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+{"text":"\n\nAlso by David Rieff\n\n_The Reproach of Hunger: Food, Justice, and Money in the Twenty-First Century_ (2015)\n\n_Swimming in a Sea of Death: A Son's Memoir_ (2008)\n\n_At the Point of a Gun: Democratic Dreams and Armed Intervention_ (2005)\n\n_A Bed for the Night: Humanitarianism in Crisis_ (2002)\n\n_Slaughterhouse: Bosnia and the Failure of the West_ (1995)\n\n_The Exile: Cuba in the Heart of Miami_ (1993)\n\n_Los Angeles: Capital of the Third World_ (1991)\n\n_Going to Miami: Exiles, Tourists, and Refugees in the New America_ (1987)\n\n_Texas Boots_ (with Sharon DeLano) (1981)\n\nPublished with assistance from the foundation established in memory of Amasa Stone Mather of the Class of 1907, Yale College.\n\nCopyright \u00a9 2016 by David Rieff.\n\n\"The End and the Beginning\" and \"Reality Demands\" from _Miracle Fair,_ by Wis\u0142awa Szymborska, translated by Joanna Trzeciak.   \nCopyright \u00a9 2001 by Joanna Trzeciak. Used by permission of W. W. Norton & Company, Inc.\n\nAll rights reserved.\n\nThis book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, including illustrations, in any form (beyond that copying permitted by Sections 107 and 108 of the U.S. Copyright Law and except by reviewers for the public press), without written permission from the publishers.\n\nYale University Press books may be purchased in quantity for educational, business, or promotional use. For information, please e-mail sales.press@yale.edu (U.S. office) or sales@yaleup.co.uk (U.K. office).\n\nSet in Minion type by IDS Infotech, Ltd.\n\nPrinted in the United States of America.\n\nLibrary of Congress Control Number: 2015954282\n\nISBN 978-0-300-18279-8 (cloth : alk. paper)\n\nA catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.\n\nThis paper meets the requirements of ANSI\/NISO Z39.48\u20131992 (Permanence of Paper).\n\n10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1\n_This book is for Dasantha Pillay_.\nToo long a sacrifice can make a stone of the heart.\n\n\u2014W. B. YEATS\nContents\n\n_Acknowledgments_\n\nONE Footprints in the Sands of Time, and All That\n\nTWO Must We Deform the Past in Order to Preserve It?\n\nTHREE What Is Collective Memory Actually Good For?\n\nFOUR The Victory of Memory over History\n\nFIVE Forgiveness and Forgetting\n\nSIX The Memory of Wounds and Other Safe Harbors\n\nSEVEN _Amor Fati_\n\nEIGHT Against Remembrance\nAcknowledgments\n\nThroughout its gestation, this book has had more and better friends already than any writer could sensibly hope for. It also has a slightly checkered history. In 2009, Louise Adler and Elise Berg at the University of Melbourne Press were kind enough to invite me to write a polemic on political memory, which they published two years later under the title _Against Remembrance. In Praise of Forgetting_ builds on the work I did then, and so I want to thank Louise, Elise, and their colleagues \"in the name\" of both books.\n\nIn recent years, I have begun spending as much time as I can manage in Ireland. But being a Hibernophile hardly qualifies me as an expert in Irish history and politics, and on those questions I have had the good fortune to have been the beneficiary of the learning and insight of Rosemary Byrne, Kevin O'Rourke, Cormac \u00d3 Gr\u00e1da, Tom Arnold, Paul Durcan, Denis Staunton, and John Banville in Dublin, and Jim Fahy in Galway. They are of course in no way, shape, or form responsible for the uses to which I have put that learning.\n\nThe same disclaimers apply to the \"tutorial\" on Jewish history, including on Yosef Yerushalmi's work, that my old and true friend Leon Wieseltier has been trying, with what I suspect he would say has been mixed success, to give me for decades now. They also apply to two newer friends, R. R. Reno in New York and Fr. Bernard Treacy in Dublin, who, though their views seem to me to diverge on a number of important issues of interpretation, have both taught me much about the Catholic understanding of the relationship between history and memory. They will be the best judges of the extent to which I have understood them properly, and, to reiterate, any errors I have made are mine alone.\n\nSince the days when I was his student at Amherst College in what now seems almost like another geological era, and _was_ almost forty-five years ago, I have benefited from the learning and friendship of Norman Birnbaum. If I have gotten L\u00f6with, Halbwachs, Renan, and other thinkers on whom I have relied in this book even partly right, this is as much Norman's doing as mine, even if, all these years later, T\u00f6nnies still defeats me.\n\nAnd I would have been defeated in the writing of this book without the extraordinary help I have received during the period in which I was researching it from Megan Campisi, and, during the fact checking after it was finished, from Megan and from Elisa Matula.\n\nFinally, I owe the fact that _In Praise of Forgetting_ exists at all to Steve Wasserman, my editor at Yale University Press, whose gift to me it was to make it possible for me to have another bite at the apple of memory and forgetting. Steve and I have known each other practically our entire adult lives. We were young together, middle-aged together, and now we are growing old together. Given that there is no cure for _that,_ I can't think of a better friend with whom to have shared and still be sharing the ride.\nONE\n\nFootprints in the Sands of Time, and All That\n\nLawrence Binyon's poem \"For the Fallen\" was first published in the _London Times_ on September 21, 1914, six weeks after the Great War had begun. It is sometimes suggested that Binyon, who was a distinguished art historian as well as a poet (he was the British Museum's Keeper of Oriental Prints and Drawings when the war began), wrote the poem in despair over how many had already died and how many more were being condemned to the same fate. But there is no basis for such a reading. Binyon simply could not have known this, if for no other reason than that it was not till the end of the First Battle of Ypres two months later, an engagement at which the majority of Britain's prewar professional army was either killed or wounded, that people at home began to realize just how terrible a toll the war promised to exact.\n\nIn reality, \"For the Fallen\" is a classic patriotic poem, far closer in spirit to Horace's \"Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori\" (It is sweet and fitting to die for one's country)\u2014an injunction that actually had been graven into the wall of the chapel of the Royal Military Academy at Sandhurst in 1913\u2014than to the work of the great British soldier-poets such as Wilfred Owen, who would appropriate the motto for one of his finest poems, but only in order to call it \"the old lie.\"\n\nThat such prescience regarding what was to come was unavailable to Binyon weeks into the war hardly dishonors him. Too old to serve in the trenches, in 1916 he nonetheless would volunteer for duty as a hospital orderly on the Western Front\u2014no mean commitment. And Binyon's poem has endured. As I write this, 101 years after the First Battle of Ypres, \"For the Fallen\" remains the quasi-official poem of remembrance, without which virtually no memorial ceremony for the dead of both World War I and World War II in Britain, Canada, Australia, or New Zealand is considered complete. Its fourth and best-known stanza reads:\n\nThey shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:\n\nAge shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.\n\nAt the going down of the sun and in the morning\n\nWe will remember them.\n\nIn Australia, where the memory of Australians' sacrifice during the First World War, above all during the Dardanelles campaign against the Turks in 1915, played an extraordinarily important role in the forging of the modern Australian state,1 \"For the Fallen\" is now known as \"The Ode of Remembrance.\" And at many Anzac Day ceremonies, after the fourth stanza is declaimed, it is customary for those present to respond with the words \"Lest we forget,\" as if to the invocation at a church service, which in a sense, of course, it is. In doing so, the participants meld the Binyon poem with Rudyard Kipling's far greater poem \"Recessional,\" from which the line \"Lest we forget\" is taken, a line that, twice repeated, concludes each of its stanzas, as in this, the best known of them:\n\nFar-called, our navies melt away;\n\nOn dune and headland sinks the fire:\n\nLo, all our pomp of yesterday\n\nIs one with Nineveh and Tyre!\n\nJudge of the Nations, spare us yet,\n\nLest we forget\u2014lest we forget!\n\nAs is so often the case in his work, Kipling had a far more complicated and pessimistic view of the world, above all of the fate of nations, than the memory of him either among his critics or his (sadly diminished number of) admirers would lead one to believe. Although advanced in inverted terms, since the poet is in effect appealing for divine intercession for a deferral of what he knows to be the foreordained outcome, \"Lest we forget\" is a mournful acknowledgment that such forgetting is inevitable\u2014both on our own parts as individuals and with regard to us after we are gone. Implicit in Kipling's line is a far more terrifying one: \"When we forget.\" In this, \"Recessional\" echoes the chilling words of Ecclesiastes 1:11: \"There is no remembrance of former things; neither shall there be any remembrance of later things that are to come with those that shall come after.\" And more proximately, Kipling's poem is a gloss\u2014explicitly so, at one point\u2014on Shelley's \"Ozymandias\" and its unflinching meditation on the ephemeral nature of even the most monumental creations and martial accomplishments of human beings and the societies to which they have belonged.\n\nDeep down, we all know this to be true, however difficult it is to imagine how we could live our daily lives with even a bare minimum of serenity or success without at least acting as if we believed otherwise. For to fully make Ecclesiastes 1:11 our true north would be to live as if we were already dead. And this, a few saints and mystics excepted, and surely their capacities in this regard are inseparable from their disengagement from the world, we cannot do\u2014\"No man can stare for long at death or the sun,\" as La Rochefoucauld said\u2014nor, even were it possible, is there any moral or ethical imperative for our doing so. It is probably true that were we to imagine those of our loved ones whom we will survive only as dust, we might be more loving, more forgiving, more willing to put their wishes and desires before our own. But to do this, we would have to be able to live our lives as if we had already experienced the whole of them, which is a contradiction in terms. For as Kierkegaard said, \"Life must be lived forward, but can only be understood backward.\"\n\nA successful society based on such a focus is still harder to imagine. For while such a society might be more \"truthful\" in some absolute sense, fostering or conserving a moral conscience within it would be impossible. Even to care about the present would be challenge enough, let alone finding a way to care about either the past or the future. It may be that \"the ultimate truth is fearless,\" as the Buddhist sage Trungpa Rinpoche once put it. But in thinking about history, this particular truth is far more likely to terrify and paralyze than encourage and inspire. As the German philosopher Karl L\u00f6with put it in his now largely forgotten masterpiece _The Meaning of History_ (1947), \"To ask earnestly the question of the ultimate meaning of history takes one's breath away. It transports us into a vacuum which only hope and faith can fill.\"\n\nBut if we have no other practical choice than to try to live our lives and contribute to our societies as if Ecclesiastes were wrong, this should not manumit us from mustering the courage, at least from time to time, to contemplate the ultimate meaninglessness of history, and to recognize that, to paraphrase Trotsky's quip about war, \"You may not be interested in the geological record, but the geological record is interested in you.\" And even if we radically narrow the frame, excluding not only evolutionary or geological time but also the approximately 192,000 years that elapsed between the emergence in Africa 200,000 years ago of anatomically modern _Homo sapiens_ and the advent of proto-writing (usually ideograms) in the sixth millennium before the Common Era\u2014if not, far more pertinently, the emergence of writing and thus of recorded history 2,000 years later in the fourth millennium BCE\u2014there still can be no reprieve from the reality that sooner or later every human accomplishment, like every human being, will be forgotten. It is this that Kipling is inviting his readers to recognize in \"Recessional\": sooner or later our own polities will vanish just as surely as did Nineveh and Tyre.\n\nWhat possible historical basis could there be for thinking otherwise? The world of states we live in today has existed for only a comparatively small fraction of recorded history, and a great deal even of that history has already been forgotten by everyone except historians. This applies not only to states with very long histories but even to those with very short ones, of which there are in fact a great many. Italy and Germany in the form they exist today date back only to the nineteenth century, while many of the independent African states that emerged out of the ruins of empire in the mid-twentieth century did so with borders that more often than not were the product of British and French colonial mapmakers and bore little resemblance to the polities that existed before the European imperial conquest of the continent. The modern United States from its beginnings as a collection of colonies to the present day is a little more than four hundred years old. The First Fleet sailed into Botany Bay at the beginning of 1788, which means that the modern Australia has existed for a little more than half that time. Even France, which has been a state in the modern sense for far longer than any other in Europe, can be said to have coalesced into the form it takes today only about six hundred years ago at the earliest. And as Theodore Zeldin has shown in his magisterial _History of France, 1848\u20131945,_ the sense of collective French national identity began as a self-conception largely restricted to the ruling classes and became widely shared by the population as a whole only at the time of the French Revolution; it was not wholly generalized until well into the nineteenth century.\n\nGiven how much older China and India are as continuous civilizations, the picture is somewhat different in Asia. But we still cannot speak of a unified Indian state until the advent of the Mughal Empire in the sixteenth century. And even China, by far the oldest state in world history, did not become a unified country until the beginning of the Qin dynasty in the last part of the third century before the Common Era. Again, this may be a very long time in historical terms, but in terms of geological time it is little more than the blink of an eye. We may choose to ignore this, and consider the question exclusively in the context of historical time. Even so, on what basis other than the narcissism of the living or a reckless disregard for history and logic could anyone seriously suggest that even the most coherent and solid of the states that now exist will still be around in anything like the same form in another thousand years, or two, or three?\n\nThe reality is that no intelligent person believes anything of the sort. Whereas a believer in one of the great religions might insist that Christianity, Islam, Judaism, and Hinduism are true, and therefore cannot be \"forgotten\" in the conventional sense of the term (or, at least, can always be \"retrieved\"),2 in the secular world, in the deepest sense, it is inconceivable that the political order that characterizes our own era\u2014which, notwithstanding globalization, is still, broadly speaking, one of nation-states\u2014could be immortal, however long-lived it may prove to be. This is not simply a matter of elementary reasoning. For what history actually shows is that throughout all of recorded history, every society without a single exception has proven to be every bit as mortal as individual human beings. To try to think otherwise is a fool's errand. Buddhism, whether it is a religion or not in the conventional sense, is almost certainly the only philosophical system that teaches its adherents that clinging to the past, like clinging to the self, is a forlorn illusion.\n\nThis is not to deny that there are good and sufficient reasons for living inside such a consoling conceit. Buddhism promises liberation, but the release from suffering it offers requires a degree of self-abnegation that few modern people have the fortitude to contemplate, let alone successfully practice. So, with apologies to Freud, the illusion that nothing that really matters to we who live now will ever be forgotten by our posterity through the millennia does indeed have a future. For if, despite the consoling fictions offered up by a Kantian perspective that illusion, identified as such or not, today dominates the moral imagination of so many of the most scrupulous and ethically conscientious among us, truth and morality can at times be incommensurable, then the same can and must be said about reality and necessity. As the moral philosopher Bernard Williams once quipped, \"The will is as free as it needs to be.\" Reality may demand that we acknowledge the certainty that all nations and civilizations will eventually vanish just as surely as they arose. But how to reconcile what reality demands with the fact that for most people to live without remission in its shadow would be paralyzing, a slippery slope from knowledge to impotent despair. As Kipling wrote in his memoir, _Something of Myself,_ \"Every nation, like every individual, walks in a vain show\u2014else it could not live with itself.\" Instead, as he put it in his poem \"Cities and Thrones and Powers,\" a work every bit as despairing as \"Recessional\":\n\nThis season's Daffodil,\n\nShe never hears,\n\nWhat change, what chance, what chill,\n\nCut down last year's;\n\nBut with bold countenance,\n\nAnd knowledge small,\n\nEsteems her seven days' continuance\n\nTo be perpetual.\n\nPerhaps it is consolation enough if we can believe, even while acknowledging that history has no intrinsic meaning, that it still possesses another kind of meaning, one derived from the way human beings order their experience of it and their aspirations for how it might be better ordered in the present and in the future, thus infusing it with significance and, of course, passing it along to their posterity. But how to reconcile ourselves to the reality that even such constructed meanings are mortal, and take on board the fact that sooner or later the past will recede in importance before it is lost entirely? For here the personal oblivion we call death and the societal oblivion we call forgetting are two sides of the same coin.\n\n\"Birth was the death of him,\" wrote Beckett, and it's as applicable to civilizations as it is to individuals. But just as it is possible for at least some people to shift the center of their perceptions from their own personal fate\u2014nonbeing\u2014to an other-centered focus (and this is probably the only way those of us who find the prospect of our own extinction unbearable can keep from being driven mad by the knowledge of it), there is no reason why the same shifting should not be possible with respect to our collective fate. And if this is even partly right, then the mortality of societies and civilizations need not be regarded solely as a calamity. For a world in which everything endured through all eternity in a form recognizable to those of us living now all the way to the end of humanity's lifespan as a species is as unimaginable as the fantasy of personal immortality, which also posits such an outcome.\n\nAnd might not a Freudian detect an essential connection between the brute facts of our personal and collective transience, our ephemerality (in its denotative meaning of \"lasting for a markedly brief time\"), and the need to see in human life a level of meaning that an individual endowed with absolute rationality would see through in an instant, discerning instead our inevitable biological fate? Freud understood that too much rationality so gravely undermines group life that past a certain threshold no society can survive it. And regardless of whether we completely accept Freud's generalization, we hardly need a profound insight into human nature to understand that to remain productive\u2014and possibly even to stay entirely sane\u2014we human beings need to behave _as if_ the era in which we are fated to live and die and, after we have been extinguished forever, a relatively short period of the future to come about whose essential characteristics we feel that the present allows us to foresee would be recognizable to us were we to be resurrected at some more far-off point in the future.\n\nMost science-fiction writing and television- and moviemaking incarnates this conceit. For although their stories are usually set in the future, far more often than not they are actually transpositions of events taking place today that reflect the hopes and fears of the present age. Sometimes, in what might be called the hopeful, _Star Trek_ model, they extrapolate from our accomplishments and our desires; at other times\u2014the _Planet of the Apes_ model\u2014they mirror our follies and our fears. The Los Angeles of _Blade Runner,_ to cite an example of the second type, is far more reflective of a late-twentieth-century white American's dystopic view of the world that exists today, one increasingly made up of people of color, than it is an imagining of the future.\n\nCertainly, few novelists or scriptwriters working in the genre have conceived of their project in the way that the British science-fiction writer Olaf Stapledon did when he wrote that his work demanded \"a detachment from all private, all social, all racial ends\" and contained within it \"a kind of piety toward fate.\" And in his novels _Last and First Men: A Story of the Near and Far Future_ (1930) and its sequel, _Star Maker_ (1937), Stapledon indeed tried to encompass nothing less than the evolution of the human species\u2014\"this brief music that is man,\" as he described it at the conclusion of the first book\u2014from the twentieth century to two billion years into the future.\n\nBut Stapledon is an outlier. As a general rule, even in science fiction the historical reach of the imagination, whether backward or forward, is limited. And if imaginative literature has a shelf life, so too does historical memory. Take Australia and New Zealand, the two countries where Binyon's poem remains most resonant. As I write this in 2015, the Remembrance Day ceremonies that have been held since the end of World War I almost certainly make not just historical but ethical sense to a majority of the citizens of both countries. In doing so, they are trying to ensure that those whose ancestors fought in that war continue to be honored, while the recent immigrants to Australia and New Zealand, most of them non-European, who make up an increasing proportion of the citizens of both nations, are, depending on one's political views, invited or pressured to assimilate themselves into the national sense of belonging that these ceremonies serve to instill and subsequently to confirm.\n\nIn other countries, though, analogous celebrations of national sacrifice have fallen into desuetude. Anyone who has driven through the small towns of Massachusetts, Connecticut, or Pennsylvania that were founded before the American Civil War will have seen the monuments to the local men who lost their lives serving in the Union Army, while monuments to the Confederate war dead are all but ubiquitous in towns of similar longevity throughout the South. Between the end of the war in 1865 and the centennial of its beginning in 1961, such historical landmarks served as the focal points of widespread remembrance ceremonies. As with every project focused on historical remembrance, whether the goal in any given instance is to forge it, sustain or affirm it, challenge it, reconstruct it, or replace it, there was nothing innocent about these commemorations. As Caroline E. Janney puts it in her remarkable _Remembering the Civil War: Reunion and the Limits of Reconciliation,_ \"As early as 1865, the veterans and civilians who survived the four bloody years of war were acutely aware that people were actively shaping what should be remembered\u2014and omitted\u2014from the historical record. . . . What individuals and communities elected to tell of the war held enormous potential for staking claims of authority and power.\"\n\nAnnual observances honoring the dead were initiated by Confederate war veterans in 1866. Two years later, in 1868, the Union veterans organization, the Grand Army of the Republic, followed suit. On both sides, women played a key role. In contemporary France, the debate over how the country's colonial past should be commemorated is often referred to as the \"memory wars.\" A strong argument can be made that in the French context the expression is excessive. But there can be no doubt that between the end of the American Civil War and the end of the nineteenth century, the metaphor was an entirely appropriate way of describing the incompatible, and on both sides immensely bitter, accounts northerners and (white) southerners put forward as to why the war had been fought. Given the fact that the South had been defeated, it is more than a little surprising that these \"dueling\" memories could be maintained. After all, when a war ends with a crushing victory by one side, as that one certainly did, the victory confers the power unilaterally to shape the collective memory of the conflict\u2014a power that the victors nearly always exercise, as the American, British, French, and Russian occupiers did in post\u2013World War II Germany and the Tutsi-led Rwandan Patriotic Front did in post-genocide Rwanda. Historically, it is only when there is no clear winner that both sides may be able to sustain their own incompatible memories. An example of this is the Bosnia-Herzegovina that came into being after the Dayton Peace Agreement of 1995 brought the war to an end.\n\nIt is for this reason that many historians of the Civil War and of Reconstruction have argued that, as Janney summarizes it, \"White northerners eventually capitulated to Confederate memory.\" Given that from the end of Reconstruction in the 1870s white northerners clearly capitulated to southern segregationism, this would seem beyond debate. And while Janney is adamant that at least for the late nineteenth century the historians' claim is too broad, she readily concedes that it did become the case in the twentieth century. By the 1930s, she writes, white Americans had become \"increasingly receptive to the Lost [i.e., Confederate] Cause.\" She points to the emblematic case of the extraordinary commercial success of the film _Gone with the Wind,_ noting that \"Americans could not get enough of the romantic epic depicting white southern resolve in the face of defeat.\"\n\nBut even assuming Janney is correct about the timing, what was quickly forgotten by virtually every white American, northerner and southerner alike, was that the first celebration of what eventually would become the national holiday first known as Decoration Day and now called Memorial Day took place on May 1, 1865, and was organized by African American freedmen in Charleston, South Carolina, in honor of the 257 Union soldiers who had died in captivity in the local racecourse that the Confederates had used as a prison camp during the war, and whom the freedmen had earlier reburied properly. The event drew more than ten thousand participants (including a brigade of Union soldiers with three African American units, the 54th Massachusetts and the 34th and 104th Colored Troops), as well as drawing wide attention in the national press at the time\u2014a correspondent for the _New York Tribune_ wrote that the event was \"a procession of mourners and friends [such] as South Carolina and the United States never saw before.\" But for post-Reconstruction white America, the event might just as well never have taken place. It was only black Americans who, as Janney puts it, \"continued to offer up a counter-memory of the Civil War and Reconstruction\" completely at odds with what the African American historian Dorothy Sterling despairingly and angrily described in 1961 as a false picture of the conflict, one in which \"brave brother [fought] against brother, with both separately but equally righteous in their causes.\"\n\nIn the early twenty-first century, Memorial Day commemorations themselves largely serve as occasions for a generalized, watered-down patriotism from which the Civil War and the reasons it was fought are increasingly excluded, in favor of honoring the dead of all U.S. wars, but also as the occasion for a three-day holiday weekend during which both the most important American automobile race, the Indianapolis 500, and an important golf championship, the Memorial, are held. It is not that the Civil War no longer resonates in the United States. In a country in which the wound of racism has never been fully staunched, that would be impossible. But it is not a Memorial Day now leached of all its historical specificity but rather the Confederate battle flag that still flies in several southern state capitals and is incorporated into several of these states' flags that keeps the memory of the war alive. That they are there at all is the product of a brilliantly executed political campaign largely orchestrated between the end of Reconstruction and 1915 by Confederate veterans' groups, and even more importantly, as Caroline Janney has shown in another fine study, _Burying the Dead but Not the Past: Ladies' Memorial Associations and the Lost Cause,_ by organizations of white southern women dedicated, in Janney's words, to \"perpetuating nostalgia for the Confederate past, or for what has come to be known as the Lost Cause.\"\n\nCivil rights groups have been warning since the 1950s that continuing to fly these flags was not only immoral but dangerous, and called for their removal. Their worst fears were realized when it became clear that the Confederate battle flag had been an inspiration to the white-supremacist terrorist Dylann Roof, who in June 2015 walked into the evening service at the Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church in Charleston, one of the oldest AME churches in the United States, and opened fire, killing nine people, including Senator Clementa Pinckney, the senior pastor. In the aftermath of the massacre, even white southerners who had previously defended official displays of the flag were forced to bow to public pressure to put an end to its use, and in the (particularly egregious) case of South Carolina, finally to stop flying it from atop the state capitol.\n\nIn the aftermath of Roof's acts, the question of why the Civil War had been fought became, for the first time in decades, part of the mainstream debate.3 Many whites, northerners and southerners alike, who had seemed impervious to the proposition that the Confederacy was not a noble lost cause and that celebrating the memory of a secession that had taken place in order to preserve slavery was anything but harmless, began to reconsider their views when confronted by the undeniable fact that the racism that had been the Confederacy's raison d'\u00eatre still lived on in people like Roof. If any good news could be found, it was that, however diminished its importance in the American imagination it may have been 150 years after it had ended, the remembrance of the Civil War remained at least somewhat accessible to many if not perhaps to most Americans.\n\nBut imagine as a thought experiment that the focus of Dylann Roof's racist hatred had been Native Americans rather than blacks, and that he had struck at a church on a reservation somewhere in Massachusetts. Even assuming that the shock would have been as great, there could have been no similar reservoir of historical memory to draw upon that, whether accurately or inaccurately (an important question in its own right but not relevant here), could have linked the crimes of the past with the crimes of the present. The reasons for this would have had nothing to do with history and everything to do with what Americans remember and what they have forgotten. Yet so searing and cataclysmic had been King Philip's War of 1675\u201376, also known as Metacom's Rebellion, that in its immediate aftermath, and for a century thereafter, it would have been inconceivable for either the settlers of the Plymouth Bay Colony or the native Wampanoag and Narragansett nations of Massachusetts and Rhode Island that, in the hoariest trope of the language of remembrance, \"anyone would ever forget\" it. For in the two years during which it raged, the war almost succeeded in destroying the Plymouth Colony, and at least for a time put an end to the European conquest of the northeastern part of what would become the United States.\n\nOn a per capita basis, King Philip's War was the bloodiest in American history. Most of the surviving Native American warriors were executed, and their wives and children transported to the West Indies and sold as slaves. By 1830 the Native American population of Massachusetts and Rhode Island had decreased by about 60\u201380 percent. Settler losses were far smaller but large enough for two eminent historians of the war to describe it as having posed \"a real threat to the colony's continued prosperity, perhaps even to its survival.\" And yet, professional historians aside, King Philip's War is almost never talked about, even by Americans familiar with the Trail of Tears, President Jackson's ethnic cleansing of the Seminoles, Cherokee, Chickasaw, Choctaw, and Muscogee, and with the genocidal wars the U.S. army conducted against Native American nations of the Great Plains and the Southwest.\n\nWhat this shows is that the historical importance of an event in its own time and in the decades that follow offers no guarantee that it will be remembered in the next century, let alone for many centuries after. A case can certainly be made that reminding the Americans of today of what happened during King Philip's War might be salutary morally. But even assuming that it would be possible to do this, at some point in history even events as terrible as that conflict will be forgotten, if only, to put it starkly, to make room for the memory of other, less distant events, just as those alive today must sooner or later die to make room for those yet to be born. And whether one regrets this or not, forgetting and being forgotten are what must happen sooner or later. Would even the most historically minded among us claim that there is a civic duty or a moral imperative to hold services of remembrance annually in honor of the Norman and Anglo-Saxon dead of the Battle of Hastings of 1066 or to mourn the sacrifice of those who fell at the Battles of Sekigahara in 1600 and Osaka Castle in 1615 that led to the establishment of the Tokugawa shogunate in Japan?\n\nAt least those battles are still recalled, however superficially and sentimentally, by most educated people in Britain and Japan, respectively, although whether there is any practical use in doing so, for non\u2013history buffs and those who live near where these battles took place (where commemorations still generate dependable streams of tourist income), is not as self-evident as the reigning pieties about remembrance seem to insist. In any case, the farther one goes back in time, say to the battles of the Chu-Han War in China (206\u2013202 BCE) or to the Battle of Salamis between the Athenians and the Persians (480 BCE), the more questionable any moral justification for commemorating such events becomes. And yet these battles were as critical in their time, as firmly entrenched in the minds and hearts of those who lived through them and for many generations to come, as defining moments for their civilizations, as the destruction of the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001, is for so many people today, Americans and non-Americans alike.\n\nThis does not mean that there is no interest in studying the Battle of Salamis; indeed, one can argue plausibly that, because the second half of the twentieth century and the first two decades of the twenty-first have been something of a golden age for historical scholarship, more is known today about the wars between the Greek city-states and Persia that culminated with the Athenians' victory at Salamis than was understood in Europe during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries when, culturally, Hellenism provided a central model for poets and philosophers (and to some extent architects) from Schelling and Goethe to Byron and, though to a lesser extent, Matthew Arnold. The German veneration was so extreme that in 1935, the British scholar Eliza Butler could write a book she matter-of-factly and with little fear of contradiction from her peers titled _The Tyranny of Greece over Germany_. The last iteration of this was Heidegger's contention that the only truly philosophical languages were classical Greek and German.\n\nAnother version of the eighteenth- and nineteenth-century European elite's obsession with Greece and Rome was its centrality to the self-conception of the British Empire. As David Gilmour put it in his fine study _The Ruling Caste: Imperial Lives in the Victorian Raj,_ \"British officials [in India] had begun to think of themselves as Romans by the end of the eighteenth century.\" And as Gilbert Murray, the Regius Professor of Greek at Oxford between 1908 and 1924, wrote, \"At home, England is Greek. In the Empire she is Roman,\" a sentiment that Kipling echoes in a number of his best stories, notably \"A Centurion of the Thirtieth,\" where the Roman officers and legionaries are clearly transpositions of the civil servants and soldiers of his beloved Raj. Even when their empire had ended, many members of the British elite told themselves that the United Kingdom could continue to enact a global role by playing Greece to the American empire's Rome\u2014a fantasy that Christopher Hitchens brilliantly anatomized in his _Blood, Class, and Nostalgia: Anglo-American Ironies_.\n\nThis was almost certainly the last contemporary appropriation of classical Greek and Roman history.4 Though there are other causes, to be sure, the eclipse of Latin and Greek as school subjects in Europe and North America has all but ensured the rupture since one cannot be tyrannized by a past with whose cultural and historical references one is entirely unfamiliar. The Greco-Roman past lasted far longer than did the collective memories of most other historical epochs. But the 2,500 years between the Battle of Salamis and the early twenty-first century have finally put an end to it. We can still admire the _Iliad_ and Cicero, the Pantheon and the Acropolis, and be inspired by their force and beauty, but only in a form stripped of any authority over our moral and political imaginations. As vehicles for our mythmaking about ourselves, they are as good as lost to us.\n\nBut what a run! In most cases, the connection to earlier political orders, and to the art and thought they produce, is severed far more quickly. Think of Rubens's portraits of the seventeenth-century English nobility; in their own time, these were clearly understood as glorifications of the Stuart dynasty and as apologias in pictorial form for the divine right of kings. Today, the political and moral beliefs and understandings that are at the heart of Rubens's work, informing his way of seeing, have no hold over us precisely because he was so much a man of his time\u2014indeed, in many ways its biographer. We have only to contrast him with Turner, whom art critic John Berger once described as \"a man alone, surrounded by implacable and indifferent forces.\" Turner is still accessible to us not because he was a better painter than Rubens but rather because, unlike Rubens, he exists outside his own time, thanks to the logic of his work, thus allowing even those who are indifferent to the tradition from which he developed to understand him as their contemporary.\n\nOf course, most painters whose work still matters to us are more in the mold of Rubens than of Turner. And as long as the past remains legible to the present, we may have preferences but we do not have to choose. But what happens when the past, even the quite recent past, becomes illegible? To take another example from the history of painting, Picasso was interested in Vel\u00e1zquez, who died 220 years before he was born. But in the early twenty-first century, young painters are rarely interested even in their predecessors of 50 years before them, let alone those separated by centuries. And once the fundamental disconnection of the processes by which the past of an artistic, or political, or ethical tradition is transmitted down through the generations has been achieved, it is difficult to see how it can ever be successfully undone or redressed. Admittedly, this is not a matter of forgetting in the proper sense of the word: one cannot forget what one never knew. As the philosopher and sociologist Theodor Adorno puts it in _Minima Moralia,_ \"Just as voluntary memory and utter oblivion always belonged together, organized fame and remembrance lead ineluctably to nothingness.\"\n\n1. By the 1920s, Anzac Day, which was first celebrated in both Australia and New Zealand on April 25, 1916, to commemorate the first anniversary of the landing on the Gallipoli peninsula that marked the beginning of that ill-fated campaign, had eclipsed Empire Day, which was held every May 24, Queen Victoria's birthday.\n\n2. Buddhism is a special case to the degree that it insists on the impermanence of all things, another way of saying it insists that nothing lasts, in the memory or anywhere else.\n\n3. So did the issue of the laxity of U.S. gun laws, but even those optimistic about the use of the Confederate flag finally being ended were under no illusions that American gun laws were going to change one iota as a result of the slaughter.\n\n4. The American empire has other myths (above all that it is not an empire); the modern-day Chinese empire will have still others, though as yet these are still largely on the drawing board.\nTWO\n\nMust We Deform the Past in Order to Preserve It?\n\nEverything will indeed be forgotten sooner or later, but as the gyrations that have taken place between 1865 and the early twenty-first century in the way the American Civil War has been remembered painfully illustrate, it turns out that it is actually quite easy for nations or groups to \"revise\" and \"rewrite\" their collective memories. Since, as the great French historian Jacques Le Goff once remarked, \"memory only seeks to rescue the past in order to serve the present and the future,\" it is hardly surprising that exercises in collective historical remembrance far more closely resemble myth on one side and political propaganda on the other than they do history, at least as that is understood as an academic discipline\u2014the kind of history that when done properly is always critical and whose insights, though they may from time to time be deemed useful to society as a whole, were not set out to instruct. In contrast, historical remembrance is generally considered valuable insofar as it is of service to society.\n\nOur understanding of memory as a social construct goes back to the 1920s and derives in large measure from the pioneering work of the French sociologist Maurice Halbwachs, the most gifted of \u00c9mile Durkheim's disciples.1 Halbwachs would almost certainly have found the late-modern claim that everything, from human sexuality to our understanding of our historical traditions, is socially constructed both unoriginal and largely self-evident. What mainly interested him was the reconstruction rather than the deconstruction of how societies \"remember.\" More specifically, in the words of the American sociologist Lewis Coser, Halbwachs understood collective memory as \"a reconstruction of the past in the light of the present.\" Halb-wachs derived much of his theory on group memory formation from the British neurologist Henry Head's studies of World War I veterans who had suffered head wounds. \"What [someone with aphasia] lacks,\" Halbwachs wrote, \"is less memories themselves than the framework in which to situate them.\" Obviously there is no such thing physiologically as collective memory, but what Halbwachs understood was that this does not make it any less of a sociological reality in which, to use the historian Horst M\u00f6ller's gloss on Halbwachs's argument, \"collective consciousness applied to memory results in _collective_ memory,\" memories that, in turn, \"mold social groups, generations, and nations and constitute _identity_.\"\n\nHalbwachs was keenly aware of how costly the process could be. For while, as he put it, \"The various groups that compose society are capable at every moment of reconstructing their past,\" at the same time that \"they reconstruct it, they deform it.\" But for all its brilliance and originality, Halbwachs's work never sought to address why, both politically and morally, some of these \"reconstructions\" and \"rewritings\" have proven to be harmful or at least far riskier than others at given points in history but then later evolve or are transformed (the mechanisms that make this happen are rarely straightforward) into phenomena that pose little or no danger to the societies and polities to which they were once so toxic.\n\nTo say that collective memory is a social construct, however, tells us little or nothing about the moral character of such remembrance. The proof of this, as Le Goff has pointed out, is that even in the present golden age of collective memory, commemorations of the past were never more common than in Hitler's Germany and Mussolini's Italy (one might add Lenin and Stalin's Russia and Mao's China). And certainly if Coser's rendering of Halbwachs's thesis is right, and memory needs \"continuous feeding from collective sources and is sustained by social and moral props,\" then if the morality of those sources is tainted, the memories being created or solidified will be poisonous as well.\n\nThese are extreme cases and as such are almost certainly less instructive than they may appear (though doubtless they perform a pedagogic service for those who continue to believe that remembrance is always positive). The more difficult cases are those in which a particular set of \"constructed\" collective memories serves to foment or exacerbate anger and conflict at one moment in time and then, a few generations later, is not only seen as harmless but is enlisted in the diametrically opposed mission of palliating the culture of grievance that appealing to such forms of remembrance once nurtured. Irish history provides a particularly illuminating case study of the uses and misuses of the past in the construction, reconstruction, amendment, and transformation of the collective memory.\n\nThat the mythical Ireland still to be found in the frozen republicanism of a declining portion of the Irish diaspora and in the clich\u00e9s of the Irish National Tourist Board never really existed\u2014any more than the mythical France of baguettes and reason, the mythical United States as humankind's last best hope, or the mythical China as the only significant civilization in the world existed\u2014should not need stating. But what to make of what the Irish historian John M. Regan has called the foundation-myth of the Irish state that venerated Irish history as \"the immemorial struggle against English misrule, . . . eulogized physical-force and honored the pieties of separatist republican-nationalism . . . [and] was rooted in quasi-religious representations enveloping the republican rebellion or 'rising' of Easter 1916?\" While obviously many Irish people never believed anything of the sort, and many so-called revisionist Irish historians tried to modulate and modify it, between Irish independence in 1921 and the so-called Celtic Tiger economic boom of the late 1990s and early 2000s followed by the crash of 2008,2 the dominant strain of collective memory in Ireland (and even more strongly in the Irish diaspora) nonetheless remained anchored in what the Irish literary critic Declan Kilberd has called \"the old morality-tale of Holy Ireland versus Perfidious Albion.\" This was confirmed institutionally by the political domination over Irish life for the first seventy-five years of the state by one political party, Fianna F\u00e1il, that saw itself as the inheritor of the \"spirit\" of Easter 1916.\n\nIt was this mix of Fenianism and Catholicism, along with a particular variant of Irish cultural nationalism with its emphasis on the Irish language incarnated by one of the leaders of the Easter Rising, Patrick Pearse, and the rejection of Irish political parties seeking Home Rule for Ireland by peaceful means, that would for most of the history of the Republic of Ireland become what the Irish historian R. F. Foster has called the country's \"received wisdom\" about its own history. In reality, though, what Foster once described as \"Pearse's particular ideology of blood-sacrifice and mystical Catholicism\" represented only one strain of nineteenth- and early-twentieth-century Irish nationalism, and a narrower strain of the Irish cultural revival between the late 1880s and the beginning of the First World War. As Foster has shown in his _Vivid Faces: The Revolutionary Generation in Ireland, 1890\u20131923,_ many held views that could not have been farther from Pearse's, and were committed to what Foster has described elsewhere as \"an opening out of attitudes, a modernization of nationalism, an exploration of cultural diversity, [and] a questioning of too-readily-received forms of authority in public and indeed private life.\" Foster even speculates at the end of _Vivid Faces_ that for many members of the revolutionary generation, the revolution they made \"may not have been the revolution they intended, or wanted\"\u2014a historical fate hardly unique to Irish revolutionaries.\n\nEven leaving aside the ways that the central cultural and social questions such as religious faith and sexuality were framed at the time in Ireland and focusing solely on politics, the consensus among Irish historians today is that the shift of the center of gravity of Irish nationalism from parliamentary politics to the Romantic cultural nationalism of the Gaelic Revival and the armed resistance of the Irish Volunteers, the military wing of the Irish Republican Brotherhood, occurred in large measure because of the political failure of Irish constitutional nationalism, in which the best option for Ireland was seen as Home Rule within the British state system. Pearse might still have denounced the Home Rulers' leader in 1916, John Redmond, for \"untruth and blasphemy . . . the mumblings and gibberings of lost souls,\" but had not Redmond's predecessor as leader of the Irish Parliamentary Party, Charles Stewart Parnell, been brought down by sexual scandal in 1890, the collective memory in Ireland of what was at the heart of Irish nationalism might well have been different.\n\nInstead, however, the idea that there had been a symbiotic relationship between the political and military goals of the Easter Rising and the cultural ambitions of the Gaelic Revival, and that taken together these represented the collective goal of the people of Ireland, came to be so central to the collective understanding of Irish nationalism that in _Ulysses_ James Joyce could invent a nationalist conversation in Barney Kiernan's pub in which the politics are overwhelmingly cultural and revolve around \"Irish sports and shoneen games the like of lawn tennis and about hurley and putting the stone and racy of the soil and building up a nation once again.\"\n\nNone of this is \"historical.\" No one in the milieu Joyce drew on for nationalist characters in _Ulysses_ imagined that it was possible to re-create the clan-based Irish nation that had existed before Cromwell's slaughter of the Irish or, going still farther back, Henry VIII's unseating of the Fitzgerald dynasty. Nor would Joyce's republicans have wanted to, for that matter. What was of concern to them, as has generally been the case for cultural nationalists whether in Ireland or elsewhere, was the trauma of the Irish nation's destruction and the heady prospect of being able to breathe life back into it. At first glance, the rhetoric accompanying this appears to be highly specific, as when, to return to Joyce's archetypal rendering, \"Irish\" sports such as hurley are described as the antitheses of shoneen ones (the word is a derogatory description of Irish people who prefer English attitudes and styles). But in historical terms, these memories of the past are as imprecise and, in some cases, as anachronistic as they are impassioned. Crucially, there is absolutely no room for ambiguity. And yet as Foster has said about Irish history (and as with \"his\" revolutionaries' disenchantment with their revolution, this is true of a number of other nations as well), its ambiguities \"are, in many ways, the most distinctive thing about it.\"\n\nBut as Foster himself certainly knows, even if he is right, that is beside the point in the sense that the essence of historical remembrance consists of identification and psychological proximity rather than historical accuracy, let alone historical nuance and depth. Perhaps this is what led Foster in one of his best essays, \"Theme-Parks and Histories,\" to declare that he had some sympathy for the Northern Irish critic Edna Longley's suggestion that the next commemoration of Irish history \"might take the form of raising a monument to Amnesia, and forgetting where we put it.\" As a historian, Foster wrote, \"I have to be rather shocked by the idea. But as an Irishman I am rather attracted to it.\"\n\nIrony aside, the question of whether historical remembrance is constructed, imagined, manufactured out of whole cloth, or willed into being is of profound importance to professional historians\u2014not least because, as M\u00f6ller has observed, they \"know that myths and legends can be as historically important and politically potent as reality, if they happen to match a society's expectations at a given point in time.\" But as the best historians realize, the more important collective memory is for a society, the less likely they themselves are to be heeded. And this is leaving aside the question Claude L\u00e9vi-Strauss was inviting the profession to consider when he asked whether \"when we try to do scientific history, do we really do something scientific, or do we too remain astride our own mythology?\"\n\nWhat both professional historians and the general public agree on is that, as the nineteenth-century (nationalist) French historian Ernest Renan put it, nations are founded \"on a rich legacy of memories.\" Or, in the sociologist Dominique Schnapper's more modern formulation, \"For individuals and peoples alike, memory is the predicate of self.\" In Renan's case, although he was himself a superb archival researcher, a master of both written and material sources, he did not call for such memories to be based on the best available historical research. To the contrary, he was adamantly opposed to letting the historical chips fall where they may. \"Forgetting,\" he wrote in _What Is a Nation?_ (1882), \"and I would even say historical error, is an essential factor in the creation of a nation.\"\n\nAnd far from welcoming \"the progress of historical studies,\" Renan insisted that it often posed \"a danger to [the sense of] nationhood.\" Taken out of context, this may seem more romantic than it actually was. For Renan was under no illusions: \"Nations,\" he wrote, \"are not something eternal. They had their beginnings and they will end.\" (Presciently, he foresaw the eventual replacement of nation-states such as France and Germany by what he called a \"European Confederation.\") Given this eventual fate, and given that Renan understood the continued existence of a nation as being based on what he called a \"daily plebiscite\"\u2014the risk of disintegration that it faces from its beginning to its end\u2014Renan insisted that, if called upon to choose, a nation would be well advised to opt for myth, codified in collective remembrance, over history.\n\nIt is a tribute to Renan's influence that his contention that a nation is \"a large-scale solidarity\" remains, whether implicitly or explicitly, the dominant view not only of most countries' elites but of ordinary citizens as well. Were this not the case, other than invoking the old Marxist dogma of \"false consciousness,\" it would make no sense that the increasingly common attempts to debunk or even modify collective national myths have so often provoked such alarm. An extreme example of this, in the instance that shared myths guaranteed democracy and shattering them represented an existential danger to it, was the suggestion in 1971 by the Irish political scientist Brian Farrell that \"once the myth of the state is questioned extra-constitutional methods become valid.\" A less apocalyptic iteration of this view is that while coherent and persuasive collective memory may be able to be formed with little regard for historical accuracy (a case can be made that, indeed, such indifference is a sine qua non of such projects), too much critical history can undermine the consensus over what societies need to recall and what they need to forget if their cohesion and their citizens' sense of mutual solidarity and, probably more important, allegiance to the state is to be maintained. Or, to put it another way, can a sense of national belonging endure if pride in a nation's history is undermined by the wide dissemination of those elements of the historical record Renan was convinced needed to be ignored or forgotten?\n\nWe are far removed from scholarly debate here. For not only are we not talking about history, we are not even talking about memory in any proper sense, but rather about morality, ideology, and, often, the intellectual raw materials for cultural and political mobilizations. To insist on the point is not to assert that the claims of collective memory are equally powerful at all times in all places, or are necessarily always compelling even in countries such as Ireland where the authority of nationalism has run so deep for so long. Writing of his own childhood in the 1930s and the early to mid-1940s, for example, the Irish writer John McGahern could affirm that \"the 1916 Rising was not considered to be of any great importance in the country I grew up in.\" Because Easter 1916 had occurred comparatively recently, he explained, \"it probably was too close in time for the comfort of mythmaking.\"\n\nBut at other times, the need for the security that such mythmaking affords can seem desperately important. For example, large numbers of people in the United States today care passionately about whether American schoolchildren should continue to be taught, as they have been since the founding of the republic, that Columbus was the heroic discoverer of America or whether instead, as at least some U.S. schoolchildren are now being taught, he should be portrayed as a brutal and amoral servant of the Spanish Empire intent on despoiling a continent whose location he could not even correctly identify.\n\nIt might be more convenient for those who favor the revisionist version if those who insist that the traditional view of Columbus must continue to prevail were know-nothings who were either unable or unwilling to face historical reality. But the matter is hardly so simple, and there is plenty of anecdotal evidence that suggests that what most worries those who favor the retention of the traditional curriculum is the possibility (some would say the inevitability) that if the old consensus is repudiated, not only will Americans no longer understand how to take pride in their nation's origins, many will be tempted to repudiate its present as well. In a country of immigrants, an increasing proportion of whom have arrived within the past decade and still maintain ties with their nations of origin via the Internet that would have been impossible even half a century earlier, such concerns are defensible. Nor are they restricted to the United States. The early twenty-first century has turned out to be one of the great periods of global mass migration in modern history. Given this unanticipated version of the Americanization of at least the rich world, it should come as no surprise that similar \"education wars\" are raging all over the Global North.\n\nThe case of Australia is especially illuminating. During the late 1990s and early 2000s, John Howard's conservative government made a concerted effort to blunt what it viewed as the inroads of a leftist \"multicultural\" view of the country's history, one that the Australian center right and right believed wildly overemphasized Australia's mistreatment of its indigenous peoples. By accentuating the crimes and failures of the Australian state and Australian society over its positive accomplishments, conservatives believed that the multiculturalists were depriving new immigrants, the majority of whom now came from Asia and the Middle East rather than, as in the past, Europe, of the chance to be integrated into the Australian national \"family.\" The multiculturalists, Howard claimed, had espoused a \"black armband\" view of history, and even their putative accomplishments\u2014above all in recognizing the sufferings and celebrating the accomplishments of marginalized populations, especially the country's Aboriginal peoples\u2014sooner or later would be dwarfed by the social discord they would engender and the national disunity they would sow.\n\nWe do not have to accept Howard's prescriptions to recognize that some prominent Australian multiculturalists have left themselves open to the charges he leveled at them; political positions aside, their indifference to, not to say disdain for, the historical record can be breathtaking. An emblematic figure in this is the University of Melbourne academic Chris Healy. He has called for new histories to be written of the story of Eliza Fraser\u2014a European woman who, after having been shipwrecked along the Queensland coast in 1836, lived with the Ngulungbara people for some years before being found by a settler search party. Healy's proposal might seem reasonable were it not for the fact that he went on to insist that these new works would need to \"eschew a desire to rescue an authentic Eliza Fraser.\" And Healy was anything but the only prominent Australian multiculturalist to treat history with such disdain.\n\nHowever, it is important not to exaggerate, as so many conservatives, and by no means only in Australia, often do, the existential dangers to our societies that this crass form of multiculturalism poses. Bitter as these history wars often are, the experience of the past century in the United States, Canada, Australia, and western Europe shows that not only do all such cultural conflicts end at some point but that, whether explicitly or implicitly, they invariably end in some form of compromise in which elements of the older and newer conceptions of the national past are joined. In any case, even were such \"historic compromises\" to prove impossible to arrive at, it is an illusion to imagine that collective historical myths remain fixed for more than a few generations; viewed from a longer perspective, they eventually mutate, often out of all recognition from where they started. As Frances FitzGerald put it in _America Revised,_ her history of American history textbooks from the nineteenth century to the late 1970s (when her book was published), \"These works are consensus documents . . . themselves a part of history in that they reflect the concerns, the conventional wisdom, and even the fads of the age that produced them.\"\n\nAnd at some point, the reigning pieties, whatever they are, begin to ring hollow. In 1918, when Lytton Strachey published _Eminent Victorians,_ his series of debunking portraits of four of the great iconic figures of Victorian England\u2014General Charles \"Chinese\" Gordon, Florence Nightingale, Henry Cardinal Manning, and Thomas Arnold\u2014the historical facts he uncovered were scarcely new, nor were his arguments particularly convincing from a scholarly perspective. To the contrary, in the words of the old Oxbridge joke, \"what was true wasn't new, and what was new wasn't true.\" If the book found a receptive audience, it was largely because, in the last days of the First World War, the myths and memorial pieties of the prewar era had been completely undermined and discredited by the slaughter on the Western Front and in the Middle East, at Gallipoli and Kut, and the British public was ready for a radical revision of what, with apologies to those involved in the education wars, might be called the established canon of collective memory.\n\nIn his introduction to _The Invention of Tradition,_ the pathbreaking book he edited with Terrence Ranger in 1983, Eric Hobsbawm wrote of what he called \"new traditions\" being established \"when a rapid transformation of society weakens or destroys the social pattern for which 'old' traditions had been designed.\" One of the most startling cases described in the book is that of the Highland tradition in Scotland, particularly in its sartorial expressions such as the kilt and \"clan tartans.\" The former appears to have been invented in the 1720s by an English Quaker from Lancashire, Thomas Rawlinson, while the latter did not exist in their modern form until the 1750s. _The Invention of Tradition_ focuses on Britain and the British Empire, but as Hobsbawm pointed out in his introduction, similar phenomena are to be found in many if not most countries. The white southern women who began forming Ladies' Memorial Associations soon after the end of the Civil War are one example of this. As Caroline Janney has put it, these associations \"succeeded in creating memorial tributes and traditions that intensified existing emotional attachment to the Confederate cause.\"\n\nThere can be little doubt that the efforts of the southern women's organizations were crucial to creating collective memories among white southerners that were extremely damaging to the nation both morally and politically. Yet when Horst M\u00f6ller, writing of Europe at the end of the Second World War, insists that both \"the individual memories of individual Europeans and the collective memory of nations could not remain as they had been,\" we sympathize with his view. Whether we can call the collective memory of the white American South an instance of the abuse of memory and the transformation of post-1945 European remembrance an example of memory's appropriate use (as the French philosopher Tzvetan Todorov, who used _The Abuses of Memory_ as the title for a fascinating small book on the subject, presumably would) is a key question, and its answer is far less morally self-evident than is commonly supposed.\n\nHow does collective memory function? To understand this, the political scientist Benedict Anderson's template of the \"imagined community\" is invaluable. The distinctions that need to be drawn between how history and memory operate and the different ends they serve are by themselves insufficient. What the study of the engineering of traditions and the model of the national as an imagined community help clarify is the extent to which collective historical remembrance falls between history and memory, in a sense using both instrumentally without being a great respecter of either.\n\nWhatever its purposes, the authority of collective memory depends, as Renan understood, on our not inquiring too insistently about its factuality and not worrying overmuch about its contingency, but instead allowing ourselves to be swept away by a strong emotion dressed up in the motley of historical fact. Typologically, it matters little whether the feeling in question is one of solidarity, of mourning, of love of one's own nation or disenchantment with it, or of hatred for another's nation or envy of it. Where remembrance is concerned, it would seem that it is Nietzsche who has the last word: \"There are no facts, only interpretations.\"\n\nWhat are the dangers here? The most obvious is that, too often, the suspension of disbelief required to keep faith with such collective self-conceptions has proved to be far more costly humanly and politically than is commonly assumed. The Oxford historian Timothy Garton Ash once asserted confidently in an interview that just as \"a person without a memory is a child,\" so \"a national or any political community without memory is likely to be childish.\" But it is anything but self-evident that this is true. Empirically there is much to support the contrary argument: in many parts of the world it is not the relinquishing but the holding on to memories that seems to make societies childish. And in societies in which there is a real risk of fragmentation or worse, invoking certain memories can sometimes resemble nothing so much as the proverbial yelling of \"Fire!\" in a crowded theater.\n\nThe crucial point is this: we do not have to deny the value of memory to insist that the historical record (the verifiable one, not the mythopoeic one) does not justify the moral free pass that remembrance is usually accorded today. Collective historical memory, and the forms of remembrance that are its most common expression, are neither factual, nor proportional, nor stable. To be sure, were the political implications of this largely positive or, failing that, at least largely neutral, then arguing for a more skeptical view of remembrance would be both disrespectful to all those people to whom it provides strength and solace, and unnecessary. But is this the case?\n\nPresumably, Timothy Garton Ash would insist that it is. \"Memory,\" he has said, \"is a vital part of building a European identity,\" and he has been critical of the inroads that what he has described as the American understanding of history as something relatively unimportant have made into the central and eastern European view of its significance. But the strength of the U.S. model, and the problematic character of the one Garton Ash has championed, have been brutally exposed by the hostility with which the Central and Eastern European countries to which he refers have reacted to the arrival of more than one million refugees and economic migrants from Syria, Iraq, Afghanistan, sub-Saharan Africa, and Bangladesh and Pakistan in 2015, and to the very real prospect that they are the \"advance guard\" of migrant flows that will soon increase to many millions. And however politically incorrect it may be to point this out, if memory is an essential element to building a European identity, then the arrival of masses of people who share none of these memories, and, more to the point, bring with them extra-European memories of their own, will unquestionably make the project Garton Ash espouses at the very least a great deal more difficult in the near and medium term, and may perhaps force a radical rethinking by Europeans of the role of memory in the definition of what it means to be European in the twenty-first century.\n\nIn contrast, an Australian or a New Zealander, each coming from a society that, on balance, has made a successful transition from monocultural to multicultural societies, might understandably react to my notes of caution by demanding to know what could be wrong with wearing a poppy in one's lapel on Anzac Day or Remembrance Day. Part of the reply to this is that nothing is wrong with it: it is an entirely appropriate and decent thing to do precisely because people in Australia and New Zealand do not wear poppies in their lapels on all the other days of the year, and that the significance of the gesture would be very different if they did. Such blanket displays are scarcely unknown. Think for example of the significance in the United States of wearing an American flag lapel pin. Whatever the original intention behind wearing it was, such pins rapidly became emblems of the American right, ubiquitous on Fox News though rarely seen on the other major networks. But the gesture so resonated with the U.S. public that only a few years later not wearing the pins left a politician open to the charge of being unpatriotic, and as a result many liberal American senators and representatives started wearing them as well to rebuff such charges. This group included Barack Obama, who only began to do so when in 2007, while still a U.S. senator, he launched his campaign for the presidency.\n\nMemory can be used as a political litmus test, for good causes and bad ones alike, in much the same way as a lapel pin bearing the image of the national flag (the practice is now no longer exclusively American) is used. If we assume that this is the case, then the question for those who insist, as Garton Ash does, on the link between weak collective memories and weak collective identities, is whether this is always a bad thing and if so, why? It should go without saying that there are no easy or definitive answers to this. Nietzsche wrote, \"The question of the degree to which life requires the service of history at all is one of the supreme questions and concerns in regard to the health of a man, a people, or a culture.\" To offer two extreme examples, one can agree with M\u00f6ller that \"the culture of memory [in Germany after 1945] is one of the great moral, political and societal achievements of the Federal Republic of Germany,\" as has been demonstrated most recently by the humane welcome Angela Merkel's conservative government in Berlin has afforded to the masses of refugees and migrants for whom Germany stands as a modern-day promised land. But would one not say, and not just in light of the slaughter at the Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church in Charleston, that the culture of memory of many white southerners from the Confederates' surrender at Appomattox in 1865 to the present day is one of the great moral, political, and societal failures of the United States?\n\nThe example of the American South is anything but unique. I remember going to Belgrade in 1993 to visit Vuk Dra\u0161kovi\u0107, the Serb nationalist politician and writer who was then leading the mass opposition against the Slobodan Milo\u0161evi\u0107 regime, and had drawn liberal as well as ultra-nationalist support in Serbia for his cause. As I was leaving his office, my head still ringing with Dra\u0161kovi\u0107's romantic paeans of praise for the Chetnik leader Dra\u017ea Mihailovi\u0107, one of his young aides pressed a folded bit of paper into my hand. It turned out to be blank except for a date: 1453\u2014the year Orthodox Constantinople fell to the Muslim Ottomans. Friends of mine who had worked in the former Yugoslavia during the Croatian and Bosnian wars had similar experiences in Zagreb and Sarajevo, though the dates in question were different. It certainly seemed as if the \"sores of history,\" as the Irish writer Hubert Butler once called them, remained unhealed more than half a millennium later\u2014at least in the desperate, degraded atmosphere of that time and place.\n\nThere is a broader and more consequential lesson to be learned from this. It is that far too often collective historical memory as understood and deployed by communities, peoples, and nations\u2014which, again, is always selective, more often than not self-serving, and historically anything but unimpeachable\u2014has led to war rather than peace, to rancor and ressentiment (which increasingly appears to be the defining emotion of our age) rather than reconciliation, and to the determination to exact revenge rather than commit to the hard work of forgiveness.\n\nThis is what happened in the American South after 1865 and, while diminished, is still happening today; it blighted the former Yugoslavia in the 1990s. Today, it is endemic in Israel-Palestine, in Iraq and Syria, in the Hindu nationalist populism of India's Bharatiya Janata Party, which the government of Narendra Modi is systematically institutionalizing, and among jihadis and Islamists both in the Muslim world and in the Muslim diaspora in western Europe, North America, and Australia. To insist on this is emphatically not to suggest that there is an easy solution. On the contrary, it is probable that human beings' need for community, already compelling in times of peace and plenty, comes to feel like a psychic and moral necessity in troubled times. But at least let there be no turning a blind eye to the high price societies have paid and are continuing to pay for the solace of remembrance.\n\nHistory is not a menu. You can't have the solidarity that a national myth helps form and sustain without the self-absorption, nor can you have the pride without the fear. Nor, despite all the loose talk about globalization, is the universal ethical community that in his fine study _The Ethics of Memory_ the Israeli philosopher Avishai Margalit has called for\u2014here echoing Kant's vision of a worldwide civil society administering universal rights\u2014anything other than a pipe dream, at least for now.\n\nMargalit is certainly correct in concluding that if we could create what he calls a shared moral memory based on some generally accepted moral minima, there could be a globalization of conscience on a par in the ethical sphere with the globalization of capitalism and of migration. Yet he does not satisfactorily address the problem raised by the scholar of cultural reporting Susie Linfield of what such collective remembering by \"humanity as a whole\" would mean. \"Why, and how,\" she asks, should \"[a victim] of the Rwandan genocide remember those of the Gulag? And why should a comfortable 25-year-old citizen of, say, Amsterdam\u2014or Cairo or Beijing\u2014remember either?\" Margalit himself concedes that creating and legitimating the shared moral memory he is calling for will be extraordinarily difficult. But having set out the daunting character of the task, he then in effect falls back on the old German idealist view that holds that if something should be done, if it is truly a moral imperative, then it must be done\u2014the world as \"cosmological idea,\" to deploy another Kantian formulation. This injunction can be summarized in the formula \"ought implies can.\"\n\nIn a time in which universal values seem to be under assault everywhere, even as, paradoxically, our era is increasingly defined by mass migrations on a scale not seen in generations and from much wider geographical sources than seen in centuries, this scarcely seems likely. There is even a whiff of eschatology about it: \"Alle Menschen werden Br\u00fcder\" (all men become brothers), The End. Even more problematically, Margalit's vision of the future is too close to the old fantasy of world government\u2014a moral analogue to Esperanto that is admirable, but when all is said and done is a waste of hope. As the philosopher and historian Leszek Kolakowski once remarked, \"We can imagine a universal brotherhood of wolves but not of humans, since the needs of wolves are limited and definable and therefore conceivably satisfied, whereas human needs have no boundaries we could delineate.\"\n\nFor better or worse, how we weigh the human need for remembrance against remembrance's dangers must take place in the context of how we live now and who we are as human beings. \"In the terrifying time in which we live and create,\" wrote the exemplary historian of Judaism Yosef Yerushalmi, \"eternity is not our immediate concern.\" Nor do we live in a world that, even were it to be transformed into a less terrifying place (which in the age of global warming and Daesh [also known as ISIS] hardly seems likely), ever will be converted to idealistic Kantian absolutism. Our challenge is different: to keep our bearings in a world in which, too often for it to be dismissed as a limiting case, values have proven to be incommensurable.\n\nAn obvious example of this is the often though by no means always inimical relationship in the aftermath of savage wars among three virtuous goals\u2014truth, justice, and peace. This is especially relevant to the increasing number of conflicts in which there is no clear victor. In such circumstances, often what is needed is appeasement in its denotative sense of \"soothing\" or \"bringing peace,\" though since the word has become so identified with Neville Chamberlain and \u00c9douard Daladier in Munich in 1938 caving in to Hitler over Czechoslovakia, another term would have to be found. To achieve such appeasement will require some version of what the British philosopher John Gray has described as a modus vivendi among civilizations, cultures, religions, and nations. Far from political remembrance being always a moral imperative, then, there will be times when such remembrance is what stands in the way.\n\n1. Halbwachs had a long and distinguished academic career. In 1944, he was awarded the chair in social psychology at the Coll\u00e8ge de France. A few months later, he was arrested by the Gestapo and died of hunger and dysentery in Buchenwald in 1945. Jorge Sempr\u00fan, a fellow prisoner with him there, wrote an extraordinary account of Halbwachs's death in his memoir _Literature or Life_.\n\n2. As Fintan O'Toole, a fierce critic of the Ireland of the boom, has pointed out, it at least liberated the Irish from the crushing weight of historical memory.\nTHREE\n\nWhat Is Collective Memory Actually Good For?\n\nOld men forget, as Shakespeare has the king say in _Henry V_. But left to their own devices, societies forget too, and far more quickly than they used to. This \"acceleration of history,\" as the French historian Daniel Hal\u00e9vy dubbed it, has been recognized since at least the latter part of the eighteenth century, and is the product both of the scientific revolutions of the previous century and of the intellectual and philosophical revolution that was the Enlightenment that culminated in the American and French Revolutions. In both its original and its subsequent forms, conceiving of history as something that accelerates, or even\u2014as two of the central figures of the French Revolution, Condorcet and Robespierre, believed, for all that divided them\u2014that can be _made_ to accelerate, is inseparable from the idea of progress, which itself is a concept that historically only slightly predates the Enlightenment. Indeed, the historian Hugh Trevor-Roper once described the idea of progress as a seventeenth-century heresy.\n\nIn the orthodox Christian view, as Trevor-Roper noted, progress is simply not possible. History has a trajectory all right, running from the Creation to the Last Judgment, but as the French historian Fr\u00e9d\u00e9ric Rouvillois put it in his pathbreaking _Invention of Progress, 1680 to 1730,_ any history of human progress, particularly if one agrees with Hal\u00e9vy that such progress is constantly accelerating, is antithetical to the \"linearity of the history of Salvation.\" That, after all, is the point the preacher in Ecclesiastes 1:2 is making when he declares, \"Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.\" In Rouvillois's words, for the believer waiting for the end of days when God will judge if he or she is to be damned or saved, \"progress is _impossible,_ most importantly because it is _useless_.\" As it says in John 12:31: \"Now is the judgment of this world, now shall the prince of this world be cast out.\"\n\nBut one does not have to be a believer to find the idea of progress far-fetched. What for lack of better terms, and for all their imprecision and oversimplification, we call premodern or traditional societies may be better off during a given historical period than they were in a previous one\u2014for example, because of good weather that leads to fuller harvests, or following success in war. But they may also find themselves worse off, should, say, they suffer famine (which they would have been likely to do given that it is a catastrophe that had afflicted all societies for all of recorded time until the second half of the twentieth century, when for the first time in human history they began to wane) or military defeat. Since the Enlightenment, the essence of the idea of progress has been that however difficult it may be to achieve in any given realm of human activity or of the human condition, it is at once inevitable and inexorable, rather than contingent and reversible, as it is in traditional societies. This is because, as Rouvillois writes at the end of his study, \"Once one has adopted an optimistic conception of human history and one has affirmed the _reality_ of progress, then one draws from one's sense that it is _necessary_ the confidence that it will thus be _perpetual_.\"\n\nTo insist on this point is not to claim that things never change in traditional cultures, the majority of which have been peasant cultures. Obviously they do, but usually so slowly that these changes are imperceptible to each generation. But the slowness of the change is not so much because such societies are governed by custom and precedent since, after all, this is also the purpose that, once successfully established, invented traditions are meant to serve. Rather, it is because, as Hobsbawm emphasized in his essay on the invention of tradition, there is so little demand in traditional societies for rapid change\u2014again, except in extremis, as in cases where famine drives people from the countryside to the city, where they find that the older traditions are no longer fit for the purpose, and thus have to be either radically modified or jettisoned entirely.\n\nThe link between Hal\u00e9vy's \"acceleration\" and Hobsbawm's \"invention of tradition\" is that, as Hobsbawm put it in 1983, \"[Large and rapid] changes have been particularly significant in the past 200 years, and it is therefore reasonable to expect these instant formalizations of new traditions to cluster during this period.\" Once the stable arrangements that began to come apart at the time of the Industrial Revolution had eroded past a certain point, they could never again be reconstituted. But few human beings can live without any traditions to which to adhere. As a result, when any real continuity with the past became impossible, that past had to be reimagined and reconstructed both for the present's and for the future's sake.\n\nIn the past fifty years, the acceleration has been particularly extreme in the hard sciences and technology, certainly, but also in the arts. The philosopher Karl Popper's dictum that the essential difference between the sciences and the humanities is that in the former propositions are empirically falsifiable whereas in the latter they are not is over-broad. It is true that historically innovation has played a more important role in Western art than it did in African, Indian, Southeast Asian, or Chinese art. Nonetheless, the divorce of the art of the present from the art of the past is all but absolute, and in this sense seems more radical than previous moments of rupture. The mental stance of the contemporary artist strikingly parallels that of the scientist in that the art of the past is deemed to be as irrelevant to the art of the present as pre-Copernican physics is deemed to be to string theory or trepanning to brain surgery.\n\nThe scientists and technologists are on firmer ground. One does not have to endorse the techno-utopianism of a Ray Kurzweil, or share Bill and Melinda Gates's conviction, which has informed all the work of their foundation\u2014by far the richest in the history of philanthropy\u2014that disease, hunger, and poverty will be all but ended or at least radically reduced thanks to technological innovation, to appreciate how much the world has changed, and how much that change continues to accelerate.1 In the early twenty-first century, and in every domain except our identities as mortal, biological beings (though Ray Kurzweil and other like-minded cyber-utopians in Silicon Valley would reject even that caveat), the transformation continues. For the first time in human history, a majority of the world's population lives in cities instead of in the countryside. The free movement of capital is taken for granted, as is the alternative, borderless geography of cyberspace. And all the while, the unprecedented movement of poor people from the Global South toward the Global North, which is an accelerator of history if ever there was one, and which may be able to be managed but certainly cannot be stopped, is hollowing out national identities even as it makes a mockery of national borders.\n\nAnd if what in Spanish is called _mestizaje_ (the term has cultural and historical connotations that makes it far more resonant than its English translation \"the mixing of the races\") is proceeding apace, so is global cultural and linguistic homogenization. Not a year goes by without at least ten small languages dying out, while small cultures are being steadily subsumed into a few dominant ones, largely articulated in Chinese, Spanish, English, Arabic, Hindi, Bengali, and to some extent French and Portuguese. Climate change, even if the rise in global temperatures is held to a (comparatively) manageable range of between 2 and 2.5 degrees Celsius rather than a catastrophic 3.5- to 5-degree range, will transform cultures as surely as it will trans-form the environment. And scientists are now convinced that the earth has entered the sixth wave of mass extinctions of plants and animals in the past half-billion years and predict that a quarter or more of all land species will no longer exist by the year 2050. In short, the historical stresses that led to the accelerated manufacture of traditions that Hobsbawm and Ranger identified are only a foretaste of those the world is subject to now, let alone what we are likely to confront in the future.\n\nNarrowing the frame to politics, the acceleration of history template is particularly useful when applied to those periods when empires fall and new polities rise or are revived, or when the demography of a given society is altered so dramatically that emphasizing a historical consensus that is no longer shared by a preponderance of the state's citizens no longer makes sense. Historically, this question has been especially bedeviling to settler societies such as the United States, Canada, and Australia, though the recent huge immigration to western European countries has blurred the differences between settler and nonsettler, virtually guaranteeing that most of the nations of the European Union will soon be confronting similar challenges. In the United States, for example, when the overwhelming majority of Americans were of European origin, what even in the age of the European colonial empires at their zenith in global terms was certainly a disproportionate emphasis on the history of Europe was defensible. But in the increasingly de-Europeanized United States of today it is not. The problem, of course, is what to replace it with.\n\nTimothy Garton Ash has suggested that a possible approach to the challenges facing a European Union now expanded to twenty-seven countries is not to try to forge a common collective memory, for, as he rightly observed, one would \"have to do extreme violence to the historical truth\" in order to do so. Instead, Garton Ash proposed defining European identity as \"nations that are coming from very different histories but aspiring toward shared goals.\" Yet as Garton Ash undoubtedly understands as well as anyone, \"shared goals\" are hard enough to define in good times, and these are anything but good times in Europe. The Greek crisis alone, but also the rise of populist parties on both the left (Syriza in Greece, Podemos in Spain, and others) and on the right (the Front National in France and the Danish People's Party, for example), the inability of European governments to agree on how to craft a common policy on the resettlement of the latest waves of migrants, and the cultural, political, and economic panic, whether justified or not (probably both, in my view), that the refugee exodus has caused offer ample evidence that the era in which serious thinkers such as Garton Ash and J\u00fcrgen Habermas could continue to believe that the humane vision of statesmen such as Jean Monnet, Robert Schuman, Paul-Henri Spaak, and Emile No\u00ebl for Europe and its vocation in the world still enjoyed a preponderance of support from the European public may well be ending, if it has not ended already.\n\nBut let us assume that Habermas's anxieties that the European project is in the process of being transformed into the opposite of what its founders had intended, and that the world's \"first transnational democracy [risks becoming] an especially effective, because disguised, arrangement for exercising a kind of post-democratic rule,\" are misplaced. And let us hope that enough hearts and heads are swayed by Garton Ash's fierce and eloquent response to the reaction of the vice president of the European Commission to Syriza's election victory in January 2015 (\"We don't change policies depending on elections\") when he wrote, \"Given the choice between democracy and a paternalistic, top-down, Euro-Leninist version of European integration, I will choose democracy every time.\" Even assuming such a positive outcome, the success of the European project will remain in doubt.\n\nThe reasons for this have been brilliantly analyzed by the French political scientist Zaki La\u00efdi in his _A World Without Meaning: The Crisis of Meaning in International Politics_. \"If in Western societies,\" he writes, \"the social and political forces which claim to be the paradigm of the transformation are in crisis, it is precisely because identity transmission and social transformation seem disconnected. Transmission is thought old-fashioned (nationalism) and transformation destructive (globalization), whereas transmission ought to be made positive and transformation protective.\"\n\nIf anything, La\u00efdi understates the problem, especially that of transmission, since today even to speak of a common European, or, for that matter, American or Australian, identity is problematic. This is at least in part because, as the Dutch academic Joep Leerssen has pointed out, \"Historical investigation has turned from victors and triumphant elites to the downtrodden, the persecuted, the victimized.\" Instead of commemorations of shared trauma in what Leerssen calls \"the Binyon\/Tennyson mode of transmuting loss and grief into edification and catharsis,\" remembrance largely inhabits a \"'never again' mode.\" Garton Ash's prescription for Europeans to explore \"the diversity of our memories\" in order to arrive at shared goals simply takes insufficient account of the degree to which the new politics of commemoration is grounded in what Leerssen calls the \"experience of oppression, of defeat, of injustice and grievance\" and informed by the idea that \"the lesson to be drawn from past injustice is one of vigilance and assertiveness.\" Meanwhile, those who continue to want the previous consensus to prevail are furious at what they see as disloyalty and ingratitude, particularly on the part of immigrant populations and sexual minorities. In our new era of ressentiment, the idea of a shared anything seems increasingly out of reach.\n\nBut even if the divide were narrower between collective memory in the service of national unity and collective memory in the service of those victimized by the nation in question who await at least an acknowledgment and often an apology for what they or their ancestors have suffered, the new synthesis of the two, no matter how satisfactory or unsatisfactory to both sides, will be as mortal as any other set of political arrangements and cultural compromises. If there is a puzzle in all this, it is that anyone could believe that political arrangements could be other than transitory, no matter how potent they might seem at a particular moment in history. In a fascinating short memoir called \"Where Statues Go to Die,\" the historian of the British Empire David Cannadine illustrated the fragility and contingency of even the most grandiose emblems of bygone empires by describing how during a visit to India in 2003 he had come face to face with the inglorious fate of colonial monuments. He was taken to a large open space on the edge of New Delhi, where in colonial times British viceroys had held their great ceremonial gatherings known as \"durbars.\" What Cannadine found was a \"neglected, overgrown, obscure piece of ground\" that conveyed the message that \"earthly power is transient, and that imperial dominion is ephemeral.\"\n\nIn the remotest corner of the site, he describes being led to \"a most astonishing scene: a dozen immense statues, rising up from the bushes and the brambles, like the chessmen arrayed for that terrifying contest towards the end of the first Harry Potter film.\" They were statues of George V, emperor of India, and a number of British viceroys, \"placed by the British in New Delhi to be permanent monuments to men whose lives and deeds they deemed worthy of everlasting commemoration.\" But India had moved on\u2014just as virtually every other former European colony, French, Dutch, Portuguese, or Spanish, where such statues once occupied pride of place has moved on. A brilliant Cartier-Bresson photograph taken in 1949 shows the official portraits of colonial officials being removed like so much rubbish from the governor's mansion in Jakarta shortly after Indonesia gained its independence from Holland. The journalist and writer Ryszard Kapu\u015bci\u0144ski witnessed something similar in Angola in 1975. As he recounts it, the Portuguese colonists all but stripped their houses, crating up the contents to be loaded onto freighters that would take them from Luanda back to Portugal. But the colonists paid no heed to the colonial statuary, and soldiers of the victorious MPLA (Popular Movement for the Liberation of Angola) removed them from their plinths and carted them unceremoniously to a field much like the one David Cannadine had seen on the outskirts of New Delhi.\n\nSuch high, iconoclastic moments, when all the grand symbols of colonial rule reverted to what they had been when they were still being cast at the foundry\u2014bits of hewn and polished stone now representing something barely intelligible\u2014are hardly restricted to the public monuments and official portraits of European colonial officials. After 1989, many of the same sorts of scenes were played out throughout the Soviet Union, and again, a few years later, in the Balkans.2 Somehow I doubt that Lenin or Stalin ever imagined, any more than Lord Curzon did, that his images would be transformed from symbols of domination to kitsch in a matter of decades.3 And yet that is precisely what happened in Russia, to the point that the English-language _Moscow Times_ could run a story in 1996 that set out the going prices in the \"antique\" shops along the Old Arbat for such objects as busts of Lenin and \"a large plate in good condition of Stalin and Voroshilov at work.\"\n\nDespite the comic turns these episodes can take, the underlying reality is deadly serious. For we are back with Kipling once more. He would certainly not have been surprised by what Cannadine saw in that field on the outskirts of New Delhi. After all, for Kipling the mortality of every empire was as certain as our own individual mortality (and possibly even more so since, at the end of his life the poet had the uneasy consolation in believing in spirits as well as in Jesus Christ). Where empire was concerned, though, there could be no appeal. As it says in Psalms 146:3\u20134: \"Put not your trust in princes, nor in the son of man, in whom there is no help. His breath goeth forth, he returneth to his earth; in that very day his thoughts perish.\"\n\nThat through all of this\u2014\"action and suffering, power and pride, sin and death,\" as Karl L\u00f6with put it\u2014God endured could offer no consolation to Kipling. He well understood that God is mainly outside history, intervening only at its beginning with the act of love that is the Creation, and at its end, the Apocalypse, which Leszek Kolakowski once described as the \"never-ending framework of Jesus' preaching.\" Eschatology, not the future in this world, was what concerned many of the best known of the early Christian martyrs, such as Thecla, who vowed to remain a virgin and finally fled into the mountains, where she preached the Gospel until her death at ninety. Or Maximilla, whose love of God impelled her to pray for Him to intercede so that she would no longer have to have sex with her husband, Aegeates. How could these women have committed themselves to relinquishing all their property and have been so ambivalent even about having children had they not seen themselves as being betrothed to the world to come?\n\nFor the rest, game, set, and match to Shelley:\n\n\"My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:\n\nLook on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!\"\n\nNothing beside remains. Round the decay\n\nOf that colossal wreck, boundless and bare\n\nThe lone and level sands stretch far away.\n\nAlthough he, too, despaired, Kipling still chose to write about forgetting in the conditional: \"Lest we forget!\" He was right to do so, for had he done anything else, his appeal for remembrance would have been rendered all but meaningless (imagine what Shelley would have done with the theme of \"Recessional\"). And remembrance is emphatically not meaningless except in the cognitively and probably ethically useless framework of eternity. Human beings are drawn to ceremony and, whether they are believers in a religion or not, to piety as well.4 This is why, without falling into a subspecies of ancestor worship, surely there is something impious, or at the least ethically impoverished, about forgetting the sacrifices and the sufferings of those who came before. If those who died in battle or gave their lives for their beliefs are not remembered, how can their acts have any meaning? And for their sacrifices, read all sacrifice. In Dryden's great phrase, such a forgetting truly would be \"the untuning of the sky.\"\n\n\"Imagine . . . a world without memories,\" runs the tagline on the website of the government-backed \"Australian Memory of the World Register,\" part of a global project on memory organized by UNESCO. The effort is less doom-laden than these words might lead us to believe, and largely involves the preservation of historical documents and the recording of oral histories. But that does not make the admonition on the home page any less emblematic of the nonsense that so much of the discussion about memory seems to produce. Quite simply, the world does not have memories; nor do nations; nor do groups of people. Individuals remember, full stop. Yet in the early twenty-first century, collective memory is often spoken of as if it were indeed on a par with individual, which is to say genuine, memory, and not infrequently, though almost never explicitly, as if it morally outranked it.\n\nTo paraphrase the progressive leftist intellectual Randolph Bourne's sardonic remark about war, is collective memory now the health of state? Reading the literature on remembrance, one might very well think so. The fact that individuals forget, whether through the sad cognitive deficits that come with age or, conversely, some happy remission in their private life (such as fading of the memory of the lover who broke one's heart), is not thought to pose a threat to society as a whole. In contrast, a collective failure of remembrance is often presented as if it were an invitation to moral or political disaster. The paradigmatic contemporary expression of this is the commonly voiced assertion that shirking our moral obligation to remember the Shoah is for all intents and purposes to strike a blow against what Thomas Jefferson called \"the decent opinions of mankind.\" A person who did so might not be an \"assassin of memory,\" the term that the historian Pierre Vidal-Naquet rightly affixed to Holocaust deniers such as Robert Faurisson. But he or she has committed a grave ethical solecism just the same.\n\nThis sense underpins the views of Avishai Margalit. For him, the issue is not a matter of Jewish particularism, though because the Jews are a religion that became a people rather than a people who became a religion (the formulation is Harold Bloom's), the question of that particularism, and, more broadly, of a Jewish approach to history that is in many ways unique, must be addressed if one hopes to get to the heart of the matter. Karl L\u00f6with thought that because Christians were not a historical people\u2014\"their solidarity [was] merely one of faith\"\u2014it was impossible to apply a purely Christian interpretation to the historical destiny of Christian peoples. But he argued that the destiny of the Jewish people _was_ a subject for Jewish interpretation, presumably up to and including the Shoah. Margalit, though, is interested in global ethical minima: that is, in arriving at a standard that should command not just one people's or even one civilization's allegiance but humanity's as a whole. For he believes\u2014and to be clear, not as a matter of Jewish particularism\u2014that there are certain \"moral nightmares,\" as he calls them, the Shoah first and foremost, that must remain in our collective memories because they are \"striking examples of radical evil and crimes against humanity, such as enslavement, deportations of civilian populations, and mass exterminations.\"\n\nIn effect, what Margalit is saying is that the need to be alert to radical evil (he borrows the term from Kant but imbues it with a somewhat different meaning) imposes on humanity as a collectivity the prudential requirement of constructing a moral memory that can be universally understood, shared, transmitted, and defended. To do anything less would be to leave humanity itself vulnerable to what Margalit describes as \"the effort of [the forces of radical evil] to undermine morality itself by, among other means, rewriting the past and controlling collective memory.\"\n\nIn this, as in his arguments in favor of forgiveness but against forgetting, Margalit follows the philosopher Paul Ricoeur, who wrote, \"We must remember because remembering is a moral duty. We owe a debt to the victims. . . . By remembering and telling, we . . . prevent forgetfulness from killing the victims twice.\" But however counterintuitive my argument may seem, and however much one honors the moral seriousness of those like Ricoeur, Margalit, Todorov, Yerushalmi, and Vidal-Naquet who have advanced various, and not entirely congruent versions of this position, what if they are wrong? What if, over the long term, forgetfulness is inevitable, while even in the comparatively short term the memory of an instance of radical evil, up to and including the Shoah itself, does nothing to protect society from future instances of it?\n\nShortly before his death in July 2015 at the age of 106, Sir Nicholas Winton, who had traveled to Prague on the eve of the Second World War and managed to rescue 669 Jewish schoolchildren and bring them safely back to Britain, gave an interview to Stephen Sackur of the BBC. Sackur asked Winton what lessons he drew from the past. From the look of surprise on Sackur's face, he probably did not expect the answer he received. Winton was categorical. \"What good does concentrating on the past do us,\" he demanded; \"Who has ever learned anything by concentrating on the past?\" Winton's question is worth the asking, as is that of the cofounder of the Annales School, the French historian Marc Bloch, who concluded his eloquent review _On Collective Memory_ by commenting that Maurice Halbwachs \"pushes us to reflect on the conditions of the historical development of humanity; indeed, what would this development look like without 'collective memory'?\"\n\nWhat if the collective memory of a nation, which Margalit himself concedes has been defined as a society that nourishes, Renan-like, a common delusion about its ancestry, is not just wildly overrated as a measure of that society's coherence, and not just ultimately futile (the message at the heart of Kipling's \"Recessional\"), but often actively dangerous? And what if, instead of heralding the end of meaning, a decent measure of communal forgetting is actually the sine qua non of a peaceful and decent society, while remembering is the politically, socially, and morally risky pursuit? Or, to put it somewhat differently, what if the past can provide no satisfactory meaning, no matter how generously and inclusively, as in Timothy Garton Ash's prescription, it is interpreted? In short, what if, at least in some places and on some historical occasions, the human and societal cost of the moral demand to remember is too high to be worth paying?\n\nAlmost no one believes this anymore. Marx did, when he wrote, \"The social revolution of the nineteenth century cannot draw its poetry from the past, but only from the future. . . . In order to arrive at its own content, the revolution of the nineteenth century must let the dead bury their dead.\" And Nietzsche did, though he did not do so consistently, even when he praised \"the art and power of _forgetting_ and of enclosing oneself within a bounded _horizon_.\" But the contemporary consensus bends entirely in the opposite direction. In fairness, the most brilliant writing in defense of remembrance, and here Margalit and Todorov stand out, offers a number of caveats about how remembrance can be misused. Todorov has been especially firm in this regard, observing that \"the path between the sacralization and the banalization of the past, between serving one's own self-interest and giving moral lessons to others, can seem narrow,\" before adding, in an echo of Galileo's \"eppur si muove,\" \"And yet it is there.\"\n\nTo put it kindly, such subtleties are not often in evidence in most arguments in support of collective memory as a moral and social imperative. All too many of them seem to take as their point of departure George Santayana's far too celebrated and, insofar as it was meant as a generalization, demonstrably false injunction, \"Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.\"5 This is the view that has become the conventional wisdom today, and the conviction that memory is a species of morality now stands as one of more unassailable pieties of our age. All of this operates at least as much under the sign of what Todorov has called moral correctness as it does under that of political correctness. To remember is to be responsible\u2014to truth, to history, to one's faith, to one's country, to the traditions of one's own people or gender or sexuality (in this last instance what is usually meant is a group's sufferings, the history of its oppression). Anything less is an act of irresponsibility that threatens to undermine both one's community and, in our therapeutic age, oneself as well. And even to question this consensus is to disturb what Tony Judt, writing in praise of Hannah Arendt, described as \"the easy peace of received opinion.\"\n\n1. Scientific progress is no myth. But as John Gray has written, \"The myth is that the progress achieved in science and technology can occur in ethics, politics, or, more simply, civilization.\"\n\n2. These could sometimes be comic. In Tirana, shortly after the fall of the Albanian regime, I visited a foundry most of whose work during the entire Communist period had been casting statues of party leaders, above all of Enver Hoxha, the country's dictator. When I met the works manager, though, he seemed remarkably cheerful. It turned out that the foundry was as busy as ever... making statues of Mother Teresa.\n\n3. A strong case can be made that when such iconoclastic moments do _not_ occur, a successful transition from one kind of society to another is less likely to be achieved. Had the federal authorities in Washington, D.C., been willing after Reconstruction to stop the widespread reemergence and official display throughout the South of Confederate flags and other symbols, the ideology of the Lost Cause might not have become dominant in the way that it did.\n\n4. As John Gray has pointed out, the resurgence of religion in the twenty-first century is a global phenomenon. If anything, it may be atheism that proves to be the historical parenthesis.\n\n5. To which Michael Herr noted in _Dispatches_ the \"little history joke\" that \"those who remember the past are condemned to repeat it too.\"\nFOUR\n\nThe Victory of Memory over History\n\nThe instauration of memory as an indispensable public good, and its corollary, the damning of forgetting as a form of civic nihilism, depends on the idea, as Avishai Margalit posits it, that humanity \"can be shaped into a community of memory.\" Margalit understands full well how difficult this will be to achieve and recognizes that it has never yet happened. He concedes, \"It is hard to form effective institutions that will store such memories and diffuse them.\" And he points out, though without giving it the emphasis it deserves, the additional danger of what he calls \"biased salience,\" in which events from \"the so-called First World, or the technologically developed world, are likely to be more salient to us than comparable events in the Third World.\" Margalit does not discuss the relation between the continued dominance in the twenty-first century of the global media by Western communications companies.1 Had he done so it would only have strengthened his argument, since the fact that, as he rightly points out, Kosovo is \"better remembered\" than Rwanda, is largely the result of the imbalance between the coverage of the former and of the latter.\n\nMargalit is certainly right to worry about \"a false moral superiority\" being attached to atrocities that take place in Europe as opposed to those that occur elsewhere. Margalit also is right to argue that Nazi crimes \"are glaring examples of what morality requires us to remember.\" And yet, as Tony Judt pointed out in 2008, considerable evidence already exists that in many parts of the world the Shoah is losing (if it has not already lost) what he called \"its universal resonance.\" \"Moral admonitions from Auschwitz that loom huge on the memory screens of Europeans,\" he observed, \"are quite invisible to [many] Asians and Africans.\"\n\nBut even if one believes that Judt was mistaken about the particular case of the Shoah, Margalit's broader call for a shared moral memory for humankind remains problematic. Margalit himself conceded that he was \"unclear in my mind as to how to go about creating such a memory.\" In the end, he is forced to fall back on little more than a combination of hope in the face of even the small likelihood of this hope being fulfilled\u2014Margalit cites Romans 4:18, wherein Abraham is described as a man \"who against hope believed in hope\"\u2014and his neo-Kantian resolve that _ought_ implies _can_. He is hardly alone among philosophers in his confidence that, as the French philosopher Vladimir Jank\u00e9l\u00e9vitch once put it, \"Morality always has the last word.\" But since elsewhere in his book Margalit admits that \"we live with insufficient sources to justify our ethics and morality,\" we might have thought this would have given him pause before he went so far in raising what the historian and poet Robert Conquest with some asperity once described as \"the dragons of expectation.\"\n\nThis is not to say that Margalit is wrong to claim the existence of an ethics of memory. But in making the case for it, he glosses over the possibility that the reality of remembrance, and, indeed, of forgetting, which is almost of equal concern to him, might be fundamentally and ineradicably political, as Renan had understood it to be. Even when he speaks of humanity, Margalit employs a universalizing language that for the most part offers a view of the world in which there are individuals, some good, some evil, and there is the human race, as if when all were said and done there would be no need to grapple with the fact that ours is a world in which different groups of people see the world in irreconcilable or at least incommensurable ways and are almost certain to go on doing so. Even if one does not share the French social theorist Serge Latouche's anxieties about efforts to instill what he has called \"the confidence trick of a bogus universality,\" surely in the early twenty-first century and for the foreseeable future the most pressing problem is not finding a way to instill a universal code of ethics but figuring out how to stave off the worst by arriving at John Gray's modus vivendi, in which, yes, we will have to agree to disagree on what needs to be remembered and how, and, as much if not more important, on what needs to be forgotten.\n\nLike Todorov, whose _Abuses of Memory_ has an epigraph from Jacques Le Goff enjoining his readers to \"ensure that collective memory contributes to the liberation rather than the enslavement of mankind,\" Margalit is painfully aware that collective memory can be abused. What does not seem to command his attention, let alone excite his skepticism, though, is the extent to which the concept permits virtually anybody and everybody, whatever their moral, political, or social views, to subscribe to it. Today, fascists and multiculturalists, servants of the state and revolutionaries committed to bringing the state to its knees, elites and counterelites unite in paying homage to \"The Duty of Memory.\" We need only Google the French equivalent, _devoir de m\u00e9moire,_ to understand how protean the term has become. The Association Devoir de M\u00e9moire describes itself on its website as \"a pageant association representing the Canadian troops [in] World War II who worked for the liberation of Europe.\" Les \"Oubli\u00e9-e-s\" de la M\u00e9moire is a national memorial organization that works to educate the public about the deportation of homosexuals during the Nazi occupation of France; it campaigns in both France and elsewhere for the recognition of what happened. Two right-wing presidents of France in succession, Jacques Chirac and Nicolas Sarkozy, on one side of the ideological divide, and, on the other, a well-known activist group on the hard left that calls itself Duties [plural] of Memory, have invoked the \"duty of memory\" with regard to the slave trade.\n\nThe French case is extreme in the sense that, in the words of the French historian Pierre Nora, whose pioneering research and many books on the subject established him as the foremost student of the role collective historical memory has played and continues to play in French society, \"'Memory' has taken on a meaning so broad and all-inclusive that it tends to be used purely and simply as a substitute for 'history' and to put the study of history in the service of memory.\" The takeover of history by memory is also the takeover of history by politics. The result in practice, if not necessarily in theory, has taken us far from Margalit's world of ethical obligations and moral minima. Instead, we have entered a world in which the essential function of collective memory is one of legitimizing a particular worldview and political and social agenda, and delegitimizing those of one's ideological opponents.\n\nRenan would have loathed what Nora called the \"democratization\" of history, which he argued provided the ethical basis for subordinating history to collective memory. But far from undermining Renan's view, the shift Nora identified vindicates it in the sense that the creation of a given group identity is dependent on what of and how the past is remembered. What has changed, and this would indeed have profoundly worried Renan, is that whereas until the 1970s collective memory was largely a state monopoly, particularly of those elements of the state responsible for education and war\u2014a \"memorial regime of national unity,\" as the French political scientist Johann Michel has described it\u2014now it is up for grabs, with ethnic, religious, and sexual minorities challenging traditional mainstream accounts and seeking to modify them if not to transform them entirely.\n\nDoes any common ground remain? The answer seems to be, \"More than we might think.\" For no matter how bitterly the two sides differ both over _what_ should be remembered and _how_ this remembrance should be commemorated, they agree that not to remember would be far worse and constitute what Jank\u00e9l\u00e9vitch called a \"shameful amnesia.\" In 2008, early in his presidential term, Nicolas Sarkozy invoked the \"duty of memory\" when he ordered that all French schoolchildren entering their last year of primary school study the life story of one of the eleven thousand Jewish schoolchildren deported by the Nazis and murdered in the camps. His successor, Fran\u00e7ois Hollande, who was then leader of the Socialist opposition, wholeheartedly endorsed Sarkozy's initiative, declaring that \"any time that it is possible to transmit that which the duty of memory demands, it must be done.\" For their part, groups demanding that France \"remember\" the crimes of its colonial past and the affronts committed against groups within France itself that were excluded from the national story\u2014even, as some campaigning associations have done, offer an apology, or reparations, whether symbolic or substantive\u2014would endorse Hollande's formula, though the uses they would make of it are completely different.\n\nIn any case, let us assume for the sake of argument that the \"memorialists,\" whatever their ideological inclinations, are correct in insisting, with Jank\u00e9l\u00e9vitch, that it is both morally shameful to forget the horrors of the past and morally uplifting to remember or, better still, to recuperate that past. Does it then follow that these are the last words that need to be said on the subject? The answer to that question has to be no\u2014a qualified no, to be sure, but no just the same.\n\nTo be clear, I am not arguing that it is always wrong to insist on remembrance as a moral imperative. When a historical crime or tragedy has been covered up, even one that occurred long before anyone now living was born, or if the history books tell lies or a partial truth about what occurred, or even if the realities of what happened have simply become muddied, no matter whether maliciously or out of ignorance, lifting the veil about what took place is almost always something to be welcomed. The Armenian genocide is an obvious case in point; another would be the massacres perpetrated by British and French imperial forces throughout the colonial period. The same could be said about war crimes and other mass atrocities, especially if they happened in living memory. There, if a practical possibility exists not only of establishing an honest record of what was done but also of bringing the perpetrators to justice, in principle it should be done. One example of such a crime is the massacre of Muslims at Srebrenica, another the women and girls, most of them Korean and Chinese, who between 1932 and 1945 were forced by the Imperial Japanese Army into sexual slavery.\n\nBut even in such cases, things are sometimes more complicated morally than they may first appear. Most people, for example, would regard the warrant issued in 1998 by the Spanish magistrate Baltasar Garz\u00f3n for the arrest of the former Chilean military dictator Augusto Pinochet as a long-overdue blow for justice. But many Chileans, including a substantial number of those who welcomed Garz\u00f3n's action, also believe that had his order been issued in 1990, at the time Pinochet left office, he might have refused to relinquish power or that, had he done so, the Chilean military, which at the time was still loyal to him, would have stayed in its barracks. Under those circumstances, how can we be certain that the democratic transition would have gone forward? Assuming that the arrest might have offered at least a serious risk to that transition, would standing for the truth, or, yes, upholding the demands of justice, still have been worth it? Surely there would be nothing dishonorable in answering no to that question.\n\nTo raise this possibility is emphatically not to suggest that the answer should usually be no. To the contrary, more often than not it should be yes. When Jank\u00e9l\u00e9vitch denounced \"shameful amnesia,\" for example, he was responding to those who were criticizing the French government's 1987 prosecution of Klaus Barbie for crimes against humanity\u2014the first such case ever to be brought in France. Barbie was the former head of the Gestapo in German-occupied Lyon, and his many atrocities included personally torturing a number of prisoners to death, as well as responsibility for the deaths of thousands more, including the French Resistance leader Jean Moulin. Jank\u00e9l\u00e9vitch was not alone in his condemnation. It was those who opposed the trial, among other reasons on the grounds that stirring up the past could only be destructive, that Pierre Vidal-Naquet denounced in _Assassins of Memory_.\n\nJank\u00e9l\u00e9vitch and Vidal-Naquet's fears were warranted, as Adolf Hitler's own words, recorded in the transcripts later published as his \"table talk,\" should have been enough to demonstrate. On August 22, 1939, Hitler had declared that Germany could and would exterminate the Poles \"mercilessly and without compassion.\" The international community would not object, he said, because \"Who, after all, speaks today of the annihilation of the Armenians?\"2 The accusation, fortunately not as common today as it was in the 1950s and 1960s, that Nietzsche's philosophy was one of the inspirations of Nazi ideology is a calumny. But Hitler's comment is uncomfortably close to Nietzsche's stark reminder \"Whichever interpretation prevails at a given time is a function of power, not of truth.\"\n\nThe claim that to remember is in and of itself a moral act derives much of its force from its ambition to prove Nietzsche and Hitler wrong. The judging and execution or imprisonment of Nazi officials and concentration camp guards can never be comprehensive, and therefore cannot be put forward as a sufficient reckoning with the horror of what had occurred. In any case, even at its best, beyond assigning guilt and punishing the guilty, justice can only establish facts and at times provide the survivors and the relatives of those who did not survive with a measure of vindication and release. But as Elie Wiesel put it, \"Justice without memory is incomplete justice, false and unjust. [For to] forget would be an absolute injustice in the same way that Auschwitz was the absolute crime. To forget would be the enemy's final triumph.\" In this Wiesel echoes, though in universalist rather than in purely Jewish terms, the philosopher and rabbi Emil Fackenheim's injunction that if the Shoah is ever forgotten, Hitler will not only have triumphed at Auschwitz but will have won a posthumous victory as well.\n\nWhat Nietzsche said about power and truth is usually understood as a cynical comment on the way in which the powerful misrepresent the truth. But although history is replete with examples that vindicate Nietzsche's claim, unless you believe that everything states do is invariably malign, in principle there is no reason why this power cannot be made to serve moral ends instead of immoral ones. Some states, notably France, have tried to enlist the law into the service of historical truth. In practice, the most important expression of this has been a series of legislative measures aimed at banning the denial or questioning in a public context of the reality of some (though not all) of the worst crimes in human history. The first of what came to be known as \"memorial laws\" was the _loi Gayssot_ (1990), which criminalized all forms of such \"revisionism\" with regard to the Shoah. In 2001, a law was passed in the French parliament that recognized the reality of the Armenian genocide. In 2003 another piece of legislation, the _loi Taubira,_ recognized the slave trade as a crime against humanity. And in 2005, it became an offense to deny that the Armenian genocide had taken place.3\n\nThere has since been some spillover from these French initiatives to the European Union as a whole. In 2007, a proposal in front of the European parliament was tabled that would have made punishable by a term of imprisonment an expansive array of \"denialism.\" These included (the explanatory notes in parentheses are mine): \"genocides\" (plural), \"war crimes of a racist character [ _sic_ ] and crimes against humanity,\" \"gross banalization\" (that is, saying these crimes are not especially important or deserving of special status, as some French lawyers defending Nazi war criminals like Klaus Barbie had done), and even \"complicity\" in that banalization (no matter when the crimes in question had occurred and what political, administrative, or judicial authority had determined them to be established as historical facts).\n\nUnsurprisingly, the consensus among professional historians has been to fiercely oppose such blanket prohibitions. They have not done this out of na\u00efvet\u00e9; after all, historians know in intimate detail the ways in which states have tried to cover up shameful episodes in their history. What most objected to was the recourse to law in the effort to combat \"denialism.\" As Pierre Nora put it at the time the loi Taubira was passed: \"Victims and orphans [of the victims] were before our eyes, and the authors of these abominations very much alive. With [the passage of the] _Loi Taubira_ we reached back five or six centuries, and with the Armenians to crimes in which France played no role. What about the Vend\u00e9e? . . . The Albigensians, the Cathars, the Crusades?\" Nora concluded, \"On the model of the _Loi Gayssot,_ we are creating a system that can only constrain research and paralyze teachers.\"\n\nWhile I share this view, it is unlikely that the series of laws Nora viewed with such dread posed a danger to historical truth of the same order of magnitude as the tendency of most governments (and probably all at one time or another) to seek to cover up not only the historical skeletons in their own closet but also those of other states, movements, or institutions with which they find themselves in sympathy. And when a government is committed to that course, the consequences for those who do try to bring what happened to light can be severe. The case of Chelsea Manning, the U.S. soldier who revealed the details of a massacre committed by her comrades in Iraq and was sentenced to thirty-five years in prison as a result, is only one of a myriad of contemporary illustrations of this.\n\nThe case of the Irish essayist Hubert Butler is illuminating in this regard. Butler was a member of the Irish Republic's Protestant minority. He was sent to an English public school and went on to attend an English university. Butler graduated in 1922 and returned to Ireland. Four years later, he left again, and for almost fifteen years traveled extensively in China, the United States, Egypt, the Soviet Union, Yugoslavia (where he spent three years), and central Europe. In 1938 and in 1939, he worked with a Quaker group in Vienna helping Jews escape post-Anschluss Austria, impelled to do so, as he would later recall, after hearing an anti-Semitic statement by the Irish parliamentarian Oliver J. Flanagan. \"I was as Irish as Oliver Flanagan,\" Butler later recalled, \"and I was determined that Jewish refugees should come to Ireland.\" After Vienna, Butler went to London, where he worked briefly for the British Colonial Service. But following his father's death in 1941, he returned to Ireland, moving into the family house in his native County Kilkenny, where he would live for the next fifty years until his own death in 1991 at the age of ninety.\n\nImmediately after the end of the Second World War, Butler went back to Yugoslavia, where he tried to investigate the wartime campaign by the Nazi-installed Croatian fascist regime of Ante Pavelic\u00b4 to convert the almost 2.9 million Eastern Orthodox Serbs of Croatia and Bosnia-Herzegovina to Roman Catholicism, murdering many of those who would not renounce their faith. When he got back to Ireland, he gave a talk on Radio E\u00edreann on Yugoslavia, and, at a time when the coverage of Yugoslavia in the Irish press was focused on the victorious Tito dictatorship's persecution of religion, Butler felt honor-bound to also bring attention to what he described as \"the more terrible Catholic persecution which had preceded it.\" In the polemics that followed, Butler was excoriated, above all for having suggested that the then archbishop of Zagreb, Cardinal Stepinac, had been complicit in the forcible conversions, which, Pavelic\u00b4 and Stepinac's defenders in Ireland insisted, could never have occurred in the first place, since in the words of Count O'Brien, the editor of Ireland's leading Catholic weekly, _The Standard,_ \"the Catholic Church has always insisted that conversion must be from the heart.\"\n\nThe denunciations of Butler did not stop there. Count O'Brien published a book defending Stepinac, complete with an effusive foreword by the archbishop of Dublin. Father R. S. Devane, a well-known Jesuit of the day of whom, early in his career, it was said that he \"had been known to confiscate British publications from unwilling newsagents in Limerick,\" took up the cry that there had been no forcible conversions. For his part, James Dillon, the Irish minister of agriculture in the first interparty government of 1948\u201351, who later became the leader of one of Ireland's two principal parties, Fine Gael, advised a group of Irish law students to model themselves on figures such as Stepinac, Pavelic\u00b4, and Cardinal Mindszenty of Hungary\u2014all men, Dillon said, who had \"gallantly defended freedom of thought and conscience.\" As Butler observed, \"Those who knew Yugoslavia were aghast, for Pavelic\u00b4 . . . was the Yugoslav counterpart of Himmler.\"\n\nButler describes the furor in an extraordinary essay, \"The Sub-Prefect Should Have Held His Tongue.\" Despite the firestorm around him, however, Butler was determined to do nothing of the sort. In 1952, he was invited to attend a public meeting in Dublin of the Foreign Affairs Association where Count O'Brien was presenting a lecture titled \"Yugoslavia\u2014the Pattern of Persecution.\" At the end of the talk, Butler rose to rebut what he called its \"crude simplifications.\" As he would later write, \"I had spoken only a few sentences when a stately figure rose from among the audience and walked out.\" The figure in question was the papal nuncio. The meeting was hastily brought to a close, and the next day, the headline in one newspaper read, \"Pope's Envoy Walks Out. Government to Discuss Insult to Nuncio.\" As the Irish novelist John Banville puts it in his fine introduction to _The Invader Wore Slippers,_ a collection of Butler's European essays, the upshot was that Butler was \"forced into internal exile.\"\n\nFrom the onset of the controversy, Butler seems to have been fully aware of the personal risks he was running. But, as he wrote, he felt he had no choice in the matter, especially because he was an Irish Protestant. Banville makes the essential point that, despite the range of his interests and the variety of his experiences, as a writer Butler was very much a localist, and cites Butler's reflection that even when his essays \"appear to be about Russia or Greece or Spain or Yugoslavia, they are really about Ireland.\" For that reason, the controversy fell too close to home for Butler to turn away from it. For while he steadfastly insisted throughout his life that he was \"an Irish Nationalist,\" Butler was convinced that for all their mistakes, arrogance, and other derelictions, the demonization of the Irish Protestant community in the de facto clerical state that was \u00c9amon de Valera's Ireland was a gross falsification of history. Because of what he saw around him, Butler was unmovable. \"If we agreed,\" he wrote, \"that history should be falsified in Croatia in the interests of Catholic piety, how could we protest when our own history was similarly distorted?\"\n\nIn the early 1950s, unlike in the early twenty-first century, there was still a vital distinction to be drawn between celebrity and notoriety. Butler paid dearly for his determination to set the record straight. As an Irishman of his time, he understood better than most what the cost was likely to be of tearing the scabs off such deep and as yet unhealed historical wounds. But once the controversy had subsided, Butler, who was the subtlest of writers whatever his topic, never again confronted these questions head-on. From what he did write, however, it seems evident that for him the basis of any decent society had to be a politics of truth\u2014one in which even the most inconvenient, unwelcome, or, to use an expression much favored by generations of engineers of human souls, right and left, religious and secular, \"unhelpful\" facts needed to be aired. As Butler put it, \"If you suppress a fact because it is awkward, you will next be asked to contradict it.\"\n\nThis statement is that most old-fashioned of things: a noble sentiment. But as Butler himself surely would have understood, the question of historical memory is a more vexed one; such binary conceptions as truth versus lie and the concealed versus the revealed get us less far than it is commonly assumed they do, and certainly nowhere near as far as we need to go. To repeat: what do we actually mean by historical remembrance and collective memory?\n\nHere is what they cannot be: they cannot be what individuals remember. As any good lawyer or police investigator will tell you, the longer the period that elapses following an accident or a crime, the less accurate and reliable the testimony of a victim or witness is likely to be. In the case of individuals, at least _some_ accurate memory may remain. In the case of the historical memory of an event in history, we usually mean the collective remembrance of people who did not themselves actually live through it but rather had it passed down to them through family stories, or, likelier still in this era of acceleration, through intermediaries such as the state, above all in schools and public commemorations, or through associations, some of which commemorate versions of events that oppose or at least modify the official accounts.\n\nWhen those \"remembering\" reach this point, can we be said to be talking about memory at all? For this is not just a flawed transmission, it is an impossible one. The verb _to remember_ simply cannot be conjugated in the plural except when in reference to those who lived through what they commemorate. It is impossible to speak of a people's collective memory in the same way that we speak of individual memory: it is a metaphor meant to interpret reality and carries with it all the risks inherent in the metaphoric understanding of the world. And it is equally absurd to speak of a people's collective guilt4 for the Shoah or for the Rwandan genocide _in the same way_ that we speak of individuals' guilt for their crimes during these horrors. In her essay \"Organized Guilt and Universal Responsibility,\" Hannah Arendt called for \"a sharper dividing line between political (collective) responsibility on one side, and moral and\/or legal (personal) guilt on the other.\" This is the problem that lies at the heart of the effort of Arendt's friend the philosopher Karl Jaspers in his _The Question of German Guilt_ (1961) to think through whether the German people could be held to have been collectively responsible for the crimes of the Nazis. Jaspers insisted on the distinction between moral guilt based on what one has done and moral guilt based on who one is, and on the necessity not to conflate the two. But today, where collective memory is concerned, conflating the two is precisely what we are constantly being instructed that morality and ethics require us to do. Relying as it does on highly questionable notions of collective consciousness, it is a dubious demand intellectually and, insofar as it manumits those who believe themselves to have been wronged from distinguishing between those who have actually wronged them and those who did nothing, or did not do enough, to prevent that wrong from occurring, a dangerous one socially and politically, no matter how well intended.\n\n1. The success of Al-Jazeera has not changed the basic terms of reference, the emblem of this being the fact that the network, in order to appear global and not \"Arab\" or \"Third World,\" has hired a disproportionate number of veterans of major Western television channels as presenters on their English-language news shows.\n\n2. Tzvetan Todorov has pointed out, though, that there is a rich irony in Hitler's speaking of \"everyone\" having forgotten an event he was himself recalling. Todorov cites a similar phrase of Stalin's about Peter the Great's murder of the Boyars.\n\n3. The _loi Gayssot_ is named for the Communist deputy Jean-Claude Gayssot, the _loi Taubira_ for the Socialist deputy Christiane Taubira, who would later become minister of justice during Fran\u00e7ois Hollande's presidency.\n\n4. As opposed to their collective responsibility, for which a strong case can indeed be made.\nFIVE\n\nForgiveness and Forgetting\n\nKlaus Barbie's guilt was never really in doubt. Even his sinister, charismatic defense lawyer, Jacques Verg\u00e8s, never claimed otherwise, insisting instead that the Nazis' crimes had been no different in kind either morally, or, more important, legally under the terms of the statute under which Barbie was being tried, from those committed by the European colonial empires. In _Assassins of Memory,_ Pierre Vidal-Naquet ably refuted some, though not all, of Verg\u00e8s's claims.1 But for Vidal-Naquet, the greatest danger to the understanding of the Shoah came not from such Stakhanovites of moral equivalence as Verg\u00e8s, but rather from the \"revisionists\" who were determined to negate the reality of the Nazis' extermination of European Jewry. Vidal-Naquet did not underestimate what he described as \"the tension, not to say [at times the] opposition\" between history and memory. \"History's mode of selection,\" he wrote, \"functions differently from that of memory and forgetting.\" But the revisionists, by denying that the Shoah had ever happened, Vidal-Naquet argued, were attempting to sever the connections linking an anguished Jewish community that was still in mourning from its own past\u2014in effect, trying to murder its memories.\n\nAssuming that Yosef Yerushalmi was largely correct when, in his extraordinary _Zakhor: Jewish History and Jewish Memory,_ he argued, \"Only in Israel and nowhere else is the injunction to remember felt as a religious imperative to an entire people,\" then the affront Vidal-Naquet anatomizes is a particularly grave one. The issue of the Jewish people's in at least some way unique relation to memory is especially acute. But although in the title essay of his book Vidal-Naquet rightly emphasized the malign effectiveness, in a Jewish context, of assaulting group memory of the Shoah, he was adamant that the fundamental issue was \"not one of sentiments but of truth.\" This claim is incontestable. Vidal-Naquet also spoke of the need for a history of Nazism's crimes to take into account \"the transformations of memory.\" Here he seems to be referring to the attempts by the revisionists to distort and if possible annul those memories. However, there is another sense in which the transformation of memory can be understood, and it is both more puzzling and more problematic than the heroic but far more morally clear-cut struggle to which Vidal-Naquet devoted much of his life.\n\nTo put it starkly, by 2035 and probably much sooner, not a single German or non-German collaborationist perpetrator of Nazi crimes is likely to be alive since the oldest person in the world to have lived through the period will have been ten years old at the end of the Second World War. By 2045, if there are any survivors among the victims of those atrocities, they will be more than a hundred years old. When that day comes, the role of historical memory with regard to the Shoah will have a very different resonance from the one that has seemed so crucial to Vidal-Naquet and other like-minded historians and philosophers. An Emil Fackenheim or a Yosef Yerushalmi would almost certainly have disputed this, with regard to the Jewish people at any rate, on the assumption that, in Yerushalmi's words, the Jews could succeed in retaining \"a commonality of values that would enable [them] to transform history into memory.\"2 But it is by no means obvious that this is correct, even in the case of the Jews, this despite the fact that, in the United States at least, a 2013 Pew poll showed that an increasing number of Jews defined their Jewishness more in terms of remembering the Holocaust than of being part of a Jewish community. Surely we are obliged to ask this question: At some point in time, will not Nazi atrocities, collaboration, even the Shoah itself become what the German historian Norbert Frei somewhat regretfully categorized as, \"in scholarly terms, 'plain' history\"?\n\nWe have not reached this point as yet, in 2015. In Europe and North America the Shoah will probably for the foreseeable future continue to be considered what Tony Judt called a \"universal reference,\" presented, somewhat contradictorily, both as \"a singular crime, an evil never matched before or since,\" and as \"an example and a warning.\" And on an individual level, in light of the fact that the best available psychological evidence strongly suggests that the trauma survivors suffer from is passed along for two, three, or even four generations, the salience of the Shoah is unlikely to diminish a great deal for some time, if not universally then, again, at least in Europe and North America. Nonetheless, sooner or later the brute reality of the passage of time all but guarantees that a new set of difficulties will arise\u2014one to which the mantra that, no matter how much time has elapsed, to remember a given event must always remain a defining moral imperative for any society, even assuming it is correct, does not fully respond.\n\nA similar transition, which has in large measure been provoked by analogous actuarial realities, has already taken place in the case of the Armenian genocide. In 2015, even the youngest murderers among the Turks and Kurds who carried out the slaughter have themselves died as well. In the unlikely event that any of the Armenian survivors are still living, they are more than a hundred years old. And just as in the case of the Shoah, when the last survivors are gone who could answer questions face to face or simply roll up their sleeves to reveal the concentration camp tattoos on their arms, what will\u2014indeed, what can\u2014the remembrance of the Armenian genocide consist of?3 In other words, to use the title that Leon Wieseltier gave to his fine essay on the opening of the U.S. Holocaust Museum, in the case of both of these catastrophes, what happens \"After Memory\"?\n\nThere are conflicting answers to this question. On one side, there is Avishai Margalit's response, which is that the death of all those who witnessed the moral nightmare does not change by one iota the obligation of the living to protect the morality radical evil seeks to undermine. And on the other side there is Tony Judt's far more pessimistic suggestion: \"Maybe all our museums and memorials and obligatory school trips today are not a sign that we are ready to _remember_ but an indication that we feel we have done our penance and can now begin to let go and _forget,_ leaving the stones to remember for us.\" Judt recalled that during a visit to Berlin's Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe, he saw \"bored schoolchildren on an obligatory outing [playing] hide-and-seek among the stones.\" And he argued, \"When we ransack the past for political profit\u2014selecting the bits that can serve our purposes and recruiting history to teach opportunistic moral lessons\u2014we get bad morality _and_ bad history.\" To which one should add: we also get kitsch.\n\nEven when done well, commemoration almost always skates precariously close to kitsch. One might wish that the Holocaust were an exception in this regard, and that it will always, in Leon Wieseltier's phrase, \"press upon the souls of all who learn of it.\" But it is not, much as we might wish otherwise. This is a distinct problem, not to be confused with the fact that since 1945 the Shoah has regularly been employed to serve political agendas, the most obvious, as Judt emphasized, being to justify more or less any policy of the State of Israel with regard to its neighbors or to its Arab minority. But even when the remembrance of the Shoah is innocent of such subtexts, it has still been smothered in kitsch as Milan Kundera once defined it: all answers being \"given in advance and [precluding] any questions.\" Again, it is understandable to hope that people will be moved by an act of collective remembrance. And it is often, though not always, right to insist that they have a moral duty to remember. Where such acts become kitsch is when people take the fact that they are moved as a reason to think better of themselves.\n\nIt is unfortunate that a prime example of the instauration of this kind of kitsch remembrance is the U.S. National Holocaust Museum itself\u2014the largest and best-known memorial to the Shoah in the world other than the Yad Vashem Memorial Museum and Center in Israel. To be sure, much of what is in the museum is as heartbreakingly far from kitsch as it is possible to get\u2014above all, what Wieseltier called \"the objects, the stuff, the things of the persecutions and the murders,\" when he rightly described the Holocaust Museum as \"a kind of reliquary.\" But these exhibits and films, photographs, and documents are bracketed by two extraordinarily kitschy pieces of set dressing. As one first enters the museum and before one has seen a single image or artifact of either Nazi atrocity or Jewish martyrdom, one must first walk by the serried battle flags of the U.S. Army divisions that liberated some of the concentration camps (there are no British or Russian standards, even though a great many of the museum's exhibits concern Bergen-Belsen, liberated by the British, and Auschwitz, liberated by the Soviets). And as one leaves the last room of the museum, the final exhibit one sees contains a series of images of David Ben-Gurion proclaiming the independence of the State of Israel, and, beyond them at the exit, a column of tan sandstone that is simply identified as having come from Jerusalem.\n\nOne can only hope that in addition to the American triumphalism and what even by the most generous of interpretations is a highly partisan pro-Israeli view of the creation of the state as the existential remediation of the Nazis' war of extermination against the Jews, the intention here was to palliate what, apart from the part of the exhibit devoted to the Danes' rescue of most of their country's Jewish population, is the pure horror of what the museum contains by beginning and ending on an uplifting note. The impulse is an understandable one. But it is also both a historical and a moral solecism that perfectly illustrates Judt's admonition that the result is both bad history and bad morality.\n\nThe current emphasis both in Israel and in the Jewish diaspora that is exemplified by the museum's last exhibit and that presents the Jewish state's moral legitimacy as inextricably bound up with the Shoah seems to me an indefensible justification of the Zionist project _in Zionist terms,_ at least in the long run. It is both ahistorical, since obviously Zionist-inspired Jewish immigration to Palestine far predates the Shoah, and morally dubious, since the Palestinians bear no responsibility for what the Nazis did. As a matter of history, though not of morality, what a Zionist would be on firmer ground claiming is that at the heart of the Zionist project itself, secular and religious alike, is the conviction that the land of Israel with Jerusalem as its capital is not just the historic but the spiritual home of the Jewish people, who in all their wanderings never relinquished what the Israeli writer Yoram Kaniuk once called their mystical deed to it. In this sense, at least, it is surely fair to say that whatever the justice or injustice of this claim, without the preservation of Jewish collective memory over the centuries the establishment of the modern State of Israel would have been far more difficult. As he did so often, Yosef Yerushalmi got to the heart of the matter when he wrote, \"Jewish historiography can never substitute for Jewish memory.\"\n\nTo say this is not to imply that Zionism is concerned only with historical continuity, whether (to the extent that the two are distinguishable) real or \"invented.\" But it does not augur well for what the remembrance of the Shoah will become after it has passed into history in Norbert Frei's sense that the first exhibit of the museum dedicated to commemorating it is in reality little more than an ostentatious display of American nationalism and that the last is kitsch Zionist theodicy pure and simple. But unsettling and unseemly as they are, neither such American narcissism nor the Jewish communitarianism that Vidal-Naquet in his preface to _Assassins of Memory_ declares he is determined to transcend tells the whole story. To the contrary, Holocaust memorials and museums are attempts to keep faith with two moral imperatives: honoring and remembering those who died and, by reminding as many people as possible of the murder of European Jewry, helping individuals and societies alike become more resistant to such evils, and perhaps even to prevent them from recurring in the present or in the future.\n\nThese matters are delicate, as they should be, and if we take such questions on we have a moral obligation to proceed with great caution. But about the argument that the memory of the Shoah is likely to have a deterrent effect\u2014the view encapsulated in the injunction \"Never Again\"\u2014there simply is no way of avoiding the conclusion that this is magical thinking, and of a fairly extreme kind. I am reminded again of Sir Nicholas Winton's remark that no one ever truly learned anything from the past. Yes, \"Never Again\" is a noble sentiment. But unless one subscribes to one of the cruder forms of progress narratives, be they religious or secular, there is no reason to suppose that an increase in the amount of remembrance will so transform the world that genocide will be consigned to humanity's barbarous past. This is where the contemporary heirs and assigns of Santayana go wrong: we never repeat the past, at least not in the way he was suggesting we did. To imagine otherwise is to leach both the past and the present of their specific gravity. Auschwitz did not inoculate us against East Pakistan in 1971, or East Pakistan against Cambodia under the Khmer Rouge, or Cambodia under the Khmer Rouge against Hutu Power in Rwanda in 1994.\n\nIn contrast, establishing the historical truth about a great crime while those who committed it and those who were or at least knew its victims are alive often not only should but also can be done (as opposed to cases where doing so ought but, contra Kant, often _can't_ be done). But such efforts require the investigators to think like historians, investigating the facts and letting the chips fall where they may. If politicians subsequently use the findings of Truth Commissions to their own ends, as they have done in South Africa and in Argentina, to name two of the most obvious examples, this is a price well worth paying. Yerushalmi was doubtless correct to emphasize the greater importance of memory over historiography in the Jewish tradition. But in investigating occluded truths from the past, surely it is history that must be the senior partner and memory the junior one, at least if the goal is, as it should be, to amass the facts necessary to establish an unimpeachable historical record\u2014something that collective memory, which, as even most of its staunchest advocates concede, involves \"editing\" the past to further the needs of the present, rarely if ever does well.\n\nIn the aftermath of the fall of a dictatorship, assembling a reliable and comprehensive record is always important. In the case of apartheid South Africa, the Chile of General Pinochet, or the Argentina of General Leopoldo Galtieri, it was especially urgent because when they were at the height of their power these regimes had taken pains to commit their crimes in secret, just as the Nazis had. And also like the Nazis, they had attempted to cover up the remaining traces of what they had done once they realized they might be ousted from power. There need not even be a change of regime. Klaus Barbie's trial did not unveil much about the crimes the Nazis committed during their occupation of France that was not already widely known. But such was not the case when Maurice Papon finally came to trial before a French court in 1998. Papon had been secretary general for police in Bordeaux under Vichy, and had played a key role in the deportation of sixteen hundred Jews from that city to German concentration camps. After the war, however, far from being treated as the war criminal he was, Papon was seamlessly reintegrated into the French state, and during both the Fourth and the Fifth Republics he served in a series of important posts: prefect in Algeria during the Algerian War of Independence, chief of police of Paris, and finally budget minister during Val\u00e9ry Giscard d'Estaing's presidency.\n\nPapon's trial, in contrast to that of Barbie, did have some of the same morally emancipatory effect in France that the Truth and Reconciliation processes in South Africa and Latin America have had. This may seem surprising to those unversed in the history of post\u2013World War II France, but it took decades for the truth to come out about what had happened between the country's defeat in 1940 and its liberation in 1944. Indeed, until the pathbreaking book on Vichy by the American historian Robert O. Paxton appeared in a French edition in 1973, there had been great unwillingness in France to acknowledge the fact that from a strictly legal perspective, it was P\u00e9tain in Vichy and not De Gaulle in London who had been the legitimate leader of his country. And it was not until the 1981 screening on French television of Marcel Ophuls's film _The Sorrow and the Pity,_ which had been made in 1969 but banned from the airwaves for twelve years, that the consensual silence about the extent and enthusiasm of French collaboration with the Nazis began to lift. (Hara Kazuo's 1987 documentary, _The Emperor's Naked Army Marches On,_ which broke with the established notion of the Japanese as the \"victims\" in World War II, had a somewhat similar effect in Japan.) And it lifted slowly. When Ophuls's film was first shown, French schoolchildren were still being taught that the main current in German-occupied and Vichy France alike had been the Resistance. Airing the truth provoked consternation, denial, and above all anger that such divisive facts had been allowed to come to light. The Gaullist party denounced the film as unpatriotic. At the time, many French people, in all probability a majority, agreed.4\n\nThe fact that their objectors' fears turned out to have been groundless has sometimes been held up by those who call for more of what the American ethicist Jeffrey Blustein has described as \"doing justice to the past\" as evidence that not only is getting to the truth about the past a moral imperative but that those who fear its negative effects have far less cause to do so than they suppose. In _The Moral Demands of Memory,_ Blustein gives a nuanced account of the role an apology can play. When made properly, he argues, it can create new terms of reference between the \"responsible party\" and the \"aggrieved party,\" with the result that \"the past no longer _means_ what it meant before the apology.\" This is a claim so sweeping it makes the Renaissance alchemists who believed they could turn base metals into gold seem almost modest by comparison, though Blustein qualifies it by saying that the longer the delay in issuing such an apology, the more the affront of the original injustice is likely to be compounded. Following the argument of Adam Nossiter's _Algeria Hotel: France, Memory, and the Second World War,_ Blustein points specifically to the fact that it took fifty years, from 1945 to 1995, for a French president, Jacques Chirac, to apologize to French Jews on behalf of the French people, thus assuming national responsibility for their persecution. But for Blustein, however welcome, that apology failed to \"repair the injustice because it [did] not address the fact that the apology was so long in coming.\"\n\nAs in the case of the distinction that can be drawn between the effect on Chilean democracy that indicting Pinochet at the time he relinquished power would have had and doing so eight years later had, however, delay is not always the moral solecism it is often claimed to be. The reality, however unpalatable, is that collective remembrance has not always been a salutary goad to peace and reconciliation, nor has the failure to remember, or, more precisely, in Blustein's term \"properly\" remember, an injustice that a particular group has suffered been toxic to their societies. To the contrary, at numerous times and in numerous places, remembrance has provided the toxic adhesive that was needed to cement old grudges and conflicting martyrologies, as it did in Northern Ireland and in the Balkans for generations, if not for centuries.\n\nThe question arises: Despite the overwhelming consensus to the contrary, does not the historical record\u2014again contra Kant\u2014in the world as it is and not the world as philosophers have claimed it should be and might one day become justify asking whether in some places and at some moments in history what has ensured the health of societies and individuals alike has been not their capacity for remembering but their ability to forget? What I propose is not replacing a _bien-pensant_ fairy tale about memory with a _mal-pensant_ cautionary tale about forgetting. Nor do I suggest that, even if I am right about the uses of such forgetting, it should take place in the immediate aftermath of a great crime or while its perpetrators are still at large. Leaving the needs of history aside, these are moments when commonsense morality and the minimal requirements of justice weigh strongly in favor of remembrance. There are certainly also times when relations between states can be improved and much bitterness removed when a state that has committed a crime against another state acknowledges its culpability. And the same is also the case when the crimes being committed are by a state against its own people.\n\nThe history of the relations between Poland and Russia is instructive in this regard. For generations, there was a bitter joke in Poland: \"Who does a Pole kill first, a German or a Russian?\" \"A German, of course; duty before pleasure.\" Today, Russo-Polish relations are again strained by the Russian Federation's actions in Ukraine. Nonetheless, because in 2010 the Russian parliament finally acknowledged that Russia, not Nazi Germany, was guilty of the mass murder of twenty-two thousand Polish officers in the Katyn forest in western Russia in 1940, in another generation that joke will almost certainly make little or no sense to contemporary citizens of Poland, Germany, or Russia. To put it starkly, we should never underestimate the power of an official apology or deny that memory can be the catalyst for it.\n\nThere are at least some intimations in Maurice Halbwachs's work that he considered memory to be strongly linked to the hope for progress. It is a connection that Avishai Margalit makes explicitly in _The Ethics of Memory_ when he writes, \"Even remembering the gloomiest of memories is a hopeful project [because] it ultimately rejects the pessimist[ic] thought that all will be forgotten, as expressed by Ecclesiastes.\" Margalit is not just calling for remembrance for remembrance's sake. Quite the contrary, he believes there to be both an absolute moral obligation to remember and, at times and depending on the case, lessons to be taught and learned by doing so. Assume for the sake of argument that Margalit is right about the obligation: does this mean that he is also correct in his estimation of the enduring pedagogic value of collective memory? Tony Judt was far closer to the mark when he wrote, \"The trouble with lessons, as the Gryphon observed, is that they really do lessen from day to day.\"\n\nEventually, there comes a time when the need to get to the truth should no longer be assumed to trump all other considerations. Kant thought that no right action could ever have a wrongful element. Perhaps it is because I spent fifteen years observing and writing about what for lack of a better term we call humanitarian emergencies, which are almost invariably situations in which (and this is very much a best-case scenario) even when relief groups are overwhelmingly doing good they are also doing some harm,5 but I confess I do not see how this could ever be true. Almost as incomprehensible is the neo-Kantianism of the international human rights establishment, which refuses to entertain the possibility that when they call for justice, above all an end to impunity, the long-term consequences may prove to have had abidingly negative effects,6 though they will sometimes concede that in the short run there might be negative as well as positive effects, particularly in war zones while fighting still rages.\n\nIt is not that international human rights activists are unaware of how terrible late-twentieth- and early-twenty-first-century wars can be. The present age is one in which most hot wars are one form or another of civil or insurrectionary war within states, or, as in Iraq, to paraphrase Clausewitz, the continuation of terrorism by other means, a situation that seems to make the Geneva Conventions and the other elements of international humanitarian law, most of which were originally devised in the age of interstate war, less and less fit for their purposes. Human rights workers on the ground know this as well as or better than anyone. But the majority of them insist\u2014whatever some may believe privately\u2014that they must proceed on the basis that without justice there can be no lasting peace. One explanation for their absolutism in this regard is that it derives from the fact that the human rights movement is first and foremost grounded in law; its proponents have imbibed not just Kant's idealism but another element in the Kantian worldview that holds that the imperative of justice \"outranks\" all other moral claims.\n\nEmpirically, this is highly debatable, as the case of Bosnia illustrates. From a human rights perspective, the 1995 Dayton Peace Agreement that ended the Bosnian War was an unjust peace that let Slobodan Milo\u0161evi\u0107, the principal architect of the death of Yugoslavia, along with the army and militia commanders and Serb nationalist politicians who had served him, off the hook both politically and judicially; it was only after another Balkan War, this time in Kosovo in 1999, that the great powers involved in the conflict decided to put an end to the impunity Milo\u0161evi\u0107 had enjoyed since Dayton. And the human rights establishment was correct: it _was_ an unjust settlement. But for many of us, who, whether as aid workers or journalists, had seen the horror of the Balkan wars at firsthand, almost any peace, no matter how unfair, was infinitely preferable to the seemingly endless infliction of death, suffering, and humiliation.\n\nThose who, with Fackenheim and Yerushalmi, believe forgetting to be a moral catastrophe, or at a minimum the halfway house toward it, often invest remembrance with the same moral authority that justice has for the international human rights movement. And the two views overlap, as when in the essay \"Reflections on Forgetting,\" in his _Zakhor,_ Yerushalmi asked whether it were possible that the \"antonym of 'forgetting' is not 'remembering,' but 'justice'?\" Even if he was right, however morally attractive his formulation, it does little to invalidate the empirical claim that in the world as it is, peace and justice can sometimes be inimical to each other. This reality should be cause for mourning: it certainly was for the victims of a war such as the relatives and friends of the eight thousand Bosnian men and boys massacred at Srebrenica, where the failure to secure justice for them has inflicted a moral affront in addition to all that they have already suffered.\n\nStill, those who insist that there can be no lasting peace without justice7 blind themselves to reality. The sad fact is that history is replete with outcomes that provided the first while denying the second. When General Pinochet stepped down in 1990, for instance, thus clearing the way for Chile's return to democracy, it was clear that justice had been not done. But the demand for democracy seemed more compelling to more Chileans who had opposed Pinochet (if not necessarily to all the families of Pinochet's victims) than did the demand for justice. At the time, what appeared to be a grant of immunity to Pinochet seemed like a price worth paying. That a measure of justice was finally done eight years later when Judge Garz\u00f3n handed down his indictment cannot change the earlier injustice. But put the case that Pinochet had never been indicted and arrested. In a hundred years, how many Chileans are likely to look back on the transition from dictatorship to democracy in Chile in the 1990s and conclude that impunity for Pinochet had been an intolerable price to pay for their country's freedom?\n\nHere it may be useful to invoke Pierre Nora's distinction between the imperatives of memory and the imperatives of history, and to add to it the contingencies of politics that so often seem to hover over both. \"Memory is life,\" Nora writes, \"borne by living societies founded in its name. It remains in permanent evolution, open to the dialectic of remembering and forgetting, unconscious of its successive deformations. . . . Insofar as it is affective and magical, [it] only accommodates those facts that suit it.\" My imaginary Chilean of a hundred years hence would fit comfortably into Nora's rubric of memory. In contrast, that Chilean would fit far less easily into the rubric of history, which Nora defines as \"the reconstruction, always problematic and incomplete, of what is no longer.\" For Nora, the relationship between history and memory is dialectical: \"Memory instills remembrance within the sacred; history, always prosaic, releases it again.\"\n\nAs a complement to Nora's evocation of the sacred, I would add that collective memory often also functions as an escape and an idyll, providing a moral warrant for nostalgia\u2014an extremely problematic emotion ethically, not least because, to reverse Freud's conclusion about mourning, deference to reality _never_ gains the day. The Cuban-American writer Orlando Ricardo Menes was making a related point when he wrote, \"Idyllic memories are a jeweled noose.\" He knew what he was talking about: the Cuban exile community in the United States to which Menes belongs provides a textbook case of the way nostalgia and self-absorption (the other cardinal vice of the exiled and the scorned), however understandable a community's resorting to them may be, also often serve as a prophylactic against common sense, political or otherwise.\n\nBut Cuban Americans are hardly alone in their self-imposed predicament; at various points in their history, the Irish, the Jews, the Armenians, and the Tamils have been equally trapped in their own particular versions of what the writer Svetlana Boym has called \"the dictatorship of nostalgia.\"\n\n1. Vidal-Naquet himself concedes that because the Lyon court's definition of crimes against humanity, which was far broader than that of the Nuremberg Tribunal, seemed to provide the scope for Verg\u00e8s to invoke the systematic torture used by the French during the Algerian War of Independence as a parallel to the crimes of the Gestapo, the advocate's argument could not be dismissed out of hand. And the distinction Vidal-Naquet makes between the French army acting in defiance of French law and Gestapo officers like Barbie acting in accordance with Nazi law seems to treat too lightly the parallels between imperialism and Nazism that Hannah Arendt pointed to in _The Origins of Totalitarianism_.\n\n2. Yerushalmi, who was painfully candid about his \"terror of forgetting,\" was by no means confident this would happen. \"What has long been called the crisis of historiography,\" he wrote in his bleak coda to _Zakhor_ , \"Reflections on Forgetting,\" \"is but a reflection of the crisis of our culture, of our spiritual life.\"\n\n3. Even in this age of cyberspace, it is difficult to see how valuable initiatives like the one now being undertaken by the Illinois Holocaust Museum and Education Center, which is recording survivors' testimony and then presenting holographic representations of these interviews in which visitors ask questions and, thanks to an algorithm, survivors appear to be responding directly to them, can stand in for the survivors themselves.\n\n4. An Ipsos poll conducted at the time of the Barbie trial showed that a majority of those surveyed wished it were not being held.\n\n5. Although many such groups routinely deploy the line from the Hippocratic Oath, \"First do no harm,\" what they almost always strive for in practice is \"Minimize harm as much as you can.\"\n\n6. While it is exasperating and holier-than-thou, it seems more like self-promotion than an intellectual solecism when major human rights groups call for stopping a war without having any idea of how to do so, as, for instance, when Kenneth Roth, the head of Human Rights Watch, tweeted on July 5, 2015, \"Want to stop flood of refugees? Curb atrocities at source: Syria, Afghanistan, Somalia, Sudan.\"\n\n7. As opposed to the entirely defensible claim that there can be no decent society without justice, which I often feel is what human rights activists actually mean.\nSIX\n\nThe Memory of Wounds and Other Safe Harbors\n\n\"It is possible that there is no other memory than the memory of wounds.\" If we accept Czes\u0142aw Mi\u0142osz's formulation, we must acknowledge the danger that sacralizing collective remembrance is likely to lead to even graver distortions of historical reality than the use of collective memory in the service of the self-glorification of the state, or, for that matter, from the efforts rich and powerful individuals have made throughout history to assert their preeminence by ensuring they will be remembered. At least states have often been straightforward about the pragmatic political nature of the commemorative project. A good example of this, which Jacques Le Goff cited in his essay \"Memory: Written and Figured,\" is the report on the bill in the French parliament that in 1880 reestablished the July 14 Bastille Day national holiday, invented during the Revolution but banned by Napoleon. The _rapporteur_ had stated matter-of-factly that the main purpose of a celebration of this type was to remind the people \"of the memories that are linked to the existing political institution,\" which, he asserted, \"is a necessity that all governments have recognized and put into practice.\"\n\nAnd as both Le Goff and his friend and colleague, the French classical historian Paul Veyne, have pointed out, the phenomenon of rich philanthropists, in Veyne's words, sacrificing \"part of their wealth to ensure the memory of their role\" dates back to Greco-Roman times. To a great extent, the practice continues largely unchanged twenty-five hundred years later, especially in the United States and Canada, where at least since the rise of private philanthropy during the Gilded Age of the late nineteenth century, an increasing number of hospital buildings and hospital centers, as well as business schools, libraries, residence halls, and other university buildings, along with theaters, concert halls, and other cultural centers, have borne the names of the philanthropists who underwrote them, just as tennis and golf stars wear the logos of their corporate sponsors on their clothes when they compete. This goes on even though philanthropists certainly know\u2014shades once more of Shelley's \"Ozymandias\"\u2014that sooner or later their names may be removed from, say, a building when it needs to be refurbished and the price the philanthropist willing to underwrite the new construction is likely to demand will be the replacement of the original donor's name with his or her own. Even here, there is a depoliticized echo of classical times, when after an emperor's death the Roman Senate often removed his name from a building or a monument that during his lifetime the senators had named after him.1\n\nBut the effects of instilling collective memory based on a sense of national or individual greatness differ significantly from those of memory anchored in a sense of personal and collective injury, whether physical, legal (discrimination), or cultural or psychological (exclusion), or in a sense of shared suffering. Indeed, while both typologies involve collective memory, the difference between the former and the latter may be summed up as that which exists between the memory of a victory and the memory of a defeat. The former may offend or annoy because of its triumphalism, in the way that British and Belgian commemorations of the hundredth anniversary of the Battle of Waterloo irked the French, or, more properly, a segment of the French political and cultural establishment, or that African American veterans of the Second World War were rightly offended at the failure of U.S. memorial celebrations to pay tribute to their role. But whether such complaints were worth taking seriously, as was the case with the black U.S. veterans, or were of no consequence, as with the Waterloo centennial, to the extent there were any at all, their harmful effects were comparatively small. In contrast, it is difficult to imagine how the Serb nationalist obsession with the Battle of Kosovo Polje in 1389 could have been more destructive to everyone affected by it, including, of course, the nationalists themselves.\n\nAvishai Margalit confronts this problem head-on in _The Ethics of Memory_. Why, he asks, did the memory of Kosovo Polje wreak such havoc in the former Yugoslavia in the 1990s, whereas the memory of the Battle of Hastings of 1066 that sealed the Norman conquest of England has had no such harmful effects? Margalit's question is better than his answer. He seeks to rebut the claim of the American political philosopher Russell Hardin, who himself evoked the Kosovo Polje\u2013Hastings dichotomy to buttress his own argument that \"the assertion of historical memory contributes to mystification rather than explanation or understanding.\" But in order to do so, Margalit resorts to the claim that, historically, Hastings was a less dreadful and haunting event for the English than Kosovo Polje had been for the Serbs. According to Margalit, the former was \"more a war of succession . . . [and] besides, mostly good things happened in England after the battle,\" while the latter had \"marked the fall of a glorious Serbian independent state . . . [and] the inception of a vassal state for four hundred years under the Ottomans, an alien force with a different religion.\"\n\nMargalit's historical claims are unconvincing in and of themselves. To say that mostly good things happened in England after Hastings is, to put it charitably, an extreme form of the already highly questionable Whig interpretation of British history in which the country's past is asserted to have been an inevitable progression toward ever greater liberty and constitutional government. And the Battle of Hastings, far from being comparable to, say, the peaceful ascension to the British throne of William of Orange in 1688 (the so-called Glorious Revolution), led to the virtually complete destitution of the defeated Saxon nobility by the Norman invaders so that within twenty years 95 percent of the land south of the River Tees in the north of England had passed into Norman hands. A highly romanticized, but by no means entirely inaccurate account of the tensions between Normans and Saxons long after the Conquest can be found in Sir Walter Scott's novel _Ivanhoe_ and, far more dubiously, in some of the popular legends about Robin Hood that represent him as a leader of resistance against Anglo-Norman rule.\n\nBut even though Margalit's irenic rendering of British history cannot be defended, Margalit nonetheless offers, along with Todorov, the most lucid early-twenty-first-century arguments in favor of the idea that societies and the individual human beings of which they are composed have a general duty to remember but no equivalent general duty to forget. By this Margalit means that memory plays a crucial role in allowing us to understand not just where we came from but who we are. As a consequence, unless we are mystics who have chosen to withdraw from the world, we have a duty both to ourselves and to our societies to remember: \"Who we are depends on our not forgetting things that happened and that are important in our lives.\" Perhaps if Margalit believed that it was possible to forget _voluntarily,_ he would not have been so categorical. But he does not. Philip Roth's inspired phrase \"Remember to forget\" is for Margalit a contradiction in terms. Instead, Margalit likens the cognitive and social systems of remembrance and forgetting to the essential functional difference between the somatic and the autonomic nervous systems\u2014the muscles controlled by the former work \"on the demand\" of the brain, while the latter do not. \"I can voluntarily think of a white elephant,\" he writes, \"but I cannot follow the instruction not to think of a white elephant.\" From this he draws the conclusion that \"forgetting cannot be voluntary.\"\n\nBut here, whereas Margalit remarks early in _The Ethics of Memory_ that he shares \"Wittgenstein's belief that the first philosophical move should be to loosen the grip of metaphor,\" he seems trapped by the limitations of the powerful neurological metaphor that he puts forward to buttress his critique of forgetting. For while it is obviously true that an individual cannot choose to _forget_ in the literal sense, it is equally true that societies cannot choose to _remember_ in the literal sense. And that is because unlike individual memory, collective memory is a metaphor too, as Yerushalmi conceded when he wrote, \"The 'memory of a people' is a psychological metaphor.\" Margalit acknowledges this when he writes, \"There is nothing natural about shared memory, and nothing natural about the groups that are the natural candidates for being communities of memory. . . . They are all, in the jargon of today, social constructs.\" It is Margalit himself, then, and not Philip Roth who has made the fundamental error. Because if communities of memory and the collective memories they \"decide\" to share are social constructs\u2014as of course they are\u2014then in and of itself it is no more unnatural, immoral, or impossible to posit the feasibility of a socially constructed community of forgetting than one of remembrance. Neither is less artificial, or, more to the point, less imaginable than the other. This does not mean that one cannot favor remembrance over forgetting on moral grounds, but it does make specious the claim that the former is more \"real\" than the latter.\n\nIn his \"Reflections on Forgetting,\" Yerushalmi describes being struck when a friend sent him a report of a _Le Monde_ poll conducted at the time of the Barbie trial in which respondents were asked: \"Of the following two words, 'forgetting' or 'justice,' which is the one that best characterizes your attitude toward the events of this period of the war and the Occupation?\" As we have seen, this led Yerushalmi to a new formulation: Was it possible \"that the journalists have stumbled across something more important than they perhaps realized . . . [and that the] antonym of 'forgetting' is not 'remembering' but 'justice'?\" Margalit also seems to view forgetting as a kind of injustice, though he is more concerned that forgiveness come before forgetting than that forgetting never take place. \"I maintain,\" he writes, \"that what is needed for successful forgiveness is not forgetting the wrong done but rather overcoming the resentment that accompanies it.\"\n\nLet us accept that Margalit is right when he asserts not only that this process can happen but that it has already happened in the past and will happen again.2 But as Margalit certainly knows as well as anyone, there also have been numerous times in history when this has not happened\u2014that is, when societies or groups within societies could not overcome their resentment, when they could not forgive\u2014and that too will recur.3 His schema has much to offer with regard to how societies should best respond in such cases, and, indeed, how they can prevent the resentment from fueling a new conflict while the search for an accommodation of some kind continues. To cite one example, this was the challenge facing those attempting to negotiate a peace agreement in Northern Ireland throughout the decade leading up to the Easter Sunday accords of April 1998 that finally largely brought the country's long war to a close. And Jacques Le Goff's hope that (collective) memory will aid the liberation rather than the enslavement of humanity is relevant here. But while Le Goff's sentiment is one that no sane human being could fail to wish were always the case, it too begs the question of what happens when it isn't. Are we to wait for people to come to their senses? If so, we may be in for a very long wait indeed. Or is it possible that this is where forgetting without the preamble of forgiveness or the promise of justice has a value that even thinkers as brilliant as Le Goff, Margalit, Todorov, and Yerushalmi have not been able to bring themselves to grant?\n\nI do not claim that forgetting would be an appropriate response in cases where justice or forgiveness (or both) are a realistic alternative, as in many cases, including some grave and seemingly intractable ones, they will be. But the ultimate metric here should not be the ideal but the probable, or at least the feasible. Bismarck's celebrated remark that no one should look too closely at the making of sausages or laws surely applies even more forcefully to peace settlements. When it is possible, by all means let societies remember, provided of course\u2014and this is a very big caveat indeed, and one those convinced that remembrance is a moral imperative consistently underestimate\u2014remembering does not engender further horrors. But when it is not possible, then, to paraphrase the slogan of the anti\u2013Vietnam War movement of the late 1960s, it may be time to give forgetting a chance, which is another way of saying that it is time to give politics a chance and idealism a rest.\n\nAnd idealism it most emphatically is. Take, for example, Todorov's observation that for historical remembrance to have enduring value and be of enduring help to the societies that undertake it, it must lead to \"a [generalizable] principle of justice, a political ideal, or a moral rule [that must be] legitimate in and of themselves [ _sic_ ] and not because they derive from a memory that is dear to us.\" On the basis of what historical evidence, or, indeed, of any principle other than hope, should we conclude that this is where the exercise of collective memory is likely to lead us? And since, in contrast, we know that historically memory has been and continues to be toxic in many parts of the world, why put our ethical trust in it, no matter how morally desirable such an outcome might prove to be?\n\nWe do, after all, already understand the risks. Like Margalit, Mi\u0142osz was being metaphorical when he mused about whether human beings had any memory other than the memory of wounds. But there have certainly been periods in the history of every nation, and probably every community, in which making such a claim has required no poetic license. Again, the case of Northern Ireland stands out, since there, until the late 1990s, as one Ulster poet put it, the country got \"martyrs when it needed men.\" Those were the days when remembrance was hatred's forge and forgiveness was not on offer. Is it not, then, at least worth considering, if only as a thought experiment, whether it might have been better for everyone in the six counties of Northern Ireland if they had found a way to forget the wrongs of the past, whether real or imagined, and whether accurately or inaccurately \"remembered\"?\n\nLike any counterfactual, the question is one that can have no definitive answer. But what we know all too well is the damage collective memory can do. The Irish writer and politician Conor Cruise O'Brien once observed of a particularly dark and despair-inducing period of the conflict in Northern Ireland that during the secret negotiations in which, as a member of Garet Fitzgerald's government in Dublin, he had been involved, just as it seemed as if Republicans and Unionists might finally, painstakingly be coming close to an agreement, a representative at the talks from one of the two sides would remember one of great militant songs\u2014the IRA's \"Rising of the Moon\" or the Ulster Volunteer Force's \"Sash My Father Wore\"\u2014and whatever hope had existed would soon vanish. Cruise O'Brien was much given to embellishment, but in this instance he didn't need to. Those who may be tempted to doubt the potency of those songs might recall that \"the rising of the moon\" were the last five words of the final entry in the prison diary kept by the Provisional IRA leader Bobby Sands before he died on the sixty-sixth day of the hunger strike he had organized and led among the Republican prisoners in the Long Kesh (Maze) prison in County Down, Northern Ireland, in 1981. \"They won't break me,\" Sands had written of the prison authorities, \"because the desire for freedom, and for the freedom of the Irish people, is in my heart. The day will dawn when all the people of Ireland will have the desire for freedom to show. It is then we'll see the rising of the moon.\"\n\nThere are also echoes in Sands's diaries of _The King's Threshold,_ a play about a hunger striker set in the mythical past that Yeats had written in 1904, but which, as Sands surely knew, Yeats had rewritten in 1920 in the aftermath of the death on hunger strike of the imprisoned Sinn F\u00e9in lord mayor of Cork, Terence MacSwiney, himself a playwright. Sands's act also seemed born of the same conviction that had led Patrick Pearse to confidently insist that even if the Easter Rising ended in failure, and he himself was killed by the British (he was), his and his comrades' deaths would be a \"blood sacrifice\" that would stir the whole Irish people and lead to their rising up and finally seizing their independence. Of Sands's hunger strike and eventual death, Seamus Heaney, Ireland's greatest poet since Yeats, himself originally from County Derry in Northern Ireland, subsequently wrote: \"I was highly aware of the propaganda aspect of the hunger strike and cautious about being enlisted. There was realpolitik at work; but at the same time, you knew you were witnessing something like a sacred drama.\"\n\nAs Heaney knew well, sacred drama is the antithesis of any decent politics. For once the sacred has been invoked, there can be no compromise with one's adversaries, only their unconditional surrender. To the extent that this can still be called politics, it is a politics of totalitarianism. Yeats might write in his poem \"September 1913,\" \"Romantic Ireland's dead and gone; it's with O'Leary in the grave,\" but, in reality, as Yeats would realize in the aftermath of the Easter Rising and sum up in another poem, \"Easter, 1916,\" with the words \"a terrible beauty is born,\" romantic Ireland survived the Fenian John O'Leary, financial officer of the Irish Republican Brotherhood and editor of _The Irish People,_ as it would survive Pearse and Easter Sunday, 1916, and MacSwiney, and Sands too. It was only the deed of the very different Easter Sunday, in 1998, that finally put romantic Ireland in its grave. That Ireland had lived and battled in poetry, whereas whatever else has gone wrong in the Ireland of the twenty-first century, the continuation of peace in the North amply demonstrates the truth of a former governor of New York State, Mario Cuomo, who said that one campaigns in poetry but governs in prose.\n\nPoetry, which is among other things the native language of myth, facilitates long memories, while prose, at least in the Cuomo sense, helps shorten them. For as John Kenneth Galbraith admonished us, and as anyone with direct experience of practical politics knows, \"Nothing is so admirable in politics as a short memory.\" Of course, myths, like the proverbial wires, can become crossed, allowing the legends of the distant past and the ideological needs of the present to blur into each other. Take as an example \"The Dying C\u00fachulainn,\" the statue of the hero of the Irish medieval epic the _T\u00e1in B\u00f3 C\u00faailnge,_ which stands inside the General Post Office in Dublin. The statue was made in 1911 by the Irish sculptor Oliver Sheppard, a leading figure in the Celtic Revival and an ardent nationalist. But it is there not as a tribute to ancient Ireland; it was installed in 1935 at \u00c9amon de Valera's personal request as a memorial to the Easter Rising. Samuel Beckett treats these contradictions venomously in his novel _Murphy,_ published only three years later, in which the character Neary says that he wanted to \"engage with the arse of the statue of C\u00fachulainn, the ancient Irish hero, patron saint of pure ignorance and crass violence,\" by banging his head against it.\n\nThe current commonplace condemnation of contemporary life holds that because of a surfeit of technological stimulation we have shorter and shorter attention spans\u2014but if true this has done nothing to shorten our collective memories of grievance. Whether the United States or France was the first out of the gate in this is an open question, but in the early twenty-first century there are few democratic societies that are not embroiled in their own memory wars, which have become arenas for competing, or, at the very least, for competing matyrologies. The American sociologist Jeffrey Olick has described the shift from earlier forms of official commemoration as one in which governments now \"commemorate failures as well as triumphs,\" while \"social movements and other identity groups turn to 'repressed' histories as sources of their cohesion and as justification for their programs.\" For Olick, Max Weber's idea of a new \"theodicy of disprivilege\" lies at the heart of the shift.\n\nWhere remembrance is concerned, despite impassioned assertions that truths previously concealed have been brought out into the open and need to be acknowledged, the question of historical accuracy rarely seems as crucial as does the group solidarity such remembrance is meant to engender. That this politics is anchored not just in ressentiment\u2014the point, following Nietzsche, the philosopher Max Scheler, and Weber, that Olick emphasizes\u2014but in radical subjectivity should come as no surprise. Moreover, it is a psychological truism that an individual's effort to recover his or her own memories, whether readily available or repressed, when done properly and seriously in a therapeutic context (Freud's _Durcharbeiten_ ) can be healing. Unfortunately, this has led to the psychological pop-culture commonplace that to be able to remember a traumatic experience is the necessary first step in coming to terms with it. And the same is now thought to be the case with the collective memories of social groups. This is what my late father, Philip Rieff, meant when he wrote of \"the triumph of the therapeutic.\"\n\nA shrewd defense of the therapeutic view has been offered by the American psychiatrist Janet Baird, who has argued that both individuals' traumatic memories and the collective historical memories of groups, for all the obvious differences in the ways these are formed, retained, and transmitted, \"retain the quality of 'now,' rather than receding into the subjective past.\" Baird adds that where collective historical memory is concerned, social stress seems to awaken and activate \"the historical memory in [such] a way that the protagonists of the past become resurrected in the 'now.\"' Although what Baird describes is undoubtedly true clinically, what may be constructive for a therapist treating a patient's individual trauma could be highly dangerous politically when nations, peoples, or social groups act on their collective traumas. In this sense, to extend the psychotherapeutic metaphor, they are not treated, they self-medicate. Part of the reason for this is that while individuals' memories are often distorted (and in extreme cases, partly invented or even false), they are undeniably real in the sense that they derive from actual lived experience. In contrast, once the transmission of collective memories continues for more than three or four generations, it can no longer be called memory _other than_ metaphorically. To use two storied examples, Irish men and women today do not \"remember\" the Great Famine of 1847, nor does an observant Jew praying in the synagogue \"remember\" Jerusalem.\n\nEven far more benign examples of this are no less paradoxical. \"Je me souviens\" (I remember), the official motto of Qu\u00e9bec, is one such case. The phrase was the coinage of the architect Eug\u00e8ne-\u00c9tienne Tach\u00e9, the son of a former prime minister of United Canada and one of the architects of Canada's Confederation of 1867, which is to say of its birth as a modern nation. Tach\u00e9 had been commissioned to design Qu\u00e9bec's new parliament building, and he appears to have decided, completely on his own, to add \"je me souviens\" to the coat of arms granted to the province by the British crown in 1868. Although some mid-twentieth-century Qu\u00e9bec nationalists claimed that Tach\u00e9 had had a separatist meaning in mind, there is no convincing evidence for this, as there is for the watchword \"n\u00f4tre ma\u00eetre le pass\u00e9\" (our master the past), which was an avowedly separatist rallying cry when it was coined in 1936 by Father Lionel Groulx, one of the founders of modern Qu\u00e9becois nationalism.\n\nExamples like Tach\u00e9's are more the exception than the rule, as the history of Qu\u00e9bec after the so-called Quiet Revolution of the 1960s amply demonstrates. The Quiet Revolution put an end to the mixture of opportunism and clerical conservatism that had marked the politics of the province during the long premiership of Maurice Duplessis, which was, in significant ways, as close as North America has come to a homegrown Franco- or Salazar-style corporatism. It is true that Qu\u00e9becois nationalism in the post-Duplessis era for the most part followed the more conventional pattern, in which the invocation of collective historical memory is used to accentuate differences rather than, as Tach\u00e9 seems to have attempted to do, to bridge them. But the irony is that Qu\u00e9becois nationalism after 1965 emphasized Qu\u00e9bec's distinctness while rupturing much of what linked the province's present with much (some would even say most) of its historical past. Where Qu\u00e9bec had traditionally been politically conservative, the new nationalist intellectuals identified themselves overwhelmingly with the left; and where Qu\u00e9bec had been religious, in the main, they were nonbelievers. In short, the claim that Qu\u00e9bec had always been a distinct society and should have become and one day would be an independent country coexisted with the repudiation of nearly everything, apart from the French language, that historically has made French Canada unique.\n\nAnd yet contemporary Qu\u00e9bec is as obsessed with commemorations of its past as the rest of the world, though the province's collective memory is now being rewritten, however grudgingly, to include what in Canada are called the First Peoples, and to focus specifically on the struggles of the ruled, rather than the rulers, and above all on women. But while the content of the debate about what should be remembered varies from country to country, the general pattern remains largely the same. The paradox is that while what Pierre Nora has rightly called the memory industry has expanded to the point that it has begun to seem like a demonstration of the second law of thermodynamics, with the appetite and quest for memories becoming ever more dispersed with time, schoolchildren in virtually all developed countries know less and less about contemporary politics, world geography, or history. And what little history they do know is not history in the proper sense of the term but remembrance. The danger should be obvious: whatever the pitfalls of history in the traditional sense, it is not narcissistic, which is another way of saying it is genuinely concerned with the past, fully taking on board the understanding that the English novelist L. P. Hartley encapsulated in the first line of _The Go-Between_ (1953): \"The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there.\" In contrast, remembrance is about self-love, and self-recognition, which means more often than not that it is little more than the present in drag.\n\n\"What is the Ninth Symphony,\" Karl Kraus asked, \"compared to a pop tune played by a hurdy-gurdy and a memory?\" That is remembrance in a nutshell. At best, it is a consolation or an ego boost, while at worst it is a wallowing, no matter whether in past triumphs or past injuries and traumas. In contrast, history is hard, and the better the history, the more demanding and outward-looking it is. Never mind the Ninth Symphony: think Berg or Schnittke. Instantly gratifying (even if the form that gratification takes is anger, bitterness, or ressentiment),4 the overvaluing of collective memory and the undervaluing of history is a perfect fit with the spirit of an age that is itself dominated by instant gratification. Add what the Australian writer Robert Hughes called \"the culture of complaint\" to a self-absorption that is one of the constitutive elements of Guy Debord's \"society of the spectacle\" in multicultural drag (\"all that was once directly lived has become mere representation\" was how Debord formulated it). On the other side of the ideological divide, throw in the old simplifications of nationalism, which, as Ernest Gellner pointed out in the 1970s, had always been opportunistically selective in what it chose to pay obeisance to, and all the sentimentality, complacency, and kitsch nostalgia that goes with it. The result? The world as pop song\u2014and one that is more akin to the Latvian entry in the Eurovision contest than to Leonard Cohen's verities. If the memories are not actually there\u2014and not to belabor the obvious, in the literal sense at least, they never are\u2014teach the myth.\n\nIs much of this harmless? Of course it is. But it is dangerous enough of the time, especially for peoples who, for a wide variety of historical, religious, and cultural reasons, are highly prone or at least vulnerable to self-mythologization. And we could legitimately go farther and assert that the world would be a better place if, instead of being convinced that collective memory (rightly understood, to be sure, as Margalit and Todorov would correctly insist) should be a moral imperative for us, we instead chose to forget. The last thing I want to do is replace one hypercategorical prescription with its opposite, let alone issue a jeremiad on the order of Yerushalmi's when he insisted that \"in the world in which we live it is no longer merely a question of the decay of collective memory and the declining consciousness of the past, but of the aggressive rape of whatever memory remains.\" What can be demonstrated is the considerable extent to which many of the arguments for collective memory are in their essence profoundly anti- or at least post-political in orientation in much the way the human rights movement's arguments are. To put this in the form of two questions: If humankind is or at least can become, as Margalit would have it, a moral community, what are that community's politics? and If that community is above or outside politics, can it be a community worthy of the name?\n\nGiven that the human rights project shares with the duty of memory project the same law-based view of morality, these parallels should come as no surprise. In addition, both worldviews are absolutist, whereas the essence of democratic politics is compromise\u2014that most effective of prophylactics against fanaticism. And even though everything will be eventually forgotten in the fullness of geological time, the conceit of collective memory is that in theory at least it can be renewed forever. Such renewal, far from ensuring justice, is a formula for unending grievance and vendetta.\n\n1. In 2015, for example, the billionaire philanthropist David Geffen donated $100 million to refurbish the concert space at New York's Lincoln Center then named Avery Fisher Hall, after its original benefactor, on condition that it be renamed David Geffen Hall. In accepting his offer, Lincoln Center was obliged to pay the Fisher family $15 million.\n\n2. To some extent, though not as greatly as the received wisdom outside the country would lead one to believe since it had and still has many opponents, this can be said to have occurred in the case of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission in South Africa.\n\n3. See, for example, the fury with which Bosnian crowds greeted the arrival of the Serbian prime minister, Aleksandar Vu\u010di\u0107, at the twentieth-anniversary ceremonies in 2015 marking the Srebrenica massacre.\n\n4. And even ressentiment is a complicated business. Jeffrey Olick, who sees this clearly, offers this insight from the radical American political theorist Wendy Brown: \"Identity politics may be partly configured by a peculiarly shaped and peculiarly disguised form of class resentment that is displaced onto discourses of injustice other than class, but a resentment, like all resentments, that retains the real or imagined holdings of its reviled subject as objects of desire.\"\nSEVEN\n\n_Amor Fati_\n\nWith the possible exception of the Jews, for whom questions of law, tradition, memory, and custom are notoriously difficult to disentangle, collective historical memory is no respecter of the past. Indeed, historically, most of the claims to continuity that are made for it are at best partly specious and often utterly so. This is not simply a matter of inaccuracy, willful or otherwise, of the type one encounters in the many contemporary television miniseries that attempt to re-create a past historical era\u2014Showtime's _The Tudors,_ say, or HBO's _Rome,_ about the latter of which the classicist Mary Beard remarked that for her the great pleasure of watching it was seeing how many historical howlers could be crammed into a given episode. Such entertainments rarely if ever challenge the conventional order, and usually reflect it\u2014think of the Hollywood films of the 1930s such as _Lives of a Bengal Lancer_ and _Gunga Din,_ whose hymns to colonialism Bertolt Brecht skewered so mordantly in the diaries he kept during his Los Angeles exile. In contrast, when states, political parties, and social groups appeal to collective historical memory, their motives are far from trivial.\n\nUntil well into the second half of the twentieth century, the goal of such appeals was almost invariably to foster national unity, along the same lines that Renan the historian had anatomized and Renan the nationalist had prescribed. It would be comforting to believe that damnable regimes have been more given to this practice than decent ones, which may help account for the fact that many discussions, including Todorov's and Margalit's, that attempt to validate the concept of collective memory but frankly acknowledge how often it is misused,1 highlight Hitler's and Stalin's manipulations of the past, as in the case of Stalin's attempts to mobilize the Russian people to resist the German invasion by appealing to the memory of the medieval prince of Novgorod, Alexander Nevsky, who had repelled a previous German invasion when he defeated the Teutonic Knights at the Battle of the Ice in 1242. But the reality is that such efforts to mobilize and manipulate collective memory or manufacture it have been made by regimes and political parties of virtually every type.\n\nThere have even been times when rival political movements have vied for \"ownership\" of a particular historical figure who is thought to incarnate the nation. A case in point was Joan of Arc in nineteenth-century France. Between 1841, when a biography of her appeared written by the influential historian Jules Michelet, and the early twentieth century, the left and the right in France both claimed her as their symbol even though their portraits of the Maid of Orleans were incompatible. For the right, she was seen as the emblem of France's determination to repel foreign invaders, while for the largely anticlerical French left\u2014and in this they were faithful to the portrait the militant anticlerical Michelet had presented of her\u2014she was a victim of the church that had condemned her to be burnt at the stake. Once the Catholic Church beatified her in 1909 (she was then canonized in 1920), the left could no longer credibly claim her as one of their own. Yet the \"memory\" of Joan of Arc continued to be contested; it became a rallying point for the right, first for the extreme conservative Catholic movement, the Action fran\u00e7aise, and the Vichy government during the Second World War over which the movement exerted considerable influence, then, beginning in the late 1980s, when its leader Jean-Marie Le Pen made his first significant electoral breakthrough, for the French ultra-right party, the Front National, which commemorates Joan of Arc every May 1, not coincidentally the date of the left's most important annual holiday.\n\nPresumably not only Tzvetan Todorov and Avishai Margalit but almost anyone who was reasonably literate historically would view skeptically the French right's manipulation of the figure of Joan of Arc. That effort to inculcate a \"collective memory\" to suggest that just as she incarnated France's struggle against the English foreign invaders of her time, so too does today's Front National, this time against Muslims and other immigrants that the party wishes to persuade the French people are the invaders of today, represent a gross distortion of history. Yet typologically the right's manipulation of Joan of Arc is no different from and no more inaccurate than the determined efforts of the impeccably social democratic Scottish National Party to appropriate the figure of William Wallace, the late-twelfth-century nobleman who was an early leader of medieval Scotland's wars of independence, for its own ideological and electoral ends.\n\nIf anything, the William Wallace that the SNP held out as a model for emulation for Scottish voters bears even less resemblance to the historical figure than does the Joan of Arc touted by the Front National. We probably have Hollywood to thank for this: the SNP shamelessly capitalized on Mel Gibson's preposterous biopic of Wallace, _Braveheart,_ using the launch of the film in Scotland in 1995 to jump-start a massive recruitment drive for the party. Volunteers handed out leaflets to filmgoers as they left cinemas all over Scotland that read in part: \"You've seen the movie\u2014Now face the reality. . . . Today, it's not just bravehearts who choose independence, it's also wise heads.\" The juxtaposition was patently absurd, and yet the SNP's then vice president, Paul Scott, seemed to have no problem drafting into his party's cause the figure of a Scottish minor nobleman about whom, apart from his military campaign of 1297\u201398 and the ghastly details of his public execution by the English in 1305, virtually nothing is known. \"In modern terms,\" Scott told an interviewer, \"the desires of civic nationalism are exactly the same [as those of Wallace].\"\n\nThere is no _inherent_ difference between the use the Front National has made of Joan of Arc and that which the SNP has made of William Wallace. Yet given the contrast between the furious response to the former and the comparatively relaxed reception of the latter, one would be hard-pressed not to conclude that the objection is not to the manipulation of history but to the fact that it is the Front National doing the manipulating. As the old psychoanalytic joke would have it, \"When the right person does the wrong thing, it's right; when the wrong person does the right thing, it's wrong.\" To be sure, at some point in their lives, almost all adults have had to confront the contingency of their convictions. But it hardly seems intellectually credible to claim that the Front National's manipulation of Joan of Arc is an abuse of collective memory while the SNP's of William Wallace is not. And one wonders whether, had the left's equally historically unsustainable claims regarding Joan of Arc prevailed in twentieth-century France, the same bien-pensant severities would have been brought to bear on them.\n\nNo one who has written about collective memory has been more alert to the dangers of its abuse than Tzvetan Todorov. In 2010, for example, he returned from a trip to Argentina, where he had visited the sites commemorating the victims of the military dictatorship, including the former Navy Mechanics School in Buenos Aires\u2014the so-called ESMA, where hundreds were tortured to death\u2014and wrote a highly critical account of them in a column in the Spanish newspaper _El Pa\u00eds_. \"Memory,\" he wrote, \"is subjective . . . which is why it can be used by a [particular] group as a means of gaining or reinforcing its political position.\" And yet Todorov has continued to insist that, while \"a society needs history, not just memory,\" when done properly historical remembrance provides exemplary instances of more general categories, thus serving \"as a model for understanding new situations involving different [historical] actors.\" And for him, this is at least \"potentially liberating.\" Todorov freely concedes that \"not every lesson is a good one\" (to this extent, at least, echoing Margalit's vision of humanity as potentially an ethical community of memory), but he nonetheless insists that each can be evaluated on its merits \"with the help of universal, rational criteria that sustain [genuine] human dialogue.\"\n\nBut is he right to believe this, or is he instead imputing to human beings a far greater degree both of rationality and of solidarity than we as a species possess? To insist on the point is not the same as claiming that human beings are too irrational and self-interested to learn from the past, or are incapable of applying what they have learned (and not in the reductive, Santayana-like sense, with which Todorov has never sympathized). Rather, it is to say that, contra Margalit, to ask whether collective memory exists is, in an essential sense, to ask the wrong question. Of course collective memory exists, _but only metaphorically,_ which makes it subject to numerous distortions that should put the claims for its importance morally and ethically under severe strain. In his lovely book on metaphors in literature, Denis Donoghue writes, \"We normally\u2014and justly\u2014speak of metaphor as an irruption of desire, specifically the desire to transform life by reinterpreting it, giving it a different story. . . . It expresses one's desire to be free, and to replace the given world by an imagined world of one's devising.\"\n\nIs the case of history so far removed from that of literature as to be irrelevant to it? That hardly seems likely. No matter what the arena of human consciousness and thought, to apply in the name of the duty to remember an essentially metaphoric understanding of the past to the present seems far more likely to elicit unreason than reason, if on no other basis than that, in Leon Wieseltier's stark phrase, \"The mind cannot do without the imagination, but the imagination can do without the mind.\"\n\nIf this is right, then the contradictions inherent in any definition of collective memory and not, as Ricoeur, Margalit, Todorov, and others have argued, its abuse are what make it difficult for human beings to avoid falling for or indeed propagating such historical travesties as the Front National's adoption of Joan of Arc or the Scottish National Party's of William Wallace. It is true that the metaphoric essence of collective memory does indeed free it, and allows it, as in Donoghue's sketch of it in the context of literature, to replace the given world with an imagined world of one's own devising. But it is the freedom of the permanent adolescent. And as is the case with many adolescents, remembrance too often proceeds as if gravitationally drawn to suffering, conflict, and sacrifice.\n\nRenan saw all this clearly, and unlike the partisans of collective memory of the early twenty-first century, he viewed its emphasis on suffering as its essence rather than as a distortion or abuse of that essence: \"More valuable than common customs posts and frontiers conforming to strategic ideas is the fact of sharing, in the past, a glorious heritage and regrets, and of having, in the future [a shared] program to put into effect, or the fact of having suffered, enjoyed, and hoped together. These are the kinds of things that can be understood in spite of differences of race and language. I spoke just now of 'having suffered together' and, indeed, suffering in common unites more than joy does. Where national memories are concerned, griefs are of more value than triumphs, for they impose duties and require a common effort.\"\n\nFrom the vantage point of 2015, in an era when the grand narrative of the state has been or is in the process of being challenged, overhauled, and in some cases replaced entirely by often competing agendas of those mistreated, oppressed, and excluded by states and by dominant classes and races, what needs to be added is that these agendas too are not just strengthened by grief, as Renan understood, but sustained by the sense of traumatized victimhood on the part of both the individuals and the collectivities concerned. Most of the time, this is harmless. But not all of the time, and those are the instances when it needs to be kept in mind that there are few phenomena more uncontrollable socially and, hence, more dangerous politically than a people or a social group that believes itself to be a victim. This was what Auden was talking about in \"September 1, 1939,\" when he pointed to \"What all schoolchildren learn\/Those to whom evil is done\/Do evil in return.\"\n\nOne proof of this can be found in the fact that in the minds of their perpetrators, virtually every great crime of the twentieth century has been committed in an atmosphere of fear and with the justification of self-defense, whether reactive or preemptive, that is to say, of \"us or them.\" The Turks thought the Armenians were a Russian fifth column; Stalin thought the Kulaks were subverting his program of agricultural collectivization on which the future of the Russian food supply depended; and the Nazis conceived of the Jews as being the moral equivalent of a lethal microbe and of having been responsible for Germany's defeat in the First World War. Despite all the promises of \"Never Again\" put forward in the wake of the Seond World War, in the postwar world, existential fears have driven other groups to commit mass murder in the name of self-preservation, the most terrible of which in terms of the proportion of the population that was killed was the Rwandan genocide.\n\nIf faced squarely, what these events and the motivations behind them should serve to refute is the belief that sometime in the twentieth century humanity turned an existential corner.2 No matter how many ceremonies of commemoration we hold, no matter how many museums to the Shoah or the Great Irish Famine we build, no matter how many laws we pass along the lines of the French parliament's criminalization of the denial of the Armenian genocide, and no matter how radically we revise the school curricula in countries that grew rich off the slave trade in order to acknowledge its horrors, we are bound to fall short of the millenarian goals that we delude ourselves are now within our reach. However seductive the thought might be, to imagine otherwise is not going to help us remember \"better\" and more usefully in an ethical or social sense. Despite Todorov's injunction that it is possible to \"make use of the lessons of past injustices to fight against those taking place in the present,\" the effect in at least some extreme situations is more likely to be to de-historicize these events, thus leaching them of their specificity. In Rwanda after the genocide, a P\u00e8re Blanc who had lived through it was asked by a journalist whether witnessing it had not caused him to lose his faith in God. His immediate reply was to explain with great conviction why it had not. But then, after a short pause, he added almost matter-of-factly that it _had_ destroyed forever his faith in human beings. \"The devil is an optimist,\" Karl Kraus wrote, \"if he thinks he can make people meaner.\"\n\nI am not prescribing moral Alzheimer's here. Self-evidently, to be wholly without memory would be to be without a world. Nor am I arguing against the determination for a group to memorialize its dead or demand acknowledgment of its sufferings from those who inflicted them or who stood by and did nothing to prevent it. That would be as morally obtuse as demanding of traumatized individuals or family that they forget their loved ones or, in the case of physical abuse or deep psychic wound, to go on covering up what went on in the past behind closed doors. To do so would be to counsel a species of moral and psychological self-mutilation of tragic proportions. On the other hand, too much forgetting is hardly the only risk. There is also too much remembering, and in the early twenty-first century, when people throughout the world but in the Global North in particular, are, in Todorov's words, \"obsessed by a new cult, that of memory,\" despite Yerushalmi's impassioned arguments to the contrary, the latter seems to have become a far greater risk than the former.\n\nHyperthymesia is a rare medical condition that has been defined as being marked by \"unusual autobiographical remembering.\" The medical journal _Neurocase: The Neural Basis of Cognition_ identifies its two main characteristics: first that a person spends \"an abnormally large amount of time thinking about his or her personal past,\" and second that the person \"has an extraordinary capacity to recall specific events from [his or her] personal past.\" It is similar, though not identical, to a case documented by the mid-twentieth-century Russian neurologist Aleksandr R. Luria in his _The Mind of the Mnemonist_ of a man who could forget only by an act of will. Luria described this as the inability to engage in what is sometimes called \"ordinary forgetting.\"\n\nIf we are at all skeptical about the contemporary elevation of remembrance and deprecation of forgetting, these can come to seem like nothing so much as hyperthymesia writ large. But even many people who would not go that far would probably agree that the cult of remembrance has become something of a fetish. In his magisterial final work, _Memory, History, Forgetting,_ Paul Ricoeur argued that there could be no art of forgetting in the way that, since the Rosicrucians at least, there has been understood to be an art of memory. For Ricoeur, as for Margalit, what needed to be cultivated was not forgetting but forgiving. And yet even Ricoeur seems to have worried about the contemporary obsession with memory.\n\nHe was right to do so. For remembrance, however important a role it may and often does play in the life of groups, and whatever moral and ethical demands it not only responds to but often can fulfill, carries with it political and social risks that at times also have an existential character. This can be serious during wars or social and political crises, particularly when these are intercommunal or religiously inspired. In such situations, the danger is not Yerushalmi's \"terror of forgetting\" but rather the terror of remembering too well, too vividly.\n\nSuppose, for the sake of argument, that Yerushalmi was correct, and that forgetting destroys not just the link with the past in the obvious formal sense but also the commonality of values that should link the living with their ancestors and their own descendants with them. Even this by no means rules out the possibility that the price of remembering, at least in certain political circumstances and at certain social and historical conjunctures, might still be too high. These are the cases, small in number, no doubt, but high in the potential for human suffering, in which it is possible that whereas forgetting does an injustice to the past, remembering does an injustice to the present. On such occasions, when collective memory condemns communities to feel the pain of their historical wounds and the bitterness of their historical grievances\u2014and all communities have such wounds, whether at a given point in history they are oppressors or the oppressed3\u2014it is not the duty to remember but a duty to forget that should be honored. And despite the eloquent arguments Ricoeur deployed against such a parallelism, if there can be a will to remember, why, if only in extremis, can there not also be a will to forget?\n\nIn these situations, at least, is it possible to state with confidence which is worse, remembering or forgetting? There can be no categorical answer. If the prospect exists of \"curing war,\" as Einstein put it in 1931 in his celebrated exchange of letters with Freud, then Margalit's championing of forgiveness without forgetting might itself be sufficient. But as Freud said in his answer to Einstein, \"There is no likelihood of our being able to suppress humanity's aggressive tendencies.\" And if Freud was right, then it is at least possible that forgetting, for all the sacrifices it imposes (and, to be clear, these can be terrible indeed), may be the only safe response\u2014and as such should be a cause for a measure of relief, rather than consternation. There are many historical examples of such forgetting taking place far sooner than might reasonably have been expected. As an illustration, when General De Gaulle had his historic change of heart and decided that France would have to accede to Algerian independence, one of his advisers is said to have protested, exclaiming, \"So much blood has been shed.\" To which De Gaulle answered, \"Nothing dries quicker than blood\"\u2014a reply that exemplifies Nietzsche's idea that what he called \"active forgetting\" is an important attribute of a man of power.\n\nTo put the dilemma even more bluntly, remembrance may be the ally of justice, but, despite the conventional wisdom of the human rights movement, it is no reliable friend to peace, whereas forgetting can and at times has played such a role. An example of this is the so-called _Pacto del olvido_ (Pact of Forgetting) between the right and the left that, while never formalized, was essential to the political settlement that restored democracy in Spain in the 1970s after Franco's death. In an important sense, the democratic transition came on the wings both of rewriting and of forgetting. The myriad avenues and boulevards that had been named after Franco himself or his prominent subordinates following the fascists' victory in 1939 were renamed. But instead of replacing them with the names of Republican heroes and martyrs\u2014Juan Negr\u00edn, Francisco Largo Caballero, General Jos\u00e9 Miaja\u2014the Spanish leaders chose to use names from the royal past: the street in Madrid named after Gonzalo Queipo de Llano, one of Franco's most important generals and, briefly, his rival, became Calle del Principe de Vergara, and so on. It was a practice that was later institutionalized in the Law of Historical Memory passed by the Spanish parliament in 2007. And in a sense, even that law could reasonably be construed as being one of \"historical forgetting\" because, save for a few exceptions, it ordered the authorities to remove monuments, plaques, and street names that, in the words of the statute, \"exalted the Civil War or the repression under the dictatorship\" between 1936 and 1975.\n\nThe justification for the Pacto del olvido was similar to the one advanced in Chile when it was decided not to prosecute General Pinochet when he relinquished power: it was meant to placate Franco's loyalists, of whom there were many, including, crucially, a number inside the armed forces, at a time when the right's willingness even to acquiesce to the transition was anything but assured\u2014a reality that the attempted coup in 1981, more than six years after Franco's death, led by a Guardia Civil colonel, Antonio Tejero, demonstrated all too painfully. From the start, the pact had many detractors, not just on the left. And even a substantial number of those who did not oppose it in principle thought that it would not succeed unless accompanied by a South African\u2013 or Argentine-style Truth Commission. But as has so often been the case where human rights are concerned, it eventually fell to a magistrate to try to initiate through judicial procedures what the politicians continued to steadfastly refuse to contemplate. In 2008, Judge Baltasar Garz\u00f3n, the same magistrate who had issued the arrest warrant for Pinochet, opened an investigation into the deaths of the 114,000 people estimated to have been murdered by the fascist side both during the Civil War itself and in the subsequent decades of Franco's rule. Garz\u00f3n also demanded that nineteen mass gravesites be opened and the bodies exhumed.\n\nGarz\u00f3n's efforts were immensely controversial in Spain, not only because many Spaniards were still convinced that the Pacto del olvido had worked, but also because the country's 1977 Amnesty Law holds that murders and atrocities committed by either side during the Civil War that could be categorized as having had what the statute calls \"political intention\" were sheltered from prosecution. Garz\u00f3n denied that he had exceeded his authority. \"Any amnesty law,\" he argued, \"that seeks to whitewash a crime against humanity is invalid in law.\" His many supporters in Spain, the most ardent of whom belonged to the Association for the Recovery of Historical Memory, agreed and did a great deal to sway Spanish public opinion in favor of what he was trying to do. And even though, in the end, higher courts not only overruled Garz\u00f3n but went on to suspend him from the judiciary (in 2014 he became one of the lead attorneys representing the founder of Wikileaks, Julian Assange), his supporters have never wavered in their conviction that Garz\u00f3n's actions represented the only ethically licit response. This was summed up by the rhetorical question that has appeared intermittently on the Association's website: \"Why have the authors of the Constitution left my uncle in a ditch?\"\n\nGarz\u00f3n's views are strikingly similar to those of Elie Wiesel, who believes that finding out the truth about what happened to the victims of Franco is both a moral and a legal obligation, binding for society as a whole, no matter what backroom deals politicians may have made in the 1970s. The general tendency among human rights activists, including members of the judiciary such as Garz\u00f3n, has been to present law and morality as inseparable, at least in cases when the matter under consideration is clearly within the jurisdiction of a court. And because most of them assume that justice is the essential prerequisite for lasting peace, they tend to downplay when they don't categorically dismiss the risk of any negative political and social consequences flowing from their actions. But in the event that such consequences do occur, their stance has generally been that it is the politicians' responsibility, and not theirs, to sort them out.\n\nIt would be dishonest to focus on whether there might be times when remembrance could be thought of as either not yet being helpful (to peace, to reconciliation) or, alternatively, as having outlived its usefulness, without acknowledging the many instances in which forgetting, too, may have a lifespan, and at times quite a short one. This is a point that the Association for the Recovery of Historical Memory made repeatedly in its campaign in support of what Garz\u00f3n was trying to do. From an analytical point of view, furthermore, the group made a valid point when it argued that \"the Amnesty law was key to moving from an atrocious dictatorship to democracy, and for years benefitted from wide popular support. But in this decade [the 2000s], the victims turned to a government of the Left so that there will no longer be impunity for the crimes against humanity [committed during the Civil War and under the Franco dictatorship].\"\n\nThe Association was also probably right when it claimed that twenty-first-century Spain no longer needs the Pacto del olvido, just as when _The Sorrow and the Pity_ finally aired on French television it soon became clear that France had changed sufficiently that the truth about what had happened during the Occupation caused no grievous harm to the country's moral or historical ecology. But in both France and Spain, for all the difficulties they face\u2014including terrorism and, in France's case, the continued expeditionary campaigns in the Sahel related to it\u2014the major wars and great crimes are almost certainly behind them.4 What this means is that the risks that come with remembrance are probably manageable, even if the rewards may not prove to be as great as the activists, international lawyers, and human rights campaigners both in NGOs and in the universities routinely claim. This is not where the dangers of remembrance lie; except for terrorists\u2014which in France and Spain nowadays almost invariably means jihadis\u2014no one in either country is likely to kill or to die because of what has been forgotten or failed to have been forgotten, or what has been remembered or has failed to be remembered. In many parts of the world, however, killing and dying are exactly the stakes, and it is with regard to those places that the issue of whether we should stop praising remembrance and start praising forgetting is most acute.\n\nThe places to which this has applied in the very recent past or applies now are glaringly obvious: the Balkans, Israel-Palestine (and much of the rest of the Islamic Middle East), Ireland. In other places, it is less a question of \"forgetfulness now\" as of the realization that at some point in the future, whether that moment comes relatively quickly or is deferred for a long time, the victories, defeats, wounds, and grudges being commemorated would be better let go. That list would include, for starters, Sri Lanka, Colombia, Ukraine. And at or at least near the top, it would also include the United States and the memory of the attacks of September 11, 2001.\n\n1. For Margalit, \"The distinction needed... is between the illusion _of a_ collective memory and [the] illusions within collective memory,\" while Todorov argues that one way to distinguish between its proper and improper use is whether \"the actions that have been claimed to be based on it have been for the better or the worse.\" My own view, though, is that this criterion doesn't get Todorov nearly as far as he seems to think in establishing a viable set of criteria for making the correct choice.\n\n2. This view, which is demonstrably utopian, now also informs the mainstream relief and development world, where the consensus view is that for the first time in history it is not only possible but likely that by the middle of the twenty-first century extreme poverty and hunger will have all but disappeared.\n\n3. If the Rwandan genocide and its aftermath should have taught us anything, it is how quickly such roles can flip and how easily yesterday's victimizers become today's victims.\n\n4. To be clear, this claim is comparative, not an assertion that these states are not now committing crimes or will not do so in the future.\nEIGHT\n\nAgainst Remembrance\n\nOn September 11, 2011, the tenth anniversary of the attacks that destroyed the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center in Lower Manhattan, the official memorial was dedicated at Ground Zero. Designed by the architect Michael Arad and the landscape architect Peter Walker and titled \"Reflecting Absence,\" the memorial is a little under eight acres in size and consists of two sunken reflecting pools, each surrounded by an enormous waterfall, the largest humanmade waterfalls in North America. The names of the 2,983 people who died on September 11, 2001, and in the failed 1993 attempt to destroy the towers are etched on the bronze panels edging the memorial pools. The closing sentence of the memorial's mission statement reads, \"May the lives remembered, the deeds recognized, and the spirit reawakened be eternal beacons, which reaffirm respect for life, strengthen our resolve to preserve freedom, and inspire an end to hatred, ignorance, and intolerance.\"\n\nThese are unexceptional sentiments. A memorial is a place for solidarity rather than subtlety, deference rather than criticism, piety rather than revisionism. But in affirming that remembrance is humanly necessary, we must not pretend that it is ever completely innocent, not even when, in Todorov's sense (and not allowing for this, in my view, is one of the most serious limitations to his argument), it does not seem to involve any abuse of memory and when its promises to offer an exemplary lesson for both the present and the future seem credible. In the case of the 9\/11 memorial, its mission statement poses more questions than it answers. For although there is nothing morally problematic about remembering the fallen and honoring the heroism of the first responders, the call to \"strengthen our resolve to preserve freedom\" is anything but an innocent piety. To the contrary, it bears echoes of President George W. Bush's speech to a joint session of Congress nine days after the attacks in which he argued that they had occurred because the terrorists \"hate our freedoms\u2014freedom of religion, our freedom of speech, our freedom to vote and assemble and disagree with each other.\"\n\nEven those who have accepted Bush's account, despite its failure to acknowledge the possibility that it was America's actions globally rather than the American way of life that the jihadis hated, presumably would grant that the president was making a political claim in the broad sense. That the opening of the memorial marked an event that is seared into the lives and consciousness of most Americans should not obscure the fact that the ghost at the banquet of all public commemorations is always politics, whether for the Renanist purpose of mobilizing national solidarity and what might be called memorial unity, as the ceremonies at the 9\/11 memorial were clearly meant to do, or for the purpose of serving as a vehicle for undermining the version of history a state propagates, one that, through the creation of some form of what is sometimes called countermemory, initiates, then speeds up, and finally helps institutionalize whatever social transformations a particular activist group has been campaigning for.\n\nIn the specific case of 9\/11, it is important not to exaggerate. Whatever meaning historians eventually assign to the attacks (assuming a consensus is ever arrived at, which hardly can be taken as a given), it is highly unlikely that commemorations of them will harm America as a society, even if Americans are unlikely to learn much from them either, any more than one does from eulogies at a funeral. In an important sense, for a great many of the relatives and friends of those who died on that day, remembrance has afforded a measure of recognition and consolation, if not of closure\u2014one of the more malign and corrosive psychological fantasies of the age. Commemorations are not generally valued for their ability to shed light on the truth. And that is entirely appropriate.1 The problem is that such piety both nourishes illusions about how long human beings can remember, and, far more seriously, puts considerations of the grave political consequences it can engender out of bounds. And yet, in light of the dismal fact that there have been many occasions in the past when remembrance has been the incubator of a determination of a defeated people or group to secure vengeance, no matter how long it takes or what the human cost of doing so will be\u2014think of Ireland, Bosnia, Kosovo\u2014such deference to collective grief and trauma, not just humanly understandable but honorable as it generally is, can cost nations and societies dearly, at a price that may be exacted for generations.\n\nCommemorations of national tragedies such as the September 11 attacks are also occasions for the affirmation of the wholly illogical belief that events that quite rightly seem central to us today will be as or almost as important to our descendants long after those of us who lived through them are dust. This assumption is not only almost certainly false; it also carries risk, especially for rich societies such as those of the United States, Canada, and the nations of the European Union. In these countries, there is a growing tendency to conflate desire with fate, wish with reality, and most relevantly in terms of collective memory, commemoration, and group remembrance, the present with eternity. Among the other effects of this is a reluctance to acknowledge and draw the difficult lessons from not just individual human transience but societal, national, and civilizational transience as well. For hopes and desires almost invariably have been poor guides where history is concerned. To insist on this is not to say that on the tenth anniversary of the attacks, those who participated should have forsworn such illusions, however indefensible they are intellectually. In that specific case the alternative would have been to state that sooner or later our descendants will forget about them, and that would have been as unbearable as it was both cruel and pointless.\n\nWhat is open to question is not whether, as Kipling and Shelley knew, the most monumental accomplishments and deepest sorrows of human beings will be forgotten over the long run, but rather where the temporal outer limits of a society's capacity for remembrance, commemoration, celebration, and mourning are. In June 1940, as he tried to rally his people for what he called the Battle of Britain, Winston Churchill said, \"If the British Empire and its Commonwealth last for a thousand years, men will still say, 'This was their finest hour.\"' What is remarkable about his speech in terms of collective memory is that even at his most floridly rhetorical, Churchill, one of the most intransigent defenders of the British Empire ever to have lived, was nonetheless a good enough student of history neither to imagine nor to suggest that his country's imperium could last more than a millennium. If anything, that _If_ at the beginning of his sentence seemed to suggest that he thought that its reign would be considerably shorter. And lest it be forgotten, even Adolf Hitler spoke of a \"thousand-year Reich,\" not of an eternal one.\n\nIn the American context, compare the use of the memory of Pearl Harbor, first by Franklin D. Roosevelt in the immediate aftermath of the Japanese attack on the U.S. fleet in Hawaii, and then by George W. Bush in the wake of 9\/11, and consider the difference between what people in FDR's time and people sixty years later expected to be remembered. FDR referred to December 7, 1941, the day the attack took place, as \"a date which will live in infamy.\" Worth noting is that even in this formulation, Roosevelt sensibly did not say that the date would live in infamy for a thousand years, let alone _forever_. He knew better than that; he was speaking for his listeners in the here and now.\n\nThere is little doubt that on December 7, 1951, ten years after Pearl Harbor, the date continued to live in infamy for most Americans, just as 9\/11 does in 2015, as I write. But the history of the memory of Pearl Harbor offers instruction in how transient the vivid remembrance of even fairly recent historical traumas can be. Anyone with half a heart and no countervailing political agenda or allegiance who goes to the Pearl Harbor memorial today will almost certainly be immensely moved, perhaps even to anger as well as grief. But how many twenty-first-century Americans still remember the 1,177 American sailors killed on the U.S.S. _Arizona_ that day, most of whose remains lie directly under the memorial? And before long, those who lived through the attack, or were old enough at the time to know it had occurred, will have died. At that point, Leon Wieseltier's point about the U.S. National Holocaust Museum\u2014that before long visitors would come when the _living_ memory of Shoah had disappeared\u2014will apply to the Pearl Harbor memorial as well.\n\nAnd what about FDR's prediction that the Japanese attack would \"live in infamy\"? During the 1950s many Americans refused to buy German cars, while anger at the Japanese remained palpable. It is tempting to argue that reconciliation with Germany took place because the Germans themselves acknowledged their guilt and, in important ways, created a state whose essence was the antithesis of Nazi Germany. But a similar process of reconciliation followed by forgetting took place vis-\u00e0-vis Japan, even though there was no German-style contrition there. Indeed, the extent to which the Japanese persist in refusing to acknowledge the crimes they committed between the start of the Second Sino-Japanese War in 1937 and Japan's surrender in 1945 remains a profound source of anger to China and Korea, whose people were the principal victims. Yet almost no one in the United States thinks angry thoughts about the Japanese every December 7 (or on any other day of the year for that matter). And the scenario of an American refusing to contribute to a fund to help the survivors of the tsunami that struck Japan in 2011 on the grounds of what the Japanese had done at Pearl Harbor is ludicrous. Yet it would have been anything but ridiculous on December 7, 1951. To the contrary, in analogous circumstances then, such a rancorous response would not have surprised anyone.\n\nThe Second World War is over, not only in reality but also in people's hearts, just as all wars must end, including those that seem interminable, as is the case of the so-called Long War against the jihadis of the early twenty-first century. This truth can only offer cold comfort while a conflict rages on, however, and that is where the risks that remembrance will prolong a war come in. Will remembrance have this effect in the case of the commemorations of 9\/11? It is too early to say. In 2015, fourteen years after the attacks on the towers, and with even the \"end of the beginning\" of the Long War, to use the words Churchill applied to the British victory over the Germans at El Alamein in 1942, not even in sight, there can be no question of either forgetting or forgiveness. But if it is far too early to move toward either, surely it is anything but premature to ask whether peace will ever come without our society being open to both. For even the work of mourning, essential as it is, must eventually end if life is to go on. The South African writer Nadine Gordimer once remarked that she believed writers should write as if they were already dead. On a certain level, asking people to forgo remembrance, and possibly even embrace forgetting, is also to ask them to behave as if they were already dead. We are back to Mi\u0142osz's adage about there being no other memory but the memory of wounds.\n\nPerhaps these memories are too precious for human beings to give up. For societies, especially societies and groups that either feel themselves to be under existential threat or want to impose their own religion, or values, or territorial demands on their neighbors, the possibility may be still more remote, particularly if the collective memories, however dubious historically, seem to fuel these efforts. Consider, for example, the use Daesh, al-Qaeda, and other jihadi groups, and, for that matter, many mainstream Islamic clerics, from Indonesia to the suburbs of Paris, have made of the words \"Crusade\" and \"Crusader.\" As the Cambridge social historian Paul Connerton, arguably Halbwachs's most gifted inheritor, has pointed out, \"Medieval Muslim historians did not share with the medieval European Christians the sense of witnessing a great struggle between Islam and Christendom for control of the Holy Land.\" Connerton added that the words \"Crusade\" and \"Crusader\" never appear in the Muslim chronicles and other historical writing of the time; instead they use the terms \"Franks\" or \"infidels.\" But according to Connerton, beginning sometime in the nineteenth century \"an expanding body of Arabic historical writing has taken the Crusades as its theme,\" with the term becoming \"a code word for the malign intentions of the Western powers . . . culminating in the foundation of the State of Israel.\" On Connerton's reading, at least, one of the effects of each of the Arab-Israeli wars has been to galvanize further studies of the Crusades.\n\nThe Crusaders as proto-Zionists! It may not be history, but it offers a textbook case of the development and then of the deployment of political collective memory in the service of large-scale solidarity\u2014yet another iteration of those \"griefs requiring common efforts\" that Renan advanced as the sine qua non of nation-building. The fact that virtually nothing in the contemporaneous Arab writing about the Crusades supports the Arab world's collective memory of those griefs is neither here nor there. That the myth fills a need, and subsequently can be manufactured convincingly enough to captivate and inspire those to whom it is directed, is what matters. Think of it as the transformation of the wound into the weapon.\n\nThe renowned British historian of the Crusades Jonathan Riley-Smith believes that the construction of what remains the consensus collective memory in the Muslim world of the Crusades began in the late nineteenth century when Sultan Abdulhamid II described the European imperial powers' conquests of Ottoman lands as a new crusade. In 1915 it seemed appropriate to name the new university in Jerusalem after Saladin, who, as Riley-Smith puts it, began to be praised by Arab nationalist writers for having undone the first European seizure of the Holy Land when, at the Battle of Hattin in 1187, he put an end to the nearly century-old Christian Kingdom of Jerusalem that had been established in the aftermath of the First Crusade in 1099. By the 1980s, this association between the Kingdom of Jerusalem and the modern State of Israel had come to seem so self-evident to many Arab artists and intellectuals that the Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish could write of the Israeli siege of Beirut in 1982 as being the work of \"leftover Crusaders . . . taking their revenge for all medieval history.\"\n\nLess than two months after the September 11 attacks, Osama bin Laden recorded a speech in which he described the U.S. invasion of Afghanistan that was only then just beginning as linked to \"a long series of crusader wars against the Islamic world.\" These had not only happened in the immediate post\u2013World War I period in which, as he described it, \"the whole Islamic world fell under the crusader banner\u2014under the British, French, and Italian governments.\" For bin Laden, these efforts at conquest had taken place without respite throughout the twentieth century and included Russia's wars in Chechnya and the actions of \"the crusader Australian forces [who landed] on Indonesian shores . . . to separate East Timor, which is part of the Islamic world.\"\n\nThe late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries in the Islamic world have been a graveyard of many forms of rationality, but most notably of skepticism. And in the context of piety and ressentiment now running rampant in the ummah, it seems inconceivable that at least a large number, though of course not all, of those who watched bin Laden's speech on social media or, for that matter, read Darwish's words, found themselves \"remembering\" this crusader \"past,\" in which Balian of Ibelin (c. 1143\u20131193), the great Christian knight of the Kingdom of Jerusalem; John III Sobieski (1629\u20131696), the Polish king who lifted the Ottoman siege of Vienna in 1683; Ferdinand de Lesseps (1805\u20131894), the French developer of the Suez Canal; Field Marshal Edward Allenby (1861\u20131936), the British commander whose army captured Jerusalem from the Ottomans in 1917; David Ben-Gurion (1886\u20131973), the main founder of the State of Israel; Boris Yeltsin (1931\u20132007), the president of the Russian Federation during the first Chechen War; and John Howard (born 1939), the Australian prime minister who ordered Australia's intervention in East Timor in 1999, all fuse together to become leaders of the same now millennium-old crusade to subjugate the Islamic world.\n\nThat this is a manipulation of history of the grossest kind and is in fact an _anti_ -historical exercise of the contemporary political imagination should be obvious. But that bin Laden's understanding is accepted as history throughout the Islamic world should be equally clear. Tzevtan Todorov would be within his intellectual rights to insist that the bin Laden view exemplifies the abuse of collective memory. And yet a principal element of his argument, one that in some ways is the key to his claim to distinguish between remembrance's proper use and its abuse, would be easy to adopt for someone wanting to make the case for the truth of bin Laden's account. Recall how Todorov distinguished between what he called \"literal\" memory and \"exemplary\" memory, in which the former, \"particularly when pushed to extremes, carr[ies] [great] risks,\" while the latter, \"potentially liberating,\" offers an exemplum from which \"one draws a lesson [and in which the past offers a principle of action for the present].\"\n\nSurely an advocate of bin Laden's viewpoint would insist that this is exactly what al-Qaeda's leader was doing when, to use part of Todorov's description of what exemplary memory can achieve, he took instances from the past \"as a model for understanding new situations, with different participants,\" thus opening a particular memory \"to analogy and generalization.\" For wasn't this why bin Laden annexed the contemporary assault (as he saw it) to the Crusades and generalized from that analogy? And when Todorov writes that one of the attributes of exemplary memory is to make it possible to \"make use of the lessons of [past] injustices to combat those that are occurring today, to leave the self and go toward the other,\" could not a bin Laden supporter legitimately claim that this was precisely his goal as well and muster as evidence for this the incontrovertible fact that the Western colonial powers did dominate the Islamic world for centuries\u2014a domination that to a considerable extent the American empire, informal though it is, has tried to maintain?\n\nTodorov knows this, and, immediately after laying out the distinction between the literal and the exemplary, he is quick to emphasize that \"self-evidently not all lessons are good ones.\" But his idea that we will be able to distinguish good ones from bad ones through \"universal rational criteria\" hardly provides the prophylactic against the \"bad lesson\" that he seems to think or at least hope they do. Human beings are not as rational as this argument supposes. More important, _pace_ John Gray, incommensurability is often a more reliable guide than universality to the realities of our world. It is also vital to fully take on board the degree to which, as Wieseltier has put it, \"memory has become our mysticism, so great that it is the generation of authenticity that it confers. It would be too strong to call it a hoax, but it is certainly a kind of trick.\" And therein lies the problem. Wieseltier is right to add that \"the effect [of the trick] evaporates in the sunlight of critical history.\" But critical anything has always been and always will be a minority taste, while the appetite for the mystical and the authentic is as voracious as it is universal, which is what Karl Kraus was getting at when he contrasted Beethoven to the hurdy-gurdy and the memory. This is the unpalatable truth that even minds as fine and deep as Todorov's and Margalit's don't seem able to accept about collective memory when they offer their nuanced and admirably contingent claims for what, at its best and in many contexts, it undoubtedly can achieve. For when in history has the mystical _ever_ played second fiddle to the critical?\n\nIt certainly is not common in political systems, or, for that matter, within social movements of any kind, and becomes ever less likely the more extreme such systems are. The political theorist Karl Deutsch once quipped (the remark is sometimes wrongly attributed to Renan), \"A nation is a group of people united by a mistaken view of the past and a hatred of their neighbors.\" He was exaggerating. But it is no exaggeration to say that collective memory is the ideal delivery system for such mistaken views. The fact that in most of the rich world state-centric, top-down, triumphalist collective memory has ceded a great deal of ground to the claims of what Jeffrey Olick has called \"the politics of regret\" does not change this. To the contrary, Renan's idea that what bound a nation together was the \"spiritual principle\" has proved to work equally well for groups demanding recognition and redress in this age of destabilized national identities. The odds are stacked in favor of the mystical, and it makes no more sense to bet against this than it does for a gambler to bet against the house in a casino.\n\nWieseltier once warned that nationalist politics grounded in collective memory can \"destroy the empirical attitude that is necessary for the responsible use of power.\" It is an insight that events in the Middle East, that proving ground for the _irresponsible_ use of power, seem to confirm every day. To take only one of myriad examples, when Israeli forces encircled Beirut in 1982, Israel's then prime minister, Menachem Begin, announced that the Israeli Defense Forces had the \"Nazis surrounded in their bunker,\" even though it was Yasser Arafat and Fatah that were trapped in the Lebanese capital. It was a paradigmatic example of what happens when collective memory born of trauma finds political and, above all, military expression. Margalit may be correct to insist that this need not be the result of collective memory, but even he concedes that collective memory is _usually_ manipulated. If this is the case, surely what collective memory brings about\u2014and not only in Israel-Palestine\u2014is more important than what it might accomplish in an ideal situation.\n\nIsrael offers a florid illustration of how disastrously collective memory can deform a society. The settler movement routinely appeals to a version of biblical history that is as great a distortion of that history as the Islamist fantasy about the supposed continuities between the medieval Kingdom of Jerusalem and the modern State of Israel. At the entrance to the settler outpost of Givat Assaf on the West Bank, a placard reads, \"We have come back home.\" In an interview, Benny Gal, one of the settlement's leaders, insisted, \"On this exact spot, 3,800 years ago, the land of Israel was promised to the Hebrew people.\" Shani Simkovitz, the head of Gush Etzion, the settlement movement's principal \"philanthropy,\" echoed Gal's claim: \"More than three thousand years ago our fathers gave us a land, which is not Rome, it is not New York, but this: the Jewish land.\"\n\nEven when it is secular, mainstream Zionist collective memory is often as mystical and as much of a manipulation of history as these views. Consider the simultaneous mythologizing and politicization of archaeology in Israel that has now reached the point where scholarship and state-building have come to seem like two sides of the same coin. Writing in 1981, Amos Elon observed that Israeli archaeologists were \"not merely digging for knowledge and objects, but for the reassurance of roots, which they find in the ancient Israelite remains scattered throughout the country.\" He added, \"The student of nationalism and archaeology will be tempted to take note of the apparent cathartic effects of both disciplines.\"\n\nNowhere has this been more evident than in the use of the ruins of the fortress of Masada, which were excavated in the early 1960s by Yigael Yadin, the retired IDF chief-of-staff turned archaeologist. It was at Masada that the Jewish Zealots who had risen in revolt against Roman rule in the year 70 of the Common Era made their last stand and where they eventually committed mass suicide (the story is chronicled by Flavius Josephus in _The Jewish War_ ). Soon after Yadin's excavations had been completed, fledgling soldiers in the Israeli military's armored corps began to be brought to the site for their passing-out parades. There, along with the standard ceremonies that accompany the end of basic training in any army, the graduates would chant, \"Masada will never fall again.\" As Elon pointed out, such \"historical\" evocations, which he called ceremonies \"staged by secular moderns over the graves of ancient religious zealots,\" were in reality completely ahistorical. \"The zealots of Masada,\" he wrote, \"would no doubt have opposed modern Israel's Westernized and secular character just as they opposed the Romanized Jews of their time.\"\n\nElon was thinking within the framework of critical history. He is skeptical of group memory, above all because he knows it to be unreliable. In contrast, Yigael Yadin, who in one of his last interviews spoke approvingly of what he called Israel's \"Masada Complex,\" can be legitimately interpreted as having devoted his archaeological career to restoring what the critic Harold Bloom, in his foreword to Yerushalmi's _Zakhor,_ called \"the lost coherence of Jewish memory at its strongest, which was messianic and therefore redemptive.\" Here is Yadin in Masada in 1963, addressing an IDF armored corps graduation ceremony: \"When Napoleon stood among his troops next to the pyramids of Egypt, he declared: 'Four thousand years of history look down upon you.' But what would he not have given to be able to say to his men: 'Four thousand years of your own history look down upon you.'\"\n\nFour thousand years of history. How can Wieseltier's empirical attitude, necessary for the responsible exercise of power, compete with that? Let us not pretend that such exhortations are not better for group cohesion than Elon's critique and, more generally, his ambivalence. For if history teaches us anything, it is that in politics as in war, human beings are not hard-wired for ambivalence; they respond to loyalty and certainty. And just as Renan had argued in \"What Is a Nation,\" to the extent these can be strengthened by collective remembrance, it is of no importance whether the memories in question are historically accurate or if, instead, they are inventions of purely modern manufacture.\n\nOnly one important twentieth-century European thinker, the German political philosopher Ulrich Beck, has directly confronted this problem. In a number of his works, Beck suggested that it might be possible to replace the \"national grandeur\" template for collective memory, which he called \"methodological nationalism,\" with some form of national \"shared ambivalence\" about the past, though he is less clear than he might be on how this would work in practice. France is a good example, for it remains the \"capital\" of the memory industry, the avant-garde of what Pierre Nora has dubbed a \"universally guilty conscience.\" Presumably Beck would have supported a school syllabus that would be attentive to both the Enlightenment and the slave trade, the French Revolution and the Algerian War. But he never explained how studying history in all its ambivalence, which, as Nora has warned, runs the risk of leading to a wholesale criminalization of France's past, would be a better guide for young French people than focusing on the triumphant national mythmaking of the past as their predecessors did until at least the early 1970s. No, there is no going back, but the multiculturalist mirror image of the older pedagogy does not seem to be working very well either.\n\nYosef Yerushalmi thought that the fundamental problem with the modern age was that without some form of commanding authority, which he thought of in terms of what in the Jewish tradition is called _halakhah,_ and what less parochially might be thought of as moral law, people no longer knew what needed to be remembered and what could safely be forgotten. But however moving, Yerushalmi's veneration of memory as the guarantor of tradition, and his horror at the possibility that in the modern era this chain of tradition is in the process of being broken on the wheel of forgetfulness, calls out to a moral structure under sentence of death. For despite the talk of the centrality of identity politics to modern self-understanding, the kind of fixed identity that Yerushalmi deemed essential for the successful transmission of a community's traditions through the generations has become ever more difficult to maintain. Instead, in Marx's grand phrase, \"All that's solid melts into air.\"\n\nBut if Yerushalmi's fears were warranted, and any real continuity between past, present, and future has been broken, replaced by collective memories of the past that are no more real than the invented traditions whose study Hobsbawm and Ranger pioneered, then surely the time has come to scrutinize our inherited pieties about both remembrance and forgetting. A good place to start might be the Edict of Nantes, issued by Henri IV in 1598 to bring to an end to the wars of religion in France. Henri quite simply forbade all his subjects, Catholic and Protestant alike, to remember. \"The memory of all things that took place on one side or the other from March 1585 [forward] . . . ,\" the edict decreed, \"and in all of the preceding troubles, will remain extinguished, and treated as something that did not take place.\" Would it have worked? Could such bitterness really have been annealed by royal fiat? Since Henri was assassinated in 1610 by a Catholic fanatic opposed to the edict, which itself was eventually repealed, we can never know. But is it not conceivable that were our societies to expend even a fraction of the energy on forgetting that they now do on remembering, and if it were accepted that in certain political circumstances at least the moral imperative might be Nietzsche's \"active forgetting,\" not Santayana's \"those who forget the past are condemned to repeat it,\" peace in some of the worst places in the world might actually be a step closer?\n\nAs a reporter during the Bosnian War, which was in large measure a slaughter fueled by collective memory, or, more precisely, by the inability to forget, I used to carry with me increasingly creased and faded copies of two poems by the Polish poet Wis\u0142awa Szymborska. In both \"The End and the Beginning\" and \"Reality Demands,\" that most humane and antidogmatic of poets, a woman who once said that her favorite phrase had become \"I don't know,\" certainly understood the moral imperative of forgetting. She had lived through Poland's agonies under Germans and Russians alike. For her, as for the majority of her generation, the soil of her nation's countryside and the paving stones of its cities were drenched in blood, suffused with memories of the most tragic, unbearable, and destructive character. And yet, Szymborska concluded \"The End and the Beginning\" with these words:\n\nThose who knew\n\nwhat was going on here\n\nmust make way\n\nfor those who know little.\n\nAnd less than little.\n\nAnd finally as little as nothing.\n\nIn the grass that has overgrown\n\ncauses and effects,\n\nsomeone must be stretched out\n\nblades of grass in his mouth\n\ngazing at the clouds.\n\nIn \"Reality Demands\" she went farther:\n\nReality demands\n\nwe also state the following:\n\nlife goes on.\n\nIt does so near Cannae and Borodino,\n\nAt Kosovo Polje and Guernica.\n\nWhat Szymborska articulates in both poems is the ethical imperative of forgetting so that life can go on\u2014as it must. And she is right to do so. For everything must end, including the work of mourning and with it Mi\u0142osz's memory of wounds. Otherwise the blood never dries, the end of a great love becomes the end of love itself, and, as they used to say in Ireland, long after the quarrel has stopped making any sense, the memory of the grudge endures. Those who insist on the centrality of forgiveness are right up to a point. But forgiving is not enough because it can never escape its own contingency. \"I do not speak either of vengeance or of forgiveness,\" Borges wrote. \"Forgetting is the only vengeance and the only forgiveness.\" Perhaps he went too far. But without at least the option of forgetting, we would be wounded monsters, unforgiving and unforgiven . . . and, assuming that we have been paying attention, inconsolable.\n\n1. The Latin phrase _De mortuis nil nisi bonum_ , \"Of the dead speak only the good,\" has often been lampooned with the quip _De mortuis nil nisi bunkum_ , but this is wrong. Candor during a commemoration is not admirable but rather childish and self-serving.\n","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}}
+{"text":" \n**The Big Book of World Chess Championships**\n**Andre Schulz**\n\n**The Big Book of World Chess Championships**\n\n46 Title Fights \u2013 from Steinitz to Carlsen\n\n**New in Chess 2016**\n_Rolf, we are missing you_\n\u00a9 2016 New In Chess\n\nTranslated from _Das gro\u00dfe Buch der Schach-Weltmeisterschaften_ (Schulz, New in Chess 2015) by Ian Adams\n\nPublished by New In Chess, Alkmaar, The Netherlands\n\nwww.newinchess.com\n\nAll rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission from the publisher.\n\nPhotos: New in Chess archives\n\nCover design: Ron van Roon\n\nProduction: Harald Keilhack\n\nSupervision: Peter Boel\n\nProofreading: Ian Adams, Harald Keilhack\n\nHave you found any errors in this book?\n\nPlease send your remarks to editors@newinchess.com. We will collect all relevant corrections on the Errata page of our website www.newinchess.com and implement them in a possible next edition.\n\nISBN: 978-90-5691-635-0\n**Contents**\n\nPreface\n\nIntroduction\n\n**Part I \u2013 The age of private World Championships**\n\n1. There can only be one: Steinitz vs. Zukertort 1886\n\n2. Fighting the Russian Bear: Steinitz vs. Chigorin 1889\n\n3. 'Mephisto' in person: Steinitz vs. Gunsberg 1890\n\n4. Tarrasch has no time: Steinitz vs. Chigorin 1892\n\n5. The triumph of defence: Steinitz vs. Lasker 1894\n\n6. The annoying return match: Lasker vs. Steinitz 1896\/97\n\n7. Attacker against defender: Lasker vs. Marshall 1907\n\n8. Two top German players: Lasker vs. Tarrasch 1908\n\n9. The fateful tenth game: Lasker vs. Schlechter 1910\n\n10. Either Lasker won or Janowski lost: Lasker vs. Janowski 1910\n\n11. Hot games in Havana: Lasker vs. Capablanca 1921\n\n12. Friends become enemies: Capablanca vs. Alekhine 1927\n\n13. Duel of the cellmates: Alekhine vs. Bogoljubow 1929\n\n14. Chess WCh in Nazi Germany: Alekhine vs. Bogoljubow 1934\n\n15. Professor against alcoholic: Alekhine vs. Euwe 1935\n\n16. The title was only on loan: Euwe vs. Alekhine 1937\n\n**Part II \u2013 The Soviet era**\n\n17. The victory of Soviet chess: WCh tournament The Hague\/Moscow 1948\n\n18. Was he obliged to lose the 23rd game? Botvinnik vs. Bronstein 1951\n\n19. With great ease: Botvinnik vs. Smyslov 1954\n\n20. Tactics missed: Botvinnik vs. Smyslov 1957\n\n21. The revenge: Smyslov vs. Botvinnik 1958\n\n22. The magician from Riga: Botvinnik vs. Tal 1960\n\n23. Against Tal and a clairvoyant: Tal vs. Botvinnik 1961\n\n24. Cheating in Cura\u00e7ao? Botvinnik vs. Petrosian 1963\n\n25. The obstreperous pupil: Petrosian vs. Spassky 1966\n\n26. Fischer mates himself: Petrosian vs. Spassky 1969\n\n**Part III \u2013 The new era**\n\n27. The match of the century: Spassky vs. Fischer 1972\n\n28. Fischer doesn't appear: Karpov becomes World Champion without a fight\n\n29. Political thriller in Baguio: Karpov vs. Kortchnoi 1978\n\n30. Heaps of electronic devices: Karpov vs. Kortchnoi 1981\n\n31. The abandoned match: Karpov vs. Kasparov 1984\/85\n\n32. Perestroika against the establishment: Karpov vs. Kasparov 1985\n\n33. Return match under protest: Kasparov vs. Karpov 1986\n\n34. A traitor in the camp? Kasparov vs. Karpov 1987\n\n35. Under Russian colours: Kasparov vs. Karpov 1990\n\n**Part IV \u2013 The time of schism**\n\n36. Excluding FIDE: Kasparov vs. Short 1993\n\n37. Doors bang in the World Trade Center: Kasparov vs. Anand 1995\n\n38. To victory with the 'Berlin wall': Kasparov vs. Kramnik 2004\n\n39. The title match in a tobacco factory: Kramnik vs. Leko 2004\n\n**Part V \u2013 Reunification and what followed**\n\n40. 'Toiletgate' in Elista: Kramnik vs. Topalov 2006\n\n41. World Champion the second time around: WCh tournament Mexico City 2007\n\n42. 74 years later, back to Germany: Anand vs. Kramnik 2008\n\n43. Blackout in Sofia: Anand vs. Topalov 2010\n\n44. Chess is art: Anand vs. Gelfand 2012\n\n45. The high-flyer from Norway: Anand vs. Carlsen 2013\n\n46. Chess blindness in Sochi: Carlsen vs. Anand 2014\n\nAll (classical) World Champions\n\nAll (classical) World Championships\n\nVenues for classical World Championships\n\nGlossary\n\nBibliography\n**Symbols**\n\n**The chessboard with its coordinates:**\n\n\u2654 King\n\n\u2655 Queen\n\n\u2656 Rook\n\n\u2657 Bishop\n\n\u2658 Knight\n\nx capturing\n\n\\+ check\n\n# checkmate\n\n! good move\n\n!! excellent move\n\n!? interesting move\n\n?! dubious move\n\n? bad move\n\n?? blunder\n\n= balanced position\n\n+\u2013 White has a decisive advantage\n\n\u2013+ Black has a decisive advantage\n\n  White to move\n\n  Black to move\n**Preface**\n\nThere are numerous ways to relate to chess. There are many people who do not even play chess but derive pleasure from, perhaps, collecting beautiful chess sets, chess books or stamps which are related to chess. Chess can be played solely as a pastime or as a competitive sport.\n\nThe history of such chess contests stretches far back into the past. But at the latest from the end of the 19th century matches were played between the best players in the world for the 'World Chess Championship'. After this the history of such World Championships did not always run in a straight line, but the tradition has lasted until the present day.\n\nCountless books have been written about the individual World Championships, in which, as was natural, the games of the matches were at the focal point of contemplation. So far, however, there have scarcely been any comparative studies of the various World Championships. This book is intended to plug that gap.\n\nHere it is not the games which are in the foreground and also not the course of the contests, but rather what was happening beside the board: what were the venues and what were the circumstances for the World Championship encounters? Under what conditions and according to what rules were they played? What plots were hatched before and during the competitions? Some of the matches turned into real psychological warfare and from time to time lifelong enmity was a further result of the matches.\n\nWhen describing the struggles beside the board, I have tried to limit myself to the portrayal of the facts such as they have been published in the sources which were available to me. As I did so, I did not want to take sides for or against any participant or to influence the forming of the reader's own opinion. Should any participant or person mentioned in these pages feel that he or she has been wrongly or unjustly portrayed, then that has happened purely due to a lack of ability on my part, it is in no way a question of bad faith.\n\nIn the past, most reflections on World Chess Championships focussed above all on the players who were contesting the matches. Their biographies, which have been presented here in compact form, offer an insight into their era and the then prevailing living conditions. The best chess players in the world were born in different countries and into differing social backgrounds. Many began their life in poverty and earned a certain material security through their knowledge of chess. Others were born into well-off houses and died in misery. Wilhelm Steinitz, the first World Champion, was born in pitiful circumstances and eked out the whole of his life on the verges of total poverty. Nowadays the World Chess Champion becomes a millionaire.\n\nBut actually many other chess lovers have made perhaps an even greater contribution than the World Champions themselves, and they have done so through their efforts to bring about the matches. First and foremost, one must mention the patrons and the sponsors who provided the prize money and who assumed the costs of the staging of the contests. The players were supported by seconds, whose work has often not received sufficient recognition. The arbiters assured that the course of the match followed the rules.\n\nSo, in this description of the history of World Championships I have attempted to name as many as possible of those who took part directly or indirectly. Unfortunately many hard-working chess lovers who also participated in the organisation of the World Championships were never named in the sources. In addition I have taken pains to describe the numerous links between the world of chess and the world at large in order to demonstrate how much the game of chess and its outstanding connoisseurs are to be understood as a component of our culture.\n\nNevertheless, a book about the World Chess Championships totally without games would be something of a rarity and therefore I have chosen from each World Championship a single game, added to it contemporary and also more recent comments and checked the variations which have been given with strong up-to-date chess programs and engines such as _Houdini_ or _Stockfish_. Where necessary I have added further variations and explanations according to my own understanding and from time to time I have corrected mistakes in old analysis with the help of the chess engines. This also allowed many an interesting discovery to be made, since many of the WCh games had no longer been looked at in depth for many years and now and then appear somewhat different in the light of present-day computer analysis.\n\nI hope to demonstrate with this description of the history of the World Chess Championships that the game of chess has many more sides to offer than the presentation of the games and that the struggles for first place in the world ranking list of chess were far removed from happening simply at the board. Chess lovers who take an interest in the history of their sport will hopefully find a few stories which are new to them. It would please me even more if many a reader who has as yet had little contact with the game of chess could perhaps be bitten by the chess bug as a result of this book.\n\nMay I thank Johannes Fischer for moral support, proof reading, motivational help and access to his library; may I also thank Michael Dombrowsky, who made some rare books available to me. Rolf Gehrke and particularly Thomas Stark have been of great assistance to me with numerous comments and proof reading.\n\n_Hamburg, June 2015_\n\n_Andre Schulz_\n**Introduction**\n\nThere is no doubt that chess is a very special game. It was invented around 500 A.D. in India, first of all as a game for four people \u2013 chaturanga. In the 6th century an Indian ambassador brought the game as a present from his king Divsaraman to the Persian court of Chosraus I. The word chess (from the Persian shah = king) is a reminder of its Persian past. Even back then in Persia the game fascinated all those who came into contact with it. After the Arabs conquered Persia, many of them too were infected by the 'chess virus'. There soon arose a literature with pretty chess puzzles and even already professional players. Via the Arabs the game of chess spread as far as Europe, following two routes. Via Spain and Italy it reached the countries of south, central and western Europe and the game came to Russia through the Caucasus.\n\nAs time went by, the rules and the strength of the pieces would change. In Europe the Persian _vizir_ became a woman, the queen who stood by the side of the medieval king. The king now also placed his trust in the support of the church (the bishops), the nobility (the knights) and his castles (though properly called rooks in English, their form is that of a tower). The front line of the army is composed of pawns (for which the German word 'Bauern' means 'peasants'). They too have their role to play in the structure of medieval society. And every pawn can even be promoted to an officer, if it can reach the back rank of the opposing side of the board. But it also has to be resigned to being condemned as a 'pawn sacrifice' for the good of the rest of society.\n\nSince the 15th century chess manuals have also been published in Europe. Today the total number of books published on chess is estimated at over 100 000 titles. Many a collector has tried to get hold of all of them. Chess became a fixed component of European culture. Chess pieces proved to be an invitation to artists to portray them according to the tastes of their day and age.\n\nThere were soon especially smart players who astounded spectators with their skills. And there was always one of them who was reckoned to be the best of all. Unlike in many other arts, it is easy to find out in chess who the better player is: in a game or a match between them. Or in a competition which imitates the form of the medieval tournament. However things are not quite so bloody in chess. In a tournament several players meet each other in a k.-o. system or in the form of an all-play-all. In a match it is man against man.\n\nAnd thus were born the matches for the World Championship, without this concept even having existed at the start. In the middle of the 19th century the idea of a 'World Champion' gradually emerged in common parlance. And then there were suddenly two players who each claimed to be that World Champion: Johannes Zukertort and Wilhelm Steinitz. A match to decide the question was required. So in 1886 the first World Chess Championship was held. Thereafter the winners held the title as their private property and only ventured it in matches for good prize money.\n\nIn 1946 the last of these 'private World Champions' died \u2013 Alexander Alekhine. Then the World Chess Federation (F\u00e9d\u00e9ration Internationale des \u00c9checs, FIDE) took over the organisation of the World Championship and brought in fixed rules for qualification and World Championship matches. Since there was no title defender, FIDE organised their first World Championship in 1948 in the form of a tournament. It was won by the Soviet Russian Mikhail Botvinnik, who then went on several times to defend his title successfully or to recover it in return matches, before he was replaced by another Soviet player.\n\nSoviet domination continued until 1972 when it was broken by the US American Robert Fischer \u2013 though only temporarily. Fischer won the title from Spassky and then disappeared from the scene. Therefore Anatoly Karpov became World Champion, and later lost the title to Kasparov. The FIDE system lasted until 1993. Then Nigel Short and Garry Kasparov 'hijacked' the World Championship title in their dispute with the then FIDE president Florencio Campomanes and again treated it more or less like private property. FIDE organised its own World Championship but it did not meet with general recognition, also because the successor to Campomanes, Kirsan Ilyumzhinov, simultaneously president of the autonomous Russian republic of Kalmykia, threw overboard the once neat organisation and rules for the staging of the World Championships. The FIDE World Championship was now played in a k.-o. system with 128 participants and this system opened the barn door to chance.\n\nKasparov and his successor Vladimir Kramnik, however, hung on to the old system of matches. Finally in 2006, in a match, overshadowed by scandal, between Kramnik and Veselin Topalov, we had a 'reunification' of the World Championships. Kramnik defended his title successfully against Topalov, but then lost it in a WCh tournament in 2007 to Viswanathan Anand. The latter defended his title in matches in 2008 against Kramnik, in 2010 against Topalov and in 2012 against Gelfand.\n\nIn 2013 the Indian player had to appear again, this time against the young Norwegian Magnus Carlsen \u2013 the most difficult opponent of them all. For Magnus Carlsen had risen like a rocket to the top of the world ranking list and in doing so had surpassed the highest rating held until then, the record which had been held for many years by Garry Kasparov. In fact Anand was unable to match the pressure and the energy of the challenger. In the match in his home city in India Anand lost three games without winning a single one. The new World Champion was from Norway: Magnus Carlsen. In the very next year he had to defend his title. It turned out to be a re-run of his match against Anand, though this time the roles were reversed, since Carlsen was now defending the title and Anand was the challenger. Carlsen also managed this task in majestic fashion.\n**Part I \u2212 The age of private World Championships**\n\nAfter the game of chess reached Europe in various ways from 900 A.D., it spread at first in noble courts and in the 13th century knowledge of it was even counted among the seven knightly virtues. The game underwent several reforms and soon also became the object of theoretical examination. It also gradually spread amongst the upper middle classes and took its place among the favourite occupations in the coffee houses. Around 1700 the Scottish scholar Alexander Cunningham of Block was considered the best player in the world. His admirers included amongst others Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz. In the middle of the 18th century the Caf\u00e9 de la R\u00e9gence in Paris became the chess centre of the world and players like Legall de Kermeur and Fran\u00e7ois-Andr\u00e9 Danican Philidor took over the mantle of the best players in the world.\n\nThe concept of a World Champion arose, chosen in practical terms by general agreement. Matches decided who was the better of two players. And the one who was able to defeat everyone else was the best player in the world. Then there were suddenly two players who at the same time both laid claim to being the best player in the world: Wilhelm Steinitz and Johannes Zukertort. A match for the World Championship had to be held. Steinitz won and Zukertort, whose constitution was weak, broke down as a result.\n\nThereafter Steinitz chose his own next challengers and only appeared against opponents who could come up with a financial stake. In 1894 the German Emanuel Lasker won the title of World Champion and held on to it for 27 years, partly because of the lack of activity in the world of chess during and after the First World War. Lasker lost his title in 1921 to the Cuban Jos\u00e9 Raul Capablanca, who proceeded to establish a really high hurdle: the challenger had to come up with 10 000 dollars of a stake. It took six years till Alexander Alekhine, the Russian player then living in France, managed this with the help of patrons. Alekhine won the title and then demanded that Capablanca put up exactly the same sum for the right to a return match. However, Capablanca was unable to raise the required amount and thus begged in vain for years for his return match. Previously friends, they now became enemies who at the end could not bear even to be in the same room together. Instead Alekhine entered the lists \u2013 moreover for less money than he had demanded from Capablanca \u2013 twice against the Germano-Russian Efim Bogoljubow and against the young Dutchman Max Euwe. Euwe was a clear outsider, but surprisingly he won the match and was then the World Champion, but only for two years. The mathematics teacher and man of honour accorded Alekhine a return match, without demanding any preconditions of him. And Alekhine recovered his title.\n\nThe start of the Second World War brought international tournament chess to an end. However play continued in the various countries. World Chess Champion Alekhine lived with his Jewish wife in the sphere of influence of the German Reich and had to play where its rulers wanted. At the end of the war that took him to Spain and Portugal. Soon after the end of the war he died in mysterious circumstances, alone and impoverished in Estoril. With him the time of the private World Championships also came to an end.\n**1. There can only be one**\n\n**The first official World Championship 1886:  \nWilhelm Steinitz against Johannes Zukertort**\n\nWilhelm Steinitz was born on the 14th May 1836, the ninth of 13 children in the Jewish ghetto ('Josefstadt'), in number six of the fifth district of the Bohemian capital, Prague. His father was a tailor and teacher of the Talmud, Josef Salomon Steinitz (1789-1868), his mother Anna Steinitz, n\u00e9e Torschowa (Germanised to Torscha, 1802-1845). Their son received the Jewish name Wolf, which later became Wilhelm.\n\nThe family lived in poverty. Steinitz' four younger siblings died in childhood, as did two older siblings. Steinitz himself was born with a club foot and all his life required the aid of a crutch. Steinitz was small in stature, no taller than 1.50 metres. After the death of his mother in 1845 Steinitz' father remarried and with his second wife he had another child at the age of 61.\n\nWilhelm Steinitz (1836-1900)\n\nSteinitz learned chess at the age of 12 from a friend of his father, or according to other sources from a school friend. He is supposed to have carved his first chess pieces himself and used a piece of chequered cloth as a chess board.\n\nThere are various commonly found versions of Steinitz' schooling. According to many sources Steinitz is said to have gone to the Jewish school in the ghetto and there have received instruction in Hebrew grammar and in biblical studies. Amongst his ancestors there were some scholars of the Talmud and Steinitz too, according to the wishes of his parents, was to become such a scholar, and attend the 'Yeshiva', the high school for the study of the Talmud. After he refused to give in to these desires, a break with his parents is supposed to have occurred.\n\nAccording to another version Steinitz attended the Volksschule in Prague where he attracted attention on account of his gift for mathematics. Because of his son's poor health, the father had intended him for a secular job, whereas Wilhelm was aiming to study mathematics. In this version too, it came to a break with his family. His father's second marriage and perhaps a bad relationship with his step-mother might also have played a part.\n\nIn 1849 the obligation for Jews to live in the ghetto was rescinded. Jews were now allowed, once they had requested a passport, to move freely throughout the whole city of Prague and the lands of the Danube monarchy. In 1850 the Prague ghetto was totally done away with. In the same year, at the age of 15, Wilhelm Steinitz left his family and apparently lived for a time on the streets of Prague. It is only after 1855 that a new place of abode is recorded. Without the support of his family Steinitz did not have the means to attend a secondary school and kept his head above water with odd jobs. He worked as a clerk and office worker in various small businesses in and around Prague.\n\nBut apparently at this time Steinitz was already a regular visitor to the chess caf\u00e9s of Prague, such as the 'Caf\u00e9 Wien'. According to numerous sources, he was even then the best chess player in Prague, but there is no written evidence of this. In 1853 Steinitz got to know Josef Popper, who later became known under the pseudonym Lynkeus as a writer and social reformer, but also as the author of technical treatises. Popper came from Kollin and his biography is pretty much like that of Steinitz. With his help, Steinitz caught up in his studies in the 'Lesehalle der deutschen Studenten' (or 'reading room for German students'). The two of them embarked on a lifelong friendship.\n\nIn 1858, on the urging of his friend, Steinitz went to Vienna and began his study of mathematics at the Polytechnic Institute, for which he had at first to pass a two year long preparatory course. In Vienna, Steinitz quickly made contact with the local chess scene, including the lawyer Phillip Meitner, father of the physicist Lise Meitner and one of the best chess players in Vienna and the doctor Carl Cohn.\n\nHis very first appearance in the Caf\u00e9 Rebhuhn had caused a sensation. When Steinitz showed an interest in the chess players and their games, he was asked whether he knew anything about the game. Yes, was his answer, he could even play blindfold. This claim was promptly put to the test by two players, and after Steinitz had defeated both of them without having sight of the board he had already made a name for himself in the Vienna chess scene. He received further chess instruction from the imperial councillor Carl Hamppe, a finance official and one of the best players in Vienna.\n\nAt the start Steinitz financed his studies with journalistic work, parliamentary reporting for the _Constitutionelle \u00d6sterreichische Zeitung_. But he soon had to abandon this activity in view of his weak eyesight. Then Steinitz began to play chess for money and to give blindfold chess exhibitions in the coffee houses of Vienna, for example the Caf\u00e9 Romer, the Caf\u00e9 L'Express, the Caf\u00e9 Central or the Caf\u00e9 Rebhuhn (behind the 'Graben', not far from St Stephen's Cathedral) \u2013 the latter being at that time the seat of the 'Wiener Schachgesellschaft' (Vienna Chess Society).\n\nSince he could not meet the fees for his studies in this way and was having health problems with his lungs and eyes, Steinitz stopped his studies in 1858, but from time to time continued to attend lectures with his friend Popper, for example in 1861\/62 the lectures by Ernst Mach on _Investigative methods in physics_ and _The principles of mechanics and mechanical physics in their historical development_. Influenced by these, Steinitz later began to apply scientific principles to chess and in doing so founded chess theory.\n\nFrom 1860 on Steinitz was active as a professional chess player, playing matches for high stakes and in doing so coming into contact with a series of patrons. Among his opponents were the banker Gustav Leopold Ritter von Epstein and the railway builder and inventor Josef Schulhof. The latter's second hobby was shooting. Amongst other things he invented the repeating rifle.\n\nOne of Steinitz' pupils was the young Baron Albert Salomon Anselm Rothschild, the youngest son of Anselm Salomon Freiherr von Rothschild and Charlotte von Rothschild. Albert Rothschild studied in Bonn, completed his banking education in Hamburg and in 1874 after the death of his father he took over the Rothschild Bank in Vienna. With a fortune estimated at a billion crowns, Rothschild was considered to be the richest man in Europe. All his life Rothschild remained a passionate chess player and was frequently active as a chess patron. In 1872 he took office as the president of the Wiener Schachgesellschaft, and also from 1897 that of its successor the Wiener Schachklub, at the helm of which he remained until his death in 1911.\n\nIn 1861 Steinitz won the chess championship of Vienna with 30 victories, three draws and only one defeat. In 1862 he took part in the second great London tournament (after that of 1851), his first international tournament, as the official representative of Austria. He was financially supported by the Vienna Chess Society, namely by the Viennese banker and entrepreneur Eduard von Todesco (in his biography of Steinitz Landsberger names a banker 'Tedesco'). Steinitz won for his sixth place five pounds, in today's money the equivalent of 364 pounds.\n\nAfter the tournament he remained in London, at that time the centre of the chess world, and there too earned his living by playing chess for money. In 1863\/64 Steinitz won a series of matches, among others against Joseph Henry Blackburne (8:2). In 1866 in London Steinitz defeated Adolf Anderssen, who was until then considered the best chess player in the world, by 8:6 \u2013 with no draws. From then on Steinitz considered himself to be 'World Champion'. He went on to win more matches, e.g. against Bird, Blackburne and Zukertort. All in all between 1863 and 1894 Steinitz won 27 of his 29 matches.\n\nWhen Steinitz was teaching chess in Cambridge in 1869 one of his students there was Lord Randolph Churchill, later father of Winston Churchill. Some years later, in 1880, Lord Churchill invited Steinitz to his estate Blenheim Palace in Woodstock and also played some chess there with him. Winston Churchill was then six years old. It is not known whether Steinitz met the future British prime minister on that occasion.\n\nAfter his tournament victory in Vienna in 1873 Steinitz, with the exception of a match against Blackburne (7:0), withdrew from tournament chess for nine years and worked instead as a chess journalist and theoretician. He now earned his money with a chess column in the magazine for country living and sports, _The Field_ , a column which he wrote from 1873 till 1882, and in addition with playing for money in chess caf\u00e9s. However, Steinitz then quarrelled with the publisher of _The Field_ , who finally dismissed him and closed the chess column. Steinitz' belligerence was known to all. Thus he was at times banned from a series of London coffee houses, including the famous 'Simpson's-in-the-Strand'. The chess column in _The Field_ was later continued by Leopold Hoffer and Johannes Zukertort.\n\nIn 1882 Steinitz brought to an end his abstinence from tournament chess and took part in the tournament in Vienna (sharing first place with Szymon Winawer). In 1883 in London he came in second, three points behind Zukertort. In the same year Steinitz accepted an invitation to the USA. From there he took part in a year-long public feud with his successor in _The Field_ , Leopold Hoffer; this became known in the history of chess as the 'Steinitz-Hoffer-Ink-War'. In the USA Steinitz then published from 1885 on his own chess magazine, _The International Chess Magazine_.\n\nJohannes Hermann Zukertort was born on the 7th September 1842 in Lublin, Russian Poland. His father was a Jew who had converted to evangelical Christianity, Jakub Zukertort (then still spelled Cukiertordt), and who after baptism took the Christian name Bogomil. His mother was the latter's second wife and was also newly baptised as Paulina Zukertort, born in Heilbronn. Johann Herrmann had a total of eight siblings, two of whom died in infancy. At first the family lived in the Ulica Krakowskie Przedmiescie in Lublin and then moved to the Ulica Namiestnikowska (now Ulica Narutowicza) No. 293.\n\n**Johannes H. Zukertort (1842-1888)**\n\nZukertort's father worked as a missionary for the 'London Society', which ostensibly sought to convert Jews to Christianity. For a time the family lived in Warsaw in a missionary house of the 'London Society' in the Leszno Stra\u00dfe. In summer 1850 it moved to Piotrkow Trybunalski (Petrikau), a county town close to Lodz. Zukertort spent the first two years of his schooldays there. In 1854 the 'London Society' fell into conflict with the Evangelical Church which finally brought about a ban on the Society and the expulsion of their members. The organisation was accused of being a front for espionage.\n\nIn February 1855 the Zukertorts had to leave Russia. The family moved to Breslau. At Easter 1861 Zukertort sat his Abitur there at the Maria-Magdalena-Gymnasium and in the same year began his study of medicine. Zukertort was matriculated in the medical faculty of the University of Breslau till the summer of 1866. In 1867 he was struck from the list of students on account of poor attendance and he left the university without taking either intermediate or final exams.\n\nAt the age of 16 Zukertort had learned to play chess from a schoolfellow. He bought his first chess set second hand for 30 Pfennig at a fair. After Zukertort had joined the 'Akademischer Schachklub' of Breslau in 1861, he met amongst others Adolf Anderssen, whose student he became. Other members of the club were Samuel Mieses (1841-1884), an uncle of Jacques Mieses, and Jakob Rosanes, professor of mathematics at the University of Breslau. By the very next year Zukertort was considered the second best player in Breslau after Anderssen. According to his own accounts, Zukertort played no less than 6000 games against Anderssen during his time in Breslau.\n\nZukertort was described by his contemporaries as multi-talented: he is supposed to have spoken ten languages and to have had a phenomenal memory. He was moreover musically gifted, supposed to have been an excellent pianist, practised fencing and riding and to have earned money from time to time as a music critic for a well respected publication in Breslau. However, there are also doubts about these accounts, most of which come from the pen of an English chess lover whose actual source was probably Zukertort himself, who perhaps desired after his arrival in England to spruce up his biography with a few facts which were at that date hard to check up on.\n\nIn 1867 Zukertort went to Berlin and became until 1871 editor of the _Neue Berliner Schachzeitung_. During the Austro-Prussian War of 1866 and the Franco-Prussian War of 1870\/71 Zukertort was in each case active in the Prussian medical corps. During his time in Berlin there was a series of blindfold simultaneous exhibitions with the help of which Zukertort sought to popularise chess in Berlin. For the time, his 16 opponents set a record.\n\nIn 1869 Zukertort and his _Neue Berliner Schachzeitung_ got into a dispute with the composer of chess problems and chess publicist Johannes Minckwitz. The latter had in the _Leipziger Schachzeitung_ (later _Deutsche Schachzeitung_ ) published a negative review of a collection of chess problems published by Zukertort and in doing so hurt Zukertort's pride. The dispute was carried out in public over several issues of the two chess magazines. It was probably also Minckwitz who prevented the publication of a tournament book composed by Zukertort for the West German Chess Congress held in Krefeld in 1871.\n\nIt was possibly as a result of this quarrel that the publication of the _Neue Berliner Schachzeitung_ was very suddenly stopped in 1871 by its publisher J. Springer and Zukertort sacked. Since Zukertort had now lost his material support in Berlin, he accepted the invitation of some English chess patrons who offered him 20 guineas travel expenses, and in 1872 he moved to England. These people saw in Zukertort a possible rival to the not particularly popular Steinitz. In that same year in London Zukertort played a first match against Wilhelm Steinitz, which however he lost clearly by 3:9. In 1873 Zukertort published a series of articles in the _Westminster Papers_ , collaborated with the _City of London Chess Magazine_ and founded in 1879, together with Leopold Hoffer, who bore the organisational and financial risk whereas Zukertort took care of the chess analyses, the magazine _The Chess Monthly_. Their collaboration lasted until 1888.\n\nZukertort became a firm part of the London chess scene, was a member of the St. George's Chess Club and was elected to an honorary membership of the City of London Chess Club. In the 1870s and 1880s Zukertort participated successfully in a series of international tournaments, winning among others the tournament in Cologne 1877 and the Paris tournament of 1878. Moreover, he was victorious with 22 points out of 26 games in the strong London tournament of 1883, three points ahead of Steinitz.\n\nZukertort now considered himself the best chess player in the world and thus entered into competition with Wilhelm Steinitz, who had also claimed this distinction for himself since his match victory over Adolf Anderssen. The rivalry between the two 'World Champions' had become more pointed as a result of the famous 'Ink War', a journalistic controversy involving Steinitz in _The Field_ and Zukertort in _The Chess Monthly_ , which had originally begun simply over a few pieces of chess analysis.\n\nSo finally the idea was mooted that a match for the 'World Championship in Chess' should be held. Immediately after Zukertort's victory in the London tournament Steinitz offered off his own bat a match, which according to his suggestion should be for a stake of 200 pounds, or even more, and consist of eight to ten games. Steinitz proposed dates between October 1883 and January 1884. However Zukertort declined the dates through his second on account of other supposed commitments and also did not agree to an immediate start of the match.\n\nBut behind his refusal there were apparently health reasons. Zukertort's doctor absolutely advised his patient against any further match or tournament. When Zukertort was in the USA in 1884 for a simultaneous tour, Steinitz renewed his offer, which was however once again declined by Zukertort. After a piece of journalistic provocation, published by Steinitz in his new magazine _The International Chess Magazine_ , Zukertort finally reacted with his own offer of a match, which he made public in March 1885 in _The Chess Monthly_.\n\nThis first official match for the World Chess Championship took place from the 11th January till the 29th March 1886 in the USA and was agreed to be for ten wins. In the event of 9:9 the defender should retain his title. The match games were played in various chess clubs in New York, St. Louis and New Orleans and financed by local chess patrons.\n\nPreceding the match there was a long disagreement concerning the match conditions, which could only be conducted indirectly since Zukertort and Steinitz still only communicated with each other in writing or via seconds after their mutual insults of the 'Ink War'. There was a dispute about the number of wins which were required for victory in the match, the venues and especially all the financial matters. The thinking time was also subject to discussion. Use was made of the then new chess double-clock, which had first been employed for the control of thinking time at the tournament in London in 1883. Steinitz had once previously played with a mechanical clock, in 1866 against Anderssen. Agreement was finally reached on a thinking time of two hours for the first 30 and one hour for the next 15 moves and so on. After the first 30 moves a pause of two hours was allowed. Steinitz had originally demanded a slower tempo, Zukertort would have preferred to play with the thinking time which is still frequently chosen, that is two hours for 40 moves.\n\nThe prize fund was composed of a stake from each player of 2000 dollars put up by their personal patrons, their so-called 'backers'. The victor was to receive the total sum of 4000 dollars as his prize. Zukertort however was assured by the organisers of 750 dollars compensation for loss of earnings in the event of a loss. Steinitz' second was at first the secretary of the New York Manhattan Chess Club, Gustav Simonson, later Thomas Frere. Zukertort named James Innes Minchin, the secretary of the London St. George's Chess Club. He was later replaced by Charles M\u00f6hle. The negotiations about the match conditions were carried out by Frere and Minchin. The contract was finally signed by the players on the 29th December 1885.\n\nThe match began on the 11th January 1886 in New York in the hall of Cartier's Academy, No. 80, Fifth Avenue, organised by the Manhattan Chess Club, which itself had raised 1000 dollars for the match. Play was to continue at this first venue until three wins had been achieved. Steinitz and Zukertort played on the same board and with the same pieces as Paul Morphy and Louis Paulsen had used in the same venue in 1857 at the 1st USA Congress. Morphy had won that match.\n\nThe match for the World Championship was advertised with posters and billboards. More spectators came to the games than could be accommodated in the hall. The moves were transmitted live by telegraph to various American chess clubs and to London. In New York Zukertort went into a 4:1 lead as Steinitz missed some winning positions. In an interview with the New York Tribune he explained his bad start in these terms: 'I could not sleep then and my nerves were strongly affected. The first game which I won in New York was considered brilliant and well played, however between that game and the next one I spent seventeen hours working on literary and analytical material for my _International Chess Magazine_ instead of resting and taking exercise in the open air.'\n\nAfter a break of twelve days the second stage was in St. Louis in the 'Chess, Checkers and Whist Club _Harmonie_ ' (at the intersection of Olive and 8th Streets), which was to be the host until the next three wins had been achieved. Steinitz won games six and seven and the eighth was drawn. The ninth game also went to Steinitz, who had thus drawn level in the match. Since from the point of view of the organisation it had not been expected that three wins would be achieved so quickly in St. Louis, the players still had some time before the move to New Orleans. The two of them enjoyed playing whist together in the club.\n\nThe final venue for the first WCh match in history was the New Orleans Chess, Checkers and Whist Club (Baronne Street). Zukertort, who suffered from heart disease, was no longer fit for the effort required, as his doctor had previously feared, and he lost six games, winning only one. After a total of 20 games Steinitz had won the required number of ten games, with a final result of 12\u00bd:7\u00bd.\n\n **Steinitz \u2013 Zukertort**\n\nNew Orleans, 12th game  \n3rd March 1886  \nRuy Lopez (C67)\n\n**1.e4 e5 2. \u2658f3 \u2658c6 3.\u2657b5 \u2658f6 4.0-0 \u2658xe4**\n\nThis variation of the Ruy Lopez, the so-called 'Berlin Defence', was really popular in the 19th century, but later lost in popularity compared to the 3...a6 variation. The Berlin Defence celebrated a renaissance after Vladimir Kramnik employed it in 2000 in his WCh match against Garry Kasparov and the title defender was unable to win a single game against it. It is very popular in present day tournament praxis and is regularly employed by many top players.\n\n**5. \u2656e1**\n\nNowadays a very popular alternative is the sequence 5.d4 \u2658d6 6.\u2657xc6 dxc6 7.dxe5 \u2658f5 8.\u2655xd8+ \u2654xd8 etc., with a queenless middlegame which is typical of this variation.\n\n**5... \u2658d6 6.\u2658xe5 \u2657e7**\n\nThis avoids the trap 6...\u2658xb5 7.\u2658xc6+, and White wins the queen. In the 4th match game Zukertort had chosen instead of the text move 6...\u2658xe5 7.\u2656xe5+ \u2657e7 and had later won the game.\n\n**7. \u2657xc6**\n\n7.\u2657d3 0-0 8.\u2658c3 \u2658xe5 9.\u2656xe5 was up for discussion in the 6th, 10th and also the 14th games.\n\n**7...dxc6**\n\nBlack has a structural disadvantage on account of the doubled pawns on the c-file, but there is sufficient compensation for this in the form of the bishop pair. 7...bxc6 8.d4 leads instead to a rather immobile pawn centre for Black. In addition the \u2657c8 is hindered in its development.\n\n**8. \u2655e2 \u2657e6**\n\nNot 8...0\u20130? on account of 9.\u2658xc6 bxc6 10.\u2655xe7 \u2656e8 11.\u2655xd8 and White wins. Though desirable, 11...\u2656xe1# is not possible because the black rook is pinned.\n\n**9.d3**\n\nAfter 9.d4 \u2658f5 10.c3 0-0 11.\u2657f4 Black would have the option of resolving his doubled pawns with 11...c5 12.dxc5 \u2657xc5 13.\u2658d2=.\n\n**9... \u2658f5**\n\nPreparing castling. After the immediate 9...0-0 Black probably feared the tactical blow 10.\u2658xf7. But what follows would not be risk-free for White either: 10... \u2656xf7 11.\u2655xe6 \u2658f5 and White must now be careful: 12.\u2658c3? (12.\u2657e3 is better, but after 12...\u2657h4 Black has enough counterplay for his pawn) 12...\u2658d4\u2013+.\n\n**10. \u2658d2**\n\n10.c3 would have been better, is the opinion of Johannes Minckwitz in his contemporary tournament book on the 1st World Chess Championship.\n\n**10...0-0**\n\nInstead of the move in the game, it was well worth considering 10...\u2658d4!? with an attack on the white queen and the c2-pawn. After 11.\u2655d1 Black has gained time for his development.\n\n**11.c3 \u2656e8 12.\u2658e4 \u2655d5 13.\u2657f4 \u2656ad8 14.d4 \u2658d6 15.\u2658c5 \u2657c8 16.\u2658cd3**\n\nUp till here Steinitz had used one hour of his time.\n\n**16...f6 17. \u2658b4**\n\nAfter 17.\u2658f3 according to Emil Schallopp 17...\u2657g4 would be annoying.\n\n**17... \u2655b5 18.\u2655xb5 \u2658xb5**\n\n18...cxb5 was good: 19.\u2658ed3 c6 with a solid position for Black on the queenside.\n\n**19. \u2658ed3 \u2657f5**\n\nHere Zukertort had used up his first hour of thinking time. Instead of the move in the game Minckwitz suggested 19...a5! intending 20.\u2658c2 \u2657f5 21.\u2656ad1 and then 21...a4 with advantage for Black. After 21...c5 White's problems with the positioning of the two knights become even more obvious.\n\n**20.a4! \u2658d6**\n\nSteinitz suggests 20...a5! as better: 21.axb5 axb4 22.\u2658xb4! (not 22.bxc6? \u2657xd3 23.cxb7 \u2656b8 24.\u2656a8 \u2654f7\u2013+) 22...\u2657xb4 23.cxb4 cxb5=.\n\n**21.a5 \u2658b5?!**\n\nThis move was criticised by contemporary commentators and 21...a6 suggested in its place. White then has only a slight initiative. 22.\u2658c5 is simply followed by 22...\u2657c8.\n\n**22.a6 \u2657xd3 23.\u2658xd3 b6 24.\u2656e3 \u2654f7 25.\u2656ae1 \u2656d7?**\n\nIntending...\u2656ed8,...\u2657f8 and...c6-c5. Now, however, Black loses the c6-pawn and gets into a bad position. So the correct move was 25...\u2657d6, which both Steinitz and Minckwitz recommended as better.\n\n**26. \u2658b4! g5 27.\u2657g3 f5 28.f4**\n\nThere was the even stronger 28.\u2658xc6! f4 29.\u2658e5+ \u2654e6 30.\u2657xf4 gxf4 31.\u2656h3 and White wins according to Steinitz.\n\n**28...c5 29. \u2658c6 cxd4 30.cxd4 \u2654f8**\n\nOf course not 30...\u2658xd4? 31.\u2658e5+ +\u2013.\n\n**31. \u2656e5**\n\n31.\u2657f2!? gxf4 32.\u2656e6 and Black is in zugzwang.\n\n**31... \u2658xd4 32.\u2658xd4!**\n\nPrecisely played, since after the forced liquidation 32.\u2656xe7 \u2656dxe7 33.\u2656xe7 \u2656xe7 34.\u2658xd4 gxf4 35.\u2657xf4 \u2656e4 36.\u2657h6+ \u2654e7 37.\u2658b5 the ending is unclear.\n\n**32... \u2656xd4 33.\u2656xf5+ \u2654g7**\n\n33...\u2654g8 34.\u2656xg5+ \u2657xg5 35.\u2656xe8+ and White collects the black pawns on the queenside with \u2656a8 and \u2656c8 and wins easily (Steinitz).\n\n**34.fxg5**\n\nAfter 34.\u2656xg5+ \u2657xg5 35.\u2656xe8 \u2657xf4, however, according to Steinitz a win would still have required a tiresome length of time.\n\n**34... \u2657c5**\n\n**35. \u2656xc5!**\n\nBut not 35.\u2656xe8 on account of 35... \u2656d1#. After 35.\u2654f1 \u2656xe1+ 36.\u2654xe1 \u2654g6 White would only have a minimal advantage.\n\n**35... \u2656xe1+ 36.\u2657xe1 bxc5 37.\u2657c3**\n\nThe point of the little combination. White wins back the exchange and the pawn ending is won.\n\n**37... \u2654g6 38.\u2657xd4 cxd4 39.h4 \u2654f5 40.\u2654f2 \u2654e4**\n\nBut 40...\u2654g4 is followed by 41.g3+\u2013 with the plan: 42.\u2654e2 \u2654g3 43.h5 and 44.g6.\n\n**41. \u2654e2 c5 42.b3 \u2654e5 43.\u2654d3 \u2654f4 44.b4**\n\nBlack resigned. Time used:\n\nSteinitz: 2 hours 39 minutes\n\nZukertort: 1 hour 35 minutes\n\nZukertort, who at the end of his life suffered from numerous illnesses, including arteriosclerosis, narrowing of the coronary arteries, rheumatism and kidney problems, died only two years after the WCh contest, on the 20th June 1888, of a brain haemorrhage.\n\nThe day before his death Zukertort had been in the best of spirits in the British Chess Club (37 King's Street, Covent Garden). Later he went to Simpson's Divan, where he played a game against Mr Sylvain Meyer. After approximately 25 minutes Zukertort suddenly slumped at the board and in doing so knocked a few pieces from the table, which he was not in a state to be able to pick up. Zukertort was brought back to the British Chess Club, since he was known there. Since his condition did not improve, he was finally taken at half past two in the morning to Charing Cross Hospital. Zukertort died at ten in the morning, at the age of 45.\n\nOn the 26th June 1888, at 10.30, in the presence of approximately 20 chess lovers, including Bird, Hoffer and Gunsberg, he was buried in the Brompton Cemetery in London. As time went by the location of his grave was forgotten. In March 2011, however, the English grandmaster Stuart Conquest discovered in the cemetery the totally decayed grave of Zukertort. With the help of the 'Polish Heritage Society' in England and some chess lovers Conquest collected 2000 pounds and had the grave restored. On the 26th June 2012 it was revealed to the public with its new headstone.\n**2. Fighting the Russian Bear**\n\n**The World Championship 1889:  \n_Wilhelm Steinitz against Mikhail Chigorin_**\n\nMikhail Chigorin was born on the 12th November 1850 in Gatchina, just 50 kilometres from St. Petersburg. His father worked in a gunpowder factory. Chigorin's parents died young and so he grew up in the orphanage of Gatchina. At 16 he learned to play chess, but he only began to take a more intensive interest in the game at the age of 23. He mostly spent his time playing in the Caf\u00e9 Domenika in St. Petersburg. There in 1873 he got to know Emanuel Schiffers (who was of German extraction), a former tutor who now made his living from chess and who became Chigorin's first chess teacher. In 1875 on a visit to St. Petersburg, Szymon Winawer recognised the talent of Chigorin and encouraged him.\n\n**Mikhail Chigorin (1850-1908)**\n\nChigorin was soon scoring his first successes; in 1879 he won the Russian national championship in St. Petersburg. In 1881 he took part in his first international tournament in the Berlin Chess Congress and shared third place with Winawer. After that Chigorin travelled around in Europe and America and played in other chess tournaments. Thus in 1889 he won the 6th American Chess Congress in New York.\n\nMoreover Chigorin also wrote a chess column in a Russian daily newspaper and was the publisher of the chess journal _Schachmatny Listok_ , later _Schachmatny Vestrik_. At home, as his daughter remembered later, he is said to have spent many days exclusively sitting at his desk composing articles on chess or attending to his extensive correspondence regarding chess. Many of the letters which reached Chigorin from all over the world had as an address simply 'Chigorin, Russia' \u2013 that was enough for a letter to reach him.\n\nContemporaries describe Chigorin as a tall, bearded man, who could appear very fierce in difficult situations over the chess board. His daughter characterised him as nervy and impatient. A non-smoker, in chess tournaments and matches he hated having to sit in the smoke of his opponents' cigars. Between rounds however, he liked to drink 'vodka to the point of oblivion' (Schonberg). As Jacques Mieses once jokingly remarked, Chigorin's style of life as far as meals were concerned was marked by great regularity: 'breakfast at eight, lunch at twelve, dinner at seven. And of course that meant: breakfast at eight in the evening whenever he got up, lunch at midnight and dinner at seven in the morning.'\n\nWhen Steinitz was giving a simultaneous exhibition in Havana in 1887, the local chess club offered to organise for him a World Championship match, with a considerable amount of prize money. Steinitz was asked about a possible opponent and named Mikhail Chigorin, against whom Steinitz had lost twice in the London tournament of 1883. The match was played in Havana from the 20th January till the 24th February 1889 and set for a maximum of 20 games.