Tuesday, February 12, 2019

KDP vs the Deseret Alphabet

I finally stopped trying to second-guess KDP. I asked why they didn't like my cover. The response that I got was that they simply can't handle Deseret materials yet.

This seems weird. I was able to buy an author's proof copy without any difficulty. My only guess is that they are locked into the idea of anything published through KDP being available as a Kindle book, and they don't have the fonts. Or maybe they don't have astral plane compatibility. Or maybe they don't have anyone trained to make sure I haven't slipped obscenities or other objectionable material into my book. Or maybe they just didn't understand my question.

I'm tired of all this. (I tire easily.) I'm throwing in the towel and moving back to Lulu. They take a bigger cut of the sales, and they have a higher minimum price. I don't like that. I'd like to make these volumes available for much less; I really feel badly about charging people $30 for something like this. I'm open to suggestions.

Meanwhile, it's the Deseret Alphabet edition of Dante's Divine Comedy, as translated by Longfellow is available now.

And yes, the volume number on the spine and front cover is incorrect. I will fix that when I get the opportunity—and the strength. I'm really tired of the whole thing right now.

Saturday, January 19, 2019

Kindle Direct Publishing vs the Deseret Alphabet

CreateSpace was long my go-to site for print-on-demand publishing. I started off with Lulu but found them unsatisfactory for reasons I no longer remember. CreateSpace was perfect.

CreateSpace was owned by Amazon. They recently opted to either fold it into or turn it into Kindle Direct Publishing. That per se is not an issue.

The KDP set-up process is actually a little more streamlined and easier than CreateSpace's had been. So far so good.

The format check for KDP is live. With CreateSpace, you submitted your cover and internal files for inspection and waited up to a day for the results. This is nice.

Once the inspection was passed, you could then and can now order proof copies. No changes there.

The problem is that KDP does a detailed content check after all that. That can take days. They will also reject books because of problems that occur. They count blank pages. They check page numbers. That could be a bit awkward under some circumstances. Worst of all, they check the printed book's title with what you called it at set-up. That has been causing no end of grief.

The project's title (including subtitle) is, say, The Divine Comedy (Deseret Alphabet Edition). Perfect for trying to find it on Amazon or other booksellers.

The cover has both that title and 𐐜 𐐔𐐼𐑂𐐮𐑌 𐐗đȘ𐑋đČđŒđš. So far so good.

The title page, however, simply has đœ 𐐔𐐼𐑂𐐮𐑌 𐐗đȘ𐑋đČđŒđš, and now we have a problem. I get an email back from them saying that the language of the title page and the language of the project's name do not match. (Strictly speaking, the script of the project title and the title page don't match, but we'll let that slide.) This bugs me. For me, the title page is intended to be a reproduction of the original's title page, just in a different script. Now I need to have both scripts present on the title page.

Even worse, the script of the spine and the project title don't match. Now I'm getting really annoyed, because I have to have both on the spine now, or just the Latin title and that's even worse.

Even worser worse, I haven't completed the final round of their review and therefore don't know if there is something else I'm missing, because their error report is a little on the vague side by simply saying that something is wrong then pointing you to their instructions, viz.:

Book details

Make sure the information in your interior and cover files exactly matches the book details (e.g., title, author name, ISBN, language) you entered during title setup. 

  1. Compare the book details you entered with the information in your manuscript an on your cover. Be sure to check all locations where book details appear (e.g., copyright page, headers, etc.).
  2. Correct any differences, including minor ones (e.g., author name John T. Smith entered in book details and J.T. Smith on the title page).
  3. Be sure to check all locations where book details appear (e.g., copyright page, headers, etc.).
  4. Update your book details or upload your revised file to KDP.
Check all locations? Headers‽‽ My headers usually have something like author name/chapter title. That won't match. In the hypothetical case we're considering, I have book title/canto number (as in Hell/Canto I). Are they going to ding me for that? Can't they just tell me where they want something different and keep me from having to double-guess?

So that's where I am with Dante. I keep adding the Latin title in more and more places and every time they say that something is wrong. I'm down to the spine. If that's not enough, I don't know what to do.
Maybe go back to Lulu.


Saturday, January 5, 2019

A Deseret Ee-ay-ah-aw-ary

One of the more minor challenges I faced when writing up the original proposal to add the Deseret Alphabet to the Unicode standard was that every character in Unicode has to have a unique identifier. They have to be written with upper-case ASCII letters, spaces, digits, hyphens, and nothing else. (It's a bit more complex than that; see http://www.unicode.org/reports/tr31/ for all the gory details.) Identifiers can be descriptive (as in “LATIN CAPITAL LETTER M” for M, or “GREEK CAPITAL LETTER ETA WITH DASIA AND VARIA AND PROSGEGRAMMENI” for ៛) or arbitrary (as in CJK UNIFIED IDEOGRAPH-4E95 for äș•). They can be misspelled (as in “PRESENTATION FORM FOR VERTICAL RIGHT WHITE LENTICULAR BRAKCET” for ). The two things they absolutely must be are unique and stable. 

This strikes many people as odd. Why can’t something obviously wrong be fixed? The reason is straightforward: character identifiers aren’t meant for end-users. Rather, they’re intended largely for documentation of other standards and specifications. These things can go unchanged for decades—which is practically forever in computer years—and still be in force. As such, it can be more difficult to implement a specification from 2000 if a Unicode character it references changed its name in 2001. The Unicode Technical Committee learned this the hard way.

As for end users and UIs, they can call things whatever they want. Unicode doesn’t care. Much.

By and large, if the people who actually use a particular character have a standard name they like to use for it, that usually provides a good basis for its identifier. 

Now, in the case of the Deseret Alphabet, going by the charts published in the 1860s, there are some wrinkles. 

Deseret Alphabet ChartThe charts start off with six letters which are labeled “Long Sounds”: 𐐀 𐐁 𐐂 𐐃 𐐄 𐐅. These are given the names “e (as in eat)”, “a (as in ate)”, “ah (as in art)”, “aw (as in aught)”, “o (as in oat),” and “oo (as in ooze),” respectively. With one glaring exception, this isn’t too bad. Standard English doesn’t have a word that sounds like “oot,” but otherwise using common words formed by adding a -t sound to the vowel is pretty good. The one problem—and it is a big one—is “art.”

Note to publishers of English phonetic charts: Never illustrate the pronunciation of a vowel by pairing it up with an R. Seriously. Don’t do it. Not only does the English R sound seriously screw up any vowel it happens to follow, but English dialects vary wildly as to when they pronounce an R and when they drop it. I’m going to go out on a limb here, but I’m willing to bet that the New England English of Noah Webster, Brigham Young, Orson Pratt and pals—and George D. Watt’s Manchester English—were non-rhotic and dropped the R in “art.” My Utah English is rhotic and leaves it in.

The next six letters are marked as “Short Sounds of the above:” 𐐆, 𐐇, 𐐈, 𐐉, 𐐊, and 𐐋. They are not given names, but the sounds are marked as “as in it,” “as in et,” “as in at,” “as in ot,” “as in ut,” and “as in book.” Things are starting to look a little weird here. Not only are we dropping our attempts at using real words to illustrate the sounds, but some of the parallels don’t make sense. In modern English the vowel of “it” is not the short form of the vowel in “eat.”

The villain here is the Great Vowel Shift, which, over a comparatively short period of time, shuffled some of the vowel sounds in English.  Prior to the Great Vowel Shift, the long-I sound was indeed the vowel now in “eat,” as is true in most Indo-European languages other than English (and the IPA). The vowel arrangement of the Deseret Alphabet is based on the work of Sir Isaac Pitman, and it’s Pitman who is responsible for doing something which makes sense in terms of general linguistics instead of modern English phonetics. 

We won’t even touch the nasty issue of what sound 𐐉 is intended to represent

When naming these twelve letters, I opted to give them names which emphasize the parallel structure, which meant using names that make more sense for the short vowels than the long ones. As a result we have LONG I, LONG E, LONG A, LONG AH, LONG O, LONG OO, SHORT I, SHORT E, SHORT A, SHORT AH, SHORT O, and SHORT OO. Not the best job possible, I freely admit. I would do it differently now.

The remaining twenty-six letters do not have their organization explained, although they do have a logical order and are given names. 

First are two diphthongs (𐐌, 𐐍), named “i (as in ice),” and “ow (as in owl).” They ended up as AY and OW, just to make the sounds a bit clearer, although DESERET CAPITAL LETTER I AS IN ICE would have been a legal Unicode identifier. 

(In a forty-letter version of the Deseret Alphabet, the letters 𐐊 [OI] and 𐐧 [EW], being diphthongs, would presumably be grouped with these two.)

Next are two semivowels, 𐐎, and 𐐏, named “woo” and “ye” respectively without examples. It’s pretty clear what sounds they’re for; however, why I changed them to WU and YEE is not at all clear. I suppose WU is because that’s the standard spelling these days for the Mandarin pronunciation of Chinese surnames like 搳 and 䌍. I have weird priorities sometimes. YEE is probably to make it clear that this is pronounced like the pronoun, with which ye are all familiar; but YE would have done that, too. 

Note that YEE originally came before WU. Apparently it was changed at the behest of Brigham Young, who couldn’t conceive of a reason for them not to be in the same order as their Latin counterparts. 

Then comes 𐐐, which is sui generis, sound-wise. The charts say its name is “h,” but does that mean we should pronounce the name “aitch,” as we are wont to do? I’ll get back to that. In the meantime, the Unicode name is H.

Next come eight “stops.” I have to use quotes here, because modern phoneticians do not classify two of them as stops. The name “stop” comes from the fact that pronouncing them involves completely blocking the airflow.

The first four stops (𐐑, 𐐒, 𐐓, and 𐐔) are named “p,” “b,” “t,” and “d,” with no examples given. It’s not unreasonable to assume that the Deseret names for these letters are the same as the English names of their Latin counterparts. There’s corroboration for that assumption, too. Remember, Deseret has the (stupid) spelling convention that if a word is pronounced the same as a particular letter’s name, that letter can be used for the whole word. I know that using 𐐒 for be (as in “to or not to, that is the question”) and bee (as in Apis mellifera) is attested in printed materials. I’m pretty sure that 𐐓 for tea (as in “a drink with jam and”) is attested. There is a non-zero probability that 𐐑 for pea (as in “eating with a knife”) is out there somewhere in 19th century materials, but I won’t hold my breath for pee (as in “I really need to”), if you see what I mean. 

The next two letters are the stops-that-aren’t, 𐐕, and 𐐖, called “che (as in cheese),” and “g.” The latter isn’t given an example, but it’s used for the J in, well, “John,” and the Latin letter G has the English name  /ˈdʒiː/, so I think that it’s clear what’s intended. This is, I should point out, also analogous to the names of the preceding four letters. 

These six in Unicode are accordingly named PEE, TEE, BEE, DEE, CHEE, and JEE. 

The final two stops using a different naming convention. They’re called “k” and “ga as in gate.” The Latin equivalent of the former has the English name /ˈkeÉȘ/, which rhymes with /ˈgeÉȘ/, and that starts out the word “gate.” It would be nice if we had an attestation of 𐐘 for gay (as in “don we now our apparel” or “LGBT”), but we don’t that I know of, and that’s rather a pity.

In Unicode, these are KAY and GAY.

Note that these eight letters are organized into pairs, depending on where the airflow is blocked (by the lips, by the front teeth, and so on), moving from the front of the mouth backwards. Each pair consists of an unvoiced member (pronounced without the vocal cords vibrating) and a voiced member (pronounced with vocal cord vibrations). You can tell the difference between unvoiced and voice consonants if you hold your fingers on your larynx while you speak. 

The eight following letters (𐐙, 𐐚, 𐐛, 𐐜, 𐐝, 𐐞, 𐐟, and 𐐠) are fricatives. They are organized like the stops, by point of articulation (front to back) and in unvoiced/voiced pairs. Fricatives are articulated by forcing the air through a narrow opening rather than stopping it completely. The first and third pair are given names (“f,” “v,” “s,” “z”). The second and fourth pair are given examples, too: “eth (as in thigh),” “the (as in thy),” “esh (as in flesh),” and “zhe (as in vision).” I’m aware of only one of these eight letters being used for a word—or, rather, for two words. 𐐜 is used both for the (the definite article) and thee (the archaic second person singular pronoun).  The former, of course, can be pronounced the same way as the latter even though it usually isn’t—but remember that in the 19th century, Deseret spellings were for the “full” pronunciations of words, the ones we use when speaking very slowly and clearly. 

If we assume that the four with one-letter names have Deseret names like the English names of their Latin counterparts, we get the pattern used by Unicode: EF, VEE, ETH, THEE, ES, ZEE, ESH, ZHEE.

Five letters left. The first two (𐐥 and 𐐹) are termed liquids, and are named “ur (as in burn),” and “l.” It would be nice if there were an attestation of the former being used by itself to write the name of Abraham’s home town; I suppose that might be buried in the Church archives somewhere. I certainly neglected to do it myself when I transcribed the Pearl of Great Price and Old Testament. I have also not used 𐐏 for ye as I should. I hope there aren’t any others. 

