sign in sign up
<<
Home , English poetry, French poetry, Never Give All the Heart

MINISTRY OF EDUCATION AND TRAINING TAY DO UNIVERSITY

Faculty of English Linguistics and

BRITISH LITERATURE

Compiled by: Phan Thị Minh Uyên

2016

1 ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to express my deepest appreciation to Dr. Tran Cong Luan, the Principle of Tay Do University and my vice dean, M.A Nguyen Thi Diem Thuy the faculty of of English Linguistics and Literature to give me the great opportunity to compose this material.

I especially thanks and gratitude to my committee for their continued support and encouragement: Dr. Nguyen Buu Huan, Dr. Thai Cong Dan, for their highly comments and advice.

I also wish to extend my heartfelt thanks to my teaching staff, especially M.A Dang Thi Bao Dung, who assisted me in this course preparation.

My completion of this project could not have been accomplished without the support of my dear students who studied the English courses III, IV, V, VI, VII, VIII. Their encouragement inspired me to complete this course package.

2 TABLE OF CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION Acknowledgement Preface Chapter One: The history of Literature 6 A. The definition of literature 6 B. History of literature 7 C. types 14

Chapter Two: Poems 21 Daffodilsby 23 Lines written in early springby William Wordsworth 24 A red red roseby 28 The fleaby 31 The sun risingby John Donne 35 The broken heartby John Donne 39 When I was one and twentyby A.E Housman 41 On the idle hill of summerby A.E Housman 42 The lake of innisfreeby William Butler Yeats 44 Never give all the heartby William Butler Yeats 45 When you are oldby William Butler Yeats 46 The sorrow of loveby William Butler Yeats 47 The passionate shepherdto his loveby Christopher Marlowe 50 A nymph reply to the shepherdby Sir 52 The lamb and the tigerby 54

Chapter Three: Plays and short stories HamletbyWilliam Shakespeare 65 Romeo andJulietby 68 Pride and prejudiceby Jane Austen 73 Sense and sensibilityby Jane Austen 77 Bleak houseby Charles Dickens 84 Mr. Know allby William Somerset Maugham 87 The duchess and jewellerby Virginia Woolf 94

3 The legacyby Virginia Woolf 100 Eveline by 107 The rocking horse winnerby David Herbert Lawrence 112 The open windowby Hector Hugh Munro (Saki) 126 The mouse by Hector Hugh Munro (Saki) 129 Frankensteinby Mary Shelly 134 Wuthering heightsby Emily Bronte 138 A shocking accidenceby Graham Greene 146

Chapter Four: Further reading 151 Neverby H.E. Bates 151 My loveday’s little outingby Evelyn Waugh 154 Arabyby James Joyce 159 Flight by Doris Lessing 164 The of loveby H.G Wells 168 The Good Copby Magnus Mills 172

REFERENCES 176

4 Preface

The short story is often described as one of the most satisfying literary genres, both to read and to write. This courseis expected to encourage students to identify how these stories ‘work’ by considering classic examples which, in each class, illustrate a particular aspect of short story composition. An exchange of ideas and responses between students and tutor enable the student to then put into practice what they have observed in a series of writing challenges, designed to extend their writing skills in this most exciting and challenging genres.

Given the nature of creative writing, it is important that applicants’ use of English is sufficiently fluent to be able to understand in English nuances of meaning and have a familiarize themselves the structure and grammar of English.

Aims of the course:

 to introduce students to the art of short story writing;  to foster an understanding of various subgenres of the short story, through guided reading and interpretive commentary; and  to encourage and guide students’ own experiments with the form through practical writing exercises and Discussion questions.

Course content overview:

 This course will begin with an introduction of what makes a short story - apart from its length - a distinct genre, introducing the elements which combine to produce the short story’s unique effect.  Each week will focus on a particular short story (with reference to others) by one of the genre’s key exponents, to illustrate developments and variations in the genre. The story will also be used to demonstrate a technical aspect of short story writing.  Students will discover how writers achieve certain effects and be encouraged to appropriate and experiment with these techniques in their own original writing.

5 Chapter One: The history of literature Objectives By the end of this chapter, students will be able to recognize what literature is, and the history of British literature with various types.

A. The definition of literature

Literature is the art of written works. Literally translated, the word means “acquaintance with letters” (from Latinlitteraletter), and therefore the academic study of literature is known as letters (as in the phrase “Arts and Letters”). In Western culture the most basic written literary types include fiction and nonfiction. People may perceive a difference between “literature” and some popular forms of written work. The terms “literary fiction“ and“literary merit“ serve to distinguish between individual works. Critics may exclude works from the classification “literature”, for example, on the grounds of a poor standard of grammar and syntax, of an unbelievable or disjointed story-line, or of inconsistent or unconvincing characters. Genre fiction (for example: romance, crime, or science fiction) may also become excluded from consideration as “literature”.

Literature is a term used to describe written or spoken material. Broadly speaking, “literature” is used to describe anything from creative writing to more technical or scientific works, but the term is most commonly used to refer to works of the creative imagination, including works of , drama, fiction, and nonfiction.

Literature represents a language or a people: culture and tradition. But, literature is more important than just a historical or cultural artifact. Literature introduces us to new worlds of experience. We learn about books and literature; we enjoy the comedies and the tragedies of poems, stories, and plays; and we may even grow and evolve through our literary journey with books. Ultimately, we may discover meaning in literature by looking at what the author says and how he/she says it. We may interpret the author’s message. In academic circles, this decoding of the text is often carried out through the use of , using a mythological, sociological, psychological, historical, or other approach. Whatever critical paradigm we use to discuss and analyze literature, there is still an artistic quality to the works. Literature is important to us because it speaks to us, it is universal, and it affects us. Even when it is ugly, literature is beautiful. is the literature written in the English

6 language, including literature composed in English by writers not necessarily from England; Joseph Conrad was born in Poland, Robert Burns was Scottish, James Joyce was Irish, was Welsh, was American, V.S. Naipaul was born in Trinidad, Vladimir Nabokov was Russian. In other words, English literature is as diverse as the varieties and dialects of English spoken around the world. In academia, the term often labels departments and programmes practicing in secondary and tertiary educational systems. Despite the variety of authors of English literature, works of William Shakespeare remain paramount throughout the English-speaking world.

This short British literary introduction primarily deals with literature from Britain written in English, some notable works listed. For literature from specific English-speaking regions, literature has a history, and this connects with cultural history more widely. narratives were written in the 16th century, but the novel as we know it could not arise, in the absence of a literate public. The popular and very contemporary medium for narrative in the 16th century is the theatre. The earliest novels reflect a bourgeois view of the world because this is the world of the authors and their readers (working people are depicted, but patronizingly, not from inside knowledge). The growth of literacy in the leads to enormous diversification in the subjects and settings of the novel.

B. History of British literature

(Excerpt from old book bindings at the Merton College library) One of the earliest known literary works is the SumerianEpic of Gilgamesh, an epic poem dated around 2100 B.C., which deals with themes of heroism, friendship, loss, and the quest for eternal life. Different historical periods have emphasized various characteristics of literature. Early works often had an overt or covert religious or didactic purpose. Moralizing or prescriptive literature stems from such sources. The exotic nature of romance flourished from the Middle Ages onwards, whereas the Age of Reason manufactured nationalistic epics

7 and philosophical tracts. emphasized the popular folk literature and emotive involvement, but gave way in the 19th-century West to a phase of realism and naturalism, investigations into what is real. The 20th century brought demands for or psychological insight in the delineation and development of character.

Anglo-Saxon Literature (450-1100) is primarily limited to works from the West Saxon region of England. Although few writings survived, those that have reveal a people who reveled in manipulating their language and whose feelings were not unlike modern man. They delighted in riddles, and their poetry portrayed feelings of loss as well as victory. Poems such as “The ,” “Deor’s Lament,” and “The Husband’s Message” as well as the long epic poems are proof of their sophistication of thought and language. Representative Works of the Period are:  Anglo-Saxon Chronicles by Alfred the Great? (important record of Anglo-Saxon life)  Battle of Brunnanburh (mock epic describing the invasion of Danish Vikings)  (heroic epic, written in alliterative form with two half lines broken by a )  The Ecclesiastical History of the English People by the Venerable

The Medieval Period (1100-1500) was a time of strong religious influence. The church was the center of learning and monks acted as scribes recording the literature of the times. The French tradition of whereby men were expected to love from afar and treat women with chivalry was also strongly felt. Generally, the literature can be divided into two categories: secular (worldly) and religious. Religious literature frequently concentrated on teaching the reader ways to a more godly life. After the invasion by William the Conqueror, little Anglo-Saxon literature was produced because the language of the educated was French. , as a major literary vehicle, does not appear until about 1300. Before that time, there are few instances of significant writings. Literature, still dependent upon the , was designed to be spoken rather than read and this required a poetic form. Some were merely ballads such as “Bonny Barbara Allan” and “Sir Patrick Spens,” but many were long tales consistent in length with a modern novel.

In addition, drama began to appear in the form of Miracle Plays (lives of the saints),Mystery Plays (stories from the Old and New Testament), and Morality Plays(sermons disguised as ). Second Shepherds’ Play is an example of a Mystery Play. Everyman is an example of a Morality Play. Representative Works of the Period are:

8  The Bible by John Wyclif (first English translation of this work)  The Canterbury Tales by (major work of the medieval period)  by (religious work)  Morte D’Arthur by Sir Thomas Malory (extensive recounting of the Arthurian legends)  Owl and the Nightingale (dialogue between two birds written in classical debate form)  The Pearl (carefully contrived dream tale with religious overtones.)  by William Langland (work of social particularly critical of the clergy)  Sir Gawain and the Green Knight (Arthurian tale of courtly love)

The (1500-1700) was a period of amazing literary productivity during which the church lost importance. The explosion of literature was probably aided by the printing press, but nothing explains the extraordinary quality of the writing. Shakespeare dominates the age, but he is not alone. The concept of a renaissance man, who could fight, write poetry, and be a lover too, was the ideal of the age. Drama and poetry now shared equal literary importance. In addition, Greek and literature was rediscovered and incorporated into the writing of the period. Representative Works of the Period are: Poetry  The Fairie Queen by (religious using the Spenserian stanza)  “Holy ” by John Donne (poems which mesh the physical with the spiritual)  by (epic poem which recounts the Adam and Eve tale and also includes a description of hell which is frequently treated as fact)  “To His Coy Mistress” by Andrew Marvel (classic love poem) Novels  King James version of the Bible (translation of The Bible which transforms it into a piece of literature)  Pilgrim’s Progress by John Bunyan (one of two books most read during the 18th century/early effort at a novel/written as an allegorical tale similar to theFairie Queen) Drama  Dr. Faustus by Christopher Marlowe (tragedy, the literary form for which Marlowe was particularly known)  Plays by William Shakespeare (major dramas of the period and perhaps of all time) Non-fiction  Novum Organum by Francis Bacon (beginning of modern scientific inquiry)

9 The Age of Reason (1700-1800) was a time of political turmoil. Writing was more scientific and reasoned. The novel as a form of literature begins to appear. Writers began to rely upon the purchase by individuals of their writings to support themselves instead of upon the support of a single patron. The rise of the middle class meant that writers now wrote to this group rather than the aristocracy. Representative Works of the Period are: Poetry  “Elegy Written in a Country Courtyard” by (poem with the stirrings of the Romantic period to follow)  “Epistle to Miss Blount” by (uses the heroic to its advantage)  “To A Mouse” by Robert Burns (Scottish poem which reflects the dialect of Burn’s origin as well as a movement to the Romantic period) Novels  Gulliver’s Travels by (satire)  Pamela by Samuel Richardson (first work which introduces plot into a novel)  Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe (beginning of the modern English novel using realistic details)  Tom Jones by Henry Fielding (early novel with a well-defined plot)  The Vicar of Wakefield (very fine early novel) by . Drama  The School for Scandal by Richard Sheridan (amusing play showing life through satirical eyes)  She Stoops to Conquer (a humorous play) by Oliver Goldsmith.  The Way of the World by William Congreve (humorous play) Non-fiction  Dictionary of the by  Life of Samuel Johnson by James Boswell (describes with detailed accuracy the period as well as the man)  “A Modest Proposal” by Jonathan Swift (satire)  The Tattler and The Spectator by Joseph Addison and Richard Steele (early newspapers)

The Romantics (1800-1830) turned away from reason and saw a rose colored world. Their writings in the form of poetry focused on nature and feelings rather than the frailties of the real world. The period represents only a brief interlude before a return to more pragmatic period. Representative Works of the Period are: Poetry

10  Don Juan by George Gordon, (epic poem)  Ivanhoe by Sir Walter Scott (long narrative poem)  Kubla Khan and Rime of the Ancient Mariner by (long narrative poems)  “Lines Composed a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey” by William Wordsworth(nature poem)  “” by (lyric poem)  “” by  “The Tyger” by William Blake (mystical poem) Novels  Frankenstein by Mary Shelley (early science fiction novel)  Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen (novel of manners)

The Victorians (1830-1880) returned to writing which reflected the relevant concerns of the period. The novel begins to overtake poetry in importance. The writing of the period was generally more restrained and less sensual than that of the Romantics. Representative Works of the Period are: Poetry  Idylls of the King by Alfred, Lord Tennyson (lyric poem by laureate)  “My Last Duchess” by (dramatic monologue incorporated into poetry)  Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam by Edward Fitzgerald (translation of a Persian poem)  Sonnets from the Portuguese by Elizabeth Barrett Browning (love letters in poetic form) Novels  Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll/Charles Dodgson (children’s adventure tale)  Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte (early romance work)  Great Expectations by Charles Dickens (depicts life in the 19th century which was not always pretty)  The Palliser Novels by Anthony Trollope (life in the 19th century from the aristocratic viewpoint)  Silas Marner by George Eliot/Mary Ann Evans  Vanity Fair by William Makepeace Thacheray (novel of love and manners with a touch of adventure)  Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte (romantic novel)

11 Transitional (1880-1915) writers represent a maturing of the Victorian period. Writing reflected scientific knowledge and self discovery, but lacks some of the maturity found in the post-war writing to follow. Representative Works of the Period are: Poetry  The Shropshire Lad by A. E. Housman ( poem) Novels  The Hound of the Baskervilles by Arthur Conan Doyle (early mystery novel featuring Sherlock Holmes)  Kim by (tale from India)  Lord Jim by Joseph Conrad (dark questioning novel)  Return of the Native by (dark questioning novel)  The Time Machine by H. G. Wells (beginning of modern science fiction)  Treasure Island by (children’s tale of adventure) Drama  The Importance of Being Ernest by (play of biting humor)  Pygmalion by George Bernard Shaw (major drama of the period)

Modern (1915-1960) writing reflected a world less sure of itself. Writers produced questioning poetry and novels which reveal the loss of innocence brought on by world wide wars. Poetry was more experimental as were novels. Frequently, the public was shocked by the subjects and treatments of them. Taboos about sex, religion, and politics were often ignored. Representative Works of the Period are: Poetry  “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” by T.S. Eliot (experimental poem) Novels  Animal Farm by George Orwell (parable)  Brave New World by Aldous Huxley (novel of the future)  I , Claudius by (historical novel)  Lady Chatterley’s Lover by D. H. Lawrence (one of the first erotic novel to be accepted as a literary force)  The Power and the Glory by Graham Greene (novel questioning man’s place in the world)  Ulysses by James Joyce (experimental novel using the stream of consciousness) Drama  Waiting for Godot by (experimental play)

12 THE HISTORY OF BRITISH LITERATURE SUMMARY

British literature refers to literature associated with the , Isle of Man, Channel Islands, as well as to literature from England, Ireland, Scotland and Wales, prior to the formation of the UK.[1] By far the largest part of British literature is written in the English language, but there are bodies of written works in Latin, Welsh, , Scots, Cornish, Manx, Jèrriais, Guernésiais and other languages. has a literary tradition in English, Ulster Scots and Irish. Irish writers have also played an important part in the development of English-language literature. Gothic The Gothic novel arose in late eighteenth century England and remained popular into the nineteenth century throughout Europe and America. Medieval period There is some disagreement about whether the Medieval Period began in the third, fourth, or fifth century A.D. These pages provide you with an abundance of articles, texts, and other resources. Renaissance A period in English literary history spanning the years 1500 to 1660.Access texts, essays, biographies, and links. Restoration age This age is generally said to be the first of three literary eras within the Neoclassical Period in English literature. Find info. about works, writers, and historical details. Romantic period An era in the history of English literature, usually said to have commensed with the 1798 publication of the . Read about the authors, texts, and more. Victorian period An era in English literary history extending from 1837, the year Queen Victoria was crowned until 1901. These pages provide you with articles, notes, reviews, and commentary on nineteenth century literature. Recent and future trends In recent times the novel has developed different genres such as the thriller, the whodunnit, the pot-boiler, the western and works of science-fiction, horror and the sex-and-shopping novel. Some of these may be brief fashions (the western seems to be dying) while others such as the detective story or science-fiction have survived for well over a century. As the

13 dominant form of narrative in contemporary western popular culture, the novel may have given way to the feature film and television drama. But it has proved surprisingly resilient. As society alters, so the novel may reflect or define this change; many works may be written, but few of them will fulfill this defining role; those which seem to do so now, may not speak to later generations in the same way.

