Archives

« | Main | »

Irony

McGill University's Stephen Leacock Building, example of "The New Brutalism."

Anyway, the one negative thing: St. John's architecture is quite simply hideous. It's an old school, founded and run by Catholics, and yet the buildings look like they are straight out of late 1970s Romania. One student told me they were something like "Neo-realist brutalist" or some such. Even the Church looks like a Bond villain headquarters to me. A Hollywood production company should scout the place out for all sorts of dystopian sets and whatnot.

To say I don't know much about architecture is to insult far more knowledgable people who still consider themselves fairly ignorant. Still, in response to my earlier post, lots of folks are writing in to defend St. John's University's architecture by noting that much of it was designed by Marcel Breuer, a leader of the "brutalist" school.

Here's the thing: I don't care.

I remember hearing an NPR interview with some architecture muckety-muck in which he noted that the tastes of architects and the tastes of the public at large are further apart than in almost any other area of the "art" world. I don't know if that's true, but if it is, I'm with the public. I really dislike the vast bulk of modern architecture (I don't necessarily feel the same way about interior design). I think the folks who tore down the old Penn Station are just shy of criminals.

I think architects have a habit of making buildings for other architects not for their own societies. In short, I don't like ugly buildings. I think buildings should be functional, attractive and comfortable. They don't have to be old-fashioned, though I think old-fashioned buildings are nifty. And if they aren't going to be old fashioned, they shouldn't be ugly or communicate a sense of dread and foreboding. Ideally, they should have some connections with the traditions of the community and the larger society. Minimally, they shouldn't mock those traditions

If that makes me bourgeois, or a know-nothing, or philistine, I say: Jimmy crack corn and I don't care.

Critics argue that this abstract nature of Brutalism makes the style unfriendly and uncommunicative, instead of being integrating and protective, as its proponents intended. Brutalism also is criticised as disregarding the social, historic, and architectural environment of its surroundings, making the introduction of such structures in existing developed areas appear starkly out of place and alien.

Examples outside of the U.S. include McLennan Library, Burnside Hall and the Stephen Leacock building at McGill University in Montreal... [boldface mine]

A, B, and C

THE HUMAN ELEMENT IN MATHEMATICS

The student of arithmetic who has mastered the first four
rules of his art, and successfully striven with money
sums and fractions, finds himself confronted by an unbroken
expanse of questions known as problems. These are short
stories of adventure and industry with the end omitted,
and though betraying a strong family resemblance, are
not without a certain element of romance.

The characters in the plot of a problem are three people
called A, B, and C. The form of the question is generally
of this sort:

"A, B, and C do a certain piece of work. A can do as much
work in one hour as B in two, or C in four. Find how long
they work at it."

Or thus:

"A, B, and C are employed to dig a ditch. A can dig as
much in one hour as B can dig in two, and B can dig twice
as fast as C. Find how long, etc. etc."

Or after this wise:

"A lays a wager that he can walk faster than B or C. A
can walk half as fast again as B, and C is only an
indifferent walker. Find how far, and so forth."

The occupations of A, B, and C are many and varied. In
the older arithmetics they contented themselves with
doing "a certain piece of work." This statement of the
case however, was found too sly and mysterious, or possibly
lacking in romantic charm. It became the fashion to define
the job more clearly and to set them at walking matches,
ditch-digging, regattas, and piling cord wood. At times,
they became commercial and entered into partnership,
having with their old mystery a "certain" capital. Above
all they revel in motion. When they tire of
walking-matches--A rides on horseback, or borrows a
bicycle and competes with his weaker-minded associates
on foot. Now they race on locomotives; now they row; or
again they become historical and engage stage-coaches;
or at times they are aquatic and swim. If their occupation
is actual work they prefer to pump water into cisterns,
two of which leak through holes in the bottom and one of
which is water-tight. A, of course, has the good one; he
also takes the bicycle, and the best locomotive, and the
right of swimming with the current. Whatever they do they
put money on it, being all three sports. A always wins.

In the early chapters of the arithmetic, their identity
is concealed under the names John, William, and Henry,
and they wrangle over the division of marbles. In algebra
they are often called X, Y, Z. But these are only their
Christian names, and they are really the same people.

