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Today's Reading, via Project Gutenberg:
Borde could not enlighten him on that point, and I suggested that he should make application to the publisher of his Prayer-Book and get his money back. There is nobody. I said, like him. He is more wonderful than anything in literature. I prefer him to Sancho who was untroubled with a conscience and never thought of running to the Bishop of Toledo. All the same he is not without the shrewdness of his ancestors, and got the better of Archbishop Walsh, and for the last five years Vincent O'Brien has been beating time, and will beat it till the end of his life; and he will be succeeded by others, for Edward has, by deed, saved the Italian contrapuntalists till time everlasting from competition with modern composers. He certainly has gotten the better of Walsh. And I thought of a picture-gallery in Dublin with nothing in it but Botticelli and his school, and myself declaring that all painting that had been done since had no interest for me.... A smile began to spread over my face, for the story that was coming into my mind seemed oh! so humorous, so like Ireland, so like Edward, that I began to tell myself again the delightful story of the unrefined ears that, weary of erudite music, had left the cathedral and sought instinctively modern tunes and women's voices, and as these were to be found in Westland Row the church was soon overflowing with a happy congregation. But in a little while the collections grew scantier. This time it couldn't be Palestrina, and all kinds of reasons were adduced. At last the truth could no longer be denied—the professional Catholics of Merrion Square had been driven out of Westland Row by the searching smells of dirty clothes, and had gone away to the University Church in Stephen's Green. So if it weren't Palestrina directly it was Palestrina indirectly, and the brows of the priests began to knit when Edward Martyn's name was mentioned. Them fal-de-dals is well enough on the Continent, in Paris, where there is no faith, was the opinion of an important ecclesiastic. But we don't want them here, murmured a second ecclesiastic. All this counterpoint may make a very pretty background for Mr Martyn's prayers, but what about the poor people's? Good composer or bad composer, there is no congregation in him, said a third. There's too much congregation, put in the first, but not the kind we want! The second ecclesiastic took snuff, and the group were of opinion that steps should be taken to persuade dear Edward to make good their losses. The priests in Marlborough Street sympathised with the priests of Westland Row, and told them that they were so heavily out of pocket that Mr Martyn had agreed to do something for them. It seemed to the Westland Row priests that if Mr Martyn were making good the losses of the priests of the pro-Cathedral, he should make good their losses. It was natural that they should think so, and to acquit himself of all responsibility Edward no doubt consulted the best theologians on the subject, and I think that they assured him that he is not responsible for indirect losses. If he were, his whole fortune would not suffice. He was, of course, very sorry if a sudden influx of poor people had caused a falling-off in the collections of Westland Row, for he knew that the priests needed the money very much to pay for the new decorations, and to help them he wrote an article in the Independent praising the new blue ceiling, which seemed, so he wrote, a worthy canopy for the soaring strains of Palestrina.
Unfortunately rubbing salt into the wound, I said. A story that will amuse Dujardin and it will be great fun telling him in the shady garden at Fontainebleau how Edward, anxious to do something for his church, had succeeded in emptying two. All the way down the alleys he will wonder how Edward could have ever looked upon Palestrina's masses as religious music. The only music he will say, in which religious emotion transpires is plain-chant. Huysmans says that the Tantum Ergo or the Dies Irae, one or the other, reminds him of a soul being dragged out of purgatory, and it is possible that it does; but a plain-chant tune arranged in eight-part counterpoint cannot remind one of anything very terrible. Dujardin knows that Palestrina was a priest, and he will say: That fact deceived your friend, just as the fact of finding the Adeste Fideles among the plain-chant tunes deceived him. For of course I shall tell Dujardin that story too. It is too good to be missed. He is wonderful, Dujardin! I shall cry out in one of the sinuous alleys. There never was anybody like him! And I will tell him more soul-revealing anecdotes. I will say: Dujardin, listen. One evening he contended that the great duet at the end of Siegfried reminded him of mass by Palestrina. Dujardin will laugh, and, excited by his laughter, I will try to explain to him that what Edward sees is that Palestrina took a plain chant tune and gave fragments of it to the different voices, and in his mind these become confused with the motives of The Ring. You see, Dujardin, the essential always escapes him—the intention of the writer is hidden from him. I am beginning to understand your friend. He has, let us suppose, a musical ear that allows him to take pleasure in the music; but a musical ear will not help him to follow Wagner's idea—how, in a transport of sexual emotion, a young man and a young woman on a mountain-side awaken to the beauty of the life of the world. Dujardin's appreciations will provoke me, and I will say: Dujardin, you shouldn't be so appreciative. If I were telling you of a play I had written, it would be delightful to watch my idea dawning upon your consciousness; but I am telling you of a real man, and one that I shall never to able to get into literature. He will answer: We invent nothing; we can but perceive. And then, exhilarated, carried beyond myself, I will say: Dujardin, I will tell you something still more wonderful than the last gaffe. II gaffe dans les Quat'z Arts. He admires Ibsen, but you'd never guess the reason why—because he is very like Racine; both of them, he says, are classical writers. And do you know how he arrived at that point? Because nobody is killed on the stage in Racine or in Ibsen. He does not see that the intention of Racine is to represent men and women out of time and out of space, unconditioned by environment, and that the very first principle of Ibsen's art is the relation of his characters to their environment. In many passages he merely dramatises Darwin. There never was anybody so interesting as dear Edward, and there never will be anybody like him in literature ... I will explain why presently, but I must first tell you another anecdote. I went to see him one night, and he told me that the theme of the play he was writing was a man who had married a woman because he had lost faith in himself; the man did not know, however, that the woman had married him for the same reason, and the two of them were thinking—I have forgotten what they were thinking, but I remember Edward saying: I should like to suggest hopelessness. I urged many phrases, but he said: It isn't a phrase I want, but an actual thing. I was thinking of a broken anchor—that surely is a symbol of hopelessness. Yes, I said, no doubt, but how are you going to get a broken anchor into a drawing-room? I don't write about drawing-rooms. Well, living-rooms. It isn't likely that they would buy a broken anchor and put it up by the coal-scuttle.
There's that against it, he answered. If you could suggest anything better—What do you think of a library in which there is nothing but unacted plays? The characters could say, when there was nothing for them to do on the stage, that they were going to the library to read, and the library would have the advantage of reminding everybody of the garret in the Wild Duck. A very cruel answer, my friend, Dujardin will say, and I will tell him that I can't help seeing in Edward something beyond Shakespeare or Balzac. Now, tell me, which of these anecdotes I have told you is the most humorous? He will not answer my question, but a certain thoughtfulness will begin to settle in his face, and he will say: Everything with him is accidental, and when his memory fails him he falls into another mistake, and he amuses you because it is impossible for you to anticipate his next mistake. You know there is going to be one; there must be one, for he sees things separately rather than relatively. I am beginning to understand your friend.
You are, you are; you are doing splendidly. But you haven't told me, Dujardin, which anecdote you prefer. Stay, there is another one. Perhaps this one will help you to a still better understanding. When he brought The Heather Field and Yeats's play The Countess Cathleen to Dublin for performance, a great trouble of conscience awakened suddenly in him, and a few days before the performance he went to a theologian to ask him if The Countess Cathleen were a heretical work, and, if it were would Almighty God hold him responsible for the performance? But he couldn't withdraw Yeats's play without withdrawing his own, and it appears that he breathed a sigh of relief when a common friend referred the whole matter to two other theologians, and as these gave their consent Edward allowed the plays to go on; but Cardinal Logue intervened, and wrote a letter to the papers to say that the play seemed to him unfit for Catholic ears, and Edward would have withdrawn the plays if the Cardinal hadn't admitted in his letter that he had judged the play by certain extracts only.
He wishes to act rightly, but has little faith in himself; and what makes him so amusing is that he needs advice in aesthetics as well as in morals. We are, I said, Dujardin, at the roots of conscience. And I began to ponder the question what would happen to Edward if we lived in a world in which aesthetics ruled: I should be where Bishop Healy is, and he would be a thin, small voice crying in the wilderness—an amusing subject of meditation, from which I awoke suddenly.
I wonder how Dujardin is getting on with his Biblical studies? Last year he was calling into question the authorship of the Romans—a most eccentric view; and, remembering how weakly I had answered him, I took the Bible from the table and began to read the Epistle with a view to furnishing myself with arguments wherewith to confute him. My Bible opened at the ninth chapter, and I said: Why, here is the authority for the Countess Cathleen's sacrifice which Edward's theologian deemed untheological. It will be great fun to poke Edward up with St Paul, and on my way to Lincoln Place I thought how I might lead the conversation to The Countess Cathleen.
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A few minutes afterwards a light appeared on the staircase and the door slowly opened.
Come in, Siegfried, though you were off the key.
Well, my dear friend, it is a difficult matter to whistle above two trams passing simultaneously and six people jabbering round a public-house, to say nothing of a jarvey or two, and you perhaps dozing in your armchair, as your habit often is. You won't open to anything else except a motive from The Ring; and I stumbled up the stairs in front of Edward, who followed with a candle.
Wait a moment; let me go first and I'll turn up the gas.
You aren't sitting in the dark, are you?
No, but I read better by candle-light, and he blew out the candles in the tin candelabrum that he had made for himself. He is original even in his candelabrum; no one before him had ever thought of a caridelabrum in tin, and I fell to admiring his appearance more carefully than perhaps I had ever done before, so monumental did he seem lying on the little sofa sheltered from daughts by a screen, a shawl about his shoulders. His churchwarden was drawing famously, and I noticed his great square hands with strong fingers and square nails pared closely away, and as heretofore I admired the curve of the great belly, the thickness of the thighs, the length and breadth and the width of his foot hanging over the edge of the sofa, the apoplectic neck falling into great rolls of flesh, the humid eyes, the skull covered with short stubbly hair. I looked round the rooms and they seemed part of himself: the old green wallpaper on which he pins reproductions of the Italian masters. And I longed to peep once more into the bare bedroom into which he goes to fetch bottles of Apollinaris. Always original! Is there another man in this world whose income is two thousand a year, and who sleeps in a bare bedroom, without dressing-room, or bathroom, or servant in the house to brush his clothes, and who has to go to the baker's for his breakfast?
We had been talking for some time of the Gaelic League, and from Hyde it was easy to pass to Yeats and his plays.
His best play is The Countess Cathleen.
The Countess Cathleen is only a sketch.
But what I never could understand, Edward, was why you and the Cardinal could have had any doubts as to the orthodoxy of The Countess Cathleen.
What, a woman that sells her own soul in order to save the souls of others!
I suppose your theologian objected—
Of course he objected.
He cannot have read St Paul.
What do you mean?
He can't have read St Paul, or else he is prepared to throw over St Paul.
Mon ami Moore, mon ami Moore.
The supernatural idealism of a man who would sell his soul to save the souls of others fills me with awe.
But it wasn't a man; it was the Countess Cathleen, and women are never idealists.
Not the saints?
His face grew solemn at once.
If you give me the Epistles I will read the passage to you. And it was great fun to go to the bookshelves and read: I say the truth in Christ, I lie not, my conscience also bearing me witness in the Holy Ghost, that I have great heaviness and continual sorrow in my heart. For I could wish that myself were accursed from Christ for my brethren, my kinsmen according to the flesh.
Edward's face grew more and more solemn, and I wondered of what he was thinking.
Paul is a very difficult and a very obscure writer, and I think the Church is quite right not to encourage the reading of the Epistles, especially without comments.
Then you do think there is something in the passage I have read?
After looking down his dignified nose for a long time, he said:
Of course, the Church has an explanation. All the same, it's very odd that St Paul should have said such a thing—very odd.
There is no doubt that I owe a great deal of my happiness to Edward; all my life long he has been exquisite entertainment. And I fell to thinking that Nature was very cruel to have led me, like Moses, within sight of the Promised Land. A story would be necessary to bring Edward into literature, and it would be impossible to devise an action of which he should be a part. The sex of a woman is odious to him, and a man with two thousand a year does not rob nor steal, and he is so uninterested in his fellow-men that he has never an ill word to say about anybody. John Eglinton is a little thing; AE is a soul that few will understand; but Edward is universal—more universal than Yeats, than myself, than any of us, but for lack of a story I shall not be able to give him the immortality in literature which he seeks in sacraments. Shakespeare always took his stories from some other people. Turgenev's portrait of him would be thin, poor, and evasive, and Balzac would give us the portrait of a mere fool. And Edward is not a fool. As I understand him he is a temperament without a rudder; all he has to rely upon is his memory, which isn't a very good one, and so he tumbles from one mistake into another. My God! it is a terrible thing to happen to one, to understand a man better than he understands himself, and to be powerless to help him. If I had been able to undo his faith I should have raised him to the level of Sir Horace Plunkett, but he resisted me; and perhaps he did well, for he came into the world seeing things separately rather than relatively, and had to be a Catholic. He is a born Catholic, and I remembered one of his confessions—a partial confession, but a confession: If you had been brought up as strictly as I have been—I don't think he ever finished the sentence; he often leaves sentences unfinished, as if he fears to think things out. The end of the sentence should run: You would not dare to think independently. He thinks that his severe bringing-up has robbed him of something. But the prisoner ends by liking his prison-house, and on another occasion he said: If it hadn't been for the Church, I don't know what would have happened to me.
My thoughts stopped, and when I awoke I was thinking of Hughes. Perhaps the link between Hughes and Edward was Loughrea Cathedral. He had shown me a photograph of some saints modelled by Hughes. Hughes is away in Paris, I said, modelling saints for Loughrea Cathedral. The last time I saw him was at Walter Osborne's funeral, and Walter's death set me thinking of the woman I had lost, and little by little all she had told me about herself floated up in my mind like something that I had read. I had never seen her father nor the Putney villa in which she had been brought up, but she had made me familiar with both through her pleasant mode of conversation, which was never to describe anything, but just to talk about things, dropping phrases here and there, and the phrases she dropped were so well chosen that the comfort of the villa, its pompous meals and numerous servants, its gardens and greenhouses, with stables and coach-house just behind, are as well known to me as the house that I am living in, better known in a way, for I see it through the eyes of the imagination ... clearer eyes than the physical eyes.
