Composing a Ximenes, the clues

Cluemanship (see Chapter V), even more than composition, calls for freshness: when one is tired, ideas just won’t come. So after breakfast, and half an hour in an armchair digesting it, your letters and the news, collect plenty of paper, Chambers, the dictionary of synonyms and the diagram, and prepare to start, let’s say at 9.15. Don’t forget what you learnt in Chapter V.

Apart from the rules of soundness given there, remember especially (1) Brevity — keep as many clues as possible down to fifty letters and spaces, so that they’ll need only one line of print. (2) Not more than six anagrams; so don’t use them up too soon — you may want very badly to use one or two towards the end. (3) Easyish clues, as a rule, for rare words, not-too-easy clues for common words.

Start with 1 across and go straight ahead: don’t mind if at any point you take a long time to think of something pleasing. If you give up and go on to the next one when you’re stuck, you will be left with a maddening accumulation of difficulties at the end, and your total time will probably be longer. So now for it: begin with our old friend the Colonel.

SAPT. The last clue I used for him was “Constable of fiction: brooded about a Prince.” (sa-P.-t, & lit. - Do you remember what “& lit.” means? If not, see Chapter VIII.) New subsidiary idea: S.A.-P.T., or pt. S. Africa? S. America? No connexion. It? Always possible. It jerks? It has little point? It calls for exercise? It takes training? Try the chapter titles. Nothing in The Prisoner of Zenda; but what about “A King Up His Sleeve” in Rupert of Hentzau? “Colonel who had a King up his sleeve: it takes training.” A bit long? Yes, fifty-five letters and spaces: “Colonel with King” saves the necessary six. (That one took longer than we expected.)

VATICIDE. Killer or killing of prophets, plus the idea of killing (which we can call knocking back) drinks (vat). “Who killest the prophets” — wasn’t that Jerusalem? Look it up in Cruden’s Concordance: yes, it was. “Jerusalem’s crime — knocking back a lot of drinks?” isn’t bad: the query is essential, to show that it doesn’t really mean that but is a fanciful idea. Difficult for those who have forgotten their bibles? Well, they shouldn’t have.

ANAXIMENES. This should be easy to clue. “Ana” means personal anecdotes, table-talk, etc, The philosopher believed that everything was made of air: it seems reasonable to call him “airy”. So we arrive at “Airy philosopher had a lot of chat with Cardinal.” Easy for classics and hard for everyone else? Perhaps, but we don’t often offend in this way.

LARDOON. A strip of bacon used for stuffing. Possibilities: ‘ard in loon (which has various meanings, including “tart”), Lar-Doon (or do on). “A strip of bacon: that’s ’arsh in a tart”? Not too bad, but we might do better. What about rasher? But perhaps it isn’t quite the same thing. . . . Nothing seems to work really nicely. . . . “We haven’t had an anagram yet’, you say.

No: let’s try: old roan — or an old — Orlando! Why didn’t we think of that before? Obviously we must have Orlando Furioso; and Bacon, the writer. “Bacon’s version of Orlando Furioso” — the best so far, I think, and it was your suggestion that produced it. Nearly a quarter of an hour on one clue, but perhaps worth it.

Three quarters of an hour for four clues: slow — hope the next ones will come more quickly.

CADI or KADI. Magistrate — beak. Sound of caddy? But the correct pronunciation doesn’t sound quite like caddy, and anyway we must indicate the first letter, which is unchecked: a clue referring to sound won’t do. “I’ll be seen with a bounder before the beak.” To see the point the solver will have to pause after “before”: punctuation is really needed between the indication of cad-I and the definition. This omission is allowed, but the clue would be more attractive without it. What about “This beak is bounder No. 1”? Better, but perhaps too easy: cad = bounder is very obvious. “And probably you’ve used it before”, you say?

Very likely: let’s look. Yes, and not long ago. What else is a ‘synonym of “cad”? Dictionary of synonyms — no help: the wretched book doesn’t give it! Any modern slang words? Heel: that’s better. “Magistrate known as ‘Heel Number One’.”

AXES. The obvious treatment is a and sex reversed. “Symbol of Fascists, a retrograde type of person” — or perhaps better, using the verbal meaning of axe, “Treats as redundant a …”

LEASURES. We must make that questionable plural clear. Lures about sea mixed, or about curtailed modern leisure (ease), which avoids the mixture: “rough sea” is a chestnut which would leap to the solver’s eye too quickly to give much of a kick. Lures. Attractions? Seductions? Why not? “Old-fashioned holidays rest almost entirely in seductions.” But do they? We should be able to do better. “Old-fashioned holidays — curtailed satisfaction in seductions.” About ten letters and spaces too many. “Dated” will help; and try “reduced facility”. We might do better than “reduced”: is there room for ‘restricted’? Yes. Then let it be ‘“Dated holidays — restricted facility in seductions.”

