1

Voltaire:
Conscience of an Age
BY FRANCIS LEARY

T WAS a gala night at the Comédie Française. Just before the curtain rose on the new tragedy Iréne, a wizened old man entered his
I box and the audience rose with a spontaneous roar. Shouts of "Vive Voltaire! Vive Voltaire!" swept the packed theatre. An actor
placed a wreath of laurel on his head. "Do you wish me to die of glory?" the 84-year-old playwright asked, tears streaming. It was
March 30, 1778. The celebrated author was back at last in his beloved Paris, from which he had been exiled for a third of his life.
Savant, man of letters, counsellor to the great, defender of the poor and victimized, Voltaire had labored for 60 years to drag Europe out of the
morass of medieval ideas and institutions. As the conscience of his age, he had fought injustice, bigotry, privilege and religious fanaticism with
telling effect. In fact, the eighteenth-century Enlightenment is today known as the Age of Voltaire. More than any other critic, Voltaire helped foster
the social ferment that eventually erupted into the French Revolution. Yet he never preached violence: he was for reform, peaceful change under an
enlightened monarch. "Liberty," he proclaimed, "consists of dependence on nothing but law." A superbly witty artist with words, he became the
most widely read
writer of his time, a satirist who used the stinging arm of ridicule to make his philosophical points. Of his enormous literary production, 15 million
words survive including 20,000 delightful letters, and humorous works like Candide that are still enjoyed throughout the world. We owe to him such
aphorisms as "embarrassment of riches, "Common sense is not so common," and "If God did not exist, He would have to be invented."
Christened François-Marie Arouet, he assumed in his twenties the more distinctive "Voltaire," probably from his school nickname Mon sieur
Volontaire (Mr Wilful). His father, a prosperous Paris notary, sent him to the elite Jesuit College of Louis-le-Grand, and afterwards insisted that he
prepare for the bar. But when his father offered to purchase him a post as a royal advocate, Voltaire rejoined, "I will make a position for myself that
costs nothing."
Opening Salvo. France in 1715 was just emerging from the interminable 72-year reign of Louis XIV. Voltaire, at 21, detested a regime which forbade
free speech and worship, sold high offices, and left nobility and clergy exempt from the crushing taxes. While a law clerk he had written his first
play, Oedipus, peppered with scathing allusions to tyranny and bigotry. With this play he hoped to establish himself
as a writer. To get it approved by the royal censor, Voltaire went straight to the top. He turned for support to the Regent, Philippe, duke of Orléans,
an intelligent broad-minded man who liked to bask in the company of poets. On his recommendation, Oedipus was promptly accepted.
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Believing truth could emerge only from a free exchange of ideas, Voltaire, despite his royal patronage, continued to attack the regime's injustices in
pamphlets written under assumed names. He went too far when he satirized the Regent's libertine personal life. The young gadfly was thrown into
the Bastille for 11 months - then released just in time for the première of Oedipus. It broke box-office records at the Comédie Française. At 24,
Voltaire was famous.
The new dramatist sparkled in French society. In his emerald coat and loose-fitting wig, he frequented Paris salons and great chateaux, delighting
his hosts with his rapier wit. Although his bony 160 centimetre figure and his sharp features were hardly seductive, Voltaire's charm beguiled simple
girls and society matrons alike. Quick to resent arrogance, he repeatedly clashed with the privileged.
When he developed a passion for the actress Adrienne Lecouvreur, he found he had a rival: the Chevalier de Rohan, scion of one of France's noblest
families. One night Rohan burst into the theatre box where Voltaire and the glamorous Adrienne were sitting and scoffed: "Mon sieur Arouet?
Monsieur Voltaire? What really is your name?" "Voltaire," the other retorted. "I am the first of my line as you are the
last of yours!" A few nights later he was set upon by six lackeys armed with staves, while Rohan stood by. Voltaire escaped with bruises but, enraged,
let it be known that he would challenge Rohan to a duel. A nobleman could hardly fight a commoner, yet if he refused, all Paris would say he was
afraid. Rohan's influential family solved the problem by having Voltaire returned to the Bastille.
From prison he wrote an account of the broil, saying that he had been assaulted by Rohan "helped by six cut-throats behind whom he had
courageously posted himself. Since then I have sought to restore not my but his, which has proved too difficult." And he offered to go to England if
set free. The authorities released him.
Voltaire was received in the best circles in England and spent three years there. He became the first French writer to speak English fluently, the first
to translate Shakespeare. His stay was also a financial success: his verse epic Henriade, on Henri de Navarre, sixteenth-century leader of France's
persecuted Protestant Huguenots, was hailed as a national epic, and earned him £ 1,250, a considerable sum in those days.
Final Insult. Back home by permission of Louis XV, his struggle with the Establishment flared anew when Adrienne Lecouvreur, mortally ill but
playing in a Voltaire tragedy to the last, died in the author's arms. In accord with Church practice towards the profane theatre, the police secretly
took her body to a common burial ground. Voltaire was outraged: he had seen a popular English actress buried in Westminster Abbey. He penned
an ode to his dishonoured mistress, and then wrote the English Letters which vaunted Britain over France in every sphere: religious tolerance,
government, finance, science, medicine, literature.
The Letters hit French opinion in 1734 like a bombshell. The work was burnt by the public executioner and a warrant issued for Voltaire's arrest but
he eluded the police. Banished from Paris, he found refuge with an admirer, Emilie, Marquise du Châtelet, at her chateau in Champagne.
A noted student of mathematics and physics, the marquise broadened Voltaire's interest in science, Mornings, Voltaire would go shooting while
afternoons he worked on a monumental historical study. The Century of Louis XIV, or on his Elements of Newton, written under Emilie's influence.
In the evenings, when guests were present, he staged amateur theatricals, delighted to appear in roles from his own plays.
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History till then had been considered the record of divine inspiration operating in human affairs. Voltaire took a radical new departure: history was
what men caused to happen. Most of Europe felt that civilization began with the empire created by Charlemagne. Voltaire, in his Essay on Universal
History, pioneered the very modern concept of comparative civilizations, including 4,000 years of Chinese culture. His approach transformed the
writing of history.
With the aristocratic Emilie's help, Voltaire worked his way back into court vour and was appointed Historiographer-Royal. But, as always, he ruined
his good fortune by his fatal habit of speaking his mind, so when Emilie died in 1749, he accepted an appointment as royal Chamberlain to Frederick
the Great of Prussia, the artistic and sensitive sovereign who longed to bring enlightenment to the Court of Potsdam. But on the throne Frederick
proved himself as warlike, wily and unscrupulous - and avaricious - as any of the tyrants Voltaire had excoriated. Inevitably, their egos clashed and
Voltaire described his task of correcting Frederick's poems as "washing the king's dirty linen."
Fertile Mind. Since his service with Frederick was regarded by Louis XV as disloyal, returning to Paris was out of the question. Instead, Voltaire
bought the estate of Ferney, conveniently near the Swiss frontier, enabling him to skip across to his residence of Les Délices (now a Voltaire
Museum) near Geneva when his writing aroused French authorities. At Ferney he created a model town and farms, introduced scientific reforestation,
imported silkworms, and with a group of skilled Geneva watchmakers, refugees from Calvinist intoler ance, started a watch factory. Catholic and
Protestant lived together amicably at Ferney, while their patron publicized his products all over Europe, selling watches to Catherine of Russia and
the Sultan Turkey.
At Ferney with its stuffed leopard and busts of Newton and Locke, he worked tirelessly. He contributed to the famous 17-volume Encyclopedie. He
fought an epic war or words with the social thinker Jean-Jacques Rousseau, who preached that the original, ideal state of nature had been corrupted
by organized society. Voltaire defended reason and scientific progress. At 84, he longed to see Paris once more. The ministry of Louis XIV
waived their objections. And so the old man came home. Two months after the triumph of Iréne, he died. Eleven years later the French Revolution
swept away the Bastille, and with it the regime whose oppression he had fought throughout his life. The Revolution's leaders knew the debt they
owed Voltaire. In 1791 his body was brought back to Paris: 100,000 people followed the procession, and several hundred thousands watched him
being re-buried with national honours in the Pantheon.
He would doubtless have disapproved of the Revolution's later excesses, but he would have been proud of the inscription it placed on his tomb: "He
taught us how to become free."
To Say or Not to Say
GERMAN Foreign Minister Gustav Stresemann was supposed to make a speech in parliament. The day before, a friend found him deep in thought.
"I bet you are thinking about what you will say tomorrow in the Reichstag." said the friend. "Wrong", said Stresemann. "I am thinking about what I
must not say under any circumstances."
-Janik Press Service
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That Is Why
WAR HAPPENS inside a man. It happens to one man alone. It can never be communi cated. That is the tragedy-and perhaps the blessing. A thousand
ghastly wounds are really only one. A million martyred lives leave an empty place at only one family table. That is why, at bottom, people can let
wars happen, and that is why nations survive them and carry on
-Eric Sevareid, Not So Wild a Dream
Not Found Yet
HENRY FORD in a 1929 interview. "We can get fuel from fruit, from that shrub by the roadside, or from apples, weeds, sawdust-almost anything!
There is fuel in every bit of vegetable matter that can be fermented. There is enough alcohol in one year's yield of a hectare of potatoes to drive the
machinery necessary to cultivate the field for a hundred years.
"And it remains for someone to find how this fuel can be produced commercially better fuel at a cheaper price than we now know!"
-Quoted by Merilyn Mohr in Harrowsmith, Canada
 1

He Taught Us All
to Think

BY MAX EASTMAN

E was a funny-looking man with a high, bald, dome shaped head, a face very small in comparison, a round upturned nose and a long wavy beard
that didn't seem to belong to such a perky face. His ugliness was a standing joke among his friends and he helped them to enjoy the joke. He was
H
a poor man and something of an idler-a stonecutter by trade, a sort of semi-skilled sculptor. But he didn't work anymore than was necessary to
keep his wife and three boys alive. He preferred to talk. And since his wife was a complaining woman who used her tongue as an irate wagon
driver uses a horse-whip, he loved above all things to be away from home.
He would get up before dawn, eat a hasty breakfast of bread dipped in wine, slip on a tunic and throw a coarse mantle over it, and be off in search of a shop, or a
temple, or a friend's house, or the public baths, or perhaps just a familiar street corner, where he could get into an argument. The whole city he lived in was
seething with argumentation. The city was Athens, and the man we are talking about was Socrates. Not only was he funny-looking, but he had funny ways and
notions, and a good-natured, magnetic stubbornness in sticking to them. One of his friends had asked the oracle at Delphi who was the wisest man in Athens. To
the astonishment of all, the priestess had mentioned this idler, Socrates.
"The oracle," he said, "chose me as the wisest Athenian because I am the only one who knows that he doesn't know anything."
This attitude of sly and slightly mischievous humbleness gave him a terrific advantage in an argument. Pretending that he himself didn't know the answers, he
would badger people with questions, and lead them to make astounding admissions.
Socrates was the evangelist of clear thinking. He went about the streets of Athens preaching logic-just as 400 years later Jesus would go about the villages of
Palestine preaching love. And like Jesus, without ever writing down a word, he exercised an influence over the minds of men that a library of books could not
surpass.
He would go straight up to the most prominent citizen, a great orator or anybody, and ask him if he really knew what he was talking about. A distinguished
statesman, for instance, would have wound up a patriotic speech with a peroration about courage, about the glory of dying for one's country. Socrates would step
up to him and say, "Forgive my intrusion, but just what do you mean by courage?"
"Courage is sticking to your post in danger!" would be the curt reply.
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"But suppose good strategy demands that you retire?" Socrates would ask.
"Oh well, then, that's different. You wouldn't stay there in that case, of course."
"Then courage isn't either sticking to your post or retiring, is it? What would you say courage is?"
The orator would knit his brow. "You've baffled me I'm afraid I don't exactly know."
"I don't either," Socrates would say. "But I wonder if it is anything different from just doing the reasonable thing regardless of danger."
"That sounds more like it," someone in the crowd would say, and Socrates would turn towards the new voice.
"Shall we agree then-tentatively of course, for it's a difficult question that courage is steadfast good judgement? Courage is presence of mind. And the opposite
thing is presence of emotion in such force that the mind is blotted out?"
Turning Point. Socrates knew from personal experience about courage, and those listening knew that he knew it, for his cool behavior in the Battle of Delium
was, like his physical endurance, a matter of wide note. And he had moral courage too. Everybody remembered how he alone had defied the public hysteria which
followed the naval battle at Arginusae, when ten generals were condemned to death for failure to rescue the drowning soldiers. Guilty or not, it was unjust, he
had insisted, to try or to condemn men in a group.
The above conversation was, of course, in its details imaginary. But it illustrates the essential thing that made this enchantingly ugly and persuasive man, Socrates,
a turning point in the history of civilization. He taught men that all good conduct is conduct controlled by the mind, that all the virtues consist basically in the
prevailing of mind over emotion.
Temperance, we can imagine him saying, is a course steered between abstinence and indulgence by a helmsman called the mind. There are times when you should
turn the other cheek and times when you should strike back-that is the Socratic way of talking and only a thinking man knows when is the right time. The good
act, in short, is the intelligent and logical one.
Besides insisting on the moral importance of clear thinking, Socrates took the first great step towards teaching men how to do it. He introduced the idea of defining
your terms. He would say, "Before we start talking, let's decide what we are talking about." This undoubtedly had been said before in private conversations, but
Socrates made a gospel of it. He believed, I think, that a millennium would follow if men learned to define their terms and draw valid inferences from them. It is
not true that a millennium would follow, but it is true that some dreadful disasters could be avoided. Communism, for example, would never have been able to
defraud so many millions of people if they had first subjected all its lies and its emotional rantings to the clear light of Socratic questioning.
For three generations before Socrates, Greek philosophers had studied nature and the stars, giving birth, in a magnificent intellectual flowering, to what we call
science. Socrates turned scientific method to the study of the art of living.
Impressive Legacy. In his day the marvelous world of Greek city states and Greek culture stretched round the Mediterranean Basin and across the Black Sea to
the coast of Russia; Greek merchant ships dominated Mediterranean trade. Under the leadership of the great commercial city, Athens, the Greeks had just defeated
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the armies of Persia. To Athens there now flocked from all over the world, artists, poets, scientists and philosophers, students and teachers. Rich men from as far
away as Sicily sent their sons to follow Socrates on his walks and listen to his peculiar arguments. The old man refused to charge a fee.
All the great schools of philosophy that sprang up in the Greek and later the Roman world claimed descent from him. Plato was his pupil and Aristotle was Plato's
pupil. We are still living in the Socratic heritage.
The teaching of Socrates might not have impressed the world so deeply had he not died a martyr to it. It seems strange to put a man to death for "introducing
general definitions." And yet, if you think what that new technique, when stubbornly pursued to its logical conclusions, can do to time-honored emotional beliefs,
it is not surprising. To his young and progressive friends, Socrates seemed the mildest of men, but he must have been regarded as a troublesome fanatic by
thousands of old fogies and even by many thoughtful conservatives.
There were two formal charges against Socrates: first, he did not believe in the gods recognized by the city, and second, he "corrupted the young."
It is not clear today exactly what Socrates' accusers meant, but certainly young people loved this old man. The lure of new ideas, the invitation to think for
themselves, drew them to him, but their parents feared that they were learning subversive doctrines. Then, too, one of his students, the hot-headed and unstable
Alcibiades, had gone over to the enemy during the war with Sparta. It was no fault of Socrates. But Athens, smarting under defeat, was looking for scapegoats.
Socrates was tried by a jury of 501 citizens, and condemned to death by a majority of only 60. Probably very few of them expected him to die. He had the legal
privilege, for one thing, of proposing a milder penalty and calling for a vote on that. If he had done this humbly, lamenting and imploring as was customary, more
than 30 would doubtless have changed their votes. But he insisted on being rational about it.
"One of the things I believe in," he said to the disciples who came to him in prison, urging escape, "is the rule of law. A good citizen, as I've often told you, is one
who obeys the laws of his city. The laws of Athens have condemned me to death, and the logical inference is that as a good citizen I must die."
This must have seemed a little cantankerous to his anxious friends. "Isn't that carrying inference from general definitions a little too far?" they protested. But the
old man was firm. Plato has described Socrates' last night on earth in the dialogue
Phaedo. Socrates spent that night, as he had most of the others, discussing philosophy with his young friends. The subject was: Is there a life after death? Socrates
was inclined to think so, but he kept his mind open and listened thoughtfully to the objections of his students who took the opposing view. To the end, Socrates
kept calm and did not let his emotions influence his thinking. Though he was to die in a few hours, he argued dispassionately about the chances of a future life.
Wisest and Best. As the hour approached, his friends gathered round and prepared their hearts to see their beloved teacher drink the cup of poison. Socrates
sent for it himself a little before the sun set over the western mountains. When the attendant brought it in, he said to him in a calm and practical tone, "Now you
know all about this business, and you must tell me what do."
"You drink the hemlock and then you get up and walk about," the attendant said, "until your legs feel heavy. Then you lie down and the numbness will travel
towards your heart."
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Socrates very deliberately and coolly did as he had been told, only pausing to rebuke his friends for sobbing and crying out as though he were not doing the wise
and right thing. His last thought was of a small obligation he had forgotten. He removed the cloth that had been placed over his face and said, "Crito, I owe a cock
to Asclepius-be sure to see that it is paid."
Then he closed his eyes and replaced the cloth, and when Crito asked him if he had any other final directions, he made no answer..
"Such was the end," said Plato, who described this death scene in unforgettable language, "of our friend, who was of all whom we have known the best and most
just and wisest man."
Confused Concert
AN OTHERWISE perfect performance by dolphins was marred when they got one routine wrong. Despite attempts by the trainer to put them right, they became more and
more, confused. Finally, he turned to the crowd and announced: "I'm sorry, ladies and gentlemen, but the dolphins and I seem to be at cross porpoises." -CM. Dunwell.
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Carl Gustav Jung:

The Great Sage of Zurich
BY LAURENCE CHERRY

OT LONG after the Second World War, South African explorer and author Laurens van der Post reluctantly agreed at his wife's urging to meet a
famous Swiss professor named C.G. Jung. Expecting a pompous scholar, van der Post found instead a captivating man bubbling with energy and
N
good humour. As they talked far into the night, van der Post's emotional scars his "feelings of isolation and loneliness" from years of impris onment
in a Japanese prisoner-of-war camp-"vanished." He saw jung often after that, and never lost the awe he felt in the man's healing presence. "I have
known many of those the world considers great, says van der Post, "but Carl Gustav Jung is almost the only one of whose greatness I am certain."
Today, thirty-two years after his death, Jung's influence continues to grow. Words that he coined-extrovert, introvert, persona, archetype have become part of the
language, and institutes and societies named in his honour flourish around the world. Readers of such books as Modern Man in Search of a Soul and Memories,
Dreams, Reflections continue to be moved by the richness of Jung's mind. As a review in the New York Times declared, "People are reading Jung now because
his concerns are theirs. The lifelong search for meaning and wholeness that Jung recounts is the one they too are embarked on."
Serious Problems. Jung's own story was a clear illustration of that lifelong process. A pastor's son, Carl was born on July 26, 1875, in Kesswil on Lake Constance,
and grew up in the rural village of Klein Hüningen. At the age of 11, he entered a school in near-by Basle, where his more sophisticated schoolmates spoke a
"refined" German and lived in imposing houses. "For the first time I became aware that I was a poor parson's son who had holes in his shoes," Jung recalled years
later. Jung disliked school. Although he excelled at most subjects, he had difficulty in mathematics and physical education and would have preferred to stay at
home alone. Eventually, this desire led to serious problems.
When he was 12, a classmate knocked him down in the street; Carl's head struck a kerbstone. He was dazed, but seemed to recover-except that he developed
fainting spells whenever it was time to attend school again. The doctors were helpless and it seemed that Carl was incurable. The fits, however, were a welcome
reason for him to skip the trouble some classes. But after a few months he overheard his worried father tell a friend, "I've lost what little money I had. What will
become of him?"
Suddenly realizing the dismay his illness was causing, Carl vowed to resist his fainting spells and to start studying again. A few weeks later he returned to school,
and never suffered another attack. He believed that he had passed a pivotal test of his youth; he saw how perilously close he had come to a seductive surrender to
his problems. "That is when I learnt what a neurosis is," he said later. The experience sharpened his interest in human behaviour and his empathy for troubled
people-an empathy he was never to lose.
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Word Association. He entered the University of Basle to study medicine at the age of 20, but it was not until his last year of studies that his future became clear.
After skimming through a few pages of a required textbook on psychiatry, his heart suddenly began to pound. "It became clear in a flash that for me the only
possible goal was psychiatry," he said. In it, he saw his two interests-science and human behaviour-flow together. In December 1900, the young doctor bepcame
a staff physician at Zurich's Burghölzli Psychiatric Hospital. Burgholzli was highly regarded, but Jung was dismayed by the lack of understanding and meaningful
treatment of mental illness. He spent much of his free time talking to even the most disturbed patients, trying to decipher their strange ideas and behavior. To chart
his patients' psyches, he would read a series of common words aloud and ask his listener to tell him the first word that entered his mind when he heard each one.
If the patient did not react immediately or gave an unexpected reply, Jung would draw conclusions about certain repressed complexes.
One day Jung interviewed a young woman recently admitted as a hopeless schizophrenic. Her chart noted that her daughter had died of typhoid fever. By employing
his word-association test and analyzing her dreams, he soon learnt the woman's tragic story. One day she did not interfere when her daughter, who was taking a
bath, gulped down tub water that had been taken from the river. The woman was already in a deeply depressed state because of an unhappy marriage, and the
child's death, caused by typhoid infection, plunged the woman into suicidal gloom and psychosis.
Novel Approach. Jung concluded that the woman was not schizophrenic. She had actually killed her child because she had failed to prevent her from drinking the
bad water. The woman had suppressed any conscious memory of the tragedy. Should Jung tell the patient and risk making her depression even worse? He decided
to confront her with his findings. The woman sobbed out her remorse: the first step towards recovery. Two weeks later she was discharged.
Jung's novel approach to such cases aroused in him an interest in the writings of a Viennese psychoanalyst, Sigmund Freud, who insisted that beyond our conscious
thought lay another, far more powerful realm, causing everything from trivial slips of the tongue to crippling psychotic symptoms. It was a revolutionary concept
that meshed with Jung's ideas. Jung corresponded with Freud, met him in 1907, and their friendship quickly grew.
But even as Freud raised Jung to ever higher positions of responsibility within the international psychoanalytic movement and dubbed him its "crown prince," Jung
began to have serious reservations about Freud's ideas. There seemed little place in Freudian theory for any but sexual drives, and Jung recognized the equally
pressing human needs for meaning, for expressing creativity, for spiritual experience. The unconscious that Freud had helped to explore, Jung argued, was also
the source of artistic and religious impulses.
Uncanny Insight. Jung's 1912 book, Psychology of the Unconscious, signaled the end of his association with Freud and the established psychoanalytic movement.
Striking out on his own, Jung set up practice at his home in the village of Küsnacht on the shore of the Lake of Zurich. His patients included celebrities as well as
hundreds of less exalted people from all over the world.
He abandoned the office etiquette advocated by Freud, in which a patient lay on a couch and an analyst sat behind him, rarely taking part except to deliver terse
judgements. Instead, Jung sat across from his patients: "I confront the patient as one human being to another," he said. "Analysis is a dialogue demanding two
partners; the doctor has something to say, but so has the patient."
At a time when the language of the psychotics was considered inexplicable, Jung's uncanny insight into the meaning of the patients' utterances and his willingness
to spend days, even weeks, entering their strange worlds astonished his colleagues. His successes showed new ways for the treatment of the mentally ill and,
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carried on by his students around the world, led to treatment for thousands of once shunned patients. By the time of his death, he had written more than 30 books
and hundreds of articles on all aspects of the unconscious mind.
Like Freud, Jung believed that dreams are the key to the unconscious. They symbolize ignored or rejected aspects of our own personalities. For example, a man's
dream about an appealing woman (anima) may represent his more "feminine" side, while a woman's dream about a man (animus) may symbolize her hidden, more
"masculine" qualities.
Dream Interpretation. Jung differentiated between "little" dreams about the trivialities of daily life and "big" dreams-those with poetic force and beauty, with
striking images of heroes and buried treasures, with mystical significance. "Such dreams. occur mostly during the critical phases of life," said Jung, "particularly
in early youth, puberty, at the onset of middle age and within sight of death." If people would listen to the messages conveyed by their most important dreams,
Jung insisted, they would find the way towards self-fulfillment.
A significant dream, in fact, inspired Jung himself in 1909. After brooding about future directions for his research, he dreamt that he was in a strange house that
somehow belonged to him. The top storey had contemporary furnishings, the ground floor medieval ones, the cellar Roman relics. He felt compelled to descend a
narrow stone stairway that led to a prehistoric cave. When he awoke he realized what his dream meant: there were other, more ancient levels of the human
unconscious he must still explore.
In his journeys around the world Jung studied various religions and myths, and asked people to report their dreams in the most minute detail; he was astonished to
find certain striking motifs repeated again and again. "Just as the body shows a common anatomy over and above all racial differences," Jung concluded, "so too
the human psyche possesses a common substratum transcending all differences in culture and consciousness." Jung named this common layer the collective
unconscious: from it arise the symbols of heroes, sacred images or arche types, that form the very fabric of religions, myths, legends, fairy tales and our dreams.
As he grew older, Jung noticed a change in himself that he had often seen in patients. In the first half of their lives they strove to establish themselves in the world,
to connect with other people and leave their mark. Most problems in this naturally extroverted period result from hanging back from the demands of career or
marriage, failing to build an independent life.
Clear Message. Jung believed that when people reach the middle of their lives, they enter a new introverted stage of growth. Silent questions approach: "Have I
been strong enough to seize my opportunities?" And then: "What is the meaning of life?" At this stage, problems tend to arise when people try to avoid pondering
these questions or when they cling to earlier habits.
In the latter period of life, concerns usually centre upon spiritual needs. In contrast to many other theorists of psychology, Jung insisted that man possesses a
"natural religious function." If unfulfilled, it can cause a crippling sense of meaninglessness. Once asked in public if he believed in God, he answered, "I don't
believe. I know." On the lintel over the door of his home he had the words carved: Vocatus atque non vocatus deus aderit. (Called or not called, God will be
present.)
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In his 86th year, Jung dreamt of a more beautiful version of his second home, the beloved "tower" at Bollingen, bathed in radiant light. A voice told him that it
was now finished and ready for him. In his dream, he wandered down to the shore of the lake and saw a mother wolverine teaching her pup to swim. Jung believed
that this was a clear message to prepare himself for death-the transition to another state as unfamiliar to him as water was to the young wolverine.
After a brief illness, Jung died in his home on June 6, 1961. Newspapers around the globe reported his passing with banner headlines. But Jung's ideas live on.
Each year new readers discover his books and are suddenly entranced by the message of hope and growth bequeathed to all the world by the great sage of Zurich.
 1

Machiavelli: The Man

and the Reputation
BY ERNEST O. HAUSER

M I politic?" asks the host of the Garter Inn in Shake speare's Merry Wives of Windsor. "Am I subtle? Am I a Machiavel?"
“A Niccolò Machiavelli has been called worse things than "subtle." Since his death over 4½ centuries ago, the rules laid down by this Italian writer-
statesman have frequently been thought of as a blueprint for aggression and dictatorship. Thomas Jefferson identified Machiavelli's name with
"mean, wicked and cowardly cunning. 3 Frederick the Great of Prussia became so disturbed by Machiavelli's writings that he wrote his own
refutation of them. In England, it was long believed that Machiavelli's Christian name, Niccolò, or Nicholas, was at the bottom of the phrase
"Old Nick"-the Devil!
This uncomplimentary reputation rests largely on Machiavelli's best-known work, The Prince, a slender volume first published five years after the author's death
and since translated into almost every known tongue. Among its "Machiavellian" passages: "There are two ways of fighting, the c by law, the other by force. The
first is that of men, the second of beasts. But as the first method is often insufficient, one must have recourse to the second. Or: "A prudent ruler ought not to keep
faith when by so doing it would be against his interest."
But do such precepts, read out of context, justify dismissing the author as a total cynic? Studying his dramatic life and vast literary output, modern historians see
him as one of the most impressive figures of his age, the first to probe into the rules of modern statecraft, brilliantly describing the game of power politics as, with
minor variants, it is played today.
His driving force, they believe, was a devotion to his fatherland, which he "loved more than his own soul." And it is against the sombre background of his "Italy"-
an assortment of squabbling states whose petty jealousies made the beautiful peninsula a playing field of the great nations, France, Germany, Spain-that we must
view his genius.
At the time of Machiavelli's birth there in 1469, the city of Florence was an independent state ruled with absolute power by the Medici family of wealthy bankers.
When he was 25, the Medici were driven out, and four years later he was named Second Chancellor of what was now a free republic. Moving briskly through the
gilded halls of Florence's Palazzo Vecchio, discussing urgent business with the city fathers, Machiavelli soon became known as a man whose knife-edge mind
could penetrate a complex problem.
The questions put before Machiavelli covered the whole range of foreign and domestic politics. Thus the poorly paid bureaucrat often found himself riding across
hot plains and over the snowy Apennines, bound on some diplomatic errand. His lack of wealth and family connections excluded him from being an "ambassador."
But the Re public often staked its destiny on his superior judgment. Not without pride he styled himself, "Niccolò Machiavelli, Secretary of Florence."
 2

Mutual Admiration. An early assignment took him to the King of France, Louis XII, an ally who had sent the Florentines a mercenary army that had mutinied,
and who expected to be paid for services not rendered. His most memorable mission was a winter spent with Duke Cesare Borgia, the bloodstained adventurer
who was carving out a state in central Italy and who later became Machiavelli's "model" for The Prince. An illegitimate son of the infamous Pope Alexander VI,
Cesare began operating close to Florence. Machiavelli rushed to Cesare's encampment to keep tabs on his intentions. All that Florence wanted, Machiavelli
explained, was to observe neutrality.
The Duke, however, wanted an "alliance"-or, failing that, a golden ransom. During the long, tense sparring match that ensued, the two disparate men conceived a
certain admiration for one another. The Duke savoured his visitor's keen wit, Machiavelli, in turn, was fascinated with his host's vast plans and methods of
consolidating his dominion. Eventually, Machiavelli's stalling tactics were successful. Florence never paid the demanded ransom, and before Borgia could attack,
the Pope, his father, died, and his ill-gotten empire collapsed.
In all, Machiavelli was employed on about 30 major diplomatic missions and scores of minor ones. He went to France four times; travelled in Switzerland and the
Tyrol; even visited Monaco for negotiations. He moved so swiftly that at times superiors addressed their letters to him "wherever the devil he maybe."
Machiavelli's instructions, as a rule, were deliberately vague," Keep an eye on things, and report often" or, "Along with facts, let us have your opinions." His
natural curiosity made him the perfect spy, and his judgment usually proved uncannily correct. On a mission, he was all eyes and ears. He thought nothing for
example, of standing by the road-side and counting the pack mules in a hostile force.
Between such chores, there were moments of domestic happiness. Niccolò had married Marietta Corsini, a woman utterly devoted to him. In the narrow townhouse
where they lived, friends came and went. Niccolò played the lute, and there was gaiety and music.
Then, when he was 43, Machiavelli's happy state came to an end. The recently elected Pope Julius II, backed by Spanish allies, threatened Florence with assault
unless the Medici were permitted to return from exile. The hard-pressed Florentines agreed, and the Medici resumed the political power from which the people
had dislodged them 18 years before.
Finest Comedy. Dyed-in-the-wool republicans were purged from the administration, Machiavelli among them. Citizens were arrested right and left on charges of
conspiracy against the ruling family, and Machiavelli himself was thrown into a dungeon for three weeks and tortured on the rack. Finally, in March 1513, an
amnesty cleared out the jails, and Machiavelli was a free man again. But he was unemployed, and he found it unbearable. "Fortune has decreed that knowing
nothing of silk manufacture nor the wool business, nor of profit or loss, I must talk politics, and unless I take a vow of silence, I must discuss them," he wrote.
Falling back on an inheritance, he settled, with his family, in a small stone house on the old Machiavelli farm some seven miles south of Florence. There he wrote
The Prince. The book was conceived as a manual for newcomers to power, and as a plea to the Medici to drive the foreigners from Italy and thus create-by force,
if necessary-an Italian nation. "This barbarous foreign domination stinks in the nostrils of everyone," he wrote. "May your house therefore assume this task with
that courage and those hopes which are inspired by a just cause, so that under its banner our fatherland may be raised up."
 3

But his ringing challenge evoked no response, and Machiavelli turned to other writing. He felt that history was man's great teacher, and in his Discourses he probed
into the life and death of nations. This and its penetrating companion volume, The Art of War, contrast sharply with some flights of fancy that point up Niccolò's
indomitable zest for living. His play, Mandragola, which is performed to bursting houses to this day, is in the opinion of many critics the finest comedy in Italian.
But Machiavelli missed the bustle of his former office, the drama of his diplomatic errands. "Isn't there anyone," he wrote to a friend, "who remembers my services
or believes that I can be useful?" When, at long last, the Medici remembered him, they, did so without grace. For modest pay, he was to write the History of
Florence, a work which kept him busy for some five years. But the public career for which he so passionately longed remained closed. Clearly, his deep commitment
to the people of Florence, which shone through all his writings, disqualified him from a key position under a "prince".
And herein lay the final irony of Machiavelli's life. In 1527, the approach of imperial troops from Germany and Spain encouraged Florence to expel the Medici
and set up a free republic. The Secretary's job was open! Yet no one asked Machiavelli to take up his old desk. Had he not eaten the bread of the Medici? To the
lifelong observer of the human comedy, the play was over. He died, presumably of stomach ulcers, a month after the founding of the people's state.
Posterity has weighed the plus and minus of Machiavelli's genius and come up with a plus. The Prince is still required reading for both the masters and the servants
of the body politic. Machiavelli's "sin" is to have spelt out the old rules of the game of politics in realistic terms. If his bluntness has shocked many of his readers,
others have hailed him as the father of political science and Italy's first patriot. The Florentine's granting their Secretary a marble tomb in the Church of the Holy
Cross, alongside those of Florence's most famous sons, inscribed it with the words, "So great a name no praise can hallow."

Emerson's Vital Message
for Today
BY BRUCE BLIVEN
O NA winter day 133 years ago, a tall, gangling
O gentleman with a sharply chiselled, square-jawed face
sat wrapped in a heavy buffalo robe in a rowboat
crossing the icy waters of the Mississippi. Unmindful
of the cold, his blue eyes spar kling with interest, he
questioned his companions-frontier farmers and traders-about their
work, their opinions. This was America's foremost philosopher, Ralph
Waldo Emerson, on his way to keep a lecture appointment in the small
town of Davenport, lowa.
Whatever the weather or travel conditions, Emerson always got
through to keep his lecture dates. No audience was too small or too
remote for this man, who expounded his great philosophy of
individualism in the rude meeting halls of a pioneer nation.
When I was 16, the high-school English teacher in my lowa home town
gave me as a reading assignment: "The most famous essay ever written
by America's leading philosophic thinker." After supper 1 settled down
at the dining-room table by the kerosene lamp and opened the book to
"Self-Reliance," by Ralph Waldo Emerson.
The words I read struck my mind like a blow: "To believe your own
thought, to believe that what is true for you in your private heart is true
for all men that is genius... The virtue in most request in conformity.
Whoso would be a man must be a nonconformist.... An institution is
the lengthened shadow of one man.... Nothing is at last sacred but the
1
integrity of your own mind.... A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin
of little minds.... Trust thyself: every heart vibrates to that iron string."
Almost every sentence was worth an hour's thought. I felt as though a
wise elder brother had laid his hand on my shoulder and was telling me
and so beautifully!-things I needed to know.
That first impression of Emerson has stayed with me. I have gone back
to his writings again and again for more than half a century, and never
picked up any page of them without finding something as true as the
ancient hills and as modern as next week.
Many of Emerson's phrases have become common coin: "Hitch your
wagon to a star," "All mankind love a lover," "Nothing great was ever
achieved without enthusiasm." He was pre-eminent in shaping the
American mind and its characteristic outlook-optimistic, practical,
self-reliant. Robert Frost calls Emerson one of the four greatest men
this country has ever produced, a peer of Washington, Lincoln and
Jefferson. Psychologist William James rightly predicted, "Posterity
will reckon him a prophet."
"Self-Reliance" is his most famous essay, and this characteristic was
the heart of Emerson's philosophy and of his own spirit. He spent his
life urging people to exercise their powers to the full. To the individual
he says: Cast out fear, rely on your own inner resources; trust life and
it will repay your trust. You can do better than you believe you can.
Emerson learned this philosophy from the American pioneers. Never
before in history had there been such a people: independent, optimistic,
practical builders of a rough new nation who were, at the same time,
conscious heirs of 200 years of democratic tradition and philosophy.
Emerson listened to them, drawing out their views on many matters.
Late into his life, he would roll up his sleeves and help the farm hands
in the fields, for the chance to talk with them. "I like people who can
do things," he wrote.

Emerson believed that every man has something to contribute to all.
He charmed humble people, despite the profundity of his lectures. A
scrubwoman who always attended his lecures in his home town of
Concord, Mass., confessed that she didn't understand him-"but I like to
go and see him stand up there and look as though he thought everyone
was as good as he is."
Nearly every winter for 40 years Emerson made a long, exhausting
lecture tour throughout the Northeast and, later, the Midwest. It was
from these talks that he developed and later published his great essays:
"Nature," "Beauty," "Experience," "Friendship," etc. He received very
little money for his speeches. "I lecture only for F.A.M.E.-Fifty And
My Expenses," he used to say. And if his fees were small, the
admission charges were in proportion. One lowa audience got both
Emerson and an oyster supper for $1.
Yet Emerson gave encouragement and support to many of the great
figures of American literature and philosophy. He kept the wolf away
from the door of Bronson Alcott, a hopelessly impractical, garrulous
philosopher with a brood of daughters (one of whom, Louisa May,
wrote the immortal Little Women). He always found yard work to
support the indigent Henry David Thoreau, who built his famous hut
by Walden Pond on Emerson's property. His encouragement of Walt
Whitman was decisive in bringing that great poet forward ("I was
simmering, simmering, simmering. Emerson brought me to a boil,"
Whitman wrote).
Soaring Spirit. With his friends, Emerson started what was prob ably
the most illustrious luncheon club in history: the Saturday Club.
Members included Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, James Russell
Lowell, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Louis Agassiz, Oliver Wendell Homes,
Sr. It needed a giant to be first in such a group; but no one questioned
that this was Emerson's role.
2
He could be laughed at on occasion, however. Once at a club meeting
he was arguing with Agassiz: "Some of us believe with Kant that time
is merely a subjective form of human thought, having no objective
existence." Then, looking at his watch, he added hastily, "Good
heavens. The Concord train goes in 15 minutes!" He departed on the
run, leaving the other members shaking with laughter.
In his youth, Emerson gave few hints of his future greatness. A sickly
and seemingly unimaginative child, Waldo was the only one of five
sons for whom his widowed mother had no great hopes. In school he
was a dull scholar who confessed his dread of "tomorrow's merciless
lessons." Weak in Greek and hating mathematics, he did poorly in the
rote memorization that then passed as education. Yet at Harvard, where
he worked his way through, he managed to read the complete works of
a score of the world's great writers and philosophers. His favourite,
Plato, he used to read while snuggled under blankets in his unheated
room off Harvard Square.
One thing may account for his interest. Even as a small child, he was
talked to and treated completely as an adult, particularly by his Aunt
Mary, the chief intellectual influence in his young life. Recent studies
of great men have shown that often they were forced from the
beginning to stand on tiptoe, so to speak, in intellectual matters.
After graduating from college Emerson spent a few unhappy years as
a schoolteacher and as a minister. His wife and beloved brother died.
His life was frugal and poor... and still his spirit soared.
It was in 1835, the year of his second marriage, that he made his
courageous decision: to spend the rest of his life in the expression of
pure thought, and to rely on this activity somehow to earn a living. He
settled in Concord, near Boston, and from a quiet study there for half a
century came the explosive thoughts that reverberated around the
world.

Beginning as a young man in college Emerson got up a 5 a.m. to write
his thoughts for half an hour or an hour in the journal he called his
"savings bank." Later he indexed and cross-indexed the ideas, and from
these pages drew his lectures and books. The result is a style packed
with meat. I have found that I appreciate him more if I read him in
small doses a few pages to think about before going to bed or if I read
the essays aloud, as Emerson read them, to friends.
From these readings I have learned many useful ideas. Here are some
of them:
Life Is an Ecstasy. Emerson's most exciting discovery is that being
alive is an almost unbearable pleasure. All things that live, he felt,
articipate in the Divine Consciousness. It is only because of sloth and
habit that we grow dull and cease to feel the ecstacy. Even when things
were at their worst, as after the death of one he loved, Emerson never
wavered in his belief. "I embrace absolute life," he said, meaning the.
sour as well as the sweet, the incomprehensible as well as that which is
made plain.
Surely this is one of Emerson's most practical messages. Most of us fail
to enjoy life as it goes along; some of the best moments are dulled by
our cares and anxieties. How helpful if we remember that every
moment is a glorious gift of God! Our worries then fall into perspective
as the petty things they are.
Trust the Universal Harmony. Believing that all consciousness is part
of the Divine Mind, Emerson therefore felt that a man may trust his
own thought, for it is divine. And he may trust the world, too, for the
universe is governed by the consciousness of which we are all part.
Once you have "accepted your own law," he wrote, "all omens are
good... all men your allies, all parts of life take order and beauty."
Find the Harmony Through Nature. The key to happiness, he insisted,
is to keep your mind in tune with the Divine Mind, your life in tune
with the universe. And the most useful exercise for this is to
3
contemplate nature, seeing the beauty in it. Emerson himself, when at
home, would go out to his woods by Walden Pond at least once a day,
to stare into the water and watch the grass blow, and to brood on his
brother hood with all things that live. It was at these moments he wrote
some of his most memorable lines.
Emerson put great significance on responding to nature's beauty for he
belived it leads to goodness. "Truth and goodness and beauty," he
wrote, "are but different faces of the same All." In Paris during the
revolution of 1848, he noted that the trees on the boulevards had been
cut down for barricades. "At the end of a year," he observed drily, "we
shall take account and see if the Revolution was worth the trees."
Trust Yourself. Emerson felt the individual should have complete
confidence in his place in the world. "Self-trust is the first secret of
success." Over and over he emphasized that "sin is when a man...is
untrue to his own constitution."
He urged his audiences to strike out boldly in life. Use your
imagination: "You could never prove to the mind of the most ingenious
mollusk that such a creature as a whale was possible." Age need be no
impediment: "We do not count a man's years until he has nothing else
to count."
Live Dangerously. Urging self-trust, Emerson summoned his listeners
to take risks, to defy the views of those about them, if need be. There
was one subject that moved him to open defiance of the authorities
Negro slavery. In 1850, when Congress enacted the Fugitive Slave
Law, which destroyed all civil liberties for a runaway captured in the
North, Emerson spoke out against "this filthy enactment": "I will not
obey it, by God."
He was booed and hissed off the platform by a crowd that didn't share
his views-in Boston, of all places. But Emerson was unmoved. This is
a side of the man that is often overlooked by those preoccupied with

his optimism. He was an optimist but also a realist who saw all too
painfully how far short of the ideal his America sometimes fell.
You Are Better Than You Think. "In all my lectures I have taught one
doctrine," Emerson said, "namely, the infinitude the private man."
He urged on all his listeners a healthy recognition of their own value.
"If the single man plant himself indomitably on his instinct," he
thundered, "and there abide, the huge world will come around to him."
Yet most men underrate themselves. He scolded his lecture audiences
for being unwilling to "say noble things," waiting to hear someone else
say them. People at heart are finer than they dare admit to each other.
There Is Some Good in Everyone: Find It! "Trust thyself" is one side
of the coin. The other is to trust the wisdom and integrity of others. For
if you believe, as Emerson did, in the divinity of the human mind, then
you must recognize that all human beings share the divine spark,
however different or strange they may seem to be.
New England a century ago had more than its share of odd characters,
and many of them sought Emerson out. He insisted that they were
entitled to be heard. He wanted people to be allowed to be different, to
express their true character. "The charm of life is this variety of genius,
these contrasts and flavours by which Heaven has modulated the
identity of truth."
Scorn Material Things. "Things are in the saddle, and ride mankind,"
Emerson observed. "Why should you renounce your right to traverse
the starlit deserts of truth for the premature comforts of an acre, house
and barn?... Make yourself necessary to the world and mankind will
give you bread.... Riches and poverty are a thick or thin costume; and
our life-the life of all of us-identical."
At a time when he needed money badly the Salem Lyceum offered him
a good fee to lecture, "provided no allusions are made to religious
controversy, or other exciting topics upon which the public mind is
4
honestly divided." Emerson replied the same day. "I am really sorry
that any person in Salem should think me capable of accepting an
invitation so encumbered."
Always Try Your Hardest. Long before Theodore Roosevelt talked of
"the strenuous life," Emerson was preaching and practising-the same
doctrine. He drove himself remorselessly. Far into old age, he travelled
thousands of miles every winter to fill his lecture engagements,
speaking night after night in drafty halls that were always too hot or
too cold, then racing on to the next town. When at home he shut himself
up for long hours each day in his study, where he produced not only
his ten major books and scores of magazine articles and lectures, but
the million words and more of his Journal, "Without halting, without
rest, Lifting Better up to Best."
"Like the New England soil," he observed, "my talent is good only
whilst I work it... [Artists] like bees must put their lives into the sting
they give. What is man good for without enthusiasm?... He who has put
forth his total strength in fit actions has the richest return of wisdom."
Constantly he urged people to try the difficult. "What if you do fail and
get fairly rolled in the dirt once or twice? Up again, you shall never be
so afraid of a tumble... Try the rough water as well as the smooth.
Rough water can teach lessons worth knowing."
America's great philosopher died in 1882, at the age of 79. Yet his ideas
remain as valid today as when they first thrilled mankind. Above all,
he teaches us that human personality is sacred and inviolable, the most
important thing in the world. It is a lesson humanity needs.
 Unforgettable
Salim Ali

BY J. C. Daniel
As Told To Mohan Sivanand
WATCHED the heaving monsoon seas with a sinking heart. Being tossed about in a narrow dug-out canoe was not something I'd
I bargained for when I'd joined the Bombay Natural History Society (BNHS) a few months earlier. As one of my legs began to twitch
uncontrollably, the tiny bearded man sitting next to me asked, "Can you swim, Daniel?"

"Swim? Y-yes," I stammered, wondering wildly if Salim Ali, the legendary honorary secretary of the BNHS, was about to give the order to
abandon ship. Instead, Sálim Ali looked at me for a moment and said quietly, "I can't." His calm words immediately banished much of my fear, and
from then on, I learnt not only to cope with harsh surround ings but to savour every minute as a true naturalist should.

That was the kind of effect Sálim Moizuddin Abdul Ali had on you. To the world he was amazingly versatile-ornithologist, explorer, ecologist,
teacher, writer. But to all of us at the BNHS, with which he was associated for 80 of his 91 years, this bright-eyed, sparrow-like figure was an all-
knowing father, the person we referred to as the Old Man. And like a father, he dazzled us with his achievements.

Taking up ornithology at a time when the subject in India was little more than an Englishman's past-time, Sálim Ali made it a serious pursuit. He
studied the birds of nearly every region of the subconti nent, and wrote with such wit and elegance that he was included in an anthology entitled
Indian Masters of English, along with Rabindranath Tagore and Sarojini Naidu. His many awards included the Padma Vibhushan and three
honorary doctorates. He was nominated to Parliament and made a National Professor. Under him the BNHS became a premier research centre, and
its Journal a staple for biologists the world over.

Born in 1896 into a prosperous, close-knit Bombay family, Salim Ali, the youngest of ten children, was orphaned early. His childhood hero was his
flamboyant uncle, Amiruddin Tyabji, a sportsman who joined royalty on grand shikars. When Salim was ten, Uncle Amiruddin presented him with
a Daisy airgun. One day young Sálim shot a strange-looking sparrow. When his uncle couldn't explain why it had a yellow streak below its neck, he
suggested that Sálim take the bird to the BNHS. There the secretary, an English man, identified it as a yellow-throated sparrow, and showed the
boy the society's vast stuffed bird collection. Awestruck, Sálim Ali remained hooked on birds and the BNHS for life.

In between visits to the society, Sálim Ali scraped through high school. College, though, proved too difficult, and "escaping from logarithms and
higher algebra," he sailed to Burma and spent the next ten years there as a partner in his brother's timber and wolfram business. But when Salim Ali
was sent into remote jungles to select timber, he'd spend most of his time observing birds and wildlife. Not surprisingly, the business collapsed and,
owing a lot of money, he had to return to Bombay with Tehmina, his wife of six years.

He got a job as a guide-lecturer at Bombay's Prince of Wales Museum in 1927, but after two years decided to study ornithology at the Berlin
University Zoological Museum under Professor Erwin Stresemann When Sálim Ali returned to Bombay a year later, he discovered that his guide-
lecturer's post had been abolished. There was no chance of working for the government either-a couple of years earlier he'd been rejected for an
ornithologist's job because he didn't have a college degree.

Unique Methods. In those days, anybody with his energy and command of English could easily have found a comfortable niche in a Bombay firm,
but Sálim Ali didn't even bother to apply. His family thought him mad-an unemployed married man, cheerfully content to watch birds all the time!

Tehmina, though, stood by him. A warm, lively woman, she came from an affluent family and was educated at a finishing school in England. But
she was a country girl at heart and shared many of her husband's interests. "Finishing school," Sálim Ali once wryly re marked, "did not finish her
completely." Tehmina's family owned a small cottage in Kihim, a coastal village south of Bombay, and the young couple moved there. Kihim was
green and full of birds to keep Sálim Ali forever busy. "Don't take a job," Tehmina told him, "if you can't enjoy it." Sálim Ali never did.

In 1930 Sálim Ali went to the BNHS with a proposal. Indian birds had not been studied systematically, so would the society send him on
ornithological surveys? He didn't want a salary, only expenses. Thus for the next 20 years Sálim Ali roamed the subcontinent, studying birds from
Kutch to Sikkim, from Afghanistan to Kerala. His methods were so unique-he wove history, ecology and geography into his descrip tion of a bird
and its habitat-that in 1936 he got a letter from Ernst Mayr, a leading American biologist, who was bird curator at New York's Museum of Natural
History. "Congratulations," wrote Mayr, who'd been following Salim Ali's reports in the BNHS Journal. "I hope your work will set a standard for
similar surveys."

For Salim Ali these two decades were a time of both achievement and sorrow. In 1939 Tehmina, who accompanied him on all his expeditions, died
suddenly after minor surgery. For months he was rudderless and stayed with his sister in Bombay. True consolation came only when he resumed
work.

In 1941 Sálim Ali published The Book of Indian Birds. It was an instant success, and its royalties enabled Sálim Ali to repay his old business debts.
Jawaharlal Nehru read it and liked it so much that he sent it as a birthday present to his daughter. "It opened my eyes to a new world," Indira said
years later. "For the first time, I paid attention to bird songs, and was able to identify the birds."

During this period, Sálim Ali also made innumerable friends, like S. Dillon Ripley, a young zoologist with the US Army in Ceylon, who later
became secretary of Washington's Smithsonian Institution. Pooling their wide knowledge, the two men would later publish the ten-volume
Handbook of the Birds of India and Pakistan.

By the time I became BNHS curator in 1960, the man who once had been rejected for a government job for want of a degree was guiding PhD
scholars. I watched him work amid stuffed birds and neatly arranged piles of books and paper. He was so precise that when I had an appointment
with him, I made sure I arrived early. When any visitor's business was over, Sálim Ali would raise his grey eyebrows and pat the arms of his chair.
If that failed, he'd politely say good-bye and resume his tasks.

Bad work maddened him-his face would redden, and his head would shake. One look at a shoddy report and he'd fling it aside, storming furiously.
"Silly" was his strongest term of abuse, but he had such a way of delivering it, you'd never want to hear the word again. Once Venugopal, a BNHS
clerk, forgot to post a letter Sálim Ali had given him two days earlier. "Silly fellow," Sálim Ali yelled when he found out, and, grabbing a bottle of
ink, emptied it over Venugopal's head.

Dry Wit. But his anger always disappeared quickly. Venugopal, for instance, was an avid stamp collector, and Sálim Ali, who got letters from all
over the world, used to give him the stamps. After the ink shower, Venugopal, went home. But when he returned, Sálim Ali apologized and gave
him another set of stamps.

Nothing escaped Sálim Ali's notice, and he took a personal interest in each of us. BNHS naturalists on field trips had to write to Sálim Ali every
week. "He'd reply promptly," recalls V.C. Ambedkar, Sálim Ali's first student. "And he wouldn't just comment on my bird observations. He'd
emphasize the importance of punctuality, hard work and correct English."

In 1962, when Ambedkar was on assignment in the tiger-infested forests of Kumaon terai, Sálim Ali visited his student's anxious mother. "I've
informed her that you have not yet been eaten by a tiger," he wrote to Ambedkar, adding with his characteristic dry wit, "She appeared pleased."

Writing letters, in fact, was another of his great enthusiasms. He spent large sums on postage out of his own pocket, keeping in constant touch with
friends or voicing his deep concern for the environment. The setting up of the Bharatpur and Karnala bird sanctuaries, the decision not to destroy
Kerala's Silent Valley for the sake of a power project and many other similar measures were due in large part to the Old Man's powerful letters to
prime ministers and forest officials. But his mail wasn't always addressed to the high and mighty. He even wrote to poor villagers he'd met during
his expeditions, though he knew they were illiterate and couldn't reply.

When in Bombay, Sálim Ali had a strict routine. Up by five, he'd take a walk, then work for a couple of hours before leaving for the BNHS. Every
morning, at precisely 9.45, I'd hear his motorbike outside the office. Although he worked long hours, he was in bed by 10pm. "Like the birds," he'd
say, "I prefer to work by day." He ate like a bird, too, enjoying good food, but consuming very little-a bit of curry and, often, just one chapatti.

These austere food habits sometimes troubled me while on field trips with the Old Man. I'd be too embarrassed to eat more than three chapattis, so I
survived by getting friendly with the cook and eating one dinner in the kitchen and another with Sálim Ali.

Others, too, had problems. Knowing his pet aversions, nobody dared smoke or drink in his presence. Travelling with him, you often saw a small
group desperately puffing away during breaks. And above all, Sálim Ali hated snorers. To share a camp room with him, you had to be a proven
non-snorer. Once the Madras government provided him with a camp guard who snored. Slim Ali sent him packing.
Because Šálim Ali's needs were few, he had hardly any use for money. His writings and awards brought him large amounts, but he kept very little
for himself, liberally handing out scholarships and grants to needy students. He donated his 1976 Paul Getty Wildlife Conservation Prize, worth
$50,000, to a conservation-research fund at the BNHS.

Young at Heart. Even in the days when he worked on shoestring grants, there'd be money left after a project. "Don't spend without purpose," he
often told me. "You're accountable not just to the BNHS, but to yourself." He avoided buying new things, preferring to maintain his knife, gun,
binoculars, car or motorbike in mint condition.

He had a teenager's fascination for motorbikes, which he loved to tinker with and drive at breakneck speed. In 1950 he shipped his massive
Sunbeam 500cc bike to Sweden and, luggage strapped behind, roared into an ornithological conference, startling the other delegates, who assumed
he'd ridden all the way from India. After the conference, he rode through Europe meeting friends, human and avian. In France he was injured in a
collision with a speeding truck, but the next morning Salim Ali got out of his hospital bed and repaired the bike himself. Head bandaged, he kept a
lunch appointment later that day.

Nothing could dampen Sálim Ali's spirit, not even old age. Until his 87th year, he conducted major expeditions, and in 1983 spent four weeks in the
remote and difficult Namdapha national park, near the Burmese border. Two years later he was set to go to the Himalayas in search of the mountain
quail, last seen in 1858. But he suddenly fell ill and we all persuaded him to stay back. He used the time to finish one more book, The Fall of a
Sparrow, his delightful autobiography.

One of Salim Ali's last wishes was to set up an ornithological institute in Bombay. In April 1987-after his illness had been diagnosed as cancer-he
flew to Delhi to attend a seminar to convince Rajiv Gandhi about the need for the institute. Hospitalized as soon as he arrived, he kept insisting on
going to the seminar until the Prime Minister visited him and assured full support.

Two months later Sálim Ali died, probably the only thing he ever did without his heart in it. For, despite all he'd done, he felt there was much more
left. "I'm not ready to die," he used to tell me. "I've only touched the surface."

Same Routine

WE LIVE experimentally, moodily, in the dark; each generation breaks its egg-shell with the same haste and assurance as the last, pecks at the
same indigestible pebbles dreams the same dreams, or others just as absurd, and if it hears anything of what former men have learnt by experience,
it corrects their maxims by its first impressions, and rushes down any untrodden path which it finds alluring, to die in its own way. or become wise
too late and to no purpose.

-George Santayana
 Seafarers' Beware!

THE SWEDISH Coast Guard is on the look-out for oil spills with the help of a new side looking airborne radar known as SLAR. It can detect oil
slicks of as little as 100 litres. The equipment produces a display on a TV-type screen which may be recorded as evidence against, say, the operator
of a polluting tanker. As extra proof, the apparatus stores information giving the time of the recording and the aircraft's position and course.

Medium-sized ships can easily be detected from 100 kilometres away. The radar's ability to see very small targets also makes it suitable for anti-
smuggling operations, and monitoring illegal fishing as well as oil pollution. Other current uses include mapping sea ice and making geological
surveys

-New Scientist, England.

 Robert Koch:
Man vs Microbe
BY CLAUS GAEDEMANN

HEN A cholera epidemic raged through Portugal in 1974, tourists brought the dread disease back to Germany, Great Britain and
W other European countries. Quickly, researchers at the Robert Koch Institute in Berlin, together with their colleagues in other
institutes, identified the strain of cholera bacteria, then sped their report to the World Health Organization (WHO) in Geneva. WHO
traced the bacteria to Angola, and the outbreak was soon brought under control.

How appropriate that the Robert Koch Institute play a leading role in this modern drama, for it was Robert Koch, German physician and
bacteriologist, who, in 1883, discovered the bacteria causing cholera. He also conducted studies that led to the eventual control of tubercu losis,
gave the world effective methods of combating wound infections, and pointed the way towards understanding a variety of serious illnesses, both
human and animal. Even today his work is basic to the study of bacteria as a cause of disease.

Born on December 11, 1843, in a simple timber house near Hanover, Robert Koch was the third of 13 children of a lead-mining engineer. A quiet
boy, he pursued his rapidly growing collection of insects, plants and minerals, and dissected dead animals.

Money was scarce in the Koch household but, with the aid of a small scholarship and stringent economies, he enrolled in a natural-sciences. course
at the University of Göttingen in 1862, soon switching to medicine. At 23, an MD not long out of medical college, Koch married. Dark-haired,
pretty Emmy became his loyal helpmate and mother of their only child, Gertrud.

Koch served as an army doctor in the Franco-Prussian War of 1870 71, took the examination as public-health officer and, at the age of 28, was
appointed county medical officer in Wollstein, a town of 3,000 in the Prussian province of Posen: At an annual salary of 900 marks he was in
charge of two hospitals, served as medical expert for court trials, supervised the public-health service and sometimes examined dis eased livestock.

Robert Koch might have spent the rest of his life following that pattern. But then, for his 29th birthday, Emmy bought him an exceptionally fine
microscope.

There couldn't have been a better gift. For among Koch's favourite teachers in medical college had been Jakob Henle, the anatomist and
pathologist, who as early as 1840 advanced the theory that infectious diseases were transmitted by microscopically small organisms. Such thinking
was, to be sure, as yet unproven and controversial-like ancient Greeks and Romans, many physicians still believed diseases to be caused by some
poisonous miasmas or gases but Dr. Koch was intrigued, and he immediately began to use his new microscope to study blood specimens of animals
that had died of anthrax. This mysterious disease was an unsparing killer of sheep, cattle, horses and, occasionally, of humans. The thick, rod-
shaped bacilli that Koch saw through the lens were often called "crystals" and assumed to be a by product of the disease. Koch speculated, "What if
they were the cause of it?"

Koch inoculated a white mouse with anthrax-diseased blood, and by the following morning it was dead. Its blood and spleen teemed with
crystalline rods. Next, injecting a few rods into a culture, he watched, fascinated, as they multiplied at a stupendous rate. Now he had proof that the
rods were living organisms. Further experiments revealed that at low temperatures the rods turned into long threads containing spores capable of
lying dormant for years, in pastures long unused for grazing, for instance. But in warm animal blood, they changed back into living bacteria.

Total Bacteria. To gain more time for research, Koch turned over most of his patients to a colleague, explaining to his wife: "I am exploring a new
country that is still shrouded in mystery!" After three years and hundreds of anthrax experiments, Koch had proved conclusively that a specific
microbe caused a specific disease. With his customary modesty, he took his findings to Ferdinand Cohn, the famous Breslau botanist. Cohn
doubted that this country doctor had discovered anything of importance. But after seeing Koch's experiments, Cohn examined: "This man is the
unsurpassed master of scientific research!"

Koch next turned to using his primitive Wollstein laboratory to develop new ground-breaking methods in bacterial research. For example, medical
researchers had been staining their slide specimens with the recently discovered analine dyes and Koch now tried the dyes as a way to make
bacteria easily visible under the microscope. He found that microbes greedily absorbed the colours and stood out vividly in blue, red, brown and
violet.

Reviving a youthful interest in the art of photography, he also bought a camera and mounted it on his microscope. His wife Emmy would shout to
her husband whenever the sky was cloudless and conditions were just right for him to take pictures. Koch, who affectionately called his wife his
"cloud pusher," would then drop everything and reach for his equipment. The results were highly gratifying, and an exultant Koch was soon able to
write to Professor Cohn: "Photography shows up the bacteria far better than does the human eye!"

Never idle, Koch now turned his investigative eye on wound infection. As an army doctor, he had seen many soldiers die miserably because of it,
more than 75 per cent of the amputees had succumbed to it during the war. In hospitals, wound infections took the lives of from 40 to 80 per cent of
surgical patients. The English surgeon Joseph Lister had begun to save many patients by applying carbolic dressings to their wounds, but even he
wasn't sure how this worked. With patient research involving microscopy, dyes and photography, Koch in 1878, isolated six different types of
bacteria causing wound infection.

By then, word of the country doctor of Wollstein and his work was spreading. And in 1880, the director of the Imperial Health Office in Berlin
appointed him to his staff. Suddenly, Robert Koch found himself with modern technical facilities at hand, two assistants, an annual salary of 6,000
marks, and a comfortable five-room flat for his family. His first task was to find the most effective method of fighting the bacteria he had isolated.
Of the many approaches tried, Koch considered steam-still used in sterilization today-to be the ideal agent.
Taking Koch's attention next was tuberculosis, then one of the greatest scourges of mankind and responsible for one out of seven deaths in the
western world. Although many prominent physicians of the time considered TB to be a sign of chronic malnutrition and not an infectious disease,
Koch was convinced that tuberculosis was caused and transmitted by bacteria.

New Find. For weeks, he worked alone in his laboratory, sometimes 18 hours a day, allowing no one to risk the danger of infection with him. In six
months, while examining his 271st slide in a series of specimens, Koch identified the germ of tuberculosis. To prove that even the air could
transmit the germ, he subjected a boxful of mice, rabbits, and guinea pigs to a fog that contained live TB bacilli. All of the animals died of
tuberculosis.

On March 24, 1882, Robert Koch, then 38, presented his findings to the renowned scientists of the Physiological Society in Berlin. For the first
time in the society's history, there was no discussion afterwards. Commented a participant: "There's no criticizing facts."

But Koch was not satisfied. Feeling that he had to draw practicable conclusions for the benefit of mankind from his discoveries, he de manded that
the German government institute far-reaching hygienic measures, that the public be informed of infectious diseases and that each new TB case be
reported and put under medical observation. As a result, the death rate from tuberculosis in Germany dropped 50 per cent in the next 25 years.

Meantime, another disease was making headlines. In 1883, a cholera outbreak was reported in Egypt. Every few years, this dread sickness invaded
the West from India.

Bent on finding the cause of cholera, the German government dispatched a medical commission, headed by Robert Koch, to Alexandria, Egypt.
There, monkeys, dogs, cats and mice were injected with specimen material collected from cholera victims; tissue, dyed after Koch's methods, was
examined under the microscope in hundreds of slides until the team discovered the comma-shaped cholera bacillus.

Koch, his team and 50 white mice next followed the disease to India. Noting that cholera often broke out in settlements near small ponds which
everyone used for bathing, laundry, sewage disposal and drinking water, Koch and his team conducted experiments from which he concluded that
cholera is transmitted by contaminated water, food and clothing and recommended that public water-supply systems be filtered and controlled.

Koch was awarded the 1905 Nobel Prize in physiology and medicine for his tuberculosis research. Monuments were erected to him, and streets
named after him. Handkerchiefs, beer mugs and pipes that bore his picture the very image of a turn-of-the-century German professor with his full
beard and gold-framed glasses-became best-sellers. During a triumphal visit to Japan, fireworks projected his face against the sky.

Exhausted by a life-time of strenuous work, Robert Koch died of heart failure on May 27, 1910. He left not only his discoveries, but his tremendous
influence. Spurred on by Koch's pioneering achievements in the field of bacteriology, other scientists have, over the years, identified the causative
organisms of a number of diseases-typhus, leprosy, malaria, diphtheria, tetanus, pneumonia, dysentery and bubonic plague-leading to increasing
control of these scourges of mankind. As the cholera outbreak of 1974 demonstrated, Robert Koch has never stopped serving his fellow man.

Wonders at work
LISTEN to the piiiiiiinnng! of The System short-circuiting. Watch the world go round in circles-fast, faster-a globe amelt into a question mark.

Ah, but wait. Know that in uncertain times there still are things that work all by themselves, naturally, miraculously, without repairs or commands,
and sometimes in spite of man:

Flowers in cracked walls Gravity (What goes up must come down a comforting constant)
Laughter (Instant at the bidding of joy)
Birdsong (No sheet music, no piano, no lessons)
Moon tides

Sleep
Storms
Butterflies (A silken flutter of colours, aflight)
Springtime
Sunrise
Sunset
Hush...
Listen to the magic workings of a flower.
Of a butterfly. Of man's intellect.
... Of, well of course, Man.
-Jane Smith in Orlando, Florida, Sentind Star
 The Man Who Typed
Human Blood
BY DR ALEXANDER WIENER
AS TOLD TO J.D. RATCLIFE

Y KNEES WOBBLED as I walked down the long second-floor corridor of the Rockefeller Institute for Medical Research in New
M York that day in 1929. I was a very frightened young medical student. A telephone call had summoned me to the laboratory of one of
the great research men of our time-Dr Karl Landsteiner.