Now to one who has followed the history of these men
through countless pages of problems, watched them in
their leisure hours dallying with cord wood, and seen
their panting sides heave in the full frenzy of filling
a cistern with a leak in it, they become something more
than mere symbols. They appear as creatures of flesh and
blood, living men with their own passions, ambitions,
and aspirations like the rest of us. Let us view them in
turn. A is a full-blooded blustering fellow, of energetic
temperament, hot-headed and strong-willed. It is he who
proposes everything, challenges B to work, makes the
bets, and bends the others to his will. He is a man of
great physical strength and phenomenal endurance. He has
been known to walk forty-eight hours at a stretch, and
to pump ninety-six. His life is arduous and full of peril.
A mistake in the working of a sum may keep him digging
a fortnight without sleep. A repeating decimal in the
answer might kill him.

B is a quiet, easy-going fellow, afraid of A and bullied
by him, but very gentle and brotherly to little C, the
weakling. He is quite in A's power, having lost all his
money in bets.

Poor C is an undersized, frail man, with a plaintive
face. Constant walking, digging, and pumping has broken
his health and ruined his nervous system. His joyless
life has driven him to drink and smoke more than is good
for him, and his hand often shakes as he digs ditches.
He has not the strength to work as the others can, in
fact, as Hamlin Smith has said, "A can do more work in
one hour than C in four."

The first time that ever I saw these men was one evening
after a regatta. They had all been rowing in it, and it
had transpired that A could row as much in one hour as
B in two, or C in four. B and C had come in dead fagged
and C was coughing badly. "Never mind, old fellow," I
heard B say, "I'll fix you up on the sofa and get you
some hot tea." Just then A came blustering in and shouted,
"I say, you fellows, Hamlin Smith has shown me three
cisterns in his garden and he says we can pump them until
to-morrow night. I bet I can beat you both. Come on. You
can pump in your rowing things, you know. Your cistern
leaks a little, I think, C." I heard B growl that it was
a dirty shame and that C was used up now, but they went,
and presently I could tell from the sound of the water
that A was pumping four times as fast as C.

For years after that I used to see them constantly about
town and always busy. I never heard of any of them eating
or sleeping. Then owing to a long absence from home, I
lost sight of them. On my return I was surprised to no
longer find A, B, and C at their accustomed tasks; on
inquiry I heard that work in this line was now done by
N, M, and O, and that some people were employing for
algebraica jobs four foreigners called Alpha, Beta, Gamma,
and Delta.

Now it chanced one day that I stumbled upon old D, in the little
garden in front of his cottage, hoeing in the sun. D is an aged
labouring man who used occasionally to be called in to help A,
B, and C. "Did I know 'em, sir?" he answered, "why, I knowed 'em
ever since they was little fellows in brackets. Master A, he
were a fine lad, sir, though I always said, give me Master B for
kind-heartedness-like. Many's the job as we've been on together,
sir, though I never did no racing nor aught of that, but just
the plain labour, as you might say. I'm getting a bit too old
and stiff for it nowadays, sir--just scratch about in the
garden here and grow a bit of a logarithm, or raise a common
denominator or two. But Mr. Euclid he use me still for them
propositions, he do."

From the garrulous old man I learned the melancholy end of
my former acquaintances. Soon after I left town, he told
me, C had been taken ill. It seems that A and B had been
rowing on the river for a wager, and C had been running
on the bank and then sat in a draught. Of course the bank
had refused the draught and C was taken ill. A and B came
home and found C lying helpless in bed. A shook him
roughly and said, "Get up, C, we're going to pile wood."
C looked so worn and pitiful that B said, "Look here, A,
I won't stand this, he isn't fit to pile wood to-night."
C smiled feebly and said, "Perhaps I might pile a little
if I sat up in bed." Then B, thoroughly alarmed, said,
"See here, A, I'm going to fetch a doctor; he's dying."
A flared up and answered, "You've no money to fetch a
doctor." "I'll reduce him to his lowest terms," B said
firmly, "that'll fetch him." C's life might even then
have been saved but they made a mistake about the medicine.
It stood at the head of the bed on a bracket, and the
nurse accidentally removed it from the bracket without
changing the sign. After the fatal blunder C seems to
have sunk rapidly. On the evening of the next day, as
the shadows deepened in the little room, it was clear to
all that the end was near. I think that even A was affected
at the last as he stood with bowed head, aimlessly offering
to bet with the doctor on C's laboured breathing. "A,"
whispered C, "I think I'm going fast." "How fast do you
think you'll go, old man?" murmured A. "I don't know,"
said C, "but I'm going at any rate."--The end came soon
after that. C rallied for a moment and asked for a certain
piece of work that he had left downstairs. A put it in
his arms and he expired. As his soul sped heavenward A
watched its flight with melancholy admiration. B burst
into a passionate flood of tears and sobbed, "Put away
his little cistern and the rowing clothes he used to
wear, I feel as if I could hardly ever dig again."--The
funeral was plain and unostentatious. It differed in
nothing from the ordinary, except that out of deference
to sporting men and mathematicians, A engaged two hearses.
Both vehicles started at the same time, B driving the
one which bore the sable parallelopiped containing the
last remains of his ill-fated friend. A on the box of
the empty hearse generously consented to a handicap of
a hundred yards, but arrived first at the cemetery by
driving four times as fast as B. (Find the distance to
the cemetery.) As the sarcophagus was lowered, the grave
was surrounded by the broken figures of the first book
of Euclid.--It was noticed that after the death of C, A
became a changed man. He lost interest in racing with B,
and dug but languidly. He finally gave up his work and
settled down to live on the interest of his bets.--B
never recovered from the shock of C's death; his grief
preyed upon his intellect and it became deranged. He grew
moody and spoke only in monosyllables. His disease became
rapidly aggravated, and he presently spoke only in words
whose spelling was regular and which presented no difficulty
to the beginner. Realizing his precarious condition he
voluntarily submitted to be incarcerated in an asylum,
where he abjured mathematics and devoted himself to
writing the History of the Swiss Family Robinson in words
of one syllable.

