Burnt Sienna

Friday 23rd March

“Burnt Sienna”, he muttered “Where can I get some burnt sienna?”  He rummaged through his store of pigments but there was no sienna – raw or burnt, to be found at all.  “Damn” he swore, “It is the very colour I need for the cloak, and a touch in the hair would bring it alive.  Madame has such very dull brown hair, going grey over her ears, truth to tell. But she uses henna, and cleverly too, just giving a warm lift to her very dull face.  Too much and she would look foolish.  Especially at her age.”  He had almost finished the portrait.  “It wasn’t so bad”, he thought, walking away from the canvas and squinting, covering one eye and then the other. “Maybe a touch on the serious side, and the skin tone is much paler then her real colouring.”  He had ignored those tiny capillaries beginning to break out at the edges of her nose, which he had made just a touch more aquiline.  And as for wrinkles and crow’s feet – he wasn’t foolish enough to present her as she really was.  “Nobody wants that; why you might as well give them a mirror.  No, a good portrait shows you as you would like to be seen, as you should be seen.  It isn’t really dishonesty, it is simply a different way of seeing.”

And one must never forget, Madame is an Aristocrat, after all.  Even if rumour has it that she was really a miller’s daughter who had married well.  Her husband, Monsieur Le Fevre, was the third son of a Marquis.  But only a third son.  Not even a first or a second, so he was destined for poverty – or what he, as a member of the Bourgeoisie, considered as poverty. He had an honorary position in the Cavalry but could barely afford a horse, let alone the equipage to go with it.  He lived in a large house in the smartest Arrondissement, but it was only rented.  He owed his tailor for the very clothes on his back.  He lived, like most of the Parisienne gentry, constantly in debt, signing promissory notes like confetti.  His father was rich and had a large estate South of Paris near Orleans.  He would inherit something, he supposed, as did his creditors.  But for now, he spent far too much time and energy on being obsequious towards those he presumed to be wealthier than himself.

The latest Paris fashion was to have your wife painted in a Roman Toga with a leopard or some exotic animal sitting at her feet, and so, Monsieur had commissioned Pierre Dalgarde, an artisan artist, (cheap, but proficient) to paint her.  Pierre only had the final coat to the cloak and her hair and the wretched thing would be done.  It had taken him three weeks, it was almost finished.  And now, of all things he had run out of burnt sienna.

He had promised Monsieur he could view the painting tomorrow, and it was already late.  It was getting dark too.  Where on earth would he find some sienna, raw or burnt, at this time of night?  The few pigment suppliers would be closed by now.  He had ochre and a little cochineal; but he knew that would only give him a hideous orange.  He would have to try one of his fellow artists.  He was wary of venturing out into the streets so late, there were rumours flying of unrest, especially in the poorer districts; and Pierre lived on the edge of Saint Antoine, one of the very poorest.  He had been closeted in his studio for almost three weeks, his landlady bringing him meals and wine daily.  She had told him of the riots; but he had barely heard her, intent as he was on finishing the portrait.

He turned a corner and was horrified to see the famous Revellion wallpaper factory ablaze.  A large crowd had gathered and were shouting and cheering as the timbers fell into the conflagration and huge flames leapt ever higher, seeming to dance over the rooftops.  The mob looked ugly and dangerous, and coward that he was, Pierre skulked back to his studio.

Panicking, he grabbed a handful of ochre, some oil and adding just a dash of cochineal he quickly painted the robe.  It looked far too bright and distracted the eye from her face, but it couldn’t be helped; it would simply have to do.  Tired, he ground up some coffee beans and heating them in a small copper saucepan over his single candle, dosed them some brandy and tumbled into bed.

As the next morning broke he was dreading looking again at the portrait.  He saw at once that his worst fears were realised.  The ochre had dried an even more ugly shade of dark yellow.   “Just like Moutarde de Dijon.” He sighed.  This would never do.  Suddenly he had an idea.  He ran downstairs and into the cellar.  There among the broken furniture and dusty barrels he scraped up some dry earth from the floor.  Good old Parisienne dirt, a dark enough brown surely.  Then his eyes saw the rusty hoop of an old wine barrel.  Rust, just the thing.  He added some scrapings to the dusty soil, milling it smooth with his hands.

