David Douglass, a 19th Century chameleon

The essence of the river is to always move forward. Those who travel upon it must sometimes stop to rest, and then can only watch the water move along without them.

So, you think you have a tough life, do you?

David Bates Douglass was a lover of books, a soldier during the War of 1812, a teacher, an engineer and, as will be obvious here, an explorer. Later in life, he became a college president. He also was a chameleon, it seems to me. Here are some words from one of his journals, these particular entries written in the year 1820 while on an expedition over land and water in what 38 years later would become the State of Minnesota.

By David Bates Douglass

July 12 – Took leave of the St. Louis (river) about 6 this morning and commenced the ascent of the Savanna (river). The difficulties of this river we had been taught to anticipate as even greater than those of the St. Louis, on account of the shags (growths of weeds) which break the canoes unless the water be very high .... The ascent was rather tedious, pushing the canoes forward with poles through a continual series of narrow short turns, but nothing more. The breadth of the river for 12 miles averages 12 to 20 yards. Beyond this its banks lose their upland character and become more open, inclining to marsh. A few miles further they become decidedly so, insomuch that in some places the river is almost lost among the high grass, reeds and wild rice. The water is always, however, sufficiently deep. At half past one we reached the portage 25 miles by the river and discharged our canoes.

A mile below the place of discharge the river separates into two branches both of which take their rise in the tamarack swamps a few miles on each side; we took the northern one. This portage for the 3 first poses is considered very bad, and the Doctor and myself went forward to ascertain the fact. For almost the first time we verify the representation in all its awful particulars. Going two hundred yards from the creek we found ourselves in a desperate tamarack swamp as full of water as a sponge. The poles which had been laid were of little service. The canoe men had to spread beyond them and the single loads hurt their feet on the rough sharp points so much that they betook themselves of choice to the mud.

The Doctor stopped at the first pose. I with my 100 pound pack as before pushed on, keeping to the poles as much as possible but obliged some times to quit them at the expense of footing myself in 2 ½ feet of quagmire. The second pose was much the worst and to add to the misery, a smart shower of rain came on when I was in the middle of it. Reaching the end I proceeded on without resting and soon after found myself on firm ground to the third pose. The canoes (3 of them) came up soon after and were carried two poses farther. This, with 7 kegs to the third and 3 to the first pose, completed the day's work which our pilot again considered a very great one. Returned to the creek where our tents had been pitched with every disposition to consider a supper of unleavened bread a real luxury and a bed in the wet earth a solid comfort – rain and mosquitoes to the contrary notwithstanding.

July 13 – Recommended the portage and by 12 o'clock got all our baggage over the three bad poses. Our men, however, suffer much fatigue .... By 6 in the afternoon continuing our labour we got up to the middle of the portage – road tolerable good. While the latter loads were bringing up, I walked forward to the end of the portage and paced off the distance and took the courses. The mosquitoes which had been very troublesome on the rivers St. Louis and Savanna became almost intolerable here. Joined to the sandflys and gnats, each vying with the other in the vigor of their attacks, they almost drove me crazy during the short time. We have here also a new enemy in a large sort of horsefly who pierces the skin with the pain almost equal to that of a wasp’s sting. No one who has not been exposed to a similar inconvenience can appreciate our suffering from these insects.

July 14 – The last night has been uncommonly cold for the season and the dews as we have lately experienced extremely heavy. Commenced the final work of the portage before 4 o’clock, and at 12 had conveyed everything far beyond the second pose from the end – nearly half were to the end of the portage when our walking party .... arrived with a party of Indians. They had been upwards of three days on the walk to Sandy Lake, the distance of which, from the Portage au Coteaux by their route, they estimated at nearly 70 miles. They speak of the great part of the country as marshy and marish (marshy) inclining to ponds in many places, and the woods as being greatly obstructed with windfalls.

Now, some more background information ....

David Bates Douglass was part of the Lewis Cass expedition of 1820 assigned by Secretary of War John C. Calhoun to explore the northern Great Lakes and go on into the upper Mississippi River region. I decided to post these journal entries for two reasons. To begin, this includes details of the portage from the St. Louis/Savanna rivers toward Sandy Lake, west of Duluth, Minnesota. I have "run" this portage, with the journal of David Douglass in my hand, and have first-hand acquaintance with the descendants of his horseflies and mosquitoes. (By the way, "Wolf Lake" is along the trail.)