At the time there were two main theories on how the various types of blood were inherited. I had written a mathematical analysis of the theories, and
for good measure had thrown in the statement that the Chinese had discovered the blood groups in the thirteenth century.

Now I stood before Landsteiner, a six-footer with dark piercing eyes, bushy eyebrows and drooping moustache. The laboratory window was made
of frosted glass: Landsteiner wanted no distracting views. Where, he asked, had I learnt that the Chinese had discovered the blood groups? I cited
my source, a mention in a paper I had read. A flicker of a smile passed over the no-nonsense countenance. "I think you will find it better, young
man," he said, "always to consult original sources." I would find a book in the library-he gave me the exact reference that I might read. The
interview was over.

The Chinese, of course, hadn't discovered the blood groups: Landsteiner had.

After my initial chastisement we became good friends, and eight years later, working together, we discovered the Rh factor--the basis of the blood
incompatibility which had mysteriously caused the death of thousands of infants in the womb or within hours of birth.

Medical Genius. The panorama of accomplishment of this giant of research has few equals in the annals of medicine. He laid the ground. work for
research on today's polio-protective vaccines. He delineated the mechanism of skin allergies. His research on Rickettsia microbes opened the way
for vaccines to prevent typhus and Rocky Mountain spotted fever. Almost single-handedly he founded and developed the science of
immunochemistry. He made blood typing possible, and so opened the way for the tens of millions of life-saving transfusions to come. Any one of
these things would have ranked Landsteiner with the immortals. Yet this is only a partial list of his accomplishments.

Born in Baden, Austria, in 1868, the son of a journalist, young Landsteiner graduated from medical school and spent four additional years studying
chemistry. Then he joined the University of Vienna and began work on his lifelong interest, the mystery of blood.
Since the 1600's, venturesome doctors had been trying transfusions with results so disastrous that France, Italy and England had eventually passed
laws prohibiting such experiments. Viennese medical bigwigs had a pat explanation for the difficulty. All blood, they claimed, was alike; transfusion
disaster resulted when the donor's blood was diseased. Landsteiner had the audacity to question these oracles.

Big Step Forward. He collected blood samples, allowed them to clot, then separated clot from straw-coloured serum. Then the mixing began-red
cells from one individual, serum from another. Landsteiner peered through his microscope to watch the results and saw a starling drama unfold.
Normally, red cells look like evenly distributed grains of sand, but on many of the slides red cells were clumping together agglutinating-like bunches
of grapes!

In precise handwriting Landsteiner recorded his findings, drew up charts, and from them drew momentous conclusions. Bloods were not alike. Some
red cells contained a mysterious A substance, some a stuff, some contained neither and were labelled o-nought. Later, people would misread this
nought, and it became the letter O for a third great group of bloods. (Landsteiner missed the fourth class AB because none of the volunteers from
whom he wheedled blood specimens were in this rare group, but a year later two of his workers, one of them a student, tracked this one down.) The
obvious conclusion was: If you transfused A blood into an A person, or B into a B, there should be no difficulty. But never put A into a B.

Successful transfusion was now possible, but medicine wasn't ready to put the revolutionary discovery to work. The world paid not the slightest
attention.

Ignored, Landsteiner could go along being what God had made him, a restless malcontent making enormous contributions to human knowledge
through an unending stream or research projects. He led a busy life. In ten years, besides lecturing and teaching, he performed 3,639 post-mortems.

Then in 1908, Landsteiner left the university to accept the post of chief pathologist at Wilhelminen Hospital. He had a new project right at hand.
Vienna was in the midst of a frightening polio epidemic.

No one knew what caused the disease. Previous attempts to transmit it to animals for study had failed, but now Landsteiner undertook the job. He
pulverized the spinal cord of a recently dead victim of this terrible illness, made a suspension of the cells, and injected it into monkeys. Then he
waited, apparently in vain. Just when he was ready to abandon the whole business, one monkey developed paralysis of the back legs. It was polio.

After further animal work, getting the disease firmly established so that it could be studied in the laboratory, Landsteiner passed more ground-up
cord suspension through a filter fine enough to strain off ordinary bacteria. Would the stuff that went through still produce the disease? Soon, the
monkeys that got the filtrate were paralysed. It was the next big step forward: it proved that polio had to be a virus disease. At this point Landsteiner
lost interest. He had done the pioneering, the sort of thing he liked to do. Let others do the detail work that would eventually lead to vaccine.

In 1919, chaos fell on Vienna as the aftermath of defeat in the First World War. The communists threatened to take over. There was shooting in the
streets, and wild inflation. Landsteiner brought his meagre salary home in a suitcase-but it was hardly enough to buy a loaf of bread. He had to walk
three kilometres for a small pail of goat's milk for his two-year-old son. One night the fence round his tiny cottage disappeared-fuel for someone's
stove. Worse, there were no laboratory supplies, no research animals. Work came to a virtual standstill.
Dream Come True. From a hospital in Holland came an offer of an unimportant job, performing routine laboratory work such as urinalysis and
blood tests. It was almost like asking Einstein to teach multiplication tables, but Landsteiner grabbed it.

At this point he was deep in the work which he would consider his greatest contribution: investigating the antigen-antibody reaction. This isn't as
complicated as it sounds. Antigens are, usually, proteins. When these "foreign" proteins get into the body, the body responds by producing specific
antibodies to combat them, Thus, if you press a little smallpox vaccine (antigen) into the skin of the arm, the body responds by building smallpox
antibodies which will protect against the disease for years to come. Or, if a person who is sensitive to ragweed pollen (antigen) sniffs a bit of it, the
result is a runny nose and bleary eyes for an allergy, too, is simply an antigen-antibody manifestation.

The point that impressed Landsteiner most was that all this was so extraordinarily specific. There seemed to be a separate antibody for every
antigen. His work would eventually lead to an explanation for the whole mysterious business of immunity and allergy, and a book, The Specificity
of Serological Reactions, that became the bible of the new science of immunochemistry.

Invited to head his own research laboratory at the Rockefeller Institute, Landsteiner sailed for New York in 1922. For him, the Institute was a dream
come true: laboratory facilities such as he had never seen; animals; as many assistants as he needed; stimulating minds to confer with. He had all he
needed to get back to his original love, blood.

He was sure it contained other things besides his A and B Stuff. Indeed, he felt pretty sure that in time blood would turn out to be almost as
individual as fingerprints. With a talented young assistant Dr Philip Levine, he began looking for new factors. In rapid succession they found three
new ones-M, N, P. These weren't all-important in transfusion, as A and B were. They rarely cause reactions. Yet they were important in legal
medicine as in identifying blood stains of establishing non-paternity.

Key Factor. In the late 1930's, in my laboratory at the Chief Medical Examiner's office, I had been doing some work with blood from monkeys-
spider monkeys, woolly monkeys, rhesus monkeys, green monkeys, any kind I could find. I asked for Landsteiner's help and we began working
together.

In 1937 we began shooting rhesus monkey blood into rabbits, then later drawing off rabbit blood and seeing how the serum reacted with human red
cells. Eighty-five percent of the time the serum clumped human red cells! Rhesus monkeys shared a new blood factor with man. We christened it the
Rh factor, for rhesus.

Mightn't Rh be just as important in transfusion as factors A and B? Dr Raymond Peters had written to me from Baltimore about severe transfusion
reactions he had experienced although bloods matched according to the four original groups. Rh incompatibility? The answer, I discovered, was yes.

Shortly afterwards Levine and Dr Lyman Burnham encountered an unusual case in Newark, New Jersey. A woman had delivered a baby dead of a
mysterious disease, erythroblastosis. Ill herself, she had then been transfused with her husband's blood-and had nearly died as a result, although the
bloods apparently matched.
Was it possible, Levine wondered, that the baby had inherited some blood factor from the father which caused its blood and its mother's blood to
war on each other-resulting in the infant's death? Her violent reaction to her husband's blood suggested this. And it turned out to be true. The thing
involved here was the Rh factor Landsteiner and I had found in our rhesus monkeys. The way was now open for conquest of this formerly deadly
blood incompatibility. Millions of patients and blood donors are now Rh-tested each year.

Everyone recognized Landsteiner as a genius. But his gruff exterior hid a shy man underneath, a man dedicated to his work. In 1930, the Institute
switchboard was flooded with calls from newspapers, after reports that Landsteiner had just won the Nobel Prize for Medicine for his work in blood-
typing. He refused to talk and just went on working. When he got home that evening he didn't even mention it to his family. Eventually a cable
arrived from Stockholm. "I have just won the Nobel Prize," he said to his wife Helene. Then he went back to his scientific journals.

Nearly always, after a full nine-to-five day in the laboratory, there would be four hours of work after dinner. For ten years I spent Wednesday
evenings with him. He would sit at the dining-room table munching apples while we discussed research under way, or worked on papers to be
published.

At 75, Landsteiner was still keeping to his rigorous schedule. He was at his laboratory bench on the morning of June 24, 1943, when he was struck
down by a massive heart attack. For two days he lingered in pain, fretting about his book, driving assistants forward with current experiments. Then
life passed from him.

Buried as he wished in a little cemetery on Nantucket Island, he lies in an unnoticed grave swept by the sea wind and covered with a thatch of beach
grass. It is a quiet resting spot indeed for the most authentic medical research giant of our century-a man whose work has touched and benefited
nearly every human being now alive.

P.S.
"WHEN you die, what would you like to be remembered for?" asks a poster outside a West Midlands church hall. To which someone has added:
"Ever."
"CAN Criminals Become Useful Members of Society?" was the title of a discussion advertised at a club in Yorkshire, England.
To this someone added: "Yes, if you give them time."
-Peterborough" in The Daily Telegraph, London

Caught in Passing
PLAINTIVE CRY: "The sexual revolution is here and I'm out of ammunition."
-J.B.

AT CLUB MEETING "I've known him as a man, as an adolescent and as a child sometimes on the same day."
-O.C.C.
WOMAN to neighbour: "My economic philosophy is middle of the road. I spend money left and right."
 -Changing Times, The Kiplinger Magazine

Fast Life

WHILE I was teaching at a primary school, my class wrote an essay on "Comparing the joys of youth and old age." Anxious to see what my star
pupil had made of the subject, I glanced at her paper. She began with a flourish: "Great are the pleasures of youth but nothing compared to the
pleasures of adultery."
-M.D.B.
 Louis Agassiz:
Explorer of the Ice Age
BY DONALD CULROSS PEATTIE

T THE FOOT of the Swiss Alps, where the glaciers hang high and glittering, was born a genius who one day was to read the meaning
A of that ice and reveal its mighty role in the history of Earth. Louis Agassiz (pronounced Ag'a see) came into the world in 1807,
endowed with a penetrating curiosity about Earth's wonders. The fields and clear lake waters beside his village were filled with
interest for the growing child, and all that his pastor father and his wise mother showed him of natural beauty he took to be a message
from God. Rose Agassiz gave this most gifted of her children plenty of room in which to dissect and experiment; the other village lads. followed his
orders in collecting fish or insects or plants, for he was a born leader. Thus in the sturdy, red-cheeked, brown-eyed lad there early began to form the
inspired teacher whose imprint on science still glows today.

When he was ten, money was found to send him away to school, and at 15 he went on to the College of Lausanne. There he mastered just enough
Latin, Greek and mathematics to satisfy requirements and spent every moment he could steal in the natural history museum. To please his father he
prepared to study medicine, but although he later acquired a medical degree, he never seriously practised.

At the universities of Zurich, Heidelberg and Munich, Agassiz gathered honours and drew friends. Chief among them was Alexander Braun, the
future great botanist who shared quarters with Louis. Braun had a sister, Cécile. Louis fell in love with her and they were married in 1833.

By the time, at 26 he was already an internationally famous zoologist. German explorers had sent him fishes collected in the rivers of Brazil most of
them species new to science. Agassiz swiftly classified and named them, publishing the results in superbly illustrated instalments. To finance this
work brought Louis often to the edge of starvation. This enterprise was soon followed by works on the freshwater fishes of Central Europe, on fossil
fishes, on corals and seashells. Perhaps no other naturalist has ever poured out such a wealth of effort on so many subjects as did Agassiz in these
first creative years.

His gift for teaching was no less spectacular. His first post was a professorship at the Swiss university of Neuchâtel, with poor pay and meagre
equipment. But Agassiz needed little more than his own brilliance to illuminate his subject. Besides his classes, he also gave free lectures to the
public, and the hall was always packed. Troops of children followed him about, and for them he could make a cricket or a daisy one of the wonders
of the world.

Chaotic Household. The serene order in nature which Agassiz expounded was in bitter contrast to the state of his home. Čécile, intelligent and
gently bred, brought up beautifully their three children and exquisitely illustrated some of her husband's works on fishes. But, frail and sensitive, she
quailed under the burdens carelessly heaped upon her. The house was constantly filled with untidy anatomists, illustrators, lithographers, who would
discuss scientific problems all night with Agassiz, voraciously require feeding at any hour and sometimes stay on in the household for months.

Moreover, every economy that his wife managed to effect meant only that Louis spent more on his costly publications. Small wonder that "Cily"
fled sometimes to her old home in Germany. At these times Louis's mother would move in and soon put everything to rights. Robust and cheerful,
she took Louis and his friends in her stride.

Sometimes, after grueling days and nights at his desk and the microscope, Louis would rise, stretch his hearty frame and say, "Let's go and see what
the glaciers are doing!"-And he had his friends would set off for the pure sunshine of the high Alps. He was a scientist who turned always to nature
herself for the facts, and now the problems of those glittering masses of ice, hanging for ever in Alpine troughs, possessed him. Until this time, most
people who troubled to think about it supposed that floods explained the forms of Swiss valleys, the courses of streams, or why a granite boulder,
deeply scored, may be found far out upon a limestone plain. They supposed, too, that the glaciers merely hung like icicles from the eaves of the
mountains. But the peasants knew that if a man fell to his death in a crevasse of that ice, his body would be found, perfectly preserved, emerging at
the melting end of the glacier and at a predictable date.

Piece by piece, Louis assembled his picture of a great drama of earth. He saw that the U-shaped valleys in the Alps must have been gouged out by
ice, since running water cuts valleys in "V." The famous lakes of his native land, he deduced, must have ben formed by the damming of streams by
moraines, those dumps of earth transported by travelling ice and left there as it melts. And the deep scratches on mighty granite boulders, he
perceived, must have been made by the rubble in a vanished glacier that had carried the great rocks all the way from the mountains. These Swiss
glaciers must have been melting back a little further each year, for the fields at their feet had been increasing in acreage from generation to
generation, so the peasants said.

Grand Theory. Fortified by such evidence, Agassiz set out to prove that ice fields move, and to measure the rate and manner of their moving. With
the help of fellow enthusiasts, he built a rude hut on the Aar glacier and, using this laboratory-shelter for his first base, he conducted experiments for
several years. The straight row of stakes he had driven across the ice gradually got out of line and those in the middle moved fastest, tending to tip.
This showed Louis that movement is greatest in the middle and at the surface of the glacier.

Agassiz studied the huge travelling monster of ice inside out, having himself lowered perilously deep into its blue-green wells. He jour neyed to
Scotland and there found that the barren Highlands bore the welts and gashes of a past glacial flying. As he pondered his researches, his thoughts
expanded to entertain the grand' theory of continental glaciation-the idea that great masses of polar ice had once came down over northern lands and
waters, altering the face of the earth,

The announcement of his theory was met with a scepticism that was itself glacial; even some of his best friends told him to stick to fishes. But
Agassiz held firm, published books and articles on glaciation, and travelled widely to expound his beliefs. His was the highest form of faith the
lonely devotion to a truth not visible nor yet accepted by the many. And he gained ground. British geologists were the first to come over to his side.
Darwin became convinced.
Meanwhile, Agassiz's personal affairs went from bad to worse: the lithographic business he had established when putting out his work on fishes was
deep in the red: debts were besetting him on all sides; his wife's health was broken. He received an invitation to lecture in the United States, but had
no money to go until the King of Prussia provided him with a "purse." Louis accepted this in the name of science. "Whatever befalls me," he wrote a
friend, "I shall never cease to concentrate my whole energy to the study of nature. I shall sacrifice everything to it, even the things which men value
most."

This was prophetic. Louis said a loving good-bye to his Cily. He was never to see her again. Agassiz embarked for America in 1846. He stepped
ashore upon a continent where nature was still fresh and wild and largely unexplored, where people were eager to learn. His lecture tour was a
thundering success. He won his audiences from the first by his noble stature and boyish enthusiasm; he spoke with ease and brilliance, using no
notes, his perfect sentences touched with the piquancy of a French accent. Newspapers headlined his every appearance and some printed his talks in
full.

Agassiz searched the face of the land for signs that here too the great glaciers had once been. He found these in plenty as he travelled the Atlantic
seaboard. North of Boston the rocky shore is deeply scoured by the grinding passage of ice-borne boulders. Cape Cod is in part an old glacial
moraine, and so is Long Island. The White Mountains of New Hampshire and the Adirondacks of New York appear to have been overridden by ice
fields from the north. Investigation of the beautiful little Finger Lakes showed Agassiz that they are of glacial origin, and his field trip to Lake
Superior convinced him that the Great Lakes were gouged deep by monstrous travelling ice.

Thus the very landscape was friendly to Agassiz and his ideas. And when, an ocean away from him, Cily died among her own people, the warmth of
American friends comforted him in his bereavement. His son Alexander came to join him and his other children followed later

The Right Woman. Shortly before his loss he was offered a teaching post at Harvard. Agassiz found the university "a respectable secondary school,
where they taught only the dregs of education," He was to leave it the greatest scientific institution in the Western Hemisphere. So popular were his
lectures that Ralph Waldo Emerson suggested that it was time to stop the "rush towards natural history."

Meanwhile he was working in an old shanty set on piles above the tidal mud of the Charles River. Here he was surrounded by many collaborators
brought from Europe and on his payroll. The place was bursting with specimens in every stage of dissection and pickling; manuscripts, paintings,
plates, galley proofs were piled one upon the other.

Into this familiar chaos came the one right woman to restore order and joy to the now melancholy life of Louis Agassiz. Elizabeth Cabot Cary, a
woman of intellect as great as her heart, made a real home for her husband and his family. Elizabeth was a firm believer in higher education for girls
(she later founded Radcliffe College, which is today affiliated to Harvard), and now, to relieve her husband of heavy expenses and old debts, she
turned the top floor of the house into a school for young ladies. Agassiz's name drew more pupils than the place could hold, and those subjects
which did not interest Louis were taught by his handsome son Alexander, scarcely older than some of the students. Agassiz was soon out of debt for
the first time in his life. He became an American citizen, in whole-hearted acceptance of the land that had adopted him.
The crowding years thereafter were filled with travel, writing, honours, and the friendship of men of learning and letters. His most cherished dream
was for a museum where every branch of the natural sciences should be represented. Harvard was persuaded to grant the site, and funds were sought
privately and from the state legislature, before which Agassiz appeared to plead his cause. "I don't know much about museums," said one legislator,
"but I will not stand by and see so brave a man struggle without aid."

Enduring Legacy. So was created the institution still fondly known as the "Agassiz museum," where every great American naturalist of the times
was trained.

Another of his projects was a summer school of natural science for teachers. If we study nature only in books, he said, we won't recognize her when
we meet her out-of-doors.

The first session was opened with silent prayer, and never was the old master more radiant and inspiring. Now more than ever his instruction was
tinged with the reverence which from the first he had brought to his great subject. "Nature," he said, "brings us back to absolute truth whenever we
wander."

It was not long after, in 1873, that he returned to her breast forever. His grave in Mount Auburn cemetery in Cambridge, Massachusetts, is marked
by a giant boulder brought from the Aar glacier where in his youth he had tingled to concepts still unfolding majestically today. For Agassiz's
students and grand-students, and others throughout the world, now believe that the great northern ice sheets came and receded three or perhaps four
times over the vast epoch which geologists call the Pleistocene or Ice Age.

Sitting as a student in Agassiz museum, I heard Dr Reginald Daly, foremost glacial geologist of his time, announce that we are today only halfway
through the Pleistocene. We now infer-since in the north the frost gods wait and the sun may cool once more-that some day the Great Ice may come
again. But man need have no fear that he will not survive. For Homo sapiens appeared on earth in an interglacial stage and, meagrely equipped
though he was, lived through the winters of the world that followed. Of all this that we now know or surmise, Louis Agassiz had no inkling. But he
would have felt no surprise, for to him all earthly happenings were part of a great plan conceived of God. "The study of Nature," he proclaimed, "is
intercourse with the Highest Mind."

New Stamp

A MILL OWNER in North India, unable to certify that his textiles were "Sanforized", "Tebilized" or "Mercerized" labelled his cloth "Patronized."
-P.S. Chawla, Chandigarh
 No Fooling
PANTOMIMIST Marcel Marceau: "With gestures you can express everything so as no to be misunderstood. Words can be tricky; but pantomime
has to be clear, simple and straightforward."
-Janik Press Service
That's Why
THE PASTOR of a church met a hard-working man, and during the course of ant conversation asked him if he, smoked, drank or swore. The reply
was a hesitant, "Well, every once in a while.
The pastor, his voice full of compassion, said, "Now, Jack, " I don't smoke, I don't drink and I don't swear." The man replied, "Yes, pastor. But you
don't farm."
-Alberta Wheat Pool, Canada
 The Prodigious Gifts of
Benjamin Franklin
BY BRUCE BLIVEN

N extraordinary man. But which was the true, the inner most Benjamin Franklin? The shrewd wit and homespun philosopher? The
A wizard of science? The canny business man? The revolutionary? Was it possible that one man could be all these, and more?

The awe of his reputation had preceded him, when he arrived in Europe in December 1776, five months after the American colonists had declared
their independence from Britain. The 70-year-old man came as a deputy of the New People, to plead for an alliance with France against England.
And though he became an instant hero and soon the most popular man in France, his features being reproduced in paintings, drawings, sculptures,
prints and statuettes-there remained always an aura of mystery about him, a thrill of apprehension that mingled with the awe. For his arrival spelt
trouble for social systems based on privilege or force, and hence the end of old Europe. He was, in fact, a dangerous man, sprung from a dangerous
people, embarked on the dangerous experiment of political liberty.

Useful Image. The Americans don't see Franklin that way; to them he's just kindly, humorous old Ben. Yet the truth is that "Old Ben" was at least in
part a self-conscious creation of art and publicity, promoted by the author to dramatize the American cause abroad.

Franklin's homespun side is true, but we let it obscure a complexity vast beyond imagining. When, for example, 500 learned societies from around
the world held in 1956 an international celebration of the 250th anniversary of his birth, the occasion had to be broken down into ten different
sections: 1. science, invention and engineering; 2. statesman ship; 3. education and the study of nature; 4. finance, insurance, commerce and
industry, 5. mass communication; 6. printing, advertising and the graphic arts; 7. religion, fraternal organizations and the humanities; 8. medicine
and public health; 9. agriculture; 10. music and recreation.

Yet Americans have reduced his achievements in pure science, which were so deep as to make him the Newton of the eighteenth century, to the
dimensions of the lightning-and-kite-string experiment, because it is easy to grasp. Similarly, they make of him a rather comfortable businessman
and booster, when, to the British at least, he was a dangerous revolutionary.

That disturbing quality was what spoke to the restive French of the 1770s. Here was an apparition from the future. In their hero they saw the simple,
noble frontiersman-a man of intelligence and reason, at the same time a forceful fighter for liberty who "snatched the lightning from the skies and
the sceptre from tyrants." They sensed the relevance to their own condition.
The secret of Franklin's own philosophical attitude is to be found in the peculiar twist that he gave to the prevailing British philosophy of empiricism
(which stresses reliance on the facts), turning it into a forerunner of the American philosophy of pragmatism (which stresses facts and their
usefulness to human life). The secret of his politics is to be found in his pragmatist's insight that social institutions are made not by Divine Will but
by men, and that they may be changed by men. It was a vision that came naturally to a new people who had recently created all their cities and
towns and consciously shaped their own governments, but it led to revolutions.

Comte de Mirabeau, the great French Revolutionary orator, called Franklin the philosopher who did most to extend the rights of man over the earth.
"Antiquity would have raised altars to this mighty genius," he said. Benjamin Franklin was a giant indeed-philosopher, states man, scientist, sage-a
universal man who worked for human freedom and enlightenment in a score of fields.

Franklin's vision also was the source of many of the paradoxes of his character. He was deeply involved in numerous causes, yet remained strangely
aloof. He was a revolutionary with a sense of humour. He was earnest because he knew that we really do make our own world, and so we must make
it the best world we can. Yet he was sceptical because he realized that the result of human effort is often a sorry and ludicrous botch.

First Impressions. Franklin was first and foremost a printer. Born humbly in Boston, USA, in 1706, the fifteenth of 17 children of a poor
candlemaker, he was at 12 apprenticed to his half-brother James, a printer. At 17, he went to Philadelphia, where, after working for others, he
opened his own printing shop. Physically robust, he was able to carry two heavy forms of type up a flight of stairs when others could carry only one.
Printing led Franklin to writing, and writing led to publishing, and publishing to business success and fame-but always about him there clung some
aroma of the journeyman's tavern or the printing shop.

While still a teenager, Franklin began writing unsigned or pseudony mous ballads and satires on the Boston Establishment. He slipped them under
the printing shop door at night, and his unsuspecting brother published them. To feed his insatiable urge to write, he taught himself science,
philosophy, languages (Latin, French, German, Italian, Span ish), for he had had only two years of formal schooling. In time, Franklin became
perhaps the best-known living writer of the English speaking world. His books of homely maxims were best-sellers on two continents, and his
Autobiography remains widely read. From his journals, in which he methodically set down and clarified his observa tions, he slowly built articles,
pamphlets, books-and the ideas that shaped a nation.

As fast as he wrote, he founded publications and grew rich on the proceeds. In Philadelphia, he started a newspaper and later a maga zine. At 26, he
initiated the immortal Poor Richard's Almanack. Dozens of its maxims are still in use: "Experience keeps a dear school, yet fools will learn in no
other"; "Nothing is inevitable but death and taxes"; "God helps them that help themselves."

Prolific Inventor. Even as a politician, he wielded a deadly pen. Lobbying for the Colonies in London before the Revolution, he pub lished a satiric
piece that quickly ran around the world: Rules by Which a Great Empire May Be Reduced to a Small One-his "rules" being precisely the injustices
suffered by the Colonies.
Franklin's publishing success enabled him to retire at 42. Although he hoped to devote the rest of his life to his deepest interest, experimental
science, he was to have only about five years before his countrymen commandeered his services. Even so, his scientific achievements put him up
with the giants.

Everyone knows how Franklin drew electricity from a cloud on a kite string, but few realize that he created the first viable theory of electricity.
Scientists had believed that lightning and electricity were two separate forces. Franklin proved (partly with the kite string) that they are the same
thing. He also was the first to describe electricity as being "positive" or "negative "-terms we still use today. We owe to him the words for battery,
conductor, electrical charge and discharge. These were enormous theoretical advances but, as always with Franklin, they were guided by practical
usefulness: as an outcome of his studies, he invented the electrical condenser, used today in every radio, television set and telephone circuit, and the
lighting rod, which re moved a real terror from people's lives.

Franklin also studied heat, light, sound, magnetism, chemistry, geology, oceanology and physiology. He invented chemical fertilizer, the Franklin
stove and bifocal spectacles, charted the Gulf Stream, discovered that storms rotate while travelling forward, explained waterspouts at sea. In
addition, he was a skilled musician, performing on the harp, guitar and violin, and able to write critically on the problems of composing.

Pulling Legs. Even his practical jokes usually had a scientific basis. Walking in an English park on a windy day, he noticed waves on the surface of
a brook-and told a group of sceptical friends that he could calm the waters. Slipping upstream alone, he unscrewed the top of his cane and poured
into the water a little oil from a receptacle he had filled in advance. As his friends watched in astonishment, the waves slowly subsided. In fact, he
seemed such a magician that, during the American Revolution, people in England seriously believed a report that "Dr Franklin has invented a
machine the size of a toothpick case that would reduce St Paul's Cathedral to a handful of ashes!"

Soon, however, Franklin was writing wistfully that "business some times obliges one to postpone philosophical activity." For his country had need
of him, and it was against his beliefs not to help. Franklin took up many civic projects in the ensuing years. He set in motion the first professional
police force and first volunteer fire company in Philadelphia, the first American fire-insurance company, the University of Pennsylvania and the
world-famous Pennsylvania Hospital.

More important, Franklin was the first statesman to think in terms of the nation as a whole rather than of separate colonies. Two decades before the
Revolutionary War, he invented the American dual system of state government united under a federal authority. After the War of Independence, he
prevented the collapse of the Constitutional Convention in Philadelphia. The small states wanted equal representation in Congress; the big ones
wanted delegations based on population. Franklin engineered the compromise under which the Senate is based on the first plan and the House of
Representatives on the second.

When Franklin died in 1790, he was the best-loved public figure in the world. The French National Assembly went into mourning for three days.
Biographer Carl Van Doren summed up his life: "Mind and will, talent and art, strength and ease, wit and grace met in him as if nature had been
lavish and happy when he was shaped." Ben said it even better in the epitaph he composed for himself when still a young man.
"The Body of B. Franklin, Printer (Like the Cover of an old Book, its Contents torn out, and stript of its Lettering & Gilding) lies here, Food for
Worms. But the Work shall not be lost: for it will (as he believ'd) appear once more, in a new & More elegant Edition, revised and corrected by the
Author."

Passwords
ACCORDING to an Islamic proverb, each word we utter should have to pass through three gates before we say it. At the first gate, the gate-keeper
asks, "Is it true?" At the second gate, he asks, "Is it necessary?" and at the third gate, "Is it kind?"
-Eknath Easwaran, The Mantram Handbook

Talking Big
A FOREIGNER was bragging to some farmers about the fruit in his country: "We have oranges that look like footballs. And the bananas, forget it!
They're as big as towers!" As he was talking, he stepped back and stumbled on a pile of watermelons. One of the farmers took advantage of the
opportunity to say, "Be careful with our grapes."
-Juan Ivan Pisua Gonzalez

Bismarck: Maker of
Modern Germany
BY FRANCIS LEARY
URING much of his career, he would easily have
D topped any list of most-hated statesmen. On learning
that one of this man's plots had miscarried, the Austro-
Hungarian foreign minister did three handstands on
his office desk. The Crown Princess of Prussia wrote
to her mother, Queen Victoria of England: "Not a day passes that the
wicked man does not drive on towards war, twisting everything to serve
his own purpose." The object of such fierce antagonism was Otto von
Bismarck who governed Prussia and then the German Empire for
almost 30 years. A massive moustached figure, he stood over 1.80
metres tall, and his pale blue eyes under shaggy eyebrows looked
coldly on his critics while his light tenor voice heaped scorn on those
who stood in his way. Bismarck's reputation remains that of the grim
Prussian in spiked helmet, his attitude summed up in a single famous
sentence: "The great questions of the day will be decided not by
speechmaking and parliamentary majorities, but by blood and iron!"
This image is not so much false as incomplete. Bismarck was highly
complex, even contradictory. He did build the most efficient army in
Europe, but he also remained deeply suspicious of the military mind.
He goaded the Austrians, and later the French, into a military show
down, but only when he realized that both wished to keep Germany
divided and weak. Bismarck looked upon Prussia as his true father
land, yet he engineered German unity, welding the 39 jealous and
disparate German states into a single nation.
Peculiar Traits. At home, Bismarck was the supreme political
pragmatist, always ready to make common cause with any opponent
who might momentarily help to push through his programmes. So
1
undoctrinaire was this conservative statesman that at the height of his
power he numbered among his friends leading socialists, borrowed
their ideas, and hired several to work on a newspaper which he
financed. (At one point, he even tried to persuade Karl Marx to join the
staff!) He also pioneered a series of social laws that were historic firsts
throughout Europe.
Ironically, the man known as the Iron Chancellor was also a quiver ing
jelly of emotions. After a set-to with the King of Prussia he was known
to burst into sobs in the intimacy of his study. Shakespeare and Byron
were among his favourite authors, and on duck-shooting excursions he
would read poetry.
He ate and drank enormously. He might consume 150 oysters at a
sitting, and he once declared that it was his intention to drink 5,000
bottles of champagne in his lifetime. Evenings, he often spent smoking
black cigars and swigging a potent mixture known as black velvet-a
blend of champagne and stout-which he had invented.
He was a master of language as well as statecraft, and his rich but clear
prose style is still admired today. Once, he dictated without interruption
for five hours while striding up and down in his office. His secretary
later recalled: "I was astounded by his faultless composition."
Born in 1815 into a family of Junkers, or country gentry, in Prussian
Brandenburg, Bismarck as a young man wrote to a friend that he
expected "to become either the biggest scoundrel or the first man of
Prussia." For a time it certainly looked as if he had opted for the first.
At Göttingen University, he was an eccentric and a rebel against
discipline. With reddish-blond hair down to his shoulders, he stalked
about in a voluminous cape and iron-heeled boots, carrying an iron
staff and trailed by several hounds. Proud and combative, he joined the
student dueling corps and won 24 out of 25 duels.
After an abortive civil service career, Bismarck spent almost a decade
managing various family estates in Pomerania and Brandenburg,
passing his days with "dogs, horses and country squires." And books.

"My general knowledge," he later said, "stems from the fact that at the
time when I had as yet nothing to do, I found on my estate a library of
all practical and theoretical knowledge and devoured it." In 1847 he
married a slender, dark-haired girl named Johanna von Puttkamer and
they settled at the family home at Schönhausen.
Political Manoeuvres. Within a year, however, the conservative order
that had dominated Europe since the fall of Napoleon began giving at
the seams, and the dream of a united Germany became the rallying cry
of the German liberal democrats. Bismarck, however, abhorred most
of their political views. In an attempt to counterbalance their influence,
he ran for parliament and secured a seat in the Landtag, or Lower
House.
In 1851, Bismarck won his first major post: Prussian envoy to
Frankfurt, seat of the German confederation. This association of Ger
man states was largely a shield for Austrian hegemony, so from the
start Bismarck seized every opportunity to assert Prussia's equality
with Austria. At meetings of the Diet, only the Austrian ambassador,
as president, had the privilege of smoking. Now when he took out a
cigar, Bismarck followed suit. When one of the liberal deputies at the
Berlin Landtag made disparaging remarks about Bismarck's "burning
cigar" policy, Bismarck, with customary flourish, challenged him to a
duel. Each fired one shot and missed.
As a diplomat Bismarck was sent to St Petersburg in 1859, for three
years, and then to Paris. But he remained distant from the levers of
power until finally, in 1862, his chance arrived. The new Prussian king,
William I, had become embroiled in a bitter dispute with the Landtag
over his proposal to reform military service. Knowing Bismarck's
reputation as a tough and crafty politician, William appointed him
prime minister. Bismarck skillfully maneuvered around the continuing
political deadlock and gradually turned his attention to eliminating
Austria from the German Confederation.
To the king, Bismarck relayed regular reports of inflammatory
Austrian moves. Meanwhile he worked on the public by planting
2
articles attacking Austria in the Berlin press. In June 1866 the
Austrians, heated to a fever pitch, finally directly challenged Prussia.
In just seven weeks Austria was prostrated. An observer recalled
Bismarck at the terrible field of Sadowa, one of the biggest clashes of
arms in European history, where 450,000 men locked in furious
combat: "Mounted on a huge chestnut horse, wearing a grey cloak, his
great eyes gleaming from beneath his steel helmet, he reminded me of
childhood tales about giants from the frozen north."
Napoleon Surrenders. Bismarck used his political momentum to unite
all the states north of the Main River in a North German Confederation.
Executive powers were given to a federal chancellor Bismarck.
The emergence of a powerful united German state was causing a shift
in the European balance of power that the French emperor Napoleon
III clearly could not tolerate for long. But if war had to come from that
quarter, Bismarck wanted France to appear the aggressor. An
opportunity arose in 1870, two years after the Spanish throne had fallen
vacant. Bismarck secretly promoted the candidacy of a Hohenzollern,
King William's distant cousin. The French were understandably
alarmed at the prospect of Hohenzollern monarchs on two frontiers,
and their ambassador pressed William, holidaying at the Prussian spa
of Ems, to disavow his cousin's candidacy. The king agreed. But when
the French envoy insisted that William publicly declare that the
candidacy should never be renewed, William declined further
discussion.
The report of the interview Bismarck received from his attaché in Ems
was relatively innocuous. But with his ear for words and politician's
instinct, he pared the message down to half its original length. making
the last French demand and William's refusal sound like a clean break.
He then released the now-famous "Ems Dispatch" through out Europe,
and Napoleon reluctantly opted for war.
The French lost virtually from the start. Their mobilization was chaotic,
their cannons consistently outgunned, their leadership incompetent.
 3

They were able to muster some 250,000 men to stand against a half- More than any other man, Bismarck created the political landscape of
million Germans, and the campaign was over in six weeks. Napoleon present-day Europe, marked by a powerful German nation. But while
surrendered personally to Bismarck at Sedan. he had built a mighty empire, he had left no one after him capable of
directing its awesome power. As the century expired and Europe slid
Daring Innovator. As Bismarck had anticipated, the war brought to his towards the holocaust of the First World War, Bismarck realized this
side the south German states that had remained outside his all too clearly and wrote stinging newspaper articles on the rash politics
Confederation. On January 18, 1871, a throng of gold-braided princes, of his successors.
dukes and officers surged into the marble Hall of Mirrors at the palace
of Versailles. A contemporary painting shows William, in a dark blue On the hot evening of July, 30, 1898, Bismarck's family gathered in his
Prussian uniform, facing Bismarck, in a white cuirassier uniform, as bedroom where he lay dying. Abruptly, the old man sat up straight. He
the chancellor reads from a scroll proclaiming the German empire. downed a glass of refreshment and, indomitable to the end, spoke his
William became the emperor; but, the world knew, the creator of the last word: "Forward!"
empire was Bismarck.
Names People Play
Determined to have a secure modern state, after annexing Alsace and
Lorraine from France, Bismarck built a network of alliances that bound A MANHATTAN book-store that sells only murder mysteries is called
virtually every capital in Europe to Berlin. In domestic affairs, the great "Murder Ink"
conservative became the most daring of innovators. He freed schools -J.M. in The New York Times
from church control and put them under state supervision, and removed
all restrictions on Jews holding office. In 1876 he extended to all
Germany civil registration of births, deaths and marriages, obligatory
civil marriage, and divorce. His programme of reforms culminated in
three landmark laws-the Health Insurance and Sick Benefits Act of
1883; the Workman's Accident Insurance Act of 1884; and the Old Age
and Disablement Pension Act of 1888-that made Germany, in the
words of British historian A.J.P. Taylor, "a model for every civilized
country."
When Bismarck tired of his responsibilities, he would retreat to one of
his vast estates to wander the woods, a beloved hound or two at his
heels. One day, catching a forester cutting down a withered tree, he
took off his broad-brimmed black cat, revealing his bald crown. "My
foliage is gone too," he said, "but I'm not ready to be cut down." It was
the brash young William II who finally felled him. In 1890 he pried the
ageing chancellor loose from his office and sent him home, along with
13,000 bottles of wine from the chancellery cellars.

Akbar,
the Great Unifier
BY SHALINI SARAN
N THE morning of 31 August 1573, 3,000 horsemen
O of the imperial Mughal army paused at the banks of
the Sabarmati. The rebels they were after lay just
beyond the swollen river, but the soldiers were
exhausted: they'd traversed 960 kilometres of difficult
terrain in nine days, riding almost continuously. Suddenly a warrior on
a chestnut charger plunged into the raging torrent. As man and horse
struggled on to the opposite bank, a thrill ran through the army. It was
the emperor, Jalal-ud-din Akbar! With a roar the soldiers followed him
across and within two days they had put down the rebellion so
thoroughly that Gujarat remained in Mughal hands for the next 185
years.
Such daring leadership was typical of Akbar, perhaps the most
powerful ruler India has ever known. During his 49-year reign, this
descendant of both Timur the Lame and Gengis Khan extended the
shaky principality he inherited into the world's mightiest empire of the
time. The administrative system he devised to run it lasted several
hundred years; some features exist even today. And, unlike most rulers
in that bigoted age, he believed in religious toleration. By not
discriminating between Hindus and Muslims, he laid the foundations
of a united India, setting the various groups inhabiting this country on
the road to becoming one people.
Akbar wasn't much to look at: stocky, and slightly bow-legged, with a
wart the size of a split pea on his left nostril. He had narrow eyes and a
loud voice. But he was a man of genius, full of fascinating contrasts: a
soldier who was also a mystic; an illiterate who enjoyed the company
1
of intellectuals; a Turk who became an Indian. All in all, he was one of
history's greatest monarchs.
Physical Prowess. Few could have foreseen Akbar's place in history
when he was born in Sind on November 23, 1542. (Later, to frustrate
hostile astrologers, the date was officially changed to October 15.) His
father Humayun was then on the run, having been defeated by the
Afghan Sher Shah. Humayun's father, the Turkish warlord Babur, had
swept down from Afghanistan in the 1520s and established a loosely
knit empire in northern India, but by 1540 Humayun, a clever but
unstable man, had lost it all.
Humayun was so poor at the time of Akbar's birth that he didn't have
money to celebrate. So he broke a pod of musk and distributed the
pieces among his few followers saying wistfully that he hoped that the
boy's fame would one day expand over the world just as the smell of
musk now filled the tent. Few fond parental hopes have proved as
prophetic. A few months after Akbar's birth, Humayun crossed over
into Persia, to seek Shah Tahmasp's help in regaining his kingdom.
Akbar, meanwhile, was left behind and raised by his uncles.
The young prince's spirit and strength soon became evident. At the age
of three, after Akbar had quarrelled with his cousin Ibrahim over a pair
of kettledrums, his uncle arranged a wrestling match between the two
boys. Akbar swaggered into the arena, dressed like a pahalwan and
downed Ibrahim - 18 months his elder - in less than a minute. As he
grew older his physical strength increased. When he was 19, he killed
a tiger with a single stroke of his sword.
Though the delight of his physical instructors, young Akbar drove his
tutors of distraction. He got his first teacher addicted to pigeon flying,
and when his formal initiation into learning was fixed, showed what he
thought of the whole business by refusing to show up for the ceremony.
Great Mission. Akbar's disdain for studying was a family scandal.
For centuries, the Timurids had prized the written word: Akbar's
grandfather Babur wrote so well that his memoirs are even today

considered a literary classic. But although Akbar never learnt to read,
his exceptional memory and enquiring mind eventually made him a
very erudite man. In later years, he memorized religious and
philosophical texts after they were read to him and often stunned
scholars by quoting long passages from them.
By the late 1540s, Humayun, with the help of an army the Persian Shah
had loaned him, had begun to reconquer his lost territories. By the age
of nine, Akbar accompanied him in these campaigns and aston ished
everyone by his grasp of military matters. In 1551, during a siege of
Kabul, Akbar made several suggestions to improve the trenches being
dug around the camp, and, the next day, when he saw that the engineers
were not carrying out his instructions properly, took them to task.
By July, 1555, Humayun had regained much of his kingdom. But in
January 1556 he fell down the steps of his Delhi library and died a
couple of days later. Akbar, 13 and then in the Punjab, was crowned
King. It didn't took as if he'd last long. Revolts broke out and in a few
months several cities, including Delhi, fell to the insurgents. But the
imperial armies under Bairam Khan, a general who remained loyal to
Akbar, gradually subdued the rebels.
For the next four years Bairam Khan ran the kingdom, while Akbar
appeared to be frittering away his time in hunting and other sports. But.
in fact, he was growing increasingly restless under the older man's
domination and impatient to take charge himself. In 1560, Akbar
sacked Bairam Khan and packed him off to exile. But it took him two
more years to suppress various other court intrigues against him and
take complete charge.
During the next 40 years Akbar slowly extended his authority across
more than half of the subcontinent. And though his conquests were
motivated largely by the straighforward desire to control as much
territory as he could, there were other reasons too. "Each man has a
mission to perform," he once told the Jesuit missionary, Father
Aquaviva. "Mine is to unite this great land."
2
Mystical Streak. Akbar could be ruthless in this drive for unity: after
the fall of Chitor, he ordered all its more than 30,000 inhabitants
massacred. But he also realized that a large empire could not be held
together purely by force. So, whenever possible, he wooed his oppo
nents by marrying into their families and giving them top jobs in the
imperial administration. This policy was particularly successful with
the Rajputs. In 1562, Akbar married Jodha Bai, daughter of Raja Bihari
Mal of Amber. The beautiful, intelligent Jodha Bai was allowed to
remain a Hindu and was Akbar's favourite among his more than 300
wives. Her brother Raja Bhagwan Das and her nephew Raja Man Singh
became two of Akbar's most distinguished generals, and the house of
Amber served the Mughals loyally for four generations.
Apart from winning over the aristocracy, Akbar also endeared himself
to ordinary Hindus, by repealing laws discriminating against them.
Soon after he took charge, he stopped the practice of enslaving
prisoners and forcibly converting them to Islam, and, within a couple
of years, abolished all taxes levied only on non-Muslims.
These measures obviously made political sense, but they fulfilled the
Emperor's personal needs too. Akbar had a strong mystical streak and
he yearned for spiritual unity. He constantly sought out the company
of holy men of different religions: during one of his campaigns, he took
a Portuguese missionary along and discussed Christian theology along
the way. He abolished the pilgrim tax against Hindus even though it
brought millions of rupees every year into the treasury. In fact, he felt
so exhilarated after revoking the pilgrim tax that he walked 58
kilometres al such a pace that only three of his courtiers could keep up
with him.
Akbar also tried to bring Muslims and Hindus closer together by trying
to make the personal laws of the two communities more similar. He
banned marriages between cousins, and tried to abolish child marriage
and suttee. He decreed that no widow could be cremated against her
will: once, when he heard that the widow of one of his officials was

about to be burnt, he jumped on a horse, rode alone to the site and
stopped the proceedings.
Successful Reforms. Akbar also got Hindu religious texts such as the
Atharva Veda, the Mahabharata and the Ramayana translated into
Persian, the court language. When he heard that one of his ultra
orthodox Muslim courtiers was protesting at having to translate the
Mahabharata, Akbar remarked wryly "No sword can sever the jugular
vein of his bigotry."
Akbar's quest for religious unity also led him to develop a new religion
which he called the Din-i-Illahi or "Divine Faith." Its doctrines were a
mixture of several traditional religions and Akbar hoped that it would
supplant both Hinduism and Islam. But to his great disappointment, it
never took root and even at the imperial court only 18 of the top 500
nobles embraced it. One of those who didn't, the general Raja Man
Singh, told Akbar: "I am a Hindu. If you order me to I will become a
Muslim. But I do not know of any faith other than these two." Akbar's
administrative reforms, however, were far more successful
than the Din-i-Illahi. Instead of relying on a hereditary aristocracy like
his predecessors, Akbar ran the country directly through a corps of
salaried officials whom he appointed. Around half the top jobs were
held by Hindus. One, Revenue Minister Raja Todar Mal was the second
most powerful bureaucrat in the empire.
Raja Todar Mal, under Akbar's direction, devised a system whereby
peasants were taxed according to the crops they actually produced,
rather than, as previously, according to royal whim. During Akbar's
reign, the average Indian peasant had more to eat than his counterparts
in Europe. Moreover, the imperial civil service that Akbar created
lasted for two hundred years; the British adopted aspects of it, some of
which continue even today.
Akbar was interested in every aspect of life. Apart from spiritual and
practical matters, he loved beautiful things and encouraged their
creation. This passion fostered the growth of a new Indian style of art
3
and architecture that combined the best of both Hindu and Islamic
cultures.
A Dream City. The best example of this fusion is Fatehpur Sikri, the
city Akbar built and made his capital for 16 years. Thirty-seven
kilometres from Agra, the traditional capital, Akbar built the city in
honour of Sheikh Salim Chishti, a Sufi saint who lived near by.
Distraught at having no sons, Akbar had sought the saint's blessings.
Sheikh Salim predicted that the emperor would have three. In 1569,
Jodha Bai gave birth to the first-the future emperor Jehangir - and the
overjoyed Akbar decided to build a city as thanksgiving.
Akbar called the best architects in India and Persia to Agra and spent
long hours discussing designs with them. He made suggestions, then
later supervised the construction. So beautiful was Fatehpur Sikri that
an English visitor described it as a "dream city, bigger and better thar
London."
Akbar was equally interested in painting. He encouraged Hindu artists
to work along with Persian masters and thus helped the creation of a
new style - Mughal miniatures. So knowledgeable was he that in a
single painting done by several artists - as was often the case those days
- he could tell who had done what. He had a knack for spotting talent,
too. Once, he saw his servant Daswanth doodling on the wall. He sent
him immediately for training, and within a few years Daswanth was
amongst the best artists in the empire.
Akbar spent some of his best years at Fatehpur Sikri. He slept only
three hours a night, beginning his day at sunrise by appearing at a
palace balcony to listen to his subjects' complaints. Apart from official
duties, he spent much time with the "nine jewels" of his court -
including men like Raja Birbal, whose shrewdness is still a byword
today and Mian Tansen, the great singer, who came to Fatehpur Sikri
after Akbar defeated the Maharaja of Rewa and insisted - as one of the
peace conditions that Tansen be surrendered to him.
 4

Son's Rebellion. For more worldly pleasures, Akbar had a harem of

over 5,000 women - no woman, it was said, except for Jodha Bai,
entered the emperor's luxurious bedroom, the Khwabgab, twice. The
apartment was jealously guarded. Once, when Akbar was away, a
foster relative held a celebration there. Akbar was furious when he
came to know, he demoted his kinsman and had the warden and
housekeeper trampled to death by an elephant.
Despite such punishments, Akbar was a liberal by the standards of his
time. He banned the practices of flaying people alive, for instance. And,
recognizing that he had a very short temper, he ordered that a death
sentence should not be carried out until he had confirmed it three times.
In 1585, Akbar left Fatehpur Sikri and shifted to Lahore. He continued
to marry more women and extend his empire. But his last years were
not happy. By 1590, close friends like Raja Birbal and Todar Mal were
dead. He was disappointed in his sons, and in 1601 the eldest, Salim,
rose in rebellion against his father and declared himself emperor in
Allahabad.
After negotiations with Salim collapsed in 1604, Akbar decided to
march against his son. But then Daniyal, Akbar's youngest son died
(the middle one, Murad, had died in 1599), thus leaving Salim as his
only possible successor. An emotional reconciliation between the two
took place and soon after, on 17 October, 1605, Akbar died.
Akbar lies buried at Sikandra, just outside Agra. Today, tourists,
anxious to see the Taj Mahal built by Akbar's love-sick grandson Shah
Jahan, rush past the Sikandra mausoleum with barely a glance. But
Akbar's place in history is assured: after Akbar, India could never
remain as before. The seeds of unity had been sown.
 1

Unforgettable
Ramon Magsaysay was born on August 31, 1907, in a small town in
Ramon Magsaysay Zambales, the impoverished province that includes the US Subic Bay
naval base. His father owned a general store and blacksmith's forge.
BY MANUEL MANAHAN The only remarkable thing about the boy's arrival was an unusual fold
of skin on his head, which lasted a few months. The "halo" prompted
some superstitious well-wishers to predict greatness in the infant's
O N DECEMBER 30, 1953, in the grandstand by future.
O Manila Bay, Ramon Magsaysay had been sworn in as
Ramon or "Monching" was a restless youth. He was chosen to deliver
the third presi dent of the Republic of the Philippines.
the class oration at his high-school graduation. But at Manila's
Now he was to take a short trip to Malacanang, the
University of the Philippines, where he was enrolled in a pre-engineer
presidential home. When offered his predecessor's
ing course, he was an indifferent student. Eventually he dropped out
massive closed Cadillac, he waved it away, selecting instead a
and took a job as a mechanic with a bus company in 1931. The work
borrowed Ford convertible with its top down.
suited him. Soon his bosses discovered that he could manage labour
Earlier Magsaysay had asked me to leave my job as a newspaper well and was scrupulously honest. After a series of promotions, he
publisher and join his administration. Now, at his request, I climbed in married Luz Banzon, an attractive 17-year-old whose parents owned a
the Ford. In Manila's heat and humidity, we slowly moved our way small bus company.
through a crowd of at least 500,000 countrymen. Cheering, waving,
Then, on December 8, 1941, Japanese planes bombed US bases at
clutching at the president, the throng followed us to Malacanang.
Clark Field and Subic Bay. Within weeks, young Filipino males faced
Magsaysay arrived sweat-drenched, exhausted, his shirt in tatters. So
an onerous choice: collaborate with the Asian invader or join with the
he retired to his private quarters change. Within minutes he ap peared
Americans. Believing in the Allied cause, Magsaysay signed up with
and asked, "Where are the people?"
US-led irregular forces.
"I locked the palace doors," his security chief explained. "Open all
In search of Magsaysay's unit, the Japanese made repeated sweeps
gates and doors," Magsaysay ordered angrily. "You have no authority
through Zambales. On at least four occasions, Magsaysay narrowly
to bar the people from me." Later, another outburst further underlined
escaped arrest. But he remained true to his American friends-first as a
his leadership style: "Don't call Malacanang a palace," he told his aides.
supply officer code-named "Chow," later as commander of a 10,000
"Kings live in palaces. I am not a king. "Halo" of Greatness. Indeed,
man force. Soon after the Americans and their Filipino allies recaptured
this former mechanic was no monarch.
Manila in February 1945, Magsaysay was appointed Zambales military
But what a president-in my view, the greatest we have ever had. governor.
Magsaysay taught us how a freely elected presidency could work in a
Some months later, Washington announced that the Philippines would
troubled, developing nation such as the Philippines. Above all, he
receive its independence on July 4, 1946. Magsaysay's young,
showed us how grandly we Filipinos can respond, given the chance, to
exuberant ex-guerrillas encouraged him to run as a Liberal Party
dynamic, democratic, incorruptible leadership.

candidate in Zambales for the forthcoming congressional elections.
With their help as campaign workers, Magsaysay, then only 39, won
his seat handily.
Despite the heady pleasures of freedom, however, those were not good
times. The economy was in ruins. Starvation was commonplace;
banditry, widespread. But by far the biggest threat was an ominous
legacy of the guerilla-fighting-a communist-dominated army, the
Hukbalahap (Tagalog acronym for People's Anti-Japanese Army).
When the war ended, four regiments of "Huks," as they were called,
refused to lay down their arms. Commanded by a popular peasant
leader, Luis Taruc, the communists were assassinating oppressive
landlords and officials and ambushing troops.
Continuing Insurgency. When Magsaysay was appointed chairman of
the House National Defence Committee in 1948, the Huk problem
became his most urgent concern. As the army argued with the police
and they both fought with the National Defence Secretary, the
insurgency continued to grow. By 1950 the communists had some
20,000 under arms and at least a million supporters.
President Elpidio Quirino, convinced that he, not the army and police,
should direct the anti-Huk effort, looked for a man through whom he
could administer the National Defence portfolio. Magsaysay was
selected for the job. On his first day in office, Magsaysay received
words that a notorious Huk leader known as "Commander Arthur"
wanted to see him under a truce flag. Was it a trap? Against the advice
of aides, Magsaysay went alone at night to a house in a Manila slum.
"Is anyone home?" he called as the pushed open the door.
"Yes, I'm here," said Arthur. The man's real name was Taciano Rizal,
a great-grand nephew of our martyred patriot, Jose Rizal. "I've heard
so much about you," he continued. "I wanted to find out what was true."
"I'm surprised at you," replied Magsaysay. "How can a Rizal fight on
the side of a foreign ideology? If your ancestor were alive, he would
2
surely seek peaceful reforms." After an hour of inconclusive
discussion, the two men parted.
Years later Magsaysay would learn that that meeting had indeed been
part of a Huk assassination plot. My friend had been saved only.
because the jeep carrying the killers broke down on the way to the
meeting place. Magsaysay worked 18-hour days as Secretary of
National Defence.
He cancelled all planned purchases of staff cars and spent the savings
on trucks and jeeps for combat teams. Operational headquarters located
in towns were moved closer to their units. Moreover, he would visit the
front line and military camps unannounced to boost soldiers' morale
and ensure that their basic needs were met.
Magsaysay also ordered the engineering corps to install irrigation
pumps, pipes and artesian wells in deprived rural areas. The need for
the armed forces to be loved and respected was his constant refrain. "I
want every soldier to serve as a public-relations man for the army and
government," he would say. "The army should bleed for the people and
not the people for the army."
National Hero. The phrase "all-out friendship or all-out force"
summarized his Huk counterinsurgency policy. If a Huk was willing to
surrender, Magsaysay made it as easy as possible for the rebel to
rehabilitate himself. For example, one young Huk sent to Manila to
assassinate Magsaysay turned over his gun and grenades to his would
be victim and was promptly put to work in the Secretary's office. To
this day the man remains a devoted Magsaysay family friend.
As the armed force's popularity grew and Magsaysay became a national
hero, Huks began surrendering in increasing numbers, many lured by
safe-conduct passes air-dropped in jungle areas. Magsaysay had many
of these defectors return to their comrades as government emissaries.
Gathered information was used by crew members of loudspeaker-
equipped aircraft to broadcast the names and personal + details of Huk
guerrillas lurking below. Increasingly swayed by Magsaysay's case for

the government's development efforts, Rizal requested repeated
meetings with him. One day the Huk blurted out, "Okay, I'll work for
you."
Rizal explained that a courier delivered messages from guerrilla bases
to Huk leaders living in Manila. For weeks military intelligence
followed her to various addresses. Then, in 22 simultaneous ràids, the
police not only found weapons, money and two truckloads of vital
communist documents, but picked up 105 suspects.
These successes soon sparked a Magsaysay-for-President Movement.
The opposition Nacionalista Party attempted to recruit him as its
presidential candidate. At the rejected thoughts of higher office. But
when Quirino sneeringly referred to him as nothing more than a "Huk
killer," Magsaysay's mind was made up. He resigned and joined the
opposition. He went on to defeat the incumbent in the 1953 presidential
election with an astonishing 68.9 percent of votes. To a nation weary
of corruption, Magsaysay seemed like a man from another planet.
Shortly after the election, he asked me to join him for lunch at his
parents' home in Zambales. At the end of the meal, the president stood
and pointed to his closest relatives. Then, to my embarrassment, he
roared, "Manny, remember these faces. If anyone here tries to use his
connections with me to obtain favoured treatment, throw him in jail!"
Fulfilling Promises. During the campaign, Magsaysay declared
repeatedly: "Those who have less in life should have more in law." He
had promised that voters would have the most responsive government
in their history. "If you've got a problem," he told his countrymen, "just
let me know."
To fulfil that promise, Magsaysay created the Presidential Com plaints
and Action Committee (PCAC) and put me in charge. Each day
hundreds of people and an avalanche of mail poured into Malacanang
with tales of misery: starving families; corrupt officials; cruel land
lords. By the end of the first year, we had received 59,144 appeals for
help and had resolved 31,876.
3
At one of our daily meetings, I mentioned Hermogenes Antonio, a
tenant-farmer who had written to complain that his landlord and beaten
him up during an argument over division of the crop. PCAC had sent a
telegram the previous day asking the provincial police commander to
investigate. There had been no reply. "Send another telegram saying I
am interested," Magsaysay told me.
Two hours later the president asked me whether I'd yet heard from the
police commander. I had not. He slammed his papers on the table.
"Come on," said the president. "Let's go!" Off we drove to Barrio
Bantug, Munoz, Nueva Ecija, 146 kilometres from Manila.
In the village, crowds gathered. "Where's Hermogenes Antonio?"
Magsaysay asked. "He wants my help." When they found Antonio, he
told about his beating. The culprit was a wealthy haciendero who had
made a large donation to Magsaysay's recent campaign. The president
and I looked at each other. "Manny," he boomed, perhaps a little more
softly, "see that the man is put on trial!" A court later put him away for
three months.
Word of Magsaysay's visit spread through the countryside like fire
through bamboo. When village headmen began volunteering
information on Huk guerrilla activities to PCAC teams, I realized that
the insurgency was all but over. After Magsaysay implemented socio-
economic reforms to help the peasantry, Taruc himself surrendered. "I
no longer have any reason to continue," he told me. "Most of what I've
been fighting for is now being done."
As the Huk threat diminished, the economy improved, and money
saved from military expenditures was used for education and social
services. The 1957 presidential election approached, and candidate
after candidate, eyeing Magsaysay's unmatchable popularity, with
drew from the running. His friends began nurturing a dream:
Magsaysay as the candidate of both major parties. But it was not to be.
A phone call at 5am from Malacanang was my first chilling hint that
something was wrong. "The president's plane from Cebu is overdue,"
 4

said the undersecretary of foreign affairs. "Please come over." Then, at

9pm, the news came the president had been killed when his ageing C-
47 had crashed because of engine failure. It was March 17, 1957-he
had been in office just three years, two months and 17 days.
Noble Legacy. Shocked relatives, friends and aides gathered at
Malacanang to mourn Magsaysay's abrupt passing. Someone took me
aside and whispered, "Manny, we've got a problem. What can we do
about Luz and the three children? We've just learnt that Monching
doesn't even own a house!" His net assets were valued at just 86,000
pesos (then about $40,000).
Free for the first time of Magsaysay's strictures on private gain for his
family, many offered help A real-estate developer donated a suburban
Manila lot. Gifts of wood, cement and labour followed. Some 7,000
Manila stevedores each contributed a tile for the building's floor. The
only capital the Magsaysay family accumulated came not from the
nation's coffers but from the heart.
For Ramon Magsaysay was a president who drew strength from
selfless service, honesty and a confidence in what a country may
accomplish when its democratic leadership is responsive to the people.
He was, as the late Senator Cipriano Primicias eloquently put it, "a
bright, glorious meteor across Philippine skies, dispelling gloom,
bringing faith, hope and charity into his countrymen's hearts."
Simple Solution
AN EIGHT-YEAR-OLD boy watched his mother change his baby
sister's nappies. "Why don't you feed her powdered milk?" he asked.
"Then all you would need to do is dust her off."
-Selecta, Germany

Man Who Conquered
Half the World
BY LENNARD BICKEL
N THE high summer of 1228, the world's fiercest
I warlords gathere between the Tuul Gol and Kerulen
rivers in northern Mongolia. They formed a concourse
brimming with colour and remorseless might: military
leaders from Persia, China, Russia and central Asia-
elite of the Mongol war machine, cruel masters of one of the largest
empires in history-with cadres of retainers, generals and commanders
in attendance. Their purpose was two-fold: to honour the memory of
their deceased leader Genghis Khan, the architect of their empire, and
to elect his chosen successor, his third son, Ögödei.
A serious fall from his horse had ended the life of Genghis Khan while
campaigning in northern China the previous year, and his followers had
secretly transported his body over desert and mountain to this sacred
Mongolian site, not far from their meeting place. Luckless souls who
met the royal cortège had been slaughtered on the spot, partly as ritual
sacrifice and partly to keep the mighty leader's death a secret from the
outside world until the funeral was over.
Once that was done, the Mongol chiefs and the sons and relatives of
the emperor set about the business of electing the new ruler a long and
difficult duty owing to the rivalry between his four sons,
Another and far more pleasant task was that of recording the incredible
career of the world's most feared conqueror. Night after night, in the
white tents and round campfires, the old comrades and loyal followers
of Genghis Khan recited and reminisced while scribes, writing in the
beautiful, vertical script that had only recently been acquired from the
Uygur Turks, compiled The Secret History of the Mongols. This
1
unusual document, part saga, part history, was jealously guarded in the
court archives, and only members of the imperial family or the ruling
élite had access to it.
Subsequently, sections were added, covering the reigns of Ögödel and
his successors on the Golden Throne. When in the latter part of the
thirteenth century Kublai Khan, Genghis Khan's famous grandson and
the patron of Marco Polo, moved his capital to China, the precious
Mongol saga was kept in the Imperial Palace in Peking.
There, more than six centuries later, it was to offer Westerners a
solution to one of the great mysteries of history: why, when the
Mongolian armies were at the Adriatic coast, about to engulf Chris tian
Europe, did they steal away virtually overnight and go back to
Mongolia? In The Secret History lay the simple yet startling
explanation of the Mongols' mystifying retreat.
Unreliable Translation. During the fourteenth century, the glory of
Genghis's empire faded. By 1368 a series of uprisings in China had
driven the last Mongol sovereign from Peking, and all that was
Mongolian was derided as barbaric. Buildings, palaces, robes, art,
documents were put to the torch. But The Secret History survived after
a fashion because the new Ming court had a use for it.
To cope with the still troublesome Mongols on their northern border,
the Chinese needed interpreters in the despised language, and The
Secret History made an ideal textbook. Subsequently, scholars
produced a text in which the Mongol words were transcribed
phonetically into Chinese ideographs. Having thus turned the saga-in
sound and meaning into their own language the Ming scholars
discarded the original Mongol text as trivia.
After a while even the Chinese phonetic version was forgotten. It came
to light again about 100 years ago, when a Russian priest who was also
a sinologist rediscovered it in Peking. Not until 1908, however, was a
printed version made. Scholars in Europe, Asia and America hen began
striving for a definitive translation. But reconstructing the original

Mongol sounds from the Chinese phonetic transcription, combined
with the often-insurmountable difficulty of understanding the old
Mongolian language, proved formidable. Nevertheless, translations did
appear in various languages. None, however, was reliable or
satisfactory.
Finally in 1965, Dr Igor de Rachewiltz, Senior Fellow in Far Eastern
History at the Australian National University in Canberra, pushed open
a new door. Equipped with a knowledge of both Mongolian and
Chinese, and a student for a quarter of a century of Inner Asian history,
he approached technicians at ANU's big computer centre with a
challenging enquiry. Could they programme their computer to make a
concordance of all the words in The Secret History?
The technicians agreed to try. A roman letter version of the Chinese
phonetics, made by a French scholar some 50 years ago, was
laboriously typed on computer cards. A programme was devised which
came as close as possible to recapturing the original meaning of words
spoken by the Mongolian chieftains.
Then, in the cool quiet of the ANU computer room one day in 1967,
technicians watched for seven hours as the computer's printer released
fold after fold of paper, covered with roman letter renditions of the
38,000 alphabetically arranged words of The Secret of History.
Painstakingly Dr de Rachewiltz set about checking the inconsistencies
of the text by using his concordance and so was able to correct the
errors made by the Ming scribes centuries ago.
In 1970, Dr de Rachewiltz, invited to the Mongolian People's Republic
as an honoured guest of their Academy of Sciences, was able to discuss
his work with Mongolian scholars and check his conclusions against
other surviving documents in old Mongolian script. Back in Canberra,
he started translating The Secret History into English.
A spell-binding mixture of poetry, mythology and hard-boiled re
porting, the saga contains the oft-told tale of the Great Khan having
been born clenching a blood clot the size of a knucklebone. According
2
to The Secret History, the implacable Genghis kills an older brother for
stealing a bird and a fish from him a great crime in a poverty-stricken
land. In one of the most moving passages of the saga, his mother Hoe
lun, cries:
From the warmth of my womb
When he broke forth fiercely
Clutching a black clot of blood in his hand,
This one was born from me!
Like a wild dog biting off its after birth...
Like a lion that cannot master its rage...
Like a falcon attacking its own shadow...
You have destroyed!
Genghis grows quickly to manhood. He is strong and enduring; he is
also shrewd and calculating, a diplomat and maker of all alliances. Men
bring their clans to his side against the enemy tribes and note "the fire
in his eyes, the light in his face."
He is ruthless but not without compassion. When a childhood friend
named Jamuqa is taken captive after losing a tribal war against
Genghis, the Great One offers to spare his life-though Jamuqa has
murdered 70 of Genghis's men by boiling them in oil. In a Homeric
scene Jamuqa refuses the amnesty and demands execution. Sorrow
fully, Genghis acquiesces and has his friend killed without spilling his
blood, in accordance with Mongol custom for a nobleman, by being
smothered in a roll of carpet and kicked to death.
By 1206, according to The Secret History, Genghis Khan had asserted
himself as overall chief of the Mongol tribes. His date of birth is
uncertain but he was probably then about 40. Totally convinced that
Heaven wished the whole world to submit to Mongol rule, he invaded
wealthy, populous northern China at the head of the united tribes
 3

burning any cities that put up a fight and slaughtering the inhabitants. another leader. Ögödei was dead. He had come to despise the
Resistance he considered evil, a contravention of divine will. traditional Mongol drink, made from fermented mare's milk, and had
become instead a great drinker of wine from vineyards in the west. The
Miraculous Deliverance. Yet, just as he had been moved to offer mercy cause of his death: alcoholic poisoning!
to Jamuqa, Genghis often meted out generous treatment to those he
defeated. Cities that opened their gates to the invading hordes provided Western civilization was saved from annihilation by one of its oldest
Genghis Khan with hundreds of artisans, engineers and soldiers. Some friends the grape. Comments Dr de Rachewiltz: "I can think of no
enemies who impressed him with their brave bearing were promoted greater irony in history."
over the heads of Mongol captains.
And the modern lesson of The Secret History of the Mongols? "Simply
Though he could not read or write, Genghis imposed the Mongols first to remember," says Dr de Rachewiltz, "that Genghis and his heirs were
written laws, a code of conduct known as the Great Jasagh. It provides men like other men, with their virtues and vices, generous and mean,
savage punishment for wrongdoing-death for refusing work, for not blood-crazed monsters somehow apart from the human race. Even
instance: for urinating in running water, for gluttony. But in a harsh in our computer age we do not understand the complexities of such
land these were matters affecting community survival. And the code men. That is why history matters."
also set quite admirable ethical rules, like honouring all religions,
sharing food, respecting the aged and the poor. Under Genghis's Rare Commodity
leadership, the Mongols subjugated northern China, Persia, ONE DAY at a restaurant I was charged an exorbitant price for an
Afghanistan and great tracts of western Asia as far as Russia. Before omelet. "Are eggs in short supply in your town?" I asked the waiter.
his death in 1227, Genghis left instructions for his heirs to pursue the "Not the eggs," he replied, "but customers are."
Mongolian goal of world conquest. In execution of his father's will,
Ogödei led his mighty armies across Asia and deep into southern -Arun Bagree, Calcutta
Russia. They took Kiev, defeated the forces of Poland and went on to
ravage Silesia and overrun Hungary.
By the end of 1241 they stood on the shore of the Adriatic. Europe's
fate trembled in precarious balance. Then, mysteriously, on December
11, 1241, the Mongols began to retreat. Says Dr de Rachewiltz, "If ever
there was a day which Europeans should celebrate-irrespective of
nationality, religion or politics - it is this one."
Most Europeans of the time counted their deliverance from the
barbarians a miracle. But The Secret History offers an explanation that
in its way, is just as extraordinary.
The Mongols turned their backs on terrorized Christendom because
they had to return to the sacred spot between the two rivers to elect

Alexander the Greatest
BY GORDON GASKILL
N A MAY morning in 334 BC, a young king
O reviewed his forces on the European side of the
narrow Dardanelles or Hellespont, then led his men
aboard boats. When his lead vessel neared the Asian
shore, he seized a javelin, hurled it into the beach
ahead and jumped out, the first on land. With this symbolic gesture
Alexander the Great set out to conquer much of the known world. He
nearly succeeded. He was perhaps the greatest general in history-
admired, envied and studied by Hannibal, Caesar, Napoleon, George
Patton and virtually every cadet in every military academy. His broad
vision and questing mind put him head and shoulders above other
conquerors.
But only figuratively speaking, for Alexander was unusually short,
probably little, if any, over 1.5 metres. He was said to be handsome -
prominent forehead, straight nose, jutting jaw- and he was the youngest
of all great conquerors: master of Asia Minor at 22, of mighty Persia at
25.
He was only 32 when he died in 323 BC, having conquered an empire
stretching from today's Yugoslavia to India and including all or parts
of Bulgaria, Israel, Egypt, Libya, Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan, the Soviet
Union. More than two-and-a-half centuries later, Julius Caesar wept to
read how much Alexander had accomplished by that age and chided
himself on being a failure.
Alexander's father, King Philip, was such a military and political
genius that history might have called him Philip the Great had his son
not so far outshone him. Philip honed the small but superb army his
son would later lead, raised his Macedonian kingdom to its zenith and
brought nearly all of Greece's squabbling cities under his sway.
1
Victory Over Persia. Philip chose his son's tutors carefully. One
admired Spartan discipline and taught the young prince endurance.
Later, the great Aristotle opened other horizons: morals, philosophy,
political science, botany, anatomy, history, literature, which would
make of Alexander the best-educated conqueror of many ages. Under
his pillow at night Alexander kept, first, a dagger against assassins and,
second, a unique copy of Homer's Iliad made for him with special notes
by Aristotle himself.
In 336 BC, Philip was assassinated, and nearly all his conquered
peoples revolted. They had nothing to fear, they thought, from the
callow new king, but Alexander struck north, east, west then south into
Greece proper. Thebes was mercilessly flattened (except a characteris
tic Alexander touch the descendants and home of the Theban poet
Pindar). The other Greek cities then opened their gates to him with little
or no loss of life.
Alexander now prepared for a Greek crusade into Asia, to punish the
Persians for having invaded Greece some 150 years before. Persia was
the richest empire, more powerful by far than any state in the known
world. Alexander had probably little more than 30,000 infantry and
5,000 cavalry. It is said that when the news of this small force reached
the Persian King Darius III, he laughed.
In the final battle with Darius, in modern Iraq, Darius' army was so
vasta million soldiers, the rumour went that Alexander's force seemed
a tiny island about to be engulfed by a tidal wave. Then Alexander
decided the victory by a classic manoeuvre learnt from his father.
While his centre drew the main enemy attack upon itself, he led a wild
but disciplined cavalry charge out around his right wing, then struck in
to catch the enemy's unguarded flank. At one point, he came almost
near enough to strike Darius with his own spear, but the Persian king
broke and fled eventually to be assassinated by his own men - and his
army collapsed.