It does not seem to me that any one was ever more conscious of whence she had come and of what she had been; she seemed to be able to see herself as a child again, and to describe her childhood with her brother (they were nearly the same age) in the villa and in the villa's garden. I seemed to see them always as two rather staid children who were being constantly dressed by diligent nurses and taken out for long drives in the family carriage. They did not like these drives and used to hide in the garden; but their governess was sent to fetch them, and they were brought back. Her father did not like to have the horses kept waiting, and one day as Stella stood with him in the passage, she saw her mother come out of her bedroom beautifully dressed. Her father whispered something in his wife's ear, and he followed her into her bedroom. Stella remembered how the door closed behind them. In my telling, the incident seems to lose some of its point, but in Stella's relation it seemed to put her father and his wife before me and so clearly that I could not help asking her what answer her father would make were she to tell him that she had a lover. A smile hovered in her grave face. He would look embarrassed, she said, and wonder why I should have told him such a thing, and then I think he would go to the greenhouse, and when he returned he would talk to me about something quite different. I don't think that Stella ever told me about the people that came to their house, but people must have come to it, and as an example of how a few words can convey an environment I will quote her: I always wanted to talk about Rossetti, she said, and these seven words seem to me to tell better than any description the life of a girl living with a formal father in a Putney villa, longing for something, not knowing exactly what, and anxious to get away from home.... I think she told me she was eighteen or nineteen and had started painting before she met Florence at the house of one of her father's friends; a somewhat sore point this meeting was, for Florence was looked upon by Stella's father as something of a Bohemian. She was a painter, and knew all the Art classes and the fees that had to be paid, and led Stella into the world of studios and models and girl friends. She knew how to find studios and could plan out a journey abroad. Stella's imagination was captured, and even if her father had tried to offer opposition to her leaving home he could not have prevented her, for she was an heiress (her mother was dead and had left her a considerable income); but he did not try, and the two girls set up house together in Chelsea; they travelled in Italy and Spain; they had a cottage in the country; they painted pictures and exhibited their pictures in the same exhibitions; they gave dances in their studios and were attracted by this young man and the other; but Stella did not give herself to any one, because, as she admitted to me, she was afraid that a lover would interrupt the devotion which she intended to give to Art. But life is forever casting itself into new shapes and forms, and no sooner had she begun to express herself in Art than she met me. I was about to go to Ireland to preach a new gospel, and must have seemed a very impulsive and fantastic person to her, but were not impulsiveness and fantasy just the qualities that would appeal to her? And were not gravity and good sense the qualities that would appeal to me, determined as I was then to indulge myself in a little madness?
I could not have chosen a saner companion than Stella; my instinct had led me to her; but because one man's instinct is a little more clear than another's, it does not follow that he has called reason to his aid. It must be remembered always that the art of painting is as inveterate in me as the art of writing, and that I am never altogether myself when far away from the smell of oil paint. Stella could talk to one about painting, and all through that wonderful summer described in Salve our talk flowed on as delightfully as a breeze in Maytime, and as irresponsible, flashing thoughts going by and avowals perfumed with memories. Only in her garden did conversation fail us, for in her garden Stella could think only of her flowers, and it seemed an indiscretion to follow her as she went through the twilight gathering dead blooms or freeing plants from noxious insects. But she would have had me follow her, and I think was always a little grieved that I wasn't as interested in her garden as I was in her painting; and my absent-mindedness when I followed her often vexed her and my mistakes distressed her.
You are interested, she said, only in what I say about flowers and not in the flowers themselves. You like to hear me tell about Miss —— whose business in life is to grow carnations, because you already see her, dimly, perhaps, but still you see her in a story. Forget her and look at this Miss Shifner!
Yes, it is beautiful, but we can only admire the flowers that we notice when we are children, I answered. Dahlias, china roses, red and yellow tulips, tawny wallflowers, purple pansies, are never long out of my thoughts, and all the wonderful varieties of the iris, the beautiful blue satin and the cream, some shining like porcelain, even the common iris that grows about the moat.
But there were carnations in your mother's garden?
Yes, and I remember seeing them being tied with bass. But what did you say yesterday about carnations? That they were the—
She laughed and would not tell me, and when the twilight stooped over the high trees and the bats flitted and the garden was silent except when a fish leaped, I begged her to come away to the wild growths that I loved better than the flowers.
But the mallow and willow-weed are the only two that you recognise. How many times have I told you the difference between self-heal and tufted vetch?
I like cow parsley and wild hyacinths and—
You have forgotten the name. As well speak of a woman that you loved but whose name you had forgotten.
Well, if I have, I love trees better than you do, Stella. You pass under a fir unstirred by the mystery of its branches, and I wonder at you, for I am a tree worshipper, even as my ancestors, and am moved as they were by the dizzy height of a great silver fir. You like to paint trees, and I should like to paint flowers if I could paint; there we are set forth, you and I.
I have told in Salve that in Rathfarnham she found many motives for painting; the shape of the land and the spire above the straggling village appealed to me, but she was not altogether herself in these pictures. She would have liked the village away, for man and his dwellings did not form part of her conception of a landscape; large trees and a flight of clouds above the trees were her selection, and the almost unconscious life of kine wandering or sheep seeking the shelter of a tree.
Stella was a good walker, and we followed the long road leading from Rathfarnham up the hills, stopping to admire the long plain which we could see through the comely trees shooting out of the shelving hillside.
If I have beguiled you into a country where there are no artists and few men of letters, you can't say that I have not shown you comely trees. And now if you can walk two miles farther up this steep road I will show you a lovely prospect.
And I enjoyed her grave admiration of the old Queen Anne dwelling-house, its rough masonry, the yew hedges, the path along the hillside leading to the Druid altar and the coast-line sweeping in beautiful curves, but she did not like to hear me say that the drawing of the shore reminded her of Corot.
It is a sad affectation, she said, to speak of Nature reminding one of pictures.
Well, the outlines of Howth are beautiful, I answered, and the haze is incomparable. I should like to have spoken about a piece of sculpture, but for your sake, Stella, I refrain.
She was interested in things rather than ideas, and I remember her saying to me that things interest us only because we know that they are always slipping from us. A strange thing for a woman to say to her lover. She noticed all the changes of the seasons and loved them, and taught me to love them. She brought a lamb back from Rathfarnham, a poor forlorn thing that had run bleating so pitifully across the windy field that she had asked the shepherd where the ewe was, and he had answered that she had been killed overnight by a golf-ball. The lamb will be dead before morning, he added. And it was that March that the donkey produced a foal, a poor ragged thing that did not look as if it ever could be larger than a goat, but the donkey loved her foal.
Do you know the names of those two birds flying up and down the river?
They look to me like two large wrens with white waistcoats.
They are water-ouzels, she said.
The birds flew with rapid strokes of the wings, like kingfishers, alighting constantly on the river, on large mossy stones, and though we saw them plunge into the water, it was not to swim, but to run along the bottom in search of worms.
But do worms live under water?
The rooks were building, and a little while after a great scuffling was heard in one of the chimneys and a young jackdaw came down and soon became tamer than any bird I had ever seen, tamer than a parrot, and at the end of May the corncrake called from the meadow that summer had come again, and the kine wandered in deeper and deeper and deeper herbage. The days seemed never to end, and looking through the branches of the chestnut in which the fruit had not begun to show, we caught sight of a strange spectacle. Stella said, A lunar rainbow, and I wondered, never having heard of or seen such a thing before.
I shall never forget that rainbow, Stella, and am glad that we saw it together.
In every love story lovers reprove each other for lack of affection, and Stella had often sent me angry letters which caused me many heart-burnings and brought me out to her; in the garden there were reconciliations, we picked up the thread again, and the summer had passed before the reason of these quarrels became clear to me. One September evening Stella said she would accompany me to the gate, and we had not gone very far before I began to notice that she was quarrelling with me. She spoke of the loneliness of the Moat House, and I had answered that she had not been alone two evenings that week. She admitted my devotion. And if you admit that there has been no neglect—
She would not tell me, but there was something she was not satisfied with, and before we reached the end of the avenue she said, I don't think I can tell you. But on being pressed she said:
Well, you don't make love to me often enough.
And full of apologies I answered, Let me go back.
No, I can't have you back now, not after having spoken like that.
But she yielded to my invitation, and we returned to the house, and next morning I went back to Dublin a little dazed, a little shaken.
A few days after she went away to Italy to spend the winter and wrote me long letters, interesting me in herself, in the villagers, in the walks and the things that she saw in her walks, setting me sighing that she was away from me, or that I was not with her. And going to the window I would stand for a long time watching the hawthorns in their bleak wintry discontent, thinking how the sunlight fell into the Italian gardens, and caught the corner of the ruin she was sketching; and I let my fancy stray for a time unchecked. It would be wonderful to be in Italy with her, but—
I turned from the window suspicious, for there was a feeling at the back of my mind that with her return an anxiety would come into my life that I would willingly be without. She had told me she had refrained from a lover because she wished to keep all herself for her painting, and now she had taken to herself a lover. She was twenty years younger than I was, and at forty-six or thereabouts one begins to feel that one's time for love is over; one is consultant rather than practitioner. But it was impossible to dismiss the subject with a jest, and I found myself face to face with the question—If these twenty years were removed, would things be different? It seemed to me that the difficulty that had arisen would have been the same earlier in my life as it was now, and returning to the window I watched the hawthorns blowing under the cold grey Dublin sky.
The problem is set, I said, for the married, and every couple has to solve it in one way or another, but they have to solve it; they have to come to terms with love, especially the man, for whom it is a question of life and death. But how do they come to terms? And I thought of the different married people I knew. Which would be most likely to advise me—the man or the woman? It would be no use to seek advice; every case is different, I said. If anybody were to advise me it would be the man, for the problem is not so difficult for a woman. She can escape from love more easily than her lover or her husband; she can plead, and her many pleadings were considered, one by one, and how in married life the solution that seems to lovers so difficult is solved by marriage itself, by propinquity. But not always, not always. The question is one of extraordinary interest and importance; more marriages come to shipwreck, I am convinced, on this very question than upon any other. In the divorce cases published we read of incompatibility of temper and lack of mutual tastes, mere euphemisms that deceive nobody. The image of a shipwreck rose up in me naturally. She will return, and like a ship our love for each other will be beaten on these rocks and broken. We shall not be able to get out to sea. She will return, and when she returns her temperament will have to be adjusted to mine, else she will lose me altogether, for men have died of love, though Shakespeare says they haven't. Manet and Daudet—both died of love; and the somewhat absurd spectacle of a lover waiting for his mistress to return, and yet dreading her returning, was constantly before me.
It often seemed to me that it was my own weakness that created our embarrassment. A stronger man would have been able to find a way out, but I am not one that can shape and mould another according to my desire; and when she returned from Italy I found myself more helpless than ever, and I remember, and with shame, how, to avoid being alone with her, I would run down the entire length of a train, avoiding the empty carriages, crying Not here, not here! at last opening the door of one occupied by three or four people, who all looked as if they were bound for a long journey. I remember, too, how about this time I came with friends to see Stella, whether by accident or design, frankly I know not; I only know that I brought many friends to see her, thinking they would interest her.
If you don't care to come to see me without a chaperon, I would rather you didn't come at all, she said, humiliating me very deeply.
It seemed to me, I answered, blushing, that you would like to see ——, and I mentioned the name of the man who had accompanied me.
If I am cross sometimes it is because I don't see enough of you.
It seems to me that it was then that the resolve hardened in my heart to become her friend ... if she would allow me to become her friend. But in what words should I frame my request and my apology? All the time our life was becoming less amiable, until one evening I nipped the quarrel that was beginning, stopping suddenly at the end of the avenue.
It is better that we should understand each other. The plain truth is that I must cease to be your lover unless my life is to be sacrificed.
Cease to be my lover!
That is impossible, but a change comes into every love story.
The explanation stuttered on. I remember her saying: I don't wish you to sacrifice your life. I have forgotten the end of her sentence. She drew her hand suddenly across her eyes. I will conquer this obsession.
A man would have whined and cried and besought and worried his mistress out of her wits. Women behave better than we; only once did her feelings overcome her. She spoke to me of the deception that life is. Again we were standing by the gate at the end of the chestnut avenue, and I remembered her telling me how a few years ago life had seemed to hold out its hands to her; her painting and her youth created her enjoyment.
But now life seems to have shrivelled up, she said; only a little dust is left.
Nothing is changed, so far as you and I are concerned. We see each other just the same.
I am no more to you than any other woman.
She went away again to Italy to paint and returned to Ireland, and one day she came to see me, and remained talking for an hour. I have no memory of what we said to each other, but a very clear memory of our walk through Dublin over Carlisle Bridge and along the quays. I had accompanied her as far as the Phoenix Park gates, and at the corner of the Conyngham Road, just as I was bidding her goodbye, she said:
I want to ask your advice on a matter of importance to me.
And to me, for what is important to you is equally important to me.
I am thinking, she said, of being married.
At the news it seems to me that I was unduly elated and tried to assume the interest that a friend should.