The portage trail probably will be there forever, a deep rut, much of it in water ranging from ankle to knee deep, cut and worn by the feet of thousands of travelers over the course of thousands of years. The trail belonged to ancient Native Americans before we white boys took to it, and then later abandoned it for concrete highways.

The other reason is to illustrate that there is a very distinct difference between taking a float down a lazy river between point A and point B in a rented canoe, and retracing (if not actually reliving) history. Such experiences, for me, are undertaken to know and to feel as best as I am able the reality of those who have come before me.

Many places yet remain where it is possible to hear only the natural sounds of nature, to look at the sky and see no jet trails and, in that manner, jump 100 years or 10,000 years into the past. During such minutes, sometimes stretching even into days, it can as easily be yesterday as it is today. The only sense of time that exists is that which you allow to be in your mind. It is a glimpse of immortality.

Music Note: Listening to Lynyrd Skynyrd ....
Specifically: "Lynyrd Skynyrd – Pronounced Leh-Nerd Skin-Nerd"
The lyrics from "Free Bird:"

If I leave here tomorrow
Would you still remember me?
For I must be traveling on, now,
'Cause there's too many places I've got to see.
But, if I stay here with you, girl,
Things just couldn't be the same.
'Cause I'm as free as a bird now,
And this bird you can not change.
Ohhhhh And this bird you can not change.
And this bird you can not change.
Lord knows, I can't change.

Bye, bye, baby it's been a sweet love.
Though this feeling I can't change.
But please don't take it so badly,
'Cause Lord knows I'm to blame.
But, if I stay here with you girl,
Things just couldn't be the same.
Cause I'm as free as a bird now,
And this bird you'll never change.
Ohhhhh And this bird you can not change.
And this bird you can not change.
Lord knows, I can't change.

Etienne Brule, a 17th Century chameleon

Following the shadow of Etienne Brule: Much of the magnificence of the Lake Superior shoreline still exists today as it did yesterday.

He hunted and found a fantastic intangible ....

Today, I "hired" a fellow to write something for me. Bruce Catton was a journalist, a historian and a pretty remarkable guy. He won a Pulitzer Prize for his books about the Civil War. He was one of the founders of American Heritage magazine. He enjoyed writing about colorful characters. One of the characters he mentioned in one of his books was Etienne Brule, a Frenchman who came to America in 1608 at the age of 16. Brule spent more than 20 years wandering and exploring the wilderness. He was a chameleon of the first order and, undoubtedly, his contemporaries thought him to be more than a little queer. Basically, he saw the world for what it was, not for what other people told him it was. Meet Monsieur Brule.

By Bruce Catton

Etienne Brule .... had better luck. He hunted a fantastic intangible, found it, made the most of it, and vanished at last into bloodstained legend, his final thoughts unrecorded. He wanted to get to the fabulous back-of-beyond -- to discard everything he had been taught in seventeenth-century France and find out how it would go with a man who followed total loneliness into the loneliest forest on earth -- and he did precisely what he set out to do, which is more than most men ever do. The result was something he had not foreseen. Discarding civilization and making himself total uncivilized, he nevertheless dragged civilization after him, which is why no one today can go where he went and see what he saw. By escaping into the wholly primitive, he helped to destroy it ....

The interesting thing about this is that Brule himself begged (Samuel) Champlain to send him into the wilderness. It had bugged him, and it drew him on to a mutual catastrophe .... Brule saw something far beyond, and it was this far-beyond that he wanted. So away he went (in 1610 at age 18) -- up the Ottawa River, over Lake Nipissing, down the French River to Georgian Bay, along the coast to the pocket where the land runs north-northwest again to Lake Huron, which is deep and wide and blue and cold and deadly -- and he was the first white man to see any of this, the first to escape entirely from the tight limits of Europe, the first one free to explore himself under the guise of exploring a new land. This is very strong wine. It is much as if, today, a man landed on the moon and found the gates of fantasy wide open, with an enchanted garden waiting to be entered; if he went in, he might die there, and he knew this perfectly well; but as a young man, he also knew the final value of life better than the old do, so in he went, and there he died, and if he could have come back afterward, he would not have undone any of it ....

Brule had many adventures, obscure and apparently pointless. He wandered all over the high country, getting into Lake Superior and coasting along its magnificent and deadly shores, seeing the copper country .... and going to the great harbor that lies under the long sand bar behind which Duluth now climbs the hills to breath-taking beauty ....

