot''?
He was about to get up so I got out, slamming the door.
He was beginning to see he was too mad to sleep.
Then he threw things.
Once he went after Hans and dumped his pot over the banister.
Pa'd been shit sick in that pot.
Hans got an axe.
He didn't even bother to wipe himself off and he chopped part of Pa's door down before he stopped.
He might not have gone that far if Pa hadn't been locked in laughing fit to shake the house.
I always felt the memory was present in both of them, stirring in their chests like a laugh or a growl, as eager as an animal to be out.
I heard Pa cursing all the way downstairs.
Hans had laid steaming towels over the kid's chest and stomach.
He was rubbing snow on the kid's legs and feet.
Water from the snow and water from the towels had run off the kid to the table where the dough was, and the dough was turning pasty, sticking to the kid's back and behind.
``Ain't he going to wake up''?
``What about your pa''?
``He was awake when I left''.
``What'd he say?
``He said a fat hell on Big Hans''.
``Don't be smart.
Did you ask him about the whisky''?
``Yeah''.
``Well''?
``He said a fat hell on Big Hans''.
``Don't be smart.
What's he going to do''?
``Go back to sleep most likely''.
``You go.
Take the axe.
Pa's scared to hell of axes''.
``Listen to me, Jorge, I've had enough to your sassing.
This kid's froze bad.
If I don't get some whisky down him he might die.
You want the kid to die?
Do you?
Well, get your pa and get that whisky''.
``Jorge''.
``Well he don't.
He don't care at all, and I don't care to get my head busted neither.
He don't care, and I don't care to have his shit flung on me.
He don't care about anybody.
All he cares about is his whisky and that dry crack in his face.
Get pig-drunk - that's what he wants.
He don't care about nothing else at all.
Nothing.
That cock.
Not the kid neither''.
``I'll get the spirits'', Ma said.
I'd wound Big Hans up tight.
I was ready to jump but when Ma said she'd get the whisky it surprised him like it surprised me, and he ran down.
Ma never went near the old man when he was sleeping it off.
Not any more.
Not for years.
The first thing every morning when she washed her face she could see the scar on her chin where he'd cut her with a boot cleat, and maybe she saw him heaving it again, the dirty sock popping out as it flew.
``No you won't'', Big Hans said.
``Yes, Hans, if they're needed'', Ma said.
Hans shook his head but neither of us tried to stop her.
If we had, then one of us would have had to go instead.
Hans rubbed the kid with more snow & & & rubbed & & & rubbed.
``I'll get more snow'', I said.
I took the pail and shovel and went out on the porch.
I don't know where Ma went.
I thought she'd gone upstairs and expected to hear she had.
Oh, he was being queer and careful, pawing about in the drawer and holding the bottle like a snake at the length of his arm.
He was awful angry because he'd thought Ma was going to do something big, something heroic even, especially for her.
I know him.
I know him.
We felt the same sometimes, while Ma wasn't thinking about that at all, not anything like that.
There was no way of getting even.
It wasn't like getting cheated at the fair.
They were always trying so you got to expect it.
Now Hans had given Ma something of his - we both had when we thought she was going straight to Pa - something valuable; but since she didn't know we'd given it to her, there was no easy way of getting it back.
He was put out too because there was only one way of understanding what she'd done.
Ma had found one of Pa's hiding places.
She'd found one and she hadn't said a word while Big Hans and I had hunted and hunted as we always did all winter, every winter since the spring that Hans had come and I had looked in the privy and found the first one.
Pa had a knack for hiding.
He knew we were looking and he enjoyed it.
But now Ma.
She'd found it by luck most likely but she hadn't said anything and we didn't know how long ago it'd been or how many other ones she'd found, saying nothing.
Pa was sure to find out.
Sometimes he didn't seem to because he hid them so well he couldn't find them himself or because he looked and didn't find anything and figured he hadn't hid one after all or had drunk it up.
A fool could see what was going on.
If he found out Ma found it - that'd be bad.
He took pride in his hiding.
It was all the pride he had.
I guess fooling Hans and me took doing.
But he didn't figure Ma for much.
He didn't figure her at all, and if he found out * * h a woman * * h it'd be bad.
Hans poured some in a tumbler.
``You going to put more towels on him''?
``Why not?
That's what he needs, something warm to his skin, don't he''?
``Not where he's froze good.
Heat's bad for frostbite.
That's why I only put towels on his chest and belly.
He's got to thaw slow.
You ought to know that''.
Colors on the towels had run.
Ma poked her toe in the kid's clothes.
Big Hans began pouring whisky in the kid's mouth but his mouth filled without any getting down his throat and in a second it was dripping from his chin.
``Here, help me prop him up.
I got hold his mouth open''.
I didn't want to touch him and I hoped Ma would do it but she kept looking at the kid's clothes piled on the floor and the pool of water by them and didn't make any move to.
``Come on, Jorge''.
``All right''.
``Lift, don't shove * * h lift''.
``O.K., I'm lifting''.
I took him by the shoulders.
His mouth fell open.
The skin on his neck was tight.
He was cold all right.
``Hold his head up.
He'll choke''.
``His mouth is open''.
``His throat's shut.
He'll choke''.
``He'll choke anyway''.
``I cann't''.
``Don't hold him like that.
Put your arms around him''.
``Well Jesus''.
He was cold all right.
I put my arm carefully around him.
Hans had his fingers in the kid's mouth.
``Now he'll choke for sure''.
``Shut up.
He was cold all right, and wet.
I had my arm behind his back.
He was in his mid fifties at this time, long past the establishment of his name and the wish to be lionized yet once again, and it was almost a decade since he had sworn off lecturing.
There was never a doubt any more how his structures would be received; it was always the same unqualified success now.
He could no longer build anything, whether a private residence in his Pennsylvania county or a church in Brazil, without it being obvious that he had done it, and while here and there he was taken to task for again developing the same airy technique, they were such fanciful and sometimes even playful buildings that the public felt assured by its sense of recognition after a time, a quality of authentic uniqueness about them, which, once established by an artist as his private vision, is no longer disputable as to its other values.
Stowey Rummel was internationally famous, a crafter of a genuine Americana in foreign eyes, an original designer whose inventive childishness with steel and concrete was made even more believably sincere by his personality.
He had lived for almost thirty years in this same stone farmhouse with the same wife, a remarkably childish thing in itself; he rose at half past six every morning, made himself some French coffee, had his corn flakes and more coffee, smoked four cigarettes while reading last Sunday's Herald Tribune and yesterday's Pittsburgh Gazette, then put on his high-topped farmer's shoes and walked under a vine bower to his workshop.
This was an enormously long building whose walls were made of rocks, some of them brought home from every continent during his six years as an oil geologist.
The debris of his other careers was piled everywhere; a pile of wire cages for mice from his time as a geneticist and a microscope lying on its side on the window sill, vertical steel columns wired for support to the open ceiling beams with spidery steel cantilevers jutting out into the air, masonry constructions on the floor from the time he was inventing his disastrous fireplace whose smoke would pass through a whole house, visible all the way up through wire gratings on each floor.
Everywhere else his ideas lay or hung in visible form : his models, drawings, ten foot canvases in monochromes from his painting days, and underfoot a windfall of broken-backed books that looked as though their insides had been ransacked by a maniac.
Bicycle gear-sets he had once used as the basis of the design for the Camden Cycly Company plant hung on a rope in one corner, and over his desk, next to several old and dusty hats, was a clean pair of roller skates which he occasionally used up and down front of his house.
He worked standing, with his left hand in his pocket as though he were merely stopping for a moment, sketching with the surprised stare of one who was watching another person's hand.
Sometimes he would grunt softly to some invisible onlooker beside him, sometimes he would look stern and moralistic as his pencil did what he disapproved.
It all seemed - if one could have peeked in at him through one of his windows - as though this broken nosed man with the muscular arms and wrestler's neck was merely the caretaker trying his hand at the boss's work.
This air of disengagement carried over to his apparent attitude toward his things, and people often mistook it for boredom in him or a surrender to repetitious routine.
But he was not bored at all; he had found his style quite early in his career and he thought it quite wonderful that the world admired it, and he could not imagine why he should alter it.
There are, after all, fortunate souls who hear everything, but only know how to listen to what is good for them, and Stowey was, as things go, a fortunate man.
He left his home the day after New Year's wearing a mackinaw and sheepskin mittens and without a hat.
But he was too busy to hear what she was saying.
So they parted when she was in an impatient humor.
When he was bent over behind the wheel of the station wagon, feeling in his trouser cuffs for the ignition key which he had dropped a moment before, she came out of the house with an enormous Rumanian shawl over her head, which she had bought in that country during one of their trips abroad, and handed him a clean handkerchief through the window.
Finding the key under his shoe, he started the engine, and while it warmed up he turned to her standing there in the dripping fog, and said, ``Defrost the refrigerator''.
He saw the surprise in her face, and laughed as though it were the funniest expression he had ever seen.
He kept on laughing until she started laughing with him.
He had a deep voice which was full of good food she had cooked, and good humor; an explosive laugh which always carried everything before it.
He would settle himself into his seat to laugh.
Whenever he laughed it was all he was doing.
She was forty-nine at this time, a lanky woman of breeding with an austere, narrow face which had the distinction of a steeple or some architecture that had been designed long ago for a stubborn sort of prayer.
Her eyebrows were definite and heavy and formed two lines moving upward toward a high forehead and a great head of brown hair that fell to her shoulders.
There was an air of blindness in her gray eyes, the startled horse look that ultimately comes to some women who are born at the end of an ancestral line long since divorced from money-making and which, besides, has kept its estate intact.
She was personally sloppy, and when she had colds would blow her nose in the same handkerchief all day and keep it, soaking wet, dangling from her waist, and when she gardened she would eat dinner with dirt on her calves.
But just when she seemed to have sunk into some depravity of peasanthood she would disappear and come down bathed, brushed, and taking breaths of air, and even with her broken nails her hands would come to rest on a table or a leaf with a thoughtless delicacy, a grace of history, so to speak, and for an instant one saw how ferociously proud she was and adamant on certain questions of personal value.
She even spoke differently when she was clean, and she was clean now for his departure and her voice clear and rather sharp.
``Now drive carefully, for God's sake''! she called, trying to attain a half humorous resentment at his departure.
But he did not notice, and was already backing the car down to the road, saying ``Toot-toot''! to the stump of a tree as he passed it, the same stump which had impaled the car of many a guest in the past thirty years and which he refused to have removed.
She stood clutching her shawl around her shoulders until he had swung the car onto the road.
She had begun to turn back toward the house, but his look caught her and she stood still, waiting there for what his expression indicated would be a serious word of farewell.
He looked at her out of himself, she thought, as he did only for an instant at a time, the look which always surprised her even now when his uncombable hair was yellowing a little and his breath came hard through his nicotine choked lungs, the look of the gaunt youth she had suddenly found herself staring at in the Tate Gallery on a Thursday once.
Now she kept herself protectively ready to laugh again and sure enough he pointed at her with his index finger and said ``Toot''! once more and roared off into the fog, his foot evidently surprising him with the suddenness with which it pressed the accelerator, just as his hand did when he worked.
She walked back to the house and entered, feeling herself returning, sensing some kind of opportunity in the empty building.
There is a death in all partings, she knew, and promptly put it out of her mind.
She enjoyed great parties when she would sit up talking and dancing and drinking all night, but it always seemed to her that being alone, especially alone in her house, was the realest part of life.
Now she could let out the three parakeets without fear they would be stepped on or that Stowey would let them out one of the doors; she could dust the plants, then break off suddenly and pick up an old novel and read from the middle on; improvise cha-chas on the harp; and finally, the best part of all, simply sit at the plank table in the kitchen with a bottle of wine and the newspapers, reading the ads as well as the news, registering nothing on her mind but letting her soul suspend itself above all wishing and desire.
She did this now, comfortably aware of the mist running down the windows, of the silence outside, of the dark afternoon it was getting to be.
She fell asleep leaning on her hand, hearing the house creaking as though it were a living a private life of its own these two hundred years, hearing the birds rustling in their cages and the occasional whirring of wings as one of them landed on the table and walked across the newspaper to perch in the crook of her arm.
Then she fell asleep again as suddenly as a person with fever, and when she awoke it was dark outside and the clarity was back in her eyes.
She stood up, smoothing her hair down, straightening her clothes, feeling a thankfulness for the enveloping darkness outside, and, above everything else, for the absence of the need to answer, to respond, to be aware even of Stowey coming in or going out, and yet, now that she was beginning to cook, she glimpsed a future without him, a future alone like this, and the pain made her head writhe, and in a moment she found it hard to wait for Lucretia to come with her guests.
She went into the living room and turned on three lamps, then back into the kitchen where she turned on the ceiling light and the switch that lit the floods on the barn, illuminating the driveway.
She knew she was feeling afraid and inwardly laughed at herself.
They were both so young, after all, so unready for any final parting.
How could it have been thirty years already, she wondered?
But yes, nineteen plus thirty was forty-nine, and she was forty-nine and she had been married at nineteen.
She stood still over the leg of lamb, rubbing herbs into it, quite suddenly conscious of a nausea in her stomach and a feeling of wrath, a sensation of violence that started her shivering.
But they all said, ``No, your time will come.
There was no room for company in the tiny Weaning House (where the Albright boys always took their brides, till they could get a house and a farm of their own).
So when the Big House filled up and ran over, the sisters-in-law found beds for everyone in their own homes.
And there was still not anything that Linda Kay could do.
So Linda Kay gave up asking, and accepted her reprieve.
Without saying so, she was really grateful; for to attend the dying was something she had never experienced, and certainly had not imagined when she thought of the duties she would have as Bobby Joe's wife.
She had made curtains for all the windows of her little house, and she had kept it spotless and neat, shabby as it was, and cooked good meals for Bobby Joe.
She had done all the things she had promised herself she would do, but she had not thought of this.
People died, she would have said, in hospitals, or in cars on the highway at night.
Bobby Joe was gone all day now, not coming in for dinner and sometimes not for supper.
Now there was no work in the fields, nor would there be till it rained, and she did not know where he went.
Not that she complained, or had any cause to.
Four or five of the cousins from East Texas were about his age, so naturally they ran around together.
There was no reason for her to ask what they did.
Thus a new pattern of days began to develop, for Granny Albright did not die.
She lay still on the bed, her head hardly denting the pillow; sometimes she opened her eyes and looked around, and sometimes she took a little milk or soup.
They stopped expecting her to die the next minute, but only in the next day or two.
Those who had driven hundreds of miles for the burial would not go home, for she might die any time; but they might as well unpack their suitcases, for she might linger on.
So the pattern was established.
There was not anything she could do there, but that was where everyone was, or would be.
Bobby Joe and the boys would come by, say ``How's Granny'' ? and sit on the porch a while.
The older men would be there at noon, and maybe rest for a time before they took their guns off to the creek or drove down the road towards town.
The women and children stayed at the Albrights'.
The women, keeping their voices low as they worked around the house or sat in the living room, sounded like chickens shut up in a coop for the night.
The children had to play away from the house (in the barn loft or the pasture behind the barn), to maintain a proper quietness.
Off and on, all day, someone would be wiping at the powdery gray dust that settled over everything.
The evaporative cooler had been moved to Granny's room, and her door was kept shut; so that the rest of the house stayed open, though there was a question as to whether it was hotter or cooler that way.
The dust clogged their throats, and the heat parched them, so that the women were always making ice water.
One afternoon, as the women sat clucking softly, a new carload of people pulled up at the gate.
It was a Cadillac, black grayed with the dust of the road, its windows closed tight so you knew that the people who climbed out of it would be cool and unwrinkled.
They were an old fat couple (as Linda Kay described them to herself), a thick middle-aged man, and a girl about ten or twelve.
There was much embracing, much exclaiming.
``Cousin Ada!
Cousin John''!
``Cousin Lura''!
``Cousin Howard''!
``And how is she''?
All the women got up and offered their chairs, and when they were all seated again, the guests made their inquiries and their explanations.
``We were on our vacation in Canada'', Howard explained, in a muffled voice that must have been used to booming, ``and the news didn't catch up with us till we were nearly home.
We came on as soon as we could''.
There was the suggestion of ice water, and - in spite of the protest ``We're not really thirsty'' - Linda Kay, to escape the stuffy air and the smothering soft voices, hurried to the kitchen.
She filled a big pitcher and set it, with glasses, on a tray.
Carrying it to the living room, she imagined the picture she made : tall and roundly slim, a bit sophisticated in her yellow sheath, with a graceful swingy walk that she had learned as a twirler with the school band.
Almost immediately she was ashamed of herself for feeling vain, at such a time, in such a place, and she tossed back her long yellow hair, smiling shyly as she entered the room.
Howard (the thick middle-aged man) was looking at her.
She felt the look and looked back because she could not help it, seeing that he was neither as old nor as thick as she had at first believed.
``Oh that's Linda Kay'', Mama Albright said fondly.
``She married our baby boy, Bobby Joe, this summer''.
``Let's see'', Cousin Ada said.
``He's a right smart younger than the rest''?
``Oh yes'', Mama laughed.
``He's ten years younger than Ernest.
We didn't expect him to come along; thought for the longest he was a tumor''.
This joke was not funny to Linda Kay, and she blushed, as she always did; then, hearing the muffled boom of Howard's laughter, blushed redder.
``Who is Howard, anyway'' ? she asked Bobby Joe that night.
``Oh he's a second cousin or something.
He got in the oil business out at Odessa and lucked into some money''.
``How old is he''?
``Gosh, I don't know.
Thirty-five, I guess.
He's been married and got this half grown kid.
If he bothers you, don't pay him any mind.
He's just a big windbag''.
Bobby Joe was thinking about something else.
He was talking about antelope again when they woke up.
``Listen, I never had a chance to kill an antelope.
There never was a season before, but now they want to thin 'em out on account of the drouth''.
``Did he ever visit here when he was a kid''?
Linda Kay asked.
``Who''?
``Howard''.
``Hell, I don't know.
When he was a kid I wasn't around''.
Almost immediately Howard and his daughter Debora drove up in the Cadillac.
``We're going after ice'', Howard said, ``and thought maybe you'd go along and keep us company''.
There was really no reason to refuse, and Linda Kay had never ridden in a Cadillac.
Driving along the caliche-topped road to town, Howard talked.
Finally he said, ``Tell me about yourself'', and Linda Kay told him, because she thought herself that she had had an interesting life.
She was such a well-rounded teenager, having been a twirler, Future Farmers sweetheart, and secretary of Future Homemakers.
In her sophomore year she had started going steady with Bobby Joe, who was a football player, Future Homemakers sweetheart, and president of Future Farmers.
It was easy to see that they were made for each other, and they knew what they wanted.
Bobby Joe would be a senior this year, and he planned to graduate.
Howard sighed.
``You lucky kids'', he said.
``I'd give anything if I could have found a girl like you''.
Then he told Linda Kay about himself.
Of course he couldn't say much, really, because of Debora, but Linda Kay could imagine what kind of woman his wife had been and what a raw deal he had got.
It made her feel different about Howard.
She was going to tell Bobby Joe about how mistaken she had been, but he brought one of the cousins home for supper, and all they did was talk about antelope.
Bobby Joe was trying to get Linda Kay to say she would cook one if he brought it home.
``Cook a whole antelope'' ? she exclaimed.
``Oh, you could.
I want to roast the whole thing, and have it for the boys''.
Linda Kay told him he couldn't do anything like that with his Grandma dying, and he said well they had to eat, didn't they, they weren't all dying.
Linda Kay felt like going off to the bedroom to cry; but they were going up to the Big House after supper, and she had to put on a clean dress and fix her hair a little.
Every night they all went to Mama and Papa Albright 's, and sat on the open front porch, where they could get the breeze.
It was full-of-the-moon (or a little past), and nearly light as day.
They all sat around and drank ice water, and the men smoked, and everybody had a good time.
Once in a while they said what a shame it was, with Granny dying, but they all agreed she wouldn't have wanted it any other way.
That night the older men got to talking about going possum hunting on a moonlight night.
After they had left, some of the people moved around, to find more comfortable places to sit.
There were not many chairs, so that some preferred to sit on the edge of the porch, resting their feet on the ground, and others liked to sit where they could lean back against the wall.
Howard, who had been sitting against the wall, said he needed more fresh air, and took the spot on the edge of the porch where Bobby Joe had been sitting.
``You'll be a darn sight more comfortable there, Howard'', Ernest said, laughing, and they all laughed.
Linda Kay felt that she was not exactly more comfortable.
Bobby Joe had been sitting close to her, touching her actually, and holding her hand from time to time, but it seemed at once that Howard sat much closer.
Perhaps it was just that he had so much more flesh, so that more of it seemed to come in contact with hers; but she had never been so aware of anyone's flesh before.
Still she was not sorry he sat by her, but in fact was flattered.
He had become the center of the company, such stories he had to tell.
``But tell me, doctor, where do you plan to conduct the hatching''?
Alex asked.
``That will have to be in the hotel'', the doctor retorted, confirming Alex's anticipations.
``What I want you to do is to go to the market with me early tomorrow morning and help smuggle the hen back into the hotel''.
The doctor paid the bill and they repaired to the hotel, room number nine, to initiate Alex further into these undertakings.
The doctor opened the smallest of his cases, an unimposing straw bag, and exposed the contents for Alex's inspection.
Inside, carefully packed in straw, were six eggs, but the eye of a poultry psychologist was required to detect what scientifically valuable specimentalia lay inside; to Alex they were merely six not unusual hens' eggs.
There was little enough time to contemplate them, however; in an instant the doctor was stalking across the room with an antique ledger in his hands, thoroughly eared and big as a table top.
He placed it on Alex's lap.
``It's been going since 1908 when I was a junior in college.
That first entry there is the Vermont Flumenophobe, the earliest and one of the most successful of my eighty-three varieties - great big scapulars and hardly any primaries at all.
Couldn't take them near a river, though, or they'd squawk like a turkey cock the day before Thanksgiving''.
The ledger was full of most precise information:
date of laying, length of incubation period, number of chicks reaching the first week, second week, fifth week, weight of hen, size of rooster's wattles and so on, all scrawled out in a hand that looked more Chinese than English, the most jagged and sprawling Alex had ever seen.
Below these particulars was a series of alpha beta gammas connected by arrows and crosses which denoted the lineage of the breed.
Alex's instruction was rapid, for the doctor had to go off to the Rue Ecole de Medecine to hear more speeches with only time for one sip of wine to sustain him through them all.
But after the doctor's return that night Alex could see, from the high window in his own room, the now familiar figure crouched on a truly impressive heap of towels, apparently giving its egg hatching powers one final chance before it was replaced in its office by a sure-enough hen.
A knocking at Alex's door roused him at six o'clock the following morning.
The doctor stood about, waiting for Alex to dress, with a show of impatience, and soon they were moving, as quietly as could be, through the still dark hallways, past the bedroom of the patronne, and so into the street.
The market was not far and, once there, the doctor's sense of immediacy left him and he fell into a state of harmony with the birds around him.
He stroked the hens and they responded with delighted clucks, he gobbled with the turkeys and they at once were all attention, he quacked with the ducks, and cackled with a pair of exceedingly flattered geese.
The dawn progressed and it seemed that the doctor would never be done with his ministrations when quite abruptly something broke his revery.
It was a fine broody hen, white, with a maternal eye and a striking abundance of feathers in the under region of the abdomen.
The doctor, with the air of a man whose professional interests have found scope, drew Alex's attention to those excellences which might otherwise have escaped him : the fine color in comb and wattles, the length and quality of neck and saddle hackles, the firm, wide spread of the toes, and a rare justness in the formation of the ear lappets.
All search was ended; he had found his fowl.
The purchase was effected and they made their way towards the hotel again, the hen, with whom some sort of communication had been set up, nestling in the doctor's arms.
The clocks struck seven-thirty as they approached the hotel entrance; and hopes that the chambermaid and patronne would still be abed began to rise in Alex's well exercised breast.
Alex entered first and was followed by the doctor who, for all his care, manifested a perceptible bulge on his left side where the hen was cradled.
They advanced in a line across the entrance hall to the stairway and up, with gingerly steps, towards the first landing.
It was then that they heard the tread of one descending and, in some perturbation glancing up, saw the patronne coming towards them as they gained the landing.
``Bonjour, messieurs, vous etes matinals'', she greeted them pleasantly.
Alex explained that they had been out for a stroll before breakfast while the doctor edged around behind him, attempting to hide the protuberance at his left side behind Alex's arm and back.
``Vous voulez vos petits dejeuners tout de suite alors'' ? their hostess enquired.
Alex told her that there was no hurry for their breakfasts, trying at the same time to effect a speedy separation of the persons before and behind him.
The doctor, he noticed, was attempting a transverse movement towards the stairs, but before the movement could be completed a distinct and audible cluck ruffled the air in the hollow of the stair-well.
Eyes swerved in the patronne's head, Alex coughed loudly, and the doctor, with a sforzando of chicken noises floating behind him, took to the stairs in long shanked leaps.
With that he hurried up the stairs, followed by her suspicious gaze.
When Alex entered his room, the doctor was already preparing a nest in the straw case, six eggs ready for the hen's attentions.
There was no reference to the incident on the stairs, his powers being absorbed by this more immediate business.
The hen appeared to have no doubts as to her duties and was quick to settle down to the performance of them.
One part of her audience was totally engaged, the connoisseur witnessing a peculiarly fine performance of some ancient classic, the other part, the guest of the connoisseur, attentive as one who must take an intelligent interest in that which he does not fully understand.
The spectacle progressed towards a denouement which was obviously still remote; the audience attended.
Time elapsed but the doctor was obviously unconscious of its passage until an unwelcome knock on the door interrupted the processes of nature.
Startled, he jumped up to pull hen and case out of view, and Alex went to the door.
He opened it a crack and in doing so made as much shuffling, coughing, and scraping noise as possible in order to drown emanations from the hen who had begun to protest.
Giselle was reluctant but Alex succeeded in persuading her to come back in five minutes and the door was shut again.
``Who was that, young feller'' ? the doctor instantly asked.
``That was the fille de chambre, the one you thought couldn't get the eggs out.
She looked mighty interested, though.
Anyhow she's coming back in five minutes to do the room''.
The doctor's mind was working at a great speed; he rose to put his greatcoat on and addressed Alex in a muted voice.
``Have you got our keys handy''?
``Right in my pocket''.
``All right.
The hall was empty and Alex beckoned; they climbed the stairs which creaked, very loudly to their sensitive ears, and reached the next floor.
A guest was locking his room; they passed behind him and got to Alex's room unnoticed.
The doctor sat down rather wearily, caressing the hen and remarking that the city was not the place for a poultry loving man, but no sooner was the remark out than a knock at this door obliged him to cover the hen with his greatcoat once more.
At the door Alex managed to persuade the increasingly astonished fille de chambre to return in ten minutes.
It was evident that a second transfer had to be effected, and that it had to take place between the time the fille finished the doctor's room and the time she began Alex's.
They waited three minutes and then crept out on tip-toe; the halls were empty and they passed down the stairs to number nine and listened at the door.
A bustle of sheets being smoothed and pillows being arranged indicated the fille de chambre's presence inside; they listened and suddenly a step towards the door announced another important fact.
The doctor shot down to the lavatory and turned the doorknob, but to no effect : the lavatory was occupied.
Although a look of alarm passed over his face, he did not arrest his movements but disappeared into the shower room just as the chambermaid emerged from number nine.
The events of the last quarter of an hour, mysterious to any bird accustomed only to the predictable life of coop and barnyard, had overcome the doctor's hen and she gave out a series of cackly wails, perhaps mourning her nest, but briefly enjoyed.
The doctor's wits had not left him, however, for all his sixty-eight years, and the wails were almost immediately lost in the sound of water rushing out from the showerhead.
Alex nodded to the maid as though nothing unusual were taking place and entered the doctor's room.
Shortly, the doctor himself entered, his hair somewhat wet from the shower, but evidently satisfied with the outcome of their adventures.
Without comment he opened the closet and from its shelves constructed a highboard around the egg case which he had placed on the floor inside.
Next, the hen was nested and all seemed well.
The two men sat for some time, savoring the pleasure of escape from peril and the relief such escape brings, before they got up and left the hotel, the doctor to go to the conference house and Alex to go to the main post office.
Alex returned to the hotel, rather weary and with no new prospects of a role, in the late afternoon, but found the doctor in an ebullient mood.
At the time Alex arrived he was engaged in some sort of intimate communication with the hen, who had settled herself on the nest most peacefully after the occurrences of the morning.
``Well'', he began, ``It seems like some people in Paris want to hear more from me than those fellers over at the conference house do.
They've got a big vulture from Tanganika at the zoo here, with a wife for him, too, very rare birds, both of them, the only Vulturidae of their species outside Africa.
Seems like she's willing, but the male just flops around all day like the bashful boy who took Jeannie May behind the barn and then didn't know what to do, and the people at the zoo haven't got any vulture chicks to show for their trouble.
Going downstairs with the tray, Winston wished he could have given in to Miss Ada, but he knew better than to do what she said when she had that little girl look.
There were times it wasn't right to make a person happy, like the times she came in the kitchen and asked for a peanut butter sandwich.
``You know we don't keep peanut butter in this house'', he always told her.
``Why, Winston'', she'd cry, ``I just now saw you eating it out of the jar''!
But he knew how important it was for her to keep her figure.
In the kitchen, Leona, his little young wife, was reading the morning paper.
``Here'', Winston said gently, ``what's these dishes doing not washed''?
The enormous plates which had held Mr. Jack's four fried eggs and five strips of bacon were still stacked in the sink.
``Leave me alone'', Leona said.
``Can't you see I'm busy''?
She looked at him impudently over the corner of the paper.
``This is moving day'', Winston reminded her, ``and I bet you left things every which way upstairs, your clothes all over the floor and the bed not made.
Leona''!
His eye had fastened on her leg; bending, he touched her knee.
``If I catch you one more time down here without stockings'' -
``Fuss, fuss, old man''.
She had an alley cat's manners.
Winston stacked Miss Ada's thin pink dishes in the sink.
Then he spread out the last list on the counter.
``To Be Left Behind'' was printed at the top in Miss Ada; fine hand.
Winston took out a pencil, admired the point, and wrote slowly and heavily, ``Clothes Stand''.
Sighing, Leona dropped the paper and stood up.
``I guess I better get ready to go''.
Winston watched her fumbling to untie her apron.
Carefully, he undid the bow.
``How come your bows is always cockeyed''?
She turned and put her arms around his neck.
``I don't want to leave here, Winston''.
``Now listen to that''.
He drew back, embarrassed and pleased.
``I thought you was sick to death of this big house.
Said you wore yourself out, cleaning all these empty rooms''.
``At least there is room here'', she said.
``I told you what Miss Ada's doctor said''.
``I don't mean Miss Ada!
What you think I care about that?
I mean our children''.
She sounded as though they already existed.
In spite of the hundred things he had on his mind, Winston went and put his arm around her waist.
``We've got plenty of time to think about that.
All the time in the world.
We've only been married four years, January''.
``That's a long time, waiting''.
``How many times have I told you'' - he began, and was almost glad when she cut him off - ``Too many times''!
- and flounced to the sink, where she began noisily to wash her hands.
Too many times was the truth of it, Winston thought.
He hardly believed his reason himself any more.
Although it had seemed a good reason, to begin with : no couple could afford to have children.
``How you going to work with a child hanging on you''?
he asked Leona.
``You want to keep this job, don't you''?
He sat for a while with his hands on his knees, watching the bend of her back as she gathered up her things - a comb, a bottle of aspirin - to take upstairs and pack.
She made him sad some days, and he was never sure why; it was something to do with her back, the thinness of it, and the quick, jerky way she bent.
She was too young, that was all; too young and thin and straight.
``Winston''!
It was Mr. Jack, bellowing out in the hall.
Winston hurried through the swinging door.
``I've been bursting my lungs for you'', Mr. Jack complained.
He was standing in front of the mirror, tightening his tie.
He had on his gray tweed overcoat and his city hat, and his brief case lay on the bench.
``This coat looks like a rag heap''.
There were a few blades of lint on the shoulder.
Winston took the clothesbrush out of the closet and went to work.
He gave Mr. Jack a real going over; he brushed his shoulders and his back and his collar with long, firm strokes.
``Hey''!
Mr. Jack cried when the brush tipped his hat down over his eyes.
Winston apologized and quickly set the hat right.
Then he stood back to look at Mr. Jack, who was pulling on his pigskin gloves.
Winston enjoyed seeing him start out; he wore his clothes with style.
At home, he wouldn't even wash his hands for supper, and he wandered around the yard in a pair of sweaty old corduroys.
The velvet smoking jackets, pearl gray, wine, and blue, which Miss Ada had bought him hung brushed and unworn in the closet.
``Good-by, Winston'', Mr. Jack said, giving a final set to his hat.
``Look out for those movers''!
Winston watched him hurry down the drive to his car; a handsome, fine-looking man it made him proud to see.
After Mr. Jack drove away, Winston went on looking out the window.
He noticed a speck of dirt on the sill and swiped at it with his finger.
Then he looked at his finger, at the wrinkled, heavy knuckle and the thick nail he used like a knife to pry up, slit, and open.
For the first time, he let himself be sad about the move.
Each brass handle and hinge shone for his reward, and he knew how to get at the dust in the china flowers and how to take down the long glass drops which hung from the chandelier.
He knew the house like a blind man, through his fingers, and he did not like to think of all the time and rags and polishes he had spent on keeping it up.
Ten years ago, he had come to the house to be interviewed.
The tulips and the big pink peonies had been blooming along the drive, and he had walked up from the bus almost singing.
Miss Ada had been out back, in a straw hat, planting flowers.
She had talked to him right there, with the hot sun in his face, which made him sweat and feel ashamed.
Winston had been surprised at her for that.
Still, he had liked the way she had looked, in a fresh, neat cotton dress - citron yellow, if he remembered.
She had had a dignity about her, even barefoot and almost too tan.
Already the jonquils were blooming in a flock by the front gate, and the periwinkles were coming on, blue by the porch steps.
In a week the hyacinths would spike out.
And the dogwood in early May, for Miss Ada's alfresco party; and after that the Japanese cherries.
Now the yard looked wet and bald, the trees bare under their buds, but in a while Miss Ada's flowers would bloom like a marching parade.
She had dug a hole for each bulb, each tree wore a tag with her writing on it; where would she go for her gardening now?
Somehow Winston didn't think she'd take to window boxes.
Sighing, he hurried to the living room.
He had a thousand things to see to.
Still, he couldn't help thinking, we're all getting old, getting small; the snail is pulling in her horns.
She was looking out at the garden.
``Winston'', she said, ``get the basket for the breakables''.
Winston had the big straw basket ready in the hall.
He brought it in and put it down beside her.
Miss Ada was looking fine; she had on her Easter suit, blue, with lavender binding.
Halfway across the house, he could have smelled her morning perfume.
It hung in all her day clothes, sweet and strong; sometimes when he was pressing, Winston raised her dresses to his face.
Frowning, Miss Ada studied the list.
``Well, let's see.
The alabaster cockatoo''.
Winston followed her around the room, collecting the small frail objects (Christmas, birthday, and anniversary) and wrapping them in tissue paper.
Neither of them trusted the movers.
When they came to Mr. Jack's photograph, twenty by twelve inches in a curly silver frame, Miss Ada said, ``By rights I ought to leave that, seeing he wonn't take my clotheshorse''.
She smiled at Winston, and he saw the hateful hard glitter in her eyes.
He picked up the photograph and began to wrap it.
``At least you could leave it for the movers'', Miss Ada said.
``What possessed you to tell me a clotheshorse would be a good idea''?
Winston folded the tissue paper carefully.
``Well, that's over now.
And it was his main present!
Leave that fool picture out'', she added sharply.
Winston laid it in the basket.
``Mr. Jack sets store by that''.
``Really, Winston.
It was meant to be my present''.
But she went on down the list.
Winston was relieved; those presents had been on his mind.
``You know what she likes, Winston'', he had said wearily, one evening in November when Winston was pulling off his overshoes.
``Tell me what to get her for Christmas''.
``She's been talking about a picture'', Winston had told him.
``Picture!
You mean picture of me''?
But Winston had persuaded him.
On Christmas night, they had had a disagreement about it.
Winston had heard because he was setting up the liquor tray in the next room.
Through the door, he had seen Mr. Jack walking around, waiting for Miss Ada.
``How do you like it'' ? she had asked.
Mr. Jack had said, ``You look about fifteen years old''.
``Is that a compliment''?
``I don't know''.
He had stood at a little distance, studying her, as though he would walk around next and look at the back of her head.
``Lovie, you make me feel naked''.
Miss Ada had giggled, and she went sweeping and rustling to the couch and sank down.
``You look like that picture I have at the office'', Mr. Jack had started.
``Not a line, not a wrinkle.
``Look, an old man.
Will you wear pink when you're sixty''?
``Darling, I love that photograph.
I'm going to put it on my dresser''.
``I guess it's children make a woman old.
A man gets old anyhow''.
After a minute he went on, ``People must think the curse is on me, seeing you fresh as an apple and me old and gray''.
``I'll give you a medical certificate, framed, if you like'', Miss Ada had said.
``No.
Make the man put them in if he has to''.
After that they had sat for five minutes without saying a word.
Then Miss Ada had stood up, rustling and rustling, and gone upstairs.
Was it love?
I had no doubt that it was.
During the rest of the summer my scholarly mania for making plaster casts and spatter prints of Catskill flowers and leaves was all but surpassed by the constantly renewed impressions of Jessica that my mind served up to me for contemplation and delight.
Nothing in all the preceding years had had the power to bring me closer to a knowledge of profound sorrow than the breakup of camp, the packing away of my camp uniforms, the severing of ties with the six or ten people I had grown most to love in the world.
In final separation from them, in the railroad terminal across the river from New York, I would nearly cry.
My parents' welcoming arms would seem woeful, inadequate, unwanted.
These letters became the center of my existence.
I lived to see an envelope of hers in the morning mail and to lock myself in my room in the afternoon to reread her letter for the tenth time and finally prepare an answer.
My memory has catalogued for easy reference and withdrawal the image of her pink, scented stationery and the unsloped, almost printed configurations of her neat, studious handwriting with which she invited me to recall our summer, so many sentences beginning with ``Remember when''; and others concerning camp friends who resided in her suburban neighborhood, and news of her commencing again her piano lessons, her private school, a visit to Boston to see her grandparents and an uncle who was a surgeon returned on furlough, wounded, from the war in Europe.
In my letters I took on a personality that differed from the self I knew in real life.
Then epistolatory me was a foreign correspondent dispatching exciting cables and communiques, full of dash and wit and glamor, quoting from the books I read, imitating the grand styles of the authors recommended by a teacher in whose special, after school class I was enrolled.
The letters took their source from a stream of my imagination in which I was transformed into a young man not unlike my bunkmate Eliot Sands - he of the porch steps anecdotes - who smoked cigarettes, performed the tango, wore fifty dollar suits, and sneaked off into the dark with girls to do unimaginable things with them.
Like Eliot, in my fantasies, I had a proud bearing and, with a skill that was vaguely continental, I would lead Jessica through an evening of dancing and handsome descriptions of my newest exploits, would guide her gently to the night's climax which, in my dreams, was always represented by our almost suffocating one another to death with deep, moist kisses burning with love.
The night after reading her letter about her surgeon uncle - it must have been late in September - I had a vision of myself returned in ragged uniform from The Front, nearly dying, my head bandaged and bloody, and Jessica bending over me, the power of her love bringing me back to life.
For many nights afterward, the idea of her having been so close to me in that imagined bed would return and fill me with obscure and painful desires, would cause me to lie awake in shame, tossing with irresolution, longing to fall into a deep sleep.
They caused my love for Jessica to become warmer and at the same time more hopeless, as if my adolescent self knew that only torment would ever bring me the courage to ask to see her again.
As it turned out, Jessica took matters into her own hands.
Having received permission to give a camp reunion Halloween party, she asked that I come and be her date.
I went and, mum and nervous, all but made a fool of myself.
Again among those jubilantly reunited bunkmates, I was shy with Jessie and acted as I had during those early Saturday mornings when we all seemed to be playing for effect, to be detached and unconcerned with the girls who were properly our dates but about whom, later, in the privacy of our bunks, we would think in terms of the most elaborate romance.
I remember standing in a corner, watching Jessica act the hostess, serving soft drinks to her guests.
She was wearing her dark hair in two, thick braids to attain an ``American Girl'' effect she thought was appropriate to Halloween.
It made her look sweet and schoolgirlish, I was excited to be with her, but I did not know how to express it.
Yet a moment did come that night when the adventurous letter writer and fantasist seemed to stride off my flashy pages, out of my mind, and plant himself in reality.
We blushed and were flustered, and it turned out to be the fleetest brush of lips upon cheek.
The kiss outraged our friends but it was done and meanwhile had released in me all the remote, exciting premonitions of lust, all the mysterious sensations that I had imagined a truly consummated kiss would convey to me.
It was at that party that, finally overcoming my timidity, inspired by tales only half understood and overheard among older boys, I asked Jessie to spend New Year's Eve with me.
Lovingly, she accepted, and so great was my emotion that all I could think of saying was, ``You're amazing, you know''?
Later, we agreed to think of how we wished to spend that night.
We would write to one another and make a definite plan.
She was terribly pleased.
Among my school and neighborhood friends, during the next months, I bragged and swaggered and pompously described my impending date.
But though I boasted and gave off a dapper front, I was beneath it all frightened.
I had no idea of what subjects one discussed when alone with a girl, or how one behaved:
Should I hold her hand while walking or only when crossing the street?
Should I bring along a corsage or send one to her?
Was it preferable to meet her at home or in the city?
Should I accompany her to the door of her home, or should I ask to be invited in?
In or out, should I kiss her good-night?
All this was unknown to me, and yet I had dared to ask her out for the most important night of the year!
When in one letter Jessica informed me that her father did not like the idea of her going out alone on New Year's Eve, I knew for a moment an immense relief; but the letter went on : she had cried, she had implored, she had been miserable at his refusal, and finally he had relented - and now how happy she was, how expectant!
Her optimism gave me heart.
I made inquiries, I read a book of etiquette.
In December I wrote her with authority that we would meet on the steps of the Hotel Astor, a rendezvous spot that I had learned was the most sophisticated.
We would attend a film and, later on, I stated, we might go to the Mayflower Coffee Shop or Child's or Toffenetti's for waffles.
I set the hour of our meeting for seven.
At five o'clock that night it was already dark, and behind my closed door I was dressing as carefully as a groom.
I wore a new double-breasted brown worsted suit with a faint herringbone design and wide lapels like a devil's ears.
My camp made leather wallet, bulky with twisted, raised stitches around the edges, I stuffed with money I had been saving.
Hatless, in an overcoat of rough blue wool, I was given a proud farewell by my mother and father, and I set out into the strangely still streets of Brooklyn.
I felt superior to the neighborhood friends I was leaving behind, felt older than my years, and was full of compliments for myself as I headed into the subway that was carrying its packs of passengers out of that dull borough and into the unstable, tantalizing excitement of Manhattan.
Heavy coated, severe looking policemen sat astride noble horses along the curbside to prevent the revellers from spilling out in front of the crawling traffic.
The night was cold but the crowd kept one warm.
The giant electric signs and marquees were lit up for the first time since blackout regulations had been instituted, and the atmosphere was alive with the feeling that victory was just around the corner.
Cardboard noisemakers, substitutes for the unavailable tin models, were being hawked and bought at makeshift stands every few yards along Broadway, and one's ears were continually serenaded by the horns' rasps and bleats.
An old gentlemen next to me held a Boy Scout bugle to his lips and blasted away at every fourth step and during the interim shouted out, ``V for Victory''!
His neighbors cheered him on.
There was a great sense of camaraderie.
How did one join them?
Where were they all walking to?
It was a quarter of seven when the crowd washed me up among the other gallants who had established the Astor steps as the beach-head from which to launch their night of merrymaking.
I looked over their faces and felt a twinge : they all looked so much more knowing than I.
I looked away.
I looked for Jessica to materialize out of the clogging, curdling crowd and, as the time passed and I waited, a fiend came to life beside me and whispered in my ear : How was I planning to greet Jessica?
Where exactly would we go after the movie?
Suppose the lines in front of the movie houses were too long and we couldn't get in?
Suppose I hadn't brought along enough money?
I felt for my wallet.
Its thick, substantial outline calmed me.
Suppose her father had changed his mind and had refused to let her leave?
Suppose at this very moment her father was calling my house in an effort to cancel the plans?
I grew uneasy.
All about me there was a hectic interplay of meetings taking place, like abrupt, jerky scenes in old silent movies, joyous greetings and beginnings, huggings and kissings, enthusiastic forays into the festive night.
Whole platoons were taking up new positions on the steps, arriving and departing, while I stayed glued, like a signpost, to one spot.
At 7 : 25 two hotel doormen came thumping down the steps, carrying a saw-horse to be set up as a barricade in front of the haberdashery store window next to the entranceway, and as I watched them in their gaudy red coats that nearly scraped the ground, their golden, fringed epaulets and spic, red visored caps, I suddenly saw just over their shoulders Jessica gracefully making her way through the crowd.
My heart almost stopped beating.
``Right'', said the fingerprint man.
``Also, if you're going to believe those prints, you'll have to look for a killer who's a top-grade piano player''.
To make it clearer he shifted to acting out, but with no change of manner, the killing of Rose Mallory.
His hands snatched at an imaginary bucket, swooping down hard to grab it and coming away with equal snap like a ball that's been bounced hard.
In the same way he pantomimed grasping a mantel and bouncing cleanly off that, pressing his hands against the floor and bouncing cleanly off that.
He was moving like a ballet dancer, playing for laughs.
If Rose Mallory's killer acted this way, catching up with him was going to be a cinch.
We'd know him by his stretch pants and the flowers he'd wear twined in his hair.
Perhaps if Felix had first come upon us when this boy was not cavorting so gaily up and down the hall outside the murdered woman's apartment, we might have had less trouble convincing Felix of our seriousness.
This, you will remember, was still New Year's Day.
By the time Felix turned up it was early afternoon, which, one would think, would be late enough so that by then, except for small children and a few hardy souls who had not yet sobered up, it could have been expected that people would no longer be having any sort of active interest in the previous night's noisemakers and paper hats.
He had retained his hat and his horn, and, whatever fun might still be going, he was ready to join it.
That, incidentally, might give you some idea of what Felix was like.
After all, he hadn't happened upon us in that second floor hall without warning.
The ME's boys had finished their on-the-spot examination and the body had been removed for autopsy.
The meat wagon, therefore, was not out in front of the house any more, but the cluster of squad cars was still there and there was a cop on the door downstairs to screen any comings and goings.
There was, furthermore, the crowd of curious onlookers gathered in the street and a couple more cops to hold them at a decent distance.
Just put yourself in Felix's place for a moment.
You're a taxpayer, householder, landlord.
You've been away from home for the New Year festivities, but now the party is over and you come home.
You still have your paper hat and you're wearing it, but then, it is an extraordinary paper hat and, in addition to anything else you may be, you are also the sculptor who created that most peculiar dame out in the back yard.
It's not too much to assume that you will have a more lasting interest in paper hats than will Mr. Average Citizen.
You have your paper horn clutched in your big, craggy fist, and for your entrance you have planned a noisy, colorful and exuberant greeting to your friends and tenants.
You find your house a focus of public and police attention.
Can you imagine yourself forgetting under the circumstances that you are approaching this startling and unexpected situation so unsuitably hatted and armed with a paper horn?
Maybe one could be startled into forgetfulness.
You shoulder your way through the cluster of the curious and you barge up to the cop on the door.
You identify yourself and ask him what's going on.
Instead of answering you, he sticks his head in the door and shouts up the stairs.
``The owner.
Do I send him up''?
Then he turns back to you.
``Go on in'', he says.
``They'll tell you what's cooking''.
Even then, as you go into the house oppressed by the knowledge that something is cooking and that your house has passed under this unaccountable, official control, could you go on forgetting that you still had that ridiculous hat on your head and you were still carrying that childish horn in your hand?
What I'm getting at is that we were fully prepared for Felix's being an odd one.
We'd seen his handiwork out in the back yard, and the little his tenants had told us of him did make him sound a little special.
We were not, however, prepared for anything like the apparition that confronted us as Felix came up the stairs.
If Felix was still wearing the hat and carrying the horn because he'd forgotten about them, he now remembered.
He came bounding up the stairs and joined the dance.
He adjusted the hat, lifted the horn to his lips as though it were a flute, and fell in alongside our fingerprint expert to cavort with him.
Our man stopped dead and glowered at Felix.
Felix threw his head back and laughed a laugh that shook the timbers of even that solidly built old house.
This was a bull of a man.
He was big chested, big-shouldered and heavy-armed.
His face was ruddy and heavy and unlined, and when he laughed he showed his teeth, which were big and white and strong and unquestionably home-grown.
I don't remember ever seeing teeth that were quite so white and at the same time quite so emphatically not dentures.
He had only a fringe of hair and he wore it cropped short.
It was almost as white as his teeth.
For a man of his mass he was curiously short.
He wasn't a dwarf but he was a bit of a comic figure.
A man with so big and so staggeringly developed a torso and such long and powerful arms is expected to stand taller than five feet five.
For Felix it was a bit of a stretch to make even that measurement.
The man was just this side of being a freak.
We waited till he had finished laughing, and that gave us a few moments for taking stock of him.
He was dressed in a manner Esquire might suggest for the outdoor man's country weekend.
His eyes were clear.
He was freshly shaved, and if there had been any alcohol in him we could never have missed detecting some scent of it on the massive gusts of his laughter.
Not even a whiff.
Eventually he subsided.
``Felix''?
Gibby said.
``Me'', he said merrily.
``Me, the happy one''.
``That much Latin we remember'', Gibby said dryly.
``I try'', Felix said blithely.
``The world is full of blokes who put their hearts into making the tragic scene.
I've never noticed that it improves things any''.
``Bully for you'', Gibby said.
``What's the rest of your name''?
``No rest of it.
Felix is all there is''.
``All there ever was''?
``The past I leave to historians'', Felix intoned, demonstrating that he could be pompous as well as happy.
``In the present'', Felix proclaimed.
``For the future.
Is there any other time in which a man can live''?
``We'', Gibby announced, ``are not philosophers.
We are Assistant District Attorneys.
This gentleman is a police officer.
He is a fingerprint specialist.
Could your future, your immediate future, be made to include taking us upstairs, giving us a bit of space in which our friend can work, and making available to him your finger tips''?
The happy one could never have looked happier.
It was ecstasy.
``Those lovely whorls'', he chortled.
``So intricate, so beautiful.
Come right along.
I love fingerprints''.
He was prancing along the hall, heading for the next flight of stairs.
Gibby called him back.
``We're here because of what happened last night'', he said.
``Past, yes, but important.
``That important''?
Felix asked.
``That important''.
``Grubb'', Felix whispered.
``Felix Grubb''?
Gibby asked, not bothering to whisper.
``Shh'', Felix implored.
``I cann't see what would make it necessary for you to know.
Nothing could make it necessary to proclaim it to the whole world''.
``Felix Grubb''?
he repeated.
``No.
Edmund, but not for years.
For years it's been just Felix.
First thing I did after my twenty-first birthday was go into court and have it officially changed, and this is something I don't tell everybody.
That was almost forty years ago''.
Having volunteered that he was a man of about sixty, he bounded up the stairs and with each leap rendered the number less credible.
This was a broth of a boy, our Felix, and nothing was more obvious than the joy he took in demonstrating how agile he was and how full of juice and spirit.
The cops would gather up Connor and the foursome on the third floor and bring us those of them who would voluntarily submit to fingerprinting.
You may think we didn't need Nancy and Jean, but you always get what you can when you can, and we had no guarantee that a fingerprint record on them couldn't be useful before we were through with this case.
Also, if we had excluded the ladies we would have to that extent let the whole world know at least that much of where we stood.
The killer, if in our present group, would certainly be interested in knowing that much, and even though with the fingerprint evidence what it was I could see no way he could use this bit of information to improve on his situation, there might always be some way.
If you can possibly avoid it, you don't hand out any extra chances.
Felix took us into his studio.
It was that oddly shaped space at the very top of the house, where ceiling heights had to accommodate themselves to the varying angles of roof slope.
At each angle of its pitch a big skylight had been fitted into the roof and all these skylights were fitted with systems of multiple screens and shades.
When Felix first opened the door on it, all these shades were tightly drawn and the whole studio was as dark as night.
He flew about the place making these adjustments and it was obvious that what he was doing was the fruit of long experience.
None of his movements was tentative.
There was no process of trial and error.
Starting with the room completely blacked out, as it was when we came in, he unerringly fixed things so that the whole place was bathed in the maximum of light without at any point admitting even so much as a crack of glare.
Expecting something more-than average wacky, I was surprised by what we found.
There was no display of either works in progress or of finished work.
Here and there on work table or pedestal stood a shape with a sheet or a tarpaulin draped over it.
These shapes might have been mad, but there was no telling.
They were all completely shrouded.
Everything was orderly and it seemed to be arranged for the workman's comfort, convenience and efficiency.
There were tools about but they were neatly kept.
There was no confusion and no litter.
Supplies of sheet metal were neatly stacked in bins.
Andy did not see the newspapers the next day.
Someone on his staff - he suspected it was Ed Thornburg - intercepted them and for this Andy was grateful.
He finally fell asleep around six in the morning with the aid of a sleeping capsule, a crutch he rarely used, and didn't awaken until early afternoon.
Memory flooded him the instant he opened his eyes and the sick feeling knotted his stomach.
Outside his window bloomed a beautiful summer day.
But where?
It was still a very big world, despite all the modern cant to the contrary.
Hub was sitting in a chair that blocked the hall door.
He was dozing, perhaps the only sleep he'd gotten.
He snapped to alertness at Andy's entrance.
``Sorry, Mr. Paxton.
Nothing new.
Lot of people waiting to see you, though''.
``Reporters''?
Questions about the show tonight''.
Hub picked up the telephone.
``Shall I let them know you're awake''?
``I suppose.
How's Lissa, do you know''?
Hub considered.
``Some better.
She's got plenty of guts, Mr. Paxton.
You want me to call her''?
Hub shook his head so Andy told him not to bother.
The only reason for contacting Lissa was to comfort or to be comforted.
He could not manage the former or expect the latter; they had nothing to give to each other.
The omission might look peculiar to outsiders, but Andy could not bring himself to go through the motions simply for the sake of appearances.
He had little time to himself, anyway.
As the afternoon sped toward evening, the suite saw a steady procession of Paxton aides pass in and out, each with his own special problem.
Thornburg arrived with the writers.
They had spent the morning revising the act, eliminating all the gay songs, patter and dancing with a view of the best public relations.
What remained lacked the original verve but it was at least dignified, as befitting the tragic circumstances.
Charlie Marble was back and forth on several occasions, first to confer with Andy on the advisability of cancelling the Las Vegas engagement - they decided it was wise - and later to announce that a prominent comedian, also an agency client, had agreed to fill the casino's open date.
And once Bake slipped in, pale and drawn, last night's liquor still on his breath with some of today's added to it.
He asked if there was anything he could do.
Andy invented a job to keep him busy, sending him ahead to El Dorado to supervise last minute arrangements.
But from Rocco Vecchio, they heard nothing.
At last it was time to depart.
Hub, nosing about, spotted reporters in the lobby, so Andy was hustled away quietly through the hotel's service entrance in a strange car which Hub had procured somewhere.
They succeeded in eluding the curious at the hotel, but there was no chance of avoiding them at the nightclub.
El Dorado was surrounded by a mob.
Long before he reached the protection of the stage door, Andy was recognized.
Word of his arrival spread through the crowd like a brush-fire.
They surged around him, fingers pointing, eyes prying.
It was not a hostile gathering but Andy sensed the difference from last night's hero-worshippers.
They had come not to admire but to observe.
``It's worse inside'', Thornburg informed Andy.
``Skolman's jammed in every table he could find.
Under the heading of it's an ill wind, et cetera''.
Backstage was tomb like by contrast.
But in his dressing room was a large bouquet and a card that read, ``We're with you all the way''.
It was signed by everyone in the troupe.
Andy couldn't help but be touched.
He instructed Shirl Winter to compose a note of thanks to be posted on the call board.
Bake was waiting to report that Lou DuVol had been sobered up to the point where he could function efficiently.
Andy gathered that this had been no small accomplishment.
Bake himself looked better; any kind of job was better than brooding.
Andy told him, ``Bake, I wish you'd talk to Skolman, see if some kind of p. a. system can be rigged up outside.
It's just barely possible with this crowd that the kidnapper wasn't able to get a table.
``I'll try.
Skolman isn't going to like it much, though, giving away what he should be selling''.
Skolman wasn't the only one who didn't care for Andy's scheme.
A short time later, Lieutenant Bonner stomped into the dressing room.
``I got a bone to pick with you, Mr. Paxton.
It's those damn loudspeakers''.
Andy rolled up the revised script he had been studying.
``What about them''?
``They're going to louse me up good.
Bonner explained that, with the nightclub's cooperation, the police had occupied El Dorado like a battlefield.
Motion picture cameras had been installed to film the audience, the reservation list was being checked out name by name, and a special detail was already at work in the parking lot scrutinizing automobiles for a possible lead.
However, it was virtually impossible to screen the mob outside, even if Bonner had manpower available for the purpose.
``I want you to have the speakers taken out''.
Andy sighed.
``Seems like we're never going to see eye to eye, Lieutenant.
Didn't they tell you what I wanted the p. a. system for''?
``Sure, I know.
But it's such a long shot'' -
What do you expect to get tonight, anyway?
You think somebody is going to stand up in the audience and make guilty faces?
Or have a sign on his car that says,' Here Comes the Paxton Kidnapper'''?
Andy crumbled the script in his fist.
``I cann't stop you from doing what you think is right.
But don't try to stop me, either''.
``Someday'', Bonner said, ``you're going to ask us for help.
I can hardly wait''.
``What you don't understand is that I'm asking for it now''.
He had gotten stuck with a job too big for his imagination; he had to cling to routine, tested procedures.
To act otherwise would be to admit his helplessness.
But, admit or not, Bonner was helpless.
The crime showed too much planning, the kidnappers appeared too proficient to be caught by a checklist.
Andy's performance was scheduled for eleven o'clock.
He stalled for a half-hour longer, hoping to hear something from Vecchio about the ransom money.
Bake and Shirl Winter, on separate telephones, could not reach him at any conceivable location in Los Angeles, nor could they secure any clear-cut information regarding his efforts.
Bake cursed.
``The sweaty bastard's probably halfway to Peru with our money by now''.
Thornburg popped in to advise, ``Andy, Skolman's sending up smoke signals.
You about ready''?
``What's he complaining about''?
Bake asked.
``They're drinking, aren't they''?
``No.
We got a bunch of sippers out there tonight.
I guess nobody wants to pass out and miss anything''.
Thornburg added in a lower voice but Andy overheard, ``They act more like a jury than an audience''.
Hub, you stick by the stage door.
If Rock shows up during the number - or you hear anything - give me the signal''.
Shirl Winter said, ``I'll stay on the phone, Mr. Paxton.
There's a couple of call-backs I can work on''.
``You're a sweetheart - but leave one line open.
He may try to phone us''.
Andy passed into the corridor, their ``good lucks''! following him.
It was what they said before every performance but tonight it sounded different, as if he really needed it.
They were right.
The result had nothing of the polish, pace or cohesion of the previous night.
Here's where luck would normally step in.
But this was no ordinary show and Andy knew it.
Whether he sang well or badly had nothing to do with it.
The audience had come not to be entertained but to judge.
Twenty-four hours had changed him from a performer to a freak.
Within this framework, what followed was strained, even macabre.
Eliminating the patter and the upbeat numbers left little but blues and other songs of equal melancholy.
The effect was as depressing as a gravestone, the applause irresolute and short-lived.
Their clapping grew more fervent; the evening was still not beyond salvaging, not as a show but for him as a person.
The worst was yet to come.
As Andy reached the finale of his act, a subdued commotion backstage drew his attention to the wings.
Rocco Vecchio - a perspiring, haggard Vecchio - was standing there, flanked by two men in the uniforms of armored transport guards.
Vecchio was nodding and pointing at the large suitcase he held.
Andy felt his heart thud heavily with relief.
He waved at Fox to cut off the finale introduction.
The music died away discordantly.
He drew a deep breath.
Ray, if you please - the' Cradle Song'''.
He sensed rather than heard the gasp that swept across the audience.
Nor could he blame them.
This particular song at this particular time could only be interpreted as the ultimate in bad taste, callous exploitation beyond the bounds of decency.
Having no choice, he plunged into it, anyway, holding onto the microphone for support.
``Lullaby and goodnight''.
voice shook.
For the first time in his life he forgot the lyrics midway through and had to cover up by humming the rest.
He wondered if the audience would let him finish.
But when he was finally through, their scorn was made apparent.
Someone clapped tentatively then quickly stopped.
Otherwise, the silence was complete.
As the lights came up, Andy could see that a number of patrons were already on their way toward the exit.
He stumbled off-stage.
``My God'', he muttered.
``My God''.
Hub was there to support him.
``It's okay, Mr. Paxton.
At this moment, all he could think of was what he'd been forced to undergo.
``Did you hear them?
Do you know what they think of me''?
``Bunch of damn jerks'', Hub growled.
``Who needs them''?
Thornburg patted his arm.
``Sure, Andy, it'll be all right.
Nothing broken that cann't be mended''.
The words were hollow.
All the king's horses and all the king's men.
Vecchio shouldered in.
``I got it, Andy.
God knows how, but I got it.
You'll never believe the places I've been today.
I practically had to sign your life away, you'll probably fire me for some of the deals I had to go for, but'' -
Andy nodded dully.
``It doesn't matter, Rock.
We've done our part''.
The usual congratulatory crowd was conspicuously absent; the place had the air of a morgue.
Andy had no desire to linger himself but Hub reported that the mob outside was still large despite the efforts of the police to disperse them.
Now that he knew himself to be self he was free to grok ever closer to his brothers, merge without let.
Self's integrity was and is and ever had been.
Mike stopped to cherish all his brother selves, the many threes-fulfilled on Mars, corporate and discorporate, the precious few on Earth - the unknown powers of three on Earth that would be his to merge with and cherish now that at last long waiting he grokked and cherished himself.
Mike remained in trance; there was much to grok, loose ends to puzzle over and fit into his growing - all that he had seen and heard and been at the Archangel Foster Tabernacle (not just cusp when he and Digby had come face to face alone) - why Bishop Senator Boone made him warily uneasy, how Miss Dawn Ardent tasted like a water brother when she was not, the smell of goodness he had incompletely grokked in the jumping up and down and wailing -
Jubal's conversations coming and going - Jubal's words troubled him most; he studied them, compared them with what he had been taught as a nestling, struggling to bridge between languages, the one he thought with and the one he was learning to think in.
The word ``church'' which turned up over and over again among Jubal's words gave him knotty difficulty; there was no Martian concept to match it - unless one took ``church'' and ``worship'' and ``God'' and ``congregation'' and many other words and equated them to the totality of the only world he had known during growing waiting & & & then forced the concept back into English in that phrase which had been rejected (by each differently) by Jubal, by Mahmoud, by Digby.
``Thou art God''.
In his mind he spoke simultaneously the English sentence and the Martian word and felt closer grokking.
Repeating it like a student telling himself that the jewel is in the lotus he sank into nirvana.
Before midnight he speeded his heart, resumed normal breathing, ran down his check list, uncurled and sat up.
He had been weary; now he felt light and gay and clear-headed, ready for the many actions he saw spreading out before him.
He felt a puppyish need for company as strong as his earlier necessity for quiet.
He stepped out into the hall, was delighted to encounter a water brother.
``Hi''!
``Oh.
Hello, Mike.
``I feel fine!
Where is everybody''?
``Asleep.
Ben and Stinky went home an hour ago and people started going to bed''.
``Oh''.
Mike felt disappointed that Mahmoud had left; he wanted to explain his new grokking.
``I ought to be asleep, too, but I felt like a snack.
Are you hungry''?
``Sure, I'm hungry''!
They went downstairs, loaded a tray lavishly.
``Let's take it outside.
It's plenty warm''.
``A fine idea'', Mike agreed.
``Warm enough to swim - real Indian summer.
I'll switch on the floods''.
``Don't bother'', Mike answered.
``I'll carry the tray''.
He could see in almost total darkness.
As for the night being warm, he would have been comfortable naked on Mount Everest but his water brothers had little tolerance for changes in temperature and pressure; he was considerate of their weakness, once he learned of it.
But he was looking forward to snow - seeing for himself that each tiny crystal of the water of life was a unique individual, as he had read - walking barefoot, rolling in it.
In the meantime he was pleased with the warm night and the still more pleasing company of his water brother.
``Okay, take the tray.
I'll switch on the underwater lights.
That'll be plenty to eat by''.
``Fine''.
Mike liked having light up through the ripples; it was a goodness, beauty.
They picnicked by the pool, then lay back on the grass and looked at stars.
It is Mars, isn't it?
Or Antares''?
``It is Mars''.
``Mike?
What are they doing on Mars''?
He hesitated; the question was too wide for the sparse English language.
``On the side toward the horizon - the southern hemisphere - it is spring; plants are being taught to grow''.
``' Taught to grow'''?
He hesitated.
I have helped him.
But my people - Martians, I mean; I now grok you are my people - teach plants another way.
In the other hemisphere it is growing colder and nymphs, those who stayed alive through the summer, are being brought into nests for quickening and more growing''.
He thought.
``Of the humans we left at the equator, one has discorporated and the others are sad''.
Yes, I heard it in the news ``.
Mike had not heard it; he had not known it until asked.
``They should not be sad.
Mr. Booker T. W. Jones Food Technician First Class is not sad; the Old Ones have cherished him''.
``Yes.
He had his own face, dark and beautiful.
But he was homesick''.
``Oh, dear!
Mike & & & do you ever get homesick?
For Mars''?
``At first I was homesick'', he answered.
``I was lonely always''.
He rolled toward her and took her in his arms.
I grok I shall never be lonely again''.
``Mike darling'' - They kissed, and went on kissing.
Presently his water brother said breathlessly.
``Oh, my!
That was almost worse than the first time''.
``You are all right, my brother''?
``Yes.
Yes indeed.
Kiss me again''.
Is that - I mean,' Do you know''' -
``I know.
It is for growing closer.
Now we grow closer''.
``Well & & & I've been ready a long time - goodness, we all have, but & & & never mind, dear; turn just a little.
I'll help''.
As they merged, grokking together, Mike said softly and triumphantly : ``Thou art God''.
Her answer was not in words.
Then, as their grokking made them ever closer and Mike felt himself almost ready to discorporate her voice called him back : ``Oh!
Thou art God''!
``We grok God''.
On Mars humans were building pressure domes for the male and female party that would arrive by next ship.
This went faster than scheduled as the Martians were helpful.
Part of the time saved was spent on a preliminary estimate for a long-distance plan to free bound oxygen in the sands of Mars to make the planet more friendly to future human generations.
The Old Ones neither helped nor hindered this plan; time was not yet.
Their meditations were approaching a violent cusp that would shape Martian art for many millennia.
On Earth elections continued and a very advanced poet published a limited edition of verse consisting entirely of punctuation marks and spaces; Time magazine reviewed it and suggested that the Federation Assembly Daily Record should be translated into the medium.
A colossal campaign opened to sell more sexual organs of plants and Mrs. Joseph Shadow of Greatness Douglas was quoted as saying : ``I would no more sit down without flowers on my table than without serviettes''.
His chelas were required to assume the matsyendra posture dressed in hand-woven diapers while he read aloud from Rig-Veda and an assistant guru examined their purses in another room - nothing was stolen; the purpose was less immediate.
The President of the United States proclaimed the first Sunday in November as ``National Grandmothers' Day'' and urged America to say it with flowers.
A funeral parlor chain was indicted for price-cutting.
Fosterite bishops, after secret conclave, announced the Church's second Major Miracle : Supreme Bishop Digby had been translated bodily to Heaven and spot-promoted to Archangel, ranking with-but-after Archangel Foster.
The glorious news had been held up pending Heavenly confirmation of the elevation of a new Supreme Bishop, Huey Short - a candidate accepted by the Boone faction after lots had been cast repeatedly.
L'Unita and Hoy published identical denunciations of Short's elevation, l'Osservatore Romano and the Christian Science Monitor ignored it, Times of India snickered at it, and the Manchester Guardian simply reported it - the Fosterites in England were few but extremely militant.
Digby was not pleased with his promotion.
The Man from Mars had interrupted him with his work half finished - and that stupid jackass Short was certain to louse it up.
Foster listened with angelic patience until Digby ran down, then said, ``Listen, junior, you're an angel now - so forget it.
You too were a stupid jackass until you poisoned me.
Afterwards you did well enough.
Now that Short is Supreme Bishop he'll do all right, he cann't help it.
Same as with the Popes.
Some of them were warts until they got promoted.
Check with one of them, go ahead - there's no professional jealousy here''.
Digby calmed down, but made one request.
Foster shook his halo.
``You cann't touch him.
Oh, you can submit a requisition for a miracle if you want to make a fool of yourself.
But, I'm telling you, it'll be turned down - you don't understand the System yet.
The Martians have their own setup, different from ours, and as long as they need him, we cann't touch him.
They run their show their way - the Universe has variety, something for everybody - a fact you field workers often miss''.
``You mean this punk can brush me aside and I've got to hold still for it''?
``I held still for the same thing, didn't I?
I'm helping you now, am I not?
Now look, there's work to be done and lots of it.
The Boss wants performance, not gripes.
Otherwise, straighten your halo, square your wings, and dig in.
The sooner you act like an angel the quicker you'll feel angelic.
Get Happy, junior''!
Digby heaved a deep ethereal sigh.
``Okay, I'm Happy.
Where do I start''?
Jubal did not hear of Digby's disappearance when it was announced, and, when he did, while he had a fleeting suspicion, he dismissed it; if Mike had had a finger in it, he had gotten away with it - and what happened to supreme bishops worried Jubal not at all as long as he wasn't bothered.
His household had gone through an upset.
Jubal deduced what had happened but did not know with whom - and didn't want to inquire.
Anyhow, it was high time the boy was salted.
Jubal couldn't reconstruct the crime from the way the girls behaved because patterns kept shifting - ABC vs D, then BCD vs A & & & or AB vs CD, or AD vs CB, through all ways that four women can gang up on each other.
This continued most of the week following that ill-starred trip to church, during which period Mike stayed in his room and usually in a trance so deep that Jubal would have pronounced him dead had he not seen it before.
Jubal would not have minded it if service had not gone to pieces.
The girls seemed to spend half their time tiptoeing in ``to see if Mike was all right'' and they were too preoccupied to cook, much less be secretaries.
Even rock-steady Anne - Hell, Anne was the worst!
Absent-minded, subject to unexplained tears.
Jubal would have bet his life that if Anne were to witness the Second Coming, she would memorize date, time, personae, events, and barometric pressure without batting her calm blue eyes.
The expense and time involved are astronomical.
We have learned much about interstellar drives since a hundred years ago; that is all I can tell you about them.
``But the third ship came back several years ago and reported & & &''.
``That it had found a planet on which human beings could live and which was already inhabited by sentient beings''! said Hal, forgetting in his enthusiasm that he had not been asked to speak.
Macneff stopped pacing to stare at Hal with his pale blue eyes.
``How did you know'' ? he said sharply.
``Forgive me, Sandalphon'', said Hal.
``But it was inevitable!
Did not the Forerunner predict in his Time and the World Line that such a planet would be found?
I believe it was on page 573''!
How could they not?
thought Hal.
Besides, they were not the only impressions.
I still bear scars on my back where Pornsen, my gapt, whipped me because I had not learned my lessons well enough.
He was a good impresser, that Pornsen.
Was?
Is!
As I grew older and was promoted, so was he, always where I was.
He was my gapt in the creche.
He is now my block gapt.
He is the one responsible for my getting such low M.R.'s.
Swiftly, came the revulsion, the protest.
No, not he, for I, and I alone, am responsible for whatever happens to me.
If I get a low M. R., I do so because I want it that way or my dark self does.
If I die, I die because I willed it so.
So, forgive me, Sigmen, for the contrary to reality thoughts!
``Please pardon me again, Sandalphon'', said Hal.
``But did the expedition find any records of the Forerunner having been on this planet?
``No'', said Macneff.
``Though that does not mean that there may not be such records there.
The expedition was under orders to make a swift survey of conditions and then to return to Earth.
I cann't tell you now the distance in light years or what star this was, though you can see it with the naked eye at night in this hemisphere.
If you volunteer, you will be told where you're going after the ship leaves.
And it leaves very soon''.
``You need a linguist'' ? said Hal.
``The ship is huge'', said Macneff, ``but the number of military men and specialists we are taking limits the linguists to one.
We have considered several of your professionals because they were lamechians and above suspicion.
Hal waited : Macneff paced some more, frowning.
Then, he said, ``Unfortunately, only one lamechian linguist exists, and he is too old for this expedition.
Therefore & & &''.
``A thousand pardons'', said Hal.
``But I have just thought of one thing.
I am married''.
``No problem at all'', said Macneff.
``There will be no women aboard the Gabriel.
And, if a man is married, he will automatically be given a divorce''.
Macneff raised his hands apologetically and said, ``You are horrified, of course.
But, from our reading of the Western Talmud, we Urielites believe that the Forerunner, knowing this situation would arise, made reference to and provision for divorce.
It's inevitable in this case, for the couple will be separated for, at the least, forty years.
Naturally, he couched the provision in obscure language.
In his great and glorious wisdom, he knew that our enemies the Israelites must not be able to read therein what we planned''.
``I volunteer'', said Hal.
``Tell me more, Sandalphon''.
Six months later, Hal Yarrow stood in the observation dome of the Gabriel and watched the ball of Earth dwindle above him.
It was night on this hemisphere, but the light blazed from the megalopolises of Australia, Japan, China, Southeast Asia, India, Siberia.
Australia, the Philippine Islands, Japan, and northern China were inhabited by those members of the Haijac Union that spoke American.
Southern China, all of southeast Asia, southern India and Ceylon, these states of the Malay Federation spoke Bazaar.
Siberia spoke Icelandic.
His mind turned the globe swiftly for him, and he visualized Africa, which used Swahili south of the Sahara Sea.
All around the Mediterranean Sea, Asia Minor, northern India, and Tibet, Hebrew was the native tongue.
In southern Europe, between the Israeli Republics and the Icelandic speaking peoples of northern Europe, was a thin but long stretch of territory called March.
This was no man's land, disputed by the Haijac Union and the Israeli Republic, a potential source of war for the last two hundred years.
Neither nation would give up their claim on it, yet neither wished to make any move that might lead to a second Apocalyptic War.
So, for all practical purposes, it was an independent nation and by now had its own organized government (unrecognized outside its own borders).
Hal saw in his mind the rest of Earth : Iceland, Greenland, the Caribbean Islands, and the eastern half of South America.
Here the peoples spoke the tongue of Iceland because that island had gotten the jump on the Hawaiian Americans who were busy resettling North America and the western half of South America after the Apocalyptic War.
Then there was North America, where American was the native speech of all except the twenty descendants of French-Canadians living on the Hudson Bay Preserve.
Hal knew that when that side of Earth rotated into the night zone, Sigmen City would blaze out into space.
And, somewhere in that enormous light, was his apartment.
But Mary would soon no longer be living there, for she would be notified in a few days that her husband had died in an accident while on a flight to Tahiti.
She would weep in private, he was sure, for she loved him in her frigid way, though in public she would be dry eyed.
Her friends and professional associates would sympathize with her, not because she had lost a beloved husband, but because she had been married to a man who thought unrealistically.
If Hal Yarrow had been killed in a crash, he must have wanted it that way.
Somehow, all the other passengers (also supposed to have died in this web of elaborate frauds to cover up the disappearance of the personnel of the Gabriel) had simultaneously ``agreed'' to die.
And, therefore, being in disgrace, they would not be cremated and their ashes flung to the winds in public ceremony.
No, the fish could eat their bodies for all the Sturch cared.
Hal felt sorry for Mary; he had a time keeping the tears from welling to his own eyes as he stood in the crowd in the observation dome.
Yet, he told himself, this was the best way.
He and Mary would no longer have to tear and rend at each other; their mutual torture would be over.
Mary was free to marry again, not knowing that the Sturch had secretly given her a divorce, thinking that death had dissolved her marriage.
She would have a year in which to make up her mind, to choose a mate from a list selected by her gapt.
Perhaps, the psychological barriers that had prevented her from conceiving Hal's child would no longer be present.
Hal doubted if this happy event would occur.
Mary was as frozen below the navel as he.
No matter who the candidate for marriage selected by the gapt.
The gapt.
Pornsen.
He would no longer have to see that fat face, hear that whining voice.
``Hal Yarrow''! said the whining voice.
And, slowly, feeling himself icy yet burning, Hal turned.
There was the squat loose jowled man, smiling lopsidedly up at him.
``I had no idea that you, too, would be on this glorious voyage.
But I might have known!
We seem to be bound by love; Sigmen himself must have foreseen it.
Love to you, my ward''.
``Sigmen love you, too, my guardian'', said Hal, choking.
``How wonderful to see your cherished self.
I had thought we would never again speak to each other''.
The Gabriel pointed towards her destination and, under one gee acceleration, began to build up towards her ultimate velocity, 99.1 percent of the speed of light.
Meanwhile, all the personnel except those few needed to carry out the performance of the ship, went into the suspensor.
Some time later, after a check had been made of all automatic equipment, the crew would join the others.
They would sleep while the Gabriel's drive would increase the acceleration to a point which the unfrozen bodies of the personnel could not have endured.
Upon reaching the desired speed, the automatic equipment would cut off the drive, and the silent but not empty vessel would hurl towards the star which was its journey's end.
Many years later, the photon counting apparatus in the nose of the ship would determine that the star was close enough to actuate deceleration.
Again, a force too strong for unfrozen bodies to endure would be applied.
Then, after slowing the vessel considerably, the drive would adjust to a one gee deceleration.
And the crew would be automatically brought out of their suspended animation.
These members would then unthaw the rest of the personnel.
And, in the half year left before reaching their destination, the men would carry out whatever preparations were needed.
He had to study the recordings of the language of the chief nation of Ozagen, Siddo.
And, from the first, he faced a difficult task.
The expedition that had discovered Ozagen had succeeded in correlating two thousand Siddo words with an equal number of American words.
The description of the Siddo syntax was very restricted.
And, as Hal found out, obviously mistaken in many cases.
This discovery caused Hal anxiety.
His duty was to write a school text and to teach the entire personnel of the Gabriel how to speak Ozagen.
Yet, if he used all of the little means at his disposal, he would be instructing his students wrongly.
Moreover, even getting this across would be difficult.
It was true that they could be approximated, but would the Ozagenians understand these approximations?
Another obstacle was the grammatical construction of Siddo.
Consider the tense system.
Instead of inflecting a verb or using an unattached particle to indicate the past or future, Siddo used an entirely different word.
Thus, the masculine animate infinitive dabhumaksanigalu'ahai, meaning to live, was, in the perfect tense, ksu'u'peli'afo, and, in the future, mai'teipa.
The same use of an entirely different word applied for all the other tenses.
Plus the fact that Siddo not only had the normal (to Earthmen) three genders of masculine, feminine, and neuter, but the two extra of inanimate and spiritual.
Fortunately, gender was inflected, though the expression of it would be difficult for anybody not born in Siddo.
The system of indicating gender varied according to tense.
She was carrying a quirt, and she started to raise it, then let it fall again and dangle from her wrist.
``I saw your fire'', she said, speaking slowly, making an effort to control her anger.
``You could burn down this whole mountainside with a fire that size.
It wouldn't matter to a fool like you.
It would to me''.
``All right'', Wilson said quickly.
``The fire's too big.
And I appreciate the advice''.
He was losing patience again.
She had helped him change his mind.
``I'm not advising you'', she said.
``I'm telling you.
That fire's too big.
Let it burn down.
And make sure it's out when you leave in the morning''.
He was taken aback.
It took him a long time to compose himself.
``There's some mistake'', he said finally.
It's bigger than it has to be, though I don't see where it's doing any harm.
But you're wrong about the rest of it.
I'm not leaving in the morning.
Why should I?
I own the place''.
She showed her surprise by tightening the reins and moving the gelding around so that she could get a better look at his face.
It didn't seem to tell her anything.
She glanced around the clearing, taking in the wagon and the load of supplies and trappings scattered over the ground, the two kids, the whiteface bull that was chewing its cud just within the far reaches of the firelight.
She studied it for a long time.
``You own this place'' ? she said, and her tone had softened until it was almost friendly.
``You bought it''?
``From a man in St. Louis'', Wilson said.
``Jake Carwood.
Maybe you know him''.
The girl laughed.
``I know him.
I ought to.
My father ran him off here six years ago''.
He stood watching the girl, wondering what was coming next.
She had picked up the quirt and was twirling it around her wrist and smiling at him.
``Carwood didn't tell you that'', she said.
``No'', Wilson said.
``But it's understandable.
It's not the kind of thing that a man would be proud of.
And it doesn't make any difference.
He sold me a clear title.
I have it with me, right here.
``Never mind'', she said sternly.
``It wouldn't matter to my father, and not to me.
I meant what I said about that fire.
Be sure it's out when you leave.
That's all.
I'll let you go back to doing the dishes now''.
It was meant to insult him, and didn't quite succeed.
He took the reins just below the bit and held them firmly, and it was his turn to smile now.
``I don't mind washing dishes now and then'', he said pleasantly.
It might hurt you, though.
Somebody might mistake you for a woman''.
He meant to say more, but he never got the chance.
She was quick.
She brought the quirt down, slashing it across his cheek, and he tried to step back.
She swung the quirt again, and this time he caught her wrist and pulled her out of the saddle.
She came down against him, and he tried to break her fall.
He grabbed her by the shoulders and went down on one knee, taking her weight so that some of the wind was driven out of him.
It made him a little sick, and he let go of her.
He wiped the blood from his cheek.
``I ought to'' - he said.
He was shaking with anger, his breath coming in long, painful gasps.
``That quirt - I ought to use it on you, where it would do the most good.
If you were a man'' -
``She is n't, mister''.
The voice came from behind him, and Wilson turned.
The fire had gone down, and the man was only a shadow against the trees.
But a moment later he brought his horse forward into the light, and Wilson had a good look at him.
And he was handsome, despite the long thin scar that slanted across his cheek.
``She's not a man, mister'', he said.
``I am.
If you've got any ideas''.
He raised the Winchester and pointed it at Wilson's chest.
``Put the rifle down, Joseph'', the girl said.
She seemed irritated.
``I thought I told you to stay home''.
The half-breed eased the Winchester down and rested it across his lap.
``You shouldn't be riding up here after dark, Judith'', he said quietly.
``I can take care of this.
It's no job for you''.
The girl tapped the quirt impatiently against her knee and glared at him.
He took it without flinching.
``I said go home, Joseph.
You've got no business up here''.
The half-breed didn't answer this time.
But the scar seemed to pull hard at the corner of his mouth, and his eyes were hurt and angry.
He watched the half-breed as he turned silently.
They could hear the pony's feet on the dry leaves for a while, then the sound faded out.
Wilson brushed the dust from his coat.
``Who was that'' ? he asked.
``Your personal guard?
You're pretty hard on him''.
``He works for my father'', the girl said, and then seemed to change her mind.
``He's a friend.
His name's Joseph Sanchez.
``Not now'', Wilson said.
``I guess I'll find out soon enough.
You've got blood on your cheek.
Not yours.
Mine.
It must have got there when you fell against me''.
She wiped it off with the sleeve of her coat.
``I'll bet that's as close as you've been to a man since you were a baby'', Wilson said.
He saw her hand start to work down the leather thong toward the handle of the quirt, and he grabbed her wrist.
``I've had enough of that.
I've had enough of you.
I don't know what goes on around here, and I don't care.
I don't know what makes you think you can get away with this kind of business, and I don't care about that, either.
You took me by surprise.
But I'll know how to handle you next time''.
She brought up her free hand to hit him, but this time he was quicker.
He side-stepped her blow and she fell, stumbling against the gelding.
She finally regained her balance and got up in the saddle.
He had forgotten that she was so pretty.
But her prettiness was what he had noticed first, and all the other things had come afterward:
cruelty, meanness, self-will.
He had known women like that, one woman in particular.
And one had been too many.
He watched the girl until she had gone into the trees, and waited until he couldn't hear the sound of her horse any longer, then went up to where the children were sleeping.
They weren't sleeping, of course, but they thought they were doing him a favor by pretending.
He hadn't shown up too well in their eyes, letting himself be browbeaten by a woman.
They expected greater things from him, regardless of how trying the circumstances, and they were disappointed.
They lay a little too stiffly, with their eyes straining to stay closed.
``Go to sleep'', he said.
``Both of you.
There's better things to do than listen to something like that.
I'll be down at the creek finishing the dishes, if you want me''.
He found the pan where he had dropped it and carried it back down to the stream.
The coyote was calling again, and he hoped that this time there would be no other sounds to interrupt it.
Not tonight, at any rate.
He had a feeling that the girl meant trouble.
He scrubbed absent-mindedly at the pans and reflected on how things had turned out.
That afternoon when they had pulled up in front of the broken-down ranch house, his hopes had been high.
Already some of the pain had gone from Amelia's death.
Not all of it.
There would still be plenty of moments of regret and sadness and guilty relief.
But they were starting a new life.
And they had almost everything they needed : land, a house, two whiteface bulls, three horses.
The land wasn't all Wilson had expected of it.
Six hundred and forty acres, the old man back in St. Louis had said; good grass, good water.
The water was there, so much of it that it spread all through the dead orchard.
And there was a house; livable perhaps, but badly in need of repairs.
In the last analysis, though, Wilson had little cause to complain.
The place had been cheap - just the little he had left after Amelia's burial - and it would serve its purpose.
There was only one place where Jake Carwood's description had gone badly awry : the peace and quiet.
It hadn't started out that way.
And he had a feeling - thanks to the girl - that things would get worse before they got better.
They had the house cleaned up by noon, and Wilson sent the boy out to the meadow to bring in the horses.
He stood on the porch and watched him struggling with the heavy harness, and finally went over to help him.
They were going to town, and they were both excited.
Wilson backed the team into the traces, and wished they weren't going to town at all.
He had an uneasy feeling about it.
That girl last night, what was her name?
Judith Pierce.
It was the only thing about her that was the least bit hard to remember.
He finished with the team and filled his pipe and stood looking about him.
He had spent two hours riding around the ranch that morning, and in broad daylight it was even less inviting than Judith Pierce had made it seem.
There was brush, and stands of pine that no grass could grow under, and places so steep that cattle wouldn't stop to graze.
There was an artificial lake just out of sight in the first stand of trees, fed by a half dozen springs that popped out of the ground above the hillside orchard.
Yes, there was plenty of water, too much, and that was probably the trouble.
There were tracks of cattle all over his six hundred and forty acres.
The first part of the road was steep, but it leveled off after the second bend and curled gradually into the valley.
It was hotter once they reached the flat, and drier, but the grass was better.
A warm breeze played across it, moving it like waves.
A red-tailed hawk flew in behind them and stayed there, watching for any snakes or rabbits that they might stir up from the side of the road.
It took them an hour before they came to the first houses of Kelseyville.
The town was about what Wilson expected : one main street with its rows of false-fronted buildings, a water tower, a few warehouses, a single hotel; all dusty and sunbaked.
They neither liked nor disliked the Old Man.
To them he could have been the broken bell in the church tower which rang before and after Mass, and at noon, and at six each evening - its tone, repetitive, monotonous, never breaking the boredom of the streets.
The Old Man was unimportant.
Yet if he were not there, they would have missed him, as they would have missed the sounds of bees buzzing against the screen door in early June; or the smell of thick tomato paste - the ripe smell that was both sweet and sour - rising up from aluminum trays wrapped in fly dotted cheesecloth.
Or the surging whirling sounds of bats at night, when their black bodies dived into the blackness above and below the amber street lights.
Or the bay of female dogs in heat.
They never called him by name, although he had one.
Filippo Rossi, that's what he was called in the old country; but here he was just Signore or the Old Man.
But this was not unusual, because youth in these quarters was always pushed at a distance from its elders.
It went to church on Sunday and one Saturday a month went to confession.
But youth asked nothing of its parents - not a touch of the hand or a kiss given in passing.
The only thing unusual about the Old Man had long since happened.
But the past was dead here as the present was dead.
Once the Old Man had had a wife.
And once she, too, ignored him.
With a tiny fur-piece wrapped around her shoulders, she wiggled her satin covered buttocks down the street before him and didn't stop.
In one hand she clutched a hundred dollar bill and in the other a straw suitcase.
The way she strutted down the street, the Old Man would have been blind not to have noticed both.
``But she shouldn't have come here in the first place'', the women had said.
``No, no.
Not that one.
She thought she was bigger than we are because she came from Torino''.
``Eh, Torino!
She gave herself fancy airs!
Just because she had a part on the stage in the old country, she thought she could carry her head higher than ours''.
They had slapped their thighs.
``It's not for making pretty speeches about Dante those actresses get paid so good''.
Calloused fingers, caressed only by the smoothness of polished rosaries, had swayed excitedly beneath puckered chins where tiny black hairs sprouted, never to be tweezed away.
Mauve colored mouths that had never known anything sweeter than the taste of new wine and the passion of man's tongue had not smiled, but had condemned again and again.
``Puttana''!
But if the Old Man even thought about his wife now, nobody cared a fig.
It was enough for people to know that at one time he had looked down the street at the fleshy suppleness of a woman he had consumed - watching her become thinner and thinner in the distance, as thin as the seams on her stockings, and still thinner.
His voice had not commanded her to stop.
It had not questioned why.
The women said they had seen him wave an exhausted farewell; but he might have been shooing away the fleas that hopped from his yellow dog onto him.
(He was never without that dog .)
The Old Man's very soul could have left him and flown down that street, but he wouldn't have had anyone know it.
Perhaps he had known then where that hundred dollar bill had come from and where it was taking his wife.
But when he called for his withered, wrinkled sister Rose to care for him and the children, had he guessed that all he would remember of his woman was the memory of her climbing into that streetcar?
There seemed to be a contemptuous purpose in the way he sat there with his eyes glued to Drexel Street and his back in opposition to the church behind him.
For all he saw or cared to see, this could have been a town in Italy, not the outskirts of Philadelphia.
It could have been Bari or Chieti for the way it smelled.
What did it matter to him that the park at the foot of Ash Road stretched beneath elevated trains that roared from the stucco station into the city's center at half-hour intervals?
Or that the tiny creek spun its silent course toward the Schuylkill?
This place was hatred to him, just as hatred was his only companion in his aloneness.
Sameness for the Old Man was framed in by a wall of ginkgo trees which divided these quarters from the city.
Sameness lined the streets with two story houses the color of ash.
It slashed the sloping manure scented lawns with concrete steps which climbed upward to white wooden porches.
It swayed with the wicker swings and screeched with the rusted hinges of screen doors.
Even the stable garage, which housed nothing now but the scent of rot, had a lawn before it.
And the coffee shop on Drexel Street, where the men spent their evenings and Sundays playing cards, had a rose hedge beneath its window.
The hedge reeked of coffee dregs thrown against it.
Only one house on the street had no lawn before it.
It squatted low and square upon the sidewalk with a heavy iron grating supporting a glass facade.
Above it, from a second story showroom, wooden angels surveyed the neighborhood.
Did the Old Man remember them there?
Yet everywhere else sameness was stucco and wood in square blocks - like fortresses perched against the slant of the hill, rising with the hill to the top where the church was and beyond that to the cemetery.
Only paved alleyways tunneled through the walls of those fortresses into the mysterious core of intimacy behind the houses where backyards owned no fences, where one man's property blended with the next to form courtyards in which no one knew privacy.
Love and hatred and fear were one here, shaded only by fig trees and grape vines.
And the forked tongue of gossip licked its sinister way from back porch to back porch.
The Old Man silently fed upon these streets.
They kept him alive, waiting.
Waiting for what and for whom, only he could tell and would not.
He was holding out for something.
He was determined to hold out.
The Old Man's son threw himself down, belly first, upon a concrete step, taking in the coolness of it, and dreaming of the day he would be rich.
At fifteen he didn't care that he had no mother, that he couldn't remember her face or her touch; neither did he care that Aunt Rose provided for him.
He was named Pompeii as a tribute to his heritage, and he couldn't have cared less about that either.
To him life was a restless boredom that began with the rising sun and ended only with sleep.
When he would be a man, he would be a rich man.
He would not be like the ``rich Americans'' who lived in white columned houses on the other side of the park.
He would not ride the eight-thirty local to the city each morning.
Nor would he work at all.
He would square his shoulders and carry a cane before each step.
He would sit inside the coffee shop and pound a gloved fist upon the table and a girl would hear him and come running, bowing with her running, calling out in her bowing, ``At your service''.
He would order her to bring coffee, and would take from his vest pocket a thin black pipe which he would stuff - he would not remove his gloves - and light and smoke.
He could do that when he would be a man.
``Hey, Laura''! he called to his sister on the porch above the steps.
She was only ten months older than he.
``Laura, what would you say if I smoked a pipe''?
Laura did not answer him.
One lithe leg straddled the railing and swung loosely before the creaking, torn pales.
Her tanned foot, whose arch swept high and white, pointed artfully toward tapering toes - toes like fingers, whose tips glowed white.
All the while she sat there, her sinewy arms swirled before her chest.
Her face showed no sign of having heard Pompeii.
It was a face that had lost its childlike softness and was beginning to fold within its fragile features a harshness that belied the lyric lines of its contours.
The eyes, blue and always somewhat downcast, possessed a sullen quality.
Even though the boy could not see them, he knew they were clouded by distance.
He was never sure they fully took him in.
Pompeii called again, ``Laura''!
``She's in a mood'', he thought ``There's not a month she doesn't get herself in a mood''.
Well, what did that matter when the sun was shining and there were dreams to dream about?
And as for his pipe, if he wanted to smoke one, nobody would stop him.
Not even Laura.
Suddenly he was interrupted in his daydreaming by a warm wetness lapping against his chin, and his eyes opened wide and long at the sight of a goat's claret tongue, feasting against the salt taste of him.
Above the tongue, an aged yellow eye, sallow and time-cast, encrusted within a sphere of marbleized pink skin, stared unfalteringly at him.
``Christ sake, goat, git''!
But the goat would not.
``You're boiling milk, ain't you'' ? soothing it with his hand, knowing the whiskered jowls and the swollen smoothness of teats that wrinkled expectantly to his touch.
His head undulated gradually, covering space, to come straining beneath the taut belly within the warmth of those teats.
With his mouth opened wide, he squirted the warm white milk against the roof of his mouth and his tongue savored the light, earthy taste of it.
The boy's fingers and mouth operated with the skilled unity of a bagpipe player, pressing and pulling, delighting in what he did.
Above him slid the evasive shadow of a storm cloud.
Its form was a heavy figure in a fluttering soutane.
But the boy could see only the goat's belly.
The Old Man near the corner let the shadow pass over him, sensing something portentous in it.
He knew it was there, knew also what it was about, but he wouldn't raise a finger except to smooth his yellow dog's back.
There would be time enough, perhaps the Old Man reassured himself, to pay the devil his due.
In the meantime, six sandals, stained an ocher, the same color as Pompeii's shaved hair, edged up close to him.
The clapping they made on the concrete interrupted him in the ecstatic pleasure he knew, so that he quickly released his hold on the goat and pretended to be examining its haunches for ticks.
He knew at a glance that the biggest sandals belonged to Niobe, the neatest ones to Concetta, and the laced ones to Romeo, Concetta's idiot brother.
Pompeii expected Romeo's small body to sink closer and closer to the ground.
He expected Concetta's thin hand to reach down to grasp the boy, and her shrill, impetuous voice to sound against the rotundity of his disfigured flesh that was never sure of hearing anything.
Nothing in English has been ridiculed as much as the ambiguous use of words, unless it be the ambiguous use of sentences.
Ben Franklin said, ``Clearly spoken, Mr. Fogg.
You explain English by Greek''.
Richard Brinsley Sheridan said, ``I think the interpreter is the hardest to be understood of the two''.
There are many types of ambiguity and many of them have been described by rhetoricians under such names as amphibology, parisology, and other ologies.
In common parlance they would be described as misses - misinterpreters, misunderstanders, misdirectors and kindred misdeeds.
One species of ambiguity tries to baffle by interweaving repetition.
``Did you or did you not say what I said you said, because Jane said you never said what I said''?
Another woman, addressing Christmas cards, said to her husband : ``We sent them one last year but they didn't send us one, so they probably won't send us one this year because they'll think we won't send them one because they didn't last year, don't you think, or shall we''?
Such ambiguous exercises compound confusion by making it worse compounded, and they are sometimes expanded until the cream of the jest sours.
Ambiguity of a non repetitious kind describes the dilemma one girl found herself in.
``I'm terribly upset'', she told a girl-friend.
``I wrote Bill in my last letter to forget that I had told him that I didn't mean to reconsider my decision not to change my mind - and he seems to have misunderstood me''.
Another case involves a newspaper reporter who tripped up a politician.
``Mr. Jones, you may recall that we printed last week your denial of having retracted the contradiction of your original statement.
Now would you care to have us say that you were misquoted in regard to it''?
Questions like this, framed in verbal fog, are perhaps the only kind that have ever stumped an experienced politician.
They recall Byron's classic comment : ``I wish he would explain his explanation''.
Similarly, when a reporter once questioned Lincoln in cryptic fashion, Lincoln refused to make any further statement.
``I fear explanations explanatory of things explained'', he said, leaving the biter bit - and bitter.
The obscurity of politicians may not always be as innocent as it looks.
``Senator'', said an interviewer, ``your constituents cann't understand from your speech last night just how you stand on the question''.
replied the Senator.
``It took me five hours to write it that way''.
The misplaced modifier is another species more honored in the observance of obscurity than in the breach.
This creates an amusing effect because its position in a sentence seems to make it apply to the wrong word.
A verse familiar to all grammarians is the quatrain:
``I saw a man once beat his wife When on a drunken spree.
Now can you tell me who was drunk - The man, his wife, or me''?
The ``wooden-leg'' gag of vaudeville, another standby of this sort, had endless variations.
``'' There's a man outside with a wooden leg named Smith ``.
Another stock vaudeville gag ran : ``Mother is home sick in bed with the doctor''.
When radio came in, it continued the misplaced modifier in its routines as a standard device.
``'' Do you see that pretty girl standing next to the car with slacks on ``?
'' I see the girl but I don't see the car with slacks on ``''.
In recent years gagwriters have discovered this brand of blunder and thus the misplaced modifier has acquired a new habitat in the gagline.
In one cartoon a family is shown outside a theater with the head of the family addressing the doorman : ``Excuse me, but when we came out we found that we had left my daughter's handbag and my wife's behind''.
Journalism supplies us with an endless run of such slips.
Not long ago a newspaper advised those taking part in a contest that ``snapshots must be of a person not larger than * * f inches''.
Classified ads are also chockfull of misrelated constructions.
View takes in five counties, two bedrooms''.
Since brevity is the soul of ambiguity as well as wit, newspaper headlines continually provide us with amusing samples.
``Officials Meet on Rubbish.
Many Shapes in Bathtubs.
Son and Daughter of Local Couple Married''.
Apart from misplaced modifiers and headlinese, journalism contributes a wide variety of comic ambiguities in both editorial and advertising matter.
A weekly newspaper reported a local romance : ``and the couple were married last Saturday, thus ending a friendship which began in their schooldays''.
An item in the letters column of a newspaper renewed a subscription, adding : ``I personally enjoy your newspaper as much as my husband''.
Then there was the caterer's ad which read : ``Are you getting married or having an affair?
The newspaper too is the favorite habitat of the anatomical.
This slip is so-called because its semi ambiguous English always seems to refer to a person's anatomy but never quite means what it seems to say.
Samples:
He walked in upon her invitation.
She kissed him passionately upon his reappearance.
He kissed her back.
Not without good reason has the anatomical been called jocular journalese.
In news items a man is less often shot in the body or head than in the suburbs.
``While Henry Morgan was escorting Miss Vera Green from the church social last Saturday night, a savage dog attacked them and bit Mr. Morgan on the public square''.
The double meaning in the anatomical made it a familiar vaudeville device, as in the gags of Weber and Fields.
When a witness at court was asked if he had been kicked in the ensuing rumpus, he replied, ``No, it was in the stomach''.
Strangely enough, this always brought the house down.
Apart from journalese and vaudeville gags, the anatomical is also found in jocular literature.
A conscientious girl became the secretary of a doctor.
Her first day at work she was puzzled by an entry in the doctor's notes on an emergency case.
It read : ``Shot in the lumbar region''.
After a moment of thought, her mind cleared and, in the interest of clarity, she typed into the record : ``Shot in the woods''.
There are many grammatical misconstructions other than dangling modifiers and anatomicals which permit two different interpretations.
``I want the fish served whole, with head and tail'', the epicure explained, ``and serve it with lemon in mouth''.
The maid demurred.
``That's silly - lemon in mouth'', she said.
But since the gourmet insisted that it is done that way at the most fashionable dinners, the girl reluctantly agreed.
So she brought the fish in whole, and she carried a lemon in her mouth.
Another specimen of such double-entendre is illustrated by a woman in a department store.
She said to the saleslady, ``I want a dress to put on around the house''.
The puzzled saleslady inquired, ``How large is your house, Madam''?
This saleslady was a failure in the dress department and was transferred to the shoe department.
The comic indefinite comprises an extensive class of comedy.
One species is restricted to statements which are neither explicit nor precise regarding a particular person, place, time or thing.
A woman met a famous author at a literary tea.
``Oh, I'm so delighted to meet you'', she gushed.
``It was only the other day that I saw something of yours, about something or other, in some magazine''.
This baffling lack of distinct details recalls the secretary whose employer was leaving the office and told her what to answer if anyone called in his absence.
``I may be back'', he explained, ``and then again, I may not''.
The girl nodded understandingly.
``Yes, sir'', she said, ``is that definite''?
Where were you''?
The daughter replied, ``Oh, I had dinner with - well, you don't know him but he's awfully nice - and we went to a couple of places - I don't suppose you've heard of them - and we finished up at a cute little night club - I forget the name of it.
Why, it's all right, isn't it, Mother''?
Her woolly minded parent agreed.
``Of course, dear'', she said.
``It's only that I like to know where you go''.
No less ambiguous was the indefinity of a certain clergyman's sermon.
``Dearly beloved'', he preached, ``unless you repent of your sins in a measure, and become converted to a degree, you will, I regret to say, be damned to a more or less extent''.
This clergyman should have referred to Shakespeare's dictum : ``So-so is a good, very good, very excellent maxim.
It is but so-so''.
Indefinite reference also carries double meaning where an allusion to one person or thing seems to refer to another.
A news item described the launching of a ship : ``Completing the ceremony, the beautiful movie star smashed a bottle of champagne over her stern as she slid gracefully down the ways into the sea''.
This is not unlike the order received by the sergeant of an army motor pool : ``Four trucks to Fort Mason gym, 7 : 30 tonight, for hauling girls to dance.
The bodies must be cleaned and seats wiped off''.
A politician was approached by a man seeking the office of a minor public official who had just died.
``What are my chances for taking Joe's place'' ? he asked.
``If you can fix it up with the undertaker'', returned the politician, ``it's all right with me''.
The manager of a movie theater received a telephone call from a woman who was equally indefinite.
``A blue suit'', he answered.
``Who's in it'' ? she continued.
``I am'', he said.
There was a short pause for reflection.
``Oh'', said the woman, ``I've seen that picture already''.
Another brand of indefinite reference arises out of the use of the double verb.
When a question contains two verbs, the response does not make clear which of them is being answered.
The moonlit night was made for romance, and he had been looking at her soulfully for some time.
Finally he asked, ``Do you object to petting''?
He thought a moment, then inquired, ``You mean petted''?
``No'', she smiled, ``objected''.
Replies to requests for character reference are notorious for their evasive double-entendre.
It would be hard to find anything more equivocal than : ``I cannot recommend him too highly''.
