Ian Skidmore lambasts the criticd A A Gill.
]]> For many happy years I lived in Wales, the land of Ap and Apt. Ap, like Mac, means “son of” and predates surnames. Apt as a description, as in my half Indian neighbour who was known as “Glyndustani”. A.A. Gill, the TV critic, employs a similar well worn device in his column. Thus Claire Balding, who makes no secret of her sexual preferences, he memorably christened the “Dyke on a Bike”. Unfortunately she rose to the bait and he achieved more of the publicity which he craves. It is a craving that created his career. Many years ago when he was a run of the mill feature writer he was sent on a tour of Welsh restaurants. I was a restaurant critic myself and know from wide experience that there are more good restaurants in North Wales than bad ones. Gill tirelessly sought out the bad ones and wrote about them disapprovingly.Alas, the Welsh have a Celtic chip on their shoulders and they still have not forgiven us for Edward I, even though the 15,000 strong army which he used to subjugate North Wales was largely made up of South Walians. To them, A.A.Gill was Edward I reincarnate and they responded with a torrent of abuse, widely recorded by the Welsh press. They could not have done Gill a greater service. For a writer to be controversial ensures a career boost. His editor on the Sunday Times appointed him food critic and at every opportunity he reviled the Welsh to goad them into further publicity barrages. In that way did Wales make a bright star of what, in talent, was a mere glow worm. Any writer will tell you that insults are much easier to write than peons of praise. So when the Times also appointed him as its TV columnist the result was predictable. His general views of TV were sound but his comments on presenters and programmes verged on libel. That meant in turn that the programmes he chose were hardly ever mainstream and his taunts were usually about presenters.
His latest has brought him just the response he loves. Mary Beard is a professor of Classics at Cambridge University. She is a joy to read and she has done more than most to open the classical world to the modern reader. Unfortunately she has chosen to look like a Tracey Emin’s unmade bed. She scorns the comb and loathes make up. Personally I disapprove of people who appear on television unkempt and unappetising. However, Professor Beard has chosen to look at ordinary Romans rather than their rulers and the result is fascinating.
By the time the second programme was aired I was so gripped by her forensic examination of Downstairs Rome I could only envy the undergraduates who are fortunate enough to be taught by her. Gill, typically, ignored the programme and went for the presenter. “For someone who looks this closely at the past,” he wrote, “it is strange she hasn’t had a closer look at herself before stepping in front of a camera. Beard coos over corpses’ teeth without apparently noticing she is wearing them. “From behind she is 16; from the front, 60. The hair is a disaster, the outfit an embarrassment.” The Professor responded: “That was a shock at the time. But get real, I find myself thinking on reflection, it’s both sexist and beside the point. “Sure, I don’t wear make-up. I have nothing against those who do if it gives them pleasure, but actually I feel happy enough in my own skin not to feel I want to bother with it. I don’t dye my hair for the same reason. To the charge of having big, tombstone teeth, I plead guilty. I inherited them from my mum, just as I did her uncompromising double chin. I’m every inch the 57-year-old wife, mum and academic, half-proud of her wrinkles, her crow’s feet, even her hunched shoulders from all those misspent years poring over a library desk. I could even try a Socratic point here. Like the great Greek philosopher, I look a mess. But actually, if you took the trouble to listen to him, he had something valuable to impart.”
Oh that the same were true of A.A. Gill who is not above criticism. Although the rule is that no non-military gentleman wears the kilt south of the River Tay, he chooses to wander round the metropolis, a kilted dwarf, a sort of effete Rob Roy.
]]>Emma Cookson continues her dramatically gripping tale set in a 19th Century Yorkshire mill town.
]]> The following week, something turned up, as Robert had told Cosmo it would. But from a most surprising quarter: his brother, Harry Simms. Robert visited Musgrave Hall by invitation and in response to a note that offered “an honourable conclusion to your situation and the impending visit of Mr Gabriel Tyler”.Robert was shown into the study. His brother was standing behind the desk. He did not offer to shake hands but he did indicate a chair which Robert thought it churlish to refuse.
They both sat, the desk between them.
“Your note was unexpected.”
“Of course.” His brother smiled smugly. “I like to do the unexpected.”
Already, Robert could feel his hackles rising. He controlled himself. He hadn’t been invited for nothing.
“Look. My presence here is as uncomfortable for me as it is for you. Shall we cut to the chase? I take it you have a proposition?”
“I do. And pardon my smile for I believe it to be an excellent proposition. It concerns Mr Tyler, a gentleman from the Carolinas whom I believe you know.” He didn’t wait for confirmation or denial, but continued. “Your friend Pinkerton has no doubt told you of his imminent arrival in Helston. Originally, Tyler’s plan was to meet Pinkerton and then seek you out. Now he will also meet with me.”
His smile got wider.
“We’ve been in correspondence and Tyler told me of his dealings with a man he knew as Rowntree. You’ve been a very naughty boy, Robert. A hundred and twenty thousand pounds? Is that the price you set on honour?”
“You wouldn’t know about honour.”
“Hear me out. You might change your mind.”
Robert shrugged. “Go on,” he said.
“Tyler’s visit puts you in a dilemma. Stay and be arrested, leave and be damned. Either way, you’ll have caused a lot of distress in this valley. The promises you made, the friends you bought. When Tyler and that other chap’s family in Manchester - Bunsen? What a common name - demand restitution, your name is going to be dung. Why, even those honest folk, the Pallisters, could be accused of collusion in the dissemination of the proceeds of fraud.”
“You well know they’re innocent of any wrong-doing.”
“Of course, they are. But will Tyler see it that way? Or will he want his pound of flesh? I get the impression his inclination will be for the latter.”
Harry was enjoying himself. Robert said, “What’s your proposition?”
“There is a way out of your predicament that will bring satisfaction to all involved. Well, it will partly satisfy Tyler, greatly satisfy me and it may even satisfy your honour.”
“I’m still listening but getting impatient.”
“Ah, now patience is a virtue. Believe me, I know. But you’re right, as always. Let’s get down to it. How would you like your business enterprises to continue as they are, untouched by Tyler, and the rights of your workers safeguarded?”
Robert couldn’t hide his surprise and then a reality dawned. Harry wanted a bribe. He would probably want a large part of £120,000.
“You want me to pay you?” he said.
“No. I intend to pay you.”
Robert couldn’t understand Harry’s logic.