He went back to the Huron country and turned south and east; got into up-state New York and was caught by a party of Iroquois, who prepared to torture him to death and began pulling out his beard by the handful, just to give him a foretaste. Brule threatened them with the wrath of the Great Spirit; at which moment, in the most unbelievable story-book fashion, a thunderhead that had climbed the sunny sky unnoticed exploded in a great blast of bumping noise and blinding fire, so that the Iroquois were suddenly converted and tried to atone. They untied him, gave him a big dinner, and sent him on his way with their best wishes.

He kept going .... and returned to the high country, where he lived here and there. It is easier to say this than it could possibly have been to do it. He was not just living among the Indians: he was living among an all but infinite number of different tribes of Indians, some of whom felt this way, while others felt that way. Make friends with one tribe, and you make enemies of another, and your life is poised on a knife edge, all the time. Also, the Indians had taboos, superstitions, and social codes that nobody knew about, and a man could lose his life if he pushed too hard against any of them.

For years, Brule played the game very well; that is, he stayed alive and had exactly the kind of life he wanted to have, becoming -- as happened afterward to many another man who wandered away from the settlements -- more Indian than the Indians. He seems to have disconnected himself completely from all his old ties. The English fought the French, and Brule did not know which side he was on, going with the English for a time and then at last picking up the old threads again with the French. In the end, he managed to make a fatal mistake in dealing with the Indians; if he could forget that he was a white man, they could not, and at last -- in a Huron town called Toanche, whose site is lost in the gloom of wilderness prehistory -- the red men found that they were mortally tired of him. They clubbed him to death, and then, according to legend, they ate him; so, in 1632, his story ended forever.

Music Note: Listening to Bob Seger ....
Specifically, "Against the Wind" ....
Some lines from: "Against the Wind:"

And the years rolled slowly past
And I found myself alone
Surrounded by strangers I thought were my friends
I found myself further and further from my home
And I guess I lost my way
There were oh so many roads
I was living to run and running to live
Never worried about paying or even how much I owed
Moving eight miles a minute for months at a time
Breaking all of the rules that would bend
I began to find myself searching
Searching for shelter again and again
Against the wind
A little something against the wind
I found myself seeking shelter against the wind

Well those drifter days are past me now
I've got so much more to think about
Deadlines and commitments
What to leave in, what to leave out

Against the wind
I'm still running against the wind
Well I'm older now and still
Against the wind

Dance resumes, chameleons unite & rock on

There were many emails, telephone calls, letters and smoke signals sent informing me how greatly the photograph of the dancers was appreciated. This was, of course, the photo showing Fram the First, Fram Actual and cousin Raisuli performing our infamous "Ghost Riders in the Sky" dance. An encore performance was requested by the management of the Doll Hut, and we had no recourse but to please our friends and our fans. So, shown here today, is a photo of our encore appearance. What? Oh. Yes. Right. There are four of us in this photo. That is cousin Andrii, son of Tarus, at the far end. He heard about all the adorable young ladies who call the Doll Hut their second home, and insisted on coming along. He is a bit of a show off, with a weakness for Polish princesses. I am sorry to have to admit there are a few among the Fram clan who are incapable of restraining their egos and unable to demonstrate a constant state of modesty.

The doorway to chameleon-land opens ....

Without yet having read the book, "Queer Theories" by Donald E. Hall, suggested by Rachael a couple of days ago in response to my commentaries about self-perception and the perception others might have of us, I feel like I am standing before a partially open doorway I knew might exist but never before actually noticed.

Simply from reading some of Rachael's interpretations of Hall's book and offering insights into her own rather unique life, I am amazed at the extent of the "chameleon" lives lived by some and the extent of the "queer" element as it enters into behavior patterns and habits.

Written by Rachael: "I have been many people in my years, living a variety of experiences that through choice or circumstance, has dictated how people perceive me. My differing selves reflect differing desires and goals that I have pursued. A certain awareness of these 'selves' has become apparent to me only recently."

Sound familiar? I think I said much the same only a few days ago here on this page, unaware that Rachael was engaged in the same self-examination.

More from Rachael: "Acknowledging our differing selves is not a 'multiple personality' disorder, rather the order by which we live our lives. It is being a chameleon, allowing a certain fluidity to govern our movement through time and circumstance. To accept this fluidity is to allow it to forever change our perception of our life, and from there, our world."

My own appearances as a chameleon have only been in an occupational or vocational sense, as best I am aware. Others, according to Hall's theories, might involve any number of activities or traits.