\n\nIt was also a contest between different views of how the game should be played. Steinitz wrote after the match: 'Here a young player of the old school was up against an old player of the new school.' Whilst Chigorin was a representative of the era of Romantic chess, in which one sought to overwhelm the opponent tactically in a more or less well prepared sacrificial attack, Steinitz had founded a new positional school and represented the thesis that the better plan for the game, based on specific strategic characteristics of the position, would win through in the end.\n\nThe match games were very hard fought. Only the 17th and final game ended as a draw. The previous 16 games were all won by one side or the other. Chigorin had the better start and after seven games was still leading 4:3. Then Steinitz won three games in succession. Chigorin was unable to catch up. The final result was 10:6 in wins. The prize money for the title defender was 1150 dollars.\n\n **Steinitz \u2013 Chigorin**\n\nHavana, 10th game  \n8th February 1889  \nChigorin Defence (D07)\n\n**1. \u2658f3 d5 2.d4 \u2657g4**\n\nAfter any other move White continues 3.c4 and the game transposes to the Queen's Gambit.\n\n**3.c4**\n\nIn the second match game, 3.\u2658e5 \u2657h5 4.\u2655d3!? was played instead. Steinitz won after 38 moves.\n\n**3... \u2658c6**\n\nThe development of the \u2658b8 in front of the c-pawn in the Queen's Gambit Declined is characteristic of Chigorin. The variation 1.d4 d5 2.c4 \u2658c6 \u2013 that is the original move order of the line \u2013 is thus called in his honour the 'Chigorin Defence'. In modern tournament praxis the Russian grandmaster Alexander Morozevich has adopted the ideas of his compatriot and shown that the latter's opening is still very playable even more than 100 years later.\n\n**4.e3**\n\nThe alternative is 4.cxd5 \u2657xf3 5.gxf3 \u2655xd5 6.e3 e5 7.\u2658c3 \u2657b4 8.\u2657d2 \u2657xc3 9.bxc3 \u2655d6 with decent play for Black.\n\n**4...e5**\n\nThe rapid advance of the e-pawn is one point of the early development of the knight to c6. Now one of the main variations of the Chigorin Defence has arisen.\n\n**5. \u2655b3!**\n\nThe principled move at this point. White must play energetically. The continuation 5.dxe5 dxc4 offers absolutely no advantage to White and 5.\u2657e2 e4 is even favourable for Black. In the event of 5.cxd5 \u2655xd5 6.\u2658c3 \u2657b4 7.\u2657e2 exd4 8.exd4 \u2657xf3 9.\u2657xf3 \u2655c4 a position known from the Scotch Gambit would arise by transposition and which arises in that original move order after 1.e4 e5 2.\u2658f3 \u2658c6 3.d4 exd4 4.c3 d5. Here too Black has complete equality.\n\n**5... \u2657xf3 6.gxf3**\n\nNot 6.\u2655xb7? with an attack on the knight, which can evade the said attack with 6...\u2658b4 and then threaten a fork on c2.\n\n**6...exd4?!**\n\nPerhaps not the best continuation. Later in the 14th game Chigorin chose 6...\u2658ge7.\n\n**7.cxd5 \u2658e5**\n\nAfter 7...\u2658b4 8.e4 d3 9.\u2657xd3 \u2658xd3+ 10.\u2655xd3 White retains a sound extra pawn.\n\n**8.exd4 \u2658d7 9.\u2658c3!?**\n\nIt was also worth considering 9.\u2655xb7. After 9...\u2655e7+ 10.\u2657e3 \u2655b4+ 11.\u2655xb4 \u2657xb4+ 12.\u2658c3 \u2658gf6 White retains a material advantage.\n\n**9... \u2655e7+ 10.\u2657e3 \u2655b4 11.\u2655c2!**\n\nAfter 11.\u2655xb4 \u2657xb4 12.a3 \u2657d6 13.\u2658e4 \u2658b6 Black recovers the d5-pawn.\n\n**11... \u2658gf6**\n\nAfter 11...0-0-0 12.0-0-0 \u2658b6 follows 13.d6! and after 13...\u2657xd6 14.\u2658b5 \u2654b8 15.\u2654b1 White threatens 16.\u2657d2 \u2655a4 17.b3 winning the queen.\n\n**12. \u2657b5**\n\nAnother strong move here was 12.0-0-0!? intending 13.\u2658b5.\n\n**12... \u2656d8 13.0-0-0 a6**\n\nTime used by Black so far: one hour.\n\n**14. \u2657a4 \u2657e7 15.\u2656hg1 g6**\n\nKingside castling 15...0-0 was not possible, on account of 16.\u2657h6 \u2658e8 17.\u2655f5 \u2658df6 18.\u2656xg7+! \u2658xg7 19.\u2656g1 and White wins.\n\n**16. \u2657h6!**\n\nThis prevents Black from castling. With his king in the middle Black will now have severe problems.\n\n**16...b5 17. \u2657b3**\n\nTime used by White so far: one hour.\n\n**17... \u2658b6 18.\u2656ge1 \u2654d7 19.\u2657f4**\n\nThe threat is 20.\u2657xc7 and 21.\u2658xb5+.\n\n**19... \u2656c8 20.a3 \u2655a5**\n\n**21. \u2657g5!+\u2013**\n\nAnd 21.\u2656xe7+ would also have won: after 21...\u2654xe7 22.\u2657g5 \u2658bd7 23.\u2658e4 \u2655b6 24.\u2658xf6 \u2658xf6 25.\u2655c6 \u2655xc6+ 26.dxc6 \u2656he8 27.\u2656d3 Black loses the knight. The ending is won for White.\n\n**21... \u2658g8**\n\nOr 21...\u2658bxd5 22.\u2658xd5 \u2658xd5 23.\u2657xe7 \u2658xe7 24.\u2656xe7+ \u2654xe7 25.\u2655c5+ \u2654e8 26.\u2655e5+ \u2654d7 27.\u2655d5+ \u2654e7 28.\u2655xf7+ \u2654d8 29.\u2657e6 followed by mate on d7, or 21...\u2658fxd5 22.\u2657xe7+\u2013.\n\n**22. \u2657xe7 \u2658xe7 23.\u2658e4 \u2656b8**\n\n23...\u2658exd5 24.\u2658c5+ \u2654c6 25.\u2657xd5+ \u2658xd5 26.\u2658b3+ +\u2013.\n\n**24. \u2658f6+ \u2654d8 25.\u2656xe7 \u2654xe7 26.\u2655xc7+ \u2658d7**\n\n26...\u2654xf6 27.\u2655e5#, 26...\u2654f8 27.\u2655xb8+ \u2654g7 28.\u2658h5+ gxh5 29.\u2656g1+ \u2654f6 (29...\u2654h6 30.\u2655f4#) 30.\u2655e5#.\n\n**27. \u2655xa5**\n\nBlack resigned. Time used:\n\nSteinitz: 1 hour 48 minutes\n\nChigorin: 1 hour 53 minutes\n**3. 'Mephisto' in person**\n\n**The World Championship 1890:  \n_Wilhelm Steinitz against Isidor Gunsberg_**\n\nIsidor Arthur Gunsberg was born on the 2nd November 1854 to a Jewish family in Pest, nowadays a district of Budapest. His father came from Russian Poland. When he was eight years old, in 1862, the family moved to London. In 1866 he travelled with his father to Paris, where he went to the Caf\u00e9 de la R\u00e9gence and impressed the players there with his chess skills.\n\nIn London in 1879 he met Charles Godfrey G\u00fcmpel. The latter was a manufacturer of custom made prostheses and had started in 1870 to construct a chess automaton, which he completed around 1876. He called it Mephisto, because in its human form the automaton was modelled on that character.\n\nIsidor Gunsberg (1854-1930)\n\nIn 1878 G\u00fcmpel with his Mephisto took part in and won a tournament of the 'County Chess Association'. The Irish master George MacDonnell had previously refused to play against the automaton and withdrawn from the tournament. G\u00fcmpel then installed Mephisto in his house and challenged the best players in London to play against it. Unlike the chess Turk of Wolfgang von Kempelen or Ajeeb, Mephisto was worked at a distance with the help of electro-magnetic technology by a cable from a neighbouring room. This was done from 1879 to 1889 by Isidor Gunsberg, who was then replaced by Jean Taubenhaus. In 1883 Chigorin played against Mephisto in London, well aware that the latter was being operated by Gunsberg, and he lost.\n\nIn 1889 G\u00fcmpel travelled with his Mephisto to the World Exhibition in Paris, in order to present it there. After that it was dismantled and all traces of the chess automaton were lost. But G\u00fcmpel had also given consideration to the possibility of constructing a proper chess automaton which would be worked with a system of punch cards. But after he calculated that 500 000 billion people would have to spend their whole life making the punch cards so that every eventuality would be covered, G\u00fcmpel dropped his plan.\n\nWhen he was employed by G\u00fcmpel, Gunsberg abandoned his training as a tobacco dealer and decided to become a chess professional. In the 1880s he won a series of tournaments (Hamburg 1885, Bradford 1888, London 1888) and matches (against Bird by 5\u00bd:2\u00bd and against Blackburne by 8:5). In order to find a challenger for Steinitz, the Manhattan Chess Club organised in 1889 a candidates' tournament with 20 participants in the form of a double round all-play-all, in which a game had to be replayed if it ended in a draw. Miksa White, who moreover soon after retired from chess to pursue his banking career with Rothschild's, and Mikhail Chigorin shared first place, but neither was interested in a match against Steinitz. Gunsberg was third and was prepared to accept. After Gunsberg had drawn a match against Chigorin in 1890 (9:9), Steinitz accepted the challenge.\n\nThe match for the World Championship between Wilhelm Steinitz and Isidor Gunsberg was staged from the 9th December 1890 till 22nd January 1891 in New York and organised by the Manhattan Chess Club. The prize fund was to be put up by stakes found by the players with the help of patrons. After Gunsberg was unable to manage the minimum stake, Steinitz went back on his original demands and played for less money. The match was for 20 games.\n\nThe arbiter of the match was Professor Isaac Leopold Rice, president of the Manhattan Chess Club and a well-known chess patron beyond the borders of the USA. Rice actually came from Wachenheim in Bavaria, where he had been born on the 22nd February 1855. However, the family emigrated to the USA before Rice was six years old. In his new homeland Rice first attended the Central High School in Philadelphia. In 1880 he got the degree of Bachelor of Law from Columbia Law School. In 1902 he was awarded an honorary doctorate by Bates College. In 1885 Rice married Julia Hynemann Barnett. The couple had six children.\n\nTo begin with Rice worked as a lecturer at the Columbia Law School and till 1886 as the dean of the School of Political Science. After that he specialised in the law regarding railways and reorganised various US railway companies. In 1887 he founded the 'Electric Vehicle Company' (for the production of electric cars), then the 'Electric Storage Battery Company' (for the production of accumulators), finally in 1899 the 'Electric Boat Company', which built for the US navy in the First World War 85 submarines and 722 submarine chasers. The 'Electric Boat Company' later became the 'General Dynamics Corporation', nowadays one of the world's biggest producers of fighter aircraft.\n\nIn his New York house, 'Villa Julia', built in 1890 on Riverside Drive at the corner of 89th Street, Rice had installed a chess room in the cellar, which was excavated underground into the cliff and reached by a lift. In 1909 he sold the house for 600 000 dollars to the Schinasi brothers, two tobacco manufacturers. The house still exists today and since 1954 has been in the possession of a Talmud high school (Yeshiva).\n\nProfessor Rice publicised a special version of the Kieseritzky Gambit, the unsound 'Rice Gambit', and sponsored some thematic tournaments and matches with this opening. For example, Lasker and Chigorin played a thematic match a few years later (in 1903 in Brighton) in which all the games started with the Rice Gambit. Lasker was also otherwise closely linked with Rice at the start of the new century and even acted from 1906 as secretary of a 'Rice Society' founded by Rice with the aim of furthering the popularity of the eponymous gambit.\n\nBut at the time of the WCh match between Steinitz and Gunsberg Lasker's star was not yet on the rise. In any case Leopold Rice was in a positive sense a chess fanatic, to whom the masters of the era owed a good deal materially speaking, and they certainly gladly overlooked his little whims and vanities when it came to 'his' gambit. Rice died on the 2nd November 1915.\n\nThe games of the third match for the World Championship were played from 13.30 till 17.00 and then after a pause continued from 19.00 till 22.30. Gunsberg decided the fourth, fifth, twelfth and sixteenth games in his favour. After the fifth game he was leading 3:2. Steinitz won the second, sixth, seventh, tenth, thirteenth and eighteenth games. His strong end spurt had allowed Steinitz to successfully defend his title once more. The winner received a prize of 3000 dollars, Gunsberg as the loser 1000 dollars.\n\n **Steinitz \u2013 Gunsberg**\n\nNew York, 7th game  \n22nd December 1890  \nQueen's Gambit Accepted (D24)\n\n**1.d4 d5 2.c4 dxc4 3. \u2658f3**\n\nThis move was in its day an idea of Joseph Henry Blackburne. White prevents the counterthrust...e7-e5. In the 5th game 3.e3 e5 4.dxe5 \u2655xd1+ 5.\u2654xd1 \u2658c6 6.\u2657xc4 \u2658xe5 7.\u2657b5+ c6. was played instead. Black was already better and went on to win.\n\n**3... \u2658f6**\n\nThe attempt to hang on to the pawn on c4 with 3...b5 does not lead to success, for example 4.a4 c6 5.e3 (or 5.axb5 cxb5 6.b3 with advantage to White) 5...\u2657d7 6.\u2658e5 e6 7.axb5 cxb5 8.\u2655f3 1-0, Blackburne-M. Fleissig, Vienna 1873.\n\n**4.e3 e6**\n\nAlso playable is 4...\u2657g4.\n\n**5. \u2657xc4 \u2657b4+?!**\n\nThis move is not very useful here. Nowadays 5...c5 or 5...a6 is usual.\n\n**6. \u2658c3 0-0 7.0-0 b6**\n\nAfter 7...c5!? Black could also immediately take up the struggle for the centre.\n\n**8. \u2658e5**\n\nIntending f2-f3.\n\n**8... \u2657b7 9.\u2655b3 \u2657xc3?!**\n\nThe surrender of the bishop pair was not absolutely necessary. After 9...\u2657e7 the strike 10.\u2657xe6 leads after 10...fxe6 11.\u2655xe6+ \u2654h8 12.\u2658f7+ \u2656xf7 13.\u2655xf7 to an unclear position. But 9...\u2655e7!? looks solid, e.g.: 10.a3 \u2657d6 11.f4 c5 etc.\n\n**10.bxc3 \u2657d5**\n\nBlack is afraid of the strike on f7 or e6, but this move weakens the c6-square after the exchange of the bishop. The alternative was 10...c5 11.f3 \u2657d5.\n\n**11. \u2657xd5 exd5 12.\u2657a3 \u2656e8 13.c4 c5!**\n\nAfter 13...c6 14.\u2656ac1 White obtains strong pressure on the c-file, whilst Black has worries about the development of the \u2658b8.\n\n**14. \u2656ac1 \u2658e4?**\n\nThe correct way was 14...cxd4!? 15.exd4 \u2658a6. After 16.\u2655a4 \u2658c7 17.\u2656fe1 \u2658e6= Black has counterplay against d4. Another option was 16...\u2658c5!?. After 17.dxc5 \u2656xe5 18.cxd5 bxc5 19.\u2656xc5 \u2656xd5 20.\u2656xd5 \u2655xd5 21.\u2657b2 the game would have been level. On the other hand the move in the game weakens d5.\n\n**15. \u2656fd1 cxd4 16.exd4 f6?**\n\nThis is refuted tactically. In the event of 16...dxc4 17.\u2655xc4 Black has major worries about his f7-pawn. Perhaps the return of the knight to f6 was still the best.\n\n**17.cxd5! fxe5 18.d6+ \u2654h8 19.\u2655d5?!**\n\nThings were clearer after 19.\u2655f3 \u2658xf2 20.\u2655xf2 exd4 21.\u2655xd4+\u2013.\n\n**19... \u2658xf2**\n\nAfter 19...exd4 20.\u2655xa8 \u2658c3 then 21.\u2656e1 \u2658e2+ 22.\u2656xe2 \u2656xe2 23.d7+\u2013 wins.\n\n**20. \u2656d2**\n\nAfter the 'normal move' 20.\u2654xf2 Black also continues with 20...\u2658d7. White will lose time after this with the retreat of the king to g1. Instead of the move in the game White could also easily play 20.\u2656f1 and after 20...\u2658d3 21.\u2656cd1 \u2658d7 22.\u2656xd3 e4 23.\u2656g3 he is winning. On the other hand 20.\u2655xa8 \u2658xd1 21.\u2656xd1 exd4 22.\u2655xa7 h6 is less favourable and leaves White only a slight advantage.\n\n**20... \u2658d7**\n\nIt was worth trying 20...\u2658h3+!? 21.gxh3 \u2658d7 with perhaps better chances of a draw than in the game.\n\n**21. \u2656xf2 \u2658f6**\n\nBut 21...\u2656c8 does not change much: 22.\u2656cf1+\u2013.\n\n**22. \u2656xf6+\u2013 gxf6**\n\nAfter 22...\u2655xf6 there follows 23.d7 \u2656f8 (23...\u2656ed8 24.dxe5+\u2013) 24.\u2657xf8 \u2656xf8 25.\u2655f3 \u2655d8 26.\u2655xf8+ \u2655xf8 27.dxe5+\u2013. On the other hand 23.dxe5? would be inaccurate: 23...\u2655xe5 24.\u2655xe5 \u2656xe5 25.d7. Black now holds the draw with 25...\u2656g8 26.\u2656c8 \u2656d5 27.\u2656c7 \u2656d8 29.\u2657e7 \u26565xd7.\n\n**23.d7**\n\nAnother powerful move was 23.\u2656c7, intending 24.\u2655f7+\u2013.\n\n**23... \u2656g8 24.dxe5**\n\nAlso strong was 24.\u2655e6, intending 25.\u2657e7+\u2013.\n\n**24... \u2656g5**\n\nOr 24...fxe5 25.\u2657d6+\u2013.\n\n**25. \u2655xa8!**\n\nOr 25.\u2657e7+\u2013.\n\n**25... \u2655xa8 26.\u2656c8+ \u2656g8 27.\u2656xa8 \u2656xa8 28.e6**\n\nBlack resigned.\n\nTime used:\n\nSteinitz: 1 hour 5 minutes\n\nGunsberg: 1 hour 35 minutes\n\nIn 1900 Gunsberg shared second place with James Mason behind Richard Teichmann in the moreover not all that strong London tournament. After some less well placed forays in Monte Carlo 1901 and 1902, as well as in the 13th DSB Congress in Hanover 1902, he was once more third in London in 1904. The preliminary round of the St. Petersburg tournament of 1914 saw the now 60 year old come in last with only a single point (two draws).\n\nAs well as taking part in tournaments Gunsberg was active as a chess journalist for several newspapers, where at the end it was not he but his wife who wrote the articles which appeared under his name, as well as being a tournament organiser (Ostende 1906). During his life Gunsberg married three times. He probably married his first wife Jane in 1879 in London. She died in 1891 at the age of 38. Gunsberg had three sons with her. In 1893 Gunsberg married Miriam Clarke, with whom he had two daughters. His second wife also died young, at the age of 39. In 1897 Gunsberg married for the third and last time in Lambeth. With his third wife Agnes Jane Ramage he had a daughter. It was only in 1908 that Gunsberg was accorded British citizenship.\n\nIn 1916 Gunsberg took to court _Associated Newspapers_ and the _Chess News Agency_ (or _Evening News_ ) for libel, after they made the claim that his chess column in the _Daily Telegraph_ , which he had been writing for 26 years, was seriously flawed. The reason for this accusation was that many of the chess problems published by Gunsberg were unsound, containing more than one solution. The British high court found in favour of Gunsberg and accepted his argument that chess problems quite frequently had more than one solution and that the column could not therefore be regarded as 'full of blunders'. Gunsberg had called numerous witnesses in his support. Gunsberg was accorded by the court damages to the tune of 250 pounds. In 1923, however, Gunsberg had to file for personal bankruptcy. On the 2nd May 1930 he died in London.\n**4. Tarrasch has no time**\n\n**The World Championship 1892:  \n_Wilhelm Steinitz against Mikhail Chigorin_**\n\nSteinitz had actually chosen Siegbert Tarrasch for another title defence, once more in Havana. But the latter declined and based his refusal on the long journey to get there and his professional commitments as a doctor. Thus Chigorin received for a second time the privilege of being allowed to challenge the World Champion. As well as Havana, St. Petersburg also thereupon made an offer, but Steinitz stuck with Havana as the venue. The location for the games in Havana was the Centro Asturiano Club. The match was set for 10 wins with a maximum of 20 games. In the event of 10:10 (including draws) play should continue until one of the players had managed 10 victories. The stake consisted of 2000 dollars.\n\nThe match was a hard-fought affair. Chigorin won the first game and after the 19th game he was still in front by 8:7; Steinitz equalised with the 20th game and with a victory in the 21st game took the lead in this match for the first time. In the 23rd game Chigorin was clearly winning, but blundered the game in a single move.\n\n **Chigorin \u2013 Steinitz**\n\nHavana, 23rd game  \n28th February 1892  \nKing's Gambit (C34)\n\n**1.e4 e5 2.f4**\n\nThe King's Gambit was during the Romantic movement in chess one of the most popular openings. Later analyses showed that the gambit is not totally sound and it lost in popularity.\n\n**2...exf4 3. \u2658f3**\n\nThere is also the very playable 3.\u2657c4 after which the tempting 3...\u2655h4+ is not so good because Black loses a further tempo with the queen, after 4.\u2654f1 d6 5.\u2658f3.\n\n**3... \u2658f6**\n\nIn its day a rather extravagant continuation. A more principled reply is the main variation with 3...g5 4.h4 g4 5.\u2658e5 d6 6.\u2658xg4 \u2658f6 etc. There is also the equally popular counter-strike in the centre with 3...d5.\n\n**4.e5**\n\nAfter 4.\u2658c3 there comes 4...d5, e.g.: 5.exd5 \u2658xd5 6.\u2658xd5 \u2655xd5 7.d4 \u2657g4 8.\u2657xf4 \u2658c6 9.\u2657e2 0-0-0 with good play for Black.\n\n**4... \u2658h5**\n\nThat was the idea. The knight on the edge protects the f4-pawn, without Black having to compromise his pawn structure with a move like...g7-g5.\n\n**5. \u2657e2**\n\nThe alternative is the immediate 5.d4.\n\n**5...g6 6.d4 \u2657g7 7.0-0 d6 8.\u2658c3 0-0 9.\u2658e1**\n\n9.\u2658d5 dxe5 10.dxe5 \u2658c6 11.\u2658xf4 \u2655xd1 12.\u2656xd1 \u2658xf4 13.\u2657xf4 \u2657e6=. Chigorin suggested 9.exd6! as an impro-vement: 9...cxd6 (9...\u2655xd6 10.\u2658e5) 10.\u2658e1! \u2658c6! 11.\u2657xh5 \u2657xd4+ 12.\u2654h1 with compensation according to Chigorin.\n\n**9...dxe5 10. \u2657xh5**\n\nA more precise way is 10.dxe5 \u2655xd1 11.\u2657xd1 \u2658c6 (11...\u2657xe5 12.\u2657xh5 gxh5 13.\u2658f3) 12.\u2657xh5 gxh5 13.\u2658d5 and the game remains open.\n\n**10...gxh5 11.dxe5 \u2655xd1 12.\u2658xd1 \u2658c6**\n\nIn comparison to the note to move 10, here the knight is on d1 instead of being actively posted on d5. Black now has the freer game with his bishop pair. Moreover the white pawn on e5 is weak.\n\n**13. \u2657xf4 \u2657f5?!**\n\nSimply 13...\u2658xe5 14.\u2658e3 \u2657e6 was better and Black has a clear advantage according to Chigorin.\n\n**14. \u2658e3 \u2657e4 15.\u2658f3**\n\nIt was also worth considering 15.\u2658d3!?.\n\n**15... \u2656fe8**\n\n**16. \u2658g5 \u2657g6 17.\u2658d5 \u2657xe5 18.\u2658xc7 \u2657xc7 19.\u2657xc7 \u2656ac8 20.\u2657g3**\n\n20.\u2657d6!?.\n\n**20... \u2658d4 21.c3 \u2658e2+ 22.\u2654f2 h4?**\n\nThis throws away his advantage. The correct move was 22...\u2658xg3 23.hxg3 (23.\u2654xg3 \u2656e2) 23...\u2656e5 24.\u2658f3 \u2656b5 winning a pawn and leaving Black with a clear advantage.\n\n**23. \u2657d6**\n\n**23... \u2658d4?**\n\nBlack wants to mate, only his combination has a big hole in it. After 23...\u2656cd8 White's advantage is only minimal.\n\n**24.cxd4 \u2656c2+ 25.\u2654g1 \u2656ee2**\n\nThe penetration of the rooks to the second rank should decide the game, however...\n\n**26. \u2656ae1 \u2656xg2+ 27.\u2654h1**\n\n... and the \u2657d6 protects the h2-square and the \u2658g5 and the \u2656e1 prevent the \u2657g6 from reaching e4 with decisive effect.\n\n**27... \u2654g7**\n\nThe exchange of rooks 27...\u2656ge2 28.\u2656xe2 \u2656xe2 leads after 29.\u2654g1 \u2656xb2 30.a3 h6 31.\u2658h3 \u2657e4 32.\u2656f4 to a won position for White.\n\n**28. \u2656e8**\n\nThis threatens mate with 29.\u2657f8+ \u2654g8 30.\u2657h6#.\n\n**28...f5?!**\n\nPerhaps 28...\u2657d3!? 29.\u2656xf7+ \u2654g6 was more tenacious, intending 30.\u2656g8+ \u2654h5 31.\u2658h3 \u2656xg8 32.\u2658f4+ \u2654g5 33.\u2658xd3 and White's victory is not yet home and dry.\n\n**29. \u2658e6+?!**\n\nThe correct idea, but the wrong execution of it. 29.\u2656e7+ won on the spot: 29...\u2654h6 (29...\u2654f6 30.\u2658e4#) 30.\u2657f4 \u2654h5 31.\u2658e6 \u2654g4 32.\u2656xb7.\n\n**29... \u2654f6 30.\u2656e7 \u2656ge2**\n\nAfter 30...\u2656xh2+ 31.\u2657xh2 \u2654xe7 32.d5 \u2656e2 (32...\u2656xb2 33.\u2656e1+\u2013) 33.\u2658d4 \u2656xb2 34.d6+ \u2654d7 35.\u2656e1 White's win is also clear.\n\n**31.d5 \u2656cd2**\n\n**32. \u2657b4??**\n\nA blatant case of chess blindness. In a winning position, White allows himself to be mated. 32.\u2656xb7 intending 32... \u2656xd5 33.\u2658f4 and White wins.\n\n**32... \u2656xh2+**\n\nWhite resigned.\n\nThis was the tenth win for the World Champion and the end of the match. Had Chigorin won the game, who knows how the match would then have finished. Therefore Wilhelm Steinitz had once more defended his title, though only just. It was, however, to be the last time that he managed to do so.\n\nMikhail Chigorin (1850-1908)\n\nMikhail Chigorin died in 1908 of advanced cancer. In 1907 he had, though already seriously ill, taken part in the tournament in Karlsbad. Before the match Steinitz had already felt the heavy blows of fate. In 1888 his daughter had died. In May 1892, moreover, he lost his wife Caroline, n\u00e9e Golder. She died of hepatitis. He finally had to close his _International Chess Magazine_ , because it was simply losing money. Shortly after the match against Chigorin Steinitz married for a second time, the 28 year younger Elisabeth, with whom he had two more children.\n**5. The triumph of defence**\n\n**The World Championship 1894:  \n_Wilhelm Steinitz against Emanuel Lasker_**\n\nEmanuel Lasker hailed from the Pomeranian town of Berlinchen, which nowadays belongs to Poland and is called Barlinek. He was born on the 24th December 1868 as the youngest son of the teacher and cantor Aron Michaelis Lasker and his wife Rosalie Israelssohn. The family was distantly related to the Prussian politician Eduard Lasker and also to the chess and go player Edward Lasker, who emigrated to the USA in 1914. The latter's niece, Anita Lasker-Wallfisch, later became famous with her auto-biography _Inherit the truth, 1939-1945: The documented experiences of a survivor of Auschwitz and Belsen_ as 'the cellist of Auschwitz'.\n\nEmanuel Lasker (1868-1941)\n\nThe origins of the Lasker family lie in the Polish town of Lask. The sons and grandsons of the rabbi Abraham Meier Hindels who lived there adopted the name of Lasker at the start of the second half of the 18th century after they moved to other localities. Emanuel Lasker had an eight year older brother Berthold (born 1.12.1860), who was also an excellent chess player, and two older sisters, Theophila (also named as Charfila Hedwig, born 1.6.1862) and Amalia (Amalia Thekla, born 16.2.1865). Theophila was later a victim of the persecution of the Jews by the Nazis and died on the 6th April 1943 in the Sobibor concentration camp.\n\nIn 1879 his parents sent Emanuel Lasker to his brother in Berlin, in order to continue his schooling in the latter's charge. Lasker then learned to play chess from Berthold and together with his brother he was soon a regular visitor to the chess caf\u00e9s, of which there were very many in Berlin, such as the well-known Caf\u00e9 Royal, the Caf\u00e9 Kaiserhof, the Caf\u00e9 Bauer, the Romanische Caf\u00e9 on the Kurf\u00fcrstendamm \u2013 a well-known meeting place for artists in Berlin, in which chess was also played \u2013, the Caf\u00e9 Kerkau owned by the World Billiards Champion and chess lover Hugo Kerkau in the Friedrichstra\u00dfe 59\/60 on the corner with the Leipziger Stra\u00dfe (from 1901 the meeting place for the Berlin Chess Society which was founded in 1827, and which then continued from 1921 under the name of the Caf\u00e9 Zielka, later from 1929 the Moka Efti), the Caf\u00e9 Victoria, the Caf\u00e9 K\u00f6nig, the Caf\u00e9 des Westens and also the 'tea halls' in the Oranienburger Stra\u00dfe.\n\nIn the caf\u00e9s chess was played for money, which certainly came in useful for the Lasker brothers who came from a materially not very well endowed family. But apparently the owner of the Caf\u00e9 Royal banned the two Laskers, giving as a reason: 'two Laskers are too many', for the two Laskers did not leave the other guests any hope of winning from time to time.\n\nAfter the parents had learned that their youngest son was frequenting the chess caf\u00e9s with his older brother instead of worrying about his education, they set him up in another area of Berlin. When this too did not help matters, they sent Emanuel to a secondary school in Landsberg an der Warthe (nowadays: Gorzow Wielkopolski), in the province of Brandenburg, where Lasker then took his final school exam in 1888. Here too he was not completely cut off from chess, since his mathematics teacher Dr. Georg Kewitsch was the president of the local chess club and the strongest player in the area. As an underage schoolboy, Lasker was officially not supposed to enter the chess club, but he played 'secret' matches against its members.\n\nBerthold Lasker finished his medical studies and settled in 1893 in Elberfeld, which nowadays is part of the city of Wuppertal, as doctor and obstetrician. There he got to know Else Sch\u00fcler and married her on the 15th January 1894. The couple moved to Berlin-Charlottenburg (16 Br\u00fcckenstra\u00dfe). There Else Lasker-Sch\u00fcler first took lessons in drawing and then was soon moving freely in the literary circles of Berlin. She became the best known Bohemian of Berlin under the name of 'wild Else'. She achieved some literary recognition first as a poet with her unconventional poems and later as a dramatist with her expressionist play _Die Wupper_.\n\nHowever her marriage with Berthold Lasker rapidly failed, partly because the latter's Polish-Silesian-Jewish family was always a bit of a mystery to her. On the 11th April 1903 they were officially divorced. Her son, who was born in 1899 (and she denied that he was Berthold Lasker's), died young in 1927 of phthsis. Even during her marriage to Berthold Lasker Else Lasker-Sch\u00fcler saw many other men and she was the lover, for example, of the authors Ernst Toller, Theodor D\u00e4ubler and Hannes Heinz Ewers as well as the painters Franz Marc and George Grosz. For a long time she was in love with Gottfried Benn, to whom she gave the nickname 'King Giselher', and she got remarried to the musician and publisher Herwarth Walden, with whom she edited the expressionist magazine _Der Sturm_. However, she never moved in with the latter, but lived in furnished rooms and boarding houses.\n\nIn the meantime Berthold Lasker ran a flourishing dermatological clinic on the Alexanderplatz. He still also occasionally played chess in the Caf\u00e9 Bauer, but only against friends, not for stakes any more. Carl Ahues evaluated Berthold Lasker's playing strength as hardly any weaker than that of his brother Emanuel.\n\nIn 1889 Emanuel Lasker started to study mathematics in Berlin, and he continued in 1890 in G\u00f6ttingen. In the same year in Breslau he played in his first international chess tournament. Also in 1890 he won, together with his brother, a tournament in Berlin and in Liverpool defeated Henry Edward Bird in a match by 8\u00bd:3\u00bd. In 1891 Lasker decided to become a professional chess player and on account of the better prospects for chess players he moved to London. He achieved numerous successes in tournaments and in matches, including against Joseph Blackburne (8:2). In England, moreover, he edited the chess journal _London Chess Fortnightly_.\n\nOn the 28th September 1892 Lasker took ship on the _Southampton_ and travelled to New York. After some successes in the USA \u2013 in 1893 he won for example the championship of the Manhattan Chess Club, in which Harry Pillsbury also participated, by 13:0 \u2013 and in Canada he found sponsors for a WCh match against Steinitz.\n\nThe system for financing the World Chess Championships still worked along the lines of betting on horses. The players acquired patrons, the so-called 'backers', who were prepared to bet on the result of the match. At the end the persons who won the wager gave the victorious player half of their winnings. It took several months till Lasker had found enough 'backers'. Finally 3000 dollars prize money had been collected, to be divided in the ratio of 2250 dollars for the winner, 750 dollars for the loser. Originally the hopes had been for a purse of 5000 dollars. Steinitz finally accepted a smaller stake and Lasker and Steinitz signed on the 5th March 1894 a contract in which the detailed arrangements for the match were set out.\n\nThe match for the World Championship finally took place from the 15th March till the 26th May 1894 in New York, Philadelphia and Montreal, and was set for ten wins. In the event of defeat, Steinitz had secured the right to a return match. Thinking time was to be two hours for the first 30 moves and one hour for each further 15 moves. Although Steinitz was 30 years older than was the 26 year old Lasker at the time of the match, people were absolutely confident that the title defender would be victorious in this match too.\n\nAt the start in the New York Union Square Hotel Lasker won the first and third games, Steinitz the second and fourth. Next came two draws. Then, still in New York, the challenger decided the seventh and eighth games in his favour and before they moved to Philadelphia he was leading by 4:2. There Lasker won all three games and extended his lead to 7:2. Now the final stage began in Montreal, Steinitz seemed a beaten man. However, after a draw in the twelfth game the title defender won the thirteenth and fourteenth games and closed the score to 7:4. After that the match was interrupted for a week. After the pause Lasker won the fifteenth and sixteenth games and with the score at 9:4 in wins he then only required one victory to win the title. Steinitz won game seventeen, but with his victory in the eighteenth game Emanuel Lasker became the second World Chess Champion. After the final game of the match Steinitz stood up and shouted: 'Three cheers for the new World Champion!'\n\n **Lasker \u2013 Steinitz**\n\nNew York, 7th game  \n3th April 1894  \nRuy Lopez\n\n**1.e4 e5 2. \u2658f3 \u2658c6 3.\u2657b5 d6**\n\nThis variation of the Ruy Lopez was named after the first World Champion, but is considered today to be somewhat passive and is thus no longer particularly popular.\n\n**4.d4**\n\nFrequently 4.0-0 is played first.\n\n**4... \u2657d7**\n\nAnother plan is 4...exd4 5.\u2658xd4 \u2657d7 6.\u2658c3 \u2658f6 7.0-0 \u2657e7 8.\u2656e1 0-0. Black has a passive, but solid position.\n\n**5. \u2658c3 \u2658ge7**\n\nA more usual move is 5...\u2658f6.\n\n**6. \u2657e3**\n\nLasker commented on the course of the game so far in these words: 'With move 5 the game started along new lines, since I completely changed my plan of attack in order to extract more advantage from the position. The most important difference is the early queenside castling in order to attack on the kingside.' Steinitz: 'A new variation so as to play for an attack.' In his first three games as White Lasker had on each occasion continued 6.\u2657c4 \u2658xd4 7.\u2658xd4 exd4 8.\u2655xd4 \u2658c6 9.\u2655e3.\n\n**6... \u2658g6 7.\u2655d2 \u2657e7 8.0-0-0 a6 9.\u2657e2 exd4 10.\u2658xd4 \u2658xd4 11.\u2655xd4**\n\nBy castling queenside White has opened for himself the option of an attack on the king. Moreover, White has something of an advantage in space. For his part Black can point to a solid position.\n\n**11... \u2657f6 12.\u2655d2 \u2657c6 13.\u2658d5 0-0**\n\nThe moves 13...\u2657xd5 14.\u2655xd5 would bring the white queen into a very central position, from which it could also quickly swing over to the kingside.\n\n**14.g4**\n\nLasker: 'It appears that with this move I was asking too much of my attack. A quiet move like 14.f3 would have bolstered my position.' 14.h4 was also worth considering. After 14...\u2657xh4 15.g3 \u2657f6 16.f4 White then has the semi-open h-file at his disposal for the attack.\n\n**14... \u2656e8 15.g5**\n\nSteinitz: 'This advance is premature. He obviously overlooked Black's continuation. 15.f3 was better.'\n\n**15... \u2657xd5 16.\u2655xd5**\n\nSteinitz: 'This is a bad move, which should lose; 16.exd5 was correct.' After 16.exd5 then 16...\u2656xe3 (16...\u2657e7 17.h4 with an attack, 16...\u2657xg5 17.\u2657xg5 \u2656xe2 18.\u2657xd8 \u2656xd2 19.\u2656xd2 \u2656xd8 with advantage to White) 17.fxe3 \u2657xg5 holds things level.\n\n**16... \u2656e5 17.\u2655d2?!**\n\nThis allows the subsequent combination. After 17.\u2655xb7 \u2657xg5 18.\u2657xg5 \u2656xg5 19.\u2656hg1 Black only has a slight advantage.\n\n**17... \u2657xg5 18.f4**\n\nSteinitz: 'This leads to the loss of a second pawn, but it is the best chance for White, to mount an attack.'\n\n**18... \u2656xe4 19.fxg5 \u2655e7**\n\nThe point \u2013 both bishops are hanging.\n\n**20. \u2656df1**\n\nLasker: 'Steinitz has won two pawns with a prettily laid trap. I could have recovered one with 20.\u2657f3. But I preferred to keep on attacking.' After 20.\u2657f3 \u2656xe3 21.\u2656he1 \u2656e5 22.\u2657xb7 \u2656b8 23.\u2657xa6 \u2655xg5 24.\u2655xg5 \u2656xg5 White is a pawn down in the endgame and has to struggle for a draw.\n\n**20... \u2656xe3 21.\u2657c4**\n\nWhite is now two pawns down, but his pieces are more actively posted and thus White has compensation for the disadvantage in material.\n\n**21... \u2658h8?!**\n\nLasker: 'Black apparently underestimated the future course of events or else he would have played 21...\u2656f8.' After 21...\u2656f8 22.h4 (22.\u2656e1 \u2656xe1+ 23.\u2656xe1 \u2658e5\u2013+) there follows 22...b5 23.h5 (23.\u2657d3 \u2655e5 24.h5 \u2658f4\u2013+) 23...bxc4 24.hxg6 \u2655xg5 with advantage to Black.\n\n**22.h4 c6 23.g6!**\n\nLasker: 'He was probably not expecting my 23rd move. When I offered my third pawn he could not find a good way to accept the sacrifice, because after it I would force the opening of the h-file.' Steinitz: 'After some reflection Black could have worked out that he can accept the sacrifice without any danger: 23...hxg6, followed by...g6-g5, if White advances his h-pawn.'\n\n**23...d5?**\n\nHe had to play 23...hxg6 24.h5 gxh5 (24...g5, as suggested by Steinitz, is met by 25.h6, and Black is facing the same problems as in the game) 25.\u2656xh5 \u2656e5. After 26.\u2656xh8+ (26.\u2656xe5 \u2655xe5 27.\u2654b1 \u2656e8 with a major advantage to Black) 26...\u2654xh8 27.\u2655h2+ \u2654g8 28.\u2657xf7+ \u2655xf7 29.\u2656xf7 \u2654xf7 30.\u2655f4+ White perhaps has drawing chances with the help of a perpetual check.\n\n**24.gxh7+ \u2654xh7 25.\u2657d3+ \u2654g8 26.h5 \u2656e8 27.h6 g6**\n\n27...gxh6 28.\u2656fg1+ \u2658g6 29.\u2657xg6 fxg6 30.\u2656xg6+ \u2654f7 31.\u2656gg1 looks dangerous.\n\n**28.h7+ \u2654g7 29.\u2654b1**\n\n29.\u2655h2!? \u2655g5 30.\u2654b1 \u2656g3=.\n\n**29... \u2655e5 30.a3**\n\nWhite needs an airhole. For example, not 30.\u2655h2 \u2656e1+ and then mate.\n\n**30...c5 31. \u2655f2 c4**\n\n31...f5!? intending 32.\u2655h4 \u2658f7.\n\n**32. \u2655h4**\n\nThe threat is mate on h6. Steinitz: 'At first glance it looks as though White could win with 32.\u2657xg6. But that is not the case after 32...fxg6 33.\u2655h4 \u2658f7 34.h8\u2655\\+ \u2656xh8 35.\u2656xf7+ \u2654xf7 36.\u2655xh8 \u2655xh8 etc.'\n\n**32...f6**\n\nLasker: 'I was expecting 32...\u2654f8, after which 33.\u2657f5 would have given me good chances of a draw, because the bishop cannot be taken on account of 34.\u2656hg1. Instead my opponent chose 32...f6, which was rather risky. After that I got a very strong position and Black ought to be warned to stop playing for a win. At the end Black's chances of winning had as good as disappeared, even if White did not already have the best of things.'\n\n**33. \u2657f5 \u2654f7 34.\u2656hg1**\n\n**34...gxf5**\n\nSteinitz: '34...g5 was better.' After 34... \u2654g7 35.\u2655g4 g5 36.\u2655h5 c3 37.\u2656xg5+ fxg5 38.\u2655xg5+ \u2658g6 39.h8\u2655\\+ \u2654xh8 40.\u2655xg6 \u2656e1+ a draw is the most probable end to the game.\n\n**35. \u2655h5+ \u2654e7 36.\u2656g8 \u2654d6**\n\nA possible move was 36...\u2654d7. After 37.\u2656xf5 \u2655e6 38.\u2656xe8 \u2655xe8 39.\u2655g4 White has sufficient activity in exchange for the material he has lost.\n\n**37. \u2656xf5 \u2655e6 38.\u2656xe8 \u2655xe8 39.\u2656xf6+ \u2654c5**\n\nSteinitz: 'Now 39...\u2654c7 was much better.'\n\n**40. \u2655h6 \u2656e7 41.\u2655h2**\n\nThe threat is mate with 42.\u2655d6. However, 41.\u2655d2 was even stronger, with the threat of 42.b4 and mate.\n\n**41... \u2655d7**\n\nLasker: 'Steinitz, who was still playing for a win, makes a blunder here, losing his queen and knight or rook, and has to resign soon afterwards.'\n\nSteinitz: 'A catastrophe: Black was in time trouble. A better move was 41... \u2656e6'.\n\n**42. \u2655g1+ d4 43.\u2655g5+ \u2655d5 44.\u2656f5 \u2655xf5 45.\u2655xf5+ \u2654d6 46.\u2655f6+**\n\nBlack resigned.\n\nCurt von Bardeleben characterised the play of the new World Champion in the _Deutsche Schachzeitung_ (Berlin 1894) in these words:\n\n'He is far more skilful in defence than in attack, to which he only turns when he perceives a quite clear and decisive advantage or else when he finds himself in such a disadvantageous situation that purely passive defence no longer offers any prospects.'\n\nA week after the end of the match, on the 2nd June 1894, Steinitz transmitted to Lasker his challenge for a return match. Steinitz was of the opinion that he had only lost the match on account of bad health and that the next time things would look different.\n**6. The annoying return match**\n\n**The World Championship 1896\/97:  \n_Emanuel Lasker against Wilhelm Steinitz_**\n\nIn the agreed conditions for the WCh contest between Steinitz and Lasker the title defender had insisted on a contractual right to a return match in the event of his being defeated. It was even agreed that the return match should take place in the same year. Now that the return match was a real issue, Lasker explained that as he would first be going on a journey around the world the further negotiations as to the match conditions would be conducted by his second W.M. de Visser. Lasker would only be personally available after his return. Steinitz suggested March 1895 as the start of the return match. Lasker replied that his commitments did not permit a start any earlier than October 1895.\n\nSteinitz was annoyed by this answer and then simply considered himself to still be World Champion, since Lasker had not stuck to the agreement. So before his own departure to the Hastings tournament of 1895 he sent Lasker a letter, in which he stated in no uncertain terms: 'Your breaking of the agreement as to a return match is a clear admission of inferiority on your part; and since you, World Champion for approxi-mately 28 days, wish right from the start to dictate to me, World Champion for almost 28 years, humiliating conditions, I feel that I am justified in accusing you of a default, in line with the motto: Honi soit qui mal y pense.' ('Shame on him who thinks evil of it', the motto of the British Order of the Garter).\n\nThus Lasker and Steinitz did not at first meet in their return match but in some tournaments. The first took place in Hastings in 1895. The surprise winner there was neither Lasker nor Steinitz, but the 23 year old US American Harry Pillsbury. Chigorin came in second, and only then Lasker. Steinitz only managed sixth place. Lasker was able to win the subsequent four man tournament in St. Petersburg in 1895\/96. The other three players were in order Steinitz, Pillsbury and Chigorin. After three of the total of six rounds, Pillsbury had again been leading the field. But in round four he was defeated by Lasker in a spectacular game, which Lasker himself considered as one of the best in his career. Pillsbury then collapsed completely and did not win a single other game in this tournament.\n\nThe next, today we would say 'super-tournament', took place in the summer of 1896 in Nuremberg. Lasker again won, this time with 13\u00bd out of 18, ahead of Geza Maroczy (12\u00bd), Siegbert Tarrasch and Harry Pillsbury (each on 12). Steinitz was sixth. During the tournament Lasker was defeated by Harry Pillsbury, Dawid Janowski and in addition Rudolf 'Reszo' Charousek, who was making his international debut in Nuremberg. Lasker was impressed by the latter's play and even saw in the young Hungarian a possible future challenger. But Charousek died of tuberculosis in 1900 at the age of only 26. In his novel _Der Golem_ , first published in 1913\/14, Gustav Meyrink provided Charousek with a literary memorial in the form of the chess playing student of medicine 'Innozenz Charousek'. Nor did Pillsbury live to an old age. In 1906 he died at the age of 33 of progressive paralysis brought on by syphilis.\n\nAfter his success in Nuremberg Lasker then finally agreed with Steinitz to set the due return match for the end of 1896. The return match between Lasker and Steinitz for the World Championship then took place from 7th November 1896 till 1st January 1897 in the main hall of the Moscow Medical Society (Great Dmitrovka, today 32 Pushkin Street), not far from the Bolshoi Theatre. The prize money of 3000 roubles was raised by Moscow patrons, including the millionaire M. N. Bostanshoglo. 2000 were destined for the winner, 1000 for the loser. Lasker and Steinitz also agreed a bet of 500 roubles. The match was set for ten wins.\n\nIn the meantime Steinitz' health was bad and he was only a shadow of his former self. Therefore the match was very one-sided. Lasker immediately won the first four games. During the fourth game Steinitz held a bag of ice cubes against his head to assuage his continual headaches. For game five Steinitz changed his opening move from 1.e4 to 1.d4. The fifth game was drawn, but Lasker won also the sixth game. After that there was a pause of ten days. Steinitz managed to draw the next three games. In game ten Lasker won from a completely level endgame. Another pause of six days was taken. After the resumption Lasker also won the eleventh game and the score was 7:0 in wins. After a further pause of a week, nevertheless, Steinitz managed wins in games 12 and 13. However, games 14 and 16 again went to Lasker. Now a renewed pause of 12 days was called. In the subsequent 17th game Lasker scored his tenth victory and in doing so defended his title.\n\n **Steinitz \u2013 Lasker**\n\nMoscow, 3rd game  \n14th November 1896  \nItalian Game (C54)\n\n**1.e4 e5 2. \u2658f3 \u2658c6 3.\u2657c4 \u2657c5**\n\nThe Italian Game. The Two Knights Defence is reached after 3...\u2658f6 with some sharp variations after 4.\u2658g5.\n\n**4.c3**\n\nThe Evans Gambit with 4.b4 \u2657xb4 5.c3 etc. was thoroughly tested in the WCh match between Steinitz and Chigorin. There Steinitz had the black pieces in each case.\n\n**4... \u2658f6 5.d4**\n\nNowadays the quiet plan with 5.d3 d6 6.0-0 0-0 7.\u2657b3 a6 8.\u2658bd2 etc. is also popular.\n\n**5...exd4 6.cxd4 \u2657b4+ 7.\u2658c3**\n\nThe alternative is 7.\u2657d2.\n\n**7... \u2658xe4 8.0-0 \u2657xc3 9.bxc3 d5**\n\nThe best. Praxis has shown that Black has the better prospects after this move.\n\n**10. \u2657a3**\n\nWhite sacrifices a piece, in order to prevent Black from castling. 10.\u2657d3 is not so risky.\n\n**10...dxc4 11. \u2656e1 \u2657e6**\n\nA pragmatic decision. Black returns the piece and obtains the slightly better position.\n\nIn the 1st game of the match the same opening had appeared on the board. Lasker had then chosen 11...f5 and subsequently had to defend very carefully. It continued 12.\u2658d2 \u2654f7 13.\u2658xe4 fxe4 14.\u2656xe4 \u2655f6 15.\u2655e2 \u2657f5 16.\u2655xc4+ \u2654g6 17.\u2656e3, and White has compensation for the piece he has sacrificed.\n\nLasker did win the game, but preferred to choose an uncomplicated continuation here.\n\n**12. \u2656xe4 \u2655d5 13.\u2655e2 0-0-0 14.\u2658e5 \u2656he8 15.\u2658xc6 \u2655xc6 16.\u2656e1 \u2656g8**\n\nStepping out of the pin on the e-file. But the immediate 16...b6 was also good.\n\n**17. \u2656e5 b6 18.\u2657c1**\n\nThe bishop is looking for new tasks. But here it is difficult for White to strengthen his position.\n\n**18...g5!?**\n\nLasker now wants to attack himself and gives up a pawn in order to open files. The sacrifice also hinders the planned activation of the bishop to f4.\n\n**19. \u2656xg5 \u2656xg5 20.\u2657xg5 \u2656g8 21.f4 \u2657d5**\n\nThe attack on the g2-pawn forces White into a further loosening of his king position.\n\n**22.g3 \u2654b7**\n\nBlack has the superior position and is in absolutely no hurry.\n\n**23.h3 \u2655b5**\n\nPreparing to exchange the bishop and queen on the a8-h1 diagonal.\n\n**24. \u2654h2 \u2656g6 25.\u2655c2 f6 26.\u2657h4 \u2657c6 27.g4 \u2655d5**\n\nNow White must always keep an eye out for the threat of mate on g2.\n\n**28. \u2655f2**\n\nWhite should perhaps risk 28.f5, e.g.: 28...\u2656g8 29.\u2657xf6 h5 30.\u2655e2 hxg4 31.hxg4 \u2655d7 32.\u2657e7 \u2655d5 33.\u2657f6 and White's position is full of holes. But there is no direct way to a win for Black in sight.\n\n**28...h5 29.g5?**\n\nAfter this mistake the game is lost. 29.f5!? was the last chance.\n\n**29...fxg5 30. \u2657xg5 h4 31.\u2656f1 \u2656g8 32.\u2655d2 a5 33.a4 \u2656e8 34.f5**\n\nBlack meets 34.\u2657xh4 with the pretty 34...\u2656e3! and 35.\u2657g3 (35.\u2655xe3 \u2655g2#) is followed by 35...\u2656xc3\u2013+.\n\n**34... \u2656g8 35.\u2656e1**\n\n35.\u2656g1 \u2656xg5 36.\u2655xg5 \u2655d6+ \u2013+.\n\n**35... \u2655xf5 36.\u2656e5 \u2655f3 37.d5 \u2655g3+ 38.\u2654h1 \u2655xe5 39.dxc6+ \u2654xc6**\n\nWhite resigned.\n\n'Why did I lose as comprehensively as that?', Steinitz explained to his readers in the New York _Sun_ on the 17th December 1896: 'Because Lasker is the greatest master of the game of chess whom I have ever encountered, probably the greatest of all who have ever lived'. Steinitz did not use the excuse of his state of health: 'During a match a chess master has just as little right to be ill as does a general on the battlefield'.\n\nNor did Emanuel Schiffers, who attended the match in Moscow as a spectator, see the reasons for Steinitz' defeat in the state of the latter's health and he wrote in _Schachmatny jurnal_ (No. 1, January 1897): 'Steinitz' games clearly show that his play has in no way become weaker. He played just as Steinitz also played previously. All it would have taken was for some other player than Lasker to try to challenge Steinitz \u2013 he would have felt the whole impact and power of the latter's play'. Schiffers was well placed to know this, after all he had lost a match against Steinitz by 4:6 (with one draw) in Rostov in spring 1896.\n\n**Wilhelm Steinitz (1836-1900)**\n\nNevertheless, the health factor cannot be rejected out of hand. In Moscow Steinitz was admitted to a mental facility on the instigation of his secretary. The first World Champion actually believed that he could telephone simply by the power of thought. When she saw him standing at the window waiting for a reply to his telepathic call, his secretary called the doctor. Steinitz was then held against his will for 40 days in the Moscow 'Korsakov Clinic'. After treatment he returned via Vienna to New York and on the way played in a few tournaments. In February and March 1900 he again received psychiatric treatment in New York, since he believed that he was emitting electro-magnetic currents with the help of which he could move the chess pieces without touching them.\n\nOn the 12th August 1900 he died of heart failure totally impoverished in New York State Asylum on Ward's Island, nowadays the 'Manhattan Psychiatric Center'. Steinitz had made a written note of his income for the last two years of his life: no more than 250 dollars. From the clinic he wrote to a friend in Vienna: 'Like all lunatics I am convinced that the doctors here are madder than I am'. In September he was buried in a pauper's grave. The German Press Club paid for the re-interment in the Evergreen Cemetery in Brooklyn (Bethel Slope, Grave No. 5892). The inscription on his gravestone is in German: 'Hier ruht in Frieden'.\n**7. Attacker against defender**\n\n**The World Championship 1907:  \n_Emanuel Lasker against Frank Marshall_**\n\nAfter his successful return match against Steinitz of 1896\/97 no fewer than ten years would pass before Lasker once more defended his title. After the Steinitz match Lasker took a three year break from tournaments, during which time he continued his mathematical studies in Heidelberg and Berlin. At the tournaments in London in 1899 and Paris in 1900 Lasker then celebrated a brilliant comeback and won both tournaments majestically. From 1899, moreover, he took on the editing of the _Deutsche Schachzeitung_ , which he continued until 1904.\n\nIn 1900 in Erlangen Lasker took his Dr. phil. (Mathematics) with his thesis _\u00dcber Reihen auf der Convergenzgrenze_ ('On Series at Convergence Boundaries'). With this in his pocket, Lasker was planning an academic career, but his applications in Germany, Manchester and at the Columbia University of New York were all refused.\n\nDuring his stays in Berlin Lasker was always a regular in the chess caf\u00e9s. One episode, which supposedly occurred in the Caf\u00e9 Kaiserhof, was a favourite story. In it there was an enthusiastic chess lover who played very badly but who loved to play against the World Champion, 'because the latter played such classical chess'. The Russian master Benjamin Blumenfeld, who was studying law in Berlin, was an eyewitness to this encounter and reported: 'And Lasker really played \"classical chess\", for example: 1.e2-e3 2.\u2658g1-e2 3.\u2658e2-g3 4.\u2656h1-g1 5.\u2658g3-h1. And Lasker continued to regroup all the other pieces like this, so that after 20-25 moves all the pieces on the first rank had changed places, which gave rise to the most curious things. Lasker accompanied every move with \"strategic\" and \"philosophical\" comments, which he put forward with the greatest seriousness. These games between the best and the worst chess players in the world always attracted crowds of spectators and regularly ended in general amusement and hilarious laughter.'\n\nIn 1902 Lasker moved to New York because he thought that he would have better professional options there as a mathematician. In 1905 he there published the paper _Zur Theorie der Moduln and Ideale_ ('On the theory of modules and ideals'). Since Lasker's efforts to find an academic post were not crowned with success, he now turned to philosophy and published in 1907 in both English and German the paper _Struggle_ ('Kampf').\n\nIn the same year Lasker defended his title for the first time since 1897 \u2013 in a very one-sided match. Previously Lasker had declined an offer from the St. Petersburg chess club to play a WCh match against Chigorin and also one from the Moscow chess club to defend his title against Tarrasch. A match against Tarrasch proposed for the autumn of 1904 had to be called off because Tarrasch claimed to have injured himself while skating and considered himself unfit to play the match against Lasker in such circumstances. A planned WCh match against Geza Maroczy failed. Maroczy and Lasker had met in April 1906 in the New York 'Rice Chess Club' and firmly agreed to the match. It should actually have begun on 15th October 1906, but Maroczy could not raise the stake and so the match fell through.\n\nFrank Marshall was born on the 10th August 1877 in New York as one of the five sons of Alfred George and Sarah Marshall. His father came from England, his mother was of Scots-Irish descent. The family lived in a flat in 'Hell's Kitchen', the district inhabited by Irish born immigrants in New York, on Eighth Avenue and 50th Street. The houses were later demolished to make space for the second Madison Square Garden.\n\nWhen Marshall was eight years old the family moved to Montreal, Canada. There he learned chess at the age of ten from his father, who was also a really good chess player. After recognising his son's talent, he took him to the Hope Coffee House so as to find stronger opponents. There he met the Irish born William Henry Kraus Pollock (1859-1896), who spent the last four years of his life in Montreal and had represented Canada in the 1895 tournament in Hastings. Another strong player in Montreal was A. T. Davison. At 13 Frank Marshall was already the best chess player of Montreal. At 15 he won the championship of the Montreal Chess Club. In 1893 Marshall played in a simultaneous exhibition which Wilhelm Steinitz gave in Montreal and was defeated in 26 moves. Steinitz nevertheless praised his opponent in a newspaper interview: 'I have never had such a young player who gave me so much difficulty'.\n\nAt this point at the latest, chess became the focal point in Marshall's life. This was possibly the reason why his education suffered. But perhaps a congenital weakness in reading and writing was the reason why Marshall made a remarkably high number of basic spelling errors in all that he wrote. Nevertheless in Canada Marshall acquired a decent knowledge of the French language and such knowledge of German that in an encounter with Edward Lasker in 1910 he was able to analyse in German.\n\nAt 19 Marshall returned to the USA, back to Brooklyn, which at that time was still an independent neighbouring town to New York, and joined the Manhattan Chess Club (105 E. 22nd Street) and also the Brooklyn Chess Club. At 22 he won the championship of both clubs.\n\nThe two clubs then financed in 1899 Marshall's participation in the London tournament, which took place in May of that year in the 'Royal Aquarium'. However, his name was not well enough known to gain him entry to the A-tournament, in which a series of great players of the time, including Lasker, were participating. Marshall played instead in the main tournament, won it and received 70 pounds prize money.\n\nInternational recognition came to Marshall when at the tournament in Paris in 1900, played on the occasion of the world exhibition in the 'Grand Cercle' on the Boulevard Montmartre, out of 17 participants he shared third place with Maroczy on 12 points, behind Lasker and Pillsbury. The tournament had an unusual rule. In the event of a draw the game was replayed with reversed colours. It was only if there was a second draw that the point was shared, which happened only seven times out of 136 encounters; otherwise the result of the second game counted. It was noted as a special sensation that Marshall, as yet almost unknown in Europe, had defeated the World Champion Lasker. This was Lasker's only defeat in the Paris tournament. Lasker had only one draw against Chigorin, winning all his other games.\n\nAt the subsequent tournament in Munich Lasker and also Marshall, who was not himself playing in the tournament, joined a chess players union conceived by the English master Amos Burn; among its founding members there were also Joseph Blackburne, Isidor Gunsberg, Richard Teichmann, Siegbert Tarrasch, Mikhail Chigorin, Emanuel Schiffers, Carl Schlechter, Georg Marco and Max 'Miksa' White. The union was intended to represent the interests of professional and semi-professional players, but, however, achieved little.\n\nFrank Marshall (1877-1944)\n\nIn summer 1903 Marshall already submitted for the first time a challenge to Lasker, but he could not meet the World Champion's financial conditions. Lasker demanded a stake of 5000 dollars. In 1904 Marshall won the US national championship but did not accept the title, however, because the supposedly strongest player in the USA, Harry Pillsbury, had not taken part on account of illness. Pillsbury died two years later. In the same year Marshall was victorious in the Cambridge Springs tournament, without defeat and two points ahead of Janowski and Lasker, and he renewed his challenge to Lasker \u2013 once more unsuccessfully. Lasker now demanded for the first time a penalty which he was to receive if Marshall could not put up the stake or if other conditions were not fulfilled.\n\nIn Europe Marshall played in 1905 in the tournaments of Monte Carlo, Ostende, Barmen and Scheveningen \u2013 winning the latter, which was not, however, a particularly strong one. To prove his case for a WCh match against Lasker, Marshall first played matches against the other two possible challengers, Janowski and Tarrasch. In Paris in 1905 he defeated Janowski (8:4 in wins, four draws), but in the same year lost to Tarrasch in Nuremberg, by the absolutely clear score of 1:8 in wins (with eight draws). Moreover, after this match Marshall and Tarrasch tried to enforce copyright on the scores of their games. The games were not made publicly accessible, only being published in a book about the match. In 1906 Marshall then won in superior fashion the 15th Congress of the German Chess Federation in Nuremberg and in doing so eclipsed Janowski and Tarrasch.\n\nAfter the matches against Tarrasch and Maroczy had failed, Lasker finally accepted the challenge from Frank Marshall, on one hand because a match against the US American in the USA, where Lasker was living at that time, was the easiest to finance, on the other so as to indirectly compete with Tarrasch, who in 1905 had played against and defeated Marshall. Lasker's ambition was to win against Marshall by a better score than Tarrasch had managed. To make the match possible, there being great interest in it in the USA, Lasker reduced his financial demands.\n\nThe match between Emanuel Lasker and Frank Marshall for the World Championship was staged from 26th January till 8th April 1907 in chess clubs in New York (games one to six and game 15), Philadelphia (games seven to nine), Baltimore (game 10), Chicago (game 11) and Memphis (games 12 to 14), and was set for eight wins. The prize money was 1000 dollars. Lasker demanded in addition 250 dollars appearance money per game, or 500 dollars for a package of three games and had offered the match in advance to various clubs in the USA.\n\nThe two rivals could not have been more different, either in appearance or in their understanding of chess. Lasker was small in stature and somewhat stocky, and coolly objective in his play. Marshall on the other hand was almost two metres tall, in other ways too an imposing presence, and in chess a pure Romantic who loved to attack.\n\nBut both had one preference in common \u2013 they liked to smoke cigars. Lasker's cigars, however, or so some of his opponents claimed, gave off an unpleasant smell. In one of his tournaments Lasker is supposed to have on one occasion received from an unknown joker the present of a cigar which was laced with opium. For that reason, after that he only smoked his own cigars which his wife passed to him during the games.\n\nAgainst Frank Marshall Lasker certainly didn't smoke any opium-spiked cigars, because he was wide awake in all the games. In the first game against Marshall, Lasker, with the black pieces, sacrificed a piece. That was actually what the US spectators expected of their idol Marshall. Lasker won the game with his superior technical skills in the endgame and immediately seized the psychological initiative in the match. Marshall subsequently gave up 1.e4 and from then on played only 1.d4. Lasker then chose the Queen's Gambit Declined, whilst Lasker's 1.e4 was invariably followed by the French Defence.\n\nLasker won the first three games and after four subsequent draws the eighth game too. Next came three further draws, then Lasker won four games in succession for a final result of 8:0 (with seven draws). Lasker had thus majestically defended his title and in doing so also topped Tarrasch's result against Marshall.\n\n **Marshall \u2013 Lasker**\n\nNew York, 3rd game  \n31st January 1907  \nQueen's Gambit Declined (D55)\n\n**1.d4 d5 2.c4 e6 3. \u2658c3 \u2658f6 4.\u2657g5 \u2657e7 5.e3 \u2658e4**\n\nThis knight sortie is characteristic of the Lasker Variation of the Queen's Gambit Declined. The modern version is 5...0-0 6.\u2658f3 h6 7.\u2657h4 \u2658e4 8.\u2657xe7 \u2655xe7.\n\n**6. \u2657xe7 \u2655xe7 7.\u2657d3 \u2658xc3 8.bxc3 \u2658d7**\n\nAnother idea is 8...dxc4 9.\u2657xc4 b6.\n\n**9. \u2658f3 0-0 10.0-0 \u2656d8 11.\u2655c2 \u2658f8**\n\nFrom here the knight reliably defends the h7-square and can hardly come under attack.\n\n**12. \u2658e5 c5 13.\u2656ab1 \u2655c7**\n\nSo as to be able to play b6 (Tarrasch). The immediate 13...b6? is followed by 14.\u2658c6.\n\n**14. \u2655b3 b6 15.cxd5 exd5 16.\u2655a4?**\n\nTarrasch: 'This was the last point at which to get a good game with 16.c4, e.g.: 16...cxd4 17.exd4 \u2657e6 (Tarrasch was not taking 17...\u2658e6! into account) 18.\u2656bc1 \u2656ac8 (18...\u2655d6 19.c5) 19.cxd5 \u2655xc1 20.dxe6 \u2655c7? 21.exf7+ \u2654h8 22.\u2657xh7. Even if Black's moves in this variation are not quite forced, this continuation does give some idea of the strength of the white position after the move c4.'\n\n**16... \u2657b7 17.\u2655d1 \u2656d6**\n\nNice prophylaxis. Black anticipates the queen sortie to g4 and clears the way for the other rook, which would otherwise be shut in after...\u2657b7-c8. In addition, from d6 the rook can neatly swing over to the kingside.\n\n**18. \u2655g4 \u2656e8 19.\u2655g3**\n\nIntending \u2658g4-f6+.\n\n**19... \u2656de6 20.\u2657f5 \u26566e7**\n\n'The white pieces are almost all much more aggressively placed than the corresponding black ones; compare the position of the two knights, the two bishops, the two queens. But the black pieces are all lurking dangerously in ambush and the black position nowhere offers a point to attack. The game is apparently level, but in my view Black is better and that principally on account of the c5-pawn.' (Tarrasch).\n\n**21.f4?**\n\n'The position becomes untenable after this move, which makes the e-pawn backward and weakens the e4-point.' (Tarrasch)\n\n**21... \u2657c8 22.\u2657xc8 \u2656xc8**\n\n'Not 22...\u2655xc8 after which 23.f5 could cramp Black's play.' (Tarrasch) After 23... f6 24.\u2658g4 the threat is again 25.\u2658xf6+ but after 24...\u2658d7 Black is not worse.\n\n**23. \u2655f3**\n\n23.f5 f6 24.\u2658d3 \u2655xg3 25.hxg3 \u2656xe3 with advantage to Black.\n\n**23... \u2655d6 24.\u2656fc1 \u2656ec7 25.h3**\n\n'Marshall is embarrassed for moves.' (Tarrasch)\n\n**25...h6**\n\nSo as to bring the knight via h7 to e4. In playing this Lasker turns down 25...cxd4 26.exd4 f6 27.\u2658d3 (27.\u2658g4 \u2658e6) 27... \u2656xc3 28.\u2656xc3 \u2656xc3 winning a pawn.\n\n**26. \u2654h2**\n\n26.\u2656d1 was better.\n\n**26... \u2658h7**\n\n26...cxd4 27.exd4 f6, and after 28.\u2658g4 again 28...\u2658e6 was possible.\n\n**27. \u2655h5 \u2658f6 28.\u2655f5**\n\n'A genuine Marshall trap, which Lasker probably did not spot at once. Otherwise he would probably not have taken right away on d4, since this does not lead to immediate success.' (Tarrasch)\n\n**28...cxd4**\n\n28...\u2655e7!?.\n\n**29.exd4**\n\n**29... \u2658e4?!**\n\nThe 'Marshall trap' consisted of the tempting 29...\u2656xc3?. However that would have led to 30.\u2655xc8+! \u2656xc8 31.\u2656xc8+ \u2654h7 32.\u2656h8+! \u2654xh8 33.\u2658xf7+ +\u2013. Objectively the best was 29...g6 30.\u2655d3 (30.\u2658xg6? achieves nothing: 30...fxg6 31.\u2655xg6+ \u2656g7 32.\u2655xh6? \u2658g4+ \u2013+) 30...\u2655a3 31.\u2656c2 \u2658e4 32.\u2656b3 \u2655d6 with advantage to Black.\n\n**30. \u2658xf7**\n\nThis is probably what Lasker overlooked. He makes a virtue out of necessity, as Tarrasch remarked, and with the subsequent exchange sacrifice obtains an attack which should be enough for a draw, but no more than that.\n\n**30... \u2656xf7 31.\u2655xc8+ \u2656f8 32.\u2655b7 \u2655xf4+ 33.\u2654g1**\n\nAfter 33.\u2654h1 there is for example 33...\u2658g3+ 34.\u2654g1 \u2658e2+ \u2013+ winning.\n\n**33... \u2655e3+ 34.\u2654h2**\n\n34.\u2654h1 \u2658f2+ 35.\u2654h2 \u2655f4+ 36.\u2654g1 (36.g3 \u2655f5\u2013+) 36...\u2658xh3+ \u2013+ (Tarrasch).\n\n**34... \u2655g3+ 35.\u2654g1 \u2658d2**\n\nThis threatens...\u2658f3+.\n\n**36. \u2655xd5+**\n\n36.\u2656f1 \u2655e3+ \u2013+.\n\n**36... \u2654h8 37.\u2654h1**\n\n**37... \u2658f3! 38.gxf3 \u2655xh3+ 39.\u2654g1 \u2655g3+ 40.\u2654h1 \u2656f4**\n\n**41. \u2655d8+**\n\n'With this and with the following move Marshall probably believed that he would not only save the draw, but even win. This is, however, a mighty error.' (Tarrasch) The correct way was 41.\u2655h5 \u2656h4+ 42.\u2655xh4 \u2655xh4+ 43.\u2654g2 with a draw (Tarrasch).\n\n**41... \u2654h7 42.\u2656f1?**\n\n42.\u2656c2 \u2656h4+ (after the better 42... \u2655xf3+ 43.\u2656g2 \u2655e4 44.\u2654h2 \u2656h4+ 45.\u2655xh4 \u2655xh4+ 46.\u2654g1 Black gets another pawn and is better) 43.\u2655xh4 \u2655xh4+ 44.\u2654g2= (Tarrasch).\n\n**42... \u2656f5 43.\u2655e8 \u2655h4+**\n\nWhite resigned in view of 44.\u2654g2 \u2656g5#.\n\nIn 1904 at the age of 27 Marshall had married the ten year younger Carrie D. Krauss, daughter of a Brooklyn businessman. On the 28th December 1905 their son Frank Rice Marshall was born.\n\nAt the outbreak of the First World War Marshall was among those taking part in the tournament for the 19th DSB Congress in Mannheim. Whilst the Russians, among them the future World Champion Alekhine, were interned on the 3rd August 1914, Marshall received 375 marks compensation and as a citizen of the neutral USA was allowed to depart. In adventurous circumstances he took the train to Amsterdam, a journey \u2013 normally a seven hour journey \u2013 which at the start of the war now took 39 hours. In the Netherlands he found a ship which took him to the USA.\n\nIn 1918 Frank Marshall founded his own chess club, which found a prestigious address as 'Frank Marshall's Chess Divan' firstly in the back room of a restaurant called 'Keen's Chop House' (70 W. 36 Street, near Broadway). A year's membership cost 10 dollars, life membership only 25 dollars. After a short time, still in 1918, now renamed the 'Marshall Chess Club' it moved into 118 W. 49th Street. Two years later the club found yet another domicile, this time 146 W. 4th Street.\n\nIn 1925, after a long period of forced abstinence because of the events of the war, Marshall once more set out on a European journey. He took part in the tournament in Baden-Baden \u2013 the first international tournament in Germany after the war \u2013 and shared fifth place, which earned him prize money of 400 marks. The winner here was Alexander Alekhine. In Marienbad Marshall reached a shared third place with Carlos Torre. Aaron Nimzowitsch and Akiba Rubinstein shared the first prize. Marshall received the brilliancy prize for his game against Yates \u2013 a silver cigarette case. Marshall finally took part in the tournament in Moscow in 1925, the first tournament in Russia after the war, and came in fourth. There followed a series of other tournaments, in the USA and in Europe.\n\nIn 1929 the USA and the rest of the world were hit by the big Wall Street crash, the so-called 'Black Monday', which obliterated between September and the middle of November 1929 approximately 50 billion dollars of total US share values of 80 billion dollars. At this point Marshall was accompanying his friend Nardus, a wealthy art dealer and chess patron, on a journey to Tunis. Whilst Marshall himself was not affected by the crash, US chess life was very much hit by it. The chess patrons and sponsors had lost their fortunes. Many members of the Marshall Chess Club could no longer pay their subscriptions and resigned. The club, which at this point was in a building on 135 West 12th Street, was obliged to move out, but with the help of a benefactor got a new place to stay in 23 West 10th Street.\n\nIn 1930 Marshall represented the USA, alternating with Isaac Kashdan on first board at the Chess Olympiad in Hamburg. The board order was not fixed and could be changed from one round to the next. In the first round Marshall met an old acquaintance, the artist Marcel Duchamp. In the meantime the Frenchman had completely given up his career as an artist to become a chess professional. Marshall and Duchamp knew each other well, since Duchamp had been a member of the Marshall Chess Club for many years. Now Duchamp was playing in the French national team against Marshall. The game between Marshall and Duchamp ended in a draw. At the end of the Olympiad Marshall's impressive final score was 12\u00bd:4\u00bd.\n\nAt the following Chess Olympiad in Prague 1931 the USA (Isaac Kashdan, Frank Marshall, Arthur William Dake, Israel Albert Horowitz, Herman Steiner) won the gold medal. Two years later the US team \u2013 this time with Isaac Kashdan, Frank Marshall, Reuben Fine, Arthur William Dake, Albert Simonson \u2013 repeated their success at the Chess Olympiad in Folkestone. Originally Chicago wanted to hold the tournament, but could not find the costs and had to withdraw its bid.\n\nThe Chess Olympiad in Warsaw 1935 was also won by the USA, with Marshall again playing on board two, this time behind Reuben Fine. In addition he had taken on the task of team captain. In the match against Austria Marshall left the playing hall for a short time and realised to his surprise on returning that all three of his team mates had disappeared. They had drawn their games after only one hour. Marshall was infuriated and personally took care of getting the winning point against Gr\u00fcnfeld. In the evening he buttonholed his colleagues in 'individual conversations'.\n\nAt the next Chess Olympiad in 1937 in Stockholm \u2013 the USA did not participate in the 1936 Olympiad in Munich \u2013 Marshall played on fourth board behind Samuel Reshevsky, Reuben Fine and Isaac Kashdan. The reserve was Israel Albert Horowitz. The USA won the gold medal for the fourth time.\n\nIn 1941 the chess life of the Marshall Chess Club was hard hit by the entry of the USA into the Second World War. Many members were called up, including Marshall's son. In March 1942 Jos\u00e9 Raul Capablanca suffered his second stroke in the Marshall Chess Club and died of its consequences on the 8th March. Two and a half years later, on the 9th November 1944, Marshall crossed the Hudson River on a ferry on his way to Jersey City, where he intended to spend an evening at bingo. On Van Vorst Street, according to Andrew Soltis in his biography of Marshall, the WCh challenger of 1907 collapsed after a heart attack. The police were called but arrived too late to do anything. Frank Marshall was cremated on the 13th November in Fresh Pond Crematorium on Long Island.\n\nDuring his career Marshall wrote ten chess books, of which the best known is _My Fifty Years in Chess_. It was actually compiled on Marshall's behalf by prolific writer Fred Reinfeld on the basis of the latter's hand-written notes and annotations.\n**8. Two top German players**\n\n**The World Championship 1908:  \n_Emanuel Lasker against Siegbert Tarrasch_**\n\nSiegbert Tarrasch was born on the 5th March 1862, the son of Jewish parents in Breslau, a ground floor flat in the house on 16 Herrenstra\u00dfe. His father was the grain merchant Moritz Tarrasch, his mother Philippine Tarrasch, n\u00e9e Grabower. He had a brother who was four years older, Georg Tarrasch. Later, in 1909, Siegbert Tarrasch converted to the evangelical Lutheran church.\n\nLike Steinitz, Tarrasch was also handicapped from birth with a club foot. As soon as he had learned to read he worked through his father's library with great enthusiasm. As a school pupil Tarrasch later always felt the need to finish every task as the best in the class. From 1867 the Jewish primary school and then from 1870 the Elisabeth-Gymnasium, the same school in Breslau in which Adolf Anderssen had been a pupil. In 1880 Tarrasch passed his Abitur here. In the meantime his parents had separated \u2013 the father had emigrated to the USA, where he died in 1873 in New York.\n\nSiegbert Tarrasch (1862-1934)\n\nTarrasch then studied medicine in Berlin at the Royal Friedrich-Wilhelm University and was supported in this endeavour by the family of his mother. In 1882 Tarrasch continued his studies in Halle. At Easter 1885 Tarrasch passed the final exam of his medical studies at the age of 23. He then made efforts to improve his knowledge in a position in a hospital. Since this was not a success, he took a position which had become vacant as a doctor in Geroldsgr\u00fcn (the district of Hof, Upper Franconia). In 1887 he married Anna Rosalie Rudolf and moved to Nuremberg, where he opened a practice first in 2 Obere Kanalstra\u00dfe, then in 64 F\u00fcrther Stra\u00dfe.\n\nTarrasch had started his serious involvement in chess at the age of 15 after a fellow pupil had loaned him the _Praktische Schachb\u00fcchlein_ by Alphons von Breda. Tarrasch made rapid progress and in 1878 became a member of the chess club founded by Anderssen in Bayrischer Hof (on the Zwingerplatz). At the age of seventeen he met the pupil of Anderssen Fritz Riemann and played two games with him. After Tarrasch had become all too active in the chess club, he was urgently advised by the president of the club (a teacher in his school) that he would do better to distance himself from the life of the club and get back to working more for the school. Tarrasch followed this advice only insofar that he no longer went to the chess club, but became a regular visitor to the coffee house Fischer & Busch and met fellow pupils there to play chess.\n\nDuring his studies in Berlin, at the start of the 1880s, Tarrasch joined the Berlin chess club on the recommendation of his uncle Max Grabower. Other members there included Berthold Lasker, Emanuel Lasker's older brother. Tarrasch soon struck up a close friendship with Berthold Lasker. The two took part in 1881 in the main tournament of the 2nd DSB Congress in Berlin. In his masterpiece _300 chess games_ Tarrasch wrote about Berthold Lasker: 'Among my most frequent opponents over the board belonged (...) above all my friend Berthold Lasker, a very inspired chess player, whose strength unfortunately never received what it deserved in a tournament as a result of his nervous disposition.'\n\nIn 1881\/82 Tarrasch also met Emanuel Lasker for the first time. In 1887 Tarrasch could still even give the latter a knight odds in two games in the Berlin 'tea halls' and yet win one game and draw the other. Two further games without odds then ended, however, in a win for each side, as Lasker later reported proudly in an interview. Tarrasch celebrated his first great success as a chess player in 1883 in Nuremberg. Soon afterwards he was considered to be one of the best players in Germany. In 1892 he declined to play a match against Emanuel Lasker, because in Tarrasch's opinion the latter still had no successes to which he could point, but only two years later he had to admit that in the meantime Lasker had dethroned Steinitz as World Champion.\n\nTarrasch himself had in 1890 stupidly rejected an invitation from the chess club of Havana to play against Steinitz for the World Championship, since for him it was absolutely out of the question to abandon his medical practice for a quarter of a year on account of a chess match in Cuba.\n\nAt the end of the 1890s Tarrasch celebrated his greatest successes with victories in the tournaments in Manchester 1890, Dresden 1892, Leipzig 1894, Vienna 1898 and Breslau 1898. It is suggested that Tarrasch avoided Lasker. The two rarely played in the same tournament. In 1898 Tarrasch won the Imperial Jubilee Tournament in Vienna. After a tournament pause of three and a half years Tarrasch took part in the tournament in Monte Carlo 1902, but only came in fifth. Lasker had again withdrawn his acceptance when he heard that Tarrasch would be playing. So Lasker was also avoiding Tarrasch.\n\nNevertheless, in 1903 it did come to negotiations between Lasker and Tarrasch, which finally led to an agreement. The match for the World Championship would start in September or October 1904 and would be played to eight wins. Drawn games would not be counted. Both sides had to provide a stake of 8000 marks. In January 1904, however, Tarrasch suffered according to his own account an accident while skating, which 'for a certain time rendered him unfit for a match', and turned in March of the year to Lasker, in order to achieve a postponement of the match for a year. Lasker declined to accord a postponement and declared the previously agreed contract to be invalid.\n\nHis contemporaries already supposed that Tarrasch had been unable to bring together the unusually high stake of 8000 marks in time and had thought up the story of the accident in order to achieve a postponement without loss of face. 'There were probably few chess lovers who were ready to believe that the World Championship was played for with the legs rather than with the head', was the ironic comment about the apparent accident by Milan Vidmar. Lasker pointed to the right that other masters also had to challenge him and explained that in principle he remained open to a fresh challenge from Tarrasch \u2013 though only at the conditions already negotiated.\n\nAfter winning his match against Marshall in Nuremberg in the autumn of 1905 8:1 in wins (with eight draws), Tarrasch again raised the question of a WCh match against Lasker, but without formally challenging the title defender. He wrote: '... that after my latest and perhaps greatest performance I need recognise no one in the world of chess as superior to me. I am prepared to play a match against Lasker under cheap conditions, but I will not challenge him; that is for the person of lesser renown and lesser successes. But for 20 years my successes have been at least equal to his; when I challenged him 2 years ago, that was a faux pas on my part.' Lasker's reaction was of course one of annoyance and in his own _Lasker's Chess Magazine_ he published the following characterisation of Tarrasch:\n\n'Tarrasch's strength, or weakness, if you prefer, is his pronounced amour-propre. Without it he would have become only a very mediocre chess player. But through this unusual gift he has become a giant. His egotism is so great that he had to distinguish himself in some field or other. The game of chess offered him the most suitable field and what he loves in chess is principally only his own games of chess. He has written two chess books and is now writing a third, all about himself alone, his wins, his career. His writing is very witty and entertaining, but his naive self-worship often clouds his judgement of people and things, yes even of chess positions. In the whole world there is no game played by anyone \u2013 apart from Dr. Tarrasch himself \u2013 in which he cannot find a mistake or a quicker way to win or an improvement.'\n\nAt the DSB Congress in Nuremberg in 1906 Tarrasch could only reach the middle of the field, whilst Marshall won the tournament in superior style. This was not the only reason why Tarrasch had such a bad memory of the 1906 Nuremberg tournament. The well-known chess journalist Leopold Hoffer had suggested a change in the rules as far as overstepping the time limit. Hoffer was probably one of the most influential chess journalists in the whole history of chess. Together with Zukertort he was the publisher of _Chess Monthly_ (1879-1896) and moreover for many years the author of the chess column in the magazine _The Field_. Hoffer suggested that overstepping the usual thinking time (one hour for 15 moves) should not mean as usual the loss of the game but should attract a 'more lenient' punishment, specifically a fine. The suggestion was adopted and it was fixed that a player who exceeded the established time limit had to pay a fine of a mark for every minute over. In his game against Salwe the application of this rule punished Tarrasch in two ways: first he lost the game in an annoying way and then he also had to pay 95 marks for having gone over the time limit.\n\nIn spite of the propaganda war the negotiations between Tarrasch and Lasker as to a match for the World Championship were resumed, though not directly but via the president of the German Chess Federation, Dr. Rudolf Gebhardt. After some tough to-ing and fro-ing the match between Lasker and Tarrasch finally took place in 1908. Tarrasch was however, at this point in time already 46 years old and had passed his zenith.\n\nLasker demanded for the WCh match first of all an honorarium of 15 000 marks, but then contented himself with 7500 marks (according to today's purchasing power that is the equivalent of approximately 35000 to 40000 euros). Tarrasch did not insist on an honorarium so as to enable the match to actually take place. Moreover a prize fund of 6500 marks was made available by the German Chess Federation, of which 4000 marks would go to the winner, 2500 to the loser. The venues were D\u00fcsseldorf and Munich, where the greatest share of the funds had been raised (500 marks in D\u00fcsseldorf, 6000 marks in Munich) for the match with the help of patrons. Before the match both players had to come up with a deposit of 2000 marks, which in the case of the non-appearance of one player would be paid to his opponent.\n\nThe WCh match began on the 17th August 1908 in D\u00fcsseldorf and was continued on the 1st September 1908 in Munich. The venue in the metropolis on the Rhine was the 'Kunstpalast', a large new Renaissance style building of 1902 in the Kaiser Wilhelm Park. The Kunstpalast later received a new facade and is nowadays known as the 'Kunstpalast Museum' (4-5 Ehrenhof) and is part of the D\u00fcsseldorf museum mile. In Munich games five to eight and thirteen to sixteen were played in the museum club in the Palais Portia (12 Kardinal Faulhaber Stra\u00dfe, previously 12 Promenadestra\u00dfe). The palace was in 1731 a present from the Electoral Prince of Bavaria Karl Albrecht to his mistress Gr\u00e4fin Josepha Topor-Morawitzka. The latter later married Prince Porcia (or Portia), after whom the palace was then named. In 1819 the building fell into the possession of the Munich Literary Society, which used it for cultural purposes. In the Second World War the palace was bombed, with only the facade left standing. The house now belongs to the HypoVereinsbank. Because of the large throng of spectators and the lack of space in the Palais Portia after the eighth game there was a temporary change (9th to 12th games) to the Alte Rathaus on the Marienplatz. Thinking time was one hour for every 15 moves. No more than six hours were played on any one day.\n\nFor the first time in the history of the World Chess Championships a player was supported by masters acting as his seconds. Lasker engaged as his helpers in the preparation for the match the Austrian Heinrich Wolf and the Russian Simon Alapin. The latter also gave on the 27th August 1908 in the restaurant of the Kunstpalast a blindfold simultaneous exhibition for the entertainment of the spectators. In addition Lasker was also supported locally by his brother Berthold. Berthold Lasker also worked the demonstration board in a neighbouring room together with Rudolf Spielmann. Jacques Mieses, who was commenting on the games, also sat there. Tarrasch was supported in Munich by his son Fritz Tarrasch. But Tarrasch and Lasker had in addition agreed not to make use of outside help in analysing adjourned games.\n\nThe match took on a really one-sided character. Lasker won the first two games. Tarrasch was able to shorten the lead in the third game, but Lasker then decided the fourth game in his favour. After that the players moved to Munich. Tarrasch blamed his arrears of 1:3 on the unfavourable 'maritime climate' in the Rhineland. In other tournaments, however, Tarrasch had been a notoriously late starter. After the change of venue Lasker also won the fifth game. Next came a draw, then the seventh game went to Lasker, meaning a score of 5:1 in wins. Games eight and nine ended in draws. In the second half of the match Tarrasch held on somewhat better, winning the tenth and twelfth games, but here too Lasker was on top with wins in the eleventh, thirteenth and sixteenth games. It finished as a clear 8:3 for Lasker with five draws.\n\nThe match for the World Chess Championship between the two German world-class players was well supported by the German public. For the 12th game in the Munich town hall more than 1000 spectators were present. In the Palais Portia many of the tournament days saw as many as 2400. Lasker speaks in his tournament book of a total of 30 000 spectators for all the games.\n\n **Tarrasch \u2013 Lasker**\n\nMunich, 16th game  \n30th September 1908  \nFour Knights Game (C49)\n\n**1.e4 e5 2. \u2658f3 \u2658c6 3.\u2657b5 \u2658f6**\n\n3...a6 later became very popular.\n\n**4. \u2658c3**\n\nAfter 4.0-0 the so-called 'Berlin Defence' is very popular: 4...\u2658xe4 5.d4 \u2658d6 6.\u2657xc6 dxc6 7.dxe5 \u2658f5 8.\u2655xd8+ \u2654xd8.\n\n**4... \u2657b4**\n\nNow a variation has arisen by transposition of moves which is listed under the Four Knights Game.\n\n**5.0-0 0-0 6.d3 d6 7. \u2657g5**\n\nHere 7.\u2658e2 is also played.\n\n**7... \u2657e6**\n\nIn his notes to the game Lasker considered this to be a novelty, but this is not quite correct. Before this game, the move had actually been seen only a few times. However, 7...\u2657xc3 8.bxc3 and then for example: 8...\u2655e7 9.\u2656e1 \u2658d8 10.d4 \u2658e6.\n\n**8.d4**\n\nIn a previous game obviously not known to Lasker there followed 8.\u2658d5 \u2657xd5 9.exd5 \u2658e7, Janowski-Caro, Vienna 1898.\n\n**8...exd4 9. \u2658xd4 h6 10.\u2657h4**\n\n'Tarrasch scorns playing to win a pawn with 10.\u2657xf6 \u2655xf6 11.\u2658xc6 bxc6 12.\u2657xc6 \u2656ab8 13.\u2655d3 \u2657xc3, since the white pawns on the queenside would have been weak on account of 14.bxc3 \u2656b2 and the doubling of the rooks on the b-file.' (Lasker)\n\n**10... \u2658e5**\n\n'I could also simply have continued with 10...\u2657xc3 11.bxc3 g5 12.\u2657g3 \u2658xe4 13.\u2658xc6 bxc6 14.\u2657xc6 \u2658xg3 15.fxg3 \u2656b8, but the complications after the text move seemed to me very promising.' (Lasker)\n\n**11.f4**\n\n'This move was necessary because Black was threatening to obtain strong play with...\u2658g6.' (Lasker). The tame 11.\u2658d5 \u2657xd5 12.exd5 \u2657c5 13.c3 \u2658g6 14.\u2657xf6 \u2655xf6 15.\u2658f3 leads to a level game.\n\n**11... \u2657c5**\n\n'What arises is a difficult position. Now 11...\u2658g6 would have been followed by 12.\u2657xf6.' (Lasker): 12...\u2655xf6 13.f5 \u2657c5 14.\u2658ce2 and White wins a piece.\n\n**12. \u2657xf6?**\n\nAfter this, White gets into difficulties. Lasker commented: 'The knight cannot be taken on account of 12.fxe5 dxe5 13.\u2658ce2 exd4 14.\u2654h1 \u2657e7 with good play for Black. If White immediately plays 12.\u2658ce2 then 12...\u2657g4 13.fxe5 \u2657xe2 14.\u2655xe2 dxe5, which would once again be favourable to Black.' It was, however, well worth considering 12.\u2654h1!?. After 12...\u2658g6 13.\u2658xe6 fxe6 14.\u2657g3 c6 15.\u2657d3 White has slightly better prospects in view of the bishop pair.\n\n**12... \u2655xf6 13.fxe5?**\n\nIt was better to relieve the pin on the knight with 13.\u2654h1. After 13...\u2658g4!? 14.\u2658xe6 \u2655h4 Black has an attack.\n\n**13... \u2655xe5 14.\u2658ce2 \u2657g4 15.\u2656f3**\n\n'The best move. 15.\u2656f5 would have failed to 15...\u2657xe2.' (Lasker)\n\n**15... \u2657xf3**\n\n'15...\u2655xe4 would also have been strong since 16.\u2656f4 \u2655xf4 17.\u2658xf4 \u2657xd1 18.\u2656xd1 allows Black the slight superiority of rook and two pawns against bishop and knight.' (Lasker)\n\n**16.gxf3 f5**\n\nAnother good move was 16...d5!? 17.exd5 \u2655xd5 18.c3 (18.\u2654g2 \u2656ad8\u2013+) 18...c6 19.\u2657a4 \u2655xf3 with a strong position for Black.\n\n**17. \u2655d3**\n\n'The only good move. After 17.exf5 \u2656xf5 18.\u2654h1 \u2656h5 19.\u2655g1 \u2656f8 20.\u2656f1 \u2657xd4 21.\u2658xd4 \u2656f4 22.c3 \u2656xd4 23.cxd4 \u2655xb5 Black would have had a winning game.' (Lasker)\n\n**17...c6 18. \u2657c4+ \u2654h8**\n\n**19. \u2654h1?**\n\nA blunder, which, however, remained unnoticed. A better try was 19.exf5 d5 20.\u2657b3 \u2656ae8 21.\u2654h1 with only a slight advantage to Black.\n\n**19...b5?**\n\n'The only manoeuvre which promised success. The bishop must be forced away from the protection of the e4-point.' (Lasker) In his comment Lasker overlooked the win of a piece by 19...fxe4 20.\u2655xe4 (20.fxe4 \u2656f2 21.\u2658f3 \u2655h5 22.\u2658f4 \u2655g4\u2013+) 20... \u2657xd4 21.\u2655xd4 (21.\u2658xd4 \u2656f4) 21...\u2655xd4 22.\u2658xd4 \u2656f4 23.c3 c5\u2013+.\n\n**20. \u2657b3 fxe4 21.\u2655xe4 \u2655xe4**\n\n'21...\u2656ae8 22.\u2655xe5 \u2656xe5 23.c3 \u2656fe8 would also have been strong.' (Lasker)\n\n**22.fxe4 \u2656ae8 23.\u2658xc6**\n\n'If White had played 23.\u2658e6, then 23... \u2656f6 would have followed. After 24.\u2658xc5 then 24...dxc5 threatens c4.' (Lasker). After 24.\u26582d4 \u2657xd4 (or 24...\u2657b6 25.a4 bxa4 26.\u2657xa4 \u2656fxe6 27.\u2658xe6 \u2656xe6 28.\u2657xc6=) 25.\u2658xd4 \u2656xe4 26.\u2658xc6 there is, however, hardly any trace of an advantage for Black to be seen.\n\n**23... \u2656xe4 24.\u2658g3 \u2656ee8 25.\u2656d1**\n\n'I consider this move to be a mistake. It would have been better to play 25.a4.\u2656af1 is forced sooner or later in view of the threat...g6,...h5,...h4 and a doubling of the rooks on the second rank. So \u2656ad1 is the waste of a tempo.' (Lasker)\n\n**25... \u2656f2**\n\n'This threatens...h6-h5-h4,...\u26568e2' (Lasker).\n\n**26. \u2658d4?**\n\n'An unbelievable mistake which spoils the otherwise good impression the game makes. White's situation is very difficult, since after 26.\u2656f1 Black could continue his attack with either 26...\u2656d2 or gain a pawn and a strong position with 26...\u2656xf1+ 27.\u2658xf1 \u2656e1 28.\u2654g2 \u2656b1 29.\u2658d2 \u2656xb2 \u2013 threatening...a7-a5. 26.a4 was probably the only correct move. We were both in time trouble and uncommonly exhausted.' (Lasker)\n\n**26... \u2657xd4**\n\nWhite resigned in view of 27.\u2656xd4 \u2656e1+ and then mate.\n\nThe relationship between Lasker and Tarrasch was tense from the start and did not improve with the passing of time either \u2013 on the contrary. At the opening ceremony for the World Championship in 1908, according to Tarrasch biographer Wolfgang Kamm, at a specially scheduled 'reconciliation meeting', Tarrasch on catching sight of Lasker literally clicked his heels with the words: 'For you, Herr Lasker, I have only three words \u2013 check and mate!'\n\nBut after the end of the match Tarrasch became somewhat more conciliatory. He allowed himself to be photographed with Lasker, complaining however with something of a wink but with real background reason about Lasker's clouds of smoke during the games: 'Lasker's cigars are gas producing, they remove the oxygen, so how could I win... it was not his play which did it for me, but his cigars.' Moreover during the games in D\u00fcsseldorf Lasker had been warned, because he had been pointedly rustling newspapers when it was his opponent's move.\n\nTwo years after the WCh match against Lasker, at the great 17th DSB Congress of 1910 in Hamburg, Tarrasch was the talk of the tournament because he spoke against the inclusion of the English player Frederick Yates in the A-tournament, because according to Tarrasch the latter had not the slightest playing credentials to show for being included in such a strong tournament. And in fact Yates came in a distant last. He only won a single game \u2013 against Tarrasch.\n\nTarrasch's private life was overshadowed by a series of blows of fate. In 1896 his four year old daughter Hedwig died of meningitis. In 1911 his marriage went on the rocks and in their common flat he even had a dividing wall built. In the following year his wife Rosa moved to Bamberg with their 15 year old daughter Eva, in 1918 to their daughter Grete in Regensburg. In 1924 their marriage was dissolved. Tarrasch himself moved in 1914 to Munich (22 Rheinstra\u00dfe, on the first floor on the right). Tarrasch's youngest son Paul committed suicide at the age of twenty in Hamburg from lovesickness. He died on the 9th September 1912 in the Eppendorf hospital. The oldest son Friedrich Max Tarrasch was fatally wounded on 14th May 1915 at Le Veaux F\u00e9ry, near Verdun. Tarrasch's second oldest son Hans Richard died as a result of an accident in 1916. He was run over by a tramcar in Munich. This was also perhaps a suicide, because Tarrasch's grandson Rudolf Gall reported that Hans Richard Tarrasch had 'thrown himself in front of the tramcar.' On the 4th July 1918 Tarrasch's son-in-law Hanns Bolz, the husband of his daughter Grete, also died from the consequences of a war wound. At the age of 62, Tarrasch married for a second time, the 30 years younger Gertrude Schr\u00f6der. In 1933 the couple separated after nine years of marriage.\n\nWith the coming to power of the Nazis Tarrasch was also exposed to increasing enmity on account of his Jewish ancestry. On the 17th February 1934 Siegbert Tarrasch died in the hospital in Schwabing from pneumonia. On the 19th February he was buried in Munich's Nordfriedhof (plot 128).\n\nTarrasch had a great influence on the game of chess as a theoretician. His three books, _Three hundred chess games_ (1895), _Die moderne Schachpartie_ (1912) and _The game of chess_ (1931) achieved widespread circulation. His manual 'The game of chess' is still equally relevant until this day and is the chess book with the greatest number of printings in Germany. His insight into the game of chess was: 'Like music, like love, chess has the power to make men happy.'\n**9. The fateful tenth game**\n\n**The World Championship 1910:  \n_Emanuel Lasker against Carl Schlechter_**\n\nCarl Schlechter was born into a Catholic family in Vienna on 2nd March 1874. He was the only child of Adalbert and Marie Schlechter, n\u00e9e Rieger. He learned chess at the age of 13. His chess teacher was the Hungarian doctor, journalist and problem composer Dr. Samuel Gold who lived in Vienna. Schlechter also later for his whole life composed two and three movers. In 1890 for the first time the _Deutsches Wochen-schach_ published a two mover by Schlechter.\n\nAfter school Schlechter completed an apprenticeship as a typesetter before going to the commercial college. After completing his education he worked temporarily in a trading house before he began to occupy himself exclusively with chess.\n\n**Carl Schlechter (1874-1918)**\n\nAfter 1883 Schlechter took part in over 50 tournaments and won, sometimes jointly, 1900 in Munich (12th DSB Congress), 1904 in Coburg (14th DSB Congress), 1906 in Ostende, 1906 in Stockholm, 1908 in Vienna, 1908 in Prague and 1910 in Hamburg (17th DSB Congress). He won the Trebitsch Memorial in Vienna three times (1910, 1911, 1912). Together with Arthur Kaufmann and Hugo F\u00e4hndrich, Schlechter continued the Vienna chess school founded by Miksa White and earned his living as a professional chess player. But he was also fascinated by the game of dominoes, which he often played with F\u00e4hndrich in the New Vienna chess club.\n\nDuring his career Schlechter also contested a number of matches, including ones against Georg Marco, Dawid Janowski and Siegbert Tarrasch, of which most ended in draws. Schlechter's drawing ratio of 50% was unusually high for the age. He had the reputation of an extremely fair player, who never exploited the ailments of his opponent to his own advantage. In the novel _Carl Haffner's love of the draw_ (1998) Thomas Glavinic has presented Schlechter's life in literary form. The statistician Jeff Sonas puts Carl Schlechter as number four for the year 1910 in the historical world ranking list he has calculated for that time, behind Emanuel Lasker, Akiba Rubinstein and Jos\u00e9 Raul Capablanca.\n\nFrom 1892 to the end of his life Schlechter ran the chess column in the _Wiener Allgemeine Sportzeitung_. Moreover from 1899 he was the publisher and editor of the _Deutsche Schachzeitung_. Between 1912 and 1916 Schlechter edited the eighth edition of the _Handbuch des Schachspiels_ by Bilguer with its 1000 pages and during that time he no longer played in tournaments.\n\nAfter his victory in the tournament in Ostende in 1906 Schlechter challenged Lasker for the first time to a WCh match. However, at this time Lasker already had in front of him challenges from Marshall and Tarrasch, which he first 'disposed of' with his matches in 1907 against Marshall and in 1908 against Tarrasch. After Lasker's match against Tarrasch, Schlechter repeated his challenge to Lasker and the World Champion now accepted it. In December 1908 Schlechter travelled to Berlin to discuss the details with Lasker. The date which they had in mind for the match was the end of 1909.\n\nLasker first suggested the following conditions: the match should comprise 30 games. The winner should have a lead of two points. In the event of a tie, there should be a tie-break. The stake was to be the same as for Lasker's match against Marshall, i.e. 1000 dollars for the winner. Lasker wanted to take care of the organisation and claimed in return for that sole copyright of the games. Schlechter agreed with everything.\n\nBut obtaining sponsors for this match proved more difficult than had been thought and thus in 1909 Lasker issued an open appeal 'to the world of chess', which was published in various chess magazines \u2013 however without success. Negotiations with chess lovers in St. Petersburg who were interested in staging the final part of the match also came to no result, although the players had reduced their appearance money from 1000 to 800 marks pro game.\n\nAfter this experience Lasker reduced the length of the match to 15 games and wanted to stage it in three parts in Vienna, Berlin and London. The arbiter was to decide whether a lead of one or two points was required for victory. Since Lasker could not find an organiser in London, the match was finally even shortened to ten games and the venues limited to Vienna and Berlin. The idea that the winner had to have a lead of one or two points was also abandoned. It was instead decided: 'Whoever wins the majority of games is victorious and wins the title of World Champion. In the event of a draw, the arbiter has to make the decision about who has the title.'\n\nInstead the match finally took place from the 7th January to the 10th February 1910, half in Vienna, where 3000 crowns were available for the prize fund, and half in Berlin, where 2000 marks had been collected. After four draws Schlechter went into the lead with a win in the fifth game. Thereafter they moved to Berlin. There the match was played in the 'Grand Hotel de Rome' (Unter den Linden). Not till the tenth and last game could Lasker equalise and he retained the title with a score of 5:5.\n\nSince, despite being in the lead, Schlechter had allegedly played riskily for a win in the last game, there was speculation about what might have been the reason for that. Many authors, such as Garry Kasparov, took the opinion that according to the match conditions Schlechter was obliged to have two points of a lead in order to decide the title match in his favour. On the other hand, there is a statement by Lasker, who two days before the tenth game was quoted in the New York _Evening Post_ as follows: 'The match with Schlechter is nearing its end and it appears probable that for the first time in my life I shall be the loser. If that should happen, a good man will have won the World Championship.'\n\nEdward Winter even surmises that Schlechter lost on purpose in order to avoid the return match which had been agreed and for which he would not have had the financial means. Perhaps it was Lasker who previously gave the reasons for Schlechter's fear of victory. In his _Lasker's Chess Magazine_ three years before he had written about Schlechter: 'The Austrian Schlechter has the ability that would enable him to compete... but he has only the ability \u2014 and nothing more. He is a man who likes a quiet life and has so little of the devil about him that he could not be wooed to take anything coveted by someone else.'\n\nThe tenth game which was so decisive for the outcome of the match has been analysed by generations of chess lovers, not always objectively and absolutely accused of mistakes. The contention that Schlechter played riskily for a win, can hardly be supported by the course of the game. Moreover, the game is extremely complex and was incapable of being fully explained without appropriate present day computer support. A detailed analysis, taking previous comments into consideration, was given by Robert H\u00fcbner in 1999. The following version of the game contains a summary of previous comments:\n\n **Lasker \u2013 Schlechter**\n\nBerlin, 10th game  \n8th February 1910  \nQueen's Gambit, Slav Defence (D94)\n\n**1.d4 d5 2.c4 c6 3. \u2658f3 \u2658f6 4.e3**\n\nIn 1910 this plan had not been much researched. Today's version of the Queen's Gambit, Slav Defence is reached after 4.\u2658c3 dxc4 5.a4 \u2657f5, with this plan, however, first becoming fashionable in the 1920s.\n\n**4...g6**\n\nOther options are 4...\u2657g4 or 4...\u2657f5. Today's popular Meran Variation is reached after 4...e6 5.\u2658c3 \u2658bd7 6.\u2657d3 dxc4 7.\u2657xc4 b5. In 1910 this plan, however, had not yet been 'discovered'.\n\n**5. \u2658c3 \u2657g7 6.\u2657d3 0-0 7.\u2655c2**\n\n'7.0-0 and 7.\u2655b3 are usual. In fact Black can now equalise effortlessly.' (H\u00fcbner)\n\n**7... \u2658a6**\n\n'In my view the strongest continuation' (H\u00fcbner). The alternatives were 7...\u2658bd7 (Schlechter) or 7...dxc4 8.\u2657xc4 c5 (8...\u2657f5=) 9.dxc5 \u2658bd7= (Euwe).\n\n**8.a3 dxc4**\n\nThe surrender of the centre was criticised by Tarrasch. He recommended 8...\u2658c7 intending...\u2658e8-d6 and...\u2657f5. 'The advance 8...c5 leads to excellent play for Black.' (H\u00fcbner)\n\n**9. \u2657xc4 b5?!**\n\nThis weakens the pawns on the queenside. 9...\u2658c7!? 10.0-0 (10.e4 \u2657g4=) 10...\u2657e6= (Euwe) or 9...c5!? 10.d5 \u2658c7 (H\u00fcbner).\n\n**10. \u2657d3 b4 11.\u2658a4**\n\nAfter 11.\u2657xa6 \u2657xa6 12.axb4 \u2655c8 13.\u2658e2 \u2658d5 14.\u2657d2 \u2656b8 Black takes over the initiative.\n\n**11...bxa3 12.bxa3**\n\nA less good option was 12.\u2655xc6? \u2658b4 13.\u2655c3 (13.\u2655xa8 \u2658xd3+ followed by 14...\u2655c7 and 15...\u2657a6, trapping the queen, is favourable for Black), since after 13...\u2658xd3+ 14.\u2655xd3 axb2 15.\u2657xb2 \u2657f5 Black is better with his bishop pair, lead in development and passed pawn on the queenside.\n\n**12... \u2657b7 13.\u2656b1 \u2655c7 14.\u2658e5!?**\n\nIntending \u2657xa6 and \u2655xc6. However, 14.0-0 (H\u00fcbner) was simpler.\n\n**14... \u2658h5**\n\n**15.g4?!**\n\nBranded a mistake by Tarrasch. But Lasker, who absolutely had to win this game, is aiming for complications. H\u00fcbner recommended instead: 15.0-0 \u2657xe5 16.dxe5 \u2658g7 17.e4 \u2658e6 18.\u2657e3 \u2656fd8 19.\u2655e2 \u2658b8 20.\u2657c4+\u2013, 'Black is lost, with no hope of saving the game.'\n\n**15... \u2657xe5 16.gxh5?!**\n\nThere was the objectively superior 16.dxe5 \u2658g7 17.0-0 and White retains something of an advantage.\n\n**16... \u2657g7 17.hxg6 hxg6 18.\u2655c4**\n\nWith the threats of 19.\u2657xg6 and 19.\u2656xb7 followed by 20.\u2655xa6. Tarrasch recommended instead 18.f4.\n\n**18... \u2657c8?!**\n\nAfter 18...c5 Lasker gives 19.\u2656g1 \u2655xh2 20.\u2656xg6 \u2655h1+ (20...\u2658c7!?, H\u00fcbner, 21.\u2656g3 (21.\u2656xb7!? \u2655h1+ 22.\u2654e2 \u2655xb7 23.dxc5) 21...\u2657a6 22.\u2655c2 \u2657xd3 23.\u2655xd3 cxd4=) 21.\u2654d2 as advantageous for White.\n\n**19. \u2656g1**\n\nSchlechter now wanted to meet 19.\u2657xg6 with 19...\u2657e6, after which the position is complicated and unclear. If 19.\u2657d2, then 19...e5! as recommended by Euwe leads to a level game.\n\n**19... \u2655a5+?!**\n\nAfter 19...\u2655xh2 20.\u2656xg6 the best is 20...\u2658c7, with a complicated position. H\u00fcbner suggested 19...e6!? and then 20.f4 (20.\u2656g3 \u2656b8) 20...\u2656b8 21.\u2656xb8 \u2658xb8 22.\u2658c5 \u2655e7 with counterplay.\n\n**20. \u2657d2 \u2655d5 21.\u2656c1 \u2657b7 22.\u2655c2**\n\nIntending 23.\u2656xg6 fxg6 24.\u2657c4+\u2013 and 23.\u2657e4 (Lasker, Schlechter). H\u00fcbner recommended instead 22.h4!? or 22.\u2658c3!? with chances of a win for White.\n\n**22... \u2655h5**\n\n**23. \u2657xg6?**\n\nWins a pawn but allows Black counterplay. Lasker indicated 23.\u2655b3 as better: 23...\u2656ab8 24.\u2656xg6 c5 25.\u2656g3! etc.\n\n**23... \u2655xh2**\n\n23...fxg6 is followed by 24.\u2655b3+ \u2654h7 25.\u2655xb7; after 25...\u2655h4 26.\u2656f1 \u2656xf2 27.\u2656xf2 \u2656f8 28.\u2655xa6 \u2656xf2 29.\u2655d3 e5 White is a piece up, but Black still has some counterplay against the white king in the centre.\n\n**24. \u2656f1 fxg6 25.\u2655b3+ \u2656f7 26.\u2655xb7 \u2656af8! 27.\u2655b3**\n\n27.\u2655xa6? \u2656xf2 28.\u2656xf2 \u2656xf2 and there is the threat of mate with 29...\u2655g1#. After 27.f4 there follows 27...\u2655h4+ and Black can give perpetual check: 28.\u2654d1 \u2655g4+ 29.\u2654c2 \u2655f5+ 30.\u2654d1, since the white king cannot go on to the b-file on account of...\u2656b8.\n\n**27... \u2654h8 28.f4**\n\n**28...g5!?**\n\nAfter 28...\u2655g3+ 29.\u2654d1 \u2656xf4 30.\u2656xf4 \u2656xf4 Lasker wanted to continue with 31.\u2654c2.\n\nIt was also worth considering 28...e5, then: 29.dxe5 \u2656d7 30.\u2655b2 \u2655g3+ and Black has enough play to hold the draw.\n\n**29. \u2655d3**\n\n29.\u2656xc6 \u2655g3+ 30.\u2654d1 (30.\u2654e2? \u2655g2+) 30...\u2656xf4 31.\u2656h1+ \u2656h4 tends to be favourable for Black, since White cannot allow 32.\u2656xh4+ gxh4 33.\u2656xa6 \u2655f3+ 34.\u2654c2 h3. The passed pawn cannot be stopped.\n\n**29...gxf4**\n\n29...\u2655g3+ 30.\u2654d1 \u2656xf4 31.\u2654c2 \u2656xf1 32.\u2656xf1 \u2656xf1 33.\u2655xf1 \u2658c7 34.\u2655h1+ \u2654g8 35.\u2655xc6 \u2655d6 leads to a level endgame.\n\n**30.exf4**\n\n30.\u2655xa6? fails to 30...fxe3\u2013+.\n\n**30... \u2655h4+**\n\nAlso playable was 30...\u2658c7 31.\u2655f3 (31.\u2656xc6 \u2658d5 32.\u2655e4 \u2658xf4=) 31...\u2655h4+ 32.\u2654d1 \u2654g8 33.\u2656xc6 \u2658b5 34.\u2656h1 and after 34...\u2655g5! Black holds on.\n\n**31. \u2654e2**\n\n31.\u2654d1 \u2655g4+ 32.\u2654c2 \u2655f5=.\n\n**31... \u2655h2+ 32.\u2656f2 \u2655h5+ 33.\u2656f3**\n\n33.\u2654e3? \u2656xf4! (Lasker).\n\n**33... \u2658c7 34.\u2656xc6 \u2658b5**\n\nTarrasch considered Black to have an advantage, but this is too pessimistic a way of looking at things. In reality the chances are level. 34...\u2658d5 was also playable.\n\n**35. \u2656c4**\n\n35.\u2656c5 fails to 35...\u2658xd4+ 36.\u2655xd4 \u2655xf3+ 37.\u2654xf3 \u2657xd4 with advantage to Black. According to H\u00fcbner 35.\u2654e1 \u2655h1+ 36.\u2655f1 \u2655xf1+ 37.\u2656xf1 \u2658xd4 38.\u2656c7 leads to a draw.\n\n**35... \u2656xf4**\n\nBlack had other options at his disposal here, for example:\n\na) 35...e5 36.dxe5 \u2657xe5 37.\u2654e1 (Capablanca);\n\nb) 35...\u2658d6 36.\u2656c5 \u2658f5 (H\u00fcbner) or\n\nc) 35...\u2656d8 36.\u2654e1! \u2655h1+ 37.\u2655f1 (Minev), in each case with equality.\n\n**36. \u2657xf4 \u2656xf4 37.\u2656c8+ \u2657f8 38.\u2654f2**\n\nH\u00fcbner suggested 38.\u2656d8 as an improvement for White, since after the text move Black can force a draw.\n\n**38... \u2655h2+**\n\nInstead, 38...\u2655h4+ 39.\u2654g2 (but not 39.\u2654e2? \u2658xd4+ \u2013+) 39...\u2655g4+ 40.\u2656g3! \u2655xc8 41.\u2655g6!+\u2013 (Tarrasch, Schlechter).\n\n**39. \u2654e1**\n\n**39... \u2655h1+? +\u2013**\n\nBlack could instead force a draw here with 39...\u2655h4+ 40.\u2654d2! \u2655h2+ 41.\u2654e1 \u2655h4+ and perpetual check. And a draw in this last game would have been enough for Schlechter to win the match and become World Champion. If White plays anything other than 40.\u2654d2, he will be at a disadvantage:\n\na) 40.\u2656g3? \u2655h1+ 41.\u2654d2 \u2656f2+ \u2013+;\n\nb) 40.\u2654d1? \u2655h1+ 41.\u2654e2 \u2656xf3 42.\u2655xf3 \u2658xd4+ \u2013+;\n\nc) 40.\u2654f1 \u2655h3+ 41.\u2654f2 \u2656xf3+ 42.\u2655xf3 \u2655xc8 43.\u2655h5+ \u2654g8 44.\u2655xb5 \u2657g7 with advantage to Black.\n\n**40. \u2656f1 \u2655h4+ 41.\u2654d2 \u2656xf1**\n\n41...\u2656xd4? appears to win the queen, but White gets in first: 42.\u2656cxf8+ \u2654g7 43.\u26561f7+ \u2654h6 44.\u2656h8+ \u2654g5 45.\u2656g8+ \u2654h6 46.\u2656h7# (Blackburne).\n\n**42. \u2655xf1 \u2655xd4+ 43.\u2655d3 \u2655f2+**\n\nAfter the exchange of queens 43...\u2655xd3+ 44.\u2654xd3 \u2654g7 45.\u2658c5+\u2013 (Barcza) White wins with his exchange up.\n\n**44. \u2654d1 \u2658d6**\n\nIn the event of 44...\u2655g1+ 45.\u2654c2 \u2658d4+ 46.\u2654b2 \u2655g2+ 47.\u2654a1 \u2655h1+ 48.\u2654a2 \u2655g2+ White ends the series of checks with 49.\u2658b2+\u2013 (Lasker).\n\n**45. \u2656c5?! \u2657h6 46.\u2656d5 \u2654g8**\n\n46...\u2655a2 was suggested by Schlechter. But there then follows 47.\u2656h5 \u2655a1+ 48.\u2654c2 \u2655a2+ 49.\u2658b2 \u2655e6 50.\u2655d4+ \u2654h7 51.\u2656e5 and 'White is winning'. (H\u00fcbner)\n\n**47. \u2658c5 \u2655g1+?!**\n\n'This drives the white king on to better squares.' (H\u00fcbner) The waiting move 47...\u2655g2 was better.\n\n**48. \u2654c2**\n\n**48... \u2655c1+?!**\n\n48...\u2655f2+ 49.\u2654b3 \u2657g7 50.\u2656g5 \u2655f7+ 51.\u2655d5 \u2655xd5+ 52.\u2656xd5 and 'In my opinion White will win'. (H\u00fcbner)\n\n**49. \u2654b3 \u2657g7 50.\u2658e6 \u2655b2+ 51.\u2654a4 \u2654f7 52.\u2658xg7 \u2655xg7 53.\u2655b3 \u2654e8 54.\u2655b8+ \u2654f7 55.\u2655xa7**\n\nAn exchange ahead and with the passed pawn on the a-file, winning the game is now easy for White.\n\n**55... \u2655g4+ 56.\u2655d4 \u2655d7+ 57.\u2654b3 \u2655b7+ 58.\u2654a2 \u2655c6 59.\u2655d3 \u2654e6 60.\u2656g5 \u2654d7 61.\u2656e5 \u2655g2+ 62.\u2656e2 \u2655g4 63.\u2656d2 \u2655a4 64.\u2655f5+ \u2654c7 65.\u2655c2+ \u2655xc2+ 66.\u2656xc2+ \u2654b7 67.\u2656e2 \u2658c8 68.\u2654b3 \u2654c6 69.\u2656c2+ \u2654b7 70.\u2654b4 \u2658a7 71.\u2654c5**\n\nAnd Black resigned.\n\nCarl Schlechter died only a few years after the match against Lasker. In the summer of 1914 the First World War had broken out and in Austria-Hungary, just as in the German empire, the food supply situation had continued to deteriorate as a result of the British continental blockade since 1916. In January 1918 the bread ration for normal citizens (workers in heavy industry received more) was reduced from 1260 to 630 grammes per week \u2013 too little for survival. Diseases stemming from malnutrition such as tuberculosis were the consequence. Schlechter was living on an estate close to Baden and did not understand, as others did, how to get help in the increasing distress. Whereas many a chess player, such as Albin or Marco, practically lived in his chess club and somehow managed to get by, Schlechter did not complain but starved in silence.\n\nUnlike in Vienna the supply situation in Budapest was still reasonably good and so chess lovers invited Schlechter to a tournament in the Hungarian capital, though, however, he was only able to finish in last place as a result of his poor health. On the 23rd December Schlechter wanted to leave Budapest to celebrate Christmas with his mother in Vienna. He was, however, robbed at the Budapest station and had to return to the chess club in order to borrow money. On the 26th December he set out again but collapsed while still in Budapest. He was taken to a hospital and died there that same night, on the 27th December, possibly from pneumonia exacerbated by his debilitated state. \n**10. Either Lasker won or Janowski lost**\n\n**The World Championship 1910:  \n_Emanuel Lasker against Dawid Janowski_**\n\nDawid Janowski was born on the 25th Mai 1868 in Wolkowysk, near Grodno, in Russian Poland. The place now belongs to Belarus. The family later moved to Lodz and finally at the beginning of the 1880s to Warsaw. In Warsaw, Dawid Janowski, together with his brother, went to the local chess club. In 1886 he is supposed to have moved first to Paris, but after that also to have lived for a time in Berlin and New York.\n\n**Dawid Janowski (1868-1927)**\n\nBut from approximately 1890 Janowski made his name as a strong player in the famous Caf\u00e9 de la R\u00e9gence in Paris. Janowski favoured a sharp attacking style and, playing like this, took first place or shared first place in the tournaments of Monte Carlo 1901, Hanover 1902, Vienna 1902 and Barmen 1905. With his quick and aggressive style of play he was particularly successful against the older players such as Steinitz, Chigorin or Blackburne. Against the younger ones like Tarrasch or Rubinstein, however, he had negative scores. His results against Lasker and Capablanca were even pretty catastrophic. Nevertheless, Capablanca admired Janowski's attacking skills. In the endgame, however, he had particularly great weaknesses. Whenever Janowski lost he always found excuses for it. So he was not particularly popular with other players, because he would play on for a long time in completely lost positions in the hope that on the way to victory his opponent would perhaps still blunder.\n\nJanowski was also a gambler away from the chess board. He lost many a prize at roulette in the casino. Thus in 1901 at the tournament in Monte Carlo he won 5000 francs as victor, but he then promptly lost the whole sum at roulette in the casino. The casino generously paid for his return ticket to his home in Paris. At the tournament at the same place in the following year Janowski was third, but once again gambled this prize money away at the roulette table. Janowski's passion for gambling was very well known to his colleagues, of course. They often even gave him money to bet on their behalf. Janowski often even won at the start, but like all gambling addicts he never managed to stop at the right moment but kept on playing until all the money had been lost.\n\nAfter the London tournament of 1899 \u2013 with 15 players in an enormous hall in the Royal Westminster Aquarium \u2013 in which Janowski finished joint second on the same number of points as Maroczy and Pillsbury behind Lasker, he issued a first challenge to Lasker. Lasker accepted in principle and sent Janowski his conditions: a stake of 400 pounds sterling (10 000 Swiss francs), the match should start between the 15th January and March 1900 and be decided by eight wins. Janowski, however, wanted to start in February 1900 at the earliest and set the match to ten wins. Lasker insisted, however, on his conditions without any change and so the negotiations failed. But then with the help of his sponsor, the millionaire Leo Nardus, Janowski played between 1909 and 1910 a total of three matches against Lasker, one of which as a match for the World Championship.\n\nLeonardus Nardus, born 1868 in Utrecht as the son of the antiquities dealer Emanuel Salomon and his wife Alida Ballen, was an artist, art dealer, collector and world traveller. In 1889 he went to Argentina looking for gold. In 1894 he then settled in the USA as an art dealer. Around the turn of the century Nardus returned to Europe and then lived in the majority in France. In the meantime Nardus had himself developed some skills as a painter. He undertook numerous journeys to Spain, Egypt, Algeria and Tunisia. He later settled in Tunisia. Nardus became active as a sponsor for Dawid Janowski, but was also a close friend of Frank Marshall, whom he had got to know in the USA. Nardus never became active as a chess player, at least none of his games have been handed down, but he was very successful in another sport. In the Summer Olympic Games of 1912 Nardus won a bronze medal for fencing in the Dutch team.\n\nBefore Nardus gave the money for a WCh match, a test match was agreed between Lasker and Janowski. This took place in 1909 between the 12th and 21st May in Nardus' villa in Suresnes near Paris, but was played over only four games and ended 2:2. Nardus provided 2500 francs, of which 750 francs each were paid as appearance money and 1000 francs were to go to the winner. After the draw the prize money was finally shared. There followed in the same year a match of ten games, for which Nardus made 6000 francs available and the 'Hotel Regina and Excelsior' 1000 francs. Here too appearance money was paid for the individual games. The prize for the winner consisted of 2000 francs. The match was played from 18th October till 10th November in the 'Grand Cercle' on the Boulevard Montmartre. Lasker was a clear winner with 7:1 in won games.\n\nIn some sources the second match was regarded as a WCh match, but the chess historian Edward Winter argued that this match was not described in any of the contemporary chess magazines as a match for the World Championship. In the New York _Evening Post_ of the 23rd October it was even specifically pointed out that the match between Lasker and Janowski was not a match for the World Championship but that it served as preparation for the forthcoming WCh match between Lasker and Schlechter. One of the reasons for the heavy defeat was moreover that Janowski kept on playing for a win in some clearly drawn positions \u2013 and then even lost them.\n\nThere was then a further match, this time really for the title of World Champion. Nardus put up 5000 francs for the prize fund. The Berliner Schachgesellschaft was enlisted as a co-sponsor. This third match between Lasker and Janowski was played out to eight wins from the 8th November till the 8th December 1910. The first ten games were to be played in Berlin, in the newly erected three-storey 'Kerkau Palast' (48 Behrenstra\u00dfe). The Kerkau Palace was named after its owner, the professional Billiards World Champion Hugo Kerkau, and had no fewer than 50 billiard tables on offer. Chess was, however, also well thought of at Kerkau's. The subsequent games were to be played in Paris.\n\nAt the official start of the match on the 5th November, it became apparent that Lasker had agreed different playing times with Janowski than he had with the Berlin organiser. Lasker and Janowski had agreed on a playing time from 14.00 to 20.00. The Berlin organisers had reckoned on play being from 16.30-19.30 and then from 21.00 to 23.00. But they finally compromised on a playing session of 16.00 to 20.00. The first game was played on the 8th November 1910. Lasker won the first, the fourth, the fifth, and then also the seventh to eleventh games. The chess publicist Georg Marco commented ironically on the course of the match with the words 'Either Lasker won or Janowski lost'. Since the score after the tenth game was already 7:0, they did without the move to Paris and finished the match in Berlin.\n\nThere were very few reports in the press about the match, since Lasker had claimed the right to the notation of the games for himself and royalties for printing them. Marco openly criticised the World Champion for this: 'With his demands Dr. Lasker has almost completely eliminated the participation of the public at large. He has condemned to silence those people who would have praised and admired his art and challenged others to contradict him.'\n\nAfter the end of the match Janowski did not seem very affected by his heavy loss and was already speaking of challenging Lasker again. Janowski was even convinced that he had outplayed Lasker in almost all the games and that the World Champion could actually not play chess. The way he moved around with the pieces had disgusted him. Thus it had been enough for Janowski to reach a winning position and after that he had lost interest in the games. Speaking to Edward Lasker Janowski gave the following evaluation: 'Your namesake plays such stupid chess that I simply cannot look at the board while he is thinking.' At the start of the match Janowski had discovered in Berlin a gambling club in which he spent his evenings playing roulette during the contest.\n\n **Janowski \u2013 Lasker**\n\nBerlin, 10th game  \n6th December 1910  \nPirc Defence (B07)\n\n**1.d4 d6**\n\nAfter always playing 1...d5 in the previous games Lasker tried something new here.\n\n**2.e4 e5**\n\nNowadays 2...\u2658f6 3.\u2658c3 is usually inserted: 3...e5 4.dxe5 dxe5 5.\u2655xd8+ \u2654xd8 etc.\n\n**3.dxe5**\n\nThe early exchange of queens suits Lasker, since it draws the fangs of the attacking player Janowski. The loss of the right to castle is of hardly any importance here. It is inexplicable that Janowski did not instead maintain the tension with 3.\u2658f3.\n\n**3...dxe5 4. \u2655xd8+ \u2654xd8 5.\u2658f3 \u2657d6**\n\nA less flexible option is 5...\u2658c6, after which a position from the Scotch Game arises, in which White has good practical success. White can continue with 6.\u2657c4 or 6.\u2657b5.\n\n**6. \u2658c3**\n\nAfter 6.\u2657c4 Black has the amazing 6... \u2657e6 at his disposal. The doubled pawns in the centre after 7.\u2657xe6 fxe6 are very useful for Black, since he controls a lot of squares. 8.\u2658g5 \u2654e7 now achieves nothing for White.\n\n**6... \u2657e6 7.\u2657e3 \u2658f6 8.0-0-0**\n\nThreatening \u2658xe5, but Black easily wards it off.\n\n**8... \u2658g4**\n\nAlso worth considering was 8...\u2654e7.\n\n**9. \u2657g5+**\n\nWhite could also allow the bishop on e3 to be taken: 9.\u2657e2 \u2658d7 10.h3 \u2658xe3 11.fxe3=.\n\n**9...f6**\n\nOr 9...\u2654c8!? 10.\u2657h4 \u2657c5 11.\u2656d2 f6 12.h3 \u2658h6 13.g4 \u2658f7=.\n\n**10. \u2657h4 \u2658d7 11.h3**\n\nAfter 11.\u2658b5 \u2657c5 12.\u2656d2 c6 13.\u2658c3 \u2654c7 14.\u2657g3 \u2656hd8 Black is in no way worse.\n\n**11... \u2658h6 12.\u2658b5 \u2658f7 13.\u2658xd6 cxd6**\n\nLasker gratefully accepts the invitation to the opening of the c-file. 13...\u2658xd6 14.\u2658d2 \u2654e7= was also equally possible.\n\n**14. \u2658d2 \u2656c8 15.b3 \u2654e7 16.\u2654b2 \u2656c7 17.c4 \u2656hc8 18.\u2657d3?**\n\nThis gifts Black a tempo, which the latter immediately makes use of to become active. 18.f3 was better.\n\n**18... \u2658c5 19.\u2657e2**\n\n**19...b5 20.f3**\n\n20.cxb5 g5 21.\u2657g3 \u2658xe4 22.\u2658xe4 \u2656c2+ \u2013+.\n\n**20...bxc4 21. \u2657xc4 a5 22.\u2657f2 a4 23.\u2657xc5 \u2656xc5 24.\u2656c1**\n\nAfter 24.\u2657xe6 Black invades with the rook: 24...\u2656c2+ 25.\u2654b1 \u2654xe6 26.bxa4 \u2654d7 (otherwise \u2656c1 is possible) 27.\u2656hg1 \u2658d8 28.\u2658b3 \u2658e6, but he cannot cash in on it.\n\n**24...axb3 25.axb3 \u2658d8 26.\u2656a1 \u2658c6 27.\u2656hc1 \u2658d4**\n\nLasker has successfully improved the position of his knight.\n\n**28. \u2656a7+ \u26568c7 29.\u2656ca1 \u2654d7 30.\u2656xc7+ \u2656xc7 31.\u2656a6 \u2654e7 32.\u2656b6**\n\n32.g4 is followed by 32...\u2657xc4 33.bxc4 g6 34.\u2654c3 \u2654d7 with a slightly freer game for Black.\n\n**32...f5**\n\n**33. \u2654b1!?**\n\nAfter 33.exf5 White keeps things level.\n\n**33... \u2657xc4 34.\u2658xc4**\n\n34.bxc4 weakens the c-pawn.\n\n**34...fxe4 35.fxe4 \u2658xb3 36.\u2658xd6 \u2658d2+ 37.\u2654a2**\n\nAfter 37.\u2654b2 Black forces the rook ending and in it wins a pawn: 37...\u2658c4+ 38.\u2658xc4 \u2656xc4 39.\u2656b7+ \u2654f6 40.\u2656b6+ \u2654g5 41.\u2656b7 \u2654h6 42.g4 \u2656xe4.\n\n**37...g6!**\n\nThis prevents the knight from retreating via f5. Now the threat is, for example,...\u2656d7, after which the \u2658d6 must abandon the protection of the e4-pawn.\n\n**38.h4?!**\n\n38.\u2656a6!? is followed by 38...\u2656c3 39.\u2654b2 \u2656g3 with advantage to Black.\n\n**38... \u2656d7**\n\n38...\u2656c3 39.\u2654b2 \u2656g3 40.h5 \u2656xg2 41.\u2654c3 gxh5 42.\u2658f5+ is not very profitable for Black here.\n\n**39. \u2658b5 \u2658xe4 40.\u2654b3 \u2658f6 41.\u2656c6 \u2656d3+ 42.\u2656c3 \u2656xc3+ 43.\u2658xc3 \u2654e6**\n\nBlack is a pawn up and has the more active king.\n\n**44. \u2654c2 \u2654f5 45.\u2654d3 \u2654g4 46.\u2654e3 \u2654g3 47.h5 gxh5**\n\nSimpler than 47...\u2658xh5 48.\u2654e4 \u2654xg2 49.\u2654xe5 and White can still fight for the draw.\n\n**48. \u2658b5 h4 49.\u2658d6 \u2654xg2 50.\u2658f5 h3 51.\u2658h4+ \u2654g3 52.\u2658f5+ \u2654g4**\n\nWhite resigned.\n\nIn 1914 Janowski played in the 19th DSB Congress in Mannheim. During the tournament the First World War broke out and Janowski was interned, as were Alekhine, Bogoljubow and other Russians. After his release to Switzerland he moved to the USA, but he was no longer able to emulate his earlier successes.\n\nOn the 19th December 1926 Janowski travelled to Hy\u00e8res (France), to take part in a tournament which was to start there on the 24th January 1927. Janowski arrived with a heavy 'cold' which was, however, then diagnosed by a local doctor as the final stages of tuberculosis. On the 15th January 1927 Janowski died, only 56 years old, alone and completely penniless. A benefactor paid for his burial and had a gravestone erected with an inscription from the 11th century Persian poet Omar Khayyam:\n\n'This is the only truth: we are pieces in the mysterious game of chess played by God. He places us, holds us, drives us forward and then throws us one after the other into the box of nothingness'.\n**11. Hot games in Havana**\n\n**The World Championship 1921:  \n_Emanuel Lasker against Jos\u00e9 Raul Capablanca_**\n\nThe best players in the world were invited in 1911 to the tournament of San Sebastian, organised by Jacques Mieses: a total of 15 masters who had all won at least one tournament. Only Emanuel Lasker was missing. Ossip Bernstein had championed the invitation to Jos\u00e9 Raul Capablanca. The young Cuban had abruptly drawn attention to himself and his ability with a clear victory in a match against Frank Marshall. To general surprise Capablanca then immediately won the unofficial candidates' tournament in San Sebastian ahead of Akiba Rubinstein and Milan Vidmar.\n\n**Jos\u00e9 Raul Capablanca (1888-1942)**\n\nAfter his tournament victory Capablanca sent on the 26th October 1911 a challenge to Lasker. The latter, however, demanded in his conditions for the match that the challenger should have to win the WCh match by at least two clear points in order to acquire the title of World Champion. Capablanca declined this as 'unfair', whereupon Lasker made it public that Capablanca had insulted him and broke off all future contact. In 1913 Lasker then agreed with Rubinstein a match for the World Championship for the following year. On account of the outbreak of the First World War, however, the WCh contest between Lasker and Rubinstein never took place.\n\nJos\u00e9 Capablanca, actually Jos\u00e9 Raul Capablanca y Graupera, born on the 19th November 1888 in Havana the son of a Spanish colonial official, was a so-called 'chess prodigy'. He is said to have learned chess at the early age of four, apparently simply by watching. At twelve he defeated the Cuban national champion Juan Corzo in a match by 4:3 with six draws. After his final school exams Capablanca studied chemistry and sport at the New York Columbia University. After one term, however, his bursary was withdrawn because he was too involved with chess and too little with his studies.\n\n1906 saw his first encounter with Emanuel Lasker in New York Manhattan Chess Club. Both Lasker and Capablanca were playing in a rapid chess tournament with 20 seconds thinking time per move. Of the 32 participants it was these two who qualified for the final \u2013 and Capablanca won. In a match in 1909 the Cuban defeated Frank Marshall by 8:1 with 14 draws.\n\nThe Cuban state gave Capablanca a post in the diplomatic service in 1913 and at the same time liberated him for all tournaments. This made Capablanca practically a state sponsored professional. After Lasker had refused Capablanca's challenge, the two met in the St. Petersburg tournament of 1914. Capablanca won the main tournament, however Lasker overtook him in the subsequent final for the five best-placed players.\n\nThe St. Petersburg tournament was played in a spectacular setting. Between the two parts of the tournament a banquet was held during which the Baltic-Russian jeweller Peter Carl Faberg\u00e9 presented each of the players with a gilded wineglass. Sergei Prokofiev, himself a great chess lover, was playing in the music room. Prokofiev later compared Lasker with Bach and Capablanca with Mozart. The organisers of the tournament aimed to take in a lot of money with the help of entry fees. They charged five roubles for entrance to the tournament hall and only two roubles for entrance to the room with the demonstration boards. On the first day they took in 800 roubles (roubles and dollars were of equivalent value at that time), but nevertheless for the preparation of the tournament they had to rely on personal donations from the Czar to the extent of 1000 roubles, because the tournament involved high costs. Lasker, for example, received 250 roubles appearance money per game. At the end of the tournament Lasker and Capablanca buried their differences, discussed the possibility of a WCh match and shortly thereafter in Berlin played a blitz match which Capablanca won by 6\u00bd:3\u00bd. But then the First World War broke off at a stroke all international chess contacts.\n\nAfter the end of hostilities, which so lastingly shattered Europe, the Dutch Chess Federation took the initiative in 1919 to set in motion once more the negotiations for a WCh match between Lasker and Capablanca. Lasker was, however, no longer in the first flush of youth. In 1918 the World Champion had already celebrated his 50th birthday. On the 23rd January 1920 the two players met in The Hague and signed an agreement for a match for the World Championship. It was to take place where the best offer would be made. As Capablanca was already in negotiations with some possible organiser, for example in Havana, to everyone's surprise Lasker gave out a statement in which he announced his withdrawal. Lasker explained he wanted to transfer his title without a match to the most worthy successor, Capablanca. Lasker's explanation was his reaction to a critical letter, though Lasker was overlooking that this letter was a whole year late in reaching him and had absolutely no more validity.\n\nIn any case Capablanca did not want to win the title without a contest and so travelled back to Europe to meet Lasker in The Hague and to come to a new agreement. He had previously told him about a lucrative offer from Havana. Lasker and Capablanca then signed in September 1920 a new contract. After the Cuban had left, Lasker suddenly demanded an advance payment, according to Capablanca's account. Neither the Cuban nor the sponsors of the match wanted to accept this. Capablanca again returned to The Hague to meet Lasker for the third time.\n\nIn the long run the two players agreed to a compromise. For Lasker the most important argument for playing this match was probably the fee. There was in prospect for the match a total of 20 000 dollars. This was for that time a relatively sensationally high amount of money, of which Lasker was to receive 11000 dollars independent of the result of the match. Like many other Germans Lasker had invested his fortune in war loans before the war and lost it all, so he was therefore thankful for that sort of income, and in addition in the form of hard currency. In Germany in the meantime inflation had started gnawing away at the value of the mark. Lasker insisted, however, in view of his previous resignation, that in his match against Capablanca he considered himself to be the challenger.\n\nThe match between Emanuel Lasker and Jos\u00e9 Raul Capablanca for the World Championship finally took place from the 18th March till the 28th April in Havana and was arranged for 24 games (in his Lasker biography Jacques Hannak says 30 games). If the score was 12:12 the title defender was to remain World Champion. The start of the match was originally set for the 15th January, but since on world markets the price of sugar (Cuba's main source of income at that time) was continuing to fall, that meant greater difficulties than had been foreseen in the gathering of the prize fund. At the end of January the prize money was finally ready and was later, after the fifth game, raised by a further 5000 dollars by the bureau of tourism, which was to be divided in a ratio of 3:2 between winner and loser.\n\nLasker embarked on the 16th February 1921 on the _Hollandia_ in Rotterdam and stepped on to Cuban soil on the 7th March. He was accompanied by his wife Martha (n\u00e9e Bamberger), whom he had married in 1911 after the death of her first husband Emil Cohn. Before her marriage to Lasker, Martha Cohn had been active as an author, had written poetic texts and satirical articles and published under the pseudonym L. Marco numerous short stories. She later gave up this activity and supported her husband. The Lasker couple took up residence in the hotel 'Trocha del Vedado'. This was Lasker's third visit to Cuba during his career. Back at the start of the 1890s he had looked for patrons in Havana for a WCh match against Steinitz. In 1906 he had been for a second time a guest in Cuba.\n\nFrom the second game on the match was played 'in a corner' (Martha Lasker) of the large building of the fashionable 'Gran Casino de la Playa', whilst close by in the main rooms there was gambling and dancing. The opening game was played in the building of the Union Chess Club. In the hall of the casino an enormous demonstration board had been hung up to which the moves were transferred. From there the journalists present transmitted the moves by telex to their papers. The games were played on the same table and with the same pieces which had also been used for the second match between Chigorin and Steinitz, Havana, 1892. Capablanca later received the table and pieces as a present from the Havana Chess Club. Today they can be found together with other objects from his estate in the sports museum in Havana.\n\nThe games were all played from 21.00 till 01.00. Lasker drew the first four games. In the fifth game he spoiled a good position and lost. In the next four games Lasker tried to restore equality and Capablanca to hold on to his lead. These four games also ended as draws. In the tenth game Lasker once more obtained a good position with certain winning chances. But he spoiled this too and had to accept his second defeat. Thereafter Lasker had internally given up. Capablanca won the eleventh and after two draws also the fourteenth game. Lasker now suggested continuing the match somewhere with a milder climate, for example in New York or Philadelphia, but Capablanca declined to do so. Lasker thereupon resigned the match prematurely at a score of 4:0 (with ten draws).\n\n **Capablanca \u2013 Lasker**\n\nHavana, 11th game  \n13th April 1921  \nQueen's Gambit Declined (D66)\n\n**1.d4 d5 2. \u2658f3 e6 3.c4 \u2658f6 4.\u2657g5 \u2658bd7 5.e3 \u2657e7 6.\u2658c3 0-0 7.\u2656c1**\n\nThis is one of the basic positions for the Queen's Gambit Declined.\n\n**7... \u2656e8**\n\nA more modern treatment is 7...c6 8.\u2657d3 dxc4 9.\u2657xc4 \u2658d5 10.\u2657xe7 \u2655xe7.\n\n**8. \u2655c2 c6 9.\u2657d3 dxc4 10.\u2657xc4 \u2658d5 11.\u2657xe7 \u2656xe7?!**\n\nExtravagant and bad. The rook is misplaced here. The usual move is 11...\u2655xe7.\n\n**12.0-0 \u2658f8**\n\nKasparov gives 12...\u2658xc3 13.\u2655xc3 b6 as better.\n\n**13. \u2656fd1**\n\n13.\u2658e5!?.\n\n**13... \u2657d7**\n\nThe development of the light-squared bishop is one of the main problems in the Queen's Gambit Declined. Here Black is for the moment stuck with his 'bad bishop'. Perhaps 13...b6 14.a3 \u2657b7 was a better option.\n\n**14.e4 \u2658b6**\n\nA more natural move was 14...\u2658xc3.\n\n**15. \u2657f1 \u2656c8 16.b4 \u2657e8**\n\n'The defensive position is characteristic of Steinitz, with most of the pieces on the back two ranks. There are no weak points but the black position suffers from a lack of space and the chance to manoeuvre the pieces.' (Capablanca)\n\n**17. \u2655b3 \u2656ec7 18.a4 \u2658g6 19.a5**\n\nForces another black piece into passivity.\n\n**19... \u2658d7 20.e5 b6 21.\u2658e4 \u2656b8**\n\nHere 21...bxa5 22.bxa5 \u2656b8 23.\u2655a3 \u2656cb7 was more active. But here too there is no question as to White's advantage.\n\n**22. \u2655c3**\n\nKasparov recommends the immediate 22.\u2655a3, since after 22...\u2658f4 23.\u2658d6 \u2658d5 White does not lose a tempo because of the attack on the queen.\n\n**22... \u2658f4 23.\u2658d6 \u2658d5 24.\u2655a3 f6**\n\nL\u00f6wenfisch and Panov gave 24...\u2655e7 as an improvement here, so as to be able to take on e8 with the rook: 25.\u2657c4 (after 25.\u2658xe8 \u2656xe8 White's advantage would have disappeared) 25...\u2658f8 26.\u2657a2 f6 etc.\n\n**25. \u2658xe8 \u2655xe8 26.exf6 gxf6**\n\n26...\u26587xf6 27.\u2658e5 with advantage to White.\n\n**27.b5**\n\n'The exposed position of the black monarch invites an attack on the king. But before White acts on this, he must first liquidate his queenside pawns, so as to dispose of any possible weakness. If the two pawns disappear White can devote his full attention to the kingside and does not have to worry about the other flank.' (Capablanca)\n\n**27... \u2656bc8**\n\n27...c5 would according to Capablanca be followed by 28.dxc5 (a better try is 28.axb6 axb6 29.\u2657c4, Panov) 28...bxc5 (Kasparov pointed to 28...\u2658xc5 as a better option: 29.\u2658d4 \u2656bc8 'with an unclear position.') 29.\u2657c4.\n\n**28.bxc6**\n\n28.\u2656xc6 \u2656xc6 29.bxc6 \u2656xc6 30.axb6 axb6 31.\u2656e1 is the position in the game, but is the more precise move order should 28...\u2658b8 actually be an improvement.\n\n**28... \u2656xc6**\n\nThere was also the interesting 28...\u2658b8!? e.g.: 29.\u2657c4 (29.\u2656c2 \u2658xc6 30.axb6 axb6 31.\u2656dc1 \u2655d7=) 29...\u2655d8 30.\u2656e1 \u2656xc6 31.\u2657xd5 \u2655xd5 32.axb6 axb6 with only a slight advantage for White.\n\n**29. \u2656xc6 \u2656xc6 30.axb6 axb6 31.\u2656e1 \u2655c8**\n\nPossibly it was worth considering 31... \u2655f8!?, in order to get some relief with an exchange of queens: 32.\u2655b3 \u2655b4.\n\n**32. \u2658d2 \u2658f8**\n\nLasker gave 32...\u2656c3 33.\u2655a1 \u2658f8 34.\u2658e4 \u2656c7 as more accurate.\n\n**33. \u2658e4 \u2655d8 34.h4 \u2656c7**\n\n34...f5 is followed by 35.\u2655g3+ \u2654h8 36.\u2655e5+ \u2654g8 37.\u2657b5 with advantage to White. The best move here according to Capablanca was 34...h6 intending...f6-f5.\n\n**35. \u2655b3 \u2656g7 36.g3 \u2656a7 37.\u2657c4 \u2656a5**\n\nThis avoids the trap 37...h6 38.\u2657xd5 exd5 39.\u2655xd5+ \u2655xd5 40.\u2658xf6+ +\u2013.\n\n**38. \u2658c3 \u2658xc3 39.\u2655xc3 \u2654f7 40.\u2655e3 \u2655d6 41.\u2655e4 \u2656a4?**\n\n'Suicide' (Lasker). 41...\u2656a7 was better. After 42.d5 e5 43.\u2657f1 White retains his advantage.\n\n**42. \u2655b7+ \u2654g6**\n\n42...\u2655e7 43.\u2655c6 \u2656a7 44.d5+\u2013.\n\n**43. \u2655c8?**\n\nKasparov pointed out the following pretty forced win: 43.h5+ \u2654h6 (43... \u2654xh5 44.\u2655g7 threatens \u2657e2#) 44.\u2655f7 \u2655d8 45.\u2657d3 \u2656xd4 46.\u2656xe6 and if 46... \u2656xd3, then 47.\u2656xf6+ \u2654g5 48.\u2655g7+ \u2658g6 49.\u2656xg6+ hxg6 50.\u2655xg6#.\n\n**43... \u2655b4?**\n\n43...\u2654h6 is more resilient: 44.\u2657xe6 \u2656xd4 45.\u2655c1+ \u2654g7 and White is far from having a win.\n\n**44. \u2656c1+\u2013 \u2655e7 45.\u2657d3+ \u2654h6**\n\n45...f5 46.\u2656c7+\u2013.\n\n**46. \u2656c7 \u2656a1+ 47.\u2654g2 \u2655d6 48.\u2655xf8+**\n\nBlack resigned.\n\nThe match ended very harmoniously in the final meeting of the two players and the organisers. Later too Lasker and Capablanca would always meet each other with mutual respect. In his little book _Mein Wettkampf mit Capablanca_ (Berlin 1921) Lasker gives the adverse circumstances as the reason for his defeat. After his return to Germany Lasker, according to Hannak, indicated he needed a rest cure of several months in the spa at Karlsbad in order to recover from the strain. Capablanca contradicted this representation of the facts in a letter which was printed in the _British Chess Magazine_ of October 1922 (pp. 376-380).\n\nAfter the loss of the World Champion title Lasker still notched up some outstanding successes. Above all his results at the tournaments of New York 1924 and Moscow 1925, where on both occasions he left Capablanca in his wake, prove that despite his age Lasker was not yet on the scrapheap.\n\nThe tournament in Moscow was above all on account of the enormous public interest the greatest of the year 1925. For the staging of the tournament the organisers received 30000 roubles from the communist government and invited 21 masters, ten local ones and ten foreigners and in addition the one who was born in Russia and lived in Germany, Efim Bogoljubow.\n\nOn the 9th November the opening of the tournament was celebrated in the 'Blue Hall' of the House of Trade Unions. The tournament itself was then played in the 'Fountain Hall' of the Hotel Metropol. The degree of interest surprised even the organisers. At the start approximately 500 spectators visited the tournament every day, and soon there were more than a thousand chess enthusiasts. Outside up to 50000 followed the events on a huge demo board. The foreign chess masters were f\u00eated and honoured like pop stars. Moscow's 'chess fever' of 1925 inspired the Russian director Vsevolod Pudovkin to shoot the film _Shakhmatnaya goryachka_ (English: 'Chess fever', 1925).\n\nAs well as chess Lasker now devoted himself more and more to the game of go, in which he soon rivalled Germanys leading go-player Felix Dueball, to bridge and also to poker. However, Lasker was not such a great master at the game of bridge, remarked Milan Vidmar in his classic _Goldene Schachzeiten_ , and he is also said not to have been an agreeable playing partner. Lasker apparently had problems losing gracefully. Moreover Lasker invented his own board game, Lasca. He published a series of books, including his _Manual of chess_ and together with his brother Berthold the expressionist drama _Vom Menschen die Geschichte_ , which, however, was never staged.\n\nAt the start of the 1920s or perhaps earlier Lasker met Albert Einstein in the house of the Germano-Polish author Alexander Moszkowski and became friends with the physicist. He later spoke of this encounter during a lecture in the USA: 'Einstein was aware that I had raised a certain objection to his theory, but he was not keen to enter into a discussion about it. My thesis is that \"lim c = \u221e\", whilst he maintained that c is a finite constant'. On the same occasion Lasker also met Walther Rathenau and discussed philosophical questions with the German foreign minister who was later the victim of an assassination in 1922.\n\nLasker was also among other things a regular visitor to the Romanisches Caf\u00e9 on the Kurf\u00fcrstendamm, the best known meeting place for artists in Berlin. The director Geza von Cziffra later reminisced about the figures to be seen in the Romanisches Caf\u00e9, whom he divided into 'swimmers' \u2013 those who were able to make a living from their work \u2013 and 'non-swimmers'. And in addition there were on the balcony the 'moon dwellers': 'the chess players who had been rapt from this world, and among them no less a figure than the World Chess Champion Lasker'. The director and actor Fritz Kortner even had a mask made with Lasker's features.\n\nAt the end of the 1920s Lasker was still undertaking numerous journeys in Europe. After the seizure of power by the Nazis and the start of the persecution of the Jews, he left Germany with his wife and at first lived in the Netherlands. After a year he moved to London, running several chess columns there and giving simultaneous exhibitions. In 1934 he participated in the tournament in Zurich. In 1935, at the invitation of the Moscow Academy of Sciences, he went to the Soviet Union and there took part in the strong tournaments in Moscow in 1935 and 1936. In the meantime at home in Germany his flat had been smashed up, as Nikolai Krylenko later reported in a letter in which he begged Stalin to accord Lasker the right to stay in the USSR. The request was granted and Lasker received in 1935 a flat in Moscow's Great Spasso Glinichtchevsky Lane No. 8. The flat in the centre of Moscow soon became the meeting point for many Russian players and the presence of the former World Champion was an inspiration for the chess life in Moscow.\n\nLasker's last international tournament was Nottingham 1936. In the following year in Moscow he wrote the story _Wie Wanja Meister wurde_ ('How Vanya became a master'), which was only published in 1973 in Russian (in an edition of 75000 copies!) and even published in German in 2001. Lasker and his wife travelled in 1937 to New York, apparently to visit Martha Lasker's daughter from her first marriage, Charlotte Cohn. Because Martha Lasker became ill there, that was the official explanation, the couple remained in New York, where the Laskers lived in 610 West 139th Street, Apartment 3C. Nevertheless, the emigration to the USA had probably already been planned by the Laskers in Moscow, since before they set off they had packed up all their possessions and taken them with them to New York.\n\nIn 1937 the political climate in Moscow had changed dramatically, Some wellknown persons from the Moscow chess scene had already been arrested. Finally even Nikolai Krylenko, People's Commissar for Justice and Advocate General (famous quotation: 'It is not enough to have executed the guilty. It is only when a few innocent people have been shot that the people is impressed.'), chess partner of Lenin and founder of the chess boom in the USSR, was arrested and in 1938, like many other comrades of Lenin, executed on the orders of Stalin. In 1938 Lasker was also deprived of his German citizenship in Nazi Germany.\n\nIn 1940 Lasker was taken ill and was taken to the New York Mount Sinai Hospital. On the 11th January 1941 he died and was buried in the Beth Olom cemetery in Queens. From 2008 Lasker has been the only chess player to belong to the 'Hall of Fame' of German sport.\n**12. Friends become enemies**\n\n**The World Championship 1927:  \n_Jos\u00e9 Raul Capablanca against Alexander Alekhine_**\n\nAlexander Alekhine was born on the 13th October 1892 (according to the Gregorian calendar) in Moscow. His father Alexander Ivanovich Alekhine belonged to the nobility and was a member of the Duma; his mother Anissia Ivanovna Alekhine (n\u00e9e Prokhorova), was the daughter of an industrialist. Alekhine grew up in great luxury in Moscow. His father, a regular visitor to the Riviera, is supposed to have lost on one occasion a million roubles in the casino of Monte Carlo.\n\n**Alexander Alekhine (1892-1946)**\n\nAlekhine first learned to play chess at the age of seven from his mother. His father and his four year older brother Alexei then gave him more tips about the game. Alekhine, moreover, had a sister, Varvara (Barbara), who later became an actress. When Alekhine was nine years old, Harry Nelson Pillsbury visited Moscow in order to give a blindfold simultaneous display. Alekhine himself was too young to be allowed to the event but his brother played in it and even scored a draw. Alekhine's father made sure that as well as his secondary school education his son also learned German and French at an early age. After secondary school Alekhine continued his education at the 'Provedenie' in St. Petersburg, a law faculty for nobles who were aiming at a career in the service of the state.\n\nAlekhine's progress in chess continued to be less meteoric than that of other top players. Modest successes in many tournaments were interspersed by failures. But what was noticeable was his fantastic memory, which moved Georg Marco to the statement: 'A youth in years, an old man in knowledge.' At the 17th DSB Congress in Hamburg (1910) Alekhine was already taking part at the age of 17, but for a time had to be carried into the tournament hall because he could not walk on account of a serious swelling of the lymphatic vessels of his ankles.\n\nFrom 1913 Alekhine's play finally acquired a certain amount of stability. He finally had a sensational success to celebrate in 1914 at the grandmaster tournament of St. Petersburg, where, though the only non-grandmaster, he took third place behind Lasker and Capablanca. The concept of a 'grandmaster', which had occasionally been used previously, became common after the tournament. Those masters who had already won an important tournament were described as grandmasters. During the tournament Alekhine became friends with Capablanca and analysed games together with the Cuban.\n\nCapablanca was already considered after his victory in San Sebastian as a possible challenger to World Champion Lasker. Nobody could have suspected that it would take more than ten years till they finally managed to play a match. And also the friendly relationship between Capablanca and Alekhine would later change dramatically.\n\nIn the middle of July 1914 Alekhine travelled to the 19th DSB Congress in Mannheim. When the seventh round was being played, on the 28th July 1914, Austria-Hungary, as its reply to the assassination of the successor to the Austrian throne Franz Ferdinand and his wife in Sarajevo, declared war to Serbia. Within the shortest possible space of time the crisis escalated into the great war into which almost all the states of Europe were drawn. On the 1st August 1914 at 19.00, after the expiry of an ultimatum, Germany declared war on Russia. The tournament was suspended and Alekhine was interned together with ten other Russians \u2013 Efim Bogoljubow, Fyodor Bohatyrchuk, Alexander Flamberg, N. Koppelman, Boris Malyutin, Ilia Rabinovich, Peter Romanovsky, Peter Saburov, Alexei Selesniev and Samuel Weinstein.\n\nDuring his captivity in Germany he was held in various places \u2013 Mannheim, Ludwigshafen, Rastatt and Baden-Baden. The longest period of time was spent in Rastatt in a cell with Efim Bogoljubow, Ilia Rabinovich and 'a certain Weinstein' (Alekhine), who later, according to Alekhine, became active as 'chess watchdog' for the Commissar for Justice Nikolai Krylenko. There were neither books nor newspapers and so Alekhine and Bogoljubow spent their time playing blindfold chess, because the Russians did not have a chess set either.\n\nSince after an examination the Germans considered Alekhine unfit for military service, on the 14th September 1914 he was released from detention along with Bohatyrchuk, Saburov and Koppelman and sent to Switzerland. From there Alekhine made his way with Bohatyrchuk to Genoa, the destination for many stranded Russians. Of course, during their long wait for a ship to take them back to Russia, the two Russian chess masters spent their time playing chess. In the middle of October Alekhine and Bohatyrchuk got back to Russia by ship via Genoa, Gibraltar, London, Stockholm, Finland, St. Petersburg \u2013 now re-baptised Petrograd. Bogoljubow on the other hand became friendly with the daughter of a prison warder and remained in Germany after the war too.\n\nAfter his return to Russia Alekhine married the Russian Baroness Anna von Severgin, in order to legitimise their daughter Valentina, born in 1913. It was Anna von Severgin's second marriage, her first husband having died at the start of the First World War. But the marriage with Alexander Alekhine ended in divorce a few months later. Valentina Alekhine later lived in Austria and died around 1985 in Vienna.\n\nAlekhine joined the Red Cross, took part in the war as a Red Cross helper and was wounded in 1916, receiving severe contusions to his back. He spent several months confined to his bed in a convent hospital in Tarnopol. Alekhine's father died around this time after spending more than a year as a prisoner-of-war in a German camp. Alekhin's mother had already died in 1913, mentally deranged as a result of her continuing use of narcotics.\n\nAfter his recovery Alekhine worked for the new communist authorities in Odessa as an investigator, but was one day denounced as a noble and put into a common prison. Alekhine escaped the execution of his death sentence only because the Ukrainian chess master Yakov Vilner knew Alekhine and turned to the Ukrainian political commissar Christian Rakovsky (or according to another versions the agricultural commissar Dimitry Manuilsky) and asked for help. The latter pardoned Alekhine and arranged for his release. In yet another version of this story, one day Leo Trotsky, himself a good chess player, appeared in Alekhine's cell and is said to have played with him a game in which the stake was Alekhine's life \u2013 and Alekhine won.\n\nAfter his return to Moscow Alekhine enrolled in 1919 in the film college in order to become an actor, but gave up this enterprise in the first year. In November 1920 Alekhine was once more questioned by the secret police in Moscow on account of supposed anti-revolutionary views. The accusation was, however, again dropped at the start of 1921.\n\nIn 1920 during his work as a translator for the Comintern (Communist International) Alekhine had made the acquaintance of the then 41 year old Swiss author and avowed communist Annaliese R\u00fcegg. During the '3rd International' she was on a lecture tour of Russia. The couple married on the 15th March 1921 and since Anneliese R\u00fcegg had good contacts in the Bolshevik leadership, even being personally known to Lenin, she obtained an exit visa for her husband. The approval was granted by Lenin's intimate friend Karl Radek, with the justification: 'Even if Alekhine is also a counter-revolutionary, he is a major chess genius. This gift can only find expression outside of Russia.'\n\nAlso in 1921 Alekhine's son Alexander was born, who later became a well-known handball referee in Switzerland. Alekhine's marriage to Annaliese R\u00fcegg ended in divorce in 1926. After her death in 1934 Alekhine arranged for his son in Switzerland to get a place in a boarding school and put him in the care of the Swiss master and FIDE delegate Erwin Voellmy. Alekhine went Paris and according to his own accounts there earned the title of Doctor of Law in 1925. He was then living with the widow of the Russian general V. Vassiliev, Nadezhda Fabritzky, and lived with her in Paris in the Rue de la Croix-Nivert. His new partner was also clearly older than Alekhine. Apparently, however, the couple had not yet married. During this time Alekhine earned his living with simultaneous and blindfold displays.\n\nHis tournament successes in the early 1920s included in addition to victories in The Hague 1921 and Hastings 1922 and second place in London 1922 (behind Capablanca) a shared second place in Bad Pistyan, a joint first place in Karlsbad 1923, a third place in New York 1924 and a clear victory at the tournament in Baden-Baden 1925 with 16 points and 1\u00bd points of a lead ahead of Rubinstein. In 1926 Alekhine just won a match against Max Euwe 5\u00bd:4\u00bd. In Semmering in the same year he was second behind Rudolf Spielmann, in the subsequent tournament in Dresden once more second, this time behind Aaron Nimzowitsch. After his tournament victory in The Hague in 1921 Alekhine had already addressed a first challenge to Capablanca, who had just succeeded Lasker as World Champion.\n\nAfter winning his World Championship match against Lasker, Capablanca had underlined his position as the best chess player in the world with his tournament win in London 1922. The new World Champion now explained that he would accept a challenge from any player as long as certain conditions were fulfilled. Capablanca agreed in London with the leading players of the tournaments, namely Alexander Alekhine, Akiba Rubinstein, Efim Bogoljubow, Richard R\u00e9ti, Geza Maroczy, Milan Vidmar and Savielly Tartakower, that the rules for World Chess Championship matches should be unified and formalised. After lively debate these eight players put together the 'London Rules' and signed on the 9th August 1922 the so-called 'London Agreement'.\n\nAccording to it WCh matches should now be set for six wins. The time control should be two and a half hours for 40 moves. The World Champion had to defend his title within a year of receiving a challenge. The challenger, however, had to be a recognised master. In addition the challenger had to come up with a prize fund of 10 000 dollars, of which the title defender was to receive 20% as an appearance fee. The remainder was to be divided 60:40 between the winner and the loser. In addition provision had to be made for the travel costs of both players. Further conditions were specified in a total of 21 points. The 'London Rules' were published for example in the _American Chess Bulletin_ (December 1923, pp. 185-186).\n\nAs far as his chess career was concerned, Capablanca was far less active in the first half of the 1920s than Alekhine. He played in the big tournaments in New York 1924 and Moscow 1925 and on both occasions had to concede to Lasker. The London Rules, with their demands for prize money of 10000 dollars, turned out to be an almost insurmountable hurdle for the masters of that time. Nobody managed to come up with that high sum. Actually Akiba Rubinstein was considered the legitimate challenger on the basis of his successes, but the Polish master could not raise the money either.\n\nIn November 1923 Alekhine reminded Capablanca that Rubinstein's deadline for raising the money for the match would come to an end on the 1st January 1924 and that it would then be his turn to be the challenger. Moreover, Alekhine set out on a five month publicity tour of South America during which he gave a series of blindfold exhibitions. The tournament in New York 1924, however, represented for Alekhine a certain setback, since in it he was unable to keep pace with Lasker and Capablanca, though he was third. Alekhine was not invited to the first big tournament in the Soviet Union, in 1925 in Moscow.\n\nIn February 1927 there was a re-run of the tournament in New York. Lasker, the majestic victor of 1924, declined an invitation because in the first tournament he had felt himself disadvantaged in his game against Capablanca on account of a clock which was not working correctly. Moreover a public quarrel had arisen about it between the former World Champion and the head organiser of the tournament Norbert Lederer, a prominent New York lawyer, the secretary of the Marshall Chess Club, and a good friend of Capablanca. This time Capablanca won the tournament.\n\nOutwith the tournament Alekhine, Capablanca and organisers from Argentina agreed to stage a match between Capablanca and Alekhine for the World Championship in Buenos Aires. This WCh match was then the first, and remained the only, one which was played according to the 'London Rules' agreed in 1922, thus with its six wins and being unlimited in the total number of games. In many sources it has been reported that Capablanca would only have needed a score of 5:5 to retain the title. Whether this is actually the case or not has so far not been completely cleared up.\n\nWith its 10000 dollars the prize fund met exactly the specifications of the London Agreement. The organisers were the 'Club Argentino de Ajedrez' in Buenos Aires, which had made a financial outlay of a total of 40000 pesos for the organisation. With its 34 games this became the then longest match in history. It was not surpassed until 1984\/85 when Karpov and Kasparov would see their legendary match of 48 games in Moscow broken off without a winner.\n\nPlay took place in Buenos Aires from 16th September till 27th November 1927, that is to say a time of over two months. With the exception of the first and third games, curiously all the games opened with the Queen's Gambit Declined. To the great surprise of the world of chess Alekhine took the lead with a victory in the first game:\n\n **Capablanca \u2013 Alekhine**\n\nBuenos Aires, 11th game  \n16th September 1927  \nFrench Defence (C01)\n\n**1.e4 e6 2.d4 d5 3. \u2658c3 \u2657b4**\n\nThis move characterises the Winawer Variation of the French Defence.\n\n**4.exd5**\n\nA more ambitious move is 4.e5, but this advance did not become fashionable till later. The Exchange Variation 4.exd5 is nowadays regarded as tame, but is not without its venom. Capablanca, however, plays really cautiously here.\n\n**4...exd5 5. \u2657d3 \u2658c6 6.\u2658ge2 \u2658ge7 7.0-0 \u2657f5 8.\u2657xf5 \u2658xf5 9.\u2655d3 \u2655d7**\n\nAfter 9...\u2657xc3? White can take with the knight since 10.\u2658xc3 \u2658fxd4 11.\u2656e1+ \u2658e6 12.\u2658xd5 would be unpleasant for Black (Rolf Schwarz).\n\n**10. \u2658d1**\n\nWhite would like to exchange the active \u2658f5, but that costs time. Alekhine recommended 10.\u2657f4 0-0-0 with equality.\n\n**10...0-0 11. \u2658e3 \u2658xe3 12.\u2657xe3**\n\n'The white minor pieces are now blocking the important e-file. That is the convincing proof of a failed opening strategy', commented Alekhine in over-exaggerated fashion.\n\n**12... \u2656fe8 13.\u2658f4?!**\n\n13.\u2657f4 \u2656e4 14.c3 \u2657d6 15.\u2657xd6 \u2655xd6 16.\u2658g3 is equal (Alekhine); Euwe recommended 13.\u2658g3, also with equality.\n\n**13... \u2657d6 14.\u2656fe1 \u2658b4 15.\u2655b3**\n\n15.\u2655d2 would according to Alekhine be followed by 15...\u2655f5 16.\u2656ec1 h5! with a slight advantage to Black.\n\n**15... \u2655f5 16.\u2656ac1?**\n\nSlightly careless play. Capablanca gave 16.\u2658d3 \u2658xd3 17.\u2655xd3 \u2655xd3 18.cxd3 as level, but Alekhine saw an advantage for Black after 18...\u2657b4 19.\u2656ec1 c6, intending...a7-a5.\n\n**16... \u2658xc2! 17.\u2656xc2**\n\n17.\u2655xc2 \u2655xc2 18.\u2656xc2 \u2657xf4 changes nothing since the \u2657e3 is pinned here too.\n\n**17... \u2655xf4**\n\n'This possibility was obviously over-looked by Capablanca on his 16th move.' (Alekhine)\n\n**18.g3 \u2655f5**\n\nBlack is clearly better. Also interesting according to Alekhine was 18...\u2655f3!? 19.\u2655xb7 h5 20.\u2655b5 h4 21.\u2655e2 \u2655f5.\n\n**19. \u2656ce2 b6 20.\u2655b5 h5**\n\nIntending...h5-h4-h3, after which...\u2655f3-g2# is in the air.\n\n**21.h4 \u2656e4**\n\n**22. \u2657d2**\n\nAfter 22.a3? there is a win after 22... \u2656xh4 23.gxh4 \u2655g4+ 24.\u2654h1 \u2655h3+ 25.\u2654g1 \u2655h2+ 26.\u2654f1 \u2655h1# and 22.\u2655d3 is followed by 22...\u2655f3 (with the threat 23...\u2656xh4, 24...\u2655g4+, 25...\u2655h3+ and mate on h2) 23.\u2656c2 \u2657xg3 24.fxg3 \u2655xg3+ 25.\u2654f1 \u2656ae8 26.\u2655d1 \u2655h3+ 27.\u2656g2 \u2656xe3 28.\u2656xe3 \u2656xe3\u2013+.\n\n**22... \u2656xd4**\n\n22...\u2656ae8 was better: 23.\u2655xe8+ \u2656xe8 24.\u2656xe8+ \u2654h7 with advantage to Black according to Alekhine.\n\n**23. \u2657c3 \u2656d3?!**\n\n23...\u2656c4? was inaccurate on account of 24.\u2656e5! \u2657xe5 25.\u2655xd5 with counterplay. But 23...\u2656g4! intending 24...\u2657c5 and some pressure was also strong.\n\n**24. \u2657e5 \u2656d8 25.\u2657xd6 \u2656xd6**\n\n25...cxd6 26.\u2655c6!.\n\n**26. \u2656e5 \u2655f3**\n\n26...\u2655g6? 27.\u2656g5!.\n\n**27. \u2656xh5! \u2655xh5**\n\nThis avoids the trap 27...\u2656e6?? 28.\u2655e8+! \u2656xe8 29.\u2656xe8#.\n\n**28. \u2656e8+**\n\nIt was worth considering 28.\u2655xd3!?. After 28...\u2656e6 29.\u2656xe6 fxe6 30.\u2655a6 d4 31.\u2655xa7 the queen ending would be unclear.\n\n**28... \u2654h7 29.\u2655xd3+ \u2655g6 30.\u2655d1**\n\nAfter 30.\u2655xg6+ \u2654xg6 31.\u2656e7 Black obtains an advantageous rook ending on account of the passed pawn on the d-file. After 30.\u2655f3!? followed by 31.h5 White could, however, obtain counterplay.\n\n**30... \u2656e6!?**\n\n'An interesting idea: Black returns his extra pawn, so as to combine the advantage of the passed d-pawn with a mating attack.' (Alekhine) After 30...d4 the move 31.\u2655f3!? was also good here.\n\n**31. \u2656a8 \u2656e5**\n\n'Intending to place the queen behind the rook and to prepare the pawn formation b6-c5-d4.' (Alekhine). 31...d4! was later suggested by Averbakh as an improvement, since 32.\u2655xd4 fails to 32...\u2656e1+ 33.\u2654h2 \u2655c6\u2013+.\n\n**32. \u2656xa7**\n\nIt was again worth considering the move 32.\u2655f3!?. After 32...\u2655b1+ (32...\u2656f5 33.\u2655d3 \u2655e6 34.\u2656e8=) 33.\u2654g2 \u2656f5 34.\u2655e2 d4 35.b3 the chances are level.\n\n**32...c5**\n\n**33. \u2656d7?!**\n\n'This shortens the suffering.' (Alekhine). Capablanca suggested 33.\u2654g2 as an equalising continuation. 'From this evaluation one can see that, even after the game, Capablanca has not understood his unfortunate situation.' (Alekhine) 33...d4 34.\u2656a3 \u2655e6! 35.\u2655f3 c4\u2013+ (Alekhine). Once again 33.\u2655f3! was the best move. After 33...\u2656f5 34.\u2655d3 d4 35.b3 there can be no question of a win for Black.\n\n**33... \u2655e6 34.\u2655d3+ g6 35.\u2656d8 d4 36.a4**\n\n36.\u2655f3 \u2656f5\u2013+ (36...\u2655xa2?? 37.\u2655f6+\u2013) or 36.\u2654g2 \u2656e2 37.b4 \u2655f6\u2013+.\n\n**36... \u2656e1+**\n\nBut another strong move according to Alekhine was 36...\u2655e7! 37.\u2656b8 \u2655c7 intending 38.\u2656f8 \u2656e1+ 39.\u2654h2 \u2655b7\u2013+.\n\n**37. \u2654g2 \u2655c6+ 38.f3**\n\n38.\u2655f3? \u2656g1+ \u2013+.\n\n**38... \u2656e3 39.\u2655d1 \u2655e6\u2013+ 40.g4**\n\n40.b3 \u2656e2+ 41.\u2654f1 \u2656h2 42.\u2654g1 \u2655h3 and then mate, 40.\u2654f2 \u2655h3 41.\u2655g1 \u2656b3\u2013+.\n\n**40... \u2656e2+ 41.\u2654h3**\n\n41.\u2654f1 \u2656h2 42.\u2654g1 \u2655e5\u2013+ (Albert Becker).\n\n**41... \u2655e3 42.\u2655h1 \u2655f4!**\n\nThe game was adjourned here.\n\n**43.h5 \u2656f2**\n\nAnd Capablanca resigned: 44.hxg6+ \u2654g7\u2013+.\n\nAfter the defeat in the first game, which was completely unexpected for him, Capablanca was so shocked that he took a time-out of three days and sailed out into the Atlantic on a yacht in order to recover from the shock in absolute seclusion.\n\nCapablanca managed to equalise with a win in the third game. The Cuban won the seventh game and went into the lead. In games eleven and twelve Alekhine landed a double blow, which now brought the challenger a 3:2 lead. A series of eight draws followed, before Alekhine increased his lead to 4:2 with his win in game 21. After another series of seven draws it was again Capablanca's turn. Alekhine finally won the 32nd and 34th games. The 34th game was adjourned on the 27th November 1927 on the 82nd move.\n\nOn the following day Capablanca sent a letter in French to the challenger: 'Dear Mr Alekhine! I resign the game. You are now the new World Champion. Accept my congratulations and best wishes. Sincerely, your J. R. Capablanca.' Later in the day Capablanca went to the chess club and also congratulated Alekhine in person. At the closing banquet on the 8th December, at which Alekhine was officially declared the new World Champion, Capablanca, however, was not present.\n\nAlekhine won the match by 6:3 (with 25 draws) and thus became the fourth World Chess Champion. The outcome of the match came as a surprise not only to Capablanca, but also to the whole world of chess. Alekhine later explained his triumph with the supposition that Capablanca had probably previously been too convinced of his victory.\n\nAlekhine returned to Paris as World Champion, had a reception in the Palais Royal and was f\u00eated in the Caf\u00e9 de la Rotonde, the Caf\u00e9 de la R\u00e9gence and in the Russian Club. In the Russian Club he gave a toast, which on the following day was quoted in the newspapers for Russian \u00e9migr\u00e9s. 'May the myth of the invincibility of the Bolsheviks turn out to be just as false as the myth of the invincibility of Capablanca.' The reaction from Moscow was immediate: from now on Alekhine would be regarded as an enemy of the state, announced Nikolai Krylenko.\n\nImmediately after the match Alekhine had reaffirmed in an interview with the newspaper _La Prensa_ that he was ready for a return match with Capablanca \u2013 though only under the same conditions under which the match in Buenos Aires had been played. While still in Buenos Aires Capablanca had suggested limiting the number of games, but Alekhine insisted on unchanged conditions. In 1928 Capablanca brought an offer from Bradley Beach, New Jersey, but the negotiations about the match conditions drew out over years and the once good relationship between the two players deteriorated more and more. At the end they no longer spoke to each other and Alekhine totally avoided playing in the same tournaments as Capablanca. For the tournament in San Remo 1930 Alekhine demanded of the organisers 20000 lira appearance money, or, should Capablanca also be invited, 40000 lira. Therefore Capablanca was not invited.\n\nThere was no return match; instead Alekhine preferred to play against other challengers, firstly against Bogoljubow and after that against Euwe, and was also prepared to deviate from the London Rules in those cases. Capablanca's attempt to play against Euwe for the title, after the latter had defeated Alekhine and become World Champion, also failed. The match, which was planned for 1939, never took place, since Euwe lost his 1937 return match against Alekhine.\n\nCapablanca was considered a chess genius who conducted his games with great ease \u2013 and despite that won most of them. Above all he was hard to defeat. In his adult career he lost just 34 of his tournament games. From the 10th February 1916 (defeated by Oscar Chajes) till the 21st March 1924 (his defeat at the hands of Richard R\u00e9ti) he did not lose a single one out of 63 games (including the WCh match against Lasker) and won 40 of them.\n\nAfter the loss of the title of World Champion Capablanca again participated more often in tournaments so as to emphasise his claim to a return match. In 1928 he won in Budapest and Berlin, in 1929 in Budapest and Barcelona, in 1929\/30 in Hastings, in 1931 in New York. In the same year he won a match against Euwe by 2:0, with eight draws. In 1931 Capablanca withdrew temporarily from tournament chess. In the spring of 1934 at a party given by the Cuban consul in New York the charming Cuban made the acquaintance of his future second wife, Olga Chagodaev, who was born Olga Chubarova in 1898 in the Caucasus. After he divorced in 1937 from his first wife Gloria Simioni y Betancourt the couple married in 1938.\n\nAfter his comeback in 1933\/34 in Hastings (fourth place) Capablanca played a few tournaments with less success. Then, however, in 1936 he won the tournament in Moscow and shared first place in Nottingham (with Botvinnik). For the first time since 1927 Alekhine and Capablanca had again played in the same tournament. At the AVRO-tournament in 1938 Capablanca suffered his first slight stroke. Nevertheless he finished the tournament, only coming in, however, second last.\n\nAt the Chess Olympiad of 1939 in Buenos Aires, during which the Second World War broke out, Capablanca undertook a final attempt to get from Alekhine an agreement for a return match, but once more in vain. When the French and Cuban teams met, both players took a rest day simply not to have to play against each other.\n\nOn the 7th March 1942 a second stroke befell Capablanca as he was kibitzing in the Manhattan Chess Club. He was taken to the Mount Sinai Hospital where he died on the 15th March 1942. The year before Emanuel Lasker had also died in the same hospital. After a public funeral in Havana, Capablanca found his final resting place in the local Colon Cemetery.\n**13. Duel of the cellmates**\n\n**The World Championship 1929:  \n_Alexander Alekhine against Efim Bogoljubow_**\n\nInstead of playing a return match against Capablanca, two years after winning the title Alekhine preferred to play a WCh title match against Efim Bogoljubow. This had already been agreed upon in 1928.\n\n**Efim Bogoljubow (1889-1952)**\n\nEfim Bogoljubow ( _Bogo lyubov_ , the Russian for 'loved by God') was born on the 14th April 1889 in Stanislavchik, near Kiev (the Russian empire, nowadays Ukraine). He first studied theology in a seminary for priests in Kiev and later changed to the Polytechnic Institute, where he began to study agriculture. It was not till he was 15 that Bogoljubow learned to play chess and he began at 18 to take a greater interest in it when he had met a few fellow students who were chess enthusiasts. In 1911 he shared first place in the championship of Kiev. In the same year he was fourth in the master tournament in Warsaw behind Rubinstein, Rotlevi and Flamberg.\n\nIn 1914 Bogoljubow applied to take part in the 19th DSB Congress in Mannheim and received an invitation. The tournament began on 20th July 1914 and was abandoned after the 11th round when the German Empire announced the mobilisation of its forces on 1st August 1914. The declaration of war followed on the same evening at 19.00. Germany and Russia were now at war with each other and the Russian chess players, including Alekhine and Bogoljubow, were interned, firstly in the central police station in Mannheim, then in the military prison of Ludwigshafen, then in Rastatt, where Alekhine and Bogoljubow shared a cell and passed their time with blindfold chess \u2013 they did not have a chess board. Later the Russians were moved to Baden-Baden, then to Triberg.\n\nFour of the Russian chess players, amongst them Alekhine, were released as being unfit for military service and deported to Switzerland. During their internment the remaining Russian players took part in eight tournaments, the first in Baden-Baden 1914, the others in Triberg (1914-1917). Bogoljubow won five of these tournaments.\n\nDuring the time of his internment in Germany Bogoljubow met his wife, the daughter of a teacher, and after the end of the First World War remained in Germany, settling in Triberg. After the end of the war he won the 1919 tournament in Berlin. In 1920 he was narrowly defeated in a match in Stockholm and Gothenburg by Akiba Rubinstein (4:5 and three draws), but won in Gothenburg a match against Aaron Nimzowitsch by 3:1. In 1922 Bogoljubow was victorious in the tournament in Bad Pistyan ahead of Alekhine. In 1923 in Karlsbad he shared first place with Alekhine and Maroczy. In 1924 he was finally convinced by Nikolai Krylenko, the Commissar and initiator of the future Soviet chess boom, to return to Russia, which had now become part of the 'Soviet Union'. Bogoljubow answered the call and won the USSR championships of 1924 and 1925. He finally even took the great Moscow tournament of 1925, the first international chess tournament in the new Soviet Union, ahead of Capablanca and Lasker. In 1926, however, he fled the country, apparently unhappy with the living conditions and political circumstances under the new authorities. Contemporaries later described Bogoljubow as a staunch anti-Bolshevik.\n\nAfter his 'flight' he became in the USSR a non-person \u2013 even the mention of his name was forbidden. Bogoljubow's later opportunism under the Nazi regime further strengthened the negative attitude of the authorities in the Soviet Union towards their prodigal son. According to communist usage, Bogoljubow's name was struck from all lists and even the entries of his tournament successes were removed. Since Bogoljubow harboured the idea of taking part in the tournament in Merano in 1926 \u2013 from now on this was forbidden to him as a Soviet citizen in Mussolini's Italy \u2013 he renounced his Russian citizenship and requested German citizenship. But he did not receive this till 1927.\n\nIn April\/May 1928 and around the turn of the year 1928\/29 Efim Bogoljubow and Max Euwe played two matches in various cities in the Netherlands, which on the initiative of FIDE president Alexander Rueb were described as the 'FIDE championship'. FIDE would have liked to take over the organisation the World Championships and established their 'FIDE champion' \u2013 the description World Champion was avoided if possible \u2013 as the challenger of the World Champion. But finally, Bogoljubow, who won the two matches against Euwe, was denied widespread recognition as the 'FIDE World Champion'. Between the two matches against Euwe Bogoljubow also won the tournament in Bad Kissingen, ahead of Capablanca, Euwe and Rubinstein.\n\nEven before his tournament victory in Bad Kissingen Bogoljubow had sent to Alekhine his challenge, which the World Champion answered positively in a letter of the 11th September 1928, but in doing so drawing attention to the conditions agreed in the London protocol, that is a match to six wins, 10 000 dollars stake to be provided by the challenger, and a time control of two and a half hours for 40 moves. But Bogoljubow obtained two changes. The number of games was fixed at a maximum of 30 and the victor was to be whoever reached 15\u00bd points and won six games. Should the challenger have this score without having managed six wins, the match would be continued until either he had reached the required number of victories or the title defender had equalised. In addition Alekhine contented himself with a fixed fee of 25200 Reichsmarks (plus expenses).\n\nOrganisation of the match was left to Bogoljubow. The latter had contacted various German spas and made to them suggestions as to refinancing. Baden-Baden and Bad Kissingen turned him down. The administrators of the spa in Wiesbaden, on the other hand, were very interested and had previously staged a few chess tournaments. They undertook to provide 12500 Reichsmarks of the total costs, of which 3000 Reichsmarks came as a subsidy from the Prussian ministry of the interior and 500 dollars (= 2100 Reichsmarks) from New York lawyer Herbert R. Limburg, the vicepresident of the Manhattan Chess Club.\n\nThe World Championship match between Alexander Alekhine and Efim Bogoljubow was finally held from 6th September till 12th November in the cities of Wiesbaden (games 1 to 8 and 24 and 25), Heidelberg (games 9 to 11), Berlin (games 12 to 17), The Hague (games 18 to 19 and 23), Rotterdam (game 20) and Amsterdam (games 21 to 22).\n\nAt the start Bogoljubow was able to keep up. Alekhine won the first game, then after two draws Bogoljubow equalised in the fourth game. The title defender won the fifth game, Bogoljubow equalised in the sixth. But then Alekhine won the seventh and eighth games and thus after the first stage in Wiesbaden he was leading by 4:2 in wins. There was then a pause of two weeks to give Alekhine the opportunity to attend the 6th FIDE congress in Venice as the French delegate to FIDE. Of the next three games in Heidelberg Alekhine won the tenth. The ninth and eleventh games ended as draws.\n\nThe following six games were then played in Berlin. Here the magistrate of the city of Berlin had donated 2000 Reichsmarks. A further 1000 Reichsmarks were provided by the owner of the Caf\u00e9 K\u00f6nig (Unter den Linden). The games were played in the Caf\u00e9 K\u00f6nig, in its 'hall of mirrors'. Other spectators could follow the games in two other rooms on large demonstration boards, which were operated by the masters August Babel and Ludwig Rellstab. The match jury was headed by Emanuel Lasker in person.\n\nThere was also an illustrious throng analysing in the press room, namely the Russian master Evgeny Znosko-Borovsky who had emigrated to France, Jacques Mieses, Hans Kmoch, Dr. Jakob Adolf Seitz, Wilhelm Orbach and the chess author Heinrich Ranneforth, editor of the Deutsche Schachzeitung and from 1902 to 1906 vice-president of the German Chess Federation. A few years later Dr. Seitz was among those players who were playing in the Chess Olympiad in Buenos Aires in 1939 and who remained in Argentina when the Second World War broke out in Europe. After the Second World War Dr. Seitz returned to Europe and from then on lived in Switzerland. The Jewish master from Offenbach Wilhelm Orbach, on the other hand, died in 1944 in the Auschwitz concentration camp.\n\nBogoljubow more or less completed the section of the match in Berlin on terms of equality, with wins in the 13th and 14th games, whilst Alekhine took the 12th and 16th. Game 15 was drawn. Alekhine then won the 17th game with an intermediate result of 8:4. 'Alekhine is extremely nervous', reported Dr. Seitz, 'even more so than usual. Already in the opening he spends a great deal of time, almost always ends up in extreme time-trouble and then constantly looks at the clock. When the opponent is thinking, he sometimes walks around the hall with long steps, and then sometimes stops in front of the demonstration board and looks at it attentively, as though hoping to notice something new... Alekhine gave up smoking a long time ago, but Bogoljubow constantly smokes thick 'Havanas' or cheap Swiss cigars.' Then the World Championship continued with two games in The Hague. Bogoljubow won the 18th game, Alekhine the 19th game. After that a game was played in Rotterdam, it was drawn. Alekhine then also won both games in Amsterdam. A further game in The Hague ended in a draw. After that the match returned to Wiesbaden, where the final two games were also drawn. The final score was 15\u00bd:9\u00bd (11:5 in wins) for Alekhine.\n\n **Alekhine \u2013 Bogoljubow**\n\nBerlin, 17th game  \n21st October 1929  \nGr\u00fcnfeld Indian Defence (D70)\n\n**1.d4 \u2658f6 2.c4 g6 3.f3**\n\nAn extravagant way to prepare e2-e4. The idea comes from Fritz S\u00e4misch. The more usual move is 3.\u2658c3 after which Black mainly continues with 3...\u2657g7 (King's Indian) or 3...d5 (Gr\u00fcnfeld Indian). After 4.cxd5 \u2658xd5 5.e4 \u2658xc3 6.bxc3 c5 Black achieves his desired structure.\n\n**3...d5 4.cxd5 \u2658xd5 5.e4**\n\nUnlike with 3.\u2658c3 there is nothing here on c3 for the \u2658d5 to take. That is the idea behind 3.f3. The white centre therefore remains more flexible.\n\n**5... \u2658b6 6.\u2657e3 \u2657g7 7.\u2658c3**\n\nIn 1929 this position was unknown territory. In the WCh match between Anand and Gelfand in 2012 this variation was once again up for discussion.\n\n**7... \u2658c6**\n\nNowadays the more usual way is first 7...0-0 8.\u2655d2 \u2658c6 9.0-0-0 and then 9...e5 or 9...f5.\n\n**8.d5**\n\nWith 8.\u2657b5 White can try to extract some profit from Black's 7th move, e.g.: 8...0-0 9.\u2658ge2 (9.\u2657xc6 bxc6 10.b3 e5 gives White nothing) 9...\u2658a5 10.b3 e5!?. But here too Black has enough counterplay. The main variation today is reached via 8.\u2655d2 0-0 9.\u2658ge2.\n\n**8... \u2658e5 9.\u2657d4**\n\nThe line 9.f4 \u2658g4 10.\u2657b5+ \u2657d7 11.\u2655xg4 \u2657xc3+ 12.bxc3 \u2657xb5 13.\u2657d4 leads to level play, after 13...\u2656f8 (or also 13...f6).\n\n**9...f6?**\n\nThe 'normal' and good move was 9...0-0. After 10.f4\n\na) 10...\u2658ed7 11.\u2657xg7 \u2654xg7 12.\u2655d4+ leads according to Alekhine to a strong attack for White. But Black has, after 12...\u2658f6 13.0-0-0 c6, enough counterplay for equality;\n\nb) 10...\u2658g4 11.\u2657xg7 \u2654xg7 12.\u2655d4+ \u2658f6 13.0-0-0 e6 results in a level game.\n\n**10.f4**\n\nMore accurate was first 10.a4 0-0 11.f4 \u2658f7 12.a5 \u2658d7 13.\u2658f3 with advantage to White.\n\n**10... \u2658f7 11.a4 e5!**\n\nThis counterstrike was not possible after 10.a4.\n\n**12.dxe6**\n\nAfter 12.fxe5 fxe5 13.\u2657e3 0-0 14.a5 \u2658d7 15.\u2658f3 \u2658f6 Black has sufficient counterplay.\n\n**12... \u2657xe6 13.a5 \u2658d7 14.a6 b6 15.\u2657b5 \u2655e7 16.\u2658ge2 c5**\n\n16...0-0-0 is followed by 17.\u2657c6. After 16...0-0 17.0-0 \u2658d6 18.\u2657c6 \u2656ac8 19.f5 gxf5 20.\u2658d5 White also has some pressure.\n\n**17. \u2657f2**\n\nAnother strong move was 17.f5!?, to divert the bishop from the defence of the d5-square and to enable \u2658d5.\n\n**17...0-0-0**\n\n17...0-0 was followed by 18.\u2658d5 \u2655d6 (18...\u2657xd5 19.\u2655xd5 \u2656fd8 20.0-0! \u2658f8 21.\u2655b7 \u2655e6 22.f5! and White wins: 22...gxf5 23.exf5 \u2655xf5 24.\u2657c4) 19.\u2655a4! \u2657xd5 20.\u2656d1 and wins.\n\n**18. \u2655a4?!**\n\nThe queen is aiming at the weak c6- and b7-squares. But it was more accurate to first play 18.\u2658d5! \u2655d6 (18...\u2657xd5 19.\u2655xd5 \u2658b8 20.\u2655a8!+\u2013) and then 19.\u2655a4+\u2013.\n\n**18...f5**\n\nWhite was threatening 19.f5 gxf5 20.exf5 \u2657xf5 21.\u2657d3! intending 21...\u2657xd3 22.\u2655c6+ \u2654b8 23.\u2655b7#.\n\n**19.e5 g5! 20. \u2657c4**\n\nAfter 20.g3 gxf4 21.gxf4 the sacrifice 21...\u2658dxe5! 22.fxe5 \u2657xe5 is more effective than in the game continuation, since the white king is somewhat exposed.\n\n**20... \u2658dxe5**\n\nAfter 20...\u2658b8 Alekhine was planning 21.\u2657xe6+ \u2655xe6 22.0-0 followed by b2-b4, with an attack.\n\n**21. \u2657xe6+ \u2655xe6 22.fxe5 \u2658xe5 23.0-0 \u2655c4**\n\nThe alternative was 23...\u2658d3 with wild complications, though they probably favoured White. Here too the best is 24.b4!.\n\n**24.b4 \u2655xb4**\n\n24...cxb4 is followed by the strong 25.\u2658b5! followed in turn by 26.\u2658xa7 and 27.\u2658c6.\n\n**25. \u2655c2**\n\nIntending \u2656a4 and \u2655xf5.\n\n**25... \u2658d3 26.\u2656fb1 \u2655c4 27.\u2656a4 \u2655e6 28.\u2658b5**\n\n**28... \u2654b8?**\n\nThis loses. The correct way was 28...\u2658xf2 29.\u2654xf2 (29.\u2658xa7+? \u2654b8 30.\u2655xc5 \u2656d1+ \u2013+) 29...\u2654b8 30.\u2658g3 \u2656hf8 31.\u2656a3! 'with a decisive strengthening of the positional pressure.' (Alekhine).\n\nHans M\u00fcller, however, pointed out that after 31...\u2655d5 the 'white win would have been a long, long way away'. Here it was also worth considering 31...c4 32.\u2654g1 \u2656d5 33.\u2656f3 \u2655c6 34.\u2658c3 \u2656d3 with an initiative for Black.\n\n**29. \u2658ed4 \u2655e4**\n\n29...\u2657xd4 30.\u2657xd4 \u2656xd4 31.\u2656xd4 \u2655e3+ 32.\u2654f1 cxd4 33.\u2655c7+ \u2654a8 34.\u2655b7#.\n\n**30. \u2658c3 \u2655e8 31.\u2655xd3 cxd4 32.\u2657xd4**\n\nThe immediate 32.\u2655f3 was also good: 32...\u2656d7 33.\u2656xd4 \u2657xd4 34.\u2657xd4 \u2656g8 35.\u2657xb6 axb6 36.\u2656xb6+ \u2654c7 37.\u2655c6+ \u2654d8 38.\u2656b8+ +\u2013.\n\n**32... \u2655e6 33.\u2655f3 \u2655f7 34.\u2657xb6!**\n\nBlack resigned in view of 34...axb6 35.\u2656xb6+ \u2654c8 36.a7.\n\nAfter the match Bogoljubow expressed himself as follows in an interview: 'No one now has any chances of defeating Alekhine in a match. Nimzowitsch has none at all. And I wouldn't advise Capablanca to play a return match, since after this new encounter his halo will completely fade. During the next four or five years I will follow his victories, and then we will play again. I do not consider myself completely defeated.'\n**14. Chess WCh in Nazi Germany**\n\n**The World Championship 1934:  \n_Alexander Alekhine against Efim Bogoljubow_**\n\nThe really one-sided match of 1929 between Alexander Alekhine and Efim Bogoljubow was followed five years later by a return match. Many commentators have pointed out that Alekhine probably did not pick the strongest of all possible challengers in Bogoljubow. But according to the calculations of the statistician Jeff Sonas, in 1929 on account of his successes Bogoljubow was nevertheless number four in the world ranking list behind Capablanca, Alekhine and Nimzowitsch. In 1934 he was still occupying fifth place behind Alekhine, Isaac Kashdan, Salo Flohr and Max Euwe.\n\nThe second match between Alekhine and Bogoljubow was however received with mutterings in the world of chess of the day. Alekhine's superiority in the WCh match of 1929 had been too clear. On 20th August 1933 Bogoljubow had sent his renewed challenge to Alekhine, but he had to wait six weeks for an answer since at that time Alekhine was in some unknown spot in the USA. Bogoljubow thought he could organise the second match against Alekhine in a German spa, but a change in the spa administration brought these plans to nothing.\n\nBogoljubow was going to drop his plans for the match, but then during a simultaneous display in Karlsruhe he got to know the leader of the chess federation of Baden, the member of parliament Herbert Kraft, who, with the help of the government of Baden, was able to bring onside as hosts and patrons for the match various places in South Germany. The contract between Alekhine and Bogoljubow was signed at the start of 1934. In December 1933 the chess federation of Baden, represented by Herbert Kraft, had already accepted contractually to host 13 games of the match, later it organised the whole match. The costs for the organisation were to have been 40000 Reichsmarks (in today's purchasing power approximately 200000 euros).\n\nThe organisation was entrusted to Th. A. Bergmann and A. Herrmann, who negotiated with the various cities to find hosts. In addition they were supported by Hans Schemm, minister of state and Bavarian minister of culture and Gauleiter of the Ostmark, and also the chess enthusiast and minister of state Hans Frank, at that time Commissioner of justice for Germany. Kraft and Schemm had also campaigned for chess in schools and created the hope that 'young people would become a loyal following for the German game of war', as Bogoljubow formulated it in the vocabulary of the era in his tournament book of 1935. But the match between 'the two Russians on German soil' did not create much enthusiasm throughout the Greater German Chess Federation, which to a large extent had already been captivated by the new national-socialist spirit. After his first title defence against Bogoljubow Alekhine had won in superb fashion the tournament in San Remo 1930, where in 15 games he in fact conceded only two draws. Aaron Nimzowitsch and Akiba Rubinstein were distanced by 3\u00bd respectively 4 points. In Bled 1931 his tournament victory was already clear after the tenth round. After 1933, however, Alekhine began drinking, finally indulging in proper excessive consumption of alcohol, and became more and more ego-centric. Moreover he was a chain-smoker of 80 to 100 cigarettes per day. It is alleged that one of his simultaneous exhibitions had to be broken off after the World Champion had urinated on the floor. At times he was of the opinion that chess games could be won by hypnosis.\n\nThe second match for the World Championship between Alexander Alekhine and Efim Bogoljubow took place from the 1st April till the 14th June 1934 in twelve German towns: Baden-Baden (games 1 to 3), Villingen (games 4 to 5, in the Hotel Blume Post), Freiburg (games 6 to 8), Pforzheim (games 9 to 10), Stuttgart (games 11 and 12), Munich (games 13 to 15), Bayreuth (game 16), Bad Kissingen (games 17 and 18), Nuremberg (games 19 and 20), Karlsruhe (game 21) Mannheim (games 22 and 23) and Berlin (games 25 and 26). The winner was to be the one who had the most points after 30 games. If the score were 15:15 Alekhine was to remain World Champion. The time control was set at two and a half hours for 40 moves. The games were adjourned after 40 moves. Hans M\u00fcller acted as second for Bogoljubow, and for Alekhine Hans Kmoch.\n\nThe opening of the match took place on Holy Saturday 1934 in the main spa hall in Baden-Baden. FIDE president Alexander Rueb supervised the drawing of lots which gave Bogoljubow the white pieces in the first game. The course of the match was even clearer than that of 1929 and it came to an end after 26 games, because Alekhine's lead was so great that he could no longer be overtaken.\n\nIn the first game there was a curious incident when in a rook ending Alekhine claimed a draw on account of a threefold repetition of the position and arbiter Albert Hild granted the claim. Bogoljubow did not disagree and it was only after the game that he noticed that there was no threefold repetition of the position. Analyses showed that the position at which the game was agreed drawn was in fact winning for Bogoljubow. Arbiter Hild was then replaced by B. Bader.\n\nAlekhine won the second, the fourth and the ninth games. In game ten Bogoljubow was able to shorten the lead with a win. Alekhine, however, then won the eleventh, 16th, 17th and 21st games and led by 7:1 with 13 draws. On the 9th May, the rest day in the part of the match played in Munich (games 13 to 15), the two players put on simultaneous displays in the B\u00fcrgerbr\u00e4ukeller in front of 700 spectators against respectively 50 and 51 opponents. In the 23rd and 24th games Bogoljubow was victorious, but in the 25th it was then Alekhine again. With a draw in the 26th game the World Champion again secured the defence of his title. During the match Bogoljubow had wasted a series of good positions. In his tournament book Emanuel Lasker's judgement was that Bogoljubow tired too quickly in complicated positions because of a lack of training.\n\n **Alekhine \u2013 Bogoljubow**\n\nBayreuth, 16th game  \n13th May 1934  \nRuy Lopez (C77)\n\n**1.e4 e5 2. \u2658f3 \u2658c6 3.\u2657b5 a6 4.\u2657a4**\n\nThe more common version of the Exchange Variation is 4.\u2657xc6 dxc6. Here Black still has...f7-f6 at his disposal for the defence of the e5-pawn.\n\n**4... \u2658f6 5.\u2657xc6 dxc6**\n\nIn the Delayed Exchange Variation of the Ruy Lopez White 'makes a present' of a tempo to Black, since unlike in the Exchange Variation after 4.\u2657xc6 the knight is there already on f6. But White is hoping that in this structure the knight is misplaced on f6.\n\n**6. \u2658c3**\n\n6.d3 is more flexible, to develop the knight to d2: 6...\u2657d6 7.\u2658bd2 \u2657e6 8.b3 \u2658d7 9.\u2657b2 c5 10.\u2658c4 f6.\n\n**6... \u2657d6 7.d3**\n\n7.d4 has also been played here.\n\n**7...c5 8.h3 \u2657e6 9.\u2657e3 h6**\n\nBogoljubow suggested 9...b5!? as a possible improvement.\n\n**10.a4 c4**\n\nBlack would like to resolve his doubled pawns. Alternatives were 10...\u2658d7 to bring the knight via b8 to c6, or 10... \u2655d7!? to prepare queenside castling.\n\n**11.d4 exd4 12. \u2657xd4 \u2657b4 13.0-0 c6**\n\nThis weakens the d6-square. 13...0-0 was very playable or also 13...\u2657xc3 14.\u2657xc3 \u2658xe4 15.\u2657xg7 \u2656g8=.\n\n**14.e5 \u2658d5**\n\nAfter 14...\u2657xc3 Alekhine gives 15.exf6! \u2657xd4 16.\u2658xd4 \u2655xf6 17.\u2658xe6 fxe6 18.\u2655h5+ with advantage. After 18...g6 19.\u2655c5 0-0-0 20.\u2655xc4 \u2656d4 the game is, however, more or less level.\n\n**15. \u2658e4 \u2658f4**\n\n15...0-0!? with equality.\n\n**16. \u2657c5**\n\nTo further weaken the d6-square.\n\n**16... \u2657xc5 17.\u2655xd8+ \u2656xd8 18.\u2658xc5 b6!**\n\nBogoljubow considered this a good move, Alekhine thought it a mistake. The title defender saw an advantage for White after 18...\u2656b8 19.\u2658xe6 \u2658xe6 20.a5. White is planning \u2656a4 and \u2658d2. Mieses suggested 18...\u2657c8!? as an alternative to the move in the game.\n\n**19. \u2658b7**\n\nThe line 19.\u2658xa6 \u2657c8 (19...0-0!? with counterplay) 20.\u2658c7+ \u2654d7 21.\u2658a8! \u2658d5 22.a5! bxa5 23.\u2656xa5 \u2657b7 24.\u2656a7 \u2656b8 25.\u2656e1! c5 (a better move is 25...\u2656he8) 26.e6+ results according to Alekhine in a winning position for White.\n\n**19... \u2656d7 20.\u2658d6+ \u2654e7**\n\nThe manoeuvre 20...\u2654d8 21.\u2656fe1 \u2654c7 was cleverer, taking the king out of the range of the white knights.\n\n**21. \u2658d4 \u2657d5 22.g3!?**\n\nAlekhine solves the problem of his g-pawn in radical fashion. Bogoljubow's suggestion 22.f3 is met by Black, according to Alekhine, by 22...g6! which deprives the white knights of the f5-square.\n\n**22... \u2658xh3+ 23.\u2654h2 \u2658g5 24.f4 \u2658e4 25.\u26586f5+ \u2654d8**\n\nPerhaps a better way was 25...\u2654f8 26.\u2658e3 \u2654g8 27.f5 \u2654h7 28.e6 after which Bogoljubow sees an advantage for Black, whilst Alekhine thinks that White has enough compensation for the material disadvantage. After 28...\u2657xe6 29.fxe6 \u2656xd4 30.exf7 \u2656f8 White, however, has to fight for the draw.\n\n**26. \u2658xg7 f6 27.\u2656ad1 \u2654c8**\n\n27...\u2656xg7? 28.\u2658e6+ +\u2013.\n\n**28. \u2658df5 fxe5**\n\nThe alternative was 28...\u2656g8 29.\u2658h5 fxe5 30.fxe5 \u2656e8 (30...\u2657e6!?) 31.\u2658f6 \u2658xf6 32.exf6 \u2656e2+ 33.\u2654h3 with a better endgame for White according to Alekhine: 33...\u2657g2+ (33...\u2657e6 34.g4) 34.\u2654g4 \u2657xf1 35.\u2656xd7 \u2654xd7 36.f7 \u2656e8 37.fxe8\u2655\\+ \u2654xe8 38.c3 with the weakness of h6 (Alekhine). But after 38...\u2657e2+ 39.\u2654f4 h5 Black seems to be able to hold the game.\n\n**29.fxe5**\n\n**29... \u2656g8?**\n\nThis loses.\n\n29...\u2658g5 30.\u2656xd5 (intending e5-e6) 30...\u2656xd5 31.\u2658e7+ \u2654d7 3 2.\u2658xd5 cxd5 33.\u2656f6 \u2654c7 34.e6 \u2654d6 holds the game.\n\n**30.e6! \u2656dxg7 31.\u2658xg7 \u2656xg7**\n\n**32. \u2656xd5! cxd5 33.\u2656f8+ \u2654c7 34.\u2656f7+ \u2654d6**\n\n34...\u2656xf7 35.exf7 and the pawn gets through.\n\n**35. \u2656xg7 \u2654xe6 36.\u2656g6+ \u2654e5**\n\n36...\u2658f6 37.\u2656xh6 d4 38.\u2654g2 b5 39.g4+\u2013.\n\n**37. \u2654g2 b5 38.a5! d4 39.\u2656xa6 b4 40.\u2654f3 c3 41.bxc3 bxc3 42.\u2656e6+ \u2654xe6 43.\u2654xe4**\n\nBlack resigned.\n\nAfter the 16th game, which was played in Bayreuth, Bogoljubow and Nimzowitsch were sitting at dinner in the hotel. At the same time there was a Nazi meeting locally and Bayreuth was full of people in uniforms, including the hotel restaurant. Being a Jew, Nimzowitsch felt extremely uneasy in this environment. Bogoljubow on the other hand was enjoying the situation and, in order to annoy him, kept on suggesting to Nimzowitsch that the (not kosher) pork chops were particularly tasty. Bogoljubow has always been criticised for having been too close to the Nazis. At the tournament of 1936 in Zandvoort Bogoljubow insisted to the Dutch organisers on having a swastika banner at his table as the flag of his country. The organisers thereupon did without any flags.\n\nIn 1938 he is reputed to have joined the NSDAP, probably in order to guarantee his two daughters better prospects of a university place. Some contemporaries, such as his compatriot Bohatyrchuk, describe Bogoljubow on the other hand as unpolitical and even somewhat against the Nazis. During the war, however, Bogoljubow played in tournaments in the 'Generalgouvernement' in Poland headed by Hans Frank and worked in the administration of Krakow as a translator. For that reason FIDE first passed him over in 1950 in the award of grandmaster titles. But in 1951 he was named as a grandmaster.\n\nEfim Bogoljubow\n\nContemporaries describe Bogoljubow as jovial and friendly in character with a somewhat crude sense of humour. Hans Kmoch reported that at the tournament in Zandvoort Bogoljubow had asked the Jewish player Fine straight out whether it had made him happy that the German airship Hindenburg had come to grief in New Jersey. Fine was shocked and left speechless. Later Fine is said to have claimed that Bogoljubow had arranged for it that his potential rivals in Nazi Germany were sent to concentration camps. Fine never gave any answer to the question as to how he knew this.\n\nOn the 18th June 1952 Bogoljubow died in Triberg after a short but serious illness, probably as a result of liver cancer (Kmoch). Shortly before, though visibly marked by the illness, he had taken part in a tournament in Belgrade. Bogoljubow's bestknown legacy apart from his games is his declaration: 'When I have White, I win because I have White. When I have Black, I win because I am Bogoljubow.'\n\nDuring his second match against Bogoljubow there were already negotiations taking place for a match for the World Championship between Alekhine and Euwe.\n**15. Professor against alcoholic**\n\n**The World Championship 1935:  \n_Alexander Alekhine against Max Euwe_**\n\nMachgielis ('Max') Euwe was born on the 20th May 1901 in Watergraafsmeer near Amsterdam, the son of the teacher Cornelis Euwe and his wife Elisabeth. The family lived there in a house at 45 Ringdijk. Max Euwe had an older brother, Willem, and four younger siblings: Annie, Kees, Tiny and Bob. With a teacher's annual salary of 800 guilders the family's material circumstances were such that they just got by. So, in order to save money, their father preferred to walk for long distances rather than travelling by bus or train.\n\n**Max Euwe (1901-1981)**\n\nThe parents, but especially the mother, were both great chess lovers and taught their son Max the game when he was four years old. Max Euwe also learned to read and write before being of school age, meaning that in his primary school, the Van Ostade School in Amsterdam Oud-Zuid, he was allowed to skip the first year. In the meantime the family had moved to the Amsterdam suburb of De Pijp and lived in the Jan Steen Straat.\n\nThe game of chess interested Euwe more and more and so he joined the 'Chess and Draughts Club'. At the age of nine he wanted to play in his first chess tournament. This was held in a bar 'De Ruyter'. A guilder was required as an entrance fee. Since Euwe, however, had only 50 cents on him, he had to postpone participation in his first chess tournament. But in the following year, 1911, he had enough money in his pocket to pay the full entrance fee in 'De Ruyter' and with three wins in three games he won his group. At this time, moreover, football interested the young Euwe more than chess. He played regularly in football tournaments and throughout his life he never lost interest in that sport. At 12 Euwe became a member of the Amsterdam Chess Society. In 1913 Frank Marshall was a guest there and gave a simultaneous. Euwe was only allowed to spectate, but in the following year he defeated Jan Willem Te Kolst\u00e9, when the latter also gave a simultaneous in the chess society.\n\nAfter the First World War a series of chess masters sought out the Netherlands, which had to a large extent emerged undamaged from the war, and better living conditions could be found there than at home. As well as Lasker, regular visitors to the relevant Dutch chess centres (of which the best known was 'De Roode Leeuw', a hotel with a restaurant in Amsterdam, 93-94 Damrak) included Richard R\u00e9ti, Savielly Tartakower and Geza Maroczy. Their presence proved fruitful for the chess life of the Netherlands.\n\nIn 1918 Euwe took his final secondary exam and started on a study of mathematics. In 1926 he took his doctorate under Roland Weitzenb\u00f6ck, who came from Austria and was himself a good chess player. At times Weitzenb\u00f6ck had been president of the chess club in Blaricum where he lived. From 1926 to 1940 and then again after 1945 Euwe worked as a teacher of mathematics in Winterswijk, Rotterdam and at a girls secondary school in Amsterdam. In 1921 he won for the first time the national championship of the Netherlands, a success which he would repeat another eleven times up to 1955.\n\nAfter completing his doctoral thesis Euwe played his first match against Alekhine at the turn of 1926\/27 and narrowly lost by 2:3 with 5 draws. In 1928 he won the 'Amateur World Championship' in The Hague. In the same year he shared third place in Bad Kissingen behind Bogoljubow and Capablanca. In 1930\/31 Euwe won the Hastings tournament ahead of Capablanca. Euwe drew a match against Salo Flohr in Amsterdam and Karlsbad (3:3 with ten draws). At the tournament in Berne he finished second behind Alekhine.\n\nIn 1934 Euwe felt strong enough to challenge Alekhine to a match for the World Championship. Dutch chess lovers founded the 'Nationaal Nederlandsch Comit\u00e9 Wereldkampioenschap Schaken', to raise the prize money for the match against Alekhine. On the 28th May 1934, that is to say before the second match between Alekhine and Bogoljubow was finished, Euwe and Alekhine signed the contract which settled the conditions for the forthcoming match. Before the match Alekhine was considered the clear favourite and even Euwe only saw himself as an outsider.\n\nThe World Championship match between Alexander Alekhine and Max Euwe took place in 13 cities in the Netherlands from 3rd October till 15th December 1935: in Amsterdam, Delft, Rotterdam, Utrecht, Gouda, The Hague, Groningen, Baarn, 's-Hertogenbosch, Eindhoven, Zeist, Ermelo and Zandvoort, and was for 30 games. The time control was two and a half hours for 40 moves. Alekhine was supported by his second Salo Landau. Landau was born in 1903 in Bochnia, Galicia, then Austria-Hungary, came in the First World War via Vienna to the Netherlands and in the 1930s was the best player there after Euwe. After the occupation of the Netherlands by the German army Landau, together with his wife and his daughter, was caught fleeing in 1942 and sent to the Auschwitz concentration camp and then to a work camp near Gr\u00e4ditz (Grodziszcze). From there he managed to have smuggled out a message to his friend Max Euwe, begging the latter for help. Euwe turned to Alekhine, but the latter either could not or would not commit himself for his former second. Landau's wife Susanne and his daughter Henriette Ren\u00e9e were murdered on the 14th October 1944 in Auschwitz. Landau himself died in the same year in Gr\u00e4ditz.\n\nEuwe's official second was Geza Maroczy. Hans Kmoch, who had previously been expected to assume this task, acted instead as principal arbiter for the match. Salo Flohr and Reuben Fine supported Euwe in his preparation. Alekhine received an appearance fee of 10000 guilders, which was raised by the cities or organisers purchasing individual rounds of the match. Enthusiasm for chess in the Netherlands was overwhelming during the match. There were daily reports in the press. Amongst the foreign visitors who were following the games were Capablanca, Lasker, Bernstein, Flohr, the 70 year old Jacques Mieses, who was the correspondent for Reuters, Savielly Tartakower, who had at his command five languages and published daily analyses in the Amsterdam paper _De Telegraaf_ and several other newspapers, and other wellknown masters. The first game was played on the 3rd October 1935 in Amsterdam in the congress hall of the 'Carlton Hotel'. The start of the game was announced for 17.30, but things did not take place with quite the same regard for punctuality. The first move was made by the mayor of Amsterdam. Alekhine won in 30 moves.\n\nThe second game, on the 6th October, was also played in Amsterdam, this time in the 'Militiezaal'. This time Euwe won. The third game, 8th October, was again played in the 'Carlton Hotel' and again went Alekhine's way. The venue for game four on the 10th October was the 'Witte Brug Hotel' in The Hague. In some sources the official name 's-Gravenhage is employed for The Hague. Euwe lost with white and was now trailing 1:3. There followed two draws in the fifth game (12th October, Delft Student Club) and the sixth game (Rotterdam, Hotel Coomans, 15th October).\n\nThe seventh game was played on the 17th October in the Museum for Art and Science in Utrecht. Alekhine, who was reported to have enjoyed his evenings during the match playing bridge and who frequently brought to the games his Siamese cat 'Chess', which he then allowed to snuffle around on the chess table, surprised Euwe with a speculative opening innovation and won the game for a score of 2:5.\n\nOn the 20th October the Amsterdam 'Militiezaal' was once more the scene of the action. This time Euwe came up with a novelty and won the eighth game. The ninth game (22th October) was staged in the assembly hall of the Upper Girls School in the Reijnier Vinkeleskade (Amsterdam). Euwe worked at this school as a mathematics teacher. He again lost as Black to Alekhine straight out of the opening. With a score of 6:3 the match appeared to be decided already. The tenth game followed on the 24th October in the 'Kunstmin Zaal' of the student club 'Ons Genoegen' in Gouda. Alekhine chose the same variation of the Slav Defence to the Queen's Gambit as in the eighth game, came up with a not particularly good novelty and lost this game too.\n\nFor the eleventh game on the 27th October they moved back to the hotel 'De Witte Brug' in The Hague. The game ended in a draw. In game 12 (29th October), played in the chess club of the stock exchange in Amsterdam, Alekhine speculatively sacrificed a pawn, later a piece, and played on for a long time in a lost position before finally resigning. The 13th game was played on the 1st November in the Watergraafsmeer chess club (in the back room of the Caf\u00e9 Van Klaveren, 88-90 Middenweg). Euwe again held the draw with black in this game. On the 2nd November the 14th game followed in the Japanese Room of the Frigge Hotel in Groningen. Alekhine fell badly behind right in the opening and lost once more with black. Euwe had drawn level. Before game 15, arranged for November 5th in the 'Badhotel' in Baarn, Alekhine spoke to Lasker and told him: 'I want to start playing more solidly now, more based on logic and less on foolhardiness.'\n\nAlekhine's intention was as yet nowhere to be seen in game 15. The game was adjourned after an adventurous first part and it was resumed on the following day. Alekhine, whose car broke down on the journey from Amsterdam to Baarn, arrived half an hour late. The game was actually lost for Euwe, but in his analysis the challenger had discovered an interesting defensive plan. Alekhine was taken by surprise by the idea and gave away a possible win. But the World Champion then managed one in the 16th game, played on 7th November in the casino in 's-Hertogenbosch ('Den Bosch'). The 17th game (9th November, Philips Leisure Hall in Eindhoven) and the 18th game (12th November, Amsterdam 'Militiezaal') each came to a rapid end with the sharing of the point. The 19th game (Figi Hotel in Zeist, 14th November) went to Alekhine, thus restoring a two point lead (10\u00bd:8\u00bd). Euwe, however, struck back with victories in games 20 (16th November, Amsterdam 'Militiezaal') and 21 (19th November in the building of the Christelijk Volksbelang, Ermelo) and once more levelled the score. The 21st game was overshadowed by an incident which will be described below.\n\nWas there going to be a sensation? Next came three draws (game 22, on the 24th November in the De Witte Brug Hotel in The Hague, game 23 on the 26th November in the stock exchange chess club in Amsterdam, game 24 on the 28th November in the student club 'Eensgezindheit' in Delft), with Alekhine giving away a possible win in game 24. The World Champion now called on an additional second, the Austrian Ernst Klein, but the latter arrived too late to turn the match in a different direction.\n\nThen Euwe in fact won the 25th game (on the 1st December in an absolutely packed-out 'Militiezaal' in Amsterdam) and the 26th (begun on the 3rd December in the Monopole Hall in Zandvoort, continued on the 4th December in the 'Militiezaal' Amsterdam) and four games before the finish he had a lead of two points. Alekhine shortened this with a win in the 27th game (on the 6th December in the De Witte Brug Hotel, The Hague). There followed two draws (game 28 on the 8th December in the 'Militiezaal' in Amsterdam, game 29 on the 12th December in the same place). In the last game (Bellevue in Amsterdam on the 15th December) Euwe finally conceded a draw in a winning position, thus becoming the new World Champion.\n\nAlekhine's defeat was to a large extent ascribed to his alcoholism. Often enough he drank before his games and even during the games, as everyone could see, for example at the tournament in Zurich 1934. During his match against Euwe Alekhine had probably been drinking (according to Euwe) before game 18 (drawn), certainly before game 21 (Euwe won) and before the 30th game (drawn). But Euwe admitted, perhaps out of politeness and respect for his opponent, that possible a wrong impression might have been created because despite his poor eyesight Alekhine did not wear glasses and therefore had difficulty moving the pieces.\n\nBut in his book 'Caissas Weltreich' Euwe later described how at that time people spelled Alekhine's name (in its German spelling): 'AL as in alcohol, JE as in jenever (Dutch gin), CH as in Champagne and IN as in Ingwerbier (i.e. ginger beer).' For the 21st game Alekhine turned up late and so drunk that everyone could see it. He instigated a fight, swore at Euwe, refused to play and practically had to be forced to start the game. He then played it like a madman. During the game he continually knocked over pieces when making his moves and Euwe left the room as often as possible on account of the strong smell of alcohol. Although Alekhine's consumption of alcohol during the match was obvious \u2013 according to a report by Emil Diemer, during the match he is supposed to have spent 800 guilders on Dutch gin in his hotel over six weeks \u2013 this was at first not mentioned in the reporting of the World Championship. But after the incidents in the 21st game the subject was expatiated upon in detail in the general press, whilst the chess journalists had not picked up on it at all, because for reasons of cost they were following the game by teleprinter in Amsterdam. As a result of the press reports Alekhine even received threatening letters. Euwe thus even suggested playing the next games outside of the Netherlands.\n\nFor the final game in Amsterdam a large hall had been rented, which was totally filled with 5000 spectators. Even more chess enthusiasts were waiting in front of the entrance where a policeman, armed with a travelling chess set and the latest position, prevented access. The 26th game, with which Euwe raised his lead to two points, went down in the history of chess as the 'pearl of Zandvoort':\n\n **Euwe \u2013 Alekhine**\n\nZandvoort, 26th game  \n3rd December 1935  \nDutch Defence (A90)\n\n**1.d4 e6 2.c4**\n\nAfter 2.e4 d5 we would have the French Defence.\n\n**2...f5**\n\nAlekhine was behind in the match by one game and had to take something of a risk. The Dutch Defence allows Black to fight for the initiative.\n\n**3.g3 \u2657b4+ 4.\u2657d2 \u2657e7**\n\nThis loses half a tempo, but the \u2657d2 also has to find a better square.\n\n**5. \u2657g2 \u2658f6 6.\u2658c3 0-0 7.\u2658f3 \u2658e4**\n\nWith 7...d5 Black can aim for the so-called Stonewall setup: 8.0-0 c6 9.\u2657f4 \u2658e4 etc.\n\n**8.0-0 b6**\n\n8...\u2657f6 was played in the 24th game.\n\n**9. \u2655c2**\n\nIt was also worth considering 9.\u2658xe4!? fxe4 10.\u2658e5 or 9.\u2658e5 \u2658xd2 10.\u2655xd2 c6 11.\u2656ad1 intending 11...d5 12.\u2658xc6 \u2658xc6 13.cxd5 or even 9.d5.\n\n**9... \u2657b7**\n\nThis position is also known from the Queen's Indian Defence.\n\n**10. \u2658e5**\n\n10.d5!? is a typical idea here too.\n\n**10... \u2658xc3**\n\n10...d6? would be followed by 11.\u2658xe4! fxe4 (11...dxe5 12.\u2658f6+) 12.\u2657xe4 \u2657xe4 13.\u2655xe4 c6 14.\u2658xc6 \u2658xc6 15.\u2655xc6 and White has won two pawns.\n\n**11. \u2657xc3**\n\nAccording to Euwe 11.\u2657xb7 was not as good: 11...\u2658xe2+ 12.\u2654g2 \u2658xd4 13.\u2655d3 \u2658bc6 14.\u2658xc6 \u2658xc6 (14...dxc6!? 15.\u2657xa8 \u2655xa8 16.\u2655xd4?? c5+ \u2013+) 15.\u2657xa8 \u2655xa8 intending 16.\u2655xd7?? \u2658e5+ \u2013+.\n\n**11... \u2657xg2 12.\u2654xg2 \u2655c8 13.d5 d6 14.\u2658d3 e5 15.\u2654h1 c6 16.\u2655b3 \u2654h8**\n\nWhite was threatening 17.c5 bxc5 18.\u2658xe5 intending 18...dxe5 19.d6+. After 16...c5 17.f4 e4 Euwe was planning 18.\u2658e1 intending \u2658g2-e3 with good play.\n\n**17.f4 e4 18. \u2658b4!**\n\nNow the threat is 19.dxc6 and 20.\u2658d5.\n\n**18...c5 19. \u2658c2 \u2658d7 20.\u2658e3 \u2657f6**\n\nAccording to Flohr 20...\u2658f6 was more prudent.\n\n**21. \u2658xf5!?**\n\nThis came as a surprise to Alekhine. White gives up a piece for three pawns and an attack.\n\n**21... \u2657xc3 22.\u2658xd6 \u2655b8 23.\u2658xe4 \u2657f6 24.\u2658d2**\n\nIntending e2-e4-e5.\n\n**24...g5!**\n\nBlack could also aim for counterplay with 24...b5!?.\n\n**25.e4 gxf4 26.gxf4 \u2657d4 27.e5 \u2655e8 28.e6 \u2656g8**\n\nAfter 28...\u2658f6 29.\u2658f3 \u2658g4 30.\u2658xd4 cxd4 31.\u2655d3 Black also gets counterplay: 31...\u2655h5 32.\u2655xd4+ \u2656f6!.\n\n**29. \u2658f3?!**\n\n29.exd7? would be over-hasty on account of 29...\u2655e2! with a double attack. After 29.\u2655h3! \u2658f6 30.\u2658f3 \u2657xb2 31.\u2656ab1, however, Euwe considered White to have a decisive advantage.\n\n**29... \u2655g6 30.\u2656g1**\n\n30.\u2658g5 \u2658e5! with counterplay.\n\n**30... \u2657xg1 31.\u2656xg1 \u2655f6**\n\nThis move was criticised by contemporary commentators, but does not yet lose the game as was thought at the time. Nevertheless Flohr's suggestion is simpler: 31...\u2655f5!. The difference compared to the move in the game consists of the fact that White cannot now get to h3 with the queen. 32.exd7 (32.\u2658g5 h6!) 32...\u2656xg1+ 33.\u2654xg1 \u2655xd7 34.\u2654f2=.\n\n**32. \u2658g5!**\n\n**32... \u2656g7?**\n\nThis move causes Black difficulties.\n\na) 32...h6? did not help, according to Euwe: 33.\u2658f7+ (33.exd7 is also good) 33...\u2654h7 34.\u2655d3+ \u2656g6 35.\u2658e5! \u2658xe5 (35...\u2658f8 36.e7!) 36.fxe5 \u2655g7 37.d6 intending 38.\u2655xg6+ \u2656xg6 39.\u2656xg6 \u2654xg6 40.d7 and 41.e7+\u2013 (Euwe). And 32...\u2656xg5 33.fxg5 \u2655d4 is followed by 34.\u2655c3+\u2013 (Euwe);\n\nb) 32...\u2656g6! holds the game: 33.exd7 \u2655xf4 34.\u2655c3+ \u2654g8 35.\u2655e1 \u2656xg5 36.\u2656xg5+ \u2655xg5 37.\u2655e8+ \u2654g7 38.\u2655xa8 \u2655c1+ 39.\u2654g2 \u2655d2+ with perpetual check.\n\n**33.exd7 \u2656xd7 34.\u2655e3 \u2656e7 35.\u2658e6 \u2656f8**\n\nIn the event of 35...\u2655xb2 the advance of the d-pawn wins: 36.d6! \u2656ee8 (36...\u2656d7 37.\u2658c7 \u2656f8 38.\u2655e5+ +\u2013) 37.d7 \u2656e7 38.d8\u2655\\+ \u2656xd8 39.\u2658xd8 with a win, according to Euwe, since 39...\u2656xe3?? is followed by 40.\u2658f7#.\n\n**36. \u2655e5 \u2655xe5 37.fxe5 \u2656f5**\n\nA better move according to Euwe was 37...\u2656xe6 38.dxe6 \u2656f5! 39.\u2656e1 \u2654g8 40.\u2656e3! after which Euwe nevertheless saw the endgame as won for White. But it is open to question whether this judgement also really still stands after 40...\u2654f8 41.\u2656a3 a5 42.\u2656b3 \u2656f4.\n\n**38. \u2656e1**\n\nEuwe gave 38.\u2656g5 as better. After 38... \u2656f2, which Euwe did not take into account, White is better but not winning.\n\n**38...h6?!**\n\nEuwe indicated 38...\u2656xe6! as better, but nevertheless held the position to be won after 39.dxe6 \u2654g8 40.\u2656e3!. But 38...\u2654g8 39.\u2656g1+ \u2654h8 (39...\u2654f7 40.\u2658d8+ \u2654f8 41.\u2658c6+\u2013 Euwe) 40.\u2656g5 (40.\u2656e1 \u2654g8=) 40...\u2656f2! holds the game.\n\n**39. \u2658d8 \u2656f2 40.e6 \u2656d2**\n\nThe game was adjourned here. The position is now won for White.\n\n**41. \u2658c6 \u2656e8 42.e7 b5 43.\u2658d8 \u2654g7 44.\u2658b7 \u2654f6 45.\u2656e6+ \u2654g5 46.\u2658d6 \u2656xe7 47.\u2658e4+**\n\n**1-0**\n\nIn 1978 Euwe spoke in an interview about his preparation for the match against Alekhine: 'Just before our match we played in a strong tournament in Zurich, which Alekhine won, but I beat him. I finished second, with 12 out of 15, after losing to Lasker in the first round. In analysing the games, we came to the conclusion that Alekhine's superiority over other masters was his opening knowledge. If he could not get the initiative or some advantage in the opening, he was willing to enter complications to try to muddy the water. So I went to Vienna for a few months to study Becker's files on the openings, which were the most complete and up to date at that time. Besides Kmoch, who was an expert in the openings, I also had Maroczy's help, mostly in the endgame.'\n\nFor Alekhine the result of the match was doubly bitter. At a point when he still had a clear lead in the match, he had contacted Nikolai Krylenko in Moscow and made efforts to get an invitation to the planned tournament in Moscow 1936. This was also supposed to be the attempt to clear things up with his homeland. Alekhine sent to Krylenko, who was also the publisher of the chess magazine _64_ , a message of greeting for publication: 'It is not only as a chess player with many years of experience, but also as a person who is able to appreciate the enormous significance of what has been achieved in all aspects of cultural life in the USSR, that I send my sincere greetings to all the chess players in the USSR on the 18th anniversary of the October Revolution. Al. Alekhine.' However, Alekhine had expected to appear in Moscow as World Champion. Now, however, that he had lost the title, his 'market value' was clearly less and of his own accord he stopped making efforts to obtain an invitation.\n\nThanks to Euwe's success interest in chess grew enormously in the Netherlands. Up until 1934 the _Koninklijke Nederlandse Schaakbond_ (founded in 1873) could count between 3000 and 4000 registered members. After Euwe's victory in the WCh match against Alekhine the number of registered chess players in the Netherlands soared in 1935 to 11 000. During the war years too the number remained generally stable and later, when Euwe almost won the tournament in Groningen 1946, where he finally finished second behind Botvinnik and ahead of Smyslov, the number of registered chess players even rose to 17 000.\n**16. The title was only on loan**\n\n**The World Championship 1937:  \n_Max Euwe against Alexander Alekhine_**\n\nTwo years after Alekhine lost his title to Euwe a return match took place in the Netherlands. Like the first match, it was for 30 games, with the victor needing to have six wins and a score of 15\u00bd points. The match was held from 5th October to the 4th December 1937 in the cities of The Hague, Rotterdam, Amsterdam, Haarlem, Leiden, Groningen and Delft.\n\nUnlike in the first match, this time Euwe was considered the favourite. In his preparation for the return match and for the match itself Alekhine had imposed upon himself absolute abstinence from alcohol. And he controlled the second WCh match against Euwe much better than the first. To be sure, the first and also the fifth games went to Euwe, but Alekhine equalised in the second and sixth games respectively and took the lead with wins in the seventh and eighth games. The third, the fourth and then also the ninth games ended in draws, but then Alekhine got going again with a victory in the tenth game and was then clearly in the lead by three wins.\n\nIn the phase between games 11 and 20 Euwe gradually stabilised the situation and was able to decide the thirteenth and seventeenth games in his favour. During this phase Alekhine had only one win, in the 14th game, and thus the title defender was able to shorten his opponent's lead. However, the former World Champion and present challenger stepped up another gear and won games 21, 22, 24 and 25. At the end Alekhine had recovered his title in very impressive fashion with 10:4 in wins and a score of 15\u00bd:9\u00bd points including the draws.\n\n **Alekhine \u2013 Euwe**\n\nNetherlands, 6th game  \n16th October 1937  \nQueen's Gambit, Slav Defence (D10)\n\n**1.d4 d5 2.c4 c6 3. \u2658c3 dxc4**\n\n3...e5 4.cxd5 cxd5 5.e4! dxe4 6.\u2657b5+ was given by Alekhine as clearly better for White. Later praxis showed, however, that Black has a level game: 6...\u2657d7 7.dxe5 \u2657b4 etc.\n\n3...\u2658f6 4.e3 g6 (the moves 4...e6 and 4...a6 are also very playable) 5.f3 \u2657g7 6.e4 dxe4 7.fxe4 e5! 8.d5 0-0 9.\u2658f3 with somewhat better play for White according to Alekhine. Here too the game tends to be level.\n\n**4.e4 e5**\n\n4...b5 is better: 5.a4 and now the simplest: 5...b4 6.\u2658a2 \u2658f6 7.e5 \u2658d5 8.\u2657xc4 with a solid position for Black.\n\n**5. \u2657xc4 exd4**\n\n5...\u2655xd4 6.\u2655b3 \u2655d7 7.\u2657g5! followed by \u2656d1 is advantageous for White (Alekhine).\n\n**6. \u2658f3**\n\nAmusing tactics, but its objective value is questionable though it was extremely effective in this game.\n\n**6...b5?**\n\nEuwe overlooked the next move. Black would be best going in for 6...dxc3 7.\u2657xf7+ \u2654e7 8.\u2655b3. Then the best was 8...cxb2!! 9.\u2657xb2 \u2655b6! with a complicated position, in which Black's chances are no worse, for example: 10.\u2657a3+ c5 11.\u2657xg8 \u2656xg8 12.\u2657xc5+ \u2655xc5 13.0-0 \u2655h5! (a suggestion of Goncharov in _64_ , 1938) 14.\u2655xg8 \u2657e6 15.\u2655h8 \u2658c6 and the white queen is trapped or 10.\u2657xg8 \u2656xg8 11.\u2655xg8 \u2655b4+ 12.\u2658d2 \u2655xb2 13.\u2656b1 \u2655c2 with advantage to Black.\n\nSurprised by Alekhine's stroke of genius at the board, Euwe was in any case in no position to work out all these complications.\n\n**7. \u2658xb5 \u2657a6**\n\n7...cxb5 8.\u2657d5+\u2013.\n\n**8. \u2655b3 \u2655e7**\n\n8...\u2657xb5? 9.\u2657xf7+ \u2654d7 10.\u2658xd4! (10.\u2657xg8? \u2656xg8 11.\u2655xg8 \u2657b4+ \u2013+) with a strong initiative for White.\n\n**9.0-0 \u2657xb5 10.\u2657xb5 \u2658f6**\n\n10...cxb5 11.\u2655d5+\u2013.\n\n**11. \u2657c4**\n\nWhite is now already winning.\n\n**11... \u2658bd7 12.\u2658xd4!**\n\n12.e5?! \u2658xe5 13.\u2658xe5 \u2655xe5.\n\n**12... \u2656b8 13.\u2655c2 \u2655c5 14.\u2658f5**\n\nThis is stronger than 14.\u2658xc6 \u2656c8 (14...\u2655xc6? 15.\u2657xf7+ +\u2013) 15.\u2655b3 \u2655xc6 16.\u2657xf7+ \u2654d8 17.e5 \u2658xe5 18.\u2657f4 \u2658ed7 19.\u2656ad1 but here too White has a clear advantage.\n\n**14... \u2658e5 15.\u2657f4**\n\nOr 15.\u2658xg7+ \u2654d8 16.\u2656d1+ \u2654c7 17.\u2658f5 \u2655xc4 18.\u2655xc4 \u2658xc4 19.\u2657f4+ +\u2013.\n\n**15... \u2658h5?**\n\n15...\u2658fd7 was more tenacious: 16.\u2656ac1 g6 17.\u2658e3 \u2657g7 18.\u2656fd1+\u2013.\n\n**16. \u2657xf7+!**\n\nAnother good move was 16.\u2657xe5 \u2655xe5 17.\u2655a4 \u2656c8 18.\u2656ad1 \u2658f6 19.\u2655xa7 \u2657e7 20.\u2656fe1+\u2013.\n\n**16... \u2654xf7 17.\u2655xc5 \u2657xc5 18.\u2657xe5 \u2656b5**\n\n18...\u2656be8 19.\u2657d6 \u2657b6 20.e5+\u2013.\n\n**19. \u2657d6 \u2657b6 20.b4 \u2656d8 21.\u2656ad1 c5 22.bxc5 \u2657xc5 23.\u2656d5**\n\nBlack resigned.\n\nAfter his majestic victory in this return match Alekhine somewhat complacently proclaimed: 'I had only loaned Euwe the title for two years.' In the case of a successful defence of the title Euwe had planned to turn over to the world chess federation FIDE the organising of the World Championship. Since, however, he did not manage to do so, the world chess federation, in which the Dutch player would later play such an important role, had to wait until 1948 before it could finally take over the organisation of the World Chess Championship. Many years later, in 1993, it once again slipped out of the hands of FIDE, however, for a period of some years under the presidency of Florencio Campomanes.\n\nAfter winning back the title Alekhine started a new attempt to come to an agreement with the leaders of the USSR and wrote to Nikolai Krylenko: 'It would give me great pleasure to again play a part in the organisation of chess in the USSR. I hope that my mistakes of the past, of which I am now fully conscious, will not represent some insuperable obstacle. I most deeply regret those mistakes to the extent that in recent years my indifference towards the powerful increase of achievements in the USSR has turned to admiration.' This and further letters remained unanswered and, moreover, remained unknown until 1967, when they were published in an article in _Shakhmaty v SSSR_ (No. 9\/1967).\n\nAfter the loss of his title Max Euwe remained regularly active on the international scene until the 1950s; he played as a member of the national team of the Netherlands into the 1960s. In 1938 in Amsterdam, in an _Algemene Vereniging Radio Omroep_ tournament, sponsored by the Dutch radio company and known by the shorter name as the AVRO tournament, he occupied a good place in the middle of the table on the same number of points as Samuel Reshevsky and Alekhine, behind the new rising masters Paul Keres, Reuben Fine and Mikhail Botvinnik and ahead of Capablanca \u2013 who had suffered a slight stroke during the tournament \u2013 and Salo Flohr.\n\nIn 1939 he won the tournament of the 'Koninklijke Nederlandse Schaakbond' (KNSB) on the same number of points as Flohr and Laszlo Szabo. In the same year he only just lost to Keres in a match by 6:5 with three draws. In 1940 in Budapest he won a tournament in honour of his chess trainer Geza Maroczy. One year later in Karlsbad he defeated Efim Bogoljubow in a match organised by the Greater German Chess Federation by 5:2 with three draws. In 1946 in a top class field Euwe took second place behind Botvinnik in the Staunton Memorial in Groningen. In the following year Euwe played in tournaments in Buenos Aires\/La Plata and Mar del Plata (won by Miguel Najdorf) and in 1948 in both New York and in Venice (won by Miguel Najdorf) he occupied fourth place in each case.\n\nAfter the death of Alekhine Euwe was one of the five players to contest the vacant World Championship title in the WCh tournament in The Hague\/Moscow 1948. However, with 4 points out of 20 games he was only a distant last. After that Euwe's name was rarely to be seen in the first class tournaments. Nevertheless in 1950 at the strong tournament in Amsterdam (won by Miguel Najdorf) he still came in sixth. In the candidates' tournament in Zurich 1953, on the other hand, Euwe could only occupy the 14th and last but one place.\n\nEuwe's attitude to Nazi Germany was unsympathetic, but at least not openly hostile. In 1937, as reported in the _Deutsche Schachbl\u00e4tter_ (Number 16\/1937, 15th August 1937) at a reception for the enthusiastic chess lover Reichsminister Hans Frank he described himself as the first 'Germanic World Chess Champion'. After the occupation of his country by the Germans, Euwe had hardly any other option than coming to terms with the occupiers if he did not want to put his life at risk. Euwe did play the match against Bogoljubow, but he declined invitations to tournaments in Frank's Generalgouvernement and to other tournaments in Germany, citing his professional obligations.\n\nDuring the war he had given up his position as a teacher and worked as the president of the Van Amerongen retail chain, later as an insurance statistician. During his time with Van Amerongen he supported the resistance as far as he could with the secret allocation of extra food rations. In 1945 Euwe took up a position again in a girls' school. In 1954 he became professor of computer science and cybernetics and worked as a consultant to the computer firm Remington. In 1971 he was named emeritus professor in Tilburg.\n\nAt the FIDE congress held during the Chess Olympiad in Siegen in 1970 Euwe was elected to be third president of the world chess federation, the successor of Alexander Rueb (1924-1949) and Folke Rogard (1949-1970). He remained in office till 1978. Euwe's goal was an expansion of FIDE and gaining new member nations in the third world. His successors Fridrik Olafsson (1978-1982) and Florencio Campomanes (1982-1995) continued this policy. Because the voting rights of FIDE have never changed since its foundation (each member nation, independent of the number of its own members, had exactly one vote in conferences of delegates and in elections) in the further history of FIDE the small federations from the so-called chess developing countries have more and more often been able to outvote the large federations and have obtained within the world federation a position of power which is absolutely not in line with their sometimes very small numbers of members.\n\nLike many other Western intellectuals, before the Second World War Euwe was fascinated by the ideas of communism. In 1934 he visited the USSR for the first time and in letters to Dutch newspapers he expressed his enthusiasm. During the war Euwe even took Russian lessons from Karel van het Reve. At the opening ceremony of the tournament in Groningen in 1946 he sang together with his daughter a patriotic Russian song. But after the Second World War Euwe's enthusiasm for the Soviet Union declined markedly. During his visit to Moscow in 1948 he asked Botvinnik about old friends from pre-war years and learned that they had all been executed as 'enemies of the people'. What happened during the Budapest uprising of 1956 finally changed Euwe's views about communism and the Soviet Union.\n\nThe politically explosive WCh matches between Boris Spassky and Robert Fischer, 1972, and Anatoly Karpov and Viktor Kortchnoi, 1978, fell during Euwe's time in office. Euwe had made use of his influence as FIDE president to enable Fischer to take part in the interzonal tournament of 1970 in Palma de Mallorca. In 1976 he supported Viktor Kortchnoi when the latter fled from the Soviet Union and made sure that the dissident was able to take part in the candidates' matches, although the Eastern bloc federations had imposed a boycott on Kortchnoi \u2013 no grandmaster from the East bloc would take part in a tournament in which Kortchnoi was playing.\n\nMax Euwe also made a name for himself as the author of numerous chess manuals. Some of these became classics of chess literature, for example _Master against Amateur_ , _Judgement and Planning in Chess_ or _The Middlegame_. In addition to that he published numerous tournament books. Lodewijk Prins collaborated as co-author or ghost writer for a series of these books.\n\nMax Euwe died on the 26th November 1981 of the consequences of a heart attack he had suffered during a trip to Israel and was buried on the 1st December at the Driehuis-Westerveld cemetery. In Amsterdam the Max Euweplein was named after the 5th World Chess Champion. In 1986 in a former prison there they opened the Max Euwe Centre. Euwe's granddaughter Esm\u00e9 Lammers published in 1995 a chess story book for children, _Lang lebe die K\u00f6nigin_ ('Long live the queen'), which was also turned into a film and in which she used two games of her grandfather.\n**Part II \u2212 The Soviet era**\n\nLong before the revolution chess had already been popular in Russia. It was reported of Peter the Great that he regularly played chess. Catharine the Great is also supposed to have been a great lover of the game and it is said that Ivan the Terrible died during a game of chess.\n\nBut after the 1917 revolution chess became a sport of the people under the new authorities in the Soviet Union. Lenin and his comrades, such as Mikhail Frunze, Mikhail Kalinin, Valerian Kuibyshev and quite particularly Nikolai Krylenko, were enthusiastic chess players and played regularly during their time in exile. It was reported of Lenin that he was a bad loser, which is characteristic of many chess players, for example also Karl Marx, who too was very keen on chess and also did not like losing, as Wilhelm Liebknecht reported.\n\nTo be sure, the best Russian players Alexander Alekhine and Efim Bogoljubow had moved abroad, but gradually the Soviet Federation, which had been founded by Krylenko in 1924, managed with the help of an ever-increasing network of trainers to discover and systematically encourage new talents. In 1925, 1935 and 1936 three world class tournaments were held in Moscow. Then the Soviet Union sealed itself off more and more from the rest of the world and nobody could find out what was happening there generally, and also in chess. In 1938 the best Soviet player, Mikhail Botvinnik, played his last tournament in the West, as the Second World War then interrupted international chess life.\n\nWith the death of Alexander Alekhine the time of the private World Championships came to an end. The world chess federation FIDE then took over the organisation of the World Chess Championships and introduced fixed rules for its implementation and the qualification of challengers. With its 700000 members the Soviet Chess Federation played an important role within FIDE.\n\nThe first World Championship after the Second World War was staged in 1948 as a tournament with five players. Mikhail Botvinnik won in superior fashion. He later defended his title against David Bronstein (1951) and Vassily Smyslov (1954), lost it to Smyslov (1957) and Mikhail Tal (1960) and recovered it twice, in 1958 against Smyslov and in 1961 against Tal in return matches. It was only in 1963 that Botvinnik definitively lost the title to another Soviet player, Tigran Petrosian. The series of Soviet World Champions continued: Petrosian was followed in 1969 by Boris Spassky. It was only in 1972 that Robert Fischer broke into the phalanx of Soviet grandmasters, which had not always observed the rules of fair play.\n**17. The victory of Soviet chess**\n\n**The World Championship 1948:  \n_World Championship tournament The Hague\/Moscow_**\n\nAfter Alekhine had recovered his title in the return match against Max Euwe in 1937, a title defence was actually planned for 1938 against the young Czechoslovakian master Salo Flohr. The world chess federation supported this match on the basis of the successes of Flohr at the start and in the middle of the 1930s and the Czech shoe manufacturer Tomas Bata was prepared to finance the match. The occupation of Czechoslovakia by Hitler's Germany put an end to this plan and the Second World War which soon followed then ended all further ideas of WCh matches.\n\nAt the outbreak of war, Alekhine, like most good chess players, was at the Chess Olympiad in Buenos Aires, but unlike a number of other players who preferred to remain in Argentina, he returned to France. After his return he was called up into the French army as a non-commissioned officer and served as a translator. At the time of the capitulation of France Alekhine was in Arcachon. From there he fled ahead of the Germans into the unoccupied zone, to Marseille where he was released from military service. From Marseille he went to Lisbon, in order perhaps to go from there to Cuba and then on to Argentina.\n\nAfter his escape, the Austrian journalist and later Lasker biographer Jacques Hannak, who after the 'Anschluss' linking Austria to Germany was arrested several times from 1938-1939 as a Jew and a Social Democrat and detained in the concentration camps of Dachau and Buchenwald, met Alekhine in March 1941 in Lisbon and reported that the latter had already secured his visa for Cuba and was planning to travel from there to New York and perhaps play a match against Reshevsky.\n\nAlekhine dropped his plan, however, and returned to his wife in France. Grace Wishaar \u2013 her family came from France and was originally called Weishaar \u2013, born in 1877 in New Jersey, was Alekhine's third wife. She had made herself a name in the USA as a painter of miniature portraits. Jack London, for whom she did a portrait of his daughter, was one of her clients. In 1914 she had travelled to Paris for an exhibition of her works, remained in Europe and later married the British owner of a tea plantation. After the latter's death in the early 1930s she was left a wealthy widow and then owned for example the stately castle 'La Chatellenie' in Saint-Aubin-le-Cauf, south-west of Dieppe in Normandy. After the occupation of France it was confiscated by the Nazis and the Alekhines moved to Paris. After the end of the Second World War Wishaar got the castle back and sold it. Nowadays it is used as a hotel, one of the rooms being named after Alekhine. Wishaar also played chess, even took an interest in correspondence chess and had got to know Alekhine when she took part in a simultaneous display he gave in Tokyo. In March 1934 the couple married in Villefranche-sur-Mer near Nice. Wishaar was 16 years older than Alekhine, being 58 at the time of their marriage. In Paris chess circles the marriage was made fun of with the remark that Alekhine had married Philidor's widow.\n\nAfter his return to Paris, Alekhine got in touch with the German authorities. He then played a series of tournaments in the territory of Greater Germany and for some time moved to Krakow and in 1942 to Prague. Krakow was the residence of the chess enthusiast and governor general of occupied Poland Hans Frank, ironically called the 'King of Poland' even by his own Nazi colleagues on account of his high-handed way of administration. Frank organised chess tournaments and founded a chess school, the teachers of which were Bogoljubow and Alekhine.\n\nAlekhine would later dispute the authorship of a six-part anti-Semitic series of articles on 'Jewish and Aryan chess' published in 1941. In 1956 the hand-written originals of the articles were apparently found in his wife's estate.\n\nIn 1943 Alekhine challenged Keres to play him for the World Championship. Keres was the only possible challenger who like Alekhine had remained in the territory of Greater Germany. But Keres declined the offer. On one hand Keres was in a state of depression brought about by the political circumstances, on the other with future developments in mind he did not want to compromise himself as a result of a match with Alekhine: this was the explanation of Keres biographer Walter Heuer for the behaviour of the Estonian.\n\nIn autumn 1943, on the invitation of the Spanish Chess Federation Alekhine went to give a simultaneous display in Madrid. His wife did not receive an exit visa. Alekhine remained in Spain, gave simultaneous displays, played matches and took part in some smaller tournaments. He trained the then Spanish prodigy Arturo Pomar and wrote for him a private manual _Legado_ (Legacy).\n\nIn the confusion towards the end of the Second World War Alekhine was no longer able to get back to France and Paris. He was stuck in the Iberian peninsula, alone and ill. Since the start of the 1940s, Alekhine had been suffering, probably as a result of his many years of alcoholism, from cirrhosis of the liver, duodenitis and arteriosclerosis, as well as bouts of depression. When in the winter of 1942\/43 he had lived in Prague with his wife, he became ill with scarlet fever and only just escaped death. In a rare case of coincidence, in 1929 Alekhine's friend Richard R\u00e9ti had died there of the same disease \u2013 and actually in the same hospital in which Alekhine too was treated.\n\nIn addition, Alekhine was now completely impoverished. To compensate for the lack of a regular income, he more or less kept his head above water with playing chess. In July 1944 Alekhine wrote to the journalist and chess player Juan Fernandez Rua: 'The better part of my life has been spent between two world wars which have devastated Europe. Both wars have ruined me, but with the following difference: at the end of the first war I was 26 years old, with boundless enthusiasm, which is no longer available to me. If one day I write my memoirs \u2013 which is very possible \u2013 then people will recognise that chess represented a small part of my life. It gave me the possibility to strive for something and at the same time convinced me of the senselessness of this striving. Today I continue to play chess because it keeps my mind occupied and prevents me from brooding and lapsing into reminiscences.'\n\nAlekhine's wife also played in chess tournaments. In 1944 she took part in the championships of Paris and won the ladies' championship. In the autumn of 1945 Alekhine travelled to Estoril (Portugal), where his friend Francisco Lupi lived. Since in Estoril things were going from bad to worse for Alekhine economically and in health matters, the chess lovers around Franscisco Lupi wrote a letter to Alekhine's wife: 'Since your husband has been here he has been ill and without means in a desperate situation. He is living off the goodness and mercy of the owners of the guesthouse.' But there was no reply.\n\nAt the end of November Alekhine received an invitation from the British federation to the first post-war tournaments in London and Hastings. After a protest from the US federation, however, the invitation was retracted on account of his 'collaboration' with the Germans. Alekhine thereupon wrote to the organisers a letter which was published at the start of 1946 in the _British Chess Magazine_ and in _Chess:_ 'The fact is that in Germany and in the occupied territories we were under constant surveillance by the Gestapo and were exposed to the threat of being deported to a concentration camp. I played chess in Germany and in the occupied territories in order to assure our livelihood and in doing so also paid the price for the freedom of my wife. Nothing in these articles, which first appeared in 1941 during my stay in Portugal and of which my first knowledge came when they were reproduced in the _Deutsche Schachzeitung_ , comes from me...'.\n\nAt the start of March Alekhine received a telegram from the president of the English Chess Federation, Derbyshire, who informed him that Botvinnik had applied to his federation for a WCh match with Alekhine. This remarkably improved the mood of Alekhine, who had previously been severely depressed. On the 5th March, however, Winston Churchill made his 'iron curtain speech' in Fulton (Missouri) and declared the Soviet Union to be an enemy of the West. After that Alekhine no longer believed that his match would take place.\n\nOn the morning of the 24th March 1946 Alexander Alekhine was found dead by a waiter in his boarding house in Estoril. The circumstances surrounding his death are mysterious. 'Death by asphyxiation', was the finding on the official autopsy report. A piece of meat from his dinner was supposed to have caused his death by asphyxiation. There exists a photo of the dead World Champion, which appears remarkably staged. Alekhine is sitting slumped in his armchair and wearing a coat. In March it will not have been so cold in Portugal that a coat was necessary in a hotel room, even an unheated one. On the table in front of the dead man there are some plates, which look as if they had been hurriedly thrown there. All the plates are empty, so that the World Champion must have been asphyxiated by literally the final bite of his meal if the statement as to the cause of death is correct. To the left in front of the World Champion a chess set has been positioned which also looks as if it had been put there by someone for decorative reasons.\n\nThe Canadian grandmaster Kevin Spraggett, who has chosen to live in Portugal, has looked into the case in detail. 'How can it be that someone suffocates and in doing so does not thrash around, perhaps knocking over the table and the chess board, but instead simply collapses in his armchair', he asks. According to Spraggett, the doctor who produced the death certificate, Dr. Antonio Ferreira, is said to have later said that Alekhine was found dead in the street with a gunshot wound and had been later brought to his hotel room. Official agencies had forced him to compose the death certificate in the form in which it now exists.\n\nThe handwritten death certificate, very much timeworn, has been preserved and is in the possession of a collector. The text reads: 'I was present at the autopsy of Alexander Alekhine, which was held in the faculty of legal medicine in the institute of medicine of the University of Lisbon. Alekhine was found dead in a room in his hotel in Estoril in circumstances which were considered suspicious and which appeared to necessitate an autopsy in order to determine the cause of death. The autopsy concluded that the cause of Alekhine's death was asphyxiation as a result of a piece of meat, apparently part of a meal, becoming stuck in his throat. There were no indications of anything untoward being involved, neither suicide nor murder. There were no other illnesses to which his sudden and unexpected death might have been attributed. Antonio J. Ferreira, M.D.'\n\nWho could have had an interest in the death of the World Champion? The 10th World Champion in the history of chess, Boris Spassky, believes that 'death squads' of the French resistance exacted revenge on collaborators at the end of the Second World War. According to another theory, a branch of the Soviet NKVD was responsible for the murder of Alekhine. When Reuben Fine proposed a WCh tournament with the remaining participants of the AVRO-Tournament 1938 \u2013 but without Capablanca, who had died, and without Alekhine, who had earned himself a bad reputation with his articles about 'Jewish and Aryan chess' \u2013 Mikhail Botvinnik had already challenged Alekhine. At the top of the Soviet Chess Federation, namely around Botvinnik's adversary Boris Weinstein, there was, however, strong opposition to this idea, because Alekhine was regarded as a traitor to the country. Nevertheless, at the start of 1946 the match was starting to take form. A letter from the British federation, which wanted to organise the WCh match in the summer of 1946 in London, was already on its way to Alekhine. According to this theory, the murder of Alekhine would have been the final chance to prevent this match. Alekhine's son was convinced that 'the hand of Moscow' was responsible for the death of his father.\n\nAnother thesis has been advanced by Hans M\u00fcller in his biography _Schachgenie Aljechin_. He quotes a report from the first funeral in Estoril, in which we find: 'It is a civil burial since the conditions for a religious ceremony were not fulfilled' and concludes from this way of putting things and from the circumstance that burial did not take place until 23 days after the death, that Alekhine had committed suicide. But possibly the 'conditions for a religious burial' were not met simply because Alekhine belonged to the Russian Orthodox church which was not represented in Catholic Portugal.\n\nThe burial in Estoril was actually only intended as a provisional measure and it was planned to rebury Alekhine in France. This, however, did not happen until 1956 on the initiative of FIDE. Alekhine's body was exhumed and transferred to the cemetery of Montparnasse in Paris. At the head of the grave a commemorative stone in red granite was erected with on it an image of Alekhine in Carrara marble. The grave is covered with a marble chess board. The inscription on the tombstone reads: 'This memorial stone was erected on 25th March 1956 by FIDE, the world chess federation \u2013 Folke Rogard, president, Sweden, Viacheslav Ragozin, vice-president, Russia, Marcel Berman, vice-president, France, Mikhail Botvinnik, World Champion, USSR, Gian Carlo Dal Verme (Italy), Pierre Dierman (Belgium).' Later his third wife Grace Wishaar was also buried here with Alekhine. She outlived her husband by 10 years. In 1999 the tombstone was destroyed in a hurricane, but later restored with the help of the Russian patron Andrei Filatov.\n\nDuring his time as an active player Alekhine published a series of outstanding tournament books, the best known of which are _The grandmaster tournament of New York 1924_ , _The New York chess tournament of 1927_ and _The international chess tournament of Nottingham 1936_. In addition his biographical works attracted great attention: _My best games 1908-1923_ and _On the way to the World Championship 1923-1927_. Although living abroad, until 1929 Alekhine regularly wrote articles for the Soviet chess magazine _Shakhmaty_ , published by Nikolai Grekov. The magazine was closed by Nikolai Krylenko for that reason among others.\n\nIn the Australian state of Queensland a hill was named after Alekhine, the 500 foot high Mount Alekhine, 50 miles from Townsville. The name was given to it by the Irish goldminer Patrick Joseph Finnerty.\n\nThe history of the modern World Chess Championships then begins in 1948. The world chess federation FIDE (F\u00e9d\u00e9ration Internationale des \u00c9checs) made use of the opportunity to take over the organisation of the World Championships, since now, after the death of Alekhine, there was no legitimate successor. The world chess federation had existed since 1924. In parallel to the summer Olympics of 1924 in Paris a chess tournament had been organised in the Hotel Majestic, during which the general secretary of the French Chess Federation Pierre Vincent announced the founding of the world chess federation with as its founding members Argentina, Belgium, Great Britain, Finland, France, Italy, Yugoslavia, Canada, the Netherlands, Poland, Romania, Switzerland, Spain, Czechoslovakia and Hungary.\n\nIn 1928 FIDE had made a first attempt to involve itself in the organisation of the World Championships when it ran a FIDE World Championship match between Efim Bogoljubow and Max Euwe (3:2). From 1936 to 1938 debates were held within FIDE about the modalities concerning the running of a WCh cycle, without, however, FIDE being able to gain control of it at that point. The outbreak of the Second World War finally put an end to further activity in that direction. At the first FIDE congress after the Second World War in Winterthur (25th till 27th July 1946) the implementation of a World Championship tournament was decided upon, as was a three-year WCh cycle, consisting of qualification tournaments (zonal tournaments and interzonal tournaments), candidates' tournaments or matches and finally the WCh match.\n\nIn 1947, the Soviet Union with its 700000 registered chess players joined FIDE and in doing so added extra weight. The Hague and Moscow were thought of as venues for the WCh tournament. Then an article in a Dutch newspaper created ill-feeling. Soviet players were accused in the Dutch press of pre-arranging results in tournaments \u2013 it would not be the last time in the history of chess that Soviet players would be subjected to such a reproach. As a protest the Soviets considered a boycott of the Netherlands. But finally at the FIDE congress of The Hague (30th July to 2nd August 1947) it was possible to get agreement on the implementation of the original plan, namely playing the tournament in two parts, in the Netherlands and in the Soviet Union.\n\nThe first World Chess Championship after the war, the 17th, finally took place from the 2nd March till the 16th May, including a longish pause for the journey, in The Hague and Moscow. At the previous FIDE congress the organisation had invited the six reputedly best players in the world to take part: Vassily Smyslov (USSR, 26 years old), Paul Keres (USSR, 32 years old), Reuben Fine (USA, 33 years old), Mikhail Botvinnik (USSR, 36 years old), Samuel Reshevsky (USA, 36 years old) and Max Euwe (Netherlands, 46 years old). It had originally been intended to invite the winners of the Staunton Memorial in Groningen and the Treybal Memorial in Prague as participants. The Staunton Memorial was, however, won by Botvinnik who was already invited in any case. The victor in the Prague tournament was Miguel Najdorf, but it was decided that the Prague tournament had been too weak and Najdorf was not nominated for the WCh tournament.\n\nReuben Fine, a psycho-analyst by profession, then declined to participate. It had actually been Fine who had been the first to think of organising a WCh tournament, after Alekhine had rendered himself unworthy in his eyes to be the World Chess Champion because of his series of articles _Jewish and Aryan chess_. Fine wanted to stage the tournament in the USA, but he could neither find sponsors in the USA for a WCh tournament, nor could he come to an agreement with other top players on the format. Various reasons were suggested for his refusal of the invitation: Fine was working on his PhD thesis and was disappointed that the WCh match did not take place in 1947 as originally planned. Also the support he had hoped for from the US Chess Federation was not forthcoming. The federation even voted for Isaac Kashdan or Arnold Denker instead of Fine as the second US participant along with Reshevsky. Finally, according to the chess player and chess journalist Larry Evans later, Fine also feared pre-arranged results among the three Soviet players.\n\nFine was not replaced and so the tournament was held with only five players, with three of them from the Soviet Union, who would be meeting each other in five of the rounds. A particular role among the Soviet players fell to the Estonian Paul Keres. He was born on the 7th January 1916 in Narva. Estonia had belonged to the Russian empire since 1710, culturally it was marked by Baltic-Germans. After 1885, as a result of a campaign of russification, German was replaced by Russian as the official administrative language. In the course of the collapse of the Russian Czarist empire after the revolution Estonia had declared itself independent on 24th February 1918, but only maintained its independence until 1940. Then according to the agreements in the secret supplementary protocol to the Hitler-Stalin pact it was occupied by Soviet Russia. After Germany's attack on the Soviet Union in 1941 Estonia fell into the grip of the Third Reich and was then occupied by the Germans from 1941 to 1944. In the autumn of 1944 the country was once again taken into the possession of the Soviets after the retreat of the German army.\n\nSo during this period Keres had been obliged to change his citizenship several times. In 1935 Keres, who was moreover one of the best tennis players in his country and on one occasion runner-up in the national championship, represented Estonia at the Chess Olympiad in Warsaw. In 1940 he took part in the USSR championships. From 1942 to 1944 Keres played in tournaments in the territory of the German Reich, for example in the General Government of Hans Frank, in 1943 at an event for entertainment for the Wehrmacht. In the light of his activities in German territory, Keres' fate appeared uncertain when the Red Army once again marched into Estonia, but he was able to continue his career in the USSR, even becoming USSR champion in 1947. Since Keres always did particularly badly against Mikhail Botvinnik, the suspicion arose that the Estonian had been obliged to give precedence to Botvinnik.\n\nBotvinnik was the clear favourite for victory. Even before the war he was being treated as the possible successor to Alekhine. Vassily Smyslov was a young player from the new 'Soviet Chess School' and his third place in the tournament of Groningen 1946 behind Botvinnik and Euwe recommended him as a candidate for the WCh tournament. Born in 1911 close to Lodz (Poland), the US American Samuel Reshevsky (actually: Szmul Rzeszewski) had made a name as a 'chess prodigy'. He learned to play the game at four and at eight he was already giving well respected simultaneous displays. In 1920 his parents emigrated to the USA in order to make money from their son's skills. Reshevsky, who had not previously enjoyed proper schooling, took a break in his chess career from 1924 to 1931 to catch up on his education, finishing it in 1934 at the University of Chicago as an accountant. After that he began to take part successfully in international tournaments too.\n\nThe fifth and final participant in the WCh tournament was the Dutch mathematics teacher and the last living World Champion Machgielis (Max) Euwe. Many authors claim that in 1947 Euwe was proclaimed by FIDE as the last living World Champion to be Alekhine's successor but that he was dethroned after one day on the intervention of the Soviet federation. The chess historian Edward Winter has searched for sources for this claim but has been unable to discover any proof. According to Hans Ree the WCh tournament was suggested originally, but then there were practical problems in carrying it out. For that reason the delegates at the FIDE congress in The Hague 1947 discussed whether for the sake of simplicity Euwe ought to be proclaimed World Champion. The latter, so it was argued, could then defend his title against Reshevsky, with the winner then meeting Botvinnik. After the Soviet delegation arrived on the next day and spoke against this suggestion, it was rejected. Euwe later joked that he had been like a 'World Champion for one day'. In any case he was never officially declared to be such.\n\nSome players who were also counted among the strongest in the world at that time were also absent from this tournament for the World Championship. As well as Miguel Najdorf, who according to the historical world ranking lists and Elo ratings established retrospectively by the statistician Jeff Sonas was in 1948 number two in the world behind Mikhail Botvinnik, Gideon Stahlberg (number three) and Isaak Boleslavsky (number four) were not considered. However neither Elo ratings nor world ranking lists were available as a measure to get an exact evaluation of playing strengths.\n\nMax Euwe (with his head bowed down), The Hague 1948\n\nOf the total of 25 rounds in the WCh tournament the first ten were played between the 2nd and 26th March 1948 in The Hague. After that the tournament moved to Moscow and the remaining rounds were played from the 11th April till the 16th May. The time control was 2\u00bd hours for the first 40 moves, after that an hour for each further 16 moves. After five hours the game could be adjourned at the request of either player. The chief arbiter was Milan Vidmar.\n\nThe Soviet delegation in the Netherlands consisted of no less than 25 persons. As well as the three players, Botvinnik, Keres, Smyslov, there were the official seconds Viacheslav Ragozin, Alexander Tolush and Vladimir Alatortsev and Igor Bondarevsky, Salo Flohr and Andor Lilienthal had arrived apparently as 'correspondents' for various Soviet newspapers and magazines. In reality these also had the task of helping the Soviet players, and especially Mikhail Botvinnik, with preparation and analysis of adjourned positions. Alexander Kotov acted as a member of the arbitration panel. Additionally the Soviet team also had a doctor. Botvinnik's wife and his daughter were also present in The Hague. The leader of the Soviet Delegation was the head of the Russian chess section Postnikov. Compared to that the US delegation was extremely slim: Reshevsky had arrived at the tournament quite alone. Shortly before the start of the tournament he was given Lodewijk Prins as his second. Max Euwe was supported by Theo van Scheltinga.\n\nThe 1st March 1948 had been fixed for the start of the tournament. The opening ceremony took place in the presence of the mayor of The Hague, Willem Adriaan Johan Visser. The drawing of lots resulted in Botvinnik having number one, Euwe number two. Smyslov drew number three, Reshevsky number four and Keres number five. Play took place in the great hall of the zoo. Spectators sat at small tables on which they could place the sets they had brought with them.\n\nAfter the first flight of games in which everybody had played everyone else, Botvinnik with 3\u00bd points was already leading the field, a point ahead of Reshevsky. Euwe had lost all his games and was last. In the second flight Botvinnik was less dominant with 2\u00bd points but with his 6 points he had extended his lead over Reshevsky to 1\u00bd points. After this second flight the tournament travelled by rail to Moscow.\n\nAs they entered Russia, the Russian border officials were curious about strange and possibly hostile notes in Euwe's luggage. These were Euwe's opening analyses for the WCh tournament. Botvinnik intervened and with a call to Moscow arranged for Euwe to keep his notes. Nevertheless the Dutch player had to sign a declaration that his notes were not directed against the Soviet Union. Euwe did this and after waiting for a few hours the participants were allowed to continue their journey. Euwe later joked to Botvinnik that his opening preparation could either be used only against Reshevsky, the sole non-Soviet participant in the World Championship apart from Euwe himself, or else it was bad and totally useless.\n\nIn his tournament book Euwe speaks of the great enthusiasm which the grandmasters had encountered at the various steps on their journey to Moscow. At their stop in Berlin the players were the guests of the Soviet military government and gave simultaneous displays against really strong players in the presence of hundreds of spectators. As they continued their voyage, their group was met at every largish station by a delegation of local chess lovers. In Minsk they were received by Gavriil Veresov, the champion of Belarus. While changing in Brest-Litovsk to a train with the correct gauge used in Russia a great ceremony was organised with speeches, music and several hundred visitors, according to Euwe. In Moscow too there was an exceptionally friendly reception when they arrived on the 4th of April, attended by numerous officials, and also a great number of representatives of the press.\n\nThe second part of the tournament was staged in the showpiece hall of columns of the House of the Unions, in the centre of Moscow, where the Marx Prospect intersects with the previous Pushkin Street. In 1993 the street was renamed Great Dimitrovka Street ('Bolshaya Dimitrovka') and the House of the Unions was given the number 1. Built in the 18th century, this was once the seat of the assembly of nobles. The splen-did hall of columns is so-called after the 28 Corinthian columns around it which rise to a height of 9.80 meters. This is where in the days of the USSR the coffins of dead Soviet leaders were laid in state on red carpets, so that the population could take their leave of them. But by the end of the 19th century some of the rooms in the building were also being used for play by a Moscow chess club. Before the war the hall of columns was in 1936 the grand venue for the famous Moscow grandmaster tournament, won by Capablanca ahead of Botvinnik and Lasker.\n\nFor the opening ceremony all 'the heavyweights of Russian chess life' (Euwe) were present. The president of the Soviet department for chess Postnikov made the opening speech.\n\nIn the Moscow part of the World Championship tournament Botvinnik took in the first two flights of games in each case 3 points out of the four games and increased his lead after this fourth flight to 3\u00bd points in front of Reshevsky and Smyslov. At the end he won the tournament with 14 points ahead of Smyslov (11), Reshevsky and Keres (10\u00bd) and Euwe (4).\n\nThere was later some speculation about whether Keres had deliberately lost his games against Botvinnik. Botvinnik emerged victorious from four of the five games against Keres. It was only the last game, when Botvinnik's tournament victory was already secure, that Keres was able to decide in his favour. This thesis has been recently supported amongst others by the Dutch chess publicist Hans Ree. As proof that at the WCh tournament 1948 'things were not above board', Ree points to the game from the third flight in which Keres was a pawn down in a rook ending against Botvinnik. Despite the pawn deficit the ending should finish as a draw, but with the move 40.a4 and the manoeuvre 53.\u2656d3 and 54.\u2656a3 Keres made his rook totally passive and thus decisively worsened his position.\n\nIt is a fact that on account of his 'collaboration' with the Germans during the Second World War Keres found himself under special scrutiny in the Soviet Union. Nevertheless, thanks to the support of the leader of the Estonian communist party Nikolai Karotamm he was allowed to play in foreign tournaments. Keres knew of course that the Soviet leadership was very keen for a Soviet player, specifically Botvinnik or Smyslov, to win the WCh tournament. Keres certainly did not want to be the one who stood in the way of the desired result. Later, during a visit to England in 1962, Keres denied in a conversation with the historian Ken Whyld having lost on purpose against Botvinnik at the WCh tournament. He gave instead as a justification of his four losses to Botvinnik at the WCh tournament that he had always done badly against the future World Champion.\n\nBotvinnik himself also addressed this subject in an interview which appeared in 1991 in the Dutch magazine _Vrij Nederland_. According to his representation of the facts, Stalin himself had even suggested that after the move of the WCh tournament to Moscow Keres and Smyslov should deliberately lose their games against Botvinnik to ensure the latter's victory. Botvinnik would, however, have protested against this suggestion.\n\nWith Botvinnik the title of World Chess Champion had wandered to the Soviet Union and it would stay there for a long time \u2013 without interruption to 1972. As a result of his success the first Soviet World Chess Champion was so well known in his home country that whenever he went to the Bolshoi Theatre, the audience would stand up when he came in.\n\n **Botvinnik \u2013 Euwe**\n\nMoscow, 12th round  \n13th April 1948  \nQueen's Gambit, Semi-Slav Defence (D49)\n\nMax Euwe was the only player in the WCh tournament whom Botvinnik had never previously defeated.\n\n**1.d4 d5 2. \u2658f3 \u2658f6 3.c4 e6 4.\u2658c3 c6 5.e3 \u2658bd7 6.\u2657d3 dxc4 7.\u2657xc4 b5**\n\nBotvinnik liked to play the Meran Variation of the Semi-Slav Defence to the Queen's Gambit \u2013 both with white and with black. The variation received its name after Akiba Rubinstein and also Ernst Gr\u00fcnfeld had some nice successes with black with this idea in the tournament in Meran 1924. It had, however, been employed previously by Ossip Bernstein \u2013 in 1914 against Jos\u00e9 Raul Capablanca \u2013 and also by Euwe himself in 1923. The first game with this variation was even played back in 1906 in Ostende, between Carl Schlechter and Julius Perlis.\n\n**8. \u2657d3 a6**\n\nThe oldest move at this point. Alternatives are 8...\u2657b7 (Wade Variation) and 8...b4 (Lundin Variation).\n\n**9.e4 c5 10.e5**\n\nThe equally sharp alternative is the Reynolds Attack: 10.d5 c4 (the 'modern' move is 10...\u2655c7) 11.dxe6 fxe6 12.\u2657c2 \u2655c7 13.0-0 \u2657b7 14.\u2658g5 (or 14.\u2658d4) with dynamic play. Botvinnik considered this attack more dangerous than 10.e5.\n\n**10...cxd4 11. \u2658xb5 axb5**\n\nWith black Botvinnik himself preferred the older alternative 11...\u2658xe5.\n\n**12.exf6 \u2655b6**\n\nA more popular move nowadays is 12... gxf6. Botvinnik investigated this then very new variation together with his friend Viacheslav Ragozin in the spring of 1939 during their common preparation for the 11th USSR championship.\n\n**13.fxg7 \u2657xg7**\n\nIn his tournament book Euwe considered as the 'normal' variation the continuation 14.\u2655e2 0-0 15.0-0 and then after 15...\u2658c5? 16.\u2657xh7 \u2654xh7 17.\u2658g5 \u2654g6 18.\u2655g4 f5 19.\u2655g3 Black came under a devastating attack in Kottnauer-Kotov, Prague 1947. According to Euwe the correct move was 15...\u2657b7.\n\n**14.0-0 \u2658c5**\n\nLater the choice here was more often 14...\u2657b7, after which White also occupies e5 with 15.\u2656e1 0-0 16.\u2657f4 \u2657d5 17.\u2658e5. But Black retains sufficient counterplay.\n\n**15. \u2657f4 \u2657b7 16.\u2656e1 \u2656d8?**\n\nAfter this move Black falls behind. It was more logical to play 16...\u2657xd3 17.\u2655xd3 \u2657xf3 (17...0-0 fails according to Euwe to 18.\u2658g5) 18.\u2655xf3 0-0 with simplification. But after 19.\u2655g4 White retains something of an advantage since the b5-pawn tends to be weak and Black's king position is not quite secure.\n\n**17. \u2656c1 \u2656d5 18.\u2657e5 \u2657xe5**\n\nIn the event of 18...0-0 White obtains a promising attacking position after 19.\u2657xg7 \u2654xg7 20.\u2658e5 \u2658xd3 21.\u2655xd3, for example: 21...f6 22.\u2656c7+! \u2655xc7 23.\u2655g3+ \u2654h8 (23...\u2654h6 24.\u2658g4+) 24.\u2658g6+ hxg6 25.\u2655xc7 or 21...h6 22.\u2656e4! (Kasparov).\n\n**19. \u2656xe5 \u2656xe5?!**\n\nIn the event of 19...\u2656g8 White has an extra pawn and the better position after 20.\u2656xd5 \u2657xd5 21.\u2657xh7 \u2656g4 22.h3 (Kasparov). For Black it was worth considering 19...\u2658xd3!? with the possible continuation 20.\u2655xd3 \u2655d6 21.\u2656xd5 \u2655xd5 22.\u2655xd4 0-0 and White may be better, but he is still far away from a win.\n\n**20. \u2658xe5 \u2658xd3 21.\u2655xd3 f6**\n\n21...\u2656g8 now fails to 22.\u2655xh7! \u2656xg2+ 23.\u2654f1 and f7 cannot be protected.\n\n**22. \u2655g3!**\n\nAfter 22.\u2658g4 \u2654e7 White's advantage would still be limited according to Kasparov.\n\n**22...fxe5 23. \u2655g7 \u2656f8 24.\u2656c7**\n\nThe threat of mate on e7 can only be warded off with loss of material.\n\n**24... \u2655xc7**\n\nThe alleged way out 24...\u2655d6 25.\u2656xb7 d3 is refuted by 26.\u2656a7 \u2655d8 27.\u2655xh7 (Kasparov): 27...d2 28.\u2655h5+ \u2656f7 29.\u2655xf7#.\n\n**25. \u2655xc7 \u2657d5 26.\u2655xe5 d3 27.\u2655e3 \u2657c4 28.b3 \u2656f7 29.f3! \u2656d7 30.\u2655d2 e5 31.bxc4 bxc4 32.\u2654f2 \u2654f7**\n\nAfter 32...c3 there is a win with 33.\u2655xc3 d2 34.\u2655c8+ \u2654e7 35.\u2655xd7+ \u2654xd7 36.\u2654e2.\n\n**33. \u2654e3 \u2654e6 34.\u2655b4 \u2656c7**\n\n34...d2 35.\u2655xc4+ \u2654e7 36.\u2655b4+ \u2654f7 37.\u2655xd2+\u2013.\n\n**35. \u2654d2 \u2656c6 36.a4**\n\n**1-0**\n\nMikhail Botvinnik was born on the 17th August 1911 into a well-off Jewish family in Kuokkala. After the Russian Revolution Kuokkala belonged to a then independent Finland, but after the final end to the Soviet-Finnish hostilities in 1944 had to be ceded to the Soviet Union and in 1948 was renamed Repino in honour of the Russian painter Ilya Repin born there in the 18th century.\n\n**Mikhail Botvinnik (1911-1995)**\n\nBotvinnik's family had its roots in Belarus, near Minsk, where Botvinnik's grandfather had a farm. Botvinnik's father Moissei Lvovich Botvinnik (1878-1931) left the paternal farm at the age of 27, was at first active in the underground against the czars and then started to work as a dental technician. He moved from Minsk to St. Petersburg where he met his wife, Seraphim Samoilovna Rabinovich (1879-1952).\n\nBotvinnik's mother also came from Belarus, from Krasava, which is nowadays part of Latvia. In 1901 she was exiled to Siberia at the age of 22, on account of membership of the Jewish Workers League, and a second time for two years in 1905 for distribution of subversive writings, when she became politically active in the Menshevik fraction of the Social Democratic Workers Party of Russia. After her return Seraphim Rabinovich worked as a dentist in a metal factory, but gave up her profession after her marriage to Moissei Botvinnik. She and her husband occupied in St. Petersburg a large flat with seven rooms on the 3rd floor in 88 Nevsky Prospect, quite close to the place (86 Nevsky Prospect) where in 1895-96 the great tournament of St. Petersburg with Lasker, Steinitz, Pillsbury and Chigorin had taken place.\n\nMikhail Botvinnik was the middle one of three children. He had a three years older brother, Isaak, and a younger sister, Maria. Up until the Revolution things were very good financially for the family. As well as a cook and a domestic servant the Botvinniks also employed a nanny. After the political upheaval of 1917 this changed dramatically. Like many others the Botvinniks now experienced from time to time great hunger. In 1920 Moissei Botvinnik left his family in order to marry a noblewoman, though he did continue to care for his children and also supported them materially. But when Mikhail Botvinnik's mother became ill the good times were finally over for the family. As a child Mikhail Botvinnik's health was frail, but then on the instructions from a book he took the habit of regular physical exercise every morning, a habit which he kept all of his life. Botvinnik started reading at an early age, preferably classics, often till late into the night, which, he believed, ruined his eyes so that he soon had to wear spectacles with very thick lenses.\n\nMikhail Botvinnik learned chess in the autumn of 1923 at the age of 12 from Leonid Baskin, a school friend of his older brother Isaak who lived in the same house. In his school, School No. 157 in 5 Finnish Alley _(Finski pereulok)_ , Botvinnik then frequently took part in school competitions but at the start was often not as good as the older and more experienced pupils. Amongst Botvinnik's first chess reading material were two bound annual issues of the magazine _Schachmaty Listok_ of 1876 and 1877. He learned all the games by heart.\n\nWhen in 1924 Lasker visited the city, which had been called Petrograd since 1914 and renamed Leningrad in 1924, and gave a simultaneous display in the offices of the tax authorities, Mikhail Botvinnik took part but had to abandon the game prematurely after 15 moves since Lasker was playing very slowly and it would soon be time for the 13 year old to go back home. But in the same year Botvinnik won the championship of school No. 157 and on the 1st June 1924 joined the Petrograd chess society, though he had to cheat a little on the question of his age since the minimum age was 16, and at 13 he was clearly under that limit. He made rapid progress and won his first tournament and 18 roubles prize money.\n\nIn 1925 the World Champion Capablanca, who was playing in the Moscow tournament, gave a simultaneous display against 30 opponents in the Leningrad Philharmonic on one of the rest days. There are various accounts concerning what motivated the World Champion to undertake the train journey from Moscow to Leningrad, nine hours in each direction. As well as a high fee, it might also have been the prospect of a rendezvous with a lady who had set Capablanca's heart on fire during a visit to St. Petersburg in 1913 in his capacity as Cuban diplomat. Organiser Jakov Rochlin had originally intended the 14 year old Botvinnik to be a reserve. Botvinnik's mother, who had actually been rather sceptical about her son's chess activities, nevertheless purchased for him a new jacket for his appearance in the simul against the World Chess Champion. Botvinnik was allowed to play and thanked her with a victory against Capablanca.\n\nAfter that Botvinnik made further progress and was soon one of the best players in Leningrad. At the age of 15 he was selected in 1926 to represent his home city in a match between Stockholm and Leningrad and at 16 Botvinnik reached the category of 'master'. Nevertheless, he felt hindered in his progress by older players, who were jealous of his rise, especially by Piotr Romanovsky, who played an important role in the development of chess in the Soviet Union as a trainer and official. After school Botvinnik started his studies at the Electromechanical Faculty of Leningrad Polytechnic Institute. After two terms he was called up to Novgorod in the summer of 1929 for six weeks of military training for students, which would remain his only military experience.\n\nAt the age of 20, in 1931, Botvinnik won the USSR championship for the first time. In 1934, during a visit to his friend and mentor Jakov Rochlin, who was married to the young soloist from the Leningrad Ballet Valentina Sopuchinoi, the young master made the acquaintance of his future wife Gajane Ananova. She was of Armenian descent, also a ballet dancer working in the Kirov Theatre and at that time only 19 years old. The couple married on the 2nd May 1935. But their only child, their daughter Olga, was not born until 1942.\n\nIn 1935, together with Salo Flohr, Botvinnik obtained first place in the tournament in Moscow. For his performance, in addition to the prize money of 4000 roubles and a raise in his state stipend from 300 to 500 roubles he received from the People's Commissar for Heavy Industry Grigol Ordzhonikidze, who only a few years later at the start of the 'Great Purge' in 1937 either chose to or was obliged to commit suicide, the present of a car. This made Botvinnik one of the first private car owners in the Soviet Union. Someone later wrote that at that time driving around in a private car in the Soviet Union would be like landing in a pedestrian zone in a Ufo nowadays.\n\nThe next year Botvinnik occupied second place behind Capablanca in the next big tournament in Moscow and shortly after won the Nottingham tournament together with Capablanca. Many chess players also fell victim to the Stalinist terror, including even Nikolai Krylenko, the great chess promoter and head of the Soviet federation since 1924, a companion of Lenin. He was arrested in January 1938, condemned in April and shot on the 29th July. Botvinnik himself remained unscathed. The regime needed him. At the AVRO tournament in 1938 in Amsterdam Botvinnik took third place behind Keres and Fine and was able to defeat both Alekhine and Capablanca. There are various representations of the circumstances surrounding the invitation to the AVRO-tournament. In one version it was originally the older Grigory Levenfish who was invited, but according to Kortchnoi Botvinnik had intervened and within the Soviet federation pointed out Levenfish's czarist past. According to Botvinnik he had been personally invited. Levenfish had argued against this, but unsuccessfully.\n\nThe organisers of the AVRO tournament had tried to establish the winner of their tournament as the next challenger, but Alekhine scotched this idea and at the opening ceremony read out a statement in German (a language of which he was a perfect master). In it he pointed out that only the World Champion chose the challenger and that he would only accept a player who could put up the required stake. After the tournament Botvinnik met Alekhine in the latter's room for negotiations and he brought Salo Flohr along as a witness. Alekhine was basically in agreement with a match against Botvinnik and also explained that he would be prepared to play it in Moscow, as long as the London Rules were adhered to. Alekhine demanded two thirds of the 6700 dollars as a winner's prize, but in order to keep things simpler when presenting them to the Soviet authorities, Botvinnik offered him the 6700 dollars as an appearance fee, no matter how the match turned out.\n\nAfter the tournament all the players in it met in order to advise in general terms about the arrangements for future World Championship matches. But curiously, out of the eight players in the tournament there were only ever seven in the room at any one time because Alekhine and Capablanca were then even avoiding being in the same room at the same time and therefore attended the council turn about. The players finally founded a sort of players union. Each of the masters present was to have the right to challenge the World Champion, as long as he was in a position to come up with the required 10 000 dollars prize fund. Only Capablanca was obliged, according to Alekhine's demand, to furnish 18 000 dollars, which was the exact equivalent of the 10 000 dollars in gold which he himself had demanded for the match in 1927.\n\nAfter his return to Moscow Botvinnik immediately informed Mikhail Bulganin, then president of the state bank, about the conversation. Soon afterwards Botvinnik received a telegram from Viacheslav Molotov, in which the latter promised the support of the government. Alekhine then suggested by letter to play half of the WCh match in London, but Botvinnik declined. The outbreak of the Second World War ended the negotiations, but in the autumn of 1945 an interview with Alekhine appeared in the English magazine _Chess_ , in which the World Champion evoked the conversation with Botvinnik and reaffirmed his agreement to appear in a match under the conditions agreed. Botvinnik then received confirmation from the Soviet government that it would make the stake available.\n\nIn March 1946, however, Alekhine died in the circumstances described above. The match never took place. The Second World War had disrupted the whole of international tournament organisation. But in 1946 things got off to a fresh start with the big tournament in Groningen. Botvinnik won it half a point ahead of Euwe.\n**18. Was he obliged to lose the 23 rd game?**\n\n**The World Championship 1951:  \n_Mikhail Botvinnik against David Bronstein_**\n\nMikhail Botvinnik's first challenger after the new rules was David Bronstein, a Ukrainian Jew, son of a mill manager and a doctor. Bronstein was born on the 19th February 1924 in Bila Zerkwa, an industrial area in Oblast Kiev. He learned to play chess aged six from his grandfather. Later Alexander Konstantinopolsky took him under his wing.\n\nIn 1937 Bronstein's father Johonon was arrested during the Stalinist purges and on false testimony was put in a gulag for seven years as an 'enemy of the people'. It has been supposed that the reason for the arrest was that he was related to the family of Leon Trotsky, who was actually called Lev Bronstein. This has not been able to be confirmed by any sources, but it has also not been able to be refuted.\n\nDavid Bronstein (1924-2006)\n\nAt 15 Bronstein came in second in the 1939 championship of Kiev and at 16 second in the Ukrainian championship. At the outbreak of the Second World War Bronstein was deemed unfit for military service on account of his bad eyesight and so spared army service. He then studied for a year in Leningrad, after fleeing Kiev ahead of the advancing Germans.\n\nIn the 1940s Bronstein then developed into one of the strongest players in the Soviet Union. For example, in 1944 he also had a win against Mikhail Botvinnik. In 1948 and 1949 he won the USSR championships. In 1948 Bronstein was victorious in the interzonal tournament of Saltsj\u00f6baden and thus qualified for the candidates' tournament in Budapest in 1950. He won this jointly with Isaak Boleslavsky (12 points each), with whom Bronstein surprisingly and under remarkable circumstances had caught up at the end of the tournament. Two rounds before the finish Boleslavsky had had a clear lead, but he drew the last two games practically without a fight, whereas Bronstein won.\n\nBehind that there was Boris Weinstein, Bronstein's mentor, who was supporting his prot\u00e9g\u00e9 at the tournament as a second. Weinstein was the head of the economic department of the NKVD, under the NKVD head and personal friend of Stalin, Lavrenty Beria, therefore very influential and powerful. In addition Weinstein was head of the NKVD chess club Dynamo, of which Bronstein was also a member of course, as well as the Soviet Chess Federation.\n\nWeinstein and Botvinnik on the other hand had already become bitter enemies before the war as to whether Botvinnik should play a WCh match with the 'traitor' Alexander Alekhine. In reality their mutual antipathy went even further back, to 1929 when they once got into an argument over the evaluation of their adjourned game in a team match. Weinstein had already secretly and successfully thwarted, even against the instructions of Stalin, Botvinnik's desire to play against Alekhine for the World Championship. With the help of his prot\u00e9g\u00e9 Bronstein he now wanted to dethrone Botvinnik as World Champion. To that end Weinstein had systematically promoted Bronstein and for years allowed him to live in his flat. Weinstein had persuaded Boleslavsky to allow Bronstein to catch up. It was obviously not too hard for Boleslavsky to agree to the request of the NKVD officer since he was a close friend of Bronstein.\n\nWeinstein's actual plan was to turn the scheduled WCh match into a tournament of three with title defender Botvinnik and the two challengers on the same number of points, Bronstein and Boleslavsky. The FIDE had little it could do about the intrigues in Moscow, but Botvinnik refused and so a playoff between Bronstein and Boleslavsky was arranged. This took place in a friendly atmosphere in the central chess club for railway workers. It was finally a close victory for Bronstein. Many years later, in 1984, Bronstein married the 22 year younger daughter of his friend, Tatiana Boleslavskaya.\n\nHow little FIDE was involved in the proceedings in Moscow can be seen from the fact that the USSR Chess Federation did not communicate the result of the playoffs to FIDE till 20 days later. Whereas Bronstein had the support of a series of NKVD officers, Botvinnik could count on his links to the top of the party. For example, he had good contacts to foreign minister Viacheslav Molotov. After his victory in the WCh tournament of 1948 Botvinnik had only taken part in a single tournament. Instead, he was working on his doctoral thesis in engineering, which he finally presented under the title _The influence of oscillating current on the vibration in synchronous machine rotors_. He was awarded the doctorate on 28th June 1951, that is to say after his match against Bronstein.\n\nBotvinnik's role model in the professional sense was the Yugoslavian grandmaster Milan Vidmar, who as well as having a chess career was also an outstanding engineer. Botvinnik's chess preparation for the WCh match consisted of the study of openings, of the games of his opponent and of training matches against Ragozin and Smyslov. Bronstein prepared with training matches against Ratmir Kholmov.\n\nIn 1944 Bronstein's father was released from the camp on account of illness and exhaustion, but as a traitor to the people was not allowed to go to Moscow. He did so, however, with the help of a forged passport which his son had got for him by bribery, so that in 1951 he was able to follow the games of WCh match against Botvinnik live.\n\nBefore the start of the match Botvinnik began a discussion with Bronstein about the rules and tried to bring about changes in certain points. This was a quirk of Botvinnik, so as to have a position of dominance or else to work up an aggressive mood against his match opponent with the help of such disputes. He discussed with Bronstein the way a draw was to be offered and demanded that on the adjournment of a game after 40 moves the sealed move should be placed inside two envelopes. It was actual the usual practice to put the sealed move in one envelope which the arbiter kept until the resumption of the game. What Botvinnik wanted to prevent with his change in the rules was any irregularities which might occur with a possibly partisan arbiter. The discussion about the second envelope is said to have lasted a month before Bronstein finally gave in.\n\nThe memorable match between Botvinnik and Bronstein took place from the 15th March till 11th May 1951 in the Tchaikovsky Concert Hall in Moscow, not far from the Mayakovskaya metro station. Adjourned games were continued in the concert hall of the Central Club of the Soviet Army or in the October Hall in the House of the Soviets. The match turned the two players into bitter enemies and after the match they never spoke another word to each other. This, however, happened quite frequently in the history of chess with contestants in WCh matches. The match was set for 24 games. In the event of equality the title defender was to retain his title.\n\nAfter a decision of FIDE at their 1949 congress the federation of the reigning World Champion had the prerogative when it came to staging the World Championship. An official prize fund was also recommended, namely 5000 dollars for the winner of a WCh match and 3000 dollars for the loser. Since for WCh matches in the Soviet Union the sums were paid in roubles, the players received in reality only a fraction of the value of these amounts. Karel Opocensky acted as arbiter, assisted by Gideon Stahlberg. The official second of Botvinnik was Viacheslav Ragozin. Bronstein was supported by Alexander Konstantinopolsky.\n\nAfter four drawn games at the start of the match Bronstein went into the lead with a win in the fifth game, but Botvinnik won the next game and drew level. The seventh game nearly went uncontested to Bronstein thanks to a higher power. After his win in the sixth game, Botvinnik decided to spend the following two rest days with his nine year old daughter in his dacha outside of Moscow in Nikolina Gora. To do so he had to cross the river Moskva. Because of spring high water levels a wooden bailey bridge had already been dismantled as a precaution. Thus the other bank could only be reached by ship.\n\nOn the morning of the seventh day of play Botvinnik realised to his horror that the water level had risen further and brought with it numerous ice floes. For that reason ship traffic had been stopped and Moscow could not be reached. Botvinnik got in telephone communication with the organisers and told them about his problem. When he later returned to the river to re-examine the situation, all the ice floes had disappeared as if by magic and the ships had started ferrying passengers again. Botvinnik was able to head for the playing hall and reached it in time. As he later learned, the ice floes had been jammed by a sharp bend in the river and left the following part of the Moskva ice-free.\n\nThe seventh game again went to Botvinnik, putting him in the lead. After three drawn games Bronstein equalised in the eleventh game. Botvinnik won the twelfth game, the 17th game again went to Bronstein. Then Botvinnik once more took the lead with a win in the 19th game.\n\nThe end of the match turned into a thriller. In game 20 there was another draw. Then Bronstein won the 21st and also the 22nd games and took a lead of 5:4 in wins. Two draws would now have been enough for him to win the title. Bronstein, however, lost the 23rd game, meaning that Botvinnik had equalised. Botvinnik hung on to his title with a draw in the final game.\n\nAccording to Botvinnik after the match Bronstein had at first claimed he had been obliged to think about his imprisoned father during game 23. The push for this claim is supposed to have come from Bronstein's mentor Weinstein, but this was pure nonsense. But soon the rumour circulated that Bronstein had even been forced to lose the 23rd game. Bronstein himself later denied this and wrote: 'A lot of nonsense has been published about this. I was in fact subject to all sorts of psychological pressure during this match, but it was my sole responsibility to deal with it.'\n\nBotvinnik also had some difficulties to overcome and later wrote about the match: 'In the spectators' room, just opposite the stage, there were seats for the KGB, where all the fans from the Dynamo Club would sit. Whenever Bronstein sacrificed something or won a pawn, there was loud applause from there. Bronstein would make a move, disappear like lightning behind the stage, reappear and disappear again. The public laughed, which annoyed me.'\n\n **Botvinnik \u2013 Bronstein**\n\nMoscow, 23rd game  \n8th May 1951  \nGr\u00fcnfeld Indian Defence (D71)\n\n**1.d4 \u2658f6 2.c4 g6 3.g3 c6 4.\u2657g2 d5 5.cxd5 cxd5**\n\nBlack has reacted to the fianchetto of the white bishop to g2 with 4...d5 and a transposition to the Gr\u00fcnfeld Indian Defence. 3...d6 would have led instead to the King's Indian Defence.\n\n**6. \u2658c3**\n\n6.\u2658f3 \u2657g7 7.0-0 0-0 is more usual.\n\n**6... \u2657g7 7.\u2658h3**\n\n7.\u2658f3 is more common, but White wanted to avoid the main lines. (Botvinnik)\n\n**7... \u2657xh3**\n\nSolving in radical fashion the problem with the d5-pawn but also at the cost of the bishop pair.\n\n**8. \u2657xh3 \u2658c6 9.\u2657g2 e6 10.e3 0-0 11.\u2657d2 \u2656c8 12.0-0 \u2658d7**\n\nBronstein loves such 'intermezzo' moves when the pieces retreat and then return to their original positions. (Botvinnik)\n\n**13. \u2658e2 \u2655b6 14.\u2657c3 \u2656fd8 15.\u2658f4 \u2658f6 16.\u2655b3 \u2658e4**\n\n16...\u2655xb3 17.axb3 degrades the white pawn structure, but also opens the a-file for the rook.\n\n**17. \u2655xb6 axb6 18.\u2657e1**\n\nWhite wants to preserve the bishop pair in all cases.\n\n**18... \u2658a5 19.\u2658d3 \u2657f8**\n\nThe game is completely level. Black has something of a lead in development and the initiative on the queenside, White has in the bishop pair an advantage for the forthcoming endgame.\n\n**20.f3 \u2658d6 21.\u2657f2 \u2657h6**\n\n21...\u2656c2 22.\u2656fc1 \u2656dc8 23.\u2656xc2 \u2656xc2 24.\u2656c1 achieves nothing for Black.\n\n**22. \u2656ac1 \u2658ac4 23.\u2656fe1 \u2658a5**\n\n23...\u2658f5!? forces 24.f4 after which the position remains closed.\n\n**24. \u2654f1 \u2657g7 25.g4 \u2658c6 26.b3 \u2658b5 27.\u2654e2 \u2657f8**\n\n28...\u2657a3 followed by...\u2658c3 is now a serious threat.\n\n**28.a4 \u2658c7 29.\u2657g3 \u2658a6 30.\u2657f1 f6 31.\u2656ed1 \u2658a5**\n\nWith his knight manoeuvres Black has loosened up the white structure on the queenside and is threatening to win the b3-pawn. But since Black himself has only immobile doubled pawns on the b-file, winning the white b-pawn is of little use to him.\n\n**32. \u2656xc8 \u2656xc8 33.\u2656c1 \u2656xc1 34.\u2658xc1 \u2657a3 35.\u2654d1**\n\n**35... \u2657xc1?**\n\nAccording to Bronstein 'the worst mistake in the whole match'.\n\nBecause here Botvinnik, as so often in this match, was in time trouble, Bronstein felt the challenge to take the pawn. Black could instead, according to Botvinnik, have maintained equality after 35...\u2654f7.\n\n**36. \u2654xc1 \u2658xb3+ 37.\u2654c2 \u2658a5 38.\u2654c3**\n\nThe bishop pair secures an advantage for White in this endgame \u2013 despite the slight material disadvantage.\n\n**38... \u2654f7 39.e4 f5?**\n\nBronstein later thought: 'I never wanted to analyse this ending, but I suppose that without...f6-f5 it is still drawn.'\n\n**40.gxf5 gxf5 41. \u2657d3 \u2654g6**\n\nThe game was adjourned after this move. All the grandmasters in the press centre were convinced that Botvinnik had sealed 42.\u2658b1 as his move and were of the opinion that that move was winning, but...\n\n**42. \u2657d6**\n\nBotvinnik's plan was to bring the bishops to d6 and b1, exchange on d5 and then win the d5-pawn with \u2657a2. Botvinnik's second had instead spent the whole night analysing the winning move 42.\u2657b1, without Botvinnik letting him know that he had sealed another move. This only became clear to Flohr on the following day and at the same time revealed to him the fact that Botvinnik did not trust him.\n\n**42... \u2658c6**\n\n**43. \u2657b1**\n\nIn the analysis of the adjourned game Bronstein had also looked into 42.\u2657d6, although he was not counting on it being played, and had found a plan against it. After the resumption of the game he was so surprised by 42.\u2657d6 that he forgot his defensive plan.\n\n**43... \u2654f6?**\n\n43...\u2658a7! was Bronstein's defensive idea: 44.exd5 exd5 45.\u2657a2 and now 45...b5 holds the game.\n\n**44. \u2657g3!**\n\n'After a sleepless night I found this decisive move at eight o'clock in the morning.' (Botvinnik)\n\n**44...fxe4**\n\nThe point of White's move is 44... \u2658ab4 45.\u2657e5+ and then: 45...\u2654g6 46.exf5+ exf5 47.\u2657d6 \u2658a6 48.\u2657a2+\u2013.\n\n**45.fxe4 h6 46. \u2657f4 h5 47.exd5 exd5 48.h4 \u2658ab8 49.\u2657g5+ \u2654f7 50.\u2657f5 \u2658a7 51.\u2657f4 \u2658bc6 52.\u2657d3 \u2658c8 53.\u2657e2 \u2654g6 54.\u2657d3+ \u2654f6 55.\u2657e2 \u2654g6 56.\u2657f3 \u26586e7 57.\u2657g5**\n\nBlack resigned.\n\nWhen the players shook hands, many spectators thought they had agreed a draw. In fact, however, Bronstein had resigned. His trainer Konstantinopolsky asked him why he had not tried 57...\u2658c6 58.\u2657xd5 \u2658d6, after which a win for White is at least no longer obvious. But Bronstein had not examined this possibility more closely. Later Smyslov found a win for White: 59.\u2657f3 \u2654f5 60.\u2657c1 b5 61.\u2657xc6 bxc6 62.a5 and the a-pawn queens: 62...\u2654e6 63.a6 \u2658c8 64.\u2657g5 \u2654d5 65.\u2657e7 \u2658b6 66.\u2657c5 \u2658a8 67.a7 \u2654e6 68.\u2654b4 \u2654d7 69.\u2654a5 \u2654c8 70.\u2654a6 \u2658c7+ 71.\u2654b6+\u2013.\n\nBronstein was one of the few USSR grandmasters who in 1976 refused to sign a resolution against Viktor Kortchnoi who had fled the USSR, and for this refusal he was punished with 14 years of refusal of permission to travel to the West. Moreover in 1952 Bronstein had refused to sign a petition against the alleged participants in the so-called 'Doctors' plot', Botvinnik had not. In the 'Doctors' plot' prominent doctors, above all of Jewish descent, were accused of having wanted to poison the political and military leaders of the USSR. The alleged plot was a pretext for anti-Semitic persecution with countless arrests and executions, which had its origins in the paranoia of the seriously ill Stalin. The latter died soon afterwards, on the 5th March 1953.\n**19. With great ease**\n\n**The World Championship 1954:  \n_Mikhail Botvinnik against Vassily Smyslov_**\n\nVassily Smyslov, born in Moscow on the 24th March 1921, learned the game of chess at age six from his father, an engineer who was also a strong chess player and who in 1912 had even beaten Alexander Alekhine in a club tournament of the St. Petersburg chess club. Until the age of 14 Smyslov was trained by his father and improved his understanding of chess by playing through games from his father's chess library of more than 100 volumes. In his training Smyslov's father laid particular weight on the acquisition of a feeling for the position in positions which had few pieces.\n\n**Vassily Smyslov (1921-2010)**\n\nLater Smyslov would amaze the chess world with the ease with which he found the correct squares for his pieces. Moreover, his particular strength lay in the endgame, whereas he preferred to avoid tactical complications involving the calculation of numerous variations \u2013 a weakness, however, which during his career cost him many a (half) point.\n\nAs well as his chess education, Vassily Smyslov also received music lessons. He learned to play the piano and from 1948 took singing lessons from Professor Konstantin Slobin. His idol was Enrico Caruso. He only just missed out on a position as baritone at the Bolshoi Theatre. Smyslov was, moreover, very religious and for that reason never joined the communist party.\n\nAt 14 Vassily Smyslov began taking part in tournaments and soon reached master strength. At the USSR championship of 1940 he came in third ahead of Keres, Boleslavsky and Botvinnik. In 1942 and 1945 he won the Moscow championships. At the USSR championship of 1944 he took second place behind Botvinnik. In 1946 Smyslov was third in his first appearance in the West, in the Staunton Memorial in Groningen. It was because of these successes that Smyslov was invited to the WCh tournament in The Hague and Moscow and he justified this by coming in second behind Botvinnik. At the candidates' tournament in Budapest Smyslov missed victory, trailing Bronstein and Boleslavsky by two points. Bronstein became the challenger to Botvinnik in his place. At the Chess Olympiad of 1952 in Helsinki, the first in which the Soviet Union participated, Smyslov played on board two behind Keres and with his 10\u00bd out of 13 scored the best result on that board. The USSR team took gold ahead of Argentina and Yugoslavia.\n\nVassily Smyslov had already prequalified for the candidates' tournament in Neuhausen (from the 28th August) and Zurich (from the 13th September) 1953 as a result of his third place in the candidates' tournament of 1950 in Budapest. Boleslavsky as joint winner, Keres as fourth and Najdorf as fifth in the tournament enjoyed the same privilege. The victor of the candidates' tournaments, Bronstein, qualified as the defeated player in the previous WCh match. Reshevsky and Euwe were, in addition, also entitled to take part as participants in the WCh tournament of 1948, as were the first players from the interzonal tournament in Saltsj\u00f6baden 1952: Alexander Kotov, Tigran Petrosian, Mark Taimanov, Efim Geller, Yuri Averbakh, Gideon Stahlberg, Laszlo Szabo and Svetozar Gligoric. The tournament later achieved special fame in the world of chess under the name 'Zurich 1953' as the result of a series of tournament books, including the one by David Bronstein, _Zurich International chess tournament 1953_ , considered as particularly successful. In the USSR 300 000 copies were printed. However, only a part of the book was from the pen of the named author, a great part having been written by Bronstein's mentor Boris Weinstein. The latter in turn had made copious use of the tournament book of Miguel Najdorf.\n\nThe winner of the candidates' tournaments, which was carried out in two stages, was Vassily Smyslov, who reached the goal with 18 points and two points of a lead over David Bronstein, Paul Keres and Samuel Reshevsky. Smyslov had nine wins and only one loss \u2013 against Kotov. Alexander Kotov was an employee of the KGB and could take certain liberties. Despite his defeat against Kotov, Smyslov was the next challenger of Botvinnik. That was exactly what had been planned by the Soviet leadership, or the Soviet Committee for Sports. In any case, Samuel Reshevsky had to be prevented from winning the tournament and thus becoming Botvinnik's challenger, reported David Bronstein later in an article in _64_ , which, however, did not appear until 50 years later, in 2001.\n\nThe Soviet delegation in Switzerland was led by Dimitry Postnikov, Igor Bondarevsky and a KGB agent, who together were supposed to ensure that the tournament had the desired result. To that end these three gave the participating Soviet players instructions as to how they were to play against each other. Keres was told to draw with white against Smyslov. He refused, but lost the game. Bronstein was also convinced to draw with white against Smyslov. Geller received the order to defeat Bronstein. In the position he adopts in this article, Smyslov replies that it is scandalous to expose colleagues in this way, without the ex-World Champion contradicting the content of the article. Averbakh and Taimanov denied having known about team orders, but did not deny the possibility that such might have existed.\n\nAfter his successful title defence against Bronstein, Botvinnik was slightly more active than after winning the title in 1948. In 1951 he played in the 19th USSR championship, though he was only fifth. It was won by Paul Keres. In 1952 Botvinnik participated in the tournament in Budapest, where he occupied third place behind Keres and Geller. But then he finished the 20th USSR championship joint first with Mark Taimanov (each on 13\u00bd points) and won the title with a victory in the playoff. In the same year he played a series of short training matches against top Soviet players, defeating Smyslov 2:0. Even a training game against Bronstein has been recorded. However, his preferred sparring partner was Ilya Kan, against whom he was a clear winner in training matches in both 1953 and 1954.\n\nThe World Championship match between Botvinnik and Smyslov took place from 16th March till 13th May 1954 in the Moscow Tchaikovsky Concert Hall and was once more over 24 games. In the event of a draw after 24 games the World Champion would retain his title. Gideon Stahlberg, Karel Opocensky and Harry Golombek were to be the arbiters. After Stahlberg had to withdraw, Laszlo Szabo was nominated on Botvinnik's suggestion.\n\nThe English player Harry Golombek had worked together during the Second World War with other members of the British national team, including C.H.O'D. Alexander, who later became head of the codes department of MI5 and therefore was no longer able to play tournaments in the eastern block, and Stuart Milner-Barry in Bletchley Park as 'code breakers' on deciphering messages from the German encryption machine 'Enigma'. That, however, only became public much later. After the end of his career as a player, Golombek published numerous chess books and was active as an arbiter.\n\nIlya Kan and Vladimir Simagin were appointed official seconds. The players received additional support from their clubs, Botvinnik from the 'Energija', Smyslov from the 'Nauka' sporting society. Before the match Botvinnik had again instigated a discussion about the rules. His suggestion of again putting the sealed move in two envelopes was, however, very quickly accepted by Smyslov. Smyslov would have liked to start the match on the 15th April, but then it would have lasted until June and at that time it was already too hot for a match in Moscow in Botvinnik's view, so he declined the later start to the match.\n\nAfter four games Botvinnik already had a lead of 3:0 in wins, but then Smyslov got into his stride better and took the lead after four wins, three of which in succession in games 9, 10 and 11. Along the way Botvinnik had missed a clear win in the eighth game and lost the 9th game after the opening. Games 12 to 16 were particularly hardfought. Botvinnik won four of them, whilst Smyslov could only win once. So after the 16th game Smyslov was trailing by 7:5. When in the 14th game Botvinnik chose an opening he had never played before and yet Smyslov came up with a novelty, the ever mistrustful Botvinnik after the game accused his second Ilya Kan of having betrayed his opening preparation to Smyslov. It was the last time that Botvinnik would have Kan help him as a second. The challenger then won the 20th and the 23rd games, but he could not achieve more than equality. So Botvinnik remained World Champion, according to the rules then in force a draw was sufficient for the defence of the title.\n\nIn the opinion of the future World Champion Tigran Petrosian, who analysed the match afterwards, Smyslov took greater risks after falling behind at the start and was successful with them. After he took the lead in the 11th game, the challenger, according to Petrosian, then failed to return to his actual safe style.\n\n **Smyslov \u2013 Botvinnik**\n\nMoscow, 15th game  \n17th April 1954  \nSicilian Defence (B25)\n\n**1.e4 c5 2. \u2658c3 \u2658c6 3.g3**\n\nThe main variation of the Closed Variation of the Sicilian Defence is considered rather harmless nowadays. Smyslov, however, liked to play it. Later the more aggressive 3.f4 g6 4.\u2658f3 \u2657g7 5.\u2657c4 (or 5.\u2657b5) became fashionable.\n\n**3...g6 4. \u2657g2 \u2657g7 5.d3 d6**\n\nIn game 13 5...b6 was played, later evaluated as insufficient by Botvinnik, since after 6.\u2658ge2 then 6...d6 is forced, otherwise White would get in d3-d4.\n\n**6. \u2658ge2**\n\nThere are more promising moves in 6.\u2657e3 or 6.f4.\n\n**6...e5**\n\n'The g2-bishop is reliably blocked' (Botvinnik). Here too the main alternative is 6...e6.\n\n**7. \u2658d5**\n\n7.0-0 \u2658ge7 8.f4 0-0 followed by 9...f5 'and Black has no difficulties.' (Botvinnik)\n\n**7... \u2658ge7 8.c3?**\n\n'The root of all the problems.' A better move is 8.\u2658ec3 or 8.\u2658xe7 (Botvinnik).\n\n**8... \u2658xd5 9.exd5 \u2658e7 10.0-0**\n\n'The variation 10.d4 exd4 11.cxd4 cxd4 12.\u2658xd4 0-0 (but not 12...\u2658xd5 13.0-0 \u2658e7 14.\u2658b5 d5 15.\u2657f4) would be favourable for Black, because the effectiveness of the bishop would increase by leaps and bounds.' (Botvinnik)\n\n**10...0-0**\n\nBlack is already slightly better here. The \u2658e2 cuts an especially sorry figure \u2013 for the moment it does not have a square.\n\n**11.f4?**\n\n'After this pseudo-active move White gets a difficult position. The f4-pawn simply limits the effective range of the e2-knight and the c1-bishop.' (Botvinnik) 11.d4 was better.\n\n**11... \u2657d7**\n\nThis provokes h2-h3. If not,...\u2655c8 and...\u2657h3 will follow.\n\n**12.h3**\n\n'The continuation 12.fxe5 dxe5 13.d6 \u2658f5 14.\u2657xb7 \u2656b8 is unpromising for White.' (Botvinnik)\n\n**12... \u2655c7 13.\u2657e3**\n\n13.g4 would be followed by 13...f5. '13.\u2657d2 was more prudent.' (Botvinnik)\n\n**13... \u2656ae8 14.\u2655d2?!**\n\n'14.\u2657f2 had to be played.' (Botvinnik)\n\n**14... \u2658f5 15.\u2657f2 h5**\n\n**16. \u2656ae1**\n\n'Passive.' (Botvinnik) 16.g4 would now be followed by 16...hxg4 17.hxg4 \u2658h6 18.g5 \u2658g4 with a clearly better game for Black, since the white kingside is massively weakened. Botvinnik nevertheless pleaded in his comments on the game in favour of this continuation as the only active option for White.\n\n**16... \u2655d8!**\n\nBlack now successively improves the positioning of his pieces.\n\n**17. \u2654h2**\n\nAn admission that there is nothing White can try. 17.g4 would be followed by 17...hxg4 18.hxg4 \u2658h4 with the exchange of the light-squared bishop: '17.fxe5 \u2657h6 18.\u2655c2 \u2658e3 would be bad.' (Botvinnik)\n\n**17... \u2657h6**\n\nBlack is now threatening...h5-h4, uprooting the f4-pawn.\n\n**18.h4**\n\n18.g4 fails here too 18...hxg4 19.hxg4 \u2658h4 20.g5 \u2658xg2 21.\u2654xg2 exf4 22.gxh6 \u2655g5+ 23.\u2654h2 \u2655xh6+ 24.\u2654g1 \u2655g5+ 25.\u2654h2 \u2654g7 (Botvinnik).\n\n**18... \u2655f6!**\n\nIt is no longer possible to avoid a material disadvantage.\n\n**19. \u2657e4 exf4 20.\u2658xf4 \u2658xh4 21.\u2657e3 \u2658f5**\n\n**22. \u2657xf5**\n\nThe point of Black's combination can be seen after 22.\u2658xh5 gxh5 23.\u2657xf5 (23.\u2657xh6 \u2655xh6\u2013+) 23...\u2657xe3 24.\u2656xe3 \u2655g5! winning the exchange (but 24...\u2657xf5 25.\u2656ef3 \u2656e5 26.d4 cxd4 27.cxd4 \u2656xd5 28.\u2655f2 would be weaker): 25.\u2657xd7 \u2656xe3\u2013+.\n\n**22... \u2655xf5\u2013+ 23.\u2655g2 \u2655g4 24.\u2655e2**\n\n24.c4? g5 25.\u2658h3 \u2655xh3+ 26.\u2655xh3 \u2657xh3 27.\u2654xh3 g4+ winning a piece.\n\n**24... \u2655xe2+ 25.\u2656xe2 \u2656e5 26.\u2656ee1 \u2656fe8 27.\u2657f2 h4 28.\u2656xe5 \u2656xe5 29.d4**\n\n29.c4 \u2657xf4 30.gxf4 \u2656e2 31.\u2654g1 h3 is not much fun either.\n\n**29...hxg3+ 30. \u2654xg3 \u2656g5+ 31.\u2654h2 \u2656f5 32.\u2657e3**\n\n32.\u2658d3 \u2657b5\u2013+.\n\n**32...cxd4 33.cxd4 \u2654h7**\n\nPreparing...g6-g5, which would win a piece. After the immediate 33...g5 White can, however, only delay what is coming with 34.\u2656g1, but not prevent it: 34...\u2654h7 35.\u2658e2 \u2656f3 intending 36.\u2657xg5 \u2656h3+ \u2013+.\n\n**34. \u2656f2 g5 35.\u2658e2 \u2656xf2+ 36.\u2657xf2 f5**\n\n**0-1**\n\nThe ending is hopeless for White.\n\nAs Botvinnik's daughter Olga, 12 years old at the time of the match, later remembered, during the match her father received through the post threatening letters. In one of them he was even threatened with death if he did not lose the match against Smyslov.\n**20. Tactics missed**\n\n**The World Championship 1957:  \n_Mikhail Botvinnik against Vassily Smyslov_**\n\nThree years later there was a re-run of the WCh match of 1954 under the same conditions. Smyslov had once again qualified as challenger after his victory in the candidates' tournament in Amsterdam in 1956. As well as Smyslov, who had prequalified as the loser of the last WCh match, the first nine players from the interzonal tournaments of Gothenburg 1955 had qualified for the candidates' tournament.\n\nAt the FIDE congress of 1955 in Gothenburg Botvinnik had submitted several suggestions. Thus the World Champion made efforts to be allowed to play in the candidates' tournament because he was of the opinion that the qualification cycle conferred an advantage on the challenger for the WCh match, since unlike the inactive title defender he (the challenger) was getting tournament practice.\n\nThe world of chess saw this from exactly the opposing angle: the challenger was tiring himself out through the qualification process and moreover had to disclose a part of his opening repertoire. FIDE president Folke Rogard asked the other players in the candidates' tournament, but they declined Botvinnik's suggestion. In addition Botvinnik wanted to create within FIDE a committee of top players, but FIDE president Folke Rogard showed no interest in this.\n\nBotvinnik was, however, successful with another point. Before the FIDE congress in Gothenburg there was in force a rule according to which a World Champion who lost the title had the possibility of getting it back in a return tournament with the new World Champion and a third player. Botvinnik wanted to eliminate the third player and reduce the right to a return match to a simple match between two players. Botvinnik was supported by Ragozin and the new leader of the Committee for Sports Lev Abramov, with whom Botvinnik was friendly. After some hesitation Folke Rogard and the FIDE delegates gave in on this point. On the other hand, however, the number of players in the candidates' tournament who came from the same country was restricted. This especially disadvantaged the many strong Soviet players, but was also to the advantage of Botvinnik, as it would spare him some of the competition from his own country.\n\nSmyslov won the candidates' tournament in Amsterdam in superior fashion with 11\u00bd points and 1\u00bd points of a lead over Keres. Botvinnik tried to prepare himself for the World Championship with training matches. This time his sparring partner was Yuri Averbakh. Botvinnik went with him to his dacha in Nikolina Gora, 20 km outside of Moscow, where apart from him many other 'heroes of the Soviet Union' had their weekend houses. During the games Botvinnik left a radio on so as to get used to the noise there would be in the tournament hall. Moreover, now 45 years old, he prepared himself with sporting activities \u2013 skating and skiing \u2013, hiking, salt baths and sleeping with a half-open window.\n\nIn some sources it is claimed that the permanently mistrustful Botvinnik, in view of his experiences in the previous match against Smyslov when he believed his opening preparation to have been betrayed by his second Ilya Kan, had done without a second for the following two matches. Other sources name Averbakh and Goldberg as seconds.\n\nThis time too, the WCh was staged in the Tchaikovsky Concert Hall, the largest concert hall in Moscow, and was as had usually been the case set for 24 games. The arbiters were Gideon Stahlberg and Harry Golombek. The programme included simultaneous displays by grandmasters, every Tuesday and Thursday, commentary on the games and chess problems competitions.\n\nAlmost all the spectators in the hall were armed with a plug-in set which they used to analyse the games in progress. When one of the two players made a particularly good move, applause broke out among the spectators. Occasional applause was tolerated, but not any other noises. At the slightest disruption a sign immediately lit up on which was printed 'quiet in the hall'. Even whispering was not allowed. If one of the players felt disturbed by too much noise, he could demand the exclusion of the public. This happened once in this match, during the 12th game, when, after losing the initiative, Botvinnik's nerves failed him.\n\nSmyslov won the opening game, but was then defeated in games four and five. With the sixth game he equalised. The challenger won the eighth and the twelfth games. Game 13 went to Botvinnik. In the 15th game Botvinnik was again heading for a win, but he gave this away with a blunder after the resumption. With wins in games 17 and 20 game Smyslov brought about the final score of 6:3 in wins and became the seventh World Champion.\n\nBotvinnik was very self-critical in his evaluation of his play. 'I was not able to come up with a clear system in the opening. In addition I was not very good at analysing adjourned games and also lacked tenacity. My misfortune came from the fact that I did not see through my rival's tactics. He was always cautiously steering the games along quiet paths and that made his opponent think of a draw which is easy to achieve: you just need to exchange pieces. And Smyslov proposed piece exchanges, however, in such a way that each exchange brought him a slight advantage. By the endgame this advantage had grown considerably and then all the virtuosity of Smyslov's proficiency was revealed.'\n\nSmyslov showed in this match that he had better opening preparation and endurance, whereas Botvinnik always became more and more tired especially after the fourth hour of play.\n\n **Smyslov \u2013 Botvinnik**\n\nMoscow, 20th game  \n23rd April 1957  \nFrench Defence (C18)\n\n**1.e4 e6**\n\nTrailing by 8\u00bd:10\u00bd before this game, Botvinnik had to take risks and if possible avoid a draw. In the 14th and 18th games, however, Botvinnik had only managed to share the points with the French Defence.\n\n**2.d4 d5 3. \u2658c3 \u2657b4**\n\nIn the middle of the 20th century the Winawer Variation was considered the best option for Black in the French Defence after 3.\u2658c3. Later 3...\u2658f6 (Classical Variation) and 3...dxe4 (Rubinstein Variation) came back into fashion more.\n\n**4.e5 c5 5.a3 \u2657xc3+**\n\nIn the first match for the World Championship against Smyslov, in 1954, Botvinnik several times made use of 5...\u2657a5.\n\n**6.bxc3 \u2655c7**\n\nIn an earlier game between the two players Botvinnik here chose 6...\u2658e7 followed by 7.\u2658f3 \u2658bc6 8.\u2657d3 \u2655a5 9.\u2655d2 c4 10.\u2657e2 \u2655a4 (0-1\/42), Smyslov-Botvinnik, Leningrad\/Moscow 1941.\n\n**7. \u2655g4 f6**\n\nA novelty by Botvinnik. Unlike after 7...f5 Black here has the option of taking on e5 later. In the 14th game of the match 7...f5 8.\u2655g3 \u2658e7 was played.\n\n**8. \u2658f3**\n\n8.exf6 does not come into consideration since the move simply helps Black develop. It is followed simply by 8...\u2658xf6.\n\n**8... \u2658c6 9.\u2655g3**\n\nThe queen is better here than on g4, where it could be attacked by the knight or bishop.\n\n**9... \u2655f7**\n\nA necessity, since the queen is tied to the protection of g7 and otherwise the \u2657c8 and the \u2658g8 cannot be developed to d7 or e7. 9...fxe5 10.\u2658xe5 \u2658xe5 11.\u2657f4 intending 11...\u2658f6 12.\u2657b5+ is good for White. After 9...c4 10.a4 \u2655a5 there follows 11.\u2656a2!.\n\n**10.dxc5**\n\nWhite takes the pawn and does not worry about his structure, e.g. the tripled pawns on the c-file.\n\n**10... \u2658ge7 11.\u2657d3 fxe5**\n\nThe game takes another direction after 11...0-0 12.0-0 \u2658f5 (not 12...fxe5? 13.\u2657xh7+ +\u2013) 13.\u2657xf5 (13.\u2655f4 g5!?) 13...exf5 14.exf6 \u2655xf6 15.\u2655d6 \u2657e6 16.\u2657g5 \u2655f7 17.\u2656fe1 \u2656fe8 18.\u2656ab1 h6 19.\u2657d2 \u2656ad8 20.\u2655g3 and White has an advantage here too.\n\n**12. \u2658xe5 \u2658xe5 13.\u2655xe5 0-0 14.0-0 \u2658c6 15.\u2655g3 e5**\n\nAs some compensation for being a pawn down, Black has now set up a strong pawn centre.