His brother laughed, and said, “Let me explain. I buy your mills and undertake to run them in the same way, with the same people. The Pallisters will keep what they’ve got.” He shrugged. “Small change, nice people. You will reimburse Tyler and the Bunsen family with whatever moneys you have left, and I do trust there is a fair percentage? You will also surrender yourself to Tyler and return with him to America to answer for your fraud.”
Robert was nonplussed. He talked to cover his confusion.
“How could I trust you to run my mills?”
“I’ve had a contract drawn up.” He held up a document. “It guarantees your reforms and work practices. Even your school.”
“How can you guarantee the Pallisters will be left alone?”
“I’ve already made these proposals to Tyler by letter. He’s a pragmatist. If he and the Bunsens agree, they’ll get back much more than if you were to run. They’ll also have the satisfaction of seeing you serve hard labour. There is also an extra element which, I feel, you’ll appreciate. You will not be arrested until you reach Liverpool, so that no one here need ever know.”
“What do you get out of it, Harry?”
“Your mills at a very reasonable price - and I really don't care how they’re run as long as they make a profit - your removal from England, and a percentage of whatever is recovered, to be paid to me by Tyler and the Bunsens. A sort of finder’s fee.” He smiled. “I shall also derive great satisfaction from the thought of you serving hard labour.”
Robert snorted. The proposition was pure hell and Harry. He wondered if his brother had ever considered selling his soul to the devil. Perhaps he was still negotiating a price.
“And my incentive?” he asked.
“Honour.”
He said it with relish. As a reason to be hooked, it was compelling. Robert would leave with his reputation and good works intact and the Pallisters with a future. America was a land of opportunity and prisons were not escape proof. At the least, he’d have his passage back there paid. But could he trust Harry?
“How do I know that bargains will be kept?”
“You have my word.” Harry smiled because he knew that would not be enough. “And legal contracts. I’ve had agreements prepared. The way it would work is this. I shall meet Tyler and Bunsen junior and explain the benefits of the arrangements. They will sign the agreements in the presence of a discreet notary public. I shall bring the documents to you and then, and only then, you will surrender yourself. As the arrangement depends on the goodwill of both parties, there’ll be no need for immediate arrest. That can wait until Liverpool. If you were to cut and run between here and there, all agreements would become null and void.”
Robert felt as if the last stitch had just been sewn in his shroud.
“You’re a bastard, Harry.”
Harry laughed.
“No, no, dear brother. Have you forgotten? You’re the bastard. Nicely packaged and ready to return to the new world.”
**
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]]>Jack Merewood visits Yellowstone Park.
]]> The end of June saw us heading north into Wyoming, our destination Yellowstone Park. After Cheyenne, on our route were only two towns of any note, Rawlins and Lander. We decided to stay the first night in Rawlins. It isn't a big town, and the few motels there were full. It was a long way to Lander but perhaps we'd find somewhere to stay before we got there.We were unlucky. We drove miles on an ordinary road in the pitch dark, and saw no other signs of life except the rabbits which kept running across the road. It was a weird and eerie feeling, made even more so by the fact that great balls of tumbleweed constantly blew across the road out of the darkness. Then suddenly a building loomed up, it was a filling station with a small store beside it, but everything was closed, not a soul in sight. We decided to stop there and sleep in the car. It was an uncomfortable night and a little scary, but with daylight someone came and opened up and we were able to have some breakfast.
When I came to Yellowstone with Jessie and Dean eight years before we had gone into the park by the east entrance, and only had the chance to stay a few hours. Now we were heading for the south entrance and intended to spend three days in the park. An old scout, Jim Bridger, had explored this rugged country in the early nineteenth century and brought back stories so fantastic that they were dismissed with a wink and a shake of the head. Bridger was a notorious spinner of yarns anyhow. Almost fifty years later, an official expedition set out to explore this area, and much of what the old frontiersman had claimed was proved to be true. In 1872 the area was declared a National Park, the first of many National Parks that were to follow.
Because of the wild nature of the country, and the extremely hard winters experienced there, at that time the park was open for less than three months a year, from mid-June to the beginning of September. Even in early July it could be temporarily closed because of falling snow. Later it was open for a time in the winter, and the only way to get around was by snowmobile. But now this activity has been stopped.
Perhaps the south entrance offers the most spectacular prelude to Yellowstone's attractions, for the road first skirts the mighty Teton Mountains. After crossing what seemed like the interminable prairies of Wyoming, with their herds of wild antelope, scattered ranches, and historic Indian battlegrounds, we were left breathless by the sight of these mountains rising abruptly from a valley of lakes and meadows, thrusting their jagged peaks over 13,000 feet into the sky.
A couple of miles short of the entrance we came to Flagg Ranch, a rustic-cabin-style motel, where we booked for three nights. Next day it was into the park to see the innumerable boiling springs and miniature mud volcanoes. In some places, such as the paint pots area, it is an unending source of amazement to see puffs of steam rising from holes and cracks in the ground underfoot. The paint pots themselves are huge beds of mud, usually pink or grey, bubbling and throwing their contents several feet in the air. We seemed to be walking in Dante's inferno.
Then there are the geysers, over 3000 of them, spreading throughout the park. In the Upper Geyser Basin area of two-and-a-quarter square miles there are no fewer than 26 erupting geysers and over 400 hot springs. Here we stood to watch Old Faithful, as I'd done before, still putting on a show every hour as it had been doing since it was first dis¬covered in 1870 - and how long before that is a matter for conjecture.
We wandered amidst furiously boiling pools of water and countless big and little geysers, in various stages of eruption. But there were other things to be seen. The beautiful coloured pools of clear hot water, Particularly the Morning Glory and the Emerald Pools. The Dragon's Mouth, a cave of boiling and muddy water enveloped in steam, which sends a strange feeling down the spine of the most sceptical viewer. Under the earth's crust must be a witch's boiling cauldron, and here all around are the ventilators.
We saw the Firehole River, then soon Yellowstone Lake, 20 miles across with a shore-line of 100 miles and Fishing Bridge a fisherman's paradise. But there is another sight that shows nature at her most majestic. This is the Yellowstone River forcing its way through the deep canyon of yellow rock from whence the area derives its name. In the canyon are the Upper and Lower Falls. Viewed from down river the Lower Falls in particular are a beautiful spectacle of power and colour. We climbed down the 300-odd steps to a small wooden platform at the very edge of the falls. Here we were deafened by the thunder of falling water, and the little platform permanently trembled. This waterfall is almost twice the height of Niagara, and the tremendous volume of water fills the canyon below with a perpetual cloud of spray.
