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BIRMINGHAM—MUMBAI
Grosvenor House
11 St Paul’s Square
Birmingham
B3 1RB, UK
ISBN 978-1-83882-201-9
www.packtpub.com
For Sarah.
Your love, strength, and patience help me become the person
I’ve always wanted to be.
Contributors
Preface
Part 1: Raising Your Photoshop Game
3
Masking and Cutouts
Technical requirements
Applying and editing a basic layer
mask
Using masks to cut out image
backgrounds
Applying masks to adjustment layers
Blending multiple images with a layer
mask
Masking with Blend If
Creating distressed photo edges
Masking hair
Unlinking images and masks
Masking layer groups
Working with vector masks
Creating an editable vignette with a
vector mask
Creating a typographic mask effect
Summary
Part 2: Bringing Brands Front and Center
9
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CHAPTER III
Cases of typhoid fever take the following course.
The patient feels depressed and moody—a condition which grows
rapidly worse until it amounts to acute despondency. At the same
time he is overpowered by physical weariness, not only of the
muscles and sinews, but also of the organic functions, in particular of
the digestion—so that the stomach refuses food. There is a great
desire for sleep, but even in conditions of extreme fatigue the sleep
is restless and superficial and not refreshing. There is pain in the
head, the brain feels dull and confused, and there are spells of
giddiness. An indefinite ache is felt in all the bones. There is blood
from the nose now and then, without apparent cause.— This is the
onset.
Then comes a violent chill which seizes the whole body and makes
the teeth chatter; the fever sets in, and is immediately at its height.
Little red spots appear on the breast and abdomen, about the size of
a lentil. They go away when pressed by the finger, but return at
once. The pulse is unsteady; there are about a hundred pulsations to
the minute. The temperature goes up to 104°. Thus passes the first
week.
In the second week the patient is free from pain in the head and
limbs; but the giddiness is distinctly worse, and there is so much
humming in the ears that he is practically deaf. The facial expression
becomes dull, the mouth stands open, the eyes are without life. The
consciousness is blurred, desire for sleep takes entire possession of
the patient, and he often sinks, not into actual sleep, but into a
leaden lethargy. At other intervals there are the loud and excited
ravings of delirium. The patient’s helplessness is complete, and his
uncleanliness becomes repulsive. His gums, teeth, and tongue are
covered with a blackish deposit which makes his breath foul. He lies
motionless on his back, with distended abdomen. He has sunk down
in the bed, with his knees wide apart. Pulse and breathing are rapid,
jerky, superficial and laboured; the pulse is fluttering, and gallops
one hundred and twenty to the minute. The eyelids are half-closed,
the cheeks are no longer glowing, but have assumed a bluish colour.
The red spots on breast and abdomen are more numerous. The
temperature reaches 105.8°.
In the third week the weakness is at its height. The patient raves no
longer: who can say whether his spirit is sunk in empty night or
whether it lingers, remote from the flesh, in far, deep, quiet dreams,
of which he gives no sound and no sign? He lies in total insensibility.
This is the crisis of the disease.
In individual cases the diagnosis is sometimes rendered more
difficult; as, for example, when the early symptoms—depression,
weariness, lack of appetite, headache and unquiet sleep—are nearly
all present while the patient is still going about in his usual health;
when they are scarcely noticeable as anything out of the common,
even if they are suddenly and definitely increased. But a clever
doctor, of real scientific acumen—like, for example, Dr. Langhals, the
good-looking Dr. Langhals with the small, hairy hands—will still be in
a position to call the case by its right name; and the appearance of
the red spots on the chest and abdomen will be conclusive evidence
that his diagnosis was correct. He will know what measures to take
and what remedies to apply. He will arrange for a large, well-aired
room, the temperature of which must not be higher than 70°. He will
insist on absolute cleanliness, and by means of frequent shifting and
changes of linen will keep the patient free from bedsores—if
possible; in some cases it is not possible. He will have the mouth
frequently cleansed with moist linen rags. As for treatment,
preparations of iodine, potash, quinine, and antipyrin are indicated—
with a diet as light and nourishing as possible, for the patient’s
stomach and bowels are profoundly attacked by the disease. He will
treat the consuming fever by means of frequent baths, into which the
patient will often be put every three hours, day and night, cooling
them gradually from the foot end of the tub, and always, after each
bath, administering something stimulating, like brandy or
champagne.