Another less ambiguous case read as follows : ``The bearer of this letter has served me for two years to his complete satisfaction.
If you are thinking of giving him a berth, be sure to make it a wide one''.
In the comedy of indefinite reference, it wit occupies a prominent place because of its frequent occurrence.
Ambiguity arises when the pronoun it carries a twofold reference.
Two friends were talking.
The speaker referred to the whiskey but his friend thought he meant the cold.
It wit is a misnomer because it covers slips as well as wit.
An excited woman was making an emergency call over the phone : ``Doctor, please come over right away.
My husband is in great pain.
I called the other afternoon on my old friend, Graves Moreland, the Anglo-American literary critic - his mother was born in Ohio - who lives alone in a fairy-tale cottage on the Upson Downs, raising hell and peacocks, the former only when the venerable gentleman becomes an angry old man about the state of literature or something else that is dwindling and diminishing, such as human stature, hope, and humor.
My unscientific friend does not believe that human stature is measurable in terms of speed, momentum, weightlessness, or distance from earth, but is a matter of the development of the human mind.
After Gagarin became the Greatest Man in the World, for a nation that does not believe in the cult of personality or in careerism, Moreland wrote me a letter in which he said : ``I am not interested in how long a bee can live in a vacuum, or how far it can fly.
A bee's place is in the hive''.
``I have come to talk with you about the future of humor and comedy'', I told him, at which he started slightly, and then made us each a stiff drink, with a trembling hand.
Did you go to their funeral''?
``I was wrong'', I admitted.
``Comedy didn't die, it just went crazy.
It has identified itself with the very tension and terror it once did so much to alleviate.
We now have not only what has been called over here the comedy of menace but we also have horror jokes, magazines known as Horror Comics, and sick comedians.
There are even publications called Sick and Mad.
The Zeitgeist is not crazy as a loon or mad as a March hare; it is manic as a man''.
``I woke up this morning'', Moreland said, ``paraphrasing Lewis Carroll.
Do you want to hear the paraphrase''?
I asked, taking a final gulp of my drink, and handing him the empty glass.
``Just barely'', he said, and repeated his paraphrase:
``The time has come'', the walrus said, ``To speak of manic things, Of shots and shouts, and sealing dooms Of commoners and kings''.
Moreland fixed us each another drink, and said, ``For God's sake, tell me something truly amusing''.
``I'll try'', I said, and sat for a moment thinking.
``Oh yes, the other day I reread some of Emerson's English Traits, and there was an anecdote about a group of English and Americans visiting Germany, more than a hundred years ago.
In the railway station at Berlin, a uniformed attendant was chanting,' Foreigners this way!
Foreigners this way'!
One woman - she could have been either English or American - went up to him and said,' But you are the foreigners'''.
``What's the matter with the music''?
Moreland asked.
``It doesn't drown out the dialogue'', I explained.
``Let's talk about books'', Moreland said.
``I am told that in America you have non books by non writers, brought out by non publishers for non readers.
Is it all non-fiction''?
``There is non-fiction and non non-fiction'', I said.
``Speaking of nonism : the other day, in a story about a sit-down demonstration, the Paris Herald Tribune wrote,' The non violence became noisier'.
And then Eichmann was quoted as saying, in non English, that Hitler's plan to exterminate the Jews was nonsense''.
Moreland asked, grimly.
``Cryptic'', I said.
``They require, for existence, a brave spirit and a high heart, and where do you find these?
In our present era of Science and Angst, the heart has been downgraded, to use one of our popular retrogressive verbs''.
``I know what you mean'', Moreland sighed.
``Last year your Tennessee Williams told our Dilys Powell, in a television program, that it is the task of the playwright to throw light into the dark corners of the human heart.
Like almost everybody else, he confused the heart, both as organ and as symbol, with the disturbed psyche, the deranged glands, and the jumpy central nervous system.
I'm not pleading for the heart that leaps up when it beholds a rainbow in the sky, or for the heart that with rapture fills and dances with the daffodils.
The sentimental pure heart of Galahad is gone with the knightly years, but I still believe in the heart of the George Meredith character that was not made of the stuff that breaks''.
``Moore and Longfellow didn't have the fate that faces us'', Moreland said.
``One day our species promises co-existence, and the next day it threatens co extinction''.
We sat for a while drinking in silence.
``The heart'', I said finally, ``is now either in the throat or the mouth or the stomach or the shoes.
When it was worn in the breast, or even on the sleeve, we at least knew where it was''.
There was a long silence.
``You have visited England five times in the past quarter-century, I believe'', my host said.
``What has impressed you most on your present visit''?
``I would say depressed, not impressed'', I told him.
It is becoming harder and harder to tell law courts and political arenas from the modern theatre''.
``Do you think we need a new Henry James to re-explore the Anglo-American scene'' ? he asked.
``Or perhaps a new Noel Coward''?
``But you must have heard it said that the drawing-room disappeared forever with the somnolent years of James and the antic heyday of Coward.
I myself hear it said constantly - in drawing-rooms.
In them, there is usually a group of Anglo-Americans with tragicomic problems, worthy of being explored either in the novel or in the play or in comedy and satire''.
I stood up and began pacing.
``If you are trying to get us out of the brothel, the dustbin, the kitchen sink, and the tawdry living-room, you are probably wasting your time'', Moreland told me.
``Too many of our writers seem to be interested only in creatures that crawl out of the woodwork or from under the rock''.
``I am worried about the current meanings of the word' funny'.
It now means ominous, as when one speaks of a funny sound in the motor; disturbing, as when one says that a friend is acting funny; and frightening, as when a wife tells the police that it is funny, but her husband hasn't been home for two days and nights''.
Moreland sat brooding for a full minute, during which I made each of us a new drink.
He took his glass, clinked it against mine, and said, ``Toujours gai, what the hell''! borrowing a line from Don Marquis' Mehitabel.
``Be careful of the word' gay ', for it, too, has undergone a change.
It now means, in my country, homosexual'', I said.
``Oh, I forgot to say that if one is taken to the funny house in the funny wagon, he is removed to a mental institution in an ambulance.
Recently, by the way, I received a questionnaire in which I was asked whether or not I was non institutionalized''.
My host went over and stared out the window at his peacocks; then he turned to me.
``Oh, that is demonstrable'', I told him.
``Do you remember the woman in the French Alps who was all alone with her sheep one day when the sun darkened ominously?
She told the sheep,' The world is coming to an end'!
And the sheep said - all in unison, I have no doubt -' Ba-a-a'!
The sound mockery of sheep is like the salubrious horse laugh''.
``That is only partly non nonsense'', he began.
``If you saw the drama called Rhinoceros'', I said, ``think of the effect it would have on an audience of rhinos when the actor on stage suddenly begins turning into a rhinoceros.
The rhinos would panic, screaming' Help'!
- if that can be screamed in their language''.
Moreland demanded.
``Non-God, no'', I said.
``The political and intellectual Left began fighting humor and comedy years ago, because they fear things they do not understand and cannot manage, such as satire and irony, such as humor and comedy.
Nevertheless, like any other human being upon whom the spotlight of the world plays continually, Khrushchev, the anti personality cultist, has become a comic actor, or thinks he has.
In his famous meeting with Nixon a couple of years ago he seemed to believe that he was as funny as Ed Wynn.
But, like Caesar, he has only one joke, so far as I can find out.
It consists in saying,' That would be sending the goat to look after the cabbage'.
Why in the name of his non-God doesn't he vary it a bit''?
``Such as''?
``Such as' sending the cat to guard the mice ', or' the falcon to protect the dove ', or most terribly sharp of all,' the human being to save humanity'''.
``You and I have fallen out of literature into politics'', Moreland observed.
``What a nasty fall was there''!
I said.
Moreland went over to stare at his peacocks again, and then came back and sat down, restively.
``The world that was once foot-loose and fancy-free'', he said, ``has now become screw-loose and frenzy free.
In our age of Science and Angst it seems to me more brave to stay on Earth and explore inner man than to fly far from the sphere of our sorrow and explore outer space''.
``The human ego being what it is'', I put in, ``science fiction has always assumed that the creatures on the planets of a thousand larger solar systems than ours must look like gigantic tube-nosed fruit bats.
It seems to me that the first human being to reach one of these planets may well learn what it is to be a truly great and noble species''.
``Not in the largest sense of the words'', I said.
``The other day Arnold Toynbee spoke against the inveterate tendency of our species to believe in the uniqueness of its religions, its ideologies, and its virtually everything else.
Why do we not realize that no ideology believes so much in itself as it disbelieves in something else?
Forty years ago an English writer, W. L. George, dealt with this subject in Eddies of the Day, and said, as an example, that' Saint George for Merry England' would not start a spirit half so quickly as' Strike frog eating Frenchmen dead'''!
``There was also Gott strafe Angleterre'', Moreland reminded me, ``and Carthago delenda est, or if you will, Deus strafe Carthage.
It isn't what the ideologist believes in, but what he hates, that puts the world in jeopardy.
This is the force, in our time and in every other time, that urges the paranoiac and the manic-depressive to become head of a state.
Complete power not only corrupts but it also attracts the mad.
There is a bitter satire for a future writer in that''.
``But we now find writers obsessed by the nooks and crannies of their ivory towers, and curiously devoted to the growing obscurity and complexity of poetry and non poetry.
I wrote a few years ago that one of the cardinal rules of writing is that the reader should be able to get some idea of what the story is about.
One day, the children had wanted to get up onto General Burnside's horse.
They wanted to see what his back felt like - the General's.
He looked so comfortable being straight.
They wanted to touch the mystery.
Arlene was boosting them up when the policeman came by.
He was very rude.
Arlene had a hard voice, too, this time.
The policeman got a confused, funny look on his face, and he had answered kind of politely, ``Now, look here, lady : I know you got to entertain these kids and all.
But this is a public park and it's a city ordinance that the statues cannot be crawled on''.
Arlene was so ashamed that she hung her head when she said, ``Yes, sir''.
The policeman walked on, but he looked back once.
That had happened on the day when two other unusual things had occurred.
Arlene had taught them a new way to have fun in their little private area; and they had told their mother about the tumbles.
In matters of exact information, that kept her one step behind developments; and so they were consistently true to their principles.
``Never mind'', Arlene had said, after the policeman had left, having pursued the usual unco-operative course of grownups.
``Never mind.
``What is it'' ? asked the children, whose reflexes and replies were invariably so admirably normal and predictable.
Maybe that was why they were cordial and loyal towards the unpredictability of Arlene.
``Just you wait'', advised Arlene, echoing the dialogue in a recent British movie.
And when they had got to their little lawn, they had had a most twirlingly magnificent time.
First, Arlene had put them through some rapid somersaults.
They had protested that that wasn't any surprise.
``Just you wait'', said Arlene again, as though she were discovering the pleasantly tingling insinuations of that handy little sturdy statement.
``This is a warm-up''.
``Is it anything like cooked over oatmeal'' ? asked one of the children.
One of the many things that was so nice about her was that she always took your questions seriously, particularly your very, very serious questions.
Those were especially the ones that all other grownups laughed at loudest.
She would sometimes even get a little hard on you, she took you so seriously.
But not hard for very long.
Just long enough to make you feel important.
``Now'', said Arlene, eventually, making them both sit in formation on a big root of a live oak, the sort of root that divided itself and made their bottoms sag down and feel comfortable.
``Now, we're going to be like what General Burnside and his horse make us think of''.
The children looked at each other and sagged their bottoms down even more comfortably than ever.
Their curiosity went happily out of bounds.
She held herself that way and turned her head towards them and laughed and winked.
``Imagine being able to laugh and wink when you're like the top part of that picture frame at home'', one of them said.
They both laughed and winked back.
``I'm General Burnside's horse, upside down'', Arlene said, sort of gaspingly, for her : even she had to breathe kind of funny when she was in that position.
She made General Burnside's horse's belly do so funny when it was upside down.
Then, she was back on her feet, winking and smiling that enormous smile (she had lots of wonderful big teeth that you never would have suspected she had when she was not smiling).
And she would wink and throw kisses.
They both tried to keep smiling and winking for a long time, but it made their lips and eyelids tremble.
But they kept on clapping for a long, long time.
It all has something to do with General Burnside and his horse''.
This time, it was so grand; they could tell exactly what it was.
It was General Burnside's horse running in a circle.
His legs shook, and the shaking went right on up his body through his hips to his shoulders.
``That's the General's horse'', one of them cried out.
The other remarked, in a happy laughter, ``That's a funny old horse''.
The first one said, ``He sure does shake.
He's old''.
Then there was the General kissing his wife.
But it was even funnier after they had been told.
Their father, when he came back from those many business trips, just bumped their mother on the forehead with his lips and asked if anybody had thought to mix the martinis and put them in the electric icebox.
But not General Burnside.
He was the funniest man.
He never could keep still, even when he didn't move his feet.
Then, they had to get up and be General Burnside.
Or his horse.
All they could think of was to run around in circles, kicking their legs out.
It wasn't very funny.
But that wasn't very funny, either.
``You ought to shake'', Arlene advised them.
And Arlene showed them how to begin.
She also taught them to sing ``I wish I could shimmy like my sister Kate''.
That helped a lot.
They were clumsy, but they were beginning to catch on.
They also caught on a little bit on how to smile a lot without your lips trembling.
``Imagine you won't get your allowance if you're caught not smiling - or smiling with your lips trembling too much'', Arlene suggested.
That helped a great deal.
``I'm sorry, Mrs. Minks'', Arlene said in a tone so low you could hardly hear it.
My mother constituted herself the voice of all of us.
``It's perfectly understandable, Arlene'', my mother said in a friendly way.
``I suppose you all were playing and forgot''?
``Yes, ma'am'', the children chorused heartily.
We couldn't help laughing.
The children rushed off to get rid of their sweaters; and Arlene began tapping the kitchen door open.
``Arlene's a good girl'', my uncle remarked to us; but he said it too soon, for it came out just before the tap to which the door responded.
That tap had a slight bang ish quality.
Her upper lip lifted slightly.
She was biting into a small red radish; and that action always caused her to lift her lip from the sting of the thing.
Also, she lived in continual fear of finding a white worm curled up in a neat, mean little heap at the white center of the radish.
She would try to see over the bulge of her cheeks and somewhat under her teeth to the place where she was biting.
It never worked, naturally; but it made her look unusual.
Also, when she had bitten off half of the small radish, she found the suspense unbearable; and she would snatch the finger held half of the radish out to where she could inspect it.
One could hear a very faint, ladylike sigh of relief.
Actually, it was inaudible to anyone not expecting it.
But the warm joy of her brown eyes was open to the general public.
``It must be awfully good for them.
And awfully kind of Arlene'', she told us later.
``But do you know something curious'' ? she added.
``I reached into that funny little pocket that is high up on my dress.
I have no notion why I reached.
And I found a radish.
Was it an omen?
I thought for a second.
But I would not pamper myself in that silly way.
Then, my mother blushed at this small lie; for she knew and we knew that it was cowardice that had made one more radish that night just too impossible a strain.
Arlene became indispensable; nobody could have told why.
But she was.
It was in the air.
A friend of my father's came to dinner.
He was passing through town and phoned to say hello.
As a result, he was persuaded out to dinner.
As a matter of fact, this happened every four or five months.
Sometimes, he coincided with my father's being at home.
But he was always persuaded out.
he liked children, in a loathsome kind of way; the two youngest in our family always had to be brought in and put through tricks for his entertainment.
When he had left, I could never remember whether he had poked them in their middles, laughingly, with a thick index finger or whether he was merely so much the sort of person who did this that one assumed the action, not bothering to look.
The children loathed him, too.
This evening, they were pushed in from the breakfast room, with odds and ends of dessert distributed over them.
There had been some coconut in it, for I remember my mother's taking a quick glance at a stringy bit of this nut on the cheek of one of them and then putting down her radish with a shiver.
They were pushed gently into the room by Arlene - whose only part appearing were hands that crept quickly back around to the kitchen side of the door.
We had just sat down.
``Tell Mr. Gorboduc what you're doing these days'', my mother advised the children, ceremonially.
This could be told chiefly from a sort of head tossing and prancing, a horse like balkiness of demeanor.
Possibly, the coconut containing dessert had brought up bitter problems of administration.
But, at the beginning, this stayed just in the air.
``We go to the park with this nice lady'', one of them said.
``We have good times''.
This happy bulletin convulsed Mr. Gorboduc.
``You do'' ? he asked, between wheezes of laughter.
He was forced to wipe his eyes.
``You don't step on the flowers, do you?
One of the children maneuvered out of range of the poking index finger.
``No'', he said.
``We don't''.
Mr. Gorboduc took a swig of his sherry.
He was so long thinking that my mother had time to inspect her sherry for dregs.
Usually, this was done when attention was diverted by someone else's long, boring story.
But this time she was nervous : she was open.
Mr. Gorboduc was finally in command of his mind again.
``Tell me - what do you do at the park'' ? he asked.
Only, unfortunately, he could not remove from his voice a nagging insinuation of the direct command.
This nettled the children into the revelation of exact truth, a sacrifice of their secret superiority over grown people, but a victory in the wide fields of perpetration and illegitimate accomplishment.
``We bump'', one said; and the other went on to development of the idea.
``We grind, too'', he said.
My mother was beside herself with curiosity.
``Say that again'', she pleaded.
She laughed a little and tossed the dregs rakishly around in her glass.
``You what''?
She could see that Mr. Gorboduc was intrigued; the hostess in her took over.
``You what''?
My uncle looked at Mr. Gorboduc.
He read Henry James and used to pretend profundity through eye-beamings at people.
Mr. Gorboduc looked down.
He would not look up.
He was very funny about the whole thing.
Pueri Aquam De Silvas Ad Agricolas Portant, a delightful vignette set in the unforgettable epoch of pre Punic War Rome.
Marcellus, the hero, is beset from all sides by the problems of approaching manhood.
The story opens on the eve of his fifty-third birthday, as he prepares for the two weeks of festivities that are to follow.
He at once cancels the celebrations and, buckling on his scimitar, stumbles blindly from the house, where he is hit and killed by a passing oxcart.
The Albany Civic Opera's presentation of Spumoni's immortal Il Sevigli del Spegititgninino, with guest contralto Hattie Sforzt.
An unusual, if not extraordinary, rendering of the classic myth that involves the rescue of Prometheus from the rock by the U.S. Cavalry was given last week in the warehouse of the Albany Leather Conduit Company amid cheers of ``Hubba hubba'' and ``Yalagaloo pip pip''!
After a ``busy'' overture, the curtain rises on a farm scene - the Ranavan Valley in northern Maine.
A dead armadillo, the sole occupant of the stage, symbolizes the crisis and destruction of the Old Order.
Old Order, acted and atonally sung by Grunnfeu Arapacis, the lovely Serbantian import, then entered and delivered the well-known invocation to the god Phineoppus, whereupon the stage is quite unexpectedly visited by a company of wandering Gorshek priests, symbolizing Love, Lust, Prudence and General Motors, respectively.
According to the myth, Old Order then vanishes at stage left and reappears at extreme stage right, but director Shuz skillfully sidesteps the rather gooshey problem of stage effects by simply having Miss Arapacis walk across the stage.
The night we saw it, a rather unpleasant situation arose when the soloist refused to approach the armadillo, complaining - in ad-lib - that ``it smelled''.
We caught the early train to New York.
It's somewhat off the beaten track, to be sure, but therein lies its variety and charm.
For example, probably very few people know that the word ``visrhanik'' that is bantered about so much today stems from the verb ``bouanahsha'' : to salivate.
Likewise, and equally fascinating, is the news that such unlikely synonyms as ``pratakku'', ``sweathruna'', and the tongue-twister ``nnuolapertar-it-vuh-karti-biri-pitknoumen'' all originated in the same village in Bathar-on-Walli Province and are all used to express sentiments concerning British ``imperialism''.
The terms are fairly safe to use on this side of the ocean, but before you start spouting them to your date, it might be best to find out if he was a member of Major Pockmanster's Delhi Regiment, since resentment toward the natives was reportedly very high in that outfit.
The Breeze And Chancellor Neitzbohr, a movie melodrama that concerns the attempts of a West German politician to woo a plaster cast of the Apollo Belvedere.
As you have doubtless guessed already, the plot is plastered with Freudian, Jungian, and Meinckian theory.
For example, when the film is only four minutes old, Neitzbohr refers to a small, Victorian piano stool as ``Wilhelmina'', and we are thereupon subjected to a flashback that informs us that this very piano stool was once used by an epileptic governess whose name, of course, was Doris (the English equivalent, when passed through middle Gaelic derivations, of Wilhelmina).
For the remainder of the movie, Chancellor Neitzbohr proceeds to lash the piano stool with a slat from a Venetian blind that used to hang in the pre-war Reichstag.
In this manner, he seeks to expunge from his own soul the guilt pangs caused by his personal assaults against the English at Dunkirk.
And, when the slat finally shatters, we see him count the fragments, all the while muttering, ``He loves me, he loves me not''.
After a few tortuous moments of wondering who ``he'' is, the camera pans across the room to the plaster statue, and we realize that Neitzbohr is trying to redeem himself in the eyes of a mute piece of sculpture.
The effect, needless to say, is almost terrifying, and though at times a bit obscure, the film is certainly a much needed catharsis for the ``repressed'' movie-goer.
THE MUSIC OF BINI SALFININISTAS, CAPITAL LP 63711 - R, one of the rare recordings of this titanic, yet unsung, composer.
Those persons who were lucky enough to see and hear the performance of his work at the Brest-Silevniov Festival in August, 1916, will certainly welcome his return to public notice; and it is not unlikely that, even as the great Bach lay dormant for so many years, so has the erudite, ingenious SalFininistas passed through his ``purgatory'' of neglect.
But now, under the guidance of the contemporary composer Marc Schlek, Jr., a major revival is under way.
As he leads the Neurenschatz Skolkau Orchestra, Schlek gives a tremendously inspired performance of both the Baslot and Rattzhenfuut concertos, including the controversial Tschilwyk cadenza, which was included at the conductor's insistence.
A major portion of the credit should also go to flautist Haumd for his rendering of the almost impossible ``Indianapolis'' movement in the Baslot.
Not only was Haumd's intonation and phrasing without flaw, but he seemed to take every tonal eccentricity in stride.
We would have preferred, however, to have had the rest of the orchestra refrain from laughing at this and other spots on the recording, since it mars an otherwise sober, if not lofty, performance.
As Broadway itself becomes increasingly weighted down by trite, heavy-handed, commercially successful musicals and inspirational problem dramas, the American theatre is going through an inexorable renaissance in that nebulous area known as ``off-Broadway''.
For the last two years, this frontier of the arts has produced a number of so-called ``non dramas'' which have left indelible, bittersweet impressions on the psyche of this veteran theatregoer.
The latest and, significantly, greatest fruit of this theatrical vine is The, an adaptation of Basho's classic frog haiku by Roger Entwhistle, a former University of Maryland chemistry instructor.
Although the play does show a certain structural amateurishness (there are eleven acts varying in length from twenty-five seconds to an hour and a half), the statement it makes concerning the ceaseless yearning and searching of youth is profound and worthy of our attention.
The action centers about a group of outspoken and offbeat students sitting around a table in a cafeteria and their collective and ultimately fruitless search for a cup of hot coffee.
They are relentlessly rebuffed on all sides by a waitress, the police, and an intruding government tutor.
The innocence that they tried to conceal at the beginning is clearly destroyed forever when one of them, asking for a piece of lemon-meringue pie, gets a plate of English muffins instead.
Leaving the theatre after the performance, I had a flash of intuition that life, after all (as Rilke said), is just a search for the nonexistent cup of hot coffee, and that this unpretentious, moving, clever, bitter slice of life was the greatest thing to happen to the American theatre since Brooks Atkinson retired.
A biting, pithy parable of the all pervading hollowness of modern life, the piece has been set by Mlle Lagoon to a sumptuous score (a single motif played over and over by four thousand French horns) by existentialist hot-shot Jean-Paul Sartre.
Petite, lovely Yvette Chadroe plays the nymphomaniac engagingly.
Ever since Bambi, and, more recently, Born Free, there have been a lot of books about animals, but few compare with Max Fink's wry, understated, charming, and immensely readable My Friend, the Quizzical Salamander.
Done in the modern style of a ``confession'', Fink tells in exquisite detail how he came to know, and, more important, love his mother's pet salamander, Alicia.
It is not an entirely happy book, as Mrs. Fink soon becomes jealous of Alicia and, in retaliation, refuses to continue to scrape the algae off her glass.
Max, in a fit of despair, takes Alicia and runs off for two marvelous weeks in Burbank (Fink calls it ``the most wonderful and lovely fourteen days in my whole life''), at the end of which Alicia tragically contracts Parkinson's disease and dies.
This brief resume hardly does the book justice, but I heartily recommend it to all those who are engages with the major problems of our time.
Opera in the Grand Tradition, along with mah-jongg, seems to be staging a well deserved comeback.
In this country, the two guiding lights are, without doubt, Felix Fing and Anna Pulova.
Miss Pulova has a voice that Maria Callas once described as ``like chipping teeth with a screw driver'', and her round, opalescent face becomes fascinatingly reflective of the emotions demanded by the role of Rosalie.
The Champs Elysees is literally littered this summer with the prostrate bodies of France's beat-up beatnik jeunes filles.
Cause of all this commotion : squat, pug-nosed, balding, hopelessly ugly Jean-Pierre Bravado, a Bogartian figure, who plays a sadistic, amoral, philosophic Tasti-Freeze salesman in old New-Waver Fredrico de Mille Rossilini's endlessly provocative film, A Sour Sponge.
Bravado has been alternately described as ``a symbol of the new grandeur of France and myself'' (De Gaulle) and ``a decadent, disgusting slob''!
(Norman Mailer), but no one can deny that the screen crackles with electricity whenever he is on it.
Soaring to stardom along with him, Margo Felicity Brighetti, a luscious and curvaceously beguiling Italian starlet, turns in a creditable performance as an airplane mechanic.
The battle of the drib-drool continues, but most of New York's knowing sophisticates of Abstract Expressionism are stamping their feet impatiently in expectation of V (for Vindication) Day, September first, when Augustus Quasimodo's first one-man show opens at the Guggenheim.
We have heard that after seeing Mr. Quasimodo's work it will be virtually impossible to deny the artistic validity and importance of the whole abstract movement.
And it is thought by many who think about such things that Quasimodo is the logical culmination of a school that started with Monet, progressed through Kandinsky and the cubist Picasso, and blossomed just recently in Pollock and De Kooning.
``I paint the nothing'', he said once to Franz Kline and myself, ``the nothing that is behind the something, the inexpressible, unpaintable' tick' in the unconscious, the' spirit' of the moment resting forever, suspended like a huge balloon, in non time''.
It is his relentlessness and unwavering adherence to this revolutionary artistic philosophy that has enabled him to paint such pictures as ``The Invasion of Cuba''.
In this work, his use of non color is startling and skillful.
The sweep of space, the delicate counterbalance of the white masses, the over-all completeness and unity, the originality and imagination, all entitle it to be called an authentic masterpiece.
I asked Quasimodo recently how he accomplished this, and he replied that he had painted his model ``a beautiful shade of red and then had her breathe on the canvas'', which was his typical tongue-in-cheek way of chiding me for my lack of sensitivity.
Dear Sirs : Let me begin by clearing up any possible misconception in your minds, wherever you are.
The collective by which I address you in the title above is neither patronizing nor jocose but an exact industrial term in use among professional thieves.
It is, I am reliably given to understand, the technical argot for those who engage in your particular branch of the boost; i.e., burglars who rob while the tenants are absent, in contrast to hot slough prowlers, those who work while the occupants are home.
Since the latter obviously require an audacity you do not possess, you may perhaps suppose that I am taunting you as socially inferior.
Above all, disabuse yourselves of any thought that I propose to vent moral indignation at your rifling my residence, to whimper over the loss of a few objets d'art, or to shame you into rectitude.
My object, rather, is to alert you to an aspect or two of the affair that could have the gravest implications for you, far beyond the legal sanctions society might inflict.
You have unwittingly set in motion forces so malign, so vindictive, that it would be downright inhumane of me not to warn you about them.
Quite candidly, fellows, I wouldn't be in your shoes for all the rice in China.
As you've doubtless forgotten the circumstances in the press of more recent depredations, permit me to recapitulate them briefly.
Sometime on Saturday evening, August 22nd, while my family and I were dining at the Hostaria dell 'Orso, in Rome, you jimmied a window of our home in Bucks County, Pennsylvania, and let yourselves into the premises.
Hastening to the attic, the temperature of which was easily hotter than the Gold Coast, you proceeded to mask the windows with a fancy wool coverlet, some khaki pants, and the like, and to ransack the innumerable boxes and barrels stored there.
What you were looking for (unless you make a hobby of collecting old tennis rackets and fly screens) eludes me, but to judge from phonograph records scattered about a fumed oak Victrola, you danced two tangos and a paso doble, which must have been fairly enervating in that milieu.
You then descended one story, glommed a television set from the music room - the only constructive feature of your visit, by the way - and, returning to the ground floor, entered the master bedroom.
Rummaging through a stack of drawers nearby, you unearthed an antique French chess set in ivory and sandalwood, which, along with two box Kodaks, you added to your haul.
Then, having wrapped the lot in an afghan my dog customarily slept on, you lammed out the front door, considerately leaving it open for neighbors to discover.
So much for the tiresome facts, as familiar to you, I'm sure, as to the constables and state troopers who followed in your wake.
The foregoing, aided by several clues I'll withhold to keep you on your toes, will pursue you with a tenacity worthy of Inspector Javert, but before they close in, gird yourselves, I repeat, for a vengeance infinitely more pitiless.
Fourteen of the sculptures you took posses properties of a most curious and terrifying nature, as you will observe when your limbs begin to wither and your hair falls out in patches.
In time, these minor manifestations will multiply and effloresce, riddling you with frambesia, the king's evil, sheep rot, and clonic spasm, until your very existence becomes a burden and you cry out for release.
All this, though, is simply a prelude, a curtain-raiser, for what ensues, and I doubt whether any Occidental could accurately forecast it.
If, however, it would help to intensify your anguish, I can delimit the powers of a few of the divinities you've affronted and describe the punishment they meted out in one analogous instance.
Hold on tight.
Now, you probably share the widespread Western belief that the Lord Buddha is the most compassionate of the gods, much more so than Jehovah and Allah and the rest.
' Fess up - don't you?
Well, ordinarily he is, except (as the Wheel of the Law specifies) toward impious folk who steal, disturb, or maltreat the Presence.
Very peculiar retribution indeed seems to overtake such jokers.
Eight or ten years ago, a couple of French hoods stole a priceless Khmer head from the Musee Guimet, in Paris, and a week later crawled into the Salpetriere with unmistakable symptoms of leprosy.
Hell's own amount of chaulmoogra oil did nothing to alleviate their torment; they expired amid indescribable fantods, imploring the Blessed One to forgive their desecration.
Any reputable French interne can supply you with a dozen similar instances, and I'll presently recount a case out of my own personal experience, but, for the moment, let's resume our catalogue.
Whether the pair of Sudanese ivory carvings you lifted really possess the juju to turn your livers to lead, as a dealer in Khartoum assured me, I am not competent to say.
Likewise the ivory Chinese female figure known as a ``doctor lady'' (provenance Honan); a friend of mine removing her from the curio cabinet for inspection was felled as if by a hammer, but he had previously drunk a quantity of applejack.
They hail from Travancore, a state in the subcontinent where Kali, the goddess of death, is worshiped.
Have you ever heard of thuggee?
Nuf sed.
But it is the wooden sculpture from Bali, the one representing two men with their heads bent backward and their bodies interlaced by a fish, that I particularly call to your attention.
Oddly enough, this is an amulet against housebreakers, presented to the mem and me by a local rajah in 1949.
Inscribed around its base is a charm in Balinese, a dialect I take it you don't comprehend.
Neither do I, but the Tjokorda Agoeng was good enough to translate, and I'll do as much for you.
Whosoever violates our rooftree, the legend states, can expect maximal sorrow.
The teeth will rain from his mouth like pebbles, his wife will make him cocu with fishmongers, and a trolley car will grow in his stomach.
The cycle of disaster starts the moment they touch any belonging of ours, and dogs them unto the forty-fifth generation.
Sort of remorseless, isn't it?
Still, there it is.
Now, you no doubt regard the preceding as pap; you're tooling around full of gage in your hot rods, gorging yourselves on pizza and playing pinball in the taverns and generally behaving like Ubermenschen.
In that case, listen to what befell another wisenheimer who tangled with our joss.
A couple of years back, I occupied a Village apartment whose outer staircase contained the type of niche called a ``coffin turn''.
In it was a stone Tibetan Buddha I had picked up in Bombay, and occasionally, to make merit, my wife and I garlanded it with flowers or laid a few pennies in its lap.
After a while, we became aware that the money was disappearing as fast as we replenished it.
Our suspicions eventually centered, by the process of elimination, on a grocer's boy, a thoroughly bad hat, who delivered cartons to the people overhead.
I learned, for example, that he made a practice of yapping at dogs he encountered and, in winter, of sprinkling salt on the icy pavement to scarify their feet.
His energy was prodigious; sometimes he would be up before dawn, clad as a garbage collector and hurling pails into areaways to exasperate us, and thereafter would hurry to the Bronx Zoo to grimace at the lions and press cigar butts against their paws.
Evenings, he was frequently to be seen at restaurants like Enrico + Paglieri's or Peter's Backyard drunkenly donning ladies' hats and singing ``O Sole Mio''.
In short, and to borrow an arboreal phrase, slash timber.
Well, the odious little toad went along chivying animals and humans who couldn't retaliate, and in due course, as was inevitable, overreached himself.
One morning, we discovered not only that the pennies were missing from the idol but that a cigarette had been stubbed out in its lap.
``Now he's bought it'', said my wife contentedly.
``No divinity will hold still for that.
He's really asking for it''.
The next time we saw him, he was a changed person; he had aged thirty years, and his face, the color of tallow, was crisscrossed with wrinkles, as though it had been wrapped in chicken wire.
Some sort of nemesis was haunting his footsteps, he told us in a quavering voice - either an ape specter or Abe Spector, a process server, we couldn't determine which.
His eyes had the same dreadful rigid stare as Dr. Grimesby Roylott's when he was found before his open safe wearing the speckled band.
The grocery the youth worked for soon tired of his depressing effect on customers, most of whom were sufficiently neurotic without the threat of incubi, and let him go.
The beautiful, the satisfying part of his disintegration, however, was the masterly way the Buddha polished him off.
Reduced to beggary, he at last got a job as office boy to a television producer.
His hubris, deficiency of taste, and sadism carried him straightaway to the top.
He evolved programs that plumbed new depths of bathos and besmirched whole networks, and quickly superseded his boss.
Not long ago, I rode down with him in an elevator in Radio City; he was talking to himself thirteen to the dozen and smoking two cigars at once, clearly a man in extremis.
``I wouldn't be in his shoes for all the rice in China.
There's some kind of a nemesis haunting his footsteps''.
However one looks at it, therefore, I'd say that your horoscope for this autumn is the reverse of rosy.
The inventory you acquired from me isn't going to be easy to move; you can't very well sidle up to people on the street and ask if they want to buy a hot Bodhisattva.
Additionally, since you're going to be hors de combat pretty soon with sprue, yaws, Delhi boil, the Granville wilt, liver fluke, bilharziasis, and a host of other complications of the hex you've aroused, you mustn't expect to be lionized socially.
My advice, if you live long enough to continue your vocation, is that the next time you're attracted by the exotic, pass it up - it's nothing but a headache.
As you can count on me to do the same.
compassionately yours ,
S. J. Perelman.
She was a living doll and no mistake - the blue-black bang, the wide cheekbones, olive flushed, that betrayed the Cherokee strain in her Midwestern lineage, and the mouth whose only fault, in the novelist's carping phrase, was that the lower lip was a trifle too voluptuous.
From what I was able to gauge in a swift, greedy glance, the figure inside the coral colored boucle dress was stupefying.
Your invitation to write about Serge Prokofieff to honor his 70 th Anniversary for the April issue of Sovietskaya Muzyka is accepted with pleasure, because I admire the music of Prokofieff; and with sober purpose, because the development of Prokofieff personifies, in many ways, the course of music in the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.
The Serge Prokofieff whom we knew in the United States of America was gay, witty, mercurial, full of pranks and bonheur - and very capable as a professional musician.
These qualities endeared him to both the musicians and the social economic haute monde which supported the concert world of the post World War 1, era.
Prokofieff's outlook as a composer pianist conductor in America was, indeed, brilliant.
Prokofieff's Classical Symphony was hailed as an ingenious work from a naturally gifted and well trained musician still in his twenties.
To the Traditionalists, it was a brilliant satire on modernism; to the Neo Classicists, it was a challenge to the pre-war world.
What was it to Prokofieff?
Certainly its composer was an ascending star on a new world horizon.
I heard the Classical Symphony for the first time when Koussevitzky conducted it in Paris in 1927.
All musical Paris was there.
Some musicians were enthusiastic, some skeptical.
I myself was one of the skeptics (35 years ago).
I remember Ernest Bloch in the foyer, shouting in his high-pitched voice : ``it may be a tour de force, mais mon Dieu, can anyone take this music seriously''?
The answer is, ``Yes''!
Certainly, America took Prokofieff and his Classical Symphony seriously, and with a good deal of pleasure.
His life-long friend, Serge Koussevitzky, gave unreservedly of his praise and brilliant performances in Boston, New York, and Washington, D. C., to which he added broadcastings and recordings for the whole nation.
``Uncle Sam'' was, indeed, a rich uncle to Prokofieff, in those opulent, post-war victory years of peace and prosperity, bold speculations and extravaganzas, enjoyment and pleasure : ``The Golden Twenties''.
We attended the premieres of his concertos, symphonies, and suites; we studied, taught, and performed his piano sonatas, chamber music, gavottes, and marches; we bought his records and played them in our schools and universities.
We unanimously agreed that Prokofieff had won his rights as a world citizen to the first ranks of Twentieth Century Composers.
Nevertheless, Prokofieff was much influenced by Paris during the Twenties : the Paris which was the artistic center of the Western World - the social Paris to which Russian aristocracy migrated - the chic Paris which attracted the tourist dollars of rich America - the avant-garde Paris of Diaghileff, Stravinsky, Koussevitzky, Cocteau, Picasso - the laissez-faire Paris of Dadaism and ultramodern art - the Paris sympathique which took young composers to her bosom with such quick and easy enthusiasms.
So young Prokofieff was the darling of success:
in his motherland; in the spacious hunting grounds of ``Uncle Sam''; in the exciting salons of his lovely, brilliant Paris - mistress of gaiety - excess and abandon - world theatre of new found freedoms in tone, color, dance, design, and thought.
Meanwhile, three great terrible forces were coagulating and crystallizing.
In this world-wide conscription of men, minds, and machines, Prokofieff was recalled to his native land.
The world exploded when Fascism challenged all concepts of peace and liberty, and the outraged, freedom loving peoples of the Capitalist and Socialist worlds combined forces to stamp Fascist tyranny into cringing submission.
In this changed world, Prokofieff settled to find himself, and to create for large national purpose.
Here, this happy, roving son of good fortune proved that he could accept the disciplines of a new social economic order fighting for its very existence and ideals in a truculent world.
Here, Prokofieff became a workman in the vineyards of Socialism - producing music for the masses.
It is at this point in his life that the mature Prokofieff emerges.
One might have expected that such a violent epoch of transition would have destroyed the creative flair of a composer, especially one whose works were so fluent and spontaneous.
But no : Prokofieff grew.
He accepted the environment of his destiny - took root and grew to fulfill the stature of his early promise.
By 1937 he had clarified his intentions to serve his people : ``I have striven for clarity and melodious idiom, but at the same time I have by no means attempted to restrict myself to the accepted methods of harmony and melody.
This is precisely what makes lucid, straightforward music so difficult to compose - the clarity must be new, not old''.
And with what resource did Prokofieff back up his Credo of words - with torrents of powerful music.
Compare the vast difference in scope and beauty between his neat and witty little Classical Symphony and his big, muscular, passionate, and eloquent Fifth Symphony; or the Love for Three Oranges (gay as it is) with the wonderful, imaginative, colorful, and subtle tenderness of the magnificent ballet, The Stone Flower.
This masterpiece has gaiety, too, but it is the gaiety of dancing people : earthy, salty and humorous.
Of course, these works are not comparable, even though the same brain conceived them.
The early works were conceived for a sophisticated, international audience; the later works were conceived to affirm a way of life for fellow citizens.
However, in all of Prokofieff's music, young or mature, we find his profile - his ``signature'' - his craftsman's attitude.
Prokofieff never forsakes his medium for the cause of experimentation per se.
In orchestration, he stretches the limits of instrumentation with good judgment and a fine imagination for color.
His sense for rhythmic variety and timing is impeccable.
His counterpoint is pertinent, skillful, and rarely thick.
Also, it should be noted that the polytonal freedom of his melodies and harmonic modulations, the brilliant orchestrations, the adroitness for evading the heaviness of figured bass, the skill in florid counterpoint were not lost in his mature output, even in the spectacular historical dramas of the stage and cinema, where a large, dramatic canvas of sound was required.
That Prokofieff's harmonies and forms sometimes seem professionally routine to our ears, may or may not indicate that he was less of an ``original'' than we prefer to believe.
Need for novelty may be a symptom of cultural fatigue and instability.
Prokofieff might well emerge as a cultural hero, who, by the force of his creative life, helped preserve the main stream of tradition, to which the surviving idioms of current experimentalism may be eventually added and integrated.
At this date, it seems probable that the name of Serge Prokofieff will appear in the archives of History, as an effective Traditionalist, who was fully aware of the lure and danger of experimentation, and used it as it served his purpose; yet was never caught up in it - never a slave to its academic dialectics.
Certainly, it is the traditional clarity of his music which has endeared him to the Western World - not his experimentations.
So Prokofieff was able to cultivate his musical talents and harvest a rich reward from them.
Nor can anyone be certain that Prokofieff would have done better, or even as well, under different circumstances.
Why did Prokofieff expand in stature and fecundity, while Stravinsky (who leaped into fame like a young giant) dwindled in stature and fruitfulness?
I think the answer is to be found in Prokofieff's own words:
``the clarity must be new, not old''.
When Prokofieff forged his new clarity of ``lucid, straightforward music, so difficult to compose'', he shaped his talents to his purpose.
When Stravinsky shaped his purpose to the shifting scenes of many cultures, many salons, many dialectics, many personalities, he tried to refashion himself into a stylist of many styles, determined by many disparate cultures.
Prokofieff was guided in a consistent direction by the life of his own people - by the compass of their national ideas.
But Stravinsky was swayed by the attitudes of whatever culture he was reflecting.
In all his miscalculations, Stravinsky made the fatal historical blunder of presuming that he could transform other composers' inspirations - representing many peoples, time periods and styles - into his own music by warping the harmony, melody, or form, to verify his own experiments.
Because of the authentic homogeneity of his early Nationalistic materials, and his flair for orchestrations - his brilliant Petruchka, his savage Sacre du Printemps, his incisive Les Noces - the world kept hoping that he could recapture the historical direction for which his native talents were predisposed.
His various aesthetic postulates remain as landmarks of a house divided against itself : Supra Expressionism, Neo Paganism, Neo Classicism, Neo Romanticism, Neo Jazz, Neo Ecclesiasticism, Neo Popularism, and most recently, Post Serialism - all competing with each other within one composer!
What a patchwork of proclamations and renunciations!
Meager and shabby by-products linger to haunt our memories of a once mighty protagonist; a maladroit reharmonization of our National Anthem (The Star-Spangled Banner); a poor attempt to write an idiomatic jazz concerto; a circus polka for elephants; his hopes that the tunes from his old music might be used for popular American commercial songs!
Stravinsky, nearing the age of eighty, is like a lost and frantic bird, flitting from one abandoned nest to another, searching for a home.
How differently Prokofieff's life unfolded.
Prokofieff was able to adjust his creative personality to a swiftly changing world without losing his particular force and direction.
In the process, his native endowments were stretched, strengthened and disciplined to serve their human purpose.
With a large and circumspect 20 th Century technique, he wove the materials of national heroes and events, national folklore and children's fairy tales - Slavic dances and love songs - into a solid musical literature which served his people well, and is providing much enjoyment to the World at large.
Of course, it must not be forgotten that in achieving this historical feat, Prokofieff had the vast resources of his people behind him; time and economic security; symphony orchestras, opera and ballet companies; choruses, chamber music ensembles; soloists; recordings; broadcastings; television; large and eager audiences.
economic security and cultural opportunities, incisive idioms, social fermentations for a new national ideology - a sympathetic public and a large body of performers especially trained to fulfill his purpose.
Thus in Prokofieff the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics produced one of the great composers of the Twentieth Century.
That his moods, even in his early years, are those of his people, does him honor, as his music honors those who inspired it.
That he mastered every aspect of his medium according to his own great talents and contemporary judgments, is a good and solid symbol of his people under the tremendous pressures of proclaiming and practising the rigors of a new culture; and perhaps of even greater significance - his music is strong 20 th Century evidence of the effectiveness of Evolution, based on a broad Traditionalism for the creative art of music.
April 10 marked a memorable date in New York's musical history - indeed in the musical history of the entire eastern United States.
On that date the Musicians Emergency Fund, organized to furnish employment for musicians unable to obtain engagements during the depression and to provide relief for older musicians who lost their fortunes in the stock market crash, observed its 30 th anniversary.
Roy Mason is essentially a landscape painter whose style and direction has a kinship with the English watercolorists of the early nineteenth century, especially the beautifully patterned art of John Sell Cotman.
And like this English master, Mason realizes his subjects in large, simplified masses which, though they seem effortless, are in reality the result of skilled design born of hard work and a thorough distillation of the natural form that inspired them.
As a boy Roy Mason began the long process of extracting the goodness of the out-of-doors, its tang of weather, its change of seasons, its variable moods.
Out of this background of hunting and fishing, it was only natural that Roy first painted subjects he knew best : hunters in the field, fishermen in the stream, ducks and geese on the wing - almost always against a vast backdrop of weather landscape.
It is this subject matter that has brought Mason a large and enthusiastic following among sportsmen, but it is his exceptional performance with this motif that commends him to artists and discerning collectors.
Mason had to earn the privilege of devoting himself exclusively to painting.
Like many others, he had to work hard, long hours in a struggling family business which, though it was allied to art of a kind - the design and production of engraved seals - bore no relation to the painting of pictures.
But it did teach Roy the basic techniques of commercial art, and later, for twelve years, he and his sister Nina conducted an advertising art studio in Philadelphia.
On the death of their father, they returned to their home in Batavia, New York.
After more years of concentrated effort, Roy and his brother Max finally established a thriving family business at the old stand.
During all this time Roy continued to paint, first only on weekends, and then, as the family business permitted, for longer periods.
Gradually he withdrew from the shop altogether, and for the past thirty years, he has worked independently as a painter, except for his continued hunting and fishing expeditions.
Except for a rich friendship with the painter, Chauncey Ryder who gave him the only professional instruction he ever had - and this was limited to a few lessons, though the two artists often went on painting trips together - Roy developed his art by himself.
In the best tradition, he first taught himself to see, then to draw with accuracy and assurance, and then to paint.
He worked in oil for years before beginning his work in watercolor, and his first public recognition and early honors, including his election to the Academy, were for his essays in the heavier medium.
Gradually watercolor claimed his greater affection until today it has become his major, if not exclusive, technique.
It has been my privilege to paint with Roy Mason on numerous occasions, mostly in the vicinity of Batavia.
More often than not I have found easy excuse to leave my own work and stand at a respectable distance where I could watch this man transform raw nature into a composed, not imitative, painting.
What I have observed time and time again is a process of integration, integration that begins as abstract design and gradually takes on recognizable form; color patterns that are made to weave throughout the whole composition; and that over all, amazing control of large washes which is the Mason stylemark.
Finally come those little flicks of a rigger brush and the job is done.
Inspiring - yes; instructive - maybe; duplicable - no!
``Of late years, I find that I like best to work out-of-doors.
First I make preliminary watercolor sketches in quarter scale (approximately * * f inches) in which I pay particular attention to the design principles of three simple values - the lightest light, the middle tone, and the darkest dark - by reducing the forms of my subject to these large patterns.
If a human figure or wild life are to be part of the projected final picture, I try to place them in the initial sketch.
For me, these will belong more completely to their surroundings if they are conceived in this early stage, though I freely admit that I do not hesitate to add or eliminate figures on the full sheet when it serves my final purpose.
``I am thoroughly convinced that most watercolors suffer because the artist expects nature will do his composing for him; as a result, such pictures are only a literal translation of what the artist finds in the scene before him.
Just because a tree or other object appears in a certain spot is absolutely no reason to place it in the same position in the painting, unless the position serves the design of the whole composition.
If the artist would study his work more thoroughly and move certain units in his design, often only slightly, finer pictures would result.
Out of long experience I have found that incidental figures and other objects like trees, logs, and bushes can be traced from the original sketch and moved about in the major areas on the final sheet until they occupy the right position, which I call' clicking'.
``Speed in painting a picture is valid only when it imparts spontaneity and crispness, but unless the artist has lots of experience so that he can control rapid execution, he would do well to take these first sketches and soberly reorder their design to achieve a unified composition.
Often, in working out-of-doors under all conditions of light and atmosphere, a particular passage that looked favorable in relation to the subject will be too bright, too dull, or too light, or too dark when viewed indoors in a mat.
When this occurs, I make the change on the sketch or on the final watercolor - if I have been working on a full sheet in the field.
``When working from one of my sketches I square it up and project its linear form freehand to the watercolor sheet with charcoal.
When this linear draft is completed, I dust it down to a faint image.
From this point, I paint in as direct a manner as possible, by flowing on the washes with as pure a color mixture as I can manage.
However, first I thoughtfully study my sketch for improvement of color and design along the lines I have described.
Then I plan my attack : the parts I will finish first, the range of values, the accenting of minor details - all in all, mechanics of producing the finished job with a maximum of crispness.
The longer I work, the more I am sure that for me, at least, a workmanlike method is important.
Trial and error are better placed in the preliminary sketch than in hoping for miracles in the final painting.
I work on a watercolor easel in the field, and frequently resort to a large garden umbrella to protect my eyes from undue strain.
In my studio I work at a tilt-top table, but leave the paper unfixed so that I can move it freely to control the washes.
I have used a variety of heavy-weight hand-made papers, but prefer an English make, rough surface, in 400 - pound weight.
After selecting a sheet and inspecting it for flaws (even the best sometimes has foreign' nubbins' on its surface), I sponge it thoroughly on both sides with clean, cold water.
Then I dry the sheet under mild pressure so that it will lie flat as a board.
``In addition to the usual tools, I make constant use of cleansing tissue, not only to wipe my brushes, but to mop up certain areas, to soften edges, and to open up lights in dark washes.
The great absorbency of this tissue and the fact that it is easier to control than a sponge makes it an ideal tool for the watercolorist.
I also use a small electric hand blower to dry large washes in the studio.
``My brushes are different from those used by most watercolorists, for I combine the sable and the bristle.
The bristles are a Fitch 2 and a one-half inch brush shaved to a sharp chisel edge.
``My usual palette consists of top-quality colors:
alizarin crimson, orange, raw sienna, raw umber, burnt sienna, sepia, cerulean blue, cobalt blue, French ultramarine blue, Winsor green, Hooker's green 2, cadmium yellow pale, yellow ochre, Payne's gray, charcoal gray, Davy's gray, and ivory black''.
In analyzing the watercolors of Roy Mason, the first thing that comes to mind is their essential decorativeness, yet this word has such a varied connotation that it needs some elaboration here.
True, a Mason watercolor is unmistakably a synthesis of nature rather than a detailed inventory.
Unlike many decorative patterns that present a static flat convention, this artist's pictures are full of atmosphere and climate.
Long observation has taught Mason that most landscape can be reduced to three essential planes : a foreground in sharp focus - either a light area with dark accents or a dark one with lights; a middle distance often containing the major motif; and a background, usually a silhouetted form foiled against the sky.
In following this general principle, Mason provides the observer with a natural eye progression from foreground to background, and the illusion of depth is instantly created.
When painting, Mason's physical eyes are half closed, while his mind's eye is wide open, and this circumstance accounts in part for the impression he wishes to convey.
It is for this reason that Roy avoids selecting subjects that require specific recognition of place for their enjoyment.
His pictures generalize, though they are inspired by a particular locale; they universalize in terms of weather, skies, earth, and people.
By dealing with common landscape in an uncommon way, Roy Mason has found a particular niche in American landscape art.
Living with his watercolors is a vicarious experience of seeing nature distilled through the eyes of a sensitive interpretor, a breath and breadth of the outdoor world to help man honor the Creator of it all.
The artist was born in Gilbert Mills, New York, in 1886, and until two years ago when he and his wife moved to California, he lived in western New York, in Batavia.
When I looked up the actual date of his birth and found it to be March 15 th, I realized that Roy was born under the right zodiacal sign for a watercolorist:
the water sign of Pisces (February 18 - March 20).
And how very often a water plane is featured in his landscapes, and how appropriate that he should appear in American Artist again, in his natal month of March!
Over the years, beginning in 1929, Mason has been awarded seventeen major prizes including two gold medals; two Ranger Fund purchase awards; the Joseph Pennell Memorial Medal; two American Watercolor Society prizes; the Blair Purchase Prize for watercolor, Art Institute of Chicago; and others in Buffalo, New York, Chautauqua, New Haven, Rochester, Rockport, and most recently, the $ 300 prize for a watercolor at the Laguna Beach Art Association ,
Other memberships include the American Watercolor Society, Philadelphia Water Color Club, Allied Artists of America, Audubon Artists, Baltimore Watercolor Society.
Every taxpayer is well aware of the vast size of our annual defense budget and most of our readers also realize that a large portion of these expenditures go for military electronics.
We have noted how some electronic techniques, developed for the defense effort, have evenutally been used in commerce and industry.
The host of novel applications of electronics to medical problems is far more thrilling because of their implication in matters concerning our health and vitality.
When we consider the electronic industry potential for human betterment, the prospect is staggering.
The author has recently studied the field of medical electronics and has been convinced that, in this area alone, the application of electronic equipment has enormous possibilities.
The benefits electronics can bring to bio-medicine may be greater by far than any previous medical discovery.
We use the term ``bio-medicine'' because of the close interrelation between biology and medical research.
Electronics has been applied to medicine for many years in the form of such familiar equipment as the x-ray machine, the electrocardiograph, and the diathermy machine.
Commonly used electronic devices which are found in practically every hospital are closed-circuit TV and audio systems for internal paging and instruction, along with radiation counters, timers, and similar devices.
In this article we will concentrate on the advances in the application of electronics in bio-medical research laboratories because this is where tomorrow's commonplace equipment originates.
From the wealth of material and the wide variety of different electronic techniques perfected in the past few years we have selected a few examples which appear to be headed for use in the immediate future and which offer completely new tools in medical research.
Many cells, bacteria, and other microorganisms are transparent to visible light and must be stained for microscopic investigation.
This stain often disrupts the normal cell activity or else colors only the outside.
A completely new insight into living cells and their structure will be possible by use of a new technique which replaces visible light with ultraviolet radiation and combines a microscope with a color - TV system to view the results.
Fig. 1 is a simplified block diagram of the ultraviolet microscopy system developed at the Medical Electronics Center of Rockefeller Institute.
By combining the talents of a medical man, Dr. Aterman, a biophysicist, Mr. Berkely, and an electronics expert, Dr. Zworykin, this novel technique has been developed which promises to open broad avenues to understanding life processes.
Three different wavelengths of ultraviolet radiation are selected by the variable filters placed in front of the three mercury xenon lights which serve as the ultraviolet sources.
Instead of the observer's eye the image orthicon in the TV camera does the ``looking''.
The microscope and orthicon are both selected to operate well into the ultraviolet spectrum, which means that all lenses must be quartz.
The video signal is amplified and then switched, in synchronism with the three ultraviolet light sources which are sequenced by the rotating mirror so that during one-twentieth of a second only one wavelength, corresponding to red, green, or blue, is seen.
(Note:
Because of light leakage from one ultraviolet source to another, the lights are switched by a commutator like assembly rotated by a synchronous motor.
This assembly also supplies a 20 - cps switching gate for the electronics circuitry .)
This is the same system as was used in the field sequential color TV system which preceded the present simultaneous system.
Three separate amplifiers then drive a 21 - inch tricolor tube.
The result is a color picture of the specimen where the primary colors correspond to the three different ultraviolet wavelengths.
Different parts of these cells sometimes absorb or reflect different wavelengths so that it is often possible to see internal portions of cells in a different color.
Where the microscope under visible light may show only vague shadows or nothing at all, ultraviolet illumination and subsequent translation into a color TV picture reveal a wealth of detail.
At the present time the research team which pioneered this new technique is primarily interested in advancing and perfecting it.
The medical title of ``Lobar Ventilation in Man'' by Drs. C. J. Martin and A. C. Young, covers a brief paper which is one part of a much larger effort to apply electronics to the study of the respiratory process.
At the University of Washington Medical School, the electronics group has developed the ``Respiratory Gas Analyzer'' shown in Fig. 3.
This unit, affectionately dubbed ``The Monster'', can be wheeled to any convenient location and provides a wealth of information about the patient's breathing.
In the lower center rack an 8 - channel recorder indicates the percentage of carbon dioxide and nitrogen from the upper and lower lobes of one lung, the total volume of inhalation per breath, the flow of air from both lobes, and the pressure of the two lobes with respect to each other.
Usually the patient breathes into a mouthpiece while walking a treadmill, standing still, or in some other medically significant position.
From the resulting data the doctor can determine lung defects with hitherto unknown accuracy and detail.
For many of these measurements the chest must be opened, but the blood vessels and the heart itself remain undisturbed.
A group of researchers at the University of Washington have given a paper which briefly outlines some of these techniques.
One simple method of measuring the expansion of the heart is to tie a thin rubber tube, filled with mercury, around the heart and record the change in resistance as the tube is stretched.
A balanced resistance bridge and a pen recorder are all the electronic instrumentation needed.
Sonar can be used to measure the thickness of the heart by placing small crystal transducers at opposite sides of the heart or blood vessel and exciting one with some pulsed ultrasonic energy.
The travel time of sound in tissue is about 1500 meters per second thus it takes about 16 | msec. to traverse 25 mm. of tissue.
A sonar or radar type of pulse generator and time-delay measuring system is required for body tissue evaluation.
In addition to the heart and aorta, successful measurements of liver and spleen have also been made by this technique.
The Doppler effect, using ultrasonic signals, can be employed to measure the flow of blood without cutting into the blood vessel.
It uses both an ultrasonic dimensioning arrangement of the heart and a catheter carrying a thermistor inserted into the bloodstream.
The latter measures the heat carried away by the bloodstream as an indication of the velocity of the blood flow.
It is also possible to utilize a pressure transducer, mounted at the end of a catheter which is inserted into the heart's left ventricle, to indicate the blood pressure in the heart itself.
This pressure measurement may be made at the same time that the ultrasonic dimensioning measurement is made.
A simplified version of the instrumentation for this procedure is shown in Fig. 2.
Outputs of the two systems are measured by a pulse timing circuit and a resistance bridge, followed by a simple analogue computer which feeds a multichannel recorder.
From this doctors can read heart rate, change in diameter, pressure, and effective heart power.
Several years ago headlines were made by a small radio transmitter capsule which could be swallowed by the patient and which would then radio internal pressure data to external receivers.
This original capsule contained a battery and a transistor oscillator and was about 1 cm. in diameter.
A refinement of this technique has been described by Drs. Zworykin and Farrar and Mr. Berkely of the Medical Electronics Center of the Rockefeller Institute.
In this novel arrangement the ``pill'' is much smaller and contains only a resonant circuit in which the capacitor is formed by a pressure sensing transducer.
As shown in Fig. 4, an external antenna is placed over or around the patient and excited 3000 times a second with short 400 - kc. bursts.
The energy received by the ``pill'' causes the resonant circuit to ``ring'' on after the burst and this ``ringing'' takes place at the resonant frequency of the ``pill''.
These frequencies are amplified and detected by the FM receiver after each burst of transmitted energy and, after the ``pill'' has been calibrated, precise internal pressure indications can be obtained.
One of the advantages of this method is that the ``pill'' can remain in the patient for several days, permitting observation under natural conditions.
Applications to organs other than the gastrointestinal tract are planned for future experiments.
One of the most gratifying applications of an important technique of submarine detection is in the exploration of the human body.
Our readers are familiar with the principles of sonar where sound waves are sent out in water and the echoes then indicate submerged objects.
In medicine the frequencies are much higher, transducers and the sonar beams themselves are much smaller, and different scanning techniques may be used, but the principles involved are the same as in sonar.
Because the body contains so much liquid, transmission of ultrasonic signals proceeds fairly well in muscles and blood vessels.
Bones and cartilage transmit poorly and tend to reflect the ultrasonic signals.
Based on this phenomenon, a number of investigators have used this method to ``look through'' human organs.
A good example of the results obtainable with ultrasonic radiation is contained in papers presented by Dr. G. Baum who has explored the human eye.
He can diagnose detachment of the retina where conventional methods indicate blindness due to glaucoma.
The method used to scan the eye ultrasonically is illustrated in Fig. 6.
The transducer is coupled to the body through a water bath, not shown.
For display, Dr. Baum uses a portion of an * * f, an airborne radar indicator, and then photographs the screen to obtain a permanent record.
The frequency used for these experiments is 15 mc. and the transducer is a specially cut crystal with an epoxy lens capable of providing beam diameters smaller than one millimeter.
The transducer itself moves the beam in a sector scan, just like a radar antenna, while the entire transducer structure is moved over a 90 - degree arc in front of the eye to ``look into'' all corners.
The total picture is only seen by the camera which integrates the many sector scans over the entire 90 - degree rotation period.
Drs. Howry and Holmes at the University of Colorado Medical School have applied the same sonar technique to other areas of soft tissue and have obtained extremely good results.
By submerging the patient in a tub and rotating the transducer while the scanning goes on, they have been able to get cross-section views of the neck, as shown in Fig. 7, as well as many other hitherto impossible insights.
As mentioned before, bone reflects the sound energy and in Fig. 7 the portion of the spine shows as the black area in the center.
Arteries and veins are apparent by their black, blood-filled centers and the surrounding white walls.
A cross-section of a normal lower human leg is shown in Fig. 8 with the various parts labeled.
Oersted's boyhood represented a minimal chance of either attaining greatness or serving his people so well and over so long a span of life.
His father Soeren was the village apothecary whose slender income made it difficult to feed his family, let alone educate them in a town without even a school.
The two older boys, Hans and Anders, his junior by a year, therefore went daily to the home of a warm and friendly wigmaker nearby for instruction in German; his wife taught the two boys to read and write Danish.
Other brothers later joined them for instruction with Oldenburg, the wigmaker, and also arithmetic was added to Bible reading, German, and Danish in the informal curriculum.
Oldenburg's contributions were soon exhausted and the boys had to turn to a wider circle of the town's learned, such as the pastor, to supplement the simple teaching.
From the town surveyor, Hans learned drawing and mathematics and, from a university student, some academic subjects.
The mayor of the town taught them English and French.
Whatever Hans or Anders learned separately they passed on to each other; they read every book that they could borrow in the village.
At 12, Hans was sufficiently mature to help his father in the apothecary shop, which helped stimulate his interest in medicine and science.
His earlier love for literature and history remained with him for his entire life.
While Hans devoted himself to the sciences of medicine, physics, and astronomy, his brother studied law.
The brothers continued to help each other during their studies, sharing a joint purse, lodging together in the dormitory and dining together at the home of their aunt.
They supplemented their income by small government assistance, by tutoring and economizing wherever they could.
So impressive were those serious years of study at the university that Hans later wrote, ``to be perfectly free, the young man must revel in the great kingdom of thought and imagination; there is a struggle there, in which, if he falls, it is easy for him to rise again, there is freedom of utterance there, which draws after it no irreparable consequences on society.
I lived in this onward driving contest where each day overcame a new difficulty, gained a new truth, or banished a previous error''.
He openly proclaimed his pleasure in lecturing and writing about science.
In this third year at the university, Hans, in 1797, was awarded the first important token of recognition, a gold medal for his essay on ``Limits of Poetry and Prose''.
He completed his training in pharmacy also, taking his degree with high honors in 1797, and in 1799 was awarded the degree of Doctor of Philosophy along with a prize for an essay in medicine.
He proposed a fresh theory of alkalis which later was accepted in chemical practices.
The new century opened with Oersted beginning his professional career in charge of an apothecary shop in Copenhagen and as lecturer at the university.
He was stirred by the announcement of Volta's discovery of chemical electricity and he immediately applied the voltaic pile to experiments with acids and alkalis.
The following year he devoted to the customary ``Wanderjahr'', traveling in Germany, France, and the Netherlands, meeting the philosophers Schelling, Fichte, and Tieck.
He also met Count Rumford (born Benjamin Thompson in Woburn, Mass .) who was then serving the Elector of Bavaria, and the physicist Ritter; these were Oersted's main contacts in science.
From Go ^ ttingen (1801) where he stayed for 10 days, he wrote, ``The first question asked everywhere is about galvanism.
As everybody is curious to see the battery of glass tubes I have invented, I have had quite a small one made here of four glass tubes (in Copenhagen I used 30) and intend to carry it with me''.
Oersted joined Ritter at Jena and stayed with him for 3 weeks, continuing their correspondence after he left.
With Ritter he was exposed to the fantastic profusion of ideas that stormed through his host's fertile but disorganized mind.
Oersted remodeled Ritter's notes into an essay in French which was submitted to the Institut de France for its annual prize of 3000 francs.
In May, 1803, Ritter, in another flight of fancy, wrote to Oersted a letter that contained a remarkable prophecy.
He related events on earth to periodic celestial phenomena and indicated that the years of maximum inclination of the ecliptic coincided with the years of important electrical discoveries.
Thus, 1745 corresponded to the invention of the ``Leiden'' jar by Kleist, 1764 that of the electrophorus by Wilcke, 1782 produced the condenser of Volta, and 1801 the voltaic pile.
Ritter proceeded, ``You now emerge into a new epoch in which late in the year 1819 or 1820, you will have to reckon.
This we might well witness''.
Ritter died in 1810 and Oersted not only lived to see the event occur but was the author of it.
In 1803 Oersted returned to Copenhagen and applied for the university's chair in physics but was rejected because he was probably considered more a philosopher than a physicist.
However, he continued experimenting and lecturing, publishing the results of his experiments in German and Danish periodicals.
In 1806 his ambition was realized and he became professor of physics at the Copenhagen University, though not realizing full professorship (ordinarius) until 1817.
He was, however, fortunate in his contact with Prof. J. G. L. Manthey (1769 - 1842), teacher of chemistry, who, in addition to his academic chair, was also proprietor of the ``Lion Pharmacy'' in Copenhagen where Oersted assisted him.
Manthey maintained a valuable collection of physical and chemical apparatus which was at Oersted's disposal during and after his graduation.
In 1800, Manthey went abroad and Oersted was appointed manager of the Lion Pharmacy.
In February 1801, Oersted did manage to experiment with physical apparatus and reported experiments made with a voltaic battery of 600 plates of zinc and silver and of later experiments with a battery of 60 plates of zinc and lead.
In the following year, 1803, Oersted, simultaneously with Davy, discovered that acids increased the strength of a voltaic battery more than did salts.
Eager as he was to pursue this promising line, he was so loaded down with the management of the pharmacy and lectures in the medical and pharmaceutical faculties at the university that he could devote only Sunday afternoons to ``galvanizing''.
He assumed his academic career with the same intensity and thoroughness that had marked every step in his rise from boyhood.
The university was the only one in Denmark and the status of professor represented the upper social level.
His broad interest in literary, political, and philosophical movements opened many doors to him.
The years 1812 and 1813 saw him in Germany and France again, but on this visit to Berlin he did not seek out the philosophers as he had on his first journey.
In Berlin he published his views of the chemical laws of nature in German and this was issued in French translation (Paris, 1813) under the title Recherches sur l' identite des forces chimiques et electriques, a work held in very high esteem by the new generation of research chemists.
His interest in finding a relationship between voltaic electricity and magnetism is here first indicated.
Chapter 8, is entitled ``On Magnetism'' and in it are included such remarks as, ``One has always been tempted to compare the magnetic forces with the electrical forces.
The great resemblance between electrical and magnetic attractions and repulsions and the similarity of their laws necessarily would bring about this comparison.
It is true, that nothing has been found comparable with electricity by communication; but the phenomena observed had such a degree of analogy to those depending on electrical distribution that one could not find the slightest difference.
The form of galvanic activity is halfway between the magnetic form and the electrical form.
There, forces are more latent than in electricity, and less than in magnetism.
But in such an important question, we would be satisfied if the judgment were that the principal objection to the identity of forces which produce electricity and magnetism were only a difficulty, and not a thing which is contrary to it.
It is also found that magnetism exists in all bodies of nature, as proven by Bruckmann and Coulomb.
By that, one feels that magnetic forces are as general as electrical forces.
An attempt should be made to see if electricity, in its most latent stage, has any action on the magnet as such''.
His plan and intent were clearly charted.
Oersted returned in 1814 and resumed an active part in university and political discussions.
In one debate he supported the freedom of judgment as opposed to dogma, in another he held that the practice of science was in fact an act of religious worship.
He continued as a popular lecturer.
He devised a detonating fuse in which a short wire was caused to glow by an electric current.
In 1819 under royal command he undertook a very successful geological expedition to Bornholm, one of the Danish islands, being one of three scientists in the expedition.
Together they also developed a new form of voltaic cell in which the wooden trough was replaced by one of copper, thereby producing stronger currents.
Esmarch was among those who witnessed Oersted's first demonstration of his discovery.
The association between electric (both electrostatic and voltaic) forces and magnetic forces had been recognized by investigators for many decades.
Electrical literature contained numerous references to lightning that had magnetized iron and had altered the polarity of compass needles.
In the late 1700's Beccaria and van Marum, among others, had magnetized iron by sending an electrostatic charge through it.
Beccaria had almost stumbled on a lead to the relationship between electricity and magnetism when a discharge from a Leyden jar was sent transversally through a piece of watch spring steel making its ends magnetic.
The resulting magnetic effect proved stronger than when the discharge was made lengthwise.
The experiments of Romagnosi and others have already been noted but no one had determined the cause and effect relationship between these two primary forces.
Oersted's own earlier experiments were unimpressive, possibly because he had, like other experimenters, laid the conducting wire across the compass needle instead of parallel with it.
At this lecture Oersted happened to place the conducting wire over and parallel to a magnetic needle.
Knowing specifically what the many feed additives can do and how and when to feed them can make a highly competitive business more profitable for beef, dairy, and sheep men.
The target chart quickly and briefly tells you which additives do what.
All the additives listed here are sanctioned for use by the Food and Drug Administration of the federal government.
All comments concerning effectiveness and use of drugs have been carefully reviewed by a veterinary medical officer with FDA.
This article assumes that the rations you are feeding your beef, dairy cattle, and sheep are adequately balanced with protein, vitamins, and minerals.
The drug's chemical name is listed, since most states require feed processors to use this name instead of the trade name on the feed tag.
In some instances, the trade name is shown in parentheses following the chemical name.
This indicates that this drug is being marketed under one trade name only or state regulatory organizations have approved its use on the feed tag.
Milk production may be increased by the anti infective properties of this drug.
To increase rate of gain and improve feed efficiency, feed 75 milligrams per head in daily supplement.
To increase rate of gain and improve feed efficiency, feed 10 to 25 grams per ton of complete feed.
As an aid in the prevention of bacterial diarrhea (scours), feed 50 grams per ton of complete feed.
For the treatment of bacterial scours, feed 100 - 200 grams.
For prevention or treatment of bacterial scours, feed 0.1 to 5 milligrams per pound of body weight daily.
As an aid in reducing incidence and severity of bloat, provide 75 milligrams of oxytetracycline hydrochloride per animal daily.
To reduce incidence of liver abscesses, supply 75 milligrams of oxytetracycline activity per head daily.
To prevent or treat bacterial diarrhea, furnish 0.1 to 5 milligrams per pound of body weight daily.
For the best results, feed this level to cattle 3 to 5 days preceding shipment and / or 3 to 5 days following their arrival in your feed lot.
For treatment of shipping fever, this level should be fed at the onset of the disease symptoms until symptoms disappear.
To increase rate of gain and improve feed efficiency, feed 10 to 20 grams per ton.
As an aid in the prevention of bacterial diarrhea (scours), feed 50 grams per ton.
Increases gains, improves feed efficiency, and reduces losses from bacterial infections listed under ``how to feed'' section.
Milk production may be increased by the anti infective properties of this drug.
Not less than 70 milligrams of Aureomycin per head daily to aid in the prevention of liver abscesses in feed-lot beef cattle.
Prevention of bacterial pneumonia, shipping fever, as an aid in reduction of losses due to respiratory infections (infectious rhinotracheitis - shipping fever complex).
Feed at level of 70 milligrams per head per day.
350 milligrams per head per day for 30 days only.
For prevention of these diseases during periods of stress such as shipping, excessive handling, vaccination, extreme weather conditions : 350 milligrams per head per day for 30 days only.
As an aid in reducing bacterial diarrhea and preventing foot rot, feed not less than 0.1 milligram per pound of body weight daily.
To aid in the prevention of anaplasmosis, feed not less than 0.5 milligram per pound of body weight daily.
For calves, feed not less than 50 grams of Aureomycin per ton complete feed as an aid in preventing bacterial diarrhea and foot rot.
For cows, feed providing an intake of 0.1 milligram of Aureomycin per pound of body weight daily aids in the reduction of bacterial diarrhea, in the prevention of foot rot, and in the reduction of losses due to respiratory infection (infectious rhinotracheitis - shipping fever complex).
As an aid in reducing losses due to enterotoxemia (overeating disease), feed a complete ration containing not less than 20 and not more than 50 grams of Aureomycin per ton.
To reduce vibrionic abortion in breeding sheep, feed 80 milligrams per head daily.
An aid in getting cattle and sheep on full feed, in improving feed conversion and growth, in reducing bloat and founder, and in controlling scours.
.0044 % Dynafac in a complete ration or 0.3 to 0.4 gram per head per day (200 grams of premix per ton complete ration or equivalent.
Animals consuming 20 pounds feed daily receive 2 grams Dynafac).
Aids in minimizing the occurrence of feed-lot bloat due to high consumption of concentrates.
1.0 gram premix per head per day for promoting growth, feed conversion, and getting lambs on full feed earlier.
Increases rate of gain and improves feed efficiency.
10 milligrams of diethylstilbestrol per head daily.
This may be incorporated in complete feeds at the level of 0.4 milligram of diethylstilbestrol per pound of ration - assuming animal consumes about 25 pounds daily.
The drug is also incorporated in supplements.
These are to be fed at a rate to provide 10 milligrams DES per head daily.
It may be incorporated into cattle creep feeds in levels from 1.0 to 1.5 milligrams of diethylstilbestrol per pound of feed.
The recommended level for sheep is 2 milligrams daily, and this level should be maintained.
Include supplement containing 0.4 to 2 milligrams per pound to provide 2 milligrams per head per day.
Discontinue medication 48 hours before slaughter.
Improves growth rate and feed efficiency of fattening beef animals.
At the rate of 2 - 1 2 milligrams per head per day.
Drug elevates the metabolic rate of the cow.
Fed to dairy cattle to increase milk production and butterfat percentage.
1 to 1 - 1 2 grams per 100 pounds of body weight.
Bacterial and fungal enzymes.
(These enzyme preparations appear on today's feed tags as fermentation extracts of Bacillus subtilis, Apergillus orzae, Niger, and Flavus .)
Improves utilization of low moisture corn (less than 14 %).
Greatest benefits have been associated with feeding low moisture corn in beef feeding programs.
Several firms are merchandising enzyme preparation through feed manufacturers.
Effectively controls cattle grubs which damage hides and can reduce gains.
Drug is added to either a protein or mineral supplement for a period of 7 or 14 days.
Follow manufacturer's recommendation carefully.
Do not feed to dairy cows and do not feed within 60 days of slaughter.
For prevention of foamy bloat, feed at a rate of 0.5 to 2 milligrams per head per day in mineral or salt or feed.
For treatment of bloat, drug is fed at a higher level.
Reduces losses from stomach, hookworm, and nodular worms by interfering with reproduction of the female worm by reducing the number of eggs laid and essentially rendering all laid eggs sterile.
Also, aids in the control of horn flies by preventing them from hatching in the droppings.
Treat cattle with 10 grams per 100 pounds body weight with a maximum of 70 grams per animal.
Then, for the above parasites, feed continuously at these levels:
Feeder cattle - 2 - 5 grams of phenothiazine daily; beef calves - .5 to 1.5 grams daily depending on weight of animal.
Treat lambs with 12 grams per head for lambs weighing up to 50 pounds; treat lambs over 50 pounds and adults with 24 grams per animal.
For continuous control, feed 1 part phenothiazine to 9 parts minerals or salts.
Continuous administration is not recommended for lactating cows.
Following single dose treatment, milk should be discarded for 4 days following treatment.
Aids in reducing the incidence and severity of bloat in beef or dairy cattle on legume pasture.
Feed 75000 units or 75 milligrams per head daily.
For the prevention or treatment of acetonemia (ketosis) in dairy cows.
For the prevention of acetonemia (ketosis) feed 1 4 pound per day beginning at calving and continuing for 6 weeks.
For the treatment of ketosis feed 1 4 to 1 2 pound per day for 10 days.
Helps control shipping dysentery and coccidiosis in lambs.
feed at .05 % level for 2 or 3 days.
Incorporated in commercially prepared feed at proper levels.
Prevents and treats acetonemia (ketosis) in dairy cows.
For prevention of ketosis, feed 1 4 pound per head daily for 6 weeks commencing at calving time.
For treatment of ketosis, feed 1 2 pound daily until symptoms disappear.
Then, feed preventive dose until 6 weeks after calving.
A tranquilizer fed to cattle (other than lactating dairy cows) prior to their being subjected to stress conditions such as vaccinating, shipping, weaning calves, and excessive handling.
Not less than .75 milligram but not more than 1.25 milligrams of additive per pound of body weight.
Additive should not be fed 72 hours before animals are slaughtered.
There are three principal feed bunk types for dairy and beef cattle : (1) Fence-line bunks - cattle eat from one side while feed is put in from the opposite side of the fence by self unloading wagons; (2) Mechanized bunks - they sit within the feed lot, are filled by a mechanical conveyor above feeding surface; (3) Special bunks - as discussed here, they permit cattle to eat from all sides.
Several materials or combinations of materials can be used to construct a satisfactory feed bunk.
The selection of materials depends on skills of available labor for installation, cost of materials available locally, and your own preference.
No one material is best for all situations.
Selecting bunks by economic comparison is usually an individual problem.
Animals eat only from one side, so the fence-line bunk must be twice as long as the mechanical bunk.
These bunks also serve as a fence, so part of the additional cost must be attributed to the fence.
Because of their location, on the edge of the feed lot, fence-line bunks are not in the way of mechanical manure removal.
Filling these bunks by the same self unloading wagons used to fill silos spreads cost of the wagons over more time and operations.
All-weather roads must be provided next to the feeding floor so access will be possible all year.
Marketing in the new decade will be no picnic - for the sixties will present possibly the most intense competitive activity that you have experienced in the last 20 - 25 yr..
Why?
Companies of all types have made great advances in production capabilities and efficiencies - in modern equipment and new processes, enlarged R + D facilities, faster new product development.
Many companies have upgraded their sales manpower and tested new selling, distribution, and promotion techniques to gain a bigger competitive edge.
Given this kind of business climate, what competitive marketing problems will your company face in the next 10 yr.?
Based on our experience with clients, we see 14 major problems which fall into three broad groups - the market place itself, marketing methods, and marketing management.
There has been an intensification of price consciousness in recent years; there is every indication it will continue.
Frequently, wittingly or unwittingly, price consciousness has been fostered by manufacturers, distributors, and dealers.
Despite generally good levels of income, we see greater price pressures than ever before - traveling back along the chain from consumer to distributor to manufacturer.
Has the probable price situation in your field been forecast as a basis for future planning?
Have cost studies been made of every phase of your operation to determine what might be done if things get worse?
Have you actually checked out (not just mentally tested) different selling approaches designed to counter the price competition problem?
Average consumer is becoming more sophisticated regarding product and advertising claims, partly because of widespread criticism of such assertions.
This problem can force a change in marketing approach in many kinds of businesses.
Have you examined this problem of increasing consumer sophistication from the standpoint of your own company?
Need for service is here to stay - and the problem is going to be tougher to solve in the sixties.
There are two reasons for this.
First, most products tend to become more complex.
Providing good customer service requires as thorough a marketing and general management planning job as the original selling of the product.
Too often it is thought of at the last moment of new product introduction.
Good service starts with product design and planning:
Many products seem to be designed for a production economy, not for a service one.
Proper follow-through requires training your own sales organization, and your distributor organizations, not only in the techniques but also in good customer relations.
Have you assessed the importance of service and given it proper attention?
In spending his money today, the consumer is pulled in many directions.
To the manufacturer of the more convenient type product - the purchase of which can be switched, delayed, or put off entirely - the implications are important.
Your competition is now proportionately greater - you are competing not only against manufacturers in the same field but also against a vast array of manufacturers of other appealing consumer products.
Has your company thought through its strategy in this whole ``discretionary buying'' area?
The trends have been in evidence for many years - population shifts to the Southwest and Far West, and from city to suburbs.
These shifts will continue in the next 10 yr..
Have you considered the implications of continuing geographic shifts in terms of sales force allocation, strength of distributor organizations, and even plant location?
We have already witnessed great changes through mergers and acquisitions in the food industry - at both the manufacturing and retail ends.
Instead of relatively small sales to many accounts, there are now larger sales to or through fewer accounts.
The change may require different products, pricing, packaging, warehousing, salesmanship, advertising and executive attention - practically every link in the marketing network may have to be adjusted.
Have you examined these trends, forecast the effects, and planned your marketing strategy to compete effectively under changing circumstances?
In the area of private label competition, it is logical to expect a continuation of trends which have been under way during the first decade.
Average manufacturer frequently has helped build private brand business, delivering largely the same qualities and styles in private brand merchandise as in branded.
Moreover, the larger and more aggressive mass distribution outlets and chain stores have insisted on high quality - and the customer seems to have caught on.
If you are up against private brand competition, have you formulated a long-term program for researching and strengthening your market position?
If private brand competition hasn't been felt in your product field as yet, have you thought how you will cope with it if and when it does appear?
Display merchandising, backed by pre selling through advertising and promotion, will continue to make strides in the sixties.
It has multiple implications and possible headaches for your marketing program.
How can you cash in on this fast-growing type of outlet and still maintain relationships with older existing outlets which are still important?
If you have a higher quality product, how can you make it stand out - justify its premium price - without the spoken word?
Salesmanship is still necessary, but it's a different brand of salesmanship.
Have you studied the caliber and sales approaches of your sales force in relation to requirements for effective marketing?
Are you experimenting with different selling slants in developing new customers?
Some distribution costs are kept up by competitive pressure, some by the fact that the customers have come to expect certain niceties and flourishes.
No manufacturer has taken the initiative in pointing out the costs involved.
The use of bulk handling is continuously growing.
Computers are being used to keep branch inventories at more workable levels.
``Selective selling'' - concentrating sales on the larger accounts - has been used effectively by some manufacturers.
There may be possible economies at any one of a number of links in your marketing and distribution chain.
Do you have a program for scrutinizing all these links regularly and carefully - and with some imagination?
Will your trade customers settle for less attention and fewer frills in return for some benefit they can share?
In one company covering the country with a high quality sales force of 10 men, the president personally phones each major account every 6 mos..
As a result, distribution costs were cut, customer relations improved.
Distribution costs are almost bound to increase in the sixties - and you will never know what you can do to control them unless you study each element and experiment with alternative ways of doing the job.
From the manufacturer's point of view, the increasing cost of advertising and promotion is a very real problem to be faced in the sixties.
It is accentuated by the need for pre selling goods, and private label competition.
How much fundamental thinking and research has your company done on its advertising program?
Are you following competition willy-nilly - trying to match dollar for dollar - or are you experimenting with new means for reaching and influencing consumers?
Have you evaluated the proper place of advertising and all phases of promotion in your total marketing program - from the standpoint of effort, money, and effectiveness?
Will you be out in the market place with some of these sales building new products?
If competition beats you to it, this exciting new product era can have real headaches in store.
On the other hand, the process of obsoleting an old product and introducing the new one is usually mighty expensive.
As markets become larger and marketing more complex, the costs of an error become progressively larger.
Is your R + D or product development program tuned in to the commercial realities of the market?
Are there regular communications from the field, or meetings of sales and marketing personnel with R + D people?
Technical knowledge is a wonderful thing, but it's useless unless it eventually feeds the cash register.
Are there individuals in your organization who can shepherd a new product through to commercialization; who can develop reliable estimates of sales volume, production, and distribution costs; and translate the whole into profit and loss and balance sheet figures which management can act on with some assurance?
We have seen good new products shelved because no one had the assignment to develop such facts and plans - and management couldn't make up its mind.
In the future, quantitative demand will be greater because of the expansion of the economy, and the qualitative need will be greater still.
While many companies have done fine work in developing sales personnel, much of it has been product rather than sales training.
Nor has the training been enough in relation to the need.
Most marketing people agree it is going to take redoubled efforts to satisfy future requirements.
Have you estimated your sales manpower needs for the future (both quantitatively and qualitatively)?
Has your company developed selection and training processes that are geared to providing the caliber of salesmen you will need in the next 10 yr.?
With the growing complexity of markets and intensity of competition, sales management, whether at the district, region or headquarters level, is a tough job today - and it will be tougher in the future.
Men qualified for the broader task of marketing manager are even more scarce due to the demanding combination of qualifications called for by this type of management work.
The growth of business has outdistanced the available supply, and the demand will continue to exceed the supply in the sixties.
Does your management climate and your management compensation plan attract and keep top-notch marketing people?
Every single problem touched on thus far is related to good marketing planning.
``Hip-pocket'' tactics are going to be harder to apply.
Many food and beverage companies are already on a highly planned basis.
They have to be.
With greater investments in plant facilities, with automation growing, you cann't switch around, either in volume or in product design, as much as was formerly possible - or at least not as economically.
Are planning and strategy development emphasized sufficiently in your company?
We find too many sales and marketing executives so burdened with detail that they are short-changing planning.
Are annual marketing plans reviewed throughout your management group to get the perspective of all individuals and get everyone on the marketing team?
The key to effective marketing is wrapped up in defining your company's marketing problems realistically.
Solutions frequently suggest themselves when you accurately pinpoint your problems, whether they be in the market, in marketing methods or in marketing management.
If companies will take the time to give objective consideration to their major problems and to the questions they provoke, then a long constructive step will have been taken toward more effective marketing in next decade.
How long has it been since you reviewed the objectives of your benefit and service program?
Have you permitted it to become a giveaway program rather than one that has the goal of improved employee morale and, consequently, increased productivity?
What effort do you make to assess results of your program?
Do you measure its relation to reduced absenteeism, turnover, accidents, and grievances, and to improved quality and output?
Have you set specific objectives for your employee publication?
Is it reaching these goals?
Are you using the most economical printing methods, paper, etc..
Are there other, cheaper communications techniques that could be substituted?
Has your attitude toward employee benefits encouraged an excess of free ``government'' work in your plant?
Is your purchasing agent offering too much free buying service for employees?
When improvements are recommended in working conditions - such as lighting, rest rooms, eating facilities, air-conditioning - do you try to set a measure of their effectiveness on productivity?
When negotiating with your union, do you make sure employees have a choice between new benefits and their cents per hour cost in wages.
Can you consider restricting any additional employee benefits to those paid for by profit-sharing money, such as was done in the union contract recently signed by American Motors Corporation?
Do your employees understand all the benefits to which your insurance entitles them?
Are they encouraged to take full legal advantage of these benefits?
When did you last compare your present premium costs with the costs of insurance from other sources?
Can your insurance company aid you in reducing administrative costs?
Do you try to maintain the principle of employee contributed (as opposed to fully company paid) programs?
Do you protect your holiday privileges with an attendance requirement both before and after the holiday?
Do you plan to limit additional holidays to area and / or industrial patterns?
Have you investigated the possibility of moving midweek holidays forward to Monday or back to Friday in order to have an uninterrupted work week?
Are you carefully policing wash-up time and rest periods to be certain that all other time is productive?
Are you watching work schedules for boiler operators, guards, and other 24 - hour day, 7 - day week operations in order to minimize overtime?
Are you careful to restrict the number of people on leave at one time so that your total employment obligation is minimized?
What are the possibilities for operating your cafeteria for a single shift only and relying upon vending machines or prepackaged sandwiches for the second - and third shift operations?
Have you checked the cost of subcontracting your cafeteria operation in order to save administrative costs?
Are there possibilities of having cafeteria help work part-time on custodial or other jobs?
Can staggered lunch periods relieve the capacity strain on your feeding facilities?
Would it be feasible to limit the menu in order to reduce feeding costs?
Have you considered gradual withdrawal of subsidies to your in plant feeding operation?
Are you utilizing cafeteria space for company meetings or discussions?
Are your expenses in this area commensurate with the number of employees who benefit from your program?
Have you audited your program recently to weed out those phases that draw least participation?
Have you considered delegating operational responsibility to your employee association and carefully restricting your plant's financial contribution?
Could an employee's garden club take over partial care of plant grounds?
Would a camera club be useful in taking pictures pertinent to plant safety?
Are you spending too much money on team uniforms that benefit only a few employees?
Are you underwriting expensive team trips?
Are you utilizing vending machine proceeds to help pay for your program?
Do you know the trend in your cost of maintaining access roads and parking lots?
If you use parking attendants, can they be replaced by automatic parking gates?
Will your local bus company erect and / or maintain the bus stops at your plant?
If you use company transportation to meet trains or to haul visitors, would taxis be cheaper?
How efficient and necessary are your intra company vehicles?
Can they be re-scheduled?
Can part-time drivers be assigned to other productive work?
Which is more economical for your plant - a vacation shutdown or spaced vacations that require extra employees for vacation fill-ins?
Can vacations be spaced throughout the 12 months to minimize the number of employee fill-ins?
Do you insist that unneeded salary employees take their vacations during plant shutdowns?
What can your sales and purchasing departments do to curtail orders, shipments, and receipts during vacation shutdown periods?
Is an arbitrary retirement age of 65 actually costing your plant money?
Would early retirement of non-productive, disabled employees reduce the number of make-work jobs?
Will your union accept seniority concessions in assigning work for older or disabled employees?
Can you share medical facilities and staff with neighboring plants?
If you have a full-time doctor now, can he be replaced with a part-time doctor or one who serves on a fee per case basis only?
Can your plant nurse be replaced by a trained first-aid man who works full-time on some other assignment?
Do you rigidly distinguish between job - and non job connected health problems and avoid treating the latter?
Are you indiscriminantly offering unnecessary medical services - flu shots, sun lamp treatments, etc.?
If you have an annual or regular physical examination program, is it worth what it is costing you?
Consider what you can afford to spend and what your goals are before setting up or revamping your employee benefit program.
But even if that other plant employs the same number of workers and makes the same product, there are other facts to consider.
How old is your working force?
What's your profit margin?
In what section of the country are you located?
Are you in a rural or urban area?
These factors can make the difference between waste and efficiency in any benefit program.
Above all, don't set up extravagant fringe benefits just to buy employee good will.
Unions stress fringe benefits, but the individual hourly worker prefers cash every time.
Aim to balance your employee benefit package.
They're asking for union trouble.
If you want credit for your employee services program, let your workers know what they're entitled to.
Encourage them to exercise their benefits.
This can be done by stories in your house organs, posters, special publications, letters to workers' homes as well as by word of mouth through your chain of command.
Some companies find a little imagination helpful.
Hallmark Cards, Inc., Kansas City, Mo., has a do-it-yourself quiz game called ``Benefit Bafflers'', which it distributes to employees.
M + R Dietetic Laboratories, Inc., Columbus, gives all its workers a facsimile checkbook - each check showing the amount the company spends on a particular fringe.
U. S. Rubber Company, New York, passes out a form itemizing the value of benefits.
The blue-collar worker thus knows his insurance package, for example, costs $ 227.72.
You may find certain coverage costing much more than is economically feasible, thereby alerting you to desirable revisions.
Check to see if some of your benefits - such as on-the-job disability pay - can be put on a direct payment rather than an insured basis at a savings to you.
Use deductable insurance wherever feasible.
It can put an end to marginal claims which play havoc with your insurance rates.
Also, beware of open end policies, especially in the medical field.
This will mean that every time there's an increase in hospital rates your cost will go up in like manner.
Put a dollar and cents limit on benefits.
Don't go overboard on insurance that pays benefits only upon death.
Generally, your employee will greatly appreciate benefits that protect him during his working life or during retirement.
Thus, you avoid headaches when an employee wants off for his fourth cousin's funeral.
Also, reserve the right to demand proof of death despite the fact that you'll probably never use it.
Coffee breaks can be a real headache if not regulated.
Vending machines can alleviate the long hike to the cafeteria during the break with resulting waste of production time.
If coffee is sold at the cafeteria, let a few workers in each department get it for the whole group.
Consider installing supplemental serving lines in production areas.
Make sure milk for the coffee is placed in dispensers rather than in containers, if you are supplying the coffee.
Otherwise, you may be saddled with a good size milk bill by milk drinkers.
Keep the retirement age flexible so skilled craftsmen such as tool and die makers can be kept on the job for the convenience of the company.
Make sure you have minimum age and time on the job requirements tied into your pension plan.
Younger men usually don't think of pensions as an important job benefit factor anyhow and they're liable to change jobs several times before settling down.
Choose carefully between contributory or non contributory pension plans.
There are two sides of a coin for this decision.
Workers usually think more of a plan they contribute to.
And they can at least collect the money they put in, plus interest, when they leave the company.
A non contributory plan usually wonn't pay off for the worker until he retires.
Thus, there is an added incentive to stay on the job.
Make sure you don't pay for holidays that occur when an employee would not otherwise be working.
leaves of absences, illnesses, and layoffs.
Consider adopting a system of holidays in which time off is granted with an eye to minimum inconvenience to the operation of the plant.
It's usually not too hard to sell workers on this as it gives them longer holiday periods.
For example, the Friday after Thanksgiving can be substituted for Washington's birthday.
This reduces the number of expensive plant shutdowns and startups.
Require each employee to work his last shift both before and after the holiday to be eligible for pay.
This cuts the absentee rate.
Consider using vending machines rather than subsidized cafeterias.
Latest models serve hot meals at reasonable prices, and at a profit to you.
If the soup tastes like dishwater, your employees wonn't blame the concessionaire.
You'll take the rap.
Check your cafeteria location to make sure it's convenient for most employees.
You may save valuable production minutes with a change.
Spread your vacation period over the widest possible span of time or shut the plant down for two weeks.
This will cut the expense of vacation replacements.
And with the shutdown method there will be no argument as to who gets the choice vacation dates.
Also make sure you have reasonable requirements as to hours worked before a production employee is entitled to a vacation.
You might try providing standard vacation time off but make the vacation pay depend on the number of hours worked in the previous year.
Modern times have changed the world beyond recognition.
The early years of the twentieth century seem very far away.
But with all the changes in philosophy, dress and terrain - a few things remain constant, including the devotion of Americans to the great field sports, hunting and fishing.
As the generations move on, clothes become more suitable for the enjoyment of outdoor sports.
Sporting firearms change, markedly for the better.
Just as modern transportation has outmoded the early Studebaker covered wagon, the demand of today's sportsmen and women has necessitated changes in their equipment.
The American firearms and ammunition manufacturers through diligent research and technical development have replaced the muzzle loader and slow firing single shot arms with modern fast firing autoloaders, extremely accurate bolt, lever, and slide action firearms.
And millions of rounds of entirely new and modern small-arms ammunition, designed for today's hunting and target shooting.
And due to modern resource use and game management practices, there is still game to shoot, even with the ever expanding encroachment on land and water.
Unlimited game bags are possible and legal in more than 40 states, on shooting preserves (one of the newer phases of modern game management) for five and six months each year.
Close to two million game birds were harvested on 1500 commercial and private shooting preserves, and on State Game Commission controlled upland game areas during the 1960 - 61 season.
The shooting development program of the Sporting Arms and Ammunition Manufacturers' Institute has successfully published these facts in all major outdoor magazines, many national weeklies and the trade papers.
The most effective way to develop more places for more sportsmen to shoot is to encourage properly managed shooting preserves.
This has been the aim of the director of the shooting development program, the New York staff of the Sportsmen's Service Bureau, and the SAAMI shooting preserve field consultants since the start of the program in 1954.
Following the kick-off of SAAMI's shooting development program in 1954, a most interesting meeting took place in Washington, D. C..
The group known as the American Association for Health, Physical Education, and Recreation (a division of the National Education Association) initiated a conference which brought together representatives of the National Rifle Association, SAAMI and the American Fishing Tackle Manufacturers.
This meeting was called to determine how these groups might cooperate to launch what is known as the Outdoor Education Project.
The Outdoor Education Project took cognizance of the fact, so often overlooked, that athletic activities stressed in most school programs have little or no relationship to the physical and mental needs and interests of later life.
But with the exception of professional athletes, few contact sports and physical education activities in our schools have any carryover in the adult life of the average American man or woman.
Following a vigorous campaign of interpretation and leadership development by OEP director Dr. Julian Smith, today thousands of secondary schools, colleges and universities have shooting and hunting education in their physical education and recreation programs.
SAAMI's financial support since 1955 has contributed to the success of this project in education.
Personnel assigned through the shooting development program have proudly participated in over 53 state and regional workshops, at which hundreds of school administrators, teachers, professors, and recreational leaders have been introduced to Outdoor Education.
Considering that the current school age potential is 23 million youths, the project and its message on hunting and shooting education have many more to reach.
In 1959 SAAMI's shooting development program announced a new activity designed to expose thousands of teen-age boys and girls to the healthy fun enjoyed through the participation in the shooting sports.
This program is now nationally known as ``Teen Hunter Clubs''.
Teen Hunter Clubs were initially sponsored by affiliated members of the Allied Merchandising Corporation.
The first program was sponsored by Abraham + Strauss, Hempstead, New York, under the direction of Special Events director Jennings Dennis.
Other THC activities followed, conducted by shopping centers, department stores, recreation equipment dealers, radio - TV stations, newspapers, and other organizations interested in the need existing to acquaint youngsters with the proper use of sporting firearms and the development of correct attitudes and appreciations related to hunting and wise use of our natural resources.
SAAMI's field men have served as consultants and / or have participated in 75 Teen Hunter Club activities which have reached over 40000 enthusiastic young Americans.
Through the efforts of SAAMI's shooting development program these shooting activities, and many others, including assists in the development of public and privately financed shooting parks, trap and skeet leagues, rifle and pistol marksmanship programs have been promoted, to mention only a few.
The continuation and expansion of the shooting development program will assure to some degree that national and community leaders will be made aware of the ever growing need for shooting facilities and activities for hunting and shooting in answer to public demand.
While individual sportsmen are aware of this situation, too many of our political, social, educational and even religious leaders too often forget it.
Help is needed from dealers, at the grass-roots level.
The American gun and ammunition producers sponsor a successful promotional program through their industry trade association.
Since SAAMI's conception in 1926, and more specifically since the adoption of the Shooting Development Program in 1954, millions of dollars and promotional man-hours have gone into the development of more places to shoot for more youths and adults.
We trust that you, as a gun and ammunition dealer, have benefited through additional sales of equipment.
Are you looking ahead to the exploding market of millions of American boys and girls, who will grow up to enjoy a traditional American way of life - ranging the fields with a fine American gun and uniformly excellent ammunition?
Is your sporting firearms and ammunition department primed for the expanding horizons?
Would you like to organize Teen Hunters Clubs, shooting programs, and have information on seasons including six months of hunting with unlimited game bags on shooting preserves?
Ask Sammy Shooter.
We were camping a few weeks ago on Cape Hatteras Campground in that land of pirates, seagulls and bluefish on North Carolina's famed Outer Banks.
This beach campground with no trees or hills presents a constant camping show with all manner of equipment in actual use.
With the whole camp exposed to view we could see the variety of canvas shelters in which Americans are camping now.
There were umbrella tents, wall tents, cottage tents, station wagon tents, pup tents, Pop tents, Baker tents, tents with exterior frames, camper trailers, travel trailers, and even a few surplus parachutes serving as sunshades over entire family camps.
Moving around camp we saw all kinds of camp stoves, lanterns, coolers, bedding, games, fishing tackle, windbreaks and sunshades.
Dealers would do well to visit such a campground often, look at the equipment and talk with the campers.
Here you begin to appreciate the scope of the challenges and possibilities facing the industry.
Camping is big and getting bigger.
No one knows where it will stop.
Almost every official who reflects on it thinks this movement of Americans to canvas dwellings opens one of the most promising of all outdoor markets.
You read various guesses on how many Americans are camping.
The number depends on who is talking at the moment.
The figures range as high as 15 million families.
I've heard 10 million mentioned often, but I'm more inclined to think there may be a total of some five to seven million families camping.
Consider the equipment needed to protect this many from the weather, to make their cooking easy and their sleeping comfortable.
Harassed state park officials often have more campers than they know what to do with.
They are struggling to meet the demand for camping space, but families are being turned away, especially on holiday weekends.
The National Parks, always popular camping places, are facing the same pressure.
The National Park Service hopes by 1966 to have 30000 campsites available for 100000 campers a day - almost twice what there are at present.
The U. S. Forest Service cares for hundreds of thousands of campers in its 149 National Forests and is increasing its facilities steadily.
But the campers still come.
They bring their families and tents and camp kitchens and bedding.
They bring their fishing rods and binoculars and bathing suits.
There are a half dozen reasons helping to account for the migration to the campgrounds.
Among them, according to the U. S. Department of Commerce, are : (1) shorter work weeks, (2) higher pay, (3) longer paid vacations, (4) better transportation, (5) earlier retirement, and (6) more education.
The more people learn about their country, the more they want to learn.
Camping is family fun, and it is helping more Americans see more of the country than they ever saw before.
But make no mistake about it, the first reason people turn to camping is one of economy.
Here is the promise of a vacation trip they can afford.
The American Automobile Association, computing the cost for two people to vacation by automobile, comes up with an average daily expenditure figure of $ 29.
The AAA then splits it down this way : $ 10.50 for meals, $ 9.50 for lodging, $ 7 for gas and oil, and $ 2 for tips and miscellaneous.
What does the camping couple do to this set of figures?
Because they prepare their own meals they also keep in their pockets a good portion of that $ 10.50 food bill along with most of the tip money.
The automobile expenses are about the only vacationing cost they cann't either eliminate or pare down drastically by camping along the way.
Where Americans used to think of a single vacation each summer, they now think about how many vacations they can have.
Long weekends enable many to get away from home for three or four days several times a year.
And even if they stay in resorts part of the time, they might, if the right salesman gets them in tow, develop a yearning to spice the usual vacation fare with a camping trip into the wide open spaces.
It would be a mistake to sell those thousands of beginning campers on the idea they're buying the comforts of home.
They're not.
Home is the place to find the comforts of home.
They're buying fun and adventure and family experiences.
This is no longer a way of life for the bearded logger and the wandering cowboy.
Today's campers want comforts, and they have them.
And this helps explain why so many people are now going camping.
It's fun, and it's easy - so easy that there is time left after cooking, and tent keeping, for the women to get out and enjoy outdoor fun with their families.
Camp meals are no great problem.
Neither are beds, thanks to air mattresses and sleeping bags.
Neither are shelters, because there is one to meet the needs of every camper or prospective camper.
But there is still the sometimes complex problem of helping campers choose the best equipment for their individual needs.
In tradition and in poetry, the marriage bed is a place of unity and harmony.
At its most ecstatic moments, husband and wife are elevated far above worldly cares.
Everything else is closed away.
This is the ideal.
But marriage experts say that such mutual contribution and mutual joy are seldom achieved.