The two liquids ended up in Unicode as ER and EL. 

Finally, we have three nasals 𐐣, 𐐀, and 𐐄, consonants pronounced with the unstinted coöperation of the nose, said to be “m,” “n,” and “eng (as in length).” Unicode calls them EM, EN, and ENG. 

All-in-all, then we have:

Fourteen letters with a one-letter name and no sound exemplar.

Four letters with a one-letter name and sound exemplar. 

Two letters with a multi-letter name and no sound exemplar.

Twelve letters with a multi-letter name and sound exemplars.

Six letters with no name at all but sound exemplars. These are all the short vowels, and it is likely that the intention is that, like the long vowels, their name is the sound they make. 

For thirteen of the fourteen letters with one-letter names and no sound exemplar, it is possible to infer from other evidence that the name is intended to be the same as the English name of the corresponding Latin letter. The exception is 𐐐, which is given the name “h.” So, what to do here?

If we make an exception to the pattern and assume that its Deseret name is not the English name of its Latin counterpart—what is its name?

If we follow the pattern and call it /ˈeÉȘtʃ/, then it is the only letter in the Deseret alphabet whose name does not contain the sound it makes. That might seem disastrously bad until one remembers that it its Latin counterpart has that property, too, and is also unique in so doing.

The most obvious thing is to call it /ˈeÉȘtʃ/ and live with the weirdness. (Not that we really have to. We don’t have to be bound by the hoary ways of our long-dead ancestors. We can call it whatever we want: “What-you-may-call-um,” or “What-was-his-name,” or maybe “Thing-um-a-jig.” If we want to be rude, we could even resort to epithets like “Candle-ends,” or even—dare we say it?—“Toasted-cheese.” Personally, I like the sound of the name “Huh”. )

There is, fortunately, one other solution. Just as some people call the last letter of the standard English alphabet /ˈziː/ and some call it /ˈzɛd/, there are places where the eighth letter is called /ˈheÉȘtʃ/, such as Ireland and Newfoundland. Most Australians call it /ˈheÉȘtʃ/, too. (I don’t know about New Zealand.)

Well, let’s follow the Irish for once, say I. After all, Michael Everson is Irish. Besides, I’m still mulling over the idea of moving to Newfoundland two years later. /ˈheÉȘtʃ/ it is.

So there you have it: thirty-eight letters, thirty-eight names: 

/ˈiː/, /ˈeÉȘ/, /ˈɑ/, /ˈɔ/, /ˈoʊ/, /ˈuː/,

/ˈÉȘ/, /ˈɛ/, /ˈÊ/, /ˈɒ/, /ˈʌ/, /ˈʊ/, 

/ˈaÉȘ/, /ˈaʊ/, /ˈwuː/, /ˈjiː/, /ˈheÉȘtʃ/,

/ˈpiː/, /ˈbiː/, /ˈtiː/, /ˈdiː/, /ˈtʃiː/, /ˈdʒiː/, /ˈkeÉȘ/, /ˈgeÉȘ/,

/ˈɛf/, /ˈviː/, /ˈɛξ/, /ˈðiː/, /ˈɛs/, /ˈziː/, /ˈɛʃ/, /ˈʒiː/, 

/ˈʌr/, /ˈɛl/, /ˈɛm/, /ˈɛn/, /ˈɛƋ/

Oh, and what about an actual abecedary? Well, it depends on your definition there. Some dictionaries say that it’s just a written-out list of the letters of the alphabet. Others say that it can be used for an alphabet book or primer. You know, ‘“A’ is for Apple” through “‘Z’ is for Zizzer-Zazzer-Zuzz,” that sort of thing. The former is easy enough. How about the latter?

Well, funny you should ask. It turns out that such a thing isn’t possible. 

First of all, there’s the letter 𐐉. The simple fact of the matter is that it doesn’t occur in modern Utah English at all. It’s just not a sound we make. Ever. I can’t even say it without some effort, and even then, I’m not sure I’m doing it correctly. 

Now, strictly speaking, we don’t distinguish 𐐂 from 𐐃, either, so one or the other of those should go. The difference, though, is that the dictionaries I use for reference do make the distinction between 𐐂 and 𐐃. A number of dialects east of the Mississippi still have not undergone the cot-caught merger. (Or the caught-cot merger, if you prefer.) None of my dictionaries, however—none at all—use 𐐉 anywhere. It’s just that rare nowadays in American English. The father-bother merger is all-but complete.

Beyond that, there are three problematic letters: 𐐋, 𐐠, and 𐐄. None of these occur in native English words in initial position. 𐐋 doesn’t seem to occur in final position, either. That rather puts a damper on things. Still, it isn’t an insuperable problem. I have seen alphabet books unwilling to use either “X-ray” or “xylophone” for X; and as for “Xerxes,” that’s a rather obscure reference for preschoolers these days. (“Xerxy, Perxy, Turxy, Xerxy, Linxy, lurxy, Great King Xerxes!” Thank you, Edward Lear.) The solution is to use a word with an X in the middle, something like, “X is for existential crisis.” It’s clumsy, but it works, and it gives us the option of “𐐋 is for book,” “𐐠 is for beige,” and “𐐄 is for sing.” 

I may some day write an actual abecedarium for the Deseret Alphabet. Meanwhile, I give you, the Deseret Alphabet Song:



The music is Twelve Variations on “Ah vous dirai-je, Maman”, K. 265/300e, by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, and we even arranged for his corpse to be playing the harpsichord. (We spared no expense.) The singer is Hatsune Miku, the Japanese superstar. She has some trouble with English vowels, but otherwise we’re pleased with her performance. (For those who find her usual outfit immodest—we’re disappointed in that, too, and wish we could have convinced her to wear something more appropriate, like a longer skirt. She’s a sweet kid, though.)

Tuesday, January 1, 2019

Happy Public Domain Day!

Over the course of my lifetime, copyright law in the United States has undergone a complex evolution. Overall, this has meant that works effectively stopped entering the public domain. In 1979, everything published in the United States in 1921 or earlier was in the public domain. As 31 December 2018, the public domain had grown by exactly one year.

Large corporations, most notably Disney, fought for the last copyright extension back in 1998. Over the past few years, there have been some fears that they'd try for another extension. They didn't. As of today, therefore, anything published in the United States in 1923 is now in the public domain. From now on, each January 1st, another year of material will be available.

More details on what's been going on and what will happen next are available here.

Naturally, since the Deseret Alphabet Classics series has the public domain as its life-blood, this makes a difference to me. As of yesterday, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's The Case for Spirit Photography was beyond the pale and unavailable for transliteration without express permission. Today it's not. (I know we have all been anxious to read it in the Deseret Alphabet.)

In practice, I don't know that I'll attempt anything published in 1923 over the course of the coming year. Ultimately that's not the point. The purpose of copyright law, as stated in the US Constitution, is "to promote the Progress of Science and useful Arts, by securing for limited Times to Authors and Inventors the exclusive Right to their respective Writings and Discoveries" (Article I, Section 8). There has been wide-spread feeling that indefinitely long copyrights stifles creativity, rather than encouraging it. Creativity has made one small step forward today. It's "Happy Birthday" all over again.

Wednesday, September 26, 2018

Deep in Dante, Behind on XKCD. Also Twitter. Also Also Bumper Stickers

Unfortunately, personal matters have greatly affected my ability to spend time on Deseret Alphabet projects this past year or so. As a result, I've got more than one backlog.

First of all, transcriptions of books are backlogged. I've got several irons in this fire right now:
  • Longfellow's translation of Dante's Divine Comedy
  • The Rape of the Lock and The Dunciad by Alexander Pope
  • The Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin
Given Dante's length, I'm working on that simultaneously with (at the moment) The Rape of the Lock and The Dunciad. So far as Dante is concerned, I'm fifteen cantos into the Purgatorio, so coming up on half-way. Both “The Rape of the Lock” and “The Dunciad” are short, so I’m most likely going to get to Benjamin Franklin’s autobiography within a couple of weeks.

As always, suggestions are welcome. Works have to be in the public domain with an on-line source available; this is why I'm not using the excellent Folger Shakespeare Library’s excellent texts for the Shakespeare I've done. Shakespeare is in the public domain; the Folger Shakespeare is not. 

I do prefer not to do translations, unless the translation is considered an exceptional work in English as well as in the original language. Longfellow’s Dante is a borderline example of that. Edward FitzGerald’s RubĂĄiyĂĄt of Omar KhayyĂĄm would be another, or Pope’s Homer.

On the XKCD front, I'm very far behind—about seven months, actually. (Technically, I'm further behind than that, as there are the first 657 that haven't been covered, and that is something like four or five years.) I've started catching up, but it's going to be a long time before I'm fully there. Because I'm so far behind, I'm more likely than usual to skip complicated strips.

In order to expedite letting people know of new transcriptions, I've set up a Twitter account for announcing them. The handle is @DeseretAlphabet. It might be asked why I don't go on Facebook and use the Facebook group for the Deseret Alphabet to make announcements. I refuse to do Facebook. There are reasons for that. I won't say more.

Finally, I've been reminded that I've got two bumper stickers up on Zazzle for people interested in that sort of thing. They are:
So far, nobody has honked.

Sunday, December 25, 2016

A Story for Christmas

𐐜 đ˜đźđ‘đ» đČ𐑂 𐑄 đŁđ©đŸđŽ

đș𐐎 𐐄. 𐐐𐐯𐑌𐑉𐐹

𐐎đČ𐑌 đŒđ«đ‘ŠđČ𐑉 đ°đ‘ŒđŒ 𐐩𐐻𐐚-𐑅𐐯𐑂đČ𐑌 đ‘…đŻđ‘Œđ»đ‘…. đœđ°đ» 𐐶đČ𐑆 𐐫𐑊. đˆđ‘ŒđŒ 𐑅𐐟𐐿𐑅𐐻𐐚 đ‘…đŻđ‘Œđ»đ‘… đČ𐑂 𐐟𐐻 𐐶đČ𐑆 𐐼𐑌 đč𐐯𐑌𐐹𐑆. 𐐑𐐯𐑌𐐹𐑆 đ‘…đ©đ‘‚đŒ 𐐶đČ𐑌 đ°đ‘ŒđŒ 𐐻𐐭 𐐰𐐻 đȘ 𐐻𐐎𐑋 đș𐐎 đșđłđ‘ŠđŒđŹđ‘†đźđ‘ 𐑄 𐑀𐑉𐐬𐑅đČ𐑉 đ°đ‘ŒđŒ 𐑄 đ‘‚đŻđŸđ»đČđșđČ𐑊 𐑋𐐰𐑌 đ°đ‘ŒđŒ 𐑄 đșđłđœđČ𐑉 đČđ‘Œđ»đźđ‘Š 𐐶đČ𐑌’𐑆 đœđšđżđ‘… đșđČđ‘‰đ‘ŒđŒ 𐐶𐐟𐑄 𐑄 𐑅𐐮𐑊đČđ‘Œđ» 𐐼𐑋đč𐐷𐐭𐐻𐐩𐑇đČ𐑌 đČ𐑂 đčđȘ𐑉𐑅𐐼𐑋𐐬𐑌𐐹 𐑄𐐰𐐻 𐑅đČđœ 𐐿𐑊𐐬𐑅 đŒđšđ‘Šđźđ‘ 𐐼𐑋đčđ‘ŠđŽđŒ. 𐐛𐑉𐐹 𐐻𐐎𐑋𐑆 𐐔𐐯𐑊đČ đżđ”đ‘Œđ»đČđŒ 𐐟𐐻. 𐐎đČ𐑌 đŒđ«đ‘ŠđČ𐑉 đ°đ‘ŒđŒ 𐐩𐐻𐐚-𐑅𐐯𐑂đČ𐑌 đ‘…đŻđ‘Œđ»đ‘…. đˆđ‘ŒđŒ 𐑄 đ‘ŒđŻđżđ‘…đ» đŒđ© đ¶đłđŒ đș 𐐗𐑉𐐼𐑅𐑋đČ𐑅.

𐐜𐐯𐑉 𐐶đČ𐑆 𐐿𐑊𐐼𐑉𐑊𐐹 𐑌đČ𐑃𐐼𐑍 𐐻𐐭 đŒđ­ đșđČ𐐻 𐑁𐑊đȘđč đŒđ”đ‘Œ đ«đ‘Œ 𐑄 𐑇𐐰đș𐐚 𐑊𐐟𐐻đČ𐑊 đżđ”đœ đ°đ‘ŒđŒ 𐐞𐐔𐑊. 𐐝𐐬 𐐔𐐯𐑊đČ đŒđźđŒ 𐐟𐐻. đđ¶đźđœ đźđ‘Œđ‘…đ»đźđ‘€đ©đ»đ‘… 𐑄 𐑋𐐫𐑉đČ𐑊 𐑉đČ𐑁𐑊𐐯𐐿𐑇đČ𐑌 𐑄𐐰𐐻 𐑊𐐮𐑁 𐐼𐑆 đ‘‹đ©đŒ đČđč đČ𐑂 𐑅đȘđș𐑆, 𐑅𐑌𐐼𐑁đČ𐑊𐑆, đ°đ‘ŒđŒ 𐑅𐑋𐐮𐑊𐑆, 𐐶𐐟𐑄 𐑅𐑌𐐼𐑁đČ𐑊𐑆 đč𐑉đČđŒđȘđ‘‹đźđ‘Œđ©đ»đźđ‘.