DISCALCED. Bare-footed (as a penance). Dis = Hell? I’ve used that rather often lately. Anagram? A bit soon after LARDOON, and two Ds plus two Cs are tiresome. Disc-laced, a part-anagram, is more promising, with the connexion between bare-footed and laced. Can we connect disc with this? Look it up. Not very hopeful, but to disc is to harrow: can’t we have Harrow boys not lacing their shoes properly and suffering the punishment to fit the crime? Yes — “Harrow: untidily laced. Going barefoot as penance.” (Note that “Harrow” should be first word, to give it a misleading capital letter: it could hardly indicate a verb fairly with a capital anywhere else.)

ENRAGE. Anger leaps to the eye, or a green. Another anagram so soon? Well, it is on the other side of the diagram. “A green that isn’t true: it’s sure to.’” Rather corny. Definitions? Nettle, gall suggest themselves among those in the dictionary of synonyms. What about “A green, knotted gall’? More misleading (it’s a common word, justifying this) and less corny. 10.45; we’ye been rather slow so far. What about taking a bit of exercise, and continuing after lunch and a rest? Let’s play a few holes of golf: there should be time before lunch.

3 p.m. Pleasantly tired in body and refreshed in mind, we return to consider:

CASSIO. You remember that he was involved in a street-brawl? Get your Othello to make sure. We’ll have a head-line clue. C.O. at the ends: ass I in the middle. His name was Michael, and he was a Lieutenant. “Lt. Mike involved in street brawl — ‘Clot ! I got caught by Colonel’.” Too long, but the idea demands it. Also a rather thin indication of who it is. Let’s add another detail, as long as it doesn’t run to three lines of print, Desdemona interceded for him; so we add “ — General’s wife interceded”, Anyone who knows Othello should get that.

HOUSEWIFE. With “sew” in the middle, this screams for an “& lit.” clue. “How to sew if. . .”? “She’s got, we hear, the way to sew. …”. If E? Not easy to finish it, Try again, Hou®-sew-I-Fe (Fe = iron). “I have most of the time to stitch — then I iron.” That’s nice, and perfectly sound.

SDEIGNES. Obsolete word meaning “scorns”, “Looks down old nose” perhaps. (Remember that obsoleteness must be indicated, as here by “old”). “Old scouts” (scout, vb.) is also possible. Subsidiary part? It looks like another anagram — no other possibility. “Digs seen” seems the likeliest — yes. “Looks down old nose — digs seen to be very untidy.”

Quicker since the break: three in twenty minutes.

PLUD. This must be an easy one, as solvers who haven’t access to Webster can’t verify its existence. It means a pool: p. = soft is a hoary chestnut, and lud! can be indicated clearly by gad! “Soft — gad! Here be ye olde worlde poole”. No one can miss that.

TE-- we leave till later.

DREVILL. Obsolete word meaning a foul person, d-rev,-ill: “back” for “rev.” (=reversed) will mislead them legitimately, Dill is used in pickling. So: “The dirty old man is back in a pickle’s embrace.” That might raise a smile when the penny drops.

SDRUCCIOLA. An adjective meaning triple, of rhyme, We had already thought of aloic curds reversed. “Aloic” is a horridly formed word: does it exist? No. Nevertheless this looks the only likely idea. It will have to be a long clue with subtraction of “et”? from “aloetic”. “Aloetic and old rejected coagulum turns …? Now what? “into e.g. … .” followed by a triple rhyme, if possible. “Coagulum” suggests “cheese”: rhymes? “Squeeze” is appropriate, so why not “Brie’s cheese — squeeze”? “But it’s an adjective, and ‘e.g. Brie’s cheese’ suggests a noun”, you sagely remark. Well done! That’s a snag which often leads to unsound clues. Instead of “into e.g.” we’ll put “like”. Then it leads soundly to an adjective.

ENTREPOT. Its most convenient meaning is port: this will go with toper reversed. A nice, easy one to clue — the quickest yet: “After 10, sozzled, drunk returning: have a port.” “But drunk is an adjective, and toper is a noun!” you protest. Drunk is a noun too, you ass! ‘Sorry, teacher!”