Instead one partner or the other dominates the sexual relationship.
In the past, it has been the husband who has been dominant and the wife passive.
But today there are signs that these roles are being reversed.
In a growing number of American homes, marriage counselors report, the wife is taking a commanding role in sexual relationships.
It is she who decides the time, the place, the surroundings, and the frequency of the sexual act.
The whole act is tailored to her pleasure, and not to theirs.
Beyond a certain point, of course, no woman can be dominant - nature has seen to that.
But there is little doubt that in many marriages the wife is boss of the marital bed.
Of course, there remain many ``old-fashioned'' marriages in which the husband maintains his supremacy.
Yet even in these marriages, psychologists say, wives are asserting themselves more strongly.
The meekest, most submissive wife of today is a tiger by her mother's or grandmother's standards.
To many experts, this trend was inevitable.
They consider it simply a sign of our times.
Our society has ``emancipated'' the woman, giving her new independence and new authority.
``The sexual relationship does not exist in a vacuum'', declares Dr. Mary Steichen Calderone, medical director of the Planned Parenthood Federation of America and author of the recent book, Release From Sexual Tensions.
``It reflects what is going on in other areas of the marriage and in society itself.
A world in which wives have taken a more active role is likely to produce sexual relationships in which wives are more self-assertive, too''.
Yet many psychologists and marriage counselors agree that domination of the sex relationship by one partner or the other can be unhealthy and even dangerous.
It can, in fact, wreck a marriage.
When a husband is sexually selfish and heedless of his wife's desires, she is cheated of the fulfillment and pleasure nature intended for her.
And she begins to regard him as savage, bestial and unworthy.
On the other hand, wifely supremacy demeans the husband, saps his self-respect, and robs him of his masculinity.
He is a target of ridicule to his wife, and often - since private affairs rarely remain private - to the outside world as well.
This opinion is supported by one of the nation's leading psychiatrists, Dr. Maurice E. Linden, director of the Mental Health Division of the Philadelphia Department of Public Health.
``When the roles of husband and wife are reversed, so that the wife becomes leader and the husband follower'', Dr. Linden says, ``the effects on their whole relationship, sexual and otherwise, can be disastrous''.
In one extreme case, cited by a Pittsburgh psychologist, an office worker's wife refused to have sexual relations with her husband unless he bought her the luxuries she demanded.
To win her favors, her husband first took an additional job, then desperately began to embezzle from his employer.
Caught at last, he was sentenced to prison.
While he was in custody his wife divorced him.
More typical is the case of a suburban Long Island housewife described by a marriage counselor.
This woman repeatedly complained she was ``too tired'' for marital relations.
To please her, her husband assumed some of the domestic chores.
One wife, described by a New York psychologist, so dominated her husband that she actually placed their sexual relationship on a schedule, writing it down right between the weekly PTA meetings and the Thursday night neighborhood card parties.
Another put sex on a dollars and cents basis.
After every money argument, she rebuffed her husband's overtures until the matter was settled in her favor.
Experts say the partners in marriages like these can almost be typed.
The wife is likely to be young, sophisticated, smart as a whip - often a girl who has sacrificed a promising career for marriage.
She knows the power of the sex urge and how to use it to manipulate her husband.
The husband is usually a well-educated professional, preoccupied with his job - often an organization man whose motto for getting ahead is : ``Don't rock the boat''.
Sometimes this leads to his becoming demandingly dominant in marriage.
Hemmed in on the job and unable to assert himself, he uses the sex act so he can be supreme in at least one area.
Some psychologists, in fact, suggest that career bound husbands often are more to blame for topsy-turvy marriages than their wives.
The wife's attempt at control, these psychologists contend, is sometimes merely a pathetic effort to compel her husband to pay as much attention to her as he does to his job.
Naturally no woman can ever completely monopolize the sexual initiative.
Unless her husband also desires sex, the act cannot be consummated.
Generally, however, in such marriages as those cited, the husband is at his wife's mercy.
``The pattern'', says Dr. Morton Schillinger, psychologist at New York's Lincoln Institute for Psychotherapy, ``is for the husband to hover about anxiously and eagerly, virtually trembling in his hope that she will flash him the signal that tonight is the night''.
No one seriously contends, of course, that the domineering wife is, sexually speaking, a new character in our world.
After all, the henpecked husband with his shrewish wife is a comic figure of long standing, in literature and on the stage, as Dr. Schillinger points out.
There is no evidence that these Milquetoasts became suddenly emboldened when they crossed the threshhold of the master bedroom.
They aren't ``frigid'' and they aren't homosexual; they're just restrained in all of life.
They like to be dominated.
One such man once confided to Dr. Theodor Reik, New York psychiatrist, that he preferred to have his wife the sexual aggressor.
Asked why, he replied primly:
``Because that's no activity for a gentleman''.
But such cases were, in the past, unusual.
Society here and abroad has been built around the dominating male - even the Bible appears to endorse the concept.
Family survival on our own Western frontier, for example, could quite literally depend on a man's strength and ability to bring home the bacon; and the dependent wife seldom questioned his judgment about anything, including the marriage bed.
This carried over into the more urbanized late 19 th and early 20 th centuries, when the man ruled the roost in the best bull roaring Life With Father manner.
``Grandma wasn't expected to like it'', Dr. Marion Hilliard, the late Toronto gynecologist, once summed up the attitude of the' 90 s.
Wives of the period shamefacedly thought of themselves as ``used'' by their husbands - and, history indicates, they often quite literally were.
When was the turning point?
When did women begin to assert themselves sexually?
Some date it from woman suffrage, others from when women first began to challenge men in the marketplace, still others from the era of the emancipated flapper and bathtub gin.
Virtually everyone agrees, however, that the trend toward female sexual aggressiveness was tremendously accelerated with the postwar rush to the suburbs.
Left alone while her husband was miles away in the city, the modern wife assumed more and more duties normally reserved for the male.
Circumstances gave her almost undisputed sway over child rearing, money handling and home maintenance.
She found she could cope with all kinds of problems for which she was once considered too helpless.
``Very few wives'', says Dr. Calderone, ``who balance the checkbook, fix the car, choose where the family will live and deal with the tradesmen, are suddenly going to become submissive where sex is concerned.
A woman who dominates other family affairs will dominate the sexual relationship as well''.
And an additional factor was helping to make women more sexually self-assertive - the comparatively recent discovery of the true depths of female desire and response.
Marriage manuals and women's magazine articles began to stress the importance of the female climax.
They began to describe in detail the woman's capacity for response.
In fact, the noted psychologist and sex researcher, Dr. Albert Ellis, has declared flatly that women are ``sexually superior'' to men.
According to Dr. Ellis, the average 20 - year old American woman is capable of far greater sexual arousal than her partner.
Not surprisingly, Dr. Ellis says, some recently enlightened wives are out to claim these capabilities.
Yet, paradoxically, according to Dr. Maurice Linden, many wives despise their husbands for not standing up to them.
``When the husband becomes passive in the face of his wife's aggressiveness'', Dr. Linden says, ``the wife, in turn, finds him inadequate.
Often she fails to gain sexual satisfaction''.
One such wife, Dr. Linden says, became disgusted with her weak husband and flurried through a series of extramarital affairs in the hope of finding a stronger man.
But her personality was such that each affair lasted only until that lover, too, had been conquered and reduced to passivity.
Then the wife bed hopped to the next on the list.
In some cases, however, domination of the sex act by one partner can be temporary, triggered by a passing but urgent emotional need.
Thus a man who is butting a stone wall at the office may become unusually aggressive in bed - the one place he can still be champion.
If his on-the-job problems work out, he may return to his old pattern.
Sometimes a burst of aggressiveness will sweep over a man - or his wife - because he or she feels age creeping up.
Or a wife may make sudden demands that she be courted, flattered or coaxed, simply because she needs her ego lifted.
In any case, Dr. Calderone remarks, such problems are a couple's own affair, and cann't always be measured by a general yardstick.
``As long as the couple is in agreement in their approach to sex, it makes little difference if one or the other dominates'', Dr. Calderone declares.
``The important point is that both be satisfied with the adjustment''.
Other experts say, however, that if sexual domination by one or the other partner exists for longer than a brief period, it is likely to shake the marriage.
And just as domination today often begins with the wife, so the cure generally must lie with the husband.
``To get a marriage back where it belongs'', comments Dr. Schillinger of the Lincoln Institute, ``the husband must take some very basic steps.
He must begin, paradoxically, by becoming more selfish.
He must become more expressive of his own desires, more demanding and less' understanding'''.
Farming is confining.
The farmer's life must be arranged to meet the demands of crops and livestock.
Livestock must be tended every day, routinely.
A slight change in the work schedule may cut the production of cows or chickens.
Even if there are no livestock, the farmer cannot leave the farm for long periods, particularly during the growing season.
The worker who lives on a farm cannot change jobs readily.
He cannot leave the farm to take work in another locality on short notice; such a move may mean a loss of capital.
Hard physical labor and undesirable hours are a part of farm life.
The farmer must get up early, and, at times, work late at night.
No matter how well work is planned, bad weather or unexpected setbacks can cause extra work that must be caught up.
It may not be profitable for a part-time farmer to own the labor-saving machinery that a full-time farmer can invest in profitably.
Production may fall far below expectations.
Drought, hail, disease, and insects take their toll of crops.
Sickness or loss of some of the livestock may cut into the owner's earnings, even into his capital.
Returns for money and labor invested may be small even in a good year.
The high cost of land, supplies, and labor make it difficult to farm profitably on a part-time basis.
Land within commuting distance of a growing city is usually high in price, higher if it has subdivision possibilities.
Part-time farmers generally must pay higher prices for supplies than full-time farmers because they buy in smaller quantities.
A part-time farmer needs unusual skill to get as high production per hen, per cow, or per acre as can be obtained by a competent full-time farmer.
It will frequently be uneconomical for him to own the most up-to-date equipment.
He may have to depend upon custom service for specialized operations, such as spraying or threshing, and for these, he may have to wait his turn.
There will be losses caused by emergencies that arise while he is away at his off farm job.
The farm may be an additional burden if the main job is lost.
This may be true whether the farm is owned or rented.
If the farm is rented, the rent must be paid.
If it is owned, taxes must be paid, and if the place is not free of mortgage, there will be interest and payments on the principal to take care of.
A farm provides a wholesome and healthful environment for children.
The children can do chores adapted to their age and ability.
Caring for a calf, a pig, or some chickens develops in children a sense of responsibility for work.
Part-time farming gives a measure of security if the regular job is lost, provided the farm is owned free of debt and furnishes enough income to meet fixed expenses and minimum living costs.
For some retired persons, part-time farming is a good way to supplement retirement income.
It is particularly suitable for those who need to work or exercise out of doors for their health.
Generally, the same level of living costs less in the country than in the city.
The savings are not as great, however, as is sometime supposed.
Usually, the cost of food and shelter will be somewhat less on the farm and the cost of transportation and utilities somewhat more.
Where schools, fire and police protection, and similar municipal services are of equal quality in city and country, real estate taxes are usually about the same.
Some persons consider the work on a farm recreational.
For some white-collar workers it is a welcome change from the regular job, and a physical conditioner.
Part-time farming can take comparatively little land, labor, and equipment - or a great deal.
It depends on the kind and the scale of the farming operation.
General requirements for land, labor, and equipment are discussed below.
Specific requirements for each of various types of enterprises are discussed on pages 8 to 14.
Three quarters to 1 acre of good land is enough for raising fruits and vegetables for home use, and for a small flock of chickens, a cow, and two pigs.
You could not, of course, raise feed for the livestock on a plot this small.
If you want to raise feed or carry out some enterprise on a larger scale, you'll need more land.
But consider also how much you and your family can keep up along with your other work.
The cost of land and the prospects for appreciation in value may influence your decision.
Some part-time farmers buy more land than they need in anticipation of suburban development.
This is a highly speculative venture.
Sometimes a desired acreage is offered only as part of a larger tract.
When surplus land is not expensive to buy or to keep up, it is usually better to buy it than to buy so small an acreage that the development of adjoining properties might impair the residential value of the farm.
If you have a year-round, full-time job you cann't expect to grow much more than your family uses - unless other members of the family do a good deal of the work or you hire help.
As a rule, part-time farmers hire little help.
In deciding on the enterprises to be managed by family labor, compare the amount of labor that can be supplied by the family with the labor needs of various enterprises listed in table 1.
You may want to include your own regular vacation period if you have one.
Do not include all your spare time or all your family's spare time - only what you are willing to use for farm work.
If you are going to produce for home use only, you will need only hand tools.
You will probably want to hire someone to do the plowing, however.
For larger plantings, you'll need some kind of power for plowing, harrowing, disking, and cultivating.
If you have a planting of half an acre or more you may want to buy a small garden tractor (available for $ 300 to $ 500 with attachments, 1960 prices).
These tractors are not entirely satisfactory for plowing, particularly on heavier soils, so you may still want to hire someone to do the plowing.
Cost of power and machinery is often a serious problem to the small-scale farmer.
If you are going to farm for extra cash income on a part-time basis you must keep in mind the needed machinery investments when you choose among farm enterprises.
If an expensive and specialized piece of machinery is needed - such as a spray rig, a combine, or a binder - it is better to pay someone with a machine to do the work.
Before you look for a farm you'll need to know (1) the kind and scale of farming you want to undertake; and (2) whether you want to buy or rent.
Information on pages 8 to 14 may help you in deciding on the kind and scale of your farming venture.
If you are not well acquainted with the area in which you wish to locate, or if you are not sure that you and your family will like and make a success of farming, usually you would do better to rent a place for a year or two before you buy.
Discussed below are some of the main things to look for when you select a part-time farm.
Choose a location within easy commuting distance of both the regular job and other employment opportunities.
Then if you change jobs you wonn't necessarily have to sell the farm.
The presence of alternative job opportunities also will make the place easier to sell if that should become desirable.
Obviously the farm should be on an all weather road.
If you plan to sell fresh vegetables or whole milk, for example, you should be close to a town or city.
Look for a farm in a neighborhood of well-kept homes.
There are slums in the country as well as in the city.
Few rural areas are protected by zoning.
A tavern, filling station, junk yard, rendering plant, or some other business may go up near enough to hurt your home or to hurt its value.
Check on the schools in the area, the quality of teaching, and the provision for transportation to and from them.
Find out whether fire protection, sewage system, gas, water mains, and electrical lines are available in the locality.
If these facilities are not at the door, getting them may cost more than you expect.
You may have to provide them yourself or get along without them.
If you are considering a part-time farm where the water must be provided by a well, find out if there is a good well on the farm or the probable cost of having one drilled.
A pond may provide adequate water for livestock and garden.
Pond water can be filtered for human use, but most part-time farmers would not want to go to so much trouble.
The following amounts of water are needed per day for livestock and domestic uses.
Is the land suited to the crops you intend to raise?
If you cann't tell, get help from your county agricultural agent or other local specialist.
Soil type, drainage, or degree of slope can make the difference between good crops and poor ones.
Small areas that aren't right for a certain crop may lie next to areas that are well suited to that crop.
Will the house on any part-time farm you are considering make a satisfactory full-time residence?
If the house is not wired adequately for electricity or if plumbing or a central heating system must be installed, check into the cost of making these improvements.
Its worth as a place to live.
The value of the products you can raise on it.
The possibilities of selling the property later on for suburban subdivision.
Decide first what the place is worth to you and your family as a home in comparison with what it would cost to live in town.
Take into account the difference in city and county taxes, insurance rates, utility rates, and the cost of travel to work.
Next, estimate the value of possible earnings of the farm.
To do this, set up a plan on paper for operating the farm.
List the kind and quantity of things the farm can be expected to produce in an average year.
The total is the probable gross income from farming.
To find estimated net farm income, subtract estimated annual farming expenditures from probable gross income from farming.
Include as expenditures an allowance for depreciation of farm buildings and equipment.
Also count as an expense a charge for the labor to be contributed by the family.
It may be hard to decide what this labor is worth, but charge something for it.
Otherwise, you may pay too much for the farm and get nothing for your labor.
To figure the value of the farm in terms of investment income, divide the estimated annual net farm income by the percentage that you could expect to get in interest if the money were invested in some other way.
Everyone with a personal or group tragedy to relate had to be given his day in court as in some vast collective dirge.
For almost two months, the defendant and the world heard from individuals escaped from the grave about fathers and mothers, graybeards, adolescents, babies, starved, beaten to death, strangled, machine-gunned, gassed, burned.
The gruesome humor of the Nazis was not forgotten - the gas chamber with a sign on it with the name of a Jewish foundation and bearing a copper Star of David - nor the gratuitous sadism of SS officers.
Public relations strategists everywhere, watching the reaction of the German press, the liberal press, the lunatic fringe press, listening to their neighbors, studying interviews with men and women on the street, cried out : Too much, too much - the mind of the audience is becoming dulled, the horrors are losing their effect.
And still another witness, one who had crawled out from under a heap of corpses, had to tell how the victims had been forced to lay themselves head to foot one on top of the other before being shot.
Most of this testimony may have been legally admissible as bearing on the corpus delicti of the total Nazi crime but seemed subject to question when not tied to the part in it of the defendant's Department of Jewish Affairs.
Counsel for the defense, however, shrewdly allowing himself to be swept by the current of dreadful recollections, rarely raised an objection.
Would not the emotional catharsis eventually brought on by this awfulness have a calming, if not exhausting, effect likely to improve his client's chances?
Those who feared ``emotionalism'' at the Trial showed less understanding than Dr. Servatius of the route by which man achieves the distance necessary for fairness toward enemies.
Interruptions came largely from the bench, which numerous times rebuked the Attorney General for letting his witnesses run on, though it, too, made no serious effort to choke off the flow.
But there was a contrast even more decisive than a hunger for fact between the Trial in Jerusalem and those in Moscow and New York.
These trials were properly termed ``political cases'' in that the trial itself was a political act producing political consequences.
But what could the Eichmann Trial initiate?
Of what new course could it mark the beginning?
The Eichmann case looked to the past, not to the future.
It was the conclusion of the first phase of a process of tragic recollection, and of refining the recollection, that will last as long as there are Jews.
As such, it was beyond politics and had no need of justification by a ``message''.
``It is not an individual that is in the dock at this historical trial'' - said Ben Gurion, ``and not the Nazi regime alone - but anti-Semitism throughout history''.
How could supplying Eichmann with a platform on which to maintain that one could collaborate in the murder of millions of Jews without being an anti-Semite contribute to a verdict against anti-Semitism?
And if it was not an individual who was in the dock, why was the Trial, as we shall observe later, all but scuttled in the attempt to prove Eichmann a ``fiend''?
It might be contended, of course, that Eichmann in stubbornly denying anti-Semitic feelings was lying or insisting on a private definition of anti-Semitism.
But in either event he was the wrong man for the kind of case outlined by Ben Gurion and set forth in the indictment.
In such a case the defendant should serve as a clear example and not have to be tied to the issue by argument.
One who could be linked to anti-Semitism only by overcoming his objections is scarcely a good specimen of the Jew-baiter throughout the ages.
Shout at Eichmann though he might, the Prosecutor could not establish that the defendant was falsifying the way he felt about Jews or that what he did feel fell into the generally recognized category of anti-Semitism.
Yes, he believed that the Jews were ``enemies of the Reich'', and such a belief is, of course, typical of ``patriotic'' anti-Semites; but he believed in the Jew as enemy in a kind of abstract, theological way, like a member of a cult speculating on the nature of things.
The real question was how one passed from anti-Semitism of this sort to murder, and the answer to this question is not to be found in anti-Semitism itself.
In regard to Eichmann, it was to be found in the Nazi outlook, which contained a principle separate from and far worse than anti-Semitism, a principle by which the poison of anti-Semitism itself was made more virulent.
Perhaps under the guidance of this Nazi principle one could, as Eichmann declared, feel personally friendly toward the Jews and still be their murderer.
At any rate, the substance of Eichmann's testimony was that all his actions flowed from his membership in the party and the SS, and though the Prosecutor did his utmost to prove actual personal hatred of Jews, his success on this score was doubtful and the anti-Semitic lesson weakened to that extent.
But if the Trial did not expose the special Nazi mania so deadly to Jews as well as to anyone upon whom it happened to light, neither did it warn very effectively against the ordinary anti-Semitism of which the Nazis made such effective use in Germany and wherever else they could find it.
If anti-Semitism was on trial in Jerusalem, why was it not identified, and with enough emphasis to capture the notice of the world press, in its connection with the activities of Eichmann's Department of Jewish Affairs, as exemplified by the betrayal and murder of Jews by non police and non-party anti-Semites in Germany, as well as in Poland, Czechoslovakia, Hungary?
The infamous Wansee Conference called by Heydrich in January 1942, to organize the material and technical means to put to death the eleven million Jews spread throughout the nations of Europe, was attended by representatives of major organs of the German state, including the Reich Minister of the Interior, the State Secretary in charge of the Four Year Plan, the Reich Minister of Justice, the Under Secretary of Foreign Affairs.
The measures for annihilation proposed and accepted at the Conference affected industry, transportation, civilian agencies of government.
Heydrich, in opening the Conference, followed the reasoning and even the phraseology of the order issued earlier by Goering which authorized the Final Solution as ``a complement to'' previous ``solutions'' for eliminating the Jews from German living space through violence, economic strangulation, forced emigration, and evacuation.
In other words, the promulgators of the murder plan made clear that physically exterminating the Jews was but an extension of the anti-Semitic measures already operating in every phase of German life, and that the new conspiracy counted on the general anti-Semitism that had made those measures effective, as a readiness for murder.
This, in fact, it turned out to be.
Since the magnitude of the plan made secrecy impossible, once the wheels had began to turn, persons controlling German industries, social institutions, and armed forces became, through their anti-Semitism or their tolerance of it, conscious accomplices of Hitler's crimes; whether in the last degree or a lesser one was a matter to be determined individually.
Not in Eichmann's anti-Semitism but in the anti-Semitism of the sober German man of affairs lay the potential warning of the Trial.
No doubt many of the citizens of the Third Reich had conceived their anti-Semitism as an ``innocent'' dislike of Jews, as do others like them today.
The Final Solution proved that the Jew-baiter of any variety exposes himself as being implicated in the criminality and madness of others.
Ought not an edifying Trial have made every effort to demonstrate this once and for all by showing how representative types of ``mere'' anti-Semites were drawn step by step into the program of skull bashings and gassings?
The Prosecutor in his opening remarks did refer to ``the germ of anti-Semitism'' among the Germans which Hitler ``stimulated and transformed''.
But if there was evidence at the Trial that aimed over Eichmann's head at his collaborators in the societies where he functioned, the press seems to have missed it.
Nor did the Trial devote much attention to exposing the usefulness of anti-Semitism to the Nazis, both in building their own power and in destroying that of rival organizations and states.
Certainly, one of the best ways of warning the world against anti-Semitism is to demonstrate its workings as a dangerous weapon.
Eichmann himself is a model of how the myth of the enemy Jew can be used to transform the ordinary man of present-day society into a menace to all his neighbors.
The career of Eichmann made the Trial a potential showcase for anti-Semitic demoralization:
fearful of being mistaken for a Jew, he seeks protection in his Nazi uniform; clinging to the enemy Jew idea, he is forced to overcome habits of politeness and neighborliness; once in power he begins to give vent to a criminal opportunism that causes him to alternate between megalomania and envy of those above him.
``Is this the type of citizen you desire'' ? the Trial should have asked the nations.
But though this characterization in no way diminished Eichmann's guilt, the Prosecutor, more deeply involved in the tactics of a criminal case than a political one, would have none of it.
Finally, if the mission of the Trial was to convict anti-Semitism, how could it have failed to post before the world the contrasting fates of the countries in which the Final Solution was aided by native Jew haters - i.e., Germany, Poland, Hungary, Czechoslovakia - and those in which it met the obstacle of human solidarity - Denmark, Holland, Italy, Bulgaria, France?
Should not everyone have been awakened to it as an outstanding fact of our time that the nations poisoned by anti-Semitism proved less fortunate in regard to their own freedom than those whose citizens saved their Jewish compatriots from the transports?
Wasn't this meaning of Eichmann's experience in various countries worth highlighting?
As the first collective confrontation of the Nazi outrage, the Trial of Eichmann represents a recovery of the Jews from the shock of the death camps, a recovery that took fifteen years and which is still by no means complete (though let no one believe that it could be hastened by silence).
Only across a distance of time could the epic accounting begin.
It is not that the facts of the persecution were unavailable; most of the information elicited in Jerusalem had been brought to the surface by the numerous War Crimes tribunals and investigating commissions, and by reports, memoirs, and survivors' accounts.
In Poughkeepsie, N. Y., in 1952, a Roman Catholic hospital presented seven Protestant physicians with an ultimatum to quit the Planned Parenthood Federation or to resign from the hospital staff.
Three agreed, but four declined and were suspended.
After a flood of protests, they were reinstated at the beginning of 1953.
The peace of the community was badly disturbed, and people across the nation, reading of the incident, felt uneasy.
In New York City in 1958, the city's Commissioner of Hospitals refused to permit a physician to provide a Protestant mother with a contraceptive device.
He thereby precipitated a bitter controversy involving Protestants, Jews and Roman Catholics that continued for two months, until the city's Board of Hospitals lifted the ban on birth-control therapy.
A year later in Albany, N. Y., a Roman Catholic hospital barred an orthopedic surgeon because of his connection with the Planned Parenthood Association.
Immediately, the religious groups of the city were embroiled in an angry dispute over the alleged invasion of a man's right to freedom of religious belief and conscience.
It has flared up periodically on the front pages of newspapers in communities divided over birth prevention regulations in municipal hospitals and health and family welfare agencies.
It has erupted on the national level in the matter of including birth-control information and material in foreign aid to underdeveloped countries.
Where it is not actually erupting, it rumbles and smolders in sullen resentment like a volcano, ready to explode at any moment.
The time has come for citizens of all faiths to unite in an effort to remove this divisive and nettlesome issue from the political and social life of our nation.
The first step toward the goal is the establishment of a new atmosphere of mutual good will and friendly communication on other than the polemical level.
Instead of emotional recrimination, loaded phrases and sloganeering, we need a dispassionate study of the facts, a better understanding of the opposite viewpoint and a more serious effort to extend the areas of agreement until a solution is reached.
``All too frequently'', points out James O' Gara, managing editor of Commonweal, ``Catholics run roughshod over Protestant sensibilities in this matter, by failure to consider the reasoning behind the Protestant position and, particularly, by their jibes at the fact that Protestant opinion on birth control has changed in recent decades''.
All too often our language is unduly harsh.
The second step is to recognize the substantial agreement - frequently blurred by emotionalism and inaccurate newspaper reporting - already existing between Catholics and non-Catholics concerning the over-all objectives of family planning.
Family planning is encouraged, so that parents will be able to provide properly for their offspring.
Pope Pius 12, declared in 1951 that it is possible to be exempt from the normal obligation of parenthood for a long time and even for the whole duration of married life, if there are serious reasons, such as those often mentioned in the so-called medical, eugenic, economic and social ``indications''.
This means that such factors as the health of the parents, particularly the mother, their ability to provide their children with the necessities of life, the degree of population density of a country and the shortage of housing facilities may legitimately be taken into consideration in determining the number of offspring.
These are substantially the same factors considered by non-Catholics in family planning.
The laws of many states permit birth control only for medical reasons.
The Roman Catholic Church, however, sanctions a much more liberal policy on family planning.
Catholics, Protestants and Jews are in agreement over the objectives of family planning, but disagree over the methods to be used.
The Roman Catholic Church sanctions only abstention or the rhythm method, also known as the use of the infertile or safe period.
The Church considers this to be the method provided by nature and its divine Author : It involves no frustration of nature's laws, but simply an intelligent and disciplined use of them.
Here is a difference in theological belief where there seems little chance of agreement.
The grounds for the Church's position are Scriptural (Old Testament), the teachings of the fathers and doctors of the early Church, the unbroken tradition of nineteen centuries, the decisions of the highest ecclesiastical authority and the natural law.
The latter plays a prominent role in Roman Catholic theology and is considered decisive, entirely apart from Scripture, in determining the ethical character of birth-prevention methods.
The Roman Catholic natural-law tradition regards as self-evident that the primary objective purpose of the conjugal act is procreation and that the fostering of the mutual love of the spouses is the secondary and subjective end.
This conclusion is based on two propositions : that man by the use of his reason can ascertain God's purpose in the universe and that God makes known His purpose by certain ``given'' physical arrangements.
Thus, man can readily deduce that the primary objective end of the conjugal act is procreation, the propagation of the race.
Moreover, man may not supplant or frustrate the physical arrangements established by God, who through the law of rhythm has provided a natural method for the control of conception.
Believing that God is the Author of this law and of all laws of nature, Roman Catholics believe that they are obliged to obey those laws, not frustrate or mock them.
Let it be granted then that the theological differences in this area between Protestants and Roman Catholics appear to be irreconcilable.
Why is it so different in regard to birth control?
It is because each side has sought to implement its distinctive theological belief through legislation and thus indirectly force its belief, or at least the practical consequences thereof, upon others.
It is always a temptation for a religious organization, especially a powerful or dominant one, to impose through the clenched fist of the law its creedal viewpoint upon others.
Both Roman Catholics and Protestants have succumbed to this temptation in the past.
Consider what happened during World War 1, when the Protestant churches united to push the Prohibition law through Congress.
Many of them sincerely believe that the use of liquor in any form or in any degree is intrinsically evil and sinful.
With over four million American men away at war, Protestants forced their distinctive theological belief upon the general public.
With the return of our soldiers, it soon became apparent that the belief was not shared by the great majority of citizens.
The attempt to enforce that belief ushered in a reign of bootleggers, racketeers, hijackers and gangsters that led to a breakdown of law unparalleled in our history.
That tumultuous, painful and costly experience shows clearly that a law expressing a moral judgment cannot be enforced when it has little correspondence with the general view of society.
That experience holds a lesson for us all in regard to birth control today.
Up to the turn of the century, contraception was condemned by all Christian churches as immoral, unnatural and contrary to divine law.
This was generally reflected in the civil laws of Christian countries.
Today, the Roman Catholic and Orthodox Churches stand virtually alone in holding that conviction.
The various Lambeth Conferences, expressing the Anglican viewpoint, mirror the gradual change that has taken place among Protestants generally.
In 1920, the Lambeth Conference repeated its 1908 condemnation of contraception and issued ``an emphatic warning against the use of unnatural means for the avoidance of conception, together with the grave dangers - physical, moral, and religious - thereby incurred, and against the evils which the extension of such use threaten the race''.
Denouncing the view that the sexual union is an end in itself, the Conference declared : ``We steadfastly uphold what must always be regarded as the governing considerations of Christian marriage.
One is the primary purpose for which marriage exists, namely, the continuance of the race through the gift and heritage of children; the other is the paramount importance in married life of deliberate and thoughtful self-control''.
In 1930, the Lambeth Conference again affirmed the primary purpose of marriage to be the procreation of children, but conceded that, in certain limited circumstances, contraception might be morally legitimate.
In 1958, the Conference endorsed birth control as the responsibility laid by God on parents everywhere.
Many other Protestant denominations preceded the Anglicans in such action.
In March, 1931, 22 out of 28 members of a committee of the Federal Council of Churches ratified artificial methods of birth control.
``As to the necessity'', the committee declared, ``for some form of effective control of the size of the family and the spacing of children, and consequently of control of conception, there can be no question.
There is general agreement also that sex union between husbands and wives as an expression of mutual affection without relation to procreation is right''.
Since then, many Protestant denominations have made separate pronouncements, in which they not only approved birth control, but declared it at times to be a religious duty.
What determines the morality, they state, is not the means used, but the motive.
In general, the means (excluding abortion) that prove most effective are considered the most ethical.
The board approved and commended the use of birth-control devices as a part of Christian responsibility in family planning.
It called for opposition to laws and institutional practices restricting the information or availability of contraceptives.
The general board declared : ``Most of the Protestant churches hold contraception and periodic continence to be morally right when the motives are right.
The general Protestant conviction is that motives, rather than methods, form the primary moral issue, provided the methods are limited to the prevention of conception''.
An action once universally condemned by all Christian churches and forbidden by the civil law is now not only approved by the overwhelming majority of Protestant denominations, but also deemed, at certain times, to be a positive religious duty.
This viewpoint has now been translated into action by the majority of people in this country.
Repeated polls have disclosed that most married couples are now using contraceptives in the practice of birth control.
For all concerned with social-welfare legislation, the significance of this radical and revolutionary change in the thought and habits of the vast majority of the American people is clear, profound and far reaching.
To try to oppose the general religious and moral conviction of such a majority by a legislative fiat would be to invite the same breakdown of law and order that was occasioned by the ill-starred Prohibition experiment.
Conscience and religion are concerned with private sin : The civil law is concerned with public crimes.
Only confusion, failure and anarchy result when the effort is made to impose upon the civil authority the impossible task of policing private homes to preclude the possibility of sin.
Among the chief victims of such an ill conceived imposition would be religion itself.
On April 17, 1610, the sturdy little three masted bark, Discovery, weighed anchor in St. Katherine's Pool, London, and floated down the Thames toward the sea.
She carried, besides her captain, a crew of twenty-one and provisions for a voyage of exploration of the Arctic waters of North America.
Seventeen months later, on September 6, 1611, an Irish fishing boat sighted the Discovery limping eastward outside Galway Bay.
When she reached port, she was found to have on board only eight men, all near starvation.
The captain was gone, and the mate was gone.
The man who now commanded her had started the voyage as an ordinary seaman.
What happened to the fourteen missing men?
These questions have remained one of the great sea mysteries of all time.
For hundreds of years, the evidence available consisted of (1) the captain's fragmentary journal, (2) a highly prejudiced account by one of the survivors, (3) a note found in a dead man's desk on board, and (4) several second-hand reports.
All told, they offered a highly confused picture.
But since 1927, researchers digging into ancient court records and legal files have been able to find illuminating pieces of information.
Not enough to do away with all doubts, but sufficient to give a fairly accurate picture of the events of the voyage.
Historians have had two reasons for persisting so long in their investigations.
First, they wanted to clarify a tantalizing, bizarre enigma.
Second, they believed it important to determine the fate of the captain - a man whose name is permanently stamped on our maps, on American towns and counties, on a great American river, and on half a million square miles of Arctic seas.
This is the story of his last tragic voyage, as nearly as we are able - or ever, probably, will be able - to determine:
The sailing in the spring of 1610 was Hudson's fourth in four years.
Each time his objective had been the same - a direct water passage from Western Europe to the Far East.
In 1607 and 1608, the English Muscovy Company had sent him northward to look for a route over the North Pole or across the top of Russia.
Twice he had failed, and the Muscovy Company indicated it would not back him again.
In 1609, the Dutch East India Company hired Hudson, gave him two learned geographers, fitted him out with a ship called the Half Moon, and supplied him with Dutch sailors.
This time he turned westward, to the middle Atlantic coast of North America.
His chief discovery was important - the Great North (later, the Hudson) River - but it produced no northwest passage.
When the Half Moon put in at Dartmouth, England, in the fall of 1609, word of Hudson's findings leaked out, and English interest in him revived.
He thereupon went to London and spent the winter talking to men of wealth.
By springtime, he was supported by a rich merchant syndicate under the patronage of Henry, Prince of Wales.
He had obtained and provisioned a veteran ship called the Discovery and had recruited a crew of twenty-one, the largest he had ever commanded.
The purpose of this fourth voyage was clear.
A century of exploration had established that a great land mass, North and South America, lay between Europe and the Indies.
One by one, the openings in the coast that promised a passage through had been explored and discarded.
In fact, Hudson's sail up the Great North River had disposed of one of the last hopes.
But there remained one mysterious, unexplored gap, far to the north.
Nearly twenty-five years before, Captain John Davis had noted, as he sailed near the Arctic Circle, ``a very great gulf, the water whirling and roaring, as it were the meeting of tides''.
(Later, it was to be called Hudson Strait .)
In 1602, George Waymouth, in the same little Discovery that Hudson now commanded, had sailed 300 miles up the strait before his frightened men turned the ship back.
Hudson now proposed to sail all the way through and test the seas beyond for the long sought waterway.
Even Hudson, experienced in Arctic sailing and determined as he was, must have had qualms as he slid down the Thames.
Ahead were perilous, ice filled waters.
On previous voyages, it had been in precisely such dangerous situations that he had failed as a leader and captain.
On the second voyage, he had turned back at the frozen island of Novaya Zemlya and meekly given the crew a certificate stating that he did so of his own free will - which was obviously not the case.
On the third voyage, a near mutiny rising from a quarrel between Dutch and English crew members on the Half Moon had almost forced him to head the ship back to Amsterdam in mid Atlantic.
Worse, his present crew included five men who had sailed with him before.
The mate, Robert Juet, who had kept the journal on the half Moon, was experienced - but he was a bitter old man, ready to complain or desert at any opportunity.
Philip Staffe, the ship's carpenter, was a good worker, but perversely independent.
Arnold Lodley and Michael Perse were like the rest - lukewarm, ready to swing against Hudson in a crisis.
But men willing to sail at all into waters where wooden ships could be crushed like eggs were hard to find.
Hudson knew he had to use these men as long as he remained an explorer.
And he refused to be anything else.
It is believed that Hudson was related to other seafaring men of the Muscovy Company and was trained on company ships.
He was a Londoner, married, with three sons.
(The common misconception that he was Dutch and that his first name was Hendrik stem from Dutch documents of his third voyage .)
Hudson's first error of the fourth voyage occurred only a few miles down the Thames.
There at the river's edge waited one Henry Greene, whom Hudson listed as a ``clerk''.
Greene was in actuality a young ruffian from Kent, who had broken with his parents in order to keep the company he preferred - pimps, panders and whores.
He was not the sort of sailor Hudson wanted his backers to see on board and he had Greene wait at Gravesend, where the Discovery picked him up.
For the first three weeks, the ship skirted up the east coast of Great Britain, then turned westward.
On May 11, she reached Iceland.
Poor winds and fog locked her up in a harbor the crew called ``Lousie Bay''.
The subsequent two-weeks wait made the crew quarrelsome.
With Hudson looking on, his protege Greene picked a fight with the ship's surgeon, Edward Wilson.
With difficulty, Hudson persuaded him to rejoin the ship, and they sailed from Iceland.
Early in June, the Discovery passed ``Desolation'' (southern Greenland) and in mid-June entered the ``Furious Overfall''.
Floating ice bore down from the north and west.
Fog hung over the route constantly.
Turbulent tides rose as much as fifty feet.
The ship's compass was useless because of the nearness of the magnetic North Pole.
As the bergs grew larger, Hudson was forced to turn south into what is now Ungava Bay, an inlet of the great strait.
After finding that its coasts led nowhere, however, he turned north again, toward the main, ice filled passageway - and the crew, at first uneasy, then frightened, rebelled.
The trouble was at least partly Juet's doing.
The great, crushing ice masses coming into view made him sound like the voice of pure reason.
A group of sailors announced to Hudson that they would sail no farther.
Instead of quelling the dissension, as many captains of the era would have done (Sir Francis Drake lopped a man's head off under similar circumstances), Hudson decided to be reasonable.
He went to his cabin and emerged carrying a large chart, which he set up in view of the crew.
Patiently, he explained what he knew about their course and their objectives.
When Hudson had finished, the ``town meeting'' broke down into a general, wordy argument.
One man remarked that if he had a hundred pounds, he would give ninety of them to be back in England.
Up spoke carpenter Staffe, who said he wouldn't give ten pounds to be home.
The statement was effective.
Hudson was free to sail on.
All through July the Discovery picked her way along the 450 - mile long strait, avoiding ice and rocky islands.
On August 3, two massive headlands reared out of the mists - great gateways never before, so far as Hudson knew, seen by Europeans.
To starboard was a cape a thousand feet high, patched with ice and snow, populated by thousands of screaming sea birds.
To port was a point 200 feet high rising behind to a precipice of 2000 feet.
Hudson named the capes Digges and Wolstenholme, for two of his backers.
Hudson pointed the Discovery down the east coast of the newly discovered sea (now called Hudson Bay), confident he was on his way to the warm waters of the Pacific.
After three weeks' swift sailing, however, the ship entered an area of shallow marshes and river deltas.
The ship halted.
This must have been Hudson's blackest discovery.
For he seemed to sense at once that before him was no South Sea, but the solid bulk of the North American continent.
This was the bitter end, and Hudson seemed to know he was destined to failure.
Feverishly, he tried to brush away this intuition.
North and south, east and west, back and forth he sailed in the land-locked bay, plowing furiously forward until land appeared, then turning to repeat the process, day after day, week after week.
Hundreds of miles to the north, the route back to England through the ``Furious Overfall'' was again filling with ice.
The men were at first puzzled, then angered by the aimless tacking.
Once more, Juet's complaints were the loudest.
Hudson's reply was to accuse the mate of disloyalty.
The trial was held September 10.
Hudson, presiding, heard Juet's defense, then called for testimony from crew members.
Juet had made plentiful enemies, several men stepped forward.
Hands on Bible, seaman Lodley and carpenter Staffe swore that Juet had tried to persuade them to keep muskets and swords in their cabins.
Cook Bennett Mathues said Juet had predicted bloodshed on the ship.
Others added that Juet had wanted to turn the ship homeward.
Hudson deposed Juet and cut his pay.
The new mate was Robert Bylot, talented but inexperienced.
There were other shifts and pay cuts according to the way individuals had conducted themselves.
As Hudson resumed his desperate criss-crossing of the little bay, every incident lessened the crew's respect for him.
Once, after the Discovery lay for a week in rough weather, Hudson ordered the anchor raised before the sea had calmed.
Just as it was being hauled inboard, a sea hit the ship.
Michael Butt and Adame Moore were thrown off the capstan and badly injured.
The anchor cable would have been lost overboard, but Philip Staffe was on hand to sever it with his axe.
Thomas Douglas, fifth Earl of Selkirk, a noble humanitarian Scot concerned with the plight of the crofters of his native Highlands, conceived a plan to settle them in the valley of the Red River of the North.
Since the land he desired lay within the great northern empire of the Hudson's Bay Company, he purchased great blocks of the Company's stock with the view to controlling its policies.
Having achieved this end, he was able to buy 116000 square miles in the valleys of the Red and Assiniboine rivers.
The grant, which stretched southward to Lake Traverse - the headwaters of the Red - was made in May, 1811, and by October of that year a small group of Scots was settling for the winter at York Factory on Hudson Bay.
Seven hundred miles south of York Factory, at ``the Forks'' of the Red and the Assiniboine, twenty-three men located a settlement in August 1812.
By October the little colony about Fort Douglas (present-day Winnipeg) numbered 100.
Within a few years the Scots, engaged in breaking the thick sod and stirring the rich soil of the valley, were joined by a group called Meurons.
The latter, members of two regiments of Swiss mercenaries transported by Great Britain to Canada to fight the Americans in the War of 1812, had settled in Montreal and Kingston at the close of the war in 1815.
Selkirk persuaded eighty men and four officers to go to Red River where they were to serve as a military force to protect his settlers from the hostile Northwest Company which resented the intrusion of farmers into the fur traders' empire.
The mercenaries were little interested in farming and added nothing to the output of the farm plots on which all work was still done with hoes as late as 1818.
It was the low yield of the Selkirk plots and the ravages of grasshoppers in 1818 that led to the dispersal of the settlement southward.
When late in the summer the full extent of the damage was assessed, all but fifty of the Scots, Swiss and metis moved up the Red to the mouth of the Pembina river.
Here they built huts and a stockade named Fort Daer after Selkirk's barony in Scotland.
The Selkirk settlers had been anticipated in their move southward by British fur traders.
For many years the Northwest Company had its southern headquarters at Prairie du Chien on the Mississippi River, some 300 miles southeast of present-day St. Paul, Minnesota.
When in 1816 an act of Congress forced the foreign firm out of the United States, its British born employees, now become American citizens - Joseph Rolette, Joseph Renville and Alexis Bailly - continued in the fur business.
On Big Stone Lake near the headwaters of the Red River, Robert Dickson, Superintendent of the Western Indian Department of Canada, had a trading post and planned in 1818 to build a fort to be defended by twenty men and two small artillery pieces.
His trading goods came from Canada to the Forks of Red River and from Selkirk's settlement he brought them south in carts.
These carts were of a type devised in Pembina in the days of Alexander Henry the Younger about a decade before the Selkirk colony was begun.
In 1802 Henry referred to ``our new carts'' as being about four feet off the ground and carrying five times as much as a horse could pack.
They were held together by pegs and withes and in later times drawn by a single ox in thills.
It was Dickson who suggested to Lord Selkirk that he return to the Atlantic coast by way of the United States.
During the trip Selkirk decided that the route through Illinois territory to Indiana and the eastern United States was the best route for goods from England to reach Red River and that the United States was a better source of supply for many goods than either Canada or England.
Upon arriving at Baltimore, Selkirk on December 22 wrote to John Quincy Adams, Secretary of State at Washington, inquiring about laws covering trade with ``Missouri and Illinois Territories''.
This traffic, he declared prophetically, ``tho' it might be of small account at first, would increase with the progress of our Settlements''.
The route which he had traveled and which he believed might develop into a trade route was followed by his settlers earlier than he might have expected.
In 1819 grasshoppers again destroyed the crop at ``the Forks'' (Fort Douglas) and in December 1819, twenty men left Fort Daer for the most northerly American outpost at Prairie du Chien.
It was a three month journey in the dead of winter followed by three months of labor on Mackinac boats.
With these completed and ice gone from the St. Peter's River (present-day Minnesota river) their 250 bushels of wheat, 100 bushels of oats and barley and 30 bushels of peas and some chickens were loaded onto the flat-bottomed boats and rowed up the river to Big Stone Lake, across into Lake Traverse, and down the Red.
They reached Fort Douglas in June 1820.
This epic effort to secure seed for the colony cost Selkirk 1040.
Thereafter seed and food became more plentiful and the colony remained in the north the year round.
Activity by British traders and the presence of a colony on the Red prompted the United State War Department in 1819 to send Lieutenant-Colonel Henry Leavenworth from Detroit to put a post 300 miles northwest of Prairie du Chien, until then the most advanced United States post.
In September 1822 two companies of infantry arrived at the mouth of the St. Peter's River, the head of navigation on the Mississippi, and began construction of Fort St. Anthony which, upon completion, was renamed in honor of its commander, Colonel Josiah Snelling.
It was from the American outposts that Red River shortages of livestock were to be made good.
Hercules L. Dousman, fur trader and merchant at Prairie du Chien, contracted to supply Selkirk's people with some 300 head of cattle, and Alexis Bailly and Francois Labothe were hired as drovers.
Bailly, after leaving Fort Snelling in August 1821, was forced to leave some of the cattle at the Hudson's Bay Company's post on Lake Traverse ``in the Sieux Country'' and reached Fort Garry, as the Selkirk Hudson's Bay Company center was now called, late in the fall.
He set out on his 700 - mile return journey with five families of discontented and disappointed Swiss who turned their eyes toward the United States.
Observing their distressing condition, Colonel Snelling allowed these half starved immigrants to settle on the military reservation.
As these Swiss were moving from the Selkirk settlement to become the first civilian residents of Minnesota, Dousman of Michilimackinac, Michigan, and Prairie du Chien was traveling to Red River to open a trade in merchandise.
Alexander McDonnell, governor of Red River, and James Bird, a chief factor of the Hudson's Bay Company, ordered such ``sundry articles'' to a value of 4500.
For its part the Hudson's Bay Company was troubled by the approach of American settlement.
As the time drew near for the drawing of the British American frontier by terms of the agreement of 1818, the company suspected that the Pembina colony - its own post and Fort Daer - was on American territory.
Accordingly Selkirk's agents ordered the settlers to move north, and by October, John Halkett had torn down both posts, floating the timber to ``the Forks'' in rafts.
``I have done everything'', he wrote, ``to break up the whole of that unfortunate establishment''.
Despite Company threats, duly carried through, to cut off supplies of powder, ball, and thread for fishing nets, about 350 persons stayed in the village.
They would attempt to bring supplies from St. Louis or Prairie du Chien at ``great expense as well as danger''.
At Fort Garry some of the Swiss also decided to cast their lot with the United States, and in 1823 several families paid guides to take them to Fort Snelling.
The disasters of 1825 - 1826 caused more to leave.
In April came a rapid thaw that produced high waters which did not recede until mid-June.
On June 24 more than 400 families started the three month trip across the plains to the Mississippi.
By fall, 443 survivors of this arduous journey were clustered about Fort Snelling, but most of them were sent on to Galena and St. Louis, with a few going as far as Vevay, Indiana, a notable Swiss center in the United States.
In 1837, 157 Red River people with more than 200 cattle were living on the reservation at Fort Snelling.
Below the fort, high bluffs extended uninterruptedly for six miles along the Mississippi River.
At the point where they ended, another settlement grew up around a chapel built at the boat landing by Father Lucian Galtier in 1840.
Its people, including Pierre Bottineau and other American Fur Company employees and the refugees from Fort Garry, were joined by the remaining Scots and Swiss from Fort Snelling when Major Joseph Plympton expelled them from the reservation in May 1840.
The resultant town, platted in 1847 and named for the patron of Father Galtier's mission, St. Paul, was to become an important center of the fur trade and was to take on a new interest for those Selkirkers who remained at Red River.
While population at Fort Garry increased rapidly, from 2417 in 1831 to 4369 in 1840, economic opportunities did not increase at a similar rate.
The Company maintained a store at which products of England could be purchased and brought in goods for the new merchants on the understanding that they refrain from trading in furs.
Despite this prohibiton, by 1844 some of the Fort Garry merchants were trading with the Indians for furs.
In June 1845, the Governor and Council of Assiniboia imposed a 20 per cent duty on imports via Hudson's Bay which were viewed as aimed at the ``very vitals of the Company's trade and power''.
To reduce further the flow of goods from England, the Company's local officials asked that its London authorities refrain from forwarding any more trade goods to these men.
With their customary source of supply cut off, the Fort Garry free traders engaged three men to cart goods to them from the Mississippi country.
Others carried pemmican from ``the Forks'' to St. Paul and goods from St. Paul to Red River, as in the summer of 1847 when one trader, Wells, transported twenty barrels of whisky to the British settlement.
This trade was subject to a tariff of 7.5 per cent after February 1835, but much was smuggled into Assiniboia with the result that the duty was reduced by 1841 to 4 per cent on the initiative of the London committee.
The trade in a few commodities noted above was to grow in volume as a result of changes both north and south of the 49 th parallel.
The letters of the common soldiers are rich in humor.
Some of their figures of speech were colorful and expressive.
A Confederate observed that the Yankees were : ``thicker than lise on a hen and a dam site ornraier''.
Another reported that his comrades were ``in fine spirits pitching around like a blind dog in a meat house''.
A third wrote that it was ``raining like poring peas on a rawhide''.
Yanks were equally adept at figurative expression.
One wrote : ``[ I am so hungry ] I could eat a rider off his horse + snap at the stirups''.
A second reported that the dilapidated houses in Virginia ``look like the latter end of original sin and hard times''.
A third remarked of slowness of Southerners : ``They moved about from corner to corner, as uneasy as a litter of hungry leaches on the neck of a wooden god''.
Still another, annoyed by the brevity of a recently received missive, wrote : ``Yore letter was short and sweet, jist like a roasted maget''.
She is a regular stub and twister, double geered.
She is well-educated and refined, all wildcat and fur, and Union from the muzzle to the crupper''.
Humor found many modes of expression.
A Texan wrote to a male companion at home : ``What has become of Halda and Laura?
When you see them again give them my love - not best respects now, but love by God''.
William R. Stillwell, an admirable Georgian whose delightful correspondence is preserved in the Georgia Department of Archives and History, liked to tease his wife in his letters.
After he had been away from home about a year he wrote : ``[ Dear Wife ] If I did not write and receive letters from you I believe that I would forgit that I was married I don't feel much like a maryed man but I never forgit it sofar as to court enny other lady but if I should you must forgive me as I am so forgitful''.
A Yank, disturbed by his increasing corpulence, wrote : ``I am growing so fat I am a burden 2 myself''.
Another Yank parodied the familiar bedtime prayer:
Charles Thiot, a splendid Georgia soldier, differed from most of his comrades in the ranks in that he was the owner of a large plantation, well-educated, and nearly fifty years of age.
But he was very much like his associates in his hatred of camp routine.
Near the end of his service he wrote that when the war was over he was going to buy two pups, name one of them ``fall-in'' and the other ``close-up'', and then shoot them both, ``and that will be the end of' fall-in' and' close-up'''.
The soldiers who comprised the rank and file of the Civil War armies were an earthy people.
They talked and wrote much about the elemental functions of the body.
One of the most common of camp maladies was diarrhoea.
Men of more delicate sensibilities referred to this condition as ``looseness of the bowels''; but a much more common designation was ``the sh-ts''.
A Michigan soldier stationed in Georgia wrote in 1864 : ``I expect to be tough as a knott as soon as I get over the Georgia Shitts''.
Johnny Rebs from the deep South who were plagued with diarrhoea after transfer to the Virginia front often informed their families that they were suffering from the ``the Virginia quickstep''.
I eat too much eggs and poark it sowered [ on ] my stomack and turn loose on me''.
A Michigan soldier wrote his brother : ``I am well at present with the exception I have got the Dyerear and I hope thease few lines find you the same''.
The letters which poured forth from camps were usually written under adverse circumstances.
Save for brief periods in garrison or winter quarters, soldiers rarely enjoyed the luxury of a writing desk or table.
Most of the letters were written in the hubbub of camp, on stumps, pieces of bark, drum heads, or the knee.
In the South, after the first year of the war, paper and ink were very poor.
Scarcity of paper caused many Southerners to adopt the practice of cross writing, i. e., after writing from left to right of the page in the usual manner, they gave the sheet a half turn and wrote from end to end across the lines previously written.
Sometimes soldiers wrote letters while bullets were whizzing about their heads.
A Yank writing from Vicksburg, May 28, 1863, stated ``Not less than 50 balls have passed over me since I commenced writing.
A Reb stationed near Petersburg informed his mother : ``I need not tell you that I dodge pretty often, for you can see that very plainly by the blots in this letter.
Just count each blot a dodge and add in a few for I don't dodge every time''.
Another Reb writing under similar circumstances before Atlanta reported : ``The Yankees keep Shooting so I am afraid they will knock over my ink, so I will close''.
The most common type of letter was that of soldier husbands to their wives.
But fathers often addressed communications to their small children; and these, full of homely advice, are among the most human and revealing of Civil War letters.
Rebs who owned slaves occasionally would include in their letters admonitions or greetings to members of the Negro community.
Occasionally they would write to the slaves.
Early in the war it was not uncommon for planters' sons to retain in camp Negro ``body servants'' to perform the menial chores such as cooking, foraging, cleaning the quarters, shining shoes, and laundering clothes.
Sometimes these servants wrote or dictated for enclosure with the letters of their soldier masters messages to their relatives and to members of their owners' families.
Owing to the restrained usages characteristic of 19 th century America, these letters usually were stereotyped and revealed little depth of feeling.
Occasionally gay young blades would write vividly to boon companions at home about their amorous exploits in Richmond, Petersburg, Washington, or Nashville.
But these comments are hardly printable.
An Alabama soldier whose feminine associations were of the more admirable type wrote boastfully of his achievements among the Virginia belles : ``They thout I was a saint.
I told them some sweet lies and they believed it all.
I would tell them I got a letter from home stating that five of my Negroes had run away and ten of Pappies But I wold say I recond he did not mind it for he had a plenty more left and then they would lean to me like a sore eyd kitten to a basin of milk''.
Some of the letters were pungently expressive.
An Ohio soldier who, from a comrade just returned from leave, received an unfavorable comment on the conduct of his sister, took pen in hand and delivered himself thus : ``[ Dear Sis ] Alf sed he heard that you and hardy was a runing together all the time and he though he wod gust quit having any thing mor to doo with you for he thought it was no more yuse.
I think you made a dam good chouise to turn off as nise a feler as Alf dyer and let that orney thefin, drunkard, damed card playing Sun of a bich com to Sea you, the god damed theaf and lop yeard pigen tode helion, he is too orney for hel.
Initiation into combat sometimes elicited from soldier correspondents choice comments about their experiences and reactions.
A Federal infantryman wrote to his father shortly after his first skirmish in Virginia : ``Dear Pa.
Went out a Skouting yesterday.
We got to one house where there were five secessionist they brok + run and Arch holored out to shoot the ornery suns of biches and we all let go at them.
Thay may say what they please but godamit Pa it is fun''.
Some of the choicest remarks made by soldiers in their letters were in disparagement of unpopular officers.
A Mississippi soldier wrote : ``Our General Reub Davis is a vain, stuck-up, illiterate ass''.
An Alabamian wrote : ``Col. Henry is [ an ignoramus ] fit for nothing higher than the cultivation of corn''.
A Floridian stated that his officers were ``not fit to tote guts to a bear''.
``I saw Pemberton and he is the most insignificant puke I ever saw.
His head cannot contain enough sense to command a regiment, much less a corps.
Jackson runs first and his Cavalry are well drilled to follow their leader.
He is not worth shucks.
But he is a West Point graduate and therefore must be born to command''.
Similar comments about officers are to be found in the letters of Northern soldiers.
A Massachusetts soldier, who seems to have been a Civil War version of Bill Mauldin, wrote : ``The officers consider themselves as made of a different material from the low fellows in the ranks.
They get all the glory and most of the pay and don't earn ten cents apiece on the average, the drunken rascals''.
Private George Gray Hunter of Pennsylvania wrote : ``I am well convinced in My own Mind that had it not been for officers this war would have ended long ago''.
No group of officers came in for more spirited denunciation than the doctors.
One Federal soldier wrote : ``The docters is no a conte.
hell will be filde with do [ c ] ters and offersey when this war is over''.
Shortly after the beginning of Sherman's Georgia campaign, an ailing Yank wrote his homefolk : ``The surgeon insisted on Sending me to the hospital for treatment.
I insisted on takeing the field and prevailed - thinking that I had better die by rebel bullets than [ by ] Union quackery''.
The attitudes which the Rebs and Yanks took toward each other were very much the same and ranged over the same gamut of feeling, from friendliness to extreme hatred.
The Rebs were, to a Massachusetts corporal, ``fighting madmen or not men at all but whiskey + gunpowder put into a human frame''.
A Pennsylvania soldier wrote that ``they were the hardest looking set of men that Ever i saw they Looked as if they had been fed on vinegar and shavings''.
Private Jenkins Lloyd Jones of the Wisconsin Light Artillery wrote in his diary : ``I strolled among the Alabamans on the right, found some of the greenest specimens of humanity I think in the universe their ignorance being little less than the slave they despise with as imperfect a dialect' They Recooned as how you' uns all would be a heap wus to we' uns all'''.
As part of the same arrangement, Torrio had, in the spirit of peace and good will, and in exchange for armed support in the April election campaign, bestowed upon O' Banion a third share in the Hawthorne Smoke Shop proceeds and a cut in the Cicero beer trade.
The coalition was to prove inadvisable.
O' Banion was a complex and frightening man, whose bright blue eyes stared with a kind of frozen candour into others'.
He had a round, frank Irish face, creased in a jovial grin that stayed bleakly in place even when he was pumping bullets into someone's body.
He carried three guns - one in the right trouser pocket, one under his left armpit, one in the left outside coat pocket - and was equally lethal with both hands.
He killed accurately, freely, and dispassionately.
The police credited him with twenty-five murders but he was never brought to trial for one of them.
Like a fair number of bootleggers he disliked alcohol.
He was an expert florist, tenderly dextrous in the arrangement of bouquets and wreaths.
He had what was described by a psychologist as a ``sunny brutality''.
He walked with a heavy list to the right, as that leg was four inches shorter than the other, but the lurch did not reduce his feline quickness with his guns.
Landesco thought him ``just a superior sort of plugugly'' but he was, in fact, with his aggression and hostility, and nerveless indifference to risking or administering pain, a casebook psychopath.
He was also at this time, although not so interwoven in high politics and the rackets as Torrio and Capone, the most powerful and most dangerous mob leader in the Chicago underworld, the roughneck king.
O' Banion was born in poverty, the son of an immigrant Irish plasterer, in the North Side's Little Hell, close by the Sicilian quarter and Death Corner.
He had been a choir boy at the Holy Name Cathedral and also served as an acolyte to Father O' Brien.
The influence of Mass was less pervasive than that of the congested, slum tenements among the bawdy houses, honkytonks, and sawdust saloons of his birthplace; he ran wild with the child gangs of the neighbourhood, and went through the normal pressure-cooker course of thieving, police dodging, and housebreaking.
At the age of ten, when he was working as a newsboy in the Loop, he was knocked down by a streetcar which resulted in his permanently shortened leg.
Because of this he was known as Gimpy (but, as with Capone and his nickname of Scarface, never in his presence).
He then got a job with the Chicago Herald-Examiner as a circulation slugger, a rough fighter employed to see that his paper's news pitches were not trespassed upon by rival vendors.
He was also at the same time gaining practical experience as a safe breaker and highwayman, and learning how to shoot to kill from a Neanderthal convicted murderer named Gene Geary, later committed to Chester Asylum as a homicidal maniac, but whose eyes misted with tears when the young Dion sang a ballad about an Irish mother in his clear and syrupy tenor.
O' Banion's first conflict with the police came in 1909, at seventeen, when he was committed to Bridewell Prison for three months for burglary; two years later he served another three months for assault.
Those were his only interludes behind bars, although he collected four more charges on his police record in 1921 and 1922, three for burglary and one for robbery.
But by now O' Banion's political pull was beginning to be effective.
On the occasion of his 1922 indictment the $ 10000 bond was furnished by an alderman, and the charge was nolle prossed.
On one of his 1921 ventures he was actually come upon by a Detective Sergeant John J. Ryan down on his knees with a tool embedded in a labour office safe in the Postal Telegraph Building; the jury wanted better evidence than that and he was acquitted, at a cost of $ 30000 in bribes, it was estimated.
As promptly as Torrio, O' Banion jumped into bootlegging.
He conducted it with less diplomacy and more spontaneous violence than the Sicilians, but he had his huge North Side portion to exploit and he made a great deal of money.
He was also personally active in ward politics, and by 1924 O' Banion had acquired sufficient political might to be able to state : ``I always deliver my borough as per requirements''.
But whose requirements?
Until 1924 O' Banion pistoleers and knuckle-duster bullyboys had kept his North Side domain solidly Democratic.
There was a question and answer gag that went around at that time : Q. ``Who'll carry the Forty-second and Forty-third wards''?
A. ``O' Banion, in his pistol pocket''.
But as November 1924 drew close the Democratic hierarchy was sorely troubled by grapevine reports that O' Banion was being wooed by the opposition, and was meeting and conferring with important Republicans.
To forestall any change of allegiance, the Democrats hastily organised a testimonial banquet for O' Banion, as public reward for his past services and as a reminder of where his loyalties lay.
The reception was held in a private dining room of the Webster Hotel on Lincoln Park West.
It was an interesting fraternisation of ex convicts, union racketeers, ward heelers, sold-out officials, and gunmen.
It included the top O' Banion men and Chief of Detectives Michael Hughes.
When Mayor Dever heard of the banquet he summoned Hughes for an explanation of why he had been dishonouring the police department by consorting with these felons and fixers.
Hughes said that he had understood the party was to be in honour of Jerry O' Connor, the proprieter of a Loop gambling house.
``But when I arrived and recognised a number of notorious characters I had thrown into the detective bureau basement half a dozen times, I knew I had been framed, and withdrew almost at once''.
In fact, O' Connor was honoured during the ceremony with the presentation of a $ 2500 diamond stickpin.
There was a brief interruption while one of O' Banion's men jerked out both his guns and threatened to shoot a waiter who was pestering him for a tip.
Then O' Banion was presented with a platinum watch set with rubies and diamonds.
This dinner was the start of a new blatancy in the relationship between the gangs and the politicians, which, prior to 1924, says Pasley, ``had been maintained with more or less stealth'', but which henceforth was marked by these ostentatious gatherings, denounced by a clergyman as ``Belshazzar feasts'', at which ``politicians fraternized cheek by jowl with gangsters, openly, in the big downtown hotels''.
Pasley continued : ``They became an institution of the Chicago scene and marked the way to the moral and financial collapse of the municipal and county governments in 1928 - 29''.
O' Banion accepted his platinum watch and the tributes to his loyalty, and proceeded with the bigger and better Republican deal.
On Election Day - November 4 - he energetically marshalled his force of bludgeon men, bribers, and experts in forging repeat votes.
The result was a landslide for the Republican candidates.
This further demonstration of O' Banion's ballooning power did not please Torrio and Capone.
In the past year there had been too many examples of his euphoric self-confidence and self aggrandisement for their liking.
He behaved publicly with a cocky, swaggering truculence that offended their vulpine Latin minds, and behaved towards them personally with an unimpressed insolence that enraged them beneath their blandness.
They were disturbed by his idiotic bravado - as, when his bodyguard, Yankee Schwartz, complained that he had been snubbed by Dave Miller, a prize-fight referee, chieftain of a Jewish gang and one of four brothers of tough reputation, who were Hirschey, a gambler politician in loose beer running league with Torrio and O' Banion, Frank, a policeman, and Max, the youngest.
To settle this slight, O' Banion went down to the La Salle Theatre in the Loop, where, he had learned, Dave Miller was attending the opening of a musical comedy.
At the end of the performance, Dave and Max came out into the brilliantly lit foyer among a surge of gowned and tuxedoed first nighters.
A second bullet ricocheted off Max's belt buckle, leaving him unhurt but in some distress.
O' Banion tucked away his gun and walked out of the theatre; he was neither prosecuted nor even arrested.
That sort of braggadocio, for that sort of reason, in the view of Torrio and Capone, was a nonsense.
A further example of the incompatible difference in personalities was when two policemen held up a Torrio beer convoy on a West Side street and demanded $ 300 to let it through.
One of the beer runners telephoned O' Banion - on a line tapped by the detective bureau - and reported the situation.
O' Banion's reaction was:
``Three hundred dollars!
To them bums?
Why, I can get them knocked off for half that much''.
But in the meantime the beer runner, unhappy with this solution, telephoned Torrio and returned to O' Banion with the message : ``Say, Dionie, I just been talking to Johnny, and he said to let them cops have the three hundred.
He says he don't want no trouble''.
But Torrio and Capone had graver cause to hate and distrust the Irishman.
For three years, since the liquor territorial conference, Torrio had, with his elastic patience, and because he knew that retaliation could cause only violent warfare and disaster to business, tolerated O' Banion's impudent double-crossing.
They had suffered, in sulky silence, the sight of his sharp practice in Cicero.
When, as a diplomatic gesture of amity and in payment for the loan of gunmen in the April election, Torrio had given O' Banion a slice of Cicero, the profits from that district had been $ 20000 a month.
In six months O' Banion had boosted the profits to $ 100000 a month - mainly by bringing pressure to bear on fifty Chicago speak-easy proprietors to shift out to the suburb.
These booze customers had until then been buying their supplies from the Sheldon, Saltis-McErlane, and Druggan-Lake gangs, and now they were competing for trade with the Torrio-Capone saloons; once again O' Banion's brash recklessness had caused a proliferation of ill will.
The revenue from O' Banion's Cicero territory went up still higher, until the yield was more than the Torrio-Capone takings from the far bigger trade area of Chicago's South and West Sides.
At last, even the controlled Torrio was unable to hold still, and he tentatively suggested that O' Banion should take a percentage in the Stickney brothels in return for one from his Cicero beer concession.
O' Banion's reply was a raucous laugh and a flat refusal.
Still more jealous bitterness was engendered by the O' Banion gang's seizure from a West Side marshalling yard of a freight-car load of Canadian whisky worth $ 100000 and by one of the biggest coups of the Prohibition era - the Sibley warehouse robbery, which became famous for the cool brazenness of the operation.
Here was stored $ 1000000 worth of bonded whisky.
These 1750 cases were carted off in a one night operation by the O' Banion men, who left in their stead the same number of barrels filled with water.
A tsunami may be started by a sea bottom slide, an earthquake or a volcanic eruption.
The most infamous of all was launched by the explosion of the island of Krakatoa in 1883; it raced across the Pacific at 300 miles an hour, devastated the coasts of Java and Sumatra with waves 100 to 130 feet high, and pounded the shore as far away as San Francisco.
The ancient Greeks recorded several catastrophic inundations by huge waves.
Whether or not Plato's tale of the lost continent of Atlantis is true, skeptics concede that the myth may have some foundation in a great tsunami of ancient times.
One of the most damaging tsunami on record followed the famous Lisbon earthquake of November 1, 1755; its waves persisted for a week and were felt as far away as the English coast.
Tsunami are rare, however, in the Atlantic Ocean; they are far more common in the Pacific.
Japan has had 15 destructive ones (eight of them disastrous) since 1596.
The Hawaiian Islands are struck severely an average of once every 25 years.
In 1707 an earthquake in Japan generated waves so huge that they piled into the Inland Sea; one wave swamped more than 1000 ships and boats in Osaka Bay.
A tsunami in the Hawaiian Islands in 1869 washed away an entire town (Ponoluu), leaving only two forlorn trees standing where the community had been.
In 1896 a Japanese tsunami killed 27000 people and swept away 10000 homes.
The dimensions of these waves dwarf all our usual standards of measurement.
An ordinary sea wave is rarely more than a few hundred feet long from crest to crest - no longer than 320 feet in the Atlantic or 1000 feet in the Pacific.
While a wind wave never travels at more than 60 miles per hour, the velocity of a tsunami in the open sea must be reckoned in hundreds of miles per hour.
The greater the depth of the water, the greater is the speed of the wave; Lagrange's law says that its velocity is equal to the square root of the product of the depth times the acceleration due to gravity.
In the deep waters of the Pacific these waves reach a speed of 500 miles per hour.
Tsunami are so shallow in comparison with their length that in the open ocean they are hardly detectable.
Their amplitude sometimes is as little as two feet from trough to crest.
Usually it is only when they approach shallow water on the shore that they build up to their terrifying heights.
On the fateful day in 1896 when the great waves approached Japan, fishermen at sea noticed no unusual swells.
Not until they sailed home at the end of the day, through a sea strewn with bodies and the wreckage of houses, were they aware of what had happened.
The seemingly quiet ocean had crashed a wall of water from 10 to 100 feet high upon beaches crowded with bathers, drowning thousands of them and flattening villages along the shore.
They usually range from 20 to 60 feet in height, but when they pour into a V shaped inlet or harbor they may rise to mountainous proportions.
Generally the first salvo of a tsunami is a rather sharp swell, not different enough from an ordinary wave to alarm casual observers.
This is followed by a tremendous suck of water away from the shore as the first great trough arrives.
Reefs are left high and dry, and the beaches are covered with stranded fish.
At Hilo large numbers of people ran out to inspect the amazing spectacle of the denuded beach.
Many of them paid for their curiosity with their lives, for some minutes later the first giant wave roared over the shore.
After an earthquake in Japan in 1793 people on the coast at Tugaru were so terrified by the extraordinary ebbing of the sea that they scurried to higher ground.
When a second quake came, they dashed back to the beach, fearing that they might be buried under landslides.
Just as they reached the shore, the first huge wave crashed upon them.
The waves are separated by intervals of 15 minutes to an hour or more (because of their great length), and this has often lulled people into thinking after the first great wave has crashed that it is all over.
The waves may keep coming for many hours.
Usually the third to the eighth waves in the series are the biggest.
Among the observers of the 1946 tsunami at Hilo was Francis P. Shepard of the Scripps Institution of Oceanography, one of the world's foremost marine geologists.
He was able to make a detailed inspection of the waves.
Their onrush and retreat, he reported, was accompanied by a great hissing, roaring and rattling.
The third and fourth waves seemed to be the highest.
On some of the islands' beaches the waves came in gently; they were steepest on the shores facing the direction of the seaquake from which the waves had come.
In Hilo Bay they were from 21 to 26 feet high.
Scientists and fishermen have occasionally seen strange by-products of the phenomenon.
During a 1933 tsunami in Japan the sea glowed brilliantly at night.
The luminosity of the water is now believed to have been caused by the stimulation of vast numbers of the luminescent organism Noctiluca miliaris by the turbulence of the sea.
Japanese fishermen have sometimes observed that sardines hauled up in their nets during a tsunami have enormously swollen stomachs; the fish have swallowed vast numbers of bottom living diatoms, raised to the surface by the disturbance.
The waves of a 1923 tsunami in Sagami Bay brought to the surface and battered to death huge numbers of fishes that normally live at a depth of 3000 feet.
Gratified fishermen hauled them in by the thousands.
The tsunami warning system developed since the 1946 disaster in Hawaii relies mainly on a simple and ingenious instrument devised by Commander C. K. Green of the Coast and Geodetic Survey staff.
It consists of a series of pipes and a pressure measuring chamber which record the rise and fall of the water surface.
Ordinary water tides are disregarded.
This in turn sets off an alarm, notifying the observers at the station that a tsunami is in progress.
Such equipment has been installed at Hilo, Midway, Attu and Dutch Harbor.
The moment the alarm goes off, information is immediately forwarded to Honolulu, which is the center of the warning system.
This center also receives prompt reports on earthquakes from four Coast Survey stations in the Pacific which are equipped with seismographs.
Its staff makes a preliminary determination of the epicenter of the quake and alerts tide stations near the epicenter for a tsunami.
By means of charts showing wave travel times and depths in the ocean at various locations, it is possible to estimate the rate of approach and probable time of arrival at Hawaii of a tsunami getting under way at any spot in the Pacific.
The civil and military authorities are then advised of the danger, and they issue warnings and take all necessary protective steps.
All of these activities are geared to a top priority communication system, and practice tests have been held to assure that everything will work smoothly.
Since the 1946 disaster there have been 15 tsunami in the Pacific, but only one was of any consequence.
At 17 : 07 that afternoon (Greenwich time) the shock was recorded by the seismograph alarm in Honolulu.
The warning system immediately went into action.
Within about an hour with the help of reports from seismic stations in Alaska, Arizona and California, the quake's epicenter was placed at 51 degrees North latitude and 158 degrees East longitude.
While accounts of the progress of the tsunami came in from various points in the Pacific (Midway reported it was covered with nine feet of water), the Hawaiian station made its calculations and notified the military services and the police that the first big wave would arrive at Honolulu at 23 : 30 Greenwich time.
It turned out that the waves were not so high as in 1946.
They hurled a cement barge against a freighter in Honolulu Harbor, knocked down telephone lines, marooned automobiles, flooded lawns, killed six cows.
But not a single human life was lost, and property damage in the Hawaiian Islands did not exceed $ 800000.
There is little doubt that the warning system saved lives and reduced the damage.
But it is plain that a warning system, however efficient, is not enough.
The key to the world of geology is change; nothing remains the same.
Life has evolved from simple combinations of molecules in the sea to complex combinations in man.
The land, too, is changing, and earthquakes are daily reminders of this.
Earthquakes result when movements in the earth twist rocks until they break.
Sometimes this is accompanied by visible shifts of the ground surface; often the shifts cannot be seen, but they are there; and everywhere can be found scars of earlier breaks once deeply buried.
Today's earthquakes are most numerous in belts where the earth's restlessness is presently concentrated, but scars of the past show that there is no part of the earth that has not had them.
The effects of earthquakes on civilization have been widely publicized, even overemphasized.
The role of an earthquake in starting the destruction of whole cities is tremendously frightening, but fire may actually be the principal agent in a particular disaster.
Superstition has often blended with fact to color reports.
These waves have shown that 1800 miles below the surface a liquid core begins, and that it, in turn, has a solid inner core.
Earthquakes originate as far as 400 miles below the surface, but they do not occur at greater depths.
Two unsolved mysteries are based on these facts.
(1) As far down as 400 miles below the surface the material should be hot enough to be plastic and adjust itself to twisting forces by sluggish flow rather than by breaking, as rigid surface rocks do.
(2) If earthquakes do occur at such depths, why not deeper?
Knowledge gained from studying earthquake waves has been applied in various fields.
In the search for oil and gas, we make similar waves under controlled conditions with dynamite and learn from them where there are buried rock structures favorable to the accumulation of these resources.
We have also developed techniques for recognizing and locating underground nuclear tests through the waves in the ground which they generate.
The following discussion of this subject has been adapted from the book Causes of Catastrophe by L. Don Leet.
A sharp tremor was followed by a jerky roll.
In Ireland's County Limerick, near the River Shannon, there is a quiet little suburb by the name of Garryowen, which means ``Garden of Owen''.
Undoubtedly none of the residents realize the influence their town has had on American military history, or the deeds of valor that have been done in its name.
The cry ``Garryowen''!
bursting from the lips of a charging cavalry trooper was the last sound heard on this earth by untold numbers of Cheyennes, Sioux and Apaches, Mexican banditos under Pancho Villa, Japanese in the South Pacific, and Chinese and North Korean Communists in Korea.
Garryowen is the battle cry of the 7 th U. S. Cavalry Regiment, ``The Fighting Seventh''.
Today a battle cry may seem an anachronism, for in the modern Army, esprit de corps has been sacrificed to organizational charts and tables.
But don't tell that to a veteran of the Fighting Seventh, especially in a saloon on Saturday night.
Of all the thousands of men who have served in the 7 th Cav, perhaps no one knows its spirit better than Lieutenant Colonel Melbourne C. Chandler.
The truth is, however, that when Mel Chandler first reported to the regiment the only steed he had ever ridden was a swivel chair and the only weapon he had ever wielded was a pencil.
Chandler had been commissioned in the Medical Service Corps and was serving as a personnel officer for the Kansas City Medical Depot when he decided that if he was going to make the Army his career, he wanted to be in the fighting part of it.
Though he knew no more about military science and tactics than any other desk officer, he managed to get transferred to the combat forces.
The next thing he knew he was reporting for duty as commanding officer of Troop H, 7 th Cavalry, in the middle of corps maneuvers in Japan.
Outside of combat, he couldn't have landed in a tougher spot.
First of all, no unit likes to have a new CO brought in from the outside, especially when he's an armchair trooper.
Second, if there is ever a perfect time to pull the rug out from under him, it's on maneuvers.
In combat, helping your CO make a fool of himself might mean getting yourself killed.
But in maneuvers, with the top brass watching him all the time, it's easy.
But his first few days with Troop H were full of surprises, beginning with First Sergeant Robert Early.
Chandler had expected a tough old trooper with a gravel voice.
Instead Sergeant Early was quiet, sharp and confident.
He had enlisted in the Army straight out of high school and had immediately set about learning his new trade.
There was no weapon Early could not take apart and reassemble blind-folded.
He could lead a patrol and he knew his paper work.
Further, he had taken full advantage of the Army's correspondence courses.
He not only knew soldiering, but mathematics, history and literature as well.
But for all his erudite confidence, Sergeant Early was right out of the Garryowen mold.
That saved Mel Chandler.
Sergeant Early let the new CO know just how lucky he was to be in the best troop in the best regiment in the United States Army.
He fed the captain bits of history about the troops and the regiment.
For example, it was a battalion of the 7 th Cavalry under Colonel George Armstrong Custer that had been wiped out at the Battle of The Little Big Horn.
It didn't take Captain Chandler long to realize that he had to carry a heavy load of tradition on his shoulders as commander of Troop H.
But what made the load lighter was the realization that every officer, non-com and trooper was ready and willing to help him carry it, for the good of the troop and the regiment.
Maneuvers over, the 7 th returned to garrison duty in Tokyo, Captain Chandler still with them.
It was the 7 th Cavalry whose troopers were charged with guarding the Imperial Palace of the Emperor.
But still Mel Chandler was not completely convinced that men would really die for a four syllable word, ``Garryowen''.
It happened at the St. Patrick's Day party, a big affair for a regiment which had gone into battle for over three quarters of a century to the strains of an Irish march.
In the middle of the party Chandler looked up to see four smiling faces bearing down upon him, each beaming above the biggest, greenest shamrock he had ever seen.
The faces belonged to Lieutenant Marvin Goulding, his wife and their two children.
And when the singing began, it was the Gouldings who sang the old Irish songs the best.
Though there was an occasional good-natured chuckle about Marvin Goulding, the Jewish officer from Chicago, singing tearfully about the ould sod, no one really thought it was strange.
For Marvin Goulding, like Giovanni Martini, the bugler boy who carried Custer's last message, or Margarito Lopez, the one-man Army on Leyte, was a Garryowen, through and through.
It was no coincidence that Goulding was one of the most beloved platoon leaders in the regiment.
And so Mel Chandler got the spirit of Garryowen.
He set out to keep Troop H the best troop in the best regiment.
Even the mess sergeant, Bill Brown, a dapper, cocky transfer from an airborne division, went out on the range.
The troop received a new leader, Lieutenant Robert M. Carroll, fresh out of ROTC and bucking for Regular Army status.
Carroll was sharp and military, but he was up against tough competition for that RA berth, and he wanted to play it cool.
So Mel Chandler set out to sell him on the spirit of Garryowen, just as he himself had been sold a short time before.
When the Korean war began, on June 25, 1950, the anniversary of the day Custer had gone down fighting at the Little Big Horn and the day the regiment had assaulted the beachhead of Leyte during World War 2, the 7 th Cavalry was not in the best fighting condition.
Its entire complement of non-commissioned officers on the platoon level had departed as cadre for another unit, and its vehicles were still those used in the drive across Luzon in World War 2,.
Just a month after the Korean War broke out, the 7 th Cavalry was moving into the lines, ready for combat.
From then on the Fighting Seventh was in the thick of the bitterest fighting in Korea.
One night on the Naktong River, Mel Chandler called on that fabled esprit de corps.
The troopers knew an attack was coming, but they didn't know when, and they didn't know where.
At 6 o' clock on the morning of August 12, they were in doubt no longer.
Then it came, against Troop H.
The enemy had filtered across the river during the night and a full force of 1000 men, armed with Russian machine guns, attacked the position held by Chandler's men.
They came in waves.
First came the cannon fodder, white clad civilians being driven into death as a massive human battering ram.
They were followed by crack North Korean troops, who mounted one charge after another.
They overran the 7 th Cav's forward machine-gun positions through sheer weight of numbers, over piles of their own dead.
Another force flanked the company and took up a position on a hill to the rear.
He assembled a group of 25 men, composed of wounded troopers awaiting evacuation, the company clerk, supply men, cooks and drivers, and led them to the hill.
One of the more seriously wounded was Lieutenant Carroll, the young officer bucking for the Regular Army.
Chandler left Carroll at the bottom of the hill to direct any reinforcements he could find to the fight.
Then Mel Chandler started up the hill.
He took one step, two, broke into a trot and then into a run.
The first thing he knew the words ``Garryowen''! burst from his throat.
His followers shouted the old battle cry after him and charged the hill, firing as they ran.
The Koreans fell back, but regrouped at the top of the hill and pinned down the cavalrymen with a screen of fire.
Chandler, looking to right and left to see how his men were faring, suddenly saw another figure bounding up the hill, hurling grenades and hollering the battle cry as he ran.
He had formed his own task force of three stragglers and led them up the hill in a Fighting Seventh charge.
Because of this diversionary attack the main group that had been pinned down on the hill was able to surge forward again.
But an enemy grenade hit Carroll in the head and detonated simultaneously.
He went down like a wet rag and the attackers hit the dirt in the face of the withering enemy fire.
Enemy reinforcements came pouring down, seeking a soft spot.
They found it at the junction between Troops H and G, and prepared to counterattack.
Marvin Goulding saw what was happening.
He turned to his platoon.
``Okay, men'', he said.
Goulding leaped to his feet and started forward, ``Garryowen''! on his lips, his men following.
But the bullets whacked home before he finished his battle cry and Marvin Goulding fell dead.
For an instant his men hesitated, unable to believe that their lieutenant, the most popular officer in the regiment, was dead.
Then they let out a bellow of anguish and rage and, cursing, screaming and hollering ``Garryowen''! they charged into the enemy like wild men.
That finished the job that Captain Chandler and Lieutenant Carroll had begun.
Goulding's platoon pushed back the enemy soldiers and broke up the timing of the entire enemy attack.
Reinforcements came up quickly to take advantage of the opening made by Goulding's platoon.
The North Koreans threw away their guns and fled across the rice paddies.
Artillery and air strikes were called in to kill them by the hundreds.
Today he is a major - in the Regular Army.
So filled was Mel Chandler with the spirit of Garryowen that after Korea was over, he took on the job of writing the complete history of the regiment.
After years of digging, nights and weekends, he put together the big, profusely illustrated book, Of Garryowen and Glory, which is probably the most complete history of any military unit.
The battle of the Naktong River is just one example of how the battle cry and the spirit of The Fighting Seventh have paid off.
For nearly a century the cry has never failed to rally the fighting men of the regiment.
Take the case of Major Marcus A. Reno, who survived the Battle of The Little Big Horn in 1876.
From the enlisted men he pistol-whipped to the subordinate officer whose wife he tried to rape, a lot of men had plenty of reason heartily to dislike Marcus Reno.
Many of his fellow officers refused to speak to him.
But when a board of inquiry was called to look into the charges of cowardice made against him, the men who had seen Reno leave the battlefield and the officer who had heard Reno suggest that the wounded be left to be tortured by the Sioux, refused to say a harsh word against him.
Although it was at the Battle of The Little Horn, about which more words have been written than any other battle in American history, that the 7 th Cavalry first made its mark in history, the regiment was ten years old by then.
Brevet Major General George Armstrong Custer was the regiment's first permanent commander and, like such generals as George S. Patton and Terry de la Mesa Allen in their rise to military prominence, Custer was a believer in blood and guts warfare.
During the Civil War, Custer, who achieved a brilliant record, was made brigadier general at the age of 23.
He finished the war as a major general, commanding a full division, and at 25 was the youngest major general in the history of the U. S. Army.
I do not mean to suggest that these assumptions are self-evident, in the sense that everyone agrees with them.
If they were, Walter Lippmann would be writing the same columns as George Sokolsky, and Herblock would have nothing to draw cartoons about.
I do mean, however, that I take them for granted, and that everything I shall be saying would appear quite idiotic against any contrary assumptions.
The ultimate objective of American policy is to help establish a world in which there is the largest possible measure of freedom and justice and peace and material prosperity; and in particular - since this is our special responsibility - that these conditions be enjoyed by the people of the United States.
I speak of ``the largest possible measure'' because any person who supposes that these conditions can be universally and perfectly achieved - ever - reckons without the inherent imperfectability of himself and his fellow human beings, and is therefore a dangerous man to have around.
This is true for two reasons : because Communism is both doctrinally, and in practice, antithetical to these conditions; and because Communists have the will and, as long as Soviet power remains intact, the capacity to prevent their realization.
Moreover, as Communist power increases, the enjoyment of these conditions throughout the world diminishes pro rata and the possibility of their restoration becomes increasingly remote.
It follows that victory over Communism is the dominant, proximate goal of American policy.
Proximate in the sense that there are more distant, more ``positive'' ends we seek, to which victory over Communism is but a means.
But dominant in the sense that every other objective, no matter how worthy intrinsically, must defer to it.
Peace is a worthy objective; but if we must choose between peace and keeping the Communists out of Berlin, then we must fight.
Freedom, in the sense of self-determination, is a worthy objective; but if granting self-determination to the Algerian rebels entails sweeping that area into the Sino-Soviet orbit, then Algerian freedom must be postponed.
Justice is a worthy objective; but if justice for Bantus entails driving the government of the Union of South Africa away from the West, then the Bantus must be prepared to carry their identification cards yet a while longer.
Prosperity is a worthy objective; but if providing higher standards of living gets in the way of producing sufficient guns to resist Communist aggression, then material sacrifices and denials will have to be made.
This much having been said, the question remains whether we have the resources for the job we have to do - defeat Communism - and, if so, how those resources ought to be used.
This brings us squarely to the problem of power, and the uses a nation makes of power.
I submit that this is the key problem of international relations, that it always has been, that it always will be.
And I suggest further that the main cause of the trouble we are in has been the failure of American policy-makers, ever since we assumed free world leadership in 1945, to deal with this problem realistically and seriously.
In the recent political campaign two charges were leveled affecting the question of power, and I think we might begin by trying to put them into proper focus.
One was demonstrably false; the other, for the most part, true.
The first was that America had become - or was in danger of becoming - a second-rate military power.
I know I do not have to dwell here on the absurdity of that contention.
You may have misgivings about certain aspects of our military establishment - I certainly do - but you know any comparison of over-all American strength with over-all Soviet strength finds the United States not only superior, but so superior both in present weapons and in the development of new ones that our advantage promises to be a permanent feature of U. S. - Soviet relations for the foreseeable future.
Suppose, he says, that the tables were turned, and we were in the Soviets' position : ``There would be more than 2000 modern Soviet fighters, all better than ours, stationed at 250 bases in Mexico and the Caribbean.
Overwhelming Russian naval power would always be within a few hundred miles of our coast.
Half of the population of the U. S. would be needed to work on arms just to feed the people''.
Add this to the unrest in the countries around us where oppressed peoples would be ready to turn on us at the first opportunity.
Add also a comparatively primitive industrial plant which would severely limit our capacity to keep abreast of the Soviets even in the missile field which is reputed to be our main strength.
If we look at the situation this way, we can get an idea of Khrushchev's nightmarish worries - or, at least, of the worries he might have if his enemies were disposed to exploit their advantage.
The other charge was that America's political position in the world has progressively deteriorated in recent years.
The contention needs to be formulated with much greater precision than it ever was during the campaign, but once that has been done, I fail to see how any serious student of world affairs can quarrel with it.
The argument was typically advanced in terms of U. S. ``prestige''.
Prestige is a measure of how other people think of you, well or ill.
But contrary to what was implied during the campaign, prestige is surely not important for its own sake.
Only the vain and incurably sentimental among us will lose sleep simply because foreign peoples are not as impressed by our strength as they ought to be.
The thing to lose sleep over is what people, having concluded that we are weaker than we are, are likely to do about it.
The evidence suggests that foreign peoples believe the United States is weaker than the Soviet Union, and is bound to fall still further behind in the years ahead.
This ignorant estimate, I repeat, is not of any interest in itself; but it becomes very important if foreign peoples react the way human beings typically do - namely, by taking steps to end up on what appears to be the winning side.
To the extent, then, that declining U. S. prestige means that other nations will be tempted to place their bets on an ultimate American defeat, and will thus be more vulnerable to Soviet intimidation, there is reason for concern.
Still, these guesses about the outcome of the struggle cannot be as important as the actual power relationship between the Soviet Union and ourselves.
Here I do not speak of military power where our advantage is obvious and overwhelming but of political power - of influence, if you will - about which the relevant questions are:
And is Western influence greater or less than it used to be?
In answering these questions, we need to ask not merely whether Communist troops have crossed over into territories they did not occupy before, and not merely whether disciplined agents of the Cominform are in control of governments from which they were formerly excluded:
the success of Communism's war against the West does not depend on such spectacular and definitive conquests.
Success may mean merely the displacement of Western influence.
Communist political warfare, we must remember, is waged insidiously and in deliberate stages.
Fearful of inviting a military showdown with the West which they could not win, the Communists seek to undermine Western power where the nuclear might of the West is irrelevant - in backwoods guerrilla skirmishes, in mob uprisings in the streets, in parliaments, in clandestine meetings of undercover conspirators, at the United Nations, on the propaganda front, at diplomatic conferences - preferably at the highest level.
The Soviets understand, moreover, that the first step in turning a country toward Communism is to turn it against the West.
Thus, typically, the first stage of a Communist takeover is to ``neutralize'' a country.
The second stage is to retain the nominal classification of ``neutralist'', while in fact turning the country into an active advocate and adherent of Soviet policy.
The Kremlin's goal is the isolation and capture, not of Ghana, but of the United States - and this purpose may be served very well by countries that masquerade under a ``neutralist'' mask, yet in fact are dependable auxiliaries of the Soviet Foreign Office.
To recite the particulars of recent Soviet successes is hardly reassuring.
Six years ago French Indochina, though in troubie, was in the Western camp.
Today Northern Vietnam is overtly Communist; Laos is teetering between Communism and pro Communist neutralism; Cambodia is, for all practical purposes, neutralist.
Indonesia, in the early days of the Republic, leaned toward the West.
Today Sukarno's government is heavily besieged by avowed Communists, and for all of its ``neutralist'' pretensions, it is a firm ally of Soviet policy.
Ceylon has moved from a pro Western orientation to a neutralism openly hostile to the West.
In the Middle East, Iraq, Syria and Egypt were, a short while ago, in the Western camp.
Today the Nasser and Kassem governments are adamantly hostile to the West, are dependent for their military power on Soviet equipment and personnel; in almost every particular follow the Kremlin's foreign policy line.
Never mind whether the Kikiyus and the Bantus enjoyed Wilsonian self-determination : the point is that in the struggle for the world that vast land mass was under the domination and influence of the West.
Today, Africa is swerving violently away from the West and plunging, it would seem, into the Soviet orbit.
Latin America was once an area as ``safe'' for the West as Nebraska was for Nixon.
Today it is up for grabs.
One Latin American country, Cuba, has become a Soviet bridgehead ninety miles off our coast.
In some countries the trend has gone further than others:
Mexico, Panama, and Venezuela are displaying open sympathy for Castroism, and there is no country - save the Dominican Republic whose funeral services we recently arranged - where Castroism and anti Americanism does not prevent the government from unqualifiedly espousing the American cause.
Only in Europe have our lines remained firm - and there only on the surface.
The strains of neutralism are running strong, notably in England, and even in Germany.
We have had opportunities - clear invitations to plant our influence on the other side of the Iron Curtain.
There was the Hungarian Revolution which we praised and mourned, but did nothing about.
There was the Polish Revolution which we misunderstood and then helped guide along a course favorable to Soviet interests.
There was the revolution in Tibet which we pretended did not exist.
Only in one instance have we moved purposively and effectively to dislodge existing Communist power:
in Guatemala.
And contrary to what has been said recently, we did not wait for ``outside pressures'' and ``world opinion'' to bring down that Communist government; we moved decisively to effect an anti Communist coup d' etat.
We served our national interests, and by so doing we saved the Guatemalan people the ultimate in human misery.
The first rattle of the machine guns, at 7 : 10 in the evening, roused around me the varied voices and faces of fear.
The young man spoke steadily enough, but all at once he looked grotesquely unshaven.
The middle-aged man said over and over, ``Why did I come here, why did I come here''.
Then he was sick.
Amid the crackle of small arms and automatic weapons, I heard the thumping of mortars.
Then the lights went out.
This was my second day in Vientiane, the administrative capital of Laos, and my thoughts were none too brave.
Where was my flashlight?
Where should I go?
To my room?
Chinese and Indian merchants across the street were slamming their steel shutters.
Hotel attendants pulled parked bicycles into the lobby.
A woman with a small boy slipped in between them.
``Please'', she said, ``please''.
She held out her hand to show that she had money.
The American newspaperman worried about getting to the cable office.
But what was the story?
Had the Communist led Pathet Lao finally come this far?
Or was it another revolt inside Vientiane?
``Let's go to the roof and see''.
By 7 : 50 the answer was plain.
There had been an eclipse of the moon.
A traditional Lao explanation is that the moon was being swallowed by a toad, and the remedy was to make all possible noise, ideally with firearms.
The din was successful, too, for just before the moon disappeared, the frightened toad had begun to spit it out again, which meant good luck all around.
How quaint it all seemed the next day.
A restaurant posted a reminder to patrons ``who became excited and left without paying their checks''.
But everyone I met had sought cover first and asked questions later.
And no wonder, for Vientiane, the old City of Sandalwood, had become the City of Bullet Holes.
Along the main thoroughfares hardly a house had not been peppered.
In place of the police headquarters was a new square filled with rubble.
Mortars had demolished the defense ministry and set fire to the American Embassy next door.
What had been the ambassador's suite was now jagged walls of blackened brick.
This damage had been done in the battle of Vientiane, fought less than three months earlier when four successive governments had ruled here in three days (December 9 - 11, 1960).
And now, in March, all Laos suffered a state of siege.
The Pathet Lao forces held two northern provinces and openly took the offensive in three more.
Throughout the land their hit-and-run terrorists spread fear of ambush and death.
``And it's all the more tragic because it's so little deserved'', said Mr. J. J. A. Frans, a Belgian official of the United Nations Educational, Scientific, and Cultural Organization.
Practically all the people of Laos, he explained - about two million of them - are rice farmers, and the means and motives of modern war are as strange to them as clocks and steel plows.
They look after their fields and children and water buffaloes in ten or eleven thousand villages, with an average of 200 souls.
Nobody can tell more closely how many villages there are.
They spread over an area no larger than Oregon; yet they include peoples as different from one another as Oregonians are from Patagonians.
``What matters here is family loyalty; faith in the Buddha and staying at peace with the phis, the spirits; and to live in harmony with nature''.
Harmony in Laos?
``Precisely'', said Mr. Frans.
He spoke of the season of dryness and dust, brought by the monsoon from the northeast, in harmony with the season of rain and mud, brought by the monsoon from the southwest.
The slim pirogues in harmony with the majestically meandering Mekong River.
Even life in harmony with death.
For so long as death was not violent, it was natural and to be welcomed, making a funeral a feast.
To many a Frenchman - they came 95 years ago, colonized, and stayed until Laos became independent in 1953 - the land had been even more delightfully tranquil than Tahiti.
Yet Laos was now one of the most explosive headaches of statesmen around the globe.
The Pathet Lao, stiffened by Communist Veterans from neighboring North Viet Nam, were supplied by Soviet aircraft.
The Royal Lao Army, on the other hand, was paid and equipped with American funds.
In six years, U. S. aid had amounted to more than $ 1.60 for each American - a total of three hundred million dollars.
We were there at a moment when the situation in Laos threatened to ignite another war among the world's giants.
Even if it did not, how would this little world of gentle people cope with its new reality of grenades and submachine guns?
We rode over roads so rough that our Jeep came to rest atop the soil between ruts, all four wheels spinning uselessly.
We flew in rickety planes so overloaded that we wondered why they didn't crash.
In the end we ran into Communist artillery fire.
``We'' were Bill Garrett of the National Geographic Illustrations Staff, whose three cameras and eight lenses made him look as formidable as any fighting man we met; Boun My, our interpreter; and myself.
Boun My - the name means one who has a boun, a celebration, and is therefore lucky - was born in Savannakhet, the Border of Paradise.
He had attended three universities in the United States.
But he had never seen the mountainous half of his native land north of Vientiane, including the royal capital, Luang Prabang.
Before the airplanes came, he said, travel in Laos was just about impossible.
Alas, so it almost proved for us, too.
and getting them seemed a life's work.
Nobody wanted Americans to be hurt or captured, and few soldiers could be spared as escorts.
We were told that to the Pathet Lao, a kidnaped American was worth at least $ 750, a fortune in Laos.
Everyone had heard of the American contractor who had spurned an escort.
Now Pathet Lao propagandists were reported marching him barefoot from village to village, as evidence of evil American intervention.
Although we enjoyed our rounds of the government offices in Vientiane, with officials offering tea and pleasing conversation in French, we were getting nowhere.
We had nearly decided that all the tales of Lao lethargy must be true, when we were invited to take a trip with the Prime Minister.
Could we be ready in 15 minutes?
His Highness had decided only two hours ago to go out of town, and he was eager to be off.
From his shoulder bag peeked the seven inch barrel of a Luger.
The temperature rose to 105 `.
With our company of soldiers, we made one long column of reddish dust.
In Keng Kok, the City of Silkworms, the Prime Minister bought fried chickens and fried cicadas, and two notebooks for me.
Then we drove on, until there was no more road and we traversed dry rice fields, bouncing across their squat earth walls.
It was a spleen crushing day.
An hour of bouncing, a brief stop in a village to inspect a new school or dispensary.
More bouncing, another stop, a new house for teachers, a new well.
Then off again, rushing to keep up.
But our two Jeep mates - Keo Viphakone from Luang Prabang and John Cool from Beaver, Pennsylvania - were beaming under their coatings of dust.
Together they had probably done more than any other men to help push Laos toward the 20 th century - constructively.
Mr. Keo, once a diplomat in Paris and Washington, was Commissioner of Rural Affairs.
John, an engineer and anthropologist with a doctorate from the London School of Economics, headed the rural development division of USOM, the United States Operations Mission administering U. S. aid.
``What you see are self-help projects'', John said.
``We ask the people what they want, and they supply the labor.
We send shovels, cement, nails, and corrugated iron for roofs.
That way they have an infirmary for $ 400.
We have 2500 such projects, and they add up to a lot more than just roads and wells and schools.
Mr. Keo agreed.
``Our people have been used to accepting things as they found them'', he said.
``Where there was no road, they lived without one.
Now they learn that men can change their surroundings, through their traditional village elders, without violence.
That's a big step toward a modern state.
You might say we are in the nation building business''.
In the villages people lined up to give us flowers.
Then came coconuts, eggs, and rice wine.
The Prime Minister paid his respects to the Buddhist monks, strode rapidly among the houses, joked with the local soldiery, and made a speech.
Then we were off again.
We did it for three days.
But our stumping tour of the south wasn't all misery.
Crossing the 4000 - foot width of the Mekong at Champassak, on a raft with an outboard motor, we took off our dusty shirts and enjoyed a veritable ocean breeze.
Then we hung overboard in the water.
Briefly we rolled over a paved road up to Pak Song, on the cool Bolovens Plateau.
The Prince visited the hospital of Operation Brotherhood, supported by the Junior Chamber of Commerce of the Philippines, and fed rice to two pet elephants he kept at his residence at Pak Song.
In the village of Soukhouma, which means ``Peaceful'', we had a baci.
This is the most endearing of Lao ceremonies.
The preparations were elaborate : flowers, candles, incense sticks, rice wine, dozens of delicacies, and pieces of white cotton string.
The strings were draped around flowers in tall silver bowls (page 261).
The candles were lighted, and we sat on split bamboo mats among the village notables.
I was careful to keep my feet, the seat of the least worthy spirits, from pointing at anyone's head, where the worthiest spirits reside.
Now a distinguished old man called on nine divinities to come and join us.
Next he addressed himself to our souls.
A man has 32 souls, one for each part of the body.
Those souls like to wander off, and must be called back.
With the divinities present and our souls in place, we were wished health, happiness, and power.
These were to be kept on, to hold in the 32 souls.
As we stepped out into the sunlight, a man came up to John Cool and silently showed him his hand.
It had a festering hole as big as a silver dollar.
We could see maggots moving.
John said : ``I have some antiseptic salve with me, but it's too late for that''.
My interviews with teen-agers confirmed this portrait of the weakening of religious and ethnic bonds.
Jewish identity was often confused with social and economic strivings.
``Being Jewish gives you tremendous drive'', a boy remarked.
``It means that you have to get ahead''.
``I like the tradition'', a girl said.
``I like to follow the holidays when they come along.
But you don't have to worship in the traditional way.
You can communicate in your own way.
As I see it, there's no real difference between being Jewish, Catholic, or Protestant''.
Another teen-ager remarked : ``Most Jews don't believe in God, but they believe in people - in helping people''.
Still another boy asserted : ``To be a good Jew is to do no wrong; it's to be a good person''.
When asked how this was different from being a good Protestant, the boy answered, ``It's the same thing''.
This accords with the study by Maier and Spinrad.
The most important aims of the Jewish students were as follows : to make the world a better place to live in - 30 per cent; to get happiness for yourself - 28 per cent; and financial independence - 21 per cent.
Nevertheless, most of the teen-agers I interviewed believed in maintaining their Jewish identity and even envisioned joining a synagogue or temple.
However, they were hostile to Jewish Orthodoxy, professing to believe in Judaism ``but in a moderate way''.
One boy said querulously about Orthodox Jews : ``It's the twentieth century, and they don't have to wear beards''.
The reason offered for clinging to the ancestral faith lacked force and authority even in the teen-agers' minds.
``We were brought up that way'' was one statement which won general assent.
``I want to show respect for my parents' religion'' was the way in which a boy justified his inhabiting a halfway house of Judaism.
Still another suggested that he would join a temple ``for social reasons, since I'll be living in a suburb''.
Intermarriage, which is generally regarded as a threat to Jewish survival, was regarded not with horror or apprehension but with a kind of mild, clinical disapproval.