Discussion questions 1. What is literature? 2. Why do we read it? 3. Why is literature important? 4. Could you tell some famous British writers or that you’ve known? 5. What is the most favorite British short story that you’ve ever read?

C. British literature types

 Poetry A poem is a composition written in (although verse has been equally used for epic and dramatic fiction). Poems rely heavily on imagery, precise word choice, and metaphor; they may take the form of measures consisting of patterns of stresses (metric feet) or of patterns of different-length syllables (as in classical prosody); and they may or may not utilize . One cannot readily characterize poetry precisely. Typically though, poetry as a form of literature makes some significant use of the formal properties of the words it uses – the properties of the written or spoken form of the words, independent of their meaning. Meter depends on syllables and on rhythms of speech; rhyme and alliteration depend on the sounds of words.

Poetry perhaps pre-dates other forms of literature: early known examples include the SumerianEpic of Gilgamesh (dated from around 2700 B.C.), parts of the Bible, the surviving works of (the Iliad and the ), and the Indian epicsRamayana and Mahabharata. In cultures based primarily on oral traditions the formal characteristics of poetry often have a mnemonic function, and important texts: legal, genealogical or moral, for example, may appear first in verse form.

Some poetry uses specific forms: the haiku, the limerick, or the , for example. A traditional haiku written in Japanese must have something to do with nature, contain seventeen onji (syllables), distributed over three lines in groups of five, seven, and five, and

14 should also have a kigo, a specific word indicating a season. A limerick has five lines, with a rhyme scheme of AABBA, and line lengths of 3,3,2,2,3 stressed syllables. It traditionally has a less reverent attitude towards nature. Poetry not adhering to a formal poetic structure is called “free verse“.

Language and tradition dictate some poetic norms: Persian poetry always , Greek poetry rarely rhymes, Italian or often does, English and German poetry can go either way. Perhaps the most paradigmatic style of , , as exemplified in works by Shakespeare and Milton, consists of unrhymed iambic pentameters. Some languages prefer longer lines; some shorter ones. Some of these conventions result from the ease of fitting a specific language’s vocabulary and grammar into certain structures, rather than into others; for example, some languages contain more rhyming words than others, or typically have longer words. Other structural conventions come about as the result of historical accidents, where many speakers of a language associate good poetry with a verse form preferred by a particular skilled or popular poet.

Works for theatre (see below) traditionally took verse form. This has now become rare outside opera and musicals, although many would argue that the language of drama remains intrinsically poetic. In recent years, digital poetry has arisen that takes advantage of the artistic, publishing, and synthetic qualities of digital media.

 Prose Prose consists of writing that does not adhere to any particular formal structures (other than simple grammar); “non-poetic” writing, perhaps. The term sometimes appears pejoratively, but prosaic writing simply says something without necessarily trying to say it in a beautiful way, or using beautiful words. Prose writing can of course take beautiful form; but less by virtue of the formal features of words (rhymes, alliteration, ) but rather by style, placement, or inclusion of graphics. But one need not mark the distinction precisely, and perhaps cannot do so. One area of overlap is ““, which attempts to convey using only prose, the aesthetic richness typical of poetry.

 Essays An essay consists of a discussion of a topic from an author’s personal point of view, exemplified by works by Michel de Montaigne or by Charles Lamb.

15 ‘Essay’ in English derives from the French ‘essay’, meaning ‘attempt’. Thus one can find open-ended, provocative and/or inconclusive essays. The term “essays” first applied to the self-reflective musings of Michel de Montaigne, and even today he has a reputation as the father of this literary form. Genres related to the essay may include:  the memoir, telling the story of an author’s life from the author’s personal point of view  theepistle: usually a formal, didactic, or elegant letter.

 Fiction Narrative fiction (narrative prose) generally favours prose for the writing of novels, short stories, graphic novels, and the like. Singular examples of these exist throughout history, but they did not develop into systematic and discrete literary forms until relatively recent centuries. Length often serves to categorize works of prose fiction. Although limits remain somewhat arbitrary, modern publishing conventions dictate the following:  A mini-saga is a short story of exactly 50 words.  Flash fiction is generally defined as a piece of prose under a thousand words.  A short story is prose of between 1000 and 20,000 words (but typically more than 5000 words), which may or may not have a narrative arc.  A story containing between 20,000 and 50,000 words falls into the novella category. Although this definition is very fluid, with works up to 70,000 words or more being included as novelle.  A work of fiction containing more than 50,000 words generally falls into the realm of the novel. A novel consists simply of a long story written in prose, yet the form developed comparatively recently. Icelandic prose sagas dating from about the 11th century bridge the gap between traditional national verse epics and the modern psychological novel. In mainland Europe, the SpaniardCervantes wrote perhaps the first influential novel: Don Quixote, the first part of which was published in 1605 and the second in 1615. Earlier collections of tales, such as the One Thousand and One Nights, Giovanni Bocaccio‘s Decameron and Chaucer‘s The Canterbury Tales, have comparable forms and would classify as novels if written today. Other works written in classical Asian and resemble even more strongly the novel as we now think of it-for example, works such as the Japanese Tale of Genji by Lady Murasaki, the Arabic Hayy ibn Yaqdhan by Ibn Tufail, the Arabic Theologus Autodidactus by Ibn al-Nafis, and the Chinese Romance of the Three Kingdoms by Luo Guanzhong.

16 Early novels in Europe did not, at the time, count as significant literature, perhaps because “mere” prose writing seemed easy and unimportant. It has become clear; however, that prose writing can provide aesthetic pleasure without adhering to poetic forms. Additionally, the freedom authors gain in not having to concern themselves with verse structure translates often into a more complex plot or into one richer in precise detail than one typically finds even in narrative poetry. This freedom also allows an author to experiment with many different literary and presentation styles-including poetry-in the scope of a single novel.

 Other prose literature Philosophy, history, journalism, and legal and scientific writings traditionally ranked as literature. They offer some of the oldest prose writings in existence; novels and prose stories earned the names “fiction“ to distinguish them from factual writing or nonfiction, which writers historically have crafted in prose. The “literary” nature of science writing has become less pronounced over the last two centuries, as advances and specialization have made new scientific research inaccessible to most audiences; science now appears mostly in journals. Scientific works of Euclid, Aristotle, Copernicus, and Newton still possess great value; but since the science in them has largely become outdated, they no longer serve for scientific instruction, yet they remain too technical to sit well in most programmes of literary study. Outside of “history of science“ programmes students rarely read such works. Many books “popularizing” science might still deserve the title “literature”; history will tell. Philosophy, too, has become an increasingly academic discipline. More of its practitioners lament this situation than occurs with the sciences; nonetheless most new philosophical work appears in academic journals. Major philosophers through history-Plato, Aristotle, Augustine, Descartes, Nietzsche—have become as canonical as any writers. Some recent philosophy works are argued to merit the title “literature”, such as some of the works by Simon Blackburn; but much of it does not, and some areas, such as logic, have become extremely technical to a degree similar to that of mathematics. A great deal of historical writing can still rank as literature, particularly the genre known as creative nonfiction. So can a great deal of journalism, such as literary journalism. However these areas have become extremely large, and often have a primarily utilitarian purpose: to record data or convey immediate information. As a result the writing in these fields often lacks a literary quality, although it often and in its better moments has that quality. Major “literary” historians include Herodotus, Thucydides and Procopius, all of whom count as canonical literary figures.

17 Law offers a less clear case. Some writings of Plato and Aristotle, or even the early parts of the Bible, might count as legal literature. The law tables of Hammurabi of Babylon might count. Roman civil law as codified in the Corpus Juris Civilis during the reign of Justinian I of the Byzantine Empire has a reputation as significant literature. The founding documents of many countries, including the United States Constitution, can count as literature; however legal writing now rarely exhibits literary merit. Game design scripts are never seen by the player of a game and only by the developers and/or publishers to help them understand, visualize and maintain consistency while collaborating in creating a game, the audience for these pieces is usually very small. Still, many game scripts contain immersive stories and detailed worlds making them a hidden literary genre.

Most of these fields, then, through specialization or proliferation, no longer generally constitute “literature” in the sense under discussion. They may sometimes count as “literary literature”; more often they produce what one might call “technical literature” or “professional literature”.

 Drama A play or drama offers another classical literary form that has continued to evolve over the years. It generally comprises chiefly dialogue between characters, and usually aims at dramatic / theatrical performance (see theatre) rather than at reading. During the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, opera developed as a combination of poetry, drama, and music. Nearly all drama took verse form until comparatively recently. Shakespeare could be considered drama. Romeo and Juliet, for example, is a classic romantic drama generally accepted as literature. Greek drama exemplifies the earliest form of drama of which we have substantial knowledge. Tragedy, as a dramatic genre, developed as a performance associated with religious and civic festivals, typically enacting or developing upon well-known historical or mythological themes. Tragedies generally presented very serious themes. With the advent of newer technologies, scripts written for non-stage media have been added to this form. War of the Worlds (radio) in 1938 saw the advent of literature written for radio broadcast, and many works of Drama have been adapted for film or television. Conversely, television, film, and radio literature have been adapted to printed or electronic media.

 Oral literature The term oral literature refers not to written, but to oral traditions, which includes different types of epic, poetry and drama, folktales, ballads, legends, jokes, and other genres of

18 folklore. It exists in every society, whether literate or not. It is generally studied by folklorists, or by scholars committed to cultural studies and ethno-poetics, including linguists, anthropologists, and even sociologists.

 Other narrative forms  Electronic literature is a literary genre consisting of works which originate in digital environments.  Films, videos and broadcast soap operas have carved out a niche which often parallels the functionality of prose fiction.  Graphic novels and comic books present stories told in a combination of sequential artwork, dialogue and text.

 Genres of literature A literary genre refers to the traditional divisions of literature of various kinds according to a particular criterion of writing. See the list of literary genres below. List of literary genres Autobiography, Memoir, Spiritual autobiography Biography Diaries and Journals Electronic literature Erotic literature Slave narrative Thoughts, Proverbs Fiction  Adventure novel  Medical novel  Philosophical novel  Romance novel  Children’s literature  Comic novel  Crime fiction  Detective fiction  Mystery fiction  Political fiction  Historical fiction

19  Historical romance  Gothic fiction (initially synonymous with horror)  Science fiction (for more details see Science fiction genre)  Conspiracy fiction  Fable, Fairy tale, Folklore  Fantasy (for more details see Fantasy subgenres; fantasy literature)  Horror  Saga, Family Saga  Satire/ comedy  Thriller  Legal thriller  Psychological thriller  Spy fiction/Political thriller  Drama/ Play  Tragic drama  Tragedy

Discussion questions 1. What is the earliest time of British literature? 2. How many words are there in a mini-saga? 3. What is a piece of prose under a thousand words? 4. Why are philosophy, history, journalism, and legal and scientific writings traditionally considered literature? 5. What is oral literature? 6. What is a prose? What is poetry? 7. What is drama? What is an essay? 8. What is a work of fiction containing more than 50,000 words called?

20 Chapter Two: Poems Objectives After learning this part, students will be able to recognize some famous Birtish poets’ background families and well-known writers’s biorgraphies with their slelected works as well as to know how analyze some literary work. Each poem or short story will be discussed in every period.

When we begin analyzing the basic elements of poetry, we should first know what poetry is all about in the first place. Poetry can be defined as ‘literature in a metrical form’ or ‘a composition forming rhythmic lines’. In short, a poem is something that follows a particular flow of rhythm and meter. Compared to prose, where there is no such restriction, and the content of the piece flows according to story, a poem may or may not have a story, but definitely has a structured method of writing.

What is a poem? Poem is a piece of writing in which the words are arranged in separate lines, often ending in rhyme, and are chosen for their sound and for the images and ideas they suggest. Poetry is a vast subject, as old as history and older, present wherever religion is present, possibly—under some definitions—the primal and primary form of languages themselves.

The present article means only to describe in as general a way as possible certain properties of poetry and of poetic thought regarded as in some sense independent modes of the mind. Naturally, not every tradition nor every local or individual variation can be—or need be— included, but the article illustrates by examples of poetry ranging between nursery rhyme and epic. This article considers the difficulty or impossibility of defining poetry; man’s nevertheless familiar acquaintance with it; the differences between poetry and prose; the idea of form in poetry; poetry as a mode of thought; and what little may be said in prose of the spirit of poetry.

21 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH (1770-1850)

William Wordsworth (1770-1850), British poet, credited with ushering in the English Romantic Movement with the publication of Lyrical Ballads(1798) in collaboration with Samuel Taylor Coleridge. William Wordsworth was born on 7 April 1770 in Cockermouth, Cumberland, in the Lake District. His father was John Wordsworth, Sir James Lowther’s attorney. The magnificent landscape deeply affected Wordsworth’s imagination and gave him a love of nature. He lost his mother when he was eight and five years later his father. The domestic problems separated Wordsworth from his beloved and neurotic sister Dorothy, who was a very important person in his life.

With the help of his two uncles, Wordsworth entered a local school and continued his studies at Cambridge University. Wordsworth made his debut as a writer in 1787, when he published a sonnet in The European Magazine . In that same year he entered St. John’s College, Cambridge, from where he took his B.A. in 1791.

During a summer vacation in 1790 Wordsworth went on a walking tour through revolutionary and also traveled in Switzerland. On his second journey in France, Wordsworth had an affair with a French girl, Annette Vallon, a daughter of a barber-surgeon, by whom he had a illegitimate daughter Anne Caroline. The affair was basis of the poem “Vaudracour and Julia”, but otherwise Wordsworth did his best to hide the affair from posterity.

In 1795 he met Coleridge. Wordsworth’s financial situation became better in 1795 when he received a legacy and was able to settle at Racedown, Dorset, with his sister Dorothy. Encouraged by Coleridge and stimulated by the close contact with nature, Wordsworth composed his first masterwork, Lyrical Ballads, which opened with Coleridge’s “Ancient Mariner.” About 1798 he started to write a large and philosophical autobiographical poem, completed in 1805, and published posthumously in 1850 under the title The Prelude.

Wordsworth spent the winter of 1798-99 with his sister and Coleridge in Germany, where he wrote several poems, including the enigmatic ‘Lucy’ poems. After return he moved Dove Cottage, Grasmere, and in 1802 married Mary Hutchinson. They cared for Wordsworth’s sister Dorothy for the last 20 years of her life.

22 Wordsworth’s second verse collection, Poems, In Two Volumes, appeared in 1807. Wordsworth’s central works were produced between 1797 and 1808. His poems written during middle and late years have not gained similar critical approval. Wordsworth’s Grasmere period ended in 1813. He was appointed official distributor of stamps for Westmoreland. He moved to Rydal Mount, Ambleside, where he spent the rest of his life. In later life Wordsworth abandoned his radical ideas and became a patriotic, conservative public man.

In 1843 he succeeded Robert Southey (1774-1843) as England’s poet laureate. Wordsworth died on April 23, 1850.

DAFFODILS By William Wordsworth I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o’er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company: I gazed---and gazed---but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought:

23 For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.

Discussion questions

1. Did you enjoy this poem? Quote your favorite line(s)/stanza of the poem. 2. Have you ever read any other work by Wordsworth? If so, which one is your favorite? 3. Did anything about this poem in particular move? 4. Solitude seems to be of major importance in this poem. Is there a reason for this? Is nature something that should be enjoyed by the individual? 5.Why did the poet write “I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud”?How do you paraphrase each line of the poem?

Homework: In the poem “I wandered lonely as a cloud”(DAFFODILS) by William Wordsworth, what is the poet’s intention? What are the beautiful images in the poem? Give the evidence and your opinion about the poem.

LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING By William Wordsworth I heard a thousand blended notes, While in a grove I sate reclined, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link The human soul that through me ran; And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;

24 And ‘tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and played, Their thoughts I cannot measure:--- But the least motion which they made, It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan, To catch the breezy air; And I must think, do all I can, That there was pleasure there.

If this belief from heaven be sent, If such be Nature’s holy plan, Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man?

Discussion questions 1. Where and when was the poet sitting and what did he hear? 2. Why did the poet become sad thought he was in a sweet mood? 3. What is the link between man’s soul and nature? 4. Why does the poet become sad when he thinks about the activities of man? 5. What is the faith of the poet? What did the budding twigs do? 6. How does the poet conclude that the birds were happy?

Homework: The expression, “what man has made of man” is used twice in the poem. What does the poet want to convey through this? Write your point of view about this statement (250 words)

ROBERT BURNS (1759-1796).

Early life and education Robert Burns was born in Alloway, Ayrshire, Scotland, on January 25, 1759, to hard-working farmer parents. He began helping his father with farm work at the age of twelve. The

25 difficulty of the labor later had a crippling effect on his health. Although Burns’s formal schooling was limited, he loved to read and for a time he was tutored by John Murdoch, who thoroughly educated him in eighteenth-century English literature.

The family worked hard on the Ayrshire farm and at several others, but their lives were never made easier. Ongoing troubles with landlords and their agents fueled the rebellion that Burns felt against authority, which later became a major theme in his poetry. In 1784 his father died, and the family moved a few miles away to Mossgiel, Scotland. Here and in the nearby town of Mauchline, Scotland, the charming and attractive Burns began numerous love affairs, some of which extended to about 1790. (By the end of his short life he was to have fathered fourteen children by six different mothers.)