Deuteronomy 25:1-19
When people have a dispute, they are to take it to court and the judges will decide the case, acquitting the innocent and condemning the guilty. 2 If the guilty person deserves to be beaten, the judge shall make them lie down and have them flogged in his presence with the number of lashes the crime deserves, 3 but the judge must not impose more than forty lashes. If the guilty party is flogged more than that, your fellow Israelite will be degraded in your eyes.
4 Do not muzzle an ox while it is treading out the grain.
5 If brothers are living together and one of them dies without a son, his widow must not marry outside the family. Her husband’s brother shall take her and marry her and fulfill the duty of a brother-in-law to her. 6 The first son she bears shall carry on the name of the dead brother so that his name will not be blotted out from Israel.
7 However, if a man does not want to marry his brother’s wife, she shall go to the elders at the town gate and say, “My husband’s brother refuses to carry on his brother’s name in Israel. He will not fulfill the duty of a brother-in-law to me.” 8 Then the elders of his town shall summon him and talk to him. If he persists in saying, “I do not want to marry her,” 9 his brother’s widow shall go up to him in the presence of the elders, take off one of his sandals, spit in his face and say, “This is what is done to the man who will not build up his brother’s family line.” 10 That man’s line shall be known in Israel as The Family of the Unsandaled.
11 If two men are fighting and the wife of one of them comes to rescue her husband from his assailant, and she reaches out and seizes him by his private parts, 12 you shall cut off her hand. Show her no pity.
13 Do not have two differing weights in your bag—one heavy, one light. 14 Do not have two differing measures in your house—one large, one small. 15 You must have accurate and honest weights and measures, so that you may live long in the land the Lord your God is giving you. 16 For the Lord your God detests anyone who does these things, anyone who deals dishonestly.
17 Remember what the Amalekites did to you along the way when you came out of Egypt. 18 When you were weary and worn out, they met you on your journey and attacked all who were lagging behind; they had no fear of God. 19 When the Lord your God gives you rest from all the enemies around you in the land he is giving you to possess as an inheritance, you shall blot out the name of Amalek from under heaven. Do not forget!