``When you marry, you want to have things in common'', a girl said, ``and it's hard when you don't marry someone with your own background''.
A fourteen year old girl from the Middle West observed wryly that, in her community, religion inconveniently interfered with religious activities - at least with the peripheral activities that many middle class Jews now regard as religious.
It appears that an Orthodox girl in the community disrupted plans for an outing sponsored by one of the Jewish service groups because she would not travel on Saturday and, in addition, required kosher food.
Another girl from a relatively large midwestern city described herself as ``the only Orthodox girl in town''.
This is, no doubt, inaccurate, but it does convey how isolated she feels among the vast army of the nonobservant.
One of the significant things about Jewish culture in the older teen years is that it is largely college oriented.
Sixty five per cent of the Jewish teen-agers of college age attend institutions of higher learning.
This is substantially higher than the figures for the American population at large - 45.6 per cent for males and 29.2 per cent for females.
This may help explain a phenomenon described by a small town Jewish boy.
However, in their junior and senior years, they generally forego their athletic pursuits, presumably in the interest of better academic achievement.
It is significant, too, that the older teen-agers I interviewed believed, unlike the younger ones, that Jewish students tend to do better academically than their gentile counterparts.
The percentage of Jewish girls who attend college is almost as high as that of boys.
The motivations for both sexes, to be sure, are different.
The vocational motive is the dominant one for boys, while Jewish girls attend college for social reasons and to become culturally developed.
One of the significant developments in American Jewish life is that the cultural consumers are largely the women.
It is they who read - and make - Jewish best-sellers and then persuade their husbands to read them.
In upper teen Jewish life, the non college group tends to have a sense of marginality.
``People automatically assume that I'm in college'', a nineteen year old machinist observed irritably.
The Jewish working girl almost invariably works in an office - in contradistinction to gentile factory workers - and, buttressed by a respectable income, she is likely to dress better and live more expansively than the college student.
She is even prone to regard the college girl as immature.
One of the reasons for the high percentage of Jewish teen-agers in college is that a great many urban Jews are enabled to attend local colleges at modest cost.
This is particularly true in large centers of Jewish population like New York, Chicago, and Philadelphia.
What is noteworthy about this large group of teen-agers is that, although their attitudes hardly differentiate them from their gentile counterparts, they actually lead their lives in a vast self enclosed Jewish cosmos with relatively little contact with the non Jewish world.
Perhaps the Jewish students at Brooklyn College - constituting 85 per cent of those who attend the day session - can serve as a paradigm of the urban, lower middle class Jewish student.
There is, to begin, an important sex difference.
Typically, in a lower-middle class Jewish family, a son will be sent to an out-of-town school, if financial resources warrant it, while the daughter will attend the local college.
There are two reasons for this.
Second, the attitude in Jewish families is far more protective toward the daughter than toward the son.
Most Jewish mothers are determined to exercise vigilance over the social and sexual lives of their daughters by keeping them home.
The consequence of this is that the girls at Brooklyn College outnumber the boys and do somewhat better academically.
One can assume that some of the brightest boys are out of town.
Brooklyn College students have an ambivalent attitude toward their school.
On the one hand, there is a sense of not having moved beyond the ambiance of their high school.
This is particularly acute for those who attended Midwood High School directly across the street from Brooklyn College.
They have a sense of marginality at being denied that special badge of status, the out-of-town school.
At the same time, there is a good deal of self congratulation at attending a good college - they are even inclined to exaggerate its not inconsiderable virtues - and they express pleasure at the cozy in-group feeling that the college generates.
``You don't have to watch what you say.
Of course, I would like to go to an out-of-town school where there are all kinds of people, but I would want lots of Jewish kids there''.
For most Brooklyn College students, college is at once a perpetuation of their ethnic attachments and a breaking away from the cage of neighborhood and family.
Brooklyn College is unequivocally Jewish in tone, and efforts to detribalize the college by bringing in unimpeachably midwestern types on the faculty have been unavailing.
However, a growing intellectual sophistication and the new certitudes imparted by courses in psychology and anthropology make the students increasingly critical of their somewhat provincial and overprotective parents.
And the rebellion of these third generation Jews is not the traditional conflict of culture but, rather, a protest against a culture that they view as softly and insidiously enveloping.
``As long as I'm home, I'll never grow up'', a nineteen year old boy observed sadly.
``They don't like it if I do anything away from home.
It's so much trouble, I don't usually bother''.
Parents will drive on Friday night to pick up their daughters after a sorority or House Plan meeting.
A freshman girl's father not too long ago called a dean at Brooklyn College and demanded the ``low-down'' on a boy who was going out with his daughter.
The domestic tentacles even extend to the choice of a major field.
Under pressure from parents, the majority of Brooklyn College girls major in education since that co-ordinates best with marriage plans - limited graduate study requirement and convenient working hours.
This means that a great many academically talented girls are discouraged from pursuing graduate work of a more demanding nature.
A kind of double standard exists here for Jewish boys and girls as it does in the realm of sex.
The breaking away from the prison house of Brooklyn is gradual.
First, the student trains on his hapless parents the heavy artillery of his newly acquired psychological and sociological insights.
Then, with the new affluence, there is actually a sallying forth into the wide, wide world beyond the precincts of New York.
The great world beyond beckons.
But it should be pointed out that some of the new watering places - Fire Island, Nantucket, Westhampton, Long Island, for example - tend to be homogeneously Jewish.
Although Brooklyn College does not yet have a junior year abroad program, a good number of students spend summers in Europe.
In general, however, the timetable of travel lags considerably behind that of the student at Harvard or Smith.
And acculturation into the world at large is likely to occur for the Brooklyn College student after college rather than during the four school years.
Brooklyn College is Marjorie Morningstar territory, as much as the Bronx or Central Park West.
There are hordes of nubile young women there who, prodded by their impatient mothers, are determined to marry.
It is interesting that, although the percentage of married students is not appreciably higher at Brooklyn than elsewhere - about 30 per cent of the women and 25 per cent of the men in the graduating class - the anxiety of the unmarried has puffed up the estimate.
``Almost everybody in the senior class is married'', students say dogmatically.
These announcements are, in effect, advertisements for themselves as thriving marriage marts.
There are boxed proclamations in the newspaper of watchings, pinnings, ringings, engagements, and marriages in a scrupulously graded hierarchy of felicity.
``Witt House happily announces the engagement of Fran Horowitz to Erwin Schwartz of Fife House''.
The Brooklyn College student shows some striking departures from prevailing collegiate models.
The Ivy League enjoys no easy dominion here, and the boys are as likely to dress in rather foppish Continental fashion, or even in nondescript working class manner, as they are in the restrained, button-down Ivy way.
The girls are prone to dress far more flamboyantly than their counterparts out of town, and eye shadow, mascara, and elaborate bouffant hairdos - despite the admonitions of cautious guidance personnel - are not unknown even in early morning classes.
Among the boys, there is very little bravado about drinking.
Brooklyn College is distinctive for not having an official drinking place.
The Fort Lauderdale encampment for drinking is foreign to most Brooklyn College boys.
In those vocational programs organized with Smith-Hughes money, there may be a close tie between the labor union and a local employer on the one hand and the vocational teacher on the other.
In these cases a graduate may enter directly into an apprentice program, saving a year because of his vocational courses in grades 11 and 12.
The apprentice program will involve further education on a part-time basis, usually at night, perhaps using some of the same equipment of the high school.
These opportunities are to be found in certain cities in such crafts as auto mechanics, carpentry, drafting, electrical work, tool-and-die work, and sheet-metal work.
Formally organized vocational programs supported by federal funds allow high school students to gain experience in a field of work which is likely to lead to a full-time job on graduation.
The ``diversified occupations'' program is a part-time trade preparatory program conducted over two school years on a cooperative basis between the school and local industrial and business employers.
The ``distributive education'' program operates in a similar way, with arrangements between the school and employers in merchandising fields.
In both cases the student attends school half-time and works in a regular job the other half.
He receives remuneration for his work.
Adult education courses, work-study programs of various sorts - these are all evidence of a continuing interest of the schools in furthering educational opportunities for out-of-school youth.
In general, however, it may be said that when a boy or a girl leaves the high school, the school authorities play little or no part in the decision of what happens next.
If the student drops out of high school, the break with the school is even more complete.
When there is employment opportunity for youth, this arrangement - or lack of arrangement - works out quite well.
Indeed, in some periods of our history and in some neighborhoods the job opportunities have been so good that undoubtedly a great many boys who were potential members of the professions quit school at an early age and went to work.
Statistically this has represented a loss to the nation, although one must admit that in an individual case the decision in retrospect may have been a wise one.
I make no attempt to measure the enduring satisfaction and material well-being of a man who went to work on graduation from high school and was highly successful in the business which he entered.
He may or may not be ``better off'' than his classmate who went on to a college and professional school.
But in the next decades the nation needs to educate for the professions all the potential professional talent.
In the Negro neighborhoods and also to some extent in the mixed neighborhoods the problem may be one of identification and motivation.
High motivation towards higher education must start early enough so that by the time the boy or girl reaches grade 9 he or she has at least developed those basic skills which are essential for academic work.
Undoubtedly far more can be done in the lower grades in this regard in the Negro schools.
However, the teacher can only go so far if the attitude of the community and the family is anti-intellectual.
And the fact remains that there are today few shining examples of Negroes in positions of intellectual leadership.
This is not due to any policy of discrimination on the part of the Northern universities.
Quite the contrary, as I can testify from personal experience as a former university president.
Rather we see here another vicious circle.
The absence of successful Negroes in the world of scholarship and science has tended to tamp down enthusiasm among Negro youth for academic careers.
Here again we run into the roadblock that Negroes do not like to be designated as Negroes in the press.
How can the vicious circle be broken?
This is a problem to which leaders of opinion, both Negro and white, should devote far more attention.
It is at least as important as the more dramatic attempts to break down barriers of inequality in the South.
I should like to underline four points I made in my first report with respect to vocational education.
First and foremost, vocational courses should not replace courses which are essential parts of the required academic program for graduation.
Second, vocational courses should be provided in grades 11 and 12 and not require more than half the student's time in those years; however, for slow learners and prospective dropouts these courses ought to begin earlier.
Third, the significance of the vocational courses is that those enrolled are keenly interested in the work; they realize the relevance of what they are learning to their future careers, and this sense of purpose is carried over to the academic courses which they are studying at the same time.
Fourth, the type of vocational training programs should be related to the employment opportunities in the general locality.
Vocational training which holds no hope that the skill developed will be in fact a marketable skill becomes just another school ``chore'' for those whose interest in their studies has begun to falter.
Those who, because of population mobility and the reputed desire of employers to train their own employees, would limit vocational education to general rather than specific skills ought to bear in mind the importance of motivation in any kind of school experience.
I have been using the word ``vocational'' as a layman would at first sight think it should be used.
I intend to include under the term all the practical courses open to boys and girls.
These courses develop skills other than those we think of when we use the adjective ``academic''.
Practically all of these practical skills are of such a nature that a degree of mastery can be obtained in high school sufficient to enable the youth to get a job at once on the basis of the skill.
They are in this sense skills marketable immediately on graduation from high school.
To be sure, in tool-and-die work and in the building trades, the first job must be often on an apprentice basis, but two years of halftime vocational training enables the young man thus to anticipate one year of apprentice status.
Similarly, a girl who graduates with a good working knowledge of stenography and the use of clerical machines and who is able to get a job at once may wish to improve her skill and knowledge by a year or two of further study in a community college or secretarial school.
So, too, is the mathematical competence of a college graduate who has majored in mathematics.
In a sense almost all high school and college courses could be considered as vocational to the extent that later in life the student in his vocation (which may be a profession) will be called upon to use some of the skills developed and the competence obtained.
In spite of the shading of one type of course into another, I believe it is useful to talk about vocational courses as apart from academic courses.
Perhaps a course in typewriting might be regarded as the exception which proves the rule.
Today many college bound students try to take a course in personal typing, as they feel a certain degree of mastery of this skill is almost essential for one who proposes to do academic work in college and a professional school.
Most of our largest cities have one or more separate vocational or technical high schools.
In this respect, public education in the large cities differs from education in the smaller cities and consolidated school districts.
The neighborhood high schools are not, strictly speaking, comprehensive schools, because some of the boys and girls may be attending a vocational or technical high school instead of the local school.
Indeed, one school superintendent in a large city objects to the use of the term comprehensive high school for the senior high schools in his city, because these schools do not offer strictly vocational programs.
The suburban high school, it is worth noting, also is not a widely comprehensive high school because of the absence of vocational programs.
The reason is that there is a lack of interest on the part of the community.
Therefore employment and education in all the schools in a metropolitan area are related in different ways from those which are characteristic of the comprehensive high school described in my first report.
The separate vocational or technical high schools in the large cities must be reckoned as permanent institutions.
By and large their programs are satisfactorily connected both to the employment situation and to the realities of the apprentice system.
It is not often realized to what degree certain trades are in many communities closed areas of employment, except for a lucky few.
One has to talk confidentially with some of the directors of vocational high schools to realize that a boy cannot just say, ``I want to be a plumber'', and then, by doing good work, find a job.
It is far more difficult in many communities to obtain admission to an apprentice program which involves union approval than to get into the most selective medical school in the nation.
Two stories will illustrate what I have in mind.
In the city, he said, the waiting list for those who want to join the union is so long that unless a boy has an inside track he cann't get in.
In a far distant part of the United States, I was talking to an instructor about a boy who in the twelfth grade was doing special work.
``What does he have in mind to do when he graduates''?
``Oh, he'll be a plumber'', came the answer.
``But isn't it almost impossible to get into the union''?
I asked.
``He'll have no difficulty'', I was told.
``He has very good connections''.
In my view, there should be a school which offers significant vocational programs for boys within easy reach of every family in a city.
An excellent example of a successful location of a new vocational high school is the Dunbar Vocational High School in Chicago.
Located in a bad slum area now undergoing redevelopment, this school and its program are especially tailored to the vocational aims of its students.
Hardly a window has been broken since Dunbar first was opened (and vandalism in schools is a major problem in many slum areas).
I discovered in the course of a visit there that almost all the pupils were Negroes.
They were learning trades as diverse as shoe repairing, bricklaying, carpentry, cabinet making, auto mechanics, and airplane mechanics.
The physical facilities at Dunbar are impressive, but more impressive is the attitude of the pupils.
In general, religious interest seems to exist in all parts of the metropolis; congregational membership, however, is another thing.
A congregation survives only if it can sustain a socially homogeneous membership; that is, when it can preserve economic integration.
Religious faith can be considered a necessary condition of membership in a congregation, since the decision to join a worshiping group requires some motive force, but faith is not a sufficient condition for joining; the presence of other members of similar social and economic level is the sufficient condition.
Central cities reveal two adverse features for the major denominations:
(1) central cities tend to be areas of residence for lower social classes; (2) central cities tend to be more heterogeneous in social composition.
The central city areas, in other words, exhibit the two characteristics which violate the life principle of congregations of the major denominations : they have too few middle-class people; they mix middle-class people with lower-class residents.
Central city areas have become progressively poorer locales for the major denominations since the exodus of middle-class people from most central cities.
With few exceptions, the major denominations are rapidly losing their hold on the central city.
The key to Protestant development, therefore, is economic integration of the nucleus of the congregation.
Members of higher and lower social status often cluster around this nucleus, so that Protestant figures on social class give the impression of spread over all social classes; but this is deceptive, for the core of membership is concentrated in a single social and economic stratum.
The congregation perishes when it is no longer possible to replenish that core from the neighborhood; moreover, residential mobility is so high in metropolitan areas that churches have to recruit constantly in their core stratum in order to survive; they can lose higher - and lower status members from the church without collapsing, but they need adequate recruits for the core stratum in order to preserve economic integration.
The congregation is first and foremost an economic peer group; it is secondarily a believing and worshiping fellowship.
They survive only when they can recruit social and economic peers.
The vulnerability of Protestant congregations to social differences has often been attributed to the ``folksy spirit'' of Protestant religious life; in fact, a contrast is often drawn in this regard with the ``impersonal'' Roman Catholic parish.
We have seen that the folksy spirit is confined to economic peers; consequently, the vulnerability to social difference should not be attributed to the stress on personal community in Protestant congregations; actually, there is little evidence of such personal community in Protestant congregations, as we shall see in another connection.
The vulnerability of Protestantism to social differences stems from the peculiar role of the new religious style in middle-class life, where the congregation is a vehicle of social and economic group identity and must conform, therefore, to the principle of economic integration.
This fact is evident in the recruitment of new members.
The rule of economic integration in congregational life can be seen in the missionary outreach of the major denominations.
There is much talk in theological circles about the ``Church as Mission'' and the ``Church's Mission''; theologians have been stressing the fact that the Church does not exist for its own sake but as a testimony in the world for the healing of the world.
A crucial question, therefore, is what evangelism and mission actually mean in metropolitan Protestantism.
If economic integration really shapes congregational life, then evangelism should be a process of extending economic integration.
(Co-optation means to choose by joint action in order to fill a vacancy; it can also mean the assimilation of centers of power from an environment in order to strengthen an organization .)
In a mobile society, congregational health depends on a constant process of recruitment; this recruitment, however, must follow the pattern of economic integration or it will disrupt the congregation; therefore, the recruitment or missionary outreach of the congregation will be co-optation rather than proclamation - like elements will have to be assimilated.
Evangelism and congregational outreach have not been carefully studied in the churches; one study in Pittsburgh, however, has illuminated the situation.
In a sample of new members of Pittsburgh churches, almost 60 per cent were recruited by initial ``contacts with friendly members''.
If we add to these contacts with friendly members the ``contacts with an organization of the church'' (11.2 per cent of the cases), then a substantial two thirds of all recruitment is through friendly contact.
On the surface, this seems a sound approach to Christian mission : members of the congregation show by their friendly attitudes that they care for new people; the new people respond in kind by joining the church.
Missionary outreach by friendly contact looks somewhat different when one reflects on what is known about friendly contact in metropolitan neighborhoods; the majority of such contacts are with people of similar social and economic position; association by level of achievement is the dominant principle of informal relations.
This means that the antennae of the congregation are extended into the community, picking up the wave lengths of those who will fit into the social and economic level of the congregation; the mission of the church is actually a process of informal co-optation; the lay ministry is a means to recruit like-minded people who will strengthen the social class nucleus of the congregation.
Churches can be strengthened through this process of co-optation so long as the environs of the church provide a sufficient pool of people who can fit the pattern of economic integration; once the pool of recruits diminishes, the congregation is helpless - friendly contacts no longer keep it going.
The proclamation of the churches is almost totally confined to pastoral contacts by the clergy (17.3 per cent of new members) and friendly contacts by members (over two thirds if organizational activities are included).
Publicity accounted for 1.1 per cent of the initial contacts with new members.
In general, friendly contact with a member followed by contact with a clergyman will account for a major share of recruitment by the churches, making it quite evident that the extension of economic integration through co-optation is the principal form of mission in the contemporary church; economic integration and co-optation are the two methods by which Protestants associate with and recruit from the neighborhood.
The inner life of congregations will prosper so long as like-minded people of similar social and economic level can fraternize together; the outer life of congregations - the suitability of the environment to their survival - will be propitious so long as the people in the area are of the same social and economic level as the membership.
Economic integration ceases when the social and economic statuses in an area become too mixed or conflict with the status of the congregation.
In a rapidly changing society congregations will run into difficulties repeatedly, since such nice balances of economic integration are hard to sustain in the metropolis for more than a single generation.
The fact that metropolitan churches of the major denominations have moved approximately every generation for the last hundred years becomes somewhat more intelligible in the light of this struggle to maintain economic balance.
The expense of this type of organization in religious life, when one recalls the number of city churches which deteriorated beyond repair before being abandoned, raises fundamental questions about the principle of Protestant survival in a mobile society; nonetheless, the prevalence of economic integration in congregations illumines the nature of the Protestant development.
It was observed in the introductory chapter that metropolitan life had split into two trends - expanding interdependence on an impersonal basis and growing exclusiveness in local communal groupings.
Residential associations struggle to insulate themselves against intrusions.
The motifs of impersonal interdependence and insulation of residential communities have polarized; the schism between central city and suburb, Negro and White, blue collar and white collar can be viewed as symptomatic of this deeper polarization of trends in the metropolis.
It now becomes evident that the denominational church is intimately involved with the economy of middle-class culture, for it serves to crystallize the social class identity of middle-class residential groupings.
The accelerated pace of metropolitan changes has accentuated the drive to conformity in congregations of the major denominations.
This conformity represents a desperate attempt to stabilize a hopelessly unstable environment.
More than creatures of metropolitan forces, the churches have taken the lead in counteracting the interdependence of metropolitan life, crystallizing and perpetuating the stratification of peoples, giving form to the struggle for social homogeneity in a world of heterogeneous peoples.
Since American life is committed above all to productivity and a higher standard of economic life, the countervailing forces of residential and religious exclusiveness have fought a desperate, rearguard action against the expanding interdependence of the metropolis.
Consumer communities have suffered at the hands of the productive interests.
Negroes, Puerto Ricans, and rural newcomers are slowly making their way into the cities.
The identification of the basic unit of religious organization - the parish or congregation - with a residential area is self defeating in a modern metropolis, for it simply means the closing of an iron trap on the outreach of the Christian fellowship and the transmutation of mission to co-optation.
Mission to the metropolis contradicts survival of the congregation in the residential community, because the middle classes are fighting metropolitan interdependence with residential exclusion.
This interpretation of the role of residence in the economy of middle-class culture could lead to various projections for the churches.
It could be argued that any fellowship which centers in residential neighborhoods is doomed to become an expression of the panic for stable identity among the middle classes.
It could be argued that only such neighborhoods can sustain religious activity, since worship presupposes some local stabilities.
Whatever projection one makes, the striking fact about congregational and parochial life is the extent to which it is a vehicle of the social identity of middle-class people.
Attention will be given in the next chapter to the style of association in the denominational churches; this style is characteristically an expression of the communal style of the middle classes.
The keynotes of this style are activism and emphasis on achievements in gaining self-esteem.
These values give direction to the life of the middle-class man or woman, dictating the methods of child rearing, determining the pattern of community participation, setting the style for the psychiatric treatment of middle-class illness, and informing the congregational life of the major denominations.
Its contents are another matter, for they reveal the kinds of interests pursued by the congregation.
What goes on in the cage will occupy our attention under the rubric of the organization church.
An understanding of the new role of residential association in an industrial society serves to illuminate the forces which have fashioned the iron cage of conformity which imprisons the churches in their suburban captivity.
The perplexing question still remains as to why the middle classes turn to the churches as a vehicle of social identity when their clubs and charities should fill the same need.
Nothing like Godot, he arrived before the hour.
His letter had suggested we meet at my hotel at noon on Sunday, and I came into the lobby as the clock struck twelve.
He was waiting.
My wish to meet Samuel Beckett had been prompted by simple curiosity and interest in his work.
American newspaper reviewers like to call his plays nihilistic.
Even so astute a commentator as Harold Clurman of The Nation has said that ``Waiting for Godot'' is ``the concentrate of the contemporary European mood of despair''.
But to me Beckett's writing had seemed permeated with love for human beings and with a kind of humor that I could reconcile neither with despair nor with nihilism.
Could it be that my own eyes and ears had deceived me?
Is his a literature of defeat, irrelevant to the social crises we face?
Or is it relevant because it teaches us something useful to know about ourselves?
I knew that a conversation with the author would not settle such questions, because a man is not the same as his writing : in the last analysis, the questions had to be settled by the work itself.
Nevertheless I was curious.
My curiosity was sharpened a day or two before the interview by a conversation I had with a well-informed teacher of literature, a Jesuit father, at a conference on religious drama near Paris.
When Beckett's name came into the discussion, the priest grew loud and told me that Beckett ``hates life''.
Beckett's appearance is rough-hewn Irish.
The features of his face are distinct, but not fine.
They look as if they had been sculptured with an unsharpened chisel.
Unruly hair goes straight up from his forehead, standing so high that the top falls gently over, as if to show that it really is hair and not bristle.
One might say it combines the man; own pride and humility.
For he has the pride that comes of self acceptance and the humility, perhaps of the same genesis, not to impose himself upon another.
His light blue eyes, set deep within the face, are actively and continually looking.
He seems, by some unconscious division of labor, to have given them that one function and no other, leaving communication to the rest of the face.
The mouth frequently breaks into a disarming smile.
The Irish accent is, as one would expect, combined with slight inflections from the French.
His tweed suit was a baggy gray and green.
He wore a brown knit sports shirt with no tie.
We walked down the Rue de L' Arcade, thence along beside the Madeleine and across to a sidewalk cafe opposite that church.
The conversation that ensued may have been engrossing but it could hardly be called world shattering.
For one thing, the world that Beckett sees is already shattered.
His talk turns to what he calls ``the mess'', or sometimes ``this buzzing confusion''.
I reconstruct his sentences from notes made immediately after our conversation.
What appears here is shorter than what he actually said but very close to his own words.
We cannot listen to a conversation for five minutes without being acutely aware of the confusion.
It is all around us and our only chance now is to let it in.
The only chance of renovation is to open our eyes and see the mess.
It is not a mess you can make sense of''.
I suggested that one must let it in because it is the truth, but Beckett did not take to the word truth.
``What is more true than anything else?
To swim is true, and to sink is true.
One is not more true than the other.
One cannot speak anymore of being, one must speak only of the mess.
I am not a philosopher.
One can only speak of what is in front of him, and that now is simply the mess''.
Then he began to speak about the tension in art between the mess and form.
Until recently, art has withstood the pressure of chaotic things.
It has held them at bay.
It realized that to admit them was to jeopardize form.
``How could the mess be admitted, because it appears to be the very opposite of form and therefore destructive of the very thing that art holds itself to be''?
But now we can keep it out no longer, because we have come into a time when ``it invades our experience at every moment.
It is there and it must be allowed in''.
And why not?
How, I asked, could chaos be admitted to chaos?
Would not that be the end of thinking and the end of art?
If we look at recent art we find it preoccupied with form.
Beckett's own work is an example.
Plays more highly formalized than ``Waiting for Godot'', ``Endgame'', and ``Krapp's Last Tape'' would be hard to find.
``What I am saying does not mean that there will henceforth be no form in art.
It only means that there will be new form, and that this form will be of such a type that it admits the chaos and does not try to say that the chaos is really something else.
The form and the chaos remain separate.
That is why the form itself becomes a preoccupation, because it exists as a problem separate from the material it accommodates.
To find a form that accommodates the mess, that is the task of the artist now''.
Yet, I responded, could not similar things be said about the art of the past?
Is it not characteristic of the greatest art that it confronts us with something we cannot clarify, demanding that the viewer respond to it in his own never predictable way?
What is the history of criticism but the history of men attempting to make sense of the manifold elements in art that will not allow themselves to be reduced to a single philosophy or a single aesthetic theory?
Isn't all art ambiguous?
``Not this'', he said, and gestured toward the Madeleine.
The classical lines of the church which Napoleon thought of as a Temple of Glory, dominated all the scene where we sat.
The Boulevard de la Madeleine, the Boulevard Malesherbes, and the Rue Royale ran to it with graceful flattery, bearing tidings of the Age of Reason.
This is clear.
This does not allow the mystery to invade us.
With classical art, all is settled.
But it is different at Chartres.
There is the unexplainable, and there art raises questions that it does not attempt to answer''.
I asked about the battle between life and death in his plays.
Didi and Gogo hover on the edge of suicide; Hamm's world is death and Clov may or may not get out of it to join the living child outside.
Is this life death question a part of the chaos?
``Yes.
If there were only darkness, all would be clear.
It is because there is not only darkness but also light that our situation becomes inexplicable.
Take Augustine's doctrine of grace given and grace withheld : have you pondered the dramatic qualities in this theology?
Two thieves are crucified with Christ, one saved and the other damned.
How can we make sense of this division?
In classical drama, such problems do not arise.
The destiny of Racine's Phedre is sealed from the beginning : she will proceed into the dark.
As she goes, she herself will be illuminated.
At the beginning of the play she has partial illumination and at the end she has complete illumination, but there has been no question but that she moves toward the dark.
Within this notion clarity is possible, but for us who are neither Greek nor Jansenist there is not such clarity.
The question would also be removed if we believed in the contrary - total salvation.
But where we have both dark and light we have also the inexplicable.
The key word in my plays is' perhaps'''.
Given a theological lead, I asked what he thinks about those who find a religious significance to his plays.
``Well, really there is none at all.
I have no religious feeling.
Once I had a religious emotion.
It was at my first Communion.
My mother was deeply religious.
So was my brother.
He knelt down at his bed as long as he could kneel.
My father had none.
The family was Protestant, but for me it was only irksome and I let it go.
My brother and mother got no value from their religion when they died.
At the moment of crisis it had no more depth than an old school tie.
Irish Catholicism is not attractive, but it is deeper.
When you pass a church on an Irish bus, all the hands flurry in the sign of the cross.
But do the plays deal with the same facets of experience religion must also deal with?
``Yes, for they deal with distress.
Some people object to this in my writing.
At a party an English intellectual - so-called - asked me why I write always about distress.
As if it were perverse to do so!
He wanted to know if my father had beaten me or my mother had run away from home to give me an unhappy childhood.
I told him no, that I had had a very happy childhood.
Then he thought me more perverse than ever.
I left the party as soon as possible and got into a taxi.
one asked for help for the blind, another help for orphans, and the third for relief for the war refugees.
One does not have to look for distress.
It is screaming at you even in the taxis of London''.
Lunch was over, and we walked back to the hotel with the light and dark of Paris screaming at us.
The personal quality of Samuel Beckett is similar to qualities I had found in the plays.
He says nothing that compresses experience within a closed pattern.
``Perhaps'' stands in place of commitment.
At the same time, he is plainly sympathetic, clearly friendly.
If there were only the mess, all would be clear; but there is also compassion.
As a writer on the theater, I have paid close attention to the plays.
Harold Clurman is right to say that ``Waiting for Godot'' is a reflection (he calls it a distorted reflection) ``of the impasse and disarray of Europe's present politics, ethic, and common way of life''.
Yet it is not only Europe the play refers to.
``Waiting for Godot'' sells even better in America than in France.
The consciousness it mirrors may have come earlier to Europe than to America, but it is the consciousness that most ``mature'' societies arrive at when their successes in technological and economic systematization propel them into a time of examining the not strictly practical ends of culture.
America is now joining Europe in this ``mature'' phase of development.
Whether any of us remain in it long will depend on what happens as a result of the technological and economic revolutions now going on in the countries of Asia and Africa, and also of course on how long the cold war remains cold.
There were fences in the old days when we were children.
Across the front of a yard and down the side, they were iron, either spiked along the top or arched in half circles.
Side fences were hidden beneath lilacs and hundred leaf roses; front fences were covered with Virginia creeper or trumpet vines or honeysuckle.
Square corner - and gate posts were an open-work pattern of cast-iron foliage; they were topped by steeples complete in every detail : high pitched roof, pinnacle, and narrow gable.
On these posts the gates swung open with a squeak and shut with a metallic clang.
The only extended view possible to anyone less tall than the fences was that obtained from an upper bough of the apple tree.
The primary quality of that view seems, now, to have been its quietness, but that cannot at the time have impressed us.
What one actually remembers is its greenness.
From high in the tree, the whole block lay within range of the eye, but the ground was almost nowhere visible.
One looked down on a sea of leaves, a breaking wave of flower.
Every path from back door to barn was covered by a grape-arbor, and every yard had its fruit trees.
From above one could only occasionally catch a glimpse of life on the floor of this green sea : a neighbor's gingham skirt flashing into sight for an instant on the path beneath her grape-arbor, or the movement of hands above a clothesline and the flutter of garments hung there, half-way down the block.
That was one epoch : the apple-tree epoch.
Another had ended before it began.
Time is a queer thing and memory a queerer; the tricks that time plays with memory and memory with time are queerest of all.
From maturity one looks back at the succession of years, counts them and makes them many, yet cannot feel length in the number, however large.
In a stream that turns a mill-wheel there is a lot of water; the mill-pond is quiet, its surface dark and shadowed, and there does not seem to be much water in it.
Time in the sum is nothing.
And yet - a year to a child is an eternity, and in the memory that phase of one's being - a certain mental landscape - will seem to have endured without beginning and without end.
The part of the mind that preserves dates and events may remonstrate, ``It could have been like that for only a little while''; but true memory does not count nor add : it holds fast to things that were and they are outside of time.
That world was in scale with my own smallness.
I have no picture in my mind of the garden as a whole - that I could not see - but certain aspects of certain corners linger in the memory : wind-blown, frost-bitten, white chrysanthemums beneath a window, with their brittle brown leaves and their sharp scent of November; ripe pears lying in long grass, to be turned over by a dusty slippered foot, cautiously, lest bees still worked in the ragged, brown edged holes; hot colored verbenas in the corner between the dining-room wall and the side porch, where we passed on our way to the pump with the half gourd tied to it as a cup by my grandmother for our childish pleasure in drinking from it.
It was mother who planted the verbenas.
I think that my grandmother was not an impassioned gardener:
she was too indulgent a lover of dogs and grandchildren.
My great grandmother, I have been told, made her garden her great pride; she cherished rare and delicate plants like oleanders in tubs and wall-flowers and lemon verbenas in pots that had to be wintered in the cellar; she filled the waste spots of the yard with common things like the garden heliotrope in a corner by the woodshed, and the plantain lilies along the west side of the house.
These my grandmother left in their places (they are still there, more persistent and longer-lived than the generations of man) and planted others like them, that flourished without careful tending.
Three of these only were protected from us by stern commandment : the roses, whose petals might not be collected until they had fallen, to be made into perfume or rose tea to drink; the peonies, whose tight sticky buds would be blighted by the laying on of a finger, although they were not apparently harmed by the ants that crawled over them; and the poppies.
I have more than once sat cross-legged in the grass through a long summer morning and watched without touching while a poppy bud higher than my head slowly but visibly pushed off its cap, unfolded, and shook out like a banner in the sun its flaming vermilion petals.
More potent a charm to bring back that time of life than this record of a few pictures and a few remembered facts would be a catalogue of the minutiae which are of the very stuff of the mind, intrinsic, because they were known in the beginning not by the eye alone but by the hand that held them.
Flowers, stones, and small creatures, living and dead.
Pale yellow snapdragons that by pinching could be made to bite; seed-pods of the balsams that snapped like fire-crackers at a touch; red and yellow columbines whose round tipped spurs were picked off and eaten for the honey in them; morning-glory buds which could be so grasped and squeezed that they burst like a blown-up paper bag; bright flowers from the trumpet vine that made ``gloves'' on the ends of ten waggling fingers.
Fuzzy caterpillars, snails with their sensitive horns, struggling grasshoppers held by their long hind legs and commanded to ``spit tobacco, spit''.
Dead fledgling birds, their squashed looking nakedness and the odor of decay that clung to the hand when they had been buried in our graveyard in front of the purple flags.
And the cast shell of a locust, straw colored and transparent, weighing nothing, fragile but entire, with eyes like bubbles and a gaping slit down its back.
Every morning early, in the summer, we searched the trunks of the trees as high as we could reach for the locust shells, carefully detached their hooked claws from the bark where they hung, and stabled them, a weird faery herd, in an angle between the high roots of the tulip tree, where no grass grew in the dense shade.
We collected ``lucky stones'' - all the creamy translucent pebbles, worn smooth and round, that we could find in the driveway.
When these had been pocketed, we could still spend a morning cracking open other pebbles for our delight in seeing how much prettier they were inside than their dull exteriors indicated.
Squatting on our haunches beside the flat stone we broke them on, we were safe behind the high closed gates at the end of the drive : safe from interruption and the observation and possible amusement of the passers-by.
Thus shielded, we played many foolish games in comfortable unselfconsciousness; even when the fences became a part of the game - when a vine embowered gate-post was the Sleeping Beauty's enchanted castle, or when Rapunzel let down her golden hair from beneath the crocketed spire, even then we paid little heed to those who went by on the path outside.
We enjoyed a paradoxical freedom when we were still too young for school.
In the heat of the summer, the garden solitudes were ours alone; our elders stayed in the dark house or sat fanning on the front porch.
They never troubled themselves about us while we were playing, because the fence formed such a definite boundary and ``Don't go outside the gate'' was a command so impossible of misinterpretation.
We were not, however, entirely unacquainted with the varying aspects of the street.
We were forbidden to swing on the gates, lest they sag on their hinges in a poor-white-trash way, but we could stand on them, when they were latched, rest our chins on the top, and stare and stare, committing to memory, quite unintentionally, all the details that lay before our eyes.
The street that is full now of traffic and parked cars then and for many years drowsed on an August afternoon in the shade of the curbside trees, and silence was a weight, almost palpable, in the air.
Every slight sound that rose against that pressure fell away again, crushed beneath it.
A wheel squeaked on a hub, was still, and squeaked again.
If a child watched its progress he whispered, ``Hay, hay, load of hay - make a wish and turn away'', and then stared rigidly in the opposite direction until the sound of the horses' feet returned no more.
When the hay wagon had gone, and an interval passed, a huckster's cart might turn the corner.
The horse walked, the reins were slack, the huckster rode with bowed shoulders, his forearms across his knees.
Sleepily, as if half reluctant to break the silence, he lifted his voice : ``Rhu-beb ni ice fresh rhu-beb today''!
The lazy sing-song was spaced in time like the drone of a bumble-bee.
No one seemed to hear him, no one heeded.
The horse plodded on, and he repeated his call.
It became so monotonous as to seem a part of the quietness.
The sun moved slant-wise across the sky and down; the trees' shadows circled from street to sidewalk, from sidewalk to lawn.
At four o' clock, or four thirty, the coming of the newsboy marked the end of the day; he tossed a paper toward every front door, and housewives came down to their steps to pick them up and read what their neighbors had been doing.
The streets of any county town were like this on any sunshiny afternoon in summer; they were like this fifty odd years ago, and yesterday.
But the fences were still in place fifty odd years ago, and when we stood on the gate to look over, the sidewalk under our eyes was not cement but two rows of paving stones with grass between and on both sides.
The curb was a line of stone laid edgewise in the dirt and tilted this way and that by frost in the ground or the roots of trees.
Opposite every gate was a hitching post or a stone carriage step, set with a rusty iron ring for tying a horse.
The street was unpaved and rose steeply toward the center; it was mud in wet weather and dust, ankle-deep, in dry, and could be crossed only at the corner where there were stepping stones.
It had a bucolic atmosphere that it has lost long since.
The hoofmarks of cattle and the prints of bare feet in the mud or in the dust were as numerous as the traces of shod horses.
The ``reality'' to which they respond is rationally empty and their art is an imitation of the inescapable powerfulness of this unknown and empty world.
Their artistic rationale is given to the witness of unreason.
These polar concerns (imitation vs. formalism) reflect a philosophical and religious situation which has been developing over a long period of time.
The breakdown of classical structures of meaning in all realms of western culture has given rise to several generations of artists who have documented the disintegrative processes.
Thus the image of man has suffered complete fragmentation in personal and spiritual qualities, and complete objectification in sub-human and quasi mechanistic powers.
The image of the world tends to reflect the hostility and indifference of man or else to dissolve into empty spaces and overwhelming mystery.
The image of God has simply disappeared.
All such imitations of negative quality have given rise to a compensatory response in the form of a heroic and highly individualistic humanism : if man can neither know nor love reality as it is, he can at least invent an artistic ``reality'' which is its own world and which can speak to man of purely personal and subjective qualities capable of being known and worthy of being loved.
The person of the artist becomes a final bastion of meaning in a world rendered meaningless by the march of events and the decay of classical religious and philosophical systems.
Without the decay of a sense of objective reference (except as the imitation of mystery), the stress on subjective invention would never have been stimulated into being.
And although these insights into the nature of art may be in themselves insufficient for a thoroughgoing philosophy of art, their peculiar authenticity in this day and age requires that they be taken seriously and gives promise that from their very substance, new and valid chapters in the philosophy of art may be written.
For better or worse we cannot regard ``imitation'' in the arts in the simple mode of classical rationalism or detached realism.
A broader concept of imitation is needed, one which acknowledges that true invention is important, that the artist's creativity in part transcends the non artistic causal factors out of which it arises.
On the other hand, we cannot regard artistic invention as pure, uncaused, and unrelated to the times in which it occurs.
We need a doctrine of imitation to save us from the solipsism and futility of pure formalism.
Accordingly, it is the aim of this essay to advance a new theory of imitation (which I shall call mimesis in order to distinguish it from earlier theories of imitation) and a new theory of invention (which I shall call symbol for reasons to be stated hereafter).
The word ``mimesis'' (``imitation'') is usually associated with Plato and Aristotle.
For Plato, ``imitation'' is twice removed from reality, being a poor copy of physical appearance, which in itself is a poor copy of ideal essence.
In Plato's judgment, the arts play a meaningful role in society only in the education of the young, prior to the full development of their intellectual powers.
Presupposed in Plato's system is a doctrine of levels of insight, in which a certain kind of detached understanding is alone capable of penetrating to the most sublime wisdom.
Aristotle also tended to stratify all aspects of human nature and activity into levels of excellence and, like Plato, he put the pure and unimpassioned intellect on the top level.
The Poetics, in affirming that all human arts are ``modes of imitation'', gives a more serious role to artistic mimesis than did Plato.
But Aristotle kept the principle of levels and even augmented it by describing in the Poetics what kinds of character and action must be imitated if the play is to be a vehicle of serious and important human truths.
For both Plato and Aristotle artistic mimesis, in contrast to the power of dialectic, is relatively incapable of expressing the character of fundamental reality.
The central concern of Erich Auerbach's impressive volume called Mimesis is to describe the shift from a classic theory of imitation (based upon a recognition of levels of truth) to a Christian theory of imitation in which the levels are dissolved.
Following the theme of Incarnation in the Gospels, the Christian artist and critic sees in the most commonplace and ordinary events ``figures'' of divine power and reality.
Here artistic realism involves the audience in an impassioned participation in events whose overtones and implications are transcendent.
The artist, unlike the philosopher, is not a removed observer aiming at neutral and rarified high levels of abstraction.
He is the conveyor of a sacred reality by which he has been grasped.
I have chosen to use the word ``mimesis'' in its Christian rather than its classic implications and to discover in the concrete forms of both art and myth powers of theological expression which, as in the Christian mind, are the direct consequence of involvement in historical experience, which are not reserved, as in the Greek mind, only to moments of theoretical reflection.
In the first instance, ``mimesis'' is here used to mean the recalling of experience in terms of vivid images rather than in terms of abstract ideas or conventional designations.
By ``image'' is meant not only a visual presentation, but also remembered sensations of any of the five senses plus the feelings which are immediately conjoined therewith.
This is the primary function of the imagination operating in the absence of the original experiential stimulus by which the images were first appropriated.
Mimesis is the nearest possible thing to the actual re-living of experience, in which the imagining person recovers through images something of the force and depth characteristic of experience itself.
The images themselves, like their counterparts in experience, are not neutral qualities to be surveyed dispassionately; they are fields of force exerting a unique influence on the sensibilities and a unique relatedness to one another.
They bring an inextricable component of value within themselves, with attractions and repulsions native to their own quality.
Mimesis here is not to be confused with literalism or realism in the conventional sense.
A word taken in its dictionary meaning, a photographic image of a recognizable object, the mere picturing of a ``scene'' tends to lose experiential vividness and to connote such conventional abstractions as to invite neutral reception without the incitement of value feelings.
Similarly experience itself can be conventionalized so that people react to certain preconceived clues for behavior without awareness of the vitality of their experiential field.
A truly vivid imagination moves beyond the conventional recollection to a sense of immediacy.
The mimetic character of the imaginative consciousness tends to express itself in the presentation of artistic forms and materials.
When words can be used in a more fresh and primitive way so that they strike with the force of sights and sounds, when tones of sound and colors of paint and the carven shape all strike the sensibilities with an undeniable force of data in and of themselves, compelling the observer into an attitude of attention, all this imitates the way experience itself in its deepest character strikes upon the door of consciousness and clamors for entrance.
These are like the initial ways in which the world forces itself upon the self and thrusts the self into decision and choice.
The presence of genuine mimesis in art is marked by the persistence with which the work demands attention and compels valuation even though it is but vaguely understood.
Underlying these conceptions of mimesis are certain presuppositions concerning the nature of primary human experience which require some exposition before the main argument can proceed.
Neither is primary experience understood according to the attitude of modern empiricism in which nothing is thought to be received other than signals of sensory qualities producing their responses in the appropriate sense organs.
Primary feelings of the world come neither as a collection of clearly known objects (houses, trees, implements, etc .) nor a collection of isolated and neutral sensory qualities.
In contrast to all this, primary data are data of a self involved in environing processes and powers.
The most primitive feelings are rudimentary value feelings, both positive and negative : a desire to appropriate this or that part of the environment into oneself; a desire to avoid and repel this or that other part.
These desires presuppose a sense of causally efficacious powers in which one is involved, some working for one's good, others threatening ill.
Gone is the tabula rasa of the mind.
In its place is a passionate consciousness grasped and molded to feelings of positive or negative values even as the actions of one's life are determined by constellations of process in which one is caught.
The principal defender of this view of primary experience as ``causal efficacy'' is Alfred North Whitehead.
Our most elemental and unavoidable impressions, he says, are those of being involved in a large arena of powers which have a longer past than our own, which are interrelated in a vast movement through the present toward the future.
Later abstractive and rational processes may indicate errors of judgment in these apprehensions of value, but the apprehensions themselves are the primary stuff of experience.
It takes a great deal of abstraction to free oneself from the primitive impression of larger unities of power and influence and to view one's world simply as a collection of sense data arranged in such and such sequence and pattern, devoid of all power to move the feelings and actions except in so far as they present themselves for inspection.
Whitehead is here questioning David Hume's understanding of the nature of experience; he is questioning, also, every epistemology which stems from Hume's presupposition that experience is merely sense data in abstraction from causal efficacy, and that causal efficacy is something intellectually imputed to the world, not directly perceived.
What Hume calls ``sensation'' is what Whitehead calls ``perception in the mode of presentational immediacy'' which is a sophisticated abstraction from perception in the mode of causal efficacy.
As long as perception is seen as composed only of isolated sense data, most of the quality and interconnectedness of existence loses its objectivity, becomes an invention of consciousness, and the result is a philosophical scepticism.
Whitehead contends that the human way of understanding existence as a unity of interlocking and interdependent processes which constitute each other and which cause each other to be and not to be is possible only because the basic form of such an understanding, for all its vagueness and tendency to mistake the detail, is initially given in the way man feels the world.
In this respect experience is broader and full of a richer variety of potential meanings than the mind of man or any of his arts or culture are capable of making clear and distinct.
A chief characteristic of experience in the mode of causal efficacy is one of derivation from the past.
Both I and my feelings come up out of a chain of events that fan out into the past into sources that are ultimately very unlike the entity which I now am.
There were more indications by the mid twentieth century.
I leave it to the statisticians to say what they were, but I noticed several a few years ago, during an automobile ride from Memphis to Hattiesburg.
In town after town my companion pointed out the Negro school and the White school, and in every instance the former made a better appearance (it was newer, for one thing).
It really looked as if a change of the sort predicted by Booker T. Washington had been going on.
But with the renewal of interference in 1954 (as with its beginning in 1835), the improvement was impaired.
For over a hundred years Southerners have felt that the North was picking on them.
It's infuriating, this feeling that one is being picked on, continually, constantly.
By what right of superior virtue, Southerners ask, do the people of the North do this?
The traditional strategy of the South has been to expose the vices of the North, to demonstrate that the North possessed no superior virtue, to ``show the world that'' (as James's Christopher Newman said to his adversaries) ``however bad I may be, you're not quite the people to say it''.
At the present time, the counter-attack takes the line that there's no more of the true spirit of ``integration'' in the North than in the South.
The line is a pretty good one.
People talk about ``the law of the land''.
The expression has become quite a cliche.
But people cann't be made to integrate, socialize (the two are inseparable by Southern standards) by law.
I was having lunch not long ago (apologies to N. V. Peale) with three distinguished historians (one specializing in the European Middle Ages, one in American history, and one in the Far East), and I asked them if they could name instances where the general mores had been radically changed with ``deliberate speed, majestic instancy'' (Francis Thompson's words for the Hound of Heaven's pursuit) by judicial fiat.
They didn't seem to be able to think of any.
A Virginia judge a while back cited a Roman jurist to the effect that ten years might be a reasonable length of time for such a change.
But I suspect that the old Roman was referring to change made under military occupation - the sort of change which Tacitus was talking about when he said, ``They make a desert, and call it peace'' (``Solitudinem faciunt, pacem appellant'' .)
Moreover, the law of the land is not irrevocable; it can be changed; it has been, many times.
Mr. Justice Taney's Dred Scott decision in 1857 was unpopular in the North, and soon became a dead letter.
Prohibition was the law of the land, but it was unpopular (how many of us oldsters took up drinking in prohibition days, drinking was so gay, so fashionable, especially in the sophisticated Northeast!)
and was repealed.
The cliche loses its talismanic virtue in the light of a little history.
The Declaration of Independence says that ``governments derive their just powers from the consent of the governed''.
The phrase ``consent of the governed'' needs a hard look.
How do we define it?
Is the consent of the governed a numerical majority?
To guard against the tyranny of a numerical majority, Calhoun developed his theory of ``concurrent majority'', which, he said, ``by giving to each portion of the community which may be unequally affected by the action of government, a negative on the others, prevents all partial or local legislation''.
Who will say that our country is even now a homogeneous community?
that regional peculiarities do not still exist?
that the Court order does not unequally affect the Southern region?
Who will deny that in a vast portion of the South the Federal action is incompatible with the Jeffersonian concept of ``the consent of the governed''?
Circumstances alter cases.
A friend of mine in New Mexico said the Court order had caused no particular trouble out there, that all had gone as merry as a marriage bell.
He seemed a little surprised that it should have caused any particular trouble anywhere.
I murmured something about a possible difference between New Mexico's history and Mississippi's.
Southern Liberals (there are a good many) - especially if they're rich - often exhibit blithe insouciance.
The trouble here is that it's almost too easy to take the high moral ground when it doesn't cost you anything.
You've already sent your daughter to Miss X's select academy for girls and your son to Mr. Y's select academy for boys, and you can be as liberal as you please with strict impunity.
If there's no suitable academy in your own neighborhood, there's always New England.
New England academies welcome fugitives from the provinces, South as well as West.
They may even enroll a colored student or two for show, though he usually turns out to be from Thailand, or any place other than the American South.
It would be interesting to know how much ``integration'' there is in the famous, fashionable colleges and prep schools of New England.
A recent newspaper report said there were five Negroes in the 1960 graduating class of nearly one thousand at Yale; that is, about one-half of one per cent, which looks pretty ``tokenish'' to me, especially in an institution which professes to be ``national''.
I must confess that I prefer the Liberal who is personally affected, who is willing to send his own children to a mixed school as proof of his faith.
I'm talking about the grand manner of the Liberal - North and South - who is not affected personally.
If these people were denied a voice (do they have a moral right to a voice ?)
, what voices would be left?
Who is involved willy nilly?
Well, after everybody has followed the New England pattern of segregating one's children into private schools, only the poor folks are left.
And it is precisely in this poorer economic class that one finds, and has always found, the most racial friction.
A dear, respected friend of mine, who like myself grew up in the South and has spent many years in New England, said to me not long ago : ``I cann't forgive New England for rejecting all complicity''.
Being a teacher of American literature, I remembered Whittier's ``Massachusetts to Virginia'', where he said : ``But that one dark loathsome burden ye must stagger with alone, And reap the bitter harvest which ye yourselves have sown''.
There is a legend (Hawthorne records it in his ``English Notebooks''.
Whether historically a fact or not, the legend has a certain symbolic value.
Complicity is an embarrassing word.
It is something which most of us try to get out from under.
Like the cowboy in Stephen Crane's ``Blue Hotel'', we run around crying, ``Well, I didn't do anything, did I''?
Robert Penn Warren puts it this way in ``Brother to Dragons'':
``The recognition of complicity is the beginning of innocence'', where innocence, I think, means about the same thing as redemption.
A man must be able to say, ``Father, I have sinned'', or there is no hope for him.
Lincoln understood this better than most when he said in his ``Second Inaugural'' that God ``gives to both North and South this terrible war, as the woe due to those by whom the offense came''.
He also spoke of ``the wealth piled by the bondsman's two hundred and fifty years in unrequited toil''.
After how many generations is such wealth (mounting all the while through the manipulations of high finance) purified of taint?
It is a question which New Englanders long ago put out of their minds.
But didn't they get off too easy?
The slaves never shared in their profits, while they did share, in a very real sense, in the profits of the slave owners : they were fed, clothed, doctored, and so forth; they were the beneficiaries of responsible, paternalistic care.
Emerson - Platonist, idealist, doctrinaire - sounded a high Transcendental note in his ``Boston Hymn'', delivered in 1863 in the Boston Music Hall amidst thundering applause : ``Pay ransom to the owner and fill the bag to the brim.
Who is the owner?
The slave is owner, And ever was.
Pay him''!
It is the abstractionism, the unrealism, of the pure idealist.
Like Pilate, they had washed their hands.
But can one, really?
Can God be mocked, ever, in the long run?
New Englanders were a bit sensitive on the subject of their complicity in Negro slavery at the time of the drafting of the Declaration of Independence, as Jefferson explained in his ``Autobiography'' : ``The clause reprobating the enslaving the inhabitants of Africa was struck out in complaisance to South Carolina and Georgia, who had never attempted to restrain the importation of slaves, and who on the contrary still wished to continue it.
Our Northern brethren also I believe felt a little tender under those censures; for though their people had very few slaves themselves, yet they had been pretty considerable carriers of them to others''.
But that was a long time ago.
The New England conscience became desensitized.
George W. Cable (naturalized New Englander), writing in 1889 from ``Paradise Road, Northampton'' (lovely symbolic name), agitated continuously the ``Southern question''.
It was nice to be able to isolate it.
There one finds concentrated in a comparatively small area the chief universities, colleges, and preparatory schools of the United States.
Why should this be so?
It is true that New England, more than any other section, was dedicated to education from the start.
But I think that something more than this is involved.
How did it happen, for example, that the state university, that great symbol of American democracy, failed to flourish in New England as it did in other parts of the country?
Isn't it a bit odd that the three states of Southern New England (Massachusetts, Connecticut, and Rhode Island) have had state institutions of university status only in the very recent past, these institutions having previously been A + M colleges?
Was it supposed, perchance, that A + M (vocational training, that is) was quite sufficient for the immigrant class which flooded that part of the New England world in the post Civil War period, the immigrants having been brought in from Southern Europe, to work in the mills, to make up for the labor shortage caused by migration to the West?
Is it not ironical that Roger Williams's state, Rhode Island, should have been the very last of the forty-eight to establish a state university?
The state universities of Maine, New Hampshire, And Vermont are older and more ``respectable''; they had less immigration to contend with.
He was referring not only to the general college situation but more especially to the preparatory schools.
And what a galaxy of those adorns that fair land!
I don't propose to go into their history, but I have one or two surmises.
One is that they were established, or gained eminence, under pressure provided by these same immigrants, from whom the old families wished to segregate their children.
In the early days of a homogeneous population, the public school was quite satisfactory.
Among the recipients of the Nobel Prize for Literature more than half are practically unknown to readers of English.
Of these there are surely few that would be more rewarding discoveries than Verner von Heidenstam, the Swedish poet and novelist who received the award in 1916 and whose centennial was celebrated two years ago.
Equally a master of prose and verse, he recreates the glory of Sweden in the past and continues it into the present.
In the following sketch we shall present a brief outline of his life and let him as much as possible speak for himself.
On his father's side he was of German descent, on his mother's he came of the old Swedish nobility.
The family estate was situated near Vadstena on Lake Va ^ ttern in south central Sweden.
It is a lonely, rather desolate region, but full of legendary and historic associations.
As a boy in a local school he was shy and solitary, absorbed in his fondness for nature and his visions of Sweden's ancient glory.
He liked to fancy himself as a chieftain and to dress for the part.
Being somewhat delicate in health, at the age of sixteen he was sent to Southern Europe, for which he at once developed a passion, so that he spent nearly all of the following ten years abroad, at first in Italy, then in Greece, Egypt, Asia Minor, and Palestine.
In one of his summers at home he married, to the great disapproval of his father, who objected because of his extreme youth.
Deciding to become a painter, he entered the studio of Gerome in Paris, where he enjoyed the life of the artists, but soon found that whatever talent he might have did not lie in that direction.
He gives us an account of this in his lively and humorous poem, ``The Happy Artists''.
I looked unceasingly With my cold mind and with my burning heart''.
In this final line, we have the key to his nature.
Few writers have better understood their deepest selves.
Heidenstam could never be satisfied by surface.
It may, however, be noted that his gift for color and imagery must have been greatly stimulated by his stay in Paris.
The first result of Heidenstam's long sojourn abroad was a volume of poems, Pilgrimage and Wander Years (Vallfart och vandringsar), published in 1888.
It was a brilliant debut, so much so indeed that it aroused a new vitality in the younger poets, as did Byron's Childe Harold.
Professor Fredrik Bo ^ o ^ k, Sweden's foremost critic of the period, acclaims it as follows : ``In this we have the verse of a painter; strongly colorful, plastic, racy, vivid.
In a bold, sometimes careless, form there is nothing academic; all is seen and felt and experienced, the observation is sharp and the imagination lively.
In the care-free indolence of the East he sees the last reflection of the old happy existence, and for that reason he loves it.
And yet amid all the gay hedonism in Pilgrimage and Wander-Years is a cycle of short poems,'' Thoughts in Loneliness ``, filled with brooding, melancholy, and sombre longing''.
Of the longer pieces of the volume none is so memorable as ``Nameless and Immortal'', which at once took rank among the finest poems ever written in the Swedish language.
It celebrates the unknown architect who designed the temple of Neptune at Paestum, next to the Parthenon the noblest example of Grecian classic style now in existence.
On the eve of his return to their native Naxos he speaks with his wife of the masterpiece which rises before them in its completed perfection.
The supreme object of their lives is now fulfilled, says the wife, her husband has achieved immortality.
Not so, he answers, it is not the architect but the temple that is immortal.
``The man's true reputation is his work''.
The short poems grouped at the end of the volume as ``Thoughts in Loneliness'' is, as Professor Bo ^ o ^ k indicated, in sharp contrast with the others.
``There is a spark dwells deep within my soul.
To get it out into the daylight's glow Is my life's aim both first and last, the whole.
It slips away, it burns and tortures me.
That little spark is all the wealth I know, That little spark is my life's misery''.
A dominant motive is the poet's longing for his homeland and its boyhood associations : ``Not men folk, but the fields where I would stray, The stones where as a child I used to play''.
He is utterly disappointed in himself and in the desultory life he has been leading.
What he really wants is to find ``a sacred cause'' to which he can honestly devote himself.
This restless individualism found its answer when he returned to live nearly all the rest of his life in Sweden.
His cause was to commemorate the glory of her past and to incite her people to perpetuate it in the present.
His next major work, completed in 1892, was a long fantastic epic in prose, entitled Hans Alienus, which Professor Bo ^ o ^ k describes as a monument on the grave of his carefree and indolent youth.
The hero, who is himself, is represented as a pilgrim in the storied lands of the East, a sort of Faustus type, who, to quote from Professor Bo ^ o ^ k again, ``even in the pleasure gardens of Sardanapalus can not cease from his painful search after the meaning of life.
He is driven back by his yearning to the wintry homeland of his fathers in the forest of Tiveden''.
From this time on Heidenstam proceeded to find his deeper self.
By the death of his father in 1888 he had come into possession of the family estate and had re-assumed its traditions.
He did not, however, settle back into acquiescence with things as they were.
Like his friend and contemporary August Strindberg he had little patience with collective mediocrity.
He saw Sweden as a country of smug and narrow provincialism, indifferent to the heroic spirit of its former glory.
Strindberg's remedy for this condition was to tear down the old structures and build anew from the ground up.
Whether in prose or poetry, all of Heidenstam's later work was concerned with Sweden.
With the first of a group of historical novels, The Charles Men (Karolinerna), published in 1897 - 8, he achieved the masterpiece of his career.
In scope and power it can only be compared to Tolstoy's War and Peace.
About one-third as long, it is less intimate and detailed, but better coordinated, more concise and more dramatic.
Though it centers around the brilliant and enigmatic figure of Charles 12, the true hero is not finally the king himself.
Hence the title of the book, referring to the soldiers and subjects of the king; on the fatal battlefield of Poltava, to quote from the novel, ``the wreath he twined for himself slipped down upon his people''.
The Charles Men consists not of a connected narrative but of a group of short stories, each depicting a special phase of the general subject.
Somewhat uneven in interest for an average reader, eight or ten of these are among the finest of their kind in literature.
They comprise a great variety of scene and interest : grim episodes of war, idyllic interludes, superb canvases of world-shaking events, and delightfully humorous sketches of odd characters.
Almost nothing is said of Charles' spectacular victories, the central theme being the heroic loyalty of the Swedish people to their idolized king in misfortune and defeat.
To carry out this exalted conception the author has combined the vivid realism and imaginative power we have noticed in his early poetry and carried them out on a grand scale.
His peculiar gift, as had been suggested before, is his intensity.
George Meredith has said that fervor is the core of style.
Of few authors is this more true than of Heidenstam.
The Charles Men has a tremendous range of characters, of common folk even more than of major figures.
The career of Charles 12, is obviously very similar to that of Napoleon.
His ideal was Alexander of Macedon, as Napoleon's was Julius Caesar.
His purpose, however, was not to establish an empire, but to assert the principle of divine justice.
Each failed catastrophically in an invasion of Russia and each brought ruin on the country that worshipped him.
Each is still glorified as a national hero.
The first half of The Charles Men, ending on the climax of the battle of Poltava in 1709, is more dramatically coherent than the second.
After the collapse of that desperate and ill-fated campaign the character of the king degenerated for a time into a futility that was not merely pitiable but often ridiculous.
Like Napoleon, he was the worst of losers.
There are, however, some wonderful chapters at the beginning of the second part, concerning the reactions of the Swedes in adversity.
Then more than ever before did they show their fortitude and patient cheerfulness.
This comes out in ``When the Bells Ring'', which describes the rallying of the peasants in southern Sweden to repel an invasion by the Danes.
In ``The King's Ride'', Charles breaks out of a long period of petulance and inertia, regains his old self, escapes from Turkey, and finally reaches his own land after an absence of eighteen years.
All his people ask for is no more war.
But he plunges into yet another, this time with Norway, and is killed in an assault on the fortress of Fredrikshall, being only thirty-six years of age when he died.
He had become king at fifteen.
Then suddenly there was a tremendous revulsion of popular feeling.
From being a hated tyrant and madman he was now the symbol of all that was noblest and best in the history of Sweden.
This is brought out in the next to last chapter of the book, ``A Hero's Funeral'', written in the form of an impassioned prose poem.
Slowly the procession of warriors and statesmen passes through the snow beside the black water and into the brilliantly lighted cathedral, the shrine of so many precious memories.
The guns are fired, the hymns are sung, and the body of Charles is carried down to the vault and laid beside the tombs of his ancestors.
As he had longed to be, he became the echo of a saga.
Excellent in their way, they lack the wide appeal of The Charles Men, and need not detain us here.
It is different with his volume The Swedes and Their Chieftains (Svenskarna och deras ho ^ vdingar), a history intended for the general reader and particularly suited for high school students.
Admirably written, it is a perfect introduction to Swedish history for readers of other countries.
Some of the earlier episodes have touches of the supernatural, as suited to the legendary background.
These are suggestive of Selma Lagerlo ^ f.
Especially touching is the chapter, ``The Little Sister'', about a king's daughter who became a nun in the convent of St. Birgitta.
The record teems with romance and adventure.
Gustaf Vasa is a superb example, and Charles 10, the conqueror of Denmark, hardly less so.
Of Gustavus Adolphus and Charles 12, it is unnecessary to speak.
It is from this unpromising background that the fictional private detective was recruited.
The mythological private eye differs from his counterpart in real life in two essential ways.
On the one hand, he does not work for a large agency, but is almost always self-employed.
As a free-lance investigator, the fictional detective is responsible to no one but himself and his client.
For this reason, he appears as an independent and self-reliant figure, whose rugged individualism need not be pressed into the mold of a 9 to 5 routine.
On the other hand, the fictional detective does not break strikes or handle divorce cases; no client would ever think of asking him to do such things.
Whatever his original assignment, the fictional private eye ends up by investigating and solving a crime, usually a murder.
Operating as a one man police force in fact if not in name, he is at once more independent and more dedicated than the police themselves.
He catches criminals not merely because he is paid to do so (frequently he does not receive a fee at all), but because he enjoys his work, because he firmly believes that murder must be punished.
He is, first and foremost, a defender of public morals, a servant of society.
It is this curious blend of rugged individualism and public service which accounts for the great appeal of the mythological detective.
By virtue of his self-reliance, his individualism and his freedom from external restraint, the private eye is a perfect embodiment of the middle class conception of liberty, which amounts to doing what you please and let the devil take the hindmost.
At the same time, because the personal code of the detective coincides with the legal dictates of his society, because he likes to catch criminals, he is in middle class eyes a virtuous man.
In this way, the private detective gets the best of two possible worlds.
He is an individualist but not an anarchist; he is a public servant but not a cop.
In short, the fictional private eye is a specialized version of Adam Smith's ideal entrepreneur, the man whose private ambitions must always and everywhere promote the public welfare.
In the mystery story, as in The Wealth of Nations, individualism and the social good are two sides of the same benevolent coin.
There is only one catch to this idyllic arrangement:
Not only did the ideal entrepreneur not produce the greatest good for the greatest number, he ended by destroying himself, by giving birth to monopoly capitalism.
The rise of the giant corporations in Western Europe and the United States dates from the period 1880 - 1900.
Now, although the roots of the mystery story in serious literature go back as far as Balzac, Dickens, and Poe, it was not until the closing decades of the 19 th century that the private detective became an established figure in popular fiction.
Sherlock Holmes, the ancestor of all private eyes, was born during the 1890 s.
Thus the transformation of Adam Smith's ideal entrepreneur into a mythological detective coincides closely with the decline of the real entrepreneur in economic life.
Driven from the marketplace by the course of history, our hero disguises himself as a private detective.
The birth of the myth compensates for the death of the ideal.
Even on the fictional level, however, the contradictions which give rise to the mystery story are not fully resolved.
The individualism and public service of the private detective both stem from his dedication to a personal code of conduct : he enforces the law without being told to do so.
The basic premise of all mystery stories is that the distinction between good and bad coincides with the distinction between legal and illegal.
Unfortunately, this assumption does not always hold good.
As capitalism in the 20 th century has become increasingly dependent upon force and violence for its survival, the private detective is placed in a serious dilemma.
If he is good, he may not be legal; if he is legal, he may not be good.
It is the gradual unfolding and deepening of this contradiction which creates the inner dialectic of the evolution of the mystery story.
With the advent of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes, the development of the modern private detective begins.
Sherlock Holmes is not merely an individualist; he is very close to being a mental case.
A brief list of the great detective's little idiosyncrasies would provide Dr. Freud with ample food for thought.
Holmes is addicted to the use of cocaine and other refreshing stimulants; he is prone to semi catatonic trances induced by the playing of the vioiln; he is a recluse, an incredible egotist, a confirmed misogynist.
His eccentricity begins as a defense against boredom.
It was in order to avoid the stuffy routine of middle class life that Holmes became a detective in the first place.
As he informs Watson, ``My life is spent in one long effort to escape from the commonplaces of existence.
These little problems help me to do so''.
Holmes is a public servant, to be sure; but the society which he serves bores him to tears.
The curious relationship between Holmes and Scotland Yard provides an important clue to the deeper significance of his eccentric behavior.
Although he is perfectly willing to cooperate with Scotland Yard, Holmes has nothing but contempt for the intelligence and mentality of the police.
They for their part are convinced that Holmes is too ``unorthodox'' and ``theoretical'' to make a good detective.
Why do the police find Holmes ``unorthodox''?
Another, more interesting explanation, is hinted at by Watson when he observes on several occasions that Holmes would have made a magnificent criminal.
The great detective modestly agrees.
Watson's insight is verified by the mysterious link between Holmes and his arch opponent, Dr. Moriarty.
The two men resemble each other closely in their cunning, their egotism, their relentlessness.
The first series of Sherlock Holmes adventures ends with Holmes and Moriarty grappling together on the edge of a cliff.
They are presumed to have plunged to a common grave in this fatal embrace.
Linked to Holmes even in death, Moriarty represents the alter-ego of the great detective, the image of what our hero might have become were he not a public servant.
Just as Holmes the eccentric stands behind Holmes the detective, so Holmes the potential criminal lurks behind both.
In the modern English ``whodunnit'', this insinuation of latent criminality in the detective himself has almost entirely disappeared.
Poirot and his counterparts are perfectly respectable people; it is true that they are also extremely dull.
Their dedication to the status quo has been affirmed at the expense of the fascinating but dangerous individualism of a Sherlock Holmes.
The latter's real descendents were unable to take root in England; they fled from the Victorian parlor and made their way across the stormy Atlantic.
In the American ``hardboiled'' detective story of the' 20 s and' 30 s, the spirit of the mad genius from Baker Street lives on.
Like Holmes, the American private eye rejects the social conventions of his time.
But unlike Holmes, he feels his society to be not merely dull but also corrupt.
Surrounded by crime and violence everywhere, the ``hardboiled'' private eye can retain his purity only through a life of self-imposed isolation.
His alienation is far more acute than Holmes'; he is not an eccentric but rather an outcast.
With Rex Stout's Nero Wolfe, alienation is represented on a purely physical plane.
More profound and more disturbing, however, is the moral isolation of Raymond Chandler's Philip Marlowe.
In a society where everything is for sale, Marlowe is the only man who cannot be bought.
His tough honesty condemns him to a solitary and difficult existence.
Beaten, bruised and exhausted, he pursues the elusive killer through the demi-monde of high society and low morals, always alone, always despised.
In the end, he gets his man, but no one seems to care; virtue is its own and only reward.
A similar tone of underlying futility and despair pervades the spy thrillers of Eric Ambler and dominates the most famous of all American mystery stories, Dashiell Hammett's The Maltese Falcon.
Sam Spade joins forces with a band of adventurers in search of a priceless jeweled statue of a falcon; but when the bird is found at last, it turns out to be a fake.
Now the detective must save his own skin by informing on the girl he loves, who is also the real murderer.
For Sam Spade, neither crime nor virtue pays; moreover, it is increasingly difficult to distinguish between the two.
The latter are either too stupid to catch the killer or too corrupt to care.
In either case, they do not appreciate the private detective's zeal.
Perry Mason and Hamilton Burger, Nero Wolfe and Inspector Cramer spend more time fighting each other than they do in looking for the criminal.
Frequently enough, the police are themselves in league with the killer; Dashiell Hammett's Red Harvest provides a classic example of this theme.
But even when the police are honest, they do not trust the private eye.
He is, like Phillip Marlowe, too alienated to be reliable.
Finally, in The Maltese Falcon among others, the clash between detective and police is carried to its logical conclusion : Sam Spade becomes the chief murder suspect.
In order to exonerate himself, he is compelled to find the real criminal, who happens to be his girl friend.
What was only a vague suspicion in the case of Sherlock Holmes now appears as a direct accusation : the private eye is in danger of turning into his opposite.
By upholding his own personal code of behavior, the private detective has placed himself in opposition to a society whose fabric is permeated with crime and corruption.
That society responds by condemning the private eye as a threat to the status quo, a potential criminal.
If the detective insists upon retaining his personal standards, he must now do so in conscious defiance of his society.
He must, in short, cease to be a detective and become a rebel.
On the other hand, if he wishes to continue in his chosen profession, he must abandon his own code and sacrifice his precious individualism.
Dashiell Hammett resolved this contradiction by ceasing to write mystery stories and turning to other pursuits.
His successors have adopted the opposite alternative.
In order to save the mystery story, they have converted the private detective into an organization man.
The first of two possible variations on this theme is symbolized by Mickey Spillane's Mike Hammer.
For Hammer, nothing is forbidden.
He kills when he pleases, takes his women where he finds them and always acts as judge, jury and executioner rolled into one.
It will be shown that the objectives of the cooperative people in an organization determine the type of network required, because the type of network functions according to the characteristics of the messages enumerated in Table 1.
Great stress is placed on the role that the monitoring of information sending plays in maintaining the effectiveness of the network.
By monitoring, we mean some system of control over the types of information sent from the various centers.
As a word of caution, we should be aware that in actual practice no message is purely one of the four types, question, command, statement, or exclamation.
For example, suppose a man wearing a $ 200 watch, driving a 1959 Rolls Royce, stops to ask a man on the sidewalk, ``What time is it''?
This sentence would have most of the characteristics of a question, but it has some of the characteristics of a statement because the questioner has conveyed the fact that he has no faith in his own timepiece or the one attached to his car.
If the man on the sidewalk is surprised at this question, it has served as an exclamation.
However, for convenience we will stick to the idea that information can be classified according to Table 1.
On this basis, certain extreme kinds of networks will be discussed for illustrative purposes.
Presumably a cocktail party is expected to fulfill the host's desire to get together a number of people who are inadequately acquainted and thereby arrange for bringing the level of acquaintance up to adequacy for future cooperative endeavors.
The party is usually in a room small enough so that all guests are within sight and hearing of one another.
The information is furnished by each of the guests, is sent by oral broadcasting over the air waves, and is received by the ears.
Since the air is a continuum, the network of communication remains intact regardless of the positions or motions of the points (the people) in the net.
As shown in Figure 1, there is a connection for communication between every pair of points.
This, and other qualifications, make the cocktail party the most complete and most chaotic communication system ever dreamed up.
All four types of message listed in Table 1 are permitted, although decorum and cocktail tradition require holding the commands to a minimum, while exclamations having complimentary intonations are more than customarily encouraged.
Looking at the diagram, we see that * * f connection lines come in to each member.
Thus the cocktail party would appear to be the ideal system, but there is one weakness.
In spite of the dreams of the host for oneness in the group, the * * f incoming messages for each guest overload his receiving system beyond comprehension if N exceeds about six.
The crowd consequently breaks up into temporary groups ranging in size from two to six, with a half-life for the cluster ranging from three to twenty minutes.
For the occasion on which everyone already knows everyone else and the host wishes them to meet one or a few honored newcomers, then the ``open house'' system is advantageous because the honored guests are fixed connective points and the drifting guests make and break connections at the door.
We consider a rural community as an assemblage of inhabited dwellings whose configuration is determined by the location and size of the arable land sites necessary for family subsistence.
We assume for this illustration that the size of the land plots is so great that the distance between dwellings is greater than the voice can carry and that most of the communication is between nearest neighbors only, as shown in Figure 2.
Information beyond nearest neighbor is carried second -, third -, and fourth hand as a distortable rumor.
In Figure 2, the points in the network are designated by a letter accompanied by a number.
It will be noted that point f has seven nearest neighbors, h and e have six, and p has only one, while the remaining points have intermediate numbers.
In any social system in which communications have an importance comparable with that of production and other human factors, a point like f in Figure 2 would (other things being equal) be the dwelling place for the community leader, while e and h would house the next most important citizens.
A point like p gets information directly from n, but all information beyond n is indirectly relayed through n.
The dweller at p is last to hear about a new cure, the slowest to announce to his neighbors his urgent distresses, the one who goes the farthest to trade, and the one with the greatest difficulty of all in putting over an idea or getting people to join him in a cooperative effort.
Since the hazards of poor communication are so great, p can be justified as a habitable site only on the basis of unusual productivity such as is made available by a waterfall for milling purposes, a mine, or a sugar maple camp.
Location theorists have given these matters much consideration.
The networks for military communications are one of the best examples of networks which not only must be changed with the changes in objectives but also must be changed with the addition of new machines of war.
They also furnish proof that, in modern war, message sending must be monitored.
Without monitoring, a military hookup becomes a noisy party.
Alexander the Great, who used runners as message carriers, did not have to worry about having every officer in his command hear what he said and having hundreds of them comment at once.
As time has passed and science has progressed, the speed of military vehicles has increased, the range of missiles has been extended, the use of target-hunting noses on the projectiles has been adopted, and the range and breadth of message sending has increased.
Next to the old problem of the slowness of decision making, network structure seems to be paramount, and without monitoring no network has value.
On the parade ground the net may be similar to that shown in Figure 3.
The monitoring is the highest and most restrictive of any organization in existence.
No questions, statements, or explanations are permitted - only commands.
Commands go only from an officer to the man of nearest lower rank.
The same command is repeated as many times as there are levels in rank from general to corporal.
All orders originate with the officer of highest rank and terminate with action of the men in the ranks.
This is done for simplicity of commands and to bring the hidden redundancy up to where misunderstanding has almost zero possibility.
The commands are specified by the military regulations; are few in number, briefly worded, all different in sound; and are combinable into sequences which permit any marching maneuver that could be desired on a parade ground.
This monitoring is necessary because, on a parade ground, everyone can hear too much, and without monitoring a confused social event would develop.
With troops dispersed on fields of battle rather than on the parade ground, it may seem that a certain amount of monitoring is automatically enforced by the lines of communication.
Years ago this was true, but with the replacement of wires or runners by radio and radar (and perhaps television), these restrictions have disappeared and now again too much is heard.
In contrast to cocktail parties, military organizations, even in the field, are more formal.
In the extreme and oversimplified example suggested in Figure 3, the organization is more easily understood and more predictable in behavior.
A military organization has an objective chosen by the higher command.
This objective is adhered to throughout the duration of the action.
The assumptions upon which the example shown in Figure 3 is based are : (a) One man can direct about six subordinates if the subordinates are chosen carefully so that they do not need too much personal coaching, indoctrinating, etc..
(b) A message runs too great a risk of being distorted if it is to be relayed more than about six consecutive times.
(c) Decisions of a general kind are made by the central command.
And (d) all action of a physical kind pertinent to the mission is relegated to the line of men on the lower rank.
These assumptions lead to an organization with one man at the top, six directly under him, six under each of these, and so on until there are six levels of personnel.
The number of people acting as one body by this scheme gives a surprisingly large army of * * f 55987 men.
This organizational network would be of no avail if there were no regulations pertaining to the types of message sent.
Of types of message listed in Table 1, commands and statements are the only ones sent through the vertical network shown in Figure 3.
A further regulation is that commands always go down, unaccompanied by statements, and statements always go up, unaccompanied by commands.
It will readily be seen that in this suggested network (not materially different from some of the networks in vogue today) greater emphasis on monitoring is implied than is usually put into practice.
Furthermore, the network in Figure 3 is only the basic net through which other networks pertaining to logistics and the like are interlaced.
Not discussed here are some military problems of modern times such as undersea warfare, where the surveillance, sending, transmitting, and receiving are all so inadequate that networks and decision making are not the bottlenecks.
Such problems are of extreme interest as well as importance and are so much like fighting in a rain forest or guerrilla warfare at night in tall grass that we might have to re-examine primitive conflicts for what they could teach.
This is an unsolved problem which probably has never been seriously investigated, although one frequently hears the comment that we have insufficient specialists of the kind who can compete with the Germans or Swiss, for example, in precision machinery and mathematics, or the Finns in geochemistry.
We hear equally fervent concern over the belief that we have not enough generalists who can see the over-all picture and combine our national skills and knowledge for useful purposes.
This problem of the optimum balance in the relative numbers of generalists and specialists can be investigated on a communicative network basis.
Since the difficulty of drawing the net is great, we will merely discuss it.
First, we realize that a pure specialist does not exist.
For example, there are persons who are in physical science, in the field of mineralogy, trained in crystallography, who use only X-rays, applying only the powder technique of X-ray diffraction, to clay minerals only, and who have spent the last fifteen years concentrating on the montmorillonites; or persons in the social sciences in the field of anthropology, studying the lung capacity of seven Andean Indians.
So we see that a specialist is a man who knows more and more about less and less as he develops, as contrasted to the generalist, who knows less and less about more and more.
American democratic thought, pointed up the relation between the Protestant movement in this country and the development of a social religion, which he called the American Democratic Faith.
Those familiar with his work will remember that he placed the incipience of the democratic faith at around 1850.
And he describes it as a balanced polarity between the notions of the free individual and what he called the fundamental law.
I want to say more about Gabriel's so-called fundamental law.
But first I want to quote him on the relationship that he found between religion and politics in this country and what happened to it.
He points out that from the time of Jackson on through World War 1, evangelical Protestantism was a dominant influence in the social and political life of America.
He terms this early enthusiasm ``Romantic Christianity'' and concludes that its similarity to democratic beliefs of that day is so great that ``the doctrine of liberty seems but a secular version of its counterpart in evangelical Protestantism''.
He says : ``Beside the Protestant philosophy of Progress, as expressed in radical or conservative millenarianism, should be placed the doctrine of the democratic faith which affirmed it to be the duty of the destiny of the United States to assist in the creation of a better world by keeping lighted the beacon of democracy''.
He specifies, ``In the middle period of the Nineteenth Century it was colored by Christian supernaturalism, in the Twentieth Century it was affected by naturalism.
But in every period it has been humanism''.
And let me add, utopianism, also.
Some fourteen or fifteen years ago, in an essay I called The Leader Follows - Where?
I used his polarity to illustrate what I thought had happened to us in that form of liberalism we call Progressivism.
It seemed to me that the liberals had scrapped the balanced polarity and reposed both liberty and the fundamental law in the common man.
That is to say Gabriel's fundamental law had been so much modified by this time that it was neither fundamental nor law any more.
It is a weakness of Gabriel's analysis that he never seems to realize that his so-called fundamental law had already been cut loose from its foundations when it was adapted to democracy.
And the common man was developing mythic power, or charisma, on his own.
During the decade that followed, the common man, as that piece put it, grew uncomfortable as the Voice of God and fled from behind Saint Woodrow (Wilson) only to learn from Science, to his shocked relief that after all there was no God he had to speak for and that he was just an animal anyhow - that there was a chemical formula for him, and that too much couldn't be expected of him.
The socialism implicit in the slogan of the Roosevelt Revolution, freedom from want and fear, seems a far cry from the individualism of the First Amendment to the Constitution, or of the Jacksonian frontier.
What had happened to the common man?
French Egalitarianism had had only nominal influence in this country before the days of Popularism.
The riotous onrush of industrialism after the War for Southern Independence and the general secular drift to the Religion of Humanity, however, prepared the way for a reception of the French Revolution's socialistic offspring of one sort of another.
The first of which to find important place in our federal government was the graduated income tax under Wilson.
Moreover the centralization of our economy during the 1920 s, the dislocations of the Depression, the common ethos of Materialism everywhere, all contributed in various ways to the face-lifting that replaced Mike Fink and the Great Gatsby with the anonymous physiognomy of the Little People.
However, it is important to trace the philosophy of the French Revolution to its sources to understand the common democratic origin of individualism and socialism and the influence of the latter on the former.
Yet, after Rousseau had given the social contract a new twist with his notion of the General Will, the same philosophy, it may be said, became the idea source of the French Revolution also.
The importance of Rousseau's twist has not always been clear to us, however.
This notion of the General Will gave rise to the Commune of Paris in the Revolution and later brought Napoleon to dictatorship.
And it is clearly argued by Lord Percy of Newcastle, in his remarkable long essay, The Heresy of Democracy, and in a more general way by Voegelin, in his New Science of Politics, that this same Rousseauan idea, descending through European democracy, is the source of Marx's theory of the dictatorship of the proletariat.
This is important to understanding the position that doctrinaire liberals found themselves in after World War 2, and our great democratic victory that brought no peace.
The long road that had taken liberals in this country into the social religion of democracy, into a worship of man, led logically to the Marxist dream of a classless society under a Socialist State.
And the USSR existed as the revolutionary experiment in radical socialism, the ultimate exemplar.
And by the time the war ended, liberal leadership in this country was spiritually Marxist.
We will recall that the still confident liberals of the Truman administration gathered with other Western utopians in San Francisco to set up the legal framework, finally and at last, to rationalize war - to rationalize want and fear - out of the world : the United Nations.
Then suddenly we found ourselves in the middle of another fight, an irrational, an indecent, an undeclared and immoral war with our strongest (and some had thought noblest) ally.
During the next five years the leaders of the Fair Deal reluctantly backed down from the optimistic expectations of the New Deal.
During the next five years liberal leaders in the United States sank in the cumulative confusion attendant upon and manifested in a negative policy of Containment - and the bitterest irony - enforced and enforceable only by threat of a weapon that we felt the greatest distaste for but could not abandon:
the atom bomb.
In 1952, it will be remembered, the G. O. P. without positive program campaigned on the popular disillusionment with liberal leadership and won overwhelmingly.
All of this, I know, is recent history familiar to you.
But I have been at some pains to review it as the drama of the common man, to point up what happened to him under Eisenhower's leadership.
A perceptive journalist, Sam Lubell, has phrased it in the title of one of his books as The Revolt Of The Moderates.
He opens his discourse, however, with a review of the Eisenhower inaugural festivities at which a sympathetic press had assembled its massive talents, all primed to catch some revelation of the emerging new age.
Lubell offers his book as an explanation of why there was no clue.
And I select this sentence as its pertinent summation : ``In essence the drama of his (Eisenhower's) Presidency can be described as the ordeal of a nation turned conservative and struggling - thus far with but limited and precarious success - to give effective voice and force to that conservatism''.
I will assume that we are all aware of the continuing struggle, with its limited and precarious success, toward conservatism.
It has moved on various levels, it has been clamorous and confused.
Obviously there has been no agreement on what American conservatism is, or rather, what it should be.
For it was neglected, not to say nascent, when the struggle began.
I saw a piece the other day assailing William Buckley, author of Man And God At Yale and publisher of the National Review, as no conservative at all, but an old liberal.
I would agree with this view.
But I'm not here to define conservatism.
One of the obvious conclusions we can make on the basis of the last election, I suppose, is that we, the majority, were dissatisfied with Eisenhower conservatism.
Though, to be sure, we gave Kennedy no very positive approval in the margin of his preferment.
This is, however, symptomatic of our national malaise.
But before I try to diagnose it, I would offer other evidence.
I will mention two volumes of specific comment on this malaise that appeared last year.
The earlier of them was an unofficial enterprise, sponsored by Life magazine, under the title of the National purpose.
The contributors to this testament were all well-known:
a former Democratic candidate for President, a New Deal poet, the magazine's chief editorial writer, two newspaper columnists, head of a national broadcasting company, a popular Protestant evangelist, etc..
What I want to point out here is that all of them are ex liberals, or modified liberals, with perhaps one exception.
And I would further note that they all - with one exception again - sang in one key or another the same song.
Its refrain was : ``Let us return to the individualistic democracy of our forefathers for our salvation''.
Adlai Stevenson expressed some reservations about this return.
Others invoked technology and common sense.
Only Walter Lippman envisioned the possibility of our having ``outlived most of what we used to regard as the program of our national purposes''.
But the most notable thing about the incantation of these ex liberals was that the one-time shibboleth of socialism was conspicuously absent.
The second specific comment was the report of Eisenhower's Commission on National Goals, titled Goals For Americans.
They, perhaps, gave the pitch of their position in the preface where it was said that Eisenhower requested that the Commission be administered by the American Assembly of Columbia University, because it was non-partisan.
The Commission seems to represent the viewpoint of what I would call the unconscious liberal, but not unconscious enough, to invoke the now taboo symbolism of socialism.
This group is secularist and their program tends to be technological.
But it is the need to undertake these testaments that I would submit here as symptom of the common man's malaise.
And let me add Murray's new book as another symptom of it, particularly so in view of the attention Time magazine gave it when it came out recently.
Father Murray goes back to the Declaration of Independence, too, though I may add, with considerably more historical perception.
I will reserve discussion of it for a moment, however, to return to President Kennedy.
As symptomatic of the common man's malaise, he is most significant : a liberal and a Catholic, elected by the skin of his teeth.
Does that not suggest to you an uncertain and uneasy, not to say confused, state of the public mind?
What is the common man's complaint?
Let's take a panoramic look back over the course we have come.
And the basic character of that liberalism has been spiritual rather than economic.
Ralph Gabriel gave it the name of Protestant philosophy of Progress.
But there's a subjective side to that utopian outlook.
Does our society have a runaway, uncontrollable growth of technology which may end our civilization, or a normal, healthy growth?
Here there may be an analogy with cancer : we can detect cancers by their rapidly accelerating growth, determinable only when related to the more normal rate of healthy growth.
Should the accelerating growth of technology then warn us?
Noting such evidence is the first step; and almost the only ``cure'' is early detection and removal.
One way to determine whether we have so dangerous a technology would be to check the strength of our society's organs to see if their functioning is as healthy as before.
So an objective look at our present procedures may move us to consider seriously this possibly analogous situation.
Have not our physical abilities already deteriorated because of the more sedentary lives we are now living?
Hence the prime issue, as I see it, is whether a democratic or free society can master technology for the benefit of mankind, or whether technology will rule and develop its own society compatible with its own needs as a force of nature.
We are already committed to establishing man's supremacy over nature and everywhere on earth, not merely in the limited social political economical context we are fond of today.
Otherwise, we go on endlessly trying to draw the line, color and other, as to which kind of man we wish to see dominate.
We have proved so able to solve technological problems that to contend we cannot realize a universal goal in the immediate future is to be extremely shortsighted, if nothing else.
We must believe we have the ability to affect our own destinies : otherwise why try anything?
So in these pages the term ``technology'' is used to include any and all means which could amplify, project, or augment man's control over himself and over other men.
Naturally this includes all communication forms, e. g. languages, or any social, political, economic or religious structures employed for such control.
Properly mindful of all the cultures in existence today throughout the world, we must employ these resources without war or violent revolution.
But we cannot start off with a clean slate.
So we must first analyze our present institutions with respect to the effect of each on man's major needs.
Asked which institution most needs correction, I would say the corporation as it exists in America today.
At first glance this appears strange : of all people, was not America founded by rugged individualists who established a new way of life still inspiring ``undeveloped'' societies abroad?
But hear Harrison E. Salisbury, former Moscow correspondent of The New York Times, and author of ``To Moscow - And Beyond''.
In a book review of ``The Soviet Cultural Offensive'', he says, ``Long before the State Department organized its bureaucracy into an East-West Contacts Staff in order to wage a cultural counter-offensive within Soviet borders, the sharp cutting-edge of American culture had carved its mark across the Russian steppes, as when the enterprising promoters of' Porgy and Bess' overrode the State Department to carry the contemporary' cultural warfare' behind the enemy lines.
They were not diplomats or jazz musicians, or even organizers of reading-rooms and photo montage displays, but rugged capitalist entrepreneurs like Henry Ford, Hugh Cooper, Thomas Campbell, the International Harvester Co., and David W. Griffith.
Their kind created an American culture superior to any in the world, an industrial and technological culture which penetrated Russia as it did almost every corner of the earth without a nickel from the Federal treasury or a single governmental specialist to contrive directives or program a series of consultations of interested agencies.
This favorable image of America in the minds of Russian men and women is still there despite years of energetic anti American propaganda''.
In his stead is a milquetoast version known as ``the corporation''.
But even if we cannot see the repulsive characteristics in this new image of America, foreigners can; and our loss of ``prestige'' abroad is the direct result.
No amount of ballyhoo will cover up the sordid facts.
If we want respect from ourselves or others, we will have to earn it.
First, let us realize that whatever good this set-up achieved in earlier times, now the corporation per se cannot take economic leadership.
Businesses must develop as a result of the ideas, energies and ambitions of an individual having purpose and comprehensive ability within one mind.
When we ``forced'' individuals to assume the corporate structure by means of taxes and other legal statutes, we adopted what I would term ``pseudo capitalism'' and so took a major step toward socialism.
The biggest loss, of course, was the individual's lessened desire and ability to give his services to the growth of his company and our economy.
Socialism, I grant, has a definite place in our society.
Some forms of capitalism do indeed work - superb organizations, a credit to any society.
But the pseudo capitalism which dictates our whole economy as well as our politics and social life, will not stand close scrutiny.
Its pretense to operate in the public interest is little more than a sham.
It serves only its own stockholders and poorly at that.
As a creative enterprise, its abilities are primarily in ``swallowing'' creative enterprises developed outside its own organization (an ability made possible by us, and almost mandatory).
As to benefits to employees, it is notorious for its callous disregard except where it depends on them for services.
The corporation in America is in reality our form of socialism, vying in a sense with the other socialistic form that has emerged within governmental bureaucracy.
But while the corporation has all the disadvantages of the socialist form of organization (so cumbersome it cannot constructively do much of anything not compatible with its need to perpetuate itself and maintain its status quo), unluckily it does not have the desirable aspect of socialism, the motivation to operate for the benefit of society as a whole.
So we are faced with a vast network of amorphous entities perpetuating themselves in whatever manner they can, without regard to the needs of society, controlling society and forcing upon it a regime representing only the corporation's needs for survival.
Ideally speaking, it should be allowed to operate only where the public has a great stake in the continuity of supply or services, and where the actions of a single proprietor are secondary to the needs of society.
Examples are in public utilities, making military aircraft and accessories, or where the investment and risk for a proprietorship would be too great for a much needed project impossible to achieve by any means other than the corporate form, e. g. constructing major airports or dams.
Thus, if corporations are not to run away with us, they must become quasi governmental institutions, subject to public control and needs.
In all other areas, private initiative of the ``proprietorship'' type should be urged to produce the desired goods and services.
Avoiding runaway technology can be done only by assuring a humane society; and for this human beings must be firmly in control of the economics on which our society rests.
Such genuine human leadership the proprietorship can offer, corporations cannot.
It can project long-range goals for itself.
Corporations react violently to short-range stimuli, e. g., quarterly and annual dividend reports.
Proprietorships can establish a unity and integrity of control; corporations, being more amorphous, cannot.
Corporations are apt by nature to be impersonal, inhumane, shortsighted and almost exclusively profit motivated, a picture they could scarcely afford to present to the public.
The proprietor is able to create a leadership impossible in the corporate structure with its board of directors and stockholders.
Leadership is lacking in our society because it has no legitimate place to develop.
Men continuously at the head of growing enterprises can acquire experiences of the most varied, complicated and trying type so that at maturation they have developed the competence and willingness to accept the personal responsibility so sorely needed now.
Hence government must establish greater controls upon corporations so that their activities promote what is deemed essential to the national interest.
Proprietorships should get the tax advantages now accruing to corporations, e. g. the chance to accumulate capital so vital for growth.
Corporations should pay added taxes, to be used for educational purposes (not necessarily of the formal type).
The right to leave legacies should be substantially reduced and ultimately eliminated.
To perpetuate wealth control led by small groups of individuals who played no role in its creation prevents those with real initiative from coming to the fore, and is basically anti democratic.
Strikes should be declared illegal against corporations because disagreements would have to be settled by government representatives acting as controllers of the corporation whose responsibility to the state would now be defined against proprietorship because employees and proprietors must be completely interdependent, as they are each a part of the whole.
Strikes threatening the security of the proprietorship, if internally motivated, prevent a healthy relationship.
Certainly external forces should not be applied arbitrarily out of mere power available to do so.
If we cannot stop warfare in our own economic system, how can we expect to abolish it internationally?
These proposals would go far toward creating the economic atmosphere favoring growth of the individual, who, in turn, would help us to cope with runaway technology.
Individual human strength is needed to pit against an inhuman condition.
The battle is not easy.
We are tempted to blame others for our problems rather than look them straight in the face and realize they are of our own making and possible of solution only by ourselves with the help of desperately needed, enlightened, competent leaders.
Persons developed in to-day's corporations cannot hope to serve here - a judgment based on experiences of my own in business and in activities outside.
Also, I am convinced that if my company were a sole proprietorship instead of a partnership, I would have been even abler to solve long-range problems for myself and my fellow employees.
Any abilities I may have were achieved in their present shape from experience in sharing in the growth and control of my business, coupled with raising my family.
This combined experience, on a foundation of very average, I assure you, intelligence and background, has helped me do things many well-informed people would bet heavily against.
Perhaps a list of some of the ``practices'' of my company will help here.
The company grew out of efforts by two completely inexperienced men in their late twenties, neither having a formal education applicable to, or experience in, manufacturing or selling our type of articles.
From an initial investment of $ 1200 in 1943, it has grown, with no additional capital investment, to a present value estimated by some as exceeding $ 10000000 (we don't disclose financial figures to the public).
Its growth continues steadily on a par with past growth; and no limitation is in evidence.
Our pin-curl clips and self-locking nuts achieved dominance in just a few years time, despite substantial, well established competition.
During the last years of Woodrow Wilson's administration, a red scare developed in our country.
Postmaster General Burleson set about to protect the American people against radical propaganda that might be spread through the mails.
Attorney General Palmer made a series of raids that sent more than 4000 so-called radicals to the jails, in direct violation of their constitutional rights.
Then, not many years later, the Un-American Activities Committee, under the leadership of Martin Dies, pilloried hundreds of decent, patriotic citizens.
Anyone who tried to remedy some of the most glaring defects in our form of democracy was denounced as a traitorous red whose real purpose was the destruction of our government.
This hysteria reached its height under the leadership of Senator Joseph McCarthy.
Demagogues of this sort found communist bogeys lurking behind any new idea that would run counter to stereotyped notions.
New ideas were dangerous and must be repressed, no matter how.
Those who would suppress dangerous thoughts, credit ideas with high potency.
They give strict interpretation to William James' statement that ``Every idea that enters the mind tends to express itself''.
Hence, the only defensible procedure is to repress any and every notion, unless it gives evidence that it is perfectly safe.
Despite this danger, however, we are informed on every hand that ideas, not machines, are our finest tools; they are priceless even though they cannot be recorded on a ledger page; they are the most valuable of commodities - and the most salable, for their demand far exceeds supply.
So all-important are ideas, we are told, that persons successful in business and happy in social life usually fall into two classes : those who invent new ideas of their own, and those who borrow, beg, or steal from others.
Seemingly, with an unrestricted flow of ideas, all will be well, and we are even assured that ``an idea a day will keep the sheriff away''.
That, however, may also bring the police, if the thinking does not meet with social approval.
Criminals, as well as model citizens, exercise their minds.
Merely having a mental image of some sort is not the all-important consideration.
Of course, there must be clarity : a single distinct impression is more valuable than many fuzzy ones.
But clarity is not enough.
An inmate, a former university professor, expounded to us, logically and clearly, that someone was pilfering his thoughts.
He appealed to us to bring his case to the attention of the authorities that justice might be done.
Despite the clarity of his presentation, his idea was not of Einsteinian calibre.
True, ideas are important, perhaps life's most precious treasures.
But have we not gone overboard in stressing their significance?
Have we not actually developed idea worship?
Ideas we must have, and we seek them everywhere.
We scour literature for them; here we find stored the wisdom of great minds.
But are all these works worthy of consideration?
Shakespeare's wit and wisdom, his profound insight into human nature, have stood the test of centuries.
But was he infallible in all things?
What of his treatment of the Jew in The Merchant of Venice?
Shakespeare gives us a vivid picture of Shylock, but probably he never saw a Jew, unless in some of his travels.
The Jews had been banished from England in 1290 and were not permitted to return before 1655, when Shakespeare had been dead for thirty-nine years.
If any had escaped expulsion by hiding, they certainly would not frequent the market-place.
Shakespeare did not usually invent the incidents in his plays, but borrowed them from old stories, ballads, and plays, wove them together, and then breathed into them his spark of life.
Rather than from a first-hand study of Jewish people, his delineation of Shylock stems from a collection of Italian stories, Il Pecorone, published in 1558, although written almost two centuries earlier.
He could learn at second hand from books, but could not thus capture the real Jewish spirit.
He took the story of the pound of flesh and had to fasten it on someone.
The Jew was the safest victim.
No Jew was on hand to boycott his financially struggling theater.
It would have been unwise policy, for instance, to apply the pound of flesh characterization to the thrifty Scotchman.
Just as now anyone may hurl insults at a citizen of Mars, or even of Tikopia, and no senatorial investigation will result.
Who cares about them!
Shakespeare does not tell us that Shylock was an aberrant individual.
He sets him forth as being typical of the group.
He tells of his ``Jewish heart'' - not a Shylockian heart; but a Jewish heart.
There is no justification for such misrepresentation.
If living Jews were unavailable for study, the Bible was at hand.
Reading the Old Testament would have shown the dramatist that the ideas attributed to Shylock were abhorrent to the Jews.
Are we better off for having Shakespeare's idea of Shylock?
Studying The Merchant of Venice in high school and college has given many young people their notions about Jews.
Does this help the non-Jew to understand this group?
Thomas de Torquemada, Inquisitor-General of the Spanish Inquisition, put many persons to death.
His name became synonymous with cold-blooded cruelty.
Would we gain by keeping alive his memory and besmirching today's Roman Catholics by saying he had a Catholic heart?
Shakespeare's Shylock, too, is of dubious value in the modern world.
Ideas, in and of themselves, are not necessarily the greatest good.
A successful businessman recently prefaced his address to a luncheon group with the statement that all economists should be sent to the hospitals for the mentally deranged where they and their theories might rot together.
Will his words come to be treasured and quoted through the years?
Frequently we are given assurance that automatically all ideas will be sifted and resifted and in the end only the good ones will survive.
But is that not like going to a chemistry laboratory and blindly pouring out liquids and powders from an array of bottles and then, after stirring, expecting a new wonder drug inevitably to result?
What of the efficiency of this natural instrument of free discussion?
Is there some magic in it that assures results?
When Peter B. Kyne (Pride of Palomar, 43) informed us in 1921 that we had an instinctive dislike for the Japanese, did the heated debates of the Californians settle the truth or falsity of the proposition?
If a child had a single drop of Negro blood, he would revert to the ancestral line which, except as slaves under a superior race, had not made one step of progress in 3000 years.
That doctrine has been accepted by many, but has it produced good results?
In the same vein, a certain short-story plot has been overworked.
The son and heir of a prominent family marries a girl who has tell-tale shadows on the half-moons of her finger nails.
In time she presents her aristocratic husband with a coal-black child.
Is the world better for having this idea thrust upon it?
Will argument and debate decide its truth or falsity?
For answers to such questions we must turn to the anthropologists, the biologists, the historians, the psychologists, and the sociologists.
Long ago they consigned the notions of Kyne and Dixon to the scrap heap.
For several generations much fiction has appeared dealing with the steprelationship.
The stepmother, almost without exception, has been presented as a cruel ogress.
Children, conditioned by this mistaken notion, have feared stepmothers, while adults, by their antagonistic attitudes, have made the role of the substitute parents a difficult one.
Debate is not likely to resolve the tensions and make the lot of the stepchild a happier one.
Research, on the other hand, has shown many stepmothers to be eminently successful, some far better than the real mothers.
Helen Deutsch informed us (The Psychology of Women, Vol. 2, 434) that in all cultures ``the term' stepmother' automatically evokes deprecatory implications'', a conclusion accepted by many.
Will mere debate on that proposition, even though it be free and untrammeled, remove the dross and leave a residue of refined gold?
That is questionable, to say the least.
Research into several cultures has proven her position to be a mistaken one.
But ideas, just for the sake of having them, are not enough.
In the 1930 's, cures for the depression literally flooded Washington.
For a time the President received hundreds of them every day, most of them worthless.
Ideas need to be tested, and not merely by argument and debate.
When some question arises in the medical field concerning cancer, for instance, we do not turn to free and open discussion as in a political campaign.
We have recourse to the scientifically trained specialist in the laboratory.
The merits of the Salk anti polio vaccine were not established on the forensic platform or in newspaper editorials, but in the laboratory and by tests in the field on thousands of children.
Our presidential campaigns provide much debate and argument.
But is the result new barnsful of tested knowledge on the basis of which we can with confidence solve our domestic and international problems?
But what a super Herculean task it is to winnow anything of value from the mud beplastered arguments used so freely, particularly since such common use is made of cliches and stereotypes, in themselves declarations of intellectual bankruptcy.
We are reminded, however, that freedom of thought and discussion, the unfettered exchange of ideas, is basic under our form of government.
Assuredly in our political campaigns there is freedom to think, to examine any and all issues, and to speak without restraint.
No holds are barred.
But have the results been heartening?