Achievement and sudden fame While continuing to do farm work in Mossgiel, Burns began writing poetry, and his talents developed in a spectacular way. Many of his poems expressed his love of the country and its people and poked fun at his favorite target, followers of Calvinism (a religion that features a strict belief in God’s absolute will over the affairs of humans). In 1786 he published Poems, Chiefly in the Scottish Dialect at nearby Kilmarnock, Scotland, and the book was a success. At this time Burns was twenty-seven, and he had written some of the most effective and biting pieces of satire (ridicule or scorn) in the language. Among them were “Holy Willie’s Prayer” (a dramatic speech that mocked a believer in Calvinism) and “The Holy Fair” (a humorous description of a Scottish religious camp meeting).

Other important poems that appeared in his first volume were “Address to the Unco Guid” (an appeal to the religious not to look down on sinners); “The Jolly Beggars” (a dramatic poem celebrating poor people); the masterful “Address to the Deil” (that is, to the Devil); “The Cotter’s Saturday Night” (in praise of the Scottish countryside); and the moving “Auld Farmer’s Salutation to His Mare” and “To a Mouse” (the latter a poem written to a field mouse who has been killed by a farmer while plowing). These and other poems by Burns are almost unequaled in their combination of accurate local language and depth of feeling. Not for centuries had such fine poetry been written in the Scots tongue.

But 1786 was also a year of great distress for Burns. His affair with Jean Armour had resulted in the birth of twins, and her parents refused to allow the couple to marry because of Burns’s reputation as a critic of religion. In addition, Burns was in love with Mary Campbell, for whom he wrote “Highland Mary,” but she died in 1786 as a result of giving birth to

26 his child. Burns considered leaving the country for Jamaica, but he abandoned the plan and spent the winter in Edinburgh, Scotland, where he was praised and honored for the success of his book. Early in 1787 a new edition of his poems was published that made him famous not only throughout Scotland but also in England and internationally. After a summer and fall spent touring Scotland (the only real traveling he ever did) and restarting his affair with Jean, Burns spent a second winter in Edinburgh. In March 1788 Burns returned to Mauchline and finally married Jean, who had given birth to a second set of his twins.

Later years and his songs After his wedding Burns turned his efforts to supporting his family. In 1788 he leased a farm at Ellisland, Scotland, forty-five miles from Mauchline. After annoying delays in the building of his house and several rough years trying to make an income from his farmland, he moved with Jean and the children to Dumfries, Scotland. In 1789 he had begun working as a tax inspector, a profession in which he continued until his death. At Ellisland Burns had little free time, but it was there that he wrote his masterpiece of comic humor “Tam o’Shanter,” his one outstanding piece of narrative verse.

Burns also wrote numerous songs (some of them original lyrics for old tunes, some reworkings of old lyrics) for The Scots Musical Museum, a collection of Scottish songs with which he had been associated since 1787. From 1792 until his death he also contributed to a similar work, A Select Collection of Original Scottish Airs.

Most of Burns’s poetic efforts in the Ellisland and Dumfries periods was in this area of song writing and song editing (he had written songs earlier but had usually not published them), and the results were very popular. Among the lyrics that he composed or reworked were “Mary Morison,”“Highland Mary,”“Duncan Gray,”“Green Grow the Rashes, O,”“Auld Lang Syne,”“John Anderson, My Jo,”“Scots Wha Hae Wi’ Wallace Bled,”“A Man’s a Man for A’ That,”“A Red, Red Rose,” and “Ye Banks and Braes o’ Bonie Doon.” These are true song lyrics—that is, they are not poems meant to be set to music but rather are poems written to melodies that define the rhythm. Burns’ years in Dumfries were years of work and hardship, but contrary to reports written after his death, he was not shunned by others and he did not fall into moral decline. His fellow townsmen and his coworkers respected him. His health, which always caused him problems, began to fail, and he died of heart disease on July 21, 1796. His wife gave birth to their last child on the day of his funeral.

27 Intense feeling and technical skill characterizes the work of the Scottish poet Robert Burns. His best work is in Scots, the language of southern Scotland. He is one of the greatest authors of that language in the last four centuries.

A RED RED ROSE (Original) By Robert Burns O my Luve’s like a red, red rose, That’s newly sprung in June: O my Luve’s like the melodie, That’s sweetly play’d in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonie lass, So deep in luve am I; And I will luve thee still, my dear, Till a’ the seas gang dry.

Tilla’ the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi’ the sun; And I will luve thee still, my dear, While the sands o’ life shall run.

And fare-thee-weel, my only Luve! And fare-thee-weel, a while! And I will come again, my Luve, Tho’‘twere ten thousand mile!

A RED, RED ROSE (Standard English)

O, my love is like a red, red rose, That is newly sprung in June. O, my love is like the melody, That is sweetly played in tune.

28 As fair are you, my lovely lass, So deep in love am I, And I will love you still, my Dear, Till all the seas go dry.

Till all the seas go dry, my Dear, And the rocks melt with the sun! O I will love you still, my Dear, While the sands of life shall run. And fare you well, my only Love, And fare you well a while! And I will come again, my Love, Although it were ten thousand mile!

Discussion questions 1. What is the meaning of a red rose? What does the red color suggest? 2. If the roses are red why are they called roses? Explain the meaning of the poem. 3. Could the man survive if “the seas gang dry”and “the rocks melt wi’ the sun”? What does the poet want to imply?What figures of speech are used in this poem? 4. What do you think are the circumstances of the speaker of this poem that cause him/her to leave his/her love? 5. Look through magazines and find at least five examples of red things. Which of the symbols used to express love in this poem works the best? Why? 6. Adapt this ballad to the music of a contemporary song, and explain what elements of the music you think are appropriate to what the poem is saying. 7. What journey does Burns take in the last stanza? What does he want to say to comfort his sweet heart?

Homework: Write a short story or dialogue that explains why the speaker is leaving, and how this poem affects the situation (Group work)

29 JOHN DONNE (1572-1631)

John Donne was born in Bread Street, London in 1572 to a prosperous Roman Catholic family - a precarious thing at a time when anti-Catholic sentiment was rife in England. His father, John Donne, was a well-to-do ironmonger and citizen of London. Donne’s father died suddenly in 1576, and left the three children to be raised by their mother, Elizabeth, who was the daughter of epigrammatist and playwright John Heywood and a relative of Sir .

At the age of 11, Donne and his younger brother Henry were entered at Hart Hall, University of Oxford, where Donne studied for three years. He spent the next three years at the University of Cambridge, but took no degree at either university because he would not take the Oath of Supremacy required at graduation. He was admitted to study law as a member of Thavies Inn (1591) and Lincoln’s Inn (1592), and it seemed natural that Donne should embark upon a legal or diplomatic career.In 1593, Donne’s brother Henry died of a fever in prison after being arrested for giving sanctuary to a proscribed Catholic priest. Donne was beginning a promising career. In 1601, Donne became MP for Brackley, and sat in Queen Elizabeth’s last . But in the same year, he secretly married Lady Egerton’s niece, seventeen-year-old Anne More, daughter of Sir George More, Lieutenant of the Tower, and effectively committed career suicide.

It was not until 1609 that a reconciliation was effected between Donne and his father-in-law, and Sir George More was finally induced to pay his daughter’s dowry. In the intervening years, Donne practised law, but they were lean years for the Donnes. Donne was employed by the religious pamphleteer Thomas Morton, later Bishop of Durham. It is possible that Donne co-wrote or ghost-wrote some of Morton’s pamphlets (1604-1607). To this period, before reconciliation with his inlaws, belong Donne’s Divine Poems (1607) and Biathanatos (pub. 1644), a radical piece for its time, in which Donne argues that suicide is not a sin in itself. As Donne approached forty, he published two anti-Catholic polemics Pseudo-Martyr (1610) and Ignatius his Conclave (1611. Donne had refused to take Anglican orders in 1607, but King James persisted, finally announcing that Donne would receive no post or preferment from the King, unless in the church. In 1615, Donne reluctantly entered the ministry and was appointed a Royal Chaplain later that year. In 1616, he was appointed Reader in Divinity at Lincoln’s Inn (Cambridge had conferred the degree of Doctor of Divinity on him two years earlier). Donne’s style, full of elaborate metaphors and religious symbolism, his flair for

30 drama, his wide learning and his quick wit soon established him as one of the greatest preachers of the era. Just as Donne’s fortunes seemed to be improving, Anne Donne died, on 15 August, 1617, aged thirty-three, after giving birth to their twelfth child, a stillborn. Seven of their children survived their mother’s death.

In 1624, Donne was made vicar of St Dunstan’s-in-the-West. On March 27, 1625, James I died, and Donne preached his first sermon for Charles I. But for his ailing health, (he had mouth sores and had experienced significant weight loss) Donne almost certainly would have become a bishop in 1630. Obsessed with the idea of death, Donne posed in a shroud - the painting was completed a few weeks before his death, and later used to create an effigy. He also preached what was called his own funeral sermon, Death’s Duel, just a few weeks before he died in London on March 31, 1631. The last thing Donne wrote just before his death was Hymne to God, my God, In my Sicknesse. Donne’s monument, in his shroud, survived the Great Fire of London and can still be seen today at St. Paul’s.

THE FLEA By John Donne Marke but this flea, and marke in this, How little that which thou deny’st me is; Me it suck’d first, and now sucks thee, And in this flea our two bloods mingled bee; Confesse it, this cannot be said A sinne, or shame, or losse of maidenhead, Yet this enjoyes before it wooe, And pamper’d swells with one blood made of two, And this, alas, is more than wee would doe.

Oh stay, three lives in one flea spare, When we almost, nay more than maryed are. This flea is you and I, and this Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is; Though parents grudge, and you, w’are met, And cloysterd in these living walls of Jet.

31 Though use make thee apt to kill me, Let not to this, selfe murder added bee, And sacrilege, three sinnes in killing three.

Cruell and sodaine, has thou since Purpled thy naile, in blood of innocence? In what could this flea guilty bee, Except in that drop which it suckt from thee? Yet thou triumph’st, and saist that thou Find’st not thyself, nor mee the weaker now; ‘Tis true, then learne how false, feares bee; Just so much honor, when thou yeeld’st to mee, Will wast, as this flea’s death tooke life from thee.

QUIZ ON “THE FLEA” 1. _____. This speaker in this poem is addressing: A. his wife. B. his lover. C. the flea. D. the reader. E. himself. 2. _____. The speaker apparently is being denied: A. his conjugal rights. B. a fair hearing of his case. C. sexual favors. D. the right to protect himself from being bitten. E. revenge. 3. _____. The speaker in the first stanza wants to convince the listener to accede to hiswishes by making the latter: A. feel sympathy for the flea. B. realize that what the flea has done is insignificant and that he should be allowed the same opportunity.

C. feel sorry because of the pain the speaker is in. D. feel violated by the flea.

32 E. understand that the flea should be preserved because it symbolizes the depth of their commitment to one another. 4. _____. The “this” in line 6 (this enjoys before it woo) refers to: A. the flea. B. the speaker. C. the listener. D. sin (line 5). E. loss of maidenhead (line 5). 5. _____. The last five lines of the stanza points out: A. the animal world is immoral. B. the irony that the flea is able to succeed where he has failed. C. a morality presumably common at the time the poem was written. D. A and C. E. B and C. 6. _____. In the second stanza: A. the flea is seen in the same way as it is in the first stanza. B. the flea is depicted as subversive and dangerous. C. the flea is no longer envied but a symbol of a love. D. the flea has been sacrificed so that love can flourish. E. the flea has flown away and left the speaker and the listener to lament its treachery. 7. _____. In the second stanza the speaker is clearly: A. symbolically making love. B. contemplating marriage. C. continuing to be jealous of the flea. D. pleading for the flea’s life. E. worried that his listener will commit suicide. 8. _____. Line 14 (“Though parents grudge, and you, we are met. . .”) suggests: A. a rift between parents and child. B. the possibility of an elopement. C. and child view the speaker in the same light. D. the parents are threatening to send the child to a cloister. E. A and B. 9. _____. “in these living walls of jet” (line 15) could be best paraphrased: A. within your black heart. B. within a dungeon.

33 C. within your womb. D. within the marriage bed. E. within this flea. 10. _____. In the third stanza the listener has apparently: A. agreed with the speaker. B. killed the flea. C. regretted killing the flea. D. regretted not killing the flea. E. sacrificed her honor. 11. _____. The reader can deduce from the last stanza that the listener: A. regrets what has been done and is repentant. B. feels violated by the flea. C. has been driven to tears by the speaker. D. has paid little attention to the speaker all along. E. has been softened by the speaker’s plea. 12. _____. The last three lines of the poem draw an analogy between: A. the tears the listener will shed when she loses her honor to the speaker and the blood lost to the flea. B. the death of the flea and the upcoming loss of honor. C. the death of the flea and the death of Christ. D. A and B. E. A and C. 13. _____. The tone of the speaker in this poem is best described as. A. didactic. B. argumentative. C. optimistic. D. pessimistic. E. mocking. 14. _____. At the end of the poem the speaker’s attitude is one of: A. defeat. B. acquiescence. C. bewilderment. D. resoluteness. E. anger.

34 Discussion questions

1. When the speaker says, “Mark but this flea,” what is he asking his implied audience to do? What has the flea done first to the speaker and then to the implied audience? 2. Why does the speaker say the flea’s action is not “a sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead”?What is maidenhead? Why might the flea’s action be considered by some as a sin or shame or loss of maidenhead? 3. At the end of the first stanza, the speaker says, “And this, alas, is more than we would do.” What do his words reveal about the speaker’s relationship to the implied audience? Who or what is the implied audience and what does the speaker want from her? 4. In the second stanza, the speaker says, “Oh stay...” What is he asking the speaker to do?

Homework:What does the speaker mean when he says, “This flea is you and I.” How is the flea theoretically a marriage bed? A marriage temple?Write a short summary of this poem.

THE SUN RISING By John Donne Busy old fool, unruly Sun, Why dost thou thus, Through windows, and through curtains, call on us? Must to thy motions lovers’ seasons run? Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide (5) Late schoolboys, and sour prentices, Go tell court-huntsmen that the king will ride, Call country ants to harvest offices, Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime, Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time. (10) Thy beams, so reverend and strong Why shouldst thou think? I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink, But that I would not lose her sight so long: If her eyes have not blinded thine, (15) Look, and tomorrow late, tell me Whether both the’Indias of spice and mine

35 Be where thou leftist them, or lie here with me. Ask for those kings whom thou saw’st yesterday, And thou shalt hear: “All here in one bed lay.” (20) She’s all states, and all princes I, Nothing else is. Princes do but play us; compared to this, All honour’s mimic, all wealth alchemy. Thou, sun, art half as happy ‘as we, (25) In that the world’s contracted thus; Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be To warm the world, that’s done in warming us. Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere; This bed thy centre is, these walls, thy sphere. (30)

17. both the’Indias: the East Indies was famous for spices; the West Indies for gold and silver (mines.) 24. alchemy: false gold.

QUESTIONS ON “THE SUN RISING” 1. _____. In the first stanza of the poem the speaker is: A. surprised at how late he has slept. B. wishing he were a king. C. annoyed at the sun for waking him and his lover. D. grateful that the sun has wakened him and his lover. E. comparing the sun unfavorably to his lover. 2. _____. The use of the word fool in line one is an example of: A. personification. B. irony. C. . D. simile. E. iambic pentameter. 3. _____. “Saucy, pedantic wretch” (line five) refers to: A. the sun. B. a maid. C. the speaker’s lover. D. a school teacher.

36 E. time. 4. _____. “chide” in line five means: A. flatter B. bully C. embrace. D. scold. E. gaze upon. 5. _____. “Love” (line 9) is stated to be: A. tired. B. affected by the climate. C. unaffected by the climate, but affected by time. D. unaffected by either climate or time. E. like both the season and the climate. 6. _____. In stanza two the speaker’s attitude toward the sun: A. is identical to that in stanza one B. has evolved out of stanza one C. is radically different from stanza one D. is indifferent E. is more humble than in stanza one 7. _____. Lines 15-18 suggest that: A. the speaker’s lover is blind. B. the speaker’s lover’s eyes could be brighter than the sun. C. the speaker’s lover’s eyes have been closed by the sun. D. the speaker’s lover will travel with the sun. E. The speaker’s lover has become jealous of the sun. 8. _____. “All here in one bed” suggests: A. the speaker has many lovers. B. the speaker’s lover has many lovers. C. the speaker has bought many gifts for his lover. D. the speaker’s lover has sung a song of praise. E. the speaker’s lover is all that is worth looking upon. 9. _____. The first two lines of the third stanza are addressed to: A. the sun. B. the speaker’s lover. C. princes. D. the speaker, himself.

37 E. the moon. 10. _____. The sun is only “half as happy as we” because: A. it is so far away from the lovers. B. it shines on the lovers only half of the time. C. it can only shine on the lovers through curtained windows. D. it is shut out from the lovers hearts. E. it has been partially eclipsed. 11. _____. The attitude of the speaker toward the sun in the third stanza can be best described as: A. jealous. B. pathetic. C. angry. D. thankful. E. condescending. 12. _____. ‘Thine age asks ease” in the last stanza suggests that: A. the sun is timeless. B. the sun is young. C. the sun is old. D. the sun is bored. E. the sun is unsure of itself. 13. _____. By the last lines of the poem the speaker seems to have: A. forgotten his initial reaction upon waking up. B. confirmed his initial reaction upon waking up. C. lectured the sun for waking him up. D. hated the sun for waking him up. E. gone back to sleep.