\n\n**16. \u2657e3 \u2657f5**\n\nIntending to halve the white bishop pair. In the event of 16...e4 17.\u2657e2 \u2657e6 18.\u2656ab1 \u2656ad8 19.f3 the black centre is broken up.\n\n**17. \u2656ab1 \u2657xd3**\n\nThe exchange improves the white structure, however. Botvinnik probably considered 17...\u2656ab8 too passive.\n\n**18.cxd3 \u2656ae8 19.f4**\n\n**19... \u2655c7**\n\nBotvinnik was hoping to get better drawing chances in the endgame. After 19...exf4 20.\u2657xf4 \u2655d7 21.\u2657d6 \u2656xf1+ 22.\u2656xf1 White retains the extra pawn with the better position. 19...e4 was probably better. Teschner was of the opinion in his comments in the _Deutsche Schachzeitung_ (5\/1957), that after it 20.f5! exd3 21.f6 with the double threat of \u2657h6 or fxg7 leads to a decisive attack for White. But 21...\u2655g6 keeps the game level. However, it was worth considering 21.\u2657d4.\n\n**20.fxe5 \u2656xf1+ 21.\u2656xf1 \u2655xe5 22.\u2655xe5 \u2658xe5 23.\u2656d1 \u2654f7 24.h3 \u2658c6 25.\u2657f4 \u2656e7 26.\u2657d6 \u2656d7 27.\u2656f1+**\n\nThis brings the rook to a better square with tempo.\n\n**27... \u2654e6 28.\u2656e1+ \u2654f7 29.\u2654f2 b6 30.\u2656b1 \u2654e6**\n\nOr 30...bxc5 31.\u2657xc5 d4 32.c4 \u2654e6 33.\u2654f3 \u2656f7+ 34.\u2654e4 \u2656f2 35.\u2656e1 \u2654d7 36.g4.\n\n**31. \u2656b5 d4 32.c4 bxc5 33.\u2657h2**\n\nLess committal than 33.\u2657xc5.\n\n**33... \u2656f7+ 34.\u2654e2 \u2656e7**\n\n34...\u2656f5 does not work now: 35.g4 \u2656g5 36.\u2657f4.\n\n**35. \u2656xc5 \u2654d7+**\n\n35...\u2654d6 would have been a nice discovered check, but the \u2657h2 prevents the black king from using that square.\n\n**36. \u2654d2 \u2656e6 37.\u2656g5 g6 38.\u2656d5+ \u2654c8 39.\u2657g1 \u2656f6 40.\u2657xd4 \u2658xd4 41.\u2656xd4 \u2656f2+**\n\nThe game was adjourned here and resigned by Black later without resuming it. 42.\u2654c3 \u2656xg2 43.c5 \u2656g3 44.h4 h6 45.\u2656d6 could have followed and the black pawns on the kingside are immobile: 45...g5? 46.\u2656xh6 g4 47.\u2656g6+\u2013.\n\nBotvinnik had been dethroned as World Champion, but according to the FIDE he had the right to a return match, ironically called the 'Lex Botvinnik' \u2013 a further privilege which gave the title defender an advantage in addition to the 'equal scores rule'.\n**21. The revenge**\n\n**The World Championship 1958:  \n_Vassily Smyslov against Mikhail Botvinnik_**\n\nNot only did the champion keep his title in the event of a draw, but if he lost it he had the right to a return match. From his victory in the WCh tournament in 1948 World Champion Botvinnik, to be precise, had until this time not really won a single WCh match in the purely sporting sense. Against Bronstein in 1951 a 12:12 was enough for him, as it was against Smyslov 1954. In 1957 he even clearly lost the match against the latter and with it the title. Botvinnik retained the right to a return match.\n\nThis privilege was an anachronism, which FIDE had continued on the basis of an old pre-war custom. Wilhelm Steinitz had agreed on a return match with Emanuel Lasker and Euwe had allowed this right to Alekhine. Steinitz did not make use of it, but Alekhine recovered the title in 1937. The right to a return match, however, had in no way been a formal rule before the Second World War. Capablanca, for example, had not negotiated this right ahead of his match against Alekhine and after losing the title had to beg for a return match, without it, however, being granted by Alekhine.\n\nFIDE took over this custom, but did not write it into their rules until 1956. Thus the new World Champion Vassily Smyslov had only a year to enjoy his title of World Champion before having to appear in a return match. Moreover, after winning the title he was struck by a severe blow of fate. His stepson Vladimir Selimanov, the son of his wife Nadezhda and also a gifted chess player, took his own life after returning from the Youth World Championships of 1957 in Toronto. In it Selimanov had 'only' managed fourth place, which was felt among the leaders of Soviet chess to be a disappointment. The reasons for Selimanov's suicide are unknown, since the Smyslovs never spoke about it. Andrew Soltis expressed the supposition that bullying as a reaction to the poor result might have been the cause.\n\nBotvinnik, on his part, was exposed to a certain political pressure since he was being urged to give up the right to a return match so as not to humiliate himself with another and perhaps even more resounding loss.\n\nThe return match between Smyslov and Botvinnik took place in Moscow from the 4th March till 9th May under the same conditions as the previous WCh matches, therefore set for a total of 24 games. At 12:12 the title defender retained his title as usual, but this time it would have been Smyslov. The chief arbiter for the match was Gideon Stahlberg, the second was Harry Golombek. Since the Tchaikovsky Concert Hall was otherwise occupied at the start of the match, the opening ceremony and the first games were held in hall of the 'Sovietskaya' hotel. This could, however, only accommodate 800 spectators.\n\nDuring the opening ceremonies the drawing of lots was held, with Smyslov drawing White for the first game. After the drawing of lots there was first of all a concert and then a short film was shown about the tournament of Moscow 1925. Capablanca had played in it as World Champion and given a simultaneous display in Leningrad on a rest day. The then 14 year old Botvinnik had been one of three players who had managed to defeat Capablanca.\n\nIn this match Botvinnik surprised Smyslov with the Caro-Kann Defence, against which the title defender was obviously not well prepared. This coup brought Botvinnik two points with black in the first three games. Since in the second game he was also successful with white against Smyslov's King's Indian, Botvinnik went straight into a lead of 3:0. Smyslov was not able to make up this backlog. The title defender did win the fifth, the eleventh, the 15th, when Botvinnik overstepped the time limit in a winning position because he thought he had already made 40 moves, the 19th and the 22nd games. Botvinnik, however, stood firm by winning after his three opening games the sixth, the twelfth, the 14th and the 18th games. After game 19 Smyslov fell ill. A bout of flu had turned into pneumonia. The 20th game could only be played after a pause of a week. Finally Botvinnik won a WCh match in the purely sporting sense for the first time, by 12\u00bd:10\u00bd. Smyslov recognised after the match the greater experience of his opponent. All in all, the match lasted for nine weeks, since no more than three games were played per week. Many chess lovers felt this was too long.\n\n **Smyslov \u2013 Botvinnik**\n\nMoscow, 3rd game  \n11th March 1958  \nCaro-Kann Defence (B19)\n\n**1.e4 c6**\n\n'The Caro-Kann defence secures a totally solid position for Black in the opening. Its main defects, which explain the rare appearance of this defence in modern competitions, are the limited options for Black in the struggle for the initiative', was Viktor Kortchnoi's comment on the choice of opening in the bulletin.\n\n**2. \u2658c3 d5 3.d4**\n\nIn the first game 3.\u2658f3 \u2657g4 4.h3 \u2658xf3 5.\u2655xf3 \u2658f6 6.d3 was played, but Smyslov did not obtain any kind of opening advantage.\n\n**3...dxe4 4. \u2658xe4 \u2657f5 5.\u2658g3 \u2657g6 6.h4 h6 7.\u2658f3 \u2658d7 8.\u2657d3**\n\nNowadays 8.h5 \u2657h7 9.\u2657d3 is almost exclusively played here, but at that time the discussion about whether the white pawn was better placed on h4 or h5 had not yet been concluded.\n\n**8... \u2657xd3 9.\u2655xd3 \u2655c7**\n\nThis prevents \u2657f4, but is not absolutely necessary. In the event of 9...e6 10.\u2657f4 Black can reach the same position again with 10...\u2655a5+ 11.\u2657d2 \u2655c7.\n\n**10. \u2657d2 \u2658gf6 11.0-0-0 e6 12.\u2654b1 0-0-0 13.c4 c5 14.\u2657c3 cxd4**\n\n'A premature move, which exposes Black to some difficulties. 14...\u2657d6 15.\u2658e4 \u2658xe4 16.\u2655xe4 \u2658f6 17.\u2655e2 a6, which prepares for the appropriate moment the resolution of the tension in the centre, would have been more prudent.' (Kortchnoi)\n\n**15. \u2658xd4 a6**\n\n'15...\u2658e5 16.\u2655e2 \u2658xc4 17.\u2658b5 \u2655c5 18.\u2657xf6 gxf6 19.\u2656c1 \u2655xb5 20.\u2656xc4+ \u2657c5 21.\u2658e4 would be bad.' (Kortchnoi)\n\n**16. \u2655e2 \u2657d6 17.\u2658e4 \u2658xe4 18.\u2655xe4 \u2658f6**\n\nAfter 18...\u2655xc4 19.\u2656c1 \u2658c5 20.\u2657a5 \u2658xe4 21.\u2656xc4 \u2654b8 White does not play 22.\u2657xd8 on account of the fork 22...\u2658d2+, but 22.\u2658xe6, for example 22...\u2656de8 23.\u2656xe4 \u2656xe6 24.\u2656xe6 fxe6 and he is no worse.\n\n**19. \u2655e2 \u2656d7**\n\nDirected against the manoeuvre \u2658f3-e5.\n\n**20. \u2656c1**\n\n'White's superiority, which consists of the more active piece placement, is incontestable, but it is hardly enough for a win.' (Kortchnoi) If 20.\u2658f3 then 20...\u2656hd8 and now 21.\u2658e5? costs a piece: 21...\u2657xe5 22.\u2657xe5 \u2656xd1+ 23.\u2656xd1 \u2656xd1+ 24.\u2655xd1 \u2655xe5\u2013+.\n\n**20... \u2655c5**\n\nIt was also worth considering 20...\u2657f4!?.\n\n**21. \u2658b3 \u2655f5+ 22.\u2656c2 \u2657c7 23.c5 \u2656d5**\n\n23...\u2655d3!? leads to equality: 24.c6 bxc6 25.\u2655xd3 \u2656xd3 26.\u2658c5 \u2656d5 27.\u2658xa6=.\n\n**24.c6 \u2657b6**\n\nThe dark-squared bishop denies the white knight entry to the c5- and d4-squares, and the black king is henceforth in safety. 24... \u2656hd8 would be weaker: 25.cxb7+ \u2654xb7 26.\u2657d4! \u2656xd4 27.\u2658c5+.' (Kortchnoi)\n\n**25. \u2658d2**\n\nThis threatens 26.\u2658c4 and 27.\u2658e3, which forces the next move.\n\n**25... \u2655d3**\n\n25...\u2655xf2? 26.\u2658c4.\n\n**26. \u2658c4 \u2657c7 27.\u2655xd3 \u2656xd3**\n\n**28. \u2658e5?**\n\n'Such a blunder had never before been seen in Smyslov's play', was Botvinnik's comment on this move. After the 'normal' 28.cxb7+ Smyslov saw no chances of a win and with only 10 minutes left for the remaining 13 moves the title defender made a momentous wrong decision \u2013 28.cxb7+ \u2654xb7 29.\u2657e5 \u2657xe5 30.\u2658xe5 \u2656d5 31.f4 \u2658d7 32.\u2656hc1 \u2658xe5 33.\u2656c7+ \u2654b6 34.fxe5 \u2656f8 35.b4 \u2654b5= (Botvinnik).\n\n**28... \u2656xc3 29.cxb7+ \u2654xb7 30.\u2656xc3 \u2657xe5**\n\nWhite has lost two pieces for the rook and is losing.\n\n**31. \u2656b3+ \u2654a7 32.\u2656c1 \u2656b8**\n\n'The exchange of one of the actively posted rooks is necessary.' (Kortchnoi)\n\n**33. \u2656xb8 \u2654xb8 34.\u2656c4 \u2658d5 35.\u2654c2 h5**\n\nThis fixes the pawns on the kingside. Botvinnik is seeking to turn them into a welcome target for his pieces.' (Kortchnoi)\n\n**36.b4 \u2654b7 37.\u2654b3 \u2657d6 38.a3 \u2657c7 39.\u2656c2 \u2657b6 40.\u2654c4 \u2658f4 41.g3**\n\nThe game was adjourned here.\n\n**41... \u2658h3 42.f3 \u2658g1 43.f4 \u2658f3 44.a4 \u2658d4 45.\u2656d2 \u2658f5 46.a5 \u2657e3 47.\u2656d8**\n\nOf course not 47.\u2656d7+ \u2654c6 48.\u2656xf7? \u2658d6+. (Botvinnik)\n\n**47... \u2657f2 48.b5**\n\n48.\u2654b3!? was more tenacious.\n\n**48... \u2654c7 49.\u2656g8 axb5+ 50.\u2654xb5 \u2657xg3 51.a6 \u2657f2 52.\u2654a5 g6 53.\u2656a8 \u2657e1+ 54.\u2654b5 \u2658d6+ 55.\u2654a4 \u2658c8**\n\n55...\u2657xh4 was also good and if 56.a7 then simply 56...\u2654b7\u2013+.\n\n**56. \u2654b5 \u2657f2 57.\u2654a5 \u2657a7 58.\u2654b5 f6 59.\u2654b4 e5 60.fxe5 fxe5 61.\u2654c3 \u2657b8 62.\u2654d3 \u2658b6 63.a7 \u2658xa8 64.axb8\u2655\\+ \u2654xb8 65.\u2654e4 \u2658b6 66.\u2654xe5 \u2658d7+**\n\n**0-1**\n\nBotvinnik commented on his victory in an interview as follows: 'Before the start of the previous year's match with V. Smyslov I underestimated my opponent. I noticed this mistake too late, during the match when it was too late to do anything about it. I prepared for the return match fully conscious of the responsibility on me and taking properly into account the playing strength of my opponent. Perhaps V. Smyslov repeated my mistake of the previous year? He will be the best person to give an answer to that question!'\n\nDuring the match Botvinnik had complained about growing anti-Semitism, which manifested itself according to Botvinnik's comments in anonymous calls and threats. Before the match, he worked himself into the right mood against Smyslov, with whom he normally got along quite well, by fighting with him about the wish to have a fourth timeout in the case of illness. Until then only three timeouts had been allowed per player. After winning the match Botvinnik complained that on one occasion Smyslov had not turned up personally to resign an adjourned game and also not to resign for the whole match.\n\nAfter the match, chief arbiter Stahlberg spoke in favour of a change in the conditions. The matches were too long in his opinion. Stahlberg suggested a length of 20 games and voted to do away with the weekly rest day, which would only be for the players a greater drain on their energy on account of the analysis and preparation which took place on those days. But Stahlberg was unable to get his suggestions through.\n\nSmyslov was never again able to qualify as challenger, but right up to the end of the 1990s he was taking part in WCh cycles. In 1983 he played a candidates' quarter-final against the top German player Robert H\u00fcbner in Velden in Austria. After 10 games the score was 5:5 (one victory each, eight draws). The match went into extra time, but all four tiebreak games were drawn. It was finally concluded that the match would be decided by lot with the help of a roulette ball. Curiously the first attempt also ended as undecided since the ball landed on zero. Smyslov finally won the lottery. H\u00fcbner had already left as a protest against this way of deciding. In 1984 Smyslov was not defeated till the candidates' final, by the young Garry Kasparov. Even in 1997 Smyslov, by then 76 years old, took part in the FIDE k.-o. candidates' tournament in Groningen, but was eliminated in the first round.\n\nSmyslov was able to maintain considerable playing strength for a long time, which was probably due to his deep understanding of chess and his economical style of play. During his career Smyslov qualified 20 times for the finals of the USSR championships: in 1949 he shared first place with Bronstein, in 1955 with Geller, by whom he was defeated in the playoff. Nine times between 1952 and 1972 he won the gold medal with the USSR team at Chess Olympiads. In 1967 he was awarded the Order of Lenin of the Soviet Union. Smyslov died, shortly after his 89th birthday, on the 27th March 2010 from the effects of heart disease.\n**22. The magician from Riga**\n\n**The World Championship 1960:  \n_Mikhail Botvinnik against Mikhail Tal_**\n\nAt the end of the 1950s there were some strong talents knocking on the doors of those who had already made it. The young Robert Fischer was attracting attention in the USA and in 1958 the 14 year old was the youngest player of all time to win the US championship. In the same year he managed a shared fifth place in the interzonal tournament in Portoroz and by doing so qualified for the candidates' tournament which was played in Bled, Zagreb and Belgrade.\n\nOn the other hand, the winner of the Portoroz interzonal tournament was the 22 year old Mikhail Tal. This was remarkable also for the fact that Tal had had to undergo an operation two weeks before the interzonal. 'He was too weak to carry his case. I did it for him', Yuri Averbakh would later report. Tal also won the subsequent candidates' tournament in Yugoslavia in 1959. It was played between players over four rounds. Tal won with 20 points and 1\u00bd points of a lead over Keres. Against Fischer he won all four of their games.\n\nMikhail Tal (1936-1992)\n\nMikhail Tal was born into an upper middle class Jewish family in Riga on the 9th November 1936, the son of Nechemia and Ida Grigoryevna Tal. His parents were cousins. The rumour that Tal's biological father had been in reality a family friend, 'Uncle Robert', was dismissed by Tal's later wife Angelina to the realm of fairy stories. In 1941 the Tal family had to flee ahead of the advancing Germans and in doing so lost all their goods.\n\nTal was extraordinarily gifted, learned to read at the age of three and as a five year old he could do complicated multiplication sums in his head. As well as Russian he went on to speak fluent English, German, Serbo-Croat and Spanish. But even as a child Tal had to struggle with health problems. His kidneys did not work well and during his life he had to undergo a total of twelve operations. The future World Champion Tigran Petrosian later said about Tal: 'The healthiest of us all is Mikhail Tal. Nobody else would live longer than a year with his illnesses.'\n\nHowever, his weak health did not prevent Tal from living his later life to excess. He drank a lot, but according to Angelina Tal only 'clean' drinks such as vodka, preferably the Russian export brands 'Pshenichnaya', 'Kristall' or 'Stolichnaya', and whisky, never beer, wine or cognac, and was a heavy smoker. The cigarette brands he enjoyed were 'Benson and Hedges' and 'Kent'. A chain smoker, Tal had the habit of often only smoking a quarter of his cigarette and then lighting a new one. Between 1970 and 1975, moreover, he became dependent on morphine.\n\nIn addition to his weak health Tal was also handicapped by ectrodactyly: from birth he had only three fingers on his right hand. The cause of the malformation was, ac-cording to Angelina Tal, that when her husband was absent during her pregnancy Tal's mother Ida had mistakenly injected a dose of potassium chloride into her muscle rather than her vein, which led to complications. Despite this handicap Tal was a really good piano player. Because of his outstanding performance Tal was allowed to jump two classes in school and began his university study of Russian language and literature at the early age of 15. He brought it to a conclusion with a dissertation on the Russian satirists Ilya Ilf and Evgeny Petrov.\n\nWhen his cousin kept on beating him at chess, Tal's pride was hurt and he began to take a more serious interest in the game. Soon after that he became a member of the chess section of the Young Pioneers in Riga. He actually wanted to sign on for the drama group but changed his mind when he saw a door with on it the notice 'Chess section'. Tal thought he would be able to get tips for the games against his cousin.\n\nTal's first chess teacher was Janis Kruzkops. After a few months instruction Tal found himself in the position of being able to beat not only his cousin but also his older brother. In 1949 the Riga chess master and trainer Alexander Koblenz took Tal under his wing. From there on Tal would work with the latter for many decades. Thanks to the training by Koblenz he made lightning progress and in 1954 he was able to defeat for the first time a grandmaster, namely Yuri Averbakh. In 1957 Tal won the USSR championship, the youngest player of all time to do so. FIDE thereupon awarded him the title of international grandmaster, without Tal having previously held the title of international master, as was the custom. In 1958 he was a member of the victorious Soviet team in the Chess Olympiad in Munich.\n\nTal's chess was characterised by brilliant attacking play. He overwhelmed his opponents with 'intuitive' sacrifices, the soundness of which was usually incalculable. His admirers called him the 'magician of Riga'. Fischer would later characterise Tal's play in less reverent terms with the sentence: 'Tal moves his pieces into the centre and then he sacrifices them somewhere'. After the end of 1958 Tal was already, according to the later calculations of the statistician Jeff Sonas, the best player in the world.\n\nIn 1959 Tal met the 19 year old actress and singer Sally Landau and married her. Sally Landau sang among others in the Big Band of the German Jewish jazz musician Eddie Rosner, who was actually called Eduard Adolph Rosner. Fleeing from the Nazis, Rosner had come to the Soviet Union and been very successful there. Soon after the Second World War, however, he found disfavour and was banished to a gulag with other musicians. After his release in 1953 he managed to reform his Big Band to repeat his success. After his popularity declined and the cultural authorities withdrew their support, Rosner made in vain several applications for an exit visa and finally in 1972 fled in disguise into the US embassy in Moscow. From there he was able to travel to Germany, where he died in 1976 in Berlin.\n\nWith Sally Landau Tal had a son, Gera, who later became a doctor like his grandfather. The marriage between Tal and Sally Landau ended, however, in divorce in 1970, after the pair had already been going their separate ways. Little is known about Tal's second marriage, which lasted only a very short time. Tal met his third wife, the eight year younger Angelina Petuchova, for the first time at a simultaneous exhibition, in which she played against him. Since Angelina Petuchova worked for the Riga _Shakhmatya_ magazine \u2013 she was responsible for the correspondence chess column \u2013 and Tal was a regular visitor to the office, they met again. The couple married in 1970, had a daughter Zhanna and remained together until Tal's death.\n\nBefore the candidates' tournament of 1959, which took place in the Yugoslavian cities of Bled, Zagreb and Belgrade, Alexander Koblenz had engaged Yuri Averbakh as a second for Tal. Averbakh first informed Botvinnik about this enquiry. The latter raised no objections, even though it meant that an important training partner of earlier days would no longer be available to him for his preparations for the match.\n\nSo at the World Championship of 1960 the magician now met the strategist Mikhail Botvinnik. The title defender was in no doubt about to whom the sympathies went for this match: 'At that time everyone was rather fed up with me, especially my grandmaster colleagues. How long could one person continue to occupy the chess throne'.\n\nAlexander Koblenz had discovered that Botvinnik's psychological preparation for matches consisted of dictating unacceptable conditions to his opponent. If these were turned down, then he could get into an argument about them and thus create as it were an emotional bogeyman. So Koblenz advised Tal to simply accept all conditions without dispute. Thus it was suggested by the tournament adviser that the toilets be supervised so that a trainer could not speak to a player on his way there. Tal agreed. Botvinnik also demanded that in the event of noise in the tournament hall, the arbiter could move the game to a side room, if one of the seconds requested this. Botvinnik feared outbreaks of cheering by Tal supporters if their idol again came up with one of his unfathomable sacrifices. This rule was actually made use of at a critical moment in the sixth game. And, as in the matches against Smyslov, Botvinnik insisted that in adjourned games the sealed move was written twice in two envelopes.\n\nThe match was played from 15th March till 7th May under the same conditions as had been in force for the previous WCh matches: 24 games, if the match was drawn the defender retained the title, and moreover he had the right to a return match. This privilege was done away with by FIDE in 1959. But the new rule would not enter in force until the next WCh cycle. The chief arbiter was once more Gideon Stahlberg.\n\n**Tal and his trainer Alexander Koblenz during the 1960 match**\n\nBotvinnik was supported by Grigory Goldberg as his second, Tal by his trainer Alexander Koblenz. Koblenz took with him to Moscow a card index of openings, in which 4000 games were recorded, certainly one of the biggest game collections of the day. The venue for the match was the 1100 spectator Pushkin Theatre. Adjourned games were to be continued in the Central Chess Club.\n\nThe match attracted great interest in the USSR and especially in Moscow, which of course was due in appropriate measure to the charisma of the 'young gun' Mikhail Tal. Tickets cost five roubles, which was quite enormous for the day. At that time a flat could be rented for ten roubles per month. Nevertheless, there was a great rush for them. For every game, big crowds gathered in front of the theatre and called for a board. A giant demonstration board was finally installed and the moves executed on it. In other places in Moscow, for example on the Tverskoy Boulevard, demonstration boards were set up. Sometimes spectators in the theatre could not contain themselves with the excitement and from time to time called out loud suggestions for the game: 'Take the knight!'\n\nTal won the first game and after a series of draws the sixth and seventh also for a temporary 3:0 lead. But Tal admitted that this was not because of superior play on his part, but to a large extent because of mistakes made by Botvinnik in time trouble. Botvinnik caught up with wins in the eighth and ninth games. But Tal won the eleventh game. After that the World Champion claimed a pause of two days on account of an indisposition. After game 13 Tal fell ill and a further pause was scheduled. After the resumption of the match Tal won the seventeenth and nineteenth games for a final score of 6:2 in wins (overall result 12\u00bd:8\u00bd).\n\n **Botvinnik \u2013 Tal**\n\nMoscow, 6th game  \n26th March 1960  \nKing's Indian Defence (E69)\n\n**1.c4 \u2658f6 2.\u2658f3 g6 3.g3 \u2657g7 4.\u2657g2 0-0 5.d4**\n\nAlternatively White can also choose in 5.\u2658c3 d6 6.d3 a variation which is listed under the English Opening: 6...e5 7.0-0 \u2658c6 etc.\n\n**5...d6 6. \u2658c3 \u2658bd7 7.0-0 e5**\n\nThe King's Indian Defence suits Tal's enterprising style very well.\n\n**8.e4 c6 9.h3**\n\nIn his first match against Smyslov Botvinnik faced a shipwreck after 9.\u2657e3 \u2658g4 10.\u2657g5 \u2655b6 11.h3 exd4 etc.\n\n**9... \u2655b6 10.d5**\n\n'Our choice of opening turned out to be successful psychologically speaking. Botvinnik avoided all double-edged tactical continuations and immediately closed the centre, hoping to later gain a tempo with the attack on the queen.' (Tal) After 10.\u2656e1 Black can continue with 10...exd4 11.\u2658xd4 \u2658g4.\n\n**10...cxd5 11.cxd5 \u2658c5 12.\u2658e1**\n\nA typical knight manoeuvre in this structure. White is fighting for the c5-square and makes the f-pawn mobile.\n\n**12... \u2657d7 13.\u2658d3 \u2658xd3 14.\u2655xd3 \u2656fc8**\n\nPlayed after 16 minutes thought. Tal forgoes the typical King's Indian flank attack 14...\u2658e8 15.\u2657e3 Tal did not like 16.\u2655e2, because now 16...f5 cannot be carried out without problems on account of 17.exf5. Kasparov therefore suggested as preparation for...f7-f5 the move 16...\u2655e8, which protects the \u2658h5 and after...f7-f5 enables the recapture with the pawn,...gxf5.\n\n**15. \u2656b1 \u2658h5 16.\u2657e3 \u2655b4 17.\u2655e2 \u2656c4**\n\n'17...f5 18.exf5 \u2657xf5 19.\u2656bc1 and White will be gifted the e4-square.' (Kasparov)\n\n**18. \u2656fc1 \u2656ac8 19.\u2654h2**\n\n19.\u2657f3 f5! (Kasparov). An improvement is perhaps 19.\u2657f1!? intending 19...f5 20.a3.\n\n**19...f5 20.exf5 \u2657xf5 21.\u2656a1**\n\nHere it was well worth considering 21.a3 \u2655b3 22.\u2658e4 \u2656c2 23.\u2656xc2 \u2656xc2 24.\u2655d1 and now 24...\u2658f4 25.gxf4 exf4 fails to 26.\u2656c1+\u2013.\n\n**21... \u2658f4!?**\n\n21...\u2658f6!?. (Kasparov)\n\n**22.gxf4 exf4 23. \u2657d2?**\n\nAfter this Black gets a strong attack. A better move was 23.a3 with wild complications, which are not unfavourable for White.\n\n**23... \u2655xb2**\n\nAccording to Kasparov there was the more precise 23...\u2657e5 24.f3 (or 24.\u2657f3 \u2655xb2 25.\u2658d1 \u2655a3 26.\u2656xc4 \u2656xc4 27.\u2657c3 \u2656xc3 28.\u2658xc3 \u2655xc3 with a strong attack for Black) 24...\u2655xb2 25.\u2658d1 \u2655d4 26.\u2656xc4 \u2656xc4 27.\u2656c1 \u2656xc1 28.\u2657xc1 \u2655xd5 29.\u2658f2 and the game is roughly level.\n\n**24. \u2656ab1 f3! 25.\u2656xb2?**\n\nAfter this move Black is proved right. The correct way was 25.\u2657xf3 \u2657xb1 26.\u2656xb1 \u2655c2 and then 27.\u2657e4 (Flohr) or perhaps even better 27.\u2656c1, after which White is better.\n\n**25...fxe2 26. \u2656b3 \u2656d4 27.\u2657e1 \u2657e5+ 28.\u2654g1 \u2657f4**\n\nAfter this move the cheering of the Tal fans in the spectator room was so loud, that the arbiter moved the game to a side room. Tal later gave 28...\u2656xc3 29.\u2656bxc3 \u2656d1 30.\u2656c4 \u2657b2 as even more powerful.\n\n**29. \u2658xe2 \u2656xc1 30.\u2658xd4 \u2656xe1+ 31.\u2657f1 \u2657e4 32.\u2658e2**\n\n32.\u2656xb7 \u2657d3\u2013+.\n\n**32... \u2657e5 33.f4 \u2657f6 34.\u2656xb7 \u2657xd5 35.\u2656c7**\n\n35.\u2656xa7 \u2656xe2 36.\u2657xe2 \u2657d4+ \u2013+.\n\n**35... \u2657xa2 36.\u2656xa7 \u2657c4**\n\n36...\u2656xe2? 37.\u2656a8+ \u2654g7 38.\u2657xe2.\n\n**37. \u2656a8+ \u2654f7 38.\u2656a7+ \u2654e6 39.\u2656a3 d5 40.\u2654f2 \u2657h4+ 41.\u2654g2 \u2654d6 42.\u2658g3 \u2657xg3 43.\u2657xc4 dxc4 44.\u2654xg3 \u2654d5 45.\u2656a7 c3 46.\u2656c7 \u2654d4**\n\nWhite resigned.\n\nOn the 10th May 1960 Mikhail Tal received from the vice-president of FIDE Marcel Berman the gold medal of FIDE World Chess Champions and the laurel wreath.\n\nThe way in which Tal won his games drew a lot of attention. In the German weekly _Die Zeit_ the author and chess player Martin Beheim-Schwarzbach described the match as the victory of the 'player' over the 'thinker'. But the 'younger guy' did not simply catch the 'older guy' unawares. Tal's play was also characterised by deep strategic plans, was the evaluation of Beheim-Schwarzbach.\n\nAs a reward for winning the title Tal received the present of a car, a Volga which at that time was the best model one could have in the USSR. Tal, who had, however, absolutely no idea about technical matters and for example never even wore a watch, gave the car to his older brother Yasha as a present.\n**23. Against Tal and a clairvoyant**\n\n**The World Championship 1961:  \n_Mikhail Tal against Mikhail Botvinnik_**\n\nLatvian chess lovers were very keen on having the return match between Mikhail Tal and Mikhail Botvinnik if not completely, then at least half played in Riga. Botvinnik, however, argued that the return match should take place under as far as possible the same conditions as the previous one. The issue was laid before FIDE president Folke Rogard at the Chess Olympiad of 1960 in Leipzig for a decision. Because of a car breakdown, however, Tal arrived late in Leipzig and in the meantime Botvinnik and Rogard had already agreed to what Botvinnik wanted.\n\nIn addition, before the start of the match Botvinnik had got into a dispute with Nikolai Romanov, the president of the Committee for Sports. Romanov had informed Botvinnik in his office that Tal had reported ill on account of renal colic and that there would possibly be a delay in starting the match. Botvinnik insisted however on a medical certificate delivered by a Moscow doctor. Tal had only presented a certificate from a Latvian doctor. He would therefore have had to travel to Moscow for an examination. Romanov considered this first and foremost as superfluous. But he finally did demand it from Tal, but the latter preferred to accept the originally decided start to the match because he considered this procedure demeaning.\n\nKoblenz later indicated that two weeks before the match Tal had been the victim of a mild heart attack, and despite that he had moreover not given up his 50-60 cigarettes per day. In an interview in 1988 Tal was asked whether looking back over his life there was any decision he regretted. 'Yes, I would probably have been better postponing the return match against Botvinnik', was his reply.\n\nAs preparation for the return match Botvinnik again played training matches, this time against Semyon Furman, who replaced Yuri Averbakh.\n\nThe return match between Mikhail Tal and the now almost 50 year old Mikhail Botvinnik took place from 15th March to 12th May 1961 once more in Moscow, this time in the main hall of the Estrada Theatre (20\/2, Bersenevskaya Embankment). Founded in 1954 the theatre was moved in February 1961 from Mayakovskogo Square to its new home in a large grey complex of buildings by the Moskva river diagonally opposite the Kremlin. During the Stalin era leading comrades had their flats in the same block. Even the general secretary of the Comintern Georgy Dimitrov, who died in mysterious circumstances in Moscow in 1949, or Marshall Mikhail Tukhachevsky, a victim of the 'purges' of 1937, had lived there, as had the German painter and communist Heinrich Vogeler, who was transported to Kazakhstan after Hitler's attack on the Soviet Union and who died there of exhaustion after a year of forced labour. Later, in 1964, Marlene Dietrich gave a song recital in the Estrada Theatre, singing among others Pete Seeger's 'Where have all the flowers gone' and 'Lola' from the film the _Blue Angel_. The theatre is still operational today.\n\nFor the opening game of the World Championship match of 1961 the hall was full to the very last seat with approx. 1500 spectators. The drawing of lots had been done the previous day in the Hotel National in a small ceremony. Ex-World Champion Max Euwe had travelled to Moscow as an honoured guest for the opening ceremony and also watched the first games. One way Botvinnik had prepared for this match was with training matches, this time against Semyon Furman. The games of these training matches were only published much later. The rules for the return match were the same as for the previous WCh matches, with the exception that this time Botvinnik did not bother with his quirk of two envelopes and the double writing down of the sealed move.\n\nThis time the match took a different course from that of the first match between the two players the previous year. The games were very hard fought. Botvinnik won the first game and after Tal had equalised in game two, the third game too. Three draws were followed by a succession of seven decisive games, of which five went to Botvinnik. In the final third of the match Botvinnik won three more games, and Tal two. In the closing phase of the match, which was level, Botvinnik had felt tired, as he reported later in his tournament book.\n\nMoreover, he commented that the well-known hypnotist Wolf Messing had been brought from Latvia to support Tal and had been seated in the room for spectators. In any case, Botvinnik had not noticed him at all during the games on account of his extreme short-sightedness. According to Botvinnik, his bad eyesight had not been taken into account in Riga when the clairvoyant and hypnotist had been hired to go to Moscow.\n\nMessing, born near Warsaw, lived in Germany in the 1930s and had been much talked about as a result of numerous predictions and performances in which he demonstrated telepathic powers. After Hitler had put a price of 200 000 marks on his head on account of an unfavourable prediction \u2013 Messing had prophesied that Germany and the Nazis would be destroyed in the near future \u2013 Messing fled to the Soviet Union. There Stalin took an interest and subjected him to some tests, which Messing however passed. Apparently Messing predicted to Stalin the outcome of the Second World War and in doing so influenced the latter's decision to conclude the pact with Hitler.\n\nFinally Botvinnik \u2013 apparently thanks to his short-sightedness \u2013 won this return match too, and clearly so with 10:5 in wins. During the match Tal was, however, weakened because of acute health problems caused by his kidneys. He himself did not accept this excuse: 'I think I lost because he defeated me. He was excellently prepared for this match. Botvinnik knew my game much better than I did his.'\n\nLater, in his book _The Life and Games of Mikhail Tal_ , Tal again reviewed the match and with a twinkle in his eye he suggested two possible reasons for his defeat: during the 1960 match he and Botvinnik had lived in adjacent rooms in the 'Moscow' hotel. Before the games Tal's second Koblenz cheered up his prot\u00e9g\u00e9 by singing Neapolitan songs. Tal felt motivated by this, while it possibly demoralised Botvinnik next door, conjectured Tal. In any case, for the return match Botvinnik moved into another hotel.\n\nAngelina Tal describes her husband, at least as far as chess was concerned, as really superstitious and so the dethroned World Champion perhaps thought of another possibility. For the eighth game of the return match Tal had finally discovered a 'lucky pencil' with which to write down the moves. But after winning that game Tal forgot the pencil on the table. When he returned for the next game, it had disappeared. 'Perhaps an unknown supporter of Mikhail Moiseevich had taken it', conjectured Tal. Another 'lucky pencil' could not be found.\n\n **Botvinnik \u2013 Tal**\n\nMoscow, 7th game  \n29th March 1961  \nNimzo-Indian Defence (E24)\n\n**1.c4 \u2658f6 2.\u2658c3 e6 3.d4 \u2657b4**\n\nThe Nimzo-Indian Defence was up for discussion several times in this match.\n\n**4.a3**\n\nThe S\u00e4misch Variation: White wants to clarify the position on the queenside straight away. Tal had of course worked out that Botvinnik could again turn to the S\u00e4misch Variation and prepared for that case a rarely played variation. In the 3rd game of the match 4.e3 was played (Rubinstein Variation).\n\n**4... \u2657xc3+ 5.bxc3 b6**\n\nIn the first WCh match between Botvinnik and Tal 5...\u2658e4 was up for discussion in four games.\n\n**6.f3 \u2657a6 7.e4 d5**\n\nThis is the move Tal had prepared. Botvinnik considered it a positional mistake, since White gets rid of his weak c4-pawn.\n\nBlack had good success in practice with 7...\u2658c6.\n\n**8.cxd5 \u2657xf1 9.\u2654xf1**\n\nThe loss of the right to castle is a certain disadvantage to White. On the other hand, he obtains some superiority in the centre.\n\n**9...exd5 10. \u2657g5**\n\nThis was a new move by Botvinnik. Now e4-e5 is always in the air.\n\nTal had instead expected 10.e5 \u2658g8 11.\u2658e2 \u2655d7 12.\u2654f2 \u2658c6 13.\u2656e1 0-0-0 etc.\n\n**10...h6**\n\n'Tal wants to complicate play with a pawn sacrifice. 10...dxe4 11.fxe4 gives White a clear advantage in the centre and the f3-square'. (Botvinnik)\n\n**11. \u2655a4+**\n\n'A little intermediate move which forces Black into a concession.' 11.\u2657xf6 \u2655xf6 12.exd5 0-0 'with a more comfortable game for Black.' (Botvinnik)\n\n**11...c6**\n\n'Double-edged since the white bishop is left and no black knight can now come to c4.' (Botvinnik)\n\n11...\u2655d7 12.\u2655xd7+ \u2658bxd7 13.\u2657xf6 (13.\u2657h4!? dxe4 14.\u2656e1) 13...\u2658xf6 14.e5 \u2658d7 'with a visible advantage for White.' (Botvinnik), 11...\u2658bd7 12.\u2657xf6 \u2655xf6 13.exd5 first wins a pawn.\n\n**12. \u2657h4 dxe4?!**\n\n**13. \u2656e1**\n\n13.fxe4 is followed by 13...g5 14.\u2657g3 \u2658xe4 15.\u2657xb8 \u2655f6+ (15...\u2656xb8? 16.\u2655xc6+ +\u2013) 16.\u2658f3 \u2658d2+ 17.\u2654e2 \u2658xf3 18.\u2656hf1 \u2656xb8 19.\u2656xf3 (19.\u2655xa7 0-0 20.\u2656xf3 \u2655d6 favours Black) 19... \u2655g6 and Black is no worse.\n\n**13...g5 14. \u2657f2**\n\nProtecting the d4-pawn and enabling when appropriate c3-c4. 14.\u2657g3?! \u2655d5= would not be so good.\n\n**14... \u2655e7**\n\nOn 14...\u2655d5!? Botvinnik was planning 15.c4 \u2655e6 16.\u2655c2 ('16.fxe4 \u2658xe4 17.\u2655c2 f5 18.g4 \u2654d8 19.gxf5 \u2655xc4+ 20.\u2655xc4 \u2658d2+ would not be convincing' (Botvinnik)), followed by 17.fxe4 'with a decisive advantage'. (Botvinnik)\n\n**15. \u2658e2**\n\n15.fxe4 \u2658xe4 16.\u2655c2 f5 17.g4 \u2658d7 is unclear.\n\n**15...b5**\n\nOf course not 15...exf3 16.\u2658g3 losing the queen.\n\n**16. \u2655c2**\n\n16.\u2655b3 is met with 16...\u2655e6. After 17.\u2655xe6+ fxe6 Black has solved his problems.\n\n**16... \u2655xa3**\n\n16...e3 17.\u2657xe3 \u2658d5 18.\u2657c1. (Botvinnik)\n\n**17.h4 gxh4?!**\n\n'If 17...g4 then 18.fxe4 and the black knight cannot occupy the g4-square. He had to play 17...\u2656g8 18.hxg5 hxg5 after which, however, the white rook is immediately activated.' (Botvinnik)\n\n**18. \u2657xh4**\n\n'Now the bishop also enters the game with decisive effect.' (Botvinnik)\n\n**18... \u2658bd7 19.\u2658g3 0-0-0 20.\u2658xe4**\n\n**20... \u2656he8**\n\nThere was the better 20...\u2658xe4 21.\u2655xe4 (21.\u2657xd8? \u2658g3+ =) 21...\u2655xc3!? 22.\u2657xd8 \u2656xd8 23.\u2656xh6 \u2658b8 24.\u2656h7 a5 and Black still has some counterplay.\n\n**21. \u2654f2**\n\nAfter 21.\u2658xf6 \u2656xe1+ 22.\u2654xe1 (a better way was 22.\u2657xe1 \u2658xf6 23.\u2655f5+ +\u2013) 22...\u2655a1+ 23.\u2655d1 \u2655xc3+ 24.\u2654f1 \u2658e5 'some complications would still arise'. (Botvinnik)\n\n**21... \u2658xe4+ 22.fxe4 f6 23.\u2656a1**\n\nWith the conquest of the a-file the game comes to a rapid end.\n\n**23... \u2655e7 24.\u2656xa7 \u2655xe4 25.\u2655xe4 \u2656xe4 26.\u2656a8+ \u2658b8 27.\u2657g3 \u2654b7 28.\u2656ha1 \u2656c8 29.\u26568a7+ \u2654b6 30.\u2657xb8 b4**\n\n30...\u2656xb8 31.\u26561a6#.\n\n**31. \u2657d6 bxc3 32.\u2657c5+ \u2654b5 33.\u26561a4**\n\nAnd mate can no longer be avoided. Black resigned.\n\nAs had Vassily Smyslov, so did Mikhail Tal also lose his return match against Botvinnik relatively clearly. Tigran Petrosian later described the World Champion's right to a return match as 'moral disarmament' and tried to explain in this way why the challengers, who had in the previous matches shown such superiority, then after winning the title lost so surprisingly clearly in the return match. The challengers had won the right by victories in exhausting tournaments and elimination matches to challenge the World Champion. They had prepared meticulously for the struggle and won it. But then the return match followed like a prolongation of their struggle and they could not adopt a correct attitude to it. Only one year later they no longer had the energy to put in the same effort as they had before winning the title.\n\nSpassky believed, moreover, that the short period of only one year between the gain of the title and the return match worked very much to the advantage of Botvinnik. Whilst the new World Champion did not recover during the year, Botvinnik was already preparing for the return during the match he lost. Botvinnik himself admitted that the matches brought him a lot of information about his opponents which he made use of in the return match.\n\nAfter losing the title of World Champion Mikhail Tal remained for a long time at the absolute top of world chess with outstanding results in numerous tournaments. He took part in the USSR championships a total of 21 times, and won six times (1957, 1958, 1967, 1972, 1974, 1978), a record which he shares with Botvinnik. On several occasions he reached the WCh candidates' matches, but was never again able to qualify as challenger. From July 1972 to April 1973 Tal played 86 games without defeat (47 wins, 39 draws). Shortly afterwards he improved on this record with a new series of 95 games without defeat (46 win, 49 draws) in the time between 23rd October 1973 and 16th October 1974. Tal's ability was particularly great in blitz chess. In 1988 he won at an age of 51 the Blitz World Championship in Saint John in the final against Vaganian; Kasparov and Karpov had been eliminated in the earlier rounds.\n\nIn addition to his other ailments, Tal suffered at the end of his life from chronic hepatitis C and an equally chronic staphylococcal infection, both of which Tal fought with alcohol consumption. After the break-up of the Soviet Union in 1990 Tal and his family had to leave their flat in Riga, since it and the remainder of the house were restored to their original owners. Tal moved to Germany, where the Bonn chess philanthropist Ernst Eimert took care of him and his family. On the 27th June 1992 Tal died in Moscow of a haemorrhage in his oesophagus. He was buried in the New Jewish Cemetery in Riga. Ernst Eimert continued to look after Tal's family and shortly before his own death he married Angelina Tal so that she would be provided for.\n**24. Cheating in Cura\u00e7ao?**\n\n**The World Championship 1963:  \n_Mikhail Botvinnik against Tigran Petrosian_**\n\nAccording to the calculations of Jeff Sonas, in May 1962 Tigran Petrosian had passed Tal in the world ranking list and had himself occupied the top spot. Tigran Petrosian was of Armenian descent but was born on the 17th June 1929 in Tbilisi, capital of the then Georgian Socialist Soviet Republic, nowadays the capital of Georgia. His father Vartan Petrosian worked there as a caretaker in a home for officers. Tigran had two older siblings, a brother Hmayak and a sister Vartoosh. All three were described as good pupils. In Tbilisi Tigran Petrosian went to the 73rd Armenian School.\n\nPetrosian learned to play chess at age eight when he watched soldiers of the garrison playing, though it took him quite some time to learn the rules of the game. At 12 Petrosian joined the chess section of the pioneer palace of Tbilisi. He became friends with two other chess pupils, one was called Fine, not to be confused with the US grandmaster, the other was Andro Tekiashvili, and began analysing chess games together with them. In the pioneer palace Archil Ebralidze, a believer in the positional teachings of Nimzowitsch and Capablanca, was his first trainer.\n\nAfter the outbreak of the Second World War, hard times started for the citizens of Tbilisi. This was particularly true for the Petrosian family, which was struck by heavy blows of fate. In the winter of 1942 Petrosian's mother died. A great-aunt then moved in with the family and supported Vartan, who was then 70 years old. The children too now had to help earn their living. Tigran Petrosian took up various odd jobs, including that of street sweeper. The work in the open made him severely ill one winter and he was absent from school for six months. As a result of his illness he became hard of hearing, probably as the consequence of delayed otitis. The deafness was a handicap all his life and it was only in later years that he wore a hearing aid. From his meagre income Petrosian bought the manuals of Aaron Nimzowitsch and Rudolf Spielmann. It was particularly Nimzowitsch that he took as his model. Towards the end of the Second World War Petrosian's father also died and the 15 year old Tigran took on his father's job in the officers' quarters. At times he lived in the chess club and slept on a table there.\n\nIn 1946 Petrosian won by 8:6 a match against Genrikh Kasparyan for the Championship of Armenia. Approximately in 1947 Petrosian moved from Tbilisi to the Armenian capital Yerevan, where he was now supported amongst others by Kasparyan and worked in the Spartak Chess Club as a trainer. At the end of 1949 he made the leap to Moscow, after previously making contact with Moscow's Spartak Chess Club. On his arrival in Moscow he was wearing a summer coat, summer shoes, and carrying a few chess books under his arm \u2013 those were all of Petrosian's possessions. In Moscow Petrosian soon started working with Andor Lilienthal.\n\nHe also took some important private decisions: in 1951 he got to know the English teacher and translator Rona Yakovlevna Avinesar and married her the following year. The couple had two sons, Mikhail and Vartan. Rona Petrosian-Yakovlevna later gained great influence in the Soviet Committee for Sports and, on account of the intrigues she was accused of, was not popular with many Soviet players. For Petrosian, however, she was a great support on his way to the top.\n\nIn 1951 Petrosian was second at the USSR championships. He also came in second at the interzonal tournament of 1952 in Saltsj\u00f6baden and thus qualified for the candidates tournament in Zurich 1953, which he finished in fifth place. During the subsequent years Petrosian's play suffered somewhat from too great an eagerness to take draws, which prevented him from achieving even greater successes. On the other hand Petrosian was considered by all the top players as the one who was hardest to beat since he had developed quite particular skills in defence. In 1959 Petrosian won the USSR championship for the first time, a success he was able to repeat in 1961. At the interzonal tournament in Stockholm 1962 he shared second and third place with Efim Geller (15 points each) behind the outstanding Robert Fischer (17\u00bd points out of 22). The first three, and Viktor Kortchnoi, Paul Keres, Miroslav Filip, Pal Benko and Mikhail Tal qualified for the candidates' tournament in Cura\u00e7ao.\n\nThis took the form of a four-round all-play-all and was won by Tigran Petrosian with 17\u00bd points ahead of Efim Geller (17). Tal was hospitalised during the tournament with renal colic and after three rounds withdrew from the tournament.\n\nAfter his outstanding success in the interzonal tournament in Stockholm many considered the 19 year old Bobby Fischer as a future World Champion, but at the candidates' tournament he started with two defeats, against Benko and against Geller, and could only finish in fourth place (14 points). After his return to the USA Fischer gave an interview in _Sports Illustrated_ ('The Russians have fixed world chess'), in which he accused the Soviet players of having agreed the results of their games in order to stop him from winning the tournament. In fact, Petrosian and his friend Geller, but also Keres, who was actually considered to be a sportsman of integrity, had drawn all their twelve games among each other in no more than 19 moves each, thus saving their energies for the games against the other players, especially Fischer. In addition Fischer claimed that Kortchnoi had been directed to lose to the other three Soviets. According to Fischer, moreover, the Soviet players had given each other advice during their games against him.\n\nThis was not the only occasion on which Soviet chess was accused of manipulation, private agreements and other foul play. One grandmaster once formulated it like this: 'Whenever two Soviet players are playing against one another, the result which emerges is always the most useful one.' Yuri Averbakh, who was the head of the Soviet delegation in Cura\u00e7ao, would later explain the short draws thus: the slightly older Keres wanted to save his energy and Petrosian and Geller did not play for a win against each other because they were good friends. Fischer's accusations against Kortchnoi were later rejected by the latter. Kortchnoi, who fled the USSR in 1976, later said that he too had been surprised by the series of short draws and considered that he too had been a victim of this agreement.\n\nWithin the Soviet delegation there were further mutual intrigues. In a game which was decisive for tournament victory between Benko and Keres, Petrosian and Geller offered Benko their help with the analysis after the adjournment of the game. But, according to his own account, Benko declined this and won the game without their help. There was also trouble between the two US Americans, Fischer and the Hungarian born Pal Benko, because the latter claimed the help of the second Arthur Bisguier, although Bisguier, commissioned by the US federation, was only there to support Fischer. 'I will never again take part in such a manipulated tournament', stated Fischer after the tournament and in fact withdrew from top chess for some years.\n\nCura\u00e7ao was also for a long time the last candidates' tournament. After it FIDE introduced the elimination of candidates in matches held on a k.-o. system. At the FIDE congress in Saltsj\u00f6baden (25th August till 5th September 1962) FIDE additionally agreed that draws before move 30 had to be approved by the arbiter. But despite all the accusations and complaints Petrosian was the victor of the candidates' tournament and thereby the challenger to the World Champion Botvinnik.\n\nAfter his victory in the return match against Tal, Botvinnik had explained at an event in Moscow that should a Soviet player win the candidates' tournament he might possible renounce the idea of defending his title. The Soviet Chess Federation prepared for this eventuality by organising a match between the second and third from the candidates' tournament, Keres and Geller, so as to have a match opponent ready for Petrosian if Botvinnik should do so. For Petrosian, however, that meant he either had to delay his preparation until Botvinnik had taken a decision or risk it being in vain.\n\nBotvinnik took his time about deciding. It only became clear in November 1962 that Botvinnik would again be there for a defence of his title. At the end of November 1962 Petrosian had an appointment for an operation to do away with his chronic angina. For that reason he would have liked to delay the start of the match from the 14th March till the 1st April 1963, to have more time for recuperation, but Botvinnik refused a delay because depending on circumstances the match could then have lasted into June, when it could be very hot in Moscow. Since the two players could not agree on a starting date, they called in FIDE president Folke Rogard to arbitrate. He then, like Solomon, set the date for the 23rd March. In the course of the disputes personal relations between the two players, which had previously been completely friendly, had cooled distinctly.\n\nPetrosian had at first retreated with his training partners Boleslavsky and Suetin to a sanatorium to prepare. One month before the start of the match he moved with his little team to a convalescent home of the federation of architects close to Moscow, a place where he had previously cloistered himself before important tournaments and before matches. To toughen himself up physically Petrosian regularly went skiing there.\n\nDuring his preparation Petrosian, who had been living since 1949 in Moscow, also bought his first warm winter coat so as to be armed against disease in the cold Moscow winter. Despite the coldness of the Moscow winters he had never previously owned anything like it. Even in the 1960s Soviet citizens apparently still lacked necessities.\n\nPetrosian had noticed that in the matches which he had won, Botvinnik had usually taken an early lead. So Petrosian wanted above all to avoid falling behind at an early stage. Three weeks before the start of the match Petrosian stopped all chess activities, simply concentrated on sport, took walks, played billiards, read books and in other ways distracted himself before the forthcoming match.\n\nIn his preparation for the match Botvinnik had, as before the return match against Tal in 1961, worked with Semyon Furman, who was considered a proven expert in the openings. He had already quarrelled with his former trainer and friend Grigory Goldberg after the first match against Tal, since Botvinnik had the feeling that Goldberg 'felt drawn' to Tal. In summer 1960 Goldberg sent a letter to Botvinnik and on nine pages set out the conditions under which he was prepared to continue his cooperation with Botvinnik. Botvinnik later explained that he was not prepared to meet a single one of these conditions. Before the match against Petrosian, Botvinnik played a secret training match with Furman, consisting of eight games, which were not published until much later. Furman also belonged to Botvinnik's team during the match.\n\nSo the match for the World Championship between Botvinnik and Petrosian began on the 23rd March 1963 and lasted till the 20th May 1963. The venue was once more Moscow's Estrada Theatre. The rules were essentially the same as had been in effect in previous matches. The match was set for a maximum of 24 games. If one player previously reached 12\u00bd or 13 points, the match would be brought to an end forthwith. The time control as in previous WCh matches was two and a half hours for 40 moves. After adjournment the game continued with a thinking time of one hour for 16 moves. For the analysis of adjourned games the players were only allowed the help of a second who had to have been officially nominated two weeks before. Petrosian named Isaak Boleslavsky as his official second, whereas Botvinnik did without a second.\n\nIn the playing hall there was to be the strictest silence. If there was too much noise the game could be continued with the public excluded. Photographers had to bear in mind that the use of flash was forbidden during the games. In the event of illness a player could postpone for a maximum of three days. Gideon Stahlberg and Harry Golombek were named as arbiters for the match. The drawing of lots for colours was done totally without ceremony on the 20th March 1963 in the hotel room of arbiter Stahlberg in the Hotel Metropol. Max Euwe was present to represent FIDE. On the following day the match was opened in the Estrada Theatre.\n\nUp until game 15 the match was level. Botvinnik won the first and 14th games, when Petrosian's plan of avoiding an early deficit did not work. But the fifth and seventh game went to Petrosian. When Botvinnik took a 'timeout' at the start of the 9th game, Mikhail Tal entertained the spectators in the hall by playing a game against them. Tal was actually otherwise active in the press centre as a correspondent and analysed the games together with the other grandmasters present, including Geller and Kotov.\n\nWith game 15 the match turned in Petrosian's favour. He won that game, then in addition games 18 and 19 too. Before the 20th game, with the score at 11:8, Petrosian reported himself ill with a stomach upset, so that the game had to be postponed for two days. The game then ended in a very quick draw. Botvinnik had accepted his defeat. Two other short draws followed. Then Petrosian had won the match with a score of 12\u00bd:9\u00bd.\n\n **Petrosian \u2013 Botvinnik**\n\nMoscow, 15th game  \n29th April 1963  \nGr\u00fcnfeld Indian Defence (D97)\n\n**1.d4 \u2658f6 2.c4 g6 3.\u2658c3 d5 4.\u2655b3**\n\nAn idea which Botvinnik introduced in the game against Levenfish at the 8th USSR championship 1933. With the insertion of 4.\u2658f3 \u2657g7 the move 5.\u2655b3 leads to the so-called Moscow Variation, one of the main variations against the Gr\u00fcnfeld Indian Defence: 5...dxc4 6.\u2655xc4 0-0 with positions similar to those in the game.\n\n**4...dxc4 5. \u2655xc4 \u2657g7 6.e4 0-0**\n\nThe basic idea of the Gr\u00fcnfeld Indian Defence for Black consists of letting White set up a pawn centre, in order to then attack it with pieces or to attack the flank pawns on the c- and f-files.\n\n**7. \u2657e2 \u2658c6 8.\u2658f3 \u2658d7 9.\u2657e3 \u2658b6 10.\u2655c5**\n\n10.\u2655d3 f5!?.\n\n**10... \u2657g4**\n\n10...f5, to attack the centre from the flank as described, was also worth considering.\n\n**11.d5 \u2658d7 12.\u2655a3**\n\nThe alternative was 12.\u2655c4!?.\n\n**12... \u2657xf3 13.\u2657xf3**\n\n13.dxc6 \u2657xe2 14.\u2658xe2 bxc6 15.\u2656d1 \u2655e8 16.0-0 \u2658b6 leads to a level position.\n\n**13... \u2658d4 14.0-0-0**\n\nMore ambitious than 14.\u2657d1 c5 15.dxc6 bxc6.\n\n**14... \u2658xf3**\n\n'After 14...c5 15.dxc6 \u2658xc6 16.\u2654b1 \u2655c8 17.\u2657e2 White has the bishop pair and the active plan f2-f4 and e4-e5.' (Kasparov)\n\n**15.gxf3 \u2658b6**\n\n15...c6 16.dxc6 bxc6 17.h4 h5 18.f4 e6 19.f5 is advantageous for White, since the black king position is weakened.\n\n**16. \u2655b3 \u2655d7**\n\nAnother possibility was 16...\u2655c8!? to prepare...c7-c6.\n\n**17.h4 h5**\n\nAnother option was 17...c6. After 18.h5 Black does not play 18...cxd5 19.hxg6 hxg6 20.\u2657xb6! axb6 21.\u2658xd5 with advantage to White, but 18...\u2657xc3! 19.\u2655xc3 cxd5 with counterplay.\n\n**18.f4 e6?!**\n\n18...c6!? (Kasparov), so as to get counterplay through the opening of the c-file, offered more prospects of counterplay.\n\n**19.dxe6 \u2655xe6 20.\u2655xe6 fxe6 21.\u2656hg1 \u2654h7 22.\u2658b5 \u2656f7 23.\u2658d4 \u2656e8**\n\nPerhaps a better way was 23...\u2657xd4!? 24.\u2656xd4 \u2656af8. (Kasparov) In the bulletin 24...\u2656e8 was suggested. Kasparov gives 25.\u2656g5 \u2656d7 26.f5 as better for White. It was also worth considering 23...\u2658c4 24.\u2658xe6 \u2657xb2+ 25.\u2654c2 \u2657f6 26.\u2656d5 in any case also with an initiative for White.\n\n**24. \u2658f3 \u2657h6 25.\u2658g5+ \u2657xg5 26.\u2656xg5**\n\n'The black position is strategically lost.' (Kasparov)\n\n**26... \u2658c4?**\n\n26...\u2658c8 was more accurate. Now Black replies to 27.f5? (27.\u2656dg1 \u2656g8 28.b3 \u2658d6 leads to the game) 27...exf5 28.exf5 \u2656xf5 29.\u2656d7+ with 29...\u2656e7=.\n\n**27. \u2656dg1?!**\n\nWhite misses 27.f5! (Konstantinopolsky) 27...exf5 28.exf5 intending 28...\u2656xf5? 29.\u2656d7+ \u2654h8 30.\u2657d4+ \u2658e5 31.f4+\u2013.\n\n**27... \u2656g8 28.\u2654c2! b6**\n\nKonstantinopolsky suggested 28...\u2658d6!? 29.f3 a6 intending...\u2656d7 and...\u2658f7.\n\n**29.b3 \u2658d6 30.f3 \u2656d7**\n\n30...c5!? was more active: 31.a4 \u2658b7 32.\u2654c3 \u2658a5 so as to bring the knight via c6 to d4.\n\n**31. \u26565g2 \u2656dd8?!**\n\nA better move was 31...\u2658b5 32.\u2656d1 \u2658a3+ 33.\u2654c1 \u2656gd8 34.\u2656xd7+ \u2656xd7 35.\u2656d2 \u2656xd2 36.\u2654xd2 c5 and Black would have been freed from most of his worries.\n\n**32.a4!**\n\nPreventing the possibility previously mentioned.\n\n**32... \u2658f7 33.\u2657c1 e5 34.\u2657e3 exf4**\n\nIn the bulletin 34...\u2656df8 or 34...c5!? was recommended instead.\n\n**35. \u2657xf4 \u2656d7?**\n\nThe immediate 35...c5 saves an important tempo. After 36.\u2656d2 \u2656xd2+ 37.\u2654xd2 \u2656d8+ 38.\u2654e2 \u2656d7 39.a5 \u2658d8 40.axb6 axb6 41.\u2656a1 \u2658c6 42.\u2656a6 \u2658d4+ Black is able to fight for the draw.\n\n**36. \u2656d2 \u2656xd2+ 37.\u2654xd2 \u2656d8+ 38.\u2654e2 c5 39.a5! \u2656d7 40.axb6 axb6 41.\u2656a1 \u2654g7**\n\nA better try was 41...\u2658d8 42.\u2656a6 \u2656b7 43.\u2656a8 \u2658c6. The game was adjourned here.\n\n**42. \u2656a6**\n\n42.\u2656a8!?.\n\n**42... \u2656b7 43.\u2656a8 \u2654f6**\n\n43...b5 44.\u2656c8 c4 is followed by 45.b4! with advantage. Black's play on the queenside is finished, since the c-pawn cannot advance without being lost.\n\n**44. \u2656c8 \u2658e5 45.\u2654e3 \u2658d7 46.\u2656c6+ \u2654f7 47.e5 \u2658f8 48.\u2656f6+ \u2654g7 49.\u2654e4**\n\nWhite's pieces are clearly more active.\n\n**49...b5 50. \u2656c6 \u2654f7 51.\u2656xc5**\n\nAfter the loss of the c-pawn the game is finally decided.\n\n**51... \u2658e6 52.\u2656d5 \u2654e7 53.\u2657e3 \u2656b8 54.\u2656d6 b4 55.\u2656a6 \u2656b5 56.\u2656a7+ \u2654e8 57.f4 \u2654f8 58.f5**\n\nBlack resigned on account of 58...gxf5+ 59.\u2654xf5 \u2658g7+ 60.\u2654g6 \u2658e8 (if 60... \u2656xe5 61.\u2656f7+ \u2654e8 then 62.\u2657f4+\u2013) 61.e6 \u2656e5 62.\u2657h6+ \u2654g8 63.\u2656e7+\u2013.\n\nBotvinnik thus lost his title after 15 years \u2013 with two interruptions \u2013 and this time he was not able to win it back. The right to a return match had been done away with. There is no doubt that the great age difference between the two contestants had its part to play. Petrosian was 18 years younger than Botvinnik. As the defeated player in the WCh match Botvinnik would have been entered into the next candidates' matches, but he renounced this right and took no more part in the WCh cycle.\n\nAfter losing the match Botvinnik accorded his recognition to the new World Champion: 'It was very difficult to play against Tigran. The reason is that he has a quite different understanding of positional play. He goes more deeply into the position than is usual and I, a universal player, did not completely understand Tigran's method and the depth of his positional judgement, although I correctly evaluated all the positions'. When on the 20th May 1963, shortly after 17.00, Petrosian's victory became official with a draw in game 22, hundreds of his fans stormed on to the stage of the Estrada Theatre and f\u00eated their idol. On his return to Yerevan Petrosian was welcomed by more than 100000 enthusiastic Armenians and f\u00eated at the central square. Spontaneously a collection was organised for the World Champion. At the end of it over a million roubles had been gathered for the first Armenian World Chess Champion.\n\nAfter the loss of the title Botvinnik went on to play in the 1964 Chess Olympiad in Tel Aviv and in the European team championships in 1965 in Hamburg for the USSR and won the gold medal with his team each time. Moreover Botvinnik continued to take part in various team tournaments in the Soviet Union. In individual tournaments too, he still took excellent places: he was second behind Larsen in Palma de Mallorca 1967 and Monte Carlo 1968, also second behind Geller in Wijk aan Zee 1969. In the Netherlands sponsors would have been prepared to finance a match between Botvinnik and Fischer. Fischer did not take the opportunity. He insisted on a match to six wins, whereas Botvinnik wanted to play a maximum of 18 games.\n\nBotvinnik's final important international tournament was the match USSR against the Rest of the World in 1970 in Belgrade, in which he had four draws against Milan Matulovic. The 'patriarch' was involved with his Botvinnik chess school in the education of many talented young Soviet players. Students from this crucible of talent were the future World Champions Karpov, Kasparov and Kramnik. Botvinnik was also successful as an author. His best known works were _K dostizheniu cheli (Achieving the aim)_ , Moscow 1978, which appeared as an edition of 75000 copies and _Polveka w Skakhmatakh (Half a century of chess)_ , Moscow 1978, with a printing of 100 000 copies.\n\nIn the middle of the 1980s Botvinnik fell into disfavour with the Sports Committee because he had expressed himself critically about the situation in the USSR in an interview with a journalist from a US newspaper. When Mikhail Gorbachov called forth glasnost and perestroika in the Soviet Union, Botvinnik quarrelled with his former model pupil Garry Kasparov on account of differing views about the development of the country. Kasparov welcomed the changes, Botvinnik refused them. His beloved wife Gayane died on the 4th December 1987, but Botvinnik outlived her by more than seven years. With age Botvinnik gradually became blind. He died on the 5th May 1995 at the age of 83. He was buried in the Novodevichi Cemetery (Cemetery of the nine virgins) in Moscow. His final wish was a quiet funeral with no officials and no chess players.\n**25. The obstreperous pupil**\n\n**The World Championship 1966:  \n_Tigran Petrosian against Boris Spassky_**\n\nBoris Spassky, born on the 30th January 1937 in Leningrad, now St. Petersburg, was perhaps the most gifted player of all Soviet chess.\n\n**Boris Spassky (born in 1936)**\n\nHis father Vassily Spassky was a civil engineer and came from a family of priests in the orthodox church who lived in the small town of Tim in the region of Kursk. His mother Petrova Ekaterina Petrovna was the illegitimate daughter of a large landowner from Riadnevo, in the region of Pskov. She grew up with foster parents, relatives of her mother Daria Ivanova. Spassky's parents got married in 1932 in Leningrad and had three children, Boris, his older brother Georgy (born in 1934) and a younger sister Iraida (born in 1944).\n\nDuring the Second World War Spassky, together with his brother and other children from Leningrad, was evacuated to the region of Kirov. In the children's home there he learned chess at the age of five by watching the games of the older children. At the start of 1943, however, Spassky was close to death in this children's home on account of debilitation and hunger. Just at that point his parents managed to escape from the besieged city of Leningrad. Their arrival in Kirov saved their son's life as there was then someone to take care of him. From 1943 to 1946 the family lived in Sverlovka, some 40 kilometres from Moscow. In 1944 the parents divorced. Spassky's mother went back to Leningrad in the summer of 1946, alone and now with three children since her daughter Iraida had also been born. The fatherless family of four lived there in a single room measuring 14 square metres.\n\nOne day Spassky discovered on the Kirov Islands in the Baltic a chess pavilion with glazed chess tables, which entranced him and caught hold of his imagination, and he watched the adults playing. To travel there cost him 15 kopecks per day for his ticket and he had further hardship to endure \u2013 neither Boris nor his brother Georgy had shoes and so they had to go about barefoot. After the pavilion was closed in the autumn, Spassky set about joining a chess club and finally managed at the age of nine to get into the chess section of the Leningrad pioneer palace, which was based in the Anichkov Palace, the former residence of Alexander III.\n\nAt that point he was assigned to the 33 year old trainer Vladimir Zak, who took particular pains with his youngest pupil, and from 1948\/49 even received a monthly state stipend of 120 roubles (Jan van Reek suggests 1200 roubles in his biography, but that would have been much more than other players received), with which he contributed to the living expenses of the family, since his mother, who had for a long time worked as a harvester, was now only considered partially able to work as the result of a back injury. Spassky's seven year younger sister was also a talented player, though of another board game \u2013 Iraida Spasskaya became Soviet draughts champion four times.\n\nAt the age of ten in a simultaneous exhibition in Leningrad Spassky defeated Mikhail Botvinnik. At 11 Spassky gave his own first simultaneous display against 15 opponents in an officers' mess. Boris Spassky now began to train with Alexander Tolush. Tolush, 42 years old when Spassky made his acquaintance, was a player through and through, who in addition to chess also loved billiards, cards and horse racing. He liked alcohol, 'but knew when to stop' (Spassky). His personality, according to Spassky, was that of a landowner who had fallen on hard times. When he was in a bad mood he would say 'How deep...', without finishing the sentence, which would have continued '... the country has sunk'. Tolush had experienced the communist terror and the subsequent executions, without ever speaking about it. Basically they never talked about politics. Spassky, now 15, learned from Tolush not only the principles of chess but also some important things for daily life which he had not known until then, namely how to eat with a knife and fork, to use a handkerchief and to knot a tie. In addition Spassky adopted Tolush's sceptical political views.\n\nAt the first international tournament, at which Spassky participated along with Tolush, he shared 4th to 6th places and in doing so defeated no less than Vassily Smyslov. His trainer won the tournament. During the tournaments the Soviet delegation received a telegram from the Committee for Sports with the instruction that from then on the players should no longer struggle against each other but act in common to prevent Laszlo Szabo, who was leading the field, from winning the tournament. Spassky learned about Soviet dirigisme, which also extended to chess.\n\nSpassky ended his first USSR championship in 1955 with a shared 2nd to 6th place and in doing so qualified for the interzonal tournament in Gothenburg, since this USSR championship was at the same time considered to be a zonal tournament. In the same year he became U20 Junior World Champion. During the Junior World Championship in Antwerp Spassky asked the leader of the Soviet delegation, Commissar E.P. Soloviev, whether it was true that Lenin had had syphilis. The consequence of this naive question was a serious investigation by the Sports Committee. Spassky may well have been pardoned, but from then on he found himself under constant surveillance from the Leningrad KGB. His 6th-9th place at the interzonal tournament allowed Spassky to take part in the candidates' tournament in Amsterdam in 1956. The nineteen year old took third to seventh place. Thanks to his successes he was then allocated for himself, his mother and his siblings a 28 square metre two room flat.\n\nAfter his schooldays Spassky started to study mathematics, but gave that up after two months. After that he studied journalism, which he did not like either. Despite that he finished his studies after five years with a diploma. The subject of his dissertation was the first Russian chess magazine _Shakhmatny Listok_ 1859-1863.\n\nIn 1960 Spassky experienced a serious personal crisis. He fell ill with angina, then kidney stones. The following year saw the break-up of his first marriage with Nadezhda Latynzeva, a fellow student, to whom he had been married since 1959 and with whom he had a daughter. Spassky offered a divorce, but his wife declined and continued to live with Spassky's family in the 28 square metre flat, with the result that a state of war then existed between the couple. An influential admirer of Spassky finally organised a one room flat for the latter's wife so that she could move out with their daughter. At the Students' Olympiad Spassky then lost a spectacular and decisive game against the US American player William Lombardy and as a punishment was reprimanded by the Soviet Committee for Sports.\n\nFinally his trainer Tolush, who had treated Spassky like his own son, turned away from him. Tolush had always protected Spassky through all his problems, but finally lost patience with his prot\u00e9g\u00e9 and resigned his post as trainer. Tolush and Spassky later saw each other again occasionally, but never recovered their former friendly relationship. Tolush died four months before Spassky became World Champion.\n\nIn 1961 Spassky began working with Igor Bondarevsky, who also became a father substitute for him. Spassky, by then 24 years old, moved into Bondarevsky's three room flat. Bondarevsky came from a family of Don Cossacks and had a Turkish grandmother. Unlike Tolush, he had more pedagogical skill in dealing with his obstreperous pupil. But in common with Tolush he had a liking for alcohol. In 1961, under Bondarevsky's care, Spassky won the 29th USSR championship in Baku. On a suggestion from Bondarevsky, Spassky moved in 1963 from Leningrad, where the local KGB section had him under constant surveillance, into a 20 square metre flat close to Moscow.\n\nBoris Spassky and Tigran Petrosian\n\nAt the 1964 interzonal tournament in Amsterdam Spassky was joint first and thus qualified for the candidates' stages, which after the experiences of Cura\u00e7ao 1962 were now being played as matches. Spassky won the candidates quarter-final against Paul Keres, played over ten games in 1965 in Riga, by 6:4. After that, in the same place he defeated Efim Geller in the semi-final by 5\u00bd:2\u00bd. The candidates' final was held in 1965 in Tbilisi. There Spassky met Tal and won by 7:4, winning the final three games. This made Spassky the challenger to the World Champion Petrosian.\n\nThe match for the World Championship between Tigran Petrosian and Boris Spassky took place from the 9th April to the 9th June in Moscow's Estrada Theatre. Play was on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Adjourned games were resumed in the Central Chess Club. This WCh match was also for a maximum of 24 games. If it was drawn the title defender remained World Champion. The chief arbiter was Alberic O'Kelly de Galway. During the match Spassky shared a room in the Moskva hotel with Bondarevsky, his official second for this match.\n\nThe match began with a series of six draws, before Petrosian took the lead in the seventh game and extended his lead with a victory in the tenth game. Spassky equalised with wins in games 13 and 19. The 20th and the 22nd games once again went to the title defender. Before game 20 Spassky and Bondarevsky had gone for a boat trip with the Smyslov couple and had suffered severe sunburn in the spring sunshine. Bondarevsky recommended a timeout, but Spassky refused and lost the 20th game. Spassky did close up again with victory in game 23. But that was no longer enough \u2013 Petrosian won by 12\u00bd:11\u00bd.\n\n **Petrosian \u2013 Spassky**\n\nMoscow, 10th game  \n2nd May 1966  \nKing's Indian Defence (E66)\n\n**1. \u2658f3 \u2658f6 2.g3 g6 3.c4 \u2657g7 4.\u2657g2 0-0 5.0-0 \u2658c6**\n\nThe classical reply against the Fianchetto System in the King's Indian Defence is reached after 5...d6 6.d4 \u2658bd7 7.\u2658c3 etc.\n\n**6. \u2658c3 d6 7.d4**\n\nAfter 7.d3 e5 a popular line of the English Opening would arise: 8.\u2656b1 a5 9.a3 etc.\n\n**7...a6**\n\nAnd we have reached the Panno Variation of the King's Indian Defence. Other options are 7...e5 or 7...\u2657f5.\n\n**8.d5 \u2658a5**\n\nThat is the idea. The fianchetto of the light-squared bishop to g2 has weakened the c4-pawn, which is now attacked.\n\n**9. \u2658d2 c5 10.\u2655c2 e5**\n\nThe alternative is 10...\u2656b8, used by Spassky for example in his game against Bronstein, Amsterdam\/Leeuwarden 1956.\n\n**11.b3 \u2658g4**\n\n11...\u2656b8 as preparation for the advance...b7-b5 is also still playable here.\n\n**12.e4**\n\nIn the bulletin 12.\u2657b2 f5 13.\u2656ae1!? was suggested.\n\n**12...f5 13.exf5 gxf5 14. \u2658d1!?**\n\n14.\u2657b2! \u2657d7 15.\u2656ae1 b5 16.\u2658d1 with a slight advantage to White. (Bulletin)\n\n**14...b5 15.f3?!**\n\nThis move was criticised because it invites Black to advance his e-pawn. There was the more obvious 15.\u2657b2 \u2656b8 16.f3 \u2658f6 17.\u2657c3 \u2657h6 18.\u2656e1.\n\n**15...e4!?**\n\n'15...\u2658h6 was more prudent, so as to organise one step at time some counterplay on the kingside.' (Suetin)\n\n**16. \u2657b2 exf3 17.\u2657xf3 \u2657xb2 18.\u2655xb2 \u2658e5 19.\u2657e2**\n\n**19...f4!**\n\nThere was also the interesting preparatory move 19...\u2656a7!? intending 20.cxb5 axb5 21.\u2657xb5 f4. Now the game becomes very tactical and very concrete.\n\n**20.gxf4?!**\n\nAfter the better 20.\u2656xf4!? \u2656xf4 21.gxf4 \u2658g6 22.\u2658e4 \u2658xf4 23.\u2658df2 then 23...\u2656a7? would be unfavourable on account of 24.\u2657g4, for example: 24...\u2656g7 25.\u2654h1 bxc4 26.\u2657xc8 \u2655xc8 27.\u2658f6+ \u2654f8 28.\u2658xh7+ \u2656xh7 29.\u2655f6+ \u2654e8 30.\u2656g1 \u2654d7 31.\u2655f5+ +\u2013. Instead, a better way is 23...\u2658xe2+ 24.\u2655xe2 \u2655e7 with slightly better play for White. 'The move in the game is linked to a trap, into which Black immediately falls.' (Suetin)\n\n**20... \u2657h3?**\n\nThere is now the strong threat of 21... \u2656xf4, but White can defend himself. A better try was the immediate 20...\u2656xf4 21.\u2658e3 (21.\u2656xf4 \u2655g5+ =) 21...\u2655g5+ 22.\u2654h1 \u2656xf1+ 23.\u2658exf1 (23.\u2658dxf1 \u2657h3 with an attack) 23...\u2657f5 24.\u2658g3 \u2657g6=.\n\n**21. \u2658e3!**\n\nSpassky had overlooked this move.\n\n**21... \u2657xf1**\n\n21...\u2656xf4 22.\u2656xf4 \u2655g5+ is now followed by 23.\u2656g4! \u2658xg4 24.\u2658xg4 \u2657xg4 25.\u2657xg4 \u2655xg4+ 26.\u2654h1 and after 26...\u2655d4 27.\u2656g1+ \u2654h8 28.\u2655xd4+ cxd4 29.\u2658e4 White has an advantage in the endgame since the d4-pawn is weak.\n\n**22. \u2656xf1 \u2658g6**\n\n22...\u2658d7 23.\u2658e4, also with advantage to White.\n\n**23. \u2657g4 \u2658xf4?**\n\n23...\u2656xf4? 24.\u2657e6+ \u2654f8 25.\u2656xf4+ \u2658xf4 26.\u2655h8+ \u2654e7 27.\u2658f5#. The only defence was 23...\u2655f6! 24.\u2657e6+ \u2654h8 25.\u2655xf6+ \u2656xf6 26.f5 \u2658e5 27.\u2658e4!, though here too White has an advantage.\n\n**24. \u2656xf4!**\n\nAnother good move was 24.\u2658e4+\u2013.\n\n**24... \u2656xf4!?**\n\nAnother attempt was 24...\u2655g5!, after which 25.\u2656xf8+? would be a mistake. After 25...\u2656xf8 both \u2658e3 and \u2657g4 are hanging. The correct way is 25.\u2656e4 \u2655f6 26.\u2655xf6 \u2656xf6 27.\u2656e7 bxc4 28.\u2657e6+ \u2654h8 29.bxc4 and White is winning.\n\n**25. \u2657e6+ \u2656f7**\n\n25...\u2654f8 26.\u2655h8+ \u2654e7 27.\u2655xh7+ \u2654e8 28.\u2655h5+ \u2654e7 29.\u2655g5+ +\u2013.\n\n**26. \u2658e4 \u2655h4**\n\n26...\u2656aa7 27.\u2658f5 \u2655f8 28.\u2655f6 followed by 29.\u2658g5+\u2013.\n\n**27. \u2658xd6 \u2655g5+**\n\n27...\u2655e1+ 28.\u2654g2 \u2655xe3 29.\u2657xf7+ \u2654f8 30.\u2655h8+ \u2654e7 31.\u2658f5+ \u2654xf7 32.\u2655g7+ and 33.\u2658xe3+\u2013.\n\n**28. \u2654h1 \u2656aa7**\n\n28...\u2655xe3 29.\u2657xf7+ \u2654f8 30.\u2655h8+ \u2654e7 31.\u2658f5+ \u2654xf7 32.\u2655g7+ and 33.\u2658xe3.\n\n**29. \u2657xf7+ \u2656xf7 30.\u2655h8+!**\n\nA pretty finish. Black resigned due to 30...\u2654xh8 31.\u2658xf7+.\n**26. Fischer mates himself**\n\n**The World Championship 1969:  \n_Tigran Petrosian against Boris Spassky_**\n\nAs finalists in the previous candidates' matches Boris Spassky and Mikhail Tal were qualified for the candidates' matches of the next WCh cycle. To them were added six qualifiers from the interzonal tournament of Sousse (Tunisia) 1967: Bent Larsen, Viktor Kortchnoi, Efim Geller, Svetozar Gligoric, Lajos Portisch and Samuel Reshevsky.\n\nIn Sousse Robert Fischer took a fresh run at the title of World Champion. After the scandal of the Cura\u00e7ao tournament of 1962 he had taken a pause from tournament play and only in 1965 did he participate in serious tournaments again. In Sousse he led the tournament in superior fashion, but was in permanent strife with the organisers. The American was disturbed by the light, the noise, a photographer who was taking pictures and even by the sparkling of the stones in the chandelier of the ballroom of the Palace Hotel, where the tournament was being played. When the US ambassador to Tunisia Francis Russell came to dinner, Fischer would not allow even him to take a photo. After eight rounds an undefeated Fischer was in the lead ahead of Larsen and Reshevsky.\n\nDuring his abstinence from tournaments Fischer had turned towards a sect in the USA, 'The Church of God', which imposed upon its members a strict code of conduct, including strict observance of the rest day on the Sabbath. Fischer therefore demanded of the organisers that his Saturday games be moved to a different day, but he then again became dissatisfied when he noticed that then he would have difficult games to play on four successive days. He then refused to play his game against Aivars Gipslis, departed and went to Tunis, 80 km away. At the request of the US ambassador and the Tunisian federation he returned and on the following day, Sunday 29th October, arrived five minutes before the elapse of the hour's grace after which he would have had to forfeit his game against Samuel Reshevsky, whom he nevertheless convincingly defeated with the white pieces. Reshevsky's protest against the circumstances surrounding this game was rejected.\n\nIn the next round Fischer defeated Robert Byrne. Since the dispute about the rescheduling of Fischer's games had not yet been resolved, Fischer departed for the second time before his game against Vlastimil Hort. Negotiations again took place about his return, which were continued until 20 minutes before the start of the following round. Fischer was ready to recommence playing in the tournament, but wanted his game to be postponed by an hour, so that he could return from Tunis in time for the start of the game against Bent Larsen. When this was refused he finally quit the tournament.\n\nFischer laconically announced that he first wanted to go to Rome to buy some shoes and then to acquire a few chess books in Germany. Thus Larsen won the tournament.\n\nIn the candidates' matches Spassky again met Geller, this time in the quarter-finals played in Suchumi, and won by 5\u00bd:2\u00bd as in the previous cycle. The semi-final against Bent Larsen was hosted by Malm\u00f6. Spassky also defeated the top Danish player by 5\u00bd:2\u00bd. He also won the final against Kortchnoi, played from 6th to 26th September in the Palace of Culture in Kiev, by a clear 6\u00bd:3\u00bd and was therefore for the second time the challenger of World Champion Petrosian. To prepare for the match against Petrosian Spassky moved with his two seconds Bondarevsky and Nikolai Krogius for three months to a dacha in Dubna, one hour from Moscow, and also stayed there during the match.\n\nThe second match for the World Championship between Petrosian and Spassky was staged from the 14th April till the 16th June 1969 in Moscow's Estrada Theatre once more. Petrosian won the first game with the black pieces in front of a sell-out house, but Spassky took the fourth, fifth and eighth games for a lead for the meantime of 3:1. Petrosian had not been very optimistic going into the match. During the match his confidence level dropped even more, and he finally quarrelled with his two seconds Boleslavsky and Suetin. In the 9th game he chose a different opening from what had been previously discussed with his seconds and should actually have lost the game, but only thanks to some superficial analysis on Spassky's part after the adjournment he managed to get a draw. As the match continued he did completely without any common preparation.\n\nPetrosian then profited from a period of weakness by Spassky and equalised with wins in the 10th and 11th games. Game 14 played an important part in the way the match ended. After the adjournment, Petrosian was winning, but he gave away the win with several inaccuracies. The game ended as a draw. Spassky then won the 17th and 19th games and Petrosian the 20th. Spassky finally won the 21st game for a final score of 6:4 in wins. Spassky was confirmed as the tenth World Champion.\n\n **Spassky \u2013 Petrosian**\n\nMoscow, 19th game  \n4th June 1969  \nSicilian Defence (B94)\n\n**1.e4 c5 2. \u2658f3 d6 3.d4 cxd4 4.\u2658xd4 \u2658f6 5.\u2658c3 a6**\n\nThe Najdorf Variation in the Sicilian is nowadays one of the most popular openings after 1.e4. It mainly leads to sharp tactical play and therefore is not perhaps absolutely suited to Petrosian's style. However, the title defender had previously played the variation on occasions and possibly wanted to play for a win here as he had a deficit of 3:4. In doing so he perhaps thought first and foremost of the Closed Variation, which Spassky liked to play but which is actually harmless.\n\n**6. \u2657g5 \u2658bd7**\n\nFor a long time 6...e6 was more popular, when White mainly continues with 7.f4. Petrosian's move has again become very popular of late.\n\n**7. \u2657c4**\n\nThis move was obligatory when the game was played. White later also played 7.f4 with the offer to transpose to the variations following 6...e6 after 7...e6.\n\n**7... \u2655a5**\n\nAnother possibility was 7...e6. Now-a-days 7...\u2655b6 is also popular.\n\n**8. \u2655d2 h6?!**\n\nThe more usual move is 8...e6 9.0-0-0 b5 10.\u2657b3 \u2657b7 as in H. Lehmann-Petrosian, Munich 1958.\n\n**9. \u2657xf6!**\n\nA novelty. At that time the usual move was the retreat of the bishop to h4. Spassky and Bondarevsky had analysed the position in detail and had come to the conviction that the exchange favours White.\n\n**9... \u2658xf6 10.0-0-0 e6**\n\nAfter 10...e5 11.\u2658f5 \u2657xf5 12.exf5 \u2656c8 13.\u2657b3 \u2657e7 14.\u2656he1 the d5-square is in White's hands. 10...g6 is double-edged: 11.f4 \u2657g7 12.\u2656he1 0-0 13.f5 and White rapidly gets an attack on the kingside.\n\n**11. \u2656he1 \u2657e7**\n\nThis prepares kingside castling. However, the black king soon comes under fire. So 11...\u2657d7! intending...0-0-0, as suggested by Tal and Boleslavsky in the bulletin, was perhaps the better option.\n\n**12.f4 0-0 13. \u2657b3 \u2656e8**\n\nThe advance...b7-b5 does not work at the moment on account of \u2658d4-c6. If 13...\u2657d7 then 14.\u2654b1 and now 14...b5 is unfavourable on account of 15.\u2658d5 \u2655d8 (15...\u2655xd2? 16.\u2658xe7+) 16.\u2658xe7+ \u2655xe7 17.f5 e5 18.\u2658f3 \u2658e8 19.g4 with an attack for White. 13...\u2656d8!? was suggested as an improvement.\n\n**14. \u2654b1 \u2657f8**\n\n14...\u2657d7 is now met with 15.e5 dxe5 16.fxe5 \u2658h7 17.\u2658f5. After 17...\u2657c6 18.\u2658xe7+ \u2656xe7 19.\u2658d5 White is winning.\n\n**15.g4!**\n\nWhite opens the g-file with a pawn sacrifice.\n\n**15... \u2658xg4**\n\nThe alternatives were:\n\na) 15...\u2658d7 16.h4 \u2658c5 17.g5 with a strong attack for White (Geller);\n\nb) 15...\u2657d7 16.\u2656g1 also with a strong attack for White (Bondarevsky);\n\nc) Boleslavsky suggested 15...e5!? as an improvement, for example 16.fxe5 dxe5 17.\u2658f5 \u2657xf5 18.gxf5 \u2656ad8 19.\u2655g2 \u2655c7 20.\u2656xd8 \u2656xd8 21.\u2656g1, but now 21...\u2655c5!? is perhaps playable.\n\n**16. \u2655g2 \u2658f6**\n\n16...e5 17.\u2658f5 \u2657xf5 18.exf5 \u2658f6 19.\u2655xb7 is unfavourable for Black as is 16...\u2655h5 17.\u2656d3 intending \u2656h3.\n\n**17. \u2656g1 \u2657d7?!**\n\n17...\u2655c5!? (Averbakh) perhaps still offers sufficient defensive resources: if 18.\u2658f3 then 18...\u2655c6 19.e5 dxe5 20.fxe5 \u2658e4 21.\u2658xe4 \u2655xe4 22.\u2656d4 \u2655h7. Black holds on and is not worse.\n\n**18.f5 \u2654h8**\n\nHere 18...exf5 was suggested as an improvement. After 19.exf5 b5 then 20.\u2657xf7+! \u2654xf7 21.\u2658d5 with the threats \u2655g6+ and \u2658xf6 wins. But 19...\u2655e5 perhaps offers Black sufficient defensive resources.\n\n**19. \u2656df1**\n\nWith the immediate threat of fxe6 and \u2656xf6. It is already hard to still find a satisfactory defence for Black.\n\n**19... \u2655d8**\n\nIf 19...e5, then simply 20.\u2658de2 and White has a clear advantage, since the f7-pawn cannot be satisfactorily defended. 20...\u2654g8? 21.\u2655g6+\u2013 or 20...\u2656e7 21.\u2658d5+\u2013. After 19...\u2655e5 there comes 20.\u2658f3 \u2655f4 21.\u2655h3 followed by \u2658g5.\n\n**20.fxe6 fxe6**\n\n20...\u2657xe6 21.\u2658xe6 fxe6 22.\u2658e2 intending \u2658f4. (Smyslov)\n\n**21.e5!+\u2013**\n\nClears the e4-square for a knight. After that the black position falls apart in a flash.\n\n**21...dxe5 22. \u2658e4 \u2658h5**\n\n22...\u2658xe4 23.\u2656xf8+ \u2656xf8 24.\u2655xg7#; 22...exd4 23.\u2656xf6 gxf6 24.\u2655g8#.\n\n**23. \u2655g6! exd4**\n\n23...\u2658f4 is followed by 24.\u2656xf4! exf4 25.\u2658f3 \u2655b6 26.\u2656g5!! \u2657c6 (26...\u2655d8 27.\u2658e5 hxg5 28.\u2658f7+ \u2654g8 29.\u2658xd8 \u2656axd8 30.\u2658f6+ \u2654h8 31.\u2655h7#; 26...hxg5 27.\u2658exg5 \u2654g8 28.\u2655h7#) 27.\u2658f6 \u2657e4 28.\u2655xh6+! (Geller) 28...gxh6 29.\u2656g8#.\n\n**24. \u2658g5**\n\n**1-0**\n\n24...hxg5 25.\u2655xh5+ \u2654g8 26.\u2655f7+ \u2654h7 27.\u2656f3 followed by 28.\u2656h3#.\n\nIn the final stage of the game the public in the Estrada Theatre broke into storms of applause, in which even the Armenian fans of Petrosian joined.\n\nFrom 1963 to 1966 Petrosian was the chief editor of the magazine _Shakhmatnaya Moskva_. In 1968 he took over the job at the magazine _64_ and was its editor-in-chief until 1977. At that time _64_ had a circulation of 100 000 copies and was the most read chess magazine in the world. In 1968 Petrosian took his doctorate at the Philosophy Faculty of the University of Moscow. His PhD thesis was entitled _Some logical problems in chess thinking_. After the WCh match against Spassky Petrosian took part in another four WCh cycles. In 1971 he was defeated by Fischer in the candidates' final, in 1974 he lost to Kortchnoi in the semi-final, in 1977 and 1980 also against Kortchnoi in the quarter-final. On the 13th August 1984 Petrosian died in Moscow aged 55 of the consequences of stomach cancer and he was buried in Moscow's Vagankovoer cemetery.\n\nIn Armenia Tigran Petrosian is considered a national hero. His successes inspired the younger generation of players in the country and after the latter became independent the Armenian team was able to twice win the gold medal at the Chess Olympiads. The chess centre in Yerevan is named after Petrosian, and in addition a monument has been raised in the honour of the Armenian World Chess Champion in both Yerevan and Aparan.\n**Part III \u2212 The new era**\n\nRobert Fischer ushered in the start of a new phase in the history of chess. Before the Second World War chess players, even World Champions, found it difficult to live from chess. Steinitz and Lasker died in poverty. Capablanca was employed by the Cuban state and therefore had no financial worries. Alekhine had married rich women, though at the end of the Second World War, separated from his wife, he died in misery. In the USSR, chess grandmasters after the Second World War received at least a regular income as a sort of state professionals. By their successes they documented on behalf of the Soviet leadership the intellectual superiority of the working class. On a visit of Soviet grandmasters to Germany the news magazine _Der Spiegel_ used as the title of a report 'Red move-machines'. The Soviet players lived in simple circumstances, but clearly better than the majority of the population of the USSR.\n\nWith Robert James Fischer chess, of which previously not much notice had been taken by the world public, came once again to centre stage. At the zenith of the Cold War, which was also being fought out in many sporting comparisons between West and East, Fischer was considered the most likely person to be in a position to break Soviet supremacy. Chess became more important and was now worth something. Fischer demanded money and he got it. After Fischer, World Chess Champions no longer had only a good income, they even became rich. In one of the many encounters accompanied by so many escapades, Fischer defeated the Soviet World Champion Spassky and became the first Western World Champion since Euwe. However, after the winning of the World Championship the comet that was Fischer immediately burned out. Fischer disappeared and three years later did not appear to defend his title.\n\nFischer was followed by Karpov, who also understood how to use his title to make cash with advertising contracts in the West. In doing so he did not always sufficiently respect all the rules of his home country. The matches between Karpov and Kortchnoi in 1978 and 1981 were accompanied by considerable political background noise. Kortchnoi, dissatisfied with the preferential treatment enjoyed by Karpov in the Soviet Union, fled to the West and played these matches as a 'dissident' and a critic of the Soviet system. Particularly the match of 1978 turned into a war of nerves. This chess contest between the systems attracted great attention. Karpov, with the whole Soviet apparatus behind him, won twice.\n\nBut then, in the form of Kasparov, there emerged an even more serious challenger. The first assault on the chess throne by the young Kasparov failed, but not completely. The match that never wanted to end of 1984-85 was finally terminated without a winner. But Kasparov could negotiate good conditions for the next time. He had in Heydar Aliev, the future first president of an independent Azerbaijan, a strong ally in the Politburo. Kasparov also showed himself to be a master in the area of propaganda. In the West he sold himself to the press as the representative of perestroika, whilst Karpov appeared to represent the old nomenklatura (establishment). In his second assault Kasparov obtained the title, however he had to defend it several times against Karpov. In the meantime the World Championship matches had long been attracting prizes in the millions.\n**27. The match of the century**\n\n**The World Championship 1972:  \n_Boris Spassky against Robert Fischer_**\n\nRobert James, or Bobby, Fischer was born on the 9th March 1943 in Chicago, Illinois. His mother Regina Fischer, n\u00e9e Wender, had been born in Zurich. Legally his father was Heinz-Gerhardt Fischer, but it seems reasonably certain that his biological father was the Hungarian physicist and friend of Regina Fischer Paul Nemenyi.\n\n**Bobby Fischer (1943-2008)**\n\nHeinz-Gerhardt and Regina Fischer had married in 1933 in Moscow. Both were apparently convinced communists and had probably received in the 1930s in Moscow the formation given by the Comintern (Communist International) to all their activists and agents so as to place them abroad in the struggle for the world revolution. Whilst Heinz-Gerhardt Fischer at first fought in the Spanish Civil War in the international brigades before being sent to Chile where we lose track of him, Regina went back to the USA in 1939. She had grown up in St. Louis but during the economic crisis of the 1930s had first gone to Germany and then to Moscow.\n\nHowever, Moscow did not find much use for Regina Fischer when she lived in the USA. Nevertheless, very much later she occasionally demonstrated against the Vietnam War. On the other hand, Regina Fischer's good links to Moscow proved useful for the chess development of her talented son. Thanks to her good contacts she managed in 1958 to get him an invitation to the Moscow Central Chess Club. The 15 year old Fischer travelled to the Soviet Union with his sister Joan and played blitz in the Central Chess Club against a series of Soviet grandmasters.\n\nIn spite of Regina Fischer's minimal political activity in the USA, the FBI built up a file of 900 pages on her. Regina Fischer had moved with her two children, Robert and Joan, to Brooklyn and worked as a seamstress, a teacher and a nurse \u2013 in Moscow she had started medical studies. She raised the children alone. Fischer's childhood is marked by a tense relationship with his mother, whose character had all the traits of someone with a borderline personality disorder. Regina Fischer was described as litigious and by her neighbours as 'insufferable'. In 1960 the relationship between Regina and her son Robert had become so tense that the mother moved out of the common apartment and left her 17 year old son there alone. Fischer counted that as a relief when his mother left him, although he was completely overwhelmed at having to look after himself.\n\nBobby Fischer learned to play chess at the start of 1949 from his then 11 year old sister Joan. In 1951 he became a member of the Brooklyn Chess Club; later he changed to the Manhattan Chess Club. In 1956 in the Rosenwald Memorial the 13 year old played the so-called 'game of the century' according to Hans Kmoch, in which he defeated the grandmaster Donald Byrne with an amazing queen sacrifice. This was followed by a series of brilliant successes which made him well known in the world of chess, both for them and for his bad manners.\n\nThe chess columnist Heinrich Fraenkel, a Jew of German origin, born in Lissa (the Polish Leszno) and interned during the First World War on the Isle of Man where he learned to play chess, met Fischer on several occasions. He wrote in his book _The pleasures of chess_ published under the pseudonym Assiac (an anagram of the name of the fictional goddess of chess, Caissa): 'At the tournament in Mar del Plata 1959, which was played in a luxury hotel, the 16 year old Fischer, to the annoyance of the organisers, appeared at the evening dinner in baggy, dirty jeans. They thereupon made him the present of a suit, which Fischer accepted without thanks but never wore. Later, however, Fischer made it his habit that in every town where he was playing in a tournament he would buy a suit, where possible an expensive custom made suit, and on each day of the tournament he would wear a different tie with the suit.'\n\nIn 1962 at 19 Fischer was the majestic winner of the interzonal tournament in Stockholm. At the subsequent candidates' tournament in Cura\u00e7ao in 1962 he felt cheated by the Soviet players Petrosian, Geller and Keres, but also he did not play his best chess. Offended, he withdrew from top class chess for three years. At the Chess Olympiad of 1968 in Lugano Fischer appeared with the US team, then complained about the lighting in the tournament hall, about the too noisy public and the intrusive press photographers and left. Fischer's assault on the WCh title began with participation in the interzonal tournament in Sousse, in 1967. But as has already been described, despite being in the lead he kicked himself out of the tournament and withdrew once more for three years from tournament chess.\n\nIn 1970 he celebrated his comeback at the match between the USSR and the Rest of the World and defeated ex-World Champion Petrosian on board two by 3:1. After his return to the tournament arena he won in addition to other tournaments the interzonal tournament of Palma de Mallorca in 1970 and qualified for the candidates' matches. He was only able to play in the interzonal tournament because Pal Benko, third placed in the US championships, renounced his place in Fischer's favour on the initiative of the US federation, because Fischer had not participated in the said US championships which were the qualifying tournament for the interzonal tournament. In return Benko received 2000 dollars compensation from the US federation for giving up his place. It certainly did not conform to the rules, because Benko could not give up his place in favour of a specified replacement. According to the rules the replacement should have been the fourth placed player in the US championship.\n\nIn his book _Chess Duels_ Yasser Seirawan has drawn attention to the fact that the legend of the apparently lone fighter Fischer is a myth. In reality Fischer had all the relevant people from the US federation behind him for support. Leroy Dubeck, president of the USCF from 1969 till 1972, had agreed with the executive director Edmund Edmondson that all the resources of the federation should be gathered for the project 'Fischer plays for the World Championship'. For this purpose they also used all membership subscriptions of the USCF. In addition Fischer had the support of Fred Cramer, also from the federation, as his legal adviser. Amongst the chess players on whose help Fischer could count were the grandmasters Bill Lombardy, Lubomir Kavalek as well as Fischer's close friend the international master Anthony Saidy. A special role was played by Lina Grumette, who was a sort of mother substitute for Fischer and whenever necessary offered him refuge in her house.\n\nGrumette had moved to New York in 1917 at the age of nine. There she came into contact with the game of chess and had the good fortune to be trained by Isaac Kashdan. One of the best women players in the USA, she played in the 1940s in US national championships for women. Grumette later moved with her family to the west coast and in West Hollywood founded the chess club 'The Chess Set' \u2013 actually with the intention of attracting people from show business to the game of chess.\n\nGrumette was a close friend of Jacqueline Piatigorsky (6th November 1911 till 15th July 2012). The daughter of the French banker \u00c9douard Alphonse de Rothschild, her second marriage was to the Ukrainian-Jewish cellist Gregor Piatigorsky. When the Nazis marched into France, they emigrated to the USA and in 1949 had moved to Los Angeles. She was one of the best tennis players in the country, but then she discovered a passion for the game of chess and took lessons from IM Herman Steiner, who came from Austria-Hungary. At the first Women's Chess Olympiad in 1957 in Emmen (Netherlands) Jacqueline Piatigorsky played in the US team.\n\nLina Grumette helped her with the organisation of the two supertournaments which became famous as the 'Piatigorsky Cup'. At the '1st Piatigorsky Cup' in 1963 in the Ambassador Hotel of Los Angeles, first place was shared between Tigran Petrosian and Paul Keres. The '2nd Piatigorsky Cup' was held in 1966 in the Miramar Hotel in Santa Monica. Boris Spassky won it ahead of Robert Fischer. Piatigorsky supported many talented chess players, paid their travel costs and also sponsored the match between Samuel Reshevsky and Robert Fischer in 1961.\n\nThere was great rivalry between the until then leading player of the USA, Samuel Reshevsky, and the up-and-coming Fischer for the position of number one in the USA. The match was funded to the extent of 6000 dollars \u2013 a sensationally high prize for the time \u2013 and arranged for 16 games. At the score of 5\u00bd:5\u00bd the twelfth game was postponed from Saturday to Sunday, because as an orthodox Jew Reshevsky was not allowed to play before sunset on a Sabbath. This had not been taken into account when the schedule had been drawn up. After the game had first been postponed to 13.30 on the Sunday, Jacqueline Piatigorsky then wished to bring forward the start to 11.00, in order to be able to attend a concert by her husband on that evening. Fischer protested and did not turn up for the game, which thereupon was scored as a loss for him. Then he did not appear for the thirteenth game and Reshevsky was declared the winner of the match. The media and the US federation took Reshevsky's side and condemned Fischer's behaviour. Kasparov proposes this event as the starting point for Fischer's later anti-Semitism.\n\nLina Grumette accompanied Fischer to the WCh match in Iceland, but later Fischer turned away from her too, and accused her, just as he did other trusted people before and after, of cooperating with the media and the KGB. Grumette created a foundation for the advancement of chess talent and organised numerous junior tournaments on the west coast until the 1980s. She died on the 21st July 1988 of lung cancer at the age of 80.\n\nIn the candidates' quarter-final Fischer met Mark Taimanov in Vancouver. Taimanov occupies a special place among Soviet grandmasters. Born on the 7th February 1926 he was a child film star in the USSR, after a film production company had looked for a young violinist for the film _Beethoven concert_ and found one in the ten year old Mark Taimanov. After being cast, Taimanov had prepared for the role with a year of intensive violin playing. The film won an international film award and suddenly Taimanov was famous. Annoyed by all the hustle and bustle around him, he started to play chess. In addition he also brought his piano playing up to championship level and together with his wife Lyubov Bruk made up a celebrated piano duo, which in 1970 stood on the threshold of a world-wide career.\n\nTaimanov had qualified for the candidates' rounds with a fifth place in the interzonal tournament of Palma de Mallorca, though a shadow lay over that success. In the final round Taimanov met the Yugoslav Milan Matulovic. The latter arrived 15 minutes late and just like Taimanov spent only just over an hour's thinking time on the 42 moves of the game. As Kortchnoi later revealed, Matulovic had sold the point for 400 dollars to Taimanov, or the Soviet federation.\n\nThe match between Fischer and Taimanov was actually meant to take place in the hall of the University of Vancouver. Fischer insisted on it being moved to the library of the university and spectators being excluded. They agreed on a middle-sized room with 200 spectators. Fischer annihilated Taimanov by 6:0 (after six games!), though the games themselves were not so clear-cut as the result might suggest.\n\nThe match against Fischer destroyed what had been Taimanov's life until then. As a result of the preparation and the match Taimanov's marriage broke up and with it the piano duo Bruk\/Taimanov. The result 0:6 was seen in the USSR as unworthy of a Soviet grandmaster. When on his return Soviet customs found in Taimanov's luggage books by the banned author Alexander Solzhenitsyn, this was a welcome excuse to side-line him. In the Soviet Union the following joke later became current: 'Why was Solzhenitsyn expelled from the Soviet Union? Taimanov's book on the Nimzo-Indian Defence was found in his flat.' Fischer was later described by Taimanov as 'paranoid': 'He firmly believed that the Soviet secret services wanted to get rid of him. The list of his enemies was as follows: Jews, Bolsheviks, KGB.'\n\nAn offer from the city of Denver, Colorado (USA) was accepted for the staging of the semi-final between Fischer and Bent Larsen. Larsen was considered along with Fischer as the best player in the West and in the match 'USSR against the Rest of the World' he had even played on first board ahead of Fischer. The damp and warm summer climate in Denver was however hard for the Dane. It was the hottest summer since 1936 and even the workers in the factories were sent home because it was too hot. The match began on 6th July in the theatre auditorium of a high school. After four games, all won by Fischer, Larsen reported himself ill. The match was continued after a pause and Fischer won two more games and with them the match. All in all Fischer had now won his last 19 games in succession.\n\nFischer now met Tigran Petrosian, who had emerged victorious from the intra-Soviet duel against Viktor Kortchnoi. The match between the two Soviet grandmasters had, however, been fixed, since the Committee for Sports considered Petrosian to have the better chances of stopping Fischer on his way to the World Championship. For his pre-arranged defeat Kortchnoi was rewarded with three invitations from abroad. In the next cycle Kortchnoi and Petrosian again met, Kortchnoi won and one could have the impression that Petrosian had wished to return the present of victory in the match. Kortchnoi, however, denied all pre-arrangements with Petrosian.\n\nThe candidates' final between Fischer and Petrosian was staged in Buenos Aires. With an offer for the prize fund of 12000 dollars \u2013 7500 dollars for the winner, 4500 dollars for the loser \u2013 the Argentinians had outdone the other bidders Belgrade and Athens. 'Fischermania' had also seized Argentina and from nine in the morning there were already queues for the tickets for the games, which started at 17.00. Some 1500 were there for each of the games of this candidates' final.\n\nThe match began on 30th September 1971. Fischer won the first game \u2013 his 20th in succession \u2013 although confronted with a variation prepared in depth by Petrosian's team, but lost the 2nd match game, ending his series of victories. Next came three draws. Fischer then won the sixth and seventh games. Before the eighth game, Petrosian claimed a timeout. His doctor had diagnosed low blood pressure. After the match resumed Petrosian finally collapsed and lost the eighth and ninth games for a final score of 6\u00bd:2\u00bd. Fischer was now the challenger to World Champion Spassky. On his return to the USSR Petrosian the usual post-defeat letter from the 'Committee for Physical Education and Sport', in which it was regretted that 'his delegation had not been up to the tasks required of them'. He was, moreover, relieved of his position as editor-in-chief of the Soviet chess magazine _64_.\n\nFIDE were now looking for organisers for the WCh match and asked for offers before the 1st January 1972. Fischer would have liked to play in the USA but categorically refused any venue in the USSR. By the 1st January there were numerous lucrative offers on the table: Belgrade offered 152000 dollars prize money, Sarajevo 120000 dollars, Buenos Aires and Bled each 100000 dollars, as well as numerous other propositions from the most varied collection of countries in Europe and the Americas, including an offer from Reykjavik to the tune of 125 000 dollars plus 30% of all income from TV broadcasts. The offer of the Icelandic Chess Federation was financially supported by the Icelandic government.\n\nBoth players were now asked for their preferences. Spassky voted for Reykjavik, Amsterdam, Dortmund and Paris. Fischer's list read: Belgrade, Sarajevo, Buenos Aires and Montreal. So there was absolutely no common ground of agreement. The negotiations for Fischer were conducted by Edmund Edmondson, from 1966 till 1975 executive director of the US Chess Federation (USCF), who also functioned as Fischer's manager in 1970 and 1971. Edmondson travelled to Moscow and finally agreed with the Soviets on Reykjavik as the venue, but he had, however, come to the agreement without Fischer, who was still insisting on Belgrade as the venue, followed by the other places on his list.\n\nThen FIDE president Euwe then suggested a compromise, according to which the first half of the match would be played in Belgrade and the second half in Reykjavik. Fischer agreed, the Soviets were at first against but on the insistence of Spassky finally accepted on the 5th March 1972. All involved, representatives of the two venues, FIDE and the players met in Amsterdam to negotiate the details. The contract was signed on the 20th March.\n\nTwo days later a telegram from Fischer arrived, in which he demanded that all the revenues from the WCh match, after the costs had been covered, should go to the players. Euwe then sent an ultimatum to Fischer. He was to agree the contract by the 4thApril. Paul Marshall, a New York lawyer, signified agreement in Fischer's name. Fischer himself said nothing. Meanwhile the organisers in Belgrade had become uneasy and demanded of the Soviet and American federations the posting of a guarantee of 35 000 dollars as security in case the match did not take place. Since the USCF refused, Belgrade withdrew. The president of the Icelandic federation Johann Thorarinsson then offered to stage the whole match. On the 8th May Euwe received a telegram from Fischer's representatives Edmondson and Marshall, in which he was informed that Fischer would play, but under protest.\n\nOn the 21st June the Soviet delegation arrived in Reykjavik. Spassky had Efim Geller, Nikolai Krogius and Ivo Nei as his seconds and occupied suite 730 of the Saga Hotel in Reykjavik. Krogius, also a KGB informer, was to support Spassky especially in psychological matters. Just a few days before the start of the match Fischer had still not arrived, only his entourage, consisting of former USCF president Fred Cramer, the lawyer Andrew Davis, the lawyer Paul Marshall, the journalist Brad Darrach and his only second William Lombardy \u2013 a strong chess player, who was now a priest.\n\nAccording to the contracts the winner was to receive from the total prize fund 78125 dollars, the loser 46 875 dollars (plus 30% of the income from TV and film rights). Fischer now also demanded 30% of the entry fees. Whilst Fischer was being awaited in Iceland and long overdue, the challenger was still in the house of the friend of his youth Anthony Saidy in Douglaston.\n\nOn the 1st July 1972, the day of the opening ceremony, Fischer was still absent. His seat next to Spassky at the opening ceremony in the National Theatre of Reykjavik remained empty. After the opening the US ambassador in Iceland, Theodor Trembley, called Washington and reported what had happened in Reykjavik. He asked for support because this event meant that the Icelandic people had been insulted by a representative of the American people. Henry Kissinger, then security adviser to Richard Nixon, got involved and phoned Fischer. 'America wants you to go there and beat the Russians!', he told him on the telephone.\n\nIn the meantime Fischer's lawyers in Reykjavik were attempting to have Fischer's financial demands met, and to obtain a postponement of the start of the match, in the hope that Fischer would think better of it and still arrive. Their client was suffering from exhaustion and for that reason had not yet come to Reykjavik, was the reason they gave. In order to save the match Max Euwe ordered a postponement of the drawing of lots from the 2nd to the 4th July. Viktor Baturinsky, the leader of the Soviet chess section, thereupon sent furious protests to Euwe, but Spassky had indicated to the FIDE president that he agreed to the postponement.\n\nOn the Monday morning the English millionaire Jim Slater was on his way to work when by chance he heard on his car radio that the start of the match between Spassky and Fischer had been postponed by a few days. Slater, a chess fan, who had already supported the tournaments in Hastings and the English program to foster young chess players, phoned his friend Leonard Barden and told him that he would double the prize fund in Reykjavik from 125000 dollars to 250000 dollars. Barden contacted Fischer's lawyer Paul Marshall. The latter informed his client. Fischer, basically distrustful on account of numerous broken promises he had received throughout his career, did not, however, believe this.\n\nWhat finally decided Fischer to then set out for Iceland is unclear. On the 3rd July he took a plane and arrived early on the 4th in Reykjavik, where he was met by the future FIDE president Fridrik Olafsson. Fischer was at first supposed to occupy a house a little outside Reykjavik, but he preferred to move into the Hotel Loftleidir.\n\nAs a result of Fischer's antics the atmosphere between the organisers, FIDE and the two delegations had in the meantime become extremely strained. Spassky, moreover, found himself under some pressure from Moscow. There they had had enough of Fischer and wanted to drop the match, which would easily have been possible because the postponement of the start was not covered by any rule in the statutes of FIDE. The next unreasonable impertinence for Spassky had been that Fischer did not himself appear for the ceremony of the drawing of lots, but sent his second Lombardy. The Soviets left the ceremony and sent in a protest note, in which they demanded a punishment for Fischer on account of his continual breaking of the rules, and apologies from Euwe and Fischer. To general surprise, Fischer actually sent a written letter of apology to Spassky.\n\nAfter all the negotiations, during which the WCh match was always just on the point of being broken off, finally the lots were drawn on the 7th July and Fischer again made Soviet faces red with anger when he once more kept them waiting by turning up late. The drawing of lots resulted in Spassky having the white pieces in the first game. That first game, however, was postponed till the 11th July on the request of the Soviet side.\n\nFor the match 1000 chairs had been set up for spectators. The mahogany table with its inset chess board had been made specially for the match by Gunnar Magnusson. The marble chess board was made by Thorstein Bjornsson. At the inspection of the playing hall, Fischer found fault with the board because it reflected the light too much. A new one had to be arranged for. For his chair Fischer had flown in from New York a special leather armchair designed by Charles Eames. Fischer had already used this armchair in his match against Petrosian. A normal upholstered wooden chair with two arm rests had been provided for Spassky.\n\nFor the first of the 24 games of the match Fischer appeared slightly late (six minutes). After the exchange of most of the pieces a completely level bishop ending stood on the board. On move 29 Fischer took a pawn on h2 and allowed his bishop to be shut in. What looked like a typical beginners' mistake, and was also commented on in these terms by contemporary grandmasters, was probably a risky attempt to play for a win with a pawn majority on the kingside. Later analyses showed that the game was probably still drawn even after the loss of the piece. After five hours the game was adjourned in a losing position for Fischer.\n\nAfter the very first move of the opening game Fischer had complained to the arbiter Lothar Schmid about the presence of the cameras on the stage and the noise they made. During the game Fischer repeated his complaint several times. The film rights had been granted to the American film maker Chester Fox and, as reported, the players were to receive 30% of the revenues from these film rights. The game was resumed on the following day, but Fischer had to resign after a further 16 moves. He had previously given Schmid an ultimatum that the cameras had to disappear from the stage and not be set up there any more. The organisers found themselves in a dilemma, because they had contractually awarded all the film rights to Chester Fox.\n\nSince the problem had not been solved before the start of the second game on the following day, Fischer did not turn up for the game. While his clock was running \u2013 the rules provided that he had an hour to appear, or else the game would be lost \u2013 hectic negotiations were taking place. Chester Fox finally agreed to remove the cameras from the stage. 40 minutes had elapsed, which the challenger no longer had on his ticking clock. After Fischer received the news of the removal of the cameras, he demanded that his clock be reset. Arbiter Schmid refused this and indicated the rules. Fischer thereupon did not appear for the second game and lost it to a walkover. The match now stood at 2:0 for the title defender and was once more just on the point of being abandoned.\n\nThere followed hectic negotiations as to whether it was lawful to score the game as a loss for Fischer and about what was to happen with the cameras. Measures were taken as to how loud the cameras were and it was established that they actually made no measureable sound. Fischer received a further call from Henry Kissinger, who tried to convince him to continue. Fischer, who in the meantime had booked flights to New York, finally explained that he would appear for the third game, on 16th July 1972, but that it must be played in a separate room behind the stage without cameras. Arbiter Schmid asked Spassky whether he agreed, Spassky did and so the playing table was set up in a room behind the stage.\n\nWhen Fischer arrived, he discovered a small camera, which was to send pictures out into the hall for spectators and shouted at Schmid. Now Spassky also slowly became angry. At a critical point Schmid pushed both players back into their chairs and ordered them: 'Play chess!' They did. After move 40 the game was adjourned in a winning position for Fischer. On the next day Spassky saw the sealed move and then resigned. That evening Spassky sent a letter to Schmid, in which he demanded a return to the stage. He said that the room behind the stage was too noisy on account of the air-conditioning and the noises from outside. Fischer accepted the return to the stage \u2013 as long as no cameras were set up there.\n\nIn the fourth game Spassky obtained an advantage with black, but was not able, however, to convert it into the full point. The fifth game was played by Fischer in the style of Nimzowisch. On the 27th move the title defender overlooked a tactical trick and had to resign. Fischer had drawn level. The sixth game was like a demonstration. As White, Fischer opened with an unusual move for him, 1.c4, and went on to outplay Spassky in the Tartakower Variation of the Queen's Gambit. After his 0:2 start, the challenger, four games later, was now leading 3:2 (with one draw).\n\nIn the meantime the Soviets had arranged for Spassky to receive the same swivel armchair as the one on which Fischer had been sitting the whole time. Nor had Fischer been inactive; he had had the table changed because it was too big for him. In addition he was disturbed by the light reflected from the marble board, which was replaced by a wooden board.\n\nFischer's match strategy clearly consisted of avoiding any opening preparation by using completely different openings from the ones he had always played. But in the seventh game he chose one of his favourite variations, the Poisoned Pawn Variation in the Sicilian Najdorf System, and obtained a good position, but he could not turn it into a win. On the other hand, the eighth game again went to Fischer, who again opened with 1.c4. The decisive mistake was made by Spassky as early as move 19. Spassky now reported ill and a two-day pause was taken. The ninth game was drawn. In the tenth game, with a 4:2 lead to fall back on, Fischer chose for the first time his standard move 1.e4. Spassky replied with the Ruy Lopez Breyer Variation and for a long time kept the game on a level keel. In the ending he was an exchange down (bishop against rook), but in return had a pair of passed pawns and certain chances of a draw. But the title defender was outplayed by Fischer and lost once more.\n\nNumerically the score was 5:2, but in reality Spassky had won once because of a mysterious error by Fischer and once by a walkover \u2013 so he had not yet scored a single full point off his own bat. But this changed with the eleventh game, when Spassky was able to tear Fischer's Poisoned Pawn Variation to bits. Now Fischer had the airconditioning switched off because the humming of the machine disturbed him. During the twelfth game he complained several times about the noise coming from the spectators. From then on, according to his wishes, the seven rows of seating for the spectators had to remain empty. In the 13th game Fischer turned to the rarely played Alekhine Defence and after a total of nine hours play restored the previous margin \u2013 6:3 in wins.\n\nBefore game 14 Spassky once more reported ill and the game was postponed from the Sunday to the Tuesday. This brought about a protest from the US delegation to arbiter Lothar Schmid, because the medical reasons for the timeout for illness had not seemed precise enough for the Americans. A telephone call from Schmid to Cramer disposed of this problem. Previously Fischer had already sent a written complaint about the 'unbearable noise' (Assiac) which a spectator had caused in unwrapping a packet of sweets. From then on, according to instructions from the chief arbiter, only sweets which were already unpacked could be sold.\n\nBefore the 15th game Chester Fox had flown an official US 'subpoena server' to Reykjavik, so as to serve Fischer personally with a complaint according to US law. Chester Fox wanted to sue the challenger for 1.75 million dollars for breach of contract and loss of earnings. The sum was later raised to 2.5 million dollars. The complaint was to be publicly served on him on stage during the 15th game. But the organisers had got wind of it and during game 15 the stage was guarded by police officers who prevented any unauthorised entry.\n\nThe next two games ended in draws, with the 15th game in the main line of the Sicilian Najdorf Variation being particularly hardfought and exciting. Before game 17 Spassky's second Geller issued a press statement, in which the Soviet delegation complained about Fischer's constant antics and continual protests. Moreover, according to them Spassky was possibly being exposed to the effects of electronic measures and chemical substances which were having a negative influence on him. After the 17th game, in which for the first time in his life Fischer played the Pirc Defence and reached a draw, the hall was 'swept for electronic measures and chemical substances'. Apart from two dead flies in the lighting, however, nothing was found.\n\nAlso after the 17th game the Soviets sent Spassky's second Ivo Nei back home. According to the observations of the Soviets, he had been speaking too intensively and too often with the US grandmaster Robert Byrne and had analysed the games of the match with him. Paul Marshall was planning a book about the match with Byrne and Nei as authors. Nei was supposed to provide information from Spassky's camp. After his return Nei was warned and for two years blocked from all tournaments abroad, but before that he sent his analyses for the book to the USA. Games 18 to 20 also ended in draws. The 21st game was adjourned on move 41 in an advantageous position for Fischer. 2500 spectators gathered on the next day for its resumption. But Spassky did not appear for the continuation of the hopeless game. He had previously called arbiter Schmid and resigned the game and the match.\n\nAccording to the later calculations of Jeff Sonas, Fischer had taken the lead in the world ranking list back in August 1966, which in November 1967 he had extended to almost 40 points over Tal. Spassky was only in fourth place, behind Petrosian. In 1970 FIDE then introduced the Elo system for the calculation of playing strength. In it Fischer is credited in 1970 with 2720 Elo points and led the world ranking list ahead of Kortchnoi and Spassky (both on 2670). Two years later, in 1972, Fischer was leading with 2785 Elo and more than 100 points of a lead over Spassky, who had 2660. These figures allow us to recognise the superiority of the American before the WCh match of 1972, even if before that match he had not been able to win a single game against Spassky.\n\n **Spassky \u2013 Fischer**\n\nReykjavik, 3rd game  \n16th July 1972  \nBenoni Defence (A77)\n\nThe situation before the game was as follows: Fischer had lost the first game through a risky attempt to win in a drawn position and had not appeared to the second game, which also went to Spassky as a walkover. Fischer was thus trailing by two games, 0:2.\n\n**1.d4 \u2658f6 2.c4 e6 3.\u2658f3 c5 4.d5 exd5 5.cxd5 d6 6.\u2658c3 g6 7.\u2658d2**\n\nAfter the 'normal' move order 7.e4 \u2657g7 8.\u2657e2 0-0 9.0-0 Black has the extra option of 9...\u2657g4.\n\n**7... \u2658bd7**\n\nThe alternative 7...\u2657g7 8.\u2658c4 (8.e4) 8...0-0 9.\u2657f4 \u2658e8 was known to Spassky from his own praxis (Donner-Spassky, Leiden 1970, \u00bd-\u00bd\/24).\n\n**8.e4**\n\n8.\u2658c4 is followed simply by 8...\u2658b6.\n\n**8... \u2657g7 9.\u2657e2 0-0 10.0-0 \u2656e8 11.\u2655c2**\n\nSpassky plays a move which had rarely been employed up till then.\n\nThe alternative 11.a4 was, for example, known from a previous game of Fischer's: 11.a4 \u2658e5 12.\u2655c2 g5 13.\u2658f3 \u2658xf3+ 14.\u2657xf3 h6 (0-1\/35), Gligoric-Fischer, Palma de Mallorca 1970.\n\n**11... \u2658h5!?**\n\nThis was a novelty by Fischer. Black surprisingly accepts the degrading of his pawn structure on the kingside, but obtains in return the bishop pair. Other moves are 11...\u2658b6, 11...a6 12.a4 \u2658e5 or 11...\u2658e5.\n\n**12. \u2657xh5**\n\nSpassky picks up the gauntlet. 12.g3 was tamer.\n\n**12...gxh5 13. \u2658c4 \u2658e5 14.\u2658e3**\n\nByrne suggested 14.\u2658xe5 \u2657xe5 15.\u2657e3. After 15...\u2655h4 16.g3 \u2655f6 Black has counterplay in the centre and on the kingside. The chances are level.\n\n**14... \u2655h4 15.\u2657d2**\n\nByrne's suggestion 15.f3! bolsters the centre and prevents...\u2658g4.\n\n**15... \u2658g4**\n\nLess committal than the sacrifice 15... \u2658f3+!? 16.gxf3 \u2657e5. After 17.\u2656fc1 Byrne considered the white position to be won, but Black still has a few shots in his locker and White must play very accurately to hold the position: 17...\u2655h3! (threatens mate after 18...\u2657xh2+) 18.\u2658f1 (after other moves Black gets a very strong or decisive attack) 18...\u2655xf3 19.\u2655d1 \u2655h3 (now the threat is 20...\u2657g4) 20.f3 \u2654h8 21.\u2655e2 \u2656g8+ 22.\u2654h1 \u2656g6 (intending 23...\u2657d7 and 24...\u2656ag8), and Black has sufficient compensation for the piece he has sacrificed.\n\n**16. \u2658xg4 hxg4 17.\u2657f4**\n\nIt was worth considering 17.\u2658e2!? instead, for example 17...f5 18.\u2658g3 fxe4 19.\u2656fe1 intending 20.\u2657c3 (Smyslov).\n\n**17... \u2655f6 18.g3?!**\n\nAfter this move it becomes hard to mobilise the white f-pawn \u2013 one reason why White later has difficulties finding active play. Improvements suggested were 18.\u2657g3 h5 19.f3!? (Byrne) 19...h4 20.fxg4 \u2655e7 21.\u2657f4 \u2657xg4 22.\u2656ae1= and 18.\u2655d2 (Smyslov).\n\n**18... \u2657d7**\n\nIntending...b7-b5.\n\n**19.a4 b6 20. \u2656fe1**\n\n20.a5?! would simply be followed by 20...b5.\n\n**20...a6 21. \u2656e2?!**\n\n21.\u2656a3 was better. After 21...b5 (21... \u2655g6!?) 22.axb5 axb5 23.\u2656xa8 \u2656xa8 White has counterplay with 24.e5=.\n\n**21...b5 22. \u2656ae1**\n\nSince the rook has left the back rank, 22.axb5 axb5 23.\u2656xa8 \u2656xa8 24.e5 now fails to 24...\u2656a1+ 25.\u2654g2 dxe5 26.\u2656xe5 (26.\u2657xe5 \u2655h6!) 26...b4 27.\u2658e4 \u2655a6 with the threat of mate on f1.\n\n**22... \u2655g6**\n\nPreventing the planned advance e4-e5 by pinning the pawn.\n\n**23.b3 \u2656e7**\n\nAfter 23...\u2657xc3 24.\u2655xc3 bxa4 25.bxa4 \u2657xa4 26.e5 (Byrne) White gets counterplay.\n\n**24. \u2655d3 \u2656b8**\n\nThe threat is 25...bxa4, followed by 26... \u2656b3 with advantage to Black. (Byrne)\n\n**25.axb5 axb5**\n\nThe threat now is 26...b4 and 27...\u2657b5. 25...\u2657xb5?! 26.\u2658xb5 would instead give away Black's advantage (Byrne) 26...axb5=.\n\n**26.b4**\n\nAfter 26.\u2658d1 the move 26...\u2656be8 hangs on to the advantage. In the event of 26...b4 White has a way out: 27.\u2655a6 \u2657b5 28.\u2655xd6=.\n\n**26...c4**\n\n26...cxb4 27.\u2658a2 achieves nothing for Black.\n\n**27. \u2655d2 \u2656be8 28.\u2656e3**\n\nNot 28.\u2657g5?? \u2657xc3 29.\u2655xc3 \u2655xg5\u2013+.\n\n**28...h5**\n\nAfter 28...\u2657xc3 29.\u2655xc3 \u2656xe4 30.\u2656xe4 \u2656xe4 31.\u2656xe4 \u2655xe4 32.\u2655f6 White would get counterplay.\n\n**29. \u26563e2 \u2654h7**\n\nThe immediate 29...\u2657xc3 was possible (Byrne) 30.\u2655xc3 \u2656xe4 31.\u2656xe4 \u2656xe4 32.\u2656xe4 \u2655xe4, but since there is nothing White can undertake, Black can take the time for this liquidation.\n\n**30. \u2656e3 \u2654g8 31.\u26563e2 \u2657xc3 32.\u2655xc3 \u2656xe4 33.\u2656xe4 \u2656xe4 34.\u2656xe4 \u2655xe4 35.\u2657h6**\n\nThe alternative was 35.\u2655f6. There can follow 35...\u2655b1+ 36.\u2654g2 \u2657f5 (threatening...\u2657e4 then mate) and then for example 37.\u2655g5+ \u2657g6 38.\u2657xd6 f6 39.\u2655xf6 \u2657e4+ 40.f3 \u2655c2+ 41.\u2654f1 \u2655d1+ 42.\u2654f2 \u2655d2+ 43.\u2654f1 \u2657d3+ 44.\u2654g1 \u2655e1+ 45.\u2654g2 \u2655f1# (Alexander). After 35.\u2657xd6 then 35...\u2655xd5 wins, followed by...\u2657c6 (Byrne).\n\n**35... \u2655g6 36.\u2657c1**\n\n36.\u2655e3 \u2654h7 37.\u2657f8 (Alexander) 37...c3 38.\u2655f4 (38.\u2657xd6 \u2655b1+ 39.\u2654g2 \u2657f5) 38...c2 39.\u2657e7 \u2657c8 40.\u2657d8 \u2657b7\u2013+. But 36.\u2657d2 f6 etc. was more tenacious.\n\n**36... \u2655b1 37.\u2654f1?!**\n\n37.\u2655e1 f6 38.\u2657d2 was better.\n\n**37... \u2657f5 38.\u2654e2 \u2655e4+ 39.\u2655e3 \u2655c2+**\n\nNot 39...\u2655xd5?? 40.\u2655g5+ (Byrne) with perpetual check. The ending after 39... \u2655xe3+? 40.\u2654xe3 would be drawn on account of the bishops of opposite colours.\n\n**40. \u2655d2 \u2655b3**\n\n**41. \u2655d4?**\n\nWhite has been on the defensive the whole time. But possibly he was still not lost till this move. After 41.\u2654e1 there is at least no forced win to be seen for Black, for example: 41...c3 42.\u2655g5+ \u2657g6 43.\u2655d8+ \u2654h7 44.\u2655xd6 c2 (the threat is...\u2655c3+ and then mate) 45.\u2655f4 \u2655xd5 46.\u2655d2 \u2655h1+ 47.\u2654e2 \u2655f3+ (not 47...\u2655xh2?? 48.\u2655h6+ \u2654g8 49.\u2657b2 and it is Black who is mated) 48.\u2654e1 \u2655e4+ 49.\u2654f1 and White has set up a sort of fortress position here. In his efforts to attack Black must always be careful not to run into a counter-attack on the dark squares.\n\n**41... \u2657d3+!**\n\n**0-1**\n\n42.\u2654e1 (42.\u2654d2 \u2655c2+ 43.\u2654e1 \u2655xc1#; 42.\u2654e3 \u2655d1! 43.\u2655b2 \u2655f3+ 44.\u2654d4 \u2655e4+ 45.\u2654c3 \u2655e1+! intending 46...\u2655e5#) 42...\u2655xb4+ \u2013+.\n\nFor 24 years the title of World Chess Champion title had been in Soviet hands. Now a US American had conquered it. The organisers were afraid that Fischer would not appear at the closing ceremony either. In fact the new World Champion appeared an hour late, but he did come. Soon after he arrived, Fischer took out a pocket chess set and showed Spassky some analysis of the closing position of their final game.\n\nIn Reykjavik Fischer received a prize of 76123 dollars, and later the same amount from Jim Slater. As the loser of the match Spassky received a total of 93750 dollars. Since at that time in the USSR there were no regulations concerning such high earnings in sporting contests, Spassky was able to keep all the money. Nobody asked any questions. It was only later that it was laid down that Soviet players had to give half of their prize money to the state. The Georgian Soviet tennis player Alexander Metreveli, Wimbledon finalist in 1973, once stated that in the Soviet Union in the 1970s there were only two people who owned a Ford Mustang. One was Metreveli himself, the other Boris Spassky.\n\nBecause of his defeat against Fischer, Spassky was banned by the Soviet Committee for Sports for nine months from all tournaments and his stipend was reduced. In 1974 Spassky was eliminated in the semi-final of the candidates' matches against Anatoly Karpov. This match was exceptionally notable for the fact that Spassky's second for the match against Fischer, Efim Geller, was now suddenly working for Karpov.\n\nIn September 1975 Spassky married \u2013 for the third time \u2013 Marina Sherbacheva, a granddaughter of the former czarist general Dimitry Sherbachev, who emigrated to France after the revolution of 1919. In August 1975 Spassky's flat was broken into under mysterious circumstances and he no longer felt safe in Moscow. In the summer of 1976 the Soviets granted his wish to leave. He moved to France with his wife and lived in the outskirts of Paris, in Meudon.\n\nIn 1977 Spassky also was qualified for the candidates' matches. In the quarter-final he defeated Vlastimil Hort in Reykjavik, in the semi-final in Switzerland Lajos Portisch. In the final he then met Viktor Kortchnoi, who had moved to the West in 1976, and was defeated in a poisonous match, which was conducted in an extremely hostile atmosphere. In the next WCh cycle Spassky also reached the candidates' matches, but was eliminated by Portisch in 1980. In 1985 he played in the candidates' tournament in Montpellier and shared sixth place.\n\nUntil 1990 he played for Solingen in the German Chess Bundesliga, then he gradually withdrew from tournament chess. Nevertheless he was always a greatly respected guest of honour at chess tournaments. In 1992 Spassky accepted an invitation to Yugoslavia and played a 'return' match against Fischer. When Fischer was arrested in 2004 in Japan, Spassky stuck up for his former match opponent in an open letter to President Georges Bush Jr. On the 1st October Spassky suffered a slight stroke at a lecture in San Francisco. On the 23rd September 2010 he fell victim to a severe stroke which paralysed his left side. After quite a long time, which Spassky had passed in rehabilitation, the tenth World Champion fled France in August 2012 and moved to his new partner in Moscow.\n**28. Fischer doesn't appear**\n\n**The World Championship that never was (1975):  \n_Anatoly Karpov becomes World Champion without a fight_**\n\nAnatoly Karpov was born on the 23rd May 1951 in Zlatoust, a city in the South Urals in Chelyabinsk Oblast. His father was Evgeny Karpov, on the staff of a metal working factory in Zlatoust, who at the time of Karpov's birth was just finishing a three year period of further study at the Bauman Moscow State Technical University. He later became mayor. Karpov's mother had given up her post in business administration in order to bring up her son and her daughter Larissa, who was five years older than Anatoly.\n\nSome months after his birth, Karpov fell ill with a stubborn case of whooping cough. When the parents feared that their son might die of it they had him baptised on the insistence of his grandmothers. Karpov recovered from the illness but all his life he remained susceptible to any disease in the ear-nose-throat area.\n\nAnatoly Karpov (born in 1951)\n\nThe family lived in a communal housing development in Zlatoust. During the three years of his study, his father received from his firm a stipend of 700 roubles (approximately worth 225 dollars), but in order to make ends meet Karpov's mother took in sewing, which she did in the evenings and at night. One day in 1953, the family's flat was suddenly searched by the KGB, after the father had been denounced. The accusations were, however, dropped.\n\nKarpov learned chess at the age of four by watching whenever his father played games with friends. The first games of his own were played against other children and youngsters from the district. When he went to school Karpov was already on a level footing with all the other children in the school in chess. His first regular chess partner was Sasha Kolishkin, a fellow pupil of his sister Larissa. At the age of seven Anatoly, nicknamed Tolya, was allowed to join the chess section in his father's factory. And at ten Karpov was already champion of Zlatoust. His first junior tournament outside of Zlatoust was played in Borovichi under, as one can imagine, poor conditions. The young people slept ten to a room. Only limited sanitary facilities were available.\n\nIn the summer of 1963 Karpov was invited to Moscow for a course at the Botvinnik Chess School, where he also met the 'patriarch' personally on the occasion of a clock simultaneous display. Botvinnik was not very impressed by Karpov's understanding of the game, generally only looked at his games superficially and noted: 'The boy has no idea about chess and so there is in no way any future for him as a chess player.'\n\nThe fact that Mikhail Botvinnik was rigorous in his judgements was confirmed later by the future German grandmaster Michael Bezold. When in the 1980s in his chess school Botvinnik was invited to cast his eye over some talented German chess players, for each of the young players he made notes about their strengths and weaknesses in two columns. Bezold's list of weaknesses was a long one, but under the heading of strengths there was only one note: 'Enjoys his chess.'\n\nApart from the negative evaluation, the meeting with Botvinnik was not very encouraging for Karpov either. Botvinnik told the children and young people that he was working on a chess computer, which, when it was finished, would defeat all grandmasters, probably even the World Champion. Professional chess players would then be superfluous. But the young people should not be worried. They would nevertheless find work, and that would be as chess programmers in his computer chess project. Botvinnik's chess computer, however, never got beyond the experimental stage.\n\nKarpov's first chess book was _Basics of chess openings (Kurs debiutov)_ by Vassily Panov. Of the chess books which Karpov has read during his studies, he gives _Selected games of Capablanca (Capablanca: Biographiya i 64 izbrannii partii)_ , also by Vassily Panov, as the one which most influenced him. It was the second chess book which Karpov received. It was a present from his father on his eighth birthday.\n\nKarpov's father took up a post in 1965 in a power plant in Tula, to where the family then moved. Karpov joined the army sports club there and began collecting stamps. His collection of chess related stamps is considered today to be the biggest in the world. In 1966 he was appointed 'Master of sport' which made him financially independent. At the start Karpov was supported with a monthly stipend of 100 roubles, which he received from the army sports club. When he became a grandmaster he got 140 roubles and as a player in the national team 200 roubles per month.\n\nIn 1967 in Groningen, Karpov became at 16 European junior champion ahead of Jan Timman and Andras Adorjan. In 1969 he also won the Youth World Championship. In the meantime he had started working with Semyon Furman, which was a special honour since Furman was much sought after as a trainer. Like all striving players in the Soviet Union before him and like Kasparov after him, Karpov felt held back by others in his advance. He thus believed that Spassky saw him as a future rival and thanks to his authority tried to keep him out of international tournaments.\n\nKarpov started to study mathematics at the State University in Moscow, but broke this off after a year and a half and changed instead to the economics faculty in Leningrad. It is difficult to reconcile mathematics and chess because both demand a great deal of time, was Karpov's later explanation for this step. A further reason for changing cities was that his trainer Furman lived in Leningrad. Karpov later finished his studies with a diploma. The subject of his work was: 'Free time and its economic significance in socialism'.\n\nIn 1970 Karpov became a grandmaster. In the following year he was joint winner with Leonid Stein of the Alekhine Memorial Tournament in Moscow. At the Chess Olympiad in Skopje 1972 Karpov had an excellent result with 13 out of 15. One year later he won along with Viktor Kortchnoi the interzonal tournament in Leningrad and thus qualified for the candidates' matches. The Soviets had employed a little intrigue to eliminate the best two western players, Bent Larsen and Robert H\u00fcbner. They insisted to FIDE that both these players should be placed in the stronger Leningrad interzonal tournament and not in the weaker one in Petropolis.\n\nIn the candidates' matches Karpov defeated Lev Polugaevsky by 5\u00bd:2\u00bd in the quarter-final, though the match was not as clear-cut as the result makes it appear. After three draws Polugaevsky had the initiative in the fourth and fifth games, but missed his winning chances. In the semi-final Karpov eliminated Spassky by 7:4.\n\nIn the candidates' final, set for five wins with a maximum of 24 games and which lasted from September to November 1974, Karpov met Viktor Kortchnoi. The final was seen as an important match in the USSR and thus one of the three venues was the hall of columns in the house of the trade unions. Karpov had available as seconds Geller and Furman, but also unofficially Petrosian. Kortchnoi's seconds were Roman Dzindzichashvili and Viacheslav Osnos. Paul Keres had also offered his help, but Kortchnoi had refused. Before the match, disagreements had arisen between Kortchnoi and Karpov, which the president of the Committee for Sports Sergey Pavlov decided in Karpov's favour. That was not the only reason for Kortchnoi to feel himself at a disadvantage. Karpov won the second and the sixth games, then after a long series of draws finally the 17th game too and was leading by 3:0 in wins. Kortchnoi, however, then managed wins in games 19 and 21. Nevertheless he was not able to achieve equality. Karpov just won by 12\u00bd:11\u00bd and was now the challenger to the World Champion Bobby Fischer.\n\nIn the candidates' final against Karpov, Kortchnoi is supposed to have made use for the first time of the help of a parapsychologist. During the games, Rudolf Zagainov, who was a well known psychologist in Russia in the world of sport, sat in Kortchnoi's box and tried to catch Karpov's line of sight. Karpov then engaged Vladimir Zukhar, with whom he prepared for his match against Fischer.\n\nAfter his victory over Boris Spassky in 1972 in Reykjavik, Fischer had disappeared from public view, but was negotiating with FIDE about the conditions for the forthcoming WCh match. From 1951 to 1972 all WCh matches had been played over 24 games, with the defender retaining his title if the score were 12:12. In 1971 FIDE decided on a change and decreed that from the WCh match of 1975, an unlimited number of games was to be played until one side had scored six wins. Fischer, on the other hand, demanded via his manager Fred Cramer that play should be continued until 10 wins and that the defender should retain his title at 9:9.\n\nAt the FIDE congress of 1974 in Nice (France) FIDE actually agreed Fischer's demand for ten wins, but not the condition that at the score of 9:9 the World Champion should retain his title, since this was seen as too great a disadvantage for the challenger. The number of games, moreover, was fixed at a maximum of 36. Fischer reacted to this decision on the very same day with a telegram, in which he announced that he would not appear for the WCh match of 1975 if his demands were not met in their entirety.\n\nSoon after the congress the Philippines offered to stage the WCh match with the enormous sum of five million dollars as a prize fund. Thereupon there was a power struggle in FIDE between the US federation and the USSR federation over the match conditions. The US federation mobilised some other chess federations and with 30% of the members' votes in March 1975 forced an extraordinary FIDE congress in Bergen aan Zee (Netherlands), in order to vote there to nevertheless change the rules of the WCh match to suit the wishes of Fischer.\n\nThe USSR federation had its leading grandmasters publish an open letter to FIDE in which they spoke out against a change in the rules. On the following day Mikhail Botvinnik published a further open letter, in which he accused FIDE of partisanship in favour of Fischer. At the vote in Bergen the Fischer demands were again rejected by 35:32. The federations of the developing chess countries had voted for the demands, the delegates of the eastern block states and the western states against.\n\nSince right up until the deadline of the 1st April 1975 Fischer had not signified his acceptance to participation in a match against Karpov, on the 3rd April 1975 FIDE president Max Euwe declared Karpov to be World Champion. After winning the World Championship on a walkover Karpov legitimised his title by successful participation in a plethora of tournaments. During his career he reached a total of more than 100 tournament victories.\n\nIn 1976, more by chance than anything, there was a meeting between Fischer and Karpov in Tokyo. Florencio Campomanes, who would have loved to stage the Fischer-Karpov match in the Philippines, had brought this about. Karpov was on a simultaneous exhibition tour in Asia and was invited to a banquet by the president of the Japanese federation. Fischer too 'just happened' to be there. The two players discussed a possible match, not necessarily for the World Championship, and a possible date. Karpov was absolutely up for this match, but Sergey Pavlov, the head of the Committee for Sports, forbade the match; somewhere behind this decision there was the chief ideologist in the Kremlin, Mikhail Suslov, the secretary of the central committee.\n\nDespite that there was a further meeting between Karpov and Fischer in the same year in Montilla (Spain). The president of the Philippines Ferdinand Marcos even sent an official request to the Soviet head of state Leonid Brezhnev and an offer to stage the match at the end of 1977, but the Soviet leadership still said no. There was finally even a third encounter between Karpov and Fischer in 1977 in Washington. Karpov attempted to budge Fischer from his demand to play the match for the World Championship to ten wins, with a victory for the title defender \u2013 whom Fischer considered to be himself \u2013 at 9:9, but in vain.\n\nOn his return to Moscow Karpov met Pavlov and suggested playing the match against Fischer after the WCh cycle which ended in 1978. This time Suslov agreed with the suggestion, but in the meantime contact with Fischer had been lost. In 1977 in Caracas, Karpov again met Edmund Edmondson and Max Euwe in order to negotiate the details for a possible match, but no formula could be found which was acceptable to all three parties. In his book _Karpov, chess genius_ Viktor Baturinsky expresses the opinion that Fischer, on account of a pathological anomaly, found it impossible to return to the chess board, and he thought that FIDE president Euwe was also aware of that.\n\nDuring the preparation for the match with Fischer planned for 1975, Alexander Nikitin was part of Karpov's team of trainers. When Karpov secretly met Fischer, Nikitin informed the Committee for Sports about the meeting. Karpov felt betrayed, dismissed Nikitin and made sure that Nikitin was also sacked as a trainer by the federation. Nikitin later became a trainer for Kasparov and with the help of his new prot\u00e9g\u00e9 dethroned Karpov as World Champion.\n\nBobby Fischer had disappeared from public view after his WCh victory of 1972. To be precise, he was avoiding all possible journalists. As he later explained to his Icelandic friend Einar Einarsson, Fischer's mistrust of all journalists was based on his disappointment with his former confidant Brad Darrach. Before the WCh match of 1972 the latter was in close contact with Fischer and later used his observations with-out any agreement from Fischer for newspaper articles and a book ( _Bobby Fischer vs. The Rest of the World, 1974_ ). Fischer later lost in litigation against Darrach.\n\nFrom time to time, the ex-World Champion now lived in Pasadena and San Francisco. In 1982 he published a 21-page booklet: _I was tortured in the Pasadena jailhouse!_ , in which he complained about his treatment in a Pasadena jail in which he was imprisoned for two days as a result of a mix-up. Later he stayed in Budapest, where he met Peter Leko and the Polgar sisters, Zsuzsa, Zsofia and Judit, and played chess and analysed games with them, without this ever being made public.\n\nThe World Chess Champion who had disappeared became a myth. The future World Champion Anand later found a telling comparison with 'Fischer is our Marilyn Monroe'. There was, for example, speculation about whether Fischer was not much better than Karpov and Kasparov.\n\nFrom time to time Fischer would meet chess lovers, who all reported about his characteristic anti-Semitism. In the autumn of 1990 Fischer popped up at Lothar Schmid's, the arbiter of the 1972 WCh match, in Bamberg. The German grandmaster, whose main profession was co-owner of the Karl-May publishing house, lodged Fischer in Waischenfeld, near Bamberg, in the 'Pulverm\u00fchle' hotel, owned by the Bezold family. He analysed games with Michael Bezold, who later himself became a grandmaster. Fischer believed that all the games and matches between Karpov and Kortchnoi and also between Karpov and Kasparov had been fixed and at that time was working on a manuscript with analyses of the games of these matches which were to prove his supposition.\n\nIn 1992 Fischer suddenly popped up out of the woodwork and in Yugoslavia played a 'return match' against his opponent of 1972, Boris Spassky. The match was financed by the president of the Yugoslavian Jugoscandic Bank, Jezdimir Vasiljevic, a close friend of the Serbian president Slobodan Milosevic, and was, as demanded by Fischer in 1975, to be to ten wins. At a score of 9:9 Fischer would remain the 'undefeated World Champion'. The total prize found was the fabulous sum of five million dollars, of which the winner received 3.65 million dollars. The match began on the 2nd September 1992 on the Montenegran island Sveti Stefan. After eleven games the match moved on the 30th September to the Belgrade 'Sava Business Center'. After game 30 Fischer had won his tenth game and with it the match.\n\nIt later became known that the banker Vasiljevic had robbed the customers of his Jugoscandic Bank of more than 130 million dollars by means of a pyramid scheme. In April 2009 he was arrested in the Netherlands, after seeking asylum there with forged papers, and extradited to Serbia. In Belgrade he had been tried in court in 2007, but Vasiljevic had escaped from remand.\n\nDuring the Yugoslavian civil war, the USA had instituted an economic boycott of Serbia. Before the start of his match against Spassky, Fischer had been specifically warned in a letter from the treasury against playing in Yugoslavia, because in the opinion of the US authorities that would infringe the boycott. At the official press conference before the match and in front of the cameras, the 49 year old Fischer spat on the letter from the treasury and stated that he would not observe the boycott.\n\nAt the time of the match Fischer lodged part of his chess estate, books, scoresheets, handwritten analyses, in two cases with Svetozar Gligoric and never collected them. Later a part of these valuable memorabilia passed into the possession of a collector. It is not known where the remainder of this legacy went after the death of Gligoric in 2012.\n\nAfter the match against Spassky, Fischer again disappeared and from then on lived predominantly in the Philippines, where he had a friend in Eugenio Torre, and in Japan. There he became friends with Miyoko Watai, president of the small Japanese Chess Federation.\n\nAfter the attack on the World Trade Center of the 11th September 2001 Fischer spoke in a radio interview and welcomed the terror attack as the result of American policies. This was greeted with outrage in the USA and in the western press. After the US government rescinded his passport, Fischer was arrested in the airport on the 13th July 2004 when leaving Japan and imprisoned in Ushiko. The USA requested his extradition from Japan on account of his breaking the economic embargo with his 1992 match against Spassky in Yugoslavia and of tax evasion, against which Fischer and his partner Miyoko Watai fought with all the means at their disposal. On the 17th August 2004 the pair married, to improve Fischer's prospects of being allowed to remain in Japan. His Icelandic friends from the time of his match against Spassky in 1972 finally arranged for Fischer to receive Icelandic citizenship in March 2005. Thereupon he was deported from Japan to Iceland.\n\nThe images of the arrival in Iceland of the former World Chess Champion are of an unkempt man who was apparently also in ill health. Fischer lived from then on in Iceland, regularly meeting his Icelandic friends. His time was spent, among other things, with visits to an antiquarian bookshop 'Bokin', which became like a second home for the ex-World Champion.\n\nFrom time to time the 11th World Champion had visitors. Thus, for example, one of his successors on the World Champion's throne, Viswanathan Anand, met Fischer and found him 'astonishingly normal' in conversation. But also the rock musician Patti Smith, three years younger than the World Chess Champion and who like him had grown up in New York, took the opportunity to meet Fischer on the occasion of a concert which she gave on the 5th September 2006 in Reykjavik. She too was able to enjoy a pleasant conversation with the World Chess Champion in exile.\n\nOn the 17th January 2008 Robert James Fischer died at the age of 64 \u2013 one year for every square on the chess board \u2013 in the 'Landspitali' hospital in Reykjavik of kidney failure and was buried in the small cemetery of Laugard\u00e6lakirkja near Selfoss. On Fischer's wishes, only five people were present at the funeral on the 21st January 2008: Fischer's friend Garthar Sverrisson, his wife Krisin, their two children and Fischer's wife Miyoko Watai. The funeral was undertaken by a Catholic priest from Reykjavik. After Fischer's death a dispute flared up about his legacy of some two million dollars. As well as Fischer's widow Miyoko Watai the children of his sister Joan Tart put in a claim, as did the Filipina Marilyn Ong, who claimed that Fischer was the father of her daughter Jinky. An Icelandic court ordered the exhumation and a paternity test. This proved that Fischer was not the father of Jinky Ong.\n**29. Political thriller in Baguio**\n\n**The World Championship 1978:  \n_Anatoly Karpov against Viktor Kortchnoi_**\n\nViktor Kortchnoi was born on the 23rd March (some sources suggest 23rd July) 1931 in Leningrad. His father and his mother both came from the Ukraine, from where, independently of each other, they had fled to Leningrad during the great famine of the 1920s \u2013 a consequence of the forced collectivisation of agriculture which cost six million people their lives.\n\n**Viktor Kortchnoi (born in 1931)**\n\nSome few years after Kortchnoi's birth his parents separated and Kortchnoi grew up with his father and the latter's second wife. The family was extremely poor and lived in a 13 room state flat, which his family had to share with ten other families. Despite this his father gave special attention to the education of his son and paid for a private tutor who taught Kortchnoi German after school. At the age of six Kortchnoi learned the game of chess from his father.\n\nDuring the siege of Leningrad in the Second World War by the German Wehrmacht Kortchnoi remained in the city and survived the starvation caused by the blockade whereas many members of his family died. He saw his father for the last time in 1941; then the latter was killed in an air attack when he was on Lake Ladoga in a barge. When the situation in Leningrad started to become more normal in 1943\/44, Kortchnoi bought his first chess books from an antique shop: Lasker's _Lehrbuch des Schachspiels_ ('Manual of Chess') and Tartakower's _Das entfesselte Schach_.\n\nAt the age of 13 Kortchnoi started going to the chess section of the Leningrad pioneer palace. His first chess teachers there were Andrei Batuev and Abram Model. The latter had already worked with Botvinnik. Kortchnoi later became one of the pupils of Vladimir Zak, who took over the training in the Leningrad pioneer palace in 1945, after his return from the war, and was in charge of it until 1970. Kortchnoi had to give up his wish to become an actor because despite elocution his delivery was not clear enough. So Kortchnoi began to concentrate totally on chess.\n\nWhilst the six years younger Spassky made lightning progress, Kortchnoi's understanding of chess developed somewhat slowly. In 1947 Kortchnoi became junior champion of Leningrad ahead of Ivo Nei and the following year he shared first place in the Soviet junior championships with Nei. At the end of his schooldays in 1948 Kortchnoi started his studies at the History Faculty of the University of Leningrad and finished them six years later with his dissertation on 'The Front National and the communist party of France on the eve of the Second World War'.\n\nIn 1962 his fourth place in the interzonal tournament in Stockholm qualified Kortchnoi for the candidates' tournament in Cura\u00e7ao, in which he only came in fifth, however. Just like Fischer, Kortchnoi felt himself betrayed by the agreed draws between Petrosian, Geller and Keres. During the next WCh cycle but one Kortchnoi reached the candidates' matches with a second place in the interzonal tournament in Sousse and was not defeated until the candidates' final by Boris Spassky. In the next cycle Kortchnoi was seeded to be a candidates' finalist and exited in the semi-final against Petrosian \u2013 according to a secret agreement, because Petrosian was considered to have better chances against Fischer. As we know, this dodge of the Soviets did not bear fruit. Petrosian had no chance against Fischer either. In 1973 Kortchnoi won the interzonal tournament in Leningrad together with Karpov, but was defeated by the latter in the candidates' final of 1974.\n\nAfter the candidates' final Kortchnoi gave Bozidar Kazic an interview, which appeared in the Yugoslavian newspaper _Politika_. Kortchnoi claimed that in his candidates' matches Karpov had not performed particularly well. He also showed some sympathy with Fischer's demands relating to the forthcoming WCh matches. The interview, however, did not go down well with the Soviet Committee for Sports. Kortchnoi was summoned to the office of the Committee for Sports and punished with a one year ban on foreign tournaments. His stipend was reduced from 300 to 200 roubles. In addition he was forbidden from making any statements in public.\n\nFrom then on Kortchnoi turned his mind more and more seriously to the idea of leaving the Soviet Union and wrote a letter to Josip Broz Tito. He asked the Yugoslav head of state to accept him in Yugoslavia, but received no answer. On the occasion of his participation in the IBM tournament in Amsterdam, Kortchnoi then sought political asylum in 1976 in the Netherlands. When taking part in the Hastings tournament in January 1976, Kortchnoi had already made concrete plans for a flight to the West. With the help of his friend Genna Sosonko, a Soviet grandmaster of Jewish heritage, who had emigrated to the Netherlands in 1972, he made contact with Max Euwe. The FIDE president promised his support and took care that despite his flight Kortchnoi was later able to take part in the candidates' matches.\n\nIn the Netherlands Kortchnoi may have been refused asylum on political grounds, but he was granted the right of domicile on humanitarian grounds. The newspapers reported the flight of the top Soviet player in detail. This was how Petra Leeuwerik learned about it. Leeuwerik got in contact with Kortchnoi because she felt the need to help in his struggle against the Soviets. After the Second World War she had been abducted by the Soviets during a visit to Austria and deported to a labour camp near Workuta in North Siberia. The official reason given was espionage. Leeuwerik, who had been born in Vienna, supposed that her contacts with a Catholic student organisation in Leipzig where she was studying was the reason for the abduction. She was not released for the labour camp till ten years later during the Adenauer initiative of 1955.\n\nWhen Kortchnoi's flight became known publicly, the first to congratulate him was Robert Fischer. He sent a telegram with the text: 'Congratulations on this good move!' The following year there was even a meeting with Fischer in Pasadena when Kortchnoi was in the USA on a tour of simultaneous displays. Kortchnoi described the conversation with Fischer as stimulating, even if the latter was already hooked on his idea of a Jewish world conspiracy. He was especially surprised by Fischer's chess memory. Fischer knew practically every grandmaster game. On the following day, however, Kortchnoi received a letter from Fischer in which he was decried as a Soviet agent and then broke off contact with Fischer.\n\nViktor Baturinsky, vice-president of the USSR Chess Federation, formerly public prosecutor and amongst other cases one of the prosecutors in 1963 in the show trial against the US spy Oleg Penkovsky, who had in 1962 passed on information about the planned installation of Soviet rockets on Cuba, organised after Kortchnoi's flight an open letter from leading Soviet grandmasters, in which they condemned the said flight. Only Botvinnik, Spassky, Bronstein and Karpov refused to sign. In addition the Soviets instigated a tournament boycott on the fugitive \u2013 no Soviet grandmaster would participate where Kortchnoi was playing.\n\nThe Soviet grandmasters, however, were obliged to appear in the candidates' matches or else they would have lost them without a fight. In the quarter-final in Il Ciocco (Italy) Kortchnoi met Tigran Petrosian and defeated him by 6\u00bd:5\u00bd. There were tensions during the match when Petrosian claimed that Kortchnoi was in telepathic communication with his seconds, while Kortchnoi speculated that Petrosian was using his hearing aid as a wireless device and receiving signals. In the semi-final in Evian (France) Kortchnoi annihilated Lev Polugaevsky by 8\u00bd:4\u00bd. The word was gradually circulating, especially in Soviet chess circles, that he was 'Viktor, the terrible'.\n\nBelgrade staged the candidates' final between Kortchnoi and Spassky. Though previously friends, the match turned the two of them into enemies. In the meantime Kortchnoi had proclaimed his attack on Karpov and on the World Championship title to be a political mission. The final obstacle between him and Karpov was Spassky. Spassky's realisation after the match was: 'If you play a match against Viktor, you can no longer be friends with him after it.' The match turned into psychological warfare. Spassky complained that the places for spectators in the front rows were occupied by Kortchnoi's people who stared at him so intently that he could no longer concentrate.\n\nKortchnoi won the second, third, seventh, eighth and tenth games. In the tenth game the growing strife between the players escalated and during the game Spassky spent most of his time behind the stage in a rest room. As an official reason for this, he stated that the light on the stage was tiring his eyes. Kortchnoi was annoyed by Spassky's absence and he complained after the game that in the rest room Spassky was using a demonstration board to think about his moves and had it taken away by the arbiter. When the score stood at 7\u00bd:2\u00bd after ten games, Spassky finally managed his first win. After this game Spassky threatened not to appear for the 12th game if the demo board in the rest room were not re-instated.\n\nIn the meanwhile FIDE president Euwe had arrived and calmed the players. The demo board was set up again in such a way that everyone could see it, so that Spassky could not somehow secretly analyse on it as Kortchnoi was insinuating. After Spassky also won the twelfth and 13th games, Kortchnoi now threatened to leave. The suspicion was expressed from within his camp that Kortchnoi was being exposed to radiation which was weakening him. Kortchnoi also remained convinced for a long time after the match that the Soviets had 'programmed' his former team mate and training partner as a medium, and he kept on finding new proofs for this thesis. Even his protectress Petra Leeuwerik saw Kortchnoi falling under the influence of Soviet parapsychological powers in the course of the match. Kortchnoi also went on to lose game 14, for which Spassky had turned up with a silver anti-glare eye-shade, and he then had only one point of a lead. After that Kortchnoi overcame his crisis and drew the next two games.\n\nThe high point of the curious events of this match came in game 17 when Spassky wore in addition to his eye-shade sunglasses and finally divers' goggles. For his part, during the match Kortchnoi had spotted Soviet citizens in the hall with a small black case, which was obviously directing something 'devilish' against him, and described in his book _Anti-Chess_ how, thanks to the help of a group of Swiss parapsychologists who were not even present in Belgrade but working at a distance, he held out against it. So, despite all the 'devilish tricks' Kortchnoi won this and also the next game for a final score of 10\u00bd:7\u00bd.\n\nAccording to Kortchnoi Spassky also believed in parapsychological powers and in his book _Chess is my life_ he quotes a meeting with Spassky in 1986. Spassky apparently then remembered how forces beyond his control during their 1977 match in one specific game moved a knight from d4 to f5. Spassky then thought that the chief arbiter Kazic had been the counterforce, but he later noticed that his trainer Bondarevsky was responsible for it. And his trainer who died in 1984 had apparently worked together with the hypnotist Wolf Messing. Messing had been a fan of Spassky, according to Kortchnoi, and possibly Bondarevsky might have been able to deploy the powers of Messing for his own purposes. This, as Kortchnoi went on to think, must also have been the reason why Spassky stuck so closely to 'old' Bondarevsky, who practically did not have a clue about modern opening theory.\n\nA series of federations or cities had bid for the WCh match between Karpov and Kortchnoi and each offered around a million Swiss francs as a prize fund. Karpov put Hamburg first in his list of preferences, left the second place blank and for the third chose Baguio City. In Kortchnoi's list Graz was in first place, Baguio in second. Germany was out of the question as a venue for Kortchnoi, because Karpov had 'always received a particularly hearty welcome in Germany and moreover that was where he kept his illegal earnings'. In addition, in West Germany, according to Kortchnoi, 'pro-Soviets could not be distinguished from normal inhabitants even by their language'. The initiator of the Hamburg bid was actually Karpov's close friend Helmut Jungwirth, who soon after that, however, developed a business deal which turned out to be very unpleasant for Karpov.\n\nFollowing the lists of preferences, FIDE president Max Euwe decided to award the WCh match to Baguio City in the Philippines, against which both players protested. Euwe gave as his reason for the decision that Baguio City, whose organisers had made an offer of over 585 750 dollars, was the only city mentioned on both lists.\n\nThe chief organiser there was Florencio Campomanes. Campomanes was born on the 22nd February 1927 in Manila. He studied political sciences in the Philippines and in the USA and worked for a doctorate until 1954. Campomanes was one of the best players in his country and had won the national championship in 1956 and 1960. Between 1956 and 1966 he had played for his country in five Chess Olympiads. As a delegate for his chess federation he then began to become active in chess politics in Asia and also within FIDE. On the 17th November 1982 at the FIDE congress during the Chess Olympiad in Lucerne Campomanes won the election for FIDE president on the second round of voting, defeating his predecessor Fridrik Olafsson by 65 votes to 43. The Soviet Chess Federation originally wanted to vote for the Yugoslav candidate Bozidar Kazic, but then received from higher authority the instruction to vote for Campomanes. The Filippino had already been received as an honoured guest in Moscow at the Spartakiad in 1979 and the Olympic Games in 1980.\n\nThe vote of the Soviet federation also pointed out the correct way to vote for all the other east block federations and they followed suit. The three Dutch FIDE employees, including the secretary of many years standing Ineke Bakker, had threatened to resign if Campomanes were elected and did so. Campomanes retained the office of FIDE president till 1995 and was the first FIDE president to take an honorarium for his work for the world chess federation. His annual salary was 150000 Swiss francs. It was during Campomanes' period of office that the WCh match of 1984\/85 was abandoned under circumstances which have not been fully explained. The decay of the World Chess Championships after 1993 into a 'Classical World Championship' and the so-called 'FIDE World Championship' as a result of the dispute with Kasparov and Short is also partly the responsibility of Campomanes.\n\nOn that account, and also because many FIDE delegates considered him corrupt, he was voted out of office in 1995. His successor was the Russo-Kalmykian politician Kirsan Ilyumzhinov, for a long time president of the autonomous Russian Republic of Kalmykia. But Campomanes continued to remain active in FIDE, obtaining votes from Asian countries for his successor, and was elected honorary president.\n\nIn 2003 Campomanes was found guilty in his home country by a court, which was dealing with cases of corruption in the post-Marcos era, of having misappropriated approx. 238000 US dollars. This was money from the ministry of sport of the Philippines which FIDE had intended for the organisation of the Chess Olympiad of Manila (6th-25th June 1992) \u2013 but which never reached it. Campomanes was sentenced to one year and ten months in prison. On account of his advanced age the punishment was changed to probation. Campomanes appealed and obtained a revision of the judgement on account of a technicality. In the book _The KGB plays chess_ Campomanes is accused of having worked for the Soviet KGB. As a quid pro quo for his help with the match between Karpov and Kortchnoi in 1978 the Soviet Union is supposed to have made sure that with the votes of the eastern block and the developing countries he was elected president of FIDE in 1982. In 2007 Campomanes was badly injured in a car accident in Turkey, but recovered. He died on the 3rd May 2010 in the Philippines.\n\nKortchnoi's seconds for the WCh match were, as they had been for the previous candidates' matches, the two English players Michael Stean and Raymond Keene, and in addition Jacob Murey. Petra Leeuwerik acted as delegation leader. Two weeks before the start of the match Kortchnoi's team travelled to Baguio City, which lies approx. 150 kilometres north of Manila on the island of North Luzon, in order to acclimatise in peace.\n\nAhead of the match disagreements had arisen between Kortchnoi and Keene, because, without asking Kortchnoi, Keene had published a book about the match between Kortchnoi and Spassky and had made use of common analysis in it. The book had appeared with the help of David Levy, who was at the same time ironically preparing a book about Karpov under the title _Chess is my life_. An autobiography of Kortchnoi had, however, appeared with exactly the same title. So for the WCh match Kortchnoi had concluded with Keene a contract which explicitly forbade the latter from publishing a book about the match without the permission of Kortchnoi.\n\nThe Soviet delegation was 14 strong and was led by Viktor Baturinsky. In the Karpov team, there were, for example, a doctor, a cook, two 'specialists in biological processes' and the psychologist Vladimir Zukhar. Tal later expressed the opinion that Karpov always needed the help of a psychologist because he was inclined to self-doubt, but never admitted it, and in addition tired quickly both mentally and physically. Kortchnoi guessed that at least six members of the delegation were employed by the KGB. For chess advice Karpov had as his official seconds Yuri Balashov, Igor Zaitsev and Mikhail Tal, who was, however, accredited as a correspondent for _64_. Tal later joked that he had only helped Karpov because if Kortchnoi had won 'chess would have been forbidden in the USSR'. In addition there was also the rumour that Karpov had telephone access to a supercomputer in Moscow.\n\nAccording to his second Adrian Mikhalchishin the KGB assembled in Karpov's analysis room a military bug-proof tent flown in from the USSR. During analysis, moreover, the seconds were not to talk about their analysis in normal chess terms but had to employ a special code. Since it is known that one fears from the opposition exactly the same measures which one uses oneself, it can be supposed that the opinion later expressed by Kortchnoi that he had been monitored during the match, probably did not come from thin air.\n\nThe rules for the encounter had been fixed at the FIDE committee meeting of October 1977 in Caracas. The match was set for six wins, drawn games were not to be counted. In the event of defeat, the title defender, Karpov, was granted the right to a return match, a rule which had been abolished in 1963. The two players in the WCh match were to be allocated all their expenses and the costs for two seconds. The chief arbiter for the match, which started on the 18th July, was Lothar Schmid.\n\nThe psychological warfare, which Kortchnoi had already waged against Petrosian and Spassky, was continued in Baguio. Kortchnoi brought with him his own chair, which at the request of the Soviet delegation was submitted to X-ray in the central hospital of Baguio before the first game. Nothing unusual could be found. Kortchnoi's wish to play under Swiss colours was denied him. Instead he was described on the instigation of the Soviets as 'stateless'. At the opening ceremony for the match, in the presence of the president of the Philippines Ferdinand Marcos and the Soviet ambassador, instead of the Soviet national anthem the 'Internationale', the anthem of the communist party, was played on purpose.\n\nAfter the second game Kortchnoi objected to Karpov being given a yoghurt during the game \u2013 after all, the flavour of the yoghurt might have some meaning. The arbiter Lothar Schmid decided that the flavour of the yoghurt had to be announced beforehand. Kortchnoi also conjectured that Karpov was being given cortisone with the yoghurt, which according to Kortchnoi was the reason why the World Champion was putting on weight during the match instead of losing it, which is what frequently does happen in chess matches.\n\nDuring the games Kortchnoi wore reflective sunglasses, also had a geiger counter installed and threatened to break off the match immediately if the same rays were employed against him which had presumably weakened him during the candidates' final against Spassky. Karpov protested against the wearing of the sunglasses because he felt disturbed by the reflected light. Before the ninth game Lothar Schmid sat down at the playing table with another arbiter, who was wearing sunglasses, as a test, but could not discern any disturbance due to reflected light and rejected the protest. After the seventh game, when Karpov in a clearly better position on the adjournment surprisingly offered a draw on the resumption, Kortchnoi expressed the opinion that the Soviets had monitored his analyses or that there was a leak from his team. Here he suspected Keene, who in fact after every game was sending to London a secret telex for a just as secretly planned book about the match. Every telex was, however, read by Campomanes \u2013 and he was working for the Soviets.\n\nAccording to Karpov, Kortchnoi had in his team a series of psychologists, para-psychologists and hypnotists. These were supposed above all to increase Kortchnoi's belief in his own victory. Since in the candidates' final of 1974 Kortchnoi had already worked with the sports psychologist Rudolf Zagainov, Karpov was prepared and had engaged the psychologist Vladimir Zukhar, the director of the Central School for Psychology in Moscow, who was supposed to not only support Karpov psychologically but also to be employed for 'neutralising the powers' of Kortchnoi's helpers. According to Kortchnoi, Zukhar stared at him constantly during the games in order to disturb and to influence him.\n\nSo in one of the games at the start of the match Petra Leeuwerik took a seat beside Zukhar and tried to disturb him in his 'work' by bumping into and kicking him. Leeuwerik was then, however, prevented from annoying Zukhar by Karpov's fitness trainer Valery Krylov. The tournament jury was called into session and finally decided that Kortchnoi was indeed being disturbed and that should this be repeated the game would be moved to a room without spectators or the person who was creating the disturbance would be removed from the spectators' area.\n\nAfter this incident before the eighth game Karpov refused Kortchnoi the handshake which was written into the rules for such matches. After the first seven games ended in draws, Karpov took the lead with a win in the eighth game. Before the eleventh game Kortchnoi had summoned to neutralise Zukhar's powers the Israeli psychologist Dr Vladimir Berginer, who now, at first unrecognised, took a seat in the spectators' room. Kortchnoi equalised in the eleventh game, which he put down to the powers of Dr Berginer. But Karpov won thirteenth and fourteenth games for a score of 3:1. Kortchnoi's explanation for this was: in the meantime Berginer had been discovered by the Soviets, who then did not let him 'work' in peace. So the Swiss, now ineffective, left after the fourteenth game.\n\nPetra Leeuwerik meanwhile tried to further politicise the match and had Keene translate into English a statement in which she referred to, amongst other things, the invasion of Czechoslovakia by Soviet troops in 1968 and her own abduction into a labour camp. Keene was apparently unhappy with Leeuwerik's statement and tried via the Swiss federation to have her sacked as delegation leader. FIDE president Euwe prohibited this attempt.\n\nBefore game 17, Kortchnoi refused to start play if Dr Zukhar was not moved back in the room. Kortchnoi even threatened to become violent and so Campomanes had the first six rows cleared of spectators, with which Kortchnoi was satisfied. Kortchnoi missed a win in this game and later allowed himself to be mated in a drawn position.\n\nAfter the game the playing hall was examined by nuclear specialists at the demand of the Soviet delegation. The Soviets claimed that Kortchnoi's one-way glasses emitted harmful rays, but the presence of such could not be confirmed. Kortchnoi took his last two timeouts and left Baguio City in the direction of Manila, in order to rest and to give a press conference. Kortchnoi now threatened to break off the match if the problem with Dr Zukhar could not be solved and demanded in the press conference the installation of one-way mirror. A compromise was negotiated between the delegations: Dr Zukhar sat from then on next to the other members of the Soviet delegation. The demand for a one-way glass wall was withdrawn. Kortchnoi no longer wore reflective glasses.\n\nIn the 18th and 20th games Karpov spoiled winning positions. For the 18th there appeared in the spectators' room at the instigation of Kortchnoi two members of the US section of the Indian Ananda-Marga sect, Steven Dwyer and Victoria Shepherd, in conspicuously bright clothing, so as to strengthen Kortchnoi by meditation and neutralise Zukhar. Kortchnoi later pointed out that the couple had sought him out of their own accord in order to help him and had not requested any fee for this. The Soviet delegation protested against their presence. Apparently the two gurus were only free on bail after attacking and murdering an Indian embassy official in the Philippines to draw attention to the arrest of an Ananda-Marga member in India. For this reason they were forbidden entry to the tournament hall after game 20.\n\nIn the 21st game Kortchnoi shortened the lead to 2:4. In the 22nd game Karpov again missed a possible win. But Karpov then increased the lead to 5:2 with a win in game 27. He was now only one game short of a title defence. But then Karpov fell prey to a phase of weak play and lost the 28th, 29th and 31st games. Kortchnoi had levelled a match which most people had already considered all but over. The next victory would decide the match \u2013 one way or the other.\n\nDuring the match Karpov had concluded with the chess computer manufacturer Novag from Hong Kong an advertising contract which earned the World Champion, according to Kortchnoi, half a million dollars. Should he lose the match against Kortchnoi, Karpov was supposed to have planned not to return to the USSR and to have instructed his German agent Helmut Jungwirth to buy him a house in the USA. Helmut Jungwirth, an editor for the broadcaster NDR in Hanover, had produced with Karpov a game 'Television spectators against the World Champion', then become friendly with Karpov and had been helpful to him with a few business deals. Later he is supposed to have embezzled some 1.3 million DM from Karpov's advertising revenues, was sued by Karpov and arrested in 1985. In the subsequent trial, however, a few details about Karpov's business activities were also made public, details which Karpov would certainly have liked to continue to remain 'private'. The World Chess Champion emphatically denied Jungwirth's claim that he had been supposed to buy a house in the USA for Karpov.\n\nAfter the 31st game FIDE president Max Euwe left, since the Chess Olympiad was to begin shortly in Buenos Aires. At the FIDE congress in Buenos Aires Euwe was then no longer a candidate for the office of president. The Icelandic grandmaster Fridrik Olafsson became his successor. In the 32nd game, Dr Zukhar had again taken a seat near the stage, in the fourth row, against the agreement which had been reached. For this game Kortchnoi had prepared in the Pirc Defence a surprise weapon. But Karpov was not surprised, or at least he did not let it show, and moved without taking a long time to think, which again fed Kortchnoi's suspicion that his team was being bugged or that there was a leak \u2013 Kortchnoi again suspected Keene of having passed on his preparation, without saying so publicly at this point. Andrew Soltis noted in his book _Soviet Chess 1917-1991_ that according to a book which was published in 1999 18 KGB officers were tasked with ensuring Kortchnoi's defeat in Baguio City.\n\nKarpov won the 32nd game. It was adjourned in a hopeless position for Kortchnoi, but the latter wanted neither to continue it nor to resign, so that finally Keene resigned the game for him. With it Karpov had defended his title. In a telegram he reported to 'Comrade Leonid Brezhnev' that the match had ended 'with our victory'. According to his own account, Karpov donated 350000 dollars of his prize money to the Committee for Sports for the renovation of the Central Chess Club. The defeated challenger did not attend the closing ceremony. Keene brought him the cheque with his share of the prize money. According to Kortchnoi Keene received from Campomanes 20000 Swiss francs for his 'services' and later, before the match in Meran 1981, is supposed to have worked directly for Karpov. Kortchnoi appealed against the result of the match in front of the International Court in The Hague, since the Soviets had broken the agreement they shad signed concerning Dr Zukhar. After a three year case the complaint was rejected.\n\n **Kortchnoi \u2013 Karpov**\n\nBaguio City, 17th game  \n26th August 1978  \nNimzo-Indian Defence (E47)\n\n**1.c4 \u2658f6 2.\u2658c3 e6 3.d4 \u2657b4 4.e3 0-0 5.\u2657d3 c5**\n\nThe main variation of the Rubinstein System in the Nimzo-Indian Defence is more often reached via the move order 5...d5 6.\u2658f3 c5.\n\n**6.d5!?**\n\nThe challenger had already surprised Karpov in the 7th game with this innovation, an idea of Kortchnoi's second Jacob Murey. More popular moves are 6.\u2658f3 d5 7.0-0 or 6.\u2658ge2.\n\n**6...b5!?**\n\nA pawn sacrifice in the style of the Blumenfeld or Volga Gambit.\n\n**7.dxe6**\n\n7.e4? is not possible on account of 7...bxc4 8.\u2657xc4? \u2658xe4.\n\n**7...fxe6**\n\nPerhaps 7...bxc4!? is better: 8.exf7+ \u2654h8 9.\u2657xc4. (Karpov)\n\n**8.cxb5 a6**\n\nThe 7th game of the match continued as follows: 8...\u2657b7 9.\u2658f3 d5 10.0-0 \u2658bd7.\n\n**9. \u2658ge2 d5 10.0-0 e5**\n\nAt the cost of a pawn Black has constructed an imposing pawn centre. The alternative was 10...axb5 11.\u2657xb5 \u2657a6 12.\u2657xa6 \u2658xa6. (Kasparov) It was also worth considering 10...c4 11.\u2657c2 axb5 12.\u2658xb5 \u2657d7 13.\u2658ec3 \u2655b6 14.a4 \u2658c6.\n\n**11.a3 axb5**\n\nThis move was criticised. Karpov could have reacted instead with a bishop move. 11...\u2657a5 is followed by 12.b4! (Kasparov) 12...cxb4 13.axb4 \u2657xb4 14.\u2655b3 with advantage to White. But there was the better 11...\u2657xc3!? 12.\u2658xc3 (12.bxc3? is not possible here: 12...c4 13.\u2657c2 axb5) 12...c4 13.\u2657e2 axb5 14.\u2658xb5 \u2657a6 15.\u2658c3 d4 16.exd4 exd4 17.\u2657f3 \u2656a7 18.\u2658e2 \u2656d7 'with nice counterplay'. (Kasparov)\n\n**12. \u2657xb5 \u2657xc3 13.bxc3**\n\nThis is the difference from the variation with 11...\u2657xc3. White recaptures with the pawn and thus stops the advance of the black centre.\n\n**13... \u2657a6**\n\n13...c4?! 14.a4 \u2657a6 15.\u2657a3 \u2656f7 16.f4 \u2655b6 17.\u2655d2 with advantage to White. (Karpov) But it was worth considering 13...\u2657b7!?. (Karpov)\n\n**14. \u2656b1 \u2655d6**\n\nAfter14...\u2658bd7 White plays 15.e4 \u2657xb5 16.\u2656xb5, followed by a3-a4, \u2657a3 and f2-f4. (Karpov)\n\n**15.c4 d4**\n\n15...\u2657xb5 16.\u2656xb5 d4 17.\u2658g3 also favours White.\n\n**16. \u2658g3**\n\n16.f4 d3 17.\u2658g3 exf4 18.\u2656xf4 is also favourable for White. (Karpov)\n\n**16... \u2658c6 17.a4**\n\nAfter 17.\u2658f5 \u2655e6 18.\u2657xc6 \u2655xf5 19.e4 \u2655e6 20.\u2657xa8 \u2656xa8 'followed by 21... \u2657xc4 the linked passed pawns offer excellent compensation for the exchange he has lost.' (Kasparov)\n\n**17... \u2658a5?**\n\n17...\u2657b7 was better. (Karpov)\n\n**18. \u2655d3 \u2655e6 19.exd4 cxd4 20.c5 \u2656fc8 21.f4 \u2656xc5**\n\n'It is obvious that I have lost the strategic battle. Now all that I had left was to build on my defensive skills and look for tactical opportunities.' (Karpov)\n\n**22. \u2657xa6**\n\nAfter 22.fxe5 \u2657xb5 23.axb5 \u2655xe5 24.b6 \u2658b7 25.\u2657d2 White also has a winning position.\n\n**22... \u2655xa6 23.\u2655xa6?!**\n\nKortchnoi misses the strong continuation 23.\u2656b8+ \u2654f7 24.\u2656b5 with the threat fxe5+\u2013.\n\n**23... \u2656xa6 24.\u2657a3 \u2656d5 25.\u2658f5 \u2654f7 26.fxe5 \u2656xe5 27.\u2656b5**\n\nAfter 27.\u2658xd4 \u2658c4 the tension has been lifted and the game is drawn. (Karpov) Kasparov, however, sees a continuing advantage for White, for example: 28.\u2656b7+ \u2654g6 29.\u2657f8 \u2658e8 30.\u2656b4.\n\n**27... \u2658c4 28.\u2656b7+**\n\n28.\u2658d6+? \u2656xd6. (Kasparov)\n\n**28... \u2654e6 29.\u2658xd4+ \u2654d5 30.\u2658f3?**\n\nIn time trouble White chooses a liquidation, in which he gets a rook for two knights. A more solid and better way was 30.\u2658c2 \u2656xa4 31.\u2657f8 \u2656e8 (31...\u2658e8 32.\u2658b4+ \u2654e4 33.\u2658c6+\u2013) 32.\u2657xg7 \u2658e4 33.\u2656d1+ \u2654c6 34.\u2656dd7 \u2658a5 35.\u2656bc7+ \u2654b5 36.\u2657d4+\u2013. (Kasparov)\n\n**30... \u2658xa3 31.\u2658xe5 \u2654xe5 32.\u2656e7+ \u2654d4 33.\u2656xg7 \u2658c4 34.\u2656f4+ \u2658e4 35.\u2656d7+ \u2654e3!?**\n\n35...\u2654e5 36.g3 \u2658cd6 (36...\u2656xa4? 37.\u2656e7+ +\u2013) 37.\u2656xh7 \u2656xa4 38.\u2656e7+ \u2654d5 39.g4 \u2656a1+ 40.\u2656f1=.\n\n**36. \u2656f3+ \u2654e2 37.\u2656xh7?**\n\n37.\u2656e7 \u2658cd2 38.\u2656a3 and Black has to fight for the draw. (Kasparov).\n\n**37... \u2658cd2 38.\u2656a3 \u2656c6 39.\u2656a1??**\n\nKortchnoi was certainly not thinking that anything could happen to him here.\n\n**39... \u2658f3+**\n\nAnd White resigned, since he will be mated: 40.gxf3 \u2656g6+ 41.\u2654h1 \u2658f2#.\n**30. Heaps of electronic devices**\n\n**The World Championship 1981:  \n_Anatoly Karpov against Viktor Kortchnoi_**\n\nAs a WCh finalist from the previous cycle Kortchnoi was seeded into the candidates' matches and in the quarter-final in Velden he met, as he had three years previously, Tigran Petrosian. The chemistry between the two players had not improved. Back at the notorious candidates' tournament of 1962 Kortchnoi had felt himself to be a victim of the agreed draws between Petrosian, Geller and Keres. In 1971 it had been agreed, presumably fixed by the Soviet Committee for Sports, that Kortchnoi had to lose his semi-final match against Petrosian, since Petrosian was considered to have the better chances against Fischer.\n\nBefore the match Kortchnoi gave a press conference in which he announced that it should actually have been Timman and not Petrosian playing against him, since Petrosian's win over the Yugoslav Boris Ivkov in the final round of the interzonal tournament in Rio de Janeiro 1979 had been achieved by improper means. It was only this victory which had enabled Petrosian to catch Timman in the classification and thus qualify with Portisch and H\u00fcbner for the candidates' matches.\n\nKortchnoi feared for his life in Velden and demanded the installation of a sheet of armoured glass between the players and the spectators. His second Yasser Seirawan remembered that Kortchnoi then selflessly offered him his comfortable bed in his suite while he himself preferred a couch. Only later did Seirawan realise that in case the Soviets wanted to kill him in his sleep, Kortchnoi preferred not to sleep in his own bed. Petrosian himself accused arbiter Harry Golombek of being partisan and biased. Kortchnoi won the quarter-final against Petrosian by 5\u00bd:3\u00bd.\n\nThe semi-final against Lev Polugaevsky in August 1980 was closer. This was played in a booth of bullet-proof glass in Buenos Aires. After 12 games the score was 6:6. The match went into extra-time. Before game 14 Kortchnoi read an Argentinian newspaper, in which a game from the second semi-final being played at the same time in Abano Terme between Robert H\u00fcbner and Lajos Portisch was printed. Portisch had come up with an interesting novelty in it. Kortchnoi employed the same novelty against Polugaevsky and won the 14th game for a final score of 7\u00bd:6\u00bd.\n\nIn the final in Merano Kortchnoi met Robert H\u00fcbner. The match was to be for 16 games. After six games H\u00fcbner was leading by 3\u00bd:2\u00bd, but in the seventh game he blundered away a whole rook. Finally H\u00fcbner resigned the match early at a score of 3\u00bd:4\u00bd. Two adjourned games, the ninth and the tenth games, were left unfinished. This meant that Kortchnoi was again the challenger to Karpov.\n\nWhen in 1976 Kortchnoi fled the USSR, he left his wife Bella and his son Igor behind. Public appeals to the Soviet leadership to allow his family to leave were unsuccessful. Instead his son was called up into the army and Kortchnoi was afraid that he would be badly treated there. Originally the match between Karpov and Kortchnoi should have begun on the 19th September 1981, but Kortchnoi made use of the public interest to draw attention to the plight of his family and refused to appear as long as his family was kept prisoner in the USSR.\n\nThe new FIDE president Olafsson then delayed the match for a month in the hope that the Soviets would allow Kortchnoi's family to leave in the name of human rights. At a FIDE congress in Atlanta the Soviets protested irately against Olafsson's decision. Since the organisers in Merano were not yet ready to stage the match on the arranged date, finally the 1st October 1981 was fixed as a new starting date. In the meantime, Kortchnoi's son had been sentenced to two and a half years in a labour camp on account of his refusal to do military service.\n\nThe match, again to six wins, finally lasted until the 19th November 1981. The prize fund was 800 000 Swiss francs, which had been raised amongst others by the Savings Bank of Merano as the main sponsor. Merano had been chosen to organise the match thanks to its 'chess working group' around organiser Siegfried Unterberger rather than Las Palmas or Reykjavik. The arbiters of the match were Paul Klein (Ecuador), Gertrude Wagner (Graz, Austria) and Gudmundur Arnlaugsson (Iceland). Svetozar Gligoric (Yugoslavia), Lodewijk Prins (Netherlands) and Alfred Kinzel (Germany) formed the appeals committee.\n\nOriginally Lothar Schmid had been expected instead of Paul Klein as chief arbiter. The grandmaster from Bamberg had already been in charge of the tricky WCh matches of 1972 and 1978. But apparently objections were raised by Kortchnoi's delegation. They had not been in agreement with certain decisions by the German grandmaster during his spell as arbiter in Baguio City.\n\nKortchnoi and his team \u2013 as well as Petra Leeuwerik, Yasser Seirawan and Lev Gutman there were again Michael Stean and in addition as press officer the Russo-Polish chess master and writer Emanuel Stein \u2013 had taken lodging in the Merano spa hotel Palace. The leader of Kortchnoi's delegation was the Swiss lawyer Alban Brodbeck.\n\nKarpov officially lived with his two official seconds Igor Zaitsev and Yuri Balashov and delegation leader Viktor Baturinsky, a colonel and a lawyer, in the Hotel Ritz Stefanie, but also had available for himself and his team a three-storeyed villa with swimming pool. Also present were Mikhail Tal and Lev Polugaevsky. They were officially accredited as journalists but of course provided help for Karpov. In addition Efim Geller and Rafael Vaganian belonged to Karpov's team. Kortchnoi mentioned, moreover, Evgeny Vasiukov as another trainer of Karpov. Igor Zaitsev, Karpov's 'senior trainer', later reported that Karpov was at least from time to time also supported by Elizbar Ubilava, Adrian Mikhalchishin, Vitaly Tseshkovsky, Albert Kapengut, Rudolf Kimelfeld, S. Sepioshkin, Rozenberg and Georgi Borissenko. Semyon Furman, previously for many years the trainer and paternal friend of Karpov, had died in 1978 and was no longer there. Alexander Roshal took on the role as press officer for the Karpov delegation.\n\nBefore travelling to Merano, Karpov had scheduled a final training session with his trainers in Plavinas, a small seaside resort in Latvia. In the Soviet delegation in Merano there was also a series of persons who did not necessarily have anything to do with chess. Before the start of the match the Soviets had sent the organisers a catalogue with 70 demands. In Moscow there was above all interest in the crime rates in Merano, since they were afraid of kidnappings.\n\nUnlike in the match in Baguio City, this time the Soviets had no objections to Kortchnoi playing under the Swiss flag. Kortchnoi may have been living in Switzerland, but he was not a Swiss citizen and so actually had no formal claim to having the Swiss flag placed beside him on the table.\n\nThis time, instead of Viktor Zukhar it was Professor Modest Kabanov who had taken on the task of the psychological care of the World Champion. Kortchnoi had strengthened his two mental supporters from the Ananda-Marga with another person. This time, however, the Soviets took no notice of it.\n\nThe excitement among the approx. 150 journalists present at this point \u2013 all in all 400 journalists had taken out accreditation \u2013 was taken care of before the start of the match this time by an article from _Sovietski Sport_ , of which excerpts were disseminated by the _TASS_ press agency. In the article it was said that Kortchnoi's wife Bella had not actually made an application for an exit visa. In fact only one such application was known from the past when she had requested a visa to visit an uncle of Kortchnoi's in Israel. It had been refused. In addition Kortchnoi had been trying to get a divorce from his wife. He had not officially applied for an exit visa for his wife until just before the WCh. He had also been the one who had talked his son into refusing to do his military service. All the excitement about Kortchnoi's supposedly imprisoned family was now presented according to the Soviet account as having been made up by the WCh challenger.\n\nKortchnoi, who started the match with the white pieces, immediately lost the first game and was also defeated in game number two. The organisers, among them the sponsor and Merano hotel magnate Eisenkeil, feared a rapid end to the match, which they had of course wished to have as a spectacle over several weeks.\n\nAfter the second defeat Kortchnoi, who felt he was being bugged by the KGB, left the hotel and was taken by Petra Leeuwerik to a secret location. As became known later, Kortchnoi moved with the Ananda-Marga disciple Victoria Shepherd, nicknamed 'Didi', to temporary quarters in the nearby village of Algund and practised asceticism with meditation and uncooked vegetarian food. After a draw in the third game, despite his asceticism Kortchnoi also lost the fourth game, which like the others was played in front of approx. 500 spectators in the congress centre of Merano.\n\nKortchnoi himself and his seconds found the challenger's weak play puzzling and so Kortchnoi continued to pursue his conspiracy theories and said, for example, that Karpov had arrived with 40 specialists and three containers \u2013 in a report of the Italian Chess Federation it was even suggested eight containers \u2013 full of secret apparatus. Not even Karpov's wife Irina was allowed into the villa occupied by the Soviets, according to Kortchnoi. After the match the equipment was supposedly removed by night in lorries.\n\nKortchnoi was convinced that the Soviet specialists sitting among the first rows of the spectators, were able not only to record with their equipment every sound and remark, but also to measure his blood pressure and his physical state of health. He suspected that Karpov of having hidden in his hair earphones, through which his trainers could give him hints during the games. The head of the organising committee reported that with their equipment the Soviet delegation had been monitoring noise pollution, radiation pollution, water quality and climatic conditions. The containers of the Soviet delegation had supposedly contained as well as technical equipment Soviet tinned food and apparently also 7000 books. After the fourth game, moreover, Kortchnoi had felt unwell and he also believed the KGB to be responsible for that. He conjectured that KGB agents had exposed him to radiation or tried in some other way to influence his health. Moreover his press officer Emanuel Stein had surprised some Soviet citizens doing something in the hotel rooms of the Kortchnoi delegation and had been stunned by them.\n\nBut in the meantime, open strife had also broken out within Kortchnoi's team. Petra Leeuwerik, the secret delegation leader, accused 'Didi' of having lastingly weakened Kortchnoi with her asceticism. Also in the meanwhile the former fianc\u00e9e of Kortchnoi's son Igor, Natasha Pesikova \u2013 the former Soviet citizen had since been living in exile in the USA \u2013 had arrived in Merano and was causing additional unrest. Tal quipped: 'The board is the only place where he can get some rest.'\n\nKortchnoi won the sixth game, Karpov struck back in the ninth game. The challenger's nervous tension had now got so great that he openly insulted Karpov during the eighth and ninth games and had to be warned several times by the arbiter. In the following games too, there were insults on Kortchnoi's side and mutual protests to arbiter Klein. When in game 12 Kortchnoi felt disturbed by Karpov's rocking in his chair, he grumbled at the World Champion with the words: 'Stop it, you little worm!' After the game, Baturinsky handed Gligoric, the president of the disputes committee, a formal protest from the Soviet delegation. After the checking of the facts of the case, Kortchnoi was officially warned and was threatened with a fine of 12000 Swiss francs should there be a repetition.\n\nKortchnoi caught up in the 13th game, but in game 14 Karpov got his fifth victory. The title defender now only required one win, which he got in game 18.\n\n **Karpov \u2013 Kortchnoi**\n\nMerano, 18th game  \n19th November 1981  \nRuy Lopez (C80)\n\n**1.e4 e5 2. \u2658f3 \u2658c6 3.\u2657b5 a6 4.\u2657a4 \u2658f6 5.0-0 \u2658xe4 6.d4 b5 7.\u2657b3 d5 8.dxe5 \u2657e6**\n\nIn the first World Championship between Karpov and Kortchnoi in 1978, the Open Variation of the Ruy Lopez was up for debate no less than eight times. In this match another four times. Total score 4:2 for Karpov with six draws.\n\n**9. \u2658bd2**\n\nThe alternative moves 9.\u2655e2 and 9.c3 were also used.\n\n**9... \u2658c5**\n\nKortchnoi always preferred this move after 9.\u2658bd2 compared to 9...\u2657e7 or 9...\u2657c5.\n\n**10.c3 d4**\n\nAnother plan is 10...\u2657e7 11.\u2657c2 \u2657g4 12.\u2656e1 \u2655d7.\n\n**11. \u2657xe6 \u2658xe6 12.cxd4 \u2658cxd4 13.a4!**\n\nA novelty by Karpov. The idea came from Polugaevsky. In two previous games Karpov had played 13.\u2658e4. This idea was checked out by Efim Geller and Yuri Razuvaev in Moscow after the head of the Committee for Sports Viktor Ivonin had tasked them with finding for Karpov a novelty in the Open Ruy Lopez.\n\n**13... \u2657e7**\n\nLater 13...\u2657c5, 13...\u2656b8 and also 13... \u2657b4 were tried as replies.\n\n**14. \u2658xd4 \u2658xd4**\n\nPraxis later showed that 14...\u2655xd4 did not offer Black equality either.\n\n**15. \u2658e4**\n\n'This thematic move secures a solid advantage for White with the queens on the board, but after an exchange of queens too.' (Karpov)\n\n**15... \u2658e6**\n\nIn view of the threat 16.axb5 axb5 16.\u2656xa8 Black's knight must give up its position in the centre. However, the knight is not safe on e6 either. Kasparov recommended 15...0-0 16.axb5 \u2658xb5 17.\u2657e3 \u2655c8 as better.\n\n**16. \u2657e3 0-0 17.f4 \u2655xd1**\n\nOther moves are not better: 17...g6 18.\u2655f3 followed by 19.\u2656ad1; 17...f5 18.\u2655b3 (18.exf6 \u2655xd1 19.\u2656fxd1) 18...\u2655c8 19.\u2658c3 c6 20.\u2656fc1 in each case with advantage to White.\n\n**18. \u2656fxd1**\n\n'The time used (only 10 minutes for Karpov compared to 95 minutes for Kortchnoi) speaks volumes and testifies once more to the poor condition of the challenger.' (Hecht)\n\n**18... \u2656fb8?**\n\nBlack should not have allowed the rook to penetrate to the 7th rank. A better way was 18...f5!? 19.exf6 \u2657xf6 (19...gxf6 20.f5 \u2658g7 21.g4 h5, Hecht) 20.\u2658xf6+ gxf6 21.f5 \u2658g7 22.g4 h5 23.h3 \u2656fd8 and Black can still fight for a draw. 18...\u2656ad8!?.\n\n**19. \u2656d7 \u2657f8**\n\n'19...\u2657d8 was more accurate. But after 20.a5 \u2658f8 21.\u2656d3 the black position is anything but pleasant.' (Karpov)\n\n**20.f5 \u2658d8 21.a5**\n\nAnd the planned black counterplay on the queenside has run its course. White first scorns to win the pawn on c7 and plays for control. He has an enormous advantage in space and dominates the centre.\n\n**21... \u2658c6 22.e6 fxe6 23.f6 \u2658e5**\n\n23...\u2656d8 is no better: 24.f7+ \u2654h8 25.\u2656xc7 or 23...\u2656c8 24.\u2656c1 \u2658xa5? 25.\u2657d4 in each case with superiority to White.\n\n**24. \u2656xc7 \u2656c8 25.\u2656ac1 \u2656xc7 26.\u2656xc7 \u2656d8 27.h3**\n\n'There is no reason for haste. The move secures a retreat square for the white king'. (Karpov)\n\n**27...h6**\n\nBlack is running out of moves: 27...\u2656d7 28.\u2656c8 \u2656d1+ 29.\u2654h2 \u2658d7 30.\u2658g5 gxf6 31.\u2658xe6 \u2654f7 32.\u2658xf8 \u2658xf8 33.\u2656a8+\u2013.\n\n**28. \u2656a7 \u2658c4**\n\nAfter 28...\u2656d1+ White wins as follows: 29.\u2654f2 (but not 29.\u2654h2? \u2656e1 with counterplay) 29...\u2656b1 30.\u2657d4 \u2658c6 31.f7+ \u2654h7 32.\u2656a8 \u2658xd4 33.\u2656xf8 \u2656xb2+ 34.\u2654g1 \u2656b1+ 35.\u2654h2 \u2656f1 36.\u2658d6 b4 37.\u2656a8 and the passed pawn costs material.\n\n**29. \u2657b6 \u2656b8**\n\n29...\u2658xb6 30.axb6 \u2656b8 31.\u2654f2 a5 (31...\u2656xb6 32.f7+ \u2654h7 33.\u2656a8 and White wins the bishop) 32.\u2654e3 g6 33.b7+\u2013.\n\n**30. \u2657c5**\n\nAnother good move was 30.f7+ \u2654h7 31.\u2657c7 \u2656c8 32.b3 \u2658e3 33.\u2658d6+\u2013.\n\n**30... \u2657xc5+ 31.\u2658xc5 gxf6 32.b4 \u2656d8 33.\u2656xa6 \u2654f7 34.\u2656a7+ \u2654g6 35.\u2656d7 \u2656e8 36.a6 \u2656a8 37.\u2656b7 \u2654f5 38.\u2656xb5 \u2654e5 39.\u2656b7 \u2654d5 40.\u2656f7 f5 41.\u2656f6**\n\nThe game was adjourned here. Kortchnoi wrote down 41...e5 as his sealed move, but resigned the game on the 20th November without resuming it. That was also the loss of the WCh match. After 41...e5 White has a plethora of winning moves to choose from, e.g.: 42.\u2658a4, 42.\u2658d7 or 42.\u2656xf5+\u2013.\n\nAccording to the reminiscences of Baturinsky, Kortchnoi informed arbiter Klein about his resignation in a handwritten note with the following content: 'I inform you that I am resigning the 18th game and the whole match and I congratulate Karpov and the whole Soviet delegation for their excellent electronic technology. Kortchnoi.' When Baturinsky later requested a photocopy of the note, Klein, however, denied its existence.\n\nOf the total prize money, Karpov received 500 000 Swiss francs, Kortchnoi 300000 Swiss francs. The organisers were content with a total of more than 55000 newspaper articles, which for some time made Merano the focus of world-wide attention. During the match, the composer of musicals Tim Rice visited Merano and was inspired by events there to write his musical _Chess_. The music was composed by the Swedish pop group ABBA.\n\nIn the following candidates' cycle Kortchnoi was eliminated in 1983 in the semi-final by Kasparov. In the dispute between FIDE and the Russian Chess Federation about the venue \u2013 the USSR did not agree with the award of the match to Pasadena \u2013 the match first crashed. After the Soviets belatedly fell into line, Kortchnoi declared himself ready to play the match against Kasparov, though he had actually won it without a contest. It took place at the end of the year in London. In return the Soviets lifted their boycott against Kortchnoi and paid him compensation.\n\nIn the next WCh cycle Kortchnoi also qualified for the candidates' matches with his victory in the interzonal tournament in Zagreb. However, he was defeated in the last 16 by the Icelander Johann Hjartarson. After taking sixth place in the interzonal tournament in Manila 1990 during the next WCh cycle Kortchnoi again reached the candidates' matches, but was defeated in the quarter-final by Jan Timman.\n\nKortchnoi continue to remain one of the most active tournament players, participating in countless individual and team events. In principle he accepted every invitation, giving as a reason: 'If I refuse an invitation, then perhaps I will not be invited the next time.' Until a great age he remained successful in tournaments and not until 2006, at the age of 75, did he accept his 'senior' status and won the World Championship for seniors at his first attempt. During his career he took part from 1960 on in seventeen Chess Olympiads, six times for the USSR and eleven times for Switzerland. In his new country he played for SG Zurich, the oldest still existing chess club in the world. At the end of December 2012 Kortchnoi had to go into a Swiss clinic on account of the consequences of a stroke which he had suffered during 2012 and be treated for heart problems. Thus it was only then that he de facto withdrew from tournament chess. Kortchnoi wrote several autobiographical chess books.\n**31. The abandoned match**\n\n**The World Championship 1984\/85:  \n_Anatoly Karpov against Garry Kasparov_**\n\nGarry Kasparov was born on the 13th April 1963 in Baku. Even the exact time is known: it was a quarter of an hour before midnight. His mother Klara Kasparova was of Armenian descent, his father Kim Weinstein came from a Jewish family with a great musical tradition. Kasparov's grandmother Olga Yulevna was a music teacher, his grandfather Moissei Weinstein, who died in the summer of 1963, was a conductor, composer and violinist. Kasparov's father, on the other hand, was an electrical engineer, whereas the latter's brother and Kasparov's uncle, Leonid Weinstein, kept up the musical tradition and was also a wellknown musician in Azerbaijan.\n\nGarry Kasparov (born in 1963)\n\nKasparov's parents had played some chess in their youth and loved solving the studies which were printed in a local newspaper. At the age of five, Kasparov, who had learned to read at a young age, followed his parents' attempts to solve an endgame study on a chess board. To their surprise he then suggested the correct solution, which motivated his parents to show him the game in more depth.\n\nSince Kasparov already had an excellent memory as a child, he found it easy to learn. Whilst the grandmother advocated a musical education for her grandson, Kasparov's father pleaded for him to become intensively involved with chess. After he came back from work he would regularly train with his son in the evenings. In the summer of 1970 the father fell ill with a cancer of the lymph glands and died the following year at the age of only 39. His mother Klara thereupon moved with her son to her own parents.\n\nKasparov was making good progress in chess and at the age of nine played a simultaneous display against oil workers whose boss was his grandfather on his mother's side. Soon afterwards, after an operation on his appendix, Kasparov gave a blindfold simultaneous display against the doctors in the hospital in which he was being treated. At the age of ten Kasparov was diagnosed with rheumatic carditis, also known as 'rheumatic fever'. For that reason he had to take antibiotics regularly until he was 15.\n\nKasparov's first chess trainer was his uncle Konstantin Grigorian, to whom his father's sister Nelly was married. In 1970 he took Kasparov to the local pioneer palace for further education. His first lessons there were from Rostislav Korsunsky, a youth whom he knew from the neighbourhood. Amongst the talented chess players in Baku at that time were Elmar Magerramov, Mikhail Shur, Alexander Avshalumov, Elena Glatz and Boris Sheinin, whose son Teimur Radjabov would later advance to the top of world chess. Until then grandmaster Vladimir Bagirov and the women's WCh challenger Tatiana Satulovskaya had been the best known players in the city.\n\nKasparov's first proper chess trainer was Oleg Provorotsky, who quickly recognised Kasparov's talent. In 1972 already Kasparov reached the final tournament for the adults blitz championship of Baku and made it into the final, moreover still under the name of his father, Weinstein. It was only later that he would take the name of his mother. In January 1973 Kasparov shared third place in the Baku junior championship, where he was discovered by Alexander Shakarov, the junior trainer of Azerbaijan, who then put him into his country's junior team.\n\nIn August 1973, on the initiative of Alexander Nikitin Kasparov received an invitation to the Botvinnik Chess School in Dubna. After a conversation with then 62 year old 'patriarch' Kasparov was accepted. Botvinnik was especially impressed by his new pupil when the latter pointed out that Fischer's analysis of his game against Botvinnik in Varna 1962 was wrong and that in reality there was no way to show a win. Botvinnik soon after applied to the Committee for Sports and recommended Kasparov for special support. In 1974 Kasparov had the opportunity to follow live a game in the candidates' finals between Anatoly Karpov and Viktor Kortchnoi in Moscow. On his return from the Botvinnik Chess School he stopped off in Moscow with his trainer Nikitin and sat amongst the spectators during the 21st game of the match. In 1975 Kasparov took part in the U18 national championship at the age of 11 and took seventh place out of 36 participants.\n\nIn August 1975 the family council decided that the boy who had until then borne the name of his father Weinstein, should from then on take his mother's name. The initiative came from Alexander Nikitin, who feared that as his prot\u00e9g\u00e9 rose to the top, the name Weinstein would run into the anti-Semitism prevalent everywhere in the USSR, especially at the higher levels.\n\nIn November 1975 Kasparov met Karpov and Kortchnoi in person for the first time. After a junior team championship the two top players gave simultaneous displays against the young people. It was only after long resistance that the 12 year old Kasparov was defeated by the then 24 year old Karpov. Against Kortchnoi Kasparov managed a draw.\n\nIn 1976 Kasparov won the USSR junior championship. In the following year he repeated his success with 8\u00bd out of 9 and two points ahead of the rest of the field. In the same year he was third in the World Cadet Championship in Cagnes-sur-Mer behind Jon Arnason and Jay Whitehead.\n\nThe name of the American Whitehead has almost been forgotten today. Jay Whitehead, only two years older than Kasparov, was a very talented player in his youth. Later he became a member of the Hare Krishna movement and would often turn up at tournaments (he played mostly in the USA) in the typical clothing of that Indian sect. In the late 1980s Whitehead, however, more or less gave up tournament chess. He died of cancer in 2011 only a few days before his 50th birthday. Jon Arnason was not only the first Icelander to win a World Champion title in chess, but even the first Icelander to become World Champion in any sport. Then only 12 years old, Nigel Short also played in the cadet championship, but his play waned as the tournament progressed and he did not get a top placing.\n\nIn 1978 Kasparov qualified for the first time for the USSR championship in Tbilisi, being at 15 the youngest participant, and took ninth place. Tseshkovsky and Tal won the tournament. In the following year, thanks to a recommendation by Botvinnik, Kasparov was sent to his first international tournament in Banja Luka (Yugoslavia). To the surprise of all, especially of the western chess world which had so far not heard much about Kasparov's successes in the USSR, the untitled 16 year old without an Elo rating won the strong tournament with two points of a lead. At the end of 1979 Kasparov came in third in the USSR championship behind Geller and Artur Jussupow. In April 1980 Kasparov took an international tournament in Baku ahead of Alexander Beliavsky, Eduard Gufeld and Adrian Mikhalchishin. In August 1980 Kasparov finally won the World Junior Championship in Dortmund with 10\u00bd out of 13 ahead of Nigel Short (9), Ivan Morovic Fernandez, Adrian Negulescu and Klaus Bischoff (8\u00bd). In the same year he represented his country for the first time in the Chess Olympiad in Malta.\n\nIn January 1981 Kasparov was already number three in Russia with an Elo rating of 2625 and number six in the world. Karpov led both lists with 2690 Elo. In April 1981 Kasparov was invited to the 'Tournament of the Stars', which was played in the Moscow International Trade Centre, and shared second place with Polugaevsky and Smyslov. It was won by Karpov. At the supertournament in Tilburg in October 1981 Kasparov only took eighth place. But shortly afterwards he won, jointly with Lev Psakhis, the USSR championship for the first time in Frunze. In May 1982 he was victorious in the international tournament in Bugojno (Yugoslavia). In September of the same year there followed victory in the interzonal tournament in Moscow, which brought Kasparov the right to take part in the candidates' tournaments. Shortly afterwards, he played in Lucerne in his second Chess Olympiad.\n\nThere are two different ways of recounting the circumstances surrounding Kasparov's rise to the top. Kasparov complained later in numerous books about how greatly he had been handicapped by the leaders of the Soviet federation, which was supposedly under Karpov's control. According to Karpov, however, the young man from Baku was supported as nobody else before him had been. At 13 he had already had Alexander Shakarov provided for him as a trainer and paid by the Azeri federation. At the same time Kasparov was already receiving a stipend of 100 roubles, arranged for, according to Nikitin, by Botvinnik. His mother Klara also received a stipend. In the following year Kasparov already had two full-time trainers at his disposition.\n\nAs soon as he reached 18 Kasparov joined the Communist party. He was, moreover, proud of being a member of the Azeri Komsomol central committee. The Komsomol was the youth organisation of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union. In 1981 Kasparov came into contact with Viktor Litvinov, the head of the Azeri KGB department responsible for sport. Through Litvinov Kasparov reached Heydar Aliyev, the head of the Communist Party of Azerbaijan, who later, after the collapse of the USSR and the declaration of independence, became the first head of state of Azerbaijan. But even in the USSR Aliyev was in an influential position.\n\nDuring the Chess Olympiad the pairings were drawn for the forthcoming candidates' matches. In the quarter-final Kasparov met Alexander Beliavsky, one of the strongest opponents. The match took place from 26th February to 20th March in the conference room of the 22 storey high Moscow Sport Hotel on Leninsky Prospect and was set for 10 games. Kasparov worked with a staff of trainers, namely Alexander Nikitin, Alexander Shakarov, Georgy Timoshenko and Evgeny Vladimirov. For the match against Beliavsky Valery Chekhov was also one of Kasparov's seconds. Kasparov won the second game, but Beliavsky equalised in the fourth game. The fifth game again went to Kasparov, who then also won the eighth and ninth games and with them the match.\n\nKasparov now met Viktor Kortchnoi, who had won in the first round of the candidates against Lajos Portisch. The staging of this match led to one of the numerous scandals in the history of FIDE. The starting date was set for the 1st August 1983. The bids to stage the match had come from Rotterdam with a prize fund of 100000 Swiss francs, Las Palmas with a 25000 Swiss francs prize fund and Pasadena with 100000 Swiss francs. According to FIDE regulations for the candidates' matches, the players could first express their preferences. For the choice of venue FIDE would then first search for agreement or a compromise. Kortchnoi gave only Rotterdam as a choice. On Kasparov's list, which he handed on to the Soviet Committee for Sports, the order was Rotterdam and Las Palmas, 'since Las Palmas would not be chosen in any case on account of the low prize fund, but since they wanted to support it on political grounds', was the way it was explained to him. In any case there were also rumours that Kasparov's mentor Botvinnik had spoken against Pasadena for whatever reason.\n\nShould the players not be able to agree on a place, the FIDE president had according to statute the right to decide on the venue. This was now the case and Campomanes selected Pasadena. Kortchnoi agreed with the choice, but the Soviet Committee for Sports categorically refused Pasadena as a venue. The official reason given was that the security of the Soviet delegation could not be guaranteed there, because Pasadena and Los Angeles were at that time forbidden to Soviet diplomats. This on its own was unbelievable, because the Soviet swimmer Vladimir Salnikov had just broken a record over 800 metres quite close to Pasadena \u2013 so therefore he was allowed to appear there.\n\nKasparov was called to Moscow, where he was informed in the propaganda ministry that 'they would not allow themselves to be dictated to concerning the conditions for sporting encounters' and that the match would not take place in the USA. Kasparov was instructed to reject Pasadena as a venue. It is possible that at that time the boycott of the Olympic Games of Los Angeles 1984 \u2013 the Soviets' reply to the West's boycott of the Moscow Olympics of 1980 \u2013 had already been decided and the boycott of Pasadena as a venue was perhaps a preface to that.\n\nOn the 12th July 1983 there was a meeting in the building of the Committee for Sports, at which in addition to Kasparov and Campomanes Marat Gramov (president of the Soviet Olympic committee), Viktor Ivonin (deputy sports minister), Nikolai Krogius, Vitaly Sevastianov (president of the Soviet Chess Federation 1977-1986), Anatoly Karpov and Vassily Smyslov were present. The Soviets were prepared to allow Smyslov to play in Abu Dhabi, but wanted the match between Kortchnoi and Kasparov to be moved to Rotterdam. During the heated discussion Campomanes insisted on his right as FIDE president to decide the venue and on his decision in favour of Pasadena, and criticised Kasparov for not putting Rotterdam in first place on his list.\n\nAt this point, according to his own account, there grew in Kasparov the idea that he could possibly become the victim of an intrigue. The theory that Anatoly Karpov or higher powers who supported the World Champion were pulling the strings in the background was also backed by Viktor Kortchnoi. 'They would rather see me as World Champion than Kasparov', he is supposed to have said.\n\nThe reason for the choice of Pasadena as the venue by Campomanes could also lie somewhere quite different. The bid was also linked to a 'contribution' of 40000 Swiss francs to Campomanes' 'chess development programme'.\n\nCampomanes soon afterwards declared publicly that Kasparov would have lost the match against Kortchnoi to a walkover should he not appear in Pasadena on the 1st August. Shortly thereafter he postponed the start of the match by five days till the 6th August 1983. When that was reached Kortchnoi sat in the City College in Pasadena and played 1.d4. After the hour's grace for a player to appear which was then usual, Kortchnoi was declared the winner of the match since Kasparov had, as expected, not turned up.\n\nFor the match between Vassily Smyslov and Zoltan Ribli there had been no bids at the start. But shortly before the planned start of the match Campomanes announced Abu Dhabi as the venue, with a prize fund of 25 000 dollars. On the 31st July the organisers in Abu Dhabi, however, withdrew their bid to stage the match because there had been absolutely no reaction from the Soviet Chess Federation to the invitation to Abu Dhabi. Thereupon Zoltan Ribli was announced on the 9th August by Campomanes as the victor of a non-contested match. Both semi-final candidates' matches were thus decided without a contest.\n\nFIDE found itself in a serious crisis, also because the Soviet Committee for Sports were in the meantime seriously considering breaking away from FIDE and organising their own WCh match, in which Karpov would play against a Soviet challenger. At the high point of the crisis Kasparov visited Karpov in the latter's flat on Vspolny Pereulok and sought help. At that time relations between Karpov and Kasparov were obviously still intact. Kasparov was then invited at short notice to a supertournament in Niksic (Yugoslavia) and after an impressive victory with two points of a lead had underlined his claim as a possible challenger to Karpov. On the initiative of Kasparov the participants in the tournament signed a petition to FIDE demanding that the semi-final between Kasparov and Kortchnoi be arranged again.\n\nAt the same time Kasparov started negotiations with Kortchnoi, who declared himself prepared to renounce his right to a walkover and to play a re-arranged match \u2013 under certain conditions. At the end of the tournament Kortchnoi travelled to Niksic to discuss the details. His condition was an end to the tournament boycott imposed on him by the USSR and east block since his flight in 1976. On the 16th September Kasparov and Kortchnoi signed a common declaration, in which they demanded that the match be re-arranged.\n\nWork was also in progress eagerly in the wings. Heydar Aliyev, Azerbaijan's communist party boss, took position for the match still taking place. Kasparov had in addition written to Brezhnev successor Yuri Andropov and begged for support. According to Yuri Averbakh there was within the party a struggle between the supporters of Karpov, led by Mikhail Zimianin, formerly editor of Pravda and now head of propaganda, and Heydar Aliyev as well as the council of ministers, who supported Kasparov. Aliyev won this power struggle according to Averbakh. In negotiations with the Soviet federation Raymond Keene offered to organise a re-run of both previously uncontested matches in London. At the FIDE congress in Manila in October 1983 a letter of apology from the USSR federation was read out and both candidates' matches re-arranged for the autumn of 1983 in London. Zoltan Ribli, Vassily Smyslov's opponent, also agreed to this. Moreover, the USSR federation paid the organisers in Pasadena 50000 dollars and FIDE 100000 dollars for damages and costs. In addition the Soviet federation is supposed to have paid Viktor Kortchnoi 30 000 dollars for having agreed to the re-arrangement of his match against Kasparov.\n\nThe London offer to FIDE for the organisation of both semi-finals included, for example, the following financial details: 130000 Swiss francs as prize fund for the two matches, another 20000 Swiss francs to be used either to increase the prize fund or for other purposes, a further 50 000 Swiss francs for FIDE and 40000 Swiss francs for the FIDE development programme, though to be precise about the latter case it was to be books to the value of the sum mentioned. Campomanes decided on the 27th October in favour of the offer from London and against a bid from the Dutch federation, which was slightly less than the London bid.\n\nThe Kasparov against Kortchnoi match took place in December 1983 and began badly for Kasparov. He lost the first game, and that with the white pieces. In the next four games Kasparov could not do better than draw, with his play as White looking somewhat less than full-blooded after the defeat in the opening game. Finally Kasparov won the sixth and seventh games to take the lead. The ninth and eleventh games also went to Kasparov, who had now emphatically won the match by 7:4. This was not the last candidates' match for the then already 52 year old Kortchnoi. In 1987 Kortchnoi won the interzonal tournament of Zagreb, thus again qualifying for the candidates' round, but then was eliminated by Johann Hjartarson in the last 16.\n\nIf the match against Kortchnoi had already been a war of the generations for the 20 year old Kasparov, then in the candidates' final Kasparov was going to meet someone who was even a decade older \u2013 Vassily Smyslov (63). The World Champion of 1957 had previously won his candidates' quarter-final in Velden against Robert H\u00fcbner by the drawing of lots and the other semi-final in London by 6\u00bd:4\u00bd against Zoltan Ribli.\n\nThe candidates' final was finally played in March and April in the White Hall of the Vilnius Museum of Art (Lithuania). Just after the match Kasparov celebrated his 21st birthday, making him exactly a third of the age of his opponent. For Smyslov, who had won his title six years before Kasparov's birth, it was a sensational success to have made it as far as the final. Kasparov managed to win the third and fourth games as well as the ninth and twelfth for a final score of 8\u00bd:4\u00bd. This made Kasparov the challenger of World Champion Karpov. In the meanwhile he had even overtaken the World Champion in the Elo list (January 1984: 2715 compared to 2705).\n\nThe prospect that Kasparov would take over from Karpov attracted for the subsequent WCh match about 500 journalists. The match began on the 9th September 1984. To prepare Karpov had once more retired to the Latvian spa Pliavinas with his trainers. However, Karpov was not a particularly hard worker and preferred playing blitz and cards against his trainers. During the match Karpov then lived with his team in the former dacha of Marshall Ivan Koniev, on an army site 30 kilometres outside of Moscow. Since Karpov was a member of the army sports club he enjoyed the support of the army. Kasparov was on the other hand a member of Spartak Moscow, the club for Soviet trade.\n\nKarpov's team included Sergey Makarichev, Yuri Balashov, Efim Geller, Tamas Georgadze, Lev Polugaevsky and Adrian Mikhalchishin and as the leader Igor Zaitsev. All the analyses of the other trainers were kept by Zaitsev in a special safe. Rafael Vaganian, who was a friend of Karpov, often dropped by. In Moscow's Hotel Peking Elizbar Ubilava and Mikhail Podgaets were also standing by. These two had specific analytical tasks to fulfil. Only some of the trainers officially belonged to the staff, the others were 'unofficial'. Mikhalchishin, for example, was officially correspondent for a daily newspaper in Lviv.\n\nCare was taken to ensure that it did not become known who all were working for Karpov. On the car trip to the venue the secret additional trainers always lay flat on the rear seats as soon as the car reached the House of The Unions so as not to be seen with Karpov. Polugaevsky did not like supporting Karpov against Kasparov and his visits to the training camp were irregular. Later he declared himself to be ill. Nevertheless Karpov's win in a rook ending in the 27th game was due in a large part to Polugaevsky's analyses. The technical leader of the Karpov team was Alexander Bach. He also procured the food, which came from the military base. Sometimes, however, the fare was really monotonous. Once for a whole week they had ox tongue with peas, as Adrian Mikhalchishin later remembered.\n\nThe challenger too could count on a strong team. Kasparov's most prominent trainer was Mikhail Botvinnik, who regularly advised him during the match. In Mikhail Tal another World Champion was among Kasparov's supporters. Elmar Magerramov did a great deal of the work, above all during the preparation in Baku. After the match, however, he and Kasparov went their separate ways.\n\nBoth players, moreover, relied on the help of 'para-psychologists'. In Kasparov's team there was Tofik Dadashev. Mikhalchishin reported that Karpov was supported by several para-psychologists. Their main task consisted above all in neutralising opposing forces. One of them was actually a sexual therapist with his own practice. Karpov's security chief was KGB lieutenant colonel Vladimir Pistchenko, who appeared once a week and looked after things. Pistchenko had for many years been the KGB companion and minder for Karpov for his visits abroad.\n\nOn the 15th February 1985 after 48 games the match was abandoned without a winner at a score of 5:3 (with 40 draws) for Karpov. The circumstances of the abandonment have so far never been completely clarified. The WCh match was played in the emblematic hall of columns in the House of the Unions. In 1924 Lenin had been laid there in his coffin. In 1936 the Moscow international tournament, which was won by Capablanca ahead of Botvinnik and Lasker, had been played there. This was the hall where Max Euwe had in 1975 declared Anatoly Karpov to be World Champion. After two draws Karpov went into the lead with a win in the third game:\n\n **Karpov \u2013 Kasparov**\n\nMoscow, 3rd game  \n17th September 1984  \nSicilian Defence (B44)\n\n**1.e4 c5 2. \u2658f3 e6 3.d4 cxd4 4.\u2658xd4 \u2658c6**\n\nThis setup has acquired the name of the Taimanov Variation.\n\n**5. \u2658b5**\n\nThe threat of 6.\u2658d6+ forces Black to commit himself.\n\n**5...d6 6.c4 \u2658f6 7.\u26581c3 a6 8.\u2658a3**\n\nThe disadvantage of move 5 is that White has to accept this somewhat unharmonious knight placement.\n\n**8... \u2657e7**\n\nIn the later re-run of the match in 1985 Kasparov surprised Karpov with 8...d5.\n\n**9. \u2657e2 0-0 10.0-0 b6 11.\u2657e3 \u2657b7 12.\u2655b3**\n\nThis position was very well known at the time of the game.\n\n**12... \u2658a5!?**\n\nA novelty by the young challenger. Black reacts to the attack on the b6-pawn with a counter-attack on the e4-pawn (and the white queen!). The usual move is 12...\u2658d7.\n\n**13. \u2655xb6**\n\nAfter the petty 13.\u2655c2 Black would certainly have no problems: 13...\u2656c8 etc.\n\n**13... \u2658xe4 14.\u2658xe4 \u2657xe4 15.\u2655xd8 \u2657xd8**\n\nBlack now threatens the unpleasant 16... \u2657f6. But 15...\u2656fxd8 would be followed by 16.\u2657b6 winning the exchange.\n\n**16. \u2656ad1**\n\n**16...d5?**\n\nKasparov thought for 50 minutes and then sacrificed a pawn, to avoid a passive defence. 16...\u2657f6 would now be followed by 17.b3 \u2657b2 18.\u2658b1 \u2658b7 19.f3 \u2657c6 20.\u2657d4 \u2657xd4+ 21.\u2656xd4 with a better position for White. But 16...\u2657e7 17.\u2658b1 \u2658c6 18.\u2658c3 \u2657g6 19.\u2656d2 \u2656ab8 20.\u2656fd1 \u2658b4 seems to be very playable, or 16...\u2656b8 17.b3 \u2657e7 with level chances.\n\n**17.f3**\n\n17.cxd5 \u2657xd5 would of course be great for Black.\n\n**17... \u2657f5 18.cxd5 exd5 19.\u2656xd5 \u2657e6**\n\nThat was the idea. It turns out, however, that here the tactics work in White's favour, amongst other things also because the \u2658a5 is badly posted on the edge of the board.\n\n**20. \u2656d6**\n\nThe a6-pawn is hanging.\n\n**20... \u2657xa2**\n\n'The correct way was 20...\u2657e7 21.\u2656xa6 \u2656xa6 22.\u2657xa6 \u2656b8 23.\u2657d4 \u2658c6 24.\u2657c3 \u2657c5+ 25.\u2654h1 and only then 25...\u2657xa2.' (Baturinsky), but perhaps 23.\u2658b5 is better: 23...\u2658c4 (23...\u2656a8 24.\u2658c7+\u2013; 23...\u2657xa2? 24.\u2656a1) 24.\u2657d4 \u2658xb2 25.\u2657xb2 \u2656b6 26.\u2658c7 \u2656xb2 27.\u2658xe6 fxe6 28.\u2657c4 with an advantage.\n\n**21. \u2656xa6 \u2656b8?**\n\n21...\u2656xa6 22.\u2657xa6 \u2657e7 23.\u2657e2 \u2656b8 24.\u2656c1 \u2657e6 25.\u2658b5 \u2658b3 26.\u2656d1 \u2656c8 27.\u2658c3 g6 and the white advantage is less than in the game.\n\n**22. \u2657c5**\n\n22.\u2656d1!? intending b2-b4.\n\n**22... \u2656e8 23.\u2657b5 \u2656e6 24.b4 \u2658b7**\n\n'Nor is 24...\u2658b3 25.\u2656xe6 fxe6 any better, nor 24...\u2656xa6 25.\u2657xa6 \u2658b3 26.\u2656e1 threatening mate.' (Baturinsky)\n\n**25. \u2657f2 \u2657e7 26.\u2658c2 \u2657d5 27.\u2656d1 \u2657b3 28.\u2656d7 \u2656d8**\n\n'Nor can the position be saved after 28... \u2657xc2 29.\u2656xe6 fxe6 30.\u2656xe7 \u2658d6 31.\u2657d7 \u2656xb4 32.\u2657c5 \u2656b1+ 33.\u2654f2+\u2013.' (Baturinsky)\n\n**29. \u2656xe6 \u2656xd7 30.\u2656e1 \u2656c7 31.\u2657b6**\n\nBlack resigned due to 31...\u2656xc2 32.\u2656xe7 \u2658d6 33.\u2657c5+\u2013.\n\nOn the 26\/27th September after the sixth game it became 2:0; in the subsequent game on the 28th it was already 3:0. On the 5\/6th October Karpov won the next game for a score of 4:0.\n\nKasparov then dropped his 'up and at 'em' style, which was making absolutely no impression on Karpov, played safe and tried to protract the match with short draws. There followed a long series of 17 draws, with some very boring and uneventful games which to the disappointment of the spectators would be finished after an hour's playing time. Then on the 23rd November Karpov also won the 27th game for 5:0. Now an enormous table was set up in Karpov's dacha for the victory celebration, but that turned out to be premature. On the 14th December 1984 in game 32 Kasparov achieved his first win and shortened the lead to 5:1.\n\nThe never-ending match and its two protagonists were becoming a laughing stock, and not only in chess circles. Nevertheless, the long-lasting match left time for other things. Thus Kasparov managed to have a liaison with the well-known and 16 year older Russian actress Marina Neyolova. The relationship lasted until 1987. Because of this connection many Russian actors found an interest in the World Chess Championship and regularly visited the hall of columns.\n\nThe 33rd and 34th games both ended in draws and were still played in the hall of columns. But then on the death of the defence minister of the USSR, Dmitry F. Ustinov, his bier was put on display in the hall of columns and the match was interrupted for a week. It was continued on the 26th December. There followed 12 more draws, the last in the 45th game, on 23rd January 1985. During this series Karpov missed a possible win in the 41st game.\n\nGradually even in the chess community of Moscow amongst spectators and journalists there was more and more criticism of the match which would not end. Despite the long match Anatoly Karpov was still in good condition. His medical adviser Prof. Gershanovich reported to Dr Helmut Pfleger that until that point Karpov had only lost two kilos, though during matches he normally lost up to six kilos. In the meantime the length of the match, on which nobody had been counting, was causing organisational problems on all sides. Thus the visitor visas they had for Moscow were gradually running out for Kasparov's seconds. Karpov's seconds had tournament obligations. It was not appropriate for the hall of columns to be occupied eternally. Several film teams, who wanted to film there, were waiting for the chess match to finally come to an end.\n\nAlso the costs of the organisation were becoming ever greater, day by day and game by game. In the meantime the suggestion was made that the match should be moved from the hall of columns and continued in the Moscow Sport Hotel, which seemed to rather degrade the WCh match. Karpov made use of his good relationships to 'higher circles' and obtained that the WCh match should for the moment at least be continued in the hall of columns. In a letter to the Committee for Sports he promised that the match would be finished by at the latest the end of January. On the 28th January there was another draw. Two days later, however, Kasparov won his second game and shortened the lead to 5:2. After this game the transfer of the match to the Sport Hotel on the outskirts of Moscow was announced. The move took up a week.\n\nIn the meantime FIDE president Campomanes, who was in Dubai, where, in view of the forthcoming 1986 Chess Olympiad, he had been dealing with the future hosts about the status of the players from Israel, hurried to Moscow. He had obviously been phoned by Svetozar Gligoric on behalf of Alfred Kinzel, who spoke no English, and told about the difficult situation in Moscow. Kinzel was the president of the German Chess Federation and had a very good relationship with Karpov, whom he had driven around Germany for numerous tours giving simultaneous displays. At the match in Moscow he had been acting as chairman of the disputes committee, which would have been active had there been disagreements. Campomanes now wanted to achieve a speedy end to the match through negotiations with the players. On the 29th February Kinzel made a statement: 'At the end of January the FIDE president developed the plan of trying to limit the marathon match through an agreement with the two players.' According to Kasparov the idea was 'to bring to a dignified and cheap finish a protracted struggle, that had become nerve-wracking and exhausting not only for Karpov and myself, but for the whole chess world and the general public.'\n\nThe first was to restrict the match to eight more games. If no decision had then been reached, the match should be abandoned. Kasparov was on the other hand against the immediate termination of the match. Both sides were agreed that a newly scheduled match should then be limited to 24 games. There was no consensus as to how the present match and the points scored in it should be evaluated. Campomanes left on the 2nd February and was kept informed by telephone about the progress of the negotiations. Since these had not yet been concluded, the 48th game was played on the 8th February 1985 in the Sport Hotel. Kasparov won again and drew closer with 3:5.\n\nOn the 11th February Campomanes returned to Moscow. Kasparov took a timeout, then Campomanes decreed a pause in the match. On the 15th February Campomanes called a press conference in the Sport Hotel; it was chaired by the representative of the foreign ministry. Karpov was already on his way to his dacha outside of Moscow when he received a call on the car phone and was informed that Campomanes would terminate the match. Karpov turned back and reached the Sport Hotel where the press conference had begun.\n\nSome days previously he had reached agreement with Campomanes about the conditions of the cancellation, but at the press conference Campomanes made public quite different conditions. The FIDE president let it be known that 'the match was finished without any decision having been reached. A new match will be played from scratch \u2013 zero-zero (...), with the agreement of both players (...). This title match (...) has exhausted the physical and perhaps also the mental reserves not only of the participants but of all those who have been involved with the match.'\n\nSuddenly Karpov stood up and explained that he was ready to continue with the match. Kasparov should also be invited to comment. The representative of the foreign ministry interrupted Karpov and said: 'The decision has been taken.' Then Kasparov spoke up angrily and shouted: 'What is this show all about?' The representative of the foreign ministry then declared the press conference over.\n\nCampomanes, however, continued with his explanation. Finally there was a pause in the press conference. Campomanes appeared an hour and a half later and announced: 'The World Champion accepts the decision of the president, the challenger submits to the decision of the president.' According to Alexander Nikitin, two days previously Kasparov had received a call from the match organiser Piotr Demichev, the minister of culture of the USSR, which called on him to agree to the cancellation and not to try to get help from Heydar Aliyev, since in any case that would serve no purpose.\n\nNikitin also reported that the cancellation of the match had been decided in the central committee of the communist party after game 47. After it Demichev had been instructed to bring about the termination of the match. The leader of Kasparov's delegation, Yuri Mamedov, had been previously advised, according to Nikitin, not to get involved in forthcoming events. Campomanes too in an interview with the Soviet chess magazine _64_ gave hints that the instruction to abandon the match had come from official political circles in the Soviet Union. Campomanes claimed that it was only on the day on which the press conference was held that he had decided to break off the match.\n\nThat is probably not true. Alfred Kinzel had already informed the German Chess Federation on the previous day that he would be leaving Moscow the next day since the WCh match would then be over. Towards the end of the match, the general secretary of the communist party Konstantin Chernenko was dying and the political leadership in Moscow certainly had very different things to worry about than a neverending chess match. In Karpov's opinion, Heydar Aliyev, who was responsible for sport in the Politburo, had been involved with the decision to break off the match. And during the match Kasparov had had a direct line to Aliyev.\n\nThe US grandmaster Lev Alburt, who was born in the Soviet Union, was also of the opinion that Kasparov had had the better political contacts with Aliyev and with these would have been absolutely in a position to go for a breaking off of the match, if he had wanted to. Karpov's supporters on the other hand were placed no higher than in the propaganda bureau.\n\nIt was however discovered by the journalist Yuri Vassiliev that at decisive points Karpov and his supporters had had some influence. In Karpov's opinion, Vassiliev had shown himself in his articles to be very taken with Kasparov's play and had in addition dared on one occasion to make an ironic comment about the World Champion. When he travelled to the World Championship as a correspondent for the most widely circulated newspaper in the world _Trud_ (circulation 18 million), he was informed there that he would not receive accreditation, 'because he was not on the list'. It was pointed out to him that Marat Gramov, the head of the Committee for Sports, was behind this decision. When Vassiliev complained about his problem to Kasparov's mother, she pulled the levers which were available to her and Kasparov. A phone call to an aide of Heydar Aliyev was sufficient to arrange accreditation for the journalist immediately. But, according to the explanations of Vladimir Popov in _The KGB plays chess_ , during the match the 11th section of the 5th KGB department of the USSR bugged and recorded all the telephone conversations of Kasparov, his trainers and even his mother, with the approval of Philip Bobkov, the depute director of KGB, and was therefore well informed about Kasparov's preparation.\n\nIn this match a special role was played for Kasparov by the psychologist and 'clairvoyant' Tofik Dadashev. He had apparently been sent to Moscow by the communist party of Azerbaijan to provide psychological support to Kasparov when the score was 0:4. Dadashev won Kasparov's trust and managed to stabilise the challenger psychologically. Even Karpov believed in the powers of the psychologist and later considered the effect he had among the spectators to be the reason for him not having found the courage to play sharply for a win when the score was 5:0, which would perhaps have cost him one or two defeats but probably also gained him the sixth victory. Dadashev also helped Kasparov later during the re-run of the match in Leningrad.\n\nBefore the fourth KK-match in Sevilla in 1987 Karpov had won over Dadashev according to Kasparov's account, and brought him into his own team. Kasparov felt betrayed. According to Karpov, however, Dadashev never belonged to his team. In an interview with the news magazine _Der Spiegel_ Karpov said that Dadashev had sought him out and then is said to have reported which of Karpov's mental weaknesses were known to Kasparov. After the abandoned match Kasparov began a propaganda offensive and gave several interviews, including to _Der Spiegel_ , in which he explained how badly disadvantaged he had been during his World Championships match against Karpov.\n**32. Perestroika against the establishment**\n\n**The World Championship 1985:  \n_Anatoly Karpov against Garry Kasparov_**\n\nAt the FIDE congress, from 24th-31st August 1985 in Graz, only three days before the start of the second WCh match between Karpov and Kasparov, the general assembly approved in retrospect the termination of the first match by the president Florencio Campomanes. After 48 games neither player had achieved the six wins required for victory and at the time the match was abandoned it did not look as if there was likely to be any change in that position. In addition the rules newly formulated in Tunis 1985 by the executive committee for the staging of World Championships were adopted. From now on 24 was the fixed number of games, so as from then on to avoid marathon matches like that between Karpov and Kasparov.\n\nOther changes in the rules, however, would in Kasparov's opinion give a clear advantage to the reigning World Champion Karpov for the forthcoming match. The title defender was to retain his title if the match was drawn after 24 games. Moreover, he was also accorded a return match should he lose the actual match. This right to a return match, once known as the 'Lex Botvinnik', had been done away with before Botvinnik's match against Tigran Petrosian in 1963, but had been brought back again in 1977. Since Karpov had won his matches of 1978 and 1981, it had not been used. At the FIDE congress of Graz in 1985 that right was again done away with. But since the WCh match of 1985 was officially the continuation of the abandoned match of 1984\/85, then \u2013 according to the reasoning of FIDE's leadership \u2013 the same rules as in the first match had to apply, and in them the right to a return was still valid.\n\nShould he also lose the return match, Karpov was seeded straight into the final of the following WCh cycle to play whoever had eliminated all his opponents till then in the matches. Previously all other dethroned World Champions had also been qualifiers for the subsequent candidates' matches but had had to start their matches in the quarter-finals. So it would only take Karpov one victorious match to return as the challenger the World Championship. This was an extraordinary special rule.\n\nAccording to his own account, Kasparov only learned about the changes to the rules, including the right to a return match, two days before the start of the re-run of his match against Karpov. In a further change to the regulations FIDE also laid claim to one percent of the prize fund for each game which was drawn. The background to this was the long series of draws in the 1984\/85 match and perhaps the idea of motivating the players to produce more decisive games.\n\nThe arbiters for the match were decided, differently from previous procedures, by Campomanes at the FIDE congress in Graz: Andrey Malchev (Bulgaria) and Vladas Mikenas (Soviet Union) as chief arbiters, Lembit Vachessaar (Soviet Union) and Lodewijk Prins (Netherlands) deputies. Previously it had been usual for the players themselves to make suggestions for the arbiters' positions. Lothar Schmid had thus been named by both players. But since Campomanes delayed the decision for such a long time, Schmid was finally unavailable to accept for professional reasons.\n\nLondon, Moscow and Marseille had put in bids to be the venue for the WCh match. The bids with their prize fund on offer were kept in sealed envelopes in the FIDE offices in Lucerne and were ceremonially opened on the 1st May. London and Moscow had each offered approximately a million Swiss francs. Marseille's offer of 1.6 million Swiss francs was clearly higher. Nevertheless the match was awarded to Moscow. Campomanes justified this decision by saying that other criteria than the amount of the prize fund had a role to play, for example the general conditions, public interest in the venue and the wishes of the players.\n\nTo prepare for the match Kasparov played training matches against Robert H\u00fcbner (sponsored by _Der Spiegel_ and held in Hamburg, 4\u00bd:1\u00bd) and Ulf Andersson (in Belgrade, 4:2). In Hamburg, moreover, he defeated in a simultaneous display 32 chess computers by 32:0. Karpov won the double-round OHRA tournament in Amsterdam undefeated.\n\nThe repeat match began on 3rd September 1985, this time in the venerable Tchaikovsky Concert Hall. The tickets for it were in great demand and cost 15 roubles. Viktor Baturinsky took on the job of Karpov's delegation leader.\n\nIn the meantime, there had been a change in the power structure in Moscow. Mikhail Gorbachov was the new general secretary of the communist party of the Soviet Union and had presented his programme for reform. His foreign minister Eduard Shevardnadze greeted Kasparov before the match, but not Karpov, which the augurs in the Soviet empire saw as a paradigm shift by the new Soviet leadership. But the title defender was not badly treated, since Adrian Mikhalchishin later reminisced:\n\n'All the seconds lived in the wonderful dacha of Marshall Ivan Koniev, a famous Soviet veteran from the days of the Second World War: the legendary Efim Geller, Igor Zaitsev, Valery Salov, Sergey Makarichev, Viktor Cheliandinov and I. An hour before the start of each game Tolya had a 15-minute session with his psychologist, a man from Odessa, who was very pleasant \u2013 he made a fantastic fish soup! He began with his mental preparation and through the wall we could hear him shouting in the other room: \"Kill him! Destroy him! Bring him to his knees!\" We almost died laughing. Geller quipped that if the world heavyweight boxing champion happened to come into the room now, Tolya would rip him to pieces!'\n\nAs well as the trainers named, Evgeny Sveshnikov visited Karpov's camp on and off and tried to persuade the World Champion to combat Kasparov's Sicilian with 2.c3. In addition, Yuri Balashov was also a member of the team and Alexander Roshal as _TASS_ correspondent. Kasparov's head of delegation was once more Yuri Mamedov, his mother Klara Kasparova took on the duties of his manager. From the chess point of view Kasparov was supported by Georgy Timoshenko and Alexander Nikitin as seconds. Andras Adorjan did not receive an entry visa for Moscow.\n\nAt the start of the match Karpov was suffering from a bout of flu and immediately lost the first game. The second was adjourned in what was for him a hopeless position, but on the resumption the title defender was able to hold the game. Otherwise he would have fallen behind decisively right at the beginning. After another draw Karpov won the fourth and fifth games and went into the lead. But the challenger then obtained wins in the eleventh, 16th and 19th games, after which he was the one in the lead by 4:2. Karpov closed the gap with a victory in the 22nd game, but Kasparov finally won the 24th game for a final score of 13:11, counting the draws.\n\n **Kasparov \u2013 Karpov**\n\nMoscow, 11th game  \n1st October 1985  \nNimzo-Indian Defence (E21)\n\n**1.d4 \u2658f6 2.c4 e6 3.\u2658c3 \u2657b4 4.\u2658f3**\n\nThis move had been prepared by Kasparov for this match as his reply to the Nimzo-Indian Defence.\n\n**4...0-0**\n\nIn the 1st game Karpov experienced a shipwreck with the variation 4...c5 5.g3 \u2658e4 6.\u2655d3 \u2655a5 7.\u2655xe4 \u2657xc3+ 8.\u2657d2 \u2657xd2+ 9.\u2658xd2 \u2655b6 10.dxc5 \u2655xb2 11.\u2656b1 \u2655c3 12.\u2655d3 \u2655xd3 13.exd3.\n\n**5. \u2657g5 c5**\n\nIn the 7th game of the match 5...d6 6.e3 \u2658bd7 7.\u2655c2 b6 was played.\n\n**6.e3 cxd4 7.exd4 h6 8. \u2657h4 d5 9.\u2656c1**\n\nThe alternative was 9.\u2657d3.\n\n**9...dxc4**\n\nA novelty by Karpov. In an earlier game with this variation between Taimanov and Parma, Tbilisi 1973, 9...\u2658c6 10.cxd5 exd5 11.\u2657e2 was played.\n\n**10. \u2657xc4 \u2658c6 11.0-0 \u2657e7 12.\u2656e1 b6**\n\nNow a typical isolani position has arisen, in which White is already well developed and Black has weakened himself slightly with...h7-h6 on the kingside. Nevertheless the game is balanced. Karpov now develops his queenside.\n\n**13.a3**\n\nA standard plan in this sort of position: White brings his bishop to b1, the queen to d3, and forces Black into further weaknesses on account of the threat of mate on h7. Moreover the thrust d4-d5 is always in the offing.\n\n**13... \u2657b7 14.\u2657g3**\n\nBlack would react to 14.\u2657a2 \u2656c8 15.\u2657b1 with 15...\u2658h5.\n\n**14... \u2656c8**\n\nNow 14...\u2658h5 would be met by the central pawn advance 15.d5 exd5 16.\u2658xd5 \u2658xg3 17.hxg3 and White's pieces are very actively placed.\n\n**15. \u2657a2 \u2657d6**\n\n15...\u2658h5 16.d5.\n\n**16.d5 \u2658xd5 17.\u2658xd5 \u2657xg3 18.hxg3 exd5 19.\u2657xd5 \u2655f6**\n\nBlack attacks the b2-pawn and threatens...\u2656fd8. After 19...\u2656c7!? the white queen lift to the kingside would not have been possible: 20.\u2656c2 \u2656d7 21.\u2656d2 \u2658a5 22.\u2657xb7 \u2656xd2 23.\u2655xd2 \u2658xb7=.\n\n**20. \u2655a4 \u2656fd8 21.\u2656cd1 \u2656d7**\n\nBlack would like to relieve his position by doubling rooks and exchanging them on the d-file. For a moment, however, the \u2656d7 is unprotected. 21...\u2656d6 was safer.\n\n**22. \u2655g4**\n\n**22... \u2656cd8??**\n\nThis was the plan.\n\nWith his stereotyped reaction, however, Karpov overlooks another slightly hidden defect in his position \u2013 his weak back rank. After 22...\u2656d6 everything was still OK for Black.\n\n**23. \u2655xd7! \u2656xd7 24.\u2656e8+ \u2654h7 25.\u2657e4+**\n\nBlack resigned: 25...g6 26.\u2656xd7 and Black loses further material: 26...\u2657a6 27.\u2657xc6 \u2657c4 (27...\u2655xc6 28.\u2656xf7#) 28.\u2658e5+\u2013.\n\nThe match ended on the 9th November 1985. After ten years Karpov had been replaced as World Champion. In two WCh matches the players had sat opposite each other over the board for 325 hours and played 72 games. For his victory Kasparov received 696000 Swiss francs prize money, and as the loser Karpov 520000 Swiss francs.\n\nDuring the match, on 30th September 1985, an article appeared in _Der Spiegel_ magazine which reported that Karpov's former friend, the NDR editor Helmut Jungwirth, had embezzled some 450000 dollars from Karpov. What was involved was a fee which Karpov had received from the chess computer firm Novag for his advertising work and which Helmut Jungwirth had been managing for Karpov along with other advertising revenue in Germany. Jungwirth had perhaps counted on Karpov not having declared this income at home and not therefore wanting to take proceedings against him. Karpov, however, sued Jungwirth before a German court. The latter was legally convicted of embezzlement and deceit and paid 800000 marks to Karpov.\n\nKarpov said he spent the money for the promotion of chess in the USSR. _Der Spiegel_ suggested that he had been forced to do so by the authorities in the USSR, since he would otherwise have been threatened with a prosecution on account of currency offences. Karpov denied this. After the publication of the article in _Der Spiegel_ , Karpov lost three games out of nine and did not win a single one between the 1st and 24th October. Karpov found the article to be extremely discrediting and later stated in an interview with _Der Spiegel_ that the contribution had been deliberately published during the WCh match in order to disturb him.\n**33. Return match under protest**\n\n**The World Championship 1986:  \n_Garry Kasparov against Anatoly Karpov_**\n\nAfter winning the World Championship match against Karpov, Kasparov played a match against Jan Timman (15th to 22nd December, Hilversum), who at that time was considered number three in the world. Kasparov won 3:1 with two draws. Immediately after the match Kasparov began a media offensive and gave a press conference, in which he spoke out against the planned return match against Karpov \u2013 the start having been fixed by Campomanes to be very soon, on the 10th February. Moreover he demanded the deposition of Campomanes as FIDE president. In Lincoln Lucena Kasparov himself offered a new candidate for the office, in conjunction with Raymond Keene.\n\nCampomanes had been chosen in earlier elections with the votes of the USSR and its satellites and those of the chess developing countries. The western countries were in the main against the Filipino. Keene, till then a follower of Campomanes, hoped that with the help of Kasparov they could win over the USSR federation and the federations of the eastern block countries for the new leadership duo at the next presidential election. The Brazilian Lucena could count on the votes from the developing countries. Kasparov was supported by the European Chess Union (ECU), which had been founded at the FIDE congress in Graz 1985 and whose first president, the Swede Rolf Litorin, requested FIDE in a letter to cancel the return match. Timman, Larsen, Short, Ljubojevic, Najdorf, Seirawan and other western grandmasters supported the initiative by Kasparov. In a letter to the USSR Chess Federation the new World Champion Kasparov asked his federation to support him in his position and to speak out against the return match, but in vain. The leadership of the Soviet federation continued, to Kasparov's way of thinking, to support Karpov.\n\nFIDE, then based in Lucerne, had in the meantime reacted to Kasparov's demands for the cancellation of the match and threated to depose him as World Champion if he would not play. Kasparov was requested to explain in writing by the 7th January 1986 whether he would appear for the return match, an ultimatum which according to Kasparov was not covered by any rule since the venue had not even been fixed yet. Leningrad made a bid to organise it with a symbolic offer of a million Swiss francs, of which, however, the players would only receive 72000, and moreover that would be in roubles, and London offered 1.8 million Swiss francs. On the designated deadline of 13th January no decision had yet been taken.\n\nKasparov had the impression that the decision was being deliberately drawn out and that Karpov was active behind the scenes with the intention of having the match fixed for a date at which Kasparov's trainers would not be available to him. Both were part of the army and thus subject to more or less arbitrary orders or releases for training and tournaments. On the 18th January Kasparov once more declared that he would not play. Instead he suggested a three-man tournament with Kasparov, Karpov and the winner of the candidates' matches. At a meeting of the Soviet Chess Federation on 22nd January, Kasparov and Karpov finally came to an agreement according to which the return match was to take place in the summer of 1986, and according to the wishes of both players in Leningrad.\n\nKasparov thought that by giving in he had gained Karpov and the Soviet federation as allies against Campomanes. Later he had to accept that Campomanes had previously come to a different agreement with Vassily Gavrilin, the vice-president of the Soviet Committee for Sports, and David Anderton, the representative of the British Chess Federation, about the staging of the match: it would take place half in London and half in Leningrad. In May 1986 Kasparov played a match in Basel with Anthony Miles, one of the strongest western players of that time, and annihilated him by 5\u00bd:\u00bd.\n\nIn his match with Karpov, in addition to his regular trainers Alexander Nikitin, Josif Dorfman, Evgeny Vladimirov and Georgy Timoshenko, Kasparov was also supported by Mikhail Gurevich and Elmar Magerramov as seconds. Also in the delegation which travelled with him to London, moreover, were Seyavush Eganov representing the Soviet Republic of Azerbaijan and Viktor Litvinov as a representative of the KGB. Kasparov had hired as his manager the Englishman Andrew Page, who rented a house near Kensington Gardens for the Kasparov delegation. Karpov's official seconds were Igor Zaitsev and Sergey Makarichev.\n\nThe host for the match, the first WCh match between two Soviet grandmasters to take place outside of the USSR, was the London Park Lane Hotel. The games were played in the main ballroom of the hotel. The arbiter was Lothar Schmid. Even the British prime minister Margaret Thatcher attended the opening ceremony of the WCh match on the 27th July. That ceremony was a lavish production by Tim Rice, whose musical _Chess_ was being performed parallel to the WCh match in London's Prince Edward Theatre. The ceremony was paid for by the Duncan Lawrie banking house. Costs of 100000 pounds or so were mentioned.\n\nOn each of the match days a long queue of chess lovers formed in front of the Park Lane Hotel to get entry tickets. The games were broadcast electronically to a monitor, a new technique for the time, developed by David Levy and Kevin O'Connell with their firm 'Intelligent Chess Software'.\n\nAfter three draws to start with Kasparov was able to decide the fourth game in his favour with the white pieces. Karpov promptly equalised in the fifth game. The sixth and seventh games were again drawn. Then Kasparov won the eighth game in convincing fashion: ten moves before the time control Karpov overstepped the time limit in a lost position.\n\n **Kasparov \u2013 Karpov**\n\nLondon, 8th gamee  \n15th August 1986  \nQueen's Gambit Declined (D35)\n\n**1.d4 d5 2.c4 e6 3. \u2658c3 \u2657e7**\n\nAn idea of the Russian grandmaster Vladimir Alatortsev. After the exchange on d5 Black avoids the development of the white bishop to g5. The more usual move is 3...\u2658f6. White can then continue with 4.cxd5 exd5 5.\u2657g5.\n\n**4.cxd5 exd5 5. \u2657f4 \u2658f6**\n\nIn the 7th game of the match the same opening was played with reversed colours. There then followed 5...c6 6.\u2655c2 g6 7.e3 \u2657f5 etc.\n\n**6.e3 0-0 7. \u2657d3 c5**\n\n7...c6 is also often played.\n\n**8. \u2658f3 \u2658c6 9.0-0 \u2657g4 10.dxc5 \u2657xc5 11.h3**\n\nThere is no way to prevent the black thrust...d5-d4. So White secures at least the bishop pair.\n\n**11... \u2657xf3**\n\nA novelty by Karpov. Other moves are worse: 11...\u2657h5? 12.g4 \u2657g6 13.\u2657xg6 hxg6 14.g5 \u2658h5 15.\u2655xd5 winning a pawn or 11...\u2657e6 and White would get control of the d4-square: 12.\u2658b5!? a6 13.\u2658bd4.\n\n**12. \u2655xf3 d4 13.\u2658e4**\n\n'The attempt to win a pawn with 13.exd4 \u2658xd4 14.\u2655xb7 leads to exchanges which are unfavourable for White: 14...\u2658e6 15.\u2656ad1 \u2658xf4 16.\u2657xh7+ \u2654xh7 17.\u2656xd8 \u2656axd8.' (Nikitin)\n\n**13... \u2657e7**\n\n'The natural 13...\u2658xe4 14.\u2657xe4 dxe3 brings about after 15.\u2655h5 exf2+ 16.\u2654h1 f5 17.\u2657xf5 g6 18.\u2657xg6 hxg6 19.\u2655xg6+ \u2654h8 20.\u2656ad1! complications which Garry evaluated as being to his advantage: 20...\u2657d4 (20...\u2655f6 21.\u2655h5+ \u2654g8 22.\u2656d5+\u2013) 21.\u2655h5+ \u2654g7 22.\u2655g4+ \u2654h8 23.\u2657e3 \u2657xe3 24.\u2656xd8 \u2656axd8 25.\u2655h4+ \u2654g7 26.\u2655g3+ +\u2013 winning the bishop.' (Nikitin)\n\n**14. \u2656ad1 \u2655a5!**\n\nAfter 14...\u2655b6 15.\u2657d6 \u2658d5 16.\u2655f5 \u2657xd6 17.\u2658xd6 \u2658f6 18.\u2655g5!? (intending \u2658f5) 18...\u2658e7 19.\u2658c4 White is clearly better.\n\n**15. \u2658g3 dxe3 16.fxe3!**\n\n**16... \u2655xa2!?**\n\n'The primitive 16...g6 17.\u2657h6 \u2656fe8 is unable to prevent 18.\u2658f5.' (Nikitin) 18.\u2658e4 is even better.\n\n**17. \u2658f5 \u2655e6 18.\u2657h6**\n\nStronger than 18.\u2658xe7+ \u2658xe7 (18... \u2655xe7 19.\u2657d6) 19.\u2655xb7.\n\n**18... \u2658e8 19.\u2655h5 g6 20.\u2655g4 \u2658e5**\n\n**21. \u2655g3**\n\n'It would be objectively stronger to play 21.\u2658xe7+ \u2655xe7 22.\u2657xf8 \u2654xf8 23.\u2655f4, but then Black would have clarity and a stable position. White wanted to maintain the tension and the uncertainty, since Karpov was beginning to think about each move for a long time.' (Nikitin)\n\n**21... \u2657f6**\n\nKarpov now had only 14 minutes left on his clock for the remaining moves.\n\n**22. \u2657b5?!**\n\n'White tries to hang on to his dwindling initiative.' (Nikitin) 22.\u2658d4 \u2655e7 23.\u2657xf8 \u2654xf8 offers White a slight advantage. Even if the move was not objectively the best, it is effective. Karpov used up a further ten minutes thinking time on the next five moves.\n\n**22... \u2658g7 23.\u2657xg7 \u2657xg7 24.\u2656d6 \u2655b3 25.\u2658xg7 \u2655xb5**\n\nBlack has stabilised his position with clever defence and is now trying, despite time trouble, to play for a win with his extra pawn. White is not interested in sharing the points either.\n\n**26. \u2658f5 \u2656ad8**\n\nBlack scorns the draw after 26...f6 27.\u2658h6+ \u2654g7 28.\u2658f5+ \u2654g8 29.\u2658h6+. Karpov now has only four minutes on the clock for the remaining 14 moves.\n\n**27. \u2656f6**\n\nInstead of this White could also have forced a draw here with 27.\u2656xd8 \u2656xd8 28.\u2655g5 \u2656d7 29.\u2658h6+ \u2654g7 30.\u2658f5+ \u2654g8 31.\u2658h6+.\n\n**27... \u2656d2**\n\nAccording to Nikitin 27...\u2654h8 was safer: 28.\u2658d4 \u2655c5 29.\u2658e6 fxe6 30.\u2656xf8+ \u2656xf8 31.\u2656xf8+ \u2655xf8 32.\u2655xe5+ \u2654g8 33.\u2655xe6+ \u2655f7=.\n\n**28. \u2655g5 \u2655xb2**\n\n28...\u2654h8!? 29.\u2655h6 \u2656g8 30.\u2658e7 with approximate equality according to Nikitin.\n\n**29. \u2654h1**\n\n**29... \u2654h8??**\n\n29...\u2656d7 30.\u2658h6+ \u2654g7 31.\u26566f4 \u2658c6 would have led to a draw.\n\n**30. \u2658d4 \u2656xd4 31.\u2655xe5**\n\n**1-0**\n\nBefore playing his 31st move Karpov overstepped the time limit.\n\nAfter 31...\u2656d2 32.\u2655e7 \u2656dd8 33.\u2656xf7 \u2656xf7 34.\u2656xf7 \u2654g8 White wins by advancing the e-pawn: 35.e4 \u2655c1+ 36.\u2654h2 \u2655h6 37.e5 \u2656f8 38.e6 g5 39.\u2656xf8+ \u2655xf8 40.\u2655xg5+ \u2654h8 (40...\u2655g7 41.\u2655d8+ \u2655f8 42.e7+\u2013) 41.e7 \u2655e8 42.h4 h5 43.g4 hxg4 44.h5 \u2654h7 45.\u2655g6+. 'White's win is obvious.' (Nikitin)\n\nThis was followed by four draws. At a score of 6\u00bd:5\u00bd after half of the programmed 24 games the World Championship then moved to Leningrad, now St. Petersburg. After game 12 Kasparov had sat down with his seconds because he wondered why his lavish opening preparation with its many surprises was making absolutely no impression on Karpov and was ineffective. Kasparov expressed the suspicion that there was perhaps a leak in his team and that information was getting out.\n\nKasparov and Karpov flew from London to Leningrad in the same plane and spent their time playing cards together. On landing in Leningrad the World Champion was collected from the airport only by a normal limousine with Baku licence plates, as Kasparov later remembered, whereas Karpov was driven to his lodgings in a luxury limousine with a police escort. Both delegations moved into quarters near each other on the Kamenny Island in the north of today's St. Petersburg. Normally contestants in World Championships live far apart so as to avoid each other. Karpov had, however, decided to live close to Kasparov, which the latter's delegation considered highly suspicious.\n\nThe games in Leningrad were played in the Concert Hall of the Hotel Leningrad. The match was actually due to restart on the 2nd September 1986, but, backed up by a medical certificate, Karpov requested an additional timeout of two days, so that the match could only be continued on the 5th September.\n\nThe first game of the Leningrad half of the match, game 13, also ended in a draw. Then Kasparov won the spectacular 14th game against Karpov's Ruy Lopez Zaitsev Variation and thus increased his lead to two points. Kasparov now took a timeout to enjoy his win. The following, 15th, game ended in a draw. In game 16 Kasparov went after the same variation and once more won brilliantly after an intensive tactical battle. Eight games before the finish Kasparov already looked like a safe winner. But then the title defender lost three games in succession: the 17th, 18th and 19th. Suddenly Karpov was on level terms.\n\nIn London Kasparov had already wondered why Karpov was apparently not in the least surprised by his choice of the Gr\u00fcnfeld Indian Defence and moreover appeared to be perfectly prepared for it. Kasparov had gained the impression that Karpov was not prepared for the objectively best moves, but for the variations analysed by Kasparov's team. More and more Kasparov's suspicion grew, as he later reported, that his analyses were being passed on to Karpov. At first Timoshenko was suspected, but he was no longer involved in Leningrad. There the three defeats in a row finally fed Kasparov's conviction that there was something wrong. Litvinov and Nikitin now told Kasparov that Vladimirov, who had been Kasparov's closest collaborator in the past five years, had continually made copies of all common analyses. An hour before the 18th game, moreover, Vladimirov could not be found at short notice.\n\nTo be quite sure that nobody was communicating with the outside world, all the telephones belonging to the team members were cut off from the net, including a second 'secret' telephone belonging to Vladimirov. The latter, confronted with the suspicions against him, was outraged and explained that he wanted to leave the team. Nobody talked him into staying and so Vladimirov went home, but before doing so he had to sign a declaration admitting the copying of analyses for his own purposes.\n\nKasparov later admitted that he had had no proof of any treachery by Vladimirov, but was nevertheless of the opinion that pressure could perhaps have been put on Vladimirov. Vladimirov, as a member of the army, had in any case belonged to the same sports club as Karpov \u2013 the Central Army Sports Club. Karpov was later asked in a _Spiegel_ interview about the Vladimirov affair and stated that at no point had he been in contact with him, far less had he hired him. Vladimirov himself indicated in interviews that Kasparov had never been able to show any proof for his accusations and explained what had happened by Kasparov's paranoia after three defeats in a row. Kasparov needed something on which to blame the disaster \u2013 apart from himself. Finally he found in Vladimirov an alleged guilty party.\n\nAfter three wins in succession Karpov did not take advantage of the moment to perhaps inflict a fourth defeat on the psychologically ailing Kasparov, but took a timeout before game 20. In line with his conspiracy theory Kasparov later pointed out that perhaps Karpov had now lost important help with his analytical work, (naturally Vladimirov was meant but the name was never mentioned), and needed extra time for his preparation.\n\nThe 20th game was a short draw. The 21st game, in which Karpov had white, also ended without a winner, though only after a long struggle. The 22nd game finally went to Kasparov, who defeated Karpov in the Queen's Gambit. Kasparov, who as title defender only needed a 12:12, then only required a single draw from the remaining two games to win the match. He achieved this in the 23rd game. With it Kasparov had held on to his title. The 24th game was only played to determine the ratio for the division of the prize money.\n**34. A traitor in the camp?**\n\n**The World Championship 1987:  \n_Garry Kasparov against Anatoly Karpov_**\n\nAfter his victory in the return match against Karpov, Kasparov wrote together with Donald Trelford, the editor-in chief of the _Sunday Observer_ , the book _Child of Change_ , his autobiography.\n\nAt the end of October 1986 Kasparov again sought to gain influence on the Soviet Chess Federation for it to support at the forthcoming FIDE congress in Dubai his candidates Lucena and Keene. But without success. The USSR federation announced before the election its support for Campomanes. The announcement made sure that all the other eastern block countries voted for Campomanes. In addition the Arab states were for the reigning FIDE president, as well as all the third world federations who had travelled to Dubai for the Chess Olympiad at the costs of the organisers. In view of the fact that he had no chance, Kasparov's candidate Lucena withdrew before the vote. With his re-election the status of Campomanes underwent a change: for the first time in the history of FIDE the president now received an honorarium for his work.\n\nSince Kasparov was unable to force Campomanes from his office as FIDE president, he founded in Dubai, together with other top grandmasters, the 'Grandmaster Chess Association' (GMA). The seven founder members were: Garry Kasparov, Anatoly Karpov, Jan Timman, Ljubomir Ljubojevic, John Nunn, Yasser Seirawan and Lajos Portisch. The first thing they did was to call into life a series of tournaments, the World Cup. The sponsor of the GMA and its World Cup, or the contact to the sponsors, was the Dutch tele-communications manager Bessel Kok, director of SWIFT, a firm which developed communication systems for banks. FIDE itself had lost standing with its president Campomanes and was hardly an adequate interlocutor for potential sponsors any more. According to Kasparov too much sponsor cash intended for FIDE projects was ending up in the pockets of Campomanes. Discussions with FIDE to give professional chess players via the GMA more influence in the world chess federation soon ran into sand, however.\n\nIn December 1986 Kasparov won the OHRA tournament in Brussels. For the first time in the space of three years he did not have to play a match against Karpov and had more time for tournaments. After the OHRA tournament he played two clock simuls: in Hamburg he defeated the Bundesliga team of the Hamburg Chess Club by 7:1 and in doing so took his revenge for a 3\u00bd:4\u00bd defeat in 1985 at the hands of the same team. In another clock simul he beat the Swiss national team by 5\u00bd:\u00bd.\n\nIn February\/March 1987 in the candidates' 'superfinal' in Linares Karpov defeated Andrei Sokolov by 7\u00bd:3\u00bd, thus becoming the challenger of Kasparov in the next WCh match. Doha (United Arab Emirates) had put in a bid to organise the WCh match. In view of the close contacts the Arab federations had to Campomanes, Doha was out of the question for Kasparov as a venue, whilst Karpov would have gladly played there. Instead, Kasparov's first choice was Seattle. But finally the staging of the WCh was awarded to Sevilla (Spain), where interesting events were already being planned in view of the forthcoming world exhibition ExPO 92. The 10th October 1987 was fixed for the start of the match.\n\nAfter the departure of his previous seconds Timoshenko and Vladimirov, the trainers remaining to Kasparov were Alexander Shakarov, Alexander Nikitin and Josif Dorfman. For his preparation for the latest match against Karpov, Kasparov now also brought on board Zurab Azmaiparashvili and Sergey Dolmatov.\n\nOn the 1st June 1987 Kasparov received, according to his notes, a call from Alexander Feldman, whom he did not then know. The latter asked for a meeting and at it he reported that he had in the past carried out certain tasks for Karpov but that he was now disenchanted with his former boss. According to Feldman, Josif Dorfman, who had been hired as a second by Kasparov shortly before the first match in 1984\/85, then wanted to sell his insider information for betting purposes. That was how the contact was made to Feldman, whom Dorfman knew from their youth. Between the fourth and eleventh games he said Dorfman had received on each occasion 150-200 roubles from Feldman for information about openings, sealed moves and analysis of adjourned games. But Kasparov believed that Dorfman's information had, without the latter knowing it, also been passed from Feldman to Karpov. But when in game 11 Karpov played 1.\u2658f3, Dorfman realised that Karpov had access to his information and he then demanded more money from Feldman. Karpov, who was already leading 4:0, did not see, in Kasparov's view, any need for this and thus ended the connection.\n\nAdrian Mikhalchishin, who in the first two matches between Karpov and Kasparov had acted as a trainer for Karpov, later stated no information of any sort from the Kasparov camp had ever reached Karpov. The link between Dorfman and the Russian gambling mafia was totally plausible, according to Mikhalchishin, but the part of the story which suggested a flow of information from the Kasparov camp towards Karpov was a consequence of the paranoia which had built up in Kasparov's camp during the match and from which the latter had not been able to free himself since then. In reality there had even been a leak in the Karpov camp, because the wife of one of Karpov's trainers had passed on details of preparation.\n\nIn the meantime Dorfman left the team and took part in the USSR championship in Tashkent. He returned for the 32nd game and then, according to Kasparov, is supposed to have made contact with Feldman again. After the first match was abandoned and the date for a restart set for September 1985, Feldman is supposed to have sought out Dorfman again in his home town of Lviv in order to make arrangements for the next match. When they could not come to an agreement, Dorfman anxiously turned on 25th September 1985 to the head of Kasparov's delegation, Gennady Rzaev, who was at the same time the head of the Azerbaijani department of sport, and told him that he had received a telephone death threat. He revealed to him part of his contacts with Feldman. Rzaev then suggested that at his next meeting with Feldman Dorfman should explain that he was ready to cooperate, but that he should demand the allocation of a flat in Moscow in return. Even with the best of contacts this ought to be impossible to arrange in the short time available, was Rzaev's calculation. In the meantime the match would long since have been finished and the whole business taken care of.\n\nTo general surprise in the Kasparov team, on the 30th September Feldman showed Dorfman a letter from the Soviet Committee for Sports to the head of Moscow administration A.I. Kostenko, in which Kostenko was requested to be helpful to Dorfman when he moved to Moscow. Kostenko had written an instruction on the letter and signed it. Rzaev brought this business to the attention of Litvinov, though not till the 1st October. The latter realised that in this case higher authorities were obviously involved and turned to the KGB offices in Azerbaijan. KGB central in Moscow was informed via the local communist party department. The whole business was clas-sified top secret, since had it been made public it could have caused a scandal and the termination of the match.\n\nKasparov at first wanted to sack Dorfman on account of these events, but Litvinov advised keeping him on as a second so as not to weaken the team. Michael Gurevich had also been offered money for information by Feldman. In Kasparov's view Karpov must have known about the actions of the Feldman group. In addition, according to Kasparov, the fingerprints of the KGB had been all over it. In an interview with the German news magazine _Der Spiegel_ , Kasparov had moreover in 1988 expressed the opinion that the discrediting of his second Dorfman by Feldman had been an attempt from outside to sow discord in his team.\n\nIn Sevilla, Kasparov lived with his mother and Soviet security people in a luxury villa with a covered swimming pool and tennis court which had been rented by his manager Andrew Page, whereas his seconds were lodged elsewhere and only visited Kasparov on a day-to-day basis for common preparation and analysis. Every day at ten o'clock there was a conference; that was followed by the division of the tasks. Whilst Kasparov then kept himself fit by playing tennis, the seconds got down to the work.\n\nKarpov, who had got married for the second time just before the match, to the girlfriend of his youth Natalia Bulanowa, had also rented a villa and had moved into it with his whole team. That comprised as well as his seconds his head of delegation Saryapin, and also as his bodyguard and head of security Karpov's trusted friend, KGB lieutenant-colonel Vladimir Pistchenko. Karpov had a direct line to Moscow laid into his villa, where, as was supposed, a second analysis team was kept available to him.\n\nThe match was played in the 'Lope de Vega Theatre' in the centre of Sevilla. Following the recent rules for WCh contests the match was to be to a maximum of 24 games. At a score of 12:12 the World Champion was to retain his title. All the games started at 16.30. The Dutchman Geurt Gijssen was chosen as chief arbiter. On the 10th October the opening ceremony took place and lots were drawn for the colours. Karpov drew the white pieces for the starting game.\n\nBefore the games the players were brought from their residences in white luxury cars and used different entrances to go into the theatre, which had been renovated for the event; whoever had the white pieces on any particular day came in through the main entrance, whereas the player with black used the side entrance. The first rows of seats in the 831 seat theatre \u2013 which was sold out for the first time for the seventh game \u2013 were reserved for the players' entourages and for guests of honour. Monitors were installed outside of the hall showing the position on the board by video signal.\n\nThe games were analysed by commentators in a side room. These alternated and included Boris Spassky, Vassily Smyslov, Mikhail Tal, Viktor Kortchnoi, Ljubomir Ljubojevic, Ulf Andersson, Tamas Georgadze, Gennady Sosonko, Jose Fernandez and Roman Toran, who at the time was vice-president of FIDE. The final phase of the match was commented on by the former women's World Champion Maya Chiburdanidze.\n\nThe first game was played on the 12th October. Kasparov met Karpov's 1.d4 with the Gr\u00fcnfeld Indian Defence, his main weapon which he had also prepared for this match. The game was drawn. In the second game Kasparov came up with a slight surprise, 1.c4. But Karpov showed himself well up to the task. On move 9 he came up with a novelty (9...e3), which he had already prepared in 1981 for the match against Kortchnoi. Kasparov thought about it for 83 minutes before finally continuing with 10.d3. Both players got into time trouble and had only three minutes left on the clock for the final 15 moves. On the 26th move Kasparov replied immediately but forgot to press his clock. His time ran out almost completely since Karpov, for understandable reasons, did not make a move. When Kasparov realised, he had only 20 seconds left for the remaining 14 moves, played them at blitz, made two bad mistakes and resigned.\n\nIn the third game Kasparov again held the draw with his Gr\u00fcnfeld Indian Defence. In the fourth game he repeated the opening from the second game, but Karpov avoided a theoretical discussion, chose a different move from his strong innovation of the second game and lost: the match was all square again. In the fifth game Karpov then served up a new idea in the main variation of the Gr\u00fcnfeld Indian Defence. Kasparov achieved a good position after a difficult opening, but spoiled things and lost. Karpov was leading 3:2. The sixth game ended in a draw. In the seventh game Karpov repeated his variation from the fifth game, which has since been called the Sevilla Variation. After a long struggle the game ended with a sharing of the point on move 79. Kasparov equalised to 4:4 with his win in the eighth game, again with the English Opening. The ninth game again saw the Sevilla Variation and was again drawn. The tenth also ended without a winner. This time Kasparov played 1.e4, but achieved nothing against Karpov's Caro-Kann Defence. In the 11th game the Sevilla Variation was back on the board. But Kasparov obtained an advantage after a mistake by Karpov and won. The World Champion was in the lead for the first time.\n\nGames 12 to 15 were all undecided, though the draw in the 15th game only came about after some turbulent 'negotiations'. After the adjournment of the game, Karpov had his confidant Pistchenko call arbiter Gijssen the following day, Saturday 21st November 1987, at 13.00 to announce that he was offering a draw. Gijssen then called Kasparov, but only the Spanish housekeeper was at home. Half an hour later, it was announced that the World Champion had lain down and wanted on no account to be disturbed before 15.00. When Karpov learned this he became furious and then indicated to Gijssen that he wanted to continue the game. The arbiter pointed out to him that once a draw had been offered that offer could not be withdrawn.\n\nAt 15.00 Kasparov called on Gijssen. When he heard that Karpov wanted to withdraw his offer of a draw, the World Champion also became furious and he too wanted to continue the game, but unshaven and wearing a T-shirt. He finally accepted the offer of a draw, but turned up in the theatre for the resumption, just in case. Karpov came too and sat among the spectators, armed with a ball-point pen, ready to play if necessary. The arbiter, however, declared the game a draw. In the 16th game, Kasparov had the white pieces again. In the English Opening the title defender fell behind, however, and lost: Karpov had levelled the scores. Games 17 to 22 ended without a winner. 'Goalless draws', was Bronstein's comment on the match. At a score of 11 to 11 two games were left. If Karpov wanted to recover the title, he had to win one of them.\n\nIn the 23rd game the challenger had White and opened with 1.c4. The game was adjourned after move 40. On the resumption Kasparov made on move 50 a blunder which cost him the game. Suddenly, one game before the finish, the World Champion was trailing and absolutely had to win the final game in order to hang on to the title with a score of 12:12. After a long game with a series of mistakes on both sides Kasparov was able to master this difficult task and only just hold on to his title.\n\nOf a total prize fund of 2280000 Swiss francs the two Soviet citizens each received 137000 francs plus an equivalent sum in roubles. The players had to pass on 80% of the prize money to the Soviet Committee for Sports. FIDE received 700000 francs, of which 300 000 were spent on organisational matters.\n\n **Kasparov \u2013 Karpov**\n\nSevilla, 24th game  \n18th December 1987  \nR\u00e9ti Opening (A14)\n\n**1.c4 e6 2. \u2658f3 \u2658f6 3.g3 d5 4.b3**\n\nWith this move Kasparov is aiming for a closed game and avoids early simplifications.\n\n**4... \u2657e7 5.\u2657g2 0-0 6.0-0 b6**\n\nThe alternative is 6...c5 7.\u2657b2 \u2658c6 etc.\n\n**7. \u2657b2 \u2657b7 8.e3 \u2658bd7**\n\n'The strongest move is 8...c5'. (Kasparov) White's best continuation then is 9.\u2658c3 \u2658c6 10.cxd5 \u2658xd5 (10...exd5 11.d4) 11.\u2658xd5 \u2655xd5 (11...exd5 12.d4) 12.d4!.\n\n**9. \u2658c3**\n\n'9.\u2655e2 is probably more accurate.' (Kasparov)\n\n**9... \u2658e4 10.\u2658e2!?**\n\nTo avoid the exchange of the knight and simplifications.\n\n**10...a5**\n\nKarpov is expecting 11.d3. After 10... \u2657f6 there would be 11.d4!? c5 12.\u2658f4.\n\n**11.d3 \u2657f6**\n\nThat was the idea.\n\n**12. \u2655c2 \u2657xb2 13.\u2655xb2 \u2658d6**\n\n'13...\u2655f6?! 14.\u2655c2 \u2658ec5 15.cxd5 (15.d4? dxc4) 15...exd5 16.\u2658f4.' (Kasparov)\n\n**14.cxd5 \u2657xd5**\n\n'14...exd5!? 15.d4 c5 16.dxc5 bxc5 17.\u2656fd1 with some pressure for White.' (Taimanov)\n\n**15.d4**\n\n'There was also the attractive 15.\u2658f4 \u2657b7 16.d4 c5 17.\u2656ac1 \u2655e7 (17...cxd4 18.\u2656fd1!) 18.\u2658d3 \u2656ac8 (18...\u2658e4 19.\u2658fe5) 19.dxc5 with active play.' (Kasparov)\n\n**15...c5 16. \u2656fd1 \u2656c8**\n\n'At first glance the black position looks really safe. But Karpov has not yet reached full equality. His queenside structure is not the best and there are too many pieces on the d-file.' (Taimanov)\n\n**17. \u2658f4 \u2657xf3**\n\n'17...\u2657e4? is worse: 18.dxc5 \u2658xc5 19.\u2655e5 \u2658cb7 20.\u2658h5+\u2013' (bulletin) or 17... c4?! 18.\u2658xd5 exd5 19.bxc4 dxc4 20.a4! 'with advantage to White.' (bulletin)\n\n**18. \u2657xf3 \u2655e7 19.\u2656ac1 \u2656fd8 20.dxc5 \u2658xc5 21.b4!**\n\nTo make b6 a target.\n\n**21...axb4**\n\n'21...\u2658ce4 22.\u2656xc8 \u2656xc8 23.\u2655d4 would be good for White.' (Taimanov)\n\n**22. \u2655xb4 \u2655a7 23.a3 \u2658f5**\n\n23...\u2658e8=. (Kasparov)\n\n**24. \u2656b1 \u2656xd1+ 25.\u2656xd1 \u2655c7**\n\n25...\u2655a5 26.\u2656c1.\n\n**26. \u2658d3!**\n\n'Intending to exchange as many pieces as possible on c5, so as to enter the endgame with a distant passed pawn on the a-file. In what followed Karpov overestimated the dangers and became nervous.' (Kasparov)\n\n**26...h6?!**\n\nAfter this move Karpov had only ten minutes left on the clock. 26...g6 was a better airhole: 27.\u2654g2 \u2658xd3 28.\u2656xd3 \u2656d8 29.\u2656c3 \u2655d6 with a level game according to Kasparov.\n\n**27. \u2656c1 \u2658e7**\n\nAfter 27...\u2658d6 28.\u2658e5 f6 Kasparov wanted to continue with 29.\u2658g6! \u2658f7 30.h4.\n\n**28. \u2655b5 \u2658f5**\n\n'After 28...\u2655a7 29.\u2656c3 \u2658f5 30.\u2658e5 \u2658d6 31.\u2655b4 Black also remains under pressure.' (Kasparov)\n\n**29.a4 \u2658d6 30.\u2655b1 \u2655a7**\n\n'Or 30...\u2655d8 31.\u2658xc5 bxc5 32.\u2656d1 with advantage to White.' (Kasparov)\n\n**31. \u2658e5!**\n\n'In Karpov's time trouble Kasparov creates problems. The threat is 32.\u2658c6.' (Taimanov)\n\n**31... \u2658xa4?**\n\nHe had to play 31...\u2655xa4 32.\u2655xb6 \u2655a3! and Black holds on, or else 31...\u2658f5!? 32.\u2658c6 \u2655xa4 33.\u2655xb6 \u2658d3 34.\u2656f1 \u2655a3 35.\u2657e4 \u2654h8=.\n\n**32. \u2656xc8+ \u2658xc8**\n\nThis is the decisive moment in the whole match. Kasparov has a big advantage, but gives it away, but Karpov does not take the opportunity to get equality and a probable draw.\n\n**33. \u2655d1?**\n\nAfter 33.\u2655b5! White would have obtained a winning position. The threat of penetrating on e8 is much stronger than the move in the game, which threatens \u2655d8+, because from e8 it is also attacking f7. There is no satisfactory defence for Black after that: 33...\u2658d6 34.\u2655c6+\u2013, 33...\u2654f8 34.\u2658c6 \u2655a8 35.\u2655d3! g6 36.\u2655d4+\u2013 or 33...\u2654h7 34.\u2655e8 \u2658d6 35.\u2655d8 \u2658f5 36.\u2658c6 \u2655b7 37.g4 \u2658h4 38.\u2657e4+ g6 39.\u2658e7 and wins.\n\n**33... \u2658e7?**\n\nBlack missed 33...\u2658c5! which keeps an eye on the d7-square: 34.\u2655d8+ \u2654h7 35.\u2654g2 f6! 36.\u2658c6 \u2655d7 37.\u2655xd7 \u2658xd7 38.\u2658d8 \u2658c5 39.\u2658xe6! \u2658xe6 40.\u2657g4=. And 35.\u2657d1? would also be bad for White: 35...f5! 36.\u2655xc8 \u2655a1.\n\n**34. \u2655d8+**\n\n'34.\u2657h5 \u2658c5 35.\u2657xf7+ \u2654h7 36.h4 \u2655c7 37.\u2655a1 with a strong attack.' (Kasparov)\n\n**34... \u2654h7 35.\u2658xf7**\n\nThreatening mate beginning with 36.\u2655h8+.\n\n**35... \u2658g6 36.\u2655e8**\n\n36.\u2658d6? \u2655e7 37.\u2655a8 \u2658c5 38.\u2658e4 \u2658e5.\n\n**36... \u2655e7**\n\n36...\u2658c5? 37.\u2657h5 \u2655a1+ 38.\u2654g2 \u2655f6 39.h4!+\u2013.\n\n**37. \u2655xa4 \u2655xf7 38.\u2657e4**\n\nDespite the inaccuracies White is still in the driving seat.\n\n**38... \u2654g8 39.\u2655b5**\n\n'After 39.\u2657xg6 \u2655xg6 40.\u2655b3 \u2655g4 41.\u2655xb6 \u2655d1+ 42.\u2654g2 \u2655d5+ 43.f3 \u2655a2+ 44.\u2654h3 the queen ending could go on forever.' (Kasparov)\n\n**39... \u2658f8 40.\u2655xb6 \u2655f6 41.\u2655b5 \u2655e7 42.\u2654g2**\n\nThe sealed move. In analysis Kasparov and his team were unable to find a clear way to a win, but of course White has excellent practical chances.\n\n**42...g6?**\n\n42...g5 43.f4! \u2655f6 and 42...\u2655f6 43.h4 g5 44.h5! were suggested as better. White has an advantage but is not necessarily winning.\n\n**43. \u2655a5 \u2655g7 44.\u2655c5 \u2655f7 45.h4 h5?**\n\nThis weakens g6 and h5. 45...\u2654g7 was better.\n\n**46. \u2655c6 \u2655e7 47.\u2657d3 \u2655f7**\n\nOf course, all Black can do is wait and see.\n\n**48. \u2655d6 \u2654g7 49.e4 \u2654g8 50.\u2657c4 \u2654g7 51.\u2655e5+ \u2654g8**\n\nAfter 51...\u2655f6 52.\u2655xf6+ \u2654xf6 53.f4 e5 54.\u2654f3 \u2658d7 55.\u2654e3 \u2658c5 56.\u2657d5 White wins with the king march \u2654d2-c3-c4.\n\n**52. \u2655d6 \u2654g7 53.\u2657b5 \u2654g8 54.\u2657c6 \u2655a7 55.\u2655b4! \u2655c7 56.\u2655b7! \u2655d8**\n\n56...\u2655xb7 57.\u2657xb7 e5 58.f4+\u2013. The minor piece ending is won.\n\n**57.e5!+\u2013**\n\nPractically puts Black in zugzwang.\n\n**57... \u2655a5 58.\u2657e8 \u2655c5 59.\u2655f7+ \u2654h8 60.\u2657a4 \u2655d5+ 61.\u2654h2 \u2655c5**\n\n61...\u2658h7 62.\u2657c2 \u2655xe5 63.\u2655e8+ \u2654g7 64.\u2655xg6+ +\u2013.\n\n**62. \u2657b3 \u2655c8 63.\u2657d1 \u2655c5 64.\u2654g2**\n\nKarpov resigned.\n\nAfter for example 64...\u2655b4 65.\u2657f3 \u2655c5 66.\u2657e4 \u2655b4 White must, however, still be careful, since the thoughtless 67.\u2657xg6?? \u2658xg6 68.\u2655xg6 \u2655b7+ 69.\u2654h2 is surprisingly followed by 69...\u2655g2+!! and stalemate is unavoid-able. Nor does 69.\u2654f1 help on account of 69...\u2655g2+ 70.\u2654e2 \u2655xf2+ 71.\u2654d3 and now 71... \u2655c2+ 72.\u2654xc2 forces the stalemate.\n\nSo the correct move is 67.f3! and after 67...\u2655d2+ 68.\u2654h3 \u2655b4 then 69.\u2657xg6 \u2658xg6 70.\u2655xg6 now works because White reacts to 70...\u2655xh4+ with 71.\u2654g2!. And now there is no stalemate left in the position, because the black h-pawn can move.\n**35. Under Russian colours**\n\n**The World Championship 1990:  \n_Garry Kasparov against Anatoly Karpov_**\n\nThe cities of Lyon (France) and Wellington (New Zealand) had bid to be the venue for the World Championship of 1990. In New Zealand the match was to take place as part of the celebrations of the 150th anniversary of the country. The bids were submitted to the FIDE congress of 1989 in Mayag\u00fcez (Puerto Rico).\n\nAlso up for discussion at this meeting of FIDE was how the organisation of chess professionals, the Grandmaster Association (GMA), could cooperate with FIDE in the question of the organisation of the World Chess Championships. However, FIDE president Campomanes largely ignored the GMA representatives Bessel Kok, Mikhail Botvinnik, Jan Timman and Lothar Schmid. In view of the unclear situation Wellington finally withdrew its bid and so all that was left to FIDE was the offer from Lyon. Kasparov organised another sponsor in New York, the entrepreneur, film producer and billionaire Ted Field, and finally agreement was reached to hold the match half in New York and half in Lyon.\n\nMeanwhile, in Kasparov's home country of Azerbaijan pogroms had started against the Armenian part of the population. Kasparov's family and many of his friends no longer felt safe in Baku and took refuge first of all in the resort of Zagulba, 40 kilometres from Baku. But there too, the situation soon became volatile. At the instigation of the chairman of the USSR Chess Federation Popov a plane was sent to Baku to fly out the Kasparov group. On the 17th January 1990 the World Champion left his homeland for ever with his family, friends and their families.\n\nKasparov, who had always previously held his training camp in Zagulba, now had to organise his preparations afresh. At the time there were disagreements with his trainer of many years, Nikitin, who thereupon ended his cooperation with Kasparov. Kasparov completed a first section of his preparation together with Alexander Beliavsky in March-April of the year on the outskirts of Moscow. In the middle of June, Kasparov set up his training camp in Murcia (Spain), preparing himself there with his regular seconds Mikhail Gurevich, Sergey Dolmatov and Zurab Azmaiparashvili. In addition, this time Gia Giorgadze and Kasparov's previous trainer Alexander Shakarov were part of the team. During the preparation, moreover, Kasparov played a training match against Lev Psakhis, whom he defeated 5:1. In September of the year there followed a third training session in the USA. Kasparov had rented a villa there to the north-east of New York on the island Martha's Vineyard. Alexander Beliavsky was also present.\n\nAs the loser of the previous match Karpov was seeded into the quarter-finals of the candidates' matches and had qualified as challenger with victories over Johann Hjartarson (3\u00bd:1\u00bd), Artur Jussupow (4\u00bd:3\u00bd) and Jan Timman (6\u00bd:2\u00bd). For the WCh match against Kasparov, Karpov put his trust in his official seconds Lajos Portisch and Ron Henley. In addition he was supported by Igor Zaitsev, Mikhail Podgaets, Alexander Kharitonov and Alexey Kuzmin. Karpov's head of delegation was Nikolai Krogius. In this match Karpov was supported psychologically by Rudolf Zagainov, who had worked for Kortchnoi in the candidates' final of 1974. Karpov also hired him later for his candidates' match against Nigel Short in 1992. Shortly before the start of the match in New York Karpov and his team occupied a roomy house in 63rd Street in East Side Manhattan, but during the match they moved to a hotel because it was too noisy in East Side Manhattan. Kasparov resided with his team only a few blocks away on the 17th floor of the Regency Hotel.\n\nAs previously fixed, the WCh match was played from 8th October to 20th December 1990, half in New York (till the 12th game on 7th November) and in Lyon (from the 13th game on 24th November). The maximum number of games was to be 24. The prize fund consisted of three million dollars, of which 5\/8 went to the winner. The chief arbiter was Geurt Gijssen.\n\nThe venue in New York was the Hudson Theatre, not far from Broadway and Times Square. The tickets cost between ten dollars (reduced rate) and 100 dollars. In spite of the high prices the theatre was well filled during the games with several hundred spectators. The press centre was on the eighth floor of the Macklowe Hotel. Among the approx. 300 accredited journalists were many well-known names such as Miguel Najdorf, Samuel Reshevsky, Mikhail Tal and Efim Geller. The press officers for the organisation were Yasser Seirawan and Larry Christiansen.\n\nFIDE president Florencio Campomanes was not present, being as he was at that time in Moscow so as to gain support for his re-election at the subsequent FIDE presidential election. The latter was held at the FIDE congress during the Chess Olympiad in Novi Sad (16th November till 4th December 1990) and Campomanes was once more re-elected, coming in front of the Puerto Rican Narcisco Rabell Mendez and the Spaniard Roman Toran, who was supported by Karpov. Campomanes had suggested as vice-president the Yugoslav grandmaster and publisher of the _Chess Informant_ Alexander Matanovic and in doing so secured the support of the organisers of the Chess Olympiad. He had also, moreover, arranged paid posts as arbiters at the Chess Olympiad for a series of delegates.\n\nThe influential Soviet Committee for Sports had in its session before the Chess Olympiad actually decided not to support Campomanes this time. However, there was no consensus within the committee, and so before the election the Soviet delegate Alexander Bach announced on Yugoslav television that the Soviets would support Campomanes, which many federations from the eastern block took as an indication of which way to vote.\n\nBefore the match Kasparov had explained that he wanted to play under the Russian, not the Soviet flag, and gave voice to this decision in a common press conference in the Macklowe Hotel. Karpov commented on this with the words: 'I consider myself more of a Russian than Kasparov, but it does not matter to me under which flag he plays', but he then later protested against Kasparov's wish, since it went against FIDE rules. These laid down that a player was obliged to play under the flag of the state of which he was a citizen. But in 1990 there was not yet a Russian state. By a decision of the arbitration committee the flags were then removed from the table. After this decision, however, Kasparov appeared with a Russian flag on his lapel.\n\nAt the opening press conference Karpov surprisingly suggested that in the event of a 12:12 draw they should play on until one player won a game. Kasparov refused this, however, pointing out that Karpov was the challenger and so had to defeat him.\n\nThe psychological warfare had, according to Kasparov, already started on the 14th September when in the weekly magazine _Literaturnaya Rossiya_ an interview with his previous confidant Tofik Dadashev appeared under the headline 'How I helped Kasparov'. Moreover, Kasparov felt attacked by the way he was portrayed in Karpov's new book _Sestra moia Kaissa_ ('My sister Caissa'). The book had appeared in Russian and English just at the right time for the match in 1990 and was presented by Karpov in New York on the day of the press conference. Whereas in his book Karpov sees himself as a fighter for justice and democracy, Kasparov is described as 'cowardly' and as someone who distorts things. The book was Karpov's reply to Kasparov's _Politische Partie_ , in which the things had been portrayed exactly the other way round: Karpov was portrayed in it as the representative of the old unfair Soviet system, whereas Kasparov saw himself as the representative of glasnost and perestroika.\n\nOn the 7th October the opening ceremony was held as a charity event in the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel. 700 guests turned up and paid 1500 dollars each for entry. The proceeds benefitted the organisation 'Chess in the schools'. The drawing of lots for colours during this event gave Karpov the white pieces for the first game \u2013 for the fourth time in the total of five matches between these two players, as Kasparov pointed out in his report on the match.\n\nIn the first game, in an excellent position Karpov missed the best continuation and had to content himself with a draw. Kasparov then took the lead in the second game with white against Karpov's Ruy Lopez Zaitsev Variation, Karpov equalised in the seventh game after Kasparov gave away the game with a blunder. The other ten games played in New York were drawn, though some of them took a very exciting course. More than once Kasparov had to trust to luck to get a draw from bad positions.\n\nThere were more decided games after the move to Lyon, where the match was continued on 24th November 1990 in the Palais des Congr\u00e8s. In addition to their share of the prize fund, the French organisers had put up a valuable special prize for the winner of the match: a trophy created by the Paris jeweller Korloff, made of gold, platinum and diamonds, in which two 'Ks' were interwoven.\n\nAfter three draws, of which game 14 especially was praised as outstanding, Kasparov won the 16th and 18th games and Karpov the 17th. The 16th game, which Kasparov had opened with the until then little played Scotch Game, was adjourned twice and not won by Kasparov until move 106. It is the longest decided World Championship game in the history of chess. In the 19th game Kasparov offered a draw in a clearly better position. The World Champion justified this with a general state of exhaustion he had reached, which led to him no longer evaluating the position correctly.\n\nThe supposition for the arrangement was that the players wanted to keep the match exciting for as long as possible and had arranged this with the organisers. A further possibility was considered, namely that the players were aiming for a score of 12:12, because this would be the most profitable with the bookmakers since both players had perhaps placed bets there via middle-men.\n\nA win in the 20th game saw Kasparov increase his lead to two points. He was once more able to defeat Karpov's Ruy Lopez Zaitsev Variation. In game 23 Karpov again shortened the lead, which further fed the rumours that 12:12 had been pre-arranged. In the 24th and final game, played on New Year's Eve, Karpov was losing when Kasparov offered him a draw. Karpov accepted and Kasparov had once more defended his title. Looking back on it, Kasparov was not satisfied with his play during this World Championship match. Many games were marked by mistakes and in a series of games the title defender let slip a possible win.\n\n **Kasparov \u2013 Karpov**\n\nLyon, 20th game  \n15th December 1990  \nRuy Lopez (C92)\n\n**1.e4 e5**\n\nIn this match with black Karpov trusted only the open games with 1...e5, but suffered several defeats against the Ruy Lopez and the Scotch.\n\n**2. \u2658f3 \u2658c6 3.\u2657b5**\n\nIn the 14th and 16th games Kasparov chose the Scotch Game 3.d4, which until then had hardly ever been played at the top level.\n\n**3...a6 4. \u2657a4 \u2658f6 5.0-0 \u2657e7 6.\u2656e1 b5 7.\u2657b3 d6 8.c3 0-0 9.h3 \u2657b7 10.d4 \u2656e8**\n\nAt that time a very modern interpretation of the Closed Variation of the Ruy Lopez, this was an idea of Karpov's trainer Igor Zaitsev and is named after him.\n\n**11. \u2658bd2**\n\n11.\u2658g5 \u2656f8 12.\u2658f3 \u2656e8 13.\u2658g5 could bring about a draw through a threefold repetition of the position. But of course that is not the intention of the player with white.\n\n**11... \u2657f8 12.a4 h6 13.\u2657c2 exd4 14.cxd4 \u2658b4 15.\u2657b1 c5**\n\nIn game 2 of the match 15...bxa4 16.\u2656xa4 a5 etc. was played. White won.\n\n**16.d5 \u2658d7 17.\u2656a3 f5 18.\u2656ae3!?**\n\nKasparov seeks to improve upon his play from the 4th game, where he had continued with 18.exf5. The idea comes from Kasparov's training session with Alexander Beliavsky.\n\n**18... \u2658f6 19.\u2658h2**\n\nThe prepared novelty. 19.exf5 \u2656xe3 20.\u2656xe3 \u2658bxd5 with an unclear position.\n\n**19... \u2654h8 20.b3**\n\nWhite prepares the development of his bishop to b2.\n\n**20...bxa4**\n\nIf Black, after 20...fxe4 21.\u2658xe4, takes the pawn on d5, no matter which way, White obtains a strong attack: 21...\u2658fxd5 22.\u2656g3 \u2658f6 23.\u2658xf6 \u2655xf6 24.\u2657d2 \u2656xe1+ 25.\u2657xe1 \u2655f7 26.\u2657c3 \u2658d5 27.\u2657a1 with a strong attack (Kasparov) or 21...\u2657xd5 22.\u2658xf6 \u2656xe3 23.\u2656xe3 \u2655xf6 24.\u2658g4! \u2655f4 25.axb5 axb5 26.\u2657b2+\u2013. And 21...\u2658bxd5? is also unfavourable for Black: 22.\u2658xf6 \u2656xe3 (22...\u2658xe3 23.\u2655d3+\u2013) 23.\u2656xe3 \u2658xf6 24.\u2658g4 d5 25.\u2655c2 \u2658e4 26.f3. Gurevich suggested 20...c4 21.bxc4 bxc4 22.\u2658xc4 (22.\u2657b2!?) 22...fxe4, with a complicated position.\n\n**21.bxa4 c4?**\n\nNow 21...fxe4 22.\u2658xe4 was the better choice, since here 22...\u2657xd5 appears playable: 23.\u2658xf6 \u2656xe3 24.\u2656xe3 \u2655xf6 and then 25.\u2658g4 (25.\u2657d2 \u2656b8 is unclear) is followed by 25...\u2655a1 intending 26.\u2657d2 \u2657a2 (Kasparov). On the other hand 22...\u2658fxd5?! would be risky: 23.\u2656g3 with a strong attacking position.\n\n**22. \u2657b2! fxe4 23.\u2658xe4 \u2658fxd5**\n\n23...\u2658bxd5 would be worse on account of 24.\u2658xf6 \u2656xe3 (24...\u2658xe3 25.\u2655h5 gxf6 26.\u2655g6+\u2013) 25.\u2656xe3 gxf6 (25...\u2658xf6 26.\u2655c2+\u2013, 25...\u2658xe3 26.\u2655h5+\u2013) 26.\u2656g3+\u2013.\n\n**24. \u2656g3**\n\nHere 24.\u2658xd6 would have been a letdown: 24...\u2658xe3 25.\u2658f7+ \u2654g8 26.\u2658xd8 \u2658xd1 27.\u2656xe8 \u2658xb2 28.\u2657g6 \u2657d5 and Black has a winning position. After 24.\u2655h5 Black obtains counterplay with 24...c3!.\n\n**24... \u2656e6!**\n\nKarpov still finds a good defensive resource in a complicated position. 24...\u2658d3 would be worse: 25.\u2657xd3 cxd3 26.\u2655h5 with an attack.\n\n**25. \u2658g4?**\n\n'A mistake. After it Black can equalise.' (Kasparov) 25.\u2658f3 was more accurate so as to get to g5 or d4 with the knight.\n\n**25... \u2655e8?**\n\nKarpov does not take the chance which was on offer. The correct move was 25...\u2658d3!? (Spassky), for example 26.\u2657xd3 cxd3 and now 27.\u2655d2 \u2655e7 28.\u2658xh6 \u2656xe4 29.\u2656xe4 \u2655xe4 30.\u2658f7+ \u2654g8 31.\u2658h6+ leads to a draw by perpetual check. 25...\u2655d7!? (Sch\u00fcssler) was also worth considering.\n\n**26. \u2658xh6! c3**\n\nThe advance of the c-pawn does not bring the hoped for relief. 26...\u2656xh6 is followed by 27.\u2658xd6 and then 27... \u2655h5 is relatively the best: 28.\u2656g5 \u2655xd1 29.\u2658f7+ \u2654g8 30.\u2658xh6+ \u2654h8 31.\u2656xd1 c3 32.\u2658f7+ \u2654g8 33.\u2657g6 and then 33...cxb2 is followed by mate with 34.\u2656h5 b1\u2655 35.\u2656h8#.\n\n**27. \u2658f5 cxb2 28.\u2655g4**\n\nWhite now has an overwhelming attacking position. Black has no defence.\n\n**28... \u2657c8**\n\n28...\u2656c8 29.\u2654h2 intending 30.\u2658g5+\u2013.\n\n**29. \u2655h4+ \u2656h6**\n\n29...\u2654g8 30.\u2654h2 intending 31.\u2658g5+\u2013.\n\n**30. \u2658xh6 gxh6 31.\u2654h2!**\n\nNot 31.\u2658f6? \u2655xe1+ 32.\u2654h2 \u2657e6\u2013+, nor 31.\u2658xd6? \u2655xe1+ 32.\u2654h2 \u2655e6. Another strong move was 31.\u2656e2+\u2013.\n\n**31... \u2655e5**\n\n31...\u2656a7 is followed by mate: 32.\u2658f6 \u2655f7 33.\u2656e8 \u2658xf6 34.\u2655xh6+ \u2658h7 35.\u2655xh7+ \u2655xh7 36.\u2656xf8+ \u2655g8 37.\u2656fxg8#.\n\n**32. \u2658g5 \u2655f6 33.\u2656e8! \u2657f5**\n\n**34. \u2655xh6+**\n\nA quicker way was 34.\u2658f7+! \u2655xf7 35.\u2655xh6+ \u2657h7 36.\u2656xa8 followed by 37.\u2656xf8+.\n\n**34... \u2655xh6 35.\u2658f7+ \u2654h7 36.\u2657xf5+ \u2655g6 37.\u2657xg6+**\n\n37.\u2656xg6! \u2658e7 38.\u2656xe7!+\u2013.\n\n**37... \u2654g7 38.\u2656xa8 \u2657e7 39.\u2656b8 a5 40.\u2657e4+ \u2654xf7 41.\u2657xd5+**\n\nBlack resigned.\n\nOn the 2nd January 1991 at the closing ceremony, Kasparov was hailed as the title defender and received his cheque and the Korloff trophy, which was reputed to be worth a million dollars. He sold it to the Kalmykian millionaire Kirsan Ilyumzhinov, the future FIDE president, and donated the cash to a foundation for the support of Armenian refugees from Azerbaijan. According to Kasparov, his second Zurab Azmaiparashvili is supposed to have received an offer before the match of 100000 roubles to betray Kasparov's opening preparation. This offer came, as did one to Josif Dorfman in a previous match, from the Russian gambling mafia, which wanted to make money by betting on the outsider \u2013 and that was Karpov.\n**Part IV \u2212 The time of schism**\n\nAfter the WCh cycle of 1990-1993 Nigel Short became the challenger \u2013 for the first time since Robert Fischer a challenger who had not been born in the Soviet Union. The struggle of a player from the West had to be worth a lot of money to sponsors, Short believed, but after the numerous matches between Kasparov and Karpov the interest in the World Chess Championship had cooled off somewhat. The result achieved by FIDE in their negotiations for a prize fund seemed too little to Short and he talked Kasparov into running the WCh match without any participation by FIDE and finding by themselves organisers, who were prepared to come up with more prize money. The exclusion of FIDE, which always diverted a considerable share of the offer by the organisers for its own purposes, automatically increased the share of the players.\n\nFIDE president Florencio Campomanes reacted to the decision by Kasparov and Short with some hectic measures. Firstly he removed the World Championship title from Kasparov; then he threw the two 'dissidents' out of FIDE, which meant, for example, that their games were no longer evaluated for the FIDE Elo world ranking list. Finally Campomanes organised a counter World Championship with the two players who had gone furthest in the candidates' matches behind Short, namely Karpov and Jan Timman.\n\nIn doing this Campomanes created a split in the chess world, which now had to live with two competing World Championships. Kasparov and Short founded a new organisation for the marketing of the World Chess Championships, the _Professional Chess Association_ (PCA). After the match against Short, which Kasparov won clearly, he organised with the help of his sponsor Intel a candidates' tournament and matches in competition with FIDE. The victor of this series was Viswanathan Anand, who, however, lost his WCh match against Kasparov in New York in 1995. FIDE also completed a complete WCh cycle, though without the best player in the world by far, Kasparov.\n\nIn 1996 Campomanes was obliged to retire as FIDE president and his successor was the president of the autonomous Russian Republic of Kalmykia Kirsan Ilyumzhinov. The latter completely got rid of the previous three year WCh cycle with its interzonal tournaments, candidates' matches and WCh match and replaced it with one big WCh tournament in knock-out mode with 128 players. But the top players gradually refused to recognise this mode in which form on the day and chance played too great a role. Between 1997 and 2004 five such WCh tournaments were played in k.-o. format.\n\nIntel soon quit as sponsor of the PCA and attempts by Kasparov to find a replacement sponsor failed. Between 1998 and 2000 Kasparov made efforts to find a somehow credible challenger to play against him. Finally Kramnik was designated as challenger. In the WCh match in London 2000 Kasparov could not find a way to deal with his opponent and was dethroned as World Champion. Without Kasparov, however, the claim to be sole 'Classical World Champion' compared to the FIDE k.-o. World Champion became harder to sustain. In the meantime there had been attempts to do away with the split between the World Championships. In 2002 during a tournament in Prague there was a meeting between the two camps and other important people on the chess scene and a plan was worked out for the reunification of the World Championships.\n**36. Excluding FIDE**\n\n**The World Championship 1993:  \n_Garry Kasparov against Nigel Short_**\n\nNigel Short was born on the 1st June 1965 in Leigh (England). His parents were David and Jean Short; they had two other sons, Martin and Jonathan. Nigel Short grew up in Atherton where he attended St Philip's Primary School on Bolton Old Road. He then went to Bolton School and Leigh College.\n\n**Nigel Short (born in 1965)**\n\nHe learned to play chess at the age of six by looking on when his father was actually explaining the rules to Nigel's older brother Martin. Nigel understood the particularities of the game at enormous speed and was soon able to beat his father regularly. His hunger for chess, which was in any case great, was further sharpened by the attention grabbing WCh match between Spassky and Fischer, Reykjavik 1972, for the British daily papers gave regular reports on it on their front pages.\n\nNigel's mother now wanted to enrol her seven year old son in a chess club, but the Bolton Chess Club did not accept him on account of his young age. Through the mediation of his headmaster Nigel then received lessons from Richard Furness, president of the Manchester Chess Association and chess teacher at a neighbouring school. Furness then took Nigel Short for the first time to his chess club, the Golborne Chess Club.\n\nOn Furness' suggestion Nigel Short took part in the 'Liverpool Schools Chess Congress' over Easter 1973 and in his first tournament won four out of ten games. At ten Nigel Short achieved a win against Viktor Kortchnoi in a simultaneous display. In 1977 at the age of twelve he became the youngest player in a British championship. Two years later he shared first place in the British championship in Chester with John Nunn and Robert Bellin. After taking part in the Hastings tournament of 1979\/80 Short received the title of International Master, being at that point the youngest player of all time to receive that title and breaking the record set by Bobby Fischer in 1958. At the Junior World Championship of 1980 in Dortmund, 15 year old Short was second behind Kasparov. In 1984 he became an international grandmaster at 19 and was the youngest grandmaster in the world at that time.\n\nIn the interzonal tournament of Biel 1985 Short was the first Briton to qualify for the candidates' rounds but at the candidates' tournament in Montpellier only reached tenth place. In the next WCh cycle Short again qualified from the interzonal tournament in Subotica 1987 for the candidates' rounds, which this time were held in match format. He defeated Gyula Sax, but was then eliminated by his fellow countryman Jonathan Speelman. With third place in the interzonal tournament of 1990 in Manila Short once more reached the candidates' matches. In the last sixteen he defeated Boris Gelfand and this time got through the quarter-final against Jonathan Speelman after a playoff. His victory over Anatoly Karpov (4:2 in wins with four draws) in the semi-final ended the latter's participation in WCh and candidates' matches which had been unbroken since 1974.