May we state with confidence that in such an exhibition a republic will find its greatest security?
We must not forget, to be sure, that free discussion and debate have produced beneficial results.
In truth, we can say that this broke the power of Senator Joseph McCarthy, who was finally exposed in full light to the American people.
If he had been ``liquidated'' in some way, he would have become a martyr, a rallying point for people who shared his ideas.
But it is a clumsy and wasteful process : it can produce negative results but not much that is positive.
Debate rid us of McCarthy but did not give us much that is positive.
It did something to clear the ground, but it erected no striking new structure; it did not even provide the architect's plan for anything new.
In the field of the natural sciences, scientifically verified data are quite readily available and any discussion can be shortened with good results.
In the field of the social sciences a considerable fund of tested knowledge has been accumulated that can be used to good advantage.
By no means would we discourage the production of ideas : they provide raw materials with which to work; they provide stimulations that lead to further production.
We would establish no censorship.
Important as was Mr. O' Donnell's essay, his thesis is so restricting as to deny Faulkner the stature which he obviously has.
He and also Mr. Cowley and Mr. Warren have fallen to the temptation which besets many of us to read into our authors - Nathaniel Hawthorne, for example, and Herman Melville - protests against modernism, material progress, and science which are genuine protests of our own but may not have been theirs.
If he is a traditionalist, he is an eclectic traditionalist.
If he condemns the recent or the present, he condemns the past with no less force.
If he sees the heroic in a Sartoris or a Sutpen, he sees also - and he shows - the blind and the mean, and he sees the Compson family disintegrating from within.
If the barn-burner's family produces a Flem Snopes, who personifies commercialism and materialism in hyperbolic crassness, the Compson family produces a Jason Compson 4,.
Faulkner is a most untraditional traditionalist.
Others writing on Faulkner have found the phrase ``traditional moralist'' either inadequate or misleading.
Among them are Frederick J. Hoffman, William Van O'Connor, and Mrs. Olga Vickery.
They have indicated the direction but they have not been explicit enough, I believe, in pointing out Faulkner's independence, his questioning if not indeed challenging the Southern tradition.
Faulkner's is not the mind of the apologist which Mr. O' Donnell implies that it is.
That is not to deny that he has been aware of traditions, of course, that he is steeped in them, in fact, or that he has dealt with them, in his books.
It is to say rather, I believe, that he has brought to bear on the history, the traditions, and the lore of his region a critical, skeptical mind - the same mind which has made of him an inveterate experimenter in literary form and technique.
He has employed from his section rich immediate materials which in a loose sense can be termed Southern.
The fact that he has cast over those materials the light of a skeptical mind does not make him any the less Southern, I rather think, for the South has been no more solid than other regions except in the political and related areas where patronage and force and intimidation and fear may produce a surface uniformity.
Some of us might be inclined to argue, in fact, that an independence of mind and action and an intolerance of regimentation, either mental or physical, are particularly Southern traits.
There is no necessity, I suppose, to assert that Mr. Faulkner is Southern.
It would not be easy to discover a more thoroughly Southern pedigree than that of his family.
And, after all, he has lived comfortably at both Oxford, Mississippi, and Charlottesville, Virginia.
The young William Faulkner in New Orleans in the 1920's impressed the novelist Hamilton Basso as obviously conscious of being a Southerner, and there is no evidence that since then he has ever considered himself any less so.
It is more difficult with Faulkner than with most authors to say what is the extent and what is the source of his knowledge.
His own testimony is that he has read very little in the history of the South, implying that what he knows of that history has come to him orally and that he knows the world around him primarily from his own unassisted observation.
His denials of extensive reading notwithstanding, it is no doubt safe to assume that he has spent time schooling himself in Southern history and that he has gained some acquaintance with the chief literary authors who have lived in the South or have written about the South.
To believe otherwise would be unrealistic.
But in looking at Faulkner against his background in Mississippi and the South, it is important not to lose the broader perspective.
His earliest work reflected heavy influences from English and continental writers.
Evidence is plentiful that early and later also he has been indebted to the Gothic romancers, who deal in extravagant horror, to the symbolists writing at the end of the preceding century, and in particular to the stream-of-consciousness novelists, Henry James and James Joyce among them.
His repeated experimentation with the techniques of fiction testifies to an independence of mind and an originality of approach, but it also shows him touching at many points the stream of literary development back of him.
My intention, therefore, is not to say that Faulkner's awareness has been confined within the borders of the South, but rather that he has looked at his world as a Southerner and that presumably his outlook is Southern.
A useful comment on his relation to his region may be made, I think, by noting briefly how in handling Southern materials and Southern problems he has deviated from the pattern set by other Southern authors while remaining faithful to the essential character of the region.
The planter aristocracy has appeared in literature at least since John Pendleton Kennedy published Swallow-Barn in 1832 and in his genial portrait of Frank Meriwether presiding over his plantation dominion initiated the most persistent tradition of Southern literature.
The thoroughgoing idealization of the planter society did not come, however, until after the Civil War when Southern writers were eager to defend a way of life which had been destroyed.
As they looked with nostalgia to a society which had been swept away, they were probably no more than half conscious that they painted in colors which had never existed.
Their books found no less willing readers outside than inside the South, even while memories of the war were still sharp.
The tradition reached its apex, perhaps, in the works of Thomas Nelson Page toward the end of the century, and reappeared undiminished as late as 1934 in the best-selling novel So Red the Rose, by Stark Young.
Although Faulkner was the heir in his own family to this tradition, he did not have Stark Young's inclination to romanticize and sentimentalize the planter society.
The myth of the Southern plantation has had only a tangential relation with actuality, as Francis Pendleton Gaines showed forty years ago, and I suspect it has had a far narrower acceptance as something real than has generally been supposed.
Faulkner has found it useful, but he has employed it with his habitual independence of mind and skeptical outlook.
It may be that in this comment he has broken from the conventional pattern more violently than in any other regard, for the treatment in his books is far removed from even the genial irony of Ellen Glasgow, who was the only important novelist before him to challenge the conventional picture of planter society.
Faulkner's low-class characters had but few counterparts in earlier Southern novels dealing with plantation life.
They have an ancestry extending back, however, at least to 1728, when William Byrd described the Lubberlanders he encountered in the back country of Virginia and North Carolina.
The chief literary antecedents of the Snopes clan appeared in the realistic, humorous writing which originated in the South and the Southwest in the three decades before the Civil War.
These narratives of coarse action and crude language appeared first in local newspapers, as a rule, and later found their way between book covers, though rarely into the planters' libraries beside the morocco bound volumes of Horace, Mr. Addison, Mr. Pope, and Sir Walter Scott.
There is evidence to suggest, in fact, that many authors of the humorous sketches were prompted to write them - or to make them as indelicate as they are - by way of protesting against the artificial refinements which had come to dominate the polite letters of the South.
William Gilmore Simms, sturdy realist that he was, pleaded for a natural robustness such as he found in his favorites the great Elizabethans, to vivify the pale writings being produced around him.
Simms admired the raucous tales emanating from the backwoods, but he had himself social affiliations which would not allow him to approve them fully.
Augustus Baldwin Longstreet, a preacher and a college and university president in four Southern states, published the earliest of these backwoods sketches and in the character Ransy Sniffle, in the accounts of sharp horse-trading and eye gouging physical combat, and in the shockingly unliterary speech of his characters, he set an example followed by many after him.
It would be profitable, I believe, to read these realistic humorists alongside Faulkner's works, the thought being not that he necessarily read them and owed anything to them directly, but rather that they dealt a hundred years ago with a class of people and a type of life which have continued down to our time, to Faulkner's time.
Such a comparison reminds us that in employing low characters in his works Faulkner is recording actuality in the South and moreover is following a long established literary precedent.
Such characters, with their low existence and often low morality, produce humorous effects in his novels and tales, as they did in the writing of Longstreet and Hooper and Harris, but it need not be added that he gives them far subtler and more intricate functions than they had in the earlier writers; nor is there need to add that among them are some of the most highly individualized and most successful of his characters.
One of the early humorists already mentioned, Thomas Bangs Thorpe, can be used to illustrate another point where Faulkner touches authentic Southern materials and also earlier literary treatment of those materials.
Thorpe came to Louisiana from the East as a young man prepared to find in the new country the setting of romantic adventure and idealized beauty.
But Thorpe saw also the hardships of pioneer existence, the cultural poverty of the frontier settlements, and the slack morality which abounded in the new regions.
As a consequence of the tensions thus produced in his thoughts and feelings, he wrote on the one hand sketches of idealized hunting trips and on the other an anecdote of the village of Hardscrabble, Arkansas, where no one had ever seen a piano; and he wrote also the masterpiece of frontier humor, ``The Big Bear of Arkansas'', in which earthy realism is placed alongside the exaggeration of the backwoods tall-tale and the awe with which man contemplates the grandeur and the mysteries of nature.
Henrietta's feeling of identity with Sara Sullam was crowned by her discovery of the coincidence that Sara's epitaph in the Jewish cemetery in Venice referred to her as ``the Sulamite''.
Into the texture of this tapestry of history and human drama Henrietta, as every artist delights to do, wove strands of her own intuitive insights into human nature and - especially in the remarkable story of the attraction and conflict between two so disparate and fervent characters as this pair - into the relations of men and women : ``In their relations, she was the giver and he the receiver, nay the demander.
One is so accustomed to think of men as the privileged who need but ask and receive, and women as submissive and yielding, that our sympathies are usually enlisted on the side of the man whose love is not returned, and we condemn the woman as a coquette.
The very firmness of her convictions and logical clearness of her arguments captivated and stimulated him to make greater efforts; usually, this is most exasperating to men, who expect every woman to verify their preconceived notions concerning her sex, and when she does not, immediately condemn her as eccentric and unwomanly.
She had the opportunity that few clever women can resist, of showing her superiority in argument over a man.
Women themselves have come to look upon matters in the same light as the outside world, and scarcely find any wrong in submitting to the importunities of a stronger will, even when their affections are withheld.
She was exposing herself to temptation which it is best to avoid where it can consistently be done.
One who invites such trials of character is either foolhardy, overconfident or too simple and childlike in faith in mankind to see the danger.
In any case but the last, such a course is sure to avenge itself upon the individual; the moral powers no more than the physical and mental, can bear overstraining.
And, in the last case, a bitter disappointment but too often meets the confiding nature''.
Henrietta was discovering in the process of writing, as the born writer does, not merely a channel for the discharge of accumulated information but a stimulus to the development of the creative powers of observation, insight and intuition.
Under her father's influence it did not occur to Henrietta that she might write on subjects outside the Jewish field, but she did begin writing for other Anglo Jewish papers and thus increased her output and her audience.
And she wrote the libretto for an oratorio on the subject of Judas Maccabeus performed at the Hanukkah festival which came in December.
By her eighteenth birthday her bent for writing was so evident that Papa and Mamma gave her a Life of Dickens as a spur to her aspiration.
Another source of intellectual stimulus was opened to her at that time by the founding of Johns Hopkins University within walking distance of home.
It was established in a couple of buildings in the shopping district, with only a few professors, but all eminent men, and a few hundred eager students housed in nearby dwellings.
In September' 76 Thomas Huxley, Darwin's famous disciple, came from England to speak in a crowded auditorium at the formal opening of the University; and although it was a school for men only, it afforded Henrietta an opportunity to attend its public lectures.
In the following year her father undertook to give a course in Hebrew theology to Johns Hopkins students, and this brought to the Szold house a group of bright young Jews who had come to Baltimore to study, and who enjoyed being fed and mothered by Mamma and entertained by Henrietta and Rachel, who played and sang for them in the upstairs sitting room on Sunday evenings.
From Philadelphia came Cyrus Adler and Joseph Jastrow.
Adler, Judge Sulzberger's nephew, came to study Assyriology.
Joseph Jastrow, the younger son of the distinguished rabbi, Marcus Jastrow, was a friendly, round-faced fellow with a little mustache, whose field was psychology, and who was also a punster and a jolly tease.
His father was a good friend of Rabbi Szold, and Joe lived with the Szolds for a while.
Both these youths, who greatly admired Henrietta, were somewhat younger than she, as were also the neighboring Friedenwald boys, who were then studying medicine; and bright though they all were, they could not possibly compete for her interest with Papa, whose mind - although he never tried to dazzle or patronize lesser lights with it - naturally eclipsed theirs and made them seem to her even younger than they were.
Besides, Miss Henrietta - as she was generally known since she had put up her hair with a chignon in the back - had little time to spare them from her teaching and writing; so Cyrus Adler became interested in her friend Racie Friedenwald, and Joe Jastrow - the only young man who when he wrote had the temerity to address her as Henrietta, and signed himself Joe - fell in love with pretty sister Rachel.
Henrietta, however, was at that time engaged in a lengthy correspondence with Joe's older and more serious brother, Morris, who was just about her own age and whom she had got to know well during trips to Philadelphia with Papa, when he substituted for Rabbi Jastrow at Rodeph Shalom Temple there during its Rabbi's absence in Europe.
Young Morris, who, while attending the University of Pennsylvania, also taught and edited a paper, found time to write Henrietta twenty page letters on everything that engaged his interest, from the acting of Sarah Bernhardt in Philadelphia to his reactions to the comments of ``Sulamith'' on the Jewish reform movement being promulgated by the Hebrew Union College in Cincinnati.
Unlike his younger brother, Joe, he never presumed to address her more familiarly than as ``My dear friend'', although he praised and envied the elegance and purity of her style.
And when he complained of the lack of time for all he wanted to do, Henrietta advised him to rise at five in the morning as she and Papa did.
One thing Papa had not taught Henrietta was how to handle a young man as high-spirited and opinionated as herself.
But that did not prevent him from writing more long letters, or from coming to spend his Christmas vacations with the hospitable, lively Szolds in their pleasant house on Lombard Street.
``We've got Father and Mother and each other,'' said Beth on the first page of Louisa Alcott's Little Women; and, ``I do think that families are the most beautiful things in all the world'', burst out Jo some five hundred pages later in that popular story of the March family, which had first appeared when Henrietta was eight; and the Szold family, as it developed, bore a striking resemblance to the Marches.
Mr. March, like Benjamin Szold, was a clergyman, although of an indeterminate denomination; and ``Marmee'' March, like Sophie Szold, was the competent manager of her brood of girls, of whom the Marches had only four to the Szolds' five.
But the March girls had their counterparts in the Szold girls.
Henrietta could easily identify herself with Jo March, although Jo was not the eldest sister.
Neither was Henrietta hoydenish like Jo, who frankly wished she were a boy and had deliberately shortened her name, which, like Henrietta 's, was the feminine form of a boy's name.
But both were high-spirited and vivacious, both had tempers to control, both loved languages, especially English and German, both were good teachers and wrote for publication.
Each was her mother's assistant and confidante; and each stood out conspicuously in the family picture.
Bertha Szold was more like Meg, the eldest March girl, who ``learned that a woman's happiest kingdom is home, her highest honor the art of ruling it, not as a queen, but a wise wife and mother''.
Sadie, like Beth March, suffered ill health - got rheumatic fever and had to be careful of her heart - but that never dampened her spirits.
When her right hand was incapacitated by the rheumatism, Sadie learned to write with her left hand.
She wrote gay plays about the girls for family entertainments, like ``Oh, What Fun!
A comedy in Three Acts'', in which, under ``Personages'', Henrietta appeared as ``A Schoolmarm'', and Bertha, who was only a trifle less brilliant in high school than Henrietta had been, appeared as ``Dummkopf''.
Sadie studied piano; played Chopin in the ``Soiree Musicale of Mr. Guthrie's Pupils''; and she recited ``Hector's Farewell to Andromache'' most movingly, to the special delight of Rabbi Jastrow at his home in Germantown near Philadelphia, where the Szold girls took turns visiting between the visits of the Jastrow boys at the Szolds' in Baltimore.
Adele, like Amy, the youngest of the Marches, was the rebellious, mischievous, rather calculating and ambitious one.
For Rachel, conceded to be the prettiest of the Szold girls - and she did make a pretty picture sitting in the grape-arbor strumming her guitar and singing in her silvery tones - there was no particular March counterpart; but both groups were so closely knit that despite individual differences the family life in both cases was remarkably similar in atmosphere if not entirely in content - the one being definitely Jewish and the other vaguely Christian.
The Szolds, like the Marches, enjoyed and loved living together, even in troubled times; and, as in the March home, any young man who called on the Szolds found himself confronted with a phalanx of femininity which made it rather difficult to direct his particular attention to any one of them.
This included Mamma, jolly, generous, and pretty, with whom they all fell in love, just as Papa had first fallen in love with her Mamma before he chose her; and when a young man like Morris Jastrow had enjoyed the Szold hospitality, he felt obliged to send his respects and his gifts not merely to Henrietta, in whom he was really interested, but to all the Szold girls and Mamma.
And like Jo March, who saw her sisters Meg and Amy involved in ``lovering'' before herself, Henrietta saw her sisters Rachel and Sadie drawn outside their family circle by the attraction of suitors, Rachel by Joe Jastrow, and Sadie by Max Lobl, a young businessman who would write her romantic descriptions of his trips by steamboat down the Mississippi.
When Harold Arlen returned to California in the winter of 1944, it was to take up again a collaboration with Johnny Mercer, begun some years before.
The film they did after his return was an inconsequential bit of nothing titled Out of This World, a satire on the Sinatra bobby-soxer craze.
The twist lay in using Bing Crosby's voice on the sound track while leading man Eddie Bracken mouthed the words.
If nothing else, at least two good songs came out of the project, ``Out of This World'' and ``June Comes Around Every Year''.
Though they would produce some very memorable and lasting songs, Arlen and Mercer were not given strong material to work on.
Their first collaboration came close.
Early in 1941 they were assigned to a script titled Hot Nocturne.
It purported to be a reasonably serious attempt at a treatment of jazz musicians, their aims, their problems - the tug-of-war between the ``pure'' and the ``commercial'' - and seemed a promising vehicle, for the two men shared a common interest in jazz.
He was born in savannah, Georgia, in 1909.
His father, George A. Mercer, was descended from an honored Southern family that could trace its ancestry back to one Hugh Mercer, who had emigrated from Scotland in 1747.
The lyricist's father was a lawyer who had branched out into real estate.
His second wife, Lillian, was the mother of John H. Mercer.
By the age of six young Johnny indicated that he had the call.
One day he followed the Irish Jasper Greens, the town band, to a picnic and spent the entire day listening, while his family spent the day looking.
The disappearance caused his family to assign a full-time maid to keeping an eye on the boy.
But one afternoon Mrs. Mercer met her; both were obviously on the way to the Mercer home.
The mother inquired, ``Where's Johnny, and why did you leave him''?
But Mrs. Mercer demanded more.
The maid then told her, ``Because he fired me''.
With her son evidencing so strong a musical bent his mother could do little else but get him started on the study of music - though she waited until he was ten - beginning with the piano and following that with the trumpet.
Young Mercer showed a remarkable lack of aptitude for both instruments.
Still, he did like music making and even sang in the chapel choir of the Woodberry Forest School, near Orange, Virginia, where he sounded fine but did not matriculate too well.
When he was fifteen John H. Mercer turned out his first song, a jazzy little thing he called ``Sister Susie, Strut Your Stuff''.
If his scholarship and formal musicianship were not all they might have been, Mercer demonstrated at an early age that he was gifted with a remarkable ear for rhythm and dialect.
From his playmates in Savannah, Mercer had picked up, along with a soft Southern dialect, traces also of the Gullah dialects of Africa.
Such speech differences made him acutely aware of the richness and expressivness of language.
It generally took well into the autumn for the firm to recover from the summer's help.
``We'd give him things to deliver, letters, checks, deeds and things like that'', remembers his half-brother Walter, still in the real estate business in savannah, ``and learn days later that he'd absent-mindedly stuffed them into his pocket.
There they stayed''.
This rather detached attitude toward life's encumbrances has seemed to be the dominant trait in Mercer's personality ever since.
It is, however, a disarming disguise, or perhaps a shield, for not only has Mercer proved himself to be one of the few great lyricists over the years, but also one who can function remarkably under pressure.
He has also enjoyed a successful career as an entertainer (his records have sold in the millions) and is a sharp businessman.
He has also an extraordinary conscience.
In 1927 his father's business collapsed, and, rather than go bankrupt, Mercer senior turned his firm over to a bank for liquidation.
He died before he could completely pay off his debts.
The check had been mailed from Chicago, the envelope bore no return address, and the check was not signed.
``That's Johnny'', sighed the bank president, ``the best hearted boy in the world, but absent-minded''.
But Mercer's explanation was simple : ``I made out the check and carried it around a few days unsigned - in case I lost it''.
When he remembered that he might have not signed the check, Mercer made out another for the same amount, instructing the bank to destroy the other - especially if he had happened to have absent-mindedly signed both of them.
When the family business failed, Mercer left school and on his mother's urging - for she hoped that he would become an actor - he joined a local little theater group.
When the troupe traveled to New York to participate in a one act play competition - and won - Mercer, instead of returning with the rest of the company in triumph, remained in New York.
He had talked one other member of the group to stay with him, but that friend had tired of not eating regularly and returned to Savannah.
But Mercer hung on, living, after a fashion, in a Greenwich Village fourth flight walk-up.
``The place had no sink or washbasin, only a bathtub'', his mother discovered when she visited him.
A story, no doubt apocryphal, for Mercer himself denies it, has him sporting a monocle in those Village days.
Though merely clear glass, it was a distinctive trade mark for an aspiring actor who hoped to imprint himself upon the memories of producers.
One day in a bar, so the legend goes, someone put a beer stein with too much force on the monocle and broke it.
The innocent malfeasant, filled with that supreme sense of honor found in bars, insisted upon replacing the destroyed monocle - and did, over the protests of the former owner - with a square monocle.
Mercer is supposed to have refused it with, ``Anyone who wears a square monocle must be affected''!
Everett Miller, then assistant director for the Garrick Gaieties, a Theatre Guild production, needed a lyricist for a song he had written; he just happened not to need any actor at the moment, however.
For him Mercer produced the lyric to ``Out of Breath Scared to Death of You'', introduced in that most successful of all the Gaieties, by Sterling Holloway.
This 1930 edition also had songs in it by Vernon Duke and Ira Gershwin, by E. Y. Harburg and Duke, and by Harry Myers.
Entrance into such stellar song writing company encouraged the burgeoning song writer to take a wife, Elizabeth Meehan, a dancer in the Gaieties.
When he heard that Paul Whiteman was looking for singers to replace the Rhythm Boys, Mercer applied and got the job, ``not for my voice, I'm sure, but because I could write songs and material generally''.
While with the Whiteman band Mercer met Jerry Arlen.
He had yet to meet Harold Arlen, for although they had ``collaborated'' on ``Satan's Li' l Lamb'', Mercer and Harburg had worked from a lead sheet the composer had furnished them.
The lyric, Mercer remembers, was tailored to fit the unusual melody.
Mercer's Whiteman association brought him into contact with Hoagy Carmichael, whose ``Snowball'' Mercer relyriced as ``Lazybones'', in which form it became a hit and marked the real beginning of Mercer's song writing career.
After leaving Whiteman, Mercer joined the Benny Goodman band as a vocalist.
With the help of Ziggy Elman, also in the band, he transformed a traditional Jewish melody into a popular song, ``And the Angels Sing''.
The countrywide success of ``Lazybones'' and ``And the Angels Sing'' could only lead to Hollywood, where, besides Harold Arlen, Mercer collaborated with Harry Warren, Jimmy Van Heusen, Richard Whiting, Walter Donaldson, Jerome Kern, and Arthur Schwartz.
Mercer has also written both music and lyrics for several songs.
When Johnny Mercer and Harold Arlen began their collaboration in 1940, Mercer, like Arlen, had several substantial film songs to his credit, among them ``Hooray for Hollywood'', ``Ride, Tenderfoot, Ride'', ``Have You Got Any Castles, Baby ?''
, and ``Too Marvelous for Words'' (all with Richard Whiting); with Harry Warren he did ``The Girl Friend of the Whirling Dervish'', ``Jeepers Creepers'', and ``You Must Have Been a Beautiful Baby''.
Mercer's lyrics are characterized by an unerring ear for rhythmic nuances, a puckish sense of humor expressed in language with a colloquial flair.
Though versatile and capable of turning out a ballad lyric with the best of them, Mercer's forte is a highly polished quasi folk wit.
His casual, dreamlike working methods, often as not in absentia, were an abrupt change from Harburg 's, so that Arlen had to adjust again to another approach to collaboration.
There were times that he worked with both lyricists simultaneously.
Speaking of his work with Johnny Mercer, Arlen says, ``Our working habits were strange.
After we got a script and the spots for the songs were blocked out, we'd get together for an hour or so every day.
While Johnny made himself comfortable on the couch, I'd play the tunes for him.
After I would finish playing the songs, he'd just go away without a comment.
I wouldn't hear from him for a couple of weeks, then he'd come around with the completed lyric''.
Arlen is one of the few (possibly the only) composer Mercer has been able to work with so closely, for they held their meetings in Arlen's study.
``Some guys bothered me'', Mercer has said.
``I couldn't write with them in the same room with me, but I could with Harold.
He is probably our most original composer; he often uses very odd rhythms, which makes it difficult, and challenging, for the lyric writer''.
While Arlen and Mercer collaborated on Hot Nocturne, Mercer worked also with Arthur Schwartz on another film, Navy Blues.
Arlen, too, worked on other projects at the same time with old friend Ted Koehler.
Besides doing a single song, ``When the Sun Comes Out'', they worked on the ambitious Americanegro Suite, for voices and piano, as well as songs for films.
The work had its beginning in 1938 with an eight bar musical strain to which Koehler set the words ``There'll be no more work / There'll be no more worry'', matching the spiritual feeling of the jot.
This grew into the song ``Big Time Comin'''.
By September 1940 the suite had developed into a collection of six songs, ``four spirituals, a dream, and a lullaby''.
The Negro composer Hall Johnson studied the Americanegro Suite and said of it, ``Of all the many songs written by white composers and employing what claims to be a Negroid idiom in both words and music, these six songs by Harold Arlen and Ted Koehler easily stand far out above the rest.
Thoroughly modern in treatment, they are at the same time, full of simple sincerity which invariably characterizes genuine Negro folk-music and are by no means to be confused with the average' Broadway Spirituals' which depend for their racial flavor upon sundry allusions to the' Amen Corner ',' judgement day ',' Gabriel's horn ', and a frustrated devil - with a few random' Hallelujahs' thrown in for good measure.
Two facets of this aspect of the literary process have special significance for our time.
One, a reservation on the point I have just made, is the phenomenon of pseudo thinking, pseudo feeling, and pseudo willing, which Fromm discussed in The Escape from Freedom.
In essence this involves grounding one's thought and emotion in the values and experience of others, rather than in one's own values and experience.
There is a risk that instead of teaching a person how to be himself, reading fiction and drama may teach him how to be somebody else.
Moreover, if the critic instructs his audience in what to see in a work, he is contributing to this pseudo thinking; if he instructs them in how to evaluate a work, he is helping them to achieve their own identity.
The second timely part of this sketch of literature and the search for identity has to do with the difference between good and enduring literary works and the ephemeral mass culture products of today.
In the range and variety of characters who, in their literary lives, get along all right with life styles one never imagined possible, there is an implicit lesson in differentiation.
The reader, observing this process, might ask ``why not be different'' ? and find in the answer a license to be a variant of the human species.
The observer of television or other products for a mass audience has only a permit to be, like the models he sees, even more like everybody else.
And this, I think, holds for values as well as life styles.
One would need to test this proposition carefully; after all, the large (and probably unreliable) Reader's Digest literature on the ``most unforgettable character I ever met'' deals with village grocers, country doctors, favorite if illiterate aunts, and so forth.
Scientists often turn out to be idiosyncratic, too.
But still, the proposition is worth examination.
I do not know that this is true; both Flugel and Ranyard West deal with the development and nature of conscience, as do such theologians as Niebuhr and Buber.
It forms the core of many, perhaps most, problems of psychotherapy.
I am not aware of great attention by any of these authors or by the psychotherapeutic profession to the role of literary study in the development of conscience - most of their attention is to a pre-literate period of life, or, for the theologians of course, to the influence of religion.
Still, it would be surprising if what one reads did not contribute to one's ideas of right and wrong; certainly the awakened alarm over the comic books and the continuous concern over prurient literature indicate some peripheral aspects of this influence.
Probably the most important thing to focus on is not the development of conscience, which may well be almost beyond the reach of literature, but the contents of conscience, the code which is imparted to the developed or immature conscience available.
This is in large part a code of behavior and a glossary of values : what is it that people do and should do and how one should regard it.
In a small way this is illustrated by the nineteenth century novelist who argued for the powerful influence of literature as a teacher of society and who illustrated this with the way a girl learned to meet her lover, how to behave, how to think about this new experience, how to exercise restraint.
Literature may be said to give people a sense of purpose, dedication, mission, significance.
This, no doubt, is part of what Gilbert Seldes implies when he says of the arts, ``They give form and meaning to life which might otherwise seem shapeless and without sense''.
Feeling useless seems generally to be an unpleasant sensation.
A need so deeply planted, asking for direction, so to speak, is likely to be gratified by the vivid examples and heroic proportions of literature.
The terms ``renewal'' and ``refreshed'', which often come up in aesthetic discussion, seem partly to derive their import from the ``renewal'' of purpose and a ``refreshed'' sense of significance a person may receive from poetry, drama, and fiction.
The notion of ``inspiration'' is somehow cognate to this feeling.
How literature does this, or for whom, is certainly not clear, but the content, form, and language of the ``message'', as well as the source, would all play differentiated parts in giving and molding a sense of purpose.
One of the most salient features of literary value has been deemed to be its influence upon and organization of emotion.
Let us differentiate a few of these ideas.
The Aristotelian notion of catharsis, the purging of emotion, is a persistent and viable one.
The idea here is one of discharge but this must stand in opposition to a second view, Plato's notion of the arousal of emotion.
This is given some expression in Beardsley's notion of harmony and the resolution of indecision.
A fourth view is the transformation of emotion, as in Housman's fine phrase on the arts:
they ``transform and beautify our inner nature''.
It is possible that the idea of enrichment of emotion is a fifth idea.
F. S. C. Northrop, in his discussion of the ``Functions and Future of Poetry'', suggests this:
``One of the things which makes our lives drab and empty and which leaves us, at the end of the day, fatigued and deflated spiritually is the pressure of the taxing, practical, utilitarian concern of common-sense objects.
If art is to release us from these postulated things [ things we must think symbolically about ] and bring us back to the ineffable beauty and richness of the aesthetic component of reality in its immediacy, it must sever its connection with these common sense entities''.
I take the central meaning here to be the contrast between the drab empty quality of life without literature and a life enriched by it.
Richards' view of the aesthetic experience might constitute a sixth variety : for him it constitutes, in part, the organization of impulses.
But there is one in particular which, it seems to me, deserves special attention.
In the wide range of experiences common to our earth-bound race none is more difficult to manage, more troublesome, and more enduring in its effects than the control of love and hate.
The study of literature contributes to this control in a curious way.
William Wimsatt and Cleanth Brooks, it seems to me, have a penetrating insight into the way in which this control is effected : ``For if we say poetry is to talk of beauty and love (and yet not aim at exciting erotic emotion or even an emotion of Platonic esteem) and if it is to talk of anger and murder (and yet not aim at arousing anger and indignation) - then it may be that the poetic way of dealing with these emotions will not be any kind of intensification, compounding, or magnification, or any direct assault upon the affections at all.
Something indirect, mixed, reconciling, tensional might well be the stratagem, the devious technique by which a poet indulged in all kinds of talk about love and anger and even in something like'' expressions ``of these emotions, without aiming at their incitement or even uttering anything that essentially involves their incitement''.
The rehearsal through literature of emotional life under controlled conditions may be a most valuable human experience.
Here I do not mean catharsis, the discharge of emotion.
I mean something more like Freud's concept of the utility of ``play'' to a small child : he plays ``house'' or ``doctor'' or ``fireman'' as a way of mastering slightly frightening experiences, reliving them imaginatively until they are under control.
There is a second feature of the influences of literature, good literature, on emotional life which may have some special value for our time.
Perhaps it is only an analogy, but one of the most obvious differences between cheap fiction and fiction of an enduring quality is the development of a theme or story with leisure and anticipation.
Anyone who has watched children develop a taste for literature will understand what I mean.
It is at least possible that the capacity to postpone gratification is developed as well as expressed in a continuous and guided exposure to great literature.
In any inquiry into the way in which great literature affects the emotions, particularly with respect to the sense of harmony, or relief of tension, or sense of ``a transformed inner nature'' which may occur, a most careful exploration of the particular feature of the experience which produces the effect would be required.
In the calm which follows the reading of a poem, for example, is the effect produced by the enforced quiet, by the musical quality of words and rhythm, by the sentiments or sense of the poem, by the associations with earlier readings, if it is familiar, by the boost to the self-esteem for the semi-literate, by the diversion of attention, by the sense of security in a legitimized withdrawal, by a kind license for some variety of fantasy life regarded as forbidden, or by half conscious ideas about the magical power of words?
These are, if the research is done with subtlety and skill, researchable topics, but the research is missing.
One of the most frequent views of the value of literature is the education of sensibility that it is thought to provide.
Sensibility is a vague word, covering an area of meaning rather than any precise talent, quality, or skill.
Among other things it means perception, discrimination, sensitivity to subtle differences.
Its truth is illustrated by the skill, sensitivity, and general expertise of the English professor with whom one attends the theatre.
The limits are suggested by an imaginary experiment : contrast the perceptual skill of English professors with that of their colleagues in discriminating among motor cars, political candidates, or female beauty.
Along these lines, the particular point that sensitivity in literature leads to sensitivity in human relations would require more proof than I have seen.
In a symposium and general exploration of the field of Person Perception and Interpersonal Behavior the discussion does not touch upon this aspect of the subject, with one possible exception; Solomon Asch shows the transcultural stability of metaphors based on sensation (hot, sweet, bitter, etc .) dealing with personal qualities of human beings and events.
But to go from here to the belief that those more sensitive to metaphor and language will also be more sensitive to personal differences is too great an inferential leap.
I would say, too, that the study of literature tends to give a person what I shall call depth.
I use this term to mean three things : a search for the human significance of an event or state of affairs, a tendency to look at wholes rather than parts, and a tendency to respond to these events and wholes with feeling.
It is the obverse of triviality, shallowness, emotional anaesthesia.
I think these attributes cluster, but I have no evidence.
The late R. G. Collingwood, a philosopher whose work has proved helpful to many students of literature, once wrote ``We are all, though many of us are snobbish enough to wish to deny it, in far closer sympathy with the art of the music-hall and picture-palace than with Chaucer and Cimabue, or even Shakespeare and Titian.
By an effort of historical sympathy we can cast our minds back into the art of a remote past or an alien present, and enjoy the carvings of cavemen and Japanese colour prints; but the possibility of this effort is bound up with that development of historical thought which is the greatest achievement of our civilization in the last two centuries, and it is utterly impossible to people in whom this development has not taken place.
The natural and primary aesthetic attitude is to enjoy contemporary art, to despise and dislike the art of the recent past, and wholly to ignore everything else''.
One might argue that the ultimate purpose of literary scholarship is to correct this spontaneous provincialism that is likely to obscure the horizons of the general public, of the newspaper critic, and of the creative artist himself.
There results a study of literature freed from the tyranny of the contemporary.
Such study may take many forms.
The study of ideas in literature is one of these.
Of course, it goes without saying that no student of ideas can justifiably ignore the contemporary scene.
He will frequently return to it.
When we assert the value of such study, we find ourselves committed to an important assumption.
Most students of literature, whether they call themselves scholars or critics, are ready to argue that it is possible to understand literary works as well as to enjoy them.
Many will add that we may find our enjoyment heightened by our understanding.
This understanding, of course, may in its turn take many forms and some of these - especially those most interesting to the student of comparative literature - are essentially historical.
But the historian of literature need not confine his attention to biography or to stylistic questions of form, ``texture'', or technique.
He may also consider ideas.
It is true that this distinction between style and idea often approaches the arbitrary since in the end we must admit that style and content frequently influence or interpenetrate one another and sometimes appear as expressions of the same insight.
But, in general, we may argue that the student can direct the primary emphasis of his attention toward one or the other.
At this point a working definition of idea is in order, although our first definition will have to be qualified somewhat as we proceed.
It is through such reflection that literature approaches philosophy.
An idea, let us say, may be roughly defined as a theme or topic with which our reflection may be concerned.
In this essay, we are, along with most historians, interested in the more general or more inclusive ideas, that are so to speak ``writ large'' in history of literature where they recur continually.
Outstanding among these is the idea of human nature itself, including the many definitions that have been advanced over the centuries; also secondary notions such as the perfectibility of man, the depravity of man, and the dignity of man.
One might, indeed, argue that the history of ideas, in so far as it includes the literatures, must center on characterizations of human nature and that the great periods of literary achievement may be distinguished from one another by reference to the images of human nature that they succeed in fashioning.
We need not, to be sure, expect to find such ideas in every piece of literature.
An idea, of the sort that we have in mind, although of necessity readily available to imagination, is more general in connotation than most poetic or literary images, especially those appearing in lyric poems that seek to capture a moment of personal experience.
Thus Burns's ``My love is like a red, red rose'' and Hopkins' ``The thunder-purple sea beach, plumed purple of thunder'' although clearly intelligible in content, hardly present ideas of the sort with which we are here concerned.
On the other hand, Arnold's ``The unplumbed, salt, estranging sea'', taken in its context, certainly does so.
Thus the student of literature may sometimes find it helpful to classify a poem or an essay as being in idea or in ideal content or subject matter typical or atypical of its period.
Again, he may discover embodied within its texture a theme or idea that has been presented elsewhere and at other times in various ways.
Our understanding will very probably require both these commentaries.
Very likely it will also include a recognition that the work we are reading reflects or ``belongs to'' some way of thought labelled as a ``school'' or an ``- ism'', i. e. a complex or ``syndrome'' of ideas occurring together with sufficient prominence to warrant identification.
Thus ideas like ``grace'', ``salvation'', and ``providence'' cluster together in traditional Christianity.
Usually the work studied offers us a special or even an individualized rendering or treatment of the ideas in question, so that the student finds it necessary to distinguish carefully between the several expressions of an ``- ism'' or mode of thought.
Accordingly we may speak of the Platonism peculiar to Shelley's poems or the type of Stoicism present in Henley's ``Invictus'', and we may find that describing such Platonism or such Stoicism and contrasting each with other expressions of the same attitude or mode of thought is a difficult and challenging enterprise.
After all, Shelley is no ``orthodox'' or Hellenic Platonist, and even his ``romantic'' Platonism can be distinguished from that of his contemporaries.
Again, Henley's attitude of defiance which colors his ideal of self mastery is far from characteristic of a Stoic thinker like Marcus Aurelius, whose gentle acquiescence is almost Christian, comparable to the patience expressed in Milton's sonnet on his own blindness.
When these fields are surveyed together, important patterns of relationship emerge indicating a vast community of reciprocal influence, a continuity of thought and expression including many traditions, primarily literary, religious, and philosophical, but frequently including contact with the fine arts and even, to some extent, with science.
Here we may observe that at least one modern philosophy of history is built on the assumption that ideas are the primary objectives of the historian's research.
Let us quote once more from R. G. Collingwood : ``History is properly concerned with the actions of human beings.
Regarded from the outside, an action is an event or series of events occurring in the physical world; regarded from the inside, it is the carrying into action of a certain thought.
The historian's business is to penetrate to the inside of the actions with which he is dealing and reconstruct or rather rethink the thoughts which constituted them.
It is a characteristic of thoughts that, in re-thinking them we come, ipso facto, to understand why they were thought''.
Such an understanding, although it must seek to be sympathetic, is not a matter of intuition.
``History has this in common with every other science : that the historian is not allowed to claim any single piece of knowledge, except where he can justify his claim by exhibiting to himself in the first place, and secondly to any one else who is both able and willing to follow his demonstration, the grounds upon which it is based.
This is what was meant, above, by describing history as inferential.
It is obvious that the historian who seeks to recapture the ideas that have motivated human behavior throughout a given period will find the art and literature of that age one of his central and major concerns, by no means a mere supplement or adjunct of significant historical research.
The student of ideas and their place in history will always be concerned with the patterns of transition, which are at the same time patterns of transformation, whereby ideas pass from one area of activity to another.
Let us survey for a moment the development of modern thought - turning our attention from the Reformation toward the revolutionary and romantic movements that follow and dwelling finally on more recent decades.
We may thus trace the notion of individual autonomy from its manifestation in religious practice and theological reflection through practical politics and political theory into literature and the arts.
Finally we may note that the idea appears in educational theory where its influence is at present widespread.
No one will deny that such broad developments and transitions are of great intrinsic interest and the study of ideas in literature would be woefully incomplete without frequent reference to them.
Still, we must remember that we cannot construct and justify generalizations of this sort unless we are ready to consider many special instances of influence moving between such areas as theology, philosophy, political thought, and literature.
The actual moments of contact are vitally important.
These moments are historical events in the lives of individual authors with which the student of comparative literature must be frequently concerned.
Certainly one of the most important comments that can be made upon the spiritual and cultural life of any period of Western civilization during the past sixteen or seventeen centuries has to do with the way in which its leaders have read and interpreted the Bible.
This reading and the comments that it evoked constitute the influence.
A contrast of the scripture reading of, let us say, St. Augustine, John Bunyan, and Thomas Jefferson, all three of whom found in such study a real source of enlightenment, can tell us a great deal about these three men and the age that each represented and helped bring to conscious expression.
In much the same way, we recognize the importance of Shakespeare's familarity with Plutarch and Montaigne, of Shelley's study of Plato's dialogues, and of Coleridge's enthusiastic plundering of the writings of many philosophers and theologians from Plato to Schelling and William Godwin, through which so many abstract ideas were brought to the attention of English men of letters.
We may also recognize cases in which the poets have influenced the philosophers and even indirectly the scientists.
English philosopher Samuel Alexander's debt to Wordsworth and Meredith is a recent interesting example, as also A. N. Whitehead's understanding of the English romantics, chiefly Shelley and Wordsworth.
Hegel's profound admiration for the insights of the Greek tragedians indicates a broad channel of classical influence upon nineteenth century philosophy.
Again the student of evolutionary biology will find a fascinating, if to our minds grotesque, anticipation of the theory of chance variations and the natural elimination of the unfit in Lucretius, who in turn seems to have borrowed the concept from the philosopher Empedocles.
Here an important caveat is in order.
Be it enacted by the Senate and House of Representatives of the United States of America in Congress assembled, That the Act of July 3, 1952 (66 Stat. 328) as amended (42 U. S. C. 1952 - 1958), is further amended to read as follows:
In view of the increasing shortage of usable surface and ground water in many parts of the Nation and the importance of finding new sources of supply to meet its present and future water needs, it is the policy of the Congress to provide for the development of practicable low-cost means for the large-scale production of water of a quality suitable for municipal, industrial, agricultural, and other beneficial consumptive uses from saline water, and for studies and research related thereto.
As used in this Act, the term' saline water' includes sea water, brackish water, and other mineralized or chemically charged water, and the term' United States' extends to and includes the District of Columbia, the Commonwealth of Puerto Rico, and the territories and possessions of the United States.
In order to accomplish the purposes of this Act, the Secretary of the Interior shall -
conduct, encourage, and promote fundamental scientific research and basic studies to develop the best and most economical processes and methods for converting saline water into water suitable for beneficial consumptive purposes ;
conduct engineering research and technical development work to determine, by laboratory and pilot plant testing, the results of the research and studies aforesaid in order to develop processes and plant designs to the point where they can be demonstrated on a large and practical scale ;
recommend to the Congress from time to time authorization for construction and operation, or for participation in the construction and operation, of a demonstration plant for any process which he determines, on the basis of subsections (a) and (b) above, has great promise of accomplishing the purposes of this Act, such recommendation to be accompanied by a report on the size, location, and cost of the proposed plant and the engineering and economic details with respect thereto ;
study methods for the recovery and marketing of commercially valuable byproducts resulting from the conversion of saline water; and undertake economic studies and surveys to determine present and prospective costs of producing water for beneficial consumptive purposes in various parts of the United States by the leading saline water processes as compared with other standard methods.
In carrying out his functions under section 2 of this Act, the Secretary may -
enter into contracts with educational institutions, scientific organizations, and industrial and engineering firms ;
make research and training grants ;
utilize the facilities of Federal scientific laboratories ;
establish and operate necessary facilities and test sites at which to carry on the continuous research, testing, development, and programming necessary to effectuate the purposes of this Act ;
acquire secret processes, technical data, inventions, patent applications, patents, licenses, land and interests in land (including water rights), plants and facilities, and other property or rights by purchase, license, lease, or donation ;
assemble and maintain pertinent and current scientific literature, both domestic and foreign, and issue bibliographical data with respect thereto ;
cause on-site inspections to be made of promising projects, domestic and foreign, and, in the case of projects located in the United States, cooperate and participate in their development in instances in which the purposes of this Act will be served thereby ;
foster and participate in regional, national, and international conferences relating to saline water conversion ;
coordinate, correlate, and publish information with a view to advancing the development of low-cost saline water conversion projects; and cooperate with other Federal departments and agencies, with State and local departments, agencies, and instrumentalities, and with interested persons, firms, institutions, and organizations.
The fullest cooperation by and with Atomic Energy Commission, the Department of Health Education and Welfare, the Department of State, and other concerned agencies shall also be carried out in the interest of achieving the objectives of this Act.
All research within the United States contracted for, sponsored, cosponsored, or authorized under authority of this Act, shall be provided for in such manner that all information, uses, products, processes, patents, and other developments resulting from such research developed by Government expenditure will (with such exceptions and limitations, if any, as the Secretary may find to be necessary in the interest of national defense) be available to the general public.
This subsection shall not be so construed as to deprive the owner of any background patent relating thereto of such rights as he may have thereunder.
The Secretary may dispose of water and byproducts resulting from his operations under this Act.
All moneys received from dispositions under this section shall be paid into the Treasury as miscellaneous receipts)
Nothing in the Act shall be construed to alter existing law with respect to the ownership and control of water.
The Secretary shall make reports to the President and the Congress at the beginning of each regular session of the action taken or instituted by him under the provisions of this Act and of prospective action during the ensuing year.
The Secretary of the Interior may issue rules and regulations to effectuate the purposes of this Act.
There are authorized to be appropriated such sums, to remain available until expended, as may be necessary, but not more than $ 75000000 in all, (a) to carry out the provisions of this Act during the fiscal years 1962 to 1967, inclusive; (b) to finance, for not more than two years beyond the end of said period, such grants, contracts, cooperative agreements, and studies as may theretofore have been undertaken pursuant to this Act; and (c) to finance, for not more than three years beyond the end of said period, such activities as are required to correlate, coordinate, and round out the results of studies and research undertaken pursuant to this Act : Provided, That funds available in any one year for research and development may, subject to the approval of the Secretary of State to assure that such activities are consistent with the foreign policy objectives of the United States, be expended in cooperation with public or private agencies in foreign countries in the development of processes useful to the program in the United States : And provided further, That every such contract or agreement made with any public or private agency in a foreign country shall contain provisions effective to insure that the results or information developed in connection therewith shall be available without cost to the United States for the use of the United States throughout the world and for the use of the general public within the United States.
The authority of the Secretary of the Interior under this joint resolution to construct, operate, and maintain demonstration plants shall terminate upon the expiration of twelve years after the date on which this joint resolution is approved.
Upon the expiration of a period deemed adequate for demonstration purposes for each plant, but not to exceed such twelve year period, the Secretary shall proceed as promptly as practicable to dispose of any plants so constructed by sale to the highest bidder, or as may otherwise be directed by Act of Congress.
Upon such sale, there shall be returned to any State or public agency which has contributed financial assistance under section 3 of this joint resolution a proper share of the net proceeds of the sale.
Approved September 22, 1961.
Be it enacted by the Senate and House of Representatives of the United States of America in Congress assembled, That the Secretary of the Interior is hereby authorized and directed to make or cause to be made a study covering -
the causes of injuries and health hazards in metal and nonmetallic mines (excluding coal and lignite mines) ;
the relative effectiveness of voluntary versus mandatory reporting of accident statistics ;
the relative contribution to safety of inspection programs embodying -
right-of-entry only and right-of-entry plus enforcement authority ;
the magnitude of effort and costs of each of these possible phases of an effective safety program for metal and nonmetallic mines (excluding coal and lignite mines); and the scope and adequacy of State mine safety laws applicable to such mines and the enforcement of such laws.
The Secretary of the Interior or any duly authorized representative shall be entitled to admission to, and to require reports from the operator of, any metal or nonmetallic mine which is in a State (excluding any coal or lignite mine), the products of which regularly enter commerce or the operations of which substantially affect commerce, for the purpose of gathering data and information necessary for the study authorized in the first section of this Act.
As used in this section -
the term ``State'' includes the Commonwealth of Puerto Rico and any possession of the United States; and the term ``commerce'' means commerce between any State and any place outside thereof, or between points within the same State but through any place outside thereof.
The Secretary of the Interior shall submit a report of his findings, together with recommendations for an effective safety program for metal and nonmetallic mines (excluding coal and lignite mines) based upon such findings, to the Congress not more than two years after the date of enactment of this Act.
Approved September 26, 1961.
Be it enacted by the Senate and House of Representatives of the United States of America in Congress assembled, That the Secretary of the Interior is hereby authorized and directed to establish and maintain a program of stabilization payments to small domestic producers of lead and zinc ores and concentrates in order to stabilize the mining of lead and zinc by small domestic producers on public, Indian, and other lands as provided in this Act.
Subject to the limitations of this Act, the Secretary shall make stabilization payments to small domestic producers upon presentation of evidence satisfactory to him of their status as such producers and of the sale by them of newly mined ores, or concentrates produced therefrom, as provided in this Act.
Payments shall be made only with respect to the metal content as determined by assay.
Such payments shall be made to small domestic producers of zinc as long as the market price for prime western zinc at East Saint Louis, Illinois, as determined by the Secretary, is below 14 - 1 2 cents per pound, and such payments shall be 55 per centum of the difference between 14 - 1 2 cents per pound and the average market price for the month in which the sale occurred as determined by the Secretary.
The maximum amount of payments which may be made pursuant to this Act on account of sales of newly mined ores or concentrates produced therefrom made during the calendar year 1962 shall not exceed $ 4500000; the maximum amount of such payments which may be made on account of such sales made during the calendar year 1963 shall not exceed $ 4500000; the maximum amount of such payments which may be made on account of such sales made during the calendar year 1964 shall not exceed $ 4000000; and the maximum amount of such payments which may be made on account of such sales made during the calendar year 1965 shall not exceed $ 3500000.
Another recent achievement was the successful development of a method for the complete combustion in a bomb calorimeter of a metal in fluorine when the product is relatively non-volatile.
This work gave a heat of formation of aluminum fluoride which closely substantiates a value which had been determined by a less direct method, and raises this property to 15 percent above that accepted a few years ago.
Similar measurements are being initiated to resolve a large discrepancy in the heat of formation of another important combustion product, beryllium fluoride.
The development and testing of new apparatus to measure other properties is nearing completion.
In one of these, an exploding wire device to study systems thermodynamically up to 6000 * * f and 100 atmospheres pressure, a major goal was achieved.
The accuracy of measuring the total electrical energy entering an exploding wire during a few microseconds was verified when two independent types of comparison with the heat energy produced had an uncertainty of less than 2 percent.
This agreement is considered very good for such short time intervals.
The element is inserted in the discharge circuit in place of the exploding wire, and the calorimetric heating of the element is measured with high accuracy.
This is used as a reference for comparing the ohmic heating and the electrical energy obtained from the measured current through the element and the measured voltage across the element.
A high-speed shutter has been developed in order to permit photographic observation of any portion of the electrical wire explosion.
The shutter consists of two parts : a fast opening part and a fast closing part.
Using Edgerton's method, the fast closing action is obtained from the blackening of a window by exploding a series of parallel lead wires.
The fast opening of the shutter consists of a piece of aluminum foil (approximately * * f) placed directly in front of the camera lens so that no light may pass into the camera.
The opening action is obtained when a capacitor, charged to high voltage, is suddenly discharged through the foil.
During the discharge the magnetic forces set up by the passage of current cause the edges of the foil to roll inward toward its center line, thus allowing light to pass into the camera.
Experiments have shown that the shutter is 75 percent open in about 60 - 80 microseconds.
Besides the well-known hydrogen line at 21 cm wavelength, the spectra of extraterrestrial radio sources may contain sharp lines characteristic of other atoms, ions, and small molecules.
The detection and study of such line spectra would add considerably to present information on interstellar gas clouds and, perhaps, planetary atmospheres.
Among the most likely producers of detectable radio line spectra are the light diatomic hydrides OH and CH; somewhat less likely sources are the heavier hydrides SH, SiH, and ScH.
Very small concentrations of these hydrides should be detectable; in interstellar gas, concentrations as low as * * f molecules / * * f may be sufficient, as compared to the * * f hydrogen atoms * * f required for detection of the 21 - cm line.
High sensitivity in radio telescopes is achieved by reducing the bandwidth of the receiver; therefore, only with precise foreknowledge of the line frequencies is an astronomical search for the radio spectra of these molecules feasible.
To secure precise measurements of these frequencies, a research program in free radical microwave spectroscopy has been started.
Since conventional methods are insensitive at the low frequencies of these molecular transitions, the paramagnetic resonance method is being used instead.
This involves the application of a strong magnetic field to the radical vapor, which shifts the low-frequency spectra to a conveniently high microwave range, where they may be measured with optimum sensitivity.
The first diatomic hydride investigated by the paramagnetic resonance method was the OH radical.
Success in observing these spectral lines has so far, apparently, been confined to the laboratory; extraterrestrial observations have yet to be reported.
Preparations are being made for similar experiments on CH and SH radicals.
The Bureau is pursuing an active program to provide a temperature scale and thermometer calibration services in the range 1.5 to 20 * * f.
The efforts and accomplishments fall into three main categories : absolute thermometry based upon the velocity of sound in helium gas, secondary thermometry involving principally studies of the behavior of germanium resistors, and helium 4 vapor-pressure measurements (see p. 144).
An acoustical interferometer has been constructed and used, with helium gas as the thermometric fluid, to measure temperatures near 4.2 and 2.1 * * f.
Such an interferometer provides a means of absolute temperature measurement, and may be used as an alternative to the gas thermometer.
When values of temperature derived with this instrument were compared with the accepted values associated with liquid helium 4 vapor pressures, differences of about 10 and 7 millidegrees respectively were found.
This result is preliminary, and work is continuing.
Carbon resistors and impurity doped germanium resistors have been investigated for use as precision secondary thermometers in the liquid helium temperature region.
Preliminary calibrations of the resistors have been made from 4.21 to 2.16 * * f at every 0.1 * * f.
The estimated standard deviations of the data for two of the resistors were 1 millidegree; and for the third resistor, 3.3 millidegrees.
The reproducibilities of helium vapor-pressure thermometers have been investigated in conjunction with a ``constant temperature'' liquid helium bath from 4.2 to 1.8 * * f.
Surface temperature gradients have been found to exist in liquid helium baths contained in 15 - and 25 - liter metallic storage dewars.
The gradient was about one half of a millidegree at 4.2 * * f but increased to several millidegrees for bath temperatures slightly greater than the | l point.
A hydrostatic head correction has been neither necessary nor applicable in the determination of vapor pressures or temperatures for the bulk liquid helium.
However, the surface temperature gradient can produce erroneous vapor-pressure measurements for the bulk liquid helium unless precautions are taken to isolate the tube (which passes through the surface to the vapor pressure bulb) from the liquid helium surface.
It has also been observed, in helium 2, that large discrepancies can exist between surface vapor pressures and those pressures measured by a vapor pressure thermometer.
This has been attributed to helium film flow in the vapor pressure thermometer.
Precise pressure volume temperature measurements on corrosive gases are dependent on a sensitive yet rugged pressure transducer.
A prototype which fulfills the requirements was developed and thoroughly tested.
The transducer is a null type instrument and employs a stretched diaphragm, 0.001 in. thick and 1 in. in diameter.
A small pressure unbalance displaces the diaphragm and changes the capacitance between the diaphragm and an electrically insulated plate spaced 0.001 in. apart (for * * f).
Spherical concave backing surfaces support the diaphragm when excessive pressures are applied and prevent the stresses within the diaphragm from exceeding the elastic limit.
Over a temperature range from 25 to 200 * * f and at pressures up to 250 atm, an overload of 300 psi, applied for a period of one day, results in an uncertainty in the pressure of, at most, one millimeter of mercury.
A 6 - year study of the transport properties of air at elevated temperatures has been completed.
This project was carried out under sponsorship of the Ballistic Missile Division of the Air Research and Development Command, U. S. Air Force, and had as its goal the investigation of the transport by diffusion of the heat energy of chemical binding.
A significant effect discovered during the study is the existence of Prandtl numbers reaching values of more than unity in the nitrogen dissociation region.
The results of the study, based on collision integrals computed from the latest critically evaluated data on intermolecular forces in air, will be reported in the form of a table of viscosity, thermal conductivity, thermal diffusion, and diffusion coefficients at temperatures of 1000 to 10000 * * f and of logarithm of pressure in atmospheres from * * f to * * f times normal density.
In March, 1961, representatives of the national laboratories of Australia, Canada, The Netherlands, United Kingdom, U. S. S. R., United States, and West Germany, met at the NBS to devise means for reaching international agreement on a temperature scale between 10 and 90 * * f.
As a first step toward this goal, arrangements were worked out for comparing the scales now in use through circulation of a group of standard platinum resistance thermometers for calibration by each national laboratory.
Such a group of thermometers was obtained and calibrated at the NBS.
These thermometers have now been sent to the United Kingdom for calibration at the National Physical Laboratory.
During the last week of march 1961, Columbus, Ohio was the site of the Fourth Symposium on Temperature, Its Measurement and Control in Science and Industry.
The Symposium, which was jointly sponsored by the American Institute of Physics, the Instrument Society of America, and the National Bureau of Standards, attracted nearly one thousand registrants, including many from abroad.
The Bureau contributed to the planning and success of the Symposium through the efforts of Mr. W. A. Wildhack, General Chairman, and Dr. C. M. Herzfeld, Program Chairman.
Dr. A. V. Astin, NBS Director, opened the 5 - day session with introductory remarks, following which a total of twenty-six papers were given throughout the week by NBS scientists, from both the Washington and Boulder Laboratories.
The programs in infrared spectroscopy are undergoing reorientation toward wavelength standards in the far infrared, the application of infrared techniques to solid state studies, and increased emphasis on high resolution instrumentation.
Two data centers have been established for the collection, indexing, critical evaluation, and dissemination of bibliographies and critical values in the fields of transition probabilities and collision cross sections.
Under the sponsorship of the Office of Naval Research and the Advanced Research Projects Agency, a data center was established to gather and index all published information on atomic transition probabilities.
An exhaustive survey was made of the literature, and a primary reference file of approximately 600 references was catalogued.
Selected bibliographies and tables of available data are now in preparation.
A wall stabilized high current arc source was constructed and used to study transition probabilities of atomic hydrogen and oxygen.
This apparatus will also be used to measure transition probabilities of a large number of other elements.
A study of the hydrogen line profiles indicates that a measurement of these profiles can be used to calculate a temperature for the arc plasma that is reliable to about * * f percent.
A set of tables containing spectral intensities for 39000 lines of 70 elements, as observed in a copper matrix in a d-c arc, was completed and published.
These data are not of the precision obtainable by the methods previously mentioned, but the vast number of approximate values available will be useful in many areas.
Research continues on the very complex spectra of the rare earth elements.
New computer and automation techniques were applied to these spectra with considerable success.
In addition to the penalties provided in title 18, United States Code, section 1001, any person guilty of any act, as provided therein, with respect to any matter under this Title, shall forfeit all rights under this Title, and, if payment shall have been made or granted, the Commission shall take such action as may be necessary to recover the same.
In connection with any claim decided by the Commission pursuant to this Title in which an award is made, the Commission may, upon the written request of the claimant or any attorney heretofore or hereafter employed by such claimant, determine and apportion the just and reasonable attorney's fees for services rendered with respect to such claim, but the total amount of the fees so determined in any case shall not exceed 10 per centum of the total amount paid pursuant to the award.
Written evidence that the claimant and any such attorney have agreed to the amount of the attorney's fees shall be conclusive upon the Commission : Provided, however, That the total amount of the fees so agreed upon does not exceed 10 per centum of the total amount paid pursuant to the award.
Any fee so determined shall be entered as a part of such award, and payment thereof shall be made by the Secretary of the Treasury by deducting the amount thereof from the total amount paid pursuant to the award.
Any agreement to the contrary shall be unlawful and void.
The Commission is authorized and directed to mail to each claimant in proceedings before the Commission notice of the provisions of this subsection.
The Attorney General shall assign such officers and employees of the Department of Justice as may be necessary to represent the United States as to any claims of the Government of the United States with respect to which the Commission has jurisdiction under this title.
Any and all payments required to be made by the Secretary of the Treasury under this title pursuant to any award made by the Commission to the Government of the United States shall be covered into the Treasury to the credit of miscellaneous receipts.
The Commission shall notify all claimants of the approval or denial of their claims, stating the reasons and grounds therefor, and if approved, shall notify such claimants of the amount for which such claims are approved.
Any claimant whose claim is denied, or is approved for less than the full amount of such claim, shall be entitled, under such regulations as the Commission may prescribe, to a hearing before the Commission, or its duly authorized representatives, with respect to such claim.
Upon such hearing, the Commission may affirm, modify, or revise its former action with respect to such claim, including a denial or reduction in the amount theretofore allowed with respect to such claim.
The action of the Commission in allowing or denying any claim under this title shall be final and conclusive on all questions of law and fact and not subject to review by the Secretary of State or any other official, department, agency, or establishment of the United States or by any court by mandamus or otherwise.
The Commission may in its discretion enter an award with respect to one or more items deemed to have been clearly established in an individual claim while deferring consideration and action on other items of the same claim.
The Commission shall comply with the provisons of the Administrative Procedure Act of 1946 except as otherwise specifically provided by this title.
The Commission shall, as soon as possible, and in the order of the making of such awards, certify to the Secretary of the Treasury and to the Secretary of State copies of the awards made in favor of the Government of the United States or of nationals of the United States under this Title.
The Commission shall complete its affairs in connection with settlement of United States-Yugoslav claims arising under the Yugoslav Claims Agreement of 1948 not later than December 31, 1954 : Provided, That nothing in this provision shall be construed to limit the life of the Commission, or its authority to act on future agreements which may be effected under the provisions of this legislation.
Subject to the limitations hereinafter provided, the Secretary of the Treasury is authorized and directed to pay, as prescribed by section 8 of this Title, an amount not exceeding the principal of each award, plus accrued interests on such awards as bear interest, certified pursuant to section 5 of this Title, in accordance with the award.
Such payments, and applications for such payments, shall be made in accordance with such regulations as the Secretary of the Treasury may prescribe.
There shall be deducted from the amount of each payment made pursuant to subsection (c) of section 8, as reimbursement for the expenses incurred by the United States, an amount equal to 5 per centum of such payment.
All amounts so deducted shall be covered into the Treasury to the credit of miscellaneous receipts.
Payments made pursuant to this Title shall be made only to the person or persons on behalf of whom the award is made, except that -
if such person is deceased or is under a legal disability, payment shall be made to his legal representative:
Provided, That if the total award is not over $ 500 and there is no qualified executor or administrator, payment may be made to the person or persons found by the Comptroller General of the United States to be entitled thereto, without the necessity of compliance with the requirements of law with respect to the administration of estates ;
in the case of a partnership or corporation, the existence of which has been terminated and on behalf of which an award is made, payment shall be made, except as provided in paragraphs (3) and (4), to the person or persons found by the Comptroller General of the United States to be entitled thereto ;
if a receiver or trustee for any such partnership or corporation, duly appointed by a court of competent jurisdiction in the United States, makes an assignment of the claim, or any part thereof, with respect to which an award is made, or makes an assignment of such award, or any part thereof, payment shall be made to the assignee, as his interest may appear; and in the case of any assignment of an award, or any part thereof, which is made in writing and duly acknowledged and filed, after such award is certified to the Secretary of the Treasury, payment may, in the discretion of the Secretary of the Treasury, be made to the assignee, as his interest may appear.
Whenever the Secretary of the Treasury, or the Comptroller General of the United States, as the case may be, shall find that any person is entitled to any such payment, after such payment shall have been received by such person, it shall be an absolute bar to recovery by any other person against the United States, its officers, agents, or employees with respect to such payment.
Any person who makes application for any such payment shall be held to have consented to all the provisions of this Title.
Nothing in the Title shall be construed as the assumption of any liability by the United States for the payment or satisfaction, in whole or in part, of any claim on behalf of any national of the United States against any foreign government.
There are hereby created in the Treasury of the United States (1) a special fund to be known as the Yugoslav Claims Fund; and (2) such other special funds as may, in the discretion of the Secretary of the Treasury, be required each to be a claims fund to be known by the name of the foreign government which has entered into a settlement agreement with the Government of the United States as described in subsection (a) of section 4 of this Title.
There shall be covered into the Treasury to the credit of the proper special fund all funds hereinafter specified.
All payments authorized under section 7 of this Title shall be disbursed from the proper fund, as the case may be, and all amounts covered into the Treasury to the credit of the aforesaid funds are hereby permanently appropriated for the making of the payments authorized by section 7 of this Title.
The Secretary of the Treasury is authorized and directed to cover into -
the Yugoslav Claims Fund the sum of $ 17000000 being the amount paid by the Government of the Federal People's Republic of Yugoslavia pursuant to the Yugoslav Claims Agreement of 1948 ;
The Secretary of the Treasury is authorized and directed out of the sums covered into any of the funds pursuant to subsection (b) of this section, and after making the deduction provided for in section 7 (b) of this Title -
to make payments in full of the principal of awards of $ 1000 or less, certified pursuant to section 5 of this Title ;
to make payments of $ 1000 on the principal of each award of more than $ 1000 in principal amount, certified pursuant to section 5 of this Title ;
to make additional payment of not to exceed 25 per centum of the unpaid principal of awards in the principal amount of more than $ 1000 ;
after completing the payments prescribed by paragraphs (2) and (3) of this subsection, to make payments, from time to time in ratable proportions, on account of the unpaid principal of all awards in the principal amount of more than $ 1000, according to the proportions which the unpaid principal of such awards bear to the total amount in the fund available for distribution at the time such payments are made; and after payment has been made of the principal amounts of all such awards, to make pro rata payments on account of accrued interest on such awards as bear interest.
The Secretary of the Treasury, upon the concurrence of the Secretary of State, is authorized and directed, out of the sum covered into the Yugoslav Claims Fund pursuant to subsection (b) of this section, after completing the payments of such funds pursuant to subsection (c) of this section, to make payment of the balance of any sum remaining in such fund to the Government of the Federal People's Republic of Yugoslavia to the extent required under article 1 (c) of the Yugoslav Claims Agreement of 1948.
The Secretary of State shall certify to the Secretary of the Treasury the total cost of adjudication, not borne by the claimants, attributable to the Yugoslav Claims Agreement of 1948.
Such certification shall be final and conclusive and shall not be subject to review by any other official or department, agency, or establishment of the United States.
There is hereby authorized to be appropriated, out of any money in the Treasury not otherwise appropriated, such sums as may be necessary to enable the Commission to carry out its functions under this Title.
The causes of the decline of the commuter railroads are many and complex - high taxes, losses of revenue to Government subsidized highway and air carriers, to name but two.
And the solutions to the problems of the commuter lines have been equally varied, ranging all the way from Government ownership to complete discontinuance of this important service.
There have been a number of sound plans proposed.
But none of these has been implemented.
Instead we have stood idly by, watched our commuter railroad service decline, and have failed to offer a helping hand.
Though the number of people flowing in and out of our metropolitan areas each day has increased tremendously since World War 2, total annual rail commutation dropped 124 million from 1947 to 1957.
Nowhere has this decline been more painfully evident than in the New York City area.
Here the New York Central Railroad, one of the Nation's most important carriers, has alone lost 47.6 percent of its passengers since 1949.
At this time of crisis in our Nation's commuter railroads, a new threat to the continued operations of the New York Central has appeared in the form of the Chesapeake + Ohio Railroad's proposal for control of the Baltimore + Ohio railroads.
Not only is this kind of duplication wasteful, but it gives the combined system the ability to take freight traffic away from the New York Central and other railroads serving the area.
The New York Central notes : ``The freight traffic most susceptible to raiding by the C. + O. - B. + O. provides the backbone of Central's revenues.
These revenues make it possible to provide essential freight and passenger service over the entire New York Central system as well as the New York area commuter and terminal freight services.
If these services are to be maintained, the New York Central must have the revenues to make them possible''.
The New York Central today handles 60 percent of all southbound commuter traffic coming into New York City.
This is a $ 14 million operation involving 3500 employees who work on commuter traffic exclusively.
A blow to this phase of the Central's operations would have serious economic consequences not only to the railroad itself, but to the 40000 people per day who are provided with efficient, reasonably priced transportation in and out of the city.
``There is a workable alternative to this potentially dangerous and harmful C. + O. - B. + O. merger scheme'' -
The Central has pointed out.
Detailed studies of the plan were well underway.
Though far from completion, these studies indicated beyond a doubt that savings would result which would be of unprecedented benefit to the railroads concerned, their investors, their customers, their users, and to the public at large.
Then, abandoning the studies in the face of their promising outlook for all concerned, B. + O. entered on-again-off-again negotiations with C. + O. which resulted in the present situation.
In the light of the facts at hand, however, New York Central intends to pursue the objective of helping to create a healthy two system eastern railroad structure in the public interest ``.
The Interstate Commerce Commission will commence its deliberations on the proposed C. + O. - B. + O. merger on June 18.
Obviously, the Interstate Commerce Commission will not force the New York Central to further curtail its commuter operations by giving undue competitive advantages to the lines that wish to merge.
However, there is a more profound consideration to this proposed merger than profit and loss.
That is, will it serve the long-range public interest?
For the past 40 years Congress has advocated a carefully planned, balanced and competitive railway system.
Which will serve not only the best interest of the stockholders, but the interests of all the traveling public?
Mr. Speaker, I rise today to pay tribute to a great newspaper, the New York Times, on the occasion of a major change in its top executive command.
Arthur Hays Sulzberger has been a distinguished publisher of this distinguished newspaper and it is fitting that we take due notice of his major contribution to American journalism on the occasion of his retirement.
I am pleased to note that Mr. Sulzberger will continue to serve as chairman of the board of the New York Times.
Mr. Sulzberger's successor as publisher is Mr. Orvil E. Dryfoos, who is president of the New York Times Co., and who has been with the Times since 1942.
Mr. Dryfoos' outstanding career as a journalist guarantees that the high standards which have made the Times one of the world's great newspapers will be maintained.
I am also pleased to note that Mr. John B. Oakes, a member of the Times staff since 1946, has been appointed as editorial page editor.
Mr. Oakes succeeds Charles Merz, editor since 1938, who now becomes editor emeritus.
I should like at this time, Mr. Speaker, to pay warm tribute to Arthur Hays Sulzberger and Charles Merz on the occasion of their retirement from distinguished careers in American journalism.
The people of the 17 th District of New York, and I as their Representative in Congress, take great pride in the New York Times as one of the great and authoritative newspapers of the world.
Mr. Speaker, in my latest newsletter to my constituents I urged the imposition of a naval blockade of Cuba as the only effective method of preventing continued Soviet armaments from coming into the Western Hemisphere in violation of the Monroe Doctrine.
Yesterday, I had the privilege of reading a thoughtful article in the U. S. News + World Report of May 8 which discussed this type of action in more detail, including both its advantages and its disadvantages.
Under leave to extend my remarks, I include the relevant portion of my newsletter, together with the text of the article from the U. S. News + World Report:
``
Cuban S. S. R. : Whatever may have been the setbacks resulting from the unsuccessful attempt of the Cuban rebels to establish a beachhead on the Castro held mainland last week, there was at least one positive benefit, and that was the clear-cut revelation to the whole world of the complete conversion of Cuba into a Russian dominated military base.
In fact, one of the major reasons for the failure of the ill-starred expedition appears to have been a lack of full information on the extent to which Cuba has been getting this Russian military equipment.
Somehow, the pictures and stories of Soviet T-34 tanks on Cuban beaches and Russian Mig jet fighters strafing rebel troops has brought home to all of us the stark, blunt truth of what it means to have a Russian military base 90 miles away from home.
Russian tanks and planes in Cuba jeopardize the security of the United States, violate the Monroe Doctrine, and threaten the security of every other Latin American republic.
But the Latin American republics who have been rather inclined to drag their feet on taking action against Castro also reacted swiftly last week by finally throwing Cuba off the Inter-American Defense Board.
For years the United States had been trying to get these countries to exclude Castro's representative from secret military talks.
But it took the pictures of the Migs and the T-34 tanks to do the job.
There is a new atmosphere of urgency in Washington this week.
You can see it, for example, in the extensive efforts President Kennedy has made to enlist solid bipartisan support for his actions toward both Cuba and Laos; efforts, as I see it, which are being directed, by the way, toward support for future actions, not for those already past.
What the next move will be only time, of course, will tell.
Personally, I think we ought to set up an immediate naval blockade of Cuba.
We simply cann't tolerate further Russian weapons, including the possibility of long-range nuclear missiles, being located in Cuba.
Obviously, we cann't stop them from coming in, however, just by talk.
Look at Castro now - cockier than ever with arms and agents to threaten the Americas.
How can the United States act?
Blockade is one answer offered by experts.
In it they see a way to isolate Cuba, stop infiltration, maybe finish Castro, too.
This is the question now facing President Kennedy:
How to put a stop to the Soviet buildup in Cuba and to Communist infiltration of this hemisphere?
On April 25, the White House reported that a total embargo of remaining U. S. trade with Cuba was being considered.
Its aim : To undermine further Cuba's economy.
weaken Castro.
Blockade, in the view of military and civilian experts, could restore teeth to the Monroe Doctrine.
It could halt a flood of Communist arms and strategic supplies now reaching Castro.
It could stop Cuban re export of guns and propaganda materials to South America.
It would be the most severe reprisal, short of declared war, that the United States could invoke against Castro.
It is the strategy of blockade, therefore, that is suddenly at the center of attention of administration officials, Members of Congress, officers in the Pentagon.
As a possible course of action, it also is the center of debate and is raising many questions.
Among these questions:
Military experts say a tight naval blockade off Cuban ports and at the approaches to Cuban waters would require two naval task forces, each built around an aircraft carrier with a complement of about 100 planes and several destroyers.
The Navy, on April 25, announced it is bringing back the carrier Shangri-La from the Mediterranean, increasing to four the number of attack carriers in the vicinity of Cuba.
To round out the blockading force, submarines would be needed - to locate, identify and track approaching vessels.
Land based radar would help with this task.
So would radar picket ships.
A squadron of Navy jets and another of long-range patrol planes would add support to the carrier task forces.
Three requirements go with a blockade : It must be proclaimed; the blockading force must be powerful enough to enforce it; and it must be enforced without discrimination.
Once these conditions of international law are met, countries that try to run to blockade do so at their own risk.
Blockade runners can be stopped - by gunfire, if necessary - searched and held, at least temporarily.
They could be sent to U. S. ports for rulings whether cargo should be confiscated.
Plenty, say the experts.
It could, by avoiding direct intervention, provide a short-of war strategy to meet short-of war infiltration.
Primary target would be shipments of tanks, guns, aviation gasoline and ammunition coming from Russia and Czechoslovakia.
Shipments of arms from Western countries could similarly be seized as contraband.
In a total blockade, action could also be taken against ships bringing in chemicals, oils, textiles, and even foodstuffs.
At times, three ships a day from the Soviet bloc are unloading in Cuban ports.
From its inception in 1920 with the passage of Public Law 236, 66 th Congress, the purpose of the vocational rehabilitation program has been to assist the States, by means of grants-in-aid, to return disabled men and women to productive, gainful employment.
The authority for the program was renewed several times until the vocational rehabilitation program was made permanent as Title 5, of the Social Security Act in 1935.
Up to this time and for the next eight years, the services provided disabled persons consisted mainly of training, counseling, and placement on a job.
Recognizing the limitations of such a program, the 78 th Congress in 1943 passed P. L. 113, which broadened the concept of rehabilitation to include the provision of physical restoration services to remove or reduce disabilities, and which revised the financing structure.
To assist the States, therefore, in rehabilitating handicapped individuals, ``so that they may prepare for and engage in remunerative employment to the extent of their capabilities'', the 83 rd Congress enacted the Vocational Rehabilitation Amendments of 1954 (P. L. 565).
These amendments to the Vocational Rehabilitation Act were designed to help provide for more specialized rehabilitation facilities, for more sheltered and ``half-way'' workshops, for greater numbers of adequately trained personnel, for more comprehensive services to individuals (particularly to the homebound and the blind), and for other administrative improvements to increase the program's overall effectiveness.
Under the law as it existed until 1943, the Federal Government made grants to the States on the basis of population, matching State expenditures on a 50 - 50 basis.
Under P. L. 113, 78 th Congress, the Federal Government assumed responsibility for 100 % of necessary State expenditures in connection with administration and the counseling and placement of the disabled, and for 50 % of the necessary costs of providing clients with rehabilitation case services.
Throughout these years, the statutory authorization was for such sums as were necessary to carry out the provisions of the Act.
The 1954 Amendments completely changed the financing of the vocational rehabilitation program, providing for a three part grant structure - for (1) basic support; (2) extension and improvement; and (3) research, demonstrations, training and traineeships for vocational rehabilitation - and in addition for short-term training and instruction.
The first part of the new structure - that for supporting the basic program of vocational rehabilitation services - is described in this Section.
Subsequent sections on grants describe the other categories of the grant structure.
The following table shows, for selected years, the authorizations, appropriations, allotment base, Federal grants to States and State matching funds for this part of the grant program.
The Act further provides for a ``floor'' or minimum allotment, set at the 1954 level, which is called the ``base'' allotment, and a ``ceiling'' or maximum allotment, for each State.
It stipulates, in addition, that all amounts remaining as a result of imposing the ``ceiling'', and not used for insuring the ``floor'', be redistributed to those States still below their maximums.
These provisions are designed to reflect the differences in wealth and population among the States, with the objective that a vocationally handicapped person have access to needed services regardless of whether he resides in a State with a low or high per capita income or a sparsely or thickly populated State.
The provisions are also designed to avoid disruption in State programs already in operation, which might otherwise result from the allotment of funds on the basis of wealth and population alone.
The method used in computing the allotments is specifically set forth in the Act.
The term ``State'' means the several States, the District of Columbia, the Virgin Islands, Guam and Puerto Rico; the term ``United States'' includes the several States and the District of Columbia, and excludes the Virgin Islands, Guam and Puerto Rico, and, prior to 1962, Alaska and Hawaii.
The following steps are employed in calculations:
For each State (except Puerto Rico, Guam, the Virgin Islands, and, prior to 1962, Alaska and Hawaii) determine average per capita income based on the last three years.
(See Source of Data, below for per capita income data to be used in this step .)
(See Source of Data, below, for per capita income data to be used in this step .)
Determine the ratio of 50 % to the average per capita income of the U. S. (Divide 50 by the result obtained in item 2 above .)
Determine for each State (except the Virgin Islands, Guam and Puerto Rico, and, prior to 1962, Alaska and Hawaii) that percentage which bears the same ratio to 50 % as the particular State's average per capita income bears to the average per capita income of the U. S..
(Multiply the result obtained in item 3 above by the result obtained for each State in item 1 above .)
Determine the particular State's ``allotment percentage''.
By law this is 75 % for the Virgin Islands, Guam and Puerto Rico.
(Alaska and Hawaii had fixed allotment percentages in effect prior to fiscal year 1962 .)
In all other States it is the difference obtained by subtracting from 100 the result obtained in item 4 above; except that no State shall have an allotment percentage less than 33 - 1 3 % nor more than 75 %.
If the resulting difference for the particular State is less or more than these extremes, the State's allotment percentage must be raised or lowered to the appropriate extreme.
Determine each State's population.
(See Source of Data, below for population data to be used in this step .)
Multiply the population of each State by the square of its allotment percentage.
(Multiply result obtained in item 7 above, by result obtained in item 6 above .)
Determine the sum of the products obtained in item 8 above, for all the States.
(For each State, make all computations set forth in items 1 to 8 above, and then add the results obtained for each State in item 8 .)
Determine the ratio that the amount being allotted is to the sum of the products for all the States.
(Divide the amount being allotted by the result obtained in item 9 above .)
Determine the particular State's unadjusted allotment for the particular fiscal year.
Determine if the particular State's unadjusted allotment (result obtained in item 11 above) is greater than its maximum allotment, and if so lower its unadjusted allotment to its maximum allotment.
(Each State's unadjusted allotment for any fiscal year, which exceeds its minimum allotment described in item 13 below by a percentage greater than one and one-half times the percentage by which the sum being allotted exceeds $ 23000000, must be reduced by the amount of the excess .)
Determine if the particular State's unadjusted allotment (result obtained in item 11 above) is less than its minimum (base) allotment, and if so raise its unadjusted allotment to its minimum allotment.
Regardless of its unadjusted allotment, each State is guaranteed by law a minimum allotment each year equal to the allotment which it received in fiscal year 1954 - increased by a uniform percentage of 5.4865771 which brings total 1954 allotments to all States up to $ 23000000.
The funds recouped by reductions in item 12 above are used : first, to increase the unadjusted allotments to the specified minimum in those States where the unadjusted allotment is less than the minimum allotment (item 13 above); and second, to increase uniformly the allotments to those States whose allotments are below their maximums, with adjustments to prevent the allotment of any State from thereby exceeding its maximum.
For the States which maintain two separate agencies - one for the vocational rehabilitation of the blind, and one for the rehabilitation of persons other than the blind - the Act specifies that their minimum (base) allotment shall be divided between the two agencies in the same proportion as it was divided in fiscal year 1954.
Funds allotted in addition to their minimum allotment are apportioned to the two agencies as they may determine.
As is the case with the allotment provisions for support of vocational rehabilitation services, the matching requirements are also based on a statutory formula.
Prior to 1960, in order to provide matching for the minimum (base) allotment, State funds had to equal 1954 State funds.
The percentage of Federal participation in such costs for any State is referred to in the law as that State's ``Federal share''.
For purposes of this explanation, this percentage is referred to as the States ``unadjusted Federal share''.
Beginning in 1960, the matching requirements for the base allotment are being adjusted (upward or downward, as required) 25 % a year, so that by 1963 the entire support allotment will be matched on the basis of a 40 % pivot State share, with maximum and minimum State shares of 50 % and 30 %, respectively.
The pre 1960 rate of Federal participation with respect to any State's base allotment, as well as the adjusted rate in effect during the 1960 - 1962 period, is designated by the statute as that State's ``adjusted Federal Share''.
The provisions for determining a State's unadjusted Federal share are designed to reflect the varying financial resources among the States.
The purpose of the adjusted Federal share relating to the base allotment and of the transition provisions for reaching the unadjusted Federal share is to prevent dislocations from abrupt changes in matching rates.
The method used for computing the respective Federal and State shares in total program costs is specifically set forth in the Act.
The term ``State'' means the several States, the District of Columbia, the Virgin Islands, Guam and Puerto Rico; the term ``United States'' includes the several States and the District of Columbia and excludes the Virgin Islands, Guam and Puerto Rico, and, prior to 1962, Alaska and Hawaii.
The following steps are employed in the calculations:
(the same amount used in item 1 under Method of Computing allotments, above .)
Determine the average per capita income for the United States for the last three years.
(The same amount used in item 2 under Method of Computing Allotments, above .)
Determine the ratio of 40 % to the average per capita income of the United States.
(Divide 40 by the amount used in item 2 above .)
Determine for each State (except the Virgin Islands, Guam, Puerto Rico, and, prior to 1962, Alaska and hawaii), that percentage which bears the same ratio to 40 % as the particular State's average per capita income bears to the average per capita income of the United States.
(Multiply the result obtained in item 3 above by the amount used for each State in item 1 above .)
Determine the particular State's ``Federal Share''.
By law this is 70 % for the Virgin Islands, Guam and Puerto Rico.
In all other States it is the difference obtained by subtracting from 100 the result obtained in item 4 above; except that no State shall have a Federal share less than 50 % nor more than 70 %.
If the resulting difference for the particular State is less or more than these extremes, the State's Federal share must be raised or lowered to the appropriate extreme.
At the entrance side of the shelter, each roof beam is rested on the inside 4 inches of the block wall.
The outside 4 - inch space is filled by mortaring blocks on edge.
The wooden bracing between the roof beams is placed flush with the inside of the wall.
Mortar is poured between this bracing and the 4 - inch blocks on edge to complete the wall thickness for radiation shielding.
(For details see inset, fig. 5 .)
The first one or two roof boards (marked ``E'' in fig. 6) are slipped into place across the roof beams, from outside the shelter.
These boards are nailed to the roof beams by reaching up through the open space between the beams, from inside the shelter.
The roof blocks are in two layers and are not mortared together.
Work on the roof continues in this way.
The last roof boards are covered with blocks from outside the shelter.
When the roof blocks are all in place, the final rows of wall blocks are mortared into position.
The structure is complete.
(See fig. 7 .)
Building plans are on page 21.
Solid concrete blocks, relatively heavy and dense, are used for this shelter.
These blocks are sold in various sizes so it seldom is necessary to cut a block to fit.
Bricks are an alternative.
If they are used, the walls and roof should be 10 inches thick to give the same protection as the 8 - inch solid concrete blocks.
The illustrations in fig. 8 show how to lay a concrete block wall.
More detailed instructions may be obtained from your local building supply houses and craftsmen.
Other sources of information include the National Concrete Masonry Association, 38 South Dearborn Street, Chicago, Ill., the Portland Cement Association, 33 West Grand Avenue, Chicago, Ill., and the Structural Clay Products Association, Washington, D. C..
An outdoor, aboveground fallout shelter also may be built with concrete blocks.
(See fig. 9, double wall shelter .)
Most people would have to hire a contractor to build this shelter.
Plans are on pages 22 and 23.
Two walls of concrete blocks are constructed at least 20 inches apart.
The space between them is filled with pit-run gravel or earth.
The walls are held together with metal ties placed in the wet mortar as the walls are built.
The roof shown here (fig. 9) is a 6 - inch slab of reinforced concrete, covered with at least 20 inches of pit-run gravel.
An alternate roof, perhaps more within do-it-yourself reach, could be constructed of heavy wooden roof beams, overlaid with boards and waterproofing.
It would have to be covered with at least 28 inches of pit-run gravel.
The materials for a double wall shelter would cost about $ 700.
Contractors' charges would be additional.
The shelter would provide almost absolute fallout protection.
These are particularly suitable for regions where water or rock is close to the surface.
They form effective fallout shelters when mounded over with earth, as shown in figure 10.
Materials for this shelter would cost about $ 700.
A contractor probably would be required to help build it.
His charges would be added to the cost of materials.
This shelter, as shown on page 24, would provide almost absolute protection from fallout radiation.
An alternate hatchway entrance, shown on page 25, would reduce the cost of materials $ 50 to $ 100.
The National Lumber Manufacturers Association, Washington, D. C., is developing plans to utilize specially treated lumber for underground shelter construction.
The Structural Clay Products Institute, Washington, D. C., is working to develop brick and clay products suitable for shelter construction.
The shelter shown would provide almost absolute fallout protection.
The illustration (fig. 11) shows this shelter with the roof at ground level and mounded over.
The same shelter could be built into an embankment or below ground level.
Plans for the shelter, with either a stairway or hatchway entrance, are shown on pages 26 and 27.
Another type of shelter which gives excellent fallout protection can be built as an added room to the basement of a home under construction.
It would add about $ 500 to the total cost of the home.
The shelter illustrated in figure 12 is based on such a room built in a new home in the Washington, D. C. area in the Spring of 1959.
Important considerations common to each type of shelter are:
Arrangement of the entrance.
Radio reception.
Lighting.
The entrance must have at least one right-angle turn.
Radiation scatters somewhat like light.
Some will go around a corner.
The rest continues in a straight line.
Therefore, sharp turns in a shelter entrance will reduce radiation intensity inside the shelter.
Ventilation is provided in a concrete block basement shelter by vents in the wall and by the open entrance.
A blower may be installed to increase comfort.
It should provide not less than 5 cubic feet per minute of air per person.
Vent pipes also are necessary (as shown in figs. 9, 10, and 11), but filters are not.
Radio reception is cut down by the shielding necessary to keep out radiation.
As soon as the shelter is completed a radio reception check must be made.
It probably will be necessary to install an outside antenna, particularly to receive CONELRAD broadcasts.
Lighting is an important consideration.
Continuous low-level lighting may be provided in the shelter by means of a 4 - cell hot-shot battery to which is wired a 150 - milliampere flashlight type bulb.
Tests have shown that such a device, with a fresh battery, will furnish light continuously for at least 10 days.
With a spare battery, a source of light for 2 weeks or more would be assured.
There should be a regular electrical outlet in the shelter as power may continue in many areas.
Other considerations.
- If there are outside windows in the basement corner where you build a shelter, they should be shielded as shown in the Appendix, page 29.
Other basement windows should be blocked when an emergency threatens.
Basement walls that project above the ground should be shielded as shown in the Appendix, page 29.
In these shelters the entrance should be not more than 2 feet wide.
Bunks, or materials to build them, may have to be put inside the enclosure before the shelter walls are completed.
The basement or belowground shelters also will serve for tornado or hurricane protection.
The radioactivity of fallout decays rapidly at first.
But the radiation may be so intense at the start that one percent may be extremely dangerous.
Therefore, civil defense instructions received over CONELRAD or by other means should be followed.
A battery powered radio is essential.
Radiation instruments suitable for home use are available, and would be of value in locating that portion of the home which offers the best protection against fallout radiation.
There is a possibility that battery powered radios with built-in radiation meters may become available.
One instrument thus would serve both purposes.
Your local civil defense will gather its own information and will receive broad information from State and Federal sources.
It will tell you as soon as possible:
How long to stay in your shelter.
How long you may stay outside.
You should be prepared to stay in your shelter full time for at least several days and to make it your home for 14 days or longer.
A checklist in the Appendix, (page 30) tells what is needed.
Families with children will have particular problems.
They should provide for simple recreation.
There should be a task for everyone and these tasks should be rotated.
Part of the family should be sleeping while the rest is awake.
To break the monotony it may be necessary to invent tasks that will keep the family busy.
Records such as diaries can be kept.
A record should be kept of the information and instructions, including the time and date of broadcast.
Family rationing probably will be necessary.
Blowers should be operated periodically on a regular schedule.
There will come a time in a basement shelter when the radiation has decayed enough to allow use of the whole basement.
However, as much time as possible should be spent within the shelter to hold radiation exposure to a minimum.
The housekeeping problems of living in a shelter will begin as soon as the shelter is occupied.
Food, medical supplies, utensils, and equipment, if not already stored in the shelter, must be quickly gathered up and carried into it.
After the family has settled in the shelter, the housekeeping rules should be spelled out by the adult in charge.
Sanitation in the confines of the family shelter will require much thought and planning.
A covered container such as a kitchen garbage pail might do as a toilet.
A 10 - gallon garbage can, with a tightly fitting cover, could be used to keep the wastes until it is safe to leave the shelter.
Water rationing will be difficult and should be planned carefully.
A portable electric heater is advisable for shelters in cold climates.
It would take the chill from the shelter in the beginning.
Even if the electric power fails after an attack, any time that the heater has been used will make the shelter that much more comfortable.
Body heat in the close quarters will help keep up the temperature.
Warm clothing and bedding, of course, are essential.
Open flame heating or cooking should be avoided.
Some families already have held weekend rehearsals in their home shelters to learn the problems and to determine for themselves what supplies they would need.
Few areas, if any, are as good as prepared shelters but they are worth knowing about.
A family dwelling without a basement provides some natural shielding from fallout radiation.
On the ground floor the radiation would be about half what it is outside.
The best protection would be on the ground floor in the central part of the house.
A belowground basement can cut the fallout radiation to one tenth of the outside level.
The safest place is the basement corner least exposed to windows and deepest below ground.
If there is time after the warning, the basement shielding could be improved substantially by blocking windows with bricks, dirt, books, magazines, or other heavy material.
Large apartment buildings of masonry or concrete provide better natural shelter than the usual family dwellings.
The central area of the ground floor of a heavily constructed apartment building, with concrete floors, should provide more fallout protection than the ordinary basement of a family dwelling.
The basement of such an apartment building may provide as much natural protection as the specially constructed concrete block shelter recommended for the basement of a family dwelling.
The Federal Government is aiding local governments in several places to survey residential, commercial and industrial buildings to determine what fallout protection they would provide, and for how many people.
The problem for the city apartment dweller is primarily to plan the use of existing space.
Such planning will require the cooperation of other occupants and of the apartment management.
A former du Pont official became a General Motors vice president and set about maximizing du Pont's share of the General Motors market.
Lines of communications were established between the two companies and several du Pont products were actively promoted.
Within a few years various du Pont manufactured items were filling the entire requirements of from four to seven of General Motors' eight operating divisions.
The Fisher Body division, long controlled by the Fisher brothers under a voting trust even though General Motors owned a majority of its stock, followed an independent course for many years, but by 1947 and 1948 ``resistance had collapsed'' and its purchases from du Pont ``compared favorably'' with purchases by other General Motors divisions.
``The fact that sticks out in this voluminous record is that the bulk of du Pont's production has always supplied the largest part of the requirements of the one customer in the automobile industry connected to du Pont by a stock interest.
The inference is overwhelming that du Pont's commanding position was promoted by its stock interest and was not gained solely on competitive merit''.
353 U. S., at 605.
This Court agreed with the trial court ``that considerations of price, quality and service were not overlooked by either du Pont or General Motors''.
353 U. S., at 606.
However, it determined that neither this factor, nor ``the fact that all concerned in high executive posts in both companies acted honorably and fairly, each in the honest conviction that his actions were in the best interests of his own company and without any design to overreach anyone, including du Pont's competitors'', 353 U. S., at 607, outweighed the Government's claim for relief.
This claim, as submitted to the District Court and dismissed by it, 126 F. Supp .235, alleged violation not only of 7 of the Clayton Act, but also of 1 and 2 of the Sherman Act.
The latter provisions proscribe any contract, combination, or conspiracy in restraint of interstate or foreign trade, and monopolization of, or attempts, combinations, or conspiracies to monopolize, such trade.
However, this Court put to one side without consideration the Government's appeal from the dismissal of its Sherman Act allegations.
This section shall not apply to corporations purchasing such stock solely for investment and not using the same by voting or otherwise to bring about, or in attempting to bring about, the substantial lessening of competition ``.
The purpose of this provision was thus explained in the Court's opinion : ``Section 7 is designed to arrest in its incipiency not only the substantial lessening of competition from the acquisition by one corporation of the whole or any part of the stock of a competing corporation, but also to arrest in their incipiency restraints or monopolies in a relevant market which, as a reasonable probability, appear at the time of suit likely to result from the acquisition by one corporation of all or any part of the stock of any other corporation.
The section is violated whether or not actual restraints or monopolies, or the substantial lessening of competition, have occurred or are intended''.
353 U. S., at 589.
Thus, a finding of conspiracy to restrain trade or attempt to monopolize was excluded from the Court's decision.
Indeed, as already noted, the Court proceeded on the assumption that the executives involved in the dealings between du Pont and General Motors acted ``honorably and fairly'' and exercised their business judgment only to serve what they deemed the best interests of their own companies.
This, however, did not bar finding that du Pont had become pre-eminent as a supplier of automotive fabrics and finishes to General Motors; that these products constituted a ``line of commerce'' within the meaning of the Clayton Act; that General Motors' share of the market for these products was substantial; and that competition for this share of the market was endangered by the financial relationship between the two concerns:
``The statutory policy of fostering free competition is obviously furthered when no supplier has an advantage over his competitors from an acquisition of his customer's stock likely to have the effects condemned by the statute.
We repeat, that the test of a violation of 7 is whether, at the time of suit, there is a reasonable probability that the acquisition is likely to result in the condemned restraints.
353 U. S., at 607.
On the basis of the findings which led to this conclusion, the Court remanded the case to the District Court to determine the appropriate relief.
The sole guidance given the Court for discharging the task committed to it was this : ``The judgment must therefore be reversed and the cause remanded to the District Court for a determination, after further hearing, of the equitable relief necessary and appropriate in the public interest to eliminate the effects of the acquisition offensive to the statute.
The District Courts, in the framing of equitable decrees, are clothed' with large discretion to model their judgments to fit the exigencies of the particular case'.
International Salt Co. v. United States, 332 U. S. 392, 400 - 401''.
353 U. S., at 607 - 608.
This brings us to the course of the proceedings in the District Court.
This Court's judgment was filed in the District Court on July 18, 1957.
The first pretrial conference - held to appoint amici curiae to represent the interest of the stockholders of du Pont and General Motors and to consider the procedure to be followed in the subsequent hearings - took place on September 25, 1957.
Du Pont, he said, had proposed disenfranchisement of its General Motors stock along with other restrictions on the du Pont-General Motors relationship.
The Government, deeming these suggestions inadequate, had urged that any judgment include divestiture of du Pont's shares of General Motors.
Counsel for the Government invited du Pont's views on this proposal before recommending a specific program, but stated that if the court desired, or if counsel for du Pont thought further discussion would not be profitable, the Government was prepared to submit a plan within thirty days.
Counsel for du Pont indicated a preference for the submission of detailed plans by both sides at an early date.
No previous antitrust case, he said, had involved interests of such magnitude or presented such complex problems of relief.
The submission of detailed plans would place the issues before the court more readily than would discussion of divestiture or disenfranchisement in the abstract.
The Court adopted this procedure with an appropriate time schedule for carrying it out.
The Government submitted its proposed decree on October 25, 1957.
The plan called for divestiture by du Pont of its 63000000 shares of General Motors stock by equal annual distributions to its stockholders, as a dividend, over a period of ten years.
If, in the trustee's judgment, ``reasonable market conditions'' did not prevail during any given year, he was to be allowed to petition the court for an extension of time within the ten year period.
In addition, the right to vote the General Motors stock held by du Pont was to be vested in du Pont's stockholders, other than Christiana and Delaware and the stockholders of Delaware; du Pont, Christiana, and Delaware were to be enjoined from acquiring stock in or exercising control over General Motors; du Pont, Christiana, and Delaware were to be prohibited to have any director or officer in common with General Motors, and vice versa; and General Motors and du Pont were to be ordered to terminate any agreement that provided for the purchase by General Motors of any specified percentage of its requirements of any du Pont manufactured product, or for the grant of exclusive patent rights, or for a grant by General Motors to du Pont of a preferential right to make or sell any chemical discovery of General Motors, or for the maintenance of any joint commercial enterprise by the two companies.
On motion of the amici curiae, the court directed that a ruling be obtained from the Commissioner of Internal Revenue as to the federal income tax consequences of the Government's plan.
On May 9, 1958, the Commissioner announced his rulings.
The annual dividends paid to du Pont stockholders in shares of General Motors stock would be taxable as ordinary income to the extent of du Pont's earnings and profits.
The measure, for federal income tax purposes, of the dividend to individual stockholders would be the fair market value of the shares at the time of each annual distribution.
In the case of taxpaying corporate stockholders, the measure would be the lesser of the fair market value of the shares or du Pont's tax basis for them, which is approximately $ 2.09 per share.
The forced sale of the General Motors stock owned by or allocable to Christiana, Delaware, and the stockholders of Delaware, and deposited with the trustee, would result in a tax to those parties at the capital gains rate.
Du Pont's counterproposal was filed on May 14, 1958.
Christiana and Delaware would, in turn, be required to pass on the voting rights to the General Motors shares allocable to them to their own stockholders.
Du Pont would be enjoined from having as a director, officer, or employee anyone who was simultaneously an officer or employee of General Motors, and no director, officer, or employee of du Pont could serve as a director of General Motors without court approval.
Du Pont would be denied the right to acquire any additional General Motors stock except through General Motors' distributions of stock or subscription rights to its stockholders.
On June 6, 1958, General Motors submitted its objections to the Government's proposal.
It argued, inter alia, that a divestiture order would severely depress the market value of the stock of both General Motors and du Pont, with consequent serious loss and hardship to hundreds of thousands of innocent investors, among them thousands of small trusts and charitable institutions; that there would be a similar decline in the market values of other automotive and chemical stocks, with similar losses to the stockholders of those companies; that the tremendous volume of General Motors stock hanging over the market for ten years would hamper the efforts of General Motors and other automobile manufacturers to raise equity capital; and that all this would have a serious adverse effect on the entire stock market and on general business activity.
General Motors comprehensively contended that the Government plan would not be ``in the public interest'' as required by the mandate of this Court.
The decrees proposed by the amici curiae were filed in August of 1958.
These plans, like du Pont's contained provisions for passing the vote on du Pont's General Motors shares on to the ultimate stockholders of du Pont, Christiana, and Delaware, except that officers and directors of the three companies, their spouses, and other people living in their households, as well as other specified persons, were to be totally disenfranchised.
Both plans also prohibited common directors, officers, or employees between du Pont, Christiana, and Delaware, on the one hand, and General Motors on the other.
While it is easy enough to ridicule Hawkins' pronouncement in Pleas of the Crown from a metaphysical point of view, the concept of the ``oneness'' of a married couple may reflect an abiding belief that the communion between husband and wife is such that their actions are not always to be regarded by the criminal law as if there were no marriage.
By making inroads in the name of law enforcement into the protection which Congress has afforded to the marriage relationship, the Court today continues in the path charted by the recent decision in Wyatt v. United States, 362 U. S. 525, where the Court held that, under the circumstances of that case, a wife could be compelled to testify against her husband over her objection.
One need not waver in his belief in virile law enforcement to insist that there are other things in American life which are also of great importance, and to which even law enforcement must accommodate itself.
One of these is the solidarity and the confidential relationship of marriage.
The Court's opinion dogmatically asserts that the husband wife conspiracy doctrine does not in fact protect this relationship, and that hence the doctrine ``enthrone [ s ] an unreality into a rule of law''.
I am not easily persuaded that a rule accepted by so many people for so many centuries can be so lightly dismissed.
But in any event, I submit that the power to depose belongs to Congress, not to this Court.
I dissent.
Petitioner, who claims to be a conscientious objector, was convicted of violating 12 (a) of the Universal Military Training and Service Act by refusing to be inducted into the armed forces.
Held : On the record in this case, the administrative procedures prescribed by the Act were fully complied with; petitioner was not denied due process; and his conviction is sustained.
Pp. 60 - 66.
Petitioner was not denied due process in the administrative proceedings, because the statement in question was in his file, to which he had access, and he had opportunities to rebut it both before the hearing officer of the Department of Justice and before the appeal board.
Pp. 62 - 63.
Petitioner was not entitled to have the hearing officer's notes and report, especially since he failed to show any particular need for them and he did have a copy of the Department of Justice's recommendation to the appeal board.
Pp. 63 - 64.
Petitioner was not entitled, either in the administrative hearing at the Department of Justice or at his trial, to inspect the original report of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, since he was furnished a resume of it, did not challenge its accuracy, and showed no particular need for the original report.
Pp. 64 - 66.
Haydn C. Covington argued the cause and filed a brief for petitioner.
On the brief were Solicitor General Rankin, Assistant Attorney General Wilkey, Beatrice Rosenberg and J. F. Bishop.
Mr. Justice Clark delivered the opinion of the Court.
This is a prosecution for refusal to be inducted into the armed services, in violation of the provisions of the Universal Military Training and Service Act, 62 Stat. 604, 622, 50 U. S. C. App. 462 (a).
Petitioner, who claims to be a conscientious objector, contends that he was denied due process, both in the proceedings before a hearing officer of the Department of Justice and at trial.
He says that he was not permitted to rebut before the hearing officer statements attributed to him by the local board, and, further, that he was denied at trial the right to have the Department of Justice hearing officer's report and the original report of the Federal Bureau of Investigation as to his claim - all in violation of the Fifth Amendment.