𐐐𐐶𐐎𐑊 𐑄 𐑋𐐟𐑅𐐻𐑉đČ𐑅 đČ𐑂 𐑄 𐐾𐐬𐑋 𐐼𐑆 đ‘€đ‘‰đ°đŸđ­đČ𐑊𐐹 𐑅đČđșđ‘…đŽđŒđźđ‘ 𐑁𐑉đČ𐑋 𐑄 𐑁đČ𐑉𐑅𐐻 đ‘…đ»đ©đŸ 𐐻𐐭 𐑄 𐑅𐐯𐐿đČđ‘ŒđŒ, 𐐻𐐩𐐿 đȘ 𐑊𐐳𐐿 𐐰𐐻 𐑄 𐐾𐐬𐑋. 𐐂 𐑁đČđ‘‰đ‘Œđźđ‘‡đ» 𐑁𐑊𐐰𐐻 𐐰𐐻 $8 đčđČ𐑉 𐐶𐐚𐐿. 𐐆𐐻 đŒđźđŒ 𐑌đȘ𐐻 𐐟𐑀𐑆𐐰𐐿𐐻𐑊𐐚 đș𐐯𐑀đČ𐑉 đŒđČ𐑅𐐿𐑉𐐼đč𐑇đČ𐑌, đșđČ𐐻 𐐟𐐻 𐑅đČ𐑉𐐻đČ𐑌𐑊𐐹 đžđ°đŒ 𐑄𐐰𐐻 𐐶đČđ‘‰đŒ đ«đ‘Œ 𐑄 𐑊𐐳𐐿𐐔𐐻 𐑁𐐫𐑉 𐑄 đ‘‹đŻđ‘ŒđŒđźđżđČ𐑌𐑅𐐹 𐑅𐐿𐐶đȘđŒ.

𐐆𐑌 𐑄 𐑂𐐯𐑅𐐻𐐟đș𐐷𐐭𐑊 đșđČ𐑊𐐬 𐐶đČ𐑆 đȘ 𐑊𐐯𐐻đČ𐑉-đșđȘ𐐿𐑅 đźđ‘Œđ»đ­ đžđ¶đźđœ 𐑌𐐬 𐑊𐐯𐐻đČ𐑉 đ¶đłđŒ 𐑀𐐬, đ°đ‘ŒđŒ 𐐰𐑌 𐐟𐑊𐐯𐐿𐐻𐑉𐐟𐐿 đșđČ𐐻đČ𐑌 𐑁𐑉đČ𐑋 đžđ¶đźđœ 𐑌𐐬 𐑋𐐫𐑉𐐻đČ𐑊 𐑁𐐼𐑍𐑀đČ𐑉 đżđłđŒ 𐐿𐐬𐐿𐑅 đȘ 𐑉𐐼𐑍. 𐐃𐑊𐑅𐐬 𐐰đčđČđ‘‰đ»đ©đ‘Œđźđ‘ 𐑄𐐯𐑉đČđ‘Œđ»đ­ 𐐶đČ𐑆 đȘ 𐐿đȘđ‘‰đŒ đș𐐯𐑉𐐼𐑍 𐑄 đ‘Œđ©đ‘‹ “𐐣𐑉. 𐐖𐐩𐑋𐑆 𐐔𐐼𐑊𐐼𐑍𐐾𐐰𐑋 𐐏đČ𐑍.”

𐐜 “𐐔𐐼𐑊𐐼𐑍𐐾𐐰𐑋” đžđ°đŒ đș𐐼𐑌 𐑁𐑊đČ𐑍 𐐻𐐭 𐑄 đș𐑉𐐹𐑆 đŒđłđ‘‰đźđ‘ đȘ 𐑁𐐫𐑉𐑋đČ𐑉 đč𐐼𐑉𐐹đČđŒ đČ𐑂 đč𐑉đȘ𐑅đč𐐯𐑉𐐟𐐻𐐚 đžđ¶đŻđ‘Œ 𐐟𐐻𐑅 đčđČ𐑆𐐯𐑅đČ𐑉 𐐶đČ𐑆 đș𐐹𐐼𐑍 đčđ©đŒ $30 đčđČ𐑉 𐐶𐐚𐐿. 𐐀𐐔, đžđ¶đŻđ‘Œ 𐑄 𐐼𐑌𐐿đČ𐑋 𐐶đČ𐑆 𐑇𐑉đČ𐑍𐐿 𐐻𐐭 $20, 𐑄 𐑊𐐯𐐻đČ𐑉𐑆 đČ𐑂 “𐐔𐐼𐑊𐐼𐑍𐐾𐐰𐑋” 𐑊𐐳𐐿𐐻 đș𐑊đČđ‘‰đŒ, 𐐰𐑆 𐑄𐐬 𐑄𐐩 𐐶đČ𐑉 𐑃𐐼𐑍𐐿𐐼𐑍 𐑅𐐼𐑉𐐹đČ𐑅𐑊𐐹 đČ𐑂 𐐿đȘđ‘Œđ»đ‘‰đ°đżđ»đźđ‘ 𐐻𐐭 đȘ 𐑋đȘđŒđČ𐑅𐐻 đ°đ‘ŒđŒ đČ𐑌đČ𐑅𐐭𐑋𐐼𐑍 𐐔. 𐐒đČ𐐻 đžđ¶đŻđ‘ŒđŻđ‘‚đČ𐑉 𐐣𐑉. 𐐖𐐩𐑋𐑆 𐐔𐐼𐑊𐐼𐑍𐐾𐐰𐑋 𐐏đČ𐑍 𐐿𐐩𐑋 𐐾𐐬𐑋 đ°đ‘ŒđŒ đ‘‰đšđœđ» 𐐾𐐼𐑆 𐑁𐑊𐐰𐐻 đČđșđČ𐑂 𐐞𐐚 𐐶đČ𐑆 đżđ«đ‘ŠđŒ “𐐖𐐼𐑋” đ°đ‘ŒđŒ 𐑀𐑉𐐩𐐻𐑊𐐚 𐐞đČđ‘€đŒ đș𐐎 𐐣𐑉𐑅. 𐐖𐐩𐑋𐑆 𐐔𐐼𐑊𐐼𐑍𐐾𐐰𐑋 𐐏đČ𐑍, đ«đ‘Šđ‘‰đŻđŒđš đźđ‘Œđ»đ‘‰đČđŒđ­đ‘…đ» 𐐻𐐭 𐐷𐐭 𐐰𐑆 𐐔𐐯𐑊đČ. đđ¶đźđœ 𐐼𐑆 𐐫𐑊 𐑂𐐯𐑉𐐹 đ‘€đłđŒ.

𐐔𐐯𐑊đČ đ‘đźđ‘Œđźđ‘‡đ» 𐐞đČ𐑉 𐐿𐑉𐐮 đ°đ‘ŒđŒ đČđ»đŻđ‘ŒđŒđČđŒ 𐐻𐐭 𐐞đČ𐑉 đœđšđżđ‘… 𐐶𐐟𐑄 𐑄 đčđ”đŒđČ𐑉 𐑉𐐰𐑀. 𐐟𐐹 đ‘…đ»đłđŒ đș𐐎 𐑄 đ¶đźđ‘ŒđŒđŹ đ°đ‘ŒđŒ 𐑊𐐳𐐿𐐻 𐐔𐐻 đŒđČ𐑊𐐹 𐐰𐐻 đȘ 𐑀𐑉𐐩 𐐿𐐰𐐻 đ¶đ«đżđźđ‘ đȘ 𐑀𐑉𐐩 𐑁𐐯𐑌𐑅 𐐼𐑌 đȘ 𐑀𐑉𐐩 đș𐐰𐐿𐐷đȘđ‘‰đŒ. 𐐓đČ𐑋đȘ𐑉𐐬 đ¶đłđŒ đș 𐐗𐑉𐐼𐑅𐑋đČ𐑅 𐐔𐐩, đ°đ‘ŒđŒ 𐑇𐐹 đžđ°đŒ 𐐬𐑌𐑊𐐹 $1.87 𐐶𐐟𐑄 đžđ¶đźđœ 𐐻𐐭 đș𐐎 𐐖𐐼𐑋 đȘ đč𐑉𐐯𐑆đČđ‘Œđ». 𐐟𐐹 đžđ°đŒ đș𐐼𐑌 đ‘…đ©đ‘‚đźđ‘ 𐐯𐑂𐑉𐐹 đč𐐯𐑌𐐹 𐑇𐐹 đżđłđŒ 𐑁𐐫𐑉 𐑋đČ𐑌𐑃𐑅, 𐐶𐐟𐑄 𐑄𐐼𐑅 𐑉đČ𐑆đČ𐑊𐐻. đ“đ¶đŻđ‘Œđ»đš đŒđ«đ‘ŠđČ𐑉𐑆 đȘ 𐐶𐐚𐐿 đŒđČ𐑆𐑌’𐐻 𐑀𐐬 𐑁đȘ𐑉. 𐐆𐐿𐑅đč𐐯𐑌𐑅đČ𐑆 đžđ°đŒ đș𐐼𐑌 𐑀𐑉𐐩𐐻đČ𐑉 𐑄𐐰𐑌 𐑇𐐹 đžđ°đŒ 𐐿𐐰𐑊𐐿𐐷đČ𐑊𐐩𐐻đČđŒ. đœđ© 𐐫𐑊𐐶𐐩𐑆 đȘ𐑉. 𐐄𐑌𐑊𐐹 $1.87 𐐻𐐭 đș𐐎 đȘ đč𐑉𐐯𐑆đČđ‘Œđ» 𐑁𐐫𐑉 𐐖𐐼𐑋. 𐐐đČ𐑉 𐐖𐐼𐑋. 𐐣𐐯𐑌𐐹 đȘ 𐐞𐐰đč𐐚 𐐔𐑉 𐑇𐐹 đžđ°đŒ 𐑅đčđŻđ‘Œđ» đč𐑊𐐰𐑌𐐼𐑍 𐑁𐐫𐑉 𐑅đČ𐑋𐑃𐐼𐑍 𐑌𐐮𐑅 𐑁𐐫𐑉 𐐾𐐼𐑋. 𐐝đČ𐑋𐑃𐐼𐑍 𐑁𐐮𐑌 đ°đ‘ŒđŒ 𐑉𐐯𐑉 đ°đ‘ŒđŒ 𐑅𐐻đČ𐑉𐑊𐐼𐑍—𐑅đČ𐑋𐑃𐐼𐑍 đŸđČ𐑅𐐻 đȘ 𐑊𐐟𐐻đČ𐑊 đș𐐟𐐻 𐑌𐐼𐑉 𐐻𐐭 đș𐐹𐐼𐑍 𐐶đČ𐑉𐑄𐐹 đČ𐑂 𐑄 đȘ𐑌đČ𐑉 đČ𐑂 đș𐐹𐐼𐑍 đŹđ‘ŒđŒ đș𐐎 𐐖𐐼𐑋.

𐐜𐐯𐑉 𐐶đČ𐑆 đȘ đč𐐼𐑉-𐑀𐑊𐐰𐑅 đșđČđ»đ¶đšđ‘Œ 𐑄 đ¶đźđ‘ŒđŒđŹđ‘† đČ𐑂 𐑄 𐑉𐐭𐑋. 𐐑đČ𐑉𐐾𐐰đč𐑅 𐐷𐐭 𐐾𐐰𐑂 𐑅𐐹𐑌 đȘ đč𐐼𐑉-𐑀𐑊𐐰𐑅 𐐼𐑌 𐐰𐑌 $8 𐑁𐑊𐐰𐐻. 𐐂 𐑂𐐯𐑉𐐹 𐑃𐐼𐑌 đ°đ‘ŒđŒ 𐑂𐐯𐑉𐐹 đ°đŸđźđ‘Š đčđČ𐑉𐑅đČ𐑌 𐑋𐐩, đș𐐎 đČđș𐑆đČ𐑉𐑂𐐼𐑍 𐐾𐐼𐑆 𐑉đČ𐑁𐑊𐐯𐐿𐑇đČ𐑌 𐐼𐑌 đȘ 𐑉𐐰đčđźđŒ 𐑅𐐚𐐿𐐶đČ𐑌𐑅 đČ𐑂 𐑊đȘđ‘ŒđŸđźđ»đ­đŒđźđ‘ŒđČ𐑊 𐑅𐐻𐑉𐐟đč𐑅, đČđșđ»đ©đ‘Œ đȘ 𐑁𐐯𐑉𐑊𐐹 𐐰𐐿𐐷đČ𐑉đČ𐐻 𐐿đČ𐑌𐑅𐐯đč𐑇đČ𐑌 đČ𐑂 𐐾𐐼𐑆 𐑊𐐳𐐿𐑅. 𐐔𐐯𐑊đČ, đș𐐹𐐼𐑍 đ‘…đ‘ŠđŻđ‘ŒđŒđČ𐑉, đžđ°đŒ 𐑋𐐰𐑅𐐻đČđ‘‰đŒ 𐑄 đȘ𐑉𐐻.