\n\nThe semi-finals took place in Linares in the Hotel Anibal, which belonged to the patron and organiser Luis Rentero, who had offered for both matches together a prize fund of 300000 Swiss francs. Short, who was supported in Linares by his second Lubomir Kavalek, and Karpov, who had Vladimir Epishin and Mikhail Podgaets with him as seconds, were amusingly put up in neighbouring rooms in the Hotel Anibal with only thin Spanish walls between them, so that Short, frightened about being heard in the neighbouring room, always whispered when he was analysing with Kavalek. In the second semi-final Jan Timman got through against Artur Jussupow, making it clear that the next challenger would be a player from the West.\n\nIn 1988, when it looked as though that would never be the case, the chess computer firm Hegener and Glaser (manufacturers of the _Mephisto_ chess computer) had as an advertising gag offered a bonus of a million Swiss francs for the first western challenger. Now that things were becoming serious for Hegener and Glaser, the Munich chess computer manufacturer tried to wriggle out of this old promise, giving as a justification that the break-up of the USSR had altered the conditions. However, a law suit by Short and Timman ensured that the promise of a bonus remained valid. In the final in San Lorenzo de El Escorial (near Madrid, Spain), with a prize fund of 300000 Swiss francs, Short defeated Timman (5:3 in wins and five draws) and thus became the first non-Soviet WCh challenger since Fischer.\n\nLos Angeles and a consortium around the businessman Jim McKay had put in an offer of four million dollars to stage the match between Kasparov and Short. Kasparov was closely linked to this consortium. After the unrest in Los Angeles in reaction to the mistreatment of the Afro-American Rodney King by four white policemen ('LA riots') the offer from Los Angeles was, however, withdrawn. FIDE collected the deposit of 400000 dollars and re-opened the bidding process. By 8th February FIDE had two bids, one from Santiago de Compostela of a million Swiss francs, the minimum bid for World Championships, and one from the Yugoslav banker Jezdemir Vasiljevic and his bank Yugoscandic of five million dollars. Vasiljevic had already financed the return match between Fischer and Spassky in 1992. But at this point Yugoslavia was still under a UN embargo. To get round this, Vasiljevic proposed to hold the WCh match in Bucharest. FIDE declined the offer, however, in view of the UN sanctions. Soon afterwards Vasiljevic fled to Israel and took with him a series of deposits of his bank's customers, including a part of the prize money of Bobby Fischer from the 1992 match.\n\nFIDE then extended the tendering process till the 22nd February 1993. David Anderton, for many years the director of the British Chess Federation, then formed a consortium of donors with the intention of bringing the match to Manchester. Short expected an offer of around three million pounds sterling, but just before the deadline for the tenders Manchester made it known that the total of the bid would 'only' be 2.185 million Swiss francs. On the 22nd February FIDE opened all the bids which had until then been in sealed envelopes. As well as the offer from Manchester a 'London Chess Group' had put up a prize fund of 2.3 million Swiss francs. In addition there was a bid from _Channel Four_ of 2.6 million Swiss francs, though this was only in conjunction with the cession of all TV rights. But the official offer from Manchester was now 2.538 million Swiss francs. Apparently this had been improved upon at short notice with knowledge of the offer from London.\n\nAccording to the rules of FIDE the players now had to be asked for their opinion, but at that time Short was on a trip to Greece, where he had boarded a ferry on the 22nd February and could not be contacted for two days. On 23rd February FIDE announced that 'after consultations with both players' the WCh match would be awarded to Manchester. In reality Campomanes had only spoken to Kasparov, who did not find Manchester ideal but in principle declared himself willing to play there. When Short learned on the 24th February from his confidant Dominic Lawson of the awarding of the match to Manchester with a prize fund he considered disappointing, he was very angry about not having been informed beforehand. Short phoned Kasparov, who at that time was in Linares, and suggested organising the match 'inhouse' and without FIDE. 'I have been waiting for this moment for eight years', was Kasparov's reaction.\n\nOn 26th February Kasparov and Short put out a common press statement, in which they announced they would be playing the match outwith FIDE and in addition made known the founding of the Professional Chess Association (PCA). 10% of the prize money was to go to the new organisation. FIDE replied on the same day, pointing out that only they held the rights to the World Championship in chess and that all measures would be taken to defend those rights. Kasparov and Short now requested all interested parties to submit bids by the 19th March for the 'Professional World Chess Championship'. It was announced that the offers were to be opened \u2013 unlike in FIDE's usual way \u2013 publicly on 22nd March in Simpson's-in-the-Strand.\n\nIn the meantime, Campomanes had got in touch with Kasparov and had tried to get the World Champion back on board the FIDE ship. In London on the 16th March there was a secret meeting, of which Short knew nothing, between Kasparov, his London manager Andrew Page and his New York lawyer Bob Rice and Campomanes and Tony Ingham, the organiser of the Manchester bid. Ingham raised the offer of prize money to 1.6 million pounds sterling. The negotiations soon became known.\n\nShort and Lawson then feared that Kasparov would strike separate deals with the Manchester group and finally let the PCA match drop. Keene, who in the meantime was already trying together with the _Times_ to organise the match in London, warned Kasparov that the press conference in Simpson's-in-the-Strand could if necessary be held without him and that the WCh match would then fall into two halves. Finally Kasparov's negotiations with Campomanes broke down, because Kasparov demanded the transfer of the rights to the World Champion title to him and in addition the reimbursement of the 400 000 dollars deposit from the Los Angeles group. Campomanes was not ready to concede either of these. The _Times_ had in the meantime raised their original prize fund by 300000 pounds so as to equal the 1.6 million pounds bid by the Manchester group.\n\nAfter the failure of the negotiations with Kasparov, Campomanes continued to try to drive a wedge between the two players, by playing to Short a cassette with notes of the negotiations. It was possible to hear how Kasparov explained the way he would convince Short to nevertheless play the match through FIDE, after the offers on the table had possibly been disappointing for Short.\n\nOn the 22nd March the bids were opened. Of the five submitted, two were superior to the bids collected by FIDE. The London Chess Group around Matthew Patten offered two million pounds sterling, the _Times_ , together with the TV broadcaster _Teleworld_ , 1.7 million pounds. In addition the otherwise usual deduction of 25% of the prize fund for FIDE did not have to be paid and instead benefitted the players. When the bids were presented in detail, however, the London Chess Group could not present any guarantees and Kasparov expressed doubts about the seriousness of the bid. The following day, the _Times_ announced without consultation with the PCA, that it had been accepted. The London Chess Group thereupon withdrew its bid.\n\nFor their decision to play the WCh match without FIDE, Kasparov and especially Short were much criticised by the chess world. FIDE, or its president Campomanes, reacted on the 23rd March and deposed Kasparov as World Champion and Short as challenger and at the same time had the players' names removed from the Elo list.\n\nShort prepared for the WCh match with his trainer Lubomir Kavalek in the latter's home town in Reston, Virginia (USA). One day Patrick Wolff called and asked to speak to Short. The US grandmaster, son of the well-known philosophy professor Robert Paul Wolff, named some of the highly secret variations which Short intended to play against Kasparov, for example the \u2657c4 Variation against the Sicilian Najdorf, and offered his help. Short was furious. Kavalek was then able to find the leak quickly. Kavalek had spoken about it with his friend and fellow countryman, grandmaster Lubomir Ftacnik, and Ftacnik had then passed on the details to Patrick Wolff, who was a specialist in this variation. In addition, in a simultaneous display in 1988 Wolff had defeated Kasparov in only 25 moves. On the very next day Ftacnik faxed a written apology to Short.\n\nKasparov too was offered help \u2013 as Short found out, from his compatriot Anthony Miles. Kasparov declined it and preferred to put his trust in the help of Sergey Makarichev, Zurab Azmaiparashvili and Alexander Beliavsky. One month before the start of the match Short engaged Jonathan Speelman as a second, and on the 13th August Robert H\u00fcbner too.\n\nThe opening ceremony for the WCh match was held on Friday, the 3rd September 1993 in Simpson's-in-the-Strand. The drawing of lots decided that Kasparov would start the first game with white. One day before the start of the match Short had his suite in the Savoy Hotel, apart from the rooms of his seconds, searched for bugs.\n\nCampomanes had already warned Kavalek long beforehand that Kasparov could demand the help of the KGB at any time. Short, however, was more anxious that journalists would try to get exclusive information this way. Shortly before the first game the chess enthusiast and friend of Kavalek, Czechoslovakian film director Milos Forman, turned up and wished Short luck.\n\nThe venue for the match was the Savoy Theatre on Trafalgar Square, quite close to the legendary chess caf\u00e9 Simpson's-in-the-Strand. The WCh match was set for 24 games. The arbiters were Yuri Averbakh and the Spaniard Carlos Falcon.\n\nIn the first game Short, with the black pieces, offered the Marshall Gambit in the Ruy Lopez. As time passed, Kasparov obtained a clear winning position after a mistake by Short, but then gave it away. Finally both players were in time trouble. Kasparov offered a draw on move 38, Short declined without noticing that he had only ten seconds left on his clock, and overstepped the time limit on his 39th move in a level position. In the second game Short replied to Kasparov's Najdorf Variation with the then most popular move 6.\u2657g5. Kasparov chose a side variation and once more avoided any possible preparation. The game ended in a draw. In the third game Short started with the black pieces an attack on the king which is typical of the Ruy Lopez. Kasparov defended inaccurately and thus allowed Short real winning chances, but the challenger missed the best opportunity and landed up in a lost endgame \u2013 Kasparov took a 2:0 lead (in wins).\n\nAfter the game there was an argument between Short and his second Kavalek, who in Short's opinion had so far in London hardly taken any part in the analytical work or even done any. Short now had had enough of his second, for whose work he had paid 125000 dollars, and sent him home.\n\nIn the fourth game Kasparov picked up the gauntlet. He replied to Short's 6.\u2657g5 in the Najdorf Variation with his standard weapon, the Poisoned Pawn Variation \u2013 thus for the first time in this match going into a theoretical duel \u2013 and won the game. Backed up by a 3:0 lead, Kasparov changed in the fifth game to 1.d4. Short was able to surprise the World Champion with a variation in the Nimzo-Indian Defence which had rarely been played up till then, but it brought him no more than a draw. In the following game Short took Kasparov on with the latter's own weapon, the Sozin Variation as his reply to Kasparov's Najdorf System. In a sold-out Savoy Theatre, in front of 1000 spectators, Short pressed Kasparov hard in an attack on the king. But the English player could not manage his first whole point here either. The game was finally drawn. Nevertheless, his fighting spirit earned him a long burst of applause.\n\nThe seventh game brought the World Champion his fourth victory and Kasparov fulfilled his own prediction when he had commented on the forthcoming match with the words: 'His name is Short, and it will be short.' Kasparov had gone back to 1.e4 and inflicted on Short in the third Ruy Lopez of the match the third defeat. A guest of honour for this game was Lady Diana, Princess of Wales, who before the game had wished Nigel Short luck.\n\nBefore the eighth game Robert H\u00fcbner presented Short with a new attacking idea in the Sozin Variation. After a tactically very complicated game Short reached a winning position after an attack on the king, but at the decisive moment he once more missed the best continuation \u2013 again the game ended with what from the English player's point of view must have been a disappointing draw. The course of the next game was also very unfortunate for the challenger. Kasparov repeated the opening from the fifth game, brought out an innovation and was finally two pawns up in a rook ending. After an inaccuracy Short could have reached a drawn position, as Jonathan Speelman discovered immediately after the game, but the challenger over-looked this possibility and conceded his fifth defeat in this match.\n\nBut that was not yet the end of Short's losing streak. In the tenth game, after a positional queen sacrifice in the Sozin Variation he again reached a clear winning position, which he squandered in time trouble just like the previous ones. The game was drawn. There followed three more draws till Kasparov scored his sixth win in the 15th game in the Exchange Variation of the Queen's Gambit. In game 16 the challenger finally had a success and with the help of the Sozin Variation notched up his first win in this match.\n\nAfter the next four games had ended in draws, the WCh match came to its premature finish at the score of 12\u00bd:7\u00bd (6:1 wins) on the 21st October 1993. For the sake of the public, the two players occupied the following match days with a four game rapid chess match, which Kasparov won by 4:0.\n\n **Kasparov \u2013 Short**\n\nLondon, 9th game  \n25th September 1993  \nNimzo-Indian Defence (E35)\n\n**1.d4 \u2658f6 2.c4 e6 3.\u2658c3 \u2657b4 4.\u2655c2 d5 5.cxd5 exd5 6.\u2657g5 h6 7.\u2657h4**\n\nThe alternative is 7.\u2657xf6 \u2655xf6 8.a3 \u2657xc3+ 9.\u2655xc3 0\u20130 10.e3 c6 11.\u2658f3 \u2657f5 etc.\n\n**7...c5 8.dxc5 g5**\n\n8...0-0 9.e3 \u2658bd7 etc. is less sharp.\n\n**9. \u2657g3 \u2658e4 10.e3 \u2655a5**\n\nShort's novelty in this line.\n\n**11. \u2658ge2!**\n\nKasparov's prepared improvement upon the 5th game. In it 11.\u2657e5 0-0 12.\u2657d3 \u2658c6 was played and the game was drawn by move 18.\n\n**11... \u2657f5 12.\u2657e5**\n\nHere at the latest Short had to stand on his own feet, since in his preparation he had not taken this move into account.\n\n**12...0-0**\n\nPlayed after 41 minutes of thought. Kasparov has prepared a tactically explosive variation, which can hardly be calculated in all its subtleties over the board without preparation. The discovered attacks by the knight were not so good: 12...\u2658g3? 13.\u2655b3 \u2658xh1 14.\u2657xh8+\u2013 (Ftacnik), or 12...\u2658xf2? 13.\u2655xf5 \u2658xh1 14.\u2655c8+ \u2655d8 15.\u2655xd8+ \u2654xd8 16.\u2657xh8+\u2013 (Ftacnik), and also 12...\u2658xc3 13.\u2655xf5 \u2658e4+ (13...\u2658xe2+ 14.\u2654xe2 0-0 15.\u2654f3 \u2658c6 16.\u2657f6 \u2656fe8 17.\u2657d3+\u2013) 14.\u2658c3 0\u20130 (14...\u2658xc3? 15.\u2655c8+ \u2655d8 16.\u2655xd8+ \u2654xd8 17.bxc3+\u2013) 15.\u2657d3 (Ftacnik) favours White.\n\n**13. \u2658d4 \u2657g6?!**\n\nThis move turns out to be inferior. Later 13...\u2658xc3 14.\u2658xf5 \u2658e4+ and 13...\u2656e8 were tried, both being very playable for Black.\n\n**14. \u2658b3 \u2658xc3**\n\n14...\u2655d8 15.\u2657d3 gives White good play, but 14...\u2655a4!? seems playable, though after 15.\u2657d3 \u2658d7 16.\u2657d6 \u2657xc3+ 17.bxc3 \u2656fe8 18.h4 White has the initiative.\n\n**15. \u2657xc3!**\n\n15.\u2658xa5 achieves nothing for White: 15...\u2658a4+ 16.\u2657c3 \u2657xc3+ 17.\u2655xc3 \u2658xc3 18.bxc3 \u2656c8 19.\u2658xb7 \u2658d7 with level chances.\n\n**15... \u2657xc2 16.\u2658xa5 \u2657xc3+**\n\nHere Short had used up 90 minutes of his thinking time, Kasparov only 28 minutes. In the press room Short's pessimistic seconds considered the game to be already strategically lost here. If 16...\u2657xc5 then 17.\u2658xb7 with advantage to White.\n\n**17.bxc3 b6 18. \u2654d2!?**\n\nThe 'normal' way was 18.\u2658b3!? or 18.\u2656c1!?.\n\n**18...bxa5**\n\nBut it was worth considering 18...\u2657g6!? 19.cxb6 axb6 20.\u2658b3 \u2658c6 21.a4 with advantage to White, but Black has counterplay on the a- and c-files.\n\n**19. \u2654xc2 \u2656c8 20.h4**\n\nWith the help of his prepared variation Kasparov has achieved a psychological effect and after Short's mistake on move 13 also an advantage on the board. But the game is still far from won.\n\n**20... \u2658d7 21.hxg5 \u2658xc5!?**\n\nSeeking counterplay. In the event of 21...hxg5 22.\u2656h5 f6 23.\u2657d3 \u2656xc5 24.\u2656ah1 White has a clear advantage.\n\n**22.gxh6 \u2658e4 23.c4 \u2658xf2**\n\nAfter 23...dxc4? 24.\u2656h4 \u2658xf2 25.\u2657xc4 White would have solved all his problems.\n\n**24. \u2656h4 f5 25.\u2656d4 dxc4 26.\u2657xc4+ \u2654h7 27.\u2656f1 \u2658g4 28.\u2654d2 \u2656ab8 29.\u2656xf5 \u2656b2+ 30.\u2654d3 \u2656xg2 31.\u2657e6 \u2656c7 32.\u2656xa5?**\n\nHere there was the strong manoeuvre 32.\u2656h5 \u2658f6 33.\u2657f5+ \u2654h8 34.h7!, because now Black cannot allow the back rank check with promotion: 34...\u2656e7 35.\u2656d6+\u2013.\n\n**32... \u2658f2+?**\n\nAfter this the knight goes astray. A more tenacious try was 32...\u2658xh6 33.\u2656d7+ \u2656g7 34.\u2656xc7 \u2656xc7 35.e4 and White still has some work to do.\n\n**33. \u2654e2+\u2013 \u2656h2 34.\u2654f3 \u2658h1 35.\u2656d7+**\n\n35.\u2656a6 intending 36.\u2657f5+ was just as strong.\n\n**35... \u2656xd7 36.\u2657xd7 \u2654xh6 37.\u2656xa7 \u2654g5 38.\u2656a5+ \u2654f6 39.\u2657c6 \u2656c2 40.\u2656f5+ \u2654e7**\n\n40...\u2654xf5? 41.\u2657e4+ would be an easy win.\n\n**41. \u2657d5 \u2654d6 42.\u2656h5 \u2656d2**\n\n**43. \u2656xh1?**\n\nWhite gives away a good part of his advantage. There was a win after 43.a4! \u2656xd5 44.\u2656xd5+ \u2654xd5 45.e4+ \u2654e5 46.a5, as the knight is trapped.\n\n**43... \u2656xd5 44.a4 \u2656a5 45.\u2656a1**\n\n45.\u2656d1+ \u2654e5 46.\u2656d4 changes nothing.\n\n**45... \u2654e5 46.e4?**\n\nGives away the e4-pawn. The correct way was 46.\u2654e2 \u2654e4 47.\u2656a3 \u2654d5 48.\u2654d3 \u2654c5 49.e4 \u2654c6 50.\u2656c3+ \u2654d6 51.\u2656c4 \u2656a8 52.\u2654c3 \u2654d7 53.\u2654b4 and wins. As a result of this game, this endgame position achieved some notoriety, because despite being two pawns down Black can save the game.\n\n**46... \u2654e6?**\n\nAfter a long defensive struggle Black misses his best \u2013 and last \u2013 chance. 46...\u2656c5! forces a draw: 47.a5 \u2656c3+ 48.\u2654g4 \u2654xe4 49.a6 \u2656c8 50.a7 \u2656a8 51.\u2656a5 \u2654d4 52.\u2654f5 \u2654c4 53.\u2654e6 \u2654b4 54.\u2656a1 \u2654c5 55.\u2654d7 \u2654b6 56.\u2656b1+ \u2654c5 57.\u2656b7 \u2656h8=, or 47.\u2656a3 \u2656c4 48.a5 \u2656xe4 49.a6 \u2656f4+ 50.\u2654e3 \u2656f8 51.\u2656a5+ \u2654d6 52.a7 \u2656a8=.\n\n**47. \u2654e3 \u2654d6 48.\u2654d4 \u2654d7 49.\u2654c4 \u2654c6 50.\u2654b4 \u2656e5 51.\u2656c1+ \u2654b6 52.\u2656c4**\n\nBlack resigned.\n\nThe win is now simple. White plays his king to d4 and then advances the e-pawn, whereas the black king is cut off.\n\nVery much later Kasparov considered his decision to play the WCh match against Short outside the auspices of FIDE as the worst decision of his whole chess career. 'I should have agreed to play in Manchester \u2013 and only then, after defending the title of FIDE champion, thought about setting up a Professional Chess Association. I would have saved myself a mass of nervous energy, and the chess world would have retained a single champion.'\n**37. Doors bang in the World Trade Center**\n\n**The World Championship 1995:  \n_Garry Kasparov against Viswanathan Anand_**\n\nViswanathan Anand was born on the 11th December 1969 in Madras (Chennai). His first name is Anand, his family name Viswanathan, after his father. When he first played tournaments in Europe and the Europeans saw his name, which was written according to Indian custom in the order Viswanathan Anand, they thought Viswanathan was his first name, Anand the family name. Then a short form was developed for his somewhat complicated name, 'Vishy'.\n\nViswanathan Anand (born in 1969)\n\nAnand learned to play chess at roughly six years old from his mother, in whose family the game of chess occupied an important place. In 1979 his father, manager of the railway firm Southern Railways, was working in Manila. The World Championship between Karpov and Kortchnoi had taken place there the previous year and set in motion a certain chess boom. Thus in Philippine television there were regular chess programs with chess exercises. Whilst Anand was in school, his mother noted down these exercises for him and Anand solved them in the afternoon when he was back from school. The solutions could be sent to the TV station and there were prizes for the correct solutions, for example chess books. As the months went by Anand won a heap of these prizes.\n\nAfter the return to India he began to play in tournaments and in 1983 won the Indian U16 and U19 junior championships. After a fourth place in the adult championship he was selected for the Indian national team in 1984 and at the age of 14 played in the Chess Olympiad in Thessaloniki. In 1986 he became India's youngest ever national champion. In 1987 Anand won the U20 Junior World Championship. Anand's play at that time was characterised by enormous speed. He did not appear to think about his moves at all, but saw at first glance where he had to place the pieces. Often he only used a quarter of an hour out of his thinking time for the whole game.\n\nIn 1990 he came in fourth of 64 participants at the interzonal tournament in Manila, played over 13 rounds in the Swiss System, behind Vassily Ivanchuk, Boris Gelfand and Nigel Short, and qualified for the candidates' matches. In the last 16 in Madras he defeated Alexey Dreev (4\u00bd:1\u00bd), but went out in the quarter-final in Brussels in 1991 against Anatoly Karpov by 3\u00bd:4\u00bd. In 1993 Anand again qualified for the FIDE candidates' matches with his tenth place in the interzonal tournament in Biel.\n\nBut at the same time he also qualified with his first place in the PCA tournament for the candidates' matches in the new Professional Chess Association (PCA) founded by Kasparov in competition to FIDE, so that in 1994 Anand took part in both WCh cycles in parallel. Whereas he was eliminated from the FIDE cycle, after a victory over Artur Jussupow, by Gata Kamsky in a playoff, he managed in the PCA cycle to defeat one after the other Oleg Romanishin (5:2, in New York), Michael Adams (5\u00bd:1\u00bd, in Linares) and Gata Kamsky (6\u00bd:4\u00bd, in Las Palmas) and in doing so qualify as challenger to Garry Kasparov.\n\nThe World Championship between Kasparov and Anand was actually supposed to take place in Germany. Organisers from Dortmund had applied to Kasparov for the right to stage the match during the Moscow Chess Olympiad of 1994. The venue discussed was the Harenberg City Centre, headquarters of the Harenberg publishing house, which was a very successful publisher of a series of chronicles. But the discussions with Harenberg broke down and moreover the German federation, which remained loyal to FIDE, threatened a boycott of the World Championship match. So the Dortmund organisers withdrew their bid at the start of 1995.\n\nAs a replacement, the WCh match was then supposed to be played in Cologne. The chess computer firm Novag made available some money as a start to the financing of it and the PCA hoped that Intel would come up with the rest of the sponsor money, which, however, turned out to be a misapprehension. The PCA manager Bob Rice, a New York lawyer with Milbank, Tweed, Hadley & McCloy, then charged the marketing firm 'Fairway', which was active in golf, to find sponsors for a World Chess Championship match in Germany, but this agency's efforts were not crowned with success.\n\nThen in June 1994, the mayor of New York, Rudolph Giuliani, came up to Kasparov during a rapid chess tournament organised by the PCA and suggested holding the match on the 107th floor of the World Trade Center. The latter was due to be reopened in September 1995 after being severely damaged on the 26th February 1993 by a bomb attack motivated by fundamental islamists, in which six people died and 1000 were injured.\n\nThus the match was transferred at very short notice from the originally planned venue in Germany to the USA, to New York. Anand did not learn about the change till very late on and had even booked his hotel rooms in Cologne long after the match had been transferred to New York. Also it was not until very shortly before the start of the match, in July or August, that Bob Rice announced that the prize fund had been reduced from the originally planned 1.5 million dollars to 1.35 million dollars. The difference was supposed to be employed for 'organisational costs'. 'The organisation bordered on the laughable', commented Anand later and remembered that there were a lot of breakdowns and not much information. 'Shortly before the start of the match we also learned that we had to write a regular column for _USA Today_.' The whole business and the incompetence of the PCA organisers weighed heavily on Anand and at the end of the match he was simply glad that it was all over, he wrote.\n\nAnand was left with six months to prepare before the match, though within that time he also still had some tournament obligations to fulfil. As well as Elizbar Ubilava, his regular trainer, and Artur Jussupow, who had already helped him against Kamsky, Anand engaged as another second Jonathan Speelman, who in 1993 had been Short's second in the latter's WCh match against Kasparov, and Patrick Wolff, a specialist in the Sicilian. Wolff later ended his career as a professional chess player and started a hedge fund together with the German born former PayPal CEO Peter Thiel. According to Kasparov Anand also received help from Mark Dvoretsky and a series of 'invisible' players, who would have liked to see Kasparov tumbled.\n\nSince Kasparov had a wide repertoire, Anand's team had a powerful amount of preparation to do. Kasparov had moved in July and August with his seconds Alexander Shakarov, Yuri Dokhoian and Evgeny Pigusov to a training camp on the Croatian coast. For a week Vladimir Kramnik also supported the Kasparov team.\n\nIn New York Kasparov's manager Michael Khodarkovsky took on the task of press officer. The match then began officially on the 10th September 1995 with the opening ceremony and the drawing of lots for colours, done by New York's mayor Giuliani, and lasted until the 10th October. The games were played in a glass booth specially built for the match, but it turned out to be far less soundproof than the organisers had perhaps thought. In the course of the match the two players were often disturbed by the noise which penetrated from the spectators' room \u2013 there were seats for 200 spectators.\n\nThe match was for 20 games, played according to a fixed schedule on Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays and Fridays without the possibility of additional rest days. If it were drawn, Kasparov would retain the title. The time control was two hours for 40 moves, a further hour for 20 moves and another half hour for the remainder of the game. The entry price for the spectators was 15 dollars per game for entry to the foyer only and 75 dollars for those who wanted sit directly within range of the players so as to experience the game live. After the games the players were available for a press conference.\n\nCarol Jarecki was named as the arbiter. Jarecki would later also take on the not always easy role as arbiter for the spectacular match between the IBM computer _Deep Blue_ and Kasparov which followed two years later. Kasparov lost this 1997 match against the machine and thus became the first World Champion to lose a match against a computer. Carol Jarecki, whose origins were in Germany, came to chess via her son John and personally flew him, since she had a pilot's licence, to various tournaments in the USA. John Jarecki took part between 1980 and 1984 in the Chess Olympiads in La Valetta, Lucerne and Thessaloniki and was second board after the painter William (Bill) Hook for the British Virgin Islands. Born in 1969, John Jarecki was only eleven years old when he first played in a Chess Olympiad and was considered a major talent. His mother was second reserve in 1980 for the British Virgin Islands \u2013 though she did not play \u2013 and since then represented the British Virgin Islands as delegate to FIDE. In the USA she also became active as a tournament organiser.\n\nBefore Carol Jarecki appeared on the chess scene, she had already made a name for herself with her husband, the Heidelberg physician Dr Richard Jarecki, in Europe's casinos. The Jareckis had developed a system for roulette based on tables with wheels which were 'off' as far as the bias was concerned. At the start of the 1970s the couple several times broke the bank at San Remo, meaning that on each occasion the casino had to be temporarily closed, and they won in the casinos of San Remo and Monte Carlo a total of more than five million German marks. Richard's brother Heinrich (Henry) Jarecki, however, became even richer. He also studied in Heidelberg, moved to the USA and practised as a psychiatrist. Then he founded a firm which dealt on the stock exchange with precious metals and later became successful as a film producer. Henry Jarecki acquired two of the British Virgin Islands and in 2009\/2010 donated no less than 60 million dollars to the University of Heidelberg.\n\nThe first game of the WCh match between Kasparov and Anand was played on the 11th September (that is exactly six years to the day before the horrendous attack on the World Trade Center) on the 107th floor of the south tower of the Center. Giuliani started the game with the symbolic first move. There is the anecdote that the mayor played 1.c4, but that Anand then took the move back and opened the game with 1.e4.\n\nThe match started with eight draws, with the challenger missing a win in the 3rd game. Anand then somewhat surprisingly took the lead when in game 9 he managed to crack Kasparov's Scheveningen Variation. But Kasparov immediately equalised in the next game with a deeply prepared variation against Anand's Open Variation in the Ruy Lopez. For the first twenty moves the title defender required only five minutes. He could hardly contain his emotions at the board, groaning and breathing deeply. After every move he made, Kasparov leaped up, left the room and slammed the door behind him. His inappropriate behaviour soon became a subject of conversation among all the journalists in the press centre. Kasparov, however, was so happy with his prepared variation that he was unable to control his emotions. In the next game he surprised Anand with the Dragon Variation. He offered a draw on move 19, Anand declined but gave away the game with a blunder on the 30th move. Kasparov then also won the thirteenth and fourteenth games for a final result of 4:1 in wins.\n\nAnand later gave a certain lack of match experience as the reason for his defeat. To be sure, he had already played a series of matches before, but had not been able to imagine how tense the situation would be in a match for the World Championship. Whereas Kasparov made no serious mistakes, that happened to Anand in the thirteenth and fourteenth games.\n\nWhat Anand politely never mentioned later, was Kasparov's inappropriate behaviour during some games. After losing the 9th game Kasparov banged down on the board the moves of his preparation in the tenth game and slammed the door behind him whenever he left the room.\n\nBut Anand processed the match he had lost really well. It was not to be the Indian's last attack on the World Championship title.\n\n **Anand \u2013 Kasparov**\n\nNew York, 13th game  \n2nd October 1995  \nSicilian Defence (B77)\n\n**1.e4 c5 2. \u2658f3 d6 3.d4 cxd4 4.\u2658xd4 \u2658f6 5.\u2658c3 g6**\n\nIn the 11th game of the match Kasparov had surprised Anand with the Dragon Variation. Anand had certainly absolutely not been thinking of that defence, since Kasparov had never before played it in a serious game with black and neither did any of his seconds, Pigusov, Dokhoian or Kramnik, have the 'Dragon' in their repertoire.\n\n**6. \u2657e3 \u2657g7 7.\u2655d2**\n\nA slight deviation from the normal move order of the Yugoslav Attack, but Kasparov does not go into it. The usual move order is 7.f3 0-0 8.\u2655d2.\n\n**7... \u2658c6**\n\nIt was worth considering 7...\u2658g4 8.\u2657g5 h6 9.\u2657h4.\n\n**8.f3 0-0 9. \u2657c4 \u2657d7 10.h4 h5 11.\u2657b3 \u2656c8 12.\u2658xc6?!**\n\nA rarely chosen move at this point and not a particularly good one. The only reason for it was probably to get Kasparov out of his prepared variations. The usual way is 12.0-0-0 \u2658e5.\n\n**12...bxc6**\n\nIn exchange for the c-file which has now been shut again, Black gets control over the d5-square and the semi-open b-file.\n\n**13. \u2657h6 c5**\n\nThis causes some distress to the \u2657b3.\n\n**14. \u2657c4 \u2655b6 15.\u2657xg7 \u2654xg7 16.b3 \u2657e6 17.\u2658d5 \u2657xd5 18.exd5 e5**\n\nAfter 18...e6 19.0-0-0 there is nothing better than 19...e5.\n\n**19.dxe6?**\n\nAccording to Kasparov, until then Anand had been playing against the e7-pawn. Now, since the weak pawn has turned into a strong one, Anand reacted impulsively \u2013 and wrongly. Opening the position with the white king in the centre cannot be good on grounds of principle. The correct move was 19.0-0-0 with a level game.\n\n**19...d5 20. \u2657e2**\n\n**20...c4**\n\n'For the first time I prevented with one move both forms of castling.' (Kasparov)\n\n**21.c3?**\n\nThis move loses. A better one was 21.\u2656d1 c3 (21...\u2656ce8!?) 22.\u2655d4 fxe6 (Kasparov) 23.\u2655xb6 axb6=. 21.0-0-0? cxb3 22.axb3 \u2655xb3\u2013+.\n\n**21... \u2656ce8!**\n\nNot quite an obvious move. With the white king in the centre the opening of the e-file is decisive.\n\n**22.bxc4**\n\n22.exf7 \u2656xf7 23.\u2656f1 (23.\u2654d1 \u2656fe7 24.\u2656e1 d4 25.cxd4 \u2658d5\u2013+) 23...\u2656fe7 24.\u2656f2 \u2656xe2+ 25.\u2656xe2 \u2655g1# (Kasparov), 22.\u2656b1 \u2656xe6 23.\u2655d4 \u2656fe8 24.\u2656b2 \u2656e3 25.\u2654f2 \u2655e6 26.\u2657f1 \u2656e1\u2013+.\n\n**22... \u2656xe6 23.\u2654f1**\n\n23.cxd5 \u2656e5 (better than 23...\u2658xd5 24.\u2655xd5 \u2655b2 25.0-0 \u2656xe2 26.\u2655g5 \u2656fe8) 24.f4 \u2656xd5 25.\u2655c2 \u2656e8\u2013+.\n\n**23... \u2656fe8 24.\u2657d3 dxc4 25.\u2657xc4**\n\n**25... \u2658e4!**\n\nWhite resigned on account of 26.fxe4 (26.\u2655e1 \u2656d6 27.fxe4 \u2656f6+ 28.\u2654e2 \u2656xe4+ \u2013+) 26...\u2656f6+ 27.\u2654e1 \u2656xe4+ 28.\u2657e2 \u2655f2+ 29.\u2654d1 \u2656xe2\u2013+.\n\nAt the end of 1994 Kasparov's PCA had concluded an agreement with Campomanes and FIDE about a reunification of the World Championships. According to it the winner of the PCA match between Kasparov and Anand was to meet the winner of the FIDE cycle \u2013 won in 1996 by Karpov against Gata Kamsky \u2013 in a reunification match.\n\nBut when Karpov could only finish last in the supertournament in Las Palmas, whereas Kasparov won the tournament, no sponsors could be found to finance this match. The balance of power between the two perpetual rivals seemed to have shifted too far. Moreover, Kirsan Ilyumzhinov soon replaced Campomanes as FIDE president and proposed a new format for the staging of the World Championship \u2013 the k.-o. system.\n**38. To victory with the 'Berlin wall'**\n\n**The World Championship 2000:  \n_Garry Kasparov against Vladimir Kramnik_**\n\nVladimir Kramnik was born on the 25th June 1975 in Tuapse, a town on the Black Sea, not far from Krasnodar and the seaside resort of Sochi. His father Boris Petrovich Kramnik was a painter and sculptor, his mother Irina Fedorovna a music teacher. Vladimir Kramnik has one brother, Evgeny.\n\n**Vladimir Kramnik (born in 1975)**\n\nKramnik learned chess from his parents at the age of four. At five he was already a member of the chess section of the local pioneer palace. His first chess trainers there were Orest Averkin and Alexei Ossachuk. At the early age of seven Kramnik won the adult championship of Tuapse. For his eleventh birthday his parents offered their gifted son an invitation to the Botvinnik-Kasparov Chess School, where it was mostly Botvinnik who still taught chess to the country's talented young players and Kasparov from time to time played simuls.\n\nHis first international tournament was the U14 Junior World Championship of 1989 in Aguadilla (Puerto Rico), where he came in second behind Veselin Topalov. In 1991 he won the U18 Junior World Championship in Guarapuava (Brazil). After some tournament successes Kramnik was called up in 1992 by Kasparov for the Chess Olympiad in Manila into the new Russian national team, where as well as the team gold medal, he also took gold for the best result on board four (8\u00bd out of 9).\n\nIn 1993 Kramnik qualified for the two competing WCh cycles of FIDE and the PCA with seventh place at the FIDE interzonal tournament in Biel 1993 and fourth place at the PCA tournament in Groningen.\n\nIn the FIDE candidates' matches he defeated in the last sixteen in Wijk aan Zee (Netherlands) 1994 Leonid Yudasin (4\u00bd:2\u00bd), but was then eliminated in the quarter-final in Sanghi Nagar (India) by Boris Gelfand (3\u00bd:4\u00bd). In the PCA candidates' matches the quarter-final in New York against Gata Kamsky was already as far as he went (1\u00bd:4\u00bd). In the subsequent years Kramnik achieved a series of further successes and moved up into third place in the world ranking list. In 2000 he was finally able to play against Kasparov for the WCh title.\n\nThe WCh match of 2000 between Garry Kasparov and Vladimir Kramnik had an eventful pre-history. After Kasparov agreed with Intel's competitor IBM to play a match under tournament conditions against the IBM computer _Deep Blue_ , Intel soon cancelled its sponsorship contract with the PCA, which soon after that quietly dissolved itself as an organisation. Without the Intel sponsorship funds Kasparov had difficulties organising a WCh cycle. In 1998 he decided as a replacement that those players who had been best placed after him in the Linares tournament should play a match for the right to challenge him. This mini cycle was to be organised and financed by the recently founded 'World Chess Council' (WCC). As a total prize fund Luis Rentero, co-founder with Kasparov of the WCC, and in addition organiser and sponsor of the Linares tournaments, offered 2.1 million dollars, of which 200000 dollars were to go to the loser of the 'candidates' finals' and 1.9 million dollars to be shared between the players of the WCh match in a ratio of 65% to 35% for winner and loser (50% to 50% for a draw).\n\nThe winner of the Linares tournament was Anand, but he had signed a contract with FIDE, which in his opinion excluded any participation in Kasparov's WCh cycle. Also, after his experiences with the organisation of the WCh match of 1995 the Indian player certainly was not greatly interested in this challenge. So the qualifiers were Alexei Shirov, who came in second \u2013 ahead of Kasparov \u2013 and Vladimir Kramnik who was fourth. The match between Kramnik and Shirov was played from 24th May to 4th June 1998 in Cazorla (Spain) and was for ten games. Kramnik was considered the favourite, but Shirov won the match early by 5\u00bd:3\u00bd (2:0 in wins).\n\nBut then there were difficulties realising the plans for the staging of the WCh match. This had been planned for 18 games and was supposed to take place half in Sevilla and half in Linares. Kasparov had been working on purely verbal promises he had been given by Rentero. The latter had contacts in the socialist government of Andalusia from where \u2013 though also only verbally \u2013 he had received agreement for the financing of the WCh match. Half of its budget, two million dollars, was supposed to come from the Ministry for Tourism and Sport. After elections which took place at that time, however, the socialists had to cede this ministry to the nationalists \u2013 and the latter had absolutely no interest in a World Chess Championship. As a protest Rentero resigned from the town council of Linares.\n\nThe Swiss banker Dr William Wirth, also a member of the WCC, and Kasparov's manager Owen Williams tried to save the match in negotiations with possible donors \u2013 but without succes.\n\nShirov felt betrayed about the WCh match, has never since spoken to Kasparov, and was later even annoyed with Kramnik when the latter, despite his defeat in the match against Shirov of 1998, appeared in 2000 as the challenger to Kasparov. Kasparov saw himself being put under pressure in his legitimacy as World Champion by the organ-isational disaster of the 'World Chess Council' and so reaffirmed in a declaration that he continued to be the rightful World Champion and that anyone wishing to become World Champion in his turn had to defeat him in a match.\n\nAt the start of 1999 Kasparov finally gave up his efforts to find a sponsor for a WCh match against Shirov. Instead he now tried with the help of Bessel Kok to get a sponsor for a WCh match against Anand. To that purpose Bessel Kok engaged the Canadian promoter Serge Grimaux. The match was to be in October 1999 with a prize fund envisaged at three million dollars. In return Anand gave up his participation in the FIDE World Championship. But no sponsor was found for the match, so it was postponed until 2000.\n\nIn the meantime Kasparov had turned to Raymond Keene to help him with the organisation of a WCh match. Keene had previously been involved in the organisation of the WCh match of Kasparov against Karpov in 1986 in London, and in addition with the organisation of the match between Kasparov and Short in 1993. Together with his brother-in-law David Levy he ran the firm 'Mind Sports', which from time to time staged competitions in sports involving mental skills in the form of the 'Mind Sports Olympiad'. After Kasparov had entrusted him with the organisation of a future WCh match, Keene founded without the knowledge of his partner Levy the competing firm 'Braingames Network PLC', which then became more or less the owners of the rights to the WCh match in chess.\n\nLevy later accused his brother-in-law of having illegally employed for that purpose 50 000 pounds sterling from the deposits of the firm 'Mind Sports'. Levy later made public further remarkable transactions and fictitious business dealings, which Keene, his partners Don Morris, David Massey and his businessman friend Alan Lubin were supposed to have been involved in with 'Brain Games Asia', 'Giloberg Finance Ltd' as well as a letterbox company registered in the USA 'RTG Ventures' and other letterbox companies such as 'X Border Corporate Services' or 'Far East Challenges plc'. The aim of these transactions, in Levy's opinion, was to interest investors in 'Braingames' and then to divert their payments to the pockets of the managing directors. Thus the company is supposed to have paid out 675 000 to its directors when it was already heading for bankruptcy.\n\nThe actual business idea of Braingames, however, consisted of broadcasting the forthcoming WCh match with Kasparov live over the Internet with new streaming technology in the form of pay-per-view. Keene first dealt with Anand, who was number two on the Elo list after Kasparov, but the conditions of the contract could not be agreed. Finally, according to Keene, the negotiations broke down because Anand demanded a guarantee of 300 000 dollars before the start of the match. For that reason they turned to the next player on the Elo list. That was Vladimir Kramnik, who in 1998 had lost in his candidates' match against Shirov.\n\nThe match for the World Championship between Kasparov and Kramnik was played from 8th October till 2nd November 2000 in London under the title _Braingames World Chess Championships_ and set for 16 games. The time controls were 2 hours for 40 moves, 1 hour for the next 20 moves and 30 minutes for the remainder of the game with an increment of 10 seconds per move for the final part of the game. It was held in the 'Riverside Studios', a former cinema in the London district of Hammersmith, not far from Hammersmith Bridge. The prize fund was 2 million dollars.\n\nKramnik and his team occupied a house on the Thames in the London district of Chiswick, which he rented for a total of six weeks. The team included Miguel Illescas, Joel Lautier \u2013 the French player was one of the few who managed to beat Kasparov during his career \u2013, Evgeny Bareev, John Adrian Tremayne Rodd, 3rd Baron Rennell \u2013 a former Scottish rugby player, who took on several tasks, for example fitness trainer and bodyguard \u2013 and Illescas' uncle Antonio as cook. Kramnik had also prepared before the match with the help of Boris Gelfand, Alexander Morozevich, Peter Svidler and Sergey Dolmatov and during the match remained in contact with these players by e-mail. Thus Kramnik's win in the tenth game is said to be based essentially on the analytical work of Boris Gelfand.\n\nAfterwards Kasparov complained about Gelfand, with whom he had prepared in 1998 for his possible match against Shirov. Scarcely two years later Gelfand would then be working for his opponent Kramnik with the knowledge of Kasparov's analyses, was the complaint of Kasparov, who described this as unethical behaviour. Gelfand rejected the accusations. Most of his time with Kasparov had been spent analysing variations of the Sicilian. He also said it was not true that he had been working with Kramnik at a distance. All that was correct was that he had showed Kramnik a game by Laszlo Hazai, which became a model for Kramnik's victory in the tenth game. In the press conference after the tenth game Kramnik had specifically thanked Gelfand for it.\n\nIn London, Kasparov put his trust in his regular trainer Yuri Dokhoian and moreover added Mikhail Kobalia and Andrei Kharlov to his team as seconds.\n\nKramnik surprised Kasparov in this match with his choice of the Berlin Defence, a variation of the Ruy Lopez, in which there is an early exchange of queens leaving Black with a slightly passive, but very solid position. At the time of the match this variation was considered antiquated and was not very popular. But Kramnik's second Joel Lautier had already had some totally positive experiences with it. Kasparov could not find an antidote to this opening during the match. In the 13th game, trailing by 0:2, he even gave a draw in 14 moves in his exasperation.\n\nKramnik won the second game with white against Kasparov's main weapon against 1.d4, the Gr\u00fcnfeld Indian Defence, and then also disarmed the World Champion with the black pieces. Kasparov, whose strength was always based on deep opening preparation, moved over to less deeply analysed openings and was finally unsuccessful with these, though he also missed some good chances. In the tenth game he lost very quickly in the Nimzo-Indian Defence, since he was not knowledgeable enough in this area and was surprised by Kramnik's choice of a rarely played move. All the other games were drawn and the final score was 8\u00bd:6\u00bd.\n\nBefore the fifth game, there was a slight provocation coming from Kasparov, when he demanded via the organisers that Kramnik should be accompanied when he visited the toilet and that the booth should not be closed so that he did not consult forbidden written notes on the opening. Apparently, so the story goes among chess grandmasters, such little cribs with opening variations were not at all unusual even in matches for the World Championship between Karpov and Kasparov, though in a sort of unspoken gentlemen's agreement between both of them there had been mutual toleration of the practice. Kramnik, who arrived ten minutes late for the game, was informed about Kasparov's desire on his way to his seat, agreed but demanded that the same procedure should also apply to Kasparov.\n\nWith his victory Kramnik became Kasparov's successor as 'Classical World Champion' in the tradition which had begun with Wilhelm Steinitz. He was the 14th World Champion.\n\n **Kramnik \u2013 Kasparov**\n\nLondon, 10th game  \n24th October 2000  \nNimzo-Indian Defence (E54)\n\n**1.d4 \u2658f6 2.c4 e6 3.\u2658c3 \u2657b4 4.e3 0-0 5.\u2657d3 d5 6.\u2658f3 c5 7.0-0 cxd4**\n\nThe more popular alternative is 7...\u2658c6 8.a3 \u2657xc3 9.bxc3 dxc4 10.\u2657xc4 \u2655c7 etc.\n\n**8.exd4 dxc4 9. \u2657xc4 b6**\n\nThe variation was a favourite of Karpov in the 1970s, but is perhaps not so well suited to Kasparov's active style.\n\n**10. \u2657g5 \u2657b7 11.\u2656e1 \u2658bd7 12.\u2656c1 \u2656c8 13.\u2655b3!?**\n\nAn aggressive continuation, which Kasparov obviously did not know.\n\n**13... \u2657e7?!**\n\n13...\u2657xc3 is considered safer: 14.\u2656xc3 h6 15.\u2657h4 and Black has had good experiences with 15...\u2655e8!?. And 15...\u2657d5 16.\u2657xd5 \u2656xc3 17.\u2655xc3 \u2658xd5 18.\u2657xd8 \u2658xc3 19.\u2657xb6 \u2658xa2 20.\u2657xa7 \u2656a8 21.\u2657c5 \u2658xc5 22.dxc5 \u2656c8 23.\u2656e5 \u2658b4 24.\u2658e1 \u2658a6 is also enough for equality.\n\n**14. \u2657xf6! \u2658xf6**\n\nAfter 14...\u2657xf6 15.\u2658b5 \u2657xf3 16.\u2655xf3 a6 17.\u2658d6 Black also has problems: 17...\u2656c7 18.\u2658xf7!?.\n\n**15. \u2657xe6!? fxe6?**\n\nLater, the cold-blooded 15...\u2656c7! was found: 16.\u2658g5 (16.\u2657c4 \u2657xf3 17.gxf3 \u2657d6=) 16...\u2657d6 17.\u2658b5 \u2656e7 18.\u2658xd6 \u2655xd6 19.\u2657c4 \u2655f4 20.\u2658f3 \u2657xf3 21.\u2655xf3 \u2656xe1+ 22.\u2656xe1 \u2655xd4=, Markosian-Afromeev, Tula 2000 (\u00bd-\u00bd\/37).\n\n**16. \u2655xe6+ \u2654h8 17.\u2655xe7 \u2657xf3 18.gxf3 \u2655xd4 19.\u2658b5!**\n\nBlack has major difficulties.\n\n**19... \u2655xb2**\n\nAll this had already been played and was also known to Kramnik after the tip from Gelfand. In the preceding game 19...\u2655f4 was played: 20.\u2656xc8 \u2656xc8 21.\u2658d6 \u2655xf3?! 22.\u2658xc8 \u2655g4+ 23.\u2654f1 \u2655h3+ 24.\u2654e2 \u2655xc8 25.\u2654d2+\u2013, Hazai\u2013Danielsen, Valby 1994 (1-0\/32).\n\n**20. \u2656xc8 \u2656xc8 21.\u2658d6 \u2656b8**\n\nNor is 21...\u2656a8 any better: 22.\u2658e8! (22.\u2658f7+ \u2654g8 is not so clear) 22...\u2658g8 23.\u2655d7! and now simply the advance of the f-pawn to f6 is decisive, whilst all three black pieces have hardly any moves.\n\n**22. \u2658f7+ \u2654g8 23.\u2655e6**\n\nWhite has a winning position.\n\n**23... \u2656f8**\n\nOr 23...h5 24.\u2658g5+ \u2654h8 25.\u2655f5 \u2655c3 (25...h4 26.\u2656e4+\u2013), and now 26.\u2656e6 decides.\n\n**24. \u2658d8+ \u2654h8 25.\u2655e7**\n\nBlack resigned.\n\nKasparov explained his defeat in the match as follows: 'My preparations went wrong and my opponent had better preparation. In the end I was just very tired. I've had my best results in the last two years and when you win so many times you begin to believe you're invincible but I will now make changes based on what I have learned in this match.'\n\nKasparov admitted that his match strategy had not worked and that he had then failed to change it in time. His second Dokhoian had warned him earlier that Kramnik would possibly aim for anodyne positions with few pieces. He had been gripped by a sort of panic when in the second game he had suffered his first defeat in the match. After the loss of the tenth game he had already inwardly thrown in the towel. A psychological mistake. At that point at the latest he should have stopped the battle around preparation and instead simply played chess.\n\nIt had occurred to Kramnik in a conversation after the 14th game how tired Kasparov already was at that point. After this game, Kasparov had seemed completely absent-minded. According to Kramnik, after four to five hours playing time his energy appeared to have dried up.\n\nImmediately after his defeat Kasparov was already demanding a return match, something which he had not had written into the contract before, presumably because Kasparov had not remotely considered that he could lose this match: 'It is his decision but I hope that he lives up to the same moral standard as I have and defends his title against the strongest opponent', was the argument of the dethroned World Champion. Kramnik replied to these demands evasively and never later allowed Kasparov a return match.\n\nThe rights for the staging of the 'Classical World Championship' were now in the hands of Keene's company 'Braingames', which soon afterwards went bankrupt after having previously sold the rights to a private London TV company by the name of _Einstein TV_. During the World Championship Braingames had failed with its business plan of selling the live broadcasts of the WCh games in a pay-per-view system over the Internet. There were few subscribers. It turned out, moreover, that the moves of a game of chess cannot be protected by copyright, even as a live broadcast. Whereas Braingames wanted cash from the spectators for following the moves on its official WCh web page, British newspapers broadcast the games for free on their web pages. So Keene had the Scottish chess journalist John Henderson thrown out of the spectators' room by security staff because he was transmitting the moves to the outside on his mobile phone. However, the attempt to legally prevent the taking down of the moves failed.\n\nFor Kasparov it had been relatively easy after the split of the World Championships to give legitimacy to his claim to be the 'real' World Chess Champion compared to the FIDE title holder. He had, after all, won the title fairly and squarely under the conditions imposed by FIDE and for the whole time he had remained number one in the world ranking list. For Kramnik it was much harder to prove his legitimate right to the title, which was also due to the fact that after winning the said title he had motivational problems, hardly scored any successes and took early draws in a large number of games. His status as World Champion was therefore called into question on various fronts.\n\nGarry Kasparov made efforts after losing the match to somehow get into a WCh match, for example as part of a 'process of reunification', but he failed and that perhaps explains his decision to announce after the 2005 tournament in Linares his withdrawal from tournament chess. He went into politics instead and became active in Russia as an opposition politician against the reigning Russian head of state Vladimir Putin.\n\nAfter Putin took harsh measures against the opposition in his country, as of June 2013 Kasparov no longer returned to Russia out of fears for his safety. In March 2014 he was awarded Croatian citizenship personally by the president of Croatia Zoran Milanovic. During the Yugoslavian civil war Kasparov had been a strong advocate for an independent Croatia and he had had for a long time a second home in Croatia. Kasparov's mother Klara remained on the other hand in Moscow.\n\nAfter withdrawing from Russian politics Kasparov again concentrated more on his activities in chess politics. After having supported Anatoly Karpov as a candidate in opposition to Kirsan Ilyumzhinov in the FIDE-presidential elections during the Chess Olympiad in Khanty-Mansiysk in 2010, Kasparov entered the lists himself against Ilyumzhinov four years later at the Chess Olympiad in Troms\u00f8, but he lost just as clearly as Karpov had done before him.\n**39. The title match in a tobacco factory**\n\n**The World Championship 2004:  \n_Vladimir Kramnik against Peter Leko_**\n\nPeter Leko was born on the 8th September 1979 in Subotica (Serbia). When he was two years old his parents separated and his mother moved with her two sons to Szeged (Hungary). Leko learned chess at the age of seven from his father and made lightning progress. His first trainer was Tibor Karolyi, with whom he worked from 1989. In 1991 Leko won the U12 World Junior Championship in Mamaia (Romania). In 1992 he became U14 European Junior Champion. Leko was considered a chess prodigy. From 1993 on he worked with Andras Adorjan as his trainer.\n\nAt 14 Leko had already the title of International Grandmaster and was at that point the youngest grandmaster of all time. Soon after that he was invited to top tournaments, where he did hold his own but did not manage any outstanding successes. Through these games against the best players in the world Leko developed a very safe but also draw-prone style, which however handicapped him in his later career since he became risk-averse. Nevertheless, he was soon to be found among the top ten players in the world and moved up to fourth place in the world ranking list.\n\nLeko did less well in FIDE's k.-o.-tournaments. At the 1997 FIDE candidates' tournament he was surprisingly eliminated in the very first round by Roman Slobodjan. In 1999 at FIDE's k.-o. WCh he lost in round two against Sergei Movsesian. At FIDE's 2000 k.-o. WCh in New Delhi, the second round was once more his departure point. He lost to Alexander Khalifman by 3\u00bd:4\u00bd after a tie-break. At the 2001 k.-o. World Championship in Moscow he again made a quick exit in the second round, this time against Ashot Anastasian.\n\nLeko, who in addition to English also speaks fluent German, was also supported in Germany and received a sponsorship contract from the energy producer RWE. The sports manager Carsten Hensel, who was active around the Dortmund Chess Days, took Leko under his wing and became his manager. Leko now regularly took part in the Dortmund tournaments.\n\nThe pre-history to the WCh match between Vladimir Kramnik and Peter Leko is at least as extensive as that to the match between Kasparov and Kramnik. After Kramnik's victory over Kasparov in the WCh match in London there was movement in the business of a possible reunification of the two World Championship systems. On the initiative of the Dutch communications manager Bessel Kok, who had already founded with Kasparov back in 1986 the GMA, a union of professional players, and who at that time was working in Prague, there was a meeting in May 2002 in Prague during the rapid chess tournament called the Eurotel Trophy, of a majority of the leading figures in chess, and deliberations as to how it would be possible to bring the two World Championships back together.\n\nThe following plan was finally agreed: as for the classical World Championship, the Dortmund tournament of 2002 would be played as a candidates' tournament. The winner would play a match against Vladimir Kramnik. In the FIDE domain, Kasparov, who as leader of the world ranking list had brought himself back into play through Ilyumzhinov, would play a match against the FIDE World Champion, who at that time was Ruslan Ponomariov. The winners of the two matches were to play a reunification match, the victor of which would then be the single World Chess Champion recognised by all.\n\nHowever, FIDE and especially its president Kirsan Ilyumzhinov did not fulfil their obligations. Kasparov's match against the FIDE World Champion was arranged four times and cancelled four times. With his retirement in March 2005, Kasparov took his leave, also frustrated by the Prague reunification plan.\n\nThe causes of the postponements differed in their nature. There are on the whole only suppositions about the reasons since FIDE has made little known about what happened. Originally the match was to be played in summer 2003 in Buenos Aires, then it was postponed and finally cancelled, because according to FIDE the financing required to stage it was not there. In Argentine chess circles it was said that Ilyumzhinov had been handling a weapons deal as an emissary of the Russian government. The chess match was to have been financed with funds provided for this, or was somehow connected with this deal. But then the weapons deal collapsed and with it the match in Buenos Aires.\n\nThen FIDE announced Yalta as the new venue for the match. The date was first scheduled for June 2003, then September 2003 (starting on the 18th September). But then the Kasparov-Ponomariov match was called off at extremely short notice even for FIDE on the 29th August. FIDE gave the reason for that as being insuperable differences with Ruslan Ponomariov concerning the contractual details.\n\nPonomariov denied this version. The FIDE World Champion stated that he had signed an agreement with FIDE on the 12th August 2003, but admitted that he had not signed an English version of the contract because promises made to him during the negotiations had not been included and because he had not understood all the ways things had been formulated in the English version. Therefore he had asked for a Russian version of the text of the contract, which he would then sign. Moreover Ponomariov complained in an open letter that during the negotiations FIDE continually put him under pressure so as to disqualify him and replace him if he did not agree to the conditions. FIDE representatives had in addition given false information to the media and the public about the state of the negotiations.\n\nPossibly the true reason for the cancellation of the match is to be found somewhere completely different. According to Ukrainian sources, the Russian president Vladimir Putin had pressed Kirsan Ilyumzhinov to cancel the match. Perhaps Putin wanted to punish Kasparov for having become politically active against him in the opposition party 'Committee 2008'. In return Ilyumzhinov is said to have been granted another mandate as president of Kalmykia.\n\nAfter the cancellation FIDE then announced that, failing that, Kasparov would play against the next FIDE World Champion the eliminatory match for the reunification. If the theory of a politically motivated cancellation of the Ponomariov-Kasparov-matches is true, then, however, Ilyumzhinov cannot have been particularly interested in bringing about a match between Kasparov and whoever. In 2004 Rustam Kasimdzhanov won the FIDE k.-o. tournament in Tripoli and became the new FIDE World Champion. FIDE announced a match between Kasparov and Kasimdzhanov for January 2005. It was to be hosted by Dubai and the prize fund was to be 1.2 million dollars. But this match too never happened. The whole reunification plan in its original form was finally untenable when Kasparov withdrew from tournament chess in March 2005. Moreover, Kasparov himself never believed that Putin had been responsible for the cancellation of his match against Ponomariov.\n\nThe group around Kramnik, on the other hand, fulfilled its obligations, though not without difficulties. One of the hurdles turned out to be the question of rights. Kasparov had transferred the rights to the 'Classical World Chess Championship' to Raymond Keene's Braingames Network plc and when signing his contract for the WCh match in London Kramnik had also tied himself to Braingames. Thus Kramnik did become World Champion but he had no marketing rights attached to his title. Via a company called 'Intellectual Leisure Ltd', which held shares in Braingames and which was bought up by the company 'Einstein Group plc', the marketing rights wandered to the Einstein Group, a private multimedia and TV company which claimed as its business sector TV productions on scientific subjects, but also mental sports events and such like.\n\nFounded in 1999, the firm was quoted on the Stock Exchange from March 2000. The company proudly announced that in 2002 Einstein productions were being fed into TV sets in 15 countries via the Pay-TV broadcaster Sky. For the 'Braingames World Chess Championships' Einstein was planning live broadcasting of the games on the Internet, but also on television. In April 2002 Einstein managing director Steve Timmins met the Parisian chess patron Nahed Ojjeh, for whose NAO Chess Club Vladimir Kramnik played. Together they made new suggestions as to how the reunification process should be carried out in FIDE.\n\nIn the summer of 2002 the Dortmund grandmaster tournament was then played as a candidates' tournament for the 'Classical World Championship'. The tournament consisted of two double-round preliminary groups followed by k.-o. rounds. Group A was won by Alexei Shirov on tie-break ahead of Veselin Topalov (both on 4 points), Boris Gelfand (2\u00bd) and Christopher Lutz (1\u00bd). In the B-group the winner was Evgeny Bareev (4) in front of Peter Leko (3\u00bd), Michael Adams (2\u00bd) and Alexander Morozevich (2). In the semi-final Peter Leko defeated Alexei Shirov and then also won the final against Veselin Topalov. This made the Hungarian the challenger to Vladimir Kramnik.\n\nDuring 2002 the Einstein Group became financially lop-sided. In February 2003 Einstein announced that a million pounds had to be taken out as a loan in order to settle outstanding bills and salaries. Soon afterwards the company became insolvent. The rights to the 'Classical World Championship' had now apparently been acquired by Kramnik himself. The clarification of the question of the rights had, however, cost some time.\n\nIn any case, someone to stage and sponsor the match was soon found. Christian Burger, owner and managing director of the Swiss cigar manufacturers Burger&S\u00f6hne (founded in 1864), had read in the _Financial Times Deutschland_ , a sister-paper of the British _Financial Times_ founded in 2000 and shut down in December 2012, some interesting articles about the young chess stars Sergey Karjakin and Alexandra Kosteniuk and thus hit on the idea to deploy chess as a marketing vehicle for his cigar brands. Burger&S\u00f6hne in 1988 purchased the Dannemann brand 1999, acquiring in Tessin the 'Fabbrica Tabacchi Brissago SA'.\n\nBurger had then set up in 2003 the 'Centro Dannemann' in the spacious building in Brissago directly on the shore of the Lake Maggiore. On the ground floor expensive cigars were produced, whereas on the roomy first floor of the building cultural and sports events were held. Chess fitted in very well with this in Christian Burger's view. In January 2003 the Centro Dannemann staged in this lovely setting \u2013 from the enormous windows there is a view over Lake Maggiore and the picturesque mountains on the opposite bank \u2013 a match between Karjakin and Kosteniuk. That brought into action Carsten Hensel, who in the meantime had taken over the management for Vladimir Kramnik. After a call to Christian Burger, the latter was prepared to stage the WCh match between Kramnik and Leko in his Centro Dannemann and to offer a total prize fund of a million Swiss francs.\n\nThe match was played from the 25th September till the 18th October 2004 as the 'Classical World Chess Championship 2004' in the Centro Dannemann in Brissago and set for 14 games. In the event of a draw the title defender was to remain World Champion. Kramnik's team had seen the departure of Joel Lautier, who was nevertheless present as president of the players' organisation ACP (Association of Chess Professionals). He was replaced by Peter Svidler in Kramnik's team. Leko's second was Vladimir Akopian. The match was played in a remarkably friendly atmosphere, since both players had as their manager Carsten Hensel, who was from Dortmund and so came, as it were, practically from the same 'stable'.\n\nThe venue, Brissago, is a peaceful little place in Italian Switzerland, on the west bank of Lake Maggiore, the last Swiss town before the border with Italy. Towards the north lie the chic resorts of Ascona and Locarno. The mountains come right down to the road along the bank. Although the town is hard to reach, some spectators did come to Brissago to watch the games live. Especially at weekends the spectators' room, which could hold perhaps 200 spectators, was well filled. Dannemann broadcast the games live to the Internet, a technology which at the time was new and expensive, and in addition took a video stream from ChessBase of the press conference with the players after the game. It was possible to follow both free on the Dannemann website.\n\nDuring the match there were two sorts of games: those in which chess was played and which were hard fought, and those which quickly ended in draws. There had apparently been an internal agreement with the organiser that play should last for at least two hours, so that even the short draws in the second game (18 moves), third game (23 moves), sixth game (20 moves), seventh game (21 moves), ninth game (16 moves) and eleventh game (17 moves) were only finished after the aforementioned two hours.\n\nThe match began, however, with a bang, since Kramnik won the very first game, and that with the black pieces. He had secured for himself a safe position in the Petroff Defence with a novelty. Leko played for a win but was caught out by Kramnik's counterplay. In the fifth game Leko surprised Kramnik by choosing for the first time 1.d4 as his opening move. From the Queen's Gambit he reached straight out of the opening a slightly better endgame, which Black normally draws, but Kramnik did not manage to do so.\n\nIn the 8th game Kramnik's preparation against Leko's Ruy Lopez Marshall Variation went fundamentally wrong. He followed a sharp and forced variation, which he had found with the help of a computer. It then turned out that Kramnik's seconds Bareev and Svidler had not checked the variation deeply enough. Kramnik followed the computer variation, then in the game, instead of drawing by repetition of moves, sacrificed the queen in the belief that he was winning, and lost because, without preparation, Leko evaluated the position on the board correctly and played the best moves. Leko thus took the lead. In the twelfth game the challenger achieved a promising position with black and to the astonishment of the spectators offered a draw with his strong 35th move. Possibly this is where the Hungarian missed the chance of becoming World Champion, since he was clearly better in the final position.\n\nKramnik now absolutely had to win one of the last two games in order to level the match, which according to the match rules would be enough for him to have defended his title. In game 13 Leko held the draw with white. The 14th game was Kramnik's best performance in the match and his win secured the required overall draw.\n\n **Kramnik \u2013 Leko**\n\nBrissago, 14th game  \n18th October 2004  \nCaro-Kann Defence (B12)\n\n**1.e4 c6**\n\nAfter the eighth game, which Leko had won in fortunate circumstances, the Hungarian no longer trusted his Ruy Lopez Marshall Gambit and had changed to the Caro-Kann Defence, but he had certain problems with it.\n\n**2.d4 d5 3.e5 \u2657f5**\n\nRecently 3...c5 has also been played more often.\n\n**4.h4**\n\nThere is the much played and sharper 4.\u2658c3 e6 5.g4 \u2657g6 6.\u2658ge2. Nigel Short made quick development with 4.\u2658f3 e6 5.\u2657e2 popular. The immediate 4.g4 is also played: 4...\u2657d7 (4...\u2657e4!?) etc.\n\n**4...h6**\n\nAfter the main move 4...h5 White has the choice between 5.\u2658e2 e6 6.\u2658g3 and 5.c4.\n\n**5.g4 \u2657d7 6.\u2658d2**\n\nA novelty by Kramnik. The development of the knight to b3 was more frequently tried after this game, even in other lines of the Advance Variation of the Caro-Kann Defence.\n\n**6...c5**\n\n6...e6 7.\u2658b3 c5 is a transposition of moves.\n\n**7.dxc5**\n\nAfter 7.c3 \u2658c6 8.\u2658b3 cxd4 9.cxd4 e6 Black has nice play against the weak d4-pawn.\n\n**7...e6**\n\nRainer Knaak suggested 7...\u2658c6 as an improvement for Black, so as to provoke 8.f4, after which White's position is somewhat loose. 7...\u2655c7 was also worth considering according to Knaak.\n\n**8. \u2658b3 \u2657xc5 9.\u2658xc5 \u2655a5+ 10.c3 \u2655xc5 11.\u2658f3 \u2658e7 12.\u2657d3**\n\n12.h5!? looks more logical.\n\n**12... \u2658bc6**\n\nThe threat is...d5-d4, but also...\u2658e7-g6.\n\n**13. \u2657e3 \u2655a5 14.\u2655d2!**\n\nThis takes the sting out of...d5-d4. 14.\u2655c2?! is unfavourable on account of 14...\u2656c8. (Knaak)\n\n**14... \u2658g6**\n\nBlack could play 14...d4!? as a pawn sacrifice, so as to get hold of the d5-square for a knight. However, after 15.cxd4 \u2658b4 16.0-0 (16.a3? \u2658xd3+ \u2013+) 16...\u2657b5 17.\u2657xb5+ \u2655xb5 18.\u2656fc1 \u2656d8 19.a3 \u2658bd5 Black's counterplay probably is not sufficient to compensate for the disadvantage in material.\n\n**15. \u2657d4**\n\n15.\u2657xg6?! fxg6 opens the f-file for Black.\n\n**15... \u2658xd4**\n\nIt was also worth considering 15...\u2655c7 16.\u2655e3 \u2658xd4 17.\u2655xd4 \u2655a5=.\n\n**16.cxd4 \u2655xd2+**\n\n16...\u2655b6= was also playable.\n\n**17. \u2654xd2**\n\nIn the decisive last game, which he did have to win, it was relatively bold of Kramnik to allow so many simplifications till this endgame arose. However, Kramnik also has particular strengths in the endgame.\n\n**17... \u2658f4?!**\n\nThis move was later criticised. The alternative was 17...\u2658e7 intending 18...\u2658c6.\n\n**18. \u2656ac1! h5**\n\nIn the event of 18...\u2658xd3 19.\u2654xd3 \u2657b5+ 20.\u2654e3 \u2654d7 21.h5 \u2656ac8 White plays 22.\u2658h2!. (Knaak) After 22...\u2656xc1 23.\u2656xc1 however 23...\u2656g8!? is an interesting idea: 24.f4 g6 with counterplay. 23...\u2656c8? 24.\u2656xc8 \u2654xc8 25.f4 \u2654d7 26.g5 is on the other hand good for White, since the knight is better than the bishop here.\n\n**19. \u2656hg1 \u2657c6**\n\n19...\u2658h3 20.\u2656g3 \u2658xf2 21.gxh5 is good for White. After 19...\u2656c8 20.\u2656xc8+ \u2657xc8 21.gxh5 \u2658xh5 22.\u2654e3 Black is also facing a difficult defence.\n\n**20.gxh5 \u2658xh5 21.b4**\n\nWhite has the initiative, but the question is whether it is enough for a win.\n\n**21...a6 22.a4 \u2654d8?**\n\nAfter this the white advantage takes on clear outlines. White also has strong pressure after 22...\u2657xa4 23.\u2656c7 \u2657c6 24.\u2658g5. But there was the more tenacious 22...\u2654e7!?, since after 23.b5 axb5 24.axb5 \u2657d7 25.\u2656c7 b6 26.\u2654e3 \u2656a3 27.\u2656b7 \u2656c8 Black gets counterplay.\n\n**23. \u2658g5 \u2657e8 24.b5 \u2658f4**\n\nAfter 24...axb5 25.\u2657xb5 too, White is in the driving seat.\n\n**25.b6! \u2658xd3**\n\nOr 25...\u2656c8 26.\u2656xc8+ \u2654xc8 27.\u2656c1+ \u2654b8 28.\u2656c7+\u2013. (Knaak)\n\n**26. \u2654xd3 \u2656c8 27.\u2656xc8+ \u2654xc8 28.\u2656c1+ \u2657c6 29.\u2658xf7 \u2656xh4 30.\u2658d6+ \u2654d8 31.\u2656g1 \u2656h3+ 32.\u2654e2 \u2656a3 33.\u2656xg7 \u2656xa4 34.f4 \u2656a2+**\n\n34...\u2656xd4 35.f5! exf5 36.e6 \u2656e4+ 37.\u2658xe4 fxe4 38.\u2656c7+\u2013.\n\n**35. \u2654f3**\n\nWhite sets off into the black camp with his king, in order to mate the black king. But there was also the good, though less spectacular 35.\u2654d3 \u2656a3+ 36.\u2654c2 \u2656a2+ 37.\u2654b3 \u2656a1 (37...\u2656f2 38.f5 exf5 39.\u2658xb7+ \u2657xb7 40.\u2656xb7 \u2656e2 41.\u2656f7+\u2013) 38.\u2658xb7+ \u2657xb7 39.\u2656xb7 \u2654c8 40.\u2656c7+ \u2654b8 41.\u2654b4+\u2013.\n\n**35... \u2656a3+**\n\n35...\u2656a1 36.f5+\u2013.\n\n**36. \u2654g4 \u2656d3**\n\n36...\u2656a1 37.\u2658xb7+ \u2657xb7 38.\u2656xb7 \u2656g1+ 39.\u2654h5 \u2654c8 40.\u2656c7+ \u2654b8 41.f5+\u2013.\n\n**37.f5 \u2656xd4+ 38.\u2654g5 exf5 39.\u2654f6 \u2656g4 40.\u2656c7 \u2656h4 41.\u2658f7+**\n\n**1-0**\n\n41...\u2654e8 42.\u2656c8+ \u2654d7 43.\u2656d8#.\n\nThis left Kramnik World Champion. After the match it became known that the title defender suffered from a rheumatic disease which had strongly handicapped him during the match and required medical treatment. This explains the partly muted play of the title defender in some games. Leko, however, as he stated later in an interview, had known nothing about Kramnik's illness.\n**Part V \u2212 Reunification and what followed**\n\nFollowing on from the Prague reunification plan of 2002, FIDE and Kramnik had fulfilled their obligations and now all that had to happen was the match between the two World Champions, the 'Classical World Champion' in the tradition of Steinitz, Lasker and their successors, and the FIDE World Champion \u2013 who was, after his victory in the FIDE WCh tournament in San Luis in 2005, Veselin Topalov \u2013 and that would reunite the word of chess.\n\nKirsan Ilyumzhinov and FIDE were still making a fuss about actually holding the reunification match, but apparently the still influential Russian leadership circles exerted pressure on the FIDE president and in 2006 in Elista the long awaited match actually came to pass. It was then held in scandalous circumstances and at times was on the brink of being abandoned. Kramnik won and was then recognised on all sides as the World Chess Champion. After 13 years the schism had finally come to an end.\n\nThere followed in 2007 a WCh tournament which was won by Viswanathan Anand. The new World Champion then defended his title in matches in 2008 against Kramnik, in 2010 against Topalov and in 2012 against Gelfand. Whereas Anand won convincingly against Kramnik, his victory over Topalov was much more arduous. Against Gelfand the Indian had to wait until the playoff to get through.\n\nIn 2012 Anand's opponent could already have been Magnus Carlsen. But the Norwegian had withdrawn from the WCh cycle, because he was unhappy with the scheduling by FIDE. In the meanwhile Carlsen had made his way to first place in the world ranking list, in which he soon led by a big margin. Anand on the other hand was less successful with his play and fell back in the world ranking list. At the candidates' tournament in London in 2013 Carlsen was victorious, though only just on tiebreak score compared to Vladimir Kramnik. That confirmed Carlsen as the new challenger to Anand.\n**40. 'Toiletgate' in Elista**\n\n**The World Championship 2006:  \n_Vladimir Kramnik against Veselin Topalov_**\n\nVeselin Topalov was born on the 15th March 1975 in the city of Russe in the north of Bulgaria, the son of an economist and a doctor. His childhood has been described as difficult, without there being any more information than that. He learned to play chess from his father at the age of eight and made rapid progress. His first trainers were Dimitar Sinabov, and from 1987 Petko Atanasov. When Topalov was twelve, Silvio Danailov started to look after him and he has been his manager until the present day.\n\n**Veselin Topalov (born in 1975)**\n\nIn 1989 Topalov won the U14 Junior World Championship in Aguadilla (Puerto Rico). In 1992 Danailov and Topalov went to Spain, where Topalov played in countless tournaments. After good tournament successes Topalov achieved fourth place in the July world ranking list of 1996 on the same number of points as Anand (Elo 2750). After 1998, however, he first fell back under 2700, but in 2002 recovered his place in the top ten. In the same year he reached the final of the candidates' tournament in Dortmund, but lost against Leko.\n\nAfter Topalov had, between 2002 and 2004, stagnated in the world ranking list around 2740, a series of tournament successes then helped him to a lightning climb in that ranking list. At the FIDE WCh of 2004 in Tripoli Topalov scored 9\u00bd points in 10 games and was not defeated until the semi-final against Rustam Kasimdzhanov after a rapid chess tiebreak. After Kasparov's withdrawal Topalov took first place in the world ranking list (Elo 2804) in April 2006 and held it till January 2007 (Elo 2783) with his highest rating being in October 2006 (Elo 2813). After January 2007 he continually fell down the list and lost approx. 40 points.\n\nIn October 2005 Topalov sailed through the FIDE WCh tournament in San Luis (Argentina). 'Topalov surpassed his opponents in all aspects of the game: he was better prepared in the opening. He played faster, hardly calculating at all, and in general he didn't make any bad mistakes. Veselin didn't get tired in long games and didn't have any doubts when he made decisions', was how Bareev and Levitov characterised the Bulgarian's play.\n\nThis made Topalov FIDE's candidate for a possible reunification match against the World Champion in 'classical chess', Vladimir Kramnik. During the tournament in San Luis, Kramnik's manager Carsten Hensel had in a conversation with Topalov's manager Danailov had already reached an agreement in principle about a reunification match between Kramnik and Topalov. The recently founded Dortmund firm Universal Event Promotion (UEP), with the Germano-Russian metals dealer Josef Resch, a friend of Kramnik, wanted to stage the match. UEP offered a prize fund of a million dollars, 500000 dollars for each of the two players. The match was to be for 14 games from 25th November till 17th December 2006 under the title 'World Chess Match of the Champions' in Bonn's Art and Exhibition Hall.\n\nBefore it came to the signing of the contract in November 2005, however, FIDE intervened and prevented this reunification match from happening under the control of UEP. Danailov gave a reason in a statement in which he made it clear that he did not recognise Kramnik as the World Champion and moreover explained that he had come to no agreement with the UEP, had signed nothing and invited Kramnik to challenge the 'reigning World Champion' Topalov, if he wanted to play him for the World Championship. Carsten Hensel pointed out in his reply that both FIDE and Silvio Danailov as well as Veselin Topalov had in various agreements explicitly recognised the status of Vladimir Kramnik as 'World Champion in classical chess'. FIDE emphasised that the reunification match had to take place under their aegis.\n\nThe positions of the two parties appeared to have hardened. Then however, Alexander Zhukov, deputy prime minister of the Russian government and at the same time president of the Russian Chess Federation, got involved. An admirer of Kramnik, he insisted on the holding of the reunification match. Since at this point Kirsan Ilyumzhinov was faced with two decisions, on one hand his re-election as FIDE president during the congress at the Chess Olympiad in Torino in 2006, and on the other his confirmation as president of the Russian Republic of Kalmykia, and that in both cases he was reliant on help from Moscow, it was advisable for him to follow the wishes of Zhukov.\n\nOn Good Friday 2006 (14th April) Ilyumzhinov publicly and surprisingly announced the holding of the reunification match from the 21st September till the 13th October. There had been some negotiations behind the scenes preceding this. The particularly difficult subject was the official way of handling the status of the two players. In no way did Kramnik wish to appear as the 'challenger' of Topalov. Topalov insisted on his status as the 'true' World Champion and did not see the match as that of two players on the same level. Agreement was finally reached that this would be a match for the title of World Champion between two top players. The concepts of 'FIDE World Champion', 'Classical World Champion' and 'challenger' were avoided in the announcement of the match. Both players had agreed that after this WCh match all future World Championships from then on should take place under the aegis of FIDE. Kramnik had in addition declared himself willing, should he win, to take part in the WCh tournament planned by FIDE for 2007, although he had always been in favour of the match format as the appropriate one for the WCh. Moreover, Kramnik had the right to a return match included: should he as the winner of the match against Topalov take part in the WCh tournament but not win it, he would be allowed a return match against the new World Champion.\n\nThe reunification match then took place, as announced, from 21st September till 13th October 2006 in Elista and was set for twelve games. The winner should be whoever reached 6\u00bd points. In the event of a draw there were to be four rapid chess games, if it was still a draw then two blitz games and finally a so-called 'sudden death' blitz game. The time control was that of classical tournament chess, two hours for 40 moves, one hour for the next 20 moves and 15 minutes for the remainder plus 30 seconds time increment for each move in this final part of the game.\n\nThe prize money of one million dollars was to be divided equally between Kramnik and Topalov independently of the result. However, only the winner would qualify for the WCh tournament for the following year. The loser was out.\n\nThe chief arbiter was Geurt Gijssen. The members of the appeals committee were to be FIDE vice-presidents Georgios Makropoulos, Zurab Azmaiparashvili and Jorge Vega. The appeals committee functions as a jury for disputes, which in most cases is only named for symbolic reasons and usually does not have much to do. However, it costs the organiser quite a lot of money. 6000 dollars for the chairman and 4000 dollars for the other two members are the usual honoraria. The FIDE uses these committee nominations to reward the loyalty of their partisans at the presidential elections. In this WCh match, however, the jury was to have a special role to play. Kramnik's manager Carsten Hensel later admitted that he had not paid enough attention to its composition.\n\nZurab Azmaiparashvili, especially, does not enjoy the best of reputations in the world of chess, since he has been involved in a series of scandals. The Georgian grandmaster was, for example, openly accused of having fixed with three other players a tournament in his favour in 1995 in Strumica. It was a six-round tournament and Azmaiparashvili scored 16 points out of 18 games. This result enabled the former Kasparov second to clearly improve his Elo rating. Azmaiparashvili, however, has always denied the accusation of game fixing. In a game at the European championship of 2003 he took back a move, which is against the rules. After his opponent accepted the taking back of the move, Azmaiparashvili won the game and even became European champion.\n\nIn 2004 at the closing ceremony of the Chess Olympiad in Calvia (Spain) he became involved in a brawl with the Spanish police and was taken into police custody for two days. The cause for the scrimmage was a misunderstanding. Azmaiparashvili had wanted to draw attention to the fact that the awarding of the so-called Nona Gaprindashvili prize \u2013 for the nation which has the best average team ranking over the men's and women's events \u2013 had been forgotten and so he stormed on to the stage, but was physically restrained by the security staff. In the same year, however, the Georgian women players Lela Javakhishvili and Ana Matnadze complained that in connection with the Women's World Championship Azmaiparashvili had behaved to them 'in a hostile and intimidating manner, using inappropriate and vulgar language.'\n\nAnd there was no way that Azmaiparashvili was not partisan, since financial interests linked him to Topalov's manager Silvio Danailov. Azmaiparashvili was a trainer of the top Azeri player Teimour Radjabov. After it became clear that Topalov would win the WCh tournament of San Luis in 2005 after his outstanding first series of games (six wins and one draw against the absolute top of world chess), Silvio Danailov reached in 'negotiations' with FIDE a short-term change in the rules for the World Championship of the world chess federation. In fact they were sitting over drinks in the bar one evening in San Luis when Danailov came out with his suggestion and the FIDE representatives immediately agreed, according to observers. Danailov's suggestion was that any player with an Elo rating over 2700 should have the right to challenge the World Champion without any further qualification. What lay behind this suggestion was an offer from the financially strong Azeri Chess Federation to Topalov to play a WCh match against the then Azeri number one Teimour Radjabov in April 2007 in Baku. Topalov was to receive an appearance fee of a million dollars. As the trainer of Radjabov, Zurab Azmaiparashvili was involved in this piece of 'business'. If, however, Topalov did not win the match against Kramnik, then of course the match against Radjabov would not take place.\n\nKramnik's team in Elista included this time, as well as Miguel Illescas, Sergey Rublevsky and Alexander Motylev as seconds. Valery Krylov was responsible for Kramnik's physical fitness. Kramnik's manager Carsten Hensel acted as delegation leader. In addition to his constant companions Silvio Danailov and Ivan Cheparinov, Topalov arrived with Francisco Vallejo Pons and Alexander Onischuk as extra seconds. Moreover, he had brought six other people with him: a masseur, a press secretary, a bodyguard, put at his disposition by the Bulgarian president, an official from the Bulgarian embassy in Moscow and two computer experts, whose principal task was to ensure that the Bulgarians were not bugged in Russia.\n\nTopalov began the match in too up-beat a fashion and over-estimated his own strengths compared to Kramnik. In advance Topalov and Danailov had let it be known that there could be absolutely no doubt about who was going to win the match. In the first game the Bulgarian reached a good position, miscalculated however and lost. In the second game he overlooked a forced mate, missed several more winning chances, spoiled things first towards a draw and then also to the point of losing the game.\n\nOver a short distance of twelve games a two point deficit is quite a disadvantage. So Danailov decided to open up a battleground on a second front. Someone had informed him that whenever Kramnik retired to his rest room between moves he also frequently visited the toilet which was there. The players each had their own rest room with its own toilet. Whereas there was surveillance of the rest room with a video camera, that did not apply to the toilet for understandable reasons. The images from the video cameras in the two rest rooms were displayed on two monitors on the arbiter's table, so that the arbiter was also able to observe the players in their rest rooms. The images from the cameras were recorded on tapes.\n\nAfter the second game Silvio Danailov handed to the organisational head Valeri Bobaev a note of protest and complained about the match conditions. For example, he demanded to view the recorded tapes. After the fourth game the Topalov team were given the tapes to view by the appeals committee, something for which there was no justification in the rules. Danailov extrapolated from them the number of times Kramnik visited the toilet during the games and from these fairly frequent visits developed the accusation that in the toilet Kramnik was getting advice from forbidden help, i.e. a computer. He then formulated an official protest.\n\nNormally the appeals committee should have rejected this protest, after all the number of visits to the toilet is in no way subject to any rule. Instead, it had Kramnik's private toilet closed after the fourth game. Kramnik's head of delegation Hensel was informed of this on the evening of the 28th September, but, so as not to disturb Kramnik in his preparation, he only passed this on to him the following morning. When Kramnik learned of the decision he reacted very impulsively, took as his standpoint that this decision was not in accordance with the contracts which had been agreed and as a protest did not appear for the fifth game. On account of his non-appearance the game was scored as a win for Topalov.\n\nKramnik contested the legality of this measure and threatened to abandon the match \u2013 which would certainly have suited Danailov and Topalov very nicely \u2013 and to make a complaint to FIDE at the end of the match. The appeals committee showed a letter signed by Ilyumzhinov in which the latter accepted the decisions of the appeals committee. As it later turned out, this letter was a forgery; a signature stamp of Ilyumzhinov had been used. On the 29th September Danailov had handed in a further protest, in which he declared the decision of the appeals committee \u2013 the closing of the private toilet \u2013 to be insufficient, and demanded that Kramnik be accompanied by another person when he visited the toilet.\n\nAfter the fifth game did not take place, the appeals committee gave a press conference and tried to justify its decision. Kramnik then appeared and had an agitated discussion with Makropoulos, accused the committee together with Danailov of criminal machinations and finally said: 'I did not sign a contract to appear in a reality show. What is happening here is contrary to all ethical norms and an invasion of my privacy.'\n\nFIDE president Kirsan Ilyumzhinov had actually opened in his Kalmykian capital the reunification match which had been long awaited by the whole world of chess, but had then left to attend one of the meetings of provincial governors with Vladimir Putin in Sochi. In his absence the match got out of control. When events were made public on the internet, Putin sent him back home with the comment 'Put some order in that chess match back in your home.' After hurrying back to Elista, the FIDE president tried to pour oil on troubled waters and to save his reunification match. Ilyumzhinov replaced Makropoulos and Azmaiparashvili by Boris Kutin and Faik Hasanov and explained that the match would continue with the score at 3:2 for Kramnik.\n\nThe latter, who in the meantime had understood the intentions of Danailov, Topalov and Azmaiparashvili, finally decided to continue the match under protest. Things continued in Elista. After the sixth and seventh games had ended in draws, Topalov won the eighth and ninth games, then Kramnik equalised with a victory in the tenth game. The eleventh and twelfth games were once more drawn and a playoff had to decide matters. This was won by Kramnik by 2\u00bd:1\u00bd and with it he became the World Champion who was 'recognised by everyone'.\n\nWhy Kramnik visited the toilet so often was never explained. During the match his manager Carsten Hensel gave as a reason for this that Kramnik liked to walk up and down \u2013 not a very plausible explanation, since the room was not big enough for that. Then the story was that Kramnik was smoking secretly in there and did not want this to become known, since he had promised his wife to stop. But perhaps Kramnik had simply been going there for the usual reasons \u2013 many a chess player has found that when playing chess nerves have an effect on the bladder. If that were the case, he certainly did not have to offer any explanation.\n\n **Topalov \u2013 Kramnik**\n\nElista, 2nd game  \n24th September 2006  \nQueen's Gambit, Slav Defence (D19)\n\nIn the first game of the match Topalov had finished by losing from a promising position. Now in the second game with the white pieces he showed that his motivation was still high. It turned into an extremely complicated game, which can hardly be evaluated in all its subtleties without a computer. Moreover, fresh analysis with modern programs shows that in 2006 even the chess programs were not good enough to evaluate this complex game correctly.\n\n**1.d4 d5 2.c4 c6 3. \u2658c3 \u2658f6 4.\u2658f3 dxc4 5.a4 \u2657f5**\n\nThis safe version of the Slav Defence to the Queen's Gambit is in Kramnik's repertoire, but he had not used it for a long time before this game.\n\n**6.e3**\n\nIn the sixth game of the match 6.\u2658e5 was played: 6...e6 7.f3 c5 8.e4 \u2657g6 9.\u2657e3 cxd4 10.\u2655xd4 \u2655xd4 11.\u2657xd4 etc., \u00bd-\u00bd\/31.\n\n**6...e6 7. \u2657xc4 \u2657b4 8.0-0 \u2658bd7 9.\u2655e2 \u2657g6 10.e4 0-0 11.\u2657d3 \u2657h5 12.e5**\n\nThe alternative is 12.\u2657f4.\n\n**12... \u2658d5 13.\u2658xd5 cxd5 14.\u2655e3 \u2657g6**\n\nAnother playable move is 14...\u2657e7.\n\n**15. \u2658g5 \u2656e8 16.f4 \u2657xd3**\n\nA new move at the time of the game. Till then 16...\u2658f8 was known.\n\n**17. \u2655xd3 f5**\n\n17...\u2658f8? 18.f5, 17...g6!? 18.g4!?.\n\n**18. \u2657e3**\n\n18.\u2658xe6!? is probably too speculative: 18...\u2656xe6 19.\u2655xf5 \u2656c6 20.\u2655g4 \u2654h8 21.f5 \u2656c4. But there was the more aggressive immediate 18.g4 with wild complications which appear favourable for White.\n\n**18... \u2658f8 19.\u2654h1**\n\n19.g4 \u2655d7 is now less dangerous for Black.\n\n**19... \u2656c8**\n\nAfter 19...h6 or 19...\u2657e7! Black always has to reckon with 20.\u2658xe6 \u2658xe6 21.\u2655xf5.\n\n**20.g4 \u2655d7**\n\nThe consequences of 20...h6 21.\u2658xe6 \u2656xe6 22.gxf5 \u2656ec6 23.f6 gxf6 24.\u2656g1+ \u2654h8 are not clear. But Black seems to be able to hold on.\n\n**21. \u2656g1 \u2657e7**\n\n**22. \u2658f3**\n\nHere too, according to Marin, 22.\u2658xe6!? was well worth considering: 22...\u2655xe6 (22...\u2658xe6? 23.gxf5 \u2658c7? 24.f6 +\u2013) 23.gxf5 with a dangerous initiative for White.\n\n**22... \u2656c4 23.\u2656g2 fxg4 24.\u2656xg4 \u2656xa4 25.\u2656ag1 g6 26.h4 \u2656b4 27.h5 \u2655b5 28.\u2655c2**\n\nNot 28.hxg6? \u2655xd3 29.gxh7+ \u2654xh7 30.\u2656g7+ \u2654h6 and the attack is beaten off.\n\n**28... \u2656xb2 29.hxg6! h5**\n\n29...\u2656xc2? 30.gxh7+ \u2654xh7 31.\u2656g7+ \u2654h6 32.f5+ \u2654h5 33.f6+\u2013 leads to mate.\n\n**30.g7! hxg4**\n\n30...\u2658h7 31.\u2655g6+\u2013.\n\n**31.gxf8 \u2655+**\n\n**31... \u2657xf8?**\n\nSince Kramnik judged the alternative to be completely hopeless, he chose this move, which should lead to a loss. In any case he overlooked a hidden resource to the recapture with the king: after 31... \u2654xf8 32.\u2655g6 \u2655e2 33.\u2655xg4 apparently an unstoppable mate is threatened on g7, but the amazing move 33...\u2657g5! holds the position: White can take the bishop neither with the knight (pinned) nor with the pawn (this blocks the g-file). After 34.\u2656e1 \u2655c2 35.\u2655xg5 then 35...\u2656e7 holds the balance.\n\n**32. \u2655g6+?**\n\nInstead of this move, 32.\u2656xg4+ \u2657g7 33.\u2655c7 won immediately. The mate cannot be prevented: 33...\u2655f1+ 34.\u2658g1+\u2013.\n\n**32... \u2657g7 33.f5**\n\nBut White continues to have a strong attack. 33.\u2658g5 leads, however, after 33...\u2656e7 34.\u2655h7+ \u2654f8 35.\u2655g6 \u2655e2 (35...\u2654g8 36.\u2656xg4) 36.\u2658h7+ \u2654g8 37.\u2658f6+ only to perpetual check.\n\n**33... \u2656e7**\n\nAfter 33...exf5? White wins: 34.\u2658g5! \u2655c6 35.\u2655f7+ \u2654h8 36.e6+\u2013. (Marin)\n\n**34.f6 \u2655e2 35.\u2655xg4 \u2656f7 36.\u2656c1?**\n\n36.\u2655h5! was strong, intending 37.\u2656g3 and 38.fxg7. White keeps up the attack.\n\n**36... \u2656c2 37.\u2656xc2 \u2655d1+**\n\nThere was the simpler 37...\u2655xc2 38.\u2658g5 \u2655b1+ 39.\u2654g2 \u2655c2+ with equality.\n\n**38. \u2654g2 \u2655xc2+ 39.\u2654g3 \u2655e4?**\n\n39...\u2655f5! leads instead to a draw: 40.\u2655xf5 exf5 41.\u2658g5 \u2656c7 42.\u2654f4 \u2656c3! 43.fxg7 \u2654xg7 44.\u2658e6+ \u2654g6 45.\u2654f3 \u2656b3=.\n\n**40. \u2657f4?**\n\nInstead, after 40.\u2655xe4 dxe4 41.\u2658g5 White gets a winning endgame, which is, however, hard to calculate out in advance, for example: 41...\u2657h6 42.\u2658xf7 \u2657xe3 43.\u2658d8 a5 44.d5!+\u2013 or 43...\u2657xd4? 44.f7+ \u2654f8 45.\u2658xe6+ \u2654xf7 46.\u2658xd4 a5 47.\u2654f4 a4 48.\u2658b5+\u2013. (Marin) White also wins after 41...\u2657f8 42.\u2658xe6 a5 43.\u2658xf8 44.d5 \u2654e8 45.\u2654f4 a4 46.\u2657d4.\n\n**40... \u2655f5 41.\u2655xf5 exf5 42.\u2657g5?**\n\nAfter this the game tips in Black's favour. After 42.fxg7 \u2656xg7+ 43.\u2654f2 Black's chances are only slightly better. The best was perhaps 42.\u2658g5!.\n\n**42...a5**\n\nNow White suddenly has to fight for the draw.\n\n**43. \u2654f4**\n\n43.fxg7 \u2656xg7 44.e6 a4 45.\u2654f4 no longer suffices for White: 45...a3 46.\u2658d2 a2 47.\u2658b3 \u2656h7\u2013+.\n\n**43...a4 44. \u2654xf5 a3 45.\u2657c1 \u2657f8 46.e6 \u2656c7**\n\n**47. \u2657xa3?**\n\nA better way is 47.e7! \u2657xe7 48.fxe7 \u2656xe7 49.\u2657xa3 \u2656e3 50.\u2657d6 \u2656xf3+ 51.\u2654e5 \u2656b3 52.\u2654xd5 with practical drawing chances.\n\n**47... \u2657xa3 48.\u2654e5 \u2656c1**\n\nHe had better chances of a win after 48... \u2656c3!? 49.\u2658g5 \u2656g3 50.\u2658f7 \u2656g6 51.\u2654f5 \u2656g1.\n\n**49. \u2658g5?**\n\nA more tenacious try was 49.\u2654xd5.\n\n**49... \u2656f1 50.e7 \u2656e1+ 51.\u2654xd5 \u2657xe7 52.fxe7 \u2656xe7 53.\u2654d6 \u2656e1?!**\n\nAccording to John Nunn, who has analysed the game with 'Tablebases', an infallible endgame database, here only 53...\u2656e3 leads to a win by force: 54.d5 \u2654f8 55.\u2654d7 b5 56.\u2658e6+ \u2654g8 57.d6 b4 58.\u2658c5 \u2654f7 59.\u2654c6 \u2656c3 60.\u2654b5 b3 61.\u2658a4 \u2656c2 62.d7 \u2654e7\u2013+.\n\n**54.d5 \u2654f8**\n\n**55. \u2658e6+?**\n\nAccording to the endgame database 55.\u2654d7 instead holds the draw for White. 55...b5 56.\u2658e6+ \u2654f7 (56...\u2654g8 57.d6 b4 58.\u2658c5=) 57.\u2658d8+ \u2654f6 58.\u2658c6 \u2656b1 59.\u2654d6! b4 60.\u2654c5!=. (Marin)\n\n**55... \u2654e8 56.\u2658c7+ \u2654d8 57.\u2658e6+ \u2654c8 58.\u2654e7 \u2656h1!**\n\nBut not 58...b5? 59.d6 \u2656d1 60.\u2658c5 b4 61.d7+ \u2654c7 62.\u2658a6+ (or 62.\u2658e6+) with a draw. (Marin)\n\n**59. \u2658g5?**\n\nA more resilient move was 59.\u2654d6.\n\n**59...b5 60.d6 \u2656d1 61.\u2658e6 b4 62.\u2658c5 \u2656e1+ 63.\u2654f6 \u2656e3**\n\nWhite resigned.\n\nThe schism within the World Championships was now finally brought to an end after 13 years with this match. But the scandalous circumstances which had surrounded the playing of this WCh match once again split the world of chess into two camps. Whilst some condemned the behaviour of Topalov and his manager Danailov as 'dirty tricks', others believed the account of the Bulgarians, namely that Kramnik had cheated in the toilet. Danailov sought to prove this after the match by having the ceiling tiles of Kramnik's toilet removed and finding some cables behind them including a network cable. The reunification match, planned as a brilliant finish to a long and painful process, finished by going down in the history of chess as 'Toiletgate'. The international press did in fact deal extensively with this World Chess Championship, but principally from the point of view of the scandal.\n\nAfter the match Silvio Danailov threatened FIDE with a lawsuit for millions on account of the circumstances surrounding the match in Elista and what in his view were the unsatisfactory decisions by FIDE. By doing so he later obtained some special rights for his prot\u00e9g\u00e9 Veselin Topalov for the next WCh cycle. It was agreed that Topalov should get the right to a return match if Kramnik should win the forthcoming WCh tournament in Mexico. If that should not be the case, then Topalov should play in a candidates' final against the World Cup- winner from Khanty-Mansiysk, in order to qualify via this route as the challenger for the next WCh match.\n**41. World Champion the second time around**\n\n**The World Championship 2007:  \n_World Championship tournament in Mexico City_**\n\nFIDE had actually decided to return to the match format for the World Championships. But before that was possible it had contractual obligations to fulfil. Namely, before FIDE had come to an agreement about the format with Kramnik, it had already fixed in 2005 that the World Championship of 2007 would also be played in tournament format and awarded the tournament to Mexico City.\n\n**Viswanathan Anand (born in 1969)**\n\nFIDE had already staged in the middle of 2007 (26th May till 14th June 2007) two rounds of candidates' matches in the k.-o. system in Elista for qualification purposes. The candidates had qualified for these via the FIDE World Cup 2005 or their places in the world ranking list.\n\nBefore these candidates' matches could finally be held, there was for a long time discussion about the modalities. FIDE had difficulties finding an organiser for the candidates' matches and thus also considered at their executive committee meeting of 22nd and 23rd September 2006 in Elista a possible candidates' tournament with sixteen players. But there were protests from some players who had already got into match mode and had prepared for the players who had been nominated for the matches. Thus Boris Gelfand protested against the changed plans with an open letter. FIDE fell into line and the originally planned format was reinstated.\n\nDue to the lack of other bidders, FIDE president Ilyumzhinov himself stood in as the organiser and staged the matches in Elista, the capital city of his autonomous Russian province of Kalmykia.\n\nThe candidates' matches were each for six games, with tiebreak games at reduced thinking time in the event of draws. The qualifiers from the candidates' matches for the WCh tournament were Levon Aronian, Peter Leko, Boris Gelfand and Alexander Grischuk. Viswanathan Anand, Peter Svidler and Alexander Morozevich had prequalified due to their placing in the WCh tournament of 2005. To them was added Vladimir Kramnik as the reigning World Champion.\n\nOriginally it was only supposed to be the first two from the WCh tournament of San Luis who would go on to the next WCh tournament, but during the tournament itself FIDE changed the rules at short notice and decided that the first four players from San Luis should take part in Mexico. The idea behind it was at that point to bind as many players as possible to FIDE contractually and thus to reduce the possible number of challengers for the 'other World Champion' Kramnik.\n\nThe World Championship tournament in Mexico was played from 12th till 30th September 2007 as a double-round all-play-all. The time control was the classical one with 2 hours for 40 moves, 1 hour for the next 20 moves and 15 minutes for the remainder of the game with an increment of 30 seconds per move. It was hosted by the five star Sheraton Centro Hist\u00f3rico Hotel & Convention Centre. The head organiser Jorge Saggiante had put up a total prize fund of 1.3 million dollars, of which as usual 20% was diverted to FIDE. Anand won four games in the tournament and drew the remaining ten games, which brought him victory in the tournament (9 points) and the title of World Champion. Compared to the scandal-ridden World Championship match between Kramnik and Topalov the tournament ran virtually harmoniously. The players were welcomed with great enthusiasm by the Mexicans.\n\nThere were, however, victims to the street crime of Mexico City. Hans-Walter Schmitt, for many years the organiser of the Frankfurt and Mainz Chess Classic and who had travelled there to support his friend Viswanathan Anand, was attacked on the street, but engaged in a violent scuffle with the muggers.\n\nOn the other hand, the Mexicans too had reason to complain. Zurab Azmaiparashvili, the FIDE representative at the event, was expelled from the Sheraton Hotel on account of an incident. But since he was obliged to observe the games for FIDE, the Georgian received permission to go to and leave the playing venue in the hotel along a specifically designated route. FIDE swept the business under the carpet so that it did not become public. Since a change of government in 2012 Azmaiparashvili for a time held the rank of a 'deputy minister' in the Georgian ministry of sport. In 2014 in Troms\u00f8 he was elected president of the European Chess Union and replaced Silvio Danailov, who had held the office from 2012 to 2014.\n\n **Anand \u2013 Morozevich**\n\nMexico City, 11th round  \n25th September 2007  \nSicilian Defence (B90)\n\n**1.e4 c5 2. \u2658f3 d6 3.d4 cxd4 4.\u2658xd4 \u2658f6 5.\u2658c3 a6**\n\nThe Sicilian Najdorf Variation is one of the most popular openings in modern chess.\n\n**6.f3**\n\nThis leads into the English Attack. Other options are 6.\u2657e2, 6.\u2657c4, 6.f4, 6.\u2657g5, which usually gives rise to very sharp play, and 6.\u2657e3, which should also lead to the English Attack.\n\n**6...e5**\n\nThis double step of the pawn is the basic idea of the Najdorf Variation. The alternative 6...e6 is classified as belonging to the Scheveningen Variation. With 6... \u2655b6 Black could try to exploit White's move order, i.e. 6.f3 instead of 6.\u2657e3.\n\n**7. \u2658b3 \u2657e6 8.\u2657e3 \u2658bd7**\n\n8...\u2657e7 is more popular.\n\n**9.g4 \u2658b6**\n\n9...b5 is also playable.\n\n**10.g5 \u2658h5 11.\u2655d2 \u2656c8 12.0-0-0 \u2657e7 13.\u2656g1 0-0 14.\u2654b1 \u2655c7 15.\u2655f2**\n\nThis attacks the knight on b6 so as to conquer the d5-square. The position has been well researched theoretically and had already occurred in numerous games.\n\n**15... \u2658c4 16.\u2657xc4 \u2657xc4 17.\u2658d5 \u2657xd5 18.\u2656xd5 f5 19.gxf6 \u2656xf6**\n\nNot 19...\u2658xf6 20.\u2656d3 \u2658xe4? on account of 21.\u2655g2 winning a piece.\n\n**20. \u2655e2 \u2658f4 21.\u2657xf4 \u2656xf4 22.\u2656d3 \u2655d7 23.\u2658c1 \u2656cf8 24.a3!**\n\nWhite makes room for the knight, which is to be brought via a2-c3 to d5.\n\n**24... \u2654h8**\n\nIt was worth considering 24...\u2655e6!? 25.\u2658a2 \u2655f7 26.\u2656f1 (26.\u2656g3 \u2657h4 27.\u2656h3 \u2655e6 28.\u2655g2 \u2657e1!?) 26...d5=.\n\n**25. \u2658a2 \u2655h3 26.\u2656g3 \u2655h5**\n\nHere Black has some counterplay against the f3-pawn, but White can easily neutralise it.\n\n**27. \u2655g2 \u2656h4 28.h3 \u2655h6 29.\u2656b3**\n\nHere White's advantage in space makes itself felt. White can easily bring his pieces from one flank to the other, whilst in Black's case the d6-pawn prevents such manoeuvres along the 6th rank.\n\n**29...b5**\n\n29...\u2656b8 30.\u2658b4 (the threat is \u2658xa6) 30...\u2656e8 31.\u2658d5 with a good position for White.\n\n**30. \u2658b4 \u2656h5 31.\u2655f1**\n\nThe immediate 31.\u2658xa6 is followed by 31...\u2657h4 32.\u2656g4 \u2657d8 and then not 33.\u2655f1 on account of 33...\u2656xh3 34.\u2655xb5 \u2656h1+ 35.\u2654a2 \u2655c1 and now Black is in front.\n\n**31... \u2656h4**\n\nThis threatens...\u2656xe4. But 31...\u2657h4 is followed by 32.\u2656g1 \u2657d8 33.\u2658xa6 \u2656xh3 34.\u2655xb5 with an advantage for White.\n\n**32. \u2655g2 \u2656h5 33.\u2658xa6 \u2657h4 34.\u2656g4 \u2657f6 35.\u2655e2**\n\n35.h4 was not bad: 35...\u2657xh4 36.\u2656xb5 with advantage to White.\n\n**35... \u2656xh3 36.\u2656xb5 \u2657d8**\n\nBlack abstains from 36...\u2656h1+ 37.\u2654a2 \u2655c1 38.\u2656g2 h5!? with good counterplay.\n\n**37. \u2656b8 \u2655f6 38.\u2658b4 \u2656xf3 39.\u2658d5**\n\n39.\u2656g1!? \u2656f2 40.\u2655d1 (intending \u2658c6) 40...\u2655e6 41.\u2655d3 and White is ready to advance the a-pawn.\n\n**39... \u2655f7 40.\u2655a6 h5 41.\u2656g2 h4?**\n\nBlack would like to advance the h-pawn as quickly as possible and gives up his two central pawns. There was, however, a better move: 41...\u2655e6.\n\n**42. \u2655xd6 \u2657e7 43.\u2655xe5**\n\nWhite now has in addition to his passed pawn on the queenside another one in the centre.\n\n**43... \u2656xb8 44.\u2655xb8+ \u2654h7 45.\u2655c7 \u2657f8?**\n\nThere was the more tenacious 45...\u2656f1+ 46.\u2654a2 \u2655f3 47.\u2656h2 \u2657g5, though there was also an advantage for White.\n\n**46. \u2655xf7 \u2656xf7**\n\nThe exchange of queens helps White.\n\n**47. \u2656g4 \u2656f1+**\n\n47...g5 48.\u2656xg5 \u2656f1+ 49.\u2654a2 \u2654h6 50.\u2656g2 \u2654h5 51.e5 h3 52.\u2656e2+\u2013.\n\n**48. \u2654a2 \u2656h1 49.e5**\n\nPerhaps the a-pawn was the faster: 49.a4 \u2654h6 50.a5 g5 51.a6 \u2657c5 52.b4 \u2657f2 53.\u2656g2 \u2657a7 54.b5 h3 55.\u2656g3 \u2657b8 56.\u2658e3+\u2013.\n\n**49... \u2657c5?**\n\nA waste of time. 49...h3 was better.\n\n**50.e6 \u2654h6 51.\u2656c4**\n\nAnother good move was 51.b4.\n\n**51...h3**\n\n51...\u2657f8 52.\u2656c8 \u2656f1 53.e7 \u2657xe7 54.\u2658xe7 \u2654h7 55.b4 \u2656f7 56.\u2658d5 g5 57.\u2656c3+\u2013.\n\n**52. \u2656xc5 h2**\n\nNow the threat is...\u2656e1 and...h2-h1\u2655 and Black wins.\n\n**53. \u2658e3! \u2656a1+**\n\n53...\u2656g1 54.e7 h1\u2655 55.e8\u2655+\u2013 with an enormous material advantage for White. Or 53...\u2656e1 54.\u2658g4+ +\u2013.\n\n**54. \u2654xa1 h1\u2655+**\n\nBlack is now actually the first to get a new queen, but cannot prevent White from also promoting his pawn.\n\n**55. \u2654a2 \u2655e4 56.\u2656e5!**\n\nThis trick allows White to secure the promotion of his pawn: 56...\u2655xe5 57.\u2658g4+. Black resigned.\n**42. 74 years later, back to Germany**\n\n**The World Championship 2008:  \n_Viswanathan Anand against Vladimir Kramnik_**\n\nAccording to the agreements which FIDE had made with Kramnik during the reunification match, Kramnik, who had not won the WCh tournament of Mexico City, had been accorded the right to a return match against the World Champion Viswanathan Anand. The staging of this was entrusted to Josef Resch's company 'Universal Event Promotion' (UEP), behind which there was essentially the organisational team of the Dortmund grandmaster tournaments, financially guaranteed by the patron Josef Resch. The UEP had already bid for the staging of the reunification match but had been turned down for not quite comprehensible grounds.\n\nThe UEP had an influential supporter in the chess enthusiast and minister-president of the federal state of Nordrhein-Westfalen Peer Steinbr\u00fcck, future federal finance minister (from November 2005). Steinbr\u00fcck had always wanted to bring a chess WCh to Nordrhein-Westfalen. He finally became the patron of the match. Moreover, with their partner the Federal Art and Exhibition Hall in Bonn they could point to an excellent venue. The venue had already seen a first general rehearsal on 5th May 2005 when Peer Steinbr\u00fcck played an exhibition match against Vladimir Kramnik in its auditorium \u2013 and did quite well in it. After winning the reunification match Kramnik appeared from 25th November till 5th December in the said Federal Art and Exhibition Hall in a man-against-machine match against the program _Deep Fritz_. Kramnik lost by 2:4 the match which was so excellently staged by the UEP and which caused a great amount of media hype in Germany and attracted numerous spectators.\n\nThe sponsors of the WCh match between Anand and Kramnik, the Essen energy firm Evonik and the Russian energy producer Gazprom, put up a prize fund of 1.5 million euros. After the 'FIDE tax' had been taken off, there still remained for each of the players the sum of 600000 euros. The match, set for 12 games, was played from 14th October till 2nd November 2008 in the forum (auditorium) of the Art and Exhibition Hall and was the first World Chess Championship in Germany since 1934 (Alekhine against Bogoljubow). If it was drawn after twelve games there was to be a playoff of four rapid chess games with 25 minutes plus 10 seconds\/move per player. If things were still level, then two blitz games with 5 minutes plus 10 seconds\/move. And finally it would have come down to a 'sudden death' game.\n\nAfter the scandalous match in Elista the organisers of the match in Bonn explicitly adopted special security measures which were intended to make any form of cheating impossible. Thus the stage was separated from the spectators' area by a one-way curtain to prevent any eye-contact between spectators and players. The use of mobile telephones in the spectators' room was forbidden. The games, moreover, were subject to a time delay before being broadcast. This delay was, however, abandoned after five games because various newspapers, which had included the live broadcast of the games on their web pages, were unhappy with the delay.\n\nThe project and program leader for the Forum of the Art and Exhibition Hall Stephan Andreae had arranged an attractive event around the World Championship match under the title 'Hinter den Spiegeln'. The title is a play on Lewis Carroll's second children's book _Through the looking glass and what Alice found there_ , which is based on the game of chess. Despite the very high entry price of 35 euros per day, the rows of spectators in the 400 seat auditorium were always well filled and especially at the weekends there was a big rush. On weekend match days at the end of the contest it was even necessary to turn away several hundred interested persons at the entrance because there were no more seats left.\n\nFor the presentation both in the venue and on the internet the UEP had prepared a series of innovations. Thus the games were commented on live in a commentary room by, in turn, grandmasters Klaus Bischoff, Helmut Pfleger and Artur Jussupow. On every match day various prominent guests were introduced in panel discussions. In a dedicated VIP room there was also live commentary in a club-like atmosphere. Immediately after the games the two players attended a press conference in which they answered the questions of spectators and journalists and explained the games. To make things more attractive the UEP hired models who stood in the background at the start of the games or at the press conferences and held up banners with the names of the sponsors.\n\nFor internet spectators the UEP together with its Dutch partner firm DGT (Digital Game Technology) had developed for the presentation of the games a new technology called Foidos. For a fee one could follow the games, including live commentary in several languages and video streams. However, they could not find enough subscribers for the system and the joint venture soon went bankrupt after the WCh.\n\nAs well as his regular second Peter Heine Nielsen, Anand had put together for the match a team of helpers, the composition of which, however, did not become known until the match was over. It included: Rustam Kasimdzhanov, Surya Shekhar Ganguly and Radoslaw Wojtaszek. Anand had already started to prepare for the match at the end of 2007. For example, he played training games in Madrid with Magnus Carlsen, against whom he tried out his surprise weapon 1.d4. Kramnik was supported during the match by Sergey Rublevsky, Laurent Fressinet and Peter Leko.\n\nTo surprise Kramnik, with the exception of the final game Anand opened all of his games in this match as White with the opening move which he had rarely ever used otherwise, 1.d4. After draws in the first two games, Anand won the third with the black pieces with the help of the Meran Variation. After another sharing of the point, he did this again in the fifth game, with an almost identical opening. It was only on move 15 that he deviated from the previous game. In the sixth game the title defender hit out with the white pieces and won against Kramnik's Nimzo-Indian Defence. Anand then had a clear lead at the half-way mark of 3:0 \u2013 the match was already as good as over.\n\nWith a win in the tenth game Kramnik was able to shorten the deficit, but a draw in the 11th game secured victory in the match for Anand with one game to play. This made Anand the first player to have won or defended the World Championships in all three formats \u2013 in the FIDE k.-o. system in 2000 in New Delhi and Teheran, in the all-play-all tournament in 2007 in Mexico-City and now also in the match against Kramnik.\n\n **Kramnik \u2013 Anand**\n\nBonn, 3rd game  \n17th October 2008  \nQueen's Gambit, Semi-Slav Defence (D49)\n\n**1.d4 d5 2.c4 c6 3. \u2658f3 \u2658f6 4.\u2658c3 e6 5.e3**\n\nAfter 5.\u2657g5 some complicated systems can arise if Black, with or without the insertion of 5...h6 6.\u2657h4, takes the pawn on c4.\n\n**5... \u2658bd7 6.\u2657d3 dxc4 7.\u2657xc4 b5**\n\nThis manoeuvre characterises the Meran Variation, which leads to very dynamic play.\n\n**8. \u2657d3 a6**\n\nAlternatives are 8...\u2657b7 and 8...b4. Recently 8...\u2657d6 has also become popular.\n\n**9.e4 c5 10.e5**\n\n10.d5 would be the Reynolds Attack.\n\n**10...cxd4 11. \u2658xb5 axb5**\n\n11...\u2658xe5 is also playable: 12.\u2658xe5 axb5 13.\u2657xb5+ \u2657d7.\n\n**12.exf6 gxf6 13.0-0**\n\nBut not 13.\u2657xb5?? \u2655a5+ \u2013+.\n\n**13... \u2655b6 14.\u2655e2**\n\n14.\u2657e4 \u2657b7 15.\u2657xb7 \u2655xb7 16.\u2658xd4 \u2656g8 with counterplay. (Anand)\n\n**14... \u2657b7!?**\n\nBlack gives up the b5-pawn in return for rapid development. Until then a more popular line was 14...b4 15.\u2656d1 \u2657c5 etc.\n\n**15. \u2657xb5!**\n\nThe principled move. But 15.\u2657f4!? is also possible in order to use the bishop on g3 as extra protection on the g-file, 15...b4 etc.\n\n**15... \u2657d6!?**\n\nIn the 5th match game Anand deviated here and won with this variation for the second time: 15...\u2656g8 16.\u2657f4 \u2657d6 17.\u2657g3 f5 18.\u2656fc1 f4 19.\u2657h4 \u2657e7 etc. 0-1\/35.\n\n**16. \u2656d1**\n\nAfter 16.\u2658xd4!? \u2655xd4 17.\u2656d1 Black has the spectacular 17...\u2657xh2+! at his disposal, but after 18.\u2654xh2 \u2655h4+ 19.\u2654g1 \u2657xg2! 20.\u2657xd7+ \u2654e7 21.\u2654xg2 \u2656hg8+ there is no more in it for Black than a perpetual check. (Anand)\n\n**16... \u2656g8 17.g3!**\n\nNot 17.\u2656xd4 \u2656xg2+ 18.\u2654xg2 \u2655xd4\u2013+.\n\n**17... \u2656g4! 18.\u2657f4**\n\nIn this complicated situation a whole series of other moves came into consideration, of which the best was 18.\u2658d2!? with the threats of \u2655xg4 and \u2658c4. According to Anand it is followed by 18...\u2654e7!! with unclear complications.\n\n**18... \u2657xf4**\n\n18...\u2656xf4 is probably too speculative. After 19.gxf4 \u2654e7 20.a4 \u2656g8+ Black has an attack, but White can defend against it: 21.\u2654f1 \u2657d5 22.\u2656ac1 etc.\n\n**19. \u2658xd4!?**\n\nThe critical line is 19.\u2656xd4!? \u2654f8! 20.\u2657xd7 \u2656d8 21.\u2656ad1 \u2656xd7 22.\u2656xd7 \u2657xg3 23.hxg3 \u2656xg3+ 24.\u2654h2 \u2657xf3 25.\u2655e3 \u2656g2+ 26.\u2654h3 \u2655xe3 27.fxe3 \u2656xb2 28.\u26561d2 \u2656b1 29.a4 \u2657d5 with roughly level chances in the endgame.\n\n**19...h5**\n\n19...\u2656g6!? was worth considering. Maybe White's best continuation now is 20.a4!?.\n\n**20. \u2658xe6**\n\n20.\u2657xd7+ \u2654xd7 21.\u2658xe6+ is followed by 21...\u2657d6 22.\u2656xd6+ \u2655xd6 23.\u2656d1 fxe6 24.\u2656xd6+ \u2654xd6 25.\u2655d2+ \u2657d5\u2013+.\n\n**20...fxe6 21. \u2656xd7 \u2654f8 22.\u2655d3**\n\nIntending 23.\u2655h7 and mate on f7.\n\n**22... \u2656g7!?**\n\nInstead 22...\u2657xg3!? leads to a forced draw: 23.hxg3 h4! 24.\u2656d6 \u2655c5 25.b4 \u2655e5 26.\u2656d8+ \u2656xd8 27.\u2655xd8+ \u2654g7 28.\u2655e7+ \u2654h6 29.\u2655f8+ \u2656g7 30.\u2655h8+ \u2656h7 31.\u2655f8+ with perpetual check. (Anand)\n\n**23. \u2656xg7 \u2654xg7 24.gxf4 \u2656d8! 25.\u2655e2 \u2654h6 26.\u2654f1 \u2656g8 27.a4!**\n\n27.f5? is followed by 27...\u2657g2+! 28.\u2654e1 \u2657c6! with advantage to Black, since the white king is insecure and the white rook is in acute danger.\n\n**27... \u2657g2+ 28.\u2654e1 \u2657h3! 29.\u2656a3?**\n\nCorrect was 29.\u2656d1! and White holds on, for example: 29...\u2657f5!? and White must find 30.h3 or 30.\u2655f1 here, after which the chances are level. After 30.\u2655e3? \u2656g1+ 31.\u2657f1 \u2655a6! Black would win.\n\n**29... \u2656g1+ 30.\u2654d2 \u2655d4+ 31.\u2654c2 \u2657g4?**\n\nIn spite of having a lead of 75 minutes on his clock, Anand, intending to provoke 32.f3, commits an inaccuracy. The correct move was 31...\u2657f5+! and now the best is 32.\u2656d3!. But after 32...\u2656g4!? or 32...\u2656g2 Black retains winning chances. (Anand)\n\n**32.f3?**\n\nReturning the compliment. Kramnik misses 32.\u2656d3! after which Black has nothing better than 32...\u2657f5 33.\u2654b3 \u2657xd3 34.\u2655xd3 \u2655xf2 and 35.\u2655d8! secures the draw. (Anand)\n\n**32... \u2657f5+ 33.\u2657d3 \u2657h3**\n\nThere was an immediate win with 33... \u2657xd3+! 34.\u2656xd3 (34.\u2655xd3 \u2656g2+ 35.\u2654c1 \u2655xb2+) 34...\u2655c4+ 35.\u2654d2 \u2655c1#.\n\n**34.a5**\n\nKramnik throws the a-pawn forward, so as to compensate for the subsequent loss of material. Other moves also lose.\n\n**34... \u2656g2 35.a6 \u2656xe2+ 36.\u2657xe2 \u2657f5+ 37.\u2654b3**\n\n37.\u2657d3 \u2657xd3+ 38.\u2656xd3 \u2655c4+ \u2013+, 37.\u2654c1 \u2655xf4+ 38.\u2654d1 \u2655d4+ 39.\u2654c1 \u2655e5!\u2013+.\n\n**37... \u2655e3+ 38.\u2654a2 \u2655xe2 39.a7 \u2655c4+ 40.\u2654a1 \u2655f1+ 41.\u2654a2 \u2657b1+**\n\nResigned on account of 42.\u2654b3 \u2655xf3+.\n**43. Blackout in Sofia**\n\n**The World Championship 2010:  \n_Viswanathan Anand against Veselin Topalov_**\n\nVeselin Topalov had actually been eliminated from the World Championship cycle as a result of his defeat at the hands of Kramnik and should have had to re-qualify. With the threat of suing FIDE for millions, his manager Silvio Danailov obtained that Topalov \u2013 in contravention of the rules in force \u2013 should be seeded into the candidates' final.\n\nThe original plan had been that the winner of the World Cup, organised by FIDE in the k.-o. system, would be the challenger to the World Champion. The winner of the 2007 World Cup was Gata Kamsky, who to his surprise now first had to play a candidates' match against Topalov. Kamsky, born in 1974 in Novokusnetsk (Tatarstan, USSR) had been part of the world elite for 20 years. He emigrated to the USA together with his father in 1989. In 1994 he took part in the WCh cycles of the PCA and FIDE and played in 1996 a FIDE WCh match against Karpov, which he lost. After that he withdrew from chess and studied law. In 1999 he surprisingly took part in the FIDE k.-o. World Championship in Las Vegas, and then disappeared once more from professional chess. In 2004, however, he returned and since then has again been regularly playing in tournaments and championships.\n\nThe Bulgarian Chess Federation wanted to hold the candidates' final in Bulgaria, but Kamsky had no interest in playing in his opponent's home country. Kamsky's manager Alexander Chernenko, a diamond dealer, finally in May 2008 made FIDE an offer of 750 000 dollars in prize money, thus clearly outbidding the Bulgarian federation by 150000 dollars, and was awarded the match, which was to be played in Lviv (Ukraine), therefore on neutral territory. In June 2008 FIDE announced that Ilyumzhinov would personally guarantee the playing of this match in Lviv and the prize money of 750000 dollars.\n\nChernenko stalled the FIDE for a long time with promises, but what he could not come up with before the start of November 2008 was the bank guarantee demanded by FIDE for the promised amount of prize money, so that on the 8th November FIDE, contrary to their declaration of June 2008, again offered the match to the Bulgarian Chess Federation, with a prize fund of 250000 dollars plus 50000 dollars contribution to FIDE. The Bulgarian federation accepted, but Kamsky continued to refuse to play in Bulgaria, since Topalov would have a clear home advantage there. After FIDE threatened Kamsky that if necessary they would replace him with the defeated World Cup finalist Alexei Shirov, Kamsky accepted the conditions. The contracts were finally signed during the Chess Olympiad in Dresden 2008.\n\nThe candidates' final then took place from 16th till 28th February 2009 in room six of the National Cultural Palace in Sofia under the title 'World Chess Challenge' and was for eight games. After five games Topalov was leading 2:1 in wins. In the seventh game Kamsky blundered in a clearly winning position and lost. So instead of equality this became the final score of 4\u00bd:2\u00bd. This fixed Topalov as the challenger to Anand.\n\nBecause of the delays leading up to the candidates' final, the World Championship match was also postponed. According to the original plan it should have been played in the first half of 2009. It finally took place from 24th April till 13th May 2010.\n\nOfficially the Bulgarian Chess Federation, the Turkish Chess Federation and the Chess Federation of Singapore bid to stage the match. But apparently the bids from Turkey via the president of the Turkish federation Ali Nihat Yazici and from Singapore via Ignatius Leong were merely sham offers, which were later withdrawn and the only purpose of which was to frighten off other bidders and thus to clear the way for the Bulgarian bid.\n\nThe venue for the match between Anand and Topalov was the Central Military Club in Sofia. The match took place in the building's theatre. The price for entry was five dollars \u2013 obviously too much for Bulgarian chess lovers who for the greater part stayed away from the match. The prize fund was set at 1.2 million dollars for the winner and 800000 dollars for the loser. FIDE received a further 400000 dollars. The event was sponsored by the Bulgarian state and the telecommunications firm Spectrum Net.\n\nThe time control was the classical tournament thinking time of two hours for 40 moves, one hour for the next 20 moves and 15 minutes for the remainder of the game with an increment of 30 seconds per move. The match was for twelve games. In the event of a draw there was to be a playoff of four rapid games, followed by a maximum of five rounds of two blitz games per round. If there were still no decision, a 'sudden death' game would be played. Topalov's manager Danailov wanted to use the so-called 'Sofia rules' for the WCh match, according to which the players were not allowed to end a game by agreeing a draw. Since FIDE refused to agree to this until then unusual rule in WCh matches, Danailov announced that Topalov would for his part play according to that rule.\n\nAt Anand's request the stage was separated from the spectators' area by a semi-transparent curtain to prevent the possibility of signals being given to the players from the spectators' area. What was not made public was that there was always someone from Anand's team 'accompanying' Danailov during the games so that the latter was never unobserved. This measure also served as anti-cheating prophylaxis.\n\nIn his game preparation in Sofia Anand was supported by his team from Bonn: Peter Heine Nielsen, Rustam Kasimdzhanov, Surya Shekhar Ganguly and Radoslaw Wojtaszek. In advance of the match Anand had in addition received help from Garry Kasparov, Magnus Carlsen and Anish Giri. He had played training matches with Carlsen and Giri.\n\nKasparov had offered his help for reasons of chess politics. The ex-World Champion was supporting Anatoly Karpov in his candidacy for FIDE president and moreover had persuaded the president of the German Chess Federation Robert von Weizs\u00e4cker to stand in the election for president of the European Chess Union (ECU). The opposing candidates in the ECU elections included for example Silvio Danailov. Kasparov feared that if Topalov were to win Danailov's influence would grow too much and thus he supported Anand. In addition, he hoped that Anand would help him bring the Indian Chess Federation on to his side for the pending FIDE presidential election.\n\nDuring the match Vladimir Kramnik also got in touch with Anand and also offered his help. It had occurred to Kramnik that in his choice of openings Anand was being guided by his own choices in his Elista match against Topalov and he informed the Anand team about some critical variations. In addition he also had some new ideas. Rarely in any previous WCh match had there been such wide support for one player, in this case support against one player \u2013 against Topalov, but probably more against the latter's manager Danailov. Danailov had polarised opinion too greatly in the past.\n\nTopalov had as seconds in addition to his constant collaborator Ivan Cheparinov the Dutch players Erwin l'Ami and Jan Smeets, in addition the computer specialist Jiri Dufek, who had prepared the opening book for the author of the chess engine _Rybka_ , Vasik Rajlich. Before and during the match Topalov used a beta version of the Rybka4 engine on a mainframe IBM Blue Gene\/P with 8192 processors, to which he had received access with the help of Bulgaria's Premier Boyko Borissov. The Topalov team is reputed to have spent a great deal of money to delay the public launch of the commercial Rybka4 engine till after the match.\n\nWhen Anand learned about this before the match, he and his team were somewhat concerned about the calculating power available to the opposing side. Anand there-upon rented a computer cluster with the _Hiarcs_ engine by the English programmer Mark Uniacke and moreover put his trust in his 'human cluster' \u2013 his seconds.\n\nIn Sofia, Anand stayed in the Hilton Hotel, where he rented a whole section of the 9th floor of the hotel including the presidential suite for himself and his team. The rooms were partly modified according to Anand's wishes. Access to the area of the hotel rented by Anand was off-limits for all other guests. The Anand team received two dedicated 'secure' internet connections. Moreover, security experts had swept the hotel rooms for bugs.\n\nThe title defender had planned to arrive in Sofia with his team on the 16th April. They met on that same day in Frankfurt and wanted to fly together from there to the Bulgarian capital. Then the World Champion and his seconds were caught out by the eruption of the Icelandic volcano Eyjafjallaj\u00f6kull. This had spread a cloud of ash over Europe, whereupon for safety reasons all European air traffic was completely cancelled for several days after the 16th April. Even the attempt to hire the private jet of Wolfgang Grenke, sponsor of OSG Baden-Baden, for whom Anand played in the German Chess Bundesliga, failed since small planes were also subject to the flight ban. Anand was stuck in Frankfurt with his seconds. In order to even get to Sofia, Anand rented with the help of Erik van Reem in the Netherlands a minibus and driver, which took him and his team on a 40 hour journey of over 2000 kilometres from Frankfurt to the Bulgarian capital.\n\nSince the shortness of time meant that visas could not be arranged for all the team members for all the countries along the way, the bus had to take a slightly longer route via Romania instead of Serbia. Nevertheless they still managed to find time along the way to visit Peter Leko and Judit Polgar in Hungary. During the trip they watched the films of the _Lord of the Rings_ trilogy, listened to music by Rammstein and discussed some critical variations of their opening preparation. One special problem before their departure had been getting all their luggage, including the computers of the World Champion and his seconds, removed from the Lufthansa flight they had booked, something which is normally no easy matter. Even this was achieved with the help of Erik van Reem, whose main job is with Lufthansa. In the meantime Anand had requested a three-day postponement of the match, which was turned down by the organisers. FIDE vice-president Georgios Makropoulos decided as a compromise solution that the match could be postponed for one day.\n\nThe match was therefore started on the 24th April by Bulgarian prime minister Boyko Borissov, the patron of the event, with the symbolic first move. Anand's head of delegation Hans-Walter Schmitt had not been affected by the travel problems as he had arrived in Sofia on the 15th April with more or less the last plane to fly, so as to prepare everything for the arrival of the Anand team.\n\nThe organisers offered internet spectators a live broadcast of the games on its own match website and also allowed various media outlets to have the moves. However, the firm ChessBase was the only one which was not allowed to have the moves and after ChessBase nevertheless broadcast and commented on the games 'live' (that is with a slight delay) on its news pages and chess server, Danailov filed via the Bulgarian federation a complaint, which was dealt with on the 29th March 2011 by the Berlin Regional Court and thrown out on all points.\n\nOn the scene the commentators were Zurab Azmaiparashvili and the Bulgarian women's ex-World Champion Antoaneta Stefanova. The players were fetched from their hotels by cars and then taken to the military club with flashing blue lights and a police escort. Anand always arrived first. Topalov's car always came three minutes later. As they entered the building both players were checked for electronic devices by a detector. Cameras had been installed behind the stage to supervise all areas of the building there, with the exception of the toilets. The players were accompanied to the toilet by the second arbiter Werner Stubenvoll. The chief arbiter was Dimitrios Nikolaidis. Even the spectators had to be screened by a detector as they entered the building. Taking mobile telephones into the tournament hall was strictly forbidden.\n\nTopalov won the first game straight out of the opening in a sharp Gr\u00fcnfeld Indian variation, after Anand had forgotten his preparation. Anand, however, managed to equalise the score immediately in the second game. This time his preparation in the Catalan Opening was better than that of Topalov. After a draw in game three Anand struck again in the fourth game and again won with the white pieces and the Catalan Opening. There followed three draws, then Topalov was successful against Anand's Slav Defence and equalised the score.\n\nThere was an unusual incident during the fifth game. Just as Anand was pondering his 17th move, there was a power cut all over Sofia, including the military club, where the lights went out. Players and spectators sat in darkness. The arbiter stopped the clock and interrupted the game. After just 40 minutes the electricity came back on and the game could be continued. At the behest of prime minister Boyko Borissov the energy minister and energy firm CEZ had to send a letter of apology to the players.\n\nThe ninth game was played on the 6th May 2010, St George's day, the day of the Bulgarian spring festival. For that reason there were several noisy parades outside of the military club, the noise penetrated the building and disturbed the players. Topalov was particularly annoyed by the noise. The game turned into the most exciting one of the whole match. Topalov, with the black pieces, had unnecessarily exchanged his two rooks for the queen and then had to fight for a long time for the draw. In a complicated game Anand missed the win several times. At the end the point was shared.\n\nThe twelfth game was played on a score of 2:2 in wins; in it Topalov with white proceeded really aggressively against Anand's Lasker Variation of the Queen's Gambit and then ran into the counterplay of the World Champion. Journalists and chess lovers asked why Topalov apparently went for all or nothing in the final game. Obviously the challenger considered himself hopelessly inferior in a playoff and wanted to avoid this under all circumstances. Thus Anand defended his title successfully for the second time with a score of 6\u00bd:5\u00bd.\n\n **Topalov \u2013 Anand**\n\nSofia, 12th game  \n11th May 2010  \nQueen's Gambit Declined (D56)\n\n**1.d4 d5 2.c4 e6**\n\nAfter Anand had first tried the Gr\u00fcnfeld Indian Defence in this match, then switched to the Slav Defence to the Queen's Gambit, in the final game of the match he chose the Queen's Gambit Declined.\n\n**3. \u2658f3 \u2658f6 4.\u2658c3 \u2657e7 5.\u2657g5**\n\nThe alternative is 5.\u2657f4.\n\n**5...h6 6. \u2657h4 0-0 7.e3 \u2658e4**\n\nThis move starts the Lasker Variation.\n\n**8. \u2657xe7 \u2655xe7 9.\u2656c1**\n\nRecently, 9.\u2655c2 was not so popular: 9...\u2658xc3 10.\u2655xc3 c6 11.\u2657d3 dxc4 12.\u2657xc4 \u2658d7 or 12...b6.\n\n**9...c6 10. \u2657e2 \u2658xc3 11.\u2656xc3 dxc4**\n\n11...\u2658d7 12.0-0 dxc4 is a transposition of moves.\n\n**12. \u2657xc4 \u2658d7 13.0-0 b6**\n\nThe alternative is 13...e5.\n\n**14. \u2657d3 c5 15.\u2657e4 \u2656b8 16.\u2655c2**\n\n16.\u2655a4 is also a favourite move here.\n\n**16... \u2658f6**\n\nAn idea of the Polish player Miroslaw Grabarczyk, which Topalov perhaps did not know. Previously 16...a5 was played.\n\n**17.dxc5**\n\n17.\u2657c6 allows the reply 17...cxd4 18.\u2658xd4 e5!. (Giri)\n\n**17... \u2658xe4 18.\u2655xe4 bxc5**\n\nBlack's active light-squared bishop compensates easily for the weak pawns on a7 and c5.\n\n**19. \u2655c2 \u2657b7 20.\u2658d2**\n\n20.\u2656xc5?! allows the trick 20...\u2657xf3 21.gxf3 \u2656xb2 and after 20.e4 there is the interesting option 20...f5!?.\n\n**20... \u2656fd8 21.f3**\n\nTo limit the effectiveness of the \u2657b7. 21.\u2656xc5? \u2656xd2!\u2013+.\n\n**21... \u2657a6**\n\nSo the bishop changes diagonals.\n\n**22. \u2656f2?!**\n\nFrom here the rook protects the \u2658d2. Nevertheless the rook is awkwardly placed on f2. For the moment it is completely dominated by the \u2657a6 and has no square to go to. 22.\u2656c1 \u2655d7 23.\u2658b3 c4!?= (23...\u2657d3 24.\u2658xc5 \u2657xc2 25.\u2658xd7 \u2656xb2 26.\u26561xc2 leads to a draw).\n\n**22... \u2656d7 23.g3 \u2656bd8 24.\u2654g2 \u2657d3**\n\nAnand, whose position is freer, first makes another waiting move. Black could instead become active here with 24...h5!? or 24...e5!? 25.e4 h5.\n\n**25. \u2655c1**\n\nIn the event of 25.\u2655a4 there follows 25...\u2655g5 and after 26.e4?! (26.\u2658e4! =) 26...\u2655e3 27.\u2655a5 \u2655e1 28.\u2655xc5 \u2657e2! 29.\u2658b3 \u2656d1 30.\u2654h3 \u26568d3 Black has taken control of the action.\n\n**25... \u2657a6! 26.\u2656a3**\n\n26.\u2655c2 \u2657d3 would be a repetition of the position, but here Black can also continue with 26...h5 or 26...e5.\n\n**26... \u2657b7 27.\u2658b3**\n\n27.e4 is met with 27...f5! 28.\u2655c2 g5!. The threat is...g5-g4. It would be wrong to play 27.\u2656xa7? \u2657xf3+.\n\n**27... \u2656c7 28.\u2658a5 \u2657a8 29.\u2658c4**\n\n29.e4 can now also be followed by 29...g5!, for example: 30.\u2656e3 \u2656d4 31.h3 h5! 32.g4? hxg4 33.hxg4 f5! 34.gxf5 g4! and Black wins. (Giri) If 29.\u2656c3 then 29...g5 30.\u2658b3 g4 31.e4 gxf3+ 32.\u2654xf3 f5 33.\u2658xc5 \u2655g7!? with the threat 34...\u2656xc5 35.\u2656xc5 \u2655g4+ 36.\u2654g2 \u2657xe4+ 37.\u2654g1 \u2656d1+ \u2013+.\n\n**29...e5**\n\nIt was also worth considering the double-edged 29...g5!?.\n\n**30.e4**\n\nOr else Black plays...e5-e4.\n\n**30...f5! 31.exf5?**\n\nA mistake which is hard to comprehend. The correct move was 31.\u2658d2.\n\n**31...e4!**\n\n**32.fxe4??**\n\n'Equivalent to resignation.' (Marin) For example 32.\u2656e3 was better, but after 32...exf3+ 33.\u2654g1 \u2655g5 Black has all the trumps.\n\n**32... \u2655xe4+ 33.\u2654h3 \u2656d4**\n\nThe threat is mate on g4.\n\n**34. \u2658e3 \u2655e8!**\n\nThe key move of Black's attack, overlooked by Topalov in his calculations, as he admitted after the game. The threat is mate on h5.\n\n**35.g4 h5 36. \u2654h4**\n\n**36...g5+**\n\nThere was also a win after 36...\u2655d8+ 37.f6 hxg4, for example 38.\u2658xg4 gxf6 39.\u2656f5 \u2656h7+ 40.\u2654g3 \u2655d6+ 41.\u2656f4 \u2656xf4 42.\u2655xf4 \u2656h3+ \u2013+, whilst 36... hxg4? surprisingly gives away the advantage: 37.\u2658xg4 g5+ 38.fxg6 \u2655xg6 39.\u2656f4 \u2656h7+ 40.\u2654g3 and White holds on.\n\n**37.fxg6 \u2655xg6 38.\u2655f1 \u2656xg4+ 39.\u2654h3 \u2656e7**\n\nThe threat is...\u2656xe3+,...\u2656h4+ and...\u2655g4#.\n\n**40. \u2656f8+ \u2654g7**\n\nAfter 40...\u2654h7 White can still muddy the waters with 41.\u2656h8+ (41.\u2656xa8 \u2656xe3+ 42.\u2656xe3 \u2656h4+ 43.\u2654xh4 \u2655g4#) 41...\u2654xh8 42.\u2655f8+ \u2655g8 43.\u2655h6+ (43.\u2655xe7 \u2655c8!\u2013+) 43...\u2656h7 44.\u2655f6+ \u2656hg7 45.\u2655h6+ \u2655h7 46.\u2655xh7+ \u2654xh7 47.\u2658xg4 hxg4+ and wins.\n\n**41. \u2658f5+**\n\n41.\u2656xa8 \u2656xe3+! 42.\u2656xe3 \u2656h4+!! 43.\u2654xh4 \u2655g4#.\n\n**41... \u2654h7!**\n\nBut not 41...\u2654xf8 42.\u2658xe7+ \u2654xe7 43.\u2656xa7+ \u2654d6 44.\u2655f8+ \u2654e5 45.\u2655xc5+ \u2657d5 46.\u2656e7+ +\u2013 and Black must give up the queen.\n\n**42. \u2656g3 \u2656xg3+ 43.hxg3 \u2655g4+ 44.\u2654h2 \u2656e2+ 45.\u2654g1 \u2656g2+ 46.\u2655xg2 \u2657xg2 47.\u2654xg2**\n\n47.\u2656f7+ \u2654g6! 48.\u2656g7+ \u2654xf5 49.\u2656xg4 hxg4! 50.\u2654xg2 \u2654e4 51.\u2654f2 \u2654d3 leads to a won pawn ending.\n\n**47... \u2655e2+ 48.\u2654h3 c4**\n\nWhite is in zugzwang.\n\n**49.a4 a5 50. \u2656f6 \u2654g8! 51.\u2658h6+ \u2654g7 52.\u2656b6 \u2655e4**\n\nThreatening mate on h1. 52...\u2655f3 53.\u2654h4 \u2655e4+! 54.\u2654xh5 \u2655d5+ \u2013+.\n\n**53. \u2654h2 \u2654h7!**\n\nRenewing the zugzwang motif.\n\n**54. \u2656d6 \u2655e5 55.\u2658f7**\n\n55.\u2656b6 h4\u2013+.\n\n**55... \u2655xb2+ 56.\u2654h3 \u2655g7**\n\nWhite resigned due to 57.\u2658h6 c3\u2013+.\n**44. Chess is art**\n\n**The World Championship 2012:  \n_Viswanathan Anand against Boris Gelfand_**\n\nAfter Kirsan Ilyumzhinov and FIDE with the help of Vladimir Kramnik had succeeded in reuniting the two World Championships, the world federation subsequently showed itself incapable of coming up with even a medium term plan for a WCh cycle with a transparent sporting qualification system and in doing so gathering together all the threads of their previous mistakes in planning. At the presidential election of 2006, which was run parallel to the Chess Olympiad in Turin at the end of the FIDE congress, the current office bearer Kirsan Ilyumzhinov and his team saw themselves challenged by Bessel Kok.\n\nKok, an enthusiastic chess fan, had in the 1980s as the managing director of a communications company for banks, SWIFT, sponsored a series of chess tournaments. In 1985 he founded along with Kasparov the Grandmaster Association (GMA), a first attempt of the then World Champion to side-line FIDE with a competing organisation. The GMA successfully set up a series of tournaments under the name Grand Prix. In 1991, however, it was dissolved after a dispute between Kasparov and Kok. In 2002 Kok, in the meantime manager of the Czech company Eurotel, played a decisive part in bringing about the Prague meeting, which finally, though not until 2006, led to the reunification of the World Championships. Many top players who were extremely dissatisfied with FIDE's policy of recent years, supported Kok's campaign 'The Right Move'. The western federations were also behind him.\n\nNevertheless, the Dutchman had no chance of winning the election against the current office bearer. Ilyumzhinov and his supporters had no great trouble getting a clear two thirds majority (54:96 delegates) with the votes of the federations in Eastern Europe, in Central and South America and in the developing chess countries of Asia and Africa. According to the statutes of the world chess federation, every member country had exactly one vote no matter whether the federation has, like Germany for example, 90000 members, or in many chess developing countries perhaps only four or five chess enthusiasts.\n\nOrganising the votes of such mini-federations is easy, since just the promise of some equipment or other concessions leads to the acquisition of the vote and there is hardly anybody back home to call the presidents of these mini-federations to account. Observers, who were at the congress, reported that the existing committee was in no way squeamish about procuring the votes. Many delegates were simply paid for their votes in the corridors of the congress centre, or so it was claimed.\n\nKirsan Ilyumzhinov's policy of many years has been to come to an understanding with critics and the forces of the opposition. So he went to Bessel Kok too and founded with him in December 2006 the firm 'Global Chess', which was according to FIDE the 'commercial arm' of the world chess federation, the aim of which was a better marketing of international professional chess. 'Global Chess', with a share capital of 4.5 million euros, mainly raised by Kirsan Ilyumzhinov, set up its headquarters in Amsterdam and announced that in the near future it would raise the share capital to ten million.\n\nThe description 'commercial arm' of FIDE was, however, somewhat misleading, a point Bessel Kok himself referred to in an interview since it was a private undertaking which was not legally linked with FIDE. Finally all that was realised was the idea of a Grand Prix series of tournaments, essentially no different from the series of the same name which Kok had already instituted in the 1980s as the president of the GMA.\n\nWhen FIDE finally gave up the k.-o. format for the World Championships after the 2004 WCh which had been held in scandalous circumstances in Tripoli, this 128 player tournament was then continued as the 'World Cup' and at first boosted in value because the winner of the World Cup was to become at the same time the challenger of the World Champion. FIDE, moreover, found a financially strong organiser and sponsor in the West Siberian city of Khanty-Mansiysk, which is situated among the Siberian oilfields. As well as chess tournaments they also regularly stage international biathlon competitions.\n\nAfter the founding of Global Chess and the setting up of the Grand Prix series FIDE changed its plans and in June 2007 published a new plan for the WCh cycle for the next five years, in which the new Grand Prix series was included. Now the winner of the World Cup was to play a candidates' final against the victor of the Grand Prix series. The winner of that would be the challenger of the World Champion.\n\nAt their 79th congress in Dresden 2008 FIDE threw out their five year plan of the previous year in view of organisational difficulties with the Grand Prix series. Some tournament venues for the Grand Prix series such as Karlovy Vary, Montreux or Doha were obviously announced much too soon by Global Chess and then withdrew. Magnus Carlsen, one of the favourites to win the Grand Prix series, withdrew from the WCh cycle after the supposed venues dropped out. At the congress in Dresden FIDE now decreed that the challenger of the World Champion should be decided in a candidates' tournament. The participants were to be the finalists of the World Cup of 2009, the losing player from the candidates' final ('World Chess Challenge'), the losing player from the WCh match of 2009, the two best players from the Grand Prix series, the best player on the Elo list not to be qualified via a different route and one player (over 2700 Elo) to be nominated by the organisers.\n\nAt the congress there was heavy criticism of the work of Global Chess, which in its negotiations with sponsors and organisers had relied on verbal promises instead of signing contracts. The criticism within FIDE did not become any less when it became known that for his efforts Bessel Kok was supposed to have received 30 000 euros per month and his managing director Geoffrey Borg another 15 000 euros per month.\n\nBoris Gelfand was born on the 24th June 1968 to a Jewish family in Minsk (Belarus). At the age of four Boris was given as a present by his father his first chess book: _Die Reise ins Schachk\u00f6nigreich_ by Yuri Averbakh and Mikhail Beilin. From 1980 to 1983 he attended the 'Tigran Petrosian Chess School', getting to know the former World Champion personally and being taught by him. In 1988 Gelfand took the silver medal at the World Junior Championship with the same number of points as the winner and in the same year won together with Alexey Dreev the European junior championship.\n\n**Boris Gelfand (born in 1968)**\n\nIn 1990 Gelfand won along with Ivanchuk the interzonal tournament in Manila, but was eliminated in the subsequent candidates' matches in the quarter-final against Nigel Short. In 1993 Gelfand again won the interzonal tournament, this time in Biel, and in 1994 played in the FIDE candidates' matches. He defeated Michael Adams in the last sixteen, then won the quarter-final against Vladimir Kramnik and was eliminated in the semi-final against Anatoly Karpov. At the candidates' tournament of 1997, organised in k.-o. mode by FIDE in Groningen, Gelfand reached the semi-final and was defeated by Anand. In 1998 Boris Gelfand emigrated from Belarus to Israel. At the k.-o. WCh in Las Vegas 1999 Gelfand was eliminated from the last sixteen by the future winner Alexander Khalifman. At the FIDE k.-o. WCh in New Delhi and Teheran Gelfand was defeated in the last sixteen by Alexei Shirov. At the k.-o. WCh in Moscow 2001 the quarter-final against Peter Svidler was the end for Gelfand.\n\nIn 2004 Gelfand refused to take part in Libya, which the Israeli players were allowed to enter after a lot of toing and froing, but where they obviously received a hostile reception. With his result in the World Cup of 2005 in Khanty-Mansiysk, where Gelfand was amongst the first ten, he qualified for the 2007 candidates' matches in Elista. From there, after victories over Kasimdzhanov and Kamsky, he reached the 2007 WCh tournament in Mexico City. Gelfand shared third place with the same number of points as Kramnik.\n\nIn 2009 Gelfand won the FIDE World Cup and with it the right to take part in the candidates' matches from 3rd to 27th May 2011 in Kazan. These were originally scheduled to take place in Baku, but after one of the favourites, the Armenian Levon Aronian, declared that he did not wish to play in Azerbaijan \u2013 a state of war still existed de jure between Armenia and Azerbaijan \u2013 FIDE's competition was moved to Russia. Since the Azeri Chess Federation was nevertheless still financially involved or had already paid out an advance, Shakhriyar Mamedyarov was allowed to retain his place as the organisers' choice. Magnus Carlsen, who would have qualified because of his Elo rating, did not take part as FIDE was not prepared to assure him contractually of a clear timetable for the whole cycle.\n\nThe candidates' matches turned out to be really boring for the spectators, of whom the great majority followed the games on the internet. 27 of the total of 30 'long' games were drawn. Most ties were not decided until the tiebreaks. The players said that the reason for this was the short distance of only four regular games per match. Gelfand won his matches against Shakhriyar Mamedyarov, Gata Kamsky and Alexander Grischuk, whilst the top favourites Vladimir Kramnik and Levon Aronian were both eliminated, and this surprisingly left him the next challenger to World Champion Anand.\n\nAs far as the venue for the World Championship match was concerned (according to the original schedule it should have been played in 2011, but with delays at the various levels this had gradually stretched into 2012), FIDE had in advance been dealing with various bidders. Thus, Universal Event Promotion and Josef Resch, organisers of the successful World Championship match of 2008, would have liked to organise the candidates' matches of 2010 and the subsequent 2011 WCh match. In a statement in February 2009 the UEP gave notice of their bid and offered a prize fund of 430000 euros net (650000 euros gross) for the players in a candidates' tourna-ments and 1.5 million euros for the WCh match. Together with all other costs in staging the events the UEP offer involved up to 4 million euros.\n\nIn May 2009, however, it was announced that the negotiations between FIDE and UEP had broken down. According to UEP's account, FIDE had made demands which went over and above the bid. In addition it had not been possible to agree who would hold the marketing rights. FIDE said it had other bidders for the WCh \u2013 though at this point it had none.\n\nBut in July 2010 another bidder announced an interest in staging the WCh match \u2013 organiser Malcolm Pein and money man Peter Davies. The two Englishmen had got to know each other when Davies, who was interested in chess, received chess lessons as a birthday present from his brother. Malcolm Pein became his chess teacher. Pein's family originated in the Baltic area. His grandfather had once fought for the revolution at the side of Leo Trotzky in the Ukraine, but had then emigrated to South Africa. Pein emigrated back to Europe, to England. As a player he earned the title of International Master. At the Chess Olympiad in Manila 1992 he began with a chess stand his business success as a chess dealer and publisher. Pein founded with a partner the London chess shop 'Chess & Bridge' and over the years bought up various chess publishers in England and the USA.\n\nThe sponsor Peter Davies is the joint proprietor of the British investment company Lansdowne Partners Limited, which administers shares to a value of 13.3 billion dollars and is the second biggest investor in the Lloyds Banking Group \u2013 after the British government. Davies and Pein together visited the 2008 World Championship in Bonn and Davies was enthused. He wanted to bring a World Chess Championship to London. But Pein advised him to start one level below that. That brought in 2009 the start of the successful tournament the London Chess Classic, which was staged for the sixth time in 2014.\n\nIn July 2010 Pein and Davies made to FIDE under the name of 'Chess Promotion London' an offer to stage the next World Championship match with a prize fund of two million euros for the players and 400 000 Euro for FIDE. It was planned for May 2012 in order to bring the World Championship close in time to the summer Olympic Games of 2012 in London, which would have attracted extra attention to it. Pein required from FIDE an acceptance by January 2011, in order to have enough time to prepare the organisation.\n\nDespite the good offer from London, the negotiations between FIDE and Pein ran very haltingly. There was little enthusiasm in London above all for the demands of FIDE with respect to their representatives and the extra costs linked to this for accommodation, travel, etc. The UEP had already complained about the amplitude of demands of this sort. No agreement could be reached before the appointed date. London withdrew its bid. FIDE gave as a reason for London's cancellation that the organisers there were disappointed that Magnus Carlsen had at the beginning of November withdrawn from the WCh cycle and that the Norwegian would be missed as a spectator magnet.\n\nIn July, Indian media announced that the WCh match between Anand and Gelfand would take place in Chennai. The 'All Indian Chess Federation', supported by the provincial government of Tamil Nadu, had put in a bid of 2.35 million dollars for a prize fund out of a total budget of four million dollars. In the middle of July, Kirsan Ilyumzhinov visited India for talks about the details with the prime minister of Tamil Nadu Jayalalithaa Jayaram.\n\nOn the 9th August, however, FIDE issued a press statement in which it surprisingly named Moscow as the venue of the WCh match between Anand and Gelfand and the Russian Chess Federation as its organisers. The precise venue was first announced as being the 'Skolkovo Innovation Centre'. The offer for the prize fund consisted of 2.55 million dollars. Behind this development there was the patron Andrei Filatov, a businessman and millionaire from the Ukraine who was a personal friend of Boris Gelfand.\n\nFilatov had also played chess in his youth and had even worked the demo board during the WCh match between Kasparov and Karpov in 1985 in Moscow. In 1990 he studied at the sports institute in Minsk \u2013 together with Gelfand and Ilya Smirin. In the third term, as the USSR fell apart, he broke off his studies and went into business. He went on to become the proprietor of N-Trans, the biggest transport firm in Russia. Having been booted out, the Indian Chess Federation received as compensation precedence for the staging of the World Chess Championship of 2013.\n\nOn the 26th November 2011 the players signed the contract. The match venue finally became the Moscow Tretyakov Gallery. The match was for twelve games and scheduled for the 11th to the 30th May. In the event of a draw after twelve games there was to be a playoff, like in previous WCh matches, thus four rapid chess games, then blitz games if things were still level. It would finish with a 'sudden death' game. The prize fund of 2.55 million dollars would be divided 60% to 40% (1.53 million to 1.02 million dollars) in favour of the winner, insofar as there was one after the 12 regular games. Otherwise the ratio would be 55% to 45% (roughly 1.4 million to 1.15 million dollars).\n\nIn this WCh match Anand also worked with his regular seconds Peter Heine Nielsen, Rustam Kasimdzhanov, Surya Shekhar Ganguly and Radoslaw Wojtaszek. Before the match he had cloistered himself with his team from January till April 2012 in his European base in Bad Soden, and in addition played some training matches against selected opponents.\n\nGelfand's seconds were his trainer of many years Alexander Khuzman, and in addition Maxim Rodshtein and Pavel Eljanov. Moreover he received 'machine' help from Amir Ban and Shay Bushinsky and their chess engine _Junior_. After the match Gelfand revealed that he also worked with Michael Roiz and Evgeny Tomashevsky. At a certain point Garry Kasparov had also offered his support. Gelfand had declined this. He felt it inappropriate to accept help from someone who had previously had insight into his opponent's secrets. Kasparov had helped Anand two years previously in the match between Anand and Topalov.\n\nGelfand withdrew with his seconds to the Swiss Alps for a month and a half and also worked on his physical fitness there. The decision as to which openings he would employ in the WCh match had already been taken by the Israeli a year before the match.\n\nTo accompany the WCh match the organisers had prepared a very attractive programme, with numerous guests of honour including Mikhail Gorbachov, Garry Kasparov and Vladimir Kramnik. The game scores were, as had become usual everywhere, broadcast live on the internet, and in addition there was a video stream with images of the games, also live commentary, either in Russian or in English, and press conferences with the guests of honour and the players after the game.\n\nAnand lived close by with his team in the Baltschug Kempinski Hotel, approximately five minutes on foot from the Tretyakov Gallery. The hotel had been chosen by Aruna Anand and Hans-Walter Schmitt back in September 2011 during the Tal Memorial. After lunch a few days before the start of the match Anand and his seconds ran into a confrontation between demonstrators and police against the re-election of Putin as Russian president and were escorted back into their hotel by members of the special security unit OMON. Although Anand's hotel lay close to the Tretyakov Gallery, the World Champion was fetched every day before the game by a car. Boris Gelfand went on foot to the gallery along with his seconds.\n\nThe chief arbiter for the match was the Armenian Ashot Vardapetian. The Canadian Hal Bond was the second arbiter. Unlike for the match between Anand and Topalov two years previously, there were no special security measures to check the players for technological aids. There was also no screen between the players and spectators. Anand and Gelfand, who had known each other well for years and who were friends, obviously did not mistrust each other.\n\nThe match turned out to be one between two players who were on a par, though before it Anand was considered the favourite. The World Champion began the first game with the white pieces. After six games the order of colours was changed, that is to say that Gelfand had white in the sixth and seventh games. To general surprise, as his reply to 1.d4 Gelfand made use of the Gr\u00fcnfeld Indian Defence, which he had never before employed in his career. Against 1.e4 too, Gelfand had prepared a completely new defence \u2013 the Sicilian Sveshnikov Variation. Anand chose as his main weapon with the black pieces against Gelfand's 1.d4 the Chebanenko Variation in the Slav Defence.\n\nThe title defender was close to victory in the first game against Gelfand's surprise weapon, the Gr\u00fcnfeld, but gave away his advantage and could only draw. In the third game the title defender tried a sharp Anti-Gr\u00fcnfeld Variation, in which Gelfand, however, always kept things on an even keel. Later Anand tested Gelfand's preparation after 1.e4, but could get nothing out of the fifth game against the Sveshnikov Variation, and just as little with his Rossolimo Variation in the tenth and twelfth games.\n\nGelfand always opened with 1.d4. After three tries without success Gelfand finally managed the full point against Anand's Chebanenko Variation in the seventh game, and took the lead. The subsequent eighth game then followed a strange course. Anand again played his Anti-Gr\u00fcnfeld opening. This time Gelfand did not want to repeat his variation from the third game, but changed to the King's Indian Defence. Anand then chose a very rare continuation. Instead of aiming to follow up his win in the previous game by aiming for a draw with the black pieces, the challenger chose some very ambitious moves and fell on move 14 into a trap which cost him the queen and the game. Gelfand had to resign on move 17 and in doing so created the shortest decisive WCh game of all time. Anand had equalised.\n\nIn the ninth game Anand was once more in a critical position, but managed to reach a draw. In the twelfth game there appeared on the board a deeply analysed position, which Anand and his team had previously evaluated as very favourable, but Gelfand solved the problems at the board with the ingenious move 10...c4.\n\nAfter 12 games the score was 6:6. The tiebreaks would have to decide. These took a dramatic course, especially for the challenger. After a draw in the first rapid chess game, Gelfand lost the second game. In the third game Gelfand had a theoretically winning rook ending on the board but he botched it and the game was drawn. The fourth game ended in a draw. Anand was the winner and had once more successfully defended his title.\n\n **Anand \u2013 Gelfand**\n\nMoscow, 8th game  \n21st May 2012  \nKing's Indian Defence (E60)\n\n**1.d4 \u2658f6 2.c4 g6 3.f3 c5**\n\nThis forces a transposition to a variation of the King's Indian Defence with a Benoni structure. In the 3rd game Gelfand chose with 3...d5 the route to the Gr\u00fcnfeld Indian Defence. After 3...\u2657g7 4.e4 d6 5.\u2658c3 0-0 the S\u00e4misch Variation of the King's Indian Defence would have arisen. The King's Indian was Gelfand's main weapon against 1.d4 at the start of his career.\n\n**4.d5 d6 5.e4 \u2657g7 6.\u2658e2**\n\nHere Anand had different marching orders for his knights compared to the usual ones. Normally in this variation they are placed on c3 and e2. Anand here develops the king's knight via e2 to c3 and delays the development of the queen's knight. The usual moves are 6.\u2658c3 0-0 7.\u2657g5 or 7.\u2657e3.\n\n**6...0-0 7. \u2658ec3!? \u2658h5!?**\n\nPlayed by Gelfand after a long period of thought. A usual setup for Black would have been for example 7...e6 8.\u2657e3 exd5 9.cxd5 a6 10.a4 \u2656e8.\n\n**8. \u2657g5**\n\n8.g4!? would be principled and double-edged.\n\n**8... \u2657f6?!**\n\nA surprising decision. Black offers to exchange his 'bad' bishop, which is really not so bad here. Anand suggested 8...h6: 9.\u2657e3 (9.\u2657h4 \u2658d7) 9...f5!? 10.exf5 gxf5 11.\u2655d2 f4 12.\u2657f2 \u2658d7 with counterplay.\n\n**9. \u2657xf6**\n\n9.\u2657e3!? (Leko) would have been a clever move, after which both black minor pieces on the kingside are misplaced.\n\n**9...exf6**\n\n9...\u2658xf6!? was absolutely playable: 10.\u2655d2 e5. (Stohl)\n\n**10. \u2655d2**\n\nOnce again 10.g4 was committal: 10... \u2658f4 11.\u2655d2 g5 12.h4 \u2658d7 13.\u2655h2 h5 14.gxh5 (Anand did not like 14.hxg5 fxg5 15.gxh5 \u2658e5 16.\u2658d2 \u2655f6) 14...\u2658e5 15.\u2658d2 \u2654h8 with an unclear situation or 15...b5!? 16.cxb5 a6 with compensation for the material.\n\n**10...f5 11.exf5**\n\n**11... \u2657xf5**\n\n11...\u2656e8+ 12.\u2654d1 \u2657xf5 13.g4 is a transposition to the continuation in the game.\n\nIt was worth considering 11...\u2655h4+!? 12.\u2654d1 (12.\u2655f2 \u2655e7+ 13.\u2654d1 \u2657xf5 14.g4 \u2657xb1 15.\u2656xb1 \u2658f4 achieves nothing for White) 12...\u2657xf5 (12...\u2658g3? is bad: 13.\u2655f2 \u2658xf5 14.\u2655xh4 \u2658xh4 15.\u2658b5 and White wins a pawn) 13.g4 \u2657xb1 14.\u2656xb1 \u2658g7 (14...\u2658g3? fails to 15.\u2655e1+\u2013) 15.\u2654c2 \u2658d7 16.\u2655e1!? (Shipov) 16...\u2655xe1 17.\u2656xe1 with a slightly better endgame for White.\n\n**12.g4!**\n\n12.\u2658a3 \u2655h4+!? (12...\u2656e8+ 13.\u2654f2 \u2658f6 is also not bad for Black) 13.\u2654d1 \u2658g7 and Black has no problems at all.\n\n**12... \u2656e8+?!**\n\nThis brings the rook into the game with tempo, but also forces the white king on to a better square. 12...\u2657xb1 13.\u2656xb1 \u2658g7 (13...\u2658f6 14.h4 with an attack on the kingside for White) 14.h4 h5 15.\u2654d1 \u2658d7 16.\u2654c2 \u2658e5 17.\u2657e2 was given by Anand as slightly better for White. Once again 12...\u2655h4+!? was possible: 13.\u2654d1 (not 13.\u2655f2? \u2656e8+ 14.\u2657e2 \u2655g5! intending 15.gxf5? \u2655c1+ 16.\u2658d1 \u2658f4\u2013+) 13...\u2657xb1, transposing into the variation beginning with 11...\u2655h4.\n\n**13. \u2654d1**\n\nAfter 13.\u2657e2?! Black would get good counterplay: 13...\u2655h4+ 14.\u2654d1 \u2657xb1 15.\u2656xb1 \u2658f6 (15...\u2658g7!?) 16.\u2658b5 \u2658a6 17.\u2658xd6 \u2656e7 18.a3 \u2656d8 19.\u2658b5 h5! 20.gxh5 (20.g5? \u2658e4! 21.fxe4 \u2655xe4 with advantage to Black) 20...\u2658xh5 with compensation. (Stohl)\n\n**13... \u2657xb1 14.\u2656xb1 \u2655f6?**\n\nSo as to bring the knight to f4 via tactics. However, the tactics do not work. After 14...\u2658f6 15.\u2654c2 (or 15.h4) or 14...\u2658g7 15.h4 in both cases it is White who has the slightly better prospects.\n\n**15.gxh5! \u2655xf3+ 16.\u2654c2 \u2655xh1**\n\nThat was the tactical justification, however...\n\n**17. \u2655f2!**\n\nTrapping the queen, since the black queen has no square to which to retreat. Black resigned. One attempt was 17... \u2658c6 (17...\u2658a6 18.a3!?+\u2013, there is also a win after 18.\u2657d3 \u2658b4+ 19.\u2654d2 \u2658xd3 20.\u2654xd3+\u2013 or 18.\u2657h3+\u2013) 18.dxc6 \u2655xc6, but after 19.\u2657g2 (or 19.\u2657d3 \u2656e5 20.\u2656f1) 19...\u2655c8 (19... \u2655d7 20.\u2658d5+\u2013) 20.\u2656f1+\u2013 White's position is overwhelming. Another good move is 20.hxg6 hxg6 21.\u2656f1+\u2013.\n\nThe fact that the match ended in a draw after the regulation twelve games meant that the prize fund was divided in a ratio of 55% to 45% (instead of 60% to 40%), which meant a difference of 127 500 dollars in Gelfand's favour.\n\nAt the victory ceremony on the 31st May 2012 Anand received as well as the victor's cheque and the World Champion cup from FIDE a 'Tretyakov Cup' donated by Alexander Molshanovsky, as well as the laurel wreath and winner's medal. At the suggestion of the sponsor Alexander Filatov, the painter Yuri Krotov made two paintings of the World Championship match, one of which went to the Tretyakov Gallery and the other to Anand. Even before the victory ceremony Anand and Gelfand had been received by the Russian president Vladimir Putin. On the evening the Indian ambassador in Moscow, Ajai Malhotra, invited the whole Anand delegation to a reception followed by a dinner in the Indian embassy.\n\nThe tournament hall in the Tretyakov Gallery was sold out every day with 400 spectators \u2013 entrance was in any case free. On some days the capacity of the hall was not sufficient for all the chess lovers who wished to see the WCh match. The press centre was just as well filled. Some 400 journalists had taken out accreditation. On several Russian TV channels there were daily reports about the World Chess Championship. On the internet portal for the match a total of more than two million spectators was counted. On individual match days 200000 spectators followed the live broadcast of the games at the same time.\n**45. The high-flyer from Norway**\n\n**The World Championship 2013:  \n_Viswanathan Anand against Magnus Carlsen_**\n\nMagnus Carlsen was born on the 30th November 1990 to Sigrun \u00d6en and Henrik Albert Carlsen, both engineers by profession, in T\u00f6nsberg, Norway. Sigrun and Henrik Carlsen also have three daughters: Ellen, Ingrid and Signe, of whom Ellen is older than Magnus and the other two younger. They lived at times in Espoo and Brussels. In 1998 the Carlsens moved back to Norway and then lived in Lommedalen, a sub-urb of Oslo. Later the family moved to Haslum, another such suburb.\n\n**Magnus Carlsen (born in 1990)**\n\nIn his youth Henrik Carlsen had himself been an active chess player, but he somewhat lost his motivation after joining the Oslo chess club and there running into several very strong players, including Espen and Simen Agdestein. Henrik Carlsen then took more interest in advancement in his profession but remained interested in chess throughout his life and taught his children the game. Magnus, who as a young child already demonstrated a rapid grasp of things and a very good memory, learned to play chess at the age of five, but at the start showed no particular interest in the game.\n\nBut when he was eight he developed the ambition to beat his elder sister Ellen at chess and began to take a closer interest in the game. His first chess books were Bent Larsen's _Finne Planen_ (Find a plan) and Eduard Gufeld's opening book _The complete Dragon_. Carlsen would later read with great enthusiasm for example Garry Kasparov's series _My Great Predecessors_. He gained his endgame knowledge from reading _Fundamental Chess Endings_ by Karsten M\u00fcller and Frank Lamprecht.\n\nAt the age of eight years and seven months Carlsen took part in 1999 in the youngest age grouping of the Norwegian championship and scored 6\u00bd points from eleven rounds. At the tournament in Gausdal Carlsen met for the first time Simen Agdestein, who was a chess teacher at the Norwegian Sport Elite School NTG (Norges Toppidrettsgymnas). Carlsen was then enrolled in it. Agdestein at first organised as a trainer Torbj\u00f6rn Ringdal Hansen, who was doing civilian (instead of military) service at the sports school. Even Agdestein was amazed by Carlsen's phenomenal feats for memory. If Magnus Carlsen was given an opening book to study, then a day later he had already studied all the variations and could play the opening almost at master level.\n\nThe computer too then became an important training partner. Carlsen trained with the ChessBase database, with chess engines like _Fritz_ and _Rybka_ , and on the internet played countless blitz games against chess partners all over the world on the chess server.\n\nCarlsen also learned from Agdestein, who in addition to his career in chess had also played professional football with 'Lyn Oslo' and been selected eight times for the Norwegian national team, the link between the physical sports and good performances in chess. Since in any case Carlsen was enthusiastic about sport, it was not difficult for him to take on board these lessons. Carlsen played in the football club and also played basketball, he is a good skier and has even practised ski jumping. Moreover he takes part in various other sports.\n\nMagnus Carlsen now regularly took part in tournaments, in a tournament against Norway's best juniors in September 2000 he scored 3\u00bd points out of five games, thus keeping up as a ten year old with some of the clearly older and most talented young players in the country, and between 2000 and 2002 he played in no less than 300 tournaments. In 2003 he scored the three IM norms and became an International Master. After the end of primary school Henrik Carlsen temporarily took his son out of school, bought a camper van and from the autumn of 2003 travelled throughout Europe for ten months with the family to enable Magnus to play in as many tournaments as possible. In the same year he took third place in the U13 European championship.\n\nIn January 2004 Carlsen was invited to Wijk aan Zee, where he won the C-group at his first attempt. At a combined blitz and rapid chess tournament in Reykjavik in March 2004 he defeated Anatoly Karpov and brought Garry Kasparov to the brink of defeat in rapid chess, but then lost as a result of his lack of experience. The 13 year old said about his defeat at the time 'I played like a child!' Kasparov was very impressed by the talent of the Norwegian, especially because this had not developed in one of the 'chess factories' in Russia or the Ukraine, but 'in the middle of nowhere'. When in April 2004 at the Dubai Open he made his third GM norm, Carlsen became the youngest grandmaster at that time and the third youngest in the history of chess, after Sergey Karjakin and Parimarjan Negi. Carlsen was then the youngest player to take part in the FIDE k.-o. World Championship in 2004 in Tripoli, but was eliminated in the first round by Levon Aronian, though only in the tie-breaks.\n\nIn the same year Simen Agdestein published his book about the new super talent, entitled _Wonderboy_. In addition he sought for his prot\u00e9g\u00e9 another strong player as a trainer. At first there were contacts with Kasparov, but then at the start of 2005 the Danish grandmaster Peter Heine Nielsen took on the task of further polishing the rough diamond of the chess scene. At this point Nielsen was also active as a second and a trainer for Anand and later arranged for Carlsen to be the future World Champion's sparring partner for various WCh preparations.\n\nIn 2005 Carlsen shared first place in the Norwegian national championship, but Simen Agdestein was still able to defeat him in the tiebreak. His tenth place in the FIDE World Cup already qualified Carlsen for the candidates' matches for the World Championship. In January 2006 he shared first place in the B-tournament in Wijk aan Zee with Alexander Motylev. In the same year he became for the first time Norwegian champion, after beating Simen Agdestein in the tie-breaks. In 2007 he finished second in the top tournament in Linares. At the candidates' matches he was eliminated in the first round against Levon Aronian, though not until an exciting playoff.\n\nAt the Arctic Chess Open in Troms\u00f8, which at that time was no longer a tournament which was appropriate for the young shooting star, Carlsen curiously was drawn against his father Henrik, who was also playing. He was able to defeat his father but he was only able to manage a draw against his former classmate from the sports school Brede Hagen, who had a clearly inferior rating, and at one point he was even losing. At the World Cup in Khanty-Mansiysk 2007 Carlsen reached the semi-final and was beaten by Gata Kamsky. He finished the Corus A-tournament in Wijk aan Zee 2008 on second place according to tie-break scores, behind Levon Aronian though on the same number of points. Shortly after that he also came second in the top tournament of Morelia\/Linares, this time half a point behind Anand. Now at the latest it had become clear that the 17 year old Norwegian had taken his place in the world elite.\n\nIn June 2008 Carlsen won his first major tournament, the Foros Aerosvit tournament in the Crimea. In the Grand Prix series of 2008-2009 Magnus Carlsen was one of 21 players taking part, but after three tournaments he withdrew when at short notice FIDE changed the venues and dates for the tournaments.\n\nCarlsen's successes in 2009 include second place in the M-Tel Masters in Sofia and a majestic first place with eight points out of ten games at the Pearl Spring tournament in Nanjing. His Elo performance of 3002 was one of the 20 best tournament performances in the history of chess and the best performance by any young player. Immediately before the tournament, Carlsen had made it known that since the beginning of the year he had been working with Garry Kasparov as a trainer. In November 2009 in Moscow Carlsen won the World Blitz Championship. After his tournament victory at the end of 2009 in the London Chess Classic, the Norwegian went on 1st January 2010 for the first time to the top of the world ranking list with an Elo rating of 2810 and was the youngest player to have been first in the world ranking list in the history of chess.\n\nHis high Elo rating qualified Carlsen for the candidates' matches, but he soon explained he would not be taking part and gave as a reason for this the poor organisation of the WCh cycle, the fact that it lasted too long and the privileges which the World Champion enjoyed. The current World Championship cycle of 2008 to 2012 was not 'sufficiently modern and fair', was Carlsen's reason for not taking part. It was suspected that there was advice in the background from Kasparov, who, together with Karpov, whom he was supporting as a candidate for the forthcoming presidential elections, found himself in opposition to FIDE president Kirsan Ilyumzhinov, but Carlsen and also Kasparov denied this. The cooperation with Kasparov had been ended by Carlsen in the spring of 2010.\n\nDuring 2010 Carlsen won the Corus tournament, the Kings tournament in Bazna, the second Pearl Spring tournament in Nanjing and, thanks to the three-point rule in use there, also the London Chess Classic. After the Corus tournament in Wijk aan Zee Magnus Carlsen was hired by the Dutch clothing firm G-Star as the model for its advertising campaign. Carlsen's partner was the actress Liv Tyler. In the years which followed, Gemma Arterton and Lily Cole were placed beside him. In September 2010 G-Star organised a fashion party high above New York in the penthouse of the Cooper Square Hotel, but this time chess was the focal point. Magnus Carlsen played a game on the internet against 'The World'. Hikaru Nakamura, Judit Polgar and Maxime Vachier-Lagrave were invited to give advice over the internet. Present as a guest of honour was Garry Kasparov. In the meantime Espen Agdestein had taken over from Henrik Carlsen the duties as manager of Magnus Carlsen.\n\nIn 2011 Carlsen was successful with victories in the Kings tournament in Bazna, the Chess Festival in Biel and the Masters Final in Bilbao after a tie-break against Vassily Ivanchuk. At the Tal Memorial in Moscow he came in second on tiebreak score behind Levon Aronian. After having for a time ceded the lead in the world ranking list, Carlsen won back first place in the FIDE Elo list in July 2011 and pushed Anand into second place. After that he increased his Elo rating from 2821 (July 2011) to the new record of 2882 (May 2014). In January 2013 Carlsen had with 2862 Elo surpassed for the first time Kasparov's old best rating of 2851 from July 1999. When comparing with Kasparov, however, it needs to be borne in mind that since then the general Elo level has risen clearly: in 1999 the Elo average of the top 100 was about 2644. In May 2014 it was 2703 Elo. Thus the Elo level of the best players had increased by 60 points over these years. The distance between Kasparov and the average Elo of the top 100 was therefore clearly greater in 1999.\n\nIn the meantime Carlsen had become known world-wide: _Time magazine_ chose him in April 2013 as one of the 100 most important people in the world.\n\nCarlsen's rise in Elo rating came as the result of numerous tournament successes, which he scored as number one in the world ranking list. They include tournament wins in Biel 2012, the Masters Final 2012 in Bilbao after a playoff against Caruana, the London Chess Classic 2012 and the Tata Steel tournament in Wijk aan Zee with 10 out of 13 and 1\u00bd points of a lead over Levon Aronian.\n\nAfter numerous delays in the staging of the WCh cycle, as a result of which the WCh match planned for 2011 had actually been postponed until 2012, FIDE, or, more accurately, their new investor Andrew Paulson, stepped up the pace with regard to the WCh cycle of 2012\/13. The US American Paulson began his career as a glamour photographer, became an entrepreneur and was then successful in Russia with the publishing house 'Afischa' and the social network 'SUV'. In September 2011 he met quite by chance Kirsan Ilyumzhinov. He discussed with him and other members of the FIDE executive how chess could be marketed professionally. All his ideas and suggestions as to what could be changed met with rejection by the FIDE officials. It was said that all that had already been tried and it had not worked.\n\nFinally Paulson came to the conclusion that he would have to take things in hand himself and made FIDE an offer to buy the marketing rights for the whole WCh cycle. On the suggestion of FIDE he set up a new firm, called Agon, the sole business of which was to be the marketing of the World Championship cycle, and he guaranteed FIDE a fixed sum as well as a share of the hoped for revenue to be brought in above all by advertising. After marathon negotiations of six months an agreement was finally reached. In February 2012 the transaction was made public, with some previous opposition to this business having taken place within FIDE. Especially Ilya Levitov, marketing director of the Russian federation, spoke out against it. Silvio Danailov cast doubt on the legality of the decision to hold the candidates' tournament in London and announced a lawsuit.\n\nAs a down payment for the deal, Paulson gave FIDE 500 000 dollars cash. As Paulson understood things, the whole WCh cycle with the World Cup, Grand Prix tournaments, candidates' tournament and WCh match would be more reliably managed as to its course and scheduling. In addition the big tournaments should take place in the major metropolises of the world and not in provincial cities in Eastern Europe. If enough advertising partners were found, the amount of the total prize fund would gradually be increased. For 2014 a sum of over five million dollars total prize fund for the whole cycle was announced.\n\nWith all the finesse of a bull in a china shop FIDE and Agon scheduled the London candidates' tournament for the end of October 2012 and thus immediately caused difficulties for two top tournaments, the London Chess Classic, which was usually held in November\/December, and the Masters in Bilbao, which was also staged in autumn. The Moscow Tal Memorial, also usually held in the final quarter of the year, had been safely moved to June in good time by the Russian federation. After protests from the organisers of these tournaments and also some players, FIDE took pity and announced new dates for the candidates' tournament: the 13th till the 30th March. The dates for the WCh match were fixed at the start of 2013 as the 6th till 26th November 2013.\n\nThe candidates' tournament in London was spectacular and the excitement during it justified the decision to once more stage these matches in the form of a tournament. Of the eight participants it was Levon Aronian who had the best start. But in the middle of the tournaments he had first been caught by Magnus Carlsen and then overtaken. The best final spurt, however, was that of Vladimir Kramnik. In the third last round Carlsen, who with the highest Elo rating of all time had started as clear favourite, was surprisingly beaten by Vassily Ivanchuk and now had to watch Kramnik, who in the return round of games had enjoyed victories over his fellow countrymen Peter Svidler and Alexander Grischuk as well as over Teimour Radjabov, pass him by. In the last round but one Carlsen urgently needed a win against Radjabov, which he finally managed to get when Radjabov lost the thread of the game in a drawish ending \u2013 at the same time Kramnik was unable to defeat Boris Gelfand.\n\nThus, before the final round Kramnik and Carlsen were level. The tiebreak system meant that with two players on an equal number of points, their face-to-face meeting would decide \u2013 Carlsen and Kramnik had had two draws \u2013 then the greater number of wins, finally their scores according to the Sonneborn-Berger system, in which a player receives the full total points of any player he has defeated and added to this half the points of any player with whom he has drawn. Carlsen and Kramnik both lost their final round games, against Svidler and Ivanchuk respectively, and so Carlsen became the winner of the tournament on account of having one more win. The tiebreak rules used were heavily criticised later. From a sporting point of view, a proper playoff with rapid games would have been fairer for such an important decision. Kasparov pointedly stated in an interview that the player 'who had lost one more game' became the winner of the tournament.\n\nAt the start of April 2013, Indian media made known that Chennai had been awarded the staging of the WCh match between Anand and Carlsen. FIDE thus fulfilled the pledge it had given in 2011 to the government of the Indian state of Tamil Nadu. Back in 2011 Chennai had after all bid to stage the WCh match between Anand and Gelfand and already been accepted by FIDE, when at the final moment it had been outmanoeuvred by an only slightly better offer from Moscow. FIDE had promised the Indian organisers that the next WCh they would take precedence in the allocation of the match.\n\nOn the 19th April Israel Gelfer, representing FIDE, met representatives of the All-Indian Chess Federation and the chess federation of Tamil Nadu and signed with them a 'memorandum of understanding', a sort of pre-contract. The Indian organisers were prepared to put up 2550000 dollars of a prize fund for the players, and in addition 510000 dollars contribution to FIDE (20% of the prize fund) and a further 255000 dollars for the acquisition of the commercial rights and as compensation for the work of FIDE relating to the WCh. For the appeals committee and the arbiters further costs of 42 250 dollars were available. Thus the chairman of the appeals committeee alone received 7000 dollars remuneration for his work.\n\nTwo days later during the Alekhine Memorial, on the 21st April, Magnus Carlsen's father Henrik gave an interview during the live commentary and expressed his dissatisfaction with FIDE's decision to award the WCh match between his son and Anand to Chennai. Henrik Carlsen argued that this decision was not in accordance with FIDE statutes since there had been no previous formal invitation to tender. The interest in the match was very great world-wide, he argued, and an open bidding process would certainly have obtained a higher prize fund than was being made available by the organisers in Chennai. Carlsen had also explained his point of view to FIDE directly by e-mail and in a face-to-face meeting in Athens with Georgios Makropoulos.\n\nWhen FIDE did not react, the president of the Norwegian federation J\u00f6ran Aulin-Jansson directed an official complaint in an open letter to FIDE on the 3rd May 2013 and demanded that FIDE open a bidding process for the WCh match according to its own statutes. On the same day Philippe Mouttou, as the speaker for a group of businessmen, put in an official offer to stage the WCh match. The prize fund on offer was with 2.65 million euros (plus 800 000 euros to FIDE) clearly superior to that from the organisers in Chennai. The offer was supported by the French federation and the city of Paris, the mayor of which, Bertrand Delano\u00eb, gave notice of this in a letter to the FIDE president.\n\nFIDE, however, stuck to its decision. Carlsen reacted to this by describing himself as 'deeply disappointed', but was obviously also prepared to play in India. FIDE statutes lay down that if a player takes part in a WCh match in the home country of his opponent, he receives an additional 100000 euros. So for the challenger there was in any case some financial compensation for his readiness to play in India. On the 5th May FIDE president Kirsan Ilyumzhinov and FIDE general secretary Ignatius Leong met the secretary of the All-Indian Chess Federation Bharat Singh Chauhan in India to sign the contract.\n\nWhen it became clear who his challenger would be, Anand set up his training camp in Bad Soden, as for the previous matches. Out of his former team, however, Rustam Kasimdzhanov and Peter Heine Nielsen had left. Kasimdzhanov had taken on other commitments, Nielsen had in the meantime been re-hired by Carlsen. Out of loyalty to Anand, however, the Danish grandmaster explained that he wanted to remain neutral for the forthcoming match. Surya Shekhar Ganguly had also left, so that only Radoslaw Wojtaszek was left from the old team. To it were added the two Indian grandmasters Krishnan Sasikiran, Sandipan Chanda, and in addition Peter Leko. At the opening press conference Anand named these players as members of his team. During the match it leaked out that Vladimir Kramnik had probably belonged to the title defender's team.\n\nWhen at the first press conference Anand announced his team, or at least a part of it, Carlsen thanked him for his openness but at the same time explained that he would not be returning the compliment and wanted to continue to keep his team members secret. There was a lot of speculation about the names of Carlsen's seconds. It was a quite safe supposition that there were Carlsen's fellow countryman Jon Ludvig Hammer, and in addition Laurent Fressinet, as well as the young Russian grandmaster Ian Nepomniachtchi and perhaps Vladimir Potkin. Even at the final press conference after the tenth game Carlsen divulged only the name of Hammer. The only thing which was certain was that Carlsen had brought a cook and a personal physician from Norway.\n\nWhilst in Bad Soden Anand was not only working on opening variations, but also seeking to improve his fitness with runs through the woods and swimming, losing ten kilos along the way, Carlsen had set up his training camp in the summer in the Norwegian holiday resort of Krager\u00f8. Carlsen enabled his fans to share via his Facebook page his activities, which also consisted of a great deal of sport. Carlsen let himself be photographed bare-chested at gymnastics, diving or on a jet-ski. He was seen playing tennis and football.\n\nThe Norwegian also put a video on the net showing Carlsen playing a blitz game against Laurent Fressinet. An attentive observer could spot lying around a tennis racquet, tennis balls, a half-eaten apple and even a chess book, though it was not a book on openings but an apparently well-thumbed copy of the endgame manual by the Hamburg masters Karsten M\u00fcller and Frank Lamprecht. Was it a bluff? Did the Norwegians want to lull Anand into a false sense of security with this video and make the World Champion believe that Carlsen was not preparing any openings at all but simply doing endgame training?\n\nShortly before the start of the match there appeared a documentary from the Norwegian multimedia newspaper _Verdens Gang_ (abbreviated to VG), which made available a further insight into Carlsen's training in Krager\u00f6. Actually the 22 year old challenger had Jon Ludvig Hammer produce endgame exercises for him and learned by heart classic games from the history of chess. Unusual preparation for a WCh match!\n\nAt the end of August Carlsen visited Chennai for the first time, so as to meet the organisers there and possibly clarify some still undecided details. There the challenger and the Norwegians got to grasp something of the enthusiasm felt for chess, for the forthcoming WCh match, but also greatly for the challenger personally. When Carlsen visited in Chennai the 'M.O.P. Vaishnav Women's College', he was welcomed there like a pop star by some 1000 pupils. During the visit Magnus Carlsen was also received by Mrs Jayaram Jayalalithaa, the prime minister of Tamil Nadu. As the main sponsor of the forthcoming match for the World Championship, the Indian federal state was responsible for the lion's share of the costs.\n\nJ. Jayalalithaa had been a very popular actress in the 1960s and 1970s and had been in over 130 films. She later followed her fellow actor Marudur Gopalamenon Ramachandran on his way into politics and became his successor in the office of 'Chief Minister' of Tamil Nadu. From Ramachandran Jayalalithaa had not only learned the trade of politics, but also the art of self-promotion, and she used the WCh match between the extraordinarily popular Indian sporting idol Viswanathan Anand and his challenger Magnus Carlsen to present herself to the public. For that reason the fairy-tale opening ceremony, with lots of Indian folklore, dances, colourful costumes \u00e0 la 'Lion king' and chess motifs was moved into the 8000 seater Jawaharlal Nehru Indoor Stadium. Chief Minister Jayalalithaa Jayaram conducted the proceedings as the guest of honour. Her likeness was also emblazoned everywhere on the official posters. One year after this World Championship match, however, J. Jayalalithaa and three co-accused were found guilty after a trial which had dragged out over 18 years of the embezzlement of 66.65 crore rupees (approx. 8 million euros) removed from office and sentenced to four years in prison and a fine of 12.6 million euros. After payment of a bail she was released from custody in October 2014.\n\nThe hosts and venue for the WCh match was the Hyatt Regency Hotel, which set up the hotel ballroom for the match. Between the spectators and the slightly raised stage the organisers installed a soundproof glass barrier, which prevented any noise from the spectators' area reaching the players. The entry price for spectators was 24 dollars for one game, 248 dollars for the whole match. The hotel was at the same time the official hotel for the event. The World Champion Anand, who was born in Chennai and lives there, even only a quarter of an hour from the venue, also moved into the hotel for the period of the match and occupied the presidential suite on the tenth floor. Magnus Carlsen, accompanied amongst others by his manager Espen Agdestein, his father Henrik and his sister Ingrid, also stayed in the hotel, as did numerous international journalists who were reporting on the match.\n\nThe organising body for the match was the All Indian Chess Federation (AICF). The main organiser was DV Sundar, honorary president of the AICF and moreover one of the vice-presidents of the world chess federation FIDE. He was supported by the secretary of the AICF, Bharat Singh, and by the general secretary of the chess federation of Tamil Nadu, V. Hariharan.\n\nThe match was to be over twelve games. The drawing of lots saw Carlsen awarded the white pieces for the first game. A change of colours was foreseen after six games. According to it, Anand not only had the white pieces in the sixth game, but also started the second half of the match with them. The time control was 120 minutes for 40 moves, then 60 minutes for the next 20 moves, and finally 15 minutes for the remainder of the game with an increment of 30 seconds per move from move 61. In the event of a drawn match after twelve games, there was to be a playoff over four rapid chess games with 25 minutes plus ten seconds increment per move. There was to be a fresh drawing of lots for colours for the playoff. If things were still level, then up to five two-game blitz matches were to be played with a time control of five minutes plus three seconds increment. Lastly, if required, a final blitz game, the 'sudden death' game. The players were not allowed to agree a draw before move 30.\n\nThe prize fund was around 1.89 million euros, of which 60%, thus approx. 1.13 million, would go to the winner. The players were obliged to appear in the tournament arena ten minutes before the start of the game and had to submit to a security check. Mobile phones and other technology were not to be brought in the tournament arena by the players.\n\nWhilst Anand went into the World Championship matches of 2008, 2010 and 2012 as favourite, this time he was only the outsider. After 2008 it had become harder and harder for the Indian to defend his title. In January 2010 Carlsen had already for the first time reached the top of the world ranking list. In November 2010 Carlsen fell back to second place and Anand was just ahead of the Norwegian.\n\nDuring 2011 Anand and Carlsen continued to change places as first in the world ranking list, but at the end of 2011 Carlsen started to extend his lead and at the time of the WCh match in Chennai his lead over the second placed player, now Levon Aronian, was 69 points. The Elo difference was as great as that between the number two and the number twenty in the world ranking list. Anand had in the meantime slipped back to eighth place with Elo 2775. So the gap between Carlsen with his 2870 Elo and Anand consisted of almost 100 Elo points. From the purely mathematical point of view, a victory by Carlsen with a lead of three points was absolutely in the realms of the possible. Added to that, in the final tournaments before the match Anand had lost some games as a result of blunders. In 2012 and 2013, moreover, Anand had had to suffer painful defeats in two games against Carlsen.\n\nWhereas the match for the World Championship in 2012 between Anand and Boris Gelfand had attracted hardly any attention outside of the chess scene, Magnus Carlsen's attack on the throne caused a powerful press storm. Naturally, the match attracted the greatest attention in Norway and India, the home countries of the two players. In advance of the match previews were published more and more frequently in the major Indian newspapers; then there were daily articles and reports on the games. In Norway too, the press got involved early on. Even the Norwegian tabloids, headed by the multimedia magazine _Verdens Gang_ (VG), provided Carlsen fans with articles, photos or video. Carlsen himself, or his management, did not stand by passively and provided photos on Carlsen's Facebook page and comments on his Twitter account.\n\nBut in other countries too the interest among the mass media was also enormous and it grew when the editorial teams noticed by the hits on their web pages just how great the interest was, and not only among chess fans. As the match unfolded, more and more people were gripped by the chess virus. At the end the interest in the chess happenings in Chennai even surpassed by far the attention which Robert Fischer had once enjoyed in his match against Spassky in 1972 in Reykjavik. In Germany all the major newspapers and weekly magazines finally reported daily on their web pages on the preparations and the games. During the games several websites had live tickers with the moves and experts explaining them to the public. After the games _Der Spiegel_ published video analyses with ChessBase technology and recorded over 50000 hits for every video.\n\nThe World Championship was the absolute top topic everywhere in the world. It was Magnus Carlsen above all who provided the material for the stories. The new 'super-brain' was only 22 years old and in addition to his commitments as a chess professional was also available as a model for the Dutch fashion label G-Star. The media portrayed the encounter as a duel between the model and the tiger. The Madras Tiger was Anand's nickname in the press.\n\nFIDE's official match site and the local organisers provided for every game live video-stream with the players and had the game commentated on in parallel by experts. The games were explained for the spectators in turn by Susan Polgar and the Indian grandmaster Ramesh or the English IM Lawrence Trent and the Indian women's grandmaster Tania Sachdev. Reports on the World Championship were followed on Indian sports television by 80 million viewers. Norwegian television broadcast all the match games live, some lasting over six hours, and in doing so got a market share of 40%. After the match it was learned in interviews, carried out by the Norwegian media in the streets, that chess sets had practically been sold out in Norway.\n\nThe first game was played on the 9th November. There was a rest day between every two games. Carlsen got nothing out of the opening in the first game and after a few moves had to content himself with a draw by a repetition. The second game also quickly ended as a draw. In the third game Carlsen was at a disadvantage and only just avoided a possible defeat. The fourth game was later described by Carlsen as the best in the match. Anand had worked out an interesting attacking idea against Carlsen's Berlin Defence. But Carlsen defended successfully and Anand then had to fight for a draw, which the title defender managed to achieve. Carlsen finally won the fifth game after a mistake by Anand in the endgame. The sixth game was also won by Carlsen in the endgame.\n\nAnand was unable to recover from this double blow. His play in the seventh and eighth games was listless. It was only in the ninth game that he again attempted to win and obtained a promising position after the opening, but he could not find a decisive attacking idea. Carlsen defended with precision. A draw was probable, but Anand had to resign this game too after an oversight. After a draw in the tenth game Carlsen was confirmed as the new World Champion on the 22nd November 2013. That made him the 16th World Champion in the tradition begun by Wilhelm Steinitz.\n\n **Anand \u2013 Carlsen**\n\nChennai, 9th game  \n21st November 2013  \nNimzo-Indian Defence (E25)\n\n**1.d4**\n\nIn the previous games in the match Anand had played exclusively 1.e4 but achieved nothing with it.\n\n**1... \u2658f6 2.c4 e6 3.\u2658c3**\n\nWith 3.g3 Anand could transpose to the Catalan Opening, with which he was successful in the WCh match of 2010 against Topalov. Another popular move is 3.\u2658f3.\n\n**3... \u2657b4 4.f3**\n\nAnand had never previously played this aggressive move, whereas Carlsen had already employed this variation himself as White.\n\n**4...d5 5.a3 \u2657xc3+ 6.bxc3 c5 7.cxd5 exd5**\n\nThe main line arises after 7...\u2658xd5.\n\n**8.e3 c4**\n\nPlayed quickly by Carlsen. The structure is reminiscent of the famous Botvinnik-Capablanca game, AVRO 1938. There Black won a pawn on the queenside, but was then outplayed on the kingside. After 8...0-0 9.\u2657d3 White has so far had good practical results.\n\n**9. \u2658e2 \u2658c6 10.g4 0-0 11.\u2657g2 \u2658a5 12.0-0 \u2658b3 13.\u2656a2**\n\nThe players are following a game by Kasparov against Judit Polgar from 1997.\n\n**13...b5**\n\nHere Judit Polgar played the less accurate 13...h6?!. After 14.\u2658g3 \u2657d7 15.\u2655e1 \u2656e8 16.e4 dxe4 17.fxe4 \u2658xg4 18.\u2657f4 Kasparov obtained a strong initiative and won the game after 32 moves, Kasparov-Polgar, Tilburg 1997.\n\n**14. \u2658g3**\n\nUp till here Anand had used 15 minutes, Carlsen already roughly 30 minutes.\n\n**14...a5**\n\nA new move by Carlsen. Previously there had been two examples with this position. In the previous games 14...\u2657b7 and 14...\u2656e8 had been played.\n\n**15.g5 \u2658e8 16.e4 \u2658xc1**\n\nBefore the bishop can make it into the open, it is eliminated. Vachier-Lagrave suggested 16...\u2658d6!? as an alternative.\n\n**17. \u2655xc1 \u2656a6**\n\nPreparing the...b5-b4 advance. After the exchange of pawns the \u2656a6 is protected by the bishop.\n\n**18.e5**\n\nA dynamic position has arisen. White has a space advantage on the kingside, Black on the queenside. For Anand, who absolutely had to win the game, the opening has at least been successful in the sense that the position which has arisen is complicated and allows a lot of possible options. During the game Kasparov suggested 18.\u2656b2!?, so as to transfer the rook to the kingside.\n\n**18... \u2658c7**\n\nThe immediate 18...b4!? was also worth considering: 19.axb4 axb4 20.\u2656xa6 \u2657xa6 21.cxb4 \u2658c7 22.f4 \u2655e7 23.\u2655a3 (23.\u2658f5 \u2655xb4) 23...g6 24.\u2656b1 \u2656a8=.\n\n**19.f4 b4**\n\nCarlsen is the first to get in a move on the queenside. In the long run a protected passed pawn will come about on c4 or b3.\n\n**20.axb4 axb4 21. \u2656xa6 \u2658xa6 22.f5!?**\n\nAnand sharpens up the game. He could also play 22.cxb4 \u2658xb4 23.f5. Unlike in the game, the black passed pawn here is on c4 and not so close to the promotion square; and d4 is weak.\n\n**22...b3**\n\nAnd Carlsen also chooses the most principled continuation. Here Anand still had more than an hour on his clock, Carlsen roughly half an hour. But Anand then invested more than half of his time thinking out a plan of attack. The white position may look very promising, but the title defender was not able to find a forced win.\n\n**23. \u2655f4**\n\nAlternatives were:\n\nA) 23.f6 g6, and now:\n\na) 24.h4 \u2658c7 25.h5 \u2657g4 26.hxg6 hxg6 27.\u2655f4 \u2655d7 and White cannot make any further progress;\n\nb) 24.\u2655f4 (so as to deliver mate with \u2655h4-h6-g7) 24...\u2654h8 25.\u2655h4 b2 26.\u2655h6 \u2656g8 27.\u2656f4 b1\u2655\\+ 28.\u2657f1 \u2655d1 29.\u2656h4 \u2655h5 30.\u2658xh5 gxh5 31.\u2655xh5 \u2657f5 32.\u2655xf7 \u2658c7 with an unclear situation;\n\nc) 24.\u2656f4 (this typical mating plan only works with the cooperation of the opponent, but it is somewhat dangerous) 24...\u2657e6 25.\u2656h4 \u2655b6 26.\u2655f4:\n\nNow it would be wrong to play:  \nc1) 26...b2?? 27.\u2656xh7 \u2654xh7 28.\u2655h4+ \u2654g8 29.\u2655h6 b1\u2655\\+ 30.\u2658f1 followed by mate on g7.\n\nA better way is:  \nc2) 26...h5 27.\u2658xh5 gxh5 28.\u2656xh5 b2 29.\u2655h4 b1\u2655\\+ 30.\u2657f1 \u2655xf1+ 31.\u2654xf1 \u2655b1+ 32.\u2654f2 \u2655c2+ 33.\u2654g1 \u2655c1+ 34.\u2654f2 \u2655c2+ 35.\u2654g1 and Black must give perpetual check in order not to be mated.\n\nB) 23.h4 \u2658c7 24.h5 (24.\u2655a3!? Kasparov), with the possibilities:\n\na) after 24...\u2658b5? 25.f6 White obtains a strong attack: 25...\u2657e6 (25...g6 26.hxg6 fxg6 (26...hxg6 27.\u2655f4+\u2013) 27.\u2658e2 \u2657e6 28.\u2658f4 \u2658c7 29.\u2655a3+\u2013 with the threat \u2658xe6 and \u2655a6) 26.g6 fxg6 27.hxg6 hxg6 28.\u2655g5 \u2658xc3 29.\u2655xg6 with the threat of \u2654h2, followed by \u2658h5.\n\nA better way is:\n\nb) 24...\u2657d7!? 25.f6 g6 26.hxg6 hxg6 27.\u2655f4 \u2655b8 28.\u2655h4 b2 and Black holds.\n\n**23... \u2658c7 24.f6**\n\nKasparov preferred 24.\u2655h4, in order to maintain the tension. 'Vishy probably thought that 24.f6 wins by force.' (Kasparov)\n\n**24...g6 25. \u2655h4 \u2658e8**\n\nA remarkable situation: all the black pieces are on the back rank, and yet Black's position offers all the pre-conditions for successful resistance. Instead of the move in the game it would have been wrong to play 25...\u2658e6? in view of 26.\u2655h6 b2 27.\u2656f4 b1\u2655\\+ 28.\u2657f1 \u2655c1 29.\u2656h4 \u2655e3+ 30.\u2654g2 \u2658f4+ 31.\u2656xf4 \u2655xf4 32.\u2655g7#.\n\n**26. \u2655h6!?**\n\nThe threat of \u2656f4 and \u2656h4 looks deadly. But Black still has an antidote. The alternative to the text move was 26.\u2658e2, with the possible continuation 26...\u2657e6 27.\u2658f4 \u2655a8 (after 27...b2? 28.\u2655f2 \u2655b6 29.\u2656b1 +\u2013 the pawn would be lost) 28.\u2657h3 \u2657xh3 29.\u2655xh3 b2 30.e6 \u2658d6 31.\u2658xg6 fxg6 32.e7 \u2656f7 33.\u2655d7 \u2658e8 with an unclear position.\n\n**26...b2!**\n\nThe only defence.\n\n**27. \u2656f4**\n\n27.\u2658e2!? (Kasparov) 27...\u2655a5 28.\u2658f4 \u2657e6 29.\u2658xe6 fxe6 30.\u2657h3 ('The black position looks o.k.') 30...\u2655a6=.\n\n**27...b1 \u2655\\+ 28.\u2658f1??**\n\nA decisive mistake in a critical position. Anand had planned \u2657f1 and then decided at the last moment to go for a supposedly better move. 28.\u2657f1 probably leads to a draw. The variation 28...\u2655d1 29.\u2656h4 \u2655h5 30.\u2658xh5 gxh5 31.\u2656xh5 \u2657f5 32.\u2657h3 (or 32.g6 \u2657xg6 33.\u2656g5 \u2655b6 34.h4 \u2658xf6 35.exf6 \u2655xf6 36.h5 \u2655f3 37.hxg6 fxg6 38.\u2657h3 \u2655e3+ with perpetual check) 32... \u2657g6 33.e6 \u2658xf6 (33...fxe6 34.\u2657xe6+ \u2656f7 35.\u2656h3+\u2013) 34.gxf6 \u2655xf6 was shown by Carlsen at the press conference. 35.e7 \u2655xe7 36.\u2656e5 and Black is in no way worse.\n\n**28... \u2655e1!**\n\nWhite resigned.\n\nKasparov commented on Twitter: 'Has any player ever before won a WCh game without moving his queen?' Since the knight is no longer on g3, 28...\u2655e1 does work here on account of 29.\u2656h4 \u2655xh4 30.\u2655xh4 \u2655a5 and Black wins. Anand had calculated: 28...\u2655d1 29.\u2656h4 \u2655h5 30.\u2656xh5 gxh5 31.\u2658e3 \u2657e6 32.\u2657xd5 \u2657xd5 33.\u2658f5 and the knight comes to e7. White wins in this variation.\n\nTo the delight of the representatives of the media who were there, after winning the title of World Champion, Carlsen, in high spirits, leapt fully-clothed into the hotel pool. In the period after winning the World Championship the new young World Chess Champion from Norway was passed around various publicity events. Immediately after the match, football fan Carlsen was invited by Real Madrid to give the kick-off to their game against Valladolid (4:0 for Real) in the Bernabeu Stadium. In the middle of December at a schools chess tournament he met the Norwegian prime minister Erna Solberg. In January 2014 he played a game of chess with Facebook inventor Mark Zuckerberg. A few days later Carlsen appeared as a guest in the talk show of Fredrik Skavlan and in front of the television public he played a game against Microsoft chief Bill Gates.\n**46. Chess blindness in Sochi**\n\n**The World Championship 2014:  \n_Magnus Carlsen against Viswanathan Anand_**\n\nAfter the World Championship matches of 2012, Anand against Gelfand, and 2013, Anand against Carlsen, FIDE had also scheduled a World Championship match for 2014. That meant that World Championship matches were taking place in three successive years, without FIDE ever explaining why they had deviated from the two year cycle fixed by the regulations. When asked, FIDE president Kirsan Ilyumzhinov in an interview during the Chess Olympiad of Troms\u00f8 even again explained explicitly that the World Championships took place in a two year cycle, without going into the obvious contradiction.\n\nThe challenger was decided in a double-round candidates' tournament, which was played in the second half of May 2014 with eight players in Khanty-Mansiysk. Levon Aronian and Vladimir Kramnik went into the tournament as favourites. Sergey Karjakin was also held to have a chance. But then the majestic victor of the tournament was Viswanathan Anand, who had qualified for the candidates' tournament as the losing player in the World Championship match of 2013. Anand won three games \u2013 against Mamedyarov, Aronian and Topalov \u2013 and did not lose a single one. All the other players lost at least two games. Sergey Karjakin came in second behind Anand. Kramnik was third, Aronian only sixth.\n\nThe victory of Anand constituted for FIDE, or for the marketing company Agon, the problem of finding an organiser for the World Championship match. Naturally the most interest in this new WCh match between Anand and Carlsen was to be found in the home countries of the two players. But the WCh match of 2013 had already been organised in India.\n\nThis pushed Norway into first place as a potential organiser. But the Norwegian federation was already heavily committed financially in 2014 by its staging of the Chess Olympiad in Troms\u00f8. For the organisation of the Chess Olympiad the Norwegian Chess Federation and the organisers in the chess friendly city above the Arctic Circle had received a subsidy of 75 million Norwegian kroner (i.e. 8.9 million euros) from the Norwegian government. When calculating the costs, however, the Norwegians had not taken into account the organising of the FIDE World Cup, which had also been confided to them by FIDE. After some supplementary negotiations with the Norwegian government the organisers received a further grant of 12 million kroner (approx. 1.4 million euros). After that the subject of chess was pretty well exhausted for potential sponsors in Norway.\n\nOther possible organisers and sponsors, for example in Azerbaijan or Armenia, showed no interest because the representatives of their countries, respectively Mamedyarov and Aronian, had failed at the candidates' tournament. On the 10th January FIDE opened the bidding process and set the 10th March as a deadline. At the end of the period, however, there were no bids. FIDE therefore extended the deadline to the 20th April 2014, though also without success.\n\nThe lack of an organiser for the World Championship match between Magnus Carlsen and Viswanathan Anand offered Garry Kasparov a welcome target in the campaign for his bid for the office of FIDE president. After Kasparov had already supported Anatoly Karpov as Ilyumzhinov's challenger for the FIDE presidency in 2010 in Khanty-Mansiysk, the ex-World Champion now stood in person against Ilyumzhinov.\n\nKasparov's two year long election campaign was paid for, as had been the previous joint campaign of Karpov and Kasparov four years previously, by the US American multi-millionaire Rex Sinquefield, who had already set up a major chess centre in his home city of St. Louis and organised several important tournaments there. Kasparov and his supporters and the incumbent FIDE executive engaged in a distinctly dirty campaign with mutual accusations of corruption continuing even through the Chess Olympiad in Troms\u00f8. If he were elected, according to Kasparov, he would immediately find a sponsor for the World Championship match and name an organiser.\n\nIt did not require much imagination to suppose that Rex Sinquefield and the chess centre in St. Louis were what he meant. Kirsan Ilyumzhinov saw himself, as it were, in zugzwang. During the Russian junior chess tournament 'Belaya Ladya' (White rook) in Dagomys in June 2014, Ilyumzhinov met Vladimir Putin, described his problems to him and managed to convince the Russian president that Russia and the Russian Chess Federation had to come on board as organisers and sponsors of the World Championship match between Carlsen and Anand. The FIDE president was pushing at an open door, since the Russian government was in any case planning to use the Olympic park left abandoned after the Winter Olympics for staging international sporting events. Thus in October 2014 the first Formula 1 race on Russian soil was run there.\n\nOn the 11th June, FIDE announced in a press conference with the Interfax agency that the World Championship match would take place in Sochi, or more precisely in a media centre for the past Winter Olympics some 40 kilometres from the city. The budget of the forthcoming WCh match was to be three million US dollars, of which 1.5 million dollars made up the prize fund for the players. After this news was made public, the president of the Norwegian Chess Federation J\u00f6ran Aulin-Jansson commented on it with the sybilline sentence that he was not sure if the match would actually be played in Sochi.\n\nFor the imminent presidential elections of the European Chess Union, which, like the FIDE elections, would be held during the Chess Olympiad in Troms\u00f8, Aulin-Jansson was a candidate on the 'ticket' of the incumbent ECU president Silvio Danailov. The cooperation between the Norwegian and Bulgarian federations was the result of an arrangement about the Norwegian bid for the Olympiad. The Bulgarian Chess Federation had also offered to host it in the city of Albena, but withdrew in favour of Troms\u00f8 after the Norwegians had promised to support Danailov's candidacy for ECU president. Danailov was also allied with Kasparov, therefore meaning that Kasparov and Aulin-Jansson were in the same boat in common opposition to the incumbent FIDE leadership around Kirsan Ilyumzhinov.\n\nThis had already created problems before the first World Championship match between Anand and Carlsen, when the Norwegian federation protested against the awarding of the WCh match to Chennai and in the lead-up to the Chess Olympiad it also led to some tension and conflicts between the Norwegian federation and FIDE. Thus the Norwegians, at short notice and without consulting FIDE, removed the Russian women's team, actually the title defenders, from participation in the Chess Olympiad after the Russians had missed the deadline for enabling Katerina Lagno to make her change from the Ukrainian to the Russian Chess Federation. Under pressure from the FIDE executive, the Norwegians had to rescind their decision.\n\nAfter the finish of the Chess Olympiad, all the rounds of which had been broadcast live by the Norwegian television company NRK in real time, some mutterings could be heard in the Carlsen camp about FIDE's decision to stage the match against Anand in Sochi. Carlsen's manager Espen Agdestein complained moreover about the reduction in the prize fund compared to the first match and turned to the FIDE president with the request to postpone and to move the WCh match, which Ilyumzhinov, however, rejected with the hint that if Carlsen did not play he would lose the title of World Champion without a contest.\n\nDuring the Rex Sinquefield Cup in St. Louis there was another little war of nerves between the Carlsen team and FIDE, since Carlsen let pass the deadline for the signing of the contract for the World Championship and explained that he wanted to finish the tournament in peace and only then worry about the details of the contract. This was reported by the Norwegian and to some extent also by the international press as a serious crisis. In sections of the press it was even suggested that Carlsen did not want to play in Russia and Sochi on account of the annexation of the Crimea by Russia in February 2014 and the subsequent EU sanctions. But FIDE extended the deadline for signing until the 8th September 2014 and Carlsen signed the contract in time, a few hours before the expiry of the deadline. Neither of the two sides had any serious interest in seeing the breakdown of the WCh match, since in that case there would only have been losers.\n\nAnand again prepared himself for the match in his European domicile of Bad Soden. In his team there were Krishnan Sasikiran, Radoslaw Wojtaszek and Grzegorz Gajewski, three players, moreover, who all prefer as White's opening move 1.d4. In addition, during his preparation in Bad Soden he also trained with Alexander Grischuk. After his victory in the candidates' tournament Anand had also won the 'Chess Masters Final' in Bilbao in September, so he could point to a rising curve in his form.\n\nCarlsen, on the other hand, had experienced a few setbacks. At the Chess Olympiad he lost two games against nominally weaker opponents and at the Rex Sinquefield Cup he had to take second place to the outstanding play of Fabiano Caruana. Nevertheless, his results in the two tournaments were still excellent and so the Elo difference in November 2014 between Carlsen (2863) and Anand (2792) was still over 70 points. Carlsen therefore went into the match as the clear favourite. However, the chess world expected that Anand would have drawn his conclusions from his earlier clear defeat.\n\nAt the opening press conference in Sochi, Magnus Carlsen named to the press Peter Heine Nielsen and Jon Ludvig Hammer as his seconds. After the match it turned out that Carlsen had also been receiving help from Laurent Fressinet and Michael Adams. In addition, Garry Kasparov had spoken with Peter Heine Nielsen during the match and given advice over the telephone.\n\nBoth teams, like the organisers and most of the journalists, were lodged in the hotel complex of the Radisson Blue Paradise Resort. The players and their companions occupied sections of the two wings on the 8th floor of the building. For their safety the two players were always accompanied by a bodyguard, who was hired by the organisers.\n\nFIDE had fixed the match for the 7th to 28th November. The distance of the match was once more a maximum of twelve games with exactly the same rules concerning time controls and possible playoffs as in the previous year. The chief arbiter for the match was Andrzej Filipowicz, his assistants Husan Turdaliev and Anatoly Bykhovsky. The appeals committee comprised Georgios Makropoulos, Jorge Vega and Vanik Zakarian. The chief press officer was, as on many FIDE occasions previously, Anastasia Karlovich. Jana Bellin was responsible for medical matters.\n\nDuring the match it became known that Andrew Paulson had sold the firm Agon before the start of the WCh match for one (!) pound to the Russian chess organiser Ilya Merenzon. The latter had previously been the link between Paulson and Kirsan Ilyumzhinov. After Paulson had realised that he would not be able to put into effect his plan for the marketing of the World Chess Championship because he could not find any sponsors for it, he lost interest in Agon. In the election campaign for the FIDE presidency between Kirsan Ilyumzhinov and Garry Kasparov, Andrew Paulson, who saw himself as a businessman and not as a politician, found himself caught between the lines and became the target of attacks emanating from the Kasparov camp. The FIDE election finished as 110:61 in favour of Ilyumzhinov. And Kasparov's ally, ECU president Silvio Danailov, was voted out of his office with a clear majority of 18:33 votes. He was replaced in the office of president of the European Chess Federation by Zurab Azmaiparashvili.\n\nThe new owner of Agon Ilya Merenzon and Nikita Kim were the main organisers of the WCh matches in Sochi. They were supported locally by the Russian Chess Federation and its president Andrei Filatov, who stayed there for the whole period of the match. The conditions in the spacious media centre of the 2014 Winter Olympics park were excellent. Good conditions had also been provided for the visitors, though only very few chess lovers found their way to the somewhat isolated resort on the Black Sea. For some games only 16 spectators were present. Things were different on the internet, which has become more and more the actual spectators' area for the major chess tournaments. Live video-stream allows chess lovers all over the world to follow the games and events as they happen. Peter Svidler and Sopiko Guramishvili provided the majority of the English language commentary.\n\nThe drawing of lots for colours took place at the opening ceremony. Carlsen drew the black pieces for the first game. Since the order of colours was changed half-way through the match \u2013 the player who started the first half with the white pieces, started the second half with the black ones \u2013 Carlsen would therefore in the middle of the match, in the sixth and seventh games, have White twice in succession, which could be a certain advantage.\n\nIn the very first game of the match, with the black pieces, Carlsen achieved an advantage in the late middlegame, but missed his best chance and had to content himself with a draw. In his first game with white, Carlsen was able to score when he outplayed Anand in a variation of the Ruy Lopez which was considered to be harmless. But Anand struck back immediately in the 3rd game, when Carlsen ran into a deeply prepared variation, and equalised the score. The fourth and fifth games were drawn. In the sixth game Anand's preparation in the Paulsen Variation of the Sicilian Defence was revealed to be unfavourable and the challenger got into a passive position. After a major inaccuracy by Carlsen, Anand missed a combination which might have brought him a winning advantage and lost the game instead.\n\n **Carlsen \u2013 Anand**\n\nSochi, 6th game  \n15th November 2014  \nSicilian Defence (B41)\n\n**1.e4 c5 2. \u2658f3 e6 3.d4 cxd4 4.\u2658xd4 a6**\n\nUntil then Anand had hardly ever played the Paulsen Variation. The related Taimanov Variation with 4...\u2658c6 has belonged for a long time to his regular repertoire.\n\n**5.c4**\n\nAt the start of the year in the tournament in Zurich Carlsen chose 5.\u2657d3 \u2657c5 6.c3 d6 7.\u2658d2 \u2658f6 8.0-0 0-0 9.a4 e5 10.\u26584b3 \u2657a7 11.\u2658c4 \u2657e6 12.\u2655e2=, Carlsen-Caruana, Zurich (Blitz) 2014 (0-1\/35).\n\n**5... \u2658f6 6.\u2658c3 \u2657b4**\n\nAlso popular are 6...\u2655c7 and 6...d6.\n\n**7. \u2655d3**\n\n7.e5 \u2657xc3+ 8.bxc3 \u2655a5 is considered very playable for Black. In the main line after 7.\u2657d3 \u2658c6 8.\u2658xc6 Black has hardly any problems either. Another interesting and more recent try by White is 7.\u2655f3.\n\n**7... \u2658c6 8.\u2658xc6 dxc6 9.\u2655xd8+**\n\nAfter 9.e5 Black can avoid the exchange of queens with 9...\u2658d7.\n\n**9... \u2654xd8 10.e5 \u2658d7**\n\nIn two earlier games 10...\u2658e4 was played.\n\n**11. \u2657f4**\n\nThe move in the game is much better than the obvious 11.f4, which limits the effectiveness of the dark-squared bishop. It is an open question whether it was a good idea for Anand to choose a variation with an early exchange of queens, since Carlsen is particularly strong in slightly superior endgames.\n\n**11... \u2657xc3+**\n\nAnand gives up the bishop pair, but degrades the white pawn structure.\n\n**12.bxc3 \u2654c7 13.h4 b6 14.h5**\n\nWhite is slightly better. Thanks to the advantage in space it is easier for him to manoeuvre. Moreover the d6-square is a lovely outpost. Black may have a really solid position but is extremely passive. By advancing the h-pawn Carlsen prepares the attack on the weak pawns on the black kingside.\n\n**14...h6 15.0-0-0 \u2657b7 16.\u2656d3**\n\nThe rook is transferred to the kingside. Here both sides had used 30 minutes.\n\n**16...c5 17. \u2656g3 \u2656ag8**\n\nBlack is planning...\u2658f8 and...g7-g6. The black position appears very passive. But Peter Svidler suggested in his live commentary that this position had been prepared by Anand.\n\n**18. \u2657d3 \u2658f8 19.\u2657e3**\n\nWith the move in the game Carlsen sidesteps possible complications, for example after 19.\u2656g4 g5 20.hxg6 \u2658xg6 21.\u2657e3 \u2658xe5 22.\u2657f4 f6 (not 22...\u2656xg4? 23.\u2657xe5+ +\u2013). The game completely peters out after 19.\u2656h4 g5 20.hxg6 \u2658xg6 21.\u2657xg6 \u2656xg6 22.\u2656xg6 fxg6 23.\u2656xh6 \u2656xh6 24.\u2657xh6 \u2657xg2=.\n\n**19...g6 20.hxg6 \u2658xg6 21.\u2656h5**\n\n21.f4? loses: 21...\u2658xe5! 22.\u2656xg8 \u2658xd3+ 23.\u2654d2 \u2656xg8 24.\u2654xd3 \u2657xg2 and White is two pawns down. Complete equality follows 21.\u2656xh6 \u2658xe5 or even 21.\u2657xg6 \u2656xg6 22.\u2656xg6 fxg6 23.f3 h5.\n\n**21... \u2657c6**\n\nIf f7 were to become weak, Black then has...\u2657e8 available. But from c6 the bishop can also get to a4. 21...\u2658e7 22.\u2656xg8 \u2656xg8 23.g3 with advantage to White.\n\n**22. \u2657c2**\n\nThis removes the bishop from any possible knight fork on e5. But 22.\u2657xh6 achieves nothing: 22.\u2657xh6 \u2658xe5 23.\u2657f4 \u2656xg3 (oder 23...\u2656xh5 24.\u2656xg8 \u2654d7=) 24.\u2656xh8 \u2656xd3 25.\u2657xe5+ \u2654d7 26.\u2657f6 \u2657e4 27.f3 \u2657g6=.\n\n**22... \u2654b7**\n\nThe king leaves the f4-b8 diagonal so as to remove from the position any possible pin after...\u2658xe5, \u2657f4.\n\n**23. \u2656g4**\n\nSo as to perhaps come to f4 with the rook. However, the rook is unprotected on g4 and offers a target for tactical attacks.\n\nBut there were hardly any promising alternatives: 23.\u2656xh6? \u2658xe5 24.\u2656xh8 \u2656xh8 favours Black. Or: 23.\u2657xh6 \u2658e7 24.\u2656hg5 (24.\u2656xg8? \u2658xg8\u2013+) 24...\u2656xg5 25.\u2657xg5 \u2658g6 26.\u2657xg6 fxg6 27.f3 with an extra pawn for White, but bishops of opposite colours. Anish Giri recommended 23.\u2654d2. Carlsen here had something of an advantage in time: 1 hour 7 minutes remaining, Anand 53 minutes left.\n\n**23...a5**\n\nAnand's idea, which was possibly part of his preparation, consisted of advancing the pawn to a3, so as to then attack the weak pawn on a2, perhaps even with a bishop which went via a4 to b3 to offer itself as a sacrifice and thus clear the way for the black a-pawn. Another idea here was 23...\u2658e7!? 24.\u2656xg8 \u2656xg8 25.g3 \u2658g6 26.\u2657xh6 \u2657f3 27.\u2656g5 \u2657e2 28.\u2657b3 \u2657d3 with counterplay.\n\n**24. \u2657d1**\n\nThe h6-pawn may be very weak, but for the moment there is no way to take it under favourable circumstances. So Carlsen protects his rook and prevents...\u2657f3, so as to enable the advance of the g-pawn at some point.\n\n**24... \u2656d8**\n\n24...\u2658e7 25.\u2656xg8 \u2656xg8 26.g4 with advantage to White.\n\n**25. \u2657c2**\n\nHe retreats with the bishop, which leads us to conclude that Carlsen had not yet found a specific plan for the improvement of his position. 25.\u2657xh6?! \u2658xe5 26.\u2656xe5 \u2656xh6 is benefiting Black, who has got rid of his weakness on h6.\n\n**25... \u2656dg8**\n\nCarlsen now decided to bring the king over to the kingside in order to strengthen his attack.\n\n**26. \u2654d2??**\n\nA major blunder. Carlsen noticed his mistake the very moment he had moved his king. 'At that moment I was overwhelmed by a feeling of panic! White does not have a direct win here, but a lasting advantage and there are hardly any moves with which White can spoil his position. \u2654d2 is actually the only one', was what Carlsen had to say about his mistake at the press conference. After 26.\u2654d1 the king and the two rooks are on the same diagonal. As soon as the g-pawn moves, Black would play...\u2657f3, causing material losses. For that reason Carlsen rejected this move probably on grounds of principle. 26.f3 was instead a plausible move. Giri also suggested here 26.\u2656g3.\n\n**26...a4?**\n\nPlayed \u00e0 tempo. Anand absolutely did not reckon on the possibility that Carlsen would offer him such a present and therefore did not spend any time checking the position. Otherwise he would immediately have seen the possible tactical trick. With the king on d2 and on account of the unprotected \u2656g4 the following combination was possible instead: 26...\u2658xe5 27.\u2656xg8 (27.\u2656f4 f5\u2013+) 27...\u2658xc4+ 28.\u2654d3 \u2658b2+ 29.\u2654e2 \u2656xg8 30.g3 \u2657b5+ 31.\u2654f3 \u2658d3. Black has won two pawns and is winning.\n\n**27. \u2654e2**\n\nNow the chance has gone since the knight can no longer take on c4 with check. At this point Anand then realised what a chance he had passed up on.\n\n**27...a3 28.f3 \u2656d8 29.\u2654e1**\n\nCarlsen does not play 29.\u2657xg6!? fxg6 30.\u2656xg6 \u2657e8 31.\u2656g7+ \u2656d7 32.\u2656xd7+ \u2657xd7 33.\u2656xh6 \u2656xh6 34.\u2657xh6. Perhaps the endgame advantage of two pawns was not big enough for him because of the bishops of opposite colours.\n\n**29... \u2656d7 30.\u2657c1 \u2656a8**\n\nIt was worth considering 30... \u2656hd8. After 31.\u2657xh6 (31.\u2657xa3? is followed by 31...\u2656a8. Instead, 31.\u2654e2 seems better but Giri saw counterplay for Black after 31...b5) 31...\u2656h8 32.\u2657xg6 fxg6 33.\u2656xg6 Black could profit from his advanced a-pawn: 33...\u2657a4 34.g4 \u2657b3!.\n\n**31. \u2654e2 \u2657a4 32.\u2657e4+**\n\nAn important intermediate check. It would be a mistake to play 32.\u2657xg6? fxg6 33.\u2656xg6 since after 33...\u2656d1 34.\u2657xa3 (34.\u2657xh6 \u2656a1 35.\u2654e3 \u2656xa2\u2013+) 34...\u2656a1 the \u2657a3 is lost.\n\n**32... \u2657c6**\n\nNow Black's position rapidly falls apart. He had better chances of a defence after the exchange sacrifice 32...\u2654a7 33.\u2657xa8 \u2654xa8, for example: 34.\u2656xh6 \u2656d1 35.\u2657xa3 (35.\u2657d2 \u2656a1 36.\u2656h7 \u2658xe5 with counterplay) 35...\u2656a1 36.\u2654e3 \u2658xe5 37.\u2656g7 \u2658xc4+ 38.\u2654f4 \u2658d6 (not 38... \u2658xa3? 39.\u2656xf7 with unavoidable mate after \u2656h8) 39.\u2654e5 \u2656d1 and White still has a few practical difficulties to overcome on his way to victory.\n\n**33. \u2657xg6 fxg6 34.\u2656xg6 \u2657a4**\n\nBlack's counterplay is too late.\n\n**35. \u2656xe6**\n\nWhite is now winning.\n\n**35... \u2656d1**\n\n35...\u2657c2 36.\u2656hxh6 \u2656a6+\u2013.\n\n**36. \u2657xa3 \u2656a1 37.\u2654e3**\n\nAnother possibility was 37.\u2656e7+ \u2654a6 38.\u2657xc5 bxc5 39.\u2656xh6+ \u2654a5 40.\u2656c7 e.g.: 40...\u2656xa2+ 41.\u2654e3 \u2656xg2 42.\u2656xc5+ \u2657b5 43.\u2656xb5+ \u2654a4 44.\u2656h1+\u2013.\n\n**37... \u2657c2**\n\n37...\u2656xa2 38.\u2657c1+\u2013.\n\n**38. \u2656e7+1-0**\n\n38...\u2654a6 39.\u2656xh6 \u2654a5 (39...\u2656xa2 40.\u2657xc5+\u2013) 40.\u2656c7 \u2656xa2 41.\u2657c1+\u2013.\n\nIn the press conference after the game Carlsen spoke about his feelings: 'I am relieved, simply only relieved. Usually one is happy about a win, but here all I can feel is relief. Up to a certain point it was a good game.' In an interview after the match Carlsen thought that he had never felt that he might lose the match. If he had lost the 6th game as the result of a mistake, the match might have taken another course but in spite of that he would have won it \u2013 Carlsen was sure of that.\n\nAfter this defeat Anand had to defend with a material deficit in the seventh game and he finally reached a draw, but only on move 122. In the ninth and tenth games too, Anand did not manage to draw level in the match. In the 11th game, in which he had again chosen the Berlin Defence to the Ruy Lopez, Anand tried to achieve success with an exchange sacrifice which had not been well enough conceived, but Carlsen found the counter-moves and Anand lost this game too, bringing the match to a premature end with a score of 6\u00bd:4\u00bd.\n\nRussia's head of state Vladimir Putin appeared for the closing ceremony and the awarding of the prizes. The closing ceremony was originally scheduled for the day after the final game. It was postponed for a day on account of Putin's visit. The Russian head of state was then on the stage as the guest of honour at the presentation of the prizes. It was the first time in the history of the World Chess Championships that the head of state of the host country had attended the closing ceremony of a World Championship.\n\nInternational interest in the WCh match was immense. According to the data from Agon the final day's play saw 2.5 million visitors to the tournament website. Most of those visitors, 18%, were from India. German chess lovers, 12.8%, made up the second largest group of visitors, followed by the USA with 12.5%. Great Britain was the fourth largest group with 4.5%. All the other countries were below 4%. There was once more special media interest in Norway. State-owned television NRK and the media concern Verdens Gang broadcast the games live and were on site with camera teams. Compared to that, the Indian media were hardly present in Sochi at all. A camera team from India did not get there until the closing ceremony.\n**Footnotes**\n\nValue measured at Measuring Worth, <http:\/\/www.measuringworth.com\/calculators\/ppoweruk\/>\n\nJimmy Adams: The Zukertort Legend, in: Jimmy Adams: Johannes Zukertort, p. 24 ff.\n\nDomanski, Lissowski: Der Gro\u00dfmeister aus Lublin, p. 123\n\nQuotation from Domanski, Lissowski: Der Gro\u00dfmeister aus Lublin, p. 141\n\nAssiac: Noch ein vergn\u00fcgliches Schachbuch, Hamburg 1974, p. 55\n\nWinter: Chess Notes: Isidor Gunsberg, <http:\/\/www.chesshistory.com\/winter\/winter37.html#5129._Isidor_Gunsberg_C.N._5113_>\n\nGeza von Cziffra, Der Kuh im Kaffeehaus, p. 31ff\n\nChess Archeology, <http:\/\/www.chessarch.com\/archive\/000A_lask_stei\/ca0019a.shtml>\n\nNewark Sunday Call, July 7th 1885, quoted in Hannak: Emanuel Lasker, p. 52\n\nHannak: Emanuel Lasker, p. 150\n\nKmoch: Grandmasters I have known, on: www.chesscafe.com\n\nVidmar, Goldene Schachzeiten, p. 31\n\nTarrasch: Der Schachwettkampf Marshall-Tarrasch im Herbste 1905, p. 62\n\nLasker's Chess Magazine, 1906\/1907, p. 125 ff.\n\nHebeker, 'Hoffen auf das H\u00f6henklima in M\u00fcnchen...' Zum Weltmeisterschaftskampf 1908 zwischen Lasker und Tarrasch, Karl 4\/2008, p. 41\n\nKamm: Siegbert Tarrasch, Leben und Werk, p. 337\n\nKamm: Siegbert Tarrasch, Leben und Werk, p. 437\n\nH\u00fcbner: Der Wettkampf Lasker gegen Schlechter im Jahre 1910, Schach 6\/1999, p. 58\n\nDeutsche Schachzeitung, 1910, p. 30-31, quoted according to H\u00fcbner: H\u00fcbner, Robert: Der Wettkampf Lasker gegen Schlechter im Jahre 1910, Schach, 6\/1999, p. 58\n\nMark Weeks, <http:\/\/chessforallages.blogspot.de\/2007\/01\/most-infamous-world-championship-game.html>\n\nLasker's Chess Magazine, 1906\/1907, p. 125 ff.\n\nVidmar: Goldene Schachzeiten, p. 47\n\nKamm: Siegbert Tarrasch, Leben und Werk, p. 374\n\nWinter: Chess Notes, <http:\/\/www.chesshistory.com\/winter\/extra\/nardus.html>\n\nDeutsches Wochenschach, 1909, p. 178, quoted from Ackermann: Vabanque, Dawid Janowsky\n\nAckermann: Vabanque, Dawid Janowsky, p. 500\n\nWiener Schachzeitung 1911, p. 32, quoted from Ackermann: Vabanque, Dawid Janowsky.\n\nWinter, Chess Notes, <http:\/\/www.chesshistory.com\/winter\/extra\/capablancalasker.html>\n\nV\u00f6lker: Fritz Kortner, p. 75, quoted from Forster, Richard, Stefan Hansen und Michael Negele: Emanuel Lasker. Denker, Weltenb\u00fcrger, Schachweltmeister, Exzelsior Verlag, Berlin 2009, p. 201\n\nAm Grab von Emanuel Lasker: eine Spurensuche: <http:\/\/de.chessbase.com\/post\/am-grab-von-emanuel-lasker-eine-spurensuche>\n\nM\u00fcller: Schachgenie Aljechin, pp. 44\/45\n\nWinter: Chess Notes, <http:\/\/www.chesshistory.com\/winter\/extra\/london.html>\n\nWinter: Chess Notes, <http:\/\/www.chesshistory.com\/winter\/extra\/capablancaalekhine1927.html>\n\nKoblenz, Schach lebensl\u00e4nglich, p. 57\n\nKasparov: My great Predecessors Vol. 1, p. 405\n\nQuoted from: Kasparov, My great Predecessors Vol. 1, p. 413\n\nKasparov, My great Predecessors, Vol. 1, p. 413\n\nDas G\u00e4stebuch der Schachweltmeisterschaft 1934 in Deutschland, M\u00fcnster 2014, p. 29\n\nRainer Buland, in: Das G\u00e4stebuch der Schachweltmeisterschaft 1934 in Deutschland, M\u00fcnster 2014, p. 28\n\nFine: Die gr\u00f6\u00dften Schachpartien der Welt, p. 139\n\nKmoch: Grandmasters I have known\n\nHans Kmoch: Chess under the Nazi Jack-Boot, in: Chess, Oktober 1945, p. 9, quoted from Wikipedia: Salo Landau: <http:\/\/de.wikipedia.org\/wiki\/Salo_Landau>\n\nM\u00fcnninghoff: Euwe\n\nChessGames, <http:\/\/www.chessgames.com\/perl\/chess.pl?tid=54135>\n\nAssiac: Noch ein vergn\u00fcgliches Schachbuch, p. 128\n\nSosonko: The Reliable Past\n\nSpanier: Total Chess, p. 25\n\nHannak: The Lead-up to the great Tournament, in: Euwe: The Hague-Moscow 1948, p. 11\n\nWall: Alekhine and the Nazis, <http:\/\/www.geocities.com\/SiliconValley\/Lab\/7378\/nazi.htm>\n\nWikipedia, <http:\/\/en.wikipedia.org\/wiki\/Grace_Alekhine>\n\nM\u00fcller: Schachgenie Aljechin, p. 34\n\nKoblenz, Schach lebensl\u00e4nglich, p. 28\n\nRee: Preface to Euwe: The Hague-Moscow 1948, p. 5\n\nRee: Preface to Max Euwe: The Hague-Moscow 1948, p. 8\n\nKingston: The Keres-Botvinnik Case Revisited: A Further Survey of the Evidence, in ChessCafe.com, <http:\/\/www.chesscafe.com\/text\/skittles165.pdf>\n\nSoltis: Mikhail Botvinnik, p. 11f.\n\nBotvinnik: Achieving the Aim, p. 8\n\nSoltis: Mikhail Botvinnik, p. 20\n\nSoltis: Mikhail Botvinnik, p. 87\n\nSoltis: Mikhail Botvinnik, p. 106 f.\n\nBotvinnik: Achieving the Aim, p. 71\n\nSoltis: Mikhail Botvinnik, p. 189\n\nSoltis: Mikhail Botvinnik, p. 192\n\nSoltis: Mikhail Botvinnik, p. 199\n\nQuoted from Stolze: Umk\u00e4mpfte Krone\n\nAndrew Soltis in New York Post, 4th April 2010, <http:\/\/nypost.com\/2010\/04\/04\/champs-tragedy\/>\n\nMachhatschek: Der erste Revanchekampf um die Schachweltmeisterschaft, Botwinnik-Smyslow 1958, p. 10.\n\nSosonko: Russian Silhouettes, p. 24\n\nQuoted from Stolze: Umk\u00e4mpfte Krone, p. 123\n\nTal: Life and Games of Mikhail Tal, p. 170\n\nTal: The Life and Games of Mikhail Tal, p. 174\n\nKarpov on Karpov, p. 59\n\nSoltis: Soviet Chess 1917-1991, p. 304\n\nSpanier: Total Chess, p. 24\n\n<http:\/\/de.chessbase.com\/post\/interview-mit-anatoly-karpov-iii>\n\nKarpov on Karpov, p. 42\n\nSosonko: The Reliable Past, p. 115\n\nSoltis, Soviet Chess 1917-1991, p. 337\n\nDer Spiegel, 51\/1977, <http:\/\/www.spiegel.de\/spiegel\/print\/d-40693952.html>\n\nKortschnoi: Mein Leben f\u00fcr das Schach, p. 136 f.\n\nKortschnoi: Mein Leben f\u00fcr das Schach, p. 142\n\nKasparov on Kasparov, Part I, 1973-1985\n\nLawson, Keene: Kasparov versus Korchnoi, The London Contest\n\nKeene, Lawson: Kasparov versus Korchnoi, The London Contest\n\nDer Spiegel, 40\/1987, <http:\/\/www.spiegel.de\/spiegel\/print\/d-13526096.html>\n\nKasparow, Politische Partie, p. 192\n\nThe Guardian, Karpow v Kasparow: the Guardian's coverage of an epic world chess championship match, <http:\/\/www.guardian.co.uk\/news\/blog\/2009\/sep\/21\/Kasparow-Karpow-chess-rematch>\n\nChessBase News, <http:\/\/www.chessbase.de\/nachrichten.asp?newsid=13063>\n\nBudde, Nikolaiczuk: Schachweltmeisterschaft 84-85, p. 335\n\nBudde, Nikolaiczuk: Schachweltmeisterschaft 84-85, p. 335\n\nDer Spiegel, 51\/1988, <http:\/\/www.spiegel.de\/spiegel\/print\/d-13532173.html>\n\nKasparov on modern chess, Part Three, Kasparov vs Karpov, 1986-87\n\nDer Spiegel, 26\/1988, <http:\/\/www.spiegel.de\/spiegel\/print\/d-28042616.html>\n\nGarry Kasparov on Garry Kasparov, Part II 1985-1993, p. 490\n\nGarry Kasparov on Garry Kasparov Part III: 1993-2005, p. 101\n\nCrowther: The Week in Chess 200, September 1998, <http:\/\/www.chesscenter.com\/twic\/twic200.html>\n\nArticle from Wikipedia on Raymond Keene, <http:\/\/en.wikipedia.org\/wiki\/Raymond_Keene>\n\nCounterpoint: Levy vs Keene, The Chess Journalist, Vol. 32, No. 4, December 2003, p. 5\n\nBrain Games: The Full Truth by David Levy, Chess Caf\u00e9, <http:\/\/www.chesscafe.com\/text\/skittles161.pdf>\n\nCrowther: The Week in Chess 281, <http:\/\/www.chesscenter.com\/twic\/twic281.html>\n\nBareev, Levitov: From London to Elista, p. 85\n\nCrowther, The Week in Chess 313, <http:\/\/www.chess.co.uk\/twic\/twic313.html>\n\nBareev, Levitov: From London to Elista, p. 306\n\nOpen letter from Lela Javakhishvili and Ana Matnadze, <http:\/\/www.chessbase.com\/newsdetail.asp?newsid=1702>\n\n<http:\/\/whychess.com\/node\/1605>\n\nWhychess: Kramnik on chess, Anand, Topalov and his future, <http:\/\/whychess.com\/node\/1605>\n\nFIDE President guarantees Topalov-Kamsky Match <http:\/\/www.fide.com\/component\/content\/article\/1-fide-news\/2970-fide-president-guarantees-topalov-kamsky-match>\n\nChessBase News: Anand in Playchess \u2013 the helpers in Sofia, <http:\/\/www.chessbase.com\/newsdetail.asp?newsid=6346>\n\nFIDE President and Bessel Kok form Global Chess Company, <http:\/\/www.fide.com\/component\/content\/article\/3-news\/1898-389-fide-president-and-bessel-kok-form-global-chess-company>\n\nChessBase News: Ein f\u00fcnf Mio. Dollar Match. Interview with Andrei Filatow, <http:\/\/www.chessbase.de\/nachrichten.asp?newsid=12999>\n\nChessvibes: Interview with Boris Gelfand, <http:\/\/www.chessvibes.com\/reports\/boris-gelfand-i-was-by-no-means-inferior-in-this-match-interview-part-1-of-2>\n\nMichaltschischin\/Stetsko: K\u00e4mpfen und Siegen mit Magnus Carlsen, p. 10.\n\nKasparov at the inauguration of the ZMD campus, March 2004 in Dresden.\n\nSimen Agdestein: Wonderboy, New in Chess, 2004\n\nChessBase News: <http:\/\/en.chessbase.com\/post\/facts-and-figures-magnus-carlsen-s-performance-in-nanjing>\n\nChessBase News: <http:\/\/en.chessbase.com\/post\/magnus-carlsen-drops-out-of-world-championship-cycle>\n\nChessBase News, Paulson: 'World cities will glorify chess'. <http:\/\/www.chessbase.com\/newsdetail.asp?newsid=7985>\n**All (classical) World Champions**\n\n1st World Champion | 1886-1894 | Wilhelm Steinitz\n\n---|---|---\n\n2nd World Champion | 1894-1921 | Emanuel Lasker\n\n3th World Champion | 1921-1927 | Jos\u00e9 Raul Capablanca\n\n4th World Champion | 1927-1935, 1937-1946 | Alexander Alekhine\n\n5th World Champion | 1935-1937 | Max Euwe\n\n6th World Champion | 1948-1957, 1958-1960, 1961-1963 | Mikhail Botvinnik\n\n7th World Champion | 1957-1958 | Vassily Smyslov\n\n8th World Champion | 1960-1961 | Mikhail Tal\n\n9th World Champion | 1963-1969 | Tigran Petrosian\n\n10th World Champion | 1969-1972 | Boris Spassky\n\n11th World Champion | 1972-1975 | Robert Fischer\n\n12th World Champion | 1975-1985 | Anatoly Karpov\n\n13th World Champion | 1985-2000 | Garry Kasparov\n\n14th World Champion | 2000-2007 | Vladimir Kramnik\n\n15th World Champion | 2007-2013 | Viswanathan Anand\n\n16th World Champion | 2013-? | Magnus Carlsen\n\n**Ranking list by years**\n\n1st Emanuel Lasker: 27 years World Champion\n\n2nd Alexander Alekhine: 17 years\n\n3th Garry Kasparov: 15 years\n\n4th Mikhail Botvinnik: 13 years\n\n5th Anatoly Karpov: 10 years\n\n6th Wilhelm Steinitz: 8 years\n\n7th Vladimir Kramnik: 7 years\n\n8th Jos\u00e9 Raul Capablanca, Tigran Petrosian, Viswanathan Anand: 6 years\n\n11th Boris Spassky, Robert Fischer: 3 years\n\n13th Max Euwe: 2 years\n\n14th Vassily Smyslov, Mikhail Tal: 1 year\n\n**Ranking list by WCh matches or tournaments won**\n\n(including title defences after a drawn match)\n\n6 World Championship matches won: Lasker, Kasparov\n\n5 World Championship matches won: Botvinnik\n\n4 World Championship matches won: Steinitz, Alekhine, Anand\n\n3 World Championship matches won: Kramnik\n\n2 World Championship matches won: Petrosian, Karpov (plus one walk-over), Carlsen\n\n1 World Championship match won: Capablanca, Euwe, Smyslov, Tal, Spassky, Fischer\n**All (classical) World Championships**\n\n**1 st World Championship 1886**\n\nWilhelm Steinitz against Johannes Zukertort; New York, St. Louis, New Orleans (USA)\n\nTo 10 wins\n\n10:5 with 5 draws. Wilhelm Steinitz becomes World Champion\n\n**2 nd World Championship 1889**\n\nWilhelm Steinitz against Mikhail Chigorin; Havana (Cuba)\n\nFor 20 games\n\n10:6 with 1 draw. Wilhelm Steinitz remains World Champion\n\n**3 th World Championship 1890**\n\nWilhelm Steinitz against Isidor Gunsberg; New York (USA)\n\nFor 20 games\n\n6:4 with 9 draws. Wilhelm Steinitz remains World Champion\n\n**4 th World Championship 1892**\n\nWilhelm Steinitz against Mikhail Chigorin; Havana (Cuba)\n\nFor 20 games or 10 wins, if drawn after 20 games additional games. As the match was tied after 20 games, it was continued until the 10th win of a player\n\n10:8 with 5 draws. Wilhelm Steinitz remains World Champion\n\n**5 th World Championship 1894**\n\nWilhelm Steinitz against Emanuel Lasker; New York, Philadelphia (USA), Montr\u00e9al (Canada)\n\nTo 10 wins\n\n10:5 with 4 draws. Emanuel Lasker becomes World Champion\n\n**6 th World Championship 1896\/97**\n\nEmanuel Lasker against Wilhelm Steinitz; Moscow (Russia)\n\nTo 10 wins. 10:2 with 5 draws. Emanuel Lasker remains World Champion\n\n**7 th World Championship 1907**\n\nEmanuel Lasker against Frank Marshall; New York, Philadelphia, Washington, Baltimore, Chicago, Memphis (USA)\n\nTo 8 wins. 8:0 with 7 draws. Emanuel Lasker remains World Champion\n\n**8 th World Championship 1908**\n\nEmanuel Lasker against Siegbert Tarrasch; D\u00fcsseldorf, Munich (German Empire)\n\nTo 8 wins. 8:3 with 5 draws. Emanuel Lasker remains World Champion\n\n**9 th World Championship 1910**\n\nEmanuel Lasker against Carl Schlechter; Vienna (Austria-Hungary), Berlin (German Empire)\n\nFor 10 games, if drawn the World Champion retains his title\n\n1:1 with 8 draws. Emanuel Lasker remains World Champion\n\n**10 th World Championship 1910**\n\nEmanuel Lasker against Dawid Janowski; Berlin (German Empire)\n\nTo 8 wins. 8:0 with 3 draws. Emanuel Lasker remains World Champion\n\n**11 th World Championship 1921**\n\nEmanuel Lasker against Jos\u00e9 Raul Capablanca; Havana (Cuba)\n\nTo 8 wins, maximum 24 games. If drawn the World Champion retains his title. Lasker resigned after 14 games\n\n4:0 with 10 draws. Jos\u00e9 Raul Capablanca becomes World Champion\n\n**12 th World Championship 1927**\n\nJos\u00e9 Raul Capablanca against Alexander Alekhine; Buenos Aires (Argentina)\n\nTo 6 wins\n\n3:6 with 25 draws. Alexander Alekhine becomes World Champion\n\n**13 th World Championship 1929**\n\nAlexander Alekhine against Efim Bogoljubow; Wiesbaden, Heidelberg, Berlin (German Empire), The Hague (Netherlands)\n\nFor 30 games, if drawn the World Champion retains his title\n\n11:5 with 9 draws. Alexander Alekhine remains World Champion\n\n**14 th World Championship 1934**\n\nAlexander Alekhine against Efim Bogoljubow; Baden-Baden, Villingen, Freiburg, Pforzheim, Stuttgart, Munich, Bayreuth, Bad Kissingen, Mannheim, Berlin (German Empire)\n\nFor 30 games, if drawn the World Champion retains his title\n\n8:3 with 15 draws. Alexander Alekhine remains World Champion\n\n**15 th World Championship 1935**\n\nAlexander Alekhine against Max Euwe; Amsterdam, Delft, Rotterdam, Utrecht, Gouda, The Hague, Groningen, Baarn, 's-Hertogenbosch, Eindhoven, Zeist, Ermelo, Zandvoort (Netherlands)\n\nFor 30 games, if drawn the World Champion retains his title\n\n8:9 with 13 draws. Max Euwe becomes World Champion\n\n**16 th World Championship 1937**\n\nMax Euwe against Alexander Alekhine; The Hague, Rotterdam, Amsterdam, Haarlem, Leiden, Groningen, Delft (Netherlands)\n\nFor 30 games, if drawn the World Champion retains his title\n\n4:10 with 11 draws. Alexander Alekhine becomes World Champion again\n\n**17 th World Championship 1948**\n\nTournament with 5 players and 5 rounds; The Hague (Netherlands), Moscow (USSR) Botvinnik wins with 10 wins, 2 defeats and 8 draws. Mikhail Botvinnik becomes World Champion\n\n**18 th World Championship 1951**\n\nMikhail Botvinnik against David Bronstein; Moscow (USSR)\n\nFor 24 games, if drawn the World Champion retains his title\n\n5:5 with 14 draws. Mikhail Botvinnik remains World Champion\n\n**19 th World Championship 1954**\n\nMikhail Botvinnik against Vassily Smyslov; Moscow (USSR)\n\nFor 24 games, if drawn the World Champion retains his title\n\n7:7 with 10 draws. Mikhail Botvinnik remains World Champion\n\n**20 th World Championship 1957**\n\nMikhail Botvinnik against Vassily Smyslov; Moscow (USSR)\n\nFor 24 games, if drawn the World Champion retains his title\n\n3:6 with 13 draws. Vassily Smyslov becomes World Champion\n\n**21 st World Championship 1958**\n\nVassily Smyslov against Mikhail Botvinnik; Moscow (USSR)\n\nFor 24 games, if drawn the World Champion retains his title\n\n5:7 with 11 draws. Mikhail Botvinnik becomes World Champion again\n\n**22 nd World Championship 1960**\n\nMikhail Botvinnik against Mikhail Tal; Moscow (USSR)\n\nFor 24 games, if drawn the World Champion retains his title\n\n2:6 with 13 draws. Mikhail Tal becomes World Champion\n\n**23 rd World Championship 1961**\n\nMikhail Tal against Mikhail Botvinnik; Moscow (USSR)\n\nFor 24 games, if drawn the World Champion retains his title\n\n5:10 with 6 draws. Mikhail Botvinnik becomes World Champion again\n\n**24 th World Championship 1963**\n\nMikhail Botvinnik against Tigran Petrosian; Moscow (USSR)\n\nFor 24 games, if drawn the World Champion retains his title\n\n2:5 with 15 draws. Tigran Petrosian becomes World Champion\n\n**25 th World Championship 1966**\n\nTigran Petrosian against Boris Spassky; Moscow (USSR)\n\nFor 24 games, if drawn the World Champion retains his title\n\n4:3 with 17 draws. Tigran Petrosian remains World Champion\n\n**26 th World Championship 1969**\n\nTigran Petrosian against Boris Spassky; Moscow (USSR)\n\nFor 24 games, if drawn the World Champion retains his title\n\n4:6 with 13 draws. Boris Spassky becomes World Champion\n\n**27 th World Championship 1972**\n\nBoris Spassky against Robert Fischer; Reykjavik (Iceland)\n\nFor 24 games, if drawn the World Champion retains his title\n\n3:7 with 11 draws. Robert Fischer becomes World Champion\n\n**28 th World Championship 1975**\n\nRobert Fischer against Anatoly Karpov; Manila (Philippines)\n\nTo 10 wins. Robert Fischer did not appear. Anatoly Karpov becomes World Champion without a match\n\n**29 th World Championship 1978**\n\nAnatoly Karpov against Viktor Kortchnoi; Baguio City (Philippines)\n\nTo 6 wins. 6:5 with 21 draws. Anatoly Karpov remains World Champion\n\n**30 th World Championship 1981**\n\nAnatoly Karpov against Viktor Kortchnoi; Merano (Italy)\n\nTo 6 wins. 6:2 with 10 draws. Anatoly Karpov remains World Champion\n\n**31 st World Championship 1984\/85**\n\nAnatoly Karpov against Garry Kasparov; Moscow (USSR)\n\nTo 6 wins. 5:3 with 40 draws. The match was abandoned without a winner\n\n**32 nd World Championship 1985**\n\nAnatoly Karpov against Garry Kasparov; Moscow (USSR)\n\nFor 24 games, if drawn the World Champion retains his title\n\n3:5 with 16 draws. Garry Kasparov becomes World Champion\n\n**33 rd World Championship 1986**\n\nGarry Kasparov against Anatoly Karpov; London (Great Britain), Leningrad (USSR)\n\nFor 24 games, if drawn the World Champion retains his title\n\n5:4 with 15 draws. Garry Kasparov remains World Champion\n\n**34 th World Championship 1987**\n\nGarry Kasparov against Anatoly Karpov; Sevilla (Spain)\n\nFor 24 games, if drawn the World Champion retains his title\n\n4:4 with 16 draws. Garry Kasparov remains World Champion\n\n**35 th World Championship 1990**\n\nGarry Kasparov against Anatoly Karpov; New York (USA), Lyon (France)\n\nFor 24 games, if drawn the World Champion retains his title\n\n4:3 with 17 draws. Garry Kasparov remains World Champion\n\n**36 th World Championship 1993**\n\nGarry Kasparov against Nigel Short; London (Great Britain)\n\nFor 24 games, if drawn the World Champion retains his title\n\n6:1 with 13 draws. Garry Kasparov remains World Champion\n\n**37 th World Championship 1995**\n\nGarry Kasparov against Viswanathan Anand; New York (USA)\n\nFor 20 games, if drawn the World Champion retains his title\n\n4:1 with 13 draws. Garry Kasparov remains World Champion\n\n**38 th World Championship 2000**\n\nGarry Kasparov against Vladimir Kramnik; London (Great Britain)\n\nFor 16 games, if drawn the World Champion retains his title\n\n0:2 with 13 draws.\n\nVladimir Kramnik becomes World Champion\n\n**39 th World Championship 2004**\n\nVladimir Kramnik against Peter Leko; Brissago (Switzerland)\n\nFor 16 games, if drawn the World Champion retains his title\n\n2:2 with 10 draws. Vladimir Kramnik remains World Champion\n\n**40 th World Championship 2006**\n\nVladimir Kramnik against Veselin Topalov; Elista (Russia)\n\nFor 12 games. If drawn, additional games with reduced time limit\n\n3:3 with 6 draws. Kramnik wins the playoff 2:1 with 1 draw. Vladimir Kramnik remains World Champion\n\n**41 st World Championship 2007**\n\nDouble round-robin tournament with 8 players; Mexico City (Mexico)\n\nAnand wins with 4 wins, 10 draws and no losses. Viswanathan Anand becomes World Champion\n\n**42 nd World Championship 2008**\n\nViswanathan Anand against Vladimir Kramnik; Bonn (Germany)\n\nFor 12 games. If drawn, additional games with reduced time limit\n\n3:1 with 7 draws. Viswanathan Anand remains World Champion\n\n**43 rd World Championship 2010**\n\nViswanathan Anand against Veselin Topalov; Sofia (Bulgaria)\n\nFor 12 games. If drawn, additional games with reduced time limit\n\n3:2 with 7 draws. Viswanathan Anand remains World Champion\n\n**44 th World Championship 2012**\n\nViswanathan Anand against Boris Gelfand; Moscow (Russia)\n\nFor 12 games. If drawn, additional games with reduced time limit\n\n1:1 with 10 draws. Anand wins the playoff 1:0 with 3 draws. Viswanathan Anand remains World Champion\n\n**45 th World Championship 2013**\n\nViswanathan Anand against Magnus Carlsen; Chennai (India)\n\nFor 12 games. If drawn, additional games with reduced time limit\n\n0:3 with 7 draws. Magnus Carlsen becomes World Champion\n\n**46 th World Championship 2014**\n\nMagnus Carlsen against Viswanthan Anand; Sochi (Russia)\n\nFor 12 games. If drawn, additional games with reduced time limit\n\n3:1 with 7 draws. Magnus Carlsen remains World Champion\n\n**Venues for classical World Championships**\n\n**Argentina**\n\n---\n\nBuenos Aires | WCh 1927 Capablanca\u2013Alekhine\n\n**Austria**\n\nVienna | WCh 1910 Lasker\u2013Schlechter\n\n**Bulgaria**\n\nSofia | WCh 2010 Anand\u2013Topalov\n\n**Canada**\n\nMontr\u00e9al | WCh 1894 Steinitz\u2013Lasker\n\n**Cuba**\n\nHavana | WCh 1889 Steinitz\u2013Chigorin, WCh 1892 Steinitz\u2013Chigorin, WCh 1921 Lasker\u2013Capablanca\n\n**France**\n\nLyon | WCh 1990 Kasparov\u2013Karpov, games 13-24\n\n**Germany**\n\nBad Kissingen | WCh 1934 Alekhine\u2013Bogoljubow\n\nBaden-Baden | WCh 1934 Alekhine\u2013Bogoljubow\n\nBayreuth | WCh 1934 Alekhine\u2013Bogoljubow\n\nBerlin | WCh 1910 Lasker\u2013Schlechter, WCh 1910 Lasker\u2013Janowski, WCh 1929 Alekhine\u2013Bogoljubow, WCh 1934 Alekhine\u2013Bogoljubow\n\nBonn | WCh 2008 Anand\u2013Kramnik\n\nD\u00fcsseldorf | WCh 1908 Lasker\u2013Tarrasch\n\nFreiburg | WCh 1934 Alekhine\u2013Bogoljubow\n\nHeidelberg | WCh 1929 Alekhine\u2013Bogoljubow\n\nKarlsruhe | WCh 1934 Alekhine\u2013Bogoljubow\n\nMannheim | WCh 1934 Alekhine\u2013Bogoljubow\n\nMunich | WCh 1908 Lasker\u2013Tarrasch, WCh 1934 Alekhine\u2013Bogoljubow\n\nNuremberg | WCh 1934 Alekhine\u2013Bogoljubow\n\nPforzheim | WCh 1934 Alekhine\u2013Bogoljubow\n\nStuttgart | WCh 1934 Alekhine\u2013Bogoljubow\n\nVillingen | WCh 1934 Alekhine\u2013Bogoljubow\n\nWiesbaden | WCh 1929 Alekhine\u2013Bogoljubow\n\n**Great Britain**\n\nLondon | WCh 1986 Kasparov-Karpov, games 1-12, WCh 1993 Kasparov\u2013Short, WCh 2000 Kasparov-Kramnik\n\n**Iceland**\n\nReykjavik | WCh 1972 Spassky\u2013Fischer\n\n**India**\n\nChennai | WCh 2013 Anand\u2013Carlsen\n\n**Italy**\n\nMerano | WCh 1981 Karpov\u2013Kortchnoi\n\n**Mexico**\n\nMexico City | WCh tournament 2007\n\n**Netherlands**\n\nAmsterdam | WCh 1935 Alekhine\u2013Euwe, WCh 1937 Euwe\u2013Alekhine\n\nBaarn | WCh 1935 Alekhine\u2013Euwe\n\nDelft | WCh 1935 Alekhine\u2013Euwe, WCh 1937 Euwe\u2013Alekhine\n\nEindhoven | WCh 1935 Alekhine\u2013Euwe\n\nErmelo | WCh 1935 Alekhine\u2013Euwe\n\nGouda | WCh 1935 Alekhine\u2013Euwe\n\nGroningen | WCh 1935 Alekhine\u2013Euwe, WCh 1937 Euwe\u2013Alekhine\n\nHaarlem | WCh 1937 Euwe\u2013Alekhine\n\nLeiden | WCh 1937 Euwe\u2013Alekhine\n\nRotterdam | WCh 1935 Alekhine\u2013Euwe, WCh 1937 Euwe\u2013Alekhine\n\n's-Hertogenbosch | WCh 1935 Alekhine\u2013Euwe\n\nThe Hague | WCh 1935 Alekhine\u2013Euwe, WCh 1937 Euwe\u2013Alekhine, WCh tourn. 1948\n\nUtrecht | WCh 1935 Alekhine\u2013Euwe\n\nZandvoort | WCh 1935 Alekhine\u2013Euwe\n\nZeist | WCh 1935 Alekhine\u2013Euwe\n\n**Philippines**\n\nBaguio City | WCh 1978 Karpov\u2013Kortchnoi\n\n**Russia\/Soviet Union**\n\nElista | WCh 2006 Kramnik\u2013Topalov\n\nLeningrad | WCh 1986 Kasparov-Karpov, games 13-24\n\nMoscow | WCh 1896 Lasker\u2013Steinitz, WCh tournament 1948, WCh 1951 Botvinnik\u2013Bronstein, WCh 1954 Botvinnik\u2013Smyslov, WCh 1957 Botvinnik\u2013Smyslov, WCh 1958 Smyslov\u2013Botvinnik, WCh 1960 Botvinnik\u2013Tal, WCh 1961 Tal\u2013Botvinnik, WCh 1963 Botvinnik\u2013Petrosian, WCh 1966 Petrosian\u2013Spassky, WCh 1969 Petrosian\u2013Spassky, WCh 2012 Anand\u2013Gelfand\n\nSochi | WCh 2014 Carlsen\u2013Anand\n\n**Spain**\n\nSevilla | WCh 1987 Kasparov\u2013Karpov\n\n**Switzerland**\n\nBrissago | WCh 2004 Kramnik\u2013Leko\n\n**USA**\n\nBaltimore | WCh 1907 Lasker\u2013Marshall\n\nChicago | WCh 1907 Lasker\u2013Marshall\n\nMemphis | WCh 1907 Lasker\u2013Marshall\n\nNew Orleans | WCh 1886 Steinitz\u2013Zukertort, games 10-20\n\nNew York | WCh 1886 Steinitz\u2013Zukertort, games 1-5, WCh 1890 Steinitz\u2013Gunsberg, WCh 1894 Steinitz\u2013Lasker, WCh 1907 Lasker\u2013Marshall WCh 1990 Kasparov\u2013Karpov, games 1-12, WCh 1995 Kasparov\u2013Anand\n\nPhiladelphia | WCh 1894 Steinitz\u2013Lasker, WCh 1907 Lasker\u2013Marshall\n\nSt. Louis | WCh 1886 Steinitz\u2013Zukertort, games 6-9\n\nWashington | WCh 1907 Lasker\u2013Marshall\n**Glossary**\n\n_adjourned game_\n\nGame which is interrupted after a fixed number of moves, usually after 40 moves, and play is resumed on another day. No longer usual nowadays.\n\n_all-play-all_\n\nTournament with more than two players, in which each player meets every other player.\n\n_analysis_\n\nThe more accurate examination of a game including the evaluation of moves and suggestions of alternative options and reasons for error. Common analysis between the players after a game is also called a 'post mortem'.\n\n_appeals committee_\n\nUsually made up of three officials who check the decisions of the arbiter in the event of disputes.\n\n_armageddon_\n\nSee: _sudden death game_.\n\n_chess clock_\n\nThe chess clock measures the thinking time use and consists of two linked clocks. By pressing a button or a lever one or the other clock is set in motion and measures the time taken by one or other of the players.\n\n_demo board_\n\nLarge chess board in the form of a chess diagram, on which the moves of a game are shown to spectators during chess tournaments or matches.\n\n_draw_\n\nA game which ends without a winner. This can arise by stalemate, the lack of enough material to force mate (technical draw), threefold repetition of a position, the passing of 50 moves without a pawn having been moved or any piece being taken, or agreement between the players.\n\n_Elo rating_\n\nNumber of a player, which informs us about his or her playing strength according to a formula developed by the Hungarian mathematician, Arpad Elo. Beginners have about 800 Elo, club players on average 1600 Elo, tournament players 2200 Elo and more, grandmasters 2500 Elo and more and the top professionals 2700 Elo and above. The highest Elo rating so far was reached in 2014 by Magnus Carlsen with 2882.\n\n_FIDE_\n\nThe world chess federation. Founded as the 'F\u00e9d\u00e9ration Internationale des \u00c9checs' on the 20th July 1924 in Paris. Motto: 'Gens una sumus' (We are one family). Since 1927 FIDE has been organising the team World Championship _Chess Olympiads_ , since 1948 also the organisation of the individual World Championship. Over and above this FIDE organises many other tournaments and manages the Elo system.\n\n_grandmaster title_\n\nOfficially: international grandmaster (IGM). Honorary title in chess, which is awarded by FIDE according to specific rules. Whilst until the 1960s only the best players were named grandmaster (1957: 50 grandmasters in the whole world), nowadays very many professionals have the title of grandmaster (2014: 1440 grandmasters).\n\n_k.-o.-tournament_\n\nTournament in knock-out mode. The player who loses a game or a round is eliminated. The winner qualifies for the next round.\n\n_kiebitzer_\n\nSpectator in chess.\n\n_live-stream_\n\nVideo broadcast of chess tournament or match on the internet.\n\n_match_\n\nTwo players meet for a fixed number of games. The match is the classic format for World Chess Championships.\n\n_mate_\n\nThe end of a game of chess. A king which is being attacked can neither avoid the attack nor eliminate the attacking piece.\n\n_notation_\n\nTranscript of a game of chess.\n\n_opening_\n\nThe starting phase of a game in which the pieces are brought into play from their starting squares.\n\n_playoff_\n\nWhen two or more players are equal on points at the end of a tournament or match, a playoff is sometimes used to come to a decision, usually carried out in the form of rapid or blitz chess games.\n\n_sealed move_\n\nOn the   _adjournment_ the player whose move it is writes down the move which he will play on the resumption of the game and gives it in a sealed envelope to the arbiter.\n\n_second_\n\nA player who supports another player in a tournament or match with preparatory work and analyses.\n\n_simultaneous display_\n\nIn a simultaneous display a master or grandmaster plays against several opponents at the same time.\n\n_stalemate_\n\nOne player finds it impossible to move a single piece without putting his own king in check. This ends the game as a draw.\n\n_sudden death game_\n\nThe decisive game after an undecided series of tie-break games. Black obtains one minute less than White, usually it is four minutes against five minutes, but he only needs a draw to 'win' the game.\n\n_thinking time or time control (limit)_\n\nThe time a player has available to make a specified number of moves or to play the whole game. A usual thinking time for tournaments is, for example, two hours for 40 moves, one hour for 20 moves and 30 minutes for the rest of the game. In _rapid chess tournaments_ between 15 and 25 minutes thinking time per game is allocated, in _blitz tournaments_ 5 minutes. Nowadays an increment is frequently used. For every move he has made the player receives some additional seconds as thinking time.\n\n_time trouble_\n\nTime trouble occurs when a player has used almost all of his thinking time and has to make his moves quickly to avoid losing by over-stepping the time control.\n\n_tournament_\n\nCompetition with more than two players.\n\n_trainer_\n\nTeacher or personal adviser of chess students or also of a professional chess player.\n\n_WCh cycle_\n\nThe time after one World Championship match during which qualification tournaments decide on the challenger to the World Champion, including the next WCh match.\n\n_zugzwang_\n\nA situation in which any move a player makes decisively harms his or her own position; the player would like to be able not to make a move. Zugzwang motifs play a major role particularly in elementary endgames.\n**Bibliography**\n\nThe only sources which are listed in the bibliography are those actually used as such in the composition of the text. Various transcriptions of names in the Cyrillic alphabet have been used over the years, depending on the language in which a book was published. In this bibliography we have given them as originally published.\n\nAckermann, D.: _Vabanque, Dawid Janowsky (1868-1927)_ , Das Schach-Archiv, Ludwigshafen 2005\n\nAdams, J.: _Johannes Zukertort_ , New in Chess, Alkmaar 2014\n\nAlexander, C.H.O'D.: _Spassky_ \u2013 _Fischer, das gr\u00f6\u00dfte Schach-Duell der Geschichte_ , Heyne, M\u00fcnchen 1972\n\nAnand, V.\/Nunn, J.: _Vishy Anand: World Chess Champion_ , Gambit, London 2012\n\nAnderberg, P.: _Die WM-K\u00e4mpfe Aljechin_ \u2013 _Bogoljubov, 1929 &1934_, in: Karl, 4\/2008, S. 45ff.\n\nAssiac, alias Heinrich Fraenkel: _Noch ein vergn\u00fcgliches Schachbuch_ , Hamburg 1974\n\nBall\u00f3, H.: _Siegbert Tarrasch: Schachspieler, Arzt, Jude_ , <http:\/\/www.ballo.de\/tarrasch.htm>\n\nBareev, E.\/Levitov, I.: _From London to Elista_ , New in Chess, Alkmaar 2007\n\nBaturinski, V.: _Schachgenie Karpow_ , Sportverlag, Berlin 1991\n\nBijl, C.\/Kortschnoi, V.\/Lind\u00f6rfer, K. (Hrsg.): _Die Schachk\u00e4mpfe um die Weltmeisterschaft zwischen Aljechin und Bogoljubow 1929 und 1934_ , Edition Olms, Z\u00fcrich 1983\n\nBotvinnik, M.: _Match for the World Chess Championship Botvinnik_ \u2013 _Bronstein_ , Moscow 1951\n\nBotvinnik, M.: _Revanchewettkampf um die Schachweltmeisterschaft Botwinnik_ \u2013 _Tal_ , Moskau 1961\n\nBotvinnik, M.: _Achieving the Aim_ , Pergamon Press, Oxford 1981\n\nBotwinnik, M.: _15 Schachpartien und ihre Geschichte_ , Franck'sche Verlagshandlung, Stuttgart 1981\n\nBotwinnik, M.: _Wettk\u00e4mpfe um die Schachweltmeisterschaft Botwinnik_ \u2013 _Smyslow 1954-1957-1958_ , published by Igor Botwinnik, Techalbo, K\u00f6ln 2007\n\nBotwinnik, M.: _Wettkampf um die Schachweltmeisterschaft Botwinnik_ \u2013 _Petrosjan_ , published by Igor Botwinnik, Techalbo, K\u00f6ln 2006\n\nBreutigam, M. et al.: _World Chess Championship 2004, Centro Dannemann, Kramnik vs Leko_ , Chessgate, Nettetal 2004\n\nBuland, R.\/Edtmaier B.\/Schweiger G.: _Das G\u00e4stebuch der Schachweltmeisterschaft 1934 in Deutschland_ , Lit-Verlag, M\u00fcnster 2014\n\nBudde, V.\/Nikolaiczuk, L.: _Schachweltmeisterschaft 84-85 Karpow_ \u2013 _Kasparow_ , Beyer Verlag, Hollfeld 1985\n\nByrne, R.\/Nei I.: _Both Sides of the Chessboard_ , Batsford, London 1974\n\nDomanski, C.\/Lissowski T.: _Der Gro\u00dfmeister aus Lublin_ , Exzelsior Verlag, Berlin, 2005\n\nEdmonds, D.\/Eidinow, J.: _Bobby Fischer Goes to War_ , Harper Collins, New York 2004\n\nEhn, M.: _Der junge Steinitz \u2013 Legenden und Wirklichkeiten_ , in: Karl, 1\/2012, S. 10-18\n\nEuwe, M.\/Prins, L.: _Capablanca_ , Verlag Das Schacharchiv, Hamburg-Bergedorf 1979\n\nEuwe, M.: _The Hague-Moscow 1948, Match\/Tournament for the World Championship 1948_ , Russell Enterprises, Milford 2013\n\nFine, R.: _Die gr\u00f6\u00dften Schachpartien der Welt_ , Heyne Verlag, M\u00fcnchen 1976\n\nForster, R.\/Hansen S.\/Negele, M.: _Emanuel Lasker. Denker, Weltenb\u00fcrger, Schachweltmeister_ , Exzelsior Verlag, Berlin 2009\n\nGligoric, S.: _Fischer \u2013 Spasskij_ , Droemer Knaur, Z\u00fcrich 1972\n\nGutman, L.\/Treppner, G.: _Schach-WM '87 Garri Kasparow \u2013 Anatoli Karpow_ , Beyer-Verlag, Hollfeld 1987\n\nHannak, J.: _Emanuel Lasker_ , Siegfried Engelhardt Verlag, Berlin 1962\n\nHarenberg, W.: _Schachweltmeister_ , Spiegelbuch, Rowohlt, Reinbek 1981\n\nHebeker, F.-K.: _'Hoffen auf das H\u00f6henklima in M\u00fcnchen...'. Zum Weltmeisterschaftskampf 1908 zwischen Lasker und Tarrasch_ , in: _Karl_ 4\/2008, p. 38 ff.\n\nHecht, H.-J.\/Treppner, G.: _Schach-WM Revanche-Kampf 1986_ , Beyer-Verlag, Hollfeld 1986\n\nH\u00fcbner, R.: _Der Wettkampf Lasker gegen Schlechter im Jahre 1910_ (in five parts), in: _Schach_ 1999, issues five, six, eight, eleven and twelve, Exelsior Verlag, Berlin 1999\n\nKamm, W.: _Siegbert Tarrasch, Leben und Werk_ , Manuel Fruth Verlag, Unterhaching 2004\n\nKarpov, A.: _Karpov on Karpov_ , Macmillan Publishing Company, New York 1990\n\nKasparow, G.\/Trelford, D.: _Politische Partie_ , Droemersche Verlagsanstalt, M\u00fcnchen 1987\n\nKasparov, G.: _Garry Kasparov on My Great Predecessors_ (book series in five volumes), Everyman Chess, London 2003-2006\n\nKasparov, G.: _Garry Kasparov on Modern Chess Part Three: Kasparow vs Karpow 1986-87_ , Everyman Chess, London 2009\n\nKasparov, G.: _Garry Kasparov on Modern Chess Part Four: Kasparow vs Karpow 1988-2009_ , Everyman Chess, London 2010\n\nKasparov, G.: _Garry Kasparov on Garry Kasparov_ (book series in three volumes), Everyman Chess, London 2011-2014\n\nKeene, R.\/Lawson, D.: _Kasparov Versus Korchnoi_ , Batsford, London 1983\n\nKingston, T.: _The Keres-Botvinnik Case Revisited: A Further Survey of the Evidence_ , <http:\/\/www.chesscafe.com\/text\/skittles165.pdf>\n\nKoblenz, A.: _Schach lebensl\u00e4nglich_ , Beyer-Verlag, Hollfeld 1997\n\nKortschnoi, V.\/Pachman, L.: _Schach WM '78 Kortschnoi \u2013 Karpow_ , Walter Rau Verlag, D\u00fcsseldorf 1979\n\nLandsberger, K.: _William Steinitz, Chess Champion_ , McFarland & Co, Jefferson\/London 1995\n\nLawson, D.: _The Inner Game_ , Macmillan, London 1993\n\nLind\u00f6rfer, K.: _Das rororo-Schachbuch von A-Z_ , Rowohlt-Verlag, Reinbek bei Hamburg 1984\n\nMachhatschek, H.: _Der erste Revanchekampf um die Schachweltmeisterschaft, Botwinnik-Smyslow 1958_ , Verlag Das Schach-Archiv, Rattmann, Hamburg 1962\n\nMichaltschischin, A.: _Das erste K.u.K.-Match in Moskau 1984\/85_ in: Schach 11\/2009, p. 48 ff.\n\nMichaltschischin, A.\/Stetsko, O.: _K\u00e4mpfen und Siegen mit Magnus Carlsen_ , Edition Olms, Z\u00fcrich 2012\n\nMinckwitz, J.: _Der Entscheidungskampf zwischen W. Steinitz und J. H. Zukertort um die Meisterschaft der Welt_ , Adolf-Roegner Schachverlag, Leipzig 1886. Reprint Jens-Eric Rudolph Verlag, Hamburg 2010\n\nM\u00fcller, H.\/Pawelczak, A.: _Schachgenie Aljechin, Mensch und Werk_ , Siegfried Engelhardt Verlag, Berlin 1962\n\nM\u00fcnninghoff, A.: _Max Euwe, The Biography_ , New in Chess, Alkmaar 2001\n\nNikitin, A.: _Mit Kasparow zum Schachgipfel_ , Sportverlag, Berlin 1991\n\nNilolaiczuk, L.: _Schachweltmeisterschaft 87_ , Karpow-Kasparow, Beyer-Verlag, Hollfeld 1988\n\nRoschal, A.\/Karpow, A.: _Schach mit Karpow_ , Mosaik-Verlag, M\u00fcnchen 1977\n\nPfleger, H.\/Borik O.: _Schach-WM '81 Karpow-Kortschnoi_ , Falken-Verlag, Niederhausen 1981\n\nPfleger, H.\/Borik O.\/Kipp-Thomas, M.: _Schach-WM '87: Kasparow\/Karpow_ , Falken-Verlag, Niederhausen\/Ts 1987\n\nSchonberg, H.: _Die Gro\u00dfmeister des Schachs_ , Moewig-Verlag, M\u00fcnchen 1982\n\nSchultz, D.: _Chessdon_ , Chessdon Publishing, Boca Raton 1999\n\nSeirawan, Y.: _Chess Duels_ , My Games with the World Champions, Everyman, London 2010\n\nSosonko, G.: _Russian Silhouettes_ , New in Chess, Alkmaar 2001\n\nSosonko, G.: _The Reliable Past_ , New in Chess, Alkmaar 2003\n\nSosonko, G.: _The World Champions I Knew_ , New in Chess, Alkmaar 2013\n\nSoltis, A.: _Frank Marshall, United States Chess Champion_ , McFarland & Co, Jefferson\/London 1994\n\nSoltis, A.: _Soviet Chess 1917-1991_ , McFarland & Co, Jefferson\/London 2000\n\nSoltis, A.: _Mikhail Botvinnik_ , McFarland & Co., Jefferson\/London 2014\n\nStolze, R.: _Umk\u00e4mpfte Krone \u2013 Die Duelle der Schachweltmeister von Steinitz bis Kasparow_ , Sportverlag, Berlin 1992\n\nSuetin, A.: _Stunde der Sekundanten_ , Verlag Bock & K\u00fcbler, Berlin 1995\n\nSpanier, D.: _Total Chess_ , Sphere Books, London 1984\n\nTal, M.: _The Life and Games of Mikhail Tal_ , Cadogan Chess, London 1979\n\nTopalov, V.\/Ginchev, Z.: _Topalov-Kramnik, 2006 World Chess Championship, On the Edge in Elista_ , Russell Enterprises, Inc., Miltford 2007\n\nvan Reek, J.: _Grand Strategy, 60 Games by Boris Spassky_ , Margraten 2000\n\nVasiliev, V. L.: _Tigran Petrosjan, His Life and Games_ , Batsford, London 1974\n\nVidmar, M.: _Goldene Schachzeiten_ , Walter de Gruyter & Co., Berlin 1961\n\nvon Cziffra, G.: _Der Kuh im Kaffeehaus_ , Ullstein, Frankfurt\/M. 1993\n\nWolff, P.: _Kasparow versus Anand, The inside Story of the 1995 World Chess Championship Match_ , H3 Publications, Cambridge, Massachusetts 1996\n\n**Magazines**\n\n_New in Chess_ , Alkmaar\n\n_Schach_ , Excelsior-Verlag, Berlin\n\n_Karl \u2013 das kulturelle Schachmagazin_ , Thematical issues on World Championships (4\/2008, 2\/2010, 2\/2012)\n\n**Digital sources**\n\n_ChessBase Mega Database 2015_\n\n**Web publications**\n\nBill Wall, _<http:\/\/www.geocities.com\/SiliconValley\/Lab\/7378\/alllinks.htm>_\n\nHarald Ball\u00f3: _www.ballo.de_\n\nCalifornia Chess Articles: _<http:\/\/www.chessdryad.com\/articles\/index.htm>_\n\nChess Archeology, _www.chessarch.com_\n\nChessBase: _www.chessbase.com_\n\nChess Caf\u00e9: _www.chesscafe.com_\n\nChessgames: _www.chessgames.com_\n\nChessVibes: _www.chessvibes.com_\n\nEdward Winter: Chessnotes, _<http:\/\/www.chesshistory.com\/winter\/>_\n\nFIDE: _www.fide.com_\n\nMark Week: _<http:\/\/chessforallages.blogspot.de\/>_\n\nThe Week in Chess: _www.theweekinchess.com\/_\n\nWikipedia: _www.wikipedia.org_\n\nWhyChess: _<http:\/\/whychess.com\/>_\n","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}}