After two seasons and four years ahead of schedule leaving the company in "a terrible position". His planned engagements in The Exterminating Angel and Lohengrin are apparently up in the air.
​

Gustavo Dudamel, Star Maestro, to Resign From Paris Opera

The conductor will depart in August, the opera house said, four years ahead of schedule and after just two seasons in the job.
By Javier C. Hernández for New York Times
May 25, 2023
Gustavo Dudamel, the superstar maestro, will resign his post as music director of the Paris Opera in August, four years ahead of schedule and after just two seasons in the job, the company announced on Thursday.
Dudamel, 42, who also leads the Los Angeles Philharmonic and will take over as music and artistic director of the New York Philharmonic in 2026, said he was stepping down to spend more time with his family.
“It is with a heavy heart and after long consideration that I announce my resignation,” he said in a statement. “I have no plans other than to be with my loved ones, to whom I am deeply grateful for helping me to continue to be strong in my resolve to grow and remain challenged, both personally and artistically, each and every day.”
Dudamel’s two-year tenure will be one of the shortest in the Paris Opera’s recent history. His abrupt departure is unusual in the classical music industry, where conductors generally serve the duration of their contracts and seasons are typically planned years in advance. His resignation comes a few months after he made the surprise announcement that he would leave his post in Los Angeles, which he has held since 2009, for New York, when his contract expires at the end of the 2025-26 season.
Alexander Neef, the general director of the Paris Opera, praised Dudamel’s “special relationship” with the orchestra and said he respected his choice. He said in an interview that Dudamel had expressed concerns beginning in January about his ability to fulfill his duties, including devoting the time needed for the intense performance and rehearsal schedule that opera demands.
”In the end, he reached a conclusion that he could just not give to the institution what he believes the institution requires,” Neef said.
Over the past several months, Neef proposed ways to keep Dudamel in Paris.
“I did not try to twist his arm,” Neef said. “We played with different scenarios and arrangements of the schedule. But in the end, he just felt it was not sufficient for him to be able to own the title.”
Dudamel’s representatives said on Thursday that he was unavailable for an interview.
The opera house and Dudamel are still discussing what to do about his planned engagements for the 2023-24 season. He had been scheduled to lead a new production of Wagner’s “Lohengrin” and the Paris premiere of “The Exterminating Angel” by Thomas Adès, as well as several concerts with the orchestra.
Dudamel’s departure creates the possibility that he might deepen his commitment to the New York Philharmonic earlier than expected. Because of scheduling conflicts, he had not been planning to have much of a presence in New York until the 2026-27 season. Dudamel, who led the orchestra in Mahler’s Ninth Symphony last week, has no engagements in New York next season.
Deborah Borda, the Philharmonic’s president and chief executive, who helped start Dudamel’s career in Los Angeles nearly two decades ago and persuaded him to take the job in New York, said she hoped he would now be able to spend more time with the orchestra starting next season but that nothing had been discussed.
“He’s very clear that he doesn’t want to make that decision now,” she said in an interview.
When Dudamel took the New York job, some in the industry speculated that he was seeking to reduce his commute to Paris. But Borda said that Dudamel, who was born in Venezuela, had realized during the pandemic that he wanted to spend more time in Spain, which is now home to his wife, his 12-year-old son, his parents and his grandmother.
“No doubt he’ll take some criticism,” she said of his decision to resign. “But I think it’s a bold and important move.”
In Paris, Dudamel led high-profile productions of contemporary operas like John Adams’s “Nixon in China” and classics like Puccini’s “Turandot.” He appeared to be well regarded by the orchestra’s musicians and by Neef, though he sometimes earned mixed reviews from European critics. A production of Wagner’s “Tristan und Isolde” that he conducted earlier this year made headlines when its soprano was booed.
The opera house also appears to be grappling with some financial pressures. Planned appearances by the Paris Opera orchestra in London and Vienna in April were abruptly canceled. The Barbican Center in London said it was “due to factors that are currently making touring financially challenging” for the ensemble.
His appointment in 2021, for an initial term of six seasons, was considered a coup for the company, founded in 1669 as the Académie d’Opéra by Louis XIV. It was an unlikely union, given Dudamel’s packed schedule and frequent commitments in Los Angeles. And while he had earned fame and accolades as a symphonic conductor, he had less experience in opera.
Dudamel said at the time that he felt chemistry with the Paris Opera after his company debut in 2017 with “La Bohème.”
“I felt this connection with the house, the musicians, the choir, with the whole team,” he said in an interview with The New York Times in 2021. “I was here for one month and a half and I was feeling like I was at home.”
The departure of Dudamel leaves the Paris Opera in a difficult position. Neef said that the orchestra would rely on guest conductors to help fill gaps in coming seasons, and that the company would soon begin a search for a permanent leader with “the goal of finding the best person rather than the most readily available.”
“We are strong enough to go through this period while we look for someone new,” he said.
The company informed its 175 musicians of Dudamel’s decision on Thursday. Neef said some had noticed a change in their relationship with Dudamel over the past few months and were relieved that there was now a resolution.
“They were expecting something to happen,” he said. “There’s disappointment and sadness, but it’s also a moment of relief to know what’s been going on.”
https://www.nytimes.com/2023/05/25/arts/music/gustavo-dudamel-to-resign-from-paris-opera.html

📷

Introduction

Portable generators have become increasingly popular in recent years, especially in areas prone to power outages or where electricity is not readily available. These generators are designed to provide temporary power for a variety of applications, from camping trips to construction sites. However, with so many options available on the market, it can be difficult to choose the right one for your needs. In this article, we will explore the key factors to consider when selecting a portable generator.

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Fuel Type

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References:

• Consumer Reports: How to Choose a Generator
• Briggs & Stratton: portable generator FAQs

Article by None

Just like every year on 9th of September, 1944 was no different. Military was, again, organizing a ball to celebrate the foundation of the Republic.
Mark always found this event exciting. He was a staunch republican but that was not the only reason. Ball has always been one of the only activities where high ranking officers sat together and talked to each other in a lightened mood.
He went into the ball room and immediately after, one of the other officers called to him. He was the commander of the 2nd Army, Eric Hill. “Come, Mark. Sit with us.”
Mark saluted and sat down on a chair. The table was crowded with generals, almost everyone here was also a member of the General Staff. A server rushed towards him in order to get his order.
Mark turned towards the waiter and said, “Just water.”
Server nodded and rushed. Eric spoke out;
“You are not staying I assume?”
Mark replied, “No, General. I’m not. We’ve spotted movements on the other side of the Rummish border. My division is currently investigating the issue. I’ll depart for Narbel in a few hours.”
Eric nodded, understanding the gravity of the situation. "I see. Duty calls, as always. It's a shame you won't be able to stay and enjoy the festivities, Mark. But I trust your judgment when it comes to matters of national security."
Mark nodded solemnly. "Thank you, General. It's unfortunate timing, but our duty to protect the Republic must always come first. I'll do everything in my power to ensure the safety of our borders."
As the server returned with Mark's glass of water, he took a sip and continued, "We've been monitoring the Rummish border closely for any signs of aggression. It seems tensions have been escalating recently. Have you received any specific intelligence regarding the movements?"
Eric leaned in, his expression serious. "Indeed, Mark. Our intelligence reports indicate that the Rummish forces have been conducting military exercises near the border. It's difficult to determine their exact intentions, but it's clear they're flexing their military might. We cannot afford to underestimate them."
Mark nodded again, his mind already focused on the impending mission. "I understand, General. I'll make sure my unit is prepared for any possible scenarios. We cannot afford to let our guard down."
Another officer, General Roberts, interjected, "Mark, I've heard rumors of a potential diplomatic solution to ease the tensions. Do you think there's any truth to that?"
Mark glanced at General Roberts, contemplating the question. "It's hard to say, General. Diplomatic solutions are always preferable, but we must be cautious. The Rummish have been known to use diplomacy as a tactic to buy time or gather intelligence. Remember Dome? Everyone thought it was safe and sound until the Rummish took the city overnight. We must remain vigilant and prepared for any outcome."
Eric added, "Indeed, Mark. Diplomacy may be an option, but we cannot rely solely on it. Our military strength and readiness are crucial in maintaining our security and protecting our interests."
Mark nodded in agreement with General Eric's statement. "You're absolutely right, General. Diplomacy can only go so far, and in times of uncertainty, it's our military strength and readiness that ensure the safety and stability of our Republic."
General Roberts, a seasoned veteran, chimed in. "I remember a time during the Battle of Zeharen when we were outnumbered and outgunned. It was a grueling fight, but our determination and the valor of our soldiers turned the tide. We held our ground, pushing back the rebel forces and securing a crucial victory. You were also protecting our northern flank in that battle, Mark. If we fight our battles like we fought in Zeharen, no one will even dare to attack Sordland."
Mark listened intently, his eyes reflecting a mixture of respect and questioning. He surely admired Roberts's patriotism and heroism but have always criticized his 'unrealistic approaches to modern problems'. Mark replied, "It's stories like these, General Roberts, that remind us of the sacrifices and courage displayed by our men and women on the front lines. Their unwavering dedication and bravery make us proud to serve alongside them. But we must also remember that not only bravery can win a fight. Having a more maneuverable unit with better weaponry has enabled us to shed less Sordish blood while crushing the rebels."
General Hill, known for his experience, shared a more somber tale. "During the Siege of Holsord in the Civil War, I commanded a battalion that was tasked with holding a critical position. We fought tooth and nail, enduring heavy bombardment and relentless assaults. Many lives were lost, and the toll it took on our soldiers was immense. But we held that position, not just for the sake of victory, but for the comradeship and unwavering bond that develops in the face of adversity."
Mark's gaze turned introspective, his mind filled with memories of fallen comrades. "War is a harsh and unforgiving reality, General. It tests the limits of our humanity and challenges our notions of what is right and just. It's our duty as leaders to honor the sacrifices made by those who came before us and strive for a world where peace prevails."
“Do you have any memories to share with us, Mark? You fought in the civil war, were with us in Zeharen and also fought against BFF. I’m sure you have dozens of memories right now.” said General Roberts. Mark Replied;
“Yes, General. But one of them still scratches my mind.” Mark replied and continued, “In Bergia, especially in winter time, BFF return to the mountains like bears going into hibernation. Because as terrorists with no clear pathway between mountains and with very light clothing, it becomes very hard for them to move from hill to hill, mountain to mountain. And in the first days of the spring, they come out from their caves, like bears themselves.”
​
General Hill laughed and said, “Come on, Mark. We already know how BFF operates.”
​
Mark smiled and continued, “In that time, while guarding his post in the outskirts of Deyr, one Sergeant Major spotted something with his binoculars, approximately 500 meters away. He noticed that someone was running away from the forest towards an open area with practically no cover. Sergeant noticed that the person he was watching seemed to be short and slender for an adult. Sergeant thinks to himself that it might be a child running, but the way the person is running doesn't seem playful; they are running while looking behind as if they're escaping from something. Then, a larger figure resembling a horse enters the frame from the same forest and starts chasing after the kid. After analyzing the figure for three seconds, the sergeant shouts, "Damn, it's a bear!" and leaves the binoculars, grabs his weapon, and sounds the alarm at his post. Taking three out of the five soldiers from his post and starts to rush towards the location where the child is, firing a shot into the air every hundred meters, alternating between sprints and fast running.”
“At the halfway point, the sergeant sees that the bear catches up to the little girl and claws at her from behind. Then, a horrifying scream pierces through the air.”
“When the gendermaries arrive, the girl lies face down, covered in blood in the snowy mud. She appears to be weakened from the injury and the running while a very aggressive brown bear has bitten her ankle and is shaking its head like a crocodile, trying to tear it off. The girl is also being thrown around in the mud with the force of the bear's shaking. The sergeant quickly realizes the life-threatening danger, shoots the bear with great marksmanship and immediately calls for help on his radio. Fortunately, the gendarmerie vehicle is on patrol nearby and quickly arrives at the scene with its sirens. The sergeant slings his rifle across his back and lifts the girl onto his right shoulder, then starts running towards the main road. Displaying the true valor of a Sordish soldier with a blue beret, he manages to run at a steady pace with the heavily wounded girl on his shoulder for eight minutes uphill, finally reaching the gendarmerie patrol vehicle. He places the girl on the vehicle's floor and jumps inside himself and without even turning off the sirens, they rush towards the state hospital. It should be noted that despite losing a significant amount of blood, the young girl remains conscious. Along the way, the gendarmes try to talk to her, keeping her awake. She says her name is Cassie.”
“Why was the girl there at that time? She thought she could take a shortcut through the forest to the village road and sing a couple more Bludish folk songs before it gets dark. Little did she realize that she would encounter a bear on her way.”
“Upon reaching the emergency room, while the first aid is being administered, Cassie asks for her "big soldier brother" since she is scared of the nurses and doctors. The sergeant, covered in blood and dirt, holding his rifle, takes a seat next to her and tries to comfort her. Meanwhile, the doctors intervene in the open wound. It should be noted again that Cassie has a broken left fibula, multiple abrasions and contusions, her clothes are torn to shreds, and her back is completely exposed. Deep scars, around 45-50 centimeters long can be seen extending from her right scapula to her left kidney. Additionally, there is a severe injury on her ankle. Even though a bear's strike to the back often results in a fatal outcome, she somehow hangs on to life.
“Later, we heard that the girl received a total of 121 stitches. She's doing well and recovering. The entire district gendarmerie is laughing all day because a girl's life was saved. The local Bludish population started calling the sergeant as ‘Ayıboğan’, which refers to the strength of a bear in the local dialect.”
“Every time when I read propaganda posters distributed by BFF that the Gendarmerie and Sordish Armed Forces is a tool fed by the fascist Sollists to silence and enslave the Bludish people, I always think of the sergeant major who left his position and equipment behind and ran an absolute marathon to save the girl's life. Then a question keeps revolving in my mind. What is Sordish Armed Forces and the Gendarmerie truly protects? Just a post, a position with sandbags and heavy weaponry or children like Cassie?”
General Roberts replied, “Children, of course.” all of the table seemed to be agreeing with him, maybe except a few officers. He continued, “What happened to the Sergeant Major?”
Mark replied, “I've given Sergeant Major a commendation for leaving his post in line of duty, a post which he must protect with his life. Because he left his post in order to protect a child, even Bludish, a citizen of this Republic.”
The atmosphere around the table grew more solemn as each general shared their own stories, some glorious, some heart wrenching and some with dilemmas. The clinking of glasses and the distant melodies from the ballroom provided a stark contrast to the weight of their memories.
General Roberts, attempting to lighten the mood, raised his glass and said, "To our fallen comrades and to the unwavering spirit of the men and women who have fought for our Republic!"
The other generals raised their glasses in unison, echoing his sentiment. Mark's eyes met with the others, and in that moment, they understood the gravity of their roles as leaders and the importance of preserving the legacy of those who had fought and sacrificed before them.
As the night continued, the conversation shifted towards lighter topics, interspersed with moments of laughter and camaraderie. They shared stories of triumphs and defeats, of bonds forged in the crucible of combat, and the collective sense of purpose that bound them together.
In that moment, amidst the military ball and the company of fellow generals, Mark found solace and inspiration. He knew that regardless of the challenges ahead, he stood shoulder to shoulder with comrades who shared his commitment and determination to protect the Republic…