Rachael, in describing her own actions, went even a step further than I did in explaining her own abilities to walk two or more paths, whereas the "crowd" walks along the road as though it were a one-way street with no curves or crossroads. Like her, I know I have walked two distinctly separate paths more-or-less simultaneously, but did not mention that element in what I wrote in my earlier posts. Possibly, I omitted it because my post was getting to be pretty long; possibly, I left it out because I did not have the courage to mention it.

I am anticipating learning more when I read Hall's book and from Rachael, if she chooses to write more. I am particularly curious about motivations behind people becoming chameleons here and there along the way during their lifetimes. My own motivations have not involved deception (except, possibly, self-deception). Neither did my purpose involve any hope to gain money, friendship nor special status, which seems to me the most common reasons some might employ it. My motivation always has been to gain experience and to learn and, once having become an insider to a particular world, to excel, simply because I always have been competitive. Beyond that is the ultimate reason, the search to discover self-meaning and a true home.

I think this book by Donald Hall might be a good place for a few others who cannot seem to find a permanent niche in life to open and to read. Nothing to lose; maybe a little self-understanding to gain.

One out of 10 ain’t bad. Or is it?

It should be evident that the past three months have been a period (sort) of girl hunting and (very much) of introspection for me. In that sense, for the fun of it, I decided to come up with a list of 10 things I wish I would have done differently during the past 20 or 25 years. This is not a "big deal" list, such as marrying Jane instead of Judy, but rather an odds and ends list of a few things I wish I would not have missed out on.

As some might guess, heading this list is wishing I had attended more rock concerts. I saw enough professional football, baseball and hockey games to handle my requirements, although a few more would be nice. (Notice, no professional basketball games.) I have seen any number of stage performances, both those professionally done and amateur college or community productions. But, I've never been to an opera or a ballet, and have those on my next 20- to 25-year list. Mostly, however, I am thinking rock concerts. I have seen a number of the big-name and the best bands to come down the pike, but I wish it would have been at least twice as many.

Next on the list .... You know, right now, off the top of my head, I cannot think of anything else I missed out on that bothers me all that much. I guess that means I get nine free passes for something, or maybe just add items to this list later.

Music Note: Listening to Thin Lizzy ....
Specifically, "Wild One: The Very Best of Thin Lizzy" ....
Some lines from: "The Boys Are Back in Town:"

That jukebox in the corner blasting out my "favorite song"
The nights are getting warmer, it won't be long
Won't be long till summer comes
Now that the boys are here again

The boys are back in town
The boys are back in town
The boys are back in town
The boys are back in town
The boys are back in town
The boys are back in town
Spread the word around
The boys are back in town
The boys are back in town
The boys are back, the boys are back

The boys are back in town again
Been hangin' down at Dino's
The boys are back in town again

Ghost riders, end of newspapers & en guarde

I cannot resist bringing you another photograph of Fram the First and Fram Actual enjoying an evening on the town. Many people in this neck of the woods are aware of our talent on the dance floor. Hardly had we entered the Doll Hut the other night when we were approached by a bevy of beautiful young ladies and asked to dance. The two of us, I mean, and no wisecracks. Got it? Anyway, we decided to perform one of the numbers we had learned as mere boys. It is called "Ghost Riders in the Sky." Here is a photographic record of our performance. What? Oh. Yes. Right. There are three of us in the photo. No sooner had we begun the dance when we were joined on the floor by cousin Raisuli. He recently had shaved his beard at the demand of his girlfriend, Eden Pedecaris, and was out on the town looking for solace. You might also note this is a very rare photo of Raisuli because it does not show him with his sword in his hand.

Newspapers are a good place to be from ....

As I prepare to depart from what almost certainly is my last job on a daily newspaper, I am thinking about a commentary written by Diva a few days ago. Read it, if you at all have been a newspaper fan during your lifetime.

Some of the words that follow I posted in response to Diva's column, and want to use them again here, as well as to add a few more. I used to think that only a few national dailies and some small, "home town-type" newspapers would survive the obvious decline in traditional journalism, but I am no longer sure even those will last. For some time, I've been adjusting to the idea of a world without an actual newspaper delivered to my door.

I began my journalism "career" as a high school sports writer. You might imagine my stories: "Led by the Fabulous Fram, our team clocked the bad boys last night." Nothing like being the reporter writing about yourself.

By the time I was a junior in high school, my morning regimen was coffee and toast while reading the Minneapolis Tribune. (Cigarettes came a few years later.)