Valiant Leader. Alexander had left Greece with the assurance of
Aristotle that all Persians were soft second-class human beings, fit only
to be slaves. But he found them noble, dignified, cultured and with
proper discipline- brave soldiers. He made friends of many and had
30,000 of the best Persian youth chosen to learn Macedonian military
discipline and the Greek language.
Aside from a few close friends, most of his men, even the highest and
noblest, the so-called Companions, were loath to see their king
fraternizing with those they still consider enemy. They had come to kill
and loot the Persians, and Alexander had seemed to agree. When they
had reached the capital of Persepolis, he had given them permission to
plunder all they liked, sparing only the great royal palace for himself.
Most Macedonian soldiers, including Alexander, drank too much. One
night at a huge drunken party inside the palace, somebody shouted out
that the Persians had burnt down the temples of Athens 150 years ago.
Why shouldn't they burn this palace down now?
Alexander himself led a reeling parade to throw out blazing torches
throughout the magnificent building. Soon it was ablaze everywhere.
Alexander sobered and tried to have the fire put out, but it was too late.
Oddly, this drunken crime paid off in our day: archaeologists digging
there found that charred debris had kept the wonderful stone carvings
of the palace nearly intact.
Alexander fought right beside his men in the front line in hand-to hand
conflict. In attacking a fortified Indian city, for example, with walls so
high and well-defended that even the tough Macedonians hesitated,
Alexander impatiently seized a ladder and with three friends climbed
the walls. In an act of extraordinary courage, he jumped down inside
among the enemy. Fierce enemy warriors closed in on him. He fought
hard, but at last a metre-long arrow pierced his chest, and he collapsed.
One of his Companions held a shield over him.
Search for the Unknown. The frantic Macedonians at that point
swarmed in and, seeing their king apparently dead, put to death every
2
man, woman and child in the city as vengeance. But Alexander,
learning the soldiers believed him dead, ordered that he be placed in an
open boat. As he floated past the soldiers, Alexander, with enormous
effort, slightly lifted his right hand. Then he called for his horse,
mounted and rode it a few paces, then dismounted to walk a few more.
The cheers of his soldiers rose like thunder. No wonder that they had
followed such a man wherever he led them. And where had he not led
them! When they reached a remote point in today's Punjab, Alexander's
surveyors, who constantly measured the roads they had travelled,
announced they had marched 18,100 kilometres in eight years. While
his wanderings were military, there is a strong sense that Alexander
was drawn on by a thirst for adventure and exploration. An ancient
biographer wrote: "He would always have searched beyond for
something unknown."
Everywhere he was accompanied by a bevy of savants and technicians.
He sent back to Greece samples of seeds, plants, minerals and birds
from his long and distant wanderings. He discovered new species
especially the cinnamon and the variety of spices the Greeks used
quintupled after Alexander's journeys.
Aristotle had taught that the world ended just beyond the Hindu Kush
mountains, with the earth-encircling great river named Ocean.
Alexander came to the Hindu Kush and found that the world went on
and on with rich kingdoms stretched out ahead. He eagerly led his men,
often fighting, across four of the five great rivers of the Punjab.
But when he came to the fifth, the Hyphasis, his men refused to follow
him. So did his generals. They had heard that still larger armies lay
before them, but the real factor that broke their spirit was probably the
terrible monsoons. For three months the sky was filled with endless
rain. In the humid heat, food went bad almost within minutes, armor
rusted, leather mildewed overnight, poisonous snakes swarmed into
camp quarters.

Stonily Alexander told his men he would go on alone if necessary, and
they could go back to Macedonia to tell how they left their king in the
midst of the enemy. All were silent.
At last Alexander found a face-saving way out: he announced that
soothsayers found all omens unfavourable and, because the gods so
willed, he would turn back. Before leaving, he had his men build 12
enormous altars, each dedicated to one of the 12 major gods of Greece.
Certainly ruins of these great altars exist somewhere in north-western
India but, despite much searching, nobody has yet found them.
The Greatest Legacy. As he turned back, Alexander left far more
behind him than the lost altars. Not in his wildest dreams could he
imagine that for centuries to come Greek classics would be played to
nomad tribesmen in Central Persia; that Greek legends would be carved
in stone as far away as India; that Oriental rugs and palaces would bear
traces of Greek design-all due to his passing. His name, which Asiatics
soon corrupted to Sikander, is still famous in Asia today.
Archaeologists claim they can almost trace Alexander's steps by ruined
Greek columns, theatres and temples. He founded more cities than any
other conqueror, and many were named Alexandria for himself. The
one in Egypt was to become a beacon of Greek culture, the soul of the
period called Hellenism when Greek became the common culture of
West Asia.
But all this was far off when in 326 BC Alexander bowed to his
stubborn troops and turned back westwards. He returned home to bad
news. He had been away too long. Many of his governors and generals
left behind had turned corrupt and savage tyrants, and he had to execute
them. Then he was faced with another army rebellion.
Eventually peace was restored, and Alexander began making bold
plans for further adventures. He ordered 1,000 new ships built in
Babylonia and ordered large new troop forces sent out from
Macedonia.
3
But after one huge drinking party in the spring of 323 BC, Alexander
went to bed suffering from a fever. Later theories spoke of poison. But
it is more likely he had come down with malaria, perhaps with liver
complications from drinking. Word spread among the troops that the
end was near when the appointed sailing date was cancelled. The
soldiers were allowed to file by where the king lay dying, saluting
them- they said later-with a movement of his eyes. It had long been
accepted that Alexander was more than human and already many
Greek cities worshipped him as divine. Now one general bent down
over him and asked softly: "Who shall be your successor?"
The king's lips began an effort at a smile. "The best," he whispered. But
even the best could not perpetuate the fabulous empire of the greatest.
Alexander started a new epoch, and nothing could ever be again like
the past.
What Was That Again?
SIGN IN front of a carpet agency: "MANUFACTURING AND
EXPORTERS OF IMPORTED CARPETS."
-Syed Farookh, Bangalore
HEADLINE in the Indian Express: "Indian Airlines Crash Course."
-Bhuvaneswari Venkatramani, Tamil Nadu
 1

Monty,
But the legend did him less than justice. Although teetotal himself, his
the People's General staff and guests never lacked for wine. He loathed tobacco smoke, yet
would always hand round cigarettes whenever he stopped to talk to his
BY PETER BROWNE troops. If he went to bed unusually early it was to be fresh for the next
day's decisions - he always rose soon after dawn.
Monty was above all a man of iron self-discipline, allowing nothing to
INSTON CHURCHILL thought him a Cromwellian
W distract him from his task of winning battles. He was a true leader -
figure "austere, severe, accomplished, tireless, his life
dedicated, mindful of his soldiers, utterly straight. Yet the very
given to the study of war." His countrymen knew him
qualities that gave him such a hold on the hearts and minds of his men
simply as "Monty," the cocky little commander who
made him enemies. All too often, breathtaking bluntness and supreme
at El Alamein in the North African desert in 1942 had
self-confidence bordered on arrogance and egotism. While he could be
won the victory which symbolized for the free world the turning point
charming and considerate with those of whom he approved, his
of the Second World War.
absolute insistence on efficiency led to officers being sacked with a
In Europe, where he later led the Allied armies, they called Field cold and contemptuous "Useless, quite useless," which rankles in many
Marshal Montgomery The Liberator, but Monty didn't look the part. memories even today.
1.73 metres tall, lean and briskly alert, he reminded one of his generals
Even his most fervent admirers had to acknowledge that he was a
of an intelligent terrier which might bite at any moment. It was the
prickly, complicated man: those who knew something of his upbring
piercing eyes that men noticed most. Said George Bernard Shaw, "Like
ing were not surprised. It was, as he said himself, a "curious back
a burning glass, he concentrates all space into a single spot."
ground."
Monty bristled with confidence. He had such an immense belief in his
Born in 1887 in a London vicarage, Bernard Law Montgomery was the
own ability, it was said that while to serve under him was a privilege,
fourth of the nine children of the future Bishop of Tasmania. He
to serve over him was hell. He was one of the few men who would
endured a miserably unhappy childhood. His mother often beat him
brook no interference from Churchill. "Prime Minister," he once
and many years later, he wrote: "A less rigid discipline, and more
snapped testily, "you are not a professional soldier. I am. You do not
affectionate understanding, might have wrought better, certainly dif
know how to fight this battle. I do."
ferent, results in me." Repressed at home, Monty sought compensation
Legend painted him as a puritan-teetotal, non-smoking, monastic in his at school, becoming a fiercely competitive youngster with a compul
way of life. Even Churchill contributed to the public image of Monty's sion to win.
asceticism when a Member of Parliament protested in the House of
From the Royal Military Academy at Sandhurst he joined the
Commons that the victor of El Alamein had invited von Thoma, a
Warwickshires and spent four years in India. During the First World
captured German general, to dine with him at his headquar ters. "Poor
War he fought in France; survived a rifle bullet through his chest, was
von Thoma," said Churchill drily. "I, too, have dined with
Montgomery."

awarded the DSO (Distinguished Service Order) and ended the war a
30-year-old lieutenant-colonel.
Well Prepared. To an ambitious young officer in 1918, much seemed
wrong with an army whose so-called "good fighting generals" ap
peared to have been those with the least regard for human life. Monty
was to remember this when he, too, became a general, urging his
gunnery officers, "If you have 100 tons of shells available and you can
save one man's life, then fire the lot." Meanwhile, he determined that
if Britain went to war again "I myself would be prepared, and trained,
and ready when the call came."
By the time he was nearing 40, his friends thought him a confirmed
bachelor. Then, skiing in Swizerland, he met Betty Carver, an officer's
widow. To everyone's astonishment, he fell in love. They married in
1927 and, he said, "It had never before seemed possible that such love
and affection could exist."
The marriage was the happiest time of his life, and gave him a son,
David. But it lasted only ten years before his wife died of blood
poisoning. Those who knew him best believed that he never fully
recovered: he retreated into his shell, solitary, self-sufficient, and
totally dedicated to the pursuit of professional excellence.
On the outbreak of the Second World War in 1939 he was a major
general. He acquitted himself so well in France that after the evacuation
from Dunkirk he was soon promoted to coc South Eastern Command,
covering Kent, Surrey and Sussex to organize a mobile system of
defence against the expected German invasion. His great opportunity
came in August 1942, when he was ordered to Egypt to command the
Eighth Army - which included the Seventh Armoured Division, the
self-styled "desert rats."
He arrived to find morale dangerously low among the men holding the
position at El Alamein to which they had been driven back some 950
kilometres by the Afrika Korps and Field Marshal Erwin Rommel. To
Montgomery the solution to this fundamental problem-restoring the
2
confidence of a dispirited army-was clear. He must become a popular
leader.
Sense of Humour. It was an extraordinary performance. Quite
deliberately, the solitary, withdrawn Montgomery set out to impress
himself on his troops as a personality-human, approachable and, as he
put it, "not only a master but a mascot." He bounced around the desert
in a jeep, giving pep talks to even the remotest units, dressed in a
sweater and baggy trousers and sporting the famous floppy black
beret with its two cap badges that became his trademark. The men were
inspired by his visits. They warmed to a general who [ALTHOUGH
the 4th Indian Division-the famed Red Eagles-was ulti mately to play
an important part in the Allied Victory at El Alamein, it was at first
relegated to a subsidiary role. When the guns began booming on the
night of October 23, the Division, comprising the 5th, 7th and 161st
infantry brigades, was deployed in the middle of the front, opposite the
Bologna Division of the Italian Army. Its job was to keep the enemy in
its area preoccupied with minor raids and to prevent reinforcements
from moving to the north where the main battle was raging. "A poor
sort of business," grumbled the disappointed divisional commander,
General Francis Tuker. But the Division succeeded in pinning down
the enemy and, in one raid, Havaldar Joginder Singh of the 1/1 Punjabis
of 161st Brigade won the IDSM-for his gallantry.
The Allied thrust in the north was losing momentum. On November 2,
1942, ten days after the battle began, Montogomery launched another
attack which was also blunted by the Germans. Then, after two
attempts to get around the Germans had failed, the 5th Infantry Brigade
of the 4th Indian Division under the command of Brigadier D. "Pasha"
Russell and the 152nd Brigade of the 51st Highland Division were
ordered to punch a hole through the enemy minefields to enable the
Allied tanks to break out. Hurriedly marching 20 kilometres through
ankle-deep sand, all the while dive-bombed by Stukas, the 5th Birgade
reached its position an hour late. At 4 a.m., on November 4, the Brigade
moved forward, just behind a devastating wedge of fire provided by

400 guns. By dawn, it had advanced about 8,000 metres and taken 351
prisoners, in several short, sharp engagements. At 9 a.m. Allied tanks
poured through the hole made by the Brigade and, wheeling north,
raced ahead to rout the Afrika Korps.
While the tired 5th Brigade dug in, mobile columns from the two other
brigades in the 4th Division scoured the desert for the demoralized
enemy and, by nightfall, had gathered a rich haul, including an Italian
general, 101 officers, nearly 2,000 men and a great deal of equipment.
So thorough was the Division's mopping up operation that no hint of
the vital breakthrough reached the Germans in the north-an important
reason, the captured Afrika Korps commander General von Thoma
later admitted, for the German defeat. Commenting on the performance
of Red Eagles, Earl Wavell, later to become Viceroy of India, declared
that they "will surely go down as one of the greatest formations in
military history, to be spoken of with such as the Tenth Legion, the
Light Division of the Peninsular War, and Napoleon's Old Guard."
-KAMAL NAIN SINGH]
showed a genuine interest in them and lived with them in the desert.
They liked his sense of humour: discovering that a tank crew kept a
hen called Emma who loyally laid an egg a day, he promoted her to
sergeant-major. Passing a lorry driven by a soldier naked except for a
top hat, Monty roared with laughter, but decided that a line had to be
drawn somewhere, and the order was posted: "Top hats will not be
worn in the Eighth Army."
At home, Winston Churchill was fretting for action, pressing for an
offensive in September. But Monty refused to move until he had the
firepower and trained manpower to be certain of success. It was at 9.40
p.m. on October 23, 1942, that an artillery barrage of more than 1,000
guns blasted the enemy positions and 1,200 tanks rumbled forward,
followed by seven divisions of infantry. Twelve days later the Battle of
Alamein had been won, and the German army was in full retreat. As
3
Churchill wrote: "It may almost be said 'Before Alamein we never had
a victory. After Alamein we never had a defeat.""
On May 12, 1943, the Eighth Army having linked up with Anglo
American forces which had landed in Morocco and Algeria, some
248,000 German and Italian soldiers surrendered. The war in Africa
was over.
Monty flew home to be knighted by King Grorge VI and to his
astonishment found himself a national figure. Visiting a London theatre
in his black beret, he stopped the show. His fan mail reached film star
proportions.
Triumphant Success. After leading the Eighth Army in the invasion of
Sicily and then southern Italy as part of an Anglo-American force under
General Eisenhower, Monty was recalled to England for the biggest
task of his career: to take command of the Allied armies in what has
been called the most complex military operation in history-the
Normandy landings.
In a special train code-named "Rapier" he toured Britian, visiting all
the troops who were to cross the Channel-British, Canadian, Ameri
can, Belgian, Polish, Free French, Dutch. These were men grimly
expecting to suffer heavy casualties, and he had his own way of putting
heart into them.
He met them at two and often three parades a day, each of some 10,000
soldiers, standing at ease in a hollow square while he walked slowly
through the ranks so that they could have a good look at him. Then they
gathered round as he told them how, together, they would handle the
job. Typically, he asked one young guardsman: "What's your most
valuable possession?" "My rifle, sir." "No, it isn't," said Monty. "It's
your life, and I'm going to save it for you. Now listen to me..."
The invasion began on June 6, 1944. For Monty, this was a different
kind of campaign. In the desert he had fought what was virtually a -
private war. Now his political masters had agreed that after the invasion

and initial battles, he would hand over control to General Eisenhower
as Supreme Commander.
For almost three months Monty led the Anglo-American forces across
Normandy, driving the enemy out of France, and was promoted to
field-marshal. At the triumphant moment of the liberation of Paris,
Eisenhower took over. Monty bitterly resented having to step down,
believing that if he was allowed to follow up his success he could
swiftly thrust into Germany itself.
Active 'Retirement'. The British and American armies crossed the
Rhine, and urged on by Churchill, Monty's 21st Army Group raced for
the Baltic coast to seal off the Danish peninsula and prevent Russian
forces from occupying Denmark. They made it with six hours to spare.
On May 4, 1945, at Lüneburg Heath near Hamburg, Monty accepted
the surrender of all German troops in north-west Germany, Denmark
and Holland.
Next year he was appointed Chief of the Imperial General Staff (Cics),
the highest post in the British Army. He was now Viscount
Montgomery of Alamein, at 58, a world figure, the seven rows of medal
ribbons on his uniform representing honours bestowed by 12 nations.
Following a stormy period in Whitehall as acs-"I never minded
marking myself an infernal nuisance if it produced the desired result,"
he noted cheerfully-Monty became an international soldier, working
once again with General Eisenhower as Deputy Supreme Commander
of the Nato forces in Europe. He retired from the army in 1958 aged
almost 71 and promptly embarked on a new way of life, based on
Isington Mill, a beautiful old property in Hampshire which he rebuilt
after the war with fine timbers presented by Australia and Canada.
Monty became a prolific writer and broadcaster. Television produc ers
found him a natural performer, crisply confident as he refought his
battles on the small screen. But his favourite activity was travel. He
hustled around the world in his self-appointed role as elder statesman
4
with the energy of a man half his age-visiting Russia, India, Central
America, Egypt, Canada and China twice, South Africa six times.
Always he returned to London in time for the annual Alamein Reunion,
the remarkable gathering of desert veterans at which the highpoint was
the entrance of the Eighth Army Commander.
His last foreign trip, in 1967, was a return to the North African
battlefields. His friend Denis (now Sir Denis) Hamilton recalls the old
man's sombre silence as they walked through the Alamein cemetery
commemorating some 20,000 desert saliders. "When I asked him if he
would like to visit German and Italian war graves near by, he said: '1
think I've killed enough people without going to see those and be
reminded of it.""
Peaceful Death. At 79, the desert journey marked the end of his public
life. Wrote a small boy the following year: "Dear Sir, I thought you
were dead. My father says you were dead. My father says you are still
alive but will die soon. Please send me your autograph quickly." Monty
instantly complied, commenting: "I think his ap proach to the problem
was sound."
He spent his last years at home with his memories, re-enacting old
campaigns. Recalls the Reverend David Dewing, vicar of the nearby
village of Binsted: "Even when he was bedridden, he was still in
complete command. Just before Christmas 1975 he said to me, 'When
I go, I don't want them to put me in one of those mausoleums in
London.' Then his blue eyes suddenly twinkled. 'Do you think you
could find me a spot in that churchyard of yours?""
He died peacefully in his sleep in March 1976. At his funeral, a 19 gun
salute thudded across Windsor as six field-marshals and the military
attachés of 39 countries followed the gun carriage bearing the coffin
with the black beret on top to St. George's Chapel. Later that day,
Viscount Montgomery of Alamein was laid to rest under a great yew
tree in the quiet of Binsted churchyard.
 5

Since then, the visitor's book in the parish church has had to be renewed
six times, each fresh volume swiftly filled with signatures as more than
30,000 people from all over the world have come to pay their tribute to
the man Sir Brian Horrocks has called the greatest British general since
Wellington.
The unsigned message pinned with a single Flanders poppy to a tiny
wooden cross at the funeral in 1978 spoke for all who lived through the
Second World War: "Monty, We will remember you."

Unforgettable
Douglas MacArthur
BY DENNIS McEvoy
T O MILLIONS of his fellow citizens, five-star
General of the US Army Douglas MacArthur was the
T nervous energy as he paced up and down the room during our
all-time All-American patriot. Other millions thought
him vain, bombastic and potentially a dangerous
demagogue. To me, and I knew him well, he was a
friend whose virtues and faults, as befits a hero-which
he unquestionably was-were on a heroic scale.
During the First World War he led the famous Rainbow Division in
fighting in France. In 1930, he became US Army Chief of Staff, at the
age of 50, one of the youngest in US history. In the Second World War
he took more territory than Darius the Great. (Admittedly, most of it
was water; but in strategy and execution his was still one of the great
military accomplishments of all time.)
At the peak of his career, as Supreme Commander for the Allied
Powers in post-war Japan, he led the transformation of a feudal,
militaristic nation headed by a God-Emperor into a democracy. He laid
the groundwork for a treaty of genuine US-Japanese friendship. Then
came the Korean War. When he publicly collided head-on with his
commander-in-chief, President Harry Truman, over the conduct of the
war, he was summarily relieved of command. Thus ended, in a swirl of
controversy, a military career without parallel.
I first met Douglas MacArthur in 1938 in Manila when I was a foreign
correspondent. He was a field marshal of a virtually non-existent
Philippine Army, having been loaned by the US government to help
the newly created Philippine Commonwealth raise its own armed
forces. I was ushered into MacArthur's presence by his chief of staff, a
1
cheery, sharp-eyed US Army lieutenant-colonel named Dwight D.
Eisenhower. "He'll go far," MacArthur said of the future President in a
subsequent interview-probably the only time he was guilty of an
understatement.
The impact of MacArthur's personality was tremendous. As one who
knew him remarked: "He could walk into a room full of drunks and, in
five minutes, they would all be sober."
Tall, dark, handsome as a film hero, MacArthur radiated enormous
interview, smoking. Born in 1880 in Little Rock, Arkansas, he had been
raised on the high-sounding oratory of the era. His public prose was
classic and flawless, though much of it coloured beyond the wildest
hues of the rainbow. As for his private conversation: the late John
Gunther, interviewer of many world leaders, regarded MacArthur as
the best speaker he ever heard.
MacArthur and I saw each other on various occasions during the next
few years. On July 26, 1941, he was recalled to active service to
command all US Army forces in the Far East. It seemed that zero hour
with Japan was near, for the very same day, President Franklin D.
Roosevelt had slapped on a total oil embargo against that nation.
Privately, MacArthur called it the "ultimate provocation: there is no
going back." Stupendous Knowledge. In November 1941, MacArthur
summoned me to his office. I had just arrived from Moscow, where the
German besieging armies were so close that reinforcements from the
Moscow garrison were being sent to the front in tram-cars. It seemed
certain the Soviet capital would fall. MacArthur cross-examined me
about the Red Army and the Russian-German war. It developed,
perhaps not surprisingly for a man of his intellect (he graduated first in
his class at West Point), that he knew more about the gigantic war than
I did. He knew the countryside around Moscow intimately: where the
Germans were attacking, where they had been stopped or slowed down.
How could he have such incredibly detailed knowledge of an area

he had never seen, and of events not reported? "Reread Tolstoy's War
and Peace," he snapped. "The Germans are fighting the same war
Napoleon did. Hitler's fate will be the same as Napoleon's. He under
estimated the courage and endurance of the Russia people and he
started too late to defeat Russia's greatest general, that ageless warrior,
'General Winter'."
My editors thought me mad when I cabled that "qualified observers"
believed Moscow would hold. But it did. And then some. Was
MacArthur arrogant? Indeed, yes. But as onetime aide Briga dier-
General Elliott Thorpe (Retd.) puts it: "He had the egoism of the man
who says 'I can hit that target ten times out of ten'-and then does it."
Or, in the words of the late Walker Stone, an American newspaper
editor: "Never underestimate a man because he overestimates him
self." Personally, MacArthur was totally fearless, even contemptuous
of death. He held all the decorations, some awarded to him numerous
times, which could be given for personal bravery under fire-including
the highest, the Congressional Medal of Honour. His father, Lieuten
ant-General Arthur MacArthur, a Civil War hero, also won this medal,
making the only father-and-son team in history to do so.
Two weeks after our interview, the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbour,
the Philippines and British possessions in Asia. Jeannie MacArthur and
young son Arthur were with the general during the Japanese siege of
Manila. "We three drink of the same cup," she said when refusing the
opportunity to be evacuated to safety. The family left the doomed
fortress of Corregidor in March 1942, only on orders from President
Roosevelt. MacArthur was sent to Australia to direct Allied defence
and begin the drive for the relief of the Philippines.
Incredible Memory. Less than three years later, he was ready to fulfil
his famous promise and return. Colonel Weldon ("Dusty") Rhoades,
2
MacArthur's personal pilot, tells the story of the Leyte landing when
the reconquest of the Philippines began:
"The beach had not yet been secured and sniper fire was buzzing all
around us. I headed for the nearest safe-looking tree. 'Are you afraid,
Dusty?' the general called out. There he was, walking along the beach
as if on a Sunday stroll, while bullets and mortar fragments were
kicking up the sand at his feet. "I sure am, I replied. 'Aren't you,
General?""
"He stopped, looked at me with a serious expression and said, 'No. God
gave me a mission to perform. He is not going to take me away until it
is done."" "I replied that God had given me no such mission and, with
the general's permission, I would just stay where I was for while. He
laughed, and walked on."
At the end of the Second World War, the victorious Allies placed into
MacArthur's hands both the baton of a generalissimo of armed forces
and the sceptre of a ruler with dominion over some 80 million Japanese.
No other American in history has ever been granted such powers.
He stayed in Tokyo for five and a half years. Every day (he worked
365 days a year), he followed the same route, at the same time, four
times a day (he always went home for lunch), between his quarters at
the American Embassy and his office in Tokyo's Dai-Ichi building,
facing the Imperial Palace. Anyone who cared to see him-or to
assassinate him-could have done so, from a distance of a few metres.
During the violent anti-American demonstrations in May 1950, in
Tokyo, when about 15,000 Japanese were demonstrating in the area
between his home and his office, his nervous staff submitted to him
elaborate plans for his security, including use of armed US combat
soldiers. He waved them all aside and drove to his office on the same
route, at exactly the same time as he did every day. The Japanese fell
back and let his car, proudly flying his five-star flag, through their
ranks. Many lowered their signs and bowed.

Thoughout the Occupation, I talked with MacArthur frequently.
Elected by the American business community in Tokyo as President of
their postwar Chamber of Commerce (I had spent my formative years
in Japan), I had to lay various problems on his desk. Always he gave
me quick, fair decisions. Then our conversations would roam far afield.
He was interested in almost everything, and his memory for facts was
phenomenal, bordering on total recall.
A Military Aristocrat. MacArthur's public and private image were as
different as night and day. I found him warm, compassionate,
humorous: basically a shy, sensitive man. He was not a politician in the
US tradition. I cannot see that seemingly aloof man going about kissing
babies-he certainly lacked the common touch. And it was virtually
impossible to get him to stand still for a picture.
I last saw MacArthur in his Tokyo office in late December 1950. My
office had posted me to Europe and I had called to say good-bye. He
was in a furious mood. Three months earlier he had brought off the
audacious strategic stroke of the Inchon landings in Korea, a military
miracle. But by now, it was a new war. Chinese Communist armies
were pouring across the Yalu River into North Korea and his hands
were tied. Washington wanted an honourable peace while MacArthur
wanted to win the war. He believed profoundly in his own slogan,
"There is no substitute for victory."
Less than four months later, in April 1951, Truman relieved MacArthur
of all commands because of the general's open disagreement with the
Administration's war policy. He returned to the United States and
remained in the Army without assignment until his death in 1964.
MacArthur had argued with Presidents before. He had disagreed with
Herbert Hoover on disarmament. A battle with Roosevelt was over
inadequate supplies to the pre-war Philippines, and with Truman it was
Korea. Along with overoptimism, as in his conviction that the Chinese
would not enter into the Korean War, and an extraordinary sensitivity
to criticism, this unshakable belief in the infallibility of his own
3
judgment was, in my opinion, one of his major faults. Yet he was
usually correct.
There are those professional soldiers and military historians who
believe that MacArthur deserves that highest of all military accolades,
the title of a Great Captain. Other commanders in this élite group
include Alexander the Great, Darius, Napoleon, Wellington and
Ulysses S. Grant, Douglas MacArthur was a military aristocrat-one of
the few America has produced.
Mother's Nature
US House of Representatives member Ike Andrews admits to being
more than a little awe-stricken at his first presidential reception for
members of Congress. "I was standing there with my cup of punch
thinking I was sure a long way from home," he reported in a speech,
"and it occurred to me that it would just tickle my mother pink to have
me call her from the White House." The Congressman found an empty
office and placed his call through the White House s switchboard.
"Mom, this has been a big day for me," he began the conversation
proudly. "Guess what? I'm calling you from the White House!" "That's
nice, son," the 82-year-old Mrs Andrews replied pleasantly, if not with
quite the excitement expected from the other end of the line. "As a
matter of fact, it's been a pretty big day for me, too."
Really? What happened?"
"1 finally got the last leaf raked up out of the front yard."

Unforgettable
Omar Bradley
BY C. B. HANSEN
NE DAY in 1951, when I was thinking of taking a civilian
job after nine years with General Omar Bradley, Brigadier
O General Willis Matthews sought me out with a friendly
caution. "Brother," he said, "after all that time with Uncle
Omar, you're scarcely fit for this world. Everyone else is
going to look like an SOB." Well, not everyone. But Willis
was partly right. Omar Bradley, who died on April 8, 1981, at the age of 88,
was not only one of America's greatest field commanders but also a man so
unaffectedly human that he almost seemed miscast for the general's role. Not
that working for him was easy. In wanting never to let him down, we were
hard on ourselves, harder even than we might have been under General
George Patton. I went with Omar Bradley from his command of a raw infantry
division in Louisiana, through his battle field command of the largest
American combat force in history, and on to his service as the first chairman
of the US Joint Chiefs of Staff. The miracle of the man was that not once did
I ever hear him raise his voice or speak an unkindness. He never changed
from the gentle, plain spoken man who fetched me a soft drink the day I
reported for duty as his aide. There was no pretence to General Bradley.
He was equally at home with prime ministers and platoon sergeants,
equally interested in what they had to say. Rank meant little to him.
What counted was that everybody soldier to the limit. Some generals
command by pushing;
General Bradley did it by example. In Sicily, Bradley was tagged as
the "Soldier's General." Maybe it was because he looked a little like an
enlisted man, in his second hand short battle jacket, olive-drab trousers
and infantry toots; maybe because he had a habit of showing up quietly
everywhere on the line in an unescorted jeep. But that affectionate label
stuck with him through the war, and he never stopped earning it.
1
When I first joined him in Camp Claiborne, Louisiana, in March 1942,
Bradley was putting together the 82nd Infantry Division. If his incom
ing conscripts resented the rigours of training there, they quickly got
over it. For the general himself, a tall, gangling figure with wispy grey
hair and steel-rimmed spectacles, was at their side, swinging on the
ropes, scrambling under barbed wire with machine guns rattling
overhead, marching on 40-kilometre hikes. "How's it going?" he would
ask. Then he'd head off to inspect their quarters. He never chastised
anyone, just made notes on a pad he carried.
"Getting There." Bradley's character was shaped in the flatlands of
central Missouri. His father, an itinerant schoolteacher, died when
Omar was 14. But the father crowded an enviable education into those
years; he taught the boy marksmanship, hunting and fishing, as well as
disciplined study habits.
When Omar finished high school, he learnt that he could get a free
education at the US Military Academy at West Point, New York. He
was admitted as a cadet in 1911.
From the first, Bradley never had any doubt as to his choice of the
infantry. Horsemanship was the one course he disliked. Toiling over
the books, he graduated 44th out of 164 in the 1915 class-Eisenhower,
a classmate, was 25th. Bradley thought his classmates would remem
ber him best for his outstanding performance on the baseball team. But
his peers had noticed something else. "His most prominent character
istic is getting there,' noted the West Point year book, "and if he keeps
this up, some of us will be bragging to our grandchildren that 'General
Bradley was a classmate of mine."
In 1916 he married Mary Quayle, a hometown girl. Sadly, a son was
stillborn, but in 1923, their daughter, Elizabeth, was born. During the
1930% financial depression, Bradley served as an instructor in the
Infantry School at Fort Benning, Georgia, a tactical officer at West
Point and a personnel officer at the Washington War Department,
before becoming an assistant secretary on the General Staff. Bradley
earned his general's star in 1941, as commander of the Infantry School

at Fort Benning. Then came Pearl Harbour and finally, at 50, Bradley
was off to war.
"Mousetrap Valley." In February 1943, after the disastrous battle of
Kasserine Pass in Tunisia, where the American II Corps was cut up by
the panzers of Hitler's Afrika Korps, General Eisenhower summoned
Bradley from the United States and told him to get up to the front and
see what had happened. Bradley climbed into a jeep and, for days on
end, travelled from company to company asking junior officers and
soldiers, "What have we been doing wrong?"
He reported back to Eisenhower that the troops were fine, but they had
lost confidence in their leadership. Ike did not hesitate. He brought in
hard-charging Lieutenant-General George Patton, as the new field
commander and agreed to Patton's request to have Omar Bradley
assigned as his deputy. Now II Corps swung into a hammering, heads
up offensive against the enemy. When Patton was reassigned to get
ready for the invasion of Sicily, Bradley took over and mounted a thrust
towards Bizerte, the enemy's stronghold.
Hill 609, a barren white fortress bristling with German mortars and
machine guns, commanded the valley through which the 1st Infantry
Division would advance towards Bizerte. We dubbed it "Mousetrap
Valley." The commander of the British army, to which II Crops was
assigned, urged Bradley to ignore 609, skirt it and make a dash for
Bizerte. Impossible, Bradley told him: 609 was key to the German
position. It had to be taken.
To this task he committed the 34th Infantry Division, which had been
bloodied in its first battle at Kasserine. "They can do it, they'll be twice
the division they were." To help, he called for tanks. "But it's not tank
country," some complained. "It is now," replied Bradley, smiling.
Rumbling and stumbling over the broken terrain, the tanks pushed up
far enough to blast the fortress. Hill 609 was taken, and we coasted into
Bizerte. There, "the other fellow," as Bradley always called the enemy,
capitulated, and the whole North African coast was cleared of the Axis.
"Always Right." From the beginning, Bradley had advocated Ameri
2
can command for American troops, which is why he had insisted on an
American sector, separate from that of the British First Army. "Our
doctrine is different, we do things differently," he explained. Once, he
had watched a British brigade march up an enemy-held hill as if in a
parade drill. The men fell like ninepins. That's the bravest thing I ever
saw," the General told me. "Also the most foolish."
From his Missouri boyhood, Bradley had an unerring sense of terrain.
He was constantly out in the field, devising ways to reach his objectives
with minimum casualties. Years later, when I worked with him on his
memories, A Soldier's Story, Bradley told me, "Unless you value the
lives of your men, unless you feel what they are going through, you're
unfit for command."
Bradley had a knack for putting himself in others' shoes. Many of us
were put off by Patton's posturing-his sirens, armoured scout cars and
habit of raising hell. Yet Bradley's only comment about his superior
was, "Well, that's George's style." And when their roles were reversed
in Europe, few served Bradley as loyally as did Patton. On one
occasion, Bradley corrected a Patton battle plan. "You're right, Brad,"
shouted Patton. "Goddammit, you're always right."
Once, we drove to the edge of an unsecured town, and Bradley was
warned of snipers. He jumped out of the jeep, carbine in hand, and
strode into the village square to talk to the company captain. Bradley
swung his carbine around for me to take. I snapped it out of his hand,
somehow releasing the safety and touching the hair trigger. A bullet
whistled by the General's head, and then the square crackled with gun
fire, as soldiers shot into windows at an unseen sniper. Suddenly all
was quiet again. General Bradley turned slowly and looked at me for a
moment. "Be careful with that damned thing, please," he said in a voice
only I could hear. It was the worst reprimand I ever got.Bradley's calm
but resolute leadership made him the choice of General George
Marshall, Army Chief of Staff, to command the American First Army
in the assault on the Normandy beaches, code named Utah and Omaha,
on June 6, 1944. After spending much of D Day on a PT boat, checking

with his corps commanders on their ships, he slipped quietly ashore the
following morning to take charge. Fifth Star. In July, Bradley
masterminded the breakout from Nor mandy, code-named COBRA.
Some 2,400 aircraft carpet-bombed a hole in the German line. The First
Army funnelled through this, fanned out, and began closing around the
main enemy force. Meanwhile, Patton's Third Army had come into
France through Cherbourg and made a wide sweep that carried his
tanks almost across France. By September, both armies had reached
the German's Siegfried Line. Eager to break through the Rhine before
winter, Bradley committed his 750,000 men to a 370-kilometre front,
concentrating forces on the north in the old workhorse First Army and
the new Ninth Army, on the south in Patton's Third Army, while
holding lightly through the Ardennes. Those steep, wooded hills were
an unlikely battleground, but Hitler, to the consternation of his
generals, ordered an attack to be launched there. Taken unawares, the
Americans had their line breached in December 1944 and were driven
back 100 kilometres.
Bradley ordered Patton to break off his advance in the south and slash
into the underside of the German bulge. Meanwhile, Ike, to avoid a
breakdown in communications between Bradley and the other
American armies to the north, gave Field Marshal Montgomery tem
porary command of those armies to join with his British forces in
blunting the German drive. At the enemy's collapse, Monty was hailed
in English newspapers as the saviour. Ike felt pressure from London to
give Monty command of all Allied troops for the final push into
Germany.
Bradley bluntly told Eisenhower, "If Montgomery goes in over me, you
must send me home. I will have lost the confidence of my command."
Patton stood by his friend. "If you leave, Brad," he said, "I'll leave with
you."
With timely statesmanship, Prime Minister Winston Churchill ended
the dispute and silenced the mischief-makers with a ringing recital of
3
facts proving that the decisive victory in the Ardennes was overwhelm
ingly American.
After the war, Bradley ran the US Veterans Administration for two
years. He succeeded Ike as Army Chief of Staff in 1948, and then
became the first chairman of the new Joint Chiefs, which united the
three services. President Truman awarded him his fifth star. Lofty
honours still failed to change his plain life-style. He continued to drive
the same old Buick and sit on the same well-worn furniture. On his
retirement from the Joint Chiefs in 1953, Omar and Mary moved to
Los Angeles, where the General soon became chairman of the Bulova
Watch Company. In his off-hours, he taught his grandsons to hunt and
play golf. Mary Bradley died in 1965. The following year, the General
married Kitty Buhler, a screen writer who sought for him a more visible
public presence as the last of the great heroes of the Second World War.
Those later years, in Beverly Hills, California, were fine with the
General everything was always fine with Omar Bradley. On one
occasion, actor Karl Malden, about to portray Bradley in the movie
Patton, came to the General for character advice. "What do you do
when you get mad?" asked Malden. "I don't do anything differ ently,"
answered Bradley. "Don't you raise your voice?" persisted Malden.
"Nope," said the General, "never needed to." By 1977, with Bradley in
failing health, he and Kitty moved to Fort Bliss in El Paso, Texas,
where the General could live out his days within sight and sound of his
beloved Army. These days, when I read the Bible lessons at my church,
I am often reminded of things I saw in the conduct of Omar Bradley.
Everyone was his neighbour, none more equal than another. He loved
and was loved in return. Omar Bradley wasn't much of a churchgoer. I
don't think it mattered. Not when you live, as he did, by the Bible.
MY NECE, a dental nurse, wonders if she needs a change of job. When
the phone rang while she was filling a child's tooth, she replied absent-
mindedly, "Open, please."
-P.P.
 4

Dawning Vision
ON A RECENT air flight across the Pacific, I saw a miracle that
happens every day. We had been flying for hours in night's deep
darkness. Then, awakening from a doze, sensed that something
electrifying was happening. Dozens of people were staring out of the
windows on one side-some seated, others standing or bending over.
Some were taking pictures. I could hear their excited voices. A sense
of wonder became almost palpable.
In endless space, the sun was coming up-a thin, growing miracle of
light. People laughed. They were One. They were Man, delivered out
of darkness. When day invaded that great airship they slipped quietly
back to their seats, strangers again, just so many passengers heading
for so many destinations. It was over, but while it lasted their faces
were beautiful.
-Douglas How
Fortuitous Error
I WAS FEEDING a rush budget-increase request to my new secretary
for a meeting that afternoon. I proof-read the body of the report and
asked her to check the appendix which contained the indexes and
financial charts. She was then to collate and staple six copies while I
was at lunch.
As we went through the report during the meeting, I discovered to my
horror that Appendix C was my grocery list, neatly typed and complete
with my notes on price of advertised specials. After a moment's silence,
my boss said slowly, "Well, M Dick, if your household bills are any
indication, it looks as if the whole economy needs a shot in the arm."
Whereupon the committee promptly granted my increase.
-Ginger Dick

Unforgettable
Douglas Bader
BY AIR VICE-MARSHAL JOE COX AS TOLD TO PETER BROWNE
HE STOOD four-square by the hangar on his artificial legs
and grinned at me, an impish glint in his clear blue eyes.
H "Can I come up with you, Joe?" It was March 1933, little
more than a year since the crash in which Douglas Bader,
at 21 a crack RAF aerobatic pilot, had lost both his legs.
Now he had been relegated to the motor transport section
at Duxford airfield, where I was training Cambridge University
undergraduates to fly.
We had become good friends, and I knew how deeply unhappy he was at
being grounded. Thinking he just wanted to come along for the ride, I waved
him into the rear cockpit of the Atlas biplane I was taking for a routine test
flight. Douglas sat quiet until we climbed to 1,200 metres, then asked: "Mind
if I have a go?"
As an instructor, it was instinctive for me to keep hands and feet very lightly
on the stick and rudder pedals: feeling his deft control move ments, I couldn't
believe the Atlas was being flown by someone with artificial legs. "How
about some steep turns?" These, tricky for any pilot to do well, were
faultless. "Perhaps a loop or two?" Again, impeccable-as were the rolls
that quickly followed before he reluc tantly handed over. Later, when
I throttled back for the approach to Duxford: "Can I land it?"
In the officers' mess he was elated over a perfect touchdown, but
nobody would believe him or me. So we did it again, the other pilots
watching. This time, when the Atlas floated in for a landing I held my
hands above my head, so that there could be no doubt about who was
flying. feather-light Those first of my flights with Douglas Bader will
always typify for me the indomitable spirit that was to make him a
1
legend in wartime perhaps the most idolized of the pilots who fought
the Battle of Britain and an inspiration to the generations that followed.
Courage in Adversity. He changed little in the 50 years I knew him
stocky, jaunty, supremely self-confident, refusing to acknowledge that
anything was impossible. He didn't think his fighter-pilot war record
was anything to make a fuss about. Whenever we tried to persuade him
to wear his uniform and medals for some RAF occasion he would insist
that he had lost them. To actor Kenneth More, who played him in the
film, Reach for the Sky, he appealed: "Don't make me out to be a hero.
1 had to fight back, otherwise I was finished."
But despite himself, his name became synonymous with the triumph of
courage over adversity. Limbless people all over the world sought his
advice, and realizing that it was in his power to give them new hope,
he devoted much of his life to helping them. It was a far less well
known part of the Bader story than his wartime exploits as a fighter
pilot, but unforgettable to countless disabled among them the young
Londoner, learning to live with an artificial leg, who found Douglas on
his doorstep, urging him into a football game: "Don't listen to anyone
who tells you that you can't do something. Never, never let them
convince you it is too difficult."
Douglas never considered himself handicapped, and would get furious
at the slightest hint that he might not be able to manage as well as
anyone else. The only time friends knew him to have a moment's doubt
was when he was due to receive a knighthood in 1976, for services to
disabled people.
As Douglas told it, Buckingham Palace telephoned to ask if he could
kneel on a stool for the accolade from the Queen. "How high is the
stool?" he asked. "About 45 centimetres," came the reply. "Hang on,
said Douglas, and after experimenting, "Still there? Terribly sorry, old
boy, it's no good. I've just fallen on my backside." He was knighted
standing up.

His Speciality. Douglas Bader had always thrived on challenge. Born
in London in 1910, son of a civil engineer, he became an outstanding
sportsman at school. Winning a cadetship to the RAF College, he
played rugby and as a boxer won all but one of 20 contests by a knock-
out. Graduating with an "above average" pilot rating, within a year he
was a member of 23 Squadron's aerobatic team and set for a brilliant
service career.
But only months later, visiting friends at an aero club, he was asked to
demonstrate his speciality, the "Bader roll." Immediately after take off,
he rolled his Bulldog fighter perhaps three metres off the ground. A
fractional misjudgement, and one wing-tip struck. When they pulled
him out of the wreckage, his legs were too badly smashed to be saved.
By the time I first flew with him in 1933, he had only a few weeks left
to serve in the RAF. No one questioned his ability to fly, but nothing
in the regulations covered a legless pilot, and he was to be retired.
Clearing out his kit on the final day, he picked up his cricket bat. "The
last time I had this in my hands, I hit a six over the clock at Kennington
Oval." Abruptly he bundled it into his cricket bag: "You have it, old
boy."
In the Wings. For six years Douglas worked at a desk job with the
Asiatic (now Shell) petroleum company. The future seemed bleak, but
he was lucky in his marriage. Once asked how he had survived, he said:
"I wouldn't have stuck it without Thelma." He managed to play tennis
and squash, drive a car as well as ever-but above all he longed to fly
again. Within weeks of the outbreak of war in 1939 he had talked his
way back into the RAF, on condition that he was passed out by the
Central Flying School. Douglas breezed through the course. He was
posted to 19 Squadron, and took off for the first time in a Spitfire.
Douglas Bader's war is part of RAF history. Following his Battle of
Britain triumph-he shot down more than a dozen aircraft-he went on to
lead the famous Tangmere Wing of three Spitfire squadrons. Baling
out after collision with a Messerschmitt over occupied France, he
escaped from hospital and was recaptured; equipped with a new leg
2
parachuted into Germany by the RAF, he spent three and a half years
as the most fractious of prisoners. Finally he led 300 aircraft in the
victory fly-past over London in 1945. Retiring from the RAF in 1946
as a Group Captain, Douglas rejoined Shell and ran their 70-plane feet.
Piloting himself across the world, he always sought out fellow
amputees, infecting them with that quality of cheerful defiance which
never let him use a stick. Noted one old RAF friend, Group-Captain
Leonard Cheshire: "He would make a person walk who perhaps hadn't
walked before."
After he retired in 1969, he could give still more of his time to the
physically handicapped. "If you've been luckier than others," he said,
and been able to get over your own difficulties, you must pass on your
experience."
Ace Attraction. He had long been closely involved with a score of
organizations. He was a magical name for fund-raising, and whenever
he made personal appearances, the money poured in. As president of
the sportsman's charity, he raised £500,000 for research into crippling
diseases and he also helped earn the RAF Benevolent Fund nearly
£500,000, Douglas could never say no to a charity golf match. He
mastered the game despite excruciating pain in his stumps, even having
one of his "government issue legs," as he called them, shortened to
improve his swing. It was golf that brought Douglas his second wife in
1973, after two years as a widower: they were both members of the
same club. Lady Bader was one of the first volunteers with the Riding
for the Disabled Association and then, as now, coached handicapped
children.
Gaining Altitude. Responding to appeals from relatives of disabled
people, Douglas would turn up in his battered old car, and work
wonders in lifting their spirits. He always gave brisk encouragement,
as when he wrote to 12-year-old Lisa Cooper, from Walsall: "You will
find your replacement leg difficult at the beginning and then, quite
suddenly you will discover that it is possible to use it. After that you
won't look back, and I promise you will find plenty of fun in life."

Replied Lisa "I am as determined to dance as you were to fly."
Ironically, Douglas had surrendered his licence, at the age of 71. He
looked ten years younger, but had failed a regular pilots medical
because of heart trouble after nearly 6,000 hours in the air.
That was in 1981, the Year of Disabled People. As if to prove that in
his case it was a misnomer, Douglas did more than ever for their cause.
His workload would have been exhausting for anyone, let alone a
legless man with a worsening heart condition, but iron willpower drove
him on-ul in August 1982, Douglas had a minor heart attack. Three
weeks later, on September 4, he and Lady Bader were at a banquet in
honour of the 90-year-old Marshal of the Royal Air Force Sir Arthur
"Bomber" Harris. Douglas was in top form, and by the end of the
evening he had arranged a meeting with some of the 32 men who lost
limbs in the Falklands war. But as his wife drove him home, Douglas
suddenly collapsed and died.
His name lives on in the Douglas Bader Foundation, set up to provide
help for the limbless. There could be no more fitting legacy, for as
Leonard Cheshire has said: "He was above all else the great encourager
of his fellow man."
Finishing Note
ORD GOODMAN, vice-chairman of the British Council, relates: "On
one occasion last year, had to speak after Prime Minister James
Callaghan, who had read carefully through about 45 pages of notes.
The audience, exhausted by this, visibly brightened when I rose to
speak without a note in my hand. I chastened them by remarking that
when a man speaks from notes, at least you know he is going to end
some time."
-Pulse, England
That's Entertainment?
BRITISH actress Joyce Grenfell recalls that while she and her friend
Viola Tunnard were on a hospital tour in India during the Second
3
World War, they were invited to a service club dance at Poona. "We
were made to feel irresistible-lines formed to await our favours on the
dance floor," she writes. "But we were a little surprised to hear
ourselves announced as 'two well-known artistes who have been flown
out from home to entertain men in bed.""
-Joyce Grenfell Requests the Pleasure
What Was That Again?
FROM THE Pioneer, Lucknow: "Under a proposal formally moved by
Dr Karan Singh, Union Health Minister, the new duties of the citizen
are to include...maintenance of discipline in every sphere, performance
of public duties and safeguarding of public poverty."
Scrutinized
A LECTURER at our local college had the habit of collecting his
students' essays in the morning and returning them that afternoon, fully
marked and with up to half a page of criticism at the end of each.
One student, feeling that the lecturer could not possibly read all 30
essays in that time, inserted in one essay: "I don't believe you read these
essays properly." Her essay was duly returned within the day. Careful
inspection revealed, inserted in the usual half-page of criticism, the
words: "Oh, yes, I do."
G.L. Hutchison

Unforgettable
Bill W.
BY BOB P.
N 1961, doctors told me I was going to die-soon-if ! didn't
stop drinking. But I couldn't face reality without copious
I quantities of vodka, followed by beer chasers. As a young
man, I had come to New York City from Kansas, carved
out a career in public relations, married, had three children,
and established a home in a fashionable Connecticut
suburb. On the outside I looked prosperous, but inside I was tormented by
feelings of inadequacy. When I was 40, an enormous abdominal swelling was
diagnosed as advanced cirrhosis of the liver. I had been getting purplish
bruises all over my body and suffered nose-bleeds all typical of this kind of
liver damage.
Once, on a business trip, I couldn't stop vomiting blood and lost half of all I
had. My life was saved with transfusions. But I couldn't stop drinking, even
after I had another haemorrhage. Finally, my physician sent me to Dr Harry
Tiebout, one of the few psychiatrists then practising who were sympathetic
towards Alcohol ics Anonymous and who recognized alcoholism as a disease,
not a character flaw. Tiebout suggested I go to AA, but I was too
addicted to give up drinking at that point, and so was confined to High
Watch Farm in Kent. There I took the first of AA's 12 steps: I admitted
I was powerless over alcohol, that my life had become unmanageable.
On July 4, 1961, I joined the fellowship of AA and started a sober life.
THREE years later, when I volunteered to help AA with public
relations, I met Bill W. He was a legend, and I was nervous as I entered
his office. Bill was slouched in a chair, his feet up on a battered oak
desk that was scarred with dozens of burn marks from cigarette stubs.
When he stood he was about 188 centimetres - slender and loose-
limbed. He had a long face and sparkling blue eyes. He acted as if
1
meeting me was the nicest thing that had happened to him in years. "I'm
Bill," he said, stretching out his hand. "I'm a drunk."
Bedtime Story. I started mumbling how I owed him my life, and Bill,
embarrassed, looked at the floor and said, "Just pass it on." In time, I
became a voluntary trustee of AA and came into regular contact with
Bill W. At conferences and board meerings, I often watched him seek
out the newcomers off in a corner. He knew the loneliness, the shyness
and the insecurity of the alcoholic. "I'm Bill," he'd greet them, just as
he had me. "I'm a drunk." I never heard him use the word "alcoholic"
when referring to himself.
*Bill acted and seemed like an ordinary man. But he was an
extraordinary ordinary man. It didn't take me long to realize that
everybody who knew him had wonderful stories to tell about Bill and
his wife, Lois, who co-founded Al-Anon for the families of alcoholics.
But nobody had a better story to tell than Bill himself. He called it the
"bedtime story."
EAST DORSET boasted fewer than 500 inhabitants when Bill W. was
born there on November 26, 1895. He grew up in a home torn by
arguments, which often led to Papa's going away for a few days. Bill
felt that sense of some disaster lurking around the corner which many
children of broken homes experience. It tormented him as he got older.
When he was ten, his parents divorced and went their separate ways -
something almost unheard of in 1906. Bill was left with his maternal
grandparents.
To make up for his loneliness and feelings of inadequacy, Bill became
an overcompensator. At the age of 12, he began to show drive,
ambition, competitiveness. When his grandfather read a book about
Australia and told Bill that only a native of that country could make a
boomerang, Bill spent six months whittling until he carved one that
worked.

Later, he saw that boomerang as a curse - because it proved to his ego
that he had the tenacity and will to be "number one" at anything -music,
sports, science. For example, he repaired a broken fiddle and practised
until he played lead violin in the school orchestra. He was not an athlete
by nature, but he drove himself and became captain of the baseball
team.
IN NEAR-BY Manchester, a popular summer resort, Bill got to know
Ebby Thatcher. The two young men became lifelong friends. In 1913,
two years after meeting Ebby, Bill met and fell in love with another
summer visitor, Lois Burnham, a slim, dark-haired girl from a well-to-
do family. Lois's love for Bill was as burning and constant as his for
her, a love that was to survive the vicissitudes of all his years of
alcoholism. But alcoholism was still far in the future.
Bill W. did not take a single drink of alcohol until he was a 22-year old
army officer during the First World War. The shy young man from
Vermont felt clumsy and out of place at social gatherings - until
someone gave him a cocktail, a mix of gin, sweet and dry vermouth,
and orange juice.
Blackout Drinker. "That barrier," he said sighing, "that had always
stood between me and other people came down. I felt I belonged, that
I was part of life. What magic there was in those drinks! I could talk
and be clever."
Unlike some alcoholics, who go through a slow process of increasing
dependency, Bill became a blackout drinker from the start. He was one
of those persons in whom alcohol powerfully alters mind and emotion.
The first drink sets up a craving for a second, and the drinker had
absolutely no control once he takes the first.
Bill was careful to restrain his drinking when he was with Lois and her
family. He and Lois were married before he was shipped to France as
a second lieutenant in the Coast Artillery. There, he discovered fine
burgundy and cognac. By the time the war was over in 1918, he had
2
proved himself again that he was a "number one" man, a leader of men,
a hero.
When Bill returned to the United States, he and Lois lived with her
parents. By day he worked as a fraud investigator for an insurance firm.
At night he attended Brooklyn Law School. Soon he was fascinated by
the stock market and became a successful analyst, speculator, and
wheeler-dealer, with clients at several brokerage houses on Wall Street.
But Bill's drinking was taking over. He was too drunk to pass his final
law exam. Any disappointment - or success- now became an excuse for
getting drunk. And when Bill drank, he often became abusive and
violent. He got into fights with waiters, taxi-drivers, bartenders,
strangers. In the morning, after moods of guilt and remorse, he would
swear to Lois that he would never drink again. By evening, he was
drunk. Deep in Debt. For a long time, Bill and Lois were able to delude
themselves. They lived in a luxurious flat, joined country clubs. As late
as 1928, Bill was making thousands of dollars and drinking much of it
away. Some mornings Lois found him dead drunk, asleep, outside the
house.
The US stock-market crash in October 1929 wrecked whatever Bill's
drinking had not. Deeply in debt, he and Lois again moved in with her
parents. Lois got a job at a department store. Bill now lived to drink,
because he had to drink to live. "Like other alcoholics, Bill told us, "I
hid liquor like a squirrel stores nuts-in the attic, underneath flooring, in
the flush box of toilets. When Lois was out working, I'd replenish my
secret supply. I was now drinking for oblivion-two, even three bottles
of gin a day."
By 1932, Bill had begun to fear for his sanity. "Once, in a drunken fit,"
he said, "I threw a sewing machine at Lois-my dear Lois. I was in such
hell that I was afraid the demons inside me would propel me through
the window. I dragged my mattress downstairs so I couldn't suddenly
leap out."
IN MIDSUMMER of 1934, Bill entered a city hospital, which
specialized in the treatment of alcoholism. Most people regarded

alcoholics as per sons who lacked will-power, character and moral
discipline. But Bill's doctor, William Duncan Silkworth, was one of the
few medical men to conclude that alcoholism is a sickness. He told
Lois that not many alcoholics as seriously addicted as Bill was ever
recovered. He was already showing signs of brain damage. Bill would
have to be confined to a hospital for the rest of his life.
But Bill looked so robust after the treatment that he went home. This
time he stayed sober for several months. However, the morning
following Armistice Day, Lois found him in a stupor, hanging on to the
fence outside the house. They looked at each other and Bill saw the last
gleam of hope dying in her eyes. He knew he was doomed. Well, so be
it, he thought. He resigned himself. As long as I have my gin. Not long
afterwards, Ebby Thatcher, Bill's old friend and fellow drinker,
phoned. What a strange coincidence! (We in AA say that a coincidence
is a miracle in which God chooses to remain anonymous) Bill invited
him over. How good it would be to share a few drinks with this former
companion. Soon the doorbell rang. There stood Ebby-clear of eye and
clean of breath. "What made you change, Ebby?" Bill asked.
Ebby grinned and replied, "I've got religion." So Ebby had become a
religious zealot. "I figured he'd start preaching at me," Bill recalled.
"He didn't. He just told me how his drinking had got out of control,
how he'd been in trouble with the law, and how a couple of friends had
given him a place to live." One of them, Rowland Hazard, a hopeless
drunk, had been in and out of sanitoriums for years. He finally went to
Carl Jung, the Swiss psycho analyst. Was there no hope? Rowland
asked.
The First Link. "Yes," Jung had said. In rare instances alcoholics had
powerful spiritual experiences, "emotional displacements and
rearrangements," which suddenly reversed their behaviour. Jung had
tried for such a change in Rowland and failed.
But one day Rowland attended a meeting of an organization called the
Oxford Group - where people gathered to talk about their shortcomings
and to follow certain precepts. There Rowland experienced a profound
3
change of emotions and found a direct contact with God. He stopped
drinking.
When Rowland related his story to Ebby, the first link in the chain of
what would become Alcoholics Anonymous was forged. And now
Ebby was carrying the message to Bill. "Ebby told me he had to admit
he was defeated," Bill said. "He had to openly admit his sins, make
restitution to people he had harmed, and give love without a price tag.
He had to pray to whatever God he believed in-and if he didn't believe
in a God, to act as if he did. Ebby told me he hadn't had a drink for six
months.
"A couple of weeks later, after another drunken episode, I went back
to hospital and checked myself in. Ebby came to see me. Get honest
with yourself, he said. Talk it out with somebody else. But I didn't want
any part of this God foolishness."
During one more sleepless night, Bill fell to the "very bottom," and
"my stubborn pride was wiped out." He called out, "If there is a God,
let him show himself! 1 am ready to do anything!"
Suddenly, the hospital room "lit up with a great white light." A strange
ecstasy flooded through him. "A wind not of air but of spirit was
blowing," was how he described it. "I felt at peace... and I thought, No
matter how wrong things seem to be, things are all right with God and
his world."
BILL WAS discharged on December 18, 1934. He never took another
drink of alcohol. But he was always careful to reassure us that most
alcoholics did not have sudden blinding experiences like his. Most of
us found a God, a higher power of our own, very slowly.
IN THE first few months of his sobriety, Bill pulled drunks out of bars
and took them to Oxford Group meetings. He preached at them.
Nobody stayed sober. He tried helping patients at the hospital. He
failed. Dr Silkworth told Bill to talk with drunks, not at them, and to
stress the hopelessness of the disease.