+{"text":"\n\n\n\nProduced by Al Haines\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nENGLISH LANDS LETTERS AND KINGS\n\n\n\n\nQueen Anne and the Georges\n\n\nBY\n\nDONALD G. MITCHELL\n\n\n\n\nNEW YORK\n\nCharles Scribner's Sons\n\nMDCCCXCVII\n\n\n\n\nCopyright, 1895, by\n\nCHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS\n\n\n\nTROW DIRECTORY\n\nPRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY\n\nNEW YORK\n\n\n\n\nENGLISH LANDS LETTERS AND KINGS\n\n_By Donald G. Mitchell_\n\n\nI. from Celt to Tudor\n\nII. From Elizabeth to Anne\n\nIII. Queen Anne and the Georges\n\nIV. The Later Georges to Victoria\n\n_Each 1 vol., 12mo, cloth, gilt top, $1.50_\n\n\nAMERICAN LANDS AND LETTERS\n\nFrom the Mayflower to Rip Van Winkel\n\n_1 vol., square 12mo, Illustrated, $2.50_\n\n\n\n\n_LETTER OF DEDICATION_\n\n[To Mrs. Grover Cleveland.]\n\nMY DEAR MADAM:\n\n_Many bookmakers of that early Georgian period covered by this little\nvolume eagerly sought to dignify their opening pages with the name and\ntitles of some high-placed patron or patroness.  It is not, my dear\nMadam, to revive this practice that I have asked permission to inscribe\nthis little book to so worthy an occupant of the Presidential Mansion;\nbut, rather, I have had in mind the courteous reception which--while\nyet an inmate of a college on the beautiful banks of Cayuga Lake--you\nonce gave to some portions of the literary talk embodied in these\npages; and remembering, furthermore, the unswerving dignity, and the\nunabating womanly gentleness by which you have conquered and adorned\nthe trying conditions of a high career, I have wished to add my\napplause (as I do now and here) for the grace and kindliness which have\nennobled your life, and made us all proud of such an example of\nAmerican womanhood._\n\n_Very respectfully yours,_\n  Don^d. G. Mitchell.\n\n_Edgewood, June,_ 1895.\n\n\n\n\n{vii}\n\n_CONTENTS._\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\n                                                             PAGE\n\n  An Irish Bishop, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .    3\n  A Scholar, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .    9\n  Two Doctors, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .   12\n  Lady Wortley Montagu,  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .   21\n  Alexander Pope,  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .   30\n  His Poetic Methods,  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .   35\n  The Rape of the Lock,  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .   39\n  Pope's Homer, and Life at Twickenham,  . . . . . . . . . .   43\n  His Last Days, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .   48\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\n  From Stuart to Brunswick,  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .   53\n  Samuel, Richardson,  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .   62\n  Harry Fielding,  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .   67\n  Poet of the Seasons, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .   73\n  Thomas Gray, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .   79\n  A Courtier,  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .   83\n  Young Mr. Johnson, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .   88\n\n\n{viii}\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\n  Johnson and Rasselas,  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  104\n  The Painter and the Club,  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  108\n  Some Old Club-Men, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  113\n  Mr. Boswell, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  118\n  Gibbon,  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  122\n  Oliver Goldsmith,  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  130\n  The Thrales and the End, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  135\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\n  A Scottish Historian,  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  145\n  A Pair of Poets, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  157\n  Miss Burney, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  164\n  Hannah More, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  171\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\n  King George III.,  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  181\n  Two Orators, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  188\n  An Orator and Playwright,  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  195\n  The Boy Chatterton,  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  202\n  Laurence Sterne, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  211\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\n  Macpherson and other Scots,  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  221\n  George Crabbe, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  231\n  William Cowper,  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  239\n  His Later Life,  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  249\n\n\n{ix}\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\n  Parson White,  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  259\n  A Hampshire Novelist,  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  265\n  Old Juvenilia, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  271\n  Miss Edgeworth,  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  277\n  Some Early Romanticism,  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  281\n  Vathek,  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  285\n  Robert Burns,  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  291\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\n  A Banker Poet, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  301\n  Coleridge, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  309\n  Charles Lamb,  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  319\n  Wordsworth,  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  327\n  His Poems, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  330\n  Personal History,  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  337\n\n\n\n{1}\n\n_ENGLISH LANDS, LETTERS, & KINGS._\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\nWe open in this book upon times--belonging to the earlier quarter of\nthe eighteenth century--when, upon the Continent of Europe, Peter the\nGreat was stamping out sites for cities in the bogs by the Finland\ngulf--when that mad-cap Swedish King Charles XII. was cutting his\nbloody swathe through Poland--when Louis XIV., tired at last of wars,\nand more tired of Marlborough, was nearing the end of his magnificent\ncareer, and when King Mammon was making ready his huge bloat of the\nMississippi Bubble for France and of the South Sea Company for England.\n\n{2}\n\nQueen Anne, that great lady of the abounding ringlets--so kindly and so\nweak--was now free from the clutch of Sara of \"Blenheim\"; and veering\nsometimes, under Harleyan influences, toward her half-brother the\n\"Pretender;\" and other times under persuasion of such as Somers,\nfavoring her cousins of Hanover.\n\nThe visitor to London in those times could have taken the \"Silent way\"\nalong the river--a shilling for two oarsmen and sixpence for a\n\"scull\"--from the Bridge to Limehouse; or he might encounter, along the\nStrand, sooty chimney sweepers and noisy venders of eggs and butter,\nwith high-piled baskets upon their heads.  Sir Roger de Coverley coming\nto town--if we may believe Addison--cannot sleep the first week by\nreason of the street cries; while Will Honeycomb, on the other hand,\nlikens these cries to songs of nightingales: always and everywhere this\ndifference of ear, between those who love the country and those who\nlove the towns!\n\nThere were lumbering hackney cabs in London streets to be hired at ten\nshillings a day (of twelve hours) for those who preferred this to the\n\"Silent {3} way\"; and there were grand coaches for those who could pay\nfor such display; evidences of wealth were growing year by year.  The\nVenetian Republic, now in its last days of power, made a brave if false\nshow upon London streets in those times.  Luttrel[1] says, under date\nof May, 1707:--\n\n\n\"Yesterday the V^n ambassadors made their public entry thro' the city\nto Somerset House in great state and splendor; their coach of state\nembroidered with gold, and the richest that ever was seen in England:\nThey had two with 8 horses, and eight with 6 horses, trimmed very fine\nwith ribbons; 48 footmen in blue velvet covered with gold lace; 24\ngentlemen and pages on horseback with feathers in their hats, etc.\"\n\n\nDr. Swift, four years after, writes to Stella--\"The Venetian coach is\nthe most monstrous, huge, fine, rich, gilt thing I ever saw.\"\n\n\n_An Irish Bishop._\n\nIt could not have been more than two or three years after this sight of\nthe Venetian Coach that Dean Swift introduced to his friend Miss {4}\nVanhomrigh (Vanessa) a young protege of his, whom he had known at\nDublin, and who had made a great reputation there among thinkers, by an\ningenious _Theory of Vision_, and by his eloquent advocacy of an\nIdealism, which he believed would cut away all standing ground for the\nmaterialism that threatened Christian Faith.\n\n[Sidenote: Bishop Berkeley.]\n\nThis protege was George Berkeley[2]--afterward Dean and Bishop--a most\nengaging and winning person then and always.  Addison befriended this\nyoung philosopher, who wrote half a dozen papers for Steele's\n_Guardian_, with much of Steele's grace in them, and more than Steele's\nChristian earnestness.  He went over to the Continent in the wake of a\nBritish Ambassador--was four or five years there, variously employed,\nequipping himself in worldly knowledge, and came back to warn[3]\nEnglishmen against that extravagance and {5} greed for money, which had\nmade possible the South-Sea disaster.  New Yorkers might read the\nwarning with profit now.  For himself, he comes presently to the\nDeanship of Derry, and to a considerable legacy from that Miss\nVanhomrigh--the acquaintance of an hour--so impressed had she been by\nBerkeley's promise of good.  Nor was the promise ever belied.\n\nWith an altruism unusual then, and unusual now, he braved the loss of\nhis Deanship, and current friendships in England, and set his heart,\nhis energies, and his fortune upon a scheme for building up the English\ncolonies in America in ways of Christian living, and of learning.  Long\nbefore, the devout George Herbert had said that Religion was \"ready to\npass to the American Strand;\" and now Berkeley, fresh from the sight of\ndearth and decay in Europe, was earnest in the belief that Christian\ncivilization was to win its greatest coming conquests \"over seas.\"  His\nenthusiasms had, for once, carried him into verse, of which a prophetic\nrefrain has tingled in many an American ear:--\n\n  Westward the course of Empire takes its way!\n\n{6}\n\nThe nidus of the good Dean's hopes and schemes lay in a great college\nwhich was to be built up in the Summer Islands (Bermuda) where the air\n\"is perpetually fanned and kept cool by sea-breezes.\"  But his\nstepping-stone on the way thither was Rhode Island; and for the harbor\nof Newport he sailed, with a few friends, and a newly married wife in\nthe year 1728, after long and weary waiting for a grant, which at last\nis made good on parchment, but never made good in money.\n\n[Sidenote: Berkeley at Newport.]\n\nYet he has faith; and for nearly three years lingers there at his farm\nof Whitehall (the old house still standing), within sound of the surf\nthat breaks upon the ribbed and glistening sands of Newport beaches.\nThe winter is not so mild as in England, but he \"has seen colder ones\nin Italy.\"  Possibly it may be well to set up the college in Newport\nrather than the Summer Islands--when the grant comes: but the grant\ndoes _not_ come.  He makes friends of the farmers about him--of the\nQuakers, the Methodists; sometimes he preaches at Trinity Church (still\nthere), and his sermons are unctuous with the broadest and most liberal\nChurchism: \"Sad,\" he says in one, \"that {7} Religion, which requires us\nto love, should become the cause of our hating one another.\"  He\ncorresponds with Samuel Johnson, of Stratford, Ct.;[4] also, possibly,\nwith Mr. Jonathan Edwards, not as yet driven away into the wilds of\nWestern Massachusetts, by theologic contumacies, from his pleasant\nNorthampton home.  In the hearing of the pleasant lapse of the waters\nupon the beaches--while he waits--the Dean sets himself to that\npleasant, curious writing of _The Minute Philosopher_ in which he\nadroitly parries thrusts with the whole tribe of Free Thinkers, and\nsublimates anew his old and cherished theory--that the spiritual\napprehension of material things is the only condition (or cause) of\ntheir being.\n\nChildren are born to him--and death winnows his small flock--while he\nwaits.  John Smibert, who was fellow-voyager with him, painted that\nlittle family of the Dean, and the picture is now in possession of Yale\nCollege.  At last, in despair of receiving the royal grant, he goes\nback with his {8} family to England (1731).  Many of his books,[5] and\neventually his Whitehall farm, were bestowed upon Yale; and in that\nlively institution year after year, there be earnest students who\ncontend still for Berkeley scholarships and Berkeley prizes; while the\nname of the good Dean is still further kept in American remembrance, by\nthat noble site of a Great Pacific University, which on the Californian\nshores, looks through a Golden Gate to a pathway still bearing\n\"Westward.\"\n\nWe may well believe that the Dean was disheartened by the breaking\ndown--through no fault of his own--of the great scheme and hope of his\nlife.  But he found friendly hands and hearts upon his return to\nEngland.  Through the influences of Queen Caroline (consort of George\nII.) he was given the bishopric of Cloyne--seated among the heathery\nhills which lie northward of the harbor of Queenstown.  All the poor\npeople of that region loved him: and who did not?\n\n{9}\n\nHe was never so profound a thinker, as he was ingenious, subtle, and\nacute.  Though his philosophies all were over-topped by his sweet\nhumanities,[6] yet American students may well cherish his memory, and\nkeep his _Alciphron_--if not his _Hylas and Philonous_--upon their\nbook-rolls.\n\n\n_A Scholar._\n\n[Sidenote: Richard Bentley]\n\nIt is certain that in your forays into the literature of these\ntimes--if made with any earnestness--you will come upon the name of Dr.\nBentley;[7] if nowhere else, then attached to critical footnotes at the\nbottom of books.\n\nHis demolition of the claims, long maintained by an older generation of\nscholars, respecting certain _Epistles of Phalaris_, commanded\nattention {10} at an early stage of his career, and showed ability to\ncross swords, in a scholastic and bitter way, with such men as\nAtterbury and Boyle; and--if need were--with such others as Sir William\nTemple and Dr. Swift.\n\nAs early as 1700 he had come to the mastership of Trinity College,\nCambridge (where a portrait of him by Thornhill now hangs in the\nMaster's Lodge), a proud position--made prouder by his large\nhospitalities.  He had a sensible wife, courteous \"for two\"--as many\nscholars' wives have need to be--and two daughters; one of whom\ninheriting the father's sharp tongue, made a good many young fellows of\nthe college sing; and made some of them sigh too--marrying at last a\ncertain young Cumberland, who became the father of Richard Cumberland,\nthe poet and dramatist.[8]\n\nSome small chronicler tells us of his preference for port over claret;\nindeed he loved all intense things, rather than things diluted, and was\ninaccessible to those finer, milder, delicater {11} graces--whether of\nwine or poetry--which ripen under long reposeful workings.  I spoke of\na portrait of him in the Master's Lodge; there was another in Pope's\n_Dunciad_--not so flattering:\n\n  \"The mighty scholiast, whose unwearied pains\n  Made Horace dull, and humbled Milton's strains;\n  Turn what they will to verse, their toil is vain,\n  Critics like me shall make it prose again.\"\n                                  --Lib. iv., 211 _et seq._\n\n\n[Sidenote: Bentley's scholarship]\n\nHe left no great work; yet what he did in lines of classical criticism\ncould not by any possibility have been better done by others.  He\nsupplied interpretations--where the world had blundered and\nstumbled--which blazed their way to unquestioned acceptance.  He\nmastered all the difficulties of language, and wore the mastership with\na proud and insolent self-assertion--a very Goliath of learning, with\nspear like a weaver's beam, and no son of Jesse to lay him low.  One\nwishing to see his slap-dash manner and his amazing command of\nauthorities should read the _Dissertation on Phalaris_; not a lovable\nman surely, but prince of all schoolmastery lore: and how rarely we\nlove the schoolmaster!  When you meet with that name of {12} Bentley\nyou may safely give it great weight in all scholarly matters, and not\nso much in matters of taste.  Trust him in foot-notes to Aristophanes\n(a good mate for him!) or to Terence; trust him less in foot-notes to\nMilton,[9] or even Horace (when he leaves prosody to talk of rhythmic\n_susurrus_).  You will think furthermore of this Dr. Bentley as living\nthrough all his fierce battles of criticisms and of college mastership\nto an extreme old age, and into days when Swift and Pope and Steele and\nAddison were all gone--a gray, rugged, persistent, captious old man,\nwith a great, full eye that looked one through and through, and with a\nshort nose, turned up--as if he always scented a false quantity in the\nair.\n\n\n_Two Doctors._\n\nWe approach a doctor now as mild and gentle as Bentley was irritable\nand pugnacious; a man not {13} often enrolled among literary veterans;\ntreated with scorn, maybe, by the professional critics; and yet this\nname now brought to your attention is I think, tenderly associated with\nNew Englanders' earliest recollections of rhyme or verse; and it is\nspecially these literary firstlings of the memory that it is well for\nus to trace and hold in hand.  Let us listen for a moment to that old\ncradle hymn:\n\n  \"Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber,\n    Holy angels guard thy bed;\n  Heavenly blessings without number\n    Gently falling on thy head.\"\n\nHow the quaint, simple melody lingers yet, coming from far-away times,\nwhen it drifted over hundreds of New England homes, which as yet knew\nnot _Pinafore_ nor Mr. Sankey!\n\n[Sidenote: Isaac Watts]\n\nIt is of Dr. Watts's[10] familiar name that I speak: he was the son of\na lodging-house keeper in Southampton--in which city a Watts memorial\nHall was dedicated as late as 1875.  Being a {14} dissenter, he was\ndebarred the advantages of a university education, but he taught\ndissenters how to put grace into their hymns and sermons; and without\nbeing a strong logician, he put such clearness into his _Treatise upon\nLogic_ as to carry it for a time into the curriculum of Oxford.\n\nOur American poet, Bryant, had great admiration for the familiar\nWatts's version of the 100th Psalm:--\n\n  We'll crowd thy gates with thankful songs,\n    High as the heavens our voices raise;\n  And earth, with her ten thousand tongues,\n    Shall fill thy courts with sounding praise.\n\nAnd what pious tremors shook the air, when the country choirs in New\nEngland meeting-houses lifted up their voices to the old hymn,\ncommencing:--\n\n  There is a land of pure delight!\n\n\nI don't know but these bits of moral music may have been hustled out\nfrom modern church primers for something more aesthetic; but I am sure\nthat a good many white-haired people--of whom I hope to count some\namong my readers--are carried back pleasantly by the rhythmic jingle of\nthe good Doctor to those child days when hopes were {15} fresh, and\nholidays a joy, and summers long; and when flowery paths stretched out\nbefore us, over which we have gone toiling since--to quite other music\nthan that of Dr. Isaac Watts.  And if his songs are gone out of our\nfine books, and have fallen below the mention of the dilettanti\ncritics, I am the more glad to rescue his name, as that of an honest,\ndevout, hard-working, cultivated man who has woven an immeasurable deal\nof moral fibre into the web and woof of many generations of men and\nwomen.\n\nBy the generosity of a friend he was endowed with all the privileges of\na beautiful baronial home (Abney Park) where he lived for thirty odd\nyears--reaching almost four score--never forgetting his simplicities,\nhis humilities, his faith, his sweet humanities, and never having done\nharm, or wished harm, to any of God's creatures; and this cannot be\nsaid of many who preach, and of many of whom we are to talk.\n\n[Sidenote: Edward Young.]\n\nThere was another clerical poet of less private worth, who had a very\ngreat reputation early in the eighteenth century.  Fragments of his\nsombre- and magniloquent _Night Thoughts_ {16} are still\nfrequently encountered in Commonplace Books of Poetry; while some of\nhis picturesque or full-freighted lines, or half lines, have passed\ninto common speech; such as--\n\n    \"The undevout astronomer is mad;\"\n\n  \"Tired Nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep;\"\n\n    \"Procrastination is the thief of time.\"\n\n\n[Sidenote: Doctor Young.]\n\nYou will recognize these as old acquaintances; and you are to credit\nthem to Dr. Edward Young,[11] who was born about two hundred years ago\ndown in Hampshire, son of a father who had been Chaplain to King\nWilliam III.  He was an Oxford man, lived a wild life there--attaching\nhimself to a fast young Duke of Wharton, who led him into many awkward\nscrapes--and developing an early love, which clung by him through life,\nfor attaching himself to great people.  He wrote plays which were not\ngood, and odes which were worse than the plays, but touched off with\nlittle jets of terrific adulation:--\n\n  \"To poets, sacred is a Dorset's name,\n  Their wonted passport thro' the gates of fame;\n\n{17}\n\n  It bribes the partial reader into praise\n  And throws a glory round the sheltered lays.\"\n\nAnd so on--to a Compton, a Lady Germaine, a Duke, in nauseous\nsuccession.  In fact, he seemed incapable of using any colors but gaudy\nor resplendent ones, and is nothing if not exaggerated, and using heaps\nof words.  Would you hear how he puts Jonah into the whale's mouth?--\n\n  \"As yawns an earthquake, when imprisoned air\n  Struggles for vent, and lays the centre bare,\n  The whale expands his jaws' enormous size.\n  The prophet views the cavern with surprise,\n  Measures his monstrous teeth, afar descried,\n  And rolls his wondering eyes from side to side,\n  Then takes possession of the spacious seat\n  And sails secure within the dark retreat.\"\n\n\nThis is from his poem of the _Last Day_, which has some of his best\nwork in it.  He wrote flattering words of Addison, which Addison could\nnot return in the same measure.  He had acquaintance with Pope, with\nSwift, with Lady Mary Montagu, and others whom he counted worth\nknowing.  He made a vain run for Parliament, and ended by taking church\norders somewhat late in life--staying {18} one of his plays,[12] which\nwas just then in rehearsal, as inconsistent with his new duties.  He\nmarried the elegant widowed daughter of an earl, who died not many\nyears thereafter; and from this affliction, and his brooding over it,\ncame his best-known poem of _Night Thoughts_.  It had great currency in\nEngland, and was admired, and translated, and read largely upon the\nContinent.  For many a year, a copy of Young's mournful, magniloquent\npoem, bound in morocco and gilt-edged, was reckoned one of the most\nacceptable and worthy gifts to a person in affliction.\n\n[Sidenote: Young's Night Thoughts.]\n\nBut of a surety it has not the same hold upon people in this century\nthat it had in the last.  There are eloquent passages in it--passages\nalmost rising to sublimity.  His love of superlatives and of wordy\nexaggerations served him in good stead when he came to talk of the\nshortness of time, and the length of eternity, and the depth of the\ngrave, and the shadows of death.  Amidst these topics he moved on the\ngreat sable pinions of his muse with {19} a sweep of wing, and a\nsteadiness of poise, that drew a great many sorrowing and pious souls\nafter him.\n\nThis is his Apostrophe to Night:\n\n          \"O majestic Night!\n  Nature's great ancestor!  Day's elder born!\n  And fated to survive the transient sun!\n  By mortals and immortals seen with awe!\n  A starry crown thy raven brow adorns,\n  An azure zone thy waist; clouds in Heaven's loom\n  Wrought through varieties of drapery divine\n  Thy flowing mantle form, and heaven throughout\n  Voluminously pour thy pompous train.\"\n\n\nThere is no well-considered scheme or method in his poems; but his\naugust sorrowing and devout meditations, clothed in a great pomp of\nlanguage, chase each other over his mind, as vagrant high-sweeping\nclouds chase over the sky.  You may watch and follow them in dreamy\nhours, with a languid pleasure; but a real sorrow, or a real task do\nnot, I think, find much help in them.\n\nDr. Young believed, in the moodiness of his grief, that he was going to\nbid adieu to the world; but he did not; we find him back at court long\nafter the funeral bells had sounded in his verse:--back {20} there too,\nin search of offices of some sort; bowing obsequiously to those who had\ngifts in their hands.\n\nGood Mrs. Hannah More tells us that being on one occasion at a\nParliamentary party, where some volumes of original letters were shown,\nshe was specially anxious to see one of her dear Dr. Young, for whose\n_Night Thoughts_ she expressed enthusiastic admiration.  Her anxiety\nwas gratified, and she adds that she had\n\n\n\"the mortification to read the most fawning, servile, mendicant letter\nthat was perhaps ever penned by a clergyman, imploring the mistress of\nGeorge II. to exert her interest for his preferment.\"\n\n\nI do not like to tell such things to those who admire the poet; but we\nare after the truth--first of all.  A curious mixture he was, of\nfrugality and piety--of love for reputation and emotional religion.  He\nessayed the writing of some of his tragic episodes in a dark room,\n\"with a candle stuck in a skull;\" and such love of claptrap abode with\nhim and qualified most of his work.\n\n_Night Thoughts_ has some unforgetable things in it: there is a lurid\nsplendor in many of the {21} lines, and great imaginative range.  But\nhis was an imagination not chastened by a severe taste or held in check\nby the discretions of an elevated and cultured judgment.  Upon the\nwhole, I have more respect for the memory of Dr. Watts, than for the\nmemory of Dr. Young.\n\n\n_Lady Wortley Montagu._\n\n[Sidenote: Mary Wortley Montagu.]\n\nIt is a lady that I next introduce; a very much admired lady in her\nday; and much admired by many even now.  She was correspondent at one\ntime of Dr. Young, as well as of Pope, Steele, and Swift (who was one\nof the few men she feared).  She knew and greatly admired Congreve, had\nfree entree to the palace in time of George I., could and did translate\nEpictetus before she was turned of twenty, and wrote letters to her\ndaughter, Lady Bute, that were long held up to young ladies as patterns\nof epistolary work: of course it is Lady Mary Montagu,[13] of whom I\nspeak.\n\n{22}\n\n[Sidenote: Lady Mary Montagu.]\n\nShe was born at Thoresby Park, a little northward of Sherwood Forest in\nNottingham; was the petted daughter of the Earl of Kingston, and he\nintroduced her (as the story runs) when only eight years old to that\nfamous Kit-Kat Club, which held its summer sessions out by Hampstead\nHeath; and the applause that greeted her beauty and sprightliness\nthere, very likely fastened upon her that greed for public triumphs\nwhich clung to her all her life.  She presided at her father's table,\nwas taught in Greek, Latin, French, Italian; was full of\naccomplishments, and at twenty-one fell in with Mr. Montagu, similarly\naccomplished, whom she had a half mind to marry.  Her father, however,\nhad other views, against which the self-willed young lady rebelled; she\nhad, however, her hesitations--sometimes flinging a new bait to Mr.\nMontagu and then showing a coquettish coolness.  Finally, between two\ndays, she decides; orders Mr. Montagu to have his chaise and four in\nreadiness and makes a runaway match of it.\n\nTheir life for some time is in a suburb of London; where the Lady Mary\nchafes at the retirement, {23} in a way which is not very agreeable to\nMr. Montagu and nettles him; and the nettles creep into their future\ncorrespondence.  But her husband being appointed (1716) ambassador to\nConstantinople, her Ladyship sets off delightedly with a retinue of\nattendants to the shores of the Bosphorus; and writes thence and on her\nway thither, letters full of piquancy and charm.\n\nTo the distinguished Mr. Pope, who has addressed her in almost a\nlover's strain, she says:\n\n\n\"'Tis certain that I may, if I please, take the fine things you say to\nme for wit and raillery; and, it may be, it would be taking them right.\nBut I never in my life was half so well disposed to believe you in\nearnest as I am at present.\"\n\n\nAnd thereupon she goes on to describe a Sunday at the opera in the\ngarden of the Favorita at Vienna.\n\nFirst of all Englishwomen, she had her son inoculated for the\nsmall-pox; this method of prevention being practised at that time in\nportions of Turkey.  Succeeding in this, she brought the method, and\nstrong advocacy of it, back to England with her.  It was a bold thing\nto do, and she {24} always loved boldnesses.  It was a humane thing to\ndo, and her humanities were always active.  The medical professors\nlooked doubtingly upon it; even the clergy preached against it as\ncontravening the intentions of Providence--just as some zealots, fifty\nyears ago, declared against the employment of chloroform and other\nanaesthetics.  But Lady Mary succeeded in her endeavors, and inoculation\nbecame shortly after an approved and adopted practice.\n\nOn the return from the Turkish embassy Mr. Montagu, perhaps at the\ninstance of Pope, bought a home for her at Twickenham, a delightful\nsuburb of London, where the poet was then residing, and at the zenith\nof his fame.  His poetic worship at her shrine was renewed with all the\nold ardor.  He gave Sir Godfrey Kneller a commission to paint her\nportrait in Turkish dress, with which she had done great execution at\ncourt balls.\n\n\"The picture,\" says Pope, in a letter to her, \"dwells really at my\nheart, and I have made a perfect passion of preferring your present\nface to your past.\"\n\n{25}\n\nWhat the past had been we may infer from this bit of verse, written\nwhile she was in the East:\n\n  \"In vain my structures rise, my gardens grow,\n  In vain fair Thames reflects the double scenes\n  Of hanging mountains and of sloping greens.\n  Joy dwells not there; to happier seats it flies,\n  And only dwells where Wortley casts her eyes.\n  What are the gay parterre and checkered shade,\n  The morning bower, the evening colonnade,\n  But soft recesses of uneasy minds\n  To sigh unheard into the passing winds;\n  So the struck deer in some sequestered part\n  Lies down to die, the arrow at his heart;\n  There, stretched unseen, in coverts hid from day\n  Bleeds drop by drop and pants his life away.\"\n\n\nBut this worship is not for very long; there comes a quarrel, which is\nso sharp and bitter, and with such echoes in ode or satire, as to\nbecome the scandal of the neighborhood.\n\nWhat brought it about cannot be so distinctly told.  Lady Mary\npersisted in saying that the crippled sensitive poet had forgotten\nhimself to so impudent an avowal of love that she had repelled him with\na shout of laughter, and so turned his heart into gall.\n\nThat his heart was all gall toward her {26} thereafter there needed no\nproof beyond his stinging couplets; and though he denied her tale with\nunction, he never told a story of his own in respect to this affair\nwhich made _her_ character seem the worse, or _his_ the better.\n\nIn an evil hour her ladyship (who had written verse already, which for\nher fame's sake it were better she had never written), undertook, with\nthe aid of her friend Lord Hervey, to reply to the lampoons of Pope.\nThereupon the shrinking, keen-smarting poet made other burning verses,\nby which the Hervey and the Montagu were both put to the torture.  It\nmust have been uncomfortable weather for her ladyship at Twickenham in\nthose days.  True, Hervey, Peterborough, Bolingbroke, and many of the\ncourtiers were at her service; and she was a favorite of George I.--so\nfar as any respectable woman could be called a favorite of that gross\ncreature; but Pope's shafts of ridicule had a feather of grace about\nthem that carried them straight and far.  Mr. Montagu himself was a\nhusband who loved London and his coal-fields without her ladyship,\nrather better than Twickenham gardens _with_ her ladyship.\n\n{27}\n\nTwenty years of gay \"outing\" she lives, between London and its suburbs;\nhappy, yet not happy; courted and not courted.  She writes to her\nsister Lady Mar[14] in these times:\n\n\n\"Don't you remember how miserable we were in the little parlor at\nThoresby?  We then thought marrying would put us at once in possession\nof all we wanted....  One should pluck up a spirit and live upon\ncordials, when one can have no other nourishment.  These are my present\nendeavors, and I run about though I have five thousand pins and needles\nrunning into my heart.  I try to console myself with a small damsel\n[her daughter, afterward Lady Bute] who is at present everything I\nlike; but, alas, she is yet in a white frock.  At fourteen she may run\naway with the butler.\"\n\n\nAnd when this maiden in white had married (better than the mother dared\nhope), and her son, a vagrant, had gone out into the world and the\nnight, Lady Mary--believing in \"cordials\"--gathered her robes about\nher, and took her fading face into the blaze of the Continental cities.\n\nHer reputation for wit, and daring, and beauty has gone before her, and\nshe writes piquantly and with great complacency of the attentions and\n{28} greetings that meet her in Venice, Florence, and Milan.  The\nappetite for this life grows with feeding; so it becomes virtually a\nseparation from her husband, though cool, business-like letters\nregularly pass between them.  Her son, though grown up into an\n\"accomplished\" man, is a scoundrel--drifting about Europe; and when\nthey encounter the mother insists that he shall drop his name, and deny\nrelationship.\n\nTwenty-two years she lives in that Continental exile, writing all the\nwhile letters to her daughter, which she loved to compare with the\nletters of Madame de Sevigne.  They are witty and sparkling and have\npassed into a certain place in English literature, but they are not\nSevigne letters.  Toward the last of her residence abroad she bought an\nold ruinous palace in Lombardy, not far from Lago di Guarda, equipped\nthree or four of its rooms, and with a little bevy of servants, lived\nin retirement--busied with reading, with her ducks, her pigeons, and\nher garden.\n\nShe writes her daughter:\n\n\n\"The active scenes are over at my age; I indulge, with all the art I\ncan, my taste for reading.  If I _could_ confine it to {29} valuable\nbooks; they are almost as scarce as valuable men....  As I approach a\nsecond childhood I endeavor to enter into the pleasures of it....  I am\nreading an idle tale, not expecting wit or truth in it; and am very\nglad it is not metaphysics to puzzle my judgment, or history to mislead\nmy opinion.\"\n\n\nShe is well past sixty and has lost all her old graces when she falls\ninto this misanthropic spirit; has grown strangely neglectful of her\nperson too; she says that for eleven years now she has not looked in a\nmirror.[15]\n\nBut presently Mr. Montagu dies leaving an immense fortune; there are\nbusiness reasons demanding her return; so she brings back that\nshrunken, unseemly face, and figure of hers to London; takes a house\nthere and fills it with servants.  A cousin, speaking of a call upon\nher, says:\n\n\n\"It is like the Tower of Babel; a Hungarian servant takes your name at\nthe door, he gives it to an Italian, who delivers it to a Frenchman.\nThe Frenchman to a Swiss, and the Swiss to a Polander; so that by the\ntime you get to her ladyship's presence you have changed your name five\ntimes, without the expense of an Act of Parliament.\"\n\n{30}\n\nHorace Walpole pays her a visit, and says, \"she was old, dirty, tawdry,\nand painted.\"  But he did not like her: I do not think she liked him.\n\nCould it be that this old lady--past seventy--with her fine house and\nher polyglot of service and her flush purse, thought to call back the\nold trail of flatterers?  I do not know.  I know very well she did not,\nand that within a twelvemonth she died.\n\nThere is in Lichfield Cathedral a cenotaph representing Beauty weeping\nthe loss of her Preserver; it was placed there by some grateful person\nto perpetuate the memory of the Lady Mary's benevolence in introducing\ninoculation; and I think it is the only eulogy to be found on any\nmemorial tablet of this strange, witty, beautiful, indiscreet,\nstudious, unhappy, disappointed woman.\n\n\n_Alexander Pope._\n\n[Sidenote: Alexander Pope.]\n\nWe close our chapter with some mention of that proud, shy, infirm poet\nof whom we have caught shadowy glimpses in the story of Wortley {31}\nMontagu.  There are scores of little crackling couplets floating about\non the lips of people well known as Pope's.[16]\n\n  \"A wit's a feather and a chief's a rod,\n  An honest man's the noblest work of God.\"\n\n  \"Know then, this truth, eno' for man to know,\n  Virtue alone is happiness below.\"\n\n  \"Honor and shame from no condition rise,\n  Act well your part; _there_ all the honor lies!\"\n\n\nThese must be familiar; and your school must differ from most schools,\nif some of these or other such, from the same author, have not one time\ndone service as snappers at the end of a composition, or as a bit of\ndecoration in the middle of it.\n\nAll know, too, in a general way, that Pope was an infirm man, without\nperhaps a clear idea of what his infirmity may have been; some of those\n{32} fierce lampoons already alluded to, which went flying back and\nforth around the shades of Twickenham, speak of the poet as an ape, a\nhunchback, a monster.  The truth is that he inherited from his father a\nfeeble and crooked frame with some spinal weakness which did give a\nmeasure of excuse to the coarse and brutal satirists of those days.\nHis height was much below that of ordinary men, so that cushions or a\nhigher chair were always necessary at table to bring him to the level\nof his friends; his legs were thin and shrunken and he walked feebly;\nhis countenance was drawn and pinched; yet he had good features, with\nthe delicate complexion of a woman, and a great blue eye, full of\nexpression.  His toilette was always a serious affair for\nhim--specially when he went abroad or would appear at his best (as he\nalways wished to do)--involving the assistance of one or two attendants\nto adjust his paddings, his stays, his canvas jackets, and his twice\ndoubled hose.\n\nI have dwelt with more particularity upon his personal aspect, because\nit serves to explain, or at least largely to qualify, a great many\napparent mysteries in his social career.\n\n{33}\n\nHe was a London boy, born of Romish parents; his father being a small\ntrader in the city, but retiring, about the time of this weakly boy's\nbirth, to a home at Binfield--a country parish lying between Windsor\nand Reading, where they show now a grove of beaches which was a\nfavorite haunt of the boy poet.  He caught schooling in a hap-hazard\nway, as Romanists needed to do in those times; but had a quick, big\nbrain, that made up for many shortcomings in teachers.  Before twelve\nhe had his Latin with some Greek, and had written verse; and after that\nage was his own master--sucking literary sweets where he could find\nthem.\n\nBefore twelve, too, he had made many London visitations--partly to\nstudy French there and partly to find his way to Will's coffee-house,\nand catch sight of old John Dryden, then drawing near to the end of his\nworldly honors.  And this thin, white-faced, crippled boy looking\nstealthily up at the master, even then had wild ambitious dreams of the\nday when he too should have his dignities and lay down the law for\nEnglish letters.\n\nOut by Binfield he happened upon good friends.  {34} Among others a\nBlount family to which belonged two daughters Blount--sympathetic\ncompanions to him then and long afterward; scores of letters, too,\nthere were, to which now Teresa Blount and now Miss Patty Blount were\nparties: He seeming in those romantic days (upon the edge of Windsor\nForest) sometimes in love with one and sometimes the other; and they,\nin this mixing of letters getting probably as confused as he, and a\ngreat deal more vexed; and so came coldness and short-lived\nquarrelling, making one thing pretty sure--that when a young man or\nwoman begins to play with the different tenses of the verb \"I love,\" a\nsingle correspondent is much better than two.  However, his friendship\nwith Miss Patty Blount lasted his life out.\n\nAn old baronet of the neighborhood, who had been diplomat in James I.'s\nday, took a fancy to this keen-thoughted lad and made a companion of\nhim.  He came to know old Wycherly too, and scores of men about town;\neven Jacob Tonson, the famous publisher of those times, had written to\nPope before he was twenty, asking the privilege of printing certain\npastorals of his writing, which {35} had been handed about in the\nclubs; and thought them--what they really were--astonishing for their\nliterary finish.\n\n\n_His Poetic Methods._\n\n[Sidenote: Poetry of Pope.]\n\nBut young Mr. Pope does not think much of the pastorals, save as\nstepping-stones; they paved his way to a large acquaintance with the\nLondon wits; and it would seem that at one time he thought of living at\nthe dreadful pace of these gentlemen--in bottles and midnight routs;\nperhaps he tried it for a while; but his feeble frame could stand no\nsuch neck-breaking gallop.  He can, however, put more of wearisome\nelaboration and pains-taking skill to his rhymes than any of the\nverse-makers of his time.  He has by nature a mincing step of his\nown--different as possible from the long, easy lope of Dryden--and that\nstep he perfects by unwearied practice, and word-mongering, until it\ncomes to the wondrous ten-syllabled movement, which for polish, and\nrhythmic tric-trac is unmatchable.\n\nThe _Essay on Criticism_, _Windsor Forest_, and {36} the _Rape of the\nLock_, all belonged to those early years at Binfield, and I give a test\nof each; first, from the _Essay_:--\n\n  \"Where'er you find 'the cooling Western breeze,'\n  In the next line, it 'whispers through the trees:'\n  If crystal streams 'with pleasing murmurs creep,'\n  The reader's threatened (not in vain) with 'sleep;'\n  Then, at the last and only couplet fraught\n  With some unmeaning thing they call a thought,\n  A needless Alexandrine ends the song,\n  That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along.\"\n\n\nNext this bustling bit, from _Windsor Forest_:--\n\n  \"See, from the brake the whirring pheasant springs\n  And mounts exulting on triumphant wings.\n      *      *      *      *      *\n  Ah! what avail his glossy, varying dyes,\n  His purple crest, and scarlet-circled eyes,\n  The vivid green his shining plumes unfold,\n  His painted wings, and breast that flames with gold.\"\n\n\nAnd again, this, from the _Rape of the Lock_:--\n\n  \"Just then, Clarissa drew with tempting grace\n  A two-edged weapon from her shining case;\n  So ladies in romance assist their knight,\n  Present the spear, and arm him for the fight,\n  He takes the gift with reverence, and extends\n  The little engine on his fingers' ends;\n\n{37}\n\n  This just behind Belinda's neck he spread,\n  As o'er the fragrant steams she bends her head.\n  Swift to the lock a thousand sprites repair,\n  A thousand wings, by turns, throw back the hair;\n  And thrice they twitched the diamond in her ear,\n  Thrice she looked back, and thrice the foe drew near.\"\n\n\nAnd yet again--this worthier excerpt from the same dainty poem:--\n\n  \"Fair nymphs, and well-drest youths around her shone\n  But every eye was fixed on her alone.\n  On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore,\n  Which Jews might kiss, and infidels adore.\n  Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose,\n  Quick as her eyes, and as unfixed as those;\n  Favors to none, to all she smiles extends;\n  Oft she rejects, but never once offends.\"\n\n\nTen pages of extracts would not show better his amazing attention to\ndetails--his quick eye--his gifts in word-craft, and his musical\nexploitation of his themes.  I know that this poet works in harness,\nand has not the free movement of one who gallops under a loose rein;\nthe couplets fetter him; may be they cramp him; but there is a blithe,\nstrong resonance of true metal, in the clinking chains that bind him.\nNo, I do not think that Pope is to be laughed out of court, in {38} our\nday, or in any day, because he labored at form and polish, or because\nhe loved so much the tingle of a rhyme; I think there was something\nelse that tingled in a good deal that he wrote and will continue to\ntingle so long as Wit is known by its own name.\n\nThe good word spoken for him in the _Spectator_--the great printed\nauthority in literary matters--brought him into more intimate\nassociation with the Literary Guild of that paper; he wrote for the\n_Spectator_ on several occasions.  An early contribution is that of\n1712 (November 10th), where he calls attention to the famous verses\nwhich the Emperor Adrian spoke on his death-bed; he says:--\n\n\n\"I was in company the other day with five or six men of learning, who\nagreed that they showed a gayety unworthy that prince in those\ncircumstances;\" and he quotes the lines:\n\n  Animula vagula, blandula\n  Hospes Comes que Corporis\n  Pallidula, rigida, nudula, etc.\n\n\"But,\" he says, \"methinks it was by no means a gay, but a very serious\nsoliloquy to his soul at the point of his departure.\"\n\n\n{39}\n\nAnd out of this comment and thought of Pope's, contributed casually (if\nPope ever did anything _casually_) to the _Spectator_, came by and by\nfrom the poet's anvil, that immortal hymn we all know,--\n\n  \"Vital spark of heavenly flame,\n  Quit, oh quit, this mortal frame;\n  Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying,\n  Oh the pain, the bliss of dying!\"\n\n\n_The Rape of the Lock._\n\n[Sidenote: Rape of the Lock]\n\nI cited two significant fragments from the _Rape of the Lock_, a poem\nbelonging to Pope's early period, and which is reckoned by most poets\nand critics,[17] as well as biographers, his masterpiece, and a\nbeautiful work of the highest literary art.  I recognize the superior\nauthority, but cannot share the exalted admiration; at least, it does\nnot beget such loving approval as brings one back again and again to\nits perusal.  It does not seem to me to furnish very inspiring reading.\n\n{40}\n\nThe setting of this little poem is not large; the story is of a stolen\nlock of hair, and of the resentments that follow; and if one might\nventure upon a synopsis of so delicate a feat of workmanship, it might\nrun in this way:--Belinda, the despoiled heroine, sleeps; sprites put\ndreams in her head and give warning of impending woe.  \"Shock\" (her\ndog) barks and wakes her; she betakes herself to her toilet--the\nfairy-fingered sylphs assisting:\n\n  Some thrid the mazy ringlets of her hair;\n  Some hang upon the pendants of her ear,\n\n--all pictured like carving on a cherry-stone.  At last, fully\nequipped, she goes to a fete upon the Thames; pretty glimpses of the\nriver scenes follow; a crazy baron covets a lock of Belinda's hair.\nThe zephyrs play; day fades; cards come; crowding sprites pile into the\ngame, and twist all into a fairy cable.  The covetous baron snips off a\nlock of Belinda's hair, while she bends over the tea-pot.  The nimble\nsylphs bring from the \"Cave of Spleen\" a stock of shrieks, and tears,\nand megrims.  Sir Plume (\"of amber snuff-box justly vain\") champions\nBelinda, and demands satisfaction of the {41} ravisher--which he does\nnot win; so the battle rages--\"Fans clap, silks rustle, and tough\nwhalebones crack,\" and in the hurly-burly the stolen lock gets wafted\ninto \"lunar spheres,\" and comet-like, closes the shining tale:\n\n  \"This lock the muse [thus] consecrates to Fame\n  And midst the stars inscribes Belinda's name.\"\n\n\nYet Belinda's sovereignty is of an ignoble sort; her tiara made up of\npins and pomades; indeed the women all are as small as the sylphs; toy\ncreatures, and creatures of toys; no nobility, in or about them; and\nvery much to make an honest, self-respecting woman of our time fling\ndown the silvery poem with a wearisome distaste.\n\nAll this is said with a thorough recognition of its art--its amazing\ndexterities of verse--its playful leaps of fancy--its bright shimmer of\nover-nature; and yet those gossamer gnomes seem to me like an\nintrusion; I cannot forget that they were an afterthought of Pope\nhimself; I cannot bring myself to think of the charming fairy-folk of\nFletcher, or of Drayton's _Nymphidia_, or of the _Midsummer Night's\nDream_ wallowing in pomades, {42} and straining at whalebone stays!\nThese live through an eternal frolic in the air; those--of the _Rape of\nthe Lock_--lie in a literary show-case, like a taxidermist's trophies.\n\nIn the sobered time of life, when the iris hues have only fitful play,\nI think a man goes away from these earlier poems of Pope (if he reads\nthem) with new zest, to those wonderful metric condensations of old\ntruths, which flash and burn along the lines of his moral essays.\nThere could be few more helpful rhetorical lessons, for boy or girl,\nthan the effort to pack some of Pope's stinging couplets, or decades of\nlines, into an equal number of lines in prose; the difficulties would\nbe great indeed and would vitalize the lesson; and the lesson, I think,\nwould be far fuller of profitable ends, than the old \"parsing\"\nexercise, and syntactic analysis and description of sentences according\nto the nomenclature of Mr. Lindley Murray or of Mr. Somebody-else.\n\n\n{43}\n\n_Pope's Homer, and Life at Twickenham_.\n\n[Sidenote: Homer of Pope.]\n\nNotwithstanding his much writing, Pope in those early days under the\nbeeches of Windsor forest, was not winning such financial rewards as\nhis friends thought he deserved.  The _Spectator_ did not pay much\nmoney for little poetic trifles--such as the _Messiah_; and Jacob\nTonson was the screw which some publishers are.  There can be no doubt\nthat the poet, with his fine tastes, felt the restraints of a limited\nincome; his old father, who perhaps did not carry sharp business habits\ninto his retirement, had been compelled to leave the country house of\nBinfield, and had gone over to a suburban street dwelling near to\nChiswick.  In this emergency, (if emergency it were,) was it not the\noddest thing in the world that his friends should have advised a\ntranslation of Homer?\n\nYet they did; and so this dauntless young fellow, not over-critical in\nhis Greek knowledge, but with an abounding sense of the marvellous\nbeauties that lay in the old Homeric hexameters, {44} sets about his\ntask; and after five years' toil accomplishes it in such a way as makes\nit probable that there can never be an English Homer that will quite\nmatch it.  There are juster ones; there are faithfuller ones; but not\none that has been so enduringly popular.  Steeping himself in the\nmythologies and the Trojan traditions, he has grafted thereupon his\nstock of British word-craft: Ajax, Achilles, and the rest range to\ntheir places in the martial clank of his couplets, with a life and\ncharm which, if not imbued with Homeric limpidities and melodies,\npossess an engaging picturesqueness that belongs to few long English\nepics.\n\nAnd the poem took: that trenchant Dean Swift strode into the ante-rooms\nof the great men of Court, and swore that he must have a hundred or a\nthousand pounds subscribed for the new Homer of Mr. Pope; and he got\nit; Mr. Pope was the fashion.\n\nUp to that time in the whole history of English literature there had\nbeen no such payment for literary wares as accrued to the author of the\nnew Homer--the sum reaching, for both Iliad and {45} Odyssey, some\nL9,000; with which the shrewd poet bought an annuity (cheaper then than\nnow) of some L500, and a long lease of the Twickenham house and\ngardens; where, thereafter, amidst his willows and his grottos, he\nlived until his death.\n\nThe house[18]--if indeed any part be now the same--has been built over\nand enlarged, and has a jaunty suburban villa pretension that does not\nlook Homeric; but the grotto, or tunnel, which he cut under the high\nroad running parallel with the Thames, and through which he might pass\nunobserved from garden to garden and from his house to the river, is\nstill to be seen there; and trees of his planting still hang their\nlimbs over the pretty greensward that goes down in gentle <DW72> to the\nThames banks.  He put the same polish upon his grounds he did upon his\nverse: his grotto flashed with curious spars, glass jewels, and\nprismatic tinted shells; his walks were decorously {46} paved and\nrolled and his turf shorn to a nicety.  He entertained there in his\nthrifty way, watching his butler very sharply, and by reason of his\ninfirmities, was very measured in his wine-drinking.  Swift, who used\nto come and pass days with him, may have made the glasses jingle: and\nthere were other worthy friends who, when they came for a dinner, kept\nthe poet in a tremor of unrest.  The Prince of Wales, after the Georges\nof Hanover had come in, used sometimes to honor the poet with a visit;\nand the rich and powerful Bolingbroke--what time he lived at\nBattersea--used to come up in his barge, landing at the garden\nentrance--as most great visitors did--and discuss with him those\nfaiths, dogmas, truisms, and splendid generalities which afterward took\nform in the famous _Essay on Man_.\n\nThough the Twickenham home was on a great high road from London to\nTeddington and Hampton Court, and the greater high road of the river,\nit had, like all English suburban places now, its high enclosing walls\nthat gave privacy; and the river shores had their skirting of\nrhododendrons and willows and great beds of laurestina, so that {47}\nthe weak, misshapen poet might take his walks unobserved.  He had his\nvanities, but he did not love to be pointed at.  He carried a mind of\nextreme sensitiveness under that dwarfed figure; and is mad--maybe,\nsometimes, with destiny, that has crippled him so; and bites that thin\nlip of his till the blood starts.  But he does not waste force or pride\non repinings; he feels an altitude in that supple mind of his which\nlifts him above the bad lines of portraits or figures.  He knows that\nthe ready hand and brain, and the faculty of verse which comes tripping\nto his tongue, and the wit which flashes through and through his\nutterance, will make for him--has made for him--a path through whatever\nbeleaguerments of sense, straight up and on to the gates of the Temple\nof Fame.\n\n[Sidenote: Pope's vanities.]\n\nWe have had many vain men to encounter in these talks of ours--men\nassured of their own judgment and taste; but not one, I think, as yet,\nso thoroughly and highly conscious that his cleverness and scholarship\nand deftness and wit were as sure of their reward as the sun was sure\nto shine.\n\nI can fancy him pausing after having wrought {48} some splendid score\nof Homeric lines, which blaze and palpitate with new Greek fire: I can\nfancy him humming them over to himself--growing heated with the flames\nthat flash and play in them--his slight, frail figure trembling with\nthe rhythmic outburst, and he smiling serenely at a mastery which his\nwill and wit have brought to such supreme pitch of excellence that no\nhandling of English will go beyond it.\n\n\n_His Last Days._\n\n[Sidenote: Last days of Pope.]\n\nI have spoken of one face--I mean Lady Mary Montagu's--which used\nsometimes to light up the grotto of Mr. Pope, and have told you how\nthat badly managed friendship went out in a great muddle of sootiness\nand rage; nor were the mud and the filth, which he used in that\ndirection with such cruel vigor, weapons which he was unused to\nhandling: poor John Dennis, a poet and critic of that day, had been put\nin a rage over and over.  Lord Hervey had been scarified.  Blackmore\nand Phillips and Bentley had caught his stiletto thrusts; even Daniel\nDefoe had been subject of his sneers; and {49} so had the bland,\ncourteous Addison.  This sensitive, weak-limbed man saw offence where\nother men saw none; and straightway drew out that flashing sword of his\nand made the blood spurt.  Of course there were counter-thrusts, and\nheavy ones, that caused that poor decrepid figure of his to writhe\nagain--all the more because he pretended a stoicism that felt no such\nattack.  To say that he often made his thrusts without reason, and that\nmuch of his satire was dastardly, is saying what all the world knows,\nand what every admirer of his fine powers must lament.  But he had his\nsteady friendships, too, and his tendernesses.  Nothing could exceed\nthe kindly consideration and affectionate watchfulness which belonged\nto his protection and shelter of his old mother, lingering in that\npoet's faery home of Twickenham till over ninety.  A strange, close\nfriendship knit him to Dean Swift, who had seemed incapable of rallying\nthis sensitive man's--or, indeed, any man's--affections.  Pope, and\nBolingbroke--the brilliant and the courted--were long bound together in\nvery close and friendly communion; the tears of this latter were among\nthe honestest which {50} fell when the poet died.  Bishop Warburton,\ntoo, was most kindly treated by Pope in all his later years, and to\nthis gentleman most of his books were left.  There can be no doubt,\nalso, that the poet felt the tenderest regard for that neighbor of his,\nMiss Patty Blount, who had grown old beside him, and who used at times\nto bring her quiet face into the parlors of Twickenham.  Pope in his\nlast days would, I think, have seen her oftener--did covertly wish for\na sight of that kindly smile, which he had known so long and perhaps\nhad valued more than he had dared to confess.  But in those final days\nshe had gone her ways; maybe was grown tired of waiting upon the\npeevish humors of the poet; certainly was not seen by him more often\nthan a fair neighborly regard would dictate.  Yet he left her all his\nrights there at Twickenham, and much money beside.\n\n[Sidenote: Death of Pope.]\n\nThey say that at the last he complained of seeing things dimly--seeing\nthings, too, which others did not see (as the bystanders told him).\n\"Then, 'twas a vision,\" he said.  Two days thereafter he entered very\nquietly upon the visions all men see after death; leaving that poor,\nscathed, {51} misshapen body--I should think gladly--leaving the\npleasant home shaded by the willows he had planted; and leaving a few\nwonderful poems which I am sure will live in literature as long as\nbooks are printed.\n\n\n\n[1] Narcisse Luttrel: _A brief historical Relation of State affairs_\nfrom September, 1678, to April, 1714.\n\n[2] George Berkeley, b. 1685; d. 1753.  His works (3 vols.) and Life\nand Letters (1 vol.); edited by Fraser, in 1871.  See also very\ninteresting monograph on Berkeley, in Professor Tyler's _Three Men of\nLetters_, Putnam, 1895.\n\n[3] _An essay toward preventing the Ruin of Great Britain_, 1721.\n\n[4] Dr. Samuel Johnson, afterward, 1754, first President of King's (now\nColumbia) College, New York; he was a graduate of Yale; life by Dr.\nBeardsley.\n\n[5] In 1730, he writes to Samuel Johnson, of Stratford, Ct.: \"Pray let\nme know whether they [the college authorities] would admit the writings\nof Hooker and Chillingworth to the Library of the College of New Haven?\"\n\n[6] One of his last publications was, \"_Siris: a chain of Philosophical\nReflections and inquiries concerning the Virtues of Tar-water._\"  And\nit is remarkable that its arguments and teeming illustrations have not\nbeen laid hold of by our modern venders of Tar-soap.\n\n[7] Richard Bentley, b. 1662; d. 1742.  Native of Oulton, Yorkshire.\nWas first Boyle Lecturer, 1692; Master of Trinity, 1700; _Works_,\nedited by Dyce, London, 1836 (only 3 vols. issued of a proposed 8 vol.\nedition).  _Life_, by Jacob Maehly, Leipsic, 1868.\n\n[8] B. 1732; d. 1811.  Best known by his _Memoirs_, 1806; among his\nplays is _False Impressions_, in which appears Scud, the forerunner of\nDickens's _Alfred Jingle_.\n\n[9] All along the foot-notes in a great Quarto of the _Paradise Lost_\n(London, 1732) Bentley's critical pyrotechnics flame, and flare; and he\ncloses a bristling preface with this droll caveat;--\"I made [these]\nnotes _extempore_, and put them to the Press as soon as made; without\nany Apprehension of growing leaner by Censures, or plumper by\nCommendations.\"\n\n[10] Isaac Watts, b. 1674; d. 1748.  _Horae Lyricae_: Memoir by Southey\n(vol. ix., _Sacred Classics_: London, 1834).  Lowndes (_Bib. Manual_)\nsays, that up to 1864, there were sold annually 50,000 copies of\nWatts's Hymns.\n\n[11] B. 1681; d. 1765.  Works, with memoir, by J. Mitford.  2 vols.,\n12mo.  London, 1834.\n\n[12] Only _staying_; since the play (of _The Brothers_) was brought out\nin 1753, some twenty years after his establishment in the rectory of\nWelwyn.\n\n[13] Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, b. 1690 (or 1689?); d. 1762.  Works (3\nvols.), edited by her great grandson, Lord Wharncliffe: Later edition\n(1861), with life by Moy Thomas.\n\n[14] Wife of Lord Mar, who was exiled for his engagement in the\nabortive rebellion of 1715.\n\n[15] Dilke; _Papers, etc._, vol. ii. pp. 354-5.\n\n[16] Alexander Pope, b. 1688; d. 1744.  Editions of his works are\nnumerous.  I name those by Bowles and Roscoe, with that of Elwin and\nCourthope; see also Dilke's _Papers of a Critic_, Leslie Stephen's\n_Life_, and notices by Lowell, Minto, and Mrs. Oliphant.\n\n[17] Lowell, Professor Minto, De Quincey, Hazlitt, Covington, etc.  De\nQuincey says, \"It is the most exquisite monument of playful fancy that\nuniversal literature offers.\"\n\n[18] The identity of the house of Pope was destroyed by a lady owner\n(widow of Dr. Phipps, the Court oculist) in or about 1807.  Pope loved\nlandscape gardening and was aided by Kent and Bridgeman.  Warburton\nspeaks extravagantly of the poetic graces which he lavished upon his\ngrotto.\n\n\n\n\n{52}\n\nCHAPTER II\n\nThe name of Dean Berkeley--an acute and kindly philosopher--engaged our\nattention in the last chapter.  So did that ripe scholar and master of\nTrinity, Richard Bentley;[1] then came that more saintly Doctor--Isaac\nWatts, whose Doxologies will long waken the echoes in country churches;\nwe had a glimpse of the gloomy and lurid draperies, with which the muse\nof Dr. Edward Young sailed over earth and sky; sadly draggled, too, we\nsometimes found that muse with the stains of earth.  We spoke of a\nLady--Wortley Montagu--conspicuous for her beauty, for her\nacquirements, for her vivacity of mind, for her {53} boldness, for her\ncontempt of the convenances of society, and at last, I think, a\ncontempt for the whole male portion of the human race.\n\nThen came that keen, discerning, accomplished poet, Alexander Pope,\nwith a brain as strong and elastic as his body was weak and shaky; and\nwho, of all the poets we have encountered since Elizabeth's day, knew\nbest how to give to words their full forces, and how to make them\njingle and shine.\n\nBut the lives of these I have now named, and of those previously\nbrought to your notice[2] overreached the reign of Queen Anne, and\ndropped off--some in the time of George I., some under his son George\nII., and others in an early part of the long reign of George III.\n\n\n_From Stuart to Brunswick._\n\nBut how came the Georges of Hanover and Brunswick to succeed Anne\nStuart?  Yes, there was a son of the deposed and exiled James II.\n(whose {54} mother was an Italian princess--making him half-brother to\nQueen Anne) known, sometimes as James Edward, and sometimes as The\nPretender.  He had favorers about the Court of Anne; and if the Queen\nhad lingered somewhat longer, or if the Jacobite or Tory political\nmachine had been a little better oiled and in better play, this\nPretender might have come to the throne instead of Hanover George.\nPoet and Ambassador Prior, who was suspected of favoring this, was one\nof those who went to the Tower, and came near losing his head in the\nearly days of King George; and Bolingbroke, the friend of Pope, a known\nplotter for the Stuarts, took himself off hastily to France for safety.\n\nJames Edward, however, did not give the matter up, but made a landing\nin Scotland in 1715 and led that dreary rebellion, in which the poor\nEarl of Mar went astray, and in which Argyle figured; a rebellion which\ngives its small scenes of battle and its network of conspiracies to\nScott's story of _Rob Roy_.  The Pretender escaped with difficulty to\nFrance, made no succeeding attempt, lived in comparative obscurity, and\ndied in Rome fifty years {55} later.  He was, according to best\naccounts, a poor, weak creature, of dissipated habits--of melancholy\naspect--dubbed King of England[3] by the Pope--given a stipend by the\nover-gracious Holy Father--and at last a costly tomb in St. Peter's,\nwhich is dignified by some good sculptural work.  Travelling\nsentimentalists may meditate over its grandiose inscription of James\nIII., King of England!\n\nJames Edward had married, however, a Princess Sobieski of the Polish\nfamily, by whom he had two sons, Charles Edward and Henry.  The elder,\nCharles Edward, an ambitious, handsome, gentlemanly, and amiable\nman--known as the Young Pretender--did, by favor of French aid, and\nstimulated by larger French promises, make a landing in Scotland in\n1745, which was successful at first, but ended with that defeat on\nCulloden Moor, which--with pretty romantic broidery--gives a gloomy\nsetting to Scott's first novel of _Waverley_.\n\n{56}\n\nA second plotting of some friends of the Young Pretender, somewhere\nabout 1751-1752 (dimly foreshadowed in the story of _Redgauntlet_),\nproved abortive.  Thenceforward he appears no more in English history.\nWe know only that this bright, clever, brave Chevalier, who bewitched\nmany a Highland maiden, lived a corrupt life, made a dreary and\nunfortunate marriage (1772), and, bloated with drink and blighted in\nhopes, died at Rome in 1788.\n\nHis brother Henry was a priest, and was made a cardinal.  He spent all\nhis money in pompous living, became miserably poor, and died in Venice\nearly in the present century--the last of his family.  There is in St.\nPeter's Church at Rome, in the Chapel of the Presentation, a great\ntomb, showy with the sculptures of Canova, which commemorates all these\nStuarts, and--so far as Latin inscriptions can do it--makes kings and\nprinces of these unfortunate representatives of the family of King\nJames II.\n\nStill we are without an answer to our question: How and why did the\nGeorges of Hanover come to the British throne?\n\n{57}\n\nThose who recall my mention[4] of that slip-shod pedantic king, James\nI., who came from Scotland, and who brought the Stuart name with him,\nwill remember an allusion to an ambitious daughter of his, Elizabeth\nStuart, who married a certain Frederic of the Palatinate, and possessor\nof the famous chateau whose beautiful ruins are still to be seen on the\nhill above Heidelberg.  You will remember my mention of that\nextravagant ambition which brought her husband to grief and to an early\ndeath.  Well, she had many children; and among them one named Sophia,\nwho married, in 1658, Ernest Augustus, Duke of Brunswick\nand--afterward--Elector of Hanover.  She was a good woman, a fairly\npronounced Protestant--unlike some sisters she had; so that in casting\nabout for a Protestant successor to William III. and to Anne, the\northodox wise ones of England fixed upon this Sophia, the\ngrand-daughter of old James I.  She died, however, before Anne died and\nin the same year; so that the succession fell to her son George Louis,\nwho became George I. of Great Britain.\n\n{58}\n\nHe was well toward sixty when he came to England--did not care overmuch\nto come; loved his ease; loved his indulgences, of which he had a good\nmany, and a good many bad ones; was a German all over; not speaking\nEnglish even, nor ever learning to speak it; had been a good soldier\nand fought hard in his day, but did not care for more fighting, or\nfatigue of any sort; had little culture, and minded the welcoming odes\nwhich English poets sang to him less than he would mind the gurgling of\ngood \"trink\" from a beer-bottle.  Yet withal, he was fairly\nwell-intentioned, not a meddler, never wantonly unjust, willing to do\nkindnesses, if not fatiguing; a heavy, good-natured, heathenish,\nsottish lout of a king.\n\nYet, as I have said,[5] Addison could not find words noble enough to\ntell this man how Anne was dead and he was king; if Addison had made\nhis letter as noble as the drama of _Cato_, George I. would have yawned\nand lighted his pipe with it.\n\nThis George I. had married in early life a beautiful cousin, and a rich\none, but without much {59} character; perhaps he treated her brutally\n(it was certainly a Georgian fashion); and she, who was no saint, would\nhave run away from that Hanover home--had plotted it all, and the night\ncame, when suddenly her lover and the would-be attendant of her flight\nwas savagely slain; and she, separated from her two children and\nspeaking no word more to her grim husband, was consigned a prisoner to\na gloomy fortress in the Aller valley, where she dragged out an\nembittered and disappointed life for thirty odd years; then, Death\nopened the gates and set the poor soul free.\n\nThis was the wife of George I., and the mother of George II.; this\nlatter being over thirty at the time of his father's coming to England,\nand not getting on over-well with the king--the son, perhaps, resenting\nthat confinement of his mother in the Ahlden fortress.\n\nThis Prince of Wales had no more love for letters than his father\nGeorge I.; would have liked a jolly German drinking song better than\nanything Pope could do; was short, irascible, as good a fighter as the\nfather, swore easily and often; had a good, honest wife though, who\nclung to him {60} through all his badnesses.  He had a city home in\nLeicester Square and a lodge in Richmond Park, whence he used to ride,\nat a hard gait, with hunting parties (Pope speaks of meeting him with\nsuch an one) and come home to long dinners and heavy ones.\n\nIt was at this lodge in Richmond Park (which is now less changed than\nalmost any park about London and so one of the best worth seeing) that\na messenger came galloping in jack-boots one evening, thirteen years\nafter George I. had come to the throne, to tell the Prince that old\nGeorge was dead (over in Osnaburg, where he had gone on a visit) and\nthat he, the Prince, was now King George II.[6]\n\n{61}\n\n\"Dat is one big lie\"--said the new and incredulous King with an oath.\nBut it was not a lie; the King was wrathy at being waked too early, and\nwanted to swear at something or somebody.  But having rubbed his eyes\nand considered the matter, he began then and there those thirty-three\nyears of reign, which, without much credit to George II. personally,\nwere, as the careful Mr. Hallam says in his history, the most\nprosperous years which England had ever known.\n\nRemember please, then, that George I., who succeeded Anne, reigned some\nthirteen years; and after him came this short, sharp-spoken George II.,\nwho reigned thirty-three years--thus bringing us down to 1760.  I have\ndwelt upon the personalities of these two monarchs, not because they\nare worthy of special regard, but rather that they may serve more\neffectively as finger-posts or clumsy mile-stones (with wigs upon\nthem)--to show us just how far we are moving along upon the big\nhigh-road of English history.\n\n\n{62}\n\n_Samuel Richardson._\n\nQuite early in that century into which these royal people found their\nway, there lived over beyond Temple Bar, near to St. Bride's Church, in\nthe City of London, a mild-mannered, round-faced, prim little man who\nwas printer and bookseller--in both which callings he showed great\nsagacity and prudence.  He was moreover very companionable, especially\nwith bookish ladies, who often dropped in upon him--he loving to talk;\nand to talk much about himself, and his doings, and the characters he\nput in his books.  For this was Samuel Richardson[7]--the very great\nman as many people thought him--who had written _Pamela_, _Clarissa\nHarlowe_, and _Sir Charles Grandison_.  It is doubtful if he knew Pope\nor Swift or Berkeley; he was never of the \"Spectator set.\"  Pope we\nknow read his {63} _Pamela_ and said there was as much good in it as in\ntwenty sermons: yet I do not think he meant to compliment it--or the\nsermons.  Neither did Bookseller Richardson know people in high\nposition, except Hon. Mr. Onslow the Speaker, who gave him some of the\npublic printing to do and put him in way of business by which he grew\nrich for these times and had a fine large house out by Hammersmith,\nwhere he kept a little court of his own in summer weather; the\ncourtiers being worthy women, to whom he would read his books, or\ncorrespondence relating to them, by the hour.  Possibly you have not\nread his novels; but I am sure your grandmothers or great-grandmothers\nhave read some of them, and wept over them.  He was not learned; was\nthe son of a country carpenter, and in his early days was known for an\neasy letter-writing faculty he had; and he used to be set upon by\nsighing maidens--who were suffering under a prevalent contagious\naffection of young years--to write their love-letters for them; and so\nat last, in busy London, when his head was streaked with gray, he began\nto put together books of letters--written as if {64} some suffering or\nwishful one had whispered them all in his ear.  There was no machinery,\nno plot, no classicism, no style--but sentiment in abundance and vast\nprolixity, and ever-recurring villanies, and \"pillows bedew'd with\ntears.\"  The particularity and fulness of his descriptions were\nsomething wonderful; every button on a coat, every ring on the fingers,\nevery tint of a ribbon, every ruffle on a cap, every ruffle of emotion,\nevery dimple in a cheek is pictured, and then--the \"pillows bedew'd\nwith tears.\"\n\nThere's a great budget of Richardson correspondence that shows us how\nthe leaven of such stories worked; letters from Miss Suffern and Miss\nWestcomb, and Mr. Dunallan, and a dozen others, all interlaced with his\nown; for it does not appear that the old gentleman ever refused the\nchallenge of a letter, or grew tired of defending and illustrating his\ntheories of literary art and of morals, which in his view were closely\njoined.  The stories were published by himself--volume by volume, so\nthat his correspondents had good chance to fire upon him--on the wing\nas it were: \"Poor Clarissa,\" they say; \"my heart bleeds for her, and\nwhat, {65} pray, is to become of her; and why don't you reform\nLovelace, and sha'n't he marry Clarissa?  And I do not believe there\nwas ever such a man as Sir Charles in the world.\"  The old gentleman\nenjoys this and writes back by the ream; has his own little sentiment\nof a sort too, even in the correspondence.  Mme. Belfour wants to see\nhim--\"the delightful man\"--without herself being observed; so entreats\nhim to walk some day in the Park (St. James') at a given hour; and\nRichardson complies, giving these data for his picture:--\n\n\n\"I go through the Park, once or twice a week to my little retirement;\nbut I will for a week together, be in it, every day three or four\nhours, till you tell me you have seen a person who answers to this\ndescription, namely, short--rather plump--fair wig, lightish cloth\ncoat, all black besides; one hand generally in his bosom, the other a\ncane in it, which he leans upon under the skirts of his coat ...\nlooking directly fore-right as passers-by would imagine, but observing\nall that stirs on either hand of him; hardly ever turning back, of a\nlight brown complexion, smoothish faced and ruddy cheeked--looking\nabout sixty-five, a regular even pace, a gray eye sometimes\nlively--very lively if he have hope of seeing a lady whom he loves and\nhonors.\"\n\n\n{66}\n\nThen he writes to Miss Westbrook--an adopted daughter as he calls her:--\n\n\n\"You rally me on my fears for your safety, and yet I know you to be\nnear a forest where lies a great wild bear: I am accused for these\nfears--I am accused for playing off a sheet-full of witticisms, which\nyou, poor girl, can't tell what to do with.  Witticism! Miss W.  Very\nwell, Miss W---- But I did not expect--but no matter;--what have I done\nwith my handkerchief--I--I--I did not really expect; but no matter,\nMiss W----\"\n\n\nA man who can put tears so easily, and for so little cause, into a\nletter, can put them by the barrelful in his books: and so he did, and\nmade Europe weep.  Rousseau and Diderot from over in France,\nphilosophers as they professed to be, blubbered their admiring thanks\nfor _Clarissa Harlowe_.\n\nI have spoken of him not because he is to be counted a great classic\n(though Dr. Johnson affirmed it); not because I advise your wading\nthrough six or seven volumes of the darling _Sir Charles Grandison_--as\nsome of our grandames did; but because he was, in a sense, the father\nof the modern novel; coming before Fielding; in fact, spurring the\nlatter, by _Pamela_, to his great, {67} coarse, and more wonderful\naccomplishment.  And although what I have said of Richardson may give\nthe impression of something paltry in the man and in his works, yet he\nwas an honest gentleman, with good moral inclinations, great art in the\ndissection of emotional natures, and did give a fingering to the\nheart-strings which made them twang egregiously.\n\n\n_Harry Fielding._\n\nThe British Guild of Critics is, I think, a little more disposed to\n_admit_ Richardson's claims to distinction than to be proud of them: it\nis not so, however, with Fielding;[8] if Richardson was \"womanish,\"\nFielding was masculine with a vengeance; gross, too, in a way, which\nalways will, and always should, keep his books outside the pale of\ndecent family reading.  Filth is filth, and always deserves to be\nscored by its name--whatever blazon of genius may compass it about.  I\nhave no {68} argument here with the artists who, for art's sake, want\nto strip away all the protective kirtles which the Greek Dianas wore:\nbut when it comes to the bare bestialities of such tavern-bagnios as\npoor Fielding knew too well,[9] there seems room for reasonable\nobjection, and for a strewing of some of the fig-leaves of decency.\nAnd yet this stalwart West-of-England man, \"raised\" in the fat meadows\nof Somersetshire, and who had read _Pamela_ as a stepping-stone for his\nfirst lift into the realms of romance, was a jovial, kind-hearted,\nrollicking, dare-devil of a man, with no great guile in him, and no\nhypocrisies and no snivelling laxities.  He had a great lineage,\ntracing back to that Landgrave of Alsace, from whom are descended the\nkings and emperors of the House of Hapsburg: and what a warrant for\nimmortality does this novelist carry in those words of Gibbon!--\n\n\n\"The successors of Charles V. may disdain their [Somersetshire]\nbrethren of England; but the romance of _Tom {69} Jones_--that\nexquisite picture of humor and manners--will outlive the Palace of the\nEscurial and the imperial eagle of Austria.\"\n\n\nIt was at home or near by that Henry Fielding found his first\nschooling; at the hand--a tradition runs--of that master who served as\nthe original for his picture of Parson Trulliber: if this indeed be so,\nnever were school-master severities so permanently punished.  After\nthis came Eton, where he was fellow of Lord Lyttleton, who befriended\nhim later, and of William Pitt (the elder), and of Fox--the\nrattle-brain father of Charles James.  Then came two or more years of\nstay at the University of Leyden, from which he laid his course\nstraight for the dramatic world of London; for his father, General\nFielding, had a good many spendthrift habits, with which he had\ninoculated the son.  There was need for that son to work his own way;\nand the way he favored was by the green-room, where the sparkle of such\nlively elderly ladies as Mrs. Oldcastle and Mrs. Bracegirdle had not\nyet wholly gone out.\n\nHe wrote play upon play with nervous English, and pretty surprises in\nthem; but not notable for {70} any results, whether of money-making or\nof moral-mending.  He also had his experiences as stage manager; and\nbetween two of his plays (1735 or thereabout) married a pretty girl\ndown in Salisbury; and with her dot, and a small country place\ninherited from his mother, set up as country gentleman, on the north\nborder of Dorsetshire, determined to cut a new and larger figure in\nlife--free from the mephitic airs of Drury Lane.  There were\nstories--very likely apocryphal--that he ordered extravagant liveries;\nit is more certain that he gave himself freely, for a time, to hounds,\nhorses, and friends.  Of course such a country symposium devoured both\nhis own and his wife's capital; and we find him very shortly back in\nLondon, buckling down to law study; very probably showing there or\nthereabout the \"inked ruffles and the wet towel round his head,\" which\nappear in the charming retrospective glasses of Thackeray.[10]\n\nBut times are hard with him; those fast years of green-room life have\ntold upon him; the \"wet {71} towels\" round the head are in demand; some\nof his later plays are condemned by the Lord Chancellor;[11] in 1742,\nhowever, he makes that lunge at the sentimentalism of Richardson which,\nin the shape of _Joseph Andrews_, gives him a trumpeting success.  It\nencourages him to print two or three volumes of miscellanies.  But\nshadows follow him; a year later, his wife dies in his arms; Lady\nWortley Montagu (who was a cousin) tells us this; and tells us how\nother cousins were scandalized because, a few years afterward, the\nnovelist, with an effusive generosity that was characteristic of him,\nmarried his maid, who had lamented her mistress so sincerely, and was\ntenderly attached to his children.  At about the same period he\naccepted office as Justice of the Peace--thereby still further\ndisgruntling his aristocratic Denbigh cousins.  But the quick-coming\nvolumes of _Tom Jones_ and their wonderful acclaim cleared the space\naround him; he had room to breathe and {72} to play the magistrate; it\nis Henry Fielding, Esq., now,--of Bow Street, Covent Garden.  _Amelia_\nfollowed, for which he received L1,000; and we hear of a new home out\nin the pleasant country, by Baling, north of Brentford, and the Kew\nGardens.\n\nFinally on a June day of 1754 we see him leaving this home; \"at twelve\nprecisely,\" he says in his last Journal, \"my coach was at the door,\nwhich I was no sooner told than I kissed my children all around, and\nwent into it with some little resolution.\"  There needed resolution;\nfor he was an utterly broken-down man, the pace of his wild, young days\ntelling now fearfully, and he bound away for a voyage to the sunny\nclimate of Portugal--to try if this would stay the end.\n\nBut it does not; in October of the same year he died in Lisbon; and\nthere his body rests in the pretty Cemetery of the Cypresses, where all\nvisitors who love the triumphs of English letters go to see his tomb,\namong the myrtles and the geraniums.  If he had only lived to pluck\naway some of those grosser stains which defile the pages where the\ncharacters of an Allworthy and of a Parson Adams will shine forever!\n\n\n{73}\n\n_Poet of the Seasons._\n\nIt was just about the opening of the second quarter of the eighteenth\ncentury--when Fielding was fresh from Eton, fifteen years before\n_Pamela_ had appeared and while George II. was in waiting for the\nslipping off of Father George at Osnaburg--that a stout Scotch poet\nfound his way to London to try a new style of verses with the public\nwhich was still worshipping at the shrine of Mr. Pope.  This was the\npoet of _The Seasons_,[12] whose boyhood had been passed and enriched\nin that bight of the beautiful Tweed valley which lies between\nColdstream and the tall mass of Kelso's ruin,--with Melrose and\nSmailhome Tower and Ettrickdale not far away, and the Lammermuir hills\nglowering in the north.  He had studied theology in Edinboro', till\nsome iris-hued version of a psalm (which he had wrought) brought the\nwarning from some grim orthodox friend--that {74} a good Dominie should\nrein up his imagination.  So he set his face southward, with the\ncrystal scenery of a winter on Tweed-side sparkling in his thought.  He\nlived humbly in London, for best of reasons, near to Charing Cross; but\nby the aid of Northern friends, brought his _Winter_ to book, in the\nspring of 1726.\n\nIt delighted everybody; the tric-trac of Pope was lacking, and so was\nthe master's arrant polish; but the change brought its own blithe\nwelcome.\n\nWe will try a little touch from this first poem of his which he brought\nin his satchel, on the boy journey to London:--\n\n  \"Thro' the hushed air the whitening shower descends,\n  At first, thin, wavering, till at last the flakes\n  Fall broad and wide and fast, dimming the day\n  With a continual flow....\n\n          Low, the woods\n  Bow their hoar heads; and ere the languid sun\n  Faint from the west emits his evening ray,\n  Earth's universal face, deep hid and chill,\n  Is one wide dazzling waste.\n\n          The fowls of heaven,\n  Tamed by the cruel season, crowd around\n  The winnowing stone....\n\n{75}\n\n          One alone,\n  The red-breast, sacred to the household gods,\n  Wisely regardful of the embroiling sky\n  In joyless fields and thorny thickets, leaves\n  His shivering mates.\n\n          Half afraid, he first\n  Against the window beats; then, brisk, alights\n  On the warm hearth; then hopping o'er the floor\n  Eyes all the smiling family askance\n  And pecks, and starts, and wonders where he is.\"\n\n\nThat robin red-breast has hopped over a great many floors in his time;\nand now after a hundred and sixty years he comes brisk as ever out of\nthat Winter poem of Thomson's.  This Scotch poet is wordy; he draws\nlong breaths; he is sometimes tiresome; but you will catch good honest\nglimpses of the country in his verse without going there--not true to\nour American seasons in detail, but always true to Nature.  The sun\nnever rises in the west in his poems; the jonquils and the daisies are\nnot confounded; the roses never forget to blush as roses should; the\noaks are sturdy; the hazels are lithe; the brooks murmur; the torrents\nroar a song; the winds carry waves across the grain-fields; the clouds\nplant shadows on the mountains.\n\n{76}\n\nThomson was befriended by Pope, who kindly made corrections in the\nfirst draught of some of his poems; and that you may see together the\nwordy ways of these two poets I give a sample of Pope's mending.\n\nThomson wrote--speaking of a gleaning girl:--\n\n  \"Thoughtless of Beauty, she was beauty's self\n  Recluse among the woods; if city dames\n  Will deign their faith; and thus she went, compelled\n  By strong necessity, with as serene\n  And pleased a look as Patience ere put on,\n  To glean Palemon's fields.\"\n\nAnd this is the way in which Pope does the mending:--\n\n  \"Thoughtless of Beauty, she was beauty's self\n  Recluse among the close embowering woods.\n  As in the hollow breast of Apennine,\n  Beneath the shelter of encircling hills,\n  A myrtle rises far from human eyes,\n  And breathes its balmy fragrance o'er the wild;\n  So flourished, blooming, and unseen by all,\n  The sweet Lavinia; till at length compelled\n  By strong necessity's supreme command,\n  With smiling patience in her looks, she went\n  To glean Palemon's fields.\"\n\n\n{77}\n\nThere are more words, but the words gleam!  Pope is the master, yet\nmastered by rules; Thomson less a master, but free from bonds.\n\nHe tried play-writing, in those days when Fielding was just beginning\nin the same line, but it was not a success.  After a year or two of\ntravel upon the Continent, on some tutoring business, he published an\nambitious poem (1734-1736) entitled _Liberty_--never a favorite.  He\nhad made friends, however, about the Court; and he pleasantly contrived\nto possess himself of some of those pensioned places, which fed unduly\nhis natural indolence.  But all will forgive him this vice, who have\nread his fine poem of the _Castle of Indolence_ in Spenserian verse.\nIt was his last work--perhaps his best, and first published in 1748,\nthe year of his death.\n\nOne stanza from it I must quote; and shall never forget my first\nhearing of it, in tremulous utterance, from the lips of the venerable\nJohn Quincy Adams, after he had bid adieu (as he thought) to public\nlife and was addressing[13] a {78} large assemblage in the university\ntown of New Haven:\n\n  \"I care not, Fortune, what you me deny!\n    You cannot rob me of free Nature's grace,\n  You cannot shut the windows of the sky\n    Through which Aurora shows her brightening face;\n    You cannot bar my constant feet to trace\n  The woods and lawns by living streams at eve;\n    Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace\n  And I their toys to the great children leave,\n  Of fancy, reason, virtue, nought can me bereave.\"\n\n\nMost readers will think kindly and well of this poet; and if you love\nthe country, you will think yet more kindly of him; and on summer\nafternoons, when cool breezes blow in at your windows and set all the\nleaves astir over your head, his muse--if you have made her\nacquaintance--will coo to you from among the branches: but you will\nnever and nowhere find in him the precision, the vigor, the point, the\npolish, we found in Pope; and which you may find, too, in the fine\nparcel-work {79} done by Thomas Gray, who was a contemporary of\nThomson's, but younger by some fifteen years.\n\n\n_Thomas Gray._\n\nYou will know of that first poem of his--_Ode to Eton College_; at\nleast you know its terminal lines, which are cited on all the\nhigh-roads:--\n\n  \"Where ignorance is bliss\n  'Tis folly to be wise!\"\n\nAll the world knows, too, his _Elegy_, on which his fame principally\nrests.  Its melancholy music gets somehow stamped on the brain of\nnearly all of us, and lends a poetic halo to every old graveyard that\nhas the shadow of a church tower slanted over it.\n\nGray[14] was, like Milton, a London boy--born on Cornhill under the\nshadow almost of St. Paul's.  The father was a cross-grained man,\nliving apart from Mrs. Gray, who, it is said, by the gains of some\nhaberdashery traffic which she set up in {80} Cornhill, sent her boy to\nEton and to Cambridge.  At Eton he came to know Horace Walpole,\ntravelled with him over Europe, after leaving Cambridge, until they\nquarrelled and each took his own path.  That quarrel, however, was\nmended somewhat later and Walpole became as good a friend to Gray as he\ncould be to anybody--except Mr. Walpole.\n\nThe poet, after his father's death, undertook, in a languid way, the\nstudy of law; but finally landed again in Cambridge, and was a\ndilettanteish student there nearly all his days, being made a Professor\nof History at last; but not getting fairly into harness before the gout\nlaid hold of him and killed him.  Probably no man in English literature\nhas so large a reputation for so little work.  Gibbon regretted that he\nshould not have completed his philosophic poem on education and\ngovernment; Dr. Johnson, who spoke halting praise of his poems, thought\nhe would have made admirable books of travel; Cowper says, \"I once\nthought Swift's letters the best that could be written, but I like\nGray's better.\"\n\nThe truth is, he was a fastidious, scholarly man, whose over-nicety of\ntaste was always in {81} the way of large accomplishment.  He was\ncontent to do nothing, except he did something in the best possible\nway.  He so cherished refinements that refinements choked his impulses.\n\nA great stickler he was, too, for social refinements--distinctions,\npreferments, and clap-trap--wanting his courtesies, of which he was as\nchary as of his poems, to have the last stamp of gentility; thus\nrunning into affectations of decorum, which, one time, made him the\nbutt of practical jokers at his college.  Some lovers of fun there\nsounded an alarm of fire for the sake of seeing the elegant Mr. Gray\n(not then grown famous, to be sure) slipping down a rope-ladder in\nundress, out of his window; which he did do, but presently changed his\ncollege in dudgeon.  He had, moreover, a great deal of Walpole's\naffected contempt for authorship--wanted rather to be counted an\nelegant gentleman who only played with letters.  He writes to his\nfriend that the proprietors of a magazine were about to print his\nElegy, and says:--\n\n\n\"I have but one bad way to escape the honor they would inflict upon me,\nand therefore desire you would make {82} Dodsley print it immediately,\nwithout my name, but on his best paper and type.  _If he would add a\nline to say it came into his hands by accident, I should like it\nbetter_.\"\n\n\nI think he caught this starched folly (if it were folly) from Walpole.\nI have heard of over-elegant people in our day with the same\naffectation; but, as a rule, they do not write poems so good as the\n_Elegy_.\n\nGray died, after that quiet life of his, far down in the days of George\nIII., 1771, leaving little work done, but a very great name.  He was\nburied, as was fitting, beside his mother, in that churchyard at Stoke,\nout of which the Elegy grew.  And if you ever have a half day to spare\nin London, it is worth your while to go out to Slough (twenty miles by\nthe Great Western road), and thence, two miles of delicious walk among\nshady lanes and wanton hedges, to where Stoke-Pogis Church, curiously\nhung over with ivy, rises amongst the graves; and if sentimentally\ndisposed, you may linger there, till the evening shadows fall, and\nrepeat to yourself (or anybody you like)--\n\n  \"The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,\n  The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea.\n  The ploughman homeward plods his weary way\n  And leaves the world to darkness and to me.\"\n\n\n{83}\n\n_A Courtier._\n\nI have spoken of the association of Walpole with Gray; it was not an\nintimate one after the two had outgrown their youth-age; indeed\nWalpole's association with nobody was intimate; nor was he a man whose\nliterary reputation ever was, or ever can be great.  He was son[15] of\nthat famous British Minister of State, Sir Robert Walpole, who for many\nlong years held the fate of England in his hand.  But his son Horace\ncared little for politics.  He was unmarried, and kept so always; had\nmoney in plenty (coming largely from Government sinecures) and a fat\nplace at Twickenham--called Strawberry Hill; which by his vagaries in\narchitecture and his enormous collection of bric-a-brac, he made the\nshow place of all that region.  He established a private press at this\ncountry home, and printed, among a {84} multitude of other books, a\ncatalogue of royal and noble authors--not reckoning others so worthy of\nhis regard; indeed, he had a well-bred contempt for ordinary literary\navocations; but he wrote and published (privately at first) a romance\ncalled _The Castle of Otranto_.[16]  It was \"a slight thing,\" he told\nhis friends, which he had dashed off in an idle hour, and which he \"had\nnot put his name to; but which succeeded so well that he did not any\nlonger entirely keep the secret.\"  It is a tale, quite ingenious, of\nmingled mystery and chivalry; there are castles in it, and huge\nhelmets, that only giants could wear; and there are dungeons, and\nforlorn maidens; ghosts, and sighing lovers; mysterious sounds, and\npictures that come out of their frames and walk about in the\nmoonlight--it is a pattern book to read at night in an old country\nhouse which has long corridors and deserted rooms, where the bats fly\nin and out, and the doors clang and clash.\n\nBut this strange creature, Horace Walpole, is {85} known best of all by\nhis letters[17]--nine solid volumes of them, big octavo--covering\nnearly the whole of his life and addressed to a half score or so of men\nand women on all possible topics except any serious one; and all made\nready, with curious care, for publication when his death should come.\nOn that one point he did have serious belief--he believed he should\ndie.  This great budget of his letters is one of the most extraordinary\nproducts--if we may call it so--of literature.  It is hard to say what\nis not touched upon in them; if he is robbed, you hear how a voice out\nof the night said \"stop\"--how he slipped his watch under his\nwaistband--how he gave up his purse with nine guineas in it--how Lady\nBrowne was frightened and gave up _her_ watch; if the king has gout in\nhis toe you hear of that; if he goes to the palace he tells you who was\nin the ante-room and how two fellows were sweeping the floor, dancing\nabout in sabots; how the Duc of Richelieu was pale except his nose,\n\"which is red and wrinkled.\"  Great hoops with brocade dresses come\nsailing into {86} his letters; so do all the scandals about my lady\n_this_, or the duchess _that_; so do the votes in Parliament and\nreports about the last battle, if a war is in progress; and the French\nnews, and new things at Strawberry Hill--over and over.  And he does\nnot think much of Gibbon, and does not think much of Dr. Johnson--who\n\"has no judgment and no taste;\" and why doesn't his friend Mason[18] (a\nthird-rate poet) \"show up the doctor and make an end of him?\"--which is\nmuch like saying that Mr. Wardle's fat boy should make an end of Mr.\nPickwick.\n\nYet do not think there is no art in all this, and that you would not\nlike them: there is art of the highest gossipy kind; and I can readily\nunderstand how his correspondents all relished immensely his letters\nwhenever they came.  There is humor and sparkle, and there are delicate\ntouches; he approaches his lighter topics as a humming-bird approaches\nflowers--a swift dart {87} at them--a sniff, a whirl of wings, and away\nagain.\n\nThen he has that rare literary instinct of knowing just what each\ncorrespondent would like best to hear of--that's the secret of writing\nletters that will be welcome.  You cannot interchange his letters.  He\ntickles Lady Ossory's ear with sheerest gossip, and Lady Suffolk with\ntalk of dress and of the last great Paris ball, and the poet Mason with\nbookish platitudes, and Conway with the leakings of political talk, and\nCole with twaddle on art or science.  You want to turn your back on him\nagain and again for his arrant snobbish pretensions or some weak and\nviolent prejudice; yet you want to listen again and again.  It is such\na pretty, lively, brisk, frolicsome, _petillant_ small-beerish talk,\nthat engages and does not fatigue, and piques appetite yet feeds you\nwith nothings.\n\nHe grew old there in his _gim-crack_ of a palace, cultivating his\nflowers and his complexion; tiptoeing while he could over his waxed\nfloors in lavender suit, with embroidered waistcoat and \"partridge silk\nstockings,\" with _chapeau bas_ held before him--very reverent to any\nvisitor of {88} distinction--and afterward (he lived almost into this\ncentury), when gout seizes him, I seem to see still--as once\nbefore[19]--the fastidious old man shuffling up and down from\ndrawing-room to library--stopping here and there to admire some newly\narrived bit of pottery--pulling out his golden snuff-box and whisking a\ndelicate pinch into his old nostrils--then dusting his affluent\nshirt-frills with the tips of his dainty fingers, with an air of\ngratitude to Providence for having created so fine a gentleman as\nHorace Walpole, and of gratitude to Horace Walpole for having created\nso fine a place as Strawberry Hill.\n\n\n_Young Mr. Johnson._\n\nAnd now what a different man we come upon, living just abreast of him\nin that rich English century and that beautiful English country!  We go\ninto Staffordshire and to the old town of Lichfield, to find the boy\nwho afterward became the great lexicographer[20] and the great talker.\nThe {89} house in which he was born is there upon a corner of the great\nbroadened street, opposite St. Mary's Church.  We get a pleasant\nglimpse of the house on a page of _Our Old Home_, by Hawthorne; and\nanother glimpse of the colossal figure of Dr. Johnson, seated in his\nmarble chair, upon that Lichfield market-place.\n\nHis father was a bookseller; held, too, some small magistracy; was\neminently respectable; loved books as well as sold them, and had a\ncorresponding inaptitude for business.  The son added to indifferent\nschooling, here and there, a habit of large browsing along his father's\nshelves; was a great, ungainly lout of a boy, but marvellously\nquick-witted.  With some help from his father, and some from friends,\nand with a reputation for making verses, and tastes ranging above\nbookstalls, he entered at Oxford when nineteen; but {90} the stings of\npoverty smote him there early; and after three years of irregular\nattendance, he left--only to find his father lapsing into bankruptcy\nand a fatal illness.  On the settlement of the old bookseller's estate,\nL20 only was the portion of the son.  Then follow some dreary years; he\nis hypochondriac and fears madness; he is under-teacher in a school; he\noffers to do job-work for the book-makers; he translates the narrative\nof a Portuguese missionary about Abyssinia; he ponders over a tragedy\nof _Irene_.  Not much good comes of all this, when--on a sudden, our\nhero, who is now twenty-six, marries a widow--who admired his\ntalents--who is twenty years his senior and has L800.  Johnson was not\na person to regard closely such little discrepancies as that difference\nin age--nor she, I suppose.\n\nThe bride is represented as not over-comely, and as one--of good\njudgment in most matters--who resorted to some vulgar appliances for\nmaking the most of her \"good looks.\"  Lord Macaulay[21] uses a very\nrampant rhetoric in his encyclopaedic {91} mention of the paint she put\nupon her cheeks.  With the aid of her L800, Johnson determined to set\nup a boarding-school for young gentlemen; a gaunt country-house three\nmiles out of Lichfield was rented and equipped and advertised; but the\nyoung gentlemen did not come.\n\nHow could they be won that way?  The mistress frowsy, simpering,\nancient, painted, and becurled; and Mr. Johnson, gaunt, clumsy,\nsquinting--one side of his face badly scarred with some early surgical\ncut; one eye involved and drooping, and a twitchy St. Vitus's dance\nmaking all uglier.  What boy would not dread a possible whipping from\nsuch a master, and what mamma would not tremble for her boy?  Yet I do\nnot believe he ever whipped hard, when he had occasion; he was\nkind-hearted; but his scolds at a false syntax must have been terrific\nand have made the floors shiver.\n\nAmong the boys who did venture to that Edial school was one David\nGarrick, whose father had been a friend of the elder Johnson; and when\nthe school broke up--as it did presently--Johnson and David Garrick set\nout together for London, to {92} seek their fortune--carrying letters\nto some booksellers there; and Johnson carrying that half-written\ntragedy of _Irene_ in his pocket.  Garrick's rise began early, and was\nbrilliant, but of this we cannot speak now.  Johnson knocked about\nthose London streets--translating a little, jobbing at books a little,\nstarving and scrimping a great deal.  He fell in early with a certain\nRichard Savage,[22] a wild, clever, disorderly poet, as hard pinched as\nJohnson.  According to his story, he was the son of the Countess\nMacclesfield, but disowned by her--he only coming to knowledge of his\nparentage through accident, when he was grown to manhood.  Johnson\ntells the pathetic tale of how Savage paced up and down, at night, in\nsight of his mother's palatial windows, gazing grief-smitten at them,\nand yearning for the maternal recognition, which the heartless,\ndishonored woman refused.  So, this castaway runs to drink and all\ndeviltries; Johnson staying him much as {93} he can--walking with him\nup and down through London streets till midnight--talking poetry,\nphilosophy, religion; hungry both of them, and many a time with only\nten pence between them.\n\nWell, at last, Savage kills his man in a tavern broil; would have been\nhung--the mother countess (as the story runs) hoping it would be so;\nbut he escapes, largely through the influence of that Queen Caroline,\nto whom Jeanie Deans makes her eloquent plea in Scott's ever-famous\nnovel of _The Heart of Mid-Lothian_.  Savage escapes, but 'tis only to\ngo to other bad ways, and at last he died in a Bristol jail.\n\nAll this offered material for a pathetic story, and Johnson made the\nmost of it in his _Life of Savage_--afterward incorporated in his\n_Lives of the Poets_, but first published in 1744, about seven years\nafter his coming to London.  The book appeared anonymously; but its\nqualities gave it great vogue; and its essential averments formed the\nbasis of all biographic and encyclopaedic[23] notices for nearly a\ncentury thereafter.\n\n{94}\n\nBut was the story true?  There were those who doubted at the time, and\nhad an unpleasant sense that Johnson had been wheedled by an\nadventurer; but demonstration of the imposture of Savage did not come\ntill the middle of the present century.  The investigations of Moy\nThomas[24] would go to show that the Savage friend of Johnson's early\ndays in London was the most arrant of impostors; and that of all the\nshame that rests upon him, he can only justly be relieved of that which\ncounts him a child of such a woman as the Countess of Macclesfield.  I\nhave dwelt upon the Savage episode, not alone because it provoked one\nof Johnson's best pieces of prose work, but because it shows how open\nwere his sympathies to such tales of distress, and how quick he was to\nlift the rod of chastisement upon wrong-doers of whatever degree.\n\nIn _London_, too, that imitative classic poem, there shone in a glitter\nof couplets (which provoked Pope's praises) the same righteous\nindignation, and the stings--pricking through all his big {95}\nStaffordshire bulk--of supperless-days and of shortened means:--\n\n  \"By numbers here from shame or censure free\n  All crimes are safe, but hated Poverty;\n  This, only this, the rigid Law pursues,\n  This, only this, provokes the snarling muse.\n\n  \"The sober trader at a tattered cloak\n  Wakes from his dream, and labors for a joke;\n  With brisker air the silken courtiers gaze\n  And turn the varied taunt a thousand ways.\"\n\n\nBetter than this was that poem (_Vanity of Human Wishes_) in which,\neven now, some of us--admiringly--\n\n  \"In full flown dignity see Wolsey stand,\n  Law in his voice, and fortune in his hand.\"\n\nAnd the couplet leads on through Wolsey's story to the poet's coupleted\nsermon, with its savors of a church-bell--\n\n  \"Still raise for good the supplicating voice,\n  But leave to Heaven the measure and the choice.\n  Safe in his power whose eye discerns afar\n  The secret ambush of a specious prayer;\n  Implore his aid, in his decisions rest,\n  Secure whate'er he gives, he gives the best.\n      *      *      *      *      *\n\n{96}\n\n  Pour forth thy fervors for a healthful mind,\n  Obedient passions, and a will resigned;\n      *      *      *      *      *\n  For faith, that, panting for a happier seat,\n  Counts death kind nature's signal of retreat.\"\n\n\nWe must note also that famous Prologue, spoken at Drury Lane in 1747,\nwhen the theatre came first under control of his old friend, Garrick.\nNever had the stage, before nor since, a nobler summons in worthier\nverse: it closes--\n\n  \"Then prompt no more the follies you decry,\n  As Tyrants doom their tools of guilt to die:\n  'Tis yours, this night, to bid the reign commence\n  Of rescued Nature and reviving Sense:\n  To chase the charms of Sound, the pomp of Show,\n  For useful Mirth and salutary Woe:\n  Bid scenic Virtue form the rising age\n  And Truth diffuse her radiance from the Stage.\"\n\n\nGarrick must have been proud to act under such banner of song as that.\nThe tragedy of _Irene_ came to its first representation a short time\nafterward; and surely it would have been worth one's while to see the\nstout, awkward gerund-grinder of forty, slipping into a side-box, or\neven behind {97} the scenes \"in a scarlet waistcoat, with rich gold\nlace and a gold-laced hat!\"  The play, however, did not prove a great\nsuccess either then or thereafter.  The Dictionary, for which proposals\nhad already been issued, promised better things.  That Dictionary did\nultimately give him a great lift--as it has to a good many, since.  The\nponderous volume furnished very many New England households seventy\nyears ago; and I can remember sitting upon it, in my child-days, to\nbring my head properly above the level of the table.  An immense and\nlong-continued toil went to the Dictionary.  Lord Chesterfield,[25] the\nfinished orator and the elegant man--not unwilling to have so great a\nwork bear his name--called attention to the book and the author, when\nnearly ready; but Johnson was too sore with hope deferred to catch {98}\nthat bait; he writes an indignant letter (not published until 1790) to\nthe elegant Chesterfield:--\n\n\n\"Seven years have now passed, my Lord, since I waited in your\noutward-rooms, or was repulsed from your door--during which time I have\nbeen pushing on my work, thro' difficulties of which it is useless to\ncomplain, and have brought it at last to the verge of publication\nwithout one act of assistance, one word of encouragement, or one smile\nof favor....  The notice which you have been pleased to take of my\nlabors--had it been early--had been kind; but it has been delayed till\nI am indifferent and cannot enjoy it; till I am solitary [his wife dead\nnow] and cannot impart it, till I am known and do not want it.\"\n\n\nThis does not show the stuff which went to the making of such a man as\nWalpole!\n\nThe _Rambler_, too, it must be remembered, is making its periodic\nvisits in those early days of the Dictionary toil.  Heavy it is, like\nthe master; and his prejudices as arrant Churchman and sturdy Tory do\nindeed break through its piled-up pages; but never insidiously: he\nsounds a trumpet before he strikes.  Perhaps a little over-fond of\ntrumpeting; loving so much his long sonorous roll of Ciceronian\nvocables.\n\nBut I have not the same dislike of long {99} Johnsonian periods that a\ngood many people have--provided always there is a Johnson to utter\nthem.  They belong to _him_; they match with their wordy convolutions\nhis great billowy make of mind; and short, sharp sentences would be as\nincongruous as a little spurting _jet d'eau_ where great waves come\nrocking on the beach.\n\nIn fact, I have a large unbelief in much of current pedagogic talk\nabout style, and \"getting a good style,\" and \"reforming style,\" and\n\"Saxon style,\" and so on.  To be thoroughly possessed of one's own\nthought, and then to tell it, in the clearest possible way, is the best\nlaw I know for a good style; and a proper following of it will give to\nevery mind that has any color of its own a style of its own.  To putter\nabout the rhetorics in search of fine phrases to wrap your thoughts in,\nis like going in masquerade; furbish it as you will, people will see\nthe smear of old wear in the tinsel trappings, and smell it too.\n\nIf short, homely Saxon will serve one's purpose best in giving sharp,\nshrewd expression to thought, as most times it will, use Saxon; but if\na Latin derivation will hit the very shade of your thinking {100} more\naptly, do not affect to scorn the Latin.  Even if a French\nword--provided always it be at once and easily comprehensible by all\nwhom you address--shall touch the very eye of your purpose better than\nanother, do not scruple to use it.\n\nBut we must ask pardon for this intrusion of small school-mastery talk,\nwhile the great master of the Dictionary and of the _Rambler_ waits.\nAs yet we have followed him through only half of his career; a stalwart\nman, still in the full prime of his years; and I see grouping about him\nat the Turk's Head many another whom we wish to follow; a Boswell and a\nBurke; Reynolds and Beauclerk and Goldsmith--these all are in waiting.\nBut for a fuller and nearer view of these old club-men of more than a\ncentury ago, we open upon another chapter of these _Lands and Letters_.\n\n\n\n[1] Whoso would take measure, of his scholarly thoroughness, his reach,\nhis pertinacity, and his capacity for striking sharp blows, should\nstruggle through his _Dissertation on Phalaris_.\n\n[2] Swift, Addison, Steele, Gay, _et al._, in preceding volume of\n_Lands, Letters, and Kings_ (\"Elizabeth to Anne\")\n\n[3] He lived for many years in the _Palazzo Muti_ near to the church of\nthe _SS. Apostoli_, in Rome; his disorderly life there made it a _Regio\nPalazzo_!\n\n[4] _Lands and Letters_: \"From Elizabeth to Anne,\" p. 100.\n\n[5] _Lands and Letters_: \"Elizabeth to Anne.\"\n\n[6] This is one contemporary account of it--adopted by Thackeray; but\nWraxall (1st vol., pp. 384-385 American reprint, Lea & Blanchard) says\nthat the Duke of Dorset was commissioned to carry the news; but some\nlittle time being required to make himself ready, the Duchess was sent\nin advance.  She arrived at Kew (where the Prince was staying) just as\nthat Prince had gone to bed, as was his wont, after dinner.  The\nPrincess undertook the announcement--though demurring at the duty, and\nanticipating a brutal reception for one who should disturb his\nafter-dinner nap; he was in a huff and _did_ make the comment, noted in\nthe text; but it was not (says Wraxall) to a messenger in jack-boots,\nbut to the Princess of Wales herself.\n\n[7] Richardson: b. 1689; d. 1761.  Various editions of his works.\nKnown quite generally to buyers of cheap books in our day by an\nabbreviated issue of _Clarissa Harlowe_ (Routledge & Sons).\n\n[8] Henry Fielding: b. 1707; d. 1754.  Editions of his works have been\nedited by Arthur Murphy, William Roscoe, and Leslie Stephen; (10 vols.,\n1882-1883.)  Life by Sir Walter Scott in Ballantyne Library; more\ntrustworthy one is that by Austin Dobson.\n\n[9] It is perhaps to be doubted if the bare-faced coarsenesses of\nFielding (much as they are to be condemned) would provoke pruriency so\nmuch as the sentimental and sensuous languors of Richardson.\n\n[10] _History of Pendennis_, Household Ed., Boston: Chap. xxix.\n\n[11] It was in virtue of some altercations growing out of Fielding's\nplays that British censorship was established in 1737, and (perhaps)\nFielding thereby diverted to the study of Law.\n\n[12] James Thomson, b. 1700; d. 1748.  Various editions of his poems; a\nvery elegant one, illustrated by the Etching Club, published 1842-62.\n\n[13] _The Jubilee of the Constitution_, a discourse delivered by\nrequest of the New York Historical Society, April 30, 1839, and\nrepeated shortly after in the old \"Ludlow\" Church, (now \"Dime\nTheatre\"), in Church Street, New Haven.\n\n[14] Thomas Gray, b. 1716; d. 1771.  See Gosse's recent biography for\ncritical as well as sympathetic account of his life and writings.  See\nalso Mitford's edition of his works, with life, London, 1836.\n\n[15] Horace Walpole, b. 1717; d. 1785.  The enumeration of his books,\npamphlets, and of titles relating thereto fill a dozen columns of\n_Lowndes_.  His letters give best measurement of the man.\n\n[16] It purported to be a translation from the Italian of Onuphrio\nMuralto.\n\n[17] Peter Cunningham Edition.  London, 1857-1859.  See also _Horace\nWalpole and His World_, by L. B. Seeley.  1884.\n\n[18] Rev. William Mason, b. 1725; d. 1797; author of _The English\nGarden_, published at intervals (its successive books) between 1772 and\n1782.  It has little merit--Walpole to the contrary.\n\n[19] _Wet Days at Edgewood_, p. 239.\n\n[20] Samuel Johnson, b. 1709; d. 1784.  Boswell's the standard life of\nhim, and Birkbeck Hill's the best edition of that life.  We miss in it,\nindeed, some of the \"Croker\" notes, which made such inviting quarry for\nthe sharp huntsmanship of Macaulay.  But the editing is done with a\nlove and a tirelessness which are as winning as they are rare.  See,\nalso, Leslie Stephen's sketch--which is the best short life.\n\n[21] _Ency. Britannica_; Art. Johnson.\n\n[22] B. 1698; d. 1743.  Poet and dramatist.  Collected edit. of his\nwritings published in 1775.  His largest claim to distinction is due to\nthe _Life of Richard Savage_, by Samuel Johnson; first published 1744.\n\n[23] _Vide_ old edition of _Ency. Britannica_, also Strahan's\n_Biographical Dictionary_ of 1784; _Biographie Universelle, et al._\n\n[24] See _Notes and Queries_, November and December, 1858.\n\n[25] Philip Dormer Stanhope (Earl of Chesterfield), b. 1694; d. 1773,\nbest known by his _Letters to His Son_, first published in 1774.\nJohnson said they taught \"the morals of a courtesan, and the manners of\na dancing-master.\"  This was perhaps over-severe.  People who do not\nlove to disport in fashionable waters are apt to be severe upon those\nwho spend their faculties upon the coquetries of bathing costume.\n\n\n\n\n{101}\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nIt was a little after the middle of the last century that our story\nopens again.  George II., whose virtues and vices were clock-like in\ntheir regularities, was on the throne; Queen Caroline, whom he had\nalways abused and always venerated, was in her grave for twelve or more\nyears past.  Outside politics were ripening for that French and English\nwar--in which a Montcalm and a Wolfe figured upon our side the water,\nand which has been put in picturesque array by Francis Parkman; the\ngeraniums and oleanders were blossoming over the Portuguese grave of\nHarry Fielding; Thomson had sung his last notes in his _Castle of\nIndolence_ and was laid to rest--not in Kelso, or Dryburgh, where his\nbody should have mouldered--but in a little Richmond Church, within\ngunshot of the \"Star and Garter.\" {102} Gray was still studying the\nscholarly measures of the _Bard_, in his beloved Cambridge; Horace\nWalpole playing the _elegant_ was fattening on his revenues at\nStrawberry Hill; while Dr. Johnson--notwithstanding the Dictionary and\nthe _Rambler_--had been latterly (1756) in such sore straits as to\nappeal to his friend Richardson for the loan of a few guineas to save\nhim from jail; and Richardson, fresh then in his triumphs from\n_Clarissa Harlowe_ and the great _Grandison_, was not slow to grant the\nrequest,[1] and to enjoy all the more his Kingship among the women, in\nhis great house out at Hammersmith.\n\n[Sidenote: London streets.]\n\nA sharp walk of a quarter of an hour from St. Paul's would, in that\ntime, take one into the green fields that lay in Islington; and beyond,\nupon the Waltham road, were the hedges, pikes, and quiet paddocks,\nthrough which went galloping--at a little later day--that citizen of\n\"credit and renown,\" John Gilpin, instead of the clattering suburbs\nthat now stretch nearly all the way between Cheapside and the \"Bell\" at\nEdmonton.\n\n{103}\n\nOf the many bridges which now span the Thames, only two[2]\nrepresentatives were in existence; the old Westminster was there in its\nfirst freshness, and ferrymen quarrelling with it, because it spoiled\ntheir carrying trade to Vauxhall and parts adjacent; and the old London\nBridge was cumbered by lumbering houses, held up by trusses and\ncross-beams, while its openings were so low and its piers so many as to\nmake, at certain stages of the tide, furious cascades which drove great\nwheels geared to cumbrous pumping machinery, to throw up water for the\nbehoof of London citizens.  The old Fleet Prison was in existence, and\nits smudgy stifling air hung over all that low region above which now\nleap the great arches of the Holborn Viaduct; and round the corner, in\nthe reek and smoke of Fleet Street, half way between the spire of St.\nBride's and the spire of St. Clement's Danes--up a grimy court that is,\nvery likely, just as grimy to-day, lived that Leviathan of a man, Dr.\nSamuel Johnson.\n\n\n{104}\n\n_Johnson and Rasselas._\n\n[Sidenote: Rasselas.]\n\nHe had passed through his green days, and the nights when he strolled\nsupperless about London with that poor wretch of a poet Richard Savage.\nThe school at Edial with its three pupils was well behind him; so was\nthe dining behind the screen at Cave's (the bookseller who presided\nover the _Gentleman's Magazine_, with St. John's Gate on the cover\nthen, and on the cover now): so was his age of sentiment ended.\n\nHis wife Tetty had gone the way of all flesh (1752) and he had mourned\nher truly: in proof of this may be counted the presence under his roof\nof a certain old lady, Miss Williams, who is peevish, who is\ntempestuous, who is blind, who tests the tea with her fingers, who\n_will_ talk, and then again, she _won't_ talk; yet Johnson befriends\nher, pensions her--when he has money,--sends home sweetbreads from the\ntavern for her; and when his friends ask why he tolerates this vixen,\nhe gives the soundest reason that he has--\"she {105} was a friend of\nTetty; she was with poor Tetty when she died!\"\n\nAnd his brain was as big, or bigger, than his heart; it had made itself\nfelt all over England by long, honest work--by brave, loud speech.  He\nhad snubbed the elegant Lord Chesterfield, who would have liked to see\nhis name upon the first page of the great Dictionary.  Not an outcast\nof the neighborhood but had heard of his audacious kindness; not a\nlinkboy but knew him by the chink of his half-pence; not a beggar but\nhad been bettered by his generous dole; not a watchman but knew him by\nhis unwieldy hulk, and his awkward, intrepid walk; and we know him--if\nwe know him at all--not by his _Rambler_ and his _Rasselas_, so much as\nby the story of his life.  Who rates _Rasselas_ among his or her\ncherished books of fiction?\n\nWhat an unlikely, and what a ponderous beginning it has!\n\n\n\"Ye who listen with credulity to the whispers of fancy and pursue with\neagerness the phantoms of hope; who expect that age will perform the\npromises of youth, and that the deficiencies of the present day will be\nsupplied by the morrow, attend to the history of Rasselas, Prince of\nAbyssinia!\"\n\n\n{106}\n\nWhen, in days long past, I have read thus far in this elephantine\nnovelette to my children, they were pretty apt to explode upon me\nwith--\"Please try something else!\"  Yet this elephantine novelette has\na host of excellent and eloquent moral reflections in it, shouldering\nand elbowing themselves out from its flimsy dress of fiction.  Shall I\ngive a hint of the scheme of this old story?  An Abyssinian prince\nliving in the middle of a happy valley, walled in by mountains that are\nbeautiful, and watered by rivers that are musical, in the enjoyment of\nall luxuries, does at last become restless--as so many people do--not\nso much from a want, as from the want of a want.  So he conspires with\nImlac, a poet, to escape from the thraldom of complete ease: a sister\nof the prince and her handmaid steal away with them; and with plenty of\njewels the party enter upon their exploration of the ways of outside\nlife.  They encounter hermits whose solitude does not cure their pains,\nand shepherds whose simplicities do not conquer misfortune, and\nphilosophers whose philosophy does not relieve their anxieties, and\nscholars whose learning does not make them happy.\n\n{107}\n\nImlac, the poet, sums up their findings in saying--\"You will rarely\nmeet one who does not think the lot of his neighbor better than his\nown.\"  This is its whole philosophy.  There are interlarded discourses\nupon learning, and marriage, and death, and riches, which might have\nbeen cut from a _Rambler_ or from a sermon.  They travel through upper\nEgypt, and sojourn in the grand Cairo; but there is no shimmer of the\ndesert, and no flash of crescent or scimitar, and no dreamy\norientalism; its Eastern sages talk as if they might have thundered\ntheir ponderous sentences from the pulpit of St. Bride's.  As a\nfinality--if the tale can be said to have any finality--the princess\nthinks she would like--of all things--Knowledge: the poor handmaid, who\nhas had her little adventure, by being captured by a Bedouin chief,\nthinks she would like best a convent on some oasis in the desert; while\nthe prince would like a miniature kingdom whose rule he might\nadminister with justice as easily as one might wind a watch; but all\nagree that, when the Nile flood favors, they will go contentedly back\nto the happy valley from which they set out upon their {108}\nwanderings.  It is interesting to know that the story was written by\nDr. Johnson on the evenings of a single week; and written--before he\nhad come to his pension[3]--to defray the expenses of his mother's\nfuneral; and it is interesting further to know that the magniloquent\ntale did forge its way into the front rank of readers at a time when\n_Roderick Random_ and _Tom Jones_ were comparatively fresh books, and\nonly five years after Mr. Richardson had issued from his book-shop\nunder the shadows of St. Bride's, hardly a gunshot away from the house\nof Johnson, the voluminous history of _Sir Charles Grandison_.\n\n\n_The Painter and the Club._\n\n[Sidenote: Sir Joshua Reynolds.]\n\nAmong the friends the Doctor made in those days of _Ramblers_ and\n_Idlers_ was one Joshua Reynolds,[4] some fourteen years the junior of\nthe Doctor, but sedate and thoughtful beyond his age; with an eye, too,\nfor the beautiful faces of young {109} English girls which had never\nbeen opened on them before; and doing artist work that is quite\ndifferent in quality and motive from that of the old stand-by Mr.\nHogarth, who not long before this time had been preaching his painted\nsermons of the _Rake's Progress_.\n\nReynolds had made his trip to Italy, and had brought back from Rome, in\naddition to his studies of Raphael--an affection of the ear--caught, as\nhe always said, in the draughty corridors of the Vatican, which obliged\nhim ever after to carry an ear-trumpet; but his courtesy and grace and\nprecision of speech made the awkwardness forgotten.  Looking at the\nexquisite child's face of his little Penelope Boothby, expressing all\nthat was most winning in girlhood for him who was so reverent of\nexterior graces, and looking from this to the leathern, seamy face of\nJohnson, and his unlaundered linen, and snuffy frills (when he wore\nany), and it is hard to understand the intimacy of these two men; but\nthere was a tenderness of soul under the Doctor's slouchy ways which\nthe keen painter recognized; and in the painter there was a resolute\nintellection, which Johnson was not slow to {110} detect, and which\npresently--when the new Royal Academy was founded by George III.--was\nto have expression in the great painter's discourses on Art--discourses\nwhich for their courageous common-sense will, I think, outrank much of\nthe art-writing of to-day.\n\n[Sidenote: Turks-Head Club.]\n\nIn 1760 (the year after _Rasselas_ appeared) Reynolds moved into a fine\nhouse, for that day, in Leicester Square--a quarter now given over\nmostly to French lodgers; but in its neighborhood one may find a marble\nbust of the eminent painter; and the house where he gave great steaming\ndinners--famous for their profusion and disorderly array--is still\nthere, though given over to small artists and sellers of bric-a-brac.\nHis good sister, Miss Fanny, who was his housekeeper, loved painting\nand poetry, and a drive in the painter's chariot, which he set up in\nlater days, better than she loved housewifery.  Over-shrewd ones said\nthat Sir Joshua (the title came to him a few years after with the\npresidency of the Royal Academy) did not marry because he had wholesome\ndread of a wife's extravagance; certain it is that he remained a\nbachelor all his life, and {111} thereby was a fitting person to\ndiscuss with the widowed Johnson the formation of a club.  The Doctor\nwas always clubably disposed; so he caught at the idea of Sir Joshua,\nand thence sprung that society--called \"The Literary Club\" afterward,\nwhich held its sessions, first at the Turk's Head, in Gerrard Street,\nSoho Square--on Monday evenings at the start, and afterward on\nFridays--numbering among its early members Johnson, Burke, Reynolds,\nHawkins, Beauclerk, and Goldsmith.  This famous club, though moving\nfrom place to place in the closing years of the last century, still\npreserved its identity; it took a new lease of life in the first\nquarter of the present century, and it still survives in a very quiet\nold age, holding its fortnightly meetings--rather sparingly attended,\nit is true--at Willis's Rooms, St. James's Street, in the west of\nLondon.  Among recent members may be named Gladstone, Sir Frederick\nLeighton, Lord Salisbury, the Duke of Argyle, Tennyson, and Matthew\nArnold.[5]\n\n\n{112}\n\n_Some Old Club-men._\n\n[Sidenote: Edmund Burke.]\n\nBurke,[6] who was among the original nine members, was very much the\njunior of Johnson; but known to him as a sometime Irish student at law,\nwho had written only a few years before two brilliant treatises; one on\n_Natural Society_, and the other on the _Sublime and Beautiful_.\n\nLater he had done excellent historic work in connection with _Dodsley's\nAnnual Register_; but he had not yet entered upon that sea of political\nturmoil over which he was to sweep in so grand a way and with such\nblaze of triumph.  It is possible indeed that he was indebted to the\nassociations of the club for some of the initiative steps toward that\nwonderful career whose outcome in Parliament, in the courts, and in\npamphleteering, has become a component part of the {113} literature of\nEngland.  Burke, even at that early stage of his progress (his first\nspeech was made in 1766) had all his vast resources at ready command;\nJohnson did not wish to meet him in debate without warning; true he was\nafraid of no mere eloquence; he was used to puncturing bloat of that\nsort; but Burke's most fiery speeches were beaded throughout with\nglobules of thought, which must be grasped and squelched one by one, if\nmastery were sought.  He was impetuous, too, and aggressive, but\nreverent of the superior age and reputation of the Doctor; and I\ndaresay coyly avoided those American questions which later came to the\nfront, and upon which they held views diametrically opposed.  In after\nyears it used to be said that Burke's speeches would empty the benches\nof the Commons--ye philosophized; and when not heated, spoke with a\ndrawling utterance and a touch of Irish brogue flavoring his voice;\nindeed he talked so well he was never tired of talking; his sentences\nso swelled out under the amplitude of his illustrations and allusions\nthat I think he came at last to take a pride in their very longitude,\nand trailed his gorgeous convolutions of {114} speech with the\ndelighted eagerness with which a fine woman trails her sheen of satins\nand velvets.\n\n[Sidenote: Topham Beauclerk.]\n\nDr. Nugent, a physician of culture, father-in-law of Mr. Burke, was\nalso one of the original members of the club--getting the\npreferment--as so many in all times do get preferment--simply because\nson-in-law, father-in-law, or nephew--to somebody else.  Another\nnoticeable member of the club was Topham Beauclerk, not by any means\nthe man a casual observer would have taken for an associate of Johnson.\nHe was courtly and elegant in bearing, a man of fashion, smiled upon by\nsuch as Lord Chesterfield and Horace Walpole, and who traced his\ndescent back through the first Duke of St. Albans to Nell Gwynne and\nCharles the Second.  He inherited by right, therefore, gayety and humor\nand wit, and rare histrionic power, and Satan-ry to match.  Old Dr.\nJohnson fairly languished in his admiration of the way in which Topham\nBeauclerk could tell a story.  \"It costs me fearful pains,\" he was used\nto say; \"but this fellow trips through with an airy grace that costs\nhim nothing.\"\n\nBeauclerk was proud of his membership, and {115} brought his own share\nof wit, of general information, and of cheery _bonhomie_ to the common\nreckoning.  He married a certain well-known and much-admired Lady Diana\nBolingbroke--a divorcee of two days' standing--and treated her\nshamefully; that being the proper thing for a fashionable man to do,\nwho was emulous of the domestic virtues of George II.  At his death,\nwith a large jointure in hand, she had peace; and Burke said, with a\nhumor that was uncommon to him: \"It was really enlivening to behold her\nplaced in that sweet house, released from all her cares: L1,000 per\nannum at her disposal, and her husband dead!  It was pleasant, it was\ndelightful, to see her enjoyment of the situation!\"  Beauclerk was too\nfine a fellow to think well of the domesticities; there was a good deal\nof the blood of Charles the Second in him.  Over and over we come upon\nsuch--men of parts squandered in the small interchanges of fashionable\nlife; perpetually saying slight, good things for a dinner-table;\ntelling a story with rare gusto; the envy of heavy talkers who can\nnever catch butterflies on the wing; looking down upon serious duty\nwhether in art or {116} letters; and so, leaving nothing behind them\nbut a pretty and not always delicate perfume.\n\n[Sidenote: David Garrick.]\n\nAnother of the clubmen was David Garrick--not one of the original nine,\nbut voted in a few years after.  Dr. Johnson does indeed give a\ncharacteristic growl when his name is proposed--\"What do we want of\nplay-actors?\" but his good nature triumphs.  Little Garrick was an old\nscholar of his at Edial; and though he has conquered all theatric arts\nand won all their prizes, he is still for him, \"little Garrick.\"  A\ntaste for splendor and dress had always belonged to him.  In his\nboy-days he had written to his father, who was stationed at Gibraltar,\n\"I hope, Papa, you find velvet cheap there; for some one has given me a\nknee-buckle, and it would go capitally with velvet breeches.  Amen, and\nso be it!\"\n\nThat love for the buckles and the velvet clung to him.  When Edial\nschool broke up, he tramped with Johnson to London--the master with the\npoor tragedy of _Irene_ in his pocket, and the boy with such gewgaws\nand pence as he could rake together.  Perhaps, also, the tragic\nsplendor of Shakespeare's verse shimmering mistily across his {117}\nvisions of the future, making his finger-ends tingle and his pulse beat\nhigh.\n\nBut a legacy of L1,000 comes to the Garrick lad presently, which he\ninvests in a wine business, in company with his staid brother, Peter\nGarrick, who looks after affairs in Lichfield, and who is terribly\ndisturbed when he hears that David is taking to theatric studies;--has\nacted parts even!\n\nAnd Davy writes back relenting, and sorry to grieve them at home; but\nkeeps at his parts.  And Peter writes more and more disconsolately,\nlamenting this great reproach, and David writes pretty letters of\nfence, and the wine business leaks away, and Peter is in despair; and\nDavy sends remittances which are certainly not legitimate business\ndividends, thus propping up the sinking wine venture; and before Peter\nis reconciled, has become the hero of the London boards, with a bank\ncredit that would buy all their ports and clarets twice over.\n\nAnd this wonderful histrionic genius, probably unparalleled on the\nEnglish stage before or since his day, so gay, so brisk--so witty\nbetimes--so capable of a song or a fandango, brought life to the {118}\nclub.  Nor was there lack in him of literary qualities; his prologues\nwere of the best, and he had the charming art of listening\nprovocatively when the great doctor expounded.\n\n\n_Mr. Boswell._\n\n[Sidenote: James Boswell.]\n\nAnother early member of the club, whom I think we should have liked to\nsee making his way with a very assured step into the Turk's Head, of a\nMonday or a Friday, was James Boswell, Esquire.[7]  It is a household\nname now, and will remain so for years to come by reason of the\nextraordinary life which he wrote, of his master and patron, Dr.\nJohnson.  Yet it was only a year or so before the formation of the club\nthat this jaunty Scotch gentleman, son of a laird, and of vast\nassurance--having been a tuft-hunter from his youth--caught his first\nsight of the great Doctor, in the little shop of Davies the bookseller;\nand the great man had given a snubbing, then and there, to the pert,\nbut always obsequious Boswell; the future biographer, however, digested\n{119} excellently well provision of that sort, and I think the Doctor\nhad always a tenderness for those who took his flagellations without\ncomplaint.  Certain it is that there grew up thereafter an intimacy\nbetween the two, which is one of the most curious things in the history\nof English Men of Letters.  I know that hard things are said of Mr.\nBoswell, and that every tyro in criticism loves to have a blow at the\nwell-fed arrogance of the man.  Macaulay has specially given him a\ngrievous black-eye; but Macaulay--particularly in those early review\npapers--was apt to let his exuberant and cumulative rhetoric carry him\nup to a climacteric which the ladder of his facts would scantly reach.\nTo be sure Boswell was a toady; but rather from veneration of those he\nworshipped than desire of personal advancement; he was an arrant\ntuft-hunter, thereby enlarging the sphere of his observations; but he\nwas fairly up in classical studies; had large fund of information; was\nsufficiently well-bred (indeed, in contrast with the Doctor, I think we\nmay say excellently well-bred); he rarely, if ever, said malicious\nthings, though often impertinent ones; {120} his conundrums again and\nagain gave a new turn to dull talk; and he had a way, which some even\nmore stolid people possess in our time, of _baiting_ conversation by\ninterposing irrelevant matter, with an air of innocence that\ncaptivates; then there was the pleasant conceit of the man--full-fed,\nsleek, and shining out all over him--over his face, and his erect but\nsomewhat paunchy figure; all which qualities were contributory to the\nhumor and fulness and charm of that famous biography which we can read\nbackward or forward--in the morning or at night--by the chapter or by\nthe page--with our pipe or without it--with our knitting or without\nit--and always with an amazed and delighted sense that the dear, old,\nclumsy, gray-stockinged, snuff-ridden Doctor has come to life once\nmore, and is toddling along our streets, belching out his wit and\nwrath, and leaning on the arm of the ever-ready and most excellent and\nobsequious James Boswell, Esquire.\n\nSuch a book is not to be sneered at, nor the writer of it; perhaps we\nthink it would be easy for us or anybody to write such another, if we\n{121} would only forget conventionalisms and have the courage of our\nimpressions; but if we made trial, I daresay we should find that to\nforget conventionalisms is just what we can't and do not know how to\ndo; and so our impressions get bundled into the swathings of an\nambitious rhetoric which spoils our chances and vulgarizes effort.  I\ndo not say Boswell was a very high-toned man or a very capable man in\nmost directions; but he did have the art of easy narrative to a most\nuncommon degree; and did clearly perceive and apprehend just those\npoints and qualities which go to make portraiture complete and\nsatisfying.[8]  I do not believe that he stupidly blundered into doing\nhis biographic work well; stupid {122} blundering never did and never\ncould accomplish work that will meet acceptance by the intelligence of\nthe world.\n\n\n_Gibbon._\n\n[Sidenote: Edward Gibbon.]\n\nI come now to speak of a more respectable personage--one of whom you\nhave often heard, and whose resounding periods, full of Roman History\nyou will most surely have read; I mean Edward Gibbon[9]--not an\noriginal member of the club, but elected at an early day.  His life has\ngreat interest.  He was the sole survivor of seven children; his father\nbeing a Member of Parliament--very reputable, but very inefficient.\nThere were fears that his famous son would be a <DW36> for life, so\nweakly was he, and so ill put together; but growing stronger, he went\nto Oxford; was there for only a short time; did not love Oxford {123}\nthen, or ever; inclined to theologic inquiry and became Romanist; which\nso angered his father that he sent him to Lausanne, Switzerland, to be\nre-converted under the Calvinist teachers of that region to\nProtestantism.  This in due time came about; and it was perhaps by a\nsort of compensating mental retaliation for this topsy-turvy condition\nof his youth that he assumed and cultivated the pugnacious indifference\nto religion which so marked all his later years and much of his work.\nHe had his love passages, too, there upon the beautiful borders of Lake\nGeneva; a certain Mademoiselle Curchod, daughter of a Protestant\nclergyman, lived near by; and with her the future historian read\npoetry, read philosophy, read the skies and the mountains, discoursed\nupon the conjugation of verbs, and upon conjugalities of other sorts;\nbut this the English father disapproved as much as he had disapproved\nof Romanism; and by reason of this--as Gibbon tells us, in his\ndelightful autobiography--that \"sweet dream came to an end.\"  It is\ntrue the French biographers[10] {124} put a rather different phase upon\nthe story, and represent that while Mademoiselle respected young Mr.\nGibbon very much, she could not return his ardor.  Two colors, I have\nobserved, are very commonly given to any sudden interruption of such\nfestivities.\n\nMademoiselle, however, did not pine in single blessedness; she had a\ncareer before her.  She became in a few years the distinguished wife of\nNecker, the great finance minister of France in the days immediately\npreceding the Revolution, and the mother of a still more famous\ndaughter--that Mme. de Stael who wrote _Corinne_.\n\nThough Gibbon lived and died a bachelor, he always maintained friendly\nrelations with his old flame Mme. Necker, being frequently a guest at\nher elegant Paris home; and she, on at least one occasion, a guest of\nthe historian in London.  It was in the year 1774--ten years after its\nfoundation, that Gibbon was elected member of the Literary Club; he\nbeing then in his thirty-seventh year and well known for his wide\nlearning and his conversational powers.  He was recognized as an\nauthor, too, of critical acumen, and great range {125} of language;\nsome of his earlier treatises were written in French, which he knew as\nwell as English; German he never knew; but the first volume of the\n_History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire_ did not appear\nuntil the year 1776--a good tag for that great American date!  That\nfirst volume made a prodigious surprise, and immense applause.  Poor\nHume[11] (whose story waits), struggling with the mortal disease which\nwas to carry him off in that year, wrote his praises from Edinburgh.\nHorace Walpole, who had the vanity of professing to know everybody\nworth knowing, says, \"I am astonished; I know the man a little; I could\nnot believe it was in him; I must get to know him better.\"\n\nYet Gibbon was not a modest man in the ordinary sense; never, except\nwhen--very rarely--warmed into a colloquial display of his\nextraordinary learning, did he impress a stranger with any sense of his\npower.  He was short and corpulent; had a waddling walk and puffy\ncheeks and a weak {126} double chin; with very much in his general\naspect and manner to explain the miscarriage of his love-affair, and\nnothing at all to explain the Decline of the Roman Empire.  Withal, he\nwas obsequious, studiously courteous; had ready smiles at command; had\na mincing manner; his wig was always in order, and so was his flowered\nwaistcoat; and he tapped his snuff-box with an easy degage air, that\ngave no warrant for anything more than an agreeable titillation of the\nnerves.  But if an opening came for a thrust of his cumulated learning\nin establishing some historic point in dispute, it poured out with a\ngush, authority upon authority, citation on citation, as full and\nimpetuous and unlooked for as a great spring flood.\n\nHe went over to Paris with his honors fresh upon him; was cordially\nreceived there; the Necker influence, and his familiarity with French,\nstanding him in good stead.  He affected a certain style too.  \"I\nhave,\" he says, \"two footmen in handsome liveries behind my coach, and\nmy apartment is hung with damask.\"  He loved such display, though only\nthe hired luxury of a hotel.  He had never a taste for the simpler\nenjoyments of {127} English country life; never mounted a horse and\nscorned partridge shooting or angling.  In a letter to a friend he\nsays, \"Never pretend to allure me by painting in odious colors the dust\nof London.  I love the dust, and whenever I move into the Weald, it is\nto visit _you_, and not your trees.\"\n\nIt does not appear that he went frequently to the Turk's-Head Club.\nThe brusquerie of Johnson would have grated on him--grated on him in\nmore senses than one, we suspect; and the gruff Doctor would have\nscorned his dilettanteism as much as his scepticism.  Gibbon took\nkindly, though, to Goldsmith; but he hated Boswell honestly, and\nBoswell honestly hated back.[12]\n\nHis letters were never strong or bright, nor were his occasional\nliterary criticisms either acute or profound; all his great powers were\nkept in reserve for his _magnum opus_--the History.  For the quietude\nhe thought necessary to its completion he went again to the home of his\nyouth at Lausanne, and there, in sight of that wondrous {128} panorama\nof lake and mountain, upon a site where now stands the Hotel\nGibbon,[13] and a few acacia trees under which the historian meditated,\nthe great work was brought to completion--a great work then, and a\ngreat work now, measured by what standard we will.  To say that one\napproaches the accuracy of Gibbon is to exhaust praise; to say that one\nsurpasses him in reach of learning is to deal in hyperbole.  Even the\nhistorian, Dr. Freeman, who, I think, did much prefer saying a critical\nthing to saying a pleasant thing, testified that--\"He remains the one\nhistorian of the eighteenth century whom modern research has neither\nset aside, nor threatened to set aside.\"  Modern high critics sneer at\nhis large, ceremonious manner; Ruskin pronounces \"his English the worst\never written by an educated Englishman\"[14] (the same Ruskin who found\na \"mass of errors\" under the sunshine of Claude).  But let {129} us\nremember what burden of knowledge those grandiloquent sentences of\nGibbon had to carry; what reach of empire they had to cover!  Here be\nno pigmies, predicating the outcome of little factions, no discourse\nabout the smallness of word-meanings; but vast populations are arrayed\nunder our eye.  We cannot talk of the stars in their courses as we talk\nof the will-o'-wisps of politicians.  Rome marching to its dissolution,\nwith captive nations in its trail,[15] must put a lofty strain upon the\npage that records her downfall.\n\nThrough all, this corpulent, learned, dainty, keen-eyed, indefatigable\nlittle man, is cool--over cool; he has no enthusiasms but the\nenthusiasm of knowing things.  No wrongs that he records seem to chafe\nhim; his blood has no boiling-point; his love no flame; his indignation\nno scorching power.  A great, imposing, processional array of\nsovereigns, armies, nations--of the wise, the vicious, the savage, the\nlearned, the good; but not a figure in it all, however pure or\ninnocent, which kindles his sympathies into a glow; not one {130} so\nprofligate as to make his anger burn; not one so lofty or so true as to\ngive warmth to his expressions of reverence.\n\nYet notwithstanding, if any of my young readers are projecting the\nwriting of a history, I strongly advise them to avoid the subject of\nthe _Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire_.\n\n\n_Oliver Goldsmith._\n\n[Sidenote: Oliver Goldsmith.]\n\nAnd now we come to another member of our club, who reaped far fewer of\nthe substantial rewards of life.----Who, with any relish for the\nbeatitudes of letters, has not tender reverence for the memory of\nGoldsmith?  He was the youngest member of the club at its start, and\nyet the thirty-four years he then counted had been full of change and\nadventure: he had wandered away early from the beautiful paternal home\nof Lissoy in Ireland; had studied in Scotland and in Leyden; had idled\nin both; had been vagrant over Europe; had tried medicine, tried\nflute-playing, tried school-keeping, tried proof-reading for the old\nshopkeeper, Samuel Richardson, and had finally landed in a court not\n{131} far from Johnson's, where he did work for the booksellers.\nAmongst this work were certain essays which attracted the old Doctor's\nattention by their rare literary qualities; and the old gentleman had\nbefriended the author--all the more when he found him a man who did not\nbefriend himself; and who, if he had only sixpence in his pocket (and\nhe was not apt to have more), would give the half of it to a beggar.  A\nlittle over-love for wine, too--when the chance of a tavern dinner came\nto him--was another weakness which the great Doctor knew how to pardon;\nand so Goldsmith became one of the original clubmen; Reynolds, with all\nhis courtly ceremony, growing to love the man; so did Burke; but\nBoswell was always a little jealous of him, and Goldsmith caught at any\noccasion for giving a good slap to that sleek self-consequence which\nshone out all over Boswell--even to his knee-buckles and his silken\nhose.  I do not suppose that Goldsmith contributed much to the\nweightier debates of the club, and can imagine him sulking somewhat if\nhe found no good opening in the troubled waters in which to feather his\ndainty oar.  Again there was an {132} awkwardness, partly\nself-consciousness, partly organic tremor, which put him at bad odds in\npromiscuous talk; to say nothing of the irascibility which he had not\nlearned to control, and which sometimes put a stammer to the tongue;\nhence, Boswell says, \"poorest of talkers;\" but around in his chambers,\nwith one or two sympathetic listeners only, and perhaps a bottle of\nCanary flanking him, and with a topic started that chimed with the\nemotional nature of the man, and I am sure he would have talked out a\nwhole chapter of a new _Vicar of Wakefield_.\n\nBut whatever the tongue might do, there was no doubt about the pen; we\nfind him even undertaking discourses upon _Animated Nature_, and\nhistory--of Greece or of Rome.  Has he then the plodding faculty, and\nis he a man of research?  No; but he has the aptitude to seize upon the\nplums in the researches of others, and embody them in the amber of his\nlanguage.  He poaches all over the fields of history and science, and\nbags the bright-winged birds which the compilers have never seen, or\nwhich, if seen, they have classed with the gray and the dun of the\n{133} sparrows.  His poetry, when he makes it, may not have so much of\npolished clang and witty jingle as the verse of Pope; it may lack the\ngreat ground-swell of rhythmic cadence which belongs to Johnson;\nbut--somewhere between the lines, and subtly pervading every pause and\nflow--there is a tenderness, a suave, poetic perfume, a caressing touch\nof both mind and heart which we cannot describe--nor forget.\n\nOf the original club-men, Goldsmith[16] died first, in 1774, at\nBrick-court in the Temple; he was forty-five years old, and yielded to\na quick, sharp illness at the last, into which all the worries of a\nmuch worried life seemed to crowd him.  He had been plotting new works,\nand a new life too; a getting away (if it might be) from the smirch\nthat hung about him in the Temple corridors, out to the Edgware\nfarmery, where primroses and hedges grew, and where there was a scent\nupon the air, of that old country home of Lissoy:\n\n  \"I still had hopes my latest hours to crown,\n  Amidst those humble bowers to lay me down;\n\n{134}\n\n  To husband out life's taper at the close,\n  And keep the flame from wasting by repose.\n  I still had hopes, for pride attends me still,\n  Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill;\n  Around my fire an evening group to draw\n  And tell of all I felt and all I saw.\n  And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue,\n  Pants to the place from which at first he flew,\n  I still had hopes, my long vexations past,\n  Here to return, and die at home at last.\"\n\n\nA stolid physician, called in consultation in those last days, and\nseeing his disordered state, asked, \"If his mind was at ease?\"  Mind at\nease!  Surely a rasping question to put to a man whose pulse is\nthumping toward the hundreds, whose purse is empty, plans broken up,\ncredit gone, debts crowding him at every point, pains racking him, and\nthe grimy Fleet Prison close by, throwing its shadow straight across\nhis path.  No, his mind is _not_ at ease; and the pulse does gallop\nfaster and faster, and harder and harder to the end; when, let us\nhope--ease did come, and--God willing--\"Rest for the weary.\"\n\n\n{135}\n\n_The Thrales and the End._\n\nMeantime Dr. Johnson has been withdrawing somewhat from his old regular\nattendance upon the club.  New men have come in, of whiggish\ntendencies; he hears things he does not like to hear; the Americans are\nat last making a fight of it; he is a heavier walker than once; besides\nwhich his increased revenue has perhaps made him a little more free of\nthe Mitre tavern than of old; then he has made the acquaintance of Mr.\nThrale and of Mrs. Thrale--an every-way memorable acquaintance for him.\nMr. Thrale is a wealthy brewer, one while Member of Parliament--his\nworks standing on the ground in Southwark now held by Barclay &\nPerkins, some of whose dependencies cover the site of that Globe\nTheatre where William Shakespeare was sometime actor and shareholder.\nWithal, Mr. Thrale is a most generous, sound-headed, practical, kindly\nman, without being very acute, or cultured, or any way accomplished.\nMrs. Thrale, however, {136} has her literary qualities; can jingle a\nlittle of not inharmonious verse of her own; reads omnivorously; is apt\nin French or Latin; is full of esprit and liveliness, and is not\nwithout a certain charm of person.  She is small indeed, but with\nstriking features and picturesque; easily gracious at her table; witty,\nheadstrong, arch, proud of association with the great Dr. Johnson;\nreally having strong friendship for him; enduring his rudenesses;\nyielding to him in very much, but not so submissive as to take his\nopinion (or that of any other man) about whether she should or should\nnot marry Signor Piozzi, when afterward she came to be a widow.  In\nfact, she had in fine development the very womanly way--of having her\nown way.\n\nThe Thrales owned a delightful country place at Streatham, a pleasant\ndrive out from the city, down through Southwark and Brixton and on the\nroad to Croydon; and there Johnson went again and again: Mr. Thrale was\nso kind, and Mrs. Thrale so engaging.  At last they put at his service\na complete apartment, where he could, on his blue days, growl to his\nliking.  Who can say {137} what might have been the career of the great\nlexicographer if he had fallen into such downy quarters in his callow\ndays; should we have had the Dictionary?  Surely never the life of\nSavage, with its personal piquancy, and possibly never the Boswelliana.\n\n[Sidenote: Tour to the Hebrides.]\n\nBut Johnson was not wholly idle; neither the luxuries of Streatham, nor\nthe chink of his pension money, could stay the unrest of his mind: he\nwrites dedications for other people--shoals of them; he re-edits twice\nover the great Dictionary; publishes _The False Alarm_; completes his\n_Lives of the Poets_; and in the interim--between visits to Oxford,\nBrighton, and Lichfield--he makes that famous trip, with Boswell, to\nScotland and the Hebrides; and never, I think, was so unimportant a\njourney so known of men.  Every smart boy in every American school,\nknows now what puddings he ate, and about the cudgel that he carried,\nand the boiled mutton that was set before him.  The bare mention of\nthese things brings back a relishy smack of the whole story of the\njourney.  Is it for the literary quality of the book which describes\nit?  Is it for our interest {138} in the great, nettlesome, ponderous\ntraveller; or is it by reason of a sneaking fondness we all have for\nthe perennial stream of Boswell's gossip?  I cannot tell, for one: I do\nnot puzzle with the question; but I enjoy.\n\n[Sidenote: Last days of Johnson.]\n\nIn the year 1779 his old friend Garrick died,--leaving nearly a million\nof dollars, which came to him by that stage following and thrift which\nhad so worried the orthodox and respectable brother Peter of the\nwine-shop.  The interesting Mrs. Garrick came, after a time, to a\nlively widowhood on the Adelphi Terrace--looking out over what is now\nthe London Embankment, and with such friends as Miss Hannah More, and\n\"Evelina\" Burney, and the old wheezing Doctor himself, to cheer her\nloneliness and share her luxurious dinners.  The year after, in 1780,\nTopham Beauclerk died; and so that other bright light in the Turks-Head\nClub is dashed forever.\n\nThese, things may well have put new wrinkles in the old Doctor's\nvisage; but he still keeps good courage; works in his spasmodic\nway;--dines with the printer Strahan; dines at the Mitre; dines at\nStreatham; coquettes, in his lumbering {139} way, with Mrs. Thrale, and\ngoes home to the fogs and grime of Bolt Court.\n\nShall I quote from a letter to the last-named lady, dating in the year\n1780?\n\n\n\"How do you think I live?  On Thursday I dined with Hamilton and went\nthence to Mrs. Ord.  On Friday at the Reynolds'--on Sunday at Dr.\nBurney's with the two sweets [daughters of Mrs. T.] from Kensington; on\nMonday with Reynolds; to-day with Mr. Langton; to-morrow with the\nBishop of St. Asaph.  I not only scour the town from day to day, but\nmany visitors come to me in the morning, so that my work [_Lives of the\nPoets_] makes little progress.\n\n\"You are at all places of high resort, and bring home hearts by dozens,\nwhile I am seeking for something to say of men about whom I know\nnothing but their verses....  Congreve, whom I despatched at the\nBorough, is one of the best of the little lives: but then _I had the\nbenefit of your conversation_.\"\n\n\nThis is very well for a plethoric old gentleman of seventy-one.  The\nnext year, 1781, his friend and patron Mr. Thrale died.  This loss was\na grievous one for Johnson.  He had relished his kindliness and his\nlarge, practical sagacity: indeed I think he had relished in him the\nlack of that literary talk and allusion which so many of {140} his\nacquaintances thought it necessary to throw out as bait for the\nLeviathan.  But was the Doctor to enjoy still the delights of that\nStreatham retreat?  It is certain that a year did not pass before there\nwas much gossip, in neighboring gossiping circles, that associated the\nname of Johnson with the clever and wealthy widow, as a possible\nsuccessor to Mr. Thrale.  I do not think any such gossips of the male\nkind ever ventured within easy reach of the Doctor's oaken cudgel.\nThere is no evidence that any thought of such alliance ever came into\nJohnson's mind; but I _do_ think he had sometimes regaled himself with\nthe hope of a certain kindly protectorate over the luxuries and the\nmistress of Streatham, which would keep all its old charms open to him,\nand permit of a fatherly dalliance with the family there.  It appeared,\nhowever, that the clever lady had other views; and did marry three\nyears after--very much to the disgust of her children--Signor Piozzi, a\nmusician of very fair reputation; did live a happy enough life with\nhim; did publish a book or two full of sparkle and many errors, and\nsome mischievously strong cuts at people she disliked; did live {141}\nthereafter to a great old age, and carried roses in her cheeks amongst\nthe eighties; though I think these roses came from the apothecaries.\nShe was always fond of decoration.\n\nIn 1783 the Doctor had a stroke of paralysis, from which, however, he\nrallied and was himself once more--dining with Dilly, with Reynolds, at\nthe Mitre too, with Boswell; he even projects new work--suggests the\nformation of another club in the city, and more within reach: So\ntenaciously do we cling, and so hopefully do we keep plotting!  Finally\nin June, 1784, he takes his last dinner at the old club; Reynolds and\nBurke and Langton and Boswell are there, with others he does not know\nso well; he is feeble at this sitting and ill at ease; clouds gathering\nover him, from which, however, there flashes out from time to time a\nblaze of his old wit.\n\nThereafter, it is mostly Bolt-court--poor blind Miss Williams gone, by\nthis time, and also the sorry physician who had been long a pensioner\non him, and whose nostrums he had taken out of charity.  Of all the\nfaces that once welcomed him {142} there in their way, only his black\nman Francis left.\n\nLangton comes to see him; and Reynolds comes bringing more cheer,\nthough the ear trumpet is awkward for the sick man; Burke comes and\nshows all the melting tenderness of a woman; Boswell, too--before he\ngoes north--bounces in and out, his conceit and assurance mollified and\ndecently draped by the sorrow that hung over him.  Little Miss Burney\nrushes in to the ante-room and stays there hours, hoping some shortest\nlast interview with the great man who had said kindly things to\nher--never thinking that he could not relish her gossippy prattle about\nthe court, and the royal George, now that a great, swift tide was\nlifting him into the presence of another king.\n\n[Sidenote: Death of Johnson.]\n\nThe old superstitious awe and dread of death, which had belonged to him\nthroughout life, disappeared in these latter days, and the gloom--with\nits teasing vampires--was rarefied into a certain celestial haze that\nhung over him tenderly.  He did not excitedly wrestle with the awful\npossibilities the change might bring, nor work himself {143} into any\ncraze of pious exhilaration to bridge the gap; but was restful as a\nbabe at last, and so was led away tranquilly, by his own child-like\ntrust, over the threshold of the mysteries we must all confront.\n\n\n\n[1] See note, Hill's Boswell, p. 304, vol. i.\n\n[2] Blackfriars was not built until 1769, and the old Westminster in\n1750.\n\n[3] Pension granted, 1762: _Rasselas_ published, 1759.\n\n[4] Joshua Reynolds, b. 1723; d. 1792.  His _Discourses_ published,\n1771.  Life by Leslie, 1867.\n\n[5] It is from this latter gentleman--whom I had the good fortune to\nmeet in the course of his visit to this country--that my information in\nregard to the latter _status_ of the club is derived.\n\n[6] Edmund Burke, b. 1729; d. 1797.  Editions of his works are various.\nBest life of him is by John Morley (1867).\n\n[7] B. 1740; d. 1795.\n\n[8] There is, to be sure, a great deal of what the natural reserve of\nmost men would lead them to withhold.  But if this \"free-telling\" does\nadd some of the finer lights and most artistic touches to his picture,\nand if he perceives this to be so (and have we any right to assume the\ncontrary?) shall we not credit it rightly to his book-making art and\ncommend it accordingly?\n\nThat his gentlemanly reserves are not of a pronounced sort may count\nagainst the delicacy of his nature, but not necessarily against his\ncapacity as a literary artist.\n\n[9] Edward Gibbon, b. 1737; d. 1794.  Dr. Milman's is the standard\nedition of his History.  Bowdler's edition (1825) is noticeable for its\nexpurgations.  The work, through its translations, holds as large a\nplace in the historic _curriculum_ of French, Italian, and German\nstudents, as in that of English-speaking nations.\n\n[10] _Biographie Universale_; Article Necker (Mme. Necker, _nee Susanne\nCurchod_).\n\n[11] Hume's first volume of English History appeared in 1754--just\ntwenty-two years before the _Decline and Fall_.  Hume was about\ntwenty-six years Gibbon's senior.\n\n[12] Boswell says in his Diary (1779): \"Gibbon is an ugly, affected,\ndisgusting fellow, and poisons our literary club to me.\"\n\n[13] The old house has wholly disappeared; the hotel covers a portion\nof Gibbon's garden.\n\n[14] Letter in the _Pall Mall Gazette_ in relation to Sir John\nLubbock's \"List of Hundred Best Books.\"  Reprinted in _Critic_\n(American) of March 20, 1886.\n\n[15] See, for instance, account of Julian's march, and of the taking of\nConstantinople.\n\n[16] Oliver Goldsmith, b. 1728; d. 1774.  Fullest and best _Life_, that\nof John Forster.\n\n\n\n\n{144}\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\nWe parted company, in our last chapter, with Dr. Johnson, of whose work\nand career every educated person should know; we parted company also,\nwith that more lovable, though less important man, Dr. Goldsmith--of\nwhom it would have been easy and pleasant to talk by the hour; we all\nknow him so well; we all would have wished him so well--if wishes could\nhave counted.  And as we sidle into the Poets' corner of Westminster\nAbbey--on whatever visit we make there--we put a friendly eagerness\ninto our search for the medallion effigy of Goldsmith over the door,\nwhich we do not put into our search for a great many entombed under\nmuch greater show of marble.  But Goldsmith's bones do not lie in the\nAbbey; he was buried somewhere under the wing of the Old Temple\nChurch--the particular locality {145} being subject of much doubt;\nwhile the memorial statue of Johnson--his body lying in\nWestminster--must be sought for, still farther down in the city, under\nthe arches of St. Paul's Cathedral.\n\nGarrick has what we might almost call melodramatic monument among the\nmarbles of the Poets' corner; Reynolds has abiding memorials in the\ndashes of mellowed coloring and in the tender graces of those cherished\nportraits, some of which belong to every considerable gallery of\nEngland; Burke and Gibbon lie in quiet country places--the first near\nto his old home of Beaconsfield; and the historian among those southern\ndowns of Sussex which look upon the Channel waters; his books may never\nhave touched us to tenderness; but he bows his way out of our presence,\nwith the grandest history belonging to the eighteenth century for a\nmemorial.\n\n\n_A Scottish Historian._\n\n[Sidenote: David Hume.]\n\nWe must not forget that hard-headed man who wrote Hume's History of\nEngland, who was born twenty-two years before the historian of Rome,\n{146} and died in the year in which Gibbon was reaping his first\nrewards.  He[1] was a sceptic too of even more aggressive type than\nGibbon--was, like him, somewhat ungainly in person, and though of\nlarger build and of coarser mould, possessed a cheery good humor, and a\nbright colloquial wit which made him sure of good friends and many.\nLike Gibbon he lived and died a bachelor: like him, he leaned toward\ncontinental ways of living, and like him garnered some of his highest\nhonors in France.  Of course you know his History of England--where it\nbegins, where it ends--but we do not press examination on these points.\nIn most editions you will find--(it should be found in all)--among the\nforeleaves, a short autobiographic sketch, written in his most neat,\nperspicuous, and engaging manner, which is well worth the close\nattention of every reader, even if he do not wade through the royal\nextensions of the History.  You will learn there that David Hume was\nborn in that pleasant border land of Scotland which is watered {147} by\nthe Tweed, the Yarrow, and the Teviot--where we found the poet Thomson.\nNorth of his boyish home stretched Lammermoor, and westward within easy\ntramping distance lay Lauderdale; but in that day these names had not\nbeen illuminated by a touch of the magician's wand, nor was his mind\never keenly alive to the beauties of landscape.  Hume's childhood knew\nonly great stretches of brown heather, bounded by bare bluish-gray\nheights, with the waves of the German Sea pounding on the rocky,\ndesolate shores--where stands the ruin of Fast Castle, the original of\n\"Wolf's Crag\" of the Master of Ravenswood.\n\nYou will learn further from that precious bit of autobiography--which\nhe calls with a naive directness, \"My Own Life\"--that he was younger\nson of a good family; that he came to fairish education thereabout, and\nin Edinboro'; that his family would have pushed him to the study of\nlaw; but he--loving philosophy and literature better, and in search of\nsome method of increasing his means for their pursuit--wandered\nsouthward to study business in the city of Bristol.  This was a place\nof much greater commercial importance, {148} relatively, then than now:\nbut Bristol merchandizing presently disgusts him; and husbanding\ncarefully his small moneys, he goes across the Channel--to study\nphilosophy, while practising the economies of French provincial life in\na small town of central France.  A few years thereafter he prints his\nfirst book in London on _Human Nature_; and he says it fell \"dead-born\"\nfrom the press; but he is still sanguine and cheery; writes other\nessays after his return from France--hovering between Edinboro' and his\nold Berwickshire home; studying Greek the while, and for a year\nserving, as secretary, the crazy Marquis of Annandale.  Shortly\nthereafter (1746) began his official connection with the General St.\nClair, involving a new and pleasanter experience of European life.  On\nhis return, after three years, he goes to cover again in his old\nBerwickshire home, where he elaborates the _Political\nDiscourses_--setting forth those broad views of trade and commerce,\nwhich came to larger illustration later, under the pen of his good\nfriend Adam Smith.[2]\n\n{149}\n\n[Sidenote: Hume's England.]\n\nIn 1751 he removed from country to town--the true scene he says \"for a\nman of letters,\" and established himself in a small flat of one of\nthose lofty houses which still look down over the New City and the\nvalley gardens, and lived there comfortably--with his sister for help\nmate--on some L50 a year.  He tried vainly for a professorship in one\nof the Scottish universities, but was counted too unsafe a man.  As\nCustodian of the Advocates' Library of Edinboro', a place which he\nsecured shortly after--largely through the influence of lady\nfriends--he came to that familiar fellowship with books which prompted\nhim to the making of his History of England.  He does not begin at the\nbeginning: he tells of the Stuarts first; then goes back to the Tudors;\nand then back of these to the dull (dull to him and dull to us)\nAnglo-saxon start point: Stubbs and Freeman had not in that {150} day\nmade their explorative forays and set up their scaffoldings.\n\nHume's ambition was high and sensitive: he was intensely disappointed\nwith the reception of the earlier volumes of his history.  \"I was\ndiscouraged,\" he says, \"and had not the war been at that time breaking\nout between France and England, I had certainly retired to some\nprovincial town of the former kingdom, have changed my name, and never\nmore have returned to my native country.\"\n\nBut his writings had qualities which were sure in the end to provoke\nthe reading and discussion of them by thoughtful men and women.  He is\nknown wider than he thinks; his books have been translated; Montesquieu\nhas corresponded with him; so has a certain Mme. de Boufflers--a pet of\nthe Paris salons--who has written gushingly of her admiration; and the\nstolid, good-humored, cool-blooded Hume has responded in his awkward\nmanner; other missives, with growing confidences have passed; she\nalways clever, and witty and full of adulation; and he clumsy and\nclever, and with such tenderness as an elephant might show toward {151}\na gazelle.  And the shining side of life opens bewitchingly upon him\nwhen he goes to Paris in 1763 as an attache to the Embassy of Lord\nHertford.\n\n[Sidenote: Hume in Paris.]\n\nIn place of Scotch kerseys, his square, massive figure is set off with\nthe golden broidery of a diplomat.  His reputation as a philosopher and\nas a historian had been confirmed by all the literary magnates of\nParis; and the queens of society in that gay capital, Mme. de Boufflers\namong them, pounced upon the big Scotch David, to be led away through\nthe pretty martyrdoms of the salon.  And he bore it bravely; he had\nfeared, indeed, that his inaptitudes and inexperience would have made\nsuch a life irksome to one of his quiet habits; but he good-humoredly\nand complacently accepted the sacrifice and came to love the\nintoxicating incense.  Sterne, who happened in Paris in those days,\nsays that Hume was the lion of the city; no assemblage was complete\nwithout his presence.  Yet he did not lose his cool philosophic poise.\nHe carried his good humor everywhere, and an indifference that made him\nengaging; if arrows of Cupid were launched at him, they did not pierce\nthrough the wrappings of his thick Scotch phlegm.\n\n{152}\n\nMme. d'Epinay tells a good story of these times about his taking part\nin some tableau where he was to personate an Eastern sovereign, seated\nbetween two beautiful Circassian damsels, to whom he was expected to\nshow devotional assiduities of speech.  But the frigid philosopher,\nbanked in between those feminine piles of silk and jewels, only rubs\nhis hands, slaps his knees, purses up his mouth, and says over and\nover, in his inconsequent French,--\"Eh bien, Mesdemoiselles, vous\nvoila! vous voila donc!  Eh bien, nous voici!\"  Whereat we may be sure\nthat his pretty companions let fall slily a disparaging \"_qu'il est\nbete!_\"--As if the man who had traced to their ultimate issues the\nsubtleties of the _Principles of Morals_ could parry and thrust with\nthe pretty conversational foils of a Pompadour!\n\n[Sidenote: David Hume.]\n\nIt chanced that by the unexpected withdrawal of Lord Hertford, Hume was\nfor a time chief of the Embassy, and for the first and last time (in so\nfull a sense) did a historian of England thus become British Ambassador\nto the Court of France.  But Hume does not love the English or England;\nhe resents their neglect of him; he never {153} forgets that he is a\nScotsman; it twangs in his speech; it twangs louder in his heart; he\nwould like to live in that pleasant country of France:--\"They are all\nkind to me here,\" he says; \"but not one of a thousand in all England\nwould care a penny's worth if I broke my neck to-morrow.\"  And though\nhis reputation is now largely upon the growth at home, still he is not\npleasantly _lie_ with the masters.  Somewhat later, when by another\nunexpected good turn he is made Under-Secretary of State and has\nofficial position in London, he writes to Dr. Blair, of Edinboro', who\nhas offered to give him a letter to Bishop Percy--\"I thank you, but it\nwould be impracticable for me to cultivate his friendship, as men of\nletters have here no place of rendezvous; and are indeed sunk and\nforgot in the general torrent of the world.\"  And yet this was at a\ndate (1763), when the Turk's Head gathering was all alive, when Sterne\nhad recently published the last volume of his _Tristram_; when poor\nSmollett[3] (of {154} _Roderick Random_ fame) has won success by a\nflimsy, but popular continuation of Hume's History; when the _Vicar of\nWakefield_ was fresh (though as yet unprinted); when Mason and Gray and\nWarburton and Johnson were all sounding their trumpets.  With such\nfeelings of alienation it is not strange that Hume did not nestle into\nthe hearts of great Londoners as he had nestled into the good-will of\nParisians.\n\nUnder the influences of Mme. de Boufflers he tried to make a home in\nEngland for that strange creature, Rousseau, who had become an exile,\nand who brought with him--to the torment of Hume--all his\neccentricities, his peevishness, his inhuman vanities, his abnormal\nsensitiveness, his wild jealousies, and his exaltations of genius.\nThese things work a rupture between the two in the end--as they should\nand ought to do,--and the next good sight we have of the Scotch\nphilosopher is in a new home of his own (1772), which he has built in\nthe new part of Edinboro'.  Twenty odd years before he had lived in the\nold city on an income of L50 a year; and now he lives in the new with\nan income of L1,000 a year.  In {155} the old times he had hardly\nsecured place as Custodian of the mouldy Library of the Advocates; now\nhe is the marked potentate in the literary world of Scotland.  Stanch\nPresbyterians do indeed look at him askance, and shake their heads at\nhis uncanny beliefs, or rather lack of beliefs.  Old nurses put\nhobgoblin wings upon him to frighten good children; but he has stanch,\nloving friends among the best and the clearest sighted.  Dr. Blair is\nhis friend; excellent Dr. Robertson is his friend; his good nature, his\nkindness of heart, his rectitude of life, his intellectual charities,\nwon even those who shuddered at his disbeliefs; that sceptical\nmiasma--born in his blood--and harmful to many (as it was to himself),\nseemed to lose its malarious taint in the large, free, intellectual\natmosphere in which the philosopher lived.  Honest doubts were then,\nand always will be, better than dishonest beliefs; just as honest\nbeliefs are a thousand fold better than dishonest doubts.\n\n[Sidenote: Death of Hume.]\n\nIt was in our year of 1776--when his reputation was brightening and\nwidening month by month, that David Hume, the author of the first\nscholarly History of England, died, and was buried {156} on a shoulder\nof the Calton Hill, from which one may look eastward across the valley\n(where lies Holyrood Palace) to the Salisbury Crags on the left and to\nthe Castle Rock on the right.\n\nIt is probable that his History will long hold place on our library\nshelves; its style might almost be counted a model historic style--if\nwe were to have models (of which the wisdom is doubtful).  It is clear,\nit is precise, it is perspicuous, it is neat to a fault.  It might\nalmost be called a reticent style, in its neglect of those wrappings of\nwordy illustration and amplification which so many historians employ.\nHe makes us see his meaning as if we looked through crystal; and if the\ncrystal is toned by his prejudices--as it is and very largely--it is\naltogether free from the impertinent decorative arabesques of the\nrhetorician.  Many of the periods of which he gives the record, have\nhad new light thrown upon them by the searching inquiries of late days.\nOld reputations with which he dealt reverently have suffered collapse;\npolitical horizons which were limited and gave smallness consequence,\nhave widened; but for good, straightforward, lucid, {157} logical\nsetting forth of the main facts of which he undertook the record, Hume\nwill long remain the reference book.  There will be never a time when\nlovers of good literature will not be attracted by his pathetic picture\nof the career of Charles I.; and never a time when the judicious reader\nwill accept it as altogether worthy of trust.\n\nThe life of the historian--by Dr. Huxley--is rather a history of his\nphilosophy than of his life; in which the eminent scientist--with due\napology for intrusion upon literary ground--sets his logic to an easy\ncanter all around the soberer paces of the great Scotch\ncharger--showing nice agreement in the paces of the two, and commending\nand illustrating the metaphysics of the Historian, with a pretty\nfanfaronade of Exposition and Applause.\n\n\n_A Pair of Poets._\n\n[Sidenote: Two poets.]\n\nWere it only to change the current of our talk, I bring now a brace of\npoets to your notice; not well paired indeed, as you will find: but\neach one in his own way giving us music that strongly {158} contrasts\nwith _The Deserted Village_, and the ponderous Satires of Johnson.\n\n[Sidenote: Shenstone.]\n\nShenstone[4] is a name not very much known--not very much worth\nknowing: he was a big, somewhat scholarly, fastidious, indolent,\nrhyme-haunted man, who had studied at Oxford, and who, when the muses\nwere buzzing about his ears, came into possession of a pretty farm in\nthat bit of Shropshire which (by queer English fashion) is planted\nwithin the northern borders of Worcestershire; and it was there that he\nwrote--what is typical of all that he ever wrote, and what has his\ncurrent and favorite sing-song in it:--\n\n  \"Since Phyllis vouchsafed me a look\n    I never once dreamt of my vine.\n  May I lose both my pipe and my crook\n    If I knew of a kid that was mine!\n  I prized every hour that went by\n    Beyond all that had pleased me before;\n  But now they are past, and I sigh;\n    And I grieve that I prized them no more.\"\n\nAnd again--\n\n  \"When forced the fair nymph to forego\n    What anguish I felt at my heart!\n\n{159}\n\n  Yet I thought--but it might not be so--\n    'Twas with pain that she saw me depart.\n  She gazed as I slowly withdrew.\n    My path I could hardly discern;\n  So sweetly she bade me Adieu\n    I thought that she bade me return!\"\n\nWhat should we think of that if we encountered it fresh in a corner of\none of our Sunday newspapers?  We should hardly reckon its author among\nour boasted treasures; yet Burns says \"his elegies do honor to our\nlanguage,\" and a great deal of the same guileless tintinnabulum did\nhave its admirers all over England a century ago; and some of\nShenstone's pretty wares have come drifting down on the wings of albums\nand anthologies fairly into our day.\n\nYet I should rather have encountered him in his fields, than in his\ngarret; for he made those fields very beautiful.  He was a bad farmer,\nto be sure; and sacrificed turnips to marigolds; and wheat to primroses\nand daisies, fast as the season went round; but his home at Leasowes\nwas a place worth visiting for its charming graces of every rural sort;\neven our staid John Adams, when he was in England in those days,\nlooking after American {160} colonial interests--must needs coach it in\ncompany with Jefferson from Cirencester to Leasowes, for a sight of\nthis charming homestead.  Goldsmith too gave its beauties the\nembalmment of his language; and Dr. Johnson sat down upon it, with the\nweight of his ponderous sentences.  One echo more we will have of him,\nas it comes fresh from his pet paradise of that corner of\nShropshire--and certainly carrying a honeyed rhythmic flow:--\n\n  \"My banks they are furnished with bees,\n    Whose murmur invites one to sleep;\n  My grottoes are shaded with trees,\n    And my hills are white over with sheep.\n  I seldom have met with a loss,\n    Such health do my fountains bestow;\n  My fountains all bordered with moss\n    Where the hare-bells and violets grow.\"\n\n\n[Sidenote: William Collins.]\n\nWilliam Collins[5] was a man of a totally different stamp--better worth\nyour knowing--yet maybe with the general public not so well known.\n{161} There is the chink of true and rare poetic metal in his verse,\nand it is fused by an imagination capable of intense heat and wonderful\nflame.  He was only a hatter's boy from Chichester, in the South of\nEngland; was at Oxford for a while, and left there in a huff--though\nsecuring a degree, 1743; afterward went to London; wrote and printed\nsome odes, which he knew were better than most current poetry, but\nwhich nobody bought or read.  He sulked under that neglect, and his\nrage ran--sometimes to verse--sometimes to drink; he had known Thomson\nand Johnson, and both befriended him; but the world did not; indeed he\nnever met the world half way; the poetic phrenzy in him so fined his\nsensibilities that he could not and would not put out a feeling hand\nfor promiscuous greetings.  Poverty, too, came in the wake of his\npoetic cultures, to aggravate his mental inaptitudes and his moral\ndistractions--all ending at last in a mad-house.  He was not, to be\nsure, continuously under restraint--such terrific restraints as\nbelonged to treatment of the insane in that day; but for a half dozen\nor more years of the latter part of his life--wandering all\nawry--saying {162} weak and pointless things, in place of the odes\nwhich had coruscated under his fine fancy; lingering about his\nchildhood's home; stealing under the cathedral vaults of Chichester\n(where his body rests now), and lifting up a vacant and wild treble of\nsound in dreary sing-song to mingle with the music from the choir.\n\nThere are accomplished critics who insist that the odes of Collins\ncarry in them the finest and the loftiest strains which go to marry the\nmusic of the nineteenth century poets to the music of the days of\nElizabeth.  Certain it is, that he loomed far above the ding-dong of\nsuch as Shenstone--that he scorned the classic trammels of the empire\nof Pope--certain that there were fires in him which were lighted by\npoets who lived before the time of the Stuarts, and which gave\nforetaste and promise of the freedom and the graces that shine\nto-day.[6]\n\nI cannot quote better to show his quality than {163} from that \"Ode to\nEvening\" which is so often cited:--\n\n  \"For when thy folding star arising, shows\n  His paly circlet at his warning lamp,\n    The fragrant hours and elves\n    Who slept in flowers the day,\n\n  \"And many a nymph who wreathes her brows with\n  And sheds the freshning dew, and, lovelier still,\n    The pensive pleasures sweet,\n    Prepare thy shadowy car.\n\n  \"Then lead, calm votress, where some sheety lake\n  Cheers the lone heath, or some time hallowed pile,\n    Or upland fallows gray\n    Reflect its last cool gleam.\n\n  \"But when chill, blustering winds or driving rain\n  Forbid my willing feet, be mine the hut\n    That from the mountain's side,\n    Views wilds and swelling floods,\n\n  \"And hamlets brown and dim discovered spires,\n  And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all\n    Thy dewy fingers draw\n    The gradual dusky veil.\"\n\n\nThis is poetry that goes without help of rhyme; even its halts are big\nwith invitations to the \"upland fallows gray,\" and to the \"pensive\npleasures sweet.\"  Swinburne says, with piquancy and truth, {164}\n\"Corot, on canvas, might have signed the 'Ode to Evening.'\"\n\nDr. Johnson, who was a strong friend of Collins, tells us, in his\n_Lives of the Poets_, that he died in 1756; and that story is repeated\nby most early biographies; the truth is, however, that after that date\nhe was living--only a sort of death in life, under the care of his\nsister at Chichester; and it was not until 1759, when--his moral and\nphysical wreck complete--the end came.\n\n\n_Miss Burney._\n\n[Sidenote: Miss Burney.]\n\nWe have next to bring to your notice, a clever, somewhat frisky,\n_debonnaire_ young person of the other sex, whom you should know--whom\nperhaps you do know; I mean Miss Frances Burney.[7]  You will remember\nthat we have encountered her once before pushing her kindly way into\nold Dr. Johnson's ante-room when he was near to death.  The old\ngentleman had known intimately her {165} father, Dr. Burney, and had\nalways shown for her a strong attachment; so did a great many of Dr.\nBurney's acquaintances, Garrick among them and Burke; and it was\nprobably from such men and their talk that she caught the literary bee\nin her bonnet and wrote her famous story of _Evelina_.  You should read\nthat story--whatever you may do with _Cecilia_ and other later ones--if\nonly to see how good and cleanly a piece of work in the way of a\nsociety novel can come out of those broiling times, when _Humphrey\nClinker_ and _Tom Jones_ and the prurient and sentimental languors of\nRichardson were on the toilette tables of the clever and the honest.\n\nThe book of _Evelina_ is, all over, Miss Burney; that gives it the\nrarest and best sort of realism.  Through all her work indeed, we have\nthis over-jubilant and gushing, yet timid and diffident young lady,\nwriting her stories--with all her timidities and large, unspoken hopes,\ntumbling and twittering in the bosoms of her heroines: if my lady has\nthe fidgets, the fidgets come into her books; and you can always chase\nback the tremors that smite from time to time the fair Evelina, to\n{166} the kindred tremors that afflict the clever and sensitive\ndaughter of old Dr. Burney.\n\nThe book was published anonymously at first, and the secret of\nauthorship tolerably well kept; she says her papa did not know; but\nyoung ladies are apt to put too small a limit to the knowledge of their\npapas!  It is very certain that her self-consciousness, and tremulous,\naffected, simpers of ignorance, were not good to stave away suspicion.\nIt was not long before the world, confounding book and person, came to\ncall her \"Evelina.\"\n\nA pretty picture with this motif comes into her Diary: On a certain\nmorning, our Dr. Franklin--being then in London on colonial\nbusiness--makes a call upon Dr. Burney:--and in absence of her father,\nmeets the daughter: a big, square-shouldered man, very formal, very\nstout, but very kindly, approaches her and says--\"I think I have the\npleasure of speaking with Evelina.\"\n\n\"Oh, no,\" she replies, \"I am Frances Burney,\" and he--\"Ah--indeed!  I\nthought it had been Evelina:\" and there it ends, and we lose sight of\nour broad-shouldered Dr. Franklin, with only this \"Ah!\" upon his lips.\n\n{167}\n\nShe had a modesty that was vain by its excess, and was awkward when\ncaught unexpectedly or with strangers; in great trepidation lest her\nbooks might be talked of--yet with her books and her authorship always\ntormentingly uppermost in her thought.  Her Diary and letters are full\nof them.  Yet she is attractive--strangely so--by her sympathetic\nqualities; so responsive to every shade of sorrow or of joy; winning,\nbecause so tell-tale of heart; and with a tongue that could prattle\ngracefully when at ease; Evelina, in short, without Evelina's beauty or\nexpectations.\n\nI have read the book over again after a gap of many years--with a view\nto this talk of the authoress, and find myself wondering more than\never, how so many of great and commanding intellect should have so\nheartily admired it.  Burke read it with most eager attention and\nlargest praise; old Dr. Johnson delighted in it, and declared it\nsuperior in many points to Richardson (which for him was extravagant\ncommendation).  Even Mme. de Stael, some few years later, gave it her\napplause; and the quick and swift-witted Mrs. Thrale was in raptures\nwith it; {168} and Mrs. Thrale knew a dunce, and detested dunces.\nThere must have been a deftness in her touch of things local,--of\nwhich, I think, she was but half conscious; there was beside a pretty\ndramatic art which found play in many pages of her Diary, and in all\nshe did and all she spoke.  For her third novel of _Camilla_, which\nscarce ever comes off the shelf of old libraries now--where it survives\nin deserved retirement--she received, according to the rumors current\nin those days, the sum of L3,000; such rumors, very likely exaggerated\nthe amount; they are apt to do so--in all times.\n\nHer Diary[8] is of special interest; particularly the portion which\ntakes one into the domestic life of Royalty.  For one of the bitter\nfruits of her celebrity, was her appointment as Lady of the Robes (or\nother such title), to the Queen.  The service indeed did not last many\nyears, but long enough to give us a good sight of the well-disposed,\n{169} fussy, indolent, kind-hearted Queen, and of the inquisitive,\nobstinate, good-natured King.\n\n[Sidenote: Trials of the Queen.]\n\nShe was at the palace, indeed, when one of the earlier attacks of that\nmental ailment which at last slew George III.--fell upon him.  She sees\nthe poor Queen growing wild with dread--disturbed and trembling under\nthose flashes of disorderly talk which smite upon her ear.  She watches\nthe King as he goes out to his drive on a certain fatal day;--hears the\nhushed, muffled steps and the babel of uncertain sounds, as he comes\nback late at night,--waits hour on hour for her usual summons to the\nQueen's presence, which does not come.  At last, midnight being long\npast (and she meantime having hint of some great calamity) goes to the\nQueen's chamber; two other lady attendants were with her, she says; and\nthe Queen, ghostly pale and shuddering--puts her hand kindly upon that\nof the poor little trembling Miss Burney and says \"I am like ice--so\ncold--so cold!\"\n\n\"I tried to speak,\" says Miss Burney in her Diary, \"but burst into\ntears: then the Queen did.\"  And there was cause: for from beyond the\nchamber--along the corridor,--came the idle {170} jabbering of King\nGeorge; and the intellectual power (such as there was of it) \"thro'\nwords and things went sounding on its dim and perilous way.\"\n\nI tell this not to test the reader's capability for sympathy, but to\nfasten poor little Miss Burney, the author of _Evelina_ and _Cecilia_,\nin mind; and to connect her service in the palace of St. James, in the\nyear 1788, with the first threat and the first real attack of the\nKing's insanity.  I am afraid we must set down, as one helping cause to\nthe King's affliction, the American obstinacy in maintaining their\nIndependence.\n\nMiss Burney shortly after, with a pension of L100, retired from the\nroyal duties, which had tried her sadly; and some years later\nencountering and greatly admiring General d'Arblay, who had come over\nan exile from France, in company with other distinguished emigrants, on\nthe outbreak of the French Revolution, she married him (1793), and gave\nhim a home that grew up out of the moneys received from her\n_Camilla_--hence called by old Dr. Burney, \"Camilla Cottage.\"\n\nShe survived her husband and a son (a clergyman {171} of the\nEstablished Church), and lived to so great an age as to find all her\nconquests in fiction over-run at last by the brilliant successes of\nMiss Austen, of Miss Edgeworth, and the more splendid triumphs of\nWalter Scott.  She died almost in our day (1840) and was buried in\nBath; but her best monument you can see without going there; it is her\nbook of _Evelina_ and her Diary.\n\n\n_Hannah More._\n\n[Sidenote: Mistress More.]\n\nOver-fine literary people will, I suppose, hardly recognize Hannah\nMore--or Mistress Hannah More,[9] as I prefer to call her, in virtue of\na good old English, and a good old New Englandish custom, too, which\ngave this title of dignity to matronly women--married or unmarried, of\nmature age, and of worthy lives.\n\nWe must go into the neighborhood of that picturesque old city of\nBristol, in the West of England, to find her.  She was one of the five\ndaughters of a respectable schoolmaster in Gloucestershire.  Hannah,\nthough among the youngest, {172} proved the clever one, and had written\npoems, more than passably good, before she was fifteen; and had\ncompleted a pastoral drama, when only seventeen.  She was, moreover,\ncomely; she was witty and alert of mind, and had so won upon the\naffections of a neighbor landholder, and wealthy gentleman of culture,\nthat a marriage between the two came after a while to be arranged for;\nbut this affair never went beyond the arrangement,--for reasons which\ndo not clearly appear.  It does appear that the parties remained\nfriendly, and that Mistress Hannah More was in receipt of an annual\npension of L200--in the way of _amende_ perhaps--her life through, from\nthe backsliding but friendly groom.  I am sorry to tell this story of\nher (about the L200).  I think so well of her as to wish she had put it\nin an envelope, and returned it with her compliments--year after\nyear--if need were.  However, it went, as did many another hundred\npounds and thousand pounds of her earnings, in the line of those great\ncharities which illustrated and adorned her life.\n\nHer elder sisters as early as 1757 established in Bristol a school for\nyoung ladies, which became {173} one of the most popular and favorite\nschools of the West of England; and when Hannah, some fifteen years\nlater, went up to London, to look after the publication of her _Search\nafter Happiness_, one or two of the sisters accompanied her; and Miss\nHannah, who was \"taken off her feet\" by the acting of Garrick, was met\nmost kindly by the great tragedian--was taken to his house, indeed, and\nbecame thereafter one of the most intimate of the friends of Mrs.\nGarrick.  Dr. Johnson, too, was enchanted by the brisk humor and lively\nrepartee in these clever West-of-England girls; and we have on record a\nbit of his talk to one of them.  He said, in his leviathan way: \"I have\nheard that you are engaged in the useful and honorable employment of\nteaching young ladies.\"  Whereupon they tell the story of it all, in\ntheir bright, full, eager way, and of their successes: and the Doctor,\nsoftened and made jolly and companionable, says, \"What, five women live\nhappily together in the same house!  Bless me!  I never was in\nBristol--but I will come and see you.  I'll come; I love you all five!\"\nOne of the sisters wrote home that {174} she thought--\"perhaps--the big\nDoctor might marry Hannah; for 'twas nothing but--'My love,' and 'My\nlittle Kitten,' between them all the evening.\"\n\nShortly thereafter Mistress More wrote her tragedy of _Percy_; nobody,\nI think, reads it now; but Garrick became sponsor for it--writing both\nprologue and epilogue; and by reason perhaps of his sponsorship it ran\nsome twenty nights successively; the tale of her stage profits running\nup to L600, which would pay for a good many trips from London to\nBristol.  When she came to treat for the publication of a poem which\nshe wrote at that period--she being ignorant of rates,--it was arranged\nwith her publisher that she should receive the sum, whatever it might\nhave been, which was paid Goldsmith for _The Deserted Village_!\n\nIn those early years she was the lively one, and the gay one, and the\nworldly one of the family; but with the death of Garrick, which came\nupon her like a blow, life and all its colors seemed to change.  She\nhaunted London and the theatres no more; she went up to weep indeed at\nher home {175} on the Adelphi Terrace[10] with the disconsolate Mrs.\nGarrick; but all phases of life have now, for Miss More, taken on a\nsoberer hue; she teaches; she founds schools for the poor; she founds\nchapels; she writes tracts; her forward and sturdy evangelical\nproclivities involve her indeed in difficulties with the local church\nauthorities; for her charities go vaulting over their canons; whereupon\nshe relents and abases herself--and then sins in the same holy and\nbeneficent ways of charity again--canons or no canons.\n\nAs a worker she is indefatigable; she drives, rides, and walks over her\nmissionary ground near to Bristol, with the zeal of a gold-hunter.\nThere were those who questioned her wisdom and who questioned the\nquality of her wit, but never one, I think, anywhere, who questioned\nher goodness.  She wrote a novel called _Coelebs in Search of a Wife_.\nDo you happen to have read it?  I hardly know whether to advise it, or\nnot; there is so much to read!  But if you do, you will find most\nexcellent English in it, and a great deal of {176} very good preaching;\nand many hints about the social habits of that time--trustworthy even\nto the dinner hour and the lunch hour; and maxims good enough for a\ncopy book, or a calendar; and you will find--what you will not find in\nall stories nowadays--a definite beginning and a definite end.  I know\nwhat you may say, if you do read it.  You would say that the sermons\nare too long, and that the hero is a prig; and that you would never\nmarry him if he were worth twice his fortune, and were to offer himself\nten times over.  Well--perhaps not; but he had a deal of money.  And\nthat book of _Coelebs_--whatever you may choose to say of it, had a\ntremendous success; it ran over Europe like wildfire; was translated\ninto French, into German, into Dutch, into Polish, and I know not what\nlanguage besides; and across the Atlantic--in those colonial days, when\nbook-shops were not, as now, at every corner--over thirty thousand\ncopies were sold.  Those of us who can remember forty and fifty years\nback, and who knew anything of the inner side of an old-fashioned New\nEngland homestead, must recall the saintship that invested good\nMistress Hannah More!  What unfailing {177} Sunday books her books did\nmake! and with what child-like awe we looked upon her good, kind, old,\npeaked face as it looked out from the frontispiece--with soberly\nfrilled hair all about the forehead, and over this a muslin cap with\nhuge ruffles hemming in the face, and above this circumambient ruffle\nand in the lee of the great puff of muslin--which gave place, I\nsuppose, to the old lady's comb--a portentous bow, constructed of an\nawful quantity of ribbon and crowning that saintly, kindly, homely face\nof Hannah More.\n\nDo you remember--I wonder--that in the early pages of \"The\nNewcomes\"--the Colonel tells Olive Newcome, how he used in his boy days\nto steal the reading of some of Fielding's famous novels; and how\n_Joseph Andrews_, in that forbidden series, had a very sober binding;\nso that his mamma, Mrs. Newcome, when she observed the boy reading it,\nthought--deceived by that grave binding--that the boy might be regaling\nhimself with some work of Mistress Hannah More's; and how, under this\nbelief, she took up the book when he had laid it by; and read and read,\nand flung it down all on a sudden with such a killing, scornful {178}\nlook at the young Colonel, as he never, never forgot in all his life.\n\nIt was unfair of Thackeray to poke fun in this way at good Mistress\nHannah More!  We may smile at her quaintness--her primness--her starch;\nbut there is that in her industry, her courage, her mental range, her\nwide Christian beneficence which we must always venerate.\n\nWe have run on so far, that we have no words to-day for the sturdy old\nKing George.  We turn him over to another chapter, when we will speak\ntoo of Sterne--whom we had almost forgotten--and of Chatterton and of\nsome writing men who sometimes lifted up their voices in the British\nParliament.\n\n\n\n[1] David Hume, b. 1711; d. 1776.  Best edition of his works edited by\nGreen and Grose, 4 vols., 1874.  For life, see Burton and Huxley.\n\n[2] Adam Smith, b. 1723; d. 1790.  A Fifeshire man, and author of that\nfamous book--_The Wealth of Nations_; a good book to read in these\ntimes, or in any times.  He may indeed say rash things about \"that\ncrafty animal called a Politician,\" and the mean rapacity of\ncapitalists; but he is full of sympathy for the poor, and for those who\nlabor; and is everywhere large in his thought and healthy and generous.\nI am glad to pay this tribute, though only in a note.\n\n[3] George Tobias Smollett, b. 1721; d. 1771.  A Scottish physician,\nauthor of various popular novels, of which _The Expedition of Humphrey\nClinker_ is, by many, counted the best.\n\n[4] William Shenstone, b. 1714; d. 1763.  His works (verse and prose)\nwere published in 1764-69.\n\n[5] William Collins, b. 1731; d. 1759.  Interesting memoir by Moy\nThomas, published in 1858.\n\n[6] Swinburne says, with something more than his usual\nexaggeration--\"the only man of his time who had in him a note of pure\nlyric song\";--excluding Gray, and both the Wesleys!\n\n[7] Frances Burney, b. 1752; d. 1840.  She is perhaps better known as\nMme. D'Arblay; though she married somewhat late in life, and after her\nreputation had been won.\n\n[8] The newest and most faithful copy of her _Diary and Letters_ has\nbeen published by George Bell & Sons, London, 1889, 2 vols., 8vo.\n\n[9] Hannah More, b. 1745; d. 1833.\n\n[10] Near present London \"Embankment\"; John Adams was in that day\nstopping at a tavern near by.\n\n\n\n\n{179}\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\nI have spoken within the last few pages of David Hume--philosopher and\nhistorian; he was kindly natured, witty, serene, with a capacity for\nlarge and enduring friendships; yet with not much beguiling warmth in\nhim; leaving a much accredited history, and philosophical writings\neminent for their ingenuity, acuteness, and subtlety.  Under our larger\nand freer range of thinking to-day, it is hard to understand how he\nbecame such a bugbear to so many, and was so unwisely set upon with\npersonal scourgings; even if a man's religious conclusions be all awry,\nwe shall make them no better, nor undo them, by tying a noisy kettle of\nmaledictions at his heels, and goading him into a yelping and maddened\ngallop all down the high ways.  He died unmarried in 1776; his elder\nbrother John, for some reasons of {180} property--which he counted\nlarger than the historian's large repute--changed his name to Home; so\nthat there is not now in Scotland any representative of the immediate\nfamily of this Scotch metaphysician, who bears his name.  I spoke of\nShenstone and gave some specimens of his rhythmic and tender graces;\nbut he never struck deeply into the poetic mine, whether of passion or\nof mystery.  William Collins, however, did; he was not among the very\nforemost poets certainly, but he gave to us tingling and sonorous\nechoes of the great utterances of olden times, and piquant foretaste of\nnobler utterances that were to come.  We had our little social brush\nwith the lively and chatty \"Evelina\" Burney; we paid our worship at the\nshrine of Mistress Hannah More--and I tried hard to fix her quaint,\nhomely, kindly figure in your gallery of literary portraits.\n\nShe lived, like Mme. d'Arblay, to a very great age--eighty-eight, I\nthink, and was (with the exception of the last-named lady) the latest\nsurvivor of all those whose lives and works we have thus far made\nsubject of comment in the present volume.  And the life and works of\nthese people {181} about whom we have latterly spoken, have had steady\nparallelism--longer or shorter--with the life and reign of George III.\n\n\n_King George III._\n\n[Sidenote: George III.]\n\nWe ought to know something of the personality of this king who came to\nthe head of the British household while all these keen brains were\nastir in it, and within the limits of whose rule the American\nRevolution began, and ended in the establishment of a new nationality;\nwhile the French Revolution too gathered its seething forces, and shot\nup its lurid flame and fell away into the fiery mastership of Napoleon.\n\nYou will remember that George II. was son of George I., who inherited\nthrough his mother, Sophia (of Brunswick), who was granddaughter of old\nKing James I. of Scotland and England.  George III. was not the\nson--but a grandson--of George II.  His father, Prince Frederic, who\nlived to mature years, who wrote some poor poetry--who was generous,\nwayward, incompetent, always at issue with father and mother {182}\nboth--was a man nobody much respected and nobody greatly mourned for.\nIt was of him that a squib-like epitaph was written, which I suppose\nexpressed pretty justly popular indifference respecting him and others\nof his family:--\n\n  Here lies Fred,\n  Who was alive and is dead.\n  Had it been his father\n  I had much rather;\n  Had it been his sister,\n  No one would have missed her.\n  But since 'tis only Fred\n  Who was alive and is dead,\n  There's no more to be said.\n\n\nGeorge III. was severely brought up by his mother and by old Lord Bute;\ntaught to be every inch a king; and he was royally stiff and obstinate\nto the last.  Two romantic episodes attaching to his young days belong\nto the royal traditions--in which a pretty Quakeress, and that\nbeautiful Sarah Lennox--whose portrait by Reynolds now hangs in Holland\nHouse--both figure; but these episodes are of vague and shadowy\noutline, almost mythical, with issues only of the Maud Muller\nsort--they sighing \"it might have been,\" and he--not {183} sighing at\nall.  It is certain that he accepted complacently and contentedly the\nbride Charlotte, who came over to him from Germany; and alone of all\nthe quartette of Georges, made a devoted and constant husband as long\nas he reigned.  But if he did not give his queen heart-aches in the\nusual Georgian fashion, I have no doubt that he gave her many a\nheart-ache of other sorts; for he was bigoted, unyielding, austere,\nand, like most men, selfish.  He had his notions about meal-times and\nprayer-time, and getting-up time, and about what meals should be eaten\nand what not eaten; under this discipline wife and children grew\nup--until the boys made their escape, which they did actively.  Yet\nthis old gentleman of the crown is considerate too--more perhaps\noutside his palace than within: he purposes no unkindness; he indulges\nin pleasant chit-chat with his humble neighbors at Windsor; has\nsometimes half-crowns by him for poor favorites; cherishes homely\ntastes; knows a good pig when he sees it, and can test the fat upon a\nbullock with a punch of his staff.  He professed a certain art\nknowledge, too--but always loved the spectacular, melodramatic works of\nour {184} Benjamin West (in which, art-heresy of the time he had\nexcellent company), better than the rare sweet faces of Reynolds, or\nthe picturesqueness of Gainsborough.\n\nHe was English in his speech (though familiar with French and German);\nEnglish, too, in his contempt for the mere graces of oratory; loving\nbetter point-blank talk, fired with interrogation points and\ninterjections.  Mme. d'Arblay, whose acquaintance we made, makes us a\nparty to some of this talk:--\"And so you wrote 'Evelina,' eh? and they\ndidn't know; what--what?  You didn't tell? eh?  And you mean to write\nanother--eh--what?\"\n\nYet withal, Dr. Franklin--whose name is entered in the London Directory\nof 1770, as \"Agent for Pennsylvania,\" Craven Street, Strand--says of\nthe king: \"I can scarcely conceive a man of better disposition, of more\nexemplary virtues, or more truly desirous of promoting the welfare of\nhis subjects.\"  Ten years later, I think Dr. Franklin would have\nqualified the speech.\n\nBut he never could have gainsaid the exemplary virtues of that quiet\nhousehold--where king and {185} queen lived like Darby and Joan--going\nbefore light through the chilly corridors to morning prayers; with\nearly dinners, no suppers, no gambling, no painted women coming between\nthem.  Yet the king, as he grew old, loved plays and farces, and used\nto laugh obstreperously at them, till Charlotte would tap him with her\nfan and pray his majesty to be \"less noisy.\"\n\nHe knew genealogies and geography; he could talk with courtiers about\ntheir aunts and cousins, and stepfathers and mothers-in-law--which is a\ngreat lift to conversation for some minds.  He knew all parts of his\nestablishment--who cleaned the silver and the brass; and what both\ncost.  Like all such meddling, fussy masters of households, he believed\nhimself always right; prayed himself into accessions of that belief:\nand on that belief went on pounding and pumelling the American branch\nof his family into a state that proved explosive.  In short he was one\nof those methodic, obstinate, sober, stiffly religious, conventional,\nstraight backed, economic, terrific, excellent men whom we all like to\nlook at, and read about, rather than to live with.\n\n{186}\n\nAs a school-master he would have set the old lessons in Cocker (if it\nwere Cocker) and recognized nothing better; and if the sums were not\ndone, you would hear of it.  \"What, what? not done? sums not done!\" and\nthen the old red ruler, and the hand put out, and a spat, and another\nspat.  This was George III.  \"Those colonists not going to pay taxes,\neh? and throwing tea into Boston harbor?  What--what?  Zounds--punish\nthe rebels.  Punish 'em well!  I'll teach 'em.  Flinging tea\noverboard--what--eh?\"\n\nAnd so the war crept on; and all through it the great old stiff\nschool-master brandishing his red ruler and making cuts with it over\nseas.  But the time came when he couldn't reach his rebels; and then\nthe long ruler, which was the national power, got broken in half, and\nit has stayed broken in half ever since.\n\nThere is interesting record of the first approaches of that insanity\nwhich ultimately beset the king, in Mme. d'Arblay's Diary, which we\nhave already mentioned; but he made what seemed an entire recovery from\nthe early stroke of 1788; and was king, in all his headstrong and\nkingly ways, once {187} more.  It was in 1785 when John Adams was\npresented to him as Envoy of the United States of America--not a\npresentation, it would seem, that would have any soothing aspect.\n\nYet the old king received Mr. Adams courteously; and under the pretty\nfustian of conventional speech the one covered his regrets and the\nother covered his exultation.  But it was not many years before the\ndistraught brain--after renewed threats--waylaid the monarch\nagain--this time with a surer grip; his speech, his sight, his hearing,\nall lost their fineness of quality and went down in the general wreck;\nin 1810, that mad-cap, that posture-master, that over-fine\ngentleman--so far as dress and carriage and polite accomplishment could\nmake George IV. a gentleman--took rule; but for years thereafter, his\nlunatic father, in white hair and long white beard, might be seen\nstalking along the terrace at Windsor, babbling weak drivel, and\nhumming broken tunes, leading no whither.\n\n\n{188}\n\n_Two Orators._\n\n[Sidenote: Charles James Fox.]\n\nAmong the younger members of the famous Literary Club, some ten years\nafter its foundation, was a muscular, swarthy young fellow[1]--full of\nwit and humor, a great friend of Burke's until the bitterness of\npolitics parted them; shy of approaches to Dr. Johnson, with whom he\ndiffered on almost all points; a man known now in literary ways only by\nthe fragment of British History which he wrote, but known in his own\ntimes as the most brilliant of debaters, most liberal in his politics,\nand always an ardent friend of America.  This was Charles James Fox,\nwho could trace back his descent--if he had chosen--through a Duchess\nof Gordon, to Charles II., and who was a younger son of a very rich\nLord Holland, owner and {189} occupant of that famous Holland House,\nwhich with its remnant of evergreen garden (in whose alleys we found\nAddison walking) still makes a venerable breakwater against the waves\nof brick and mortar which are piling around it.\n\nLord Holland was over-indulgent to this son of his, allowing him, when\na boy on his first visit to Bath, five guineas a night to \"risk\" at\ncards; and the boy took with great kindness to that order of training,\nsending home to his father, when he came to travel (after a brief\ncareer at Oxford) vouchers, and honest vouchers too, for gaming debts\nof one hundred thousand dollars from the city of Naples alone.  And he\nmatched these losses, and larger ones, at Brooks's in London.  Old\nstagers said that he was so sagacious and brilliant at whist, that he\ncould easily have won his five thousand a year; but he took to hazards\nat dice that brought him losses--on one occasion at least--of four\ntimes as much in a night.  It is a wonder he ever became the man in\nParliament that he was, after such dandling as befell him in the lap of\nluxury.  Yet he was an accomplished Greek scholar; loving the finesse\nof the language, and loving more {190} the exquisite tenderness of such\nlamentations as that of Alcestis; his sympathies all alive indeed, in\nyouth and manhood, to humane instincts--the pains and pleasures of the\nrace touching his heart-strings, as winds touch an Eolian harp.  Study\nof exact sciences put him to sleep; he loved the game of Probabilities\nbetter than the certainties of mathematics--gambling away great\nestates, and put to keenest endeavor by the tears of a woman; speaking\nwith his heart on his tongue--too much there indeed--carrying the\ncomradery of the clubs into public life; sharp as a knife to those who\nhad done him, or his, injury; but unbosoming himself with reckless\nfreedom to those who had befriended him; never un-ready in debate;\nwarming easily into an eloquence that charmed men.  But there must have\nbeen much in the voice and eye to explain the force of speeches which\nnow seem almost dull;[2] the best elocutionist cannot read the\nmagnetism into them which electrified the Commons, and which made {191}\nBurke declare him the \"most brilliant debater the world ever saw.\"\n\nIndeed we can only account for his great successes as an orator, his\namazing repute, and his exceptional popularity, when we sum up a half\nscore of contributory causes, which lie outside of the cold print of\nthe Parliamentary record; among these, we count--his Holland wealth and\ntraining, his environments of rank and luxury, his picturesque bearing,\nhis _bonhomie_, his scorn of the rank he held, his accessibility to\nall, his outspoken, democratic sympathies, that warmed him into\noutbursts of generous passion, his fearlessness, his bearding of the\nking, his earnestness whenever afoot, his very shortcomings too, and\nthe crowding disabilities that grew out of his trust--his\nsimplicities--his lack of forethought, his want of moneyed prudence,\nhis free-handedness, his little, unfailing, every-day kindnesses--these\nall backed his speeches and put a tender under-tone, and a glow, and a\ndrawing power in them, which we look for vainly in the rhetoric or the\nargumentation.  He was often in Parliament--sometimes in the Ministry;\nbut his disorderly and reckless life (gaming was not his {192} worst\nvice) made his fellow-politicians wary, and put a bar to any easy\nconfidences between himself and the old-fashioned, sober-sided, orderly\nGeorge III.  We must think of him as an accomplished, generous-hearted,\nimpulsive, dissolute wreck of a man.\n\n[Sidenote: William Pitt.]\n\nIf I mention Pitt,[3] it is only because you will find in your\nhistorical reading, his name always coupled with that of Fox; but he\nnever went to our Literary Club; had little companionship with literary\nmen; yet he had keen scholarship--within a somewhat limited range--and\nan insatiate ambition.  He was tall, spare, pale-faced, haughty, with a\ncontempt for sentiment, and a contempt for money; and of intellect--all\ncompact.  At an age when many are still at college, he had made amazing\nspeeches in Parliament; not profuse, not swollen with words, not\nrhetorical--but clear, sharp, polished, strenuous, with now and then\nthe glitter of some apt and resonant line from his classics.[4]\n\n{193}\n\nHis perspicuous and never-failing flow of language was due, not a\nlittle, to an early habit of translating at sight, from Greek and Latin\norators, under direction of his father the Earl of Chatham--not taught\nby this great master to give slavish word for word translation; but as\napt and polished and vigorous a rendering as he could accomplish,\nwithout any surrender, or mal-presentment of the leading thoughts.  Nor\ndo I know any class-room exercise, nowadays, which would so test and\namplify a young student's vocabulary, or teach him better the easy and\nforcible use of his own language.  But, to have its full disciplinary\npower, it should be a loud, _ore rotunda_ rendering--not a {194} mere\nlip-service; a launch, straight out from shores, into whatever waters\nor wilds the heathen orators may be sailing upon, and a full showing of\ntheir changing drift--whether in the eddies of a playful irony, or\nunder the driving sweep of their storms of denunciation.\n\nSingularly apart from literary men, and most literary influences,\nMacaulay has objected (perhaps with some reason) to Pitt's cruel\ndisregard of Dr. Johnson's needs and longings in his latter years; it\nwould have been a charming thing, for instance, for the son of Chatham\nto put a Government ship at the service of the invalided philosopher,\nfor a voyage under Italian skies; but with Pitt, the large political\nends which were taking shape in his mind, and in process of evolution,\nblinded him to lesser and personal or kindly interests.  A nod of the\nobstinate old king would have counted for more than a tragedy of\n_Irene_.  All his classicism was but a weapon to smite with, or from\nwhich to forge the links of those shining parentheses by which he\nstrangled an opponent.  Nothing beyond or below the cool, considerate\nhumanities of the cultured, self-poised gentleman {195} (unless we\nexcept some rare outbreak of petulance) belongs to this great orator,\nwho could thrust one through with a rapier held by the best rules of\nfence; and who never did or could say a word so warm as to touch a\nfriend or make an enemy forget his courtliness.  Guiding the political\nfate of England through a period of such strain, as demanded more nerve\nand more discretion than any period of a century before, or of a\ncentury thereafter--admired by all, and loved by very few, Pitt died\nquite alone, in a little cottage on Wimbledon Common[5]--even his\nservants had left;--died too of old age; an old age that grew out of\nhis tormenting labors and ambitions--before he was fifty.\n\n\n_An Orator and Playwright._\n\n[Sidenote: Sheridan.]\n\nSheridan is another name about which you have a better right to hear,\nsince he was a favorite member of the Turk's Head coterie, and is a\ndistinct literary survivor of that epoch.[6]  He was {196} son of\nThomas Sheridan, author of a life of Swift and of a now rarely cited\nEnglish Dictionary.  The son Richard, after studying at Harrow, and\nafterward with his father, made a runaway match with a beautiful Miss\nLinley; and he continued doing runaway things all his life.  A duel\nwhich his sharp marriage provoked, gave him material for his early play\nof _The Rivals_,--a play which has come to renewed popularity in our\nday, and country, under the pleasant humor of Jefferson.  _The School\nfor Scandal_ is another of his comedies which makes its appearance from\nyear to year: and Charles Surface and Lady Teazle--no less than Mrs.\nMalaprop, and Lydia Languish, are people who hang by, very\npersistently, and with whom we are pretty sure to make acquaintance at\nsome time in our lives.\n\nMrs. Sheridan proved a much better wife than the conditions of the\nmarriage promised; and I suppose that she was, in a way, contented with\nthe ribbons and fine gowns, and equipages he {197} provided for her\n(when he could); and with his unctuous, tender speeches, and his fame,\nand an occasional tap under the chin,--and with his forgetfulness of\nher when he went to the clubs, or the green-room, or the tavern--as he\ndid very often, and stayed very late.  Indeed \"staying late,\" was the\nruin of him.  But this language into which I have fallen--not without\nwarrant--should not convey the idea that this man was a commonplace,\ndissolute spendthrift; far from it.  His spendings were sublimated by a\ncrazy splendor of ungovernable and ill-regulated generosities, in which\nhis Irish nature bubbled over; and his dissipation wore always the\nblazon of high social cheer; his excesses not sordid or grovelling, but\nthey carried a quasi air of distinction, and were illuminated by the\nglow of his easy talk and the flashes of his wit.\n\nHis wildest spendings were always made without shamefacedness; but, on\nthe contrary, with a bold alacrity, that gave assurance of riches as\nheaped up as those of an Arabian Night's tale.  That wife of his,\ntoo--with her peachy tint, her faery grace, and her syren voice--seemed\n{198} altogether a fit portion and adornment of the oriental profusion\nhe always coveted and always owed for.  His longings and ambitions were\npitched upon a high key--a key to which his social aptitudes were\ncharmingly attuned; and there was a time early in his career when it\nwas a distinction to have the privilege of entree at his beautiful home\nin Orchard Street, Portman Square, to share his sybaritic tastes, and\nto listen to the siren who warbled there.\n\nAt twenty-four this favorite of fortune had written that play which\ndrew all London to see Captain Absolute; at twenty-five he had become\nhalf owner of that great theatre of Drury Lane, from whose till the\nhands of Garrick had drawn out a great fortune, and from which Richard\nSheridan was to draw, often--more than was fairly in it.  Meantime he\nhad inspired, and, in connection with his father-in-law, had composed,\nthe comic opera of the _Duenna_, whose success was enormous, and whose\nbouncing bits of lyrical jingle have come quivering through all the\n_couloirs_ of intervening days, to ours: instance,--\n\n{199}\n\n  \"I ne'er could any lustre see\n  In eyes that would not look on me.\n  Is her hand so soft and pure?\n  I must press it to be sure.\"\n\n\nThen comes the _School for Scandal_, and--two years later--the\n_Critic_; and always the steaming suppers and the singing of many\nsirens, and deeper thrusts into the till of Old Drury; stockholders may\nwince and creditors too; but who shall gainsay or doubt the imperial\ngenius who is winged with victory?  Garrick, whose days of conquest are\nnearly over--is his friend; so is Burke, won by his wit, and by his\nrolling Irish r's; Goldsmith acknowledges his sovereignty: Dr. Johnson\nveils dislike of his radicalism and of his tirades against taxation, as\nhe welcomes him to the Club.\n\nIn 1780, while still under thirty, he entered Parliament (for Stafford)\nand posed there for new conquests.  There came frequent occasions for\nthe interjection of his witty collocation of apothegms, lighted by his\nbrilliant elocution; but there was not much in his parliamentary career\nto attract national attention until the debates opened with reference\nto the Warren Hastings impeachment.  {200} These offered topics which\nappealed to his emotional nature, and under the indoctrination and the\ncoaching of Burke, he made such appeal for the far-off, down-trodden\nprincesses of India as electrified the nation.  \"Whatever the acuteness\nof the bar, the dignity of the Senate, or the morality of the pulpit\ncould furnish [in eloquence] had not been equal to it.\"  This was the\nverdict of so good a judge as Burke.  Yet, reading this speech--or so\nmuch of it as the records show--or those others which followed,[7] when\nthe great trial had opened in Westminster Hall, we find it hard to\nunderstand the enthusiasm of the old plaudits.  There is wit, indeed,\nin whatever work warms him to a glow; old truisms get a setting in his\noratorio reaches which make them gleam like diamonds; but there is none\nof that logical method {201} which wraps one around with convictions;\nbut in place of it a beautiful mass of rhetorical spray, that delights\nand refreshes and passes--like a summer cloud.\n\nMeanwhile the suppers abound, and so do the debts: that siren wife, who\nhad kept his accounts, and made extracts and filled his note-books (and\nhis flasks), passes away.  It is a shock that does not rally his\nforces, but rather disperses them.  He is _lie_ in these times with the\nPrince of Wales; dines with him; wines with him.  Who shall say he does\nnot troll with him some of the piquant snatches of his own verse?  As\nthis:\n\n  \"A bumper of good liquor\n  Will end a contest quicker\n  Than justice, judge, or vicar;\n  So fill a cheerful glass\n  And let good humor pass.\n  But if more deep the quarrel,\n  Why, sooner drain the barrel\n  Than be the hateful fellow\n  That's crabbed when he's mellow.\"\n\nHe _did_ drain the barrel; he did fall from all his dizzy eminence; he\ndid die a drunkard of the grosser sort; without money, almost without\n{202} friends.[8]  There was a great rally of coronets at his funeral,\nand a pompous procession of those who went to bury him at Westminster.\nYou will find his name there, in the Poets' Corner of the Abbey, and\nwill give to his memory your wonder and your pity; but not, I think,\nmuch veneration.\n\n\n_The Boy Chatterton._\n\n[Sidenote: Chatterton.]\n\nWe shift the scenes now for a new episode in our little story of\nletters, although we are under the same murky sky of London.  George\nthe Third is just finishing the first decade of his long reign; most of\nthe clubmen of whom we have spoken are still alive, and go up, with\nmore or less of regularity, to pay their court to Dr. Johnson; but we\nhave our eye specially upon a pale, handsome-faced, long-haired lad,\nnot beyond the schooling age, who knows nothing of courts or clubs, who\nhas stolen away from the thraldom of a small {203} attorney's office in\nBristol, in the West of England, to come up to London and face the\nworld there, and try to conquer it.  He does not know the task he has\nundertaken.  His brain, indeed, is full of fine fancies; he has the\npoetic fervor in full flow upon him.  He has left a mother and a\nsister--whom he loves dearly--his only near relatives; and he writes to\nthat mother under date of May, 1770:\n\n\n\"I am settled, and in such a settlement as I would desire.  I get four\nguineas a month by one magazine; shall engage to write a History of\nEngland, or other pieces, which will more than double that sum.\nOccasional essays for the daily papers would more than support me.\nWhat a glorious prospect!\"\n\n\nAnd, again, a few weeks later to his sister:\n\n\n\"I employ my money now in fitting myself fashionably, as my profession\n(of letters) obliges me to frequent the places of best resort.  But I\nhave engaged to live with a gentleman, the brother of a lord, who is\ngoing to advance pretty deeply into the bookselling branches.  I shall\nhave lodging and boarding, genteel and elegant, gratis.  I shall have\nlikewise no inconsiderable premium.  I will send you two silks this\nsummer, and expect, in answer to this, what colors you prefer....\nEssay writing has this advantage: you are sure of constant pay; and\nwhen you have once wrote a piece which makes the author inquired after,\nyou may bring the booksellers to your own terms.\"\n\n\n{204}\n\nAh, how young he was!  If only those first literary dreams and hopes\ncould be realized, which nestle in the brains of so many--what\nsilks--what houses--what gold--what fame!  Yet this stripling not yet\neighteen could write.  I will give you a taste of his quality--in\nverses shorn of some of the old words he put in them for sake of\ndisguise:--\n\n  \"The budding floweret blushes at the light,\n    The meads are sprinkled with the yellow hue,\n  In daisied mantles is the mountain dight,\n    The nesh young cowslip bendeth with the dew;\n  The trees enleafed, into heaven straught,\n    When gentle winds do blow, to whistling din are brought.\n\n  The evening comes and brings the dew along,\n    The ruddy welkin sheeneth to the eyne;\n  Around the ale stake minstrels sing their song;\n    Young ivy round the door-post doth entwine.\n  I lay me on the grass; yet, to my will\n    Albeit all is fair, there lacketh something still.\"[9]\n\n\nAnd again, of a different order, this--from the same long poem:--\n\n  \"O sing unto my Roundelay,\n    O drop the briny tear with me,\n  Dance no more at Holy day\n    Like a running river be.\n\n{205}\n\n      My Love is dead,\n      Gone to his death bed,\n  All under the willow tree.\n\n  Come with acorn cup and thorn\n    Drain my hearte's blood away;\n  Life and all its good I scorn,\n    Dance by night or feast by day.\n  My love is dead\n    Gone to his death-bed\n  All under the willow tree.\"\n\n\nWell, this is the poetry of the marvellous boy\nChatterton[10]--fragments of which you will find in all the\nanthologies.  That last tender letter to his sister, which I set before\nyou--so gleeful, with promise of silks and of brilliant essays, was\nwritten on the last day of the month of May, 1770; and on the 24th of\nAugust--not three months later--after three days of starvation enforced\nby a poverty of which his pride would not let him tell, he took poison\nand made an end of his career.\n\nFew knew of this; few knew that there had {206} been any such\nadventurer in London; fewer yet, knew what poems--brimming, many of\nthem, with fine fancies--he had left behind him.\n\nA few months after, at the first annual dinner of the newly founded\nRoyal Academy of Art, Goldsmith,[11] being present, talked at table of\na certain extraordinary lad who had come up the year before from\nBristol--and had died the summer past--literally of starvation--leaving\nbehind him certain wonderful poems, which in their phrases, he said,\nhad an air of great antiquity.  And Horace Walpole being also\npresent--he never omitted being present at a Royal Society dinner, when\nit was possible for him to go--overhearing the talk and the name, said\n(we may fancy), \"Bless me, young Chatterton, to be sure!--I had some\ncorrespondence with the young man; nice poems--but apocryphal--poor\nfellow; dead is he--starved, eh? dear me?--shocking--quite so!\" and I\nsuppose that he took snuff and dusted his ruffles thereafter, and then\ntoyed with his delicate glass of fine old Sercial Madeira.  This was\nlike {207} Walpole--wantonly like him.  There had been a\ncorrespondence, as he condescendingly admitted, that I will tell you of.\n\nThis Bristol boy, growing up in sight of Durdham downs, and the gorge\nof the Avon and blue hills of Wales--with poetic visions haunting\nhim--had somehow come upon old parchments--perhaps out of the muniment\nrooms of St. Mary's Redcliffe church, where his father had been sexton;\nhe had been captivated by the quaint lettering, and awed by the odor of\nsanctity; and straightway imaged to himself an old mediaeval priest, to\nbe clothed upon with his own poetic sensibilities, and in the rusty\nphrases of the fourteenth century, to unfold to the world the poetic\nyearnings and aspirations that were seething in the brain of this\nwonderful boy.  The ancient Dictionaries and old copies of Chaucer\nsupplied the language; the antique parchments gave local allusions and\nthe nomenclature; and for inspiration and motive--the winds that blew\nfrom over Chepstow and Tintern Abbey, and Caerleon, and whistled round\nthe buttresses of St. Mary's Redcliffe--supplied more than enough.  So\nbegan {208} the modern antique poems of Thomas Rowley; not a new device\nin the literary world; for Macpherson, whom we shall encounter\npresently, only a few years before had launched some of the \"Ossian\"\npoems, to the great wonderment and puzzle of the literary world; and\nWalpole, still earlier, had claimed a false antiquity and Neapolitan\norigin for his _Castle of Otranto_.  To Walpole, therefore, the eager\nboy sent some fragments of his Rowley poems, which Walpole courteously\nacknowledged, and asked for a continuance of such favors.  Poor\nChatterton, presuming on this courtesy wrote again, declaring his\ndependent condition--apprenticed to a scrivener, and with mother and\nsister dependent on him--but believing that with God's help, and the\nencouragement of his distinguished patron, he might find the way to\nother and better Rowley poems.\n\nMeantime Walpole, through his scholarly friend the poet Gray, had come\nto doubt the antiquity of Rowley's verse; and the plebeianism of this\ncorrespondent has shocked his gentility.  He replies coolly, therefore;\nexpresses doubts of the Rowley authorship, and advises poor Chatterton\nto keep {209} by his apprenticeship at the scriveners.  This sets the\nyoung poet's blood on fire; he will go to London; he will win his way;\nhe will smite the Philistines hip and thigh.  And--as I have told\nyou--he did go; did work; did struggle.  But it is a great self-seeking\nworld he has to face, full throughout of thwarting circumstance.  Yet\ncourage and pride hold him up--hold him up for months against terrific\nodds; at least he will tell nothing of his griefs.  Thus his last\npennies, which should have gone for bread, go to carry little\nlove-tokens to the dear ones he has left.  So lost is he in his little\nHolborn chamber, in that great seething, turbulent whirl of London,\nthat he thinks--even as he mixes his death potion--they will never\nknow; they will never hear: \"Gone\"--that is all!  But they do know: and\nfor them it is to chant broken-hearted the refrain of his own roundelay,\n\n    My love is dead,\n    Gone to his death bed\n  All under the willow tree.\n\n\nIt is not alone for reason of the romantic aspects of the story that I\nhave given you this glimpse of the boy Chatterton, but because there\nwas really {210} much literary merit and great promise in his work; in\nsome respects, he reminds us of our American Poe--the same disposition\nto deal with mysteries, the same uncontrolled ardors, the same haughty\npride; and although Chatterton's range in all rhythmic art was far\nbelow that of Poe, and although he did not carry so bold and venturous\na step as the American into the region of _diableries_, he had perhaps\nmore varied fancies and more homely tendernesses.  The antique gloss\nwhich he put upon his work was unworthy his genius; helping no way save\nto stimulate curiosity, and done with a crudeness which, under the\nlight of modern philologic study, would have deceived no one.  But\nunder this varnish of archaeologic fustian and mould, there is show of\nan imaginative power and of a high poetic instinct, which will hold\ncritical respect[12] and regard as long as English poetry shall be read.\n\n\n{211}\n\n_Laurence Sterne._\n\n[Sidenote: A sentimentalist.]\n\nJust two years before Chatterton died in Holborn, another noted\nliterary character--Laurence Sterne[13]--died in Old Bond Street, at\nwhat were fashionable lodgings then, and what is now a fashionable\ntailor's shop; died there almost alone; for he was not a man who wins\nsuch friendships as hold through all weathers.  A well known friend of\nthe sick man--Mr. Crawford--was giving a dinner that day a few doors\noff; and Garrick was a guest at his table; so was David Hume, the\nhistorian; half through the dinner, the host told his footman to go\nover and ask after the sick man; and this is the report the footman\ngave to outsiders: \"I went to the gentleman's lodgings, and the\nmistress opened the door.  Says I--'How is Mr. Sterne to-day?'  She\ntold me to go up to the nurse; so I went, and he was just a-dying; I\nwaited a while; but in {212} five minutes he said, 'Now it's come.'\nThen he put up his hand, as if to stop a blow, and died in a minute.\nThe gentlemen were all very sorry.\"  And all the sorrow anywhere--save\nin the heart of his poor daughter Lydia--was, I suspect, of the same\nstamp.  His wife certainly would get on very well without him: she had\nfor a good many years already.\n\n[Sidenote: Laurence Sterne.]\n\nYou know the name of Mr. Sterne, I daresay, a great deal better than\nhis works; and it is well enough that you should.  A good many\nfragments drift about in books of miscellany which you are very likely\nto know and to admire; for some of them are surely of most exquisite\nquality.  Take for instance that talk of Corporal Trim with Uncle Toby\nabout the poor lieutenant, and of his ways and times of saying his\nprayers:--\n\n\n\"When the Lieutenant had taken his glass of sack and toast he felt\nhimself a little revived, and sent down into the kitchen to let me know\nthat in about ten minutes he would be glad if I would step upstairs.\n'I believe,' said the landlord, 'he is going to say his prayers, for\nthere was a book laid on the chair by the bedside, and as I shut the\ndoor I saw him take up a cushion.'\n\n\"'I thought,' said the curate, 'that you gentlemen of the army, Mr.\nTrim, never said your prayers at all.\"\n\n{213}\n\n\"'A soldier, an' please your Reverence,' said I, 'prays as often as a\nparson; and when he is fighting for his king and for his own life, and\nfor his honor too, he has the most reason to pray to God of any one in\nthe whole world.'\n\n\"''Twas _well_ said of thee, Trim!' said my Uncle Toby.\n\n\"'But when a soldier,' said I, 'an' please your Reverence, has been\nstanding for twelve hours together in the trenches, up to his knees in\ncold water, or engaged for months together in long and dangerous\nmarches--detached here--countermanded there; benumbed in his\njoints;--perhaps without straw in his tent to kneel on, he must say his\nprayers how and when he can.'  'I believe', said I, for I was piqued,\nquoth the Corporal, 'for the reputation of the army--I believe, an't\nplease your Reverence--that when a soldier gets time to pray he prays\nas heartily as a Parson--though not with all his fuss and hypocrisy.\"\n\n\"'Thou should'st not have said _that_, Trim,' said my uncle Toby; 'for\nGod only knows who is a hypocrite and who is not.  At the great and\ngeneral review of us all, Corporal, at the day of judgment (and not\ntill then) it will be seen who have done their duties in this world and\nwho have not, and we shall be advanced, Trim, accordingly.'\n\n\"'I hope we shall,' said Trim.\n\n\"'It is the Scripture,' said my uncle Toby, 'and I will show it thee in\nthe morning.'\"\n\n\nNow this beautiful naturalness, this delightful, artistic abstention\nfrom all rant or extravagance, makes us wish overmuch that the whole\nguileless character of my uncle Toby had been as {214} charmingly and\nas decently set in the text; but unfortunately, there is a continuous\nembroidery of it all with ribald blotches, and far-fetched foulness of\nspeech; nor is his coarseness--like that of Fielding--half excused by\nthe coarseness of the age; it is inherent and vital: Fielding, indeed,\nis vulgar and coarse, and obstreperous--with the scent of bad spirits\nand bad company on him;[14] but this other, though a parson, and\nperfumed, and wearing may-be, satin small-clothes, has vile and\ngrovelling tastes that overflow in double-meanings of lewdness: even\nGoldsmith, who was not squeamish, calls him \"the blackguard parson.\"\nIt is not probable that Goldsmith ever encountered him; nor did Dr.\nJohnson.  Beauclerk, Garrick, and Walpole would have been more in his\nline; for he loved the glint, and the capital letters, and the showy\ntag-rags of fashion.  And on the strength of his literary reputation,\nwhich had sudden and brilliant burst, and of his good family--since a\nnot far-off ancestor had been Archbishop of York--he {215} conquered\nand enjoyed, for his little day, all that London fashion had to offer.\nI suspect he took a solid comfort in dying in so respectable a quarter\nas Old Bond Street.  He was buried over Bayswater way, not far from the\nMarble Arch, in the graveyard then pertaining to St. George's (Hanover\nSquare) church.  And there was a story, supported by a good deal of\ncircumstantial evidence, that his body was spirited away and recognized\na few days afterward by a medical student among the spoils of a\ndissecting-room.  This story would horrify more than it did, had it\nattached to an author whose humor had kindled love;--as if this man did\nsomehow deserve a more effective \"cutting-up\" after death than he ever\nreceived before it.\n\nThe Rev. Laurence Sterne had--I should have told you--a church-living\ndown in Yorkshire, to which was afterward added, by adroit diplomacy of\nhis friends, an official position in connection with York Cathedral.  I\ndo not think the people of his parish missed him much when he was away;\nand I am very sure they missed him a good deal, whenever he\nwas--nominally--there: painting, {216} fiddling, shooting, and\ndining-out, took very much of his parochial time; and _Tristram Shandy_\nand its success, literary and pecuniary, introduced him to a career in\nLondon, and in Paris afterward--for he was always an immense favorite\nwith the French (instance Tony Johannot's illustrations)--to which he\nyielded himself with a graceful acquiescence that, I am afraid, put his\nparishioners more out of mind than the fiddling and the shooting had\ndone.\n\nI believe that he loved his daughter Lydia with an honest love; with\nrespect to his wife, one cannot be so sure; some of the most tender\nletters he left, are addressed to a Mrs. Draper, who was his \"dear\nEliza\"--through a great many quires of paper.  He was a Cambridge man\nand well taught;--of abundant reading, which he made to serve his turn\nin various ways, and conspicuously by his stealings; he stole from\nRabelais; he stole from Shakespeare; he stole from Fuller;[15] he stole\n{217} from Burton's _Anatomy of Melancholy_; not a stealing of ideas\nonly, but of words and sentences and half-pages together, without a\nsign of obligation; and yet he did so wrap about these thefts with the\nstrings and lappets of his own abounding humor and drollery, as to give\nto the whole--thieving and Shandyism combined--a stamp of\nindividuality.  Ten to one that these old authors who had suffered the\npilfering, would have lost cognizance of their expressions, in the new\nsurroundings of the Yorkshire parson; and joined in the common grin of\napplause with which the world welcomed and forgave them.\n\nBut I linger longer on this name than the man deserves.  Pathos there\nis in his stories, to be sure, that makes you wilt in spite of\nyourself; but a mile away from those Bond Street chambers where this\npale, thin, silk-stockinged clergyman lives, and has his dinner\ninvitations ten deep, is that old scar-faced Dr. Johnson about whom the\nbeggars crowd; who can put no such pathos into his {218} cumbrous\nsentences indeed; but the presence of that old, blind, petulant woman\nin his house--who had waited on his lost wife--is itself a bit of\npathos that I think will outlast the story of _Maria_--and that should\ndo so forty times over.  I wish I could blot out the silk stockings,\nthe rustling cassock, the simper, the pestilent love letters, the\npretences, the artificialities of the man; they are oppressive; they\nrob his words of weight.  Wit--to be sure, and humor--truculent,\nsparkling--more than enough; for the rest, there is hypocrisy,\npretension--beastliness--untruth--all pinned under a satinquilted cloak\nof vague and unreal piety.\n\n\n\n[1] Charles James Fox, b. 1749; d. 1806.  Elected to club membership in\n1774.  His great great-grandmother was the Duchess of Portsmouth; and\nthe Lord Holland so well known for his entertainments at Holland House,\nearly in this century, was a nephew of Charles James Fox.  Life by\nGeorge Otto Trevelyan.\n\n[2] Instance, speech on French affairs and the question of making peace\nwith Napoleon--just then elected First Consul.  Date of February, 1800.\n\n[3] William Pitt, b. 1759; d. 1806.  Younger son of the Earl of\nChatham.  He entered Pembroke Hall, Cambridge, 1773.\n\n[4] Wraxall in his Memoirs (p. 344) cites special instance in the\nspeech, where he deprecates new alliance between North and\nFox--alluding to personal results to himself:--\n\n  \"Fortuna saevo laeta negotio et----\"\n\n(leaving out the _mea virtute_) then pounding on the table, and adding\nwith oratorical vim\n\n      \"----probamque\n  Pauperiem sine dole quaero.\"\n\n\nHere (says Wraxall, who was an auditor) he cast his eyes down--passing\nhis handkerchief across his lips--to recover breath only.  Certainly he\nwas grandly clear of anything like avarice; no great statesman of\nEngland (unless Gladstone) ever thought so little of money.\n\n[5] See Francis Horner article in _Edinburgh Review_, October, 1843.\n\n[6] Richard Brinsley Sheridan, b. 1751; d. 1816.  Moore's Biography,\ninteresting but not authoritative.  Mrs. Oliphant's sketch in the\nMorley _Lives_, is one of that lady's most charming books.\n\n[7] It was on February 7, 1787, that Sheridan made his first notable\nspeech on the Begum charge in the House of Commons; the second, in the\nimpeachment trial in Westminster Hall, in June, 1788.  Others followed\nof less interest toward the close of the trial in 1794.  The best\nreports are of the speeches made in 1788, published at the instigation\nof Sir Cornewall Lewis, in 1859.  See _Wilkes, Sheridan, and Fox_, by\nW. Fraser Rae.  1874.\n\n[8] A fearful account of Sheridan's condition in his last days is to be\nfound in the _Croker Papers_ (1884), chap. x.  It is embodied in what\npurports to be a literal transcript of a conversational narrative by\nGeorge IV., J. Wilson Croker being interlocutor and listener.\n\n[9] [OE]lia (Humphry Ward's version).\n\n[10] Thomas Chatterton, b. 1752; d. 1770.  Tyrwhitt's edition, \"Poems\nsupposed to have been written by Thomas Rowley,\" etc., dates from 1777.\n\n[11] Foster's Goldsmith, vol. ii., p. 248.\n\n[12] Dr. Skeat--as a philologist--is naturally severe upon a thief of\narchaisms, whose robberies and arrogance did puzzle for a while even\nthe archaeologists.\n\n_Per contra_--there is a disposition among many recent critics to rank\nhim high among the pioneers of the \"New Romantic\" movement in England;\n_Vid._ Rodin Noel--_Essays on the Poets_; also, _Athenaeum_, No. 3073.\n\n[13] Sterne: b. 1713; d. 1768.  _Life_, by H. D. Traill; a fuller one\nby Percy Fitzgerald.\n\n[14] Notwithstanding there was almost always evidence of gentlemanly\ninstincts at bottom; and under the scoriae of a dissipated life and\nhabits the sparkling of a soul of honor.\n\n[15] In a sermon read by Corporal Trim (p. 209, _Tristram Shandy_, vol.\ni., London, 1790) are a good many strong points taken, without\nacknowledgment, from one of Richard Bentley's sermons, preached at\nCambridge against Popery, on November 5th--shortly after the first\nattempt of \"the Pretender.\"  This strange similitude is not noticed in\nDr. Ferrier's summing up of Sterne's sinning in this line.\n\n\n\n\n{219}\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\nWe had sight of George III. in our last chapter, and we shall catch\nsight of him again from time to time; for he was a persistent lingerer,\nand a most obstinate liver.  We had glimpses, too, of that cheery,\nsunny-faced, eloquent, ill-balanced man, Charles James Fox, whom we\nought to remember as a true friend to America, in those critical days\nwhen taxation was swelling into tyranny.  William Pitt, whom we also\nsaw, and to whom we would have been delighted to listen, would never\nhave won greatly upon American sympathies; too cold, too austere, too\nclassic, too fine.  Sheridan, on the other hand, would, and did,\nconquer hearts everywhere; but unfortunately spending his forces in\ngreat paroxysms of effort; one while the greatest comedist, and again\nthe greatest orator, always the greatest spendthrift; {220} and anon\nthe greatest debtor, who only pays his debts by dying.\n\nSterne covered better his deficiencies of money and of soul.  Who could\nhave put more or truer feeling into the story of the poor ill\nlieutenant of the inn, whom Corporal Trim (at Uncle Toby's instance)\nhad gone to see, and of whom he makes report?  And uncle Toby says he\nwill fetch him home and set him afoot in his regiment.\n\n\"Never,\" says Trim, \"can he march.\"\n\n\"But he _shall_ march,\" says uncle Toby.\n\n\"He will die in his tracks,\" says Trim.\n\n\"He shall _not_ die,\" says Toby, with an oath--which oath, says Sterne,\nthe recording angel washed away, so soon as it was uttered.  The Rev.\nLaurence Sterne, it is to be feared, counted too largely upon the swash\nof such tender recording angels.  Only a host of them, with best\nlachrymal equipment, could float away poor Sterne's misdeeds!\n\nWe touched upon the sad life and fate of the marvellous boy,\nChatterton--not a great poet, but with an exuberant poetic glow within\nhim which gave new brightness to old Romanticism, and {221} which\nkindled in after days many a fancy into flame--up and down the pages of\nlater and bolder poets.  Were his forgeries perhaps instigated by the\nOssianic mystification?\n\n\n_Macpherson and other Scots._\n\n[Sidenote: James Macpherson.]\n\nI do not know if you have ever encountered the poems of Ossian.  They\nare out of fashion now; I doubt if fragments even get into the\nschool-books; but some of my readers may remember in a corner of the\nart-gallery of Yale University a painting, with two life-size figures\nin it, by Colonel John Trumbull--a limp and bleeding, and somewhat\ndainty warrior, leaning upon the shoulder of a flax-haired maiden; with\na little strain from Ossian's Fingal, in the placard below, to tell the\nstory.  The mighty Lamderg (who is the warrior) died: and Gelchossa\n(the flax-haired young woman) \"mourned three days beside her love.  The\nhunters found her dead.\"  The picture is, I suspect, almost the only\npermanent mark in America of the amazing popularity which once belonged\nto the strange, weird, monotonous, gloomy, {222} thin poems of Ossian.\nThere are descriptions of mountain crags in them, and of splintered\npines, of thunder blasts and of ocean hoar; and there are crags again,\nand bleeding warriors, and flax-haired women; harps, moonlight, broken\nclouds, and crags again: I cite a few fragments:\n\n\n\"The oaks of the mountains fall; the ocean shrinks and grows again; the\nmoon herself is lost in heaven; but thou art forever the same,\nrejoicing in the brightness of thy course.  When the world is dark with\ntempests, when thunder rolls and lightning flies, thou lookest in thy\nbeauty from the clouds and laughest at the storm.\n\n... \"Rise, moon, from behind thy clouds!  Stars of the night arise,\nlead me, some light, to the place where my love rests from the chase\nalone--his bow near him unstrung; his dogs panting around him.  The\nstream and the wind roar aloud, I hear not the voice of my love.\"\n\n\n[Sidenote: Poems of Ossian.]\n\nAnd yet these poetic flights, which, it would seem might be made up\nfrom collective but injudicious use of the Songs of Solomon and the\nmental exaltations which come from over-indulgence in tea drinking, or\nother strong waters, were borne, on a swift gale of plaudits in the\nlatter half of the last century all over Europe.  Professors of\nLiterature (such as Dr. Hugh Blair) wrote {223} treatises upon their\nfire and grace; such men as Goethe and Schiller were fast admirers;\nNapoleon was said to be bewildered by their beauty.  Of course they had\nFrench translation; and there were versions in German, Greek, Dutch,\nSpanish, and Latin.  The Abbe Cesarotti, besides writing a dissertation\nin favor of the authenticity of the Gaelic poems, gave an Italian\nversion (the favorite one of Napoleon) which in parts has a rounded\nplay of vocables that makes one forget all poverty of invention.  Thus\nwhen Ossian says,\n\n\"Thy side that is white as the foam of the troubled sea, when dark\nwinds pour it on rocky Cuthon----\" it is rounded by the Italian into\nthis pretty bit of mellifluence:--\n\n  \"Il tuo fianco ch' e candido come la spuma del turbato mare,\n  Quando gli oscuri venti lo spingono contro la mormorante\n  Roccia di Cutone----\"[1]\n\n\n{224}\n\nAnd who, pray, was this Macpherson[2] of the Ossian poems, and what was\nhis claim?  He was a Scotch school-master; born somewhere in the upper\nvalley of the Spey, beyond the Grampians and in the heart of the\nHighlands.  He had been at Aberdeen University awhile, and again at\nEdinboro'; but took no degree at either.  He wrote and printed some\npoor verse when twenty; followed it up with some fragments of old\nGaelic song, which commanded wide attention; and in 1762 published that\npoem of Fingal--professedly by Ossian, an old Gaelic bard; and this\nmade him famous.  The measure and range were new, and there was a\ntorrent of flame and thunder and love and fury running through it which\ncaptivated: he went up to London--was appointed to go with Governor\nJohnston to Florida,[3] in America; remained there at Pensacola, a year\nor more; but quarrelled with his chief (he had rare aptitude for\nquarrelling) and came back in 1766.  Some English {225} historical work\nfollowed; but with little success or profit.  Yet he was a canny\nScotchman, and so laid his plans that he became agent for some rich\nnabob of India (from those pickings winning a great fortune\neventually); entered Parliament in 1780; had a country house at Putney,\nwhere he entertained lavishly; and at last built a great show place in\nthe Highlands, near to his birth-place--which one may see to-day--with\nan obelisk to his memory, looking down on the valley of the Spey; and\nnot so far away from the old coach-road, that passes through\nKilliecrankie, from Blair Athol to Inverness, but the coachman can show\nit--as he did to me--with his whip.\n\nThere were those who questioned from the beginning whether the Ossianic\npoems did really come from the Gaelic;--Dr. Johnson among them, whose\ncontemptuous doubts infuriated the Macpherson to such a degree that he\nchallenged the doughty Doctor.  Johnson replied in what may be called\nforcible speech:--\n\n\n\"Mr. James Macpherson, I received your foolish and impudent letter.  I\nhope I shall never be deterred from detecting what I think a cheat, by\nthe menaces of a ruffian.  What {226} would you have me retract?  I\nthought your book an imposture; I think it an imposture still.  Your\nrage I defy.  Your abilities, since your Homer,[4] are not so\nformidable: and what I hear of your morals inclines me to pay\nregard--not to what you shall _say_, but to what you shall _prove_.\nYou may print this if you will.\"\n\n\nDr. Johnson carried a big oaken cudgel with him, when he travelled in\nScotland.  Hume, on the other hand, was, with Scotch patriotism,\ninclined to accept at first, Macpherson's story of authenticity:[5] but\neven he says of this author, with whom he came into altercation--\"I\nhave scarce ever known a man more perverse and unamiable.\"  The\nHighland Society investigated the matter, and reported that while there\nwas no trace of a complete poem in Gaelic corresponding {227} to\nMacpherson's verse, there were snatches of Highland song and ballads\nwhich supported his allegations.  The question is not even yet fully\nsettled, and is hardly worth the settlement.  Macpherson's own\nobstinacies and petulancies put unnumbered difficulties in the way; he\nresented any denial of Gaelic origin for his verse; he resented any\ndenial of his capacity to sing better than the Gael; he promised to\nshow Highland originals, and always made occasions for delay; withal he\nwas as touchy as a bad child, and as virulent as a fish-woman.  Nothing\nsatisfied him; one of those men whose steak is always too much done--or\ntoo little;--the sermon always too short or too long.  He might have\nbeen the \"Stout Gentleman\" of _Bracebridge Hall_: for he was a big man,\nand always wore wax-topped boots.  Old Mrs. Grant too--who must have\nbeen a neighbor of his, when she lived at Laggan--says that he had\nhabits (with theories about social proprieties) which \"excluded him\nfrom decent society.\"  Mrs. Grant was, however \"verra\" correct, and a\nstickler for the minor, as well as the major virtues.\n\nMacpherson left inheritors of his name, and of {228} his estates in\nthat upper valley of the Spey; and a daughter of his became the wife of\nSir David Brewster, the eminent scientist.  He was buried \"by special\nrequest\" in Westminster Abbey; he had been always covetous of such\npublic testimonials to his consequence.  Yet if his book of Ossianic\npoems was ten-fold better than it is, it would hardly give an enduring,\nor a brilliant gloss to the memory of James Macpherson.\n\nBut whatever may be said for the Gaelic, it is certain that Scotticisms\nwere in those days winning their place in song and in tale.  Since the\nday, in the first quarter of the century (1725), when Allan Ramsay had\nsent out from his book shop in Edinboro', his rustic eclogue of the\n_Gentle Shepherd_, a love had been ripening and growing for those\nScottish strains which were to find their last and unsurpassable\nexpression by and by, in the glow and passion of Burns.\n\nMeantime there were hundreds along the Teviot, and the Esk, and by\nEttrickdale, who rolled under their tongues delightedly the Scottish\nbubbles of song, which broke--now from a bookseller, now from a\nschoolmaster, now from a Jacobite, {229} and now from a \"stickit\"\nminister.[6]  I will give you one taste of this Scotticism of the\nborders, were it only to clear your thought of the gloom and crags of\nOssian.  It is usually attributed to Halket, a Jacobite school-master,\nnot so well known as Ramsay or Robert Ferguson:--\n\n[Sidenote: Logie O'Buchan.]\n\n  \"O Logie o' Buchan, O Logie the laird,\n  They ha'e ta'en awa' Jamie, that delved in the yard,\n  Wha played on the pipe, and the viol sae sma',\n  They ha'e ta'en awa' Jamie, the flower o' them a'.\n\n  \"Tho' Sandy has ousen, has gear and has kye,\n  A house and a hadden, and siller forbye;\n  Yet I'd tak' my ain lad, wi' his staff in his hand,\n  Before I'd ha'e him, wi' the houses and land.\n\n  \"My Daddie looks sulky, my Minnie looks sour,\n  They frown upon Jamie because he is poor;\n  Tho' I lo'e them as weel as a daughter should do\n  They're nae half sa dear to me, Jamie, as you.\n\n  \"I sit on my creepie, I spin at my wheel\n  And think on the laddie that lo'ed me sae weel,\n  He had but ae saxpence, he brak it in twa\n  And gied me the hauf o't, when he ga'd awa'.\"\n\n\n{230}\n\nYet the poet, from whom we quote, died only three years before Burns\nwas born; but I think we can see from the graces of this modest\nschoolmaster singer, that taste and accomplishment were both ripening\nin those north latitudes for the times and the man, in which and in\nwhom, such poetry as that of Burns should be possible.\n\nThere was, too, another growth in those days in that northern capital\nof Great Britain; Dr. Robertson had written his History of America and\nhis History of Charles V.  Adam Smith (the friend of Hume) was busy on\nhis _Wealth of Nations_ (published during the year in which Hume died).\nHugh Blair, the eloquent doctor, was delivering his lectures on\nrhetoric.  Henry Mackenzie, the amiable Dean of the Edinboro' literati,\nwas writing his _Man of Feeling_ and his _Julia de Roubigne_,--books of\ngreat reputation in the early part of this century, but with graces in\nthem that were only imitative, and sentiment that was dismally affected\nand over-wrought; and there was Lord Kames, the _Gentleman Farmer_,\nwith a fine great house in the Canongate, who wrote on criticism, with\nacuteness and taste.  You will not read any of the {231} books of these\nlast-named people; 't were unfair to ask you to do so; but they were\npreparing the way for that literary development which will find\nexpression before many years in the columns of the _Edinburgh Review_\n(established at the beginning of this century), and in the border\nminstrelsy of Scott.\n\n\n_George Crabbe._\n\n[Sidenote: Crabbe.]\n\nWe step back into England now, to find two poets whose principal work\nbelonged to the closing years of the last century; and with echoes,\nfresh and strong, trailing over into the beginning of this.  Neither\ntheir work nor their lives belonged to the noises or to the atmosphere\nof London.  City sounds do not press into their verse; but instead are\nthe sounds of sea-waves or of winds on woods, or of church bells, or of\nthe clink and murmur of the lives of cottagers.  The first I name to\nyou of these two is George Crabbe[7]--a name that {232} may sound\nstrangely, being almost unknown and unconsidered now; yet fifty years\nago there was not a reading-book in any of the schools, nor an album\nfull of elegant selections, which was not open for the story of\nPh[oe]be Dawson, or a glimpse of the noble peasant, Isaac Ashford.  But\nall that is gone:[8]\n\n  \"I see no more those white locks thinly spread\n  Round the bald polish of that honored head;\n  No more that awful glance on playful wight\n  Compelled to knee and tremble at the sight,\n  To fold his fingers all in dread the while\n  Till Mister Ashford softened to a smile.\"\n\n\nThis gives the manner and strain of Crabbe; it is Pope, but it is Pope\nmuddied and rusticated; {233} Pope in cow-skin shoes, instead of Pope\nin prunella.\n\nCrabbe was born in the little shore town of Aldborough--looking\nstraight out upon the North Sea; and the rhythmic beat of those waves\nso stamped itself on his boyish brain, that it came out afterward--when\nhe could manage language, in which he had great gift--very clear and\nvery real; there's nothing better, all up and down his rural tales,\nthan his fashion of putting waves into his rhythmic measures--as you\nshall see:--\n\n  \"Upon the billows rising--all the deep\n  Is restless change: the waves so swelled and steep,\n  Breaking and sinking, and the sunken swells\n  Nor one, one moment, in its station dwells.\n      *      *      *      *      *\n  Curled as they come, they strike with furious force,\n  And then, renewing, take their grating course,\n  Raking the rounded flints, which ages past\n  Rolled by their rage, and shall to ages last.\n      *      *      *      *      *\n  In shore, their passage tribes of sea-gulls urge,\n  And drop for prey within the sweeping surge,\n  Oft in the rough opposing blast they fly\n  Far back, then turn and all their force apply,\n  While to the storm they give their weak complaining cry,\n  Or clap the sleek white pinion on the breast,\n  And in the restless ocean dip for rest.\"\n\n\n{234}\n\nFashions of poets and of poetry may go by, but such scenes on those\nNorth Sea shores will never go by.  Crabbe was son of a customs' man,\nof small, turbulent character, and the boy had starveling education; he\npicked up so much as qualified him at length for surgeon (or doctor, as\nwe say) in that small shore town, but gained little: so, threw all\nbehind him--a girl he loved, and a town he did not love--and with three\nguineas in his pocket, and a few manuscript poems, set off for London.\nHe was there, indeed, in the very times we have talked of; when wits\nmet at the Turk's Head, when Fox thundered in Parliament, when Sterne\nwas just dead; but who should care for this stout young fellow from the\nshore?  One man--one only, does care; it is the warm Irish-hearted\nEdmund Burke, who being appealed to and having read the verses which\nthe adventurer brought to his notice, befriends him, takes him to his\nhouse, makes him know old Dr. Johnson; and his first book is launched\nand talked of under their patronage.  Then this great friend Burke\nconspires religiously with the Bishop of Norwich to plant the poet in\nthe Church.  Why not?  He has some Latin; he {235} means well, and can\nwrite a sermon.  So we find him returned to that wild North Sea shore\nwith a little church to feed, and the church people, in their turn, to\nfeed him.  But the arrangement does not run smoothly; those verses of\nhis, unlike most rural verse, have shown all the darker colors of\npeasant life; if full of sympathy, they were full of bitter, homely\ntruth.  The muck, the mire, the griefs, the crimes, the unthrift, the\ndesolation, have given sombre tint to his village pictures; perhaps\nthose shore people resent it; perhaps he is incapable of the cheeriness\nwhich should brighten charity; at any rate he goes away under private\npreferment to a private chaplaincy at Belvoir Castle, the seat of the\nDuke of Rutland.\n\nThere is not a more princely house among the baronial homes of England.\nIt sits among wooded hills--which to the eye of a Suffolk man would be\nmountains--where Lincolnshire and Leicestershire join: the towers of\nLincoln Cathedral are in sight at the north, and Nottingham Castle in\nthe west: and there is a glitter in some near valley of an affluent of\nthe Trent, shining amid billows of foliage; while within the stately\n{236} home,[9] the Suffolk doctor could have regaled himself with\nexamples of Rubens and of Murillo, of Teniers, Poussin, and Vandyke.\n\nThe Duke of Rutland was a kindly man, a sentimental lover of\nliterature, enjoying the verse of Crabbe, and proud of patronizing him,\nbut lacking the supreme art of putting him at ease among his titled\nvisitors; perhaps enjoying from his high poise, the disturbing\nembarrassments with which the good-natured poet was beset under the\nbewildering attentions of some butler, who outshone the host in his\ntrappings, and in his lordly condescension to the level of an\napothecary's apprentice.\n\nIt was not altogether pleasant for Crabbe; and when afterward he had\nmarried his old flame of Aldborough, and by invitation of the Duke (who\nwas absent in Ireland) was allowed to partake of the hospitalities of\nthe castle, the ironical obsequience of the flunkeys all, drove him\naway from the baronial roof.  Through the influence of friends he\nsecures livings,--first in Dorset, and afterward {237} in\nLeicestershire (1789), almost within sight of Belvoir towers.\nHereabout, or in near counties, where he has parochial duties, he\nvegetates slumberously, for twenty years or more.  He preaches,\npractises his old apothecary craft, drives (his wife holding the\nreins), idles, writes books and burns them, grows old, has children,\nloves flowers, and on one occasion, mounts his horse and gallops sixty\nmiles for a scent of the salt air which he had snuffed as a boy.\nMeanwhile the old haunts in London, which he knew for so brief a day,\nknow him no more; his old friends are dead, his hair is snowy, his\npurposes wavering.\n\nBut his children are of an age now to spur him to further literary\neffort; with the opening of the present century he rallies his power\nfor new songs; and thereafter the slowly succeeding issues of the\n_Parish Register_, _The Borough_, and the _Tales of the Hall_, pave a\nnew way for him into the courts of Fame.  He secures another and more\nvaluable living in the South of England (Wiltshire), where the incense\nof London praises can reach him more directly.  One day in 1819 he goes\naway from his publishers with bills for {238} L3,000[10] in his pocket;\nmust take them home to show them to his boy, John; he loves that boy\nand other children over much--more, it is to be feared, than he had\never done that mother, the old flame of Aldborough, in respect of whom\nthere had been intimations of incompatibility; hence, perhaps, the\ninterjection of that sixty-mile ride for a snuff of the freedom of the\nwaves.  He died at last down in Trowbridge (his new living), a little\nway southward of Bradford in Wiltshire; and his remains lie in the\nchancel of the pretty church there.\n\nWe must think of him, I believe, as a good, honest-minded, well-meaning\nman; dull, I dare say as a preacher; diffuse, meandering, homely and\nlumbering as a poet; yet touching with raw and lively colors the griefs\nof England's country-poor; and with a realism that is hard to match,\npainting the flight of petrels and of the curlew, {239} and the great\nsea waves that gather and roll and break along his lines.\n\n\nWilliam Cowper.\n\n[Sidenote: Cowper.]\n\nThe other poet, to whom allusion has been made, living beside him, in\nthat country of England, yet not near him nor known to him, was William\nCowper.  You know him better: you ought to know him better.  Yet he\nwould have managed a church--if a parish had been his--worse than\nCrabbe did.  I fear he would not have managed children so prudently;\nand if he had ever married, I feel quite sure that his wife would have\nmanaged him.\n\nCowper was of an excellent family, being the son[11] of a church\nrector, and was born at the rectory (now destroyed), which once stood\nunder the wing of the pretty church that, with its new decorations,\nstill dominates the picturesque valley {240} town of Great-Berkhamsted,\non the line of the London and Birmingham Railway.  He studied at\nWestminster--being school-fellow with Churchill, the poet, and with\nWarren Hastings--of whose Trial we have had somewhat to say: afterward\nhe entered a solicitor's office at the Temple, where Thurlow (later,\nLord Chancellor) chanced to be clerk at the same time.  He had fair\namount of money, good prospect of a place under Government--his uncle,\nAshley Cowper, being a man of position and influence.\n\nThis uncle had two daughters, to one of whom this young gentleman said\ntender things;--too tender to be altogether cousinly--in which regard\nshe proved as over-cousinly as he.  But the Papa stamped out that\nlittle fire of love before it had grown into great flame.  There is\nreason, however, to believe that the smouldering of it had its\ninfluences upon Miss Theodora all through her life; and who shall say\nthat it did not touch the great melancholy of the future poet with a\nsting of tenderness?  There was, however, no outspoken lamentation; the\nfeminine nature of the man accepted the decision of the uncle as a\ndecree of fate; {241} there was never any great capacity in him for\nstruggle or for controversy, either with men, or with untoward\ncircumstance.\n\nMeantime, the expected preferment came to young Cowper--a place, or\nplaces of value and of permanence, which he had need only to take with\na bold hand and purpose; but the bold hand was lacking; and his\nhesitancy multiplied difficulties which could only be met by\nexamination for fitness before the Lords; that examination stares him\nawfully in the face; he wilts under the bare prospect; is hedged by\ndoubts; palters with his weakness; falls into a wretched state of\nmelancholy, and--buys laudanum to make an end of it all;--then, he has\nflashes of light, and waves of a redeeming firmness chase over his\nmind; but finally, on the very day on which the examination was to take\nplace, he makes a miserable effort at self-destruction.  Was ever a\nman, before or since, who would commit suicide to avoid lucrative\noffice?  William Cowper, with only an ordinary share of average common\nsense, and unhampered by the trappings of genius that belonged to him,\nwould have \"gone on\" for this place; secured it; {242} made his easy\nfortune; lived a good humdrum life; died lamented, and never heard of.\nThe poet's fine brain, however--which had been exercised already in\nmusical verse--built up mountains of difficulty; he told in after\nyears, with a curious sincerity, all the details of his struggle--how\nhe held the phial of laudanum to his lips and how he flung it away; how\nhe held a knife at his heart; and finally, how he threw his garter,\nwhich served for a gallows-rope, over the chamber door, and hung \"till\nthe bitterness of temporal death was past.\"  Righteously enough, after\nall these weakly resolves, which a man of energy would have made\nstrong, he falls into utter distraction; religious doubts and fears\nracking him, and lunacy throttling him; and so this young Templar of\nthe bright prospects goes away to the care of a mad-doctor.  But long\ncurative processes are needful; and he emerges at last--the blush of\nhis youth all gone, and he lighted up and a-flame with tempestuous\nreligious exhilaration.  He would go into orders, but he can never face\na congregation; so he plants himself, by the advice of friends, who\nprop up his waning income, in the flats of Huntingdon, {243} where the\nriver Ouse winds round and round amid the low lands, and sighs among\nits sedges.  He seems like a castaway; what he has written has been\nlittle--a boy's pastime; what he has purposed has been weak; and I\ndaresay that his uncle Ashley Cowper, and his cousin Theodora, and his\nfellow-clerk Thurlow, thought they would never hear of him more, until,\non some far-off day, a funeral invitation might come.\n\nBut Cowper was presently domesticated in the home of a Rev. Mr.\nUnwin--an old gentleman, who has a youngish wife (though eight or ten\nyears Cowper's senior) and a son, who is also a preacher.  These take\nkindly to the invalid; they relish his religious exuberance; they pity\nhis frailties; and then and there begins an intimate friendship between\nMrs. Unwin and our poet, which for its purity, its strength, its\nconstancy, is without a parallel, I think, in English literary annals.\nIt was about the year 1765 that he first fell in with Mrs. Unwin, and\nhe was never thereafter separated from her--for any considerable time,\ncounting by days--up to the year of her death in 1796.\n\nFor the first sixteen years of this exile upon {244} the flats along\nthe Ouse--whether at Huntingdon or at Olney (where they removed after\nthe death of the elder Unwin) there must have been, what most\nmen--whether poets or not--would count a weary and monotonous\nsuccession of weeks and days and months.  There were few neighbors of\nculture; no village growth or stir; lands all tamely level; streams all\nsluggish; industries of the smallest; no shooting--no fishing--no\ncards--no visitors--no driving; sermon reading in the morning; sermon\nreading in the evening; walks in the garden; digging in the garden\n(mild insanity intervening); petting the tame hares; feeding the doves;\nreading Mistress More; singing hymns; drinking tea; listening for the\nlarks; listening to Mrs. Unwin; drowsing--sleeping--dreaming!  Only\ncontrast that dreary trail of days with those passed by Goldsmith, or\nby Johnson, or by Hume!\n\nBut good Mrs. Unwin, who is not only kindly, but has some dormant\nliterary tastes, does rouse him to some poetic labors; she does have\nfaith in his talent; and it was in 1782, I think, that his book\ncontaining _Table-talk_ and other {245} verse, first appeared, and by\nits quiet graces and naturalness provoked inquiry in London, and\namongst cultured readers everywhere--as to who this \"William Cowper of\nthe Inner Temple\" might possibly be?  The Rev. John Newton of Olney\nknew, for the poet had assisted him in the preparation of a certain\n_Olney Hymn Book_, published not long before: and then and thereafter\nthis John Newton---a good-hearted, well-meaning divine of an\nold-fashioned stamp, was pounding, as occasion served, with the hard\nhammer of his unblinking Calvinism upon the quivering sensibilities of\nthe distraught poet.\n\nBut on the breezes of this new reputation which Cowper had wrought came\nin these times (1782) a fresh bird, in fine feathers, floating into the\ndomestic aviary of Olney.  This was Lady Austen, the widow of a\nbaronet--who planted herself there--not without due graces of previous\nintroduction (1781)--between the Unwin and the Cowper for three years,\ngiving a new stir to the poet's brain.  Out of that quickening came,\nafter a night of travail, that ever-fresh ballad of _John Gilpin's\nRide_; it was popular from the first; and {246} some two years\nlater--it was publicly recited by Henderson--a famous Falstaffian actor\nof that epoch, it ran like wild-fire through the journals of the day,\nwhile the shops along Fleet Street showed in their windows a great\njolly picture of Gilpin and his intractable nag cantering past the Bell\nat Edmonton.\n\nThe shy poet, however, did not go to London to reap any honors which\nmight have accrued; he stayed at Olney, working at a new _Task_, toward\nthe conception and accomplishment of which he was led by the witty\nsallies and engaging devices of the new favorite--Lady Austen.  This\npiquant woman, with her charming vivacities, her alluring airs, her\ndazzling chat, had wrapped the quiet, melancholy poet all around with a\nwitchery to which he was unused and which tempted him to his best\npowers of song.  He was proud of his fresh successes, and grateful to\nthat new and fascinating member of their little household who had\nprovoked and prompted them.  What should disturb this cheery party of\nthree--save the ever-lasting unfitness of the odd number?  Perhaps the\nthought of this came first through some {247} tender reproachful look\nof good Mrs. Unwin; perhaps the poet, stirred to some new wrestle with\nhis withered heart, found out its emptiness; perhaps the gay,\nenchanting new-comer grew weary of the song she had provoked--or weary\nof a welcome that stayed so calm.  At any rate she took wing;[12] there\nwas a little flurry of correspondence to mark the parting, which, I\ndare say, both may have wished should be forgotten.\n\nMeanwhile the new, and much-loved poem which had grown out of this\nintimacy did worthily, and very largely, extend Cowper's fame.  Miss\nHannah More was enchanted by it; \"such an original and philosophic\nthinker,\" she says; \"such genuine Christianity, and such a divine\nsimplicity!\"  Even Corsica Boswell calls him \"a genius;\" and Lord\nThurlow (whose favors to the poet never went beyond words) says of his\nold chum, \"If there is a good man on earth, it is William Cowper!\"\n\nBut the waves of applause break only with a {248} low dolorous murmur\nupon the threshold of that Olney home.  A cruel sense of his own\nundeservings weighs upon his spirits; he cannot ask a blessing at his\nmeals, for who would listen? he cannot pray, for it would be mockery;\nand he consoles himself with the poor satisfaction of not being a\nmocker.  He discusses village and public affairs with his barber,\nWilson (who had conscientiously refused to dress Lady Austen's hair\nupon a Sunday).  Alluding to American affairs, in that crisis when a\ntreaty of peace was discussed at Versailles (1783) between France and\nAmerica, he speaks of the \"thirteen pitiful colonies which the king of\nEngland chose to keep and the king of France to obtain--if he could.\"\nA little later, at the same crisis, he says:\n\n\n\"I may be prejudiced against these [Americans], but I do not think them\nequal to the task of establishing an empire....  You will suppose me a\npolitician; but, in truth, I am nothing less.  These are the thoughts\nthat occur to me while I read the newspaper; and when I have laid it\ndown, I feel myself more interested in the success of my 'early\ncucumbers' than in any part of this important subject.\"[13]\n\n\n{249}\n\n_His Later Life._\n\nIt was only in the latter part of his career that the poet made the\nacquaintance of William Hayley,[14] his future biographer, who had been\ndrawn toward Cowper by the charms of his verse and who came to visit\nhim: this friend, through his wide familiarity with the outer world,\nhad suborned bishops and clergy and public men to write to this\nmelancholy exile of Olney and cheer him with their praises--all which\npraises fell like hail upon Cowper's window pane.  And there had been a\nlittle trip devised, to divert that weakened and fatigued mind, down to\nEartham in Sussex, where his friend Hayley has a beautiful place, and\nwhere he brings the artist Romney, to paint the well-known portrait;\nbut there is no long stay away from the old covert on the flats of\nBuckinghamshire; indeed this covert had taken new life within a few\nyears by the advent of a cousin, the Lady {250} Hesketh, the widowed\nsister of his old lost Theodora; she had come with her carriage and\ntrappings, and taken a fine house, and sought to revive pleasantly all\nthe mundane influences of Lady Austen.\n\nFrom Olney there had come about in those times--at the wise suggestion\nof Lady Hesketh--a move over to the near village of Weston, which\nthereafter became the poet's home.  [On an April day many years\nago--moved by an old New England cleaving to the poems and the poet--I\nstrolled down from Newport Pagnell--to which place I had taken coach\nfrom Northampton--following all the windings of the sluggish Ouse, to\nWeston; stopping at the \"Cowper's Oak\" inn, I found next door his old\nhome--its front overgrown with roses--and strolled into his old garden;\nand thence, by a door the gardener unlocked, into the \"Wilderness;\" the\nusher regaling me with stories of the crazy poet whom he had seen in\nhis boyhood, and who loved the birds, and who wore a white tasselled\nnight-cap as he wandered in the garden alleys at noon.]\n\nIt was at Weston, I think, that the translation of Homer was--if not\nundertaken--most largely {251} wrought upon.  The regular occupation\ninvolved counted largely in the dispersion of those despondent mists\nthat were gathering round him.  He brought scholarly tastes and a quick\nconscience to the work; a boy would be helped more to the thieving of\nthe proper English by Cowper's Homer, than by Pope's; but there was not\n\"gallop\" enough in his nature for a live rendering; and he was too far\nin-shore for the rhythmic beat of the multitudinous waves and too far\nfrom the \"hollow\" ships.\n\nIn the intervals of this important labor--which was only fairly\nsuccessful, and gave him no such clutch upon the publisher's guineas as\nCrabbe gained at a later day--only chance things were written.  But\nsome of these chances were brimful of suggestion and of most beautiful\nissues.  That relating to his mother's picture--sent to him by some\ncousinly hand--a flashing from the embers of his life, as it were, the\nreader must know; who knows it too well?\n\n  \"Oh that those lips had language!  Life has passed\n  With me but roughly since I heard thee last.\n  Those lips are thine--thy own sweet smile I see,\n\n{252}\n\n  The same that oft in childhood solaced me.\n  Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,\n  Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!\"\n\n\nBut it is a poem from which quotation will no way serve.  After the\ndeath of Warton, poet Laureate (1790), Lady Hesketh, and other friends\nwere anxious that the Olney poet should succeed to that honor; Southey\nsays, he might have secured it; but Cowper can never, never go up to\ncourt for a kissing of the king's hand.\n\nAnd now there are coming fast drearier days and months to these good\npeople of the Weston home.  The poet's mind, staggered perhaps by those\nlater Homeric labors, but more likely by the grievous religious doubts\nwhich overhang him, loses from time to time its poise; and he goes\nmaundering, or silent, and with no smile for days, into the deserts of\nmelancholy.\n\n[Sidenote: Death of Cowper.]\n\nMrs. Unwin, worn down by long fatigues, is at last smitten by\nparalysis; and she whose life has been spent in serving must herself be\nserved; the poor poet bringing to that service all the instincts of\naffection, and the wavering purpose of a shattered mind.  Yet out of\nthis new gloom and {253} these terrors of the home comes that faultless\nlittle poem inscribed to \"My Mary.\"\n\n  \"Thy silver locks, once auburn bright,\n  Are still more lovely in my sight\n  Than golden beams of Orient light,\n              My Mary.\n\n  \"For could I view--nor them--nor thee\n  What sight worth seeing could I see?\n  The sun would rise in vain for me,\n              My Mary.\n\n  \"Partakers of thy sad decline\n  Thy hands their little force resign,\n  Yet gently prest, press gently mine,\n              My Mary.\"\n\n\nBut here, as before, quotation counts for nothing; it cannot bring to\nmind the mellowness and the tenderness which lurk in so many of the\nlines and in all the flowing measure of the little poem.  Mrs. Unwin\nhas embalmment in it that will keep her memory alive, longer than would\nany tomb in Westminster.\n\nWell, Mrs. Unwin dies at last in the town of East Dereham, Norfolk,\nwhere they had taken her for \"diversion\"; and the poor poet died there\nthree years later and was buried beside her.  {254} They were three\ndreary years--which followed upon her death--for him and for those\nabout him.  From time to time he touched a little bit of old work, but\nput no joy in it; distraught--weary--smileless--only waiting.\n\n[Sidenote: Cowper's poetry.]\n\nCritics are agreed that we shall not rank him among the great poets;\nbut he comes nearer to their rank than anybody in his day believed\npossible.  He is so true; he is so tender; he is so natural.  If in his\nlonger poems there is sometimes a lack of last finish, and an overplus\nof language--there is a frankness of utterance and a billowy undulation\nof movement that have compensating charms.  He loves Nature as a boy\nloves his play; his humanities are wakened by all her voices.  He not\nonly seizes upon exterior effects with a painter's eye and hand, but he\nhas a touch which steals deeper meanings and influences and transfers\nthem into verse that flows softly and quietly as summer brooks.  He\ncannot speak or rhyme but the odors of the country cling to his words.\nThere is no crazy whirl of expletives which would apply to a hundred\nscenes, but clear, forceful epithet, full of singleness of story:--\n\n{255}\n\nFar spires lifting over stretches of yellow grass-grown plain; marsh\nbirds trailing their flight by sluggish rivers; boats dragged\nslumberously at noon-tide with seething bubbles in their wake; great\nbanks of woodland, wading through snows, or throwing shadows by\nmorning, and counter-shadows at evening, over the flanks of low hills\non which they stand in leafy platoons.  And for sounds--far off\nchurch-bells waking solitudes with their tremulous beat and jangle;\nbirds chasing the echoes of their own songs; bees murmurous over banks\nof thyme; cattle lowing in the meadows; or the bay of some\nhound--breaking full and clear, and lost again--as he follows, far off,\nsome cold trail amongst the hills.\n\nAbove all--he is English; the household has for him the sanctity of an\naltar; firesides are lighted and glow with a sacred warmth; home\ninterests are always golden.  Prone to idleness he is perhaps--mental\nand physical; much femininity in him; his thought wavering and riding\non his rhyme.  But he is good, kind; crudest to himself--sticking the\nJohn Newton darts of Calvinism into his conscience, and loving the pain\nof them.\n\n{256}\n\nI think we must always respect the name and the work of William Cowper.\nIn our next chapter we shall listen to the music of a different singer,\nand to the story of a jollier, and yet of a far sadder life.\n\n\n\n[1] As a matter of curiosity I give what appears to be the\ncorresponding Gaelic in a couplet of lines, from the version in Rev.\nArchibald Clerk's Ossian:--\n\n  \"A's gile na 'n cobhar,' tha sgavilte\n  Air muir o ghaillinn nan sian.\"\n                    l. 75, Duan 1, Fionnghal.\n\n[2] James Macpherson: b. 1736; d. 1796.\n\n[3] Mr. Mackenzie (_Diss. lxxxvii., Edit. Highland Soc._, London, 1807)\nsays that he (Macpherson) took some of his Gaelic MSS. to Florida with\nhim and many were lost there.\n\n[4] Macpherson had translated and published the Iliad in 1773.  It will\ninterest my readers to know that a copy of this letter in Johnson's\nhand-writing, was sold in 1875 for L50--five times the sum which he\nreceived for the tale of Rasselas!\n\n[5] Sir John Sinclair, a voluminous agricultural writer of Scotland,\nwas strenuous supporter of Macpherson's claims--respecting Ossianic\norigin, etc.  The best exhibit, however, of the Gaelic side of the\nquestion may be found in the prefatory _Dissertation_ by Rev. Archibald\nClerk, to the beautiful edition of Ossian published by Blackwood & Sons\nin 1870.\n\n[6] George Halket, a Jacobite schoolmaster, d. 1756; Alexander Ross,\nminister, b. 1699; d. 1784; John Skinner, Episcopal clergyman, b. 1721;\nd. 1807.\n\n[7] George Crabbe: b. 1754; d. 1832.  _The Village_, _The Borough_, and\n_Tales of the Hall_, are his best-known works.  _Life_, by his son\n(1834), is a very full and filially devout book of interesting reading.\n\n[8] So late as 1808, the Edinburgh Review, after speaking of\nWordsworth, Coleridge, Southey, etc., continues in language which I\nsuppose is Jeffery's own:--\n\n\"From these childish and absurd affectations we turn with pleasure to\nthe manly sense and correct picturing of Mr. Crabbe; and after being\ndazzled and made giddy with the elaborate raptures and obscure\noriginalities of these new artists, it is refreshing to meet again with\nthe spirit and nature of our old masters in the nervous pages of the\nauthor [Crabbe] now before us.\"  Vol. xii., p. 131, Edinboro' Edition.\n\n[9] The old castle was burned in 1816, but has been rebuilt with more\nthan its old splendor.\n\n[10] Smiles, in his _Memoirs of John Murray_--the publisher in\nquestion--intimates, however, that the sum was far too large, and\nMurray a loser by the bargain.  Chap. xxii., p. 72, vol. ii.  See also\nMurray's own statement to that effect, p. 385, vol. ii.\n\n[11] William Cowper, b. 1731; d. 1800.  Life by Hayley, 1804; another,\nby Southey (regarded as standard), published with edition of his works\nin 1833-37.  A recent life by Thomas Wright, chiefly valuable for its\nlocal details.\n\n[12] Lady Austen married some years later a French gentleman, M. de\nTardif, and died in Paris in 1802.  She may be counted almost\njoint-author (with Cowper) of _The Task_.\n\n[13] P. 325, Life, etc., by Thomas Wright, London, 1892.\n\n[14] William Hayley, b. 1745; d. 1820.  Life of Cowper, 1803.\n\n\n\n\n{257}\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\nBeyond Dunkeld--which is the southern gateway of the Scottish\nHighlands--there stretches a great wood, within the domain of the Duke\nof Athole, where one can wander for miles; the path sometimes mossy,\nalways inviting; now threading dark glens, and again winding under\nhoary forest trees that grow on uplands; now giving glimpses of brook\nor pool, and now of grassy glade on which some group of century-old\nlarches slant their shadows; one may hear noises of chattering\nsquirrels, of whirring pheasants, of roaring wood-streams, of pines\nsoughing in the wind; and at last, going up a side-path, the visitor\nwill come to the door of a Hermitage, bedded in densest mass of\nfoliage.  Fifty years ago--to a month--the guide opened that door for\nme, entered with me, and closed it behind us.  I then {258} observed\nthat the whole inner surface of the door was one great mirror, and that\nthere were other mirrors around; while directly opposite was a\nlife-size painting of Ossian fingering his harp; and as I was scanning\nthe details of this picture, the guide touched some hidden spring;\nOssian straightway disappeared, sliding into the wall, and through the\nchasm one looked out upon clouds of spray, behind which an Alpine\nwater-fall with roar and foam plunged down sheer forty feet into a\nseething pool below.  The water-fall through an artful collocation of\nmirrors seemed to pour down behind you as well; and from the ceiling to\npour down above you, and to gird you all about with its din and splash\nand spray.  With the cliffs and the pine boughs it made a pretty\ngrouping of Ossianic charms; and I am sorry to hear that since 1869 or\nthereabout, the Hermitage, by reason of some vandal outrage, has wholly\ndisappeared.\n\nThe only memorial the traveller will find now in that region of the\nOssianic harping, of which we spoke in the last chapter, is the\nMacpherson Stone, which some twenty-five miles farther northward, {259}\non the Highland trail, peers out from green copses in the upper valley\nof the Spey.\n\nI spoke also in our last talk of the literary ferment that had declared\nitself, and was in active progress along the Scottish border, and in\nEdinboro'.  We had somewhat to say of the poet Crabbe, and of his long\nand successful poems--now little read; and of those other poems by\nCowper, some of which will be always read, and which, when their art\nshall grow old-fashioned and out of date, will show a tender humanity\nand a kindly purpose, which I trust will never go out of date.\n\n\n_Parson White._\n\n[Sidenote: White of Selborne.]\n\nYou will remember that we found both of the last-named poets in the\ncountry; and that their work concerned itself largely with country life\nand with country scenes.  And now we sidle into the country again, for\nour first studies to-day;--into the county of Hampshire, where lived,\ntoward the close of the last century, two personages--not far apart in\nthat pleasant region of rolling downs; unknown to each other; their\nages, indeed, {260} differing by more than a score of years; but both\nleaving books you ought to know something about.\n\nThe first of these personages was a quiet clergyman[1] of very simple\ntastes and simple habits, who lived in a beautiful parsonage--still\nstanding, and still overgrown with ivies and banked about with great\nwaving heaps of foliage--where he wrote _The Natural History of\nSelborne_.  It is not a formal book or an ambitious book; it is simply\na bundle of short letters extending over dates that cover twenty years\nin their stretch; and yet the book is so small you could carry it in\nyour pocket.  Its title describes the book; it tells what this quiet\nold gentleman saw and learned through twenty odd years of observation,\nabout the birds, the beasts, the fishes, the trees, the flowers, the\nstorms, the sunshine and the clouds of that little country parish of\nSelborne.  And yet that simple story is told with such easy frankness,\nsuch delicacy, such simplicity, such truthfulness, such tender feeling\nfor all God's creatures, whether beast or bird, that the little book\nhas become almost as much a classic {261} as _Walton's Complete\nAngler_; and the name of Gilbert White, which scarce a hundred\nLondoners knew when he died, is now known to every well-equipped\nEnglish library everywhere.  I have compared it with _Walton's Complete\nAngler_, though it has not the old fisherman's dalliance with the\nmuses; nor has it much literary suggestiveness.  There are no milkmaids\ncourtesying to its periods, nor any songs, except those of the birds.\nGood old Parson White is simpler (if maybe); he is more homely; he is\nmore direct; and by his tender particularity of detail he has given to\nthe winged and creeping creatures of his pleasant Hampshire downs the\nfreedom of all lands.\n\nIt is true, indeed--as I have said in another connection--that we\nAmericans do not altogether recognize his chaffinches and his titlarks;\nhis daws and his fern-owl are strange to us; and his robin\nred-breast--though undoubtedly the same which in our nursery days\nflitted around the dead \"Children in the Wood\" (while tears stood in\nour eyes) and\n\n          \"Painfully\n  Did cover them with leaves,\"\n\n{262} is by no means our American red-breast.  For one, I wish it were\notherwise; I wish with all my heart that I could identify the old\npitying, feathered mourners in the British wood, with the rollicking,\njoyous singer who perches every sunrise, through all the spring, upon\nsome near tree, within stone's throw of my window, and stirs the dewy\nair with his loud _bravura_.\n\nAnother noticeable thing about this old country parson is his freedom\nfrom all the artifices and buckram and abbreviations of learning, so\nthat he is delightfully comprehensible by everybody.  If only we could\nhave an edition of Gray's Botany--for instance--with some ten lines of\nParson White's homely descriptive English about the height and bigness,\nand color and habit of the flowers, instead of symbols and Latin\ngenealogies and scholastic reticence--what a God-send it would be to\nthe average country gentleman or country woman!\n\nI want specially to call the attention of those young people in whose\ninterest I am supposed to talk--to that homely truthfulness, and\nunabating care of this old gentleman, as giving value to a {263} book\nor to any literary work whatever.  They are not qualities, to be sure,\nwhich of themselves carry performance to a high poetic level; but they\nare qualities which give to it practical and picturesque values, and\nwhich--well laid in--will make work survive.\n\nIf I were to undertake on any occasion the direction of the\ncomposition-writing of young people, I should surely counsel\npainstaking and minute description of homely natural objects.  Nature\nis better than millinery.  Yet out of ten young ladies of average\nculture you shall be able to pick nine who shall tell a listener\nflowingly of the last new dress she has seen, and the stuff, and the\ntrain, and the lace, and the sleeves, and the trimmings, and all the\nmysteries of its fit--to one who shall give a simple, clear-drawn, and\nintelligible account of a new flower, or new tree, or a strange bird.\nThus you will perceive that I have made of this old gentleman--whom I\ngreatly respect--a stalking horse, to fire a sermon at my readers; and\nI am strongly of opinion that there are a great many country clergymen\nof our time and day, who, if they would bring old Parson White's zeal\nto the {264} encouragement of a love and a study of natural objects,\nwould do as much thereby to humanize and Christianize the younger\nmembers of their flocks as they can possibly do by Vanity Fairs or\nparochial oyster suppers.\n\nThe modest house of Gilbert White[2] was occupied very many years by\nthe venerable Professor Bell, late president of the Linnean Society,\nwho died in 1880.  The study of the old naturalist remained long as the\nmaster left it; his oaken book-case was still there; so was the\nthermometer attached to the shelves by which he made his observations;\nhis dial by which he counted the hours stands at the foot of the\ngarden; and in the churchyard near by is his grave; while within the\nquaint old church, to the right of the altar, is a tablet in his honor;\nand in his honor, too, all the birds of Selborne will sing night and\nmorning year after year.\n\n\n{265}\n\n_A Hampshire Novelist._\n\n[Sidenote: Jane Austen.]\n\nAnd now for that other Hampshire personage, of whom I gave you a hint,\nas being also guiltless of London life and almost of London\nacquaintances; it is a lady now of whom I have to speak,[3] and one who\ndeserves to be well known.  She lived, when her books were published,\nonly three or more miles away from Selborne, across the hills\nnorthward--at the village of Chawton, which lies upon the old coach\nroad from Farnham to Winchester.  Miss Austen was much younger--as I\nhave said--than our old friend the parson; indeed she was only\nbeginning to try her pen when Gilbert White was ready to lay his down.\nShe had all his simplicities of treatment and all his acuteness of\nobservation--to which she added a charming humor and large dramatic\npower; but her subjects were men and women, and not {266} birds.  She\nwrote many good old-fashioned novels which people read now for their\nlight and delicate touches, their happy characterizations, their\ncharming play of humor, and their lack of exaggeration.  She makes you\nslip into easy acquaintance with the people of her books as if they\nlived next door, and would be pulling at your bell to-morrow, or\nto-night.  And you never confound them; by the mere sound of their\nvoices you know which is Ellinor, and which is Marianne; and as for the\ndisagreeable people in her stories, they are just as honestly and\nnaturally disagreeable as any neighbor you could name--whether by\ntalking too much, or making puns, or prying into your private affairs.\n\nWalter Scott, who read her books over and over, says, \"That young lady\nhad a talent for describing the involvements and feelings and\ncharacters of ordinary life, which is to me the most wonderful I ever\nmet with.\"  Macaulay, too, admired her intensely; ventured even to\nspeak of her amazing, effective naturalness--in the same paragraph with\nShakespeare.  Miss Mitford confided to a young niece of the authoress,\nthat \"she would {267} give her hand,\" if she could write a story like\nMiss Austen.  We may not and must not doubt her quality and her genius,\nwhatever old-time stiffness we may find in her conversations.  One book\nof hers at least you should read, if only to learn her manner; and as\nyou read it remember that it was written by a young woman who had\npassed nearly her whole life in Hampshire--who knew scarce any of the\nliterary people of the day; who had only made chance visits to London,\nand a stay of some four years in the lively city of Bath.  She was very\nwinning and beautiful--if her portrait[4] is to be relied upon--with a\npiquant, mischievous expression--looking very capable of making a great\nmany hearts ache, beside those which ache in her books.\n\nIt would be impossible to cite fragments from her stories that would\ngive any adequate notion of her manner and accomplishment; it would be\nvery like showing the feather of a bird, to give an {268} idea of its\nswoop of wing.  Perhaps _Pride and Prejudice_, though her first written\nwork, is the one most characteristic.  You do not get lost in its\nsentimental strains; you do not find surfeit of immaculate conduct.\nThere are fine woods and walks; but there is plenty of mud, and\nbad-going.  The very heroines you often want to clutch away from their\nuncomely surroundings; and as for the elderly Mrs. Bennett, whose\ntongue is forever at its \"click-clack,\" you cannot help wishing that\nshe might--innocently--get choked off the scene, and appear no more.\nBut that is not the deft Miss Austen's way; that gossiping, silly,\nirritating _mater familias_, goes on to the very end--as such people do\nin life--making your bile rise; and when the rainbows of felicity come\nat last to arch over the scenes of _Pride and Prejudice_, Mrs.\nBennett's clacking tongue is still strident, and still reminds you in\nthe strongest possible way, that Miss Austen has been busy with the\nveriest actualities of life, and not with its pretty, shimmering vapors.\n\n_Persuasion_ is a less interesting book, and less complete than _Pride\nand Prejudice_; its heroine, {269} Anne Eliot, is not possessed of very\nsalient qualities; hardly gaining or holding very earnest attention;\nyet with a quiet sense of duty, and such every-day fulfilment of it, as\nmakes her righteously draw toward her all the triumphs of the little\ndrama; a lost love is reclaimed by these quiet forces, and victory\ncomes to crown her easy gentleness.  _Northanger Abbey_ is weaker, but\nwith bold, striking naturalism in it; all the littlenesses and\nplottings and vain speech of the Bath Pump-Room seem to come to life in\nits pages; to just such life as we may find about our Cape Mays, and\nPequod, and Ocean houses, every blessed summer's day!  Miss Austen's\nearlier novels, which made her reputation, were written before she was\ntwenty-five, and published later, and under many\ndifficulties--anonymously; so she had none of that public incense\nregaling her, which was set ablaze for the less capable Miss Burney;\nand it was almost as an unknown, strange, quiet gentlewoman that she\nwent down, in the later years of her life, to the shores of the\nbeautiful Southampton Waters--seeking health there; and again, on the\nsame search to the higher lands of the {270} Hampshire downs--where she\ndied, only forty-two, and lies buried under a black marble slab, which\nyou may find under the vaults of the interesting old Cathedral of\nWinchester.\n\nThe recognition of her high qualities was not so extended in her\nlife-time, as it is now; and thirty years after her death, a visitor to\nthe great Hampshire Cathedral was asked by the respectable verger:\n\"What there was _particular_ about Miss Austen, that so many people\nshould want to see her grave?\"  Even the most wooden of vergers would\nhardly ask the question now; her extraordinary quickness and justness\nof observation astonish every intelligent reader.  All the more, since\nher life was lived within narrow lines; but what she saw, she saw true,\nand she remembered.  That wonderful masterly Shakespearian alertness of\nmind in seizing upon traits and retaining their relations and colors,\nis what distinguishes her, as it distinguishes every kindred genius.  I\ncan understand how many people cannot overmuch relish the stories of\nMiss Austen--because they do not relish the people to whom she\nintroduces us; but I cannot understand how any reader can fail to be\n{271} impressed and electrified by her marvellous photographic\nreproduction of social shades of conduct.  How delightful is that\nindignation of Sir John Middleton, when he learns of the villainy and\nfalsity of Willoughby.  \"To think of it! and he had offered the\nscoundrel one of Follies' puppies!\"  And then--reflectively--\"A pretty\nman he was too, and owner of one of the finest pointer bitches in\nEngland!  The devil take him!\"  What a synopsis of the man's qualities,\nand of Sir John's measurement of them!\n\n\n_Old Juvenilia._\n\n[Sidenote: Sandford & Merton.]\n\nI cannot pass from this epoch, without saying somewhat concerning that\ntide of literature for young people which set in strongly about those\ntimes.  There was _Sandford and Merton_, for instance; can it be that\nthe moderns are growing up to maturity without a knowledge of the wise\ninculcations of that eminently respectable work?  Sixty years ago it\nwas a stunning book for all good boys, and for the good sisters of good\nboys.  Whoever was at the head of his class was pretty apt to {272} get\n_Sandford and Merton_; whoever had a birthday present was very likely\nto get _Sandford and Merton_; if a good aunt was in search of a proper\nNew Year's gift for a lad the bookseller was almost sure to recommend\n_Sandford and Merton_; and when a boy went away to school, some\nconsiderate friend was very certain to pop a copy of _Sandford and\nMerton_ into his satchel.\n\nIt is in the guise of a great lumbering narrative--supposed to be\ntrue--into which are whipped a score or more of little stories, each\none capped with a bouncing moral.  Thus, there is an ill-natured boy\ngoing out for a day's scrimmage, and playing his tricks--on a poor\ngirl, and a blind beggar, and a lame beggar, and a farmer, and a\ndonkey.  This goes on very well for awhile; but at last the tables are\nturned, and he gets bitten by the blind beggar, and beaten by the lame\nbeggar, and thrashed by the farmer, and is thrown by the donkey, and a\nlarge dog seizes him by the leg; this latter is printed in capitals,\nand there is a picture of it.  At last, in bed, and with watery eyes,\nthe boy reflects--that \"no one can long hurt others with impunity;\" so\nhe determined to \"behave {273} better for the future.\"  Is it any\nwonder that those who had access to such instructive tales a half a\ncentury ago should have grown up to be excellent men!\n\nThis book of _Sandford and Merton_ was written by Thomas Day,[5] an\neccentric rich man (the world of to-day would have called him a crank),\nwho had a fine place near to Putney on the Thames, who sympathized\nstrongly with Americans in Revolutionary times; who was also a disciple\nof Rousseau, and undertook to educate a young girl--two of them in\nfact, one being a foundling--so that he might have a wife of his own\ntraining, after the Rousseau standard; but the young persons did not\ntrain as he wished; so he found his mate otherwheres.\n\nAnother comfit of a book for young people, but with fewer plums of\nromance in it, was _Evenings at Home_ by Dr. Aikin and Mrs. Barbauld.\nI am sure the very name must bring up tender memories to a great many;\nfor it was a current book down to a time when respectable, and even\nmirth-loving {274} people, _did_ pass their evenings at home, and\nenjoyed doing so.  The book commands even now, in some old-fashioned\nhouseholds, about the same sort of consecration which is given to an\nantique blue and white china tea-pot--not nearly so fine as the newer\nFrench ones--but which by the aid of a little imagination can be put to\nvery pretty simmer of old times and tunes.\n\n[Sidenote: Mrs. Barbauld.]\n\nMrs. Barbauld[6] was worthier than this book; she was a sister of Dr.\nAikin--had distinction for great beauty in her youth; married a French\nclergyman of small parts and weak mind, whose intellect, in his later\nyears, went wholly awry and made her home a martyrdom for her, against\nwhich she struggled bravely.  That home was for a time out at\nHampstead, only a half hour's drive from London, and she knew people\nworth knowing there; Fox and Johnson among the rest--though {275}\nJohnson did give her a big slap for marrying as she did and for\nteaching an infant school.[7]  She wrote poetry too, one verse at least\nwhich Wordsworth greatly admired, and with condescension declared that\nhe would have liked to be the author of such a verse himself.  I cite\nthe verse (with some of the context), which is from an apostrophe to\n_Life_; doubtless suggested by the\n\n  \"Animula, vagula, blandula\"\n\nof Adrian, to which allusion has been made in a previous chapter; but\nthe good woman's evolution of the thought is curiously different from\nthat of Pope:--\n\n  \"Life!  I know not what thou art.\n  But know that thou and I must part;\n  And when, or how, or where we met,\n  I own to me's a secret yet.\n  But this I know, when thou art fled\n  Where'er they lay these limbs, this head,\n  No clod so valueless shall be\n  As all that then remains of me.\n    O whither, whither dost thou fly,\n  Where bend unseen thy trackless course,\n\n{276}\n\n  And in this strange divorce,\n    Ah, tell where I must seek this compound I?\n      *      *      *      *      *\n  Life! we've been long together,\n  Through pleasant and through cloudy weather;\n  'Tis hard to part when friends are dear;\n  Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear;\n    Then--steal away, give little warning,\n  Choose thine own time;\n  Say not--Good night; but in some brighter clime\n    Bid me--Good morning.\"\n\n\nI cannot part from this excellent old friend of British boys, without\ncalling to mind her ardent Whiggism, and her very pronounced advocacy\nof the American cause, in her last poem of _Eighteen hundred and\neleven_; the republican sympathies alienated a good many of her Tory\nfriends, and brought to her temporary disrepute.  Wherefor, I think,\npatriotic American boys may, on some coming fourth of July, fling their\ncaps into the air for the kindly, brave-speaking Mrs. Barbauld, and for\nher _Evenings at Home_!\n\n\n{277}\n\n_Miss Edgeworth._\n\n[Sidenote: An Irish story-teller.]\n\nYou may be sure that I have not forgotten Miss Edgeworth, who was a\ngood friend of Mrs. Barbauld, and who scored Dr. Johnson and Boswell\ntoo, for the printing of their slurs upon Miss Aikin.[8]\n\nI suspect it would not be an easy task to bring young people, nowadays,\nto much enthusiasm about Miss Edgeworth[9] and her books; and yet if I\nwere to tell all that \"we fellows\" used to think about her when her\n_Popular Tales_, and her delightful _Parent's Assistant_, with its\nstories exactly of the right length--about Lazy Lawrence, and Simple\nSusan, and the False Key, and Tarlton--were in vogue, I am afraid you\nwould give me very little credit for critical sagacity.  A most proper\nand interesting old lady we reckoned her, and do still.  I for one\nnever counted on her being {278} young; it seemed to me that she must\nhave been born straight into the severities of middle age and of\nstory-telling.  I could never imagine her at a game of romps, or buying\ncandies on the sly.  Though I had never seen her portrait--and no one\nelse, for that matter--yet I knew the face--as well as that of my own\ngrandmother; and what a good, kind, serene, motherly face it was!\nThere was dignity in it, however; no boy would have thought of\napproaching her without a study of his deportment; he would see to it\nthat his shoe-lacings were tied and his waistcoat buttons all in\nplace--else, a shake of the head that would have made the cap-strings,\nand the frisette, and the starched ruffles shiver.  But we must not\nspeak lightly of the authoress, to whom thousands of elderly people owe\nso much of instruction and of entertainment.\n\n[Sidenote: Miss Edgeworth.]\n\nShe was the daughter of an Irish gentleman who made a runaway match at\nGretna Green, Maria Edgeworth being a child of that irregular marriage;\nand her father being widowed shortly after, married three other\nwives[10] successively, whose {279} children filled the great house at\nEdgeworthtown in Ireland, where the authoress grew up (though born in\nEngland), and where she came to that knowledge of Irish character and\nhabit which gives distinction and the greatest charm to her books.\n\nScott read them gleefully and admiringly, and as he himself confesses,\ntook a hint from them, to put Scottish character into story, as this\nEnglish-Irish lady had put Irish character into hers; and he says in\nhis first outspoken preface to the _Waverley_ series--that Miss\nEdgeworth in \"making the English familiar with the character of their\ngay and kind-hearted neighbors may truly be said to have done more\ntoward completing the union than perhaps all the legislative enactments\nby which it has been followed up.\"  Such laurels were enough for her\nfame--did not braver ones grow out of the thumb-worn edges of her\nbooks.  I think it would be safe to distrust the honor and directness\nof purpose of any boy or man who, after reading--has either scorn or\ndread of Maria Edgeworth.\n\nOne will not find startling things in her {280} writing; nor will you\nfind great brilliancy of execution--nor the pretty banter and delicate\nEnglish humor, and finer touches which belong to Miss Austen: but you\nwill find orderly progress and a good orderly story--illuminated by\nflashes of Irish wit, and glowing through and through with the kindness\nof a heart which never saw suffering without sympathy, and never any\njoys of even the most vulgar, without a tender satisfaction.  Add to\nthis a shrewd common sense--which never lost its way in romantic\npitfalls, and an unblinking honesty, and charity of purpose--always\nmaking itself felt, and always driving a nail--and you have an array of\nqualities which will, I think, keep good Miss Edgeworth's name alive\nfor a long period to come.  Few people will have the courage to invest\nin the whole of her score of volumes octavo.  It is hardly to be\nadvised; but you may wisely choose a sprinkling of them; her _Frank_,\nfor instance--her _Rackrent_--her _Ormond_, and a volume or two of her\nshorter tales, which will bravely hold their own amongst all the goody\nbooks of a later generation.\n\nTwo specimens of that Irish humor, which she {281} is so apt at\nreporting, and which shine by their pretty flicker of unconsciousness,\nI must cite: the first is that of the politician--a charming type of\nour municipal Milesians--who resented highly his non-appointment to\nsome fat place, after unwearied support of the government, \"against his\nconscience, in a most honorable manner.\"  The second is that of the\nhopeful old Irish dame, who trusted she might die upon a fete day, when\nthe gates of Heaven were opened wide, and a poor \"body might slip in\nunbeknownst.\"\n\nFor our good friend, Miss Edgeworth, we believe that those gates were\nwide open, on every day of the year.\n\n\n_Some Early Romanticism._\n\n[Sidenote: Early Romanticism.]\n\nWhile that clever and attractive Miss Jane Austen was engaged upon her\nstories in her quiet study in Steventon, Hampshire, there was opened\nupon England, by certain other ladies, a new sluice of literature--from\nwhich some phosphorescent sparkles are still distinguishable in our\n{282} time--in brilliant red and yellow covers.  I allude to the\n_Children of the Abbey_, by Miss Roche[11] (an Irish-French lady, who\nlived in Waterford, Ireland), to _Thaddeus of Warsaw_ and the _Scottish\nChiefs_ by Miss Jane Porter, and the _Mysteries of Udolpho_ by Mrs.\nRadcliffe, of London.[12]\n\nVery few middle-aged readers have passed their lives without hearing of\nthese books; the chances are strong that most of such readers have\ndipped into them; and if people dipped at all, before the age of\nfourteen, they were pretty apt to undergo complete submergence.\n\nFrom ten to twelve was--as nearly as I now recollect--about the\nsusceptible age for the _Children of the Abbey_; and if the book came\ninto the {283} hands of one of a bevy of boys or girls, in such tender\nyears, it was pretty apt to run through them all, eruptively--like\nmeasles.\n\nIt was a book that even young people had an inclination to put under\ncover, if detected or liable to be detected in the reading of it; and\nelderly people so caught were understood to be only \"glancing at it;\"\nthe sentiment is so very profuse and gushing.  None of us like to make\na show of our allegiance to Master Cupid.  Miss Roche wrote other\nbooks--but none beside the _Children of the Abbey_ have come down to us\nin the yellow and red of sixpenny form; for which we ought to be\nthankful.\n\n_Thaddeus of Warsaw_ had more excuse in the expression of tender\nsympathies for Poland and all Polish people, at a crisis in the history\nof that unfortunate kingdom.  The success of the book was immense.\nKosciusko sent his portrait and a medal to the author; she was made\nmember of foreign societies, received gold crosses of honor; and oddly\nenough, even from America there came, under the guiding providence of\nMr. John {284} Harper,[13] then I believe Mayor of the City of New\nYork, an elegant carved armchair, trimmed with crimson plush, to\ntestify \"the admiring gratitude of the American people\" to the author\nof _Thaddeus of Warsaw_.  The book, by its amazing popularity, and by\nthe entertaining way in which it marshals its romantic effulgencies in\nfavor of a great cause, may very naturally suggest that other, later\nand larger enlistment of all the forces of good story-telling,\nwhich--fifty years thereafter--in the hands of an American lady (Mrs.\nStowe) contributed to a larger cause, and with more abiding results.\n\n_The Scottish Chiefs_ has less of gusto than the Polish novel--and as I\ntook occasion to say when we were at that date of Scottish history--is\nfull of bad anachronisms, and of historical untruths.  Yet there is a\ngood bracing air of the Highlands in parts of it, and an ebullient\nmartial din of broadswords and of gathering clans which go far to\nredeem its maudlin sentiment.  Mrs. Radcliffe's _Mysteries of Udolpho_\nhad more of the {285} conventionally artistic qualities than either of\nthose last named, though never so infectiously popular.  There are\ngloomy Italian chieftains in it, splendid dark fellows with swords and\npistols and plumes to match; and there are purple sunsets and massive\ncastles with secret passages and stairs; and marks of bloody fingers,\nand papers that are to be signed--or not signed; and one ineffable\nyoung lady--Emily, I think, is her name--who by her spiritual presence\nand lovely features serves to light up all the gloom and the mystery\nand makes the castle, and the dark woods, and the reeking vaults, and\nthe secret paths all blossom like a rose.  I cannot advise the reading\nof the book.\n\n\n_Vathek._\n\n[Sidenote: Wm. Beckford.]\n\nWhen poor Chatterton--of whom we had speech not far back--was near to\nstarving in London, he made one desperate effort to secure the favor\nand patronage of the Lord Mayor of the city, who was a very rich West\nIndia merchant, by the name of Beckford.  Chatterton did gain an\ninterview; did get promise of aid, and win strongly upon the {286} good\nwill of the Lord Mayor; but unfortunately his honor died only a few\ndays thereafter.  Had he lived, the young poet might have had a totally\ndifferent career; and had he lived, the only son and heir of this\nbenevolent Mayor,--William Beckford,[14] then a boy of ten,--would have\nhad a different bringing up.  At twenty, this youth printed--though he\ndid not publish--some journals of continental travel which he had\nconducted in the spirit and with the large accompaniments of a young\nman who loves the splendor of life, and who had at command an annual\nrevenue of six hundred thousand dollars, at that day said to be the\nlargest moneyed income in England.  What a little fragment of this sum\nwhich was squandered upon that splendid trail of travel through Europe\nwould have made poor Chatterton happy!  But young Beckford was by no\nmeans a brainless spendthrift; he had strong intellectual aptitudes;\nwas a scholar in a certain limited yet true sense; and when twenty-two\nonly, had written (in French) {287} that strange, weird romance of\n_Vathek_; well worth your reading on a spare day, and which in its\nEnglish version has made his fame, and keeps his name alive, now that\nhis great houses and moneys are known and reverenced no more.\n\nIt is an Eastern story, with all the glow, color, and splendors of the\ndays of the good _Haroun al Raschid_ in it.  There are crime and love\nin it too; and phantoms and beautiful women, and terrific punishment of\nthe wicked.  Vathek, the hero, who might be Beckford himself, wanders\nthrough a world of delights, where evil phantoms and genii assail him,\nand fascinating maidens allure him; and after adventures full of\nescapes and dangers and feastings, in which he listens to the melody of\nlutes and quaffs the delicious wine of Schiraz, he reaches at last, in\ncompany with the lovely Mironihar, the great hall of Eblis; here we\ncome to something horrific and Dantesque--something which I am sure had\nits abiding influence upon the work of Edgar Poe.\n\n\n\"The place, though roofed with a vaulted ceiling, was so spacious and\nlofty that at first they took it for an immeasurable plain.  But their\neyes at length growing familiar with {288} the grandeur of surrounding\nobjects, they extended their view to those at a distance, and\ndiscovered rows of columns and arcades which gradually diminished till\nthey terminated in a point radiant as the sun when he darts his last\nbeams athwart the ocean....  The pavement, which was strewed over with\ngold-dust and saffron, exhaled so subtle an odor as almost overpowered\nthem....  In the midst of this immense hall a vast multitude was\nincessantly passing, who severally kept their right hands on their\nhearts, without once regarding anything around them.  They had all the\nlivid paleness of death.  Their eyes deep sunk in their sockets,\nresembled those phosphoric meteors that glimmer by night in places of\ninterment.\"\n\n\nAnd afterward, when a royal sufferer, who from livid lips had made\nwarning exhortation to these wanderers, lifts his right hand in\nsupplication, Vathek sees--through his bosom which was \"transparent as\ncrystal\"--his heart enveloped in flames.  Perhaps Hawthorne, in certain\npassages of the _Scarlet Letter_, may have had these red, burning\nhearts of this famous Hall of Eblis in mind.\n\nBeckford wrote also a very interesting account of certain religious\nhouses in Portugal which were the wonder of old days and are a wonder\nnow.  At Cintra, the picturesque suburb of Lisbon, he {289} established\na great Moorish country house within sight of the sea.  Byron gives a\nglimpse of this in _Childe Harold_:--\n\n  \"Here didst thou dwell, here schemes of pleasure plan,\n    Beneath yon mountain's ever beauteous brow;\n  But now, as if a thing unblest by man,\n    Thy fairy dwelling is as lone as thou!\n    Here giant weeds a passage scarce allow\n  To halls deserted, portals gaping wide.\n    Fresh lessons to the thinking bosom, how\n  Vain are the pleasaunces on earth supplied,\n  Swept into wrecks anon by Time's ungentle tide.\"\n\n\nByron would now have to mend his description, since the estate is at\npresent owned by a London merchant, who has bought a title from the\nweak king-folk of Portugal, and keeps the great house in Pimlico order.\nIt is one of the show places of Cintra; and if Moorish domes, and\nmarble halls, and sculpture delicate as that of the Alhambra, and\nfountains, and palms, and oranges, and bowers of roses, and century-old\noaks, and cliffs, and wooded dells, and far-off sight of sails from the\nBay of Biscay are deserving of show, surely this old palace of the rich\nEnglishman is.\n\nAnother palace--for Beckford had an {290} architectural mania--was\nbuilt at Fonthill, the place of his birth, not far east of Salisbury.\nHere was a great ancestral estate, around which he caused to be erected\na huge wall of masonry, some ten or twelve miles in length, to secure\nprivacy and protect his birds.  Within he built courts, towers, and\nhalls--some six hundred men often working together night and day on\nthese constructions--which he equipped with the rare and munificent\nspoils brought back from his travel.  To this Fairy land, however,\nByron's lament would better apply; the walls are down and the towers\nhave fallen; the property is divided; only here and there and blended\nwith new structures and new offices can you see traces of the old\narchitectural extravagance.  The spoiled plantations of Jamaica--whence\nthe Vathek revenue mostly came--brought the change; enough, however,\nremained for the erection of a costly home in Bath, portions of which\nmay still be seen.\n\nA daughter of Beckford's became Duchess of Hamilton; another daughter,\nwho declined Ducal overtures which the father favored, was treated\ntherefor with severities that would have become an {291} Eastern\ncaliph--for which, maybe, he now, like the poor creatures of Eblis\nHall, is holding his right hand over \"a burning heart.\"\n\n\n_Robert Burns._\n\n[Sidenote: Burns.]\n\nWe go now out of England, northward of the Solway, to find that peasant\npoet[15] at whose career I hinted in the last chapter, and whose burst\nof Scotch song was a new wakening for that kingdom of the highlands and\nthe moors.  I dare not, and will not speak critically of his verses;\nthere they are--in their little budget of gilt-bound, or paper-bound\nleaves; rhythmic, tender, coarse, glowing, burning, with a grip in many\nof them at our heart-strings which we may not and cannot shake off.  To\ntell you about these poems and of their special melodies would be like\ntaking you to the sea and telling you how the waves gather and\nroll--with murmurs that you know--along all the shore.\n\n{292}\n\nNor can I hope to tell any more of what will be new to you about his\nlife and fate.  We all know that white-washed, low, roadside cottage--a\nlittle drive out from the old Scotch town of Ayr--where he was born; we\nhave been there perhaps; we have seen other Scottish peasants boozing\nthere over their ale; and have noted the names scribbled over tables\nand cupboards and walls to testify to the world's yearnings and to its\npilgrimages thither.  We know, too, that other low cottage of Mossgiel,\nwhere his poor father--a gospel abiding man--made his last struggle\nagainst the fates--and who of a Saturday night--\n\n  \"Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes,\n  Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend,\n  And weary, o'er the moor, his course does homeward bend.\"\n\n\nWe all know what a brave fight the two Burns boys, Gilbert and Rob,\nmade of it when Death, \"the poor man's dearest friend,\" took off the\nfather; Gilbert the elder; but Robert the brighter and keener--making\nverselets in the fields which the elder brother approves, and says\nwould \"bear {293} to be printed;\" and so presently after, the first\npoor, thin, dingy volume finds it way to the light, and gives to\nfar-away Edinboro' people their earliest hint of this strange, fine,\nnew, human plant which has begun to blossom under the damps of\nMossgiel.  But the farm life is hard; the poet is wayward; his jolly\nfriends near by who chant his songs are not helpful; his love affairs,\nof which he has overstock in his young wildness, run to confusion;\nquarrels threaten; so he books himself with what moneys the thin, dingy\nvolume of poems have brought him, for America.\n\nWhat if he had come!\n\nBut no; one low, wee encouraging voice--the piping answer to those\npoems--reaches him from Edinboro', and the poet goes thither in his\nbest gear; Dugald Stewart, and Dr. Blacklock the blind poet, and\nMackenzie, of whom I have already made mention, all befriend him.  The\ngentlewomen of Edinboro' entertain him, and admire him, and flatter\nhim; and he, in best blue and buff, with his dark, rolling eyes, and\nlips that command all shapes of language, holds his dignity with these\nfine ladies of the Northern capital; {294} gives compliments that make\nthem tremble; prints other and fuller edition of his poems; goes\nnorthward amongst the highlands--dropping jewels of verse as he\ngoes--to beautiful women, to waterfalls, to noble patrons.  The next\nseason in Edinboro', however, is no longer the same; that brilliant\nseries of fetes and of conquests has gone by; the new lion is too\naudacious; he shakes his fetters with a bold rage that intimidates.  So\nwe find him with some three hundred pounds only, saved out of the new\nbook and the junketings of the Capital, going off to lease quietly the\nfarm of Ellisland, near to Dumfries, and turn ploughman once more.\n\nIt is a poor place, but very beautiful; it is in Nithsdale, and the\nmurmur of the river through its wooded banks makes the poet forget the\ncrop of pebbles which every ploughing turns to the top.  He is\npresently in the Excise too (1789): so gets some added pence by the\ngauging of beer-barrels and looking after frauds upon the revenue;\nmarried too--having out of all the loose love-strings, which held him\nmore or less weakly, at last knotted one, which ties the quiet, pretty,\nwomanly, much injured Jean Armour to his hearth and {295} home,\nforever.  And he begins that Ellisland life bravely well; has prayers\nat night; teaches the \"toddlin' wee things\" their catechism; has hope\nand faith, and sings--and sings; and this, amongst other things, was\nwhat he sang--\n\n  \"O, Willie brewed a peck o' maut,\n    And Bob and Allen cam to see;\n  Three blither hearts that lee-lang night\n    Ye wad na find in Christendie.\n  We are na fou, we're na that fou,\n    But just a drappie in our e'e;\n  The cock may craw, the day may daw,\n    And ay we'll taste the barley bree.\n  It is the moon, I ken her horn,\n    That's blinkin in the lift sae hie;\n  She shines sae bright, to wyle us hame;\n    But, by my sooth, she'll wait a wee.\n  The cock may craw, the day may daw,\n    And aye we'll taste the barley bree.\"\n\n\nNo wonder the pebbles began to show more and more in the plough-land;\nno wonder the jolly fellows of Dumfries came oftener and oftener; the\nlong bouts too amongst the hills chilled him; the crops grew smaller\nand smaller; the \"barley bree\" better and better; he has no tact at\nbargaining; a stanza of Tam O'Shanter is worth more than ten {296}\nplough-days, yet he makes gifts of his best songs.  Household affairs\ngo all awry, let poor Jeanie Armour struggle as she may; the cottage\npalings are down; debts accumulate; and so do those rollicking nights\nat the Globe, or in a shieling amongst the hills.  Yet from out all the\nimpending want, and the gloom, and the desperation, come such sweet\nnotes as these, reaching the ear of humanity everywhere:--\n\n  \"John Anderson, my jo, John,\n    We clamb the hill thegither;\n  And mony a canty day, John,\n    W've had wi' ane anither:\n  Now we maun totter down, John,\n    But hand in hand we'll go,\n  And sleep thegither at the foot,\n    John Anderson, my jo.\"\n\n\nAt last Ellisland must be given up--crops, beasties and all; and never\nmore the wooded banks of Nithsdale shall feel his tread, or hear his\nchant mingling with the river murmurs.  He, and they all--five souls\nnow--just of an age to relish most the woods, the range, the fields,\nthe daisies of Ellisland, must go to one of the foulest and least\nattractive streets of Dumfries, and to a {297} home as little\nattractive as the street.  Fifty years thereafter I went over that\nhouse and found it small, pinched, and pitifully meagre in all its\nappointments; twenty years later, Hawthorne speaks of both house and\nstreet as _filthy_.  What could or should supply the place now--to the\npeasant poet--of the fields, the open sky, the gentle fret and murmurs\nof the streams of Nithsdale?\n\nThe foul fiends who taunted him in the woods now lay hold upon him in\nearnest; every day his fame is flying over straits and seas; every day\nhis poems, old and new, are planting themselves in fresh hearts and\nbrains; every day his wild passions are dealing him back-handed blows.\nOld neighbors have to pass him by; modest women look away; he has\nforfeited social position; and I suspect, welcomed in those days of\nJuly, 1796, the approaches of the disease which he knew was sapping his\nlife:--\n\n  \"Oh, Martinmas wind! when wilt thou blaw\n    And shake the dead leaves frae the tree?\n  Oh gentle death! when wilt thou come\n    And tak a life that wearies me?\"\n\n\n{298}\n\nAnd it comes, in that dismal, miserable upper chamber that you can see\nwhen you go there;--his wife ill; his little children wandering\naimlessly about; it comes sharply; he is on his back--\"uneasy\" the\nnurse said, and \"chafing\"; when suddenly by a great effort--as if at\nlast he would shake off all the beleaguerments of sense, and the\nhaunting phantoms swarming about him--he rallied all his powers--rose\nto his full height from the bed--tottered for a moment, then fell prone\nforward a dead man.\n\nThis was in the month of July, 1796; Burns being then only\nthirty-seven.  Walter Scott, a young fellow of twenty-five, living in\nEdinboro', had just printed his translation of _Leonora_.\nWordsworth--unknown save for a thin booklet of indifferent verse--was\nliving down in Dorsetshire, enjoying the \"winding wood-walks green,\"\nwith that sister Dorothy, who \"added sunshine to his daylight.\"  These\ntwo had not as yet made the acquaintance of that coming man, S. T.\nColeridge, who is living at Clevedon, over by Bristol Channel, with\nthat newly married wife, who has decoyed him from his schemes of\nAmerican migration; {299} and the poet of the Ancient Mariner (as yet\nunwritten) has published his little booklet with Mr. Cottle, of\nBristol, in which are some modest verses signed C. L.  And Charles Lamb\n(for whom those initials stand) is just now in his twenty-first year,\nand is living in humble lodgings in Little Queen Street, London, from\nwhich he writes to Coleridge, saying that \"Burns was a God of my\nidolatry.\"  And in that very year (1796) the dismalest of tragedies is\nto overshadow those humble lodgings of Little Queen Street.  Of this\nand of Coleridge and of Wordsworth, we shall have somewhat to say in\nthe chapter we open upon next.\n\n\n\n[1] Gilbert White, b. 1720; d. 1793.  Oxford man; Fellow in 1744;\ncurate of Faringdon 1758; after 1784, at Selborne.\n\n[2] A charmingly illustrated edition of _The Natural History of\nSelborne_--showing his ivy-covered home and other objects of interest,\nwas published by Macmillan & Co. in 1875 (edited by Frank Buckland).  I\nam indebted for a copy to my friend, Wm. Robinson, of the London\n_Garden_.\n\n[3] Jane Austen, b. 1775; d. 1817.  _Sense and Sensibility_, published\n1811.  Life was written by her nephew J. Austen-Leigh.  Her _Letters_,\nedited by Lord Brabourne, 1884.\n\n[4] Not the dreadful, seamy, photographic reproduction of an old oil\npainting that Lord Brabourne gives, which must be wholly unfair to her;\nbut the earlier engravings.\n\n[5] Thomas Day, b. 1748; d. 1789.  Oxford man; married, 1778; _Sandford\nand Merton_ published 1783.\n\n[6] Mrs. Barbauld (Anna Letitia Aikin), b. 1743; d. 1825.  There is a\npleasant sketch of Mrs. Barbauld and (for a wonder) an approving and\ncommendatory notice of her in Miss Martineau's _Autobiography_, vol.\ni., pp. 228-39.\n\nMiss Martineau's father, it appears, had been a pupil of Mrs. Barbauld.\n\n[7] Boswell's Johnson, vol. vi., p. 28.\n\n[8] The circumstances are given in _Crabb Robinson's Diary_.\n\n[9] Maria Edgeworth, b. 1767; d. 1849.  First volume of _Parent's\nAssistant_ was published, 1796; _Castle Rackrent_, 1800; _Popular\nTales_, 1804.\n\n[10] Miss Honora Sneyd among them, in 1773.\n\n[11] Maria Regina Roche, b. 1766; d. 1845.  The _Grand Dict. Universal\ndu XIX. Siecle_ enumerates no less than thirteen other romances by\nher--in forty odd volumes, all translated, and now utterly forgotten!\n\n[12] Mrs. Radcliffe (Ann Ward), b. 1764; d. 1823; _Romance of the\nForest_, 1791; _Mysteries of Udolpho_, 1794.\n\nMiss Jane Porter, b. 1776; d. 1850; _Thaddeus of Warsaw_, published\n1803; _Scottish Chiefs_, 1810; _Sir Edward Seaward's Narrative_ (in\nconcert with her sister Anna Maria Porter), published in 1826.\n\n[13] Senior member of the old firm of J. & J. Harper, 82 Cliff Street.\n\n[14] William Beckford, b. 1759; d. 1844.  _Vathek_, published (in\nFrench), 1787; better known by an unauthentic English translation,\npublished 1784.\n\n[15] Robert Burns, b. 1759; d. 1796.  Poems published 1786.  First\ncollected edition, 1800; Cunningham edition, with life, in 1834, 4 vols.\n\n\n\n\n{300}\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\nWe have still in our mind's eye, and very pleasantly, that quaint old\nclergyman of Hampshire, who wrote about the daws, and the swallows, and\nthe fern-owl, in a way that has kept the name of Gilbert White alive,\nfor a great many years.  And who that has read them can ever forget the\nstories of that winning Hampshire lady, whose fame takes on new\ngreenness with every spring-time?  Following upon our talk of this\ncharming authoress, we had a little discursive mention, in our last\nchapter, of certain books which at the close of the last century, or\nearly in this, were written for boys and girls; chiefest among these we\nnoted those written by that excellent woman, Miss Edgeworth.  We spoke\nof Miss Roche, who gushed over in the loves of Amanda and\nMortimer--those fond and sentimental _Children {301} of the Abbey_; and\nof Miss Porter, with her gorgeous heroics about Poland and Scotland,\nand of Mrs. Radcliffe's stunning _Mysteries of Udolpho_.  We had a\nglimpse of the strange work and life of William Beckford--son of the\nrich Lord Mayor Beckford; and we closed our chapter over the grave of\nthat brilliant poet and wrecked man Robert Burns.\n\nThat grewsome death of the great Scotch singer occurred in a miserable\nhouse of a disorderly street in Dumfries, within four years of the\nclose of the last century; his children--without any mastership to\ncontrol, and the love that should have guided dumb--wandering in and\nout; no home comforts about them; the very necessities of life\nuncertain and precarious; all hopes narrowed for them, and all memories\nof theirs full of wildest alternations of joyousness and fright.\n\n\n_A Banker Poet._\n\n[Sidenote: Samuel Rogers.]\n\nYou have perhaps read and enjoyed a poem called _The Pleasures of\nMemory_.  It has tender passages in it; it has an easy, melodious\nswing:--\n\n{302}\n\n  \"Twilight's soft dews steal o'er the village green,\n  With magic tints to harmonize the scene;\n  Stilled is the hum that thro' the hamlet broke,\n  When round the ruins of their ancient oak\n  The peasants flocked to hear the minstrel play\n  And games and carols closed the busy day.\n      *      *      *      *      *\n  Up springs, at every step--to claim a tear,\n  Some little friendship formed and cherished here;\n  And not the lightest leaf, but trembling teems\n  With golden visions and romantic dreams.\n\n\nThis poem, with echoes of Goldsmith in it, with echoes of Dryden, with\nechoes of Cowper--all caught together by a hand that was most deft, and\nby a taste that was most fastidious--was written and published in\nLondon, four years before Burns died, by the poet-banker Samuel\nRogers.[1]  It is not a name that I feel inclined to glorify very much,\nor that should be honored with any large reverence; but it is brought\nspecially to the reader's notice here, because the life, career, and\naccomplishment of the man offers so striking a contrast to that of the\nScottish poet who was his contemporary.  They were born within four\nyears {303} of each other.  One under the bare roof of an Ayrshire\ncottage, the other amid the luxuries of a banker's home in London; one\ncaught inspiration amongst the hills and the woods; the other was\ntaught melody in the drawing-rooms and libraries of London; one wrested\nhis conquests in the kingdom of song, single-handed; and the other, his\nlesser and feebler ones, bolstered with all the appliances that wealth\ncould give, or long culture suggest.  The poetry of the one is rich,\nindividual, and spirited, with sources in nature and in the passions of\nthe man; the poetry of the other has only those congruous and tamer\nharmonies, whose sources lie in the utterance of deeper and stronger\nsingers before him.  Yet the life of that Ayrshire poet was a miserable\nfailure; and the life of this other, Samuel Rogers, was--as the world\ncounts things--a complete success.  No half-starved children pulled at\nhis skirts for bread.  All luxuries were about him, and from the\nbeginning life flowed with him as calmly as a river.\n\nOf his early history there is not much to be said.  We know that he was\nborn at Newington Green--an old suburb lying directly north of the\ncity, {304} toward Stamford Hill--and now engulfed by the tide of\nLondon houses; we know he studied at good schools there, and under\ncareful teachers at home; we know that he used to read and love Dr.\nBeattie's minstrel; we know that once, in boyhood (he tells the story\nhimself), craving a sight of the great Dr. Johnson, he went to his\ndoor, but scared by the first tap of the knocker, sidled away, and so\nnever saw that literary magnate.  It was a timidity that did not cling\nto Mr. Rogers; in all his later years no man in London was less afraid\nof the pounding of a knocker.\n\nHis first volume was printed in the very year on which the poor thin\nbook of Burns's first poems saw the light at Kilmarnock.  This,\nhowever, did not make his reputation; _that_ came six years later with\nthe _Pleasures of Memory_, of which I cited a fragment; and thereafter,\nall down through the earlier half of the present century, there was\nhardly a better known man in London than Samuel Rogers, banker and\npoet.  He voyaged widely and brought back many spoils of travel; he had\nluxurious tastes and fed them with the utmost discretion.  He had\nsocial ambition, and rare sagacity in {305} selecting his companions,\nand in timing his courtesies; he flattered critics, and was obsequious\nto men with titles.\n\nHis house in St. James's--with its broad upper double window, looking\nout upon the Green Park--was known of all men.  Before yet the days of\nbric-a-brac had come, it was filled with beautiful things and with\ntrophies of art.  It was not large nor pretentious; but on its walls\nwere paintings, or sketches by Raphael, by Rubens, by Titian, by\nGainsborough, by Rembrandt, and by Reynolds; and in its ante-rooms,\nmarbles by Thorwaldsen and Canova.  There were no children of the\nhouse, nor was there ever a wife there to aid, or to lord the master.\nYet many a lady, ranking by title, or by cleverness, has enjoyed the\ndinners and the breakfasts for which the house was famous.  The cooking\nwas always of the best; the wines the rarest; the meats and fruits the\nchoicest, and the porcelain superb.  Like most who have richly equipped\nhouses, he loved to have his fine things admired; and he loved to have\nhis fine words echoed.  Few foreigners of any literary distinction\nvisited London from 1815 to 1850, without coming to a taste {306} of\nthe poet's hospitality, and to a taste too, very likely, of his pretty\nsatire.  His wit flashed more sharply in his talk than in his verse;\nand his dinner stories were fabulous in number, in piquancy, and in\nsting.  Like all accomplished _raconteurs_, he must needs tell his good\nstories over and over, so that Rogers's butler, it was wittily said,\nwas next best to Rogers.\n\nHe could hardly have been called a good-natured man, and was always, I\nthink, keener for a good thing to say, than for a good thing to do.  He\ngave, it is true, largely in charities; but in orderly, business-like\nways and with none of the unction and kindly indirectness[2] which\ndoubles the {307} warmth of the best giving.  All London knew him as a\ndiner out, as a connoisseur, as an opera-goer, as a patron of clever\npeople, as a friend to those in place, as a _flaneur_ along Piccadilly.\nHe was cool, unimpassioned, blase in look, never doing openly\ndiscreditable things; and he carried his reputation for unmitigated\nrespectability, for wealth, for sharp speeches, for cleverness, for\nsagacious charities, down to extreme age; dying as late as 1855,\nninety-three years old.\n\n[Sidenote: Rogers' poems.]\n\nThough the poem entitled _The Pleasures of Memory_ made his fame, a\nlater descriptive poem, embodying the gleanings from a trip in Italy,\nis perhaps better known; and it enjoys the distinction of having been\nillustrated and printed at a cost of $70,000 of the banker's money.\nFragments of that poem you must know; the story of Ginevra, perhaps,\nbest of all; so daintily told that it is likely to live and be\ncherished as long as any of the bric-a-brac which the banker poet\ngathered in his travels.  'Tis a story of a picture that he saw--a\n\"lady in her earliest youth.\"\n\n{308}\n\n  \"She sits inclining forward as to speak,\n  Her lips half open, and her finger up\n  As though she said--Beware!  Her vest of gold\n  Broidered with flowers, and clasped from head to foot,\n  An emerald stone in every golden clasp,\n  And on her brow, fairer than alabaster,\n  A coronet of pearls....  Alone it hangs\n  Over a mouldering heirloom, its companion,\n  An oaken chest, half eaten by the worms.\n      *      *      *      *      *\n  Just as she looks there in her bridal dress\n  She was all gentleness and gaiety.\n      *      *      *      *      *\n  And in the lustre of her youth, she gave\n  Her hand with her heart in it, to Francesco.\n  Great was the joy; but at the bridal feast\n  When all sat down, the bride was wanting there,\n  Nor was she to be found!  Her father cried\n  \"'Tis but to make a trial of our love!\"\n  And filled his glass to all; _but his hand shook_,\n  And soon from guest to guest the panic spread.\n  'Twas but that instant she had left Francesco\n  Laughing, and looking back and flying still,\n  Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger.\n  But now, alas, she was not to be found;\n  Nor from that hour could anything be guessed\n  But that she was not!  Weary of his life\n  Francesco flew to Venice, and forthwith\n  Flung it away in battle with the Turk.\n  Orsini lived; and long mightest thou have seen\n  An old man wandering as in quest of something--\n  Something he could not find--he knew not what\n\n{309}\n\n  When he was gone, the house remained awhile\n  Silent and tenantless; then, went to strangers.\n\n    Full fifty years were past, and all forgot,\n  When on an idle day--a day of search\n  Mid the old lumber in the gallery--\n  That mouldering chest was noticed; and 'twas said\n  By one as young, as thoughtless, as Ginevra,\n  Why not remove it from its lurking-place?\n  'Twas done, as soon as said; but on the way\n  It burst--it fell; and lo, a skeleton,\n  With here and there a pearl, an emerald stone,\n  A golden clasp--clasping a shred of gold.\n  All else had perished, save a nuptial ring\n  And a small seal--her mother's legacy,\n  Engraven with a name--the name of both--\n  \"Ginevra.\"\n\n\nA pretty delicacy certainly goes to the telling of that story; but in\nthe tale of Christabel and of the Ancient Mariner there is something\nmore than delicacy--more of brain and passion and far-reaching poetic\ninsight in the poet Coleridge, than in ten such men as Samuel Rogers.\n\n\n_Coleridge._\n\n[Sidenote: Coleridge.]\n\nYet what a sad life we have to tell you of now!  A life without any\nrepose in it;--a life haunted and goaded by its own ambitions--a life\nput to {310} wreck by lack of resolute governance--a life going out at\nlast under the shadows of great clouds.\n\nColeridge[3] was the son of a humble, quiet, self-forgetting, earnest\nclergyman in the West of England; and the boy, having no other\nopportunity, came to be billeted upon that famous Christ Hospital\nschool in London--whose boys in their ancient uniform of yellow\nstockings and blue coats, and bare heads, still provoke the curiosity\nof those western travellers who wander down Newgate Street, and gaze\nthrough the iron grill upon the paved approach-way.\n\nHe knew Lamb there--Charles Lamb, who in the Essays of Elia addresses\nto him that famous apostrophe: \"Come back into memory, like as thou\nwert in the dayspring of thy fancies, with hope like a fiery column\nbefore thee--the dark pillar not yet turned--Samuel Taylor\nColeridge--Logician, Metaphysician, Bard!\"  Yet this pale-faced\nmetaphysician and friend of Lamb gets {311} severe beatings at the\nhands of the Greek master, though his sweet intonations make the\ncorridors resound with the verse of Homer.  At Cambridge, where he goes\nafterward for a time, he is cheated and bullied; his far-off and dreamy\nlook upon the symphonies of a poetic world not qualifying him for the\nevery-day contests of the cloisters; in the haze in which he lives, he\nloses scent of the honors he had hoped to win; there is no prospective\nfellowship and no establishment for him there.  Disappointed and\ndespairing he goes up to London and enlists as private in the dragoons\nunder a feigned name; but friends detect and prevent the military\nsacrifice.\n\nA little later, we find him in his own West of England again, at\nBristol--whither we have wandered so often in search of poets--and he\nencounters Southey thereabout, whom he had met for the first time on a\nvisit to Oxford in 1794; this brother poet being as hazy, and dreamy,\nand theosophic, and hopeful in those days as Coleridge himself.  The\ntwo form a sort of garret partnership--lecture to the savages of\nsurrounding towns--are inoculated both with the {312} \"fraternity and\nequality\" fever which had grown out of the French Revolution--they\nbelieving that this French car of Juggernaut is to be dragged with its\nbloody wheels over the whole brotherhood of nations.  In this faith\nthey plot a settlement, in the new region--of which they know nothing,\nbut the sweetly sounding name of Wyoming--upon the banks of the\nSusquehanna.  There they would dig, and build cottages, and\nphilosophize, and found Arcadia.  With kindred poetic foresight,\nColeridge marries in these days a bride as inexperienced and as poor as\nhimself; and for a little time there is a one-volumed Arcadia on the\nbanks of the Bristol Channel, with a lovely and pensive Sara for its\npresiding nymph.  Only for those few early years does this nymph enter\nfor much into the career of Coleridge.  Domesticity[4] was never a\n{313} shining virtue in him; and wife, and cottage, and Arcadia somehow\nfade out from the story of his life--as pointless, unsaving, and\nineffective for him, all these, as the blurred lines with which we\nbegin a story, and cross them out.  Southey, with a practical old aunt\nto look sharply after his youngness, is quickly driven from his\nArcadian feeding ground and for the present disappears.\n\nBut Coleridge is still in the wallow of his wild vain hopes and wild\ndiscourse, when he encounters another poet--his elder by a few years\nand of a cooler temperament--William Wordsworth; who about that time\nhad established himself, with his sister Dorothy, upon the borders of\nSomersetshire.  These two men, so unlike, cleave together from the\nbeginning; there is a flagging now in the Unitarian discourses of\nColeridge in country chapels; and instead, wanderings with the brother\npoets over the fair country ways that border upon the Bristol\nstraits--looking off upon the green flats of Somerset, the tufted banks\nof the Avon, the shining of the sea, with trafficking ships, to the\nwest.  Out of these, and of their meditations grow the first book--a\njoint one--of {314} _Lyrical Ballads_; its issue not making a ripple on\nthe tide where Crabbe and Cowper were then afloat; and yet creating an\nepoch in the history of British verse.  For in it was the story of the\nAncient Mariner, and words therein that will never grow old:\n\n  \"Farewell, farewell! but this I tell\n    To thee, thou wedding guest!\n  He prayeth well, who loveth well\n    Both man and bird and beast;\n  He prayeth best, who loveth best\n    All things both great and small;\n  For the dear God who loveth us\n    He made and loveth all!\"\n\n\nYet the poet does still--from time to time wandering into country\nchapels--hammer at strange, irregular sermons, with a mixed metaphysics\nand poetry; and theologies of a dim vague sort which beat on ear and\nhearts, like sleet on slated roofs, and bring never a beam of that\nwarming sunshine which lies in the lines I have quoted from the Mariner.\n\nOne wonders how he lived in those times; with no moneys coming from\nbooks; only driblets from his preachments; and with not enough of {315}\ncommercial aptitude in him to audit a grocer's bill.  The\nWedgewoods--so well known by their pottery--who have a quick eye for\nfine wares of all sorts--recognize his rare brain, and send him over to\nGermany, bestowing upon him an annuity, which enables him to forego his\ntravelling priesthood, and gives him the means of visiting various\ncities of the continent.\n\nThe Wordsworths make the trip with him; and after a stay of a\ntwelve-month--mostly in Gottingen--Coleridge returns, with his\ntranslation of Wallenstein; but this counts for little.  A year later,\nhe finds his way to Keswick--to a beautiful, wooded bay, where Southey\nultimately established his anchorage for life;[5] the Wordsworths were\nnot far off, at Grasmere; and Coleridge plans that weekly paper--_The\nFriend_ (finding issue some years later) with wonderful things in it,\nwhich few people read then; and so fine-drawn, that few read them now.\nThe damps of Keswick give him {316} rheumatic pains, for which he uses\nprotective stimulants; good Dorothy Wordsworth has fears thereanent,\nand regards hopefully his appointment to some civil station at Malta.\nBut his impracticabilities lose him the place after a very short\nincumbency; he crosses to Italy; sees Naples, Amain, and Vesuvius;\nsees, and knows well at Rome, our American painter, Washington Allston.\nThere are bonds of sympathy we might have looked for between the author\nof _Monaldi_ and the author of _Christabel_.\n\nIn England again, the fogs bring back old rheumatic pains; the\nalienation from his wife is declaring itself in more unmistakable ways;\nand then, or thereabout,[6] begins that terrible slavery to opium,\nwhose chains he wore thenceforth, some twenty years, and was not\nentirely free until death broke his bonds.  There is a dreary, yet\ntouching pathos in this confession of his--\"Alas, it is with a bitter\nsmile, a laugh of gall and bitterness, that I recall that period of\nunsuspecting delusion, and how I first became aware of the {317}\nmaelstrom, the fatal whirlpool to which I was drawing, just when the\ncurrent was already beyond my strength to stem.\"\n\nBut against the circling terrors of that maelstrom he does make now and\nthen gallant struggle--goes to the house of that kindly surgeon,\nGillman, at Highgate, who is charged to guard him--does guard him with\nexceeding kindness; the servants have orders to watch him--to follow\nhim in the street on his lecture days.  But the cunning of a man crazed\nby his insatiate appetite outwits them; and over and over the turbid\nroll of his speech--with flashing splendors in it, that give no\nlight--betrays him.  And yet it was in those very days of alternate\nheroic struggle and of devilish yielding that he re-vamps and extends\nand retouches that sweet, serene poem of Christabel, with the pure,\ninnocent, loving, trustful, winning, blue-eyed daughter of Sir Leoline\npraying under the oaks, and contrasted with her that graceful, mocking,\nradiant Geraldine--with smiles that enchant, and alabaster front, and\nundying graces, and wiles of the serpent, and the damps of the pit in\nher breath--as if the demon that pursued and {318} pushed him to the\nwall had foreshadowed himself in that mocking and most beautiful\nGeraldine.\n\nIn those days, too, it was that the young Carlyle used to come to\nHighgate and watch those bulging eyes--pressed out with excess of brain\nsubstance behind them--and listen to his poetic convolutions of speech.\n\"The eyes,\" he says, \"were as full of sorrow as of inspiration.  I have\nheard him talk with eager, musical energy two stricken hours, his face\nradiant and moist, and communicate no meaning whatsoever to any\nindividual of his hearers, certain of whom--I for one--still kept\neagerly listening in hope.\"\n\nThe very children of the neighborhood stood in awe of this wildish\nman--who seemed talking to the trees at times; and yet their awe was\nbroken by fits of mocking courage, and they made faces at him across\nthe high road.  He died there at last--1834 was the year; within sight\nof the smoke of London and the dome of St. Paul's, toward which from\nHighgate there stretched in that day a long line of suburban houses,\nwith scattered open fields, hedges, trees, flowers, and the hum of bees.\n\n\n{319}\n\n_Charles Lamb._\n\n[Sidenote: Essays of Elia.]\n\nAmong those who used to come somewhiles to follow that fine, confused\nstream of poetic talk which poured from Coleridge's lips, was Charles\nLamb,[7] his old school-fellow and friend in the blue-coat days of\nChrist's Hospital.  And what a strange, odd friendship it seems when we\ncontrast the tender and delicious quietude of the Essays of Elia with\nthe portentous flow of Coleridge's speech!  A quiet little stream,\npurling with gentle bendings and doublings along its own meadows--mated\nagainst a river that whirls in mad career, flinging foam high into\ntrees that border it, and only losing its turbidness when it is tided\naway into the sea, where both brook and river end.\n\n[Sidenote: Charles Lamb.]\n\nI love Charles Lamb and his writings so much, that I think everybody\nelse ought to love them.  There is not great weight in those essays of\nhis; you cannot learn from them what the capital of Hindostan is, or\nwhat Buddhism is, nor the date of the capture of Constantinople.\nMeasured by {320} the Dry-as-Dust standard, and there is scarce more in\nthem than in a field of daisies, over which the sunshine and the summer\nbreezes are at play.  But what delicacy there is! what a tender humor;\nwhat gentle and regaling lapses of quaint thought that beguiles and\ninvites and is soothing and never wearies.\n\nLamb's poems are not of the best; they have a haltingness--like that in\nhis speech,--with none of Rogers's glibness and currency, and none of\nhis shallowness either.  Constraint of rhyme sat on Elia no easier than\na dress-coat.  But in prose he was all at home; it purled from his pen\nlike a river.  It was quaint, kindly, utterly true--with little yaws of\nhumor in it, filling his sails of a sudden, and stirring you to smiling\noutbreak--then falling away and leaving him to a gently undulating\nforward movement which charms by its quietude, serenities, and\ncheerfulness.\n\nThere was not much in his life to tell you of; no cannon firing, no\ndrum beats, no moving splendors.  A thin, kindly face he had, and thin\nfigure too; in dark or grayish clothes ordinarily, that a clerk might\nwear; threadbare perhaps at the {321} elbows; not a presentable man\namongst swell people; never aspiring to be;--as distinct indeed as a\nbrown hermit-thrush amongst chattering parrots.  He has a stammer, too,\nas I have hinted, in his voice, which may annoy but never makes this\nquiet man ashamed; in fact, he deploys that stammering habit so as to\nallow of coy advance, and opportunity for pouncing with tremulous\niteration upon his little jokelets, in a way to double their execution;\nhe put it to service, too, in some of his tenderer stories, so as to\nmake, by his very hesitancies, an added and most touching pathos.\n\nHe was of humble origin, his father a servitor about Temple\nCourts--only long gunshot away from Newgate Street; and when the\nson--through with his Christ Hospital schooling--came to have a small\nstipend (first, from the South Sea House and later from the East India\nCompany), he had his little family--the only one that ever belonged to\nCharles Lamb--all about him in his lodgings in Little Queen Street.\nThere was Mary, his sister, ten years older; his poor, bedridden\nmother, and his father, lapsing into dotage and only happy with\ncribbage-board at his elbow, and {322} Charles or other good friend to\nmake count.  It was this quiet household on which a thunderbolt fell\none day.  This is Lamb's mention of it in a letter to Coleridge:--\n\n\n\"My poor dear, dearest sister, in a fit of insanity, has been the death\nof her own mother.  I was at hand only time enough to snatch the knife\nout of her grasp.  She is at present in a mad-house, from whence I fear\nshe must be moved to a hospital.  My poor father was slightly wounded.\nGod has preserved to me my senses.  Write as religious a letter as\npossible, but no mention of what is gone and done with.\"\n\n\nAnd only a day after this, the weak old father, with his plastered\nhead, is playing cribbage; and again, on another day, friends having\ncome in--very many for those small rooms--and the last ceremonies not\nyet over, and they all sitting down at some special repast--Lamb\nbethinks himself of all that has happened, of what lies in the next\nroom (he tells this in a letter to Coleridge), and rushes thither to\nkiss once more the cold face and to pray forgiveness that he has\nforgotten her so soon.\n\nPoor Mary recovers; she lives for years with her brother; the horror of\nthe past staying like a {323} black dream in their thought--of which\nthey dare not speak.  And when new visitations of estrangement\nthreaten, they two, brother and sister, walk away out from the\nstreets--on to Edmonton, through green fields, by hedges, under trees\nwhich they much enjoy, to the doctor's strong guardianship and ward,\nuntil repose comes again and a return.  Lamb at last goes to live at\nEnfield, which is close by Edmonton, north of London, that he may be\nnear her prison-house at all times and seasons.\n\nYet in all these days when the pains and fears of that distracting life\nare resting on him, he is putting those tender and playful touches into\nthe pleasant essays we know so well; conjuring for himself and for\nthousands everywhere a world of sunshine that shall overlap the dreary\none in which he lives, and spend its graces and cheeriness upon the\nmind of the poor forlorn one, who with sisterly affection cleaves there\nand journeys meekly and obediently and sadly beside him.\n\nI do not know how to trust myself to make a citation from those essays\nwhich shall carry to those not over-familiar some good hint of their\n{324} qualities; but I venture upon a bit from his _Dream-Children_:--\n\n\n\"Then I told how for seven long years, in hope sometimes, sometimes in\ndespair, yet persisting ever, I courted the fair Alice W----; and as\nmuch as children could understand, I explained to them what coyness,\nand difficulty, and denial, meant in maidens--when suddenly, turning to\nlittle Alice, the soul of the first Alice looked out at her eyes with\nsuch a reality of re-presentment that I became in doubt which of them\nstood there before me, or whose that bright hair was; and while I stood\ngazing, both the children gradually grew fainter to my view, receding,\nand still receding, till nothing at last but two mournful features were\nseen in the uttermost distance, which--without speech--strangely\nimpressed upon me the effects of speech:--We are not of Alice, not of\nthee, nor are we children at all.  The children of Alice call Bartram\nfather, we are nothing--less than nothing and dreams.  We are only what\nmight have been, and must wait upon the tedious shores of Lethe,\nmillions of ages, before we have existence and a name; and immediately\nawaking, I found myself quietly seated in my arm-chair--where I had\nfallen asleep, with the faithful Bridget unchanged by my side.\"\n\n\nLamb was not deep-thoughted; he would have lost the trail in those\nmeditations and searchings to which Coleridge in his cooler and clearer\nmoments invited and led the way; but there was about him an\nindividuality, a delicacy of thought, {325} a quaint play of airy\nfancies, a beguiling inconsequence, that have made his path in letters\na delightful one for thousands to follow.\n\nI cannot leave his name without calling attention to the charming\nlittle stories of Mrs. Leicester's School--written by Charles Lamb and\nhis sister jointly.  They are--or profess to be--the tales told by\nschool children themselves of their memories--whether sorrows or joys;\nand are so artless in their narrative, so pathetic often, that you\ncannot help but follow the trend of their simple language as you would\nfollow a story which an older sister might tell you about your own\nhomes and your own father and mother.\n\nThose essays of Lamb may sometimes show a liking for things we cannot\nlike; in his dealings with the old dramatists he may pour chirrupy\npraises where we cannot follow with ours.  We may not be won over,\nthough we see Marston through those pitiful eyes and the lens of that\nalways tender heart.  And why should we?  That criticism is not the\nbest which serves to put us in agreeing herds, and to leash us in a\nbundled cohesion of opinion; but it is better worth if it {326}\nstimulate us by putting beside our individuality of outlook the warming\nor the chafing or the contesting individuality of another mind.  There\nis never a time when Lamb's generous, kindly, witty opinions--whether\nabout men or books, or every-day topics--will not find a great company\nof delighted readers, if not of ardent sponsors.  Then, for style--what\nis to be said, except that it is so gracious, so winning, we are\ndelighted with its flow, its cadences, its surprises, its charming\nlapses--like waves on summer beaches--or like an August brook,\nprattling, babbling, and finding spread and pause in some pellucid,\novershadowed pool--where we rest in fulness of summery content.\n\nHe was never a strong man physically, and his poor thin form vanished\nfrom the sight of men in 1834, six months after Coleridge died; and the\npoor sister--unaware what helplessness and loneliness had fallen on\nher, lingered for years in blessed ignorance; she then died; and so we\nturn over that page of English letters on which are scored _Elia_ and\nthe _Tales of Shakespeare_ and pass to others.\n\n\n{327}\n\n_Wordsworth._\n\n[Sidenote: A lake poet.]\n\nOn the 29th day of June, just half a century ago, upon a beautiful\nsunny afternoon--most rare in the Lake Counties of England--I had one\nof the outside places upon an English coach, which was making its daily\ntrip from Kendal, along the borders of Lake Windermere, and on by\nGrasmere and under the flank of Helvellyn, to Derwent-Water and\nKeswick.  I stopped halfway at the good inn of the \"Salutation\" in\nAmbleside, with the blue of Windermere stretching before me; and in the\ntwilight took a row upon the lake--the surface being scarce ruffled,\nand the shores, with their copses of wood, and their <DW72>s of green\nlawn, as beautiful as a dream.\n\n  \"I dipped my oars into the silent lake,\n  And as I rose upon the stroke, my boat\n  Went heaving thro' the water like a swan.\"\n\n\n[Sidenote: Wordsworth.]\n\nThe words were Wordsworth's[8] own; and this was his country; and he\nwho was counted the {328} King-poet in those College Days which were\nnot then long behind me, was living only a little way off.  From\ndifferent points in the embowered roads I could catch a glimpse of the\nlight in his window, at Rydal Mount.  Stratford had been seen indeed,\nbut there were only memories there; and Abbotsford, but Scott and the\nlast of his family were gone; and Olney, but Cowper had been silent a\nmatter of forty years; and here, at last, I was to come into near\npresence of one of the living magicians of English verse--in his own\nlair, with his mountains and his lakes around him.  But I did not\ninterview him: no thought of such audacity came nigh me: there was more\nmodesty in those days than now.  Yet it has occurred to me since--with\nsome relentings--that I might have won a look of benediction from the\nold man of seventy-five, if I had sought his door, and told him--as I\nmight truthfully have {329} done--that within a twelvemonth of their\nissue his beautiful sextette of \"Moxon\" volumes were lying, thumb-worn,\non my desk, in a far-off New England college-room; and that within the\nmonth I had wandered up the Valley of the Wye, with his _Tintern Abbey_\npulsing in my thought more stirringly than the ivy-leaves that wrapped\nthe ruin; and that only the week before I had followed lovingly his\nWhite Doe of Rylstone along the picturesque borders of Wharfdale, and\nacross the grassy glades of Bolton Priory and among the splintered\nledges\n\n  \"Where Rylstone Brook with Wharf is blended.\"\n\nPoets love to know that they have laid such trail for even the youngest\nof followers; and though the personal benedictions were missed, I did\ngo around next morning--being Sunday--to the little chapel on the\nheights of Rydal, where he was to worship; and from my seat saw him\nenter; knowing him on the instant; tall (to my seeming), erect, yet\nwith step somewhat shaky; his coat closely buttoned; his air serious,\nand self-possessed; his features large, mouth almost coarse; {330} hair\nwhite as the driven snow, fringing a dome of baldness; an eye with a\ndreamy expression in it, and seeming to look--beyond, and still beyond.\nHe carried, too, his serious air into his share of the service, and\nmade his successive responses of \"Good Lord deliver us!\" and \"Amen!\"\nwith an emphasis that rung throughout the little chapel.\n\nI trust the reader will excuse these personal reminiscences, which I\nwrite down to fix in mind more distinctly the poet, whose work and life\nwe have only space to glance at now, and whose name will close the roll\nof poets for the present volume.\n\n\n_His Poems._\n\nThere is, and always has been, on the part of too many admirers of\nWordsworth a disposition to resent any depreciation or expression of\ndissent from fullest praise, which has counted against his reputation.\nWe do not like--any of us--to be forced into our admiration of this or\nthat poet, and will not be, for long whiles together.  There is no\n{331} bolstering of bad work that will make it permanently sound; so,\ntoo, what good things are done--whatever opposing sneers or silence may\ndo--will surely, some day or other, be found out.  A book or a poem\nthat needs careful and insistent pilotage by critics, into the harbor\nof a great Fame, will not be so sure of safe anchorage and good\nholding-ground as one that drifts thither under stress of the unbroken,\nquiet, resistless tide of a cultivated popular judgment.  Wordsworth's\nplace is a very high one; some things he has done are incomparable;\nsome altitudes of thought he has reached range among the Miltonic\nheights.  But he has printed--as so many people have--too much.  His\nvanities--which were excellently well developed--seem to have made him\ninsensible to any demerits in his own work and incapable of believing\nthat hand or brain of his could do aught that was not so far above\ncommon level as to warrant its acceptance by the world.  I think he was\nconscientious in this; I do not believe that, like many an author, he\nput before us what he knew or suspected to be inferior, simply because\nhe knew it would be devoured.  There was {332} none of that dishonesty\nin Wordsworth.  He religiously believed that even \"Peter Bell\" and the\ndreariest lines of the \"Idiot Boy\" had a mission.\n\nIf Wordsworth had possessed Browning's sense of humor, he would have\nwithdrawn an eighth of his published works; if he had possessed Hood's\nsense of humor, I think he would have withdrawn a third.  Humor is a\ngreat and good shortener.  Humor seeks to provoke mirth and ripples of\ncheery satisfaction, so it shuns length and prosiness.  Humor is a\ncharming quality in either preacher or poet; and brevity is one of the\nbest parts of humor; indeed brevity and humor always lock hands.\nUnfortunately, Wordsworth had no humor.  Again, that too free and lax\nplay of language in Wordsworth--that told nothing vital, but only\nserved to tie together, by loose and swaying looplets, the flashing\njewels wherein his real genius coruscated and crystallized--not only\nfatigued us who followed and wanted to follow, but it filled the\nmaster's time and books and thought to the neglect of that large\nentertainment of some systematized purpose--some great, balanced, and\nconcreted scheme of poetic story, {333} which he always hinted at, but\nnever made good.  Take that budget of verse which went toward the\nmaking of the \"Recluse\"--how incomplete; how unfinished even in detail;\nyet splashed up and down with brilliancies of thought and fancy; with\nhere and there noble, statuesque, single figures; like a great\nantechamber, detaining us with its diverting objects, with interposed,\nwearisome, official talk--we all the while hoping to fare through to\nsome point where we shall see the grandeur of the house and take in\nreverently its great proportions, and pay homage to the master.  But we\nnever come to those Arcana; we end in waiting; great, fine bursts of\nsong, and of glowing narrative--sun, mountains, and clouds giving us\naugust attendance--but no mapping of a whole, whose scheme is fitly\nbalanced, and whose foundations bear up a completed body and dome, with\ncross and crown.  But though his languors of language, his prosiness,\nhis self-satisfaction do madden one to damnatory speech, yet when his\nsong breaks out at its best--seeming to tie the upper mysterious world\nto this mundane level--to make steps of melody and of heavenly lift to\n{334} invite and charm as toward the Infinite, we are ashamed of our\ntoo easy discomfiture:--\n\n    \"Not in entire forgetfulness,\n    And not in utter nakedness,\n  But trailing clouds of glory do we come\n    From God, who is our home:\n\n  \"O joy! that in our embers\n    Is something that doth live,\n  That Nature yet remembers\n    What was so fugitive!\n  The thought of our past years in me doth breed\n  Perpetual benediction: nor indeed\n  For that which is most worthy to be blest;\n\n    \"But for those first affections,\n    Those shadowy recollections,\n    Which be they what they may,\n    Are yet a fountain light of all our day,\n  Are yet a master light of all our seeing;\n    Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make\n  Our noisy years seem moments in the being\n    Of the Eternal silence: truths that wake,\n          To perish never;\n  Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor,\n          Nor man, nor boy,\n  Nor all that is at enmity with joy.\n  Can utterly abolish or destroy!\n    Hence in a season of calm weather\n    Though inland far we be,\n  Our souls have sight of that immortal sea\n\n{335}\n\n    Which brought us hither,\n    Can, in a moment travel thither,\n  And see the children sport upon the shore,\n  And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.\"\n\n\nThese verses belong to an ode that should never be forgotten when we\nreckon up the higher reaches of the poetic tides of this generation.\n\nI am disposed to think that all of us, as we grow older, come into\nlarger and fuller appreciation of the wonderful intuitions of this poet\nand of his marvellous grasp of all the subtler meanings in Nature's\naspects.  Certainly those lines composed above _Tintern Abbey_, do not\noffer food for babes.  Only older ones know that--\n\n              \"Nature never did betray\n  The heart that loves her; 'tis her privilege,\n  Through all the years of this our life, to lead\n  From joy to joy; for she can so inform\n  The mind that is within us, so impress\n  With quietness and beauty, and so feed\n  With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues,\n  Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men,\n  Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all\n  The dreary intercourse of daily life,\n  Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb\n  Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold\n  Is full of blessings.\"\n\n\n{336}\n\nSo, too, in the Excursion, whose mention we perhaps dwelt upon too\nlightly--that grand Wordsworthian mating of man with Nature is always\nshining through the poet's purpose, and gleaming along his lines: a\ndeep and radical purpose it is; all else sways to it; all else is\ndwarfed and made small in the comparison.  Hence, poor Mary Lamb is\nhalf-justified in her outcry--that under its dominance a poor dweller\nin town has hardly \"a soul to be saved.\"[9]  Grand, surely, are many of\nhis utterances, morally and intellectually, and carrying richest\nadornments of poesy to their livery; immortal--yes; yet not favorites\nfor these many generations: too encumbered; sheathed about with tamer\nthings, that will not let the sword of his intent gleam with a vital\nkeenness and poignancy.  Always the great lesson which the stars and\nthe mountains and rolling rivers sing--sing in his lines; but\nbuttressed with over-much building up of supporting and flanking words.\nAlways the grand appeal to man's moral nature and instincts is\nimminent; always the verse radiant with the {337} beguiling lights\nwhich he has set to burn upon the hills and in the skies; but, too\noften, even the sunset glories pall, and weary with their over-painting\nand golden suffusions of language.\n\nIf one is tempted to go back to the contemporary criticism of the\n_Excursion_, he should temper the matter-of-fact admeasurement and\nantipathies of Jeffrey in the _Edinburgh_, with the kindlier and more\nfeeling discourse of Charles Lamb in the _Quarterly_ (1814).  And of\nthis latter, it is to be remembered that its warm unction and\nearnestness were very much abated by editorial jugglery.  Lamb never\nforgave Gifford for putting \"his d----d shoemaker phraseology instead\nof mine;\" and in an explanatory letter to Wordsworth he tells him that\nmany passages are cut out altogether, and \"what is left is of course\nthe worse for their having been there,\" and in a wonderful figure\ncontinues,--\"the eyes are pulled out, and the bleeding sockets are\nleft.\"\n\n\n_Personal History._\n\nWordsworth was a Cumberland man by birth, and from the very first\nopened his young eyes {338} upon such scenes as lay along the Derwent.\nHis father was an attorney-at-law and agent for the Lonsdale estates;\nnor does the poet fail to assure us in his autobiographic notes--with a\npride that is only half veiled--of the gentle blood that flowed in his\nmother's veins.  But the family purse was not plethoric; and--his\nfather dying, when Wordsworth was only fourteen--it was through the\nkindness of his uncles that he had his \"innings\" at Trinity College,\nCambridge, and felt his poetic pulses stirred by the memory of such old\nCambridge men as Milton, and Waller, and Gray.  The flat meadows\nbordering the Cam were doubtless tame to his Cumberland eyes, nor do\nUniversity memories count for much in irradiating his future work;\nperhaps the brightest gleam that comes from those cloistered sources\nupon his verse is that which is reflected from the wondrous vaulted\nceiling of King's College Chapel:--\n\n              \"That branching roof\n  Self-poised, and scooped into ten thousand cells\n  Where light and shade repose, where music dwells,\n  Lingering and wandering on as loth to die.\"\n\n{339}\n\nA vacation passed in the mountains of Switzerland sharpened an appetite\nfor travel upon the Continent; and thither he went shortly after taking\nhis degree (1791); was in Orleans and in Paris the succeeding year;\ncaught the fever of those revolutionary times, and for a while\nseriously entertained the purpose of throwing himself into the swirl of\nthat tide of Girondism which was to fall away so shortly after, leaving\ntracks of blood.\n\nThere was a short stay in London on his return--counting for very\nlittle in the story of his life.  _Westminster Bridge_ and _A Farmer of\nTilsbury Vale_ are all that bring a glimmer of remembrance to the lover\nof his books, out of the tumult and roar of \"Lothbury\" and Cheapside.\nThereafter came the quiet life in Dorsetshire with his good sister\nDora--where his poetic moods first came to print--and where Coleridge\nfound him (1796) and cemented that friendship which drew him next year\ninto Somersetshire--a friendship, which, with one brief interruption,\nthat promised a bitter quarrel--lasted throughout their lives.\nThere--at Alfoxden, in Somersetshire--was forged that little book of\n_Lyrical Ballads_, containing the _Ancient {340} Mariner_ and _Tintern\nAbbey_--the best possible types of the respective powers of the two\npoets.\n\nIn 1799 Wordsworth established himself at Grasmere, in Westmoreland,\nhis sister remaining--as she always did--a beloved inmate of his home.\nIn 1802 he married, most fortunately, a woman who was always\nsympathetic and kindly, as well as an excellent and devoted mother of\nthe children born to them;[10] moreover, she was exceptionally endowed\nto stimulate and give range to his poetic ambitions.  Between Grasmere\nor its neighborhood, and the better-known home of Rydal Mount, the poet\npassed the remainder of his life.  There were, indeed, frequent\ninterludes of travel--to Scotland, to Leicestershire, to Southern\nEngland, to Ireland, and the Continent--from all which places he came\nback with an unabated love for the lakes and mountains which bounded\nhis home.  Never did there live a more exalted lover of {341} Nature;\nand specially for those scenes of Nature which cradled him in infancy\nand which cheered his manhood.  Without being largely experienced in\nthe devices of gardening craft, he yet gave frequent and profitable\nadvice to those among his friends who were building up homes in the\nsurrounding lake district; and the Beaumont family of Leicestershire\nshow with pride a winter garden at Coleorton, which is an evergreen\nremembrancer of the poet's skill and taste.  He resented all undue\ninterference with natural surfaces; his art was the larger art of\nwinning one to the reasonableness and beauty of nature's own purposes.\n\nNot a resident in the neighborhood of Ambleside but knew his gaunt\nfigure stalking up and down the hills; yet not counted over-affable;\nthe villagers report him--\"distant, vera distant.  As for his habits he\nhad none--niver knew him wi' a pot i' his hand or a pipe i' his mouth.\"\nAnd another says--\"As for fishing, he hadn't a bit of fish in him,\nhadn't Wordsworth--not a bit o' fish in him!\"[11]  This sounds\nstrangely to one familiar {342} with _Lines to gold and silver fish in\na glass globe_.\n\nCertainly he did not love babble nor little persiflage; he had neither\nthe art to coin it nor the humor to redeem it.  But he was capable of\nsensible, heavily-charged talk, even upon practical themes, showing a\ncapacity for, and a habit of, consecutive and logical thinking.  Often\nreading and discoursing on poets and their work, but chary of any\nexuberance of praise; if ever cynical, tending that way under such\nprovocation.  Not indisposed--for small cause--to recite from\nWordsworth (as Emerson tells us in the story of his first visit to\nRydal Mount); but reciting well, and putting large, dashing movement\ninto the verse--as of faraway rebounding water-falls.  His egotism,\nthough not easily kept under, was not riotously exacting or audacious;\none could see at the bottom of it--not the little vanities of a\nflibbertigibbet, but respect and reverence for his inborn seership and\nfor his long priesthood at the altar of the Muses.\n\nHe had no musical ear, no power of distinguishing tunes, yet was rapt\ninto ecstatic fervor by the {343} near and sweet warbling of a bird.\nBooks he loved only for their uses; he favored no finical \"keeping\" of\nthem, but plunged into an uncut volume with a smeared fruit-knife--if\nneed were.  Southey dreaded his visits to his Keswick library, saying\nhe was \"like a bear in a tulip garden.\"  He was parsimonious too;\ngenerosity in praise, or in purse, was unknown to him; and he had stiff\nschool-mastery ways with youngish men--craving oblation and large\ntokens of respect.  De Quincey said he never offered to carry a lady's\nshawl; hardly offered a hand to help her over a stile.  He was not\nmobile, not adaptive, not gossipy; last of men for a picnic or a\ntea-party.  His shaking of hands was \"feckless;\" which to a Scottish\near means a hand-shake not to be run after and with no heartiness in\nits grip.  That home of Rydal Mount was a modest and charming one;\nwithin--severely simple; in abstemiousness the poet was almost an\nanchorite: without--a terrace walk, a velvety stretch of turf, mossy\nvases, a dial, a few patches of flowers, grayish house-walls on which\nthe clambering vines took hold, quaint stone chimney-tops on which the\n{344} lichens clung and around which the swallows played, views of\nRydal Water, glimpses of Windermere, of Nab-scar, and of nearer heights\ncrowned with foliage.\n\nWordsworth was never a man of large means; his poems gave only small\nmoneyed returns; nor did he care overmuch for expensive indulgences;\ntravelling was his greatest and most coveted luxury.  All new scenes in\nnature came to his eye as so many new phases of his oldest and\ntenderest friend.\n\nFor a considerable period he was in receipt of a small revenue from a\nlocal Commissionership of Stamps, and during the last eight years of\nhis life received a pension of L300 from the Government.  A year after\nthe grant, upon the death of Dr. Southey, he was, through the urgence\nof friends, and at the solicitation of Sir Robert Peel, induced to\naccept the post of Poet Laureate--going up to London, at the age of\nseventy-three, to kiss the hand of the young Queen, in recognition of\nthat honor.  This young Queen, then in her twenty-fourth year, was her\npresent gracious lady, Victoria, who had succeeded to her bluff\nsailor-uncle, {345} William IV., in 1837, and to her sorrier uncle,\nGeorge IV., who had died in 1830.\n\nWordsworth was among those stately country gentlemen who believed that\nwith the passage of the great Reform Bill of 1832, England was about to\nenter upon her decadence.  Like many another poet, he had faith in\nestablished privileges, and faith in grand traditions.  He bestirred\nhimself, too, in the latter years of his life, to defeat--if it might\nbe--the scheme for pushing railways across his quiet and beautiful\nregion among the lakes of Westmoreland and Cumberland.  Happily he did\nnot live to see the desecration of his charming solitudes; it would\nhave made him wroth to watch the wreaths of vapor from the engines\nfloating around the chimney-tops of Rydal Mount.[12]  The lines he\nwrote fifty years before his death, he lived by to the last:--\n\n  \"To her fair works did Nature link\n  The human soul that thro' me ran;\n\n{346}\n\n  And much it grieved my heart to think\n  What man has made of man.\n  The budding twigs spread out their fan\n  To catch the breezy air;\n  And I must think, do all I can,\n  That there was pleasure there.\"\n\n\nHe had not only a poet's, but a Briton's love for that old England--of\nmossy roofs, and park lands, and smoking chimneys, and great old\nhouses, and gnarled oaks, and way-side cottages.  He cherished all\nRaskin's antipathy to huge manufacturing centres, and the din of\nmachinery and trip-hammers; he would have no pounding to fright the\ncuckoos, and no reservoirs among the hills to choke the rills; but\neverywhere the brooks purling their own murmurous ways through leafy\nsolitudes and sweet, open valleys.\n\nWell, those are the sights that win most, I think, toward the celestial\nvisions which the good poet always cherished, and which symbolized best\nthe \"dear Jerusalem,\"--\n\n  \"Along whose streets, with pleasing sound,\n    The living waters flow,\n  And on the banks, on either side.\n    The trees of life do grow.\"\n\n\n{347}\n\nOnly the name--William Wordsworth--is graven upon the simple stone\nwhich marks the poet's grave, in a corner of the church-yard at\nGrasmere; and the bodies of wife and children lie grouped there beside\nhim.\n\n\n\n[1] Samuel Rogers, b. 1768; d. 1855.  His _Pleasures of Memory_,\npublished 1792; _Italy_, 1822-28.\n\n[2] Crabb Robinson, chap. ix., 1881, p. 165, vol. ii., says he \"was\nnoted for his generosity toward poor artists.\"  The story he tells in\nconfirmation is, that Sir Thomas Lawrence appeared at his door and\nbegged him to save the president of the Royal Academy from disgrace,\nwhich must follow except a few thousands were raised next day; he (Sir\nThomas) offering his paintings, drawings, etc., in guarantee.  Crabb\nRobinson continues that \"Rogers saw Lord Ward [a nobleman of great\nwealth] next day and arranged for the advance by him;\" an advance that\nnever brought loss to either Ward or Rogers.  The latter's\n\"generosities\" were a good many of them of this color; _i.e._, securing\nadvances which were pretty sure to be repaid.\n\n[3] S. T. Coleridge, b. 1772; d. 1834.  Many of his works edited by H.\nN. Coleridge, husband of his only daughter Sara.  Special mention\nshould be made of the Coleridgean labors of that indefatigable worker,\nthe late J. <DW18>s Campbell.\n\n[4] He had a son Hartley, whom Crabb Robinson describes in 1816 as \"one\nof the strangest boys I ever saw.  He has the features of a foreign\nJew, with starched and affected manners.\"  He also speaks of the other\nson, Derwent, as a \"hearty boy, with a good-natured expression.\"  The\ndaughter--afterward Mrs. Henry Nelson Coleridge, editress of many of\nher father's works (continues Robinson), \"has a face of great\nsweetness.\"\n\n[5] Southey did not go to Keswick to reside until 1803-4.  Coleridge,\nhowever, was there as an occupant of a portion of the future Southey\nhome in 1800.  Southey paid him a visit in the summer of 1801.  See\nTraill, chap. v.  See also _Memorials of Coleorton_, passim.\n\n[6] Probably some time between 1803 and 1806.\n\n[7] Charles Lamb, b. 1775; d. 1834.\n\n[8] William Wordsworth, b. 1770; d. 1850.  _Evening Walk_ published\n1793; _Lyrical Ballads_ (in conjunction with Coleridge), 1798;\n_Excursion_, 1814; _White Doe of Rylstone_, 1815; first collected\nedition of poems, 1836-37; _Life_ by W. H. Myers; a much fuller, but\nsomewhat muddled one, by William Knight, 3 vols,, 8vo, 1889.  Dowden's\nedition of Wordsworth's poems (Aldine Series) is latest and best.\n\n[9] See Lamb's Letters, cited in Knight, vol. ii., p. 235.\n\n[10] His wife was Mary Hutchinson, of Penrith.  Their children were\nJohn, b. 1803; Dorothy, b. 1804 (became Mrs. Quinlan and died before\nher father); Thomas, b. 1806; Catharine, b. 1808; and William, b.\n1810--the last being the only one who survived the poet.\n\n[11] This based on \"Mr. Rawnsley's Gleanings amongst the Villagers.\"\nSee _Athenaeum_, February 23, 1889.\n\n[12] There is a very interesting account of Wordsworth's home life,\netc., in Miss Martineau's _Autobiography_, vol. i., p. 504 _et\nseq._--but very much , as all her pictures are, by her own\nmegrims and disposition to sneer at all the world--except Miss\nMartineau.\n\n\n\n\n{349}\n\nINDEX.\n\n\nAdams, John, 187.\n\nAddison, Joseph, 4.\n\nAikin, Dr., 273-276.\n\nAllston, Washington, 316.\n\nAnne, Queen, the times of, 1-3.\n\nAusten, Jane, her life and personality, 265-267; opinions of Walter\nScott, Macaulay, and Miss Mitford concerning, 266, 267; her _Pride and\nPrejudice_, 268; _Persuasion_ and _Northanger Abbey_, 268, 269; her\nqualities, 270, 271; burial-place, 270.\n\nAusten, Lady, and William Cowper, 246, 247.\n\n\nBarbauld, Mrs., 273-276.\n\nBeauclerk, Topham, 114-116.\n\nBeckford, William, and his _Vathek_, 285-291.\n\nBentley, Richard, his _Siris: A chain of Philosophical Reflections and\nInquiries concerning the Virtues of Tarwater_, 9; writes on the\n_Epistles of Phalaris_, 9-11; his family, 10; portrait of, 10, 11; as a\nwriter and as a man, 11, 12.\n\nBerkeley, George, his _Theory of Vision_, 4; his career, 4-9; his\nverse, 5; his sermons, 6; _The Minute Philosopher_, 7; his family, 7;\nhis philosophy, 9.\n\nBlair, Hugh, 230.\n\nBlounts, Alexander Pope and the, 34.\n\nBoswell, James, and his _Life of Dr. Johnson_, 118-122.\n\nBoufflers, Madame de, and David Hume, 150.\n\nBurke, Edmund, 112, 113; his words concerning Beauclerk's widow, 115;\nhis burial-place, 145.\n\nBurney, Frances, and Dr. Johnson, 138, 142, 164, 165; her stories, 165;\n_Evelina_, 165-168; _Camilla_, 168; her Diary, 168-169; last years,\n170, 171.\n\nBurns, Robert, his poetry, 291; his career, 292-297; his death, 298,\n301; compared with Samuel Rogers, 302, 303.\n\n\n_Camilla_, Miss Burney's, 170.\n\nCarlyle, Thomas, his words concerning Coleridge, 318.\n\n_Castle of Otranto_, The, Walpole's, 84.\n\nChatterton, Thomas, the young poet, 202-205; his end, 205, 206, 209;\nand Horace Walpole, 206-209; the Rowley Poems, 207, 208; compared with\nPoe, 210.\n\nChesterfield, Lord, and Dr. Johnson, 97, 98.\n\n_Children of the Abbey_, Miss Roche's, 282, 283.\n\n_Christabel_, Coleridge's, 317, 318.\n\nCoach, the Venetian, 3.\n\n_C[oe]lebs_, Hannah More's, 175, 176.\n\nColeridge, S. T., 298, 299; his life, 309-317; Lamb's apostrophe to,\n310; and Southey, 311, 312; and Wordsworth, 313; his _Ancient Mariner_,\n314, and Washington Allston, 316; his opium habit, 316, 317; his\n_Christabel_, 317; Carlyle's words concerning, 318; his death, 318.\n\nCollins, William, 100-163; his _Ode to Evening_, 163, 180.\n\nCoverley, Sir Roger de, 2.\n\nCowper, William, his family and education, 239, 240; his love affair,\n240; mental trouble, 241, 242; and Mrs. Unwin, 243-245, and Rev. John\nNewton, 245; _John Gilpin's Ride_, 245, 246, and Lady Austen, 246; _The\nTask_, 240, 247; on American affairs, 248; later life, 249-253; his\nHomer, 250, 251; his place as a poet, 254-256.\n\nCrabbe, George, compared with Pope, 232, 233; his birth and early work,\n233-235; private chaplain to the Duke of Rutland, 235, 236; his life\nand character, 237, 238.\n\nCurchod, Mademoiselle, afterward Madame Necker, 123.\n\n\nDay, Thomas, and _Sandford and Merton_, 271-273.\n\n_Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire_, Gibbons's History of, 125, 127,\n130.\n\n\nEdgeworth, Maria, 277-281.\n\nErnest, Augustus, Duke of Brunswick, 57.\n\n_Evelina_, Miss Burney's, 165-168.\n\n_Evenings at Home_, by Dr. Aikin and Mrs. Barbauld, 273-276.\n\n\nFerguson, Robert, 229.\n\nFielding, Henry, his coarseness, 67, 68; his character and ancestry,\n68; his schooling, 69; his dramatic work, 69, 70; his _Joseph Andrews_,\n_Amelia_, and _Tom Jones_, 71, 72; his marriage, 70, 71; his death, 72.\n\nFox, Charles James, 188-192.\n\nFranklin, Benjamin, and Miss Burney, 166; his words concerning George\nIII., 184.\n\nFreeman, Edward, his words concerning Gibbon, 128.\n\n\nGarrick, David, at Dr. Johnson's school, 91, 92; as a boy, 116; a\nmember of the \"Literary Club, \" 116; as an actor, 117, 118; his death,\n138; Hannah More and, 173, 174.\n\nGeorge I., ancestry, 57; comes to England, 58; his character, 58; his\nwife, 58, 59.\n\nGeorge II., 59-61; his reign, 61.\n\nGeorge III., character and personality of, 181-187.\n\nGibbon, Edward, birth, parentage, and education, 122; his love for\nMlle. Curchod, afterward Madame Necker, 133, 124; a member of the\n\"Literary Club, \" 124, 127; as an author, 124, 125; his _Decline and\nfall of the Roman Empire_, 125, 127-130; as a man, 125, 126; in Paris,\n126; his burial-place, 145.\n\nGoldsmith, Oliver, a member of the \"Literary Club, \" 130, 131; as a\nwriter, 132, 133; his death, 133, 134; his burial-place, 144, 145.\n\nGray, Thomas, birth, parentage, and education, 79, 80; opinions of his\nwork, 80; his fastidious refinement, 80-82; the _Elegy_ churchyard, 82;\nand the Rowley Poems, 208.\n\n\nHalket, George, 229.\n\nHayley, William, a friend of Cowper's, 249.\n\nHesketh, Lady, her interest in Cowper, 250, 252.\n\nHomer, Pope's translation of, 43-45; Cowper's translation, 250, 251.\n\nHoneycomb, Will, 2.\n\nHume, David, compared with Gibbon, 145, 146; his birth and early years,\n146-148; his _Political Discourses_, 148; his _History of England_,\n146, 149, 150, 156, 157; and Madame de Boufflers, 150; in Paris,\n151-154; ambassador to the Court of France, 152; did not love England,\n152, 153; his home in Edinboro', 154, 155; his death, 155, 156, 179;\nhis words concerning James Macpherson, 226.\n\n\n_John Gilpin's Ride_, Cowper's, 245, 246.\n\nJohnson, Samuel, his birth, parentage, and early career, 88-90; his\nmarriage, 90, 91; his boarding-school, 91; his personal appearance, 91;\ngoes to London, 91, 92; his _Irene_, 90, 92, 96, 97; and Richard\nSavage, 92-94; his _London_, 94, 95; his _Vanity of Human Wishes_, 95,\n96; his Prologue spoken at Drury Lane, 96; his Dictionary, 97, 98; his\nletter to Lord Chesterfield, 98; in poverty, 102; death of his wife,\n104; and Miss Williams, 104, 105; his power felt, 105; his _Rasselas_,\n105-108; his friendship with Sir Joshua Reynolds, 108, 109; Boswell's\nLife of, 118-122; and the Thrales, 135-137, 139, 140; his journey to\nthe Hebrides, 137, 138; his last years, 137-143; his burial-place, 145;\nHannah More and, 173; his reply to James Macpherson, 225, 226.\n\n_Joseph Andrews_, Fielding's, 177.\n\n\nKames, Lord, 230.\n\n\nLamb, Charles, his words on Burns, 299; his apostrophe to Coleridge,\n310; his writings, 319, 320, 323-326; his personality, 320, 321; his\nfamily afflictions, 321-323; his death, 326.\n\nLamb, Mary, 321-323, 326.\n\n\"Literary Club, \" the, 111.\n\nLondon Bridge, 103.\n\n\nMacaulay, T. B., on Boswell, 119; his opinion of Jane Austen, 266.\n\nMackenzie, Henry, 230.\n\nMacpherson, James, and the Ossian poems, 221-227; his life, 224, 225;\nhis habits and disposition, 226, 227.\n\nMitford, Miss, her words concerning Jane Austen, 266, 267.\n\nMontagu, Lady Mary Wortley, her birth, parentage, and early life, 21,\n22; her marriage, 22; her letters, 21, 23, 28; has her son inoculated\nfor smallpox, 23, 24; Pope's admiration for, 23-25; quarrels with Pope,\n25, 26; a favorite of George I., 26; her later life, 27-30; Horace\nWalpole's words concerning, 30, 52, 53.\n\nMore, Hannah, her words concerning Dr. Edward Young, 20; her youth,\n171, 172; her pension, 172; acquaintance with Garrick and Johnson, 173,\n174; her tragedy of _Percy_, 174; as a worker, 175; her _C[oe]lebs_,\n175, 176; her goodness, 175-178; Thackeray's reference to, in _The\nNewcomes_, 177, 178; her age, 180.\n\n_Mysteries of Udolpho_, Radcliffe's, 284, 285.\n\n\nNecker, Madame, 123, 124.\n\nNewton, Rev. John, of Olney, and William Cowper, 245.\n\n_Night Thoughts_, Young's, 15, 16, 18-30.\n\n_Northanger Abbey_, Jane Austen's, 269.\n\nNugent, Dr., 114.\n\n\n_Ode to Evening_, Collins's, 163.\n\nOssian's Poems, 221-227; the Ossianic Hermitage, 257, 258.\n\n\n_Percy_, Hannah More's tragedy, 174.\n\n_Persuasion_, Jane Austen's, 268, 269.\n\nPitt, William, 192-195.\n\nPope, Alexander, his admiration for Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, 23-25;\nfamiliar couplets of, 31; his infirmity and personal appearance, 31,\n32; his birth and early years, 33, 34; and the Blounts, 34; his poetic\nmethods, 35-39: his _Essay on Criticism_, 36; his _Windsor Forest_, 36;\nhis _Rape of the Lock_, 36, 39-42; writes for the _Spectator_, 38, 39;\nhis translation of Homer, 43-45; his house and friends at Twickenham,\n45-50; his last days, 48-51, 53.\n\nPorter, Jane, her _Thaddeus of Warsaw_, 283, 284; her _Scottish\nChiefs_, 284.\n\n_Pride and Prejudice_, Jane Austen's, 268.\n\n\nRadcliffe, Ann Ward, her _Mysteries of Udolpho_, 284, 285.\n\n_Rambler, The_, 98.\n\nRamsay, Allan, 228.\n\n_Rape of the Lock_, Pope's, 36, 39-42.\n\n_Rasselas_, Dr. Johnson's, 105-108.\n\nReynolds, Sir Joshua, 108-111.\n\nRichardson, Samuel, a printer and book-seller, 62; his friends, 63, 64;\nas a writer of letters, 63-66; the father of the novel, 66, 67; assists\nDr. Johnson, 102.\n\nRobertson, Dr., 230.\n\nRoche, Maria Regina, her _Children of the Abbey_, 282, 283.\n\nRogers, Samuel, his _Pleasures of Memory_, 301, 302, 307-309; compared\nwith Burns, 302, 303; his career and character, 303-307.\n\nRousseau, J. J., 154.\n\nRowley Poems, The, 208.\n\nRuskin, John, on Gibbon's style, 128.\n\n\n_Sandford and Merton_, Day's, 271-273.\n\nSavage, Richard, and Dr. Johnson, 92, 94.\n\nScott, Walter, his opinion of Jane Austen, 266; his translation of\n_Leonora_, 298.\n\n_Scottish Chiefs_, Jane Porter's, 284.\n\n_Selborne, Natural History of_, White's, 260-262.\n\nShenstone, William, 158-160, 180.\n\nSheridan, Thomas Brinsley, 195-202; as an orator, 199, 200; his end,\n201, 202, 219.\n\nSmibert, John, his painting of Berkeley and family, 7.\n\nSmith, Adam, 230.\n\nSophia, grand-daughter of James I. and mother of George I., 57.\n\nSouthey, Robert, and Coleridge, 311, 312.\n\nSterne, Laurence, his death, 211, 212; his style, 212-214; his\nburial-place, 215; his character and habit, 215, 216; his literary\npilferings, 216, 217; pathos of his life, 217, 218, 220.\n\nStoke-Pogis Churchyard and Gray's _Elegy_, 82.\n\nStuart, Charles Edward, the Young Pretender, 55, 56.\n\nStuart, Elizabeth, daughter of James I., 57.\n\nStuart, Henry, 56.\n\nStuart, James Edward, the Pretender, 53-55.\n\nSwift, Dean, and Pope's Homer, 44.\n\n\nThackeray, W. M., and Hannah More, 177, 178.\n\n_Thaddeus of Warsaw_, Jane Porter's, 283, 284.\n\nThomson, James, his boyhood, 73; brings his poetry to London, 73, 74;\nhis _Winter_, 74, 75; befriended by Pope, 76; his _Liberty_ and _Castle\nof Indolence_, 77, 78; his burial-place, 101.\n\nThrales, The, and Dr. Johnson, 135-137, 139, 140.\n\nTurk's Head Club, The, 111 _et seq._\n\n\nUnwin, Mrs., and William Cowper, 243-245, 252, 253.\n\n\nVanhomrigh, Miss, 4, 5.\n\n_Vathek_, Beckford's, 285-288.\n\n\nWalpole, Horace, his words concerning Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, 30;\nhis parentage and life at Twickenham, 83, 84, 87, 88; his _Castle of\nOtranto_, 84; his letters, 85-87; his words concerning Gibbon, 125; and\nthe poet Chatterton, 206-209.\n\nWatts, Isaac, associations of the name, 12, 13; birth, parentage, and\neducation, 13, 14; Bryant's admiration for, 14; his hymns, 14, 15;\nendowed with a home, 15.\n\nWestminster Bridge, 103.\n\nWhite, Gilbert, and the _Natural History of Selborne_, 259-264; his\nhouse, 264.\n\nWilliams, Miss, and Dr. Johnson, 104, 105.\n\nWordsworth, William, 298; and Coleridge, 313; the author's personal\nreminiscence of, 327-330; his poetry, 330-337; his parentage and early\nyears, 337-340; his marriage, 340; his love of Nature, 340, 341;\npersonal traits, 341-343; his home at Rydal Mount, 343, 344; his\npension, 344; made Poet Laureate, 344; opposed to railways and\nmanufactures, 345, 346; his burial-place, 347.\n\n\nYoung, Dr. Edward, his _Night Thoughts_, 15, 16, 18-20; his birth,\nparentage, and early work, 16; his _Last Day_, 17; his marriage, 18;\nback at court, 19, 20; Hannah More's words concerning, 20.\n\n\n\n\n[Transcriber's note: the source book's odd-numbered pages had varying\nheaders.  In this etext, they have been converted to sidenotes and\nplaced where appropriate.]\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of the Project Gutenberg EBook of English Lands Letters and Kings, by\nDonald G. Mitchell\n\n*** ","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}}