Upstairs he tentatively touched the ochre.  Yes, it was almost dry but there was a little movement still.  He carefully dabbed the rusty dirt onto the ochre, gently feathering the brush with the most delicate of whispy strokes, careful not to disturb the still wet paint underneath.  It was working. He would have to leave the hair, that would be too difficult.  “Well, her bloody hair was mousy anyway.”

He relaxed, as he finished the last gentle strokes.  “At least the leopard looked alive, his landlady’s cat had sat patiently for him, even if Madame had fidgeted constantly”. He would show it to M. le Fevre later that day.

He waited anxiously for Monsieur to arrive.  He listened for the bells, two, three and then four.  No Monsieur.  At six his landlady brought his supper.  “What is this?” he demanded. “No meat, and these potatoes are miserably small.  And what is this withered leaf pretending to be cabbage? You can’t expect me to eat this.”

“Beggars cannot be choosers, mon ami.  You are three months behind with your rent again.  Besides, there is no meat to be had in all of Sainte Antoine.  Have you not heard, monsieur le Peintre?  They are calling it ‘La Revolution’.  The mob are taking over Paris.  Down with the Aristocrats, down with the Bourgeoisie.  Ha, and about time too, the way they have robbed this country for years.  People can only suffer so much and now they are taking their revenge.  They say the king is hiding in Versailles, and his troops are refusing to obey orders to shoot the rioters.”

“Oh, I expect it will come to nothing.” Pierre sighed,  “These things rarely do.  In a few days order will be restored.  The ringleaders will be beheaded, and their greasy skulls displayed on spikes outside the Hotel de Ville.  It always ends the same.  Mark my words.”

“Ah no.  It is different this time, mon ami.  They are storming the Bastille this very evening and releasing the prisoners.  You wait and see.  Honest French men will no longer be treated like dirt by the Aristocrats.  Things will be different from now on.”

“Well I sincerely hope you are wrong, my dear woman.” He smiled at her.  “If the Aristocracy falls, how will I get any commissions?  How will you then get any rent at all, three months late or not?  But far more importantly, where can I get some burnt sienna?  Tell me, is it safe to go out now?  I really must have some of that pigment, the ochre is beginning to seep through again, even as I look at it.  Monsieur Le Fevre will be furious with me.  If I am not lucky he will have my head on a spike.  You don’t seem to realise how important this is.  My career will be ruined if I don’t get some burnt sienna soon.”

“Good luck with that mon ami.  All the shops are closed – or looted. I would stay indoors if I were you.”  At his door she turned and laughingly said  “Oh, and wear your dirtiest old clothes if you do go out.  It would be a shame for you to be mistaken for one of the rich, and you the poorest painter in all of Sainte Antoine.”

After she left, Pierre looked again at the portrait.  He was still unhappy with it, but then he was always unhappy with his work.  All that talent and still a jobbing portraitist.  But where was M. Le Fevre?  “He said he would be here today to pay me.  I hope he gives me some real money today, not another of those notes.  The moneylenders took one fifth last time.  Ha, maybe this, what are they calling it, “La Revolution” will rid us of those leeches.  But it will come to nothing.  Of that I am sure.  The poor are too stupid to be trusted with anything.  No, the natural order will be restored after a few days.  As soon as food begins to run out they will come crawling back begging for their Lords and Ladies to return.”

Suddenly, there was a banging and clattering and his garret was kicked open.  “I told you” a man with a knitted red cap and wild eyes shouted.  “The Lady was here a few days ago.”  He looked around at Pierre sitting aghast.  He grabbed the full-length portrait off the easel.  “Just look at the smug look on her Bourgeoise face.”  He raised his fist and smashed it through the canvas.  “This is what we think of you, Madame.  Now smile if you still can.”

Pierre leapt up, “You’ve ruined the painting.  Three weeks that took me.  I will never get paid now.  Mon Dieu, what shall I do now?”

“Ha.  Grab him.”  The ringleader shouted.  “We must make an example of those who would flatter the Aristocrats with this merde!!!”

Three men grabbed him, but his landlady stood in front of the painter. “Leave him be.  He is poor, just like us.  Would you grab their servants?  We have no choice.  To survive we must all do what we must.  You have ruined his portrait, that is punishment enough surely.”

And dashing his paints and pigments to the floor they left.  Pierre, crying at his ruined work picked them up, and his hand closed in on a small hessian bag.  “Burnt sienna.  How could I have missed it?”