First/Prev
​
Mogan was more than a little woozy after repeatedly toasting his deal with the two ladies. Shidhu had an interesting taste to it, but it was also strong. The San had alcohol, but fermenting berry juice or birch sap was a long procedure and took a lot of work and space. There had never been much to drink, and what they had wasn't nearly so strong.
They had also never needed an antidote for alcohol, while those who had alcohol had seen all its dangers many times over. A fizzing, nasty-tasting drink—once the women had left--had his head clear within minutes, and he walked easily, and steadily, out of the bar.
The bar did not look like the kind of drinking establishment that would be favored by the custom of a man who owned and commanded a ship three kilometers long. It was, to put it bluntly, a dive, the kind of place that the constables avoid. The Tortuga was the kind of place where an enterprising individual could buy weapons that weren't normally allowed on Haitac Station, or drugs that weren't allowed, or discrete passage on a ship if he needed to leave in a hurry. It was not the kind of place to bring the family, or a lover, or anybody who was not engaged in activity that was illegal or close to it.
Technically, Mogan could hire whoever he wanted, but since the companies that Races-through-the-Marshes and Wakawa ran had a somewhat... checkered... history, they generally preferred to stay where they could make an easy escape.
Then again, Mogan didn't look like the kind of man who owned a three-kilometer ship. Or commanded, at least; ownership was in the name of the San tribe. Mogan wore a loincloth, a strip of material about three meters long and a tenth as wide, wound between his legs and around his waist for a snug fit. Once upon a time these were doeskin, soft and supple, but nobody but his own tribe within a few thousand light-years had ever seen a doe, or tanned a hide.
His leggings were of tougher material, fringed to help keep the rain off, and his shoes were of a softer sole than most wore. Most Sylfa, at least; many species went barefoot. A tunic of the same material covered his torso down to his hips, likewise fringed. Like the loincloth, these were once deerskin, and in the cold he would wear a heavier coat over it. These were colored and patterned like leather, but he couldn't even identify the material. Softer than leather, it was tougher as well, and a few controls from the pad in his left hand could even make it as warm or as cool as he liked.
The latter was standard for most clothing, protecting from all but the most extreme temperatures, but the rest looked as primitive as it did before his tribe had ever seen a ship.
A rod was tucked into his belt on the left side, bent slightly back. At one end was a hand grip, with straps looped to fit two fingers into, and on the other end was a beautifully-carved ibex,with its horns forming a small but dull hook to the weapon. The atlatl could hurl a spear twice as far or more, and with almost exponentially more force, but Mogan carried no spears.
He did once, in a quiver made of birch-bark, with the bottom third of the spears covered and the feathered ends sticking over his head, but by now the weapon was more a mark of office than a tool he used. Back in those days it was tucked into the right side, in easy reach of his throwing hand, but no more. On the right, it would have gotten in the way of the laser pistol in its low holster on his right hip.
Most people who carried a rifle or pistol either wore or carried a targeting monocle, a lens that would adjust for moving targets and tell the shooter where to aim, but the San needed no such thing, neither the expense nor the time the device took to find a solution and adjust.
The humans were unique in this.
On his cheek was a mark; a simple tattoo, of only two lines in a pattern like an inverted y, the mark of his tribe. He was of average height and build, with brown hair and eyes, skin bronzed from many different winds and many different suns, but among the two thousand people of the San he was high chieftain. And captain, soon.
Mogan continued to walk up the wide hallways, avoiding the central areas, until he spotted the old man. A small wave, and he turned to head that way.
Shett was once one of the Yil, the hereditary nobility of the Sovereignty. The Yil were untouchable within the Sovereignty, able to do as they wished to such an extent that only protection a citizen had was the possible protection of another Yil. Rather than Yil Shett, the man was now simply Shett, a citizen of the Confederated Settlements. And a traitor as far as the Sovereign was concerned, almost certainly.
Yil Shett had been a wise man with a sharp mind, but a little more than heavyset, nearly locked into his office by duty and stress. Now the man was whipcord-thin, typical of the Sylfa, walking easily. Defecting from the Sovereignty had meant giving up unimaginable wealth—the man had literally owned three planets—but it had clearly been a good thing for him.
The Sylfa waved an arm to make sure Mogan saw him, and tapped a panel on the wall. “Good evening, Captain.”
Mogan shrugged a little. It was “evening” in the sense that they were nearing the end of the cycle, but on the station there was no difference between night and day. Haitac was in orbit around a star, so they didn't even have the shadow of the planet to contend with. But the lack of sun and moon often threw off his mental sense of time, and the twenty-hour day did not help.
“Whatever it is at the moment,” he chuckled, “I hope it goes well for you.” The walls of the station had rails near the ceiling. Hanging from them was something that looked more like saddles on cords, so that nearly any creature could sit on them, extending from beams. Some species had tails, after all, and sitting on a bench was uncomfortable for them at best.. The beams moved swiftly down the corridors, an important feature in a station that was mostly corridor.
Haitac Station was part dock, part shipyard, part admiralty court, part military base, and part entertainment complex. The court could be centralized, and was. The military was as centralized as it could be, although patrols also kept the peace in the rest of the station. The entertainment could be centralized, but for some reason was not, with bars and brothels and hotels and sports complexes and libraries and theaters of various kinds in odd and unlikely places. The docks and shipyards could not be. The dreadnoughts that were the backbone of any fleet were four kilometers long, and some were as much as twice that. A massive tanker or cargo hauler could be four or five times as long, and the end result was that the ships needed a great deal of room between each dock. In addition, since it was partly military, sponsored by the Settlements, there were areas, such as the one they were bound to now, that were not open to the general public.
Mogan climbed onto one of the saddles, and Shett onto another. The average Sylfa was about a head taller than a human, but about two-thirds the weight. An evolutionary past that stayed in the trees for longer granted them a lighter build than humans, and six limbs compared to humanity's four, but they could not walk as well as humans.
Then again, nothing could. Nor did any species, sapient or not, hold the endurance that humans had. The Sylfa could scramble up surfaces with an ease that astounded humanity, leap over a human's head from a standing start, and sprint nearly twice as fast, and others like the Shawing could move even faster over a short distance, but nothing matched a human over long distances.
Mogan had carried a Sylfa once, as he ran, but that was his woman, not a friend. Instead, he held to the saddle as the beam returned to the rails at the upper edge of the wall. It adjusted to their heights by simply changing the length of the cords. The Zerda came no higher than his knee for a tall one, while the Mantu were easily three times his height, so very few affairs were one-size-fits-all measures... another difference from the Sovereignty.
The beam rose into the air, moving along the ceiling at a place slightly faster than Mogan could sprint. Up ahead of them a light indicated a spot where they could make the beams lower to the floor again, but they were going well beyond that point. A small field in front of them kept the wind of their passage from getting too bad.
Mogan was familiar with hard light shields, since every ship had them, but he did not think this was hard light. Hard-light was impossible to make without Reagnium-80. Considering every single interplanetary vessel needed a supply of it and its relative rarity, Reagnium-80 was so valuable that the Settlements used it as the value standard for their currency. There were thousands of these beams, all throughout the station. Not only would they have had to spend an obscene amount to make them, but anything that valuable would have been stripped out and stolen within days... cycles, here.
“The war?”
Shett nodded in reply. “We got news not long ago of a large battle at Manna-6. Ground battle. Our forces were outnumbered about half-again-to-one, but it was a heavy victory.”
Mogan nodded and relaxed, thinking. In a sense, this war was his fault.
Two years ago, he had been little more than a shaman of a small village, of a small tribe, on his homeworld—and on the entire planet, only he had understood even the concept of a homeworld. The term the Sovereignty used for the tribe's introduction to the greater galaxy was “upliftment.” Mogan didn't like it; it implied that he was somehow below the others, raised to true sapience by their own beneficence.
Perhaps every “upliftment” had an ulterior motive, but that of the San certainly had. Mogan did not regret his actions on Noepe; he had saved the lives of men and women breaking the law to survive, shot and stabbed a great many people enforcing what was in truth simple tyranny, and electrocuted the governess who had arranged for his woman to be marooned. No, he still looked upon their mission with pride, but one of the Yils had arranged it themselves, as a pretext to invasion. The few who know of humanity knew that Yil Shett had been a friend and advocate for the species, and the many who knew of Yil Shett knew that he had given up his titles and lands and betrayed the Sovereignty to join the Settlements.
Shett tapped a button on the saddle, and as the next light showed ahead the beam lowered to the floor so they could climb off. It wasn't far from here, and they could walk. They did so, for about two hundred yards before they came to a window.
“There's your dock,” Shett said. “I suppose I could have made a holo easy enough, but I thought your first look at her should be with your own eyes.”
Windows were more common in the public areas, where diners—or guests in the more expensive hotels—could look out on the void, and rarer in the corridors that were mostly just for reaching ships with crew or passengers or supplies. Mogan stepped out to this one, looked out over the dockyards, and stared, mesmerized.