ONYM. What does it mean? … . Nasty shock — not in the dictionary! Surely it was in an old edition? . . . Yes, that’s a mercy: technical name of a species. This will need a footnote, to show that it isn’t in Chambers except for older editions. “On my back” is obvious: is it so obvious that it will double-cross them? Probably not: so we’ll put “Species of animal that gets on this chap’s back”, I being this chap.

We may as well finish the acrosses now by going back to 29, TE–. This and 34 down must both be easy words, to keep the balance. So think of a convenient TEA- word (A will fit into 24 down), preferably with two or three meanings. TEAR is the obvious one: “There’s a drop in rent.” Corny? Well, I don’t remember meeting it before, though it has almost certainly been used. ‘Where does ‘in’ come in?” you ask. Oh, in = consisting in is very commonly used, though I admit I don’t admire it much.

That finishes the acrosses — and it’s only just after four o’clock. The second half came more quickly than the first. “Shan’t we start the downs? SALADE looks an easy word to clue”. No! Tea! And not much more work today, anyway, if we want the clues to be any good.

In fact, we did no more: it’s now the next morning, and we resume full of hope. First, we check the number of anagrams in the acrosses: three, and one partial one, so there mustn’t be more than three in the downs. And we haven’t had a “hidden” clue yet: you should remember that we decided in Chapter V that one of these was enough: they become far too easy if the solver is looking out for them all the time. A puzzle with none of them every now and then is wise. Now for the downs.

SALADE. You said yesterday that it looked an easy one: are you sure? S.A.-lade, S.-a-lad-EH., sa-lad-e (Scots sae = so) are all possible. S.A.= it has been overworked, but, thanks to the commonness of pronouns, it may not stick out: the solver won’t look at every “it” in the clues with that idea in mind. Try the meanings of lade. Apart from the obvious ones, it can mean empty, and a salade was a helmet: what’s under someone’s hat (his brain) might be empty, and this is where “it” is so useful. “Old-fashioned headgear: what’s under it is empty.” That didn’t take long: it’s always pleasant when the first idea works,

ANAXIMANDER. We must not suggest any connexion with Anaximenes. That would make it absurdly easy for classics, and the connexion will give an extra kick when it appears, whichever of the two the solver gets first. “’Im and ‘er” looks promising: ’Arry and ’Arriet, perhaps. An ax! We’ve used the verbal sense of axe, but it can be spelt either way and may well be used again. To axe (or ax) is to sack: “One has to sack ‘Arry and ’Arriet” makes good sense: Anaximander’s views must give us the reason for dismissal. Now he followed Thales, who was all in favour of water: Anaximander, on the other hand, believed in a variety of sources for the world. So they could be sacked for preferring other things to water. But we shall have to say “he”, not “they”. Put “and ’Arriet” in brackets, therefore, to give ‘Arry more prominence, and continue “he preferred absolutely anything to water.” Long, but there’s a lot to get in.

PARESIS. A sort of paralysis. There is an old clue of mine available from back in 1954 — “Trim the girl for not working properly.” No one will remember it, but it could be brought up to date a bit by introducing baby for sis, and let’s make trim an adjective and say “Trim baby stops one functioning properly”, a slightly better definition.

VIOLAS. There is a clue to the singular available, but that was used barely a year ago — too recent. It ran thus: “She wore the breeches at the palace — a big fiddle” (ref. Twelfth Night). She isn’t any use this time, because there was only one of her: better try for a completely new idea. “Is oval” is an anagram, and violins, etc., are pear-shaped: there’s our connexion. “They’re pearshaped: otherwise shape is oval” (shape being, of course, an imperative verb). Easy? Yes, but we want some easy ones. (That’s four anagrams, remember.)

TENACES. Ah! We have this clue already in our heads. “Pairs of high cards, six of them being up a sharper’s sleeve?” Long, but it would be hard to shorten, and this is only the third clue that will need two lines. (Much quicker than yesterday so far.)

IN-S. Inns and inks aren’t easy to make interesting: what about the Spanish name Ines, given in that wonderful list of “The More Common English Christian Names” in Chambers. Wasn’t there a famous one? Look up the name in Brewer’s Reader’s Handbook. We find she was the mother of Don Juan, and wanted to make her son a model of all virtues. “Wanted her child to become a model?” is pleasantly misleading (towards a daughter) and at the same time fair. Now what about the subsidiary? After much cogitation, we decide to look up words ending in -iness in the rhyming dictionary, with a view to using a word that contains her. “Dreaminess” can be connected with her dreams about her son’s future: “Had dreams about her in reverie’ (dream-Ines-s) continues to mislead towards a girl. Alter the first part to “Could her child become a model?”, and we have a perfectly fair but difficult clue. It was time for a difficult one, after two very straightforward ones. (That, incidentally, has taken twenty-five minutes, almost as long as the other five put together: that’s how it goes.)