The park abounds with wildlife, thousands of deer, elk, moose and bison, the big horn sheep live here and there are mountain lions, coyotes and wild cats in plenty. But of course the favourites of all were the bears. They were still there, and we had one particularly exciting encounter with one. In spite of the warning not to feed the bears we were foolish enough to do so, as were many others. As we came round a corner, a bear was standing with two cubs in the middle of the road on a slight hill. We had already fed bread to a few of the bears, but here was a chance to get a really good photo. I hadn't switched off the car engine, and I was holding it on the rise with one foot on the brake and the other on the clutch. We had a loaf of bread. Sheila got out of the car and went round the front, leaving the loaf on the passenger seat, I opened the window to give the bear a slice so Sheila could get a good photo. The bear lumbered up and suddenly its huge head filled the window. I started to give it the bread, but it had seen the whole loaf and was trying to push past me to get at it. I couldn't take my feet off the pedals and had to lean as far away from the bear as I could. I felt its hot breath as it stretched for the loaf. Its claws must have been six inches long, and it scratched my arm. I grabbed the loaf and pushed it out past the bear's head. That was all it wanted, so it forgot about me and went after the bread. Sheila came back to the car. 'Did you get a good picture?' I asked. No! - she hadn't taken a picture, she was terrified as she watched me and the bear performing our act. I had to admit that I really hadn't been too happy at the time, but the chance of an excellent picture had been lost.
We saw bears everywhere. Another time Sheila was walking along and a bear seemed to be taking rather too much interest in her. Then we saw a bear cub up in a tree and this was obviously its mother, so we quickly got out of its way. Another time when we stopped, we had three bears climbing over the bonnet of the car.
A feature of the American National Parks is the service provided by the Park Rangers. They are there, besides taking care of the parks, to be helpful and informative, and they do their job admirably. After a hectic day it was a pleasure to sit in the cool evening near a camp fire and listen to a Ranger's talk on any one of a dozen subjects concerning the park.
We had spent three days in the park staying at Flagg Ranch each night and then we were on our way, into Montana and Idaho, staying one night in the town of Pocatello before next day driving on to Salt Lake City.
His mark has been left
indelible
incredible
raging on
We hope for
one more
scrawled line
of infinite wisdom
Gingataos battle cry
shouted from the four corners...
Rage on!
Rage on!
Rage on!
Rage on!
2 glasses left on the table, kind sir
Salute
Up early to write down my last two days’ observations. Dr. Clerke came to me to tell me that he heard this morning, by some Dutch that are come on board already to see the ship, that there was a Portuguese taken yesterday at the Hague, that had a design to kill the King. But this I heard afterwards was only the mistake upon one being observed to walk with his sword naked, he having lost his scabbard. Before dinner Mr. Edw. Pickering and I W. Howe, Pim, and my boy, to Scheveling, where we took coach, and so to the Hague, where walking, intending to find one that might show us the King incognito, I met with Captain Whittington (that had formerly brought a letter to my Lord from the Mayor of London) and he did promise me to do it, but first we went and dined at a French house, but paid 16s. for our part of the club. At dinner in came Dr. Cade, a merry mad parson of the King’s. And they two after dinner got the child and me (the others not being able to crowd in) to see the King, who kissed the child very affectionately. Then we kissed his, and the Duke of York’s, and the Princess Royal’s hands. The King seems to be a very sober man; and a very splendid Court he hath in the number of persons of quality that are about him, English very rich in habit. From the King to the Lord Chancellor, who did lie bed-rid of the gout: he spoke very merrily to the child and me. After that, going to see the Queen of Bohemia, I met with Dr. Fullers whom I sent to a tavern with Mr. Edw. Pickering, while I and the rest went to see the Queen, who used us very respectfully; her hand we all kissed. She seems a very debonaire, but plain lady. After that to the Dr.’s, where we drank a while or so. In a coach of a friend’s of Dr. Cade we went to see a house of the Princess Dowager’s in a park about half-a-mile or a mile from the Hague, where there is one, the most beautiful room for pictures in the whole world. She had here one picture upon the top, with these words, dedicating it to the memory of her husband:—“Incomparabili marito, inconsolabilis vidua.” Here I met with Mr. Woodcock of Cambridge, Mr. Hardy and another, and Mr. Woodcock beginning we had two or three fine songs, he and I, and W. Howe to the Echo, which was very pleasant, and the more because in a heaven of pleasure and in a strange country, that I never was taken up more with a sense of pleasure in my life. After that we parted and back to the Hague and took a tour or two about the Forehault, where the ladies in the evening do as our ladies do in Hide Park. But for my life I could not find one handsome, but their coaches very rich and themselves so too. From thence, taking leave of the Doctor, we took wagon to Scheveling, where we had a fray with the Boatswain of the Richmond, who would not freely carry us on board, but at last he was willing to it, but then it was so late we durst not go. So we returned between 10 and 11 at night in the dark with a wagon with one horse to the Hague, where being come we went to bed as well as we could be accommodated, and so to sleep.
]]>When it comes to shopping columnist John Merchant prefers personal service.
]]> My first recollection of a supermarket is the ASDA store that opened in my home town of Sheffield, England in the early 1970’s. It was in a factory-like building with inadequate lighting and a total absence of anything that would have made the experience exciting, or even pleasing.The parking lot angled so steeply that you had to hang on the cart until you’d put the purchases in your car, and once released it would immediately roll to the lowest point and join all the other carts after it had bounced off a few cars and other shoppers. In the winter time the parking lot was always iced over, presenting a real challenge in getting to and from your car. The goods were displayed in the shipping boxes they came in, stacked on steel shelving.
But pleased people were, and excited; believing no doubt that they were getting real bargains. I don’t recall whether they were or not, but I suspect not.
For me, the whole concept of the supermarket of those days was offensive. Gone was the personal attention; the pleasure of watching the bacon being sliced just the way you wanted it, the convenience of being able to buy just as much or as little flour, sugar, cheese or any other loose commodity as you needed, and not what pre-packaging dictated.
Gone was the convenience of being able to purchase everything on your list without as much as leaving the counter; as was the luxury of having your purchases carried out to your car.