Gertrude the Governess: or, Simple Seventeen

IT was a wild and stormy night on the West Coast of
Scotland.  This, however, is immaterial to the present
story, as the scene is not laid in the West of Scotland.
For the matter of that the weather was just as bad on the
East Coast of Ireland.

But the scene of this narrative is laid in the South of
England and takes place in and around Knotacentinum Towers
(pronounced as if written Nosham Taws), the seat of Lord
Knotacent (pronounced as if written Nosh).

But it is not necessary to pronounce either of these names
in reading them.

Nosham Taws was a typical English home.  The main part of
the house was an Elizabethan structure of warm red brick,
while the elder portion, of which the Earl was inordinately
proud, still showed the outlines of a Norman Keep, to which
had been added a Lancastrian Jail and a Plantagenet Orphan
Asylum.  From the house in all directions stretched
magnificent woodland and park with oaks and elms of
immemorial antiquity, while nearer the house stood raspberry
bushes and geranium plants which had been set out by the
Crusaders.

About the grand old mansion the air was loud with the
chirping of thrushes, the cawing of partridges and the
clear sweet note of the rook, while deer, antelope and
other quadrupeds strutted about the lawn so tame as to eat
off the sun-dial.  In fact, the place was a regular menagerie.

From the house downwards through the park stretched a
beautiful broad avenue laid out by Henry VII.

Lord Nosh stood upon the hearthrug of the library.
Trained diplomat and statesman as he was, his stern
aristocratic face was upside down with fury.

"Boy," he said, "you shall marry this girl or I disinherit
you.  You are no son of mine."

Young Lord Ronald, erect before him, flung back a glance
as defiant as his own.

"I defy you," he said.  "Henceforth you are no father of
mine.  I will get another.  I will marry none but a woman
I can love.  This girl that we have never seen----"

"Fool," said the Earl, "would you throw aside our estate
and name of a thousand years?  The girl, I am told, is
beautiful; her aunt is willing; they are French; pah! they
understand such things in France."

"But your reason----"

"I give no reason," said the Earl.  "Listen, Ronald, I
give one month.  For that time you remain here.  If at the
end of it you refuse me, I cut you off with a shilling."

Lord Ronald said nothing; he flung himself from the room,
flung himself upon his horse and rode madly off in all
directions.

As the door of the library closed upon Ronald the Earl sank
into a chair.  His face changed.  It was no longer that of
the haughty nobleman, but of the hunted criminal.  "He must
marry the girl," he muttered.  "Soon she will know all.
Tutchemoff has escaped from Siberia.  He knows and will tell.
The whole of the mines pass to her, this property with it,
and I--but enough."  He rose, walked to the sideboard,
drained a dipper full of gin and bitters, and became again
a high-bred English gentleman.

It was at this moment that a high dogcart, driven by a groom
in the livery of Earl Nosh, might have been seen entering the
avenue of Nosham Taws.  Beside him sat a young girl, scarce
more than a child, in fact not nearly so big as the groom.

The apple-pie hat which she wore, surmounted with black
willow plumes, concealed from view a face so face-like in
its appearance as to be positively facial.

It was--need we say it--Gertrude the Governess, who was
this day to enter upon her duties at Nosham Taws.

