We are delighted to announce that the Longshot editors have selected Aholaah Arzah, author of Ring Cycle, to receive our $2000 feature fee. As Mat put it, when the three of us read this story together in a Gakwer conference room last weekend, we let out a collective gasp. We love the multi-layered interpretation of “debt” and admire the beautiful use of language. Congratulations, Aholaah!
Since you all may be curious to know a little bit more about Aholaah, here’s a short Q&A…[SPOILER ALERT! If you don’t want us to ruin the ending, go read the story first.]
LS: Tell us a little about yourself…where do you live? What do you do for a living?
AA: I live as nearly surrounded by water as possible without actually being on an island…Port Townsend is located at the tip of the Quimper Peninsula in the Puget Sound; a beautiful small town with a vibrant arts community…I work with individuals with special needs as an independent living aid.
LS: How long have you been writing?
AA: I have written intermittently along with making visual art and raising children for many years. I recently completed my MFA in Creative Writing and am focused on writing.
LS: Where have you been published before?
AA: Over the years, I have been published in a number of small literary magazines: Seattle Voice, Poets West, Brussels Sprout, Clay Drum, Chrysanthemum, among others…recently; the Pitkin Review, elimae and upcoming in Short, Fast and Deadly.
LS: It appears your primary writing vein is poetry. What prompted you to write a piece like this one?
AA: My “poetry” of the last two years has been “hybrid” or prose-like and most recently I been writing more intentionally in a prose form although I rarely feel a need to distinguish between these forms.
LS: How did you hear about Longshot?
AA: A fellow Goddardite (graduate of Goddard College) posted a link on facebook.
LS: What was your process for writing the piece? Did the theme trigger the idea or did you already want to write about it and the theme fit?
AA: The theme triggered a recognition…I had had the idea to write something about the irony of the ring and my relationship with my father and it personified a particular kind of “debt” that was the only debt I really wanted to write about at the moment…
LS: When did you begin writing the piece?
AA: Sometime during the morning before the deadline…
LS: Will you show this story to anyone else in your family?
LS: Other than your own, what’s your favorite story in the Debt issue of the magazine?
AA: I haven’t had the chance to read everything yet but “Appraisal” struck a chord…home “ownership” is an interesting delusion…
LS: Did you really pawn the ring? If so did you ever get it back?
AA: Yes, I really pawned the ring and no, I never wanted to see it again.
LS: And finally, are you going to use this money to pay off any debts?
AA: Oh, yeah…
The downside of getting so many great submissions is that it means we don’t get to publish a lot of great work. So before we went to press this time, we decided that we wanted to publish everything everyone submitted. That’s right, everything.
Longshot is an exercise in creativity. It’s an experiment defined by two constraints: a limited time period, and a theme. We want to get people excited about being creative. We want to give you an excuse to write that story, take that photo, paint that portrait that you’ve been meaning to do for so long. Get it out. Jam.
And we don’t just want to encourage that spirit on the weekend. And we very much want to encourage you to do something with your work. We want people to see it.
Last time, we promised that if you posted your work online, we’d link to it from our blog. That seemed to work out well, but not everybody was able to post their stuff online, and it still left quite a bit of awesome work hiding in the darkness of our submission engine, Submishmash, never to be seen again.
So we came up with a new plan. We’re going to put all of the 672 submissions we received online. Every. Single. One.
Internally, we’ve been calling this Longshot Raw. And we’re super-excited to have a way to let everyone’s work hit daylight. Well. That is, unless you don’t want us to.
On our submission page for Longshot this time, we noted that “[w]e will make everything submitted available online after the 48 hour period is over.” But after we re-announced that on yesterday’s blog post, we’ve gotten a few emails from people who don’t want their stuff published, and essentially saying, “cut it out.”
Okay! No problem!
In all sincerity, we thought our intentions were clear from the get go. But we also know that it’s easy to skim over a form, or to not quite get what we meant.
So, to be clear, here’s the plan. We’re going to bundle all the submissions together in an archive file, and release that via a torrent file. But because we know that some of you don’t want your submissions included, we’re going to give you a week to remove them before we do that.
If you don’t want us to include your work in the Longshot Raw file, it’s easy to remove your submission. Here’s how to do it.
1. Log into Submishmash again. (Submishmash remembers your password even if you don’t. They can email it to you if you’ve forgotten.)
2. Go to your My Submissions page.
3. Click on the “withdraw” link next to your work.
That’s it! Done!
If you pull your submissions, we won’t include them in the torrent. Otherwise, we look forward to seeing you next week in Longshot Raw.
Forty-eight hours ago we gave you guys an assignment, twenty-four hours ago you turned in your stories, and today we made a magazine. Despite the fact that we’ve only spent a collective 6 days streamlining this process, it seems to get easier every time. That’s thanks in large part to the amazing turnout of NYC’s media mavens — but even more thanks to all of you. Though it seemed nearly impossible to choose from all the excellent submissions, we’ve assembled a pretty kick-ass issue.
Whether or not your work made it into the edited magazine, we’ll be making every submission available online in torrent form.
But for now, congratulations and thank you to our wonderful contributors! Here’s our Issue Two Table of Contents:
by Chris Baker
Cash on Delivery
by Tim Maly and Emily Horne
by Tony Hightower
by Haugen Mendeola
by Karen Unland
El Cobrador del Frac
by Kati Krause
Items in My Mother’s Basement That She Believes She Is Saving For Family Members
by Dan Kois
by Harper Honan
by Erin Griffith
One Thing Leads to Another
by Mary Wiltenburg
There’s a Lot of Waiting, at the End
by S.E. Smith
by Philip Bump
by Adam Rothstein
Circles of Influence
by Michelle Legro & Maria Popova
Illustrations by Wendy MacNaughton
by Martin Connelly
Coming Clean on Dirty Laundry
by Rachel Swaby & Tim Leong
by Kristen Taylor
The Price of Life
by Timothy Lesle
A Letter to My Student Loan
by Buck Weiss
I Owe ___ for ____
by Craig Damrauer
Sex and Balances
by Lucas Foglia
by Paul Ford
Water to Dust
by Heather Hansman
by David Wolman
by Pat Walters
What Was Left Behind
by McNair Evans
by Steve Silberman
Diamonds Aren’t Forever
by Jonathan Snyder & Angela Watercutter
For Richer or Poorer
by Jonathan Snyder & Angela Watercutter
Money in the Tank
by Patrick Di Justo
Home Away from Home
by Lex Kumar
by Aholaah Arzah
by Michael Barthel
by Joanna Pearlstein
Once Found, Now Lost
by Chris Smith
Smoke on Vine
by David Harris
Alan Greenspan Fanfic
by Rob Dubbin
Special Report: Into the Debtpocalypse
by Aaron Britt, Drew Himmelstein, Michelle Legro, Anne-Louise Brittain
Art and Photos by:
McNair Evans, M. Scott Brauer, Jon Snyder, Mark Giglio, Susie Cagle, Wendy MacNaughton, Simon Lutrin, and Patrick Hruby
Letters to the Editor
First off, everyone is doing an amazing job editing, fact-checking, designing, and moving stories along. We’re well ahead of last year’s pace, so keep doing what you’re doing. The fact that we can see anything remotely resembling a finish line, at this point, is a testament to your awesomeness.