Bill was getting a foothold in Wall Street again, but on a business trip
to Akron, Ohio, he felt a strong urge to drink. In his hotel lobby, he
looked at the directory of churches, selected one at random, and made
a phone call. Was there any hopeless drunk he could talk to, he asked
the priest. That call led to a surgeon, Dr Robert Smith-Dr Bob, as he is
known to us-a desperate alcoholic who had tried to stop drinking and
couldn't.
The two men talked for hours. Bill didn't preach or exhort. He quietly
told his story, and the urge to drink passed. And, after one final binge,
something happened to Dr Bob. On June 10, 1935, he took his last
drink. Alcoholics Anonymous - although it still did not have a name -
began that day.
Before long, Bill was holding meetings at his home and eventually at a
place on West 23rd Street in New York. In 1938 he wrote a 164-page
manuscript entitled "Alcoholics Anonymous." And that's how our
fellowship got its name. That year the book sold few copies. But the
fellowship now began to grow slowly. Worldwide Groups. The first
nation-wide publicity AA received came from an article in the
magazine Liberty, which brought 800 letters and several hundred
orders for Bill W.'s book. That article led to a piece in The Saturday
Evening Post, published in March 1941 and entitled "Alcoholics
Anonymous." It created a sensation, and groups sprang up across
America-many just based on some desperate person's reading the book
and trying to put its principles into practice. And that group Bill started
in Brooklyn in 1935 has now grown to over a million members
worldwide.
THAT WAS the story Bill W. told us each year at AA headquarters.
On January 24, 1971, at the age of 75, Bill died of emphysema. Two
days later, the New York Times published his obituary and put it on
page one and the world learnt his full name: William Griffith Wilson.
Epilogue. In July 1985, I stood on a podium at Montreal's Olympic
Stadium and looked out on about 50,000 faces from 54 of our 114
member countries, including four members from Poland, our first
4
representatives from an Iron Curtain country. "My name is Bob P.,"1
said. "I'm an alcoholic. Welcome to the fiftieth anniversary of Alcohol
ics Anonymous." A roar came up from all sides, an exuberant cheering
sound that went on and on. As I listened to that roar, and to the speakers
that followed, I realized that each of us was paying tribute to the most
unforgettable character in our changed lives: Bill W.
Take Heed
IT IS A mistake to read too many good books when quite young. A
man once told me that he had read all the books that mattered. Cross-
questioned, he appeared to have read a great many, but they seemed to
have made only a slight impression. How many had he understood?
How many had entered into his mental composition? How many had
been hammered on the anvils of his mind, and afterwards ranged in an
armory of bright weapons ready to hand?
It is a great pity to read a book too soon in life. The first impression is
the one that counts; and if it is a slight one, it may be all that can be
hoped for. A later and second perusal may recoil from a surface already
hardened by premature contact. Young people should be careful in their
reading, as old people in eating their food. They should not eat too
much. They should chew it well.
-Winston Churchill in Painting at a Pastime

The Two Innings of
Vijay Merchant
BY V. GANGADHAR.
ANISHA NANJI KARANI was worried. The 19-year-old
polio victim had been attending a diploma course in
M laboratory technology at Bombay's Grant Medical College
for over six weeks, but hadn't yet been issued her college
indentity card. And, while ignoring her request for railway
concession forms, the office clerks had hinted that her
admission might be cancelled.Manisha's sister, Ranjan, suggested she meet
former test cricketer Vijay Merchant. "He has a special interest in disabled
people," Ranjan said. "He'll help you."
When Manisha told Merchant her fears, the small dapper man with a neatly
trimmed moustache rang up the college dean and arranged for an
appointment. The meeting, however, was fruitless. A week later Manisha
received a two-line letter terminating her admission without giving any
reason.
"We'll fight this," Merchant assured the young woman as he took her to his
solicitor friend, Jashwant Thacker-whose lawyer ultimately filed a writ in the
Bombay High Court challenging the termination. On January 31, 1985, the
petition came up for hearing. "The college admitted its misdoing and restored
my admission," recalls Manisha. Eleven months later, when Manisha stood
first in Bombay University, Merchant was there to congratulate her.
No wonder then that for Manisha and thousands of other handi capped people,
Vijay Merchant's death on October 27, 1987, meant a lot more than just the
passing away of one or cricket's immortals. It was the loss of "Vijaybhai," an
elder brother to whom they reached out in times of distress and who never let
them down. For this great cricketer, whose batting average of 71.64 in first-
class cricket is second only to the legendary Don Bradman's, spent nearly 30
years helping the disabled live with dignity and honour. "I can never forget
1
Vijaybhai," says Manisha, who now works as a laboratory technician. "Were
it not for him, I'd be nothing today."
Merchant was born in Bombay on October 12, 1911, into a family of Kutchi
textile industrialists for whom social work and sports were a tradition. Young
Vijay was the first member of the family to play cricket well. He began when
only nine and, after playing for his school and captaining his college team,
became in 1929, the youngest player to represent the "Hindus" in the Bombay
Quadrangular tournaments (in which teams were based on religious
affiliation). Within three years he was a serious contender for the Indian team,
but refused to join the 1932 tour of England-the first time India played a test-
match-for political reasons: Gandhi had launched the non-cooperation
movement against the British, and many national leaders had been arrested.
Great Start. Merchant first took to the field against England when he
represented Bombay Presidency in a December 1933 match. Hit on the chin
by a fast ball, Merchant had the wound stitched, and returned to score 19 and
67, both times not out. Merchant played for India in all three test-matches on
that tour. England's captain, Douglas Jardine, was so impressed by Merchant's
performance that he said: "There goes the soundest batsman in India."
Merchant went to England for the first time in 1936. Despite the intense cold
and unfamiliar conditions, he scored 1,745 runs and topped the batting
averages. His greatest performance was during the second test at Manchester,
when India faced an intimidating first innings deficit of 368 runs. But
Merchant and Mushtaq Ali shared a brilliant 203-run opening stand, thus
ensuring a draw. Wisden named Merchant one of the Cricketers of the Year.
When the Second World War disrupted international sport, Mer chant
continued to set records in domestic cricket. He was widely predicted to
captain India for the 1946 English tour, but Iftekhar Ali Khan Pataudi was
chosen instead. Merchant's fans suggested he drop out of the team in protest,
but he refused. "I have grown up in an atmosphere that places side above
self," he said. Playing almost every match, he amassed 2,385 runs. Said
Pataudi, "I could not have received greater co-operation."
During the tour, a victory against Yorkshire brought Merchant an unexpected
bonus. A few months earlier, when his mills had placed an order for some
textile machinery from a Lancashire firm, they had been. told to wait their
turn. But India's victory delighted the Lancashire company so much-

Yorkshire and Lancashire are traditional rivals that it promised to speed up
delivery.
A groin injury kept Merchant out of the 1947-48 tour of Australia and the
home series against the West Indies the following year. Meanwhile he began
getting letters from a young woman named Chandraprabha Shirodkar.
Curious at getting fan mail from a female cricket buff, Merchant invited her
to his office. In 1950 they were married. Merchant was back in the Indian
team when England came here in 1951. He began the series in a blaze of
glory, scoring 154 runs in the first test-match. Sadly, he injured his shoulder
while fielding and never played in Tests again. He played club cricket,
though, until 1955.
A self-taught player, Merchant polished his technique with long hours of net
practice. "If I were to write a book on cricket," said his famous contemporary
Vijay Hazare, "I would use Merchant as my model for batting." From the
spectator's point of view, though, Mer chant, was not an exciting player. In
his long career he hit only two sixers, one off a no-ball! "Hazare and I usually
took our bedding and baggage to the wicket," Merchant used to joke.
His lack of aggression led to good-natured ribbing that continued even after
his retirement. In the 1960 Bombay test-match against the Australians, a
young girl rushed up to batsman Abbas Ali Baig when he scored his 50th run
and kissed him. "Where were the girls when I was batting?" lamented
Merchant. "Fast asleep," retorted a friend, columnist A.F.S. Talyarkhan.
Even after retirement, Merchant's links with the game continued. From 1955
until 1979 he was radio's leading cricket commentrator. His programme
"Cricket with Vijay Merchant," remained on the air for 14 years. Enthralled
listeners met every other Saturday afternoon at Merchant's office, where he
answered questions and regaled everyone with cricket anecdotes..
Worthy Cause. Although Merchant's "first innings" as a cricketer was
remarkable, he always maintained that he'd scored a lot more in his second
innings-when he worked with the handicapped.
Merchant first came into contact with the handicapped at a 1957 sports meet
organized by the National Association for the Blind (NAB). As he chatted
with the competitors, he was appalled by their poverty and misery. In cricket,
a good batsman protects the tailenders, Merchant thought. Surely in life, too,
the well-to-do have a responsibility towards the
2
less fortunate. Such thoughts came at an opportune time. It had been two years
since Merchant had retired from cricket, and although he kept busy managing
labour relations in his wealthy family's textile mills, he felt restless. He
yearned for some worthwhile cause to which he could devote himself. But
what exactly could he do? Merchant began by dolling out alms to blind
beggars. But Kusum Bhatia, a health officer at his mill, soon persuaded him
to stop. "Charity will only make them beg for ever," she pointed out. "Why
not get them to work, to become independent?"
Merchant saw her point and urged his staff to employ handicapped people. It
didn't prove difficult, the textile industry was booming during the late 1950s.
Initially, only the blind were hired, but later the physically handicapped, too,
were taken on. "We medically examined them," says Captain H.J.M. Desai,
a former mill executive and honor ary secretary-general of the National
Association for the Blind, "and then, after some training, put them on jobs
where there was no risk of injury."
Matchmaker. As his interest in rehabilitation deepened, Merchant realized
that simply providing jobs for the handicapped was not enough. They needed
to be encouraged to lead as normal a life as possible. So when he heard that
Odhavji, one of his blind mill workers was keen to marry Mani, a blind
woman, Merchant stepped in. He arranged for the wedding to be held inside
the mill, organized the marriage feast and distributed gifts. He helped the
couple set up a home, and often dropped in for a meal. When the couple had
a daughter, Merchant became the girl's godfather. Over the years,
Merchant organized 20 weddings between handicapped people. He also took
special care to put disabled people who visited him, at ease. When Damayanti
Marfatia, blind since the age of seven, offered him a bouquet of flowers at
their first meeting, he had them put in a vase and asked his peon to water them
daily. "I knew immediately that I had found a friend," recalls Damayanti.
Strong bonds were forged between Merchant and the people he helped. Hazel
Shiv Rao, an elderly widow, had been paralysed from the neck down for 25
years when she turned to Merchant for assistance in June 1982. He first
presented her with a wheelchair-cum-bed that enabled her to sit normally.
Then he got doctors to treat her; gradually Hazel was able to move her fingers,
wrists, hands and toes. Her finest hour came when she wrote two thank-you
letters to Merchant. "Since Vijaybhai came into my life, I've become a new
woman" she would often say. In August 1984, after Hazel died peacefully in

a flat that Merchant had purchased for her, he was moved to observe, "Only
God could have guided me to help Hazel."
Merchant's staff was also influenced by his sensitivity. Says welfare officer
Shashi Kothari, "Vijaybhai taught us to regard disabled people as our equals."
Merchant often talked to his mill workers about helping the handicapped.
Inspired by his words, Kana, a sweeper, donated the eyes of his wife who had
died of tuberculosis.
Merchant continued to assist the disabled even after the textile industry
slumped following a year long strike in 1981. He started the Vijay Merchant
Public Charitable Trust to help them become self employed. Every afternoon
he would set aside a few hours to meet handicapped people with problems.
Then he'd get his welfare officers to investigate each case. Once convinced
the problem was genuine, he'd help the disabled person sell items such as
bananas, handker chiefs, sweets, joss sticks or paan. The initial investment
came from the trust. Merchant even supplied cloth from his mills-at a 20
percent discount which could then be sold at a profit.
He also persuaded Bombay Telephones to allot public phone booths to the
handicapped. When 23-year-old Ashok Limbaji Alhat lost his leg in a train
accident in October 1984, he also lost his job. On the verge of begging,
Limbaji turned to Merchant. The industrialist arranged for him to get a bank
loan of Rs 500 as telephone deposit and had the booth built free of charge.
Says Limbaji, who now makes a decent living, "Vijaybhai was like a God to
me."
Merchant lobbied tirelessly to raise public consciousness about the disabled.
He spoke at meetings of the Rotarians, Lions and other welfare organizations
and appealed to his fellow industrialists to hire handicapped people. For years
he headed the NAB and the National Society for Equal Opportunities for the
Handicapped (NASEOH). He used his clout to push projects through the
government and to raise funds. For example, a Bombay benefit cricket match
against England in 1981 yielded nearly Rs 3 lakhs for the NASEOH. Simple
Lifestyle. Despite his wealth, Merchant preferred a simple life. "Daddy did
not have a foreign car and always drove around in a Fiat," says his daughter,
Aditi. (The Merchants also have a son, Amar.) And despite his orthodox
background, he never visited tem ples or had pujas at home. Says Aditi,
"Daddy believed that true religion was doing good to people."
3
In 1969 Merchant was appointed sheriff of Bombay. His responsibili ties
multiplied and in April 1970, he had the first of a series of heart attacks. He
resigned as sheriff but continued his work with the handicapped. On October
26, 1987, Merchant suffered his fifth heart attack. He was quickly moved to
hospital where he died the following morning.
"How would you like to be remembered?" Merchant was once asked. "I want
no roads named after me," he replied. "All I ask for is a small place in the
hearts of the people to whom I brought a little cheer." There's little doubt that
Vijaybhai will have that and a lot more.
Weighing In
A FRIEND confessed to me why she was now taking a serious interest in
dieting. It seems that recently her husband had asked her, "Do you realize
there are 15 kilos of you that I'm not legally married to?" -P.K.
The Trouble...
with the publishing business is that too many people who have half a mind to
write a book do so.
-W.T.
...with being a teacher is that you have to be perfect so early in the morning.
-M.W.
...with being a sexist is that it sounds like more fun than it really is.
-H.C.
...with critics is that they have not been in the kitchen where the things are
cooked.
-J.B. Priestley

William Wilberforce,
Freedom's Crusader
BY ELSIE MCCORMICK.
N THE NIGHT of July 31, 1834, thousands of negroes of
all ages crowded the churches of the British West Indies,
C their faces alight with expectation. Then, at the first stroke
of midnight, they leapt to their feet with a shout of joy that
seemed to lift the roofs. From that moment 800,000 slaves
held under the British flag were free.
This great event was the climax of nearly 50 years of struggle by William
Wilberforce, a frail little Yorkshireman who seldom during his life was free
from physical pain, and whose eyesight was so poor that he generally had to
depend upon a reader. To him more than to any other person goes the credit,
first for ending the international slave trade that used to drag as many as
100,000 miserable men, women and children out of Africa each year, and
then for abolishing slavery itself in the Empire.
William Wilberforce was born in 1759, of a rich trading family in Hull. He
was sickly from birth, but physical limitations did not hamper the
development of his brilliant mind. By the time he was 21 he had graduated
from Cambridge and been elected to Parliament. The feebleness of
Wilberforce's stunted body gave him a marked stoop. But his infirm eyes
sparkled with such kindliness and gaiety that people forgot his appearance.
Before long he was one of the most popular men in London. An unbeliever,
he was known as a brilliant conversationalist in a group of worldly friends.
He supped after the theatre with the beautiful Mrs Siddons, played faro with
other gay blades at exclusive clubs. His eloquence and melodious voice made
him known as "the nightingale of the House of Commons." There was every
reason to believe that he was heading full tilt into a great political future.
Then, when he was 25 years old, Wilberforce made a trip to the Continent
with the Rev Mr Isaac Milner, a muscular, jovial Tarzan of a clergyman.
Creeping by carriage over muddy, rutty roads, the two friends talked
1
endlessly about religion and read the New Testament in Greek. Wilberforce
was converted. He resolved "to live to the glory of God and the good of my
fellow creatures."
In view of its far-flung results, this conversion was one of the most important
in the history of Christianity. Soon, under what he believed was divine
guidance, the young MP began his lifelong crusade.
Wilberforce had seen the slave market at Bristol when he was a child, and at
the age of 14 had written a letter to a newspaper in York declaring that "this
odious traffic in human flesh should end." Recently he had learnt from the
ex-captain of a slave ship how traders hired ruffians to invade West African
villages, burn huts, kill the old and sick and take the able-bodied inhabitants
in chains to the coast. He heard of negroes going mad and flinging themselves
overboard and of ships so overcrowded that as many as a third of the captives
died gasping in the airless holds.
Wilberforce knew that to consecrate his life to the abolition of the slave trade
was to say farewell to his political ambitions, for no crusade was ever more
unpopular. When he joined forces with ten Quakers, this little group made up
the only antislavery society in England.
Against such a handful was arrayed much of the wealth and might of the
Empire. Since about 1713 the slaves taken each year from West Africa in
British ships had numbered from 35,000 to 60,000. Thousands of them
worked on the profitable West Indian sugar, cotton and tobacco plantations;
by 1775, half a million served in the American colonies. Many people,
including King George III, believed that, if the trade were stopped, factories
using slave-grown products would fall Into ruin and England's prosperity
would die. Monumental Task. In 1787 the 28-year-old MP gave notice in the
House of Commons of his intentions. "Never, never will we give up." he said,
"until we have extinguished every trace of this bloody traffic a disgrace and
dishonour to our country." The speech caused a sensation. The fight which
Wilberforce began, by presenting 12 resolu tions against the trade and calling
in the government to investigate it, was to go on through nearly two decades
of calumny, exhausting labour and heartbreaking disappointment.
The pro-traders, who spent months presenting their evidence before a
parliamentary committee, said Africans were little more intelligent than
orang-outangs and were better off as slaves; that most of them were convicts

anyway, who had been sold to the slave ships after a fair trial; that the evils
of the voyages had been grossly exaggerated. To answer these statements
Wilberforce and his little committee of "white negroes" as the anti-slavery
workers were called-began a monu mental job of collecting evidence. It was
dangerous work. Prospective witnesses were threatened with everything from
loss of jobs to physical injury. A West Indian planter followed Wilberforce
for months with threats to kill him. Rumours began to circulate that he had an
African wife hidden in his London house; that he was a secret agent for France
trying to destroy England's prosperity.
Ignoring such attacks, Wilberforce proceeded to disprove the idea that
Africans were hardly above the animal level. He collected exam ples of native
handicrafts-skilfully dyed and woven cloth, pieces of gold jewellery and
artistically carved masks and pipe bowls. He brought out evidence from
witnesses that the slave-ship holds were so crowded and so closely hung with
overhead shelves that the captives could neither sit up straight nor lie down.
He produced proof, too, that at least a quarter of the captives were children.
The committee's investigation took nearly two years. Then, in 1791, the slave-
trade abolition bill came to its first test in the House of Commons. It was
voted down, 163 to 88.
Having hoped that once Parliament had learnt the facts victory would follow,
the crusaders were bitterly disappointed. But Wilberforce was far from giving
up. The thing to do, he decided, was to arouse public opinion. After sending
out, largely at his own expense, 50,000 abridged copies of the evidence, he
started on a nation-wide speaking tour. He won thousands of adherents. He
went on introducing bills into Parliament. Several times his bill would pass
one reading in the House, only to be defeated on the second. Through 11
discouraging years he drove his pain-racked body to miracles of exertion.
There was always a vast correspondence, a speech to make, investigating
agents to direct, an article to write, a committee meeting to attend.
Resounding Victory. Then, in 1807, 20 years Wilberforce undertook his
rusade, the bill was finally passed. The vote was 283 to 16, and it culminated
in one of the greatest ovations ever seen in the House of Commons. As the
cheers for Wilberforce rose to the roof, he sat with his dead in his hands, tears
streaming down his face.
2
William Wilberforce now looked forward to retirement to days when he could
study the Bible, enjoy good talk with friends and perhaps lessen his physical
pain. But his hopes were soon dashed. Though the slave trade had officially
been abolished, the slave ships began sneaking out again and Africans were
kidnapped in greater numbers than before. Usually, if a British cruiser was
sighted, all the Africans were thrown overboard in their chains.
"I am sick of battle and long for quiet," Wilberforce said, "but I'll not leave
my poor slaves in the lurch." His decision committed him to 26 more years
of struggle. Wearily, he decided to stand again for Parliament from the
country of York. At first it looked as if he could not possibly win. An
independent without party backing, he was opposed by two prominentmen
able to spend 20 times more money than he on the campaign.
But on the first day the polls were open, strange processions began
converging on York-people on donkey-back, in lurching farm wag ons, in
sailing and rowing boats. Thousands were walking. When a large group of
weary walkers were asked for whom they were voting, a shout went up: "For
Wilberforce, to a man!" The little crusader won easily.
His new term in Parliament was marked by efforts to prevent slavery from
spreading to new colonies and to keep British frigates policing the seas. As
late as 1810, smugglers carried 80,000 slaves across the Atlantic. When a bill
was passed that put "blackbirding" on a level with piracy, making it
punishable by death, British slave ships began to hide under Spanish and
Portuguese register, Spain and Portugal being then the only powers that
legalized the trade. Wilberforce spent exasperat ing years working out
agreements with these two nations for an abolition of the traffic. Chronic
Ailment. He had hoped that, once the traffic was stopped, slavery would die
out. Now he took up the fight for quick and complete emancipation. In reply
to those who said that Africans were too low intellectually to live as free men,
he pointed to Sierra Leone. He and other abolitionists had opened up this
settlement in 1791 to provide a refuge for escaped slaves. It was a peaceful,
prosperous colony, where Africans went to school, conducted business,
organised churches and lived as civilized men.
But Wilberforce began to realize that his days of great activity were over. In
addition to his other handicaps he developed a chronic "inflammation of the
lungs." In 1825 the ageing crusader gave up his seat in the House of
Commons. He still gave his counsel, however, to those fighting for the cause.
 3

Five years after his retirement, a bad investment wiped out practi cally all
Wilberforce's means. He lost his home, and spent the rest of his life boarding
in turn with his clergyman sons. But he remained serene. "Perhaps one reason
my life has been spared so long is to show that a man can be as happy without
a fortune as with one," he said.
It was not until 1833 that Parliament passed a bill which freed all slaves under
the British flag. Wilberforce was on his death-bed when the news came that
passage of the bill was assured. He was able to understand the message and
to thank God for it. He died on July 20. When he was buried in Westminster
Abbey the streets were jammed and at least every third person was in
mourning.
Beat the Bomb
DESPITE the sadness of Northern Ireland, the irrepressible Irish sense of
humour often shines through. A sale notice in a shop window in bomb-
shattered Belfast read: "Buy now while shop lasts."
-D.I.R.
Golden Fleece
JOHN MERRIMAN, Prime Minister of the Cape, will probably live in South
African history as its foremost parliamentary wit. He dealt out his skilful
wounds to his political antagonists with a rapier which pierced, but never left
a rankling sore. As a politician, he was well versed in methods of persuading
the electorate. When, for instance, he first stood for Aliwal North, he was
somewhat at a loss for an election slogan. But he published flaming
advertisements: "Stem vir Merriman en geen belasting op wol" (Vote for
Merriman and no tax on wool). Though there was not a single party or
politician who had dreamt of imposing a tax on wool, the farmers of the
Aliwal district rose splendidly to this war cry, and decided that a man who
would oppose any taxation on wool was the right man to represent them. .
-Leslie Blackwell, African Occasions

Heinrich Pestalozzi's
Lesson of Love
BY LILI FOLDES
U NKEMPT and unshaven, the 68-year-old teacher
stepped in front of Tsar Alexander I of Russia, who, after
C defeating Napoleon's army, had set up temporary
headquarters in Basel. The frail Swiss educator-Johann
Heinrich Pestalozzi-knew that the Tsar's troops were to
convert his institute of education at Yverdon Castle into a
military hospital.
Yet, ignoring his own cause, Pestalozzi seized the opportunity to speak for
the millions of illiterates in far-away Russia. Extending his arms to the
emperor, the old man passionately exclaimed: "Allow the poor to rise from
their misery. Give them schools so they can attain human dignity!" Moved to
tears, the Tsar kissed him on both cheeks.
Wherever there were suffering, ignorance and injustice, Pestalozzi was
moved to help. He was sure that the misery in the world was not immutable
and he knew the key for betterment: education, based on love and
understanding. Allow every child to develop his own facul ties, he urged.
Pestalozzi's genius has influenced legions of educators. Born in 1746 as the
son of a Zurich "wound doctor" - a surgeon without a medical degree-
Heinrich lost his father at the age of five, and was brought up by his over-
protective mother and their severe housemaid. His classmates often mocked
him for his awkwardness, but this vanished when playing with the children
of peasants and farmhands during school holidays. For the offspring of a fine
family, such friendships were unheard of.
Gradually, Heinrich became aware of the misery of these children. He
observed that many he had played with one summer were gone the next. They
had been "hired" to more prosperous peasants for a few sacks of potatoes and
flour. Appalled, he heard of the beatings and hard labour forced upon them
1
from dawn to dusk on a very poor diet. He realized that he was small and
helpless, but his heart began working.
As a young man Pestalozzi studied philosophy, but then became a farmer. He
felt that only by sharing the life of the poor would he be able to do something
for them. When he courted Anna Schulthess, the daughter of a leading Zurich
family, he prophetically wrote to her: "How I long to be of help to my country,
to spread joy and well-being among my countrymen! I'll ignore the tears in
the eyes of my wife and will forget about my children, if necessary, to be of
use to my fatherland." Over her mother's objection, Anna became Pestalozzi's
wife.
On borrowed money, the newly-weds bought a spacious estate, "Neuhof," in
the neighbouring canton of Aargau; yet their inexperience led to bankruptcy
within two years. All but the mansion was sold, when Heinrich announced to
his wife one day; "I'm going to turn Neuhof into an asylum for poor children."
He then left the house and returned after dark with four bewildered urchins,
carrying one of them on his back. To his stunned wife, he said simply: "The
child is too starved to walk."
Day after day, Pestalozzi walked the roads to pick up emaciated children in
rags, runaways from intolerable working conditions and beatings. Bringing
them to Neuhof, he treated them like his only son, Hans Jakob. Washing,
clothing and feeding dozens of these pathetic little waifs was hard for Anna,
but she took the trying days in her stride.
From their first hour at Neuhof the children were embraced by Pestalozzi's
love. With infinite patience and simple object lessons from their own daily
experience, he convinced them that discipline and effort paid dividends. He
taught them reading and writing along with skills such as weaving, to help
them make a living later. "Learning is your only salvation," he'd tell them.
"You must earn your bread, not beg for it." And the children outdid
themselves to please their "father." The proceeds of his gardening and
weaving, as well as donations, kept his unique asylum afloat for six years;
eventually, it sheltered 37 children, aged 4 to 19. But in 1780, Pestalozzi was
forced to close it for lack of money. Heart-broken, he found solace in writing.
In his books, he described the sorrows and joys of rural life, sought remedies
for the injustices of his times and reflected on the fate of man. Leinhard and
Gertrude, a popular novel, became Pestalozzi's best-read work. It described

the reformation of a poor man's household, and subsequently of an entire
village, through the efforts of a good and devoted woman. He closed in on
the theme he was to pursue to the end of his life: the need for education. No
country, he wrote, could hope to rise unless it educated its poor.
Eighteen years after the Neuhof experiment, the newly proclaimed Helvetic
Republic asked him to open an asylum for war orphans in an abandoned
cloister at Stans. In the wake of the French invasion of Swizerland in 1798,
hundreds of children had been left homeless.
Pestalozzi set out to prove that every child has inborn strengths, which loving
care can awaken. Within months, Pestalozzi turned his 80 undisciplined
charges into a harmonious family. He treated them as equals and taught them
independence. "Let your child be as free as possible, let him go and listen,
stumble and stand up, err and find," he exhorted. No one before him had
insisted so forcefully that children must not be moulded to suit adult patterns.
Seven months after the school had opened, the government turned it into a
military hospital.
In a flood of manuscripts written at night, Pestalozzi spelt out his educational
tenets: the mother's love and care must surround the newborn at home; later
at school, an atmosphere of security and trust should reign. Harmony cannot
be achieved, he wrote, unless physical and intellectual forces are developed
equally.
Aura of Dignity. As Pestalozzi's experiments and writings became known,
educators, writers and numerous high-ranking personalities made pilgrimages
to Burgdorf. They were impressed by the pupil's progress-purportedly a six-
year-old was able to pen a long, faultless letter. They were also struck by
Pestalozzi's homely, pock-marked features (often "improved" by
contemporary artists) and his utterly negligent clothing. A German teacher
reported: "The King of Holland dropped in unexpectedly. I saw Pestalozzi
hurry towards the King. His burnous was hanging impossibly, covered with
feathers, for he seldom changes attire between night and day. His socks were
sagging. I drew him hastily aside, straightened his socks and cleaned his
burnous with my hands as well I could."
Unfailingly, his shocking outward appearance was forgotten as soon as he
looked at his visitors with his intense eyes. A German educator exclaimed:
2
"Never have I been so deeply aware of the dignity of man as in the presence
of this great person!"
Zealous Teacher. When, after a change of government, the Burgdorf castle
was to be used for administrative offices, Yverdon in western Swizerland
unexpectedly granted Pestalozzi the use of its ancient castle. With youthful
vigour, he once again set up a college and an asylum for poor children. By
1809, his new stronghold sheltered 166 children and their teachers, and 40
young men studying in Pestalozzi's method. The arduous 11-hour schedule,
which started at 6 a.m., permitted no boredom. In a free give-and-take
between teachers and pupils, the children learnt to read and write with playful
ease.
One day Pestalozzi observed a young worker-a mason repairing the castle-
eavesdropping on a class. Elated, Pestalozzi encouraged him to attend classes.
The illiterate young man learnt to read and write, and continued to work hard.
Eventually, he founded an institute for girls in Wiesbaden; even Goethe
visited Johann de l'Aspée's famous school.
Selfless Devotion. The glorious days at Yverdon were numbered, though.
Pestalozzi's wife died. The planned occupation of the castle by Tsarist troops
was called off, but the institute fell into disarray. Hateful pamphlets by
envious rivals, discord among his teachers and sloppy management by his
housekeepers led Pestalozzi to dissolve his school. He left for Neuhof in
bitterness. In the remaining two years of his life, he continued to write. Death
came in 1827.
The 42 volumes of Pestalozzi's writings, some translated into 25 languages,
have influenced countless statesmen, teachers and parents all over the world.
His thoughts contributed to the creation of elemen tary and job training
schools in Europe and the United States. Numer ous institutes of learning and
"children's villages" are named after him. In the last years, all the educational
reforms in Swizerland have borne Pestalozzi's imprint.
Every year, thousands of admirers from around the world visit his modest
grave at the foot of a schoolhouse in Birr, near Neuhof. "All to others, nothing
for himself," reads his tombstone, summing up 81 years of sacrifice, a fitting
tribute to a man whose message of love as timely today as ever.
 3

Postlude "No, not exactly. But it knows Morse code."

Tans is a tradition in Prague that the annual Spring Festival ends with a -Der Spatz bat ne Meise, edited by Wolf Schenk
performance of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony. In 1963 the Czech
Philharmonic asked Zubin Mehta to conduct the symphony in the Cathedral Personalized Service
of St Vitus. Mehta had never conducted it before, and he would be performing A FRIEND of mine is a nurse. Her husband was in the intensive-care unit of
for Czechs who knew how they wanted it. the hospital after a heart attack, and one evening she was in her nurse's
Looking out from the sacristy, Mehta saw the front pews fill up with officials uniform when she visited him. The bell rang for visitors to leave. As she bent
of the city and the resident diplomatic corps. Behind them were perhaps 8,000 over the bed to kiss him, they got into a clinch. Two men passing down the
people, all standing. One of the music-festival directors whispered to Mehta, corridor who looked in, were taken aback. One exclaimed, "If that's intensive
"Did they tell you there would be no applause? It is against tradition to care, I'm all for it!"
applaud in the church. Everything had gone wrong during the rehearsals; -The Herald, Salisbury, Zimbabwe
maintaining his aplomb that night was one of Mehta's most difficult
assignments. But if ever music had been written to inspire confidence, it was
the Ninth Symphony. By the time he led the assembled forces into their final
Freud, schöner Götterfunken, he was feeling some of the "divine spark of joy
himself. It would have been nice to hear a thunderous ovation, but there was
at least a glow inside him from knowing he had succeeded. Mehta waited for
the audience to file out, then went to his waiting car. As the car rounded the
front of the cathedral, he was greeted by an incredible sight. The 8,000
members of the audience, diplomatic corps and all, were lining both sides of
the street.
They began to applaud and cheer. Like a visiting monarch, Mehta waved to
the crowd that stretched from the cathedral steps down the hill and on to the
old bridge of the Moldau River.
As the car crossed the river, the driver looked into his rear-view mirror and
observed a curious sight. Mehta's head was thrown back against the seat.
Tears were streaming down his face.
-Martin Bookspan and Ross Yockey, Zubin: The Zubin Mehta Story
Won't Do
"Do you have talking parrots?"
"No, madam. Not at the moment. But how about a woodpecker?" "Well, does
it talk?"

Houdini, the Man
No Lock Could Hold
BY JAMES STEWART-GORDON
N MAY 1903, Harry Houdini was appearing at a Moscow
cabaret. To publicize his act, he called on Lebedev, the
I gigantic bearded chief of Moscow's secret police. Houdini
asked to be put in jail to demonstrate how easily he could
escape. Lebedev, who knew of Houdini's reputation,
smilingly refused. "How about the Carette then?" Houdini
suggested. Lebedev laughed. The Carette-a two-metre-square, steel-sheathed
cube - was used to transport dangerous criminals to Siberia. It had only two
openings - a tiny barred window, just 20 centimetres square, and a solid-steel
door. The key which locked the Carette's door in Moscow activated a device
which could be opened only by a second key, kept by the prison governor in
Siberia, 3,000 kilometres away. "No one has ever escaped from the Carette,"
Lebedev told Houdini. "I accept your challenge. But once we lock you up,
you will have to be sent to Siberia to be released." "I'll get out," Houdini
insisted.Stripped naked, searched for concealed picklocks, handcuffed and
chained, Houdini was shoved into the tiny cell. The cell was then locked and
moved so that its door was hidden against a wall in the prison yard. Twenty-
eight minutes later, dripping with sweat, Houdini staggered out from behind
the cell. Amazed, the police rushed to examine the Carette. The seal on its
door was intact, the handcuffs and chains which had bound the prisoner were
still locked. But Houdini was free. How he did it remains a mystery.
"It's Just a Trick." Harry Houdini- -escape artiste, magician, author of more
than 40 books, inventor, film star, aviator, showman and psychologist-swept
through the world like a hurricane between 1895 and 1926, leaving behind
him a trail of vanquished prison cells, vacated handcuffs and gasping
audiences. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, creator of Sherlock Holmes, accused him
of having "supernatural powers." A reporter in Germany, stunned by the ease
with which Houdini was able to free himself from a sealed packing case
without disturbing a single nail, declared, "Houdini has the ability to de-
1
materialize his body and pass it through walls." In Washington, a handcuffed
Houdini jauntily escaped from a maximum-security cell in the federal
penitentiary. He then playfully moved 18 other locked-up prisoners to
different cells before escaping- all in about 27 minutes.
Behind every exercise of Houdini's art was a painstaking attention to detail.
To prepare for his demolition of claims that yogis possessed supernatural
powers enabling them to be buried alive, he spent endless hours nailed inside
a box while assistants timed his ability to remain conscious with a limited
supply of oxygen. Finally satisfied that he could match the yogis'
performance, he climbed into a coffin, crossed hands on his breast and
allowed himself to be sealed inside. An hour and a half later he was released,
pale but very much alive. Snorting at suggestions of supernatural powers, he
told reporters, "It's just a trick. I don't eat or drink for 24 hours beforehand
and I remain absolutely still, that way I don't use up much oxygen."
Margery the Medium. In his pursuit and exposure of fake spirit mediums,
Houdini was relentless. His most famous case revolved around the blonde,
beautiful Boston medium, Margery. So convincing was her performance -
which featured a bell box under the séance table by which the spirits
supposedly answered questions - that the staid and lofty Scientific American
was prepared to pay her its prize of 2,500 dollars for genuine contact with the
world of spooks. In July 1924, Houdini who himself made an open offer of
10,000 dollars to any medium who produced psychic phenomena he could
not duplicate by natural means cancelled a stage engagement and journeyed
to Boston to challenge Margery. Stipulating that he was to be seated next to
the medium, Houdini sensitized his right leg-which was to be pressed against
Margery's left during the seance-by binding it below the knee with a tight
elastic bandage on the morning of the séance. By séance time, the leg was so
tender it could detect a butterfly's sneeze at ten paces. After the lights went
out and Margery had gone into her trance, Houdini edged up his trouser leg,
exposing his bare skin to Margery's silken calf. When Margery made an all-
but-imperceptible move of her foot to press a hidden button - a manoeuvre
Houdini had long suspected the master's leg vibrated like a well-struck gong.
Jumping to his feet, Houdini proclaimed Margery a fake, denounced the entire
affair and went back to his stage work with his 10,000 dollars and Scientific
American's 2,500 dollars still intact.

Offstage, Houdini was a shy, short man (just 1.65 metres), who wore rumpled
suits and spoke in a mess of mangled verbs and tenses. Onstage, however,
everything changed. Houdini seemed to swell to giant's stature; his grey-blue
eyes glowed, his diction became impecca ble, his clothing was immaculate
and his mastery of craft so outstand ing that, as one admirer said, "That man
could escape from anything - except your memory." Dream Come True. The
Great Houdini was born Ehrich Weiss in Budapest, Hungary, in 1874, the
fifth of eight children of a poor rabbi who immigrated to the United States
when Ehrich was still an infant. As a small boy, Ehrich sold newspapers,
shined shoes and worked in a luggage shop where, during his free time, he
liked to tinker with the locks on trunks and valises. At 16, after reading the
autobiography of Robert-Houdin, the great 19th-century French magician and
diplomat, he began to dream of becoming a great magician himself. When he
was 17, the family settled in New York, and Harry Houdini, as he now called
himself, became an apprentice cutter in a tie factory during the day and a
magician whenever someone would hire him for an evening or week-end
show. Using a friend or his brother Theo as his partner in a spectacular quick-
switch trunk escape, Harry played at firemen's picnics, boilermakers' soirees
and clubs. In June 1894, he met a young girl named Bess Rahner, and married
her after a two-day courtship. The marriage lasted 32 happy years, until
Houdini's death. In 1990, convinced that he was ready for the big time,
Houdini took his act of New York. But New York was indifferent. Stung,
Houdini told Bess, "Pack your bags. We're going to London." There Harry
approached the manager of the Alhambra Theatre - the city's most important
music hall - showed him his scrapbook and asked for a tryout. The manager
was unimpressed by Houdini's success with American handcuffs. "Go down
to Scotland Yard," he said, "and if you can get out of their handcuffs I might
give you a try."
Houdini went to "The Yard," and persuaded a detective superin tendent to put
him to the test. The detective led Harry to a pillar, handcuffed him to it, put
on his hat and announced that he was going to lunch. "Wait a second!" Harry
yelled after him, "I'll go with you!" Handing the opened handcuffs to the
astonished inspector, he took his arm and led him through the door.
The story made every paper in England, and soon Harry's fame as "the man
no fetter, no lock, no restraint can hold" spread all over Europe. In 1905, he
came back to New York a celebrity. An Uninvited Guest. The year 1913
marked a turning point for Houdini. His mother, who had been a profound
2
force in his life, died while he was en route to Copenhagen. Unable to
reconcile himself either to her loss or to his failure to be at her deathbed, he
swallowed his scepticism and began to visit mediums and spiritualists in the
hope of communicating with her. Each medium he visited proved a charla
tan. The final straw came when, during one séance, avoice-speaking in
Oxford-accented English - assured Harry that she was his mother and that she
was happy in the "other world." Houdini's mother had never learned much
English, and what little she did speak was unmistakably tinged with a Jewish
accent. Furious, Houdini launched into a savage crusade which made him the
terror of every table-rapper and séance fraud.
In 1923, at the age of 50, Houdini began to talk of retirement. His popularity,
bolstered by film appearances, had never been higher. Yet he was filled with
an impending sense of death. He saw omens in strange happenings: the
unexplained sound of his mother calling his name, the bizarre reactions of
animals in his presence. In New York on a rainy night in October 1926, he
phoned Joseph Dunninger, the famous magician and mentalist, and asked him
to come to his house. When Dunninger arrived, Houdini explained that he
wanted Dunninger to help him take some boxes to a storage place on the other
side of the city. As they were driving away, Houdini suddenly told Dunninger
to turn back. They arrived before the house, and Houdini got out of the car.
He stood silently in the rain and then got back in. "I just wanted one last look,"
Houdini said. "I'll never see it again alive." Beaten Up. Houdini left soon after
on a tour. In Montreal, he gave a lecture at McGill University on the fakery
of spiritualism. His talk infuriated local mediums, who were unanimous in
denouncing him. On the morning of his final appearance in Montreal, he was
lying exhausted on the couch in his dressing room when several students who
had been at his lecture arrived. One of them, who wanted to sketch Houdini,
had been invited. The others had come without invitation. Suddenly, one of
the uninvited guests began to question Houdini's views on spiritualism. Too
tired to argue, Houdini tried to placate the visitor, but only succeeded in
arousing him. "Is it true," the man cried, "that you are so strong you can take
a punch anywhere on your body without injury?" Houdini mumbled vaguely,
and before he could prepare himself the man began raining sledgehammer
blows on his solar plexus.
Although badly hurt, Houdini went on stage for that day's perform ance. But
the next few days were a confusion of agony as he seemed to weave in and
out of consciousness. In Detroit, he collapsed and was taken to hospital,
 3

suffering from a ruptured appendix and peritonitis. Bess, who had also been
sick, now joined her husband in the hospital. On October 29, a fading Houdini
struggled with his final problem. "Mother never reached me," he gasped to
Bess. 'Rosabelle, believe.' " Shortly afterwards, Houdini was dead.
But his death did not end the story. Throughout the years that followed, the
same mediums whose tricks Houdini had so industri ously exposed began
reporting that they were the recipients of mes sages sent by Houdini from the
Great Beyond. "If Houdini keeps this message stuff up," commented the
American wit, Will Rogers,
"he's going to put Western Union (a telegraph company) out of business."
For the next ten years, Bess, on the anniversary of his death, sat at home
before a candle-lit portrait of the master, and waited for his signal. It never
came. In 1936 ten years after his death, she extinguished the light. But among
magicians there are still those who go out each year to the place where
Houdini is buried. And there they wait, hoping for a sign that the
unconquerable Houdini has been able to to make his greatest escape.

Unforgettable
Walt Disney
BY ROY DISNEY
N, THE LATE 60s, at our Burbank, California studio, a
group of animators and writers were holding a story
I conference on a new Disney cartoon feature. They were
having a tough time agreeing on a story line, and the
atmosphere was as stormy as the weather outside. Suddenly,
lightning scribbled a jagged streak over the San Fernando
Valley and there was a rolling clap of thunder.
"Don't worry, Walt," one of the animators quipped, glancing heaven ward.
"We'll get it yet.
My brothers Walt is no more, yet his influence lingers like a living presence
over the studio where he turned out the cartoons, nature films and feature
movies that made him known and loved around the world. Even now, as I
walk around the studio lot, I half expect to encounter that gangly, country-
boy figure, head bowed in thought about some new project. Walt was so much
the driving force behind all we did, from making movies to building
Disneyland, that people constantly mention his name as if he were still alive.
Every time we show a new picture, or open a new feature at Disneyland,
someone is bound to say, "I wonder how Walt would like it?" And when this
happens, I personally realize that it was something he himself had planned.
For my imaginative, industrious brother left enough projects in progress to
keep the rest of us busy for many, many years.
Walt was a complex man. To the writers, producers and animators who
worked with him, he was a genius who had an uncanny ability to add an extra
fillip of imagination to any story or idea. To the millions of people who
watched his TV show, he was a warm, kindly person ality, bringing fun and
pleasure into their homes. To the bankers who financed us, I'm sure he seemed
like a wild man, hell-bent for bank ruptcy. To me, he was my amazing kid
brother, full of impractical dreams that he made come true.
1
Once, his family and mine-wives, children and grandchildren went back to
our old hometown of Marceline, Mo, for ceremonies celebrating the issuance
of the Walt Disney commemorative stamp. As the gleaming Santa Fe train
rolled across the green midwestern prairie, memories of the pleasant years
that Walt and I spent there inevitably flooded back.
About a Mouse. The apple orchard and weeping willows stand green and
beautiful at our old farm, where Walt sketched his first animals. I recall how
Walt and I would snuggle together in bed and hear the haunting whistle of a
locomotive passing in the night. Our Uncle Mike was an engineer, and he'd
blow his whistle-one long and two shorts-just for us. Walt never lost his love
of trains. Years later, an old-fashioned train was one of the first attractions at
Disneyland.
As far back as I can remember, Walt was drawing. The first money he ever
made was a nickel for a sketch of a neighbour's horse. He studied cartooning
in Chicago, and then started a little animated cartoon company in Kansas City
that flopped. I was in Los Angeles when Walt, just 21, decided to try his luck
in Hollywood. I met him at the station. He was carrying a cheap suitcase that
contained all of his belongings. We borrowed $500 from an uncle, and Walt
started a cartoon series called Alice in Cartoonland. It was tough going. Walt
did all the animation, and I cranked the old-fashioned camera. The Alice
cartoons didn't make much of a splash, so Walt started called Oswald the
Rabbit. Oswald did better, but when Walt went to our New York distributor
for more money he ran into trouble. new series"What kind of a deal did you
make, kid?" I asked. "We haven't got a deal," Walt admitted. "The distributor
copy righted Oswald and he's taking over the series himself." Strangely, Walt
did not seem downhearted. "We're going to start a new series," he enthused.
"It's about a mouse. And this time we'll own the mouse." The rest is history.
Walt's mouse, Mickey, celebrated his 40th birthday in 1968, and a happy 40th
it was. A quarter of a billion people saw a Disney movie in 1968, 100 million
watched a Disney TV show, nearly a billion read a Disney book or magazine
and almost ten million visited Disneyland. And Mickey, as Walt used to say,
started it all.

The Bane of Bankers. Mickey was only the first successful product of Walt's
matchless imagination and ability to make his dreams become reality. It was
an ability he could turn on for any occasion, large or small. Once, when my
son Roy Edward had the measles, Walt came and told him the story of
Pinocchio, which he was making at the time. When Walt told a story, it was
a virtuoso performance. His eyes riveted his listener, his moustache twitched
expressively, his eyebrows rose and fell, and his hands moved with the grace
of a musical conductor. Young Roy was so wide-eyed at Walt's graphic telling
of the fairy tale that he forgot all about his measles. Later, when he saw the
finished picture, he was strangely disappointed. "It didn't seem as exciting as
when Uncle Walt told it," he said.
Like many people who work to create humour, Walt took it very seriously.
He would often sit glumly through the funniest cartoon, concentrating on
some way to improve it. Walt valued the opinions of those working with him,
but the final judgment was always unques tionably his. Once, after viewing a
new cartoon with evident displeas ure, Walt called for comments from a
group of our people. One after another they spoke up, all echoing Walt's
criticism. "I can get rubber stamps that say. 'Yes, Walt," he Then he wheeled
and asked the projectionist what he thought. The man sensed that dissent was
in order. "I think you're all wrong," he declared. Walt just grinned. "You stick
to your projector," he suggested.
Bankers, bookkeepers and lawyers frequently tried to put the brakes on his
free-wheeling imagination and were the bane of Walt's existence. As his
business manager, I was no exception. "When I see you happy, that's when I
get nervous," he used to say. Since Walt would spare no expense to make his
pictures better, we used to have our battles. But he was always quick to shake
hands and make up.
The "Good Stuff." Walt thrived on adversity, which is fortunate because we
had it in spades. Even with Mickey a hit, we were constantly in hock to the
banks. When he made his first real financial bonanza, with Snow White, he
could scarcely believe it. Sure enough, the good fortune was too good to last.
Snow White made several million dollars when it came out. But Walt soon
spent that and then some by plunging into a series of full-length cartoon
features and building our present studio.
2
To keep the studio afloat we sold stock to the public-and it sank immediately
from $25 a share to $30. Troubles piled up. The studio was hit by a strike.
Then World War II cut off our European market. More than once I would
have given up had it not been for Walt's ornery faith that we would eventually
succeed.
He drove himself harder than anyone else at the studio. His two daughters,
Diane and Sharon, learned to ride bikes on the deserted studio lot on
weekends-while Walt worked.
Walt involved himself in everything. During one story conference on the
Mickey Mouse Club TV Show, the story man, pointer in hand, was outlining
a sequence called "How to Ride a Bicycle." "Now when you get on your
bicycle...," he began. Walt stopped him. "Change your bicycle to a bicycle,"
he said. "Remember, every kid isn't fortunate enough to have a bike of his
own."
Very little escaped Walt's perceptive eye. Animators often found their
crumpled drawings retrieved from the wastebasket with a nota tion from
Walt: "Let's not throw away the good stuff." And that, I think, was his greatest
genius: he knew instinctively what "good stuff" was. After others had worked
on a story plot for months, Walt would often come in, juggle things around a
bit, add a gag or two-and suddenly the whole thing came to life.
Walt demanded a lot of people, but he gave a lot, too. When the Depression
hit, and it looked as though we might have to close the studio, Walt gave
everyone a raise. Some thought him crazy, but it gave morale a big boost. He
hated to fire anyone, and if someone didn't work out in one job Walt would
try to find a niche where he was better suited. Once, when we were faced with
having to drop some anima tors, Walt found places for them at WED (for
Walt E. Disney) Enter prises in nearby Glendale, where he was secretly
developing plans for what eventually became Disneyland.
Biggest Toy in the World. The story of Disneyland, perhaps better than
anything else, illustrates Walt's vision and his stubborn determi nation to
realize an idea he believed in. For years, Walt had quietly nursed the dream
of a new kind of amusement park. It would be a potpourri of all the ideas
conjured up by his fertile imagination. But the idea of sinking millions of
dollars into an amusement park, even Walt's kind of amusement park seemed
so preposterous that he wouldn't mention it to anyone. He just quietly began

planning. As usual, though, he infused all of us with his own enthusiasm when
he finally told us about the project. Predictably, we had trouble raising money,
but Disneyland did open, in July 1955. Since that first day, millions of people
have flocked to see the unique creation of Walt's imagination. Like a kid with
a new toy-the biggest, shiniest toy in the world-Walt used to wander through
the park, gawking as happily as any tourist.
The overwhelming success of Walt's "crazy idea" triggered a dra matic about-
face in the Disney fortunes. Yet success never changed Walt. He remained
the simplest of men. He hated parties, and his idea of a night out was a
hamburger and chili at some little restaurant. His only extravagance was a
miniature railroad that ran around the grounds of his home.
"What do you do with all your money?" a friend once asked him. Pointing at
the studio Walt said, "I fertilize that field with it." And it's true that Walt
ploughed money back into the company almost as fast as it came in.
Typical is what happened one day when Walt and Admiral Joe Fowler,
Disneyland's construction supervisor, were looking over the park's Rivers of
America attraction. It was the scene of feverish activity. The paddle-wheeler
Mark Twain was puffing around a bend. Two rafts crowded with children
were crossing to Tom Sawyer's island. Several canoes, manned by real
Indians, were racing. It looked as though the whole flotilla was about to
converge in one huge collision.
"Gosh isn't that great!" Walt exclaimed. "Do you know what we need now?"
"Yeah," grunted Fowler. "A port director." "No," said Walt. "Another big
boat!" And he got one, the Columbia, a full-scale replica of the first American
square-rigger to sail around the globe.
Precious Something. Being solvent for the first time since he started in
business gave Walt a chance to develop other ideas. These included the
development of Mineral King (an alpine-like valley high in the Sierra
Mountains); a California Institute of Art, for which he donated the land and
several million dollars; and, most ambitious of all, a 100 million-dollar
Disney World and City of Tomorrow in Florida. Tragically, in the midst of
all this activity, Walt was stricken with this fatal illness. I heard him refer to
this cruel blow only once. Whatever it is I've got," he told me, "don't get it."
3
I visited him in the hospital the night before he died. Although desperately ill,
he was as full of plans for the future as he had been all his life.
Walt used to say that Disneyland would never be finished, and it never will.
I like to think, too, that Walt Disney's influence will never be finished; that
through his creations, future generations will continue to celebrate what he
once described as "that precious, ageless some thing in every human being
which makes us play with children's toys and laugh at silly things and sing in
the bathtub and dream."
Values Differ
"YOU KNOW," says the East German to the West German, "the essential
difference between you and us consists in your treasuring the money while
we treasure the people."
"Correct, replies the West German. "So we lock up our money and you lock
up your people." -Peterborough" in The Daily Telegraph, London
Not Clear
WITH THE frequent mélées and the dust kicked up by the horses, spectators
found it difficult to follow the details of a polo match at the Bangalore parade
grounds. The commentator, however, did his best, mentioning the moves and
the players as they came into action. The name most frequently heard was
that of General P.P. Kumaramangalam, former Chief of the Army Staff
During a brief interval, I overheard a spectator ask his neighbour how he was
enjoying the game. "All I can make out is that two generals seem to be
conducting military manoeuvres somewhere out there on the field," he
replied. "There's a General Kumaramangalam on one side and general
confusion on the other." -J.B. Freeman, Bangalore
Tag Line
HIGH ON a wall in Edinburgh, Scotland, is this official announcement:
"Smoking stops you from growing." Beneath, about 60 centimetres from the
ground, someone pencilled: "Now you tell me." -F.F.W.

Unforgettable
Danny Kaye
BY JOHN CULHANE
ANNY KAYE began to sing the song we had counted on
him to sing, and I couldn't remember ever feeling more nerv
D ous. My brother, Dick, sitting beside me in the Chicago.
theatre, was as tense as I was. We were two small-town
teenagers planning to challenge a one-of-a-kind entertainer.
"This is the story of Minnie the Moocher," crooned Danny, red haired and
long-nosed. "She was a low-ho down hoo-oo-chy cootcher," his clarinet voice
continued. Now he invited the audience to sing along with him just as he did
on our record at home.
"Hi-hi dee hi dee hi," he sang. "Hi-hi dee hi dee hi," we sang.
He slowly led us through the tongue-twisters of the old Cab Calloway song.
Sizeable numbers of the audience dropped out with each verse. We knew
what was coming. We had been memorizing the record ever since we had sent
off for tickets to his show.
Suddenly that inspired clown exploded into one of his famous, supersonic,
polysyllabic improvised jazz phrases: "Git gat gittle, giddle di-ap, giddle-de-
tommy, riddle de biddle de roop, da-reep, fa-san, skeedle de woo-da, fiddle
de wada, REEP!"
"Try that," Danny challenged. The audience laughed. It was now or never.
My brother and I rose on trembling legs, and sang as fast and as loud as we
could: "Git gat gittle, giddle-di-ap, giddle-de-tommy, riddle de biddle de
roop..."
We were losing our breath.
"Da-reep, fa-san, skeedle de woo-da..."
We were losing our nerve.
1
"Fiddle de wada..." Still together, but fading fast, we gasped out a weak
"reep." Kaye looked dumbfounded. I was momentarily afraid that we might
have made him angry. Then surprise turned to warm approval on that friendly,
expressive face. "Nice try. Give 'em a hand," Kaye called to the audience.
At that moment Dick and I joined the legion of kids and adults around the
world who would love Danny Kaye for ever. Afterwards, when we went to
the stage door to ask for his autograph, he greeted us with "Oh, the show-
stoppers." He asked us if we wanted to be entertainers. No, we said: I wanted
to be a writer, Dick, a doctor.
"Well," Danny said, with a twinkle in his eye, "do your best, and it'll
usually work out-but not always." He told us that he had wanted to be a
surgeon because making people well and happy appealed to him. But, after
all, he said, he was doing fine as an actor and a comedian.. Wife-Made Man.
As I followed Danny Kaye's career over the years, I noticed that he continued
to speak of being a doctor as his heart's desire; there were many to testify that
he really achieved his ambi tion-though not the way he originally conceived
it.
"I think I've made people happy by making them laugh," he once wrote. "And
I think that when you make someone laugh, you're giving him medicine."
This instinctive healer was born David Daniel Kaminsky, the son of Russian
Jewish immigrants, in New York, in 1913. His father was a failor with a
strong love of life, an appreciation of music and a wonderful sense of rhythm.
As a child Danny wanted to study medicine. But there wasn't money for
university, let alone medical college. He worked at a soda fountain and as an
insurance investigator before gravitating into show business as an entertainer
at a mountain resort. Then, in 1939, at a play rehearsal, he met a
composer/lyricist named Sylvia Fine, whom he married in 1940.
"I am a wife-made man," Kaye once told a reporter who asked his formula
for success. Sylvia was for years his manager, director, coach and critic, and
she knew how to write the special material that only Danny Kaye knew how
to act. As he once put it, "Sylvia has a fine head on my shoulders."

After Danny sang Sylvia's "Anatole of Paris" in The Straw Hat Revue, the
owner of a New York club called La Martinique decided to take a chance on
him, with Sylvia as his accompanist. One night Broadway playwright Moss
Hart came to see Danny perform and wrote a part for him in a musical, Lady
in the Dark. In the show he sang an Ira Gershwin-Kurt Weill song called
"Tschaikowsky," which contains more than 50 Russian composers' names.
It begins: "There's Malichevsky, Rubinstein, Arensky and Tschaikowsky,
Sapellnikoff, Dmitrieff, Tscherepnin, Kryjanowksy..." Danny machine-
gunned those tongue-twisters in 38 seconds, and the audience exploded with
applause, Bound for Stardom. In 1943 he went to Hollywood and then starred
in Up in Arms, the first of many films for producer-director Samuel Goldwyn.
Kaye combined convincing acting with off-beat flights of comic fancy. In the
film, while he waits in a queue to see a movie, Kaye acts out a movie of his
own, "Hello, Fresno, Goodbye," playing all the parts, singing all the songs,
doing all the sound effects, even reciting interminable screen credits-
composed by Sylvia-in an entertaining way: "Art direction Finklepuff,
Interiors Minerva Buff, Photography Alonzo Tek, Recorded Sound Ozneedle
Beck, Upholstery by Zachary, Knick-knackery by Thackery, Terpsichore by
Dickery, and Dickery by Dock."
Like millions of others, my brother and I couldn't get enough of him. When
we were kids, he had a weekly radio show, and for weeks and weeks he was
a victim of the same wonderfully stupid joke.
"My sister married an Irishman," somebody would say. "Oh really?" Danny
would answer.
"No, O'Riley."
Dick and I split our sides at this silly pun. The the joke sprouted variations,
such as our favourite: "I'd like to have potatoes for dinner." "Oh, really?" "No,
au gratin." Playing the Palladium. In 1948 Kaye took his flying feet, rubber
face, quicksilver tongue and expressive hands to Britain and returned often to
perform at the famous London Palladium. Britain loved him. He was cast in
wax at Madame Tussaud's; the Royal Family came to see him and sat not in
the royal box but in front row seats. It was the first time any ruling British
sovereigns had attended such a show except for a command performance.
One of Kaye's trademarks-his informality with audiences-began by chance,
while he was doing one of his London performances. Out of breath from an
2
improvised marathon dance routine on top of playing golf, he sat on the edge
of the stage.
"I think I'll just sit here and rest for a minute," he announced. He borrowed a
cigarette from someone in the front row, then told the audience about his
exhausting round of golf earlier that day. Re freshed, he jumped up and
finished the act. That bit worked so well he made it part of his routine.
On screen, Kaye was best known for bringing to life two beloved
daydreamers-Walter Mitty and Hans Christian Andersen. He was implacable
as Gaylord Mitty, the Gentleman Gambler (doing the card tricks without a
professional stand-in), cool and resourceful as Wing Commander Walter
Mitty, RAF ("Oh, it's nothing, sir, merely a scratch. Set the bone myself.")
But, not surprisingly, he was best as Doctor Mitty, the surgical genius. ("Your
brother will play the violin again," he says to his nurse. "I just grafted new
fingers on him.")
When Danny Kaye played Hans Christian Andersen in Goldwyn's 1952 film,
he sang a little song by Frank Loesser that helped Dick and me and millions
of others to see things the way he did. It was called "The Inch Worm" and it
went:
"Inch Worm inch worm, measuring the marigolds, You and your arithmetic,
you'll probably go far.
Inch worm, inch worm, measuring the marigolds,
Seems to me you'd stop and see how beautiful they are." Ambassador-at-
Large. Next to his wife, Sylvia, Danny's greatest love was his daughter, Dena,
whom the Kayes called "our best collaboration." She was named after the way
Danny sang the old song "Dinah." ("Deenah, is there anything feenah, in the
state of Caroleenah?")
Danny Kaye treasured good food (he was a master of Chinese cuisine),
baseball (he was part owner of the Seattle Mariners), flying (he had a
commercial pilot's licence) and music. He raised millions of dollars for
symphony musicians' pension funds at benefit concerts, doing such zany
stunts as conducting "The Flight of the Bumblebee with a fly swatter.
 3

But he was most famous for treasuring the world's children. Playing to them,
he insisted, was his favourite and most rewarding role. Once at a show, a baby
began to cry. Danny started to sing a lullaby, stepped down into the audience,
took the baby from the embarrassed mother and went back onstage, still
singing. When the baby's cries stopped, he put his finger to his lips, quieting
any applause, and returned the baby to its mother. Then, finger still to lips, he
walked off the stage. A stunning finale.
From 1954 onwards, he travelled the world as Ambassador-at-large for the
United Nations Children's Fund, helping raise money to bring milk and
medical aid to the world's underprivileged children. In polio wards, jungle
villages and desert oases, Danny Kaye would find a way to reach the kids, by
making funny faces, with a song or a hug, while doctors and nurses lined them
up for injections and vaccinations. "I think I get along so well with kids
because I'm not afraid to be a child," he would say..
The special quality of Danny's humour was that contagious gener osity of
spirit. "Danny could get people laughing simply by reminding them of the
children they used to be," said one observer.
Danny enjoyed good health until his late 60s, when heart trouble and a bad
hip began to slow him down-although not enough to stop him from appearing
as Noah in Two by Two, a Broadway musical about the ark. Nor could he be
prevented from attending a moving Kennedy Centre tribute in 1984, at which
a chorus of children from the UN International School performed a song
written in his honour. On March 3, 1987, with his wife and daughter at his
bedside, Danny Kaye died of heart failure. When I heard the news in New
York, I phoned my brother, now a doctor and practising in California.
"Remember the time we tried to follow him through 'Minnie the Moocher?"
I asked. "I'm thinking of writing a remembrance."
"We only met him once," said Dick. "Yes," I said, "but I'll bet I could sum
him up in a single word." After all these years, my brother took my bait. "Oh,
really?"
"No, Original."