At the same time that the dogcart entered the avenue at one
end there might have been seen riding down it from the other
a tall young man, whose long, aristocratic face proclaimed
his birth and who was mounted upon a horse with a face even
longer than his own.

And who is this tall young man who draws nearer to Gertrude
with every revolution of the horse?  Ah, who, indeed?  Ah,
who, who?  I wonder if any of my readers could guess that
this was none other than Lord Ronald.

The two were destined to meet.  Nearer and nearer they came.
And then still nearer.  Then for one brief moment they met.
As they passed Gertrude raised her head and directed towards
the young nobleman two eyes so eye-like in their expression
as to be absolutely circular, while Lord Ronald directed
towards the occupant of the dogcart a gaze so gaze-like that
nothing but a gazelle, or a gas-pipe, could have emulated
its intensity.

Was this the dawn of love?  Wait and see.  Do not spoil
the story.

Let us speak of Gertrude.  Gertrude DeMongmorenci McFiggin
had known neither father nor mother.  They had both died
years before she was born.  Of her mother she knew nothing,
save that she was French, was extremely beautiful, and that
all her ancestors and even her business acquaintances had
perished in the Revolution.

Yet Gertrude cherished the memory of her parents.  On her
breast the girl wore a locket in which was enshrined a
miniature of her mother, while down her neck inside at the
back hung a daguerreotype of her father.  She carried a
portrait of her grandmother up her sleeve and had pictures
of her cousins tucked inside her boot, while beneath her--
but enough, quite enough.

Of her father Gertrude knew even less.  That he was a
high-born English gentleman who had lived as a wanderer in
many lands, this was all she knew.  His only legacy to Gertrude
had been a Russian grammar, a Roumanian phrase-book, a
theodolite, and a work on mining engineering.

From her earliest infancy Gertrude had been brought up by
her aunt.  Her aunt had carefully instructed her in Christian
principles.  She had also taught her Mohammedanism to make
sure.

When Gertrude was seventeen her aunt had died of hydrophobia.

The circumstances were mysterious.  There had called upon her
that day a strange bearded man in the costume of the Russians.
After he had left, Gertrude had found her aunt in a syncope
from which she passed into an apostrophe and never recovered.

To avoid scandal it was called hydrophobia.  Gertrude was thus
thrown upon the world.  What to do?  That was the problem that
confronted her.

It was while musing one day upon her fate that Gertrude's eye
was struck with an advertisement.

"Wanted a governess; must possess a knowledge of French,
Italian, Russian, and Roumanian, Music, and Mining Engineering.
Salary 1 pound, 4 shillings and 4 pence halfpenny per annum.
Apply between half-past eleven and twenty-five minutes to
twelve at No. 41 A Decimal Six, Belgravia Terrace.  The
Countess of Nosh."

Gertrude was a girl of great natural quickness of apprehension,
and she had not pondered over this announcement more than half
an hour before she was struck with the extraordinary coincidence
between the list of items desired and the things that she
herself knew.

She duly presented herself at Belgravia Terrace before the
Countess, who advanced to meet her with a charm which at once
placed the girl at her ease.

"You are proficient in French," she asked.

_"Oh, oui,"_ said Gertrude modestly.

"And Italian," continued the Countess.

_"Oh, si,"_ said Gertrude.

"And German," said the Countess in delight.

_"Ah, ja,"_ said Gertrude.

"And Russian?"

_"Yaw."_

"And Roumanian?"

_"Jep."_

Amazed at the girl's extraordinary proficiency in modern
languages, the Countess looked at her narrowly.  Where had
she seen those lineaments before?  She passed her hand over
her brow in thought, and spit upon the floor, but no, the
face baffled her.

"Enough," she said, "I engage you on the spot; to-morrow you
go down to Nosham Taws and begin teaching the children.  I
must add that in addition you will be expected to aid the
Earl with his Russian correspondence.  He has large mining
interests at Tschminsk."

Tschminsk! why did the simple word reverberate upon Gertrude's
ears?  Why?  Because it was the name written in her father's
hand on the title page of his book on mining.  What mystery
was here?

It was on the following day that Gertrude had driven up
the avenue.

She descended from the dogcart, passed through a phalanx of
liveried servants drawn up seven-deep, to each of whom she
gave a sovereign as she passed and entered Nosham Taws.

"Welcome," said the Countess, as she aided Gertrude to carry
her trunk upstairs.