Supermarkets have of course come a long way since then, and in recent times the US stores are trying very hard to recreate the experience people of my generation miss so badly. They’re not doing it willingly, but simply in response to competition. All it takes is for one supermarket chain to be responsive to customer desires, and sooner or later all the rest climb aboard.
But there’s just so much they can do to make shoppers feel comfortable and satisfied in a 3 or 4 acre store, with sodium lights so bright you can see an ant at 20 feet, and air conditioning that leaves you with a headache and a streaming nose. Some chains are building even larger stores and have added such categories as clothing and furniture, camping gear, electronics and hardware.
But also there is a trend towards smaller operations with much more of the feel of an old time grocery and produce store. There are three main contenders, and whilst they would have you believe they are small and homey companies, their sales are in the billions of dollars annually.
Beginning in 1984, Whole Foods Market began its expansion out of Austin, Texas, first to Houston and Dallas, and then into New Orleans with the purchase of Whole Food Company in 1988. In 1989, they expanded to the West Coast with a store in Palo Alto, California. Much of the expansion since then has been by acquisition.
Whole Food Company opened its doors in New Orleans in October 1974, and by 1978, the store (only 1100 square feet) was doing more than $1 million per year. The company emphasizes natural foods and organically grown meat and produce, while at the same time offering customers non-organic choices at lower prices. The stores tend to be located in up-scale neighborhoods, and prices are higher than the average supermarket. A friend joked that when Whole Foods opened its store in Milford, Connecticut, she presented them with her pay check.
A competitor, The Fresh Market, Inc. founded in 1981 and headquartered in Greensboro, North Carolina, operates as a specialty grocery retailer. The company offers various perishable product categories, including meat, seafood, produce, deli, bakery, floral, sushi, prepared foods, and non-perishable product categories, such as traditional grocery and dairy products.
In general it appeals to middle and upper income shoppers with epicurean tastes. It also offers specialty foods, which include bulk coffee and candy, and beer and wine. As of March 20, 2012, it operated 115 stores.
"Trader Joe's" came on the scene in 1967, in Pasadena, California. They are not a “full service” operation and place emphasis on good quality packaged meat and produce. If you want regular cereals for example you won’t find them on their shelves, but you will find exotic meals in a box, special cheeses and breads. They also have a line of inexpensive, but palatable wines.
Supermarket News estimates that Trader Joe's total sales for 2009 were $8 billion, and has sales estimated to be $1,750 in merchandise sales per square foot annually, more than double the sales generated by Whole Foods Market.
So, are these new style stores likely to be the wave of the future? Unfortunately I doubt it. They are unable to compete with the established supermarkets for the staples, and the supermarkets are in a strong position to compete with them for a more discerning customer base. Their distribution systems are vast, and their management structures are tried and true, so like it or not, they’ll be around longer than me.
# # #
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On Tuesdays and Thursdays I do secretarial work and some writing at the South African Institute of Tribology. The orchestra is running smoothly both musically and financially, and a great committee is working hard to keep it all on track. Leon is well and busy, my adult children are happy, in fact, all is well in our world.
Inevitably, something had to happen to stir things up.
The first ripple on the surface of our pond, showed when Leon was offered a contract for about six months’ work in the Republic of Botswana at a small mining town about ten hours’ drive north-west from our home in Johannesburg. The offer is good in every way: work that Leon will enjoy, in a place he knows and likes and for excellent remuneration. We couldn’t refuse.
The big question is, “When?” We’ve known about it for six weeks and there is still no definite date. Before we can go, Leon’s employer has to organise a work permit and temporary residence permits for each of us. This process may take several weeks once application has been made, so I can safely speculate that our temporary move won’t be happening for at least two months.
Once the move is made, we will try to return home at least once a month for a long weekend, juggling these trips around my rehearsals for recitals and other appointments we have during the time we’re away. This ripple is threatening to become a tidal wave of travelling backwards and forwards but the whole experience will be exciting. It will be an opportunity to experience a new country, to get to know the town where my step-children were born, to meet new people and make friends. I’ll have time to practice my flute more than I do at present, hopefully improving my tone and technique and giving me time to learn new repertoire. There should also be more time for writing – maybe I’ll re-write my novel and submit it for publication. In fact, it will give me some very useful time out of my every-day routines.
The other approaching ‘tidal wave’ in our lives is the installation of our new kitchen; this should begin during the coming week and involves knocking out an archway in the middle of the kitchen; emptying existing cupboards, finding temporary storage for their contents; removing the cupboards, stove and sinks; moving the fridge, washing machine and dishwasher to temporary ‘homes’ where they will still be usable; removing wall tiles from the kitchen and all the floor tiles from the kitchen through to the main bedroom.
Once this swathe of destruction and temporary placement is complete, and I’m hoping it will be done within a week, re-tiling the kitchen walls and floors throughout the house can begin in addition to other work such as repositioning power points, repairing the ceiling where the archway is removed and installing new light fittings.
Only after all that work, and I’m hoping that three weeks will see it completed, can the beautiful new beech-wood kitchen cupboards, my lovely new stove and sinks be slotted into place and the fridge, washing machine and dishwasher returned to their allotted places. What a relief it will be when that stage is reached, when we can re-stock our new kitchen and clean the builders’ dust from every inch of the house.
If everything goes smoothly, we should get it all finished just in time for our temporary move to Botswana.
Contemplating all this upheaval leaves me breathless. Maybe it’s the reason I’ve had a cold plaguing my nose, throat and head for the last two weeks.
Now that we’re on the brink of diving into that tidal wave of upheaval, my cold is feeling better. Just imagine the exquisite new kitchen where we’ll enjoy preparing meals for our friends and family on a regular basis, while they sit at the breakfast bar, chatting to us; the joys of travelling through our beautiful country and discovering Botswana and all of its beauties; the delight of new friends and new experiences.
One day, late in 2012 or sometime in early 2013, Leon and I will arrive back in Johannesburg to enjoy our sparkling, renewed home, with a wealth of wonderful memories to treasure and enjoy as life quietens down once again to its usual busy tranquillity.
Until next time…. ‘here comes Treble!’
© Copyright Reserved by Isabel Bradley
Aristocratic connections went a long way in the Russian army staff. Tolstoy was
quickly caught up in the social whirl of Bucharest, attending dinners at the Prince's
house, games of cards and musical soirees in drawing rooms, evenings at the Italian
opera and French theatre - a world apart from the bloody battlefields of the Danubian
front just a few miles away. 'While you are imagining me exposed to all the dangers
of war, I have not yet smelt Turkish powder, but am very quietly at Bucharest, strolling
about, making music, and eating ice-creams,' he wrote to his aunt at the start of
May ...