The trial judge decided that the administrative procedures of the Act were fully complied with and refused to require the production of such documents.
Petitioner was found guilty and sentenced to 15 months' imprisonment.
The Court of Appeals affirmed.
269 F. 2 d 613.
361 U. S. 899.
We have concluded that petitioner's claims are controlled by the rationale of gonzales v. United States, 348 U. S. 407 (1955), and United States v. Nugent, 346 U. S .1 (1953), and therefore affirm the judgment.
Petitioner registered with Local Board No. 9, Boulder, Colorado, on March 17, 1952.
His answers to the classification questionnaire reflected that he was a minister of Jehovah's Witnesses, employed at night by a sugar producer.
He claimed 4, - D classification as a minister of religion, devoting a minimum of 100 hours a month to preaching.
On November 13, 1952, he was classified in Class 1, - A.
On November 22, 1952, he wrote the Board, protesting this classification.
He again stated that he was ``a regular minister''; that he was ``devoting an average of 100 hours a month to actual preaching publicly'', in addition to 50 to 75 hours in other ministerial duties, and that he opposed war in any form.
Thereafter he was classified 1, - O.
In a periodic review, the local board on July 30, 1953, reclassified him 1, - A and upheld this classification after a personal appearance by petitioner, because of his willingness to kill in defense of his church and home.
Upon administrative approval of the reclassification, he was ordered to report for induction on June 11, 1956, but failed to do so.
He was not prosecuted, however, and his case was subsequently reopened, in the light of Sicurella v. United States, 348 U. S. 385 (1955).
He was again reclassified 1, - A by the local board.
There followed a customary Department of Justice hearing, at which petitioner appeared.
In his report to the Attorney General, the hearing officer suggested that the petitioner be exempt only from combatant training and service.
On March 21, 1957, however, the Department recommended approval of the 1, - A classification.
Its ground for this recommendation was that, while petitioner claimed before the local board August 17, 1956 (as evidenced by its memorandum in his file of that date), that he was devoting 100 hours per month to actual preaching, the headquarters of the Jehovah's Witnesses reported that he was no longer doing so and, on the contrary, had relinquished both his Pioneer and Bible Student Servant positions.
It reported that he now devoted only some 6 - 1 2 hours per month to public preaching and from 20 to 25 hours per month to church activities.
The appeal board furnished petitioner a copy of the recommendation.
In his answer thereto, he advised the Board that he had made no such statement in 1956, and asserted that his only claim to ``pioneering'' was in 1952.
The appeal board, however, unanimously concurred in the Department's recommendation.
Upon return of the file to the local board, petitioner was again ordered to report for induction and this prosecution followed his failure to do so.
Petitioner first contends that the Department denied him procedural due process by not giving him timely opportunity, before its final recommendation to the appeal board, to answer the statement of the local board as to his claim of devoting 100 hours to actual preaching.
But the statement of the local board attributing this claim to petitioner was in his file.
He admitted that he knew it was open to him at all times, and he could have rebutted it before the hearing officer.
This he failed to do, asserting that he did not know it to be in his file.
Apparently he never took the trouble to find out.
After the recommendation of the Department is forwarded to the appeal board, that is the appropriate place for a registrant to lodge his denial.
This he did.
We found in Gonzales v. United States, supra, that this was the controlling reason why copies of the recommendation should be furnished a registrant.
We said there that it was necessary ``that a registrant be given an opportunity to rebut [ the Department's ] recommendation when it comes to the Appeal Board, the agency with the ultimate responsibility for classification''.
348 U. S., at 412.
We fail to see how such procedure resulted in any prejudice to petitioner's contention, which was considered by the appeal board and denied by it.
As was said in Gonzales, ``it is the Appeal Board which renders the selective service determination considered' final' in the courts, not to be overturned unless there is no basis in fact.
Estep v. United States, 327 U. S. 114''.
348 U. S., at 412 - 413.
At his trial, petitioner sought to secure through subpoena duces tecum the longhand notes of the Department's hearing officer, Evensen, as well as his report thereon.
Petitioner also claimed at trial the right to inspect the original Federal Bureau of Investigation reports to the Department of Justice.
He alleged no specific procedural errors or evidence withheld; nor did he elaborate just what favorable evidence the Federal Bureau of Investigation reports might disclose.
Section 6 (j) of the Act, as we have held, does require the Department's recommendation to be placed in a registrant's file.
Gonzales v. United States, supra.
But there is nothing in the Act requiring the hearing officer's report to be likewise turned over to the registrant.
While the regulations formerly required that the hearing officer's report be placed in the registrant's file, this requirement was eliminated in 1952.
Moreover, the hearing officer's report is but intradepartmental, is directed to the Attorney General and, of course, is not the recommendation of the Department.
It is not essentially different from a memorandum of an attorney in the Department of Justice, of which the Attorney General receives many, and to which he may give his approval or rejection.
It is also significant that neither this report nor the hearing officer's notes were furnished to the appeal board.
Hence the petitioner had full opportunity to traverse the only conclusions of the Department on file with the Board.
Petitioner knew that the Department's recommendation was based not on the hearing officer's report but on the statement of the local board in his file.
Having had every opportunity to rebut the finding of the local board before both the hearing officer and the appeal board, petitioner cannot now claim that he was denied due process because he did not succeed.
It appears to us that the same reasoning applies to the production of the hearing officer's report and notes at the trial.
In addition, petitioner has failed to show any particular need for the report and notes.
While there are now allegations of the withholding of ``favorable evidence developed at the hearing'' and a denial of a ``full and fair hearing'', no such claim was made by petitioner at any stage of the administrative process.
Moreover, his testimony at trial never developed any such facts.
In the light of these circumstances, as well as the fact that the issue at trial in this respect centered entirely on the Department's recommendation, which petitioner repudiated but which both the appeal board and the courts below found supported by the record, we find no relevancy in the hearing officer's report and notes.
He did receive a resume of it - the same that was furnished the appeal board - and he made no claim of its inaccuracy.
Even now no such claim is asserted.
He bases his present contention on the general right to explore, indicating that he hopes to find some discrepancy in the resume.
But this is fully answered by United States v. Nugent, supra.
There we held ``that the statutory scheme for review, within the selective service system, entitles [ conscientious objectors ] to no guarantee that the FBI reports must be produced for their inspection''.
346 U. S., at 5 - 6.
Even if we were not bound by Nugent, petitioner here would not be entitled to the report.
The recommendation of the Department - as well as the decision of the appeal board - was based entirely on the local board file, not on an FBI report.
With this enlarged role in mind, I should like to make a few suggestions : What we in the United States do or do not do will make a very large difference in what happens in the rest of the world.
We cannot regard foreign policy as something left over after defense policy or trade policy or fiscal policy has been extracted.
Foreign policy is the total involvement of the American people with peoples and governments abroad.
That means that, if we are to achieve a new standard of leadership, we must think in terms of the total context of our situation.
It is the concern of the Department of State that the American people are safe and secure - defense is not a monopoly concern of the Department of Defense.
It is also the concern of the Department of State that our trading relationships with the rest of the world are vigorous, profitable, and active - this is not just a passing interest or a matter of concern only to the Department of Commerce.
We can no longer rely on interdepartmental machinery ``somewhere upstairs'' to resolve differences between this and other departments.
Assistant Secretaries of State will now carry an increased burden of active formulation and coordination of policies.
Means must be found to enable us to keep in touch as regularly and as efficiently as possible with our colleagues in other departments concerned with foreign policy.
I think we need to concern ourselves also with the timeliness of action.
Unless we keep our eyes on the horizon ahead, we shall fail to bring ourselves on target with the present.
The movement of events is so fast, the pace so severe, that an attempt to peer into the future is essential if we are to think accurately about the present.
If there is anything which we can do in the executive branch of the Government to speed up the processes by which we come to decisions on matters on which we must act promptly, that in itself would be a major contribution to the conduct of our affairs.
Action taken today is often far more valuable than action taken several months later in response to a situation then out of control.
There will of course be times for delay and inaction.
What I am suggesting is that when we delay, or when we fail to act, we do so intentionally and not through inadvertence or through bureaucratic or procedural difficulties.
I also hope that we can do something about reducing the infant mortality rate of ideas - an affliction of all bureaucracies.
We want to stimulate ideas from the bottom to the top of the Department.
We want to make sure that our junior colleagues realize that ideas are welcome, that initiative goes right down to the bottom and goes all the way to the top.
The responsibility for taking the initiative in generating ideas is that of every officer in the Department who has a policy function, regardless of rank.
Further, I would hope that we could pay attention to little things.
While observing the operations of our Government in various parts of the world, I have felt that in many situations where our policies were good we have tended to ignore minor problems which spoiled our main effort.
To cite only a few examples:
The wrong man in the wrong position, perhaps even in a junior position abroad, can be a source of great harm to our policy; the attitudes of a U.N. delegate who experiences difficulty in finding adequate housing in New York City, or of a foreign diplomat in similar circumstances in our Capital, can be easily be directed against the United States and all that it stands for.
Dozens of seemingly small matters go wrong all over the world.
Sometimes those who know about them are too far down the line to be able to do anything about them.
I would hope that we could create the recognition in the Department and overseas that those who come across little things going wrong have the responsibility for bringing these to the attention of those who can do something about them.
If the Department of State is to take primary responsibility for foreign policy in Washington, it follows that the ambassador is expected to take charge overseas.
He is expected to know about what is going on among the representatives of other agencies who are stationed in his country.
He is expected to supervise, to encourage, to direct, to assist in any way he can.
If any official operation abroad begins to go wrong, we shall look to the ambassador to find out why and to get suggestions for remedial action.
It occurred to me that you might be interested in some thoughts which I expressed privately in recent years, in the hope of clearing up a certain confusion in the public mind about what foreign policy is all about and what it means, and of developing a certain compassion for those who are carrying such responsibilities inside Government.
I tried to do so by calling to their attention some of the problems that a senior departmental policy officer faces.
This means practically everybody in this room.
Whether it will strike home for you or not will be for you to determine.
The senior policy officer may be moved to think hard about a problem by any of an infinite variety of stimuli : an idea in his own head, the suggestions of a colleague, a question from the Secretary or the President, a proposal by another department, a communication from a foreign government or an American ambassador abroad, the filing of an item for the agenda of the United Nations or of any other of dozens of international bodies, a news item read at the breakfast table, a question to the President or the Secretary at a news conference, a speech by a Senator or Congressman, an article in a periodical, a resolution from a national organization, a request for assistance from some private American interests abroad, et cetera, ad infinitum.
The policy officer lives with his antennae alerted for the questions which fall within his range of responsibility.
Is there a question here for American foreign policy, and, if so, what is it?
For he knows that the first and sometimes most difficult job is to know what the question is - that when it is accurately identified it sometimes answers itself, and that the way in which it is posed frequently shapes the answer.
Chewing it over with his colleagues and in his own mind, he reaches a tentative identification of the question - tentative because it may change as he explores it further and because, if no tolerable answer can be found, it may have to be changed into one which can be answered.
Meanwhile he has been thinking about the facts surrounding the problem, facts which he knows can never be complete, and the general background, much of which has already been lost to history.
He is appreciative of the expert help available to him and draws these resources into play, taking care to examine at least some of the raw material which underlies their frequently policy oriented conclusions.
He knows that he must give the expert his place, but he knows that he must also keep him in it.
He is already beginning to box the compass of alternative lines of action, including doing nothing.
He knows that he is thinking about action in relation to a future which can be perceived but dimly through a merciful fog.
But he takes his bearings from the great guidelines of policy, well established precedents, the commitments of the United States under international charters and treaties, basic statutes, and well understood notions of the American people about how we are to conduct ourselves, in policy literature such as country papers and National Security Council papers accumulated in the Department.
He must think about which of these principles must take precedence.
He will know that general policy papers written months before may not fit his problem because of crucial changes in circumstance.
He is aware that every moderately important problem merges imperceptibly into every other problem.
He must deal with the question of how to manage a part when it cannot be handled without relation to the whole - when the whole is too large to grasp.
He must think of others who have a stake in the question and in its answer.
Who should be consulted among his colleagues in the Department or other departments and agencies of the Government?
Which American ambassadors could provide helpful advice?
Are private interests sufficiently involved to be consulted?
What is the probable attitude of other governments, including those less directly involved?
If action is indicated, what kind of action is relevant to the problem?
The selection of the wrong tools can mean waste, at best, and at worst an unwanted inflammation of the problem itself.
Can the President or the Secretary act under existing authority, or will new legislation and new money be required?
Should the action be unilateral or multilateral?
Is the matter one for the United Nations or some other international body?
For, if so, the path leads through a complex process of parliamentary diplomacy which adds still another dimension to the problem.
What type of action can hope to win public support, first in this country and then abroad?
For the policy officer will know that action can almost never be secret and that in general the effectiveness of policy will be conditioned by the readiness of the country to sustain it.
He is interested in public opinion for two reasons:
And, given probable public attitudes - about which reasonably good estimates can be made - what action is called for to insure necessary support?
May I add a caution on this particular point?
We do not want policy officers below the level of Presidential appointees to concern themselves too much with problems of domestic politics in recommending foreign policy action.
In the first place our business is foreign policy, and it is the business of the Presidential leadership and his appointees in the Department to consider the domestic political aspects of a problem.
Mr. Truman emphasized this point by saying, ``You fellows in the Department of State don't know much about domestic politics''.
This is an important consideration.
If we sit here reading editorials and looking at public opinion polls and other reports that cross our desks, we should realize that this is raw, undigested opinion expressed in the absence of leadership.
What the American people will do turns in large degree on their leadership.
We cannot test public opinion until the President and the leaders of the country have gone to the public to explain what is required and have asked them for support for the necessary action.
The problem in the policy officer's mind thus begins to take shape as a galaxy of utterly complicated factors - political, military, economic, financial, legal, legislative, procedural, administrative - to be sorted out and handled within a political system which moves by consent in relation to an external environment which cannot be under control.
And the policy officer has the hounds of time snapping at his heels.
Strategy and tactics of the U. S. military forces are now undergoing one of the greatest transitions in history.
The change of emphasis from conventional type to missile type warfare must be made with care, mindful that the one type of warfare cannot be safely neglected in favor of the other.
Our military forces must be capable of contending successfully with any contingency which may be forced upon us, from limited emergencies to all-out nuclear general war.
- This budget will provide in the fiscal year 1961 for the continued support of our forces at approximately the present level - a year-end strength of 2489000 men and women in the active forces.
The forces to be supported include an Army of 14 divisions and 870000 men; a Navy of 817 active ships and 619000 men; a Marine Corps of 3 divisions and 3 air wings with 175000 men; and an Air Force of 91 combat wings and 825000 men.
If the reserve components are to serve effectively in time of war, their basic organization and objectives must conform to the changing character and missions of the active forces.
Quality and combat readiness must take precedence over mere numbers.
I have requested the Secretary of Defense to reexamine the roles and missions of the reserve components in relation to those of the active forces and in the light of the changing requirements of modern warfare.
Last year the Congress discontinued its previously imposed minimum personnel strength limitations on the Army Reserve.
Similar restrictions on the strength of the Army National Guard contained in the 1960 Department of Defense Appropriation Act should likewise be dropped.
I strongly recommend to the Congress the avoidance of mandatory floors on the size of the reserve components so that we may have the flexibility to make adjustments in keeping with military necessity.
I again proposed a reduction in the Army National Guard and Army Reserve - from their present strengths of 400000 and 300000, respectively, to 360000 and 270000 by the end of the fiscal year 1961.
These strengths are considered adequate to meet the essential roles and missions of the reserves in support of our national security objectives.
- About 30 % of the expenditures for the Department of Defense in 1961 are for military personnel costs, including pay for active, reserve, and retired military personnel.
These expenditures are estimated to be $ 12.1 billion, an increase of $ 187 million over 1960, reflecting additional longevity pay of career personnel, more dependents, an increased number of men drawing proficiency pay, and social security tax increases (effective for the full year in 1961 compared with only 6 months in 1960).
Retired pay costs are increased by $ 94 million in 1961 over 1960, partly because of a substantial increase in the number of retired personnel.
Traditionally, rates of pay for retired military personnel have been proportionate to current rates of pay for active personnel.
The 1958 military pay act departed from this established formula by providing for a 6 % increase rather than a proportionate increase for everyone retired prior to its effective date of June 1, 1958.
I endorse pending legislation that will restore the traditional relationship between retired and active duty pay rates.
- Expenditures for operating and maintaining the stations and equipment of the Armed Forces are estimated to be $ 10.3 billion in 1961, which is $ 184 million more than in 1960.
The increase stems largely from the growing complexity of and higher degree of maintenance required for newer weapons and equipment.
A substantial increase is estimated in the cost of operating additional communications systems in the air defense program, as well as in all programs where speed and security of communications are essential.
Also, the program for fleet modernization will be stepped up in 1961 causing an increase in expenditures.
Further increases arise from the civilian employee health program enacted by the Congress last year.
Other factors increasing operating costs include the higher unit cost of each flying hour, up 11 % in two years, and of each steaming hour, up 15 %.
In the budget message for 1959, and again for 1960, I recommended immediate repeal of section 601 of the Act of September 28, 1951 (65 Stat. 365).
This section prevents the military departments and the Office of Civil and Defense Mobilization from carrying out certain transactions involving real property unless they come into agreement with the Committees on Armed Services of the Senate and the House of Representatives.
As I have stated previously, the Attorney General has advised me that this section violates fundamental constitutional principles.
Accordingly, if it is not repealed by the Congress at its present session, I shall have no alternative thereafter but to direct the Secretary of Defense to disregard the section unless a court of competent jurisdiction determines otherwise.
Basic long line communications in Alaska are now provided through Federal facilities operated by the Army, Air Force, and Federal Aviation Agency.
The growing communications needs of this new State can best be met, as they have in other States, through the operation and development of such facilities by private enterprise.
Legislation has already been proposed to authorize the sale of these Government owned systems in Alaska, and its early enactment is desirable.
- Approximately 45 % of the expenditures for the Department of Defense are for procurement, research, development, and construction programs.
In 1961, these expenditures are estimated at $ 18.9 billion, compared to $ 19.3 billion in 1960.
Expenditures for shipbuilding are estimated at about the same level as in 1960.
New obligational authority for 1961 recommended in this budget for aircraft procurement (excluding amounts for related research and construction) totals $ 4753 million, which is $ 1390 million below that enacted for 1960.
On the other hand, the new authority of $ 3825 million proposed for missile procurement (excluding research and construction) in 1961 is $ 581 million higher than for 1960.
These contrasting trends in procurement reflect the anticipated changes in the composition and missions of our Armed Forces in the years ahead.
The Department of Defense appropriation acts for the past several years have contained a rider which limits competitive bidding by firms in other countries on certain military supply items.
As I have repeatedly stated, this provision is much more restrictive than the general law, popularly known as the Buy American Act.
I urge once again that the Congress not reenact this rider.
The task of providing a reasonable level of military strength, without endangering other vital aspects of our security, is greatly complicated by the swift pace of scientific progress.
The last few years have witnessed what have been perhaps the most rapid advances in military technology in history.
Furthermore, unexpectedly rapid progress or a technological break-through on any one weapon system, in itself, often diminishes the relative importance of other competitive systems.
This has necessitated a continuous review and reevaluation of the defense program in order to redirect resources to the newer and more important weapons systems and to eliminate or reduce effort on weapons systems which have been overtaken by events.
Thus, in the last few years, a number of programs which looked very promising at the time their development was commenced have since been completely eliminated.
For example, the importance of the Regulus 2, a very promising aerodynamic ship to surface missile designed to be launched by surfaced submarines, was greatly diminished by the successful acceleration of the much more advanced Polaris ballistic missile launched by submerged submarines.
Another example is the recent cancellation of the F-108, a long range interceptor with a speed three times as great as the speed of sound, which was designed for use against manned bombers in the period of the mid 1960's.
The substantial progress being made in ballistic missile technology is rapidly shifting the main threat from manned bombers to missiles.
Considering the high cost of the F-108 system - over $ 4 billion for the force that had been planned - and the time period in which it would become operational, it was decided to stop further work on the project.
Meanwhile, other air defense forces are being made effective, as described later in this message.
The size and scope of other important programs have been reduced from earlier plans.
The impact of technological factors is also illustrated by the history of the high energy fuel program.
This project was started at a time when there was a critical need for a high energy fuel to provide an extra margin of range for high performance aircraft, particularly our heavy bombers.
Continuing technical problems involved in the use of this fuel, coupled with significant improvements in aircraft range through other means, have now raised serious questions about the value of the high energy fuel program.
As a result, the scope of this project has been sharply curtailed.
These examples underscore the importance of even more searching evaluations of new major development programs and even more penetrating and far ranging analyses of the potentialities of future technology.
The cost of developing a major weapon system is now so enormous that the greatest care must be exercised in selecting new systems for development, in determining the most satisfactory rate of development, and in deciding the proper time at which either to place a system into production or to abandon it.
- The deterrent power of our Armed Forces comes from both their nuclear retaliatory capability and their capability to conduct other essential operations in any form of war.
The first capability is represented by a combination of manned bombers, carrier based aircraft, and intercontinental and intermediate range missiles.
The second capability is represented by our deployed ground, naval, and air forces in essential forward areas, together with ready reserves capable of effecting early emergency reinforcement.
One of the important and difficult decisions which had to be made in this budget concerned the role of the B-70, a long range supersonic bomber.
This aircraft, which was planned for initial operational use about 1965, would be complementary to but likewise competitive with the four strategic ballistic missile systems, all of which are scheduled to become available earlier.
The first Atlas ICBM's are now operational, the first two Polaris submarines are expected to be operational this calendar year, and the first Titan ICBM's next year.
The Minuteman solid fueled ICBM is planned to be operational about mid 1963.
By 1965, several or all of these systems will have been fully tested and their reliability established.
Thus, the need for the B-70 as a strategic weapon system is doubtful.
However, I am recommending that development work on the B-70 air-frame and engines be continued.
It is expected that in 1963 two prototype aircraft will be available for flight testing.
By that time we should be in a much better position to determine the value of that aircraft as a weapon system.
These additional modern bombers will replace some of the older B-47 medium bombers; one B-52 can do the work of several B-47's which it will replace.
Funds are also included in this budget to continue the equipping of the B-52 wings with the Hound Dog air-to-surface missile.
In the coming fiscal year additional quantities of Atlas, Titan, and Polaris missiles also will be procured.
If you elect to use the Standard Deduction or the Tax Table, and later find you should have itemized your deductions, you may do so by filing an amended return within the time prescribed for filing a claim for refund.
See You May Claim a Refund, Page 135.
The same is true if you have itemized your deductions and later decide you should have used the Standard Deduction or Tax Table.
The words amended return should be plainly written across the top of such return.
April 15 is usually the final date for filing income tax returns for most people because they use the calendar year ending on December 31.
If you use a fiscal year, a year ending on the last day of any month other than December, your return is due on or before the 15 th day of the 4 th month after the close of your tax year.
Since April 15, 1962, is on Sunday your return for the calendar year 1961 will be timely filed if it is filed on or before Monday, April 16, 1962.
If you mail a return or tax payment, you must place it in the mails in ample time to reach the district director on or before the due date.
If you were required to file a declaration of estimated tax for the calendar year 1961, it is not necessary to pay the fourth installment otherwise due on January 15, 1962, if you file your income tax return Form 1040, and pay your tax in full for the calendar year 1961 by January 31, 1962.
The filing of an original or amended declaration, otherwise due on January 15, 1962, is also waived, if you file your Form 1040 for 1961 and pay the full tax by January 31, 1962.
Farmers, for these purposes, have until February 15, 1962, to file Form 1040 and pay the tax in full for the calendar year 1961.
Fiscal year taxpayers have until the last day of the first month following the close of the fiscal year (farmers until the 15 th day of the 2 d month).
See Chapter 38.
Nonresident aliens living in Canada or Mexico who earn wages in the United States may be subject to withholding of tax on their wages, the same as if they were citizens of the United States.
Their United States tax returns are due April 16, 1962.
If you are a nonresident alien and a resident of Puerto Rico, your return is also due June 15, 1962, or the 15 th day of the 6 th month after the close of your fiscal year.
If a taxpayer dies, the executor, administrator, or legal representative must file the final return for the decedent on or before the 15 th day of the 4 th month following the close of the deceased taxpayer's normal tax year.
Suppose John Jones, who, for 1960, filed on the basis of a calendar year, died June 20, 1961.
His return for the period January 1 to June 20, 1961, is due April 16, 1962.
The return for a decedent may also serve as a claim for refund of an overpayment of tax.
In such a case, Form 1310 should be completed and attached to the return.
This form may be obtained from the local office of your district director.
Returns of estates or trusts are due on or before the 15 th day of the 4 th month after the close of the tax year.
Under unusual circumstances a resident individual may be granted an extension of time to file a return.
Your application must include the following information:
(1) your reasons for requesting an extension, (2) whether you filed timely income tax returns for the 3 preceding years, and (3) whether you were required to file an estimated return for the year, and if so whether you did file and have paid the estimated tax payments on or before the due dates.
Any failure to file timely returns or make estimated tax payments when due must be fully explained.
Extensions are not granted as a matter of course, and the reasons for your request must be substantial.
If you are unable to sign the request, because of illness or other good cause, another person who stands in close personal or business relationship to you may sign the request on your behalf, stating the reason why you are unable to sign.
You should make any request for an extension early so that if it is refused, your return may still be on time.
See also Interest on Unpaid Taxes, below.
Citizens of the United States who, on April 15, are not in the United States or Puerto Rico, are allowed an extension of time until June 15 for filing the return for the preceding calendar year.
An extension of 2 months beyond the regular due date for filing is also available to taxpayers making returns for a fiscal year.
Military or Naval Personnel on duty in Alaska or outside the United States and Puerto Rico are also allowed this automatic extension of time for filing their returns.
You must attach a statement to your return, if you take advantage of this automatic extension, showing that you were in Alaska or were outside the United States or Puerto Rico on April 15 or other due date.
Interest at the rate of 6 % a year must be paid on taxes that are not paid on or before their due date.
Such interest must be paid even though an extension of time for filing is granted.
If your computation on Form 1040 or Form 1040 A shows you owe additional tax, it should be remitted with your return unless you owe less than $ 1, in which case it is forgiven.
If payment is by cash, you should ask for a receipt.
If you file Form 1040 A and the District Director computes your tax, you will be sent a bill if additional tax is due.
This bill should be paid within 30 days.
Whether the check is certified or uncertified, the tax is not paid until the check is paid.
Furthermore, a bad check may subject the maker to certain penalties.
All checks and money orders should be made payable to Internal Revenue Service.
An overpayment of income and social security taxes entitles you to a refund unless you indicate on the return that the overpayment should be applied to your succeeding year's estimated tax.
If you file Form 1040 A and the District Director computes your tax, any refund to which you are entitled will be mailed to you.
If you file a Form 1040, you should indicate in the place provided that there is an overpayment of tax and the amount you want refunded and the amount you want credited against your estimated tax.
Refunds of less than $ 1 will not be made unless you attach a separate application to your return requesting such a refund.
Send your return to the Director of Internal Revenue for the district in which you have your legal residence or principal place of business.
If you have neither a legal residence nor a principal place of business in any internal revenue district, your return should be filed with the District Director of Internal Revenue, Baltimore 2, Md..
If your principal place of abode for the tax year is outside the United States (including Alaska and Hawaii), Puerto Rico, or the Virgin Islands and you have no legal residence or principal place of business in any internal revenue district in the United States, you should file your return with the Office of International Operations, Internal Revenue Service, Washington 25, D. C..
It is the amount you enter on line 9, page 1 of Form 1040.
Some deductions are subtracted from Gross Income to determine Adjusted Gross Income.
Other deductions are subtracted only from Adjusted Gross Income in arriving at Taxable Income.
To compute your adjusted gross income you total all items of income.
(See Chapter 6 .)
From this amount deduct the items indicated below.
Businessmen deduct all ordinary and necessary expenses attributable to a trade or business.
If you hold property for the production of rents or royalties you subtract, in computing Adjusted Gross Income, ordinary and necessary expenses and certain other deductions attributable to the property.
(See Chapter 15 .)
(See Chapter 10 .)
Employees deduct expenses of travel, meals and lodging while away from home in connection with the performance of their services as employees.
They also deduct transportation expenses incurred in connection with the performance of services as employees even though they are not away from home.
(See Chapter 12 .)
If your employer reimburses you for expenses incurred, you deduct such expenses if they otherwise qualify.
(See Chapter 10 .)
Sick pay, if included in your Gross Income, is deducted in arriving at Adjusted Gross Income.
If your sick pay is not included in your Gross Income, you may not deduct it.
(See Chapter 9 .)
If you are an income beneficiary of property held in trust or an heir, legatee, or devisee, you may deduct allowable depreciation and depletion, if not deductible by the estate or trust.
Deductible losses on sales or exchanges of property are allowable in determining your Adjusted Gross Income.
(See Chapter 20 .)
You also deduct 50 % of the excess of net long-term capital gains over net short-term capital losses in determining Adjusted Gross Income.
(See Chapter 24 .)
Certain other deductions are not allowed in determining Adjusted Gross Income.
They may be claimed only by itemizing them on page 2 of Form 1040.
These deductions may not be claimed if you elect to use the Standard Deduction or tax Table.
(See Chapters 30 through 37 .)
His income is not required to be included in the return of his parent.
A minor child is allowed a personal exemption of $ 600 on his own return regardless of how much money he may earn.
If your child is under 19 or is a student you may also claim an exemption for him if he qualifies as your dependent, even though he earns $ 600 or more.
See Chapter 5.
Your 16 year old son earned $ 720 in 1961.
You spent $ 800 for his support.
Since he had gross income of $ 600 or more, he must file a return in which he may claim an exemption deduction of $ 600.
Since you contributed more than half of his support, you may also claim an exemption for him on your return.
A minor who has gross income of less than $ 600 is entitled to a refund if income tax was withheld from his wages.
If he had income other than wages subject to withholding, he may be required to file Form 1040.
See Chapter 1.
If your child works for you, you may deduct reasonable wages you paid to him for services he rendered in your business.
You may deduct these payments even though your child uses the money to purchase his own clothing or other necessities which you are normally obligated to furnish him, and even though you may be entitled to his services.
It would have been desirable for the two communities to have differed only in respect to the variable being investigated : the degree of structure in teaching method.
The structured schools were in an industrial city, with three family tenement houses typical of the residential areas, but with one rather sizable section of middle-class homes.
The unstructured schools were in a large suburban community, predominantly middle - to upper-middle class, but fringed by an industrial area.
In order to equate the samples on socioeconomic status, we chose schools in both cities on the basis of socioeconomic status of the neighborhoods.
School principals and guidance workers made ratings of the various neighborhoods and the research team made independent observations of houses and dwelling areas.
Equal proportions of children in each city were drawn from upper-lower and lower-middle class neighborhoods.
Individual differences in maturation and the development of readiness for learning to read indicate that not until the third grade have most children had ample opportunity to demonstrate their capacity for school achievement.
Therefore, third grade children were chosen as subjects for this study.
For purposes of sample selection only (individual tests were given later) we obtained group test scores of reading achievement and intelligence from school records of the entire third grade population in each school system.
The subjects for this study were randomly selected from stratified areas of the distribution, one-third as underachievers, one-third medium, and one-third over-achievers.
Children whose reading scores were at least one standard deviation below the regression line of each total third grade school population were considered under-achievers for the purposes of sample selection.
Over-achievers were at least one standard deviation above the regression line in their school system.
The final sample was not significantly different from a normal distribution in regard to reading achievement or intelligence test scores.
Twenty-four classrooms in twelve unstructured schools furnished 156 cases, 87 boys and 69 girls.
Administrative restrictions necessitated the smaller sample size in the structured schools.
It was assumed that the sampling procedure was purely random with respect to the personality variables under investigation.
An interview schedule of open-ended questions and a multiple-choice questionnaire were prepared, and one parent of each of the sample children was seen in the home.
The parent was asked to describe the child's typical behavior in certain standard situations in which there was an opportunity to observe tendencies toward perfectionism in demands upon self and others, irrational conformity to rules, orderliness, punctuality, and need for certainty.
The interviewers were instructed not to suggest answers and, as much as possible, to record the parents' actual words as they described the child's behavior in home situations.
The rating scale of compulsivity was constructed by first perusing the interview records, categorizing all evidence related to compulsivity, then arranging a distribution of such information apart from the case records.
Final ratings were made on the basis of a point system which was developed after studying the distributions of actual behaviors recorded and assigning weight values to each type of behavior that was deviant from the discovered norms.
Children scoring high in compulsivity were those who gave evidence of tension or emotionality in situations where there was lack of organization or conformity to standards and expectations, or who made exaggerated efforts to achieve these goals.
The low compulsive child was one who appeared relatively unconcerned about such matters.
But she cleans it up very well when I remind her''.
Castaneda, et al. revised the Taylor Anxiety Scale for use with children.
The Taylor Scale was adapted from the Minnesota Multiphastic Personality Inventory, with item selection based upon clinical definitions of anxiety.
There is much research evidence to validate the use of the instrument in differentiating individuals who are likely to manifest anxiety in varying degrees.
Reliability and validation work with the Children's Anxiety Scale by Castaneda, et al. demonstrated results closely similar to the findings with the adult scale.
Although the Taylor Scale was designed as a group testing device, in this study it was individually administered by psychologically trained workers who established rapport and assisted the children in reading the items.
The question may be raised whether or not we are dealing with a common factor in anxiety and compulsivity.
The two ratings yield a correlation of + .04, which is not significantly different from zero; therefore, we have measured two different characteristics.
In theory, compulsive behavior is a way of diminishing anxiety, and one might expect a negative association except for the possibility that for many children the obsessive-compulsive defenses are not sufficient to quell the amount of anxiety they suffer.
In the primary grades, reading permeates almost every aspect of school progress, and the children's early experiences of success or failure in learning to read often set a pattern of total achievement that is relatively enduring throughout the following years.
In establishing criterion measurements, it was therefore thought best to broaden the scope beyond the reading act itself.
The predicted interaction effect should, if potent, extend its influence over all academic achievement.
The Stanford Achievement Test, Form J, was administered by classroom teachers, consisting of a battery of six sub tests : Paragraph Meaning, Word Meaning, Spelling, Language, Arithmetic Computation, and Arithmetic Reasoning.
All of these sub-tests involve reading except Arithmetic Computation.
Scores are stated in grade equivalents on a national norm.
The battery median grade equivalent was used in data analysis in this study.
The Wechsler Intelligence Scale for Children was administered to each sample third grade child by a clinical worker.
The relationship of intelligence test scores to school achievement is a well established fact (in this case, * * f); therefore, in the investigation of the present hypothesis, it was necessary to control this factor.
It is the discrepancy between the actual attained achievement test score and the score that would be predicted by the I. Q..
For example, on the basis of the regression equation, a child with an I. Q. of 120 in this sample would be expected to earn an achievement test score of 4.8 (grade equivalent).
If a child with an I. Q. of 120 scored 5.5 in achievement, his discrepancy score would be + .7, representing .7 of one year of over-achievement.
A child with an I. Q. of 98 would be expected to earn an achievement test score of 3.5.
If such a child scored 3.0, his discrepancy score would be - .5, representing .5 of one year of under-achievement.
In this manner, the factors measured by the intelligence test were controlled, allowing discovered differences in achievement to be interpreted as resulting from other variables.
Tables 1 and 2 present the results of the statistical analysis of the data when compulsivity is used as the descriptive variable.
Figure 1 portrays the mean achievement scores of each sub-group graphically.
First of all, as we had surmised, the highly compulsive children in the structured setting score significantly better (* * f) on achievement than do similar children in the unstructured schools.
No significant difference was found in achievement between high and low compulsive children within the unstructured school.
The hypothesis of there being an interaction between compulsivity and teaching method was supported, in this case, at the .05 level.
While we had expected that compulsive children in the unstructured school setting would have difficulty when compared to those in the structured, we were surprised to find that the achievement of the high compulsives within the schools where the whole-word method is used in beginning reading compares favorably with that of the low compulsives.
Indeed their achievement scores were somewhat better on an absolute basis although the difference was not significant.
We speculate that compulsives in the unstructured schools are under greater strain because of the lack of systemization in their school setting, but that their need to organize (for comfort) is so intense that they struggle to induce the phonic rules and achieve in spite of the lack of direction from the environment.
It is interesting to note that medium compulsives in the unstructured schools made the lowest achievement scores (although not significantly lower).
Possibly their compulsivity was not strong enough to cause them to build their own structure.
Our conjecture is, then, that regardless of the manner in which school lessons are taught, the compulsive child accentuates those elements of each lesson that aid him in systematizing his work.
When helped by a high degree of structure in lesson presentation, then, and only then, does such a child attain unusual success.
Figure 2 is a graph of the mean achievement scores of each group.
As predicted, the highly anxious children in the unstructured schools score more poorly (* * f) than those in the structured schools.
The interaction effect, which is significant at the .01 level, can be seen best in the contrast of mean scores.
While high anxiety children achieve significantly less well (* * f) in the unstructured school than do low anxiety children, they appear to do at least as well as the average in the structured classroom.
The most striking aspect of the interaction demonstrated is the marked decrement in performance suffered by the highly anxious children in unstructured schools.
According to the theory proposed, this is a consequence of the severe condition of perceived threat that persists unabated for the anxious child in an ambiguous sort of school environment.
The fact that such threat is potent in the beginning reading lessons is thought to be a vital factor in the continued pattern of failure or under-achievement these children exhibit.
The child with high anxiety may first direct his anxiety released energy toward achievement, but because his distress severely reduces the abilities of discrimination and memorization of complex symbols, the child may fail in his initial attempts to master the problem.
Failure confirms the threat, and the intensity of anxiety is increased as the required learning becomes more difficult, so that by the time the child reaches the third grade the decrement in performance is pronounced.
But the symbols he is asked to learn are simple.
As shown earlier, the highly anxious individual may be superior in his memorizing of simple elements.
Success reduces the prospect of threat and his powers of discrimination are improved.
By the time the child first attacks the actual problem of reading, he is completely familiar and at ease with all of the elements of words.
Apparently academic challenge in the structured setting creates an optimum of stress so that the child with high anxiety is able to achieve because he is aroused to an energetic state without becoming confused or panicked.
Sarason et al. present evidence that the anxious child will suffer in the test like situation, and that his performance will be impaired unless he receives supporting and accepting treatment from the teacher.
Although the present study was not a direct replication of their investigations, the results do not confirm their conclusion.
Observers, in the two school systems studied here, judged the teachers in the structured schools to be more impersonal and demanding, while the atmosphere in the unstructured schools was judged to be more supporting and accepting.
Yet the highly anxious child suffered a tremendous disadvantage only in the unstructured school, and performed as well or better than average in the structured setting.
Analysis in roleplaying is usually done for the purpose of understanding strong and weak points of an individual or as a process to eliminate weak parts and strengthen good parts.
Up to this point stress has been placed on roleplaying in terms of individuals.
Roleplaying can be done for quite a different purpose : to evaluate procedures, regardless of individuals.
For example : a sales presentation can be analyzed and evaluated through roleplaying.
Let us now put some flesh on the theoretical bones we have assembled by giving illustrations of roleplaying used for evaluation and analysis.
One should keep in mind that many of the exciting possiblities of roleplaying are largely unexplored and have not been used in industry to the extent that they have been in military and other areas.
The president of a small firm selling restaurant products, had considerable difficulty in finding suitable salesmen for his business.
Interviewing, checking references, training the salesmen, having them go with more experienced salesmen was expensive - and the rate of attrition due to resignations or unsatisfactory performance was too high.
It was his experience that only one good salesman was found out of every seven hired - and only one was hired out of every seven interviewed.
In place of asking salesmen to fill questionnaires, checking their references, interviewing them, asking them to be tried out, he told them he would prefer to test them.
Each person was to enter the testing room, carrying a suitcase of samples.
Each salesman was to read a sheet containing a description of the product.
In the testing room he was to make, successively, three presentations to three different people.
In the testing room, three of the veteran salesmen served as antagonists.
One handled the salesman in a friendly manner, another in a rough manner, and the third in a hesitating manner.
Each was told to purchase material if he felt like it.
The antagonists came in, one at a time, and did not see or hear the other presentations.
After each presentation, the antagonist wrote his judgment of the salesmen; and so did the observers consisting of the president, three of his salesmen and a psychologist.
This procedure was repeated one day a month for four months.
The batting average of one success out of seven increased to one out of three.
The president of the firm, calculating expenses alone, felt his costs had dropped one-half while success in selection had improved over one hundred per cent.
The reason for the value of this procedure was simply that the applicants were tested ``at work'' in different situations by the judgment of a number of experts who could see how the salesmen conducted themselves with different, but typical restaurant owners and managers.
They were, in a sense, ``tried out'' in realistic situations.
From the point of view of the applicants, less time was wasted in being evaluated - and they got a meal out of it as well as some insights into their performances.
Another use of roleplaying for evaluation illustrates how this procedure can be used in real life situations without special equipment or special assistants during the daily course of work.
The position of receptionist was opened in a large office and an announcement was made to the other girls already working that they could apply for this job which had higher prestige and slightly higher salary than typing and clerking positions.
All applicants were generally familiar with the work of the receptionist.
Each girl was independently ``tested'' by the personnel man, and he served not only as the director, but as the antagonist and the observer.
Somewhat to his surprise he found that one girl, whom he would never have considered for the job since she had appeared somewhat mousy and also had been in the office a relatively short time, did the most outstanding job of playing the role of receptionist, showing wit, sparkle, and aplomb.
She was hired and was found to be entirely satisfactory when she played the role eight hours a day.
In considering roleplaying for analysis we enter a more complex area, since we are now no longer dealing with a simple over-all decision but rather with the examination and evaluation of many elements seen in dynamic functioning.
Some cases in evidence of the use of roleplaying for analysis may help explain the procedure.
An engineer had been made the works manager of a firm, supplanting a retired employee who had been considered outstandingly successful.
The engineer had more than seven years of experience in the firm, was well trained, was considered a hard worker, was respected by his fellow engineers for his technical competence and was regarded as a ``comer''.
However, he turned out to be a complete failure in his new position.
He seemed to antagonize everyone.
Despite the fact that he was regarded as an outstanding engineer, he seemed to be a very poor administrator, although no one quite knew what was wrong with him.
At the insistence of his own supervisor - the president of the firm, he enrolled in a course designed to develop leaders.
He played a number of typical situations before observers, other supervisors who kept notes and then explained to him in detail what he did they thought was wrong.
Entirely concerned with efficiency, he was merciless in criticizing people who made mistakes, condemning them to too great an extent.
He did not really listen to others, had little interest in their ideas, and wanted to have his own way - which was the only right way.
The entire group of managers explained, in great detail, a number of human relations errors that he made.
One by one, these errors were discussed and one by one he rejected accepting them as errors.
He admitted his behavior, and defended it.
He refused to change his approach, and instead he attacked high and low - the officials for their not backing him, and subordinates for their laxness, stupidity, and stubbornness.
We may say that his problem was diagnosed but that he refused treatment.
The engineer turned works manager had a particular view of life - and refused to change it.
We may say that his attitude was foolish, since he may have been a success had he learned some human relations skills; or we may say that his attitude was commendable, showing his independence of mind, in his refusal to adjust to the opinions of others.
In any case, he refused to accept the implications of the analysis, that he needed to be made over.
Another case may be given in illustration of a successful use of analysis, and also of the employment of a procedure for intensive analysis.
In a course for supermarket operators, a district manager who had been recently appointed to his position after being outstandingly successful as a store manager, found that in supervising other managers he was having a difficult time.
On playing some typical situations before a jury of his peers he showed some characteristics rated as unsatisfactory.
He was told he displayed, for example, a sense of superiority - and he answered : ``Well, I am supposed to know all the answers, aren't I''?
He was criticized for his curtness and abruptness - and he answered : ``I am not working to become popular''.
That's my job''.
In short, as frequently happens in analyses, the individual feels threatened and defends himself.
However, in this case the district manager was led to see the errors of his ways.
The necessary step between diagnosis and training is acceptance of the validity of the criticisms.
How this was accomplished may be described, since this sometimes is a crucial problem.
The director helped tailor-make a check list of the district manager's errors by asking various observers to write out sentences commenting on the mistakes they felt he made.
These errors were then collected and written on a blackboard, condensing similar ideas.
Eighteen errors were located, and then the director asked each individual to vote whether or not they felt that this manager had made the particular errors.
They were asked to vote ``true'' if they thought they had seen him make the error, ``false'' if they thought he had not; and ``cannot say'' if they were not certain.
No comments were made during the voting.
The results looked as follows:
* * f.
The first eight of these eighteen statements, which received at least one-half of the votes, were duplicated to form an analysis checklist for the particular manager, and when this particular manager roleplayed in other situations, the members checked any items that appeared.
To prevent the manager from deliberately controlling himself only during the sessions, they were rather lengthy (about twenty minutes), the situations were imperfectly described to the manager so that he would not know what to expect, new antagonists were brought on the scene unexpectedly, and the antagonists were instructed to deliberately behave in such ways as to upset the manager and get him to operate in a manner for which he had been previously criticized.
After every session, the check marks were totaled up and graphed, and in this way the supervisor's progress was charted.
In life we learn to play our roles and we ``freeze'' into patterns which become so habitual that we are not really aware of what we do.
We can see others more clearly than we can see ourselves, and others can see us better than we see ourselves.
To learn what we do is the first step for improvement.
To want to change is the third step.
To practice new procedures under guided supervision and with constant feedback is the fourth step.
To use these new ways in daily life is the last step.
Roleplaying used for analysis follows these general steps leading to training.
When an evaluative situation is set up, and no concern is with the details that lead to an over-all estimate, we say that roleplaying is used for evaluation.
Observers can see a person engaged in spontaneous behavior, and watch him operating in a totalistic fashion.
This behavior is more ``veridical'' - or true than other testing behavior for some types of evaluation, and so can give quick and accurate estimates of complex functioning.
While roleplaying for testing is not too well understood at the present time, it represents one of the major uses of this procedure.
The objective of this chapter is to clarify the distinctions between spontaneity theory and other training concepts.
The goal will be to provide the reader with an integrated rationale to aid him in applying roleplaying techniques in this unique training area.
The reasons for extracting this particular roleplaying application from the previous discussion of training are twofold:
Spontaneity training theory is unique and relatively new.
It is not easy for the therapist to discern when, in the patient's communicating, an introject has appeared and is holding sway.
One learns to become alert to changes in his vocal tone - to his voice's suddenly shifting to a quality not like his usual one, a quality which sounds somehow artificial or, in some instances, parrotlike.
The content of his words may lapse back into monotonous repetition, as if a phonograph needle were stuck in one groove; only seldom is it so simple as to be a matter of his obviously parroting some timeworn axiom, common to our culture, which he has evidently heard, over and over, from a parent until he experiences it as part of him.
One hebephrenic woman often became submerged in what felt to me like a somehow phony experience of pseudo emotion, during which, despite her wracking sobs and streaming cheeks, I felt only a cold annoyance with her.
Eventually such incidents became more sporadic, and more sharply demarcated from her day-after-day behavior, and in one particular session, after several minutes of such behavior - which, as usual, went on without any accompanying words from her - she asked, eagerly, ``Did you see Granny''?
At first I did not know what she meant; I thought she must be seeing me as some one who had just come from seeing her grandmother, in their distant home city.
At another phase in the therapy, when a pathogenic mother introject began to emerge more and more upon the investigative scene, she muttered in a low but intense voice, to herself, ``I hate that woman inside me''!
I could evoke no further elaboration from her about this; but a few seconds later she was standing directly across the room from me, looking me in the eyes and saying in a scathingly condemnatory tone, ``Your father despises you''!
Again, I at first misconstrued this disconcertingly intense communication, and I quickly cast through my mind to account for her being able to speak, with such utter conviction, of an opinion held by my father, now several years deceased.
Then I replied, coldly, ``If you despise me, why don't you say so, directly''?
She looked confused at this, and I felt sure it had been a wrong response for me to make.
It then occurred to me to ask, ``Is that what that woman told you''?
She clearly agreed that this had been the case.
I realized, now, that she had been showing me, in what impressed me as being a very accurate way, something her mother had once said to her; it was as if she was showing me one of the reasons why she hated that woman inside her.
What had been an unmanageably powerful introject was now, despite its continuing charge of energy disconcerting to me, sufficiently within control of her ego that she could use it to show me what this introjected mother was like.
A somewhat less fragmented hebephrenic patient of mine, who used to often seclude herself in her room, often sounded through the closed door - as I would find on passing by, between our sessions - for all the world like two persons, a scolding mother and a defensive child.
Particularly hard for the therapist to grasp are those instances in which the patient is manifesting an introject traceable to something in the therapist, some aspect of the therapist of which the latter is himself only poorly aware, and the recognition of which, as a part of himself, he finds distinctly unwelcome.
I have found, time and again, that some bit of particularly annoying and intractable behavior on the part of a patient rests, in the final analysis, on this basis; and only when I can acknowledge this, to myself, as being indeed an aspect of my personality, does it cease to be a prominently troublesome aspect of the patient's behavior.
For example, one hebephrenic man used to annoy me, month after month, by saying, whenever I got up to leave and made my fairly steoreotyped comment that I would be seeing him on the following day, or whenever, ``You're welcome'', in a notably condescending fashion - as though it were his due for me to thank him for the privilege of spending the hour with him, and he were thus pointing up my failure to utter a humbly grateful, ``thank you'' to him at the end of each session.
Eventually it became clear to me, partly with the aid of another schizophrenic patient who could point out my condescension to me somewhat more directly, that this man, with his condescending, ``You're welcome'', was very accurately personifying an element of obnoxious condescension which had been present in my own demeanor, over these months, on each of these occasions when I had bid him good-bye with the consoling note, each time, that the healing Christ would be stooping to dispense this succor to the poor suffered again on the morrow.
Another patient, a paranoid woman, for many months infuriated not only me but the ward personnel and her fellow patients by arrogantly behaving as though she owned the whole building, as though she were the only person in it whose needs were to be met.
This behavior on her part subsided only after I had come to see the uncomfortably close similarity between, on the one hand, her arranging the ventilation of the common living room to her own liking, or turning the television off or on without regard to the wishes of the others, and on the other hand, my own coming stolidly into her room despite her persistent and vociferous objections, bringing my big easy chair with me, usually shutting the windows of her room which she preferred to keep in a very cold state, and plunking myself down in my chair - in short, behaving as if I owned her room.
Here a variety of meanings and emotions are concentrated, or reduced, in their communicative expression, to some comparatively simple seeming verbal or nonverbal statement.
One finds, for example, that a terse and stereotyped verbal expression, seeming at first to be a mere hollow convention, reveals itself over the months of therapy as the vehicle for expressing the most varied and intense feelings, and the most unconventional of meanings.
one cannot assume, of course, that all these accumulated meanings were inherent in the stereotype at the beginning of the therapy, or at any one time later on when the stereotype was uttered; probably it is correct to think of it as a matter of a well grooved, stereotyped mode of expression - and no, or but a few, other communicational grooves, as yet - being there, available for the patient's use, as newly emerging emotions and ideas well up in him over the course of months.
But it is true that the therapist can sense, when he hears this stereotype, that there are at this moment many emotional determinants at work in it, a blurred babel of indistinct voices which have yet to become clearly delineated from one another.
Sometimes it is not a verbal stereotype - a ``How are you now'' ? or an ``I want to go home'', or whatever - but a nonverbal one which reveals itself, gradually, as the condensed expression of more than one latent meaning.
A hebephrenic man used to give a repetitious wave of his hand a number of times during his largely silent hours with his therapist.
When the therapist came to feel on sufficiently sure ground with him to ask him, ``What is that, Bill - hello or farewell''?
, the patient replied, ``Both, Dearie - two in one''.
Of all the possible forms of nonverbal expression, that which seems best to give release, and communicational expression, to complex and undifferentiated feelings is laughter.
It is no coincidence that the hebephrenic patient, the most severely dedifferentiated of all schizophrenic patients, shows, as one of his characteristic symptoms, laughter - laughter which now makes one feel scorned or hated, which now makes one feel like weeping, or which now gives one a glimpse of the bleak and empty expanse of man's despair; and which, more often than all these, conveys a welter of feelings which could in no way be conveyed by any number of words, words which are so unlike this welter in being formed and discrete from one another.
To a much less full extent, the hebephrenic person's belching or flatus has a comparable communicative function; in working with these patients the therapist eventually gets to do some at least private mulling over of the possible meaning of a belch, or the passage of flatus, not only because he is reduced to this for lack of anything else to analyze, but also because he learns that even these animal like sounds constitute forms of communication in which, from time to time, quite different things are being said, long before the patient can become sufficiently aware of these, as distinct feelings and concepts, to say them in words.
Freeman, Cameron and McGhie, in their description of the disturbances of thinking found in chronic schizophrenic patients, say, in regard to condensation, that ``the lack of adequate discrimination between the self and the environment, and the objects contained therein in itself is the prototypical condensation''.
In my experience, a great many of the patient's more puzzling verbal communications are so for the reason that concrete meanings have not become differentiated from figurative meanings in his subjective experience.
Thus he may be referring to some concrete thing, or incident, in his immediate environment by some symbolic sounding, hyperbolic reference to transcendental events on the global scene.
Recently, for example, a paranoid woman's large-scale philosophizing, in the session, about the intrusive curiosity which has become, in her opinion, a deplorable characteristic of mid twentieth century human culture, developed itself, before the end of the session, into a suspicion that I was surreptitiously peeking at her partially exposed breast, as indeed I was.
Or, equally often, a concretistic seeming, particularistic seeming statement may consist, with its mundane exterior, in a form of poetry - may be full of meaning and emotion when interpreted as a figurative expression : a metaphor, a simile, an allegory, or some other symbolic mode of speaking.
Of such hidden meanings the patient himself is, more often than not, entirely unaware.
His subjective experience may be a remarkably concretistic one.
One hebephrenic women confided to me, ``I live in a world of words'', as if, to her, words were fully concrete objects; Burnham, in his excellent article (1955) concerning schizophrenic communication, includes mention of similar clinical material.
A borderline schizophrenic young man told me that to him the various theoretical concepts about which he had been expounding, in a most articulate fashion, during session after session with me, were like great cubes of almost tangibly solid matter up in the air above him; as he spoke I was reminded of the great bales of cargo which are swung, high in the air, from a docked steamship.
A significant reduction in the voume of store information is thus realized, especially for a highly inflected language such as Russian.
For English the reduction in size is less striking.
This approach requires that : (1) each text word be separated into smaller elements to establish a correspondence between the occurrence and dictionary entries, and (2) the information retrieved from several entries in the dictionary be synthesized into a description of the particular word.
The logical scheme used to accomplish the former influences the placement of information in the dictionary file.
Implementation of the latter requires storage of information needed only for synthesis.
We suggest the application of certain data-processing techniques as a solution to the problem.
But first, we must define two terms so that their meaning will be clearly understood:
form - any unique sequence of alphabetic characters that can appear in a language preceded and followed by a space.
occurrence - an instance of a form in text.
We accomplish this by compiling a list of text forms as text is read by the computer.
A random storage scheme, based on the spelling of forms, provides an economical way to compile this text form list.
Dictionary forms found to match forms in the text list are marked.
A location in the computer store is also named for each marked form; dictionary information about the form stored at this location can be retrieved directly by occurrences of the form in text.
Finally, information is retrieved from the dictionary as required by stages of the translation process - the grammatic description for sentence-structure determination, equivalent choice information for semantic analysis, and target-language equivalents for output construction.
The dictionary is a form dictionary, at least in the sense that complete forms are used as the basis for matching text occurrences with dictionary entries.
Also, the dictionary is divided into at least two parts:
the list of dictionary forms and the file of information that pertains to these forms.
A more detailed description of dictionary operations - text lookup and dictionary modification - give a clearer picture.
The first is compiling a list of text forms, assigning an information cell to each, and replacing text occurrences with the information cell assigned to the form of each occurrence.
For this step the computer memory is separated into three regions : cells in the W region are used for storage of the forms in the text form list; cells in the X-region and Y region are reserved as information cells for text forms.
When an occurrence * * f is isolated during text reading, a random memory address * * f, the address of a cell in the X-region, is computed from the form of * * f.
Let * * f denote the form of * * f.
If cell * * f has not previously been assigned as the information cell of a form in the text form list, it is now assigned as the information cell of * * f.
The form itself is stored in the next available cells of the W-region, beginning in cell * * f.
The address * * f and the number of cells required to store the form are written in * * f; the information cell * * f is saved to represent the text occurrence.
Text reading continues with the next occurrence.
Let us assume that * * f is identical to the form of an occurrence * * f which preceded * * f in the text.
If * * f was assigned as the information cell for * * f, the routine can detect that * * f is identical to * * f by comparing * * f with the form stored at location * * f.
The address * * f is stored in the cell * * f.
When, as in this case, the two forms match, the address * * f is saved to represent the occurrence * * f.
Text reading continues with the next occurrence.
A third situation is possible.
The formula for computing random addresses from the form of each occurrence will not give a distinct address for each distinct form.
Thus, when more than one distinct form leads to a particular cell in the X-region, a chain of information cells must be created to accommodate the forms, one cell in the chain for each form.
If * * f leads to an address * * f that is equal to the address computed from * * f, even though * * f does not match * * f, the chain of information cells is extended from * * f by storing the address of the next available cell in the Y-region, * * f, in * * f.
The cell * * f becomes the second information cell in the chain and is assigned as the information cell of * * f.
Each information cell in the chain contains the address of the Y-cell where the form to which it is assigned is stored.
Each cell except the last in the chain also contains the address of the Y-cell that is the next element of the chain; the absence of such a link in the last cell indicates the end of the chain.
Hence, when the address * * f is computed from * * f, the cell * * f and all Y-cells in its chain must be inspected to determine whether * * f is already in the form list or whether it should be added to the form list and the chain.
When the information cell for * * f has been determined, it is saved as a representation of * * f.
Text reading continues with the next occurrence.
Text reading is terminated when a pre-determined number of forms have been stored in the text form list.
This initiates the second step of glossary lookup - connecting the information cell of forms in the text form list to dictionary forms.
Each form represented by the dictionary is looked up in the text form list.
Each time a dictionary form matches a text form, the information cell of the matching text form is saved.
These two pieces of information for each dictionary form that is matched by a text form constitute the table of dictionary usage.
If each text form is marked when matched with a dictionary form, the text forms not contained in the dictionary can be identified when all dictionary forms have been read.
The appropriate action for handling these forms can be taken at that time.
Each dictionary form is looked up in the text form list by the same method used to look up a new text occurrence in the form list during text reading.
A random address * * f that lies within the X-region of memory mentioned earlier is computed from the i-th dictionary form.
If cell * * f is an information cell, it and any information cells in the Y-region that have been linked to * * f each contain an address in the W-region where a potentially matching form is stored.
The dictionary form is compared with each of these text forms.
When a match is found, an entry is made in the table of dictionary usage.
If cell * * f is not an information cell we conclude that the i-th dictionary form is not in the text list.
The final step merely uses the table of dictionary usage to select the dictionary information that pertains to each form matched in the text form list, and uses the list of information cells recorded in text order to attach the appropriate information to each occurrence in text.
The list of text forms in the W-region of memory and the contents of the information cells in the X and Y-regions are no longer required.
Only the assignment of the information cells is important.
The first stage of translation after glossary lookup is structural analysis of the input text.
The grammatical description of each occurrence in the text must be retrieved from the dictionary to permit such an analysis.
A description of this process will serve to illustrate how any type of information can be retrieved from the dictionary and attached to each text occurrence.
The grammatic descriptions of all forms in the dictionary are recorded in a separate part of the dictionary file.
The order is identical to the ordering of the forms they describe.
When entries are being retrieved from this file, the table of dictionary usage indicates which entries to skip and which entries to store in the computer.
Each entry that is selected for storage is written into the next available cells of the W-region.
The address of the first cell and the number of cells used is written in the information cell for the form.
(The address of the information cell is also supplied by the table of dictionary usage .)
When the complete file has been read, the grammatic descriptions for all text forms found in the dictionary have been stored in the W-region; the information cell assigned to each text form contains the address of the grammatic description of the form it represents.
Hence, the description of each text occurrence can be retrieved by reading the list of text ordered information cell addresses and outputting the description indicated by the information cell for each occurrence.
The only requirements on dictionary information made by the text lookup operation are that each form represented by the dictionary be available for lookup in the text form list and that information for each form be available in a sequence identical with the sequence of the forms.
This leaves the ordering of entries variable.
(Here an entry is a form plus the information that pertains to it .)
Two very useful ways for modifying a form dictionary are the addition to the dictionary of complete paradigms rather than single forms and the application of a single change to more than one dictionary form.
The latter is useful for modifying information about some or all forms of a word, hence reducing the work required to improve dictionary contents.
Applying the techniques developed at Harvard for generating a paradigm from a representative form and its classification, we can add all forms of a word to the dictionary at once.
An extension of the principle would permit entering a grammatic description of each form.
Equivalents could be assigned to the paradigm either at the time it is added to the dictionary or after the word has been studied in context.
Thus, one can think of a dictionary entry as a word rather than a form.
If all forms of a paradigm are grouped together within the dictionary, a considerable reduction in the amount of information required is possible.
For example, the inflected forms of a word can be represented, insofar as regular inflection allows, by a stem and a set of endings to be attached.
(Indeed, the set of endings can be replaced by the name of a set of endings .)
The full forms can be derived from such information just prior to the lookup of the form in the text form list.
The dictionary system is in no way dependent upon such summarization or designed around it.
When irregularity and variation prevent summarizing, information is written in complete detail.
Entries are summarized only when by doing so the amount of information retained in the dictionary is reduced and the time required for dictionary operations is decreased.
In sentences, patterns of stress are determined by complex combinations of influences that can only be suggested here.
The tendency is toward putting dominant stress at the end.
There is a parallel to this tendency in the assignment of time in long known hymn tunes.
Thus the first lines of one of Charles Wesley's hymns are as follows.
``A charge to keep I have, A God to glorify''.
In the tune to which this hymn is most often sung, ``Boylston'', the syllables have and fy, ending their lines, have twice the time any other syllables have.
But the parallel is significant.
When the answer to what's wrong now?
is Bill's broken a chair, dominant stress will usually be on the complement a chair.
From the point of view of syntactic analysis the head word in the statement is the predicator has broken, and from the point of view of meaning it would seem that the trouble centers in the breaking; but dominant stress will be assigned to broken only in rather exceptional versions of the sentence.
In I know one thing dominant stress will usually be on the complement one thing; in one thing I know it will usually be on the predicator know.
In small-town people are very friendly dominant stress will generally be on the complement very friendly; in the double sentence the smaller the town, the friendlier the people it will generally be on the subjects the town and the people.
In what's a linguist?
dominant stress will generally be on the subject a linguist; in who's a linguist?
it will generally be on the complement a linguist.
Adverbial second complements, however, are likely not to have dominant stress when they terminate sentences.
If the answer to what was that noise?
is George put the cat out, dominant stress will ordinarily be on the first complement, the cat, not the second complement out.
Final adjuncts may or may not have dominant stress.
If the answer to what was that noise?
is George reads the news emotionally, dominant stress may or may not be on the adjunct emotionally.
When prepositional complements are divided as in what are you looking for?
they are likely to lose dominant stress.
Context is of extreme importance.
Thus in a context in which there has been discussion of snow but mention of local conditions is new, dominant stress will probably be on here in it rarely snows here, but in a context in which there has been discussion of local weather but no mention of snow, dominant stress will probably be on snows.
The personal pronouns and substitute one are normally unstressed because they refer to what is prominent in the immediate context.
In I'll go with George dominant stress is probably on George; but if George has just been mentioned prominently (and the trip to be made has been under discussion), what is said is probably I'll go with him, and dominant stress is probably on the preposition with.
When a gesture accompanies who's he?
the personal pronoun has dominant stress because ``he'' has not been mentioned previously.
If both George and a piece of information George does not have are prominent in the context, but the idea of telling George is new, then dominant stress will probably be on tell in why not tell George?
But when what is new in a particular context is also fairly obvious, there is normally only light stress or no stress at all.
Thus the unstressed it of it rarely snows here gets its significance from its use with snows : nothing can snow snow but ``it''.
In there aren't many young people in the neighborhood the modifier young takes dominant stress away from its head people : the fact that the young creatures of interest are people seems rather obvious.
In I have things to do the word things makes little real contribution to meaning and has weaker stress than do.
If work is substituted for things (with more exact contribution to meaning), it will have dominant stress.
In I know one thing dominant stress is likely to go to one rather than to semantically pale thing.
In I knew you when you were a child, and you were pretty then dominant stress on then implies that the young woman spoken to is still pretty.
Dominant stress on pretty would be almost insulting here.
In the written language then can be underlined or italicized to guide the reader here, but much of the time the written language simply depends on the reader's alertness, and a careless reader will have to back up and reread.
Often dominant stress simply indicates a centering of attention or emotion.
Thus in it's incredible what that boy can eat dominant stress is likely to be on incredible, and eat will have strong stress also.
In she has it in for George dominant stress will ordinarily be on in, where the notion of stored up antipathy seems to center.
Where there is comparison or contrast dominant stresses normally operate to center attention.
Thus in his friends are stranger than his sisters' strong stresses are normal for his and sisters ', but in his friends are stranger than his sisters strong stresses are normal for friends and sisters.
In he's hurting himself more than he's hurting you both himself and you have stronger stress than they would ordinarily have if there were no contrast.
In is she Chinese or Japanese?
the desire to contrast the first parts of words which are alike in their last components produces an exceptional disregard of the normal patterns of stress of Chinese and Japanese.
Sometimes strong stress serves to focus an important secondary relationship.
Thus in Mary wrote an account of the trip first strong stress on Mary marks Mary as the first in a series of people who wrote accounts of the trip, strong stress on wrote marks the writing as the first of a series of actions of Mary's concerned with an account of her trip (about which she may later have made speeches, for example), and strong stress on trip makes the trip the first of a series of subjects about which Mary wrote accounts.
In hunger stimulates man too the situation is very similar.
Strong stress on hunger treats hunger as an additional stimulus, strong stress on stimulates treats stimulation as an additional effect of hunger, strong stress on man treats man as an additional creature who responds to the stimulation of hunger.
When a word represents a larger construction of which it is the only expressed part, it normally has more stress than it would have in fully expressed construction.
Thus when yes, I have is the response to have you finished reading the paper?
the stress on have, which here represents have finished reading the paper, is quite strong.
In Mack's the leader at camp, but Jack is here the is of the second main declarative represents is the leader and therefore has stress.
Mack's the leader at camp, but Jack's here, with this is deprived of stress, makes here the complement in the clause.
In of all the suggestions that were made, his was the silliest the possessive his represents his suggestion and is stressed.
When go represents itself and a complement (being equivalent, say, to go to Martinique) in which boat did Jack go on?
it has strong stress; when it represents only itself and on which is its complement (so that go on is semantically equivalent to board), on has stronger stress than go does.
Omission of a subordinator pronoun, however, does not result in an increase in stress on a prepositional adverb for which the subordinator pronoun would be object.
But when to represents to consciousness in that was the moment that I came to, and similarly in that was the moment I came to, there is much stronger stress on to.
In I wanted to tell him, but I was afraid to the final to is lightly stressed because it represents to tell him.
In to tell him, of course, to is normally unstressed.
When I have instructions to leave is equivalent in meaning to I have instructions that I am to leave this place, dominant stress is ordinarily on leave.
When the same sequence is equivalent in meaning to I have instructions which I am to leave, dominant stress is ordinarily on instructions.
It is clear that patterns of stress sometimes show construction unambiguously in the spoken language where without the help of context it would be ambiguous in the written.
Other examples follow.
``I'll come by Tuesday.
I cann't be happy long without drinking water''.
In the second sentence if drinking water is a gerundial clause and without drinking water is roughly equivalent in meaning to unless I drink water, there will be stronger stress on water than on drinking; but if drinking is a gerundial noun modifying water and without drinking water is equivalent to without water for drinking, there will be stronger stress on drinking than on water.
But the use of stress in comparison and contrast, for example, can undermine distinctions such as these.
And patterns of stress are not always unambiguous by any means.
In the Steiners have busy lives without visiting relatives only context can indicate whether visiting relatives is equivalent in meaning to paying visits to relatives or to relatives who are visiting them, and in I looked up the number and I looked up the chimney only the meanings of number and chimney make it clear that up is syntactically a second complement in the first sentence and a preposition followed by its object in the second.
- Syllables are linguistic units centering in peaks which are usually vocalic but, as has been noted, are consonantal under certain circumstances, and which may or may not be combined with preceding and / or following consonants or combinations of consonants.
Syllables are genuine units, but division of words and sentences into them presents great difficulties.
Sometimes even the number of syllables is not clear.
Doubt on this point is strongest before / l / and / / or / r /.
From the point of view of word formation real might be expected to have two syllables.
When ity is added, real clearly has two syllables.
But there is every reason to regard deal as a monosyllable, and because of the fact that / l / commonly has the quality of / / when it follows vowel sounds, deal seems to be a perfectly satisfactory rhyme with real.
It is obvious enough that linguists in general have been less successful in coping with tone systems than with consonants or vowels.
No single explanation is adequate to account for this.
Improvement, however, is urgent, and at least three things will be needed.
The first is a wide-ranging sample of successful tonal analyses.
Even beginning students in linguistics are made familiar with an appreciable variety of consonant systems, both in their general outlines and in many specific details.
An advanced student has read a considerable number of descriptions of consonantal systems, including some of the more unusual types.
By contrast, even experienced linguists commonly know no more of the range of possibilities in tone systems than the over-simple distinction between register and contour languages.
Tone analysis will continue to be difficult and unsatisfactory until a more representative selection of systems is familar to every practicing field linguist.
Papers like these four, if widely read, will contribute importantly to improvement of our analytic work.
The second need is better field techniques.
The great majority of present-day linguists fall into one or more of a number of overlapping types : those who are convinced that tone cannot be analysed, those who are personally scared of tone and tone languages generally, those who are convinced that tone is merely an unnecessary marginal feature in those languages where it occurs, those who have no idea how to proceed with tone analysis, those who take a simplistic view of the whole matter.
The result has been neglect, fumbling efforts, or superficial treatment.
As these maladies overlap, so must the cure.
Analyses such as these four will simultaneously combat the assumptions that tone is impossible and that it is simple.
They will give suggestions that can be worked up into field procedures.
Good field techniques will not only equip linguists for better work, but also help them overcome negative attitudes.
But it is worth pondering that very little has been published on any phase of field techniques in linguistics.
These things have been disseminated by other means, but always in the wake of extensive publication of analytic results.
The third need is for better theory.
We should expect that general phonologic theory should be as adequate for tone as for consonants and vowels, but it has not been.
This can only be for one of two reasons : either the two are quite different and will require totally different theory (and hence techniques), or our existing theories are insufficiently general.
If, as I suspect, the problem is largely of the second sort, then development of a theory better able to handle tone will result automatically in better theory for all phonologic subsystems.
One issue that must be faced is the relative difficulty of analysis of different phonologic subsystems.
Since tone systems typically comprise fewer units than either consonant or vowel systems, we might expect that they would be the easiest part of a phonologic analysis.
Actual practice does not often work out this way.
Welmers has suggested one explanation.
Tone languages use for linguistic contrasts speech parameters which also function heavily in nonlinguistic use.
This may both divert the attention of the uninitiate and cause confusion for the more knowledgeable.
The problem is to disentangle the linguistic features of pitch from the co-occurring nonlinguistic features.
Of course, something of the same sort occurs with other sectors of the phonology : consonantal articulations have both a linguistic and an individual component.
But in general the individual variation is a small thing added onto basic linguistic features of greater magnitude.
With tone, individual differences may be greater than the linguistic contrasts which are superimposed on them.
Pitch differences from one speaker to another, or from one emotional state to another, may far exceed the small differences between tones.
However, any such suggestion accounts for only some of the difficulties in hearing tone, or in developing a realistic attitude about tone, but not for the analytic difficulties that occur even when tone is meticulously recorded.
Tone and intonation often become seriously intermeshed.
Neither can be adequately systematized until we are able to separate the two and assign the observed phenomena individually to one or the other.
Other pairs of phonologic subsystems also interact or overlap in this way; for example, duration sometimes figures in both the vowel system and the intonation.
Some phonetic features, for example glottal catch or murmur, are sometimes to be assigned to segmental phonemics and sometimes to accentual systems.
But no other two phonologic systems are as difficult to disentangle as are tone and intonation in some languages.
This explanation of tone difficulties, however, does not apply in all languages.
In some (the Ewe type mentioned above) interaction of tone and intonation is restricted to the ends of intonation spans.
In many of the syllables, intonation can be safely ignored, and much of the tonal analysis can be done without any study of intonation.
Still, even in such languages tone analysis has not been as simple as one might expect.
There we see a basically simple phonemic system enmeshed in a very complex and puzzling morphophonemic system.
While the phonemes can be very easily stated, no one is likely to be satisfied with the statement until phonemic occurrences can be related in some way to morphemic units, i. e. until the morphophonemics is worked out, or at least far enough that it seems reasonable to expect success.
In the ``typical tone language'', tonal morphophonemics is of the same order of complexity as consonantal morphophonemics.
The phonemic systems which must support these morphophonemic systems, however, are very different.
The inventory of tones is much smaller, and commonly the contrasts range along one single dimension, pitch level.
Consonantal systems are not merely larger, they are multidimensional.
Morphophonemic rules may be thought of as joining certain points in the system.
The possibilities in the consonantal system are very numerous, and only a small portion of them are actually used.
Phonemes connected by a morphophonemic rule commonly show a good bit of phonetic similarity, possible because of the several dimensions of contrast in the system.
The possibilities are few, and the total number of rules may be considerably greater.
Often, therefore, there are a number of rules having the same effect, and commonly other sets of rules as well, having the opposite effect.
Tonal morphophonemics is much more confusing to the beginning analyst than consonantal morphophonemics, even when the total number of rules is no greater.
The difficulty of analysis of any subsystem in the phonology is an inverse function of the size - smaller systems are more troublesome - for any given degree of morphophonemic complexity.
This hypothesis will account for a large part of the difficulties of tonal analysis, as well as the fact that vowel systems are often more puzzling than consonantal systems.
The statement of the system is a different matter.
Smaller systems can of course be stated much more succinctly.
A phonemic system can be stated without reference to morphophonemics, but it cannot always be found without morphophonemics.
And the more complex the morphophonemic system is in relation to the phonemic base, the less easily a phonemic system will be analysed without close attention to the morphophonemics - at least, the less satisfying will a phonemic statement be if it cannot be related through morphophonemic rules to grammatically meaningful structures.
There has been a tendency on the part of many American linguists to assume that a phonemic transcription will automatically be the best possible orthography and that the only real problem will then be the social one of securing acceptance.
This seems naive.
Most others have been content to give only the most general attention to the broadest and most obvious features of the phonology when designing orthographies.
Apparently the feeling is that anything more would be involvement in technical abstrusenesses of possible pedantic interest but of no visible significance in practical affairs.
The result of this attitude has been the domination of many orthography conferences by such considerations as typographic' esthetics ', which usually turns out to be nothing more than certain prejudices carried over from European languages.
Many of the suggested systems seem to have only the most tenuous relationship to the language structures that they purport to represent.
Linguists have not always been more enlightened than ``practical people'' and sometimes have insisted on incredibly trivial points while neglecting things of much greater significance.
As a result, many people have been confirmed in their conviction that orthography design is not an activity to which experts can contribute anything but confusion.
A. E. Sharp, in Vowel-Length and Syllabicity in Kikuyu, examines one set of related orthographic questions and its phonologic background in detail.
To do so, he finds it necessary to examine the relevant parts of the phonology thoroughly and in detail.
In the process, he develops some very significant observations about problems of a sort that are often difficult.
A few of his examples are of very great interest, and the whole discussion of some importance for theory.
His orthographic recommendations are no simplistic acceptance of phonemics on the one hand or of superficiality on the other.
Rather he weighs each phonologic fact in the light of its orthographic usefulness.
He concludes that some changes can made in the current orthography which will appreciably improve its usefulness, but hesitates to suggest precise graphic devices to effect these changes.
I hope his suggestions are given the consideration they deserve in Kikuyu circles.
This, however, will not exhaust their practical usefulness, as they rather clearly indicate what thorough phonologic investigation can contribute to orthography design.
We need many more studies of this sort if the design of written languages is to be put on a sound basis.
Vowel Harmony in Igbo, by J. Carnochan.
This restates the already widely known facts in terms of prosodies.
As a restatement it makes only a small contribution to knowledge of Igbo.
But it would seem more intended as a tract advocating the prosodic theory than a paper directed to the specific problems of Igbo phonology.
The paper has a certain value as a comparatively easy introduction to this approach, particularly since it treats a fairly simple and straightforward phenomenon where it is possible to compare it with a more traditional (though not structural) statement.
It does show one feature of the system that has not been previously described.
But it does not, as it claims, demonstrate that this could not be treated by traditional methods.
It seems to me that it rather easily can.
Five of the papers deal with grammatical problems.
My comments must be briefer than the papers deserve.
W. H. Whiteley writes on The Verbal Radical in Iraqw.
This must be considered primarily an amendment and supplement to his early A short Description of Item-Categories in Iraqw.
It exhibits much the same descriptive technique and is open to much the same criticisms.
The treatment seems unnecessarily loose jointed and complex, largely because the method is lax and the analysis seems never to be pushed to a satisfactory or even a consistent stopping-point.
There are more stems per item in Athabascan, which expresses the fact that the Athabascan languages have undergone somewhat more change in diverging from proto Athabascan than the Yokuts languages from proto Yokuts.
This may be because the Athabascan divergence began earlier; or again because the Athabascan languages spread over a very much larger territory (including three wholly separated areas); or both.
The differentiation however is not very much greater, as shown by the fact that Athabascan shows 3.46 stems per meaning slot as against 2.75 for Yokuts, with a slightly greater number of languages represented in our sample : 24 as against 21.
(On deduction of one-eighth from 3.46, the stem / item rate becomes 3.03 against 2.75 in equivalent number of languages .)
The greatest difference in the two sets of figures is due to differences in the two sets of lists used.
These differences in turn result from the fact that my Yokuts vocabularies were built up of terms selected mainly to insure unambiguity of English meaning between illiterate informants and myself, within a compact and uniform territorial area, but that Hoijer's vocabulary is based on Swadesh's second glottochronological list which aims at eliminating all items which might be culturally or geographically determined.
Swadesh in short was trying to develop a basic list that was universal; I, one that was specifically adapted to the San Joaquin Valley.
The result is that I included 70 animal names, but Swadesh only 4; and somewhat similarly for plants, 16 as against 4.
Swadesh, and therefore Hoijer, felt compelled to omit all terms denoting species or even genera (fox, vulture, salmon, yellow pine, manzanita); their classes of animal and plant terms are restricted to generalizations or recurrent parts (fish, bird, tree, grass, horn, tail, bark, root).
The groups are therefore really non comparable in content as well as in size.
Other classes are included only by myself (interrogatives, adverbs) or only by Swadesh and Hoijer (pronouns, demonstratives).
What we have left as reasonably comparable are four classes : (1) body parts and products, which with a proportionally nearly even representation (51 terms out of 253, 25 out of 100) come out with nearly even ratios; 2.6 and 2.7; (2) Nature (29 terms against 17), ratios 3.3 versus 4.1; (3) adjectives (16, 15 terms), ratios 3.9 versus 4.7; (4) verbs (9, 22 terms), ratios 4.0 versus 3.4.
It will be seen that where the scope is similar, the Athabascan ratios come out somewhat higher (as indeed they ought to with a total ratio of 2.8 as against 3.5 or 4 : 5) except for verbs, where alone the Athabascan ratio is lower.
22 % of his total list as against 3.5 % in mine.
Or the exception may be due to a particular durability peculiar to the Athabascan verb.
More word class ratios determined in more languages will no doubt ultimately answer the question.
If word classes differ in their resistance or liability to stem replacement within meaning slot, it is conceivable that individual meanings also differ with fair consistence trans lingually.
Hoijer's Athabascan and my Yokuts share 71 identical meanings (with allowance for several near synonyms like stomach belly, big large, long far, many much, die dead, say speak).
For Yokuts, I tabulated these 71 items in five columns, according as they were expressed by 1, 2, 3, 4, and more than 4 stems.
The totals for these five categories are not too uneven, namely 20, 15, 11, 16, 9 respectively.
For Athabascan, with a greater range of stems, the first two of five corresponding columns were identical, 1 and 2 stems; the three others had to be spread somewhat, and are headed respectively * * f; * * f; and * * f stems.
While the particular limits of these groupings may seem artificially arbitrary; they do fairly express a corresponding grouping of more variable material, and they eventuate also in five classes, along a similar scale, containing approximately equal numbers of cases, namely 19, 14, 15, 11, 12 in Athabascan.
If the distribution of the 71 items were wholly concordant in the two families, the distance would of course be 0.
If it were wholly random and unrelated, it would be 2.0, assuming the five classes were equal in n, which approximately they are.
The actual mean of 1.07 being about halfway between 0 of complete correlation and 2.0 of no correlation, it is evident that there is a pretty fair degree of similarity in the behavior even of particular individual items of meaning as regards long-term stem displacement.
In 1960, David D. Thomas published Basic Vocabulary in some Mon Khmer Languages AL 2, no. 3, pp. 7 - 11), which compares 8 Mon-Khmer languages with the I-E language data on which Swadesh based the revised retention rate (* * f) in place of original (* * f), and his revised 100 word basic glottochronological list in Towards Greater Accuracy (IJAL 21 : 121 - 137).
Thomas' findings are, first, ``that the individual items vary greatly and unpredictably in their persistence''; but, second, ``that the semantic groups are surprisingly unvarying in their average persistence'' (as between M-K and I-E.
His first conclusion, on behavior of individual items, is negative, whereas mine (on Ath. and Yok .) was partially positive.
His second conclusion, on semantic word classes, agrees with mine.
This second conclusion, independently arrived at by independent study of material from two pairs of language families as different and remote from one another as these four are, cannot be ignored.
Thomas also presents a simple equation for deriving an index of persistence, which weights not only the number of stems (' roots') per meaning, but their relative frequency.
His formula will have to be weighed, may be altered or improved, and it should be tested on additional bodies of material.
But consideration of the frequency of stems per constant meaning seems to be established as having significance in comparative situations with diachronic and classificatory relevance; and Gleason presumably is on the way with a further contribution in this area.
As to relative frequencies of competing roots (7 - 1 vs. 4 - 4, etc .), Thomas with his' weighting' seems to be the first to have considered the significance this might have.
The problem needs further exploration.
I was at least conscious of the distinction in my full Yokuts presentation that awaits publication, in which, in listing' Two Stem Meanings ', I set off by asterisks those forms in which n of stem B was * * f of stem A 3, the unasterisked ones standing for * * f; or under' Four Stems ', I set off by asterisks cases where the combined n of stems * * f was * * f.
These findings, and others which will in time be developed, will affect the method of glottochronological inquiry.
If adjectival meanings show relatively low retentiveness of stems, as I am confident will prove to be the case in most languages of the world, why should our basic lists include 15 per cent of these unstable forms, but only 8 per cent of animals and plants which replace much more slowly?
Had Hoijer substituted for his 15 adjectival slots 15 good animal and plant items, his rate of stem replacement would have been lower and the age of Athabascan language separation smaller.
And irrespective of the outcome in centuries elapsed since splitting, calculations obviously carry more concordant and comparable meaning if they deal with the most stable units than with variously unstable ones.
Why then this urge to include unstable items in his basic list?
It is the urge to obtain a list as free of geographical and cultural conditioning as possible.
And why that insistence?
It is the hope of attaining a list of items of universal occurrence.
But it is becoming increasingly evident that such a hope is a snare.
Not that such a list cannot be constructed; but the nearer it comes to attaining universality, the less significant will it be linguistically.
Its terms will tend to be labile or vague, and they will fit actual languages more and more badly.
The practical operational problem of lexicostatistics is the establishment of a basic list of items of meaning against which the particular forms or terms of languages can be matched as the medium of comparison.
The most important quality of the meanings is that they should be as definable as possible.
An elephant or a fox or a swan or a cocopalm or a banana possess in unusually high degree this quality of obvious, common-sense, indubitable identity, as do an eye or tooth or nail.
They isolate out easily, naturally, and unambiguously from the continuum of nature and existence; and they should be given priority in the basic list as long as they continue to show these qualities.
With the universal list as his weapon, Swadesh has extended his march of conquest farther and farther into the past, eight, ten, twelve millennia back.
And he has proclaimed greater or less affiliation between all Western hemisphere languages.
Some of this may prove to be true, or even considerable of it, whether by genetic ramification or by diffusion and coalescence.
But the farther out he moves, the thinner will be his hold on conclusive evidence, and the larger the speculative component in his inferences.
He has traversed provinces and kingdoms, but he has not consolidated them behind him, nor does he control them.
He has announced results on Hokan, Penutian, Uto-Aztecan, and almost all other American families and phyla, and has diagrammed their degree of interrelation; but he has not worked out by lexicostatistics one comprehensively complete classification of even a single family other than Salish.
That is his privilege.
But there is also a firm aspect to lexicostatistics:
the aspect of learning the internal organization of obvious natural genetic groups of languages as well as their more remote and elusive external links; of classification first, with elapsed age merely a by-product; of acquiring evidential knowledge of what happened in Athabascan, in Yokuts, in Uto-Aztecan in the last few thousand years as well as forecasting what more anciently may have happened between them.
This involves step-by-step progress, and such will have to be the day-by-day work of lexicostatistics as a growing body of scientific inquiry.
If of the founders of glottochronology Swadesh has escaped our steady plodding, and Lees has repudiated his own share in the founding, that is no reason why we should swerve.
There is no apparent reason why we should feel bound by Swadesh's rules and procedure since his predilections and aims have grown so vast.
It seems time to consider a revision of operational procedures for lexicostatistic studies on a more humble, solid, and limited basis.
I would propose, first, an abandonment of attempts at a universal lexical list, as intrinsically unachievable, and operationally inadequate in proportion as it is achieved.
I would propose, next, as the prime requirement for constitution of new basic lists, items whose forms show as high an empirical retention rate as possible.
There would be no conceivable sense in going to the opposite extreme of selecting items whose forms are the most unstable.
Unemployed older workers who have no expectation of securing employment in the occupation in which they are skilled should be able to secure counseling and retraining in an occupation with a future.
Some vocational training schools provide such training, but the current need exceeds the facilities.
The present Federal program of vocational education began in 1917 with the passage of the Smith-Hughes Act, which provided a continuing annual appropriation of $ 7 million to support, on a matching basis, state administered programs of vocational education in agriculture, trades, industrial skills and home economics.
Since 1917 some thirteen supplementary and related acts have extended this Federal program.
The George-Barden Act of 1946 raised the previous increases in annual authorizations to $ 29 million in addition to the $ 7 million under the Smith Act.
The Health Amendment Act of 1956 added $ 5 million for practical nurse training.
The latest major change in this program was introduced by the National Defense Education Act of 1958, Title 8, of which amended the George-Barden Act.
Annual authorizations of $ 15 million were added for area vocational education programs that meet national defense needs for highly skilled technicians.
The Federal program of vocational education merely provides financial aid to encourage the establishment of vocational education programs in public schools.
Even the states remain primarily in an assisting role, providing leadership and teacher training.
Federal assistance is limited to half of the total expenditure, and the state or local districts must pay at least half.
The state may decide to encourage local programs by paying half of the cost, or the state may require the local district to bear this half or some part of it.
Throughout the history of the program, state government expenditures in the aggregate have usually matched or exceeded the Federal expenditures, while local districts all together have spent more than either Federal or state governments.
Today, Federal funds account for only one-fifth of the nation's expenditures for vocational education.
The greatest impact of the matching fund principle has been in initially encouraging the poorest states and school districts to spend enough to obtain their full allocation of outside funds.
National defense considerations have been the major reason behind most Federal training expenditures in recent decades.
During World War 2, about 7.5 million persons were enrolled in courses organized under two special programs administered by state and local school authorities : (1) Vocational Education for National Defense, and (2) War Production Training.
The total cost of the five year program was $ 297 million.
No comparable measures are available of enrollments and expenditures for private vocational education training.
There are a great number and variety of private commercial schools, trade schools and technical schools.
In addition, many large corporations operate their own formal training programs.
A recent study indicated that 85 per cent of the nation's largest corporations conducted educational programs involving some class meetings and examinations.
Most skilled industrial workers, nevertheless, still acquire their skills outside of formal training institutions.
The National Manpower Council of Columbia University has estimated that three out of five skilled workers and one out of five technicians have not been formally trained.
There is little doubt that the students benefit from vocational education.
Employers prefer to hire youth with such training rather than those without, and most graduates of vocational training go to work in jobs related to their training.
Vocational educators do not claim that school training alone makes skilled workers, but it provides the essential groundwork for developing skills.
In Arkansas fewer than 6 per cent of the high schools offer trade and industrial courses.
In Illinois about 13 per cent of the schools have programs, and in Pennsylvania 11 per cent.
An important recent trend is the development of area vocational schools.
For a number of years Kentucky, Louisiana and several other states have been building state sponsored vocational education schools that serve nearby school districts in several counties.
These schools are intended to provide the facilities and specialized curriculum that would not be possible for very small school districts.
Transportation may be provided from nearby school districts.
Courses are provided mainly for post high school day programs; but sometimes arrangements also are made for high school students to attend, and evening extension courses also may be conducted.
The Title 8, program of the National Defense Education Act of 1958 was a great spur to this trend toward area schools.
By 1960 there were such schools in all but 4 states.
An extension of this program into the other distressed areas should be undertaken.
Some of this trend toward area vocational schools has been related to the problems of persistent labor surplus areas and their desire to attract new industry.
The major training need of a new industrial plant is a short period of pre employment training for a large number of semi-skilled machine operators.
A few key skilled workers experienced in the company's type of work usually must be brought in with the plant manager, or hired away from a similar plant elsewhere.
A prospective industry also may be interested in the long-run advantages of training programs in the area to supply future skilled workers and provide supplementary extension courses for its employees.
The existence of a public school vocational training program in trade and industry provides a base from which such needs can be filled.
Additional courses can readily be added and special cooperative programs worked out with any new industry if the basic facilities, staff and program are in being.
Thus, besides the training provided to youth in school, the existence of the school program can have supplementary benefits to industry which make it an asset to industrial development efforts.
Few states make effective use of their existing vocational education programs or funds for the purpose of attracting new industry.
The major weakness of vocational training programs in labor surplus areas is their focus on serving solely local job demands.
This weakness is not unique to labor surplus areas, for it is inherent in the system of local school districts in this country.
Planning of vocational education programs and courses is oriented to local employer needs for trained workers.
All the manuals for setting up vocational courses stress the importance of first making a local survey of skill needs, of estimating the growth of local jobs, and of consulting with local employers on the types of courses and their content.
Furthermore, there is a cautious conservatism on the part of those making local skill surveys.
Local jobs can be seen and counted, while opportunities elsewhere are regarded as more hypothetical.
While the U. S. Department of Labor has a program of projecting industry and occupational employment trends and publishing current outlook statements, there is little tangible evidence that these projections have been used extensively in local curriculum planning.
The U. S. Office of Education continues to stress local surveys rather than national surveys.
This procedure is extremely shortsighted in chronic labor surplus areas with a long history of declining employment.
No effort is made in the same studies to present information on regional or national demand trends in these skills or to consider whether regional or national demands for other skills might provide much better opportunities for the youth to be trained.
Moreover, the current information on what types of training are needed and possible is too limited and fragmentary.
There simply is not enough material available on the types of job skills that are in demand and the types of training programs that are required or most suitable.
Much of the available information comes not from the Federal government but from an exchange of experiences among states.
State and local agencies in the vocational education field must be encouraged to adopt a wider outlook on future job opportunities.
There is a need for an expanded Federal effort to provide research and information to help guide state education departments and local school boards in existing programs.
A related question is whether unemployed workers can be motivated to take the training provided.
There is little evidence that existing public or private training programs have any great difficulty getting students to enroll in their programs, even though they must pay tuition, receive no subsistence payments, and are not guaranteed a job.
However, there always is some limit to the numbers who will spend the time and effort to acquire training.
A training program in a depressed area may have few enrollees unless there is some apparent prospect for better employment opportunities afterwards, and the prospect may be poor if the training is aimed solely at jobs in the local community.
If there is adequate information on job opportunities for skilled jobs elsewhere, many more workers can be expected to respond.
Another problem is who will pay for the training.
Local school districts are hard pressed financially and unenthusiastic about vocational training.
Programs usually are expanded only when outside funds are available or local business leaders demand it.
Even industrial development leaders find it hard to win local support for training unless a new industry is in sight and requests it.
State governments have been taking the lead in establishing area vocational schools, but their focus is still on area job opportunities.
Only the Federal government is likely to be able to take a long-run and nation-wide view and to pay for training to meet national skilled manpower needs.
If only state funds were used to pay for the vocational education, it could be argued that the state should not have to bear the cost of vocational training which would benefit employers in other states.
Such training would increase the tendency of workers to leave the area and find jobs in other localities.
A further possibility is suggested by the example of the G. I. bills and also by some recent trends in attitudes toward improving college education : that is to provide financial assistance to individuals for vocational training when local facilities are inadequate.
This probably would require some support for subsistence as well as for tuition, but the total would be no greater than for the proposals of unemployment compensation or a Youth Conservation Corps.
A maximum of $ 600 per year per student would enable many to take training away from home.
A program of financial assistance would permit placing emphasis on the national interest in training highly skilled labor.
Instead of being limited to the poor training facilities in remote areas, the student would be able to move to large institutions of concentrated specialized training.
Such specialized training institutions could be located near the most rapidly growing industries, where the equipment and job experience exist and where the future employment opportunities are located.
This would heighten possibilities for part-time cooperative, on-the-job and extension training.
Personal financial assistance would enable more emphasis to be placed on the interests of the individual.
Wage price policies of industry are the result of a complex of forces - no single explanation has been found which applies to all cases.
The purpose of this paper is to analyze one possible force which has not been treated in the literature, but which we believe makes a significant contribution to explaining the wage price behavior of a few very important industries.
While there may be several such industries to which the model of this paper is applicable, the authors make particular claim of relevance to the explanation of the course of wages and prices in the steel industry of the United States since World War 2,.
Indeed, the apparent stiffening of the industry's attitude in the recent steel strike has a direct explanation in terms of the model here presented.
The model of this paper considers an industry which is not characterized by vigorous price competition, but which is so basic that its wage price policies are held in check by continuous critical public scrutiny.
Where the industry's product price has been kept below the ``profit maximizing'' and ``entry limiting'' prices due to fears of public reaction, the profit seeking producers have an interest in offering little real resistance to wage demands.
The contribution of this paper is a demonstration of this proposition, and an exploration of some of its implications.
In order to focus clearly upon the operation of this one force, which we may call the effect of ``public limit pricing'' on ``key'' wage bargains, we deliberately simplify the model by abstracting from other forces, such as union power, which may be relevant in an actual situation.
For expository purposes, this is best treated as a model which spells out the conditions under which an important industry affected with the public interest would find it profitable to raise wages even in the absence of union pressures for higher wages.
Part 2, discusses the operation of the model and derives some significant conclusions.
Part 3, discusses the empirical relevance and policy implications of the conclusions.
Part 4, is a brief summary.
The Mathematical Appendix presents the rigorous argument, but is best read after Part 1, in order that the assumptions underlying the equations may be explicit.
The industry with which this model is concerned is a basic industry, producing a substantial share of gross national product.
Price competition is lacking.
For the purposes of setting the product price, the industry behaves as a single entity.
In wage negotiations, the industry bargains as a unit with a single union.
We are concerned with aggregate demand for the industry's product.
In any given time period, the aggregate demand for the industry's product is determined by two things : the price charged by the industry, and the level of GNP.
For the purposes of this discussion, the problem of relative prices is encompassed in these two variables, since GNP includes other prices.
(We abstract here from technological progress and assume that prices of all other products change proportionately .)
The form of the industry demand function is one which makes quantity demanded vary inversely with the product price, and vary directly with the level of GNP.
The industry of this model is so important that its wage and price policies are affected with a public interest.
Because of its importance, and because the lack of price competition is well recognized, the industry is under considerable public pressure not to raise its price any more than could be justified by cost increases.
The threat of effective anti-trust action, provoked by ``gouging the public'' through price increases not justified by cost increases, and fears of endangering relations with customers, Congress, the general public and the press, all operate to keep price increases in some relation to cost increases.
For the industry of this model, the effect of such public pressures in the past has been to hold the price well below the short-run profit maximizing price (given the wage rate and the level of GNP), and even below the entry limited price (but not below average cost).
For such an industry, it is only ``safe'' to raise its price if such an increase is manifestly ``justified'' by rising costs (due to rising wages, etc .).
In this model, we abstract from all non wage sources of cost changes, so that the ``public limit price'' only rises as the wage rate rises.
In such circumstances, it may well be to the advantage of the industry to allow an increase in the basic wage rate.
Since marginal costs rise when the wage rate rises, the profit maximizing price also rises when the public limit price is elevated, and is likely to remain well above the latter.
The entry limiting price will also be raised for potential domestic competition, but unless general inflation permits profit margins to increase proportionately throughout the economy, we might expect the public limit price to approach the entry limit price.
The foreign entry limit price would be approached more rapidly, since domestic wage rates do not enter foreign costs directly.
Where this approach becomes critical, the industry can be expected to put much emphasis on this as evidence of its sincerity in ``resisting'' the wage pressures of a powerful union, requesting tariff relief after it has ``reluctantly'' acceded to the union pressure.
Whether or not it is in the industry's interest to allow the basic wage rate to rise obviously depends upon the extent to which the public limit price rises in response to a basic wage increase, and the relation of this response to the increase in costs accompanying the wage increase.
The extent to which the public limit price is raised by a given increase in the basic wage rate is itself a function of three things : the passage of time, the level of GNP, and the size of the wage increase.
We are abstracting from the fact of strikes here, but it should be obvious that the extent to which the public limit price is raised by a given increase in the basic wage rate is also a function of the show of resistance put up by the industry.
As a strike continues, these parties increase their pressure on the industry to reach an agreement.
They become increasingly willing to accept the price increase that the industry claims the wage bargain would entail.
Public indignation and resistance to wage price increases is obviously much less when the increases are on the order of 3 % per annum than when the increases are on the order of 3 % per month.
The simple passage of an additional eleven months' time makes the second 3 % boost more acceptable.
Thus, the public limit price is raised further by a given wage increase the longer it has been since the previous price increase.
Notice, however, that the passage of time does not permit the raising of prices per se, without an accompanying wage increase.
Similarly, higher levels of GNP do not, in themselves, provide grounds for raising prices, but they do relax some of the pressure on the industry so that it can raise prices higher for a given wage increase.
This is not extended to anticipated levels of GNP, however - only the current level of GNP affects the public pressure against wage price increases.
Finally, since the public requires some restraint on the part of the companies, larger wage increases call for less than proportionately larger price increases (e. g., if a wage increase of 5 % allows a price increase of 7 %, a wage increase of 10 % allows a price increase of something less than 14 %).
The level of this average cost is determined by factor prices, technology, and so forth.
As we have noted, however, we are abstracting from changes in all determinants of this level except for changes in the wage rate.
The level of average cost (equal to marginal cost) is thus strictly a function of the wage rate.
The single union which faces the industry does not restrict its membership, and there is an adequate supply of labor available to the firms of the industry at the going wage rate.
The union does not regard unemployment of its own members as a matter of concern when setting its own wage policy - its concern with employment makes itself felt in pressure upon the government to maintain full employment.
The union vigorously demands wage increases from productivity increases, and wage increases to offset cost-of-living increases, but we abstract from these forces here.
For our present purposes we assume that the sole subject of bargaining is the basic wage rate (not including productivity improvement factors or cost-of-living adjustments), and it is this basic wage rate which determines the level of costs.
Productivity is something of an amorphous concept and the amount of productivity increase in a given time period is not even well known to the industry, much less to the union or to the public.
Disagreement on the amount of productivity increase exacerbates the problem of agreeing how an increase in profit margins related to a productivity increase should be shared.
We assume further that the union recognizes the possibility that price level increases may offset wage rate increases, and it does not entirely disregard the effect of price increases arising from its own wage increases upon the ``real'' wage rate.
For internal political reasons, the union asks for (and accepts) increases in the basic wage rate, and would vigorously oppose a reduction in this rate, but the adjustment of the basic wage rate upwards is essentially up to the discretion of the companies of the industry.
Changes in the basic wage rate are cost raising, and they constitute an argument for raising prices.
However, it is not known to either the union or the public precisely how much of a cost increase is caused by a given change in the basic wage rate, although the companies are presumed to have reliable estimates of this magnitude.
In this model, then, the industry is presumed to realize that they could successfully resist a change in the basic wage rate, but since such a change is the only effective means to raising prices they may, in circumstances to be spelled out in Part 2, below, find it to their advantage to allow the wage rise.
Thus, for non negative changes in the basic wage rate, the industry becomes the active wage setter, since any increase in the basic wage rate can occur only by reason of industry acquiescence.
The presumption in the literature would appear to be that the basic wage rate would be unchanged in this case, on the grounds that it is ``clearly'' not in the interest of the industry to raise wages gratuitously.
From this presumption it is an easy step to the conclusion that any observed increases in the basic wage rate must be due to union behavior different and more aggressive than assumed in our model.
It is this conclusion that we challenge; we do so by disproving the presumption on which it is based.
In the century from 1815 to 1914 the law of nations became international law.
Several factors contributed to this change.
The Congress of Vienna is a convenient starting point because it both epitomized and symbolized what was to follow.
Here in 1815 the great nations assembled to legislate not merely for Europe, but for the world.
Thus the Congress marks a formal recognition of the political system that was central to world politics for a century.
International law had to fit the conditions of Europe, and nothing that could not fit this system, or the interests of the great European nations collectively, could possibly emerge as law in any meaningful sense.
Essentially this imposed two conditions : First, international law had to recognize and be compatible with an international political system in which a number of states were competitive, suspicious, and opportunistic in their political alignments with one another; second, it had to be compatible with the value system that they shared.
In both respects, international law was Europeanized.
It was not always easy to develop theory and doctrine which would square the two conditions.
But there was no pressing need to maintain these same standards with regard to most of the rest of the world.
Thus, theory and doctrine applicable among the great nations and the smaller European states did not really comfortably fit less developed and less powerful societies elsewhere.
Political interference in Africa and Asia and even in Latin America (though limited in Latin America by the special interest of the United States as expressed in the Monroe Doctrine, itself from the outset related to European politics and long dependent upon the ``balance of power'' system in Europe) was necessary in order to preserve both common economic values and the European ``balance'' itself.
A nation such as Switzerland could be neutralized by agreement and could be relied upon to protect its neutrality; more doubtful, but possible, (with an assist from the North) was the neutralization of the Latin American countries; out of the question was the neutralization of Asia and Africa.
This Europeanization of the law was made explicit by a number of 19 th century scholars.
More emphasis was put upon the fact that international law was the law of ``civilized nations''; Kent and Story, the great early American scholars, repeatedly made use of this phrase, or of ``Christian nations'', which is a substantial equivalent.
Wheaton stated that the public law was essentially ``limited to the civilized and Christian peoples of Europe or to those of European origin''.
Of course it had always been of European origin in fact, but it had maintained a universal outlook under the natural law theory.
Now, with virtually every writer, not only was the European origin of public law acknowledged as a historical phenomenon, but the rules thus established by the advanced civilizations of Europe were to be imposed on others.
Hall, for example, was quite explicit on this point when he said ``states outside European civilization must formally enter into the circle of law governed countries.
They must do something with the acquiescence of the latter, or some of them, which amounts to an acceptance of the law in its entirety beyond all possibility of misconstruction''.
During the nineteenth century these views were protested by virtually all the Latin American writers, though ineffectively, just as the new nations of Africa and Asia protest them, with more effect, today.