𐐝đČđŒđČ𐑌𐑊𐐹 𐑇𐐹 𐐞𐐶đČđ‘‰đ‘ŠđŒ 𐑁𐑉đČ𐑋 𐑄 đ¶đźđ‘ŒđŒđŹ đ°đ‘ŒđŒ đ‘…đ»đłđŒ đșđČ𐑁𐐫𐑉 𐑄 𐑀𐑊𐐰𐑅. 𐐐đČ𐑉 𐐮𐑆 𐐶đČ𐑉 𐑇𐐮𐑌𐐼𐑍 đș𐑉𐐟𐑊𐐷đČđ‘Œđ»đ‘Šđš, đșđČ𐐻 𐐞đČ𐑉 𐑁𐐩𐑅 đžđ°đŒ 𐑊𐐫𐑅𐐻 𐐟𐐻𐑅 𐐿đČ𐑊đČ𐑉 đ¶đźđ‘ƒđźđ‘Œ đ»đ¶đŻđ‘Œđ»đš 𐑅𐐯𐐿đČđ‘ŒđŒđ‘†. 𐐥𐐰đčđźđŒđ‘Šđš 𐑇𐐹 đčđłđ‘ŠđŒ đŒđ”đ‘Œ 𐐞đČ𐑉 𐐾𐐯𐑉 đ°đ‘ŒđŒ 𐑊𐐯𐐻 𐐟𐐻 𐑁𐐫𐑊 𐐻𐐭 𐐟𐐻𐑅 𐑁𐐳𐑊 𐑊𐐯𐑍𐑃.

𐐀𐐔, 𐑄𐐯𐑉 𐐶đČ𐑉 𐐻𐐭 đčđČ𐑆𐐯𐑇đČ𐑌𐑆 đČ𐑂 𐑄 𐐖𐐩𐑋𐑆 𐐔𐐼𐑊𐐼𐑍𐐾𐐰𐑋 𐐏đČ𐑍𐑆 𐐼𐑌 đžđ¶đźđœ 𐑄𐐩 đș𐐬𐑃 𐐻𐐳𐐿 đȘ 𐑋𐐎𐐻𐐚 đčđ‘‰đŽđŒ. 𐐎đČ𐑌 𐐶đČ𐑆 𐐖𐐼𐑋’𐑆 đ‘€đŹđ‘ŠđŒ đ¶đ«đœ 𐑄𐐰𐐻 đžđ°đŒ đș𐐼𐑌 𐐾𐐼𐑆 𐑁đȘ𐑄đČ𐑉’𐑆 đ°đ‘ŒđŒ 𐐾𐐼𐑆 đ‘€đ‘‰đ°đ‘ŒđŒđ‘đȘ𐑄đČ𐑉’𐑆. 𐐜 đČ𐑄đČ𐑉 𐐶đČ𐑆 𐐔𐐯𐑊đČ’𐑆 𐐾𐐯𐑉. đđ°đŒ 𐑄 đ—đ¶đšđ‘Œ đČ𐑂 𐐟𐐹đșđČ đ‘Šđźđ‘‚đŒ 𐐼𐑌 𐑄 𐑁𐑊𐐰𐐻 đČ𐐿𐑉𐐫𐑅 𐑄 𐐯𐑉𐑇𐐰𐑁𐐻, 𐐔𐐯𐑊đČ đ¶đłđŒ 𐐾𐐰𐑂 𐑊𐐯𐐻 𐐞đČ𐑉 𐐾𐐯𐑉 𐐾𐐰𐑍 𐐔𐐻 𐑄 đ¶đźđ‘ŒđŒđŹ 𐑅đČ𐑋 đŒđ© 𐐻𐐭 đŒđ‘‰đŽ đŸđČ𐑅𐐻 𐐻𐐭 đŒđČđč𐑉𐐚𐑇𐐚𐐩𐐻 𐐐đČ𐑉 đŁđ°đŸđČ𐑅𐐻𐐚’𐑆 đŸđ­đČ𐑊𐑆 đ°đ‘ŒđŒ 𐑀𐐟𐑁𐐻𐑅. đđ°đŒ 𐐗𐐼𐑍 𐐝đȘ𐑊đČ𐑋đČ𐑌 đș𐐼𐑌 𐑄 đŸđ°đ‘ŒđČ𐐻đČ𐑉, 𐐶𐐟𐑄 𐐫𐑊 𐐾𐐼𐑆 đ»đ‘‰đŻđ‘ˆđČ𐑉𐑆 đčđŽđ‘ŠđŒ đČđč 𐐼𐑌 𐑄 đș𐐩𐑅𐑋đČđ‘Œđ», 𐐖𐐼𐑋 đ¶đłđŒ 𐐾𐐰𐑂 đčđłđ‘ŠđŒ 𐐔𐐻 𐐾𐐼𐑆 đ¶đ«đœ 𐐯𐑂𐑉𐐹 𐐻𐐎𐑋 𐐞𐐚 đč𐐰𐑅𐐻, đŸđČ𐑅𐐻 𐐻𐐭 𐑅𐐹 𐐾𐐼𐑋 đč𐑊đČ𐐿 𐐰𐐻 𐐾𐐼𐑆 đșđźđ‘‰đŒ 𐑁𐑉đČ𐑋 𐐯𐑌𐑂𐐹.

𐐝𐐬 đ‘Œđ” 𐐔𐐯𐑊đČ’𐑆 đș𐐷𐐭𐐻𐐟𐑁đČ𐑊 𐐾𐐯𐑉 𐑁𐐯𐑊 đČđș𐐔𐐻 𐐞đČ𐑉, 𐑉𐐼đč𐑊𐐼𐑍 đ°đ‘ŒđŒ 𐑇𐐮𐑌𐐼𐑍 𐑊𐐮𐐿 đȘ đżđ°đ‘…đżđ©đŒ đČ𐑂 đșđ‘‰đ”đ‘Œ 𐐶𐐫𐐻đČ𐑉𐑆. 𐐆𐐻 đ‘‰đšđœđ» đșđČ𐑊𐐬 𐐞đČ𐑉 𐑌𐐹 đ°đ‘ŒđŒ đ‘‹đ©đŒ 𐐟𐐻𐑅𐐯𐑊𐑁 𐐫𐑊𐑋𐐏𐑅𐐻 đȘ 𐑀đȘ𐑉𐑋đČđ‘Œđ» 𐑁𐐫𐑉 𐐞đČ𐑉. đˆđ‘ŒđŒ 𐑄𐐯𐑌 𐑇𐐹 đŒđźđŒ 𐐟𐐻 đČđč đČ𐑀𐐯𐑌 𐑌đČ𐑉𐑂đČ𐑅𐑊𐐹 đ°đ‘ŒđŒ 𐐿𐐶𐐟𐐿𐑊𐐚. 𐐎đČ𐑌𐑅 𐑇𐐹 𐑁đȘ𐑊𐐻đČđ‘‰đŒ 𐑁𐐫𐑉 đȘ 𐑋𐐼𐑌đČ𐐻 đ°đ‘ŒđŒ đ‘…đ»đłđŒ 𐑅𐐻𐐟𐑊 𐐞𐐶𐐎𐑊 đȘ 𐐻𐐟𐑉 𐐫𐑉 𐐻𐐭 𐑅đč𐑊𐐰𐑇𐐻 đ«đ‘Œ 𐑄 đ¶đ«đ‘‰đ‘Œ đ‘‰đŻđŒ 𐐿đȘ𐑉đčđČ𐐻.

𐐃𐑌 đ¶đŻđ‘Œđ» 𐐞đČ𐑉 đŹđ‘ŠđŒ đșđ‘‰đ”đ‘Œ đŸđ°đżđČ𐐻; đ«đ‘Œ đ¶đŻđ‘Œđ» 𐐞đČ𐑉 đŹđ‘ŠđŒ đșđ‘‰đ”đ‘Œ 𐐞𐐰𐐻. 𐐎𐐼𐑄 đȘ 𐐞𐐶đČ𐑉𐑊 đČ𐑂 𐑅𐐿đČ𐑉𐐻𐑅 đ°đ‘ŒđŒ 𐐶𐐟𐑄 𐑄 đș𐑉𐐟𐑊𐐷đČđ‘Œđ» 𐑅đčđȘ𐑉𐐿đČ𐑊 𐑅𐐻𐐟𐑊 𐐼𐑌 𐐞đČ𐑉 𐐮𐑆, 𐑇𐐹 𐑁𐑊đČ𐐻đČđ‘‰đŒ 𐐔𐐻 𐑄 đŒđ«đ‘‰ đ°đ‘ŒđŒ đŒđ”đ‘Œ 𐑄 𐑅𐐻𐐯𐑉𐑆 𐐻𐐭 𐑄 𐑅𐐻𐑉𐐚𐐻.

𐐐𐐶𐐯𐑉 𐑇𐐹 𐑅𐐻đȘđč𐐻 𐑄 𐑅𐐮𐑌 đ‘‰đŻđŒ: “Mme. 𐐝𐐬𐑁𐑉𐐬𐑌𐐹. 𐐐𐐯𐑉 đ˜đłđŒđ‘† đČ𐑂 𐐃𐑊 đ—đŽđ‘ŒđŒđ‘†.” 𐐎đČ𐑌 𐑁𐑊𐐎𐐻 đČđč 𐐔𐐯𐑊đČ 𐑉𐐰𐑌, đ°đ‘ŒđŒ 𐐿đČ𐑊𐐯𐐿𐐻đČđŒ 𐐞đČ𐑉𐑅𐐯𐑊𐑁, đčđ°đ‘Œđ»đźđ‘. Madame, 𐑊đȘđ‘‰đŸ, 𐐻𐐭 𐐞𐐶𐐎𐐻, đœđźđ‘Šđš, 𐐞đȘđ‘‰đŒđ‘Šđš 𐑊𐐳𐐿𐐻 𐑄 “𐐝𐐬𐑁𐑉𐐬𐑌𐐹.”

“𐐎𐐼𐑊 𐐷𐐭 đș𐐎 𐑋𐐮 𐐾𐐯𐑉?” 𐐰𐑅𐐿𐐻 𐐔𐐯𐑊đČ.

“𐐌 đș𐐎 𐐾𐐯𐑉,” đ‘…đŻđŒ Madame. “𐐓𐐩𐐿 𐐷đČ𐑉 𐐞𐐰𐐻 𐐫𐑁 đ°đ‘ŒđŒ 𐑊𐐯𐐻’𐑅 𐐾𐐰𐑂 đȘ 𐑅𐐎𐐻 𐐰𐐻 𐑄 𐑊𐐳𐐿𐑅 đČ𐑂 𐐟𐐻.”

đ”đ”đ‘Œ 𐑉𐐼đčđČđ‘ŠđŒ 𐑄 đșđ‘‰đ”đ‘Œ đżđ°đ‘…đżđ©đŒ. “đ“đ¶đŻđ‘Œđ»đš đŒđ«đ‘ŠđČ𐑉𐑆,” đ‘…đŻđŒ Madame, đ‘Šđźđ‘đ»đźđ‘ 𐑄 𐑋𐐰𐑅 𐐶𐐟𐑄 đȘ đč𐑉𐐰𐐿𐐻𐐟𐑅𐐻 đžđ°đ‘ŒđŒ.

“𐐘𐐼𐑂 𐐟𐐻 𐐻𐐭 𐑋𐐹 𐐿𐐶𐐟𐐿,” đ‘…đŻđŒ 𐐔𐐯𐑊đČ.

𐐄, đ°đ‘ŒđŒ 𐑄 đ‘ŒđŻđżđ‘…đ» 𐐻𐐭 𐐔𐑉𐑆 𐐻𐑉𐐟đč𐐻 đș𐐎 đ«đ‘Œ 𐑉𐐬𐑆𐐹 đ¶đźđ‘đ‘†. 𐐙đČ𐑉𐑀𐐯𐐻 𐑄 𐐞𐐰𐑇𐐻 𐑋𐐯𐐻đČ𐑁𐐫𐑉. 𐐟𐐹 𐐶đČ𐑆 𐑉𐐰𐑌𐑅𐐰𐐿𐐼𐑍 𐑄 𐑅𐐻𐐫𐑉𐑆 𐑁𐐫𐑉 𐐖𐐼𐑋’𐑆 đč𐑉𐐯𐑆đČđ‘Œđ».