[Year's later after Russia's defeat in the Crimean War] one of the voices calling
for reform belonged to Tolstoy, whose Sevastopol Sketches had catapulted him to
literary fame. Tolstoy's experience of the Crimean War shaped his ideas on life
and literature. He had witnessed at first hand the incompetence and corruption of
many officers, and their often brutal treatment of the ordinary soldiers and sailors,
whose courage and resilience had inspired him. It was in his diary of the campaign
that he first developed his ideas for radical reform and vowed to fight injustice
with his pen. On his way from Odessa to Sevastopol in November 1854, he was told
by the pilot his boat about the transport of the soldiers: 'how a soldier lay down
in the pouring rain on the wet bottom of the boat and fell asleep; how an officer
beat a soldier for scratching himself; and how a soldier shot himself during the
crossing for fear of having overstayed his leave by two days and how he was thrown
overboard without burial.' The contrast with the way he thought the ordinary soldier
was treated in the Western armies brought home the need for change. ...
Tolstoy's experience in the Crimean War had led him to question more than just
the military system. The poet Afanasy Fet, who first met Tolstoy in Turgenev's St.
Petersburg apartment in the winter of 1855, was struck by the young man's 'automatic
opposition to all generally accepted opinions'. Living side by side with the ordinary
soldiers in the Crimea had opened Tolstoy's eyes to the simple virtues of the peasantry;
it had set him on a restless search for a new truth, for a way to live morally as
a Russian nobleman and landowner, given the injustices of serfdom. He had touched
on these matters before A Landowner's Morning (1852), he wrote about a landowner
(for which read: Tolstoy) who seeks a life of happiness and justice in the country
and learns that it can only be found in constant labour for the good of others less
happy than himself. At around the same time, he had proposed to reduce the dues
of the serfs on his estate at Yasnaya Polyana, but the serfs were suspicious of
his intentions (they were not accustomed to such benevolence) and had turned his
offer down. But it was only in the Crimea that Tolstoy began to feel a close attachment
to the serfs in uniform - those 'simple and kind men, whose goodness is apparent
during a real war'. He was disgusted with his former life - the gambling, the whoring,
the excessive feasting and drinking, the embarrassment of riches, and the lack of
any real work or purpose in his life. And after the war, he threw himself into the
task of living with the peasants in 'a life of truth' with new determination.
Author: Orlando Figes
Publisher: Metropolitan
Date: Copyright 2010 by Orlando Figes
Pages: 165-167, 444-446
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Hariharan Balakrishnan's poem approaches the meaning of a mystery beyond resolution.
]]> A fistful of stars I held one nightThis is the land that I lived in, hills with green leas,
among islands interlaced with the deep seas,
I would live and die for my country of summer trees.
This is the land I have come from, with spice in the street,
and singing with drums where the rivers meet,
my pulse beats with them, and the rhythms sway
to a northern marsh where only the reed pipes play.
These are the great cities that gave the earth light,
These are the lands that are my birth-right,
This is my earth, and yours, it is rich it is dear.
What bomb may yet fall on you, the spreading death I fear.
]]>Paula Wilson outlines the life of the woman who played a key role in establishing Cradle Mountain in Tasmania as a national park.
]]> On day one of a holiday in Tasmania I came across a book called The Woman Behind the Man and the Mountain by Sally Schnackenberg. My kind of book, so I bought it, stowed it away at the bottom of my case where it stayed until I returned home. On the last day of my holiday I wandered through a pioneer cemetery in Don, one of the first headstones I came across was that of Kate Weindorfer, the woman behind the man and the mountain.The mountain – Cradle Mountain, one of Tasmania’s top tourist destinations.
The man – Gustav Weindorfer, the person who the history books say was instrumental in the preservation and transformation of the mountain into a National Park.
Kate, the fourth of Emma and Thomas Cowle’s nine children, was born in 1863 at Fingal, Tasmania. Early in the 1880’s the family moved to a farm near Devonport. When Thomas died his will left Kate financially independent. She took advantage of this and hopped on a boat headed for Melbourne in 1901.
Being a keen botanist, Kate joined the Naturalists Club of Victoria where she met Gustav Weindorfer. Originally from Austria he was considering returning home but abandoned these thoughts when he met Kate. Although she was eleven years older than him they fell in love. It was not a relationship all of her family approved of, but at 43 Kate was independent enough to follow her heart.
They returned to Tasmania and married in 1906. The couple then spent their five-week honeymoon camping on nearby Mount Roland where they collected and classified plant specimens. It was here they first saw Cradle Mountain.
Upon returning from their honeymoon they moved in with Kate’s brother and worked on his farm until they could purchase their own property. But the misty peaks of Cradle Mountain had snared their hearts.
The Weindorfers were not the first white people to discover the mountain. In the mid 1820’s explorer Joseph Fossey named it Cradle Mountain. The first to climb it was Henry Hellyer in 1831, soon others followed. But it was the Weindorfers who saw its beauty and potential.
Early in 1910 Kate and Gustav made their first excursion onto the mountain, and Kate became the first women to climb it. The idea for a national park was germinated and from then on they put all their energy into seeing that their dream would come to fruition.
They purchased land upon the mountain and built a chalet. This was to be their mountain home, and also a guesthouse. The chalet was constructed from King Billy pines, which were felled by hand. Other materials not found on the land, and furnishings they were unable to make were carried in through the wilderness.
The guesthouse was opened in 1912 and the Weindorfers started lobbying the government to declare the area a park and improve public access.
The chalet was named Waldheim, forest home. At first it was little more than a hut but soon extensions were begun to accommodate the ever-increasing numbers of visitors. When Kate was not escorting these visitors on bushwalking expeditions she was documenting the area’s plant species.
At first they moved between the farm and Waldheim spending time at both residences, but by 1914 Gustav spent more time alone on the mountain. Kate, who was struggling with illness, remained on the farm where she could be close to her doctors and family. Early in 1916 Kate became very ill, she died on 29 April aged 52. Her death certificate said the cause of death was chronic nephritis and uraemia, affecting the kidneys. Sally Schnackenberg points out in her book that a lump was found in Kate’s breast in 1915 so cancer was a possibility.