+{"text":" \nHonorary   \nWhite\n\nE. R. Braithwaite\n\n# Contents\n\nChapter One\n\nChapter Two\n\nChapter Three\n\nChapter Four\n\nChapter Five\n\nChapter Six\n\nChapter Seven\n\nChapter Eight\n\nChapter Nine\n\nChapter Ten\n\nChapter Eleven\n\nChapter Twelve\n\nAbout the Author\n\n# Chapter  \nOne\n\nMY VISIT TO SOUTH Africa really began the moment the huge Boeing 747 lifted off the tarmac at London's Heathrow airport and shuddered its way into the darkening sky. From that moment, my section of the lower rear cabin was transformed into a separate little world peopled by an impromptu, noisy mix of British, Amer\u00adicans, Swiss, Germans, South Africans, a few French, and me.\n\nI sat watching and listening, especially to the emigrants. They were all British, suspended between the certainty of having finally discarded a familiar way of life and the uncertainties toward which they were being inexorably propelled. They were all young, aged between eighteen and thirty, and seemingly ill at ease as they recited the litany of troubles which had precipitated their decisions to leave Britain\u2014the skyrocketing cost of living, restrictions on heating, lighting, and gasoline, the excessive cost of mortgages, strikes, competition with Blacks for jobs, and the inclement weather.\n\n\"We're doing it mainly for the children\" was the excuse most frequently exchanged between them. I wondered why they found it necessary to make excuses for the decision to make a change, especially one so exciting and adventurous. The children, for their part, were soon running up and down the aisles and in and out of the toilets, happily unaware of the role they played in their parents' momentous decision.\n\nAt Nairobi, our first stop on African soil, some of the passengers departed and were replaced by British and South Africans linking up with us from other routes. All white. Not another black face in sight.\n\nThe other travelers had something else in common. They were all, in varying degrees, pleased and excited to be going or returning to South Africa. I was odd man out, wrapped in layers of uncertainty and apprehension, wondering whether and for how long I would be able to stay in an environment which would deliberately seek to humiliate and degrade me.\n\nMy fellow travelers knew the good life or anticipated a better one. Would any of them be able to understand my decision to expose myself voluntarily to a social order which would not only deny my humanity, but claim divine guidance and support for doing so? Ever since leaving the London airport, I had not exchanged a single word with anyone but the stewards, and then only in response to queries about meals. Was this a foretaste of what lay ahead?\n\nSince boyhood in Guyana I had heard stories about horrors of life for Blacks in the gold, diamond, and coal mines of South Africa, and the cruel oppression they suffered at the hands of their European conquerors. I remember hearing about Blacks working deep in the bowels of the earth, day after day, ill-fed and poorly paid, completely at the mercy of the Whites who tyrannized and bullied them. Floods and cave-ins had trapped hundreds of these Blacks, and only token rescue efforts were made; their fate was of little consequence because they could so easily be replaced.\n\nWe talked of these things, my boyhood friends and I, happily ignorant of the grimmer realities, safe in our freedom to move and speak, to see and learn, our discussions of the plight of our faraway black brethren hardly more than an academic exercise. In Guyana, the men who worked the gold, diamond, and bauxite deposits were called miners, but they all worked above ground, not like moles burrowing deep out of sight. The gold and diamond miners usually worked their own \"claims,\" each hoping for the one big \"strike\" which would lift him overnight from penury to riches, meanwhile scratching a bare living from the reluctant earth. The bauxite miners worked for the Bauxite Company, balancing precariously between negotiations for better conditions and threats of a strike.\n\nIt was hard for my friends and me to take in the horror stories of long lines of ragged black men led docilely to and from the deep pits each day, under the cruelly watchful eyes of armed white guards. Why did they not turn on their oppressors the same way the Guyana sugar plantation workers sometimes did when the burden of long laborious hours with poor pay became unbearable? Blissfully young and arrogantly uninformed, we blamed the South African Blacks for being too timid and boasted among ourselves of what we would have done in similar circumstances.\n\nAs I grew up, it seemed that each successive South African Government instituted new and more oppressive laws against the black population, who seemed more and more resigned to their fate, or more and more helpless to change it. I met African Blacks for the first time during my student days in England. Though none of them was from South Africa they seemed well informed about life in the Republic and excited my imagination with horror tales of white-settler inhumanity to the native Blacks. As they told it, the whole sorry business began with the establishment of a Dutch East India Company Trading Station at Table Bay and some mutinous personnel who later settled there as free farmers. Slaves from other parts of Africa were shipped there to help in the development of the settlement but were rigidly segregated, being denied even the right to wear shoes. As the settlement developed, the settlers or trekboers pushed into the interior, seizing the wide grazing grounds of the pastoral Hottentots, stealing their cattle, and killing the virtually defenseless Blacks.\n\n\"Those trekboers were all Calvinists and believed that God made the white man to rule over Blacks,\" one friend reminded me. \"In fact they conceived of Blacks as being little more than animals. They would hold shooting competitions, with prizes going to the men who, in a stipulated time, killed the largest number of Blacks. Proof of a 'kill' was the severed penis of a male or two breasts of a female. Nothing new. The British did the same thing when they colonized Australia and Tasmania.\n\n\"Nothing has changed. Nothing,\" he said. \"Sure, Blacks in South Africa wear shoes nowadays and are not arrested for smoking in the street. They're even allowed to work in offices or on building sites beside white men. But that means nothing. Whites still think the Blacks are animals. True, they're not shot for bounty like in the old days. Nowadays Blacks who step out of line are quickly arrested. The lucky ones are sent to jail; the others simply disappear.\"\n\n\"For what crime?\" I asked. My friend evidently had a flair for dramatic overstatement.\n\n\"Crime? If you're black in South Africa that's the crime. Everything else is merely supporting evidence. To look a white man in the eye is a crime. To object when he abuses you is a crime. Everything you do is a crime. The State says so and the Church agrees.\"\n\nWhen job-hunting in London in the summer of 1947, I met a black escapee from South Africa. At that time I was in the throes of despondency and disillusionment at the prejudice and discrimination I had encountered in Britain. It was in a coffee shop off Piccadilly Circus where I occasionally had a mug of hot tea and a thick cheese sandwich for my midday meal. Cheap and satisfying. He was there when I arrived and I deliberately took a seat near him. He smiled as I sat down.\n\n\"Hello, there,\" he greeted me, speaking with difficulty through a mouthful of fish and chips.\n\nI was pleased at the prospect of a friendly interlude with another human being, particularly a black one. We'd understand each other.\n\n\"Where you from?\" he wanted to know.\n\n\"Guyana.\"\n\n\"Been over here long?\"\n\nI mentioned that I'd come over eight years earlier and taken a degree at Cambridge and gone on to post-graduate studies. Then I had served in the R.A.F. Now I was job-hunting.\n\n\"You'll do all right,\" he assured me.\n\n\"Like hell I will. I've already been hunting nine months for a job. Any job.\"\n\n\"You've not been looking in the right places,\" he said. \"I've been here two years and I've got a job. Got it six weeks after I arrived. Good job. No complaints.\" Smiling a white-toothed, superior, employed smile.\n\n\"Doing what?\" I asked.\n\n\"Hospital orderly at Lewisham General.\"\n\n\"You like it there?\"\n\n\"Sure. The pay's good. Lots of time off, and the work's not hard. You should try it.\"\n\n\"No thanks.\" The idea of working in a sterile hospital ward ministering to ailing, irritable people did not appeal to me.\n\n\"Then what are you complaining about? You want a job, don't you?\"\n\n\"I'm looking for a job I'm qualified to do.\"\n\n\"Man, you're lucky you can pick and choose. Where I come from you take what they give you.\"\n\n\"Where's that?\"\n\n\"Cape Town. South Africa. I finished high school, but the only job I could get was messenger boy in a grocery store. Sweep out the store and carry groceries for the Whites. One Rand a week.\"\n\n\"How much is that in English money?\"\n\n\"About eighteen shillings.\"\n\n\"So you decided to come over here,\" I said.\n\n\"You make it sound so easy, man. As if I walked up to the steamship office and said 'I'm going to England, here's the money for my fare.' Hell, I walked to Port Elizabeth, then stowed away on a British ship for Southampton.\"\n\n\"Just like that?\"\n\n\"Oh, they found me when we were halfway across. Made me wash decks and help in the galley. But here I am.\"\n\n\"And here you stay,\" I added.\n\n\"Hell, yes. I'd rather die than go back. In South Africa a black man is treated like an animal. Your degrees wouldn't be worth a damn. Anyway, you couldn't get into the universities, not the white ones.\"\n\nIn 1960 I received an appointment as Human Rights Officer for the World Veterans Federation at the Federation's headquarters in Paris and met many South Africans who lived there, most of them painters, writers, or musicians. They all saw themselves as voluntary refugees from a repressive police state. Sometimes over coffee at an outdoor Left Bank restaurant I'd join in lively discussion with them and a few expatriate Americans, black and white. I learned that, even with lynch law at its worst, life in the southern United States was far better for Blacks than in South Africa. At that time Blacks in the American South had limited voting rights while Blacks in South Africa were not even included in the national census, because they were not considered human. In the United States Blacks could seek redress for injustice in the Federal courts, either directly or through legal representation; in South Africa the courts themselves enforced discriminatory practices. Apart from me, all those who took part in the conversations had firsthand experience of the oppression they described, and the picture they drew of the life of Blacks in South Africa was frightening\u2014a society where the owner of a black skin was helplessly subjected to exploitation, ill-treatment, and the death penalty.\n\nEarly in 1965 I was appointed Guyana's Ambassador to the United Nations and met more South Africans in New York, white and black. Some of the Whites, churchmen and others of liberal persuasion, were petitioners against the racist regime; but the majority were businessmen, employees of the South African Government, and tourists. Always acutely aware of the overwhelming antipathy to their Government, they were continually on the defensive, insisting that outsiders could not appreciate the peculiar conditions of South Africa. Without exception, the South African Blacks I met were petitioners, escapees, and permanent exiles from their country, and committed to persuading United Nations member states to deny any aid or support to South Africa.\n\nIn 1966 the United Nations General Assembly voted overwhelmingly to terminate South Africa's mandate to supervise and control South West Africa, now Namibia, and itself assumed full responsibility for the territory. I was very active in the special committee which designed the resolution and lobbied for its passage until finally the United Nations Council for South West Africa was set up. I was made President of that Council.\n\nI plunged enthusiastically into the struggle to free Namibia from the defacto control of South Africa. But although I then became directly involved with the fate of the Blacks of Southern Africa, my prime interest at the time lay in showing that I was fully professional, so as to demonstrate that representatives from the smallest, least powerful, and poorest of member nations could effectively conduct the business of the United Nations.\n\nSome of the black petitioners were impatient with the careful way in which I approached their complaints. They clearly expected of me a more immediate identification with their situation and were not the least bit impressed by my posture of scrupulous impartiality. During a session with a group of exiles from Namibia one of them impatiently asked,\n\n\"Mr. Ambassador, whose side are you on?\"\n\nMany a petitioner would say \"You ought to go and see for yourself,\" as I failed to comprehend the horrors they tried to convey: police brutality; arrest and imprisonment without legal defense; trials which mocked justice; Blacks routinely sentenced to banishment and death; Blacks barred by law from voting; Blacks forbidden to organize labor unions, banned from all but the lowest work categories. It was all new to me. The British who had governed Guyana were no strangers to prejudice and discrimination, but nothing in their treatment of that predominantly black population in any way compared with the terrible stories I heard from the South African petitioners. It was not painful for me to reflect on British Guiana's civil service, schools, colleges, police, communications, utilities, and courts\u2014all managed and operated by Blacks under white supervision which was more ritual than functional. Then, as now, the busiest places in the country were the courts, forever crowded with litigants and their representatives, as if everyone was determined to prove his access to equal justice.\n\nThe Government of South Africa pointedly ignored the new Council. Several requests for permission to visit Namibia were either unanswered or peremptorily refused. On one occasion, I made a personal appeal for a meeting of the U.N. Security Council on behalf of a group of Namibian Blacks who had been abducted within their country by South African Security Police and taken to South Africa where they were charged with treason, tried, and pronounced guilty. The members of the Security Council individually expressed their distaste for South Africa's action and, in carefully guarded language, condemned her intrusion into the territory over which she no longer had legal control. However, no resolution emerged from the meeting, nor was there any collective statement of condemnation of South Africa. The Blacks were hanged.\n\n\"Go and see for yourself,\" the petitioners urged, though they knew that the Council and I would not be permitted to enter South Africa or Namibia. And while I sometimes heard myself echoing the same refrain, I knew that I would not willingly have exposed myself to life in South Africa. So I played with the thought of going there, secure in the knowledge that I would not be allowed in. But the thought often haunted me: Just suppose the South African Government suddenly relented?\n\nJust supposing one day there came a letter of clearance for the Council to visit Namibia? My colleagues and I, black and white, would have to go through South Africa. Would we be allowed to travel together, eat together, use the same hotel? Or would we be segregated according to South Africa's racial policies? Would I accept such segregation as secondary to the main issue of fact-finding? Perhaps, as a native of another sovereign country and under the protection of the United Nations I would not be subject to South Africa's segregation laws. But, if insulated from them, how could I truly appreciate their effect?\n\nIt would be a harsh irony for me, a black man, to visit a country like Namibia or South Africa and be isolated from the cruelties to which other black men were continually subjected. How would the Blacks themselves react to me, a \"protected\" person? Would they respond to me as a black \"brother\" or merely as a representative of the United Nations who happened to be black but was unlikely to be concerned for their plight? I was not an African, had no knowledge of their languages and no real understanding of their traditions, so I would be as much an outsider as anyone else.\n\nEarly in 1973, long after I had left the U.N., a friend in Guyana sent me a clipping from the South African Official Gazette. The clipping stated that, as of that date, the ban on all books by E. R. Braithwaite was lifted. I was surprised and, on impulse, telephoned the South African Consul General in New York. I said that I had just learned of the lifting of the ban from my books, and even as I thought of it, asked whether the ban was lifted from the author as well.\n\nThe Consul General was friendly and charming and completely and happily unaware of author, books, or ban. We chatted awhile and he suggested that the best way of checking any ban on myself was by applying for a visa. All visa applications are processed in Pretoria and a successful application would mean there was no ban. He invited me to visit his office at my convenience and make the application.\n\nHe was as friendly, courteous and urbane as his voice had promised. With the utmost civility we talked about his country and its policies and he said that he sincerely hoped my visa application would be favorably considered and that I might at close quarters come to an appreciation of why such policies and practices were necessary in the prevailing circumstances. I told him that everything I had heard about his country had already prejudiced me against that likelihood.\n\n\"Be patient. Go and see for yourself,\" he said, unwittingly echoing the others. He sounded as if he expected the visa to be granted. Would he, as Consul General, advise that I be given one? I suddenly felt cornered. Supposing, just supposing the visa was granted. What then? I was not attracted to the idea of spending any time in a racist society. So why bother to apply for a visa? If it was granted and I refused it, that would be the end of me as a critic of South Africa.\n\nBut there seemed little chance that the visa would actually be granted. Surely it would suffer the same fate as those earlier Council appeals. So security-conscious a state as South Africa would certainly investigate my background, especially my anti-South Africa position at the United Nations. Their conclusions would certainly be negative. In any case, I could tell myself that I had tried to visit South Africa. I'd be able to put the \"Go see for yourself\" thing to rest once and for all.\n\nFive months passed with no word from Pretoria and I had convinced myself that my application had been ignored, when there was a telephone call from the Consul General. My visa had been granted. My immediate reaction was one of acute distress. Now that my way was clear, the thought of actually going to South Africa was abhorrent. For his part, the Consul General believed I sincerely wished to visit his country and invited me to come to the Consulate again and meet other members of his staff who would provide me with a useful overview. I accepted.\n\nThey seemed to be calling my bluff. For years now I had been so safe in my posture of justified condemnation of South Africa's racial policies, isolated from whatever the grim realities might be. Everyone knew that South Africa was closed to critical inspection, especially by Blacks, so I was safe in my hawk's nest. Until now. What would I say to the Consul General? What excuse could I fabricate to explain my rejection of the visa?\n\nBut, on the other hand, why reject it? So far, I had given full credence to South Africa's critics and had readily allied myself with them. Well, why not see for myself, as so many of them had advised? No matter how trying the circumstances, I had the right, as a visitor, to leave whenever I chose. Yet, at my age, and accustomed to freedom of movement, speech and association, could I tolerate even for a short time the contempt, restriction, and discourtesy which were inescapable if I entered South Africa?\n\nWould I be willing to obey the \"Whites Only\" signs, ignore the \"kaffir\" epithet, and give way to Whites? I doubted that I could. Yet how could I ever meet and talk with South African Blacks on their own earth except by going there? Out of the blue was handed me the opportunity to \"see for myself.\" Didn't I have a duty to seize it? Should I reject it on the flimsy excuse of safety or sensitivity to anti-Black attitudes? My doubts and dread nagged me like a toothache, but I knew I was going to go.\n\nThe stewardess announced that we were making our descent to Johannesburg and I began mentally preparing myself for what I felt sure would be my first test. What would I do when confronted with the \"Whites Only\" signs? Would I have to undergo a separate passport and customs check? Would the humiliations I had heard about begin then or later?\n\nPreoccupied with these speculations, I hardly noticed that the huge plane had landed, was taxiing to its gate. There followed the gathering up of personal belongings and the long line through the narrow exit to the shock of warm sunshine on the short walk to the cavernous customs hall.\n\nTry as I might, the only signs I could locate were those over the narrow gateways to the passport control desks distinguishing between South African nationals and others. In my turn I was shown the same courteous treatment as anyone else and moved into the baggage claim area where I grabbed a metal pushcart just ahead of someone else. With nothing to declare I pushed my bags through customs and outside into whatever the next several weeks would disclose.\n\n# Chapter  \nTwo\n\nMY HOTEL WAS A new one on the edge of the business district, pompously dominating a busy crossroads and overlooking a block-square park, a green oasis amid the steel, glass, and concrete. My car had barely stopped when the door was yanked open by a Black, the doorman\u2014tall, muscular, and resplendent in gray top hat, matching pearl gray tail suit, black tie, and gleaming black shoes. He helped me out of the car, smiled broadly, and greeted me in what sounded like Afrikaans but changed quickly to English when he noticed my failure to respond. He seemed surprised that only I, and not my white driver as well, would be staying at the hotel.\n\nInside, the hotel was even more imposing. The lobby was spacious, with leather divans spotted like islands on a placid sea. Artfully carved and paneled woodwork on the walls highlighted a wide wooden staircase leading upward to the mezzanine floor. The doorman led me to the reception desk and presented me with something of a flourish. The white reception staff were all aplomb and courtesy as if well prepared for my coming. Gray-suited porters everywhere. \"Good morning, sir.\" One of them introduced himself to me as the manager. \"I trust you had a comfortable flight.\" I thanked him and said I had. \"We are very happy to have you staying with us,\" he went on, motioning me to a table to which he brought a pen and registration cards and showed me where he needed my signature. My name and flight particulars had already been entered on the card, which surprised me until I remembered that in New York I had been advised to make my travel plans through the Grosvenor Tours Company and they had chosen this hotel for me.\n\nThe formalities completed, I was shown to my suite, large and comfortably cool. Two porters followed with my luggage. They were black, gray suited, and, I noticed, were scrutinizing me carefully. When the manager left, one of the porters addressed me in what I presumed was an African dialect.\n\n\"I don't understand,\" I told him.\n\n\"You're not African?\" he asked, in English.\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Where are you from?\" meanwhile busying themselves with my luggage.\n\n\"Guyana.\" The look on their faces told me the name meant nothing to them.\n\n\"Where's that?\"\n\n\"South America.\"\n\n\"America. That where Mr. Bob Foster is from. Do you know Mr. Bob Foster, sir.\"\n\n\"No. Who is he?\"\n\n\"A boxing champion.\" Proudly. \"He stayed here in this hotel.\" Looking at me as if that bit of information was important and should be received respectfully. I nodded, accepting.\n\n\"You a boxer?\" he asked.\n\n\"No. I write books.\"\n\nHe left me with the feeling that as a non-boxer, I held no further interest for him. Later I learned that Bob Foster, the boxer, had not only stayed here but had been the guest of honor, cutting the ribbon which officially opened the hotel for public business. I also learned that it was no accident which brought me here.\n\nAccording to South African law, a hotel can accept non-white guests only if it obtains a special permit or license to do so, and very few such permits are issued. Non-Whites are Blacks, Asians, and those of mixed blood (Coloreds). Ironically, only the best, the five-star hotels, are licensed to accommodate Non-Whites. Native Non-Whites, of course, rarely have either the means or the temerity to use these hotels. To complicate the situation further, visiting Non-Whites are designated \"Honorary White\" to insure, it is claimed, their insulation and exemption from the many embarrassments which would otherwise attend them. I discovered that this title was first conceived to meet the special circumstances of Japanese businessmen who came to establish footholds for their companies in the South African market. They could not, like indigenous Non-Whites, be contemptuously restricted and segregated, so it was decided to \"whiten\" them for as long as they lived and worked in South Africa. Eventually, all non-white visitors were called \"Honorary White.\"\n\nOutside, it was sunny and uncomfortably hot; inside it was refreshingly cool from air conditioning and the fine mesh curtains drawn across the large windows which overlooked the street. I prowled around to familiarize myself with what would be my point of departure for the next six weeks. The vestibule was equipped with a washroom and cloak room for visitors and led into the spacious, attractive dining area. This contained a large wooden table, polished to a dazzling shine, and six matching chairs. The nearby wall was really a cupboard artfully contrived to hide a small refrigerator and shelves for pots and pans, cutlery and glassware. A room divider of simulated bamboo partly separated this from the lounge, large and luxurious and painfully overdone in green\u2014olive green carpet, paler green walls, a glass-topped center table which held a large basket of fruit, lime green upholstered furniture, pictures in contrasting shades of green, and, scattered about the room, an abundance of artificial plants.\n\nLuckily, the bedroom door could be closed to shut out the green menace from the more somber but equally lush comfort of the large, canopied bed in polished dark wood, matching side tables, highboy, and chest of drawers. Near the window was a wide writing table and two chairs with elephant hide seats. One entire wall seemed to glide away at a touch to reveal ample closet space for clothing and luggage.\n\nThe bathroom was nearly as large as the bedroom and completely lined in glistening brown tile. Twin washbowls and mirrors, a large deep bath, bidet, separate shower stall, a telephone, and piped music. Many towels were piled beside the washbowls and hung from racks near the bath and shower stall. The radio and piped music could be controlled from several points throughout the suite.\n\nSo this was the five-star treatment. It was not what I would have chosen if the choice had been mine. Whites could choose according to the dictates of their pocketbooks; visiting Blacks must pay the top price.\n\nI dialed room service for a cold drink. The young, black attendant seemed very surprised yet pleased to discover that I was black, and said something to me in a language I could not understand.\n\n\"I'm afraid I don't speak your language,\" I replied.\n\n\"You're not Zulu?\" he asked.\n\n\"No.\" I was secretly flattered at his mistake.\n\n\"Where you from?\" he wanted to know.\n\n\"South America,\" I said.\n\n\"You know Mr. Bob Foster, sir?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"He's from your country.\"\n\n\"No. He's from the United States.\" Realizing, from his expression, that the small geographical difference did not impress him.\n\n\"He lived in this hotel,\" he said. Then, smiling, \"He's a great boxer. A big champion. He beat the white man. He beat the South African.\" The smile was wide. I paid and he left. Evidently, Mr. Bob Foster had made a deep impression here.\n\nSipping my drink, I opened the curtains and looked out onto the small park which occupied the block directly opposite. It contained neatly trimmed lawns, flowering shrubs, a central fountain of concrete slabs arranged to simulate a miniature waterfall, and shade trees casually spaced around its perimeter. A tiled walkway neatly bisected this handsome park, and an iron fence enclosed it on all sides, broken only by the wide gates at each end of the walkway. Benches were scattered under the trees, and these were all occupied by young black men and women chatting together or merely dozing in the sun. Sprawled on the grass near one flowering bush were three men, two of them white and all of them unkempt, who lazily passed a bottle from one to another. Here and there were forms face down on the lawn, seemingly asleep. White men and women hurried through the park, intent on whatever their business might be; the unemployed sat in the sun, in their idleness and, perhaps, in their dreams.\n\nI took the lift downstairs and crossed the street into the park. This was as good a place to begin as any; I might as well plunge in. I walked across the lawn to a group sitting under a tree. Two men and a woman, all black, watched my approach in silence.\n\n\"Good afternoon,\" I greeted them. No sign of welcome on any face. Then one of the men responded with a slight nod and a barely audible growl. Not to be put off, I persisted.\n\n\"I'm a stranger visiting your country.\" This seemed to stir some small interest. Press on, I told myself.\n\n\"If I wasn't sure that I'd made a long trip to be here, I could easily imagine this was England. Same lawns, same trees, and same green benches.\" I waited to see some faint hint of interest.\n\n\"You from England?\" the woman asked, making it sound like an accusation, not believing it.\n\n\"I took the plane in London,\" I replied. \"Actually, I now live in the United States, but I once lived in London for many years.\"\n\n\"Yes, but where are you from?\" the woman persisted.\n\n\"South America. Guyana. That's where I was born.\"\n\n\"Bob Foster is from America,\" one man said, smiling not at me, but to the happy memory of whatever images the name Foster conjured up for him. \"You know him?\"\n\n\"No,\" I said. \"How are things with you?\" I felt somewhat intrusive but needed to establish some basis for conversation. They exchanged glances and one of the men, bald and sparsely bearded, said something in what I guessed was an African language or dialect. Not knowing what he'd said, I said nothing.\n\n\"You from Lesotho?\" the bald one asked. That surprised me because I'd already told him where I came from and I was sure he'd heard enough to know that I was not indigenous African. Maybe they were playing a little game with me.\n\n\"No. I'm from America.\" North or south was not really important at this point. The woman said something quite unintelligible, and the bald one said, \"No work,\" spreading his long-fingered hands in a wide gesture to include his companions. They were all neatly dressed, the men in dark suits, white open-necked shirts, and shoes thinly filmed with red dust as if they had done much walking. The woman, young, round-faced, and sturdily built, wore a simple cotton frock in a bright print, her stockingless feet brown and shapely in white sandals.\n\n\"You working?\" she asked.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"But now? Here?\"\n\n\"Here I'm on holiday. Just visiting,\" I replied. \"Do you live nearby?\" They looked at each other and laughed in that sharp humorless way which is both bitter and contemptuous, as if I had committed some small stupidity.\n\n\"Live nearby?\" they mimicked. \"No, we live in Soweto.\" Then, waving an arm to include the whole park, the bald man added, \"We all live in Soweto. We come in each morning looking for work and we go back each night. We don't live here.\"\n\nAbruptly he turned away and talked rapidly with his companions, their unfamiliar language shutting me out completely.\n\nThey seemed to have no further interest in me, offering no response when I said goodbye and left them to wander around the park and out into the bustling streets amid the noise of traffic and construction.\n\nAlong the narrow pavements, Whites hurrying to and fro, purposefully. Blacks moving with the stream, many of them in the uniforms of servitude\u2014messengers, maids, porters; on their faces the patient dignity etched deeply by centuries of survival. I wondered what went on behind these smooth black masks of people forced by law into the most menial of work and always under the watchful eye of police who were everywhere in view: large powerful men red-faced from the heat, projecting a certain surly contempt for everyone in general and Blacks in particular. Jackbooted, helmeted, and sometimes armed, they seemed hand-picked for the role of controlling others through fear.\n\nI returned to my hotel to make some telephone calls, contacts with friends of friends, people who might be able to tell me about various aspects of life in South Africa, and was deeply encouraged by their friendliness.\n\nI switched on the radio in my bedroom. After a few moments of music, a program was announced entitled \"Annie, Get Your Gun.\" I was about to change the station, thinking it was the old musical production, when the announcer explained that it was that week's installment of a program on guns for housewives. Fascinated, I listened to the advice on the purchase, handling, and maintenance of firearms and ammunition of various types.\n\nThe implication was inescapable. The enemy against whom the radio audience was warned, the \"they\" against whom Annie was being taught to point her gun, aim, and slowly squeeze the trigger was the Blacks, the same who cooked Annie's meals, cared for her children, cleaned her house, washed and ironed her clothes, trimmed her lawns, ran errands for her husband and provided the basic foundation from which she enjoyed a comfortable living with enough left over for guns and bullets.\n\nThat evening I made my first social call in South Africa on Helen Suzman, to whom I had been introduced through letters by a mutual friend in New York. A Progressive Party member of the South African Parliament, Helen Suzman was internationally known as an outspoken critic of apartheid. She had invited me to dine with her family and a small group of personal friends. At her suggestion, I arrived early to give us an opportunity to talk before the other guests arrived.\n\nShe met me at the door and led me through the house to a rear patio which overlooked a spacious tree-shaded lawn.\n\n\"I'm baby-sitting, so I hope you don't mind if we sit out here. I can keep an eye on my grandchildren,\" she said, pointing to two small, chubby children playing in a corner of the lawn. Tall and suntanned, she moved with an easy grace, as if completely confident of herself.\n\n\"My son and his wife are visiting from England, and one of my daughters is home from the United States. Those two are my son's children. Wonderful to have them around. Keeps me young,\" she said, smiling. \"I'm Helen. What do I call you?\"\n\n\"Ted.\"\n\n\"Well, Ted, welcome to South Africa, and I hope you see and hear enough to make the trip worthwhile.\"\n\n\"Thank you.\"\n\n\"I know a little about you. When Lillian Poses wrote me that you were coming I checked you out. Your books, I mean. From the library. The film of To Sir, with Love was very popular here. Especially the private showings, you know, the uncut version.\"\n\n\"Can't think what anyone could find necessary to cut in that film,\" I said.\n\n\"This is South Africa, my friend,\" she said. \"Can't publicize the idea of a black and a white teacher getting too chummy. Especially if one of them is a woman. Worse yet, teenage, white, girl students having a crush on a black teacher! Tut, tut.\" The smile breaking through to undermine the mock severity of her tone.\n\n\"Couldn't have been much left of the film if they cut all that out,\" I suggested.\n\n\"I wouldn't know, as I didn't see the cut version. But I do know it was very popular. People crying buckets into their hankies. It was banned for a while, you know.\"\n\n\"Yes, I heard. I even met one of the MPs who sat on the committee which imposed the ban. A Mr. Englebrecht. But that same committee later rescinded the ban and Englebrecht admitted that he and his family enjoyed the film.\"\n\n\"That's part of our problem, going around in circles where Blacks are concerned. On the one hand we promote the myth of the inferior Black while on the other we refuse to look at him for fear of discovering his equal humanity. I hear that you plan to spend some time in South Africa. How long?\"\n\n\"As long as I can bear it,\" I replied.\n\n\"Oh, you look fit enough,\" she laughed.\n\n\"I was thinking of my spirit,\" I said.\n\n\"So was I. How do you plan to move about and where do you intend to go?\"\n\n\"I've arranged for a car and driver for trips outside Johannesburg. In the city, I intend to use whatever public transport is available. I'd like to visit as much of the country as possible, particularly the Bantustans.\"\n\n\"The new name for them is 'Homelands,'\" she smiled, as if the name conjured up for her some particular irony. \"One word of advice. This is not London or New York. You can't get on any bus or hail any taxi you see. If you have a car at your disposal, use it. Understand?\"\n\n\"Understand.\"\n\n\"No point in exposing yourself to unnecessary embarrassment.\" She excused herself to step into the garden and adjudicate a minor argument between the children, returning within a few minutes. Her movements were quick and controlled.\n\n\"That's part of my dilemma,\" I continued when she returned. \"I want to avoid embarrassment to myself, but I also want to have a clear idea of what life is like for a Black in this society. I'm sure I'll learn nothing if I'm preoccupied with my own comfort and sensitivity.\"\n\n\"Being insulted and abused won't help either. If you want to know what it's like for Blacks in this society, talk to them. Ask them. They might not tell you, but ask them just the same.\"\n\n\"Why wouldn't they tell me?\"\n\n\"They might not trust you.\"\n\n\"I'll take that chance. Could you introduce me to some of them?\"\n\n\"I don't know that that will help you. Some of them talk with me, but I'm not sure that they trust me. Don't blame them. In their position I might not trust me either.\"\n\n\"In New York, I was told that you are perhaps the only White in Parliament who speaks on behalf of Blacks.\"\n\n\"You were told wrong. I speak up against repressive governmental policies. I speak against the arbitrary way in which those policies are imposed on our citizens, black and white. I speak against house arrest, banning and jail sentences for those who criticize the Government. I speak against disenfranchisement of all Blacks. Actually, I think it would be truer to say that I speak against the inequities in our society rather than for any particular group.\"\n\n\"But I heard that Blacks are more favorably disposed to you than to other Whites.\"\n\n\"You're very kind.\" Again that quick, lively smile. \"Although, come the crunch, I don't know that that would save me. Anyway, I don't think I can be much help with introductions. At this time, most politicians are busy in their constituencies getting themselves ready for the opening of Parliament next week in Cape Town.\"\n\n\"I plan to visit Cape Town. Mr. Englebrecht promised to arrange meetings with the Foreign Minister, the Minister for Bantu Affairs, and, if possible, the Prime Minister.\"\n\n\"Fine, then you'll be well taken care of. Anyway, phone me when you're there and we'll have lunch together or something.\"\n\nWe were joined by Helen's daughter, son and daughter-in-law, and Helen's husband. The children ran in from their play to be fussed over and conversation became general. I learned that the son and daughter were both living and practicing their separate professions overseas because they preferred the freer societies of Britain and the United States. Dr. Suzman, a slight, graying man, said little, yet there was an aura of strength about him. Perhaps he supplied the anchorage which secured and sustained Helen.\n\nIn time, the other guests arrived and we were introduced. Most of them were Afrikaners, members of the dominant white group, supporters of the Nationalists, the political party in power. I had no idea whether Helen had told them much or anything about me to prepare them for the encounter, but I immediately sensed their effort to appear cosmopolitan, able to consort easily with anyone. The handshakes pumped a bit too hard, the greetings a shade too hearty. The few other guests were British, that is, they were of British rather than Boer extraction and proudly English-speaking. I'd heard that there existed a wide philosophical gulf between these people, their common whiteness notwithstanding. Perhaps there is a real difference, but apart from the somewhat heavily accented English of the Afrikaners, to which my ear quickly became attuned, they appeared the same to me. White.\n\n\"Tell me, Mr. Braithwaite,\" I was asked, \"what's your impression of our country?\" A stocky, florid man in, I guessed, his early fifties, well-groomed, well-rounded, exuding an air of substance. He had been introduced as a banker, and looked the part, although his grip as we shook hands was strong and forceful and suggested he spent as much time outdoors using his muscles as indoors using his banking skills. His round, pleasant face seemed accustomed to smiling easily as if his course through life avoided the rocks and shoals which battered the less fortunate.\n\n\"I've been here only a day,\" I replied, \"hardly enough time to form an impression.\"\n\n\"But surely you have some feel of the place,\" he countered, smiling. \"You writers are supposed to possess a special sensitivity to atmosphere. You have the advantage of viewing things with both an inner and outer eye, which suggests that you see more and in a shorter time than the rest of us.\"\n\nI wasn't sure about him. The bonhomie came so easily. All I'd heard about South Africans in general and Afrikaners in particular had warned me to be wary of them. Was this one being complimentary or mocking? I thought I'd play it safe.\n\n\"I don't consider myself specially equipped to view you or anyone else, so I prefer to take time in looking.\" The rest of them were looking and listening to us.\n\n\"May I ask the same question, but in another way?\" another guest interposed. Voice, casual manner, all of a piece, proclaiming the Britisher. Perhaps deliberately so to emphasize some difference from the Afrikaners. This gentleman was tall, lanky in his baggy but well-cut clothes. Thin-faced and sad-eyed. I wondered whether he was an immigrant or a native. So difficult to tell with the British. They can remain considerably aloof from a community even if they were born in it, as if geographical locations were merely accidents of fortune with no formative influence on their ancestral character. He went on.\n\n\"Did you have some personal view of South Africa in advance of your decision to visit us?\" Even if he wasn't a native, he certainly seemed to feel at home. \"Us,\" he'd said.\n\n\"Certainly.\"\n\n\"Would you like to tell us about it?\"\n\n\"Why not?\" I decided to lay it on their collective plate and watch the reaction.\n\n\"Simply stated, it was a negative view. Some of it derived from those white South Africans, officials and others, who tried to defend your policies and were obviously uncomfortable about it; some of it from other white South Africans, mainly churchmen, whose conscience made them resist those policies and who suffered house arrest, banning, and sometimes imprisonment. But most of it came from Blacks of both South Africa and Namibia who were victimized by those policies and were lucky enough to escape. I found their stories most persuasive.\"\n\n\"And would you, as a writer, be content with that?\"\n\n\"Surely my presence here is answer enough. However, while at the United Nations I noticed that even those countries which seemed most friendly to South Africa never publicly defended her policies. Still, I am here and will try to be as objective as the situation will let me.\"\n\nHell, I didn't need to sugarcoat anything for them.\n\n\"Perhaps, while you're here, we can change your view,\" the banker said. \"Providing you are willing to subdue your prejudices. Many people from outside our country are deeply prejudiced against us without knowing anything about how we came to be what we are, how we function as a people, and the real nature of the relationship between us and the Bantu nation.\"\n\n\"Nation?\" I asked. \"I thought that, Black and White, you were all one nation.\"\n\n\"That's a common misconception.\" He smiled, assured that he spoke for all of them. \"The Blacks are a separate people, several nations, in fact. Language, customs, religions. They're not the collective group outsiders imagine them to be. I know. I grew up with them and speak several of their languages. Among themselves they are as different from each other as they are from us. Our policy, simply stated, is to respect those differences, and as circumstances dictate, preserve them.\"\n\n\"Have you decided all this for them or with them?\"\n\n\"Come now, let's be quite frank with each other,\" he admonished, still smiling. \"Our predecessors fought and conquered the Bantu and, like conquered people everywhere, they became subject people. Subject people are never treated as equals, at least not until prevailing political and economic conditions dictate such a step. The Bantu outnumber us ten to one, at least, and we cannot now or in the foreseeable future allow them any conditions or circumstances which could precipitate armed conflict with us. We must protect ourselves against them. Outsiders don't understand this. Actually, we live in fear of them.\"\n\n\"You, in fear of them? In the few hours I've been here, I would guess that the shoe is on the other foot,\" I said.\n\n\"He's right, but for all the wrong reasons,\" said Helen's daughter. Her dark eyes flashed under a short crop of brown hair, everything about her explosively vital, in marked contrast to her calm, unflappable mother. \"Of course we're afraid, but we deliberately create and maintain the awful conditions under which the Blacks live, then we watch them for signs of revolt. If there's no sign, we pressure them a little more. So it goes on. We're afraid of their numbers, but, in our fear we seem to want to woo the very danger which threatens us. It's a vicious cycle. I couldn't function in such an atmosphere, so I cleared off.\"\n\n\"We can't all exercise such a happy choice,\" the Englishman said. \"Some of us must accept the responsibility for finding a formula which would allow\u2014\"\n\n\"What formula?\" I interrupted. \"For more than a century, the Blacks have been completely disarmed, tribally dislocated, disenfranchised, and displaced. Given your economic power, your command of military personnel and weapons, the fear of them which you express seems to me at best dubious.\"\n\n\"It's not as easy as that,\" the banker interposed. \"I'm sure you appreciate that even the most sophisticated arms in the hands of a few cannot always resist the resolute pressure of an unarmed or primitively armed mob.\" The smile was there, as if he already rejected the image his words conjured up. \"However, we hope it will never come to such a bloody test. In spite of what you have certainly heard to the contrary, we are not completely against change. We welcome change, providing it is orderly. We welcome evolution, with everyone developing in his own way, at his own pace, with his own kind. It is revolution that we oppose.\"\n\nSeveral others intervened now, as if triggered by the word revolution. One elderly gray-haired couple kept determinedly out of it. From the few words they spoke, I guessed that they were Afrikaners. They seemed ill at ease and I wondered why they were there. Maybe Helen had her reasons. Maybe they simply weren't used to meeting Blacks, even one unarmed Black from overseas.\n\n\"How can you claim to favor the development of the Blacks in their own way, at their own pace and with their own kind if you reserve to yourself the right to control that way and that pace?\"\n\n\"For the time being, my friend,\" the banker insisted, \"only for the time being. Our Bantu people are not like you, educated and sophisticated... \"\n\n\"I met some in New York, petitioners against your policies. They seemed sophisticated enough for me to believe them highly educated,\" I told him. \"Some of them are products of your university system.\"\n\n\"Any glib dissident could sound off at the United Nations,\" returned the banker, with a trace of heat. \"Anyone who is against South Africa is sure of a hearing there. Our Bantu people need to be educated into the responsibilities of government. We have designed an educational system which will provide them with the necessary skills.\"\n\n\"Wouldn't they have acquired those skills in your established universities?\"\n\n\"We do not wish the black man to be a carbon copy of ourselves. Anyway, it is easy to see you have been told a great deal about us, all of it to our disadvantage.\" They were all watching me, Helen aloof from it as if she had provided the stage for this encounter and was letting it take its course.\n\n\"I told you so earlier this evening,\" I reminded him. \"It seems to me that if your claims of goodwill are genuine, you should be having this kind of dialogue with South African Blacks. Do you? I'll be here today and gone tomorrow. Why not give them an opportunity of testing your goodwill?\"\n\n\"It's not easy,\" someone else interrupted. \"Few of us know the Bantu except as employees, and fewer of us want to know him in any other relationship.\"\n\n\"That's only half of it,\" from another. \"Overtures of friendship from us are likely to be met with hostility and suspicion.\"\n\n\"Only a moment ago, you claimed the right to determine the pace and scope of their destiny, now you say you don't know them,\" I said. \"Anyway, shouldn't you take a risk with them, just as you did with me?\"\n\n\"It was no risk at all,\" the Englishman intervened. \"We know your books and they gave us a rather good idea of who you are.\"\n\n\"That may be,\" I retorted, not wishing to let him off, \"but I am no less opposed to your policies than is any local black man you can think of. I hope my books made that clear.\"\n\n\"Perhaps, perhaps,\" replied the banker, \"but for the moment you are here with us, so let's talk with you. You represent the world view of us, and we are not insensitive to that view. What many outsiders do not know is that, in our own way, we are striving to redress some of the inequities in our society. Compared to what is happening in some other places, you might notice nothing or very little, but change is occurring nonetheless. In sport, for example.\"\n\n\"Are you referring to the fact that a black American fought your white champion here recently? And defeated him?\" I deliberately added the last bit for good measure, trying to put a small dent in the armor of their secure rightness. He ignored it.\n\n\"That, and other things. Arthur Ashe was here competing in our tennis tournament. Insignificant it may seem to you, but for us it is an important beginning. Let me tell you of another advance. I have for years been a member of an exclusive club here in Johannesburg whose members were only Afrikaner Whites. English-speaking Whites were not admitted. Not long ago, on my initiative, an English-speaking person was elected, so, quietly but effectively, the old order has changed.\"\n\n\"The next move should be to offer membership to a Black.\" This was deliberate provocation, but nobody bit.\n\n\"No, the next move is to invite you to come and meet us. Come and talk with the members of my club, all of us dyed-in-the-wool, intransigent conservative Boers, as you see us. Come and do us the courtesy of hearing our point of view. Doesn't mean you have to agree with it, but at least hear us.\"\n\nThe others seemed as surprised as I was by his invitation. Shocked even. I watched the man, his eyes mischievously glistening in the smooth, smiling face. Was he playing with me, knowing I would refuse his offer? Was this a way of finally stifling my criticism? No doubt I'd been coming on a bit strong.\n\n\"I can't imagine that any useful purpose could be served by my visiting your club,\" I temporized.\n\n\"How do you know?\" he replied. \"What's your private formula for change? How do you decide what might precipitate some small change, or even some big change? Come and talk with us. I promise you we will listen courteously to your criticism of us and I hope you in turn will hear us out.\"\n\n\"Why don't you?\" Helen urged me.\n\nThe elderly, graying couple were frowning, as if they were not very happy with this turn of events.\n\n\"Perhaps our visitor prefers to condemn from the outside,\" the Englishman offered. \"It's simpler that way.\"\n\n\"That's not my concern,\" I said to him, to all of them. \"I'm asking myself why I should be the one when it would be even easier for you to invite a local Black. From what I've already heard, they speak both English and Afrikaans. If some challenge is intended, wouldn't it be better directed to one of them?\"\n\n\"Ah, a challenge is intended,\" the banker seized on it. \"You are here, you have been critical of us and I'm saying to you, 'Come and meet us in one of our strongholds.' Yes, it is a challenge, Mr. Braithwaite. From outside, you castigate us without really knowing anything about us. Now, in fact, I'm going out on a limb by inviting you, a black man, to come and justify the invitation to my brother members. You might not think so, but this in itself is a giant step.\"\n\nA friend in New York, on hearing of my intention to visit South Africa, had warned that the granting of a visa to me was no innocent act; it meant that there was a plan to use me somehow to South Africa's advantage. Now I asked myself, was this part of the plan? Had I been deliberately inveigled into something? I couldn't believe that. The invitation, challenge, had emerged far too naturally, and besides, Helen would never lend herself to that kind of sleazy plotting. I must be careful to avoid reading evil intent into everything.\n\nThe challenge was more like a dare, and he seemed to be daring himself rather than me. Daring himself to carry off another first? An Englishman, and now a Black? Perhaps I did him an injustice, perhaps he was completely sincere in all he said. But how would I feel meeting with a group of men psychologically, philosophically, and spiritually conditioned to see Blacks, myself included, as barely human and undeserving of ordinary human treatment?\n\n\"Well?\" he prodded. They all seemed to be waiting for my answer. I wondered if I was making far too much of the situation. In my work and travel in the United States, I'd eaten and talked with men who, upon examination, were no less bigoted than South Africans are reputed to be. If this man, himself a product of the environment and conditioning which nurtured the hates and fears within this society, was willing to make a gesture, should I reject it? Call it dare or challenge, what the hell? From the far distance of New York, I had cried for dialogue. Well, here it was offered, in the very heartland of racism. He'd said that native Blacks would very likely treat an overture to friendliness with suspicion and distrust. He didn't say how they would treat a dare, a challenge. I'd come this far to see and hear for myself, from anyone who would show me and tell me. Would I reject such an invitation if it came from a liberal or a Black?\n\n\"Okay,\" I said to him.\n\n\"Then you'll come?\"\n\n\"Yes. I'll come.\"\n\nSoon after we sat down to dine. The banker excused himself and left. Now the conversation shifted to other things, gas shortage, the state of the economy, the imminent elections, etc. Like any other dinner party anywhere. Relaxed with them, I enjoyed the food, the company, the talk, but from time to time would pull myself up wondering if it was all a special exercise in good manners for my benefit. Impossible. They were talking among themselves in a familiar, ordinary way. My being there imposed no strain upon them. I'd have to watch myself and not let my blackness become my own handicap.\n\n# Chapter  \nThree\n\nABOUT NINE O'CLOCK THERE was a call for me from a friend of a friend in England. I'd spoken to him earlier and mentioned that I would be dining at Helen's. Now he phoned to let me know that he'd arranged for me to meet a group of people and, if I wished, he'd come to the Suzman home to fetch me. I agreed.\n\nIn London and New York, friends had said, \"While you're in South Africa, you must meet so-and-so, a really fine person who could be very helpful to you over there. I'll give you his (her) phone number and drop him (her) a line to say you'll be in touch.\" I've never been very enthusiastic about that sort of introduction, and was even less so in the case of South Africa. My friends in New York and London were white and the introductions were to white South Africans. Were they really liberal or would they put on an act of liberalism for the sake of their distant friends? So far, Helen was everything that had been claimed for her. I'd soon find out about John.\n\nHe arrived about an hour later and I left with him. On the way to his home, he told me that the people he'd invited to meet me were all involved in the arts\u2014in an amateur way, because there was little opportunity for them professionally. The arts were still struggling in South Africa, and though there were rich veins of talent running throughout the society, too little attempt was made to tap and promote them. As we drove, he pointed out places of local interest, mostly new multistoried buildings, and commented on the elaborate highway system under development.\n\nAt his home, I met his wife, two teenaged sons, and his other guests, all men, four black and one white. I was quite surprised, perhaps foolishly so, because he'd given no hint of their color, but spoke merely of artists. At Helen's, the only other Blacks in sight were servants. Judging by the large living room, the house was commodious, but the shabbily comfortable furniture suggested a modest budget. I wondered what John did for a living; his strong handclasp in greeting had been made with a calloused hand, hinting at outdoor work. What was his relationship to these Blacks and how was he able to bring them together at such short notice?\n\nThe family and guests welcomed me. I wondered how I should approach the black men, my memory of my encounter in the park bidding caution, so I expressed my pleasure at being in their country and hoped they would take it from there.\n\n\"My name's Obie and this is James and Kebo and Molefe. We've all read at least one of your books, To Sir, with Love. When we heard from John here that you were here, we agreed to take a chance and stay in town a little later to meet you.\"\n\n\"Take a chance?\" I asked. \"What do you mean?\"\n\n\"Didn't you know? Blacks are not allowed in the city at night,\" he replied, his easy smile sugarcoating the words.\n\n\"So where do you live?\"\n\n\"We all live outside the city in a place they created for us called Soweto. But tell us, what are you doing in this place? John wouldn't give us any details.\"\n\n\"I'm just visiting,\" I replied.\n\n\"Did you know that your books were banned here?\" the one named Molefe asked. He was short, stocky, with a shiny, hairless head and tiny curls on his upper lip and chin. The total effect was a little startling, as if he would be more at home on a pirate ship with a cutlass held between his large, white teeth.\n\n\"Yes. I knew.\"\n\n\"What we've been wondering,\" Molefe continued, \"is why they issued you a visa after banning your books.\"\n\n\"The ban was lifted,\" I replied. \"There was an announcement in the Official Gazette.\" They were making me feel uncomfortable; the warmth of their greeting had quickly evaporated. I looked at John, wondering whether he had deliberately set this up. Hell, I'd never met him before tonight and he had knowingly brought me into this. Since entering his house, he'd retreated into the background, saying nothing, leaving it to the others to grill me. His wife sat on a divan with her sons, silent, observing.\n\n\"Makes no difference, man,\" Obie interposed. \"The things you say in your books remain. I read Reluctant Neighbors. No white man is going to love you for that one and no South African White would forgive you for even thinking such things. So we want to know if the ban was lifted after you applied for a visa.\"\n\n\"No. I saw the notice of the lifting of the ban and then inquired about the visa.\"\n\n\"Did you have any trouble getting it?\"\n\n\"I wouldn't call it trouble. When I learned that the ban was lifted I spoke with the South African Consul General in New York. He suggested that I formally apply for a visa to test the lifting of the ban on my books. I waited about five months after applying, then I learned that the visa was granted.\"\n\n\"As easy as that? No restrictions, no limitations?\" Obie was slim, in a neat dark suit, and soft spoken with an easy, intellectual air. He chose his words carefully, as if weighing each one to insure its fullest impact. His heavy-lidded eyes always seemed half closed.\n\n\"When the visa came through, I arranged to see the Consul General and asked whether, if I visited his country, I would be allowed to move about freely and talk with persons black and white. He assured me that I'd have no difficulty in either respect. After giving the matter considerable thought, I decided to make the visit and here I was.\"\n\n\"As easy as that?\" from Obie again.\n\n\"As easy as that,\" I answered.\n\n\"Doesn't it tell you anything, man?\" Molefe asked. \"Your books were banned. The film of the first one was first banned, then released but restricted to White-only bijous**. They ban the works of people they consider dangerous, or they consider the works dangerous, whatever way you look at it. They go to all that trouble against you and then hand you a visa. Doesn't it tell you anything?\"\n\n\"They're using you, man,\" the deep, resonant voice of Kebo intervened. He was big, his bulk further emphasized by the bulge of his belly under the loose-fitting, short-sleeved caftan. A tiny golden earring fitted snugly into the lobe of his left ear. A large, handsome man, I could imagine him a fierce Othello.\n\n\"I don't agree.\" They were getting to me, stirring up resentments I didn't imagine I'd feel against fellow Blacks. Did they think I was some kind of cretin? In New York, I'd asked myself all these questions and more. Not only about the banned books, but about my United Nations speeches and statements as well. These men were suggesting that the lifting of the ban on my books was a deliberate ploy to entice me into visiting South Africa! By implication they were crediting the South African Government not only with the highest intelligence, but with prescience as well. I didn't buy that.\n\n\"Think about it,\" he went on. \"They ban your books and your film. Okay. Now they lift the ban and give you a visa. No restrictions. Ergo, South Africa is pursuing more liberal policies, see? They let you in, a black man with an international reputation as a critic of racist and discriminatory policies. That means something, man. It's like Arthur Ashe playing in their tennis tournament and Bob Foster fighting their lily-white champion. Liberal South Africa.\" He made a brushing gesture with his large hand as if to erase an unwelcome vision.\n\n\"I'm here because I wanted to come here,\" I said. \"If your Government so cleverly anticipated my moves, so what? I'm still in charge of my own eyes and ears. I'm still in control of my own mind.\"\n\n\"Happy to hear it,\" said Obie.\n\n\"Famous last words,\" from Molefe, a sly grin pulling down one side of his mouth. Okay, if these bastards were playing some game, I'd had enough of it. I looked at John, but he refused to meet my eye.\n\n\"Where are you living?\" James asked. He had been sitting all the while in a large overstuffed chair which seemed to hold his tiny body captive. In the deepest chair, in the darkest corner of the room, he'd become inconspicuous and now I could see little more than the narrow face. However, I was grateful for his intervention.\n\n\"I'm staying at the Landdrost.\"\n\n\"That's the new hotel on Plein Street opposite the park,\" John said.\n\n\"Bob Foster stayed there,\" Molefe said.\n\n\"Do you plan to write a book about South Africa, after your visit?\" Obie asked, smiling his soft smile.\n\n\"It's very possible.\"\n\n\"How do you plan to see the country and the people? Will you just wander around by yourself or will you be shown, officially?\"\n\n\"Whichever way will help me see what I want to see,\" I said. \"I was told in New York that the Information Office would give me any help I need. I'd be very grateful if any of you can give me any leads.\" Maybe I was missing something here. Could be that these fellows were trying to be helpful, in their own way. What was it Helen Suzman had said about them not trusting me? Maybe that was it. Perhaps they'd learned to be damned careful, even with other Blacks. Well, they had a perfect right to question my motives, but I wished it could have been done in a more friendly manner.\n\n\"The Information Office!\" he exclaimed. \"So you'll be given the conducted tour and shown only what they want you to see. The white tour. Then you'll go back to where you come from and say South Africa's a lovely place.\"\n\n\"Look, I'm a stranger here. I don't know my way around, so I'll have to depend on someone to tell me things. If you don't trust the official line, why don't you help? Why don't you show me what you think I ought to see?\"\n\n\"The Landdrost is a far cry from the way Blacks live in this country,\" Kebo chimed in.\n\n\"I have no choice but to stay at the Landdrost.\"\n\n\"Why don't we cut the shit and tell our brother what it's really like to be black in this place. If he's willing to listen. After all, he's come to see us, so let's tell him what it's like to be treated like shit in the land of his forefathers.\" Kebo stood up, looking large and threatening as the light caught the shiny smoothness of his massive forearms. \"I read your book, my brother. It hurt you when you couldn't get the job you wanted, because of your black skin. You think that's something? Here you won't even be allowed to apply. Here, no Black would dare raise his ambitions that high. Any job higher than shit carrier is reserved for the white man. By law.\"\n\nReaching under his caftan into a pocket of his trousers he produced a flat, worn little book and flicked it open before my face.\n\n\"This is what every black man and woman is reduced to in this place. This thing. It governs our lives. Because of it, you're nothing. Without it, you're less than nothing. Man, you could leave your country thousands of miles away and come here, just because you wanted to see how we live! All you needed was a visa. We can't move a single step without this thing, day or night.\"\n\nI wanted to take a closer look at the thing he held under my nose, but thought it unwise to interrupt him. His anger was all the more powerful because it was so controlled.\n\n\"Listen, brother,\" he said, \"John got in touch with us today and told us you were in town. We wanted to meet you, to meet a black brother who can come and go as he pleases, write as he pleases, think as he pleases. But when we meet you, we realize how it is possible to live differently from the way we are. We give you some shit because we are angry at the difference between you and us. Christ, even to meet you we have to creep about in the dark like criminals. We are here in John's house. When it's time to go, do you think we can just walk out the door? No. However late it is, John will have to take us out of the city to Soweto where we live.\"\n\n\"Why?\" I asked, directing the question to John, wanting to hear from him about it. Before he could reply, Molefe said, \"Any Black found in the city after eleven o'clock at night is in trouble. The police cruise around in vans looking for Blacks. Only a few house servants or restaurant employees or watchmen are allowed here at night; they have special permission obtained by their employers. For any other, it's into the van and off to the police station.\"\n\n\"Even if you have one of those books?\" I pointed to the one which Kebo still held in his hand.\n\n\"Yes. Even if you have the Book. That only permits you to be in the city by daylight. Not at night. It's called the Book of Life. Here, take a look at mine.\"\n\nHe handed it to me. It was a thin group of printed forms stapled together inside a black leatherette cover and arranged alphabetically as follows:\n\nPage A. Residential address:\n\nPermit to be employed in Johannesburg daily from 8 A.M. to 11 P.M.\n\nPage B. Reserved for monthly signature of employer.\n\nPage C. Poll tax stamps.\n\n(Poll tax must be paid by June of each year.)\n\nPage D. Homeland tax stamps.\n\n(Rated according to individual's earnings.)\n\nPage E. Bantu Labour Health Regulations.\n\nPage F. Driver's license.\n\nPage G. Reserved for Arms License.\n\n(This is a mockery as no arms licenses are issued to Blacks. Any Black found in possession of even a penknife is liable to arrest and prosecution.)\n\nPage H. Personal particulars, including those of wife and children, if any.\n\nPage I. Reserved for photograph of individual.\n\n\"Think of it, my friend,\" Molefe continued. \"You walk free. Every one of us Blacks, from the age of sixteen, must carry one of these at all times. Without it you have no identity, no life, so you spend your life safeguarding it.\"\n\n\"Do you know what's one of the most humiliating acts of my life?\" Obie said. \"Getting my Book signed each month. It says that it should be signed by the employer, but that really means that any white man can sign it, and the signing is usually assigned to the most junior white in the job. Boy, and do they shit on you! They're so happy to have someone below them, they make you crawl for that signature. And I crawl, my brother. Me, who would love to take them by the throat, I crawl for that signature. In your book, Reluctant Neighbors, you talk of pride as if it is every man's birthright. Here the black man has no birthright, not even the pride in being a man.\"\n\n\"You asked me earlier how I planned to move around and learn about conditions. I'll see what the officials want to show me, but I'd like to hear from you and other Blacks, too, about conditions as you see them, if you'd be willing to talk to me and show me.\"\n\n\"Only if you're prepared to come and see us where we live,\" Molefe replied. \"We can't come often to John's house. Too risky for him and his family. Before you know it the Security Police will be on to him for consorting with Blacks. They'll think we're plotting something. In any case, it would be better to show you how we live than merely tell you about it. Think your stomach can stand it?\"\n\n\"Certainly. If yours can.\"\n\nJohn's wife and children served some cool drinks and the discussion switched to other things. Mainly writing. Poetry. Now I discovered that the white guest, Brian, was involved in publishing and promoting the works of black authors and poets in South Africa. Without a white person to help, Blacks had no access to the publishing houses. Obie, whose recently published book of poems had been very well received, was particularly bitter about this.\n\n\"In every way, at every turn, we're made and kept dependent on the white man. Brian here's okay, but why should we have to need even him? Whites come along and claim to be interested in our poetry, novels and plays and promise to act on our behalf. Then they promote our work for their own benefit, they complete the negotiation without a word to us, they give us what they choose. They know we can't fight them in the courts. God, let our day come!\"\n\nThe Whites seemed quite unmoved by these outbursts as if they'd either heard them all before or were confident that they occupied a separate and different place in the Blacks' regard. Perhaps people like John, his family, and Brian represented a bridgehead of interracial trust and understanding. Maybe there were others like him. John's surname suggested that he was of Boer stock. His hands were rough and calloused by hard work. How did he manage to win the trust of Blacks like these bright, intelligent men? How deep and real was his liberal stance? His children seemed comfortable in the company of Blacks, and children of that age are usually an excellent barometer of a family's racial attitudes. Christ, there was so much to be learned and so little time. I'd planned to stay six weeks and already that seemed too short.\n\nOn my way to the hotel that night, driven by John's wife, I saw two of the police vans making their rounds; mobile gray boxes already heavy with the nightly haul. There, I thought, but for the grace of God...\n\nNext morning, I was up early\u2014the noise of traffic from the street below nudged me awake. I showered, breakfasted, and I decided to take a stroll, perhaps to window-shop for some small memento of my visit to this city. At a street intersection near the hotel, a police minicar stood by the curb. I crossed the road, giving no more than a fleeting glance to the burly, red-faced officer at the wheel, and made my way slowly down the block, pausing outside a fruitstand to admire the racked display boxes laden with luscious fruit. Yellow mangoes, dark purple plums, large tight bunches of black grapes, red flecked yellow peaches nestling in pockets of soft paper, pears, grapefruit, bananas, nectarines, all looking so fresh and delectable. Two dark-skinned men, Indians, waited courteously on the customers. I wondered if the Indians owned the shop or merely worked there, and promised myself to buy some of the fruit on my way back.\n\nA little farther along, I stopped to watch a construction site across the street. Blacks and Whites pulling and carrying, hammering and drilling amid the noise and bustle, the towering naked girders and the swinging crane cables. From where I stood, there seemed to be harmony on that job, the natural, active interdependence I'd observed on building sites in New York, London, or Paris. I'd inquire about it. I noticed that the policeman was approaching on foot from the right, jackbooted and helmeted, the leather thongs from a thick club dangling beside his right leg, his face anonymous behind large dark goggles.\n\nHuge, powerful, and casual, he seemed to be walking directly toward where I stood. I wondered if I should move out of his way, but quickly rejected the idea. Hell, the sidewalk was wide enough for both of us and more. In New York, black petitioners had told of brutal treatment at the hands of the South African police. One had said to me, \"The police come along and toss you into their car and take you to the police station. They ask you questions and you must remember to say 'Baas,' each time you answer. If you don't, they beat you across the mouth with their short clubs to teach you how to speak to a white man.\" Blacks aren't allowed to say Yes and No. They must always show proper humility to the white Baas. Fascinated, I watched him approach. As he came nearer and nearer, I felt nervous, fearful flutterings in my gut and sudden perspiration ran coldly down my armpits. Good sense told me to move, step back or forward, but stubbornness made me stay where I was.\n\nI felt afraid, awed by the towering faceless size of him, until it was too late to move; I braced myself for the inevitable crunching contact\u2014but suddenly, nimbly, he sidestepped away from me and continued his slow, deliberate way until he was out of sight.\n\nLater, I mentioned the near-incident in a telephone conversation with a friend who advised me to do the safe thing in the future and give way, unless I wanted a brutal beating with no redress. He reminded me that the policeman would have no way of knowing that I was an overseas visitor and would merely consider my behavior another instance of \"kaffir cheek\" which deserved whatever it got, and no one, Black or White, would intervene on my behalf. I could easily be hauled off to the nearest police station and humiliated before any attempt was made to identify me, my unfamiliar accent notwithstanding.\n\nI paid a courtesy call at the Office of Information to let the officials know I had arrived in Johannesburg and to find out what formalities I would have to go through to achieve my purpose, learning about the lives of Blacks. I was courteously received and told that the information offices in every city would be happy to facilitate my inquiries in every way. No formalities were necessary except when I wished to visit the black enclaves in or near the major cities. For entry into these a special police pass was required. This pass, I was told, was intended for my own protection; the crime rate in those enclaves was very high, and the authorities were concerned for my safety. I thanked the Information Officer and expressed the wish then and there to visit Soweto, the largest black township within the immediate environs of Johannesburg. I was promptly given permission, together with a guide, an employee of the Information Office, and promised a comprehensive look at every facet of life in the black community. I was told that my guide, a blonde young woman, was very knowledgeable about Soweto and would be able to answer any question put to her about the township and its inhabitants. A white guide to inform me about the living conditions of blacks in a Black enclave in which not even a single White lived or was allowed to live? What would she really know? I'd wait and see.\n\nSoweto is the largest of several black townships within the jurisdiction of Johannesburg, about fifteen miles outside the city and far enough away for the Whites not to be offended by its ugliness or threatened by the violence which frequently erupts there. It is situated in a natural hollow, the inhabitants restricted to an area of approximately thirty-four square miles. There is only one road in or out, wide and hard-surfaced to the edge of the township, and readily blocked off and controlled if necessary.\n\n\"What's the population of Soweto?\" I asked my guide as we stopped briefly on a rise overlooking the township, the low, tightly packed, box-like white houses glimmering in the sunny heat, and reminiscent of the packed graveyards between Manhattan and La Guardia Airport.\n\n\"About six hundred thousand.\"\n\nShe had the figure pat and ready for me. Hadn't I heard somewhere that Blacks in South Africa did not vote and no official census was taken of them? As if it had served its intended purpose, the hard-surfaced road ended abruptly at the entrance to Soweto, opposite the huge General Hospital. From there on into the township, the road was pitted and worn, with deep ruts holding water from some recent rain. Now we came upon row upon row of prefabricated four-roomed concrete houses, built closely together and separated from each other by a narrow grassy alleyway into which grew a few trees or shaggy shrubs. Some of these houses were roofed in concrete while others had corrugated galvanized metal roofs which caught and reflected the sunlight. Each house was fitted with four small windows and a door. I guessed that there was a window for each room, but those gleaming roofs worried me.\n\n\"What's it like inside?\" I asked my guide. \"In this heat it must be really awful.\"\n\n\"Not really,\" she replied. \"They're designed to stay cool in summer and warm in winter.\"\n\n\"How?\"\n\n\"Something to do with the way they're built,\" she replied lamely.\n\n\"Have you ever been in one?\"\n\n\"No, but I've talked with some builders on the project.\"\n\nWe stopped the car so that I could take a closer look at one of the houses. I saw no sign of electric cables or the familiar exhaust outlet which indicated internal sewerage.\n\n\"What about electric lighting?\" I asked her.\n\n\"Most of the houses are fitted with electricity,\" she replied. \"Some of these older ones are without, but the plan is to extend it to all of them. The houses in this section are among the first built in Soweto. You can tell that because many of them have the old concrete roofs. The locals call them sleeping elephants. The newer ones are a real improvement. They have electricity and running water. The older ones have outdoor water taps.\"\n\nTen or fifteen years earlier, she went on, Soweto was a terrible slum and the Government, in its concern for the welfare of the inhabitants, had embarked on a comprehensive rehousing scheme. From time to time, the scheme was revised and improvements included. But inevitably housing needs outstripped the pace of construction. As new houses were built, the slums were bulldozed out of existence and their occupants relocated. The houses could be bought or rented. When they were bought, the purchase related only to the building, not to the land. In Soweto and similar black townships, the house may be bought but the land on which it stands can only be leased. The length of such a lease is usually less but never more than thirty-five years, and this period may be extended or not, at the discretion of the authorities. If an extension of his lease is denied, the black lessee has no hope of appeal. My guide supplied these interesting pieces of information matter-of-factly. There was nothing bitter or vengeful about her statements or observation; she was merely providing information on a state of affairs which exists, and she was in no way personally involved.\n\nTenants, she informed me, fared no better. A house is rented to an individual who occupies it with his family, usually a wife and three or four small children. That is the \"official\" family. Because there are not enough houses to accommodate in comfort even sixty percent of those needing shelter, subletting is encouraged and practiced. The tenant benefits little from this, however, for subtenants must pay their rent, not to him, the \"official\" tenant, but to the landlord, the city of Johannesburg, through its local agent. It can be assumed that there is hardly a house in Soweto without its quota of subtenants, so considerable revenues must accrue to the city over and above the basic rents anticipated for the scheme.\n\nI asked her if she could arrange for me to look inside one of the houses, but she merely smiled at that. Actually, I could not see her approaching any of those black residents. Many of the women interrupted their chores long enough to stare at us, my blonde guide and me. I wondered what they thought of us.\n\nAs the tour progressed, there was no escaping the drab sameness of the houses, the garbage-littered streets, or the few shoddy shops. Groups of youths sat outside the shops or wandered about aimlessly. My guide explained that the schools were still out for the long Christmas vacation. She pointed out what she called some of the special advantages of Soweto. Picnic grounds, a pleasantly green though unkempt oasis; a large football stadium where all the main outdoor social and athletic events, such as boxing matches, were held; a nursery school for children of working mothers; the empty Soweto High School. We pulled into the high school yard and I peeped into a classroom through a broken window. Row upon row of dusty wooden desks, the walls unrelieved by even a map. Gloomy.\n\nOur tour continued along roads now generally tar-surfaced and comfortably passable and we stopped at the only vocational school in Soweto. About two hundred youths annually, as many as the school can now accommodate, are selected out of more than a thousand who have passed a qualifying examination, and are taught the rudiments of electrical wiring, plumbing, bricklaying and masonry, and carpentry.\n\nThe school's principal was an Englishman long resident in South Africa, and, like most school principals, complained of the acute shortage of basic equipment, materials, and textbooks, in spite of which the youths were making extraordinary progress. I saw some of the models made by the students and some of their drawings, and they compared very favorably with work I'd seen by design students in well-equipped classrooms in London and New York. One student's work was so outstanding that a visiting Swiss diplomat had given him a very expensive watch in encouragement.\n\nThe Principal said that, given the opportunity and further training, the black students could excel in the building and other industries which are clamoring for skilled labor. Unfortunately, they are victimized by South Africa's \"job reservation\" laws, by which all skilled and some semi-skilled jobs are reserved to Whites. A bricklayer, plasterer, or electrician must be white. The young black students, ambitious and enthusiastic while training, face a very frustrating future. They are likely to be employed as low-paid helpers to Whites less skilled than themselves and might even do the work without receiving the pay.\n\nThe Principal told me that present building needs have forced some builders to let Blacks do skilled work, even at the risk of prosecution. Reflecting a booming economy, contractors are enjoying their busiest times and there is an acute shortage of skilled white labor. There are many Blacks on their payrolls fully capable of skilled work without supervision. To meet their pressing deadlines, the contractors put the Blacks on skilled jobs and keep legal representation readily available to deal with such prosecution and fines as are incurred. Legal fees and fines are prorated into each building estimate. The Principal hoped that, eventually, the job reservation laws would crumble under pressure from public need for housing and the industry's need to expand.\n\nWe now drove through the so-called elite section of the town. Most of the homes here were attractive bungalows surrounded by neatly trimmed lawns, with flowering shrubs and fruit trees. These were the homes of Soweto's tiny \"black bourgeois\" community, the local doctor, dentist, grocer, gas-station operator, etc., all of whom had struggled and saved to rise above the depressing sameness. Each of them had begun by buying the government-built four-room square structure and added rooms to it as they could. They had had to install at their own expense running water, plumbing facilities, electricity, and whatever other household devices they could afford. All this on a flimsy lease which could be rescinded at the Government's whim.\n\nIronically, my guide spoke of the bungalows and their owners proudly, as if those people had been specially \"allowed\" to achieve that much, her voice crisp and objective as if she were speaking of cold, inanimate things, not insecure human beings who were forced to live in fear that one fine day the dreams they'd earned would be snatched away from them. I thought of myself, my own pride in ownership of a home thousands of miles away, my security in the knowledge that I had the right to defend it against all comers, supported by the full weight of the law.\n\nMy guide now promised a big surprise and we drove to the Bantu Council Building. It was much more than a surprise, the sight of that modern red-brick building, graceful in its simple lines against a dramatic background of neatly trimmed lawns and darkening sky. A macadam driveway circled in front of the building before coming to rest at the base of a wide wooden stairway which led upward to carved wooden doors. A uniformed doorman led us inside and then hurried away to find the Secretary of the Council. My guide proudly showed me the large Council Chamber, paneled in wood and thickly carpeted, and the smaller offices of the President and Secretary of the Council.\n\nWe found the Secretary in his office in conversation with someone, so we waited for him in the Council Chamber. My guide told me that members of the Council are mainly drawn from the small business community of Soweto. The Council is supposed to oversee Soweto's health and educational and social welfare, and make recommendations to the white Johannesburg Council which has the final decision as to which, if any of them, are expedited.\n\nWhen the Council Secretary finally joined us, he proceeded to give me a very careful review of the Council and its work. He seemed primarily concerned with impressing my guide whom he knew to be a Government official. Smiling broadly, he invited me to ask him questions.\n\n\"How much freedom can your Council exercise in the management of Soweto's affairs?\" I asked.\n\n\"Well,\" glancing nervously at my guide, \"we have a pretty free hand. We're on the spot, we know what the township needs, and our recommendations are generally honored.\" Nodding his head affirmatively all the while.\n\n\"Does the Council collect the rents on the houses?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Would you tell me about subletting and how it works here?\"\n\n\"Well, I couldn't go into that. That's the Council's business. I can't discuss that.\"\n\n\"I understand you maintain supervision of the schools.\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"I've just been looking at your high school. From the outside\u2014\"\n\n\"The schools are still out for the Christmas holidays,\" he interrupted.\n\n\"I know. But could you\u2014\"\n\n\"The Chairman of the Schools Committee would be the best person to talk to you about the schools.\" Again he interrupted me, anticipating my question, meanwhile looking at my guide as if to assure her that he would say or do nothing contrary to official policy.\n\nUnexpectedly we were joined by a little man, hardly over five feet tall, shiningly bald, and spry. On being introduced to me, he seemed surprised.\n\n\"I thought you were a plainclothes policeman,\" he said. \"I was planning to ask you to help me get a new pass.\" Grinning meanwhile.\n\n\"At your age, why would you need a pass?\" I asked him.\n\n\"Every black man needs a pass,\" he replied, the smile vanishing. \"I am a member of this Council. I live and work here in Soweto. Been here nearly all my life. I'm seventy and still I need a pass.\" His watery eyes staring balefully at my guide, he continued, \"Blacks are not human, so they need passes to move among the humans. What about you?\"\n\n\"I'm a visitor from overseas. This is my first visit to your country and this lady is guiding me around Soweto.\"\n\n\"Before people try to guide others, they should try guiding themselves,\" he replied, looking at me. \"How can you guide when you don't know Soweto yourself? Blacks live in Soweto. Only Blacks. They're forced to live in Soweto. They know what is Soweto. The white man comes here and says to us, Come. Go. Fetch. Carry. Live. Die. Show your permit. Show your pass. That's all the white man knows about Soweto. Busloads of white tourists drive through the township with somebody in the bus showing them how the Bantu live. Somebody white, from the Information Office. They say, 'Look at the Bantu, how happy they are in Soweto. Look at them smile. Look at the happy children playing football. Look at the happy old men drinking Bantu beer.' Guides!\"\n\nHe made the last word sound like an insult, speaking his mind, careless of any effect it might have on the now pale white woman. The Council Secretary nervously wet his lips from time to time as if preparing to intervene, but the old one seemed beyond caring, beyond fear. Perhaps, I thought, he has finally come to terms with himself, his life and his dignity, and has decided to make his stand.\n\n\"You want to see Soweto, come to us,\" he told me. \"Come as a brother.\"\n\nI apologized for the impromptu visit, saying that my stay in Johannesburg was short and I'd taken advantage of the opportunity provided me to see his township. But he would not be pacified.\n\n\"If you want to know about us, make time. Don't tell me you have too little time. You're one of us, black like us. You do not need any White to tell you about us or show you how we live. We'll make time to see you, talk with you. Let us know when you can come, but come. We need to meet our brothers from far away. You've come this far, don't tell me you have no time.\"\n\nI felt humbled and promised that I'd make the time to be with them. Somehow. He was good for me. I felt elated, and at the same time, reminded of my priorities.\n\nThat was the end of my guided tour. On the way back to Johannesburg, my guide and I talked, but desultorily. She seemed to have lost much of her enthusiasm. At my hotel, there were telephone calls for me from a local newspaper, the Johannesburg Times, seeking an interview, and from a black poet I'd met. I returned the Times call and agreed to be interviewed, then called the poet and, in passing, mentioned that I'd just made a guided tour of Soweto. He laughed at the idea of the white guide and suggested that it was a deliberate ploy on the part of the Office of Information to keep me away from the inhabitants of Soweto. He himself offered to take me there or anywhere else so that I could really meet the people. I told him that I'd been warned not to go into a township without a permit, but he brushed that aside, asking who the hell would know the difference. I'd be a black man in a black township. \"They say we all look alike, don't they?\" he laughed. I agreed to take the risk and go with him.\n\n* Cinemas.\n\n# Chapter  \nFour\n\nON THE APPOINTED DAY, we met in front of the hotel and drove to Alexandra, six miles outside of the city in the opposite direction from Soweto. We drove through lovely suburbs of wide, clean streets and charming villas surrounded by neat lawns and carefully nurtured hedges and the ubiquitous blue-tinted swimming pool. All along the route were the separate bus stops for Blacks and Whites.\n\nMy first impression of Alexandra was of a garbage dump. Everywhere the garbage was piled as if the inhabitants had long given up the struggle to remove it and just let it accumulate. Where Soweto had roads and drearily similar box-like houses, Alexandra had a jumble of narrow, garbage-clogged foot paths worn out of the naked earth by decades of footsteps, intersecting with shallow gullies which wound their way erratically here and there until they were lost in sudden overgrowths of weeds. What had once long ago been neat houses had deteriorated into dilapidated wrecks patched with tin, cardboard, or even strips of plastic, their squalor emphasized by the uglier little tin outhouses scattered around them. In the middle of all this, two buildings rose ten or twelve stories into the air, straight sided, red-bricked, and looking clinically functional, as if contemptuous of the squalor though firmly anchored in it.\n\nThese were the hostels, one for men and one for women, built to house cheap black labor necessary for the numerous manpower-hungry industrial projects which are mushrooming around Johannesburg. They were designed to accommodate the largest number of workers in the least possible space, and are a honeycomb of tiny, cell-like rooms. Cold running water and toilets are provided at one central location in each building.\n\nMost of the black workers in Johannesburg and its environs are young men born in ghettos like Soweto and Alexandra; others are migrant workers from the Bantustans of the Transvaal, Transkei\u00ad, Zululand, and other outlying territories, or immigrants from Rhodesia, Botswana, Lesotho, Swaziland, and even Mozambique. These migrant and immigrant workers are not permitted to travel with their wives, and see them for only a short time each year, at Christmas, when they are given leave to return home.\n\n\"Well, what do you think of all this?\" my companion asked.\n\n\"It stinks,\" I replied, meaning the garbage.\n\n\"What about those?\" pointing to the hostels.\n\n\"At least they're an improvement on the tin shacks around them.\"\n\n\"You think so? Talk to some of the fellows who live in them. Best that can be said of them, they have electricity and running water. They'd never house white men in places like that.\"\n\n\"Could I take a look?\"\n\n\"Doubt it. They don't encourage outsiders. We could peep in if you like. Many of the ground floor rooms have broken windows and nobody seems to be in any hurry to repair them.\"\n\nI declined, not wanting to intrude on the hostel residents, but my friend led the way through the weeds and stunted trees to the base of one of the hostels.\n\n\"This is the women's unit,\" he said. \"All these lower rooms are empty. Peeping Toms and things like that, you know. And besides, most of the women stay in the hostel only for a short while then try to find jobs as domestics with the chance of living in their employers' houses.\"\n\nI looked through one of the broken windows. The narrow room contained a small iron cot with a thin, plastic-covered mattress. A rickety wooden table completed the furniture.\n\n\"The men's hostel is always filled to capacity, with a waiting list of others wanting to get in,\" he said.\n\n\"Where do they live while they're waiting?\"\n\n\"You really want to see?\"\n\nHe led me back toward the shacks and we had to pick our way over piles of garbage and around a partly enclosed but uncovered hole which evidently served as the communal lavatory. There was a water spigot a few yards away. We entered one of the ramshackle houses and he knocked on an inner door, then pushed it open to let us into a pitiful room about eight foot square. Although we had come in from bright sunlight the room was in near total darkness; the only window was tightly sealed with burlap. A young man crouched by a single lighted candle, eating something with his fingers from a metal pot. My companion made the introduction, but, in the circumstances, no attempt was made to shake hands. I could not see the young man's face clearly in the prevailing gloom and I knew he could not see mine. He sat on the edge of a cot, one of three which ringed the room. He told us that six of them, five other men and himself, lived there, sleeping two to a cot. I tried to imagine what it was like.\n\nThe young man finished his meal, wiped his fingers with a piece of paper and stood up. I saw that he was neatly dressed in short, sharply creased slacks and shiny shoes. He said he was employed as a clerk with a local engineering firm, having graduated from the Orlando High School in Soweto. He suggested that we leave as he had arranged to meet some of his friends nearby. As we were leaving, I noticed that another of the cots was occupied, someone making the most of having the entire cot to himself. No electricity, no running water, no sewage facilities, no privacy, no sunlight, no air.\n\n\"Christ!\" the word slipped out.\n\n\"Getting to you, eh?\" my friend said. \"I sometimes read about how you black Americans riot because of your living conditions. We'd trade with you any day, and think ourselves lucky. How long do you think you'd remain human in a room like that? You can hardly close your eyes before there's someone wanting to stick it up your ass. Hell, no women available, so what can you expect. The women who live here stay indoors at night. Rape around here is less a crime than a daily hazard.\"\n\n\"Don't these fellows ever take any action?\"\n\n\"Action? What action? In this country you work or you starve. If you have a job you hang onto it because you know that there are several others just waiting for you to slip. Action? You mean like striking? Shit, they'd throw you in jail so fast! Don't forget you're talking about Blacks.\"\n\nGod, no wonder the white guide had kept far away from this place! These black men and women actually had to pay to stay in stinkholes like this. Somebody was making a fortune out of all this misery and it wasn't the Blacks. They could not own property, thus could not be landlords. So it had to be either the Government, through its Bantu Councils, or private industry, growing fat on Government contracts.\n\n\"We welcome evolution but we are opposed to revolution.\" The banker had repeatedly chanted the Government's slogan. So had the MP, Englebrecht. Didn't they realize that it was in places like this that revolutions were born and bred? Maybe they'd never seen sights like these, even though they festered right under their very eyes. In other places, others had been similarly blind and uncaring until someone had rubbed their insensitive noses in the shit.\n\nMy friend led me on through the darkening township. I felt that he was slyly pleased at the way I had been affected by the hostel visit, and how carefully I was stepping around the mounds of garbage in our path. People sat on the stoops of the shacks chatting with each other, seeming unmindful of the ugly chaos around them.\n\n\"How would you like to spend a week or two here?\" He was smiling. Laughing at me.\n\n\"Not for anything,\" I answered. I wanted to get away from there, away from the stench, the dilapidation, the all-pervading air of decay. It was getting me down. I couldn't understand how he could be so at ease, so comfortable. Then I remembered this was what he wrote about in his poems.\n\n\"A bit different from your guided tour of Soweto, isn't it?\" he grinned. \"The Information Office never brings tourists down here. No smooth roads for the cars, no fancy playgrounds for happy, smiling black children. No Government show pieces. All we have is what you see. Decay and death, and we're forced to live in it. Nowhere to move to, and even if we found somewhere better, how the hell would we get permission to move? You saw what the inside of that hostel unit looked like? Some rooms in these other places are worse. Much worse. And people live here and rear their children. Right here in these miserable holes. Christ Almighty, it's inhuman!\"\n\n\"I agree,\" I told him.\n\n\"You agree!\" He suddenly turned on me, the thin face tight with anger, a trickle of spittle escaping his mouth. \"You agree! That's mighty big of you, my friend. But in a few minutes you'll walk away from it, back to your fancy hotel. I suppose you'll take a nice hot bath and wash away every memory of this stinking slum. You agree! That's nice. That's very nice. We agree too, but we still have to live in this shit. And pay for the privilege. Do you realize that? We pay rent to live in these stinking, rotten holes. Come with me, man. There's something else you should see!\"\n\nWith that he started off down a narrow alleyway between some shacks, not even waiting or looking back to see if I was following him. I hurried after, not daring to risk losing him. He led me beyond the shacks, across an open piece of uneven ground where some kind of dwelling had been bulldozed away, and on to another group of run-down houses, rotting and ready to cave in on themselves. Outside one of these, a very old woman sat in the middle of some cardboard cartons and paper bags filled to bursting with rags. Here my friend stopped and pointed a thin arm.\n\n\"Look at her, my friend. She's too old to clean the white man's house or mind his children, so she's discarded, useless as the stinking stuff around her. She can't pay the miserable rent for that shack, so they've thrown her out of it. Look there.\"\n\nHe pointed to the heavy padlock on the rickety door. Unimpressed, uncaring, the aged one sat, staring at nothing in particular, her eyes red and rheumy, her lined face set in final resignation, showing neither pain nor anxiety nor interest in whatever the next unhappy step might be.\n\n\"What will happen to her?\" I asked.\n\n\"If she's lucky she'll die soon,\" he replied, bitterly. \"Maybe someone will take her in for the night. There are lots like her, the white man's garbage. I can show you some more, if you like.\"\n\n\"No, thank you.\" I was becoming thoroughly irritated with his sneering and his jibes. I'd not created these ugly situations. He'd invited me to come and see, and now he was treating me as if all this was my responsibility.\n\n\"Why don't you take her in?\" I asked him, striking back.\n\n\"Me? Take her where? All I have right now is bed space, and I was damned lucky to find that.\"\n\n\"So we'll both walk away from her, won't we?\"\n\n\"Yes, my friend, we'll both walk away. But I won't walk far. I can't walk far. I'll always be near enough to see it and hear it and smell it. Every minute of the day it is with me. So I write about it. Me and others like me. We write about the things that hurt us and degrade us, but unlike you, we have no outlets for the things we write. Shit, man, even there we need the white man, and how he exploits our need! But, let's get the hell out of here, if you've had enough.\" Again he was smiling.\n\n\"I've had enough.\" In silence we returned to Johannesburg.\n\nThe next afternoon I went to Dorkay House, a center for the arts in downtown Johannesburg, where I had been invited to hear some black musicians give a private performance for a visiting white American impresario. I was there early and wearily walked up six flights of stairs to a narrow room, with a raised platform at one end, in front of which were rows of metal chairs. The small audience, most of whom were already seated when I arrived, was mostly African with a sprinkling of Whites and Indians who all seemed to know one another. Before the performance began they called to each other in familiar terms, the way artists do everywhere asking about mutual friends, their whereabouts, and whether or not they were working.\n\nThe first group to perform, the Batsumi or Hunters, consisted of a flautist, a saxophonist, a pianist, a guitarist, a vocalist who doubled on a huge bongo drum, and two drummers, one who sat enthroned among a glittering assortment of drums and another who beat dexterously on twin, supported kettle drums with padded drumsticks. Two of this group, the kettle drummer and the guitarist, were blind.\n\nFrom the moment the performance began, it became evident that this was no ordinary group of men. They seemed to enter an immediate dialogue with each other, the pianist provoking the conversational pattern which the others took up, shaped and shaded as their impulses and instruments dictated. With any group, conversational patterns form and re-form. So it was here. They played, or rather they spoke and sang with and through their instruments, many instruments and sounds completely integrated, blending with each other. At times, the flute and saxophone were in private communion, whispering to each other yet providing a variable obbligato to the insistent piano and plaintive guitar. From time to time a musician would break into song, his wordless sounds giving the music an additional, strange dimension.\n\nThe flute seemed to be made in two sections, that which contained the mouthpiece being several inches shorter than the shank which held the spaced apertures. Caught in an occasional frenzy of expression, the flautist would pull one part from the other, and, using the palm of one hand as a mute, produce from the truncated instrument extraordinary sounds. At other times, he would blow through the lower part as if it were a trumpet, muttering into it at the same time, this creating a hoarse sound, simultaneously strange and familiar.\n\nFrom a young woman sitting near me, I learned that they were all from Soweto and were only spare-time musicians; they earned their living as messengers, garage helpers, gardeners, and watchmen. Occasionally they made a recording, but they never received enough from such a venture to make any real difference to their impoverished state.\n\nThe second group, the Alan Kinela Quartet, used the same drummers to provide background for a tenor saxophonist and an electric guitarist. Their music was less introspective, more in the familiar, traditional jazz idiom. After a few numbers, this group joined with the first and played Stumeleng (\"Be Happy\"), a lively, exuberant piece from their common tribal heritage.\n\nAt the end of the concert, I stayed to meet the musicians. I expressed my delight at the power and joy of their music, all the more impressive in the face of the white South Africans' determined attempts to humiliate and degrade the black man. The vocalist-bongo drummer spoke for the others.\n\n\"How is it where you come from?\" he asked me. \"Where is this place Guyana? In Africa? Where?\" His face dripped perspiration which he occasionally scooped away with a forefinger. A handsome young man of medium height, filled with energy which seemed ready to erupt out of him. I told him where Guyana is, pinpointing it on that other continent.\n\n\"Tell me about the people,\" he said. \"Are they all black, like you? Tell me about them.\" Looking me up and down as if to discover any difference between him and me, them and me.\n\nI told him briefly something of my people. He then asked how long I'd been in Johannesburg, how much I'd seen of the city and the black people and what was my general impression of their condition. Before I could reply, he held up a broad, thick-fingered hand and warned me:\n\n\"When you talk about my country, don't pity me. Look at us.\" Here he moved closer to me as if to emphasize that we were of approximately the same height.\n\n\"Talk to us as one of us. I will tell you how I live here and you will tell me about life in your country. I will tell you that I am deeply dissatisfied with the conditions of my life here and perhaps you will tell me that you are dissatisfied with conditions in your own country. We black men have been here for thousands of years. We have learned how to survive the heat and the floods and the drought, the hunger and the times of plenty. Now we must learn to live through slavery, right here in our homeland. We will live through this present experience. Our music is an expression of the spirit, just as survival springs from the spirit, just as hope, love, and strength are things of the spirit. Come, my brothers,\" he beckoned to the others to come nearer around us. \"Come and tell our friend here how we can live in shit and still make music.\"\n\nHis voice had acquired a sharp edge, cutting into me. His round face was grave, the eyes hard, glittering. I guessed his age at twenty-eight or thirty. The voice which had given such poignancy and power to his songs was now low and sonorous, the words tinged with bitterness.\n\n\"Tell our friend here that we are of Africa as the dust of the veld and the wind which blows it and as the rivers which are its blood. We are permanently of Africa, as the dust of our fathers is mixed with the dust of the veld. Now we are humiliated here and must bend in the dust. But we will be established again in our rightful place when we learn to pay more attention to things of the spirit. Do you hear me?\"\n\nI nodded. I was hearing him.\n\n\"I do not speak of your church. I speak of the spirit of man. When we learn, as our fathers did, to pay more attention to things of the spirit, we will know how to work together and suffer together and, once again, be established together in our fatherland.\"\n\nAbruptly he walked away, the others breaking up to follow him.\n\nTwo of his companions, Jim and Joe, remained with me and told me more of their daily lives. They seemed to take it as a matter of course that they would encounter great difficulty in everything.\n\n\"Wish we could invite you somewhere for a drink or a cup of coffee,\" Joe said, \"but there is nowhere in this damned city where a black man can buy something even as simple as that. Sorry.\"\n\n\"Don't worry,\" I told him. \"It's enough for me to be able to talk with you. How much do you practice?\"\n\n\"Oh, we manage about five or six hours a week. We all have jobs here in the city, but we are arrogant enough to believe that we can do better. Much better. Don't you agree?\"\n\n\"Readily. Listening to you play, now hearing you talk, I've no doubt whatever of your abilities.\"\n\n\"You flatter me, my friend. Say, why don't we get the hell out of this place?\" Nodding to Jim and me to follow him out. Downstairs he said, \"Wouldn't do much good to talk too much up there. Too many ears listening to everything.\"\n\n\"I'm staying at the Landdrost Hotel not far from here,\" I told them. \"Why don't we go there and have a drink or whatever?\"\n\n\"That the new big hotel that Bob Foster stayed at?\" Jim asked.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Okay! I'd like to see inside one of those places.\"\n\n\"A hotel is a hotel,\" I said.\n\n\"So speaks the rich American visitor. You're beginning to sound like Bob Foster. You know what that son-of-a-bitch said when he was here? He said that South African Blacks were well off. Said he wouldn't mind buying a house and living here. You know what's funny about that? If he wanted to, he could buy a house here. As an American he would be treated differently. Even if we had the money we are prevented by law from owning land. But they'd let that loud-mouthed bastard buy land if he wanted it. Hell, he's a big-shot boxing champion and he's American.\"\n\nAt the hotel, I noticed their nervousness as they followed me to the desk to collect my key, then up the elevator to my room. We ordered drinks and sat down.\n\n\"Christ, just look at me,\" Joe suddenly exclaimed. \"I'm as nervous as a kitten, just coming into this place. A grown man, but the Whites have got me so that I'm scared of my own shadow. Scared to be in their big, shiny hotel even as the guest of a black man like myself. Isn't that too funny, for Christ's sake? What am I? Jesus Christ! What am I?\"\n\n\"Take it easy, Joe,\" from Jim.\n\n\"Shit with take it easy. He's black like us, so he should understand. Look at me, damn it, look at me and tell me what I am. Our friend here can come into our country, move about as he pleases, live in a hotel like this. In short, he can live as a man. We heard he writes books. He can afford to come all the way here to look at our country and us.\" Then to me. \"Tell me, Mr. Braithwaite, author and VIP, in what way are you different from me?\"\n\n\"In no way that I can think of,\" I replied.\n\n\"Thank you, my friend, for nothing. Let me tell you a little about me. I have a university degree. From Fort Hare, the black university. That means it is not as good a degree as if I'd had it from a white university. Anyway, that degree suggests that at some time in my life I was ambitious, imaginative, and hopeful. At Fort Hare I used to talk with others like myself, mostly about our hopes and plans for the future. Look at me now. Each day from eight to five, I stack goods in the carrier of a bicycle and deliver them to contemptuous white housewives who never see me, never address me directly. They just point to where they want the stuff put. I've been doing that job for three years and I bet not one of them knows my name.\"\n\n\"Don't think about it,\" suggested Jim. \"We're all in the same boat.\"\n\n\"Think, hell! I don't think about it. To think is to see myself, to recognize the thing I have become in three short years. Sometimes I wish I could kill myself, but what then would become of my wife and two small children? I once read somewhere that prisoners held in solitary confinement spend hours watching ants. I tried that. Do you know what happened? The ant walked away. It had somewhere to go. I have nowhere to go. I no longer think. I am one of the living dead of Soweto.\"\n\nListening to him I was hearing myself again. I, too, had thought my situation hopeless.\n\n\"What about your music?\" I asked, anxious to disperse the painful reflections.\n\n\"What about it? Did you enjoy it?\"\n\n\"Immensely.\"\n\n\"Listen to the man, Joe,\" Jim said, sarcastically. \"He says he enjoyed our music immensely. What do you think of that? He is able to enjoy, which is a luxury we can't afford. We don't enjoy our music, man. We need it, like an addict needs his dagga\u2020. It's our survival kit. And there's the other thing. Somebody might like our music well enough to want to do something about it. Cut a record! Arrange a tour! You never know.\"\n\nSmiling his sad smile as if accustomed to watching his dreams fade and die.\n\n\"Shit, man, you never know,\" said Joe. \"Like today. The white men there at Dorkay House. That one in the blue blazer. The bald one. American, I think he is. The other one is local and he told his American friend about us, so he came to listen. Not for nothing. We're tired of performing for them for nothing. He, the American, paid for the session. Anyway, there's always the chance they might like what they hear\u2014\"\n\n\"Sure, sure,\" Jim interrupted. \"How many times have we gone through that exercise. You know, I've come to the conclusion that I'm mad. Totally mad. Why else would I be sitting here in this fucking hotel where I am not welcome, drinking this man's booze, which is against the law for Blacks, and being what I am not. I could not buy him a stinking cup of coffee, so he brings me here, in this white man's luxury pit, and orders whisky, served to us obsequiously by one like us. It's all madness. I am a human being but I'm restricted to performing menial functions for a miserable pittance. You say, what about my music? I would like to play it and enjoy it, but I play it to relieve myself, not to enjoy. Like the job I do. I don't enjoy it. I just do it and try not to think of it. If I let myself think of it, I'd hate myself and choose to die. I'm dislocated from life. I'm quite mad.\"\n\n\"Don't listen to him,\" Jim cautioned. \"He's as sane as you are, but he gets that way sometimes. A drink or two and he'll snap out of it.\"\n\nI nodded, but I understood what Joe was saying, because I'd already seen enough to convince me that, forced to live as they were in the ghettos of Soweto and Alexandra, I would surely go mad. Christ, how could anyone feel ambition and hope while restricted to such a stinking environment? Most of the Blacks I'd seen in the city were neatly dressed. How did they manage it? What very special kind of fortitude was required each day and every day in this place to survive an hour, let alone a day? Maybe Joe was right. Maybe madness was the answer.\n\nWe spent another hour talking. They were like any black men I'd known in London, New York, Paris, or Jamaica\u2014anywhere. Intelligent, sensitive, and smarting under racial pressure. We had more than enough in common to draw us close together.\n\nI wanted them to be comfortable with me in the only place where we could be together in Johannesburg, but that very comfort was a continuing irritant. They'd come willingly with me, but, once in the room, seemed angry with themselves for being there and angry with me for causing them to be there. They drank, but without conviviality. We'd come up to talk about their music and their lives, but their only comments were on the \"white man's luxury\" of the hotel and my freedom to enjoy it. I wanted to remind them that I was paying for that suite but decided to keep my mouth shut. Perhaps they were aware of the \"Honorary White\" thing and were making sly digs at me. What did I have to do to prove that I was with them, sharing their identity? But was I? And what identity? Would I wish to live where they were forced to live, share their lives, suffer the same daily prohibitions and restrictions?\n\nWould I live in Alexandra even for a day? What was my feeling of identity worth if I would not voluntarily share with them? At this level, fine. But what about the levels on which their lives were lived? Could I fetch and carry for the white man and call him Baas? The very thought of it sent cold shivers through me. Everything about my life had always pointed in the opposite direction. From childhood.\n\nInto my mind flashed the memory of the Indian cane-cutter named Mungal Sirgh. A white manager on the Berbice sugar estate in Guyana where Mungal Sirgh worked had become impatient with the \"lazy coolie bastard\" and kicked him. Mungal Sirgh had replied by swinging his machete at the offending leg, slicing through the thick leather and opening the limb neatly from knee to ankle. Taken into custody, his repeated comment was, \"He kick me. Kick is for dog. Mungal Sirgh not dog.\" Christ, why did that come to mind after more than forty years? The \"Honorary White\" thing was no better than a kick in the ass. The intention was the same. To humiliate the black visitor; to deny him the dignity of his blackness; to remind him that in that society he had no identity except that which they, the Whites, chose to let him have. As a Black I was invisible, not there, not to them. To be seen and heard, I needed an overlay on my invisibility.\n\nIf that's how the Whites felt, to hell with them. But what about these men who called me brother? Why was there this gap between us? Perhaps they were saying something to me. Maybe they knew of the Honorary White label and resented it, for my sake. Or maybe they resented me for allowing myself into the situation\u2014a black man labeled white and seeming to enjoy it. I was relieved when they left.\n\nThat evening, I asked the hotel doorman to call a taxi to take me to Parktown, a residential suburb of Johannesburg, where I'd accepted an invitation to dine. When the taxi arrived, the doorman opened the door for me and I gave the white driver the address. I could see him eyeing me speculatively in the driving mirror as we got under way. Eventually, he opened up.\n\n\"Are you from Botswana?\"\n\n\"No,\" I replied.\n\n\"Swaziland?\"\n\n\"No. I'm not African.\"\n\n\"Oh, you're a VIP from overseas.\" Sounding pleased with himself as if he'd happened on the answer to the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.\n\nWhen I paid him, the taxi driver gave me a card with the name and telephone number of his taxi company. At the end of the evening, I telephoned the taxi company and requested a cab to pick me up. I said goodbye to my hosts and waited outside for the cab which soon arrived.\n\nI was about to enter it when the driver called to me.\n\n\"Hey you, wait a minute. This is not for you.\"\n\n\"Why not?\" I asked.\n\n\"This is not for Non-Whites. I'm not allowed to take Non-Whites in this taxi.\" Meanwhile reaching backward in an attempt to shut the door which I held open.\n\nSo, it had happened. After all the fancy official footwork it had happened. Here I was, miles away from the city and without other means of reaching it. I felt suddenly angry at the thought that the taxi would drive away, leaving me there, helpless in an unfamiliar place. On impulse, I climbed in.\n\n\"I can't take you,\" the driver insisted.\n\n\"Then we'll damned well both stay here.\" My anger spilling out. \"I telephoned you from this address and you were sent here to collect a passenger and take him to the Landdrost Hotel, weren't you? Well, I'm that passenger and I'll be damned if I'll get out of this taxi.\" Without another word he turned the vehicle around and headed toward the city.\n\n\"If a policeman stops us, I could lose my license,\" he complained.\n\n\"If a policeman stops us, tell him to talk to me!\" I responded.\n\n\"The bloody dispatcher didn't tell me you were non-white,\" he went on. \"If he'd told me, I'd have known.\"\n\n\"How would he know from the sound of my voice?\" I asked.\n\n\"Well, non-white VIPs stay at the President or the Landdrost. It's not that I don't want to take Non-Whites in this taxi. It's not me. It's the law. If a policeman stops me with a Non-White in my taxi I could lose my license, and my job. But I suppose it's okay, if you're a VIP.\"\n\nJust listen to him! This same bastard would have left me stranded back there just because of my black skin.\n\n\"Do they ever tell you if a fare is black or white?\" I asked.\n\n\"Well, no, because we don't normally pick up Non-Whites.\"\n\n\"One of your taxis took me to Parktown from the hotel. In broad daylight, so he knew I was black. He didn't tell me he couldn't carry Blacks. So, if he could carry me there, why all this fuss about taking me back to my hotel? Does the policy of your company change with the drivers or from daylight to night?\"\n\n\"It's the same policy, but\u2014\"\n\n\"But you don't want to carry Blacks.\" I interrupted whatever excuse he was about to give.\n\n\"Look, I don't have anything against you\u2014\"\n\n\"Like hell you don't.\" In spite of myself the violence was spilling over. \"They sent you to pick me up, but one look at this black face and you were ready to fly off and leave me back there in the dark.\"\n\n\"I was only doing my job,\" I heard him say.\n\n\"Hell, no. This is your bloody job. Carrying passengers who call you is your job.\"\n\nI leaned back, swallowing the rest I wanted to say. What the hell was the use? A bastard like this would do the same thing again five minutes from now. He made some comment, but I didn't hear it. I lost interest in him and anything else he had to say. Just get me to that bloody hotel, I thought. Just get me there.\n\nA few weeks later I learned from the doorman at the Landdrost that some men from the Security Police had been making inquiries about me. They'd questioned the doorman and referred to a comment I'd made to the press about a white taxi driver who'd refused to take me in his cab and had only complied when I'd climbed in over his objections. Apparently they wanted to question the driver and needed some identification from me. They said they would be returning to see me. To hell with them. As far as I was concerned the matter was closed.\n\nThe following week, I went to visit a young Indian, living a few blocks from my hotel in a small area temporarily designated \"Indian,\" who recently had been released from the political prison on Robben Island, the same prison in which Chief Nelson Mandela has been held for years. About seven miles offshore from Cape Town, it houses several hundred political dissidents, all black and serving sentences which range from one to twenty or more years. I was eager to hear about conditions there at first hand.\n\nThe young Indian had been active as a publisher and distributor of newsletters attacking the Government's racist policies. He was caught, tried under the Suppression of Communism Act, and jailed for ten years without right of appeal. Now, even though he had been released, this young man was under a restriction order prohibiting him from having visitors. On entering his house it was agreed that, in the event of a visit from the police or security agents, I was to say that I was visiting his brother who lives in the same house.\n\nHe was full-bearded, thin, and hollow-cheeked as if recently recovered from a long illness, but his handshake was firm and he greeted me enthusiastically, mainly because I was from the same country as Dr. Cheddi Jagan whom he admired tremendously for his resolute position against the British during Guyana's struggle for independence. He had heard that I was in Johannesburg and wished to talk with me, to \"set me straight,\" as he put it. He made reference to the recent visits of Arthur Ashe and Bob Foster, both of whom, he claimed, played into the hands of the racist South African Government which sought to use such visits to divert international pressure from their policies of segregated sport. He seemed to believe that any Black from outside who visited South Africa was, by implication, accepting the prevailing policies as valid. He wanted to know how I had managed to acquire a visa in the first place and how was it that the author of a book like Reluctant Neighbors could persuade the South African Government to let him in. He fired off these and other questions without waiting for answers. He insisted that the Government was deliberately inviting well-known overseas Blacks, particularly Americans, to South Africa and showing them certain isolated aspects of the lives of Blacks in the Republic, so as to brainwash them into supporting the Government's racist philosophy. Bob Foster, he said, was a case in point.\n\n\"That black American went so far as to state that he liked this country so much he was seriously considering building a house here,\" he sneered. \"The idiot doesn't realize that if he lived here, he, too, would soon be compelled and condemned to live in a black township like Soweto or Alexandra, instead of a fancy suite at the Landdrost Hotel where you, too, are staying.\" Looking at me as if I shared Foster's guilt.\n\n\"I had the choice of three hotels here which are allowed to take Blacks,\" I told him.\n\n\"Yes, I know,\" he interrupted.\n\n\"Let me explain. I was told this at the airport the moment I arrived. I was told that there were no other hotels I could go to, none owned by Blacks or Indians or Coloreds or anyone else other than Whites. I make no apology for staying there.\"\n\n\"Okay. Okay. I accept that you had no choice, but people like you and Foster and Ashe are setting back the black struggle ten years. By coming here. By letting South Africa use the fact of your coming to counter our accusations of discrimination.\"\n\nIt finally got through to me that he had invited me to see him, not really to tell me about Robben Island, though he answered my questions, but to protest my visit to his country. He'd mentioned that he'd tried to reach both Foster and Ashe without any success.\n\n\"How do you imagine anyone outside your country would know anything about conditions here if no one made any attempt to learn at first hand?\" I asked.\n\n\"You could learn without coming here. Especially you. You were at the United Nations. Didn't you meet any of our brothers who went there to petition? Some of our brothers from here and South West Africa made it over to the States. Didn't any of them see you?\"\n\n\"Yes. I met some of them.\"\n\n\"Didn't you believe what they told you?\"\n\n\"I was persuaded by what they told me.\"\n\n\"Don't give me all that diplomatic shit, man. Either you believed them or you didn't.\"\n\n\"I was generally persuaded by them, but I welcomed the opportunity to see the situation for myself. This is it.\"\n\n\"Do you dash off to every country to check everything for yourself?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Then why this? Did you have any difficulty getting a visa from this government?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Shit, man, doesn't that tell you anything? Your books were banned in this country. Even today Blacks can't see your film in the public bijou, and that, too, was banned to Whites for some time. In spite of all that these Afrikaners gave you a visa to come here. Think, man! Can't you see they're planning to use you?\"\n\n\"Look, they can plan what the hell they like, that has nothing to do with me. I was issued a visa. Fine. But nobody can control how I think about what I see and hear and feel.\" And, on impulse added, \"Not even you.\"\n\nHe laughed, reaching forward to touch me.\n\n\"You think so? You really think so? By the time these sons-of-bitches are through with you, you'll be singing their tune without realizing it. You'll go back to the States and tell people all about how freely you were allowed to move about. No supervision, therefore, no police state. Which makes a liar out of all of us. Right? They'll wine you and dine you and prove that educated Blacks can make it anywhere. Only the lazy Bantu has to be kicked in the ass and locked in a ghetto to make him stir himself. They'll forget to tell you that he is disenfranchised, denied a reasonable education and the right to bargain for his labor and compete for the job he wants to do. Yes, friend, they'll tell you you're different and, you know something, you'll end up believing it.\"\n\n\"Think what you like,\" I said.\n\n\"Eh?\"\n\n\"Think what the hell you like,\" I repeated and stood up to leave. \"Look, you invited me and I came to talk with you. I thought you'd tell me about what the life is like for you and others. I came because I wanted to learn the truth, to hear it for myself so I can write about it. I expected that you, black like me, would lay it on me, without all this bullshit. You think I was born yesterday? I've lived most of my adult life among Whites. London, Paris, New York, Rome. I've no illusions about them, but I don't see them as bloody supermen either. They can't control how I think and what I'll write.\" He had needled me to this point. He and the others. Who the hell did they think they were? Pouring their suspicions over me. Here they were locked tight in the rotten ghetto and wanting the outside world to know of their plight. Okay. I'd come in. Of my own free will. So tell me and I'll write it. That's what I was saying to them, but all I was getting was their suspicion and scorn.\n\n\"Hey, cool it, man.\" He reached forward and pushed me back into the chair. \"Don't get excited. We're talking. Relax.\"\n\n\"You relax. You call that talking, making me seem like some half-assed idiot just because I've visited your country? White newsmen and writers fly here regularly, write their pieces and fly out again. Do you warn them that they're being used?\"\n\n\"Fuck them.\"\n\n\"And fuck you, too, mate. What gives you the right to be so high and mighty? Your years on Robben Island? Okay, I sympathize.\"\n\n\"Stuff your sympathy. Hell, man, you're beginning to sound like Whitey. Cool down. I'm only trying to help you. And don't hand me that shit about Paris and London. Over there they might hate your guts, but the law limits what they can do to you. Here Whitey is the law. Blacks can't command the law because it was not intended for them. They can't demand justice, because it was not intended for them. Justice and the law are concepts which apply to men. To humans. In this society Blacks are not considered human so they are not sheltered by those concepts. Did you know that, in this society we have no vote? We're not even on the official census. Shit man, we're not here. Don't talk to me about Whites in Europe or America. These here are different. They're fascists of the worst kind.\n\n\"Look,\" he was leaning forward, tapping on my knee with a long finger. \"All I'm begging you to do is think. I'm black. You're black. I published a few newsletters which nobody outside this town ever heard of and they threw me into jail. You've written books which have been read by millions. Attacking the very policies they live by. Okay, they try to keep those books out, but they're brought in anyway and read, so to save their own fucking face, they lift the ban. That makes this a liberal society. Right? And to cap it all, they let you in. Man, they used you before you stepped into that airplane.\"\n\nThe logic of it hit me hard, killing my anger and stirring up the fears I'd earlier had about making the visit. The visa was five months in coming. Perhaps all that time was necessary while the design was worked out. Christ, I was beginning to think like him.\n\n\"Okay, you made your point. Now I must be running along. I've a few things to do.\" I wanted to be out of this.\n\n\"Like a dinner engagement, maybe? With some of your white friends?\" Grinning.\n\n\"Perhaps.\" He had the knack of finding the nerve.\n\n\"Don't worry. They've enough black slaves to keep it hot for you. Okay, man. Like you say, you can see and hear and think for yourself, but I tell you they'll use you. They do it all the time. Among us. Even out there on the Island. Can you imagine that? Even out there where you'd think we were all brothers, all there for the same reason, all united against the fascist bastards. Even there they managed to use some of us against others. And for what? Some fucking little privilege we'd already learned to live without. After all we'd been through, to sell one's soul for shit like that! So you see man, telling me that you can see and hear and think for yourself doesn't mean a damn thing. Anyway, while you're thinking for yourself, think about us and remember that in the eyes of these fascists you're no better than the rest of us.\"\n\n\"I'll remember,\" I said. I'd come to this house with a gutful of goodwill toward this man. Now all I could feel was a nagging suspicion that somehow I'd been trapped into betraying him and others like him. Just by being in their country.\n\n\"In prison the payoff was some worthless little privilege,\" he was still with it. \"What are they giving you? The 'Honorary White' bit, so you can believe yourself different from the rest of us? Fancy hotel, your face in the white newspaper, moving around freely? Same thing, man. Privileges bought\u2014\"\n\n\"Nobody's bought me,\" I said, lamely.\n\n\"\u2014And paid for, man. And when you think you're moving about more freely than the rest of us, just look over your shoulder. If you're quick enough you might learn something.\"\n\nEverything he said struck home. Sure, I had been telling myself that nobody was restricting or supervising my movements. I'd been in and out of Soweto and Alexandra, hadn't I? My only problem had been my inability to make contact with the so-called black representatives. Buthelezi. Matanzima. The Information Office had promised me meetings with them but had only come up with excuses. Always at the last moment. But I must not let the things this man was saying color everything that happened. If I couldn't reach the big Blacks, there would be others.\n\n\"Are you concerned for me or just sorry for yourself?\" I asked, trying to throw him on the defensive, and free myself from the suffocation of his penetrating insight.\n\n\"I'm not sorry for me, man. I'll live. I lost ten years of my life out there on the island. Doing shit, man. Breaking rocks for the sake of breaking rocks. You're sitting on a pile of rocks today with a hammer in your hand and sometime next week or the week after it's a pile of pebbles and you can't remember how it happened. You've used two weeks of your life watching rocks turn to dust. And the next week you're sitting on another pile of rocks. Or is it the same one? You know what they did with the pebbles, man? They just left them there to remind us that we were just shit. You know what our ambition was? To stay alive. Staying alive, that's all. Living for news from outside. Do you know what was the most important thing to us in there? Not money, man. Not pussy. A newspaper. Any old newspaper. We read every word. Everything. And we talked. Can you understand? Those fucking Afrikaner guards watched us to prevent us from talking. Threatened us. Punished us. But we talked. Even with our mouths shut like, what you call them, ventriloquists, man. Whoever found a piece of newspaper read it, then passed it on and told everyone what he'd read. After a while we were reading more closely, more perceptively than when we were free. We shared our points of view. We talked. Especially about the political situation.\" Here he laughed again, scratching his head, remembering.\n\n\"Once a priest came into the prison carrying a briefcase with a newspaper, the Times, stuck under the flap. Like lightning, it disappeared. He never made a fuss about it. That Sunday we had a whole newspaper to read. After that, whenever that priest came to see us, he brought a newspaper and it always disappeared from his briefcase. Survival, man, that's the word. Nelson Mandela is up there. Living it out from hour to hour. That's where you learn about hope, man. Without it you're dead.\"\n\nHe came and placed a hand on my arm, a conciliatory gesture.\n\n\"Will you come and see me again, friend? I promise to be nice.\"\n\n\"Don't strain yourself on my account.\"\n\n\"That's not a strain. Living like this is a strain. Shit, I can't even see you to the door. Never know who might be checking on me from outside. If I'm seen talking to you, they could come and take me away. Fucking lovely way to live, isn't it? I'm jealous, man. You, a stranger, can move about as you wish. Right? Me, a native son, I'm denied the right to step outside. Goodnight, man.\"\n\nI left him, his words continuing their disturbing refrain in my ear. I'd gone to his house to talk with him about his time in prison. He'd talked about my visit to his country, sowing in my mind a very sizable seed of doubt about my own motives, and my possible malleability by the South African authorities. Walking away from the Indian's irritating sneers, I wondered if he was right.\n\nHe'd questioned my coming to South Africa but he'd either forgotten or ignored the fact that my coming made it possible for me to see him and hear his cynical censure. In his position, I'd be just as embittered, seeing strangers move about with ease while I was restricted to my own house. But what the hell did he want of me?\n\n\u2020 Marijuana.\n\n# Chapter   \nFive\n\nON MY WAY BACK to the hotel, I passed a restaurant, brightly lit and attractive, and suddenly realizing I was hungry, I decided to go in. I pushed the door but got no further than a step inside, where I was confronted by a waiter, dead-faced and stony-eyed, who placed himself in front of me. He said something to me which I supposed was in Afrikaans.\n\n\"What did you say?\" I asked.\n\n\"You do not come in.\" This was stupid. I was already in and thinking out my next move. Now I fully realized why the hotel people had repeatedly suggested that I let them know whenever I wanted to dine out and they would make the arrangements for me, claiming that they knew where all the best eating places were located. This waiter looked as if he would have welcomed a fracas, eyes pale, pugnacious jaw thrust forward. I was turning to leave when another man approached and asked him something in Afrikaans. The waiter replied, and the newcomer then addressed me.\n\n\"I don't speak your language,\" I said.\n\n\"You're not African?\"\n\n\"No, I'm a visitor.\" At which he spoke again to the pale-eyed waiter, this time impatiently, but I walked out, wishing them both to whatever hell was reserved for Afrikaners.\n\nIn my room, the things the Indian had said teased and tormented me, throwing into sharp relief what had happened at the restaurant. The waiter's contempt for Blacks was ready and waiting for expression. A waiter! His awkward English indicated that he may well have been a foreigner, an immigrant. How quickly people took on the local social coloration. Like chameleons. Come to think of it I hadn't seen a restaurant in Soweto or Alexandra. Maybe I passed them and didn't notice. What were they like? Could I eat a meal in one of them? Christ!\n\nMy reflections were interrupted by a telephone call from a young black newsman I'd met a few days earlier.\n\n\"How are you doing?\"\n\n\"Fine,\" I lied.\n\n\"How would you like to come out here and see how some of us live?\"\n\n\"Where's 'out here'?\"\n\n\"Soweto.\"\n\n\"I've been there.\"\n\n\"Soweto's a big place. I don't think you'd have come to this part. I heard you'd visited with the big boys here. Come and see how the little people live.\"\n\nSafely indoors, I wasn't keen to go out again. Besides, I'd had enough of social exposure for one night. A quick tray from room service seemed a more attractive alternative.\n\n\"How could I get there now,\" I temporized. \"It's nearly eight o'clock.\"\n\n\"By taxi. Black taxi. No white taxi will bring you out here. Get a black taxi from the taxi stand near the black bus stop. I'll meet you at this end. It will do you good to travel the way the rest of us do.\" I was still far from enthusiastic.\n\n\"How will I get back here?\" I asked, thinking of the special permit required of Blacks in the city at night.\n\n\"I'll see to it, don't worry about that.\"\n\n\"Okay,\" I surrendered and went out to the black bus stop across the park. I was directed to a taxi, empty while the driver stood around joking with friends. Loud laughter punctuated each sally. He waved me to sit inside. Soon I was joined by another passenger who sat beside me without saying a word. Then another and another, followed by two more, these sitting in the front. Not a word from anyone. Another person pushed in the back and we were all forced to sit diagonally pressed together. Another passenger slipped into the front. A woman. At first I thought she'd be driving because she sat at the wheel, but now the driver got in, pushing against the woman until he could take hold of the wheel even though his body was only halfway under it. Somehow he started the vehicle and we were off.\n\nIt was the most uncomfortable taxi ride I'd ever taken. Eight adults cramped uncomfortably into space designed for five, the driver miraculously shifting gears and steering from his sideways position. We passed several taxis similarly overloaded, always with Blacks.\n\nIn Soweto, my acquaintance was waiting as promised, standing beside his car. He said he could have fetched me, but thought the experience of riding as he did twice each day would help me to understand better what was normal for a Black. He kept his car for after-work use.\n\nWe drove to his home, one of the square concrete boxlike structures in the northeast part of Soweto. Instead of the corrugated metal roof I'd seen on some of the other houses, this one and its neighbors wore bulky concrete tops, making them seem humpbacked in the nighttime gloom, very much, in fact, like huge sleeping elephants. Inside it was hot, even with the few windows open. Several candles were strategically placed about the room for light. Indoors he turned to me and said, \"Welcome to the real Soweto.\"\n\nThe house was sparsely furnished. The main room in which I stood contained a wooden table with three wooden chairs around it, a rough chest of drawers reaching nearly to the low ceiling, and a narrow wooden cot. In a corner another table, roughly made but sturdy, supported some cooking utensils and a Primus stove. No electricity. No signs of running water.\n\n\"Six of us live here, in four little rooms,\" he said, his eyes brightly on me as if to note my slightest reaction. He led me into another room which was furnished in nearly the same way, except that there was no cooking equipment. A central wooden table, two low cots opposite each other and two wooden cupboards. Near one of the cots was a small upended box, centrally divided, which contained several books. Crowning the box was a half-worn candle stuck in a Coke bottle.\n\n\"My brother is a medical student, one of the very few. That's where he studies. He leaves here at five o'clock each morning to make his way into town and compete with white boys who read by electric light, sleep in comfortable beds and eat a good breakfast.\" Saying it all so matter-of-factly. I looked at him and surprised the pain on his face.\n\n\"Different from your hotel, don't you think?\" he asked.\n\n\"Yes, different.\"\n\n\"Different from those houses they showed you on your officially conducted tour, I'm sure. Then, you saw houses like this, but with electric lighting and a kitchen sink and a water toilet out back. I'm sure they didn't show you these. How would you like to live here for a month? No, a week, or even a day?\"\n\nI was feeling battered, first by the Indian, then that bastard at the restaurant, now this. How much crap was I supposed to take? I wanted to see, at first hand, the conditions under which my fellow Blacks lived, but why should they think they had a right to cram it down my throat?\n\n\"I wouldn't wish to live here,\" I replied. Leaving it at that.\n\n\"How about a drink?\" he asked, not waiting for my response, but reaching into a cupboard for two china mugs and a tin of powdered coffee. He poured water from a container into a tin kettle, then set to pumping away at the Primus stove, pricking at the jet from time to time and cursing under his breath as it defied his efforts.\n\n\"Not to worry,\" I said, actually relieved that the little stove was defiant. After all he'd said I wasn't too anxious to risk the water, even though it would of course be boiled. Wondering if he had to go through this same exercise early every morning to have hot water for shaving. What happened in the winter? Apart from the bare necessities there was nothing. No curtains, no posters, no pictures.\n\nThe failure of the coffee project seemed to cause us both some embarrassment, but he saved the situation by inviting me to take a walk around the neighborhood. Outside the night was star-\u00adstudded and pleasantly warm, the night shadows smudging the outlines of bush, tree, and house, giving the whole place a romantic softness. No street lamp in this part of town, only the candleshine from open doorways and the starlight from above.\n\n\"It's okay if we walk around here together at night,\" he told me, \"but any one of us alone would be asking for trouble. You call it mugging in the United States. Bands of young boys roam the streets at night, preying on men who've been drinking in the local beer gardens or in the shebeens. Beat them up and rob them. Sometimes kill them. Know how they do it? They push a piece of sharpened wire, something like a short knitting needle, into the neck at the base of the skull. Paralyzes those who survive. Many of the paraplegics in the local hospital are victims of the Tsotsis.\"\n\n\"Why do you call them that? What does it mean?\"\n\n\"Not too sure. Something to do with the Zoot Suit gangs of the United States, I've heard. Anyway, so the story goes. Most of them are boys without parents or even relatives. School dropouts. Or maybe they couldn't get into school. Couldn't afford the fees, or clothes, or books. So they don't go. After all, schooling is compulsory only for Whites. Optional for Blacks.\"\n\nWe walked around, listening to the night sounds, people talking to each other, snatches of conversation floating out from the houses, all in an African dialect. Music. Edmundo Ros swinging his inimitable way through a rumba rebroadcast from London. The sudden scream of a night bird in the near distance. We could have been light years away from the neat, trim suburbs designated \"White.\" In order to reach this place from my hotel the route had been through suburb after suburb of affluence and comfort. My companion and hundreds of thousands like him made the same trip to and fro each day, seeing the affluence, envying the comfort. Inevitably hating.\n\n\"I think I should be heading back to town.\" I said.\n\n\"Had enough?\"\n\nI told him it wasn't that. I was anxious about being stopped by the police. If that happened and they found out that I was a visitor they'd also discover that I had no permit to be in Soweto.\n\n\"Nobody's going to stop us. Not unless there's a police raid to find people illegally living here.\"\n\n\"Do you know when a raid is likely to happen?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Then I'd better get back.\"\n\nHoping he'd see the point and agree. Realizing, belatedly, that I was completely dependent on him now for leaving that place. There were no telephone booths to be seen, no taxi stands, no bus stops. If there were any such places, only he knew where they were.\n\nNow and then a car passed us, always hurrying. No pedestrians. Perhaps the Tsotsis keep nighttime walking to a minimum. Abruptly he turned and we retraced our steps to his house where we got into his car and headed out of Soweto.\n\n\"The trick is not to have a breakdown at night,\" he said. \"No help for the black motorist, not even from the police. If you have a breakdown and a policeman approaches you, the first thing he asks is not what's wrong with the car, no, he wants to see your pass.\"\n\nWe made it without incident to my hotel where he left me and hurried off home. I wished him a safe journey, asking myself if the trips, his and mine, were worth the risk and anxiety. I could so easily have jeopardized the rest of my stay. I promised myself I'd not do it again.\n\nI sat and thought over the events of the day which had been painful and very irritating. Here I was a black stranger in this country and it was becoming more and more difficult to meet and consort with Blacks without being subject to suspicious inquiry. Inside me, I felt deep identification with them in their unhappy state. Everything I'd seen and heard since entering the country merely strengthened that feeling, because I knew that the only thing which saved me from the same fate was the fact that I was a national of another sovereign state. I wouldn't want to live as they lived, but neither did they. I was prepared to be with them whenever they wished, to learn from them, about them. I didn't wait for them to seek me out. I sought them. But evidently that was not enough. Okay, so they thought I'd be used by their Government. I believed them to be wrong. So why couldn't they give me the benefit of the doubt? I was already in the country. If I looked and listened and heard and then went off and wrote laudatory pieces in spite of all the evidence to the contrary, then they could call me traitor.\n\nWhite journalists I'd met in London and New York had given me the impression that they'd been able to talk with Blacks in South Africa without much difficulty. If that were true why were these Blacks making things so difficult for me? So different from my visits to other parts of Africa, where I'd been made to feel welcome. Immediately. My black skin was my ticket to enter. Here, it was the reverse; my very blackness was the barrier. Well, perhaps I should be patient. After all, the conditions I'd already seen were worse than I'd dreamed possible and those very conditions might be the reasons for my black friends' suspicions and reservations.\n\nThe hotel's public relations officer telephoned and said she hoped that all was well with me.\n\n\"If there's any way in which I can be of help to you, please don't hesitate to ask,\" she said.\n\n\"Right now, all I ask of life is a hot bath, a cold drink and a funny movie,\" I replied, lightheartedly.\n\n\"The bath and drink are no problem,\" she told me, \"but the movie is another matter. If you're really keen to go to the bijou, though, and decide what you want to see, I could telephone the management and I'm sure it could be arranged.\"\n\n\"Why telephone? I don't understand.\"\n\n\"I think I'd better come up to your suite and explain,\" she said. A few minutes later, she arrived, blonde and well-groomed, with that quiet confidence which seems to be the stock-in-trade of the public relations fraternity.\n\nSeated, she said, \"I think I must explain the bijou situation here in South Africa. Most cinemas are operated for Whites only. We call them bijous here. There are a few for Coloreds and Blacks in their own areas. Indians have their own. In any case, those in Johannesburg are for Whites only. As an important visitor to our country you are allowed, shall we say, special status. I feel sure that if you decide on the film you want to see, I can telephone the management and there will be no difficulty.\"\n\n\"You mean I couldn't just go to the box office and buy a ticket?\"\n\n\"Not unless they're expecting you. It's the law, I'm afraid.\" It suddenly struck me that in this country I could not, for an hour or two, lose myself in the temporary anonymity of a darkened cinema the way I'd done in every other country in which I'd lived or visited. It had been a favorite way of slipping away from pressing reality, a painless, absorbing way of insuring the quick passage of time. A thought occurred to me.\n\n\"What happened when the film To Sir, with Love was shown here?\"\n\n\"Same thing.\"\n\n\"No Blacks allowed to see the black actor?\"\n\n\"Not here in Johannesburg. Blacks and Whites are prohibited by law from congregating in the same place. Anyway, they wouldn't have missed much, because the film was so badly censored it was difficult to follow the sequence of events. Anything between the black teacher and the white one, Gillian, was cut out. I know, because I saw it first at the bijou and then I saw the whole movie at a private showing in a friend's house. It's possible to rent an uncut film from one of the rental agencies. Anybody can rent them, Black or White, as long as they have the money.\"\n\n\"So if I wanted to see a movie, I'd have to pay for my ticket then beg permission to get in, right?\"\n\n\"Well, I wouldn't put it quite like that. We at this hotel would do whatever we could to avoid any embarrassment to you.\"\n\nI thanked her and, soon after, she left. I had no quarrel with her. I thought of walking off my irritation in the streets, but then remembered my near encounter with the policeman. The only alternative was a bath, a cold beer, and settling down with pencil and paper to review the days already passed in this beautiful city, this very uncomfortable society.\n\nSome days later, early in the morning, a group of black welfare officers came to the hotel asking to see me. I invited them up to my room, wondering how the word of my presence had got around.\n\nThere were five of them, two women and three men, all of them employed to service one or other area of welfare for Blacks. They complained of the inadequacies of the service and reminded me that I had been involved in nearly similar situations as recorded in my book Paid Servant, which they had read. They could not begin to cope with even a tiny part of the problems people brought to them, and they wondered if I could offer them any advice. Listening, I learned that ten of them were expected to service Soweto and Alexandra, a total population of well over a million people. Their office was in white Johannesburg, and both the limited programs undertaken and the minimal funds available were subject to white control. The biggest problem was the many dislocated, neglected children who roamed the streets of the townships living on what they could beg or steal, homeless, without parents or relatives. According to the supervising authorities these children were not legally of the townships and therefore did not qualify for any official assistance. They could not go to school even if they wanted to because a new law required all legitimate parent-residents to have a pink school card for their child. Without it no child was accepted as a pupil.\n\nWhite children, if neglected or abandoned, are cared for at Government expense. They would in no circumstances be allowed to wander about like homeless dogs eating garbage. I told them that I had seen an elderly white woman throwing chunks of bread to the pigeons and how, as soon as she'd wandered away, the children drove the pigeons off and collected the bread, eating it hungrily. Oddly I saw none of them begging.\n\nThe white welfare officers were the bosses and called the tune. Colored officers dealt with colored clients, Asian officers with Asian clients, black officers with Blacks. Levels of payment differed for each officer group. It became apparent that they were their own most needy clients, their own welfare their most pressing priority.\n\nWe talked for most of the morning, taking a short break for coffee which I ordered. There was something a little bizarre about us. In the park outside were living reminders of the urgency of their work, yet they sounded so much like welfare workers I've known in England, France, and the United States. The same pompous preoccupation with the jargon of their profession, the same insistence on separating themselves in every way from their \"clients.\" They emphasized that they were trained and qualified as sociologists, forgetting their earlier complaint that Blacks are denied access to anything more than the median levels of qualification.\n\nFrom time to time, the door to my suite would be opened and one of the floor supervisors, white, would peer at us from the vestibule and quickly retreat with a \"Sorry, just checking to see that everything's okay.\" I assumed that it was just the normal hotel practice. It has happened to me in many parts of the world. My visitors, however, felt quite differently. They believed that we were being watched and that the interruptions would continue as long as they remained with me.\n\n\"They think we're plotting something up here,\" one of the women said.\n\n\"Blacks talking together are always supposed to be plotting. To kill them or steal from them. That's why that one comes in without knocking.\"\n\n\"What's surprising about that?\" from another. \"We're watched, and I'm sure our American friend is being watched. Wouldn't surprise me if these rooms are bugged.\" Suddenly getting up to peer among the artificial plants, behind the sofas, under the tables. Everywhere.\n\n\"Why worry?\" I asked, smiling. \"We've not been plotting, so who cares if someone's listening to us? Surely it should come as no surprise to anyone to hear that black children are homeless and starving.\"\n\n\"Survival, friend, survival. Mustn't make anything too easy for them. You probably think we've been reading too many spy novels. In this place you say something out of line and they have you hanging, like a fish. You're lucky you can afford to be amused at us.\"\n\n\"I'm not amused at you.\" Christ, would I never escape having to defend myself.\n\n\"Stay here six months, or three months, and you'll understand what we're talking about.\"\n\nOn this subdued note, they left me.\n\nThe meeting with the Bantu Council had been arranged for eight o'clock that evening in the home of one of the members. I would have preferred to meet them in the Council building where I could see them against their working background but naturally I was obliged to follow their arrangements.\n\nOne of them called for me promptly at seven o'clock. On the way to Soweto, I told him of my earlier visit with the white guide and the old man's outburst which had led to this meeting. He seemed preoccupied, glancing in the rear-view mirror more often than I thought necessary, and I was surprised when he suddenly asked, \"Is anyone following you?\"\n\nI didn't know how to respond to that. \"Why?\" I asked.\n\n\"Just trying to make sure,\" he replied, and said no more about it. On arrival at his home, his wife greeted us with the news that two members of the Security Police, one black and one white, had been there asking about me and the meeting, claiming that they wanted to make sure I would be quite safe. She replied that I would be under their roof, as safe as they were, as protected as they were, if any protection was necessary. They replied that it was their duty to prevent an international incident and merely wanted assurance that all would be well.\n\n\"I gave them short shrift,\" she said, smiling.\n\nThis was my first experience of the Security Police actually monitoring my movements. It was no longer a joke, an offshoot of my friend's paranoia, but undeniable proof of the Big Brother interest in my movements. My hosts seemed to take it all in stride. They told me that police spying was merely another fact of daily life; it pervaded every area of living to the point where no one fully trusted his neighbor or associates or friends. This was equally true of the Council: although they were all black, each one was afraid that another might report something said or done in the hope of receiving some minuscule concession from the Security Police.\n\n\"That way they keep us distrustful of each other, suspicious, so we're unwilling to come together in any real way to help each other. If I have a new idea, I don't know where to start. I can discuss it with my wife, but who else? Sometimes people come to me with ideas. I've got to listen very carefully. If their ideas have the slightest hint of opposition to Government policy, my first reaction is that they're trying to trap me. Oh, yes, that's part of the technique. They come to you with an idea and the next thing you know they claim it was your idea in the first place and you have the Security Police on your back. All the time the police hold over your head the threat of sending you off to one of the Homelands. They could come here tomorrow and claim I'd been instigating something and deport me out of here. They'd tell me to remove my house from the Government's land. How do I go about picking up a house like this? They've got us Blacks in a vise. As a result we don't trust each other. We talk, sure, we talk, but we watch what we say. So, now you know. We'll meet here tonight with you and we'll tell you some things you could hear from anyone else. That's safe. But wait till you ask us questions that require us to express our deep feelings, questions that get to the bone. Then see what happens. We begin to look at each other. My friend, the Whites have got us so that each one of us has become the other's policeman.\"\n\n\"Then this exercise tonight is likely to be a waste of time,\" I suggested.\n\n\"Not altogether. Wait and see for yourself.\" But I was right.\n\nBy eight o'clock no one else had arrived. At eight thirty-five one showed up bringing his wife and a friend as if it were a party. Ten minutes later another arrived, with his wife and a local schoolmaster. No sign of the aggressive little councillor whose challenge to me had precipitated the whole thing. I asked my host about him and learned that he had been informed of the meeting and had promised to attend. By nine fifteen, he had still not come and someone left to fetch him but soon came back saying that he was not at home.\n\n\"After his little performance at the Council Office in front of the white woman guide, someone's had a word with him, I suppose,\" one of the men suggested.\n\nI was surprised to learn that everyone knew of the incident, insignificant though it had seemed to me.\n\nThree young men showed up, none of them councillors, one of them a newsman working for a city newspaper. Conversation settled on the safe topic of the schools. The schoolmaster was praised on all sides for the wonderful job he was doing, even though it emerged that the children's big successes were in their competitive singing, rather than in their academic work. Of the six to seven hours of the school day, at least two hours were spent rehearsing songs, mostly European songs.\n\nDiscreet questioning disclosed that the schools in Soweto are poorly equipped, the teachers poorly trained, the pupils ill-\u00adprepared to compete in the harshly competitive society; and here were these black men congratulating each other. When I probed further on the schools, on teacher and pupil performance, they readily resorted to a lengthy litany of woes, all of which were blamed on the Government and so outside their control.\n\nI was soon bored with it all. I had been led to believe that they were ready and able to talk freely with me about their community, but all that had taken place were moans, evasions, and backslapping. What the hell had they to be proud of? The few schools they had were overcrowded, understaffed, and ill-equipped. Large numbers of children were roaming the streets instead of being in school, and the devilish \"pink card\" system kept it so. More and more of these children were pressured into Tsotsi gangs, and these men, each secure in his own circumscribed job, did nothing to change the situation.\n\nI stood up to leave, just as the hostess brought a tray of drinks on which the other guests avidly fell as if that were the real reason for the gathering. If real change would come to places like Soweto, it would not be through the efforts of men such as these, I realized.\n\nOn the way to my hotel, my host and I said little, each wrapped in his own assessment of the abortive meeting. Now and then he slowed down to allow another car to pass us, and I realized he was still afraid that I was being followed. Or perhaps he was concerned for himself. So easily one could be caught in the grip of paranoia.\n\nLying on my bed, reviewing the day's events, I was disturbed by the non-appearance of the little Soweto councillor. I had been told that he knew I would be there to see him. After his spirited effort in front of my white guide, he would want to be there, as face-saving is very important among people. I wondered if she had complained to her superiors about his outburst and a decision had been made to silence him, at least for the duration of my stay. With all that I heard about the police and their tactics, he had invited a pack of trouble for himself. But perhaps it was worth it, to him. Perhaps he had reviewed his life and had seized the opportunity to make a gesture, to himself. In the prevailing circumstances, that small gesture assumed heroic proportions. No other Black had said or done as much. Not publicly. Not in the presence of a member of white officialdom.\n\n# Chapter  \nSix\n\nTHE NEXT DAY WAS the day of the promised lunch at the Afrikaner businessmen's club arranged by the banker I had met at Helen Suzman's. On the way there he explained the growth and development of the white community.\n\nA man eminently knowledgeable about money, its power and influence, he spoke easily of his plans for the future. He spoke of the club to which we were going, its founding and the type of people who were its members. He warned that I might find them inflexible in their social attitudes, but hoped I'd be patient and remember that they were the products of a grim period in South Africa's history when men and women needed to fight for the land on which to settle and establish communities. For my benefit, he recounted the Afrikaner version of those wars of conquest, stressing the courage and fortitude of the voortrekkers and their womenfolk. He spoke of the bloody conflicts in which Afrikaners of earlier generations had frequently been involved and made it seem that they had invariably been on the defensive against a persistent, devious, and intractable enemy. Memory dies hard and I got the impression that Afrikaner hatred of Blacks is deliberately kept alive today, primarily for tactical political purposes. I reminded him that the wars of which he spoke were several generations old. Since then the whole world had been torn by wars far graver than those the voortrekkers fought and yet had shown a willingness to rise above the hates and fears which had given rise to those crises. What was there so special about South Africa that it needed to \"feed fat its ancient grudge\"?\n\nIt is both distressing and fascinating to hear people defend their contempt and hatred of Blacks, especially to me, a man as black or blacker than their enemy. I asked him if he and his kind had no concern for the inevitable bloody results if they persisted in their despotic pressure of the Blacks.\n\nAt this, his tune changed. He denied contempt, citing his own friendly relationship with the Blacks he employed on his farm.\n\n\"I'm willing to admit that changes must come,\" he said. \"They will come. But we must not expect them overnight. We can't have revolution here. Evolution yes, but not revolution.\" The words flowing so easily from him, cushioned in comfort as he was by the blood, sweat, and toil of the Blacks whom he despised. He could talk of evolution, secure behind the vast stockpiles of armaments and the military manpower deployed strategically all over the country\u2014I pulled myself up short. I was on my way to hear from him and others like him, so the thing to do was wait and listen to them.\n\nThe Clubhouse was much as I expected, an attractive red-brick building set against a pleasant background of carefully nurtured trees and trimmed lawns and flower beds. Beginning at the doorway, uniformed servants everywhere, all black, ready to dart off at the master's bidding, all eyeing me with surprise and speculation, the first black person ever to set foot in that building in other than a menial capacity.\n\nSettled in the well-appointed lounge with my host to await the other guests, I drank a glass of sherry with him, amused that we were in fact breaking the law which forbade Blacks and Whites to drink alcoholic beverages together. Unable to keep the thought to myself, I shared it with him.\n\n\"Let's put it this way,\" he told me. \"You're an overseas visitor, a world famous author, VIP. During your stay in South Africa you have the honorary status of a white man.\"\n\nThat spoiled it for me, my mood of friendly ease evaporating completely, giving way to a rage which I fought to control. I put my glass down and looked at him, hating the arrogance which led him to assume that he, they, could change the color of my skin to suit their whim. No, not change it. Just overlook it, ignore it to the point where it did not exist for them and they could superimpose their choice upon it. But no, just looking at them convinced me that my blackness was there before them, large and unavoidable; it was plain from the way they behaved when we were introduced\u2014the hurried pleased-to-meet-you, the words rushed out to belie their meaning; the quick retreat from my deliberately firm handshake.\n\nI had half expected to meet a group of highly intelligent, urbane men, as conversant with world affairs as they were knowledgeable about their particular interests, articulate and arrogantly relaxed in the assurance of their power and prestige. Instead, I found myself in a group of rather ordinary people, most of them painfully hesitant on matters outside their parochial concerns and generally uncomfortable in the unfamiliar company of a black man who did not treat them as his betters.\n\nTwo of them, an elderly economist and a physicist, seemed more relaxed than the rest, and keen to discuss South Africa's international image, even though they took a lofty view of the criticism directed at her. They argued that the continuing international economic crises were working to South Africa's advantage, and would eventually have the effect of forcing some accommodation to her domestic policies. In support of this, they pointed to their country's considerable gold reserves, the rapid rise in the price of gold, and the new political leverage which, they claimed, South Africa could now exercise.\n\n\"In this world, money talks,\" the economist said, \"and the loudest, most persuasive voice is that of gold. Even some African countries which publicly criticize us because of our domestic policies are willing to make private economic agreements with us. Out of such agreements political accommodations are born.\"\n\nSo we drank and talked, watched covertly by the black serving team which quietly and efficiently attended us. I wondered how they viewed my presence among the white men. Did they too assume that I was being used by the Whites? I could read nothing behind their unsmiling faces and courteous manner.\n\nThen lunch was ready and we were seated, and I realized that this was a first for all or nearly all of them. They were sharing the same board on equal terms with a black man, and no matter how they might rationalize it to themselves that simple fact was incontrovertible. There was the usual friendly chitchat as each tried to settle down. I wondered how each would report this meeting to wife, children, and business associates. And what would they tell the Blacks who serve them at home and with whom they claimed to have good personal relationships?\n\nI remembered chatting in a park a few days before with a maid who was supervising a small white child and a dog. I tried to question her about social conditions in South Africa, but, inevitably, she brought up Bob Foster.\n\n\"How he beat that white man! It was so good.\"\n\nHer whole body glowed with the sharing in that small victory, this woman whose life was destined to be spent in lowly service, nurturing the children who would one day grow up to treat her with casual contempt, whether it was personal or public. She would be used, underpaid, kept in her place...\n\nNow here were these men, most of whom had in their time been bathed and comforted by black women, casually defending their inhuman policies with the spurious claim of \"good relationships.\" Spurious? They were completely sincere and convinced of their righteousness.\n\nAfter lunch, I was formally introduced to the group and invited to address them. On the spur of the moment I decided to talk on the economics of waste, deliberately choosing that neutral approach to tease them out of their shells, to let them feel comfortable with the Honorary White and open up so that I might learn about them. I said that I had been impressed by Johannesburg and its flourishing suburbs, but sickened by the wide evidence of the exclusion of Blacks from the essential life of the community. Blacks were everywhere, cleaning, serving, providing an inescapably solid base to the community's economic life, but resentfully, unwillingly, because they were denied the right to exercise their imaginative potential. I asked them to explain how a community could ever reach its full growth if the greater part of its people were restricted to minimal contribution. As I saw it the result was waste on an unbelievable scale, shrouded behind the absurdities of discrimination.\n\nThey listened in silence but when I sat down they defended themselves vociferously. They insisted that the Blacks of South Africa are better off economically than Blacks in any other part of Africa. They told me that though there was job reservation which favored Whites, the law required every man to be paid the rate for the job, and that those employers guilty of evading that law were invariably foreign firms, particularly American.\n\nThey insisted that I had not been in the country long enough to see and understand the complexities of the labor structure in general, nor the conditions affecting the black role in particular. Very few Blacks, they claimed, were capable of other than menial employment. South African Blacks had changed little from their original primitive state and were, for the most part, still happier living in the rural Homelands in their traditional way. On the other hand, the grim conditions in which the black workers lived were not really intolerable to them, being an improvement on what they knew in their familiar rural living. It was Communists and outside agitators who stirred them up and tried to make them dissatisfied with their lot. Rural Blacks were discouraged from taking their families with them to the urban centers only because that would have meant too great a dislocation, in addition to the aggravated problems of housing, feeding, and educating their children. On and on. The old familiar clich\u00e9s, but trotted out with the utmost sincerity. As I listened it was difficult for me to keep my mounting irritation under control. I am as black as the men and women they were talking about.\n\nBut I was a stranger. I would be here today and gone tomorrow. I needed nothing from them, so they could afford to be generous with their time and their rhetoric. Perhaps they expected me to be flattered by being among them, treated as an equal by them. Nudged by the irritation which would not subside I said, \"I understand you've broken the 'Afrikaner Only' rule in this club and admitted Englishmen. That tells me you're getting around to forgiving and forgetting what Kitchener and his redcoats did during the Boer War.\" There was silence for a few moments, not even the tinkle of ice in a glass. Then someone said:\n\n\"We've come a long way since those days. Language aside, we're all South Africans here.\"\n\n\"That's what I was thinking,\" I said. \"Maybe the same spirit will foster a similarly reasonable attitude to the Zulu Wars and the descendants of those who fought in them.\"\n\nSilence.\n\n\"Here am I,\" I went on, \"sitting with you. I have no way of knowing where my ancestors came from. History suggests that nowhere in Africa was secure from the slaver's nets.\"\n\nThey were watching me, most faces wearing that pained half-smile which was as much as courtesy demanded.\n\n\"What's your point, Mr. Braithwaite?\" one asked.\n\n\"I'm anticipating the day when Blacks might be admitted to membership of your club. After all, one ex-enemy is as good as another. You could always designate them Honorary White.\" My little quip fell flat. Even the half-smiles had vanished.\n\n\"The designation Honorary White is merely a convenience reserved for overseas visitors,\" one said. \"We do not wish to embarrass them by any regulations designed specifically to deal with domestic circumstances.\"\n\n\"Yes. I know,\" I replied, turning the needle. \"Yesterday, some men I met in a park near my hotel mistook me for a Zulu, so I must look like one. I'm merely considering the possibility that I might be descended from one.\"\n\n# Chapter  \nSeven\n\nMY NEXT PLAN WAS to visit the Transkei, one of the Government-designated \"Homeland\" areas. It was an hour's plane ride from Johannesburg to Durban, the nearest airport to the Transkei. A car with a driver awaited me at the airport and we immediately took off on the three-hundred-fifty-mile road journey to Umtata, the capital town of the Transkei. I had expected that here, in a predominantly black enclave which was supposedly preparing itself for independence, I would find Blacks in control in all departments and at all levels of political, social, and economic life. My eyes were soon opened. At the Information Office, my first stop, the staff were all Afrikaners, officials of the central Government. The Information Officer welcomed me and promised to arrange for me to tour the Transkei. He would be in touch with me later that morning. I decided to use the time to look around Umtata.\n\nThe Transkei capital looked thriving and prosperous. Every kind of business enterprise was represented, including automobile and farm machinery showrooms, supermarkets, banks, filling stations, and several hotels. All of them White-owned. No signs that Blacks had any kind of economic foothold in this, their own community. I passed the neat new police station, the white policeman leaning lazily against the door, looking toward the new multi\u00adstoried Government buildings. Truly a thriving town, showing off its potential for growth and development. Blacks everywhere, but not in command, not in authority. About half a mile from the hotel I saw a charming single-storied building, evidently a school, attractive in its simplicity of design, the large windows promising excellent natural lighting for the rooms. A well-kept grassy playground occupied the adjoining lot. On inquiring about it from a passerby I learned that it was the white school\u2014a school for the children of white administrators and businessmen. Here in the heart of a black enclave, the White-only restrictions still applied. The charming bungalows, offices, shops, everything carried the invisible but unmistakable label, \"White.\"\n\nAfter lunch I set out, with the Information Officer, for a tour of some parts of the Transkei. It could not be accidental that this so-called black Homeland was, for the most part, rocky, infertile land which can barely support the local herdsmen's scrawny cattle and goats. Adjacent to the township were many neat, small bungalows, silent evidence of the social changes which have overtaken the region, as the men are lured away from the small farm holdings to the unskilled jobs in the township. The horse is less in evidence than the car. Beyond the township the bungalows gradually gave way to the traditional circular Zulu huts of thatch and clay, each with its small patch of maize; women working among the long rows of green stalks, men tending their cows on sparsely covered hillsides. Even here, in their supposed \"Homeland,\" Blacks were literally restricted to the outer limits of the township, out of sight of progress, needed only to grease its wheels.\n\nThe more I saw of the Transkei the more I sympathized with those urban blacks who were so determined to avoid being relocated to the Homelands. The Government's stated policy foresaw eventual independence for regions such as the Transkei. On what kind of economic base could such independence be founded? The businesses in Umtata were all White-owned, their profits surely siphoned out of the black community. I asked the Information Officer about this. He told me that the overall plan envisaged a gradual takeover of all businesses by Blacks. White businessmen were encouraged to employ Blacks and train them into the techniques of management. When a trainee showed himself capable of taking over, the Government could purchase the business from the owner at current market prices and resell it to the trainee-manager on extended terms. I remarked that I saw no sign of any Blacks being trained. The scheme was new, but was slowly getting under way, he claimed. I said that the places I'd visited all showed clear evidence of prosperity, and it seemed unlikely their owners would easily relinquish them. Umtata is the largest and busiest of the Transkei towns. I could not see the businessmen walking away from such a gold mine. He had no answer.\n\nEverywhere we drove the situation was the same. Blacks following their \"traditional lifestyle\" on land which grudgingly and barely supported them. The more I saw the more absurd became the Government's claim that it was nurturing these Homelands toward independence. I reflected on the recent turbulent history of my own homeland, Guyana, and the years of preparation in the management of government and services. How could powerless people learn to exercise power wisely except through experience?\n\nBack in Umtata, I took a stroll to a place which seemed to fulfill the joint purposes of bus stop, taxi stand, and open-air market. Only Blacks in sight. Overlooking this crossroads was an imposing new hotel. A fruit vendor told me that it was a new hotel for Blacks only, as they were not welcome at the other hotels. I didn't tell him where I was staying but, in reply to his question, admitted merely that I was an overseas visitor passing through the town. Inquisitively, two or three others strolled over to listen in on our conversation. I asked about the fruit on sale, tiny bananas, some hard peaches, and mangoes, and learned that they were grown on the patches of land tended by the vendors themselves. It was too early in the season for anything except bananas and peaches. They were surprised to discover that I knew about mangoes and could tell them about varieties familiar in the West Indies but which they'd never heard of.\n\nGradually, carefully, I steered the talk to independence, saying I'd heard in Johannesburg that the Transkei would become independent, and adding that perhaps some of them might be in the Government. This amused them.\n\n\"Who's been telling you those stories? Buthelezi?\" one asked.\n\n\"I read it in the newspapers,\" I replied.\n\n\"The newspapers are not for African people. They say what the white man wants to hear.\"\n\n\"I read that this homeland will become independent as a separate state, like Botswana or Lesotho.\"\n\n\"I'll tell that to my grandchildren,\" one young man said, \"and even then they will not believe it.\" He was about twenty years old. I suddenly realized that we were conversing easily in English. These rural Blacks were not educated men but they were able to converse with me in my language, and, most likely, they were as comfortable with Afrikaans. Now and then, they would revert to their tribal languages as if to underscore their linguistic range.\n\n\"What about you?\" I asked. \"Any of you preparing to be leaders?\" saying it with a smile, making my inquiry sound casual and unimportant. Immediately there was that exchange of glances I'd come to recognize, and with it the withdrawal. Two of the young men walked away.\n\n\"Did you say you are from overseas?\" the vendor asked.\n\n\"Yes. Why?\"\n\n\"Sometimes strangers come here asking questions.\" Then turned to one of his companions and spoke in an African language which ignored and dismissed me. Even so tentative an inquiry about political activity had been enough to excite suspicion and distrust. People thinking of independence would be preparing for it, somehow, and there must be some evidence of that preparation. Perhaps, as the man said, it was all white newspaper talk.\n\nBeyond the Transkei borders and into Natal, the countryside changed dramatically. The land was predominantly flat or rolling, perfect for farming on a vast scale. The road wound itself through lovely rural areas with attractive townships spaced between the wide expanses of farmland, mile upon mile of the lush green of wheat or maize, with here and there orchards heavy with oranges, peaches, or mangoes. The glow of prosperity lay over the neat, freshly painted bungalows with smooth, trimmed hedges and lawns. The modernistic spires of the calvinist kirks were a particularly dominant feature of each township. Wealth, comfort, and prosperity everywhere, the well-fed burghers chatting outside their houses, the ubiquitous black servants carefully sweeping, clipping, and tending.\n\nBlacks everywhere in each town, manning the filling stations and delivery trucks, always in the servant roles, the local burghers slow-moving in their untroubled security, seeming hardly to see the Blacks who fetched and carried for them.\n\nOutside Pietermaritzburg we needed directions for the shorter route to Durban and sought them at a police station. Two entrances to the same office, one for Blacks (all Non-Whites) and one for Whites. Three policemen standing outside, two Indians and one White. I approached the white one and asked directions to Durban. He merely stared past me, his pale eyes seeking some distant point beyond my shoulder. After a few moments I left him and returned to the car. My driver sought and received the information from the Indian policemen, the white one looking on. Perhaps the bastard thought himself too important even to speak to a black man. I wondered what kind of relationships obtained in that police station. We drove away.\n\nMy driver complained that I should not have spoken to the policeman, and said that, in his view, it would help me if I observed the \"Black\" and \"White\" signs where they appeared. He claimed that he did not support the Government's racial policies, arguing that he was of British stock. Yet he was obviously irritated with me for not falling in line. He predicted that, with my attitude, I'd have a rough time in Cape Town. I told him I'd be happy if he did the driving and left my behavior to me.\n\nReturning to Durban, I telephoned several people, friends of Johannesburg friends, hoping to arrange meetings. They were all Indian, which was not surprising as most of the Indians in the country are located in Natal Province of which Durban is the capital. Indians were originally brought to South Africa as indentured laborers for the sugar plantations in much the same way as they were first taken to Guyana. In both countries they had prospered, emerging mainly as truck farmers, sugar cane planters, and small businessmen. Under the Nationalist Government their fortunes had altered dramatically and, though they still enjoyed a few privileges denied the black African, they were subject to many restrictions. Like other Non-Whites, they are consigned to enclaves and though unlike black Africans they are allowed to purchase land on which to build homes, they may at short notice be moved to some other location if the authorities decide that the one they occupy is more suitable or desirable for Whites. One of these Indian friends, a doctor, accepted my invitation to come and share some tea within the hour.\n\nPunctually on the hour, my telephone rang. The doctor was calling from the lobby. She had arrived, but on entering the lobby, had been stopped and told that Non-Whites were not allowed in the hotel. She explained that she was calling on me and was eventually allowed to telephone my room. Angered, I went down to the lobby and without a word to anyone, escorted her up to my room. She seemed quite unperturbed by the experience, and wryly amused at my anger.\n\n\"I quite expected that they'd stop me,\" she said.\n\n\"Even when you said you were here to see me?\"\n\n\"Sure. They have to remind us that the presence of a black visitor in the hotel really makes no difference. We are still not welcome. Anyway, welcome to Durban.\"\n\n\"Thank you. Shall we go down and have some tea?\"\n\n\"I think it would be better if you had it sent up. I've had enough of white contempt for one day. Besides, we can talk more freely up here.\"\n\nWhile waiting for our tea she told me of her practice among her people, many of whom were able to make a good living, in spite of the increasing restrictions placed upon them. She, like so many of her friends and clients, had been born and raised in Durban where a thriving Indian community had developed. They had built a mosque and several good schools, cinemas, a community center. About seven years ago, the Government had rezoned that part of Durban where they lived and redesignated it a white area. Except for some businesses, the Indians were to be relocated some miles out of Durban. Their homes would have to be sold, either privately to Whites, or through compulsory purchase by the Government. In either event, the purchase price was frozen at the price obtaining when the order was first announced. The Indians protested the order but they had no political power base from which to make their protest effective. She said that as a result of the order, many families had become dislocated, and the community demoralized.\n\n\"If you'd like to come with me, I'll show you,\" she offered. The tea arrived, we drank it and set off. We drove about the Indian section of Durban while she pointed out a house here, a bungalow or office there, all evacuated and desolate awaiting either new white occupancy or the bulldozer which would level the lot for a new park or shopping center. We visited an arcade where I was introduced to some Indian traders, nearly inarticulate in their bewilderment and frustration.\n\n\"Is there no way of protesting these orders?\" I asked.\n\n\"It is dangerous for Blacks to protest,\" I was told. \"All it could bring you would be a cell in jail, or, at best, a cracked head.\"\n\nI was struck by this Indian doctor's inclusive use of the word \"Blacks,\" especially in a country where shades of color were so important in determining where one lived, or worked. Perhaps it was her way of responding to my sympathetic interest.\n\n\"Have you heard?\" someone interposed, excitedly. \"They're rioting out at New Germany.\"\n\n\"Who's rioting?\" I inquired.\n\n\"The Blacks at Frames.\"\n\n\"What's Frames?\" I asked the doctor.\n\n\"It's a textile factory complex, with plants scattered around Durban. Cheap black labor, Indian and African, at starvation wages. Seems the workers have gone on strike. Something must have happened out there to make the workers risk a confrontation with the police and their guns and their dogs.\"\n\n\"Where's this New Germany?\"\n\n\"In the suburbs. Not far away. Would you like to go out there?\"\n\n\"Could we?\"\n\n\"Oh, we could. The important thing would be to keep well away from any trouble areas, but it would be an eye-opener for you if your stomach can take it. The police can be quite brutal, you know.\"\n\nI assured her that my stomach would be fine and we drove off toward New Germany and the Seltex factory. My friend told me that nearly ten thousand workers were employed at ten factories around Durban, five of them owned by the Frames company, reportedly notorious for their bad working conditions.\n\nEven before I caught sight of the factory, we could hear the sound of human voices, a loud, unintelligible rumble punctuated by shouts. Around a bend in the road, we saw a large number of Blacks milling about in front of the main office building, and my friend pulled the car onto the grass verge, well away from the action. We got out and walked to a point of vantage some distance away from the crowds but with a clear view of what was taking place. Several police vans were parked in an orderly row, and near them stood several groups of policemen, both black and white, some holding large dogs on the leash, others carrying walkie-\u00adtalkies or armed with riot helmets, nightsticks, and rifles or Sten guns. A few dogs were straining at their leashes, but most of them sat obediently at the heels of their handlers.\n\nWe moved to the outer edge of the crowd to find out what had happened. My friend beckoned two Indian workers who came over to speak with us. They said that the situation was very explosive. The strike had been in progress since early morning and, so far, nearly four hundred workers had been arrested and carried off. Similar strikes were in progress at factories in Pinetown and Hammarsdale, all located within the environs of Durban.\n\nFrom some of the workers I was able to get the story of the circumstances which led to the strike. They had long been promised a pay raise, ranging from ten cents to two Rand per week, depending on length of service. When they received their latest pay envelopes it was discovered that management had reneged on the promise. Such conduct by management was familiar, but the decision to strike was spontaneous and unexpected.\n\nThe law of South Africa expressly forbids strikes by Blacks, and only very grudgingly nowadays allows them limited negotiating action. In striking the men were risking prosecution, especially under the vague but comprehensively punitive Suppression of Communism Act. I noticed, here and there among the crowd, white men in civilian clothes equipped with cameras and recording devices. I was told that they were members of the Security Police, collecting information for use in later prosecution of individuals.\n\nThe workers had reported for work as usual at 6:00 A.M. but had refused to go into the factory. Management had promptly called the police who arrived in their vans within minutes and stationed themselves in full, threatening view of the workers, waiting for any provocation. I noticed two Whites, a man and a woman, both civilians, moving among the Blacks, talking and quietly exhorting small groups. I was told that they were labor union organizers, advising the Blacks to continue to strike until better pay and working conditions were negotiated. In so doing, they were breaking the law, on several counts, and my informants assured me that, eventually, they would be severely punished.\n\nWhy eventually, I wanted to know.\n\n\"Probably any attempt to arrest them here would ignite the already volatile situation, beyond any power of control by the police. However, the police will get those two\u2014later.\"\n\nSuddenly the police were moving forward, in a spaced line, the dog handlers in the vanguard. The black officers seemed as ruthless and brutal as their white comrades. The crowd fell back before them. From the front ranks of the crowd a young black man broke away, hat in hand, moving toward the edge of the crowd. In an instant a police dog was loosed, swiftly and silently overtaking him. As the crowd roared in protest, he looked backward, stumbled and fell. The dog seized him by the bare forearm, worrying it from side to side as the young man screamed. The dog's handler reached the young man, roughly dragged him upright before snapping the leash onto the snarling animal, which reluctantly let go of his arm.\n\nThe young man had in no way threatened anyone. He was now roughly handled toward one of the police vans and shoved inside. The crowd kept up its noisy protests as the police continued their steady advance. Suddenly, without a sound, one of them clutched his face in both hands and fell forward. Someone whispered that he had been struck by a stone. The advancing police stopped and two of them rushed to help their brother officer. To my amazement, several black workers left the crowd and knelt to help the stricken policeman, gently cradling his head on their knees. Two policemen quickly brought a stretcher and placed their comrade on it, brushing aside the helpful Blacks.\n\nThe injured policeman safely away in an ambulance, the police continued their advance on the crowd until it was encircled on three sides.\n\n\"Start thinking up a story to explain why you're here,\" the doctor whispered to me. \"Just in case they come this way.\" A young black worker came over to us.\n\n\"You reporters?\" he asked.\n\n\"No. Just strangers, looking on,\" I said.\n\n\"Strangers from where? Durban?\"\n\n\"No, from overseas. I heard about the strike and came along to see what was happening.\"\n\n\"This isn't a strike,\" he said. \"It's a set up. The big boss Frame has been promising a raise for weeks, then they said we'd have it last Friday. So we get our pay and it's the same as always. No raise. So we walk out and they bring in the police. Always the same. They're saying that the news from the other factories is the same. I just heard that the Minister for Community Affairs of the Kwa-Zulu Homeland is on his way here for a meeting with management representatives.\"\n\n\"Is he white?\"\n\n\"No, he's black.\"\n\n\"Don't you have any local representatives to negotiate with management?\" I asked him.\n\n\"Representatives? The police look to see who's doing the talking and they pick him up. Sometimes the police send in their spies among us to start us talking, then they come along and pick us up. What about you? Suppose they find you here?\" he asked me.\n\n\"Suppose who finds me here?\"\n\n\"The Security Police.\"\n\n\"Well, I'm not interfering. Just looking on. The most they can do is ask me to leave.\"\n\n\"Don't be too sure. You're black. They could rough you up first and ask who you are later. In any case, my friend, when you move, walk. Never run. They're always looking out for black men running.\" With that cryptic remark, he wandered off.\n\nIt was frightening. All of it. The bewildered Blacks temporarily courageous in the rightness of their cause; invisible management exploiting their weakness; and the big brutal police, ready, willing, and able to wield their power. Helen Suzman's daughter was right\u2014it seemed as if the Blacks were being deliberately harried toward breaking point. The time must soon come, I told myself, when no show of police strength would be enough to contain the workers' explosive anger and destructive rage.\n\nEarly next morning, I left by plane for Cape Town, after promising to route myself once more through Durban on my return journey to Johannesburg. Arrived at Cape Town I booked into the President Hotel at Sea Point. I had hardly settled into my room when the Assistant Manager came to see me, apologizing for what he had to tell me. It appeared that when my reservation had been requested by telephone from Johannesburg, he, knowing who I was, had applied for and received a permit allowing the reservation. However, the permit was granted on condition that I, a black man, did not use the bar at the same time as white patrons. He said he way sorry to inform me of that proscription, but he had no choice in the matter.\n\nI was furious and told him so. I was paying for my accommodation at the same rate as anyone else and warned him that if I wanted to take a drink in the bar at any time, I would do so. Either he accepted my reservation or he did not, but if he did I demanded to be treated exactly the same as any other guest. He showed me a copy of the letter and permit issued by the Interior Ministry. I asked for copies of both so that I could study them and he promised to let me have them, but never did.\n\nNext day, Mr. Englebrecht MP, whom I'd met a year ago in New York, called for me and, with his wife, took me on a leisurely tour along the shoreline of Cape Town. As we talked I tried to measure his political acumen and sophistication. An Afrikaner, he had been a schoolmaster before entering politics as a supporter of the Nationalist Party and seemed to be in complete agreement with the Government's racial policies. To my critical remarks on the education, housing, and employment of Blacks he replied that the Bantu Act and similar laws were designed specifically for the benefit of Blacks. It became clear that, to him, Blacks are intellectually and psychologically inferior to Whites.\n\nHe spoke of how Blacks lived in the rural Homelands, the women in servitude, tending the fields while rearing children, the men content in continual idleness except for the little effort required to tend their cattle, sheep or goats. I asked how, if that were the general rule, the mines and other industries were able to recruit all the black workers they needed. Were the Blacks impressed into service like the sailors of old?\n\nHe complained that outsiders were far too eager to criticize South Africa without fully appreciating the prevailing situation. Few of the critics had even visited the country as I was doing for a firsthand view. The Blacks, he believed, were, for the most part, content with their circumstances, and would be quite responsive to gradual improvements, were they let alone and not incited to strikes and other anti-social actions by activists, often from outside. (An outsider from where? The only outsiders with easy access to South Africa are the British. Perhaps that's what he meant.) The Government was aware of such activities and had the means to stop them.\n\nEvolution, not revolution, he reminded me, and referred pityingly to the parlous state of the British economy which was crippled perhaps beyond repair by strikes which were all, he believed, Communist inspired. That would never happen in South Africa. In any case, he believed that many people in Britain were disillusioned with conditions there and were thinking of emigrating to South Africa. I argued that though many young people were leaving Britain, South Africa was lowest among their choices of a new home, and suggested that the near inevitability of bloody confrontation between Black and White might be responsible. He said that such a confrontation was most unlikely, because it would not be allowed to happen. His haughty assurance was disturbing. How could anyone with any claim to sensitivity be so determined to ignore all the ominous signs? Or was he only saying those things to me? In the time I'd already spent in the country, I'd already heard and seen enough to convince me that events were moving, however slowly, to some awful, cataclysmic d\u00e9nouement. Perhaps this man and his wife, so comfortable under the prevailing system, were really reassuring themselves that it would continue. At least for their lifetime. I then remembered that, when I had first met Englebrecht at a cocktail party in New York, he had told me that he was one of the group of censors in South Africa who had voted to ban the showing of the film of my autobiography, To Sir, with Love. When I'd asked him the reason for the ban, he'd replied,\n\n\"As we watched that film at a private showing, we were all irritated by the sight of that black teacher being so right all the time.\"\n\n\"What do you mean by being right?\" I'd asked.\n\n\"Well, being so knowledgeable, so bright, setting the example for white students.\"\n\n\"But the film was eventually released to the public.\"\n\n\"Yes, with a change here and there.\"\n\nI wondered if he was remembering that I was that same teacher in person, unchanged, still willing to make my small challenge to social absurdities.\n\nWe stopped for tea at a teashop and sat at one of the outdoor tables. When the black waiter served our tea he asked me if I was the same person whose photograph was in the morning newspaper. I said I was. He told me he'd read To Sir and would like me to autograph his personal copy of the paperback edition. I wondered if my companions appreciated the implication. As long as people could think and read, there was no knowing what they might do, for themselves. Perhaps the small miracle needed to change the course of events in South Africa was already on its way.\n\n# Chapter  \nEight\n\nLATER THAT WEEK I met with the Deputy Minister for Bantu Education. Formerly a dominie in the Reformed Dutch Church, he spoke of Blacks as if they were a lesser breed of man whose collective course must be carefully plotted and controlled by those whom God had elected their masters, the Whites. Painstakingly he detailed the many and varied educational programs he claimed were designed to help Blacks function in the South African society, and made it seem that huge sums of money were spent annually to that purpose. Courteously he brushed aside my suggestion that if the proscriptions against multi- and interracial education were removed, education for all might be less costly.\n\n\"Our Blacks are incapable of learning at the same pace as Whites,\" he told me, smiling his pontifical smile as if he knew he was quoting Holy Writ. \"They need to be helped, slowly and carefully.\"\n\n\"Toward what level?\" I asked.\n\n\"Toward their own level. It would be foolish to place them in any educational situation beyond their limited potential.\"\n\n\"I've discovered that under previous governments, Blacks attended your universities and gave an excellent account of themselves. In those days their potential was never in question.\"\n\n\"You were misinformed,\" he disagreed, still smiling. \"In those days there were those who experimented with the educational process and were anxious to prove themselves right. Many of our Blacks were frustrated by a university experience specifically designed for Whites. This Government has learned from those mistakes.\"\n\n\"I'm thinking of my own university education,\" I told him. \"At no time did I feel frustrated by it or incompetent to deal with it.\"\n\n\"You cannot compare your background with that of our Bantu.\" Nothing seemed likely to disturb his composure. \"I've dealt with them all my life. As you move about through our country and see them, I'm sure you will appreciate the difference between them and yourself.\" He stood up in dismissal.\n\nNext was a luncheon with Mr. Englebrecht and some of his fellow MPs, who were gathered and waiting for me in a small, private dining room in the House. When the introductions were made, I realized that they were all of the ruling Nationalist Party, and as we settled into conversation, I noticed how eager each seemed to prove his party loyalty and political savvy. One of them had recently \"crossed over\" from the opposition United Party.\n\n\"Would that be a case of political defection?\" I needled him.\n\n\"Not at all. For as long as I shared the views and objectives of the United Party members, I worked in pursuit of those objectives. But political attitudes should be responsive to the people's interests, and the United Party is philosophically behind the times. I believe in this country and its destiny so I joined the party whose objectives and vision matched mine.\"\n\nHe was going to some lengths to convince me that his move was not dictated by political opportunism. I wondered about his constituents. English parliamentarians seemed generally flexible in the face of political realities. These South Africans, without exception, demonstrated an unfailing inflexibility, making me wonder if it was because they dared not drift from the rigid philosophical center, for fear of being labeled liberal, the political kiss of death. They spoke of their country and its people, but left me in no doubt that they meant white people and were completely insensitive to the plight of anyone else. They seemed to believe that their political supremacy would last forever and that no effort by the Blacks inside or anyone else outside could reverse the situation.\n\nThere were no political signs to contradict them. Their main opposition, the United Party, was torn by internal strife and, in fact, offered no realistic alternative platforms. Differing only in degree, the United Party's attitude to Blacks was paternalistic and repressive, as they were careful to avoid any progressive recommendations beyond the minimal sops to overseas criticisms. The brand new Nationalist was in his element, an enthusiastic convert among those diehards. He suggested that South Africa's policies were hardly different from those practiced in some parts of the United States.\n\nI countered this by saying that I was currently on the faculty of a Southern university and had discovered that some of the most adventurously progressive changes in American social and educational attitudes were taking place in the South. Whereas a few years ago Southern American Blacks were denied even the right to vote, today they were competing for and sometimes being elected to high office, including that of mayor and could soon be expected to aim higher, much higher.\n\nLest there be any misunderstanding of where I stood, I reminded them that I was a native of a country of Blacks, governed by Blacks, descendants of slaves and indentured laborers. As I walked and drove around their country, I could discover no genetic difference between the black South Africans and myself, and felt confirmed in my confidence that I was the equal of anyone, black or white.\n\nThey remained courteously adamant, refusing even to consider the existence of any parallels. They believed they were in the right, the God-given right of Afrikaners who understood their place in Africa and were not interested in references to other, distant situations. They made no attempt to support their positions by argument. Each one would make a statement, either well-rehearsed or familiar through frequent use, and the others would express complete agreement. The wonder of it all was that they were saying it to me.\n\nI examined my own reactions to them. They were bigots, just like others I had met in other countries. Their bigotry was no less offensive to me because they were South African. On the contrary. How could they imagine that I, in my black skin, was different from the Blacks all around them? If they knew that the native Blacks feared and hated them and would seize the opportunity to be revenged on them, why did they assume that I would feel differently?\n\nMaybe they really didn't give a damn about what I thought or how I felt. Maybe their sitting, eating, and talking with me was the real measure of their contempt. I was black. In these near-intimate circumstances they could tell me and show me what they felt about the millions of Blacks like me whom they ruled with cruelty and contempt, enforced by banning, restriction, imprisonment, and death.\n\nI asked them about their political opposition in general and Mrs. Helen Suzman in particular. Their responses demonstrated their complete confidence in the power of their party and in the prevailing national indifference. They showed little respect for Mrs. Suzman's politics but were eager to claim her as proof of the Government's ability to accommodate criticism. Could these men ever conceive of relinquishing this enormous power or sharing it with Blacks?\n\nOn returning to my hotel, I received a telephone call from someone who introduced himself as Mr. Welcome Msomi. He told me that he knew of me, had heard and read of my presence in South Africa, was an ardent fan especially after reading Reluctant Neighbors with which he fully identified, and wished to invite me to a performance of the Zulu Theatre Company's version of Macbeth, or, in Zulu, Umabatha, written in Zulu by Mr. Msomi himself, who also played the lead. I promptly accepted the invitation.\n\nUmabatha was staged at the Maynardville Open Air Theatre. The aged, gnarled trees which ringed the grassy stage were an ideal background for the grim events of Shakespeare's bloody tragedy. From the opening moments when the three witches emerged leaping and shrieking from the cavernous dark between the trees, through the spectacular tribal dances, the plotting to kill Duncan (Dungane) and Banquo (Bhangane) and their deaths, and the final defeat and death of Macbeth (Babatha), the audience was held enthralled.\n\nSuch was the vigor of the play that, though I understood not a single word of Zulu, I was irresistibly carried along with its flow, its pace, its power, and above all the natural way in which it blended into its element, the starlit, African night. Whether crossing the stage in military elegance, spears closely aligned to present a colorful phalanx, bare feet pounding rhythms from the green turf, or leaping at each other in angry confrontation, the actors filled the stage with movement, now vibrant, now attenuated as death itself. Towering above all was Umabatha, power-hungry yet fearful, a willing pawn in the hands of his ambitious, resourceful wife, magnificently played by Daisy Dumakudi, who drew repeated cheers from the audience.\n\nAt the end of the performance, I made a surprising discovery. Beside me was a black couple, and we introduced ourselves and chatted for a few moments before the curtain went up. On the other side of me and in front were Whites, and I had felt pleased that there was no discrimination in this theatre. But looking around at the end, when the lights came up, I saw that behind me for a few rows were a group of seats occupied by Blacks, so, together we were a tiny enclave in the white audience, altogether little more than a score of black faces, but grouped together. Was it purely accidental that the only seat available was in exactly that spot? I'll never know, but it is possible to stretch the long arm of coincidence too far. I told myself to think only of the joy of the evening.\n\nAfter the show, I was introduced to the organizers, Mrs. Ren\u00e9e Ahrenson and Mrs. Cecelia Sonnenberg, and the black cast. In the men's dressing room they gathered about me, enveloping me with their enthusiastic welcome, telling me I was Zulu, my face, build, everything. They'd read and talked about my books, especially Reluctant Neighbors, because they knew from immediate and painful experience about white contempt for the black man. They appreciated the irony of this very evening, cheered so enthusiastically tonight by Whites who would not look at them in the street tomorrow.\n\n\"We are like court jesters,\" one said, \"entertaining them at their command, compensated by the scraps from their table.\"\n\nEven among the gaiety of our meeting the pervasive bitterness was there, yet it could not dampen their spirit or inhibit their determination to pursue their profession. They talked of other plays by Shakespeare and other playwrights which they planned to examine for their translatability into the fluid, powerful Zulu. One young actor asked me about my stay in Cape Town, about my movements, and whether I was being followed. He hinted that he would like to come to my hotel to talk with me privately. I told him I had no way of knowing if I was followed, but, if he was willing to take the risk, I'd be pleased to talk with him at my hotel.\n\n\"Ride back with me to the hotel,\" I invited.\n\n\"No,\" he replied. \"I must go back to town with the others, but I could come to see you tomorrow morning.\"\n\n\"Come and have breakfast with me.\"\n\n\"Okay. Around nine?\"\n\n\"Fine.\"\n\nHe arrived a little before nine next morning, with three others from the Umabatha cast. We ordered breakfast and I told them how deeply impressed I had been by their performance the night before. Tremendous.\n\n\"Sure. For the Whites,\" one said.\n\n\"I enjoyed it,\" I reminded them.\n\n\"Yes. We understand that. But who do you think benefits from it? The black actors and actresses? Never. Did you hear what happened to them in London? Same rave reviews. Same sold-out performances. Yet there wasn't enough money to pay the boys' hotel bills. Did you know that? Welcome might be doing all right, but what about the others? If it had been a white company with white actors on such a successful run, everybody would have been doing fine, Umabatha's a black company, of black actors. But the management is white. The Whites are doing nicely with the production. Only the Blacks are having a rough time.\"\n\nI needed to know where all this was leading, so I said nothing.\n\n\"We hear you've talked with some of the boys, some poets you met here in town, and that you might be writing about it. So we'd like you to get the story straight.\"\n\n\"What story?\"\n\n\"The story about how helpless the black man is in this country. You'll hear about the black poet and the black musician and the black writer and the black actor. We're all slaves, my friend. You know how ants keep aphids to milk them. It's that way with the black artist. If he has any talent he's milked by some white bastard until he's dry. That's how this country is. A black man cannot talk with publishers or promoters or people like that, so he has to have a white man to do it for him. So the white man takes over. He doesn't really represent the black artist, doesn't work for him. He becomes the boss. He calls the tune. He is the employer instead of the servant. He pays what suits him. The Black sweats his ass out. He creates. He writes. He directs. But at the end of it all, he's never mentioned in the program notes. Whitey takes Blackey to London, Tokyo, Perth. He fills his bank account with loot and the black man returns home with nothing.\"\n\n\"Wait a minute,\" I said, and picked up the Umabatha program. \"Look here. Welcome's mentioned quite prominently as originator, writer, and leading man.\"\n\n\"Shit, man. Have you talked with him? Sure his name is in the book, but who do you think reaps the harvest? Welcome thinks he's doing okay, but what about all the others in the cast? He couldn't do it alone.\"\n\nI wondered about that, trying to relate what these men were saying to the exuberance and enthusiasm I'd just witnessed. Was it possible for unhappy, dissatisfied players to perform with such verve? What was that line so familiar in the theater? The play's the thing. Perhaps it was true here in Africa, here among Blacks who considered themselves as professional as any Shakespearean specialist.\n\n\"Like all men, the black artist has to eat, my friend,\" one said. \"He has to have a family, he needs a decent roof, needs to buy material for his craft and all that. The white man knows all this, selects his talented lamb and draws him to the slaughterhouse. The throat is cut and the blood is drawn until the carcass is useless.\"\n\n\"Wait a moment,\" I interrupted. \"How do you know all this?\"\n\nThey exchanged glances with each other, and a few words in their own language. Then one said:\n\n\"We're artists. We're still students as every artist is always a student. We do different things, but we're all caught in the white man's snare. Without him we're helpless, we don't eat. With him we're meat which he slices as he wishes. The system protects him as he ravages our flesh. He smells out our talents before we're aware of it, then he sells our talent for his benefit. He becomes the agent. In the case of a painter or sculptor, he offers the work to galleries in the cities where we couldn't get into the door without his help, then he prices the work and takes the biggest slice. In the case of a musician, there is the recording studio. The white agent negotiates and often winds up owning the copyright. Sometimes his name appears on the record as composer. Same thing with live performances. I've yet to hear of a black musician earning thirty Rand a performance in spite of a full house.\"\n\nThe faces around me were now grim, bitter masks, the suppressed hatred of years spilling out with their words.\n\n\"You write books, my friend, and you get the credit. They make movies of your work and you get the credit and the money. You can come here and live in a hotel like this, a big room like this. In your country you can be a real artist. Here we are shit.\"\n\nA waiter wheeled our breakfast into the room, looking with some surprise at me and my guests. I told him we'd help ourselves, tipped him, and he left.\n\n\"You have an agent?\" one asked. \"What's he like? Black? White?\"\n\n\"White and she's a woman.\"\n\n\"I hear that over there you pay the agent a percentage. Right?\"\n\n\"Right.\"\n\n\"Here the man who represents you pays you something\u2014or nothing. What we tell ourselves all the time is 'Come together. Close ranks. End the squabbles among ourselves. Stop underselling each other. Let's find our direction, present what we want, where we want it and how we want it.' How will we achieve this? By striving for good standards like the white man did. By working at perfecting our art, not for any exotic superficialities, but for quality. Shit, the white man was not born with his high standards. He worked for them. We can work for them too. Not his, but our own.\"\n\nI liked what they were saying and felt my reservations evaporating rapidly.\n\n\"How will you achieve all this?\" I asked.\n\n\"By working together, supporting each other. By accepting hunger and pain until we can speak for ourselves, negotiate for ourselves. Some of our brothers have formed an organization. Mdali, in Johannesburg. Its purpose is to get all our people involved in discovering our talents and our arts. Up to now we've been preoccupied with showing off our talents and our arts to the white man, selling ourselves to him. Now we must forget that shit. We must take our art and talent to our people in the ghettos. If and when our art is good enough, the white man will come to us. In the ghettos. He will watch us perform among our people and will respect our people because he'll have to respect all of it. The art and the people.\"\n\n\"Listen, friend,\" one said. \"When we talk of supporting our own, we are talking more to ourselves than to you. The habits of eating, of warm clothing, of sleeping under a roof with a woman make slaves of us all. I am also a sculptor and after years of work, what do I have to show? Nothing. No house, no money, no clothes, no wife, no studio, no kiln!\" The last words said in a sudden shout as he jumped up from his seat and walked over to stare outside through the sunlit window. The others looked over at him but made no move to go to him.\n\n\"Friend,\" one said. \"We came to talk with you as a fellow artist, not to burden you with our pain. We really came to talk to you about acting and writing prose and poetry, and painting pictures and carving wood. But here we are sharing our pain with you. We look at you, at how you live here, the confidence with which you speak and we envy you. You are an artist, independent. That's why this government lets you come into this country, into this hotel. We want to be independent as artists. Independent of the white man, employing him only as we need him. We envy you. Look at me. Until coming into this room I've told myself I needed the white man, because he stood between me and the door. Every door. Now I feel I can promise the white man that I don't really need him, have never needed him. I should have known it all the time.\"\n\n\"Brother,\" another said. \"You see, we're now talking for ourselves. Each one for his work. We're actors because we need to eat. Each of us is something else. Something individual. Ben's a sculptor and gets very little for the work he does, then later sees pictures of his pieces in glossy magazines. Not even his name to them. Same thing with Biki's painting. Tom and me, we write. Some poetry, some prose. I would have liked to go on to the university to study literature, but that's a dream. Me, when the frustration gets me, I drown myself in brandy. If I can afford it. Like my brothers here, I want a chance to exhibit, to expose myself to the world, to compete. But what can I do here. Vokol. Nothing.\"\n\n\"Anything I can do?\" I asked.\n\n\"You're doing it, brother,\" one said. \"You invited us to come and talk with you. You listen. We heard about you but we needed to see and hear you for ourselves. We've seen Blacks from your country come here before. Bob Foster for one. He stayed here, hidden from us behind his managers and secretaries. We weren't sure about you. Come see us in Jo'burg. Come to Mdali and meet some more of the brothers. Will you?\"\n\nI promised I would. I remembered my early suspicion and distrust. Now I felt humbled. I could think of nothing to say to reach and touch them, to convey my oneness with them and their plight, for anything I said would merely emphasize my own fortunate position.\n\nI thought of suggesting that they flee the country and try their fortune in some more sympathetic society, but swallowed the words before they could leak out. These men were talking of developing themselves, proving themselves among their own people in their own land.\n\nI poured coffee and drank to them. To the cast of Umabatha, to those isolated on Robben Island, to Mdali, to Blacks everywhere involved in the struggle for freedom and dignity.\n\n\"And you with us, brother,\" they said.\n\n# Chapter  \nNine\n\nON MY RETURN TO Johannesburg, I accepted an invitation to address the members of the Executive of the Young Women's Christian Association in Soweto. Two members of the Executive, Mrs. Meteni and Mrs. Iowele, called for me at the hotel and visited for a few minutes. Both housewives, both married to men who worked in Johannesburg, they told me that their YWCA branch was all black, in keeping with the Government's segregationist policies. Both had attended YWCA conferences outside South Africa and sat in the same room with delegates from the white South African branch.\n\n\"Did that cause you any difficulty?\" I asked.\n\n\"Not us. We are not the ones who hold ourselves separate. Outside this country we meet as equals.\"\n\n\"Do overseas organizations know that here in South Africa you are kept separate?\"\n\n\"Of course they do, but they cannot interfere.\"\n\nOn the way to their meeting room they took me through a part of Soweto I had not previously seen to show me, they said, the reasons why the YWCA served a useful purpose in the community. Women everywhere, many of them with very young children.\n\n\"Each day, except Sundays, Soweto becomes a community of women. The men are away at work, so most of us are left to clean house, tend the children, and watch the days slip away with little or nothing accomplished. We don't get any satisfaction from recounting our common miseries. Whatever improvement is needed here must come from us. The Bantu Council meets and talks but nothing happens, because all money decisions must be made by Whites in Johannesburg. So we've begun. Out of money we raised ourselves, through dances and picnics and collections, we've built one meeting hall. It's a beginning.\"\n\nWhen we reached the meeting hall, I understood what she meant. It was a squat, L-shaped, solidly built red-brick structure, set on a small rise, the interstices between the bricks highlighted in white. Larger than any of its neighbors, it exuded an aura of elegance and permanence. The grass around it was neatly trimmed, and here and there recently transplanted trees stood like symbols of growth and hope.\n\n\"What do you think?\" Mrs. Iowele asked, proudly.\n\n\"Very impressive,\" I replied.\n\n\"It's been eleven years in getting to this stage,\" Mrs. Meteni said. \"When we can, we hope to add wings on either side of the main hall. Might take another eleven years, but we'll do it.\"\n\nWe went in and I was introduced to the other members. We sat down and they quickly and professionally attended to their business, reviewing their work among the young people, housewives and pre-school children of Soweto. From time to time their comments clearly indicated their separateness from the Whites, especially when they referred to invitations received to attend overseas conferences. They spoke of several fund-raising projects planned for the months ahead.\n\nTheir agenda completed, they invited me to address them. At this moment, two other women joined us, one of them white. Someone sitting next to me explained that she was a graduate student from an American university who was examining the social conditions in Soweto as a basis for a doctoral thesis. I spoke briefly, of the reason for my visit to South Africa and what I had so far seen as I traveled about the country.\n\nAfterward, they spoke about Soweto and about the very few options open to black women. A few were teachers, some were nurses, or helpers at the local nursery schools, and many were domestics. All were frustrated by the narrowness of their lives.\n\n\"We read the YWCA publications sent to us from overseas,\" one said. \"We read of the things women do, are allowed to do, in other countries, in other parts of Africa and here we are, forced to confine our interests and ambitions to Soweto, and, even so, what we do here depends on what the white man lets us do.\"\n\nSuddenly one of the group, a graying, buxom woman stood up, interrupting the others with, \"Sisters, we are wasting time, our own and that of our visitor. Let's not talk about the stupid irritations like where we can or cannot go. He didn't come all the way from America to hear that. Let's tell him about what's really important to us. Let's tell him about the thing which frightens us and keeps us helpless. Let's tell him about our Fear.\"\n\nShe seemed to capitalize the word, giving it a dimension of immediate threat, bringing it into the room with us. Looking directly at me she said, \"My brother, we women live in Fear, every moment of every day of our lives. So do our men, but they, most of them, go off to work each morning and can temporarily forget their Fear in doing their jobs. But we think of them at those jobs and we fear for them. I have a man, sir, a lovely man, a good man who looks after me and our children. He's a very intelligent man. I know, because I live with him. I love to hear him talk with me and the children or with our friends when they come to visit. I'm very proud of him.\" She paused and looked around at the others, all with their eyes focused on her.\n\n\"My man works as an ordinary clerk in the city, a job any boy could do, but he has no way of seeking or getting promotion. Young white boys order him about, calling him 'boy' sometimes. My man. My proud man. It's eating away at him inside.\"\n\nOne of the women who had come to my hotel looked questioningly at me, as if wondering whether I wanted to hear what her colleague was saying. I nodded affirmatively.\n\n\"I watch my man go off at five each morning, and I wonder whether today will be the day when the dam will break, when somebody will say the final word to him, when some Whitey will heap on his head the final indignity and my man will lose control.\" Some of the others were nodding their heads as she spoke, their faces grave, living with her in her pain.\n\n\"It will happen one day,\" she went on. \"I can feel it in my bones, because I know my man. One day they will say something or do something to him and he will blow up. Do you know what will happen then to him, to us? They will call the police and take my man to jail, and I won't know anything about it. I will wait for him and when night comes and he is not here, I'll know. And the children will know. And tomorrow I must go search for him.\n\n\"Do you think the police will come to tell me my man is in jail? Never. I must search for him. One by one I must visit the police stations and ask for him. Always I must wait. I must swallow my anxiety and wait while they look at me, hating me because my husband is a man, laughing at me because I am black and helpless. I must wait until they check their lists. Sometimes they spell his name or pronounce his name their way and do not recognize the name I give them, so they say 'Go. We do not have your man.'\"\n\nThe room was quiet yet vibrant with the spell of the woman's pain. It seemed as if it was there with us, happening before our eyes.\n\n\"So, day after day I must search, living with my Fear, living with my children who will draw upon my Fear and be frightened. Maybe in three or four days I'll find him, thrown into a stinking cell with many others, stinking with his shit and his Fear, as frightened as I am. The police will say 'Bring forty Rand to pay your husband's fine.' Forty Rand! It's as easy to tell me go steal a star from the sky. Without forty Rand my husband may be deported somewhere up North. Somehow I must get that money. So it is, my brother. We busy ourselves with this place, and whatever we can do here, to distract us from our Fear, for our men, for our children and for ourselves.\"\n\nHer voice broke but her eyes were dry, though I knew she was weeping behind her eyes. The looks on the other faces told me they were with her on every frightening step she took.\n\n\"There's something else,\" she went on. \"We also live in fear of each other. Look at us. All black. All poor. And yet, even among us, sisters you might say, there may be one or more who will later report to the Security Police about what has been said here, by you and by us, but especially by us. So, while we fear for each other, we go in fear of each other, selling each other for the puny privilege of a pass, a permit for a relative, or, worst of all, a few Rand. I read some of your books, my brother. You are a teacher. Tell us how to trust each other. That's what we need to know. Talk to us about trusting each other, because when we can trust each other, we can together be strong against the white man's tyranny.\"\n\nI was about to reply, thinking that she was finished, but she lifted a hand to bid me wait.\n\n\"The white man wants to keep us afraid. Do you know how he does it? Ask anyone here. The Security Police raid our homes. Everyone's homes. It's to see if anyone's living there illegally, without a pass. They always come late at night or very early in the morning when we are dazed by sleep. They pound on our doors to frighten us, and if we're not quick to open them, they break them in. They love to see us huddled in our beds, cowering against their flashlights and their guns. And their dogs. They love to pull the bedclothes off us and look at our nakedness. So we live, my brother. In spite of all that we've come together and built this place. Now tell us how we can build ourselves, that we might be stronger than our fear.\"\n\nAbruptly she sat down, leaving me weakly unequal to the challenge of responding to her, to them.\n\n\"My sisters,\" I said, letting the moment and the feeling dictate whatever I'd say to them, \"you've opened doors to a world I'd never known existed. I've lived in countries where Blacks must fight for everything they get and have, and in my own struggle I had imagined myself confronted with formidable difficulties. In the face of what I've heard today, I feel humble. I believe that people who suffer as you do and survive as you do, can discover in yourselves reasons to trust each other. It must have taken great courage for our sister to speak the way she did, and I would like to believe that we all respect that courage. Perhaps, at times, our personal, private needs seem greater than the collective good and I can only be sympathetic with those who must make choices under these terrible conditions. Be patient with each other.\"\n\nBefore leaving I talked informally with them, especially the matron who had spoken so eloquently and moved me so deeply. I loved her, the dignity and majesty limned in her smooth black face and I knew that the spirit of freedom glowed strongly in her and could ignite the feebler ones. I felt encouraged and strengthened.\n\nBack at the hotel I was overcome by restlessness. I missed the casual ease of consorting with my friends in the U.S.A. and the challenge of my work. Here and now I was surrounded by hate and anger and menace and people engulfed in suffering. From my window I could see groups of young men scattered about the park and suddenly decided to go down among them.\n\nI chose a group at random and sat on the grass nearby, within easy earshot, looking at them, evidently taking an interest. They were conversing in an African language, very animatedly, waving arms, sometimes jumping up the better to emphasize a point. I was fascinated by it all, and by the realization of being so much the outsider, not understanding a word of what went on.\n\nSuddenly one of them noticed me and said something. I shook my head, smiling, and explained that I was a visitor from overseas, staying across the street at the Landdrost Hotel. They looked at me in surprise, then at the hotel and suddenly gathered around me, bombarding me with questions, in English. Suddenly one of them remembered reading something about me in one of the newspapers and asked if I was the author of Reluctant Neighbors. He had not read it but knew someone who had, and remembered some of the things discussed in it. For a while, we talked about me and my books, but gradually they got back to what they had been talking about before. It was the letter-bomb murder of Abraham Tiro in Gabarone, Botswana.\n\nMr. Tiro, self-exiled in Botswana, had formerly been the leader of one student organization, and was, at the time of his death, president of another. In a recent letter Mr. Tiro had affirmed their joint solidarity and had concluded with the enigmatic line, \"No struggle can come to an end without casualties.\"\n\nHardly noticing me, they continued the discussion in English, arguing that the assassination was engineered by agents of the South African Security Forces, because Mr. Tiro had cleverly eluded them and fled to Botswana. The letter-bomb, according to them, was a highly sophisticated Western device, far removed from the kind of thing any African would ever think of using against another African. Furthermore, it was another attempt by the South African Security Forces to intimidate Africans by showing how capable they were of reaching their quarry, no matter where they hid. Suddenly, one of them pounded his fists on the ground, his face distorted with an anger he could barely contain.\n\n\"Look at us,\" he cried, \"just look at us. Do you know what we're doing? We're mourning a brother. The white man has murdered our brother in Botswana and we are mourning him. But even that we must do here, in the open, away from prying eyes and ears. Why do we live like this? Our brother is dead. He killed no one, harmed no one. He merely spoke of the imperative of human dignity. He only spoke out against white brutality, and for that he was hunted and hounded from his school, his home, his country, and now his life. They watch us, his mourners, listening for some sign of protest. They let us know they're watching us, to make us fearful. And yet they say they fear us. They say we outnumber them and they fear us. From outside you are likely to believe them. Think of it. Twenty million Blacks against about four million Whites. From outside you will think of those numbers and their imbalance and you will believe that the white man really lives in fear of us. From outside you cannot see the way in which we are dispersed and weakened. Effective resistance is not established overnight. It needs to be planned, nurtured, and led. We need to see leaders, to give to any movement a point of reference. We need to know a man, with a name that we can talk about to our wives, our children, ourselves. We need to see our pride, clearly, in the flesh, to be reminded who we were and could be.\n\n\"We are ashamed, my friend, to sit here like women and weep for those whom they ban and imprison and kill. We, the sons of sons of Zulu warriors sit and cry because we are powerless in our fear. We should rise up against them. Perhaps you, too, sit there thinking that we should forget our fear and rise against those who make us afraid.\"\n\n\"You were at Dorkay House,\" one said, pointing at me. \"The night some white men came to listen to the bands from Soweto.\"\n\nI admitted that I had been.\n\n\"Somebody said you write books,\" he said. I agreed.\n\n\"Will you write about us?\"\n\n\"I cannot be certain. After all I do not know your names. I will write about the conditions under which you live and perhaps, if you ever read the book, you might be able to identify yourselves.\" Saying it to have some real part in the conversation, not really knowing if I would write about them.\n\n\"That's good, friend. No names. Please, no names. But if you write about conditions here we shall never be able to read your book. Not here. Don't you know that books critical of the Government are banned?\"\n\n\"I know. My books were banned for a time.\"\n\n\"You heard about that Afrikaner writer, Brink? He's written a book about a White sleeping with a black woman. Hell, they're after him. The politicians, the church, everybody. Shit, everybody knows it happens. That's why they've made laws against it. But the laws don't stop people from doing what they want, it only makes them cautious. Where the hell do they think all the half-breeds, the Coloreds, come from?\n\n\"Shit, brother. Can you imagine what would happen if a Black wrote a book like that? Nobody would even publish it. Look at us. We write simply stories and songs about ourselves and nobody wants to touch them. Naturally we write about our pain and our problems, not about sleeping with some white woman. You ever heard of Benedict Vilakaizi?\"\n\n\"No. Who is he?\"\n\n\"He was one of the few Blacks to teach at Witwatersrand University, years ago, before this Government changed all that. He was also a poet. He wrote many poems. Go to a bookstore and ask for Zulu Horizons. That's the name of his book of poems. Listen to this:\n\n> 'Yes, when a siren screeched one day,\n> \n> A poor black dassie\u2021 heard its call\n> \n> And, answering its summons in confusion\n> \n> Was trapped.\n> \n> And then\n> \n> Transformed into a mole,\n> \n> Was forced to burrow deep and search for gold.'\"\n\n\"That's very good,\" I said.\n\n\"Shit, brother. It's more than good. It's beautiful. And it's real.\"\n\n\"I'd like to meet the poet,\" I said.\n\n\"You will, one day.\" Laughter. \"For now, he's dead. Died about thirty years ago. But he was a real Zulu. He spoke to the heart and soul of his people, to their pain and their pride. He was a father to us, not like Buthelezi.\"\n\n\"What about other black writers?\" I asked, wishing to keep him off Buthelezi.\n\n\"Oh, there are many. Many. But nobody wants to publish them. When a few of them get published, there's nothing much in it for them. But they, too, speak for us. Like Stanley Wotzuwadi. Listen to this:\n\n> 'I get my cue\n> \n> From the glint in the cop's eye.\n> \n> I have seen it before.\n> \n> So I have to find it.\n> \n> I pull away from Mons and hug myself in desperation.\n> \n> Up, down, back, front, sides, like a\n> \n> Crazed tribal dancer\n> \n> I have to find it.\n> \n> Without it I'm lost.\n> \n> With it I'm lost, a cipher in Albert Street.\n> \n> I hate it. I treasure it.\n> \n> My pass. My everything.'\n\n\"You understand. He's talking to me. About me. About us. No white man can understand those words.\"\n\n\"You know about the Book of Life? Our pass book?\" one asked.\n\n\"Yes. I've seen one,\" I replied. \"Where can I buy some books by these black writers?\"\n\nThey told me of a bookshop on Commissioner Street, a few blocks away, which was known to carry books by Blacks, native and foreign.\n\nAfter some further conversation they invited me to have a drink with them later and I agreed to meet them outside the railroad station a short distance from my hotel. I left them, to search for the bookshop and purchase copies of books they'd mentioned, poetry and prose by Blacks, the few who had managed to get some of their work published. As they'd directed me I took the route through Eloff Street toward Commissioner Street.\n\n\u2021 Black peasant.\n\n# Chapter  \nTen\n\nHALF A BLOCK AWAY from Commissioner Street I saw a black man running, just running along Eloff Street toward me, on the roadway near the sidewalk to avoid the traffic. There seemed to be no one pursuing him and I was not alerted to any trouble until two white men stepped in his way and grabbed him, one of them holding him tightly by the collar of his shirt. They were shouting at him in Afrikaans, so I could understand nothing except the repeated, \"No, no, Baas\" from him. They cuffed and kicked him, shaking him meanwhile.\n\nA crowd quickly gathered, some of them asking what the man had done. Some of these spoke English but all I could make out was that the man had been running. The men who held him had not been chasing him, nor did they know why he'd been running. Someone called the police, who quickly arrived and took over from the two civilians, handling the man just as roughly. One policeman, a big, red-faced, crew-cut fellow slapped the man on the side of the head with a huge meaty hand, snarling at him in Afrikaans. Someone near me called out to the policeman in English to stop hitting the man. The policeman told the bystander to shut up or he'd take him down to John Vorster Square for interfering in the due process of justice.\n\n\"Christ, is that justice?\" I heard myself ask. The big policeman glared at me. I felt pitifully helpless, a stranger, unable to do anything but look on, as they dragged the man to where they'd parked their car.\n\nThe bystanders began chattering among themselves, some expressing outrage at the two who had stopped the running man, others angrily defending their action. A crazy mixture of English and Afrikaans. Whites shouting at each other. A few Blacks standing well away from it, watching but saying nothing. I was too near the center of it for comfort, dazed by the suddenness, the sheer brutality of it. I felt myself shaking and knew that I was frightened. Suddenly, unexpectedly frightened. Christ, a minute ago the black man had been running here, the slap, slap of his feet still a faint echo in my ear with the memory of his loose shirttails fluttering behind him; now, he had vanished, in the company of brutal men, probably to be beaten while screaming for mercy, no one asking questions, no one interested in explanations. If it had been nighttime, he might have been killed on the spot. For what? For being in a hurry?\n\nAt long last I realized what so many people had been trying to tell me. It finally sank in. If you're Black in South Africa, there's nothing between you and sudden violence, nothing to protect you from the hate of centuries. On the street, in your home, anywhere. Not the laws, not the courts, not the police. \"Walk,\" they said to me, \"don't run. Don't ever run.\" I felt exposed, brought up hard against the fact that here I could not take for granted even the simple protection of personal space that strangers in all other places respect between each other.\n\nSlowly I walked away from there to the bookshop. The bookshop attendant, a young, dark-haired woman, not only had the books in stock, but had read them and spoke knowledgeably and enthusiastically about them. We went downstairs to the lower floor of the shop. While I waited for the books, there would be footsteps from time to time on the stairs which were near the cashier's desk. Each time the young woman would quickly, furtively glance behind her.\n\nIt happened again and I asked, \"Why are you so nervous?\"\n\n\"Nervous?\"\n\n\"Yes. Every time there are footsteps on those stairs you look frightened.\"\n\nShe blushed. \"I guess you're right. It's become a sort of occupational disease. But I can't help it. Each time it happens I promise myself that the next time I'll just ignore it, but I can't.\"\n\n\"But why? They're only customers, like myself, coming to look and buy.\"\n\n\"Not always. Regularly the Security Police drop in. It's got so we can nearly recognize their feet. They come in and flip through the books on display, deciding in their own strange way what must be withdrawn, what may be sold, what jackets must be covered. It's a kind of harassment, and there's nothing we can do about it. They're always looking for Communist literature and any title that's the least bit dubious, to them, gets the book banned.\"\n\n\"What do you mean when you speak of covering jackets?\"\n\n\"I mean just that. I'll give you an example.\"\n\nWith that she went to a rack and returned with a paperback copy of The Great Gatsby, which was published in England. The cover carried palely colored drawings of three people, two women and a man, dressed in the style of the twenties, the women's clothing little more than a frothy film over the thin pencil lines of their bodies. There was nothing even vaguely suggestive about the drawings; one could differentiate between the sexes, that was all.\n\n\"They've ordered us to place covers over these jackets,\" she said. \"The book has recently been prescribed for Secondary Schools, and these men claim that the cover is too suggestive for exposure to the students.\"\n\nI was tempted to disbelieve her but for the seriousness in her clear gray eyes.\n\n\"Jesus Christ,\" I said.\n\n\"Oh, yes,\" she replied, \"They claim they are doing it in his name and in the interests of morality. Several times each week, without any advance notice, they come in, paw their way through our books and take some away, ostensibly to read and inspect them for questionable ideas and philosophies.\"\n\n\"Mine were banned,\" I said.\n\n\"Yours?\" Her eyebrows raised in surprise. \"Are you a writer, too? What's your name? You're not South African, are you? Your accent. Sounds English to me.\"\n\n\"Yes, I write. The name's Braithwaite and I'm not South African.\"\n\n\"Braithwaite! Of course. To Sir, with Love. I read in the Mail that you were in Jo'burg. Yes. Of course. For a while we were prevented from selling your books, even though To Sir was prescribed for the Training College. Can you make any sense out of that? You know they banned Black Beauty, the famous children's book, some years ago? That's the kind of mentality we have to deal with.\"\n\n\"Now I understand your nervousness. I'm sure I'd behave in the same way under similar pressures.\"\n\n\"Oh, in my case it's more than that. I was in jail for several years. For opposition to the Government. They jailed me under the Suppression of Communism Act, though they knew I'm no Communist. But that's a sort of catch-all. After I came out of prison I was restricted to my home for a long time. Couldn't travel or entertain friends or anything. It's like if you stopped living but went on breathing. I thought I'd get over my fear of them, but it happens in spite of myself. I suppose it's because I can't bear the thought of being imprisoned again.\"\n\nSomehow her words made a far deeper impression on me than did those of the Indian who had been held in Robben Island. He was still full of pep and vinegar and, given the chance, would again be inciting resistance. But this young woman had been hurt deeply as only the insider can be hurt when visited by the wrath of his own kind.\n\nI paid for my books and left her. At every turn the underlying ugliness in the society was breaking through the upper crust of comfort and prosperity. To keep the majority in a state of fear some of the minority must themselves become victims, spreading the virus of fear within as well as without. With my small burden of books, I walked the short distance to the railway station. The five young men were waiting for me.\n\n\"Got your books?\" one asked.\n\n\"Yes.\" I decided to say nothing of the incident in Commissioner Street. \"Where are we going for our drink?\"\n\n\"Come to where we live. In Soweto.\"\n\nMy immediate impulse was to refuse. I'd seen enough of that place.\n\n\"I've been there. I was there today, visiting with the YWCA.\"\n\n\"Women!\" one said, scornfully.\n\n\"We're inviting you to come and have a drink with us, brother,\" another said, pointedly. I realize I should have anticipated this and invited them to my hotel. They watched me, waiting.\n\n\"Okay,\" I said, hating myself for my weakness. What the hell was I trying to prove?\n\nOver my objections one of them said he'd get the tickets and we walked on to the station platform. The train was there, its engine hissing impatiently, perhaps at the Blacks who were shoving and pushing each other to get on. My friends pulled me into the surging mass.\n\n\"Why do we have to get into this one?\" I protested. \"I can see other carriages further along.\"\n\n\"Those are for Whites,\" was the reply, by which time I was caught in the surge and propelled along into the carriage which was already packed beyond capacity. All black people, those who were lucky enough to be seated, uncomfortable under the leaning weight of the rest of us. The place stank from the limited ventilation and the crush of human bodies. I wished I'd been strong enough to refuse this invitation.\n\nSoon I was perspiring, the cool rivulets trickling their way down my armpits and my back. My arms were pinned to my sides, the package of books a rough discomfort against my ribcage. The knowledge that the man braced against me was feeling the same discomfort helped.\n\n\"You could have been riding comfortably with the Whites,\" one of my friends whispered hoarsely in my ear. \"For as long as you're visiting here you're regarded as White, did you know? Honorary White.\" He made the two words sound like a curse.\n\n\"Now you tell me,\" I whispered back, letting him gloat over his small imagined victory.\n\nThrough the crush, the white conductor forced his way, grabbing tickets from outstretched hands, quickly examining them, shouting at those whose tickets were not in order, abusing them, beefy, red-faced, belligerent. We swayed against his rough, onward passage. I felt helpless, with one foot barely touching the ground, dependent entirely on the pressures which kept me erect. As he elbowed his way past me, I saw the anger in his pale gray eyes, anger and contempt for the black mass through which he must claw his way.\n\n\"He's got to get the tickets before we reach Soweto,\" was whispered to me. \"Once we got there they'd walk all over him.\"\n\nWith a squeal of brakes, the train shuddered to a stop. Gratefully I waited for some easing of the pressure. By twisting my head around I caught the eyes of one of my friends.\n\n\"This is a white stop,\" he explained. \"No Blacks getting off here. We've got more than an hour of this.\"\n\nThrough a window I saw the legend, Braamfontein in bold lettering on the fence along the station, and beyond the red gleam of a bungalow's roof nestling under trees. Evidently a white suburb. Soon we were on our way, making more stops for the departing Whites\u2014Langlaate, Croesus, Canada\u2014depositing those who had been riding in cushioned ease.\n\nI could have been riding comfortably too, as an Honorary White. Thinking of it I felt the full impact of its debasement. For all these years I'd been living proudly in my black skin, doing very satisfying things in it. In this same skin I'd spent a happy boyhood in Guyana, learning about ambition and pride and the pleasure of competitive effort from parents and teachers and others, most of them in black skins like mine\u2014some white, but treating our black skins with respect. In this skin I'd sat with other undergraduates in an English university, pitting my intellect against theirs, confident in my abilities. In this skin I'd flown a fighter aircraft during the war, had known love, anger, despair, and success. In this same skin I'd written my books, taught Whites, and represented my country as a diplomat.\n\nThis skin had always been good enough for me. Men had admired my prowess in it. Women of many colors had found it beautiful. Never before had anyone, anywhere, attempted to change it. Yet now my color was far more important than anything I might be or do. Piss on their Honorary White! I'll ride Black.\n\nAt Canada Junction some of the crowd dismounted to find their branch lines to various parts of Soweto. We continued on to Orlando, from which we had a long walk to where they lived. We walked along a dusty, rutted road, through rough weed-grown land cluttered with stones and here and there a pile of rubble, all that remained of former homes that had been bulldozed to the ground. In the near distance the houses were little square boxes softened by the shrubs and small trees which grew around them.\n\nAt a crossroads a group of men stood in excited conversation near a car which had run off the road and now was tilted lopsidedly on the grass verge. Along both sides of the roadway people were at their doors or windows looking toward the group of men. We stopped and one of my acquaintances spoke to them in their language. There followed an outburst of sound accompanied by much arm waving.\n\nThis car and another had been involved in an accident. An argument had ensued and the police had arrived. One driver had promptly taken to his heels. The police had shouted to him to stop, and without waiting for him to comply, had shot him, there at the corner, the bloodstained grass providing mute evidence. The wounded man had been removed in the police car to hospital, but was not expected to live. A crowd had formed and the police had ordered them to disperse. The people had merely retreated to stand outside their homes, in an ugly mood, but helpless and defeated.\n\nWho cared whether another Black was shot and killed! Perhaps, at the hospital it would be discovered that he did not have a residence permit or Book of Life, and was therefore in Soweto illegally. After all, once a black man was in the hands of the police, identity material could easily disappear. No local resident would dare complain about the actions of the police. In any case, who could they complain to? The police themselves? The white courts? No. Fear of the white man dominated their lives. Fear of sudden violence, arrest, deportation to some remote rural area.\n\nAlong the dusty street, small groups of black men and women whispered together, their voices subdued even though the police were long gone. I couldn't imagine this fearful numbness among Blacks in New York or Chicago or London or Birmingham, in Jamaica or anywhere else where large groups of Blacks lived. Perhaps, in spite of my acquaintances' optimistic talk, they were already demoralized past any resistance.\n\nI said as much, but was told that no one trusted his neighbor enough to band together. Resisting vicious police tactics in broad daylight was one thing, but where would there be any help if the police called at night, with their guns and their dogs, carefully selecting the houses of those who'd spoken up against them? Who'd lend a hand when his neighbor was dragged out and away, no longer militant, but abjectly groveling and begging for mercy?\n\nThis they lived with, these young men, desperately trying to blow some faint sparks from their despondent spirits, willing themselves to cling to faint dreams of a freedom which grew fainter and more distant each hour. They asked me about Blacks in Harlem and the deep South of the United States, hoping to hear from me accounts of white brutality to Blacks which might offer them some small consolation in their own desperate situation. But I told them that though the American police, given the opportunity, could be just as racist and brutal, Blacks in the United States were militantly aggressive in their own defense. Somehow, these young Africans had been fed the idea that their condition was in no way different from that of American Blacks. They quoted stories of Lester Maddox of Georgia and his ax-handles and of George Wallace of Alabama defying the Court's orders, but did not know that history had already overtaken these men. They liked to tell themselves that they would one day rise up against their oppressors; they even imagined themselves engaged in covert activities against the Whites. But it was all bravado. Empty. Mere posturing.\n\nThey angered me, these young men. I thought of people I knew in Europe and the United States, black and white, who had talked with me in the fond hope that the black South African would eventually rid himself of the incubus of oppression, by the bloodiest means, if necessary. I thought of the young Blacks in my classes at New York University who'd believed that the militant projection of their blackness was a part, perhaps the most important part of their African identity. Were they identifying with this weakness, this demoralized hopelessness? These men had been bleating about the death of a brother, but in fact Tiro's death had kindled no fire, had engendered no rage. A few minutes of huddling in grief, or beating the unresponsive earth, that was all. The realities had to be faced, clamored to be faced. Tiro was dead and had already faded into the pitiful legends of yesterday. Today was now, the job in Johannesburg, the Book of Life, the quarter room in Soweto, the paralyzing fear of Whites.\n\nAs we continued on our way to the houses we passed the elementary school. From the outside it was a large solid enough structure of reddish brick built to form a hollow square, single-storied and squat, the rough mortar between the bricks suggesting haste in construction. The ground around it was red clay nearly covered by a ragged growth of weeds, kept somewhat in check by human feet, because it provided the playground area for the school. The whole was enclosed by a wire fence torn in several places.\n\n\"I went to this school years ago,\" one said.\n\n\"I'd like to take a look without interrupting anything,\" I said. \"I'd like to see them without anyone putting on a show for me.\"\n\n\"Then just look inside. They're accustomed to people looking in. The teacher won't mind. Nobody will put on any show for you.\"\n\n\"How do you know?\"\n\n\"I'm always poking my nose in. We need to know what's going on in the schools, so we check from time to time. Go ahead, if you like.\" We stopped beside a classroom. He'd said \"we\" as if he were speaking for some absent group or organization.\n\nFrom outside the only sound we could hear was the low voice of one person, perhaps the teacher, rising and falling softly. The door was slightly ajar, and, urged by my companions, I opened it further and went in, followed by them.\n\nThe room was small and very overcrowded. The benches and few desks supported twice as many children as they were designed for, squashed and perched wherever they could squeeze their thin bodies. Those who missed out on the benches and desks were either standing at the back or squatting on the bare concrete floor along the sides of the room. In a room probably built to accommodate fifteen or twenty children in comfort, there were eighty or ninety. Most of them had plastic sacks in which they carried and zealously guarded their books, rulers, pencils, and other supplies.\n\nConsidering the external surroundings, the children were tidily dressed, the boys, for the most part in gray shorts and gray or white shirts, the girls in dark blue uniform dress with white bodices. They hardly noticed our entrance. Without exception their attention was raptly fixed on the teacher, absorbing his every word.\n\nI leaned against a wall, watching what was, to me, a miracle. I'd forgotten that, in many parts of the world there still existed a ravenous hunger for learning and knowing. If had been so in my boyhood days in Guyana, even though we were never cramped like this, never oppressed in this way. But in the long intervening years of watching students and being a teacher, I'd become accustomed to other conditions, in which students needed to be inveigled, coerced, bribed, or flattered into making the smallest intellectual effort.\n\nThese youngsters were eager, their faces and eyes bright with either the enthusiasm of discovery or competition, perhaps already aware that a great deal depended on them, and knowing well that outside there were others who would gladly take their places.\n\nThe teacher nodded in our direction but continued with his lesson, apparently unperturbed by the interruption. The lesson was conducted in Afrikaans. He would ask questions and then have to select an answer from among the forest of waving hands which clamored for the chance to reply. None of the children seemed to notice the heat or the overcrowding. They were in an intensely competitive situation and were fully responsive to it. This lesson would be followed by one in English. Until the age of eight or, in some cases, ten years, the child reads, writes and does his counting in an African language, then is abruptly switched to studies conducted in Afrikaans or English or both. Blacks view this as a deliberate plan to inhibit their progress in a society which uses Afrikaans and English exclusively and interchangeably.\n\nObviously, there never would be any problem of discipline here, because there was no boredom. The children seemed to be soaking in every tidbit of information through eyes and ears, through their very skin. But what of tomorrow when even the minimal haven of this school would be denied them? All this youthful energy and thrust must inevitably collide with the white man's blockades and become poisoned with frustration, anger, and hate. I could almost feel it, a near tangible force, the accelerating buildup of energy as each graduating group was forced out into its own confrontation with the cold, closed world. How long would they be denied? Eventually, clubs, police dogs and even guns would not be able to subdue them, and that was exactly what the Whites feared.\n\nOutside, my companions decided to stay in Soweto and offered to accompany me to the railway station. They seemed to have forgotten all about the drink they'd promised me. I told them I'd had enough of that and would rather suffer a taxi, if they'd help me find one.\n\n\"Can't take it more than one way?\" one asked, grinning. \"We make it both ways, five times a week. Anyway, you were lucky today. Nobody picked your pocket.\"\n\nInvoluntarily I checked. He was right.\n\n\"Would you show me where I'd find a taxi?\" I asked.\n\n\"Not easy at this hour,\" one answered. \"But don't worry, I'll run you into Jo'burg.\" He led the way to his home, next to which a shiny, near-new car was parked.\n\n\"I never use it for work,\" he said, touching it fondly. \"Can't afford to run it to the city every day. Then the cost of parking it. So I use it mainly on weekends.\"\n\n\"As many a late virgin will certify,\" another added, and all joined in the ribald laughter. Now that the matter of my transportation was settled we stood around outside his house, chatting in lighter vein with each other. Eventually, over my broad hints, the owner of the car started it up and we climbed in, the others riding only as far as their homes. On the way to the city, he was more relaxed with me, talking about his job as a warehouseman\u2014a dead-end, but it kept him alive. In contrast to the power-cut gloom of London which I'd recently left, Johannesburg's night was lit like a fairyland, its power stations all fueled by coal. A few blocks from my hotel we stopped at a traffic light and I noticed three smartly dressed young women, black, chatting together on the pavement, their lush bodies, bright, lipsticked mouths, and bold postures seeming out of place at that hour in Johannesburg.\n\n\"If Blacks are not allowed to live in this city, where would they find clients?\" I asked my companion.\n\n\"If you wait long enough you'll see,\" he replied. \"They're waiting for Whitey. When it's dark and he thinks nobody's seeing him he leaves his wife and goes looking for black pussy.\"\n\n\"But what about the police? Don't they pick them up?\"\n\n\"Only those who don't pay.\"\n\nSo much for apartheid.\n\n\"You want to hear a famous saying?\" he asked me, smiling wickedly. \"A real proverb? A Soweto proverb?\"\n\n\"Go ahead,\" I said.\n\n\"The final destiny of the white man lies between the black woman's legs. Work that out, my friend.\"\n\n# Chapter  \nEleven\n\nTWO DAYS BEFORE I was scheduled to leave South Africa, some students from Witwatersrand University telephoned. They said they wished to visit and talk with me, and I agreed to have dinner with them at my hotel; they wanted to take me to a local restaurant, but one near-experience of that was enough for me.\n\nI suddenly had a feeling of confusion. Talking with one of the students on the telephone had brought the old, familiar feeling of excitement which always comes to me at the prospect of meeting young people, challenging their intellects and having them challenge mine, learning from them and hoping to teach them. Life had, so far, favored me with a wide variety of experiences which lent themselves to excellent illustrations whenever I needed to enliven an academic topic. These students had invited me to meet and talk with them. They were White. For weeks now I had been bombarded by the ugliness of white bigotry toward Blacks. I'd seen a young man beaten and humiliated for no reason. He'd been running, that's all. I'd heard lovely black women talk of the fear which was a major ingredient of their daily lives. I'd traveled, cooped up with other Blacks like cattle in a truck, while Whites rode in comfort on the same train. Now here I was, reacting with pleasure to an invitation to meet and consort with Whites. Did the fact that they were students make the difference?\n\nI wondered what the young men I had so recently visited in Soweto would think of me, if they knew I was entertaining a group of Whites. Would they consider me insensitive to their plight? But why worry about what they would think? What did I think? In the face of all the injustice I saw all around me, how could I justify to myself the feeling of pleasure at meeting the students? Perhaps, I thought, they were denied the opportunity to meet and talk with Blacks. Perhaps meeting and talking with me might sow some tiny seed of tolerance and respect which might take root. Or would it? Hell, I was not the first Black any of them had met or could meet if they wished. Or wasn't I? Maybe they'd never met another Black who'd had the opportunities to do what I had done. Perhaps, in their eyes, I was different. But, wait, wasn't that exactly what the Indian ex-Robben Island prisoner had predicted would happen? That the Whites would get to me and seduce me into believing myself different from local Blacks?\n\nI was feeling quite low when the students arrived, but tried to hide it in welcoming them and making them comfortable. Eight of them, five men and three women, young and, at first, somewhat ill at ease. One dark-haired woman who seemed to be the leader of the group apologized for encroaching on my time, particularly as they knew from the newspapers how busy I was.\n\n\"We just had to take the chance, sir,\" she said. \"We've read your books, we know you've lived in England, France, and the United States and we'd like to talk to you about things we'd never be able to discuss with anyone here. We just had to take the chance that you'd see us.\"\n\nIn the face of her plea my misgivings subsided. Hell, these young people looked no different from other groups of young Whites I'd taught in London or Denmark, New York or Florida. Perhaps, in some small way I might be useful. Wasn't this what I had always tried to do as a teacher?\n\nWe talked. At first about my books, my teaching, my travels and my diplomatic service, gradually moving on to themselves as members of their university and citizens of their country.\n\n\"All our philosophy courses teach us to examine the human condition continually and try to improve it,\" said one young woman, whose two thick braids emphasized the youthfulness of her serious face. \"We read about social structures, historical and modern, and it is inevitable that we compare them with our own. We talk about the anomalies among ourselves. That's fine. But then we try to discuss them in class and that's where the trouble starts. How can we talk about the human condition without referring to the Blacks in our society? As soon as you mention Blacks, professors get uptight.\"\n\n\"Unless you refer to them only as statistics,\" another said.\n\n\"In High School everyone was eager to get to the university,\" a young man said. \"We came, believing that we should develop as thoughtfully intelligent people, prepared to assume future responsibilities. And we are encouraged, as long as our inquiries and interests are not directed toward real social change!\"\n\n\"I had this thing with my philosophy professor,\" one said. \"We were discussing social change and after a while it struck me that our entire discussion was limited to intellectual speculation. No one had tried to draw any parallels between what we were philosophizing about and the social realities around us. No one had made any reference to Blacks; no one had commented on apartheid. Of course we talked about injustice, but not as if any of us was even tangentially involved in it. We even reviewed research that had been done, but it was as if we were discussing the behavior of caribou in Canada. So I finally spoke up and said, 'Why don't we, as students, examine our own attitudes to Blacks?' In as many words I was told to forget it.\"\n\n\"Why?\" I asked.\n\n\"It's dangerous to display a social conscience,\" a young man said. \"If you have a social conscience you will inevitably get around to examining Government policies and practices. So you raise a question involving the slightest criticism of that policy and the trouble starts! Some of our professors are members of the Nationalist Party and ardent defenders of Government policy. Before you know it you're under some kind of investigation.\"\n\n\"From your professors?\"\n\n\"Worse. Much worse. From the Security Police. It's a grim situation and you find yourself spinning in circles. We study logic, so Plato's Republic is part of our reading. We read it and we look around to test the validity of the things we read which seem sound against the reality around us. When faced with conflicting concepts, we naturally expect to be able to talk with our professors about them. We read Mann and Thoreau and Steinbeck. French, English, German, Italian, Russian\u2014we try to understand the views and opinions of those considered the world's foremost thinkers. Some of us have been reading Solzhenitsyn. Isn't it to be expected that we will look at our own social structure, if only to reassure ourselves that it is a good one?\"\n\n\"In this society,\" another said, \"if you entertain liberal views, you are soon forced by circumstances into testing the strength and honesty of your liberalism.\"\n\n\"Strength?\" a young woman asked. \"How can you use that word? The fact is that we assume postures. For a short while. When the pressures begin we cave in. We don't necessarily change our views but we do the treacherous thing, the humiliating thing. We cave in to the pressures applied by the university and the Security Police. We learn that there is no such thing as intellectual independence. We don't see it in our professors. We don't see it in our parents. We don't see it. Period.\"\n\n\"You spoke of having liberal views,\" I said to them. \"What views?\"\n\n\"That's what we wanted to talk to you about,\" one young man replied. Red-haired, with a full, neatly trimmed beard, he'd sat quietly since they'd arrived. \"We read an interview of you in the paper the other day, and some of us have been talking about what you said. You spoke about 'social conscience.' Okay, in this society the moment the words 'social conscience' are used, we're talking about our racial situation. About Blacks. As soon as we look around to assess our social or economic situation we see Blacks. Everywhere. And we see what we do to them.\"\n\n\"Well, what's your attitude to them? I mean you, individually, how do you react to them?\"\n\n\"I'm not sure. I try to be\u2014\"\n\n\"We're supposed to be afraid of them,\" the brunette interrupted him. \"Everyone warns that they'll kill us in our beds one day. We're advised to be watchful of them, to keep ourselves armed always.\"\n\n\"Are you afraid of them?\" I pointed the question directly at her.\n\n\"Not ordinarily. Not in the streets, if I see them walking. Not in the shops or offices,\" she stammered, then recovered. \"Well, not those in our home. I mean, not when you can see them. But it's different when you think of them away from you. Where they live. What do they think? What do they talk about? My father worked many years in the Ciskei. He says they never forgive, they can go years biding their time.\"\n\n\"Do you think that's because they're Black? People everywhere resent injustice. If you mistreat people they are likely to turn on you. Whites do. Why should Blacks be any different?\"\n\n\"It's not that they're different.\" From the bearded young man. \"The real fact is that we don't really know them. They're all around us and we don't know them.\" I was glad he'd cut in. He seemed to have given the matter a great deal of thought.\n\n\"What's stopping you from knowing them?\" I wanted to stir something up, get under their skins. \"They're in your homes all day long. You can always begin there.\"\n\n\"My father said that when he was at Wits it was multiracial,\" a blonde girl intervened, but before she could divert him the bearded young man said, \"Last summer I worked on a job with two Blacks. Okay, it was only a summer job, not much for me to do. They did all the work. One thing I had to do was sign their work permits. I suppose you've heard that a Black has to have his work permit signed by a White. Each month. Sometimes the most junior White is assigned that job. Even a girl typist might be the one to sign the permits of men old enough to be her father. I think the idea is to keep them in line, you know, humiliate them, remind them of their dependence.\" He licked his lips, looking around at his peers.\n\n\"Anyway,\" he went on, \"there wasn't much to do so I'd get talking with those two. We never talked about politics and they never talked about themselves, I mean about where they lived, or their families, anything like that. We talked about sports or books or about the American and Russian moon trips. Things like that. It was nice talking with them, they seemed to know a hell of a lot, you didn't get the feeling they were inferior or anything like that. Anyway, they got laid off, for some reason or another. I can't remember. Well, if a Black is unemployed he cannot get a monthly signature and is likely to be picked up and jailed or deported. If he goes looking for a job people always suspect the worst as the reason he was sacked. See the dilemma? Anyway, these two came to see me, met me outside one day and asked me to help them out with the signature until they could find another job. They were having a tough time, but they didn't ask for money, only the signature. Well, I knew nobody would check it, so I signed their permits. It was a funny feeling. Twenty-two years old and I held the destiny of two men at the tip of my pen. If I'd refused to sign they would have been lost. You know how it feels to have people beg you for their lives? I did it, but I never felt good or proud. Each month they'd meet me in a park and I'd sign for them. Nearly eight months. Now they've got jobs in a warehouse. I was glad when it ended, my signing, I mean. I think they even hated me a bit. They never came to tell me they'd got the new jobs; I heard it by accident. When they came for the signatures I'd sign and they'd go. No more talking together, so we never really knew each other. I don't even know what they really thought about me. Could be they hated me for having become so dependent on me. Thing is, I never felt good about helping them.\"\n\n\"If it's so difficult for you, it's a hundred times worse for a woman,\" the blonde said. \"We cannot be seen talking to a black woman in a public place, let alone a black man.\"\n\n\"We're getting away from the point,\" a young man intervened, then to me.\n\n\"We're here because of the things you said in your interview. We think you probably believe that we are either unwilling or unable to protest Government policies.\"\n\n\"Critical examination and challenge mean nothing in the abstract. The social, political, and economic realities all around you are crying out to be challenged,\" I insisted.\n\n\"You may not know it,\" he replied, a bit testily, \"but Wits does have a reputation for criticism and protest, in spite of administration pressure and police harassment. Have you heard anything of NUSAS, the National Union of South African Students? Let me tell you. It was founded by an Afrikaner student in the old days, to encourage and support the interests of white students. It had its beginning at an Afrikaans university, and in spite of the prevailing policies of discrimination and bigotry, opened its membership to black students. That hasn't changed. If you charge that the society at large is becoming more and more polarized you may be correct, but if you looked a little closer you would soon discover that NUSAS members, black and white, are in the vanguard of action for social and political change. Many former members of NUSAS were imprisoned, sometimes in solitary confinement, for pressing for social reform. My father was one of them. I was in prep school in 1964 when the Security Police began mopping up anyone who was an activist, faculty or student. Wits. Cape Town. Rhodes and Natal. They raided all the places with NUSAS affiliation. The economics lecturer at Rhodes, Norman Bromberger, was picked up and held in solitary for a hundred and sixty-eight days. Did you know that?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Nowadays students are not openly activist, but they're active nonetheless. No point in getting beaten up or jailed if you can avoid it. Long before black students had formed unions, the Whites were bearing the heat of protest. Did you know that until this Government came to power there were black students at the English language universities? Did you know there were even integrated campus dances? The Government banned them in 1965. Ever heard of Sir Richard Luyt?\"\n\n\"Yes. He was Governor of British Guyana just before it became independent.\"\n\n\"Right. He's now Principal of Cape Town U. After his appointment they resumed integrated dances there. He even offered a lectureship to a black anthropologist trained at Oxford, Archie Mafeje, but the Government forced the U. to withdraw the offer. Nearly a thousand students and faculty sat-in to protest. Dr. Mafeje was not appointed, even though the sit-in lasted nearly two weeks. Would you say that the students have been sitting on their hands?\"\n\n\"No, I wouldn't.\" These were the things I'd been hoping to hear, not the nice, self-deprecating noises which had been made so far. But still, he was telling me of the old times. I wanted to hear about now. About here. About them.\n\n\"Meanwhile the police have become rougher in their tactics and more sophisticated in their methods. Their chief weapon was intimidation. They could easily get Afrikaner students to infiltrate student organizations. Anyone who expressed anti-Government sentiments was a target, no matter who he or she might be. Did you ever hear of Philip Golding or John Schlapobersky? They were both at Wits and were detained in 1969. A favorite police ploy was to confiscate the passport of any student or faculty member suspected of anti-Government sentiments. An American student named Rex Heinke was deported for the same reason. Don't think that all these activities were by Whites pursuing their own selfish interests.\"\n\n\"Weren't they?\"\n\n\"No. Even after Blacks were banned from attending white universities the white activists would meet with Blacks, surreptitiously, even in the black townships. Like everything else, the informers soon got wind of it. Some white students were arrested in Soweto, for being there without permits. That was really the year of the raids. The Security Police were everywhere, picking people up and detaining them on the flimsiest pretext. One student named Ahmed Timol died in detention it is said because of a severe beating by the police.\"\n\nHe seemed unable to stop himself. The stuff was flowing from him, rushing out of him, while the rest of us listened.\n\n\"Did you see in the newspaper that Abraham Tiro has been killed by a parcel bomb? They've been after him a long time. In 1972, soon after I came up to Wits, he made a graduation speech at Turfloop U., the black university in Natal. In it he attacked the racist philosophy of the Bantu Education Act. For this he was expelled. As a result all the Turfloop students staged a sit-in and all were expelled, the police helping with the expulsions. Naturally. This set off a chain reaction, as students from black universities at Fort Hare, Westville, Bellville, Zululand, everywhere, joined in spontaneous protest. The high point was a peaceful demonstration by more than ten thousand Whites on the steps of St. George's Cathedral at Cape Town. As you would expect, the police charged at them, with batons and guns, and even followed them into the Cathedral to beat them up and arrest them. Can you imagine that? Inside the Cathedral. And the Prime Minister defended them.\n\n\"I could tell you more. Do you know why? I plan to document it all; maybe I'll use it as the basis for my thesis. I was in Cape Town for that protest demonstration. I saw what happened with my own eyes. I stayed out of the way. I don't think I could take that kind of brutal beating. The police don't care whom they hit, man or woman. Or where.\"\n\n\"What about the black students?\" I asked.\n\n\"They're harassed all the time. Even before they open their mouths they're banned. I guess the informers are even more active among them. Black informers. Every day you read of some more being banned, restricted to their own homes from dusk to dawn. However, you seem to take their protest for granted. What you wanted to know about was our involvement. If you see little evidence of it, that's because we're copying the tactics of the Blacks. We've been operating underground since 1972, when the editor and the cartoonist of the \"Wits Student,\" our university publication, were suspended from the U. for publishing anti-government material. They were subsequently charged with offenses under the Publications and Entertainments Act and convicted. The same thing has happened at other universities, black and white. The Government has strangled protest in any overt form. I don't believe they will succeed in silencing protest. We're being forced to operate differently, that's all.\"\n\n\"How has the murder of Tiro affected your underground activities?\" I asked. \"Seems to me the Security Police have demonstrated how very easily they can reach anyone, anywhere.\"\n\n\"Perhaps,\" a young woman said, \"but not necessarily. The police knew that Tiro depended on help from friends. He'd fled to Botswana, but he needed help, and the police found a way to get to him. Here we are learning to be very careful. We hadn't agreed to tell you all these things because we couldn't take the risk of your mentioning your source, if you decided to write about it.\"\n\n\"I won't mention names,\" I promised, \"nor will I ask which of you are involved in what movement. But I'd like to know whether it really is a movement or just the posturings of a few?\"\n\n\"We're more than a few. Much more. Even some faculty members are with us. The same is true at other universities. Unfortunately, we can't expect any public support, not even among our parents or relatives. Everybody is afraid. Even the priests. Most of them, the English-speaking ones, are sympathetic, but they can't all be martyrs. Did you know that there's a violent right-wing group operating with the knowledge and consent of the Government and Security Police? They call themselves Scorpio. They're terrorists, but because they're White there's no mention of them. In '72 they fire-bombed the home of the student president of Cape Town U., Geoff Budlender. Naturally, no arrests, no prosecutions. So, you see, we're like lambs surrounded by predators. From the distance of the U.S.A. you might imagine that this is a struggle between Blacks and Whites. It's much more than that. Under this government it's also become a struggle by some Whites for freedom to live in peace with justice for everyone, Black and White. We do not plan to turn this country over to the Blacks, but we'd prefer to see it governed democratically, justly, and without recourse to fear and intimidation.\"\n\nWe were interrupted by a call from the hotel lobby. Dr. Bozzoli, President of Witwatersrand University, wished to speak to me. He came on the line and reminded me that I'd promised to dine with him at his house that evening. Covering the mouthpiece, I told the students that the President of the U. was at the hotel and I thought I'd better meet him downstairs.\n\n\"On account of us?\" one asked.\n\n\"Well... \"\n\n\"I think you should ask him up,\" one said. The others nodded.\n\nI asked him to come up, checked my diary and found that it was true. I'd made the entry, but on another page. I told the students of my dilemma, adding that I was sure Dr. Bozzoli had heard at the desk that I was entertaining a group of his students. The front desk seemed to know everything I did.\n\n\"They wouldn't know,\" I was told. \"We drove into the basement garage and took the lift right up here. We knew the number of your suite from when we'd phoned earlier.\"\n\n\"You'll have to go with him,\" one said.\n\n\"I suppose so, but I was really enjoying this talk with you. And I've invited you to be my guests for dinner. What shall we do about it?\"\n\n\"Whatever you say,\" they told me. I was unhappy to have to leave them, because we'd finally broken through the earlier resistance and were reaching each other.\n\n\"Here's my suggestion,\" I offered. \"I'll go with Dr. Bozzoli for two hours. Meanwhile you order your meal here, whatever you like, and take your time about it. I'll be back before you're through and we can have coffee together and continue our talk.\"\n\nThey agreed. The President arrived and seemed quite surprised to see me with a roomful of young people. I made no attempt at individual introductions, bearing in mind some of the things we'd been discussing. They seemed a little jittery at having been discovered by him.\n\nOn the way to Dr. Bozzoli's home, I told him of my predicament and explained that the students had offered to wait for me while I kept my dinner engagement with him.\n\nWith the Bozzolis were a few members of the university community, one or two businessmen and their wives and the author Nadine Gordimer with her husband. Before dinner we sat outdoors and made small talk. For much of this pleasant interlude I listened, observing these charming, urbane, gracious people who seemed untouched and untroubled by the sinister air which foamed and rumbled about them. They talked knowledgeably about their country's economy and the implications of the extraordinary fluctuations of the gold prices. They commented on the equally dramatic changes taking place in diplomatic procedures, largely due to what they called American \"instant\" statesmanship as practiced by the very peripatetic American Secretary of State. They discussed the international effect of oil shortages, but assured themselves that South Africa would suffer less than most because her economy depended more on her massive coal reserves than on oil.\n\nFrom where we sat, the women gowned and coiffed, the men elegant and worldly, national disaster seemed light years away. Part of me wanted only to enjoy this short respite from the hustle of six extremely busy weeks, but another part of me was watchful and listening, remembering that under the selfsame stars that glistened overhead, and within a short distance from where we sat, the pain of exclusion was being acutely felt and deeply resented by others, Blacks like myself. Within earshot of our sophisticated banalities, the fuse was already set for a tragic explosion.\n\nThings changed when we went in to dinner. Mrs. Bozzoli, who had said so little outdoors, being content to supervise the introduction of newcomers and settle them down with drinks, now emerged as a highly articulate and well-informed hostess, displaying a surprising independence of spirit which defied compromise of her personal principles. As if under her stimulating influence, the conversation became more sober and careful, and was directed to the fundamental issues of South Africa's domestic and international situation. Inevitably, I was asked to state my impressions of the society even though I protested that I had seen very little and learned even less in the six weeks of my visit. However I said that it seemed to me the Government was deliberately trying to goad the black people to the point of revolt.\n\nEven though their expressed attitudes vary in form, all Whites benefit from the cruel exploitation of the Blacks and are disinclined to any change likely to threaten those benefits in any way. Some of those sitting and talking with me took a distant, intellectually objective view of the racial situation, assuring me that in spite of what I might see many changes for the better were in progress. They could recall the conditions and circumstances of ten or fifteen years earlier, and were themselves impressed by the dramatic way in which changes had occurred since. They drew my attention to the recently publicized decisions to abandon some of the \"petty apartheid,\" the segregation signs so familiar on park benches, buses, and public buildings.\n\nImpatiently, I applauded their objectivity but insisted that I could not share it. They could afford their distance from the Blacks, because at every level that distance was maintained and encouraged. They all had black servants who were denied the right to bargain for their labor and could hardly protest their treatment. I could not be \"objective.\" I was black and could not, would not wish to avoid identity with those of whom they spoke so impersonally, so unfeelingly. I knew that I was sitting there with them only because I was an overseas writer whose work they admired. Did they care about the authors and poets of equal or greater potential vegetating among them?\n\n\"Let's get to the heart of the matter,\" one woman said, her face set in a mold of aggressive determination. \"I'm a sociologist. The very nature of that discipline requires that we regularly examine our society for strengths and weaknesses. The moment we begin we're confronted with the inequities imposed on Blacks. Okay. But consider for a moment what would happen if those inequities were suddenly removed. Our elders remind us of what they endured at the hands of Blacks when this country was settled. The disparity in numbers remains, perhaps it has even increased. Just imagine the Blacks in power. Given the present conditions, what could we do to reduce what you call polarization without tipping the balance of power in favor of the Blacks?\"\n\nThere was a sudden stirring among the group. Clearly, she had posed the question of general concern to them all. She caught me unprepared. I had not, so far, been thinking along those lines.\n\n\"I would prefer to speculate on the sharing of power rather than on a reversal of roles,\" I said. \"Think what a willing and conscientious black population could contribute to the society. Not as near-slaves but as citizens proud of their rights. In many other societies, given the opportunity, Blacks have proved themselves as capable as anyone else of setting national needs at the top of their priorities.\"\n\n\"It would be unreasonable not to expect them to want to revenge themselves on us for past injustices,\" another suggested.\n\n\"If Germany and Israel can find bases for mutual cooperation, I imagine it is quite possible for anyone else.\"\n\n\"In this society, the individual is expected to conform politically and socially,\" a bald man said. \"The attitude to Blacks is both social and political. If I, as an individual, wished to adopt a humanitarian attitude to Blacks whom I meet, work with, or employ, I would automatically be assuming a posture politically at variance with the prevailing governmental policies.\"\n\n\"If, as an individual, in spite of the attitudes of others, you can recognize and respect the humanity of Blacks, I cannot see how that would force you into any political posture. I am Black. You can sit here and converse courteously with me; that does not suggest a political posture. You say you work with Blacks. I cannot see that, should you treat them with courtesy and respect you are assuming a political posture. If you employ Blacks as domestic servants and decide to pay them a wage you can afford and they are worth, I do not consider that a political posture, unless you wished to make it so.\"\n\n\"I don't think your reference to yourself is relevant,\" someone intervened. \"You are a famous author and a stranger, so immediately our attitude to you is one of respect.\"\n\n\"But I am black and my presence among you should help you to appreciate the stupidity of the assumptions that Blacks are less capable, less intelligent and less human than Whites. The real difference between your black countrymen and myself lies in access to opportunity. The question you'll have to face is, how much opportunity would you wish to see granted to Blacks, the opportunity to vote, to negotiate the sale of their labor, to own land on which to build their homes, to compete according to their abilities?\"\n\n\"What about the risks?\" from another. \"The risks of revenge on the part of the Blacks? You seem to expect us to take an objective view of what is primarily an emotional matter.\"\n\n\"Just as you expect me to respond objectively to your questions about Blacks,\" I replied.\n\n\"The point is well taken,\" interposed President Bozzoli. \"Now, Mr. Braithwaite, in the light of what you've been saying to us, would you consider returning to spend some time here on campus? Say, three to six months as guest professor? My feeling is that it would be of tremendous benefit to this university.\"\n\nHearing the words coming from him in soft, measured tone I was immediately flattered. Then in a flash came the image of what would happen to me.\n\n\"Good God,\" I exclaimed.\n\n\"What's the matter?\" he asked. \"Have I taken you by surprise?\"\n\n\"You have, but I've just realized what that would mean. Your Government could require me to live in one of the black townships. Soweto, possibly.\"\n\n\"What's the objection?\" someone asked.\n\n\"Objection! Have you been to Soweto? No, thank you. I like the idea of living where I can afford and moving about with freedom. I won't be herded.\" That train ride appeared in my mind, a horrifying apparition.\n\n\"That could easily be taken care of,\" Mrs. Bozzoli intervened. \"You could live in our house, be part of our household for the time you are here.\" Said so naturally, not a moment of hesitation.\n\n\"But there's the matter of movement.\" I was frantically searching for excuses, knocked off base by my own unpreparedness for this. Who would have imagined an invitation to stay on this White-only campus? \"I'd be literally restricted to the campus. I couldn't walk into a cinema in town, or a restaurant or anything. I don't think I could stand that.\"\n\n\"Seems like a small sacrifice, in view of the arguments you've recently raised,\" some remarked. Belatedly I remembered Mrs. Bozzoli's invitation to share their home. How would I get out of that.\n\n\"I could not accept your invitation if I agreed to come back,\" I said to her. \"It would be quite unworkable. I would need a separate place where I could meet and talk with anyone at any time without having the comings and goings imposed upon you.\"\n\n\"Then we'd arrange for you to have a faculty apartment.\" She had the reply in a moment. I felt cornered.\n\n\"Your being here would be wonderful for us, for our students and for our community,\" Dr. Bozzoli said. \"The response you've already had should be some indication of how deeply we all appreciate what you've been saying to us. I'm sure we would be taking some small risk in having you disturb our complacency, but we are willing to take it. What about you? If we are to work together for realistic social change, it will take more than a short lecture or two. Our staff and students would need to talk with you, get a feel of your mind and spirit at close quarters. They would need to touch you, intellectually and spiritually. It would take a little time for us to learn about you and from you, as it would take a little time for you to learn about us.\"\n\n\"Perhaps Mr. Braithwaite's comfort is more important than his political posture,\" someone suggested softly, coating the barb with a light layer of laughter. I heard it and it disturbed me. Was that how they saw me?\n\n\"Dr. Bozzoli, I was completely unprepared for your invitation and would like to think about it. I must confess that my very immediate reaction to it is negative, because of how this society treats its Blacks. However, please let me have some time to think about it.\"\n\n\"That's very reasonable,\" he replied. \"Sorry I sprang it on you like that, but the thought came to me just as unexpectedly. I'd like to see this university as an institution that's able to meet and accommodate a challenge. Your presence here would be very timely. If we all really want positive change to take place, some of us critics must step off the sidelines and jump into the game. I suppose I'm inviting you to take risks, but the decision must be yours. We would welcome your presence at this university.\"\n\nI thought of all the Blacks who had warned me that, somehow, I would be used by the Whites. Could this invitation be regarded as a way of using me? The Principal had no doubt about my uncompromising attitude to his Government's racial policies. He was not, in any way, asking me to dilute or abandon those views. It was an invitation, pure and simple. Why should I be looking over my shoulder for those Blacks who might censure me. Hadn't I always taken pride in my personal freedom of spirit? If one of the black colleges had extended such an invitation, would I have hesitated? Was my personal comfort at issue here, as had been hinted?\n\nI didn't know. I really needed time to think.\n\n\"Don't worry for a moment about your accommodation, or anything else,\" Mrs. Bozzoli insisted. \"Just come, we need you.\"\n\n\"Very few outsiders find their way to South Africa's academic centers,\" a professor added. \"Our students and teachers are facing the grim prospect of intellectual ingrowth. Challenge from a source uncommitted to this country could be a very important catalyst, at this time when we are all searching for answers. At least, give us an opportunity to see ourselves as we are seen, from the outside.\"\n\nI wanted to shout at them, \"I'll think about it!\" Couldn't they imagine how depressing, how nerve-racking it was for me in their city? Would it be enough for me to be with them and the students? Was there no way in which I might, at the same time, be of service to the Blacks, for my soul's sake?\n\nDr. Bozzoli interrupted to explain that I had been dragged away from some students who were still waiting for me at my hotel room, thus making it easy for me to say my adieux and leave.\n\nThe students had finished their meal and were dallying over coffee and cigarettes, looking relaxed and comfortable. I wondered again what my black friends in Soweto would think of this scene if they could see it. And the young, aggressive Indian of Robben Island: wouldn't he see this as definitive evidence that I had sold out?\n\nBefore I'd left the students, there'd been some talk of underground action. I wished to learn more about that and asked them. Perhaps, in my absence they had decided they'd said enough; I made several attempts to steer the conversation back to the topics we had been discussing, but soon became aware of their resistance.\n\n\"I think we were sort of blowing off steam,\" one said. \"When one is talking with someone like you, one is apt to overreach oneself. If you have a social conscience you cannot avoid awareness of the inequities around you. You want to do something about them, and that brings you up hard against authority. In this society authority is inflexible. So you have a choice. Either you follow the lead of your social conscience and take the risks or you shut up. If you're wealthy, you can get away with an occasional gesture, like taking some token interest in a nursery school for black children, or inviting a black writer or politician into your home. If you're not wealthy or influential, you compromise. They have ways of making you compromise, or they break you. By fear and intimidation. You know, we've been wondering something while you were away. If you were South African, how long do you think you'd last?\"\n\n\"The point is,\" I replied, \"I'm not South African. If I had been I might never have become the man I am. All the odds are against it.\"\n\nFor a while we continued to chat about other things, the U.'s drama program, films, sports.\n\nThen they left. I wondered whether Dr. Bozzoli's appearance had affected them. I had introduced them collectively, so it was very unlikely that he had taken particular notice of any individual. In any case, I felt sure he was not more than pleasantly surprised to find me surrounded by a group of students, none of whom was personally known to him.\n\nYet it was clear that they had been turned off. For some reason fear had got into them, so there it was again. From every side I was hearing about it. Everywhere I saw evidence of it. From Blacks. From Whites. From black housewives and workers, and now from white students.\n\nAll of them, black and white, seemed powerless against the forces which intimidated and frightened them, yet there were undercurrents of rebellion; the earlier outburst of the students, the blacks' smoldering rage. With the entrenched Government resisting every effort toward positive change, the future offered nothing but violence and bloodshed. The Government was ready for a confrontation. Their huge stockpiles of armaments and their aggressive intransigence suggested that they would even welcome it. Everything pointed to a collision course.\n\n# Chapter  \nTwelve\n\nTHE FOLLOWING DAY WAS spent in preparation for my departure from South Africa. The officials at the Tourist Bureau who advised me were courteous and helpful, clearly concerned with projecting the right image. While waiting there, I picked up a copy of the day's Rand Daily Mail. It carried a story on the Government's intention to impose new curbs on \"some groups.\" The State President, Mr. Fouche, warned that a number of pressure groups were \"trying to bring about unconstitutional political, social, and economic change in South Africa,\" and claimed that \"implicit in their call for change was the threat of internal violence. These groups do not have in mind normal evolutionary change,\" Mr. Fouche was quoted as saying. \"They are bent upon radical, even revolutionary political activities.\" He claimed that they were financed from abroad and expressed the Government's determination to curb them. Oblique reference was made to NUSAS and the black South African Students' Organization, most of whose leaders were already banned or restricted.\n\nIn the opposition's response to Mr. Fouche, Mrs. Helen Suzman, the most vocal, spoke in defense of the predominantly white NUSAS, saying, \"I do not always agree with everything NUSAS does, but I hope there are enough who will see that the Government does not financially starve NUSAS into submission. I believe it is important that NUSAS be allowed to operate. This is an organization of young people who care about racial injustices... \"\n\nNot a single word in defense of SASO, the black organization.\n\nA shocking story caught my attention. An eleven-year-old black child, Godfrey Lambert, had been picking up pieces of coal at the Beaufort West railway yard and was caught by three white railway workers who undressed him, smeared his body with grease and held him in front of the fire door of a blazing locomotive engine. The child had been literally roasted and was horribly scarred, physically and psychologically.\n\n\"At night he wakes up screaming,\" his mother said, adding that she feared her son's mind was permanently damaged.\n\nThe white railway workers were each sentenced to six lashes and a year's imprisonment, suspended for three years.\n\nI tried to imagine a parallel situation in which three Blacks brutalized a white child. In a South African court, the death penalty would have seemed lenient punishment indeed!\n\nGod, could I in my right mind consider returning to this country to work and live among people who could condone such atrocities? To suspend sentence on three such savages was nothing short of condoning their act. Reading about it stirred the rage inside me. In fact, reading the newspaper altogether was a frustrating exercise. The entertainment page advertised theatre, cinema, concerts, dogracing, etc., but I knew those ads were not directed to me and other Blacks. No need to include the \"Whites Only\" tag. But why the hell was I even bothering to think about it? Had I indeed been seduced into imagining myself exempt? Christ! Chasing around the country as a tourist with hardly a moment to spare was one thing. Wherever I went the Information Office would get the word there ahead of me and dictate that courtesy be shown me. Living in Johannesburg for three months within sight and sound of familiar amenities would be quite another thing.\n\nCould I cope with it? What did it matter if my color barred me from cinemas and restaurants and bars? Was my own comfort so overriding a priority? The native Blacks had each known a lifetime of exclusion from all these things. Wouldn't the work with students and faculty be enough? I could always seek out my fellow Blacks in the black townships. If my feeling of identification was real, why did that prospect bother me?\n\nAnd that other thing, the continued probing and questioning from the Blacks themselves. How much more of that could I take? Their sly, oblique quizzing always made me feel guilty of the comfort I enjoyed, the privileges I could exercise. But had I not earned each privilege, each area of comfort? Was I not autonomous, free to design my own life, answerable only to myself? Outside South Africa any of these Blacks could live as I live, be free to fulfill himself. Why should I be on the defensive? Why should I allow myself to be forced into playing someone else's role?\n\nIf I returned to South Africa, Dr. Bozzoli promised complete access to students and faculty, and complete freedom to be myself, thinking as I thought, believing as I believed, making no secret of my distaste for their racial policies. How long would they and the Government accommodate me and my views? Dr. Bozzoli probably thought he was making me a simple proposition. Hell, about as simple as the maze of a man's life.\n\nEarly next morning I packed my bags. All that remained was to pay my bill and get out to the airport. In the park across the street the scrawny black boys were already at their interminable games, dodging between the black workers who hurried past them. Hungry, uncared-for, this was their youth. What of their tomorrow and adulthood? Did they have any hopes, any aspirations? Did they know anything about love of country, these children who had been denied even love of family? It is said that the future of a country is invested in its youth. What part of South Africa's future was invested in these boys?\n\nThe hotel receptionist had proudly mentioned the national motto, \"Unity is Strength.\" Where was the unity? Was the strength that of arms and armaments? Was it understood that the words completely excluded any participation by Blacks? From my window the view offered a sense of ordered progress, of controlled growth, with no sign of the suppurating evils and the frustration and hatred they bred.\n\nThose hurrying black figures seemed concerned only with getting to their jobs on time, neatly dressed, faces revealing nothing of their thoughts. Where did I hear that the black man was content with his lot? Those hurrying men and women were no different from myself except in experience of living in freedom.\n\nAt the hotel entrance, the car was waiting to take me to the airport.\n\n# About the Author\n\nE. R. Braithwaite was born in British Guiana (now Guyana) in 1912. Educated at the City College of New York and the University of Cambridge, he served in the Royal Air Force during World War II. Braithwaite spent 1950 to 1960 in London, first as a schoolteacher and then as a welfare worker\u2014experiences he describes in To Sir, With Love and Paid Servant, respectively. In 1966 he was appointed Guyana's ambassador and permanent representative to the United Nations. He has also held positions at the World Veterans\u00ad Federation and UNESCO, was a professor of English at New York Univer\u00adsity's\u00ad Institute for Afro-American Affairs, and taught creative writing at Howard University. The author of five non\u00adfiction books and two novels, he currently lives in Washington, DC.\nAll rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.\n\nCopyright \u00a9 1975 by E. R. Braithwaite\n\nCover design by Mauricio D\u00edaz\n\nISBN 978-1-4804-5741-6\n\nThis edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.  \n345 Hudson Street  \nNew York, NY 10014  \nwww.openroadmedia.com\n\n# **EBOOKS BY E. R. BRAITHWAITE**\n\n**FROM OPEN ROAD MEDIA**\n\n**Available wherever ebooks are sold**\n\n**Open Road Integrated Media** **is a digital publisher and multimedia content company. Open Road creates connections between authors and their audiences by marketing its ebooks through a new proprietary online platform, which uses premium video content and social media.**\n\n**Videos, Archival Documents, and New Releases**\n\n**Sign up for the Open Road Media newsletter and get news delivered straight to your inbox.**\n\n**Sign up now at**\n\n**www.openroadmedia.com\/newsletters**\n\n**FIND OUT MORE AT**\n\n**WWW.OPENROADMEDIA.COM**\n\n**FOLLOW US:**\n\n**@openroadmedia** **and**\n\n**Facebook.com\/OpenRoadMedia**\n","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}}