It Seems Improbable

Thursday 22nd March

It seems improbable that a bright new future awaits us after Brexit.   It seems improbable that the EU will give us frictionless trade and no tariffs, when that is what we have just rejected.  It seems improbable that Corporations making cars and other goods who have factories all over Europe will continue doing so without the simplicity of being able to ship components from one country to another with no checks.  It seems improbable that Companies planning investments years ahead will continue to invest in a country about to leave its largest trading partners.  It seems improbable that a deal can be reached in only seven months when it has taken almost a year to not even agree the legal basis of a deal, even when that was agreed and signed up to three months ago.  It seems improbable that the border with Northern Ireland can remain open when we are no longer a part of the Single Currency.  It seems improbable that when the deal (whatever that looks like) comes to the Commons for ratification it will be agreed upon.  It seems improbable that Theresa may can hang on for another year with her party so split over Europe.  It seems improbable that the Conservatives will ever be trusted again.  It seems improbable that they will ever properly fund the NHS and schools and local councils.  It seems improbable that we are actually living through this daily nonsense, when everyone knows it is unsustainable.

But probability has nothing to do with it.  It seemed improbable that the public would ever vote for Brexit.  It seemed improbable that Trump would ever become President.  It seemed improbable – but probability had nothing to do with it.

It is impossible to predict what will happen next week let alone next year or at the next election.  It seems improbable that everything will work out fine and the Government will be re-elected by a thankful country.  But probability has nothing to do with it.

The only probability is that I will still be writing about how improbable everything is for a while yet…

My Record Collection 10

Wednesday 21st March

Joan Armatrading 5   Her next was Secret Secrets, another strong record, but a few too many shouty songs for me, ‘Talking to the Wall’ and ‘Love by You’ are good slower numbers.

This was the last album on which Joan used a producer, all her subsequent records she produced in her own studio, where she had total control.  And Total Control is possibly Joan’s greatest attribute.  She is almost unique in not being manipulated by the record industry.  Rare for a woman, rarer still for a black woman – but Joan had total control, she wrote all the songs, arranged them herself, chose the musicians, and released exactly what she wanted to.  And all the better for that too.  Sleight of Hand followed in 1986, and despite a clutch of good songs she is still captured by the Eighties production, swathes of synths drown some of her best tunes.  Still, when she slows it down she can still crack out a great ballad like ‘Jesse’ and ‘Don Juan’ along with great pop songs like ‘You Can Do Magic’.

Then she seemed to change again and go back to basics with The Shouting Stage.  She took much longer in the studio, and the songs seem better for it.  Less shouty, a bit more mid-tempo.  And two stand-out tracks ‘Living For You’ and ‘The Shouting Stage’ are simply sublime.  Hearts and Flowers followed, a softer album; Joan’s voice seems mellower, gentler – as do the songs.  Best are the title song and ‘Promised Land’ and ‘More Than One Kind of Love’ – maybe a hint at her sexuality.  Square The Circle came next, another lovely record; Joan was now well-established and had no need to follow trends or chase chart position.  I really like the record, it feels more relaxed; as if she has found the sound she has been looking for so long. This seems a more late-night record too, rather than most of her Eighties albums, which always had a couple of rockers.  Joan also used backing singers on this record, which tends to add a touch more roundness to the sound.  Some good songs; True Love, Wrapped Around Her – and her first real Political song – If Women Rules The World.

Julia Skripol is the Key

Tuesday 20th March

We are not being told very much.  All we have been told is that the nerve agent was Russian, called Novichok, and the poisoning was either ordered or approved by Putin himself.  Now, Novichok is a generic term for a new type of nerve agent supposedly developed by a Soviet unit in the Eighties.  The intelligence for this was a whistle-blower, but NO sample has ever been obtained by the West.  It is therefore not possible for Porton Down or the OPCW or anyone else to absolutely identify Novichok.  It is most probable that the agent has been tested and does not conform to any other known agent – therefore it must be Novichok, and it must be Russian.

Now, the very fact that one of the victims was a Russian who spied for Britain, was convicted of treason in Russia, and then released to Britain as part of a SpySwap a few years ago – points to a possible and even probable Russian link.  But there is no evidence that it was sanctioned by the Russian state or indeed ordered by Putin.  But it has been a handy diversion for the Government from Brexit and all it’s other problems.

Not that I am suggesting that there has been any duplicity.  And it is quite possible, though far from proven, that the Government is right.