Total budget (in local currency) and country of purchase. Please do not use USD unless purchasing in the US: $1700-$1900. Been looking at Costco and Sam’s Club as well.
•Are you open to refurbs/used? Potentially if the value is great.
• How would you prioritize form factor (ultrabook, 2-in-1, etc.), build quality, performance, and battery life? Will be a gaming laptop for moderate-heavy duty, so performance is very important. Will spend most of its time on a desk with an external monitor and constant power connection, so battery life and build quality are not vital but should still be C-level quality. Form factor is not very important but a decent-sized screen is preferable (16” or more).
• How important is weight and thinness to you? Not very, but I don’t want a brick either.
• Do you have a preferred screen size? If indifferent, put NA. 16” or more.
• Gaming/CAD/video editing: moderate to heavy gaming. Recreational CAD but nothing serious. No plans for any real video editing.
• If you're gaming, do you have certain games you want to play? At what settings and FPS do you want? Madden 23 (and 24 when it comes out), Skyrim Special Edition with moderate mods, Halo MCC and Infinite, the new Forza game when it comes out. Also occasionally NBA 2k and GTA V. Medium or better graphical settings and 60+ FPS.
Any specific requirements such as good keyboard, reliable build quality, touch-screen, finger-print reader, optical drive or good input devices (keyboard/touchpad)? Touchscreen and fingerprint reader is a plus but absolutely not a necessity. 1.5 tB of internal storage is desirable as well but can be supplemented with an external drive.
• Leave any finishing thoughts here that you may feel are necessary and beneficial to the discussion. Again, also looking at Costco and Sam’s, prices should be somewhat lower there. Willing to sacrifice some performance to save a couple hundred bucks, but would like it to still be capable of running new games in 3-4 years at the same settings as above.

MY PERSONAL DEVELOPMENT
INTRODUCTION
Hello there! My name is Siddharth Rai and I live in India. I am a twenty-six-year-old male and I live with my parents. I work at the nearby airport as an electrical engineer. I have a younger sister who is studying zoology in a college nearby and she lives away from us due to her college. My writing style might not be appealing but I would be happy if you read and reviewed my article. It will help me get new interesting things to you. I hope you enjoy reading this.
I have always wanted to write a book. I like to write poems, I like music, I like art and I like to travel. I have never travelled out of my country except to Nepal. Nepal is quite nearby to where I live. I live in the eastern India, Darjeeling. Some of you might have heard or visited the place before. I live in the foothills though- Siliguri but the district is Darjeeling. I have spent around thirteen years of my life in Darjeeling. I miss those golden days that I have spent with my family and friends in Darjeeling. Those days will never come back again. It is a beautiful pain. All the crazy things that we do as teenagers, I did it in Darjeeling- fighting, having girlfriends, forming a band, roaming around the streets- everything. Some of the people I met on the streets are now superstars and some homeless vagabonds. Some are married and some committed suicide because they couldn’t love. I am just a regular guy like you. I think I am below average when it comes to money, prestige, personality and many other things that define us- a lifestyle.
The reason I thought about writing this article is because I want to become a better person as I am approaching towards my thirties. I have heard somewhere that writing makes it easier and effective to do something that we want to do. I hope this article will help you in some way or the other. I will share some of the deepest things that I feel. I will talk about my past. I will let you know about my present and I will also try to show you the future that I have visioned for myself. I will be talking about my personality development.
PERSONALITY DEVELOPMENT
We have often heard about the word personality. We have often heard about one getting complimented for their personalities and sometimes people finding their personalities not matching with others, mostly to their partners. It’s interesting to see us being conscious about so many things in our lives. Our beauty, physique, clothes, status in the society, possessions, partners and other small things like our fear of facing people, inferiority, pride, love, attachment. Well personality is a sphere where all of the conscious things are confined into.
It is the way we react to the factors that make us feel something- good or bad. Feeling good includes many things- paragliding, completing a trek, listening to classical music, releasing a music video. Feeling bad might feel like thinking about the moment that hurts you- could be anything, you know better.
How are you going to react to the situations-now and then? That defines your personality. If you ask the instructor for your money back after a paragliding session because you couldn’t fly for another ten minutes because of the weather then you need to work on some parts of your life and if you left your girl with the man and her friends just because you missed the party the previous night then you need to work on some part of your life- you might be using your head too much. I am worried about how am I going to handle a relationship in the future because I’ve messed up my previous ones- I need to work on some part of my life. My personality is not balanced.
Personality is a gift- a box of chocolates- it’s tasty but harmful if eaten too much.
THAT’S HOW IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE
It was the last day of 2017 and my girlfriend had come to Siliguri with her friends. I had my aunt come over from a distant place and we had to go visit our relatives, so I was caught up with my family. My girlfriend called me and told me that she was around in the market with her friends and some unknown person gave them a lift back home. I told her to be cautious around and we agreed to meet the next day. Late night she told me how she missed me, and she went to sleep early that night. I thought she was cheating on me, and I sent her some rubbish texts. Cool- the night passed quite fast.
I went to meet her the very next morning just to see a guy in their apartment. He was my old friend. She told me that he had just arrived. And he looked like he had just woken up. Good! She treated me like a kid, and I know I was in the wrong place with wrong people. She tried to be herself, but I didn’t feel her. In my mind I was constantly thinking about she is cheating on me. I left the place early and booked two tickets for me and her to get back home. They came late. I had to travel with them. This guy had a car. An unknown man giving them a lift back home, sleeping early, not wanting to go home with me- I was hurt and mad. I wanted to break up already. But I waited because I wasn’t sure if it was the right reason to leave her. So, I waited and just after two months I saw her with a different guy. This time she had come to visit me, but I went to play basketball with my friends because she wanted to have some time with her cousins. Well, I was late by a couple of hours, and she called up her friend and had him over as a company- this guy was the one whom she met when we had a fight back in 2016. Her friend had introduced them to each other- her friend who wanted her to break up with me because I was a needy, passive and a childlike boyfriend- who always was insecure, quarrelling and a noob. This friend of hers was the one whom I admired back in high school.
We broke up January 2018 for good. It was the third or the fourth time, but we broke up finally, forever. I wanted to break up with her because I thought I wasn’t good enough for her. Well, it was a whole different reason for me because the actual reason why I wanted to break up with her was because I wasn’t feeling loved. I didn’t have the guts to accept it and move on. I used to think it will hurt her badly, she is an innocent girl, and I would give it a new chance. I once put my mobile on complete shut down for a month to get away from her- that was the time she changed drastically because she realized that I wasn’t into her anymore. But we got back together shortly- she loved me after all, and so did I because I realized that instead of roaming around with strangers it was better for me to strengthen my relationships with people who love me- I was wrong. She had other guys in her life now- like that guy in their apartment, like that guy her friend had introduced to her and that addict guy who she had her in her phone list.
I was alone-broken. I put too much pressure on my rational mind and started emphasizing on my emotions. I brought this cloud of sadness over me. I wanted to put her into depression- I did. I was depressed too. Influence. My friend was a depressed person. He would talk about how depressed he was, how his past relationships had failed, how jealous he was of me, how he would talk about suicides and philosophies that I couldn’t understand. Influence! I don’t hang around with him anymore. I don’t meet him. He has a good job now. He is financially stable and has a girlfriend. I have no idea about my ex. We haven’t talked with each other since the day we parted our ways- she is hurt you know. I hurt her more than anybody else and I don’t want to go back to her with my dark shadow over her head. I am fine alone with my personality development obsession and sickness. I hope both of them are safe and sound.
I want to forget about my past but I can’t because I have hurt some of the best people of my life like my parents, family, friends, teachers, girlfriend and even a dog- damn! I wonder if she is alive- Dalli the dog. My friend’s dog. She gave birth to two little puppies. One is with us-a mother now- Lily. Lily makes me happy. She is wonderful. The only reason why I was facing the hardest time of my life was because I didn’t have any purpose in life. I wasn’t fulfilling my duty-studying. I would get high the entire day, miss my classes and sleep after a masturbation session. Food and shelter were available for me as my parents paid for it. They would send money every month and I would eat, get high, sleep- repeat. I did this for two years and my girlfriend was gone, I had failed in my semesters like a dead toad, I was financially depressed, I had lost weight, I was now a little jerk. I wasn’t happy. I never wanted to kill myself though. I wasn’t raised that way. My father was in the army, and you know how it is in the military family- respect and discipline but I packed my bags and returned back home during my third year and a year of my college was still left behind.
When I went back home, I couldn’t find my peace because my aunt was living with my mother with her little daughter- my sister. When I went there to live with my mother there were four ladies and me- one man. I had habits and it was difficult for me to maintain them. The rooms were small, and everything was audible. I had a habit of masturbating before sleep. And my aunt would sleep in the room right next to mine. I sometimes wanted to screw her up, but I knew it was not a moral decision. I wanted to seduce her just to masturbate but I couldn’t because I didn’t know how to. And interestingly I was a virgin until twenty-five years old. That was one of the reasons why my relationship didn’t work out with that girl because I couldn’t fuck. I mean she would say after marriage, but she would also get naked and get missionary, but I was facing mild erectile dysfunction because of heavy marijuana dosage, porn and excessive masturbation. So, maybe that didn’t work out. I left my mother’s comfort and came back to college to complete my education and I did but a year later. My psycho friend had passed his college and I was left behind with another friend of mine- loser no.2. I think he still is a virgin. But I am not. Not anymore!
My friends and I none of us got placed. We were jobless and there was corona virus and lockdown. It was good time for assholes like me to waste life away. I would spend my day by playing Pubg with my friends, watching porn and masturbating. My good time had begun. I was lucky enough to have faced an interview with the army for army engineering and not lucky enough for selection but reaching that spot where I was trying to compete to become an officer in the army. I was lucky enough to have got the chance to spend my time peacefully with my mother and my sister. My aunt had gone back home- her child had a vacation now- due corona and all.
One of my cousins are the in army. He was home for a break, and he motivated me to jog in the morning. I ran for two or three months but quit. But my mind was now looking for motivation to stay fit. One day I was watching porn and masturbation. Right after ejaculation I decided to stop watching porn and masturbating. Oh! Good days! I felt so good that day when I didn’t masturbate. I felt clean and guilt free. I was free now. I would miss my ex though. Her smile, her sadness, the burden she had due to me, the heavy heart that she had because she never wanted to leave me. I hope she is free and happy. I wish her the best and ask for forgiveness for every little thing that I did to her. I never wanted to make you cry but I am sorry. I have realized my mistakes now and I want to see you with a smiling face one day. I have moved on, but I am around, and I hope you too. Take care.
My friends have hurt me too and I have hurt them too. My family has hurt me, and I have hurt them too. People change but you don’t. Things always happen to you. Girlfriend, friends, family, money and etc.
FOCUS
If I could move a mountain, I would try to carry it around on my shoulders. A child, a teenager, an adult, a man, a woman, old, new no matter who, everyone is trying to find something in their lives- focus. If they lose focus, they will never be able to talk. Try not thinking anything and talking- you will notice how your brain coordinates your speech. We don’t care what we talk about because we are focused on something- conveying our message. It’s important to learn how to improve your focus. Thus, in order to improve your focus let’s try:

1. Meditating: Five to fifteen minutes a day- om meditation or guided meditation. Connect yourself with the inner spirit. Find out how heavy your chest is and how clouded your mind is. You are supposed to be as light the air and as clean as the water in the spring. Your mind should contain natural sceneries and not porn.
2. Exercising: Your body is a masterpiece of art. A godly creation. The entire human civilization is based on bodies. The entire art and history show how great leaders and warriors and scholars looked like. They had extremely appealing bodies, no matter what nation they belonged to. Romans, Greeks, British, Chinese, Japanese, Indians, Gorkhas, Sikhs, Mughals, and Americans, all of them have an interesting thing to notice- their bodies. Fast and furious to giants and strong. They all are focused. Some ruling the nations, some fighting wars, some creating art, some politics and some philosophies. They have a balance between their and heart and their brain. Have you ever done a chin up? Next time you do try to notice how your heart gets connected to your brain like a hook linking a loop. So, dear friends- exercise.
3. Study: I study engineering because I want to reach a better position in my career. You can study to be happy or flourish your business. But study something- learn.
4. Work: Work. Move your body, use your head. Work. Let your body know about discomfort and tiredness. In these modern times we have found new ways to earn our livelihoods- investment especially. If you are not a broker who works, his heart out to analyze and make profit and you are the one who makes money and live luxurious life out of the money your broker made for you then you should at least spend some time trying to make money the hard way- at least a day. I know you have been through a lot, and you have finally found your financial peace, or you were born rich, but I must tell you he is not a man who doesn’t work. You can try house chores if nothing is coming to your mind. So, work just to get yourself in motion.
5. Hobbies: I play dota2 and I want to play the internationals. I sing karaoke. Do what gets you excited to get back home.
6. Read: Read books. I want to learn finance, health, relationship, science and engineering. You can read them too. Reading is something that makes time for your brain to rest for some time. It will settle down some of your chemical imbalances there.
7. Write: Write your deepest feelings, write a short story, write essays. Write. You can’t always be verbally sharing things with others. Some things might have been missed and some left unsaid like the ones in the previous paragraphs. It’s just a good thing to do-write.

INTEREST
If you can’t quit, then it means you are inspired. Inspiration and motivation are two different things. You can’t inspire someone verbally, but you can motivate them. Inspiration is long lasting, and motivation is short term. Motivation is like fuel to your inspiration. You will understand it. Just try to do something that you are interested in for three months. That’s a goal.
I am interested in many things. Interest as I say please refer to skills- just to make it easier for you to understand the difference between hobbies and interests. My interests are in programming, designing electrical circuits, photography and content writing. These are skills that I want to acquire, and I am “interested in”. My interest can’t be lifelong because I have distractions around. So, with a small technique I can learn these skills without losing my interest. The technique is numbering. Just put make a list of things that you want to learn. It will help you not lose your interest.
How to keep your interest alive?
You can try writing them down on a diary. Make a list of your interest. Interests are those skills that can make you famous, rich and happy like painting, programming etc. Show your interests to the world on social platforms to gain fame, sell them or get a job to get rich and master your skills to be happy. Have some interest friends.
Basically, if you have a good body, wealth, character, behavior, manner, education, then you will have a personality that is safe and sound. People below your level will not mess with you and you won’t mess with people that are above you. But you will become someone who can deal with both the types because it’s not every day you get to meet and talk to the president and it’s seldom you need to avoid people that can harm you- rich and the poor.
Thank you for sticking to this post for such a long time. I feel humble enough to present this article to you. I would like to apologize if anybody was offended in this post. I can’t think more than this my friends. I would appreciate it if you left your valuable comments on this. Thanks, and may God bless you.

I've gotten myself a few hand-me-down parts from my uncle recently. He knows I've been interested in building my own PC but what I keep seeing about the parts he gave me (specifically the CPU and Ram) is that they're no good for my intentions? But this seems to be a mixed feeling.
The PC:
i3-8100 (4 C/4 T)
RAM: 32GB DDR4 2400mhz-2666mhz (not what he provided, but what I intend to upgrade it to. Would DDR4 3200s cause issues? I know they'll read as 2666 mhz but will this cause problems?)
Motherboard: MSI B360M PRO-VDH Micro ATX
Graphics Card: GTX 1660 Super
I intend to use this to stream games to twitch via emulation or older (2018 the latest) but also art streams on twitch. My 10 year old laptop falls flat on it's face when I try to do that. I'd like to draw at a more professional resolution as well. My fear is that while this PC is a massive upgrade to my laptop (Acer Aspire E5-571), it may not be too big of an upgrade and the PC may still suffer when trying to stream something heavy duty like a 600 DPI 11 x 17 inch canvas with a ton of layers.
Is this good enough to stream for a year or so before purchasing better and newer hardware? What kind of problems can I expect?

Respect Suyin

Being sorry isn't enough. You need to take responsibility for what you've done.

Born the youngest daughter of the earthbending legend Toph, Suyin and her older sister Lin grew up with their own talents for earthbending and considerable freedom. Whereas Lin followed in their mother's footsteps in becoming the police chief of Republic City, Suyin rebelled and became a delinquent. At the age of 12 she lashed out at her sister, scarring Lin's face and meriting an exile in order to cover up her criminal activity. Suyin travelled the world, traveling with pirates, a circus, and living with sandbenders.
Eventually Suyin settled down with the architect Baatar, and together they constructed the city of Zaofu. Suyin expanded her prowess of metalbending to the entire city, establishing a new culture as the Metal Clan where progressive politics and innovation blossomed. In their new home Suyin gave birth to 5 children and adopted the troubled Kuvira.
Suyin later reconciled with her sister and mother and became the first metalbending master to the Avatar. When Kuvira rebelled against Suyin and created an authoritarian uprising in the Earth Kingdom Suyin stood against her, and resumed her duties leading Zaofu following Kuvira's defeat.