Gustav continued to live alone on the mountain until his death 16 years later. In 1922 their dream became reality when Cradle Mountain was proclaimed a scenic reserve.
Gustav was buried on Cradle Mountain. Until recent years his headstone did not even mention Kate’s existence, but bore testimony to his part in Cradle Mount becoming a National Park. Many kilometres away in Don Kate’s headstone bears the inscription “Beloved wife of Gustav Weindorfer”, no mention of the mountain.
Although Kate’s contribution to the Cradle Mountain story has been mostly neglected she was indeed pivotal to the whole story. To start with Gustav would have probably returned to Austria if Kate had not gone to Melbourne, and …
]]>Ronnie Bray, recently discharged from the Army, seeks to make a new start in life.
]]> In the Frying PanStone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage …
Of the above quote, some wag commented, “Maybe not, but they do make a very good substitute!”
On being discharged from the Royal Military Hospital at Netley, Hampshire, sometime in the autumn of 1961, I was discharged onto the doorstep, Southampton, where I had lived during my missionary service in 1956. I did not mind, for I had nowhere else to go. Esmé was missing and the children with her. It was to be forty-two years before I discovered where she had been and with whom, so that I could identify the nameless and faceless figure that haunted my nightmares, having stolen my children.
I found accommodation at the Church Army hostel in Southampton and set about looking for work. The Captain who was in charge of the facility was kindness itself, and we often talked about life and my prospects. The charge was minimal, the food was good, the place was clean, and the only fly in the ointment was the dry rot that was eating the walls and floors and coating everything with a dark red rusty dust.
During this time, the final payment from my army marriage allowance was made by money draft to Esmé was looking for a home. It had been returned from whatever address she had been receiving mail at, marked “Gone away. No Forwarding Address,” so it had been sent to me. I didn’t know where Esmé was and didn’t look like getting to know, so I took the draft to the Post Office in London Road and wrote her name on it, then, feeling very aggrieved at her, I used the money myself. I reasoned that most of it came from my Army pay with a small amount added, and that I was entitled to it. The law was to take a very different view of the matter.
About the same time, the Army gave me a Resettlement Grant of £200 0s 0d, that gave a much needed fillip to my personal finances.
After some weeks in the hostel, I moved in to a flat off Beavois Valley Road with Dave Butt. He had been living in a small cabin yacht in a boat yard some distance from the sea and just the other side of the railing where his lady friend lived with her husband.
Both of us felt that it was time to move, and we moved together into a one room flat. Dave’s housekeeping skills, or signal lack of them, and his husbandry of what Antoni van Leeuwenhoek described as “little animals” that inhabited Dave’s comestibles in the refrigerator that I shared with him, were a cause of discussion, especially after I threw his potential penicillin, peripatetic ptomaine, and blatant botulism into the dustbin. I had not realised that a man could become emotionally attached to ptomaine and all its amazing possibilities. It was time to move on.
**
To read earlier episodes of Ronnie's autobiography please click on http://www.openwriting.com/archives/a_shout_from_the_attic/
]]>Neither of us knew anything about Columbus, but Wesley had been to several Ohio State Fairs with his parents. He said he knew the layout. (Right! And I was intimately acquainted with the well-mapped surface of southwestern Pluto!).
The next thing I remember was phoning my Mom with a whopper-doo. I told her Wesley and his family were going down to the Fair and had asked me to go along. I added that I had eight dollars with me (true enough), and asked if I could PLEASE go with them for the day. She knew Wesley, and assumed the family of a "good kid" would be safe enough. She said yes. She added that I should "be careful," an admonishment that carried roughly the same weight as a parental caution against ever sneezing again in public.
We were set for the road. Wesley had slipped into his house, and had been able to add a grandiose fifteen dollars to the fund (we were both working regularly), and we wasted no time in lighting out for the highway. Old Route 42 was the logical starting point in those days, so that's where we headed. (Actually, come to think of it, old 42 was pretty much the only starting point!).
We got to the Fair in good shape (i.e. with all of our limited faculties, no apparent allergies, and no obvious rips in our clothes), and eventually had a wonderful day - a pair of 13-year-olds, who, like the fabled Whiffenpoofs, were "off on a spree" for an entire summer day. Getting a ride back to Mansfield that evening was no problem at all. There were literally dozens of cars headed that way around nine o'clock. I think we had lined up a ride back home within five minutes or so, and nothing would do but that the kindly couple deliver these two nice kids all the way to their respective front doors, once we'd arrived back in Mansfield town.
Ironically, the only eventful thing of the entire day occurred with our very first ride out of Mansfield on our way to the Fair. The first guy to stop for us was driving a very old truck. That was OK, but we learned within minutes that the geezer was drunk. At 10 a.m. yet! After rolling down that first hill with the right wheel in and out of the gravel, we told him to stop. He did. That was that, and the remainder of the day turned out just fine. I was dropped off at home before 11; and for the rest of my junior high days, Mom thought Mr. and Mrs. Beck were just the sort of dependable parents it was good for me to be around. I, of course, veritably gushed agreement, thereby keeping open the unlikely scenario that might find the two of us engaged in future hitchhiking, say, to Chattanooga or the Alamo. Or maybe heading for Guam and some crab-cakes!
But the two of us, Wesley and yours truly, learned a valuable lesson that day. In heading to an Ohio State Fair, never hitch a ride with a drunk driving an old truck downhill at 10 a.m. on a beautiful Tuesday morning on old Route 42.
I'm not sure about Wesley; but I, for one, never did again!
We lay till past three o’clock, then up and down the town, to see it by daylight, where we saw the soldiers of the Prince’s guard, all very fine, and the burghers of the town with their arms and muskets as bright as silver. And meeting this morning a schoolmaster that spoke good English and French, he went along with us and shewed us the whole town, and indeed I cannot speak enough of the gallantry of the town. Every body of fashion speaks French or Latin, or both. The women many of them very pretty and in good habits, fashionable and black spots. He went with me to buy a couple of baskets, one of them for Mrs. Pierce, the other for my wife. After he was gone, we having first drank with him at our lodging, the judge and I to the Grande Salle where we were shewed the place where the States General sit in council. The hall is a great place, where the flags that they take from their enemies are all hung up; and things to be sold, as in Westminster Hall, and not much unlike it, but that not so big, but much neater. After that to a bookseller’s and bought for the love of the binding three books: the French Psalms in four parts, Bacon’s Organon, and Farnab. Rhetor. After that the judge, I and my boy by coach to Scheveling again, where we went into a house of entertainment and drank there, the wind being very high, and we saw two boats overset and the gallants forced to be pulled on shore by the heels, while their trunks, portmanteaus, hats, and feathers, were swimming in the sea. Among others I saw the ministers that come along with the Commissioners (Mr. Case among the rest) sadly dipped.