Of course, our plan for this issue is more ambitious than anything we’ve ever done, so pace yourself, drink plenty of fluids (scotch, water, whatever), and (above all) make sure you’re communicating when you’re moving something along.
To that end, if you’ve been assigned a story to edit in 01, please do that before anything else. And please make sure you’re editing the story in Google Docs, not SubMishMash. When you’re done with that, email Erin Biba to let her know and she’ll move the file to 02. Please let me know if you don’t see the story in Google Docs, and I’ll investigate.
Choire and Joel are heroically pushing all stories from 02 to 03, once the first edit is done. And once the story is in 03, it gets fact-checked and moved to 04. It’d be great if we could get most or all of the fact-checking done tonight, perhaps by 11:30. That way, the art department and web teams can start flowing in copy into their respective designs. (Mind you, this copy will also be copy-edited/spot-checked once more in proof, so remember this 04 copy is not final, but it’s damn close.)
If you have any questions at all on anything ever, please don’t hesitate to ask. You guys are an unprecedented cast of rock stars, and this is going to be beyond anything we’ve ever put out, so thank you for all you’ve done so far and let’s get this fucker done.
We shall not be offended.
Call this number: 718 (bk baby!) 635.0222. Complete this analogy. Call in and tell us “Life in [[MY TOWN - tell us your town]] is like taking out a loan because…” Just do it - 718.635.0222
- You. For your hardwork on all these submissions. They’ve been great. Keep them coming!
- Gawker. For letting us Most especially Joel Johnson for setting it up, and Nick Denton for letting him set it up.
- Dustin Grella. For this amazing launch animation.
- Our editors here in New York. For your talent, dedication, and enthusiasm. It astounds us.
We know you’re getting tired. So are we. But we promise: you can finish! Let us know if you have any questions. In the meantime, we’ll be here quietly reading.
1) No minimum age!
2) You can submit more than one piece — and to any category.
Arikia Millikan and Nick Jackson collected up some of the best submissions coming in for our Longshot Challenge, “I owe _____ for _____.” You can submit your own on this form or via the sorta wonky embed below.
I owe $10 for a haircut tip that I promised to pay after I got cash from the ATM and never did.
I owe the Victorian Police in Australia $6,000 of $13,000 for parking fines my best friend at the time racked up since I’ve been out of the country for the last four years. Still paying monthly, but I’ve lost contact with her.
I owe that homeless man on the train for saying to me, when I got laid off from my job, “It’ll be OK, darlin’. Pretty girls don’t starve.”
I owe that girl on the cruise a dance for turning her down when I was 11.
I owe my mother for not leaving me like she left her first son.
I owe Bill Clinton for teaching me to love Fleetwood Mac.
I owe Clarissa for explaining it all.
I owe my boyfriend for all the oral sex… Thanks!
I owe Europe for my sexual awakening.
I owe North America for my stay in Guantanamo.
So, this time around, we didn’t just give you a theme (DEBT) but also five challenges. We did this for a couple of reasons. First, we wanted there to be easier ways to contribute to the magazine. We kept hearing from people that they really wanted to do something but they
were hungover had too much work or forgot until the last minute were stuck at a cousin’s wedding. So, the challenges provide a few quick ways to have the Longshot experience.
But we also have an ulterior motive. By directing a lot of people to do the same thing, we may be able to create a bit more structure and coherence for our magazine.
Now, here are the challenges with a few more thoughts about each one.
1) Answer this question: I owe __ for ____.
This is simple. We’re going to take your submissions and create a visualization for the website and use some of them in some way in the print magazine. We’ve already received responses from the hilarious (“I owe Bill Clinton for teaching me to love Fleetwood Mac.”) to the heartbreaking (“I owe my mother for not leaving me like she left her first son.”) We owe Craig Damrauer for this excellent idea.
2) Tell us how much personal debt you have and when you think you’ll pay it off via this form. (Don’t worry, it’s anonymous and we’re not capturing any personally identifiable data.)
This one’s pretty self-explanatory. You enter a number and we’ll do something with those numbers.
3) Take a portrait of the person you owe the most. Write a 100 character caption explaining. Submit it here.
I’m really hoping we get the kinds of awesome portraits that Pictory seems to bring in so easily.
This is probably the most confusing, but what we’re hoping for here are illustrations in the vein of Christoph Niemann or Wendy MacNaughton. Can you draw your own personal geography of debt?
In the past, we’ve been very mildly disappointed that more people didn’t seize the opportunity to go out into the world, do something, and come back to tell us about it. So, this is our attempt to nudge you in that direction.
Feel free to hit us with any question you might have. We’re obviously monitoring @LongshotMag but you can also get in touch with me, @alexismadrigal, or on email at alexis.madrigal[at]gmail.com.
The moment has arrived. Here’s how this works: Starting right now, you have 24 hours to produce and submit your work. We’ll take the next 24 to select, edit, design and lay everything out. The end result will be a beautiful glossy paper magazine. And a super sharp digital edition.
And this issue’s theme is:
Debt is the condition of owing. It can be bad; ask anyone with too much credit card debt. But it can be good, too, like when Public Enemy sampled Isaac Hayes on “Black Steel in the Hour of Chaos” or when you got your mother’s curly hair. It’s the other side of credit.