The girl presently descended and was ushered into the library,
where she was presented to the Earl.  As soon as the Earl's
eye fell upon the face of the new governess he started visibly.
Where had he seen those lineaments?  Where was it?  At the races,
or the theatre--on a bus--no.  Some subtler thread of memory
was stirring in his mind.  He strode hastily to the sideboard,
drained a dipper and a half of brandy, and became again the
perfect English gentleman.

While Gertrude has gone to the nursery to make the acquaintance
of the two tiny golden-haired children who are to be her charges,
let us say something here of the Earl and his son.

Lord Nosh was the perfect type of the English nobleman and
statesman.  The years that he had spent in the diplomatic service
at Constantinople, St. Petersburg, and Salt Lake City had given
to him a peculiar finesse and noblesse, while his long residence
at St. Helena, Pitcairn Island, and Hamilton, Ontario, had
rendered him impervious to external impressions.  As
deputy-paymaster of the militia of the county he had seen
something of the sterner side of military life, while his
hereditary office of Groom of the Sunday Breeches had brought
him into direct contact with Royalty itself.

His passion for outdoor sports endeared him to his tenants.
A keen sportsman, he excelled in fox-hunting, dog-hunting,
pig-killing, bat-catching and the pastimes of his class.

In this latter respect Lord Ronald took after his father.  From
the start the lad had shown the greatest promise.  At Eton he had
made a splendid showing at battledore and shuttlecock, and at
Cambridge had been first in his class at needlework.  Already his
name was whispered in connection with the All-England ping-pong
championship, a triumph which would undoubtedly carry with it
a seat in Parliament.

Thus was Gertrude the Governess installed at Nosham Taws.

The days and the weeks sped past.

The simple charm of the beautiful orphan girl attracted all
hearts.  Her two little pupils became her slaves.  "Me loves oo,"
the little Rasehellfrida would say, leaning her golden head in
Gertrude's lap.  Even the servants loved her.  The head gardener
would bring a bouquet of beautiful roses to her room before she
was up, the second gardener a bunch of early cauliflowers, the
third a spray of late asparagus, and even the tenth and eleventh
a sprig of mangel-wurzel of an armful of hay.  Her room was full
of gardeners all the time, while at evening the aged butler,
touched at the friendless girl's loneliness, would tap softly at
her door to bring her a rye whiskey and seltzer or a box of
Pittsburg Stogies.  Even the dumb creatures seemed to admire her
in their own dumb way.  The dumb rooks settled on her shoulder
and every dumb dog around the place followed her.

And Ronald! ah, Ronald!  Yes, indeed!  They had met.  They had
spoken.

"What a dull morning," Gertrude had said.  _"Quelle triste matin!
Was fur ein allerverdamnter Tag!"_

"Beastly," Ronald had answered.

"Beastly!!"  The word rang in Gertrude's ears all day.

After that they were constantly together.  They played tennis
and ping-pong in the day, and in the evening, in accordance with
the stiff routine of the place, they sat down with the Earl and
Countess to twenty-five-cent poker, and later still they sat
together on the verandah and watched the moon sweeping in great
circles around the horizon.

It was not long before Gertrude realised that Lord Ronald felt
towards her a warmer feeling than that of mere ping-pong.  At
times in her presence he would fall, especially after dinner,
into a fit of profound subtraction.

Once at night, when Gertrude withdrew to her chamber and before
seeking her pillow, prepared to retire as a preliminary to
disrobing--in other words, before going to bed, she flung wide
the casement (opened the window) and perceived (saw) the face of
Lord Ronald.  He was sitting on a thorn bush beneath her, and
his upturned face wore an expression of agonised pallor.

Meanwhile the days passed.  Life at the Taws moved in the
ordinary routine of a great English household.  At 7 a gong
sounded for rising, at 8 a horn blew for breakfast, at 8.30
a whistle sounded for prayers, at 1 a flag was run up at
half-mast for lunch, at 4 a gun was fired for afternoon tea,
at 9 a first bell sounded for dressing, at 9.15 a second bell
for going on dressing, while at 9.30 a rocket was sent up to
indicate that dinner was ready.  At midnight dinner was over,
and at 1 a.m. the tolling of a bell summoned the domestics to
evening prayers.

Meanwhile the month allotted by the Earl to Lord Ronald was
passing away.  It was already July 15, then within a day or
two it was July 17, and, almost immediately afterwards, July 18.

At times the Earl, in passing Ronald in the hall, would say
sternly, "Remember, boy, your consent, or I disinherit you."

And what were the Earl's thoughts of Gertrude?  Here was the
one drop of bitterness in the girl's cup of happiness.  For
some reason that she could not divine the Earl showed signs
of marked antipathy.