In college, I did a bit of writing for the campus newspaper, not so much news as book and movie reviews. My first year out of college, I spent in a classroom teaching English and history. Did not like it. Mostly, what I disliked was being "locked" in a classroom all day long. I began looking for newspaper work, and found a weekly that would take me. A mere 10 months later, I jumped ship again and went to a daily. And, so it began.

Over a span of years, with some "sabbaticals" interrupting newspaper time, I worked on weeklies and dailies: small, medium and large. I promise you, working on a small-town weekly is by far the most difficult. You do every job there is to do, and you pretty much are doing it free of charge.

I have been a reporter, both general and investigative. I have been the editor of a medium-size daily. I have written straight news, sports, opinion pieces (editorials) and been a columnist. I have won a few awards from state and national journalism associations.

Being a reporter was fun. Running around, meeting people, interviewing people, being in the midst of some exiting events like a forest fire or a police stand-off, meeting some famous sports figures, political figures and literary figures, learning every aspect of local government and knowing just about everything going on in a community cannot be beat as enjoyable work.

In a newsroom, however, what money there is to be found comes from desk work -- editing, bossing, putting the paper together. I could not resist the money and moved up. When I think about it, I would rather I had not made the change. Money is money; being alive is more important. Just like teaching, newspaper desk work means being caged all day, meeting very few and learning very little. (Do I see stones flying through the air?) Works for many (obviously), not for me.

Now, traditional journalism is being replaced by a little real news and much junk news via the computer screen. This, I think, is an actual crime because there is absolutely no responsibility or accountability associated with who posts what on the internet. Political fanatics (people far beyond mere partisans) spread lies, hatred and propaganda onto the internet and call it facts and news.

You and your children and grandchildren, as they say, will have to live with it. In that sense, I feel sorry for you and your children and your grandchildren.

Back to me. For one reason or another, I have left journalism and newspaper work a few times along the way. I am doing it again, thinking (actually, knowing) it will be for the last time. There will be no more traditional newspapers to come back to in a few years.

As I told Diva, this does not bother me, because I have left newspapers a few times in the past and jumped into new places and new times and new work. I anticipate doing that again somewhere along the line between six months and a year from now.

When I was in junior high school, the brother of a friend of mine came home after being discharged from the U.S. Army 101st Airborne. From my friend, I had heard about his brother's adventures since his first day at jump school. I asked the elder brother if he had liked the Army, fully expecting him to say something to the effect that it had been great. His reply, made with a straight face and his eyes looking away from me, was, "It's a good place to be from." His words had a startling impact on me at the time. Those words sort of describe my feeling now, today, about newspapers.

But, like Diva, I will miss their presence and being able to sit down and read them over coffee and toast in the morning.

En guarde, you scoundrel ....

How many read my "Scaramouche" words, I have no idea, but one additional thought came to mind with hindsight. I have "played" with swordsmanship myself. I participated in the fencing club my final year in college. It came about accidentally through choosing a fencing class as one of the physical education requirements, liking it and being asked to join the club. Another element I have in common with Andre-Louis. I just hope the ending to my story is as satisfactory as was his.

Music Note: Listening to .38 Special ....
Specifically, "Special Forces" ....
Some lines from: "Caught Up In You:"

I'm so caught up in you
Little girl
Fill your days and your nights
No need to ever ask me twice
oh no
Whenever you want me
And if ever, comes a day
When you should turn and walk away
Oh no
I can't live without you
I’m so caught up in you

Dance with me, baby & living Scaramouche

Since mentioning my childhood, there have been requests to know what I looked like back then. After pouring through virtually thousands of photographs, I have selected a pair to include with this post. At the left, you see me on what purportedly was my first real date. Naturally, I took the young lady dancing. Notice, if you will, please, how intently I stare into the young lady's eyes. They simply melt when I give them that look. Over on the right, we have a photo of Fram the First and Fram Actual practicing for our debut recital at Philharmonic Hall in Oslo, Norway. We looked so much alike back then, I am no longer certain which of us is which. No matter. We both rock.

Laughter grows in proportion to madness ....

(Being more-or-less a continuation of Saturday's piece, "The gift of laughter in a mad world.")

Andre-Louis, the "real-life" man in a novel; Scaramouche, a devilish clown, full of bravado: Two separate actual identities within one body or simply a skilled role player? Here is a master with a sword and an avenging killer with a sword; a leader, both political and real; a man who has never known his parents, a man who has seen his best friend killed, and man who just misses love.