Source Key: The Legend of Korra Season & Episode = S#E# Ruins of the Empire = RoE 

Scaling: 1. Kuvira 2.Lin 3. P'Li

Physicals

• Performs a synchronized routine with her dancing troupe ^S3E5
• Weaves through several rapid earth projectiles ^S3E6
• Sprints while floating a large boulder over her head ^S3E6
• Flips through rapid fire combustion blasts from P'Li to get behind cover ^S3E12
• Exchanges attacks with Kuvira in close quarters ^S4E10
• Flung a distance away by Kuvira but gets back up ^S4E10
• Knocked out against the side of a mech's arm hurled across a city ^S4E13
• Leaps out of the way of a flamethrower, bringing Toph with her ^RoE

Bending

Gear

• Cables
  • Descends and ascends on a metal cable quickly and projects stone from the ground to fend off the Red Lotus while they are dazed ^S3E8
  • Ascends the side of a mountain with metal cables ^S3E12
  • Ascends up Laghima's Peak with her metal cables ^S3E12
  • Sends a cable up to a tree branch and ascends up to it ^S4E6
  • Binds a target with her cable and turns them around in their cot ^S4E6
  • Wraps men up with her cables ^RoE
  • Wraps a mech's legs and topples it over ^RoE
• Armor
  • Creates a blade from her bracelet that cuts through a metal cable, causing it to rebound and scar Lin ^S3E6
  • Doffs her armor and wraps it around P'Li's head mid-shot so the combustion bender kills herself ^S3E12
  • Uses her metal environment to form armor, amplify a jump, and to utilize a staff for defense ^S4E10

Offense & Defense

• Offense
  • Helps others surround the Red Lotus with metal panels ^S3E8
  • Curves metal projectiles through the air to pierce Zaheer's glider ^S3E8
  • Projects one attack from the ground and quickly follows up with another from a meteorite ^S3E6
  • Launches large metal panels in quick succession before dodging more earth projectiles rising from the ground ^S3E6
  • Raises and launches large boulders at P'Li ^S3E12
  • Throws a heavy cargo container at Kuvira in the midst of their duel ^S4E10
• Defense
  • Raises a stone defense to block rocks from a Red Lotus earthbender ^S3E13
  • Creates a stone wall her sons expand on ^S4E10
  • Creates a ceiling of stone to guard against falling debris ^S4E12
• Both
  • Redirects a metal statue thrown at her, crashing it into a metal wall ^S3E6
  • Raises a metal panel as a shield before projecting it as an attack ^S3E6
  • Pulls a metal wall around her as a defense with enough force to uproot a tree and slap Lin a distance away ^S3E6
  • Throws huge boulders hard enough to crumble them and creates stone defenses that stand up to similar boulders ^S4E10

Utility

• Forms meteorite into several shapes after saying it has a unique property that makes it easier to bend ^S3E6
• Pulls most of the metal poison from Korra's body but did not get all of it ^{S3E13 & S4E3}
• Uses seismic sense to scope out a room before she enters, tunneling into the ground and up through a metal floor ^S4E6
• Together with Lin and Bolin manages to topple a building over on Kuvira's mech ^S4E12
• Pulls apart the innards of a giant mech's arm, disabling it ^S4E13

Humanity is relatively young. Compared to the other races, humanity is a short-lived species. They seldom get past 80 years of age, they make crude weapons, they war amongst themselves almost as much as the orcs, and they worship false gods. But, humanity has something not even the orc’s ferocity, nor the elves' magic, or even the dwarves' master-worked weapons can face. Humanity is legion. ——————————————————————— Captain Alderson, Selkath Empire Tartalus fields
I stared out across the open plains to the south, toward the forest line, which marked the border to the elven nation of Silvastan.
I didn’t care much for the politicking of it all, I probably should care more, because it’s the reason I'm in this, middle of nowhere, far from home, fort. Well, it came down to some problems with trade during one of the Empire’s many wars.
The Selkath Empire was in the middle of a brutal war with the Orc tribes of Bordu. The war had been forcing the Selkath to pay a heavy price in blood; after several failed assaults on the large Orc settlement of Mosvil, the Selkath army was running low on soldiers.
What rubbed salt in the wound was the fact that one of our major trading partners, the Pantoran forest elves, was caught trading weapons with the Orcs. Luckily for us, the Orcs are not the sharpest tools in the shed, and a few well-placed lies led the entire Orcish leadership to believe that the Pantoran were going to betray them. The Orc tribes immediately declared war on the Pantoran, who quickly learned of the treachery and cut off trade with the Selkath Empire.
This act infuriated the Selkath aristocrats who swiftly brought together their own armies, filled with serfs and veteran peasant conscripts; some of the richer nobles simply hired large armies of Sonderland mercenaries. These armies marched against the weakened Pantorian elves and shattered their remaining armies, forcing them to retreat all the way back to their traditional homelands.
This act made the Pantorian’s allies quickly cut all ties with the Selkath Empire. Their largest ally was the Silvastan elves, whose forests lie only kilometers away from my position. They possess the largest army of any Pantorian ally and have many mineral-rich resources, which give them great wealth and manufacturing power.
I got dragged out of my thoughts as my lieutenant walked up and saluted, “Good day sir, all clear on the field. The men are awake and performing their duty.”
“Excellent work,” I said before smiling and adding, “Say your corner window has a great view of the field.”
He grinned and nodded, “Yep it sure does, if you don’t mind I’ll be heading up now to get some shut-eye, before my night shift of course.”
I gave myself a small chuckle as he wandered off towards the small cobblestone building we use as barracks. For the officers, we have a second floor away from the communal bunks of the simple conscripts. That gave us a great view of the rolling hills and sprawling fields, but my lieutenant’s view is the envy of every officer, he had a corner room giving him a view of the hills to the west and the fields to the south.
I turned and looked at the compound under my command. The center of the compound is taken up by the barracks. At the northern end of the base, there was a small tower. Surrounding the whole compound was a low timber and stone wall roughly six feet tall. I smiled to myself as I watched my men wandering around the open grounds, calling out greetings to each other and doing their daily chores and duties.
I sighed and listened to the early morning birds which always had the most beautiful songs. As I listened I a thought struck me. The birds weren’t singing. I had a moment to realize that, then I sprinted to the edge of the bulwark.
I started yelling at the men, “TO YOUR BATTLE STATIONS! WE’RE UNDER ATTACK!”
My men looked up at me in confusion, until a soldier on the wall gave a gurgling scream as an arrow embedded itself in his neck. The men immediately began moving towards their positions, uncertainty in their eyes. I snarled, shoving them forward as the first elves began to shimmer into view.
I cursed quietly, falling for such a predictable trick. I watched as the elves began to raise their bows, and my men braced for a devastating barrage of arrows to slam into their positions.
Until the elven archers began to fall, clutching the staves, finding their way into their bodies. I grinned as I remembered the camouflaged positions from which my crossbowmen were launching devastating volleys of fire against the elves. This thinned out their original numbers, and while not making a massive impact it gave my men more time to reach the defenses.
To the elves' credit, they responded quite quickly, firing several perfect arrows into the small gaps, quickly silencing the soldiers inside. Those tiny holes would have been next to impossible for any human to find, but we weren’t fighting humans, we were fighting elves.
I dragged my attention away from the archers and their superior eyesight, as the first of the elven foot soldiers scramble over the wall and quickly began cutting through my men. I ran forward and drove my sword toward the first elf I saw. He turned quickly and withdrew his sword from the body of a fallen soldier, I launched a vicious overhead strike at the elf, he deflected my strike and followed up with a quick offensive of his own.
I stepped back, eyeing his elven blade warily, his sword followed a traditional elven design. Their blades were very light and sharp allowing them to move quickly and unencumbered by their blades. Their blades were slightly curved making lunging stabs difficult but allowed them to swing much more effectively. But I had the longer reach with my sword.
I would have to hold him at bay with my longer weapon. I slashed at him, forcing him to jump back, and as he did that I followed my original attack with a lunge, taking him in the gut he looked up at me with shocked eyes, as if to say, “It can’t be me.” I stepped back allowing him to fall to the ground in a pile.
I sprinted down the line shouting to my men.
A soldier ran up to me, bleeding from a cut on his head he shouted, “Sir the elves have overwhelmed the northern fortifications.”
I grunted in acknowledgment before saying, “Gather your remaining men and make a stand soldier.”
The soldier nodded, grinned, then bellowed, “COME ON BOYS YOU HEARD THE MAN, LETS SHOW THESE POINTY EARS A REAL FIGHT!”
This was followed by a roar from several nearby soldiers who followed him into a charge against a group of uncertain-looking elves, quickly pushing them back.
I shook my head saying, “That wasn’t what I had in mind.”
As I continued to fight, more and more of my remaining men began to gather around me. Me and two other soldiers were fighting against a small squad of elves until the elves began to retreat for some unknown reason. We watched in confusion until a soldier screamed.
“THEY HAVE MAGES!”
I immediately looked out and saw five robbed elves chanting incantations. I ripped a crossbow from one of my men running past, he looked at me in confusion before moving alongside me. I saw the insignia of a sergeant on his uniform.
“What’s happening sir,” he inquired.
“Mages,” I said before standing up and depressing the trigger on the crossbow. The bolt streaked away in a blur of motion, a second before one of the mage's heads snapped backward at an impossible angle, with the bolt embedded in his forehead. My sergeant whistled, impressed before cursing and throwing himself to the ground as the mages turned toward us and unleashed a massive fireball directly at me.
I had a moment to duck before everything turned into ash, dust, and dirt. I flew through the air and landed hard on the ground. I laid there for far longer than I should have, heaving in deep breaths of air each of which hurt more than the last.
I stood up brushing dust and blood from my mouth.
My sergeant stood up as well coughing, he grimaced holding his side in pain, “Well sir, that was quite the event.”
I looked around and saw that we were losing, losing badly, they outnumbered us at least three to one, and they also had the surprise advantage. I was beginning to move towards the small tower at the back of the camp, - which stored the messenger pigeons - when I saw a fireball smash into the corner of the second floor of the barracks. This set my heart on fire as I ran with the sergeant, wiping tears from my eyes as I ran the rest of the way to the tower.
A single guard stood in front of the tower, trembling at the terrible, desperate battle being waged along the wall. He stiffened momentarily as we sprinted up, then relaxed when he saw it was me.
“GUARD THIS DOOR WITH YOUR LIFE,” I bellowed at him, before running full tilt into the tower.
The guard saluted me and joined the sergeant barring the door.
I ran around searching, before finding the fastest messenger pigeon there. I wrote a frantic note about the battle and tied the message to the pigeon before throwing it out the window, its frantic flapping and taking it towards the nearest city.
I almost laughed watching it flap its wings as it flew free into the wind. My brother loved birds. He would have loved to see the speed on this one, but I knew my brother wouldn’t be seeing anything, anymore. He had loved the view from his window so much, the nice one on the second-floor corner of the barracks.