But all these remedies he uses entirely at random, in the hope that
they may be of some use in the case; ignorant whether any one of
them will have the slightest effect. For there is one thing which he
does not know at all; with respect to one fact, he labours in complete
darkness. Up to the third week, up to the very crisis of the disease,
he cannot possibly tell whether this illness, which he calls typhoid, is
an unfortunate accident, the disagreeable consequence of an
infection which might perhaps have been avoided, and which can be
combated with the resources of medical science; or whether it is,
quite simply, a form of dissolution, the garment, as it were, of death.
And then, whether death choose to assume this form or another is all
the same—against him there is no remedy.
Cases of typhoid take the following course:
When the fever is at its height, life calls to the patient: calls out to
him as he wanders in his distant dream, and summons him in no
uncertain voice. The harsh, imperious call reaches the spirit on that
remote path that leads into the shadows, the coolness and peace.
He hears the call of life, the clear, fresh, mocking summons to return
to that distant scene which he has already left so far behind him, and
already forgotten. And there may well up in him something like a
feeling of shame for a neglected duty; a sense of renewed energy,
courage, and hope; he may recognize a bond existing still between
him and that stirring, colourful, callous existence which he thought he
had left so far behind him. Then, however far he may have wandered
on his distant path, he will turn back—and live. But if he shudders
when he hears life’s voice, if the memory of that vanished scene and
the sound of that lusty summons make him shake his head, make
him put out his hand to ward it off as he flies forward in the way of
escape that has opened to him—then it is clear that the patient will
die.
CHAPTER IV
“It is not right, it is not right, Gerda,” said old Fräulein Weichbrodt,
perhaps for the hundredth time. Her voice was full of reproach and
distress. She had a sofa place to-day in the circle that sat round the
centre-table in the drawing-room of her former pupil. Gerda
Buddenbrook, Frau Permaneder, her daughter Erica, poor Clothilde,
and the three Misses Buddenbrook made up the group. The green
cap-strings still fell down upon the old lady’s childish shoulders; but
she had grown so tiny, with her seventy-five years of life, that she
could scarcely raise her elbow high enough to gesticulate above the
surface of the table.
“No, it is not right, and so I tell you, Gerda,” she repeated. She spoke
with such warmth that her voice trembled. “I have one foot in the
grave, my time is short—and you can think of leaving me—of leaving
us all—for ever! If it were just a visit to Amsterdam that you were
thinking of—but to leave us for ever—!” She shook her bird-like old
head vigorously, and her brown eyes were clouded with her distress.
“It is true, you have lost a great deal—”
“No, she has not lost a great deal, she has lost everything,” said
Frau Permaneder. “We must not be selfish, Therese. Gerda wishes
to go, and she is going—that is all. She came with Thomas, one-
and-twenty years ago; and we all loved her, though she very likely
didn’t like any of us.—No, you didn’t, Gerda; don’t deny it!—But
Thomas is no more—and nothing is any more. What are we to her?
Nothing. We feel it very much, we cannot help feeling it; but yet I say,
go, with God’s blessing, Gerda, and thanks for not going before,
when Thomas died.”
It was an autumn evening, after supper. Little Johann (Justus,
Johann, Kaspar) had been lying for nearly six months, equipped with
the blessing of Pastor Pringsheim, out there at the edge of the little
grove, beneath the sandstone cross, beneath the family arms. The
rain rustled the half-leafless trees in the avenue, and sometimes
gusts of wind drove it against the window-panes. All eight ladies
were dressed in black.
The little family had gathered to take leave of Gerda Buddenbrook,
who was about to leave the town and return to Amsterdam, to play
duets once more with her old father. No duties now restrained her.
Frau Permaneder could no longer oppose her decision. She said it
was right, she knew it must be so; but in her heart she mourned over
her sister-in-law’s departure. If the Senator’s widow had remained in
the town, and kept her station and her place in society, and left her
property where it was, there would still have remained a little
prestige to the family name. But let that be as it must, Frau Antonie
was determined to hold her head high while she lived and there were
people to look at her. Had not her grandfather driven with four horses
all over the country?
Despite the stormy life that lay behind her, and despite her weak
digestion, she did not look her fifty years. Her skin was a little faded
and downy, and a few hairs grew on her upper lip—the pretty upper
lip of Tony Buddenbrook. But there was not a white hair in the
smooth coiffure beneath the mourning cap.