Unforgettable
Bing Crosby
BY BOB HOPE
T'S FUNNY how many times the most lasting friendships of
our lives begin in a moment so incidental we scarcely recall
I it. Bing Crosby and I shook hands outside the Friars Club on
48th Street in New York City one autumn day back in 1932.
He was already a recording star and had one of the most
popular radio shows in the United States. I was a comedian
just recently out of vaudeville and nibbling at a show business career.
Two months later I was acting as master of ceremonies of a variety show at
New York's Capital Theatre, and Crosby was the lead singer. It was the first
time our names appeared together on a marquee. Across from the theatre there
happened to be a bar to which Bing and I repaired each evening between
shows. We started teasing one another, then developing little routines to work
into the show. The crowd in the bar loved it. Who can define what the
chemistry was between the easygoing crooner and the erstwhile boxer and
vaudeville dancer? It was just there. On our respective radio shows during the
1930s, we both fostered the "Hope-Crosby Feud." He criticized my nose
("like a bicycle seat"), my golf and even my jokes. I fired back at "Ol' Dad,"
the ageing star, making fun of everything from his "groaning" to his rapidly
thinning hair and protruding ears. One night he walked on, unexpected,
during my radio show. "Tell me, Bing," I said, "with so much hot air and
those ears, why don't you take off?" He replied, chuckling, "The downdraft
from your nose prevents it."
Bing could joke about those very things that made other stars founder in a
morass of vanity. He once wrote regarding my incessant teasing over the
hairpiece Paramount made him wear in his films: "Robert Hope, of the non-
classic profile and the unlissome midsection, is sometimes goaded by a
knowledge of his own lack of physical charms into referring to me as skin
1
head. I don't have to specify what it means. It's generally known that for
screen purposes I wear a device the trade calls a scalp doily."
Celluloid Road. By the time I got to Hollywood and signed with Paramount,
Crosby had already made his mark in films. By then, too, ol' Cros was also a
little mad about horses, though the ones he bought weren't necessarily mad
about winning races. The first horse he owned was named Zombie, and it ran
true to its name. Bing often averred that his losing stable was purely an
altruistic gesture for my benefit, a charitable source of jokes. "Hope is always
short of good material," he said.
Bing's penchant for horses eventually got us together in the films. Wanting to
be sure he had good seats at the finish line, Crosby had in his grandly casual
way purchased a big interest in the Del Mar racecourse, near San Diego. To
boost attendance, he helped stage lavish parties at the course's Turf Club, and
invited film and radio personali ties to entertain. I was included in one of these
Saturday-night forays, and Crosby and I did a little rerun of our clowning
from the Capitol Theatre days. The old chemistry was still there. Only this
time a Paramount producer was in the audience, and he said, "We've got to
get these two boys together in a picture."
The result was a zany film called The Road to Singapore-the first of seven
"roads" we travelled on film, usually in pursuit of the lovely Dorothy Lamour.
It was Bing who saw the possibilities for ad libbing in the script. I can still
see Cros drawing thoughtfully on his pipe between takes as he studied new
ways to butcher the script. Sometimes we'd shout back and forth between our
dressing rooms, trying out new bits. Poor Dottie Lamour, who had studied
her lines like the profes sional she was, couldn't recognize a single phrase to
take her cue from.
Crosby always loved words, liked to trip them mellifluously over his tongue.
He had a softspoken way of circumlocution larded with erudite words and
foreign phrases that was part of his trademark. (Crosby would have loved
those last two sentences.) I remember a scene in The Road to Morocco in
which we were having trouble with a French policeman. I began ad libbing
and asked Cros, "Can you talk French?" "Certainly I can," he replied and
directed an effortless stream of Gallic at the policeman. Later I discovered he

had recited a short French fable about a crow and a piece of cheese-a classic
piece of high school French that was indelibly imprinted in Bing's brain.
It's no big secret how long I panted after that gold statue they call Oscar. In
fact, it was a running gag between Bing and me, especially after he won one
as best actor for his portrayal of Father O'Malley in Going My Way. Once,
during the filming of The Road to Rio, the script had me down on my knees,
clutching at Crosby's coattails, crying, "Don't leave me! Don't leave me!" As
the filming drew to a close, Crosby solemnly pulled his Oscar from beneath
his coat and handed it to me. The sound stage burst into laughter.
The Way He Was. If you want biographical details on Harry Lillis Crosby,
there are several books around (including Bing's own, Call Me Lucky) that
trace his career from the early days in Spokane, Washing ton, to his place in
the pantheon of popular entertainers. You can read all about Crosby playing
the drums with an outfit called the Musicaladers, about his big break with the
Paul Whiteman band and the forming of a trio called the "Rhythm Boys."
Then, at the fabled Coconut Grove in Los Angeles, Bing began singing solo,
and the music business was never quite the same again.
The mischievous youngster from the big Irish family who had wanted to be a
professional baseball player became a recording star before there were
recording stars. It's estimated that he sold more than 400 million records and
recorded more than 4,000 songs. Then there were the films, and the radio, TV
and concert appearances.
But nobody has to remind us how big Bing was. I just like to recall the way
he was. For all his celluloid escapades, for all his celebrity, Bing was a private
man and he let it be known quite firmly that he intended to live "outside the
fan magazines." He had the magnificent opportunity to love and be loved by
two extraordinary women: his first wife and mother of his four eldest sons,
Dixie Lee, who died of cancer in 1952; and Kathryn, the beautiful and
vivacious lady who was his wife the last 20 years of his life, bearing him two
sons and a daughter.
The public loved him because they saw in him an absolutely ordinary man
who had become very rich and very famous-yet never left his real self behind.
Who but Bing could be refused a room at a posh hotel when he came in from
a hunting trip all bearded and bedraggled? And it was just like him, too, to be
arrested by the Paris police who found him dozing next to a "Keep Off the
2
Grass" sign, a newspaper tented over his face to shut out the sun. He loved
singing and show business, but he always let it be known that he might just
rather be playing golf, fishing a good trout stream or hunting pheasant with a
Labrador at his side.
White Christmas. Make no mistake though, Bing was serious about those
things he believed important in life-family, church and giving his time, talent
and money to a world he felt had been pretty good to him. He was a devout
Catholic, but he didn't wear his religion on his sleeve. When director Leo
McCarey approached him about playing the part of the young priest in Going
My Way, Bing was concerned that the Church might find the idea of a
"crooner" in the role offensive. Only after McCarey assured him that a
number of priests had reacted favourably did Bing agree. The result was the
portrayal of Father O'Malley that further endeared him to millions.
Bing also had to be practically coerced into recording "Silent Night" and
"White Christmas." When Decca asked him to do "Silent Night," he refused,
saying it would be like "cashing in" on religion. He relented when it was
arranged that the proceeds would go to orphans being taken care of by
American missions in China. Later, during the Second World War, Bing and
his troupe toured military camps on funds from "Silent Night." It was his next
biggest-selling record to "White Christ mas."
"White Christmas," sung by Bing. What more can you really say? Who isn't
touched by a wave of nostalgia when he hears it? But again, everyone had to
twist Bing's arm to get him to sing it in the film Holiday Inn. He said it might
be interpreted as commercializing Christmas. He was finally persuaded, and
he sang it like nobody ever will again. It became one of the biggest hits of all
time. Casual Surprises. I don't suppose anyone will ever be able to calculate
the total amount of money Crosby gave or raised for charita ble causes. He
loved golf, particularly when he was playing to raise money for a hospital,
school or some other worthy cause. And he sacrificed time, money and even
physical stamina to do charity benefits -so much that someone called him a
one-man "itinerant foundation."
Once we played a charity golf match together in Indianapolis during the
Second World War. I was scheduled to go from there to South Bend for a
War Bond rally at Notre Dame. I asked Bing to come along, and he did. The
crowd roared with delight at his unexpected entrance. Then he flew on to
Chicago, while I stayed in South Bend to do a show at a Navy installation the
 3

next day. It was my birthday, and darned if Cros didn't fly back to surprise
me onstage with a cake.
He liked those casual surprises. I was in London once doing a benefit for a
boy's club, and asked Bing, who was also in town, to appear. It was unlikely
he could make it, and I didn't really promise that he'd show up, but the word
got around. That night the audience called to me, "Where's Bing?" I joked
with them, saying it was late for such an old man to be out. Suddenly there
he was, leaning against the pro scenium grinning at me between puffs on his
pipe. The crowd went wild. It was the first time Bing had ever been on the
stage in England. He sang for 40 minutes as the audience shouted out their
favourites.
In December 1976, Bing and his family began a charity concert tour that
showed the world he could still sing like nobody else. Clive Barnes wrote in
The New York Times, "He lives his songs. He never plays any role other than
himself."
That was Bing all the way. A natural. One of his old buddies said that when
Bing was a boy, you could always tell he was coming because you'd hear him
singing or whistling. Well, thanks to records and films, he'll never leave us.
That's a reassuring and pleasant thought.
Bing loved his father, and said of him, "He was a cheery man. He liked
everybody and I think everybody liked him, which is a better epitaph than
most men have."
It's Bing's epitaph, too. If friends could be made to order, I would have asked
for one like him.
Multiplied Image
AT A STAGE show to which only a handful of people had turned up, Orson
Welles introduced himself with the words: "My name is Orson Welles. I am
an actor, writer, director, producer, columnist and, of course, a lecturer. Tell
me, why is it that there are so many of me and so few of you?"
-Don Freeman in San Diego Union

Inimitable
Charles Dickens
BY JAMES NATHAN MILLER
ANY critics rank Dickens's novels with Shakespeare's plays
as the greatest works of fiction in the English language. He
M has probably given more pleasure to more people than any
other writer. His career has been called one of the greatest
success stories in all history. It started, appropriately, with a
joyful comedy team he dreamed up one day in 1836.
A new publishing company was looking for a writer who could knock out an
amusing text for some sporting prints it planned to sell for a shilling apiece.
Someone recommended a London Chronicle reporter named Charles
Dickens, a larky 24-year-old with a wild sense of humour. Dickens quickly
accepted. But since he was a city boy from an impoverished family (he had
worked as a 12-year-old labourer in a London warehouse, and his father had
served a term in debtors' prison), he didn't know anything about hunting. So
he suggested changing the theme to the adventures of a bunch of bumbling
gentle men who wander round England getting into scrapes of one sort or
another. The first three instalments of the series, starring little, fat, retired
businessman Samuel Pickwick, were a dismal failure. Then Dickens
introduced a ragged but jaunty young Cockney called Sam Weller, who could
hardly read or write and had trouble pronouncing his v's ("wery good thing is
weal pie"). From that moment, the whole series-and with it Dickens's career-
turned to pure gold.
In Pickwick and Weller, Dickens had created what is probably the greatest
comedy team in literature. No sooner did the saucy Cockney become servant
and guardian angel to innocent old Samuel Pickwick than reviewers started
taking notice and buyers flocked to the stands.
Within a few months, each instalment was selling 40,000 copies. A
"Pickwick" craze was sweeping over England. There were Pickwick cigars,
Pickwick hats and canes, Weller trousers and hordes of Pickwick imitators.
1
In poor neighbourhoods, people pooled their pennies to buy issues and pass
them round. "It is doubtful if any single work of letters before or since has
ever aroused such wild and widespread enthusi asm," writes Edgar Johnson
in his massive, delightful and definitive biography, Charles Dickens: His
Tragedy and Triumph. In only a few months, the little-known reporter was
transformed into the most popular writer in England.
Energetic Genius. What did it was simple: Dickens had a sparkling
imagination like a soap-bubble pipe. People and situation endlessly bubbled
up in his head (he said he could literally hear what his characters said before
he wrote it down). If, in The Pickwick Papers, Sam Weller's conversation got
the loudest laughter ("How's Mother? Tell her I want to speak to her, my
hinfant fernomenon"), it was Dickens's supporting cast of more than 300
fantastic bit players who floated out of that bubble pipe that gave the work its
immortality. There was the man known as the Zephyr, who could imitate a
wheelbarrow full of cats; the insatiably hungry Fat Boy, who slept as he ran
errands; and the wildly inventive conversation of Sam Weller's father-such as
his judgement on Sam's way with a glass of ale: "Wery good power o' suction,
Sammy. You'd ha' made an uncommon fine oyster if you'd been born in that
station o' life."
What kind of man was behind this unique brand of nuttiness that was too real
to be called whimsy, too whimsical to be called real? Dickens was an original,
a character straight out of one of his own novels. (Indeed, he later put himself
into one of them, reversing his initials and calling himself David
Copperfield.) One friend recalled accompanying him on a walk through
London slums, in which Dickens
A Dickens Vignette
ONE leading authority estimates that Dickens created some 3,000 named
characters. The following brief vignette involves a character so obscure that
hardly anyone but a Dickens scholar would be able to identify her: a 13-year-
old orphan girl called Charley (the nickname for Charlotte Neckett), one of
scores of characters in Bleak House. Here is how Charley explains why she
keeps her baby brother and sister locked in their attic room while she works
as a washerwoman: "To keep 'em safe, sir, don't you see?" said Charley. "And
they can play, you know, and Tom an't afraid of being locked up, are you,
Tom?" "No-o," said Tom, stoutly. "When it comes on dark, the lamps are

lighted down in the court, and they show up here quite bright-almost quite
bright. Don't they, Tom?" "Yes, Charley," said Tom. "Almost quite bright."
"Then he's as good as gold," said the little creature-O! in such a motherly,
womanly way. "And when Emma's tired, he puts her to bed. And when he's
tired, he goes to bed himself. And when I come home and light the candle,
and has a bit of supper, he sits up again and has it with me. Don't you, Tom?"
"Oh, yes, Charley," said Tom. "That I do!" And either in this glimpse of the
great pleasure of his life, or in gratitude and love for Charley, who was all in
all to him, he laid his face among the scanty folds of her frock, and passed
from laughing into crying. followed along behind the big red face of a baby
slung over his father's shoulder, popping cherries into the child's gaping
mouth as the father walked on, oblivious. At a dinner, when he was seated
next to the young wife of a prominent American doctor and heard her address
her husband by the then unheard-of endearment of "darling," he found it so
funny that he laughed until he fell of his chair and wound up on the floor,
with only his feet visible to the diners, kicking in helpless hysterics.
Behind the buffoonery lay the mind of a genius driven by the energy of a
dynamo. When the BBC Brains Trust was asked to name the world's two
greatest novels, they unanimously picked War and Peace and The Pickwick
Papers. Yet while the young Dickens was creating this monumental work, he
was also taking on the full-time editorship of a new literary magazine, writing
the libretto for an operetta, and setting to work to satisfy the clamour for more
Dickens by starting a second novel, Oliver Twist.
For the rest of his life he was always working on two or three major projects
at once. Before he had finished Oliver he started on Nicholas Nickleby, and
before he was done with Nicholas he was making prepa ration for The Old
Curiosity Shop. All the time he was writing for and editing the magazine,
doing odds and ends of play-writing, carrying on an enormous
correspondence, and indulging in his favourite hobby of acting in amateur
theatricals.
His public readings of his work became the most popular stage attractions of
the day. A brilliant actor, he made these readings so vivid that he was
criticized for his performance of the most famous of them -Sikes's brutal
murder of Nancy in Oliver Twist, in which a screaming, snarling Dickens
played both murderer and victim-because of the large number of women who
fainted at each session.
2
Incredibly, his career never had a pinnacle. It was all pinnacle. From the
appearance of Sam Weller in 1836 to the day in 1870 when Dickens died
writing The Mystery of Edwin Drood, his career was like a Roman candle
that went straight up and then just hung there, shooting off one brilliant
shower after another. As soon as Oliver Twist was finished, three stage
versions were simultaneously presented in London. The Old Curiosity Shop
sold an unprecedented 100,000 copies, and when the ship carrying one key
instalment arrived in New York, its crew was greeted by a crowd shouting,
"Is Little Nell dead?"
Great Expectations. In 34 years, Dickens wrote 15 books (plus hundreds of
stories and articles), and every one became a best-seller. Even when he
changed from humour to the angry social protest of his greed-and-evil novels
like Bleak House and Our Mutual Friend, the public gobbled them up.
Some of his characters, of course, became household words-Fagin, Uriah
Heep, Micawber, Pecksniff, Scrooge, Tiny Tim, Little Nell. But as in The
Pickwick Papers, these featured players were just the tip of the iceberg. What
gave his books their tremendous depth and power were the thousands of bit
players whom Dickens was constantly thrusting on stage to interact with the
stars. Indeed, in richness and subtlety, a Dickens novel is like a Gothic
cathedral. Viewed from afar, its outlines look simple enough; it is only when
you get up close and see that it is actually an intricate interweaving of
hundreds of magnificently detailed vignettes, gargoyles and grotesques-that
you realize the genius behind it. Dickens never had the slightest doubt of how
good he was. He referred to himself, only half facetiously, as "The
Inimitable," or "The National Sparkler," and in dealings with his publishers
he always insisted that the lion's share of the income from his work went to
the genius that produced it. It made him rich: when he died, he left an estate
of £93,000. But it never made him cross the line from self confidence to self-
worship.
Even when he had become a wealthy international celebrity with a staff of
servants and a country estate, he never forgot the horrors of his own
impoverished boyhood or ceased fighting the Establishment (he called it the
Circumlocution Office). To the end he remained a radical crusader against
the abuses suffered by the poor in the courts, the slums, the prisons and the
factories of Victorian England.
 3

Indeed, the single personal quality that runs like a bright thread through the in the open grave, they lined up by the thousands to file past. They knew there
fabric of Dickens's life and writings is the basic decency of the man. never had been, and never would be, another writer like him.
Unknown writers who sent him their works got detailed critiques, and when
he found a writer with talent, he went to endless lengths to promote his work. Sign Language
Once, he discovered a long-standing servant had been stealing from him. SCRAWLED on a wall: "There's a good time coming-but it'll be a good time
Knowing the man would never get another job, Dickens let him off by setting coming." -Observer" in Financial Times, London
him up in a small business.
SIGN IN the parent-teacher office of a school: "Before you criticize your
But he could be tough, too, and in his feuds with critics and publishers he child, take a look at your own report card." -Janik Press Service
didn't hesitate to lash out publicly and sometimes unwisely. At 46, after 22
years of marriage, he became infatuated with a 19-year-old actress, Ellen POSTER outside a church: "If it didn't rain, there would be no hay to make
Ternan, and separated from his wife, Kate, who had borne him ten children. when the sun shines." -M. Abbott
When gossip began circulating that the separation had been caused by his
SIGN AT a club for older adults in England: "Do it today, while you're
love for his wife's sister (the secret of the Ternan liaison didn't leak out until
younger."
the 1930s), he pub lished a long, too-personal rebuttal that simply added fuel
to the scandal and generated nasty feuds with old associates. -Peterborough" in The Daily Telegraph, London
Hard Times. But his biggest feud was the one he carried on with the United Sad Sack
States. In 1842, Dickens went to America on a lecture tour. What he found
appalled him. Adoring mobs, following him everywhere, snipped pieces off THE PLANE had three passengers-a Boy Scout, a bishop and the Brain of
his coat for souvenirs, crowded round his table to gape when he ate, peered Britain when the pilot warned of an impending crash. "Unfortunately," he
at him and his wife through the window of his canal-boat stateroom-and said, "we have only three parachutes. I must take one, so that I can report the
horrified him by spitting and picking their teeth in public. When he accident."
denounced the piratical American practice of publishing his books without "And I must have one," said the Brain of Britain, "because I have a great
paying him royalties, the Press misquoted his statements and attacked him as contribution to make for mankind. He jumped out with the pilot. The bishop
a money-grubber. Back in England, he let the Americans have it: first by turned to the scout. "My son," he said, "I've had a long life. Yours lies ahead.
publishing a scathing series or articles about his trip, then by an even more Take the last parachute-and good luck."
devastating fictional attack in his new novel, Martin Chuzzlewit. So vicious
did the feud become that a quarter of a century later, when American "Don't worry, Your Grace," said the Scout. "We've got two parachutes. The
promoters invited him back for a reading tour, he first sent a friend to see Brain of Britain has taken my haversack." -D.P. Wallis
whether he would be mobbed as friend or foe. (It turned out to be the former.
America had mellowed, and the tour was like a triumphal procession. Dickens
went home from the five-month visit £20,000 richer.
When Dickens died in 1870, he was only 58, and it is generally agreed that
he worked himself to death. Some observers feel he did it knowingly a slow
suicide caused by an unhappy marriage and his growing despair with the
inequities of society. Whatever its cause, to the British people it was a
staggering loss. Refusing to abide by his wish for a simple burial, they
interred him at Westminster Abbey, and for three days, while his coffin lay

The Wars and Peace
of Leo Tolstoy
BY DONALD CULROSS PEATTIE
IFE IN THE novels of Leo Tolstoy is the most copious in all
literature. In it are war and peace, love and adventure, birth
L and death-a kaleidoscope of memorable scenes. Here is a
vanished Russia, with its brilliant imperial court, its balls and
duels and dashing officers, its landed nobility, hard-riding
Cossacks and clod-like serfs, its vast, snowy battlefields and
its nights of reckless gambling and carousing with the gipsies. The throngs of
characters are closer to our hearts and minds than those walking the streets of
Moscow and Leningrad today. For this was life as Tolstoy lived it himself,
and recorded with an understanding that only his great Christian love can
explain.
There was no hint of genius in Tolstoy's earliest years. He was born in 1828,
at Yásnaya Polyana, the vast estate of his father, Count Tolstoy, about 200
kilometres south of Moscow. His mother, née the Princess Maria Volkonsky,
brought her husband a fortune and her children some of the proudest blood of
Russian aristocracy. According to the young man's diaries, he idled and
wenched and gambled. No one could have guessed then that, outgrowing one
phase of his long life after another, this strange, striving writer was to become
at last a "holy man," not only to Christians but to those of other religions, as
well as to many still seeking a faith, in Europe, Asia and America.
His war with self was endless, and peace eluded him to the end. Planning a
diplomatic career, he attended Kazan University to study Oriental languages.
But he who spoke and wrote French as fluently as Russian, who mastered
classic Greek in three months and picked up German, Italian and English with
ease, was bored with the slow, formal method of university instruction. So he
turned to the study of jurispru dence. Of this too he made a failure, for he
regarded law as dull and as unrelated to moral justice.
1
Driven from Moscow by gambling debts, young Leo joined a regi ment on
the Caucasus frontier, fighting the Tartar guerrillas. The wild nature of that
place, the snowy peaks and dry high air, filled him with an exhilaration we
can almost breathe in his marvellous story, The Cassacks, and in Hadji Murat.
This was not written till 50 years later, and nothing so proves that Tolstoy not
only absorbed every impression but kept it, living and brilliant, as long as
breath was in him.
When the Crimean War broke out in 1853, the danger-loving young officer
got himself transferred to that battlefront. His Sebastopol stories reveal both
the tragic heroism of the Russian troops and the heartless stupidity of the high
command. So it was as an established writer that, after four-and-a-half years
of army life, he returned at 27, to the world of pleasure. But on this wastrel
nothing had been wasted; all he knew and felt as a soldier is to be found in
War and Peace.
Yet, however brilliant the crowds he moved among, Tolstoy still found
himself solitary, though many were drawn by the falcon gaze and the
sensuous mouth. He travelled in France, Switzerland, Ger many, but true
beauty lay for him for ever in his native land, where the vast steppes could
lift his heart more than the Alps.
Best of all he loved Yásnaya Polyána, of which he was now master. But this
young Count Tolstoy was a new kind of landlord; he felt humble before the
devout and ignorant peasantry. He started a school for their illiterate children,
and set about freeing his serfs-philanthropies which they regarded with
suspicion. His idealism, his ambition, his loneliness and his mercurial moods
worked like a ferment.
Marriage of Opposites. More and more he went to visit the Behrs. the family
of a court physician, made particularly attractive by three daughters. This
lively, hospitable household Leo Tolstoy made his own. It lives for ever as
the Rostov family in War and Peace. When one day Leo pressed a letter of
proposal into the hand of Sonya, the second and most beautiful of the
daughters, she accepted him at once. He was 34, with a past crowded with
women; his fiancée was an innocent 18. Leo, torn as ever with self-doubts,
felt that he had no right to marry her without confessing his former sins, and
put in her hands the diaries that detailed them. Valiantly the shocked young
girl renewed her pledge and the two were united-to begin a life of devotion
and mutual torment which was to last 48 years.

She was practical, he a magnificent dreamer. She loved the gaiety of city life
and at first loathed the rustic home where he was happiest. The vices he had
so virtuously revealed inflamed her jealousy. Yet not only was she to bear
him 13 children and shoulder the management of his affairs, but she willingly
copied out, by hand, the immense corrected manuscript of War and Peace
seven times!
War and Peace is the epic of Napoleon's war upon Russia in 1812 and how it
washed like a tidal wave over all the individual characters of the story, some
500 of them. The battle scenes, cycloramic in scale, with cavalry charges,
slaughter and heroism, the burning of Moscow, the retreat of the French army
through the pitiless snows all are told with a sweep never equalled before or
since. And the personal stories intermingled with the national drama move us
with deepest sympathy, for Tolstoy could penetrate into the souls of others as
though they were clear glass. Of the enchanting heroine, Natasha, Tolstoy's
young sister in-law Tanya said, wondering, "I can see how you are able to
describe landowners, fathers, generals, soldiers, but how you can get into the
heart of a girl in love-that I cannot understand."
Moral Power. This giant novel, which took seven years to write, was an
immediate success. It is today enjoyed in translation all over the civilized
world. But Leo Tolstoy, throughout his career, felt that to take pleasure in
praise was another form of sin. It was in enjoyment of the simple life of
Yásnaya Polyána that he let himself go, in games with the children, in riding
and hunting, in the family circle round the samovar of a winter dusk, in the
springtime greening of birch leaves and the golden reaping of harvest. Here
he had his roots, and the next flowering that sprang from them was another
mighty novel, Anna Karenina, an absorbing contrast between married love
amid country life, and adulterous passion in fashionable society. Beyond even
his gift for fiction, however, was Tolstoy's moral power. Every failure in his
behaviour caused him an agony of con science, and over other men's troubles
he suffered even more. Under the Czars, as now, Russia was the most despotic
country in Europe; yet again and again this now famous writer risked
punishment to fight for the freedom of others. He battled for liberty of speech,
believing that political "crimes' criticisms of ruler or state-were signs of
health in the people. In vain did the censors ban his plays, stories and tracts
proclaiming such ideas. These were printed in other languages, all over
2
Europe, and thousands of Russians copied out the translations by hand and
circulated them secretly.
Tolstoy urged a "single tax"-a tax on land only. In Russia, where vast
landholdings were the basis of the nobility's wealth, the single tax would have
forced the noblemen to break up their estates and distrib ute the land to the
peasants. The suggestion was met with angry horror by the Czar and
government and Tolstoy's own ruling class.
In this fervent search for religious truth, Tolstoy had for a time turned to the
Russsian Orthodox Church. But blazing candles, ancient ikons, glittering
mosaics and the burning of incense did not, he found, in themselves make a
Christian. He dared to declare that many of the priests hid, behind their
dignity and ritual, dark ignorance. "The Kingdom of God is within you!" he
cried. So now he had the Chruch down on him, too.
In time, Tolstoy came to base his faith only on the words of Christ. Resist not
evil, says the Sermon on the Mount. That, to Tolstoy, meant that every form
of violence, any sort of armed might, is contrary to the teachings of Jesus.
Now the army was furious with this one-time gallant soldier. The only thing
that saved Tolstoy from the united wrath of Czar, Church and army was the
tremendous influence of his writings, now sperading throughout the world.
The powers did not dare make a martyr of the best-known Russian of his age.
Progressive Reforms. Visitors flocked from many lands to meet this white-
haired, deep-eyed visionary. His correspondents were numer ous among them
a young man from India named Gandhi. From Christ, through Tolstoy, the
furtuer holy man of India learnt much about the force of passive resistance.
And, like the Mahatma, Tolstoy ventured to initiate reform at the village level.
In his school for peasant children he outdid the most progressive theories of
education. If a pupil was absorbed in a project of his own, he need not heed
the class work. If a youngster wanted to run outdoors to stretch his legs, he
was allowed to. Tolstoy scrapped the current Russian and European texbooks
as tedious and obsolete; he preferred those he got from the United States. All
of this deeply offended the administrators of public instruction, and they
closed the school. Resisiting not evil, Tolstoy gave in without a struggle. He
knew that the truth would prevail, if not in his lifetime, then later.

Such a literal follower of Christian ethics as Tolstoy must disregard comfort,
expedience, health and wealth-and this is hard on those who love him and live
with him. The more spiritual he grew, the more practical Sonya had to be.
She it was who had to see that her sons were properly educated, launch her
daughters in Moscow society, handle her husband's business affairs.
Meanwhile he tramped the wide versts of his beloved Yasnaya Polyána,
looking like a peasant himself in his old smock and with his prophet's beard,
living in a world of the spirit and of nature.
In this complicated search for simplicity the old man became con vinced that
the possession of property was inconsistent with his beliefs; he divided his
estates among his family, and turned a large part of his profitable copyrights
over to the public domain. To earn a living, he bent his snowy head over a
cobbler's bench and made shoes. Sonya wept and upbraided him. The
situation between the two became intolerable. At last, to escape his wife,
Tolystoy stole away in the dead of winter, accompanied by his physician.
Soon his daughter Alexandra joined them.
The journey on the slow, cold train had not progressed far when Tolstoy
contracted a sudden pneumonia. He was taken off the train at Astapovo and
lodged in the stationmaster's house. Sonya came hasten ing, but lest she upset
the sick man, she was kept outside his room. Only when coma overtook him
was she admitted, to pour into his deaf ears her love, and to kiss his
unconscious hand. It was too late now for these two antipodal yet passionately
devoted people to come to the understanding for which they had struggled all
their long life together.
Tolstoy's last words are a key to his escaping spirit. "The truth... he said at the
very end, and then, like testimony given at the highest tribunal of all, "I love
many." And so, on November 7, 1910, word flashed round the world that this
tumultuous, gifted soul had been released from the flesh against which he had
so battled.
He was buried, as he had wished, in the woods of Yásnaya Polyána. No
religious ceremony was performed over the man who had dared, however
faultily, to attempt a life in imitation of Christ. Later, Soviet propagandists
tried to make of him a hero of the Communist revolu tion he never lived to
see. But he, who preached non-violence, would have hated the Kremlin gang.
Leo Tolstoy belongs, instead, to all who live by his rule of love, and who
love, togehter with humanity, the great literature which portrays it.
3
How's That Again?
FROM the Commercial Appeal: "Having a baby is not as easy as believed.
More than half of all conceptions result in spontaneous combustion."
IN AN article in Psychology Today: "Older men tend to have living wives;
most older women are widows."
FROM AN advertisement in the Dallas News: "Now Delta flies nonstop to
Jacksonville and back."
CLASSIFIED advertisement in the Mellen, Wisconsin Record: "Free
estimate on paint work. Call 8322. If I am out of town, make a date with my
wife."
IN AN article in the Asheville Citizen concerning filing applications for
Social Security benefits: "Formerly, persons applying for reduced benefits
after age 62 could receive radioactive payments for up to 12 months."
ON TELEVISION: "Winners in the local art show will be hung in the art
museum for a month following the show."
NOTICE in the Altoona Mirror: "Lakemont Park winter activity cancelled
until spring."
FROM AN article in the Long Beach Independent Press-Telegram:
"Although the survey did not ask for the sex of the person responding, twice
as many women indentified themselves as men."
PART OF a weather forecast in the Wabash Plain Dealer: "Colder air is
scheduled to reach north-west Indiana early tomorrow morning and spread
over the remainder of the state by yesterday afternoon."
NEWS NOTE: "The driver swerved to avoid missing her husband." -Leo
Rosten, Passions & Prejudices
FROM A classified advertisement in a shopping guide: "Alterations in my
home -- young children lengthened, shortened or altered to suit."

Agatha Christie
Murder by the Book
BY VIRGINIA KELLY
N October 1976, connoisseurs of detective fiction eagerly
turned the pages of a new novel with special and appre
I hensive interest. Not only was it the final Agatha Christie
book to be published-a mystery entitled Sleeping Murder;
there were rumours that in it the inquisitive Miss Marple, one
of the best-loved super sleuths ever created, would meet her
match and die.
Happily, as critics noted with relief, this particular Agatha Christie trail-like
so many others ingeniously woven into her plots-proved false. The author,
who in Curtain, hadn't hesitated to kill off her similarly renowned detective
Hercule Poirot, allowed Miss Marple to surmount all perils, alive and
triumphant.
The Times critic H.R.F. Keating gladly recorded Miss Marple's sur vival and
enthused: "It's vintage Christie, marvellouly easy reading, constantly
intriguing. How does she do it? Timing. Unerring timing." But Agatha
Christie remained modest about her achievements. She even played down her
prodigious output, once calling herself "a sausage machine." By the time of
her death in January 1976, at the age of 85, he high priestess of detective
fiction had 110 titles to her credit-66 them full-length murder mysteries-with
estimated sales of more than 350 million copies. She has been translated into
157 languages, 63 mo than Shakespeare. Her stories have inspired 15 films
and 17 of her plays have been staged.
In all, Agatha Christie earned an estimated Rs 15 crores from her detective
stories. She reputedly made more money than any writer in the English
language; she may well have made more money than any writer in history.
Before Sleeping Murder was published, the American paperback rights were
sold for an unprecedented Rs 75 lakhs.
1
Born Agatha Miller in Torquay, Devon, she grew up in a well-to-do home
with an American father and an English mother, who took the unconventional
view that schooling was hard on a child's eyes and brain. Her parents tutored
her and she read a lot, especially romantic novels and the adventures of
Sherlock Holmes-an influence on her writings, as she freely admitted. One
day when she was ill, her mother suggested that she while away the time by
trying to write a short story. That started her on a series of tales of "unrelieved
gloom, in which most of the characters died."
Murder is Announced. In 1915, during the First World War, her elder sister
bet her that she couldn't write "a good detective story." She accepted the
challenge. By then, Agatha was married to Archibald Christie, a Royal Flying
Corps officer, and working as a Red Cross volunteer in a Torquay hospital.
Belgian refugees were billeted around the town, and from observing them she
evolved the prototype of Hercule Poirot, with his egg-shaped head, waxed
moustache and shiny patent shoes. He came up with the solution in Dame
Agatha's first detective novel, The Mysterious Affair at Styles..
For three years The Mysterious Affair at Styles was turned down by one
publisher after another. Finally it appeared in 1920, sold fewer than 2,500
copies and earned her £25. It was not until her seventh book, The Murder of
Roger Ackroyd, was published in 1926, that Agatha Christie became famous.
At the time, she and her husband and daughter Rosalind were living in
Berkshire. Not long after, her comfortable life started coming apart. Her
mother died and her husband fell in love with another woman.
Agatha simply vanished. Her abandoned car was found in a local country lane
and for ten days, thousands of policemen and volunteers combed the nation
for her. Following a telephone tip, the police found her in a hotel at Harrogate,
registered inexplicably under the name of the woman her husband was later
to marry. The story made headlines and some cynics called it a publicity stunt
to plug The Murder of Roger Ackroyd.
Although it was confirmed that she had been suffering from amne sia, Agatha
Christie remained uptight about her disappearance for the rest of her life.
However, it had made her name known throughout the land. The book
eventually sold more than a million copies.

Two years later she divorced Colonel Christie but kept his name for her crime
stories. In 1930 she married Max Mallowan, an eminent archaeologist who
was knighted in 1968. For years she accompanied him on digs in the Middle
East, helping him photograph and tabulate artifacts. In a book written under
the name Agatha Christie Mallowan, Come, Tell Me How You Live, she gave
a light-hearted account of their expeditions. She also wrote short stories and
a book of verse, and under the name of Mary Westmacott was author of
several romantic novels.
Appointment with Death. But it is as a purveyor of the fine art of murder for
relaxation that Agatha Christie made her mark. Her books were painstakingly
researched. Her hospital work gave her first-hand knowledge of poisons. Her
husband's archaeological expeditions pro vided occasional background
material (Murder in Mesopotamia, Death on the Nile) and she even set one
story-Death Comes as the End-in Egypt in 2000 B.C., doing "endless research
on everyday details." One sceptical reader took the Orient Express across
Europe just to be sure that Agatha Christie was right about the train switches
in Murder on the Orient Express. She was. The tightly constructed Christie
plots-some were thought out while she was in the bath, munching apples,
others when she was washing up or cooking-earned her the title "Queen of
the Maze." She loved to bamboozle but maintained that she never actually
misled the reader, she allowed the reader to mislead himself. For example, a
murder suspect is asked to verify a date. He crosses the room and squints at a
calendar. The reader is misled into thinking that the date he tells us is relevant,
but the clue is that the suspect is too shortsighted to see across the room.
Another Christie gimmick is the over-the-shoulder ploy. Someone looks
straight ahead, over another person's shoulder, and is stunned by what he sees.
The scene is described to us in detail, so we know exactly what people and
things are in the line of vision. The tell-tale clue is tossed off so casually that
we fumble it in a sea of red herrings. In one of her most ingenious plots, Dame
Agatha made one of the victims the murderer. Another time, she made her
detective a killer. Such masterly sleight of hand won her royal approval.
When the BBC asked the late Queen Mary what she wanted for a birthday
programme, she requested a radio play by Agatha Christie. The author
obliged, then rewrote it as a short story and finally a full-length play. She
called it The Mousetrap, from the "play within a play" in Hamlet.
2
The Midas Touch. Dame Agatha never dreamt the play would be so
successful, but the royalties, which she turned over to her grandson, have
made him wealthy. In fact, she gave away the rights to many other works
while she was still alive, thereby avoiding omnivorous death duties and
keeping her estate down to about Rs 15 lakhs when she died. In later life she
said she wrote only one book a year, delivered to her publisher in time to
assure the public "a Christie for Christmas," because if she wrote more, the
greater part of the profits would have gone to the Government to be spent
"mostly on idiotic things."
A shy, retiring woman who loved her garden, Dame Agatha was described by
her literary agent as "an old-fashioned gentlewoman." She moved, as did her
murderers, in a world of large country houses where people dress for dinner
and lament the passing of good servants, where the silver is highly polished
(to show fingerprints), and where young girls never walk, but "run lightly"
across the lawn, which is well manicured (to show footprints). There are no
four-letter words, no Freudian implications, and sex is confined to a chaste
kiss. "I don't like messy deaths. I don't like violence," Dame Agatha insisted,
although it was said that she profited more from murder than any woman
since Lucrezia Borgia. "I know nothing about pistols and revolvers, which is
why I usually kill my characters off with a blunt instrument or better still,
poisons." Since she despised characters who "go around slugging each other
just for the sake of it," she made the dapper little Hercule Poirot rely on "the
little grey cells" of his mind to solve his cases. Poirot, fussy to a fault,
supremely sure of himself, constantly flicking minute specks of dust off his
sleeve and punctuating his sentences with bits of schoolroom French, is
probably the most famous fictional detective since Sherlock Holmes.
When Dame Agatha invented him, she described him as a famous Belgian
sleuth who had retired before the First World War. That would have made
him about 120 at his death in 1975, a literary event which The New York
Times marked by splashing his obituary across the front page. Dame Agatha
admitted that Poirot's popularity surprised her, since he wasn't "the kind of
private eye you'd hire today." But it is not hard to understand the universal
appeal of Poirot or, for example, of the elderly lady sleuth, Miss Jane Marple,
a character inspired by Dame Agatha's grandmother and great-aunt, who first
appeared in 1930, solving Murder at the Vicarage. They represent logic in an
illogical world. Virtue always triumphs; villainy is always found out. The
detective story is thus profoundly moral. Agatha Christie spun her stories for
 3

more than half a century, while teaching a lesson in moral responsibility: "It's
what is in yourself that makes you happy or unhappy."
By the time she died, she had lived to see "an Agatha Christie" become a
synonym for a detective story. Tributes to her poured in from every continent.
She was called a legend, one whose name would outlive most of her
contemporaries, a magnificent source of entertain ment. Perhaps the tribute
that said it best was the newspaper editorial that ended: "She gave more
pleasure than most other people who have written books." And that is no
mean achievement.
Did You Hear...
..about the computer invented by the Russians-it's so brilliant that it defected
to the West....about the father-of-the-bride who complained that his
daughter's marriage was a May-and-December marriage-she was married in
May and it would be December before it was paid for.
-Nan Waddill, Hints and Helps for Home and Health ...about the company
that makes blank bumper stickers-they're for people who don't want to get
involved. ...about the fisherman who caught a 20-kilo fish--and dislocated
both shoulders describing the feat.
-TH

When Push Comes to Shove

A COMMUTER was trapped in the rush-hour crush as he strove to leave an
under ground train, and was subjected to an unrelenting series of painful jabs
to his back Infuriated, he finally managed to turn around, only to find himself
confronting a trail old woman clutching an umbrella.
"Madam," he said, "don't you know it's rude to push?" "Young man," she
replied, "don't you know it's rude not to move when you're pushed?"
-LW

Unforgettable
DeWitt Wallace
BY CHARLES W. FERGUSON
HE SCENE is New York's Greenwich Village one morning
in late January of 1922. The Village is a quaint bohemian
T place peopled by artists, poets and writers. Those who deal
with the printed word come to New York to be near literary
markets. And they gravitate to the Village, where rents are
low and where poverty is romantic-maybe even a
prerequisite for success.
At Number 1 Minetta Lane, in a basement storeroom-office, the last copies
of the first issue of the Reader's Digest, with a February 1922 cover date, are
being readied for shipment. The work is supervised by DeWitt Wallace and
Lila Acheson Wallace, founders and co-editors of the magazine. They have
hired habitués of the clandestine bar upstairs to help.
At last the final lot of a total 5,000 copies are wrapped, addressed, bundled in
mailbags and set outside. A taxi will take them to the nearest post office, from
where they will be sent to the first subscribers. Then will come days of
anxious waiting to see if the little newcomer is indeed what the world has
been waiting for. Lila Acheson Wallace, 32, is brunette, blue-eyed and petite
(160 centimetres), fine-boned, feminine and very good-looking. A social
worker, she had been an English teacher before the First World War. She has
been Mrs DeWitt Wallace for three months.
DeWitt Wallace-Wally, as he came to be called-also 32, is lean, lithe, 183
centimetres tall and moves with easy athletic grace. While in his teens he'd
played semi-pro baseball. In the eyes of his family he is a misfit, something
of a flop. His father, James, is a Greek scholar and college president. DeWitt
is a college dropout who has gone from one job to another. Fired most
recently by a firm in Pittsburgh, he has come to New York to publish a
homemade magazine he thought up himself.
1
The Digest measures 14 by 19 centimetres. Consisting of 64 pages including
the covers, which are printed on the same white paper, it is half the thickness
of your little finger. This "pocket size" will be its first claim to fame, the
skimpy dimensions signifying that all within is compressed and condensed.
As for content-no fiction, no pictures, no colour, no ads, just informative,
helpful articles set in solid type.
Will the Little Magazine (its sub-title) appeal to readers? For two years
professionals in the business have been saying no. So now with the help of
his new bride and a couple of thousand dollars, much of it borrowed, the
amateur from rural America is going to try to wing it on his own.
"A Gorgeous Idea"
HE WAS a born reader. Anything in writing or print was grist for his
insatiable curiosity. It might be the back label on a medicine bottle, or a tiny
"Made in Italy" line on the bottom of a bar coaster: if it was there he read it.
Lila told me they couldn't be in a hotel half an hour without his having found
and read every line of print in their room. Anything that might be of use to
him he jotted down. "Memory cannot replace records" was one line he kept.
This was a practice he started at 19.
An older brother, Benjamin, was Minnesota's first Rhodes scholar. He read
books. DeWitt, alive to what was fresh and new in a rapidly changing world,
devoured magazines, and he adapted Benjie's note taking system to his own
purposes. To his father he explained: I have small slips of paper, and when I
read an article I place all the facts I wish to preserve or remember on one of
these slips. Before going to sleep at night I mentally review what I've read
during the day, and from time to time I go through the file recalling articles
from memory. I do not see why time thus spent is not as beneficial as if spent
studying books.
Sometimes a quote or simple outline didn't suffice, Wally would then copy
down in tiny but legible script the essence of the article as a whole,
condensing it in the writer's own words. The notes were interrupted by the
World War. In October 1918, shrapnel fragments struck Sergeant Wallace of
the 35th Infantry Divi sion in the nose, neck, lung and abdomen. One piece
of metal came within a hair's-breadth of slicing open his jugular vein. "In
which case," a medic amiably explained, "the only way we could have
stopped the bleeding would be by choking you to death."

Instead the lucky soldier was blessed with a few months of conva lescence at
a US Army hospital. It has struck him earlier that his notes on articles might
serrve as a basis for a general-interest digest. Ambu latory and at leisure in a
place amply supplied with magazines, he now concentrated on the idea:
reading, selecting articles, boiling them down as he copied them in his chisel-
clear handwriting.
Home again in St Paul, Minnesota, he worked for another six months in the
public library, building a stockpile of choice articles. Finally he put together
31 of them-each one cut to two pages or less-and had a printer run off several
hundred copies of this sample Reader's Digest. It was dated January 1920. To
finance the project he had asked his brother Benjie for $300. His father at first
refused a like amount, pointing out that DeWitt was hopeless at managing
money. But James Wallace was finally persuaded to help by the argument
that readers nowadays were "anxious to get at the nub of things."
Proudly Wally started showing his sample magazine around St Paul and then
to the big publishing houses in the East, willing to give his invention away to
anyone who'd publish it and sign him on as its editor. One after another,
publishers turned down the idea as naïve, or too serious and educational in
intent. Dejected, the ex-sergeant found his fortunes at low ebb. There was a
single compensating bright spot. One day he had run into Barclay Acheson,
a college friend from a decade before. DeWitt had once spent the Christmas
holidays at the Acheson home in Tacoma, where he was much attracted to
Barclay's sister, Lila Bell-"a dream of a girl." Nothing came of it: she was
already engaged. During the war she had made a career of helping to improve
the lot of female factory workers, and she was still at it, based in New York,
working for the YWCA. Exhilarated at news from Barclay that she had not
married, Wallace fired off a telegram to her.
CONDITIONS AMONG WOMEN WORKERS IN ST PAUL GHASTLY.
URGE IMMEDIATE INVESTIGATION.
By chance she was already scheduled for a temporary assignment in St Paul.
On her first evening there Wally proposed; on the second she accepted. Only
after they were engaged did he give her a copy of his sample magazine. "I
knew right away it was a gorgeous idea," she said later.
For the moment, practical considerations prevailed. She returned to New
York, and he took a job writing promotion copy for Westinghouse Electric in
2
Pittsburgh. But he never stopped thinking about his own magazine. In 1921,
durinng a cutback, DeWitt Wallace, last to be hired, was first to be fired.
That did it. In his gloom he saw anew the brilliance of a suggestion given him
by a fellow worker-why not sell the magazine directly to readers, by mail?
Immediately Wally went back to his rented room and his portable typewriter.
The big publishing houses could go to hell. He began typing out letters
soliciting subscriptions. He scrounged lists of people-teachers, professors,
nurses, preachers, women's club mem bers.
The sales talk had to be particularly good since what he was peddling existed
only in his own mind. But he offered a provisional commit ment the
subscription could be cancelled and all money refunded if the reader wasn't
satisfied. For four months he wrote and mailed out letters, each with an
individually typed first page. Then at last, in October 1921, he left Pittsburgh
for New York, where he had a rendezvous with Lila.
Together they did two things: they got married (at a church in the small town
of Pleasantville, 50 kilomertres north of New York City), and they formed
The Reader's Digest Association, 52 percent of the stock his, 48 percent hers.
Settling into a Greenwich Village flat, the couple got out another batch of
letters before going off on a two-week honeymoon. Replies from these letters
brought the number of paid subscribers to 1,500, each subscription
accompanied by $3; they had enough cash on hand to put out a first issue,
maybe even a second. To help pay the printer, Lila sublet one room of their
small flat, sharing kitchen and bath with another couple. Now they waited.
What if even a third of the subscribers wanted their money back?
That first issue of the magazine featured, in its lead article, the great inventor
Alexander Graham Bell and his belief that self-education is lifelong affair.
The very first essential of any real education is to observe. Observe!
Remember! Compare! That was what made John Burroughs a great naturalist,
Morgan a great financier, Napoleon a great general. It is the foundation of all
education.
The article was an accurate reflection of the mind of DeWitt Wallace, college
dropout, self-educated man, and founder of Reader's Digest.
DEALINGS with his family were never easy. He was born in St Paul on
November 12, 1889, the third son of James and Janet Wallace. Dr. James-

PhD, DD, LLD was a professor at and later president of Macalester, a
struggling young Presbyterian college. Both parents had minds of their own.
They could not agree on what to call the baby. "So I guess we'll call him
Anonymous for a while," the father wrote to his wife's parents. Eventually the
boy's mother named him William Roy, his father DeWitt. Obviously the latter
prevailed.
Defensive and protective, Janet showed him special favours that singled him
out further. In the Little Lord Fauntleroy-style current then, she curled his
hair so that by the age of five, long ringlets dangled from his head-a hairdo
that could hardly have appealed to the boy. Wally was 40 when I met him, as
fine-looking a person as I ever saw, save for the haircut. He always kept his
hair very short. Still getting rid of those curls? At first the boy got top marks
in school and was pushed ahead two classes. Then his interest turned mostly
to sports and pranks. His brothers and sisters knew him as an eccentric;
dependably unpredictable, out of tune with family traditions. About to be
disci plined for some school high-jinks, he and a friend took off by train and
eventually got to California. Home again, DeWitt entered Macalester, only to
leave two years later under a cloud-something about a cow that turned up in
a third-floor chapel. After a year of working in a bank and playing baseball,
he enrolled at the University of Califonia at Berkeley, electing in devil-may-
care fashion to repeat the first two years of college. To friends and fraternity
brothers he billed himself as "The Playboy of the Western World."
There's nothing like talk of poverty in the family to drive a man to thoughts
of wealth. If the beauties of academic excellence were regu larly dinned into
the Wallace offspring's ears, so were the facts of the family's dismal finances.
James's meagre salary was often in arrears. While Wally was at Berkeley the
father wrote to first-son Benjamin: DeWitt makes me tired beyond all
endurance. Here he blew $8 for a pair of shoes-white probably. Not a man in
St Paul wears $8 shoes. It seems about hopeless to get a little business sense
into DeWitt's head.
Lessons From Life
HOUNDED by his family's lack of money, Wally determined he would one
day make a fortune. The summer holidays of 1911 he spent peddling maps of
Oregon door-to-door in rural parts of the state. His first day out, around
Medford, he sold 12 maps, though he had to walk 40 kilometres to do it. On
3
the move, talking with veteran salesmen in hotel lobbies, he picked up their
stratagems.
Selling fascinated him. At night, he read magazines, writing down notes to
retain useful ideas about getting ahead in business. As he widened his circle
of acquaintances, he discovered that anybody he could talk to he could learn
from. The average person might not have an academic degree, but his
intelligence was not to be underestimated. Most were as curious and hungry
for knowledge as he.
Wally had arrived on the scene at exactly the right moment to see an, age of
information emerge. As old concepts diminished or vanished, change itself
became the central news of the 20th century. Wire services and newspapaers
flooded readers with every latest detail and specu lation. Their emphasis was
on speed. Yet not a few harried readers found themselves so carried along by
a tide of information that they could not distinguish between what was
meaningless and those facts which could be fitted into a larger pattern. DeWitt
found newspaper treatments tentative, stringy, hasty. A magazine-halfway
between newspaper and book-offered time to discern the significant, to de
velop an underlying theme, while still dealing with the fresh and new. It was
also a pivotal period in the history of man's aspirations to rise above his
limitations. Self-improvement was the key. Success could be achieved
through learning. But learning was no longer book-bound and abstract. It was
down-to-earth, practical-and at the same time mercurial, changing. Truth was
transient: with new discoveries it had to be grasped and re-grasped.
To DeWitt, the world of business was emerging not simply as a way of
earning a living but as a different kind of educational system. It taught
knowledge of rather than knowledge about. Thus in spite of his
disappointments in peddling maps, DeWitt wrote to his parents, "The job I
have beats college." And in another letter, "The experience valuable, no
matter what I go into."
Once while delivering maps, Wally stopped to watch a court room trial. The
contest of wits between lawyers fascinated him. He didn't have time to watch
many trials, but perhaps there was something in print on the subject. One
night he walked three kilometres in the rain to the Medford Carnegie Library
and came away with The Art of Cross Examination by Francis Wellman. He
spent the next work-free day in his room reading the book in its entirety, and
then wrote to his father fervently about the experience.

DeWitt saw that he could apply the techniques of examining wit nesses not
only with business prospectus but also in every imaginable life situation.
Moreover, finding the book proved to the young student that marvellous
sources of insight were everywhere-over-looked, undetected, but to be had
for the asking. For the youngest son of a high-principled academic family like
the Wallaces to go into the money making business would raise questions
about moral values. To many, progress meant materialism. Yet for the great
majority, including DeWitt, man's material progress was far from a threat.
Rather it promised a new age, a time of fulfilment when everybody would
have enough of everything.
This rags-to-riches lore got support from the story of Andrew Carnegie. One
of the World's richest men, he published his philosophy of philanthropy,
which declared that a successful businessman was morally obliged to
continue to accumulate wealth in order to give it away. Carnegie also knew
the value of reading and how it democra tized privilege. He gave away $60
million of his fortune for the erection of libraries. By the time DeWitt
discovered the one in Medford, more than 2,000 Carnegie Public Libraries
existed or were being built throughout the United States and the rest of the
English-speaking world.
Since childhood DeWitt had known the library as an institution. But it was a
different matter to be on his own and to be in touch with a system designed
to supply any seeker with useful information on almost any subject. For a
self-directed learner, libraries were ideal, and after Medford he made full use
of them.
DEWITT went back to a second year at Berkeley in the autumn of 1911, then
in spring dropped out of college for good. He toook a desk job at Webb
Publishing Co in St Paul, handling enquiries about Webb's agricultural
textbooks. At night, he continued collecting kernels of practical wisdom from
his magazine reading. Could his notes provide the basis for some kind of
publication offering distilled business counsel and pointers for achieving
success?
He took the idea to one of the company owners, and also brought along a list
of mistakes made in the past year by his supervisor. "This is an interesting
document, DeWitt," the Webb executive said. "I'm sorry it means you're
fired." The young man still had not mastered the realities of office life.
4
However, recognizing Dewitt's editing talents, the executive in parting gave
him a printing loan, should he launch his own ship.
DeWitt went to work at once and in several months produced a 128 page
booklet, Getting the Most Out of Farming. It listed and described the most
useful bulletins put out by government departments of agricul ture. He then
set out in a secondhand car on a five-state selling trip, aiming especially at
banks and seed stores that might buy the booklet in volume to give away to
farmers for good will. In several months he sold 100,000 copies, paid off
Webb and settled his expenses. He netted nothing, yet he had learnt now to
put out a publication.
He considered various follow-ups. One, designed for storekeepers, was a
digest of the best merchandising articles. Then the idea hit him: he could do
a periodical aimed not just at farmers of storekeepers but at all readers
interested in informing and improving themselves, in getting ahead in the
world.
Needing to make a living until he could launch such a magazine, Wallace
took a job with a manufacturer of calendars; this was in late 1916, a few
months before the United States entered the First World War. But the big idea
was there in his mind. Among the mass of notes he left behind was this one:
Printed Matter: Never fear, there is a strong undercurrent of desire for
knowledge. Supply it and every dollar's worth of printed matter will come
home to roost. The validity of that observation began to show with the first
issue of Reader's Digest.
Letters From the Editor
THERE were no cancellations, no requests for money back. So the editors got
busy on a second issue. Lila kept her social-work job to pay the rent. Wally
went into town each day to forage through magazines in the New York Public
Library and thus avoid having to buy them. If a magazine's latest issue did
not yield an article that stirred him, he would search in earlier numbers.
Articles that did engage his mind he condensed, writing in long-hand on
yellow sheets of paper, eliminating asides, pruning wordy prose, getting
straight to the point.

In September 1922, the Wallaces moved to Pleasantville, the town where
they'd been married. They rented a flat with a garage for $25 a month and
moved in, bringing with them stacks of new orders and bundles of magazines.
Orders kept coming in as Wally kept mailing out promotions. By the end of
the magazine's first year, circulation had increased to 7,000. More working
space was needed, so for $10 extra per month the Wallaces rented a pony shed
beside one end of the garage. They brought in typewriters, stencil-cutting
machines, and hired neighbourhood help..
Wally still wrote his own promotion circulars and letters that were personal
in their tone. Some envelopes were handwritten. His direct mail approach
established a personal connetion, a kind of companion ship between editor
and readers.
When they began to feel prosperous enough, the co-editors would go off
somewhere to escape interruption and, in a seven-to-ten day work binge, put
together the next issue. They'd take adjoining hotel rooms, he working in one
and giving her a batch of publications to read in the other. To rule out
distractions they communicated by notes slipped under the door. He kept all
her notes. This one was scribbled on a scratch pad of the St Regis Hotel in
New York:
I've covered 12 issues of each of these magazines, darlin'-and I am a tired
baby! Hope there is something useful. Come and kiss me good-night. Wallace
had orginally set himself a goal of 5,000 paid readers. That would bring in
$15,000 a year-enough, in 1922, to cover costs and provide a comfortable
living. They might even be able to travel, taking the issue with them to work
on at will. After four years, however, Reader's Digest circulation had reached
20,000. Then in the next three years it skyrocketed, shooting up tenfold to
216,000. Wally was by degrees reconciled to success of a greater dimension
and the special problems it brought.
As The Digest kept growing, the Wallaces began renting whole floors in
various Pleasantville office buildings. One day Ralph Henderson, 26, turned
up at the pony-shed office looking for an editorial job. Ralph records the
DeWitt Wallace who hired him:
"He is six feet tall, and his rather prominent nose adds to his general good
looks. He listens far more then he talks. But his quick eyes are the clue to his
restlessness, energy, curiosity. "All editorial work went on in the living-room,
5
where Wally had his desk. There he would read 40 or 50 magazines regularly,
select 30-odd articles and condense them with paints taking care. Every scrap
of copy had to flow through his own portable Corona. In the same room Lila
had her piano, which she played often if with hesitant musicianship. So the
click of the Corona and the notes of the piano sometimes reached the near-by
studio office where I worked, in a mingled sonata." It is a storybook view: an
attractive young man and woman, not needing to hold hands to be in love,
engaged in a series of rather laughable amateur hours, yet on their way to a
stunning success.
Fortune Smiles
IN 1930 DeWitt Wallace came by the small book-publishing house where I
worked. I'd been writing magazine pieces in my spare time, and Wally had
reprinted several of them. Now he asked me to try writing one directly for
The Digest. I wrote six under his tutelage before moving to Pleasantville in
1934 to join the editorial staff. We were a dozen people, all told, in cramped
quarters on the top floor of a bank building. Below were the train tracks: every
hour or so the peaceful atmosphere was rent by steam engines roaring through
town. My assignment was to help the boss in dealing with writers, drumming
up more original articles.
While driving around one Saturday afternoon in 1935, Wally went off the
road and damaged his car. The tow-truck operator gave him an earful about
other smash-ups he'd seen, and the bodies dragged out of those wrecks.
Mulling over the garage man's stories, the editor decided that if he could make
readers see, in grisly detail, the connection between all those cars crumpled
like wads of paper in roadside junkyards and the carnage on the highways, it
would shock them into better driving habits.
He dispatched a young writer named Joe Furnas to talk with policemen and
highway patrolmen in a three-state area, getting graphic eyewitness reports
of "worst case" accident scenes. But the manuscript he turned in some weeks
later was a disappointment. He'd written an essay; Wally wanted to scare the
wits out of readers.
Joe said later we put him through five rewrites. I remember only one. In any
case the article as it ran in the August 1935 issue was outstand ing. For all its
guts and gore it had dignity, with an eloquent title taken out of the Book of
Common Prayer: "From lightning and tempest, from earthquake, fire and

flood, from plague, pestilence and famine, from battle and murder and from
sudden death, Good Lord deliver us."
Five thousand proofs of "- And Sudden Death" were sent out to newspapers
and other publications, with permission to reprint, in order to reach as many
drivers as possible before the upcoming Labour Day weekend. The bone-
crusher ran in newspapers in every large American city and in many other
publications. It was read and discussed on radio, in schools, churches,
luncheon clubs. The reprint demand would continue for two decades. It was
a classic, without doubt the most widely read article ever published.
Most people in the publishing world regarded Wallace as a mere scissors-
and-paste editor, getting out a little reprint magazine of what circulation no
one knew. Yet this quiet, obscure fellow had originated a piece that rocked
the nation. Along with envy it raised a suspicion of editorial genius. In
suceeding years, original articles became a major feature of The Digest's table
of contents. Stories about the perils of fascism and communism, the hazards
of cigarettes and drugs, exposés of drunken driving and government waste
became hallmarks of the magazine's investigative journalism.
The Wallaces had never divulged their business figures. Finally, to quiet
spreading rumours and gossip, Wally released explicit details and allowed
Fortune to print them in November 1936. The Digest's circulation stood then
at 1,800,000-largest ever achieved by a 25-cent magazine, save for Good
Housekeeping. With no revenue from ads, the little "pocket university" had
none the less netted its husband and wife owners $418,000 the year before.
The man was not only a creatve editor, he was apparently a financial wizard
as well.
After the article appeared, Wally's relations with his family became more
distant. His father was appalled at the wealth revealed. Both James and
Benjamin, who had written him many genial letters from Oxford addressed
to "Dear Kid Brother," made remarks almost accu satory that DeWitt hadn't
given them stock in return for their pre publication loans. (It was something
Wallly did not want: an intellec tual father and older brother as part-owners,
telling him what he should give readers.)
Lila's World
HIS OWN career obviously in mind, DeWitt a couple of months after their
marriage wrote to his family about Lila:
6
I know no girl who has the perfect qualities she has to make me a happy wife.
I don't think she will ever become restless. She can content herself being alone
in the daytime, is a friend of reading and improving her mind, loves music,
loves to take hikes, actually enjoys to keep house, has very good taste, is
economical, has never been ill, is very easy to look at, is thoughtful,
considerate & affectionate...
Though he listed her name ahead of his ad editor, she had little interest in
editorial work. Yet Lila's competence in the world of artwork and decoration
equalled his in the realm of words and ideas. She took on the responsibility
of building their home in Pleasantville, to get Wally out of the pony-shed
office. By the early 1930s she was thinking about another, more permanent
residence, and had begun collecting design ideas for it also antique
furnishings and rugs, works of art, crystal and silver.
That second home was finished in 1937; a 22-room mansion of Norman
design, it was built of native stone, with a round, peaked tower. It stood on a
hilltop over-looking Byram Lake, about 20 kilome tres north of Pleasantville.
Lila oversaw every detail of the construction and dubbed the place High
Winds.
A landing field was put in on the 42-hectare estate and Wally bought himself
a monoplane, a four-seater, which he piloted with élan. He enjoyed buzzing
over their hilltop home to scare Lila. Another favour ite manoeuvre was to
cut the engine and glide in for a landing. The aerial circus ended in 1940 when
he gave the plane to Canada in support of Britian's war effort.
With Reader's Digest operating in 14 rented locations around Pleasantville
and confusion approaching the crisis stage, something had to be done. If a
new office building was what Wally needed, Lila would see that he got it.
Architects at her suggestion drew up plans based on buildings in Colonial
Williamsburg, Virginia. Construction started in 1937 on a 32-hectare site in
the countryside between Pleasantville and High Winds. The diminutive co-
owner was on the job daily. By 1939 it was completed: a three storey red
brick structure with a white cupola and more than 8,400 square metres of floor
space. took complete charge of the landscaping and interior decoration.
Furnishings would include original antiques and works of art, and the Lila
place was soon surrounded by a prodigality of gardens and plantings. The
tower at High Winds provided Wally a private mini-residence. There he had
his study, reachable only by a narrow, twisting stairway, and beside it a room

with his clothes and bed. Most evenings he would excuse himself soon after
dinner and go up to his desk to work. No one ever knew when he slept, or
whether. The lack of nights out was a problem for his wife. But his idea of
fun was a plane ride. Before getting his monoplane he would sometimes drive
them down to Newark Airpost just to take a plane to Boston and back.
Lila tried at times to modify her husband's maverick behaviour. She bought
him a gift certificate for dance lessons. There was a period after my wife,
Victoria, and I moved to Pleasantville when the Wallaces would occasionally
ask us to join them for an evening out. It was a good time to be alive. The
Depression-at least the worst of it-was said to be over, The Digest's
circulation was booming, and Lila had succeeded in prying Wallly out of his
work shell.
Once he found that the magazine would survive even if he took a night off,
Wally made a ritual of the dancing, outfitting himself with white tie and tails.
Sharing of Wealth
A BRITISH edition of Reader's Digest started in 1938, followed by many
others. Today there are 41 editions in 17 languages. The Reader's Digest
Condensed Book Club was launched in 1950. The company also put out
general books, records and cassettes, and in 1955 the magazine opened its
pages to ads to hold down increases in the subscription price. Profits mounted.
By 1980 the combined wealth of husband and wife was reckoned to be fifty
thousand million dollars.
The Wallace's giving was often regal in style. In May 1941 the magazine
received a $71,040 profit from a recently published Reader's Digest
anthology. Instead of treating the money as a routine business transaction,
Wally chose to pass it along in debonair manner as if it were pocket money-
dividing it up among his 348 employees earning $250 a month or less. Their
gratitude for this unexpected blessing brought him a heartening awareness of
his own strength and influence.
Childless, the Wallaces had no interest in establishing any kind of dynasty
but instead became legendary givers. Macalester College received well over
$50 million during Wally's lifetime. Mount Hermon, the boarding school he'd
left prematurely, received-along with its companion school for girls,
Northfield Seminary-some $5 million. He established a travel-research fund
for journalism students, and nearly $18 million was donated to refurbish and
7
restore the periodicals room in the New York Public Library, where as a
beginning editor he'd copied articles by hand. The library reciprocated by
naming the room after him.
Wally published several pieces about Outward Bound. This is an adventure-
based education course that puts young people through a programme of
strenuous outdoor activities to gain self-confidence. Once at a lunch meeting
in New York the editor slipped an envelope into the pocket of Joshua Miner,
president of Outward Bound, USA. "Afterwards, going down in the lift, I
opened the envelope," Miner reports. "Inside was a letter and a cheque for
one million dollars."
It was as a patron of the arts that Lila became best known, both in the United
States and abroad. From a fund she established, New York's Metropolitan
Museum of Art alone received well over $50 million. (A 10,220 square-metre
wing devoted primarily to 20th-century art opened in February 1987 and
bears her name.) She even made arrangements for fresh flowers to be kept in
niches of the museum's great hall, in perpetuity-one instance of her recurrent
wish to match nature's beauty with art. Another instance was the restoration
of painter Claude Monet's studio and gardens in Giverny, France.
Horizons of Hope
FOR ALL his wealth, achievement and power, Wally seemed quite ordinary.
He saw himself as an average man, and he was-though an average man raised
to the nth degree. What made him supernormal was his intense, sustained
curiosity, plus an unequalled capacity for work. He had mountains of material
to deal with. Reading with single minded absorption, quick as a lever with
decisions, he managed to clear his desk, be always on schedule and still have
time for the graces.
Some said Wally was shy. He was shy like a bulldozer. One evening in a New
York restaurant as several of us were considering what to order, I mentioned
light-heartedly that the other diners would be a good audience for Wally to
poll. He closed his menu folder emphati cally, got up and walked around,
studying the plates of other custom ers, making discreet inquiry as to whether
what they'd ordered was satisfactory. If rebuffed he looked hurt, but he did
not let up. Wally got the information he went after and I got put in my place.
Wally continued to believe the road to human betterment stretched ahead into
the future. In editorial work, this conviction made many decisions for him,

enabling him to respond with spontaneity and honesty. Before starting his
"Little Magazine" he had made no calcu lations or surveys of what the public
wanted to read. He knew only what he wanted to read.
t was understood that the views expressed in The Digest, large or small,
represented those of the editor. Once Joe Furnas and Wally were planning a
series on the cuisine of various countries. Indian cooking came up. "I'd skip
India," Wally said. Joe protested, waxing eloquent on the appeal of chutney
and curry. "No," said Wally, "we won't do Indian food." He paused. "I don't
like it."
Information set forth in cogent style that advanced the hopes of man and
pushed back his horizons-this is what stirred him. A problem came alive for
him when a possible solution had been discovered, or when the reader could
do something about it. "Quotable," "memora ble," "applicable" were words
he lived by.
Valedictory
IN 1973 Wally and Lila, at 83, declared themselved officially retired.. Yet
while gradually relinquishing editorial responsibilities, Wally as co-owner
remained fully in touch, seen less often in the big corner office at headquarters
but working in his tower at High Winds.
A newspaper story in 1976 referred to "the late DeWitt Wallace." He made a
jest of it and sent the staff a memo: "Here Lila and I are in the Glorious 'Out
Yonder,' looking over your shoulder and applauding the work you are doing
as we did in our previous incarnation."
During the holiday season of 1978 there arrived an impersonal, conventional
Christmas card, signed in print, Lila and DeWitt Wallace. Included was a
statement from Wally in large type:
My close-up vision has deteriorated in recent months (fortunately my distance
vision is quite good). I have difficulty reading my own handwriting. Hence I
refrain from inflicting upon you a personal note, something I enjoyed doing
in the past. The editor who liked to believe all problems are solvable had
finally encountered some he could do nothing about. There were times still
when the young man reappeared in the old. That same year he got Josh Miner
of Outward Bound to help him set up a rough-water rafting expedition on the
Green and Colorado rivers. He commandeered a party of young men in their
8
70s, mostly former Reader's Digest executives-to raft down the rapids with
Miner and him. He was 88, yet his talent for organizing a complex enterprise
was intact.
Such spurts of energy, however, were increasingly rare. He would still
occasionally walk the corridors at headquarters, poke his head into others'
offices and talk with them about their work, commending them always. But
the relevance was gone: his eyes tended to drift off into the distance of his
own thoughts as he listened. Wally died on March 30, 1981. He was 91. Lila
lived another three years and then she, too, died, at 94.
During Wally's last years I felt a kind of homesickness for the past when
everything still lay ahead. I kept remembering all those after noons when he
and I woud leave The Digest offices above the train tracks in Pleasantville
and drive out to the country where the new building was going up. His
original indifference sloughed off more with each visit until he was displaying
an almost juvenile pride in the construction. There was a spring in our step
each time we approached the rising structure. I had the pleasure of being,
while not responsible, still part-owner as a child is of a house going up next
door.
Soon after his death I came across a fragment of verse out of the Orient. It
was a Japanese poem, translated, and thus symbolically in orbit, overriding
boundaries. It spoke to me as music does and said what I could not:
A trill descending...
But look! The skylark who sings That song has vanished."
Grief is a poor afterthought, and frailty does not mark the end. The magazine
DeWitt Wallace created remains the most widely read publication on earth,
with many millions of people in more than 100 countries imbibing inspiration
from it. The skylark has vanished, but not the song.
Signs of Life
AT LIBRARY entrance: "Welcome, Silent Majority."
-Ralph Dunagin
On the door of a room where a super computer was being groomed for
operation:
 9

-Ken Mauzy
"Authorized personnel only. If you had to ask, you aren't." From "Haiku
Harvest, translation by Peter Beilenson and Harry Behn, 1962 Peter Pauper
Press.