𐐟𐐹 đ‘đ”đ‘ŒđŒ 𐐟𐐻 𐐰𐐻 𐑊𐐰𐑅𐐻. 𐐆𐐻 𐑇𐐳𐑉𐑊𐐹 đžđ°đŒ đș𐐼𐑌 đ‘‹đ©đŒ 𐑁𐐫𐑉 𐐖𐐼𐑋 đ°đ‘ŒđŒ 𐑌𐐬 𐐶đČ𐑌 𐐯𐑊𐑅. 𐐜𐐯𐑉 𐐶đČ𐑆 𐑌𐐬 đČ𐑄đČ𐑉 𐑊𐐮𐐿 𐐟𐐻 𐐼𐑌 𐐯𐑌𐐹 đČ𐑂 𐑄 𐑅𐐻𐐫𐑉𐑆, đ°đ‘ŒđŒ 𐑇𐐹 đžđ°đŒ 𐐻đČđ‘‰đ‘ŒđŒ 𐐫𐑊 đČ𐑂 𐑄𐐯𐑋 đźđ‘Œđ‘…đŽđŒ 𐐔𐐻. 𐐆𐐻 𐐶đČ𐑆 đȘ đčđ‘Šđ°đ»đźđ‘ŒđČ𐑋 𐑁𐐫đș đœđ©đ‘Œ 𐑅𐐼𐑋đčđČ𐑊 đ°đ‘ŒđŒ đœđ©đ‘…đ» 𐐼𐑌 đŒđČ𐑆𐐮𐑌, đč𐑉đȘđčđČ𐑉𐑊𐐹 đč𐑉đČđżđ‘Šđ©đ‘‹đźđ‘ 𐐟𐐻𐑅 𐑂𐐰𐑊𐐷𐐭 đș𐐎 𐑅đČđș𐑅𐐻đČ𐑌𐑅 đČ𐑊𐐬𐑌 đ°đ‘ŒđŒ 𐑌đȘ𐐻 đș𐐎 𐑋𐐯𐑉đČ𐐻𐑉𐐟𐑇đČ𐑅 đ«đ‘‰đ‘ŒđČđ‘‹đŻđ‘Œđ»đ©đ‘‡đČ𐑌—𐐰𐑆 𐐫𐑊 đ‘€đłđŒ 𐑃𐐼𐑍𐑆 đ‘‡đłđŒ đŒđ­. 𐐆𐐻 𐐶đČ𐑆 𐐹𐑂đČ𐑌 𐐶đČ𐑉𐑄𐐹 đČ𐑂 𐐜 đŽđ«đœ. 𐐈𐑆 𐑅𐐭𐑌 𐐰𐑆 𐑇𐐹 𐑅𐐫 𐐟𐐻 𐑇𐐹 𐑌𐐭 𐑄𐐰𐐻 𐐟𐐻 𐑋đČ𐑅𐐻 đș 𐐖𐐼𐑋’𐑆. 𐐆𐐻 𐐶đČ𐑆 𐑊𐐮𐐿 𐐾𐐼𐑋. 𐐗𐐶𐐎đČđ»đ‘ŒđČ𐑅 đ°đ‘ŒđŒ 𐑂𐐰𐑊𐐷𐐭—𐑄 đŒđČ𐑅𐐿𐑉𐐼đč𐑇đČ𐑌 đČđčđ‘ŠđŽđŒ 𐐻𐐭 đș𐐬𐑃. đ“đ¶đŻđ‘Œđ»đš-𐐶đČ𐑌 đŒđ«đ‘ŠđČ𐑉𐑆 𐑄𐐩 𐐻𐐳𐐿 𐑁𐑉đČ𐑋 𐐞đČ𐑉 𐑁𐐫𐑉 𐐟𐐻, đ°đ‘ŒđŒ 𐑇𐐹 𐐞đČđ‘‰đšđŒ 𐐾𐐬𐑋 𐐶𐐟𐑄 𐑄 87 đ‘…đŻđ‘Œđ»đ‘…. 𐐎𐐼𐑄 𐑄𐐰𐐻 đœđ©đ‘Œ đ«đ‘Œ 𐐾𐐼𐑆 đ¶đ«đœ 𐐖𐐼𐑋 𐑋𐐎𐐻 đș đč𐑉đȘđčđČ𐑉𐑊𐐹 𐐰𐑍𐐿𐑇đČ𐑅 đČđș𐐔𐐻 𐑄 𐐻𐐎𐑋 𐐼𐑌 𐐯𐑌𐐹 𐐿đČ𐑋đčđČ𐑌𐐹. đ˜đ‘‰đ°đ‘ŒđŒ 𐐰𐑆 𐑄 đ¶đ«đœ 𐐶đČ𐑆, 𐐞𐐚 𐑅đČ𐑋𐐻𐐎𐑋𐑆 𐑊𐐳𐐿𐐻 𐐰𐐻 𐐟𐐻 đ«đ‘Œ 𐑄 𐑅𐑊𐐮 đ«đ‘Œ đČđżđ”đ‘Œđ» đČ𐑂 𐑄 đŹđ‘ŠđŒ 𐑊𐐯𐑄đČ𐑉 𐑅𐐻𐑉𐐰đč 𐑄𐐰𐐻 𐐞𐐚 đ·đ­đ‘†đŒ 𐐼𐑌 đč𐑊𐐩𐑅 đČ𐑂 đȘ đœđ©đ‘Œ.

đđ¶đŻđ‘Œ 𐐔𐐯𐑊đČ đ‘‰đšđœđ» 𐐾𐐬𐑋 𐐞đČ𐑉 đźđ‘Œđ»đȘ𐐿𐑅𐐟𐐿𐐩𐑇đČ𐑌 𐑀𐐩𐑂 𐐶𐐩 đȘ 𐑊𐐟𐐻đČ𐑊 𐐻𐐭 đčđ‘‰đ­đŒđČ𐑌𐑅 đ°đ‘ŒđŒ 𐑉𐐹𐑆đČ𐑌. 𐐟𐐹 𐑀đȘ𐐻 𐐔𐐻 𐐞đČ𐑉 𐐿đČ𐑉𐑊𐐼𐑍 𐐎đČ𐑉𐑌𐑆 đ°đ‘ŒđŒ 𐑊𐐎𐐻đČđŒ 𐑄 𐑀𐐰𐑅 đ°đ‘ŒđŒ đ¶đŻđ‘Œđ» 𐐻𐐭 𐐶đČ𐑉𐐿 𐑉đČđč𐐯𐑉𐐼𐑍 𐑄 𐑉𐐰𐑂đČđŸđČ𐑆 đ‘‹đ©đŒ đș𐐎 đŸđŻđ‘ŒđČ𐑉đȘ𐑅𐐟𐐻𐐚 đ°đŒđČđŒ 𐐻𐐭 𐑊đČ𐑂. đđ¶đźđœ 𐐼𐑆 𐐫𐑊𐐶𐐩𐑆 đȘ 𐐻𐑉đČđ‘‹đŻđ‘ŒđŒđČ𐑅 𐐻𐐰𐑅𐐿, đŒđźđ‘‰ đ‘đ‘‰đŻđ‘ŒđŒđ‘†—đȘ 𐑋𐐰𐑋đČ𐑃 𐐻𐐰𐑅𐐿.

𐐎𐐼𐑃𐐼𐑌 𐑁𐐫𐑉𐐻𐐚 𐑋𐐼𐑌đČ𐐻𐑅 𐐞đČ𐑉 đžđŻđŒ 𐐶đČ𐑆 𐐿đČ𐑂đČđ‘‰đŒ 𐐶𐐟𐑄 đ»đŽđ‘Œđš, 𐐿𐑊𐐬𐑅-𐑊𐐮𐐼𐑍 𐐿đČ𐑉𐑊𐑆 𐑄𐐰𐐻 đ‘‹đ©đŒ 𐐞đČ𐑉 𐑊𐐳𐐿 𐐶đČđ‘ŒđŒđČ𐑉𐑁đČ𐑊𐐹 𐑊𐐮𐐿 đȘ 𐐻𐑉𐐭đČđ‘Œđ» 𐑅𐐿𐐭𐑊đș𐐫𐐟. 𐐟𐐹 𐑊𐐳𐐿𐐻 𐐰𐐻 𐐞đČ𐑉 𐑉đČ𐑁𐑊𐐯𐐿𐑇đČ𐑌 𐐼𐑌 𐑄 𐑋𐐼𐑉đČ𐑉 đ‘Šđ«đ‘, 𐐿𐐯𐑉𐑁đČ𐑊𐐹, đ°đ‘ŒđŒ 𐐿𐑉𐐟𐐻𐐟𐐿đČ𐑊𐐹.

“𐐆𐑁 𐐖𐐼𐑋 đŒđČ𐑆𐑌’𐐻 𐐿𐐼𐑊 𐑋𐐹,” 𐑇𐐹 đ‘…đŻđŒ 𐐻𐐭 𐐞đČ𐑉𐑅𐐯𐑊𐑁, “đșđČ𐑁𐐫𐑉 𐐞𐐚 𐐻𐐩𐐿𐑅 đȘ 𐑅𐐯𐐿đČđ‘ŒđŒ 𐑊𐐳𐐿 𐐰𐐻 𐑋𐐹, 𐐞𐐚’𐑊 𐑅𐐩 𐐌 𐑊𐐳𐐿 𐑊𐐮𐐿 đȘ 𐐗𐐬𐑌𐐹 𐐌𐑊đČđ‘ŒđŒ 𐐿𐐫𐑉đČ𐑅 𐑀đČ𐑉𐑊. 𐐒đČ𐐻 𐐞𐐶đČ𐐻 đżđłđŒ 𐐌 đŒđ­—𐐏! 𐐞𐐶đČ𐐻 đżđłđŒ 𐐌 đŒđ­ 𐐶𐐟𐑄 đȘ đŒđ«đ‘ŠđČ𐑉 đ°đ‘ŒđŒ 𐐩𐐻𐐚-𐑅𐐯𐑂đČ𐑌 đ‘…đŻđ‘Œđ»đ‘…?”

𐐈𐐻 7 đČ’𐐿𐑊đȘ𐐿 𐑄 𐐿𐐫𐑁𐐚 𐐶đČ𐑆 đ‘‹đ©đŒ đ°đ‘ŒđŒ 𐑄 𐑁𐑉𐐮𐐼𐑍-đč𐐰𐑌 𐐶đČ𐑆 đ«đ‘Œ 𐑄 đș𐐰𐐿 đČ𐑂 𐑄 𐑅𐐻𐐏𐑂 𐐞đȘ𐐻 đ°đ‘ŒđŒ đ‘‰đŻđŒđš 𐐻𐐭 𐐿𐐳𐐿 𐑄 đœđȘđč𐑅.

𐐖𐐼𐑋 𐐶đČ𐑆 𐑌𐐯𐑂đČ𐑉 𐑊𐐩𐐻. 𐐔𐐯𐑊đČ đŒđČđșđČđ‘ŠđŒ 𐑄 𐑁𐐫đș đœđ©đ‘Œ 𐐼𐑌 𐐞đČ𐑉 đžđ°đ‘ŒđŒ đ°đ‘ŒđŒ 𐑅𐐰𐐻 đ«đ‘Œ 𐑄 đżđ«đ‘‰đ‘ŒđČ𐑉 đČ𐑂 𐑄 𐐻𐐩đșđČ𐑊 𐑌𐐼𐑉 𐑄 đŒđ«đ‘‰ 𐑄𐐰𐐻 𐐞𐐚 𐐫𐑊𐐶𐐩𐑆 đŻđ‘Œđ»đČđ‘‰đŒ. 𐐜𐐯𐑌 𐑇𐐹 𐐞đČđ‘‰đŒ 𐐾𐐼𐑆 𐑅𐐻𐐯đč đ«đ‘Œ 𐑄 𐑅𐐻𐐯𐑉 đČ𐐶𐐩 đŒđ”đ‘Œ đ«đ‘Œ 𐑄 𐑁đČ𐑉𐑅𐐻 𐑁𐑊𐐎𐐻, đ°đ‘ŒđŒ 𐑇𐐹 𐐻đČđ‘‰đ‘ŒđŒ 𐐞𐐶𐐎𐐻 𐑁𐐫𐑉 đŸđČ𐑅𐐻 đȘ 𐑋𐐬𐑋đČđ‘Œđ». 𐐟𐐹 đžđ°đŒ đȘ 𐐞𐐰đș𐐟𐐻 𐑁𐐫𐑉 đ‘…đ©đźđ‘ 𐑊𐐟𐐻đČ𐑊 𐑅𐐮𐑊đČđ‘Œđ» đč𐑉𐐯𐑉𐑆 đČđș𐐔𐐻 𐑄 𐑅𐐼𐑋đč𐑊đČ𐑅𐐻 đŻđ‘‚đ‘‰đšđŒđ© 𐑃𐐼𐑍𐑆, đ°đ‘ŒđŒ đ‘Œđ” 𐑇𐐹 𐐞𐐶𐐟𐑅đčđČđ‘‰đŒ: “𐐑𐑊𐐹𐑆 𐐘đȘđŒ, 𐑋𐐩𐐿 𐐾𐐼𐑋 𐑃𐐼𐑍𐐿 𐐌 𐐰𐑋 𐑅𐐻𐐟𐑊 đč𐑉𐐟𐐻𐐚.”