There are financial debts and genetic debts, carbon debt and sleep debt. Accountants know a lot about debt and so do therapists. Etymology is a story of debt as is oncology. Metaphorically speaking, debt is a dirty, liquidy mess. It can get over our heads. We can drown or sink in it, though sometimes we’re only swimming in it. We become mired in it. And when we get rid of it, we wipe the slate clean.
Yes, we know Washington politicians are also staying up all weekend, debating this figment of the Congressional imagination called the debt ceiling. Forget about that. Or co-opt it. The theme is bigger than their squabble and more interesting than their rhetoric.
We want stories that show us new ways of looking at debt, of owing, and being owed, of paying back and paying off, of being a borrower or lender. Whenever you’re done with your submission, http://longshot.submishmash.com/Submit send us your work here).
Remember: **The deadline is 3pm Eastern/12 noon Pacific on Saturday, July 30**.
As always, we hope you’ll submit excellent journalism and essays and art about the theme. But we’ve also heard that some people want more direction. So, this issue, we’ve got five challenges to help you explore the theme. You can consider them an inspiration springboard for your own original work, or you can participate through the challenges alone.
They are, in order of difficulty:
1) Answer this question: I owe _____ for _____.
2) Tell us how much personal debt you have and when you think you’ll pay it off via this form. (Don’t worry, it’s anonymous and we’re not capturing any personally identifiable data.)
3) Take a portrait of the person you owe the most. Write a 100 character caption explaining. Submit it here.
One more thing. We have a couple of debts ourselves. First, we want to thank Gawker Media for hosting us at their beautiful Manhattan digs. Second, animator Dustin Grella created the awesome video you see at the top of this post in about 20 hours. Follow him on Twitter and Tumblr.
Now get going!
Here’s how you can help Longshot Radio explore this year’s theme of “Debt.” There are several ways to participate, or email firstname.lastname@example.org with your own ideas.
+ I Live In New York
Visit the Longshot Story Booth at McNally Jackson Books. Like Storycorps on speed. Starting on Friday afternoon at 5, Lonsgshot Radio will have a pop-up recording booth inside the McNally Jackson bookstore, just around the corner from Longshot HQ at Gawker Media. Swing by to join the conversation. We’ll be asking you to talk about your debt, who you owe, and what it means to give back. Plus we’re giving folks a chance to interview each other - so bring a friend! McNally Jackson is open til 10 on Friday, and from 10-10 on Saturday. We may also be there from 10-12 on Sunday. Keep your eye on the Longshot twitter feed for updates.
+ I Live Elsewhere (or also in New York)
Be a Longshot Radio Field Collaborator - here’s what producer Alex Goldmark has in mind. Go into your neighborhood and start a conversation with this:
There’s a game called, “Love is like a puddle.” We’re making it in audio for a magazine this weekend.
Here’s how it works. I say, “Love is like a puddle, you never know how deep it is from looking at the surface” … then you could say, “Love is like a puddle, if you dive in head first, you’ll break your neck.” … It’s easy. I promise. No wrong answers. So, here’s one…
- “Debt is like a highway because … “
- “Credit cards are like a first date because … “
- “Life in [YOUR TOWN] is like visiting the bank a because … “
- “Paying my bills is like going back to high school because … “
NOTE: Don’t forget to get their (and your) name and city so we can give them credit in the magazine.
Once we get your responses, Alex is going to string them together into montages. Trust us, this’ll sound cool.
+ I Only Have Five Minutes and A Smart Phone
You can still be a part of Longshot Radio. If you’re working on a print piece and don’t want to spend too much time on audio; or you just don’t have much time at all, just take out your phone and record a 1min piece of tape. Tell us, or ask someone:
- Who do you owe the most?
- How are you paying the world back?
- What does the world owe you?
- Or anything else.
+ How Else Can I Help?
Drop us an email and we’ll put you to work. We need folks to transcribe tape, cut together simple pieces, and lots more.
+ Where’s The Audio, How Do I Upload?
Until the website goes live, Soundcloud will be the home for Longshot Radio. We’ll be posting raw audio to our account, and you’ll be able to upload directly to our page using the dropbox or the Soundcloud mobile app. You can always email us audio too at email@example.com.
+ Anything Else?
This is our first experiment in doing this, so we’re keeping the production level pretty simple. We also like natural-sounding radio, so a few things to help us as we start to edit:
- Give us live tape. We won’t be able to mix too many effects together, so in order to create the sound of you walking into a room, record as you walk into a room
- Get plenty of natural sound. Streets, parks, rooms, give us ambient noise to work with
- Overrecord, but try to get good stretches that don’t require too much internal editing
- Get tape that gives us a sense of place
- Take photos!
We love long-form reporting. We love big, meaty stories that we can tear our teeth into and savor for hours or days afterwards. That’s why we’re offering a $2,000 bounty for our favorite feature in the next issue of Longshot.
Thanks to a successful Kickstarter campaign, we’re going to be able to pay our best rates yet to everyone we publish. But we want to do more than that. We want to run a kick-ass, long-form cover story, and we want to motivate the author who rises to the challenge.
Write the feature story that we select as the cover piece, and we’ll send you an extra $2000 on top of the contributor’s share. That’s rent money.
We also reserve the right not to pay this out at all, to simply put it back in the kitty and divvy it up among everyone.
But we’re confident. We know you’re going to do great work. You just have to hustle.
We’ve been adding Satellite offices and wanted to bump this post up so you could check out the cities for one in your area.
What’s a Satellite office? Simple. It’s just a place where people can get together, hang out, and work on submissions. If you set one up, let us know at firstname.lastname@example.org. Thanks!
We’re publishing our next issue in New York City. But what if you’re in Seattle, or Atlanta, or Wichita, or Copenhagen, or Lagos, or Bangkok?
One of our favorite things about Longshot is that it’s an exercise in creative collaboration. And one great way to do that if you aren’t going to be in New York is to work out of a satellite office with others. Last time we had remote offices in Portland, Oregon and San Francisco where people worked together on their submissions, and even helped us out in the edit process. They were, by all the accounts we heard, fun.
The best way to do this is to self organize.
If you’d like to set up a Satellite office, leave us a note in the comments, or email email@example.com. We’ll update this post with cities and contact information. (Which can be whatever you’d like, email address, twitter handle, facebook profile or facemail address, phone number — however you’d like to let others who may be interested know how to reach you.)