“THE BROKEN HEART” By John Donne He is stark mad, whoever says, That he hath been in love an hour, Yet not that love so soon decays, But that it can ten in less space devour ; Who will believe me, if I swear

38 That I have had the plague a year? Who would not laugh at me, if I should say I saw a flash of powder burn a day?

Ah, what a trifle is a heart, If once into love’s hands it come ! All other grieves allow a part To other grieves, and ask themselves but some ; They come to us, but us love draws ; He swallows us and never chaws ; By him, as by chain’d shot, whole ranks do die ; He is the tyrant pike, our hearts the fry.

If ‘twere not so, what did become Of my heart when I first saw thee? I brought a heart into the room, But from the room I carried none with me. If it had gone to thee, I know Mine would have taught thine heart to show More pity unto me ; but Love, alas ! At one first blow did shiver it as glass.

Yet nothing can to nothing fall, Nor any place be empty quite ; Therefore I think my breast hath all Those pieces still, though they be not unite ; And now, as broken glasses show A hundred lesser faces, so My rags of heart can like, wish, and adore, But after one such love, can love no more

Discussion questions 1. Was this poem used to elicit sympathy from his beloved’s unrequited love? 2. What does the poem “the broken heart” by John Donne mean? 3. Poem to elicit sympathy for unrequited love? 4. What is the significance of this hyperbole?

39 5. What is the setting of the poem? 6. What do you think about this poem? Why and why not? 7. Was This Poem Used to Elicit Sympathy from the Beloved that Denied Him Love?

A.E HOUSMAN (1859-1936)

Alfred Edward Houseman was born on March 26, 1859 in Fockbury, Worcestershire, England. He was an English scholar and celebrated poet whose lyrics express a Romantic pessimism in a spare, simple style. Housman, whose father was a solicitor, was one of seven children. He much preferred his mother; and her death on his 12th birthday was a cruel blow, which is surely one source of the pessimism his poetry expresses. While a student at Oxford, he was further oppressed by his dawning realization of homosexual desires. These came to focus in an intense love for one of his fellow students, an athletic young man who became his friend but who could not reciprocate his love. In turmoil emotionally, Housman failed to pass his final examination at Oxford, although he had been a brilliant scholar. From 1882 to 1892, he worked as a clerk in the Patent Office in London. In the evenings he studied Latin texts in the British Museum reading room and developed a consummate gift for correcting errors in them, owing to his mastery of the language and his feeling for the way poets choose their words. Articles he wrote for journals caught the attention of scholars and led to his appointment in 1892 as professor of Latin at University College, London. Apparently convinced that he must live without love, Housman became increasingly reclusive and for solace turned to his notebooks, in which he had begun to write the poems that eventually made up (1896). For models he claimed the poems of Heinrich Heine, the songs of William Shakespeare, and the Scottish border ballads. Each provided him with a way of expressing emotion clearly and yet keeping it at a certain distance. For the same purpose, he assumed in his lyrics the unlikely role of farm laborer and set them in Shropshire, a county he had not yet visited when he began to write the first poems. The popularity of A Shropshire Lad grew slowly but so surely that Last Poems (1922) had astonishing success for a book of verse. Housman regarded himself principally as a Latinist and avoided the literary world. In 1911 he became professor of Latin at Cambridge, teaching there almost up to his death. His major scholarly effort, to which he devoted more than 30 years, was an annotated edition of Manilius (1903-30), whose poetry he did not like but who gave him ample scope for emendation. Some of the asperity and directness that appears in Housman’s lyrics also is

40 found in his scholarship, in which he defended common sense with a sarcastic wit that helped to make him widely feared. He died on Thursday, April 30, 1936, in Cambridge; cause of death: unspecified.

WHEN I WAS ONE-AND-TWENTY By A. E. Housman When I was one-and-twenty I heard a wise man say, ‘Give crowns and pounds and guineas But not your heart away;

Give pearls away and rubies But keep your fancy free.’ But I was one-and-twenty, No use to talk to me. When I was one-and-twenty I heard him say again, ‘The heart out of the bosom Was never given in vain; ‘Tis paid with sighs a plenty And sold for endless rue.’ And I am two-and-twenty, And oh, ‘tis true, ‘tis true.

Discussion questions

1. What is the main theme of the poem?What the imagery of “one and twenty”? 2. When is the setting of the poem? Find some poems or songs that have the same meaning with this poem? 3. Why do the poet say “Give crowns and pounds and guineas But not your heart away;

41 Give pearls away and rubies But keep your fancy free.”? 4. Do you think that when someone is young, he or she will be boastful or stubborn? Why? 5. What is the main message form the poet to the readers?

Homework:What do you think about this poem? Why or why not? Analyze this poem (250 words). “When I was one-and-twenty ………………………………… And I am two-and-twenty, And oh, ‘tis true, ‘tis true.What does the poet want to imply in the last stanza?

ON THE IDLE HILL OF SUMMER By A. E. Housman On the idle hill of summer, Sleepy with the flow of streams, Far I hear the steady drummer Drumming like a noise in dreams.

Far and near and low and louder On the roads of earth go by, Dear to friends and food for powder, Soldiers marching, all to die. East and west on fields forgotten Bleach the bones of comrades slain, Lovely lads and dead and rotten; None that go return again. Far the calling bugles hollo, High the screaming fife replies, Gay the files of scarlet follow: Woman bore me, I will rise.

42 Discussion questions

1. What is the main theme of the poem? 2. What the imagery of the idle hill? 3. When is the setting of the poem? 4. Why do the poet say “Sleepy with the flow of streams, Far I hear the steady drummer Drumming like a noise in dreams”? 5. Find some poems or songs that have the same meaning with this poem?

Homework:What do you think about this poem?Analyze this poem. What is the main message form the poet to the readers? What does the poet want to imply in the last stanza? “Woman bore me, I will rise…”

WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS (13/6/1865-28/1/1939)

William Butler Yeats (1865-1939) was born in Dublin. His father was a lawyer and a well- known portrait painter. Yeats was educated in London and in Dublin, but he spent his summers in the west of Ireland in the family’s summer house at Connaught. The young Yeats was very much part of the fin de siècle in London; at the same time he was active in societies that attempted an Irish literary revival. His first volume of verse appeared in 1887, but in his earlier period his dramatic production outweighed his poetry both in bulk and in import. Together with Lady Gregory he founded the Irish Theatre, which was to become the Abbey Theatre, and served as its chief playwright until the movement was joined by John Synge. His plays usually treat Irish legends; they also reflect his fascination with mysticism and spiritualism. The Countess Cathleen (1892), The Land of Heart’s Desire (1894), Cathleen ni Houlihan (1902), The King’s Threshold (1904), and Deirdre (1907) are among the best known. After 1910, Yeats’s dramatic art took a sharp turn toward a highly poetical, static, and esoteric style. His later plays were written for small audiences; they experiment with masks, dance, and music, and were profoundly influenced by the Japanese Noh plays. Although a convinced patriot, Yeats deplored the hatred and the bigotry of the Nationalist movement, and his poetry is full of moving protests against it. He was appointed to the Irish Senate in 1922. Yeats is one of the few writers whose greatest works were written after the award of the Nobel Prize.

43 Whereas he received the Prize chiefly for his dramatic works, his significance today rests on his lyric achievement. His poetry, especially the volumes The Wild Swans at Coole (1919), Michael Robartes and the Dancer (1921), The Tower (1928), The Winding Stair and Other Poems (1933), and Last Poems and Plays (1940), made him one of the outstanding and most influential twentieth-century poets writing in English. His recurrent themes are the contrast of art and life, masks, cyclical theories of life (the symbol of the winding stairs), and the ideal of beauty and ceremony contrasting with the hubbub of modern life. From Nobel Lectures, Literature 1901-1967, Editor Horst Frenz, Elsevier Publishing Company, Amsterdam, 1969

This autobiography/biography was written at the time of the award and first published in the book series Les Prix Nobel. It was later edited and republished in Nobel Lectures. To cite this document, always state the source as shown above. William Butler Yeats died on January 28, 1939.

THE LAKE ISLE OF INNISFREE By William Butler Yeats

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made: Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honeybee, And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, Dropping from the veils of the mourning to where the cricket sings; There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore; While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey, I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

44 Discussion questions

1. In the poem The Lake of Isle Innisfree: to how many parts can we divide it according to the structure of it?Describe the setting of this poem in terms of time and place. 2. What do you think is meant by the poem’s words ‘deep heart’s core?What does ‘...and noon a purple glow’ mean? Why purple? 3. In “The Lake Isle of Innisfree,” where does the writer see the water lapping?What does the speaker mean when he says “peace comes dropping slow...”? 4. How do the poets use language and structure to express their feelings about their islands? 5. Why did William Butler Yeats say, “I will arise and go now to Innisfree”?What is the relationship between the poems The Lake Isle of Innisfree and the world is too much with us? What are the simple things the poet wants to do in Innisfree?

Homework:Do you find any evidence within the poem “The The Lake Isle of Innisfree”by William Butler Yeats” (1865-1939) to show that the author wants to “escape” from the life in noisy city?What is the meaning of the poem “The Lake Isle of Innisfree”?

NEVER GIVE ALL THE HEART By William Butler Yeats Never give all the heart, for love Will hardly seem worth thinking of To passionate women if it seem Certain, and they never dream That it fades out from kiss to kiss; For everything that’s lovely is But a brief, dreamy. Kind delight. O never give the heart outright, For they, for all smooth lips can say, Have given their hearts up to the play. And who could play it well enough If deaf and dumb and blind with love? He that made this knows all the cost, For he gave all his heart and lost.

45 Discussion questions

1. What is the main theme of the poem?What the imagery of never give all the heart? 2. When is the setting of the poem? What is the main message from the poet to the readers? 3. Why do the poet say “To passionate women if it seem, Certain, and they never dream”? 4. Do you think that when someone is in love, he or she will be “deaf and dumb and blind with love”? Why? 5. Find some poems or songs that have the same meaning with this poem?

Homework:What do you think about this poem? What does the poet want to imply in the two last sentences? “He that made this knows all the cost, For he gave all his heart and lost…”Comment on this idea.

WHEN YOU ARE OLD By William Butler Yeats

When you are old and grey and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true, But one man loved the pilgrim Soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars, Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled And paced upon the mountains overhead And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

46 Discussion questions

1. What is the main theme of the poem?What the imagery of the poem? 2. When is the setting of the poem? Why does the poet want to talk about the old?” 3. Why do the poet say “And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; Do you think that when someone is old, he or she will be “bending down beside the glowing bars, Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled…” Why? 4. Find some poems or songs that have the same meaning with this poem?It is said that “Love doesn’t exist in the old people, is it true? Why? 5. What does the poet want to imply in the two last sentences of each stanza? “And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;” And paced upon the mountains overhead And hid his face amid a crowd of stars…”

Homework: Have you ever thought of your old age? What would be like? Could you make an imagination and describe what would your old age be? Do you really like to be old or young?

THE SORROW OF LOVE By William Butler Yeats

The quarrel of the sparrow in the eaves, The full round moon and the star-laden sky, And the loud song of the ever-singing leaves, Had hid away earth’s old and weary cry. And then you came with those red mournful lips, And with you came the whole of the world’s tears, And all the sorrows of her labouring ships, And all the burden of her myriad years. And now the sparrows warring in the eaves, The curd-pale moon, the white stars in the sky, And the loud chaunting of the unquiet leaves, Are shaken with earth’s old and weary cry.

Discussion questions

47 1. What is the main theme of the poem?What the imagery of the poem? 2. When is the setting of the poem? Why does the poet want to talk about the sorrow of love?” 3. Why does the poet say “Had hid away earth’s old and weary cry”? Explain the meaning of this sentence. 4. Find some poems or songs that have the same meaning with this poem? 5. What do you think about this poem? Why or why not? Does love always have “the sorrow”? 6. What does the poet want to imply in the last stanza? “And now the sparrows warring in the eaves, The curd-pale moon, the white stars in the sky, And the loud chaunting of the unquiet leaves, Are shaken with earth’s old and weary cry.…”

Homework: It is said that “Perfect love doesn’t exist in the real life, is it true? Why? Do you think your love is great now? Are you satisfied with your love? Why or why not? Give your own idea what love is. (200 words)

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE

Christopher Marlowe (c. 26 February 1564 – 30 May 1593) was an English dramatist, poet and translator of the Elizabethan era. The foremost Elizabethantragedian next to William Shakespeare, he is known for his blank verse, his overreaching protagonists, and his mysterious death. A warrant was issued for Marlowe’s arrest on 18 May 1593. No reason for it was given, though it was thought to be connected to allegations of blasphemy—a manuscript believed to have been written by Marlowe was said to contain “vile heretical conceipts.” He was brought before the Privy Council for questioning on 20 May, after which he had to report to them daily. Ten days later, he was stabbed to death by Ingram Frizer. Whether the stabbing was connected to his arrest has never been resolved. Born the same year as Shakespeare, Christopher Marlowe was to become the first great poet of the theatre’s second great age. His life, much like the lives of his characters, would be short and violent. The son of a shoemaker, Marlowe attended King’s School, Canterbury and Corpus Christi College where he received his Bachelor of Arts in 1584 and his Master’s degree three years

48 later. According to university records, Marlowe disappeared frequently during his last years at school, exceeding the number of absences permitted him by statute and putting his degree in jeopardy. Apparently, much of this time was spent in Rheims among the Catholics who were plotting against Queen Elizabeth’s protestant regime. Because of his absences and the fact that he refused to take holy orders, the university refused, for a time, to confer his degree, but the authorities intervened, and the degree was eventually granted. Although we cannot be certain, Marlowe may have fought in the wars in the Low Country after graduation. What we can be certain of is that he settled in London in 1587 and began his career as a playwright--although he may still have been in the employ of the secret service as well. The young poet plunged himself into a social circle that included such colorful literary figures as Sir Phillip Sidney and Sir Walter Raleigh. He shared a room with fellow playwright Thomas Kyd and was often seen frequenting the taverns of London with the likes of Robert Greene and . His magnificent appearance, impulsiveness, and bejeweled costumes soon became the talk of the town. Primed by this new-found intellectual stimulation, Marlowe soon wrote Tamburlaine, the first notable English play in blank verse. Elizabethan drama had reached the foothills and was beginning its final ascent when Marlowe came onto the scene. All that was needed was a bold leap such as no one had yet dared or been able to make--and Marlowe was determined to make that leap.

He had the advantage of having his plays presented by the Lord Admiral’s company. While his contemporaries were watching their work performed by church boys, Marlowe saw his dramas staged by full-chested men such as the seven-foot-tall, majestic Edward Alleyn. No playwright had hitherto invoked the world, the flesh, and the devil so magnificently in plays such as Dr. Faustus, The Jew of Malta, and Edward II. The young poet, however, had neither wealth nor position, and the disparity between his dreams and the reality of his situation began to weigh upon him. He grew more and more restless and irritable until even his friends began to lose with him.

In 1593, after pointing out what he considered to be inconsistencies in the Bible, Marlowe fell under suspicion of heresy. His roommate, Thomas Kyd, was tortured into giving evidence against him, but before he could be brought before the Privy Council, the twenty-nine-year- old poet was found dead at Dame Eleanore Bull’s tavern in Deptford. On May 30, 1593, he had gone to the tavern to have dinner with some friends. According to witnesses, there was a quarrel over the bill and Marlowe drew his dagger on another man who, defending himself, drove the dagger back into the young poet’s eye, mortally wounding him. There is reason to

49 believe, however, that Marlowe may have been deliberately provoked and murdered in order to prevent his arrest. Had he been brought before the Privy Council, he might have implicated men of importance such as Raleigh. Christopher Marlowe’s contribution to the drama, however, was complete. He had returned high poetry to its rightful place on the stage and left us characters as fiery and passionate as their creator, preparing the way for a poet even greater than himself--William Shakespeare.

THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE ByChristopher Marlowe

Come live with me and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove That valleys, groves, hills, and fields, Woods or steepy mountain yields.

And we will sit upon the rocks, Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks, By shallow rivers to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses And a thousand fragrant posies, A cap of flowers, and a kirtle Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;

A gown made of the finest wool Which from our pretty lambs we pull; Fair lined slippers for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw and ivy buds, With coral clasps and amber studs: And if these pleasures may thee move, Come live with me and be my love.

50 The shepherds’ swains shall dance and sing For thy delight each May morning: If these delights thy mind may move, Then live with me and be my love.

Discussion questions

1. What is your opinion on the gifts that the shepherd offers to his beloved in “The Passionate Shepherd to His Love”? 2. What specific gifts does the speaker promise to give to his beloved? Do you think that these promises are realistic? 3. What references to youth and spring can be find in “The Passionate Shepherd To His Love”? 4. Why did Christopher Marlowe used the shepherd to be the speaker of the poem, “The Passionate Shepherd to His Love”? 5. Who is the speaker of the poem “The Passionate Shepherd to His Love”?What kind of message did the poet aim to convey?

SIR WALTER RALEIGH (c.1552 - 1618)

Walter Raleigh (also spelled Ralegh) was born into a well-connected gentry family at Hayes Barton in Devon in around 1552. He attended Oxford University for a time, fought with the Huguenots in France and later studied law in London.