Poor Clothilde bore up under the departure of her relative, as one
must bear up under the afflictions of this life. She took it with
patience and tranquillity. She had done wonders at the supper table,
and now she sat among the others, lean and grey as of yore, and
her words were drawling and friendly.
Erica Weinschenk, now thirty-one years old, was likewise not one to
excite herself unduly over her aunt’s departure. She had lived
through worse things, and had early learned resignation. Submission
was her strongest characteristic: one read it in her weary light-blue
eyes—the eyes of Bendix Grünlich—and heard it in the tones of her
patient, sometimes plaintive voice.
The three Misses Buddenbrook, Uncle Gotthold’s daughters, wore
their old affronted and critical air; Friederike and Henriette, the
eldest, had grown leaner and more angular with the years; while
Pfiffi, the youngest, now fifty-three years old, was much too little and
fat.
Old Frau Consul Kröger, Uncle Justus’ widow, had been asked too,
but she was rather ailing—or perhaps she had no suitable gown to
put on: one couldn’t tell which.
They talked about Gerda’s journey and the train she was to take;
about the sale of the villa and its furnishings, which Herr Gosch had
undertaken. For Gerda was taking nothing with her—she was going
away as she had come.
Then Frau Permaneder began to talk about life. She was very
serious and made observations upon the past and the future—
though of the future there was in truth almost nothing to be said.
“When I am dead,” she declared, “Erica may move away if she likes.
But as for me, I cannot live anywhere else; and so long as I am on
earth, we will come together here, we who are left. Once a week you
will come to dinner with me—and we will read the family papers.”
She put her hand on the portfolio that lay before her on the table.
“Yes, Gerda, I will take them over, and be glad to have them. Well,
that is settled. Do you hear, Tilda? Though it might exactly as well be
you who should invite us, for you are just as well off as we are now.
Yes—so it goes. I’ve struggled against fate, and done my best, and
you have just sat there and waited for everything to come round. But
you are a goose, you know, all the same—please don’t mind if I say
so—”
“Oh, Tony,” Clothilde said, smiling.
“I am sorry I cannot say good-bye to Christian,” said Gerda, and the
talk turned aside to that subject. There was small prospect of his
ever coming out of the institution in which he was confined, although
he was probably not too bad to go about in freedom. But the present
state of things was very agreeable for his wife. She was, Frau
Permaneder asserted, in league with the doctor; and Christian
would, in all probability, end his days where he was.
There was a pause. They touched delicately and with hesitation
upon recent events, and when one of them let fall little Johann’s
name, it was still in the room, except for the sound of the rain, which
fell faster than before.
This silence lay like a heavy secret over the events of Hanno’s last
illness. It must have been a frightful onslaught. They did not look in
each other’s eyes as they talked; their voices were hushed, and their
words were broken. But they spoke of one last episode—the visit of
the little ragged count who had almost forced his way to Hanno’s
bedside. Hanno had smiled when he heard his voice, though he
hardly knew any one; and Kai had kissed his hands again and again.
“He kissed his hands?” asked the Buddenbrook ladies.
“Yes, over and over.”
They all thought for a while of this strange thing, and then suddenly
Frau Permaneder burst into tears.
“I loved him so much,” she sobbed. “You don’t any of you know how
much—more than any of you—yes, forgive me, Gerda—you are his
mother.—Oh, he was an angel.”
“He is an angel, now,” corrected Sesemi.
“Hanno, little Hanno,” went on Frau Permaneder, the tears flowing
down over her soft faded cheeks. “Tom, Father, Grandfather, and all
the rest! Where are they? We shall see them no more. Oh, it is so
sad, so hard!”
“There will be a reunion,” said Friederike Buddenbrook. She folded
her hands in her lap, cast down her eyes, and put her nose in the air.
“Yes—they say so.—Oh, there are times, Friederike, when that is no
consolation, God forgive me! When one begins to doubt—doubt
justice and goodness—and everything. Life crushes so much in us, it
destroys so many of our beliefs—! A reunion—if that were so—”
But now Sesemi Weichbrodt stood up, as tall as ever she could. She
stood on tip-toe, rapped on the table; the cap shook on her old head.
“It is so!” she said, with her whole strength; and looked at them all
with a challenge in her eyes.
She stood there, a victor in the good fight which all her life she had
waged against the assaults of Reason: hump-backed, tiny, quivering
with the strength of her convictions, a little prophetess, admonishing
and inspired.
THE END
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