Also, if you have a venue in a city that you’d like to offer up as a satellite office, please do let us know that as well. For example, last time pariSoma, a coworking space in San Francisco, hosted a satellite office for us. But it can really be any venue — a café or an office that’s emptied out for the weekend, a bar, or even someone’s home.
Once you’re set up, let us know (^^^ via that email address ^^^) and we’ll promote it and coordinate with you that weekend.
This is gonna be fun. Let’s do it.
Baltimore / DC
Etienne Girardet: @etiennepacifico
(Has a space in mind)
Alex (see comments below) firstname.lastname@example.org
Brittany Shoot: http://brittanyshoot.com/contact
(Has a space in mind)
London / Amersham
Nick Colledge: @nick_colledge
Jeremy Antley email@example.com or @jobermallow
Robert Farrington: @Bobby_Ocean
(Has leads on office space, but not firm)
Seven days remain until the kickoff of our next issue. There are many reasons to get excited. This time around our digital team will be experimenting with all sorts of interactive features, we have a new audio crew coming in to invent Longshot Radio (sweet!), the magazine’s art direction will be spearheaded by the awesome ETC…and that’s only the stuff we know about. We’re still waiting to see what you’ll throw into the mix.
We want to thank all of you who have pitched in to our Kickstarter fund. We are beyond thrilled that we’ll be able to pay our contributors for their work. If you still want to support Longshot #2, the campaign runs for two more days. All the money we raise goes to our contributors and staff, and you get your pick of some great rewards. (Including original art by Wendy MacNaughton!)
So start your pre-season training. One week from today, we’ll announce the theme from our pop-up HQ at the Gawker offices in NYC. We’ll also send out details on how to submit your work, and some extra fodder for your creative fire. Between now and then, keep an eye on our Twitter feed and our moodbook for theme-related clues and inspiration.
If you want to join a Longshot satellite office, there’s a growing list here. If you want to establish your own or ask us a question, email editors[at]longshotmag[dot]com. And sign up for our mailing list to get a direct email about the theme.
Let the countdown begin!
She asked herself as she walked along, “What am I going to say? How shall I begin?” And as she went on she recognised the thickets, the trees, the sea-rushes on the hill, the chateau yonder. All the sensations of her first tenderness came back to her, and her poor aching heart opened out amorously. A warm wind blew in her face; the melting snow fell drop by drop from the buds to the grass.
She entered, as she used to, through the small park-gate. She reached the avenue bordered by a double row of dense lime-trees. They were swaying their long whispering branches to and fro. The dogs in their kennels all barked, and the noise of their voices resounded, but brought out no one.
She went up the large straight staircase with wooden balusters that led to the corridor paved with dusty flags, into which several doors in a row opened, as in a monastery or an inn. His was at the top, right at the end, on the left. When she placed her fingers on the lock her strength suddenly deserted her. She was afraid, almost wished he would not be there, though this was her only hope, her last chance of salvation. She collected her thoughts for one moment, and, strengthening herself by the feeling of present necessity, went in.
He was in front of the fire, both his feet on the mantelpiece, smoking a pipe.
“What! it is you!” he said, getting up hurriedly.
“Yes, it is I, Rodolphe. I should like to ask your advice.”
And, despite all her efforts, it was impossible for her to open her lips.
“You have not changed; you are charming as ever!”
“Oh,” she replied bitterly, “they are poor charms since you disdained them.”
Then he began a long explanation of his conduct, excusing himself in vague terms, in default of being able to invent better.
She yielded to his words, still more to his voice and the sight of him, so that, she pretended to believe, or perhaps believed; in the pretext he gave for their rupture; this was a secret on which depended the honour, the very life of a third person.
“No matter!” she said, looking at him sadly. “I have suffered much.”
He replied philosophically—
“Such is life!”
“Has life,” Emma went on, “been good to you at least, since our separation?”
“Oh, neither good nor bad.”
“Perhaps it would have been better never to have parted.”
“You think so?” she said, drawing nearer, and she sighed. “Oh, Rodolphe! if you but knew! I loved you so!”
It was then that she took his hand, and they remained some time, their fingers intertwined, like that first day at the Show. With a gesture of pride he struggled against this emotion. But sinking upon his breast she said to him—
“How did you think I could live without you? One cannot lose the habit of happiness. I was desolate. I thought I should die. I will tell you about all that and you will see. And you—you fled from me!”
For, all the three years, he had carefully avoided her in consequence of that natural cowardice that characterises the stronger sex. Emma went on, with dainty little nods, more coaxing than an amorous kitten—
“You love others, confess it! Oh, I understand them, dear! I excuse them. You probably seduced them as you seduced me. You are indeed a man; you have everything to make one love you. But we’ll begin again, won’t we? We will love one another. See! I am laughing; I am happy! Oh, speak!”
And she was charming to see, with her eyes, in which trembled a tear, like the rain of a storm in a blue corolla.
He had drawn her upon his knees, and with the back of his hand was caressing her smooth hair, where in the twilight was mirrored like a golden arrow one last ray of the sun. She bent down her brow; at last he kissed her on the eyelids quite gently with the tips of his lips.
“Why, you have been crying! What for?”
She burst into tears. Rodolphe thought this was an outburst of her love. As she did not speak, he took this silence for a last remnant of resistance, and then he cried out—
“Oh, forgive me! You are the only one who pleases me. I was imbecile and cruel. I love you. I will love you always. What is it. Tell me!” He was kneeling by her.
“Well, I am ruined, Rodolphe! You must lend me three thousand francs.”
“But—but—” said he, getting up slowly, while his face assumed a grave expression.
“You know,” she went on quickly, “that my husband had placed his whole fortune at a notary’s. He ran away. So we borrowed; the patients don’t pay us. Moreover, the settling of the estate is not yet done; we shall have the money later on. But to-day, for want of three thousand francs, we are to be sold up. It is to be at once, this very moment, and, counting upon your friendship, I have come to you.”
“Ah!” thought Rodolphe, turning very pale, “that was what she came for.” At last he said with a calm air—
“Dear madame, I have not got them.”
He did not lie. If he had had them, he would, no doubt, have given them, although it is generally disagreeable to do such fine things: a demand for money being, of all the winds that blow upon love, the coldest and most destructive.