𐐜 đŒđ«đ‘‰ 𐐏đčđČđ‘ŒđŒ đ°đ‘ŒđŒ 𐐖𐐼𐑋 𐑅𐐻𐐯đč𐐻 𐐼𐑌 đ°đ‘ŒđŒ đżđ‘ŠđŹđ‘†đŒ 𐐟𐐻. 𐐐𐐚 𐑊𐐳𐐿𐐻 𐑃𐐼𐑌 đ°đ‘ŒđŒ 𐑂𐐯𐑉𐐹 𐑅𐐼𐑉𐐹đČ𐑅. 𐐑𐐳𐑉 𐑁𐐯𐑊𐐬, 𐐞𐐚 𐐶đČ𐑆 𐐬𐑌𐑊𐐹 đ»đ¶đŻđ‘Œđ»đš-𐐻𐐭—đ°đ‘ŒđŒ 𐐻𐐭 đș đșđČđ‘‰đŒđČđ‘ŒđŒ 𐐶𐐟𐑄 đȘ 𐑁𐐰𐑋𐐼𐑊𐐹! 𐐐𐐚 đ‘ŒđšđŒđČđŒ đȘ 𐑌𐐭 𐐬𐑂đČ𐑉𐐿𐐏𐐻 đ°đ‘ŒđŒ 𐐞𐐚 𐐶đČ𐑆 đ¶đźđ‘ƒđ”đ» 𐑀𐑊đČ𐑂𐑆.

𐐖𐐼𐑋 𐑅𐐻đȘđč𐐻 đźđ‘Œđ‘…đŽđŒ 𐑄 đŒđ«đ‘‰, 𐐰𐑆 𐐼𐑋𐐭𐑂đČđșđČ𐑊 𐐰𐑆 đȘ 𐑅𐐯𐐻đČ𐑉 𐐰𐐻 𐑄 đ‘…đŻđ‘Œđ» đČ𐑂 𐐿𐐶𐐩𐑊. 𐐐𐐼𐑆 𐐮𐑆 𐐶đČ𐑉 𐑁𐐟𐐿𐑅𐐻 đČđčđȘ𐑌 𐐔𐐯𐑊đČ, đ°đ‘ŒđŒ 𐑄𐐯𐑉 𐐶đČ𐑆 𐐰𐑌 𐐼𐐿𐑅đč𐑉𐐯𐑇đČ𐑌 𐐼𐑌 𐑄𐐯𐑋 𐑄𐐰𐐻 𐑇𐐹 đżđłđŒ 𐑌đȘ𐐻 đ‘‰đšđŒ, đ°đ‘ŒđŒ 𐐟𐐻 đ»đŻđ‘‰đźđ‘đŽđŒ 𐐞đČ𐑉. 𐐆𐐻 𐐶đČ𐑆 𐑌đȘ𐐻 đ©đ‘đ‘€đČ𐑉, đ‘Œđ«đ‘‰ 𐑅đČ𐑉đč𐑉𐐮𐑆, đ‘Œđ«đ‘‰ đŒđźđ‘…đČđč𐑉𐐭𐑂đČ𐑊, đ‘Œđ«đ‘‰ 𐐞𐐫𐑉đČ𐑉, đ‘Œđ«đ‘‰ 𐐯𐑌𐐹 đČ𐑂 𐑄 đ‘…đŻđ‘Œđ»đźđ‘‹đČđ‘Œđ»đ‘… 𐑄𐐰𐐻 𐑇𐐹 đžđ°đŒ đș𐐼𐑌 đč𐑉đČđčđŻđ‘‰đŒ 𐑁𐐫𐑉. 𐐐𐐚 𐑅𐐼𐑋đč𐑊𐐹 đ‘…đ»đŻđ‘‰đŒ 𐐰𐐻 𐐞đČ𐑉 𐑁𐐼𐐿𐑅đČđŒđ‘Šđš 𐐶𐐟𐑄 𐑄𐐰𐐻 đčđČ𐐿𐐷𐐭𐑊𐐷đČ𐑉 𐐼𐐿𐑅đč𐑉𐐯𐑇đČ𐑌 đ«đ‘Œ 𐐾𐐼𐑆 𐑁𐐩𐑅.

𐐔𐐯𐑊đČ 𐑉𐐼𐑀đČđ‘ŠđŒ 𐐫𐑁 𐑄 𐐻𐐩đșđČ𐑊 đ°đ‘ŒđŒ đ¶đŻđ‘Œđ» 𐑁𐐫𐑉 𐐾𐐼𐑋.

“𐐖𐐼𐑋, đŒđȘ𐑉𐑊𐐼𐑍,” 𐑇𐐹 đżđ‘‰đŽđŒ, “đŒđŹđ‘Œ’𐐻 𐑊𐐳𐐿 𐐰𐐻 𐑋𐐹 𐑄𐐰𐐻 𐐶𐐩. 𐐌 đžđ°đŒ 𐑋𐐮 𐐾𐐯𐑉 𐐿đČ𐐻 𐐫𐑁 đ°đ‘ŒđŒ đ‘…đŹđ‘ŠđŒ đșđČ𐐿đČ𐑆 𐐌 đżđłđŒđ‘Œ’𐐻 𐐾𐐰𐑂 đ‘Šđźđ‘‚đŒ 𐑃𐑉𐐭 𐐗𐑉𐐼𐑅𐑋đČ𐑅 đ¶đźđ‘ƒđ”đ» 𐑀𐐼𐑂𐐼𐑍 𐐷𐐭 đȘ đč𐑉𐐯𐑆đČđ‘Œđ». 𐐆𐐻’𐑊 𐑀𐑉𐐬 𐐔𐐻 đČ𐑀𐐯𐑌—𐐷𐐭 đ¶đŹđ‘Œ’𐐻 đ‘‹đŽđ‘ŒđŒ, 𐐶𐐟𐑊 𐐷𐐭? 𐐌 đŸđČ𐑅𐐻 đžđ°đŒ 𐐻𐐭 đŒđ­ 𐐟𐐻. 𐐣𐐎 𐐾𐐯𐑉 𐑀𐑉𐐬𐑆 𐐫𐑁đČ𐑊𐐹 𐑁𐐰𐑅𐐻. đđ© ‘𐐣𐐯𐑉𐐹 𐐗𐑉𐐼𐑅𐑋đČ𐑅!’ 𐐖𐐼𐑋, đ°đ‘ŒđŒ 𐑊𐐯𐐻’𐑅 đș 𐐞𐐰đč𐐚. 𐐏𐐭 đŒđŹđ‘Œ’𐐻 𐑌𐐬 𐐞𐐶đČ𐐻 đȘ 𐑌𐐮𐑅—𐐞𐐶đČ𐐻 đȘ đș𐐷𐐭𐐻𐐟𐑁đČ𐑊, 𐑌𐐮𐑅 𐑀𐐟𐑁𐐻 𐐌’𐑂 𐑀đȘ𐐻 𐑁𐐫𐑉 𐐷𐐭.”

“𐐏𐐭’𐑂 𐐿đČ𐐻 𐐫𐑁 𐐷𐐫𐑉 𐐾𐐯𐑉?” 𐐰𐑅𐐿𐐻 𐐖𐐼𐑋, 𐑊đČđș𐐫𐑉𐐚đČ𐑅𐑊𐐹, 𐐰𐑆 𐐼𐑁 𐐞𐐚 đžđ°đŒ 𐑌đȘ𐐻 đČđ‘‰đŽđ‘‚đŒ 𐐰𐐻 𐑄𐐰𐐻 đč𐐩𐐻đČđ‘Œđ» 𐑁𐐰𐐿𐐻 𐐷𐐯𐐻 𐐹𐑂đČ𐑌 𐐰𐑁𐐻đČ𐑉 𐑄 𐐞đȘđ‘‰đŒđČ𐑅𐐻 đ‘‹đŻđ‘Œđ»đČ𐑊 𐑊𐐩đșđČ𐑉.

“𐐗đČ𐐻 𐐟𐐻 𐐫𐑁 đ°đ‘ŒđŒ đ‘…đŹđ‘ŠđŒ 𐐟𐐻,” đ‘…đŻđŒ 𐐔𐐯𐑊đČ. “𐐔𐐬𐑌’𐐻 𐐷𐐭 𐑊𐐮𐐿 𐑋𐐹 đŸđČ𐑅𐐻 𐐰𐑆 𐐶𐐯𐑊, đŻđ‘Œđšđžđ”? 𐐌’𐑋 𐑋𐐹 đ¶đźđ‘ƒđ”đ» 𐑋𐐮 𐐾𐐯𐑉, đ©đ‘Œ’𐐻 𐐌?”

𐐖𐐼𐑋 𐑊𐐳𐐿𐐻 đČđș𐐔𐐻 𐑄 𐑉𐐭𐑋 𐐿𐐷𐐳𐑉𐐚đČ𐑅𐑊𐐹.

“𐐏𐐭 𐑅𐐩 𐐷𐐫𐑉 𐐾𐐯𐑉 𐐼𐑆 đ‘€đ«đ‘Œ?” 𐐞𐐚 đ‘…đŻđŒ, 𐐶𐐟𐑄 𐐰𐑌 𐐯𐑉 𐐫𐑊𐑋𐐏𐑅𐐻 đČ𐑂 đźđŒđšđČ𐑅𐐹.

“𐐏𐐭 đ‘ŒđšđŒđ‘Œ’𐐻 𐑊𐐳𐐿 𐑁𐐫𐑉 𐐟𐐻,” đ‘…đŻđŒ 𐐔𐐯𐑊đČ. “𐐆𐐻’𐑅 đ‘…đŹđ‘ŠđŒ, 𐐌 𐐻𐐯𐑊 𐐷𐐭—đ‘…đŹđ‘ŠđŒ đ°đ‘ŒđŒ đ‘€đ«đ‘Œ, 𐐻𐐭. 𐐆𐐻’𐑅 𐐗𐑉𐐼𐑅𐑋đČ𐑅 𐐀𐑂, đș𐐫𐐟. 𐐒 đ‘€đłđŒ 𐐻𐐭 𐑋𐐹, 𐑁𐐫𐑉 𐐟𐐻 đ¶đŻđ‘Œđ» 𐑁𐐫𐑉 𐐷𐐭. 𐐣𐐩đș𐐚 𐑄 𐐾𐐯𐑉𐑆 đČ𐑂 𐑋𐐮 đžđŻđŒ 𐐶đČ𐑉 𐑌đČ𐑋đșđČđ‘‰đŒ,” 𐑇𐐹 đ¶đŻđ‘Œđ» đ«đ‘Œ 𐐶𐐟𐑄 𐑅đČđŒđČ𐑌 𐑅𐐼𐑉𐐹đČ𐑅 đ‘…đ¶đšđ»đ‘ŒđČ𐑅, “đșđČ𐐻 𐑌𐐬đșđČđŒđš đżđłđŒ 𐐯𐑂đČ𐑉 đżđ”đ‘Œđ» 𐑋𐐮 𐑊đČ𐑂 𐑁𐐫𐑉 𐐷𐐭. 𐐟𐐰𐑊 𐐌 đč𐐳𐐻 𐑄 đœđȘđč𐑅 đ«đ‘Œ, 𐐖𐐼𐑋?”

đđ» đČ𐑂 𐐾𐐼𐑆 đ»đ‘‰đ°đ‘Œđ‘… 𐐖𐐼𐑋 đ‘…đšđ‘‹đŒ 𐐿𐐶𐐟𐐿𐑊𐐚 𐐻𐐭 𐐶𐐩𐐿. 𐐐𐐚 đźđ‘Œđ‘đŹđ‘ŠđŒđČđŒ 𐐾𐐼𐑆 𐐔𐐯𐑊đČ. 𐐙𐐫𐑉 đ»đŻđ‘Œ 𐑅𐐯𐐿đČđ‘ŒđŒđ‘† 𐑊𐐯𐐻 đČ𐑅 𐑉đČ𐑀đȘđ‘‰đŒ 𐐶𐐟𐑄 đŒđźđ‘…đżđ‘‰đšđ» đ‘…đżđ‘‰đ­đ»đźđ‘Œđš 𐑅đČ𐑋 𐐼𐑍𐐿đȘ𐑌𐑅đČđżđ¶đŻđ‘ŒđœđČ𐑊 đȘđșđŸđŻđżđ» 𐐼𐑌 𐑄 đČ𐑄đČ𐑉 đŒđČ𐑉𐐯𐐿𐑇đČ𐑌. 𐐁𐐻 đŒđ«đ‘ŠđČ𐑉𐑆 đȘ 𐐶𐐚𐐿 𐐫𐑉 đȘ 𐑋𐐟𐑊𐐷đČ𐑌 đȘ 𐐷𐐟𐑉—𐐞𐐶đČ𐐻 𐐼𐑆 𐑄 đŒđźđ‘đČ𐑉đČ𐑌𐑅? 𐐂 𐑋𐐰𐑃đČ𐑋đČ𐐻𐐟𐑇đČ𐑌 𐐫𐑉 đȘ 𐐶𐐟𐐻 đ¶đłđŒ 𐑀𐐼𐑂 𐐷𐐭 𐑄 đ‘‰đ«đ‘ 𐐰𐑌𐑅đČ𐑉. 𐐜 đ‘‹đ©đŸđŽ đș𐑉𐐫𐐻 𐑂𐐰𐑊𐐷đČ𐐶đČđșđČ𐑊 𐑀𐐟𐑁𐐻𐑅, đșđČ𐐻 𐑄𐐰𐐻 𐐶đČ𐑆 𐑌đȘ𐐻 đČ𐑋đČ𐑍 𐑄𐐯𐑋. 𐐜𐐼𐑅 đŒđȘ𐑉𐐿 đČ𐑅đČ𐑉𐑇đČ𐑌 𐐶𐐟𐑊 đș đźđ‘Šđ­đ‘‹đźđ‘Œđ©đ»đČđŒ 𐑊𐐩𐐻đČ𐑉 đ«đ‘Œ.