In 1578, Raleigh sailed to America with explorer Sir Humphrey Gilbert, his half brother. This expedition may have stimulated his plan to found a colony there. In 1585, he sponsored the first English colony in America on Roanoke Island (now North Carolina). The colony failed and another attempt at colonisation also failed in 1587. Raleigh has been credited with bringing potatoes and tobacco back to Britain, although both of these were already known via the Spanish. Raleigh did help to make smoking popular at court. Raleigh first came to the attention of in 1580, when he went to Ireland to help suppress an uprising in Munster. He soon became a favourite of the queen, and was knighted and appointed captain of the Queen’s Guard (1587). He became a member of parliament in 1584 and received extensive estates in Ireland.

51 In 1592, the queen discovered Raleigh’s secret marriage to one of her maids of honour, Elizabeth Throckmorton. This discovery threw Elizabeth into a jealous rage and Raleigh and his wife were imprisoned in the Tower. On his release, in an attempt to find favour with the queen, he set off on an unsuccessful expedition to find El Dorado, the fabled ‘Golden Land’, rumoured to be situated somewhere beyond the mouth of the Orinoco river in Guiana (now Venezuela).

Elizabeth’s successor, James I of England and VI of Scotland, disliked Raleigh, and in 1603 he was accused of plotting against the king and sentenced to death. This was reduced to life imprisonment and Raleigh spent the next 12 years in the Tower of London, where he wrote the first volume of his ‘History of the World’ (1614).

In 1616, Raleigh was released to lead a second expedition to search for El Dorado. The expedition was a failure, and Raleigh also defied the king’s instructions by attacking the Spanish. On his return to England, the death sentence was reinstated and Raleigh’s execution took place on 29 October 1618.

A NYMPH’S REPLY TO THE SHEPHERD by Sir Walter Raleigh (See “The Passionate Shepherd To His Love” by Christopher Marlowe) If all the world and love were young, And truth in every shepherd’s tongue, These pretty pleasures might me move To live with thee, and be thy love.

Time drives the flocks from field to fold When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold, And Philomel becometh dumb; The rest complains of cares to come.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields To wayward winter reckoning yields; A honey tongue, a heart of gall, Is fancy’s spring, but sorrow’s fall.

52 Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies, Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten: In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw and ivy buds, Thy coral clasps and amber studs, All these in me no means can move, To come to thee, and be thy love.

But could youth last, and love still breed, Had joys no date, nor age no need, Then these delights my mind might move To live with thee, and be thy love.

Discussion questions

1. In the first stanza of Raleigh’s “The Nymph’s Reply to the Shepherd,” what could convince the Nymph of the shepherd’s sincerity? 2. In her reply, what are her conditions for living with him? 3. In “The Nymphs Reply to the Shepherd”, why did the poet choose to write “rage” instead “rush” in The Nymph’s Reply to the Shepherd? 4. Who is the main enemy in “The Nymph’s Reply to the Shepherd”? 5. How does the Nymph’s Reply follow up Marlowe’s original proposal?

WILLIAM BLAKE

28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827) was an English poet, painter, and printmaker. Largely unrecognised during his lifetime, Blake is now considered a seminal figure in the history of the poetry and visual arts of the Romantic Age. His prophetic poetry has been said to form “what is in proportion to its merits the least read body of poetry in the English language”. His visual artistry led one contemporary art critic to proclaim him “far and away the greatest artist Britain has ever produced”. In 2002, Blake was placed at number 38 in the BBC’s poll of the 100 Greatest Britons. Although he lived in London his entire life (except for three years

53 spent in Felpham), he produced a diverse and symbolically rich œuvre, which embraced the imagination as “the body of God” or “human existence itself”.[7]

Although Blake was considered mad by contemporaries for his idiosyncratic views, he is held in high regard by later critics for his expressiveness and creativity, and for the philosophical and mystical undercurrents within his work. His paintings and poetry have been characterised as part of the Romantic movement and as “Pre-Romantic”. Reverent of the Bible but hostile to the (indeed, to almost all forms of organised religion), Blake was influenced by the ideals and ambitions of the French and American Revolutions.Though later he rejected many of these political beliefs, he maintained an amiable relationship with the political activist Thomas Paine; he was also influenced by thinkers such as Emanuel Swedenborg. Despite these known influences, the singularity of Blake’s work makes him difficult to classify. The 19th-century scholar William Rossetti characterized him as a “glorious luminary”, and “a man not forestalled by predecessors, nor to be classed with contemporaries, nor to be replaced by known or readily surmisable successors”

THE LAMB” from Songs of Innocence Little Lamb who made thee Dost thou know who made thee Gave thee life & bid thee feed. By the stream & o’er the mead; Gave thee clothing of delight, Softest clothing wooly bright; Gave thee such a tender voice, Making all the vales rejoice: Little Lamb who made thee Dost thou know who made thee Little Lamb I’ll tell thee, Little Lamb I’ll tell thee: He is called by thy name, For he calls himself a Lamb: He is meek & he is mild,

54 He became a little child: I a child & thou a lamb, We are called by his name. Little Lamb God bless thee. Little Lamb God bless thee.

“THE TYGER” from Songs of Experience

Tyger Tyger. burning bright, In the forests of the night: What immortal hand or eye, Could frame thy fearful symmetry? In what distant deeps or skies. Burnt the fire of thine eyes! On what wings dare he aspire! What the hand, dare sieze the fire? And what shoulder, & what art, Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand? & what dread feet? What the hammer? what the chain, In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? what dread grasp, Dare its deadly terrors clasp! When the stars threw down their spears And water’d heaven with their tears: Did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the Lamb make thee? Tyger, Tyger burning bright, In the forests of the night: What immortal hand or eye, Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

55 Below you will find “The Tyger” and “The Lamb” from William Blake’s Songs of Innocence and of Experience. Included are both text transcriptions of the poems and links to electronic versions of the Blake plates from which they were derived. The links to the plates will take you to The William Blake Archive at the University of Virginia. Simply use your web browser’s “back” button to return to this page. See the notes below for important details on the texts and images.

Discussion questions

1. What does the tyger symbolize for? 2. What does the lamb symbolize for? 3. What are the figures of speeches of these two poem? 4. Are there any Vietnamese poem like these two poems?

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

William Shakespeare was an English poet, playwright, and actor. He was born on 26 April 1564 in Stratford-upon-Avon. His father was a successful local businessman and his mother was the daughter of a landowner. Shakespeare is widely regarded as the greatest writer in the English language and the world’s pre-eminent dramatist. He is often called England’s national poet and nicknamed the of Avon. He wrote about 38 plays, 154 sonnets, two long narrative poems, and a few other verses, of which the authorship of some is uncertain. His plays have been translated into every major living language and are performed more often than those of any other playwright.

Marriage and career Shakespeare married Anne Hathaway at the age of 18. She was eight years older than him. They had three children: Susanna, and twins Hamnet and Judith. After his marriage information about his life became very rare. But he is thought to have spent most of his time in London writing and performing in his plays. Between 1585 and 1592, he began a successful career in London as an actor, writer, and part-owner of a playing company called the Lord Chamberlain’s Men, later known as the King’s Men.

56 Retirement and death Around 1613, at the age of 49, he retired to Stratford , where he died three years later. Few records of Shakespeare’s private life survive. He died on 23 April 1616, at the age of 52. He died within a month of signing his will, a document which he begins by describing himself as being in “perfect health”. In his will, Shakespeare left the bulk of his large estate to his elder daughter Susanna.

His work Shakespeare produced most of his known work between 1589 and 1613. His early plays were mainly comedies and histories and these works remain regarded as some of the best work produced in these genres. He then wrote mainly tragedies until about 1608, including Hamlet, Othello, King Lear, and Macbeth, considered some of the finest works in the English language. In his last phase, he wrote tragicomedies, also known as romances, and collaborated with other playwrights. Shakespeare’s plays remain highly popular today and are constantly studied, performed, and reinterpreted in diverse cultural and political contexts throughout the world.

- Tragedies

Some probably inspired by Shakespeare’s study of Lives (trans.1597) by Greek historian and essayist Plutarch and Raphael Holinshed’s Chronicles (1587). Some are reworkings of previous stories, many based on English or Roman history. The dates given here are when they are said to have been first performed, followed by approximate printing dates in brackets, listed in chronological order of performance. Titus Andronicus first performed in 1594 (printed in 1594), Romeo and Juliet 1594-95 (1597), Hamlet 1600-01 (1603), Julius Caesar 1600-01 (1623), Othello 1604-05 (1622), 1606-07 (1623), King Lear 1606 (1608), Coriolanus 1607-08 (1623), derived from Plutarch Timon of Athens 1607-08 (1623), and Macbeth 1611-1612 (1623). - Histories

57 Shakespeare’s series of historical dramas, based on the English Kings from John to Henry VIII were a tremendous undertaking to dramatise the lives and rule of kings and the changing political events of his time. No other playwright had attempted such an ambitious body of work. Some were printed on their own or in the First Folio (1623). King Henry VI Part 1 1592 (printed in 1594); King Henry VI Part 2 1592-93 (1594); King Henry VI Part 3 1592-93 (1623); King John 1596-97 (1623); King Henry IV Part 1 1597-98 (1598); King Henry IV Part 2 1597-98 (1600); King Henry V 1598-99 (1600); Richard II 1600-01 (1597); Richard III 1601 (1597); and King Henry VIII 1612-13 (1623)

- Comedies, again listed in chronological order of performance.

Taming of the Shrew first performed 1593-94 (1623), Comedy of Errors 1594 (1623), Two Gentlemen of Verona 1594-95 (1623), Love’s Labour’s Lost 1594-95 (1598), Midsummer Night’s Dream 1595-96 (1600), Merchant of Venice 1596-1597 (1600), Much Ado About Nothing 1598-1599 (1600), As You Like It 1599-00 (1623), Merry Wives of Windsor 1600-01 (1602), Troilus and Cressida 1602 (1609), Twelfth Night 1602 (1623), All’s Well That Ends Well 1602-03 (1623), Measure for Measure 1604 (1623), Pericles, Prince of Tyre 1608-09 (1609), Tempest (1611), Cymbeline 1611-12 (1623), Winter’s Tale 1611-12 (1623).

- Sonnet

58 Sonnet 1 -From fairest creatures we desire increase Sonnet 2 -When forty winters shall beseige thy brow Sonnet 3 -Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest Sonnet 4 -Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend Sonnet 5 -Those hours, that with gentle work did frame Sonnet 6 -Then let not winter’s ragged hand deface Sonnet 7 -Lo! in the orient when the gracious light Sonnet 8 -Music to hear, why hear’st thou music sadly? Sonnet 9 -Is it for fear to wet a widow’s eye Sonnet 10-For shame! deny that thou bear’st love to any, Sonnet 11-As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou growest Sonnet 12-When I do count the clock that tells the time, Sonnet 13-O, that you were yourself! but, love, you are Sonnet 14-Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck Sonnet 15-When I consider everything that grows Sonnet 16-But wherefore do not you a mightier way Sonnet 17-Who will believe my verse in time to come, Sonnet 18-Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Sonnet 19-Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion’s paws Sonnet 20-A woman’s face with Nature’s own hand painted Sonnet 21-So is it not with me as with that Muse Sonnet 22-My glass shall not persuade me I am old, Sonnet 23-As an unperfect actor on the stage Sonnet 24-Mine eye hath play’d the painter and hath stell’d Sonnet 25-Let those who are in favour with their stars Sonnet 26-Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage Sonnet 27-Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed, Sonnet 28-How can I then return in happy plight, Sonnet 29-When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes Sonnet 30-When to the sessions of sweet silent thought Sonnet 31-Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts, Sonnet 32-If thou survive my well-contented day, Sonnet 33-Full many a glorious morning have I seen Sonnet 34-Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day, Sonnet 35-No more be grieved at that which thou hast done Sonnet 36-Let me confess that we two must be twain,

59 Sonnet 37-As a decrepit father takes delight Sonnet 38-How can my Muse want subject to invent, Sonnet 39-O, how thy worth with manners may I sing Sonnet 40-Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all; Sonnet 41-Those petty wrongs that liberty commits, Sonnet 42-That thou hast her, it is not all my grief, Sonnet 43-When most I wink, then do mine eyes best see, Sonnet 44-If the dull substance of my flesh were thought Sonnet 45-The other two, slight air and purging fire, Sonnet 46-Mine eye and heart are at a mortal war Sonnet 47-Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took Sonnet 48-How careful was I, when I took my way, Sonnet 49-Against that time, if ever that time come, Sonnet 50-How heavy do I journey on the way, Sonnet 51-Thus can my love excuse the slow offence Sonnet 52-So am I as the rich, whose blessed key Sonnet 53-What is your substance, whereof are you made, Sonnet 54-O, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem Sonnet 55-Not marble, nor the gilded monuments Sonnet 56-Sweet love, renew thy force; be it not said Sonnet 57-Being your slave, what should I do but tend Sonnet 58-That god forbid that made me first your slave Sonnet 59-If there be nothing new, but that which is Sonnet 60-Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore, Sonnet 61-Is it thy will thy image should keep open Sonnet 62-Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye Sonnet 63-Against my love shall be, as I am now, Sonnet 64-When I have seen by Time’s fell hand defaced Sonnet 65-Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea Sonnet 66-Tired with all these, for restful death I cry, Sonnet 67-Ah! wherefore with infection should he live, Sonnet 68-Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn, Sonnet 69Those parts of thee that the world’s eye doth view Sonnet 70-That thou art blamed shall not be thy defect, Sonnet 71-No longer mourn for me when I am dead Sonnet 72-O, lest the world should task you to recite

60 Sonnet 73-That time of year thou mayst in me behold Sonnet 74-But be contented: when that fell arrest Sonnet 75-So are you to my thoughts as food to life Sonnet 76-Why is my verse so barren of new pride, Sonnet 77-Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear, Sonnet 78-So oft have I invoked thee for my Muse Sonnet 79-Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid, Sonnet 80-O, how I faint when I of you do write Sonnet 81-Or I shall live your epitaph to make, Sonnet 82-I grant thou wert not married to my Muse Sonnet 83-I never saw that you did painting need Sonnet 84-Who is it that says most? which can say more Sonnet 85-My tongue -tied Muse in manners holds her still, Sonnet 86-Was it the proud full sail of his great verse, Sonnet 87-Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing, Sonnet 88-When thou shalt be disposed to set me light, Sonnet 89-Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault, Sonnet 90-Then hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now; Sonnet 91-Some glory in their birth, some in their skill, Sonnet 92-But do thy worst to steal thyself away, Sonnet 93-So shall I live, supposing thou art true, Sonnet 94-They that have power to hurt and will do none, Sonnet 95-How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame Sonnet 96-Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness; Sonnet 97-How like a winter hath my absence been Sonnet 98-From you have I been absent in the spring, Sonnet 99-The forward violet thus did I chide Sonnet 10-Where art thou, Muse, that thou forget’st so long Sonnet 101-O truant Muse, what shall be thy amends Sonnet 102-My love is strengthen’d, though more weak in seeming; Sonnet 103-Alack, what poverty my Muse brings forth, Sonnet 104-To me, fair friend, you never can be old Sonnet 105-Let not my love be call’d idolatry, Sonnet 106-When in the chronicle of wasted time Sonnet 107-Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul Sonnet 108-What’s in the brain that ink may character

61 Sonnet 109-O, never say that I was false of heart Sonnet 110-Alas, ‘tis true I have gone here and there Sonnet 111-O, for my sake do you with Fortune chide, Sonnet 112-Your love and pity doth the impression fill Sonnet 113-Since I left you, mine eye is in my mind; Sonnet 114-Or whether doth my mind, being crown’d with you, Sonnet 115-Those lines that I before have writ do lie, Sonnet 116-Let me not to the marriage of true minds Sonnet 117-Accuse me thus: that I have scanted all Sonnet 118-Like as, to make our appetites more keen, Sonnet 119-What potions have I drunk of Siren tears, Sonnet 120-That you were once unkind befriends me now, Sonnet 121-’Tis better to be vile than vile esteem’d, Sonnet 122-Thy gift, thy tables, are within my brain Sonnet 123-No, Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change: Sonnet 124-If my dear love were but the child of state, Sonnet 125-Were ‘t aught to me I bore the canopy, Sonnet 126-O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy power Sonnet 127-if it were, it bore not beauty’s name; Sonnet 128-oft, when thou, my music, music play’st, Sonnet 129-The expense of spirit in a waste of shame Sonnet 130-My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun Sonnet 131-Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art, Sonnet 132-Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me, Sonnet 133-Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan Sonnet 134-So, now I have confess’d that he is thine, Sonnet 135-Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy ‘Will,’ Sonnet 136-If thy soul cheque thee that I come so near, Sonnet 137-Thou blind fool, Love, what dost thou to mine eyes, Sonnet 138-When my love swears that she is made of truth Sonnet 139-O, call not me to justify the wrong Sonnet 140-Be wise as thou art cruel; do not press Sonnet 141-In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes Sonnet 142-Love is my sin and thy dear virtue hate Sonnet 143-Lo! as a careful housewife runs to catch Sonnet 144-Two loves I have of comfort and despair

62 Sonnet 145-Those lips that Love’s own hand did make Sonnet 146-Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth, Sonnet 147-My love is as a fever, longing still Sonnet 148-O me, what eyes hath Love put in my head, Sonnet 149-Canst thou, O cruel! say I love thee not, Sonnet 150-O, from what power hast thou this powerful might Sonnet 151-Love is too young to know what conscience is; Sonnet 152-In loving thee thou know’st I am forsworn, Sonnet 153-Cupid laid by his brand, and fell asleep: Sonnet 154-The little Love-god lying once asleep

SONNET 18 PARAPHRASE Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Shall I compare you to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: You are more lovely and more constant: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, Rough winds shake the beloved buds of May And summer’s lease hath all too short a date: And summer is far too short: Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, At times the sun is too hot, And often is his gold complexion dimm’d; Or often goes behind the clouds; And every fair from fair sometime declines, And everything beautiful sometime will lose its By chance or nature’s changing course beauty, untrimm’d; By misfortune or by nature’s planned out course. But thy eternal summer shall not fade But your youth shall not fade, Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; Nor will you lose the beauty that you possess; Nor shall Death brag thou wander’st in his Nor will death claim you for his own, shade, Because in my eternal verse you will live forever. When in eternal lines to time thou growest: So long as there are people on this earth, So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long will this poem live on, making you So long lives this and this gives life to thee. immortal.