First she looked at him for some moments.
“You have not got them!” she repeated several times. “You have not got them! I ought to have spared myself this last shame. You never loved me. You are no better than the others.”
She was betraying, ruining herself.
Rodolphe interrupted her, declaring he was “hard up” himself.
“Ah! I pity you,” said Emma. “Yes—very much.”
And fixing her eyes upon an embossed carabine, that shone against its panoply, “But when one is so poor one doesn’t have silver on the butt of one’s gun. One doesn’t buy a clock inlaid with tortoise shell,” she went on, pointing to a buhl timepiece, “nor silver-gilt whistles for one’s whips,” and she touched them, “nor charms for one’s watch. Oh, he wants for nothing! even to a liqueur-stand in his room! For you love yourself; you live well. You have a chateau, farms, woods; you go hunting; you travel to Paris. Why, if it were but that,” she cried, taking up two studs from the mantelpiece, “but the least of these trifles, one can get money for them. Oh, I do not want them, keep them!”
And she threw the two links away from her, their gold chain breaking as it struck against the wall.
“But I! I would have given you everything. I would have sold all, worked for you with my hands, I would have begged on the highroads for a smile, for a look, to hear you say ‘Thanks!’ And you sit there quietly in your arm-chair, as if you had not made me suffer enough already! But for you, and you know it, I might have lived happily. What made you do it? Was it a bet? Yet you loved me—you said so. And but a moment since—Ah! it would have been better to have driven me away. My hands are hot with your kisses, and there is the spot on the carpet where at my knees you swore an eternity of love! You made me believe you; for two years you held me in the most magnificent, the sweetest dream! Eh! Our plans for the journey, do you remember? Oh, your letter! your letter! it tore my heart! And then when I come back to him—to him, rich, happy, free—to implore the help the first stranger would give, a suppliant, and bringing back to him all my tenderness, he repulses me because it would cost him three thousand francs!”
“I haven’t got them,” replied Rodolphe, with that perfect calm with which resigned rage covers itself as with a shield.
She went out. The walls trembled, the ceiling was crushing her, and she passed back through the long alley, stumbling against the heaps of dead leaves scattered by the wind. At last she reached the ha-ha hedge in front of the gate; she broke her nails against the lock in her haste to open it. Then a hundred steps farther on, breathless, almost falling, she stopped. And now turning round, she once more saw the impassive chateau, with the park, the gardens, the three courts, and all the windows of the facade.
She remained lost in stupor, and having no more consciousness of herself than through the beating of her arteries, that she seemed to hear bursting forth like a deafening music filling all the fields. The earth beneath her feet was more yielding than the sea, and the furrows seemed to her immense brown waves breaking into foam. Everything in her head, of memories, ideas, went off at once like a thousand pieces of fireworks. She saw her father, Lheureux’s closet, their room at home, another landscape. Madness was coming upon her; she grew afraid, and managed to recover herself, in a confused way, it is true, for she did not in the least remember the cause of the terrible condition she was in, that is to say, the question of money. She suffered only in her love, and felt her soul passing from her in this memory; as wounded men, dying, feel their life ebb from their bleeding wounds.
Night was falling, crows were flying about.
Suddenly it seemed to her that fiery spheres were exploding in the air like fulminating balls when they strike, and were whirling, whirling, to melt at last upon the snow between the branches of the trees. In the midst of each of them appeared the face of Rodolphe. They multiplied and drew near her, penetrating, her. It all disappeared; she recognised the lights of the houses that shone through the fog.
Now her situation, like an abyss, rose up before her. She was panting as if her heart would burst. Then in an ecstasy of heroism, that made her almost joyous, she ran down the hill, crossed the cow-plank, the foot-path, the alley, the market, and reached the chemist’s shop. She was about to enter, but at the sound of the bell someone might come, and slipping in by the gate, holding her breath, feeling her way along the walls, she went as far as the door of the kitchen, where a candle stuck on the stove was burning. Justin in his shirt-sleeves was carrying out a dish.
“Ah! they are dining; I will wait.”
He returned; she tapped at the window. He went out.
“The key! the one for upstairs where he keeps the—”
And he looked at her, astonished at the pallor of her face, that stood out white against the black background of the night. She seemed to him extraordinarily beautiful and majestic as a phantom. Without understanding what she wanted, he had the presentiment of something terrible.
But she went on quickly in a love voice; in a sweet, melting voice, “I want it; give it to me.”
As the partition wall was thin, they could hear the clatter of the forks on the plates in the dining-room.
She pretended that she wanted to kill the rats that kept her from sleeping.
“I must tell master.”
“No, stay!” Then with an indifferent air, “Oh, it’s not worth while; I’ll tell him presently. Come, light me upstairs.”
She entered the corridor into which the laboratory door opened. Against the wall was a key labelled Capharnaum.
“Justin!” called the druggist impatiently.
“Let us go up.”
And he followed her. The key turned in the lock, and she went straight to the third shelf, so well did her memory guide her, seized the blue jar, tore out the cork, plunged in her hand, and withdrawing it full of a white powder, she began eating it.
“Stop!” he cried, rushing at her.
“Hush! someone will come.”
He was in despair, was calling out.
“Say nothing, or all the blame will fall on your master.”
Then she went home, suddenly calmed, and with something of the serenity of one that had performed a duty.
When Charles, distracted by the news of the distraint, returned home, Emma had just gone out. He cried aloud, wept, fainted, but she did not return. Where could she be? He sent Felicite to Homais, to Monsieur Tuvache, to Lheureux, to the “Lion d’Or,” everywhere, and in the intervals of his agony he saw his reputation destroyed, their fortune lost, Berthe’s future ruined. By what?—Not a word! He waited till six in the evening. At last, unable to bear it any longer, and fancying she had gone to Rouen, he set out along the highroad, walked a mile, met no one, again waited, and returned home. She had come back.
“What was the matter? Why? Explain to me.”
She sat down at her writing-table and wrote a letter, which she sealed slowly, adding the date and the hour. Then she said in a solemn tone:
“You are to read it to-morrow; till then, I pray you, do not ask me a single question. No, not one!”
“Oh, leave me!”
She lay down full length on her bed. A bitter taste that she felt in her mouth awakened her. She saw Charles, and again closed her eyes.