So they came in where we were, and I being in haste left my Copenhagen knife, and so lost it. Having staid here a great while a gentleman that was going to kiss my Lord’s hand, from the Queen of Bohemia, and I hired a Dutch boat for four rixdollars to carry us on board. We were fain to wait a great while before we could get off from the shore, the sea being very rough. The Dutchman would fain have made all pay that came into our boat besides us two and our company, there being many of our ship’s company got in who were on shore, but some of them had no money, having spent all on shore. Coming on board we found all the Commissioners of the House of Lords at dinner with my Lord, who after dinner went away for shore. Mr. Morland, now Sir Samuel, was here on board, but I do not find that my Lord or any body did give him any respect, he being looked upon by him and all men as a knave. Among others he betrayed Sir Rich. Willis that married Dr. F. Jones’s daughter, that he had paid him 1000l. at one time by the Protector’s and Secretary Thurloe’s order, for intelligence that he sent concerning the King. In the afternoon my Lord called me on purpose to show me his fine cloathes which are now come hither, and indeed are very rich as gold and silver can make them, only his sword he and I do not like. In the afternoon my Lord and I walked together in the coach two hours, talking together upon all sorts of discourse: as religion, wherein he is, I perceive, wholly sceptical, as well as I, saying, that indeed the Protestants as to the Church of Rome are wholly fanatiques: he likes uniformity and form of prayer; about State-business, among other things he told me that his conversion to the King’s cause (for so I was saying that I wondered from what time the King could look upon him to become his friend), commenced from his being in the Sound, when he found what usage he was likely to have from a Commonwealth. My Lord, the Captain, and I supped in my Lord’s chamber, where I did perceive that he did begin to show me much more respect than ever he did yet. After supper, my Lord sent for me, intending to have me play at cards with him, but I not knowing cribbage, we fell into discourse of many things, till it was so rough sea and the ship rolled so much that I was not able to stand, and so he bid me go to bed.
**
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]]>From that day on I looked for the ‘cow’ cartoon’ which appeared now and then in The Hindu. …Only much later I learnt his name was not ‘cow’ but ‘LOW’- the world-renowned Sir David Low.”
This wonderful passage describes boy Laxman in that extremely readable autobiography of R K Laxman, The Tunnel of Time-Penguin (ISBN 0-14-027248-8), who himself went on to become a legend in his lifetime in India.
Seven years ago, ten days before the Republic Day honours list was announced, I spent one full hour with Laxman, the creator of the “Common Man” of India. I recorded that interview and have it even today in my computer. What struck me most about the man and his mental make-up was his essential simplicity, guileless candour and a puckish sense of humour.
Laxman’s flat in Mumbai is on the third floor of a side street off the Mahalaxmi Main Road. His bright-eyed granddaughter Mahalakshmi, the apple of his eye, flits in and flits out like a Thumbi - Tamil for dragonfly. She reminds one of Boy Laxman (described vividly as Thumbi in one of the short stories by his iconic brother R K Narayan). In more ways than one, Laxman himself symbolizes his matchless cartoon creation- the Common Man.
During our meeting, Laxman talked about a friend from Jaipur (Rajasthan). The friend told him that he read an article in Hindusthan Times which said Laxman was short-listed for the Padma Vibhushan (second highest civilian award), and felt disappointed since he thought he deserved the Bharat Ratna (highest civilian award in India), and nothing less. “I don’t know why they are making all the fuss” was the typical reaction of the man.
Past his 80th milestone in life when I met him, Laxman had interacted with, and drawn pictures of, many a celebrity. A no-nonsense man, he was never overawed by name or fame. During his trip to the UK in the 1960s, he managed to meet people like Bertrand Russell, Graham Greene, David Low, T S Elliott and Clement Attlee. He sketched each one of them with his inimitable flourish for the publishing house he served with loyalty for more than half a century. Then there was this meeting with Jawaharlal Nehru’s blue-eyed boy, V K Krishna Menon, who sent a shiver down many a spine in his heyday. But not young Laxman’s. Thereby hangs a tale.
As it happened, Laxman went to London’s India Club one day and was standing “at the outer rim of the crowd” when Krishna Menon was the centre of attraction- holding forth about his performance in the UN General Assembly. At that time, he was the roving ambassador of India. The Secretary of the club propelled Laxman to the epicentre so that he could be introduced to the cynosure. Around the same time, the centre of attraction suddenly shifted elsewhere- to a bundle of cartoons. Laxman had shoved that bundle behind a chair, since the Secretary apparently caught him unawares at the outer rim of the crowd. Someone picked out the colour caricature of “Roving Ambassador” Menon, carrying two suitcases with names of various capitals of the world. Finally, it reached Menon’s hands. He looked at it without a smile. The embarrassed cartoonist collected his wits and asked, “How about autographing it, sir? I shall treasure it.”
When Menon became pompous, refused to autograph “one’s own caricature” and offered to put his signature on a separate piece of paper, this Quintessential Common Man immediately replied, “No, thank you, Sir. The autograph has no value to me unless it is on the caricature I have made.” Of such stuff is made the creator of the “Common Man”.
Ever since I was old enough to read the newspaper in the late 1950s, I had a fascination for that silent character in a dhoti and striped coat. Fifty years hence, in February that year, I went to Pune to admit my daughter in the Symbiosis Institute. The moment I set foot on the campus, I almost did a standing high jump! Right in front of me, on a six-foot pedestal, was a life-size statue of the Common Man. This is the only one of its kind in the entire world, as founder-director Dr. S.B. Majumdar confirmed. I instinctively thought of meeting the creator of the Common Man, but was disappointed to learn that Laxman had gone to Mumbai.