𐐖𐐼𐑋 đŒđ‘‰đ­ đȘ đč𐐰𐐿đČđŸ 𐑁𐑉đČ𐑋 𐐾𐐼𐑆 𐐬𐑂đČ𐑉𐐿𐐏𐐻 đčđȘ𐐿đČ𐐻 đ°đ‘ŒđŒ 𐑃𐑉𐐭 𐐟𐐻 đČđčđȘ𐑌 𐑄 𐐻𐐩đșđČ𐑊.

“𐐔𐐬𐑌’𐐻 𐑋𐐩𐐿 𐐯𐑌𐐹 𐑋𐐟𐑅𐐻𐐩𐐿, 𐐔𐐯𐑊,” 𐐞𐐚 đ‘…đŻđŒ, “đČđș𐐔𐐻 𐑋𐐹. 𐐌 đŒđŹđ‘Œ’𐐻 𐑃𐐼𐑍𐐿 𐑄𐐯𐑉’𐑆 𐐯𐑌𐐹𐑃𐐼𐑍 𐐼𐑌 𐑄 𐐶𐐩 đČ𐑂 đȘ 𐐾𐐯𐑉𐐿đČ𐐻 𐐫𐑉 đȘ 𐑇𐐩𐑂 𐐫𐑉 đȘ 𐑇𐐰𐑋đč𐐭 𐑄𐐰𐐻 đżđłđŒ 𐑋𐐩𐐿 𐑋𐐹 𐑊𐐮𐐿 𐑋𐐮 𐑀đČ𐑉𐑊 𐐯𐑌𐐹 𐑊𐐯𐑅. 𐐒đČ𐐻 𐐼𐑁 𐐷𐐭’𐑊 đČ𐑌𐑉𐐰đč 𐑄𐐰𐐻 đč𐐰𐐿đČđŸ 𐐷𐐭 𐑋𐐩 𐑅𐐹 𐐞𐐶𐐎 𐐷𐐭 đžđ°đŒ 𐑋𐐹 𐑀𐐬𐐼̈𐑍 đȘ 𐐞𐐶𐐎𐑊 𐐰𐐻 𐑁đČ𐑉𐑅𐐻.”

𐐐𐐶𐐎𐐻 𐑁𐐼𐑍𐑀đČ𐑉𐑆 đ°đ‘ŒđŒ 𐑌𐐼𐑋đșđČ𐑊 𐐻𐐫𐑉 𐐰𐐻 𐑄 đ‘…đ»đ‘‰đźđ‘ đ°đ‘ŒđŒ đč𐐩đčđČ𐑉. đˆđ‘ŒđŒ 𐑄𐐯𐑌 𐐰𐑌 𐐯𐐿𐑅𐐻𐐰𐐻𐐟𐐿 𐑅𐐿𐑉𐐹𐑋 đČ𐑂 đŸđ«đź; đ°đ‘ŒđŒ 𐑄𐐯𐑌, đČ𐑊𐐰𐑅! đȘ 𐐿𐐶𐐟𐐿 𐑁𐐯𐑋𐐼𐑌𐐼𐑌 đœđ©đ‘ŒđŸ 𐐻𐐭 𐐞𐐟𐑅𐐻𐐯𐑉𐐟𐐿đČ𐑊 𐐻𐐟𐑉𐑆 đ°đ‘ŒđŒ 𐐶𐐩𐑊𐑆, 𐑌đČđ‘…đŻđ‘…đźđ»đ©đ»đźđ‘ 𐑄 đźđ‘‹đšđŒđšđČ𐐻 𐐼𐑋đč𐑊𐐫𐐟𐑋đČđ‘Œđ» đČ𐑂 𐐫𐑊 𐑄 𐐿đČ𐑋𐑁đČđ‘‰đ»đźđ‘ đč𐐔đČ𐑉𐑆 đČ𐑂 𐑄 đ‘Šđ«đ‘‰đŒ đČ𐑂 𐑄 𐑁𐑊𐐰𐐻.

𐐙𐐫𐑉 𐑄𐐯𐑉 𐑊𐐩 𐐜 𐐗𐐬𐑋𐑆—𐑄 𐑅𐐯𐐻 đČ𐑂 𐐿𐐬𐑋𐑆, đ‘…đŽđŒ đ°đ‘ŒđŒ đș𐐰𐐿, 𐑄𐐰𐐻 𐐔𐐯𐑊đČ đžđ°đŒ 𐐶đČ𐑉𐑇𐐼đč𐐻 đ‘Šđ«đ‘ 𐐼𐑌 đȘ đ’đ‘‰đ«đŒđ¶đ© đ¶đźđ‘ŒđŒđŹ. 𐐒𐐷𐐭𐐻𐐟𐑁đČ𐑊 𐐿𐐬𐑋𐑆, đč𐐷𐐳𐑉 𐐻𐐫𐑉𐐻đČ𐑅 𐑇𐐯𐑊, 𐐶𐐟𐑄 đŸđ­đČđ‘ŠđŒ 𐑉𐐼𐑋𐑆—đŸđČ𐑅𐐻 𐑄 đ‘‡đ©đŒ 𐐻𐐭 𐐶𐐯𐑉 𐐼𐑌 𐑄 đș𐐷𐐭𐐻𐐟𐑁đČ𐑊 đ‘‚đ°đ‘Œđźđ‘‡đ» 𐐾𐐯𐑉. đœđ© 𐐶đČ𐑉 𐐼𐐿𐑅đč𐐯𐑌𐑅𐐼𐑂 𐐿𐐬𐑋𐑆, 𐑇𐐹 𐑌𐐭, đ°đ‘ŒđŒ 𐐞đČ𐑉 𐐞đȘ𐑉𐐻 đžđ°đŒ 𐑅𐐼𐑋đč𐑊𐐹 đżđ‘‰đ©đ‘‚đŒ đ°đ‘ŒđŒ 𐐷đČđ‘‰đ‘ŒđŒ 𐐬𐑂đČ𐑉 𐑄𐐯𐑋 đ¶đźđ‘ƒđ”đ» 𐑄 𐑊𐐚𐑅𐐻 𐐞𐐏đč đČ𐑂 đčđČ𐑆𐐯𐑇đČ𐑌. đˆđ‘ŒđŒ đ‘Œđ”, 𐑄𐐩 𐐶đČ𐑉 𐐞đČ𐑉𐑆, đșđČ𐐻 𐑄 𐐻𐑉𐐯𐑅đČ𐑆 𐑄𐐰𐐻 đ‘‡đłđŒ 𐐾𐐰𐑂 đČđŒđ«đ‘‰đ‘ŒđŒ 𐑄 𐐿đČ𐑂đČ𐐻đČđŒ đČđŒđ«đ‘‰đ‘Œđ‘‹đČđ‘Œđ»đ‘… 𐐶đČ𐑉 đ‘€đ«đ‘Œ.

𐐒đČ𐐻 𐑇𐐹 𐐞đČđ‘€đŒ 𐑄𐐯𐑋 𐐻𐐭 𐐞đČ𐑉 đș𐐳𐑆đČ𐑋, đ°đ‘ŒđŒ 𐐰𐐻 𐑊𐐯𐑍𐑃 𐑇𐐹 𐐶đČ𐑆 𐐩đșđČ𐑊 𐐻𐐭 𐑊𐐳𐐿 đČđč 𐐶𐐟𐑄 đŒđźđ‘‹ 𐐮𐑆 đ°đ‘ŒđŒ đȘ 𐑅𐑋𐐮𐑊 đ°đ‘ŒđŒ 𐑅𐐩: “𐐣𐐎 𐐾𐐯𐑉 𐑀𐑉𐐬𐑆 𐑅𐐬 𐑁𐐰𐑅𐐻, 𐐖𐐼𐑋!”

đˆđ‘ŒđŒ 𐑄𐐯𐑌 𐐔𐐯𐑊đČ 𐑊𐐹đč𐐻 đČđč 𐑊𐐮𐐿 đȘ 𐑊𐐟𐐻đČ𐑊 đ‘…đźđ‘ŒđŸđŒ 𐐿𐐰𐐻 đ°đ‘ŒđŒ đżđ‘‰đŽđŒ, “𐐄, 𐐏!”

𐐖𐐼𐑋 đžđ°đŒ 𐑌đȘ𐐻 𐐷𐐯𐐻 𐑅𐐹𐑌 𐐾𐐼𐑆 đș𐐷𐐭𐐻𐐟𐑁đČ𐑊 đč𐑉𐐯𐑆đČđ‘Œđ». 𐐟𐐹 đžđŻđ‘ŠđŒ 𐐟𐐻 𐐔𐐻 𐐻𐐭 𐐾𐐼𐑋 𐐹𐑀đČ𐑉𐑊𐐹 đČđčđȘ𐑌 𐐞đČ𐑉 𐐏đčđČ𐑌 đčđȘ𐑊𐑋. 𐐜 đŒđČ𐑊 đč𐑉𐐯𐑇đČ𐑅 𐑋𐐯𐐻đČ𐑊 đ‘…đšđ‘‹đŒ 𐐻𐐭 𐑁𐑊𐐰𐑇 𐐶𐐟𐑄 đȘ 𐑉đČ𐑁𐑊𐐯𐐿𐑇đČ𐑌 đČ𐑂 𐐞đČ𐑉 đș𐑉𐐎𐐻 đ°đ‘ŒđŒ đȘđ‘‰đŒđČđ‘Œđ» 𐑅đč𐐟𐑉𐐟𐐻.

“𐐆𐑆𐑌’𐐻 𐐟𐐻 đȘ đŒđ°đ‘ŒđŒđš, 𐐖𐐼𐑋? 𐐌 𐐞đČđ‘Œđ»đČđŒ 𐐫𐑊 𐐬𐑂đČ𐑉 đ»đ”đ‘Œ 𐐻𐐭 đ‘đŽđ‘ŒđŒ 𐐟𐐻. 𐐏𐐭’𐑊 𐐾𐐰𐑂 𐐻𐐭 𐑊𐐳𐐿 𐐰𐐻 𐑄 𐐻𐐎𐑋 đȘ 𐐞đČđ‘ŒđŒđ‘‰đČđŒ 𐐻𐐎𐑋𐑆 đȘ đŒđ© đ‘Œđ”. 𐐘𐐼𐑂 𐑋𐐹 𐐷𐐫𐑉 đ¶đ«đœ. 𐐌 đ¶đ«đ‘Œđ» 𐐻𐐭 𐑅𐐹 𐐞𐐔 𐐟𐐻 𐑊𐐳𐐿𐑅 đ«đ‘Œ 𐐟𐐻.”

đ†đ‘Œđ‘…đ»đŻđŒ đČ𐑂 𐐏đșđ©đźđ‘, 𐐖𐐼𐑋 𐐻đČ𐑋đșđČđ‘ŠđŒ đŒđ”đ‘Œ đ«đ‘Œ 𐑄 đżđ”đœ đ°đ‘ŒđŒ đč𐐳𐐻 𐐾𐐼𐑆 đžđ°đ‘ŒđŒđ‘† đČđ‘ŒđŒđČ𐑉 𐑄 đș𐐰𐐿 đČ𐑂 𐐾𐐼𐑆 đžđŻđŒ đ°đ‘ŒđŒ đ‘…đ‘‹đŽđ‘ŠđŒ.

“𐐔𐐯𐑊,” đ‘…đŻđŒ 𐐞𐐚, “𐑊𐐯𐐻’𐑅 đč𐐳𐐻 𐐔𐑉 𐐗𐑉𐐼𐑅𐑋đČ𐑅 đč𐑉𐐯𐑆đČđ‘Œđ»đ‘… đČ𐐶𐐩 đ°đ‘ŒđŒ 𐐿𐐚đč ’đČ𐑋 đȘ 𐐞𐐶𐐎𐑊. đœđ©’𐑉 𐐻𐐭 𐑌𐐮𐑅 𐐻𐐭 𐐷𐐭𐑆 đŸđČ𐑅𐐻 𐐰𐐻 đč𐑉𐐯𐑆đČđ‘Œđ». 𐐌 đ‘…đŹđ‘ŠđŒ 𐑄 đ¶đ«đœ 𐐻𐐭 𐑀𐐯𐐻 𐑄 𐑋đČ𐑌𐐹 𐐻𐐭 đș𐐎 𐐷𐐫𐑉 𐐿𐐬𐑋𐑆. đˆđ‘ŒđŒ đ‘Œđ” 𐑅đČđč𐐬𐑆 𐐷𐐭 đč𐐳𐐻 𐑄 đœđȘđč𐑅 đ«đ‘Œ.”