Dante Poet of Hope
BY ERNEST HAUSER
VEN IF Dante Alighieri had not been one of the great poets
of all time, he would still deserve the praise the world
E bestows on him.
There is more to it than just praising a historic figure, for
Dante, visionary, pioneer and father of the Italian language, is timeless.
Though he lived in the Middle Ages, he can occasionally tease us with a
modern twist that puts him centuries ahead of his own time. His monumental
work, the Divine Comedy-an imaginary visit to the great beyond-is one of the
enduring glories of world literature; the poem has been translated into 50
languages. Dante called it a "comedy" because it has a blissful ending, while
the "divine" was added by an enterprising publisher 234 years after the
author's death.
Its importance lies in its universal message-that man must journey inwards,
look into his heart, and rise above sin and temptation in order to become a
worthy member of society. Writing in a time as fraught with strife as our own,
the poet sounded a trumpet call for order, peace and good citizenship. He
envisaged a "United World," which makes him the first modern European.
Dante Alighieri was born into a noble Florentine family in 1265. His exact
birth date is not known but he tells us, in his works, that he was born under
the sign of Gemini-between the 21st of May and the 21st of June. He achieved
fame early; parts of his Comedy, which took him nearly 20 years to write,
were published as soon as the ink was dry. So realistic was each detail he
described the torment of the damned, the joy of the redeemed, and his hair-
raising personal adventures on the way that many readers accepted the work
as a true story.
More than 500 copies of the Comedy, all hand-copied and dating from the
years shortly after his death, prove that the book was a best-seller.
Michelangelo, when painting his celebrated "Last Judgement," was under
1
Dante's spell, and painters through the centuries, such as Botticelli and
Gustave Dore have been inspired by this mighty poem. Today thousands of
Italians know much of Dante by heart. No fewer than 20 editions of his works
are currently available in Italy, with annual sales totalling 80,000 copies. In
Florence, marble plaques quote his verses and remind the passer-by that
Dante walked the same streets.
What kind of man was Dante? Where did his life journey lead him? His
portrait, painted by a contemporary artist on a wall of the old governor's
palace in Florence, shows a tall, upright figure with a gaunt face, a long,
disdainful nose, a haughty mouth and jutting chin. He wears the flowing gown
and stocking-cap then fashionable among learned men. An observer of the
time tells us that Dante always had a melancholy, pensive look. From his
works, we gather that he was possessed of a fierce will, stubborn opinions
and a violent temper. Some of his best rhymes are sheer invective; he lashes
out at kings, popes and fellow citizens with equal vehemence. But he had
many distinguished friends who remained loyal to him through the years. We
know he had a sense of humour, for many of his verses make us laugh. And
we cannot forget that he was guided by a tender love which kindled his loftiest
thoughts.
Glorious Lady. The Florence into which Dante was born was a busy town on
the River Arno and a free republic in the throes of social change. Its old
nobility was losing ground to a new merchant class. As the son of a nobleman,
Dante was tutored in Latin, public-speaking and philosophy in the flourishing
religious schools. An event that was to influence the rest of his life occurred
at a party he attended at the age of nine. Among the children present was a
shy and lovely girl of his own age-Beatrice Portinari. "She was so full of
dignity and admirable bearing," he later wrote, "that certainly the words of
the poet Homer suited her well: 'She did not seem to be the daughter of an
ordinary man but rather of a god.""
Seeing Beatrice on rare occasions and worshipping her from a distance, Dante
wrote a number of exquisite love poems to her. And though she was to marry
a local banker and die at 25, while Dante himself married a gentlewoman
named Gemma Donati, he always claimed that his spiritual love for Beatrice
"governed his soul." In his Comedy, he made Beatrice his guide through
Paradise and thus be stowed true immortality upon the "glorious lady of his
mind."

The youthful Dante read voraciously and chose his friends among brilliant
young-noblemen, intellectuals and poets. He soon outshone all his fellow
writers in his lyric power, before he was 30, he had published some of his
most enchanting poems, interspersed with pieces of prose recording his
encounters with Beatrice, in a slender volume, La Vita Nuova (The New
Life). One of the poems, beginning, "Donne ch'avete intelletto d'amore"
("Ladies that have intelligence of love") was an instant success, and made his
name known throughout Italy.
At the time Florence was torn by a bitter feud between two factions known as
the "Blacks," who defended the old rights of the nobility,and the "Whites,"
who spoke for the rising middle class. Dante sided with the commoners. He
was elected serveral times to public office and once served on the city's six-
man governing council. He did his military duty as a cavalryman, seeing
front-line action in at least two battles.
Then, at the age of 36, he joined a diplomatic mission to Pope Boniface VIII
who was trying to curtail Florence's freedom. Dante despised the high-
handed, power-hungry pontiff. On his way back from Rome he learned that
his enemies, the "Blacks," who sided with the Pope, had seized power in
Florence, plundered his house and sentenced him to banishment and a heavy
fine. When he did not return to plead his cause, his enemies condemned him
to be burnt to death should he ever again set foot in Florence. Bartolommeo
della Scala, Duke of Milan and Lord of Verona, gave him his first refuge.
Thus began Dante's bitter exile, which was to last the rest of his life.
Few men have loved their native city more passionately. During Dante's long
wandering, he dreamed and wrote of Florence-now with nostalgia, now with
bitterness. He called the city depraved, the home of evil people. Later,
Florence proclaimed a pardon for all exiles willing to pay a certain sum.
Dante, the city's greatest son, indignantly refused. For centuries after his death
in Ravenna, the Florentines tried to reclaim his mortal remains. They even
built an elaborate tomb for him in the Church of the Holy Cross, where now
rest the city's other great men, among them Michelangelo. But the people of
Ravenna did not see why Florence, "not having wanted him alive, should have
him dead," and to this day Dante's tomb in Florence is empty.
Writing constantly in exile, Dante became troubled by the deep gap between
the writer and the masses. He argued for a true Italian language, a "noble
vernacular" which would supplant Latin as the language of Italian letters.
2
Latin was read only by rich men, monks and scholars, and Dante wanted to
address himself to ordinary people. Endowed with a fine ear for everyday
speech, he manufactured his .own vigorous, straightforward and melodious
language from local dialects, and this has changed little since his time. Indeed,
a modern Italian has less difficulty in reading Dante than we have in
understand ing Shakespeare.
Dante's literary reputation grew, and soon he was taking a deep interest in
politics. His brilliant pamphlet, On Monarchy, condemned the cold war
between Emperor and Pope, which was splitting Europe asunder. Why should
the two not coexist, one holding spiritual, the other temporal sway? Europe
could thus be united under a single, just and enlightened government. All
through his Comedy, too, there runs a mighty current of world politics and,
to the end of his life, Dante raised his voice against injustice, tyranny and
corruption in high places.
Most of the Comedy was written in Ravenna, where Dante lived the last years
of his life in peace, surrounded by his family. Arranging his vast subject in
three books, sub-divided into a total of 100 cantos (literally "songs") he tells
the story of his imaginary voyage into after life. It takes place in the Holy
Year 1300 and lasts a week.
For the first part of the journey his guide is the ghost of Virgil, the Latin poet
whom Dante admired most. The long-dead Roman escorts Dante through
hell-a terrifying place lit by fires and resounding with "sighs, lamentations
and loud wailings." The sombre landscape con sists of rivers, cliffs, deserts
and a whole burning city.
It takes the skill of a born story-teller to bring this murky empire to life. Dante
accomplishes this by turning himself into the inquisitive reporter. As he
descends into the depths, he stops to talk to the tormented souls, coolly
interviewing them and taking note of what they tell him. Many of the sinners
Dante meets are well-known characters of his time, and the author shows no
restraint in portraying people he dislikes, among them princes and politicians.
Action-Packed. Dante lived in a cruel age and the torments he describes are
cruel. Some sinners are immersed in boiling pitch; others have been turned
into gnarled trees-when Dante breaks a twig off one, the tree sheds blood and
wails. Hypocrites drag themselves along under monks' cowls made of gilded
lead.

Dante gives us high adventure. Arriving at the centre of the earth, the visitors
find Satan, a huge dim figure surrounded by ice. To reach a back door that
will let them out of hell, they have to get past him. But how? Summoning up
their courage, they clamber down the Devil's shaggy body and, travelling
through a tunnel to the other side of the earth, they behold, rising from an
ocean, the mount of Purgatory.
Had Dante stopped there, his laurels would have been safe; and although
nothing in the Divine Comedy can match the book on "Hell" for sheer
dramatic impact, the books describing "Purgatory" and "Paradise" are also
packed with action. It is at the end of the second book that the poet, in the
garden of Eden atop the mount of Purgatory, hears his name called by a
woman's voice; the lady turns out to be his Beatrice. In the course of the last
book the two float upwards through bright light and music as they pass
through nine successive heavens.
The Comedy ends with a blaze of glory. Before reaching the tenth and
supreme heaven, Beatrice leaves the traveller-she has fulfilled her task. With
a dazzling vision of God Himself, the poet rests his pen. His last resounding
words assure us with finality that it is "Love that moves the sun and the other
stars."
Dante died at 56, shortly after finishing the Comedy. The book was soon
expounded in Italian universities as the most important moral and religious
work of the age, for Dante convinced his readers that souls went somewhere
after death and that man, in his lifetime, would determine his ultimate
destination.
Today, the poet's message comes through as powerfully as ever. Dante charts
a course we may all try to follow-a journey to the depths of our conscience
and thence upwards to light and salvation. Virgil symbol of Reason and
Beatrice-symbol of Faith-will comfort us along the way.
Though Dante lived and laboured in a world that had yet to emerge from the
long shadow of the Dark Ages, there is in his great work a foretaste of the
bright new age that was to dawn upon the world a fev generations later: the
age of humanism, of discovery, of Renaissance. It is the individual freed from
the shackles of dark forces, that rises, triumphant, from the poet's work.
P.S.
3
ON A blood-bank poster which read: "Be a Volunteer Blood Donor,"
somebody had printed: "That's the best kind." -Ed Freeman, quoted by Herby
Caen in San Francisco Chronicle Cartoon Quips
COUPLE at airline-reservations counter: "Two tickets to wherever our
luggage is going." -Ben Wicks, King Features
MAN coming home from work to wife: "You were right. I was silly to worry
about some 'boy wonder taking over my job-the boss's daughter got it."
-Bill Maul in National Enquirer WOMAN to friend: "I've started a new diet.
No more eating my own words, swallowing my pride or putting my foot in
my mouth."
-Randy Glasbergen in San Francisco
FELLOW to dog: "A man's best friend doesn't hog his chair and pretend he
doesn't understand what is being said to him."
-Busino in Good Housekeeping
PSYCHOLOGIST to patient: "You spend 50 per cent of your energy on your
job, 50 per cent on your husband and 50 per cent on your children. I think I
see your problem." -Randy Glasbergen, King Features
Names People Play
A KIT being marketed to aid in the paper-work problems of divorce is called
"Split Decisions." -The Wall Street Journal A GROUP of Washington State
civil-service workers who jog at lunchtime call themselves "The Bureaucratic
Runaround."
-S.M.S
THE INSTRUCTOR of a flower-arranging programme on Milwaukee TV is
called "The Lone Arranger."
In a World of Their Own
TWO DRUNKS met and one said to the other, "Is that the sun or the moon
up there?" "I don't know," replied the other. "I don't live around here."
-de Sousa Gonçalves

George Sand:
The First Liberated Woman
BY FRANCIS LEARY
T HE Baroness Dudevant was breathing heavily from emo
tion and the effort of climbing five flights to a small Parisian
T flat. Elegant in a long silk dress and short cape, she
confronted her daughter-in-law, a young bohemian wearing
grey trousers and black boots.
"Aurore, why do you keep on living here without your husband?" "My
husband finds it convenient," was the reply.
"Is it true that you intend to publish a book?" "Yes, madame."
"Ridiculous! I warn you: don't use our good name of Dudevant on your book."
"Not a chance!" retorted the young rebel. She would create a name of her
own.
The baroness departed, fellowed by the defiant gaze of her daughter in-law.
They never met again. The year was 1832; the book, a novel of a woman's
escape from a stifling marriage to live with her true love on a primitive island,
was Indiana; and the name created was George Sand.
AURORE DUDEVANT, then 28, was the first woman to cast off traditional
fetters of dependence and domestic servitude to storm the barriers inviolate
for centuries. Far in advance of her day, she advocated equality of the sexes,
property rights for women, and divorce. She was the most prolific of all
women writers, producing more than 100 published works and outselling
every author of the time save Victor Hugo and Balzac. In her small precise
hand, she turned out 16 manuscript pages (about 3,000 words) daily. When
really pressed, she could complete a novel in a month. She was the romantic
ideal of her era, the passion of the poet Alfred de Musset and the beloved of
the great musician Frederic Chopin. Men loved or hated her, admired or
scorned her; none were indifferent. She has remained a universal symbol of
the liberated woman who dared all for love and the right to think for herself.
1
Aurore had grown accustomed to independence early in life. When she was
four, her father died and her flighty mother was banished by a stern paternal
grandmother. Brought up by her grandmother at Nohant, the family estate,
Aurore was encouraged to make her own decisions. Voracious reading
stimulated her youthful fertile imagina tion. She consumed the French
philosophers Rousseau and Montesquieu, the poets Homer and Shakespeare,
and the romantic novels then in fashion.
But her grandmother died, and at 18 Aurore fell in love with and married
Casimir Dudevant, a bluff former cavalry officer. She discov ered too late
that their mutual interests began and ended with horses. Male Domination.
After eight years of marriage torn apart by her husband's indifference and
adultery, Aurore left him to spend six months of the year in Paris. Many
women in this year 1830 longed for such freedom. But hemmed in by the
Code Napoleon, which gave a husband complete control over his wife and
any property she might have, they kept silent. Only Aurore dared speak out.
Determined to "deprovincialize" herself, Aurore plunged into the Paris
literary scene, then dominated by Balzac, Victor Hugo and Alexander Dumas.
To make ends meet, she painted portraits and wrote snippets for Le Figaro,
but these efforts hardly served when her husband failed to send her meagre
allowance on time. Ironically, the popular image of the future George Sand
as the free living feminist first derived from these early poverty-stricken days.
Aurore liked the theatre, but could not afford a box where ladies were
expected to sit. The standing-room section, which cost only two and a half
francs, was restricted to men. So, tucking her hair under a top hat, wearing
overcoat and trousers and smoking a cigar, she became the first of her sex to
venture into the male domain of the smoke-filled theatre pit. This bold
costume did as much as anything to create her reputation as a woman without
a master.
Aurore was rescued from financial straits by the success of her novel, Indiana.
"You have never seen a more exquisite dissection of the human heart," one
review proclaimed, and the dissector basked in the first glow of triumph.
"Madame Dudevant is dead," she exulted, "but George Sand, they say, is a
sprightly young fellow!"

George Sand rocketed to fame with Lelia, her third novel. It is the story of a
passionate woman who, failing in her quest for a complete spiritual and
physical union, enters a convent, while her lover commits suicide. The novel
held readers spellbound. One critic compared it to Byron's masterpiece Don
Juan. Mingled with all the passion in Lelia were discourses on women's
rights.
In one of the thousands of letters she was to write during her lifetime, George
penned one of her most forthright declarations on marriage: "My husband
does as he pleases; he has mistresses or not, as he desires, runs his estate as
he wishes. It is only right that this great freedom should be reciprocal. I am
therefore entirely independent. I come home at midnight or at 6 a.m." "She
had to live her romances before she could write them," Oscar Wilde said. Like
her heroine Lelia, she was searching for the ideal, the man whose spiritual
qualities would complement her own. She was drawn to younger men.
In August 1833, she wrote to a friend, "I have fallen in love and this time very
seriously. I find a candour, a loyalty, a tenderness which sends me reeling."
Her new flame was Alfred de Musset, who at 23 was notorious for wine,
women and song, and always in debt. To winter in Italy with Musset, she
extracted an advance for an unwritten novel, and they set out for Venice, with
a stopover Florence. In Venice, she was adamant about her daily four to six
hours stint on the novel which would pay for the trip. Left to himself, Musset
began going out on the town. Soon he told George he didn't love her, and left
for home. In her anguish, George confided in her journal: "Phantom of my
burning nights, angel of death, fatal love, my destiny! How I still love you
assassin!"
Free at Last. Ravaged by the Musset affair, George slipped back to Nohant.
Here, angry marital scenes erupted over her independence. One evening at
dinner, in the presence of guests, her husband Casimir threatened her with a
shotgun. This was enough to put him irreparably in the wrong. Though civil
divorce did not exist, George was granted a legal separation, with possession
of her ancestral property and custody of her two children.
Driven by her own experience, George now expanded her campaign for
omen's rights. In a series of newspaper articles, "Letters to Marcie," she
charged that women were worse off than during the crusades, when upper-
class women were often well educated. Now, she said, "Women receive a
deplorable education and it is the great crime of men towards them." She
2
demanded property rights for women and the right of divorce with liberty to
marry again. In her writings and in her blue-and-white salon where gathered
poets, paint ers, musicians and political firebrands, she continued her
campaign.
It was through Franz Liszt that George met Frederic Chopin. She was so
fascinated by this thin pale young man with god like head and Polish fire in
his fingers that she invited him to stay at Nohant where he could compose his
haunting nocturnes and dazzling preludes.
Chopin was not an easy man. They wintered once in sunny Mallorca, renting
rooms in an abandoned hillside monastery. But the rains came, a chill wind
blew from the sea, Chopin's incipient tuberculosis grew rapidly worse, and he
was stricken by supernatural terrors when George had to leave him alone to
shop in Palma, the island's only town. At Nohant, Chopin composed the
"Sonata in B flat minor" with the famous "Funeral March." "His creation was
spontaneous, miracu lous," wrote George Sand. "It came to his piano
suddenly, or like a song during our walks through the country. But then, the
most pitiful work I have ever seen began. He locked himself in his room for
the whole day, weeping, pacing back and forth, breaking his pens, repeat ing
or changing one bar a hundred times..." The Nohant idyll ended sadly in a
violent family quarrel in which Chopin had been involved; after eight years
in which he had done his finest work, the composer left Nohant, never to
return.
The year 1848 saw revolution sweep over Europe, carrying away Louis-
Philippe's callous regime, with its 12-hour working day, exploi tation of
women and children in mines and factories, and restriction of the vote to a
small propertied minority. George rushed to Paris to join the poet Alphonse
de Lamartine's provisional republican government as a kind of "ghost writer"
in the Ministry of the Interior. As the government's unofficial propagandist,
she produced a rain of procla mations and bulletins. One-Bulletin 16-sounded
a call to action if the conservatives won in the forthcoming elections: "There
can be but one road to safety for those who have already built the barricades
and that will be for them to manifest their will a second time." The
conservatives triumphed, and three weeks later, a mob surged into the
National Assembly. George Sand's Bulletin 16 was blamed. Stricken by the
violence and hatred of the mob, she departed from Paris and politics.
 3

The gaudy Second Empire of Napoleon III, which in 1852 supplanted the
Republic, saw George Sand achieve new lustre with 25 plays that included
adaptations of her novels. Her theatrical ventures were greatly aided by the
engraver Alexander Manceau, whose artistic talents were invaluable in
designing sets and constumes. Younger by 13 years, the shy, devoted
Manceau brought her the tenderness of a sunset romance. To Dumas fils she
revealed her philosophy for the passing years: "So let us remain altogether
young and trembling right into old age, and let us try to fancy that we are
merely starting out in life right up to the very eve of death."
George Sand died at the height of her fame on a June morning in 1876, her
last novel unfinished. She had been the first of her sex to set the literary world
ablaze and to unfurl the banner of women's libera tion: "Poor dear great
woman!" said her friend Gustave Flaubert. "To know her as I have is to know
all the feminine quality in this great man, the immense tenderness in this
genius. She will remain one of the splendours of France and a unique glory."
How's That?
A BRITISH friend of mine once found himself at a dinner party sitting next
to an attractive American woman. The conversation turned to cricket and the
woman asked my friend to explain the game. He agreed, and embarked on a
lengthy explanation of the mysteries of silly mid-on and fine-leg, googly,
chinaman and the like. At the end he sat back, exhausted. The woman looked
at him, shaking her head in wonderment. Then she spoke: "That really is
remarkable. And to think they do it all on horseback."
-Michael Parkinson in High Life, England

Marie Antoinette,
Tragic Queen of Make-Believe
BY LOUISE REDFIELD PEATTIE
AST, SPLENDID, steeped for generations in pomp and
corrup tion, Versailles waited in May 1770 to receive the
V bride who was to become Queen of France. The old King,
Louis XV, and the bridegroom, his grandson, the loutish 15-
year-old dau phin who would be Louis XVI, waited eagerly
in the Forest of Compiègne for the little archduchess from
the Austrian court. She came, sur rounded by courtiers, in a gold-flowered
carriage, to the sound of drums and trumpets. Jumping from the carriage she
dropped grace fully at the King's feet a girl of 14, dazzling of complexion and
beautifully formed, with blue eyes and fair hair.
In the gold and white chapel of the great palace the charming young girl and
the clumsy boy knelt to be married, with all the court packed close about to
admire. Then followed days and nights of extravagant festivities, balls and
plays and fireworks. But when the couple retired, the husband only fell asleep,
snoring. The marriage was not to be consummated for seven years. In spite
of this, Marie Antoinette made the best of lumpish Louis, winning him away
from his greed for cakes and his excessive passion for hunting. Together they
paid a state visit to Paris, where, as the girl wrote to her mother, the Empress
of Austria, "the poor people, in spite oppress them, were transported with joy
on seeing of the taxes which us. How happy we are to win the friendship of a
people so easily. And yet there is nothing so precious. I was well aware of
that and shall never forget it. "Never is a long time when one is young and
gay and spoilt. Marie Antoinette was frivolous and wilful, but she was warm
hearted, too, and meant to be a good wife and, in time, mother. Here she was
frustrated. The dauphin had a slight anatomical abnormality which could
easily have been corrected by the scalpel, but he was afraid of this.
Marie Antoinette threw herself into diversions, even such unwise ones as a
flirtation with a handsome young Swedish officer named Axel Fersen. But
she was never untrue to her husband; her morals were worthy of her station.
1
When the spring of 1774 was greening the great park of Versailles, the King
contracted small-pox and died. Louis XVI, 19, and his Queen, Marie
Antoinette, 18, began their reign.
In the rigidly elaborate life of the court, the young Queen was a prisoner of
its fantastic etiquette. She could not so much as dress in privacy but had to
stand shivering while her chemise was passed from one titled lady to another
till it could officially cover her royal nakedness. It is no wonder that she
rebelled by turning to a life of pleasure. She ordered a hundred new dresses a
year and thought nothing of buying diamond earrings and bracelets. She
amused herself with horse racing, gambling, theatricals and balls, and giddy
and diverting young friends like the Princesse de Lamballe, the Duchesse de
Polignac and Axel Fersen, the gallant Swede. She remodelled the Petit
Trianon into an airy palace all taste and grace, where only young and witty
friends were welcomed.
Louis at last plucked up courage for the little operation, and Marie Antoinette
became his wife in fact and, in due course, a mother. Even at this moment she
was the victim of cruel court etiquette, for by custom the public was allowed
to be present at the birth, and so great was the crowd that the Queen was
stifled till the King broke a window to let in fresh air. The first child, born in
1778, was a daughter. When, three years later, her first son was born, there
was dancing in the streets and public feasts and bonfires. But it was a last
flare of popularity. For not only had the young Queen neglectfully lost the
friendship of the old nobility at court, but also the seeds of revolutionary
thinking had been sown in the land. And the target for enmity was not the dull
and amiable King but his arrogant and spendthrift wife. She made enemies
by appointing to places of profit and power those who were in her favour, and
in affairs of state she so often meddled in favour of her native land that she
gained, far and wide, the contemptuous nickname of "the Austrian." But not
until 1785 when, after the birth of her second son, she entered Paris and met
an icy reception, did she begin to realize that she had also lost the people.
Weary and once more pregnant, the Queen took refuge, during the summer
of 1786, in the hamlet she had built near the Petit Trianon. She had given up
many of her frivolous pursuits, preferring the company of her children. She
knew herself now to be hated; and, indeed, when she bore her fourth child, a
daughter, the populace displayed complete indifference. The ruinous state of

the nation's finances had become public knowledge. Though waste and
spending had been the rule at Versailles long before she came to it, though
for generations only the poor had been taxed while the nobles squandered the
money, she was blamed for it all. Marie Antoinette felt the cold wind of
disaster blowing towards her.
It was the very breath of revolution. The pressure upon the vacillat ing Louis
XVI for representation by the people became too great to bear, and in 1789
he called a meeting of the States General at Versailles, a congress of 1,200
men divided into three groups, the nobility, the clergy and the Third Estate,
composed of commoners. Marie Antoinette, in royal robes, joined her
husband to appear before them. Stonily they eyed her, and though she lifted
that proud head of hers, her heart was desolate, for her first-born son lay
dying. Mob Fury. But the people of France regarded her now not as a woman
with feelings, but as the symbol of a tyranny they were determined to destroy.
So the cauldron boiled higher. On July 14, 1789, the Paris mob stormed the
feudal prison of the Bastille and tore it open. History marks this as the dawn
of the French Republic,
October came; the long avenues of the great park turned golden. In Paris the
turmoil of the Revolution stormed on. On October 5 the King was hunting in
the forest; the Queen sought peace in her pretty make believe world of the
Petit Trianon. Resting there, in sad autumnal calm she saw a page hastening
to her. He brought word that a Paris mob was marching on Versailles.
It was a horde of 6,000, mostly women-poor, bedraggled, infected with mob
hysteria; armed with knives and pikes, they charged on trough rain and mud,
shouting obscene threats against the loathed Queen. Through the mist and
rain, the sodden crowd stormed in waves against the palace walls, shouting
for bread and for Marie Antoinette. Word came that a detachment of soldiers
under Lafayette was march ing on Versailles to prevent violence. Flight was
considered, but it was too late. After midnight the army arrived and the
exhausted Queen went to bed, while the mob still roved outside.
Early in the morning, slaughtering some guards, the mob gained entrance to
the palace. Half-dressed, the Queen fled to the King, while behind her the
rabble entered her bedroom. The royal pair, with their children, huddled in
terror, hearing the threatening shouts outside their doors. The guard cleared
out the rioters, but the crowd outside the palace shouted for the Queen to
appear. She stepped out on the balcony in a yellow-striped wrapper, her fair
2
hair tousled, her hands crossed on her breast, and bowed and curtsied to these
new rulers of France.
Thus it was that on that mild clear day she was borne away, with her family,
from the fairy-tale home she was never to see again. The King and Queen
were installed in the Tuileries, the grim old palace in Paris. There they settled
down to a twilight imprisonment, passing months of anxiety and dread. The
Revolution was still young, and the monar chy, though tottering, was still
recognized. But by June it became clear that the only safety for the royal
family was flight. Axel Fersen had already ordered a vehicle to be built for
the purpose a huge carriage of yellow and green with white velvet upholstery.
By stealth they left Paris in this showy coach, from which the King, confident
of his disguise as a valet, would descend at every relay stop and converse with
those about him. Too soon he was recognized and arrested, and the absurd
coach with its terrified occupants returned to Paris amid jeering crowds.
Heart-Rending Blow. Now imprisonment pressed closer. Sentries were
posted everywhere, even in Marie Antoinette's bedroom. The Revolution
grew bloodier and more reckless; the Tuileries was at tacked and sacked, the
King declared powerless, and the royal family carried off to the Temple, an
ancient fortress with barred windows and. walls ten feet thick. Now indeed
the prison gloom descended; it was carried past her window on a pike the
head of her loved friend, the Streaked with lightning horror on the day that
Marie Antoinette saw Princesse de Lamballe. Far worse was the hour when
she heard a paper-seller crying the news in the street: the King had been con
demned to death and was to be executed within 24 hours. Now she was no
longer Queen Marie Antoinette of France; she was the "Widow Capet," 37,
black-clad, white-haired, emaciated, grief stricken. The next blow on her
heart fell when they took away from her the dauphin, her beloved second son.
From her tower prison she could hear his jailers teaching him to curse his
family and God.
In October 1793 her trial began. She expected no justice; she knew she was
foredoomed. But no dread could have imagined the horror of her little son,
primed by base tutors, testifying against her, accusing her of unnatural
practices with him. All the questioning was barbed with hate; she answered
quietly and with dignity. Frozen in despair, she heard the sentence calmly.
That last night they let her have two candles, a sheet of paper, pen and ink.
With a steady hand she wrote a letter, breathing courage and faith, to confine
her children to the care of the dead King's sister-a vain hope.
 3

In the morning they came for her. They cut off her hair and bound her hands
behind her. Seated on a plank in a horse-drawn cart, she was driven through
Paris, past staring crowds, to the great square where the guillotine stood. Head
high, she mounted it, she was bound to the plank; the blade fell.
The howls of the mob at the sight of the severed head echo down the corridors
of history. Let us remember rather that she was once young and lovely, that
she fell victim to follies not all her own, and that she died a martyr to the
passions that were to set the people of France free.
Keep Moving
I'M A TRAFFIC policeman in Durban, South Africa, and one day I was
summoned to direct traffic at an intersection where the traffic lights had
failed. One truck passed by twice, and as it came around again I angrily waved
it on for the third time. As he passed, the driver leaned out of the window and
shouted, "I've come to repair the lights!" -B. McDade

The Girl Who was Anne Frank
BY LOUIS DE JONG
ND HOW do you know that the human race is worth
saving?" an argumentative young student once asked his
A professor. Said the professor: "I have read Anne Frank's
diary."
How this diary of a teen-age girl came to be written and saved
is a story as dramatic as the diary itself. No one foresaw the tremendous
impact that the small book would have-not even her father, who had it
published after Anne's death in a Nazi concentration camp.
The Diary of Anne Frank has now been published in 19 languages including
German, and has sold nearly two million copies. Made into a play by Frances
Goodrich and Albert Hackett, it won the Pulitzer Prize for Drama, and, in the
1956-1957 season alone, played in 20 different countries to two million
people. In London it ran for nearly six months at the Phoenix Theatre.
Twentieth Century-Fox turned it into a film.
To understand this amazing response it is necessary first to under stand the
girl who was Anne Frank. When Hitler came to power, Otto Frank was a
banker, living in Germany. He had married in 1925. In 1926 his first daughter,
Margot, was born and three years later his second, Annelies Marie. She was
usually called "Anne," sometimes "Tender one."
In the autumn of 1933, when Hitler was issuing one anti-Jewish decree after
another, Otto Frank decided to emigrate to the hospitable Netherlands. He
started a small firm in Amsterdam. Shortly before the outbreak of war he took
in a partner, Mr Van Daan, a fellow refugee. Mostly they traded in spices.
Business was often slow. Once Otto Frank was forced to ask his small staff
to accept a temporary cut in their modest wages. No one left. They all liked
his warm personality. They admired his courage and the evident care he took
to give his two girls a good education.
As a pupil Anne was not particularly brilliant. Most people believed with her
parents that Margot, her elder sister, was more promising. Anne was chiefly
1
remarkable for the early interest she took in other people. She was emotional
and strong-willed; "a real problem child," her father once told me, "a great
talker and fond of nice clothes." Life in town, where she was usually
surrounded by a chattering crowd of girl-friends, suited her exactly. This was
a lucky fact because the Frank family could only rarely afford a holiday. Not
did they own a car.
When the Nazis invaded the Netherlands in May 1940, the Franks were
trapped. Earlier than most Jews in Amsterdam, Otto Frank realized that the
time might come when he and his family would have to go into hiding. He
decided to hide in his own business office, which faced one of Amsterdam's
tree-lined canals. A few derelict rooms on the upper floors, called the
"Annexe," were secretly prepared to house both the Frank and the Van Daan
families.
Early in July 1942, Margot Frank was called up for deportation, but she did
not go. Straightway the Franks moved into their hiding place, and the Van
Daans followed shortly afterwards. Four months later they took into their
cramped lodgings another Jew, a dentist.
Song-Bird in Hiding. They were eight hunted people. Any sound, any light
might betray their presence. A tenuous link with the outside was provided by
the radio and by four courageous members of Otto Frank's staff, two of them
typists, who in secret brought food, maga zines, books. The only other
company they had was a cat.
While in hiding, Anne decided to continue a diary which her parents had
given her on her 13th birthday. She described life in the "Annexe" with all its
inevitable tensions and quarrels. But she created first and foremost a
wonderfully delicate record of adolescence, sketching with complete honesty
a young girl's thoughts and feelings, her longing and loneliness. "I feel like a
song-bird whose wings have been brutally torn out and who is flying in utter
darkness against the bars of its own cage," she wrote when she had been
isolated from the outside world for nearly 16 months. Two months later she
had filled every page of the diary, a small book bound in a tartan cloth, and
one of the typists, Miep, gave her an ordinary exercise book. Later she used
Margot's chemistry exercise book.

Her diary reveals the trust she puts in a wise father, her grief because, as she
feels it, her mother does not understand her, the ecstasy of a first, rapturous
kiss, exchanged with the Van Daans' 17-year-old son; finally, the flowering
personality, eager to face life with adult courage and mature self-insight. On
a slip of paper Anne wrote faked names which she intended to use in case of
publication. For the time being the diary was her own secret which she wanted
to keep from everyone, especially from the grumpy dentist with whom she
had to share her tiny bedroom. Her father allowed her to put her diaries in his
brief-case. He never read them until after her death.
Courageous Leader. On August 4, 1944, one German and four Dutch Nazi
policemen suddenly stormed upstairs. (How the secret of the Annexe had
been revealed is not known.) "Where are your money and jewels?" they
shouted. Mrs Frank and Mrs Van Daan had some gold and jewellery. It was
quickly discovered. Looking round for something to carry it in, one of the
policemen noticed Otto Frank's brief-case. He emptied it on to the floor,
barely giving a glance at the notebooks. Then the people of the Annexe were
arrested.
In the beginning of September, while the Allied armies were rapidly
approaching the Netherlands, the Franks and Van Daans and the dentist were
carried in cattle-trucks to Auschwitz-the Nazi death camp in southern Poland.
There the Nazis separated Otto Frank from his wife and daughters without
giving them time to say farewell. Mrs Frank, Anne and Margot were marched
into the women's part of the camp, where Mrs Frank died from exhaustion.
The Van Daans and the dentist, too, lost their lives.
Anne proved to be a courageous leader of her small Auschwitz group. When
there was nothing to eat, she dared to go to the kitchen to ask for food. She
constantly told Margot never to give in. Once she passed hundreds of
Hungarian Jewish children who were standing naked in freezing rain, waiting
to be led to the gas chambers, unable to grasp the horrors inflicted upon them
in the world of adults. "Oh look, their eyes..." she whispered. Later in the
autumn she and her sister were transported to another camp, Belsen, between
Berlin and Hamburg. A close friend saw her there: "cold and hungry, her head
shaved and her skeleton-like form draped in the coarse, shapeless, striped
garb of the concentration camp." She was pitifully weak, her body racked by
typhoid fever. She died early in March 1945, a few days after Margot. Both
were buried in a mass grave. In Auschwitz, Otto Frank had managed
somehow to stay alive. He was freed early in 1945 by the Russians and in the
2
summer he arrived back in liberated Amsterdam. A friend had told him that
his wife had died, but he kept on hoping that Anne and Margot would return.
After six weeks of waiting he met someone who had to tell him that both had
perished. It was only then that Miep, his former typist, handed him Anne's
diaries.
Mission in Life. A week after the Frank family had been arrested, Miep had
boldly returned to the Annexe. A heap of paper lay on the floor. Miep
recognized Anne's handwriting and decided to keep the diary but not to read
it. Had she read it, she would have found detailed information on the help she
and other people had given the Frank family at the risk of their own lives, and
she might well have decided to destroy the diary for reasons of safety.
It took Otto Frank many weeks to finish reading what his dead child had
written. He broke down after every few pages. As his old mother was still
alive-she had emigrated to Switzerland where other near relatives lived he
started copying the manuscript for her. Some passages which he felt to be too
intimate or which might hurt other people's feelings were left out by him. The
idea of publishing the diary did not enter his mind. He gave one typed copy
to a close friend, who lent it to a professor of modern history. Much to Otto
Frank's surprise the professor devoted an article to it in a Dutch newspaper.
His friends now urged Otto Frank to have Anne's diary published as she
herself had wished; in one passage she had written; "I want to publish a book
entitled The Annexe after the war... My diary can serve this purpose. When
Anne's father finally consented to publication, the manuscript was refused by
two well-known Dutch publishers. A third decided to accept it and he sold
more than 150,000 copies of the Dutch edition. Other editions followed-
250,000 sold in Britain, a like number in Japan, 435,000 in the United States.
Otto Frank began to receive hundreds of letters. One, from Italy, was
addressed: "Otto Frank, father of Anne Frank, Amsterdam." A few people
doubted the authen ticity of the diary; most wrote to express their admiration
and grief. Girls of Anne's age poured out their troubles: "Oh, Mr Frank,"
wrote one girl, "she is so much like me that sometimes I do not know where
myself begins and Anne Frank ends." Numerous people sent small presents.
Some exquisite dolls were made for him by Japanese girls. A Dutch sculptress
presented him with a statue of Anne. On the birth days of Anne and Margot
flowers arrived anonymously.

So many letters poured in that Otto Frank was forced to retire from business.
The care of his daughter's diary had become his passion, his mission in life.
All royalties were devoted to humanitarian causes which, he felt, would have
been approved by Anne. All letters were answered by him personally. Every
day new ones sadly reminded him of the losses he had suffered, but he felt
that there was truth and consolation in what the headmistress of one of
England's largest schools wrote to him: "It must be a source of deep joy to
you-in all your sorrow-to know that Anne's brief life is, in the deepest sense
only just beginning." The most remarkable response came from Germany.
When the book's first printing of 4,500 copies came out in Germany in 1950,
many booksellers were afraid to put it in their windows. Mass Appeal. When
the play opened in seven German cities simultaneously, no one knew how the
audiences would react. The drama progressed through its eight brief scenes.
No Nazis were seen on the stage, but their ominous presence made itself felt
every minute. Finally, at the end, Nazi jackboots were heard storming upstairs
to raid the hiding place. At the close of the epilogue only Anne's father was
on the stage, a lonely old man. Quietly he told how he received news that his
wife and daughters had died. Picking up Anne's slim diary, he turned back
the pages to find a certain passage and, as he found it, her young, confident
voice was heard, saying: "In spite of everything, I still believe that people are
really good at heart."
Packed audiences received Anne Frank's tragedy in a silence heavy with
remorse. In Düsseldorf people did not even go out during the interval. "They
sat in their seats as if afraid of the lights outside, ashamed to face each other,"
someone reported. The Düsseldorf producer, Kuno Epple, explained: "Anne
Frank has succeeded because it enables the audience to come to grips with
history, personally and without denunciation. We watch it as an indictment,
in the most humble, pitiful terms, of inhumanity to fellow men. No one
accuses us as Germans. We accuse ourselves." For years Germany's post-war
administrators toiled to make people feel the senseless and criminal nature of
the Nazi regime. On the whole they failed. The Diary of Anne Frank
succeeded. Leading actors received dozens of letters. "I was a good Nazi," a
typical letter read, "but I never knew what it meant until the other night."
German school children sent Otto Frank letters signed by entire classes,
telling him that Anne's diary had opened their eyes to the viciousness of racial
persecution. In West Berlin an Anne Frank Home was opened, devoted to
social work for young people. The people of Berlin had chosen her name "to
symbolize the spirit of racial and social tolerance." Elsewhere in Germany an
3
organization was set up, named after her, to combat remaining vestiges of
Anti-Semitism. In Vienna money was collected for the Anne Frank forest, to
be planted in Israel.
In March 1957, a Hamburg student suggested that flowers should be laid on
the mass graves on Bergen-Belsen, where Anne Frank had found her last
resting place. More than 2,000 young people eagerly answered his appeal.
Hundreds pedalled on bikes 120 kilometres in lashing rain. Standing in front
of one of the mass graves, a 17-year-old schoolgirl expressed what all felt:
"Anne Frank was younger than we are when her life was so horribly ended.
She had to die because others had decided to destroy her race. Never again
among our people must such a diseased and inhuman hatred arise."
Anne's brief life is, indeed, only beginning. She carries a message of courage
and tolerance all over the world. She lives after death.
That's Easy
SHOWING Visitors around a museum in Andorra, the guide told them: "That
fossil in the glass case is two million and nine years old." "How can you date
it so precisely?" someone asked admiringly. "That's easy," replied the guide.
"I've been working here nine years and it was two million years old when I
came." -"Observer" in Financial Times, London
Steady Job
WHEN A West London building company advertised for a stationery
supervisor, the local paper made a printing error in the headline.
Among the replies the company received: "I read with interest your
advertisement for a stationary supervisor. My qualification for the position
consists of being able to remain stationary for long periods of time. I do not
sway, not even in the strongest winds. Also, I do not have the tendency to
shuffle from one foot to the other"
-LWA
 1

staff by insisting immediately on operating the lift herself. "That just isn't
Eleanor Roosevelt, My Most done, Mrs Roosevelt," he protested.
Unforgettable Character "It is now," she said, slipping in alone and closing the door. During her first
day at the White House, a woman-reporter colleague of mine telephoned and
BY EMMA BUGBEE
asked for Mrs. Roosevelt's secretary, Malvina Thompson. "Miss Thompson
isn't in," a voice replied. "May I help?" "Who is that?" asked the reporter.
"Mrs Roosevelt," was the reply. The startled reporter protested that she didn't
S OUR PLANE from New York droned towards
want to trouble the First Lady, but Mrs Roosevelt insisted on personally
Washington that December afternoon, I was studying with
A getting her the information she wanted. "You may call me any time," she said.
affection ate wonder the tall woman in the adjoining seat.
One of her first innovations on entering the White House was to hold press
Although I had known her for several years, I never ceased
conferences a move that she calculated rightly would create jobs for women
to be amazed at how much she could accomplish, even
reporters. After the first conference, I mentioned to Mrs Roosevelt that I was
during a flight. When we first took off, she had been reading
being returned to my office in New York and therefore, regretfully, would not
some reports. Then she chatted animatedly with other passengers who had
have a chance to see the upstairs rooms of the White House (which the public
come up to her. Now she was writing busily on some copy paper she had
never saw), where future press conferences were to be held.
borrowed from me. She was Mrs Franklin D. Roosevelt, the First Lady of the
United States, and I was a newspaper reporter assigned to cover her activities. "Well, then, come to lunch tomorrow, and bring the other New York
newspaper girls," she said, "It will be my farewell to my first press group."
When we landed at the chilly Washington airport I said good-bye, planning
The next day she led five of us on a tour of the upper rooms. "It is not my
to take a taxi to a hotel. "Emma, dear, I can't bear to think of you all alone in
house. It belongs to the people," she said. "They have a right to know about
an hotel room tonight," she said suddenly. "Why don't you stay with me?" So,
it." So, we described the great house at length in our stories the following day.
my night was spent not in a hotel room but in the Rose Suite of the White
That lunch was the turning point of my career, thereafter I became a specialist
House, with President and Mrs Roosevelt as my host and hostess at a week-
in the activities of this amazing First lady.
before-Christmas dinner. The impulsive warmth and kindness of this
spontaneous invitation were completely typical of Eleanor Roosevelt. She Mrs Roosevelt often took taxis, went by underground, or simply walked, with
was the greatest, and at the same time, the humblest woman I have ever her long loping strides. Occasionally, she even accepted a lift from some
known. stranger who recognized her. Only in later years did she bother with her own
car and chauffeur.
A Friend in Washington
She was the despair of the Secret Service, but she would not have a
WHEN MRS ROOSEVELT entered the White House, she proved to be a
bodyguard. After President-elect Roosevelt narrowly escaped death at the
totally new sort of First Lady. She dreaded the stiff social routine which the
hands of an assassin who killed Mayor Cermak of Chicago, he urged her to
White House imposed on Presidents' wives, and feared it would curtail the
accept protection. "Nobody's going to shoot me," she scoffed. "I'm not that
welfare activities she considered so important. "I shall not toe the mark," she
important." The frustrated Secret Service then insisted that she carry a
declared, in a masterpiece of understatement.
revolver, which she grudgingly learned to use. However, she usually forgot
She brought a breezy informality and bustle of activity to the White House. to carry it.
At the Inaugural buffet, the President waited his turn to be served like anyone
else, and Mrs Roosevelt helped with the serving. She also horrified one of the

Washington had never seen anything quite like her energy. She got up at
dawn, went riding at 6 am, had breakfast at 7. By 7.30 she was busy at her
desk. She wrote a syndicated newspaper column and articles for magazines.
She joined a union (the Newspaper Guild). She took voice lessons, spoke on
the radio, lectured (giving the money earned to charity)-all in addition to the
formal duties of a First Lady. She moved about so quickly that White House
servants sometimes had to trot alongside her to get in a word about household
plans.
But no matter how hectic her schedule, she always had time for little acts of
thoughtfulness. She worried about us, for instance--the corps of women
reporters who covered her activities. Once when Ruby Black, correspondent
for the United Press, fell ill, Mrs Roosevelt immediately noticed her absence
and asked me where she was. I explained. "I wonder if Ruby and her family
would take our house at Campobello for a vacation?" she said. They did, and
Ruby returned reinvigorated.
Another time a small-town teacher, who was bringing a boy crippled by polio
to Washington wrote asking Mrs Roosevelt's advice on what to see in the
capital. Not only did Mrs Roosevelt arrange a special tour of the city, but she
put the boy up at the White House. Such episodes multiplied as the years went
on. "I have never known a woman except Mrs Roosevelt whose motives were
always pure kindness," White House housekeeper Mrs Henrietta Nesbitt said.
Her day didn't end when the sun went down. Late into the night, after
everyone else in the White House was asleep, she would pore over her mail.
She received bushels of it-in the first year more than 300,000 pieces. It
increased as her activities broadened, as her visits to hospi tals, schools,
migrant labour camps and industrial plants increased. "I want people to write
to me," she said. "I think it's important for people to feel that in the house
where the government centres they have a friend."
A corps of secretaries helped with the official letters, but the p ones she
nswered herself in a loose, flowing hand. Critical letters she personal
answered as cheerfully and faithfully as admiring ones. Once I met her on her
return from a train trip to St Louis. "I've had the most wonderful two days,"
she said. "I've had a chance to do all of my personal correspondence." She
was as courteous as that throughout her life, When I went to Europe on
holiday one year, I sent more than 100 postcards to friends. Only one person
replied by mail-Mrs Roosevelt
2
"Aren't You Tired?"
PERHAPS the most incredible display of stamina I have ever witnessed
occurred the day Mrs Roosevelt visited Arthurdale, an experimental farm
colony in West Virginia designed to help miners in the depressed coal
industry. It was 6.30 am when we climbed off the train to be met by the entire
town, complete with mayor, brass band, Boy Scouts, little girls with flowers,
local bigwigs. Mrs Roosevelt made a gracious speech. She made two more
speeches before breakfast at the governor's home. Then followed a
commencement address at the state university under a boiling midday sun.
Then came the inspection of Arthurdale. At 6 pm we reporters staggered on
to the return train. But for Mrs Roosevelt there were more welcoming
villagers at every wayside stop, and more speeches. We were exhausted; she
was exhilarated."Isn't it a wonderful day?" she asked. She had made 13
speeches!
At 10 pm she got up to go to her compartment with her secretary, Malvina
Thompson. "This is all very pleasant," she announced, "but Tommy and I
have work to do."
"Work!" we chorused.
"Oh, yes, we have three articles to write." "Aren't you tired?"
"Oh, no," she said, "I'm never tired except when I'm bored." Strangers were
invariably surprised when they met Mrs Roosevelt face to face for the first
time. "Why she's so much better looking than her pictures," they always said.
What the pictures never conveyed was the soft colouring of her fair hair, her
keen, friendly blue eyes, t warmth and patience of her personality. This
patience prevailed even when people who disliked President Roosevelt
attacked him through her. Once in Los Angeles, a man in the audience
shouted, "Mrs Roosevelt do you think that being a cripple has affected your
husband's mind?" There was shocked silence at this
cruel question. All eyes were on her. "How could it be otherwise?" she replied
"One couldn't suffer as my husband has and fail to be affected. Suffering has
made him more sensitive, more responsive to his fellowmen."

Mrs Roosevelt had considerable influence on her husband, particu larly by
indirection. Because of the press of duties, F.D.R. saw mainly official,
important people. She wanted him to meet all kinds, and so there was always
a stream of guests in and out of the White House. She gave a garden party for
the inmates of a girl's reform school; she invited actors, labour leaders,
reporters, professors.
"Lady, This Is a Free Country"
SHE INFLUENCED her husband, too, by acting as a lively sounding board
and a frank critic. Frequently, when faced with some thorny issue, F.D.R.
would bring it up at dinner and provoke his wife into expressing her opinions.
Once he baited her so sharply on a problem that she became furious and gave
vent to her feelings heatedly, while he smilingly advanced contrary views.
The next day she was thunder struck to hear him blandly quoting her remarks
to the British Ambas sador as his views.
Often her ideas outraged people, but Roosevelt did not try to restrain her.
"Lady," he said, "this is a free country. Say what you think. Anyway, the
whole world knows I can't control you."
As with all wives, there were also moments when Mrs Roosevelt was less
than frank. Once, rather than approach her husband direct for money needed
to pay an especially large bill, she sent a note to his secretary, "Missy"
LeHand. In it she said, "I know F.D.R. will have a fit." Roosevelt happened
to see the message while Miss LeHand was out. When she returned, she found
written across it: "Pay it. Have had the fit. F.D.R."
Within a week after her husband's death Eleanor Roosevelt left the White
House; the last day was spent in saying farewell to saddened employees and
friends. She invited her newspaper women to a final tea in the state dining-
room. "This is not a press conference," she said. "I just want to say good-
bye." Later she added, "The story is over." But the story was far from over.
Indeed, a new and perhaps even more fulfilling chapter of her life was about
to unfold. President Truman appointed her a delegate to the first Assembly of
the United Nations, meeting in London in 1946.
Within months she had proved herself a well-informed and vigorous debater,
and both friend and foe came to recognize her achievements. When she
walked through the General Assembly in Paris in 1948, after its passage of
the Declaration of Human Rights, which she had patiently shepherded for
3
three years, the entire body of hundreds of delegates rose and gave her a
rousing ovation.
In this new job, she got about 1,000 letters a week, most of them from
ordinary people or obscure organizations. Nearly all asked for help. One
might be a request to plead some cause before the UN the next an appeal to
find an errant husband. They were usually answered late at night after a full
day of work and one or more diplomatic functions in the evening. People all
over the world who had problems and did not know to whom to appeal
inevitably thought of Mrs Roosevelt.
She held her UN post until 1952. Thereafter, still thinking of the UN as her
husband's greatest memorial and her own best hope for world peace, she
worked for the American Association for the United Na tions.
She also continued to write her column, "My Day," and to make radio and
TV appearances. She even made a television commercial for a margarine,
thereby stirring up another blizzard of letters. "The mail was about evenly
divided," she said. "One half was sad because I had damaged my reputation.
The other half was happy because I had damaged my reputation." But her
favourite charity needed the money and a new TV audience heard her pleas
for peace and democracy.
She was as vigorous as ever. She rose at 7 am and was usually busy until after
midnight. She gave up cold showers and physical jerks, but made her own
bed, turning the mattress each day to get extra exercise "I look like
Methuselah," she said "but I feel no older than my youngest friends."
On my 50th anniversary as a reporter for the New York Herald Tribune, my
colleagues gave a little surprise party for me at the office. Suddenly a tall,
familiar figure came rushing into the room. Mrs Roosevelt, of course. She
made a charming little speech about the many years that I had covered her
activities. She had a dozen important things to do, but, as always, she fitted
in the kindly gesture.
AFTER SHE passed the Biblical three-score and ten years, Mrs Roosevelt
circled the globe three times, interviewed Khrushchev in Russia, faced a
Communist mob in India, swam with Tito at his island hideaway. A friend
estimated now that Mrs. Roosevelt had dictated or written many more than a
million letters, flown more than a million miles, given away more than a
million dollars. But she had no idea of retiring.

"I think I have a good deal of my Uncle Theodore in me," she said on her 77th
birthday, "because I could not, at any age, be content to take my place in a
corner by the fireside and simply look on. Life was meant to be lived. Once
must never turn his back on life."
It was often suggested that she stand for political office, but she always
laughed off the idea. In the spring of 1962 some New Yorkers proposed her
for governor. At a public luncheon she described this as "sheer idiocy for one
of my age." She then bolted down a long stairway, too impatient to wait for
the lift. It was the last time I saw her.
Eventually, her seemingly inexhaustible energy began to flag. She had
developed anaemia. But her spirit rebelled at the idea of ill health, and she
obeyed her doctor's orders only sporadically. The New York State
Democratic primary campaign of 1962 found her again at the hustings,
enlisted in the reform ranks against the "bosses." In late August she went in a
sound relay van to the far reaches of New York City's boroughs. She had a
temperature of 102, but made five short speeches. At one place a little Negro
girl gave her an armful of flowers. "You see, I had to come," Mrs Roosevelt
said to a friend. "I was expected."
The next day she went to Hyde Park to rest. She thought she "must have
picked up a germ." Actually, she was suffering from a rare type of bone-
marrow tuberculosis, and her 78th birthday, on October 11, was spent in
hospital. Then, on November 7, she died.
She was laid to rest beside her husband in the rose garden at Hyde Park on a
blustery autumn day. Lead-grey skies settled like a gentle pall over the paths
where I had once walked with her. At her graveside were three Presidents of
the United States. There were also people from all over the world, some from
nations whose existence had never been dreamed of in her youth, but who
now mourned her as their friend. "What other single human being has touched
and transformed the existence of so many others?" asked Adlai Stevenson.
"What better measure is there of the impact of anyone's life?"
Even as her life had ebbed painfully away there had been time for small
kindnesses. A few days after Mrs Roosevelt's death, a housewife. received a
cheque for ten dollars. The woman was the daughter of a hitchhiker Mrs
Roosevelt had once picked up. He had been out of work, and she had found
him a job. Gratefully, he said that if he ever had a daughter he would name
4
her after the First Lady. When the man did have a daughter, Mrs Roosevelt
asked to be the godmother. She saw the girl only a few times.
The girl grew up and married. Each birthday she received a ten dollar cheque
from Mrs Roosevelt. The last came on November 10. The signature was a
feeble but legible "A. E. Roosevelt." It was posted the day before she died.
"That was the kind of woman she was," the housewife said. "She never
forgot."
Crystal Palace
RIGHT NOW about half a metre of snow lies on the forest and fields of our
two hectares and it would be easy to assume that our wildlife must be
suffering or dying beneath this stifling blanket. Very unlikely. As the snow
cover accumulates, its undersurface begins to melt against the still-warm
earth and soon a kind of cavity exists beneath the snow, lit by the pale-blue
radiation from above and sealed off from the frigid outdoor world by the
insulating snow blanket.
And here, in this hidden labyrinth, are the mice, moles and shrews, not
hibernating, but snug, well-fed and active in a temperature 20 to 30 degrees
C warmer than it is out where people deplore the "damn snow." The air in this
warm bioclimate is always moist and still. It is a miniature fairyland, a
network of passages with columns and walls of the most delicate ice crystals.
Storms may roar across the surface of the snow half a metre above, but they
are never heard below. The only sound is the faint scamper of tiny feet and,
perhaps, the occasional faint tinkle of an ice crystal falling from the roof of
this enchanted blue grotto.
-Bob Wright in Marquette County, Wisconsin, Tribune, quoted by Jay Scriba
in Milwaukee Journal
Smoke Signals
WHEN I walked into a small café in rural Minnesota, I had no trouble
distinguishing the non-smoking area from the smoking area. There before me
were two neatly printed signs: "Coffee Corner" and "Coughy Corner."
-R.W.W

#37 Bravo, Mozart!
BY ERNEST HAUSER
S YOU go walking down a street in Salzburg, chances are
that you will hear someone whistling Mozart. Many of the
A composer's tunes, have come to rest in private musical
treasuries here. In his brief life-1756 to 1791-Wolfgang
Amadeus Mozart fathered a staggering 626 compositions.
These encompass songs, dances and sonatas, church music
and concertos, some 50 symphonies and 19 operas, among them such beloved
classics as The Marriage of Figaro, Don Giovanni, The Magic Flute. Most of
his myriad melodies reflect a zest for life that saw him through his many
disappointments, to ebb only towards the end of his days.
Mozart's genius bubbled ceaselessly. He composed one famous number
during a bowling match, another at the billiard table. While travelling, he
composed-or "speculated," as he called it-in the bumping mail coach. In a
letter he talks of finishing an opera in a boarding house, "with a violinist
upstairs, another below, a singing teacher next door and an oboist down the
hall. Gives one ideas!" Music Was In His Blood. His father, Leopold, was
choirmaster to the Archbishop of Salzburg. When Leopold gave music
lessons to Wolfgang's older sister, Maria Anna, "Nannerl," the little boy
watched eagerly, and with his tiny hands made triads sound on the
harpsichord. At the age of five, he flawlessly played lengthy pieces and
improvised short compositions. Overjoyed, Leopold decided to dedicate
himself to the development of the child's talent.
In 1762, he took both Wolfgang and Nannerl to Vienna, the glittering hub of
the rich Austrian Empire, where they were asked to play at the Imperial court
for Emperor Francis I. Then they set out on a three-and a-half year tour that
made Wolfgang the most celebrated child in Europe. "The greatest prodigy
that Europe, or even human nature, has to boast of," declared the London
Public Advertiser, "is, without contra diction, the little German boy,
Wolfgang Mozart."
1
Success did not rob Wolfgang of the reactions of a normal child. His delicate
face, dead-serious when he played, shone with childish glee when he was
romping, and not a little mischief sat in those large hazel eyes. Every so often,
as a British observer noted, the prodigy "ran about the room with a stick
between his legs by way of a horse."
Beyond Compare. By the time Leopold took Wolfgang to Italy, the land of
music and musicians, the teenager's fame had gone before him. City after city
surrendered to his genius. At Bologna, Wolfgang was made a member of the
prestigious Philharmonic Academy-though years under the minimum age for
admittance of 20! In Rome, Pope Clement XIV decorated him with the Order
of the Golden Spur. At Milan, he produced his first major opera, Mithridates,
composed so swiftly that his fingers hurt. The performance was repeated 20
times before full houses.
In those days, most promising young artistes looked for careers at one of
Europe's princely courts. Returning to Salzburg, Wolfgang entered the
Archbishop's service at the age of 16 as a court musician. But Salzburg, then
a city of 16,000, was a half-rustic backwater where diamond-studded watches
and applause were easier to get than an illustrious position. So Mozart headed
for Mannheim-famed for its orchestra-performed at the palace, then kissed
the local monarch's hand. "You played beyond compare," quoth the Count
Palatine, and gave him yet another watch-Mozart's fifth-but not a job.
In Mannheim, Wolfgang met the Weber family-Fridolin, a music copyist, his
wife Maria Cäcilie and a bevy of artistic daughters. He fell in love with 15-
year-old Aloysia, but at his news, Leopold exploded. "Off with you to Paris,"
he sputtered in a hastily penned letter. "From there, a man's fame and name
go out into the world." Tamely, the 22 year-old lover left for Paris to capture
neither fame or name. Once more, then, back to Salzburg and the
Archbishop's bitter bread.
A Devoted Husband. Today, Salzburg is Mozartown. The whole city, with its
dramatic cupolas and spires, seems to warble his name. Its musical academy
is called the Mozarteum. An annual Mozart Week, and a key portion of its
music festival feature the master's works. The house where he was born, now
a museum, is daily thronged with tourists. His statue graces the main square.
It is ironic that Wolfgang, in fact, hated Salzburg.

The reason was the pettiness of his employer, Archbishop Hieronymus
Colloredo, who treated him as a flunkey. When eating meals at court, the boy
sat between the valets and the cooks. For nine years he put up with this
treatment, but in 1781, when Colloredo forbade him from giving concerts on
his own in Vienna, Mozart left. He called on Count Arco, Colloredo's aide,
and, after an exchange of insults, was literally kicked out of the room. The
kick made him a free man-and a Viennese into the bargain.
To Mozart, music-mad Vienna was "a marvellous city, and, for my craft, the
best place in the world." As luck would have it, the widowed Mother Weber
and three of her daughters had settled in the capital. Aloysia had since married
an actor, but her younger sister, Constanze, was still free, and Mozart, after a
brief courtship, married her. Wolfgang was to be a devoted husband through
their nine years of wedded life, which ended with his death. Of their six
children, only two sons survived infancy.
Vienna was quick to lionize the newcomer. Mozart charged high fees for
music lessons; his public concerts, at which he played his latest compositions,
were all the rage. He had progressed from the traditional harpsichord to the
still newfangled piano, with its sweeter sound. He played it with an almost
superhuman touch, and salvos of applause, and cries of, "Bravo, Mozart!"
rewarded him.
The gala opening of his light opera, The Abduction from the Harem, (or,
Seraglio), before the Emperor in 1782 had established Mozart as a master.
"Opera," he confessed, "is my joy and passion." During the next four years,
he read some 100 librettos before he found the perfect vehicle for his next
work-an adaptation by Lorenzo da Ponte of Beaumarchais' revolutionary
play, The Marriage of Figaro, Mozart's racy tunes, cascading through the
work from start to finish, brilliantly underscore the opera's "subversive"
message that all men are created equal. Figaro was received with something
like delirious joy in Prague, (then ruled from Vienna), and Mozart, visiting
that city, found its entire population whistling, singing and dancing to the
opera.
Idealistic Vision. Mozart was in his element. When Prague commis sioned a
new opera, he and da Ponte came up with a spine-chilling version of the old
legend of Don Giovanni-the supermale who, having broken every moral law,
gets his comeuppance in the end. Mozart took the unfinished score to Prague
with him and wrote the overture during the night before the opening. Don
2
Giovanni, another triumph, is today considered one of the greatest operas ever
written.
Belief in the nobility of man and virtue's victory over evil animates much of
Mozart's operatic work. He had joined the Freemasons, an idealistic
brotherhood that was attracting many leading spirits of his generation.
Scholars have pointed out a number of Masonic symbols in his last opera,
The Magic Flute, while others see in it merely a pleasant fairy tale. However
that may be, Mozart gave it some of the most exuberant, most joyous music
he had yet created. The Magic Flute premièred on September 30, 1791. By
the end of October, the opera had been put on 24 times. Mozart was 35 years
old. He had some five more weeks to live.
Everything seemed to go wrong towards the end of his life. True, even while
working on the monumental score of Don Giovanni, Mozart could still toss
off two admirable string quartets and the serenade, A Little Night Music,
today one of his best-loved works. But the shouts of "Bravo, Mozart!" had
died down. According to some experts, his three last symphonies-including
the majestic Jupiter, composed in one creative burst in the hot summer of
1788-were not heard by the public in his lifetime. His Figaro, sweeping the
continent, closed in Vienna after the ninth performance. Don Giovanni, a
runaway success in Prague and elsewhere, flopped in Vienna. Why?
Ironically, it was Arco, deliverer of that historic kick, who had warned Mozart
of the fickleness of Vienna. "At first, one gets acclaim and money," he had
said. "But after a few months the Viennese want something new again." Now,
even the optimistic Mozart had to admit that he had lost his slender grip on
public favour.
Immortal Melodies. The Mozarts moved to cheaper quarters. We have 21
desperate, begging letters Mozart addressed to a rich Mason, Michael
Puchberg, who gladly helped him with substantial loans. Nevertheless, the
family of four was soon facing poverty.
In July 1791, a grey-clad stranger came to Mozart's door to commis sion, and
prepay, a requiem-a sung Mass for the dead. Wolfgang began work on it by
fits and starts, composing passages of great spiritual beauty. But his lifelong
buoyancy had left him. He was pale, weak and feverish, subject to fainting
spells and tormented by swell ings of the joints. "I'm writing my own
 3

requiem," he said to Constanze. Partial paralysis forced him to leave the work
unfinished.
Mozart was suffering from a recurrence of the rheumatic fever that had
plagued him as a child. In an authoritive study of his final agony Dr Carl Bär,
a Swiss physician, concludes that Wolfgang's childhood travels "must have
left the delicate boy with the makings of the illness to which he succumbed."
When he died, he was given a third-class funeral-one step above a pauper's-
in an unmarked grave in St Mark's cemetery, together with several other
bodies.
Today, Mozart's immortal melodies echo around the globe. Many of them
have been successfully adapted to Rock and Pop music, making new friends
for the prolific composer and adding to his continuing contribution to the joy
of living.
Royal Rest
QUEEN VICTORIA's Jubilee Year (1887) was notable for a number of
institutions being named after her. At Mithi, in Sind (present Pakistan) the
authorities celebrated by opening "The Queen Victoria Jubilee Burial and
Burning Ground"!
-Prakash Khare, Victoria R.I. by Elizabeth Longford (Weidenfeld and
Nicolson)
Rock Reaches
AIRMEN at Wittering, the Royal Air Force base in Cambridgeshire, England,
have turned to rock music to dislodge the golden plovers and wood pigeons
whose nests had become a hazard to jet traffic. Broadcasts of more
conventional music-and even marine-band marches and wailing sounds-had
failed, but heavy rock, with its frequent tone and tempo changes, does the
trick. The favourite bird-scarer at the moment, reports Corporal Dave
Toynton of Wittering's bird-control unit, is the Ramblers' version of "The
Sparrow."
-UPI

Franz Liszt Prince of the Piano
BY ROBERT WERNICK
HEN HE came to Lyons, France, to give a concert,
everyone went out to greet his carriage and created a
W hullabaloo the likes of which had not been seen, said a local
newspaper, since Alexander the Great rode into Babylon.
Wherever he played the piano and he played throughout
Europe from Manchester to Kiev hysteria awaited and
accompanied him. Men wept, women swooned. They paraded around him
through the streets, carrying torches and flowers, they serenaded him in his
hotel rooms, they fired off cannon salutes, they filled the concert halls with
their cries of ecstasy and demands for encores.
Critics tried in vain to communicate the magic his audiences felt. "His
fingers," said one, "seem to stretch and grow longer, as though they were
attached to strings, and at times even seem to detach themselves altogether."
The audience was transfixed by his magnifi cent mane of golden hair dancing
on his shoulders, by his great flashing eyes from which a single glance was
sufficient to convince every man and woman there that the glorious cascade
of sound coming from the stage was meant for one pair of ears alone. Il people
weren't exclaiming ecstatically over his performance on stage, they were
whispering breathlessly about his performances in boudoirs. Wherever he
travelled there were conquests and scandals. The Countess Marie d'Agoult
abandoned husband and child and a Paris salon to spend four wild years of
love with Liszt in Switzerland and Italy. Princess Carolyne von Sayn-
Wittgenstein gave up husband and estates in the Ukraine to follow him to
Germany and Rome. And Lola Montez, mistress of (among others) the Tsar
of Russia and the King of Bavaria, pushed her way into a banquet attended
by Liszt and England's Queen Victoria and danced indecently on the
tablecloth.
Mass of Contradictions. None of this may sound unusual in these days of the
superstar. But when Franz Liszt gave his first Paris concert in 1824 at the age
of 13, no one knew what a superstar was. There had been composers like
Mozart who made highly-publicized appearances playing almost exclusively
1
their own works. But for someone to appear night after night, in city after
city, playing the works of all the major composers was unheard of.
People travelled great distances not just to admire his virtuosity as a musician
but to share in the effulgence of his personality. For Liszt was a mass of
contradictions, and he gloried in them. He said of himself that he was half
Franciscan monk, half gypsy. Or he might hint at a triple division of his soul,
and he had a cane made with three heads one of St Francis, one of Margarete,
the innocent heroine of Goethe's Faust, and one of Mephistopheles. Which,
people wondered was the real Liszt? Was it the dandy who loved to show off
his 160 gaudy neckties? Or was it the pious recluse who, at the age of 54, took
minor order in the Roman Catholic Church and ever afterwards dressed in the
sober cassock of an abbé?
There was Liszt the Hungarian, born in 1811 in the little town of Raiding,
where his father, steward on Prince Esterházy's estate, took care of over 4,000
sheep. Always devoted to his native land, Liszt said that his artistic roots lay
in the wild gypsy dance music he heard all over the countryside as a boy. And
there was the Liszt whose knowl edge of Hungarian stretched barely further
than "Eljen! Eljen!" ("Hail! Hail!"), which is what Hungarians in Budapest
shouted when he appeared among them.
Demanding Schedule. But behind all the travels, the love affairs and the
posturing, there was an absolute demon of activity. Liszt fashioned a multi-
faceted career out of virtually new materials. The pianoforte on which Mozart
and Beethoven played was capable of a wide range of effects and amazing
delicacy. But when Liszt burst the boundaries of traditional music and let
forth a stream of unbridled emotion, he set up a firestorm on the keys that
could literally tear the instrument to pieces. During one of his early
performances in Vienna, three pianos had to be fetched to take his crashing
fortissimos. Something new had to be invented, and it was: the metal-framed
grand piano now in universal use.
Liszt was also among the first pianists to play everything from memory, all
300 pieces in his repertory. He was the first to turn the piano so that the
audience could follow the expressions surging across his face in time with the
changing moods of the music.