Almost two years earlier, in my Bhubaneswar office, the receptionist passed on a call saying that someone from Mumbai wanted to speak to me. “Balakrishnan? I am Laxman”, said the voice. I wondered who it was and asked, “I am sorry, but who?” “I’m R.K. Laxman, calling from Mumbai.” On that one occasion I must have set a record for a sitting high jump. My own voice failed me. I had forgotten that only a few weeks earlier, I had sent him a copy of my mother’s book of short stories released on her 80th birthday - out of sheer respect for the man and his work. I didn’t expect any acknowledgement, not to speak of a telephonic response. R.K Laxman made that call to thank me for the book. The gesture was all the more touching since, only a few months earlier, he had suffered a stroke and lost the use of his left hand. Of such stuff are made quintessential gentlemen.
Laxman started drawing at a very early age. In his autobiography, The Tunnel of Time (Penguin, ISBN 0-14-027248-8), he writes:
“I do not remember wanting to do anything else except draw. Draw pictures as a child, as a boy, as a youth in college and later in life, as a professional illustrator. Draw politicians, distort their faces and ridicule their comments graphically for a living.”
Though he graduated from the Mysore University, he never collected his degree. “It may still be somewhere in the University”, he says.
Early in life, Laxman learnt the first lesson about the importance of originality from his elder brother Seenu who saw him copying some of the cartoons in Punch. “Copying? Never. Look around, observe and sketch! You will never be an artist if you copy. It is like eating leftover food from someone else’s plate.” The admonition struck home and the King of Cartooning in India was born.
I had a great desire to meet Laxman’s eldest brother R K Narayan ever since I read him for the first time when I was in my twenties. I heard he divided his time between Coimbatore where his daughter lived, and his native Mysore. During the next two decades, I had enough opportunity since I visited both places more than once. But an innate trepidation that the great man, already in his seventies/eighties, may take offence at an unknown young man intruding into his quiet life held me back. To my eternal regret, that chance was lost for ever when he passed away as a nonagenarian. However, the urge to meet his youngest brother, this uncrowned king of cartoons, never left me. In mid-January 2005, I was to go to Pune. This time, I wanted to make sure of a meeting, and went to Bombay when told that Laxman was there at that time. I took the help of Uncle Pai (Anant Pai, the creator of the classic Indian comics of the Amar Chitra Katha series and the inimitable Tinkle children’s magazine). He had worked with Laxman in the Times of India group for a while, telephoned him and told him about my wish. (Laxman divides his time between Pune and Mumbai). I succeeded in meeting him on 15 January. “Come by 6 in the evening”, is what he said. I was there on the dot.
I asked him if he continued to produce a cartoon a day, in spite of his left hand being dysfunctional. “Yes. Every day. No difficulty”. Did he feel restless or out of sorts if he couldn’t draw on any particular day? “Don’t worry. I have a big department called government of India that supplies me (material for) cartoons every day, without fail” was his inimitable response. It was a real surprise when he said that the actual size of his pocket-book cartoons was only double the size of what appears in the paper next day.
Contrary to popular perception, cartoonists are not “funny people”. They give us fun. Laxman is no exception. The man who gives a hundred of thousand people their daily morning smile does not brook anything silly. While we were talking, a phone call came from an unknown girl. She wanted to know if he could teach her cartooning and whether his paper gives any coaching. She was a student of mass media and advertising. The veteran was visibly annoyed but told her politely that there is nothing such, drawing and caricature are inborn and that if she has it in her, she should observe life and draw cartoons from that. “It seems she had nothing better to do” was all he said after putting down the phone.
I asked what influence his famous elder brother R K Narayan had on his life and work. “His vision and ideas were the same as mine. He said with his words what I say the graphic way” he said. Narayan was already a well-known writer in India when baby of the house Laxman was a pre-school kid. Graham Greene opened the RK Narayan window to the world in mid-20th century. He was the best novelist to have never got the Nobel Prize for literature.
Laxman thinks that India is a storehouse for cartoons that offers a variety of subjects and colours no other country has. He finds a sense of humour in the Americans, Europeans and the British. “But Britishers who came to India missed Indian humour since they couldn’t understand our sense of domestic humour. They thought Indians have no sense of humour!” Among all countries, he finds the Japanese and Chinese a bit deficient in this respect.
Laxman recalls ‘so many experiences in life. Big people, small people- (I have met them all). I have walked 5 km on the Great Wall of China and walked half the distance of the Grand Canyon.” Nostalgia takes him back to Mysore. “Mysore was a very lovable place for children to grow up in. Trees, birds, clean streets, the Chamundi hills and so on.”
The conversation continued for some more time, and my time was amply rewarded. As a freelancer, I have interviewed many great people- writers, poets, musicians, dancers. Even someone who was Ambassador to the USA and earlier High Commissioner to the UK. But I never asked anyone for an autograph. RK Laxman is the only person whom I felt like asking for one- and I took it in my copy of his autobiography. Not wanting to tax the time of the octogenarian beyond limits, I say goodbye soon and trudge out of the door, skirting the fresh kolam, immaculately drawn with rice paste the previous day for the festival Sankranti. I stop over at Pune and wait for Dr. Majumdar for hours on end in the foyer of the Symbiosis Institute- just to get to the genesis of the Common Man statue I had seen earlier when I took my daughter for admission there.
Majumdar said, “Laxman used to come to my place often. He is associated with Symbiosis right from 1985. One evening, over a glass of beer, I asked him why he does not think of a statue for the Common Man. When he agreed and wondered who would erect it, my impulsive reply was that Symbiosis would do it. I contacted a young artist by name Vivek. He prepared a clay model. Laxman and (his wife) Kamala used to visit his studio regularly and Laxman himself would take up a scalpel and make corrections. I was happy that the President of India, KR Narayanan readily agreed to unveil the statue when I wrote to him with a request. I’m proud that Laxman has permitted Symbiosis to have it erected. I see many people coming to the Institute just to have their photograph taken in front of the Common Man”.
Back home at Bhubaneswar, I told veteran journalist Gopal Mishra about my experience with the Magsaysay Award winning cartoonist. Misra(70) recalled how, during a visit to Bhubaneswar a few years earlier, Laxman regaled the audience with the story of his being awarded the Padma Bhushan (3rd highest civilian award) by “my postman”. Apparently, government of India sent him a long letter saying how a first class train ticket would be reimbursed to him, a second class ticket would be provided to his wife if she chose to travel to Delhi with him etc. After reading it, he decided not to take the trouble of going to Delhi. Thus, the Award was delivered to him in the form of a large parcel by the postman. This time round, I wonder if the Padma Vibhushan was also ‘awarded’ to the creator of the Common Man by the hard-working dak man.