Discussion questions: What do you think about this sonnet?

Chapter Three: Plays and short stories Objectives By the end of this chapter, students will be able to read some British plays or short stories with various types.

63 What is a play? It is a form of literature written by a playwright or a writer and it is transformed on stage.Plays usually consists of dialogue between characters, intended for theatrical performance rather than just reading. Plays are performed at a variety of levels, from Broadway, Off-Broadway, regional theater, to Community theatre, as well as University or school productions. There are rare dramatists, notably George Bernard Shaw, who have had little preference whether their plays were performed or read. The term “play” can refer to both the written works of playwrights and to their complete theatrical performance

What is a short story? A short story is fictional work of prose that is shorter in length than a novel. Edgar Allan Poe, in his essay “The Philosophy of Composition,” said that a short story should be read in one sitting, anywhere from a half hour to two hours. In contemporary fiction, a short story can range from 1,000 to 20,000 words. Because of the shorter length, a short story usually focuses on one plot, one main character (with a few additional minor characters), and one central theme, whereas a novel can tackle multiple plots and themes, with a variety of prominent characters. Short stories also lend themselves more to experimentation - that is, using uncommon prose styles or literary devices to tell the story. Such uncommon styles or devices might get tedious and downright annoying, in a novel, but they may work well in a short story. The short story is usually concerned with a single effect conveyed in only one or a few significant episodes or scenes. The form encourages economy of setting, concise narrative, and the omission of a complex plot; character is disclosed in action and dramatic encounter but is seldom fully developed. Despite its relatively limited scope, though, a short story is often judged by its ability to provide a “complete” or satisfying treatment of its characters and subject.

HAMLET

Prince Hamlet is depressed. Having been summoned home to Denmark from school in Germany to attend his father’s funeral, he is shocked to find his mother Gertrude already remarried. The Queen has wed Hamlet’s Uncle Claudius, the dead king’s brother. To Hamlet,

64 the marriage is “foul incest.” Worse still, Claudius has had himself crowned King despite the fact that Hamlet was his father’s heir to the throne. Hamlet suspects foul play.

When his father’s ghost visits the castle, Hamlet’s suspicions are confirmed. The Ghost complains that he is unable to rest in peace because he was murdered. Claudius, says the Ghost, poured poison in King Hamlet’s ear while the old king napped. Unable to confess and find salvation, King Hamlet is now consigned, for a time, to spend his days in Purgatory and walk the earth by night. He entreats Hamlet to avenge his death, but to spare Gertrude, to let Heaven decide her fate.

Hamlet vows to affect madness — puts “an antic disposition on” — to wear a mask that will enable him to observe the interactions in the castle, but finds himself more confused than ever. In his persistent confusion, he questions the Ghost’s trustworthiness. What if the Ghost is not a true spirit, but rather an agent of the devil sent to tempt him? What if killing Claudius results in Hamlet’s having to relive his memories for all eternity? Hamlet agonizes over what he perceives as his cowardice because he cannot stop himself from thinking. Words immobilize Hamlet, but the world he lives in prizes action.

In order to test the Ghost’s sincerity, Hamlet enlists the help of a troupe of players who perform a play called The Murder of Gonzago to which Hamlet has added scenes that recreate the murder the Ghost described. Hamlet calls the revised play The Mousetrap, and the ploy proves a success. As Hamlet had hoped, Claudius’ reaction to the staged murder reveals the King to be conscience-stricken. Claudius leaves the room because he cannot breathe, and his vision is dimmed for want of light. Convinced now that Claudius is a villain, Hamlet resolves to kill him. But, as Hamlet observes, “conscience doth make cowards of us all.”

In his continued reluctance to dispatch Claudius, Hamlet actually causes six ancillary deaths. The first death belongs to Polonius, whom Hamlet stabs through a wallhanging as the old man spies on Hamlet and Gertrude in the Queen’s private chamber. Claudius punishes Hamlet for Polonius’ death by exiling him to England. He has brought Hamlet’s school chums Rosencrantz and Guildenstern to Denmark from Germany to spy on his nephew, and now he instructs them to deliver Hamlet into the English king’s hands for execution. Hamlet discovers the plot and arranges for the hanging of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern instead.Ophelia, distraught over her father’s death and Hamlet’s behavior, drowns while singing sad love songs bemoaning the fate of a spurned lover. Her brother, Laertes, falls next.

65 Laertes, returned to Denmark from France to avenge his father’s death, witnesses Ophelia’s descent into madness. After her funeral, where he and Hamlet come to blows over which of them loved Ophelia best, Laertes vows to punish Hamlet for her death as well.

Unencumbered by words, Laertes plots with Claudius to kill Hamlet. In the midst of the sword fight, however, Laertes drops his poisoned sword. Hamlet retrieves the sword and cuts Laertes. The lethal poison kills Laertes. Before he dies, Laertes tells Hamlet that because Hamlet has already been cut with the same sword, he too will shortly die. Horatiodiverts Hamlet’s attention from Laertes for a moment by pointing out that “The Queen falls.”

Gertrude, believing that Hamlet’s hitting Laertes means her son is winning the fencing match, has drunk a toast to her son from the poisoned cup Claudius had intended for Hamlet. The Queen dies.

As Laertes lies dying, he confesses to Hamlet his part in the plot and explains that Gertrude’s death lies on Claudius’ head. Finally enraged, Hamlet stabs Claudius with the poisoned sword and then pours the last of the poisoned wine down the King’s throat. Before he dies, Hamlet declares that the throne should now pass to Prince Fortinbras of Norway, and he implores his true friend Horatio to accurately explain the events that have led to the bloodbath at Elsinore. With his last breath, he releases himself from the prison of his words: “The rest is silence.” The play ends as Prince Fortinbras, in his first act as King of Denmark, orders a funeral with full military honors for slain Prince Hamlet.

Hamlet - The Prince of Denmark, the title character, and the protagonist. About thirty years old at the start of the play, Hamlet is the son of Queen Gertrude and the late King Hamlet, and the nephew of the present king, Claudius. Hamlet is melancholy, bitter, and cynical, full of hatred for his uncle’s scheming and disgust for his mother’s sexuality. A reflective and thoughtful young man who has studied at the University of Wittenberg, Hamlet is often indecisive and hesitant, but at other times prone to rash and impulsive acts. Claudius - The King of Denmark, Hamlet’s uncle, and the play’s antagonist. The villain of the play, Claudius is a calculating, ambitious politician, driven by his sexual appetites and his lust for power, but he occasionally shows signs of guilt and human feeling—his love for Gertrude, for instance, seems sincere.

66 Gertrude - The Queen of Denmark, Hamlet’s mother, recently married to Claudius. Gertrude loves Hamlet deeply, but she is a shallow, weak woman who seeks affection and status more urgently than moral rectitude or truth. Polonius - The Lord Chamberlain of Claudius’s court, a pompous, conniving old man. Polonius is the father of Laertes and Ophelia. Horatio - Hamlet’s close friend, who studied with the prince at the university in Wittenberg. Horatio is loyal and helpful to Hamlet throughout the play. After Hamlet’s death, Horatio remains alive to tell Hamlet’s story. Ophelia - Polonius’s daughter, a beautiful young woman with whom Hamlet has been in love. Ophelia is a sweet and innocent young girl, who obeys her father and her brother, Laertes. Dependent on men to tell her how to behave, she gives in to Polonius’s schemes to spy on Hamlet. Even in her lapse into madness and death, she remains maidenly, singing songs about flowers and finally drowning in the river amid the flower garlands she had gathered. Laertes - Polonius’s son and Ophelia’s brother, a young man who spends much of the play in France. Passionate and quick to action, Laertes is clearly a foil for the reflective Hamlet. Fortinbras - The young Prince of Norway, whose father the king (also named Fortinbras) was killed by Hamlet’s father (also named Hamlet). Now Fortinbras wishes to attack Denmark to avenge his father’s honor, making him another foil for Prince Hamlet. The Ghost - The specter of Hamlet’s recently deceased father. The ghost, who claims to have been murdered by Claudius, calls upon Hamlet to avenge him. However, it is not entirely certain whether the ghost is what it appears to be, or whether it is something else. Hamlet speculates that the ghost might be a devil sent to deceive him and tempt him into murder, and the question of what the ghost is or where it comes from is never definitively resolved. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern - Two slightly bumbling courtiers, former friends of Hamlet from Wittenberg, who are summoned by Claudius and Gertrude to discover the cause of Hamlet’s strange behavior. Osric - The foolish courtier who summons Hamlet to his duel with Laertes. Voltimand and Cornelius - Courtiers whom Claudius sends to Norway to persuade the king to prevent Fortinbras from attacking. Marcellus and Bernardo - The officers who first see the ghost walking the ramparts of Elsinore and who summon Horatio to witness it. Marcellus is present when Hamlet first encounters the ghost. Francisco - A soldier and guardsman at Elsinore. Reynaldo - Polonius’s servant, who is sent to France by Polonius to check up on and spy on Laertes.

67 Discussion questions

1. Many critics take a deterministic view of Hamlet’s plot, arguing that the prince’s inability to act and tendency toward melancholy reflection is a “tragic flaw” that leads inevitably to his demise. Is this an accurate way of understanding the play? Why or why not? Given Hamlet’s character and situation, would another outcome of the play have been possible? 2. Think about Hamlet’s relationship with Ophelia. Does he love her? Does he stop loving her? Did he ever love her? What evidence can you find in the play to support your opinion? 3. How does Shakespeare use descriptive language to enhance the visual possibilities of a stage production? How does he use imagery to create a mood of tension, suspense, fear, and despair? 4. Suicide is an important theme in Hamlet. Discuss how the play treats the idea of suicide morally, religiously, and aesthetically, with particular attention to Hamlet’s two important statements about suicide: the “O, that this too too solid flesh would melt” soliloquy (I.ii.129– 158) and the “To be, or not to be” soliloquy (III.i.56–88). Why does Hamlet believe that, although capable of suicide, most human beings choose to live, despite the cruelty, pain, and injustice of the world?

ROMEO AND JULIET

On a hot morning fighting by young servants of the Capulet and Montague families is stopped by the Prince who tells them that the next person who breaks the peace will be punished with death.

Capulet plans a feast to introduce his daughter, Juliet, who is almost fourteen, to the Count Paris who would like to marry her. By a mistake of the illiterate servant Peter, Montague’s son, Romeo, and his friends Benvolio and the Prince’s cousin Mercutio, hear of the party and decide to go in disguise. Romeo hopes he will see his adored Rosaline but instead he meets and falls in love with Juliet.

Juliet’s cousin Tybalt recognises the Montagues and they are forced to leave the party just as Romeo and Juliet have each discovered the other’s identity. Romeo lingers near the Capulet’s house and talks to Juliet when she appears on her balcony. With the help of Juliet’s Nurse

68 the lovers arrange to meet next day at the cell of Friar Lawrence when Juliet goes for confession, and they are married by him.

Tybalt picks a quarrel with Mercutio and his friends and Mercutio is accidentally killed as Romeo intervenes to try to break up the fight. Romeo pursues Tybalt in anger, kills him and is banished by the Prince for the deed. Juliet is anxious that Romeo is late meeting her and learns of the fighting from her Nurse. With Friar Lawrence’s help it is arranged that Romeo will spend the night with Juliet before taking refuge at Mantua.

To calm the family’s sorrow at Tybalt’s death the day for the marriage of Juliet to Paris is brought forward. Capulet and his wife are angry that Juliet does not wish to marry Paris, not knowing of her secret contract with Romeo.

Friar Lawrence helps Juliet by providing a sleeping potion that will make everyone think she’s dead. Romeo will then come to her tomb and take her away. When the wedding party arrives to greet Juliet next day they think she is dead. The Friar sends a colleague to warn Romeo to come to the Capulet’s family monument to rescue his sleeping wife but the message doesn’t get through and Romeo, hearing instead that Juliet is dead, buys poison in Mantua.

He returns to Verona and goes to the tomb where he surprises and kills the mourning Paris. Romeo takes the poison and dies just as Juliet awakes from her drugged sleep. She learns what has happened from Friar Lawrence but she refuses to leave the tomb and stabs herself as the Friar returns with the Prince, the Capulets and Romeo’s father. The deaths of their children lead the families to make peace, promising to erect a monument in their memory.

Play Summary

Day 1 — Sunday: Act I, Scene 1-Act II, Scene 2 As the play begins, a long-standing feud between the Montague and Capulet families continues to disrupt the peace of Verona, a city in northern Italy. A brawl between the

69 servants of the feuding households prompts the Prince to threaten both sides to keep the peace on pain of death. Benvolio advises his lovesick friend Romeo, (son of Montague), to abandon his unrequited love for Rosaline and seek another. That night, Capulet holds a masked ball to encourage a courtship between his daughter, Juliet, and Paris, a relative of the Prince. Concealing their identities behind masks, Romeo and Benvolio go to the ball, where Romeo and Juliet fall in love at first sight, but at the end of the evening discover their identities as members of the opposed families. On his way home from the feast, Romeo climbs into Capulet’s orchard to glimpse Juliet again. Juliet appears at her balcony, and the couple exchange vows of love, agreeing to marry the next day.

Day 2 — Monday: Act II, Scene 3-Act III, Scene 4 Romeo asks Friar Laurence to perform the marriage ceremony. Though initially reluctant, he finally agrees, hoping to reconcile the families, and marries Romeo and Juliet that afternoon. Meanwhile, Tybalt, Juliet’s cousin, sends Romeo a challenge to a duel. Romeo refuses to fight when Tybalt confronts him because they’re now related. However, Mercutio, Romeo’s quick- tempered friend, intervenes and accepts the challenge. Romeo tries to part the other two as they fight, but Mercutio is fatally wounded under Romeo’s arm. To avenge Mercutio’s death, Romeo kills Tybalt and then flees. The Prince announces Romeo’s banishment for Tybalt’s murder. Romeo, in hiding at the Friar’s cell, becomes hysterical at the news of his sentence and tries to kill himself, but the Friar promises to make Romeo’s marriage to Juliet public and gain the Prince’s pardon. Romeo and Juliet celebrate their wedding night before he leaves at dawn for Mantua.

Day 3 — Tuesday: Act III, Scene 5-Act IV, Scene 3 That morning, Juliet discovers that her father has arranged for her to marry Paris on Thursday. The Capulets, unaware that Juliet is grieving for Romeo’s exile rather than Tybalt’s death, believe the wedding will distract her from mourning. Distressed at the prospect of a false marriage and isolated from her family, Juliet seeks advice from Friar Laurence, who offers her a sleeping potion to make her appear dead for 42 hours. During this time, the Friar will send a message to Romeo in Mantua so that Romeo can return to Verona in time for Juliet to awake. Juliet returns home and agrees to marry Paris. In a moment of euphoria, Capulet brings the wedding forward from Thursday to Wednesday, thereby forcing Juliet to take the potion that night and reducing the time for the message to reach Romeo.

Day 4 — Wednesday: Act IV, Scene 4-Act V, Scene 2

70 Early on Wednesday morning, Juliet’s seemingly lifeless body is discovered and she is placed in the family tomb. Because an outbreak of the plague prevents the Friar’s messenger from leaving Verona, Romeo now receives news of Juliet’s death instead. Desperate, Romeo buys poison from an apothecary and returns to Verona. Late that night, Romeo enters the Capulet tomb, but is confronted by Paris, whom he fights and kills. Still unaware that Juliet is in fact alive, Romeo takes the poison and dies. The Friar, arriving too late, discovers the bodies as Juliet begins to stir. He begs her to leave with him, but Juliet refuses, and then stabs herself with Romeo’s dagger.

Day 5 — Thursday: Act V, Scene 3 As dawn breaks, the Watch arrives, closely followed by the Prince, who demands a full inquiry into what has happened. The two families then arrive, and the Friar comes forward to explain the tragic sequence of events. The deaths of Romeo and Juliet finally bring the feud to an end as Montague and Capulet join hands in peace.