There is no reason to go through the plot of the novel, "Scaramouche," in detail since it is the character which is most important here. The character is complex and multi-faceted, and takes on many roles during the course of the book. A few points:

Andre-Louis has been raised by his godfather, and has no knowledge of the identity of his mother or father. He swears to avenge the death of his best friend at the hands of a Marquis. He becomes a voice in the movement which later erupts into the French Revolution. He is forced into hiding because of his political activities, and finds shelter among a troupe of traveling actors. There, he dons an actual mask and assumes the role of Scaramouche -- a fool, a rogue, a clown. Along the course of the novel, Andre-Louis becomes a master of the sword, takes a seat in the post-revolution senate and proceeds to do away with the bad guys through a series of duels. Without revealing the twists and turns and surprises, Andre-Louis learns the identity of both his mother and father as the book concludes. Love, too, is found, in case you were curious.

Everyone has many roles in life, generally conventional roles such as parent, spouse, co-worker, possibly that of a supervisor, friend, enemy and on and on. Through these roles, perceptions are made about how we view ourselves and how others view us. But, how many of us purposely don a mask, as did Scaramouche, to hide ourselves? Scaramouche literally wore a mask. Most who wear them do so in a figurative sense. How many people lose themselves because they choose to wear a mask rather than to be themselves?

I am thinking more of the obvious here, at least in my own case. Why did I choose the Marine Corps when I was within a breath of going into the Air Force. It was not rough and tough vs. baby blue, either. Had I gone into the Air Force, I was signed up for para-rescue. These are the guys who chopper or jump in to pull out downed pilots in hot combat zones, or secure crash sites and assist survivors. My decision to become a Marine came because of my own self-perception of being more of a fighter than a rescuer. There are many instances where I know the perception by others of me being a Marine stereotypical gunman rather than an Air Force stereotypical electronics expert was the result of my decision about which branch to join and affected our relationships.

Another instance of perception is evident to me because I have worked in journalism and because I have been in charge of a prison unit which housed inmates who had committed every crime known to mankind. In the context of casual conversations or typical relationships, which do you suppose I will talk about freely or describe? How has simply stating this "other role" here on this page possibly (or probably) changed someone's perception of me?

More to the point of me, myself and I, what is it that compels me to search out varied experiences, which is another way of saying, compels me to wear many masks? What is my intent for doing this? My goal for doing this? Am I even in control of these decisions, or does something keep pushing me to change directions at nearly every crossroad? It is much more than hopping aboard a tour bus and visiting all the sites; it is hopping off the bus for a while now and then to actually experience and to be a functioning part of the site.

It no longer is any more uncommon for a person to have two or three careers rather rather than a single one, than it is uncommon for a person to have two or three long-term partners. One of the few things I am absolutely certain of is that I still have more masks to wear, and while I am wearing them, they will be real and not be a masquerade. What that will do to my self-perception and the perception others have of me, I am less certain.

The overriding factor here is my belief there is specific reason I am the way I am, which I think is true for each of us. I do not mean a genetic reason, either. If it were that simple, I would buy a boat, hoist the mainsail and let it run with the wind. I mean, while we all are linked by the commonality of being earthbound, mortal humans, I sense a certain spark that makes each of us a separate and unique entity -- each of us a snowflake, if you like, and I want to define my snowflake (if I am able) before it melts.

From the last few pages of "Scaramouche"

"But where will you go? What will you do?"

"Oh, something. Consider that in four years I have been lawyer, politician, swordsman, and buffoon -- especially the latter. There is always a place in the world for Scaramouche. Besides, do you know that unlike Scaramouche I have been oddly provident? I am the owner of a little farm in Saxony. I think that agriculture might suit me. It is a meditative occupation; and when all is said, I am not a man of action. I haven't the qualities for the part."

She looked up into his face, and there was a wistful smile in her deep blue eyes.

"Is there any part for which you have not the qualities, I wonder?"

"Do you really? Yet you cannot say that I have made a success of any of those which I have played. I have always ended by running away. I am running away now from a thriving fencing-academy, which is likely to become the property of Le Duc. That comes of having gone into politics, from which I am also running away. It is the one thing in which I really excel. That, too, is an attribute of Scaramouche ...."

Music Note: Listening to a classic rock music station on the radio ....
Currently playing: "The World I Know" by Collective Soul ....