A number of other nineteenth century developments contributed to the transmutation of the law of nations into international law; that is, from aspects of a universal system of Justice into particular rules governing the relations of sovereign states.
The difference is important, for although the older law of nations did cover relationships among sovereigns, this was by no means its exclusive domain.
The law of nature governed sovereigns in their relationship to their own citizens, to foreigners, and to each other in a conceptually unified system.
The theory of international law, which in the nineteenth century became common to virtually all writers in Europe and America, broke this unity and this universality.
It lost sight of the individual almost entirely and confined itself to rules limiting the exercise of state power for reasons essentially unconnected with justice or morality save as these values might affect international relations.
No longer did the sovereign look to the law of nations to determine what he ought to do; his search was merely for rules that might limit his freedom of action.
First, and most obvious, was the growing nationalism and the tendency to regard the state, and the individual's identification with the state, as transcending other ties of social solidarity.
National identification was not new, but it was accelerating in intensity and scope throughout Europe as new unifications occurred.
It reached its ultimate philosophical statement in notions of ``state will'' put forward by the Germans, especially by Hegel, although political philosophers will recognize its origins in the rejected doctrines of Hobbes.
National identification was reflected jurisprudentially in law theories which incorporated this Hegelian abstraction and saw law, domestic and international, simply as its formal reflection.
In the international community this reduced law to Jellinek's auto limitation.
A state, the highest form of human organization in fact and theory, could be subjected to Law only by a manifestation of self-will, or consent.
According to the new theories, the nineteenth century corporate sovereign was ``sovereign'' in a quite new and different sense from his historical predecessors.
He no longer sought to find the law; he made it; he could be subjected to law only because he agreed to be.
There was no law, domestic or international, except that willed by, acknowledged by, or consented to by states.
Related to, but distinguishable from, nationalism was the growth of democracy in one form or another.
Increased participation in politics and the demands of various groups for status and recognition had dramatic effects upon law institutions.
The efforts of various interest groups to control or influence governmental decisions, particularly when taken in conjunction with the impact of industrialization, led to a concentration of attention on the legislative power and the means whereby policy could be formulated and enforced as law through bureaucratic institutions.
Law became a conscious process, something more than simply doing justice and looking to local customs and a common morality for applicable norms.
Particularly was this true when the norms previously applied were no longer satisfactory to many, when customs were rapidly changing as the forces of the new productivity were harnessed.
The old way of doing things, which depended on a relatively stable community with stable ideas dealing with familiar situations, was no longer adequate to the task.
First was the period of codification of existing law : the Code Napoleon in France and the peculiar codification that, in fact, resulted from Austin's restatement and ordering of the Common Law in England.
Codification was followed in all countries by a growing amount of legislation, some changing and adjusting the older law, much dealing with entirely new situations.
The legislative mills have been grinding ever since, and when its cumbersome processes were no longer adequate to the task, a limited legislative authority was delegated in one form or another, to the executive.
Indeed, with developed positivism, the separation of law from justice, or from morality generally, became quite specific.
In municipal systems we tend to view what is called positivism as fundamentally a movement to democratize policy by increasing the power of parliament - the elected representatives - at the expense of the more conservative judiciary.
When the power of the latter was made both limited and explicit - when norms were clarified and made more precise and the creation of new norms was placed exclusively in parliamentary hands - two purposes were served : Government was made subservient to an institutionalized popular will, and law became a rational system for implementing that will, for serving conscious goals, for embodying the ``public policy''.
It is true that, initially, the task was to remove restrictions that, it was thought, inhibited the free flow of money, goods, and labor; but even laissez-faire was a conscious policy.
Law was seen as an emanation of the ``sovereign will''.
However, the sovereign was not Hobbes' absolute monarch but rather the parliamentary sovereign of Austin.
It was, too, an optimistic philosophy, and, though it separated law from morality, it was by no means an immoral or amoral one.
Man, through democratic institutions of government and economic freedom, was master of his destiny.
The theory did not require, though it unfortunately might acquire, a Hegelian mystique.
It was not opposed to either justice or morality; it merely wished to minimize subjective views of officials who wielded public authority.
Particularly was this true as laissez-faire capitalism became the dominant credo of Western society.
To free the factors of production was a major objective of the rising bourgeoisie, and this objective required that governmental authority - administrative officials and judges - be limited as precisely and explicitly as possible; that old customs which inhibited trade be abrogated; that business be free from governmental supervision and notions of morality which might clog the automatic adjustments of the free market; that obligations of status that were inconsistent with the new politics and the new economics be done away with.
Contract - conceived as the free bargain of formal equals - replaced the implied obligations of a more static and status conscious society.
Indeed, contract was the dominant legal theme of the century, the touchstone of the free society.
Government itself was based upon contract; business organization - the corporation - was analyzed in contractual terms; trade was based on freedom of contract, and money was lent and borrowed on contractual terms; even marriage and the family was seen as a contractual arrangement.
It is not surprising that the international obligations of states were also viewed in terms of contract.
In fact, some - Anzilotti is the principle example - went so far as to say that all international law could be traced to the single legal norm, Pacta sunt Servanda.
The displacement (at least to a considerable extent) of the ethical jurisprudence of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries by positivism reshaped both international law theory and doctrine.
One result was to nationalize much that had been regarded as the law of nations.
Admiralty law, the law merchant, and the host of problems which arise in private litigation because of some contact with a foreign country were all severed from the older Law of Nations and made dependent on the several national laws.
Private international law (which Americans call the ``conflict of laws'') was thus segregated from international law proper, or, as it is often called, public international law.
States were free to enact, within broad though (perhaps) determinate limits, their own rules as to the application of foreign law by their courts, to vary the law merchant, and to enact legislation with regard to many claims arising on the high seas.
The change was not quite so dramatic as it sounds because in fact common norms continued to be invoked by municipal courts and were only gradually changed by legislation, and then largely in marginal situations.
``Well'' - said Mr. Skyros.
``I take a little time to think it over''.
It was awkward : very awkward.
There would be all the nuisance of contacting someone else to take over.
And Angie would hear about it.
And Angie knew -
``Time'', said Angie, and he smiled very sweet and slow at Mr. Skyros.
``Not too much time, because I'll be needing some more myself pretty much right away.
And I done favors for you, big favor not so long back, didn't I, and I'm right here to take on where Pretty left off.
No trouble.
I don't want no trouble, you don't want no trouble, nobody wants trouble, Mr. Skyros''.
Dear heaven, no, thought Mr. Skyros, turning away as another man came in.
He straightened his tie at the mirror with a shaking hand; the genial smile seemed painted on his face.
Angie knew too much entirely already.
Really he had Mr. Skyros at bay.
``Big favor I done you.
Acourse there's this deal o' Denny's - and Jackie's - kinda hangin' fire, ain't it, maybe you've been kinda worryin' over that.
And cann't say I blame you'', said Angie thoughtfully.
``This deal with the ace o' spades.
Anything to do with an ace o' spades, bad luck''.
Ace of spades - a widow, that was what they called a widow, these low-class crooks remembered Mr. Skyros distractedly.
All about that Angie knew, too.
All just by chance, and in a way tracing back to poor Frank, all of it, because naturally - brothers, living together - and Angie -
Mr. Skyros did not at all like the look on Angelo's regular featured, almost girlishly good-looking face - or indeed anything about Angelo.
Mr. Skyros was not a man who thought very much about moral principles; he found money much more interesting; but all the same he thought now, uneasily, of the way in which Angelo earned his living - and paid for his own stuff - and eyed the soft smile, and the spaniel like dark eyes, and he felt a little ill.
``Look, my friend'', he said, ``in my life I learn, how is it the proverb says, better an ounce of prevention to a pound of cure.
I stay in business so long because I'm careful.
Two weeks, a month, we talk it over again, and maybe if nothing happens meanwhile to say the cops know this and that, then we make a little deal, isn't it''?
``That's a long while'', said Angie.
``I tell you, you want to leave it that way, I don't fool around with it.
I go over to Castro and get fixed up there.
And Mr. Skyros didn't like Angie, but what with Prettyman and three of his boys inside, and not likely to come out - And Angie such a valuable salesman, Prettyman said - All the nuisance and danger of getting in touch with practically a whole new bunch of boys - Why did everything have to happen at once?
Denny said stupidly, ``Why, you ain't turning Angie down, are you, Mr. Skyros?
I mean, we all figured - I guess anybody'd figure - Angie'' -
Angelo gave him an affectionate smile.
``Mr. Skyros too smart a fellow want to get rid of me'', he said.
``It's O. K., Denny, everything's O. K. Ain't it, Mr. Skyros''?
Oh, God, the name repeated over and over, anybody to hear - Not being a fool, Mr. Skyros knew why.
But aside from everything else, it would scarcely be pleasant to have dealings with one who was nominally an underling and actually held - you could say - the whip hand.
And all because of Domokous!
Of course, there was another factor.
Angie worth his weight in gold right now, but these users, they sometimes went down fast.
Who knew, Angie might not last long.
The sweat broke out on Mr. Skyros' forehead as he realized he had been actually thinking - hoping - planning - perhaps -
Good God above, had not Domokous been enough?
He patted Angelo's thin shoulder paternally.
``Now you don't want to go talking that way'', he said.
``Sure, sure, you're the one take over for Pretty, soon as I get the supply, get started up again, isn't it?
You don't need worry, Angelo.
I don't know if I can manage it tonight or tomorrow, but I'll try my best, my friend.
You see, you got to remember, we all got schedules, like any business!
My man, he wonn't be around a little while, he just fixed me up with this stuff they took out of the Elite.
It's awkward, you see that, isn't it''?
``Well, that's your business, Mr. Skyros'', said Angie, and his dreamy eyes moved past Mr. Skyros' shoulder to gaze vaguely out the ground glass window.
``I appreciate it, you do that.
Sure.
We don't none of us want no trouble.
I'm in a room over the Golden Club on San Pedro, you just ask for me there, you want see me.
About nine o' clock, I call and see if you got any.
A couple decks for me, Mr. Skyros - and ten twelve to sell, see, I like to have a little ready cash''.
``Oh, now, I don't know about that much'', said Mr. Skyros.
``And you know, Angelo, Pretty, he always keeps it a strict cash basis, like they say'' -
``Sure'', said Angie.
``Sure, Mr. Skyros.
Fifty a throw, that the deal?
Sure.
I bring you the cash, say five hundred for ten decks.
``Standard deal, Mr. Skyros.
You go' n' have a look round for it''.
``I do my best'', said Mr. Skyros earnestly, ``just for you, my friend.
This is awkward for everybody, isn't it, we all got to put up with inconvenience sometimes.
But I do my best for you''.
He got out of there in a hurry, brushing past another man in the door, mopping his brow.
The expedient thing - yes, very true, one must make do as one could, in some situations.
It could all be straightened out later.
Not very much later, but when things had settled down a little.
An ace of spades.
He was not a superstitious man, but he felt perhaps there was a little something in that, indeed.
He rather wished he had never got into the business, and still - scarcely to be resisted, a nice little profit with not much work involved, easy money.
Katya Roslev, who would be Katharine Ross so very soon now, rang up her first sale of the day and counted back the change.
She did not notice that the customer seized her purchase and turned away without a smile or a word of thanks.
Usually she marked the few who did thank you, you didn't get that kind much in a place like this : and she played a little game with herself, seeing how downright rude she could act to the others, before they'd take offense, threaten to call the manager.
Funny how seldom they did : used to it, probably.
The kind who came into a cheap store like this!
Grab, snatch, I saw that first!
This kind of place.
She'd be through here, just no time at all - leave this kind of thing' way behind.
Off at noon, and she'd never come back.
Never have to.
Money - a lot of money, enough.
She'd be smart about it, get him to give it to her in little bills so's nobody would suspect - maybe couldn't get it until Monday account of that, the banks - But that wasn't really long to wait.
Not when she'd waited so long already.
No need say anything at all to the old woman.
She had it all planned out, how she'd do.
Then on Monday morning - or it might have to be Tuesday - get up and leave just the usual time, and last thing, put the money in an envelope under the old woman's purse there in the drawer.
She wouldn't be going to get that for an hour or so after Katya had left, go do the daily shopping.
No need leave a note with it, either - or maybe just something like, Don't worry about me, I'm going away to make a better life.
A better life.
Escape.
It wasn't as if she wanted much.
She didn't mind working hard, not as if she figured to do anything wrong to live easy and soft - all she wanted was a chance, where she wasn't marked as what she was.
To be Katharine Ross, and work in a nicer shop somewhere, at a little more money so she could have prettier clothes, and learn ladies' manners and all like that, and get to know different people than up to now, not just the ones like her here, with foreign sounding names, the ones went to the same church and - Different place, different job, different people, she'd be all different too.
Prettier, she'd do her hair another way; smarter, and wear different kinds of clothes - she'd be Katharine Ross, just what that sounded like.
``Think I cann't count''?
Katya made up the amount in indifferent silence.
She was listening to other voices, out of the future.
Some of those vaguely imagined new, different people.
Oh, Katharine's awfully nice, and pretty too, I like Katharine.
Let's ask Katharine to go with us, she's always lots of fun.
Katharine.
Soon, very soon now & & &.
Mendoza didn't wake until nearly nine thirty.
Alison was still sound asleep; he made fresh coffee and searched through all the desk drawers for more cigarettes before thinking of her handbag, and found a crumpled stray cigarette at its bottom, which tasted peculiarly of face powder.
He left a note propped on the desk asking her to call him sometime today, and drove home.
After he'd got out fresh liver for Bast, he paused to look at her crouched daintily over her dish.
Surely she was just a trifle fatter around the middle?
He seemed to remember reading somewhere that Abyssinians had large litters, and suffered a dismaying vision of the apartment overrun with a dozen kittens.
``Y que sigue despues?
- what then'' ? he asked her severely.
``A lot of people are so peculiar that they don't like cats, it's not the easiest thing in the world to find good homes for kittens - and, damn it, you know very well if I have them around long, impossible to give them away!
And I suppose now that you've finally grown up, if a little late, you'd go on producing kittens every six months or so.
I wonder if the Carters would take one.
And it's no good looking at me like that'', as she wound affectionately around his ankles.
Maude's long nose unexpectedly wrinkled up.
``Happened to be in the hall!
Happened to hear you quarrel about her!
Oh, well, you cann't really blame Lolotte.
She lost her beau to you''.
But she was talking of Emile when she saw the black line of the open door; Sarah remembered it clearly.
Maude went on.
Miss Celie's taken to her bed, with the door locked.
She opened it an inch and poked out the keys for me to give you.
Here'' - She thrust a bundle of keys strung on a thick red cord into Sarah's hand.
``Not that there's much use in locking up the smokehouse and the storehouse now.
Drink your coffee'' -
Coffee.
``It's - cold''.
Maude suddenly looked quite capable of pouring it down her throat.
``I don't want it'', Sarah said, firmly.
Well - I'll take it down with me as I go''.
Maude swooped up the cup and hiked up her top hoop as if about to take off with a racing start.
At the door she turned back, her Roman nose looking very long now and satiric.
``I forgot.
Ben and Lucien have gone after them.
It's just like that book your Northern friend wrote - except there aren't any ice floes to cross and no bloodhounds''.
``I don't know Mrs. Stowe.
What can they do if they find them''?
``They cann't do anything.
I told Ben so.
But of course the paterollers wonn't be of any help, not with everything so upset and that Yankee cavalry outfit they say is running around, God knows where''.
She had swished away, she had been gone for a long time probably when Sarah suddenly realized that she ought to stop her, pour out the coffee, so no one would drink it.
But then the so-called coffee was bad enough at best, cold it was all but undrinkable - especially that cup!
She was deeply, horribly sure that Lucien had filled it with opium.
She had quarreled with Lucien, she had resisted his demands for money - and if she died, by the provisions of her marriage contract, Lucien would inherit legally not only the immediate sum of gold under the floorboards in the office, but later, when the war was over, her father's entire estate.
She felt cold and hot, sticky and chilly at the same time.
Now wait a minute, she told herself, think about it; Lucien is not the only person in this house who could have put opium in that coffee.
She had lost a bottle of opium - but that was on the trip from New Orleans.
Yes, she had missed it after her talk with Emile, after dinner, just before Emile was shot.
Rilly or Glendora had entered her room while she slept, bringing back her washed clothes.
So somebody else could have come in, too - then or later while she was out of the room.
It would have been easy to identify as opium by its odor.
It was not very reasonable to believe that Lucien had procured unprocurable opium and come back to Honotassa with a formed plan to murder her.
He didn't even know that she was there.
And he certainly couldn't have guessed that she would resist his demand for the gold or that she was not the yielding - yes, and credible fool he had every right to expect.
No, he had been surprised, unpleasantly surprised, but surprised.
Then somebody else?
Her skin crawled : Lolotte had told Maude that she was in the hall and the door was open.
Sarah had begun to tell Lucien of Emile, she had begun to question and a little draft had crept across the room from the bedroom door, open barely enough to show a rim of blackness in the hall.
So Lolotte - or anybody - could have listened, and that somebody could have already been supplied with the missing bottle of opium.
That was not reasonable either.
The opium had disappeared before Emile's death and whoever shot him could not by any stretch of the imagination have foreseen Sarah's own doubts and suspicions - and questions.
She began to doubt whether there had been in fact a lethal dose of opium in the cup.
So suppose somebody only wished to frighten her, so she would leave Honotassa!
That made a certain amount of logic.
Added to the argument was the fact that while she might have tasted the coffee if it had been still hot, she might even have drunk some of it, she wouldn't have taken enough to kill her, for she would have been warned by its taste.
It was merely an attempt to frighten her.
She wouldn't go back to New York as Maude suggested; she wouldn't run like a scared cat.
But - well, she'd be very careful.
She dressed and the accustomed routine restored to her a sense of normal everyday life.
But before she left her room she dug into her big moire bag, took out the envelope holding her marriage contract and the wax seal had been broken.
So somebody else knew what would happen to her father's money if she died.
Rev had known all along.
Rev didn't need to break the wax seal, read the contract and find out.
He could conceivably have wished to make sure; Rev loved Honotassa, it was like a part of his breath and body; Rev had stressed the need for money.
She thrust the envelope back in the bag; there was no point in locking it up in the armoire now, it was like locking the barn after the horse was stolen.
And in all likelihood, by now, there was more than one person in the house who knew the terms of her marriage contract.
There was no point either in telling herself again what a fool she'd been.
She went downstairs and received another curious shock, for when Glendora flapped into the dining room in her homemade moccasins, Sarah asked her when she had brought coffee to her room and Glendora said she hadn't.
``Too much work this morning, Miss Sarah - everybody gone like that'' -
Sarah swallowed past another kind of constriction in her throat.
``Well, then who brought it''?
``Miss Maude.
She come to the kitchen and say she take it up to you''.
``Not much breakfast this morning.
I don't know what we're going to do, Miss Sarah''.
``We've got to eat'', Sarah said, curtly, because a chill crawled over her again.
Maude?
Glendora flapped away.
The rice wasn't dosed with opium, indeed it had no taste at all, not a grain of salt.
She ate what she could and went out along the covered passageway, with the rain dripping from the vines.
In the kitchen Glendora was despairingly picking chickens.
``Get a basket'', Sarah told her.
Glendora dropped a chicken and a flurry of feathers, and went with her through the drizzle, to the storehouse.
Sarah found the right key and unlocked the door.
It was a long, low room, like a root cellar, for it was banked up with soil, and vines had run rampant over that, too.
It was dark but dry and cool.
She doled out what Glendora vaguely guessed were the right amounts of dried peas, eggs, cornmeal, a little salt.
The shelves looked emptier than when Miss Celie had shown her the storeroom, and since the men from the Commissary had called; there were certainly now fewer mouths to feed but there was less to feed them with.
She took Glendora to the smokehouse, unlocked it and saw with satisfaction there was still a quantity of hams and sides of bacon, hanging from the smoke stained rafters.
They wouldn't go hungry, not yet.
And the fields were green and growing.
Maude had said.
Maude.
She sent Glendora back to the house, her basket and her apron laden.
She stood for a moment, rain dripping from the trees over her head, thinking of Maude.
Maude had the opportunity to take the bottle of opium from Sarah's room.
Maude had the cool ruthlessness to do whatever she made up her mind to do.
She couldn't see how her death could affect Maude.
She couldn't see any reason why Maude would attempt to frighten her.
Besides, there was something hysterical and silly, something almost childish about an attempt to frighten her.
Yet Maude had suggested that Sarah return to New York.
Maude could have shot Emile - if she'd had a reason to kill him.
There was no use in standing there in the drizzle, trying to find a link between Emile's murder and opium in a cup of coffee.
She started back for the house, saw a light in the office, opened the door and surprised a domestic little scene which was far outside the dark realm of murder or attempted murder.
Rev, George and Lolotte were mending shoes.
a lighted lamp stood on the table that dusky, drizzling day.
They were all three bent over a shabby riding boot; George had a tack hammer.
Lolotte held a patch of leather, Rev steadied something, a tiny brad, waiting for George's poised hammer.
George said, ``First thing I do when I get to Vicksburg again, is get me a Yankee'' -
Rev looked up and saw her.
Lolotte looked up and stiffened.
George didn't look up at all.
There was no way to know, no way to guess whether any one of them was surprised at Sarah's appearance, believing her to be drugged and senseless - and just possibly dead.
Rev said, ``Come in, Sarah.
Reckon you know the news''.
And what news, Sarah thought as satirically as Maude might have said it.
Rev's face was suddenly a little fixed and questioning.
He turned to George and Lolotte.
I want to talk to Sarah''.
Everything in the office, the spreading circle of lamplight, the patch of leather in Lolotte's hands.
George poised with the tack hammer, the homely, everyday atmosphere, all denied an attempt at murder.
A rush of panic caught Sarah.
``No.
Not now.
I mean I've got to - to see to the kitchen.
Glendora'' -
Her words jumbled together and she all but ran from the office and from the question in Rev's face.
she thought as warm, drizzling rain touched her face.
She was no schoolgirl, refusing to bear tales.
As she reached the kitchen door the answer presented itself; if she told anyone of the opium it must be Lucien, her husband.
It might be, indeed it had already proved to be a marriage without love, but it was marriage.
So she couldn't choose Rev as a confidant; it must be Lucien.
Always provided that Lucien himself had not dosed her coffee with opium, she thought, as coldly and sharply, again, as Maude might have said it.
She paused at the kitchen door, caught her breath, told herself firmly that the opium was only an attempt to frighten her and went into the kitchen, where Glendora was eyeing the chickens dismally and Maude was cleaning lamp chimneys.
Glendora gave a gulp.
``Miss Sarah, I cann't cut up no chicken.
Again the homely, everyday details of daily living refuted a vicious attempt to frighten her - or to murder her.
The homely everyday details of living and domestic requirements also pressed upon her with their immediate urgency.
No matter what had happened or hadn't happened, somebody had to see about dinner.
She eyed the chickens with, if she had known it, something of Glendora's dismal look and thought with a certain fury of the time she had spent on Latin verbs.
``Not since last night.
I didn't think there was any reason to''.
``Maybe there isn't.
Speak to him again anyway.
Try talking to some of the fellows he works with, friends, anyone.
You might try looking into his wife too.
She might have been talking to some of her friends about her husband if they've been having any trouble''.
``You think Black's the one we're looking for''?
``Yeah.
I think he might be'', Conrad said grimly.
``Then again he might not''.
``What a stinking world'', Rourke said.
``Black is Gilborn's best friend''.
``I know''.
``I think so.
I'm on my way to see the Jacobs woman''.
``Gilborn's secretary?
What for?
You don't think Gilborn is the -''?
``I don't think anything.
I just don't want to go off half cocked before picking up Black, that's all''.
Conrad interrupted.
``Gilborn says he was in his office all day with her yesterday.
Also, it's just possible she might know something about Mrs. Gilborn''.
``Right.
I'll see you later''.
``Aren't you ever going to go home''?
``It sure as hell doesn't look like it, does it?
I'm telling you, if these corpses ever knew the trouble they put us to, they'd think twice before letting themselves get knocked off''.
``Remember to tell that to the next corpse you meet''.
Conrad hung up and sat on the small telephone-booth bench, massaging his right leg.
He looked at his watch.
He wondered how long it would be before they had a signed confession from Lionel Black.
Thirty years' experience let him know, even at this early stage, that Black was his man.
But he still wanted to know why.
It was a cold, windy day, the day after Kitti's death, but Stanley Gilborn paid no attention to the blustery October wind.
After leaving Conrad, Gilborn had no destination.
He simply walked, not noticing where he was, not caring.
He stopped automatically at the street corners, waiting for the traffic lights to change, unheeding of other people, his coat open and flapping.
As he walked, he tried to think.
Of Kitti.
Mainly of what Conrad had tried to make him believe.
There was nothing coherent about his thinking.
It was a succession of picture images passing through his mind : the same ones, different ones, in no apparent sequence, in no logical succession.
The enormity of what Conrad had told him made it impossible for Gilborn to accept, with any degree of realism, the actuality of it.
Conrad's words had intellectual meaning for him only.
Emotionally, they penetrated him not at all.
Whoever he was and your wife were intimate.
Gilborn remembered Conrad's exact words.
They made sense and yet they didn't.
It was so.
Yet it wasn't so.
It wasn't so because it couldn't be so.
When Kitti was alive - and he remembered the pressure of her hand resting lightly on his arm - she had been the center of his life.
She was the sun, he the closest planet orbiting around her, the rest of the world existing and visible yet removed.
For fifty-five years he had lived, progressing towards a no-goal, eating, working, breathing without plan, without reason.
Kitti had come along to justify everything.
She was his goal, she was his reason.
He had lived all his life waiting for her.
He could not consider it now.
Not really.
And so he walked, aimless again.
The walk ended, inevitably, right in front of his hotel building.
The doorman began to nod his head automatically, then remembered who Gilborn was, what had happened to him the night before.
He looked at Gilborn with undisguised curiosity.
Gilborn passed by him without seeing him.
He crossed the lobby and rode up in the elevator lost in his own thoughts.
In the apartment itself, all was still.
There was no evidence that anything was different than it had been.
Except that Kitti wasn't there.
Without taking off his coat, he sat in the blue chair which still faced the closed bedroom door.
At last, sitting there, in the familiar surroundings, the truth began to sink in.
Who?
He felt no anger towards Kitti, no sense that she had betrayed him.
Who?
She was all he had, everything he had, everything he wanted.
Someone had taken her away from him.
Where there is a left-hand entry in the ledger, there is a right-hand one, he remembered from his school days.
Where there is a victim, there is a killer.
Who?
Whoever he was and your wife were intimate.
He rose from the chair, took off his coat.
Quickly, he went into the bedroom.
The bed still showed signs of where Kitti had lain.
Gilborn stood there for a long time.
He looked at the bed unblinkingly.
Kitti would lie in it no more.
He would lie in it no more.
Gilborn wondered whether Kitti had lain in that same bed with & & & Who?
For thirty minutes, Stanley Gilborn stood there.
At the end of the half-hour, racking his brains, thinking over and over again of Kitti, her friends, her past, he left the bedroom.
Who?
He could think of no answer.
Gilborn put on his coat again.
Before leaving, he took one last, lingering look at the apartment.
In the street, walking as quickly as he could, Stanley Gilborn was a lone figure.
On Blanche Jacobs, Kitti Gilborn's death had a quite different effect.
For Blanche, Kitti's death was a source of guilty, but nonetheless soaring, happy hope.
In Blanche's defense, it must be said she was unaware of the newborn hope.
If anyone had asked her, she would have described herself only as nervous and worried.
The figures on the worksheet paper in front of her were jumping and waving around so badly it was all she could do to make them out clearly enough to copy them with the typewriter.
She wondered whether Stanley would call.
She wanted to be with him, to give him the comfort and companionship she knew he needed.
She had skipped her lunch hour in the fear that he might call while she was out.
And now she was feeling sick, both from concern about Stanley and hunger.
Why hadn't he called?
Men, she reflected, even men like Stanley, are unpredictable.
She tried to think of his unpredictable actions in the eleven years she had known him and discovered they weren't so many after all.
Stanley really was quite predictable.
That was one of the things she liked about Stanley.
He wasn't like so many other men.
The dentist last night, for instance.
Dinner and the movies had been fine.
She had invited him in for coffee.
It was in the kitchen, as she was watching the kettle, waiting for the water to boil, that he had grabbed for her.
Without warning, without giving her a chance to prepare for it.
From behind, he had put his arms on her shoulders, turned her around, and pressed her to him, so close she couldn't breathe.
Later, she apologized for the long scratch across his face, tried to explain she couldn't help herself, that the panic arose in her unwanted.
But he hadn't understood.
When he left, she knew she would never see him again.
Stanley wasn't like that.
She could always predict what Stanley was going to do, ever since she first met him.
The morning he walked in to announce to her, blushing, that he was married.
She thought she was going to die.
She had assumed before then that one day he would ask her to marry him.
Blanche couldn't remember when she had first arrived at this conclusion.
She thought it was sometime during the second week she worked for Stanley.
It was nothing that he said or did, but it seemed so natural to her that she should be working for him, looking forward to his eventual proposal.
She was thirty-one years old then.
Her mother was already considerably concerned over her daughter's future.
But Blanche had been able to maintain a serene and assured composure in the face of her widowed mother's continued carping, had been able to resist her urgings to date anyone who offered the slightest possibility of matrimony.
It was to be expected that Stanley would be shy, slow in taking such a momentous step.
Stanley went along in life, she knew, convinced that he deserved the love and faith of no woman.
As a result, he never looked for it.
But one day, she expected, he would somehow discover, without her having to tell him, that there was such a woman in the world; a woman who was willing to give him love, faith, and anything else a woman could give a husband.
Indeed, there was a woman who, unasked, had already given him love.
Unquestionably, Blanche loved Stanley.
And then, unexpectedly, Stanley made his announcement.
On that first day, Blanche literally thought she was going to die, or, at the very least, go out of her mind.
It might have been easier for her if Kitti Walker hadn't been everything that Blanche was not.
Kitti could have married a score of men.
There was no reason for her to marry someone like Stanley Gilborn, there was no need for her to marry Stanley.
Kitti had come into the office, on somebody's recommendation, because she needed help in preparing her income tax return.
Stanley had filled out the return and because, when he was finished, it was close to the lunch hour, he had politely asked Kitti to join him, never expecting her to accept.
Blanche knew all this because the door to Stanley's office was open and, without straining too hard, she could hear everything that was said.
Stanley had gone out, saying he would be back in an hour.
He hadn't come back for over two.
After that day, Blanche still didn't know exactly what had happened.
There were mornings when Stanley came in late, afternoons when he left early, days when he didn't come in at all.
It was too unprecedented.
Then, six weeks after the day Kitti first came into the office, Stanley announced he and Kitti were married.
Somehow, Blanche managed to cover the stunned surprise and offer her congratulations.
That night the two of them left for a week's honeymoon in Acapulco.
While they were away Blanche came into the office every morning, running things as she had always run them for Stanley, going through the week in a dazed stupor, getting things done automatically, out of habit.
For exactly one week, she was able to continue in this manner.
On the morning of Stanley's return, however, her strength left her.
Two hours of watching his serenely happy face, listening to his soft humming as he bent over his penciled figures, and Blanche had to leave.
She stayed away for ten days.
Mostly, she stayed in bed.
She didn't tell anyone, even her mother, what was wrong.
She refused to have a doctor, insisting there was nothing a doctor could do for her.
His son watched until he got as far as the hall, almost out of sight, then hurried after.
``Dad.
Dad, wait''.
He caught up with the old man in the living room.
Old man Arthur had put down the suitcase to open the front door.
``Just this one favor, Dad.
``Why not''?
The old man gave the room a stare in leaving; under the scraggly brows the pale old eyes burned with a bitter memory.
``It's the truth''.
``The Bartlett girl was killed by Mr. Dronk's son.
Rossi and Ferguson have been across the street, talking to the kid.
They've found some sort of new evidence, a bundle of clothes or something, and it must link the kid even stronger to the crime.
Why wonn't you accept facts?
The two kids were together a lot, they were having some kind of teen-age affair - God knows how far that had gone - and the kid's crippled.
He limps, and the man who hit you and took the cane, he limped.
His father looked him over closely.
``You sound like an old woman.
You should have gone to work today,' stead of sneaking around spying on the Dronk house''.
``Now, see here'' -
``The trouble with you'', old man Arthur began, and then checked himself.
Young Mrs. Arthur had opened the oven and there was a drifting odor of hot biscuits.
The old man opened the door and stepped out into the sunlight.
``Isn't enough time to go into it'', he finished, and slammed the door in his son's face.
Mrs. Holden turned from the window draperies.
``They took it away, overalls or something''.
She walked restlessly across the room, then back to the windows.
``Now they've gone, they didn't come back, and they didn't arrest that Dronk boy''.
She stood frowning and chewing her lip.
She was wearing a brown cotton dress, cut across the hips in a way that was supposed to make her look slimmer, a yoke set into the skirt and flaring pleats below.
She smoothed the skirt, sat down, then stood up and went back to the windows.
``Why on earth did I send him off to work?
There was excuse enough to keep him home, that young Mr. Arthur's still over there''.
With sudden energy, she went to the phone and rang Holden's office and asked for him.
``Mae, we're so busy.
Mr. Crosson's been on everybody's neck, an order he expected didn't come through and he's'' -
``I don't care.
I want you here.
I'm all alone and certain things are going on that look very ominous.
I need someone to go out and find out what's happening''.
``But I couldn't do that, even if I were home''!
His voice grew high and trembling.
``I cann't be underfoot every time those cops turn around!
He couldn't see the grin that split her mouth; the teeth that shone into the phone were like a shark's.
``You'll just have to risk it.
You cann't wander along in the dark, can you?
I'd think that you, even more than I, would be wondering what they're up to.
They found some clothes'', she.
``What''?
Deliberately, she ignored the yelp.
``Also, that Mr. Ferguson was here.
I guess he wants to ask you some questions.
He doesn't expect you until five''.
``Then I'd better wait until five''.
``No.
Come home right away''.
She slapped the receiver into its holder and stepped away.
Her eyes were bright with anticipation.
In his office, Mr. Holden replaced the phone slowly.
He rose from his chair.
He had to cough then; he went to the window and choked there with the fresh breeze on his face.
For a moment he thought of going into Crosson's office to explain that he had to leave, but there was now such a pain in his chest, such a pounding in his head, that he decided to let it go.
He passed the receptionist in the outer office, muttering, ``I've got to go out for a little while''.
Let her call Crosson if she wanted to, let Crosson raise the roof or even can him, he didn't care.
He got into the car.
Putting the key into the switch, pressing the accelerator with his foot, putting the car into reverse, seemed vast endeavors almost beyond the ability of his shaking body.
Once out in the street, the traffic was a gadfly maze in which he wandered stricken.
When he turned into the highway that led to the outskirts of the city and then rose toward home, he had to pull over to the curb and wait for a few minutes, sucking in air and squinting and blinking his eyes to clear them of tears.
What on earth was in Mae's mind, that she wanted him up there spying on what the cops were doing?
What did she think he could do?
She wanted him to get into trouble.
She wanted the police to notice him, suspect him.
She was going to keep on scheming, poking, prodding, suggesting, and dictating until the cops got up enough interest in him to go back to their old neighborhood and ask questions.
And he knew in that moment, with a cold sinking of despair, a dying of old hopes, that Mae had spread some kind of word there among the neighbors.
Nothing bald, open; but enough.
They'd have some suspicions to repeat to the police.
Though his inner thoughts cringed at it, he forced himself to think back, recreating the scene in which Mae claimed to have caught him molesting the child.
It hadn't amounted to anything.
There had been nothing evil or dirty in his intentions.
Suppose the cops somehow got hold of that?
Well, it hadn't been what it seemed, he'd had no idea the girl was in there.
He hadn't touched her.
And when he came to examine the scene, there was a certain staginess to it, it had the smell of planning, and a swift suspicion darted into his mind.
Too monstrous, of course.
Mae wouldn't have plotted a thing like that.
It was just that little accidents played into her hands.
Like this murder.
He leaned on the wheel, clutching it, staring into the sunlight, and tried to bring order into his thoughts.
There was no use wandering off into a territory of utter nightmare.
Mae was his wife.
She was married to him for better or for worse.
She wouldn't be wilfully planning his destruction.
But she was.
She was.
Even as the conviction of truth roared through him, shattering his last hope of safety, he was reaching to release the hand brake, to head up the road for home, doing her bidding.
He drove, and the road wobbled, familiar scenes crept past on either side.
He came to a stretch of old orange groves, the trees dead, some of them uprooted, and then there was an outlying shopping area, and tract houses.
But he couldn't imagine where.
There was really no place to go, finally, except home to Mae.
At the gate he slowed, looking around.
Cooper was beside his car, on the curb at the right, just standing there morosely; he didn't even look up.
Behind him on the steps of the little office sat old man Arthur; he was straight, something angry in his attitude, as if he might be waiting to report something.
Holden stepped on the gas.
A new idea drifted in from nowhere.
He could go to the police.
He could tell them his fears of being involved, he could explain what had happened in the old neighborhood and how Mae had misunderstood and how she had held it over him - the scene was complete in his mind at the moment, even to his own jerkings and snivelings, and Ferguson's silent patience.
It wasn't what Mae would want him to do, though.
He was sure of this.
Once he had abandoned himself to the very worst, once he had quieted all the dragons of worry and suspense, there wouldn't be very much for Mae to do.
At that moment, Holden almost slammed on the brakes to go back to Cooper and ask if Ferguson was about.
It would be such a relief.
What was that old sign, supposed to be painted over a door somewhere, Abandon hope, all ye who enter here?
Why, Holden said to himself, surprised at his own sudden insight, I'll bet some of those people who enter are just as happy as can be.
They've worried, they've lain awake nights, they've shook at the slightest footstep, they've pictured their own destruction, and now it's all over and they can give up.
Sure, they're giving up hope.
Good-bye.
Holden waved a hand at the empty street.
Glad to see you go.
He drove into the paved space before the garage and got out, slamming the car door.
He looked up and down the street.
If Ferguson's car had been in sight, Holden would have walked directly to it.
He went to the front door and opened it and looked in.
Mae entered the room from the hallway to the kitchen.
She had a cup of something steaming, coffee perhaps, in one hand, a fresh piece of toast in the other.
``Mae'' -
``I've been thinking'', she said, swallowing the toast.
``Didn't you have an old pair of painting overalls in the garage?
You used them that time you painted the porch at our other house.
And then you wiped up some grease''.
She had caught him off guard, no preparation, nothing certain but that ahead lay some kind of disaster.
``No.
Wait a minute.
What do you'' -
I'm sure they were in the garage up until a couple of days ago.
Or even yesterday.
You used to paint in them, and then you just took them for rags.
The police have them now''.
``I don't remember any overalls at all''.
``They were all faded.
Worn through at the knees''.
She stood sipping and chewing and watching.
``Green paint, wasn't it?
But you had them''.
``Mae, sit down.
Put down the cup of coffee.
Tell me what this is all about''.
She shook her head.
She took another bite of toast.
Holden noticed almost absently how she chewed, how the whole side of her cheek moved, a slab of fat that extended down into her neck.
``My goodness, you ought to remember if I do.
You're going to have to go to the police and explain what happened.
A seeping coldness entered Holden's being; his nerves seemed frost-bitten down to the tips of his tingling fingers and his spine felt stiff and glass like, liable to break like an icicle at any moment.
``I've never owned any painting overalls.
A man with a sketch pad in hand sat with a large pink woman in a small office at the end of a long, dim corridor and made pencil lines on paper and said, ``Is this more like it, Mrs. MacReady?
Or are the eyebrows more like this''?
When he had finished with that, he would go to another part of the hotel and say much the same things to someone else, most probably a busboy.
``Begin to look like him now, would you say?
Different about the mouth, huh?
More like this, maybe''?
Men blew dust on objects in a room on the seventeenth floor of the Hotel Dumont and blew it off again, and did the same in a tiny, almost airless room in a tenement in the West Forties.
Men from the Third Detective District, Eighteenth Precinct, had the longest, the most tedious, job.
At the Hotel Dumont there had, at the time in issue, been twenty-three overnighters, counting couples as singular.
These included, as one, Mr. and Mrs. Anthony Payne, who had checked in a little after noon the day before, and had not checked out together.
But Gardner Willings was not included; he had been at the Dumont for almost a week.
There was, of course, no special reason to believe that the man or woman they sought had stayed only overnight at the hotel.
The twenty-three (or twenty-two with the Paynes themselves omitted) provided merely a place to start, and their identification was the barest of starts.
With names and addresses listed, verification came next.
It would take time; it would, almost inevitably, trouble some water.
(``I certainly was not at the Dumont last night and my husband couldn't have been.
Of course he's in'' -)
The Hotel King Arthur across the street provided almost twice as many problems.
The King Arthur offered respectable and convenient lodgings to people from the suburbs who wanted to see a show and didn't want - heaven knew didn't want!
- to lunge anxiously through crowded streets to railroad stations and, at odd hours of night, drive from smaller stations to distant homes, probably through rain or, in November, something worse.
The King Arthur was less expensive than the Dumont.
The King Arthur had fifty-four overnighters, again counting rooms rather than people.
Check the overnighters out.
Failing to find what was wanted, as was most likely, check out other guests, with special - but not exclusive - attention to those with rooms on the street.
(Anyone active enough can reach a roof, wherever his room may be .)
It was not even certain the shot had been fired from either hotel.
There were other roofs, less convenient but not impossible.
It is dull business, detecting, and hard on feet.
There was also the one salient question to ask, and ask widely : Did you notice anything out of the way?
Like, for example, a man carrying a twenty-two rifle, probably with a telescopic sight attached?
There was, of course, no hope it really would be that simple.
The sniper, whether psychopathic marksman or murderer by intent, would hardly have walked to his vantage point with rifle over shoulder, whistling a marching tune.
Anybody carrying anything that might hide a rifle?
Long thin suitcase?
Shrugs met that, from room clerks, from bellhops.
Who measures?
But nothing, it appeared, long enough to attract attention.
Cases, say, for musical instruments?
None noted at the Dumont.
Several at the King Arthur.
A combo was staying there.
And had been for a week.
Anything else?
Shrugs met that.
(Detective Pearson, Eighteenth Precinct, thought for a time he might be on to something.
A refuse bin at the Dumont turned up a florist's box - a very long box for very long stemmed flowers.
Traces of oil on green tissue?
The lab to check.
The lab : Sorry.
No oil .)
Anything at all strange?
Well, a man had tried, at the King Arthur, to register with an ocelot.
At the King Arthur one guest had had his head heavily bandaged, and another had a bandaged foot and had walked with crutches.
There had also been a man who must have had St. Vitus or something, because he kept jerking his head.
As reports dribbled in, William Weigand tossed them into the centrifuge which had become his head.
Mullins came in.
There was no sign of Mrs. Lauren Payne at her house on Nod Road, Ridgefield, Connecticut.
The house was modern, large, on five acres.
Must have cost plenty.
The State cops would check from time to time; pass word when there was word to pass.
Weigand tossed this news into the centrifuge.
Sort out the next move.
Try to forget motive for the moment.
Consider opportunity.
Only those actually with Payne when he was shot, or who had left the party within not more than five minutes (make five arbitrary) positively had none.
The Norths; Hathaway, Jerry's publicity director; Livingston Birdwood, producer of Uprising.
They had been with Payne when he was shot, could not therefore have shot him from above.
Take Gardner Willings.
He had left after the scuffle; had been seen to leave.
He would have had ample time to go into a blind somewhere and wait his prey.
Intangibles entered, then - hunches which felt like facts.
Willings would ambush, certainly; Willings undoubtedly had.
Willings was, presumably, a better than average shot.
But - hunch, now - Willings would not ambush anything which went on two legs instead of four.
Because, if for no other reason, Willings would never for a moment suppose he was not bigger, tougher, than anything else that went on two legs.
Ambushes are laid by those who doubt themselves, as any man may against a tiger.
Faith Constable had had to ``go on'' from the party and had, presumably, gone on.
To be checked out further.
Forget motive?
Nobody in his right mind punishes a quarter-century old dereliction.
Grudges simply do not keep that well in a sane mind.
Faith Constable had accomplished much in a quarter of a century.
Jeopardize it now to correct so old a wrong?
Bill shook his head.
Also, he thought, I doubt if she could hit the side of a barn with a shotgun.
Lauren herself?
She had left the party early, pleading a headache.
No lack of opportunity, presuming she had a gun.
(Check on the Payne luggage .)
She might now have taken it away again.
Motive - her husband wandering?
Bitter, unreasoning jealousy?
Heaven knew it happened and hell knew it too.
But - it happened, almost always, among the primitive and, usually, among the very young.
(Call it mentally young; call it retarded .)
There was nothing to indicate that Lauren Payne was primitive.
She did not move in primitive circles.
It occurred to Bill Weigand that he was, on a hunch basis, eliminating a good many.
He reminded himself that all eliminations were tentative.
He also reminded himself that he had an unusual number of possibilities.
The Masons, mother or son, or mother and son?
Opportunity was obvious.
Motive.
Here, too, the cause to hate lay well back in the years.
But bitterness had more cause to remain, even increasingly to corrode.
With the boy, particularly.
Seeing the man he blamed for this made much of - youth and bitterness and -
Bill picked up the telephone; got Mullins.
``Send out a pickup on Mrs. Mason and the boy when you've got enough to go on'', Bill said.
``Right''?
Mullins would do.
A man named Lars Simon, playwright director, had expressed a wish that Anthony Payne drop dead.
He would say, of course, that he had not really had any such wish; that what he had said was no more than one of those things one does say, lightly, meaning nothing.
Which probably would turn out to be true; which he obviously had to be given the opportunity to say.
A man named Blaine Smythe, with ``y'' and ``e'' but pronounced without them, had been fired at Payne's insistence.
He might deny the latter; would certainly deny any connection between the two things, or any connection of either with murder.
He would have to be given the opportunity.
Mullins?
It was evident that Mullins was the man to go.
It was evident that a captain should remain at his desk, directing with a firm hand and keeping a firm seat.
Bill Weigand was good and tired of the wall opposite, and the crack in the plaster.
Let Mullins keep the firm seat; let Stein.
When Siamese cats are intertwined it is difficult to tell where one leaves off and another begins.
Stilts and Shadow, on Pam's bed, appeared to be one cat - rather large, as Siamese cats go, and, to be sure, having two heads and two tails.
Pamela North said, ``Hi'', to her cats, and added that proper cats met their humans at the door.
Of four dark brown ears, one twitched slightly at this.
``All right'', Pam said.
``I know it isn't dinnertime''.
But at this the one too-large cat suddenly became two cats, stretching.
Shadow, the more talkative, began at once to talk, her voice piteous.
Stilts, a more direct cat, leaped from the bed and trotted briskly toward the kitchen.
Shadow looked surprised, wailed, and trotted after her.
The hell it isn't dinnertime, two waving tails told Pam North.
Martha presumably would cope.
She might be firm.
It was most unlikely that she would be firm.
They want to be fat cats, Pam thought, and lighted a cigarette and leaned back on a chaise and considered pulling her thoughts together.
After a time, it occurred to her that her thoughts were not worth the trouble.
A vague feeling that Anthony Payne had had it coming was hardly a thought and was, in any event, reprehensible.
Had Faith Constable's explanation of her confidence, so uninvited, been a little thin?
That was more like a thought, but not a great deal more.
Had that tall dark boy, carrying trays too heavy for him, found what he might have considered adulation of a man he probably hated more than he could bear?
- of a rifle and killed?
Pam found she had no answers; had only a hope.
The poor kid - the poor, frail kid.
Some people have luck and some have no luck and that, whatever people who prefer order say, is the size of it.
The poor, unlucky -
The telephone rang.
Pam realized, to her surprise, that she had been almost dozing.
At four o' clock in the afternoon.
Two martinis for lunch - that was the trouble.
Don't pretend.
You do remember.
You just - ``Hello?
Yes, this is she?
What''?
The voice had music in it.
Even with words coming too fast, they came on the music of the voice.
``I said I would'', Pam said.
``They wonn't talk about who gave the information.
They do n't, Mrs. Constable.
Not unless they have'' -
She was interrupted.
``Call this a cry for help'', Faith Constable said.
``Through a door conveniently unlocked'', Madden supplemented.
``That damn door'', said the police chief.
``A gift horse to be viewed with suspicion''.
Madden's dark face wore a meditative look.
``If there was collusion between an outside murderer and a member of the household it would be an elementary precaution to check on the door later.
Much better to break a cellar window''.
``Don't forget, there was the hope it would pass for a natural death'', Pauling reminded him.
``Well, with a house as big as that there must be at least one cellar window that wouldn't be noticed right away unless there was a police investigation''.
``Yeah.
And a pane of glass isn't hard to'' -
The telephone interrupted him.
He scooped up the receiver and said, ``Police chief'', into the mouthpiece, and then, ``Oh yes, Mr. Benson.
I was hoping I'd hear from you today''.
With his free hand he pulled a pad and pencil toward him and began to make notes as he listened, saying, ``Uh-huh'' and ``I see'' at intervals.
Although there was no doubt in my mind and we've been handling it as one I'm glad to have it made official''.
He hung up.
``Coroner'', he said to Madden.
``He's just heard from the pathologist who says Mrs. Meeker apparently died from suffocation''.
Pauling looked at his notes.
``Many minute hemorrhages in the lungs; particles of lint and thread in the mouth and nostrils.
Scrapings from the bed linen identical with the lint and thread found in the nasal and oral cavities.
No other cause of death apparent.
Trachea clear of mucus and foreign objects.
No signs of these, no gross hemorrhage of lungs, heart, brain or stomach''.
He paused.
``That's about it.
Oh, the time of death.
The duration of the digestive process varies, the pathologist says, but the empty stomach and the findings in the upper gastrointestinal tract indicate that Mrs. Meeker died several hours after her seven o' clock dinner.
Probably around midnight, give or take an hour either way''.
Pauling paused again.
``So there it is'', he said.
``Not your problem, of course, unless Johnston and the murderer are one and the same''.
However likely it was, Pauling said, he couldn't limit himself to it.
He had to look for other prospects, other motives until more conclusive evidence pointing to Johnston came to light.
Madden, with his investigation centered on the fraud, said that tomorrow he would go to the Bronx bank through which Mrs. Meeker's checks to Johnston had cleared.
Arthur Williams had to be located, they agreed.
He might have been in collusion with Johnston on the fraud; he might be Mrs. Meeker's murderer or have played some part in her death.
This was Madden's suggestion; the police chief shook his head over it.
If Arthur Williams was involved in the fraud or the murder, then he too had another identity.
No one the Medfield police had questioned professed to know any more about him than about Johnston.
Scholarship applicant?
Madden explained that he was thinking of an application sent directly to Mrs. Meeker.
Then he asked to use the phone and called Brian Thayer, who said that he was just leaving to keep a lunch date but would be home by two o' clock.
Madden said that he would see him at two and made another call, this one to Mrs. Meeker's lawyers.
Mr. Hohlbein was out for the day, but Mr. Garth would be free at one-thirty.
The secretary's tone indicated that an appointment at such short notice was a concession for which Madden should be duly grateful.
He inferred that Hohlbein and Garth were high-priced lawyers.
He had lunch with Pauling.
Promptly at one-thirty he entered Hohlbein and Garth's elegant suite of offices in Medfield's newest professional building.
He disliked Garth on sight, conservative clothes and haircut, smile a shade too earnestly boyish for a man who must be well into his thirties, handclasp too consciously quick and firm.
Madden knew that he could be completely wrong about all this, but also knew that he would go right on disliking Garth.
Garth was prepared to be helpful in what he referred to with fastidious distaste as this unfortunate Johnston affair, which would not, he said more than once, have ever come about if Mrs. Meeker had only seen fit to consult Mr. Hohlbein or him about it.
Madden regretted not being able to find fault with so true a statement.
He asked to see a copy of Mrs. Meeker's will.
Garth brought one out.
The date, October 8, 1957, immediately caught the inspector's eye.
``Fairly recent'', he remarked.
``Was she in the habit of making new wills''?
``Oh no.
Her estate had grown considerably.
She wanted to make a more equitable distribution of it among the groups that would benefit the most; particularly the scholarship fund.
At the time the will was drawn Mr. Hohlbein mentioned to me how mentally alert she seemed for her age, knowing just what changes she wanted made and so forth''.
Garth hesitated.
``Mr. Hohlbein and I have noticed some lapses since, though.
Most of them this past year, I'd say.
Even two or three years ago I doubt that she'd have become involved in this unfortunate Johnston affair.
She'd have consulted us, you see.
She always did before, and showed the utmost confidence in whatever we advised''.
Mrs. Meeker hadn't struck him as ready to seek anyone's advise, least of all Garth's.
With her sharp tongue she'd have cut his pompousness to ribbons.
It would have been Hohlbein who handled her affairs.
Madden settled back to read the will.
He skimmed over the millions that went to Meeker Park, Medfield Hospital, the civic center, the Public Health Nursing Association, the library, and so on, pausing when he came to the scholarship fund.
Two millions were added to what had been set aside for it in Mrs. Meeker's lifetime, and the proviso made that as long as Brian Thayer continued to discharge his duties as administrator of the fund to the satisfaction of the board of trustees (hereinafter appointed by the bank administering the estate) he was to be retained in his present capacity at a salary commensurate with the increased responsibilities enlargement of the fund would entail.
A splendid vote of confidence in Thayer, Madden reflected.
Tenure, too.
Very nice for him.
Twenty-five thousand to each of the great-nieces in Oregon (not much to blood relatives out of millions) ten thousand to this friend and that, five thousand to another; to Brian Thayer, the sum of ten thousand dollars; to the Pecks, ten thousand each; to Joan Sheldon the conditional bequest of ten thousand to be paid to her in the event that she was still in Mrs. Meeker's employ at the time of the latter's death.
(No additional five thousand for each year after Joan's twenty-first birthday; Mrs. Meeker hadn't got around to taking care of that .)
Too bad, Madden thought.
Joan Sheldon had earned the larger bequest.
Mr. Hohlbein was left twenty thousand, Garth ten.
There were no other names Madden recognized.
Arthur Williams's might well have been included, he felt.
Mrs. Meeker had spent a small fortune on a search for him but had made no provision for him in her will if he should be found after her death, and had never mentioned his name to her lawyers.
Madden took up this point with Garth, who shrugged it off.
``This one came a bit high at thirty thousand or more''.
``Well, she had a number of them where money was concerned'', Garth said.
``Sometimes we'd have trouble persuading her to make tax-exempt charitable contributions, and I've known her to quarrel with a plumber over a bill for fixing a faucet; the next moment she'd put another half million into the scholarship fund or thirty thousand into something as impractical as this unfortunate Johnston affair.
There was no telling how she'd react to spending money''.
Madden inquired next about the audit of the scholarship fund.
There was an annual audit, Garth informed him.
No discrepancies or shortages had ever been found.
Brian Thayer was a thoroughly honest and competent administrator.
His salary had reached the ten thousand mark.
The lawyer didn't know him very well although he saw him occasionally at some dinner party - Thayer, like himself, Madden reflected, was the extra man so prized by hostesses - and found him easy enough to talk to.
But he didn't play golf, didn't seem to belong to any local clubs - his work took him away a lot, of course - which probably accounted for his tendency to keep to himself.
Garth's glance began to flicker to his watch.
He said that he had already told the police chief that he didn't know what insurance man had recommended Johnston to Mrs. Meeker.
He would offer no theory to account for her murder.
The whole thing, his manner conveyed, was so far outside the normal routine of Hohlbein and Garth that it practically demanded being swept under the rug.
No doubt Mrs. Meeker had snubbed him many a time and he felt no grief over her passing.
Even so, Madden's dislike of the suave, correct lawyer deepened.
It would be all right with him, he decided, if his investigation of the fraud, with its probable by-product of murder, led to Garth's door.
Ten-thousand-dollar bequest.
At first glance, not much of a motive for a man of his standing; but for all his air of affluence, who could tell what his private financial picture was?
The inspector knew as he left that this was wishful thinking.
Nevertheless, he made a mental note to look into Garth's financial background.
Brian Thayer had a downtown address.
He lived in an apartment house not over three or four years old, a reclaimed island of landscaped brick and glass on the fringe of the business district.
He occupied a two bedroom apartment on the fourth floor, using the second bedroom as his office.
Airy and bright, the apartment was furnished with good modern furniture, rugs, and draperies.
Done by a professional decorator, Madden thought, and somehow as impersonal, as unremarkable as its occupant.
He took Madden into the room he used as an office.
It contained a desk, files, a typewriter on a stand, and two big leather armchairs.
A newspaper open at stock-market reports lay on one of them.
Thayer folded it up and offered a drink.
The inspector declined.
To begin the interview, he asked if Thayer, with more time to think it over, could add to what he had said the other day about Johnston.
Thayer shook his head.
``It's all I think about, too.
That and her death.
For all her domineering ways, I cann't conceive of her having had a deadly enemy''.
``Dammit, Phil, are you trying to wreck my career?
Because that's what you're doing - wrecking it, wrecking it, wrecking it''!
Griffith had confronted Hoag on the building's front steps - Hoag had been permitted no further - and backed him against a wrought-iron railing.
His rage had built up as he made his way here from the second floor, helped by the quantity of champagne he had consumed.
Hoag said, ``I didn't send for you, Leigh.
I want the captain in charge.
Where is he''?
``Phil, for God's sake, go away.
I told you there's nothing between Midge and me, nothing.
It's all in your mind''.
A couple of sobs escaped him, followed by a sentiment that revealed his emotional state.
``Why, I'm not fit to touch the hem of her garment''.
``Leigh, get a grip on yourself.
It's not about you or Midge.
I have some security information about the prime minister''.
Griffith looked at him suspiciously through red-rimmed eyes.
``Not about me?
You wouldn't pull my leg, old man?
I did get you on the platform this morning''.
``I'm not pulling your leg.
Will you call that captain''?
``No use, he wonn't come''.
He peered closely at Hoag in the gathering darkness.
``What happened to your head''?
``I was hit - knocked out.
Now will you get him''?
He stared at Hoag drunkenly.
``Who'd hit you in the head''?
``It doesn't matter.
You get back to the captain and tell him this : Somebody's going to take a shot at the prime minister, and Mahzeer is in on the plot.
Tell him under no circumstances to trust the prime minister with Mahzeer''.
Griffith said, ``That's impossible.
Mahzeer's the ambassador''.
``Nevertheless it's true''.
``Impossible''.
``I'll show you how wrong you are.
Mahzeer and the prime minister are alone right now''.
He nodded triumphantly.
``So that proves it''!
Hoag looked terrified.
``Where are they''?
``Where'd you expect, the john?
Mahzeer's office''.
``Where is that''?
Look, old man, you cann't go up.
They wonn't even let you in the front door.
So why don't you be a good boy and'' -
Hoag grabbed him by the shoulders.
``Listen to me, Leigh.
If you want to spend another day in the State Department - another day - you get in there and tell that captain what I told you''.
He bit out the words.
``And you know I can do it''.
Griffith raised placating hands.
I was just going.
I'm on my way''.
He turned and fled into the house and made his way up the marble stairs without once looking back.
On the second landing he paused to look for Docherty, didn't see him, and accepted a glass of champagne.
He took several large swallows, recollected that Docherty had gone up another flight, and decided he would be wise to cover himself by finding him.
The way Hoag was, no telling what he might say or do.
He finished his champagne and climbed uncertainly to the next landing.
At the top a uniformed officer blocked further progress.
``Yes, what is it''?
``I want Captain Docherty''.
He spotted Docherty coming out of a room at the far end of the corridor and called to him.
Docherty said, ``It's okay, Bonfiglio, let him by''.
They walked toward each other.
``Well''?
Griffith said, ``Hoag told me to tell you'' - he waited until they were close; it was hideously embarrassing - ``not to let the prime minister be alone with Mahzeer''.
Griffith looked half crocked to the captain; it would be just like him.
``Why not''?
``He claims Mahzeer's in a plot to kill the P.M .''.
Could the ambassador himself be the man on this side the prime minister feared?
Not possible, he thought; the prime minister knew who his enemy was here; he wasn't going to allow himself to be led meekly to the slaughter.
And if by some wild chance Mahzeer was the man, he wouldn't dare try anything now - not after Docherty had looked in on the two of them to see that all was well.
Docherty was damned if he would make a fool of himself again the way he had earlier over the laundry truck.
One more muddleheaded play like that one and they'd be leading him away.
Still, this had to be checked out.
``Where'd your friend Hoag get his information''?
he asked.
``Haven't the faintest, Captain''.
I'd like to talk to him''.
Troubled, he continued along the corridor, poking his head into the next office for a careful look around.
But Hoag had not stayed on the front steps when Griffith disappeared into the building.
He was unwilling to rely on Griffith's carrying his message, and he had no confidence the police would act on it.
If Mahzeer was alone with the prime minister he could be arranging his execution while Hoag stood out here shivering in the darkening street.
He would have to do something on his own.
But what?
The door opened and three men and a woman in a sari swept past him and down the stairs.
In the lighted interior he saw other men and women struggling into their wraps.
If Mahzeer was planning to set up the prime minister for Muller he would have to do it in the next few minutes.
Hoag descended the stone steps to the street and looked up at the building.
Wide windows with many small leaded panes swept across the upper stories.
On the second floor he saw the animated faces of the party guests; the scene looked like a Christmas card.
On the third floor one of the two windows was lighted; it was framed in maroon drapes, and no faces were visible.
This would be Mahzeer's office.
He and the prime minister would be back from the window, seated at Mahzeer's desk; they would be going over papers Mahzeer had saved as excuse for just such a meeting.
In a minute, or five minutes, the business would be done; Mahzeer would stand up, the prime minister would follow.
Mahzeer would direct the prime minister's attention to something out the window and would guide him forward and then step to one side.
Mahzeer, of course, would be desolate.
How was he to suspect that an assassin had been lurking somewhere across the street waiting for just such a chance?
Hoag turned.
Where across the street?
Where was Muller waiting with the rifle?
Narrow four story buildings ran the length of the block like books tightly packed on a shelf.
Most of them could be eliminated; Muller's would have to be one of the half dozen almost directly opposite.
The legation was generously set back from the building line; if the angle of fire were too great the jutting buildings on either side would interfere.
Would the shot come from a roof?
But dully glinting on the dark form were the buttons and badge of a policeman.
With a cop patrolling the road Muller would have to be inside a building - if he was here at all, and not waiting for the prime minister somewhere between this street and the terminal building at La Guardia Airport.
Hoag crossed the narrow street, squeezing between parked cars to reach the sidewalk.
From this side he could see farther into the legation's third story window, but he saw no faces; the room's occupants were still seated or they had been called into the hallway by an alarmed police captain.
If only the latter were true.
He walked rapidly along the buildings scanning their facades : one was a club - that was out; two others he ruled out because all their windows were lighted.
That left three, possibly four, one looking much like the next.
He climbed the steps of the first and opened the door to the vestibule.
He quickly closed it again.
He went on to the next building and found what he expected - the mingled cooking aromas of a public vestibule.
On one wall was the brass front of a row of mailboxes; there were six apartments.
Now what?
The names on the mailboxes meant nothing to him.
This was senseless - he had no idea what to look for.
He peered in the boxes themselves; all were empty except one, and that one was jammed with letters and magazines.
The occupants of Apartment Number 3 were probably away for a few days, and not likely to return on a Friday.
Had Muller made the same deduction?
Muller was attracted to the lore of mailboxes.
He climbed, as quickly as he could urge his body, up the two unbroken flights to the third floor, pulling himself along on a delicate balustrade, all that remained of the building's beauty.
He paused on the landing to steady his breathing and then bent to examine the single door by the light of the weak bulb overhead.
Now he was certain : the lock had not yielded to Muller's collection of keys; fresh scars showed that the door had been prized open.
It had been shut again, but the lock was broken; he noted with a thrill of fear that the door moved under his touch.
What was he to do now?
He had thought no further than finding Muller.
He realized now he had more than half hoped he wouldn't find him - that Muller would not be here, that the attempt would be scheduled for somewhere beyond Hoag's control.
He could not break in on an armed man.
He would have to climb back down to the street and signal a cop.
His thoughts were scattered by the sharp report of a rifle from the other side of the door.
Hoag pushed open the door : at the far end of the long dark room Muller was faintly silhouetted against the window, the rifle still raised; he stood with his feet apart on a kitchen table he had dragged to the sill.
He turned his head to the source of the disturbance and instantly back to the window and his rifle sight, dismissing Hoag for the moment with the same contempt he had shown in their encounter at Hoag's apartment.
Hoag stretched his left hand to the wall and fumbled for the switch : evil flourishes in the dark.
The room was bathed in light at the instant Muller's second shot came.
Muller, nakedly exposed at the bright window like a deer pinned in a car's headlights, threw down the rifle and turned to jump from the table; his face wore a look of outrage.
A shot caught him and straightened him up in screaming pain; a following volley of shots shattered glass, ripped the ceiling, and sent him lurching heavily from the table.
He was dead before his body made contact with the floor.
Hoag stumbled back into the hall, leaned against the wall, and started to retch.
The safe at Ingleside District Station stands next to the gum machine in a narrow passageway that leads to Captain Harris's office (to the left), the lieutenant's office (farther along and to the left) and the janitor's supply closet (straight ahead).
The safe is a repository for three dead flashlight batteries, a hundred and fifty unused left-hand fingerprint cards, a stack of unsold Policemen's Ball tickets from last year, and thirty-seven cents in coins and stamps.
Gun set the captain's fifth of Hiram Walker inside the safe before he reported to Lt. Killpath, though he knew that Killpath's ulcer prevented him from making any untoward incursion on Herman Wolff's gift.
It was more a matter of tact, and also it was none of Killpath's goddam business.
He walked up to the lieutenant's office, leaned wearily against the gun rack that housed four rifles and a gas gun nobody remembered having used and a submachine gun that was occasionally tried out on the Academy Range.
He stared at the clerk who sat at a scarred and ancient fumed-oak desk stuffing envelopes.
``Where's the Lieut''?
The clerk wagged his head toward the captain's office.
Gun went to the connecting door, which was open, and stood at attention while Orville Torrence Killpath, in full uniform, finished combing his hair.
The lieutenant eyed Gun's reflection in the mirror over the washbowl and then glanced back at his own face, moving the comb methodically around his head.
Leave me alone, Gun thought.
Fight with Sam Schaeffer, fight with the whole damned Bureau.
But leave me alone.
Because I'm looking for the son of a bitch that killed that old man, and I'm going to get him.
If you just leave me to hell alone, Lieutenant.
Killpath peered through half closed lids at his reflection, thrust up his chin in a gesture of satisfaction and about-faced.
Gun waited for Killpath to sit down behind the desk near the window.
He sat stiff-backed in a chair that did not swivel, though it was obvious to Gun that Killpath felt his position as acting captain plainly merited a swivel chair.
Killpath pulled one thin leg up, clamping his arms around the shinbone to press his knee into an incredibly scrawny gut.
It was the posture which the men had come to recognize as that of Killpath defying his ulcer.
He put his chin on his kneecap, stretching his neck like that of a turkey on a chopping block, and stared wordlessly at his sergeant.
Gun waited.
The 7 : 45 bell rang and he could hear the outside doors bang shut, closing in the assembled day watch.
Finally, Orville intoned through his hawk nose, ``We cann't have people running in any time they please, Sergeant''.
``No, sir''.
``Running in, running out.
Can't have it.
He rocked back in the chair, knee locked against stomach, his beady eyes fixed on Matson.
He was silent again, possibly listening to the sounds in the squadroom.
Roll was being called.
Gun cleared his throat.
Killpath said, ``You were expected to report to my office twenty minutes ago, Sergeant.
That's not getting all the juice out of the orange, now is it''?
``No, sir''.
Then Killpath smiled.
Gun knew that nothing but aces back to back would give the lieutenant an ulcer and a smile at the same time.
``I called the station at three this morning'', Killpath's nasal voice pronounced.
``Do you have any idea who might have been in charge at the time''?
``Sergeant Vaughn, sir''.
``Now, now, you're just guessing, Sergeant''.
He smiled thinly, savoring his joke.
``What if I said nobody was here but a couple of patrolmen''?
``Sir, Vaughn knows better than to leave the station without a relief.
He must have'' -
``He let a patrolman take over the duties of the station keeper.
``No, sir''.
``But you didn't know a thing about it, did you''?
Killpath leaned forward; his foot slipped off the chair and he put it back again, frowning now.
``That's not taking one's command with a responsible attitude, Matson''.
Gun told himself that the old bastard was a fool.
But stupidity was no consolation when it had rank.
``I was out in the district, sir''.
``Oh, yes.
So I have heard''.
``I might point out that your inability to report to my office this morning when you were instructed to do so has not, ah, limited my knowledge of your activities as you may have hoped''.
He took up a white sheet of paper, dark with single-spaced data.
A car pulled into the driveway outside the window.
Gun knew it was Car 12, the wagon, returned from delivering Ingleside's drunk-and-disorderlies to the City Jail.
But for some fool reason he couldn't remember which men he'd put on the transfer detail.
He stared at the report in Killpath's hand, sure it was written by Accacia - just as sure as if he'd submitted it in his scrawled longhand.
He sucked in his breath and kept quiet while Killpath laid down the sheet again, wound the gold wire stems of his glasses around his ears and then, eying the report as it lay before him on the desk, intoned, ``Acting Lieutenant Gunnar Matson one failed to see that the station keeper was properly relieved two absented himself throughout the entire watch without checking on the station's activities or the whereabouts of his section sergeants three permitted members of the Homicide Detail of the Inspector's Bureau to arrogate for their own convenience a patrolman who was thereby prevented from carrying on his proper assignment four failed to notify the station commander Acting Captain O. T. Killpath of a homicide occurring in the district five frequented extralegal establishments known as after-hours spots for purposes of an unofficial and purportedly social nature and six'' - he leaned back and peeled off his glasses ``- failed to co-operate with the Acting Captain by returning promptly when so ordered.
What have you to say to that, Sergeant''?
Killpath sailed the paper across the desk, but Matson didn't pick it up or even glance at it.
``I didn't think Accacia knew so many big words, Lieutenant''.
Killpath licked his lips.
``Patrolman Accacia is an alert and conscientious law-enforcement officer.
I don't think his diligence mitigates your negligence, Matson''.
``Negligence, hell''!
Gun held his breath a moment, pushing the volume and pitch of his voice down under the trapdoor in his throat.
``Sir.
I would have been negligent and a goddam lousy cop to boot, if I'd sat around this station all night when somebody got away with murder in my district.
It's too bad I didn't call you, and it's too bad I let Schaeffer use Accacia when he could have had a boy who'd be glad to learn something of Homicide procedure.
``Let's not push our patience beyond the danger line, Sergeant'', Killpath nasaled.
``I shouldn't like to have to write you up for insubordination as well as dereliction of duty''.
Gun stiffened, his hands balling into fists at his sides.
He clamped his jaws to keep the fury from spilling out.
An argument with Orville Torrence Killpath was as frustrating and as futile as a cap pistol on a firing range.
Killpath leaned forward again, rocked comfortably with his arms still wrapped around one knee.
``Let's just remember, Sergeant, that we must all carry our own umbrella.
A district station cann't run smoothly, unless'' - He interrupted himself, looking around Gun at the doorway.
``Morning, Lieutenant Rinker''.
I thought you hadn't come in yet''.
``I've been here for some time''.
He stood up, cocked his head and eyed Gun coldly.
``The sergeant is just leaving''.
It had come as no great surprise to Matson that the hot water in the showers didn't work, that Loren Severe had thrown up all over the stairs, or that some thieving bastard of a cop had walked off with his cigarettes.
It was the best he could hope for on a watch that had ended with a session in Killpath's office.
Now, as he passed the open counter that divided the assembly room from the business office, he nodded and said good night to the station keeper and his clerks, not stopping to hear the day-watch playback of his chewing out.
Not that he gave a damn what the grapevine sent out about Killpath's little speech on the comportment of platoon commanders.
He just didn't want to talk about it.
At the doorway he squinted up at the gray morning overcast and patted his jacket pockets for the cigarettes, remembering then that he'd left them at the Doughnuttery.
He could pick up another pack on his way home, if he were going home.
But even before he started across the oiled road to his Plymouth, parked in the lot under the cypress trees across from the station, he knew that he wasn't going home.
Not yet.
It was nine o' clock in the morning : the hour which, like a spade turning clods of earth, exposed to the day a myriad of busy creatures that had lain dormant in the quiet night.
Mission Street at this hour was populated by a whole community that Gun could not have seen on his tour of duty - the neighborhood that had known Urbano Quintana by day.
Sol Phillips had purchased the Alliance Furniture Mart seventeen years ago.
It was professedly worth three thousand dollars in stock and good will, and the name was written in gold in foot high letters across each of the two display windows.
On the right window, at eye level, in smaller print but also in gold, was Gonzalez, Prop., and under that, Se Habla Espanol.
Language was no problem anyway; Mr. Phillips had only to signal from his doorway to summon aid from the ubiquitous bilingual children who played on the sidewalks of Mission Street.
Aside from the fact that business was slow this time of year and his one salesgirl was not the most enterprising, Mr. Phillips had no worries at all, and he said as much to Gun Matson, who sat across from him in civilian clothes, on a Jiffy-Couch-a-Bed, mauve velour, $ 79.89 nothing down special!
``She's honest as the day'', Mr. Phillips said, and added, ``Mr. Gunnar, I can say this to you : Beebe is a little too honest.
You cann't tell a customer how much it's going to cost him to refinance his payments before he even signs for a loan on the money down!
A time plan is a mere convenience, you understand, and when'' - He interrupted himself, smiling.
``I put her in lamps.
That way I don't lose so much''.
``Why don't you just hire somebody else''?
``She says she has to finish a story''.
``I asked her why she couldn't do it tomorrow, but it seems the muse is working good tonight and she's afraid to let it go''.
Casey made some comment, but his mind was busy as he considered the man.
His name was George Needham and he, too, had come from a good family.
He was perhaps thirty-two, nicely set up, with light brown hair that had a pronounced wave.
He was always well groomed and well tailored, and he had that rich man's look which was authentic enough and came from two good prep schools and a proper university.
An only child, he had done all the things that young men do who have been born to money and social position until his father double-crossed him by dying broke.
Since then he had worked at this and that, though some said his main interest was gambling.
All this went through Casey's mind in the first instant, but what held his interest was the fact that these two should be together at all.
For he had understood that Betty had been engaged to a boy named Barry Jenkins.
He wanted to ask her about Jenkins now, but he knew he couldn't do so in Needham's presence.
And so, still wondering and a little perplexed, he grinned at the girl and spoke lightly to make sure that she would know he was kidding.
``Where did you pick him up''?
``Oh, I've known him quite a while''.
She glanced at her companion fondly.
``Haven't I, George''?
``I've been after her for years'', Needham said, ``but I've never been able to get anywhere until the last few days''.
The girl's eyes were softly shining as she reached out and touched Casey's hand.
``Can I tell you a secret?
Do you approve''?
Casey kept his smile fixed, but some small inner disturbance was working on him as he thought again about Needham, who was eight or ten years older than the girl.
He wondered whether Needham was going to swear off gambling and get a steady job or whether he was counting on the income from Betty's estate to subsidize him.
None of this showed in his face, and he tried to keep his skepticism in hand.
He made a point of frowning, of acting out the part of the fond father confessor.
``I'll have to give it some thought'', he said.
``You wouldn't want me to say yes without making sure his intentions are honorable, would you''?
She made a face at him and then she laughed.
``Of course not''.
``Stop by any time, Casey''.
He stood up and touched the girl's arm.
``Come on, darling.
If you're really serious about working on that story, I'd better take you home''.
Casey watched them go, still frowning absently and then dismissing the matter as he called for his check.
As he went out he told Freddie the dinner was perfect, and when he got his hat and coat from Nancy Parks and put a fifty-piece piece in the slot, he told her to be sure that it went toward her dowry.
A taxi took him back to the bar and grill where he had left his car, and a few minutes later he found a parking place across the street from his apartment.
Because his mind had been otherwise occupied for the past couple of hours, he did not think to look and see if Jerry Burton's car was still there.
In fact, he did not think about Jerry Burton at all until he entered his living room and closed the door behind him.
Even from where he stood he could see the neatly folded blanket that he had spread over Burton, the pillow, the sheet of paper on top of it.
Then he was striding across the room, his thoughts confused but the worry building swiftly inside him as he snatched up the note.
Jack:
Look in the wastebasket.
I knew the only way I could beat you was to play possum, but it was a good try, kid, and I appreciate it.
J..
The wastebasket stood near the wall next to the divan, and the instant Casey picked it up he knew what had happened.
The discarded papers inside were sodden, there was a glint of liquid at the bottom, and the smell of whisky was strong and distinct.
He put the basket down distastefully, muttering softly and thoroughly disgusted with himself and his plan that had seemed so foolproof.
For another second or two he gave in to the annoyance that was directed at himself; then his mind moved on to be confronted by something far more serious, and as the thought expanded, the implications jarred him.
It no longer mattered that Burton had outsmarted him.
The important thing was that Burton had gone somewhere to meet a blackmailer with a gun in his pocket.
And that gun was empty.
Even before his mind had rounded out the idea, he thrust one hand into his trousers pocket and pulled out the six slugs he had taken from the revolver.
He considered them with brooding eyes, brows bunched as his brain grappled with the problem and tried to find some solution.
He said : ``The crazy fool'', half aloud.
He put the shells on the table, as though he could no longer bear to hold them.
He thought : Where the hell could he have gone?
There was no answer to this and he began to pace back and forth across the room, his imagination out of control.
He tried to tell himself that maybe Burton had sobered up enough to get some sense.
Maybe he only intended to scare the blackmailer, whoever he was, in which case an unloaded gun would be good enough.
He thought of other possibilities, none of them satisfactory, and finally he began to think, to wonder if there was some way he could reach Burton.
Then, as he turned toward the telephone, it rang shrilly to shatter the stillness in the room and he reached for it eagerly.
``Yeah'', he said.
``Casey''?
``Yeah''.
``Tony Calenda''.
When he heard Calenda say : ``What about that picture you took this afternoon'' ? it still took him another few seconds to remember the job he had done for Frank Ackerly.
``What picture'' ? he demanded.
``You took a picture of me at the corner of Washington and Blake about three thirty this afternoon''.
``Who says so''?
``One of my boys''.
Casey believed that much.
Calenda was not the sort who walked around without one of his ``boys'' close at hand.
``So''?
``With my trial coming up in Federal Court next week I wouldn't want that picture published''.
``I wouldn't even want it to get around''.
Under normal circumstances Casey was a little fussy when people told him what to do with pictures he had taken.
Even so, he generally listened and was usually reasonable to those who voiced their objections properly.
Right now, however, he was still too worried about Jerry Burton, and the gun that had no bullets, and the story Burton had told him, to care too much about Tony Calenda.
His nerves were getting a little ragged and his impatience put an edge in his voice.
``Look'', he said.
``I was hired to take a picture.
I took it.
That's all I know about it and that's all I care''.
``You tell him''.
``All right'', Calenda said, his voice still quiet.
``But I meant what I said, Casey.
If that picture gets around and I find out you had anything to do with it, I'm going to send a couple of my boys around to see you''.
``You do that'', Casey said.
``Just be sure to send your two best boys, Tony''.
He hung up with a bang, annoyed at himself for running off at the mouth like that but still terribly concerned with the situation he had helped to create.
As soon as he could think logically again he reached for the telephone directory and found Jerry Burton's home number.
He dialed it and listened to it ring ten times before he hung up.
When he was told that no one had seen Burton since then, he thought of three other places that were possibilities.
Each time he got the same answer and in the end he gave up.
By the time he had smoked three cigarettes he had calmed down.
He had done all he could and that was that.
And anyway Burton was not the kind of guy who would be likely to get in trouble even when he was drunk.
He, Casey, had been scared for a while, but that had come mostly from the fact that he felt responsible.
He should have stayed here and watched Burton.
He didn't.
So he made a mistake.
He kept telling himself this as he went out to the kitchen to make a drink.
Only then did he decide he didn't want one.
He considered opening a can of beer but vetoed that idea too.
Finally he went into the bedroom and sat down to take off his shoes.
He had just finished unlacing the right one when the telephone rang again.
When he snatched it up the voice that came to him was quick and urgent.
``Casey?
You don't know me but I know you.
If you want a picture get to the corner of Adams and Clark just as fast as you can.
Casey heard the click of the distant receiver before he could open his mouth, and it took him no more than three seconds to make his decision.
For over the years he had received many such calls.
Some of them came from people who identified themselves.
Some telephoned because he had done them a favor in the past.
Others because they expected some sort of reward for the information.
A few passed along a tip for the simple reason that they liked him and wanted to give him a break.
Only an occasional tip turned out to be a phony, and, like the police, Casey had made a point of running down all such suggestions and he did not hesitate this time.
He was in his car with his camera and equipment bag in less than two minutes, and it took him only three more to reach the corner, a block from Columbus Avenue.
It was a district of small factories and loft buildings and occasional tenements, and he could see the police radio car as he rounded the corner and slammed on the brakes.
The police car had pulled up behind a small sedan, its headlights still on.
Miraculously, she found exactly the right statement.
She began it deliberately, so that none of her words would be lost on him.
``I want to tell you something Thomas DeMontez Lord.
I'm well aware that you've got a pedigree as long as my leg, and that I don't amount to anything.
But'' -
``But it don't matter a-tall'', Lord supplied fondly.
``To me you'll always be the girl o' my dreams, an' the sweetest flower that grows''.
Beaming idiotically, he pooched out his lips and attempted to kiss her.
``You shut up!
shu-tt up-pp!
I've got something to say to you, and by God you're going to listen.
Do you hear me?
You're going to listen''!
Lord nodded agreeably.
He said he wanted very much to listen.
He knew that anything a brainy little lady like her had to say would be plumb important, as well as pleasin' to the ear, and he didn't want to miss a word of it.
So would she mind speaking a little louder?
I think you're mean and hateful and stupid, and - louder'' ? said Joyce.
``Uh-huh.
So I can hear you while I'm checkin' the car.
Looks like we might be in for a speck of trouble''.
He opened the door and got out.
He waited at the car side for a moment, looking down at her expectantly.
``Well?
Wasn't you goin' to say somethin'''?
Then, helpfully, as she merely stared at him in weary silence, ``Maybe you could write it down for me, huh?
``Aah, go on'', she said.
``Just go the hell on''.
He grinned, nodded, and walked around to the front of the car.
Lips pursed mournfully, he stared down at its crazily sagging left side.
Then he hunkered down on the heels of his handmade boots, peered into the orderly chaos of axle, shock absorber, and spring.
He went prone on his stomach, the better to pursue his examination.
After a time, he straightened again, brushing the red Permian dust from his hands, slapping it from his six dollar levis and his tailored, twenty-five dollar shirt.
He wore no gun - a strange ommission for a peace officer in this country.
Never, he'd once told Joyce, had he encountered any man or situation that called for a gun.
That's really all he's got, all he is.
Just a big pile of self-confidence in an almost teensy package.
If I could make myself feel the same way.
She studied him hopefully, yearningly; against the limitless background of sky and wasteland it was easy to confirm her analysis.
Here in the God-forsaken place, the westerly end of nowhere, Tom Lord looked almost insignificant, almost contemptible.
He was handsome, with his coal-black hair and eyes, his fine chiseled features.
But she'd known plenty of handsomer guys, and, conceding his good looks, what was there left?
He wasn't a big man; rather on the medium side.
Neither was he very powerful of build.
And his relatively small hands and feet gave him an almost delicate appearance.
Just nothing, she told herself.
Just so darned sure of himself that he puts the Indian sign on everyone.
But, by gosh, I want him and I'm going to have him!
He caught her eye, came back around the car with the boot wearer's teetering, half mincing walk.
Why did these yokels still wear boots, anyway, when most had scarcely sat a horse in years?
He slid in at her side, tucked a cigar into his mouth, and politely proffered one to her.
``Oh, cut it out, Tom''! she snapped.
``Can't you stop that stupid clowning for even a minute''?
``Or maybe you just don't feel like a cigar''?
``I feel like getting back to town, that's what I feel like!
Now, are you going to take me or am I supposed to walk''?
``Might get there faster walkin'' ', Lord drawled, ``seein' as how I got a busted front spring.
On the other hand, howsomever, maybe you wouldn't either.
I figger it's probl' y a sixty-five mile walk, and I c' n maybe get this spring patched up in a couple of hours''.
``How - with what?
There's nothing out here but rattlesnakes''.
``Now, ain't it the truth''?
``Not a danged thing but rattlesnakes, so I reckon I'll get the boss rattler to help me''.
``Tom!
For God's sake''!
``Looky''.
He pointed, cutting her off.
``See that wildcat''?
She saw it then, the distant derrick of the wildcat - a test well in unexplored country.
And even with her limited knowledge of such things, she knew that the car could be repaired there; sufficiently, at least, to get them back into town.
A wildcatter had to be prepared for almost any emergency.
``Well, let's get going'', she said impatiently.
``I'' - She broke off, frowning.
``What did you mean by that rattlesnake gag?
Getting the boss rattlesnake to help you''?
``Why, I meant what I said'', Lord declared.
``What else would I mean, anyways''?
She looked at him, lips compressed.
Then, with a shrug of pretended indifference, she took a compact from her purse and went through the motions of fixing her make-up.
In his mood, it was the best way to handle him; that is, to show no curiosity whatsoever.
The car lurched along at a snail's crawl, the left front mudguard banging and scraping against the tire, occasionally scraping against the road itself.
Lord whistled tunelessly as he fought the steering wheel.
He seemed very pleased with himself, as though some intricate scheme was working out exactly as he had planned.
Along with this self-satisfaction, however, Joyce sensed a growing tension.
It poured out of him like an electric current, a feeling that the muscles and nerves of his fine drawn body were coiling for action, and that that action would be all that he anticipated.
Joyce had seen him like this once before - more than once, actually, but on one particularly memorable occasion.
That was the day that he had practically mopped up the main street of Big Sands with Aaron McBride, field boss for the Highlands Oil + Gas Company.
Tom had been laying for Aaron McBride for a long time, just waiting to catch him out of line.
McBride gave him his opportunity when he showed up in town with a pistol on his hip.
It was payday for Highlands, and he was packing a lot of money back into the oil fields.
Moreover, as long as the weapon was carried openly, the sheriff's office had made no previous issue of it.
``So what's this all about'' ? he demanded, when Lord confronted him.
I'm not the only man in town with a gun, or the only one without a permit ``.
It was the wrong thing to say.
By failing to do as he was told instantly - to take out a permit or return the gun to his car - he had played into Lord's hands.
The trouble was that he had virtually had to protest.
The deputy had forced him to by his manner of accosting him.
So, ``How about it'' ? he said.
``Well, I'll tell you about that'', Lord told him.
``We aim t' be see-lective, y' know?
Don't like to bother no one unless we have to, which I figger we do, in your case.
Figger we got to be plumb careful with any of you Highlands big shots''.
McBride reddened.
He himself had heard that there was gangster money in the company, but that had nothing to do with him.
He was an honest man doing a hard job, and the implication that he was anything else was unbearable.
``Look, Lord'', he said hoarsely.
``I know you've got a grudge against me, and maybe I cann't blame you.
But you're all wrong, man!
I'm no lawyer.
I just do what I'm told, and'' -
``Uh-huh.
An' that could mean trouble with a fella that's workin' for crooks.
So you get rid of that pistol right now, Mis-ter McBride.
You do that or take you out a permit right now''.
McBride couldn't do either, of course.
Not immediately, as the deputy demanded.
To do so would make his job well-nigh impossible.
Oil-field workers were a rough tough lot.
How could he exert authority over them - make them toe the line, as he had to - if he knuckled under to this small-town clown?
``I'll get around to it a little later'', he mumbled desperately.
``Just as soon as I go to the bank, and'' -
``Huh-uh.
Now, Mis-ter McBride'', said Lord, and he laid a firmly restraining hand on the field boss's arm.
It was strictly the deputy's game, but McBride had gone too far to throw in.
Now, he could only play the last card in what was probably the world's coldest deck.
It was practically the last move that McBride made of his own volition.
Lord slugged him in the stomach, so hard that the organ almost pressed against his spine.
Then, as he doubled, gasping, vomiting the breakfast he had so lately eaten, Lord straightened him with an uppercut.
A rabbit punch redoubled him.
And then there was a numbing blow to the heart, and another gut flattening blow to the stomach.
But he couldn't keep up with them.
No more could he defend himself against them.
He seemed to be fighting not one man but a dozen.
And he could no longer think of face-saving, of honor, but only of escape.
I meant him no harm.
I've given willful hurt to no man.
I was just doing my job, just following orders, and for that he's going to kill me.
Beat me to death in front of a hundred people.
Somehow more terrible than the certainty that he was about to die was the knowledge that Lord would probably not suffer for it : the murder would go unpunished.
He, McBride, would be cited as in the wrong, and he, Lord, would go scot-free, an officer who had only done his duty, though perhaps too energetically.
McBride staggered into the street, flopped sprawling in the stinging dust.
Fear maddened, fleeing the lengthening shadow of death, he scrambled to his feet again.
He couldn't see; he was long past the point of coherent thinking.
He could not grasp that Lord had withdrawn from the fight minutes ago, and that his leaden arms were flailing at nothing but the air.
He hated them too much to understand - the people of this isolated law unto itself world that was Lord's world.
This, he was sure, was the way they would act; laughing at a dying man, laughing as a man was beaten to death.
And nothing would be done about it.
Nothing unless & & &.
Donna!
Donna, his young wife, the girl who was both daughter and wife to him.
Donna was like he was.
She lived by the rules, never compromising, never blinded or diverted by circumstance.
When he regained consciousness he was in Lord's house, in the office of Doctor Lord, the deputy's deceased father.
The Brannon outfit - known as the Slash-B because of its brand - reached Hondo Creek before sundown.
The herd was watered and then thrown onto a broad grass flat which was to be the first night's bedground.
Two of the new hands, a Mexican named Jose Amado and a kid known only as Laredo, were picked for the first trick of riding night herd.
The rest of the crew offsaddled their mounts and turned them into the remuda.
They got tin cups of coffee from the big pot on the coosie's fire, rolled and lighted brown paper cigarettes, lounged about.
There was some idle talk, a listless discussion of this or that small happening during the day's drive.
But they deliberately avoided the one subject that had them all curious:
the failure of the boss's wife and son to join the outfit.
The cook, Mateo Garcia, had arrived there long before the herd.
He'd started a fire and put coffee on, and now was busy at the work board of his chuck wagon.
He was readying a batch of sourdough biscuits for the Dutch oven.
Supper would be ready within the hour.
The Maguire family was setting up a separate camp nearby.
Billie had unhitched the mules from both Tom Brannon's and his father's wagon.
Hank had gathered wood for a cookfire, and his wife was busy at it now.
Conchita kept an eye on the twins and little Elena, trying to keep them from falling into the creek by which they persisted in playing.
Conchita nagged at the younger children, attempting without success to keep her thoughts off Tom Brannon.
He'd come alone, without his wife and child.
He'd been in an angry mood : Conchita had thought his face almost ugly with the anger in him.
She wondered what had taken place in town, between him and his wife.
She wished that she could talk to her mother about it.
Not that her mother knew what had happened, but they could speculate upon it.
But her mother would rebuke her if she mentioned it, and say that it was none of her concern.
``Pat, get out of that creek!
You too, Sean!
Elena, you'll get mud all over your dress''!
Tomas, she called him - as the Mexican hands did.
He was in earnest conversation with her father and the old vaquero, Luis Hernandez.
Whatever they are talking about?
Conchita wondered.
It bothered her that she probably would never know.
Certainly, she wouldn't dare ask her father afterward.
He would tell her not to pry into grownups' affairs - as though she were a little kid like Elena!
At the moment, the three men were not saying much of anything.
They were sitting on their heels, rider fashion, over by the still empty calf wagon.
He held a cigarette in his right hand.
It was burning away, forgotten.
His face was clouded with unhappiness.
He'd told Hank Maguire and Luis Hernandez about his wife's refusal to come with him and about what he now intended to do.
They were considering it gravely, neither seeming to like what he planned.
Finally Hernandez said, ``I could offer you advice, Tomas, but you wouldn't heed it''.
``Let's hear it, anyway''.
``Wait a little while.
Let Senora Brannon live in her father's house for a time.
Maybe she will then come to you.
After all, you want the senora as much as you want the boy.
You need her even more than you need him''.
``She wonn't change her mind'', Brannon said.
``John Clayton will see to that''.
``But after a time away from you & & &''.
``A year, Luis?
Five?
Ten?
``Maybe in a year, Tomas & & &''.
``In a year she'll like living in Clayton's house too much to come back to me'', Brannon said flatly.
``And the boy will be too much under his influence by then.
I've got to take Danny away from Clayton before I lose him altogether.
Hell, in a year or five or ten, the boy will have forgotten me - his own father''!
``But to take him and leave his mother behind is not good''.
``In my place, you'd follow such advice as you give me''?
Hernandez looked suddenly uncertain.
``That I cann't answer, for I cann't imagine something like this happening to me.
Brannon looked at Hank Maguire.
``And you?
What would you do in my place''?
Hank shook his head.
``I don't know, Tom.
Like Luis, I cann't see something like this happening to me.
With Maria and me, there's never any problem.
Where I go, she goes - and the kids with us.
You're going to need your woman.
If you take the one, you'd better take both''.
Brannon shook his head.
``I wonn't force Beth to come against her will.
But I'm going to have my son''.
They were silent for a little while, each looking glum.
Finally Luis Hernandez said, ``What must be, must be.
I am with you, of course, Tomas''.
And Hank Maguire added, ``So am I, Tom''.
``All right'', Brannon said, rising.
Brannon timed it so that they rode in an hour after nightfall.
They had for cover both darkness and a summer storm.
During much of the fifteen mile ride they had watched a lurid display of lightning in the sky to the east.
Later, they'd heard the rumble of thunder and then, just outside Rockfork, they ran into rain.
Those who had slickers donned them.
The others put on old coats or ducking jackets, whichever they carried behind their saddle cantles.
There were seven of them, enough for a show of strength - to run a bluff.
It was to be nothing more than that.
There was to be no gunplay.
He didn't want to put himself outside the law.
With him were Hank Maguire, Luis Hernandez, and Luis's son Pedro.
The Ramirez brothers were also along.
The seventh man was Red Hogan, a wiry little puncher with a wild streak and a liking for hell raising.
They were all good men.
It was dark early, because of the storm.
Also because of the storm, the streets of Rockfork were deserted.
Lighted windows glowed jewel bright through the downpour.
They reined in before the town marshal's office, a box sized building on Main Street.
He'd hoped to catch Jesse Macklin there.
``Probably just stepped out'', he said.
``Maybe to have supper.
Red, come along.
The rest of you wait here''.
With Red Hogan, he rode to the Welcome Cafe.
Hogan got down from the saddle and had a look inside.
``Not there'', he said, getting back onto his horse.
``Maybe he's at the hotel''.
They reined in there, Brannon remaining in the saddle while Hogan went to look for Jesse Macklin in the hotel dining room.
Brannon had no slicker.
He'd put on his old brown corduroy coat and it was already soaked.
But he felt no physical discomfort.
He was only vaguely aware of the sluicing rain.
He hardly noticed the blue green flashes of lightning and the hard claps of thunder.
Hogan reappeared, stopped on the hotel porch, lifted a hand in signal.
Brannon dismounted and climbed the steps.
``He's finished eating'', Hogan said.
It shouldn't be long''.
It seemed long, at least to Tom Brannon.
He and Hogan waited by the door, one to either side.
Macklin was the third man to come out, and he came unhurriedly.
He was puffing on a cigar, and he was turning up his coat collar against the rain.
It was not until he moved across the porch that he became aware of them, and then it was too late.
They closed in fast, kept him from reaching inside his coat for his gun.
``Just come along'', Brannon told him.
``Don't start anything you cann't finish''.
``We'll talk over at your office''.
``Brannon, I warn you''!
``Let's go, Marsh al'', Brannon said, and took him by the arm.
Hogan gripped the lawman's other arm.
They escorted him down from the porch and through the rain to his office.
The other five Slash-B men followed them inside, crowding the small room.
His face was stiff with anger when they let go of his arms.
He looked at each of them in turn, Brannon last of all.
``I'll remember you'', he said.
As for you, Brannon'' -
``Put your gun on the desk, Marshal''.
``Now, hold on, damn it; I wonn't'' -
Red Hogan's patience ran out.
He lifted the skirt of Macklin's coat, took his gun from its holster, tossed it onto the desk.
``Too much fooling around'', he said.
``Don't press your luck, badge toter''.
Brannon said, ``Now the key to the lockup, Marshal''.
``Key''?
``What for''?
``Can't you guess''?
Brannon said.
``We're putting you where you wonn't come to harm.
Come on - the key.
Get it out''!
``Damned if I will.
Brannon, you've assaulted a law officer and'' -
They moved in on him, crowded him from all sides.
His face took on a sudden pallor, became beaded with sweat, and he seemed to have trouble with his breathing.
He held out a moment longer, then his nerve gave under the pressure.
He swore, and said, ``All right.
It's here in my pocket''.
``Get it out'', Brannon ordered.
Then, as Macklin obeyed : ``Now let's go out back''.
Resignedly, Macklin turned to the back door.
They followed him into the rain and across to the squat stone building fifty feet to the rear.
The door of the lockup was of oak planks and banded with strap iron.
Macklin balked again, not wanting to unlock and open the door.
They crowded him in that threatening way once more, forced him to give in.
Once the door was open, they crowded him inside the dark building.
He was uttering threats in a low but savage voice when they closed and padlocked the door.
They returned to the street, mounted their horses, rode through the rain to the big house on Houston Street.
Its windows glowed with lamplight.
Deputy Marshal Luke Harper still stood guard on the veranda, a forlorn, scarecrowish figure in the murky dark.
He came to the edge of the veranda, peered down at them with his hand on his gun.
``Don't try it'', Brannon told him, dismounting and starting up the steps with his men following.
He strode past the now frightened man, entered the house.
Miguel and Arturo Ramirez remained on the veranda to keep Harper from interfering.
The others followed Brannon inside.
They trailed him across the wide hallway to the parlor, four roughly garbed and tough looking men who probably had never before ventured into such a house.
They brought to it all the odors that clung to men like themselves, that of their own sweat, of campfire smoke, of horses and cattle.
They tracked mud on the oaken floor, on the carpet.
Their presence fouled the elegance of that room.
And their arrival caught John Clayton and Charles Ansley off guard.
The author of the anonymous notes seemed to be all-knowing.
But the day of the deadline came and passed, and the men who had scoffed at the warnings laughed with satisfaction.
For, with a single exception, nothing had happened to them.
The exception was an Iron Mountain settler named William Lewis.
After walking out to his corral that morning, he'd been amazed to see the dust puff up in front of his feet.
A split second later, the distant crack of a rifle had sounded.
He'd mounted up immediately and raced with a revolver ready toward the spot from which he'd estimated the shot had come.
But he had found all of the thickets and points of cover deserted.
There had been no sign of a rifleman and no track or trace to show that anyone had been near.
Lewis was a man who had made a full-time job of cow stealing.
His land had never been plowed.
He had done his rustling openly and boasted about it.
He had received both first and second anonymous notices, and each time he had accused his neighbors of writing them.
He had cursed at them and threatened them.
He was a man, those neighbors testified later, who didn't have a friend in the world.
William Lewis made the rounds of all who lived near him again, that August morning after a bullet landed at his feet, and once more he accused and threatened everyone.
``I'll be ready next time''! he raged.
``I'll be shootin' right back''.
He had his chance the very next morning, for exactly the same thing happened again.
He found nothing, but he still refused to give up and move out.
``Just let me meet up with that damned bushwhackin' coward face-to-face''! he exploded.
``That's all I ask''!
He never got that chance.
For the unseen, ghostlike rifleman aimed a little higher the third time.
A .30-30 bullet smashed directly into the center of William Lewis' chest.
He slumped against a log fence rail, then tried to lift himself.
Two more shots followed in quick succession, dropping him limp and huddled on the ground.
An inquest was held, and after a good deal of testimony about the anonymous notes, the county coroner estimated that the shooting had been done from a distance of 300 yards.
It took some time to locate Horn.
He was finally found in the Bates Hole region of Natrona County, two counties away.
Prosecutor Baird immediately assumed he was hiding out there after the shooting and began preparing an indictment.
But that indictment was never made.
For Tom Horn, it turned out, had a number of rancher and cowboy witnesses ready and willing to swear with straight faces that he had been in Bates Hole the day of the killing.
The former scout's alibi couldn't be shaken.
The authorities had to release him.
He immediately rode on to Cheyenne, threw a ten day drinking spree and dropped some very strong hints among friends.
``Dead center at three hundred yards, that coroner said''! he'd grin.
You reckon there's two men in this state can shoot like that''?
Publicly, he denied everything.
Privately, he created and magnified an image of himself as a hired assassin.
For a blood chilling ring of terror to the very sound of his name was the tool he needed for the job he'd promised to do.
Tom Horn was soon back at work, giving his secret employers their money's worth.
A good many beef hungry settlers were accepting the death of William Lewis as proof that the warning notes were not idle threats.
The company herds were being raided less often, and cabins and soddies all over the range were standing deserted.
But there were other homesteaders who passed the Lewis murder off as a personal grudge killing, the work of one of his neighbors.
The rustling problem was by no means solved.
For less than a dozen miles from the unplowed land of the dead man lived another settler who had ignored the warnings that his existence might be foreclosed on - a blatant and defiant rustler named Fred Powell.
``Fred was mighty crude about the way he took in cattle'' his own hired man, Andy Ross, mentioned later.
``Everyone knew it, but he sort of acted like he didn't care who knew it - even after them notes came, even after he'd heard about Lewis, even after he'd been shot at a couple o' times hisself''!
On the morning of September 10, 1895, Powell and Ross rose at dawn and began their day's work.
Haying time was close at hand, and they needed some strong branches to repair a hay rack.
Harnessing a team to a buckboard, they drove out to a willow lined creek about a half-mile off, then climbed down and began chopping.
Andy Ross had just started swinging an ax at his second willow when the distant blast of a rifle sounded.
He looked around in surprise, then noticed that Fred Powell was clutching his chest.
The hired man ran over to help his boss.
Powell gasped.
And he collapsed and died instantly.
Ross had no intention of searching for the assassin.
He heaved the dead man onto the buckboard, yelled and lashed at the team and got out of there fast.
But he brought back the sheriff and several deputies, and to the lawmen the entire affair seemed a repetition of the Lewis killing.
A detailed scouring of the entire area revealed nothing beyond a ledge of rocks that might have been the rifleman's hiding place.
There were no tracks of either hoofs or boots.
Not even an empty cartridge case could be found.
Once again, Tom Horn was the first and most likely suspect, and he was brought in for questioning immediately.
Later, riding in for some lusty enjoyment of the liquor and professional ladies of Cheyenne, he laid claim to the killing with the vague insinuations he made.
``Exterminatin' cow thieves is just a business proposition with me'', he'd blandly announce.
``And I sort o' got a corner on the market''.
``Tom'', a friend asked him once, ``how come you bushwhacked them rustlers?
They wouldn't o' stood no chance with you in a plain, straight-out shoot-down''.
He had lots of friends, then as always.
Even as he became widely known as a professional killer, nearly every cowboy and rancher in Wyoming seemed proud to call him a friend.
No man's name brought more cheers when it was announced in a rodeo.
``Well'', he explained, ``s'posin you was a nester swingin' the long rope?
``Yeah, I can see that'', the friend was forced to agree.
``But, well, it just don't seem sportin' somehow''!
``Sportin'''!
The tall sunburnt rustler hunter stared in amazement.
``Sportin'' '! he echoed again in soft wonder.
``I seen a lot o' things in my time.
I found a trooper once the Apache had spread-eagled on an ant hill, and another time we ran across some teamsters they'd caught, tied upside down on their own wagon wheels over little fires until their brains was exploded right out o' their skulls.
I heard o' Texas cattlemen wrappin' a cow thief up in green hides and lettin' the sun shrink' em and squeeze him to death.