Liszt was the first musician to have such a demanding schedule that he needed
a full-time business manager. He charged prices high enough to make him the
first musical millionaire, He was also the first to give a charity concert. In
1938, when he heard of a disastrous flood in Hungary, he dropped everything
to travel to Vienna for two concerts-stretched to ten by popular demand-
which netted the princely sum of 30,000 florins from admissions and sales of
his portrait. It was only the first of a long series of appearances for worthy
causes.
Centre of Pilgrimage. Liszt had been brought up as a child prodigy,
surrounded by murmurs of adulation. He might have been excused for
thinking himself the centre of the universe, but in fact he was always thinking
of others. When he discovered a pupil could not pay for bed and board, he
would drop a gold coin or two into his pocket. Once he received a letter from
an unknown music student in Prague named Bedrich Smetana, who enclosed
some of his compositions. Liszt wrote back an encouraging letter and
enclosed 400 guilders to help pay for Smetana's musical education.
Richard Wagner owed his fortune, indeed his life, to his future father-in-law's
generous spirit. He came to him a penniless fugitive from Saxony after the
abortive revolution of 1848. Liszt took him in, gave him money and got him
a false passport so that he could flee to Switzerland. In the years to come,
Liszt was to be a tireless propagan dist for Wagner's music, using his prestige
to make stodgy opera houses put on revolutionary new works like Lobengrin
and Tristan und Isolde.
For all his love of high life, Liszt was sincere when he said he cared nothing
for money. In 1848, at the height of an immensely successful and lucrative
career, the 37-year-old concert pianist abruptly gave it all up to settle down
in Weimar as head of the Grand Duke's musical establishment. He tried to
restore this little Saxon town to its old position as one of Europe's cultural
capitals. For years it became a centre of pilgrimage as people flocked to see
and hear Liszt the conductor, Liszt the composer and increasingly, Liszt the
teacher.
Incredible Versatility. As a conductor, Liszt fought to win accept ance for
what was then called the New Music, the surging, colourful, passionate music
of Berlioz, Wagner and Liszt himself. They intro duced new sounds, new
rhythms, new feelings. As a composer, Liszt was incredibly versatile and
productive. There were some 1,000 works of his in existence, though they
2
have never been adequately catalogued or even counted because he was
forever revising them. A sonata by Mozart or Beethoven is divided into
movements, each one with its own mood, solemn or sprightly, tender or
turbulent. Each movement has a pair of themes, interacting according to fixed
rules of harmony and counterpoint. In Liszt's masterpiece, the Piano Sonata
in B Minor, there are five themes in a single movement; they blend, clash,
intertwine and contradict. The feeling can pass in an instant from the quietly
lyrical to the noisily melodramatic; whispers give way unex pectedly to
shouts. One bar is all patience and resignation; the next defies heaven. It is an
extraordinarily difficult piece to play - but then so is almost everything Liszt
wrote. Liszt shared his love and knowledge of music with the young in his
legendary piano lessons. Three days a week, from four to six, year after year,
Liszt would receive up to 40 pupils at a time.
Not the least extraordinary thing about Liszt's lessons is that they were free.
He had resolved as a youngster, when he was refused admission to the Paris
Conservatory because he was a foreigner, that if he became rich and famous,
no one would be turned away from his lessons for any reason other than the
lack of talent. Serene Faith. Liszt was kind, patient and considerate of the
gifted, but he could be devastating to the inept or the lazy. "Get married, dear
child," was his advice to one young woman after she had played for him. The
pupils who stayed on were wholly devoted to music and to Liszt. "He was
like a sun in our midst," said Alexander Siloti, one of the great virtuosi of the
next generation, "and when we were with him, we felt the rest of the world to
be in shadow."
Despite the fame and the fortune and the beautiful women, Liszt's could not
be called a happy life. All his great loves came to bitter ends. And he never
achieved the unchallenged position in the world of music that he craved. In
some quarters he was scorned as a mere acrobat of the keyboard.
Conservatives found his music uncontrolled and over. emotional. Throughout
his life, however, Liszt maintained a serene faith in the power of music - "a
divine power which unites the whole of man kind." He was sure he would be
vindicated in the end. "My sole ambition as a musician," he said, "is to throw
my spear into the future He could afford to wait.
LISZT died in 1886, with little money to his name. Some 70 years later,
American critic Theodore Bullock was in Brussels to attend a Tchaikovsky
concert by the newly acclaimed pianist Van Clibum Bullock closed his eyes
and settled back in his chair. Suddenly he sat up with a start. Those thunderous
 3

chords, those delicate murmurs of melody-surely he had heard them before.

He could swear it was Arthur Friedheim playing, Liszt's favourite pupil, who
had died in 1932. Like his master, Friedheim became a famous teacher in his
later years. One of his best pupils was a young woman from Texas named
Rildia Bee O'Bryan. She was to become an accomplished piano teacher
herself, and her prize pupil was her son, Van Cliburn.
At the time Bullock was listening to Cliburn, Liszt's reputation among serious
musicians was at a low point. But today it is no longer unfashionable for
music to be emotional. Scholars and performers have been leafing through
the immense mass of his symphonies and symphonic poems, songs, cantatas,
masses and piano studies with their unsuspected treasures. Liszt, they now
say, was ahead of his time. The hundredth anniversary of his death last year
was celebrated with memorial concerts, symposia and special editions of
music magazines. After long neglect, Liszt is being recognized as one of the
great masters If he had been around to see all this, the Franciscan Liszt would
have uttered a heartfelt thanks to God. The gypsy Liszt, who threw his spear
into the future a century ago, would simply have smiled his Mephistophelean
smile.
Signs of Life
IN jury room: "Notice, Lady Jurors. ALL VERDICTS FINAL."
-Frank Owen

Franz Schubert,
Maestro of Melody
BY LILI FOLDES
A FRIEND of Franz Schubert arrived at his studio unexpect
edly one morning while he was composing. "I hardly
A recognized him," he said later. "His eyes flashed like
lightning, his face was aglow and he moved like a
sleepwalker. Even his speech was different."
Familiar as Schubert's music is, the mystery of how he composed it remains
as impenetrable as it was when he died about 165 years ago. All we have to
go on are the testimonies of friends recounting his seeming transformation
from a shy, self-effacing Viennese into an exalted seer of visions. Schubert
was as puzzled by this surprising dichotomy as anyone else. "It sometimes
seems to me as if I did not belong to this world at all," he used to say-and
once added, "I have been put on this earth only to compose."
He composed as others breathe. Though he lived to be only 31, he turned out
more than 1,000 works-songs, symphonies, operas, string quartets, piano
sonatas, His creative fecundity was amazing. Once a young woman asked
Schubert to set a poem to music for a mutual friend's birthday; Schubert
pondered for a few minutes, then an nounced "I've got it"-and sat down to
copy out the score of a choral work for mezzo-soprano and four men's voices.
It took Schubert only a month to compose his last and most impor tant work,
the Symphony Number 9 in C major, called the "Great." (Beethoven, by
contrast, laboured on his final symphony for seven years.) In one astounding
year, when he was 18, Schubert wrote two symphonies, four operas, assorted
chamber and choral works and nearly 150 songs making this the most
productive year in any composer's life.
Ideas came to him so frequently in the night that he kept pen and paper on his
night table and slept with his reading glasses on. He was known to write as
many as eight songs between 6 a.m. and lunchtime, and it was commonplace
1
for him to work on two or more major compositions in a day, starting in on
an opera or mass, say, immedi ately after finishing a string quartet.
Such prodigious productivity suggests shoddy work, but in Schubert's case
the opposite was true: an amazing part of it belongs with the world's most
enduring music. The audiences thronging to Schubert concerts are a reminder
that his emotional appeal remains as strong today as it was a century and a
half ago. The soaring piano trios and the sparkling "Trout" quintet, the
sweetly melancholy Eighth ("Unfin ished") Symphony and the exuberant
Ninth-all bear testimony to a timeless lyric inspiration. The spell-binding
"Serenade," "Ave Maria," "The Erl King" are hummed everywhere.
Brilliant Student. Schubert served as an important bridge between the
classical and romantic schools. He was virtually the creator of the modern
German lied, or art song, and he managed to make the symphony intimate
and emotionally fresh and at the same time noble and serious. "He introduced
the song into the symphony," remarked the composer Antonin Dvorák-adding
that only a lyric genius of Schubert's calibre could thus have broken down the
barriers of the classical tradition.
Schubert saw almost none of his works published in his lifetime. The music
that was to make a fortune for publishers and record companies brought its
creator so little that at his death, his entire worth was assessed at less than Rs
800.
This was at least partially due to his retiring disposition. A visitor to the office
of the music publisher Tobias Haslinger recalled once seeing the door open a
crack to reveal a little man with thick spectacles whom Haslinger dismissed
with a wave of his hand. "That is a certain Schubert," explained the publisher.
"If I let him, he'd come every day." Unbelievably, Schubert sold all rights to
14 of his best songs for a mere Rs 3,200. One of these, "The Erl King," earned
that amount within months of its first publication.
Part of Schubert's timidity was doubtless the result of his unprepos sessing
appearance. Schwammer! (little mushroom) was what his Vien nese friends
called him, in wry reference to his outsized head perched on a tiny body. He
stood only 1.54 metres.
Schubert was born in 1797, twelfth child of a modest school-teacher. Given
violin and piano lessons at five, he was sent at seven to study with a
distinguished Viennese choirmaster, who was astounded at his brilliance.

"Whenever I want to teach him anything new," he said, "he already knows
it."
Schubert went on to the Imperial Konvikt, a boarding school noted for its
excellent musical instruction. By the time he was 16, he had completed his
first symphony, some vocal and piano trios, a wind octet and about 30
minuets.
Remarkably Gifted. For two miserable years after leaving school, Schubert
followed his father's wishes and taught in the local primary school. By his
own testimony, he survived only by devoting every spare moment to
composition, pushing himself furiously as if racing against the invisible
clock. At the close of the first movement of the third B flat Quartet, he made
the notation: "Finished in four and one half hours."
He was still studying with the music teacher of his seminary days, the
composer Antonio Salieri, but something in his attitude had changed. When
Salieri tried to discourage him from setting German poems to music and
urged him instead to copy the florid Italian song style of the day, Schubert
flatly refused.
From that time forth, though he remained timid in his personal affairs, he was
adamant about what he wanted in his music. On one occasion he was
commissioned by the famed Kärntnertor Theatre to write some songs for an
opera star. When she asked that certain difficult passages be modified,
Schubert cried, "I change nothing!" and rushed from the theatre. This cost
him the coveted post of assistant conductor for which he had applied.
Schubert's remarkable gifts were recognized early by a group of young friends
who appointed themselves his chief guardians. Some were former
schoolmates, some were poets and painters, still others were lawyers or civil
servants. They thought of him, said the painter Moritz von Schwind, as "our
brightest and most beautiful possession." Two of these friends came to
Schubert's schoolroom one day, found him trying to correct some papers in
the midst of squabbling children, and made him agree to try to earn his living
as a composer. For the rest of his life, Schubert lived so precariously that for
only three brief periods did he have enough money to rent a room of his own.
For all
2
that, his 20s were mostly happy years. Tragic End. Rising at six, he would
spend the morning composing. After lunch he would meet his friends in a
local café. The afternoons they might spend rambling through the Vienna
woods, to convene again at dinner time in a beer garden. After their meal,
they would adjourn to the home of the parents of one or the other. Schubert
would improvise at the piano; Johann Mayrhofer, the poet, would read his
latest verses; Moritz von Schwind would show his newest sketches.
Schubert looked back on these gatherings as the sunniest moments of his short
life. "Do you remember those happy days," he later wrote to a friend, "when
each of us showed the others our latest artistic child with the bashfulness of a
loving mother?"
An event of apparently profound psychological importance to Schubert was
the death of Beethoven in March 1827. Although they were near neighbours,
it is probable that due to Schubert's shyness the two composers never
exchanged a word. What is certain is that during his last illness Beethoven
was given by a friend some 60 Schubert songs. When he heard that there were
500 more like them, he exclaimed: "Truly, this Schubert has in him the divine
spark!" Schubert carried a torch in Beethoven's funeral procession, and
symbolically extinguished it against the earth when the coffin was lowered
into the grave.
Schubert agreed to the first public performance of his compositions on the
first anniversary of Beethoven's death. The concert, held in Vienna's revered
Musikvereinsaal, brought Schubert not only the widest recognition he had yet
received, but also receipts worth roughly Rs 24,000.
His triumph, however, was tragically brief. Schubert's health had been
precarious since his mid 20s, and that autumn he contracted typhoid fever.
Attached by nausea and fever, he took to bed in the home of his brother
Ferdinand, and courageously struggled to correct the proofs of his great song
cycle, "Winter Journey." "Here, here is my end," he gasped in the early
afternoon of November 19, 1828. Minutes later he was dead. His family
buried him in Vienna's Währing cem etery, as close as possible to the bones
of his idol, Beethoven. A Moving Discovery. Schubert's epitaph, composed
by his friend, the poet Franz Grillparzer, said truthfully enough that music
had lost a rich treasure and a promise that was richer still. Mostly through the
efforts of his friends, a flood of Schubert's compositions appeared in print
 3

after his death, though it took decades before the staggering volume of his the first time since I have lived here that I've been able to get hot water." -
work appeared in its totality. LKD.
It was nearly 40 years after Schubert's death that the English musicologist
George Grove and the composer Arthur Sullivan trav elled to Vienna to
burrow through the musty files of a music publisher they suspected might
have Schubert manuscripts he did not know about-works rejected for
publication and long since forgotten. Sure enough, they found the manuscript
scores of Schubert symphonies Numbers 1, 2, 3, 4 and 6, together with an
opera, a quantity of instrumental music and a bundle of about 60 songs.
Although it was two in the morning by the time they got through their hunt,
the two scholars were so elated that they went out in the street and played
leapfrog.
Perhaps the most moving discovery was that of composer Robert Schumann
on a visit to the home of Ferdinand Schubert in 1838. "There in dust and
darkness," he recounted later, "I found a fabulous pile of manuscripts, among
others the C Major Symphony." He immediately got the work performed,
under Felix Mendelssohn, and wrote of his discovery: "Deep down in this
symphony there lies more than mere song, more than mere joy and sorrow. It
transports us into a world where we cannot recall ever having been before."
But it was the great German lieder singer Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau who
recently summed up the composer's career: "When poetry and song visited
the earth briefly," he said, "they took upon themselves human form in the
person of Franz Schubert."
Many Uses
IN BOOKS WE have the compendium of all human experience. We may use
them or neglect them as we will, but if we use them, we may share the courage
and endurance of adventurers, the thoughts of sages, the vision of poets and
the raptures of lovers, and-some of us perhaps the ecstasies of saints. -Sir
Basil Blackwell
Hot line
A FIRE broke out under a flat on a Boston wharf, and evacuating it was the
first concern of the firemen. They pounded on doors and shouted, "Everybody
out! The wharf is on fire!" A man appeared with his face lathered and half-
shaved. "I knew there was something wrong," he said unexcitedly. "This is

Beethoven, Genius
of Fire and Tears
BY GEORGE MAREK
N THE LAST years of his life the great composer Robert
Schumann, beset with depression, was advised by his doctor
I to go for walks. He did go for a walk-everyday the same
walk. He walked to a statue of Ludwig van Beethoven.
In a sense, every composer since Beethoven has made such
a pilgrimage. Certainly every composer who has since ventured to write a
symphony must acknowledge his debt to that mighty architect of music in
Vienna who, thinking, labouring, wrestling, sweating, shap ing, smoothing,
revising and then revising again, constructed an edifice so large that it has
sheltered virtually all music down to our own times.
Of all the hundreds of symphonies that have been written, none can rival in
popularity or emotional interest the nine great works that Beethoven wrote.
Why? What is it that sets these symphonies apart? Do they have memorable
melodies, good tunes? Yes, but that isn't the reason. Does their profundity
present to us a never-ending mystery which we must penetrate? Yes, but that
isn't it. Is their orchestration particularly colourful and sensuous? Not
particularly. The reason, in my opinion, is this: Beethoven took music off the
pedestal of formal beauty, where Haydn and Mozart had left it, and immersed
it in the whirlpool of life. He roughened it up, so to speak. He shook it and
pulled it until it began to do what he expected it to do-to express problems,
evoke emotions, move and struggle exuber antly. In his symphonies he set to
music everybody's heartache and everybody's smile. There are no cheap tricks
or obvious devices. Beethoven does not hand out a handkerchief, nor does he
hit us over the head with a clown's bellstaff. None the less, he made music
"human." That is why more people can respond at once to a Beetoven
symphony than to any other.
When Beethoven's First Symphony was performed, in 1800, he was not yet
30 years old. Full of ambitions, gay and not without vanity, he was attempting
1
to capture the citadel of musical Vienna as a piano virtuoso. He felt in himself
an enormous sense of power, but he was still conforming to convention,
composing cheerful chamber music and appearing in the streets decently
dressed, with a clean lace shirt. He attracted pupils and admirers from the best
circles.
ut soon alarming signs of deafness began to show themselves. At first
Beethoven tried to hide the weakness. He began to avoid social gatherings.
When he could no longer hide it-he was then 32-he retired to Heiligenstadt, a
little suburb near Vienna. Beethoven was always extreme in his reactions,
both in joy and despair. Now he poured out his misery in a long document
called his "Testament":
It was impossible for me to say to men, "Speak louder, shout for I am deaf."
How could I possibly admit an infirmity in the one sense which should have
been more perfect in me than in others, a sense which I once possessed in
perfection? What a humiliation when one stood beside me and heard a flute
in the distance and I heard nothing. Such incidents brought me to the verge
of despair-but little more and I would have put an end to my life.
Yet at this very time he composed the serenely lovely Second Symphony!
It is cruel to say, but probably true, that Beethoven's deafness proved to be a
blessing for music. Giving up his career as a virtuso, hearing sounds only in
his brain, shut off from the outer world, he constantly intensified and
deepened his musical thought. But as he turned inward, his outward behaviour
became ever more contradic tory. He would let no one touch his room, so that
everything lay around in incredible disorder, papers strewn on chairs, ink spilt
into the piano, remains of food on plates under the papers. He was so
absentminded that he would forget to eat-once when inspiration was upon
him he went into a restaurant sat down and mused, forgot to order, and finally
called for his bill.
He constantly complained that he was not being properly recog nized, that he
had insufficient money to live on. In point of fact, he was enormously famous,
enormously respected and his financial rewards greater than he pretended.
After his death, a considerable sum of money was found in a secret drawer in
his desk.
Beethoven refused to change his clothes as a last resort his friends would steal
in at night, take away his worn-out suits and replace them with new ones. He

had a violent temper and was quite capable of throwing a dish of food-gravy
and all-into a waiter's face.
In the summer of 1806 when he was a guest of his former patron, Prince
Lichnowsky, the prince asked him to play for some of Napole on's soldiers
who were billeted in the castle. Beethoven refused. The prince jokingly
threatened him with house arrest. Beethoven stormed out in a huff, walked
through the night to the nearest town, there took a carriage for Vienna and,
on reaching his lodgings seized a bust of Lichnowsky and smashed it to
splinters.
Deafness made him increasingly suspicious. He would accuse his friends, his
publishers and a theatre manager of cheating him. The next day he would be
and apologize. Meanwhile, he promised one of his major works, the Missa
Solennis to six publishers and sold it to a seventh. He tried to fob off on the
London Philharmonic Society an old composition as a new one.
He could also be considerate, tender and quietly kind: when one of his friends,
the Baroness Ertmann, lost a child, Beethoven went to call on her, said
nothing but sat down at the piano and for a long time played music of
consolation.
He read Plutarch and Shakespeare, but he could not master the multiplication
tables. He was suffused with a genuine love of freedom; when in 1823 the
debates about slavery were going on in England he followed the reports from
Parliament with the keenest interest. Yet he proved an absolute tyrant to his
family, particularly to his nephew Karl. Beethoven hated his brother's widow,
accusing her of loose morals, and managed to take the boy from her.
Thus, at the age of 45 this man, so little versed in practical life, became the
guardian of a child. Beethoven suffocated Karl with his love, pumped him
full of moral precepts, but at the same time forgot to provide the boy with
regular meals or winter clothes. Torn by the strife between uncle and mother,
eventually the boy attempted suicide and finally disappeared into the
anonymity of the Austrian army. Beethoven also mistrusted and quarrelled
with his own servants. One of his friends presents
us with this description: There had been a quarrel which disturbed all the
neighbours, and both servants had gone away. In the living-room, behind a
locked door, we heard the master singing parts of the fugue in the Credo
singing, howling, stamp ing. After we had been listening a long time to this
2
almost awful scene, the door opened and Beethoven stood before us with
distorted features calculated to excite fear. His first utterances were confused.
Then with obvious restraint, he remarked, "Pretty doings, these! Everybody
has run away and I haven't had anything to eat since yesternoon!" I tried to
calm him and helped him to make his toilet.
Others have written fine symphonies, but Beethoven's remain in a class by
themselves as invaluable a part of our heritage as Shake speare's plays. The
comparison is not far-fetched. Like Shakespeare's, Beethoven's range was
encompassing. Like him, he could be both gentle and angry; capable of child-
like simplicity and maturest wis dom. Like him, he commands with equal
skill, tenderness and harsh ness; like him he has a delightful humour, like him
he loved nature, like him, and in spite of doubts, he believed in the victory of
life. Music, said Beethoven, becomes "a higher revelation than philosophy."
Though our image of him is that of a brooding, dour deaf, solitary man, the
image is not altogether true. A man who knew Beethoven in his later years
described him as "an eagle looking at the sun. "At other times he could be a
swallow circling in the blue skies; or a wise owl, observing the world with a
winking eye. In spite of his unpredictable moods, his frightful table manners,
and his appearance which was so wild that a child taken to see him thought
he was Robinson Crusoe, Beethoven's friends remained utterly devoted to
him.
His last sickness was made worse by his own carelessness and ignorance of
the medical profession. In one month he swallowed 75 bottles of medicine.
His bed was overrun with vermin, and one of the most welcome gifts that he
received during this illness was a package of insect powder. To the very last
he wanted to compose, and planned to work up some sketches he had for a
tenth symphony.
He died during a violent thunderstorm on March 26, 1827, at the age of 56.
Such was the famous musical genius. Who can explain him?

Music's Little
Giant John Barbirolli
BY LILI FOLDES
HE music world was stunned. John Barbirolli, hailed in America
as one of the finest conductors of the day, turned his back on the
T glamour of New York and went to war torn Manchester. "My
country is at war," he explained. "My place is in England." He
arrived one rainy day in June 1943 to take over conductorship of
the Halle and found that Britain's oldest permanent symphony
orchestra had shrunk to one-third its proper size. Only 29 musicians were left. The
rest had been called up for the Services or borrowed by other orchestras. Barbirolli
was not only a patriot; he thrived on challenge. Devoting several weeks to
auditioning both amateurs and professionals for the vacancies, he managed to
increase the Halle's strength to 70. On August 15, after a highly successful northern
tour, the new Halle gave their first Manchester concert in the circus arena of Belle
Vue Amusement Park, since their traditional home, Manchester's famous Free
Trade Hall had been blitzed. Barbirolli conducted superbly. His flamboyance and
warmth captivated players and audience equally, to create an historic evening that
culminated in Tchaikovsky's Fifth Symphony, Wrote Manchester Guardian critic
Granville Hill: "A crowd, inighty in size and enthusiasm, listened to splendid
playing A than anything we have heard in Manchester for many years." finer News
of the Hallé's thrilling transformation travelled round Manchester with lightning
speed. Such was the clamour for tickets that Barbirolli regularly packed Belle Vue
to its full 6,000 capacity. Every one wanted to see and hear this charismatic little
maestro with burning black eyes, his hair, head and body vibrating in near-ecstasy
over the beauty of the music that involved him so totally.
By the time Barbirolli retired as principal conductor in 1958, the Halle had done
more than any other orchestra to popularize classical music in the Midlands and
North. Under the intense, dramatic sweeps of Barbirolli's baton it became one of
Britain's finest symphony orches tras-and the most travelled, with nationwide tours
and visits to Europe, South America and Africa.
1
Phenomenal Rapport. "Barbirolli is the greatest conductor with whom I have
appeared," said the world-renowned violinist Fritz Kreisler. "Magnificent that is
the only word for him." Audrey Napier Smith, a Hallé string section member for
30 years, explains: "He had the extraordinary gift of bringing out the best in us all.
You played for him better than you ever thought you could.
The Halle's "verve, strength, tautness and balance," as the music critic of The
Observer described it, Barbirolli achieved by creating a family atmosphere in the
rehearsal room-without losing authority. He told the Hallé at their first rehearsal:
"If any of you is in difficulty I'll give you all my help. But if you're careless, I'll be
very severe."
When a passage lacked the tenderness, white-hot fire or full-bodied "Burgundy
wine sound" he required, Barbirolli explained how he wanted it played, even
demonstrating the way instruments should be held. Recalls Martin Milner, the Hallé
leader. "Barbirolli's rapport with his orchestra and with soloists, was phenomenal."
This exhilarating kinship was experienced by my concert pianist husband, Andor
Foldes, when playing Bartók's formidable Second Piano Concerto in a series of
concerts with the Hallé. After the first rehearsal, Andor marvelled: "Barbirolli
anticipated all I was going to do. He was with me in every note, virtually holding
me in his arms." Barbirolli drove himself remorselessly. At hotels on tour he asked
for a 4am call in order to study yet again the score to be rehearsed that morning.
Once the day's work had started, he rehearsed without a break: three hours with the
strings, three hours with the woodwinds, and as long again with the full orchestra.
Obstinately refusing privileged treatment, he queued with his Hallé musicians in
cafeterias and accompanied them in trains, buses, and once, in post-war Austria
where no other transport could be found, an open lorry. When their coach became
stuck in a snowdrift while crossing the Pennines, Barbirolli led the team who got
out and pushed Always on journeys he had across his knees a music score which
he busily annotated with instructions for the next rehearsal marathon.
Tuned In. Governments, monarchs, cities and universities showered honours on
Barbirolli, but he felt happiest among unassuming people. The owner of a village
pub near Seaford, East Sussex, was amazed to come across Barbirolli's photograph
in a newspaper and recognize him as a summer holiday-time regular, the jovial
italian-looking man who had knowledgeable conversations about cricket with
farmers and workmen.

Barbirolli was so English in outlook and life-style that the only interruption he
tolerated at rehearsals was the latest Test Match score. He delighted in reading
Pepys, greatly admired Lord Nelson and wept patriotic tears unabashed when
conducting Land of Hope and Glory. Nevertheless, he took fierce pride in his
ancestry, referring to himself as "the Cockney of Latin blood."
Born on December 2, 1899, in Southampton Row, London, within the sound of
Bow Bells, Giovanni Battista Barbirolli (he did not call himself "John" until about
1922) was the second child of his French mother and Italian father. His father, a
theatre violinist, took him at the age of four to rehearsals at the Empire, Leicester
Square, where the conductor, who wore white gloves, impressed him deeply.
Thereafter the young Barbirolli would borrow his mother's gloves lock himself in
a room and "conduct" fervently for hours.
Like his younger brother he learned the violin, but his grandfather, irritated by his
habit of strolling around the home practising his scales, went out and bought a
quarter-size cello. He pushed the boy into a chair, thrust the big-bellied instrument
between his legs and ordered: "Play that and you'll have to sit down!" Barbirolli
didn't mind. As long as he created music he was happy. While other children
romped in the street outside he studied Haydn, a composer who remained a lifelong
favourite.
Three months after joining the army in May 1918, Private Barbirolli conducted his
first orchestra, at a battalion concert on the Isle of Grain. However, rated unfit for
overseas service by the medical board, he lef the army in 1919 to continue his
musical career. He set about earning a living by playing the cello in theatre pits. At
the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, where he performed the Saint-Saëns solo for Anna
Pavlova in her famous ballet The Dying Swan, she divided her bouquet and threw
half of it down to him as thanks for his superb playing.
Baton Charge. Barbirolli's ambition was to be a conductor, and by the age of 26 he
was conducting Aida and other major operas. Sir Linton Andrews wrote of him in
the Leeds Mercury. "He seems very young at first glance. But what a transformation
when he begins to conduct. He crouches, springs up, flutters his fingers and is of
demonic energy." In 1930, when opera was struggling for survival in this country,
Barbirolli organized a musical evening at Number 11 Downing Street to show the
Chancellor of the Exchequer the high standard reached by British singers and
musicians. The result: a government offer to Covent Garden of £25,000, the first
state subsidy to opera in Britain.
2
The invitation to conduct the New York Philharmonic came when Barbirolli was
principal conductor of the Scottish Orchestra. He ar rived in New York in October
1936 on a ten-week guest contract to face huge, tough orchestra with an awesome
reputation for cutting conductors (except Toscanini) down to size. But Barbirolli
won them over with his sheer musicianship after a rehearsal which shed new light
on Beethoven's Second Symphony, the whole orchestra shouted sponta neously,
"Bravo, maestro!"
Shortly after his first Carnegie Hall concert Barbirolli was offered a three-year
contract with the New York Philharmonic. In all, he spent seven years in America,
paying summer visits to England. On his 1939 visit to London, he married Evelyn
Rothwell, principal Oboist of the Scottish Orchestra, after his marriage to Marjorie
Parry, Covent Gar den opera singer, had ended in divorce.
On his wartime sea-air journey to Britain in 1943, Barbirolli had a narrow escape.
For the final stage by plane from Lisbon, he got a seat on an earlier flight than the
one which he was booked. Had he kept to his original schedule he would have died
in the plane shot down by the Nazis, killing actor Leslie Howard and all the
passengers. Barbirolli a religious man, said afterwards: "I was destined to survive
because I had a mission to fulfil in Manchester."
Violinist and viola player Audrey Napier Smith recalls the enthusi asm which the
revitalized Hallé aroused among Mancunians. "My bus conductor," she says,
"confided in me he was giving what he called recorded musicales to friends," Her
window cleaner wanted to know if a movement of a Brahms symphony had been
played too slowly, and one morning her milkman asked gravely: "What went wrong
last night in the Alban Berg violin concerto?" (In fact nothing was amiss; the 12
tone dissonances of this Viennese composer, part of Barbirolli's revo lutionary
policy for the Halle of introducing unfamiliar works, were possibly too "modern"
for his ears.)
Knowing the Score. With a showman's flair for getting himself talked about, the
"little giant," as he was sometimes called, could behave imperiously in front of an
audience. Latecomers were fixed with a glare and the concert did not start until they
were settled in their seats. When a Prestwich audience failed to react to the humour
in William Walton's Facade suite, Barbirolli threatened to go home if they didn't
 3

laugh. He thereupon explained the most amusing passages, played two of the pieces concerts, recording sessions and constant travelling. After fainting for 35 minutes
again and they roared. in Rome the following year, he insisted on vigorously conducting Beethoven that
night. When he passed out at a recording session in London, then demanded to
Off-stage, Barbirolli's attitude towards his musicians was unfailingly paternal. continue, he had to be held down by force until he agreed to go home. On July 28,
Knowing of a woman cellist's liking for pork pies from a particular shop in Ripon, 1970, after rehearsing Mahler in London with the New Philharmonia Orchestra
Yorkshire, Barbirolli always stopped the coach when passing though the town and prior to flying to Japan, Barbirolli told Evelyn ebulliently: "I was in tremendous
personally bought one for her. On one occasion the Hallé Choir had to travel form today!" That night he died of a heart attack.
overnight to Edinburgh. It was 5am, cold and bleak, when they arrived at the
railway station in Princes Street, but waiting on the platform to meet them, with his Sir Arthur Bliss, former Master of the Queen's Music, described Barbirolli as "a
walking-stick and large-brimmed black "Verdi" hat was their maestro. great and lovable musician-great, because of his total dedication to fine music, his
modesty, warm heart and sympathy for others." Writes Michael Kennedy in his
Barbirolli's fearlessness was legendary. At the age of 40 he took up horse-riding, biography, Barbiroll: "He never sanctioned a shoddy performance. Music mattered
jumped, fell, and cracked three ribs. In 1961 during a tour of the USA with the to him more than anything in life-in the end more than life itself."
Houston Symphony Orchestra, the plane devel oped landing gear trouble while
about to land at Austin, Texas. As the musicians anxiously watched fire engines S.O.S Sha
and ambulances gathering beside the runway, Barbirolli remained calm. "We have
a marvellous pilot," he cheerfully assured the orchestra, "and can't do anything LITTLE Anne's father fell asleep on the sofa and began to snore. The child ran out
ourselves, so why worry?" Says his wife Evelyn: "The only thing that ever really into the corridor and shouted, "Mummy, come quickly. Daddy's boiling!"
worried him was that something might go wrong with the music he conducted." -João Paulo Vilhena de Morais
At one time, Sir John (he was knighted in 1949) conducted 200 of the year's 250
Hallé concerts an unmatched feat. By 1961 he was ac claimed on both sides of the
Atlantic as the most exciting interpreter of Bruckner, Mahler, Elgar, Sibelius,
Delius and Vaughan Williams. Retirement as conductor-in-chief of the Hallé
enabled him to extend an already busy schedule of guest-conducting in London,
New York. Berlin, Milan and other music capitals. To his adoring audiences,
Barbirolli's energy seemed inexhaustible, but as my husband Andor and I noticed
when in Manchester with the Hallé, as soon as the long-lasting ovations were over
at the end of each concert, he hurried to his room and slumped into an armchair,
completely spent. The few relaxations he allowed himself included walking the
Sussex Downs near Seaford where the Barbirollis often rented a holiday house, and
cooking magnificently elaborate Italian and French meals. Among his specialities
were Spaghetti con Vongole (pasta with clams) and Pheasant à la Louise, with a
rich wine sauce. "He believed that food should be eaten as soon as it had been
prepared," says Evelyn Barbirolli, "All our guests were expected to come to the
table the moment he summoned them." In October 1969 Barbirolli's doctor warned
him stemnly: "No vehicle was ever constructed to stand such strain" But shrugging
off all caution, Barbirolli continued the same relentless round of rehearsals,

Buddha,
the Light of Asia
By ERNEST HAUSER
ou sror the temple from afar. Its 51-metre-high tower dominates
the sprawling Indian plain that has been culti vated by poor
Y peasants through the ages. It was here in Bodh Gaya, under a
spreading Bo tree, that the Lord Buddha attained Enlightenment
25 centuries ago.
Buddha Siddhartha Gautama-speaks to us all, whatever our faith, with the universal
values of his teachings: his wisdom, his compassion, his humanity. Today,
Buddhist communities exist in many Western countries. But the vast majority of
the world's 261 million Buddhists still live in Asia.
Buddha bequeathed no writings to posterity. His sayings and the highlights of his
life were passed on orally, not to be recorded until several centuries after his death
around 480 BC. Nevertheless, sifting all the evidence, scholars have isolated a core
of facts about his life. The Search. Buddha's father ruled a rustic kingdom just north
of India's border, in the verdant Himalayan foot-hills of present-day Nepal. His
mother, Maya, died a week after his birth. Named Siddhartha-"Expectancy
Fulfilled"-the boy was brought up as a prince in his father's palace in the fortress-
capital of Kapilavastu. He learnt to ride and hunt, read scriptures and worship the
old Hindu gods. He had a noble bearing and precocious mind, as well as an
uncommon prowess with a heavy bow. A frothy blend of fact and legend covers
his youth. We read of Oriental luxury, different pleasure domes for every season, a
round of physical delights.
Siddhartha married and was happy. But after his wife had given birth to their son,
the prince rose in the middle of the night, took one last wistful look at his wife and
child, and slipped away. According to legend, he mounted his horse, Kanthaka, and
rode into the night with his groom holding on to the horse's tail. When he sent both
horse and groom back, the horse died of a broken heart.
1
What prompted this "Great Renunciation" at the age of 297 Roving about the
outskirts of his father's park, the prince had seen a helpless old man, a dead man
and a holy man. What caused man's condition of suffering and grief, he wondered.
How could man overcome it? Then he recalled that the holy man, although clothed
in rags and carrying a beggar's bowl, had worn an expression of remarkable peace
and serenity. Perhaps, he thought, the first step to discovering the answers was to
renounce all material wealth and pleasure.
So the runaway wandered through northern India as a homeless beggar, feeding on
scraps collected in his begging bowl, seeking determinedly to come to grips with
the true meaning of existence.
First he studied with two famous teachers of Hindu scripture. He then fell in with
five ascetic monks who practised self-mortification. Following their example, he
starved himself: "When I touched my belly I could feel my spine." Often, he was
too weak to stand up. Worse, he made no progress in his search.
Leaving the monks, Siddhartha made his way to the banks of a clear river, near
today's Bodh Gaya in Bihar. Having bathed in the refreshing waters, he gratefully
accepted a bowl of sweetened rice from a peasant girl. Extremes like gluttony and
fasting, his common sense now told him, were equally pernicious. Henceforth he
would follow the "Middle Way" in all things.
And so we find Siddhartha, six years after leaving home, sitting under the Bo tree,
legs folded under him, immobile for seven days and nights. Mara, the Evil One, we
read, surfaced to tempt him, parading a bevy of bewitching women to arouse him,
and next assaulting him with monsters from the bowels of hell. The lonely figure
did not stir. It was a symbolic contest, in which Siddhartha triumphed over evil.
Whatever legend may have added, the seeker surely went through a momentous
crisis that marked the end of his search. He had seen the light, and ever after was
known as Buddha, "the Enlightened One."
The Teachings. Buddha carried his new-found knowledge to Benares (now-
Varanasi), the throbbing heart of Hindu religious worship. He found his five hermit
friends in a deer park just outside the town. The five monks fell on their knees when
they saw his radiant figure and with them as his audience, Buddha delivered his
most famous sermon, setting forth "Four Noble Truths."

The first truth is that life is painful. The second, that pain is caused by a "constant
craving for sensual delights, pleasure, material things." The third, that pain will
cease when a person is emancipated from desire. The fourth prescribes a "way that
leads to the cessation of pain. It is the noble eight-fold path: namely right views,
right intention, right speech, right action, right living, right effort, right thinking,
right concentration."
For the next 45 years Buddha ranged through north-east India, elaborating on his
deer-park sermon addressing multitudes, convert ing thousands, acknowledged as
the living light. He was primarily a moral teacher. Taking a God or gods for granted,
he stayed away from transcendental speculation. When questioned on such matters
he refused to answer. It is to ourselves, Buddha insists, that we must look in order
to be saved. "It is you who must make the effort!" he repeated again and again.
"All we are is the result of our thoughts. If we speak or act with evil in our mind,
pain follows us as a wheel follows the hoof of the beast that draws the cart. If we
speak or act with a pure heart, bliss follows us like our shadow." Abiding by the
Noble Truths means victory over all evil motives: abstentation from greed, lies and
slander, patience and compassion with all creatures.
The time-honoured Hindu belief is that our soul, on our death, enters another body-
human or animal. According to legend, it was Buddha himself who first traced a
picture of the Wheel of Life. Between the spokes he showed the categories of
existence-spirits, demons, ani mals, human beings in various stages of beatitude
and doom. All creatures, Buddha taught, are fettered to the turning Wheel, which
jolts us from existence to existence. But unlike the Hindu faith, Buddha held out
the hope of escape for those who walk the Path. Freed from the prison of rebirth,
with its attendant pain, they enter into Nirvana, that knows no craving, no delusion,
no death.
The Man. The spiritual life, especially under the guidance of so lovable a teacher,
appealed to many, and reports of mass conversions probably rest on fact. Often his
monks returned from preaching tours bringing with them streams of applicants.
During a visit to his home, Kapilavastu where Buddha begged in the streets and
where his father did obeisance to him-a man from every family in the kingdom,
80,000 in all, enlisted in his ranks.
2
A peaceful army marching towards Nirvana, the brotherhood was organized much
like the begging orders of medieval Europe. All disciples enjoyed equality. (Only
under pressure from his associates did Buddha later admit women to discipleship:
to him women were the chief cause of man's distraction from the Path)
Each follower solemnly vowed chastity and poverty. They were to keep no personal
possessions except thread and needle, a begging bowl a rosary and a razor with
which to shave their heads in token of humility. They were to own a single yellow
robe made from discarded rags-a rule amended to "three robes" after a cold night
during which Buddha had to put on extra clothing.
Around this "mob of beggars" there grew a Buddhist lay community of families
and individual pursuing normal lives. Among his lay disciples was King Bimbisara,
ruler of one of India's four main kingdoms. The king presented Buddha with a
bamboo grove-today a memorial park at Rajgir, north-east of Bodh Gaya-in which
a rude shelter provided protection from the monsoon rains. Other patrons followed
the king's example, and his lay disciples erected houses. which later became
monasteries, on these lands.
Solitary Bliss. Though Buddha usually spent the rainy season in one of his
monasteries, he was happiest outdoors, especially in the forest. Noise bothered him.
Often he would withdraw for long periods to some lonely spot, allowing but one
monk to bring him food. His calm and immutable serenity were constantly
replenished by meditation.
Buddha had a strong affinity with creatures of the wild. There are stories of a
monkey bringing him a honey comb, and of a venomous snake snuggling into his
begging bowl. Though not a vegetarian, he opposed the Hindu ritual of sacrificing
animals. He drank his spring and river water through a filter, and told his monks to
do the same, lest they imbibe some minute water creature. When a jealous relative
 3

let loose a killer elephant against him, Buddha met the ferocious beast head-on, and
quietly subdued it with his gentle voice. No wonder that to his contemporaries, he
seemed superhuman.
Buddha started out on his final journey at the age of 80. Walking across the plain,
he stopped to preach in wayside villages. Many were the eyes that followed him-a
wizened wanderer with an umbrella and a begging bowl, still every bit a prince. A
well-intentioned blacksmith in whose mango grove he rested served him a meal,
and Buddha was seized with sharp pain and bleeding.
He staggered on to Kusinara (today's Kasia), and there asked his devoted attendant
Ananda to prepare a bed for him between two trees. As Buddha lay down on the
right side under the trees, which legend has it, were blooming out of season, his
body shone like burnished gold. He ordered a disciple who was fanning him to step
aside so he could get a better view of the celestial host who had approached to
welcome him. "Strive earnestly!" he said-and passed into Nirvana.
At Kasia, in a shrine set in a grassy plot patrolled by wise old monkeys, there is a
six-metre recumbent figure of the dormant Bud dha, covered with gold cloth to his
neck. Pilgrims leave small bunches of fresh flowers. A beatific peace hangs over
this last halt on Buddha's way the peace of an expectancy fulfilled.
Starting at the Top
A GREY BEARDED man went into a recruiting office. "I want to enlist," he said.
"But how old are you?" asked the sergeant. "Sixty-two."
"You know perfectly well that sixty-two is too old to be a soldier."
"A soldier, perhaps," replied the man. "But don't you need any generals?"
-Mina and André Guillois in Blagues, France
P.S.
ON THE notice board in a McCall's office was an announcement about a women's
doubles tennis tournament. Included in the instructions was: "Players are required
to wear tennis shoes only." Under that, one woman responded: "Now you know
why I'm not going!"
-Norton Mockridge, United Feature Syndicate

Francis a
Saint for Today
BY ERNEST HAUSER
T Is the year 1207. In the small hill town of Assisi, 160 km north
of Rome, Peter Bernardone, a wealthy cloth mer chant, is suing his
I 25-year-old son, John, known as Francis, for embezzlement. The
young man-a slight, unprepossessing fellow-admits that he has
sold some of his father's merchandise to finance the repair of a
small church. But, he declares, the church has not accepted the
cash, which he herewith returns. He also wishes to return the clothes his father has
provided. With that, young Francis strips to the skin. Plaintiff Bernardone has won
his case, and lost his son. "From now on," Francis says, "I shall serve one father
only-God."
Thus, Francis of Assisi, one of the Western world's most venerated saints, takes up
the burden of his ministry. His memory is cherished by all Christendom. Cities,
streets, rivers and a multitude of churches bear his name. His heartbeat pulses in
the great Franciscan Order, the largest within the Catholic Church, in the "Poor
Clares," one of the most austere orders of nuns, and in the Tertiaries, more than a
million men and women, married and single, who observe Franciscan ideals while
living in the world. But there are other aspects to the saint. Because of his disdain
for worldly goods, rejection of an orderly career, neglect of his own person and
insatiable urge to rove, he might pass as an ancestor of today's hippies. His
"Canticle of the Sun" ranks him among the world's great lyric poets. Last but not
least, his love of nature and his harmonious view of the environment make Francis
just the saint for our time. Looking past Francis's day in court, we find a normal
childhood. His mother, Pica, may have been French: John was born during one of
his father's many business trips to France, and it seems likely his nick name,
Francesco (Frenchman), was given to him in celebration by the returning merchant
1
As a teenager, Francis was something of a playboy and spendthrift, paying the bills
of his crowd of roisterers out of his own generous allowance. When a war broke
out between Assisi and near-by l'erugia. he joined a citizen's army, fought and was
taken prisoner. For a year he lay chained in a dungeon. A grave illness followed his
release. Then, for a while, he seemed adrift. He bought the outfit of a knight and
rode off to join a war in southern Italy. A voice commanded him to go home, and
he obeyed.
Shortly thereafter, as he was riding aimlessly outside Assisi, a leper came towards
him. Francis, as he himself later recorded, felt deep repugnance to lepers. But an
unknown force made him walk towards the man and kiss him. The encounter left
Francis a changed person.
It was during this spiritual crisis that he stepped, one day, into the half-ruined little
church of St Damian. The crucifix whose voice he heard during his ardent prayer
there is still preserved. "Francis," It said. "go and restore My church which, as you
see, is falling into ruin." To fulfil this command Francis took his father's money -
and wound up disinherited and naked.
After the trial, a shabby workman's cloak was given to him. Francis marked it with
a cross, drawn firmly with white chalk, and went his way, walking through plains
and forests, singing God's praises in the full confidence of his new-found faith.
"Restore My church!" the voice had said, and Francis took the command literally.
He busied himself with stones and mortar, and begged up and down the streets of
Assisi to finance the job. Visitors to the town may still see the stones he laid.
"Follow Me." One day, Francis heard a priest read Jesus' admonition to the
disciples: "And preach as you go, saying, 'The kingdom of heaven is at hand... Take
no gold, nor silver, nor copper in your belts ... nor two tunics, nor sandals... Francis
listened, enraptured. This was to be his life! Henceforth, he wore the poorest tunic
of undyed wool. Barefoot, he went about, preaching the Word.
Later, others joined him, drawn by his magnetism and way of life. We know some
of their names: Bernard, given to solitude; Juniper, full of patience; Pacifico, a
troubadour, Leo, a priest. Like Prancis, these men had no possessions. They roamed
their native country, helping farmers at harvest, working occasionally at their
former trades, begging when they were hungry, sleeping under hedgerows. They
preached, tended the sick, cleansed the lepers. They worshipped God.

In 1209, when his little band had grown to 12, Francis went to see the Pope to
obtain credentials for his brotherhood. He took with him a Rule, or constitution, he
had written, which stressed the simple Gospel life. Although his ragged appearance
and contempt for protocol-he is said to have walked straight into the Pope's study-
met with raised eyebrows in Rome, Pope Innocent III, himself a man of great
simplicity and wisdom, approved the Rule, and thus established the Franciscan
Order. Its members were not to be monks, tied to the cloistered life, but friars, free
to roam and preach.
The decision showed great providence. The European clergy had fallen on bad
times. Many parish priests were ignorant, corrupt and indifferent to the welfare of
their flocks. Not ministering people's spiritual needs, they simply repeated the Latin
cadence of the liturgy and let it go at that. By giving the Franciscan brotherhood
official status, Rome gained a new militia that could reach Europe's masses by
preaching to them in their native tongue.
Divine Gift. Only fragments of the sermons of Francis are preserved; but we may
gather, from the crowd's reactions, that he was one of the great spellbinders of his
age. One of his favourite themes was the humanity of Christ. Francis replaced the
prevailing image of a crowned and sceptred sovereign, frosty and remote, with a
people's Christ of flesh and blood-a Christ born in a stable, friendless in the desert,
naked on the Cross, suffering, often helpless, and all the more adorable for His
humanity. This rediscovered humanity reunited Christians with Christ,
revolutionized religious art, and strongly influences our own devotions today.
Joy was the Lord's exquisite gift to Francis. It illuminated his whole broke into
song, improvising words and tunes. His love of nature embraced all the world.
Stones, flowers, trees, the wind, the sun, the moon all were "brothers and sisters"
to be cherished and revered. Had not God made them? He tenderly picked up a
worm wriggling in his path, so it would not be trod upon. During one of his journeys
through Umbria, he spotted an assembly of doves, crows and jackdaws, and
addressed to them his famous "Sermon to the Birds."
"My winged brothers," he exhorted, "you should greatly praise your Creator and
ever love Him, for He gave you feathers to clothe you, and wings to fly, and all else
you need. He makes you noble among all other creatures and lets you dwell in the
pure air..."
2
Among those who especially admired Francis was Clare, the beau tiful, 18-year-
old daughter of a count. Hearing Francis preach, she resolved to join him in the
saintly life. One night she slipped out of her paternal palace and met Francis and
his brethren before the altar of St Mary of the Angels near Assisi. There Francis cut
off her hair and gave her the rough habit of a nun. Such was the birth, in 1212, of
the Franciscan nuns, known for their founder as "Poor Clares."
Failing Health. Across the centuries we catch other glimpses of Francis: now in
Bologna; now visiting the papal court in Rome; now on a preaching tour in southern
Italy. Eventually, the scene moves to the mountain of La Verna, 80 km from
Florence, where in 1224 Francis made a hut of twigs and branches by a rushing
stream. Ever since the crucified Christ had asked him to restore His church, Francis
had sensed a kinship with "poor Jesus." Now he immersed himself with deepening
intensity in Christ's suffering.
One dawn, as the knelt, rapt in prayer, an apparition came swiftly towards him out
of the sky. He beheld a crucifix, borne by six fiery seraphs' wings. Stupefied,
Francis felt both joy and terror. When he rose, he saw that his hands and feet were
pierced as if with nails. A bloody, painful gash had opened in his right side. Francis
had been marked with the five wounds of Jesus-the "stigmata"-recalling the nails
with which the Saviour was pinned to the cross, and the wound made when "one of
the soldiers with a spear pierced His side."
There is no doubt that the five marks did show on Francis's body. His Protestant
biographers accept them as fact. Thomas of Celano, who knew him well and wrote
his first biography, states that at least two friars saw the stigmata while Francis was
alive. More than 50 witnesses fingered them after Francis's death. Were they a
miraculous gift from being and warmed those around him with its glow. He
frequently heaven? Millions of Christians are convinced of it. Among those who
deny their supernatural character, few claim that they were self inflicted. Medical
experts point to Francis's high sensitivity, which might explain the stigmata as a
psychosomatic symptom.
By 1226, although not yet 45, Francis was a failing man. Poor food, long vigils and
exposure to the elements had worn him down. He was near the convent of St
Damian, presided over by Clare, when the combined weight of his ailments
convinced him he could travel no further.
 3

Clare prepared a hut of rushes for him in the adjacent vineyard. Although spring
was in the air, Francis, for once, found it hard to be cheerful. In his distress, he cried
to God and God assured him of a place in His Kingdom. Awaking smiling and
refreshed, Francis called his close companions round him and offered them the fruit
of his night of sorrow and redemption- the "Canticle of the Sun." One of the first
poems written in a modern European language (rather than in Latin). it exalts a
universe wherein all creatures, by their sheer existence, praise the Lord.
For Ever and Ever. Francis died on October 3, 1226. He was buried in a small
church, St George's, in Assisi. But plans were already taking shape for a more
fitting monument. A splendied basilica was built, and later decorated with frescoes
by Gloito, Italy's greatest medieval painter. Francis's body was transferred to its
crypt in 1230. In the centuries since then, hundreds have come to pray, each day,
before his simple stone sarcophagus.
Less than two years after his death, Francis was canonized by Pope Gregory IX.
His Order was, by then, unstoppable, having grown in less than 20 years from 12
to 20,000. It was established everywhere in Christendom and operated outposts in
the pagan world. Thanks to the dedication of the Franciscans, Christianity became,
once more, a religion of the people.
A Second Home
I WORK IN a small prison in castern Norway. One morning, Christian was going
to be released after serving a 30-day sentence. Normally, Christian was the most
straightforward fellow you could find, but when he got drunk he invariably landed
in jail He had served five sentences with us before, so we had become well
acquainted. Shaking Christian's hand, I said, "I hope everything will be fine now I
don't expect to be seeing you again." He looked at me in surprise and asked, "Are
you leaving?"
-Aage Glone

Martin Luther:
A Magnet for All Christians
BY JAMES DANIEL
VER four and a half centuries since his famous 95 theses
triggered the reformation of the church, the portly Augus tinian
O monk, Martin Luther, has been the very symbol of Protestant
individualism and separateness. Today all this is changing. The
fact is that Luther is now becoming a magnet and a means to help
Christians of all persuasions find their way back together again.
Luther's theses were objections to the medieval practice of selling indulgences
church pardons from sin. But Luther sought renewal of the church, not its
fragmentation, aiming only to get rid of accretions and distortions. He advocated
weekly celebrations of the Lord's Supper with the entire congregation participating,
held that Christ was "really present" in the communion, kept the church year with
its stately procession of holy days, remained devoted to the Virgin Mary, and
regularly went to confession.
Luther's equal emphasis on communion table and pulpit can be seen today in many
Protestant services. And many Catholic theologians now say that Luther was right
on the issue of indulgences, and that it was, in good part, the spiritual blindness of
his superiors and judges that later drove him into secession.
The new outlook is demonstrated by some further acknowledgments of Luther's
views. Catholics now regard the church as composed of all baptized persons and
call it the People of God, a phrase close to Luther's "priesthood of all believers."
Luther believed in the primacy of the Bible; the Bible was enthroned daily on the
high altar of St Peter's during the recent Vatican Council. Luther insisted that public
worship should be in a language the people understand; in English speaking
countries, the entire Mass is now being said in English. To top all these rapid-fire
changes, a petition has been filed in Rome jointly by Catholic and a Lutheran to
declare the excommunication of Luther in 1521 null and void.
1
Struck by Lightning. Anybody with even a casual interest in the faiths men and
women live by must learn to understand Martin Luther, and how his teachings
relate to today. He lived in a time like ours when old ways and values were under
attack. Communications had been speeded up by the invention of printing, and
people were deeply anxious about the future.
The first of seven children born to a prosperous iron smelter in the county of
Mansfeld, now in Germany, Marlin started his education at the local Latin school.
At 13, he was sent to Magdeburg to study under the Brothers of the Common Life,
a new religious order that stressed a "modern" education based on the Bible. In
1501, he entered the University of Erfurt, where he received both his B.A. and M.A.
It was in accord with the wishes of Papa Hans Luther that son Martin next began
the study of law, in 1505. Martin's main interest until now had been philosophy; he
somehow lacked the necessary enthusiasm for the law. Within two months he was
delivered from the law. Thrown to the ground by a bolt of lightning, and afraid of
dying, he vowed that if God spared him he would enter a monastery. Luther was to
refer to this later as being "more dragged than drawn to monastic life." Nonetheless,
his fervour compelled him to enter the Augustinian Monastery at Erfurt, and there
to practise austerities beyond require ment. (He nearly froze to death from sleeping
without a blanket, and he could keep a confessor sitting in the box for six hours.)
"How Lazy I Am!" Ordained less than two years after taking his first yow, Luther
soon was receiving important assignments from his order, In 1512, he took the
degree of doctor of theology at the University of Wittenberg, and the Augustinians'
vicar general, Johann von Staupitz, who later joined the Protestant movement
himself, appointed him to the chair of Biblical studies there.
Dr Martin Luther was soon able to report by letter to a friend that he was preaching
in the monastery and in the village church, serving as the reader of devotional books
during the monastery's meals, acting as overseer for 11 outlying monasteries,
directing the studies of younger clerics, lecturing on St Paul, collecting material for
a commen tary on the Psalms, handling enough correspondence to keep two
secretaries busy, and superintending the monks' fishpond. With such
responsibilities, Luther wrote, he hardly had time to be "tempted by the world, the
flesh and the Devil." His letter ends almost gaily: "You

see how lazy I am!" Lazy indeed! In his lifetime, Luther was to turn out more than
30,000 letters, often of booklet length, translate the Bible into modern German
(practically creating the language as he went along), write the German prayer book
and catechism, compose many hymns, and create suffi cient sermons, articles and
dissertations to fill more than 100 printed volumes averaging 700 pages each.
What ultimately alienated Luther from Catholicism was the increas ingly sad state
of the church. At that time, according to the German Catholic author Karl Adam,
the higher ecclesiastical jobs were reserved for the nobility, and the Papacy had
become a rich prize which Italian princes fought to acquire for themselves or their
relatives. Among the lower clergy, says Adam, there was "much brutality,
drunkenness, gambling, avarice, simony and superstition." Priests demanded pay
ment for "the slightest exercise of their priestly office"-charging so much to come
to the bedside of the dying that Germans called extreme unction the sacrament of
the rich. But the most scandalous practice was the sale of indulgences.
The basic theological idea behind indulgences was that Christ and the saints, by
their sacrifices, had left a treasury of merits which the church could dispense to
ordinary Christians who in a lifetime were not able to pile up enough credits with
God to be sure of getting into Heaven. The Pope began offering indulgences to the
faithful for taking part in the wars against the infidels who held the Holy Land, or
simply for contributing financially to these Crusades, When the crusading fervour
died out, the church substituted periodic Jubilees as the occasions for big sales of
indulgences. At first, these pardons were applicable only to the living, but before
long it became possible to buy an indulgence for any deceased loved one with the
assurance that God must honour it. Justification by Faith. For Martin Luther, who
was seriously con cerned about persuading the souls in his keeping to face up to
what it meant to be a Christian, the whole indulgence system was an impedi ment
to faith. While preparing a Biblical commentary in the winter of 1512-13, Luther
had come on St Paul's famous line, "The just shall live by faith." Oppressed by the
late medieval emphasis upon piling up churchly good works as if they scored points
with God, and convinced that man can never be sure that any of his acts will win
God's favour, Luther seized upon the idea that God imputes goodness to man
through faith in Christ. Believing in justification by faith, Luther threw himself on
God's mercy, trusting in His love. He wrote later that it was like being "reborn" or
"going through open doors into Paradise."
2
Luther's insight into the mechanics of Christian grace led him to preach against the
indulgence system. Initially, he was tentative, commenting only that there was
considerable risk in staking one's salvation on indulgences, since only God knows
if the indulgence receiver is truly contrite. But in 1517 something occurred to shake
Luther and Christianity to the foundations. Pope Leo X authorized the sale of a new
special plenary indulgence to raise funds for building the present St Peter's Basilica.
In Germany, the sale was to be handled by the Dominican John Tetzel of Mainz
who was an old hand at hawking indulgences.
Legend has it that when Luther learned that Tetzel was saying he could get a sinner
off from sins that even St Peter could not defend against, he promptly marched to
the door of Wittenberg Castle's church-a kind of bulletin board for the university-
and posted his 95 theses upon it as an invitation to debate. But, after studying all
the evidence, Erwin Iserloh, a German Catholic scholar, has recently concluded
that Luther actually sent the theses privately to the Arch bishop of Mainz and his
own bishop. He also sent copies to some academic friends asking for comment.
Evidently, though there is no proof, a copy fell into the hands of a printer. Soon the
theses were all over Germany.
"Here I Stand." Luther's foes, led by Tetzel, accused him of heresy and of
promoting schism. In a papal pronouncement that began, "Arise, O Lord, a wild
boar has invaded thy vineyard," the Pope demanded that Luther recant. Luther
replied that he would-if he were convinced of his error by a general council. The
Pope, instead of convening a council, appealed to Emperor Charles V to assemble
the German Diet, or parliament, to condemn Luther for heresy. The heresy trial-
unusual in church history because it was carried out before civil rather than
religious judges-was finally held at Worms in 1521. The embattled Luther took the
position that he could not recant while he believed, on the basis of Scripture and
"evident reason," that he was speaking the truth. Luther's statement, "Here I stand.
I cannot do otherwise. God help me. Amen," still moves the hearer as the supreme
defence in history of the absolute inviolability of the conscience. But after the
formal closing of the Diet, when most of the delegates had gone home, a hard core
of Luther's opponents issued "The Edict of Worms," condemning him as a heretic.
Emperor Charles, after a promise of papal backing in the war against France, signed
it.