Discussion questions

1. Compare and contrast the characters of Romeo and Juliet. How do they develop throughout the play? What makes them fall in love with one another? 2. How does the suicidal impulse that both Romeo and Juliet exhibit relate to the overall theme of young love? Does Shakespeare seem to consider a self-destructive tendency inextricably connected with love, or is it a separate issue? Why do you think so? 3. Discuss the relationships between parents and children in Romeo and Juliet. How do Romeo and Juliet interact with their parents? Are they rebellious, in the modern sense? How do their parents feel about them? 4. How does Shakespeare treat death in Romeo and Juliet? Frame your answer in terms of legal, moral, familial, and personal issues. Bearing these issues in mind, compare the deaths of Romeo and Juliet, Romeo and Mercutio, and Mercutio and Tybalt.

JANE AUSTEN (1775-1817)

Jane Austen was a major English novelist, whose brilliantly witty, elegantly structured satirical fiction marks the transition in English literature from 18th century neo-classicism to 19th century romanticism. Jane Austen was a great woman novelist of the early 19th century.

71 Jane was born on 16 December in Steventon Rectory on 16 December 1775. She was the second daughter of The Reverend George Austen and his wife Cassandra. Apart from her older sister, also called Cassandra Jane also had 6 brothers.

In 1783 Jane and her sister were sent to boarding school. While at school they both caught a fever (possibly typhus) and Jane nearly died. Jane Austen left school in 1786. Even as a child Jane Austen loved writing and she wrote a lot of short stories called the Juvenillia. About 1795 she wrote a novel she called Elinor and Marianne. In the years 1796- 97 Jane Austen wrote another novel she called First Impressions. It was later published as Pride and Prejudice. Then in 1798-99 Jane wrote a novel named Susan. It was published posthumously as Northanger Abbey in 1817.

In 1801 Jane Austen moved with her sister and parents to Bath. Jane Austen was a tall, slim woman. In 1802 she received a proposal of marriage from a man named Harris Bigg-Wither. At first Jane accepted but she quickly changed her mind. Jane Austen never married. Her father George Austen died in 1805.

In 1807 Jane Austen moved to Southampton. She lived there until 1809. At that time Southampton was a flourishing port and town with a population of over 8,000. However in 1809 Jane Austen moved to the little village of Chawton in north Hampshire.Then in 1811 Sense and Sensibility was published. Pride and Prejudice was published in 1813. Mansfield Park was published in 1814. Another book called Emma followed in 1816. Meanwhile Jane Austen wrote Persuasion but she died before it could be published. It was published posthumously in 1817. Jane Austen died on 18 July 1817. Jane was only 41 years old. She was buried in Winchester Cathedral.

PRIDE & PREJUDICE

The news that a wealthy young gentleman named Charles Bingley has rented the manor of Netherfield Park causes a great stir in the nearby village of Longbourn, especially in the Bennet household. The Bennets have five unmarried daughters—from oldest to youngest,

72 Jane, Elizabeth, Mary, Kitty, and Lydia—and Mrs. Bennet is desperate to see them all married. After Mr. Bennet pays a social visit to Mr. Bingley, the Bennets attend a ball at which Mr. Bingley is present. He is taken with Jane and spends much of the evening dancing with her. His close friend, Mr. Darcy, is less pleased with the evening and haughtily refuses to dance with Elizabeth, which makes everyone view him as arrogant and obnoxious. At social functions over subsequent weeks, however, Mr. Darcy finds himself increasingly attracted to Elizabeth’s charm and intelligence. Jane’s friendship with Mr. Bingley also continues to burgeon, and Jane pays a visit to the Bingley mansion. On her journey to the house she is caught in a downpour and catches ill, forcing her to stay at Netherfield for several days. In order to tend to Jane, Elizabeth hikes through muddy fields and arrives with a spattered dress, much to the disdain of the snobbish Miss Bingley, Charles Bingley’s sister.

Miss Bingley’s spite only increases when she notices that Darcy, whom she is pursuing, pays quite a bit of attention to Elizabeth. When Elizabeth and Jane return home, they find Mr. Collins visiting their household. Mr. Collins is a young clergyman who stands to inherit Mr. Bennet’s property, which has been “entailed,” meaning that it can only be passed down to male heirs. Mr. Collins is a pompous fool, though he is quite enthralled by the Bennet girls. Shortly after his arrival, he makes a proposal of marriage to Elizabeth. She turns him down, wounding his pride. Meanwhile, the Bennet girls have become friendly with militia officers stationed in a nearby town. Among them is Wickham, a handsome young soldier who is friendly toward Elizabeth and tells her how Darcy cruelly cheated him out of an inheritance.

At the beginning of winter, the Bingleys and Darcy leave Netherfield and return to London, much to Jane’s dismay. A further shock arrives with the news that Mr. Collins has become engaged to Charlotte Lucas, Elizabeth’s best friend and the poor daughter of a local knight. Charlotte explains to Elizabeth that she is getting older and needs the match for financial reasons. Charlotte and Mr. Collins get married and Elizabeth promises to visit them at their new home. As winter progresses, Jane visits the city to see friends (hoping also that she might see Mr. Bingley). However, Miss Bingley visits her and behaves rudely, while Mr. Bingley fails to visit her at all. The marriage prospects for the Bennet girls appear bleak. That spring, Elizabeth visits Charlotte, who now lives near the home of Mr. Collins’s patron, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, who is also Darcy’s aunt. Darcy calls on Lady Catherine and encounters Elizabeth, whose presence leads him to make a number of visits to the Collins’s home, where she is staying. One day, he makes a shocking proposal of marriage, which Elizabeth quickly refuses. She tells Darcy that she considers him arrogant and unpleasant,

73 then scolds him for steering Bingley away from Jane and disinheriting Wickham. Darcy leaves her but shortly thereafter delivers a letter to her. In this letter, he admits that he urged Bingley to distance himself from Jane, but claims he did so only because he thought their romance was not serious. As for Wickham, he informs Elizabeth that the young officer is a liar and that the real cause of their disagreement was Wickham’s attempt to elope with his young sister, Georgiana Darcy.

This letter causes Elizabeth to reevaluate her feelings about Darcy. She returns home and acts coldly toward Wickham. The militia is leaving town, which makes the younger, rather man- crazy Bennet girls distraught. Lydia manages to obtain permission from her father to spend the summer with an old colonel in Brighton, where Wickham’s regiment will be stationed. With the arrival of June, Elizabeth goes on another journey, this time with the Gardiners, who are relatives of the Bennets. The trip takes her to the North and eventually to the neighborhood of Pemberley, Darcy’s estate. She visits Pemberley, after making sure that Darcy is away, and delights in the building and grounds, while hearing from Darcy’s servants that he is a wonderful, generous master. Suddenly, Darcy arrives and behaves cordially toward her. Making no mention of his proposal, he entertains the Gardiners and invites Elizabeth to meet his sister.

Shortly thereafter, however, a letter arrives from home, telling Elizabeth that Lydia has eloped with Wickham and that the couple is nowhere to be found, which suggests that they may be living together out of wedlock. Fearful of the disgrace such a situation would bring on her entire family, Elizabeth hastens home. Mr. Gardiner and Mr. Bennet go off to search for Lydia, but Mr. Bennet eventually returns home empty-handed. Just when all hope seems lost, a letter comes from Mr. Gardiner saying that the couple has been found and that Wickham has agreed to marry Lydia in exchange for an annual income. The Bennets are convinced that Mr. Gardiner has paid off Wickham, but Elizabeth learns that the source of the money, and of her family’s salvation, was none other than Darcy.

Now married, Wickham and Lydia return to Longbourn briefly, where Mr. Bennet treats them coldly. They then depart for Wickham’s new assignment in the North of England. Shortly thereafter, Bingley returns to Netherfield and resumes his courtship of Jane. Darcy goes to stay with him and pays visits to the Bennets but makes no mention of his desire to marry Elizabeth. Bingley, on the other hand, presses his suit and proposes to Jane, to the delight of everyone but Bingley’s haughty sister. While the family celebrates, Lady Catherine de Bourgh pays a visit to Longbourn. She corners Elizabeth and says that she has heard that Darcy, her

74 nephew, is planning to marry her. Since she considers a Bennet an unsuitable match for a Darcy, Lady Catherine demands that Elizabeth promise to refuse him. Elizabeth spiritedly refuses, saying she is not engaged to Darcy, but she will not promise anything against her own happiness. A little later, Elizabeth and Darcy go out walking together and he tells her that his feelings have not altered since the spring. She tenderly accepts his proposal, and both Jane and Elizabeth are married.

CHARACTER LIST

Elizabeth Bennet - The novel’s protagonist. The second daughter of Mr. Bennet, Elizabeth is the most intelligent and sensible of the five Bennet sisters. She is well read and quick-witted, with a tongue that occasionally proves too sharp for her own good. Her realization of Darcy’s essential goodness eventually triumphs over her initial prejudice against him. Fitzwilliam Darcy - A wealthy gentleman, the master of Pemberley, and the nephew of Lady Catherine de Bourgh. Though Darcy is intelligent and honest, his excess of pride causes him to look down on his social inferiors. Over the course of the novel, he tempers his class- consciousness and learns to admire and love Elizabeth for her strong character. Jane Bennet - The eldest and most beautiful Bennet sister. Jane is more reserved and gentler than Elizabeth. The easy pleasantness with which she and Bingley interact contrasts starkly with the mutual distaste that marks the encounters between Elizabeth and Darcy. Charles Bingley - Darcy’s considerably wealthy best friend. Bingley’s purchase of Netherfield, an estate near the Bennets, serves as the impetus for the novel. He is a genial, well-intentioned gentleman, whose easygoing nature contrasts with Darcy’s initially discourteous demeanor. He is blissfully uncaring about class differences. Mr. Bennet - The patriarch of the Bennet family, a gentleman of modest income with five unmarried daughters. Mr. Bennet has a sarcastic, cynical sense of humor that he uses to purposefully irritate his wife. Though he loves his daughters (Elizabeth in particular), he often fails as a parent, preferring to withdraw from the never-ending marriage concerns of the women around him rather than offer help. Mrs. Bennet - Mr. Bennet’s wife, a foolish, noisy woman whose only goal in life is to see her daughters married. Because of her low breeding and often unbecoming behavior, Mrs. Bennet often repels the very suitors whom she tries to attract for her daughters.

75 George Wickham - A handsome, fortune-hunting militia officer. Wickham’s good looks and charm attract Elizabeth initially, but Darcy’s revelation about Wickham’s disreputable past clues her in to his true nature and simultaneously draws her closer to Darcy. Lydia Bennet - The youngest Bennet sister, she is gossipy, immature, and self-involved. Unlike Elizabeth, Lydia flings herself headlong into romance and ends up running off with Wickham. Mr. Collins - A pompous, generally idiotic clergyman who stands to inherit Mr. Bennet’s property. Mr. Collins’s own social status is nothing to brag about, but he takes great pains to let everyone and anyone know that Lady Catherine de Bourgh serves as his patroness. He is the worst combination of snobbish and obsequious. Miss Bingley - Bingley’s snobbish sister. Miss Bingley bears inordinate disdain for Elizabeth’s middle-class background. Her vain attempts to garner Darcy’s attention cause Darcy to admire Elizabeth’s self-possessed character even more. Lady Catherine de Bourgh - A rich, bossy noblewoman; Mr. Collins’s patron and Darcy’s aunt. Lady Catherine epitomizes class snobbery, especially in her attempts to order the middle-class Elizabeth away from her well-bred nephew. Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner - Mrs. Bennet’s brother and his wife. The Gardiners, caring, nurturing, and full of common sense, often prove to be better parents to the Bennet daughters than Mr. Bennet and his wife. Charlotte Lucas - Elizabeth’s dear friend. Pragmatic where Elizabeth is romantic, and also six years older than Elizabeth, Charlotte does not view love as the most vital component of a marriage. She is more interested in having a comfortable home. Thus, when Mr. Collins proposes, she accepts. Georgiana Darcy - Darcy’s sister. She is immensely pretty and just as shy. She has great skill at playing the pianoforte. Mary Bennet - The middle Bennet sister, bookish and pedantic. Catherine Bennet - The fourth Bennet sister. Like Lydia, she is girlishly enthralled with the soldiers.

Discussion questions

1. Jane Austen’s original title for the novel was First Impressions. What role do first impressions play in Pride and Prejudice? Analyze how Austen depicts Mr. Bennet. Is he a positive or negative figure?

76 3. What is the most importance of dialogue to character development in the novel? 4. How is the relationship between Elizabeth and Darcy? 5. Though Jane Austen satirizes snobs in her novels, some critics have accused her of being a snob herself. Pride and Prejudice is a novel about women who feel they have to marry to be happy. Taking Charlotte Lucas as an example, do you think the author is making a social criticism of her era’s view of marriage?

SENSE & SENSIBILITY This is the story of Elinor and Marianne Dashwood, sisters who respectively represent the “sense” and “sensibility” of the title. With their mother, their sister Margaret, and their stepbrother John, they make up the Dashwood family. Henry Dashwood, their father, has just died. Norland Park, his estate, is inherited by John; to his chagrin, Henry has nothing but ten thousand pounds to leave to his wife and daughters. On his deathbed, he urges John to provide for them and John promises that he will do so. He is already wealthy because he has a fortune from his mother and is also married to the wealthy Fanny Ferrars. Immediately after Henry’s burial, the insensitive Mrs. Dashwood moves into Norland Park and cleverly persuades John not to make any provision for his stepmother and stepsisters. Mrs. Henry Dashwood, disliking Fanny, wants to leave Norland Park at once, but Elinor prudently restrains her until they can find a house within their means. Edward Ferrars, Fanny’s brother, comes to stay and is attracted to Elinor. Mrs. Dashwood and Marianne expect an engagement, but Elinor is not so sure; she knows that Mrs. Ferrars and Fanny will object to Edward’s interest in her. Fanny takes exception to Edward’s fondness for Elinor and is so rude that Mrs. Dashwood at once rents a cottage fortuitously offered to her by her cousin, Sir John Middleton. The Dashwoods move to Barton Cottage and are met by Sir John, who does all in his power to make them comfortable. They soon meet his elegant but insipid wife and their four children. One day, when Marianne and Margaret are walking on the downs, Marianne sprains her ankle. She is carried home by a stranger, John Willoughby, who is staying at Allenham Court, a country estate which he will inherit after the death of its elderly owner, Mrs. Smith. Marianne and Willoughby fall in love and are inseparable. But after a short time, Willoughby leaves unexpectedly for London without explaining or declaring himself.

77 Edward Ferrars soon pays a visit to Barton Cottage. But he is distraught and gloomy, and Elinor is puzzled by his reserve. Lady Middleton’s mother, Mrs. Jennings, has been staying at Barton Park. She teases Marianne about Colonel Brandon, a friend of Sir Henry, who obviously admires Marianne. Though she likes the colonel, Mrs. Jennings repeats some scandal about him; he is said to have an illegitimate daughter, Miss Williams. Lady Middleton’s younger sister, Charlotte Palmer, and her husband visit Barton Park. When they leave, Sir John invites the Misses Steele, two young ladies whom he has met in Exeter and has found to be connections of Mrs. Jennings. Lucy confides to Elinor that she has been secretly engaged to Edward Ferrars for four years. He was tutored by her uncle and became well acquainted with Lucy and Anne at that time. Elinor is shocked but concludes that Edward had a youthful infatuation for Lucy. Lucy persists in asking for advice and begs Elinor to persuade her brother John to give Edward the Barton living if he decides to take orders. Mrs. Jennings invites Elinor and Marianne to stay with her in London. Marianne is eager to go because she hopes to see Willoughby there. He has not been back to visit them, nor has he written to Marianne. In London, Marianne waits for a visit from Willoughby. She writes him several times but receives no reply. One day he leaves his card but never calls personally. Finally, Elinor and Marianne see Willoughby at a dance with a fashionable heiress, Miss Grey. He speaks curtly to Marianne, who is distracted by his coldness. She writes him for an explanation, and he returns her letters with a cruel note, denying that he had ever been especially interested in her and announcing his engagement to Miss Grey. Colonel Brandon, who is also in London, is distressed by Willoughby’s conduct to Marianne and tells Elinor his own story. As a young man, he had loved his cousin Eliza, his father’s ward. But to gain Eliza’s fortune, his father had married her to his eldest son, who had treated her badly. Years later, the colonel discovered that Eliza had left her husband for another man. She had sunk lower and lower, and was now penniless and on her deathbed. The colonel did all he could for her and promised to bring up her daughter, also named Eliza. Eliza, now grown, had been seduced by Willoughby, who had deserted her. The colonel had fought a duel with Willoughby, but neither had been injured. John Dashwood and his wife come to London for the season. He meets his sisters and is introduced to the Middletons, whom he finds very congenial. Anne and Lucy Steele are invited to stay with the Middletons and eventually pay a visit to the Dashwoods, John and Fanny. They are treated so kindly that Anne feels it is safe to break the secret of Lucy’s engagement to Edward.