But we are not being told everything.  In fact nothing.  No photo’s of Skripol and his daughter in hospital, no named suspect, no evidence of how the nerve agent was administered.

Now, things begin to get murky.  The Sun on Sunday (hardly the first investigative Journalists one would seek, but still they may have contacts with the Police) reported that Julia Skripol (who we know arrived from Russia two days before the poisoning) had a boyfriend who was a Secret service agent (a spy) and that she had worked for a while in the Russian Embassy in Washington.  And yet mysteriously this news has simply disappeared.  No other Media outlet has reported it.  I wonder why.

But today another piece of the puzzle emerged; Police are looking at the taxi which brought Julia from Heathrow to Salisbury.  Why would they do that unless they thought (or knew) that she had brought the poison into the country?  And if she was the carrier, why?  Was she the person who released it?  Was she trying to kill her father?  Was it a suicide attempt by one or both of them?  Was she indeed a Russian Spy, or was this some personal vendetta?

Whatever the answer I am pretty certain that the Police, or MI5 know – they just aren’t telling us.  Maybe they will never tell us.  Maybe it is more convenient to simply let everyone think it was Putin.  Maybe Theresa May hasn’t been told either.  But I am also pretty certain that the truth will come out sometime; it is far harder for the authorities to hide now that we have the internet, and people can post anonymously – almost with impunity.

So, if you have read this but suddenly find it isn’t available anymore, you will know why….hahaha

The Problem With Russia

Monday 19th March

The West has a problem with Russia.  In fact we have always had a problem with Russia; cartoons in the mid-nineteenth Century depict Russia as a bear scooping up little countries – a problem to be contained.  The Beast from the East indeed.  But actually Russia has always wanted to be part of Europe, rather than seeing itself and it’s vast Eastern wildernesses as part of Asia.  Successive rulers imported Artists and Scientists and musicians to the cold Badlands of St. Petersburg and Moscow. And still they were misunderstood.  True, they had long since overrun much of Southern Central Asia and the Ukraine, absorbing them into Mother Russia itself.  But although the vast majority of the people were serfs, there was a small intellectual middle class who wrote wonderful books and music and longed to be understood as Europeans.

Then came the Revolution, and even more reason to be fearful of the East; in fact Churchill sent a ship to blockade Archangel.  And then we had the brief acceptance of Russia’s help to win the War (although it is still not universally agreed that they really won it) but pretty soon after it was the Cold War, with mutual threats of extermination, the Iron Curtain and the Berlin Wall.  No wonder that we in the West are suspicious of the Russians.  And even after the fall of Communism, Yeltsin and now Putin, we still believe the same stories.  The Russians cannot be trusted, they are barbarians, they want to overrun Europe, they do not play by the rules.  And some of that is true, but only some of it.

We were more than happy to welcome the Russian Oligarchs, those lucky enough to be able to steal state assets, the cabal around Putin himself.  We merrily laundered their money for them.  But we still know deep in our hearts that they are really the enemy, the leopard cannot change it’s spots, the Tsars still rule, etc, etc.  And so we jump on every outrage, and the old familiar stereotypes are rolled out.

But maybe it is time to talk to Russia rather than shouting at them, to try to include it in what we call The West.  Another Cold War, another arms race and mutual hostilities are in nobody’s real interests.  And next time it could end rather more nastier than the last.

These Are The Good Old Days

Sunday 18th March

A title of a song by Carly Simon – she was singing about the mid-Seventies.  And looking back, they were the good old days; despite raging inflation and three day weeks and the Troubles in Northern Ireland, life was good.  It was the best of times musically, and for most people living standards were improving.  Colour TVs, Fridges, Freezers, Fitted Carpets, Central Heating, Cars, Foreign Holidays.  All of these were becoming available to more and more families.

And the escalator of wealth kept on rolling through the Eighties and Nineties….but it has ground to a halt, or is definitely creaking along at best.  But for many it is getting worse.  If you are poor or young the doors of opportunity are being slammed shut in your face.

And yet, we may look back in twenty years time….and fondly too.  These may, for many people indeed be the good old days.  The future has never looked so uncertain.  Britain’s slow decline (after the War we were the third most powerful nation, now we are sixth or seventh…and slipping) could accelerate with Brexit.  In fact of course the very bizarre decision to Leave was in part a hankering back to the time when we were ‘Great Britain’, when we were the ‘workshop of the world’, when we had an Empire even – or at least a Commonwealth that looked up to us, not down their noses at us.