ISARI. This calls for an easy clue, being a little known place in Greece, and it should be easy for us too. Either sari or Iras: Cleopatra was at the time topical, so “Lady’s maid of ancient Queen, I, up in Greece.” That should leap to the eye, and there will really be no need to search gazetteers.

ENISLE. This dull word again, one of the sort that keep pushing themselves in because no others like them are available. Can’t we use an old clue? After looking at several, we decide that the best one is an anagram: “Senile, decrepit: put in a home, perhaps” (it means isolate). Very obvious — not proud of it, but it’ll do.

SDEIGNFULLY. This one took ages, and we cursed ourselves for deliberately putting the word in, One more anagram was possible, but nothing remotely connected with disdain emerged. (Perhaps readers will find a good one.) At long last we treated S as Spenser’s head (it’s a Spenserian word) and wrote “See my poet’s head descend, quite haughtily” (quite = fully), Not very interesting, but at least it’s sound,

Half the downs done — let’s have some elevenses.

After that we got on with a rush: an interval is nearly always helpful.

C-SH. Cash and cosh have been used fairly often: try cush. Two meanings, billiards cushion and thigh-armour. Then obviously “Green elastic lining for fortifying an old behind.” A smile, perhaps, for the solver; it was time for one.

DROW. Scotch mist. Look up “Word”, Message is possible: “Message comes up — Scotch mist descending.” Not quite our original idea, but that often happens.

ROUND-UP. Look up the parts. “All over” and “rising” would do, if we could reverse them and say ‘Rising all over — wholesale arrests.” The reversal is difficult, but it’s syntactically possible: a slope up is a rising slope; and the difficulty is compensated for by an easy definition of a familiar word.

AVILION. §avilion, our original idea, will surely work here. “Have a roofless tent: it never rains there” (ref. Passing of Arthur — “Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow”),

CASTLE. Two not too obvious meanings: a tower on an elephant’s back and a warship. “Warship carried on an elephant’s back.” (So that’s the origin of the Elephant and Castle — one lives and learns.)

RESECT. Dull word — to cut away part of. Secret anagram will be too easy, probably. Sec = dry in ret = dampen or rot. Dry rot? “Remove part of dry rot outside”? Too jerky: two punctuation marks left out. So reverse the order: “Dry rot outside: remove unsound part.” Only one punctuation mark to be supplied now — that, at least, is better.

BEDLAM. “Place for cuckoo — nest to line” (line = beat)? No, I was wrong — can’t find line = beat. Look up bed for another idea. Bottom. Therefore: “Uproar: that means a bottom to thrash.”

No “hidden” clue yet. We mentioned above that a puzzle without one is a good idea sometimes, but to make this set of clues complete, we’ll try for one in one of the last two. |

REAST. To become rancid; also, to cure with smoke (Scot.) “Cure haddies in fire a st …”? No: can’t finish it. “To cure a steak? Look there — Scots method.” Easy, as “hidden” clues always are, but the definition providing the hiding-place gives a new twist.

G-RE. Gore has been used lately. GARE = miserly (Scot.). Aberdonian? French station — tipping porters? That doesn’t seem to work. Chemin-de-fer is another idea with a money connexion. “Miserly Aberdonian limit at chemin-de-fer?” Note the query, necessary because a station needn’t be a terminus.

Finished, and not even lunch-time: about two and a quarter hours for the downs, in spite of one or two bad hold-ups. Total time for clues about six hours — longer than usual, perhaps, because here and there we took rather special trouble over this one and weren’t content with what seemed merely adequate. The result when the puzzle appeared — No. 774 in November 1963 — was that it proved quite a bit harder than the average. That was because clues that come quickly are usually less tortuous than those that need a lot of cerebration, and we had several of the latter, e.g. Sapt, leasures, Ines, sdeignfully. But this doesn’t apply to lardoon: in that clue the obvious idea was absurdly slow in coming. Another reason for the difficulty was that the preceding puzzle had been rather an easy one, and I therefore didn’t simplify any of the clues when I was reading the proof, as I usually do when preceding puzzles have proved to be hard. In spite of all this, I don’t think this set of clues is far off an average specimen.

I hope that both here and in the chapters on composition I have given a coherent and intelligible picture of my methods, and also that I have incidentally exploded to some extent the belief that the solution of such puzzles is only for geniuses, and the composition of them a work of superhuman and devilish ingenuity.

Both are just matters of acquired technique (knack, if you like) plus thinking cruciverbally. So why not have a try yourself?