+{"text":"\n\n## By The Same Author\n\nWhite Doves at Morning\n\nJolie Blon's Bounce\n\nBitterroot\n\nPurple Cane Road\n\nHeartwood\n\nLay Down My Sword and Shield\n\nSunset Limited\n\nHalf of Paradise\n\nCimarron Rose\n\nCadillac Jukebox\n\nHeaven's Prisoners\n\nBurning Angel\n\nThe Lost Get-Back Boogie\n\nThe Convict\n\nDixie City Jam\n\nIn the Electric Mist with Confederate Dead\n\nA Stained White Radiance\n\nThe Neon Rain\n\nA Morning for Flamingos\n\nBlack Cherry Blues\n\nTwo for Texas\n\nTo the Bright and Shining Sun\n\nSIMON & SCHUSTER  \nRockefeller Center  \n1230 Avenue of the Americas  \nNew York, NY 10020\n\nThis book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.\n\nCopyright \u00a9 2003 by James Lee Burke  \nAll rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.\n\nSimon & Schuster and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.\n\nLibrary of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.\n\nISBN-13: 978-0-7432-6097-8  \nISBN-10: 0-7432-6097-X\n\nVisit us on the World Wide Web:  \n<http:\/\/www.SimonandSchuster.com>\n\n## Acknowledgments\n\nI would like to thank Leslie Blanchard at the Iberia Parish Library and Vaun Stevens and Don Spritzer at the Missoula Public Library for their friendship and generous help over the years.\nTo my wife, Pearl, and my children,\n\nJim, Jr., Andree, Pamala, and Alafair\n\n##  \n## Chapter 1\n\nThe first week after Labor Day, after a summer of hot wind and drought that left the cane fields dust blown and spiderwebbed with cracks, rain showers once more danced across the wetlands, the temperature dropped twenty degrees, and the sky turned the hard flawless blue of an inverted ceramic bowl. In the evenings I sat on the back steps of a rented shotgun house on Bayou Teche and watched the boats passing in the twilight and listened to the Sunset Limited blowing down the line. Just as the light went out of the sky the moon would rise like an orange planet above the oaks that covered my rented backyard, then I would go inside and fix supper for myself and eat alone at the kitchen table.\n\nBut in my heart the autumnal odor of gas on the wind, the gold and dark green of the trees, and the flame-lit edges of the leaves were less a sign of Indian summer than a prelude to winter rains and the short, gray days of December and January, when smoke would plume from stubble fires in the cane fields and the sun would be only a yellow vapor in the west.\n\nYears ago, in both New Orleans and New Iberia, the tannic hint of winter and the amber cast of the shrinking days gave me the raison d'etre I needed to drink in any saloon that would allow me inside its doors. I was not one of those valiant, alcoholic souls who tries to drink with a self-imposed discipline and a modicum of dignity, either. I went at it full-bore, knocking back Beam or Black Jack straight-up in sawdust bars where I didn't have to make comparisons, with a long-necked Jax or Regal on the side that would take away the aftertaste and fill my mouth with golden needles. Each time I tilted the shotglass to my lips I saw in my mind's eye a simian figure feeding a fire inside a primeval cave and I felt no regret that I shared his enterprise.\n\nNow I went to meetings and didn't drink anymore, but I had a way of putting myself inside bars, usually ones that took me back to the Louisiana in which I had grown up. One of my favorites of years past was Goldie Bierbaum's place on Magazine in New Orleans. A green colonnade extended over the sidewalk, and the rusted screen doors still had painted on them the vague images and lettering of Depression-era coffee and bread advertisements. The lighting was bad, the wood floor scrubbed colorless with bleach, the railed bar interspersed with jars of pickles and hard-boiled eggs above and cuspidors down below. And Goldie himself was a jewel out of the past, a seventy-year-old flat-chested ex-prizefighter who had fought Cleveland Williams and Eddie Machen.\n\nIt was night and raining hard on the colonnade and tin roof of the building. I sat at the far end of the bar, away from the door, with a demitasse of coffee and a saucer and tiny spoon in front of me. Through the front window I could see Clete Purcel parked in his lavender Cadillac convertible, a fedora shadowing his face in the glow of the streetlight. A man came in and removed his raincoat and sat down on the other end of the bar. He was young, built like a weight-lifter whose physique was earned rather than created with steroids. He wore his brown hair shaved on the sides, with curls hanging down the back of his neck. His eyebrows were half-moons, his face impish, cartoonlike, as though it were drawn with a charcoal pencil.\n\nGoldie poured him a shot and a draft chaser, then set the whiskey bottle back on the counter against the wall and pretended to read the newspaper. The man finished his drink and walked the length of the bar to the men's room in back. His eyes looked straight ahead and showed no interest in me as he passed.\n\n\"That's the guy,\" Goldie said, leaning close to me.\n\n\"You're sure? No mistake?\" I said.\n\n\"He comes in three nights a week for a shot and a beer, sometimes a catfish po'boy. I heard him talking about it on the payphone back there. Maybe he's not the guy who hurt your friend, but how many guys in New Orleans are gonna be talking about breaking the spokes on a Catholic priest?\"\n\nI heard the men's room door open again and footsteps walk past me to the opposite end of the bar. Goldie's eyes became veiled, impossible to read. The top of his head looked like an alabaster bowling ball with blue lines in it.\n\n\"I'm sorry about your wife. It was last year?\" he said.\n\nI nodded.\n\n\"It was lupus?\" he said.\n\n\"Yeah, that's right,\" I replied.\n\n\"You doin' all right?\"\n\n\"Sure,\" I said, avoiding his eyes.\n\n\"Don't get in no trouble, like we used to do in the old days.\"\n\n\"Not a chance,\" I said.\n\n\"Hey, my po'boy ready?\" the man at the end of the bar asked.\n\nThe man made a call on the payphone, then ate his sandwich and bounced pool balls off the rails on the pool table. The mirror behind the bar was oxidized an oily green and yellow, like the color of lubricant floating in water, and between the liquor bottles lined along the mirror I could see the man looking at the back of my head.\n\nI turned on the bar stool and grinned at him. He waited for me to speak. But I didn't.\n\n\"I know you?\" he said.\n\n\"Maybe. I used to live in New Orleans. I don't anymore,\" I said.\n\nHe spun the cue ball down the rail into the pocket, his eyes lowered. \"So you want to shoot some nine ball?\" he said.\n\n\"I'd be poor competition.\"\n\nHe didn't raise his eyes or look at me again. He finished his beer and sandwich at the bar, then put on his coat and stood at the screen door, looking at the mist blowing under the colonnade and at the cars passing in the neon-streaked wetness in front of Goldie's bar. Clete Purcel fired up his Cadillac and rattled down the street, turning at the end of the block.\n\nThe man with the impish face and curls that hung on the back of his neck stepped outside and breathed the air like a man out for a walk, then got into a Honda and drove up Magazine toward the Garden District. A moment later Clete Purcel pulled around the block and picked me up.\n\n\"Can you catch him?\" I asked.\n\n\"I don't have to. That's Gunner Ardoin. He lives in a dump off Tchoupitoulas,\" he said.\n\n\"Gunner? He's a button man?\"\n\n\"No, he's been in two or three of Fat Sammy Figorelli's porn films. He mules crystal in the projects, too.\"\n\n\"Would he bust up a priest?\" I asked.\n\nClete looked massive behind the steering wheel, his upper arms like big, cured hams inside his tropical shirt. His hair was sandy, cut short like a little boy's. A diagonal scar ran through his left eyebrow.\n\n\"Gunner?\" he said. \"It doesn't sound like him. But a guy who performs oral sex for a hometown audience? Who knows?\"\n\nWe caught up with the Honda at Napoleon Avenue, then followed it through a dilapidated neighborhood of narrow streets and shotgun houses to Tchoupitoulas. The driver turned on a side street and parked under a live oak in front of a darkened cottage. He walked up a shell driveway and entered the back door with a key and turned on a light inside.\n\nClete circled the block, then parked four houses up the street from Gunner Ardoin's place and cut the engine. He studied my face.\n\n\"You look a little wired,\" he said.\n\n\"Not me,\" I said.\n\nThe rain on the windshield made rippling shadows on his face and arms. \"I made my peace with N.O.P.D.,\" he said.\n\n\"Really?\"\n\n\"Most of the guys who did us dirt are gone. I let it be known I'm not in the O.K. Corral business anymore. It makes life a lot easier,\" he said.\n\nThrough the overhang of the trees I could see the Mississippi levee at the foot of the street and fog billowing up from the other side. Boat lights were shining inside the fog so that the fog looked like electrified steam rising off the water.\n\n\"Are you coming?\" I asked.\n\nHe pulled an unlit cigarette from his mouth and threw it out the window. \"Why not?\" he said.\n\nWe walked up Gunner Ardoin's driveway, past a garbage can overflowing with shrimp husks. Banana trees grew against the side of the house and the leaves were slick and green and denting in the rainwater that slid off the roof. I jerked the back screen off the latch and went into Gunner Ardoin's kitchen.\n\n\"You beat up Catholic priests, do you?\" I said.\n\n\"What?\" he said, turning from the sink with a metal coffeepot in his hand. He wore draw-string, tin-colored workout pants and a ribbed undershirt. His skin was white, clean of jailhouse art, his underarms shaved. A weight set rested on the floor behind him.\n\n\"Lose the innocent monkey face, Gunner. You used a steel pipe on a priest name of Jimmie Dolan,\" Clete said.\n\nGunner set the coffeepot down on the counter. He studied both of us briefly, then lowered his eyes and folded his arms on his chest, his back resting against the sink. His nipples looked like small brown dimes through the fabric of his undershirt. \"Do what you have to do,\" he said.\n\n\"Better rethink that statement,\" Clete said.\n\nBut Gunner only stared at the floor, his elbows cupped in his palms. Clete looked at me and raised his eyebrows.\n\n\"My name's Dave Robicheaux. I'm a homicide detective with the Iberia Parish Sheriff's Department,\" I said, opening my badge holder. \"But my visit here is personal.\"\n\n\"I didn't beat up a priest. You think I did, then I'm probably in the shitter. I can't change that.\" He began picking at the calluses on his palm.\n\n\"You get that at a twelve-step session up at Angola?\" Clete said.\n\nGunner Ardoin looked at nothing and suppressed a yawn.\n\n\"You raised Catholic?\" I said.\n\nHe nodded, without lifting his eyes.\n\n\"You're not bothered by somebody hospitalizing a priest, breaking his bones, a decent man who never harmed anyone?\" I said.\n\n\"I don't know him. You say he's a good guy, maybe he is. There's a lot of priests out there are good guys, right?\" he said.\n\nThen, like all career recidivists and fulltime smart-asses, he couldn't resist the temptation to show his contempt for the world of normal people. He turned his face away from me, but I saw one eye glimmer with mirth, a grin tug slightly at the corner of his mouth. \"Maybe they kept the altar boys away from him,\" he said.\n\nI stepped closer to him, my right hand balling. But Clete pushed me aside. He picked up the metal coffeepot from the counter and smashed it almost flat against the side of Gunner Ardoin's head, then threw him in a chair. Gunner folded his arms across his chest, a torn grin on his mouth, blood trickling from his scalp.\n\n\"Have at it, fellows. I made both y'all back on Napoleon. I dialed 911 soon as I came in. My lawyer loves guys like you,\" he said.\n\nThrough the front window I saw the emergency flasher on an N.O.P.D. cruiser pull to the curb under the live oak tree that grew in Gunner Ardoin's front yard. A lone black female officer slipped her baton into the ring on her belt and walked uncertainly toward the gallery, her radio squawking incoherently in the rain.\n\nI slept that night on Clete's couch in his small apartment above his P.I. office on St. Ann. The sky was clear and pink at sunrise, the streets in the Quarter puddled with water, the bougainvillea on Clete's balcony as bright as drops of blood. I shaved and dressed while Clete was still asleep and walked past St. Louis Cathedral and through Jackson Square to the Cafe du Monde, where I met Father Jimmie Dolan at a table under the pavilion.\n\nAlthough we had been friends and had bass fished together for two decades, he remained in many ways a mysterious man, at least to me. Some said he was a closet drunk who had done time in a juvenile reformatory; others said he was gay and well known among the homosexual community in New Orleans, although women were obviously drawn to him. He had crewcut, blond good looks and the wide shoulders and tall, trim physique of the wide-end receiver he had been at a Winchester, Kentucky, high school. He didn't talk politics but he got into trouble regularly with authority on almost all levels, including six months in a federal prison for trespassing on the School of the Americas property at Ft. Benning, Georgia.\n\nIt had been three months since he had been waylaid in an alley behind his church rectory and methodically beaten from his neck to the soles of his feet by someone wielding a pipe with an iron bonnet screwed down on the business end.\n\n\"Clete Purcel and I rousted a guy named Gunner Ardoin last night. I think maybe he's the guy who attacked you,\" I said.\n\nFather Jimmie had just bitten into a beignet and his mouth was smeared with powdered sugar. He wore a tiny sapphire in his left earlobe. His eyes were a deep green, thoughtful, his skin tan. He shook his head.\n\n\"That's Phil Ardoin. Wrong guy,\" he said.\n\n\"He said he didn't know you.\"\n\n\"I coached his high school basketball team.\"\n\n\"Why would he lie?\"\n\n\"With Phil it's a way of life.\"\n\nAn N.O.P.D. cruiser pulled to the curb out on Decatur and a black female officer got out and fixed her cap on her head. She looked like she was constructed of twigs, her sky blue shirt too large on her frame, her pursed lips layered with red lipstick. Last night Clete had said she reminded him of a black swizzle stick with a cherry stuck on the end.\n\nShe threaded her way through the tables until she was abreast of ours. The brass name tag on her shirt said C. ARCENEAUX.\n\n\"I thought I should give you a heads-up,\" she said.\n\n\"How's that?\" I asked.\n\nShe looked off abstractly at the traffic on the street and at the artists setting up their easels under the trees in Jackson Square. \"Take a walk with me,\" she said.\n\nI followed her down to a shady spot at the foot of the Mississippi levee. \"I tried to talk to the other man, what's his name, Purcel, but he seemed more interested in riding his exercise bike,\" she said.\n\n\"He has blood pressure problems,\" I said.\n\n\"Maybe more like a thinking problem,\" she replied, looking idly down the street.\n\n\"Can I help you with something?\" I asked.\n\n\"Gunner Ardoin is filing an assault charge against you and your friend. I think maybe he's got a civil suit in mind. If I was you, I'd take care of it.\"\n\n\"Take care of it?\" I said.\n\nHer eyes squinted into the distance, as though the subject at hand had already slipped out of her frame of reference. Her hair was black and thick and cut short on her neck, her eyes a liquid brown.\n\n\"Why are you doing this?\" I asked.\n\n\"Don't like people who mule crystal into the projects.\"\n\n\"You work both the night and the morning watch?\"\n\n\"I'm just up from meter maid. Low in standing, know what I mean, but somebody got to do it. Tell the priest to spend more time with his prayers,\" she said, and started to walk back to her cruiser.\n\n\"What's your first name?\" I asked.\n\n\"Clotile,\" she said.\n\nBack at the table I watched her drive away into the traffic, the lacquered brim of her cap low on her forehead. Meter maid, my ass, I thought.\n\n\"Ever hear of Junior Crudup?\" Father Jimmie asked.\n\n\"The blues man? Sure,\" I said.\n\n\"What do you know about him?\"\n\n\"He died in Angola,\" I said.\n\n\"No, he disappeared in Angola. Went in and never came out. No record at all of what happened to him,\" Father Jimmie said. \"I'd like for you to meet his family.\"\n\n\"Got to get back to New Iberia.\"\n\n\"It's Saturday,\" he said.\n\n\"Nope,\" I said.\n\n\"Junior's granddaughter owns a twelve-string guitar she thinks might have belonged to Leadbelly. Maybe you could take a look at it. Unless you just really don't have the time?\" he said.\n\nI followed Father Jimmie in my pickup truck into St. James Parish, which lies on a ninety-mile corridor between Baton Rouge and New Orleans that environmentalists have named Toxic Alley. We drove down a state road south of the Mississippi levee through miles of sugarcane and on through a community of narrow, elongated shacks that had been built in the late nineteenth century. At the crossroads, or what in south Louisiana is called a four-corners, was a ramshackle nightclub, an abandoned company store with a high, tin-roofed gallery, a drive-by daiquiri stand, and a solitary oil storage tank that was streaked with corrosion at the seams, next to which someone had planted a tomato garden.\n\nMost of the people who lived at the four-corners were black. The rain ditches and the weeds along the roadside were layered with bottles of beer and pop cans and trash from fast-food restaurants. The people who sat on the galleries of the shacks were either old or infirm or children. I watched a car filled with teenagers run a stop sign and fling a quart beer bottle on the side of the road, ten feet from where an elderly woman was picking up litter from her lawn and placing it in a vinyl bag.\n\nThen we were out in the countryside again and the sky was as blue as a robin's egg, the sugarcane bending in the wind as far as the eye could see, egrets perched like white sculptures on the backs of cattle in a roadside pasture. But inside the loveliness of the day was another element, discordant and invasive, the metallic reek of natural gas, perhaps from a wellhead or a leaking connection at a pump station. Then the wind shifted and it was gone and the sky was speckled with birds rising from a pecan orchard and from the south I could smell the brassy odor of a storm that was building over the Gulf.\n\nI looked at my watch. No more than one hour with Father Jimmie's friends, I told myself. I wanted to get back to New Iberia and forget about the previous night and the trouble with Gunner Ardoin. Maybe it was time to let Father Jimmie take care of his own problems, I thought. Some people loved adversity, got high on it daily, and secretly despised those who would take it from them. That trait didn't necessarily go away because of a Roman collar.\n\nThe state road made a bend and suddenly the endless rows of sugarcane ended. The fields were uncultivated now, empty of livestock, dotted with what looked like settling ponds. The Crudup family lived down a dirt lane in a white frame house with a wraparound veranda hung with baskets of flowers. Three hundred yards behind the house was a woods bordered with trees that were gray with dead leaves and the scales of air vines, as though the treeline had been matted with premature winterkill.\n\nFather Jimmie had set the hook when he had mentioned Leadbelly's name, but I knew as we drove down the road toward the neat white house backdropped by a poisoned woods that this trip was not about the recidivist convict who wrote \"Goodnight Irene\" and \"The Midnight Special\" and who today is almost forgotten.\n\nIn fact, I wondered if I, like Father Jimmie, could not wait to fill my day with adversity in the way I had once filled it with Jim Beam and a glass of Jax with strings of foam running down the sides.\n\nWhen I cut my engine in front of the house, I took a Dr Pepper from the cooler on the seat and raked the ice off the can and drank it empty before stepping out onto the yard.\n\n## Chapter 2\n\nJunior Crudup's granddaughter had a face like a goldfish, light skin that was dusted with freckles, and glasses that turned her eyes into watery brown orbs. She sat in a stuffed chair, fanning herself with a magazine, her rings of fat bulging against her dress, waiting for me to finish examining the Stella guitar that had lain propped in a corner of her attic for thirty years. The strings were gone, the tuning keys stiff with rust, the sound hole coated with cobweb. I turned the guitar on its belly and looked at three words that were scratched into the back of the neck: Huddie Love Sarie.\n\n\"Leadbelly's real name was Huddie Ledbetter. His wife was named Sarie,\" I said.\n\nJunior Crudup's granddaughter looked through a side window at two children playing on a rope swing that was suspended from a pecan tree. Her name was Doris. She kept straightening her shoulders, as though a great weight were pressing on her lungs. \"How much it wort'?\" she asked.\n\n\"I couldn't say,\" I replied.\n\n\"Four or five songs were in the bottom of the guitar case, each with Junior's signature,\" Father Jimmie said.\n\n\"Yeah, what they wort'?\" Doris Crudup asked.\n\n\"You'd have to ask somebody else,\" I said.\n\nShe gave Father Jimmie a look, then got up from her chair and took my coffee cup into the kitchen, although I had not finished drinking the coffee in it.\n\n\"Her husband died three years ago. Last month the social worker cut off her welfare,\" Father Jimmie said.\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"The social worker felt like it. That's the way it works. Take a walk with me,\" he said.\n\n\"I need to get back home.\"\n\n\"You have time for this,\" he said.\n\nWe went outside, into the sunlit, rain-washed loveliness of the fall afternoon. The pecan tree in the side yard puffed with wind and a yellow dog rolled on its back in the dirt while the children swung back and forth above it on their rope swing. But as I followed Father Jimmie down an incline toward the woods in back I could feel the topography changing under my feet, as though I were walking on a sponge.\n\n\"What's that smell?\" I said.\n\n\"You tell me.\" He tore a handful of grass from the soil and held the roots up to my nose. \"They truck it in from all over the South. Doris's lungs are as much good to her as rotted cork. People around here carry buckets in their cars because of their children's constant diarrhea.\"\n\nI held onto the trunk of a withered persimmon tree and looked at the soles of my shoes. They were slick with a black-green substance, as though I had walked across a factory floor. We crossed a board plank spanning a rain ditch. The water was covered with an iridescent sheen that seemed to be rising in chains of bubbles from the bottom of the ditch. Perhaps twenty settling ponds, layered over with loose dirt, were strung along the edge of the woods, each of them crusted with a dried viscous material that looked like an orange scab.\n\n\"Is this Doris's property?\" I said.\n\n\"It belonged to her grandfather. But twenty years ago Doris's cousin made his 'X' on a bill of sale that had Junior's name typed on it. The cousin and the waste management company that bought the land both claim he's the Junior Crudup of record and Doris is out of luck.\"\n\n\"I'm not following you.\"\n\n\"No one knows what happened to the real Junior Crudup. He went into Angola and never came out. There's no documentation on his death or of his release. Figure that one out.\"\n\n\"I don't want to.\"\n\nFather Jimmie studied my face. \"These people here don't have many friends,\" he said.\n\nI slipped the flats of my hands in my back pockets and scuffed at the ground with one shoe, like a third-base coach who had run out of signals.\n\n\"Think I'll pass,\" I said.\n\n\"Suit yourself.\"\n\nFather Jimmie picked up a small stone and side-armed it into the woods. I heard it clatter among the tree trunks. Birds should have risen from the canopy into the sky, but there was no movement inside the tree limbs.\n\n\"Who owns this waste management company?\" I asked.\n\n\"A guy named Merchie Flannigan.\"\n\n\"Jumpin' Merchie Flannigan? From New Iberia?\" I said.\n\n\"One and the same. How'd he get that name, anyway?\" Father Jimmie said.\n\n\"Think of rooftops,\" I said.\n\nAs I drove back to New Iberia, through Morgan City, and down East Main to my rented house on Bayou Teche, I tried not to think anymore of Father Jimmie and the black people in St. James Parish whose community had become a petro-chemical dumping ground. As sad as their story was, in the state of Louisiana it wasn't exceptional. In fact, on television, the current governor had threatened to investigate the tax status of some young Tulane lawyers who had filed suit against several waste management companies on the basis of environmental racism. The old plantation oligarchy was gone. But its successors did business in the same fashion\u2014with baseball bats.\n\nI fixed an early supper and ate it on an ancient green picnic table in the backyard. Across the bayou kids were playing tag football in City Park and smoke from meat fires hung in the trees. In the deepening shadows I thought I could hear voices inside my head: my adopted daughter, Alafair, away at Reed College; my deceased wife Bootsie; and a black man named Batist, to whom I had sold my bait and boatrental business south of town. I didn't do well on Saturday afternoons. In fact, I wasn't doing well on any afternoon.\n\nOn some weekends I drove out to the dock and bait shop to see him. We'd fish the swamp for bass and sac-a-lait, then head home at sunset, the cypress trees riffling like green lace in the wind, the water back in the coves bloodred in the sun's afterglow. But across the road and up the incline from the dock were the burned remains of the house my father had built out of notched and pegged timbers during the Depression, the home where I had lived with my wife and daughter, and I had a hard time looking at it without feeling an indescribable sense of loss and anger.\n\nThe inspector from the fire department called it \"electrical failure.\" I wished I could accept the loss in terms as clinical as those. But the truth was I had trusted the electrical rewiring on my home to a fellow A.A. member, one who had stopped attending meetings. He filled the walls with cheap switches that he did not screw-wrap and inserted fourteen-gauge wire into twelve-gauge receptacles. The fire started inside the bedroom wall and burned the house to the ground in less than an hour.\n\nI went into the house and looked up Merchie Flannigan's name in the directory. I had known his parents in both New Orleans and New Iberia, but I'd never had reason to take official notice of Merchie until I was a patrolman near the Iberville Welfare Project off Basin Street, back in the days when cops still rang their batons off street curbs to signal one another and white kids would take your head off with water-filled garbage cans dropped from a five-story rooftop.\n\nLong before Hispanic and black caricatures acted out self-created roles as gangsters on MTV, white street gangs in New Orleans fought with chains, steel pipes, and zip guns over urban territory that a self-respecting Bedouin wouldn't live in. During the 1950s, the territorial war was between the Cats and the Frats. Frats lived uptown, in the Garden District and along St. Charles Avenue. Cats lived in the Irish Channel, or downtown or in the projects or out by the Industrial Canal. Cats were usually Irish or Italian or a mixture of both, parochial school bust-outs who rolled drunks and homosexuals and group-stomped their adversaries, giving no quarter and asking for none in return.\n\nIn a back-alley, chain-swinging rumble, their ferocity and raw physical courage could probably be compared only to that of their historical cousins in Southie, the Five Points, and Hell's Kitchen. Along Bourbon Street, after twelve on Saturday nights, the Dixieland bands would pack up their instruments and be replaced by rock 'n' roll groups that played until sunrise. The kids spilling out the front doors of Sharkey Bonnano's Dream Room, drinking papercup beer and smoking cigarettes on the sidewalks, their motorcycle caps and leather jackets rippling with neon, made most tourists wet their pants.\n\nBut Jumpin' Merchie Flannigan could not be easily categorized as a blue-collar street kid who had made good in the larger world. In fact, I always had suspicions that Jumpin' Merchie joined a gang for reasons very different from his friends in the Iberville. Unlike most of them, he was not only streetwise but good in school and naturally intelligent. Merchie's problem really wasn't Merchie. It was his parents.\n\nIn New Iberia Merchie's father was thought of as a decent but weak and ineffectual man whose rundown religious store was almost an extension of its owner's personality. Many nights a sympathetic police officer would take Mr. Flannigan out the back door of the Frederic Hotel bar and drive him to his house by the railroad tracks. Merchie's mother tried to compensate for the father's failure by constantly treating Merchie as a vulnerable child, protecting him, making him wear short pants at school until he was in the fifth grade, denying him entry into a world that to her was as unloving as her marriage. But I always felt her protectiveness was of a selfish kind, and in reality she was not only sentimental rather than loving, she could also be terribly cruel.\n\nAfter the family moved to New Orleans and took up life in the Iberville, Merchie became known as a mama's boy who was anybody's punching bag or hard-up pump. But at age fifteen, he threw a black kid from the Gird Town Deuces off a fire escape onto the cab of a passing produce truck, then outraced a half dozen cops across a series of rooftops, finally leaping out into space, plummeting two stories through the ceiling of a massage parlor.\n\nHis newly acquired nickname cost him a broken leg and a one-bit in the Louisiana reformatory, but Jumpin' Merchie Flannigan came back to Canal Street and the Iberville Project with magic painted on him.\n\nWhen I called him at home he was gregarious and ingratiating, and said he wanted to see me. In fact, he said it with such sincerity that I believed him.\n\nHis home, of which he was very proud, was a gray architectural monstrosity designed to look like a medieval castle, inside acres of pecan and live oak trees, all of it in an unzoned area that mixed pipeyards and welding shops with thoroughbred horse barns and red-clay tennis courts.\n\nHe greeted me in the front yard, athletic, trim, wearing pleated tan slacks, half-top, slip-on boots, and a polo shirt, his long hair so blond it was almost white, a V-shaped receded area at the part the only sign of age I could see in him. The yard was covered in shadow now, the chrysanthemums denting in the wind, the sky veined with electricity. In the midst of it all Merchie seemed to glow not so much with health and prosperity as confidence that God was truly in His heaven and there was justice in the world for a kid from the Iberville.\n\nHe meshed his fingers, as though making a tent, then pointed the tips at me.\n\n\"You were out at the Crudup farm in St. James Parish today,\" he said.\n\n\"Who told you?\" I asked.\n\n\"I'm trying to clean up the place,\" he replied.\n\n\"Think it might take a hydrogen bomb?\"\n\n\"So give me the gen on it,\" he said.\n\n\"The Crudup woman says she was cheated out of the title.\"\n\n\"Look, Dave, I bought the property three years ago at a bankruptcy sale. I'll check into it. How about some trust here?\"\n\nIt was hard to stay mad at Merchie. I knew people in the oil business who were openly ecstatic at the prospect of Mideastern wars or subzero winters in the northern United States, but Merchie had never been one of them.\n\n\"Been out of town?\" I said.\n\n\"Yeah, Afghanistan. You believe it?\"\n\n\"Shooting at the Taliban?\"\n\nHe smiled with his eyes but didn't reply.\n\n\"The woman in St. James Parish? Her grandfather was Junior Crudup,\" I said.\n\n\"An R&B guy?\"\n\n\"Yeah, one of the early ones. He did time with Leadbelly. He played with Jackie Brenston and Ike Turner,\" I said. But I could see him losing interest in the subject. \"I'd better go. Your place looks nice. Give me some feedback later on the Crudup situation, will you?\" I said.\n\n\"My favorite police officer,\" I heard a woman say.\n\nThe voice of Theodosha Flannigan was like a melancholy recording out of the past, the kind that carries fond memories but also some that are better forgotten. She was a member of the LeJeune family in Franklin, down the Teche, people whose wealth and lawn parties were legendary in southwest Louisiana, and she still used their name rather than Merchie's. She was tall, darkly beautiful, with hollow cheeks and long legs like a model's, her southern accent exaggerated, her jeans and tied-up black hair and convertible automobiles an affectation that belied the conservative and oligarchical roots she came from.\n\nBut in spite of her corn bread accent and the pleasure she seemed to take in portraying herself as an irreverent and neurotic southern woman, she had another side, one she never engaged in conversation about. She had written two successful screenplays and a trilogy of crime novels containing elements that were undeniably lyrical. Although her novels had never won an Edgar award, her talent was arguably enormous.\n\n\"How you doin', Theo?\" I said.\n\n\"Stay for coffee or a cold drink?\" she said.\n\n\"You know me, always on the run,\" I said.\n\nShe curled her fingers around the limb of a mimosa tree and propped one moccasin-clad foot against the trunk. Her breasts rose and fell against her blouse.\n\n\"How about diet Dr Pepper on the rocks, with cherries in it?\" she said.\n\nDon't hang around. Get away now, I heard a voice inside me say.\n\n\"I'm just about to fix some sherbet with strawberries. We'd love to have you join us, Dave,\" Merchie said.\n\n\"Sounds swell,\" I said, and dropped my eyes, wondering at the price I was willing to pay in order not to be alone.\n\nOn the way into the backyard Theodosha touched my arm. \"I'm sorry about your loss. I hope you're doing all right these days,\" she said.\n\nBut I had no memory of her sending a sympathy card when Bootsie died.\n\nI went to an early Mass the next morning, then bought a copy of the Times-Picayune and drank coffee at the picnic table in the backyard and read the newspaper. I read three paragraphs into an article about an errant bomb falling into a community of mudbrick huts in Afghanistan, then closed the paper and watched a group of children throwing a red Frisbee back and forth under the oak trees in the park. A speedboat full of teenagers roared down the bayou, swirling a trough back and forth between both banks, splintering the air with a deafening sound. I heard my portable phone tinkle softly by my thigh.\n\nThe operator asked if I would accept a collect call from Clete Purcel.\n\n\"Yes,\" I said.\n\n\"Streak, I'm in the zoo,\" Clete shouted.\n\nIn the background I could hear voices echoing down stone corridors or inside cavernous rooms.\n\n\"What did you say?\"\n\n\"I'm in Central Lock-Up. They busted me for assaulting Gunner Ardoin. I feel like I've been arrested for spraying Lysol on a toilet bowl.\"\n\n\"Why haven't you bonded out?\" I asked.\n\n\"Nig and Willie aren't answering my calls.\"\n\nI tried to make sense out of what he was saying. For years Clete had chased down bail skips for Nig Rosewater and Wee Willie Bimstine. He should have been out of jail with a signature.\n\nI started to speak, but he cut me off. \"Gunner is a grunt for Fat Sammy Fig, and Fat Sammy is connected up with every major league piece of shit in Louisiana. I think Nig and Willie don't want trouble with the wrong people. Arraignment isn't until Tuesday morning. Been down to Central Lock-Up lately?\"\n\nI took the four-lane through Morgan City into New Orleans. But I didn't go directly to the jail. Instead, I drove up St. Charles Avenue, then over toward Tchoupitoulas and parked in front of Gunner Ardoin's cottage. His Honda was in the driveway. I walked down to a corner store and bought a quart of chocolate milk and a prepackaged ham sandwich and sat down on Gunner's front steps and began eating the sandwich while children roller-skated past me under the trees.\n\nI heard someone open the door behind me.\n\n\"What the fuck you think you're doin'?\" Gunner's voice said.\n\n\"Oh, hi. I was about to ask you the same thing,\" I said.\n\n\"What?\" he said. He was bare chested and barefoot, and wore only a pair of pajama bottoms string-tied under his navel. The breeze blew from the back of the cottage through the open door. \"What?\" he repeated.\n\n\"Toking up kind of early today?\"\n\n\"So call the DEA.\"\n\n\"Father Jimmie Dolan was your basketball coach. Why did you say you didn't know him?\"\n\n\"'Cause I can't remember every guy I knew in high school with a whistle hanging out of his mouth.\"\n\n\"Father Jimmie says it wasn't you who attacked him, Gunner. But I think somebody told you to bust him up, and you pieced off the job to somebody else. Probably because you still have qualms.\"\n\n\"Is this because I filed on your friend?\"\n\n\"No, it's because you're a shitbag and you're going to drop those charges or I'll be back here tonight and jam a chainsaw up your ass.\"\n\n\"Look, man\u2014\" he began.\n\n\"No, you look,\" I said, rising to my feet, shoving him backward through the door into the living room. \"Fat Sammy is behind the job on Father Jimmie?\"\n\n\"No,\" he said.\n\nI shoved him again. He tripped over a footstool and fell backward on the floor. I pulled back my sports coat and removed my .45 from its clip-on holster and squatted next to him. I pulled back the slide and chambered a round, then pointed the muzzle at his face.\n\n\"Look at my eyes and tell me I won't do it,\" I said.\n\nI saw the breath seize in his throat and the blood go out of his cheeks. He stretched his head back, turning his face sideways, away from the .45.\n\n\"Don't do this,\" he said. \"Please.\"\n\nI waited a long time, then touched his forehead with the gun's muzzle and winked at him.\n\n\"I won't. I'd think about my request on those charges, though,\" I said.\n\nJust as I eased the hammer back down, his bladder gave way and he shut his eyes in shame and embarrassment. When I looked up I saw a little girl, no older than six or seven, staring at us, horrified, from the kitchen doorway.\n\n\"That's my daughter. I get her one day a week. I've known some cruel guys with a badge, but you take the cake,\" Gunner said.\n\nThe charges against Clete were dropped by three that afternoon. I drove him from Central Lock-Up to his apartment on St. Ann, where he fell asleep on the couch in front of a televised football game. Fat Sammy Figorelli's home was only three blocks away, over on Ursulines. The temptation was too much.\n\nFat Sammy had grown up in the French Quarter, and although he owned homes in Florida and on Lake Pontchartrain, he spent most of his time inside the half city block where the Figorelli family had lived since the 1890s. It seemed Sammy had been elephantine all his life. As a child the balloon tires of his bicycle burst under his weight. His rump wouldn't fit in the desk at the school run by the Ursuline nuns. In high school he got stuck inside his tuba while performing with the marching band at an LSU football game. The paramedics had to scissor off his jacket, smear him with Vaseline, and pry him loose in front of ninety thousand people. In his senior year he mustered up the courage to invite a girl to the Prytania Theater. A gang of Irish kids in the balcony rained down a barrage of water-filled condoms on their heads.\n\nAs an adult he filled his body with laxatives, tried every diet program imaginable, trained at fat farms, sweated to the oldies with Richard Simmons, attended a fire-walker's school run by a celebrity con man in California, almost died from liposuction, and finally had a gastric bypass. The consequence of the latter was a weight loss of 170 pounds in a year's time.\n\nAll of the wrong kind.\n\nHe lost the blubber, but under the blubber was a support system of sinew that hung on his frame like curtains of partially hardened cement. If this was not enough of a problem, Fat Sammy had another one that was equally egregious and beyond the scope of medicine. His head was shaped like a football, his few strands of gold hair brushed like oily wire into his scalp.\n\nI twisted an iron bell on the grilled door that gave onto a domed archway leading into Fat Sammy's courtyard.\n\n\"Who is it?\" a voice said from a speaker inside the gate.\n\n\"It's Dave Robicheaux. I've got a problem,\" I said.\n\n\"Not with me, you don't.\"\n\n\"It's about Gunner Ardoin. Open the door.\"\n\n\"Never heard of him. Come back another time. I'm taking a nap.\"\n\n\"There're some movie people in New Iberia. They want to work with some local guys who know their way around,\" I said.\n\nThe speaker box went dead and the gate buzzed open.\n\nThe courtyard was surfaced with soft brick, the flower beds blooming with yellow and purple roses, irises and hibiscus and Hong Kong orchids. Banana and umbrella trees and windmill palms grew along the walls, and the balconies dripped with bougainvillea and passion vine. Fat Sammy lay in a hammock like a beached whale, a Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned on his chest, his skin glazed with suntan lotion. A portable stereo and a mirror and a hairbrush sat on a glass-topped table next to him. The stereo was playing \"Clair de Lune.\"\n\n\"Who are these movie people?\" he asked.\n\n\"Germans. They're making a documentary. I think you're the man to show them around,\" I said.\n\nI pulled up a deep-backed wicker chair and sat down without being asked. He sat up in the hammock and turned down the volume on the stereo, his scalp glistening in the sunshine. He wiped his head with a towel, his eyes neutral, his mouth down-turned at the corners. \"Documentary on what?\" he asked.\n\n\"Let me clear the decks about something else first. Somebody beat up a priest named Father Jimmie Dolan. It's a lousy thing to happen, Sammy, something no respectable man would be involved in. I thought you'd want to know about it.\"\n\n\"No, I don't.\"\n\n\"In the old days elderly people in New Orleans didn't get jack-rolled and their houses didn't get creeped and nobody murdered a child or abused Catholic clergy. If N.O.P.D. couldn't take care of it, we let you guys do it for us.\"\n\nHis eyes were hooded, like a frog's. \"You were kicked off the force, Robicheaux. You don't speak for nobody, at least not around here.\" He paused, as though reconsidering the tenor of his rhetoric. \"Look, this used to be a good city. It ain't no more.\"\n\nWhen I didn't speak he took a breath and started over. \"This is the way it is. I make movies. I build houses. I'm developing shopping centers in Mississippi and Texas. You want to know who's running New Orleans? Flip over a rock. Welfare pukes hustling bazooka and blacks and South American spics and bikers muleing brown skag out of Florida. Nothing against the blacks or the spics. They're making it just like we did. But I wouldn't be in a room with none of them people unless I was encased in a full-body condom.\"\n\n\"Who did the job on Father Dolan?\"\n\nHis eyes were pale blue, almost without color, his expression like that of a man who had never learned to smile. \"Somebody saying it's on me? This guy Ardoin you mentioned?\"\n\nI looked at a strip of pink cloud above the courtyard. \"You're the man in New Orleans,\" I said.\n\n\"Yeah, every whore in the city tells me the same thing. I wonder why. I ever jerk you around, Robicheaux?\" he said.\n\n\"Not to my knowledge.\"\n\n\"Then I ain't going to now. That means I didn't have nothing to do with hurting a priest, and what I might know about it is my own business.\"\n\n\"I'm a little disappointed, Sammy. Within certain parameters you were always straight up,\" I said. I got up to go.\n\nHe brushed at his nose, his pale blue eyes burrowing into my face. \"You lied your way in here? About them movie people?\" he said.\n\n\"That was on the square.\" I handed him a business card that had been given to me by a member of a visiting German television crew the previous week. \"These guys are doing a story on the New Orleans connection to the assassination of President Kennedy. They believe it got set up here and in Miami.\"\n\n\"You saying I\u2014\" His voice broke in his throat. \"I voted for John Kennedy.\"\n\n\"I'm saying nothing had better happen to Father Dolan again.\"\n\nFat Sammy rose from the hammock, wheezing in his chest, like an angry behemoth that couldn't find its legs. I had forgotten how tall he was. He picked up a glass of iced tea from the table, gargled with it, and spit it in the flower bed.\n\n\"You own your soul?\" he asked.\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"If so, count yourself a lucky man. Now get the fuck out of here,\" he said.\n\nI ate dinner with Clete at a small restaurant up the street from the French Market, then shook hands with him and told him I had better head back for New Iberia. I watched him walk across Jackson Square and pass the cathedral, pigeons flapping in the shadows around his feet, and disappear down Pirates Alley. I started to get into my truck, but instead, for reasons I couldn't explain, I sat down on one of the iron benches by Andrew Jackson's equestrian statue, and listened to a black man playing a bottleneck guitar.\n\nIt was the burnt-out end of a long day and a longer weekend. The wind was cold off the river, the light cold and mauve colored between the buildings that framed the square, the air tinged with the smell of gas from the trees and flower beds. The black man worked the glass bottleneck up and down the frets of his guitar and sang, \"Oh Lord, my time ain't long. Rubber-tired hack coming down the road, burial-ground bound.\"\n\nAn N.O.P.D. cruiser pulled to the curb on Decatur. A black woman in uniform got out and fixed her cap, adjusted the baton on her belt, and walked toward me. She positioned herself between me and the sun, like an exclamation point against a fiery crack in the sky. I picked at my nails and didn't return her stare.\n\n\"Can't stay out of town?\" she said.\n\n\"I have an addictive personality,\" I replied.\n\nShe sat down on the corner of the bench. \"You got a bad jacket for a cop, Robicheaux.\"\n\n\"Who the hell are you?\" I said.\n\n\"Clotile Arceneaux. See,\" she said, lifting her brass name tag with her thumb. \"Your friend, Father Dolan? He's an amateur, and they're going to take his legs off\u2014yours, too, you keep messing in what you're not supposed to be messing in.\"\n\n\"I'm not big on telling other people what to do. I ask they show me the same courtesy,\" I said.\n\nThe baton on her hip kept banging against the bench. She slid it out of the ring that held it and bounced it between her legs on the cement. Her pursed lips looked like a tiny red rose in the gloom. I thought she would speak again, but she didn't. The sun went down behind the buildings in the square and the wind gusted off the levee, smelling of rain and fish-kill in the swamps.\n\n\"Can I buy you coffee, officer?\" I said.\n\n\"Your friend is off the hook on the assault beef. Time for you to go home, Robicheaux,\" she said.\n\nHome, I thought, and looked at her curiously, as though the word would not register in my mind.\n\n## Chapter 3\n\nOn Monday I left the department at mid-morning and checked out a history of Louisiana blues music and swamp pop from the city library and began reading it in my office. It was raining outside, and through my window I could see a freight train, the boxcars shiny with water, wobbling down the old Southern Pacific tracks through the black section of town. The longtime sheriff, an ex-marine who had marched out of the Chosin Reservoir, had retired and been replaced by my old partner, Helen Soileau.\n\nI saw her stop in the corridor outside my office and bite her lip, her hands on her hips. She tapped on the door, then opened it without waiting for me to tell her to come in.\n\n\"Got a minute?\" she asked.\n\n\"Sure.\"\n\n\"A couple of N.O.P.D. plainclothes picked up a prisoner this morning. They said you and Clete bent a pornographic actor out of shape. They thought it was funny.\"\n\n\"Pornographic actor?\" I said vaguely.\n\n\"Ardoin was his name.\"\n\n\"Clete flattened a coffeepot against the side of the guy's head, but it wasn't a big deal,\" I said.\n\nShe had the muscular build of a man and blond hair that she cut short, tapering it on the sides and neck so that it looked like the freshly cropped mane on a pony. She wore slacks and a white, short-sleeve shirt, a badge holder hooked on her belt. She sucked in her cheeks and watched a raindrop run down the window glass above my head.\n\n\"Not a big deal? Interrogating people outside your jurisdiction, banging them in the head with a coffeepot? Dave, I never thought I'd be in this situation,\" she said.\n\n\"Which one is that?\"\n\nShe leaned on the windowsill and looked at the lights of the freight caboose disappearing between a green jungle on each side of the tracks.\n\n\"You and Cletus work it out, but I don't want anybody, that means anybody, dragging N.O.P.D.'s dogshit into this department. I don't want to be the dartboard for those wise-asses, either. We straight on this?\" she said.\n\n\"I hear you.\"\n\n\"Good.\"\n\n\"Remember an R&B guitarist named Junior Crudup?\" I asked.\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"He went into Angola and never came out. I think his granddaughter got swindled out of her land over in St. James Parish. I think Merchie Flannigan is mixed up in it.\"\n\nShe straightened her back, then looked at me for a long moment. But whatever she had planned to say seemed to go out of her eyes. She grinned, shaking her head, and walked out into the corridor.\n\nI followed her outside.\n\n\"What was that about?\" I asked.\n\n\"Nothing. Absolutely nothing,\" she said. \"Streak, you're just too much. God protect me from my own sins.\"\n\nThen she laughed out loud and walked away.\n\nMonday night I listened to two ancient .78 recordings made by Junior Crudup in the 1940s. As with Leadbelly, the double-strung bass strings on his guitar were tuned an octave apart, but you could hear Blind Lemon and Robert Johnson in his style as well. His voice was haunting. No, that's not the right word. It drifted above the notes like a moan.\n\nThere are some stories that are just too awful to hear, the kind that people press on you after A.A. meetings or in late-hour bars, and later you cannot rid yourself of. This is one of them.\n\nOldtime recidivists always maintained that the worst joints in the country were in Arkansas. Places like Huntsville and Eastham in the Texas penal system came in a close second, primarily because of the furious pace at which the convicts were worked and the punishment barrels they were forced to stand on throughout the night, dirty and unfed, if a gunhack decided they were dogging it in the cotton field.\n\nBut Angola Pen could lay claims that few other penitentiaries could match. During Reconstruction Angola became the model for the rental convict system, one emulated throughout the postbellum South, not only as a replacement for slave labor but as a far more cost-efficient and profitable successor to it. Literally thousands of Louisiana convicts died of exposure, malnutrition, and beatings with the black Betty. Each of the camps made use of wood stocks that were right out of medieval Europe. The scandals at Angola received national notoriety in the 1950s when convicts began slashing the tendons in their ankles rather than stack time on what was called the Red Hat Gang.\n\nI drove up Bayou Teche to Loreauville, where the black man to whom I had sold my boat and bait business now lived with his daughter on a small plot of land not far from town. His house was set back in the shadows, on the bayou's edge, the tin roof almost entirely covered by the overhang of pecan and oak trees. I parked my pickup truck in the trees and walked up to the gallery, where he sat in a wood rocker, a jelly glass filled with iced coffee in his massive hand.\n\nHis name was Batist, and he was both older than he would concede and yet indifferent to what the world thought of him. He had worked most of his life as a farmer, a muskrat trapper and commercial fisherman with my father, and as a packer in several canneries. He could not read or write, but he was nonetheless one of the most insightful people I had ever known.\n\nA fat, three-footed raccoon named Tripod was eating out of a pet bowl on the steps.\n\n\"What's the haps, 'Pod?\" I said to the raccoon, scooping him up in my arms.\n\nBatist's whiskers were white against his cheeks. He removed a cigar from the pocket of his denim shirt and slipped it into his jaw but didn't light it.\n\n\"You ain't come to see me this weekend,\" he said.\n\n\"I had to take care of some business in New Orleans,\" I said. \"Years ago, you knew Junior Crudup, didn't you?\"\n\nHe raised his eyebrows. \"Oh yeah, ain't no doubt about that,\" he replied.\n\n\"What happened to him?\"\n\n\"What always happened to his kind back then. Trouble wherever he went.\"\n\n\"Want to be a little more specific?\"\n\n\"Back in them days there was fo' kinds of black folks. There was people of color, there was Negroes, and there was colored people. Under all them others was niggers.\"\n\n\"Crudup was in the last category?\"\n\n\"Wrong about that. Junior Crudup was a man of color. Called his-self a Creole. He wore an ox-blood Stetson, two-tone shoes, and a shirt and suit that was always pressed. Used to have a cherry red electric guitar he'd carry to all the dances. If a man could be pretty, that was Junior.\"\n\n\"How'd he end up in Angola?\"\n\n\"Didn't fit. Not in white people's world, not in black people's world. Junior had his own way. Didn't take his hat off to nobody. He'd walk five miles befo' he'd sit in the back of the bus. Back in them days, a black man like that wasn't gonna have a long run.\"\n\nTripod was struggling in my arms and kicking at me with his feet. I set him down and looked at the fireflies lighting in the trees. The air was cool and breathless, the surface of the bayou layered with steam. An electrically powered boat hung with lanterns was passing through the corridor of oaks that lined the banks. Batist's attitudes on race were not conventional ones. He never saw himself as a victim, nor did he ever act as the apologist for black men who were forced into lives of crime, but by the same token he never told less than the truth about the world in which he'd grown up. So far I could not determine where he stood on Junior Crudup.\n\n\"It started at a dance at the beginning of the Depression,\" he said. \"Junior was about t'irteen or fo'teen years old, working in a band for a black man had the most beautiful voice you ever heard. They was playing in a white juke by Ville Platte, on a real hot night, the place burning up inside. The singer, the man wit' the beautiful voice, he was playing the piano and singing at the same time, sweat pouring down his face. A white woman come off the dance flo' and patted her handkerchief on his brow. That's all she done. That's all she had to do.\n\n\"After the juke closed up, five white men drunk on moonshine caught the singer out on the road and beat him till he couldn't get off the ground. But that wasn't enough for them, no. They was in an old Ford, one wit' them narrow tires, and they run the tire right acrost his t'roat and busted his windpipe. Man never sung again and died in the asylum. Junior seen it all, right there on the side of the road, and couldn't do nothing about it. I don't t'ink there was a person in the whole round world he trusted after that.\"\n\n\"Why'd he go to the joint, Batist?\"\n\n\"Got caught sleeping wit' a white man's wife. That was 1934 or '35. But you want to know what happened in there, we got to talk to Hogman.\"\n\n\"Batist, I'd really like to keep this simple.\"\n\n\"They put Junior Crudup on the Red Hat Gang. Every nigger in Lou'sana feared that name, Dave. The ones come off it wasn't never the same.\"\n\nHogman Patin was a big, powerful man, an ex-con musician who had done time at the old camps in Angola with Robert Pete Williams, Matthew Maxey, and Guitar Git-and-Go Welch. His arms were coal black and laced with pink scars from a half dozen knife beefs inside the prison system. Now he ran a cafe in St. Martinville, appeared once a year at the International Music Festival in Lafayette, and sold scenic postcards with his signature on them for a dollar a piece. Batist and I sat with him in his side yard, a mile up the bayou, while he threw scrap wood on a fire and told us about Junior Crudup and the Red Hat Gang.\n\n\"See, Junior run the first year he was on the farm. Gunbull put a half cup of birdshot in his back, but he whipped a mule into the water and held onto its tail till it swum him all the way acrost the Miss'sippi,\" Hogman said, flinging a board into the fire, the sparks fanning across the bayou's surface. \"A young white doctor on the other side picked the shot out of his back and tole Junior he had a choice\u2014he'd give Junior ten dollars and forget he was there or the doctor would carry him on back to the penitentiary.\n\n\"Junior said, 'They'll whup me with the black Betty if I go back.'\n\n\"The doctor say, 'No, they ain't. I'm gonna make sure they ain't.'\n\n\"The doctor carried him on back to the farm and tole the warden he was gonna come see Junior every mont', and if Junior was whupped, the doctor was gonna have the warden's job.\n\n\"When Junior come out of the infirmary, they sent him to the Red Hat Gang. There was two captains running the Red Hat Gang then, the Latiolais brothers. First day they tole Junior they knowed they couldn't whup him, but by God they was gonna kill him.\n\n\"See, there was several t'ings special about the Red Hat Gang. Everybody wore black-and-white stripes and straw hats that was painted red. But didn't nobody walk. From cain't-see to cain't-see, it was double-time, hit-it-and-git-it, roll, nigger, roll.\n\n\"The Latiolais brothers was both drunkards. One of them might drink corn liquor under a tree and take a nap, then wake up and point his finger at a man and say, 'Take off, boy.' The next t'ing you'd hear was that shotgun popping.\n\n\"If a man fell out under the sun, he'd get put on an anthill. If a man was dogging it on the wheelbarrow, the captain would say, 'I need me a big wet rock.' There was a mess of rocks piled up down in the shallows, see. A convict would have to find a big one, a twenty-five pounder maybe, wet it down, and run it back up the slope to the captain befo' it was dry. Course, the faster the convict run, the quicker the rock got dried.\n\n\"So one day the captain tole Junior he was dogging it and he better get his ass down on the river and bring the captain the biggest wet rock he could find. Now, them rocks was a good half mile away and the captain knowed Junior was gonna be one wore-out nigger by the end of the day.\n\n\"Except Junior toted the rock on up the slope, then when the captain wasn't looking, he ducked behind some gum trees and pissed all over it. Then he holds up the rock to the captain and says, 'This wet enough for you, boss?'\n\n\"The captain touches the rock and looks at his hand and smells it. He cain't believe what Junior just done. Everybody on the Red Hat Gang started laughing. They was trying to hide it, looking at the ground and each other, but they just couldn't hold it inside. It was so funny they thought for a minute even the captain would laugh. They was sure wrong about that.\"\n\n\"What happened?\" I asked.\n\nHogman wore a strap undershirt that hung like rags on his body. His eyes took on a melancholy cast.\n\n\"The captain took Junior to the sweatbox on Camp A. It was an iron box no bigger than a coffin, standing straight up on a concrete pad. They kept that boy in there seven days, in the middle of summer, no way to go to the bat'room except a bucket between his legs,\" he said.\n\n\"What became of Junior?\" I asked.\n\n\"Don't know. He was in and out of 'Gola a couple of times. Maybe they buried him in the levee. I reckon there's hundreds in that levee. I don't study on it no mo',\" he said.\n\nHis eyes seemed to focus on nothing, his forehead glistening in the firelight.\n\nEarly the next morning I picked up my mail in my pigeon hole at the department and sorted through it at my desk. In it was an invitation, written in a beautiful hand on silver-embossed stationery.\n\nDear Dave,\n\nCan you come to Fox Run Saturday afternoon? It's lawn tennis and drinks and probably a few self-satisfied people talking about their money. In fact, it's probably going to be a drag. But that's life on the bayou, right? Merchie and I do want to see you.\n\nCall me. Please. It's been a long time.\n\nUntil then, Theodosha\n\nA long time since what? I thought.\n\nBut I knew the answer, and the memory was one I tried to push out of my mind. I dropped the invitation into a drawer and glanced out the window at a car with two men in it, pulling to the curb in front of the courthouse. The driver wore a black suit and a Roman collar. His passenger twisted his head about, his face bloodless, like someone on his way to the scaffold.\n\nTwo minutes later the pair of them were at my door.\n\n\"Phil came to the church and made his reconciliation,\" Father Jimmie said, closing the door behind him. \"If you don't mind, he'd like to talk over some things with you. Maybe in private.\"\n\nGunner Ardoin, whom Father Jimmie referred to as Phil, looked at me briefly, then out the window at a trusty mowing the grass.\n\n\"You want to tell me something, Gunner?\" I asked.\n\n\"Yeah, sure,\" he replied.\n\nFather Jimmie nodded and left the room. I told Gunner to take a seat in front of my desk. He breathed through his mouth, as though he were inside a walk-in freezer.\n\n\"I'm doing this for Father Dolan,\" he said.\n\n\"You're doing it to save your ass,\" I said.\n\nHis eyes didn't look at me but his face hardened.\n\n\"You went to confession?\" I said.\n\n\"They call it reconciliation now. But, yeah, I went,\" he said.\n\n\"So who put the contract on Father Jimmie?\"\n\n\"I got a phone call. From a guy named Ray. He don't have another name. He just said I was supposed to take care of Father Dolan. When I got a delivery to make, Ray is the guy who calls me. I told Ray I didn't do stuff like that. He says I do it or I find a new source of income. So I called up a guy. He rolls queers in the Quarter and at some sleaze joints on Airline. For a hundred bucks he does other kinds of work, too.\"\n\n\"Do you have any idea what you did to a decent and fine man?\"\n\n\"You want the guy's name?\"\n\n\"No, I want Ray's last name and I want the guy Ray works for.\"\n\n\"Man, you don't understand. Father Dolan's got enemies all over New Orleans. He's trying to shut down drive-by daiquiri windows and trash incinerators and these guys who been dumping sludge out in the river parishes. He told the Times-Picayune these right-to-life people were committing a sin by putting these women's pictures and names on the Internet.\"\n\n\"What are you talking about?\"\n\n\"These anti-abortion nutcases. They take pictures of women going into abortion clinics, then put the pictures and the women's names and addresses on the Internet. Father Dolan spoke up about it, a Catholic priest. How many enemies does one guy need?\"\n\n\"Our time is about up, Gunner,\" I said.\n\n\"The queer-bait from the Quarter was supposed to scare Father Dolan, not go apeshit with a pipe. Hey, are you listening? It's on the street I snitched off Sammy Fig. You must have given up my name to Fat Sammy.\"\n\n\"Sammy says he never heard of you. You shouldn't have anything to worry about.\"\n\n\"I knew it.\" His face turned gray. He wiped his mouth and looked at the trusty gardener clipping a hedge outside the window. \"Why you staring at me like that?\" he said.\n\n\"I think you're using the seal of the confessional to keep Father Dolan from testifying against you.\"\n\n\"Maybe that was true at first. But I'm still sorry for what I done. He's a good guy. He didn't deserve what happened to him.\"\n\nI glanced at my watch. \"We're done here. So long, Gunner,\" I said.\n\nHe rose from his chair and walked to the door, then stopped, his shoulders slightly stooped, his impish features waiting in anticipation, as though an act of mercy might still be extended to him.\n\n\"What is it?\" I said.\n\n\"Call Sammy Fig. Tell him I didn't rat him out.\"\n\n\"What's Ray's last name?\" I asked.\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\n\"Adios,\" I said.\n\nI went back to reading my morning mail. When I looked up again, he was gone. A moment later Father Jimmie stuck his head in the door, his disappointment obvious.\n\n\"You couldn't help Phil out?\" he asked.\n\nThe next day I called the warden's office at Angola Penitentiary and asked an administrative assistant to do a records search under the name of Clarence \"Junior\" Crudup.\n\n\"When was he here?\" the assistant asked.\n\n\"In the forties or fifties.\"\n\n\"Our records don't go back that far. You'll have to go through Baton Rouge for that.\"\n\n\"This guy went in but didn't come out.\"\n\n\"Say again?\"\n\n\"He was never released. No one knows what happened to him.\"\n\n\"Try Point Lookout.\"\n\n\"The cemetery?\"\n\n\"Nobody gets lost in here. They either go out through the front gate or they get planted in the gum trees.\"\n\n\"How about under the levee?\"\n\nHe hung up on me.\n\nAt noon I walked past the whitewashed and crumbling brick crypts in St. Peter's Cemetery to Main Street and ate lunch at Victor's Cafeteria, then returned to the office just as the sun went behind a bank of thunderheads and the wind came up hard in the south and began blowing the trees along the train tracks. There were two telephone messages from Theodosha Flannigan in my mailbox. I dropped them both in the dispatcher's wastebasket.\n\nAt 4:00 P.M., in the middle of a downpour, I saw her black Lexus pull to the curb in front of the courthouse. She popped open an umbrella and raced for the front of the building, water splashing on her calves and the bottom of her pink skirt.\n\nI went out into the corridor to meet her, feigning a confidence that masked my desire to avoid seeing her again.\n\n\"Did you get my invitation?\" she said, her face and hair bright with rain.\n\n\"Yes, thanks for sending it,\" I replied.\n\n\"I called earlier. A couple of times.\"\n\nTwo deputies at the water cooler were looking at us, their eyes traveling the length of her figure.\n\n\"Come on in the office, Theo. It's been a little busy today,\" I said.\n\nI closed the door behind us. \"If you can't come Saturday, I understand. I need to talk to you about something else, though,\" she said.\n\n\"Oh?\"\n\n\"I've got a problem. It comes in bottles. Not just booze. Six months ago I started using again. My psychiatrist gave me the keys to the candy store,\" she said.\n\nHer voice was wired, the whites of her eyes threaded with tiny veins. She let out a breath in a ragged sigh. Her breath smelled like whiskey and mint leaves, and not from the previous night. \"Can I sit down?\" she asked.\n\n\"Yes, I'm sorry. Please,\" I said, and looked over my shoulder at Helen Soileau passing in the corridor.\n\n\"Dave, I have little men with drills and saws working in my head all day. Sometimes in the middle of the night, too,\" Theodosha said.\n\n\"There's a meeting tonight at Solomon House, across from old New Iberia High,\" I said.\n\n\"I've been in treatment twice. I was in analysis for seven years. I get a year of sobriety, then things start happening in my head again. My most recent psychiatrist shot himself last week. In Lafayette, in Girard Park, while his kids were playing on the swings. I keep thinking I had something to do with it.\"\n\n\"Where's Merchie in all this?\"\n\n\"He makes excuses for me. He doesn't complain. I couldn't ask for more. You know, he's not entirely normal himself.\" She took a handkerchief from her purse and blotted the moisture from her eyes. \"I don't know what I'm doing here. Merchie's bothered because you think he's dumping oil waste around poor people's homes. He looks up to you. Can't you come out to Fox Run Saturday?\"\n\n\"I'm kind of jammed up these days.\"\n\n\"How long were you drunk?\"\n\n\"Fifteen years, more or less.\"\n\n\"You didn't want to drink when your wife died?\"\n\n\"No,\" I said, my eyes leaving hers.\n\n\"I don't know how anybody stays sober. I feel dirty all over.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Who cares? Some people are born messed up,\" she said. \"I'm sorry for coming in here like this. I'm going to find a dark, hermetically sealed, air-conditioned lounge and dissolve myself inside a vodka collins.\"\n\n\"Some people just ride out the hangover. Today can be the first inning in a new ballgame.\"\n\n\"Good try,\" she said, rising from her chair.\n\nI thought she was about to leave. Instead, she fixed her gaze on me, waiting. Her hair had the black-purplish sheen of silk, the tips damp and curled around her throat.\n\n\"Is there something else?\" I asked.\n\n\"What about Saturday?\" Her face softened as she waited for an answer.\n\n## Chapter 4\n\nThat evening, at twilight, a Buick carrying three teenage girls roared around a curve on Loreauville Road, passed a truck, caromed off a roadside mailbox, then righted itself and slowed behind a school bus as someone in the backseat flung a box of fast-food trash and plastic cups and straws out the window. The truck driver, a religious man who kept a holy medal suspended from a tiny chain on his rearview mirror, would say later he thought the girls had settled down and would probably follow the church bus at a reasonable speed into Loreauville, five miles up Bayou Teche.\n\nInstead, the driver crossed the double-yellow stripe again, into on-coming traffic, then tried to cut in front of the church bus when she realized safe harbor would never again be hers.\n\nHelen Soileau, four uniformed deputies, two ambulances, and a firetruck were already at the accident scene when I arrived. The girls were still inside the Buick. The telephone pole they had hit was cut in half at the base and the downed wires were hanging in an oak tree. The Buick had slid on its roof farther down the embankment, splintering a white fence before coming to rest by the side of a fish pond, where the gas tank had exploded and burned with heat so intense the water in the pond boiled.\n\n\"You run the tag yet?\" I said.\n\n\"It's registered to a physician in Loreauville. The baby-sitter says he and his wife are playing golf. I left a message at the country club,\" Helen said.\n\nShe wore her shield on a black cord around her neck. The wind shifted, blowing across the barns and pastures of the horse farm where the Buick had burned. But the odor the wind carried was not of horses and alfalfa. Helen held a wadded-up piece of Kleenex to her nose, snuffing, as though she had a cold. Two firemen used the jaws-of-life to pry apart the window on the driver's side of the Buick, then began pulling the remains of the driver out on the grass.\n\n\"The bus driver says the Buick was swinging all over the road?\" I asked.\n\n\"Yep, they were having a grand time of it. Life on the bayou in 2002,\" Helen said.\n\nThe water oaks along the Teche had already lost their leaves and their branches looked skeletal against the flattened, red glow of the sun on the western horizon. A spruce green Lincoln with two people in the front seat approached us from the direction of Loreauville, slowing in the dusk, pulling onto the shoulder. The driver got out, looking over the top of his automobile at the scene taking place by the fish pond, his face stenciled with a sadness that no cop, at least no decent one, ever wishes to deal with.\n\nI reached through the open window of Helen's cruiser and picked up a pair of polyethylene gloves and a vinyl garbage bag.\n\n\"Where you going?\" she said.\n\n\"Litter patrol,\" I replied.\n\nI walked back along the road for two hundred yards or so, past a line of cedar trees that bordered another horse farm, then crossed the road to the opposite embankment where a spray of freshly thrown trash bloomed in the grass. I picked up chicken bones, half-eaten dinner rolls, soiled paper napkins, a splattered container of mashed potatoes and gravy, three blue plastic cups, three lids and straws, and broken pieces of a plastic wrap that had been used to seal the lids on the cups.\n\nThere were still grains of ice in the cups, along with the unmistakable smell of sugar, lemon juice, and rum. I found a paper sack and placed the cups and lids in it, then deposited the sack in the garbage bag. When I got back to the accident scene, Helen was talking to the father and mother of the girl who had driven the Buick. The father's face was dilated with rage as he pointed his finger at the drivers of both the truck and the church bus, both of whom had said his daughter was speeding and crossing the double-yellow stripe.\n\n\"Maybe you boxed her off, too. Why would she go off the lefthand embankment unless you wouldn't let her back in line? Answer me that, goddamnit,\" he said.\n\nAn ambulance containing the bodies of the three girls was working its way around the other emergency vehicles, its flashers beating silently against the dusk.\n\nI dropped the evidence bag in Helen's cruiser and drove home, passing a rural black slum at the four corners, where several cars and pickup trucks were lined up at the service window of a drive-by daiquiri store.\n\nEarly the next morning, when the streets were still empty and the light was gray and streaked with mist in the backyards along the bayou, Fat Sammy Figorelli parked his Cadillac in front of my house, puffed on a cigarette while studying the live oaks and antebellum homes that lined East Main, then walked up on my gallery and began knocking so hard the walls shook.\n\n\"You mad at my door?\" I said.\n\n\"I need to straighten you out about a certain issue,\" he said.\n\nI stepped outside, barefoot, still unshaved, dressed only in a T-shirt and khakis. He wore a rust-colored shirt and brown knit necktie and knife-creased slacks. He stood a half-head taller than I, his porcine face shiny with cologne.\n\n\"A little early, isn't it?\" I said.\n\n\"I get up at four every morning. I think sleep sucks,\" he said.\n\n\"I see. Then you wake up other people. Makes sense.\"\n\n\"What?\" he said.\n\n\"Why are you here, Sammy?\"\n\n\"I got this punk Gunner Ardoin calling me up, telling me he didn't rat me out, that he's got a little girl, that he can't afford to lose work 'cause he's in the hospital.\"\n\n\"Why tell me about it?\" I asked.\n\n\"Thanks to you and that animal Purcel, my name is getting drug into all this.\"\n\n\"Into what?\"\n\n\"Stories about a priest getting bashed. I don't want to hear my name coming up no more in regard to Father Jimmie Dolan. This guy is a world-class pain in the ass and I got nothing to do with him. What kind of priest punches out the owner of a health salon, anyway?\"\n\n\"I hadn't heard that one.\"\n\n\"He probably left it out of his homily.\"\n\n\"I'll try to remember all this. Thanks for dropping by,\" I said.\n\nSammy looked at me for a long time, his nostrils swelling with air, his small mouth a tight seam, as though he had been talking futilely to either a deaf or stupid man. A delivery truck smelling of donuts or freshly baked bread passed on the street. Fat Sammy watched the truck turn the corner by a huge, redbrick, tree-shaded antebellum home called the Shadows and disappear down a side street.\n\n\"This is a nice town,\" he said.\n\nI realized that whatever was really bothering him was probably not within his ability to explain. He watched a blue jay lighting on a bird feeder that hung from an oak limb in the yard. Then, like every mainstream American gangster I had ever known, almost all of whom struggle to hold onto some vestige of respectability, he unknowingly opened a tiny window into a childlike area of his soul.\n\n\"I talked with them German film people who's doing a documentary. They say you told them I used to be on a first-name basis with a Miami guy who helped kill President Kennedy. It's true, you told them people that?\" he said.\n\n\"You know the same stories I do, Sammy. They just sound better coming from you. You were born for the screen, partner,\" I said.\n\nHe seemed to think about my explanation, but showed no indication of wanting to leave my gallery.\n\n\"You care to come inside and have some coffee?\" I said.\n\n\"Got any donuts?\" he said.\n\nI opened the door for him and watched his enormous bulk move past me into my house. I could smell an odor like testosterone ironed into his clothes.\n\nThat morning I drove to the high school that the three dead girls had attended up the bayou in the little town of Loreauville. The registrar gave me a copy of the yearbook from the previous year and I found the three girls' photographs among members of the junior class. All three had been either class officers, prom queens, members of the drama club and speech team, or participants in Madrigals. They had been scheduled to graduate in the spring.\n\nBut one of the girls had a different kind of distinction. The driver, Lori Parks, had been on probation for possession of Ecstasy and had been driving with a restricted license for a previous DWI. By late afternoon the forensic chemist at our crime lab had matched a latent print from one of the plastic cups I had picked up two hundred yards from the crash site. The latent belonged to Lori Parks.\n\nThere is no open-container law in the State of Louisiana. It is supposedly illegal to drink and drive in the state, but a vendor can sell mixed drinks at drive-by windows to people in automobiles, provided the container is sealed. Wrapping a piece of plastic around the lid of a daiquiri cup satisfies the statute, and the passengers in the automobile are allowed to open the cups and consume any amount of alcohol they wish as long as they do not give alcohol to the driver.\n\nIf the driver is drinking and sees a state trooper or sheriff's deputy hit his flasher, he only needs to hand his cup to a passenger and instantly he comes into compliance with the law.\n\nThe only person legally liable for any violation of the statutes governing the drive-by window sale of mixed drinks is the clerk who actually makes the sale, never the owner. Sometimes the clerk, who is usually paid no more than minimum wage, is fined or jailed or both for selling to underage customers. But the daiquiri windows remain open seven days and nights a week, positioned on each end of town, thriving on weekends and on all paydays.\n\nJust before I started to drive out to the daiquiri store at the four corners on Loreauville Road, the phone rang on my desk. It was the administrative assistant in the warden's office at Angola Penitentiary, the same man who had hung up on me when I had mentioned the possibility of Junior Crudup being buried under the levee along the Mississippi River.\n\n\"I did some digging around,\" he said.\n\nI laughed into the receiver.\n\n\"You think this is funny?\" he said.\n\n\"No, sir. I'm sorry.\"\n\n\"Ever know an old gunhack by the name of Buttermilk Strunk?\"\n\n\"Cain't-See to Cain't-See Double-Time Strunk?\" I said.\n\n\"That's the man. He was working levee gangs from Camp A in 1951. He says Crudup was a big stripe back then and on the shit list of a couple other gunbulls who wanted to make a Christian out of him, get my meaning?\"\n\n\"I think so,\" I said.\n\n\"They worked him over pretty bad. Strunk says that's about the time a man came to the penitentiary and made recordings of some of the convicts. According to Strunk, this man probably saved Crudup's life.\"\n\n\"You mean John or Allen Lomax, the folk music collectors?\"\n\n\"No, this guy lives in Franklin. You ought to know him. He only owns about half the goddamn state.\"\n\n\"Who are we talking about?\" I said, my impatience growing.\n\n\"Castille LeJeune. Strunk says LeJeune came to Angola with a man from a record company and got Crudup pulled off the levee gang. He doesn't know what happened to him after that.... You still there?\"\n\n\"Castille LeJeune saved the life of a black convict? I'm having a hard time putting this together.\"\n\n\"Why's that?\"\n\n\"He's supposed to be a sonofabitch.\"\n\n\"Remind me not to waste my time on bullshit like this again,\" the administrative assistant said.\n\nThat night my old enemy was back. According to his friends, Audie Murphy fashioned a bedroom out of his garage in the hills overlooking Los Angeles and slept separately from his wife, a loaded army-issue .45 under his pillow. After World War II he had become convinced that, before he could sleep a full night again, he would have to spend five days in peacetime for every day he had spent on the firing line. For him that meant twenty years of sleeplessness.\n\nI couldn't offer my limited experience in Vietnam as the raison d'etre for my insomnia. I drank before I went there and I drank more when I came back. Now I did not drink at all and my nocturnal hours were still filled with the same visitors and feelings; they simply took on different shapes and faces.\n\nThe night seemed alive with sound\u2014the clatter of red squirrels on the roof, a dredge boat out on the bayou, a brief rain shower that swept across the trees in the yard. When I finally fell asleep I dreamed of my dead wife Bootsie and Father Jimmie Dolan and the three girls who had died in a burning automobile and of a Negro convict who had been ground up in a system that loathed courage in a black man.\n\nWhat were the dreams really about? An imperfect world, I suspect, one over which death and injustice often seemed to hold dominion. But what kind of fool would surrender his sleep over a condition he could not change?\n\nSleeping with a .45 did not bring Audie Murphy peace of mind, nor did gambling away millions in Las Vegas. I had slept with firearms, too, and invested substantial sums of money in the parimutuel industry at racetracks all over the country, but I was no more successful in my attempt at redress with the world than he was. That said, I did have an answer for insomnia, one that was surefire and one that Murphy evidently did not try. But just the thought of its coming back into my life made sweat pop on my forehead.\n\nWhen I went to the office in the morning a faxed message was waiting for me from the Department of Public Safety and Corrections in Baton Rouge. Since there was no record of Junior Crudup's discharge from Angola or his death while on the farm, it was the department's contention he had served his full sentence and gone out \"max time,\" which meant he would have been released without parole stipulations or supervision sometime in 1958.\n\nIt was pure blather.\n\nI called Father Jimmie Dolan at his rectory in New Orleans and was told he was working in the garden. Fat Sammy had said Father Jimmie was a global-size pain in the ass. The archdiocese must have felt the same. He had been assigned to an ancient, downtown church in a dirty, dilapidated neighborhood off Canal, where Mass was still said in Latin, women in the pews covered their heads, and communicants knelt at the altar rail when they received the Eucharist, as though the 1960s reforms of Vatican II had never taken place.\n\nLast year, when I remarked to Father Jimmie on the obvious bad judgment if not punitive intention on the part of the diocese in placing a minister such as himself in a parish with an anachronistic mindset, he replied, \"Some people can't accept change. So the church lets a few wall themselves up in a mausoleum and pretend the past is still alive. Know anybody else who has that kind of problem?\"\n\n\"Excuse me?\" I said.\n\n\"They're not bad guys,\" he said, grinning from ear to ear.\n\nMy mind came back to the present and I heard Father Jimmie scrape the phone receiver off a hard surface.\n\n\"Fat Sammy Figorelli says you punched out the owner of a health salon,\" I said.\n\n\"Not exactly.\"\n\n\"How 'not exactly'?\"\n\n\"The guy we're talking about runs a massage parlor and escort service. He forced a seventeen-year-old Vietnamese girl from our parish to give a blowjob to one of his customers. Is this why you called?\"\n\n\"The Department of Corrections says Junior Crudup's last sentence was up in 1958. They say he wasn't paroled and he didn't die inside the prison, so he must have gone out max time in '58.\"\n\n\"He was probably killed and buried on the farm. But I doubt if we'll ever know.\"\n\n\"There's more. An oldtime gunbull says a man by the name of Castille LeJeune got Junior off the levee gang around 1951. But that's where the trail ends.\"\n\n\"Castille LeJeune, in Franklin? That's Theodosha Flannigan's father. She's married to Merchie Flannigan.\"\n\n\"How'd you know that?\" I said.\n\n\"She used to live in New Orleans. She was one of our parishioners. Can we have a talk with Mr. LeJeune?\"\n\n\"I don't like to get too close to Theodosha.\"\n\nThere was a beat, then he said, \"Oh, I see.\"\n\nWay to go, Robicheaux, I thought.\n\nThat afternoon I went to each drive-by daiquiri store in New Iberia. Each of the stores used the same type of blue plastic cups that I had picked up near the accident scene, the same type lids, the same type sealing wrap. I showed each of the clerks working the window the yearbook photographs of the three girls killed on Loreauville Road. Each clerk looked at them blankly and shook his head. At the first three stores I believed the denials given me by the clerks. At the fourth my experience was different.\n\nThe store was a boxlike, plywood structure, painted white, located inside an oak grove just outside the city limits. I parked my cruiser in the trees and waited in the shade while the clerk, a kid probably not much over legal age himself, serviced three drive-by customers. Then I walked to the window, which had a flap on it propped up by a stick. I opened my badge on him.\n\n\"What's your name?\" I said.\n\n\"Josh Comeaux.\"\n\n\"You work here every evening, Josh?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir. Unless I have a basketball game. Then Mr. Hebert lets me off,\" he answered.\n\nI flipped the high school yearbook open to a marked page and showed him pictures of two of the dead girls.\n\n\"You know either one of these girls?\" I asked.\n\n\"No, sir, I can't say I do,\" he said. He wore khakis and a starched, print shirt, the short sleeves folded in neat cuffs on his upper arms. His hair was black, combed back with gel, boxed on the neck, his skin tanned.\n\n\"Can't or won't?\" I said, and smiled at him.\n\n\"Sir?\" he said, confused.\n\nI turned to another marked page in the yearbook and showed him a picture of Lori Parks.\n\n\"How about this girl?\" I said.\n\nHe shook his head, his eyes flat. \"No, sir. Don't know her. I guess I'm not much help on this. These girls do something wrong?\"\n\n\"You seem out of breath. You all right?\" I said.\n\n\"I'm fine,\" he said, and tried to smile.\n\n\"What time did you serve her?\" I asked.\n\n\"Serve who?\"\n\n\"Lori Parks,\" I said, tapping the picture of the driver.\n\n\"I haven't said I did that. I haven't said no such thing. No, sir.\"\n\n\"The autopsy on this girl indicates she was alive when the gasoline tank on her car exploded. She was seventeen years old. I think you're in a world of shit, partner.\"\n\nHe swallowed and looked at the smoke hanging in the trees from a barbecue joint. He opened his mouth to speak, but a middle-aged, balding man who wore a cowboy vest and a string tie and hillbilly sideburns that looked like grease pencil cupped his hand on the boy's shoulder and glared at me through the service window.\n\n\"You saying we served somebody under age?\" he asked.\n\n\"I know you did,\" I said.\n\n\"Every young person who comes by this window has to show ID. That's the rule. No exceptions,\" he said.\n\n\"You the owner?\" I said.\n\nHe ignored my question and addressed his clerk. \"You serve anybody who looked like a minor yesterday?\"\n\n\"No, sir, not me. I checked everybody,\" the clerk said.\n\n\"That's what I thought,\" the man in the vest said. \"We're closed.\"\n\n\"How did you know the problem sale was yesterday?\" I asked.\n\nHe pulled out the support stick from under the window flap and let it slam shut in my face.\n\nWhile I had spent the afternoon questioning the employees of New Iberia's drive-by daiquiri stores, an unusual man was completing his journey on the Sunset Limited from Miami into New Orleans. He had small ears that were tight against his scalp, narrow shoulders, white skin, lips that were the color of raw liver, and emerald green eyes that possessed the rare quality of seeming infinitely interested in what other people were saying. He sat in the lounge car, wearing a seersucker suit and pink dress shirt with a plum-colored tie and ruby stick pin, sipping from a glass of soda and ice and lime slices while the countryside rolled by. An elderly Catholic nun in a black habit sat down next to him and opened a book and began reading from it. She soon became conscious that the man was watching her.\n\n\"Could I help you with something?\" she asked.\n\n\"You're reading The Catholic Imagination by Father Andrew Greeley. A fine book it is,\" the man said.\n\n\"I just started it. But, yes, it seems to be. Are you from Ireland?\"\n\nHe considered his reply. \"Umm, not anymore,\" he said. \"Are you going to New Orleans, Sister?\"\n\n\"Yes, I live there. But my parents came from Waterford, in the south of Ireland.\"\n\nBut he didn't seem to take note of her parents' origins. His eyes were so green, his stare so invasive, she found herself averting his gaze.\n\n\"Would you be knowing a Father James Dolan in New Orleans?\" the man asked.\n\n\"Why, yes, he's a friend of mine.\"\n\n\"I understand he's a lovely man. Works in a parish where they still say a traditional Mass, does he?\"\n\n\"Yes, but he's\u2014\"\n\n\"He's what?\"\n\n\"He's not a traditional man. Excuse me, but you're staring at me.\"\n\n\"I am? Oh, I beg your pardon, Sister. But you remind me of a mother superior who ran the orphanage where I once lived. What a darlin' sack of potatoes she was. She used to make me fold my hands like I was about to pray, then whack the shite out of me with a ruler. She was good at pulling hair and giving us the Indian burn, too. Have you done the same to a few tykes?\"\n\nHe drank from his glass of ice and soda and lime, an innocuous light in his eyes. \"Not running off, are you? You forgot your book. Here, I'll bring it to you,\" he said.\n\nBut she rushed through the vestibule into the next car, the big wood beads of her fifteen-decade rosary clattering on her hip, the whoosh of the doors like wind howling in a tunnel.\n\nOn Saturday afternoon Father Jimmie and I went together to the Flannigan lawn party at Fox Run, down Bayou Teche, in St. Mary Parish. The home had been constructed during the early Victorian era to resemble a steamboat, with porches shaped like the fantail and captain's bridge on a ship and cupolas and balconies on the upper stories that gave a spectacular view of the grounds, the antebellum homes on the opposite side of the bayou, and the sugarcane fields that seemed to recede over the rim of the earth.\n\nLive oaks draped with moss arched over the roof of the house, and palm trees grew in their shade to the second-story windows. A visitor to the lawn party could ride either western or English saddle around a white-fenced track by the horse stables, or play tennis on either a grass or red-clay court. The buffet tables groaned with food that had been prepared at Galatoire's and Antoine's in New Orleans. The drink table was a drunkard's dream.\n\nThe guests included the state insurance commissioner, who was under a federal grand jury indictment and would later become the third state insurance commissioner in a row to go to prison; petro-chemical executives from Oklahoma and Texas whose wives' voices rose above all others; two New York book editors and a film director from Home Box Office; an ex-player from the National Football League who rented himself out as a professional celebrity; career military officers and their wives who had retired to the Sunbelt; the former governor's mistress whose evening gown looked like pink champagne poured on her skin; and state legislators who had once been barbers and plumbers and who genuinely believed they shared a common bond with their host and his friends.\n\nFather Jimmie had worn his Roman collar, and the consequence was that he and I stood like an island in the middle of the lawn party while people swirled around us, deferential and polite, touching us affectionately if need be but avoiding the eye contact that would take them away from all the rewards a gathering at Castille LeJeune's could offer.\n\nAfter a half hour I wished I had not come. I went inside the house to use the bathroom, but someone was already inside. A black drink waiter in the kitchen directed me to another bathroom, deeper in the house, one I had to find by cutting through a small library and den filled with fine guns and Korean War\u2013era memorabilia.\n\nA steel airplane propeller was mounted on the wall, and under it was a framed color photograph of Castille LeJeune and a famous American baseball player, both of them dressed in Marine Corps tropicals, standing in front of two vintage Grumman Hellcat fighter planes parked on a runway flanged by Quonset huts and palm trees. In another photo LeJeune stood at attention in his dress uniform while President Harry Truman pinned the Distinguished Flying Cross on his coat.\n\nBut the photos that caught my eye were not those of Castille LeJeune's career as a Marine Corps pilot. A picture taken at his wedding showed him and his young wife, in her bridal gown, standing on the steps of a church. She was tall, dark featured, and absolutely beautiful. She also looked like the twin of her daughter, Theodosha.\n\nWhen I went back outside the sun was setting beyond the trees on the bayou, the sugarcane fields purple in the dusk, the air cool and damp, thick with cigarette smoke and smelling of alcohol that had soaked into tablecloths or had been spilled by the guests on their clothes.\n\nIn my absence Father Jimmie had cornered both Castille LeJeune and Merchie Flannigan and was talking heatedly with them, his coat separating on his chest when he raised his arms to make a point, one foot at a slight angle behind the other, in the classic position of a martial artist.\n\n\"Let me finish if you would,\" he said when Merchie Flannigan tried to speak. \"You say you're cleaning up the Crudups' property? The place is floating in sludge.\"\n\n\"I'm sure Merchie is doing his best. Why don't you help yourself to the food, Father?\" Castille LeJeune said.\n\nHe was a trim, nice-looking man, with a lean face and steel gray hair that he combed straight back. He wore a white sports coat and dark blue shirt and a gold and onyx Mason's ring on his marriage finger.\n\n\"No, thanks,\" Father Jimmie said, wagging two fingers as though brushing Castille LeJeune's words from the air. \"So let me see if I understand correctly. In 1951 you took a friend to Angola Prison to record Junior Crudup, but you have no idea what happened to Junior later?\"\n\n\"I was doing a favor for my wife. She was fond of folk music. That was a long time ago,\" LeJeune answered, his eyes crinkling at the corners, his gaze wandering among his guests.\n\n\"But a retired guard, a man named Strunk, says you got Junior pulled off the levee gang.\"\n\n\"I don't remember that. I wouldn't have had that kind of influence,\" LeJeune said.\n\n\"Really?\" Father Jimmie said. \"You wouldn't throw a fellow a slider, would you?\"\n\nThe insult to a man of his age and position seemed not to register in LeJeune's face. Instead, his eyes crinkled again. \"Have a good time,\" he said. He placed his hand warmly on Father Jimmie's arm and walked away.\n\n\"Let me get you a beer, Father,\" Merchie Flannigan said.\n\n\"Shame on you for what you're doing to those black people in St. James Parish,\" Father Jimmie said.\n\nFather Jimmie's heart might have been in the right place, but it was embarrassing to listen to him berate Merchie Flannigan in front of others and I didn't wait to hear Merchie's reply. I walked out of the backyard and into the oak trees, then witnessed one of those moments when you realize that each human being's story is much more complex than you could have ever guessed.\n\nBetween the horse stables and the bayou was a white-railed, sloping green pasture containing a fish pond and a small dock. A gas lamp mounted on a brass pole burned above the dock, and I could see moths flying into the flame, then dropping like pieces of ash into the water. As I stood among the trees I saw Theodosha watching the same scene, one hand on the fence railing. The electric lights were on in the stables and I could see her face clearly in the illumination, her brow knitted, the muscles in her throat taut, her hand gripped tightly on the rail.\n\nI walked toward her but her attention had been distracted by the strange red reflection of the sun's afterglow on the bayou. A little boy and girl, not older than four or five, climbed through the fence on the opposite side of the fish pond and ran giggling toward the dock. I had no way of knowing the depth of the pond, but a spring board was attached to the end of the dock, which meant the depth was certainly over a child's head.\n\nTheo looked back from the sunset at the pond and saw the children almost the same time as I. She bit her lip and raised her hand as though to warn them off, but she remained outside the fence, frozen, as though an invisible shield prevented her from entering the pasture. The children thumped onto the dock and danced up and down, then bent over the edge of the dock and peered at the fish feeding on the moths dropping from the flame in the gas lamp.\n\nTheodosha heard me walk up behind her. She turned abruptly, startled, her expression one of both fear and shame.\n\n\"That water is fairly deep, isn't it?\" I said.\n\n\"Yes,\" she said, turning back toward the pond. \"Yes, those children shouldn't be out there. Where are their parents?\"\n\nI started to climb through the fence.\n\n\"No, I'll do that. I'm sorry. I'm\u2014\" She didn't finish whatever she was going to say. She ducked under the top rail of the fence and ran awkwardly onto the dock, then returned, clasping each of the children by the hand.\n\nThe children's faces were hot, angry, a bit frightened, their cheeks pooled with color.\n\n\"We didn't know we did anything wrong, Miss Theo,\" the little boy said.\n\n\"You shouldn't go near a lake or pond or the bayou without your mother or father. Don't you ever do this again,\" Theo said, and shook him.\n\nBoth of the children began to cry.\n\n\"Hey, you guys, let's get a soft drink,\" I said.\n\nI took them by the hand and walked them to the drink table and asked the waiter to give each of them a Coca-Cola. Through the trees I saw Theodosha walking rapidly toward the back of her house, her arms clinched across her chest, as though the temperature had dropped thirty degrees.\n\nI decided I'd had enough of the LeJeune family for one evening. I told Father Jimmie I'd say good night to our hosts for both of us and went to find Theodosha inside the house. I didn't have to look far. She was in the den with her father, sitting on a stuffed leather footstool beneath the mounted airplane propeller, her face in her hands. Castille LeJeune stood above her, stroking her hair, his eyes filled with pity.\n\nNeither one of them saw me. I backed out of the doorway and joined Father Jimmie outside.\n\n\"Do you know where Merchie is?\" I asked.\n\n\"He and another man went to the stables. The other guy seems to have his own Zip code,\" he said.\n\n\"Let's go, Father.\"\n\n\"I was too hard on Flannigan?\"\n\n\"What do I know?\" I said.\n\nWe got in my pickup truck and headed down the long driveway toward the state road. I thought the bizarre nature of my visit to the plantation home of Castille LeJeune was over. It wasn't. In the glare of floodlamps, by a long white, peaked stable, Merchie Flannigan was perched on top of a fence, drinking from a bottle of Cold Duck, while a tall, gray-headed, crew-cropped, angular man in cowboy boots and western-cut slacks was lighting strings of Chinese firecrackers and throwing them in the air while a group of children screamed in delight. In the background, a half-dozen thoroughbred horses raced back and forth across a fenced pasture.\n\nMerchie flagged me down and walked toward my truck, slightly off balance.\n\n\"Not leaving, are you?\" he said.\n\n\"Looks like it. Thanks for having us out,\" I said.\n\nMerchie bent down to window level to see across me. \"I'm a bum Catholic, Father. But I try,\" he said.\n\n\"You were in the reformatory?\" Father Jimmie asked.\n\nMerchie's face reddened. \"Yeah, I guess I was.\"\n\n\"We'll compare stories sometime,\" Father Jimmie said.\n\nThe tall, crew-cropped man lit another string of firecrackers and threw it popping into the air. One of the thoroughbreds struck the fence and knocked a slat onto the grass.\n\n\"Why are you letting that guy panic those horses like that?\" I said.\n\n\"That's Will Guillot. Those are his kids,\" Merchie replied, then seemed to look into space at the vacuity of his words. \"Will does things for my father-in-law. You don't know him?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"You should,\" he said.\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"You're a police officer,\" he said. He leaned on his arms against the side of my truck, his eyes slightly out of focus, his breath like a wine vat.\n\n## Chapter 5\n\nThe telephone call to Father Jimmie came on Sunday afternoon, while he was watching a pro football game on television at the rectory. It was raining, and through the window he could see the rainwater cascading off the roof, pounding the small garden he tended in the green space between the gray, back wall of the church and the alley where the sanitation service picked up the garbage.\n\n\"I need to go to confession, Father,\" the voice said.\n\n\"Reconciliation is scheduled every afternoon at four, except Sundays,\" he said.\n\n\"I need to go now.\"\n\nFather Jimmie looked over his shoulder at a quarterback completing a thirty-yard pass on the television screen.\n\n\"Can it wait?\" he asked.\n\n\"I have to get something of a serious nature off my conscience.\"\n\nIn the silence Father Jimmie could hear the man breathing into the receiver. \"I'll be in the confessional at four o'clock,\" he said.\n\nHe finished his sandwich in front of the television, and a half hour later walked down the center aisle of the church toward the three confessionals that were inset in a side wall at the rear of the building. The inside of the church was magnificent. Twin balconies draped with brilliant red tapestries extended all the way from the choir to the altar area. The pulpit was hand-carved from teak wood and had been constructed high above the laity, in a time when there were no microphones to magnify the minister's voice. Whenever the sunlight struck the stained-glass windows, the effect inside the church was stunning. The celestial scenes on the ceiling and the paintings depicting Christ's passion in the Garden of Gethsemane and his ordeal by scourge and mockery and spittle and finally crucifixion made the viewer swallow in both reverence and trepidation.\n\nThe front doors of the church were open, and Father Jimmie could see the grayness of the afternoon out on the street and the drabness of the neighborhood and the rainwater welling up from the storm sewers. Perhaps a dozen people were in the pews, all of them old, their clothes shabby, their rosary beads wrapped around their hands. Some nodded at him and smiled as he passed. Their faith was genuine, he thought, their level of devotion long since proven by the lives they had led, but if they did not have this place to visit, where they could say their beads and confess sins that were either imaginary or inconsequential, he knew they would have no lives at all.\n\nA homeless man slept in a back pew, curled up in a fetal position, his odor rising from his clothes like a living presence. A bottle of fortified wine had fallen from his coat pocket and was precariously balanced on the edge of the pew.\n\nFather Jimmie picked it up, tightened the cap, and placed it on the floor, within arm's reach of the sleeping man.\n\nThen, on the far side of the church, he saw a man he had never seen before. The man wore a tight-fitting tan raincoat buttoned to his neck, like a prison on his body. His face was beaded with water, his ears like small cauliflowers, his hair cut short, combed neatly, reddish in color. He was sitting rather than kneeling, his hand resting on a domed, black lunch box. His eyes never made contact with Father Jimmie's.\n\nFather Jimmie went into the vestibule of the church and smelled the wind and rain and leaves blowing in the street. He wished he had not answered the phone in the rectory. It was a gray, wet day, with a touch of winter in the air, but it reminded him of Kentucky in the late fall, just before Advent, when a great dampness would settle on the Cumberland Mountains and the color would drain out of the sky and the fields and the leaves of the hardwoods would turn to flame in the hollows. It should have been a day to watch football and eat soup and hot bread and perhaps jog in Audubon Park. But he could not refuse a request for reconciliation, no matter how neurotic, self-absorbed, or irritating the source was.\n\nHe opened the door to a side corridor that led to the back entrance of a confessional, placed his stole around his neck, and sat down inside. He heard someone open the door to the adjoining box and the person's weight depress the kneeler that was attached to the partition separating the penitent from the confessor. Father Jimmie pushed back the wood slide that covered the small, grilled, gauze-covered window through which the penitent, in this case a man who smelled of street damp and hair tonic, would make his confession.\n\nBut the man did not speak.\n\n\"Are you the gentleman who called the rectory?\" Father Jimmie asked.\n\n\"That I am, Father.\"\n\n\"What is it you'd like to tell me?\"\n\nFather Jimmie could see the outline of the man's head. The ears looked like they had been carved around the edges with a paring knife. He heard the man snuff down in his nose and shift his weight on the kneeler.\n\n\"Been a while since I've visited one of these,\" the man said.\n\n\"Yes?\"\n\n\"I'm a bit flummoxed. Hold on a bit, Father, while I organize my thoughts.\"\n\nFather Jimmie heard what he thought was the man's lunch box clattering open inside the confessional. \"What are you doing in there?\" he asked.\n\n\"Nothing.\" The man was breathing hard now. \"I met a Catholic sister on the train. I was rude to her. She's a friend of yours. So I apologize for that.\"\n\n\"Oh, you're the fellow. Well, she already called me. I'll pass on your apologies. Is that it?\"\n\n\"I scared the shite out of her. She tell you that?\"\n\n\"Don't do it anymore and it won't be a problem. Is that all you have to tell me. Because if it is\u2014\"\n\n\"No, it is fucking not, sir.\"\n\n\"What did you say?\"\n\nThe man was breathing hard through his nose now, a ray of light from outside the confessional glimmering on the planed surfaces of his face.\n\n\"I said give me a fucking minute, if you please,\" he said.\n\n\"Are you drunk?\"\n\nThe man did not reply. He seemed to burn with energies he couldn't express. He rocked on the kneeler and twisted his head from side to side, then made a grinding noise in his throat. The lunch box clattered with sound again, as though the man had dropped a heavy object in it and snapped the latch on the lid.\n\n\"Tell the nun she's a splendid woman and I hope she lives long enough to have a bishop for a son. Send up a thanks to your patron saint, Father. Maybe buy a Powerball ticket while you're at it,\" the man said.\n\nHe flung open the door of the confessional and stalked through the vestibule and out the front of the church. Father Jimmie followed him as far as the front steps and watched him walk toward Canal, a golfer's cap pulled down on his head, his narrow shoulders hunched forward in the rain, his lunch box glistening with moisture. The man looked back over his shoulder at Father Jimmie, his face contorted, as though he had just fled a burning building.\n\nIt had rained through the night in New Iberia, and in the morning the sun rose like a pink wafer out of a blanket of fog that covered the cane fields. When I got to the office the parents of Lori Parks were waiting for me. Sometimes the survivors of family members who meet violent deaths have no place to direct their anger and loss other than at the police officer who is assigned to help them. Their rage is understandable, particularly when a cop is straight up and informs them the percentages are not in favor of justice being done. But sometimes the anger of the survivors has more to do with guilt than grief.\n\nThe father was sandy haired and tall, with an aquiline nose, the tops of his forearms sun freckled, his hands long and tapered. The wife was built like a stump, a ring of fat under her chin, her hair dyed dark red, her perfume a chemical fog.\n\n\"I hear you're questioning the employees of the daiquiri shops in town,\" the father said.\n\n\"Yes, sir, that's correct,\" I said.\n\nHe and his wife had not taken a seat when I offered them one. They looked down at me, from across my desk, stolid, angry, their defenses and denial rooted in concrete.\n\n\"Are you saying our daughter was DWI?\" he asked.\n\n\"That's the conclusion of our lab.\"\n\nHe nodded silently, the color in his eyes deepening, the skin around the rim of his nostrils whitening.\n\n\"So the truck and bus drivers are off the hook?\" he said.\n\n\"I don't think they're players in this,\" I said.\n\n\"Excuse me?\" the wife said.\n\n\"I think your daughter and her friends were served alcohol illegally. I'd like to put the people in jail who empowered them to drink and drive. But to be truthful I don't think that's going to happen.\"\n\n\"Our daughter is responsible for her own death? Is that it? A seventeen-year-old girl burns to death and it's her goddamn fault?\" the father said.\n\nI leaned forward on my desk and picked up a paper clip from the ink blotter, then dropped it. \"Dr. Parks, I'm sorry for your loss. Your daughter had a history. It's one a lot of kids have today. But the fact won't go away that she'd had her license suspended previously and she was on probation for possession of Ecstacy. Was she ever in any kind of treatment program?\"\n\n\"How dare you?\" the wife said.\n\n\"How about it, sir?\" I said to her husband.\n\n\"You're scapegoating my daughter, you sonofabitch,\" he said.\n\n\"We're done here,\" I said. I folded my hands on my desk blotter and avoided eye contact with them.\n\n\"We'll be back,\" the father said.\n\n\"I have no doubt about that,\" I replied.\n\nAt mid-morning I walked down the street, across the railroad tracks, and had coffee and a piece of pastry at Lagniappe Too on Main. When I got back to the department a black woman in blue slacks, a beige shirt, and polished black shoes was waiting for me by the dispatcher's cage. She carried a zippered satchel under her arm.\n\nWhat was her name? Andrepont? No, Arceneaux. Clotile Arceneaux. Clete had said she looked like a black swizzle stick with a cherry stuck on the end. He should have been a writer rather than a chaser of bail skips, I thought.\n\n\"Got a minute?\" she said.\n\n\"For you, anytime,\" I said.\n\nShe walked with me to my office. I closed the door behind her. \"N.O.P.D. hasn't busted you back to meter maid, have they?\" I said.\n\n\"Thought I might show you some photos of an interesting guy who just got to town,\" she said.\n\n\"You want to tell me who you are?\"\n\nShe smiled at me with her eyes and removed a manilla folder from her satchel. \"You ever see this guy before?\" she asked.\n\nThere were four black-and-white photographs inside the folder, three taken with a zoom lens, one taken in the garish light of a Toronto booking room. The man in the photographs made me think of a ring attendant at a boxing gym or a horse groom at the track. \"Nope, I don't know him,\" I said.\n\n\"His name is Max Coll. He's been questioned or been a suspect in thirty-two homicides. Not one conviction. Interpol thinks he worked for the IRA but they're not sure. Miami P.D. says he's freelance and jobs out for the Mob. We had a tail on him yesterday, but he shook it. We think he showed up at your friend Father Dolan's.\"\n\n\"Think?\" I said.\n\n\"A detective talked to Father Dolan. Seems like Father Dolan has got us mixed up with the bad guys,\" she said.\n\n\"Why you showing me this stuff?\"\n\n\"Hate to see your friend get clipped 'cause he's a poor listener. That goes for you, too, handsome.\"\n\n\"You're with the G?\"\n\n\"We think the priest was lucky yesterday. What we can't figure is why. Max Coll is a lot of things but fuck-up isn't one of them,\" she said.\n\n\"You're DEA?\"\n\nShe looked up into my face, her head tilted at an angle, her teeth white behind her grin. \"I heard you had a cinder block for a head,\" she said.\n\n\"Have you had lunch yet?\" I said.\n\n\"Some people are all work and no play. That's me, Robicheaux. Max Coll uses a silencer, sometimes an ice pick. You heard it first from your ex\u2013meter maid friend at N.O.P.D.\"\n\n\"Right,\" I said.\n\nShe stuck a business card in my shirt pocket and hit me on the hip with her satchel. \"See you around, darlin',\" she said.\n\nI walked with her to the front door of the building and watched her get in her automobile and drive away. Helen Soileau was standing behind me.\n\n\"What's with Miss Hip-Slick?\" she said.\n\n\"She's with N.O.P.D.,\" I said.\n\n\"The hell she is. She's a state trooper. She used to work undercover narcotics in Shreveport. She got into a firefight with some dealers about ten years ago and shot all five of them.\"\n\nLater, while I was out of the office, Clete Purcel left a message that he had checked into the old motor court on East Main, one that had long served as his field office in southwest Louisiana and his home away from home. The motor court was located inside a massive bower of live oak trees and slash pines on the bayou, and when I drove through the entrance that evening I saw Clete in front of the last cottage, barechested, wearing shorts with dancing elephants on them, flip-flops, and a Marine Corps utility cap, drinking from a bottle of Dixie while he flipped a steak on a flaming grill.\n\n\"Running down bail skips?\" I said.\n\n\"No, I just had to get out of the Big Sleazy for a while. Gunner Ardoin is driving me nuts,\" he said.\n\n\"What's happening with Gunner?\"\n\n\"He thinks somebody's going to clip him. Maybe he's right. So I...\"\n\n\"So you what?\"\n\n\"Gave him my apartment.\"\n\n\"Your apartment? To Gunner Ardoin?\"\n\n\"His wife skipped town and left his little girl with him. What was I supposed to do? Quit looking at me like that,\" he said. He picked up a can of diet Dr Pepper from an ice chest and tossed it at me.\n\nI sat down in a canvas chair, out of the smoke from the grill. Through the trees the sunlight looked like gold foil on the bayou. A tugboat passed, its wake slapping against the bank.\n\n\"Ever hear of a button man by the name of Max Coll?\" I said.\n\n\"A freelance guy out of Miami?\"\n\n\"That's the one.\"\n\n\"What about him?\"\n\n\"That black patrolwoman who answered the complaint in Ardoin's kitchen, Clotile Arceneaux? She's an undercover state trooper. She told me this guy Coll tried to kill Father Dolan yesterday,\" I said.\n\n\"Dolan thinks he walks on water. You might tell him the saints died early deaths.\"\n\n\"He's not a listener,\" I said.\n\n\"Yeah, like somebody else I know,\" Clete said.\n\nI walked down in the trees and watched the boats pass on the bayou while Clete finished grilling his steak. On the opposite bank two black laborers were trenching a waterline while a white man in a straw hat supervised them. When I walked back out of the trees Clete was laying out two plates, paper napkins, and knives and forks on a picnic table.\n\n\"I don't want to steal your supper,\" I said.\n\n\"Don't worry about it. My doctor says when I die I'll need a piano crate just to put my cholesterol in,\" he said.\n\n\"I'm trying to find out what happened to a convict in Angola back in the fifties. A guy named Junior Crudup. He went in and never came out,\" I said.\n\n\"Yeah?\" Clete said, dividing up his steak, looking at a woman in a bathing suit on the bow of a speedboat.\n\n\"Father Jimmie and I were at the house of Castille LeJeune Saturday evening. LeJeune got Crudup off the levee gang back in 1951. But he said he has no memory of it,\" I said.\n\n\"You're talking about stuff that happened a half century ago?\" Clete said.\n\n\"Crudup's family got swindled out of their property.\"\n\nClete plopped a foil-wrapped potato on my plate and sat down. He looked at me for a long time. \"So you think this character LeJeune is lying?\" he said.\n\n\"I couldn't tell.\"\n\n\"Wake up, big mon. Rich guys don't care whether the rest of us believe them or not. That's why they're great liars.\"\n\n\"His daughter saw two kids about to fall into a fish pond. But she was afraid to climb inside a fence and get them,\" I said.\n\n\"Is Father Dolan part of this?\"\n\n\"He took me out to the Crudup place in St. James Parish.\"\n\n\"This guy is playing you, Dave. He knows you don't like authority or rich people and you're a real sucker for a sob story. How about letting Dolan and the Throw-ups or whatever clean up their own shit?\"\n\n\"I'm getting played? You just gave a pornographic actor your apartment. The same guy you hit in the head with a coffeepot. You go from one train wreck to the next.\"\n\n\"That's why I never listen to my own advice.\"\n\nHe drank from his bottle of Dixie beer, his green eyes filled with an innocent self-satisfaction, his jaw packed with steak.\n\nThe next morning I drove to the house of Josh Comeaux, the clerk who I believed had sold daiquiris to Lori Parks and her friends the afternoon they burned to death. He lived with his mother in a small, weathered frame house not far from the Southern Pacific railway tracks. In the front yard was a post with hooks on it, from which vinyl bags of garbage hung so they would not be torn apart by dogs before the trash pickup.\n\nJosh pushed open the screen door and stepped out on the gallery. He was barefoot and wore recycled jeans without a belt and a black T-shirt with the sleeves cut off. A heart with a circle of thorns twisted around it was tattooed high up on his right arm. Through the screen I could see a fat woman in a print dress watching a television program.\n\n\"You come to arrest me?\" he said.\n\n\"Not yet. Who bruised up your face?\"\n\nHe touched the yellow-and-purple discoloration below one eye.\n\n\"Dr. Parks did. Last night. After I got off from work.\"\n\n\"Lori's father?\" I said.\n\n\"Yes, sir. That's why I figured you were here.\"\n\n\"He knocked you around?\"\n\n\"I went in for gas at the all-night station. He walked me out in the shadows and hit me. He was pretty mad.\"\n\n\"Are you telling me you confessed something to Dr. Parks?\"\n\n\"Yeah. I mean yes, sir. I told him what I did.\"\n\n\"Before you go any farther, I need to advise you of certain rights you have, the most important of which is your right to have an attorney.\"\n\n\"Who is that?\" the fat woman in the chair yelled through the screen.\n\n\"Just a guy, Mom,\" Josh said, and walked out into the yard, out of earshot from his mother. \"I told Dr. Parks I sold daiquiris to Lori and her friends. They were there three times that afternoon. It's not the only time I've sold to underage kids, either. Mr. Hebert tells us not to hold up the line 'cause somebody can't find their driver's license. But what he means is on weekend nights don't pass up any business.\"\n\n\"Mr. Hebert is your employer?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir. At least till this morning. He fired me when I told him I'd served Lori and the other girls.\"\n\n\"Did Lori give you an ID of any kind?\"\n\nHe shook his head. \"When Lori Parks wanted something, you gave it to her. She was the prettiest girl in Loreauville.\"\n\n\"Josh, I'm placing you under arrest. Turn around while I hook you up.\"\n\n\"Am I going to prison?\"\n\n\"That's up to other people, partner,\" I said, and put him in the backseat of the cruiser, my hand on top of his head.\n\nAs we drove away I saw his mother walk out on the gallery and look in both directions, wondering where her son had gone.\n\nThat afternoon I called Lori Parks's father at his office. His receptionist told me he was not expected in that day.\n\n\"Is the funeral today?\" I asked.\n\n\"It was yesterday,\" she replied.\n\n\"Would you give me his home number, please?\"\n\n\"I'm not supposed to do that.\"\n\n\"We can send a cruiser out there and bring him in, if you like,\" I said.\n\nWhen I called his home no one answered and the message machine, if he had one, was turned off. I checked out a cruiser and drove to Loreauville, nine miles up the Teche, and found his house in a wooded, hilly area on the bayou, just outside of town.\n\nThe one-story house was long and flat and constructed of what is called South Carolina brick, torn down from nineteenth-century buildings and shipped to Louisiana for use in custom-built homes. Apple green wood shutters that were ornamental rather than operational were affixed to the walls on each side of the windows and looked as if they had been painted on the brick. The porch ran the width of the house and was intersected with a series of miniature fluted columns. With its flat roof and squeezed windows, the house looked like a constipated man crouched back in the trees. It had probably cost a half million dollars to build.\n\nDr. Parks stood on a shady knoll overlooking the bayou, slashing golf balls across the water into a grove of persimmon trees. When I walked up behind him, leaves crackling under the soles of my shoes, he glanced at me for only a moment, then whacked another ball into the persimmons.\n\n\"I arrested Josh Comeaux this morning,\" I said.\n\n\"Glad to hear it,\" he said. His face was heated, freshly shaved, even though it was late in the day. He picked another ball out of a bucket and set it on a tee.\n\n\"He says you knocked him around.\"\n\n\"What's your business here, Detective?\" He rested his driver by his foot. He wore doeskin gloves that had no fingers and a long-sleeve maroon polo shirt and casual slacks that accentuated the flatness of his stomach and the graceful line of his hips.\n\n\"I'd like to see the owners of these drive-by daiquiri stores run through a tree shredder. But you're taking out your anger on the wrong person, Dr. Parks,\" I said.\n\n\"I moved my family here from Memphis. We thought small-town America wouldn't have drugs and political officials on the take and bastards who sell children booze to kill themselves with. I've been a stupid man.\"\n\nHe took his position on the tee, lifted his golf club with perfect form, and whipped it viciously into the ball.\n\n\"Don't add to your grief, sir,\" I said.\n\nHe turned and faced me. \"You have any idea of what it might have been like inside that car?\" he said.\n\n\"The tox screen showed traces of marijuana in Lori's blood,\" I said.\n\n\"So what?\"\n\n\"Maybe Josh Comeaux is a victim, too.\"\n\n\"I must have done something wrong in a former life,\" he said.\n\n\"Pardon?\"\n\n\"My daughter was burned alive and the cop who should be kicking somebody's ass is a goddamn titty-sucking liberal. You need to leave my property.\"\n\nI took my sunglasses out of their case, then replaced them and stuck the case back in my shirt pocket. The wind was cold blowing out of the trees and I could smell the heavy odor of the bayou in the shadows. The skin under Dr. Parks's right eye seemed to twitch uncontrollably.\n\n\"Are you hard of hearing?\" he asked.\n\n\"The judge will probably go light on Josh's bond. That means he'll probably be back home in a day or so. Are we clear on the implication, sir?\" I said.\n\n\"That I'd better not hurt him?\"\n\nHe waited for an answer but I didn't give him one. I fitted on my sunglasses and walked back to the cruiser, my shoes crunching through the leaves the doctor had raked into piles, only to see them blown apart by the wind. The doctor's wife emerged from the front door, wearing a house robe and slippers, a drink in her hand, the makeup on her face like a theatrical mask.\n\n\"You think I care about that boy? You think that's what this is about? Where are your brains, man?\" the doctor shouted after me.\n\nThe following evening I ate supper in the backyard, then went to the old cemetery by the drawbridge in St. Martinville where Bootsie was buried. The air was cold and smelled of distant rain, the sky yellow with dust blown from the fields. Several of the houses bordering the cemetery had signs on the galleries announcing TOMBPAINT FOR SALE. In south Louisiana we bury the dead on top of the ground and it's a tradition to whitewash the crypts of family members on All Saints Day. But it wasn't November yet. Or was it? I had to look at the calendar window on my watch to assure myself the month was still October.\n\nBootsie's crypt was located by the bayou, and standing next to it I could look downstream and see on the opposite bank the ancient French church and the Evangeline Oak where she and I had first kissed as teenagers and the stars overhead had swirled like diamonds inside a barrel of black water.\n\nI removed the three roses I had placed in a vase two nights previous and washed and refilled the vase under a tap by the gravel path that led through the cemetery. Then I put three fresh roses in the vase and set it in front of the marble marker that was cemented into the front of Bootsie's crypt. The roses were yellow, the petals edged with pink, the stems wrapped in green tissue paper by a young clerk at the Winn-Dixie store in New Iberia. When he handed me the roses I was struck by the bloom of youth on his face, the clarity of purpose in his eyes. \"I bet these are for a special lady,\" he had said.\n\nI sat on a metal bench with a ventilated backrest for a long time and drank a bottle of carbonated water I had brought from home. Then the wind came up and scattered the leaves from a swamp maple on the bayou's surface, and inside the sound of the wind I thought I heard a loon calling.\n\nI finished the bottle of carbonated water, screwed the top back on, and pitched the bottle at a trash barrel. But the bottle bounced on the rim of the barrel and fell on the gravel path. Rather than get up from the bench and retrieve it, I looked at it dumbly, all my energies dissipated for reasons that made no sense, the light as cold and brittle as if the sun were layered with ice.\n\nI heard footsteps behind me.\n\n\"I wasn't going to disturb you but I have to get back home,\" Theodosha Flannigan said.\n\n\"Pardon?\" I said.\n\n\"Your neighbor told me you'd be here if you weren't at home,\" she said. \"I was parked in my car, waiting for you to come out. Merchie doesn't know where I am. He ducks bullets in Afghanistan, then gets strung out if he breaks a shoelace. It's because of his mother. I think she was lobotomized. That's not a joke.\"\n\nI couldn't follow what she was saying. I started to get up, but she put her hand on my shoulder and sat down beside me.\n\n\"It's about Saturday night. Those two children were in danger of falling in the pond and I just stood there and watched it happening. I feel like shit,\" she said.\n\n\"'Bravery' and 'fear' are relative terms. What counts is you went after them,\" I said.\n\n\"I have some bad memories about that pond,\" she said. She bit on a hangnail and stared into space. \"I never go inside that fence. You must think I'm an awful person.\"\n\nBut the truth was I didn't want to talk about Theo's personal problems. I stood and picked up the plastic bottle that had bounced off the trash can and dropped it inside. When I sat back down I felt the blood rush from my head.\n\n\"Are you okay?\" she said.\n\n\"I still have bouts with malaria sometimes,\" I said.\n\nShe wore a scarf tied under her chin, the points of her hair pressed flat against her cheeks. \"Something else is bothering me, too, Dave. I think I make you uncomfortable,\" she said.\n\n\"No, that's not true. Not at all,\" I said, focusing my eyes on the bayou.\n\n\"That night we had the little fling? We'd both been drinking our heads off. Neither one of us was married at the time. I admit I thought you might come back around, but you didn't. So I wrote it off. It's no big deal.\"\n\n\"You're right, it's no big deal. I didn't say it was a big deal,\" I replied.\n\n\"Then why are you so\u2014\"\n\n\"It's not a problem. That's really important to understand here,\" I said.\n\n\"I'm afraid I've intruded upon you.\"\n\n\"No, you haven't. Everything is fine. Give Merchie my best.\"\n\n\"Will you come out to dinner?\"\n\nI pinched my temples and looked down the bayou at the Evangeline Oak looming over the water and at the spire of the old French church, a sliver of moon rising behind the steeple.\n\n\"Maybe we can talk about it later,\" I said.\n\n\"Sure. I'm sorry for being here like this. Since my psychiatrist died...No, that's the wrong word. Since he shot himself I feel this terrible sense of guilt. I've got two days' sobriety now. That's pitiful, isn't it? I mean, taking pride in staying off the hooch for two days, like I invented the wheel?\"\n\n\"I'll see you, Theo.\"\n\nShe exhaled her breath and I felt it touch my skin. She raised her eyebrows, staring inquisitively into my face, as though I needed to supply the endings to all her unfinished thoughts. Then she seemed to give it up and kissed the tips of two fingers, pressed them against my cheek, and walked out of the cemetery, a solitary firefly lighting in a tree above her head.\n\nIn the morning I called a homicide detective at the Lafayette City Police Department by the name of Joe Dupree. He had been in the 173 Airborne Brigade in Vietnam, but never spoke of the war and ate aspirin constantly for the pain he'd carried in his knees for thirty-five years. He was also one of the most thorough investigators I had ever known.\n\n\"What do you have on this psychiatrist who shot himself in Girard Park?\" I said.\n\n\"Dr. Bernstine? It's going down as a suicide. Why do you ask?\"\n\n\"A woman named Theodosha Flannigan has brought it up a couple of times.\"\n\n\"Merchie Flannigan's wife?\"\n\n\"Yeah, how'd you know?\"\n\n\"Her name was in Bernstine's appointment book,\" he replied.\n\n\"You don't buy the suicide?\"\n\n\"He took two .25 caliber rounds in the right side of the head. The muzzle burns were an inch apart, just above the ear. If the second round was discharged as a spastic reaction, why were the entry wounds almost identical?\"\n\n\"Any witnesses?\" I asked.\n\n\"None who could give a visual. But a kid said he heard two pops. At first he said they were a few seconds apart. Then he said they were together. Finally he said he couldn't be sure what he heard. Anyway, Bernstine had powder residue on his right hand. I'd like to say he was left-handed so my suspicions would have more basis. But he was ambidextrous.\"\n\n\"What's bothering you, besides the kid originally saying there was a time lag between the shots?\"\n\n\"Bernstine died on a Saturday. The Flannigan woman was scheduled to see him the following Tuesday. But there was no case record on her in his files.\"\n\n\"Maybe he had just started seeing her.\"\n\n\"No, I called Ms. Flannigan. She said she'd been going to Bernstine for six months. Anyway, Bernstine's wife calls me every day and tells me no way in hell he shot himself. Maybe not. But he'd lost his butt in the stock market and rumor has it he was messing around on his wife. So it's going down as a suicide.\"\n\n\"Thanks for your time, Joe.\"\n\n\"You haven't told me what Ms. Flannigan said to you.\"\n\n\"For some reason she feels guilty about Bernstine's death,\" I said.\n\n\"Think she was in the sack with him?\"\n\n\"If she had been, she would have told you about it. She's a little neurotic,\" I said.\n\n\"I'm shocked you'd know anybody like that, Dave.\"\n\nThe following Monday Father Jimmie Dolan had just returned to the rectory after saying a 7:00 A.M. Mass when the phone rang in his office.\n\n\"Hello?\" he said.\n\nThere was no reply. He heard a streetcar bell clanging in the background.\n\n\"Hello?\" he repeated.\n\n\"Oh hello, Father. Sorry. I couldn't get the bloody door closed on the booth,\" a voice said.\n\n\"It's you again, is it?\"\n\n\"Father, you've put me seriously in the shitter.\"\n\n\"I think you need counseling, my friend.\"\n\n\"Sir, you're a prelate and hence I believe a man of honor. Can you give me your word you won't continue to interfere in certain enterprises that are fully legitimate and doing little if any harm to anyone?\"\n\nFather Jimmie shuffled some papers around on his desk, then picked up a page torn off a note pad. \"Your name is Max Coll?\" he said.\n\n\"The coppers must have paid you a visit.\"\n\n\"Are you on Canal or St. Charles?\"\n\nThere was a pause, then Max Coll said, \"Now, how would you be knowing where I am?\"\n\n\"There's only one streetcar line in operation today. It runs only on those two streets. So that means you're not too far away from me.\"\n\n\"You're a mighty intelligent man. But I need to\u2014\"\n\n\"You stay out of my church.\"\n\n\"Sir?\"\n\n\"You heard me. If you ever bring a weapon into my confessional again, I'll tear you apart.\"\n\n\"Excuse me for saying this, Father, but that is a fucking mean-spirited statement for a Christian minister to make.\"\n\n\"Be thankful I don't have my hands on you,\" Father Jimmie said, and hung up.\n\nThen he stood motionlessly by his desk, his heart hammering against his chest.\n\n## Chapter 6\n\nThat same evening, Leon Hebert, the daiquiri-store operator who had fired Josh Comeaux, had to handle the window by himself because Josh's replacement had called in sick. Hebert didn't like to work alone, at least not at night. He was a cautious man, both with money and people, and had made his living over the years on the soiled edges of society wherever he had gone. If there was any group of people he understood in this world, it was his clientele.\n\nAfter he was discharged from the United States Navy, he had owned a liquor store on South Central Avenue in Los Angeles. The profits were huge and, except for the insurance, the overhead minimal. He accepted food stamps, welfare grocery orders, and even Bureau of Public Assistance bus tokens in place of money. After 2:00 A.M. he and a hired man would drive a panel truck down to East Fifth Street and sell eighty-nine-cent bottles of fortified wine, called short dogs, for two dollars apiece to the desperate souls who could not wait for the bars to open at 6:00 A.M.\n\nBut Leon Hebert learned there was a downside to running a business in a ghetto. On a warm summer night a white L.A. patrolman tried to hook up a drunk driver and force him into the back of a cruiser. In five minutes bricks, bottles, and chunks of curb stone were being flung into the traffic on Century Boulevard. This was in the era before the Crips and Bloods, but their predecessors\u2014the Gladiators, Choppers, Eastside Purple Hearts, Clanton 14, and the Aranas\u2014rose to the occasion and strung fires all over the south and east sides of Los Angeles.\n\nA Molotov cocktail crashed through the window bars and front glass of Leon Hebert's store. The inventory went up like gasoline.\n\nIn the riot only two groups of white-owned businesses were spared: funeral homes and the offices of bail bondsmen. The lesson was not lost on Leon. When he got back to New Iberia, his birthplace, he sold burial insurance to people of color, collecting their half-dollar and seventy-five-cent premiums weekly, wending his way without fear through every back-of-town slum in south Louisiana.\n\nThen he discovered the fast lane to prosperity was still available. He didn't have to go into the ghetto to sell his wares, either. The ghetto dwellers came to him, inside a shady grove on the four-lane, their gas-guzzlers smoking at his drive-by window, his ice-packed daiquiris, sweet and cold, ready to go at five bucks a pop.\n\nHe should have felt good about his situation, he told himself. He'd saved every cent he'd made peddling burial insurance and put it in a surefire franchise that gave him 60 percent of the profits. He made people happy, didn't he? Why did these damn kids from Loreauville get themselves killed with his cups in their car? And how about Josh Comeaux telling the physician, what was his name, Dr. Parks, teenagers were always served at Leon's drive-by?\n\nMondays were slow and Leon thought about closing up early. What was it that was bothering him? The doctor? The sheriff's detective who got in his face? He looked out the service window into the dusk and saw blue-collar families leaving a barbecue-and-po'boy place on the corner of the short span of asphalt that joined the eastbound and westbound highways, between which he operated his store. The evening was warm and fireflies floated in the oak trees. He watched the people from the barbecue place getting into their cars and pickups, their children bouncing up and down on the seats. For just a moment he wanted to join them and free himself from whatever presence it was that seemed to cling to his skin like road film.\n\nThree spoiled brats from Loreauville run themselves off the road into a telephone pole and he's in the toilet. There was no justice, he told himself.\n\nA junker car filled with black men pulled to the window and Leon removed six plastic-sealed daiquiris from the ice compartment of his giant refrigerator and handed them one by one through the driver's window.\n\nLeon waited for the car to pull away, but it didn't. The driver continued to stare into Leon's face, a toothpick in the corner of his mouth. A passenger in the backseat was smoking a cigarette, the ash glowing in the darkness. The passenger by the right front window held a metallic object in his lap, one that glinted dully in the light from the dashboard.\n\n\"I'm not alone. I got a man here with me,\" Leon said, his pulse quickening.\n\n\"What you talking 'bout, man?\" the driver said.\n\nThe passenger by the right front window lifted a Zippo from his lap and lit a cigarette with it.\n\nLeon let out his breath. \"Y'all want something else?\" he said.\n\n\"Yeah, you ain't give me my change,\" the driver said.\n\nThree hours later Leon Hebert put his money bag in the floor safe, locked the doors, and turned off the lights. It was a beautiful night. The wind rustled in the trees overhead and the constellations were stenciled across the sky. An eighteen-wheeler passed on the highway, then an ambulance with its flashers on. The ambulance continued on past the hospital and turned onto the drawbridge and the state highway that fed into Loreauville Road, where the three girls had been trapped inside their burning Buick.\n\nWhy did he have to think in images like that? He didn't do it, he told himself. That kid who worked for him, Josh Comeaux, had a boner in his pants for the Parks girl and would have let her slam it in the car door if she'd wanted to. Why didn't they put that in the paper? he said to himself.\n\nNo justice, he thought.\n\nSomeone started a pickup truck in front of the barbecue place and backed out of the parking lot, then headed slowly down the asphalt strip toward Leon Hebert's store, pieces of gravel clicking under the tires.\n\nLeon fished his car keys out of his pocket, then dropped them in the darkness. When he bent over to retrieve them, the driver of the pickup turned into the oyster-shell loop that curved past Leon's drive-by service window.\n\n\"We're closed,\" Leon said, the high beams of the pickup burning red circles into his eyes.\n\nBut there was no response from inside the truck.\n\n\"Who is that?\" he said, trying to smile.\n\nA figure opened the truck door and stepped out on the oyster shells. Leon raised his hand to shield his eyes and squinted into the brilliance of the headlights. \"My clerk already went to the bank. There's nothing here for you,\" he said.\n\nThe first pistol shot hit him high up on the chest with an impact like an anvil iron, knocking him backward, the hard-packed oyster shells slamming into the back of his head. The shooter had cut the lights on the pickup and was walking toward him, stooping for just a second to pick an object off the ground. The shooter stared down at Leon, perhaps realizing a mistake had been made, that the wrong person had been shot, that Leon Hebert should not have had a fate like this imposed upon him.\n\nThe figure leaned over him, blotting out the sky. Leon tried to speak, but the only sound that issued from his body was the air wheezing through the hole in his lung.\n\nThen his mouth was pried apart and something that was stiff and bittersweet and crusted with dirt was shoved between his teeth and forced deep into his throat. Leon's right hand tried to clasp the shoe of the figure bending over him, to somehow telegraph the plea for mercy that his lungs and throat could not make. At that moment he looked into the face of his tormentor and knew what his final moments on earth would be like. He twisted his head sideways and looked desperately out at the highway, wondering how the world of normal people and normal events could be only a heartbeat away.\n\nNo one reported the shooting until just before sunrise, when a tramp who had been sleeping in the weeds by the railway track crossed the road and tripped over the body. Helen Soileau picked me up at my house in a cruiser and handed me a thermos filled with coffee and hot milk. She hit the flasher and we rolled through town to the crime scene.\n\n\"You're the skipper now. You don't have to do this early A.M. stuff anymore,\" I said.\n\n\"Somebody has to keep you guys on your leash,\" she replied.\n\nHer eyes looked straight ahead, her expression flat. We passed a long row of shacks, the reflection of the flasher rippling across the house fronts.\n\n\"This isn't a robbery-homicide, is it?\" I said.\n\nCane trucks packed to the top were already on the road when we got to the crime scene, snarling traffic at the intersection by the drawbridge. The early sun was red through the trees and mist was rising off the bayou behind the hospital. Leon Hebert lay on the oysters shells a few feet from his drive-by window, a bullet wound in his chest, a second one puckered in the center of his forehead, a third through the eye. A blue daiquiri cup had been compressed into a cone and stuck in his mouth.\n\nAn ambulance and three sheriff's department vehicles were parked outside the yellow crime-scene tape that had been strung through the oak trees. The coroner had not arrived but our forensic chemist, Mack Bertrand, was kneeling beside the body, slipping plastic bags over the hands of the dead man. A small man in tattered clothes and tennis shoes without socks sat outside the tape, his back against a tree trunk, his knees drawn up before him.\n\n\"How do you read it, Mack?\" I said.\n\n\"The shooter used a revolver or he picked up his brass. I'd say the wounds were made with either a .38 or a nine-millimeter,\" he replied. He had ascetic features and wore a clip-on bow tie, suspenders, a crinkling white shirt, and a briar pipe in a little leather holster on his belt.\n\nHe lifted the dead man's right wrist. \"It looks like there's shoe polish under his fingernails,\" he said. \"My guess is the first round was fired from a distance and hit him in the chest. Then the shooter walked up close and put the next two in him point-blank. The victim probably looked up into the shooter's face and grabbed his shoe before he died.\"\n\n\"Why would he do that?\" Helen asked.\n\nMack shook his head. He popped open another plastic bag and with a pair of tweezers lifted the coned plastic cup from the dead man's mouth, then dropped it inside the bag. \"Take a look at this,\" he said, getting to his feet. \"There's blood on the bottom of the cup. That means the victim's heart was probably still pumping when the cup was shoved into his mouth.\"\n\n\"Meaning?\" Helen said.\n\n\"Who knows?\" he said.\n\n\"No forced entry on the building?\" I said.\n\n\"None that I could see,\" he said.\n\n\"How about tire impressions?\" Helen asked.\n\n\"Probably every kind of tire made in the western world has been through here. Did y'all know this guy?\" Mack said.\n\n\"He moved back here from L.A. He used to sell burial insurance,\" Helen said.\n\nI looked at the small man in tattered clothes sitting against the tree trunk outside the tape. \"Is that the guy who found the victim?\"\n\n\"Yeah, good luck. I get the impression he's a traveling wine connoisseur,\" Mack said.\n\nI stepped outside the crime-scene tape and squatted down eye-level with the man in tattered clothes. His skin was grimed with dirt and he wore a greasy cap crimped down on his head. Like all men of his kind, his origins, the people who had conceived him, the place or home where he grew up had probably long ago ceased being of any importance to him.\n\n\"You were sleeping by the tracks?\" I said.\n\n\"I fell off the train. I was pretty much knocked out,\" he said.\n\n\"Did you see or hear anything that might be helpful to us?\" I asked.\n\n\"I told it to that other guy.\" He nodded toward Mack Bertrand.\n\n\"Nothing bad is going to happen to you, podna. You're not going to jail. We're not holding you as a material witness. All those things are off the table. Just tell me what you saw.\"\n\nHe wiped his nose with his wrist. \"Late last night I heard something go 'pop.' Then I heard it again. Maybe twice. Then a pickup truck drove off.\"\n\n\"Did you see the driver?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"What did the pickup truck look like?\"\n\n\"Just a truck. It was going down toward the bridge there.\"\n\n\"Why'd you come across the road this morning?\"\n\n\"They got free coffee at the hospital,\" he replied.\n\nMy knees ached when I stood up. I took two dollars from my wallet and gave it to him. \"There's a donut shop back toward town. Why don't you get yourself something to eat?\" I said. I started to walk away from him.\n\n\"I seen something go flying out the truck window. Under the streetlight. Down toward the drawbridge. I don't know if that's any help to you or not,\" he said.\n\nA few minutes later the coroner arrived. Later, the paramedics unzipped a black body bag and placed the remains of Leon Hebert inside it and lifted it onto a gurney. Mack Bertrand fiddled with his pipe and put it between his teeth, upside down. He was a family man, a Little League coach and regular church goer, and usually not given to a public expression of sentiment.\n\n\"You asked why the victim grabbed the shooter's shoe,\" he said. \"He was asking for mercy.\"\n\nI waited for him to continue. But he didn't.\n\n\"Go on, Mack,\" Helen said.\n\n\"That's all. He had a sucking chest wound and couldn't speak. It was probably like drowning while somebody watched. So he tried to beg with his hand. He must have been a bad judge of character.\"\n\n\"How's that?\" I asked.\n\n\"Whoever did this poor bastard wanted him to go out as hard as possible,\" Mack said.\n\nHelen and I and a uniformed deputy searched along the edges of the road by the drawbridge, looking for the object the hobo said he had seen thrown from the fleeing pickup truck. But we found nothing of consequence. Helen dropped me at my house and I shaved and showered and drove to the office. At 9:15 A.M. I called the office of Dr. Parks. The receptionist said he would not be in. I called his home.\n\n\"What do you want, Mr. Robicheaux?\" he said.\n\n\"How did you know it was\u2014\"\n\n\"Caller ID. What's the problem now?\"\n\n\"I'd like to come out to your house a few minutes.\"\n\n\"You're not welcome at my house.\"\n\n\"Sorry to hear you say that,\" I replied.\n\nI drove up Loreauville Road, through horse-farm country and fields bursting with mature sugarcane, under a hard blue sky you could have scratched with a nail. The air was cool and sweet smelling, like cinnamon burned on a woodstove, and through the cypress and oak trees that lined the Teche the sunlight glittered like goldleaf on the water's surface.\n\nBut when I turned into Dr. Parks's driveway I seemed to enter a separate reality. His house was covered with shadow, the air cold, the birdbaths and empty fishpond and flagstone walkways moss stained and smelling of night-damp. The back end of a battered beige pickup truck stuck out of a shed in the rear of the house. Next to it was a stack of hay bales with a plastic bull's-eye pinned to them and a dozen arrows embedded in the straw. I had to ring the bell twice before he answered the door.\n\nHe was unshaved, the whites of his eyes shiny with a yellow cast, as though he had jaundice, a sour odor emanating from his clothes.\n\n\"Say it,\" he said.\n\n\"May I come in?\" I asked.\n\n\"Suit yourself,\" he said, and walked deeper into the house.\n\nWe entered a large, cheerless room with an unlit gas log fireplace and dark paneling on the walls and windows covered by thick velvet curtains. Track lights on the ceiling were focused on a huge gun case that was filled with both modern and antique firearms.\n\n\"That's quite a collection,\" I said.\n\n\"Get to it, Detective,\" he said.\n\n\"Somebody waxed Leon Hebert last night. Somebody who really had it in for him.\"\n\n\"That breaks me up.\"\n\n\"You own a .38 or a nine-Mike?\"\n\n\"A what?\"\n\n\"A nine-millimeter.\"\n\n\"Yeah, a half dozen of them.\"\n\n\"You drive your pickup truck last night?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Where were you last night?\"\n\n\"Home, with Mrs. Parks. And that's the last question I'm answering without my attorney being present.\"\n\nWe were standing no more than one foot apart. I could see the fatigue in his face, the sag in his skin, the manic shine of grief and anger in his eyes.\n\n\"My second wife died at the hands of violent men, Dr. Parks. The sonsofbitches who did it are all dead and I'm glad. But their deaths never brought me peace,\" I said.\n\n\"Is that your evangelical moment for the day?\"\n\n\"I recommend you not leave town.\"\n\n\"One question?\" he said.\n\n\"Go ahead.\"\n\n\"Did Hebert see it coming? Because I hope that motherfucker suffered just the way my daughter did before he caught the bus.\"\n\nI left his house without answering his question. There are times as a law officer when you wish you did not have to look into the soul of another, even a grieving victim's.\n\nThat afternoon a seventeen-year-old black kid by the name of Pete Delahoussaye came into my office. Pete was over six feet and walked like he was made from coat hanger wire, but he had a fast ball that came down the chute like a B.B. and LSU and the University of Texas had both offered him athletic scholarships. Seven days a week, at 5:00 A.M., Pete and his widowed mother delivered the Baton Rouge Morning Advocate from one end of town to the other.\n\nHe stood in front of my desk, a paper sack hanging from his left hand.\n\n\"What's happenin', Pete?\" I said.\n\n\"Found something early this morning. Thought maybe I should bring it in,\" he said.\n\n\"Oh?\"\n\n\"Yeah,\" he said, sticking his hand in the bag. \"I was passing Iberia General, going toward Jeanerette, when something come sailing out of a pickup.\"\n\n\"Whoa,\" I said, rising from my chair, just as he lifted a blue-black, pearl-handled revolver from the paper sack. I could see the leaded ends of bullets inside the cylinder. I stepped away from the muzzle and took the gun from him.\n\n\"How much have you handled this, partner?\" I asked.\n\n\"A little bit,\" he replied, his eyes leaving mine.\n\n\"Did anyone else handle it?\"\n\n\"No, suh.\"\n\n\"Did you see the person inside the truck?\"\n\n\"No, suh, I ain't.\"\n\n\"What kind of pickup was it?\"\n\n\"Just a beat-up old truck. Brown, I think. I would have brought the gun in this morning, but I had to go to school.\"\n\n\"You did fine.\"\n\n\"Mr. Dave?\"\n\n\"Yeah?\"\n\n\"I didn't know about the man getting killed at the daiquiri drive-by till this afternoon. My mother thinks I'm in trouble.\"\n\n\"You're not. You're a good guy, Pete. Mind if we fingerprint you?\"\n\n\"So you won't get my prints mixed up with somebody else's?\"\n\n\"You got it.\"\n\n\"That's it?\"\n\n\"That's it.\"\n\nI watched him walk down the hall, grinning, his day back in place. Keep playing baseball, kid, and don't ever grow up, I thought.\n\nMack Bertrand, our forensic chemist, called me from the lab the next afternoon. \"We've got a ballistics match on the .38,\" he said.\n\n\"How about latents?\" I asked.\n\n\"They all belong to Pete Delahoussaye,\" he said.\n\n\"None on the rounds in the cylinder?\" I asked.\n\n\"Absolutely clean. I think that gun was oiled and wiped down before it was fired.\"\n\n\"What did you get off the plastic cup?\"\n\n\"Smudges that had dried dirt on top of them. I'm sure they were there long before our shooter arrived.\"\n\n\"Anything else?\"\n\n\"The victim had shoe polish and grains of leather under the nails of his right hand. But we knew that at the crime scene. Except for the discarded weapon, I'd say our perp was a professional.\"\n\n\"Thanks, Mack. By the way, what would you say the value of the gun is?\"\n\n\"It's a single-action army Colt, fairly rare. A lot of collectors have them. Maybe fifteen hundred dollars.\"\n\nI walked down to Helen's office and opened the door. She was just getting off the phone. \"I'd like to get a warrant on Dr. Parks's house,\" I said.\n\n\"Looking for what?\" she asked.\n\n\"Mack Bertrand says there were leather scrapings under the victim's nails.\"\n\n\"Think Parks is our man?\"\n\n\"He had both motivation and opportunity.\"\n\nHer eyes searched my face. \"That isn't what I asked,\" she said.\n\n\"I went out to his house yesterday. He didn't attempt to hide his hatred of the victim. He even wanted to know if Hebert suffered. Later I wondered if it was an act.\"\n\n\"Like he's trying to brass it out?\"\n\n\"Maybe. What doesn't make sense is the shooter throwing the gun out his truck window right by the drawbridge. Unless he wanted us to find it.\"\n\n\"Why do perps do anything?\" She glanced down at the legal pad by her telephone. \"We ran the serial number on the gun. It's registered to a William Raymond Guillot. He lives in Franklin.\"\n\n\"Guillot?\" In my mind's eye I saw a tall, gray-headed, crew-cropped man by a slat fence, lighting a string of firecrackers, pitching it into the air, while behind him a half-dozen thoroughbreds thundered back and forth across a pasture.\n\n\"You know him?\" Helen said.\n\n\"If it's the same guy, I saw him with Merchie Flannigan at Castille LeJeune's place.\"\n\nShe bit down on the corner of her lip. \"I think the ante just got raised on us,\" she said.\n\n\"Say again?\"\n\n\"I checked out Hebert's liquor license with the state board. He didn't own the daiquiri shop. It's part of a corporation called Sunbelt Construction. Guess who's listed as the CEO?\"\n\nBefore I could answer, she said, \"You got it, bwana. Castille LeJeune. Hope you enjoy charging howitzers with a popgun.\"\n\n## Chapter 7\n\nMax Coll could not believe his bad luck. Not only had he blown the job on the priest in the confessional, his efforts at researching the priest's schedule for another run at the situation had been blessed with an electric storm from hell. By late Wednesday afternoon the streets of New Orleans were flooded and lightning had crashed into an oak tree on St. Charles, dropping most of the canopy into the center of the avenue. The consequence was a traffic jam from Canal all the way uptown to Carrollton Avenue. Max could not even get a taxi from the edge of the Quarter to Father Dolan's church and had to walk ten blocks in a driving rain, a scoped and silenced .223 carbine banging against his rib cage.\n\nHe looked like a drowned rat when he entered the church. Water poured out of his shoes and each time he coughed he experienced a sensation like a sawblade splitting his sternum. He began sneezing and couldn't stop. He honked his nose into a wad of paper towels until he was light-headed, then was almost run down by a beggar woman pushing her way out of the vestibule with a shopping cart.\n\nWhy had he taken this job? It was jinxed from the start. New Orleans wasn't a city. It was an outdoor mental asylum located on top of a giant sponge.\n\nGet a hold of yourself, he thought. Take care of business, do a proper job of it, and never come back here again. It was almost 6:00 P.M. and the sky outside was absolutely black. The priest had finished his afternoon stint in the confessional and was no doubt having his supper, Max told himself. If the priest was true to his schedule, he would be saying his evening prayers in a front pew soon, his wide back presenting itself in lovely fashion to Max's crosshairs up in the choir. It was all going to be neat and tidy, nothing personal involved, no unnecessary pain. We all got to earn our keep, Father, he said to himself.\n\nMax waited until the vestibule was empty, then darted up the side stairs into the choir area. Ah, that was easy enough, he thought, looking down on the half dozen or so old people praying in the pews. Through a side window he saw lightning leap above the adjacent rooftops, illuminating the fire escape and the alleyway down below. Max did not like lightning. It brought back memories and catechism lessons he saw no point in reliving. He blew his nose softly, unbuttoned his raincoat, and unsnapped the carbine from the sling under his armpit. When he sat down in a chair among a pile of hymnals in the corner he unconsciously glanced upward at the celestial paintings on the ceiling, then quickly shifted his attention back to the nave of the church before he got lost in troubling thoughts that would be of no help in concluding the business at hand.\n\nHe surveyed the marble pillars, the tapestry-draped banisters on the balconies, the apse over the altar, the hand-carved pulpit. The place looked like it had been transported from the Middle Ages and dropped from a hundred-thousand feet into the middle of a slum, he thought. Even the parishioners could have been street beggars out of the fifteenth century. All the place needed was Quasimodo swinging on the bells. What was the matter with these people? Hadn't they heard of modern times? And how about this Father Dolan, threatening him with physical violence over the telephone? Now, that was a sad state of affairs, an Irish-American priest berating a man who had worked in the service of the IRA. Pitiful, Max thought.\n\n\"What are you doing, Mister?\" a little boy's voice said.\n\nOh shite, he thought.\n\n\"Are you here for choir practice?\" the child said. He was not over nine or ten and wore long pants and a white shirt with a tie. His hair was wet and freshly combed, his nails pink and trimmed.\n\nMax closed his raincoat, covering his carbine. \"Choir practice? Not exactly,\" he said.\n\n\"Then what are you doing?\"\n\n\"Examining the roof for rain leaks. I work for the bishop.\"\n\n\"How come you're all wet?\"\n\n\"I told you. Now get lost.\"\n\n\"I'm here with my mother for Father Jimmie's choir practice. I don't have to do what you say.\"\n\n\"Now, you listen, you malignant pygmy\u2014\" Max said.\n\n\"Screw you,\" the little boy said.\n\nMax coughed violently into his palm. His head was splitting, his nose running. \"Here's five dollars. Go buy yourself a hot chocolate,\" he said.\n\n\"Screw you twice,\" the little boy said.\n\n\"How would you like your dork stuffed in a light socket?\" Max said.\n\n\"Make it ten bucks,\" the little boy said.\n\n\"What?\"\n\nThe little boy peered over the balcony. \"Here comes Father Dolan now. Ten bucks or I start screaming,\" he said.\n\nMax shoved the money in the boy's hands and watched him run down the stairs. The little bastard, he thought. I hope the vendor pours Liquid Drano in his hot chocolate.\n\nThen Max heard footsteps, many of them, clopping up the wooden stairs. Either this is not happening or I'm being fucked with a garden rake, he thought.\n\nHe jerked open the window on the fire escape and climbed outside into rain that was now mixed with hail, closing the window halfway behind him. The icy pellets pounded his head, scalded his face, and slid down his coat collar inside his clothes. And if that wasn't enough, a bolt of lightning crashed into the alley, filling the air with the stench of sulphur and scorched electrical wiring. Jesus God, why was this being visited upon him? Then he looked down below and realized there were no steps below the fire escape, only rusted fastenings in the stone wall where a steel extension had once been in place. He was trapped like a rain-soaked parrot on a perch in an electrical storm, while inside the church Father Dolan's parishioners were dry and warm, passing out hymnals to one another.\n\nWell, maybe it was time to spread the discomfort around a little bit, forget neat and tidy and simply splatter the good father's porridge and be on his way, Max thought. Why not? Click off the safety, burn the whole magazine if need be, then haul ass right through the choir and on downstairs into the street. Father Dolan's singing parishioners would be too busy climbing under the furniture or shaking the crab cakes out of their drawers to worry about describing Max Coll to the authorities.\n\nHe knelt down in a shooting position on the fire escape, squinted into the carbine's scope, and saw the priest's magnified face swim into the crosshairs. In fact, the magnification of the priest's head was so great Max could not make out detail but see only hair and skin and perhaps just a touch of beard stubble. The hail clattered and danced like mothballs on the steel mesh of the fire escape, stinging the backs of Max's hands, drumming softly on his cap.\n\nThe carbine was loaded with soft-nose rounds and two of them impacting inside the priest's face would undoubtedly blow the back of his head into the wall like pieces from a broken watermelon. Max ground his molars, breathed hard through his nose, and felt his finger tighten inside the trigger guard. Squeeze it off, he told himself. Do it, do it, do it.\n\nBut he froze again, his hands trembling, just as they had trembled inside the confessional.\n\nHe was disgusted with himself. As he started to get to his feet, the silencer on the muzzle of the carbine scraped against the window glass. Suddenly he was not only looking straight into the priest's face, the priest was actually charging toward him.\n\nThere was no place to run. The priest jerked the window open, ripped the carbine from Max's hands, then gripped the stock with both hands and drove the steel-plated butt into Max's mouth. Max felt his lip burst like a grape against his teeth, then the guardrail behind him peeled from its fastenings. In the wink of an eye he was plunging backward through space, his arms outspread, preparing himself for the impact on the brick-paved alley below.\n\nInstead, he crashed into the middle of an opened Dumpster loaded to the gunnels with rotten produce and the leftovers from a parish shrimp boil. He stared upward from the garbage like a crucified man, right into the angry face of Father Dolan, who peered down at him from the edge of the broken fire escape. Max extracted himself from the softness of garbage that seemed to be sucking him into its maw and began pulling himself over the side of the Dumpster.\n\n\"Don't forget this,\" he heard Father Dolan call.\n\nMax looked up in time to see his carbine plummeting through the rain and hail, just before it bounced off his uplifted face.\n\nOn Thursday morning I took the four-lane into Franklin, then checked in with the St. Mary Parish Sheriff's Department and was given directions to the home of William Guillot. It was a lovely old Victorian house, located in a tree-covered, residential neighborhood, one of deep green lawns and hydrangeas and impatiens blooming in the shade and wide galleries hung with porch swings. But the gardener told me Guillot wasn't there and I could probably find him at the subdivision he was building not far from the four-lane.\n\nIt wasn't hard to find. Five hundred yards from the road, where two tin-roofed farmhouses had once stood amidst cedars and poplar trees, bulldozers had scoured a thirty-acre wound in the earth for the construction of houses that looked as if they had been designed by a man with delirium tremens. At the entrance to the subdivision-in-progress a workman was spreading kerosene on a huge pile of oaks and slash pines that had been recently lopped into segments with chainsaws.\n\nI parked my cruiser in a cul-du-sac flanked by three framed structures that several electricians were wiring. The man I had seen throwing firecrackers in the air by Castille LeJeune's horse barns was talking with a truncated, moon-faced workman in a yellow hard hat.\n\nWhen the workman saw me, he turned his face away, mounted the steps of a framed structure, and busied himself with a nest of wiring hanging from the back of a breaker box.\n\nWilliam Guillot wore shined cowboy boots and dark blue western slacks with high pockets and a gray snap-button shirt. He seemed to be one of those men to whom age was an asset and maturity a source of power and confidence. His skin was grainy, his profile rugged; in fact, he had all the handsome characteristics of the archetypical western horseman, except for a purple birthmark that was like dye that had leaked from his hairline into the corner of his left eye.\n\n\"Help you?\" he said.\n\n\"My name's Dave Robicheaux. I'm a detective with the Iberia Sheriff's Department. Are you William R. Guillot?\" I said, my gaze wandering from him to the electrician in the yellow hard hat.\n\n\"Call me Will. What can I do for you?\" he said.\n\n\"Where were you Monday night, Mr. Guillot?\"\n\n\"At my fish camp. Down at Pecan Island.\"\n\n\"Anybody with you?\"\n\n\"Maybe. What is this?\"\n\n\"We're in possession of a revolver that's registered in your name. It's a single-action Colt .38. You own a weapon like that, sir?\"\n\nHis hazel eyes fixed on mine and never blinked. \"Say that again.\"\n\nI repeated my statement.\n\n\"Yes, I do own one. But it's at my house,\" he said.\n\n\"Not anymore.\"\n\n\"Bullshit,\" he said, half smiling.\n\n\"I think we'd better take a ride to your house and check it out.\"\n\n\"If you haven't noticed, I'm building a subdivision.\"\n\n\"You an architect?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"The revolver registered in your name is part of a homicide investigation, Mr. Guillot. If I were you, I'd get my priorities straight.\"\n\n\"Homicide?\" he said, genuinely surprised.\n\n\"You own a brown pickup truck?\"\n\n\"I don't. The company does. What about it?\"\n\nBut I was looking at the back of the electrician who had walked away, and was not listening to William Guillot anymore.\n\n\"Did you hear me? What the hell is going on? Why are you staring at my electrician like that?\"\n\n\"Is he your subcontractor?\"\n\n\"What about it?\"\n\n\"He installed defective wiring in the walls of my house. It burned to the ground,\" I said.\n\nGuillot's eyes narrowed and dropped briefly to my person, as though he were filing away my inventory in a private compartment. \"Follow me to my house,\" he said.\n\nTwenty minutes later I stood in his home office, the sunlight breaking through a pecan tree by the side window, while he searched his desk, a wall safe, and the drawers of a gun cabinet. \"It's gone,\" he said.\n\n\"You have a break-in recently?\"\n\n\"Six or seven months ago.\"\n\n\"You reported it?\"\n\n\"Yeah, but I didn't miss the .38. Why would somebody steal only the .38 and none of my other guns?\"\n\n\"Write down the names of the person or persons you were with Monday night.\"\n\n\"Maybe I don't want to do that.\"\n\n\"I see. Maybe you can work through that problem in a jail cell.\"\n\nHe wrote a woman's name and address and telephone number on the top page of a scratch pad and handed it to me. \"My wife and I are separated. Her lawyer is trying to clean my clock. This isn't information that will help my situation,\" he said.\n\n\"It's not our intention to compromise your privacy,\" I said.\n\nBut his eyes grew heated, as though he were remembering an unfinished, angry thought. \"Back there at the house site, you made a serious accusation about my electrician. Did you file charges against him?\" he said.\n\n\"In New Iberia we have no inspection system outside the city limits. Also, in Louisiana an electrical contractor has no liability one year after the work is done. You like building homes in Louisiana, Mr. Guillot?\"\n\n\"I think you've got an ax to grind, Mr. Robicheaux. Let me say this up front. When I get pushed, I push back.\"\n\n\"Really?\"\n\n\"Yeah, really,\" he said.\n\nI tossed my business card on his desk. \"Give me a call when I can be of service,\" I said.\n\nThat same afternoon the phone rang on the desk in Father Jimmie Dolan's office. He stared at the phone as it rang four times, then listened to the voice that came through the speaker on the message machine.\n\n\"Are you there, Father? Excuse me if I sound strange, but I have a broken nose, a mouth that looks like a smashed plum, and a tooth knocked out of my head. All done by a Catholic priest,\" the voice said.\n\nIn the background Father Jimmie could hear piano music and the sounds of street traffic.\n\n\"I know you're listening, Father. Would you please have the courtesy to pick up the fucking phone,\" the voice said.\n\n\"What is it this time?\" Father Jimmie said.\n\n\"Because of you I'm up to my bottom lip in Shite's Creek and the motorboat is about to go roaring by.\"\n\n\"Could you do something about your language, please?\"\n\n\"My language?\" Coll said, his voice like a nail being pried out of dry wood. \"I took ten thousand dollars up front for the whack on you. Now I have to pay it back or prepare to go through life with no thumbs.\"\n\n\"Then return it.\"\n\n\"I lost it at the dog track.\"\n\n\"Change your way, Coll.\"\n\n\"Sir, please don't be talking to me like that. I'm miserable enough.\"\n\n\"I called the police on you yesterday. If you won't worry about your soul, you might give some thought to what New Orleans' finest will do to you.\"\n\n\"If there's a trace on your line, it won't help. I'm on a cell.\"\n\n\"You're close by the little alcove in the French Market. I know the pianist who plays there. She's playing her theme song, 'Down Yonder,' right now.\"\n\n\"You leave a man no dignity. Can you help with the ten thousand? Maybe I could borrow it from one of your charities?\"\n\n\"I'm hanging up now. I don't want you to contact me again.\"\n\n\"Oh, sir, don't do this to me. Don't fucking do this to a man who\u2014\"\n\n\"Who what?\"\n\n\"Maybe wants to remember who he used to be.\"\n\nFather Jimmie replaced the receiver in the phone cradle, the plastic surface as warm as human tissue against his palm, his hand trembling for reasons he couldn't readily explain.\n\nEarly the next morning I drove to Abbeville and interviewed Gretchen Peltier, the woman whose name had been given to me by Will Guillot as his alibi witness. She was middle-aged, slightly overweight, her hair dyed a deep black to hide the white roots. She worked as a secretary for an insurance agency and her hands trembled on the desktop when I asked her about her whereabouts Monday night. Her employer was inside a glass-windowed office, his door closed.\n\n\"Can't we do this somewhere else?\" she said.\n\n\"Sorry,\" I replied.\n\n\"I was with Mr. Will. At his camp. We're friends.\"\n\n\"What hours were you with him?\"\n\n\"I left his camp at dawn. The next day. Does that satisfy you?\" Her eyes were filmed with embarrassment.\n\nLater the same morning, Helen Soileau and I and another plainclothes served the search warrant on Dr. Parks at his home. His face looked sleepless; he had just finished shaving and a piece of bloody tissue paper was stuck to a cut on his chin. He stared at the warrant incredulously. \"Search for what?\" he said.\n\n\"Let's start with your shoes. Take them off, please,\" I said.\n\nHe stared long and hard at me, then the resolution seemed to go out of his eyes. He sat on a footstool in the living room and unlaced each of his black dress shoes and handed them to me. The shoes were new and the leather on them was buffed and smooth and bright as mirrors. \"Let's take a look in your closet, Doctor,\" I said.\n\nWe went inside the master bedroom. The curtains were closed, the air oppressive. I felt almost claustrophobic inside the room. \"Could you open the curtains, please?\" I said.\n\nHe started to turn on the overhead lighting.\n\n\"No, sir. Open the curtains,\" I said.\n\n\"Why?\" he said.\n\n\"Because I see better with natural light,\" I said.\n\nWhen he pulled back the curtains the room was immediately flooded with sunshine. The window gave onto a patio and a beautiful view of the bayou and the live oaks in the side yard. But the potted plants on the patio were dead, the glass-topped table marbled with dirt and the dried rings of evaporated rainwater. Helen and I pulled all the shoes out of the closet and bagged two pairs of black ones.\n\nDr. Parks sat on the side of the bed, his shoulders rounded. His wife opened the bathroom door, looked at us briefly, then closed it again. \"Look, you've got your job to do. I accept that. But I heard...\" he said.\n\n\"Heard what?\" I said.\n\n\"You people found the gun that killed the daiquiri-shop operator,\" he said.\n\n\"The man who owns the weapon makes a convincing case it was stolen,\" I said.\n\n\"You think I go around stealing guns from people?\"\n\n\"You attend gun shows, Dr. Parks?\" Helen asked.\n\n\"Sure. All over the country.\"\n\n\"Ever buy a firearm at a tailgate sale?\" she asked.\n\nHe rubbed his brow. \"It's hopeless, isn't it?\" he said.\n\n\"What do you mean?\" I said.\n\n\"I've heard about stuff like this. You can't make your case and you zero in on the survivors of the victim,\" he said.\n\nThere were many rejoinders either Helen or I could have made. But you don't break off the barb of a harpoon in a man who has already been ripped from his liver to his lights.\n\nWe got back in the cruiser and crossed the drawbridge in Loreauville, then headed up the state highway toward New Iberia. We passed cane trucks and the old Negro quarters left over from plantation days and an emerald green horse farm with big red barns and pecan trees next to a white house.\n\n\"Why'd you want the curtains open back there?\" Helen asked, watching the road.\n\n\"Their bedroom was like a grave. I couldn't breathe.\"\n\nShe glanced sideways at me.\n\n\"You didn't feel it?\" I asked.\n\n\"You worry me, bwana,\" she said.\n\n## Chapter 8\n\nOn Saturday morning I drove with Clete to New Orleans to check out his apartment, which he had loaned to Gunner Ardoin and his little girl. We crossed the Atchafalaya on the arched steel bridge at Morgan City, the docked shrimp boats and old brick buildings and tile roofs and palm-dotted streets of the town spread out below us in the sunshine. Then we drove into rain that seemed to blow out of the cane fields like purple smoke, and by the time we approached the giant bridge spanning the Mississippi, Clete's Cadillac was shaking in the wind, the fabric in the top denting with hailstones.\n\nWe drove into the French Quarter and parked in front of his apartment on St. Ann. He ran through the rain and went upstairs into his apartment. A few minutes later he was back in the car, his brow knitted.\n\n\"Gunner taking care of the place?\" I said.\n\n\"Yeah, everything looks fine,\" he said.\n\n\"What's wrong?\" I said.\n\n\"He left a message on the machine. He said an Irish guy was asking around in the neighborhood a couple of days ago. A weird-looking dude with little ears. Gunner thought maybe this guy had business with me.\"\n\n\"Max Coll?\" I said.\n\n\"Yeah. I think Gunner's got it wrong, though. Coll doesn't have any reason to be interested in me. Gunner might get himself popped.\"\n\n\"Where's Gunner now?\"\n\n\"He didn't say. How do I get involved in crap like this?\"\n\n\"Let's have a talk with Fat Sammy.\"\n\n\"I can't stand that guy. He looks like a blimp after all the air has gone out of it.\"\n\n\"There're worse guys in the life.\"\n\n\"Oh, I forgot, he gives discounts to the meth whores who work in his porn films,\" he said.\n\nHe fired up the Caddy, the rust-eaten muffler roaring against the asphalt, and we drove in the rain to Fat Sammy's house on Ursulines.\n\nI rang the iron bell at the entrance.\n\n\"Who is it?\" Sammy's voice said from the speaker inside the archway.\n\n\"Dave Robicheaux,\" I replied.\n\nHe buzzed open the gate and we walked through the flooded courtyard to the door of his house, which he had already unbolted and left ajar. I had not told Sammy that Clete was with me. When we stepped inside the living room he was lying on the floor, dressed in purple gym trunks and a strap undershirt, watching an opera on cable TV while he curled dumbbells into his chest. His massive legs were as white and hairless as a baby's, his pale blue eyes looking at us upside down.\n\n\"What's the haps, Sammy?\" Clete said.\n\n\"Who said you could come in here, Purcel?\" Fat Sammy asked.\n\nClete looked at me. \"I'll wait in the car,\" he said.\n\n\"Clete's my friend, Sammy.\"\n\nSammy set down the dumbbells and got to his feet, his lungs wheezing. The living room was dark, the windows covered with thick velvet curtains. Through a side door I could see two men, neither of whom I recognized, shooting pool. Sammy looked down from his great height at both me and Clete.\n\n\"So you want to watch some opera?\" he asked. He spread his feet and began touching his toes.\n\n\"You know a guy named Max Coll?\" I said.\n\n\"Do I know him? No. Do I know who he is? Yeah, he works out of Miami 'cause it's suppose to be an open city there. Here's the short version. You want somebody clipped, there's guys in Little Havana who work for a service. You want it done right, you ask for this Irish character. Except some people say he's a wacko.\"\n\nOut of the corner of my eye I saw Clete staring intently through the side doorway at the two men shooting pool.\n\n\"Wacko how?\" I said.\n\n\"I don't know, 'cause I don't keep company with them kind of people,\" Sammy said. \"Look, what I hear is the wacko screwed up a job in New Orleans and stiffed the wrong people. That means if he goes back to Miami he might float up in a barrel. Now, we done with this?\"\n\n\"The guy in there with the patent-leather hair? Is that Frank Dellacroce?\" Clete asked.\n\n\"What about it?\" Sammy said.\n\n\"Nothing. I thought he was down on a murder beef in Texas. Maybe George W. slipped up during his days as chief needle injector,\" Clete said.\n\nSammy's eyes looked at nothing while he scratched at his cheek with three fingers. \"Come back another time, Robicheaux,\" he said.\n\nOutside, rain was sluicing off the rooftops while Clete and I ran for his Cadillac. We got inside and slammed the doors. \"Why do you always have to start up the garbage grinder?\" I said.\n\n\"That greaseball shooting pool put his infant daughter in the refrigerator and held a gun to his wife's head while he did it. You think Sammy is on the square? I think he's a fat douche bag who should have been blown out of his socks years ago.\"\n\n\"You don't listen, Clete. It's hopeless. You'll never change.\"\n\n\"Neither will you, Dave. You'd like to splatter every one of these shitheads, but you won't admit it. Bootsie's death is eating your lunch. You talk about getting honest at meets? Why don't you stop stoking up your own fires?\"\n\nWe drove over to Decatur in silence, wrapped in anger, with no destination, the sky as gray as dirty wash. Rainwater was spouting from the sewer grates, the guttural roar of the ruptured muffler vibrating through the Cadillac's frame.\n\n\"If you want to attack me, Clete, do it. But don't drag my wife's death into it,\" I said.\n\n\"I'm finished talking about it. Live your own life,\" he replied.\n\nAt the traffic light in front of the Cafe du Monde I got out of the car, slammed the door behind me, and ran through the rain to the pavilion. When I looked back over my shoulder Clete was gone and Jackson Square looked as cold and stark as a black-and-white photograph taken in the dead of winter.\n\nI ordered coffee and hot milk and a plate of beignets, but couldn't eat. I walked the streets in the rain, keeping under the balconies, threading through the tourists carrying street-sale ten-dollar umbrellas. I looked through steam-coated windows of cafes and bars where people were watching Saturday-afternoon football on television. On Dauphine I went into a bar that was packed with gay men, all of them shouting in unison to punctuate the gyrations of a famous transvestite dancing on the stage. The bartender wore a pencil-line mustache and earrings and a black leather cap and leather vest without a shirt. He stared at me across the bar.\n\n\"You have coffee?\" I asked.\n\n\"This look like a Starbucks?\" he replied in a New England accent.\n\n\"Give me a soda with a lime twist,\" I said.\n\nHe fixed my drink and set it on the bar. He smiled to himself, but not offensively.\n\n\"On the job?\" he said.\n\n\"No, not on the job,\" I said.\n\n\"No problem, sir,\" he said.\n\nI closed my eyes as I drank down the soda and lime in the glass. I could have sworn I tasted the traces of bourbon in the ice. I used the rest room and walked back out on the street, my skin and clothes reeking of cigarette smoke, my head buzzing with sounds like an electric wire popping in a rain puddle.\n\nI lost track of time. It stopped raining toward evening and a wet fog settled on the French Quarter and drifted like colored smoke off the neon lights over the clubs. Bourbon Street, which was closed at night to automobile traffic, became filled with college boys drinking beer out of plastic cups, conventioneers and tourists strung with cameras peering into strip joints that featured both topless and bottomless performances, and black kids tap dancing like minstrel caricatures or running a shuck that begins, \"Bet you five dollars I can tell you where you got your shoes at.\"\n\nI walked along the river where bums sat on stone benches with sack-wrapped bottles of fortified wine between their thighs. I turned up Esplanade and walked all the way to the ragged edge of the Quarter at Rampart, past a hallelujah mission with a neon cross above its door, past Louis Armstrong Park, a place no white person in his right mind enters either day or night, over to Basin Street and the long white wall that fronted St. Louis Cemetery. Through the gates I could see row upon row of whitewashed crypts and stone crosses, framed against the sodium lamps of the Iberville Project that burned in the fog with the incandescence of pistol flares.\n\nI sat down on a bus bench next to a huge man with a wild beard and head of black hair. He wore a suit that looked like it had been pulled from a garbage can, a tie knotted like a garrote in the collar of his flannel shirt. His skin was so grimed with dirt it was hard to tell his race. His eyes made me think of the renegade Russian priest Rasputin.\n\n\"You got any money?\" he said.\n\n\"What do you need it for?\" I answered.\n\n\"Something to eat. Maybe a drink or two.\"\n\nI found four dollars and seventy-three cents in my pocket and gave it to him. He clenched it in his hand but remained seated on the bench. \"I got me a dry place in one of the tombs. The mission is all full on Saturday nights,\" he said.\n\nI nodded. A group of tourists were walking by, talking among themselves about either A Streetcar Named Desire, the play by Tennessee Williams, or the original streetcar itself, which today sits like an immobile and disconnected anachronism on a cement pad down by the river.\n\nThe disheveled man stood up and began waving his arms at them. \"That streetcar didn't go out to Desire,\" he yelled. \"It went out to Elysian Fields. It was the last car that still run out to Elysian Fields. All these streets here was Storyville. It was full of colored whorehouses and women who killed themselves with morphine. Hey, don't you go in them crypts! The kids from the Iberville Project climb over the wall and bust people like you in the head. Are you listening to me? This ain't New Orleans. You're standing in the city of the dead. You just don't know it yet.\"\n\nThe tourists walked quickly up the street toward Canal, their faces ashen.\n\nA minute later Clete Purcel's Cadillac came around the corner, oil smoke leaking from under the frame, a hubcap rolling loose across the asphalt, like a paean to the disorder in his life. He pushed open the passenger door.\n\n\"Want to go back to New Iberia?\" he said.\n\n\"Why not?\" I said, and got inside. I looked through the back window at the silhouette of the disheveled man receding behind us.\n\n\"Sorry I got on your case. But I think Fat Sammy has been putting the slide on you,\" Clete said.\n\n\"Maybe he has.\"\n\n\"No maybe about it, Streak. Every ounce of meth going into the projects has Sammy's greasy prints all over it. He makes me think of a giant snail trailing slime all over the city.\"\n\n\"You're one in a million, Cletus.\"\n\nHe looked at me uncertainly, a pocket of air in one cheek, then roared up the ramp onto I-10. We poured it on all the way back to New Iberia, like two over-the-hill low riders who no longer look at calendars or watch the faces of clocks.\n\nOn Monday morning Mack Bertrand called me from the lab and said the shoes we had removed from Dr. Parks's house were not the source of the leather scrapings found under the fingernails of the dead daiquiri vendor, Leon Hebert. A few minutes later Helen came into my office and I told her of the lab's findings.\n\n\"So where does that leave us?\" she said.\n\n\"A revenge killing of some kind. The daiquiri cup stuffed down the victim's throat indicates a high level of rage. Dr. Parks had motivation.\"\n\n\"You don't sound convinced,\" she said.\n\n\"Parks has so much anger I doubt he'd deny killing the man if he did it.\"\n\n\"How about this guy Guillot?\"\n\n\"He's a poster child for obnoxiousness. But why would he shoot someone and throw the weapon, registered in his name, on the side of the road?\"\n\n\"We're talking about middle-class people, Streak. Career perps are predictable. Dagwood and Blondie aren't.\"\n\nBeautiful.\n\nBut I believed there were other factors at work in this case that were more complex than a simple act of vengeance. It was too much for coincidence that Castille LeJeune's corporation owned the daiquiri store where Leon Hebert had been murdered and that the murder weapon belonged to Will Guillot, one of his employees.\n\nBut Helen was right. We were dealing with middle-class people who didn't have the proclivities and personal associations of career criminals, most of whom were basket cases who left a paper trail through the system from birth to the grave.\n\nWhy had Theodosha Flannigan been afraid to climb through the fence surrounding the fish pond on her father's property? Why did Castille LeJeune say he had no memory of using his influence to get Junior Crudup off the levee gang at Angola? People denied evil deeds, not good ones.\n\nAnd how about the suicide of Theodosha's psychiatrist? If she was his regular patient, why wasn't her case file in his records?\n\nI long ago became convinced that the most reliable source for arcane and obscure and seemingly unobtainable information does not lie with government or law enforcement agencies. Apparently neither the CIA nor the military intelligence apparatus inside the Pentagon had even a slight inkling of the Soviet Union's impending collapse, right up to the moment the Kremlin's leaders were trying to cut deals for their memoirs with New York publishers. Or if a person really wishes a lesson in the subjective nature of official information, he can always call the IRS and ask for help with his tax forms, then call back a half hour later and ask the same questions to a different representative.\n\nSo where do you go to find a researcher who is intelligent, imaginative, skilled in the use of computers, devoted to discovering the truth, and knowledgeable about science, technology, history, and literature, and who usually works for dirt and gets credit for nothing?\n\nAfter lunch I drove to the city library on Main and asked the reference librarian to find what she could on Junior Crudup.\n\nShe looked thoughtfully into space. She had a round face and wore glasses with pink frames and parted her hair down the middle. \"I have a history of blues and swamp pop here. That might be helpful,\" she said.\n\n\"I've already used that. This guy disappeared from Angola about1951. There's no record anywhere of what happened to him.\"\n\n\"Wait here a minute,\" she said.\n\nI watched her moving around in the stacks, sliding a book off a shelf here and there, then clicking on a computer keyboard. A few minutes later she waved for me to join her at a back table, where she had spread open several books that contained mention of Junior Crudup.\n\n\"I looked at those already, I'm afraid,\" I said.\n\n\"Well, there's a photographic collection in Washington, D.C., that might be worth looking at,\" she said.\n\n\"Pardon?\"\n\n\"In the forties and fifties a photographer who once worked with Walker Evans photographed convicts all over the South. He had a penchant for black musicians. He tracked some of their careers for decades. There are hundreds of photographs in his collection.\"\n\n\"Is he still alive?\"\n\n\"No, he died twenty years or so ago.\"\n\n\"How do we get a hold of the collection?\"\n\n\"All the ones he took of Crudup or of Louisiana prisons are downloading and printing right now. You need anything else?\"\n\nThe photographs were stunning, shot with grainy black-and-white film in Jim Crow jails and work camps, when the convicts still wore stripes and the hacks carried lead-weighted walking canes and made no attempt to hide the spiritual cancer that lived in their faces. Nor was there any attempt to hide the level of severity and privation that characterized the lives of the prisoners in the photographs. In each photo the camera caught an image or a detail that left no doubt in the viewer's mind about what he was seeing: a wheeled cage tiered with bunks parked inside a swamp; a convict sitting in the bottom of a wood sweatbox, a forced grin on his face, a waste bucket by his foot; a work gang assembled at morning-bell count, while in the background two men tried to balance themselves barefoot atop a case of empty pop bottles; a mounted gunbull in a cowboy hat framed against a boiling sun, his arm pointed, yelling a command at a convict pulling a fourteen-foot cotton sack behind him.\n\nIt was called stacking time on the hard road.\n\nBut in each of the photographs the reference librarian had downloaded, Junior Crudup was obviously the odd piece in the puzzle box, regardless of his surroundings. In a ditch with a dozen other convicts, he was the only light-skinned man, the only one with an etched mustache, and the only one to look directly into the camera. His eyes were clear, his face marked by neither resentment nor grandiosity. I suspected he was one of those for whom the gunbulls did not have a category, which would not have been good news for Junior Crudup.\n\nBut some of the photographs were taken outside of prison. One showed him with Leadbelly, the two of them laughing at a joke in front of what appeared to be a practice session of Cab Calloway's orchestra. Another showed him at a crowded table in a supper club, a beautiful black woman in a pillbox hat and polka-dot organdy dress, with an orchid pinned to her shoulder, seated next to him. Everyone in the picture was grinning at the camera, except Junior Crudup. He was dressed in a tuxedo, his tie pulled loose, a cigarette trailing a line of smoke from between two fingers. There was a half grin on his mouth, his eyes focused on a neutral spot, as though he were not entirely connected to the environment around him.\n\nI got a manilla envelope from the reference librarian and began slipping the printouts of the photos inside it. Then a detail in the last photo caught my eye and made me pull it back out. The photo was far less dramatic than the others and showed eight or nine convicts in denims, not stripes, plowing under cane stubble with mules in a sugarcane field that sloped down to a bayou.\n\nAn obese white man in a straw hat, with a doughlike face and a shotgun propped on his thigh, was watching them from atop his horse. Junior was staring up at the gunbull, a hoe at an odd angle over his shoulder, his face puzzled, as though he had just been told something that made no sense. It was wintertime and the bayou was low, the roots of the cypress trees exposed along the banks. A stump fire was burning on the edge of the field, the smoke drifting like a dirty smudge across the sun. Across the bayou, on the edge of the picture, was the back of a Victorian home that had obviously been built to resemble a steamboat.\n\nThe home of Castille LeJeune.\n\nA half hour later I rang the bell on his front porch, without having called or gone through his corporate office in Lafayette. \"I thought you might be interested in this photo. According to the cutline on it, it was taken in 1953,\" I said when he opened the door.\n\nHis eyes dropped to the photo briefly but he did not take it from my hand. \"Mr. Robicheaux, how nice of you to drop by,\" he said.\n\n\"That's Junior Crudup in the picture, Mr. LeJeune. That's your house in the background.\"\n\nHe wore slacks and a tie and a blue sweater with buttons on it. His eyes fixed on mine, twinkling. \"I'm sure what you say is true. But the burning issue here seems to escape me.\"\n\n\"You said you had no memory of getting Crudup off the levee gang. But here he is, harrowing your sugarcane field across the bayou from your house.\"\n\nHe tried to suppress a laugh. \"Let's see if I understand. You've driven out here to talk to me about a photo taken of convicts almost fifty years ago?\"\n\n\"Did you rent convict labor back then, Mr. LeJeune?\"\n\n\"The people who ran my family's agricultural interests might have. I don't remember.\" He looked at his wristwatch and raised his eyebrows. \"Oh heavens, I'm supposed to leave for New Orleans shortly.\"\n\nHis patrician insouciance, his disingenuousness and contempt for the truth were part of a lifelong attitude on which there were no handles. I could feel words breaking loose in my throat that I didn't want to say. \"You received the Distinguished Flying Cross from Harry Truman, did you?\"\n\n\"Do you wish me to confirm what you already know, or do you wish to ask me a meaningful question?\" he said, his eyes gazing benignly out on the flowers and palm and oak trees in his yard.\n\nI could feel my left hand opening and closing against my thigh, the veins tightening in the side of my head. Don't get into this, I heard a voice say in the back of my mind. \"I met Audie Murphy once. It was a great honor,\" I said.\n\n\"I'm happy to hear that,\" he said.\n\n\"Thank you for your time, Mr. LeJeune,\" I said.\n\nHe made no reply. Even though I had managed to control my anger I felt like a fool, one of that great army of salaried public servants who were treated by the very rich as doormen and security guards. I got in my cruiser and began backing down the long, shaded driveway to the state road, the sun flashing through the canopy like the reflection off a heliograph. When I reached the entrance to the state road I had to wait for a long line of cane trucks to pass, the wagon beds swaying heavily with the enormous loads they carried. In the meantime Castille LeJeune had gotten into his Oldsmobile and was driving toward me.\n\nI got out of the cruiser and walked to his car, then waited for him to roll down the window. \"I'm sorry, I forgot to leave you a business card,\" I said, and placed it on his dashboard. \"I think something real bad happened to Junior Crudup. Please be advised there's no statute of limitation on murder in the state of Louisiana, Mr. LeJeune. By the way, it was an honor to meet Audie Murphy because he seemed to be both a patriot and a straight-up guy who didn't try to get by on bullshit.\"\n\nOn Tuesday morning Helen called me into her office. \"I just got off the phone with Castille LeJeune's attorney. He says you made a nasty accusation yesterday at LeJeune's house,\" she said.\n\n\"News to me.\"\n\n\"You think you can jam a guy like Castille LeJeune?\"\n\n\"He's lying about Junior Crudup.\"\n\n\"The R&B convict again?\"\n\n\"Right.\"\n\n\"How about we concentrate on crimes in this century? Starting with the homicide at the daiquiri store.\"\n\n\"No matter what avenue we take, I think it's going to lead back to LeJeune.\"\n\n\"Maybe because you want it to.\"\n\n\"Say again?\"\n\n\"You hate rich people, Dave. You can't wait to get into it with them.\"\n\n\"No, I just don't like liars.\"\n\n\"Can you do me a favor?\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"Go somewhere else. Now.\"\n\nThat afternoon Father Jimmie Dolan was at a basketball practice in a Catholic high school gymnasium not far from his church, when his cell phone rang inside his gym bag. \"Father Dolan,\" he said into the receiver.\n\n\"I need only a quick word. Don't be hanging up on me now,\" the caller said.\n\n\"How did you get this number?\"\n\n\"Told the secretary at the rectory I was your grandfather. I need something from you.\"\n\n\"What could I possibly have that you want?\"\n\n\"I was paid to take out this fellow Ardoin. But I'm not going to do it.\"\n\n\"You didn't answer my question. What is it you want?\"\n\n\"There's an open contract on me, Father. That means I'm anybody's fuck. But they messed with the wrong fellow, you get my drift?\"\n\n\"No, and I don't want to.\"\n\n\"I'm going to loosen some people's earthly ties.\"\n\nFather Jimmie stared listlessly across the gym at the boys who were taking turns laying up shots under the basket. He had a sore throat and fever and wanted nothing else in life at that moment except a glass of whiskey and a warm bed to lie down in.\n\n\"You know what I'm asking from you, don't you?\" Max Coll said.\n\n\"I think you want absolution for your sins, Max. But you can't have it. Not over the phone, certainly. And perhaps never, not unless you give up your violent ways.\"\n\nThe cell phone was silent.\n\n\"Did you hear me?\" Father Jimmie said.\n\n\"I think I've misjudged you. Under it all you're a hard-nosed bastard of a kind I remember only too well, one whose cassock and collar come before his humanity. Shite if you're not a disappointment to me.\"\n\nThe transmission went dead. Father Jimmie's cheek stung as though it had been slapped.\n\n## Chapter 9\n\nThat evening I fixed a bowl of milk for a stray cat and watched him drink it on the gallery. He was a hard-bodied, short-haired, unneutered white cat with chewed ears and pink claw scars inside his coat. His tail was as thick as a broom handle. When I petted him he looked at me blankly, then went back to his milk.\n\nTheodosha Flannigan pulled her Lexus into the driveway and parked under the pecan tree by the side of the house. A guitar in an expensive case was propped up in the backseat. She wore loafers and a blue terry cloth blouse and jeans low on her hips so they exposed her stomach. The wind gusted and leaves swirled around her, and a single band of dusky sunlight cut across her face.\n\n\"What's the name of your little friend?\" she asked, sitting down on a step next to the cat.\n\n\"He didn't say,\" I replied.\n\nShe picked the cat up in her arms and kissed him on top of his head. Then she flipped him on his back and set him in the crevice formed by her thighs and straightened his body by pulling his tail as though it were a strap on a piece of luggage. She scratched him between his ears and under his chin. \"We're going to call him Mr. Adorable. No, we're going to call him Snuggs,\" she said.\n\n\"What's happenin', Theo?\" I said.\n\n\"I heard about your visit to my father's house.\"\n\n\"Your father has a problem with the truth. He doesn't think he needs to tell it.\"\n\n\"He says you talked to him as though he were a criminal.\"\n\n\"I talked to him as though he were an ordinary citizen. He didn't like it. Then, rather than confront me about it, he used his attorney to report me to the sheriff.\"\n\n\"He comes from a different generation, Dave. Why don't you have a little compassion?\"\n\nTime to disengage, I said to myself. The streetlights were coming on under the oak trees, and the air was cool and damp and I could smell an odor like scorched brown sugar from the mills. Theo set down the cat and stroked his back, then stood up. \"You want to see my new guitar?\" she asked.\n\n\"Sure. I didn't know you played,\" I said.\n\nShe came back from the car with her guitar and unsnapped the case. \"I'm not very good. My mother was, though. I have some old tapes of her singing some of Bessie Smith's songs. She could have been a professional. The only person I've ever heard like her is Joan Baez,\" she said.\n\nTheo removed the guitar from its case and sat down again on the steps. She made a chord on the neck and brushed her thumb across the strings, then began singing \"Corina, Corina\" in Cajun French. She had been much too humble about her ability. Her voice was lovely, her accompaniment with herself perfect as she ran each chord into the next. In fact, like all real artists, she seemed to disappear inside the thing she created, as though the identity by which others knew her had nothing to do with the inner realities of her life.\n\nShe smiled at me when she finished, almost like a woman delivering a kiss after she has made love.\n\n\"Gee, you're great, Theo,\" I heard myself saying.\n\n\"My mother used to sing that. I don't remember her well, but I remember her singing that song to me before I went to sleep,\" she said. She began putting away her guitar.\n\nThe cat she had named Snuggs nuzzled his head against her knee. The wind riffled through the oak and pecan trees overhead, and a group of children on their way to the library rode by on bicycles, laughing, the streetlights glowing in the dampness like the oil lamps in a Van Gogh painting. There was not a mechanized sound on the street, only the easy sweep of wind and the scratching of leaves on the sidewalk. I didn't want the moment to end.\n\nBut like the canker in the rose or the serpent uncoiling itself out of an apple tree, there had been an element in Theo's song that disturbed me in a way I couldn't let go of.\n\n\"The melody for 'Corina, Corina' is the same as 'The Midnight Special,'\" I said.\n\n\"Un-huh,\" she said vaguely.\n\n\"That was Leadbelly's song. The Midnight Special was a train he rode into the Texas State Penitentiary at Huntsville. According to the prison legend, the convict who saw the headlight on the locomotive shining at him in his sleep was going to be released in the coming year.\"\n\nBut I saw she had still not made the connection.\n\n\"Your father didn't want to answer questions about Junior Crudup, Theo,\" I said. \"Crudup was Leadbelly's friend inside Angola. They probably composed songs together. I think Crudup was a convict laborer on your father's plantation.\"\n\nShe continued snapping her guitar case shut and never looked at me while I spoke. But I could see what I thought was a great sadness in her eyes. She reached over and petted the cat good-bye, then turned toward me. \"You have an enormous reservoir of anger inside you, Dave. I guess I feel sorry for you,\" she said.\n\nThe next morning events kicked into overdrive, beginning with a phone call from Clotile Arceneaux, the black patrolwoman who Helen said was an undercover state trooper.\n\n\"We've got Father Jimmie Dolan in custody,\" she said.\n\n\"Are you serious?\" I said.\n\n\"As a material witness. He won't give up Max Coll's whereabouts.\"\n\n\"Which administrative moron is behind this?\" I said.\n\nShe paused before she spoke again. \"Coll tried to kill the priest but he won't press charges. So a couple of detectives figured Father Jimmie is not a friend of N.O.P.D. and decided to put the squeeze on him. Look, the word on the street is there's an open contract on Max Coll. We need this guy out of town or in lock-up. We also don't need trouble from Catholic priests.\"\n\n\"Can't help you,\" I said, and hung up the phone.\n\nShe called back three hours later. \"Guess who?\" she said.\n\n\"Same answer as before,\" I said.\n\n\"Try this. We just heard from Miami-Dade P.D. Max Coll flew into Ft. Lauderdale, whacked two greaseballs who were getting laid on a yacht, then caught the last flight back to New Orleans. At least that's what they think. Get Dolan out of Central Lock-Up. Better yet, get him out of the state,\" she said.\n\nBut I didn't have to spring Father Jimmie. The bishop and Father Jimmie's conservative colleagues at his church came through for him, evidently making trouble from the mayor's office on down through the chain of command at N.O.P.D.\n\nFather Jimmie called me at home that evening. \"You know the story of Typhoid Mary?\" he said.\n\n\"A nineteenth-century cook or kitchen helper who caused problems everywhere she went?\" I replied.\n\n\"The bishop is recommending I travel somewhere that's quiet and rustic. Maybe do a little bass fishing. I think anywhere outside of New Orleans would be fine with him,\" he said.\n\nI shut my eyes and tried not to think about what he was obviously suggesting. \"Straight up, Jimmie. Do you know where Max Coll is hiding?\"\n\n\"Absolutely not,\" he said.\n\n\"Why didn't you file charges against him?\"\n\n\"The cops need a Catholic minister to tell them Coll's a killer?\"\n\nI rubbed the back of my neck. \"Want to entertain the bass?\" I asked.\n\nFather Jimmie moved into a back room of my house and the weekend passed uneventfully. On Monday Clete called the department and asked me to meet him for lunch at Victor's Cafeteria.\n\nIt was crowded with noontime customers, the wood-bladed fans turning high above us on the stamped-tin ceiling, the steam tables arrayed with Friday specials featuring shrimp or catfish or \u00e9touf\u00e9e. Clete's plate was piled with dirty rice and brown gravy, kidney beans, and two deep-fried pork chops. He wore an electric blue shirt and white sports coat, his face red with sunburn from a tarpon-fishing trip out on the salt. \"Dolan's at your place, huh?\" he said.\n\nI nodded, waiting for him to begin one of his lectures. But he surprised me.\n\n\"There's an N.O.P.D. snitch I pay a few bucks to. He called me this morning about a bail skip who's hid out in Morgan City. Then he mentions this guy Max Coll. He says Coll capped two high-level Miami greaseballs and there's a fifty thou open whack on him. Which means every street rat in New Orleans is crawling out of the sewer grates.\"\n\n\"Yeah, I heard about it.\"\n\n\"Right,\" Clete said, feeding a half piece of bread into his mouth. \"Well, tell me if you've heard this. At seven this morning either Frank Dellacroce or his clone was in the donut shop by the railway tracks.\"\n\n\"Here, in New Iberia? The guy you saw shooting pool in Fat Sammy's house?\"\n\n\"He came out of the donut shop just when I was going in. At first he couldn't believe his bad luck. Then he puts on a wise-ass grin and says, 'You fish for green trout over here, Purcel?' I go, 'No, I'm looking for a needle dick who puts his own child in a refrigerator. Know anybody like that, Frank?'\n\n\"He goes, 'That story is a lie my wife's lawyer spread about me during our divorce. So why don't you either pull your head out of your ass or mind your own fucking business?'\"\n\nPeople around us were quietly picking up their plates and trays and moving to tables farther away from us.\n\n\"Just then two more greaseballs come out of the donut shop. One used to be a shooter for the Giacanos. The other one I don't know.\"\n\n\"How do you read it?\" I asked.\n\n\"They think Dolan knows where Coll is hiding. Any way you cut it, big mon, you've let Dolan piss in your shoe.\"\n\n\"Can we take our food to the park?\" I said.\n\n\"What's the problem?\"\n\n\"I think we're about to get thrown out of here.\"\n\n\"What for?\" he said, still chewing, his face filled with puzzlement.\n\nAfter I returned from lunch I went into Helen's office. She was talking on the phone, standing up, a pair of handcuffs pulled through the back of her belt. Before she hung up I heard her say, \"You don't have to tell me.\" Then she looked at me blankly. \"What is it?\" she said.\n\n\"Clete says three New Orleans wiseguys are in town. They're after a rogue button man by the name of Max Coll,\" I said.\n\n\"They're staying at the Holiday,\" she said.\n\n\"How do you know that?\"\n\n\"The manager called earlier. The greaseballs have hookers in their rooms and are scaring the shit out of the staff. I was about to tell you about it but I got a call from a guy at the chamber of commerce. He says you and Clete Purcel had a conversation in Victor's Cafeteria that made a third of the room move their tables.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry.\"\n\n\"Dave, I've told you before, we have enough problems of our own. What does it take to make you understand that?\"\n\nThe room was silent. I heard a warning bell clanging at the railroad crossing and a freight train clattering down the tracks. \"You want the wiseguys out of town?\" I said.\n\n\"I hate to tell you what I want,\" she said.\n\n\"Just say it, Helen.\"\n\nShe spit a hangnail off her tongue. \"Meet you outside,\" she said.\n\nWe arrived in four cruisers at the Holiday Inn out by the four-lane. My experience with the Mob or its members had never been one that possessed any degree of romance. In fact, my encounters with them always made me feel as though I had walked inside the drabness and urban desperation of an Edward Hopper painting. Although it was Monday and the motel was almost empty, Frank Dellacroce and his two friends had taken a row of rooms in back, facing the highway, where road noise echoed off the windows and doors of their building. Their cars were brand new, waxed and shining, but were parked by an overflowing Dumpster, out of which trash feathered in the wind and scudded across the asphalt. The sun was barely distinguishable in the sky, the air close with an odor like fish roe that has dried on a beach; the only sign of life in the scene was a palm tree whose yellowed fronds rattled dryly in the wind.\n\nHelen got out of her cruiser, her arms pumped, her shield hanging from a black cord around her neck. A cleaning woman was passing on the walkway, a plastic bucket filled with detergent bottles on her arm. \"You smell marijuana coming from that room?\" Helen asked.\n\n\"Ma'am?\" the cleaning woman said.\n\n\"That's what I thought,\" Helen said. She banged her left fist on the door of the room registered to Frank Dellacroce, her right hand resting on the butt of her holstered nine-millimeter. \"Iberia Parish Sheriff's Department! Open the door!\" she shouted.\n\nWith few exceptions, television and motion pictures portray members of the Mafia or the Mob or the Outfit as dapperly dressed, Plotinian emanations from an ancient ethnic mythos. They are not only charismatic\u2014they take on the proportions of protagonists in Elizabethan tragedy, with accents from Hell's Kitchen.\n\nThe truth is most of them are stupid and at best capable of holding only menial jobs. They use dog-pack intimidation to get what they want, whether it involves preferential seating in a restaurant or taking over a labor union. On a personal level their sexual habits are adolescent or misogynistic, their social behavior inept and laughable.\n\nIn terms of health, they're walking nightmares. Listen to any surveillance tape: After age fifty, they complain constantly about clap, AIDS, obesity, impotence, emphysema, clogged arteries, ulcers, psoriasis, swollen prostates, the big C, and incontinence.\n\nThe room door opened and a man with black, freshly barbered hair and pale features and dark eyes stepped outside. He was barefoot and wore slacks without a shirt. His chest was triangular in shape and covered with a fine patina of hair, his upper arms well developed. He started to pull the door shut behind him.\n\nHelen pushed the door back on the hinges. \"Your name Dellacroce?\" she said.\n\n\"Frank Dellacroce, yeah. Why the roust?\" he said.\n\n\"We have a complaint you're soliciting prostitution and using narcotics in the motel. Place both your hands against the building and spread your legs, please,\" she said. She crooked a finger at a figure inside the room. \"You need to come out here, Miss. Bring your purse with you.\"\n\nThe girl who emerged from the room was probably not over nineteen, dressed in sandals; skintight, cut-off jeans; and a Donald Duck T-shirt that hung on the points of her breasts. She wore no makeup and her hair was bunched on the back of her head with a rubber band. \"I didn't do anything,\" she said.\n\n\"Get out your ID,\" Helen said.\n\nThe girl's hands were shaking as she removed her driver's license from her billfold and handed it to Helen.\n\nHelen looked at the photo and the birth date on the card, then gave it back to her. \"Beat it.\"\n\n\"Ma'am?\"\n\n\"Your trick is a guy who put his infant child inside a refrigerator. You want a fuckhead like that in your life?\" Helen said.\n\nThe girl walked hurriedly across the parking lot toward the street. The uniformed deputies had pulled Dellacroce's two friends out of the adjoining rooms and were shaking them down against a cruiser. But they found no weapons or dope on them and none in their rooms.\n\nDellacroce was still leaning against the wall, his feet spread. \"We done with this?\" he said.\n\nHelen didn't answer. I could see the frustration building in her face.\n\n\"Hey, we're here for the tarpon rodeo. We ain't broke any laws. You get off squeezing my sack, fine. But I want a lawyer,\" Dellacroce said.\n\n\"Better shut up,\" I said.\n\n\"I'd show you where to bite me, but I'm holding up the building here,\" he said.\n\n\"Helen, could I have a word with Mr. Dellacroce?\" I said.\n\n\"Please do,\" she replied.\n\nDellacroce took his hands off the wall and watched her and the deputies get back in their cruisers. I told Dellacroce's two friends to go inside their rooms and to keep their doors shut. Dellacroce stared at me, a cautious light in his eyes.\n\n\"My house is off-limits to you, Frank. So is Father Jimmie Dolan,\" I said.\n\nHis slacks hung just below his navel. He traced the tips of his fingers up and down the smooth taper of his stomach, almost as though he were caressing a woman's skin. \"You were Purcel's partner in the First District?\" he said.\n\n\"At one time.\"\n\n\"Mind if I get my shirt?\" he said.\n\n\"No, I don't mind,\" I said.\n\nHe reached inside the door and picked up a long-sleeve pink shirt and began drawing a sleeve up his arm. His hair was tapered, lightly oiled, iridescent on the tips. \"Purcel was on a pad for us,\" he said.\n\n\"Yeah?\" I said.\n\n\"That's all. He made himself a little change.\"\n\n\"What are you saying, Frank?\"\n\n\"Nothing. Just talking about the history of your friend.\"\n\n\"Tell me, is that story about your infant child true?\"\n\n\"No,\" he said. His eyes held on mine, devoid of any sentiment or moral consideration I could see, indifferent to the lie they either contained or did not contain. His mouth was slightly parted and his teeth were wet with his saliva. I could feel his breath puff against my skin like a presence released from a poisonous flower. Involuntarily I stepped back from him.\n\n\"Word of caution, Frank. Max Coll was a shooter for the IRA,\" I said.\n\n\"The what?\"\n\n\"I hope you find Coll. I really do. Have a nice day,\" I said, and grinned at him.\n\nThe sun came out late in the afternoon, the wind died, and the sky was marbled with crimson clouds. When I got home from work Father Jimmie was raking leaves in the backyard.\n\n\"Clete and I are going to throw a line in. How about joining us?\" I said.\n\n\"Not today,\" he said. He picked up a huge sheaf of blackened pecan and oak leaves and dropped them on a fire burning inside a rusted oil barrel. The smoke rose in thick curds and twisted through the canopy like a yellow handkerchief.\n\n\"Never knew you to pass up a fishing trip,\" I said.\n\n\"I saw Max Coll,\" he said.\n\n\"Don't say that.\"\n\n\"I was coming out of Winn-Dixie. He was standing across the street.\"\n\n\"Maybe you're imagining things.\"\n\n\"No, I saw him, Dave.\"\n\n\"Then he'd better not come around here.\"\n\n\"He's a sick man. He needs help.\"\n\n\"I'm not buying into this discussion,\" I said, and walked away.\n\nWhen I looked back out the kitchen window Father Jimmie was heaving more leaves onto the fire, his clothes and skin auraed with smoke and dust in the shafts of sunlight breaking through the trees.\n\nGod protect me from martyrs and saints, I thought.\n\nClete and I hitched up my boat trailer to the back of my pickup and a half hour later slid the boat into the water at Bayou Benoit in St. Martin Parish. The surrounding water shed looked both enormous and desolate in a strange, autumnal way. There wasn't a sound from the bays or the inlets, not even the flopping of a bass or a gator back in a cove. A painter would have called it a beautiful evening. The western sky was still pale blue, the clouds like strips of fire, the leaves of the cypress and willow trees golden and motionless in the dead air. But the closed shutters on the houseboats and the lines of ducks and geese transecting the sun made something sink in my heart, as though I were the last man standing on earth.\n\nAs we headed across a long bay into a flooded woods, Clete sat in the bow, humped over, his back to me, the collar of his denim coat pulled up, his Marine Corps utility cap snugged down on his head. He ripped the tab off a can of beer and drank it, then began eating a Vienna sausage sandwich. I cut the engine and let the boat drift on its wake into the trees. Clete reached into the ice chest and tried to hand me a diet Dr Pepper.\n\n\"No, thanks,\" I said.\n\nHe clipped a Mepps spinner on his monofilament and cast it deep into the cove. \"Something happen today?\" he asked.\n\nI told him about my encounter with Frank Dellacroce at the motel, about his attempt to put me on a pad, about his mention that Clete had once taken juice from the Mob. Clete retrieved his lure, his face never changing expression.\n\n\"So what's the point?\" he said.\n\n\"I don't like a degenerate bad-mouthing my friends. I don't like being offered a bribe,\" I replied.\n\nHe waited a long time before he spoke again. \"I don't think that's the problem, noble mon,\" he said.\n\n\"Oh?\"\n\n\"You think all this belongs in a time capsule,\" he said, making a circle in the air with his hand. \"Outsiders aren't supposed to come here, particularly greaseballs and Wal-Mart and these cocksuckers grinding up the trees with bulldozers. It's always supposed to be1950.\"\n\n\"I see.\"\n\n\"The truth is you wish you had all these bastards locked in your sights inside a free-fire zone.\"\n\n\"Glad you've figured it all out.\"\n\n\"At least I don't sleep with a nine-millimeter anymore.\"\n\n\"Don't be offended when I say this, but, Clete, you can really piss me off sometimes.\"\n\n\"You worry me, mon. I think you're going into a place inside yourself that people don't come out of.\"\n\nI saw a bass roll among the flooded trees, like a green-gold pillow of air violating the symmetry of the surface. I cast my Rapala above the place he had broken the water, hoping to retrieve it across his feeding area. Instead, the balsa wood lure clacked against the trunk of a willow and the treble hooks went deep into the bark.\n\n\"I'll row us over there,\" Clete said.\n\n\"Not on my account,\" I said. I jerked the monofilament with my hand and snapped it off. The sun disappeared on the horizon like a flame dying on a wet match.\n\nWay leads on to way.\n\nI tried to go to bed early that night but I couldn't sleep. Rain began to click on the trees, then on the tin roof of my house, and I dressed and drove up the bayou road in the rain to St. Martinville. On the edge of the black district I went into a brightly lit cafe and ordered a cup of coffee and a small bowl of gumbo at the counter. A door with a beaded curtain was cut in one wall, and in the adjoining room a man was playing an accordion, while another man, with thimbles on his fingers, accompanied him on an aluminum rub board that had been molded to fit the contours of his chest.\n\nThe people in the other room were all light-skinned people of color, often called Creoles, although originally the term Creole had denoted a person of French or Spanish ancestry who had been born in the New World. The people in the next room were blue-collar mulattos whose race was hard to determine. They drifted back and forth across the color line, married into both white and black families, still spoke French among themselves, and tended to be conscious of manners and family traditions.\n\nSeated in one corner by himself was Frank Dellacroce, a shot and a glass of beer by his hand, his legs crossed, his silk shirt unbuttoned in order to expose his chest hair and the gold chain and medallion that rested on it. He tossed back the whiskey and flexed his mouth as though he had just performed a manly act. Then he tilted back his head, the small of his back against the seat of the chair, and seemed to resume his concentration on the music. The song the accordionist was playing was \"Jolie Blon,\" the most haunting and unforgettable lament I have ever heard. Then I realized that the object of Frank Dellacroce's attention had nothing to do with music, or a song about unrequited love and the loss of the Cajun way of life: Frank Dellacroce's attention was fixed on the shapely form of a young Creole woman dancing by herself.\n\nHer name was Sugar Bee Quibodeaux. Her eyes were turquoise, her hair the color of mahogany, fastened in back with a silver comb, her gold skin dusted with sun freckles. She also had the mind of a seven year old. She had conceived her first child when she was twelve and at age fifteen was taken to a state hospital by her grandparents and sterilized. Sometimes a local cop or a kind neighbor or business person tried to protect her from herself, but ultimately no one could restrain Sugar Bee's love of boys and men and the excitement and joy her own body gave her.\n\nI finished eating and paid my check at the register. Through the beaded curtain I could see Sugar Bee sitting at Frank Dellacroce's table, a bottle of beer and a glass in front of her. She was leaning forward, listening to something he was saying. He leaned forward, too, his hand deep under the table. Then the two of them stood up and she picked up her purse, one with white sequins and tassels on it, and hung it by a string from her shoulder. They walked through the beaded curtain toward the front door.\n\n\"That's far enough, Frank,\" I said.\n\nHe turned around, half smiling. \"You following me?\" he said.\n\n\"Nope.\"\n\n\"Then we got no problem here. Right?\"\n\n\"Yeah, I think we do,\" I said.\n\n\"No, no, man,\" he said, wagging his finger. \"I ain't done nothing wrong.\"\n\n\"That's a matter of definition, Frank,\" I said.\n\n\"We talking about a racial issue here?\"\n\n\"You're going back to your motel, Frank. You're going back alone. Got the drift?\"\n\n\"I checked you out, Robicheaux. You're an A.A. rum-dum people around here feel sorry for. But that don't mean you get to beat up on guys like me 'cause I'm Italian or from New Orleans or whatever the fuck it is about me that bothers you.\"\n\nI looked at my watch. \"Your coach is about to turn into a pumpkin,\" I said.\n\nHe stepped toward me. \"This is a free country. You don't like what me and the lady are doing, I say suck my dick. Now, you get out of my face and out of my space 'cause I really fucking don't like you, man.\"\n\n\"At this point I'm placing you under arrest. Put your hands behind you and turn around, please,\" I said.\n\n\"Arrest? For what?\" he said, his face incredulous.\n\n\"Disturbing the peace, creating a public nuisance, using profanity in public, that sort of thing. I'll think of some more charges on the way down to the jail,\" I said.\n\n\"This ain't even your jurisdiction,\" he said.\n\nBut I wasn't listening now. I turned him toward the wall and hooked him up, then pushed him out the door into the parking lot. It had stopped raining, and the air was cold and wet, and fog was rolling out of the trees across the road. Sugar Bee and several other patrons of the cafe and bar had walked outside and were watching us.\n\n\"You armed, Frank?\" I said.\n\n\"Want to search my crotch? Be my guest,\" he replied.\n\nI fitted my hand under his arm and moved him toward the hood of my truck. That's when he hawked phlegm out of his throat and spat it in my face.\n\nI felt it in my eyelashes, on my mouth, in my hair, like a skein of obscene thread clinging to my person. I picked him up by his belt and slammed him into the fender of the truck, then drove his head down on the hood. But Frank Dellacroce was not one to give up easily; though his wrists were cuffed behind him, he brought one hand up and clenched it into my scrotum.\n\nI smashed his head into the hood again, then got my handcuff key out of my pocket and unhooked him. I spun him around and drove my fist into his mouth, throwing all my weight into the blow, snapping his head back as though it were on a spring. I saw his lip burst against his teeth, and I hooked him in the eye with a left, caught him on the jaw and in the throat and on the nose as he went down.\n\nHe was whipped, but I couldn't stop. I picked him up by his shirt and hit him again, rolled him off a car fender and drove my fist repeatedly into his kidneys. He collapsed in a mud puddle and tried to drag himself away from me. But I knelt beside him and twisted his shirt in my left hand and drew back my fist to hit him again. He tried to speak, his ruined face pleading. I heard people screaming and felt Sugar Bee slapping at my head with a shoe, her voice keening in the damp air.\n\nA light on a pole burned overhead. I stared at the circle of faces around me, like a drunkard coming out of a blackout. Their eyes were filled with fear and pity, as though they were watching a wild animal tear his prey apart inside a cage. But there was one man in the crowd who did not belong there. He was white and had narrow shoulders and wore a seersucker suit with a pink tie. His ears were small, convoluted, hardly more than stubs on the sides of his head. His face and expression made me think of the bleached hide on a baseball.\n\nAs I looked up into his eyes I had no doubt in the world who he was, no more than you can doubt the presence of death when it suddenly steps into your path. I got to my feet and helped Frank Dellacroce up, then propped him against the grill of an ancient gas guzzler, no more than five feet from the man in the seersucker suit.\n\n\"Frank, meet a guy you've probably been looking for all your life,\" I said.\n\nThen I walked off balance to my truck and drove away.\n\n## Chapter 10\n\nEarly the next morning I soaked my hands until the swelling had gone out of my fingers, then I put Mercurochrome on the cuts in my knuckles and tried to cover them unobtrusively with flesh-colored Band-Aids. I picked up the morning paper off the gallery and went through it page by page, just as I had done for years when I was coming off a drunk, wondering what kind of carnage I may have left in an alley or on a rain-swept highway.\n\nBut this morning the paper seemed filled with cartoons and sports and wire-service and local feature stories that had nothing to do with events in front of a cafe-and-bar on the St. Martin Parish line. Snuggs, my newly adopted cat, followed me back inside and I opened a can of food for him and put it in his bowl and sat with him on the back porch while he ate. The wind was cool and damp and sweet smelling through the trees, but each time I closed my eyes I saw the terrified, blood-streaked face of Frank Dellacroce and wondered who lived inside my skin.\n\nFather Jimmie was still asleep, so I drove over to Clete's cottage at the motor court and took him for breakfast at the McDonald's on Main Street. Then I cleared my throat and told him about the previous night\u2014at least most of it.\n\n\"Wait a minute,\" he said, raising his hands from his food. \"You had your piece and your cuffs with you?\"\n\n\"Right,\" I said.\n\n\"Why?\" he said.\n\nI shrugged.\n\n\"Maybe because you were looking for trouble when you left home?\" he said.\n\nI looked at an oak tree out on the street, one that was strung with moss and lighted by the pinkness of the early sun. \"I saw Max Coll there,\" I said.\n\n\"You did what?\"\n\n\"In the crowd. I've seen pictures of him. It had to be Coll. His head looks like a used Q-tip,\" I said.\n\nClete's eyes studied my face. They seemed to contain a level of sorrow that I could not associate with the man I knew. \"What are you doing to yourself, Streak?\" he said.\n\nAt 11:30 A.M. Helen leaned her head in my door. \"Pick up line two. See how much this has to do with us. If it doesn't, don't let it get on our plate,\" she said.\n\nThe man on the other end of the line was a St. Martin Parish plainclothes named Dominic Romaine. He was a big, fat, sweaty man, known for his rumpled suits, horse-track neckties, and general irreverence toward everything. He had emphysema and his voice wheezed into the phone when he spoke.\n\n\"That guy you beat the shit out of last night, Frank Dellacroce?\" he said.\n\n\"Uh, there's a bad connection, Romie. Say again.\"\n\n\"Pull on your own joint, Robicheaux. I don't know why you busted this guy up, but it don't matter. In other words, you're not gonna be up on an IA beef.\"\n\n\"Sorry, I'm just not reading you, partner.\"\n\nI heard him take a deep breath, the air in his lungs whistling like wind in a chimney. \"After you got finished with Dellacroce, he drove to a cabin by Whiskey Bay. It's actually a fuck pad a bunch of greaseballs out of Houston use. Get this\"\u2014he broke off and started laughing, then fought to catch his breath again\u2014\"he was behind the wheel of his car, sucking on a bottle of tequila, while this mulatto broad was giving him a blowjob, when a guy comes out of the dark and parks a big one in the back of his head. I mean a big one, too, like a .44 mag. His brains were still running out his nose when we got there.\"\n\nDominic Romaine started laughing again. I felt my vision go in and out of focus. Outside, an ambulance passed the courthouse, its siren screaming. \"You still there?\" he said.\n\n\"Who was the shooter?\"\n\n\"No idea. No description, either. The mulatto handing out the blowjob is retarded or something. Dave, there's a question that needs to go into my report.\"\n\n\"I didn't see Dellacroce after my encounter with him,\" I said.\n\n\"Got any speculations on the shooter?\"\n\nMy head was pounding, my stomach churning. \"Check with N.O.P.D. Dellacroce was a hitman and fulltime wise-ass. I think he was a grunt for Fat Sammy Figorelli.\"\n\n\"It sounds like his passing will go down as a great tragedy. Hey, Dave? You know that song by Louie Prima? 'I'll be standing on the corner plastered when they bring your coffin by'? I love that song. Hey, Dave?\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"Next time you go looking for a punching bag, make sure it ain't in St. Martin Parish,\" he said.\n\nI barely got through the day. I tried to convince myself the man I had seen in the crowd the previous night was not Max Coll. I had seen only photos of him, taken through a zoom lens or in a late-night booking room. The man in the crowd could have been a tourist, or someone who had walked over from the convenience store next door, I told myself. And even had it been Max Coll, was I my brother's keeper, particularly if my \"brother\" was a dirtbag like Frank Dellacroce?\n\nBut I knew in my heart my thought processes were self-serving and futile and that I had helped set up a man's death. I worked late at the office, past sunset, then turned out the light on my desk and drove home, just as it began to rain.\n\nI pulled into my drive, expecting to see Father Jimmie's car under the porte cochere. Instead, I saw Theodosha Flannigan's Lexus parked in the shadows and a light burning in the kitchen. The trees in the yard and the bamboo along the edge of the driveway were shrouded in mist, and yellow leaves floated in the rain puddles. The front door and the windows of the house were open, and I thought I could smell the odor of freshly baked bread. In fact, the entire scene, the dark cypress planks in the walls of the cottage, the rusted tin roof, the black-green overhang of the oaks and pecan trees, and the warm radiance emanating from the kitchen windows, all made me think of the house where I had lived many years ago with my father and mother.\n\nAs soon as I stepped into the house I saw Snuggs resting on the arm of the couch, his eyes shut, his paws tucked under his chest, a red satin bow tied around his neck. I walked into the brightness of the kitchen and stared woodenly at Theodosha, who was lifting a loaf of buttered French bread out of the oven. Behind her, steam curled off a pot of gumbo. Her mouth parted slightly when she saw me, as though I had dragged her away from a troubling thought.\n\n\"I fixed you some supper. Hope you don't mind,\" she said.\n\n\"Where's Father Jimmie?\" I asked.\n\n\"He went to Lafayette. He said he's probably going to stay over.\"\n\n\"Is Merchie here?\" I said.\n\n\"I'm not sure where he is. He's just out being Merchie. Do you want me to go?\"\n\n\"No, I didn't mean that. I'm just a little disconnected today.\"\n\nShe began setting the table as though I were not there. Her hair looked like it had just been cut and shampooed. She wore Mexican sandals and khakis with big pockets and a denim shirt embroidered with roses and stovepipe cactus. In fact, as I looked at her moving about the room, I realized what it was that drew men to her. She was one of those women whose intelligence and \u00e9lan and indifference to public opinion allowed her to give symmetry and order to what would have been considered chaos in the life of a lesser person.\n\n\"Theo, I'd feel a lot better if we could ask Merchie over,\" I said.\n\n\"I knew you'd say something like that.\"\n\nShe set a gumbo bowl on the table and stared at it emptily. She removed a strand of hair from the corner of her mouth and walked to within a foot of me. She started to touch me, then folded her arms in front of her, as though she had no place to put her hands. Her breath was cold and smelled of bourbon and orange slices.\n\n\"I was going to a meeting today. I had no plans to drink. I swear. I drove twice around the block, then went into a bar and drank for two hours.\" She looked up at me desperately. \"Dave, I'm seriously fucked up. Nothing I do works.\"\n\nShe lowered her head and inverted her palms and clasped them around my wrists. She stood on my shoes with her sandals and her stomach touched my loins. I could smell the shampoo in her hair and the perfume behind her ears. She pulled my hands to her sides and held them there. I could feel a thickness growing in me, a dryness like confetti in my mouth. She slipped her arms around my waist and pressed her face sideways against my chest.\n\n\"Dave, why didn't you ask me to marry you?\" she said.\n\n\"This is no good, Theo.\"\n\n\"We had fun together. Why did you go away?\"\n\n\"I was a drunk. I would have made any woman unhappy.\"\n\nHer eyes were wet against my shirt. I patted her on the back and tried to step away from her. Then she turned up her face to be kissed.\n\n\"I'll see you,\" I said.\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"I have to go back to the office,\" I lied. \"I just came home to get something. I don't even remember what it was.\"\n\nThen I left my own house, feeling stupid and inadequate, which was perhaps an honest assessment.\n\nWhen I returned to the house two hours later she was gone. The kitchen was immaculate, the food she had fixed carted away. I didn't fall asleep until after midnight. Then I woke at three in the morning and sat on the edge of the mattress, my skin filmed with sweat, my loins like concrete, the darkness creaking with sound. I put my loaded .45 under the pillow and when the sun came up the hardness of the steel frame was cupped in my palm.\n\nLater, I ate a bowl of Grape-Nuts and milk and sliced bananas on the kitchen table, then heard Snuggs at the back screen. I opened the door for him and he walked to his pet bowl under the kitchen sink and waited for me to fill it with the box of dry food I kept on top of the icebox. The red silk bow Theodosha had tied around his neck was coated with mud. I took a pair of scissors from the dresser in the hallway and snipped the bow loose from his fur. \"It looks like Theo's concern for you was limited, Snuggs,\" I said.\n\nSomehow that thought made me feel more comfortable about leaving her and the meal she had prepared for me the previous night. I returned the scissors to the dresser drawer. But before I shut it I glanced down at the box where I kept all the sympathy cards that had been sent to me when Bootsie died. A corner of an envelope stuck out of the pile and the return address on it made me wince inside. On my visit to Theo and Merchie's house several weeks ago she had expressed her sympathies about Bootsie's death, but I'd had no memory of her sending a card and had concluded her sentiments were manufactured.\n\nBut her card was in the pile and the statements on it were obviously heartfelt. I picked up Snuggs and set him on the countertop and patted his head. \"How can one guy's thought processes be this screwed up?\" I asked.\n\nSnuggs rubbed against me, brushing his stiffened tail past my nose, and made no comment.\n\nThe phone on the counter rang. I started to pick it up, then hesitated and stared at it, my heart quickening, because I knew who it was, who it would have to be, if he was the obsessed and driven man I thought he was.\n\n\"Hello?\" I said.\n\n\"Is the good father there?\" the voice asked.\n\n\"No, he's not.\"\n\n\"Would you be knowing his whereabouts?\"\n\n\"No, I don't. But I recommend you not call here again.\"\n\n\"Oh, do you now?\"\n\n\"Mr. Coll, I'm a lot less tolerant about you than Father Dolan. You drag your sickness into my life and I'm going to put a can of roach spray down your throat.\"\n\n\"I'm the sick one? Two nights ago you kicked the bejesus out of that poor fuck in front of the bar. I'd say you're a piece of work, Mr. Robicheaux.\"\n\nUse the cell phone to call the office and get the line open, I told myself. But Max Coll was ahead of me. \"I'm not on a ground line, sir. You needn't fiddle around with technologies that will serve no purpose. Tell Father Dolan he and I share a common destiny.\"\n\n\"Are you insane? You're talking about a Catholic priest.\"\n\n\"That's the point. It's the likes of me who keep him in business. Thanks for your time, Mr. Robicheaux. I hope to meet you formally. I think you might be my kind of fellow.\"\n\nHe hung up.\n\n\"So the guy's a nutcase,\" Clete said at lunch.\n\nI pushed my food away. We were in a place called Bon Creole, a small family-owned cafe that specialized in po'boy sandwiches. It was two in the afternoon and the other tables were empty. \"I've got another problem, Clete,\" I said.\n\n\"No kidding?\"\n\n\"It's not funny.\"\n\n\"Look, big mon, Frank Dellacroce's mother was probably knocked up by leakage from a colostomy bag. He got what he deserved. Stop thinking about it.\"\n\n\"I'm not talking about Dellacroce.\"\n\n\"Then maybe you should take whatever it is to Father Dolan. I don't know what else to say.\"\n\nHe waited for me to reply. When I didn't, he widened his eyes and opened his hands, as if to say, What?\n\nI want a drink. Worse than I've ever wanted one in my life, I heard a voice say.\n\nClete's next remark did not help. \"I'm a bad guy to ask for advice. I always handled my problems with a pint of Beam and a six-pack of Dixie, then I wake up the next morning with a Bourbon Street stripper whose idea of world news is the weather channel.\" He read the expression on my face and grimaced. \"Sorry, Streak. Sometimes I don't know when to shut up,\" he said.\n\nWhen I got back to the office, Wally, our three-hundred-pound, hypertensive dispatcher, gestured at me from the cage. Long ago every plainclothes in the department had become inured to Wally's sardonic sense of humor and his comments about our bumbling ways and collective lack of intelligence. But this afternoon he was different. His eyes were evasive, his smile like an incision in clay. \"Been to lunch, huh?\" he said.\n\n\"Yeah. What's up?\"\n\n\"That fellow Flannigan was in here.\"\n\n\"Merchie Flannigan?\"\n\n\"He was pacing up and down for an hour, like he was about to piss his pants. When he got ready to go I axed him if he wanted to leave a message.\" Wally shifted in his chair, arching his eyebrows.\n\n\"Would you just spit it out?\" I said.\n\n\"He said tell Dave not to be running his pipeline under the wrong man's fence. The district attorney and some Chamber of Commerce people was in the waiting room. So was Helen.\"\n\nA woman passed us and looked back at me briefly. \"Okay, Wally, I appreciate it,\" I said, and started to walk away.\n\n\"Hey, Dave?\" he said.\n\n\"Yeah?\"\n\n\"I never liked that guy. He's a bum. Put a cork in his mout'.\"\n\nI walked back to the cage. \"What are you telling me?\" I said.\n\nWally picked up a pencil and went back to his paperwork. \"Nothing. I didn't mean to mix in nobody's bidness,\" he replied.\n\nI went into my office and stood at the window, tapping my fingers on the sill. I had no doubt Merchie wanted trouble. Otherwise he would not have brought his complaint into the place where I worked. Well, sometimes the best way to deal with the lion is to spit in the lion's mouth, I told myself. At 5:00 P.M. I drove to Merchie and Theo's home on the edge of town.\n\nEven though I had passed the house a thousand times, I still could not get over the juxtaposition of imitation thirteenth-century battlements with a boiler works across the highway. But perhaps the conjuncture of nouveau riche vulgarity with pecan orchards and horse barns and the softly lit ambiance of Bayou Teche was the perfect stageset for a man like Merchie Flannigan. Strip away the guise of the reformed street hood and self-made egalitarian success story, and there was little difference between Merchie and his father-in-law, Castille LeJeune. They didn't go after their enemies head-on; they poisoned the environment where they worked.\n\nI saw Theo look out the living room window as I parked my truck.\n\n\"What's wrong, Dave?\" she said, opening the front door.\n\n\"Merchie was looking for me at the department. He seems to think I'm causing a problem in his marriage,\" I said.\n\n\"Come in.\"\n\n\"Where is he?\"\n\n\"At my father's. Wait, don't leave like this.\"\n\n\"Straighten him out on this, Theo,\" I said.\n\nHer face slipped by the driver's window as I turned around and headed back out the driveway.\n\nA half hour later, I pulled up to the front of Fox Run, Castille LeJeune's home outside of Franklin. I rang the front doorbell, but no one answered. The wind was balmy out of the south, smelling of brine and schooled-up speckled trout at Cote Blanche Bay, the setting so tranquil that my anger at Merchie, which I had fed all the way down the road, made me feel like a spiritually unclean visitor inside a church. The house itself was deep in shadow, the oak trees creaking overhead, but the surrounding fields and horse pasture were still lit by the last rays of the sun, and in the distance I thought I saw Merchie walk from behind a row of abandoned cabins to a promontory that overlooked the bayou.\n\nI went around the fenced pond that Theo feared for reasons she did not share and walked past a row of shotgun cabins that were probably built in the 1890s for the black people who planted and harvested the LeJeune family's sugarcane and drove it to the grinding mill in mule-drawn wagons without a member of the LeJeune family ever putting a hand on it. The cabin doors were gone, the tin roofs buckled loose from the joists, the plank floors blown with grit and scoured by the hooves of livestock. The privies were still standing, the eaves clotted with the nests of yellow jackets and mud-dobbers; the wood seats, once streaked with urine, now dry and smooth as old bone; the grass around the walls a bright green.\n\nI wondered if Junior Crudup had once slept in these cabins or used these privies, coming in hot and dirty from the fields, perhaps in leg irons, his evening meal a jelly glass of Kool-Aid and a tin plate of greens, fried ham fat, corn bread and molasses. I wondered how many lyrics in his songs had their inception right here, among these desiccated shacks that perhaps told more of a people's history than anyone wished to remember.\n\nI had left work ready to bend Merchie's day out of shape and now I had managed to link him in my mind with his father-in-law and the cruelties and racial injustices of Louisiana's past. What was my motivation? Easy answer. I didn't have to think about the fact I had deliberately put Frank Dellacroce in Max Coll's gunsights.\n\nMerchie was standing on a grassy knoll, his back turned to me, and did not hear me walk up behind him. A solitary white crypt, closed in front by a black marble slab that was chiseled around the edges with strings of flowers and clusters of angels, rested at a slight angle in the softness of the ground. Merchie squatted down with an orchid he inserted in a green water vase. The name on the slab was Viola Hortense Flannigan, Merchie's mother, the strange, neurotic, possessive woman who used to wash out his mouth with soap and whip his bare legs with a switch until he danced.\n\nEarlier I had been ready to tear him apart. Now I felt my anger lift like ash from a dead fire.\n\n\"I apologize for intruding on you,\" I said.\n\n\"You're not,\" he said, rising from his crouched position, a bit like a man waking from sleep.\n\n\"You were looking for me at the department?\"\n\nHe scratched the top of his arm idly and looked at the wind blowing in the grass. \"I get hot under the collar sometimes. Things aren't always right with me and Theo. So I take it out on the wrong people,\" he said.\n\n\"No harm done,\" I said.\n\nHe combed his hair and put his comb away, then watched a flock of black geese freckle the sun. \"My mother always wanted to be a southern lady. She told people she grew up in the Garden District in New Orleans. The truth was her old man ran a produce stand in the Irish Channel. So I bought this little piece of land from my father-in-law and buried her in it.\"\n\nI nodded, my eyes averted. In the distance I could see the railed fish pond that caused Theo such fear she had almost let two children drown rather than climb through a fence and approach the water.\n\n\"What happened at that pond, Merchie?\" I asked.\n\nHe opened and closed his hands, the veins in his forearms filling with blood. \"This place is a living curse. I'd like to set fire to it and plow its earth with salt. Outside of that, I don't have much to say about it,\" he said. Then he walked away, accidently kicking over the vase into which he had placed an orchid for his mother.\n\n## Chapter 11\n\nSome people seem to be born under a bad sign.\n\nAt 8:30 A.M. the following day an arson inspector called me at the office. In the early hours of the morning a fire had broken out in Dr. Parks's game room and had quickly spread through the roof, destroying the back third of his house. \"I know the guy just lost his daughter, but he's hard to take. How about coming out here, Dave?\" the inspector said.\n\n\"What's the deal?\" I said.\n\n\"Parks is convinced somebody tried to burn him out.\"\n\n\"My relationship with Dr. Parks isn't a very good one.\"\n\n\"You could fool me. He seems to think you're the only guy around here with a brain.\"\n\nI drove up to Loreauville and crossed the drawbridge there and followed the state road to the shady knoll where Dr. Parks's home sat among the trees like a man with an angry frown. A solitary firetruck was still there and two firemen were ripping blackened wood out of a back wall with axes. Dr. Parks approached me as though somehow I were the source of all the problems and missing solutions in his life. \"I want an arson investigation initiated right now,\" he said.\n\n\"That's a possibility, but so far there doesn't seem to be enough evidence to warrant one.\" I raised my hand as he started to interrupt. \"No one is saying your suspicions don't have merit. These guys just haven't found an accelerant or a\u2014\"\n\n\"It's connected to my daughter's death.\"\n\n\"No, it's not, sir.\" I fixed my eyes on the blackened back of his house and the roof that had caved in on the kitchen and master bedroom. It was so quiet I could hear my watch ticking on my wrist.\n\n\"Look here, Mr. Robicheaux, I asked that you come out because I know about some of the losses in your own life. I thought you would understand what's going on here,\" he said.\n\nI tried to ignore the personal nature of his statement. \"These firemen are good guys. You can trust what they tell you. I think you've just had a lot of bad luck,\" I said.\n\n\"There's no such thing as luck,\" he replied.\n\nJust then an unshaved, mustached fireman in rubber pants and suspenders and a big hat walked from behind the house with a clutch of fried electrical wiring in his hand. \"We got an ignition point,\" he said.\n\n\"What?\" Dr. Parks said.\n\nThe fireman spread the wires across his palm and cracked open the insulation on them. \"These were in the wall of your game room. See, they're burned from the inside out,\" he said.\n\n\"That's impossible. I just had that game room added on two years ago,\" Dr. Parks said.\n\n\"It's not impossible if somebody installed oversized breakers in your breaker box,\" the fireman said.\n\n\"Who did the work on your house, Doctor?\" I said.\n\n\"Sunbelt Construction,\" he said.\n\nI tried to walk away from him, as though I were preoccupied with the destruction at the back of his home. But he grabbed my arm roughly. \"What do you know about Sunbelt Construction?\" he asked.\n\n\"It's owned by Castille LeJeune,\" I replied.\n\n\"Who the hell is Castille LeJeune?\"\n\n\"His company owns the daiquiri store where your daughter and her friends bought their drinks on the day they died,\" I said.\n\nHad I just set up another man, in this case Castille LeJeune? I asked myself on the way back to the department.\n\nNo, I had simply told the truth.\n\nBut that did not change the fact I had let Frank Dellacroce take the big exit at the hands of Max Coll.\n\nLater I went home for lunch and found Father Jimmie on a ladder, screwing a basketball hoop to the back of the porte cochere.\n\n\"You do open-air reconciliations?\" I said.\n\n\"Yeah, hold the ladder for me. What's the problem?\" he replied, still concentrated on his work.\n\n\"It's not overdue library books,\" I said.\n\nHe looked down at me.\n\n\"I think Max Coll capped a wiseguy out at Whiskey Bay. I probably could have prevented it,\" I said.\n\nHe climbed down from the ladder and replaced his tools in a metal box and clicked it shut. \"Run that by me again,\" he said.\n\nWe walked toward the bayou while I told him what had happened\u2014the abiding anger that had made me seek out a violent situation, the savage beating I had given Frank Dellacroce, my recognizing Coll among the crowd in front of the cafe, and, most serious of all, my releasing Dellacroce from custody when I knew, with a fair degree of certainty, I was turning him over to his executioner.\n\nFather Jimmie picked up a pine cone and tossed it into the middle of the bayou. \"Dave, if you share responsibility for this man's death, then so do I,\" he said.\n\n\"How?\"\n\n\"I was uncooperative with N.O.P.D. I could have worked with them and helped bust Coll. He would have been past history now.\"\n\nI sat down on a stone bench by the edge of the bayou. Its surfaces felt cold and hard through my trousers. The wind gusted and red and yellow leaves tumbled out of the trees into the water. \"You going to give me absolution?\" I asked.\n\n\"You were forgiven as soon as you were sorry for what you did. But you need to tell this to someone else or you'll have no peace of mind.\"\n\n\"Sir?\"\n\n\"What's the new sheriff's name? The woman who used to be your partner? Let me know how it comes out,\" he said.\n\nHe walked back up the slope and removed a basketball from a cardboard box and swished it through the hoop. You got no free lunch from Father Jimmie Dolan.\n\nHelen listened quietly while I told her about the events of the night I beat Frank Dellacroce within an inch of his life. Her elbows rested on the ink blotter, her chin resting on her thumbs, her fingers knitted together. \"This guy Coll is wanted in Florida on two murders?\" she said.\n\n\"For questioning, at the least.\"\n\n\"What do you think he's doing around here?\"\n\n\"That's open to debate,\" I said.\n\n\"Meaning what?\"\n\n\"He has an obsession with the priest who's staying at my house. He's obviously hunting down the people who are trying to take him out. His brains were probably in the blender too long. Take your choice.\"\n\nShe stood up from her chair and stared out the window, her fingers opening and closing against the heel of her palm. \"So far there's no evidence it was Coll who shot Dellacroce?\" she asked.\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"And you never saw Coll in person?\"\n\n\"Only in photographs.\"\n\n\"I think you're under a lot of strain. And that's where we're going to leave it for now.\"\n\nShe had given me a temporary free pass, a complicitous wink of the eye; all I had to do was acknowledge it. \"My perceptions aren't the issue here. Coll called me at my house. He told me he was in the crowd the night I busted up Dellacroce.\"\n\n\"Coll called you?\"\n\n\"That's right.\"\n\n\"This isn't police work. It's a soap opera. Are you drinking?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Dave, you either get your act together or we seek other alternatives. None of them good.\"\n\n\"You want my shield?\"\n\n\"I won't be a party to what you're doing,\" she said.\n\n\"Doing what?\"\n\n\"Ripping yourself apart so you can get back on the bottle. You don't think other people read you? Give yourself a wake-up call.\" She wadded up a piece of paper and tossed it angrily at the wastebasket.\n\nThat evening I went to an A.A. meeting in a tan-colored, tile-roofed Methodist church, not far from the railway tracks. From the second-story window I could see the palm trees in the churchyard, the old brick surfacing in the street, the green colonnade of an ancient firehouse, the oaks whose roots had wedged up the sidewalks, and the strange purple light the sun gave off in its setting.\n\nAcross the railway tracks was another world, one that used to be New Iberia's old redlight district, whose history went back to the War Between the States. But today the three-dollar black prostitutes and five-dollar white ones were gone and the cribs on Railroad and Hopkins shut down. Instead, white crack whores, called rock queens, and their black pimps worked the street corners. The dealers, with baseball caps reversed or black silk bandannas tied down skintight on their scalps, appeared in the yards of burned-out houses or in the parking lots of small grocery stores as soon as school let out. After sunset, unless it was raining, their presence multiplied exponentially.\n\nThey offered the same street menu as dealers in New Orleans and Houston: weed, brown skag, rock, crystal meth, acid, reds, leapers, Ecstasy, and, for the purists, perhaps a taste of China white the customer could cook and inject with a clean needle in a shooting gallery only four blocks from downtown.\n\nDown the hall, on the second floor of the Methodist church, was a Narcotics Anonymous meeting. Most of the attenders there had been sentenced by the court. Few were people you would normally associate with criminality. Almost all of them, in another era, would have been considered run-of-the-mill blue-collar people whose lives had nothing to do with the trade on Hopkins and Railroad avenues.\n\nBut on that particular evening I was not thinking about the ravages of the drug trade. Instead, I was wondering how long it would be before I walked into a saloon and ordered four inches of Black Jack or Beam's Choice with a long-neck Dixie on the side.\n\nThen I looked across the room and saw a man who was geographically and psychologically out of place. He saw me staring at him and raised one meaty paw in recognition. His eyes were like merry slits, his jowls glowing with a fresh shave, his sparse gold hair oiled and flattened into his pate. I crossed the space between us and sat in the chair next to him.\n\n\"This is a closed meeting of A.A. What are you doing here?\" I said.\n\n\"I checked it out. It's an open meet. Besides, I belong to Overeaters Anonymous, which means I probably got trans-addictive issues. That means I can go to any fucking meeting I choose,\" Fat Sammy Figorelli replied.\n\n\"That's the worst bullshit I ever heard. Get out of here,\" I said.\n\n\"Fuck you,\" he said.\n\n\"Is there a problem over there?\" the group leader said.\n\nSammy didn't speak during the meeting. But afterward he helped stack chairs and wash coffee cups and put away all the A.A. literature in a locker. \"I like this place,\" he said.\n\n\"You're about to have some major trouble,\" I said.\n\n\"I'm gonna have trouble? You're beautiful, Robicheaux. Take a walk with me,\" he said.\n\nI followed him down the stairs, into the darkness outside and the odor of sewer gas and wet leaves burning. \"If you're using A.A. to\u2014\" I began.\n\n\"You drunks think you're the only people who got a problem. How would you like food to be your enemy? Anybody can stay off booze a hunnerd percent. Try staying off something just part way and see how you feel,\" he said.\n\n\"What's your point?\"\n\n\"My sponsor says I got to own up to a couple of things or I'm gonna go on another chocolate binge, which don't do my diabetes a lot of good. Max Coll not only cowboyed a couple of high-up guys in Miami, he stiffed the sports book they owned for a hundred large. The word is he's gonna be hung by his colon on a meat hook. Last point, there's a guy around here you don't want to mess with.\"\n\nHe stopped and lit a cigarette. The cigarette looked tiny and innocuous in his huge hand. He watched a car full of black teenagers pass, their stereo thundering with rap music, his face clouding with disapproval.\n\n\"Which guy?\" I said.\n\n\"A guy who hurts people when he don't have to. You want to find him, follow the cooze. In the meantime, don't say I ain't warned you.\"\n\nThen he labored down the sidewalk toward his Cadillac, his football-shaped head twisted back at the sunset.\n\n\"Come back here,\" I said.\n\nHe shot me the finger over his shoulder.\n\nI thought I was finished with Sammy Fig for awhile. Wrong. The phone rang at 2:14 in the A.M. \"There's something I didn't tell you,\" he said.\n\nI sat on the edge of the bed, the receiver cold against my ear. Outside, the moon was bright and glowing with a rain ring behind the sculpted limbs of a pecan tree. \"Time to desist, Sammy. That means join Weight Watchers or go to the fat farm, but stay out of my life,\" I said.\n\n\"Frankie Dellacroce's family is in Fort Lauderdale. A couple of them are on their way here.\"\n\n\"So long,\" I said, and started to lower the receiver from my ear.\n\n\"They got you made for the pop on Frankie.\"\n\n\"Me?\"\n\n\"You broke his sticks in front of a bunch of colored people earlier in the night. Later the same night he catches a .44 mag in the head. You're a cop. Who would you put it on?\" he said.\n\nI could hear my breath against the receiver. \"This is crazy,\" I said.\n\n\"I got to get some sleep. You're lucky you ain't got insomnia,\" he said, and hung up.\n\nIn the morning I confronted Father Jimmie at the breakfast table. \"Sammy Figorelli says a couple of Frank Dellacroce's relatives might be coming around,\" I said.\n\n\"What for?\" he said.\n\n\"They think I killed him.\"\n\n\"Not too good, huh?\"\n\n\"Where can I find Max Coll, Jimmie?\"\n\n\"If I knew, I'd tell you,\" he replied.\n\n\"I'd like to believe that. But I'm starting to have my doubts.\"\n\n\"Want to repeat that?\" he said, chewing his food slowly.\n\n\"He's going to call again. When he does, I'd like for you to set up a meet with him.\"\n\nI saw his brow furrow. \"I can't do that,\" he said.\n\n\"You sentimental about this guy?\"\n\n\"He's a tormented man,\" he said.\n\n\"Tell yourself that the next time he empties somebody's brainpan.\" I picked up my cup of coffee and took it with me to work.\n\nExcept I did not go to work. I turned around in the parking lot and drove to the cemetery in St. Martinville, where Bootsie was buried in a crypt right up the bayou from the Evangeline Oak. I sat on the ventilated metal bench in front of the crypt and said the first two decades of my rosary, then lost my concentration and stared woodenly at the bayou and the leaves swirling in the current and the ducks wimpling the water around lily pads that had already turned brown from early frost. My skin felt chafed, as dry as paper, my palms stiff and hard to close. I replaced my rosary in my coat pocket and put my face in my hands. The sun went behind a cloud and the wind was like ice water on my scalp.\n\nWhy did you go and die on us, Boots? I heard myself say, then felt ashamed at the selfish nature of my thoughts.\n\nAn hour later I walked into the department, washed my face in the men's room, then undertook all the functions of the working day that give the illusion of both normalcy and productivity. Clete Purcel dropped by, irreverent as always, telling outrageous jokes, throwing paper airplanes at my wastebasket. He even used my telephone to place an offtrack bet. By noon the day seemed brighter, the trees outside a darker green against blue skies.\n\nBut I could not concentrate on either the growing loveliness of the day or the endless paperwork that I was sure no one ever looked at after it was completed.\n\nWe had no one in custody for the shooting of the drive-by daiquiri store operator, even though we had a suspect with motivation in the form of Dr. Parks, and a connection, through the murder weapon, to an employee of Castille LeJeune. In the meantime a Celtic killing machine like Max Coll was running loose in our area; I had been made by the family of Frank Dellacroce for the murder of their relative; and Theo and Merchie Flannigan continued to hover on the edge of my vision, chimeric, protean, like the memory of a college prom that, along with youth, belongs in the past.\n\nIt was the kind of criminal investigation in which thinking served no purpose. The motivation in most crimes was not complex. Usually people steal and cheat because they're either greedy or lazy or both. People kill for reasons of money, sex, and power. Even revenge killings indicate a sense of powerlessness in the perpetrator.\n\nAt least that was the conventional wisdom of duffer cops who think psychological profiling works best in films or TV shows that have little to do with reality.\n\nBut where did Junior Crudup fit into this? Or did he? Maybe Helen was right, I just wanted to nail the Daddy Warbucks of St. Mary Parish, Castille LeJeune, to a tree.\n\nI spread the photos of Junior Crudup given me by our reference librarian on my desk blotter. Did you dream at night of the black Betty slicing across your back? I wanted to ask him. Didn't you learn you can't beat the Man at his own game? What happened to you, partner?\n\nI picked up the last photo in the series and looked again at the image of Junior staring up at a mounted gunbull, across the bayou from Castille LeJeune's home, his hoe at an odd angle on his shoulder, his face puzzled by a world whose rules ensured he would never have a place in it. But the focus of my attention was not Junior. In the wintry background, guiding a single-tree plow through the cane stubble, was a muscular, coal black convict, with the clear detail of welted scars on his forearms, the kind a convict might earn in a half dozen knife beefs.\n\nI held a magnifying glass to the grainy black-and-white image. I was almost sure the face was that of a youthful Hogman Patin, the longtime recidivist who had been on the Red Hat Gang with Junior but had said he did not know Junior's fate.\n\nI picked up the telephone and called my house.\n\n\"Hello?\" Father Jimmie said.\n\n\"Want to check out some Louisiana history you don't find in school books?\"\n\n\"Why not?\" he said.\n\n## Chapter 12\n\nWherever Hogman lived, he created a bottle tree, for reasons he never explained. During winter, when the limbs were bare, he would insert the points of the branches into the mouths of colored glass bottles until the whole tree shimmered with light and tinkled with sound.\n\nFather Jimmie and I parked in the front yard of his house on the bayou and walked around to the back, where Hogman was hoeing weeds out of a garden next to his bottle tree. He stopped his work and smiled, then saw my expression.\n\n\"Why'd you jump me over the hurdles?\" I said.\n\n\"You mean about Junior?\" he said.\n\n\"You got it,\" I replied.\n\n\"Junior punched his own ticket. You might t'ink he was a hero, but back in them days, if a nigger got mixed up wit' a white woman, all of us had to suffer for it.\"\n\n\"How about spelling that out for me?\" I said.\n\nThe year was 1951. Hank Williams and Lefty Frizzell played on every jukebox in the South, and across the ocean GIs packed snow on the barrels of .30 caliber machine guns to keep them from melting while they mowed down wave after wave of Chinese troops pouring into North Korea.\n\nBut in central Louisiana, a group of black convicts who knew little or nothing of the larger world suddenly found themselves transferred from Angola Penitentiary to a work camp for nonviolent offenders deep down in bayou country. The camp had been created out of the remnants of what had been called the quarters on Fox Run Plantation. None of the convicts knew what to expect. The first morning they found out.\n\nThey were given clean denims, soap, toothpaste, good work shoes, and were told to burn their striped pants and jumpers in a trash barrel behind the camp. The beatings with the black Betty, the sweatboxes and anthill-treatment, the fecal-smelling lockdown units, the killings by guards on the Red Hat Gang, became only a memory at Fox Run. Sometimes a truculent inmate was forced to wear leg irons or stand all night on an upended bucket, and the food they ate\u2014the greens, fatback, beans, corn bread, and molasses\u2014was the same fare served at Angola; but the guards were not allowed to abuse them, and at night the inmates slept in cabins with mosquito screens on the windows, boiled coffee in the fireplace, played cards and listened to radios, and on holidays had preserves and cookies to eat.\n\nThe humane treatment they received was due solely to one person: Miss Andrea, as they called her, the wife of Castille LeJeune.\n\nThe other inmates had been in the camp six months when Junior transferred in from the Red Hat Gang. The first time he saw her he was in the bottom of an irrigation canal with Hogman Patin, raking mounds of yellowed weeds out of the water and flinging them up on the embankment. She was riding English saddle on a black gelding, her long hair tied behind her head, her white riding pants skintight across her rump and thighs. Her small hand was cupped around a braided quirt.\n\n\"That's her, huh?\" Junior said.\n\n\"Who?\" Hogman said.\n\n\"Miz LeJeune,\" Junior said.\n\n\"What you care who she is?\"\n\n\"She wrote me a letter.\"\n\n\"Shit.\"\n\n\"That's right. Up at the joint. Tole me how much she liked my music. She's a fine-looking woman.\"\n\n\"You get them t'oughts out of your head, nigger,\" Hogman said.\n\n\"You boys eye-balling down there?\" the guard said from horseback.\n\nAmong Junior's few possessions was a guitar, a twelve-string Stella he had bought in a New Orleans pawnshop. He tuned the double-strung E, A, and D strings an octave apart so that the chords reverberating out of the sound hole gave the impression of two guitars being played simultaneously. Each evening, after supper, he played on the front steps of his cabin, his steel finger picks glinting in the setting of the sun, his voice rising into a sky filled with clouds that looked like colored smoke.\n\nThen, one spring night, while he played on the steps, he saw her car stop on the road. It was a purple 1948 Ford convertible, with an immaculate white, buttoned-down top. She was smoking a cigarette behind the wheel, her skin softly lit by the green illumination of the dashboard. She listened to him play until she had finished her cigarette, then she dropped it outside the window, restarted her engine, and drove away.\n\nIn July, on a languid Saturday morning, a guard by the name of Jackson Posey told Junior to put on a fresh change of state blues, to brush his shoes, comb his hair, bring his guitar, and get in the guard's pickup truck. As the two of them drove toward the big house, Junior could feel the guard's irritation like a palpable presence inside the cab.\n\n\"What's going on, boss?\" Junior asked.\n\nJackson Posey did not reply. Although he was often called boss, he held the rank of captain, one he had earned by shepherding convicts under the gun for two decades, pulling almost the same kind of time as his charges. But the fact he was a captain was a matter of great pride to him, because it meant he was literate and had administrative duties within the penal system. His forearms were pocked with early indications of skin cancer, the top of his forehead half-mooned like a sliver of melon rind where he normally wore a hat. He put three fingers into a pouch of Red Man and inserted the string tobacco into his jaw, then drove around to the back of the big house and parked under a mulberry tree.\n\nJunior could see Andrea Castille seated on the patio, a pitcher of lemonade on a glass table beside her. A recording machine, the kind that made use of wire spools, rested on the brickwork by her foot, an extension cord running back through the French doors into the house. Inside the living room a little girl, a miniature of her mother, played on the rug with wood blocks.\n\n\"I always treated you fair, ain't I?\" the guard said.\n\n\"Yes, suh,\" Junior said.\n\n\"Then it don't hurt to tell Miss Andrea that, does it?\"\n\n\"No, suh.\"\n\n\"You stay where I can see you,\" he said.\n\n\"Wouldn't have it no other way, boss.\"\n\nJackson Posey narrowed one watery blue eye, as though squinting down a rifle barrel. \"You sassing me?\" he said.\n\nJunior shut the truck door behind him and approached Andrea Castille with his guitar cradled under his right arm. She wore a pink sundress and dark glasses and a gold cross on a chain around her throat. \"Can you play 'Goodnight Irene'?\" she said.\n\n\"Yes, ma'am, I learned it from the man who wrote it,\" he replied.\n\n\"I'd like to record you while you do it. That is, if you don't mind.\"\n\n\"No, ma'am, I'm glad to.\"\n\n\"Would you like to sit down?\"\n\n\"Standing is just fine, ma'am.\"\n\nHe slipped the cloth strap of the guitar around his neck and sang for her, feeling foolish at the contrived nature of the situation, wondering if the guard's eyes were burrowing into his back or if Andrea Castille's husband was watching him from an upstairs window.\n\n\"You have a wonderful voice,\" she said. \"Sit down. Please, it's all right.\"\n\n\"Ma'am, I'm a convict.\" Involuntarily his eyes swept across the back windows of the house.\n\nShe seemed to resign herself to his recalcitrance. \"Would you sing another song?\" she said.\n\nHe sang one of his own compositions. The breeze had dropped and his shirt was damp against his skin. He could not see her eyes behind her dark glasses, but he believed they were invading his person. His fingers were moist and clumsy on the frets, his voice uncertain. A muscle spasm sliced across his back from the odd angle in which he was holding the Stella.\n\nHe stopped and blotted his face on his sleeve, his heart beating. Why was he behaving like this?\n\nBut he already knew the answer. He wanted her approval\u2014just like an organ grinder's monkey.\n\n\"I hurt my back in the field yesterday. Just ain't myself,\" he said.\n\n\"Maybe you can come another time, when you're feeling better,\" she said.\n\nHe shook his head negatively, his eyes lowered, his frustration and anger at himself rising. But she didn't give him time to speak. \"I have something for you. I'll be just a minute,\" she said.\n\nHe waited patiently in the dappled sunlight, the heat rising from the bricks around him. What was she up to? He had known white women like her in the North, he told himself. They liked to stick their hand in the tiger cage. Sometimes they even brought the tiger into their bed. Well, if that was what she wanted, maybe she might just find out who sticks what in who, he said to himself.\n\nShe emerged from the French doors with a narrow, blue-felt, brass-hinged box in one hand. She removed her dark glasses and handed him the box. For the first time he saw her eyes. They were the color of violets, like none he had ever seen, and there was a kindness and honesty in them that caused a thickening sensation in his throat.\n\n\"I've heard you play these on your records. I didn't know if you had one now or not,\" she said.\n\nHe pried the lid back stiffly and looked down at a chrome-plated harmonica cushioned inside the white satin interior of the box.\n\n\"It's an E-major Marine Band,\" she said.\n\n\"Yes, ma'am. I know. This is a fine instrument, Miss Andrea.\"\n\n\"Well, thank you for coming to my house,\" she said. Then she shook his hand, something no southern white woman had ever done.\n\nOn the way back to the camp, the guard, Jackson Posey, kept turning and staring at the side of Junior's face. Junior looked straight ahead, the harmonica case gripped in his palm. Just before they drove past the wire into the cluster of cabins that made up the improvised work camp, Posey braked the truck and shifted the floor stick into neutral. A cloud of dust floated by his open window.\n\n\"You got no control over what that woman does, so I ain't holding it against you,\" he said.\n\n\"Suh?\" Junior replied.\n\n\"You know what I'm talking about. Her husband's coming home from the arm service next week,\" the guard said.\n\n\"Yes, suh,\" Junior said, still uncertain about the direction of the conversation.\n\n\"I ain't gonna lose my job 'cause I let his wife shake hands with a nigger convict. You hearing me, Junior?\"\n\nJunior could feel the softness of the felt box in his fingers. \"You don't like what she done, lock me down, bossman,\" Junior replied.\n\n\"You just earned yourself a night on the bucket. Sass me again, and Miss Andrea or no Miss Andrea, you're gonna be the sorest nigger in the state of Lou'sana.\"\n\nTwo weeks later, while Junior and Hogman were pulling stumps on the far side of the bayou, he saw Andrea LeJeune and her husband cantering their horses through a field of buttercups. They clopped across a wood bridge that spanned a coulee, disappearing into a grove of live oaks. A few minutes later she emerged by herself, her face pinched with anger, and slashed her quirt across her horse's flank. She galloped past Junior toward the drawbridge, her thighs crimped tightly into the horse's sides, dirt clods flying off her horse's hooves. She was so close Junior could have reached out and touched her leg.\n\nBut if she saw him, she showed no recognition in her face.\n\nThat night another convict in Junior's cabin was looking at the pages of a newspaper that had blown from the road into the camp's wire fence. A photograph on the front page showed Castille LeJeune in a dress Marine Corps uniform with a medal hanging on a ribbon from his neck. \"That's the man own Fox Run, ain't it?\" the convict said. His name was Woodrow Reed. He wore a goatee that looked like a cluster of black wire on his chin, and the other inmates believed he could tell fortunes with a greasy pack of cards he carried in his shirt pocket.\n\n\"That's the man,\" Junior replied.\n\n\"What it say about him?\" Woodrow asked.\n\n\"He saved a bunch of lives, then he shot down a Nort' Korean name of Bed Check Charley.\"\n\n\"Bed Check who?\"\n\n\"That's a guy used to fly over the Americans in a Piper Cub and drop hand grenades on them. The F-80s couldn't nail him 'cause they was too fast. But Mr. LeJeune went after him in a World War II plane that was a lot slower and blew his ass out of the sky.\"\n\n\"How come you know all this?\" Woodrow asked.\n\n\"Read about it in a magazine.\"\n\n\"You somet'ing else, Junior,\" Woodrow said.\n\nBut secretly Junior did not feel he was something else. One out of three of his adult years had been spent in prison. He had made race records in Memphis, been interviewed in Downbeat magazine, and performed with Cab Calloway's orchestra in New York City, all before he was thirty years old. But what had he done with his success? Rather than build upon it, he had gotten into trouble every place he went. Now he was the man with one eye in the country of the blind, sassing redneck prison guards, a hero to hapless, illiterate, and superstitious men because he could read a magazine.\n\nOne month later, on a Saturday afternoon, Andrea LeJeune had him brought to the big house again. This time her husband was with her on the patio, seated under an umbrella, a tropical drink in his hand. Their daughter, who must have been around three or four years of age, was throwing a ball back and forth on the lawn with a black maid.\n\n\"This is my husband, Junior. He'd love to hear you sing 'Goodnight, Irene,'\" she said.\n\nLeJeune's legs were crossed. He wore socks with his sandals and seemed to be studying the points of his toes.\n\n\"Huddie Ledbetter done it a lot better than I can,\" Junior replied. He shifted his weight and felt the belly of the guitar scrape hollowly against his belt buckle.\n\n\"Then play something of your own choosing,\" Castille LeJeune said, his gaze still fixed on the end of his foot.\n\n\"Suh, I ain't all that good,\" Junior said. His eyes met LeJeune's briefly, then slipped away.\n\n\"You uncomfortable for some reason?\" LeJeune asked.\n\n\"No, suh.\"\n\n\"Then play. Please,\" LeJeune said.\n\nHe sang \"Dig My Grave with a Silver Spade,\" running quickly through the verses, leaving out the treble string improvisations he usually ran high up on the guitar's neck. When he finished he looked at nothing, the guitar strap biting into the back of his neck. He could smell the exhaled smoke from LeJeune's cigarette drifting into his face.\n\n\"You seem to be a man of considerable accomplishment. How is it you spent so many years in jail?\" LeJeune said.\n\n\"Don't rightly know, suh. Guess some niggers just ain't that smart,\" Junior replied.\n\nHe heard the guard's shoes crunch on the gravel drive, as though the guard were experiencing a tension he had to run through the bottoms of his feet into the ground. But LeJeune seemed to take no notice of any sardonic content in Junior's remark.\n\n\"Maybe you should have joined the military and found a career for yourself that didn't get you into trouble,\" LeJeune said.\n\n\"I served in the United States Navy, suh. Under another name, but in the navy just the same.\"\n\n\"You were a stewart?\"\n\n\"No, suh. I was a munitions loader. I loaded munitions right next to Harry Belafonte.\"\n\n\"Who?\"\n\n\"He's a singer, suh.\"\n\n\"Obviously my knowledge of pop'lar music isn't very extensive,\" LeJeune said, and smiled self-indulgently at his wife.\n\nWhy had Junior just told LeJeune of his military record or the fact he had known Harry Belafonte? It was like flipping a piece of gold through a sewer grate. At that moment he hated LeJeune more than any human being he'd ever met.\n\n\"Would you like something to eat before you go?\" LeJeune said. He held up a crystal plate on which a thick ring of crushed ice was embedded with peeled shrimp.\n\n\"No, thank you, suh.\"\n\n\"I insist,\" LeJeune said. He used a fork to scrape a pile of shrimp and ice on a paper plate, then inserted a toothpick in a shrimp and handed the plate to Junior. \"Go back yonder and sit in the shade and eat these.\"\n\nJunior looked at the yard, the absence of chairs or scrolled-iron benches on the grass or even a glider hanging from an oak limb. \"Where, suh?\" he said.\n\n\"Behind the carriage house. There's a box you can sit on. Enjoy your snack and then Mr. Posey will take you back to the camp,\" LeJeune said.\n\n\"You sit right here at the table. I'm going to get you some gumbo and a Coca-Cola from the house,\" Miss Andrea said. \"Did you hear me? Put your guitar in the chair and sit down.\"\n\n\"I think Mr. Crudup knows where he should eat,\" her husband said.\n\n\"Castille, if you weren't so miserably stupid and insensitive, I think I'd shoot you,\" she replied. Then she added \"God!\" and went inside the house.\n\nLeJeune got up from his chair and walked to the driveway, where he talked quietly with the guard, Jackson Posey. Junior Crudup felt as though he were sliding to the bottom of a dark well from which he would never emerge.\n\nJackson Posey did not drive the pickup truck directly back to the work camp. Instead, he crossed the bayou on the drawbridge and parked between a sugarcane field and a persimmon grove, out of sight of either the LeJeune home or the camp. He breathed hard through his nose, his mouth a tightly crimped line.\n\n\"Get out of the truck,\" he said.\n\n\"I ain't did nothing, boss.\"\n\n\"You got that sonofabitch on my ass. You call that nothing?\"\n\n\"Not my fault, boss.\"\n\nThey were both standing outside the truck now. The sky was hot and bright and wind was blowing dust out of the cane field and birds were clattering in the persimmon trees. Jackson Posey reached behind the driver's seat. Junior heard something hard clank against metal.\n\n\"Drink it,\" Posey said.\n\nBut Junior shook his head.\n\n\"Good 'cause now I can send your skinny black ass right back up to 'Gola.\"\n\n\"Ain't nobody in the camp supposed to get the Mussolini treatment. Miss Andrea don't allow it.\"\n\n\"Miz LeJeune don't write the rules now. What's it gonna be? Don't matter to me one way or another.\" Posey shook a cigarette loose from a package of Camels and inserted it in his mouth.\n\nJunior took the bottle of castor oil from the guard's hand and unscrewed the cap. The bottle was brown and heavy, the oil as viscous as syrup. He began to drink, then gagged and started again. The guard looked at his watch.\n\n\"All of it,\" Posey said.\n\n\"Ain't right, boss.\"\n\n\"You messed up the man's pussy. What do you expect him to do? Like my daddy used to say, life's a bitch, then you die. Chug it down, boy.\"\n\nPosey watched while Junior finished the bottle, then fingered a reddish purple scab on his arm, one that had not been there only two days ago. He drew in heavily on his cigarette, his eyes draining, as though he were purging himself of any intimations of his own mortality.\n\n\"It ain't nothing personal, Junior,\" he said.\n\n\"It's real personal, boss.\"\n\nThe guard stared emptily at the heat waves bouncing off the bayou and flicked his cigarette into the wind.\n\nBy the time Junior got back to the camp his bowels were collapsing inside him.\n\nHogman stopped his account and picked up a bottle that had fallen from his bottle tree. He wedged it in the fork of the tree and seemed to lose interest in both Father Jimmie and me and the story he had been telling.\n\n\"Go on, Hogman,\" I said.\n\n\"Junior started believing he was gonna have a life besides jailing and road-ganging. Gonna get a pardon from the governor and be a big star up Nort'. Just like Leadbelly.\"\n\n\"Andrea LeJeune was going to work a pardon for him?\"\n\n\"That's what he t'ought. She made Jackson Posey keep taking Junior up to the house when Mr. LeJeune was gone. Junior talked about her all the time, how pretty she was, what she smelled like, how she had all these fine manners, how she knew everyt'ing about his music. A whole bunch of people come up from New Orleans to hear him sing and play his twelve-string in the backyard.\"\n\n\"What happened to him, Hogman?\"\n\n\"Don't know. I got paroled. Last time I seed Junior he was playing 'Goodnight Irene' on the steps of his cabin, waiting to see if Miss Andrea was gonna drive by in her li'l convertible.\"\n\n\"I think you're holding out on me, partner.\"\n\n\"Miss Andrea got killed in a car wreck two or t'ree years after I left the camp. Mr. LeJeune lived up in that big house wit' just himself and his li'l girl. Junior disappeared. Ain't nothing left of him but a voice on scratchy old records. Nobody cared what happened back then. Nobody care now. You axed for the troot'. I just give it to you.\"\n\nHogman walked inside the back of his house and let the screen door slam behind him.\n\n## Chapter 13\n\nOrdinary people sometimes do bad things. A wrong-headed business decision, a romantic encounter in a late-night bar, a rivalry with a neighbor over the placement of a fence, any of these seemingly insignificant moments can initiate a series of events that, like a rusty nail in the sole of the foot, can systemically poison a normal, law-abiding person's life and propel him into a world he thought existed only in the perverse imaginings of pulp novelists.