But things still aren’t quite so bad yet – we still have a just-functioning NHS, our schools though slipping into debt and facing major funding shortages are still on the whole excellent, our councils despite cuts of a third are still just about managing to run most services.  But there are worrying signs; the economy is sluggish at best, house prices are slipping (not necessarily a bad thing), life expectancy rates have just fallen for the first time in decades, social care is in crisis and old people’s homes are closing almost weekly, the high street is full of closed shops as more and more of are using the internet, even mobile phone makers are facing a stagnating future as most of us now have a decent phone so why buy a new one, same with TVs – they are now so good there is no reason to upgrade.

And despite the TV being full of adverts for glossy new stuff, less and less of us can afford them.  At the moment most of us have a job, it may be minimum wage and we may be slipping into debt – but it is still a job.  With driver-less vehicles and rapidly accelerating automation, unless Governments rapidly change the whole nature of work and taxation it could be a very bleak future for many.

But it needn’t be such a terrible future, we needn’t be looking back at now as the good old days.  Things can change, indeed things will change, but we can help make those changes good ones.  Let’s all try to make the twenty-teens the bad old days instead.

My Record Collection 9

Saturday 17th March

Joan Armatrading 4   And then in 1980 she released Me Myself I, possibly her best known album, and certainly a more confident, more commercial and more accessible record.   And Joan was never a show-woman, appearing in plain shirt and trousers almost always – she let her voice and the songs make the spectacle.  She was never a tool of the record companies, she always insisted on complete artistic control of her output.  How rare is that for any artist, especially a black woman.  Unfortunately many brilliant black singers, both male and female get promoted and then dropped like cold potatoes just as quickly by the record companies, dressed up in satin and silk for an album or two and then…nothing.  Joan has survived by simply being herself.  And so, the record Me Myself I.  A strange statement but one that complete defines her.  She ain’t gonna be pushed around by anyone.  And the album is a triumph.  This is a new Joan, so confident, so aware of the sound she wants and gets from her band.  Favourite songs – the title track, obviously – and Mameo Beach and All The Way From America.  Every track is different from the others and from anything else she had done before.  What a way to welcome in the new decade.  New Romantics?  Who needs ‘em with the best romantic of all in town.  This is one of my all-time favourite albums; it is just 35 minutes long – but I have often found that short albums are indeed better than long ones which go on and on forever.  Better a concise little gem that just begs to be replayed.  Oh, and the final track, a quiet sad song with a string quartet to crack the strongest heart…

Walk Under Ladders came next, and again a strong album, from opener ‘I’m Lucky’ on, it just rolls along.  Best song is ‘The Weakness In Me’, where she tackles the guilt and confused feelings when you meet a new lover, and can’t quite let the old one go; and she handles it brilliantly – torn between two lovers.   And the albums kept coming year after year.  Joan was now established as one of the long-standing great artists from the Seventies; a loyal fan base, larger and larger tours and a string of excellent albums.     The Key was also a big hit, especially the single ‘Drop The Pilot.’.  Joan was mow releasing a record every two years rather than annually and they were generally better produced – or some would say over-produced.  Technology was moving on rapidly and multiple tracks were available, but I think that generally this diminishes the power of the songs.  Too much snappy ‘eighties’ drum and synthesisers sprinkled too liberally.  Joan seemed trapped in a cycle of big albums, hit singles and big tours.  And it isn’t that the songs were any less good, it almost felt she was trying too hard.

The World As We Think We Know It

Friday 16th March

Nothing is permanent, all permanence is illusion.  What we thought we knew only a few years ago is irrelevant to the constantly changing situation.  Predictions are useless, the World is changing so fast it is almost impossible to even guess with any degree of accuracy.  But maybe it has always been so; maybe it is just our heightened information technology that allows us to be somewhat reluctant observers of the changing world.  Maybe we just have too much news, although I am often frustrated by the paucity of genuine reporting, and the substitution of Opinion for fact.

In fact, we are already in the realm of 1984.  Facts are simply what we are told is the truth – unless we are actually there, witnessing events ourselves we can never really know what is going on.  We were lied to over Iraq, even jack Straw now admits that, though he was instrumental in trying to convince us all that lies were facts.  We have been lied to over Syria, over Isis, over the corruption at the heart of the City of London, indeed over almost everything.