Leo excommunicated Luther the same year, and Europe promptly split into
Protestant and Catholic armed camps. But Luther himself, far from pressing for a
permanent rupture in Christianity, strove toward a reconciliation. Continuing to
hope that Christianity could reform without falling apart, he remained at
Wittenberg and wore his monk's cowl for three years. Finally, he plunged into a
round of new work to assure that the fruits of the Reformation would not be lost.
While still teaching at the University of Wittenberg he translated the Bible, revised
the Prayer Book, composed hymns and wrote two catechisms. At 42, he married
Catherine von Bora, 26, a former nun, who bore him six children. For centuries
Christianity had idealized the life of celibacy as the highest good. Now Pastor
Luther preached that the Christian home-the relationship of man, woman, child and
God was the original and truest "school for character."
The Quiet End. As the years rolled by, Luther's health failed. But the magnificent
mind and heart persisted. Up to the last months, his Biblical commentaries, today
regarded as among Christianity's great est treasures, showed the increasing power
of what many believe to be the most incisive mind since St Augustine. The end to
Luther's stormy life came as quietly as a sigh. As a priest, Martin Luther had been
the kind of man people of all ranks turned to for comfort and advice. In February
1546, when he was 62, he was asked by two rival Counts of Mansfeld to come back
to his birthplace to arbitrate a dispute between them. Although seriously ill, he
went. He settled the argument and wrote a final loving letter to his "Dearest Katie"
to expect him. On the way home he died.. For a life like Luther's there is not a
period big enough to end the story. One possible postscript was provided by a
biographer, Ewald M. Plass, author of This Is Luther, who reported that in all the
great libraries of the world where he had checked the catalogue index, the number
of entries after Martin Luther's name was exceeded only by the number after that
of Luther's Lord and Master, Jesus Christ.
Fabled Findings
TO POINT OUT the dangers of scientific hypotheses based on rash "cause and
effect" reasoning, the ethnologist André Laganey, In his book Sex and hinaustion,
invented hefe day Mrs Durand, janitor of a residential building, carefully polished
the stairs the following fable: Mr Legendre, a tooth-brush salesman, slipped on
them and injured his shin-bone He went home in a bad temper and spent the evening
criticizing his son for being frivolous and irresponsible. As a result, the son did not
study for a crucial mathematics exam the following day. He failed the exam and
3
had to be transferred to a technical school. There he fell in with a group of militant
leftists who were linked with Arabic revolutionaries Acting for them, he
assasinated an important Arals head of state on an official visit Knowing that some
of the European undergenind groups have more police spa than genuine members,
the Arab States concluded that this was a machination by the were services and
countered with an oil embargo that lasted a long time during a very cold winter.
Old Mrs Durand died of pneumonia caused by lack of central heating, and Mr
Legendre lost his job because there was no petrol for his car.
This story can be interpreted in several different ways -Mrs Durand died of
polishing her staircase.
-Legendre Ir revenged himself on his father by putting him out of work -Legendre
Jr's unconscious, manipulated by an unresolved Oedipus complex, made him kill
the sheikh, a father figure, while symbolically castrating his real father by depriving
him of his car and his employment, both symbols of paternity -Mrs Durand polished
her stairs to deprive the country of oil. Published by Editions du Seuil, Paris
Classified Classics
UNDER employment opportunities in a Los Angeles newspaper: "Position requires
wisdom of Solomon, patience of Job, skill of David. No other applicants have a
prayer"
-AP IN THE personals section of the Tennessee Chronicle: "$100 reward for person
or
persons who told Ben Canfield's wife that they saw a woman in the truck with him
on the highway. Please come forward and straighten this out. Ben Canfield."
Deprived
ON RS ninth birthday, my son cut two slices of cake and offered one to his sister,
who took the bigger piece. That's not fair, my son protested. "If you'd given me the
choice, I would have taken the small slice."
"Well," his sister replied triumphantly, "that's what you've got, so what's the
complaint?"
Barbara Moore

Saint Paul
Apostle to All Men
By ERNEST O. HAUSER
PPROACHING Damascus from Jerusalem about three years after
Christ's crucifixion, Saul, a young Jew from Tarsus, was thrown to
A earth by the tremendous impact of a vision. "Saul, Saul!" the voice
of Jesus called to him. "Why persecutest thou me?" Blinded, in a
state of shock, the young man had to be led by the hand into the
city. Not for three days did he regain his faculties, and when he did
he was a newborn creature-the "chosen vessel" of the Lord.
Thus, by a violent spiritual upheaval, one of the greatest human figures in the
history of Christianity became a believer. Soon he would drop his Hebrew name
for the Latin-hence, more universal-Paul. As the Apostle to the Gentiles, he was to
spend his life crisscrossing the Mediterranean world, preaching the Gospel.
Founding new Christian outposts almost everywhere he went, he transformed
Christianity from a small Hebrew sect into a world religion. And, almost as a by-
product, he hammered out, in sermons and epistles, a system of ideas which to this
day is the foundation of all Christian teaching. "Exceeding Mad." Few other lives
from antiquity are as well documented as Paul's. Besides his own revealing letters
we possess, in the Acts of the Apostles, the diary of his companion, Luke-Gentile,
physician, and also author of the third Gospel. And from these sources there
emerges a life whose many crises, quick decisions, narrow escapes, chance
meetings and sporadic bursts of violence make it one of the great adventure stories
of all time.
Paul was born about the year 5 in Tarsus, Asia Minor. Now a quiet Turkish town,
the city then was one of the world's most sophisticated centres of learning, industry
and commerce, harbouring a prosperous Jewish colony, many of whose members
were naturalized citizens of the Roman Empire.
As a boy, Saul learned the trade of tent-making, perhaps because his well-to-do
father was a textile merchant. But his brilliant mind marked him for leadership.
1
Still in his teens, he was packed off to Jerusalem to study under the world-famous
rabbi, Gamaliel. There, in the crowded temple, he first heard about Christ, then
preaching in the hills of Galilee. Though he never met Him, what the young man
heard of Jesus' message made him "exceeding mad" against His followers, the
Nazarenes, for he saw in them breakers of the strict Mosaic law. Turning into a
kind of storm trooper, he persecuted them "even unto strange cities," and he was
riding to Damascus to round up Nazarenes when the voice spoke to him.
Tapped by Destiny. No more dramatic change of heart than Paul's conversion has
ever been recorded. Admittedly, the young man had "made havock" of the budding
church. "I persecuted... unto the death," he later said, "binding and delivering into
prisons both men and women." It was at his feet that the killers of St Stephen
deposited their coats to free their arms for throwing rocks at the head of this first
martyr, while the young Pharisee looked on, "consenting unto his death." "I did it
ignorantly in unbelief," Paul would say later. One can be sure he regretted this
action for the rest of his life, although he adds, "But I obtained mercy.... The grace
of our Lord was exceeding abundant." No doubt his faith, his stubborn will, his
patience with the foibles of his fellow men were the reflection of God's forgiveness
towards him.
Described by an anonymous author as "a man of small size, bald headed, bow-
legged, with eyebrows meeting, and a prominent nose, of graceful appearance,"
Paul himself complained of his infirmities, and noted that to others his "bodily
presence is weak." Yet, for his historic mission, destiny could not have chosen a
better man. As a Pharisee, he was at home in the Old Testament, which he quotes
some 200 times in his writings. As a Roman citizen he travelled freely through the
Empire. And, as a cosmopolitan, he spoke at least three languages: Aramaic, the
language of Christ; Hebrew, the language of the Scrip tures; and Greek, by then the
common tongue of the entire Middle East. He probably also had a smattering of
Latin.
With such endowments, Paul could make himself "all things to all men"-a Jew to
Jews. Roman to Romans, sophist to sophists, tent maker to tent-makers, Outgoing,
witty and gregarious, he was above all an intensely human person who dared
believe, in a caste-ridden age that all men are created equal.
High, Lonely Road. Paul's apostolic wanderlust took him to many strange lands.
He stumped the towns of Asia Minor, visited the Isle of Cyprus on a spiritual fishing
expedition, crossed over to Europe to win converts in Macedonia. Everywhere he

found a ready platform for his teaching in the local synagogue. There, as a Jew, he
was accepted without question; only when he turned to the pagans did he become
a butt of Hebrew wrath. The ritual-minded priests insisted that a male believer, in
order to be saved, must first be circumcized. Such was the letter of "the law." But
Paul knew that if he, as a missionary, were to demand that every new Christian first
knuckle under to Mosaic law, Christianity would never become a religion for all
men. It would remain instead a mere variety of Judaism. Before him were the
teeming millions of the Roman Empire. He made his choice: faith was the thing
that mattered, not "the law" in its narrow sense. The conflict within Judaism
resulting from this decision would disappear only when Church and Synagogue
became two separate establishments.
The territory over which Paul travelled was often extremely rough. Even today, we
marvel at the fact that he negotiated, more than once, the grim "Cilician Gates," a
narrow, brigand-infested gorge of tower ing cliffs and cascading torrents. He
usually went on foot. Many a night was spent in a wet cave, and high winds, snow,
sleet and rain were constant enemies. But his singularity of purpose kept him going,
He truly "hazarded his life" for Christ.
While not disdaining contributions, Paul earned his livelihood, whenever possible,
making tents. In the flourishing Greek city of Corinth, for example, he went into
partnership with a couple from Italy. Their tent-making workshop, open to the
street, gave him a perfect base. Tradesmen and slaves, philosophers and idlers,
women carrying water jars, sailors from the busy port, all would stop to chat. And
Paul's magnetic personality, his charm, his talent for a well-turned phrase made
many of them linger or come back for more. Soon, a feeling of "belonging" was
born, of being members of a new commu nity united by a common hope.
Studded With Gems. It would be wrong to think of these first Christian cells as
staid Sunday congregations. Recruited largely from the downtrodden and poor,
Paul's pagan converts often were a ragtag lot, and he had to exhort them frequently
to mend their ways. "Let him that stole steal no more," he writes, "but rather let him
labour, working with his hands." And: "Put off all these: anger, wrath, malice, blas
phemy, filthy communication out of your mouth."
It was probably during his first stay in Corinth, about the year 51 A.D. that Paul
began writing his letters, or epistles. These unique literary treasures, now part of
the New Testament, constitute Christi anity's earliest record-the Gospels had yet to
be published when Paul wrote. Composed in Greek, addressed to the young
2
churches or to individuals, the letters were not meant to form a single work. But,
pieced together, they contain a cohesive structure of religious thought that makes
Paul the first Christian theologian. And they show him, too, as a man whose mighty
mind had room for kindness, courtesy and a good deal of common horse sense, His
prose is studded with such little gems as, "Ye suffer fools gladly, seeing ye
yourselves are wise"; and, "Let not the sun go down upon your wrath."
His longest letter, the Epistle to the Romans, is Paul's masterpiece. Such basic
propositions as grace, merit and free will, set forth with power and precision, make
this a primer for all Christian theologians, Paul's central concept is Redemption. To
him, all mankind lived in sin until God sent His Son, Jesus, to save it. By His life
on earth and His death on the cross, Jesus redeemed humanity. What does this mean
to the individual? Aided by Divine grace, says Paul, we can work out our own
salvation through faith. Paul's metaphor of stripping off our "old man" may echo
his own change of heart after Damascus. The "new man" lives in Christ, and "death
hath no more dominion over him." Heretofore lonely and abandoned, he finds new
joy in the close fellowship with all his brethren and with Christ Himself. And, Paul
triumphantly states, when at the end of time we are united with the Lord in all His
glory, we shall no longer see Him "through a glass,
darkly, but then face to face." Roman Fighting Instinct. Storm clouds began to
gather about Paul's head. We glimpse him in Corinth, planning a trip to Rome,
when duty calls him to the one place which is considered unsafe for him Jerusalem.
His churches have collected funds for the impoverished mother church, and Paul is
asked to head a delegation carrying the money.
He goes to Palestine with gave forebodings. Hostility among the Jewish leaders
there has grown intense. When Paul enters the temple, a cry goes up against him.
Falsely accused of having smuggled Gentiles into the sanctuary-a deadly crime he
is jumped on by ruffians, dragged from the building, beaten and nearly killed. In
the nick of time, the captain of the Roman guard dashes into the fray with a few
soldiers and snatches Paul away.
It is the captain's duty to investigate. Briefly, as Roman justice rumbles into motion,
we are reminded of the trial of Jesus. Paul, too,. is ready to lay down his life. But
his fighting instinct tells him to use every legal means to save his neck. When the
captain orders him flogged-the practice in interrogating a colonial subject-Paul
calmly turns to a soldier: "Is it lawful for you to scourge a man that is a Roman,
and uncondemned?"
 3

A Roman citizen! There must have been a moment of stunned silence. No one growled. "These people want to get out of the rain, too." Finally, there was a
questioned Paul's claim; it could be checked. Now the worried captain decides to plaintive cry from a crushed passenger in the rear of the bus.
take no further chances. He sends Paul under heavy escort to Caesarea, seat of the
Roman governor, Felix. For two years Felix procrastinates. But his successor, "Mister," he said, "this is only a bus you've got. It ain't Noah's Ark." -M.W.
Porcius Festus, prodded by the Jewish high priest, holds a preliminary hearing. What Was That Again?
Would Paul agree to be tried in Jerusalem, where the religious charges against him
could be more easily examined? Paul knows his law: "To the Jews have I done no FROM THE Hindustan Times: "The studies have shown that compared to average
wrong. No man may deliver me unto them. I appeal unto Caesar." sleepers, there is 80 per cent higher morality among those who sleep for
inordinately long periods." -W.H. Ansari, Ranchi
"O Death, O Grave." With that, the case is out of Festus' hands.. Having availed
himself of his inalienable right, the prisoner is to be sent to Rome for trial by the CLASSIFIED ad in The Statesmim: "Lady doctor wishes to share doctor's chamber
emperor's supreme court. Embarked under guard, and shipwrecked on the way, for practice."
Paul finally arrives in Rome where he is held under mild house arrest, "preaching
-P.K. Sen, Ranchi
the kingdom of God, no man forbidding him."
What happened next? Acts leaves us at this point, without a clue. Many modern
scholars believe that Paul was tried and acquitted. As early Christian writers tell us,
he then went off on one more journey, reaching "the limits of the Western world"-
Spain-and heading back to his beloved flock in Asia for a final visit. It was the
height of Nero's anti-Christian fury. Now about 60, and world-famous, Paul was ar
rested once more and brought to Rome. Nero himself, tradition says, sat in the
judgment seat and sentenced him to be beheaded by the sword.
"O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?" The ageing challenger,
who had once sounded this rousing call to arms, no doubt received the sentence
calmly. Three little churches, in a eucalyp tus grove near Rome, commemorate the
spot where Paul's head is said to have rebounded three times from the ground,
causing three wells to flow. Some three kilometres nearer the old city wall, the huge
Basilica of St Paul-Outside-the-Walls enshrines a small memorial chapel built
shortly after the Apostle's martyrdom.
It would be another 250 years before Christianity became the domi nant religion of
the Roman Empire. But the decisive battles had been won. Jesus of Nazareth had
founded a new faith; and the transformed Saul of Tarsus, having seen in it the
redemption of all men, had carried that great new faith to far horizons.
When Push Comes to Shove DURING a rainy rush hour, a jam-packed bus
continued picking up passengers at every stop. "Move back," the driver repeatedly

The Miracle
of Saint Joan
BY LOUESE REDFIELD PEATTIE
O MOST of us, Joan of Arc is a legend, the heroic idyll of a
shepherdess who heard supernatural voices and by them was led to
T save a nation. But the idyll is only the shadow of the truth. There
was nothing supernatural about Joan. She was a real girl, a peasant
earthy as the sweet soil of France. Nor was that country yet a
unified nation when she carried into battle her banner sown with
its immortal lilies of France.
It is more than half a thousand years since Joan of Arc died in the flames at Rouen.
Why, then, do we remember her today? Because hers is the age-old story of good
warring with evil, a war which goes on in every century. Each of us who wages his
part in this struggle will fight the better for knowing the Maid of Orléans. Joan died
condemned a heretic and sinner. She lives forever a saint, conqueror of the forces
of evil that killed her, a symbol of truth and courage. When Joan was born in 1412,
in the village of Domrémy in Lorraine, France was in bloody turmoil. The Hundred
Years' War between France and England had been going on for some 75 years. The
crown of France was claimed by England. Much of France was ruled by the Duke
of Burgundy, ally of the English; the rest was loyal to the Dauphin Charles, heir to
the throne of France but not yet crowned, Of this turmoil Joan learned as a child,
for past her rough dwelling ran the old Roman road that crossed the River Meuse,
and down it would come bands of armed men marching, or wandering friars who
lingered to tell tales of murder and pillage and to lament that the weak Dauphin
would not prove himself King indeed and so make of the leaderless land a united
nation.
Divinely Appointed. By the age of 12, Joan was a sturdy, dark haired and devoutful,
of whom nothing remarkable had been reported. Then one day in her father's garden
a great brightness spread all about her and a voice spoke to her. Terrified, she fell
to her knees. With the voice came shining wings and a face of glory, and presently
1
she knew that this was the Archangel Michael, patron of the Dauphin and beloved
by all France. He was not alone, she was later to say, but "attended by heavenly
angels. He told me that St Catherine and St Margaret would come to me, and that I
must follow their counsel, for it was at Our Lord's command."
For the next four or five years the saints spoke to her often. Joan mentioned not one
word of this, but went calmly about her work convinced all the while that she was
in touch with God. In 1428, the English laid siege to Orleans. Now, to 16-year-old
Joan, the Archangel announced that it was God's will that she succour the Dauphin
and raise the siege. The voice "told me to go to Vaucouleurs, to Robert de
Baudricourt, captain of the town, who would give me men to go with me."
Revealing nothing to her parents, Joan went to Vaucouleurs, about fifteen
kilometres from Domrémy. Twice she appeared before Baudricourt, telling him
that she was divinely appointed to lead the Dauphin to Reims to be crowned King.
Twice she was bluntly turned away. Undaunted, Joan came again. This time Sir
Robert was convinced by her unearthly assurance. She was given a horse and the
bodyguard she required; she was provided with the men's clothing she asked for;
she had her hair cut short. "Go forward boldly!" she heard her voices say.
Her hoofbeats clattered away from all that was familiar, she was riding now into
destiny, by night, through enemy-haunted country. Halting before Chinon, where
the Dauphin was, Joan sent word to the castle of her coming. The Dauphin Charles
was a weak-willed, uncertain young fellow. He let her come but, to trick her, hid in
modest dress among the crowd. Into the magnificent hall lit by torches and packed
with courtiers strode Joan and, going directly to the Dauphin, knelt at his feet.
Charles pointed to a courtier. "That is the King," he said.
Joan was resolute. "In God's name, noble Prince, it is you and none other." And she
told him that she had been sent by God to help him and his kingdom and to see him
anointed in the cathedral at Reims. While all the court stared, Charles spoke
privately to her at length, and whatever she answered made his face radiant. Yet
still he wavered fearing that she might be a tool of evil powers. He had her cross
questioned by learned clerics at Poitiers and examined by ladies to make certain
that she was a virgin, on the principle that the first act in becoming a witch is to
take the Devil for lover. The solemn conclusion was that there was nothing but
good in this country girl.

All this delay made Joan impatient. To the dawdling Charles she said with strange
prevision, "I shall last a year and but a little longer, we must do good work in that
year."
"Daughter of God." So Charles gathered an army. He gave Joan a suit of armour of
polished steel. She was sent to a chapel dedicated to St Catherine, with directions
to look behind the altar and find a sword buried there. It was brought to her covered
with rust, but soon it flashed in her hand. She had a white banner made, fringed
with silk and sown with lilies, on it a painting of the Lord, an angel at each side.
So, she stood forth before the crowding soldiery, "Daughter of God," as Archangel
Michael called her..
Orléans, a key point in the English campaign to open up the Loire River valley, had
lain under seige for six months. The English had built a dozen bastions around the
town. The defences of one such bastion consisted of a great stone wall some 10
metres high, set with strong towers. Reaching this bastion, Joan dictated a letter,
had it tied to an arrow and shot over the wall.
"The King of Heaven sends you word and warning by me, Joan the Maid, to
abandon your forts and depart into your own country, or l will raise such a war cry
against you as shall be remembered forever,"
Triumph. Medieval warfare was a business of hand-to-hand combat with lance and
sword, mace and battle-axe, and into such a melee Joan rode to raise the siege. She
and her companions stormed one redoubt successfully, and two days later attacked
the key fortress. As she was about to climb a ladder against its wall, an arrow came
whistling from a crossbow and struck her above the breast. Carried from the field,
she pulled out the arrow with her own hands. The trumpets were sounding retreat;
but she rallied. Soon the soldiers saw her banner flash once more, heard her cry.
"The day is yours-enter!" and beheld her dash towards the rampart and climb it.
The bastion fell. Orléans was saved.
Joan passed through the streets to the sound of bells. She had her wound dressed
and partook of food-five slices of bread dipped in wine and water. So ended the
brief few days in which a girl of 17 re created the morale of the French army and
changed the course of the Hundred Years' War.
Charles, though obsessed with Joan's dream of his crowning dillydallied "Noble
Dauphin," she implored, "hold no more so many and such long councils, but come
2
as quickly as you can to Reime and take the crown" For she saw that only thus
would a united France be established and England's claim be thwarted. The road to
Reims led through towns strongly held by the foe, but Joan was dauntless. Her
standard ever fluttered where the fighting was thickest. She hade the ranks, "Go
bravely; all will go well.
Reims excitedly made haste to receive the Dauphin. And on the fine summer
morning of July 17, 1429, Charles rode to his crowning in splendid procession.
Beside his throne in the cathedral stood Joan. It had been less than five months
since she left Domrémy
Charles VII, crowned at last, felt less need of Joan now. He would not heed her
entreaties to march straight on to Paris, but listened to advisers jealous of the Maid.
However, his laggard campaign at last got under way again, and Joan led the French
forces in the capture of town after town. But an assault on a Paris fort failed, and
Joan was wounded in the thigh by an arrow.
In Easter week of 1430, Joan's voices gave her the bitter warning that she was to be
taken prisoner by the enemy. Still, she rode dauntlessly in the fore of the fray, until
in a struggle at the drawbridge of Compiègne she was caught between the English
and the Burgundians. Hands seized her horse, her person. Joan the Maid was
captive.
The man she had made King of France seems not to have dared lift a finger to help
her. Instead, she was clapped into the castle of a Burgundian noble. There she
learned of negotiations to sell her to the English, and in a frenzy to escape she flung
herself from the lofty castle tower. She was not killed. Contrite, she prayed for
forgiveness. Treachery. Meanwhile, a trap was being set for her by letters to the
Duke of Burgundy from the clerics of the pro-Burgundy University of Paris. It
snapped fast upon her when a fat sum passed to her keeper, who thereupon released
her to the Bishop of Beauvais..
This high dignitary, Pierre Cauchon, was in the pay of the English. He was a crafty
and ambitious man, and Joan's trial for heresy promised to favour his interests-and
those of the English, who wished to show clean hands in the business. So it was to
be a religious, not a political trial at Rouen, and Cauchon picked his ecclesiastical
judges with skill. No one was appointed to defend Joan; not one witness was called
in her behalf. Because of Cauchon's power, no man dared risk his life by speaking
up for her.

So this illiterate peasant girl of 19 stands alone, abandoned, before the massed array
of her learned and priestly judges, and speaks for herself. Every question, every
answer is recorded, we hear her voice down the centuries. "You say that you are
my judge; consider well what you do, for in truth I am sent from God, and you put
yourself in great peril." Under the pressing inquisition, she related freely the story
of her briel, strange career. She would admit to no heresy. Always she held that
what she had done was by the Lord's will. Ominously, they showed her the
instruments of torture; she did not waver. "Truly, if you were to have me torn limb
from limb, I would say nothing else." They threatened her with burning, and she
answered, "Were I to see the fire, I would still say all that I have said." (Superb
response!" scribbed the recording clerk in the margin.) Back and forth they
hounded her, and not once was she shaken from the conviction that ruled her life.
"I have a good master-that is, Our Lord-to Whom I look, and to none other."
But the scheming Cauchon would not let her steadfast replies to the judges'
questions decide her fate. Instead, he had her testimony, blazing with truth, reduced
to 12 impersonal and distorted articles, and presented these as a basis for the judges'
debate. And those eminent men of God, all subservient to the Bishop, gave him the
verdict he wanted.
So, on a fair day late in May, the wan young boyish figure in black was led forth,
blinking at the bright sunlight, to hear sentence passed upon her. Eyewitnesses
became confused in their reports of just what happened next. Certainly a document
was produced and read to the girl who "knew not A from B." Afterward they said
to her, "Sign it, or You will burn." With a strange smile, she made her mark upon
it.
Now Joan thought she was safe. Trusting the Church she loved, she said, "You
churchmen, take me to your prison, and let me be no longer in the hands of the
English."
Bitter it must have been to be led back to the same dark cell. Upon promise that she
would be allowed to hear Mass, she agreed to put on a woman's dress for it, for the
matter of wearing a man's clothing was a greivous charge against her. But while
she slept, her guards took the dress away, and she was obliged to go forth from her
cell in her tattered boy's clothing.
"Fatal Answer." On that "sin" they convicted her as a relapsed heretic, the most dire
sentence that could be pronounced. Doubly to seal her fate, Cauchon asked if she
3
had heard her voices again. Joan told him they had reproached her for signing
whatever she had signed. "All that I then said and revoked, I said from fear of the
fire." ("Fatal answer!" noted the clerk on his margin.) Yet still her courage held.
"By God's grace, I shall be in Paradise tonight," she said, and asked for communion.
Strangely, this last request Cauchon granted. Did the Bishop know his victim to be
innocent? She, at least, knew his guilt. "Bishop, I die through you!" she flung at
him.
Robed, her head shaven, she was led into Rouen's market square on the morning of
May 30, 1431. Crowds covered every cobblestone and rooftop. After Cauchon read
the sentence, a paper mitre was placed on her head; inscribed in large letters were
the words: Heretic, Relapsed Sinner, Apostate, Idolater. She begged for a cross; an
English archer hastily made one of twigs, which she put in her bosom, while
another man ran to the nearby church for a crucifix.
This she kissed, then climbed to the high stake, her eyes fixed on the crucifix held
before her. The flames, mounting, concealed her, only her voice came to the silent
crowd, in prayer, in moans, in a final piercing cry of agony and love: "Jesus!" They
say an Englishman ran through the crowd crying, "We are lost!
We have burned a saint!"
Some quarter of a century after her martyrdom, Charles VII took steps to
rehabilitate through the Church her reputation that it had destroyed. With due
ceremony, the Church to which Joan was ever faithful and which had condemned
her, proclaimed her innocent. Finally, in 1920, it canonized her. But there were
those, 500 years earlier, who had known that there moved among them a living
saint. And that completes the miracle.

Unforgettable S. Sadanand
By M. V. KAMATH AS TOLD TO V. GANGADHAR
HE TELEPHONE kept ringing. I knew Swaminath Sadanand, my
boss at the Free Press group of newspapers, was calling me. But I
T didn't want to speak to him. That morning, Sadar and had chewed
me out over some trivial matter and although he'd often done it
before, this time something in me had snapped. Leaving his room
in a daze, I had typed out a resignation letter and fled from the
office, vowing never to return.
"Go on, answer it," my sister-in-law urged me. I picked up the receiver. It was, as
I'd guessed, Sadanand, though his normally grating voice now was choked and
tearful. Why was I so upset? he asked. Wasn't I like a second son to him? Couldn't
fathers scold their sons? I must come back. He was sending his son to fetch me.
How could resist? I returned to the office and was enveloped in a bear hug that
unnerved me as much as the morning's explosion. But that was Sadanand for you.
He raged and loved, he laughed and he cried, with all the abandon and innocence
of a child. And like a child, he generally got his way-at least with me and most of
the people I knew.
Today, as I recall that 45-year-old incident, I can think of many ways. to describe
Sadanand. He was a champion of a free press. He was a patriot who refused to yield
to the British despite the most crushing pressures. He was a visionary who started
an Indian news agency when all news in our country was distributed by foreign
organizations.
Always Exciting. But it was really his extraordinary forceful, per sonality, the
passion with which he threw himself into everything he did, that made him the most
unforgettable character I've ever known It wasn't easy working on the Free Press,
at times it was downright awful, but, by God, it was always exciting!
Sadanand did everything differently. Unlike most Indians, he cared little for age or
formal education and was always ready to gamble on young people. When I
approached him for a job in 1946, I was 25, a science graduate who'd worked for a
1
few years as a chemist. "This is not a factory," he told me curtly, then added,
"You're hired. Rs 100 a month, three months' trial."
The trial began right away. I was given important assignments-the Municipal
Corporation, Congress politics, speeches of top national leaders. I worked hard and
even managed exclusive interviews with Jawaharlal Nehru and former US
President Herbert Hoover. Sadanand didn't say anything to me but I sensed that he
was pleased: I'd vindicated his belief that if a person was enthusiastic and
industrious, he could do well at almost anything.
Under Sadanand, the Free Press became one of Indian journalism's most important
nurseries. Some of the biggest names in the profession today cartoonist R.K.
Laxman, TJS George, former editor of Asimoeck, sports commentator and
columnist A.FS. Talyarkhan-worked for Sadanand. Though most of the staff were,
like me from humble backgrounds, Sadanand also attracted a number of affluent
young men, including Raja Hutheesingh (Nehru's brother-in-law), Sharokh (now a
Tata director) and Homi Taleyarkhan (who later became Governor of Sikkim and
our envoy to Libya and Italy). Restless Spirit. The man who presided over us all
was a school dropout. Born in Madras in 1900, Sadanand left home before
completing high school because his stepmother ill-treated him. His father published
a Tamil magazine, and Sadanand was always determined to be a journalist. Little
is known of Sadanand's early struggles. He worked briefly for the Associated Press
in Bombay, the Independent of Allahabad and the Rangoon Times When he
returned to Bombay in 1923, he got a job looking after Congress party publications
and helping propagate khadi. But Sadanand was restless and yearned for full-time
journalism. At the time, Reuters and Associated Press were the only news agencies
in the country and, naturally enough, projected the British point of view while
reporting on the freedom movement. Sadanand decided to challenge them with a
nationalist news agency. With money from industrialists sympathetic to the
Congress, Sadanand launched his Free Press News Agency in 1927. Run on a shoe
string, the agency at first had only two staffers-Sadanand and K. Srinivasan, a
childhood friend.
The agency picked up a few subscribers, but with the launching of Gandhiji's salt
satyagraha in March 1930, the British Government imposed severe restrictions on
the press. Free Press agency telegrams were censored; its directors were pressurized
to resign. Soon, the agency's subscribers began withdrawing Great Obsession.
Sadanand, though, wouldn't give in. If others wouldn't carry his agency's news,

why, he'd start his own paper. For a while he was only able to bring out a
cyclostyled sheet called Free Prem News Bulletin, but he finally managed to buy a
cheap second-hand press, and, on June 13, 1930, the first issue of The Free Press
Journal rolled out Throughout the 1930s and 40s, Free Press, with its news and com
ments on the freedom struggle, was aggressively anti-British. Sadanand bitterly
opposed papers which reported objectively on the freedom struggle the issue, he
felt, was too important to permit anyone to sit on the fence. And to project his views
in his papers, he even rewrote reports filed by his correspondents. In 1946, the
British Cabinet Mission under Lord Pethick-Lawrence arrived in Delhi to negotiate
the transfer of power. Sadanand was opposed to the Cabinet Mission and, ignoring
the despatches of his correspondent Sharokh Sabavala, published instead his own
bitter denunciations of the delegation's proposals. However, once Independence-
his great obsession had been achieved, Sadanand insisted on objective reporting.
One day, detecting a bias towards the socialists in my writing, he questioned me
closely. Ladmitted that I had joined a newly formed Socialist Party. "Kamath."
Sadanand said, "you've got to make up your mind. You can either be a politician or
a reporter. Not both." I resigned from the party soon after.
Reading Sadanand's Free Press during the freedom struggle was an act of
patriotism, like wearing khadi or spinning the charkha. The British twice jailed him
on sedition charges and also forced him to deposit huge sums of money as security.
Over the years Sadanand was fined more than Rs 70,000. That was an enormous
sum for the time, but it never cowed him.
Fiery Temper. Just about the only thing predictable about Sadanand was his daily
routine. Around ten every morning, a chauffeur-driven Oldsmobile would halt in
front of the paper's office at 21, Dalal Street. Out would step a stocky figure clad
in immaculate white jibba and dhoti, black hair slicked down. Sadanand suffered
from filariasis and one of his swollen legs was often painful. Normally, he climbed
the two floors to his office, but on bad days, three workers carried him up on a
chair. Before beginning work, he spent several minutes performing paja to the gods
whose pictures covered one wall of his room.
After reading the morning's Free Press he would start firing instruc tions. If he was
pleased with a report, he'd compliment the reporter personally. But more often, it
was an ominous, "Ask him to see me later," a sure indication of trouble.
Life at Free Press was not for the faint-hearted. If something was not to his liking
Sadanand would go into a rage and sack people indiscriminately. But once he
2
cooled down, he took them back. News Editor Hariharan was sacked thrice and
thrice reinstated, each time with a raise.
His temper apart, Sadanand could be extremely considerate. M.R. Bhandarkar, who
became his secretary when he was only 19, was at first slow and made many
mistakes. But Sadanand patiently corrected his grammar and spelling and
constantly encouraged him to do better. Within a few years, Bhandarkar had
improved so much that he was able to get a job in the Bombay High Court, where
he worked successfully for a number of judges including martinets like the late
Justice M.C. Chagla.
Sadanand could be gracious even to those who criticized him. B.G. Horniman,
editor of the Bombay Sentinel, often lampooned Sadanand, calling him the
"Dancing Dervish of Dalal Street." Yet, when Horniman left the Sentinel and
couldn't get a job, Sadanand published excerpts from his autobiography for a
handsomfe fee.
Main Concern. Like trouble, good fortune at Free Press came without warning.
Once afternoon, I got a hurried summons from the Boss. Wondering what I'd done
wrong, I entered his room. "Here, read this," he said, brusquely thrusting a paper
into my hands. I looked at it thunderstruck. It was the Bulletin's new imprint line
with the magic words, EDITOR: M.V. KAMATH. Sadanand had given me no
indica tion that he was promoting me.
The Boss had no hobbies; sports, music and parties bored him. His papers and his
family-in that order-were his only interests. In the office, even small matters rarely
escaped his attention. When a reporter called Sethuraman regularly began coming
to work unshaven and shabby, Sadanand started giving him one rupee every day
for a shave Sethu, though used the money to bet on horses. Sadanand found out.
then ordered the barber to shave Sethu daily in the office!
Sadanand's main concern was for his readers. Once I concluded a report with "And
peace arrives not with a bang, but with a whimper," based on a line by the poet T.S.
Eliot, Sadanand asked me what the line meant "It's from TS Eliot," I replied. "How
many of our readers have read Eliot?" he asked, deleting the line. "Remember you
are writing for The common man, not literature graduates. That was advice I've
never forgotten The Boss toed no one's line. His respect for Gandhiji did not prevent
him from attacking the Mahatma for not reviving the Quit India movement which
 3

had fizzled out by 1944 He further antagonized Gandhiji by publishing accounts of I shall never forget my last encounter with Sadanand. We met half way up the stairs
the confidential Gandhi-Jinnah partition talks of 1946. of the Free Press. I was going to the office, he was coming down. He looked
haggard and his eyes avoided mine. I knew he was leaving the office for the last
He also stood by his men. Once, Srinivas Mallaya, a Congress bigwig, asked me to time and started to follow him. "For God's sake," he cried, "don't." Within a few
project his views in my reports, hinting that he could get Sadanand to sack me if I days he was dead.
didn't oblige. I refused. "You know Mallaya, don't you?" Sadanand asked me one
day. I nodded. "Why is he after me to sack you?" Then, before I could reply, he The Indian press has made great advances since Sadanand's time. There are more
changed the subject. newspapers and magazines, and they look a lot better, thanks to new technology.
Moreover, reporting today is, by and large, better than it used to be. But the press
A Bitter Blow. Sadanand never bent to pressure, whether applied by Englishmen is still under pressure. We could do with another Swaminath Sadanand,
or Indians. In 1947, when the Indian Navy blockaded Junagadh because its Muslim
ruler had opted for Pakistan, the Free Press published the names of ships and units All Decided
taking part in the blockade. Sardar Patel, then Home Minister, was furious.
HOLIDAYS are no problem for us My wife decides where we are going, my boss
The Sardar's anger was to cost Sadanand dearly. At the time, Sadanand had nearly when we are going, and my bank for how long we are going.
finished setting up an international news agency with bureaux in London and
Washington. He'd spent Rs 7 lakhs on the venture and all that was needed was the -Nebelspalter, Switzerland
government's go-ahead to start But because he had antagonized Sardar Patel, the
permission never came and Sadanand had to give up his dream of an Indian-
controlled international news agency. It was a bitter blow, but there was worse to
come. In 1951, the government passed a law restricting press freedom. Sadanand
was one of its leading opponents and persuaded the All India Newspaper Editor's
Conference to adopt a resolution that all papers should carry a protest message
above their editorials. Although most papers ignored the resolution, the Free Press
faithfully ran the line: "Freedom of Expression is our birthright and we shall not
rest until it is fully guaranteed by the Constitution," until Sadanand's death The
great years of the Free Press were from 1945 to 1950. Sadanand made it a
distinctive paper with an attractive layout and several innovations-daily cartoons,
numerous columns, special supplements and a full page devoted to sports. "He was
the first Indian editor to realize that sports can sell," recalls AFS. Talyarkhan, then
the paper's sports editor. Circulation and revenue boomed during this period
Sadanand, unfortunately, was a poor financial manager. A great deal of money was
squandered on the still-born international news agency and on a temple complex
and a mansion in Madras. By 1951, Sadanand's debts were mounting. Often there
was no money to buy newsprint Racked by tension, Sadanand's health deteriorated.
He suffered from diabetes, high blood pressure and fever caused by the filariasis.
After a heart attack in 1952, he realized that his end was near. In October 1953, he
sold his papers, sadly telling us, "Even Sadanand is not indispensable."

Unforgettable Gus Eckstein
BY NARE REEDER CAMPION
FIRST saw Gus Eckstein standing in his laboratory writing on a
portable typewriter placed on top of a grand piano as canaries
I fluttered about him. The little man in the brown-corduroy jacket
and red bow-tie radiated charm, and when he spoke, in a high but
masculine voice, the birds seemed to vibrate responsively. He was
163 centimetres tall, weighed 45 kilos-a mini ature guru. I loved
him on the spot.
I had called on Dr Eckstein that July day in 1943 about becoming his secretary. All
I knew about him was on the dust jacket of one of his books, where he had
compressed his life into one sentence: "Born, practised dentistry, studied medicine,
taught physiology, learnt not much, read two or three men, learnt a little, came to
know two or three women, learnt a good deal, made friends with two rats, learnt
prodi giously, wrote about rats, continued to write."
Gustav Eckstein, DDS, MD, LHD, spent almost 70 of his 90 years at the University
of Cincinnati's College of Medicine. He was renowned as a professor of
physiology, student of animal behaviour and of eight books and three plays.
Eckstein's greatest gift, however, was a love for the human animal.
With Love. I used to watch him counselling students at a restaurant. tutoring a blind
boy, or sitting on the floor playing with children. I was dazzled by Gus's talent for
total attention. Incapable of acting inter ested. Gus Eckstein was interested-all the
time. His good "friend, writer Alexander Woollcott, said, "Only one word occurs
to me as a name for the medium, the temperature, the conditioned atmosphere in
which Eckstein observations are made. Love"
Gus Eckstein was born in 1890 in Cincinnati, the oldest of four children. His father,
a dentist, was a German immigrant, his mother, an American. "Somehow," he told
me. "in that bilingual household i began to read, and once you begin to read they
can't stop you. I wrote my first book kneeling before the plano bench at the age of
four. It was called The History of the World"
1
Of his education Dr Eckstein wrote: "I travelled rapidly through school and Hamlet,
almost blocked by a father who believed in neither, assisted by a mother who
believed in both." Shakespeare was his hero. I loved to hear Dr Eckstein throw back
his head and declaim, "What a piece of work is a man!... The beauty of the world.
The paragon of animals!"
At his father's insistence, Gus went to dental college, graduating first in his class.
He had also managed to complete the first year of medical college. The young
dentist was soon earning what he termed "an outrageous amount of money." But he
was also intent on learning more about creative writing, and in 1916 began studies
at Harvard. When America entered the First World War, Eckstein's Harvard days
ended. He tried to enlist, but the Army didn't have uniforms small enough for him.
Though he went back to Cincinnati to practise dentistry and to continue medical
college (eventually graduating in 1924), writing would be Eckstein's abiding love.
Eckstein's magnetic personality attracted patients to his dental practice, and by
1920 he had amassed enough money to take off for Europe. He spent a year and a
half there, writing and travelling. For the rest of his life, whenever the had a little
money, he travelled. He made his last foreign trip, to Russia, when he was 86.
FROM MY first days as Eckstein's secretary, I mastered many unusual tasks, such
as feeding lunch to a hundred pigeons - manoeuvring them in and out of a huge
coop that took up half the window. Part of my "secretarial" job was tending Dr
Eckstein's unusual wardrobe, which included a sleeveless, silk undergarment worn
by men in Japan (He had travelled and lectured extensively in Japan and loved
things Japanese Noguchi, his biography of the Japanese bacte riologist, is a classic)
Every day he wore the same brown-corduroy jacket with a bow-tie.
He had given up wearing regular ties before I knew him, their edges always got
frayed on one side. Not even Sherlock Holmes could have guessed why: Gus
especially loved a small green parrot named Vi cious, whom he liked to take to the
symphony under his coat. What kept Vicious quiet at concerts was chewing on
Eckstein's ties! Once, during a pause in the music, she erupted in squawks, and the
odd couple had to depart in haste.

I may be one of the few people in the world who has seen a canary given an enema.
More surprising than the enema itself, which Dr Eckstein performed neatly with a
tiny medicine dropper, was the fact that in a lab full of free flying canaries, he knew
which bird needed the enema "To understand birds, you train yourself to see them
as individuals." he said. He could tell you which birds were lazy or angry or sexy,
which went to sleep early, which one's feet hurt.
Meticulously he clocked habits of small creatures-birds, mice, cockroaches who
led their lives around his desk. He studied their movements, weighed their motives,
charted their morality. "Canaries are polygamous, he said, "pigeons monogamous."
He wrote spell binding books about them-Canary and Friends of Mine that became
best-sellers. His magnum opus, The Body Has a Head, he wrote "to make the
human body more familiar to anyone who owns one."
Devoted Fan. From his austere habitat. Eckstein was drawn into the orbit of the
famous and talented. When Woollcott, Grand Maharajah of American literary taste
in the 1930s and 1940s, read Canary, he was so bowled over by Gus's intensely
personal relationship with birds that he devoted one of his radio talks to the book.
The next day the entire printing sold out. Woollcott went to Cincinnati to meet the
author, and the unlikely pair became fast friends. Gus also became a favourite
among Woollcott's theatrical colleagues.
All relationships were important to Gus. Family and friends received the highest
priority, but he could form a relationship with anybody a labourer, a schoolgirl, a
corporate lawyer. He drew people to him by his intensity.
One day a tall man knocked and asked, "May I come in?" It was author Sinclair
Lewis, who stayed all day. Aldous Huxley came, too, and Thornton Wilder. My
favourite visitor was playwright Garson Kanin. Never guilty of an understatement,
he told reporters, "I've known great men like Franklin Delano Roosevelt, but the
greatest I've ever met is Gustav Eckstein."
I'll never forget the day actress Helen Hayes walked into the lab wearing a mink
coat and was attacked by frenzied canaries. She stood wild-eyed as the birds
plucked at the fur. "They're nesting, Gus explained, "and soft fur is just what they'd
love." Reluctantly, he helped her take off the coat. I think he half expected her to
stand there until the canaries had picked it bald. He told me afterwards he was glad
they had had "the experience of mink."
2
Gus once said of his relationship with the white rat who lived in his desk. "I taught
him fondness by being fond. Well, he taught me consideration by being considerate.
He corrected me so gently that at first I thought he was complimenting me. Once I
dropped some books and there was a loud whirring as canaries dashed in all
directions, then silence. I was devastated.
"Scares occur every hour," he said quietly. "Sometimes all get scared. Sometimes
one gets scared and notifies the others. Don't worry about it. But if a wave of high
canary voices sweeps this place and utter stillness follows, that is canary terror.
That we must avoid."
Courtesy and Trust. I lived in mortal fear of committing the unfor givable: letting
a bird loose. We all knew about the terrible time someone was careless with a screen
and almost the entire flock flew out into a winter night. He recounted the crisis in
Canary What was I to do? At least it seemed good sense to start playing the piano,
and this I did When I started again at dawn, Father and the two sons entered at the
very first tones. Father stood there on the sill, sang and sang, as if to burst his throat,
and one by one his children came in I think one secret of Dr Eckstein's intimacy
with animals was his profound courtesy. When a canary was hatching eggs, he kept
a polite distance. He watched with binoculars, but he also had a microphone in the
nest. Through earphones he listened to sounds humans have rarely heard: the anvil
chorus of young bills drilling out of an egg. "Who is not moved by a birth?" he
asked.
Another secret was trust. In Everyday Miracle, he tells how he once sat before a
cage watching a mother ape. Frightened by his riveting gaze, the mother grabbed
her baby, pinning him under her arm. Gus pulled his chair closer and caught a
splinter in his finger. Trying to extract it, he realized the ape had moved up to the
bars to watch Impulsively, he gave her his hand. The mother ape dropped her baby
and dipped Eckstein's finger in her mouth. Then she set her thumbnail under the
splinter, flipping it out. After that she let her baby caper about the cage.
When I asked Dr Eckstein about the mother ape's sudden shift from suspicion to
trust, all he said was, "You know the feeling of intimacy and security that springs
up between you and the surgeon who removes your appendix..."

AFTER I left Cincinnati we kept in touch by letter and phone. He was a great
communicator. As he grew older, time became increasingly important to him. He
thought televisions, films, even sleeping a waste of time. He told me that when he
was a boy there was a high wall te could never scale unless chased by a policeman.
Now awareness of death made him try harder, and night after night he worked on
his final book, a biography of the great Russian scientist, Ivan Pavlov, whom he
knew.
"When people retire, they start to fade," he once said to Garson Kanin. They're
conditioned, don't you see? Oh, how well Pavlov understood this! It's not activity
that wears out the body and spirit it's inactivity. Keep going!" At 90 Gus Eckstein
was still lecturing, advising students, observing birds and animals, staying up until
2am, playing the piano, studying clouds, following baseball, reading, writing, and
consulting at the hospital. In September 1981, after swimming in the cold ocean,
Gus contracted pneumonia. He was flown back to the hospital, but in three days
pronounced himself "on the mend" and signed himself out. Escorted by the last of
his adoring secretaries, he set out for a psychiatry department meeting at the
medical college. On the way he collapsed and died.
When I heard my beloved Gus Eckstein had died, I picked up his book Lives. In
my mind's eye I could see him standing at his typewriter in the lab, a canary perched
in his wiry hair. I re-read his account of the death of a white rat:
I am filled with the pain of the shortness of everything. When I saw his death
coming, how truly frightful was the feeling that nothing could stop it. How then
must I know with a new strong draught of conviction that gentleness and gaiety are
the best of life.
Gus Eckstein left almost no tangible possessions, but he bequeathed to those who
loved him a unique sense of values. He knew what was important and what was
not, and he lived his convictions, a fine example of Shakespeare's "action is
eloquence." His friend Martha Keegan said, "Gus never tried to be like anybody
else. He was just who he was. He identified with every living thing, and there is no
better way to help people than that."
3
Ask a Silly Question...
NOVELIST and essayist George Birmingham was in his non-literary life a
clergyman in Ireland where he was pestered by bishops and other authonties to fill
in recurring questionnaires. He took particular umbrage against the annual demand
from the education office to report the dimensions of his village school room. In
the first and second years, he duly filled in the required figures. The third year, he
replied that the school-room was still the same size. The education office badgered
him with reminders until Birmingham finally filled in the figures:
This time he doubled the dimensions this school-room. Nobody queried it. So he
went on doubling the measurements until "in the course of five or six years that
school-room became a great deal larger than St. Paul's Cathedral. But nobody at
the education office was at all concerned So, the next year, Birmingham suddenly
reduced the dimensions of his colossal classroom "to the size of an American tourist
trunk. It would have been imposible to get three children in that school-room." And
nobody took the slightest notice, for nobody needed the information. But the system
did, and the system had to be satisfied -PR
Dis-Courtesy
ONA Visit to Australia, I noticed that many shop assistants were in the habit of
bidding customers a pleasant farewell, with such remarks as "Thank you for
coming," or "Do
come again. One day in a shop in Sydney, the cashier said something I did not
catch, so I asked her to repeat it. "I said have a happy day, she snapped. "Are you
deaf?" -Edith Richardson
In the Soup
MY FRIEND and I had just finished lunch at an expensive restaurant when we
realized Explained our plight to the waiter, who gave me an increasingly frosty
stare Finally, that we didn't have enough money to pay the bill. With some
embarrassment, I Joffered to leave my friend there while I rushed to my near-by
flat to get the cash. The BS waiter, with great indignation, replied, "Sir, we do not
take hostages
4

Meera Mahadevan's
Lasting Legacy
BY ASHOK MAHADEVAN
NE DAY in 1971, a plump, cotton sari-clad woman with large
flashing eyes burst into the office of N.S.L. Rao, then chief
O engineer of the Central Public Works Department's New Delhi
zone. "My name is Meera Mahadevan," the visitor an nounced
briskly to Rao, "and I am disappointed with you. I run crèches for
the children of construction labourers, but your engineers are being
most unhelpful."
Annoyed, Rao began protesting that he wasn't in the crèche-running business. "Let
me show you what we do," Meera said cutting him short. The vigorous, forceful
woman then led him on a tour of four crèches located on construction sites. Two
were in rooms in still unfinished buildings; the others were set up in thatched sheds
with paper streamers and children's paintings enlivening the drab sur roundings.
Under the watchful eyes of the crèche workers, infants gurgled contentedly in rough
hammocks, toddlers played with plastic blocks, older children struggled with the
Hindi alphabet. Rao realized that these cheerful scenes were a far cry from the
appalling conditions at most construction sites, where unwashed children scrabbled
about in the heat and dust while both their parents laboured all day. These other
children, he knew, were constantly exposed to hazards, occasionally falling down
empty lift shafts or drowning in unprotected water tanks. Deeply moved by what
he'd seen, Rao ordered his engineers to assist Meera in every way they could.
Today, the organization Meera Mahadevan founded, called Mobile Crèches for the
Children of Working Mothers, provides education, health care and recreation to
more than 3,800 children in Delhi, Bombay and Pune. It operates on an
approximately Rs 80-lakh annual budget, with a staff of 361.
Curiously enough, Meera, the prime driving force behind this pio neering effort,
did no social work for most of her life. Born on December 5, 1929, in Karachi,
Meera (actually Miriam) was strongly influenced by her father Aaron Jacob, a
1
minor official in the Pon Trust lacob was an uncompromisingly honest man who
never accepted bribes from shipping merchants wanting to jump the queue in
clearing their cargoes. His integrity made a deep impression on Meera A vivacious,
high-spirited girl Meera had a natural talent for organi zation and leadership.
"Meera was constantly getting young people together for picnics and games,"
recalls childhood friend Diana Benjamin.
After the subcontinent's partition in 1947, the Jacobs crossed over to India and
settled in Pune where Meera's father lost most of his money running a cycle shop.
The family shifted to Bombay where Meera, just 18. got a job as a stenographer. In
her spare time she ran a Hindi literary and political weekly. In 1955, Meera married
T.K. Mahadevan, a Bombay journalist even though her parents vehemently
disapproved of a non-Jewish son-in law. Three years later the couple and their
infant son Upamanyu moved to Delhi. Meera's early years in the capital were filled
with raising her children and writing. Drawing heavily on her own experiences she
published two novels: So Kya Jane Pir Paraye, which described the difficult life of
a Bombay working girl and Apna Ghar, which portrays a Jewish family torn
between its loyalties to India and Israel. Period of Crisis. By the late 1960's
however, Meera had become restless and unhappy. "Writing was not really her
passion" says Devika Singh, one of Meera's earliest associates in Mobile Crèches,
who now runs the organization. She craved activity and needed something into
which she could pour herself." An opportunity came, quite by accident. In 1968,
Meera became a member of a committee formed to celebrate the Gandhi centenary
the following year. Among its many projects was an exhibition being built across
the road from Meera's home. Daily walking past the construc tion site, Meera saw
half-naked children of labourers picking lice from one another's hair, toddlers tied
to poles to prevent them from straying, sickly infants covered with flies.
She had seen similar sights before, but now, at a critical point in her life she was
troubled. For days she wondered what to do, then hit on a simple solution: she
would set up a crèche at the building site so that mothers could work without
anxiety, assured their children were attended to Although simple, Meera's plan was
unique for it was the first time that anyone had done anything about the problems
of India's 1.5 million construction labourers. Mostly landless peasants or farmers
with tiny plots of land, they migrated to cities in search of jobs during the slack
season in agriculture. Unorganized, and rarely finding work at one place for more
than three months, they were pawns in an industry subject to frequent booms and

busts. They built huge build ings, but lived on the construction site in hovels where
disease was rampant and infant mortality high.
Financial Aid. Although Meera knew little about how to run a crèche, she plunged
into work After persuading the contractor at the Gandhi exhibition to give her a
tent, she raised Rs 3,000 from friends and social welfare organizations, With the
money, she employed an ayah, bought a few cribs, tubs and soap, and opened the
first crèche on March 14, 1969.
It nearly closed soon after. Many mothers, suspicious of a stranger who offered free
care for their children, refused to send them to the centre. The ayah grumbled about
having to look after ragged young sters. And when the hot winds blew across the
Jamuna River, the tent collapsed.
But Meera didn't give up. She dismissed the ayah and got another. Chatting with
the workers, she persuaded them to entrust their children to her care. Soon, word
of what she was doing got around. A month after the first crèche opened, an
American engineer supervising construction of the USAID building in Hauz Khas,
invited Meera to start a crèche there and arranged for financial support. Later in the
a similar request came from the Indo-German Social Service Society. Then Meera
was able to get Canadian diplomats to contribute money for a crèche at the
construction site of their new High Commis sion. By the end of 1969, 240 children
were being washed, fed and kept occupied from 8 am to 4.30 pm, six days a week.
Education too. Buoyed by her initial success, Meera began looking for other
construction sites in New Delhi. Meanwhile, Parliament passed legislation
requiring anyone employing over 20 women con struction labourers to establish
crèches at building sites. But the new law was ignored, and a dismayed Meera found
that it took all her persuasive powers to get contractors to share the cost of running
a crèche. Once, after a contractor had stalled for months, Meera invited the Health
Minister to inaugurate a crèche on the site, and told the contractor what she'd done.
By the time the Minister came, a shed was up.
Meera had originally intended to look after only babies, but she found herself
wanting to do more. Because of their nomadic life, few of the older children
attended school and when Meera noticed them loitering around the centres, she
brought them into the programme as well. Kindergartens for three to six-year-olds
and classes for children up to the age of 12 were started at every centre. Then, after
an elderly. labourer wistfully told Meera that he wished there had been a belinji to
teach him when he was a boy, she began evening literacy classes for adults.
2
As the organization's activities multiplied, it became hard to make ends meet.
Contributions from contractors and grants from govern ment and private social
welfare agencies covered only part of the expenses. Meera also had to tap other
sources: friends gave money; garment manufacturers donated clothing; cards with
paintings done by the crèche children were hawked.
Staff Discipline. Apart from money, getting the right staff was not easy. Meera
quickly discovered there were few trained people who wanted to look after
labourers' children. Consequently, she had to hire inexperienced women and train
them on the job.
To get things done, Meera ran her organization tightly, her quick temper flaring
whenever she encountered inefficiency. Fanatical about Punctuality, she would fine
staff members who were even a few minutes late. "In fact," laughs Motiya Sharma,
a senior Mobile Crèche worker, "when Mrs Indira Gandhi declared the emergency,
we felt it made no difference to us, we were already under Meeradidi's Emer gency"
But Meera also cared deeply for the Mobile Crèche staff, most of them lower
middle-class girls with a high school education. She was like a mother to them. She
knew all their problems and they could go to her for help. When Indu Bhasin, a
Pahari Brahmin, wanted to marry a Punjabi against the wishes of her parents, Meera
organized the wedding at an Arya Samaj temple and later faced the wrath of the
bride's family.
Meera could inspire her workers to do tasks they found distasteful When many of
them, fearful of losing caste, complained about having to handle soiled nappies of
labourers children, Meera spoke movingly of how Gandhiji had cleaned the latrines
of the poor. The women listened with rapt attention and sat back, elevated at the
thought of being associated with Candhiji Easing a Burden. Meera herself swept
floors and changed babies nappies whenever the need arose. Once, a government
official came to the office to check on how a grant was being spent. When he found
Meera mending blankets in a corner of the verandah, he left at once sheepishly
murmuring that an investigation was unnecessary.
By the mid-1970s, Mobile Crèches were well established. Funds came in steadily
and a branch had been established in Bombay. A few centres had also been set up
in Delhi's slums. Meanwhile, Mobile Crèches had earned such a name as a model
service agency that Unicef and the YWCA began to send social workers from
neighbouring countries to study its projects.
 3

Though proud of what she'd accomplished, Meera knew that Mobile Crèches had Read On!
barely scratched the surface of a gigantic and complex problem the poverty and
illiteracy of migrant labourers. Still, as 1 discovered after visiting several centres EXCEPT a living man there is nothing more wonderful than a book! A message to
in Delhi recently, Mobile Crèches has made the labourers' burden easier. Jangi, a us from the dead from human souls we never saw, who lived, perhaps thousands of
30-year-old farmer from Nainawa village in Madhya Pradesh, said: "Because my kilometres away. And yet these, in those little sheets of paper, speak to us, arouse
three children are looked after at the centre, my wife and I can work without worry." us. terrify us, teach us, comfort us, open their hearts to us as brothers
Ramesh Kureel, a bright-eyed 11-year-old who is so eager to learn that he attends -Charles Kingsley
the adult literacy classes at night, too, told me emphatically, "If my parents move
to a site where there is no centre, I'll come here every day to study."
Many heartening changes of this kind kept Meera going, even after her health
started deteriorating towards the end of 1975. In July 1976, doctors discovered she
had terminal cancer. Meera endured three operations and massive doses of
radiation. Yet she continued to work, holding meetings at home when she felt too
weak to go to the office. During a visit to Bombay in December 1976 to consult
cancer specialists, she found time to discuss the next issue of the Mobile Creches
annual magazine. "We all knew she would be dead before the magazine appeared,"
recalls Rukmini Mahadevan, secretary of the Bombay branch, "and found it
difficult to concentrate. But Meera lay in bed, calmly making suggestions." On July
22, 1977, at the age of 48, she died.
Shortly before her death, Meera said. "When you see poverty from a distance, you
can pretend it doesn't exist. When you see it from up close, you simply have to fight
it. And that is what she did. In just eight years, she had built Mobile Crèches from
its uncertain start in a shaky tent into a well-knit organization helping thousands of
India's most exploited citizens.
Mobile Creches proves that even the most underprivileged children can benefit
from carefully thought-out programmes," says Rajalakshmi Muralidharan, a child
psychologist of the National Council of Educa tion Research and Training. "By
showing what commitment and hard work can accomplish in the bleakest of
situations, Meera gave fresh heart to all those who work with the poor.
Neither Here Nor There
FOR SOME reason Mum wanted her little son to sit down but he wanted to stand.
Annoyed that he would not obey, she made him sit on a chair. He said nothing for
some time, then spoke out dearly, "I'm sitting on the outside, but I'm standing on
the inside." SCG

Unforgettable Gelu Pierre
BY ERNA MOEN
I WAS a scorching day in 1953 when my husband Stan and I
finally reached the remote mission station in what was then the
I Belgian Congo (now called Zaire). We climbed the last hill, and
the jungle opened round a thatched house, a church and not much
else. A group of Africans stood waiting, and the tallest stepped
forward to welcome us in fluent French: Révérend et Madame
Moen, soyez les bienvenus!"
Ngelu Pierre, or Gelu (Gay-loo), as we knew him, was to become our friend across
the gulf of race, colour and language. He was in his forties, with a few grey hairs
at the temple and a winning smile. The two well-used books he held under his left
arm seemed to belong there. "All these people are members of your congregation,
Reverend" Then, turning to me, holding my four-month-old daughter: "Kasa, the
son of Kufa, will take care of your baby while you are teaching." A skinny boy was
pushed towards me. Our house looked down upon an ocean of tree crowns. Pale
blue smoke filtered through here and there, and Gelu told us that under neath that
velvet carpet lay the mission village. The road we had just left continued for five
kilometres, bordered by mud huts, until it reached the township of Monga, centre
for the 40 villages in the district. Gelu's hamlet included.
Gelu was known to the villagers as tata (father), and he spoke with authority. His
father had held the important position of elephant hunter for the chief of his hamlet,
but Gelu's way from a jungle hut to the role of leader in the township of Monga had
been thorny. One evening, he told us how he had lived with his mother when he
was a child. His father had had two wives, each with her own hut. "When I was 11
rainy seasons old," he said, "a man visited our village. He brought the first book I
ever saw, and it changed my life. I got a hunger for the written word that nothing
could stop and asked my father to send me to school. The answer was 'no/ and my
father's word was the law of the clan."
Venturing Forth. Gelu then did something unheard of in the hamlet he left his
father's house. "My heart told me to go," he said. "I left with Two sweet potatoes
1
and a matchet, reached the river by nightfall and ate the potatoes while I hid in the
arms of wawa tree. The next day he found the school. "Do you know what I
thought?" he chuckled. "That the day I was able to read, that would be it! But it was
only the start. "Oh, Ndeko," he beamed-by then Stan and Gelu called each other
Brother-"the wonderful world of books!" He learned so fast and willingly that in a
few months Gelu himself became a teacher. Later he joined the army, where he
gained strength from getting enough protein for the first time in his life, and won
his sergeant's stripes as a reward for his skill He learned a lot in the army. "There
are more than 200 tribes and nearly as many languages and dialects," he lamented.
"We are too divided. That's why I encourage my sons to study English and French,
the languages of many books.
After army service, Gelu returned home to marry-deterred only by the fact that his
bride had no schooling. As clerk and later book-keeper for a merchant from
Stanleyville (now called Kisangani), and with plans to open his own shop
eventually, Gelu had no choice but to teach her arithmetic. "I couldn't have a wife
who knew nothing about profit and loss," he declared. "Or could 1, Elizabeta?" And
his wife of many years smiled shyly.
Until Gelu opened his shop, the palm-oil business in the district had been
monopolized by the Portuguese. After a few years, Gelu's chain of stores covered
every big village in the district. He was the first to build a brick house in Monga.
He taught people to use soap every day "Sleep under a mosquito net," he lectured.
"Wear shoes and a clean shirt and buy it all in my shops." added the businessman.
Profitable Lesson. On one occasion, Gelu had struck a bargain and earned more
than he expected on the sale of palm nuts. Jubilant, he decided to extend his house
and to buy a lorry. Before he knew it, he had spent more money than he possessed.
When we teased him about it, he laughed. "One more victory like that and I am
ruined." I could not place the quote and asked, "Who said that?" "Pyrrhus, after the
victory at Asculum in 279 c.
Our friendship with Gelu grew from mutual liking and a common interest in books,
languages and church work Stan shared Gelu's high regard for languages. On one
of their frequent safaris, they stopped at a market place where people from all over
the district had gathered.
"Let's give them the Word," said Stan, who was young and eager to spread the
Gospel. He preached to them in Lingala, one of the four national languages in the

Congo, and Gelu translated into various local dialects. In the pulpit together, they
reminded me of two soccer players: Stan kicked the ball and Gelu sent it further.
Gelu was no farmer and when he began to study agricultural reports Stan asked,
"Why the sudden interest in farming?" "Because," answered Gelu, nodding his head
with the conviction of a prophet, "I see hard times ahead for our country, and I need
to take care of my large family." It was 1958 and nobody believed him, but his
gloomy prediction proved correct. Two years later Independence threw the Belgian
Congo into turmoil.
The coming of my second baby was everybody's concern. Two days after a longed-
for boy was born in a hospital far from Monga, as I lay feverish and uncomfortable,
feeling a long way from home, the door opened and a smiling Gelu appeared. He
put a black hand on my son's white head and named him Monga Monene Great
Monga-after the late township chief whose power no one had equalled. Today, that
flaxen-haired boy is six foot three-and bears the name Gelu gave him. Gelu helped
us to understand many of the African customs that seemed strange to us. There was
the age-old law requiring a man to take over his deceased brother's wife, in addition
to the one he had. How else could a widow be taken care of, placed outside her
father's clan as she had been by her marriage?
Tribal Roots. He explained the mystic snake worship that his tribe "had brought
from the people of the beginning." The snake-which always brought forth "more
than one offspring-was a god of fertility; thus twins were "children of the python"
and consecrated to the reptile straight after birth. Should this happen to a couple in
our congregation, the proper rites were held at night and all evidence discreetly
cleared away before the blue-eyed minister arrived to con gratulate them next
morning.
A good preacher, Gelu gladly took his turn in the pulpit One Sunday morning he
gave the best sermon I have ever heard and the shortest That day we bade farewell
to the old missionary couple who had taught Gelu to read. They were leaving Africa
and, after Stan had given the main sermon, he invited others to express their
feelings.
Gelu went up on the platform where the old couple sat, carrying an unlit candle in
his hand. He put a match to the wick, the flame played on his ebony face "This is
what you brought me," he said. "The light."
2
AT n end of five busy years, Stan and I were ready for leave. But we were worried
about Gelu, who looked grey and drawn. We had urged him to see a doctor, but he
had refused to discuss the results of the visit. "I'm taking some medicine," he said
vaguely. "But you, Ndeko, go home and rest and be sure to come back soon and
start the new school." We assured him we would be back. Between the Lines. The
first letter from him was cheerful, with news of the village. Nevertheless, I had an
uneasy feeling. During our year's absence, the letters became shorter, and after ten
months we received a brief note that seemed to have been written in a hurry.
"Probably in the car while on safari," Stan said, brushing aside my womanly
intuition.
The last letter was typed. So he had bought that typewriter at last! That, too, ended
with a "hope to see you soon," but this time "soon" was underlined. Shortly after,
we returned to the field. Thirteen months had elapsed.
Gelu's brother was at the airport. "Gelu is sick," he said. He told us that Gelu had
been aware of his illness-and that it was terminal cancer-for a month before we left.
"He did everything possible to hide it from you so as not to spoil your leave," his
brother said. "The doctor told him that he had six months to live at the most but he
decided to hang on to life until you came back. And you know Gelu if he puts his
will to it. The last letter was typed by me," the brother confessed. At Gelu's house,
the whole clan was gathered, "waiting upon death" as tradition demanded. A
shadow of the old Gelu lay on the bed, hardly breathing. Stan knelt down and
gripped his dried-out hands: "Gelu, Ndeko..."
Our dying friend stirred, barely opened his dim eyes. They wan dered slowly, then
stopped at the sight of Stan. "You came." That was all. The next day Stan conducted
the funeral. It was the biggest gathering of mourners the township of Monga had
ever seen, for Gelu had become a giant among men.
High clouds scudded across the sky, and the voices of the mourners echoed my
sorrow. Stan and I had lost a friend and as Gelu would say a friend is a precious
gift.
Beasts of the Fields
Rooir, do not be so proud. Your mother was only an eggshell. -African proverb
The Pod does not drink up the pond in which he lives. -American Indian proverb
 3

Wines whales Dght, shrimp are eaten -Korean proverb

A MAN would have to keep his mouth open a long, long time before a roast
pheasant flies into it -Irish proverb
Since You Asked
A FORMER director-general of the BBC was explaining the impossibility of
drawing up specific codes of practice in the matter of taste. He cited the answer
given by a well meaning curate who, when asked, "Where exactly do you draw the
line on bosoms?" said, "It depends a good deal on the bosom."
-DI
A FAMOUS actor explained what a cameo role was: "That's when your contract is
longer than your script."
-EW
GERALD GOODMAN, the pop harpist, was asked how he'd managed to be asked
to play at Carnegie Hall He responded, "By pulling strings." -N.M