She was studying herself curiously, to see if she were not suffering. But no! nothing as yet. She heard the ticking of the clock, the crackling of the fire, and Charles breathing as he stood upright by her bed.
“Ah! it is but a little thing, death!” she thought. “I shall fall asleep and all will be over.”
She drank a mouthful of water and turned to the wall. The frightful taste of ink continued.
“I am thirsty; oh! so thirsty,” she sighed.
“What is it?” said Charles, who was handing her a glass.
“It is nothing! Open the window; I am choking.”
She was seized with a sickness so sudden that she had hardly time to draw out her handkerchief from under the pillow.
“Take it away,” she said quickly; “throw it away.”
He spoke to her; she did not answer. She lay motionless, afraid that the slightest movement might make her vomit. But she felt an icy cold creeping from her feet to her heart.
“Ah! it is beginning,” she murmured.
“What did you say?”
She turned her head from side to side with a gentle movement full of agony, while constantly opening her mouth as if something very heavy were weighing upon her tongue. At eight o’clock the vomiting began again.
Charles noticed that at the bottom of the basin there was a sort of white sediment sticking to the sides of the porcelain.
“This is extraordinary—very singular,” he repeated.
But she said in a firm voice, “No, you are mistaken.”
Then gently, and almost as caressing her, he passed his hand over her stomach. She uttered a sharp cry. He fell back terror-stricken.
Then she began to groan, faintly at first. Her shoulders were shaken by a strong shuddering, and she was growing paler than the sheets in which her clenched fingers buried themselves. Her unequal pulse was now almost imperceptible.
Drops of sweat oozed from her bluish face, that seemed as if rigid in the exhalations of a metallic vapour. Her teeth chattered, her dilated eyes looked vaguely about her, and to all questions she replied only with a shake of the head; she even smiled once or twice. Gradually, her moaning grew louder; a hollow shriek burst from her; she pretended she was better and that she would get up presently. But she was seized with convulsions and cried out—
“Ah! my God! It is horrible!”
He threw himself on his knees by her bed.
“Tell me! what have you eaten? Answer, for heaven’s sake!”
And he looked at her with a tenderness in his eyes such as she had never seen.
“Well, there—there!” she said in a faint voice. He flew to the writing-table, tore open the seal, and read aloud: “Accuse no one.” He stopped, passed his hands across his eyes, and read it over again.
He could only keep repeating the word: “Poisoned! poisoned!” Felicite ran to Homais, who proclaimed it in the market-place; Madame Lefrancois heard it at the “Lion d’Or”; some got up to go and tell their neighbours, and all night the village was on the alert.
Distraught, faltering, reeling, Charles wandered about the room. He knocked against the furniture, tore his hair, and the chemist had never believed that there could be so terrible a sight.
He went home to write to Monsieur Canivet and to Doctor Lariviere. He lost his head, and made more than fifteen rough copies. Hippolyte went to Neufchatel, and Justin so spurred Bovary’s horse that he left it foundered and three parts dead by the hill at Bois-Guillaume.
Charles tried to look up his medical dictionary, but could not read it; the lines were dancing.
“Be calm,” said the druggist; “we have only to administer a powerful antidote. What is the poison?”
Charles showed him the letter. It was arsenic.
“Very well,” said Homais, “we must make an analysis.”
For he knew that in cases of poisoning an analysis must be made; and the other, who did not understand, answered—
“Oh, do anything! save her!”
Then going back to her, he sank upon the carpet, and lay there with his head leaning against the edge of her bed, sobbing.
“Don’t cry,” she said to him. “Soon I shall not trouble you any more.”
“Why was it? Who drove you to it?”
She replied. “It had to be, my dear!”
“Weren’t you happy? Is it my fault? I did all I could!”
“Yes, that is true—you are good—you.”
And she passed her hand slowly over his hair. The sweetness of this sensation deepened his sadness; he felt his whole being dissolving in despair at the thought that he must lose her, just when she was confessing more love for him than ever. And he could think of nothing; he did not know, he did not dare; the urgent need for some immediate resolution gave the finishing stroke to the turmoil of his mind.
So she had done, she thought, with all the treachery; and meanness, and numberless desires that had tortured her. She hated no one now; a twilight dimness was settling upon her thoughts, and, of all earthly noises, Emma heard none but the intermittent lamentations of this poor heart, sweet and indistinct like the echo of a symphony dying away.
“Bring me the child,” she said, raising herself on her elbow.
“You are not worse, are you?” asked Charles.
The child, serious, and still half-asleep, was carried in on the servant’s arm in her long white nightgown, from which her bare feet peeped out. She looked wonderingly at the disordered room, and half-closed her eyes, dazzled by the candles burning on the table. They reminded her, no doubt, of the morning of New Year’s day and Mid-Lent, when thus awakened early by candle-light she came to her mother’s bed to fetch her presents, for she began saying—
“But where is it, mamma?” And as everybody was silent, “But I can’t see my little stocking.”
Felicite held her over the bed while she still kept looking towards the mantelpiece.
“Has nurse taken it?” she asked.
And at this name, that carried her back to the memory of her adulteries and her calamities, Madame Bovary turned away her head, as at the loathing of another bitterer poison that rose to her mouth. But Berthe remained perched on the bed.
“Oh, how big your eyes are, mamma! How pale you are! how hot you are!”
Her mother looked at her. “I am frightened!” cried the child, recoiling.
Emma took her hand to kiss it; the child struggled.
“That will do. Take her away,” cried Charles, who was sobbing in the alcove.
Then the symptoms ceased for a moment; she seemed less agitated; and at every insignificant word, at every respiration a little more easy, he regained hope. At last, when Canivet came in, he threw himself into his arms.
“Ah! it is you. Thanks! You are good! But she is better. See! look at her.”
His colleague was by no means of this opinion, and, as he said of himself, “never beating about the bush,” he prescribed, an emetic in order to empty the stomach completely.
She soon began vomiting blood. Her lips became drawn. Her limbs were convulsed, her whole body covered with brown spots, and her pulse slipped beneath the fingers like a stretched thread, like a harp-string nearly breaking.