𐐜 đ‘‹đ©đŸđŽ, 𐐰𐑆 𐐷𐐭 𐑌𐐬, 𐐶đČ𐑉 𐐶𐐎𐑆 𐑋𐐯𐑌—𐐶đČđ‘ŒđŒđČ𐑉𐑁đČ𐑊𐐹 𐐶𐐎𐑆 𐑋𐐯𐑌—𐐞𐐭 đș𐑉𐐫𐐻 𐑀𐐟𐑁𐐻𐑅 𐐻𐐭 𐑄 𐐒𐐩đș 𐐼𐑌 𐑄 đ‘‹đ©đ‘ŒđŸđČ𐑉. đœđ© đźđ‘Œđ‘‚đŻđ‘Œđ»đČđŒ 𐑄 đȘ𐑉𐐻 đČ𐑂 𐑀𐐼𐑂𐐼𐑍 𐐗𐑉𐐼𐑅𐑋đČ𐑅 đč𐑉𐐯𐑆đČđ‘Œđ»đ‘…. 𐐒𐐹𐐼𐑍 𐐶𐐎𐑆, 𐑄𐐯𐑉 𐑀𐐟𐑁𐐻𐑅 𐐶đČ𐑉 𐑌𐐬 đŒđ”đ» 𐐶𐐎𐑆 𐐶đČ𐑌𐑆, đčđȘ𐑅𐐼đș𐑊𐐹 đș𐐯𐑉𐐼𐑍 𐑄 đč𐑉𐐼𐑂𐐼𐑊đČđŸ đČ𐑂 đźđżđ‘…đœđ©đ‘ŒđŸ 𐐼𐑌 𐐿𐐩𐑅 đČ𐑂 đŒđ­đč𐑊𐐟𐐿𐐩𐑇đČ𐑌. đˆđ‘ŒđŒ 𐐾𐐼𐑉 𐐌 𐐾𐐰𐑂 𐑊𐐩𐑋𐑊𐐚 𐑉đČ𐑊𐐩𐐻đČđŒ 𐐻𐐭 𐐷𐐭 𐑄 đČđ‘Œđźđ‘‚đŻđ‘Œđ»đ‘đČ𐑊 𐐿𐑉đȘ𐑌𐐼𐐿đČ𐑊 đČ𐑂 𐐻𐐭 𐑁𐐭𐑊𐐼𐑇 đœđźđ‘ŠđŒđ‘‰đČ𐑌 𐐼𐑌 đȘ 𐑁𐑊𐐰𐐻 𐐞𐐭 𐑋𐐏𐑅𐐻 đČđ‘Œđ¶đŽđ‘†đ‘Šđš 𐑅𐐰𐐿𐑉𐐟𐑁𐐎𐑅𐐻 𐑁𐐫𐑉 đšđœ đČ𐑄đČ𐑉 𐑄 𐑀𐑉𐐩𐐻đČ𐑅𐐻 đ»đ‘‰đŻđ‘ˆđČ𐑉𐑆 đČ𐑂 𐑄𐐯𐑉 𐐞𐐔𐑅. 𐐒đČ𐐻 𐐼𐑌 đȘ 𐑊𐐰𐑅𐐻 𐐶đČđ‘‰đŒ 𐐻𐐭 𐑄 𐐶𐐎𐑆 đČ𐑂 𐑄𐐹𐑆 đŒđ©đ‘† 𐑊𐐯𐐻 𐐟𐐻 đș đ‘…đŻđŒ 𐑄𐐰𐐻 đČ𐑂 𐐫𐑊 𐐞𐐭 𐑀𐐼𐑂 𐑀𐐟𐑁𐐻𐑅 𐑄𐐹𐑆 𐐻𐐭 𐐶đČ𐑉 𐑄 𐐶𐐎𐑆đČ𐑅𐐻. 𐐊𐑂 𐐫𐑊 𐐞𐐭 𐑀𐐼𐑂 đ°đ‘ŒđŒ 𐑉đČ𐑅𐐹𐑂 𐑀𐐟𐑁𐐻𐑅, 𐑅đČđœ 𐐰𐑆 𐑄𐐩 đȘ𐑉 𐐶𐐎𐑆đČ𐑅𐐻. 𐐇𐑂𐑉𐐚𐐞𐐶𐐯𐑉 𐑄𐐩 đȘ𐑉 𐐶𐐎𐑆đČ𐑅𐐻. đœđ© đȘ𐑉 𐑄 đ‘‹đ©đŸđŽ.

Thursday, January 14, 2016

BlessĂšd are the Bless’d, for They Shall Receive Blessings

Long, long ago, back before the Deseret Alphabet was even a gleam in Brigham Young’s eye, before the United States was born, before the Pilgrims landed on Cape Cod—even before Canada was discovered—the English language was a very different animal that went by the name of “Middle English” and spent most of its time contemplating what Aprill with its shoures soote had done to the droghte of March. The rules were different in those days. Æ, Ð, Þ, and Ç· were still part of the alphabet. Vowels were real vowels, and consonants were real consonants. Nobody had time for any of this sissy silent letter crap. If a word was spelled “knight,” then it started with a k-sound and had a guttural gurgling in the middle, by Wƍdan. If a word looked like it had two syllables, then it had two syllables, like the sturdy yeoman that it was.

Case in point—

English verbs, then and now, fall into two categories: strong verbs, and weak verbs. Like Indo-European languages generally, English is a synthetic language and retains bits and pieces of its older, conjugation-heavy heritage. Verbs still change to indicate tense. If they change by altering their vowels, they are strong verbs. If they change by adding a suffix, they are weak verbs. Sing and bite are strong verbs. Love and hate are weak verbs.

English weak verbs form their past tense by adding -ed. Back in the Middle English days, this was, in fact, pronounced as a separate syllable. As Middle English morphed into modern English, the tendency was to elide the vowel as much as possible, so that today, loved is pronounced with only one syllable; however, because pronouncing two successive dentals without an intervening vowel is difficult in English, hated remains disyllabic.

Naturally, there was a transition period. Even as late as Shakespeare, a weak verb’s -ed might or might not be pronounced as an extra syllable, with (for the Bard) the meter often the determining factor. In modern editions of Shakespeare, you’ll frequently see this indicated by putting a grave accent over the e if the syllable is to be pronounced, and by replacing the e with an apostrophe if it is not. (This is a useful convention which I will be adhering to below.) Thus, in The Merchant of Venice, Act iv scene 1, Portia tells Shylock, “The quality of mercy is not strain’d," whereas in King John iv.2, the Earl of Salisbury warns the titular monarch, “To gild refinĂšd gold, to paint the lily,…is wasteful and ridiculous excess.” Note that in each case, you get a perfect line of iambic pentameter by pronouncing the “-ed” endings as explicitly marked.

(Whether or not a particular edition of Shakespeare adheres to this convention depends on a number of factors. In particular, Project Gutenberg tends not to use -Ăšd, because in its early days it was restricted to plain ASCII and had no reliable way to add the accent.)

In the 21st century, though, the rule is that the “-ed” is pronounced only when it is phonetically necessary to do so. But what would a rule be without exceptions? (A good rule, that’s what.)

First, a bit more grammar. Indo-European languages generally make clear distinctions between the various parts of speech. A verb, therefore, can’t just behave like an adjective; it has to be turned into one. A verb-turned-into-an-adjective is called a participle. English has two kinds forms for the participle: the present participle (as in “the flying nun”) and the past participle (“the frozen pond”). For weak verbs, the simple past verb conjugation and the past participle are both formed by adding -ed to the verb stem. (“I salted the meat myself.” “The salted meat is too salty.”)

The English language adores participles, because we use them in the compound forms of verbs, and we use compound forms a lot. With compound verbs, we use a helper verb (to be or to have) with a participle. We have the simple present (“I read Dante’s Divine Comedy every few years.”), the present progressive (“Right now I am reading Kirkpatrick’s translation.”), the present perfect (“I have read Ciardi’s translation several times.”), and the simple past (“I read three cantos yesterday.”), among others. One of our more spectacular constructions is the present perfect progressive (“It has been snowing all morning.”) Of these, only the simple present and simple past are not compound forms, and this is hardly an exhaustive list.

Now comes the kicker. Some past participles, a long time ago, basically became fixed expressions and turned into adjectives in their own right, and these adjectives preserved their pronunciation when the past participle proper changed its. That is, their -ed ending continued to be pronounced as a distinct syllable.

As an example, consider “learned.” If I am using it as a standard past participle, I pronounce it with one syllable: “I have learn’d my verb conjugations well.” As an actual adjective, however, it is now a separate word meaning “having much knowledge acquired by learning,” and as such is pronounced learnĂšd. You would have to be an unlearnĂšd man like Homer Simpson to pronounce the adjective “learn’d."

Other adjectives have followed a similar trajectory. Another common one is “aged” (“The president has aged decades since he took office.” “I saw an agĂšd, agĂšd man, /A-sitting on a gate.” Note, however, “middle-ag’d," which we never pronounce “middle-agĂšd.”) I’ve seen “cursĂšd” used as a distinct adjective on occasion. There are more.
None of these adjectives, however—none—has caused me as much grief as “blessed,” because it has to do with God-ish things, and so tends to occur a lot in religious texts. Like the Bible. Like the King James Bible. Like the one Bible translation of which I have converted everything except about the last third of the Old Testament into the Deseret Alphabet.

Precisely because of its association with the King James Bible, and particularly with the Beatitudes in Matthew 5, “blessed” is not only the past participle and simple past of “bless,” but an adjective in its own right meaning “having a sacred nature, associated with God.” As an adjective—and especially in conjunction with the archaic, exalted style we associate with the Authorised Version—there is a strong tendency to pronounce it as “blessĂšd.” The various dictionaries I’ve consulted, by the way, are not consistent here. Some say the preferred pronunciation of the adjective is “blessĂšd,” and some say that it’s “bless’d.” (Everybody allows both pronunciations.)

What makes this more difficult than other verbs is that it is a transitive verb that can take thing with volition as both subject and object, and commonly does. Thus, Matthew 5:9, “Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God.” The sentence makes sense whether you parse it as meaning “God blesses peacemakers” or “Peacemakers are holy.” (And if anybody starts talking about manufacturers of dairy products, I will have no idea to what they are referring.) If I say, “Aged indeed are my parents’ surviving siblings,” I’m very clearly not implying that some cheesemaker has come by and stuffed them in storage while they ripen; so it’s “agĂšd.” “Anyone who is genuinely learned will understand that anthropogenic climate change is a real problem” does not imply that people have gone around learning other people; so it’s “learnĂšd.”

For the New Testament, there is something that can help, and that is I know sufficient Greek to tell what the original sense is. In the case of Matthew 5:9, the original word is ΌαÎșÎŹÏÎčÎżÎč which is an adjective and means “happy, fortunate.” It’s not a conjugated verb. On the other hand, in Matthew 14:19, we have “He…took the five loaves, and the two fishes, and looking up to heaven, he blessed, and break, and gave the loaves to his disciples.” Outside of the fact that the English sense is pretty clear, the Greek here is Î”áœÎ»ÏŒÎłÎ·ÏƒÎ”Îœ, the third person singular aorist active indicative of the verb Î”áœÎ»ÎżÎłÎ­Ï‰, which means, well, “to bless.” (Literally, it means “to speak well of.”)

That’s actually a workable solution to distinguish blessed-qua-verb and blessed-qua-adjective, and I adhered to it sporadically through the New Testament. Unfortunately, I don’t know Hebrew well enough to do the same in the Old Testament.

Now, the whole rigamarole is actually unnecessary, because there is a simple, sensible solution to the dilemma. As I say, all the dictionaries I’ve consulted say that “bless’d” is an acceptable pronunciation for blessed-qua-adjective and some of them give “bless’d” as the preferred pronunciation. So just use “bless’d” all the time.

Unfortunately, simple though I may be, I am not sensible. I just could not get myself to put “Bless’d are the merciful” into Jesus’ mouth. Instead, I’m doing what is probably the worst possible thing under the circumstances and simply going by euphony if semantics will not guide me. If the English sense is very clear, I go by that. Otherwise, if “blessĂšd” sounds better than “bless’d,” I use “blessĂšd.” If “bless’d” sounds better, use it instead. The result is a linguistic abomination and wrecks havoc with my principle of “one word-one spelling,” but at least it lets me sleep at night in blessĂšd, blessĂšd slumber.