In fact the more we know, or think we know, the less we can believe.  All we can do is to try to understand the motives behind those that are giving us ‘the News’ and read widely and compare differing viewpoints. In the end we are largely helpless in the face of this constantly changing world.  At least the internet allows us to communicate with other confused individuals and try to come to some understanding of the conflicting blur of information scurrying across our horizons.  In the end it is up to us.  We do not have to be passive receivers of information.  In reality the World is just us, each and every one of us.  And we can and do change it every day.


Genius and Stupidity

Thursday 15th March

On almost the same day, two examples – one, the sad passing of a genius, the other, yet more confirmation of stupidity.

Stephen Hawkings has died.  I didn’t read his books, but I have watched a few Horizon programmes on Astro-physics where his ideas were explored.  He seemed to have the ability to look beyond the rational, to imagine the infinite possibilities where even the laws of Physics, and time itself become distorted.  We all felt the pathos of his physical disability, and his overcoming of it.  And he never asked for pity.  He was always positive about humanity.  A real hero for our times.

And on Tuesday Trump sacked Rex Tillerson, who though far from perfect, appeared to be one of the few thoughtful people in the White House.  The arsehole didn’t even have the grace to speak personally to his Secretary of State, who discovered his sacking when his secretary saw it on twitter.  What a way to run a country.

I have lost count of the sackings and departures in this administration, they are now coming almost weekly.  But the real damage is to America’s reputation.  The whole World, especially after Obama, is looking for leadership, and all we have is the tweets of a clown.  Nobody now has any idea of what America stands for, except Stupidity.

Anyway…the nightmare continues, hold on to your seats.

What If We Are Wrong?

Wednesday 14th March

It is rare that almost the whole House of Commons, and the Media are all in agreement.  It is usually at times of grave crisis, when party Politics are pushed aside that Unity breaks out.  The last time I can remember this (except for the death of Jo Cox, which did nothing to stop the Brexit landslide) was over the Iraq War – but even here there were a few siren voices, who turned out to be right as it happened.  And even then, it had taken Blair and Co., weeks of bombarding us daily with dossiers and intelligence reports declaring how we had to stop Saddam, as he had Weapons of Mass Destruction – and was about to use them.  It turned out that there were none, and yet almost the entire House of Commons and the Media were jubilant and jingoistic about the coming War.

I am, I can assure you, as appalled by the events in Salisbury as everyone else.  But I ask two questions. One – what if we are wrong?  And Two – will our response actually make Russia (if we are right) change course and stop this outrageous (if it is them) behaviour?

Well – you may say – it must be them.  The nerve gas was first created in Russia, and they have form.  True, but I detect a little too much haste and not enough circumspection, and not a little Political grandstanding in the Government’s ‘Strong’ reaction.  Only a couple of days ago everyone was saying that we had to wait for the Police investigation to conclude before laying the blame.  That is still ongoing, and to date (Wednesday p.m.) we have no suspect, or knowledge of how the agent was administered.  There is, almost certainly, a Russian Connection.  But we do not know much more.  One possibility is some sort of suicide pact between Skripol and his daughter (only just flown in from Russia), however unlikely that may seem. It could even have been a third country involved.  I am not trying to belittle the seriousness of the thing, nor am I an apologist for Russia.  But in the Litvinenko case we waited until we knew pretty well for certain who had done it and how before acting.  Why the sudden haste now?  It is of course quite convenient to detract from the Government’s troubles to have an external threat – and they are making the most of it.  This should have been handed to the OPCW (the body delegated to investigate all usage of chemical weapons) to identify and ask Russia for any information they might have.  Okay, Russia may have stonewalled – especially if they are guilty, but the due process of law would have been followed.

And of course, expelling a few diplomats will be followed by some of ours being sent packing.  Even further sanctions on some of Putin’s cronies won’t make a huge difference – they will simply move their money elsewhere, even if London is the best place to launder it.

The only real way to make Russia change is to talk with them, tie them into economic trade deals, encourage them to act more responsibly.  None of that may work either – but shouting at them wont work at all.  But, what do we do next?  What if another Russian dies mysteriously?  What if whoever killed Skripol kills someone else?  Do we really want war with Russia?   And, we know one other thing too – we cannot rely on America this time; not with Trump in the White House.