After this she began to scream horribly. She cursed the poison, railed at it, and implored it to be quick, and thrust away with her stiffened arms everything that Charles, in more agony than herself, tried to make her drink. He stood up, his handkerchief to his lips, with a rattling sound in his throat, weeping, and choked by sobs that shook his whole body. Felicite was running hither and thither in the room. Homais, motionless, uttered great sighs; and Monsieur Canivet, always retaining his self-command, nevertheless began to feel uneasy.
“The devil! yet she has been purged, and from the moment that the cause ceases—”
“The effect must cease,” said Homais, “that is evident.”
“Oh, save her!” cried Bovary.
And, without listening to the chemist, who was still venturing the hypothesis, “It is perhaps a salutary paroxysm,” Canivet was about to administer some theriac, when they heard the cracking of a whip; all the windows rattled, and a post-chaise drawn by three horses abreast, up to their ears in mud, drove at a gallop round the corner of the market. It was Doctor Lariviere.
The apparition of a god would not have caused more commotion. Bovary raised his hands; Canivet stopped short; and Homais pulled off his skull-cap long before the doctor had come in.
He belonged to that great school of surgery begotten of Bichat, to that generation, now extinct, of philosophical practitioners, who, loving their art with a fanatical love, exercised it with enthusiasm and wisdom. Everyone in his hospital trembled when he was angry; and his students so revered him that they tried, as soon as they were themselves in practice, to imitate him as much as possible. So that in all the towns about they were found wearing his long wadded merino overcoat and black frock-coat, whose buttoned cuffs slightly covered his brawny hands—very beautiful hands, and that never knew gloves, as though to be more ready to plunge into suffering. Disdainful of honours, of titles, and of academies, like one of the old Knight-Hospitallers, generous, fatherly to the poor, and practising virtue without believing in it, he would almost have passed for a saint if the keenness of his intellect had not caused him to be feared as a demon. His glance, more penetrating than his bistouries, looked straight into your soul, and dissected every lie athwart all assertions and all reticences. And thus he went along, full of that debonair majesty that is given by the consciousness of great talent, of fortune, and of forty years of a labourious and irreproachable life.
He frowned as soon as he had passed the door when he saw the cadaverous face of Emma stretched out on her back with her mouth open. Then, while apparently listening to Canivet, he rubbed his fingers up and down beneath his nostrils, and repeated—
But he made a slow gesture with his shoulders. Bovary watched him; they looked at one another; and this man, accustomed as he was to the sight of pain, could not keep back a tear that fell on his shirt-frill.
He tried to take Canivet into the next room. Charles followed him.
“She is very ill, isn’t she? If we put on sinapisms? Anything! Oh, think of something, you who have saved so many!”
Charles caught him in both his arms, and gazed at him wildly, imploringly, half-fainting against his breast.
“Come, my poor fellow, courage! There is nothing more to be done.”
And Doctor Lariviere turned away.
“You are going?”
“I will come back.”
He went out only to give an order to the coachman, with Monsieur Canivet, who did not care either to have Emma die under his hands.
The chemist rejoined them on the Place. He could not by temperament keep away from celebrities, so he begged Monsieur Lariviere to do him the signal honour of accepting some breakfast.
He sent quickly to the “Lion d’Or” for some pigeons; to the butcher’s for all the cutlets that were to be had; to Tuvache for cream; and to Lestiboudois for eggs; and the druggist himself aided in the preparations, while Madame Homais was saying as she pulled together the strings of her jacket—
“You must excuse us, sir, for in this poor place, when one hasn’t been told the night before—”
“Wine glasses!” whispered Homais.
“If only we were in town, we could fall back upon stuffed trotters.”
“Be quiet! Sit down, doctor!”
He thought fit, after the first few mouthfuls, to give some details as to the catastrophe.
“We first had a feeling of siccity in the pharynx, then intolerable pains at the epigastrium, super purgation, coma.”
“But how did she poison herself?”
“I don’t know, doctor, and I don’t even know where she can have procured the arsenious acid.”
Justin, who was just bringing in a pile of plates, began to tremble.
“What’s the matter?” said the chemist.
At this question the young man dropped the whole lot on the ground with a crash.
“Imbecile!” cried Homais, “awkward lout! block-head! confounded ass!”
But suddenly controlling himself—
“I wished, doctor, to make an analysis, and primo I delicately introduced a tube—”
“You would have done better,” said the physician, “to introduce your fingers into her throat.”
His colleague was silent, having just before privately received a severe lecture about his emetic, so that this good Canivet, so arrogant and so verbose at the time of the clubfoot, was to-day very modest. He smiled without ceasing in an approving manner.
Homais dilated in Amphytrionic pride, and the affecting thought of Bovary vaguely contributed to his pleasure by a kind of egotistic reflex upon himself. Then the presence of the doctor transported him. He displayed his erudition, cited pell-mell cantharides, upas, the manchineel, vipers.
“I have even read that various persons have found themselves under toxicological symptoms, and, as it were, thunderstricken by black-pudding that had been subjected to a too vehement fumigation. At least, this was stated in a very fine report drawn up by one of our pharmaceutical chiefs, one of our masters, the illustrious Cadet de Gassicourt!”
Madame Homais reappeared, carrying one of those shaky machines that are heated with spirits of wine; for Homais liked to make his coffee at table, having, moreover, torrefied it, pulverised it, and mixed it himself.
“Saccharum, doctor?” said he, offering the sugar.
Then he had all his children brought down, anxious to have the physician’s opinion on their constitutions.
At last Monsieur Lariviere was about to leave, when Madame Homais asked for a consultation about her husband. He was making his blood too thick by going to sleep every evening after dinner.
“Oh, it isn’t his blood that’s too thick,” said the physician.
And, smiling a little at his unnoticed joke, the doctor opened the door. But the chemist’s shop was full of people; he had the greatest difficulty in getting rid of Monsieur Tuvache, who feared his spouse would get inflammation of the lungs, because she was in the habit of spitting on the ashes; then of Monsieur Binet, who sometimes experienced sudden attacks of great hunger; and of Madame Caron, who suffered from tinglings; of Lheureux, who had vertigo; of Lestiboudois, who had rheumatism; and of Madame Lefrancois, who had heartburn. At last the three horses started; and it was the general opinion that he had not shown himself at all obliging.
Public attention was distracted by the appearance of Monsieur Bournisien, who was going across the market with the holy oil.