Once as she passed the door of the library he threw a bootjack
at her.  On another occasion at lunch alone with her he struck
her savagely across the face with a sausage.

It was her duty to translate to the Earl his Russian
correspondence.  She sought in it in vain for the mystery.
One day a Russian telegram was handed to the Earl.  Gertrude
translated it to him aloud.

"Tutchemoff went to the woman.  She is dead."

On hearing this the Earl became livid with fury, in fact this
was the day that he struck her with the sausage.

Then one day while the Earl was absent on a bat hunt,
Gertrude, who was turning over his correspondence, with that
sweet feminine instinct of interest that rose superior to
ill-treatment, suddenly found the key to the mystery.

Lord Nosh was not the rightful owner of the Taws.  His distant
cousin of the older line, the true heir, had died in a Russian
prison to which the machinations of the Earl, while Ambassador
at Tschminsk, had consigned him.  The daughter of this cousin
was the true owner of Nosham Taws.

The family story, save only that the documents before her withheld
the name of the rightful heir, lay bare to Gertrude's eye.

Strange is the heart of woman.  Did Gertrude turn from the Earl
with spurning?  No.  Her own sad fate had taught her sympathy.

Yet still the mystery remained!  Why did the Earl start
perceptibly each time that he looked into her face?  Sometimes
he started as much as four centimetres, so that one could
distinctly see him do it.  On such occasions he would hastily
drain a dipper of rum and vichy water and become again the
correct English gentleman.

The denouement came swiftly.  Gertrude never forgot it.

It was the night of the great ball at Nosham Taws.  The whole
neighbourhood was invited.  How Gertrude's heart had beat with
anticipation, and with what trepidation she had overhauled her
scant wardrobe in order to appear not unworthy in Lord Ronald's
eyes.  Her resources were poor indeed, yet the inborn genius for
dress that she inherited from her French mother stood her in
good stead.  She twined a single rose in her hair and contrived
herself a dress out of a few old newspapers and the inside of
an umbrella that would have graced a court.  Round her waist she
bound a single braid of bagstring, while a piece of old lace that
had been her mother's was suspended to her ear by a thread.

Gertrude was the cynosure of all eyes.  Floating to the strains
of the music she presented a picture of bright girlish innocence
that no one could see undisenraptured.

The ball was at its height.  It was away up!

Ronald stood with Gertrude in the shrubbery.  They looked into
one another's eyes.

"Gertrude," he said, "I love you."

Simple words, and yet they thrilled every fibre in the girl's
costume.

"Ronald!" she said, and cast herself about his neck.

At this moment the Earl appeared standing beside them in the
moonlight.  His stern face was distorted with indignation.

"So!" he said, turning to Ronald, "it appears that you have
chosen!"

"I have," said Ronald with hauteur.

"You prefer to marry this penniless girl rather than the
heiress I have selected for you."

Gertrude looked from father to son in amazement.

"Yes," said Ronald.

"Be it so," said the Earl, draining a dipper of gin which he
carried, and resuming his calm.  "Then I disinherit you.
Leave this place, and never return to it."

"Come, Gertrude," said Ronald tenderly, "let us flee together."

Gertrude stood before them.  The rose had fallen from her head.
The lace had fallen from her ear and the bagstring had come
undone from her waist.  Her newspapers were crumpled beyond
recognition.  But dishevelled and illegible as she was, she was
still mistress of herself.

"Never," she said firmly.  "Ronald, you shall never make this
sacrifice for me."  Then to the Earl, in tones of ice, "There is
a pride, sir, as great even as yours.  The daughter of
Metschnikoff McFiggin need crave a boon from no one."

With that she hauled from her bosom the daguerreotype of her
father and pressed it to her lips.

The earl started as if shot.  "That name!" he cried, "that face!
that photograph! stop!"

There!  There is no need to finish; my readers have long since
divined it.  Gertrude was the heiress.

The lovers fell into one another's arms.  The Earl's proud face
relaxed.  "God bless you," he said.  The Countess and the guests
came pouring out upon the lawn.  The breaking day illuminated a
scene of gay congratulations.

Gertrude and Ronald were wed.  Their happiness was complete.
Need we say more?  Yes, only this.  The Earl was killed in the
hunting-field a few days after.  The Countess was struck by
lightning.  The two children fell down a well.  Thus the
happiness of Gertrude and Ronald was complete.

posted at   12:33 pm  by  CountryPunk
Comments <2> |