\n\nAt sunrise on Saturday morning the sky was pink and blue, the trees in my yard dripping from a thunder shower during the night, and I took a cup of coffee and hot milk and a bowl of Grape-Nuts out on the gallery and read the morning paper while I ate. When I was halfway into the editorial page Dr. Parks pulled his battered, beige pickup to the curb and got out. His jaws were heavy with beard stubble, one eye clotted with blood; he wore no socks and jeans that were grass-stained at the knees.\n\n\"I need help,\" he said.\n\n\"In what way?\"\n\nHe sat down on a step, a few inches from me. His long, tapered hands rested between his legs and his body gave off an odor like sour milk. His mouth began to form words, but nothing came out.\n\n\"Take it easy, Doctor. This stuff will pass with time. A guy just needs to put one foot in front of the other for a while,\" I said.\n\n\"There's no justice. Not for anything,\" he said.\n\n\"Pardon?\"\n\n\"My daughter's death. The electrical fire at my house. I bought a home warranty policy from Sunbelt Construction. The policy is underwritten by a bunch of criminals in Aurora, Colorado. I tried to talk to the Louisiana insurance commissioner about it and was told he's on his way to the federal pen.\"\n\nLike most people whose lives have been left in disarray by events so large he couldn't even describe them to himself, his rage against the universe had now reduced itself to the level of a petty financial quarrel with a fraudulent home warranty company.\n\n\"There might be a state senator or two we can call on Monday. How about a cup of coffee?\" I said. I rested my hand on his shoulder and tried to smile, then I saw the green cast in the skin under his eyes and the detached stare that made me think of soldiers I had known many years ago.\n\n\"I was on a medevac at Khe Sanh. I was in two crashes and one shoot-down. I put my best friends in body bags. It was all for nothing. This goddamn country is going down the sewer,\" he said.\n\n\"I was over there, too, Doc. We can always be proud of what we did and let the devil take the rest of it. Sometimes you've got to throw the bad times over the gunnels and do the short version of the Serenity Prayer. Sometimes you just say full throttle and fuck it.\"\n\nBut my words were of no value. He got to his feet like a man walking in his sleep, then turned and extended his hand. \"I insulted you at my home and in your office. I didn't mean what I said. My wife and I are better people than we seem,\" he said.\n\nHe pressed the fingers of one hand against the side of his head, like a man experiencing a pressure band or a level of cerebral pain that gave him no relief. He pulled open the door of his pickup and got inside, holding the steering wheel to steady himself. I walked to the passenger window.\n\n\"Where you headed?\" I asked.\n\n\"To confront the people who cheated me, the ones who put defective wiring in my house, the ones who shouldn't be on the goddamn planet.\"\n\n\"I don't think that's a good idea, Doc.\"\n\n\"Stand away from the truck,\" he replied. He ground the transmission into gear and swung the truck into traffic, almost hitting an automobile packed with Catholic nuns.\n\nI went back inside and called the dispatcher. Wally happened to be on duty. \"You want us to pick up this guy, Dave?\" he asked.\n\nI thought about it. Roust Dr. Parks now, in his present state of mind, and we would probably only add to his grief and anger. With luck he would eventually go home or at worst get drunk somewhere, I told myself. \"Let it go,\" I said.\n\nHelen Soileau called me just after lunch. \"How busy are you?\" she said.\n\n\"What's up?\"\n\n\"It's Dr. Parks. Wally said you called in on him earlier.\"\n\n\"What about him?\"\n\n\"Evidently he went looking for Castille LeJeune. He didn't find him, so he went after this guy Will Guillot.\"\n\n\"What do you mean 'he went after him'?\"\n\n\"With a cut-down double-barrel twelve-gauge.\"\n\n\"He shot Guillot?\" I said.\n\n\"You got it backwards. Parks is dead. Say good-bye to our prime suspect in the drive-by daiquiri shooting.\"\n\n\"Wait a minute. I can't get this straight. Parks is dead?\"\n\n\"At least he was five minutes ago. Get pictures if you can,\" she said.\n\nWhen I got to the home of Will Guillot emergency vehicles were still parked along the street and barricades set up to prevent the curious and the voyeuristic from driving past the house. The incongruity of the images there would not fit in time and place. In a tree-covered neighborhood of nineteenth-century homes and thick St. Augustine lawns, where the hydrangeas and impatiens and Confederate roses were softly dented by the breeze, and blue jays and robins sailed in and out of the live oaks, Dr. Parks lay on his side in the driveway, his mouth and eyes locked open, one cheek pressed flat against the cement, a pool of dried blood issuing from a ragged hole in his throat into the sunlight. Six inches from his outstretched hand lay a cut-down twelve-gauge, the stock wood-rasped and sanded into a pistol grip.\n\nThe crime-scene investigator was a nervous, tightly wrapped man with a strong cigarette odor by the name of Dale Louviere. When I ducked under the crime-scene tape he glared into my face, as though challenged, nests of green veins pulsing in his temples. Before he had entered law enforcement he had been a gofer and point man for a notorious casino operator in Lake Charles.\n\n\"What do you want, Robicheaux?\" he said.\n\n\"Dr. Parks was part of an Iberia Parish homicide investigation. Where's the coroner?\" I said.\n\n\"Him and the sheriff fish together on Saturday. We're still waiting on them,\" Louviere replied.\n\n\"Are there any witnesses?\"\n\n\"Yeah, the shooter, Will Guillot. He's in the kitchen.\"\n\n\"How do you read it?\" I asked.\n\n\"Open and shut. The vic went nuts about a house fire or a home warranty policy or something. He came here to wax Guillot and instead caught a .45 in the throat. The round hit the oak tree in front.\"\n\nI leaned over to look more closely at the cut-down twelve-gauge. I couldn't see a brand name on it, but the steel around the magazine was incised with delicately engraved images of ducks and geese in flight. \"Handsome gun to chop down with a hacksaw,\" I said.\n\n\"Get some mud in the barrel and that's what people do, Robicheaux,\" Louviere replied.\n\n\"Except this guy was a collector. How many collectors spend their time converting their firearms into illegal weapons?\"\n\n\"The next time I investigate a homicide, I'll have the crime scene shipped to Iberia Parish so you can supervise it,\" he said.\n\nI walked through the porte cochere to a back door and entered the kitchen without knocking. Will Guillot was at the counter, gazing out the back window into the yard, while he ate a ham-and-lettuce sandwich. A tall, half-empty glass of milk rested by his sandwich plate. He turned and looked at me quizzically, the birthmark that drained like purple dye from his hairline to the corner of his eye almost obscured by shadow, so that one side of his face looked like the marred half of a large coin.\n\n\"You were in fear for your life, were you, Mr. Guillot?\" I said.\n\n\"Yeah, I guess that describes it,\" he answered, one cheek stiff with a piece of bread. \"You have jurisdiction here?\"\n\n\"You don't have to talk to me if you don't want to.\"\n\n\"I don't want to.\"\n\n\"Fair enough. On an unrelated subject, are you a hunter or a gun collector?\"\n\n\"I hunt. Why?\"\n\n\"No reason. Were you in 'Nam?\"\n\n\"No. What's that have to do with anything?\"\n\n\"Dr. Parks was on a medevac. He had his problems, but I don't think he was a violent man. I don't think that cut-down twelve on the driveway was his, either.\"\n\n\"This conversation is over, Mr. Robicheaux, and you can get out of my house.\"\n\n\"Does it bother you?\" I said.\n\n\"Bother me? That I defended myself against a lunatic?\"\n\n\"His daughter was burned alive after buying liquor illegally at one of Castille LeJeune's daiquiri shops. His house burned after you put bad wiring in it, and you shot him to death after he came here to complain about a fraudulent home warranty policy you sold him. It's hard to believe one guy can have that much bad luck, isn't it? Enjoy your sandwich, Mr. Guillot. I'll be in touch,\" I said.\n\n\"Kiss my ass,\" he said.\n\nSunday Father Jimmie had gone to Lafayette to collect signatures on a petition to shut down drive-by daiquiri windows and had stayed the night at a retreat house in Grand Coteau. I ate a plate of clam spaghetti at a cafe in Jeanerette, then went to sleep reading T.E. Lawrence's Seven Pillars of Wisdom, with Snuggs on the foot of the bed. My windows were open and in my sleep I heard the wind in the trees, a solitary pecan husk rattle on the tin roof, a workboat chugging heavily on the bayou. The air was cool and clean smelling with ground fog, rainwater ticking in the trees, and I felt Snuggs walk across my back so he could sniff the breeze blowing through the screen. Just after midnight, my bowels constricted as though I had swallowed a piece of broken glass. I went into the bathroom and sat on the toilet, my thighs trembling with nausea.\n\nThen I heard someone wedge a tool between the back door and the jamb, splinter the deadbolt, and enter the house. Whoever it was moved quickly toward the band of light at the bottom of the bathroom door, opened it slightly, and looked in at me.\n\n\"I wasn't planning to meet you like this, but I couldn't resist the opportunity. Can I be getting you anything? You don't look too well,\" the figure said.\n\n\"Coll?\"\n\n\"Right you are. No, don't get up. Take care of business while I have my say, then I'll be off.\" His hand came through the opening and removed the key from the lock. He shut the door and locked it from the outside.\n\n\"What do you think you're doing?\" I said.\n\nI heard him go into the bedroom, then scrape a chair into position. \"This is a fine cat you have here. Been in a few fights, has he?\"\n\n\"Listen, Coll\u2014\"\n\n\"He's got a real pair of bandoliers back there.\"\n\nMy face was cold with sweat, a bilious fluid rising from my stomach. Gray spots danced before my eyes.\n\n\"Father Dolan and I have nothing to do with your life,\" I said.\n\n\"Oh, but you do. Two rather nasty cretins just arrived in town, Mr. Robicheaux, the cousins of Frank Dellacroce. Stone killers, they are, sir, with no parameters and no charitable impulses. Evidently a few of the greaseballs think you blew poor Frank's head off. Would you like to hear what they did to a friend of mine?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Took a blowtorch to him. What's the name of your cat?\"\n\n\"Snuggs.\"\n\n\"What a fine little fellow. Built like a fucking fire hydrant. It's a shame the innocent suffer. But maybe that's the only thing that causes us to take action.\"\n\nI could feel my heart quicken. \"What are you saying?\"\n\n\"I didn't make the world. I just live in it as best I can. I'll be going now.\"\n\n\"You leave that cat here.\"\n\nBut he didn't reply. I heard his chair scrape but did not hear him set Snuggs down. \"Coll? Did you hear me?\" I yelled.\n\nI heard him banging about in the kitchen, then a hard, clunking sound and his footsteps going heavily through the house and out the front door. By the time I was able to climb out the bathroom window, the yard and the street were empty, the ground puffing with fog, the moon as bright as a white flame behind the skeletal outline of a water oak.\n\nI went around back and entered the house through the kitchen door. A pitcher of milk rested on the drainboard and Snuggs was lapping from a bowl next to it, one Max Coll had filled with both milk and dry cat food.\n\nI started to dial 911, then gave it up, propped a chair against the kitchen door, and went back to sleep, my .45 under my pillow.\n\nAt 8:05 Monday morning Clotile Arceneaux walked into my office. She wore a pair of navy blue slacks, a blouse printed with tropical flowers, and a polished black gunbelt with her badge holder hung from the front and her cuffs pushed through the back. She had the blackest hair and wore the brightest lipstick I had ever seen.\n\n\"How's life in the Big Sleazy?\" I said.\n\nShe grinned broadly, then sat down without being asked. \"You're a magnet, Robicheaux,\" she said.\n\n\"For what?\"\n\n\"Trouble. We keep a few people at the New Orleans airport, watching to see who comes and goes, know what I mean? Three days ago a couple of greaseballs from Ft. Lauderdale got into town, spent the night with some hookers, then caught a flight to Lafayette. Guess what their last names are?\"\n\n\"Dellacroce?\"\n\n\"How'd you know?\"\n\n\"Max Coll was at my house last night.\"\n\n\"Say again?\"\n\n\"He was walking around inside my house. He talked to me through the bathroom door.\"\n\nShe looked up at one corner of the ceiling, her eyelids fluttering. Then she scratched her neck and looked at me. \"I brought mug shots of the Dellacroces. They're brothers, Tito and Caesar. Tito's friends call him the Heap, 'cause he looks like a haystack with eyes. But the mean one is Caesar. He's short and not very bright.\"\n\n\"He uses a blowtorch on people?\"\n\n\"You do know about these guys.\"\n\n\"Max Coll is tops when it comes to intel.\"\n\n\"I've got to get a job over here. New Orleans just doesn't cut it.\"\n\n\"Want to go to lunch later?\"\n\n\"Like to, slick, but the Big Sleazy calls. I've got a little more here on your man Coll.\"\n\n\"He's not my man. He's a meltdown you guys shipped to New Iberia.\"\n\nShe raised her eyebrows and made an innocent face as she opened a manilla folder in her lap. \"The Coll family was hooked up with the IRA for generations,\" she said. \"Some of them may have been behind the bombing of a pub in Belfast. Some Protestant militants decided to get even and took Max's whole family out, including an older brother who was a Catholic priest.\"\n\n\"That's how he ended up in the orphanage,\" I said, more to myself than to her.\n\nShe looked down again at the open folder in her lap. \"Yeah, that's right. He was there until he was fifteen,\" she said.\n\n\"Go to lunch with me,\" I said.\n\nShe thought about it. \"Make it a beignet and a cup of coffee,\" she said. She studied me with one eye half closed.\n\nThat afternoon I looked down at the booking photos of Tito and Caesar Dellacroce she had left on my desk. Tito, known as the Heap by his peers, stared back at me with eyes that were like cups of black grease. His brother made me think of a ferret in need of a haircut. Both Max Coll and Fat Sammy Figorelli had indicated Frank Dellacroce's relatives had put his death on me. Maybe. But I believed their real target was still Max Coll, and Max was in New Iberia for reasons other than a religious obsession with Father Jimmie. I believed Max had intimations about where the hit on Father Jimmie had come from, and Max blamed that same person for putting a contract on him and had come to our area to wipe the slate clean.\n\nOr perhaps he was simply crazy.\n\nRegardless, it was time to dial up Max's head and see how he liked having things turned around on him. I called the Daily Iberian and scheduled an ad to run in the next day's personal notices.\n\n\"Let me read this back to you,\" the clerk said. \"'Max, you owe me $57.48 for the damage you did to my back door. Why don't you pay your debts instead of acting like a window-licking voyeur who breaks into people's houses and molests their pets? Tito and Caesar just blew into town and seem upset because you canceled their cousin's ticket. Have a nice day\u2014Dave.'\"\n\n\"Perfect,\" I said.\n\n\"Mr. Robicheaux, this ad doesn't make much sense.\"\n\n\"It does if you're morally insane,\" I replied.\n\nDid you ever have a song in your mind you couldn't get rid of? For me, at least on that Monday afternoon, it was \"Goodnight Irene.\" I kept thinking of Junior Crudup sitting on the steps of his cabin in the work camp, playing his twelve-string guitar, singing the words to Leadbelly's most famous composition, while he waited to catch a glimpse of Andrea LeJeune's purple Ford convertible passing on the dirt road. Did she arrange for him to return to the house again? Did the guard, Jackson Posey, continue to torment him because of the hatred Posey felt for himself and the lot the world had dealt him?\n\nIf God in that moment looked down upon His creations, I wondered if He wasn't terribly saddened by the level of madness that had become the province of His children.\n\nThe song was still in my head when I went that afternoon to Baron's, the health club where I worked out, and saw Castille LeJeune seated on a hardwood bench in the dressing room, his face bright with sweat from his racquet ball game, a towel wrapped around his neck. He was jovial and expansive, sipping from a glass of icewater while he talked with a group of businessmen, although a sign on the wall stated no glass containers were allowed in the room. It was 5 P.M. and both black and white workers from the salt mines out in the wetlands and the sugar mills that ringed the town burst loudly into the dressing room. Instead of being intimidated by LeJeune's presence, they treated him as they would a celebrity, greeting him as \"Mr. Castille.\" Somehow he was one of them, at least for the moment, a patrician who knew them by their first names and spoke both demotic French and English without being patronizing.\n\nThere were great differences in the room, but not between the races. The black and white working men spoke the same regional dialect and shared the same political attitudes, all of which had been taught them by others. They denigrated liberals, unions, and the media, considered the local Wal-Mart store a blessing, and regularly gave their money to the Powerball lottery and casinos that had the architectural charm of a sewer works. They were frightened by the larger world and found comfort in the rhetoric of politicians who assured them the problem was the world's, not theirs. And most heartening of all was the affirmation lent them by a genteel person like Castille LeJeune, a Distinguished Flying Cross recipient who, unlike many members of his class, showed no fear or lack of confidence in their midst, which told them of his respect for their humanity.\n\nI dressed in a corner of the room, my back turned to LeJeune and the cluster of men around him. Maybe I was wrong about him, I thought. Maybe Helen and Theodosha were justified in their criticism of my attitudes. I was born in the late Depression and bore an ingrained resentment toward the wealthy and the powerful. All drunks fear and desire both power and control, and sometimes even years of sobriety inside A.A. don't rid alcoholics of that basic contradiction in their personalities. Why should I be any different?\n\nWhen I had almost thought my way into a charitable attitude toward Castille LeJeune, I felt a hand touch my shoulder. \"Would you like to play a round of racquet ball, Mr. Robicheaux?\" he said.\n\n\"Never learned how,\" I said.\n\n\"Do you have any idea why this deranged physician, what's-his-name, Parks, would have come to my home, then to my foreman's?\"\n\nSo you're a showboat as well as a hypocrite, I thought. \"His daughter was served illegally at your daiquiri shop before she died in a car crash. Your company defrauded him on the house-remodeling job it did at his home. He also said you sold him a bogus warranty on his house. Maybe that might have something to do with it,\" I replied.\n\n\"I'd like to say your reputation precedes you, Mr. Robicheaux. But your potential seems to have no limits,\" he said.\n\n\"Your deceased wife brought a black convict to your house out of respect for his musical talent, an event evidently you couldn't abide. That same convict, Junior Crudup, disappeared from the face of the earth. I suspect, on the day of your death, his specter will be standing by your bed.\"\n\nThe only sound in the room was the hum of the overhead fans.\n\n\"How dare you?\" he said.\n\nI'm going to get you, you sorry sack of shit, I said to myself, my eyes fixed six inches from his.\n\nThe days were growing shorter, and by 6 P.M. the sun had set, the sky was black and veined with lightning, and Bayou Teche was high and yellow and chained with rain rings in the glow of the lamps along the banks of City Park. Father Jimmie walked about in the backyard, his hands in his pockets, examining the sky, the wind swirling leaves around his ankles. He came back in the house smelling of trees and humus, his eyes purposeful.\n\n\"I need to work things out with Max Coll,\" he said.\n\n\"You have to do what?\" I said.\n\n\"He's in New Iberia because I'm here. Now, these other criminals are showing up because he's here. Where does it end? One man is already dead.\"\n\n\"Frank Dellacroce sexually exploited a retarded girl. I think he got off easy.\"\n\n\"I had to own up to some things at the retreat, the big one being pride.\"\n\n\"In what?\"\n\n\"My feeling of virtuous superiority to others,\" he said.\n\n\"You don't call self-flagellation a form of pride?\"\n\n\"You're a hard sell, Dave.\"\n\nThe phone rang like a providential respite. Or at least that's what I thought until I realized who was on the other end of the line.\n\n\"Where do you get off embarrassing my father in a public place?\" a woman's voice said.\n\n\"Your father is neither a victim nor a martyr. Cut the crap, Theo,\" I said.\n\n\"Your anger taints everything in your life. You disappoint me in ways I can't describe.\"\n\nI heard a sheet of rain clatter across the tin roof. I wanted to pretend I was impervious to her words, but the element of truth in them was like a thorn pressed into the scalp. \"Where are you?\" I said.\n\n\"In a bar.\" She gave the name, a box of a place squeezed between shacks in New Iberia's worst neighborhood.\n\n\"How much have you had?\" I asked.\n\n\"I'm drinking a soda and lime, believe it or not. But I'm about to change that. Why, you want to get loaded?\"\n\n\"You wait there,\" I said.\n\nAs I backed out of the driveway, the canopy of oaks over the street stood out in lacy, black-green relief against the lightning rippling across the sky. I did not pay particular attention to the car that rounded the corner and followed me past the Shadows.\n\nInside the house Father Jimmie tore the wrapper off his hangered dry cleaning and discovered his black suit was missing. He would have sworn it had been with his other things when he had brought them from the laundry three days ago. He searched the rack, then checked the top drawer where he kept his Roman collar and rabat, the backless garment that serves as a priest's vest.\n\nBoth collar and rabat were gone.\n\n## Chapter 14\n\nI drove to the bar Theodosha had called from and parked on the street. The bar was a gray, dismal place, ensconced like a broken matchbox under a dying oak tree, its only indication of gaiety a neon beer sign that flickered in one window. She was at a table in back, the glow of the jukebox lighting her face and the deep blackness of her hair. She tipped a collins glass to her mouth, her eyes locked on mine.\n\n\"Let me take you home,\" I said.\n\n\"No, thanks,\" she replied.\n\n\"Getting swacked?\"\n\n\"Merchie and I had another fight. He says he can't take my pretensions anymore. I love the word 'pretensions.'\"\n\n\"That doesn't mean you have to get drunk,\" I said.\n\n\"You're right. I can get drunk for any reason I choose,\" she replied, and took another hit from the glass. Then she added incongruously, \"You once asked Merchie what he was doing in Afghanistan. The answer is he wasn't in Afghanistan. He was in one of those other God-forsaken Stone Age countries to the north, helping build American airbases to protect American oil interests. Merchie says they're going to make a fortune. All for the red, white, and blue.\"\n\n\"Who is they?\"\n\nBut her eyes were empty now, her concentration and anger temporarily spent.\n\nI glanced at the surroundings, the dour men sitting at the bar, a black woman sleeping with her head on a table, a parolee putting moves on a twenty-year-old junkie and mother of two children who was waiting for her connection. These were the people we cycled in and out of the system for decades, without beneficial influence or purpose of any kind that was detectable.\n\n\"Let's clear up one thing. Your old man came looking for trouble at the club today. I didn't start it,\" I said.\n\n\"Go to a meeting, Dave. You're a drag,\" she said.\n\n\"Give your guff to Merchie,\" I said, and got up to leave.\n\n\"I would. Except he's probably banging his newest flop in the hay. And the saddest thing is I can't blame him.\"\n\n\"I think I'm going to ease on out of this. Take care of yourself, kiddo,\" I said.\n\n\"Fuck that 'kiddo' stuff. I loved you and you were too stupid to know it.\"\n\nI walked back outside into a misting rain and the clean smell of the night. I walked past a house where people were fighting behind the shades. I heard doors slamming, the sound of either a car backfiring or gunshots on another street, a siren wailing in the distance. On the corner I saw an expensive automobile pull to the curb and a black kid emerge from the darkness, wearing a skintight bandanna on his head. The driver of the car, a white man, exchanged money for something in the black kid's hand.\n\nWelcome to the twenty-first century, I thought.\n\nI opened my truck door, then noticed the sag on the frame and glanced at the right rear tire. It was totally flat, the steel rim buried deep in the folds of collapsed rubber. I dropped the tailgate, pulled the jack and lug wrench out of the toolbox that was arc-welded to the bed of the truck, and fitted the jack under the frame. Just as I had pumped the flat tire clear of the puddle it rested in, I heard footsteps crunch on the gravel behind me.\n\nOut of the corner of my eye, I saw a short, thick billy club whip through the air. Just before it exploded across the side of my head, my eyes seemed to close like a camera lens on a haystack that smelled of damp-rot and unwashed hair and old shoes. I was sure as I slipped into unconsciousness that I was inside an ephemeral dream from which I would soon awake.\n\nI knew it was sunlight when I awoke. I could feel its warmth on my skin, see its red-edged radiance at the corners of the tape that covered my eyes. Along with the chemical odor, perhaps ether or chloroform, that still clung to my face I could smell dead fish and ponded water that had gone stagnant inside shade and blackened leaves freshly broken by someone's shoes. I was seated in a chair, my wrists cuffed behind me with a plastic band. I turned my head into a breeze blowing from a window or door, like a blind man entering his first day without sight, vainly hoping the world around him was not filled with adversaries.\n\nA motorboat passed a short distance away. When the sound of the wake sliding through flooded trees died, I heard two men talking about a football game in another room. I tried to rise from the chair, then realized both my ankles were strapped to the legs. \"Asshole is awake,\" I heard one of the men say.\n\nA door opened and I felt the planks under my feet become depressed by the weight of the men entering the room. \"How you feel?\" one of them said.\n\n\"You're kidnapping a police officer,\" I said.\n\n\"I asked you how you felt.\"\n\n\"All right. I feel all right,\" I replied.\n\n\"Hear that? He's all right,\" the second man said. \"Frank Dellacroce is not all right. Somebody blew most of his head off.\"\n\n\"It wasn't me,\" I said.\n\n\"It wasn't him,\" the second man said. \"That's good to hear, 'cause people say you kicked the shit out of him the night he was killed. While he was in handcuffs.\"\n\n\"You got it wrong,\" I replied.\n\n\"He says we got it wrong. That's good, 'cause what we hear about you ain't so good. We hear you got a hard-on 'cause you can't drink, that you like to beat up people, that you got some kind of problem with Italians in general,\" the same voice said.\n\n\"I haven't seen you. I don't know who you are. I think what we have here is a misunderstanding. I'm ready to let it go at that,\" I said.\n\n\"He's ready to let it go. I like that. We're talking about a generous man here,\" the same voice said. \"You want a beer?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Yeah, you do.\"\n\nI turned my face toward the voice. \"Why pull a federal beef down on yourselves? Use your head,\" I said.\n\n\"Oh, we'll use our head, all right. You bet your life,\" the same man said.\n\nI heard a tab being torn loose from a pressurized can, then smelled beer and heard foam splattering on the floor. I could hear someone drinking from the can, swallowing thirstily. He pressed the can against my mouth, clicking it against my teeth, then forcing the aluminum rim between my lips.\n\n\"Don't do that,\" the first voice said.\n\n\"He wants it. He just don't know it yet,\" the second man said.\n\nSomeone, I think the second man, pulled loose my belt, then inserted his fingers between my trousers and stomach and poured the remnants of the can into my underwear. \"You already pissed your pants while you were asleep, so I'm just cleaning you up,\" he said.\n\nI felt the beer run down my thighs and calves. The wind blew through the windows and puffed the room and tin roof with air that smelled of brine and ozone and thunderheads out on the Gulf. Try to think clearly, I told myself. If they simply wanted to kill you, you would already be dead. They're not using their first names with one another and your eyes are taped because eventually they're going to release you. Don't change their agenda, I thought.\n\n\"Where's this guy Max Coll?\" the first man said.\n\n\"If you find out, I'd like to know. He creeped my house,\" I replied.\n\n\"He creeped a cop's house?\" the same man said.\n\n\"He's not your ordinary button man,\" I said.\n\n\"What's he look like?\"\n\n\"I never saw him,\" I lied.\n\n\"He's a Mick, though, right?\" the same voice said.\n\n\"We know he's in the area. We think he popped Frank Dellacroce. But we don't have much information on him.\"\n\nSuddenly a steel instrument bit into my left thumb and mashed the tissue and veins into the joint. I tried to clench my jaws on the scream that came out of my throat.\n\n\"That's what happens when you try to jerk us around,\" the second man said. He was behind me now, his breath touching the back of my ear. \"Guess where these pliers are going next?\"\n\n\"No more of that,\" the first man said.\n\n\"He killed Frank,\" the second man said.\n\n\"Maybe. But we wait on the man and see what he wants. Get out of the way,\" the first voice said.\n\nI smelled his presence in front of me, like hair with sweat dried in it and clothes with soap still in the fabric. Then his huge hand molded a chemical-soaked towel over my face and I felt myself floating to the bottom of a dank well where laughing faces stared down at me from a circle of blue overhead.\n\nI lay sideways on a floor through most of the afternoon, my eyes still taped, my knees and ankles now wrapped tightly with tape as well. In my mind's eye I tried to see the faces of all the people who had been important in my life. I thought of my mother and father, illiterate Cajuns who had done the best they could with what little they owned and who struggled through the Depression and the war years to create a decent home for themselves and their only son. I thought of the two Catholic nuns who had been my first-and second-grade teachers and the time when I accidently walked into a room where they were jitter-bugging to a phonograph, their beads and habits flying. The other clergy I had known in my early years had disappeared from memory, but those two remained with me, as though framed inside a secular holy card.\n\nI thought about the members of my platoon, deep in Indian country, blade faced, stinking of funk and rotted socks and mosquito repellant, their skin twitching as they worked their way down a night trail strung with toe-poppers and booby-trapped 105 duds. I thought about my dead wives, Annie and Bootsie, who were always my steadfast friends as well as spouse and lover, and I thought about Alafair, my adopted daughter, studying at Reed College in Portland, and wondered if I would ever see her again.\n\nI thought about the country in which I had grown up and which I had served as a soldier and police officer. It was the best country on earth, the most noble, egalitarian, democratic experiment in human history. It was a grand and wonderful place to live, well worth the fighting for, as Ernest Hemingway would say. Thomas Jefferson knew that, and so did Woody Guthrie, Dorothy Day, Joe Hill, Molly Brown, and the IWW.\n\nTo hell with the likes of my warders, who I was sure were Tito and Caesar Dellacroce. Let them do their worst, I told myself. And to hell with all the politicians on the take and the princes of industry who lionized Third World bedbugs in order to carry out their agenda of inculcating fear in the electorate at home. America was still America, the country everyone in the world wanted to emulate, where rock 'n' roll and the Beat lyrics of Jack Kerouac would outlive all the venal interests that threatened her.\n\nDying wasn't so bad, not if you faced it bravely, with a clear conscience and your principles still intact. But maybe it wouldn't come to that, I told myself. The tape was still on my eyes, my tormentors ostensibly still unidentifiable.\n\nAt least that is what I told myself.\n\nThen I heard movement in a room beyond the door of the room in which I lay, and the muffled voices of at least three men talking, and I felt my sense of personal resolve begin to drain like water from the bottom of a gunnysack.\n\nThe door opened and two sets of hands lifted me into a chair. The room was silent, the tin roof creaking from the cooling of the day. Someone wrapped tape both around my waist and the back of the chair.\n\n\"I don't know where Max Coll is. What purpose would I have in concealing his whereabouts?\" I said, although no one had spoken to me.\n\n\"See, he knows what we want. He don't even wait to be asked the question. That shows us he's a smart guy who can look into the minds of other people. That shows us he's smart and we're dumb,\" said the voice of the man who had applied a pair of pliers to my thumb.\n\n\"How you want this to play out, 'cause we got a flight to catch?\" said the voice of the other man, who I now believed to be Tito Dellacroce, also known as the Heap. But he was speaking to someone else, and not to his brother, either.\n\nWhoever he asked the question of did not respond. Instead, I heard the soft sound of a clothing zipper sliding on its track, followed by a pause, just before a warm stream of urine splashed in my face and ran down inside the tape that bound my eyes. I twisted my head from side to side, but the person urinating on me painted my mouth, hair, and neck and drenched my shirt before he zipped up his fly again.\n\n\"We're naming this place Yellow Springs, Louisiana, in your honor, Robicheaux,\" said the voice of the man with the pliers.\n\nThey left the room and closed the door behind them. I leaned forward and spit, then sucked saliva out of my jaws and spit again. I heard a car door slam and the car drive away. Two men reentered the room and one of them grabbed a corner of the tape and ripped it loose from my eyes and the back of my head.\n\n\"You're shit out of luck,\" said the man with the tape hanging from his fingers. He was short, with a pointed face, and small, energized, deep-set eyes, his hair scalped above his ears like bowl-cut animal fur.\n\nNext to him was his brother, Tito the Heap. His hair was braided in dreadlocks that hung to his shoulders, which sloped away from his thick neck like the sides on a tent. One jawbone kept flexing like a roll of pennies.\n\nThe room was bare, except for a table on which a tool box and a camcorder rested. The walls and floor were constructed of rough planks, and through the screen window I could see a woods strung with air vines and dotted with palmettos and beyond the tree trunks a bay and the red sun low on the horizon. In the distance somebody was firing a shotgun, perhaps popping skeet over the water.\n\n\"Are you listening, asshole? The man says the whack goes down an inch at a time. You get to be in your own movie,\" said the short man, whom I recognized from his mug shot as Caesar Dellacroce.\n\n\"Get it over with,\" I said.\n\n\"I think if you knew what was coming, you wouldn't say that,\" Caesar said.\n\nI looked into space, my eyes slightly out of focus with fatigue and hopelessness and now resignation.\n\n\"I'm talking to you,\" Caesar said. He popped my cheek with his hand.\n\n\"I figure I'm done, so what I'm about to tell you is the truth. I didn't smoke Frank Dellacroce, but I wish I had. He was a punk and a bully and somebody should have put the electrodes on him and blown out his grits a long time ago. When you get finished with me, Clete Purcel is going to turn over every rock in New Orleans and Fort Lauderdale until he finds you, then make you wish your mother had flushed you down the toilet with the afterbirth.\"\n\nCaesar stared at me, his mouth parted slightly, his jaws slack. \"Say that again?\"\n\n\"Go fuck yourself,\" I said.\n\n\"You believe this guy?\" Caesar said to his brother. But he was clearly distracted now, not quite in charge anymore.\n\n\"We wasted too much time on this,\" Tito said reflectively. His eyes, like his brother's, were inset deeply in the skull, his nostrils flaring when he breathed, as though the plates of muscle on his chest and shoulders were squeezing the air from his lungs. \"Here's what it is, ace. You rolled the dice with the wrong guy and lost. We ain't responsible for this. So take your medicine like a man. I'll make it short and sweet as possible. You want to say anything?\"\n\n\"No,\" I replied, and fixed my gaze out the window on a watery, red sunset barely showing behind the thin trunks of trees that had already turned dark with the gloaming of the day. Tito Dellacroce pushed a sponge into my mouth with the heel of his hand, then began winding tape around my head.\n\n\"Hang on,\" Caesar said, staring out the same window but at a different angle.\n\n\"What?\" Tito said.\n\n\"There's a priest out there,\" Caesar said.\n\n\"Where?\"\n\n\"Walking down off the levee. He's carrying a briefcase. Look for yourself. He's got a bandage around his throat,\" Caesar said.\n\nTito went to the window, then pulled a curtain across it. \"You ever seen a priest around here?\" he asked.\n\n\"Yeah, lots of priests hung out at Frank's old fuck pad.\"\n\n\"His fuck pad was up the road. Our father used to take us fishing here. It ain't a fuck pad,\" Tito said.\n\n\"Enough, already. It's a priest carrying a pro-life petition around or something. It ain't a big deal,\" Caesar said.\n\n\"Get outside.\"\n\n\"Do it yourself. The mosquitoes out there eat cows for lunch.\" Caesar peeked through the side of the curtain. \"See, he's gone.\"\n\nJust as he dropped the curtain back in place someone in heavy shoes walked up on the porch and banged hard on the door. Tito and Caesar looked at each other. Then the visitor on the porch banged even harder, shaking the entire cabin. \"I'll get rid of him. Stay with asshole,\" Caesar said.\n\nHe removed a .25 caliber automatic from his side pocket, snicked a round into the chamber, set the safety, and replaced the gun in his pocket. He opened the door and stepped into the front room. Tito Dellacroce stood behind me, one huge hand resting on my shoulder, the lower portion of his stomach touching the back of the chair. I could hear him breathing and smell the food he had eaten for supper on his skin. Caesar had left the door between the rooms ajar so Tito could listen.\n\n\"What can I do for you, Father?\" I heard Caesar say.\n\nThe reply was muffled, a wheezing sound, like a man speaking through a rusty clot in his windpipe.\n\n\"What's that?\" Caesar said.\n\nThe priest tried again, his voice barely a whisper.\n\n\"You're signing up people for a retreat?\" Caesar said. \"No, we belong to a church in Florida. We're just doing some fishing. Here's five bucks for your missions or whatever. No, I don't need no holy card.\"\n\nThe priest spoke again.\n\n\"We ain't got a bathroom. Just a privy out back no white person would want to slap his keester on. Try the filling station up on the state road. Okay, vaya con dios. That's Latin for 'see you around,' right?\"\n\nA moment later Caesar came back through the door that separated the two rooms of the cabin.\n\n\"So?\" Tito said.\n\n\"So nothing. The guy had a tracheotomy or something. He sounded like all his gas was coming out the wrong end,\" Caesar said.\n\n\"Check.\"\n\n\"On what?\"\n\n\"On where he is. I got to draw a picture on your forehead?\"\n\n\"You worry too much,\" Caesar said irritably, and jerked the window curtain aside again. Then he froze. \"I told him not to go back there.\"\n\n\"Go back where?\" Tito said.\n\n\"To our privy. I told him not to do that.\"\n\n\"Give me your piece. Get away from the window,\" Tito said.\n\nThe wind gusted off the water, stressing the tin roof against the joists. Then someone stepped onto the back porch. Tito jerked the .25 caliber automatic from his brother's hand and clicked the safety off with his thumb. \"Is that you, Father? 'Cause if it is this is getting to be a headache we don't need\u2014\"\n\nThe door burst open and, framed against the light, dressed in a black suit and Roman collar and black rabat, was a compact, well-groomed man with a 1911 U.S. Army model .45 automatic in each hand.\n\n\"Oh, it's a darling pair we have here. Suck on this,\" he said. He began firing with both guns, shooting Tito in the mouth and through the throat, hitting his brother Caesar Dellacroce in the sternum and thigh.\n\nTito crashed into a wall and collapsed on his spine, his legs spread, his jaw torn loose from his head. Caesar tried to crawl away from the rounds that blew the sole of his shoe off his foot, tore through a buttock, and splattered blood off his shoulder in a horsetail on the floor.\n\nThe room was littered with ejected shell casings when Max Coll finally stopped firing. He nudged Tito in the chest with his polished shoe, satisfying himself that Tito was dead, then leaned down and studied Caesar's face. \"Oops, looks like you're still on board, little fellow,\" he said, and fired a round into the side of Caesar's head, stepping back to avoid the splatter.\n\nHe stood erect and took my measure, his cheeks rosy, a cleft in his chin slick with sweat. He pulled the sponge from my mouth. \"You all right, Mr. Robicheaux?\" he asked.\n\nMy heart was pounding, my ears almost deaf. \"Cut me loose,\" I said.\n\n\"Can't do that, sir. You're a copper through and through. You'd figure out a way to have me in cuffs for sure. Give my best to Father Dolan. He's a bit hard-headed, but under it all I think he's a fine man of the cloth. His kind make me proud I'm a Catholic,\" he said.\n\nAnd with that he was gone.\n\nFifteen minutes later three cruisers from the St. Martin Parish Sheriff's Department arrived at the fish camp, having been notified of my situation from a payphone by Max Coll.\n\n## Chapter 15\n\nOn Wednesday afternoon, after sleeping almost fifteen hours, I drove with Clete Purcel in his Caddy to City Park and sat under a barbecue pavilion in the rain on the banks of Bayou Teche.\n\n\"A guy pissed in your face?\" he said.\n\n\"No, first he pissed in my face. Then he pissed all over me,\" I replied.\n\nHe lit a Lucky Strike and spit a piece of matter off his tongue. A moment later he flipped the cigarette into the bayou and watched it float away. \"Don't let me light one of these again,\" he said.\n\n\"I won't.\"\n\n\"The Flannigan broad set you up,\" he said.\n\n\"I don't believe that.\"\n\n\"She got you out of your house and into a bar. What's that, working the Steps one drink at a time?\"\n\n\"It was my idea to go over there.\"\n\n\"Why? You got some big obligation to keep other people from drinking if they want to?\"\n\nI didn't answer. I tried to avoid his eyes. \"Are we talking about boom-boom out of times past?\" he said.\n\n\"Why don't you give some thought to the way you talk to other people, Clete?\"\n\n\"Did you ever get it on with her or not?\" he asked.\n\n\"Maybe.\"\n\n\"Maybe?\" He nodded profoundly. \"So after you made your expunch's father look like a vindictive prick in front of his friends, you don't think she would lure you to a slop chute in hopes you'd either get killed or drunk again? Perish the thought.\"\n\nI stared at the rain dimpling the surface of Bayou Teche. \"Theo isn't connected with people like Tito and Caesar Dellacroce,\" I said.\n\n\"Merchie worked for the Teamsters in Baton Rouge. They'd force guys to buy a union book, then get them fired after a month so they could crank up their membership numbers. That's how he got into the pipeline business.\"\n\n\"That doesn't mean he's mobbed up today.\"\n\n\"A guy who trucks oil waste into black neighborhoods? Not a chance. When I was a kid we had a rumble with the Ibervilles. It was supposed to be fist, feet, and elbows, no shanks, no chains. Merchie opened a switchblade and busted it off in my cousin's arm. In my opinion he's still a project street rat as well as full-time punk and gash hound. Quit defending these assholes.\"\n\n\"Gash hound?\" I said.\n\n\"Forget it, big mon. I don't want to talk about it anymore. Your head is encased in cement.\"\n\nI had long ago learned there was no point in arguing with Clete or expecting him to understand that the people he resented most were those who came from the same background he did. He pushed his porkpie hat down on his brow and stared disgustedly at the rain. \"I'm going to cripple the motherfuckers behind this, Dave. I mean that literally,\" he said.\n\nHe walked away under a dripping live oak toward his Caddy, his sports coat stretched to splitting on his huge shoulders.\n\nHe dropped me off at the house and I went inside and lay down on the bed in the back room. Earlier I said I had slept for fifteen hours. The truth is a little different. I could not rid myself of the sense of violation I had experienced at the hands of Tito and Caesar Dellacroce and the man who had urinated on me. I felt that soap could not cleanse my skin or my hair. When I closed my eyes and began to drift into sleep, I didn't dream of the Dellacroces but instead of a war few people are interested in today. I heard automatic weapons fire, the thropping of helicopter blades, and I saw strings of white light fountaining inside jungle foliage from the explosion of a phosphorus round. I felt a medic from Staten Island tying my wrists so I would not tear at the compress on my side. I smelled the odor of blood and feces in the uniforms of both the living and the dead being piled around me on the floor of an overloaded slick piloted by a nineteen-year-old warrant officer who had taken a steel splinter in one eye.\n\nSleep occurred in ten-minute intervals, and each time I awoke I wanted four inches of Black Jack straight up, vodka that had been at least twelve hours in a freezer, beer that hit the back of the throat like a spray of golden needles, yellow mescal with a thick green worm in the bottom of the bottle.\n\nAn hour after Clete had dropped me off I sat on the side of the bed with a head full of cobwebs, my mouth dry and tasting like bitters. Helen had told me not to come back to work until the following Monday. But memory was the enemy, and solitude and inactivity gave me no respite from it. I called N.O.P.D. and left a message for Clotile Arceneaux. A half hour later she called me back. \"What's happenin', baby cakes?\" she said.\n\n\"Baby cakes?\"\n\nI heard her laugh. \"What can I help you with?\" she said.\n\n\"What have you got on Merchie Flannigan?\"\n\n\"A pipeline or oil guy, grew up in the projects, did some time when he was a kid?\"\n\n\"That's the one.\"\n\n\"I'll check but I think he's pretty inactive.\"\n\n\"Clete thinks maybe Merchie and his wife might have been mixed up with the Dellacroce brothers.\"\n\n\"What about the Dellacroces?\"\n\n\"They're dead. Max Coll smoked them both.\"\n\n\"So much for inner-department communications. Coll killed them?\"\n\n\"He's posing as a priest and carrying a couple of .45 autos in a briefcase. Tito and Caesar Dellacroce abducted me. They took me to a fish camp not far from where Coll killed their cousin.\" It sounded foolish when I said it.\n\nShe paused a moment. \"What did they do to you at this fish camp?\" she asked.\n\n\"Nothing. Coll capped them.\"\n\nShe paused again and I could tell she didn't believe me. \"Let me give you a tip. Screw Max Coll and screw the Dellacroces. The issue is porn and crystal meth. Everything else is secondary. New Orleans was made for it. You with me on this?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"That's what I thought.\"\n\n\"Sorry to bother you,\" I said.\n\n\"Don't give me any of your guff, Robicheaux. You doin' okay over there?\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"'Cause you don't sound like it,\" she said.\n\nSo that's why she was undercover at N.O.P.D., I thought after I hung up. Some cops were probably on a meth pad and maybe the pornographers had gotten to a few of them, too. Porn had always been there, in one form or another, and sex and the economics of New Orleans tourism were longtime business companions. The Mob maintained they didn't traffic in porn, just as they claimed they didn't deal in narcotics. But they lied. They were involved in every pernicious enterprise in the United States, and decades ago had branched into shipping, the meat industry, and coal mining. The numbers racket used to be the lubricant that fueled and greased all their other machinery, but since state lotteries and legalized gambling had replaced numbers as their chief source of money, the progeny of Lucky Luciano and Benny Siegel had shifted gears to keep up with the times.\n\nNot only had the Internet provided huge new markets for porn producers, their businesses had a built-in edge on dope trafficking. They had the First Amendment to hide behind, and most zoning boards had no problem in allowing them to open their businesses in neighborhoods where the residents, usually the poor and elderly, had no power.\n\nThe overhead was low. Junkies, demented sluts, and perverts of every stripe couldn't wait to take off their clothes in front of the camera, convinced their acting careers were just beginning.\n\nThe subject of pornography brought to mind Fat Sammy Figorelli again. He had warned me about a man he said hurt people without cause, although Sammy, in his self-serving fashion, managed not to mention the man's name. Clete was right. I had given Sammy a free pass too long. I called Clotile Arceneaux again.\n\n\"I need a favor,\" I said.\n\n\"What kind?\"\n\n\"While my eyes were taped shut a guy urinated in my face. I think Fat Sammy Figorelli knows who he is.\"\n\n\"Say all that again?\"\n\nI did, this time in detail. She was quiet a long time. \"What do you want from me?\" she said.\n\n\"Help me jam up Sammy Fig.\"\n\n\"Can't do it.\"\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"We think Fat Sammy might be talking to us soon.\"\n\n\"As an informant?\"\n\n\"Think FBI and Witness Protection.\"\n\n\"These guys were going to burn my kite, on film, one frame at a time. I'm not too interested in hearing about federal needs right now.\"\n\n\"Too bad. Stay in New Iberia, Robicheaux. That's not just a cautionary statement, either,\" she said.\n\nThat evening I took Clete to dinner at the Patio in Loreauville. After we ate we walked to the iron bridge over Bayou Teche and stared down at the water. The sky was crimson, full of birds, the air heavy with the smell of the sugar mills grinding cane. In the distance I heard a boat horn blowing on the water.\n\n\"I'm worried about you, noble mon,\" Clete said.\n\n\"You shouldn't.\"\n\n\"You fool lots of people. But you never fool your old podjo. Tell me I'm wrong.\"\n\nI couldn't, so I changed the subject. \"Fat Sammy knows who put the hit on me,\" I said.\n\n\"I told you he was a grease bag.\"\n\n\"I need to put the squeeze on him. N.O.P.D. was no help.\"\n\n\"You mean the black broad, what's-her-name, Clotile Whatever?\"\n\n\"She's got her own problems.\"\n\n\"Save the St. Francis of Assisi routine for another time. What's today?\"\n\n\"Wednesday,\" I said.\n\nClete put a stick of gum in his mouth and looked at the shadows the trees made on the bayou's surface. \"You really want to put a freight train up Sammy's cheeks?\"\n\n\"I couldn't have said it better.\"\n\n\"Remember Janet Gish? Used to be a dancer out on Airline?\" he said.\n\n\"What about her?\"\n\n\"She was Gunner Ardoin's costar in one of Fat Sammy's films. You like Italian opera?\"\n\nDuring the next two days Clete made several phone calls to New Orleans and was mysterious about all of them. But taciturnity in Clete, at least with me, usually meant he was working on a scheme that was so outrageous no sane person would involve himself in it. No one who reviewed Clete's record could doubt his creativeness when it came to spreading mayhem and chaos wherever he went. He not only shot a federal witness to death in a hog lot, he filled a New Orleans' gangster's vintage convertible with cement, destroyed a half-million-dollar home out on Lake Pontchartrain with an earth grader, pinned a hitman on the floor of the Greyhound depot's men's room and poured the contents of a liquid soap container down his throat, dropped a Teamster steward off a fourth-floor hotel balcony into a dry swimming pool, handcuffed a U.S. congressman to a fire hydrant on St. Charles, cuffed a dirty cop to the conveyor chain in a car-wash and hot-wax machine, and was believed to have put sand in the fuel tank of an airplane that crashed and exploded in the mountains of western Montana, stringing the spruce trees with the remains of several Galveston and Las Vegas mobsters.\n\nHe considered his own behavior perfectly reasonable and did many of the above deeds and others that were worse with a lopsided grin on his face, thinking them hardly worthy of mention.\n\nHis best friends were drunks, grifters, and brain-fried street people, his girlfriends strippers and junkies. Gangbangers, pushers, strong-arm robbers, and dirty cops crossed the street when they saw him coming. He swallowed his blood and ate his pain and never flinched in a fight, no matter what his adversaries did to him. He was the bravest and most loyal man I ever knew, and also the most irreverent, reckless, irresponsible, and self-destructive.\n\nI tried not to think of how Janet Gish could be a player in Clete's plan to jam up Fat Sammy Figorelli. Friday evening I found out.\n\nHe told me to meet him in Metairie, in front of a rented hall on the edge of a middle-class neighborhood. Metairie had become a white-flight refuge during the mass exodus from New Orleans in the 1970s, known for its strict law-and-order attitudes and the distinction of having given David Duke his start in the state legislature.\n\nI waited for Clete in the parking lot, the sky ribbed with strips of pink cloud, the trees ruffling in the yards of the modest homes beyond a shopping mall, the rental hall filling with families dressed as though they were going to church. The scene made me think of Levittown but not in a bad way. The rental hall, with its gravel roof and artificial brick shell, seemed to transcend its own cheapness, like an excursion back into an earlier era when American neighborhoods had sidewalks and were defined by their sense of community and generational continuity.\n\nI looked again at my watch. Where was Clete? The light was fading, the air growing cold. From inside the hall I could hear someone adjusting the volume on a microphone. Then I saw Clete's lavender Cadillac coming hard down the street, the front and back seats packed with people, slowing down for a stop sign just before he bounced into the parking lot, dust and exhaust fumes rising like a dirty halo from the car frame. When he cut the engine the entire car body seemed to gasp and shrivel like an animal that had been mortally wounded. The windows were open and I could smell a heady, thick odor, like burning leaves, drifting out on the wind, then someone flicked a marijuana roach sparking onto the pavement.\n\nClete got out of the car and closed the door behind him, then leaned down to the window. \"Crack open another six-pack and go easy on the stash. I'll be right back,\" he said.\n\n\"Where's the fucking opera? You said we were gonna see an opera,\" a woman in back said.\n\n\"I've got reserved seats. Trust me. Just be cool. Everything's copacetic,\" he replied.\n\nHe walked past me, so I would have to follow him, out of earshot of the people in the car. He lifted his shirt off his chest and sniffed at it. \"Do I smell like a whorehouse?\" he asked.\n\n\"What's going on?\" I said.\n\n\"Fat Sammy belongs to this group of amateur opera singers. They perform once a month at the hall. It's Ozzie and Harriet night by way of Palermo. The archbishop is a big fan and sits up on the front row. Starting to get the picture?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"You want to squeeze Fat Sammy, forget conventional methods. Sammy's a geek and closet pervert who always wanted people to like him. So he comes out here and pretends he's a normal member of the human race. That's about to end.\"\n\n\"Who's in the car?\"\n\n\"Janet Gish and Big Tit Judy Lavelle and four others who got bonds with Willie Bimstine and Nig Rosewater. Either Sammy gives up the guy who put the whack on you or I'm marching all of them right up the front aisle and turning them loose.\"\n\n\"This doesn't sound too good, Clete.\"\n\n\"Oh, Sammy Fig as victim, I forgot. Every one of those broads has worked in either his porn films or his massage parlor. Ask them how they like giving twenty-dollar blowjobs to conventioneers from Birmingham.\"\n\nI walked back to the Cadillac and looked inside. \"How y'all doin'?\" I said.\n\n\"Hey, Robicheaux, Clete say you taking us to supper at Galatoire's,\" a black woman in shades said. She called herself Cody Wyoming, although she had grown up on Prytania Street in New Orleans, not far from where Lillian Hellman was born.\n\n\"He hasn't filled me in on that yet,\" I replied.\n\n\"You might be getting old, Streak, but I bet you still got the thrust under the hood,\" she said. Everybody in the car roared.\n\nI walked back to Clete. \"Galatoire's?\" I said.\n\n\"Nig and Willie owe me a thousand for running down a skip in Mobile. Except they say they don't owe me anything because I told Willie to write the bond on this guy when I knew he was mainlining six balloons a day. So I told them they pay for the dinner at Galatoire's, I tell the girls it's on Willie and Nig, which means they'll tell all the other hookers in New Orleans Willie and Nig are great guys, and we call it even.\"\n\n\"I don't think this is going to work.\"\n\n\"It'll work. Ever hear that story about Sammy taking a girl to the Prytania and a bunch of kids in the balcony hitting them with water bombs made from condoms? I was one of the kids in the balcony. I guess I'm sorry for what we did, but that's the way it was back then. Come on, Streak, this is the life we chose.\"\n\nOn that note I walked through the double doors of the hall into the heart of middle America, cloistered, far from the inner city, passenger jets decelerating overhead as they approached the airport, a bustling shopping mall close by, and a freeway streaming with headlights to reassure everyone God was in His heaven and all was right with the world.\n\nClete had not lied to Janet Gish and her friends about reserved seating. Eight folding metal chairs in the front row remained empty, a program resting on the seat of each one. Otherwise the house was packed. Sammy Figorelli stood resplendent on the stage with his fellow singers, beaming, stuffed inside a summer tux, the footlights surrounded by bouquets of plastic flowers. Clete took out his cell phone and pushed a button on the speed dial.\n\n\"I'm down in front, Janet. I'll wave to you when I'm sure we've got the right seats. Yeah, wait for me to wave. It's mass confusion here,\" he said, and clicked off his phone.\n\nBy now Sammy had seen us and was watching us out of the corner of his eye while he tried to hold a conversation with the other singers. Clete mounted the wood steps that led onto the stage as though he were part of the production, stepping carefully over the plastic flowers clumped around the footlights. \"Got a second, Mr. Figorelli?\" he said.\n\nFat Sammy walked toward him, his eyes like hot BBs. \"What do you think you're doing, Purcel?\" he asked.\n\n\"Check out the ladies in the doorway at the back of the hall. They've been doing a little weed, so I hope they don't get too giggly,\" Clete replied.\n\nSammy stared at the back of the hall like a man witnessing the erection of his own gallows. His cheeks bladed with color and pinpoints of sweat popped on his forehead. He labored down the steps, forcing Clete to follow him. \"You get rid of them people,\" he said hoarsely.\n\n\"And miss the reception afterwards? You kidding? Can we get introductions to the archbishop?\" Clete said.\n\n\"What are you after?\" Sammy said, his breath coated with funk.\n\n\"Give us the name of the guy who sicced the Dellacroces on Dave.\"\n\nSammy's face was shiny with a greasy film now, his boutonniere like a red wound on his jacket. \"You got no right to do this to me, Purcel,\" he said.\n\n\"I'm counting to three, then waving Janet Gish into action.\"\n\n\"The guy's out there now, you dumb Mick.\"\n\n\"Where?\" Clete said, twisting his head to survey the crowd.\n\n\"Don't do that. You're gonna get me clipped,\" Sammy said.\n\n\"I don't see anybody out there I know. Do you, Dave?\"\n\n\"We're done here,\" I said.\n\n\"No, no. Sammy's going to give us a name,\" Clete replied, waving a finger.\n\n\"Sammy's going down with the ship. Right, Sammy?\" I said.\n\nBut Sammy Fig's embarrassment was such he could no longer speak. In fact, I thought he was on the edge of having a coronary attack. The fatty layer under his chin trembled, his chest heaved, and sweat ran like hair oil into his shirt collar. I was convinced, at that moment, that inside every adult human being the child was still present, in this case an obese little boy struggling to free himself from the metal coils of a tuba while a packed football stadium laughed at his discomfort.\n\n\"We're going to boogie. Tell the guy who pissed on me I'll be looking him up,\" I said.\n\n\"You already burned me. Y'all don't know what you've done,\" Sammy said.\n\n\"That's the breaks. Anything else happens to Dave, I'm going to see you first. That means you're going to be the deadest douche bag in New Orleans,\" Clete said, jabbing Sammy in the chest with his finger.\n\nWe left Sammy standing numb and shaken in front of his audience and rounded up Janet Gish and her friends and headed for Galatoire's on Bourbon Street.\n\nOn the way out of the rental hall I searched the crowd for a familiar face, one that might belong to the man who had crisscrossed me from head to foot with his urine. But if he was there, I did not see him.\n\n\"You blew it, Dave. Fat Sammy would have cracked,\" Clete said later.\n\n\"What did Sammy do when you and your friends threw waterbomb condoms at him and his girlfriend?\" I said.\n\nWe were coming out of Galatoire's, into the pre-Christmas holiday atmosphere of late-night Bourbon Street. The street was loud with music, the neon like purple and pink angel hair inside the fog blowing off the river. \"He cried and came at us with both fists,\" Clete said.\n\n\"He's still the same kid.\"\n\n\"All of us are. Except Fat Sammy became a pimp and dope pusher. It's only rock 'n' roll, Dave. Everybody dies. Go with the flow and try to have a few laughs,\" Clete said. He propped his shoe on a fire hydrant and buffed the tip with a cloth napkin he had taken from the restaurant.\n\n## Chapter 16\n\nI went back to work Monday morning. I took a legal pad from my desk drawer and wrote Junior Crudup's name at the top of it, then drew a circle around it. This is where it had all started, I thought, both for me and the LeJeune family. Under Junior's name I wrote the names of Castille LeJeune, Theodosha, Merchie, and Theodosha's psychiatrist in Lafayette, the man who supposedly committed suicide.\n\nThen I angled a line from Castille LeJeune's name to the names of Will Guillot and the dead daiquiri shop operator and Dr. Parks, who had died in Will Guillot's driveway.\n\nTo one side I placed the names of the New Orleans players\u2014Father Jimmie Dolan, Max Coll, the Dellacroce family, and Gunner Ardoin, the part-time porn actor.\n\nThe connections between the names and the deeds associated with them seemed byzantine on the surface, but for me the answers in the investigation lay in the past and the key was still the first name on the page, Junior Crudup.\n\nHelen opened my office door. \"The Lafayette Sheriff's Department just called. Get this,\" she said. \"The archdiocese is having a clerical conference of some kind. One of the out-of-towners happened to be an Irish priest. His jokes were a big hit. Then a pistol fell out of his shoulder bag in the lobby of the Holiday Inn.\"\n\n\"Our man Max?\"\n\n\"What's with this guy?\"\n\n\"He's nuts.\"\n\n\"That's the best you can do?\"\n\n\"Got a better explanation? Where'd he go?\"\n\n\"They don't know. They think he was driving a rental.\"\n\n\"He'll be back.\"\n\n\"You sound almost happy.\"\n\n\"He saved my life. Maybe he has redeeming qualities,\" I said, grinning at her.\n\n\"The guy who said 'suck on this' and blew away two people?\"\n\n\"It's only rock 'n' roll,\" I said.\n\n\"Fire your psychiatrist,\" she said, and closed the door.\n\nI studied the names and lines on my notepad. Years ago, after the murder of my wife Annie, I went twice a week to sessions with an analytically oriented therapist in Lafayette. He was one of those who believed most aberrations in behavior and personality development were caused by fairly obvious dysfunctions in the patient's environment. The problem in treating them, he maintained, was that they were so obvious the patient usually would not buy the connection between the cause and the problem.\n\nTheodosha had told me her husband, Merchie, was having what she called another flop in the hay and that she couldn't blame him for it. I took that to mean she had a sexual problem of her own, one that had sent her husband elsewhere. But I also remembered a remark our dispatcher Wally had made about Merchie Flannigan, as well as one made by Clete Purcel.\n\nI walked up front and leaned on the half-door that enclosed Wally in the dispatcher's cage. He was writing on a clipboard, the top of his head and his neatly parted, little-boy haircut bent down. His shirt pocket was stuffed with cellophane-wrapped cigars. \"What chu want, Dave?\" he asked without looking up.\n\n\"You told me Merchie Flannigan was a bum, that he was a guy you never liked. Let's clear that up,\" I said.\n\n\"So I got a big mout',\" he replied.\n\n\"This is part of a murder investigation, Wally. I'm not going to ask you again.\"\n\n\"He's got a wife, but he messes around on the side.\"\n\n\"A lot of men do.\"\n\n\"He was driving my wife's niece home. She was working at his office in Lafayette. She was seventeen years old at the time. He axed her if she wanted to go swimming at his club. It was late and the club was closed, but he said it didn't matter 'cause he had a key and the owner and him was golf buddies. She didn't have a suit, but he said that wasn't no problem 'cause they'd get one from behind the counter and put it on his tab.\n\n\"There wasn't no lights on in the pool when she came out of the dressing room. She started swimming back and fort' across the shallow end, then he come up to her and axed her if she could swim on her back. She said she always got water up her nose, and he says just turn over and rest on my hands and I'll show you how to do it.\"\n\nI waited for him to go on but he didn't.\n\n\"What happened?\" I said.\n\n\"He tole her how pretty she was, how she had to be careful about young boys only got one thing on their mind. She tole him she was cold and she better go back inside and get dressed. He said it was okay, they'd come back another time, that she was the prettiest girl he'd ever seen.\"\n\nHe stopped again, ticking his pencil on the clipboard, looking at nothing.\n\n\"That was it?\" I said.\n\n\"It was enough for her daddy. He was gonna go over to Flannigan's house and break his jaw but his wife hid the car keys. So the next morning he walked into Flannigan's office and made sure the door was open so everybody could hear it and tole him his daughter wouldn't be coming back to work no more.\"\n\n\"Thanks, Wally.\"\n\n\"What do I know?\" he said.\n\nA lot, I thought.\n\nI went back to my office and started in on the paperwork that had built up during the days I was off. The phone on my desk rang.\n\n\"Tell me what I'm hearing isn't true,\" the voice of Clotile Arceneaux said.\n\n\"I'm not too keen on rumors.\"\n\n\"Did you and your buddy Purcel brace Sammy Fig out in Metairie Friday night?\"\n\n\"Maybe.\"\n\n\"Some federal agents are seriously pissed off about this, as well as somebody else, meaning myself. What gives you the right to go into another jurisdiction and intimidate other people's witnesses?\"\n\n\"I don't read it that way.\"\n\n\"Well, read this. Sammy Fig thinks either I or federal agents gave you information that sent you over to Metairie. He says he'll no longer be cooperating with us and we can shove Witness Protection up our ass.\"\n\n\"That's the way it flushes sometimes.\"\n\n\"I love your metaphors. I even like you. But right now I'd like to push you off a tall building.\"\n\n\"Where's Sammy now?\"\n\n\"I left that part out, did I? We have no idea. Gone. My guess is he's gonna try to take it to them before they get to him first.\"\n\n\"Take it to whom?\"\n\n\"To whom? I love talking to cops who need to show me how educated they are. How would we know, since eighteen months of casework just got dumped in the toilet? You're something else, Robicheaux. I hope you come out of this all right, but remind me to be on vacation the next time I catch a case you're involved with. Did you and Purcel really take a bunch of hookers to Galatoire's?\"\n\n\"I think we've got a bad connection. Let me call you back later.\"\n\n\"Not necessary. I've had all the horse shit I can take in one day,\" she said.\n\nTop that.\n\nAt noon I signed out of the office and drove up the bayou to Hogman Patin's house. He was building a chicken coop under a pecan tree in his side yard and pretended not to see me when I turned into the drive. He slipped his hammer through a hole in a leather pouch on his belt, looking intently at his creation, then walked around the back of his house, out of sight.\n\nI left my truck on top of the oyster-shell drive, the engine ticking with heat, and followed him. He was sitting on his steps, his big hands cupped on his knees, the knife scars on his arms like the backs of worms that had burrowed under the skin. The sun's reflection wobbled brightly on the bayou's surface, but he stared at it without blinking. \"Ain't goin' to let the past alone, are you?\" he said.\n\n\"You have to confront it to get rid of it, Hogman,\" I replied.\n\n\"I done tole you almost all I know. Why don't you let it be?\"\n\n\"What happened to Jackson Posey, the guard who had to keep taking Junior up to Miss Andrea's house?\"\n\n\"Cancer eat him up. Heard he died at Charity Hospital in Lafayette. Died hard, too.\"\n\nI picked up a handful of moldy pecans from a shady, damp area and began chunking them into the bayou. \"You've never told anybody why you made a bottle tree in your backyard, have you?\" I said.\n\n\"Ain't nobody else's bidness.\"\n\n\"You're a religious man, Hogman. Each one of those bottles represents a different prayer. Every time the wind makes the glass sing in the branches, a prayer goes up from each of those bottles, doesn't it?\"\n\nHe lowered his eyes and pared one of his fingernails with a toothpick. \"What a man do in his home is what he do in his home,\" he said.\n\n\"You helping cover up a murder, Hogman.\"\n\n\"Ain't right you talk to me like that, Dave. No, suh.\"\n\n\"Maybe not. But why do you want to protect the LeJeune family?\"\n\n\"I ain't seen what happened after I left the camp. Cain't tell you about what I ain't seen. Don't want to tell you about what I ain't seen, either.\"\n\n\"Somebody saw. Somebody knows.\"\n\nHe breathed hard through his nose, his nostrils flaring in his frustration with me and his own conscience. The wind was cool and wrinkled the bayou's surface, and Hogman's bottle tree rang like spoons clinking on crystal. \"There's a man down at Pecan Island stacked time in the same camps as me and Junior. He was a check writer and used to carry the water can when we road-ganged. Him and his gran'daughter sell crabs and vegetables off a truck out on the state road. His name is Woodrow Reed.\"\n\n\"How does he feel about talking to a white man?\"\n\n\"He don't care what color you are. He climbed up on a power pole to get a cat down and got 'lectrocuted. His eyes cooked in his head. You'll t'ink he's looking at you but don't no light go t'rew his eyes. His eyes scare people. Maybe that's why ain't nobody ever been around axing Woodrow questions about what he seen.\"\n\nI drove back to New Iberia and on south of Abbeville, where sugarcane acreage gave way to sawgrass and clumps of gum trees and the miles of wetlands that bled into the Gulf of Mexico, forming the watery, ill-defined coastline of southwest Louisiana. I crossed a bridge onto one of the few remaining barrier islands left in Louisiana, a reef composed of hard-packed shell ground up by the tides, the crest topped with alluvial soil that is among the richest in the western hemisphere. The adjacent islands had been dredged and scooped out of the surf and hauled away on barges decades ago for highway-construction material, but portions of Pecan Island, preserved largely by an oil corporation as a recreational area for its CEOs, contains wooded acreage where the canopy of live oaks rises perhaps two hundred feet into the sky and the sunlight breaking through the moss and branches and air vines is the same color as light filtering through green water in the Florida Keys.\n\nIn the midst of duck-hunting camps with wide, screened-in porches and adjacent boathouses was the tiny vegetable farm and blue-point crab business of Woodrow Reed. Stacks upon stacks of collapsible wire crab traps, webbed with dried river trash, stood by the side of his small, paintless house. A middle-aged black woman was chopping up nutria parts on a butcher block a short distance away, the rubber gloves on her hands spotted with brown matter.\n\nWoodrow Reed's eyes were large, round and flat, unblinking, like painted facsimiles that had been cut out of paper and pasted on the face of a mannikin. They stared at me intently, the pupils dilated and black, although it was obvious Woodrow Reed was sightless.\n\n\"I'm Dave Robicheaux, with the Iberia Parish Sheriff's Department,\" I said. I opened my badge holder and held it aloft so the middle-aged woman in the side yard could see it.\n\n\"I knowed you was coming,\" he said, rising from where he sat on the front steps.\n\n\"Hogman called you?\" I said.\n\n\"Yeah, but he didn't have to. I knowed somebody was coming one day. Want to come in, suh?\" He opened the rusted screen door to his front porch and waited for me to enter.\n\nHe could not have been over five feet. His skin was the color of a razor strop that has yellowed with wear, his body compressed and hard looking, his cheeks and chin scrolled with gray whiskers. But I could not get over his eyes. I had seen eyes like his only once before, in the body of a man who had been exhumed from a grave in northern Montana where he had lain for decades under frozen ground.\n\n\"How'd you come by your farm, Mr. Reed?\" I asked.\n\n\"You already know the answer to that.\"\n\n\"Can you tell me how Junior Crudup died?\" I asked.\n\nWoodrow Reed was sitting on what looked like a motion-picture theater seat mounted on a wood block, his palms propped on his thighs. His denim pants were neatly pressed, the cuffs and pockets buttoned on his long-sleeve work shirt.\n\n\"The doctor give me another year. I already put my farm in my daughter's name. Ain't a whole lot can touch me no more. I got cancer, just like Jackson Posey, although I never smoked like he did or had no problems with my skin,\" he said.\n\n\"Tell me about Junior, sir.\"\n\n\"Junior was gonna be Junior. He didn't wear no other man's hat. That was Junior,\" he said. For the first time he smiled.\n\nIn the waning days of summer, when the amber light at evening turned the countryside into a yellowing antique photograph, Junior Crudup took his twelve-string Stella guitar out on the steps of the cabin in the work camp and began composing a song whose lyrics he penciled on a paper bag flattened down on the board plank beside him.\n\n\"What you calling your song?\" Woodrow asked, sitting down next to him in the dusk.\n\n\"'The Angel of Work Camp Number Nine,'\" Junior replied.\n\nWoodrow rubbed the whiskers that grew like black wire on his chin. \"T'ink that's a good idea, Junior?\" he asked.\n\n\"Gonna record it up in Memphis one day. You gonna see,\" Junior replied.\n\n\"I seen her car out here last night. Parked right there on the road. She was smoking a cigarette behind the wheel and playing the radio in the dark.\"\n\n\"You better not be fooling with me, Woodrow.\"\n\n\"It was her. Cap'n Posey walked up to her window and axed if anyt'ing was wrong. She said she was just taking a drive. Then she drove on down the road toward the li'l sto' by the bridge. A li'l while later I seen her drive on back to the big house. She was drinking a bottle of beer, tilting her chin up each time she took a sip.\"\n\n\"Why didn't you come get me?\"\n\n\"You spent too much time up Nort', Junior. You're having t'oughts ain't no nigger in Lou'sana ought to be having.\"\n\n\"Maybe it was that way at first. But not now. You know what she got that make her special?\"\n\n\"Her tits ain't bad.\"\n\n\"Don't be talking that way, Woodrow. She's special 'cause she got respect for other people.\"\n\nJunior adjusted the belly of his guitar on his thigh and slipped his three steel finger picks on his right hand, then corded the neck of the guitar and began singing:\n\nAt Camp Number Nine it's \"Roll, nigger, roll,\n\nNo heaven for you, boy, the state own your soul.\"\n\nThey took my home and family,\n\nGive me chains, fatside, and beans,\n\nBossman making me a Christian,\n\nGod Almighty, hear that Betty scream.\n\n\"You risking your ass for somebody don't know you alive,\" Woodrow said.\n\n\"Rich ladies like that got all kinds of things they got to do, places they got to travel to, Woodrow. She cain't be coming down here all the time.\"\n\n\"Don't let Boss Posey hear that song.\"\n\n\"When she invites me back up to the house?\" Junior said.\n\n\"Yeah?\"\n\n\"That's the first song I'm gonna play.\"\n\nThere was drought in the fall and the fields hardened and cracked under a merciless sun and an empty sky that by noon was like white glass. The leaves of the cane baked in the wind and frayed into thread on the ends and rattled dryly on the stalks, and by evening the sky was cinnamon colored with dust and the convicts filling mule-drawn water tanks with buckets they flung into the bayou on ropes had to tie wet handkerchiefs across their nostrils and mouths. To conserve water the convicts bathed in the bayou, then sat listlessly on the porches of their cabins until lock-up. Every third or fourth evening, while the cicadas sang in a grove of cedar trees near the camp, Junior worked on the song he was composing in tribute to Andrea LeJeune, waiting for the invitation to play on her lawn again, telling himself she was contacting the governor and that any day a parole order for his release would be delivered at the camp's front gate.\n\nAt bell count on a September morning Jackson Posey saw the folded brown paper sack covered with penciled lyrics sticking from Junior's back pocket.\n\n\"What you got there, Junior?\" he asked.\n\nThe early sun was already a dull red inside the dust blowing out of the fields. At the bottom of the slope that led down to the bayou, the water was low and swarming with gnats, algae-webbed snags protruding from the surface, all of it smelling of dead fish that lay bloated and fly-specked on the banks.\n\n\"Just li'l notes I keep for myself, boss,\" Junior replied.\n\n\"Let's see it,\" Jackson Posey said, fitting a pair of glasses on his nose. He took the bag from Junior's fingers and studied the words on it, his lips moving slightly as he read. The sores on his arms seemed deeper, more black than purple now. His eyes fixed on Junior's. \"You got Camp Number Nine in here?\" he said.\n\n\"Yes, suh.\"\n\n\"Camp Number Nine is us.\"\n\n\"It is and it ain't, boss.\"\n\nThe guard read both sides of the paper bag, then shook a Camel loose from his cigarette pack and slipped it into his mouth. He laughed to himself and handed the song lyrics back to Junior. \"I ain't a big judge of poetry, but I'd say keep this one.\"\n\n\"Thank you, suh.\"\n\n\"To wipe yourself with. You never cease to entertain me, Junior,\" Posey added.\n\nAt morning bell count two days later Andrea LeJeune got out of her Ford convertible at the camp's front gate, wearing a polka-dot sun dress and dark glasses and a blue bandanna tied tightly on her head, the wind whipping her dress around her legs.\n\n\"We're taking Junior to a recording studio in Crowley, Mr. Posey. Make sure he brings his guitar and his harmonica and a sack lunch. Y'all will follow me in your truck,\" she said.\n\nJackson Posey involuntarily looked toward the big house. \"Mr. LeJeune at home, ma'am?\" he asked.\n\n\"No, he's not, and I resent your asking,\" she replied.\n\nJunior wrapped his Stella in a blanket, tied string around the belly and the neck, and slipped his E-major Marine Band harmonica in his shirt pocket. Before they left the camp, Posey put chains on Junior's ankles and handcuffs on his wrists, and set the guitar in the bed of the truck. As they drove away Junior looked out the back window at his friend Woodrow flinging a bucket into the bayou on a rope under the gaze of a mounted gunbull.\n\nThen Junior and Jackson Posey were on the highway, driving through a long tunnel of oak trees behind Andrea LeJeune's purple convertible, the broken sunlight flicking by overhead, the wind cool in their faces.\n\n\"You gonna make the big time, huh?\" Posey said.\n\n\"Don't know about that, suh.\"\n\n\"Think it's coincidence she's taking you to Crowley?\"\n\n\"I ain't following you, boss.\"\n\n\"That's where she meets a man I wouldn't take time to spit on. Castille LeJeune should have invested some of his money in a chastity belt. Know the difference between rich people and us?\" Posey said.\n\n\"No, suh,\" Junior answered.\n\n\"They don't get caught.\"\n\nWhen they pulled into the Crowley town square Andrea LeJeune parked her car next to one of the old elevated sidewalks and went inside the dime store, one with a popcorn machine in front, to use the pay telephone. Then they drove out into the countryside again, through rice fields that were separated by hedgerows, to a white-painted, flat-top building constructed entirely of cinder blocks that was located inside a grove of cedar and pine trees like a machine-gun bunker.\n\nThis was the same primitive studio where a few years later Warren Storm and Lazy Lester would record and Phil Phillips would cut the master for \"Sea of Love,\" which would sell over one million copies. The equipment was prewar junk, the resonator for Junior's acoustic Stella a chunk of storm sewer pipe with a microphone on the other end. But each person working in the studio knew who Junior Crudup was, and his identity as both a black man and a convict seemed to melt away as the session progressed.\n\nHe recorded eight pieces, the last of which was \"The Angel of Work Camp Number Nine.\" As he sang the lyrics he looked through a greasy side window and saw her by the front fender of her convertible, talking to a tall white man who had just gotten out of an Oldsmobile with grillwork that resembled chromium teeth. The white man was thin, dark haired, his crisp shirt tucked tightly inside his seersucker slacks. He rested one foot on the bumper of his car and removed a blade of grass from the tip of his two-tone shoe, then took his car keys from his pocket and inserted his finger through the ring and spun them in the air.\n\nHe drove away toward town in his Oldsmobile and Andrea LeJeune followed him. Junior's voice broke in the middle of his song and he had to start again.\n\nLater, Junior and Jackson Posey rode back through the town square of Crowley, past the colonnaded storefronts and tree-shaded elevated sidewalks inset with iron tethering rings, past the dime store with a popcorn machine in front from which Andrea had made a phone call.\n\nJunior was hunched forward on the seat, his wrists cuffed, the chain between his ankles vibrating with the motion of the truck, his expression concealed from Jackson Posey.\n\n\"I'll show you something,\" Posey said, and cut down a side street and out onto a state road, past a shady motor court that featured a swimming pool in back and a supper club in front. Posey slowed the truck so he and Junior could have a clear view of the stucco cottages inside the trellised entrance.\n\n\"Don't need to be seeing none of this, boss,\" Junior said.\n\n\"There's his Oldsmobile. There's her little Ford. What do you reckon he's doing to her right now?\"\n\nJunior stared at the tops of his cuffed hands and did not speak again until they were back at the camp.\n\nBut his day was not over. Just after supper Jackson Posey came for him again. \"She wants to see you,\" he said.\n\n\"Wore out, boss.\"\n\nHe was alone, sitting on an upended Coca-Cola box in the corner of the dirt yard, next to the fence topped by five strands of barbed wire tilted back at an inward angle, his guitar still wrapped with a blanket and tied with string on top of his bunk inside. The sun was only a smudge on the western horizon and the lilac-colored sky throbbed with the droning of cicadas.\n\n\"Get your skinny ass up before I kick it up between your shoulder blades,\" Posey said. \"One other thing?\"\n\n\"What's that, boss?\"\n\n\"You tell her I drove you past that motor court today, I'm gonna take you out to a stump, nail your balls to it, and leave you there with a knife. Ain't storying to you, Junior. I seen my daddy do it when I was a boy,\" Posey said.\n\nBut Junior did not get up from the Coca-Cola box. \"I ain't playing no more today,\" he said.\n\nPosey raised his fist and knocked him to the ground.\n\n\"Whup me or put me on the bucket. I ain't going to play no more,\" Junior said.\n\n\"I don't have to whup you. I'm gonna do it to Woodrow Reed instead,\" Posey said.\n\nOn the way to the house of Castille and Andrea LeJeune, Junior wondered what he had done in this world to earn the grief that seemed to be his daily lot.\n\nHe waited on the patio with his guitar and harmonica for Andrea LeJeune to come downstairs and through the French doors. When she emerged she was still wearing the polka-dot dress she had worn earlier. Her face looked haggard, somehow thinner in the evening light.\n\n\"I wanted you to know the producer at the studio called to say how thrilled he was. I'm just sorry I didn't get to hear you perform,\" she said.\n\n\"I understand, ma'am,\" he replied.\n\n\"I have to go away, Junior. But I'm going to do everything I can to see you released from prison. What happened to your head?\"\n\n\"Fell down the steps,\" he replied, his face empty.\n\nShe gave a long, hard look at Jackson Posey standing by the pickup truck in the driveway. \"Come in the house,\" she said.\n\n\"That ain't a good idea, Miss Andrea,\" Junior said.\n\nShe walked to the edge of the drive. \"Mr. Posey, Junior is coming into the living room for a few minutes. We're not to be disturbed,\" she said.\n\n\"I cain't allow that, ma'am.\"\n\n\"You can't what?\" she said.\n\nShe stared him down, then turned on her heel and marched inside her house, curling one finger for Junior to follow her.\n\n\"Sit down,\" she said.\n\n\"Miss Andrea, Boss Posey ain't an ordinary man,\" Junior said.\n\n\"I'm going to call every week and have someone check on you. You have nothing to be afraid of.\"\n\n\"It don't work like that.\"\n\nShe sat down in an antique chair with an egg-shaped crimson pad inset in the back and folded her hands in her lap. \"The producer said you wrote a song called 'The Angel of Camp Number Nine.' Is that about me?\"\n\nHe hesitated, then said, \"Yes, ma'am, I reckon it is.\"\n\n\"That's one of the most touching compliments I've ever received. I'd appreciate it very much if you'd play it.\"\n\nHe slipped the guitar over his neck and began to sing:\n\nWhite coke and a red moon sent me down,\n\nJudge say ninety-nine years, son, you Angola bound,\n\nIt's the Red Hat Gang from cain't-see to cain't-see,\n\nThe gunbulls say there the graveyard, boy,\n\nIf you wants to be free.\n\nLady with roses in her hair come to Camp Number Nine,\n\nSay you ain't got to stack no mo' Lou'sana time,\n\nGonna carry you up to Memphis in a rubber-tired hack,\n\nBuy you whiskey, cigars, and an oxblood Stetson hat.\n\nMiss Andrea is an angel drive a li'l purple car,\n\nLive on cigarettes, radio, and a blues man's guitar\u2014\n\nEven before he looked through the front window and saw the automobile of Castille LeJeune approaching the house, he knew there was something terribly wrong. Andrea LeJeune's face seemed repelled, as though someone had touched it with a soiled hand.\n\n\"You don't need to sing anymore,\" she said.\n\n\"Ma'am?\"\n\n\"What you've done is very nice, but I don't think this song needs to be recorded.\"\n\n\"I don't rightly understand,\" he said.\n\n\"This particular composition would probably be better deleted from your recording session. I think that's clear enough, isn't it?\"\n\nHe felt his mouth pucker as though a nerve ending had been cut in his face. From outside he heard a car door slam, then footsteps on the gallery. He lowered his eyes. \"Why ain't it supposed to be recorded?\" he asked.\n\n\"I don't think I should have to explain that to you,\" she replied.\n\nHis throat felt as though he had swallowed a handful of needles. \"I'm ready for Boss Posey to take me back now,\" he said. He pulled the Marine Band harmonica from his shirt pocket and set it on a flower-patterned couch by the French doors.\n\n\"I'm not in the habit of having people return gifts to me,\" she said.\n\n\"I'd really appreciate it, ma'am, I mean appreciate more than anything else in the world, if you could just yell at Boss Posey for me, tell him I'se on my way,\" Junior said.\n\nJust then Castille LeJeune opened the front door and walked into the living room, a Panama hat hanging from his fingertips, his mouth twisted in an incredulous smile.\n\n\"Please explain it to me, or I'll have to conclude I've either lost my mind or walked into the wrong house,\" he said.\n\nI heard the cell phone ring on the front seat of my truck. I went outside and picked it up.\n\n\"Where are you?\" Helen Soileau's voice said.\n\n\"Pecan Island.\"\n\n\"What are you doing at Pecan Island?\"\n\n\"Interviewing a man who did time with Junior Crudup.\"\n\nShe exhaled her breath into the phone. \"We've got a submerged car in West Cote Blanche Bay. The driver's still in there. A witness says he heard firecrackers going off before the car went into the water. Then the car drove off a pier.\"\n\n\"How about sending someone else?\"\n\n\"Dave, your separate itinerary ends right now. Get your butt over there.\"\n\n\"Soon as I can,\" I said.\n\n\"Not good enough.\"\n\nI turned off the ringer on the cell and went back inside to finish my interview with Woodrow Reed.\n\n## Chapter 17\n\nMr. LeJeune and Miss Andrea had a big fight that night,\" Woodrow said.\n\n\"How do you know?\"\n\n\"My cousin was the maid. She tole me later, that was after I was out of the joints, she tole me Mr. LeJeune went crazy that night. He picked up Miss Andrea's clothes off the flo' and smelled them.\"\n\n\"He did what?\"\n\n\"He smelled her clothes and knowed she was messing around on him. He was yelling all over the house, saying his wife went to bed wit' a nigger. My cousin was so scared she run out the do' and hid in the trees down by the bayou. She said Mr. Castille come crashing out of the house and drove his car down to the work camp.\"\n\n\"Looking for Junior?\"\n\n\"No, suh. He was after Boss Posey. A man like Castille LeJeune don't go after a nigger convict. It was Boss Posey he took it out on.\"\n\n\"I don't understand. Jackson Posey knew Junior was innocent, that Andrea LeJeune was having an affair with a man in Crowley.\"\n\n\"What was Boss Posey gonna say? 'Your wife been sleeping wit' another white man and I knowed about it and I ain't said nothing'? Boss Posey was caught, just like Junior. Boss Posey was gonna save his job and his ass only way he knew how.\"\n\nWoodrow Reed stopped his account, his hands fixed rigidly on his thighs, staring at me with his flat, sightless eyes. The pupils were overly large, like black dimes, as though they contained thoughts and remembered images that were bursting inside his head.\n\n\"Save his ass how, Woodrow?\" I said.\n\n\"I got great shame about this, Mr. Robicheaux. The story of Judas ain't only in the Bible. Thirty pieces of silver can come to you in lots of ways.\"\n\nHe looked at me a long time while fireflies sparked in the darkness outside and moths thudded softly against the screens, then he told me the rest of it.\n\nTwo weeks passed at the camp, and still there was no rain, only heat and dust blowing from the fields and dry lightning at night and the rumble of distant thunder over the Gulf. Cigarettes thrown from automobiles and pickup trucks started roadside grassfires that spread into the cane, and after sunset Woodrow and Junior sat on the front steps of their cabin and watched the dull red glow inside the clouds of brown smoke on the horizon.\n\nJunior no longer played his guitar or sat in on bouree games or sassed the guards. Until lock-up he loitered in the corners of the yard, or sat on his upended Coca-Cola box, which everyone now called \"Junior's box,\" or sat on the steps with Woodrow, staring at the empty dirt road that led down to a small general store by the drawbridge.\n\n\"You tearing yourself up over somet'ing that was never real,\" Woodrow said. \"Miss Andrea is a nice white woman. But that's all she is. She ain't sent down by God to take care of Junior Crudup.\"\n\n\"Shut up, Woodrow,\" Junior replied.\n\n\"Sure, I can do that. Then you can talk to yourself 'cause everybody else around here t'inks you done lost your mind.\"\n\nWoodrow took a worn pack of playing cards out of his shirt pocket, shuffled them, then cupped and squared them in his palm. \"Here, I'm gonna give you one of my readings. Won't cost you a cent,\" he said.\n\n\"Don't be giving me none of your truck,\" Junior said.\n\nBut Woodrow went ahead and turned the cards over one at a time, placing them in a circle in the space between him and Junior. \"See, there's you, the one-eyed Jack. Slick, wit' a li'l thin mustache, got the mojo going on the rest of the world. Up top there is the queen of hearts. Guess who that is. Over here is the king of diamonds. Guess who that is. Notice the king and the queen ain't interested in whether the one-eyed Jack is playing pocket pool wit' himself or not. What that mean, Junior, is that rich white people don't care about what goes on down here in this camp.\"\n\n\"Ain't got time for this, Woodrow.\"\n\nWoodrow peeled three more cards off the deck and snapped them down in a vertical line traversing the circle. \"See, there's the joker, right over the head of the one-eyed Jack. That means our man, the one-eyed Jack, is a full-time fool. Sure you don't want to rename your song 'The Dumbest Nigger in Camp Number Nine'?\"\n\nBut Junior only stared at the fires and brown clouds of smoke on the horizon and the buzzards that were slowly descending in a vortex toward a woods on the far side of the bayou.\n\nWoodrow put three cards down on the step in a horizontal line, completing a cross inside the circle. Junior expected another ridiculing remark but instead there was only silence. He glanced sideways at Woodrow. \"Why you got that look on your face?\" he said.\n\nWoodrow started to scoop the cards up. But Junior held his wrist. \"Answer me, Woodrow,\" he said.\n\n\"It's just a card trick. Been playing it on people for years. Don't none of it mean anyt'ing,\" he replied.\n\nJunior peeled loose a card that was cupped inside Woodrow's palm. \"How come you trying to hide the Jack of spades?\" he asked.\n\nWoodrow rubbed one eye with the heel of his hand and stared sadly at the bayou. \"It's Boss Posey, Woodrow. Lawd Gawd, it's Boss Posey. Why you gone and done this to yourself?\" he said.\n\nThen he rushed away to be by himself, leaving his deck of cards scattered on the steps.\n\nThe next day Junior received a contract in the mail from the recording studio. He sat on the edge of his bunk and read the letter that accompanied it, then walked to the fireplace and held a match to the letter, the contract, and the envelope they came in and watched the pages blacken and curl into ash on the hearth. The next morning at bell count Junior stood unshaved and dirty in the front row of men who were about to go into the fields to trench firelines around unburned cane and shovel dirt over stubble that was still smoldering. Jackson Posey looked at the puffiness around his eyes and sniffed at his breath. \"Where'd you get the julep?\" he said.\n\n\"Don't remember, boss,\" he replied.\n\n\"Woodrow, run back to the shed and bring me a case of them empty pop bottles,\" Posey said.\n\nWoodrow started toward the rear of the camp.\n\n\"I said run, boy.\"\n\n\"Yow, boss,\" Woodrow said.\n\nHe ran to the shed and lifted a wood case of Royal Crown Cola bottles by the handles and closed the door behind him with his foot, the bottles clinking between his hands. Then, as though a choice lay before him that would forever define who he was and the place he would inhabit in the world, he hesitated. On the perimeters of his vision he could see the LeJeune home high up on the slope, built to resemble a steamboat, surrounded by live oaks and palm trees; he could see a bulldozer and scooped out hole between the camp and the house where a damaged gas storage tank had just been removed; he could see the soot and brown smoke blowing out of the fields, the buzzards circling in the sky, the barbed wire that surrounded the camp, the tin roofs of the cabins already expanding against the joists with the heat of the day, the hard-packed clay smoothness of the yard, the gunbulls and trusty guards already mounted on their horses, most of them armed with double-barrel, cut-down shotguns whose steel was the color of a worn five-cent piece, and in the midst of it all, Woodrow's best friend, Junior Crudup, drunk on julep made from yeast, raisins, and cracked corn boiled in a syrup can, about to be destroyed by his own pride.\n\nDrop the bottle case on the ground, he told himself. Let them ship you back to 'Gola. Do cain't-see to cain't-see on the Red Hat Gang, take the sweatbox treatment on Camp A, but don't hep them to hurt Junior. Please, Lawd, make me be strong when I am weak, he prayed.\n\n\"Goddamn it, boy, move your ass!\" Jackson Posey shouted.\n\n\"I'm coming, boss!\" Woodrow said, running, the empty pop bottles rattling inside their wooden slots.\n\nJunior sat down on the ground, pulled off his shoes and socks, and mounted the pop bottles, extending his arms out sideways for balance. The other men marched out the front gate, their eyes straight ahead, and began climbing into the trucks that waited for them. When the trucks drove away in the dust, Woodrow looked through the slats in the tailgate and saw his friend quivering like Jell-O atop the rows of R.C. Cola bottles, his pain sealed inside his closed eyelids.\n\nJunior was still there when the trucks returned in the evening. Except he didn't look like Junior anymore. There were skinned places on his face and knots on his head; one eye was swollen shut and his denims were dark with his own urine.\n\nAt sunset Junior was allowed to come off the box and sit in one corner of the yard. As the other men passed on their way to the mess shack, they saw the bottoms of Junior's feet and had to look away. But Junior's trial by ordeal was not over. Jackson Posey stood over him, thinking private thoughts, touching at the corner of his mouth with one finger. Posey looked up the slope toward the gouged hole in the landscape where a gas storage tank had been pried out of the ground.\n\n\"Get your shoes on, Junior. Woodrow, bring a spade from the shed and get my lunch bucket and a chair from my office,\" Posey said.\n\nThe three of them walked together up the slope in the twilight, Junior limping like he had glass in his shoes, while purple martins darted through the haze of smoke in the air. A fat, thumb-buster .45 revolver creaked in a holster on Boss Posey's hip. Woodrow set down the chair for Boss Posey to sit in and speared the spade into a huge mound of wet clay by the hole, then set down Posey's lunch bucket on the ground by the chair. For just a moment he thought he smelled rain inside the wind.\n\n\"You don't need me no more, huh, boss?\" he said.\n\n\"Hunker down on the dirt pile and keep me company,\" Posey replied, opening his lunch bucket and removing a pint of whiskey.\n\nHe wants you to attack him, Junior. Then he's gonna kill you. He brung me to be a witness and cover his ass, Woodrow said to himself. Look at me, Junior. Can you hear the words I'm t'inking?\n\n\"Dozer man run out of gas today, Junior. So you got to fill up that hole for me. Better get on it,\" Posey said.\n\n\"Stood all day on the bottles, boss. Ain't got nothing left,\" Junior said.\n\n\"You done this to yourself, boy.\" Posey unscrewed the cap on his whiskey bottle and took a sip, rolling it in the corners of his mouth before he swallowed. Then he seemed to think a long time before he spoke again. \"You believe you're better than me, don't you?\"\n\n\"No, suh,\" Junior replied.\n\n\"Smarter, been more places, slept with better-looking white women than I have. Been wrote up in northern magazines. A man like me don't get his name in the paper lessen it's in the obituary.\"\n\nJunior pulled the spade out of the clay mound and began shoveling into the hole, keeping his bruised feet stationary, swiveling his back to throw each spadeful. Boss Posey drank from the bottle again, then removed a piece of waxpaper-wrapped chocolate cake and a slapjack from his lunch bucket. The slapjack was perhaps eight inches long, thin, mounted on a spring, lead-weighted and swollen at the tip, like the head on a snake. He rested it on his thigh and ate part of the cake, then put both the slapjack and the remnant of the cake back in the lunch bucket.\n\nThe sun dipped over the rim of the earth and the fields went dark and nightbirds began calling to one another in the woods across the bayou. At first Woodrow tried to close his eyes and sleep on his feet. Then, without asking permission, he sat down on the back side of the pile Junior was spading into the hole. But Boss Posey didn't seem to mind. He was drinking steadily from the bottle now, bent slightly forward in the chair, the cancer on his arms like small poisoned roses buried in his skin.\n\nOff in the distance Woodrow heard the dry rumble of thunder and saw a tree of lightning splinter across the sky. Junior's movements with the shovel became slower and slower, then it slipped out of his hands and clattered down into the darkness.\n\n\"I had it, boss. You gonna shoot me, go 'head on and do it,\" he said. He stood erect, his face slick with sweat, his body glowing with stink, one eye swollen into a knot with a slit in it.\n\n\"I'm about to lose my job 'cause of you. My pension goes out the window with it. That's what you done, you black sonofabitch. Now, you fill that goddamn hole.\"\n\n\"Know what the problem is, boss?\" Junior asked. \"It ain't Miss Andrea. It ain't Mr. LeJeune, either. It's 'cause you ain't no different from us. You eat the same food, stack the same time, kiss the same pink ass the niggers do. Maybe it's time you wise up.\"\n\nThe first blow with the slapjack caught Junior across the temple, splitting the skin to the bone. Then Jackson Posey whipped him to the ground, just as though he were chopping on a piece of wood.\n\nBut Woodrow believed it was the first blow that killed Junior and that the others were visited upon the body of a dead man, because Junior made no sound as the slapjack whistled down on his head and neck and back, thudding to the ground on his knees, his eyes already rolled upward in his head.\n\nAnd while his friend died Woodrow stood by impotently, his fists balled in front of him, a cry coming from his throat that sounded like a child's and not his own.\n\nJackson Posey's chest was heaving when he looked down at his work. He flung the slapjack aside. \"Damn!\" he said. He paced up and down, staring back at the camp, then at the lights burning in the LeJeune house. Woodrow was so frightened his teeth knocked together in the back of his mouth.\n\nPosey steadied his foot against Junior's shoulder and tried to shove his body over the edge of the hole. But Junior's body fell sideways and Boss Posey couldn't move it with his foot. In fact, Woodrow could not believe how weak Posey was.\n\n\"Get a holt of his feet,\" Posey said.\n\n\"Suh?\"\n\n\"Pick up his feet or join him. Which way you want it?\"\n\nWoodrow gathered up Junior's ankles while Boss Posey lifted his arms, and the two of them flung Woodrow's friend over the rim of the hole. The thump it made when it hit the bottom was a sound Woodrow would hear in his sleep the rest of his life.\n\n\"Go over there and set on the ground,\" Posey said.\n\nPosey mounted the bulldozer and started the engine. With the lights off he lowered the blade and pushed the huge pile of clay into the hole, backing off it, packing it down, scraping it flat, until the hole was only a dimple in the landscape. When he cut the engine Woodrow could hear the first drops of rain pinging on the steel roof over the driver's seat.\n\n\"Junior transferred out of here tonight. Ain't none of this happened. That's right, ain't it, Woodrow?\"\n\n\"If you say so, boss.\"\n\n\"There's a half inch of whiskey left in that bottle. You want it?\"\n\n\"No, suh.\"\n\n\"Have a Camel,\" Posey said, and shook two loose from his pack. \"Go ahead and take it. It's a new day tomorrow. Don't never forget that. Sun gonna be breakin' and a new day shakin'. That's what my daddy always used to say.\"\n\nHow'd you come by this little farm here?\" I asked Woodrow.\n\n\"Mr. LeJeune sold it to me. Give me a good price wit'out no interest,\" he replied.\n\n\"To shut you up?\"\n\n\"He sent a black man to me wit' the offer. Never saw Mr. LeJeune.\" Woodrow stared at me with his flat, sightless eyes that could have been large painted buttons sewn on his face. Lightning jumped in the clouds over the Gulf.\n\nI slipped my business card between his fingers. \"Let me know if I can do anything for you,\" I said.\n\nHis hand folded around the card. \"Whatever happened to Mr. LeJeune's li'l girl, the one named T'eo?\" he asked.\n\n\"Theodosha? She's around.\"\n\n\"My cousin, the maid for Mr. and Miz LeJeune? She always worried about that li'l girl. She said t'ings wasn't right in that house.\"\n\nI asked him what he meant but he refused to explain.\n\n\"How long were you inside?\" I said as I was leaving.\n\n\"Five years.\"\n\n\"What'd you go down for?\"\n\n\"Fifty-t'ree-dol'ar bad check,\" he replied.\n\n## Chapter 18\n\nAs I drove back toward New Iberia a thunderstorm blew in from the Gulf and marched across the southern tip of Vermilion Parish, thrashing the sugarcane in the fields, the rain twisting in my headlights. I could not shake the tale told me by Woodrow Reed, nor the sense of needless death and cruelty and loss that it instilled in the listener. I turned on my radio and tried to find a station that was playing music, but my radio went dead, although it had been working fine earlier.\n\nI tried to get Helen again on my cell phone, but I couldn't raise the wireless service and gave it up and tossed the cell phone on the seat. I passed flooded rice fields wrinkled with wind and lighted farmhouses that looked like snug islands inside the storm. Then I passed a billboard on a curve and my lights flashed across a woman standing by the side of the road.\n\nShe wore blue jeans and an unbuttoned tan raincoat that whipped back in the wind. Her hair was honey colored, tapered on her neck, her skin almost luminous in the glare of headlights. Hey, G.I., give a girl a ride? I thought I heard a voice say.\n\nI braked the truck to the side of the road, my heart beating, and looked through the back window. The woman stood on the shoulder of the road, silhouetted against a light that shone on the face of the billboard. Don't buy into this, I told myself. It's not her. Your wife is dead and all the delusions and misery you inject into your life will not change that inalterable fact.\n\nThen I put the truck in reverse and began backing toward the figure on the side of the road.\n\nShe glanced back over her shoulder once and began running. I accelerated faster, swerving on and off the pavement, until I was abreast of her. Through the rain-streaked glass her face stared at me, beaded with water, eyeshadow running down her cheeks, her mouth glossy with lipstick. I closed and opened my eyes, like a man coming out of darkness into light, her face forming and reforming in the rain.\n\nI shoved open the passenger door and held up my badge holder. \"Get in,\" I said.\n\nShe hesitated a moment, then sat down in the passenger seat and slammed the door behind her. She gave me a hard look in the glow of the dash panel. Her cheeks were pitted and heavily made up, her clothes reeking of cigarette smoke and booze. \"Thanks for the ride. My old man threw me out,\" she said.\n\n\"Where do you want to go?\" I asked.\n\n\"First bar we pass,\" she said. \"For a minute you scared me. I had trouble with a couple of black guys last night. You stopped just 'cause you saw me in the rain?\"\n\n\"I thought you were somebody else,\" I said.\n\nShe gave me a look. \"There's a bar past the curve. Right by the motel,\" she said.\n\nI put on my turn indicator and began to slow the truck. I knew the bar. It was a ramshackle, sullen place owned by a man who ran dog fights.\n\n\"I left my purse at the house. The sonofabitch I live with has probably drunk it up by now,\" she said.\n\nI stopped in the parking lot and waited. She took a cigarette from her shirt pocket and lit it with a plastic butane lighter. She continued rubbing the striker wheel under her thumb. \"Look, I can't drink in there for free. You want some action or not?\" she said.\n\n\"Get out,\" I said.\n\n\"I can really pick them,\" she said. She stepped out into the storm and slammed the truck door as hard as she could.\n\nLesson? Chasing a nighttime mirage on a rain-swept highway has no happy ending for either the quick or the dead.\n\nThe one-car fatality at West Cote Blanche Bay seemed to lack any plausible explanation. The witness, an elderly Cajun hired to pick litter out of the ditches along the roadside, had seen an expensive, large car parked next to a compact in a grove of pine trees. Children had been lighting fireworks all evening, shooting Roman candles and rockets over the bay. Then he had heard firecrackers in the trees, just before the compact had driven away. When he looked again at the grove of pines, the large car started up and drove out onto a pier, snapping the supports on the guardrail into sticks, finally plunging off the end of the pier into the water.\n\nHelen Soileau had arrived at the bay only a few minutes before me. She walked with me up a shell ramp and introduced me to the witness. As with most elderly Cajun men, his handshake was as light as air. \"How many firecrackers did you hear?\" I asked him.\n\n\"Two, maybe t'ree,\" he replied.\n\nHe was a tiny man, dressed in neat khakis, with cataracts and a supple face that resembled brown tallow. He seemed nervous and kept glancing over his shoulder at the bay and at the splintered guardrail on the pier and at the wrecker that so far had not been able to pull the sunken car off a submerged pipeline, all of it lit in the glare of searchlights mounted on a firetruck.\n\n\"Is anything wrong?\" I asked.\n\n\"I seen a big man behind the wheel. Seen him go crashing right off the end of the pier there. I cain't swim, me. I keep t'inking maybe there was air inside the car. Maybe if I'd brung hep sooner\u2014\"\n\n\"You have no reason to feel bad about anything, sir. Who was in the compact?\"\n\n\"Just somebody driving a li'l car. It was an old one. I ain't sure what kind.\"\n\n\"Was a man or woman driving?\"\n\nHis shook his head, his face blank.\n\n\"What color was the car?\" I asked.\n\n\"I just ain't paid it much mind, no.\"\n\n\"You see a license tag?\" I asked.\n\n\"No, suh.\"\n\n\"The firecrackers you heard, those were in the pine trees? You're sure about that?\" I said.\n\n\"No, suh, I ain't sure about none of it no more.\"\n\nI patted him on the shoulder and walked down to the water's edge. The bay was black, dimpled with rain rings, and the tide was pushing small waves that glistened with gasoline up on the sand. Two scuba divers, both of them sheriff's deputies, had already been down on the wrecked car. They were sitting on the running board of the firetruck in their wetsuits, sharing a thermos of coffee.\n\n\"What's it look like down there?\" I asked.\n\n\"The vehicle landed on its side. Driver's face is down in the silt. The ignition is on and the gearshift in 'Drive,' \" one of them said. His name was Darbonne. He was unshaved and had curly black hair, his throat prickled with cold.\n\n\"Any chance air was trapped in there?\" I asked.\n\n\"The front windows were down. The driver's arm is tangled up in the seat belt, like he couldn't find the release button. All that water probably hit him like a hammer,\" Darbonne said.\n\n\"The witness blames himself for not getting back with help sooner. Tell him about the air situation, will you?\" I said.\n\nDarbonne nodded and yawned. \"When they drive off bridges or piers, they're drunks, nutcases, or suicides,\" he said. \"If a guy in a Caddy ices himself, he should have the courtesy to do it without inconveniencing people who make twenty-five grand a year.\"\n\n\"Say again?\"\n\n\"The whale who just offed himself. I wish he'd gone to a heated, indoor pool to do it,\" the driver said, then looked at my expression. \"What, I just spit on the floor in church?\"\n\nA few minutes later the divers went down again to reset the hook on the Cadillac's frame so the car could be flipped over on its top and slid off the pipeline it partially rested on. Helen and I stood by the water's edge and watched. The moon had broken through a slit in the clouds, and far out on the horizon there were whitecaps that looked like tiny bird's wings.\n\n\"Castille LeJeune's lawyer called again. He's talking about a harassment suit against the department,\" she said.\n\n\"He'd like my job?\"\n\n\"What did you find out down at Pecan Island?\" she said, ignoring my question.\n\n\"Castille LeJeune had Junior Crudup killed. He was beaten to death by a prison guard, a guy named Jackson Posey,\" I replied.\n\nShe looked at the black surface of the bay and at the slickness of the wrecker cable as it extracted the submerged car from the water. Her face did not change expression. She wiped away a raindrop that had caught in her eyelash. \"Where's Crudup's body?\" she asked.\n\n\"Probably still buried on the LeJeune's property,\" I said.\n\n\"Get a search warrant,\" she said.\n\nThe wrecker man winched the Cadillac upside-down out of the shallows and slid it up on the bank, the front windows gushing with water and oil-blackened silt. The body of a huge man hung against the safety strap, his shoulders and neck pressed against the roof, his face twisted toward the open window so he appeared to be staring at a bizarre event taking place outside his automobile.\n\nI squatted down to eye-level with him and shone a flashlight on his face and inside the rest of the car. There was a small entry hole in his neck, his cheek, and the side of his head. The wounds had bled out and had washed clean in the water and had started to pucker around the edges.\n\n\"Ever think anybody could sucker-drop Fat Sammy Figorelli?\" Helen said behind me.\n\n\"No,\" I said. I reached inside the car and closed Sammy's eyes. The inverted weight of his massive buttocks and thighs had curved his spine so that his back and neck were compressed like a gargoyle's.\n\n\"Don't waste your sympathies, Streak. He was a pimp and a pusher and the world's a better place every time one of these shitbags gets stuffed into a hole,\" Helen said.\n\n\"I guess you're right,\" I said. But I could not help remembering the stories of a French Quarter fat kid who had spent years being the butt of people's jokes.\n\nHelen stood up from the spot where she had crouched behind me. \"Wrap it up here. At oh-eight-hundred tomorrow go to work on the warrant. It's time Castille LeJeune learned this is the United States,\" she said.\n\n\"You got it, Top,\" I said, referring to her old rank in the U.S. Army.\n\n\"Call me that again and I'll tear off your head and spit in it,\" she replied.\n\nI think even Fat Sammy would have enjoyed that one.\n\nWe had the warrant by late Tuesday afternoon. Without announcement and with a balmy breeze at our backs and a sky the color of a ripe peach, two cruisers from the Iberia Sheriff's Department, three from St. Mary Parish, a front-end loader, and a bulldozer chain-boomed on a flatbed tractor-trailer rig all came down Castille Le Jeune's front drive, raking through the lone tunnel of oaks, right into the middle of an outdoor dinner party LeJeune was holding on his terrace.\n\nHelen and I and a plainclothes from the St. Mary sheriff's office served the warrant on him in front of his guests, who included, among at least a dozen others, Theo and Merchie Flannigan. LeJeune tried to feign an amused dismay and the good cheer of the professional bon vivant, but Theo imposed no such restraints on herself.\n\nShe wore a low-cut white evening dress and a necklace of red stones around her throat. Her skin was flushed with either the challenge of the moment or the glass of bourbon and crushed ice with a sprig of mint she had been drinking. She placed her small fists on her hips, as a drill instructor might, and turned her face up into mine. \"You're an idiot,\" she said.\n\n\"Excuse me, madam, but you need to sit down and stay out of this,\" Helen said.\n\n\"And you need to work on your sexual-identity problems before you lecture other people in their homes,\" Theo said.\n\nHelen gazed through the trees at the bayou and the deserted shacks that had once housed prison inmates, her breasts hard-looking as softballs against her shirt. She reread the warrant to herself, seemingly indifferent to Theo's insult. Then she lifted her eyes into Theo's. \"Repeat what you just said.\"\n\n\"You have no business here,\" Theo said.\n\n\"Where do you think the burial site is?\" Helen said to me, ignoring Theo.\n\n\"On a line between here and what would have been the front gate of the prison camp. I'd put it pretty close to that pond inside the fenced area,\" I said.\n\nLeJeune raised his hands. \"Listen to me,\" he said. \"I don't know anything about this man Junior Crudup or whatever his name is. My wife befriended the convicts who worked out their sentences on our farm. She was a kind, gentle, decent person. How in God's name can you accuse us of hiding the remains of a murdered man on our property?\"\n\nHelen walked out into the yard. \"Take out that fence and start in a circle. Drain the pond if you have to,\" she said to the two heavy-equipment operators.\n\nHelen went back to her cruiser and I began walking down the slope toward the old work camp. Inside the evening shade of the trees I could hear the conversation and tinkle of glasses resume among LeJeune's guests on the patio.\n\n\"Dave, stop,\" Theo said, catching my arm.\n\nShe'd just had her hair cut and it was thick and even and shiny on the whiteness of her shoulders. The bourbon and smell of ice and mint on her breath touched my face like the tracings of a kiss.\n\n\"Your father commissioned a murder,\" I said.\n\n\"You have it all backwards,\" she said.\n\n\"Then why are you afraid to go down to the pond?\"\n\n\"For reasons you don't understand.\"\n\n\"You can tell the jury that at your father's trial.\"\n\n\"Why do you hate him so much?\"\n\n\"Because he's a sonofabitch.\"\n\n\"I'll remember you said that to the day I die.\"\n\n\"Go back home, Theo. Your guests are waiting.\"\n\n\"I can't believe I slept with you. I want to peel my skin off.\"\n\nPerhaps her response was justified, but at that moment I didn't care one way or another. Down below, the bulldozer and front-end loader were tearing apart a white-rail fence and a sloping green pasture, looking for the bones of a man who had been beaten to death so a cancer-ridden prison guard could keep his pension and a cuckolded husband his pride.\n\nThe heavy-equipment operators worked by gasoline-powered light until midnight, blading away the grass and topsoil, pushing it into water-beaded, black-green mounds. They came back at sunrise and started in again, scooping huge amounts of wet clay and feeder roots from the oak trees onto LeJeune's lawn, trenching a drainage into his fish pond, smashing his dock into kindling. By noon the entire landscape between the trees in his backyard and the cluster of cabins by the bayou was an ecological disaster, water oozing from the substrata, perch and catfish fighting for survival in small pools, a cow's ribs arching out of the clay like a woman's comb.\n\nA half dozen uniformed deputies in rubber boots raked and probed for hours but found no sign of a human burial. By Wednesday afternoon the excavation area had become a giant, water-filled pit. Since the previous day I had slept three hours. My eyes stung, my jaws were like sandpaper, and a stale, clammy odor rose from my clothes. The heavy-equipment operators shut down their machines and waited. Helen shook her head and the operators climbed down and began packing up.\n\n\"We're in the Dumpster, bwana,\" Helen said.\n\n\"That body was here. He moved it,\" I said.\n\n\"Ride back with me. You look like a car wreck,\" she said.\n\n\"He's not going to get away with it. I'm going to fry that bastard.\"\n\n\"You probably will. Even if you have to take everybody down with you. You might give that some thought,\" she said.\n\nI opened and closed my mouth and felt my ears popping, the horizon tilting slightly, a buzzing sound inside my head, as though my old companion the malarial mosquito was having its way with me again.\n\nHelen cupped her hand around my upper arm and kneaded the muscles in it. \"Come on, Loot, give a girl a lift,\" she said.\n\n\"What? What did you say?\" I said.\n\nShe looked at me strangely, her eyes filled with a mixture of pity and sadness.\n\nNot far away, just outside the little town of Jeanerette, Clete Purcel drove down a back road past three antebellum homes that were so stunning in appearance, the tree-shaded lots they sat on so perfect in arboreal and floral arrangement, they looked like Hollywood movie fabrications rather than homes that people of enormous wealth actually lived in. He turned at the green, embanked property corner of the last house in the row, crossed a steel bridge over the Teche, and passed, within fifty yards of the last antebellum home, a rural slum composed of rusted trailers, desiccated sheds, and junker cars that could have been replicated from a photograph taken in Bangladesh.\n\nHe removed a pair of binoculars from his glovebox and went inside a cafe from which his line of sight allowed him to see the trailer slum that spilled haphazardly to the edge of the bayou. It had not been a good day for Clete. Early that morning he had picked up a bail skip for Wee Willie Bimstine in Opelousas and was about to transport him back to New Orleans, when the skip began jerking against the D-ring anchored on the floor of the Caddy, his face twisted with visceral pain, threatening to soil himself and the convertible if he wasn't allowed to use the bathroom. Clete cuffed him to a pipe next to the toilet in a filling station and waited outside. In less than two minutes the skip managed to put seventy-five cents in a sexual-enhancement dispenser, smear his wrist with a desensitizing lubricant, slip the cuff, and escape out a window.\n\nScore one for the meltdowns, Clete thought.\n\nA half hour later a woman did a hit-and-run on his convertible in a church parking lot; the investigating traffic officer gave him a citation for an expired inspection sticker; and while Clete argued the situation a flock of robins lit in a tree above his car, the top of which was down, and defecated all over the seats and upholstery.\n\nHe drank coffee and focused his binoculars on a trailer that was broken in the center and had vinyl garbage bags taped across the windows. It was the home of the skip's one-time fall partner, an Angola parolee who had been down twice for sexual battery against children. There was no movement inside the trailer, but next door a woman in faded jeans, tennis shoes without socks, and peroxided hair that was waved on only one side walked down to the school-bus stop and waited for her child. Then she escorted the child, a boy of about eight, back home and closed the door behind her.\n\nA moment later she reemerged with a tall, equestrian-looking man who had a hard, flat stomach and a purple birthmark that seeped from his hairline to the corner of his eye. They kissed on the mouth and the man put on a yellow hard hat and got into a waiting car driven by another man wearing an identical hard hat. The two men parked in front of the cafe and came in and sat down in the booth next to Clete's.\n\n\"Kid come home a little soon?\" the driver of the car, a truncated, moon-faced man, said.\n\nThe man with the birthmark didn't reply but instead snapped his fingers repeatedly for the waitress's attention. After she took the order and went away, he said, \"This guy Robicheaux is a walking hemorrhoid. You should see the old man's property. It looks like a bombing zone.\"\n\n\"Tell me about it,\" the other man replied. His blond hair was combed straight back from a receding hairline, and he kept leaning forward, reverentially, each time the other man spoke. But the man with the birthmark was silent now, not interested in whatever the blond man had intended to say. The blond man, who wore a pair of electrician's wire snips in a leather case on his belt, tried again. \"His house was so dried out a popcorn fart could have set it on fire but he blames me for it. He tried to screw me with the Better Business Bureau and get my license pulled.\"\n\nBut the man with the birthmark, whom Clete had now connected with the name Will Guillot, only sipped his coffee and looked out the window at the bayou and the antebellum home on the far side of the steel bridge.\n\n\"You think he sent that doctor to your house?\" the moon-faced man said.\n\n\"Probably.\"\n\n\"You're a mean machine, Will.\"\n\n\"Nope.\"\n\n\"The guy came at you with a sawed-off shotgun?\"\n\n\"He thought he could go into a man's house and kick ass. He lost. End of story,\" Will Guillot said.\n\n\"Pow!\" his friend said.\n\nBoth men became silent, eating slices of apple pie, drinking their coffee, picking their teeth. Clete went to the rest room, then waited for his check. The men in the other booth were talking about football now. Go home, he thought. You don't need any more bad luck today.\n\nHe looked out the window and saw the child of Will Guillot's girlfriend playing on a swing set, a cheap one that was probably bought at Wal-Mart. The skip's fall partner, the sex predator, pulled up next door, talked to the boy briefly, tousling his hair, then went inside his trailer.\n\nClete paid his check and started toward the door. He paused, thinking to himself, then reset his porkpie hat and walked back to Will Guillot's table. He grinned without speaking, his Hawaiian shirt partially unbuttoned on his chest, his eyes flicking sideways as though he did not know how to introduce himself.\n\n\"Help you?\" Guillot said.\n\n\"You guys were in the Crotch?\" Clete said.\n\n\"The what?\" the blond man said.\n\n\"I heard you say something about a 'mean machine,' so I thought you were talking about Mother Green's Mean Machine. See, jar-heads call\u2014\"\n\n\"Yeah, I know all about that. What can I do for you?\" Guillot said.\n\nClete cleaned an ear with one finger, looking sideways again as he did it, his face filling with thought. \"I think I know who you are,\" he said.\n\n\"You do?\" Guillot said.\n\n\"You popped a doctor from Loreauville in your driveway. Guy was some kind of weirded-out Vietnam vet, right? That's some kind of irony, huh? Guy probably had a thousand AK rounds shot at him, then loses his Kool-Aid and gets smoked in the suburbs.\"\n\nGuillot looked across the table at his friend and tapped his fingernail on the cover of his wristwatch. The two men started to get up.\n\n\"Whoa,\" Clete said.\n\n\"Whoa, what?\" Guillot said.\n\n\"The lady up there in the trailer, the one you're banging? She's got a little boy. The guy next door happens to be a sex predator. So while you're getting your twanger taken care of, the freak who was just patting her kid on the head is figuring out ways to sodomize him. My suggestion is you take your mind off your dick long enough to move the lady and her son out of that shithole before the kid's life is ruined. Can you relate to that?\"\n\n\"You've got some fucking nerve,\" Guillot said.\n\nThe owner of the cafe had come from behind the counter and was standing behind Clete now, resolute, his feet planted, his thumb raised in the air.\n\n\"Out,\" he said.\n\n\"No problem,\" Clete said. He pulled two one-dollar bills from a brass money clip and dropped them on his table.\n\nBut outside Clete could not give it up, standing by his car door, flipping his keys back and forth, his face growing darker. He watched Will Guillot and the electrical subcontractor with him get in their car. \"Hold on a minute,\" he said.\n\n\"Get a life, queer bait,\" Will Guillot said from the passenger window as his car rolled past Clete.\n\nClete watched the two men cross the steel bridge over the Teche and turn down the tree-shaded back road that led past the row of antebellum homes. In his mind's eye he saw himself running them off the road, strolling back to their car, his blackjack in his side pocket, moving the situation on up to the full-tilt boogie. Why not? he thought. The day couldn't get any worse than it was already.\n\nHe got into his Caddy, slammed the door, and turned the ignition. He heard a dry, clicking sound, then nothing. The battery was as dead as a butcher block.\n\nIt took an hour for a filling station a half block away to send a truck that gave him a quick-start. He sat behind the wheel, revving the engine to charge the battery, oil smoke pouring from under the frame, bird-shit smears on his clothes, all immediate hope of squaring the beef with Will Guillot gone.\n\nHe looked through the windshield at the trailer slum by the bayou and the parolee who was now drinking a can of beer on his steps and talking to the little boy from next door.\n\nClete retrieved a pair of leather work gloves from under the seat and put them in his pocket, then dropped the Caddy into low gear and rolled into the trailer slum, gravel and oyster shells ticking softly under his tires.\n\n\"You Bobby Joe Fontenot?\" he said.\n\nThe man on the steps was relaxed, smoking a cigarette with his beer, barefoot in the sunshine, his arms flecked with blue tattoos done by an needle improvised from the guts of a ballpoint pen. He wore imitation black leather pants and a tie-dyed strap undershirt, his black hair scalped on the sides and braided into a matador's pigtail in back.\n\n\"I'm gonna take a guess. Casting director from, what's that TV show called, Survivor?\" he said, squinting against the sunlight.\n\nClete grinned and got out of the Caddy, opening his badge holder briefly. \"Looking for your friend who jumped his bond with Wee Willie Bimstine and Nig Rosewater,\" he said. \"Slipped his cuffs this morning and left me with shit on my nose.\"\n\n\"Haven't seen him.\"\n\n\"Mind if I look inside?\"\n\n\"Get yourself a beer. It's in the icebox.\"\n\n\"Thanks,\" Clete said, and gave him the thumbs-up sign.\n\nClete stepped inside. The garbage can in the small kitchen was overflowing, the counters covered with pizza and fried-chicken cartons. A television set was playing without sound, the VCR under it lighted, a cassette pushed halfway into the loading slot. Clete shoved the cassette all the way into the unit with his thumb and waited for the video image to transfer to the screen. Then he clicked off the set and the figures on the screen shrank to a small dot. He slipped on his work gloves and called through the screen door: \"Did you know you have a gas leak in your stove?\"\n\nBobby Joe stepped inside the trailer, sniffing at the air. Clete drove his fist into Fontenot's stomach, burying it to the wrist, so deep he actually felt bone. Then he kicked the wood door shut, flung him headlong into a wall, and pulled a shelf filled with carnival midway ceramics down on top of him. He ripped the cassette from the VCR and bounced it off Bobby Joe's face, then rooted in the refrigerator's freezer compartment and pulled out a box of Popsicles and threw them in Bobby Joe's face, too.\n\n\"You get the kids in here with cartoons and ice cream?\" he said.\n\nBobby Joe tried to raise himself up against the wall, spittle running from the corner of his mouth. \"I'm in treatment. Ask my P.O.,\" he said hoarsely.\n\nClete opened and closed his huge hands, breathing hard, his cheeks pooled with color. He lifted Bobby Joe by his shirt and belt and threw him into the narrow bathroom at the back of the trailer. Bobby Joe grabbed the side of the lavatory and tried to raise himself up again, his face bewildered.\n\n\"What did your P.O. tell you about putting your hands on little kids, asshole?\" Clete said.\n\n\"I ain't put\u2014\"\n\nClete locked one hand on the back of Bobby Joe's neck and drove his head down on the toilet bowl, smashing his mouth against the rim, plunging his head into the water, scouring the bottom of the bowl with his face. It should have been enough but he was beyond controlling it now or even trying. He slammed the toilet seat down on Bobby Joe's neck and head, then grabbed the top of the shower stall and mounted the toilet, crushing the seat down on Bobby Joe's head, tap dancing on it like an elephant on hallucinogens while Bobby Joe's legs thrashed on the linoleum.\n\nOutside he heard children playing and through the top of the window he saw a little girl chasing after a Frisbee that sailed above her head, and like a man descending from an electrical storm high up on a mountain he stepped back down on the floor and pulled Bobby Joe from the toilet bowl, dripping with water and blood.\n\nHe tossed a towel in Bobby Joe's face and leaned back against the wall, out of breath, his fists still knotting. \"I'm going to make regular checks on the kid next door,\" he said. \"If I find out you've been near him, you'll wish you were a bar of soap back in 'Gola. The same goes if you dime me. Maybe you think you got a bad deal here today, but pervs don't get slack. You hearing me on this?\"\n\n\"You fat fuck,\" Bobby Joe said, pressing the towel to the blood that ran off his chin, looking at it in disbelief, his words muffled, his mouth still trembling. \"You like family values? That kid's mother used to be an army whore over by Folk Polk. I'm gonna find out your name. If I ever offend with a kid again, I'm gonna say it each time I poke him. How's that, asshole?\"\n\nWhen Clete got back to the motor court, he stayed under the shower until the hot water tank went empty, burned his clothes in a barbecue pit, drank a quart of whiskey-laced eggnog, and still could not feel clean.\n\n## Chapter 19\n\nFather Jimmie Dolan had done six months federal time for demonstrating at the School of the Americas and probably considered himself jailwise. But in reality, like all people who are intrinsically decent, he was incapable of the cynicism that passes for prison-acquired wisdom.\n\nOn Thursday morning he was in Franklin, in black suit and Roman collar, collecting signatures on his petition to ban the sale of mixed drinks from drive-by windows. During three hours of approaching people in front of strip malls and grocery stores, he had amassed a total of six signatures, one from a retarded man, and two from people who signed their names with an X.\n\nHe bought a take-out lunch from a McDonald's and ate it in his car under the trees in a small park, then fell asleep. The day was unseasonably warm, the live oaks flickering with wind, but he dreamed of snowmelt in the Cumberland Mountains, the bright air of early spring, tea-colored streams that leached out of limestone cliffs, dogwood blooming purple and white on a hillside. When he awoke, children were running by the front of his car, kicking a soccer ball in the leaves, the spangled sunlight racing across their bodies, but somehow there was a continuity between the beauty of the Appalachian spring in Jimmie's dream and the joy of the children at play.\n\nHe got out of his car and began walking toward the public rest room. He had no reason to pay attention to a nervous, agitated plainclothes detective by the name of Dale Louviere, who was parked in a Ford by the swing sets, the same detective who had investigated the killing of Dr. Parks by Will Guillot and called it an open-and-shut case of self-defense.\n\nNor did Father Jimmie pay attention to a man known as Cash Money Mouton standing by the lavatory inside the rest room.\n\nCash Money's last name was French but he was actually a pecker-wood product of north Louisiana. He used to sell fire and accident and term life insurance from door to door in black and poor-white neighborhoods, and was infamous for both his sweaty enthusiasm and his carnival sales rhetoric. He would pull clutches of papers and brochures from a vinyl briefcase, his face bursting with sincerity, tapping his seated listener, usually the man of the house, on the kneecap, saying, \"You run your lawnmower over your foot and chop your toes off, I'll give you twelve-hunnerd dollars, cash money, boy. You stick your hand in your skill saw, I'll pay you five-hunnerd dollars, that's cash money, for every finger you cut off. Splash muriatic acid in your eyes and go blind, I'm talking five-thousand bananas, cash money, boy.\"\n\nThen Cash Money Mouton's uncle became police chief and Cash Money began a new career.\n\nFather Jimmie stood at the urinal and relieved himself. He could feel the man at the lavatory staring at the side of his face. He started to look at him, then thought better of it and kept his eyes straight ahead. But when he tried to get to the lavatory the man known as Cash Money stood in his way.\n\n\"Excuse me,\" Father Jimmie said.\n\nBut Cash Money did not move. He wore sideburns, a Tabasco tie, an American flag in his coat lapel. He smelled of deodorant, hair tonic, and fear. There was almost an iridescent shine on his skin.\n\n\"Is there some difficulty here that I don't quite grasp?\" Father Jimmie asked.\n\n\"Repeat that?\" Cash Money said.\n\n\"Could I be of some assistance to you?\"\n\n\"That's it,\" Cash Money said.\n\nHe stepped into the rest room doorway and waved at the man in the Ford automobile. Father Jimmie rinsed his hands, shook them off, and tried to walk around him.\n\n\"You're not going anywhere, buddy boy,\" Cash Money said.\n\n\"Push me again and we're both going to regret the next couple of minutes,\" Father Jimmie said.\n\nBut Cash Money was looking over his shoulder now and not at Father Jimmie. \"He just threatened me,\" he said to the man approaching the rest room.\n\n\"What else did he do?\" the plainclothes detective named Dale Louviere said. Even in the open air a gray fog of nicotine and ash seemed to enclose his body. Clusters of veins, like tiny pieces of green string, pulsed in his temples.\n\n\"He said he wanted to help me. He was fooling with his fly when he said it,\" Cash Money said.\n\n\"You're a liar,\" Father Jimmie said.\n\n\"We saw you watching those kids, Father,\" Louviere said.\n\n\"How would you like to have your teeth knocked down your throat?\" Father Jimmie said.\n\n\"Hook him up,\" Louviere said.\n\n\"I ain't putting my hands on him,\" Cash Money said. His eyes jumped sideways when Father Jimmie looked him directly in the face.\n\nAt the police station Father Jimmie was charged with sexual solicitation and threatening a police officer and locked in an empty holding cell that was in full view of anyone, male or female, in the booking area. He made a pillow out of his coat, pulled off his collar, and lay down on a wood bench. He stared up at the graffiti and scratched drawings of genitalia that covered almost all the painted surfaces in the cell, and remembered the admonition of the blues singer Lazy Lester: \"Don't ever write yo' name on the jailhouse wall.\"\n\nHe could see Louviere punching in numbers on a phone, calling up first the local newspaper, then a television station in Lafayette and one in Baton Rouge, the Associated Press in New Orleans, and finally the diocese.\n\nLouviere walked to the cell door. \"Want your phone call now?\" he asked.\n\n\"I'd like to ask you a question first,\" Father Jimmie replied.\n\nLouviere unlocked the door and pulled it open. \"If you're wondering whether I'm a Catholic, yeah, I am. And it's perverts like you who give the church a bad name,\" he said.\n\n\"Call yourself whatever you wish, but you're not a Catholic. The real issue is whose pad are you on. Who's paying you to do this to other people, sir? What price have you gotten for your soul?\" Father Jimmie said.\n\nI was at the office when Father Jimmie called.\n\n\"How much is your bond?\" I said.\n\n\"I haven't been arraigned yet,\" he replied.\n\n\"Why'd you have to take your petition into St. Mary Parish?\"\n\n\"What's wrong with St. Mary Parish?\"\n\n\"It's a fiefdom. They think it's the year 1300 down there.\"\n\nI heard him laugh. \"A fiefdom? With serfs in iron collars and that sort of thing? That's an interesting observation. I see,\" he said.\n\nNo, you don't, Jimmie, I thought. But martyrs and saints fly low with the angels, colliding with telephone poles and the sides of buildings, and consider harm's way their natural environment. Who was I to contend with them?\n\nMax Coll didn't like gambling; he loved it and all the adrenaline rush and glittering ambiance that went with it, as passionately as a man could love a woman or a religion. All men had a vice, his father used to say. It was recognition of our moral frailty that allowed us to retain our humanity, he said. The man who wasn't tempted by drink or women or betting the ponies could easily set himself on a level above Christ, and hence become guilty of the most pernicious of the seven deadly sins, namely arrogance and pride.\n\nMax had always remembered his father's words. Drink robbed a man of his intelligence and his organs; women gave a man satiation for only a little while, and memory of it immediately rekindled lust for and dependence on more of the same.\n\nBut gambling gave a man control, allowed him to choose his battleground and make use of his knowledge about both people and mathematics. The losses were only monetary ones, and since gambling was never about money, what difference did the loss make, particularly for a single fellow whose occupation was a bloody affair that should allow for a sybaritic excursion once in a while?\n\nHe was discriminating in the games he played. The slots, video poker, and electronic keno were created for natural-born losers. Jai alai was fun and fast, but what reasonable person would bet on players who all came from the same part of Spain and were related to one another? With the ponies you could dope out the morning line, study the track conditions and the animals in the paddock, and have a fair chance at the windows. Craps was for showboats, roulette for C\u00f4te d'Azur faggots, and dog tracks everywhere strictly for the dogs.\n\nNot to say he didn't bet ball games, boxing matches, and national elections. In fact, Max once bet a window washer on the thirty-first floor of a Chicago hotel that he could climb out on the sill and clean the window faster than the professional washer. He not only won the wager, he enjoyed the experience so much he washed four more windows out of goodwill.\n\nBut the game that got Max in trouble was blackjack, the one game that gave the casino player a running chance at beating the house. Max's memory bank was almost like a computer's, and even when going up against a houseman dealing out of a five-deck shoe, Max's ability to count cards and to successfully stay put or risk another hit was uncanny.\n\nMax's weakness at the blackjack table was his inability to put principles ahead of personalities. He didn't resent losing to a machine or to corrupt jai alai players wanting to keep their family members out of the tomato patch. Max did not like to lose to individuals, particularly stolid and dispassionate people who were paid by the hour and could not wait to get off work. To count cards until his brain was bleeding, then have a joyless clod turn up a blackjack on him out of sheer luck made the scalp recede on his skull.\n\nHe would retaliate by playing multiple hands, progressively increasing his bets, doubling up on splits, until he was broke, exhausted, and depressed, staring out the window at the ragged edges of dawn in Vegas or Reno or Atlantic City, wondering if he could get the casino manager to open a credit line for him.\n\nMax depressed was Max out of control. He would telephone sports books all over the country and lay down fifty thousand dollars in bets without blinking an eye. Then he would dress in a pair of pressed pink pajamas and lie spread-eagled on his back in the center of his hotel bed, the world spinning around him, his heartbeat decreasing, a strange serenity washing through him, as though he had descended to the bottom of a vortex and was no longer at its mercy or required to control it.\n\nUsually his sports-book binges were harmless and his wins canceled out his losses. But contrary to all his wisdom he went in heavy on an insider tip at the jai alai fronton in Dania and took a bath for a hundred large he couldn't pay. Not only was the sports book in Miami unsympathetic with Max's financial situation, they sold his debt to shylocks who informed him the vig was four thousand a week, none of which applied to the principle.\n\nOr he could take out a Catholic priest.\n\nSo he had come to Louisiana on a gray, rain-swept, cold day, trudging through flooded streets floating with garbage, himself no different in aspect than a poor sod on his way to work in the peat bogs. But there had been an upside to it all. He'd found out he didn't have it in him to shoot a priest, which meant perhaps part of his soul was still intact. Secondly, he had discovered a new identity and gambling ambiance.\n\nWearing Father Dolan's black suit and rabat and collar, he had entered a bingo parlor on an Indian reservation in south-central Louisiana and had suddenly found himself a celebrity. People smiled at him, shook his hand, offered him their chairs at the tables, patted him affectionately, brought him beer and sandwiches from the cafe. He began to feel like a mascot being trundled from hand to hand by five hundred people. In fact, he was pinched and pulled and squeezed so many times and places he couldn't concentrate on his bingo board and finally gave it up.\n\nThen he was asked to stand on the stage and call out the bingo numbers. Why not? he thought. It was a grand evening. The weather had turned balmy again; palm trees strung with colored lights were rustling in the breeze outside the windows; the faces of the people around him were warm and filled with goodwill. Maybe his clerical role was a bit cosmetic, but it was still a fine way to be.\n\nThen at 10:00 P.M. he went into the bar and ordered a cup of coffee and sat down to watch the nightly news.\n\nThe lead story was the arrest of one Father James Dolan, charged with sexual solicitation in a public rest room that was located close by a children's playground.\n\nThe arresting officer, Dale Louviere, was interviewed on camera. \"We had this area under surveillance because of previous complaints,\" he said.\n\n\"Regarding the children?\" the reporter asked.\n\n\"Yes, that's exactly correct,\" Louviere replied.\n\n\"Regarding this particular suspect?\" the reporter asked.\n\n\"I'm not at liberty to say that. We're currently involved in a deep background investigation,\" Louviere replied.\n\nIf I ever saw a bull carrying around its own china shop, Max thought. Oh well, it was the good father's cross to bear, not Max's. Maybe Father Dolan would have a little more empathy for professional criminals now that he'd gotten himself jammed up by coppers on a pad, Max told himself.\n\nHe finished his coffee and went back to the bingo game. But the fun was gone and the clothes on his body suddenly felt foreign on his skin, superheated, sticky, smelling of the priest.\n\nHe found himself biting his knuckle, oblivious to the stares around him. What was it that bothered him? The priest was a hardhead, determined to see himself buggered with a posthole digger. Max had nothing to do with it, no obligations to him.\n\nWrong, he thought, lowering his eyes, staring into his lap.\n\nHe had set out to murder an innocent, decent man, something he had prided himself on never having done. In addition, the priest had bested him at every turn; that thought didn't go down well, either. In fact, all of Max's thoughts were like thongs on a flagrum whipping down on his head.\n\nIt was depressing.\n\nHe walked outside into the wind and the sweep of stars overhead and the glow of Christmas lights strung around palm trees and started up his rental Honda. He removed a .45 automatic wrapped in an oily cloth from under the seat and set it beside him. As he drove down the two-lane road toward the interstate, he rested his right hand on the .45 and felt his heart rate decrease and his breath grow quiet in his chest.\n\nThen he looked up through the windshield at the stars and for the first time in years found himself addressing an ancient deity with whom he had once had a relationship.\n\nSir, if you're going to drop problems of conscience on a man like me at this time in his career, he prayed, would you mind doing so in a gentler manner so I don't have to feel I'm being crunched inside the iron maiden? I would very much appreciate it. Thank you. Amen.\n\nIt rained the next morning and Jimmie Dolan was still in jail, waiting to be arraigned at 11:00 A.M. I had just sat down at my desk when I saw an unmarked vehicle of the kind used by N.O.P.D. pull to the curb and Clotile Arceneaux, wearing Levis, a knit sweater, and blue-jean jacket, get out and run through the rain to the courthouse entrance, her hand raised in front of her brow.\n\nShe came into my office, out of breath, her denim jacket streaked with rainwater. She sat down without being invited and said, \"Wow! You're a hard man to catch!\"\n\n\"I don't follow you,\" I said.\n\n\"I left three messages yesterday afternoon,\" she said.\n\n\"I was in Franklin. Father Dolan is in jail,\" I replied.\n\n\"Yeah, I know all about it. Guy really walks into wrecking balls, doesn't he? Look, what have you got on the death of Sammy Figorelli?\"\n\n\"Nothing.\"\n\n\"Nothing?\"\n\n\"He was killed with a .22. He probably knew the shooter. That's about it,\" I said.\n\nI could see her anger at losing months of work rekindling itself in her face. She bit a thumbnail and looked at the rain hitting on the window, then looked back at me. \"I came here for another reason as well. In fact, I'm off work today,\" she said.\n\n\"What is it?\"\n\n\"You already have breakfast?\" she said.\n\n\"No,\" I lied.\n\n\"It's on me,\" she said.\n\n\"Your accent seems to come and go.\"\n\n\"See, I knew you were a smart man.\" She smiled, her mouth pressed into a small flower.\n\nWe got a take-out order at Victor's Cafeteria on Main and drove across the bayou to a giant crab-boil pavilion next to an exhibition hall where, believe it or not, Harry James, Buddy Rich, Willie Smith, and Duke Ellington's arranger, Juan Tizol, performed during the 1950s. The camellias along the bayou were in bloom and looked like red paper flowers inside the grayness of the day, and a tug was moving a huge iron barge loaded with dredged mud through the drawbridge up by Burke Street.\n\n\"So what's the haps?\" I said.\n\n\"I came down on you pretty hard when you and Purcel scared Fat Sammy out of town,\" she replied.\n\n\"Your feelings were understandable.\"\n\nThere was a fried-egg-and-ham sandwich on French bread in her Styrofoam container but she hadn't touched it. \"I talked to Purcel. He told me about your wife's death,\" she said.\n\nI raised my chin to straighten my collar and looked at the tug moving the barge down the bayou.\n\n\"So what I'm saying is\u2014\"\n\n\"Got it. You don't need to explain.\"\n\n\"How about shutting up a minute? My husband was killed in Iraq in '91. He was in a tank. The army said he died instantly but I don't believe them,\" she said.\n\n\"I'm sorry.\"\n\n\"For a long time I thought I saw him at a football game or in a bar or in a crowd at a department store. That ever happen to you?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"You're lucky. What I'm saying, Robicheaux, is I think you're a good cop and you don't need another cop yelling at you.\" She picked up her sandwich and took a bite out of it. I heard the tug blowing its whistle at the next drawbridge.\n\n\"It's Friday. You want to hang around town, maybe catch dinner and go to a movie?\" I said.\n\n\"What's playing?\" she asked.\n\n\"Really hadn't checked it out.\"\n\n\"Father Dolan's being arraigned at eleven,\" she said.\n\n\"I thought you'd cut loose of Father Jimmie's problems.\"\n\n\"A girl's got to do something for kicks,\" she said, and watched me over the top of her cup while she drank her coffee.\n\nDale Louviere liked being a city police officer, especially since he had been promoted to plainclothes and given his own office, a travel account, and membership in two civic clubs. The pay was nothing to brag about, but good things happened if a man did his job and accorded people respect and made sure he was available to serve in whatever capacity he was needed.\n\nAnything wrong with that? he asked himself.\n\nHe lived a bachelor's life in a freshly painted bungalow out in the country, enclosed by sugarcane fields, cedar trees, flower beds and vegetable gardens tended by a trusty from the parish stockade. The radical priest's accusation that he was on a pad still rankled him. Dale Louviere never accepted a bribe from anyone; he didn't have to. He took care of his own side of the street and the other things took care of themselves. A mortgage or car loan was approved upon application; his drinks were put on a tab at local bars but he was not expected to ever pay the tab; a land developer gave him forty-yard-line tickets to LSU's home games whenever he wanted them; and at Christmas-time cellophane-wrapped baskets of candy, fruit, and wine were delivered to his door.\n\nThe people who owned the sugar mills, drilled the oil wells, and governed the parish's affairs paid most of the taxes, didn't they? They gave other people jobs. The parish would be a giant rural slum without them. So a civil servant had to pay attention to the needs of rich people who could locate elsewhere anytime they chose.\n\nAnything wrong with that?\n\nEarly the same morning Father Jimmie Dolan was to be arraigned, Dale Louviere rose at first light, put on his warm-up suit, and drank coffee and smoked a cigarette at the kitchen table, waiting for the chill to go out of the room. Through the front window he saw a Honda pass on the state road, then return, going in the opposite direction.\n\nHe washed his cup and saucer in the sink, put his spare set of house and car keys around his neck on a braided lanyard, and began his early-morning aerobic walk down the state road. Two hundred yards from his bungalow he crossed a wood bridge over a coulee and entered a long, cleared slash between two unharvested cane fields. The rain had quit temporarily, but fog hung like smoke in the cane and the thatch under his feet was sodden and mud coated, squishing each time he took a step, soaking the bottoms of his sweat pants.\n\nOne of his shoes went down ankle-deep in water. Bad day for aerobics, he thought.\n\nHe heard a car stop on the road. When he looked behind him he saw the Honda again, and a priest with a map spread across his steering wheel, rolling down his window now, his face expressing his obvious need for directions. But secretly Dale Louviere neither liked nor trusted the clergy, and off the clock he gave them no time. He pretended to tie his shoe until he heard the sound of the Honda's engine thinning in the distance.\n\nIt started to sprinkle again and Dale Louviere headed home, walking fast along the edge of the road, through ground fog that welled out of the ditches, his arms pumping the way he had learned in an aerobics class. He wondered if he would ever successfully quit smoking. He had tried many times, but within three days he would be so irritable and agitated his colleagues would toss cigarettes on his desk blotter by way of suggestion. Now the best he could do was pump the smoke out of his lungs and the nicotine out of his blood with a hard, early-morning walk that left his head spinning and his nervous system screaming for another cigarette.\n\nFortunately he had stuffed a pack in his jacket pocket. Just as he fished one out he saw the Honda coming in his direction again. The driver pulled alongside Dale Louviere and rolled down the window with the electric motor. He wore a golfer's cap pulled down on one eye, and had a tight face and small ears, like a fighter who had spent too many years in the ring. A road map was crumpled on the dashboard. His black suit and rabat were dry, his shoulders narrow, his hands round and pink on the steering wheel.\n\n\"Could you be directing me back to Highway 90, sir?\" the priest said.\n\n\"Go to the four corners and turn left,\" Louviere said.\n\nThe priest screwed his head about, his eyebrows raised into half-moons. \"That simple? I must have made a complete circle. I think the bishop served too much of the grog last night.\"\n\nBut instead of driving away he started fiddling with his map, running his finger along a line that marked Highway 90, peering down the road, then through the back window again. Dale Louviere thought he heard a knocking sound in the trunk.\n\n\"What's that?\" he asked.\n\nThe priest clucked his tongue. \"I'm afraid I ran over a dog. I'm taking him to a veterinary if I can find one,\" he said. \"Turn at the crossroads, you say?\"\n\n\"Correct. You can't get lost. Got it now?\" Louviere said impatiently. He lit a cigarette and drew the smoke lovingly into his lungs.\n\n\"I don't see that on this map,\" the priest said.\n\n\"Look, it's not that hard. You see the state road here\u2014\" He held his cigarette to one side and leaned in the window.\n\nThat was as far as he got. The priest grabbed the lanyard around Louviere's neck and rolled up the window on his throat, trapping his head at the top of the glass like a man caught in an inverted guillotine.\n\nHe pressed down on the accelerator and drove his car down the road and into Louviere's driveway, while Louviere held onto the door handle and tried to extend his body like a crane's to keep from being decapitated.\n\n\"Be a good fellow and toggle along as best you can. We'll have you safe and snug in your digs before you know it,\" the priest said. \"Oops, a little bump there. Hang on.\"\n\nDale Louviere felt his head being torn loose from his torso as he tripped over his feet, fighting to find purchase. The Honda moved past the side of his house, his gardens and flower beds and across the thin, wintergreen stretch of grass that comprised his backyard, into a paintless cypress barn left over from an earlier time.\n\nThe priest lowered the window glass and Dale Louviere fell backward into a smell of rotted straw, hard-packed, damp earth, and horse manure that powdered into dust. The priest cut the engine on the car and got out, a .45 automatic hanging from his right hand. \"I have nothing against coppers. Except those who are no better than me and pretend otherwise. On which side of the line would a fellow like you fall, sir?\" he said.\n\nAgain Dale Louviere heard a kicking sound in the Honda's trunk but could not think of anything except the violent pounding in his own chest.\n\nAt 10:55 A.M., while Father Jimmie Dolan sat in a St. Mary Parish courtroom, cuffed to a wrist chain with a collection of drunks, pipeheads, prostitutes, and wife batterers, the prosecutor's office received a call from Dale Louviere. He indicated he was resigning his job and, for personal reasons, moving to an undisclosed city out of state. He also said there was no substance to the charges against Father James Dolan and that his colleague, Cash Money Mouton, who had made the arrest in the public rest room, would confirm the same, provided he could be found.\n\nClotile Arceneaux, Father Jimmie, and I walked out the front door of the courthouse together. The rain had stopped and the town looked washed and clean, the trees green against the grayness of the day, the ebb and flow of the traffic on a wet street somehow an indicator of the world's normalcy.\n\n\"What happened in there?\" Father Jimmie said.\n\n\"I wouldn't worry about it,\" I said.\n\n\"Max Coll is behind this, isn't he?\" he said.\n\n\"Who cares? Those guys deserve anything that happens to them,\" I said.\n\n\"I thought New Orleans was tough. Y'all have death squads over here?\" Clotile said.\n\nI started to make a flippant reply, but saw the troubled expression on Father Jimmie's face. \"I have to get my car from the pound,\" he said.\n\n\"We'll see you at the house. Let it slide, Jimmie,\" I said.\n\n\"One of those men may be dead,\" he replied.\n\nHe walked down the street, his black suit rumpled and stained from sleeping overnight on a cement jailhouse floor.\n\n\"Your friend isn't easily consoled, is he?\" Clotile said.\n\n\"Ever hear about the Jewish legend of the thirteen just men who suffer for the rest of us?\"\n\n\"No. What's the point?\"\n\n\"Some people have to do life in the Garden of Gethsemane,\" I said.\n\nShe picked up my left hand and looked at it, her fingers cool on my skin. \"This is where those greaseballs put the pliers to you?\" she said.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nShe patted the top of my hand and released it. \"Take care of your own ass for a change,\" she said.\n\n## Chapter 20\n\nFather Jimmie had not been back at my house ten minutes when the phone rang in the kitchen. He picked it up but did not speak, his breath audible in the silence.\n\n\"Ah, you're a clairvoyant as well as a spiritual man,\" the voice on the other end said.\n\n\"Leave me alone. Please,\" Father Jimmie said.\n\n\"I got you, didn't I?\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\"\n\n\"Oh, you know what I mean, sir. It took a bastard like me with blood on his hands to get you out of the slams. Now it's you who owe me.\"\n\n\"What did you do with those men?\"\n\n\"They're both alive and probably enjoying a cool drink in a warm climate by now. I think one of them mentioned Ecuador. Have to say, though, I was tempted to release them from their earthly bonds.\"\n\nFather Jimmie sat down in a chair and tried to think. \"Perhaps you mean well, but you cannot use violence to solve either your problems or mine,\" he said.\n\n\"What do you know of violence, sir? What do you fucking know of it?\"\n\n\"You're full of hatred, Max. Get it out of your life. You injure yourself with it more than others.\"\n\n\"If I came into your confessional, would you give me absolution?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"There are a couple more house calls I'd like to make.\"\n\n\"You don't negotiate the terms of forgiveness.... Max? Did you year me?\"\n\nBut Max Coll had hung up. Father Jimmie leaned his head down on his hand, the stink of the jail still on his clothes, Snuggs the cat pacing back and forth on the table, his tail dragging across Father Jimmie's face. He felt more tired than he had ever been in his life, vain and used up, now sullied by the accusation of molester, even though it was a lie.\n\nHe knew the rumor would always follow him, regardless of where he went or what he did. A wave of revulsion and anger washed through him and made him clench his fists. Is this what all the years in the seminary, the struggles with celibacy and bigots and dictatorial and obtuse superiors had been about? To end up with his name and life's work soiled by an accusation that made his skin crawl?\n\nWhy didn't he quit running a game on himself? He posed as the altruist, but other people constantly had to get him out of trouble. If he had wanted to be a true missionary and take real risks, why hadn't he joined the Maryknolls? He disdained the role of the traditional priest, but in his self-imposed piety he had become little more than a noisy gadfly dedicated to causes Carrie Nation might have supported.\n\nHe had just lectured a tormented man on his violence, although he, Jimmie Dolan, had just profited from it, and if truth be known he was glad he was on the street and perhaps secretly glad his false accusers had gotten their just deserts.\n\nBetter to marry than to burn, St. Paul had said. Better to be a bourbon priest or a diocesan sycophant than a self-canonized fool, Father Jimmie thought.\n\n\"What do you think, Snuggs?\" he said.\n\nSnuggs answered by nudging his head into Father Jimmie's chin.\n\nFather Jimmie went into the bedroom, flung his clothes in the corner, and got under the shower. The water coughed in the pipes, then seemed to whisper the word hypocrite in his ear.\n\nThe South has changed dramatically since the civil rights legislation of the 1960s. Anyone who says otherwise has either not been there or wishes to keep old wounds green and tender as part of a personal agenda. And nowhere has the change been more visible than in the once recalcitrant states of the Deep South.\n\nBut that evening, when I took Clotile Arceneaux to supper on East Main, I tried to convince myself otherwise. I told myself the furtive glances at our table, the awkwardness of friends who felt they should stop by and say hello, were expressions of narrowness and latent racism to be expected in our culture.\n\nThe truth was no one took exception to Clotile's race. But they did take exception to my being out with another woman in less than a year of Bootsie's death.\n\nIt had turned cold again when we left the restaurant. Stars were spread across the sky, the horizon flaring with stubble fires, smoke boiling out of the electric lights at the sugar mills.\n\n\"You a little uncomfortable in there about something?\" Clotile asked.\n\n\"Not me,\" I replied.\n\nShe opened the door to my pickup by herself and got in and closed it behind her, although I had tried to help her in. \"You're really out of the past, aren't you?\" she said.\n\n\"Probably,\" I said.\n\nShe smiled and didn't say anything. We drove toward the drawbridge and the theater complex on the other side of Bayou Teche. She had checked in to a motel out by the four-lane that afternoon.\n\nWe crossed the bayou and turned in to the theater parking lot. It was filled with teenagers, long lines of them extending out from the ticket windows.\n\n\"Friday night is a bad night for the movies here,\" I said.\n\n\"We don't need to go,\" she said, looking straight ahead.\n\nI turned around in the parking lot, recrossed the bayou, and drove up East Main, without destination. The street seemed strangely empty, the stars shut out by the canopy of oaks overhead, my rented shotgun house dark and blown with unraked leaves. I hesitated, then pulled into my driveway and cut the engine. The ground fog in the trees and bamboo glistened in the lights from City Park across the bayou.\n\n\"Where's Father Dolan?\" she asked.\n\n\"Staying with friends in Lafayette.\"\n\n\"You have a lot of regrets in your life, Robicheaux?\" she said.\n\n\"All drunks do,\" I replied.\n\n\"How do you deal with them?\"\n\n\"I don't labor over them anymore.\"\n\nShe still looked straight ahead. \"I don't want to be a regret in somebody's life,\" she said.\n\n\"Want to meet my cat?\" I said.\n\nAnd that's what we did. I introduced her to Snuggs; then we ate ice cream in the kitchen and I drove her to her motel.\n\nAfterward I went to the cemetery in St. Martinville and sat on the steel bench by Bootsie's tomb and watched the moon rise over the old French church on the bayou.\n\nThat night I dreamed I was in New Orleans in an earlier era, riding on a streetcar out to Elysian Fields. The streets were dark, the palm fronds on the neutral ground yellow with blight. No one else was on the car except the motorman. When he turned and looked back at me his eyes were empty sockets, the skin on his face dried and shrunken into little more than gauze on his skull.\n\nOftentimes police cases are not solved. They simply unravel, by chance and accident. With good luck there will even be an appreciable degree of justice involved, although it often originates from an expected source.\n\nEarly the next morning, Saturday, my lawn was white with frost and the bamboo on the side of the house was stiff and hard and rattled like broomsticks in the wind. I put on my sweat suit, ran three miles through City Park, then showered and drove down to Clete's cottage in the motor court.\n\nHe sat on the side of his bed in the coldness of the room, sleepy, shivering slightly, wearing only a strap undershirt and pajama bottoms. The wastebasket in his kitchen was stuffed with fast-food containers and beer cans.\n\n\"You want to do what?\" he said.\n\n\"Eat breakfast at McDonald's, then maybe knock down some ducks at Pecan Island,\" I said.\n\n\"I'm busy today,\" he replied.\n\n\"I see.\"\n\nIt was quiet in the room. His eyes lingered on mine. \"What's bothering you, big mon?\" he said.\n\nI told him about the dream, the motorman with the skeletal face, the darkness outside the streetcar, the yellowed palm fronds that clattered like bone. \"You ever have a dream like that?\" I said.\n\n\"I used to dream I was on a Jolly Green that was going down. But that was in the hospital in Saigon. It doesn't mean anything. It's just a dream.\"\n\n\"I can't shake it,\" I said.\n\nHe got up from the bed and began dressing. \"Turn on the heat, will you? It feels like it's thirty below in here,\" he said.\n\nWe ate at the McDonald's on East Main. Outside, the sky was blue, the leaves of the live oak in the adjacent lot flickering in the sunlight. \"Can't tempt you into a duck-hunting trip?\" I said.\n\nHe wiped his mouth with a crumpled napkin and dropped it onto his plate. \"That perv I told you about, Bobby Joe Fontenot, the one in the trailer court? I couldn't stop thinking about what he said to me.\"\n\n\"Said what?\"\n\n\"That if he reoffended, he was going to use my name every time he stuck it to a little kid. So I called the perv's P.O. Guess what? The P.O. is on vacation. So I told the guy handling his case file about the little boy in the trailer next door. He did everything except yawn in my ear.\"\n\n\"Call Social Services,\" I said.\n\n\"I already did. I think that kid is shark meat.\"\n\nHe gathered up the trash from both our meals and stuffed them angrily into a bin.\n\n\"Take it easy, Cletus,\" I said.\n\n\"Screw the ducks. Time to spit in the punch bowl,\" he said.\n\nThe mother of the little boy in the trailer court was named Katie Goltz. She sat with us in her tiny living room, still not connecting the reasons we were there, even though Clete mentioned he had been chasing down a bail skip who was the fall partner of Bobby Joe Fontenot, a convicted sex predator living next door.\n\nShe wore no lipstick, old jeans, Indian moccasins, and a colorless pullover. Her hair was cut short, and had probably been brown before it was peroxided and waved on one side to resemble a 1940s leading lady's.\n\n\"Where's your son?\" Clete said.\n\n\"At the strip mall,\" she replied.\n\nClete nodded. \"He went with some friends?\" he asked.\n\n\"Bobby Joe took him. To buy him a comic book for helping clean his trailer,\" she said.\n\nClete leaned forward in his chair. \"Ma'am, we have a Meagan's Law in Louisiana. You must have been notified about Bobby Joe Fontenot's record,\" he said.\n\n\"People change,\" she said.\n\n\"You listen to me. That guy is a degenerate. You keep your son away from him,\" Clete said.\n\nShe focused her eyes on a neutral space, her hands folded in her lap. Her arms were muscular, as though she had grown up doing physical work, her complexion clear. Behind her, framed on the wall, was a black-and-white photograph of her and a man who looked like a power lifter. His hair was shaved on the sides, curly in back, his face impish, like a cartoon drawing of a monkey's.\n\nI stood up and looked closer at the picture. It was inscribed \"To Katie Gee, the girl who made my own screen role a real pleasure, Your pal, Phil.\"\n\n\"That's Gunner Ardoin,\" I said.\n\n\"'Gunner' is his nickname. Phil is his real name. You know him?\" she said.\n\n\"He was involved with the beating of a priest in New Orleans. You made a film with him?\" I said.\n\nShe frowned, unable to process all that she just heard. \"I made just one film. My screen name is Katie Gee. The producer said 'Gee' looks better than 'Goltz' on the credits. Phil was my costar. What was that about a priest?\" she said.\n\n\"You were in one of Fat Sammy Figorelli's porn films?\" Clete said.\n\n\"They're art films. They're shown in art theaters. Listen, nobody has hurt my little boy. I wouldn't let that happen. I have to go to the washateria now,\" she said.\n\nThere seemed nothing left to say. Her mindset, formed out of either desperation, ignorance, or just plain stupidity and selfishness, was armor-plated, and in all probability no amount of attrition in her life or her son's would ever change it.\n\nBobby Joe Fontenot pulled up outside, wearing a foam-rubber collar, his face marbled with bruises. When the little boy got out of his car, Bobby Joe cocked his index finger at him, as though he were pointing a gun, and said, \"Come over and watch some TV tonight. I got some Popsicles.\"\n\nClete and I got up to go, our mission by and large a failure. Her son rushed past us into his bedroom, a new comic book rolled tightly in his hand. Clete twisted the handle on the front door, then stopped and turned around. \"It's not coincidence you let that geek be alone with your kid. There's a financial motive here, isn't there?\" he said.\n\n\"Coincidence?\" she said.\n\n\"You've got more than a neighborly relationship with that asshole next door. He knows you were working the trade around Folk Polk,\" Clete said, tapping the air with one finger. \"Fontenot's in porn films, too, isn't he?\"\n\n\"I'm not saying any more. I have to go to the washateria and fix lunch and do all kinds of things I don't get no help with. Why don't y'all just leave now? I didn't do anything to cause this, and you can't say I did,\" she said.\n\nShe stared at us indignantly, her arms folded across her breasts, as though the irrefutability of her logic should have been obvious to anyone.\n\nClete and I crossed the Teche on the drawbridge behind the trailer court and headed toward New Iberia on the back road, past the row of oak-shaded antebellum homes that belonged on a movie set. Then he mashed on the gas, one hand on top of the steering wheel, the sugarcane fields racing past us, a crazy light in his eyes.\n\n\"What are you thinking about, Clete?\"\n\n\"Nothing. I'll drop you off,\" he said.\n\n\"Clete?\"\n\n\"Everything is copacetic. Just hang loose. I'll check in with you later,\" he said. He whistled an aimless tune under his breath.\n\n## Chapter 21\n\nAt 10:15 Monday morning I received a call from Clotile Arceneaux. \"Did you hear from the FBI yet?\" she asked.\n\n\"No,\" I said.\n\n\"You will. They just left here. They want to put a net over Max Coll real bad,\" she said.\n\n\"A guy crossing state lines to commit a homicide? I guess they would.\"\n\n\"No, you've got it wrong. It's face-saving time. Because he's IRA, he's on a terrorist watch list. In fact, he's been on one for three years. Except he's been going back and forth across the Canadian border like a yo-yo, making a lot of people look like shit.\"\n\n\"That's their problem,\" I said.\n\n\"You're not hearing me. The Feds believe Coll is...\" She paused and I heard her shuffling papers around. \"They say he's a nonpathological compulsive-obsessive with paranoid and antisocial tendencies.\"\n\n\"Antisocial tendencies? This is the kind of crap that comes out of Quantico. Don't buy into it.\"\n\n\"Will you shut up? They're saying Coll kills people because he feels he has a right to. He's not a psychopath or a schizophrenic or anything like that. He's just a very angry man. Have I got your attention?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said.\n\n\"He had a wife and son in Belfast nobody in law enforcement knew about. They used a different name so Coll's enemies wouldn't find them. But about five years ago a Protestant death squad of some kind put a bomb under their car and killed both of them. They were on their way to Mass.\"\n\nThe subject wasn't funny anymore.\n\n\"Is there a tap on my home phone?\" I asked.\n\n\"We're in the George W. Bush era. I'd keep that in mind,\" she said.\n\nFifteen minutes later Helen came into my office, a clutch of fax sheets in her hand. \"Did you hear anything about an explosion on the drawbridge in Jeanerette?\" she asked.\n\n\"No,\" I said.\n\nShe sat on the corner of my desk and studied the fax sheets in her hand. \"This is from the St. Mary's sheriff's office. See what you think,\" she said. Her jawbone flexed against her cheek.\n\nI took the sheets from her hand and read them, trying not to show any expression. The details of the investigator's report were incredible. In the early A.M. someone had evidently slim-jimmed a wrecker that was parked in a filling station located a half block from the trailer court by the Jeanerette drawbridge. After hot-wiring the ignition, the perpetrator drove the wrecker down to the trailer court, hooked up the winch to a trailer owned by one Bobby Joe Fontenot, and ripped it off its cinder blocks, tearing loose all the plumbing, electrical, phone and cable connections.\n\nAccording to witnesses, the owner tried to exit the trailer but discovered the door had been sealed shut with a bonding adhesive used to repair the bodies of wrecked automobiles. The perpetrator skidded the trailer out of the court onto the surfaced road, bouncing it across a drainage ditch, smashing mailboxes and parked cars. When the trailer toppled on its side, witnesses thought they saw the owner trying to climb out of an exposed window. But the driver of the wrecker accelerated, knocking Fontenot, the owner, back inside. The driver then dragged the trailer across the steel grid of the drawbridge, geysering rooster-tails of sparks in the darkness.\n\nA liquid blue flame enveloped one of the butane tanks on the rear of the trailer. The explosion that ensued blew burning paper, fabric, and particleboard all over the bayou. The owner, who by this time had broken out a window and cleaned the glass from the frame with a hammer, barely escaped with his life.\n\nThe perpetrator abandoned the wrecker and burning trailer, which was tightly wedged between the steel side beams on the bridge, and disappeared into the darkness on the far side of the bayou. A moment later an ancient Cadillac convertible was seen speeding down the road toward New Iberia, the engine misfiring, leaking oil smoke, the driver wearing a small, short-brim hat perched on the front of his head.\n\n\"Wow, that's something, isn't it?\" I said, handing the fax sheets back to Helen.\n\n\"Any idea who could pull a stunt like that?\" she said.\n\n\"There're a lot of old gas guzzlers like that around,\" I replied, my eyes drifting around the room.\n\n\"Right,\" she said.\n\n\"No mention of the Cadillac's color?\"\n\n\"Nope,\" she said.\n\n\"It's not in our jurisdiction, anyway. Let St. Mary Parish do some work for a change.\"\n\n\"You get Clete Purcel in here right now,\" she said.\n\nBut Clete did not answer his phone, and when I drove by the motor court, the manager told me he had not seen Clete's car in the last day or two. I called Clete's office in New Orleans. The temporary secretary he sometimes used was an ex-nun by the name of Alice Werenhaus who put the fear of God in some of Clete's clients.\n\n\"You are Mr. Robicheaux?\" she said.\n\n\"I was when I got up this morning,\" I replied, then quickly regretted my mistake in attempting humor with Alice Werenhaus.\n\n\"Oh, it is you, isn't it? I should have immediately recognized the quick wit at work in your rhetoric,\" she said. \"Mr. Purcel left a message for you. Would you like me to read it to you?\"\n\n\"Yes, that would be very nice, Ms. Werenhaus,\" I replied.\n\n\"It says, 'Give Alice a pay phone number and a time. Fart, Barf, and Itch probably have you tapped.' \"\n\n\"What's going on?\" I said.\n\n\"I suspect that's why he'd like to talk with you, Mr. Robicheaux. To explain everything to you. I'm sure by this time you're rather used to that,\" she said.\n\nI walked downtown and got the number off a public telephone and called it back to Alice Werenhaus. \"I'll be at this number at one P.M.,\" I said.\n\nI expected another rejoinder at my expense. But she surprised me. \"Mr. Robicheaux, be careful. Watch after Mr. Purcel, too. Under all his bluster he's a vulnerable man,\" she said.\n\nAt 1:04 P.M. the payphone across from Victor's Cafeteria on Main Street rang. I picked it up and didn't wait for Clete to speak. \"Have you lost your mind?\" I said.\n\n\"About what?\" he said.\n\n\"You stole a tow truck out of a filling station. You almost burned Bobby Joe Fontenot to death in his trailer. The drawbridge in Jeanerette is still closed with the melted wreckage you left on top of it. Boat traffic is backed up ten miles.\"\n\n\"Oh, yeah, that,\" he replied. \"Things got a little out of hand. Look, big mon\u2014\"\n\n\"No, you look, Clete. Helen wants to feed you into an airplane propeller.\"\n\n\"She's emotional sometimes. I talked with Clotile Arceneaux. She says your phone is tapped.\"\n\n\"I already got that. Listen to me\u2014\"\n\n\"You think the Feds are tapping a cop's phone because they're worried about an Irish button man whacking out a couple of greaseballs? These guys still haven't found Jimmy Hoffa. It's Merchie Flannigan and his wife they're worried about.\"\n\n\"You're making no sense.\"\n\n\"That broad's been giving you a hand job. I did some checking on Merchie's company. He's in line for some big drilling contracts in Iraq after Shrub turns it into an American colony. That means his father-in-law, what's-his-face, Castille LeJeune, is probably mixed up in it, too. The Feds are after Coll because he's about to pop somebody with a lot of juice, not because they're worried about Coll trying to kill a Catholic priest or smoking the Dellacroce brothers.\"\n\nIt was pointless to argue with Clete. He was the best investigative cop I ever knew, his blue-collar instincts for deception and hypocrisy and flimflam always on target. But his antipathy toward Federal law enforcement agencies, particularly the FBI, was unrelenting, and at best he considered them bumbling and inept and at worst lazy and arrogant.\n\n\"Why'd you say Theodosha Flannigan was giving me a hand job?\" I asked.\n\n\"She and her husband are business partners. She set you up to either get drunk or clipped, she didn't care which. Rich broads look after their money first and think about the size of your Johnson second. You think she's going to let a guy like you screw up her family's finances?\"\n\n\"You really know how to say it, Cletus.\"\n\n\"You want to be a dildo for this broad, that's your choice. She's dirty, Streak, just like her husband and her old man.\"\n\n\"What are you up to?\"\n\n\"I told you before, I'm going to make cripples out of the shitheads who hurt you. Get this. I saw a guy in Franklin who looks just like your description of Max Coll.\"\n\n\"Stay away from him, Clete.\"\n\n\"Lose a resource like that? By the way, what's the name of that electrician who burned down your house?\"\n\nI started to give him the name, then refused.\n\n\"That's all right. I already had a talk with him. He might be contacting your department, but don't believe anything he says.\"\n\nLater, I went into Helen's office. She was on the phone, nodding, while someone on the other end talked, her eyes on mine. \"All right, we'll take care of it.... I agree with you. Absolutely.... This isn't the Wild West. You got it,\" she said, and hung up.\n\nHer face looked scorched.\n\n\"Who was that?\" I asked.\n\n\"The Lafayette sheriff. An electrical contractor by the name of Herbert Vidrine was pulled out of his house at around six-thirty this morning and worked over in his backyard,\" she said.\n\nShe looked down at the yellow legal pad on her desk, widening her eyes, as though she could not quite assimilate what she had just heard and written down. \"By 'pulled out,' I mean just that. His attacker was wearing work gloves of some kind and grabbed Vidrine by the mouth like he was picking up a bowling ball,\" she said. \"He swung him around in a circle and threw him into the side of a garbage truck. Vidrine is in Our Lady of Lourdes now. A neighbor got the tag number of the attacker's car. A lavender Cadillac convertible. Guess who it belongs to?\"\n\n\"I just talked to Clete on the phone. He's not coming in,\" I said.\n\n\"The electrical contractor is too scared to file charges. But Clete's not going to use Iberia Parish as his safe house while he goes around kicking people's asses.\"\n\nI nodded.\n\nThe heat went out of her face. \"What's the score on this electrical contractor?\" she said.\n\n\"He's the guy who installed bad wiring in my house. He works for Will Guillot.\"\n\n\"I'm fed up with the stuff, Dave. Clean it up or you and Clete can start making your own plans,\" she said.\n\nI took the old highway through Broussard into Lafayette and hit a rainstorm just outside of town. By the time I got to Our Lady of Lourdes Hospital the streets were flooding. I ran past a row of blooming camellia bushes into the side entrance of the hospital and asked at the nurse's station on the second floor for directions to Herbert Vidrine's room.\n\n\"Three rooms past the elevator, on your left,\" the nurse said.\n\nI thanked her and started down the hall. Then I stopped and went back to the station. I opened my badge holder. \"How's Mr. Vidrine doing?\" I asked.\n\n\"A concussion and a broken arm. But he's doing all right,\" the nurse replied. She was young and had clean features and brown hair that was clipped on her neck.\n\n\"Has anyone else been in to see him?\"\n\n\"Not since I've been here. I came on at eight A.M.,\" she said.\n\n\"Could I use your typewriter?\" I said.\n\nI had taken a fiction-writing course when I was an English education major at Southwestern Louisiana Institute. I hoped my old prof, Lyle Williams, would be proud of the letter I was now composing. I typed rather than signed a name at the bottom, folded and put the letter in an envelope the nurse gave me, then printed Herbert Vidrine's name on the outside.\n\n\"Would you wait ten minutes, then deliver this to Mr. Vidrine's room?\" I said.\n\n\"I don't know if I should get involved in this,\" she replied.\n\nI placed the envelope on her desk. \"You'd be helping out the good guys,\" I said.\n\nVidrine was sitting up in bed when I entered his room, one arm in a cast, easing a teaspoon of Jell-O past a severely swollen bottom lip.\n\n\"How are you, Herbert?\" I said.\n\nHe put his spoon back in a bowl that rested on his bed tray. \"You're Iberia Parish. What are you doing here?\" he said.\n\n\"We're looking for the guy who hurt you but on different charges,\" I said, laying my raincoat and hat on a chair.\n\n\"Maybe you're here to rub salt in a wound, too,\" he said.\n\n\"You burned my house down, partner. But I'm like you, I'm a drunk. I can't carry resentments. Did you ever go back to meetings?\"\n\nHis eyes left mine. Even though he was a hard-bodied man, he looked small in the bed, his spoon clutched in a childlike fashion. \"I never had that big a drinking problem. It was just when I was married,\" he said.\n\n\"The man who attacked you didn't have the right to do what he did,\" I said.\n\nHe frowned and ran his tongue over the swelling in his bottom lip. \"Just leave me alone,\" he said.\n\n\"One day you're going to have to do a Fifth Step on the injury you caused me and my family. My father built that house in the Depression with his own hands. My second wife was murdered in it. Her blood was in the wood,\" I said.\n\n\"I'm sorry,\" he said.\n\n\"Maybe you are,\" I said. I put my business card on his nightstand. \"I think you have a lot of information about the dealings of some bad people, Herbert. Why take their bounce?\"\n\n\"I haven't done anything wrong,\" he replied.\n\nI drummed my fingers on top of the chair where my raincoat rested and looked out the window at an oak tree whipping in the wind, its leaves shredding high in the air. Then I picked up my raincoat and left, just as the nurse entered with the letter I had typed at the nurse's station.\n\n\"This was left for you, Mr. Vidrine,\" I heard her say behind me.\n\nI waited five minutes, then reentered Vidrine's room. \"I forgot my hat,\" I said, picking it up from the chair.\n\nThe letter I had written lay unfolded on top of his bed tray. He was staring into space, his expression disjointed, like a man at a bus stop who has watched the bus's doors close in his face and the bus drive away without him.\n\nThe letter I had typed at the nurse's station read as follows:\n\nHerbert,\n\nSorry you got your ass stomped by that queer bait we had trouble with at the cafe in Jeanerette. But if you can't deal with a fat shit like that, I don't need you on the job. Take this as your official notice of termination. Also be advised you are forfeiting all fees due on uncompleted work.\n\nWill Guillot\n\n\"Something wrong?\" I asked.\n\n\"Yeah, there is. You want to know about Sunbelt Construction?\"\n\n\"Yeah, what's up with these guys?\"\n\n\"They got connections with gangsters in New Orleans.\"\n\n\"That's not real specific.\"\n\n\"Maybe they're selling dope. I'm not sure. But Will Guillot is going to take over the company. He's got something on the old man.\"\n\n\"Castille LeJeune?\"\n\n\"Yeah, him. The war hero.\"\n\n\"What does Guillot have on him?\"\n\n\"I don't know. I asked him once and all he said was, 'I finally got the goods on both him and that cunt.' I asked him which cunt he meant. He told me it wasn't my business.\"\n\n\"Ever hear the name of Junior Crudup?\"\n\n\"No,\" he said.\n\nIt had stopped raining outside. The sky was gray, the sun buried in a cloud like a wet flame, the hospital lawn blown with camellia petals. \"That's all you got for me, Herbert? It's not too much,\" I said.\n\n\"I'm an electrician. People don't confess their sins to me.\"\n\n\"See you around,\" I said.\n\n\"One time I told Will Fox Run was a beautiful place. He said, 'Don't let it fool you. All these places got a nigger in the woodpile.' I wasn't sure what he meant, though.\" He tilted his head inquisitively, waiting for me to speak, as if somehow we were old friends.\n\nSo Vidrine repeated a racist remark that confirms what you already knew,\" Helen said in her office an hour later. \"Maybe a convict was killed on the LeJeune plantation fifty years ago. Or maybe not. We didn't find a body, bwana.\"\n\n\"That's the point,\" I said. \"How could Will Guillot be blackmailing Castille LeJeune about the death of Junior Crudup? Guillot has something else on him.\"\n\n\"I'm glad we cleared that up. Now get out of here,\" she replied.\n\nI couldn't blame Helen for her feelings. The real issues were the murders of the daiquiri-store operator and Fat Sammy Figorelli, and in both instances we had no viable suspects. In the meantime I had gotten myself abducted, gotten deeply involved in a murder case from a half century ago, and had helped bring Max Coll to our community.\n\nAs a member of Alcoholics Anonymous, the axiom \"keep it simple\" was supposed to guide my daily life.\n\nWhat a joke.\n\nBut Helen herself had said the real problem lay in the fact we were dealing with Dagwood and Blondie. Amateurs hide in plain sight. They also do not feel guilty about the misdeeds they commit. They attend church, Kiwanis meetings, belong to the Better Business Bureau, support every self-righteous moral cause imaginable, and float like helium balloons right over whole armies of cops looking for miscreants in off-track betting parlors, triple-X motels, and crack houses.\n\nThe word criminal is more an emotional than legal term. Go to any U.S. post office and view the faces on the wanted posters. Like Dick Tracy caricatures, they stare out of the black-and-white photographs often taken in late-night booking rooms\u2014unshaved, pig snouted, rodent eyed, hare lipped, reassuring us that human evil is always recognizable and that consequently we will never be its victim.\n\nBut every longtime cop will tell you that the criminals who scared him most were the ones who looked and talked like the rest of us and committed deeds that no one, absolutely no one, ever wants to have knowledge of.\n\nFive or six years ago Helen and I had to fly to Deer Lodge, Montana, and question a kid whose execution was scheduled in three days. We were not prepared for what we saw when he was brought into the interview room in a short-sleeve, orange jumpsuit and leg and waist chains. His first name was Kerry, and the softness in his name was like both his features and his North Carolinian accent. He had no cigarette odor, no tattoos, no needle tracks. His auburn hair was shampooed, clipped on the ends, and kept falling across his glasses, so that he constantly twitched his head to shake a loose strand out of his vision.\n\nWhile we questioned him about a murder in Iberia Parish, his large glasses wobbled with reflected light and a strange, almost self-effacing smile never left his mouth. If he bore anger or resentment toward anyone, I could not detect it.\n\nHe had been sentenced to death for tying a rancher and his wife to chairs in their kitchen and butchering them alive. While on Death Row he helped organize a riot that resulted in the convict takeover of the entire maximum-security area. Kerry also was a chief participant in the fate of five snitches who were pulled out of protection cells, tortured, and lynched with wire loops from the second tier of a lockdown section.\n\nHe said he knew nothing of the homicide in Iberia Parish.\n\n\"Your fingerprints at the murder scene indicate otherwise. Maybe the victim had it coming. Why not get your interpretation of events on the books?\" I said.\n\nHe flipped his head to clear a strand of hair from his glasses and smiled at a joke that only he seemed to understand.\n\nWe gave it up. But before we left the interview room I had to ask him another question. \"What do you think lies on the other side, Kerry?\" I said.\n\nHe had a slight cold and couldn't wipe his nose because his hands were manacled at the waist, so he huffed air out of his nostrils before he answered. \"You just move on to another plane of existence,\" he said.\n\nThe afternoon of his injection he had to be awakened from a sound sleep. Minutes later the death warrant was read and he was videotaped by a member of the medical examiner's office on the way to the execution chamber. He grinned at the camera and said, \"Hi, Mom,\" and jiggled all over with laughter.\n\n## Chapter 22\n\nI went to bed early that night and listened to the rain hitting the tin roof of my rented house. The fog was white in the trees, a lighted tugboat out on the Teche, its gunnels hung with rubber tires, glistening inside the rain. I slept the sleep of the dead.\n\nThe time on my alarm clock was 4:16 A.M. when I heard the unmistakable sound of Clete's automobile engine dying in my driveway. A moment later he tapped softly on the front door. He was wearing gloves and a beat-up leather bomber jacket. The jacket was unzipped, and I could see his nylon shoulder holster and his blue-black, pearl-handled .38 revolver inside it.\n\n\"Where have you been?\" I said.\n\n\"At a fish camp on Lake Fausse Pointe. Get dressed. I know where Max Coll is,\" he said.\n\n\"No more cowboy stuff, Clete.\"\n\n\"Me?\" he said.\n\n\"Where is he?\" I said.\n\nClete stepped inside the living room and started to explain, looking back over his shoulder at the street, then got vexed at being conciliatory. \"You want in on this or not?\" he said.\n\nI left a note on the kitchen counter for Father Jimmie, then Clete and I headed out in the predawn wetness for New Orleans, a thermos of coffee and a box of beignets on the seat between us. The old homes along East Main were still dark, the live oaks dripping on the sidewalks. I was still not quite awake.\n\n\"Run it by me again,\" I said.\n\n\"Janet Gish is trying to get off the nose candy without a program, so she spends most of the night at Harrah's. She says a guy with a Mick accent was in the casino until early Saturday morning, then he left just before seven. He came back at eight-thirty, ate a plate of steak and eggs, played some more blackjack, and drove off in a Honda.\"\n\n\"Why was she paying so much attention to a guy with an accent?\" I asked.\n\n\"One, I'd already described Coll to her, and, two, she still hooks a little on the side and thought he'd be an easy trick. Here's the rest of it. He had on black dress pants, like a priest might wear.\"\n\nIt was raining and still dark when we crossed the high bridge over the Atchafalaya at Morgan City. Down below I could see shrimp boats in their berths, the red-tiled roofs of the town, and the great, cypress-dotted expanse of the wetlands in the south, all of which were being eaten away by saltwater intrusion at a rate of hundreds of square miles a year.\n\n\"Doesn't your heater work?\" I said.\n\n\"It's full blast, mon.\"\n\nClete's cell phone rang. He answered it, listened, then said thanks to someone and clicked it shut again. \"That's Janet. The guy who looks like Coll is still there. By the way, she's got a porn lead for us, too,\" he said.\n\nWe crossed the wide sweep of the Mississippi just as the first cold band of light, like the blunt edge of a sword, appeared on the eastern horizon. Then we were rolling down I-10 past the southern shore of Lake Pontchartrain, into the heart of the city, the welfare projects, the cemeteries where the dead were entombed in white brick, the homeless and the hopelessly addicted gathered around fires next to the cement pillars that supported the elevated highway.\n\nAt the head of Canal Street stood the casino, the royal palms at the entrance beaded with rainwater in the graying of the dawn. The gamblers inside were not a group that took note of changes in either weather or clocks. The rain might beat against the windows and lightning flicker on the streets outside, but the blacks and Hispanics and blue-collar whites who crowded the tables or fed the endless banks of slot machines were committed to their own form of solipsism, one in which the amounts that were lost or gained were far less important than the gamblers' desire to stay in the game, to be a part of the action, at the table or in front of the machine, until they were physically and emotionally sated in a way no sexual or narcotic experience can equal.\n\nJanet Gish was at the bar, a scotch and milk in front of her. Her hair was currently orange, stiff with spray, the tops of both breasts tattooed with a blood red star, her skin rough grained, freckled, layered with makeup. But in spite of all the cosmetics and chemicals she used on herself, she had one natural gift that was unimpaired by the life she lived. Her eyes were like a doll's, with weighted lids that clicked open suddenly, so that she always seemed surprised, somehow still vulnerable.\n\nShe turned on the stool, drew in on her cigarette, and looked at us without expression. \"Lend me twenty bucks, Streak?\" she said.\n\nI took out my wallet and found fifteen. She took it and slipped it under her glass. \"I got to get out of this shit. I just dropped three hundred in a half hour. How about lunch at Galatoire's? God, I hate this place,\" she said, although I had no idea which place she meant.\n\n\"On the clock today. You know how it is,\" I said.\n\nShe was obviously stoned or drunk or both, staying off coke with booze and baccarat, paying the rent with fifty-dollar tricks, starting her daily routine at 4 P.M. with eyewash, thirty-minute hot showers, and white speed on the half shell. Anyone who thinks prostitution is a victimless crime needs his head drilled with a brace and bit.\n\n\"Where's our Irish friend?\" I asked.\n\n\"Just went out the door. Like voom,\" she replied.\n\nClete's face reddened with exasperation. \"Why didn't you call?\" he said.\n\n\"It's been a long night. I don't need criticism right now. I just don't need that kind of unjustified negativity in my morning,\" she said, a thin wire quivering in her throat.\n\n\"Right,\" he said, glancing up and down the bar.\n\n\"Because if that's why you two are here, I'll just go back to the tables,\" she said. She gestured at the bartender. \"This milk is curdled. Give me a tequila sunrise.\"\n\n\"We appreciate everything you've done for us, Janet. How long has our man been gone?\" I said.\n\n\"Ten minutes,\" she said.\n\n\"You saw him drive away?\" I asked.\n\n\"No, he was walking. Right up Canal. Like he was in a hurry,\" she said.\n\n\"When he left Saturday morning for an hour or so, did he walk or drive?\" I asked.\n\nShe thought about it. \"He walked down Canal. Just like this morning,\" she replied.\n\n\"Stay here, Cletus,\" I said.\n\n\"Oh, I got it. I just drive people around, then turn into an ashtray. I'm glad I'm your friend, Dave, because otherwise I don't think you'd have any,\" he said, screwing an unlit Lucky into his mouth.\n\nI didn't try to explain. I hurried down Canal, past smoking sewer grates and gutters dark with rainwater, to the side street that led into the dilapidated downtown area where Father Jimmie Dolan's church was located, like a fifteenth-century fortress inside which its inhabitants refused to accept a tidal wave of ecclesiastical change.\n\nThe early-morning Latin Mass had already begun when I entered the vestibule and dipped my hand in the holy water fount. In a back pew, hard by a marble pillar, I saw the diminutive form of Max Coll, next to a group of elderly, head-covered women, all of whom had rosary beads threaded through their fingers. He wore black trousers and a puffy, tan down jacket that was zipped halfway up his chest.\n\nMy cell phone was in my pocket, my .45 automatic in a clip-on holster attached to my belt. I started to punch in a 911 call on the phone, then thought better of it and instead genuflected at the end of the pew and knelt down next to Max Coll.\n\n\"Walk out of here with me,\" I whispered.\n\nHe glanced at me and showed no sign of either recognition or alarm. \"Bugger off,\" he said.\n\n\"No one needs to get hurt here,\" I said.\n\nHe ignored me and concentrated on the missal in his hands.\n\n\"I know some evil men killed not only your natal family but your wife and son as well,\" I said. \"Both my mother and my second wife died at the hands of murderers. I can understand the feelings you've had to deal with over the years. I think many of the people you killed were bastards and deserved what they got. But it's time to give it up. Take a walk with me, Max. You know it's the right thing to do.\"\n\nOther people were beginning to look at us. \"You're disturbing the Mass, Mr. Robicheaux. Now show some respect and shut your 'ole,\" he replied.\n\nParishioners who had come in late, one of them weighing at least three hundred pounds, began bottling up the open end of the pew. I was trapped with Max Coll. I thought I might have a chance at him during communion, but as soon as the communicants began filing toward the front of the church, Max helped an elderly woman into a wheelchair and pushed her to the altar.\n\nI stayed right behind them, received the Host myself, which he did not, and followed them back into the pew. Through the concluding prayers he kept his eyes straight ahead, one thumb hooked inside his half-zipped jacket. Just as the priest gave the final blessing to the congregation, Max turned to me and calmly whispered, \"Got a Beretta nine-millimeter, fourteen rounds in the mag, all tucked nicely under my armpit. Try to take me and, House of the Lord or not, I'll leave hair on the walls.\"\n\nWith that, he wheeled the elderly woman down the center of the aisle and through a crowd in the vestibule, like a mummy wrapped in black cloth being trundled along a cobbled street. He and two other men lifted her down the steps and fitted her chair into a waiting van, then suddenly Max Coll leaped into the traffic.\n\nI went after him, my shield held up above my head, a wall of water from a passing truck striking me full in the face, horns blowing, a taxi missing me by inches. Somewhere on the edge of my vision two vehicles crashed into each other. Max was now somewhere on the opposite side of the traffic, hidden behind a city bus or a Mayflower van or a refrigerator truck, all of which were moving through the intersection.\n\nI reached the opposite sidewalk and looked in both directions.\n\nNo Max Coll.\n\nI saw the bus stop briefly on the next block, then it turned a corner and headed in the direction of Lee Circle. I started running, threading my way through pedestrians, truck drivers off-loading food for restaurants, winos sitting in doorways with their legs outstretched on the sidewalk. I turned the corner and saw the bus at the curb in the middle of the block, the door opened to allow a passenger to exit.\n\nI ran toward it, breathless, waving my arms at the driver. As the bus pulled away from the curb I struck the side with my fists. Behind the elongated glass windows in the back door I saw Max Coll standing in the aisle, holding a support strap with one hand. He grinned, unzipped his jacket, and pulled out the sides to show me he had no weapon on his person.\n\nThe bus sped through the next intersection and disappeared down the street. I reached for my cell phone to punch in a 911 call, then remembered hearing it clatter across the sidewalk two blocks behind me.\n\nI stopped in the men's room at the casino and tried to dry off with paper towels before I went in search of Janet Gish and Clete Purcel. A few minutes later, my clothes glued to my skin, I found the two of them eating breakfast in the restaurant, Janet looking half revived by food and coffee. Clete chewed his food thoughtfully, his eyes traveling up and down my person. \"I'm not even going to ask,\" he said.\n\n\"He was at Mass. He got away,\" I said.\n\n\"At Mass? A stone killer?\"\n\n\"I just told you.\"\n\n\"So instead of calling the locals, you decided to talk him in?\" he said.\n\n\"Something like that,\" I replied.\n\n\"Couldn't have used any backup from me, of course?\"\n\n\"Lay off it, Clete,\" I said.\n\nHe took a coffee cup and saucer that was set up on an empty table, poured the cup full, and pushed it toward me. \"Sit down, big mon, and let Janet tell you how Fat Sammy was shipping porn out and crystal in,\" he said.\n\n\"It all had to do with those Mideastern degenerates,\" she said.\n\n\"Those what?\" I said.\n\n\"Those Muslim lamebrains or whatever who crashed the planes into the towers. Sammy Fig said he was going to round them up for the FBI,\" Janet said.\n\nI gave Clete a look.\n\n\"You're going to love this, Streak. Sammy straightening out Fart, Barf, and Itch,\" he said.\n\nIt seemed a grandiose and bizarre tale, but in truth no more peculiar than many in New Orleans' long history of political intrigue, from William Walker's military adventurism into Nicaragua during the 1850s to Lee Harvey Oswald's involvement in the city with the Fair Play for Cuba Committee.\n\nAccording to Janet Gish, Fat Sammy felt tainted by a past association with a mobster who had been an enforcer in Brooklyn and later one of the Watergate Plumbers. The mobster was part of a blackmail sting involving Cuban prostitutes in Miami, and just before Kennedy's visit to Dallas on November 22, 1963, the mobster showed up in New Orleans with a hooker and stayed at a motel owned by Sammy's uncle. As soon as Sammy heard John Kennedy had been shot, he was convinced New Orleans had been the staging area for the assassination.\n\nFrom that time on, Fat Sammy did everything in his power to demonstrate his patriotism and disassociate himself from the people who he believed had murdered the president.\n\n\"The night before the planes crashed into the towers, these Mideastern guys were in Sammy's club by the airport. They told one of the girls they were pilots,\" Janet said.\n\n\"Maybe they were,\" I said.\n\n\"Except they were sweating so bad the janitor had to scrape the B.O. off the furniture. They had another problem, too. Like keeping napkins over their boners.\"\n\n\"Sorry, I'm just not following all this,\" I said.\n\n\"Sammy calls the FBI. They send some guys out and Sammy looks at all these photos and says that's not the guys who were in the club. One of the FBI guys says, 'Well, these are the hijackers who died in the planes.'\n\n\"Sammy says, 'Yeah, but there must have been other hijackers whose planes got grounded. The guys in my club are the ones who probably never got off the tarmac.' Even while he's talking you can already hear the toilet flushing.\n\n\"Two weeks go by and Sammy calls the FBI in Washington. He tells some agent there they're looking in the wrong place for terrorists. He says these guys are not Muslim revolutionaries, they're degenerates and losers, just like the other jack-offs who come into the club. Sammy says to the FBI agent, 'Use your fucking head. These guys weren't hanging in mosques or living in Nebraska. They were holed-up in Miami and Vegas and hanging in dumps like mine 'cause they want to get laid. You want to nail 'em, float some cooze out on the breeze and see what happens.' \"\n\nPeople at other tables were turning to stare.\n\n\"Maybe we should move to a quieter spot,\" I said.\n\n\"Well, excuse me. Here's the briefer version so I don't offend anybody,\" she said, her eyelids fluttering. \"The FBI agent blew Sammy off, so he set up an Internet site out in Arizona to sell his movies. He was using a P.I. to run the credit card numbers of anybody with a Mideastern name who bought from the site.\"\n\n\"Who were his partners?\" I said.\n\n\"You met a couple of them,\" she replied.\n\n\"The Dellacroces?\" I said.\n\nShe raised her eyebrows innocuously.\n\n\"Tell him the rest of it, Janet,\" Clete said.\n\n\"Sammy got paid in crystal. It's cooked across the border and comes through Tucson,\" she said. Then she looked at nothing, the whites of her eyes veined, her facial skin like flesh-colored clay that had been molded on bone. \"Sammy wasn't a bad guy. He took us all to Disney World once. He wore a Mouseketeer hat on the plane all the way back home.\"\n\n\"Who popped him, Janet?\" I said.\n\n\"I don't know. Sammy always said it was the normals you got to watch out for, 'cause they never learn who they really are.\"\n\nShe stared through the front windows at the palm trees beating in the wind and the rain slashing on the glass.\n\n## Chapter 23\n\nIt was afternoon when Clete dropped me off at the house. The sky was a cold blue, dense and flawless in texture and color, the lawns along the street ridged with serpentine lines of leaves where the rainwater had receded into the streets. I shaved, showered, changed clothes, and went to the office.\n\nHelen listened quietly while I told her of what had happened in New Orleans, her gaze fixed out the window on the crypts in the old cemetery.\n\n\"You called N.O.P.D. about Coll?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"When?\" she said.\n\n\"When we left town.\"\n\n\"I don't think you wanted to arrest him.\"\n\n\"Then why would I have chased him across town?\"\n\n\"You should have called N.O.P.D. as soon as you saw him inside the church.\"\n\n\"Picture this scene, Helen. A couple of hot dogs coming through the vestibule with M-16s and 12-gauge pumps and Max Coll with a nine-millimeter,\" I said.\n\n\"Coll saved your life. You think you owe him.\"\n\nI started to speak but she raised her hand for me to be quiet. \"The state attorney's office put us on notice this morning. We're going to be investigated for harassment of Castille LeJeune, destruction of his property, and for deliberately damaging his reputation. What do you think of that?\" she said.\n\n\"You warned me,\" I replied.\n\n\"You never understand what I'm saying, Dave. You were right about the murder of Junior Crudup. LeJeune was behind it. He thinks we've got information that in reality we don't. Find out what it is. You're a handful, bwana.\"\n\nShe folded her arms on her chest, shaking her head, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.\n\nAt quitting time I drove to the home of Merchie and Theodosha Flannigan. It was almost the winter solstice now, and the sepia-tinted light in the trees and on the bayou seemed to emanate from the earth rather than the sky. Merchie greeted me at the door, wearing glasses, a book in his hand, his long hair like white gold against the soft glow of a living room floor lamp. \"She's not here,\" he said.\n\n\"It's you I want to talk to,\" I replied.\n\n\"Why is it you keep finding reasons to put yourself in my wife's path? Just doing your job?\"\n\n\"You're out of line, Merchie.\"\n\n\"Could be. Could also be you'd like to get into Theo's pants. If that's the case, good luck, because she's out drunk somewhere.\"\n\nI cleared my throat and shifted my eyes off his face. His thoroughbreds were nickering inside a pecan orchard beyond a white fence, their bodies barely distinguishable in the shadows. \"The murder of Junior Crudup isn't going away. His remains were moved, but eventually we'll find out what happened to them. If I have anything to do with it, your father-in-law is going to have an opportunity for on-the-job training in soybean farming,\" I said.\n\n\"So why tell me about it?\"\n\n\"Because I think you wouldn't mind seeing that happen.\"\n\n\"You want to dip your wick, go do it. But leave us out of your personal problems.\"\n\n\"I think Theodosha knows what happened to Junior Crudup's body.\"\n\n\"My wife is a sick person. That's why she's spent a hundred thousand dollars on psychiatrists and clinics. But I think you like stirring her up. I think you like feeding on our troubles.\"\n\nHe started to close the door but I held it open with one hand. \"Your wife's frigid, isn't she?\" I said.\n\nHe released the tension on the door, slipped off his glasses, and dropped them in his shirt pocket. \"If you weren't already an object of pity and public ridicule, I'd splatter your nose all over your face. Now go home,\" he said.\n\nThe door clicked shut. I stared at it stupidly, my ears ringing in the silence.\n\nEarly the next morning Clete picked me up for breakfast, cheerful, wearing his utility cap low on his brow, a Hawaiian shirt under his bomber jacket, driving with one hand down East Main toward Victor's Cafeteria.\n\n\"You moved back into the motor court?\" I said.\n\n\"Yeah, why not?\"\n\n\"You burned a guy's trailer. You assaulted a man in Lafayette.\"\n\n\"They're not filing charges. Not if they want to stay on the planet. So I don't see the big deal. Things get out of control sometimes. I'm cool with it,\" he said, fiddling with the radio.\n\nClete was Clete, a human moving violation, out of sync with both lawful and criminal society, no more capable of changing his course than a steel wrecking ball can alter its direction after it's been set in motion. Why did I constantly contend with him? I asked myself.\n\nBut I knew the answer and it wasn't a comforting one: We were opposite sides of the same coin.\n\nI told him about my visit to Merchie Flannigan's house.\n\n\"That punk said that to you?\" he asked.\n\n\"I got a little personal about his wife,\" I replied.\n\n\"That's another question I have. You actually asked him if his wife wouldn't come across?\"\n\n\"I guess that sums it up.\"\n\n\"I can see that might piss him off. Particularly when he knows you bopped her.\"\n\n\"Can't you show some subtlety, just a little, once in a while?\"\n\n\"You bump uglies with a guy's wife, then tell him she's an ice cube, but it's me who's got a problem with language?\"\n\n\"She was drunk. We both were. Stop harping on it.\"\n\nHe looked at me, then turned into the parking lot across from Victor's. The old convent across the bayou was still in shadow, the live oaks speckled with frost. \"Why get into Flannigan's face about his wife's sex life?\" he said.\n\n\"A psychiatrist would probably say she has trouble with intimacy. So she gets it on when she's drunk, usually with strangers or people she doesn't care about. It's characteristic of women who were molested as children,\" I replied.\n\n\"You're really going to hang LeJeune's cojones over a fire, aren't you?\"\n\n\"You better believe it,\" I said.\n\nLater I signed out a cruiser and drove to the Lafayette Police Department to see my old friend Joe Dupree, the homicide cop and airborne veteran who had investigated the gunshot death of Theo Flannigan's psychiatrist. While I talked he sat behind his desk, picking one aspirin, then another, then a third out of a tin container, swallowing them with water he drank from a cone-shaped paper cup. His tie was configured to the shape of his pot stomach, his hair combed like strands of wire across the bald spot on top of his head.\n\n\"So you think this guy Will Guillot is blackmailing Castille LeJeune and it has something to do with LeJeune's daughter?\" he said.\n\n\"Right.\"\n\n\"About what?\"\n\n\"Molestation.\"\n\nJoe leaned back in his chair and rubbed his mouth. Through the window I could see a chained-up line of black men in orange jumpsuits being placed in a jail van. \"Well, Ms. Flannigan's file was missing from Dr. Bernstine's office. But I found out several other files were missing, too. Maybe Bernstine took them home and they got lost somehow. Or somebody could have stolen several files to throw off the investigation. Anyway, it's been a dead-end case,\" he said.\n\n\"You checked out the secretaries, any reports of forced entry?\" I said.\n\n\"If Bernstine was burglarized, he didn't report it. The alarm company never had to do a 911, either. The secretary is a church-going, family woman, with no reason to steal files from her employer.\"\n\n\"How long was she there?\"\n\nHe looked down at the torn notebook pages that were clipped inside a case folder. \"Seven months,\" he said.\n\n\"Who was the secretary before this one?\" I asked.\n\nHe looked again at his notes. \"A woman named Gretchen Peltier. But she quit before Ms. Flannigan starting seeing Bernstine.\"\n\n\"What was that name again?\"\n\nI drove to the alarm company that had serviced Dr. Bernstine's office. Like most alarm companies, it was an electronic shell that didn't provide security but instead relayed distress signals to the fire department or a law enforcement agency. In other words, the chief expense of home security was passed on to the taxpayers and the alarm company was able to maintain its entire system, which monitored several parishes, with no more than a half dozen technicians and sales and clerical employees.\n\nBut the assistant director of the company, a black woman named Dauterive who had been an elementary school teacher, did her best to help me. A computer record of all electronic warning signals originating during the last year at Dr. Bernstine's office was laid out on the desk. \"See, there were a number of power failures. Those were either during an electrical storm or when a power line was knocked down. These other dates are the times the customer didn't disarm the system fast enough. The dispatcher had to call and get the password.\"\n\nShe was heavyset and wore glasses and a pink suit with a small corsage on the lapel. She glanced at her watch.\n\n\"Am I taking up too much time?\" I asked.\n\n\"Oh, no. It's my anniversary. My husband's meeting me for lunch,\" she replied.\n\n\"Who's the dispatcher?\"\n\n\"We use the Acadiana Ambulance Service. When they receive an emergency signal, they call the residence or the business and clear it up, or they notify the appropriate response service,\" she replied.\n\n\"When was the last time you received an alarm that could have indicated an unauthorized entry?\" I asked.\n\n\"Here,\" she said, and tapped her finger on the computer printout. The date was one day after the gunshot death of the psychiatrist, Dr. Bernstine. \"But the dispatcher called and got the password.\"\n\nI ran my finger up the column on the printout to a billing notation for July and a description of services that amounted to two thousand dollars. \"What's this?\" I asked.\n\n\"It looks like the customer changed out the system. If I remember correctly, a power surge fried the main panel and the customer decided to use the opportunity to upgrade.\"\n\nI was getting nowhere. \"Let me think about this stuff and come back,\" I said.\n\n\"I don't know if this is of any help to you, but the customer changed his keypad code when he got his new system. See?\" she said, and tapped the notation again.\n\n\"Yes?\"\n\n\"He didn't change his password. Sometimes people don't like to change the password, particularly if it's a pet name or part of a private joke in the family,\" she said.\n\nShe looked me flatly in the face.\n\n\"That's a hole in the dike, isn't it?\" I said.\n\n\"You might say that,\" she replied.\n\n\"Did you say today was your anniversary?\" I asked.\n\n\"That's correct. Our twenty-seventh.\"\n\n\"Have a great anniversary, Ms. Dauterive.\"\n\nI headed straight for Abbeville, twenty miles south on the Vermilion River, and the insurance company that employed Gretchen Peltier, the woman who had given Will Guillot his alibi for the night the drive-by daiquiri shop operator was murdered and who had also turned out to be a former employee of the slain psychiatrist.\n\nShe was terrified. Like most people who lead ordinary lives and stray across a line, usually in concert with someone far more devious than themselves, she could neither defend herself nor lie convincingly. Instead, she began to perspire and swallow like someone in an elevator hearing steel cables snap a strand at a time.\n\n\"I don't think you're a bad person, Ms. Peltier. But you're taking the weight for a bad guy,\" I said.\n\n\"Taking the weight?\" she said, more confused and frightened than ever now, her eyes flicking to the open door of her employer's office.\n\n\"You're about to take Will Guillot's fall. That means you'll go to prison. You'll live behind razor wire and cell with murderers and sexual deviates of every stripe. Snitch one of them off and you get glass put in your food. That's where Will Guillot has taken you.\"\n\nMy rhetoric was cruel. She was a sad woman, her eyes etched with mascara, her clothes obviously bought at a discount store. I could only guess at the means of seduction Will Guillot had used to entice her into cooperating with the systematic destruction of her own life.\n\n\"I knew the code numbers to the alarm system in Dr. Bernstine's office,\" she said. \"Dr. Bernstine had shot himself in the park. I gave the numbers to Will because he said his wife, the one he's divorcing, told Dr. Bernstine a lot of lies that were going to be used in court against him. I gave him the password, too.\"\n\n\"How did he get into the building?\" I said.\n\n\"A man who works for him, an electrician, opened the door. But the numbers on the keypad had been changed. The alarm went off. If Will hadn't had the password, the cops would have come out.\"\n\nHer eyes were wet. She rested her forehead on the heel of her hand.\n\n\"You told me Guillot was with you the night the daiquiri store operator was killed. Was that a lie?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"You sure?\" I said, looking down into her face.\n\n\"I thought I was helping Will. Why have you done this to me?\" she replied. She found a handkerchief in her purse and pressed it against her eyes.\n\n\"What's going on out here?\" her employer said, standing in the doorway of his office, his tie printed with hundreds of tiny blue stars against a red background, a small American flag pinned on the lapel of his suit.\n\nI walked to my cruiser, which was parked on Abbeville's town square. The sun was already deep in the west, the light thin and brittle on the old brick cathedral in the square and the cemetery behind it, where the bodies of Confederate dead from Shiloh and Port Hudson lay in crypts stained with lichen and split with fissures, as though the earth were determined to absorb them and their contents back into itself. I could hear traffic crossing the steel bridge over the Vermilion River and smell the odors of diesel oil and water and shrimp husks piled behind a restaurant, and as I looked at the bare limbs of the willows along the river I was suddenly filled with the sense the sun was not simply completing part of its cycle across the sky, it was about to descend over the rim of the earth for the last time.\n\nIn psychoanalysis it's called a world destruction fantasy.\n\nWere my irrational feelings connected to the fact I had just helped dismantle a woman's life? Or were the rats' nests of rags and bones in those crypts reminders that Shiloh was not a grand moment in history, but a three-day meat-cutter that soaked the hills with the blood of farmboys, most of whom never owned a slave or knew anything about the economics of northern textile mills? Or was the sum total of my own life finally being made apparent to me?\n\nThe streets were almost empty, swirling with dust and pieces of newspaper, the water oaks bare of leaves, many of the old stores permanently closed. The world in which I had grown up was gone. I wanted to pretend otherwise, to find excuses for the decay, the strip malls, the trash strewn along the roadways, the century-old live oaks that developers lopped into stumps with almost patriotic pride. In my vanity I wanted to believe that I and others could turn it around. But it was not going to happen, not in my lifetime nor in my child's.\n\nIt was 4:45 when I got back to the department and rain had begun falling in big fat drops on the sidewalk that led into the courthouse. I pulled my mail out of my pigeon hole and went into my office. A few minutes later Helen came in.\n\n\"So what happened today?\" she asked.\n\nI told her.\n\n\"Will Guillot creeped the psychiatrist's office and stole Theo Flannigan's file so he could blackmail Castille LeJeune?\" she said.\n\n\"It's more serious than that. I think he murdered the psychiatrist on orders from Castille LeJeune. He was probably supposed to deliver the file back to LeJeune, but he either didn't do that or he xeroxed it and is using it to take over the old man's business.\"\n\nThrough the window I saw a hearse pass on its way to the funeral home on St. Peter Street. I got up from my desk and let down the venetian blinds. My office suddenly seemed hermetically sealed, artificially lit, shut off from the rest of the world.\n\n\"You unhappy about something?\" Helen said.\n\n\"No. Everything is fine.\"\n\nShe looked somberly at my face. \"Have dinner with me, Pops,\" she said.\n\n\"Why not?\" I said.\n\n## Chapter 24\n\nThat evening I walked into the kitchen while Father Jimmie was on the phone. Unconsciously he turned his back to me, rounding his shoulders, as though somehow creating a shell around his conversation.\n\n\"I believe you, but we'll do this on my terms. No, you have my word. I'll be there. Now, good-bye,\" he said. After he hung up he turned around and grinned sheepishly. \"I get calls from a neurotic parishioner once in a while,\" he said.\n\n\"Was that one of them?\" I asked.\n\n\"Let's don't clutter up the evening, Dave.\"\n\n\"You're meeting Max Coll?\"\n\n\"He's ready to change his way. I can't deny him reconciliation or communion.\"\n\n\"Coll is planning to kill somebody. But you're supposed to repair his soul so he can sneak into heaven through a side window?\"\n\n\"That last sentence describes two thirds of my constituency,\" he said.\n\nHe picked up Snuggs and a box of cat food and went out on the back steps to feed him.\n\n\"I already fed him,\" I said.\n\n\"He's a warrior. He needs extra rations,\" Father Jimmie replied.\n\nThere was no moon that night. Screech owls were screaming in the trees and the humidity was so thick I could hear moisture ticking in the leaves on the ground. Father Jimmie had gone out, although I had no idea where. I went into the small office I had created in my rented house and sat at the desk and began writing a letter to Alafair.\n\nDear Alf,\n\nWe're going to have a swell time at Christmas. Clete's in town and is anxious to see you, as of course am I. How is your novel going? I bet it's going to be a fine one. Hope you're through exams by now. Don't be too worried about grades. You always did well in school and college is not going to be any different. Would you like to take a ride out on the salt if the weather permits? Batist says he's found a new spot for redfish by Southwest Pass.\n\nThe images out of the past, created by my own words, made my eyes film. I saw Bootsie, Alafair, and me in the stern of our boat, with Batist at the wheel, the throttle full out, slapping across West Cote Blanche Bay at sunrise, the salt spray like a wet kiss on a spring morning.\n\nI put aside the letter and stared at the guns mounted on the gunrack I had screwed into the wall: an AR-15, a sporterized '03 Springfield, and my old Remington twelve-gauge, the barrel sawed off even with the pump, the sportsman's plug long ago removed from the magazine.\n\nI knew what had been on my mind all afternoon and evening. Since I had interviewed Gretchen Peltier at the insurance office in Abbeville I'd had little doubt about Will Guillot's involvement in the burglary of Dr. Bernstine's office and Bernstine's death by gunshot in Lafayette's Girard Park. I also had no doubt he was mixed up in pornography and narcotics and the blackmail of Castille LeJeune. The problem was his crimes had all been committed in other parishes, and there was no way to hang the killing of either Sammy Figorelli or the drive-by daiquiri store operator in New Iberia on him.\n\nIn order to get at him and subsequently Castille LeJeune, I would have to work with at least three other law-enforcement agencies. Then the legal processes of indictment and prosecution would be turned entirely over to others, perhaps in a parish Castille LeJeune controlled.\n\nI turned off the light and sat in the darkness with the twelve-gauge across my lap. The steel and the wood of the stock felt cool against my palms. I opened the breech and smelled the odor of the machine oil I had used to clean the chamber and the magazine, then set the stock butt-down between my legs, moving my thumb along the edges of the barrel where I had sawed it off and sanded it smooth with emery paper. I thought about my dead wife Bootsie and the systemic corruption of the place I loved and the inhumanity and cruelty that had been visited upon a great blues artist like Junior Crudup.\n\nI removed a box of double-ought buckshot from my closet shelf and began pressing a handful of shells one at a time into the magazine of my Remington. I sat in the darkness a long time, the gun resting on my knees, my mind free of all thought, a strange numbness in my body. Then I ejected the shells and replaced them one by one in their box, set the shotgun back in the rack, and took a walk down by the drawbridge. A lighted tug was waiting for the bridge tender to raise the bridge. I waved at him in the pilot house and he waved back at me, then I walked back home and went to bed, with Snuggs sleeping at the foot.\n\nThe next day, Friday, I contacted Joe Dupree in Lafayette, and we went to work on getting a search warrant on Will Guillot's home and place of business. But it was going to be a long haul. The warrant request was based on statements made by Gretchen Peltier, the psychiatrist's former secretary, about a break-in committed in Lafayette by a man who lived in Franklin. Also, Will Guillot was probably many things, but stupid wasn't one of them. It was highly unlikely he would keep the stolen case file, which he was using to blackmail Castille LeJeune, in either his home or office.\n\nThere are days in law enforcement, just like those at the craps table, when you think the dice have no combinations on them except treys and boxcars. Then suddenly they magically bounce off the backboard, all elevens and sevens.\n\nJust before quitting time Helen opened my door and leaned inside. \"The sheriff in St. Mary just called. Will Guillot made a prowler report last night. The city cops who responded told him there'd been a peeping Tom in the neighborhood, but Guillot seemed to think it was someone else.\"\n\n\"Who?\"\n\n\"He was walking around in the yard with a gun and not saying.\"\n\n\"Thanks for passing it on,\" I said.\n\nI continued with the paperwork I was doing, my expression flat. I thought she was about to close the door and go back to her office but instead she approached my desk, her eyes on mine.\n\n\"My words don't have much influence on you. But be careful, Dave. Don't give power to a guy like Castille LeJeune,\" she said.\n\n\"I hear you,\" I said.\n\n\"Yeah,\" she said.\n\nAt 5 P.M. I went home, reloaded my cut-down twelve-gauge, locked it in the steel box that was welded to the bed of my pickup truck, and drove to Clete's cottage at the motor court.\n\nHe was outside, grilling a chicken, drinking from a quart bottle of beer, his eyes watering in the smoke, the collar of his jacket pulled up around his neck, his utility cap cocked sideways.\n\n\"What's shakin', big mon?\" he said.\n\n\"Think the Bobbsey Twins from Homicide should make a house call down in Franklin?\" I said.\n\n\"Oh my, yes indeedy,\" he replied, as though the statement were one word.\n\nThe shrubs and gazebo and wide gallery of Will Guillot's house were threaded with Christmas lights, and sequined cutouts of reindeer, with tinted floodlamps aimed at them, were spiked into the lawn. We pulled into the driveway and parked just inches from where Dr. Parks had bled to death on the cement. I unlocked the steel box in the truck bed, removed my cut-down twelve-gauge, and tossed it to Clete. He went into the shrubbery with it, deliberately silhouetting against the Christmas lights and tinted floodlamps, the barrel held at an upward angle. As I walked up on the gallery I saw Will Guillot pull aside a curtain on a tall window and look outside. I hung my badge holder on the breast pocket of my sports coat and banged hard on the door with the flat of my fist.\n\nEverything I did in the next few minutes would be based on my belief that Gretchen Peltier had truly been sickened by her experience with Will Guillot and had not gone back to him or confessed she had given him up.\n\nHe jerked open the door and stared into my face. He wore a burgundy corduroy shirt and gray slacks and loafers, and in the dim light the birthmark on his face looked like a scar from a hot iron. Behind him I saw a woman get up from the couch and go into the back of the house. \"Do I need to call the cops?\" he said.\n\n\"I'm the least of your troubles, Mr. Guillot. I think your electrician wants to park one in your brainpan,\" I said.\n\n\"What?\" he said, his eyes shifting from me to Clete, who had just walked out of the yard, stepping up on the gallery with the twelve-gauge resting in the crook of his arm.\n\n\"It's clear,\" Clete said to me.\n\n\"What's clear? Why are you walking around in my yard with that shotgun?\" Guillot said.\n\n\"Your electrician, Herbert Vidrine, gave you up. But I guess that wasn't enough for him. Evidently he hates your guts. What'd you do to the poor guy?\" I said.\n\n\"I already found out about that letter you or somebody else sent him with my name on it. It didn't work,\" Guillot said, his eyes flicking from me to Clete and the shotgun again.\n\n\"Try this. You got Herbert Vidrine to help you break into Dr. Samuel Bernstine's office the same weekend Bernstine took two .25 caliber rounds in the head. You set off the alarm, then found out you had the wrong code numbers for the keypad. But fortunately for you somebody had given you the password and you were able to give it to the alarm service when they called.\"\n\nGuillot tried to let my words slide off his face, biting down with his back molars so his jaw didn't sag. \"Then arrest me so I can sue you into the next dimension,\" he said.\n\n\"You think this is about some pissant B&E?\" Clete said.\n\n\"Who is this guy?\" Guillot said to me.\n\n\"There's my buzzer,\" Clete said, opening his P.I. badge, then flipping it closed again before Guillot could look at it carefully. \"The G doesn't spend its time on nickel-and-dime farts who make dirty movies. But unlucky for you, a guy we do care about, a psychopath named Max Coll, is in the neighborhood, and it's got something to do with you and the cocksucker you work for.\"\n\nGuillot looked behind him, as though he did not want our words heard by the woman who had gone into the back of the house. If he had closed the door in our faces and called his attorney, it would have been over. But Clete had set the hook and Guillot couldn't pull it out. He stepped out on the porch with us and pulled the door shut behind him, shivering slightly in the cold.\n\n\"What's the deal on this guy you mentioned, what's his name, this guy Coll?\" he said.\n\n\"He blows heads for the IRA or the Mob or just because he can't get it up in the morning,\" Clete said.\n\n\"He's here, in Franklin?\" Guillot said to Clete.\n\n\"You tell us,\" Clete said.\n\nGuillot looked out into the darkness, as though trying to see beyond the Christmas lights that partly illuminated his yard. \"None of this has anything to do with me,\" he said.\n\n\"Let me ask you this question: When the warrants are cut, or if Max Coll is in town, looking for the people who put the whack on him, whose grits are going into the fire, yours or Castille LeJeune's?\" I said.\n\nClete pumped a shell out of the shotgun's chamber and dropped it into Guillot's shirt pocket. \"Twelve-gauge double-ought bucks. Load up your bird buster and stick it under your bed. Better than a warm glass of milk. You'll sleep like a baby. I guarantee it,\" he said, and gave Guillot the thumbs-up sign.\n\nTen minutes later we turned into Fox Run and drove down the long, oak-lined driveway to Castille LeJeune's front entrance. Almost the entire house was scrolled with white Christmas lights, so that the house glowed like a nineteenth-century paddle-wheeler inside a fog bank on the Mississippi. My guess was that Will Guillot had called LeJeune as soon as we had left his house, and I hoped, in an undeniably mean-spirited fashion, that for the first time in his life Castille LeJeune was genuinely afraid.\n\nI parked at the end of the drive and cut the headlights on my truck. A solitary shadow moved across the windows in the living room. I started to get out, but Clete hadn't moved, the shotgun propped at an angle between his legs, the chamber open.\n\n\"Dave, Guillot's a sex freak and a lowlife and dirty up to his elbows. I'm not so sure about the guy in that house,\" he said.\n\nI looked at him.\n\n\"All this crap isn't adding up for me,\" he said. \"The war hero didn't pop the drive-by daiquiri guy and neither did Guillot, not if you buy his alibi. But for one reason or another we keep looking at the war hero. No matter what happens, it's always the war hero. Meanwhile Merchie Flannigan's old lady gets a free pass, the same broad who got you kidnapped.\"\n\n\"Theodosha is south Louisiana's answer to Bonnie Parker?\" I said.\n\n\"Be a wise-ass if you want. You hate the guy in that house and the class of people he comes from.\"\n\n\"I do? You've been at war with these people all your life.\"\n\nHe took off his utility cap, looked at it as though he had never seen it before, then refitted it on his head. \"He really bagged Bed Check Charley?\" he asked.\n\n\"That's the story.\"\n\n\"I'd like to get his autograph. Hey, I'm serious,\" he said.\n\nHe got out of the truck, trying to suppress his grin, and followed me onto the porch. A white-jacketed black houseman answered door, a broom and dustpan in his hands.\n\n\"Is Mr. LeJeune home?\" I said.\n\n\"Took his guests to the country club a half hour ago. I'm still cleaning up,\" the houseman said.\n\nI opened my badge. \"Did you receive a phone call in the last ten minutes?\" I said.\n\n\"Yes, suh, I sure did,\" he answered.\n\n\"From whom?\"\n\n\"My wife. She tole me to bring home a loaf of bread.\"\n\nOn the way to the country club Clete was still grinning.\n\n\"Why is all this funny?\" I said.\n\n\"I miss the Mob. Shaking up a bunch of Kiwanians just doesn't cut it.\"\n\n\"You're too much, Cletus.\"\n\nIn that mood we pulled into the tree-bowered entrance of a small tennis and golf club outside the city limits. It wasn't hard to find Castille LeJeune. He and his friends were having drinks under a pavilion and driving golf balls on a lighted practice range dotted in the distance with moss-hung live oaks that smoked in the mist. The range looked hand clipped, immaculate, with neither a leaf nor wind-blown scrap of paper on it.\n\nThe pavilion seemed as isolated and disconnected from the outside world as the golf range was from the trash-strewn roads beyond the hedges that bordered the club. Deferential black waiters brought LeJeune and his friends their buttered rum drinks on silver trays; a Wurlitzer jukebox next to the bar played Glen Miller and Tommy Dorsey recordings; a rotund, cherry-cheeked man was speaking affectionately about \"an old nigger\" who had worked for his family, as though the waiters would take no offense at his language.\n\nWe locked the truck, with the twelve-gauge inside, and walked past the clay tennis courts, all of them deserted, the wind screens rattling in the breeze, just as Castille LeJeune whacked a ball off a tee and sent it downrange in a high, beautiful arc. The people at the tables or teeing up from wire buckets filled with golf balls showed no recognition of our presence. LeJeune positioned himself, swung his driver back, and once again lifted the ball surgically off the tee, high into the darkness, a testimony to his health, the power in his wrists and shoulders, and the maturity and skill he brought to his game.\n\nClete used a toothpick to spear a peeled shrimp from a large bowl of crushed ice on the bar, dipping it in hot sauce, inserting it in his mouth. His badge holder was stuck in his belt, mine in the breast pocket of my sports coat. But still no one looked at us.\n\n\"Give me a Jack straight up with a beer back,\" he said to the bartender.\n\n\"Right away, suh,\" the bartender replied.\n\n\"That's a joke,\" Clete said.\n\nLeJeune's friends were not people who had to contend with the world. They may not have owned it, nor would they take any part of it through the grave, but while they were alive they could lay rental claims on a very large portion of it.\n\n\"Mr. LeJeune, we'd like for you to come with us to the Iberia Parish Sheriff's Department,\" I said.\n\n\"Why should I do that, Mr. Robicheaux?\" he replied, addressing the ball on his tee, his feet spread, his thighs flexed tightly.\n\n\"We need you to answer some questions about the murder of Dr. Samuel Bernstine and the fact Will Guillot has been blackmailing you about your molestation of your daughter when she was a child,\" I said.\n\nIn the silence I could hear leaves scraping across the surface of the tennis court. LeJeune seemed to gaze at an isolated thought in the center of his mind, then he sighted downrange and smacked the ball in a straight line, like a rifle shot, so that it did not strike earth again until it was almost to the oak trees smoking in the electric lights.\n\n\"You need to talk to my attorney, Mr. Robicheaux, not to me,\" he said.\n\n\"Did you hear what I said? We're investigating a homicide, the second one that happens to be connected with your name. We don't call attorneys to make appointments,\" I said.\n\nHe turned and dropped his driver in an upended leather golf bag. He wore a silk scarf around his neck, as an aviator might, the ends tucked inside a sweater with small brown buttons on it. In the corner of my eye I saw two security guards walking from the club's main building and a man at the bar punching in numbers on a cell phone.\n\nLeJeune began chatting with a woman seated at a table as though I were not there. Then I started to lose it.\n\n\"You had Junior Crudup beaten to death,\" I said. \"You turned your daughter's childhood into a sexual nightmare. You sell liquor to drunk drivers and probably dope and porn in New Orleans. You think you're going to walk away from all this?\"\n\n\"Mr. Robicheaux, I don't know if you're a vindictive man, or simply well-meaning and incompetent. The truth is probably somewhere in between. But you need to leave, sir, to let this thing go and give yourself some peace,\" he replied.\n\nHis detachment and his pose as a chivalric and charitable patriarch were magnificent. As Clete had always said, some people have no handles on them. Castille LeJeune was obviously one of them, and I felt like a fool.\n\nThen Clete, who all night had been the advocate of reason and restraint, stepped forward, his thick arm and shoulder knocking against mine. \"You were a fighter pilot in the Crotch?\" he said.\n\n\"In the what?\" LeJeune said.\n\n\"I was in the Corps, too. Sunny 'Nam, class of '69, smokin' grass and stompin' ass with Mother Green's Mean Machine. See?\" He removed his utility cap and pointed to the globe and anchor emblem inked on the cloth. \"We used to have a Bed Check Charley, but he was a guy who'd start lobbing blooker rounds in on us at about oh-two-hundred so nobody could get any sleep. Do you have any autographed photos? No shit, it'd mean a lot.\"\n\n\"Sir, I don't ask this for myself, but there're ladies present. Let's don't have this kind of scene here,\" LeJeune said.\n\n\"I can dig it,\" Clete said, putting his cap back on, his eyes cocked up in his head as though he were meditating upon a metaphysical consideration. \"The problem is some greaseballs kidnapped and tortured a police officer and pissed all over his face while he was blindfolded. So how about taking the corn bread out of your mouth? It's getting to be a real drag.\"\n\n\"I apologize for any offense I may have given you,\" LeJeune said. \"Tell me something, that badge you have hanging from your belt? I have the feeling you're not a police officer.\"\n\nI could see the heat climbing into Clete's face. \"Dave, hook up this prick. Work out the legal stuff later,\" he said.\n\nThe situation was deteriorating rapidly now. Two security guards had just walked into the pavilion and were standing behind us, awkward, unsure what they should do next. I turned so they could see my badge. \"It's all right. Iberia Parish Sheriff's Department,\" I said.\n\nThey tried to be polite, their eyes avoiding mine. I felt sorry for them. They made little more than minimum wage, paid for their own uniforms, and possessed no legal powers. They waited for Castille LeJeune to tell them what to do.\n\nBut I raised my finger before he could speak. \"We're leaving,\" I said.\n\n\"Screw that,\" Clete said.\n\nTwo cruisers from the St. Mary Parish Sheriff's office had pulled into the parking lot and three uniformed deputies, one black, two white, were walking toward us, their faces filled with purpose. I slipped my hand around the thickness of Clete's arm and tightened my grip. \"We're done here,\" I said.\n\nBut it was too late. The three deputies went straight for Clete, with the collective instinct of pack hounds who had just gotten a sniff of a feral hog. At first he didn't resist. When they walked him toward a cruiser, he was seemingly in control of himself again, grinning, full of fun, back in his familiar role of irreverent trickster, ready to let it all play out.\n\nMaybe I should have stayed out of it. But I didn't.\n\n\"Let's slow it down a little bit,\" I said to the black deputy, a towering man with lieutenant's bars on his collar.\n\n\"Best let us do our job, Robicheaux,\" he replied.\n\n\"What's the beef?\" I said.\n\n\"Impersonating a police officer,\" he replied.\n\n\"That's bogus. He never claimed to be a police officer.\"\n\n\"Work it out at the jail. We just deliver the freight,\" he said.\n\nIt should have all ended there, a routine roust to appease a rich man, a discussion down at the sheriff's department, maybe a few hours in a holding cell, at worst an appearance in morning court where the charge would be kicked.\n\nBut one of the white deputies, an angry man with corded veins in his neck who had been fired in another parish for abusing a prisoner, had pushed Clete into a search position against the hood of the cruiser and was running his hands down Clete's left leg.\n\n\"Ease up, my man,\" Clete said.\n\n\"Close your mouth,\" the deputy said.\n\n\"That's a slapjack in my right hand pocket. I'm not carrying,\" Clete said, twisting around.\n\n\"I told you to shut up,\" the deputy said, and slapped Clete's utility cap off his head.\n\nClete ripped his elbow into the deputy's face, breaking his nose, then caught him in the jaw with a right hook that lifted him off the ground and knocked him the full length of the cruiser.\n\n\"Ouch,\" he said, trying to shake the pain out of his hand, trying to step back from his own misdeed.\n\nThen they were on him.\n\n## Chapter 25\n\nIt rained at sunrise and kept raining through the morning. Clete was in jail and Father Jimmie had not returned to the house. Because it was Saturday Helen was at home. I called her and told her how it had gone south at Castille LeJeune's golf and tennis club.\n\n\"What did you plan to accomplish over there?\" she said.\n\n\"Not sure.\"\n\n\"I am. You wanted to provoke a confrontation and blow pieces of Castille LeJeune all over the golf tee.\"\n\n\"That's a little strong.\"\n\nI thought she was going to give it to me but she didn't. \"As far as you know, Guillot didn't try to call LeJeune after you went to Guillot's house?\" she said.\n\n\"When we went to LeJeune's house, the man cleaning up said nobody had called except his wife. She wanted him to pick up a loaf of bread.\"\n\n\"Maybe LeJeune is not the guy we should be after.\"\n\n\"He's the guy.\"\n\n\"I think I'm going to do something more rewarding today, like have a conversation with a pile of bricks,\" she said.\n\n\"Did you just hear something on the line?\"\n\n\"Hear what?\"\n\n\"A friend in New Orleans said I probably have a federal tap on my phone.\"\n\n\"Have a nice weekend, Dave.\"\n\nClete was in serious trouble and would not be able to bond out of jail until he was arraigned Monday morning. The impersonation beef was a gray area. A person does not have to specifically claim to be a police officer in order to be guilty of impersonating one. He simply has to give the impression of being one. But Clete had licensed P.I. status and ironically, as an employee of a bail bond service, possessed legal powers that no law officer did, namely, he could cross state lines and even break into residences without a warrant to arrest a bail skip who was a fugitive from a court proceeding.\n\nThe assault-and-battery beef was another matter. With luck and some finesse, an expensive, politically connected lawyer could probably get the charge kicked down to resisting. But it wasn't going to be easy. Clete's reputation for violence, destruction of property, and general anarchy was scorched into the landscape all the way across southern Louisiana. His enemies had longed for the day he would load the gun for them. Now I had helped him do it.\n\nI went to Baron's Health Club, worked out with free weights, then sat for a half hour in the steam room. When I came back outside it was still raining, harder than before, litter floating in the ditches that bordered the streets. I went to an afternoon A.A. meeting above the Methodist church by the railroad tracks and listened to a man talk about nightmares he still had from the Vietnam War. His face was seamed, unshaved, his body flaccid, his clothes mismatched. He had been eighty-sixed out of every bar in the parish and he had been put out of two V.A. alcoholic treatment programs. He began to talk about a massacre of innocent persons inside a free-fire zone.\n\nI couldn't listen to it. I left the meeting and drove home. When I pulled into the driveway my yard was flooded halfway to the gallery and Theodosha Flannigan was waiting for me by the door, a rain-spotted scarf tied on her head, her face filled with consternation. Snuggs was turning in circles around her ankles.\n\n\"I know all about last night,\" she said.\n\n\"Not a good day for it, Theo,\" I said, unlocking the door.\n\nI went in the house without inviting her inside, but she followed me anyway, Snuggs racing past us toward the food bowl in the kitchen.\n\n\"My father didn't molest me. It was a black man. That's why I was seeing Dr. Bernstine,\" she said.\n\n\"Don't do this, Theo.\"\n\n\"When I was a little girl a black convict got in our house and hurt me. He was killed running down toward the bayou.\"\n\n\"Killed by whom?\"\n\n\"A prison guard. He worked at the labor camp. He and the other guards buried him in back. I saw the bones when the fish pond was dug. They were sticking out of the dirt in a front-end loader.\"\n\n\"You've been fed a lie.\"\n\n\"It's the truth. I went over every detail of it with my father.\"\n\n\"Bernstine told you your father raped or molested you, didn't he?\"\n\n\"It doesn't matter. I know what happened.\"\n\n\"When you first told me about Bernstine's death, you said you thought you had something to do with it.\"\n\n\"I was confused. I know the truth now.\"\n\nI gave up. Through the kitchen window I could see steam rising off the bayou in the rain. Theodosha picked up Snuggs, set him on the counter, and rubbed her hand down his back. \"Merchie is leaving me,\" she said.\n\n\"That's too bad.\"\n\n\"We're not good for each other. We never were. I'm too messed up and he's too ambitious.\"\n\n\"I have some things to do today, Theo.\"\n\nI could hear an oak branch slapping against the side of the house, water rushing out of a gutter into the drive.\n\n\"We had fun together, didn't we?\" she said.\n\n\"Yeah, sure,\" I replied.\n\n\"Know why we're alike?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"We both live in the cities of the dead. We don't belong with other people.\"\n\n\"That's not true. Why did you use that term?\" I said, my heart quickening.\n\nBut she didn't answer. She lifted up Snuggs and set him back down on the floor, then touched me on both cheeks and kissed me on the mouth. \"So long, baby. I never told you this, but you're the only man I ever slept with and dreamed about later,\" she said.\n\nShe went out the front door, letting the screen slam behind her, then ran for her car. I had to force myself not to go after her.\n\nI lay down on my bedspread, with my arm across my eyes, and listened to the rain on the roof. I drifted off to sleep and suddenly saw an image out of my past, one that had no catalyst other than perhaps the story told by the war veteran at the noon A.A. meeting. I saw the members of my platoon marching at night through a rain forest that had been denuded by napalm. Their faces and uniforms and steel pots, even the green sweat towels draped over their heads like monk's cowls, were gray with ash. They cast no shadows and made no sound as they marched and their eyes were all possessed by the strange non-human look that soldiers call the thousand-yard stare.\n\nI sat straight up in my bed, my throat choking.\n\nThe phone was ringing in the kitchen. I went to the counter and picked it up, the dream still more real than the world around me. \"Hello?\" I said.\n\n\"Is Father Dolan there?\"\n\n\"Coll?\"\n\n\"Sorry to be a nuisance, Mr. Robicheaux. I just wanted to pass on something to Father Dolan.\"\n\nMy mind began to race. Castille LeJeune had remained untouchable and was about to skate. Will Guillot could probably not be charged with any crime more serious than breaking and entering, and the evidence against him was problematic and subject to easy dissection by a defense attorney.\n\n\"I owe you one, Max. That means I don't want to see you taken off the board by a couple of local scum wads,\" I said.\n\n\"Could you be speaking a little more plainly, sir?\" he replied.\n\nMy pulse was beating in my wrists, the veins dilating in my scalp. \"I think the clip on you came down from a couple of homegrown characters in the porn and meth trade. Maybe you should stay out of Franklin, Louisiana, and spend more time at Biscayne Dog Track,\" I said.\n\n\"A couple of local fellows, you say? Now, that's interesting, because I'd come to a very different conclusion. I thought the porn connection was the woman, the screenwriter, Ms. Flannigan. She's the brains in the family, not her father. The colored people hereabouts say he may have had his way with her when she was a child. This fellow Guillot is trying to take over the business, so Ms. Flannigan does the daiquiri fellow, draws a lot of attention to her father's selling grog to teenagers and drunk drivers, and uses Guillot's gun to do it. Perfect way to screw both her daddy and her business rival.\"\n\n\"Why would Theo Flannigan be the porn connection?\"\n\n\"I'm ashamed to say I'm well acquainted with a number of lowlifes in the underworld who say Sammy Figorelli's films were successful because they were written by a famous woman author. It's not a big reach to figure out who that might be.... Hello? Are you there?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said weakly.\n\n\"I've never harmed a woman, sir, so I let the matter go. But I'll be reamed up the bung hole with a spiked telephone pole if you haven't made me reconsider the LeJeune and Guillot fellows.\"\n\n\"Hold on, Coll.\"\n\n\"No, you've done me a favor. I've got to cancel my flight reservations and give it all a good think. Tell Father Dolan thanks for his help. A tip of the hat to yourself as well.\"\n\nThe line went dead. I replaced the receiver and wiped my face with a dish towel. I tried to sort through the conversation I had just had with Max Coll. My head was a basket of snakes, my mouth dry, my thoughts suddenly centered on a jigger of Beam poured into an iced mug of draft beer inside a Saturday-afternoon bar that was only two blocks up the street.\n\nFather Jimmie Dolan's car pulled into the driveway, pushing a wave of water under the house. When he entered the front door he was smiling, his tan, wide-brim hat dripping. \"Any calls for me?\" he asked.\n\nI drove downtown to the restaurant that used to be Provost's Pool Room. It was warm and cheerful and crowded inside, and I sat at the hand-carved mahogany bar and looked out the window at the wetness of the day and the traffic passing in the street. As a boy I used to come to the pool room on Saturday afternoons with my father, Big Aldous, in a era when the plank floors were strewn with football betting cards and green sawdust and the owner served free robin gumbo out of big pots that he set on an oilcloth-covered pool table. The stamped tin ceilings and mahogany bar and old brick walls still remained, but the building was an upscale restaurant now that catered to tourists who came to see a world that no longer existed.\n\nThe bartender wore his hair slicked back and black pants and a white jacket and black tie. \"You just gonna have coffee, sir?\" he asked.\n\n\"How about I buy you a drink?\" I said.\n\n\"Sir?\"\n\n\"It's not a complicated question.\" It sounded bad but I grinned when I said it.\n\nHe shrugged. \"I get off in a hour,\" he said.\n\nI put several one-dollar bills on the bar. \"Make sure it's Beam or Jack,\" I said.\n\n\"You got it,\" he said, scooping up the bills.\n\nThen I drove back home and went into the kitchen, where Father Jimmie was reading the newspaper. He lowered the paper, then looked curiously at my face. \"It can't be that bad, can it?\" he said.\n\nSo I told him how bad it was, or at least how bad I thought it was; but I was to learn my education about my own obtrusiveness was ongoing. After I finished he sat for a long time without speaking, his gaze turned inward, unable to conceal his disappointment at either me or his own missionary failure, or the world as it really is. I suspect I wanted absolution, like a child going to confession on a Saturday afternoon, leaving behind his imaginary sins, bounding down the street as though a stricken world has just been made whole again. But that wasn't to be.\n\nFather Jimmie had a look of sadness in his eyes that I cannot adequately describe. \"You don't know what you've done,\" he said.\n\n\"Maybe I have at least a fair idea,\" I replied.\n\n\"Max met with me outside Franklin. He expressed what I think was genuine remorse for the evil he's done in his life. I gave him absolution. But you hung the bait in his face and energized him. My God, man, we're talking about his soul.\"\n\nI felt light-headed, as though I were coming down with the flu. When I tried to speak I couldn't clear the obstruction in my throat. Father Jimmie filled a glass with water but did not hand it to me.\n\n\"Listen, Coll changed his direction because he didn't want to kill a woman,\" I said.\n\n\"It makes no difference.\"\n\n\"It does. I never thought about Theo being involved. Even though Clete kept warning me, I never thought about Theo.\"\n\nFather Jimmie realized I had already moved on from my own irresponsibility and was now concentrating on another matter, one that showed a degree of obsession beyond his grasp. He set down the glass and turned on me. I saw his right hand close. His next words were spoken through his teeth: \"Don't deceive yourself. You're a violent and driven man, Dave, just like Max Coll.\"\n\nHis eyelids were stitched to his brows, his throat bladed with anger and rebuke.\n\nThat evening the sky was as dark as I had ever seen it. Lightning rippled like quicksilver across the thunderheads in the south, and the sugarcane in the fields along the road to St. Martinville thrashed and flickered in the wind and rain, the oak canopy blowing leaves that stuck like leeches on my windshield. I went to Mass in the old French church on the square in St. Martinville, then when the church was empty put five dollars in the poor box and removed an unlit votive candle in a red glass receptacle and took it with me down to the cemetery on the bayou.\n\nIt was a foolish thing to do, I suspect, but I had long ago come to view the world as an unreasonable place, not to be contended with, better left to pragmatists and the mercantile who view the imagination and the unseen as their enemy. I parked under the streetlight, opened an umbrella, and walked between the crypts toward Bootsie's tomb. A generic compact car passed behind me, turned at the corner, and disappeared down a side street.\n\nThe bayou was high, dented with rain rings, yellow in the lights from the drawbridge. I placed the votive candle next to the marble tablet on Bootsie's tomb, wedged the umbrella so that it sheltered the candle from the rain and wind, then lit the wick.\n\nThe same compact car came out of the square and crossed the drawbridge, but I paid little attention to it. An event I had never seen in my life was taking place in front of me. Two huge brown pelicans drifted out from under the bridge, floating south on the tidal current, their wings folded tightly against the wind, their long yellow bills tucked down on their chests. I had never seen pelicans this far inland and had no explanation for their presence. Then I did something that made me wonder about my level of sanity.\n\nI rose from the steel bench I was sitting on, pointing at the two birds, and said, \"Take a look, Boots. These guys were almost extinct a few years ago. They're beautiful.\"\n\nThen I sat down and folded my arms on my chest, the rain clicking on my coat.\n\nThat's when I saw the compact in plain relief against the streetlight at the corner. It was pulled into a careless position at the curb, steam rising from the hood, the driver moving around in silhouette, as though he were having trouble with his safety belt.\n\nDave! a voice said, as audibly as a voice speaking to you on the edge of sleep, as defined as a stick snapping inside the eardrum.\n\nI rose from the bench just as the streetlight glinted on the lens of a telescopic sight and the muzzle flash of a rifle splintered from the passenger window of the compact car. The bullet whanged off the steel bench and blew pieces off a statue of Jesus's mother.\n\nI ducked down between the crypts and pulled my .45 from my belt holster and sighted with two hands on the compact. But there were houses on the far side of the street and I couldn't fire. I started running toward the compact, the .45 held at an upward angle, zigzagging between the crypts, my eyes locked on the driver, who was fighting to straighten the car's wheels so he would not hit the curb.\n\nHe pulled around a parked pickup truck and floored the compact down the street. In seconds he would be beyond any safe angle of fire that I would have. I left the sidewalk and ran toward the corner of the cemetery, jumped on top of a crypt, and went over the chainlink fence into the street. The compact was twenty-five to thirty yards away, headed down the bayou in the direction of the church, the license plated patinaed with mud. I stood in the center of the street, both arms extended, and aimed low on the trunk.\n\nI squeezed off three rounds, the recoil knocking my forearms upward, the muzzle throwing sparks into the darkness, the spent shells tinkling on the pavement. I don't know what I hit inside the compact, but I heard the hard slap of all three hollow-point rounds bite into metal.\n\nThe compact swerved around a corner and disappeared down a tree-lined side street that looked like an illustration clipped from a 1940 issue of The Saturday Evening Post.\n\nI went back to my truck and used my cell phone to punch in a 911 on the compact, then walked to Bootsie's tomb, my ears still ringing from the explosions of the .45. The umbrella had not been disturbed by the wind and the candle was burning brightly inside its red receptacle, but the pelicans had flown or drifted southward on the current.\n\nI heard your voice, I said.\n\nBut there was no reply.\n\nI don't care who else knows it, either. That was your voice, Boots, I said.\n\nThen I said a prayer for her and one for me and headed back for the truck, wishing the pelicans had not gone.\n\nDon't worry, they'll be back. One of these days when you least expect it, you'll see them on Bayou Teche, she said.\n\nI turned around, my jaw hanging, the clouds blooming with electricity that made no sound.\n\n## Chapter 26\n\nI rose before dawn Sunday morning and ate a breakfast of Grape-Nuts and coffee and hot milk in the kitchen. When I opened the front door to leave I saw an envelope on the porch with a footprint stenciled across it and realized it must have fallen out of the door-jamb the previous night and been stepped on by either me or Father Jimmie.\n\nThe letter inside was handwritten and read:\n\nDear Mr. Robicheaux,\n\nI must talk to you. I don't know why all this is happening. We moved here to live in a decent environment and look what everyone has done to us. I also do not understand this new development. Nobody will answer my questions. I think all of you people suck. Call me at home. Do it right now.\n\nSincerely,\n\nDonna Parks\n\nIn my memory I saw a stump of a woman, with dyed red hair and perfume that was like a chemical assault on the senses, a ring of fat under her chin. She was the mother of Lori Parks, the teenage girl who had died with two others inside their burning automobile on Loreauville Road. I did not look forward to seeing Mrs. Parks again.\n\nI put away her note and drove to Franklin. The parking compound for Sunbelt Construction was located behind a house trailer that served as a company office. In the lot were trucks of every kind, front-end loaders, bulldozers, and grading machines but no compact car that resembled the shooter's.\n\nI drove back to New Iberia and parked in Merchie and Theodosha Flannigan's driveway. Their faux medieval home was shrouded in fog puffing off the bayou, their horses nickering and blowing inside the pecan orchard. The morning newspaper was still inside the metal cylinder at the foot of the drive, but woodsmoke was rising from a living room fireplace. There was no compact car anywhere in sight, but I did not expect to see one. In fact, I did not know why I had come to the Flannigans' home. Perhaps it was to prove somehow that Theo was not involved with a criminal enterprise, that she was a victim herself and not capable of setting me up to be kidnapped and tortured by the Dellacroce brothers. Maybe I just wanted to believe the world was a more innocent place than it is.\n\nI got out of the truck and rested my hands on the top rail of the white fence that bordered the pecan orchard and watched the Flannigans' thoroughbreds moving about in the fog. I could hear their hooves thudding on the soft earth, smell the fecund odor of the bayou, like the smell of humus and fish roe, and the pecan husks and blackened leaves that had been trodden into pulp in the trees, and I wondered how it was that a place this beautiful would not be enough for anyone, why each morning would not come to the owner like a blessing extended by a divine hand.\n\nTheodosha opened the front door and walked down the drive in her bathrobe and slippers, her hair black and shiny in the grayness of the morning. \"What are you doing out here?\" she asked.\n\n\"How bad would you be willing to screw an old friend?\" I said.\n\n\"It's pretty early in the morning for your craziness, Dave.\"\n\n\"Your novels were nominated twice for Edgars but they didn't win. If your script-writing career was on track, I think you'd be out in the Hollywood Hills, not on the bayou. Maybe Fat Sammy Figorelli's skin films were a shortcut to being back on the big screen.\"\n\n\"You're sickening,\" she said.\n\n\"Somebody shot at me last night.\"\n\n\"I can't imagine why.\"\n\n\"Did you set me up with the Dellacroces?\"\n\nShe walked past me and pulled the morning paper from the metal delivery receptacle, then started back up the drive toward her house. \"Too bad it's Sunday,\" she said.\n\n\"Why's that?\"\n\n\"The state mental hygiene unit in Lafayette is closed. But if I were you, I'd jump right on it first thing in the morning,\" she said, opening the paper, not bothering to even glance at me as she spoke.\n\nWhen I got back home, Father Jimmie was gone, his closet empty. He had left a recording for me on my message machine, its brevity like a shard of glass: \"So long, Dave. Thanks for your hospitality. I hope everything works out for you.\"\n\nThere was also a voice message from Donna Parks: \"Why don't you answer my goddamn letter, you callous fuck?\"\n\nIt was going to be a long day.\n\nI tried to eat lunch but had no appetite. As I washed my dishes and put away my uneaten food, I looked through a window and saw Helen Soileau pull into the driveway. She got out of the cruiser and walked to the gallery, wearing faded jeans, boots, and a mackinaw, her jaw set. I opened the door before she could knock.\n\n\"I was out of town, so I just got the report on the car sniper,\" she said, walking past me into the warmth of the living room. \"Go over it for me.\"\n\nI went over each detail with her and also told her I had been to Franklin that morning to look for the compact car I had put three rounds in.\n\n\"Anybody from St. Mary Parish contact you?\" she asked.\n\n\"No,\" I said.\n\n\"Yesterday somebody got past the alarm system at both Castille LeJeune's and Will Guillot's house. In the middle of the afternoon. A real pro. Know who it might be?\"\n\n\"Max Coll,\" I said.\n\n\"What was he looking for?\"\n\n\"Evidence they put a hit on him.\"\n\n\"I hate to even ask this question. How would you know this?\"\n\n\"He called here yesterday. I more or less told him there were two local guys behind the contract on him and they lived in Franklin.\"\n\nShe stood at the ceiling-high living room window and stared out at the street and at the rain dripping through the canopy of live oaks that arched over it, her fists propped on her hips. \"Want to tell me your motivation for doing that?\" she said.\n\n\"I owed him one.\"\n\n\"We don't owe criminals. We break their wheels and put them out of business. We don't make individual judgments on the people we need to arrest.\"\n\n\"I don't see it that way.\"\n\n\"There are a lot of things you don't see,\" she replied, turning to look directly at me. \"I'm pulling your shield, bwana.\"\n\nI nodded, my expression flat. \"It's been that kind of day,\" I said. I slipped my badge holder out of my pocket and handed it to her. \"Coll thinks Theo Flannigan may have been the porn connection to Sammy Figorelli. Maybe she was the shooter in the daiquiri drive-by. In case you want to follow that up.\"\n\nHelen flipped my badge holder back and forth in her hand while she listened, then she tucked it into her pocket. \"Sometimes you break my heart,\" she said.\n\nI had been suspended before, put on a desk, investigated by Internal Affairs, locked up on at least three occasions, and years ago fired by N.O.P.D. But this time was different. The suspension came not from a career administrator but from my old partner, a woman who had been excoriated as a lesbian and who had never allowed the taunts and odium heaped upon her to diminish either her integrity or the dignity and courage that obviously governed her life.\n\nThe fact that it was she who had pulled my plug made me wonder if indeed I hadn't gone way beyond the envelope and become one of those jaundiced and embittered law officers whose careers do not end but flame out in a curlicue of dirty smoke that forever obscures the clarity of their moral vision.\n\nBut that kind of thinking is what we call in A.A. the paralysis of analysis. In terms of worth it shares commonalities with masturbation, asking a rage-a-holic for advice on spiritual serenity, or listening to your own thoughts while trapped by yourself between floors in a stalled elevator.\n\nI went into the kitchen and called Donna Parks at her home. There was no answer. I left a message on her machine and drove to Franklin to visit Clete Purcel in jail.\n\nA turnkey walked me down a corridor to an isolation cell, one with horizonal bars, flat cross-plates, and an iron food slit in the door, but with nothing inside except a stainless steel toilet and a metal bench bolted to the floor. Clete was sitting on the bench, still in his street clothes, his wrists locked to his hips with a waist chain, another chain locked between his ankles. His right eye was swollen into a puffed knot, his forehead and chin scraped raw. The cement floor outside the cell door was splattered with red beans, rice, two pieces of white bread, and coffee from a broken Styrofoam cup.\n\n\"Who did that to his face?\" I said.\n\n\"He come in like that,\" the turnkey said.\n\n\"That's a lie,\" I said.\n\n\"He wouldn't put on his jumpsuit. He threw his tray at a deputy. You got issues with it, talk to the boss. I just clean up the mess,\" the turnkey said, and walked away.\n\nI hung my hands through the bars. \"How you doin', Cletus?\" I said.\n\nHe stood up from the bench and shuffled toward me, his chains clinking on the cement. \"I'm going to look up a couple of these guys when I get out of here,\" he said.\n\n\"Why do you have to provoke them?\"\n\n\"It's fun.\"\n\n\"I'm suspended. I don't have any clout to help you.\"\n\n\"What'd you do?\"\n\n\"Fired up Max Coll and pointed him at LeJeune and Guillot. I figured my line was tapped and I might get the Feds in here.\"\n\n\"I keep telling you, it's the broad.\"\n\n\"Maybe it is.\"\n\nThen his eyes went away from mine and looked into space. \"Nig and Wee Willie won't go bail,\" he said.\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"They're pissed because of that dinner I charged on their card at Galatoire's. Plus two of the girls skipped their court appearances and Nig's putting it on me.\"\n\n\"What kind of bail are we talking about?\" I asked.\n\n\"A screw tried to do an anal search on me. He's going to need some dental work. So I've got two separate A&B's on a law officer.\"\n\nI touched my forehead against the bars and closed my eyes. Clete kicked the door with the point of his shoe, rattling it in the jamb. \"Listen up, Dave. We're the good guys. The problem is nobody else knows it. But that's their problem, not ours,\" he said.\n\nI left the jail and parked my truck on an oyster-shell road down by Bayou Teche, just outside the Franklin city limits. Rain was falling on the trees around my truck, and across the bayou were a cow pasture, a collapsed red barn, and a solitary black man in a straw hat, sitting on an inverted bucket, cane-pole fishing under a live oak. I got out of the truck, tossed a pine cone into the current, and watched it float southward toward the Gulf.\n\nClete had made a point, one which I don't think was either vituperative or vain. Legal definitions had little to do with morality. It was legal to systemically poison the earth and sell arms to Third World lunatics. Politicians who themselves had avoided active service and never had listened to the sounds a flame thrower extracted from its victims, or zipped up body bags on the faces of their best friends, clamored for war and stood proudly in front of the flag while they sent others off to fight it.\n\nThe polluters and the war advocates are always legal men, as the Prince of Darkness is always a gentleman.\n\nThe John Gottis of the world make good entertainment. The polluters and the war advocates can be seen at prayer, on camera, in the National Cathedral. Unlike John Gotti, they're not very interesting, but they cause infinitely more damage.\n\nThe chances were I would never take down Castille LeJeune for the murder of Junior Crudup. Nor did it look like I would solve the shooting of the drive-by daiquiri store operator or Fat Sammy Figorelli. The people who had committed these crimes did not have patterns and to one degree or another operated with public sanction. They might go down for an ancillary offense, but at worst they would do minimum time, if not get probation.\n\nBut regardless of what occurred in the lives of others, I was going to clear my conscience of a problem I had created because of my desire to control a situation in which I had failed.\n\nI drove through the wet streets of Franklin, out to Fox Run, and lifted the false knocker on the front door that activated the chimes deep inside the house. A moment later Castille LeJeune answered the door, dressed in sweat clothes, a towel twisted around his throat, surprisingly pleasant, his face ruddy from riding an exercise bike by the sun room that gave onto the back patio, the same patio where Junior Crudup had entertained him and his wife fifty years ago.\n\n\"Come in, sir,\" he said, opening the door wider.\n\n\"I don't know if you'll want me in your house after you hear what I have to say,\" I said.\n\nHe laughed and closed the door behind me. \"Go ahead. I know a determined man when I see one. But excuse me just a minute. I have to use the bathroom,\" he said.\n\nHe went into a hallway and closed a door behind him, then I heard him urinating into a toilet bowl. Through the French doors I could see the long slope of his backyard tapering down to the bayou, a yellow bulldozer parked by the area we had excavated during our search for Junior Crudup's remains. Much of the dirt had been filled in, smoothed and tamped down, so that the lawn was now a mottled brown and green, in patterns like camouflage.\n\nI heard LeJeune washing his hands, then he came back into the living room.\n\n\"I couldn't stick you with Junior Crudup's death, so I tried to sic a psychological nightmare by the name of Max Coll on you,\" I said.\n\n\"Ah, a mea culpa because you've put me at risk. Let me clarify something for you\u2014\"\n\n\"If I can finish, please. Using Coll was a gutless act on my part. If I had wanted you smoked, I should have done it myself instead of exploiting a headcase.\"\n\n\"I admire your candor, Mr. Robicheaux. But I'm not bothered by Coll's presence in the community. I walked in on him and he fled. If this fellow is indeed a soldier for the IRA, which is what I've been told, then I understand why the British are still in control of northern Ireland.\"\n\n\"Wait a minute. You saw Coll?\"\n\n\"I just told you that.\" He stared at me, his eyes probing mine.\n\n\"Was he armed?\"\n\n\"He might have been. It's hard to say. I didn't bother to ask.\"\n\n\"Where did he go?\"\n\n\"Out the back door. I've reported all this.\"\n\n\"You might drop by the church today and light a candle, maybe offer a prayer of thanks that a guy like Father Jimmie Dolan is a minister in the Catholic Church,\" I said.\n\n\"As always with you, Mr. Robicheaux, I have no idea what you're talking about. But if this man Coll comes back around, he'll rue the day he left his little shanty back in the peat bogs or wherever he comes from.... Am I losing your attention?\"\n\n\"Hubris has always been my undoing, Mr. LeJeune. Maybe it will be different with you. Anyway, my badge has been pulled and I'm done. Run your happy warrior act on somebody else,\" I said.\n\nWhen I got back home I put on sweat pants and a hooded jersey, tied on my running shoes, and jogged down East Main, past the Shadows and the plantation caretaker's house across the street, which now served as a bed-and-breakfast, and crossed the drawbridge into City Park. I ran along the winding paved road through the live oak trees, my clothes soggy with mist, then cut across the closely clipped grass and ran along the edge of the bayou. In our area the sugar mills are fired up twenty-four hours a day during the cane-grinding season, and in the distance I could see a huge red glow on the horizon, like fire trapped inside a thunderhead, and I could hear the heavy thumping sound of the machines, like the reverberation of giant feet stamping upon the earth. There was not another soul inside the park, and for just a moment my heart quickened and I felt more alone than I had ever felt in my life.\n\nI sat down on a bench, my palms propped on my thighs, my breath coming hard in my throat. What was it Theodosha had said? We were alike because we both lived in the cities of the dead? I wiped the sweat off my face with my jersey and fought to get my breath back, widening my eyes, concentrating on the details around me, as though my ability to remain among the quick depended on my perception of them.\n\nIs this the way it comes? I thought\u2014not with a clicking sound and a brilliant flash of light on a night trail in Vietnam, or with a high-powered round fired by a sniper in a compact automobile, but instead with a racing of the heart and a shortening of the breath in a black-green deserted park smudged by mist and threaded by a tidal stream.\n\nMy head hammered with sound that was like helicopter blades thropping overhead, and for just a moment I was back on a slick piled with wounded and dying grunts, AK-47 rounds vectoring out of the jungle canopy down below, the inside of the airframe crawling with smoke.\n\nI put my head down between my knees, my hands on the pavement, the world spinning around me.\n\nI looked up and saw from out of the mist a pink Cadillac convertible headed toward me, one with wire wheels, tail fins, Frenched headlights, and grillwork that was like a chromium smile, the radio blaring with 1950s Jerry Lee Lewis rock 'n' roll.\n\nThe Cadillac passed me and behind the wheel I saw a man with an impish face, the features cartoonlike, as though they had been sketched with a charcoal pencil, the hair shaved on the sides and left long and curly on the neck.\n\n\"Gunner?\" I said out loud.\n\nBut the driver did not hear me, and the Cadillac wound its way out of the park, the only piece of bright color inside the failing light.\n\nGunner Ardoin in New Iberia? I asked myself. No, I had let my imagination run away with itself. The year was 2002, not 1957, and the rock 'n' roll days of pink Cadillacs, drive-in movies, Jerry Lee Lewis, and American innocence were over.\n\nAt 10:00 P.M. I turned on the local news. The lead story involved a homicide inside a Franklin residence. The television camera panned on a tree-lined street and a Victorian home where paramedics were exiting a side door with a gurney on which a figure inside a body bag was strapped down. The reporter at the scene said the victim had been shot once in the temple and once in the mouth and, according to the coroner, had been dead approximately twelve hours. The victim's name was William Raymond Guillot.\n\n## Chapter 27\n\nIt was still raining Monday morning, the air cold, the fog heavy among the crypts in St. Peter's Cemetery as I pulled into the parking lot at the courthouse.\n\nWally, our leviathan dispatcher, made a face when he saw me come through the front door. \"Dave, you ain't suppose to be here,\" he said.\n\n\"Pretend I'm not,\" I said.\n\n\"Don't jam me up here. I'm your friend, remember?\"\n\n\"Is anybody working the Guillot homicide?\" I said.\n\n\"I didn't even hear you say that. I'm deaf and dumb here. Go home,\" he replied.\n\nHelen's door was ajar. I went inside without knocking. \"What's happening in Franklin with the Guillot shooting?\" I said.\n\n\"None of your business,\" she said.\n\n\"They made Max Coll for the hit?\"\n\n\"One in the temple, one down the throat. The signature of a pro,\" she said.\n\n\"I don't buy it.\"\n\n\"What you need to buy is a hearing aid. You were suspended as of yesterday. Now haul your ass out of here.\"\n\n\"I talked with Castille LeJeune late yesterday afternoon. He says he walked in on Coll while Coll was creeping his house. If Coll was going to pop anybody, he would have done it then.\"\n\n\"You went out to LeJeune's, after I pulled your badge?\"\n\n\"I told him I was suspended. It was a personal visit.\"\n\nShe shook her head, nonplussed. \"We have an attorney in lawyer jail right now. I'm about to put you in there with him,\" she said.\n\n\"Coll isn't the shooter.\"\n\n\"Don't be on the premises when I get back.\" She walked down the hall and into the women's restroom, glancing back at me just before she pushed open the door, as though my argument for Coll's innocence had just sunk a hook on the edge of her mouth.\n\nLouisiana is a small state, with a comparatively small population. In the year 2002 over 950 people were killed and 55,000 injured on our state highways. Booze was a major factor in most of the fatalities. Hence, the presence of a drunk person behind the wheel of an automobile in Louisiana is hardly an anomaly. So I had no reason to be surprised when I picked up the phone in my kitchen and heard a woman's voice say, \"Why don't you do something about this goddamn traffic light out here on the four-lane?\"\n\n\"Who is this?\" I asked.\n\n\"Donna Parks, who does it sound like? The man in front of me is driving a shit box that's smoking up the whole town. He won't turn left because there's no arrow on the traffic light and I have to breathe his goddamn exhaust fumes.\"\n\nFor just a moment I had the uncharitable thought that her husband, Dr. Parks, was better off dead.\n\n\"What could I do for you, Ms. Parks?\"\n\n\"I want to file rape charges.\"\n\n\"You've been sexually assaulted?\"\n\n\"Like my deceased husband said, you people are really dumb. I'll come over there and explain it to you. Where are you?\"\n\n\"Since you dialed me at my home number, I think we should both conclude I'm at home.\"\n\nShe belched softly, then I heard what was probably her car horn blowing just before the line went dead.\n\nWith luck she would have an accident before she got to my house, I thought.\n\nI looked at my watch. Clete's arraignment was at 11:00 A.M. I wrote a note for Donna Parks, included my cell phone number on it, and stuck the note inside the grill on the front screen. Eventually I would have to deal with her, but it would be easier to do by phone than in person. I put Snuggs on the back porch, slipped my checkbook in my pocket, and started out the door, just as Merchie Flannigan pulled into the driveway, blocking my truck. He worked his way around the puddles in the yard and stepped up on the gallery, raking back his long, white-gold hair with his fingers.\n\n\"Hang on, old buddy. Need to clear up my remarks to you when you came by the house,\" he said.\n\n\"I'm in a hurry, Merchie,\" I said.\n\n\"Let's face it. I was jealous. Theo and I haven't had the best marriage. You said I was out of line. You were right.\" He extended his hand, his jaw square, like an imitation of an athletic, educated, country club millionaire, one he had probably seen on a movie screen as a child and had spent a lifetime trying to become.\n\nI didn't take his hand. \"I think you're here covering your wife's ass. Will Guillot got popped and the cops are going to be taking a hard look at his enterprises. I believe Theo is part of a porn operation in New Orleans,\" I said.\n\nThe smile died on his face. \"You're actually serious? You believe Theo is involved with pornography?\" he said.\n\n\"The word is she wrote scripts for Fat Sammy Figorelli. Where was she the night the daiquiri store operator got shot?\"\n\nHe slipped his hands into his pockets and looked at the rain falling through the live oaks onto the street, as though any conversation with me was useless and the problem was mine, not his. \"Theo and I are taking a cruise to the Islands. I came by here to do the right thing. But I can see it was a mistake.\"\n\n\"Where'd it go wrong for you, partner?\"\n\n\"Wrong about what?\" he said.\n\n\"You were Jumpin' Merchie Flannigan, a stand-up kid from the Iberville who did the crime and stacked the time. Why'd you become a hump for a bum like Castille LeJeune?\"\n\nThe skin of his face seemed to crinkle, like a sheet of yellow paper held against a hot light bulb. He raked his hair back over his head again and started to speak, his eyes tangled with thoughts I could only guess at, then stepped off the gallery and walked through a water puddle to his Mercedes.\n\nI headed down the four-lane toward Franklin and five miles outside New Iberia felt a front tire on my pickup go soft and begin to wobble. I pulled to the shoulder and changed the tire in the rain. It was almost 11:30 when I got to the St. Mary Parish Courthouse. Across the street I saw the restored pink Cadillac I had seen in City Park the previous night. A curious black man holding an umbrella was bent down by the driver's window, admiring the interior.\n\n\"Do you know who owns this?\" I asked.\n\n\"A man who got a lot of money,\" he replied.\n\nI went inside the courthouse and peeled off my raincoat in front of a coffee stand run by a blind man. I had no way of knowing the amount of Clete's bail, but obviously it would be high, and the 10 percent bondsman's fee would probably clean out my checking account and part of my savings. Of course, my paying a bondsman's fee was predicated on the assumption a local bondsman would be willing to write a bond on Clete, whose past record included fleeing the United States on a murder warrant.\n\n\"You want a cup of coffee, Dave?\" the blind man behind the counter said.\n\n\"Yeah, sure, Walter,\" I said, distracted by a brown-haired little girl, no older than six or seven, sitting on a bench by the courtroom entrance. A small teddy bear, a red ribbon with a silver bell on it tied around the neck, was perched on her lap. Where had I seen her before? Then I remembered, with a rush of shame. It had been at Gunner Ardoin's house, on the morning I had rousted him last fall, chambering a round in the .45, sticking it in his face, causing him to soil himself while his little girl watched.\n\nI walked up to her, my raincoat slung over my arm. \"Is your daddy here?\" I asked.\n\n\"He's inside the big room,\" she replied.\n\n\"What's he doin' there?\"\n\n\"Helping Clete.\"\n\n\"You remember me?\" I asked.\n\n\"You're the man who pointed a gun at my daddy.\"\n\nI went inside the courtroom just as the morning's proceedings were breaking up. Clete was talking to a local attorney while a deputy put cuffs on him for his trip back to jail. The judge left the room for his chambers, and among the people filing out in the corridor I saw Gunner Ardoin.\n\n\"Clete's going back to lock-up?\" I said.\n\n\"Just till he bonds out,\" Gunner said.\n\n\"How much is his bond?\"\n\n\"Fifty grand,\" he said.\n\n\"How'd he put it up?\"\n\n\"He didn't. I did.\"\n\n\"You went a fifty-thou bond?\"\n\n\"You don't watch the news? I hit the Powerball last week. Three million bucks. I bought him that pink Caddy out front, too.\"\n\nI looked at him, stupefied. He walked past me and took his little girl by the hand. \"Want something to eat? Clete's going to meet us outside in a few minutes,\" he said.\n\n\"Why not?\" I replied.\n\nA half hour later the four of us were eating gumbo at a checker-cloth-covered table inside a cafe one block from the courthouse. The pink Cadillac convertible was parked outside, rainwater standing up in beads as big as marbles on the waxed surface.\n\n\"I appreciate it, Gunner, but I can't accept it,\" Clete said.\n\n\"The title's already in your name, man,\" Gunner said.\n\n\"We'll have to change that,\" Clete said.\n\nGunner looked at a spot on the far wall of the cafe. \"There's something I didn't mention. A couple of guys I was inside with needed a place to crash. Remember Flip Raguzi, used to run a chop shop for the Giacanos over in Algiers? He started a grease fire on the stove. It sort of changed the way your kitchen and the ceiling look.\"\n\n\"You let Flip Raguzi stay in my place? This guy has diseases scientists haven't found names for,\" Clete said.\n\n\"What's he talking about, Daddy?\" the little girl asked.\n\nClete shut his eyes, then opened them. \"Give me the keys,\" he said.\n\nOne of my favorite lines of all time, one excerpted from a 1940s song understood readily by all those who experienced the human and economic realities of the Depression and war years, goes as follows: \"You don't get no bread with one meatball.\"\n\n\"What's funny?\" Gunner said.\n\n\"Nothing,\" I said. \"Take a walk with me, will you?\"\n\nWe went outside and stood under a canvas awning, the mist blowing in our faces.\n\n\"That's a decent thing you did for Clete, Gunner,\" I said.\n\n\"I don't use that name anymore,\" he said.\n\n\"How about Father Jimmie? You do the right thing by him, too?\" I said.\n\n\"Matter of fact, I did. But that's my business.\"\n\n\"I respect that, Phil. But I need your help, too. Know a woman named Theo Flannigan?\"\n\n\"Jumpin' Merchie's old lady? I know who she is, but I don't know her personally.\"\n\n\"Was she writing scripts for Fat Sammy Figorelli?\"\n\nHe shook his head. \"No, but she might as well have. Her books were lying around the set. The director would lift the dialog from the love scenes in her books. So a bunch of degenerates, that includes me, were doing sixty-nines on each other and talking like Shakespeare.\"\n\n\"Why would the director pick her work to steal from?\" I asked.\n\n\"A guy named Ray was involved. His girlfriend was my costar. I never saw him, but I think he was the same guy who'd call me and tell me where to pick up my meth delivery to the projects.\"\n\nRay?\n\nWhy hadn't I seen it? William Ray Guillot, lately of Franklin, Louisiana, now having his blood drained and replaced with formal-dehyde.\n\n\"You're sure Theo wasn't part of Fat Sammy's action?\" I said.\n\n\"Ever see one of Fat Sammy's films?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"You don't want to,\" he said. \"Let's go inside. Clete needs to drive me and my daughter to the airport in Lafayette. I'm buying a Mexican restaurant in San Antonio. You get to town, have a free dinner on me.\"\n\n\"You're a stand-up guy, Phil.\"\n\n\"I'm out of the life. I'm a millionaire. What's a few bucks to show some gratitude?\"\n\nI started to say something else, but he cut me off.\n\n\"I got your drift. Give it a rest,\" he said.\n\nI drove back to my house on East Main and tried to put the LeJeune family and Junior Crudup out of my mind, but I couldn't rest. I did not believe Max Coll killed Will Guillot, and I couldn't shake the feeling that Castille LeJeune had been unduly happy when I went to his home, as though with a broad sweep of a broom he had gotten rid of a large problem in his life. In fact, I believed Castille LeJeune was about to get away with at least one if not two additional homicides.\n\nAnd I also felt I had a problem of conscience about Theo Flannigan. I had falsely accused her of involvement in the shooting of the daiquiri-store operator and the production of pornographic films.\n\nIn fact, I rued the day I had ever heard of the LeJeunes or Junior Crudup.\n\nOn top of my more elevated level of problems, Batist stopped by the house with another one, namely Tripod, Alafair's three-legged raccoon, whom Batist carried up on the gallery inside Tripod's wood-frame hutch.\n\n\"Cain't keep him at my house no mo',\" he said.\n\n\"Why can't you?\" I asked, looking down at Tripod, who was standing up in the hutch, his claws hooked on the wire screen, his whiskered snout pointed at me.\n\n\"He's old, like me. He went to the bat'room on the kitchen flo',\" Batist said.\n\n\"Thanks, Batist.\"\n\n\"You welcome,\" he replied, and drove off.\n\nI opened the wire door on Tripod's hutch and he stepped out on the floor and looked up at me. \"How's it hangin, 'Pod?\" I said.\n\nHe responded by running into the kitchen and eating Snuggs's food out of the pet bowl.\n\nBut I could not distract myself from my problems with the world of play and innocence represented by animals. I wanted to believe I'd been dealt a bad hand. There was even some truth in my self-serving conclusion. But unfortunately I had dealt the hand to myself, beginning with the day I stepped into the unsolved disappearance of Junior Crudup, a man who had probably sought self-immolation all his life.\n\nI called Theo at her house and apologized for my accusation.\n\n\"Drunks are always sorry. But they do it over and over again,\" she said.\n\n\"Could you define 'it,' please?\"\n\n\"Acting like an asshole.\"\n\n\"I see.\"\n\n\"Have you apologized to my father?\" she asked.\n\n\"Are you serious?\" I said.\n\nShe hung up.\n\nI called Helen Soileau at the department and told her I'd been wrong about Theo.\n\n\"How'd you clear her?\" she asked.\n\n\"A porn actor told me a guy named Ray, as in William Raymond Guillot, was responsible for lifting material from Theo's books for Sammy Figorelli's movies. Theo had nothing to do with it.\"\n\n\"Thanks for telling me.\"\n\n\"Can you get another warrant to search Castille LeJeune's property?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"I want to resign from the department, Helen. I'll have a formal letter on your desk by tomorrow.\"\n\n\"That's the way you want it?\"\n\n\"Absolutely.\"\n\n\"I love you, bwana, but I don't trust you. And I...\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"Want to kill you sometimes.\"\n\nI got in my truck and backed into East Main. The bamboo and gardens in front of the Shadows breathed with mist that blew into the street, and as I looked at the old, massive brick post office on the corner, where a Creole man sold sno'balls and chunks of sugarcane off a canopy-shaded wagon when I was a kid, and as I watched the traffic turn at the next light onto the drawbridge, just past the Evangeline Theater where my father, mother, and I went to see cowboy movies in the 1940s, I had the feeling, not imagined, not emotional in nature, that I would never see any of these places or things again.\n\n## Chapter 28\n\nAs I approached Fox Run I could see sleet marching across the barren cane fields on the far side of the Teche, the same fields where Junior and Woodrow Reed labored a half century ago under the watchful eyes of Boss Posey and the other mounted gunbulls, all of them, one way or another, controlled by the man who lived across the bayou in the great white house that resembled a Mississippi paddle-wheeler.\n\nI parked by the carriage house. The automobiles were gone and even though the sky was dark, no lights burned inside the main house. I dropped my cell phone in the pocket of my raincoat and walked down the slope toward the bayou, where the yellow bulldozer sat, huge, mud smeared, and clicking with soft white hail.\n\nHelen had said we were looking for Dagwood and Blondie, whose advantage was they did not feel guilty and hence hid in plain sight. But amateur criminals have another kind of problem, one that professionals do not. They're arrogant and they presume. They're psychologically incapable of believing the system was not constructed to benefit them, and consequently they cannot imagine themselves standing in front of a law-and-order judge who can send them away for decades.\n\nThe bulldozer blade was partially raised, the tractor-treads pressed deeply into the earth, fanning back off the rear of the dozer in patterns like horse tails, as though the operator had been involved intensely with one particular area of repair rather than the entire environment. The keys were hanging from the ignition. I turned over the engine, revved the gas once, and clanked the transmission into reverse. As I backed up the dozer, a different kind of topography began to emerge from under the suspended blade\u2014an unevenly filled depression, one that had not been graded and tamped down, so that the surface was spiked with severed tree roots and ground-up divots of grass.\n\nI dropped the blade, shifted into forward gear, and raked off the top layer of the depression, then backed up again so I could see where the blade had cut. The dirt was loose, sinking where there were air pockets, water oozing from the subsoil that had been compressed by the weight of the tractor-treads. I dropped the blade lower, this time cutting much deeper into the hole, trundling up a huge, curled pile of mud, blue clay, and feeder roots that looked like torn cobweb. But this time, when I backed off the hole, I saw something I hoped I would not find.\n\nI cut the engine, pulled loose a shovel that was behind the seat, and walked around the front of the blade to a spot where a human arm, shoulder, and the curved back of a hand protruded from the soil, the hail rolling down the sides of the depression, pooling around them.\n\nI pushed the shovel under the back of the person and wedged the torso and the face free from the soil. The skin had turned a bluish gray, either in the water or because of the clay in the alluvial fan of the bayou, but his eyes were open and still emerald green, his small ears tight against the scalp, his shoulders somehow far too narrow for the violent and dangerous man he had once been.\n\nThere were entrance wounds in his face, under one arm, and in his left temple.\n\nI speared the shovel blade into the clay and reached for the cell phone in my raincoat pocket, just as the cell phone began ringing. I flipped it open and placed it against my ear. \"Dave Robicheaux,\" I said.\n\n\"Are you trying to avoid me?\" a woman's voice said.\n\nThe hail was hitting hard on my hat and the steel frame of the bulldozer and I could hardly hear her. \"Ms. Parks, I'm no longer with the sheriff's department. You need to call\u2014\"\n\n\"I found a diary under Lori's mattress. There were hearts all over the last page and drawings of a man's face. It wasn't some kid's face, either. There was a phone number, too.\" Her voice was starting to crack. \"You know who that number belongs to?\"\n\n\"No, I don't.\"\n\n\"A pipeline company in Lafayette. It's owned by that man who lives in that phony piece of medieval shit across from the junk yard.\"\n\n\"Say his name, Ms. Parks.\"\n\n\"Flannigan. Merchie Flannigan. I'm filing charges for statutory rape.\"\n\n\"Ms. Parks, Lori might have known someone who simply worked at the pipeline company.\"\n\n\"This number goes into Flannigan's office. It's his extension. Why are you covering up for him? I hate you people,\" she said.\n\nShe was obviously still drunk, but I couldn't fault her for her rage. Her daughter had burned to death in an automobile after being sold liquor illegally, and her husband, who had survived a tour as a combat medic, had been killed with impunity by Will Guillot, the investigation written off by a cop on a pad. But family survivors of homicide victims are seldom mentioned in follow-up news stories, even though the grief they carry is like the daily theft of sunlight from their lives.\n\nThe window on my cell phone cleared. Donna Parks was off the line now, but either because of the weather or my location I was losing service as I tried to punch in a 911 call. I heard someone's feet crunch on the hailstones behind me.\n\n\"You must have been a Marine, Mr. Robicheaux. I think you're the most determined man I've ever met.\"\n\nI turned and looked into the face of Castille LeJeune. He wore a silver shooting jacket, one with ammunition loops sewn on the sleeves, a flat-brimmed, pearl-gray Stetson hat, and khaki trousers tucked inside fur-lined, half-topped boots. In his right hand he held a blue-black revolver with walnut grips. But he did not point it at me. Up on the slope, by the carriage house, I could see Merchie Flannigan's Mercedes.\n\n\"You got the jump on me, Mr. LeJeune. You and your son-in-law just pull in?\" I said.\n\n\"The question is what do I do with you, Mr. Robicheaux.\"\n\n\"You didn't just pop ole Max, did you? You executed him.\"\n\n\"Could I see your search warrant?\"\n\n\"Don't happen to have it with me.\"\n\n\"Ah.\"\n\n\"Merchie has been screwing both you and your daughter, Mr. LeJeune. He stole a single-action Army colt from Will Guillot and used it to kill the daiquiri store operator. Then he threw the gun down so we'd put it on Guillot and by extension on you and your enterprises.\"\n\n\"Why would he kill a liquor salesman?\"\n\n\"Merchie was banging a seventeen-year-old girl by the name of Lori Parks. She died in a car wreck after she bought booze from a drive-by store you own.\"\n\nI could see the connections coming together in LeJeune's eyes. Behind him Merchie Flannigan was walking down the slope, his hands in the pockets of his jacket, his shoulders hunched under an Australian flop hat.\n\nLeJeune glanced over his shoulder, then focused on my face again. \"You uncovered evidence in a homicide without a warrant, which destroys the probative value of the discovery,\" he said. \"But you're not a stupid man. Something else is going on here. You quit the sheriff's department, didn't you?\"\n\nI shrugged my shoulders. \"We've got your ass in the bear trap, Mr. LeJeune. How's it feel?\" I said, and actually laughed.\n\nUp on the slope I saw Theodosha Flannigan park her Lexus and walk into the front of the house, carrying a guitar case.\n\n\"Open your coat,\" LeJeune said, raising his pistol toward my chest. \"Use your left hand, unsnap the strap on your sidearm, and drop it on the ground.\"\n\n\"Nope,\" I said.\n\n\"Say again?\"\n\n\"A police officer never surrenders his weapon.\"\n\n\"You're not a police officer anymore.\"\n\n\"Old habits die hard.\"\n\nI'd like to say my behavior was brave, my principles inviolate, but in reality I didn't feel personally threatened by Castille LeJeune. He didn't care enough about me or the social class I represented to hate or fear me, and in all probability he still retained some of the fatalistic views that had allowed him to survive the Korean War as a decorated combat pilot. The system had served him for a lifetime\u2014why should it fail him now?\n\nBut on another level I misjudged him. He could abide a professional enemy such as myself, but treachery inside the castle walls was another matter. He pulled back my coat, removed my .45 from the clip-on holster I wore, and tossed it in the mud.\n\nMerchie Flannigan was standing now on the rim of the depression, his face disjointed as he stared down at the half-exhumed body of Max Coll. \"Who's this dead guy? What's happening here?\" he said.\n\n\"You were having an affair with a seventeen-year-old girl?\" LeJeune said.\n\n\"Hold on, there, Castille,\" Merchie said.\n\n\"I always told Theo you were trash, with your blow-dried hair and Thesaurus vocabulary. You shot my sales person at the drive-by window?\"\n\n\"I think I'm going to boogie and let you and Dave work it out. Maybe y'all can tell each other war stories. But I'd say from the looks of things here, you're genuinely fucked, Castille,\" he said, and began walking back up the slope.\n\nThe temperature had dropped, and the air was bitter, like the taste of copper coins, the tin roofs of the old convict cabins speckled with frost. I could see a lump of cartilage working in LeJeune's jaw. Merchie was halfway up the slope when LeJeune raised the revolver and fired three times, pop, pop, pop.\n\nEither his hand shook from cold or anger or he was simply not a good shot, because he missed with all three rounds, and I heard the bullets break glass in the French doors that gave onto his patio.\n\nMerchie ran past the carriage house and down the drive, hunkered low, the brim of his Australian flop hat angled down over his neck. I walked up behind LeJeune, slipping my hand down his forearm, removing the revolver from his grasp.\n\n\"You killed Will Guillot and were going to put it on Max Coll?\" I said.\n\n\"I have nothing more to say,\" he replied.\n\n\"Guillot killed both Bernstine and Sammy Figorelli and took a shot at me, didn't he?\"\n\n\"Can't help you, sir,\" he replied.\n\nUp at the house there was no sound or any movement behind a window or the French doors. I snicked open the cylinder on LeJeune's revolver, ejected all the shells into my palm, then retrieved my .45 from the mud.\n\n\"My vision isn't very good anymore. You know I tied Ted Williams' gunnery record? Highest ever set by a Marine or Navy aviator. That's God's honest truth,\" he said.\n\n\"I believe you. Better take a walk with me,\" I said, punching in 911 on my cell with my thumb.\n\n\"Of course. We're going up to my house. I'll fix coffee for us. I have no personal feelings about this,\" he said.\n\nHe walked up the slope beside me, his chin lifted, his hands stuck in the pockets of his silver shooting jacket, his nostrils flaring as he breathed in the fresh coldness of the afternoon. I studied the back of the house, but still there was no movement inside. I felt LeJeune's attention suddenly refocus itself on the side of my face.\n\n\"Why are you so somber, Mr. Robicheaux? It should be a red-letter day for you,\" he said.\n\n\"My father taught me to hunt, Mr. LeJeune. He used to say, 'Don't be shooting at nothin' you cain't see on the other side of, no.' He was a simple man, but I always admired his humanity and remembered his words.\"\n\n\"As always, your second meaning eludes me.\"\n\n\"Is that Theo's car in the driveway?\"\n\nHe stared at the rear end of the Lexus that protruded just past the edge of the carriage house. His eyes began to water and he rushed across the patio through a cluster of winter-killed potted plants and tore open the French doors.\n\nTheodosha Flannigan sat in an antique chair, with a crimson pad inset in the back, her guitar perched on her lap, her trimmed fingernails like shavings from seashell, her knees close together, at a slight ladylike angle, her mouth parted in mild surprise, a hole with a tiny trickle running from it in the center of her forehead.\n\nThrough the front window I saw a half dozen emergency vehicles turn off the state road and come roaring up the drive through the long tunnel of live oaks, their flashers beating with light and color, their sirens muted, as though the drivers were afraid they might wake the dead.\n\n## Epilogue\n\nMy daughter Alafair and I flew to Key West for Christmas and hired a charter boat I could scarcely afford and scuba-dived Seven Mile Reef. The water was green, like lime Jell-O, with patches of hot blue floating in it, the reef swarming with baitfish and the barracuda that fed off them. At sundown we set the outriggers and trolled for a stray marlin or wahoo as we headed back into port, the gulls wheeling and squeaking over our wake, the sun bloodred as it descended into the Gulf.\n\nAlafair looked beautiful in her wetsuit, her body as sleek and hard and tapered as a seal's, her Indian-black hair flecked with seaweed. As she stood in the stern, watching our baited hooks skip over our wake, she reminded me of Theo Flannigan and all the innocent victims of violence everywhere, here, in this country, where friends clasped hands and leaped from flaming windows into the bottomless canyons of New York City, or in the Mideast, where a storm of ballistic missiles and guided bombs would rain down upon people little different from you and me.\n\nBut it was the season of Christ's birthday and I did not want to dwell upon all the corporate greed and theological fanaticism that had rooted itself in the modern world. We attended Mass in a church James Audubon had sat in, strolled Duval Street among revelers with New York accents, ate dinner at a Cuban cafe by the water under a ficus tree threaded with Christmas lights, and visited the home of Ernest Hemingway down on Whitehead Street. The sun was gone, the sky full of light, the incoming tide wine dark against the horizon, and bottle rockets fired from Mallory Square were popping in pink fountains high above the waves. How had Hemingway put it? The world was a fine place, and well worth the fighting for.\n\nAs Alafair and I walked back toward the happy throng on Duval Street, the yards around us blooming with flowers, the air touched with salt and the smell of firecrackers, I thought perhaps the world was more than just a fine place, that perhaps it was a domed cathedral and we only had to recognize and accept that simple fact to enjoy all the gifts of both heaven and earth.\n\nCastille LeJeune was sentenced to Angola Prison for manslaughter in the shooting of Max Coll and for first-degree homicide in the death of Will Guillot. Because of his age, he was transferred to an honor farm, where he did clerical work in an office. The correctional officers at the farm admired him for his genteel manners and military bearing and his fastidiousness about his dress. In fact, they came to call him \"Mr. LeJeune\" and often sought his advice about financial matters. But a visiting prison psychologist put an evaluation in his jacket that indicated LeJeune was not only experiencing depression and self-loathing over the death of his daughter but perhaps intense levels of guilt characteristic of a father who has sexually molested his daughter.\n\nAn inmate's jacket is confidential only until the first trusty clerk reads it.\n\nCastille LeJeune became what is known as a short-eyes in the prison population. Other inmates shunned him; the correctional officers became distant and formal in their dealings with him. He was transferred back to Angola after he bit into pieces of broken glass that had been mixed into his food.\n\nIronically, he was placed in a segregated unit within viewing distance of the levee built by the Red Hat Gang on which Junior Crudup had pulled what Leadbelly called his great, long time.\n\nWe couldn't make our homicide case against Merchie Flannigan and he got away with the murder of the daiquiri-store operator. At least legally he did. But Castille LeJeune nailed him from jail by having his lawyers file a wrongful death suit against him, freezing his personal and corporate accounts, then using Donna Parks to bring statutory rape charges against him. Merchie's reputation was ruined and his pipeline business went bust. For a while he ran a welding service, then began hanging out at a bar frequented by Teamsters in Baton Rouge. I ran into him one day by the capitol building, where Huey Long was shot down in 1935.\n\n\"Hey, Dave, no hard feelings, huh?\" he said.\n\n\"Not on my part,\" I replied.\n\nHe smelled of cigarettes and was fat and puffy, sporting a mustache and goatee, driving a junker car that was parked at the curb, a young girl in the passenger seat.\n\n\"That's my niece,\" he said.\n\n\"Right,\" I said.\n\n\"Putting together a drilling deal in Iran, can you believe it?\"\n\n\"That's great, Merch.\"\n\n\"Good seeing you, Dave. I mean that,\" he said, taking my hand, trying as hard as he could to hold my eyes without averting his. The girl tossed a beer can out of the window as they drove away.\n\nFather Jimmie and I and two employees of a funeral home made up the entire retinue at the graveside ritual for Max Coll in a Catholic cemetery outside Franklin. I felt partly responsible for his death, but had he not died, Castille LeJeune would not have gone down, nor would Castille LeJeune have utilized an opportunity to take Will Guillot off the board. Ultimately I came to think of Max Coll in another fashion. In his way he was a brave man who made his own choices, and it was an arrogance on my part and a disservice to him for me to pretend that somehow I was the designer of his fate.\n\nFather Jimmie went back to his conservative parish in New Orleans and worked as a chaplin at Central Lock-Up. After Alafair returned to college in Portland, I invited both him and Clotile Arceneaux to dinner at a Mexican restaurant off the upper end of St. Charles.\n\n\"Pretty slick how you took down LeJeune, searching his property without a warrant,\" she said.\n\n\"It was dumb,\" I said.\n\n\"You never flinched, even though LeJeune had a pistol on you and you thought you didn't have backup,\" she said.\n\n\"Say that again.\"\n\n\"I watched you through a pair of field glasses. An FBI sharpshooter watched LeJeune through a scope on a rifle.\" She put a forkful of food in her mouth and raised her eyebrows at me.\n\n\"Y'all were using me as bait?\"\n\n\"Got a job for you with the state if you want to start putting away bad guys again.\"\n\n\"I'm out.\"\n\nShe placed her foot on mine under the table and squeezed. \"Come see me sometime and we'll talk about it,\" she said.\n\n\"Am I missing something here?\" Father Jimmie said.\n\n\"Dave likes to pretend he can stop being a police officer. Make him go to confession, Father,\" she replied.\n\nClete Purcel spent three months in the St. Mary Parish Prison, paid twenty-thousand dollars in damages to the sheriff's deputies he had busted up with his fists, and upon his discharge moved in with me, saying he was going to start up another P.I. office in New Iberia. We fished for sac-a-lait and bass at Henderson Swamp and Bayou Benoit, and Clete tried to appear light-hearted and unaffected by his time in jail. But I knew better. Clete was a natural-born cop and despised the new breed of criminals and literally washed himself in the shower with peroxide when he got out of the bag.\n\nBut out on Bayou Benoit, with the spring breezes up and the bream spawning back in the bays, the levee sprinkled with buttercups, we didn't talk about the bad times of the past or the present. I had never looked to the skies for great miracles, and, as St. Augustine once indicated, to watch a vineyard soak up the water in a plowed row and produce a grape that could be translated into wine was all the proof we needed of higher realities. But when Clete and I were deep in the swamp, the lacy green branches of the cypress trees shifting back and forth across the sun, I fell prey to a new temptation as well as hope.\n\nI waited to see a pair of pelicans drift down off the windstream, their wings extended and pouched beaks bulging, their improbable presence a harbinger of better times. I waited for them daily and sometimes in the flapping of wings overhead I thought I heard Bootsie's voice, reminding me of her promise about the pelicans, only to discover that a white crane or blue heron had been frightened by our outboard and had flown through the cypress trees back onto open water.\n\nBut I'm sure one fine day, when I least expect it, the pelicans will return to Bayou Teche, and in the meantime I share my thoughts about them with no one, except perhaps Snuggs and Tripod, who, like me, sleep little and wake before first light.\n\n## Contents\n\nChapter 1\n\nChapter 2\n\nChapter 3\n\nChapter 4\n\nChapter 5\n\nChapter 6\n\nChapter 7\n\nChapter 8\n\nChapter 9\n\nChapter 10\n\nChapter 11\n\nChapter 12\n\nChapter 13\n\nChapter 14\n\nChapter 15\n\nChapter 16\n\nChapter 17\n\nChapter 18\n\nChapter 19\n\nChapter 20\n\nChapter 21\n\nChapter 22\n\nChapter 23\n\nChapter 24\n\nChapter 25\n\nChapter 26\n\nChapter 27\n\nChapter 28\n\nEpilogue\n","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}}