Homais, as was due to his principles, compared priests to ravens attracted by the odour of death. The sight of an ecclesiastic was personally disagreeable to him, for the cassock made him think of the shroud, and he detested the one from some fear of the other.
Nevertheless, not shrinking from what he called his mission, he returned to Bovary’s in company with Canivet whom Monsieur Lariviere, before leaving, had strongly urged to make this visit; and he would, but for his wife’s objections, have taken his two sons with him, in order to accustom them to great occasions; that this might be a lesson, an example, a solemn picture, that should remain in their heads later on.
The room when they went in was full of mournful solemnity. On the work-table, covered over with a white cloth, there were five or six small balls of cotton in a silver dish, near a large crucifix between two lighted candles.
Emma, her chin sunken upon her breast, had her eyes inordinately wide open, and her poor hands wandered over the sheets with that hideous and soft movement of the dying, that seems as if they wanted already to cover themselves with the shroud. Pale as a statue and with eyes red as fire, Charles, not weeping, stood opposite her at the foot of the bed, while the priest, bending one knee, was muttering words in a low voice.
She turned her face slowly, and seemed filled with joy on seeing suddenly the violet stole, no doubt finding again, in the midst of a temporary lull in her pain, the lost voluptuousness of her first mystical transports, with the visions of eternal beatitude that were beginning.
The priest rose to take the crucifix; then she stretched forward her neck as one who is athirst, and glueing her lips to the body of the Man-God, she pressed upon it with all her expiring strength the fullest kiss of love that she had ever given. Then he recited the Misereatur and the Indulgentiam, dipped his right thumb in the oil, and began to give extreme unction. First upon the eyes, that had so coveted all worldly pomp; then upon the nostrils, that had been greedy of the warm breeze and amorous odours; then upon the mouth, that had uttered lies, that had curled with pride and cried out in lewdness; then upon the hands that had delighted in sensual touches; and finally upon the soles of the feet, so swift of yore, when she was running to satisfy her desires, and that would now walk no more.
The cure wiped his fingers, threw the bit of cotton dipped in oil into the fire, and came and sat down by the dying woman, to tell her that she must now blend her sufferings with those of Jesus Christ and abandon herself to the divine mercy.
Finishing his exhortations, he tried to place in her hand a blessed candle, symbol of the celestial glory with which she was soon to be surrounded. Emma, too weak, could not close her fingers, and the taper, but for Monsieur Bournisien would have fallen to the ground.
However, she was not quite so pale, and her face had an expression of serenity as if the sacrament had cured her.
The priest did not fail to point this out; he even explained to Bovary that the Lord sometimes prolonged the life of persons when he thought it meet for their salvation; and Charles remembered the day when, so near death, she had received the communion. Perhaps there was no need to despair, he thought.
In fact, she looked around her slowly, as one awakening from a dream; then in a distinct voice she asked for her looking-glass, and remained some time bending over it, until the big tears fell from her eyes. Then she turned away her head with a sigh and fell back upon the pillows.
Her chest soon began panting rapidly; the whole of her tongue protruded from her mouth; her eyes, as they rolled, grew paler, like the two globes of a lamp that is going out, so that one might have thought her already dead but for the fearful labouring of her ribs, shaken by violent breathing, as if the soul were struggling to free itself. Felicite knelt down before the crucifix, and the druggist himself slightly bent his knees, while Monsieur Canivet looked out vaguely at the Place. Bournisien had again begun to pray, his face bowed against the edge of the bed, his long black cassock trailing behind him in the room. Charles was on the other side, on his knees, his arms outstretched towards Emma. He had taken her hands and pressed them, shuddering at every beat of her heart, as at the shaking of a falling ruin. As the death-rattle became stronger the priest prayed faster; his prayers mingled with the stifled sobs of Bovary, and sometimes all seemed lost in the muffled murmur of the Latin syllables that tolled like a passing bell.
Suddenly on the pavement was heard a loud noise of clogs and the clattering of a stick; and a voice rose—a raucous voice—that sang—
“Maids in the warmth of a summer day Dream of love and of love always”
Emma raised herself like a galvanised corpse, her hair undone, her eyes fixed, staring.
“Where the sickle blades have been, Nannette, gathering ears of corn, Passes bending down, my queen, To the earth where they were born.”
“The blind man!” she cried. And Emma began to laugh, an atrocious, frantic, despairing laugh, thinking she saw the hideous face of the poor wretch that stood out against the eternal night like a menace.
“The wind is strong this summer day, Her petticoat has flown away.”
She fell back upon the mattress in a convulsion. They all drew near. She was dead.
HROTHGAR spake, the Scyldings’-helmet: —
“For fight defensive, Friend my Beowulf,
to succor and save, thou hast sought us here.
Thy father’s combat a feud enkindled
when Heatholaf with hand he slew
among the Wylfings; his Weder kin
for horror of fighting feared to hold him.
Fleeing, he sought our South-Dane folk,
over surge of ocean the Honor-Scyldings,
when first I was ruling the folk of Danes,
wielded, youthful, this widespread realm,
this hoard-hold of heroes. Heorogar was dead,
my elder brother, had breathed his last,
Healfdene’s bairn: he was better than I!
Straightway the feud with fee I settled,
to the Wylfings sent, o’er watery ridges,
treasures olden: oaths he swore me.
Sore is my soul to say to any
of the race of man what ruth for me
in Heorot Grendel with hate hath wrought,
what sudden harryings. Hall-folk fail me,
my warriors wane; for Wyrd hath swept them
into Grendel’s grasp. But God is able
this deadly foe from his deeds to turn!
Boasted full oft, as my beer they drank,
earls o’er the ale-cup, armed men,
that they would bide in the beer-hall here,
Grendel’s attack with terror of blades.
Then was this mead-house at morning tide
dyed with gore, when the daylight broke,
all the boards of the benches blood-besprinkled,
gory the hall: I had heroes the less,
doughty dear-ones that death had reft.
— But sit to the banquet, unbind thy words,
hardy hero, as heart shall prompt thee.”
Gathered together, the Geatish men
in the banquet-hall on bench assigned,
sturdy-spirited, sat them down,
hardy-hearted. A henchman attended,
carried the carven cup in hand,
served the clear mead. Oft minstrels sang
blithe in Heorot. Heroes revelled,
no dearth of warriors, Weder and Dane.