But there's one thing I never seen or heard of, one thing I just don't think there is, and that's a sportin' way o' killin' a man''!
The lesson had been learned.
The examples were plain.
When Fred Powell's brother-in-law, Charlie Keane, moved into the dead man's home, the anonymous letter writer took no chances on Charlie taking up where Fred had left off and wasted no time on a first notice:
If you don't leave this country within 3 days, your life will be taken the same as Powell's was.
This was the message found tacked to the cabin door.
Keane left, within three days.
All through Albany and Laramie counties, other men were doing the same.
Houses of settlers who'd treated the company herds as a natural resource, free for the taking, were sitting empty, with weeds growing high in their yards.
The small half-heartedly tended fields of men who'd spent more time rustling cattle than farming were lying fallow.
Jury, judge and executioner were riding the range in the form of a single unknown figure that could materialize anywhere, at any time, to dispense an ancient brand of justice the men of the new West had believed long outdated.
For three straight years, Tom Horn patrolled the southern Wyoming pastures, and how many men he killed after Lewis and Powell (if he killed Lewis and Powell) will never be known.
It is possible, although highly doubtful, that he killed none at all but merely let his reputation work for him by privately claiming every unsolved murder in the state.
It is also possible, but equally doubtful, that he actually shot down the hundreds of men with which his legend credits him.
For that legend was growing explosively, Rumor was insisting he received a price of $ 600 a man.
(The best evidence is that he received a monthly wage of about $ 125, very good money in an era when top hands worked for $ 30 and found .)
Rumor had it he slipped two small rocks under each victim's head as a sort of trademark.
(A detailed search of old coroner's reports fails to substantiate this in the slightest .)
One thing was certain - his method was effective, so effective that after a time even the warning notices were often unnecessary.
``My reputation's my stock in trade'', Tom mentioned more than once.
He evidently couldn't foresee that it might be his downfall in the end.
He had made himself the personification of the Devil to the homesteaders.
But to the cattlemen who had been facing bankruptcy from rustling losses and to the cowboys who had been faced with lay-offs a few years earlier, he was becoming a vastly different type of legendary figure.
Such ranchers as Coble and Clay and the Bosler brothers carried him on their books as a cowhand even while he was receiving a much larger salary from parties unknown.
He made their spreads his headquarters, and he helped out in their roundups.
In the cow camps, Tom Horn was regarded as a hero, as the same kind of champion he was when he entered and invariably won the local rodeos.
The hands and their bosses saw him as a lone knight of the range, waging a dedicated crusade against a lawless new society that was threatening a beloved way of life.
The wailing, guitar strumming minstrels of the cattle kingdom made up songs about him.
When several minutes had passed and Curt hadn't emerged from the livery stable, Brenner re-entered the hotel and faced Summers across the counter.
``I have a little job for you, Charlie.
I'm sure you wonn't mind doing me a small favor''.
Brenner's voice was oily, but Summers wasn't fooled.
He moistened his lips uneasily.
``What is it you want me to do, Mr. Brenner''?
Brenner shrugged carelessly.
``It's very simple.
I just want you to take a message to Diane Molinari.
Vastly relieved, Summers nodded and started toward the door.
``One thing, Summers'', Brenner said.
``You're not to mention my name.
Tell her Curt Adams wants to see her''.
Summers pulled up short, and turned around.
``I don't know, Mr. Brenner'', he said haltingly, beginning to get an inkling of Brenner's plans.
``It doesn't seem quite right, telling her a thing like that.
Couldn't I just'' - His voice trailed off into silence.
Brenner continued to smile, but his eyes were cold.
``You know, Summers'', he said thoughtfully.
``Eagle's Nest ought to have a fire company.
If someone were to drop a match in here, this place would go up like a haystack''.
He started toward the stairway, then turned to add, ``Tell her to come to Adams's room, that Adams is in trouble.
Tell her to hurry''.
``Yes sir''.
His face pale, Summers headed for the street.
Curt's visit to the livery stable had been merely a precaution in case anyone should be watching.
He paused only long enough to ascertain that Jess's buckskin was still missing and that his own gray was all right, then climbed through a back window and dropped to the ground outside.
A man like Jess would want to have a ready means of escape in case it was needed.
Probably his horse would be close to where he was hiding.
From the back of the barn it was a simple matter to reach Black's house without using the street.
Curt approached the place cautiously, and watched it several minutes from the protection of a grove of trees.
There was a light in Black's front room, but drawn curtains prevented any view of the interior.
Curt circled the house and located a barn out back.
He could hear horses moving around inside, and nothing else.
There was no lock on the door, only an iron hook which he unfastened.
He opened the door and went in, pulling it shut behind him.
He moved ahead carefully, his left hand in front of him, and came to a wooden partition.
Horse smell was very strong, and he could hear the crunch of grain being ground between strong jaws.
He found a match in his pocket and lit it.
There were two horses in the barn, a sway-backed dun and Jess Crouch's buckskin.
Curt snuffed out the match.
It was certain now that Jess was in the house, but also, presumably, was Stacey Black.
Curt wanted to get Jess alone, without interference from anyone, even as spineless a person as the store owner.
He studied the problem for a few seconds and thought of a means by which it might be solved.
Reaching across the side of the stall, he slapped the buckskin on the rump.
As Curt had hoped, the house door banged open.
He slapped the buckskin again and it kicked wildly, its hoofs rattling the side of the stall.
Curt moved over beside the door and waited.
Presently he heard footsteps crossing the yard, and Jess's smothered curses.
The door swung open, and Jess said sourly, ``What the hell's the matter with you ?''
The horse continued to snort.
Curt doubted that any animal belonging to Jess would find much reassurance in its owner's voice.
Jess cursed again, and entered the barn.
A match flared, and he reached above his head to light a lantern which hung from a wire loop.
``Before you try anything'', he said.
``Remember what happened to Gruller''.
Jess caught his breath in surprise.
He started to reach for his gun, but apparently hammer it.
``That's the stuff'', Curt said.
``Just hold it that way''.
He reached out to pull the door shut and fasten it with a sliding bolt.
``You and I have a little talking to do, Jess.
You wonn't be needing this''.
``Damn you, Adams'' - Jess was beginning to recover from his initial shock.
``We ain't got nothing to talk about.
If I don't come back in the house, Breed's going to'' -
``Your trigger-happy brother isn't in the house.
About now he's probably having supper.
That long ride the four of you took must've given him a good appetite.
Now turn around so I can see your face''.
Jess turned.
There was raw fury in his eyes, and the veins of his neck were swollen.
I don't know what you're up to, but when Brenner'' -
``You can forget about Brenner, too'', Curt said.
``It's Ben Arbuckle we're going to talk about''.
``Arbuckle''?
Jess stiffened.
``I don't know nothin' about him''.
``No?
I suppose you don't know anything about a piece of two-by-four, either; one with blood all over it, Arbuckle's blood''.
Curt's fingers put a little more pressure on the trigger of his gun.
Now start talking.
Who told you to do it?
Was it Dutch Brenner''?
Curt was holding Jess's gun in his left hand.
He drew back his arm to slash the gunbarrel across Jess's face, but didn't finish the motion.
Pistol whipping an unarmed man might come easy to someone like Jess, but Curt couldn't bring himself to do it.
Apparently sensing this, and realizing that it gave him an advantage, Jess became bold.
``Having all the guns makes you a big man, don't it, Adams?
If we was both armed, you wouldn't talk so tough''.
Curt reached out and dropped Jess's pistol back into the holster.
He retreated a step and holstered his own.
``All right, Crouch; we're on even terms.
Now draw''!
Sweat bubbled out on Jess's swarthy face.
The fingers of his right hand twisted into a claw, but he didn't reach for the gun.
Curt, angry enough to be a little reckless, raised his hands shoulder high.
``Does this make it any easier, coward''?
``I ain't drawin' against you'', Jess said thickly.
I ain't a gunslinger''.
``No.
You're the kind of bastard who sneaks up on a man from behind and hits him with a club.
I just wanted to hear you say so''.
Jess stared at him without answering and let his hands fall to his sides.
He had found Curt's weakness, or what to Jess was a weakness, and was smart enough to take advantage of it.
Somewhere in the distance, a woman screamed.
Curt was too involved in his own problems to pay much attention.
He had to make Jess talk, and he had to do it before Stacey Black got curious and came to investigate.
He dropped his own beside it.
``We'll do it another way, then'', he said harshly.
Jess's coarse features twisted in a surprised grin which was smashed out of shape by Curt's fist.
With a roar of pain and fury Jess made his attack.
Curt managed to duck beneath the man's flailing fist, and drove home a solid left to Jess's mid section.
It was like hitting a sack of salt.
Pain shout up Curt's arm clear to the shoulder, but Jess seemed hardly aware that he had been hit.
He slammed into the wall, bounced back, and caught Curt with a roundhouse right which sent him spinning.
An inch lower and it would have knocked him out.
When his eyes began to focus, he saw Jess charging at him with a pitchfork.
Curt twisted to one side, and the tines of the fork bit into the floor.
Jess wasted a few seconds trying to yank them loose.
It gave Curt time to stagger to his feet.
The tines broke off under Jess's twisting, and he swung the handle in an attempt to knock Curt's brains out.
His aim was hurried; so the pitchfork whistled over Curt's head.
By now Curt was seeing clearly again.
He stepped inside Jess's guard and landed two blows to the big man's belly, putting everything he had behind them.
They made Jess double over.
The building shook, setting the lantern to swaying, and the buckskin to pitching again.
Even Black's old crowbait began to snort, and from the house Black yelled, ``Jess!
What's going on out there''?
Jess didn't seem too sure himself.
He lurched drunkenly to his feet, lowered his head, and took one step away from the wall.
Curt caught him flush on the nose with a blow which started at the floor.
Jess had had enough.
Blood gushed from his nose, and he backed off as rapidly as he could, stumbling over his own feet in his frantic haste to get away from Curt's fists.
Curt was in almost as bad shape, but he wouldn't quit.
``Tell me about Arbuckle!
You killed him, didn't you''?
``It was Brenner's idea'', Jess mumbled, dabbing at his nose.
``He found out about you and Arbuckle talking.
He wanted to show the town what happened to anyone who tried to start trouble''.
``You mean anyone who stood up for his rights'', Curt said.
He let go of the shirt, and Jess slumped to the floor.
Turning his back, Curt crossed to the stall, reached over to untie the buckskin's halter rope, and waved his hand in the animal's face.
The buckskin bolted out of the stall.
He shook loose straw out of the action, and placed the gun in his holster.
Leaving Jess's where it lay, he left the stall.
``Get up, Crouch.
We're going someplace''.
Jess painfully got to his feet as someone rattled the door.
``Who's in there''?
Black called fearfully.
Curt opened the door, grabbed Black by the shoulder, and pulled him into the barn.
``You're staying right here for a while.
I'm going to let him tell it to somebody else''.
He shoved Black toward the stall, and pointed his pistol at Jess.
``Get out of here.
You're coming along peacefully, or I'll put a bullet in your leg''.
Jess stumbled through the door.
Curt followed, reaching behind him to shut the door and hook it.
Black would have little trouble getting out, but it might delay him a few minutes.
``Where're you takin' me''?
Jess asked worriedly.
Maybe if the marshal hears this himself, it'll make a difference.
Somebody in this town must still have some backbone''.
While no larger than Dutch Springs, this mining supply town had the appearance of being far busier and more prosperous.
Men crowded the streets and freight rigs and teams were moving about.
Although they were forced to maintain a sharper watch, this activity enabled them to ride in and rack their broncs without any particular attention being paid them.
``Gyp'll be holdin' forth in some bar if he's here at all'', Cobb declared, glancing along the street as they stretched their legs.
There were no less than six or seven saloons in Ganado, not counting the lower class dives, all vying for the trade of celebrating miners and teamsters.
Pat only nodded.
``Take one side of the street, and I'll take the other'', he proposed.
Cobb's assent was tight.
``You do the same.
It's all I ask, Stevens''.
Separating, they took different sides of the main drag and systematically combed the bars.
Russ visited two places without result and his blood pressure was down to zero.
Suddenly it seemed to him insane that they might hope to locate Gyp Carmer so casually, even were he to prove the thief.
He tramped out of the Miners Rest with his hopes plummeting, and headed doggedly for the Palace Saloon, the last place of any consequence on this side of the street.
The Palace was an elaborate establishment, built practically on stilts in front, with long flights of wooden steps running up to the porch.
Behind its ornate facade the notorious dive clung like a bird's nest to the rocky ribs of the canyonside.
The front windows of the place were long and narrow, reaching nearly to the floor and affording an unusually good view of the interior.
Heading for the batwings, Cobb glanced perfunctorily through the nearest window, and suddenly dodged aside.
Nerves tight as a bowstring, he paused to gather his wits.
Against all expectation, Carmer was inside, clearly enjoying himself to the hilt and already so tipsy that it seemed unlikely he was bothering to note anything or anyone about him.
Fierce anger surged through Russ.
He fought down the impulse to rush in and collar the vicious puncher on the spot.
Reaching the porch rail beyond view of the bar windows, he feverishly scanned the busy street below.
Stevens was nowhere in sight.
Muffling an exclamation, Russ sprang to the nearest steps and ran down.
``What luck, Cobb'' ? he said swiftly.
Russ pointed upward.
``He's there'', he got out tersely, curbing his rising excitement.
Hitching his cartridge belt around, Pat glanced upward briefly at the Palace and started that way with Cobb at his side.
Climbing the steps steadily, they reached the top and headed for the door.
Pat pushed through first.
Forced behind him momentarily, Russ followed at once and halted two steps inside.
His eyes widened.
While five minutes ago the place had presented a scene of easy revelry, with Gyp Carmer a prominent figure, it was now as somnolent and dull as the day before payday.
A man knocked the roulette ball about idly in its track, and another dozed at one of the card tables.
Two men murmured with their heads together at the end of the bar, while the sleek headed bartender absently polished a glass.
Looking the setup over, Stevens started coolly for the rear of the place.
``Where yuh goin'''?
It was the barkeep.
Halting, Pat turned to survey him deliberately.
He did not reply, going on toward the back.
Less assured than the tall, wide shouldered man in the lead, Cobb followed alertly, a hand on his gun butt.
The bartender measured this situation with heavy eyes and decided he wanted no part of it.
A hall opened in back of the bar, running toward an ell.
Pat moved into it.
Small rooms, probably for cards, opened off on either side.
All the doors were open at this hour except one, and it was toward this that Stevens made his way with Russ close at his shoulder.
The door was locked.
A single kick made it spring open, shuddering.
Pat saw Gyp Carmer staggering forward, a half filled bottle upraised as if to strike.
Russ sprang through to bat it nimbly aside.
With a bellow Carmer lunged at him.
Cobb unleashed a single powerful jab that sent Gyp reeling wildly and crashing down with a whining groan.
He started to struggle up, heaving desperately.
Russ gave him a brutal thrust that tumbled him over flat on his stomach.
Kneeling, Cobb planted a sturdy knee in the small of his back, holding him pinned.
``Okay, Stevens.
I've drawn his fangs'', he snapped.
``Go through his pockets, will you?
If we have to we'll take him apart and see what he's made of''!
Complying methodically, Pat pulled pocket after pocket inside out without finding a thing.
Stevens was grunting over the last empty pocket when Russ abruptly rose and lunged toward Carmer's hat, which had tumbled half-a-dozen feet away when he first fell.
Cobb got it.
Straightening up, his eyes ablaze, he held out the battered Stetson.
``Look at this''!
Inside the crown, stuffed behind the stained sweatband, could be seen thin, crumpled wads of currency.
Carmer's ingenious cache for his loot had been found.
``By golly, Stevens!
You were right'', Russ exclaimed, tearing the loose bills out of Carmer's hat.
``That is, if we can be sure this is Colcord's money'' -
``Where else would he get it?
Count what you've got there, Cobb.
We can soon tell''.
Russ ran through the bills and named an amount it was highly unlikely any cowpuncher would come by honestly.
Pat nodded.
``It's within a hundred of what Crip had'', he declared.
``We know Penny spent some - and Carmer must have dropped a few dollars getting that load on''.
Handing the money over, Russ wiped his hands on his pants-legs as if ridding himself of something unclean.
His glance at Gyp Carmer was disdainful.
Leaving the card room, they moved back through the Palace the way they had come.
Glowering looks met them in the bar, but there was no attempt to halt them.
Pausing in the outside door to glance behind him, Pat looked his unspoken warning and stepped out.
He and Cobb clattered down the high steps to the street.
Neither spoke till they reached their horses.
Pat paused there, looking across at the young fellow.
It'll be a pleasure for you to return this money to Colcord and tell him about it, Russ ``.
He started to return it.
To his faint surprise Russ held up his hand.
I've had enough.
It was you that tracked it down anyway, Stevens ``, he pursued strictly.
'' I'll shove along home ``.
``Whatever you say''.
Pat swung into the saddle, yet still he delayed, his brows puckered.
``You owe it to Penny to give her a chance to explain that she was defending you, really'', he observed mildly.
``Old Crip wasn't'', retorted Cobb tartly.
``He'll know when you tell him.
But I want this to sink in awhile.
``Pat had never pretended to give advice in such affairs.
'' You're the doctor ``, he returned with a smile.
'' But I still think Penny's an awful nice girl, Russ ``-
``You don't have to tell me'', flashed Cobb.
Giving the other a dark look, he hauled his bronc around and trotted down off the street.
Pat let him go, following more leisurely.
At the first restaurant he sensibly pulled up to go in for his dinner, and as a consequence did not see Cobb strike the open range at the mouth of the canyon and head straight across the swells for Antler.
The truth was, the puncher was both bewildered and dismayed by his own mixed luck.
``Penny's always glad to see me over there'', he mused bleakly.
Over and above that, however, was his growing suspicion of Chuck Stober's part in recent events.
``Gyp Carmer couldn't have known about Colcord's money unless he was told - and who else would have told him'' ? he asked himself.
``It's the second time War Ax hands made a play for that money.
How much of an accident could that be ``?
Nearing home, he jerked to attention at the distant crack of a gun.
In town no one paid much attention to an occasional shot; but on the range gunfire had a meaning.
Hauling up, Russ listened carefully.
Two minutes later it came again - a double explosion, followed by a third, sounding more distant.
As near as Cobb could determine the shots came from the direction of the Antler ranch house.
So far as he knew, only his father could be there.
What did it mean?
Clapping spurs to the bronc he set off at a sharp canter, with growing alarm.
His first glimpse of the ranch house across the brushy swells told him nothing.
Still a quarter-mile away, the fresh clap of guns only served to increase his speed.
Setting a course straight for the house, he was covering ground fast when an angry bee buzzed past close to his face.
When it was followed by a second, whining even closer, Cobb swerved sharply aside into a depression.
He knew now what he was up against.
Whoever was out there hiding in the brushy cover was besieging the Antler house and, having spotted his approach, was determined to drive him off before he could get into the fight.
If he wondered whether the attackers would allow him to pull away unmolested, he had his answer a moment later.
``Over this way!
He ain't gone far''! a harsh cry floated to him across the brush.
A carbine cracked more loudly, and a slug clipped fragments from the brush off at one side.
The would-be assassin had his position figured pretty close.
Dismounting, Russ looked about hastily.
Toward the west this depression led toward a draw.
Leading his pony, he hurried that way, not remounting till he was well below the level of the surrounding range.
Swinging up then, and bending forward over the horn, he urged his mount down the meandering draw.
He had been sighted, and his attacker pumping shot after shot.
A shot or two went wild before Cobb felt something tug at his foot.
A slug had torn half of his stirrup guard away.
A second twitched his shirtsleeve, and he felt a brief burn on his upper arm.
Another snarled close overhead.
``Jumping Jerusalem!
Let's get out of here''!
At the first shot Russ had hurled his mount to the left toward the side of the winding draw.
The long minute before he reached effective cover seemed endless.
He heard cries from behind him, but he could make out no words.
He dashed madly for the next elbow turn in the draw, and made it.
Recklessly hurling the bronc sidewise into an intersecting draw, he plunged forward with undiminished speed.
Gradually the wash climbed upward, forcing him toward open range.
Yet he must chance it.
He clambered out of the dwindling wash, the loose dirt flying behind him, and flashed a look about.
Early in November the clouds lifted enough to carry out the assigned missions.
And Sweeney Squadron put its first marks on the combat record.
Every plane that could fly was sent into the air.
Anything the enemy flew or floated was his target.
Fleischman with eight was to patrol the Leyte Gulf area, with his main task to get any kamikaze before they got to the ships.
Greg himself took two flights, with Todman leading the second, to patrol and look for targets of opportunities around Ormoc on the east coast of Leyte.
Each plane carried two five-hundred pound bombs.
A weapons carrier took Greg, Todman, Belton, Banjo Ferguson, and Walters and the others the two miles from the bivouac area to the strip.
It was a rough long ride through the mud and pot holes.
No one had much to say.
The sky glowered down at them.
There was a feeling that this mission would be canceled like all the others and that this muddy wet dark world of combat would go on forever.
Donovan snatched Greg's chute from him with a belligerent motion and almost ran to the plane with it.
His face was dark as the sky above it as he stood on the wing and waited for his pilot.
Greg climbed into the cockpit feeling as if he had never been in one before.
But his hands and those of Donovan moved automatically adjusting and arranging in the check-out procedure.
``I've got her as neat as I can'', Donovan said, as he dropped the straps of the Seton harness over Greg's shoulders.
``But this goddamn climate.
It's for carabao not airplanes''.
``We'll make out.
Don't you worry, chief'', Greg replied, wondering if he himself believed it.
See you'', Donovan said as he jumped off the wing.
The expression was his trade-mark, his open sesame to good luck, and his prayer that pilot and plane would always return.
At the prearranged time, Greg started the engine and taxied out.
From the time the chocks were pulled until the plane was out of sight, he knew Donovan would keep his back to the strip.
He wondered where the superstition had originated that it was bad luck for a crew chief to watch his plane take off on a combat mission.
Yet long before the scheduled time for return, Donovan would be watching for every speck in the sky.
Greg rumbled down the rough metal taxi strip, and one by one the seven members of his flight fell in behind him.
The dark brown bombs hanging under each wing looked large and powerful.
The pilots' heads looked ridiculously small.
Greg's mission was the last to leave, and as he circled the ships off Tacloban he saw the clouds were dropping down again.
To the west, the dark green hills of Leyte were lost in the clouds about halfway up their slopes.
Underneath him the sea was a dark and muddied gray.
Water splashed against his windshield as he led the flight in and out of showers.
The metal strip they had taken off from was coal black against the green jungle around it.
He possessed the fighter pilot's horror of bad weather and instrument flying, and he wondered, if the ceiling did drop, whether he and the other flights would be able to find their way back in this unfamiliar territory.
He shivered in the warm cockpit.
The overcast was solid above him.
As far as he could see there was no hole to climb through it.
Greg pushed the radio button on his throttle.
``Todman, let's try to go under this stuff.
Stay in close and we'll go up the valley''.
``Roger, Sweeney'', Todman called back, and pulled his four in and slightly above Greg.
Greg took the formation wide around three A-26 attack bombers that were headed north over the Gulf.
He dropped down to five hundred feet, swinging a little north of the city of Tacloban, and punched into the opening that showed against the mountain.
The valley was only a few hundred yards wide with just about room enough for a properly performed hundred-and-eighty degree turn.
It was only a fifteen minute flight, but before it was through Greg felt himself developing a case of claustrophobia.
The ceiling stayed solid above them at about eight hundred feet, and at times the sheer cliffs seemed about to close in.
The formation remained perfect.
When the sea was visible ahead of them, the relief was as great as if the sun had come out.
He spread the flight out and led them across a point of land and then down the coast.
Although they drew light ground fire they saw no signs of activity.
Once Todman thought he had spotted a tank and went down to investigate while Greg covered him.
``Somebody beat us to it''!
Todman said over the radio as he came back up in formation.
Visibility continued to be limited, and Greg was never able to get above a thousand feet.
It was frustrating.
He thought once that he identified the somewhat hysterical voice of Fleischman claiming a kill.
But Greg's area remained as placid as a Florida dawn.
Finally, as time began to run out, he headed into Ormoc and glide-bombed a group of houses that Intelligence had thought might contain Japanese supplies.
The low clouds made bombing difficult.
There was not enough room to make the usual vertical bomb run.
The accuracy was deplorable.
One of Greg's bombs hung up, and he was miles from the target before he could get rid of it.
Only one of the flight scored a direct hit and the rest blew up jungle.
With their load of bombs gone, the planes moved swiftly and easily.
Mercifully, it was still open.
Like a man making a deep dive, Greg took full breath and plunged back into the valley.
He was about to make a gas check on his flight when Todman's voice broke in : ``Sweeneys!
Three bogies.
Twelve o'clock level''.
Greg's eyes flicked up from his instrument panel.
He saw them, specks against the gray, but closing fast.
They were headed straight for each other on a collision course.
Friend or enemy?
And only a few seconds to answer it.
``Zeros''!
Todman said excitedly, and hopefully.
And then he thought Todman might be right.
His mind flicked through the mental pictures he had from the hours of Aircraft Identification.
He narrowed the shape down to two : either a Zero or a U. S. Navy type aircraft.
If it were the enemy, tactically his position was correct.
Japanese aircraft were strong on maneuverability, American on speed and firepower.
His present maximum altitude, up against the overcast, gave him the opportunity to exploit his advantages.
But the closing aircraft showed no sign of deviating from their original course.
In seconds, Greg made his decision.
He pushed the radio button.
``Sweeney Blue, hit the deck.
Lots of throttle.
Todman, you take the one on the left.
I'll take the middle.
Belton, the one on the right.
If & & & if they're Japs.
Greg had the stick forward and the throttle up before he heard the two ``Rogers''.
The planes, light with most of the gas burned out, responded beautifully.
Greg's airspeed indicator was over 350 when he leveled off just above the trees.
The opposing aircraft continued to come on.
They appeared to be the enemy.
Greg wished the Air Corps had continued to camouflage planes.
There was, of course, no way for the other planes to get by them.
It was a box.
But they could turn and escape to the east.
``Todman, drop your second element back.
If any of us miss, they can pick up the pieces.
Now let's make sure they're Japs''.
Even as he said it, Greg knew they had found the enemy.
The shapes were unmistakable and the Rising Suns were showing up, slightly brighter pinpoints in the gray gloom.
Greg slapped his hand across the switches that turned on the guns and gun camera and gun sight.
The circle with the dot in the center showed up yellow on the reflector glass in front of him.
His hands shook.
``Arm your guns, Sweeneys''.
They're Japs'', came a high-pitched voice.
``Greg to Sweeney Blue.
One pass only.
No turns.
You'll bust your ass in this canyon.
That's an order''.
He moved the flights over against one wall.
It gave them all a chance to make a high-speed climbing turn attack and a break-away that would not take them into the overcast or force a tight turn recovery.
If the turn was too tight, a barrel roll would bring them out.
Greg slammed his throttle to the fire wall and rammed up the RPM, and the engine responded as if it had been waiting.
The clearly identifiable enemy continued on as if no one else were around.
``They haven't seen us'', Greg yelled to himself over the engine noise.
``They haven't seen us''.
He hit the radio button.
``Now, Sweeneys, now.
Let's take' em home''.
He hauled back on the stick and felt his cheeks sag.
Out of the corner of his eye, he watched his wingman move out a bit and shoot up with him.
With the rapid rate of closure, the approach from below, the side, and ahead, there would be only a moment when damage could be done.
Just like shooting at a duck while performing a half-gainer from a diving board.
He tightened his turn.
His nose up.
It was going to be dangerous.
Eight aircraft in this small box.
Please, dear God, make my pilots good, he prayed.
He took a lead on the enemy, using a distance of five of the radii in his circular sight and then added another.
The enemy did not veer.
Blind fools.
Now!
Greg's fingers closed on the stick trigger.
The plane rumbled and slowed.
Six red lines etched their way into the gray and vanished.
As if drawn by a wire the enemy flew into them.
Greg tightened his turn until the plane shuddered.
Luck was with him.
His burst held for a second on the engine section of the plane.
A large piece of engine cowling vanished.
It was all Greg had time to see.
His maneuvering for the shot had placed him near the overcast, almost inverted and heading up into the clouds.
His speed was dropping rapidly.
If he spun out now, he would join his opponent on the ground.
Wingman, stay clear, he prayed.
He pushed stick and rudder and entered the overcast on his back.
He fought the panic of vertigo.
He had no idea which was up and which was down.
Sweat popped out over him and he felt the slick between his palm and the stick grip.
His air speed dropped until he thought he would spin out.
Over the rattling of fenders, humming of tires and chattering of gears there was a charming melody of whispers and tiny giggles.
Cool air moving slowly through the open or smashed out side windows hinted of blooming roadside vegetation, and occasionally a faint fragrance of perfume swirled from the back seat.
``Moriarty'', my driver suddenly exclaimed with something so definite, so final in his tone I once more repeated the absurdity, mustering all my latent powers of hypocrisy to sound convinced.
We were coming to an intersection, turning right, chuffing to a stop.
Forced to realize that this was the end of a very short line I scanned a road marker and discovered what the end of a slightly longer line would be for the old Mexican : Moriarty, New Mexico.
``Gracias.
Adios'', I said, exhausting my Spanish vocabulary on my host and exchanging one of a scarcely tapped store of smiles with my host's daughters.
Then I saw the father's head slightly turn; gauche rainbow shapes replaced the poignant ovals of gold.
Autos whizzed past.
White shirted and conservatively cravated drivers stared conspicuously toward the eastern horizon and past my supplicating and accusing gaze.
Suddenly a treble auto horn tootley-toot-tootled, and, thumbing hopefully, I saw emergent in windshield flash : red lips, streaming silk of blonde hair and - ah, trembling confusion of hope, apprehension, despair - the leering face of old Herry.
``Mor-ee-air-teeeee'', he shrieked, his white teeth grossly counterpointing those of the glittering blonde.
Over the rapidly diminishing outline of a jump seat piled high with luggage Herry's black brushcut was just discernible, near, or enviably near that spot where - hidden - more delicately textured, most beautifully tinted hair must still be streaming back in cool, oh cool wind sweetly perfumed with sagebrush and yucca flowers and engine fumes.
Damn his luck.
I would have foregone my romantic chances rather than leave a friend sweltering and dusty and - Well, at least I wouldn't have shouted back a taunt.
Still nursing anger I listlessly thumbed a car that was slowly approaching, its pre-war chrome nearly blinding me.
Just as I straightened up with my duffel bag, I heard : ``Sahjunt Yoorick, meet Mrs. Major J. A. Roebuck''.
The voice was that of Johnson, tail gunner off another crew.
Squeezing a look between Johnson's fat jowls and the car frame a handsome and still darkhaired lady inquired ``Y' all drahve''?
I nodded.
``Onleh one thiihng'', Mrs. Roebuck continued.
``Ahm goin nawth t' jawn mah husbun in Sante Fe, an y' all maht prefuh the suhthuhn rewt.
But Corporal Johnson has alreadeh said it didn make no diffrunce t' hi-im''.
I said that it didn't make any difference to me either, as far as I knew.
How far I knew will shortly become apparent.
I let up on the accelerator, only to gradually reach again the 60 m. p. h. which would, I hoped, overhaul Herry and the blonde, and as there were cars whose drivers apparently had something more important to catch than had I, Mrs. Major Roebuck settled down to practicing on Corporal Johnson the kittenish wiles she would need when making her duty call on Colonel and Mrs. Somebody in Sante Fe.
When Johnson ejaculated ``Howsabout my buying us all a nice cold Co-cola, Ma' am''?
Mrs. Roebuck smilingly declined and began suddenly to go on about her son, who was ``onleh a little younguh than you bawhs''.
Johnson never would have believed she had a son that age.
Mrs. Roebuck thought Johnson was a ``sweet bawh t' lah lahk thet'', but her Herman was getting to be a man, there was no getting around it.
``Just befoh he left foh his academeh we wuh hevin dack-rihs on the vuhranduh, Major Roebuck an Ah, an Huhmun says' May Ah hev one too'?
just as p' lite an - an cohnfidunt, an Ah says' Uh coahse you cain't ', but he says' Whah nawt, you ah hevin one'?
an Ah coudn ansuh him an so Ah said' Aw right, Ah gay-ess, an his fathuh did n uttuh one wohd an aftuh Huhmun was gone, the majuh laughed an tole me thet he an the bawh had been hevin an occasional drink t' gethuh f' ovuh a yeah, onleh an occasional one, but just the same it was behahn mah back, an Ah doa n think thet's nahce at all, d' you''?
``No, I don't'', Johnson said.
Mrs. Roebuck very kindly let me drive through Sante Fe to a road which would, she said, lead us to Taos and then Raton and ``eventshahleh'' out of New Mexico.
How lightly her ``eventshah-leh'' passed into the crannies where I was storing dialect material for some vaguely dreamed opus, and how the word would echo.
And re-echo.
Hardly had Mrs. Roebuck driven off when a rusty pick-up truck, father or grandfather of Senor ``Moriarty's'' Ford sedan, came screeching to a dust swirling stop, and a brown face appeared, its nose threatened by shards of what had once been the side window.
``Get in, buddies.
Get in''.
The straight, black hair flopped in a vigorous nod, the slender nose plunged toward glass teeth and drew safely back.
Johnson unwired the right hand door, whose window was, like the left one, merely loosely taped fragments of glass, and Johnson wadded himself into a narrow seat made still more narrow by three cases of beer.
``In back, buddy'', the driver said to me.
The truck was hurtling forward.
I seized the rack and made a western style flying mount just in time, one of my knees mercifully landing on my duffel bag - and merely wrecking my camera, I was to discover later - my other knee landing on the slivery truck floor boards and - but this is no medical report.
I was again in motion and at a speed which belied the truck's similarity to Senor X's Ford turtle.
Maybe I would beat old Herry to Siberia after all.
Whatever satisfaction that might offer.
Something pulled my leg.
I drew back, drawing back my foot for a kick.
But it was only Johnson reaching around the wire chicken fencing, which half covered the truck cab's glassless rear window.
The way his red rubber lips were stretched across his pearly little teeth I though he was only having a little joke, but, no, he wanted me to bend down from the roar of wind so he could roar something into my ear.
``Hell, yes'', I roared back between dusty lips.
Did I want a beer?
Did an anteater want ants?
``Bueno, amigo.
Gracias'', I hollered, my first long swallow filling me with confidence and immediately doubling the size of my Spanish vocabulary.
At once my ears were drowned by a flow of what I took to be Spanish, but - the driver's white teeth flashing at me, the road wildly veering beyond his glistening hair, beyond his gesticulating bottle - it could have been the purest Oxford English I was half hearing; I wouldn't have known the difference.
Johnson was trying to grab the wheel, though the swerve of the truck was throwing him away from it.
White teeth suddenly vanishing, the driver slammed the side of his bottle against Johnson's ear.
We were off the road, gleaming barbed wire pulling taut.
We were in a field, in a tight, screeching turn.
Prairie dogs were popping up and popping down.
When I fell on my back, I saw a vulture hovering.
Just as I got to my knees, there was again the sound of the fence stretching, and I had time only to start taking my kneeling posture seriously.
This time no wire came whipping into the truck.
We were back on the road.
I regained my squatting position behind the truck cab's rear window.
Johnson's left hand was pressed against the side of his head, red cheeks whitening beneath his fingers.
``Tee-wah'', the driver cackled, his black eyes glittering behind dull silver chicken fencing.
You thought I was a Mexican, didn't you, buddy''?
I nodded.
``Hell, that's all right, buddy'', the Indian (I now guessed) said.
``Drink your beer''.
Miraculously, the bottle was still in my hand, foam still geysering over my (luckily) waterproof watch.
No sooner had I started drinking than the driver started zigzagging the truck.
The beer foamed furiously.
I drank furiously.
A long time.
Teeth again flashing back at me, the driver released a deluge of Spanish in which ``amigo'' appeared every so often like an island in the stormy waves of surrounding sound.
I bobbed my head each time it appeared.
Suddenly the Spanish became an English in which only one word emerged with clarity and precision, ``son of a bitch'', sometimes hyphenated by vicious jabs of a beer bottle into Johnson's quivering ribs.
A big car was approaching, its chrome teeth grinning.
Beyond it the gray road stretched a long, long way.
The car was just about to us, its driver's fat, solemn face intent on the road ahead, on business, on a family in Sante Fe - on anything but an old pick-up truck in which two human beings desperately needed rescue.
I tossed the bottle.
High, so it would only bounce harmlessly but loudly off the car's steel roof.
Too high.
``Aye-yah-ah-ah''!
The Indian was again raising his bottle, but to my astonished relief - probably only a fraction of Johnson's - the bottle this time went to the Indian's lips.
Another car was coming, a tiny, dark shape on a far hill.
I started looking on the splintery truck bed for a piece of board, a dirt clod - anything I could throw and with better aim than I had thrown the beer bottle.
We were slowing.
In the ditch sand was white and soft looking, only an occasional pebble discernible, faintly gleaming.
But Johnson couldn't quickly unwire the truck door, and if I escaped, he might suffer.
The car was approaching fast.
On the truck bed there was nothing smaller than a piece of rusty machinery; with more time I could have loosened a small burr or cotter pin -
There was no time to pick out a penny; I got a coin between my thumb and forefinger, leaned my elbows in a very natural and casual manner on top of the truck cab and flipped my little missile.
There was a blur just under my focus of vision, a crash; the car's far windshield panel turned into a silver web with a dark hole in the center.
I heard the screech of brakes behind me, an insane burst of laughter beneath me.
Looking back I saw a gray-haired man getting out of his halted car and trying to read our license number.
``S-s-sahjunt''.
Johnson's fat hand, another bottle were protruding from the truck cab, and that self proclaimed Baptist teetotaler, had a bottle at his own lips.
Two cars came over a crest, their chrome and glass flashing.
The Indian's arm whipped sidewise - there was a flash of amber and froth, the crash of the bottle shattering against the side of the first car.
Brakes shrieked behind us.
This time there was no sound of brakes but the shrieking of women.
I looked back at pale ovals framed in the elongated oval of the car's rear window.
``Drink, you son of a bitch''!
I quickly turned around and began to drink.
But the Indian was jabbing another bottle toward Johnson.
I guided her to the divan, turned off the TV, faced her.
She sat quietly, staring at me from the wide eyes.
And what eyes they were.
Big and dark, a melting, golden brown.
Plus flawless skin, smooth brow and cheeks, lips that looked as if you could get a shock from them.
It was a disturbingly familiar face, too, but I couldn't remember where we had met.
I said, ``Do we know each other, Miss''?
``No, I remembered reading about you in the papers and that you lived here, and when it happened all I could think of was -''.
This time she stopped the rush of words herself.
``I'm sorry.
Shall I go on''?
She smiled.
It was her first smile.
``Sure''.
I said.
``But one word at a time, O. K .''?
She was still hugging the stained coat around her, so I said, ``Relax, let me take your things.
Would you like a drink, or coffee''?
``No, thanks''.
She stood up, pulled the coat from her shoulders and started to slide it off, then let out a high-pitched scream and I let out a low-pitched, wobbling sound like a muffler blowing out.
She was wearing nothing beneath the coat.
She jerked the coat back on and squeezed it around her again, but not soon enough.
``I forgot''! she yelped.
``Oh, do forgive me.
I'm sorry''!
``I forgive -''.
``That's what started all the trouble in the first place.
Oh, dear, I'm all unstrung''.
``You and me both, dear.
Haven't we & & & haven't I seen you & & &.
I mean, surely we've -''.
``I've done several filmed commercials for -''.
Then it hit me.
``ZING''!
I cried.
``Why, yes.
And you recognized me''?
``Yes, indeed.
In fact, I was watching you on that little seventeen inch screen when you rang my bell.
Man, you rang - it was in color, too, Miss, and & & & Miss?
Ah, you were splendid''.
I sat by her on the divan.
``Splendid.
In a waterfall and all that''.
``That's the last one we did.
That was a fun one''.
``I'll bet.
It was fun for me, all right.
I don't mean to pry, but do they hide the swimsuit with the bubbles?
``It depends on who does it.
I never wear anything at all.
It wouldn't - wouldn't seem fair, somehow''.
``I couldn't agree with you more''.
``I really do have something important to tell you, Mr. Scott.
About the murder''.
``Murder?
Oh, yeah'', I said.
``Tell me about the murder''.
ZING was the creation of two men, Louis Thor and Bill Blake, partners in ZING!
, Inc..
They'd peddled the soap virtually alone, and without much success, until about a year ago, when - with the addition of ``SX-21'' to their secret formula and the inauguration of a high-powered advertising campaign - sales had soared practically into orbit.
Their product had been endorsed by Good Housekeeping, the A. M. A., and the Veterinary Journal, among other repositories of higher wisdom, and before much longer if you didn't have a cake of their soap in the john, even your best friends would think you didn't bathe.
My lovely caller - Joyce Holland was her name - had previously done three filmed commercials for ZING, and this evening, the fourth, a super production, had been filmed at the home of Louis Thor.
The water in Thor's big swimming pool had been covered with a blanket of thick, foamy soapsuds - fashioned, of course, from ZING - Joyce had dived from the board into the pool, then swirled and cavorted in her luxurious ``bath'' while cameras rolled.
The finished - and drastically cut - product would begin with a hazy longshot of Joyce entering the suds, then bursting above the pool's surface clad in layers of lavender lather, and I had a hunch this item was going to sell tons and tons of soap; even to clean men and boys.
Joyce went on, ``When we'd finished, Lou - Mr. Thor - asked me to stay a little longer.
He wanted a few stills for magazine ads, he said.
And he didn't have any clothes on''.
``He didn't''!
``Yes, he didn't.
Did, I mean''.
She paused.
``Did leap into the pool, and didn't have anything on.
Anyway, it was evident what he had in mind''.
``You got away, didn't you''?
``Yes.
``I didn't know.
I wouldn't have the stuff in the house.
But I'm pleased to hear -''.
``So I just scooted out of his clutches.
I swam like mad, got out of the pool, grabbed my robe, and ran to the car.
The keys were still in it, and I was miles away before I remembered that my clothes and purse and everything were still in the little cabana where I'd changed''.
She'd driven around for a while, Joyce said, then, thinking Louis Thor would have calmed down by that time, she'd gone back to his home on Bryn Mawr Drive, parked in front, and walked toward the pool.
While several yards from it, still concealed by the shrubbery, she'd seen two men on her left at the pool's edge.
She went on:
Maybe Lou was only unconscious, but right then I thought he must be dead.
The man shoved him into the water, then ran past the cabana.
There's a walk there that goes out to Quebec Drive.
I was so scared, well, I just ran to my car and came here''.
``You know who the other man was''?
``No, I never did see his face.
I didn't get a good look at him at all, his back was to me, and I was so scared.
It was just somebody in a man's suit.
But I'm sure the other one was Lou''.
She realized I'd have to notify the police, but fervently hoped I could avoid mentioning her name.
Her impact in the ZING commercials had led to her being considered for an excellent part in an upcoming TV series, Underwater Western Eye, a documentary type show to be sponsored by Oatnut Grits.
But if Joyce got involved in murder or salacious scandal, the role would probably go to the sponsor's wife, Mrs. Oatnut Grits.
Or at least not to Joyce.
``And I so want the part'', she said.
``The commercials have just been for money, there hasn't been any real incentive for me to do them, but in Underwater Western Eye I'd have a chance to act.
I could show what I can do''.
As far as I was concerned, she had already and had dandily shown what she could do.
But I promised Joyce I would mention her name, if at all, only as a last resort.
There I got my Colt Special and shoulder harness, slipped my coat on, and went back into the front room.
Joyce squirmed a little on the divan.
``I'm starting to itch'', she said.
``Itch''?
``Yes, I'm still all covered with that soap.
I was loaded with suds when I ran away, and I haven't had a chance to wash it off.
Mmmm, it sure itches''.
``You might as well wait here while I'm gone, so you can use my shower if you'd like''.
``Oh, I'd love to''.
That always relaxes me.
Doesn't it you''?
``Only when I do it''.
I shook my head.
One of my virtues or vices is a sort of three-dimensional imagination complete with sound effects and glorious living color.
``Soak as long as you want, Joyce.
It'll probably be at least an hour or two before I can check back with you.
So you'll have everything all to yourself, doggone''.
I looked at my watch.
Time to go, I supposed.
``Well, goodbye'', I said.
``Goodbye.
You'd better hurry''.
``Oh, you can count on that''.
She smiled slightly.
Softly.
Warmly.
``Don't hurry too much.
That was all she said.
But suddenly those hot honey eyes seemed to have everything but swarms of bees in them.
However, when there's a job to be done, I'm a monstrosity of grim determination, I like to think.
I spun about and clattered through the front room to the door.
As I went out, I could hear water pouring in the shower.
Hot water.
She wouldn't be taking a cold shower.
Hell, she couldn't.
Bryn Mawr Drive is only two or three miles from the Spartan, and it took me less than five minutes to get there.
Four cars were parked at the curb, and two of them were police radio cars.
Lights blazed in the big house and surrounding grounds.
I followed a shrubbery lined gravel path alongside the house to the pool.
Two uniformed officers, a couple of plain-clothesmen I knew, and two other men stood on a gray cement area next to the pool on my left.
At the pool's far end was the little cabana Joyce had mentioned, and on the water's surface floated scattered lavender patches of limp looking lather.
A few yards beyond the group of men, a man's nude body lay face down on a patch of thick green dichondra.
Lieutenant Rawlins, one of the plain-clothesmen, spotted me and said, ``Hi, Shell'', and walked toward me.
``How'd you hear about this one''?
I grinned, but ignored the question.
He filled me in.
A call to the police had been placed from here a couple of minutes after nine p. m., and the first police car had arrived two or three minutes after that - 10 minutes ago now.
Present at the scene - in addition to the dead man, who was indeed Louis Thor - had been Thor's partner Bill Blake, and Antony Rose, an advertising agency executive who handled the ZING account.
Neither of them, I understood, had been present at the filming session earlier.
``What were they doing here''?
I asked Rawlins.
``They were supposed to meet Thor at nine p. m. for a conference concerning the ad campaign for their soap, a new angle based on this SX-21 stuff''.
``Yeah, I've heard more about SX-21 than space exploration lately.
What is the gunk''?
It's a secret.
That was the new advertising angle - something about a Lloyd's of London policy to insure the secrecy of the secret ingredient.
Actually, only two men know what the formula is, Blake and'' - He stopped and looked at Thor's body.
I said, ``O. K., so now only Blake knows.
How's it strike you, foul or fair''?
``Can't say yet.
Deputy coroner says it looks like he sucked in a big pile of those thick suds and strangled on' em.
The PM might show he drowned instead, but that's what the once-over-lightly gives us.
Accident, murder, suicide - take your pick''.
Anything else''?
``According to Rose, he arrived here a couple minutes before nine and spotted Thor in the water, got a hooked pole from the pool equipment locker and started hauling him out.
They were west of the Sabine, but only God knew where.
For three days, their stolid oxen had plodded up a blazing valley as flat and featureless as a dead sea.
Molten glare singed their eyelids an angry crimson; suffocating air sapped their strength and strained their nerves to snapping; dust choked their throats and lay like acid in their lungs.
And the valley stretched endlessly out ahead, scorched and baked and writhing in its heat, until it vanished into the throbbing wall of fiery orange brown haze.
Ben Prime extended his high-stepped stride until he could lay his goad across the noses of the oxen.
``Hoa-whup''! he commanded from his raw throat, and felt the pain of movement in his cracked, black burned lips.
He removed his hat to let the trapped sweat cut rivulets through the dust film upon his gaunt face.
The dust thick saliva came from his mouth like balled cotton.
He moved back to the wheel and stood there blowing, grasping the top of a spoke to still the trembling of his played-out limbs.
The burning air dried his sweat soaked clothes in salt edged patches.
He cleared his throat and wet his lips.
As cheerfully as possible, he said, ``Well, I guess we could all do with a little drink''.
He unlashed the dipper and drew water from a barrel.
They could no longer afford the luxury of the canvas sweat bag that cooled it by evaporation.
The water was warm and stale and had a brackish taste.
But it was water.
He cleansed his mouth with a small quantity.
He took a long but carefully controlled draught.
He replenished the dipper and handed it to his young wife riding the hurricane deck.
She took it grudgingly, her dark eyes baleful as they met his.
She drank and pushed back her gingham bonnet to wet a kerchief and wipe her face.
She set the dipper on the edge of the deck, leaving it for him to stretch after it while she looked on scornfully.
``What happens when there's no more water'' ? she asked smolderingly.
She was like charcoal, he thought - dark, opaque, explosive.
Her thick hair was the color and texture of charcoal.
And all the time, she had the heat of hatred in her, like charcoal that is burning on its under side, but not visibly.
A ripple ran through the muscles of his jaws, but he kept control upon his voice.
``There must be some water under there''.
He tilted his homely face toward the dry bed of the river.
``We can get it if we dig'', he said patiently.
``And add fever to our troubles'' ? she scoffed.
``Or do you want to see if I can stand fever, too''?
``We can boil it'', he said.
Her chin sharpened.
``The tires are rattling on the wheels now.
They'll roll off in another day.
There was no valley like this on your map.
You don't even know where we're headed.
``Hettie'', he said as gently as he could, ``we're still headed west.
Somewhere, we'll hit a trail''.
``Somewhere!'' she repeated.
``Maybe in time to make a cross and dig our graves''.
His wide mouth compressed.
He had picked out this pathless trail, instead of the common one, in a moment of romantic fancy, to give them privacy on their honeymoon.
It had been a mistake, but anything would have been a mistake, as it turned out.
It wasn't the roughness and crudity and discomfort of the trip that had frightened her.
She had hated the whole idea before they started.
Actually, she had hated him before she ever saw him.
It had been five days too late before he learned that she'd gone through the wedding ceremony in a semitrance of laudanum, administered by her mother.
The bitterness of their wedding night still ripped within him like an open wound.
She had jumped away from his shy touch like a cat confronted by a sidewinder.
He had left her inviolate, thinking familiarity would gentle her in time.
He stared at the dipper, turning it over and over in his wide, calloused hands.
``I suppose'', he muttered, ``I can sell the outfit for enough to send you home to your folks, once we find a settlement''.
``Don't try to be noble''!
Her laugh was hard.
``They wouldn't have sold me in the first place if there'd been food enough to go around''.
He winced.
``Hettie, they didn't sell you'', he said miserably.
``They knew I was a good sharecrop farmer back in Carolina, but out West was a chance to build a real farm of our own.
They thought it would be a chance for you to make a life out where nobody will be thought any better than the next except for just what's inside of them.
``I might have starved, but at least I wouldn't be fried to a crisp and soaked with dirt''!
He darkened under his heavy burn.
His blue eyes sought the shimmering sea of haze ahead.
To his puzzlement, there suddenly was no haze.
The valley lay clear, and open to the eye, right up to the sharp limbed line of gaunt, scoured hills that formed the horizon twenty miles ahead.
Then he noticed the clouds racing upon them - heavy, ominous, leaden clouds that formed even as they sliced over the crests of the surrounding hills.
He had never seen clouds like them before, but he had the primitive feel of danger that gripped a man before a hurricane in Carolina.
He hollered hoarsely, ``Hang on''! and goaded the oxen as he yelled.
He wanted to turn them, putting the wagon against the storm.
He swung up over the wheel.
``You had better get inside'', he warned her.
But she sat on in stubborn silence.
The clouds bulged downward and burst suddenly into a great black funnel.
Frozen, they stared at it whirling down the valley, gouging and spitting out boulders and chunks of earth like a starving hound dog cracking marrowbones.
The six ton Conestoga began to whip and shake.
Their world turned black.
It was filled with dust and wind and sound and violence.
The heavens opened, pelting them with hail the size of walnuts.
Walls of water rushed down the slopes and filled the hollows like the crests of flash floods.
Through the splash of the rising waters, they could hear the roar of the river as it raged through its canyon, gnashing big chunks out of the banks.
The jetting, frothing surface of the river reached the level of the runoff.
The dangerous current upon the prairie ceased, but the water stood and kept on rising.
They cringed under sodden covers, listening to the waves slop against the bottom.
The cloudburst cut off abruptly.
They were engulfed by the weird silence, broken only by the low, angry murmur of the river.
Then the darkness thinned, and there was light again, and then bright sunlight.
Beaten with fear and sound and wet and chill, they crawled to the hurricane deck and looked out haggardly at a world of water that reached clear to the surrounding hills.
Only the heavy bones of the oxen kept them anchored.
There was no real sign of the river now, just a roiling, oily ribbon of liquid movement through muddy waters that reached everywhere.
Clumps of brush rode down the ribbon.
Now and then, the glistening side of a half swamped object showed as it swept past.
The girl crawled out into the renewing warmth of the sunshine, hugging her shoulders and still trembling.
Her face was pale but set and her dark eyes smoldered with blame for Ben.
Out of compulsion to say something cheery, Ben Prime blurted, ``Well, we were lucky to be on soft ground when the first floodheads hit.
At least, the wheels dug in.
The soaking will put life back in the wagon, too''.
She was watching a tree ride wildly down that roiling current.
Somebody was riding the tree.
It raced closer and they could see a woman with white hair, sitting astride an upright branch.
She did not call out.
But as the tree passed, she lifted an arm in gesture of better luck and farewell.
They watched the tree until it twisted sharply on a bend.
It speared up into the air, then sinking back, the up jutting branch turned slowly.
The pale blob of the woman disappeared.
``There's the one who's lucky''! the girl murmured harshly.
Then he took off his wet boots and dropped down into the water to talk with the beasts, needing their comfort more than they needed his.
It was nearly sundown and he went to the back of the wagon, half swimming his way, for he was not a tall man.
He let down the tailgate and was knocked over by the sluice of water.
He sputtered back to his feet and scrambled madly to pull his bags of seed grain forward.
They were already swollen to bursting.
Of all their worldly belongings, next to the oxen and his gun, the seed grain had been the most treasured.
It was spoiled now for seed, and it would sour and mold in three days if they failed to find a place and fuel to dry it.
The oxen might as well enjoy it.
He examined the water marks on the iron tires when the animals were finished.
He doubted if a man could wade as far as the desolate, dry hills that rimmed the valley.
A terrible, numbing sense of futility swept over him.
He gripped the wheel hard to fight the despondency of defeat.
Then he noticed that the dry wood of the wheels had swollen.
The spokes were tight again, the iron tires gripped onto the wheels as if of one piece.
Hope surged within him.
He swung toward the front to give the news to Hettie, then stopped, barred from her by the vehemence of her blame and hate.
Still, he felt better.
A tight wagon meant so much.
He poured the water off the sourdough and off the flour, salvaging the chunky, watery messes for biscuits of a sort.
Their jams and jellies had not suffered.
He found a jar of preserved tomatoes and one of eggs that they had meant to save.
Now he broke them open, hoping a good meal might lessen this depression crushing Hettie.
His long nose wiggled at the smells of frizzling bacon and heating java, but the fire was low, and he wanted to waste no time.
He furled the slashed sides of the canvas tarpaulins, leaving the ribs and wagon open.
He looked thoughtfully at his wife's trunk, holding her meager treasures.
He said hesitantly, ``Hettie, I don't figure your things got wet too much.
That's a good trunk.
She said without turning her head, ``After that rain beating in atop the dust, there isn't a thing that wonn't be streaked''.
He drew a long breath and opened the trunk and hung out her clothes and spoilables upon the wagon ribs.
Spencer said nothing.
``Is there any word you would like to offer in your own defense''?
Spencer shook his head.
Alexander said, ``Answer me properly, Spencer''.
Spencer was quiet for a moment longer, then he said, ``There is nothing I want to say, Captain''.
``Very well''.
Alexander walked away.
Philip Spencer had cold-bloodedly planned the murder of his captain, yet it seemed in order to chide him for a lapse of proper address.
During the morning hours, it became clear that the arrest of Spencer was having no sobering effect upon the men of the Somers.
Those named in the Greek paper were manufacturing reasons to steal aft under pretence of some call of duty, so as to be near Spencer, watching an opportunity to communicate with him.
Hostile glances were flashed at both Alexander and Gansevoort.
The two met in the Captain's cabin.
``What is the next step, Captain''?
``More arrests, I fear''.
In your opinion, who is this E. Andrews on the' certain' list ``?
``Cromwell, of course.
He saw the dangers, not the glories of being identified as a mutineer.
Somehow he talked Spencer into letting him use another name''.
There was a tap at the door and Oliver entered with the word that Heiser wished to see the Captain.
``Have him come in''.
Heiser, breathless and wild-eyed, brought the chilling news that the handspikes, heavers and holystones had been mysteriously removed from their customary places.
``And also, sir, two articles which were considered souvenirs now must be regarded in another light entirely.
An African knife and battle-ax are at this moment being sharpened by McKinley and Green.
McKinley was overheard to say that he would like to get the knife into Spencer's possession and that'' -
``Where did you gather all this information, Heiser?
He was interrupted by a crash from the deck and sprang toward the ladder, with Gansevoort and Heiser behind him.
A glance revealed that the main topgallant mast had been carried away.
The aimless milling about of what had been a well trained, well organized crew struck Alexander with horror.
He bellowed orders and watched the alert response of some of his men and watched, too, the way a dozen or more turned their heads questioningly toward the shackled figure as though for further instruction.
Adrien Deslonde hastened to Alexander's side.
``Small violently jerked the weather royal brace with full intention to carry away the mast.
I saw him myself and it was done after consultation with Cromwell.
I swear it, sir''.
And it was clear that Adrien was not mistaken, for both Small and Cromwell took no step toward aiding in the sending up of the new topgallant mast till Philip Spencer had given the signal to obey.
Alexander guessed that they had planned confusion and turmoil, thinking it the ideal climate in which to begin battle and bloodshed.
Their strategy was sound enough and, he reasoned, had been defeated only by Philip Spencer's unwillingness to sanction an idea he had not originated.
When the mast was raised, Alexander gave the order for Small and Cromwell to be placed under arrest, and now three figures in irons sprawled upon the open deck and terror stalked the Somers.
Spencer's potential followers were openly sullen and morose, missing muster without excuse, expressing in ominous tones their displeasure at the prisoners being kept in irons, communicating with the three by glance and signal.
One of the missing handspikes came out of its hiding place after Midshipman Tillotson had been insolently disobeyed by Seaman Wilson.
Tillotson had reported the man to Gansevoort and an hour later, with back turned, had been attacked by Wilson, brandishing the weapon.
Wilson, shackled and snarling, was thrown with the other prisoners and was soon joined by Green, McKee and McKinley.
Not a man on the brig, loyal or villainous, could be unaffected by the sight of seven men involved in the crime of mutiny.
In the tiny cabin, Alexander met with Gansevoort, Heiser and Wales to speak and to listen.
Gansevoort said, ``It requires an omniscient eye to select those if any on whom we can now rely.
To have the Greek paper is not the great help that at first flush it seemed.
From actions aboard, it is easy to guess that Spencer's boast of twenty staunch followers was a modest estimate''.
``Well'', Heiser ventured, ``why don't we hold an investigation with questioning and'' -
``That would be worse than useless'', Alexander broke in.
``There is not space to hold or force to guard any increased number of prisoners.
Besides, suppose we hold a court of inquiry, then what?
Then we have informed a large number of our crew that when they reach the United States, they will be punished but that in the meanwhile, they may run loose and are expected to perform their jobs in good order.
Mr. Heiser, does this sound like a truly workable plan to you?
Wales said, ``Of course they would.
They are about to do so at any moment as it is.
All that is needed is for one man to feel self-confident enough to take the lead.
As soon as that one man is appointed by himself or the others or by a signal from Spencer, we are going to be rushed.
We are going to be rushed and murdered''.
``That is extravagant language, Mr. Wales.
We are not going to be rushed and murdered'', Alexander said.
``We are going to bring the Somers into New York harbor safe and sound''.
``Of course, I agree with the Captain'', Gansevoort said thoughtfully, ``but the conspiracy is ferocious and desperate.
Anything is possible when anarchy has the upper hand''.
He paused, then added, ``Everything on a ship is a weapon.
Implements of wood and iron are available for close and hasty combat no matter where a man stands.
And we are positive of so few and suspicious of so many''.
``We ourselves must stand sentinel''.
Alexander said.
``Under arms day and night, watch and watch about.
Those of us present, the Perry brothers, Deslonde and the other midshipmen now have the responsibility of the Somers.
A great deal of labor we have as well, for we are too uncertain of where trust may be placed''.
With all his heart he had loved the Navy and now he must act in accordance with the Navy's implacable laws.
And when he did, when he gave to his ship that protection necessary to preserve her honor, he knew he would lose forever the Navy to which he had dedicated his soul.
Where had he failed?
How had he failed?
He who had tried so hard, who had yearned so passionately to be a great officer.
It came to him as he wept there aboard the Somers that it was as foolish to strive for greatness as to seek to storm the gates of heaven.
It was given or it was not given.
One did one's best and if fortune smiled, there was a reward.
One did one's best and if fortune frowned, an eighteen year old boy with murder in his heart sailed aboard one's ship.
God knew his tears were his to shed if he so desired, for it had not been with an egotist's rage for fame that he had held precious his naval career.
Another field had given him fame enough to satisfy any egotist.
It was for love that he had served the Navy.
To have someday that love returned was what he had lived for.
Now the hope was gone.
Yes, he would bring the Somers safely into New York harbor but at a price.
Dear God, at what a price.
And after a while, he dried his tears and walked the deck as a captain should with assurance and dignity.
Stern faced, he inspected the prisoners, satisfying himself that they were clean, well fed and comfortable within reason.
Only Cromwell, the giant boatswain, was mild-mannered and respectful.
He said, ``Captain, may I speak, please?
Captain, I am innocent of any plot against you or the ship''.
``Are you, Cromwell''?
``Yes, sir.
Before God I swear I am innocent.
I know nothing of any plot, if there is such a thing''.
``You are the only man aboard who can be in doubt''.
``I cannot speak for others, sir, but I am innocent''.
``Surely, Captain, you did not find my name on any suspicious paper or anything''.
``No, Cromwell, I did not find your name.
You were careful about that''.
Now Spencer, seeming with effort to shake himself from lethargy, spoke.
He said, ``Cromwell is telling you the truth.
He is innocent''.
Alexander shifted his gaze to Spencer.
The calmness and detachment of his tone suggested unawareness of how implicit was his own guilt in the words he had used to defend Cromwell.
Alexander knew Spencer too well to think him naive or thick-skulled.
Here was another human who understood the stupidity of quarreling with the inevitable.
There was good fortune and there was bad and Philip Spencer, in handcuffs and ankle irons, knew it to be a truth.
He expected nothing for himself but that which naturally follows those marked for misfortune.
The red haired captain, towering above the prisoner as a symbol of decency and authority, was shocked to find himself looking with sympathy upon Philip Spencer.
This tragic lad had forged his own shackles.
But he could not have done so, could not have found the way, had fortune favored him.
And because fortune had favored neither the prisoner nor the red haired captain, they would be each other's undoing.
``Spencer, if there is guilt, if you do not deny your own, how is it possible for Cromwell to be innocent?
He was your constant companion''.
``I tell you he is innocent''.
``And do you think there is a reason why I should accept your word''?
``Yes.
I have nothing to gain by defending Cromwell''.
``Nothing to lose, either, Spencer''.
``That's true'', Spencer agreed and withdrew himself from the conversation.
His eyes went back to contemplation of the sea.
``I am innocent, Captain'', Cromwell said again.
``Before God, Captain, I am innocent''.
The boatswain was as guilty as any.
No action of his could be interpreted in his favor and four midshipmen, prior to their knowing the significance of the Greek paper, had seen it in Cromwell's hands while Spencer whispered explanations.
``I thought'', Midshipman Rogers had told Alexander, ``that Spencer was teaching him geometry''.
It was fantastic to turn from the seven men in shackles to the wardroom, where a class of apprentices awaited him.
This was a training ship and the training would continue, but there was an element of frightful absurdity here which Alexander recognized.
Some of these apprentices were, in physical strength, already men and doubtless a percentage of them were Spencer's followers.
``And I'll take you with me''.
The two of them against the world.
That had been how she imagined it.
But now the dream was over.
The big waking up had happened.
``What did I imagine'' ? she thought.
``Did I see him about to swing low in a chariot?
Or maybe poling up the south fork of the Forked Deer River braving the wastes dumped in it?
Maybe I saw him on a barge with a gang of Ethiopians poling it''.
And I'll take you with me.
He had taken her all right.
Wednesday nights after youth fellowship.
And the bed that sagged in a certain place where all the weight had been put too many times before and the walls fine and thin for overhearing talk in the next room when Gratt went out for ice, the sound coming through the walls like something on the other side of the curtain, so you knew they heard you when they were quiet and while you lay wondering what they had heard you listened.
And Gratt Shafer would be in Memphis today for the wedding rehearsal and then tomorrow he would marry just like everybody knew he would, just like everybody knew all along.
Like Mattie and the mayor up there gripping the microphone and Toonker Burkette back in his office yanking out teeth, like they all knew he would.
Just like the balloon would go up and you could sit all day and wish it would spring a leak or blow to hell up and burn and nothing like that would happen.
Or you could hope the parachute wouldn't open just so you could say you saw it not open, not because you meant any harm to Starkey Poe in his suit of red underwear, but mainly because you were tired of being an old maid - a thing which cannot admit when it thinks it might be pregnant, but must stand the dizzy feeling all alone and go on like everything is all right instead of being able to say to somebody in a normal voice : ``I think I'm pregnant''.
You could wish that.
Or you could wish your daddy would really do it - kill Gratt Shafer like he said when you all the time, all along, could feel the nerve draining out of him like air out of a punctured tire when you are on a muddy road alone and it is raining and at night.
So you sit in the car and listen to the air run out and listen to the rain and see the mud in front of the headlights, waiting for you, for your new spectator pumps, waiting for you to squat by yourself out there in your tight skirt, crying and afraid and trying to get that damned son-of-a-bitch tire off, because that is being an old maid too, if you happen to drive a car, it is changing the tire yourself in the night, and in the mud and the rain, hating to get out in it but afraid to stay and afraid to try to walk out for help.
And every sound that might be the rain also might be the man who thinks after he has raped you he has to beat your brains out with a tire tool so you wonn't tell, a combination like ham and eggs, rape her and kill her, and that is being an old maid too.
And most of all it is not having the only man you could love, whether he drives a bread truck or delivers the mail or checks the berry crates down at the sheds, or owns seventeen oil wells and six diamond mines, for if you are anybody what he is or does makes no difference if he is the one.
He can even be a mild voiced little town guy with big town ideas and level gray eyes and a heart even Houdini couldn't figure out, how it is unlocked.
And he can be on the way to Memphis, your Gratt Shafer can, and you discover you can stay alive and hate him and love him and want him even if it means you want him - really want him - dead.
Because if you cann't then nobody else can either, nobody else can have him.
For you don't share him, not even with God.
If it is love, you don't.
And I'll take you with me.
Even if that's all the promise he ever gave or ever will give, the giving of it once was enough and you believed it then and you will always believe it, even when it is finally the only thing in the world you have left to believe, and the whole world is telling you that one was a lie.
Even when he is on the way to Memphis you will still have the promise resting inside you like a gift, and it is he inside of you.
You feel him every mile further away.
You feel where he is and what he sees, and at night you feel when he is asleep or with the other woman, the one that never could love him the way you do, the one who got him because she didn't particularly give a damn whether she got him or didn't.
And you know you will always wonder all of your life whether it was because you wanted him so bad that you didn't get him, and you can feel nearly sorry enough to cry when you think of that other guy, the chump who begged you to marry him, the one with the plastered hair and the car he couldn't afford and the too shiny shoes.
You think : ``Did he feel that way about me''?
It comes to you that probably he did feel that way to let you use him like you did when you couldn't have Gratt Shafer; that he must have since he was there like the radio for you to turn on or snap off when you got tired of him, that other guy.
It dawns on you that instead of a lump to fill the seat across the bridge table from you, he was a man, and that because Gratt Shafer was making you miserable, you were passing it down to him, to Gratt Shafer's substitute, that other guy.
And you wonder if that is why the little man lost his job and his car and stayed drunk about a year before he straightened out and moved to St. Louis, where he got to be a big unhappy success.
You wonder if he looks at his wife now and thinks of you.
You wonder about the Christmas card with no name on it, and it comes to you that maybe it would have been better to have made somebody else happy if you couldn't be happy yourself, to give somebody else the one they wanted - to give them you.
She looked out at the corn field, the great green deep acres of it rolled out like the sea in the field beyond the whitewashed fence bordering the grounds.
The mayor envisioned factories there.
Homes and factories and schools and a big wide federal highway, instead of peaceful corn to rest your eyes on while you tried to rest your heart, while you tried not to look at the balloon and the bandstand and the uniforms and the flash of the instruments.
The bands were impatient, but they were the only ones.
The others, the ones in the stands, were spellbound, for hearing the mayor was for them like listening to a symphony was for sophisticated folks in New York City.
It was like being in the concert hall in the afternoon and hearing the piano virtuoso rehearsing.
He was good and they knew that what he was doing for them he would do all over the United States some day.
So they stayed quiet and hung not on what he said but on how he said it, not listening exactly, but rather, feeling.
If a man was good, if he was going to be governor, you felt it and you wanted him to go on forever.
It was a place full of courage and hope and you were part of it.
You laughed and then your chest swelled and you felt you could cry for a little bit, and then a feeling hit you like a chill in your stomach and the goose bumps rippled along your arm.
He hit the theme about dying to defend your country, and you were ready to do it right then, without a second thought.
While he talked you wouldn't trade being a West Tennessee farmer for being anything else in the whole damned world, no matter if it had n't, in six weeks, rained enough to wet a rat's ass.
She glanced at the man nodding beside her, a man with weather cracks furrowed into his lean cheeks, with powdery pale eyes reflecting all the droughts he had seen, reflecting the sky and the drought which must follow now in August - yes, with eyes predicting the drought and here it was only June, only festival time again and thoughts of Gratt Shafer would not leave her.
``I should have stayed at the store'', she thought.
Back at the Factory-to-You with the other old maids, back there she was the youngest clerk and she was thirty-four, which made her young enough to resent the usual ideal working conditions, like the unventilated toilet with the door you had to hold shut while you sat down.
There was no lock because Herman didn't allow a lock.
A lock on the toilet would encourage malingering and primping.
She could not count the times Herman had rapped on the door, just a couple of bangs that shook the whole damned closet and might, someday, break away the pipe connections from the wall.
The two little bangs meant that he was getting impatient to have a crowd of customers waited on and that if he had to he would jerk open the door and drag out, by the opposite door handle which she would be clutching, whichever-the-hell clerk it was who thought she could waste so much store time on the pot.
And the hours were six-thirty in the morning until eleven at night on Saturdays and during sales, and there were no chairs and you couldn't smoke and the cooling was overhead fans and there was no porter or janitor.
Among us, we three handled quite a few small commissions, from spot drawings for advertising agencies uptown to magazine work and quick lettering jobs.
Each of us had his own specialty besides.
George did wonderful complicated pen-and-ink drawings like something out of a medieval miniature : hundreds of delicate details crammed into an eight by ten sheet and looking as if they had been done under a jeweler's glass.
He also drew precise crisp spots, which he sold to various literary and artistic journals, The New Yorker, for instance, or Esquire.
I did book jackets and covers for paperback reprints : naked girls huddling in corners of dingy furnished rooms while at the doorway, daring the cops to take him, is the guy in shirt sleeves clutching a revolver.
The book could be The Brothers Karamazov, but it would still have the same jacket illustration.
I even ferreted out the materials from which shields were made - linden wood covered with leather - so I'd get the light reflections accurate.
McKenzie, the art editor, took one look at my finished sketch and said, ``Nothing doing, Rufus.
In the first place, it's static; in the second place, it doesn't look authentic; and in the third place, it would cost a fortune to reproduce in the first place - you've got six colors there including gold''.
I said, ``Mr. McKenzie, it is as authentic as careful research can make it''.
He said, ``That may be, but it isn't authentic the way readers think.
They know from their researches into television and the movies that knights in the middle ages had beautiful flowing haircuts like Little Lord Fauntleroy, and only the villains had beards.
And girls couldn't have dressed like that - it isn't transparent enough''.
In the end, I did the same old picture, the naked girl and the guy in the doorway, only I put a Lord Byron shirt on the guy, gave him a sword instead of a pistol, and painted in furniture from the stills of a costume movie.
McKenzie was as happy as a clam.
As for Donald, he actually sold paintings.
We all painted in our spare time, and we had all started as easel painters with scholarships, but he was the only one of us who made any regular money at it.
Not much; he sold perhaps three or four a year, and usually all to Joyce Monmouth or her friends.
He had style, a real inner vision of his very own.
It was strange stuff - it reminded me of the pictures of a child, but a child who has never played with other kids and has lived all its life with adults.
There was the freshness of color, the freedom of perception, the lack of self-consciousness, but with a twist that made the forms leap from the page and smack you in the eye.
We used to kid him by saying he only painted that way because he was so nearsighted.
It may have been true for all I know, because his glasses were like the bottoms of milk bottles, but it didn't prevent the paintings from being exciting.
He also had, at times, an uncanny absent-minded air like a sleepwalker; he would look right through you while you were talking to him, and if you said, ``For Christ's sake, Donald, you've got Prussian blue all over your shirt'', he would smile, and nod, and an hour later the paint would be all over his pants as well.
It was all gravy, and Donald didn't need much to live on; none of us did.
We shared the expenses of the studio, and we all lived within walking distance of it, in cheap lodgings of one kind or another.
Attending the life class was my idea - or rather, Askington's idea, but I was ripe for it, and the other two wouldn't have gone if I hadn't talked them into it.
I wanted to paint again.
I hadn't done a serious picture in almost a year.
It wasn't just the pressure of work, although that was the excuse I often used, even to myself.
It was the kind of work I was doing, the quality of the ambition it awoke in me, that kept me from painting.
I kept saying, ``If I could just build up a reputation for myself, make some real money, get to be well known as an illustrator - like Peter Askington, for instance - then I could take some time off and paint''.
Askington was a kind of goal I set myself; I had admired him long before I talked to him.
The night we first met, at one of Mrs. Monmouth's giant parties, he was wearing a brown cashmere jacket with silver buttons and a soft pink Viyella shirt; instead of a necktie he wore a leather bolo drawn through a golden ring in which was set a lump of pale pure jade.
This set his tone : richness of texture and color, and another kind of richness as well, for his clothing and decorations would have paid the Brush-off's rent for a year.
He was fifteen years older than I - forty four - but full of spring and sparkle.
He didn't look like what I thought of as an old man, and his lively and erudite speech made him seem even younger.
He was one of the most prominent magazine illustrators in America; you saw one of his paintings on the cover of one or another of the slick national magazines every month.
Life had included him in its ``Modern American Artists'' series and had photographed him at his studio in the East Sixties; the corner of it you could see in the photograph looked as though it ought to have Velasquez in it painting the royalty of Spain.
I had a long talk with him.
We went into Mrs. Monmouth's library, which had low bookshelves all along the walls, and above them a Modigliani portrait, a Jackson Pollock twelve feet long, and a gorgeous Miro with a yellow background, that looked like an inscription from a Martian tomb.
The fireplace had tiles made for Mrs. Monmouth by Picasso himself.
In the course of our talk, Askington mentioned that he spent part of each week studying.
``By yourself''?
I asked.
``No, I take classes with different people'', he said.
``I don't think I've reached the point, yet, where I can say I know everything I ought to know about the craft.
Besides, it's important to the way a painter thinks that he should move in a certain atmosphere, an atmosphere in which he may absorb the ideas of other masters, as Durer went to Italy to meet Bellini and Mantegna''.
He made a circle with his thumb and fingers.
``Painting isn't this big, you know.
It doesn't embrace only the artist, alone before his easel.
He threw his arms wide, his face shining.
``The artist is like a fragment of a mosaic - no, he is more than that, a virtuoso performer in some vast philharmonic.
One of these days, I'm going to organize a gigantic exhibition that will span everything that's being painted these days, from extreme abstract expressionism to extreme photorealism, and then you'll be able to see at a glance how much artists have in common with each other.
The eye is all, inward or outward.
Ah, what a title for the exhibition : The Eye is All''!
``What do you study''?
I asked.
I was fascinated; just listening to him made me feel intelligent.
``I'm studying anatomy with Burns'', he replied.
He teaches at the Manhattan School of Art''.
I nodded.
I had studied with Burns ten years before, during the scholarship year the Manhattan gave me, along with the five-hundred dollar prize for my paintings of bums on Hudson Street.
Burns and I had not loved each other.
``I'm also studying enameling with Hajime Iijima'', he went on, ``and twice a week I go to a life class taught by Pendleton''.
``Osric Pendleton''?
I said.
``My God, is he still alive?
He must be a million years old.
``Not quite''.
Askington laughed.
``He's about sixty, now.
Still painting, still a kind of modern impressionist, beautiful canvases of mountains and farms.
He even makes the city look like one of Thoreau's hangouts.
I've always admired him, and when I heard he was taking a few pupils, I went to him and joined his class''.
``Yes, it sounds great'', I said, ``but suppose you don't think of yourself as an impressionist painter''?
``You're missing the point'', he said.
``He has the magical eye.
Contact with him is stimulating.
And that's the trouble with so many artists today.
They lack stimulation.
They sit alone in their rooms and try to paint, and only succeed in isolating themselves still farther from life.
That's one of the reasons art is becoming a useless occupation.
In the Middle Ages, in the Renaissance, right up to the early nineteenth century, the painter was a giant in the world.
He was an artisan, a man who studied his trade and developed his craftsmanship the way a goldsmith or a wood carver did.
He filled a real need, showing society what it looked like, turning it inside out, portraying its wars and its leaders, its ugliness and its beauties, reflecting its profound religious impulses.
He was a propagandist - they weren't afraid of the word, then - satirist, nature lover, philosopher, scientist, what you will, a member of every party and of no party.
We hold safe little jobs illustrating tooth-paste ads or the salacious incidents in trivial novels, and most of our easel painting is nothing but picking the fluff out of the navel so it can be contemplated in greater purity.
A bunch of amateur dervishes!
What we need is to get back to the group, to learning and apprenticeship, to the cafe and the school''.
He could certainly talk.
The upshot of the evening was that I got the address of Pendleton's studio - or rather, of the studio in which he gave his classes, for he didn't work there himself - and joined the life class, which met every Tuesday and Thursday from ten to twelve in the morning.
It was an awkward hour, but I didn't have to punch any time clock, and it only meant that sometimes I had to stay a couple of hours later at the drawing board to finish up a job.
After a short time, both George and Donald joined the class with me so they wouldn't feel lonely, and we used to hang a sign on the door of the Brush-off reading ``out to work''.
It was mostly for the benefit of the mailman, because hardly anybody else ever visited us.
In a way, Askington was right.
I don't know that it was always as rewarding as I had expected it to be.
Partly, it was because Pendleton himself wasn't what I anticipated.
I had come prepared to worship at the feet of this classic, and he turned out to be a rather bitter old man who smelled of dead cigars.
No, that isn't quite fair.
Actually, there was a lot of force in him, which is why I kept on in that class instead of quitting after a week.
``I had a rather small place of my own.
A nice bachelor apartment in a place called the Lancaster Arms''.
``Uhhu'', she said, hardly listening as she studied her left eyelid.
``And then I had another place farther downtown I used as a studio''.
``I'm not a man who has many close intimate friends, Carla'', he said, wanting her to know all about him.
``Oh, I'd drink with newspaper people.
I think I was what you might call a convivial man, and yet it was when I was alone in my studio, doing my work, that I really felt alive.
But I think a man needs at least one intimate friend to communicate with''.
Pausing, he waited for her to turn, to ask a question.
She showed no interest at all in the life he had led back home, and it hurt him a little.
``Well, what about you, Carla''?
``Me'' ? she asked, turning slowly.
``What about me''?
``Umm, uhhu''.
``Somehow I imagine that as you grew up you were alone a lot.
How about it''?
``I guess so'', she said taking a Kleenex from her purse.
When she had wiped some of the lipstick from her mouth, she stared solemnly at her image in the mirror.
``Are your people still alive'' ? he asked, trying to touch a part of her life Alberto hadn't discussed; so he could have something of her for himself.
``You talk so well, Carla'', he went on.
``You seem to have read so much, you have a natural gift for words'', he added, trying to flatter her vanity.
``You must have been good at history at school.
``What is this'' ? she asked, turning suddenly.
``Don't you know all about me by this time?
My name's Carla Caneli.
This is my town.
I sleep with you.
You know something more about me every day, don't you?
Would you be happier if I made up some stories about my life, told you some lies?
Why are you trying to worry me''?
``I'm not trying to worry you''.
The cleansing tissues she had been using had been falling on the floor, and he got up and picked up one, then another, hoping she would notice what he was doing.
At home he had been a clean orderly man, and now he had to hide his annoyance.
Was she just naturally sloppy about everything but her physical appearance?
he wondered.
Would he have to clean up after her every day, clean the kitchen, the bathroom, and get down on his knees and scrub the kitchen floor, then hang up her dresses, pick up her stockings, make the bed while she lay around?
He straightened up, ready to vent his exasperation, then grew afraid.
If he dwelt on the indignities he suffered he would lose all respect for her, and without the respect he might lose his view of her, too.
``What's the matter'' ? she asked suddenly.
``Nothing.
``Let's go out''.
``Are those the only shoes you have, Sam''?
``What's the matter with them''?
``The heavy thick soles.
Look at them''.
``They're an expensive English shoe for walking around a lot.
I like them''.
``Sam, no one around here wears such heavy soles.
Can't you get another pair''?
``I'll get an elegant pair of thin soled Italian shoes tomorrow, Carla''.
``And I don't know why you want to go on wearing that outfit'', she said, making a face.
``What's the matter with it''?
He had put on the gray jacket and the dark gray slacks and the fawn colored shirt he had worn that first night in Rome when he had encountered her on the street.
``Oh, Sam.
You look like a tweedy Englishman.
Can't you wear something else and look a little more as though you belonged''?
``I don't mind at all'', he said, delighted with her attention.
Changing his clothes, he put on his dark-blue flannel suit, and laid away the gray jacket with the feeling that he might be putting it aside for good.
She no longer wanted anything about him to remind her of the circumstances of their meeting that first night in Parioli.
That day they loafed around, just getting the feel of the city.
They looked at the ruins of the old Roman wall on the lower Via Veneto, then they went to the Farnese Gardens.
She had some amusing scandal about the Farneses in the old days.
Then they took a taxi to Trastevere.
``There's a church you should see'', she said.
And when they stood by the fountain in the piazza looking at Santa Maria he had to keep a straight face, not letting on he had been there with Alberto.
He let her tell him all about the church.
Then they had dinner.
When they got home at midnight she was tired out.
And in the morning when he woke up at ten the church bells were ringing.
He had never heard so many bells, and as he lay there listening, he thought of her scolding him for his remarks when he had looked up at the obelisk and the church at the top of the Spanish Steps.
It was a good thing that she clung to her religion, he thought.
She might like to take him to St. Peter's.
``Carla, wake up'', he said shaking her.
``It's ten o' clock.
Aren't you going out to mass?
You could take me to St. Peter's''.
``Come on, you'll be late''.
``I think I'll sleep in this morning'', she said drowsily, and as she snuggled against him, he wondered if she ever went to church.
Why did he want her to go to church?
he wondered.
Probably because it was a place where she might get a feeling of certainty and security.
It would be good for her.
It was too bad he had no feeling himself for church.
Not his poor mother's fault.
She would have been better off if she had stuck to her Bible.
From the time he had been at college he had achieved a certain tranquility and composure by accepting the fact that there were certain things he could never know.
Then he thought of those Old Testament figures on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.
Just figures out of a tribal folklore.
Could he honestly believe it would be good for Carla to have those old prophets gripping her imagination now?
Being a woman though, she would take only what she needed from church.
It was too bad he wasn't a Catholic himself.
Or a Protestant, or one of those amusing dogmatic atheists, or a strict orthodox Communist.
What was the matter with him that they all wearied him?
It was the times, he was sure.
It was all too wearying.
Look somewhere else.
But where?
Just the same, he thought, pondering over it, it would be a good thing for a girl like Carla if she got up and went to church.
A half hour later he got her up to go out for breakfast so the Ferraros, hearing them hurrying down the stairs, would think they were going to a late mass.
It seemed to him that if the Ferraros felt sure of them, could place them, it would help him to feel more sure of himself with Carla.
``Since we're having coffee with them this afternoon'', he said, ``I think I'll ask the daughter if we can pay her to come in every day to clean for us''.
And he waited for her to say, ``Oh, no, I can do it, Sam.
There's so little to do''.
``I'm not good at that kind of thing''.
``This afternoon let's take an air with them.
Let's be fine superior people of great dignity'', he said as if he were joking.
``If you find it necessary, Sam, go ahead'', she said, turning on the stair.
``I am what I am.
I cann't help it''.
Her words remained with him, worrying him for hours.
He didn't know how she would behave with other people.
When they walked into the Ferraro apartment, the old lady, bowing and smiling, said softly.
Her little brown face wrinkled up, her brown eyes gleamed, and with her little gestures she said all the courteous things.
Agnese, smiling too, said, ``' Ello'', and then more slowly, ``I am happy''.
And they sat down and began their little coffee party.
The Ferraros offered them biscuits with the coffee.
Acting only as interpreter Carla, her hands folded on her lap, was utterly impersonal.
She would turn to them, then turn to him, then turn again.
Watching her, he felt like a spectator at a tennis game, with the ball being bounced back and forth.
Signora Ferraro, bobbing her head encouragingly, asked Sam about Canada, having a special interest.
Carla translated.
For a year the boy had lived in the bush in a boxcar.
Did many of Sam's countrymen live in boxcars in the bush?
Had Sam ever lived in a boxcar?
she wanted to know.
Regretfully Sam explained that he had no experience with boxcars.
Just the same, the old woman said, she would write to her nephew in his boxcar and tell him she had met a nice man from his adopted country.
And Sam thanked her, and hoped he might meet her nephew back home, and asked her if she had any further news of the Pope.
A very great Pope, this one, the old woman explained, her black eyes sparkling.
An intellectual.
It was said that he had had a vision.
Just as thousands that day in Portugal had seen the sun dancing in the sky, he had seen the same thing later in his own garden, and she turned to Agnese for confirmation.
Agnese had been sitting quietly, listening with the serenity of the unaware.
Now a little flush came on her pale homely face and enchantment in her eyes.
The Holy Father would die soon, she said to Carla, so she could translate for Sam, although he had a brilliant doctor, a man who did not need the assistance of those doctors offered by the great rulers of the world.
Yes, the Pope could die and quickly be made a saint.
No, he was indeed a saint now.
Nodding approvingly and swelling with importance, the old lady whispered confidentially.
There was a certain discontent among the cardinals.
There would be changes made, and Signor Raymond should understand that when the Pope died it was like the end of a regime in Rome.
Jobs would be lost and new faces would become prominent.
Did Signor Raymond understand?
Indeed he did, Sam said solemnly, trying to get Carla's eye.
Surely she could see that these women were her Italians, too, he thought.
Devout, orthodox and plain like a family she might meet in Brooklyn or Malta or Ireland.
But Carla; eyes were on Agnese whose glowing face and softening eyes gave her a look of warmth and happiness.
And Carla, watching in wonder, turned to Sam.
``It means so much to her.
There was a crowd in the stands for a change and the sun was hot.
The new Riverside pitcher turned out to have an overhand fast ball that took a hop.
For a few innings the Anniston team couldn't figure him out.
Then, in the fifth, Anniston's kid catcher caught onto a curve and smacked the ball into left center field.
Eddie Lee, Riverside's redheaded playing manager, ran after the ball but it rolled past him.
Phil Rossoff cut over to center from left field to get the relay.
Eddie caught up with the ball near the fence and threw it to Phil.
``Third!
Third base''!
Phil spun around and made an accurate throw into Mike Deegan's hands on third base.
Mike caught the ball just as the catcher slid into the bag.
But the Anniston boy had begun his slide too late.
He came into the bag with his body and Mike Deegan brought the ball down full in his face.
``You bastard''! the Anniston catcher screamed.
He jumped to his feet and started to throw punches.
Mike Deegan tossed his glove away and began to swing at the catcher.
This brought in everybody from both sides, while the spectators stood up and added to the uproar.
The fighters were separated in a few minutes.
But Mike Deegan was boiling mad now.
When the inning was over he cursed the Anniston catcher all the way into the dugout.
Phil Rossoff, coming in from left field, stopped at the water fountain for a drink.
Mike Deegan was standing beside it, facing the field.
He was eyeing the Anniston catcher warming up his pitcher before the inning began.
``Keep your eyes open, sonny''!
Mike yelled to the catcher.
``You're in for trouble''.
The Anniston catcher did not reply with words.
This so infuriated Deegan that he spun around and said : ``I'll get that little bastard.
So help me God, I'll get him''.
Phil Rossoff said : ``Why don't you leave him alone''?
``Mind your own goddamn business'', Mike Deegan said.
Phil shrugged.
He stepped into the dugout, wondering why Deegan was always looking for trouble.
Maybe the answer was in his eyes.
When Deegan smiled his eyes never fit in with his lips.
In the last of the sixth inning Mike Deegan got up to bat and hit a fast ball over the left fielder's head.
The left fielder threw and it was a good one.
But Mike had no chance of being tagged.
The Anniston catcher was straddling home plate.
All Deegan had to do was slide, fall away, but instead, he rammed into the catcher.
Both fell heavily to the ground.
Only Mike got to his feet.
He went back to touch home plate, turned and walked to the dugout without looking back.
The Anniston players and their manager ran out on the field.
They poured water over their catcher's face.
Then the manager called for a doctor.
The Riverside physician came down to look over the injured ballplayer.
Then, quickly, and a little nervously, the doctor ordered a couple of ballplayers to carry the catcher into the dressing room.
Mike Deegan was sitting on the bench, watching.
When the ballplayers started to carry the catcher off the field he said : ``That ought to teach the sonofabitch''.
Phil Rossoff, seated next to Deegan, got up and moved to the other end of the bench.
The Anniston manager was coming over to the Riverside dugout.
He was followed by four of his men.
It began to look as if something was going to happen.
Eddie Lee moved over to Mike Deegan's side.
No one said a word.
The Anniston manager came right up to the dugout in front of Mike.
His face was flushed.
``Deegan'', the manager said, his voice pitched low, quivering.
``That was a rotten thing to do''.
``For God's sake'', Mike said, waving the manager away.
``Stop it, will you?
Tell your guys not to block the plate''.
``That's what you say''.
The Anniston manager looked at Eddie Lee.
It was a cold and calculated look.
He turned and went back across the field to his dugout.
He called in the pitcher who had been pitching, and a big, heavy, powerfully built right hander moved out to the mound for Anniston.
The game started again and in the eighth inning Mike Deegan came up to bat.
Everyone in the ball park seemed to be standing and shouting.
The first ball the hefty pitcher threw came in for Mike's head.
Deegan fell into the dirt, the ball going over him.
He got back into the batter's box and on the next pitch dropped into the dirt again.
``Hit the bum''! somebody yelled from the Anniston bench.
In the Riverside dugout Frankie Ricco, shortstop, whispered into Phil's ear : ``There's gonna be a fight''.
``Look at those bastards''!
Charlie Haydon, a pitcher, said.
``They're looking for trouble''.
Mike was slow getting into the box this time.
When he finally did he had to duck his head quickly away as the pitch came in.
``Listen''! he shouted to the pitcher.
``I'll be waiting''! the pitcher yelled back.
Mike Deegan pounded the rubber plate with the end of his bat.
He stood flat-footed in the box, but not very close to the plate now.
The pitcher wound up and the ball came in straight for Mike's head.
Deegan dropped, got up, turned and, holding the bat with both hands up against his chest, began to walk slowly out to the mound.
The pitcher tossed his glove away and came towards Mike Deegan.
They were both walking towards each other, unhurried.
Riverside and Anniston players rushed out on the field.
In the next moment, it seemed, the infield was crowded with spectators, ballplayers, cops, kids and a dog.
Fights sprang up and were quickly squelched.
Mike and the Anniston pitcher were pulled away before they even came together.
Phil Rossoff and two other Riverside players did not go out on the field when the fighting started.
After the game, Phil was taking off his sweatshirt in the dressing room when Mike Deegan came in.
``It's a helluva thing'', Mike said, looking at Phil, ``when a guy's own team-mate wonn't come out and help him in a fight''.
Phil sighed and pulled the wet sweatshirt over his head.
Frankie Ricco sat down on the bench near Phil.
The other players were undressing quietly.
Eddie Lee had not come in yet.
``Why the hell didn't you come out when you saw them gang up on me''?
``I didn't think it was necessary''.
``Well!
Now that's just fine!
You didn't think it was necessary''.
Mike placed both his hands on his hips.
He pushed his jaw forward.
``Listen, wise guy, if you think I'm gonna do all the fighting for this ball club you're crazy''.
Mike had a good two inches over Phil and Phil had to look up into Mike's face.
``Nobody else did, either''.
``You trying to say I started the fight''?
``I'm not trying to say anything''.
Phil turned away and opened his locker, and then he heard Mike Deegan say : ``You're yellow, Rossoff''!
and Phil banged his locker door shut and spun around.
But before anything could happen Frankie Ricco was between them and Eddie Lee had come into the dressing room.
``Phil, come into my office'', Eddie said.
Phil followed Eddie into the office and shut the door.
He sat down before Eddie's desk.
``You get your unconditional release as of today''.
Phil's eyes widened just a trifle.
``The best thing for you to do'', Eddie said, ``is go home.
You don't belong in professional baseball''.
Phil had to clear his throat.
``Is this because of what happened out there''?
``No'', Eddie said.
``But it does confirm what I've suspected all along''.
Phil stood up.
This is the second time''.
``Sit down, sit down'', Eddie said.
``I'm not saying you're yellow.
I am saying you're not a professional ballplayer''.
Eddie Lee leaned forward over the desk.
``Now listen to me, Phil.
I'm not steering you wrong.
You haven't got the heart for baseball''.
Phil shook his head and Eddie frowned.
``What the hell do you think baseball is?
You're not in the big leagues, but if you cann't give and take down here what the hell do you think it'll be like up there''?
Phil started to say something but Eddie cut him short.
``Now don't tell me what a good ball player you are.
I know you've got talent.
But what you haven't got is the heart to back up that talent with.
The heart, Phil.
You just haven't got the heart for pro-ball, and that's it''.
Dazed, Phil said : ``I don't get it.
Eddie stood up abruptly, then sat down just as abruptly.
``What difference does your batting average make?
Or your fielding average.
Or even the way you run bases.
I tell you when it's necessary to hurt in order to win - you wonn't do it.
That's what I mean by no heart for the game.
Baseball's no cinch.
Deegan had no business ramming into that kid out there.
He did it because he knows for each guy he puts out of commission that's one less who might take his job away later on.
A sport?
It's a way of life, goddamit!
And you've got to be ready to cut to ribbons anybody who want to take your way of life away from you''!
He's wrong!
Phil thought.
It's only his opinion.
There were other clubs in this league.
He stood up slowly.
He was a little pale and shaky.
``I think you're wrong, Eddie'', he said finally.
Eddie nodded.
``Okay.
You'll get your pay in the morning''.
Phil turned and left the room, hearing Eddie say:
``Someday you'll see I was right''.
Phil shut the door behind him.
Outside in the dressing room, Frankie Ricco sat on the bench dressed in his street clothes.
``What happened''?
Phil said : ``I got my release''.
``You crazy''?
Phil shrugged.
``What for''?
Phil sighed.
Frankie shook his head.
``I don't get it''.
``I don't know'', Phil said.
They were silent for a few moments.
Phil started to take his clothes off and Frankie sat down on the bench again.
Phil took off one shoe and stared at it.
``Don't take it like this'', Frankie said.
``Hell, plenty of guys get let out and come back later.
The leagues are full of guys like that''.
Phil was very quiet.
``What are you gonna do, Phil''?
Phil did not answer.
``Why not try another club''?
What the hell right did Eddie have saying a thing like that?
``Springfield's in tomorrow'', Frankie said.
``Talk to Whitey Jackson''.
He just didn't know what he was talking about, saying a thing like that.
``Will you do it, Phil''?
``Do what''?
``Ask Whitey for a job''.
Phil nodded.
``Sure'', he said.
Frankie nodded.
``I'll speak to Whitey''.
``Atta boy''.
``I'll talk to him, all right''.
``Don't worry'', Frankie said.
``You'll get a job there.
He needs outfielders bad''.
``I'm not worried about it'', Phil said.
``That's the way to talk.
``Nothing'', Phil said.
Up to date, however, his garden was still more or less of a mess, he hadn't even started his workshop and if there was a meadow pond in the neighborhood he hadn't found it.
It wasn't his fault that these things were so.
The difficulty was that each day seemed to produce its quota of details which must be cleaned up immediately.
As a result, life had become a kind of continuous make-ready.
Once he disposed of these items which screamed so harshly for attention, he could undertake the things which really counted.
Then, at last, his day would fall into an ordered pattern and he would be free to read, or garden or just wander through the woods in the late afternoon, accompanied by his dogs.
His dogs?
He had almost forgotten them, although they had played such an important part in his early dreams.
Dogs did something to one's ego.
They were constantly assuring you that you were one of the world's great guys.
Regardless of how much of a slob you knew yourself to be, you could be certain they would never find out - and even if they did it would make no difference.
Now it became increasingly apparent that there were to be no dogs in the picture.
What in the world were you going to do with a lot of dogs when you left for town on Monday afternoons?
You certainly couldn't take them into the little apartment and if you tried to farm them out for two or three days every week they would become so confused that they would have nervous breakdowns.
Why in the world couldn't he live in one place the way everyone else seemed to?
It worried him, this inability to get the simplest things done in the course of a day.
He would wake up in the middle of the night and fret about it.
Was it possible that as people grow older the nature of time changed?
Could it be that it speeded up for the aged in some mysterious way, as if a bored universe were skipping through the end of the chapter just to get it over with?
Or was the answer less metaphysical?
Did older people work more slowly?
Did it take a man of sixty-five longer to write a letter, shave, clean out a barn, read a newspaper, than a man of thirty?
Did men become perfectionists as they grew older, polishing, polishing, reluctant to let go?
It might be that certain people were born with a compulsion to complicate their lives, while others could live blissfully motionless almost indefinitely, like lizards in the sun, too indolent to blink their eyes.
Perhaps it was his misfortune, or good fortune, whichever way one looked at it, to belong to the former group, and he was struggling unconsciously to build up pressure in a world which demanded none, which was positively antagonistic to it.
And then again perhaps the reason why he couldn't find time to do any of the things he had planned to do after retirement : reading, roaming, gardening, lying on his back and watching the clouds go by, was because he didn't want to do them.
They could be done or left undone and nobody really gave a damn.
During all his busy life he had only done things which had to be done.
This habit had become so fixed over the years that it seemed futile to do anything for which no one was waiting.
He looked at the luminous dial of his wrist watch.
It was five minutes after four.
On some distant farm a rooster crowed and, far down the valley, an associate answered.
He turned over impatiently and pulled the sheet over his head against the treacherous encroachment of the dawn.
At least he could buy the equipment for his workshop.
Thus committed, action might follow.
He also bought a huge square of pegboard for hanging up his tools, and lumber for his workbench, sandpaper and glue and assorted nails, levels and T squares and plumb lines and several gadgets that he had no idea how to use or what they were for.
``There'', said Mr. Mills.
``That'll get you started.
Best not to get everything at once.
Add things as you find you need' em''.
He didn't even ask the cost of this collection.
After all, if you were going to set up a workshop you had to have the proper equipment and that was that.
When he returned home, the station wagon loaded with tools, Jinny had gone with a friend to some meeting in the village, using the recently purchased second car.
He was glad.
He had made such a fuss about buying that second car that he knew he was vulnerable.
He piled everything neatly in a corner of the cellar and turned to stare at the blank stone wall.
That was where the pegboard would go on which he would hang his hand tools.
In front of it would be his workbench.
The old nightmare which had caused him so many wakeful hours came charging in on him once more, only this time he couldn't pacify it with a sleeping pill and send it away.
How in the world did one attach a pegboard to a stone wall?
How did one attach anything to a stone wall, for that matter?
After the pegboard there would be the paneling.
He sat down on an old box and focused on the problem.
But then, when you stuck things into the holes, why didn't they come right out again?
It all seemed rather hopeless.
He turned his attention to the workbench.
Perhaps that was the first thing to do.
A workbench had a heavy top and sturdy legs, but how did you attach sturdy legs to a heavy top so that the whole thing didn't wobble like a newborn calf and ultimately collapse when you leaned on it?
Mr. Mills had done some figuring on a scrap of paper and given him the various kinds of boards and two-by-fours which, properly handled, would, he had assured him, turn into a workbench.
They lay on the cellar floor in a disorderly pile.
Mr. Crombie poked at it gingerly with his foot.
How could anyone know what to do with an assortment like that?
Then at least he would have a place to hang his tools and something to work on.
After that everything should be simpler.
He went upstairs to phone Crumb.
To his amazement he reached him.
Mr. Crumb was laid up with a bad cold.
He didn't seem to think that attaching a pegboard to a stone wall was much of a problem and he tossed off the building of the worktable equally lightly.
The only trouble was that he himself was tied up on the school job.
That was why he hadn't been able to finish the porch.
No, he didn't know of any handyman carpenter.
Carpenters all wanted steady work and at the moment every mother's son for twenty miles around that could hammer nails for twenty-five dollars a day was working on the school job.
There was a fellow named Blatz over Smithtown way.
Nobody liked to hire him because you never could tell when he was going to be taken drunk.
Mr. Crumb would probably see him at Lodge Meeting the next night.
If he was sober, which was doubtful, he'd have him get in touch with Mr. Crombie.
Mr. Blatz had been at least sober enough to remember to telephone and he turned out to be the greatest boon that had come into Mr. Crombie's life since he moved to Highfield, in spite of the fact that he didn't work very fast or very long at a time, and he didn't like to work at all unless Mr. Crombie hung around and talked to him.
He said he was the lonely type and working in a cellar you saw funny things coming out of the cracks in the wall if they wasn't nobody with you.
So Mr. Crombie sat on a wooden box and talked in order to keep Mr. Blatz's mind from funny things.
At the same time he watched carefully to see how one attached pegboards to stone walls, but Mr. Blatz was usually standing in his line of vision and it all seemed so simple that he didn't like to disclose his ignorance.
Mr. Blatz agreed that this would be pretty.
Without further discussion he appeared the next morning with a pile of boards sticking over the end of his light truck and proceeded with the paneling, which he then stained and waxed according to his taste.
``Now'', he said, ``we got to put in some outlets for them power tools; then a couple of fluorescent lamps over the workbench an' I guess we're about through down here''.
It all did look very efficient and shipshape.
There was no question of that.
``By the way'', said Mr. Blatz, packing his tools into a battered carrier, ``them power tools needs extra voltage.
I guess you know about that.
Before you use' em the light company's got to run in a heavy line and you'll need a new fuse box for the extra circuits.
That ain't too bad' ceptin' the light company's so busy you cann't ever get' em to do nothin'''.
At least the moment was postponed when he had to face the mystery of the power tools.
He followed Mr. Blatz up the cellar stairs.
As usual, Mrs. Crombie was standing in the midst of a confusion of cooking utensils.
Mr. Blatz sat down in the only unoccupied kitchen chair.
``Well'', he said, ``got your man fixed up nice down there.
He oughta be able to build a new house with all them contraptions''.
Mr. Crombie watched his wife with an anxious expression.
``I was just sayin' to him that I'm all ready now for anything else you want done''.
Mr. Crombie couldn't remember his saying any such thing.
``I have a thousand things for you to do.
Doors that wonn't open, and doors that wonn't close and shelves and broken''.
``But those are the things I built the workshop for'', protested Mr. Crombie.
``Those are the things I can do, now that I'm set up''.
``I've been waiting to get these things done for months'', she said.
``We wonn't live long enough if I wait for you, besides which you don't need to worry - there'll be plenty more''.
But the discussion was academic.
Mr. Blatz was already taking measurements for a shelf above the kitchen sink.