78 Fanny Dashwood has hysterics and orders Lucy and Anne out of her house. Edward’s mother disinherits him because he will not break his word to Lucy. He decides to take orders and offers to free Lucy from her engagement, but Lucy will not give him up. Charlotte Palmer’s son is born, and she invites Elinor and Marianne to accompany her mother on a visit to her country house, Cleveland. Marianne falls ill there and seems near death. Colonel Brandon is also staying at Cleveland and offers to fetch Mrs. Dashwood. The Palmers leave their house, fearing infection for the baby, and while Elinor awaits her mother’s arrival, she is amazed by a visit from Willoughby. He has heard of Marianne’s illness and has come to get news of her. He tells Elinor how bitterly he repents of his conduct and how wretched his wife has made him; it was she who dictated the cruel note which he sent to Marianne. Elinor is sorry for him. Marianne recovers and the family returns to Barton Cottage. Eventually, Elinor tells Marianne about Willoughby’s repentant visit. Marianne is now sorry that the family has suffered on her behalf. One day, a servant tells them that Edward Ferrars is married. Elinor tries to put him out of her mind; however, he arrives at Barton Cottage and explains that Lucy did not marry him; instead, she eloped with his brother, Robert. Everything ends happily. Edward is reconciled to his mother and marries Elinor. He takes orders and is given the living at Delaford, Colonel Brandon’s estate. Eventually Marianne agrees to marry the colonel, and the two couples live happily, close in distance and in friendship.

Main characters  Elinor Dashwood — the sensible and reserved eldest daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Henry Dashwood. She is 19 years old at the beginning of the book. She becomes attached to Edward Ferrars, the brother-in-law of her elder half-brother, John. Always feeling a keen sense of responsibility to her family and friends, she places their welfare and interests above her own, and suppresses her own strong emotions in a way that leads others to think she is indifferent or cold-hearted.  Marianne Dashwood — the romantically inclined and eagerly expressive second daughter of Mr and Mrs Henry Dashwood. She is 16 years old at the beginning of the book. She is the object of the attentions of Colonel Brandon and Mr. Willoughby. She is attracted to young, handsome, romantically spirited Willoughby and does not think much of the older, more reserved Colonel Brandon. Marianne undergoes the most development within the book, learning her sensibilities have been selfish. She decides her conduct should be more like that of her elder sister, Elinor.

79  Edward Ferrars — the elder of Fanny Dashwood’s two brothers. He forms an attachment to Elinor Dashwood. Years before meeting the Dashwoods, Ferrars proposed to Lucy Steele, the niece of his tutor. The engagement has been kept secret owing to the expectation that Ferrars’ family would object to his marrying Miss Steele. He is disowned by his mother on discovery of the engagement after refusing to give it up.  John Willoughby — a philandering nephew of a neighbour of the Middletons, a dashing figure who charms Marianne and shares her artistic and cultural sensibilities. It is generally presumed by many of their mutual acquaintances that he is engaged to marry Marianne (partly due to her own overly familiar actions, i.e., addressing personal letters directly to him).  Colonel Brandon — a close friend of Sir John Middleton. He is 35 years old at the beginning of the book. He falls in love with Marianne at first sight, as she reminds him of his father’s ward whom he had fallen in love with when he was young. He is prevented from marrying the ward because his father was determined she marry his older brother. He was sent into the military abroad to be away from her, and while gone, the girl suffered numerous misfortunes—partly as a consequence of her unhappy marriage. She finally dies penniless and disgraced, and with a natural (i.e., illegitimate) daughter, who becomes the ward of the Colonel. He is a very honourable friend to the Dashwoods, particularly Elinor, and offers Edward Ferrars a living after Edward is disowned by his mother. Minor characters  Henry Dashwood – a wealthy gentleman who dies at the beginning of the story. The terms of his estate — entailment to a male heir — prevent him from leaving anything to his second wife and their children. He asks John, his son by his first wife, to look after (meaning ensure the financial security of) his second wife and their three daughters.  Mrs. Dashwood – the second wife of Henry Dashwood, who is left in difficult financial straits by the death of her husband. She is 40 years old at the beginning of the book. Much like her daughter Marianne, she is very emotive and often makes poor decisions based on emotion rather than reason.  Margaret Dashwood – the youngest daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Henry Dashwood. She is thirteen at the beginning of the book. She is also romantic and good-tempered but not expected to be as clever as her sisters when she grows older.  John Dashwood – the son of Henry Dashwood by his first wife. He intends to do well by his half-sisters, but he has a keen sense of avarice, and is easily swayed by his wife.

80  Fanny Dashwood – the wife of John Dashwood, and sister to Edward and Robert Ferrars. She is vain, selfish, and snobbish. She spoils her son Harry. She is very harsh to her husband’s half-sisters and stepmother, especially since she fears her brother Edward is attached to Elinor.  Sir John Middleton – a distant relative of Mrs Dashwood who, after the death of Henry Dashwood, invites her and her three daughters to live in a cottage on his property. Described as a wealthy, sporting man who served in the army with Colonel Brandon, he is very affable and keen to throw frequent parties, picnics, and other social gatherings to bring together the young people of their village. He and his mother-in-law, Mrs. Jennings, make a jolly, teasing, and gossipy pair.  Lady Middleton – the genteel, but reserved wife of Sir John Middleton, she is quieter than her husband, and is primarily concerned with mothering her four spoiled children.  Mrs Jennings – mother to Lady Middleton and Charlotte Palmer. A widow who has married off all her children, she spends most of her time visiting her daughters and their families, especially the Middletons. She and her son-in-law, Sir John Middleton, take an active interest in the romantic affairs of the young people around them and seek to encourage suitable matches, often to the particular chagrin of Elinor and Marianne.  Robert Ferrars – the younger brother of Edward Ferrars and Fanny Dashwood, he is most concerned about status, fashion, and his new barouche. He subsequently marries Miss Lucy Steele after Edward is disowned.  Mrs. Ferrars – Fanny Dashwood and Edward and Robert Ferrars’ mother. A bad- tempered, unsympathetic woman who embodies all the foibles demonstrated in Fanny and Robert’s characteristics. She is determined that her sons should marry well.  Charlotte Palmer – the daughter of Mrs. Jennings and the younger sister of Lady Middleton, Mrs Palmer is jolly but empty-headed and laughs at inappropriate things, such as her husband’s continual rudeness to her and to others.  Thomas Palmer – the husband of Charlotte Palmer who is running for a seat in Parliament, but is idle and often rude. He is considerate toward the Dashwood sisters.  Lucy Steele – a young, distant relation of Mrs. Jennings, who has for some time been secretly engaged to Edward Ferrars. She assiduously cultivates the friendship with Elinor Dashwood and Mrs John Dashwood. Limited in formal education and financial means, she is nonetheless attractive, clever, manipulative, cunning and scheming.  Anne/Nancy Steele – Lucy Steele’s elder, socially inept, and less clever sister.  Miss Sophia Grey – a wealthy and malicious heiress whom Mr. Willoughby marries to retain his comfortable lifestyle after he is disinherited by his aunt.

81  Lord Morton – the father of Miss Morton.  Miss Morton – a wealthy woman whom Mrs. Ferrars wants her eldest son, Edward, and later Robert, to marry.  Mr Pratt – an uncle of Lucy Steele and Edward’s tutor.  Eliza Williams (daughter) – the ward of Col. Brandon, she is about 15 years old and bore an illegitimate child to John Willoughby. She has the same name as her mother.  Eliza Williams (mother) – the former love interest of Colonel Brandon. Williams was Brandon’s father’s ward, and was forced to marry Brandon’s older brother. The marriage was an unhappy one, and it is revealed that her daughter was left as Colonel Brandon’s ward when he found his lost love dying in a poorhouse.  Mrs. Smith – the wealthy aunt of Mr. Willoughby who disowns him for seducing and abandoning the young Eliza Williams, Col. Brandon’s ward.

Discussion questions

1. Critics have claimed that the whole plot of Sense and Sensibility depends on the tension between what is concealed and what is shared with others--the private and the public. Do you agree with this statement? 2. Although it ends with the marriages of the two main female characters, some readers have claimed that of all of Austen’s novels, Sense and Sensibility has the saddest ending. Do you agree with this statement? 4. Before he abandons Marianne, is John Willoughby a likeable character? Does Austen give any indication early on in the novel that he is not as he appears? Do you find Marianne’s decision to marry Colonel Brandon to be a plausible conclusion? Why or why not? 5. Elinor and Marianne’s younger sister Margaret plays a very minor role in the novel. Why do you think Austen included this character? Does she further any of the plot? Does she shed light on any of the other characters? 6. What is the role of letters in Sense and Sensibility? When does Austen include the letters that one character sends to another, and when does she merely mention that such a letter was sent?

CHARLES DICKENS BIOGRAPHY Charles Dickens was born in a house in Mile End Terrace on 7 February 1812. (It was given the name Mile End because it was about a mile from the gate in the wall around Portsmouth).

82 At that time Dicken’s house was on the edge of Portsmouth, which at that time was dominated by the dockyard. His father John Dickens worked as a clerk in the Navy Pay Office. Charles Dickens was one of six children. He had an older sister Frances (Fanny) born in 1810 (she died in 1810), another sister Letitia was born in 1816 (she died in 1893), a sister named Harriet was born in 1819 but she died in childhood. A brother Alfred was born in 1822 (he died in 1860). Dickens had another brother, Augustus who was born in 1827 (he died in 1866).

In 1815 the family moved away to London. In 1817 Dickens and his family moved to Chatham in Kent. However in 1823 they moved to Camden in London.

However John Dickens spent beyond his means and he was sent to Marshalsea debtors prison when Charles was 12. (In those days people in debt could be imprisoned until their debts were paid off). Charles was found a job in a boot blacking factory. Fortunately after a few months a relative of John Dickens died and left him some money so he was able to pay his debts. Charles was eventually able to leave the blacking factory and return to school. However Charles never forgot this horrid experience.

Charles Dickens left school at the age of 15 and he started work in a solicitors office. However when he was 16 Charles became a journalist. Then in 1833 Dickens had his first story published. It was called A Dinner at Poplar Walk and it was published in a periodical called Monthly Magazine. Then in 1836-37 the first novel by Dickens, The Pickwick Papers was published as a serial. Meanwhile Charles Dickens married a woman named Catherine Hogarth in Chelsea on 2 April 1836. They had 10 children but the marriage was not a happy one. Charles and Catherine separated in 1858.

Charles Dickens wrote many more novels including Oliver Twist (1838), Nicholas Nickleby (1839), The Old Curiosity shop (1841) and Martin Chuzzlewit (1844). He also wrote A Christmas Carol in 1843 In 1848 Dickens wrote Dombey and Son. Meanwhile in 1842 Dickens and his wife Catherine visited the USA. The visit was successful although Dickens annoyed some Americans by attacking slavery. Charles Dickens also visited Italy, Switzerland and France.

Charles Dickens was passionately interested in reform. In 1850 he started a weekly magazine called Household Words to promote reform. It ceased publication in 1859 but it was replaced by another magazine called All The Year Round.

83 Meanwhile in 1853 Dickens wrote a child’s history of England. In 1853 Dickens wrote Bleak House. In 1854 Hard Times was published. It was followed by Little Dorrit in 1857. In 1859 Charles Dickens wrote a Tale of Two Cities in 1859 and Great Expectations. He wrote Our Mutual Friend in 1865. In 1866 Dickens wrote a famous ghost story called The Signal Man. Then in 1866-67 Dickens visited the USA again. Charles Dickens died on 9 June 1870. He was 58 when he died. At the time of his death Dickens was working on a book called The Mystery of Edwin Drood. Charles Dickens was buried in Westminster Abbey. BLEAK HOUSE SHORT SUMMARY

Sir Leicester Dedlock, an idle, fashionable aristocrat, maintains his ancestral home in rural Lincolnshire and also a place in London. Lady Dedlock, his wife, “has beauty still” at or near fifty but is proud and vain. She keeps a secret unknown even to Sir Leicester. When she was young, she bore an illegitimate child, a girl, to her lover, Captain Hawdon. What she does not know, however, is that the child is still alive. This daughter, now an adult, was given the name Esther Summerson by the aunt who raised her. When the aunt (Miss Barbary) dies, kindly, retired John Jarndyce was appointed Esther’s guardian. At the time of the story, Esther is twenty and is traveling to Mr. Jarndyce’s home, Bleak House (which is cheerful and happy — not bleak). On the journey, she has the companionship of his other two wards, Ada Clare and Richard Carstone. Ada, Richard, and Mr. Jamdyce are parties to a complicated, long-standing, and by now obscure legal suit called Jarndyce and Jarndyce. Various aspects of this entangled suit are heard from time to time in the High Court of Chancery in London. The issues involve, among other things, the apportionment of an inheritance.

At Bleak House, Esther notices that Richard Carstone has some weaknesses of character yet remains likeable; she forms a deep friendship with him as well as with the beautiful Ada. She also notices that the two young people rather soon find themselves in love.One “muddy, murky afternoon,” while looking at some legal documents, Lady Dedlock becomes curious about the handwriting on them. She asks Mr. Tulkinghorn, the Dedlocks’ attorney, if he knows the hand. Tulkinghorn, a corrupt and self-serving but clever lawyer, does not, but eventually he discovers that the hand is that of a certain “Nemo.” A pauper without friends, “Nemo” has been living in a dilapidated “rag-and-bottle” shop owned by an old merchant, Krook. Tulkinghorn finds “Nemo” dead, seemingly from too much opium. One person who knew the dead man is little Jo, an urchin street sweeper. At an inquest, Jo tells Tulkinghorn, “He [Nemo] wos wery good to me, he wos!”Lady Dedlock knows that the handwriting is that

84 of Captain Hawdon. So, disguised as her own maid (Mlle. Hortense), she finds Jo, who shows her where Hawdon is buried. Tulkinghorn, looking always to his own advantage, continues his keen interest in “Nemo” and is watchful of Lady Dedlock. The maid Hortense detests Lady Dedlock and helps Tulkinghorn ferret out the lady’s secret. Tulkinghorn reveals to Lady Dedlock that he knows about her child and Captain Hawdon. He promises to keep his knowledge to himself, but later he tells her that he no longer feels bound to do so. Mille. Hortense, feeling used by Tulkinghorn, turns against him. A short time later, Tulkinghorn is found shot to death. A detective, Mr. Bucket, is hired to investigate. The suspects include Lady Dedlock and George Rouncewell, son of the Dedlocks’ housekeeper. Mr. Bucket tells Sir Leicester about Lady Dedlock’s dealings with Tulkinghorn and says that she is a suspect. Sir Leicester has a stroke but is compassionate and fully forgiving of his wife. Bucket later discovers that the murderer is Mlle. Hortense. Richard Carstone, insolvent, uncertain of his future, and temperamentally indecisive and insecure, futilely expends much time and energy on the Jarndyce and Jarndyce suit. He secretly marries Ada Clare as soon as she turns twenty-one. Meanwhile, Esther and young doctor Allan Woodcourt are attracted to each other but she accepts a marriage proposal from Mr. Jarndyce. The waif Jo contracts smallpox, and both Esther and her maid Charley catch it from him; Esther survives but with a scarred face. Shortly afterward, she learns that Lady Dedlock is her mother. Feeling disgrace and remorse, Lady Dedlock dresses like an ordinary working woman and wanders away. After an intensive search, Esther and Detective Bucket find her lying dead in the snow at the gates of the paupers cemetery, where Captain Hawdon is buried. The case of Jarndyce and Jarndyce is concluded at last, but legal fees have consumed all the money that Richard Carstone would have inherited. He dies, and, soon afterward, Ada gives birth to a boy, whom she names Richard. John Jarndyce releases Esther from her engagement, and she marries Allan Woodcourt. Two daughters are born to them, and Allan tells his wife that she is “prettier than ever.”

Discussion questions

1. Does Dickens’ present-tense narration prevent him from doing certain things that are generally desirable in fiction? 2. What prevents Lady Dedlock from coming across as a “round” (fully developed, very lifelike) character? Is Bleak House more interesting for its “atmosphere” than for its characters?

85 3. Does Dickens make George Rouncewell’s treatment of his mother convincing? Does Dickens adequately motivate Tulkinghorn’s obsessive pursuit of Lady Dedlock’s secret? 4. At what point in the story does Sir Leicester Dedlock demonstrate a certain depth of character? What is the nature of the change? Is it credible? 5.Is Harold Skimpole a caricature, or is he rather a figure who might be drawn from real life?What is Skimpole’s concept of “generosity” and how is it different from the usual understanding of the term?

WILLIAM SOMERSET MAUGHAM

William Somerset Maugham was born in the British Embassy in Paris on 25th January, 1874. William’s father, Robert Ormond Maugham, a wealthy solicitor, worked for the Embassy in France. By the time he was ten, both William’s parents were dead and he was sent to live with his uncle, the Rev. Henry Maugham, in Whitstable, Kent.

After an education at King’s School, Canterbury, and Heildelberg University in Germany, Maugham became a medical student at St. Thomas Hospital, London. While training to be a doctor Maugham worked as an obstetric clerk in the slums of Lambeth. He used these experiences to help him write his first novel, Liza of Lambeth (1897).

The book sold well and he decided to abandon medicine and become a full-time writer. Maugham achieved fame with his playLady Frederick (1907), a comedy about money and marriage. By 1908 Maugham had four plays running simultaneously in London.

On the outbreak of the First World War, Maugham, now aged forty, joined a Red Cross ambulance unit in France. While serving on the Western Front he met the 22 year old American, Gerald Haxton. The two men became lovers and lived together for the next thirty years. During the war Maugham was invited by Sir John Wallinger, head of Britain’s Military Intelligence (MI6) in France, to act as a secret service agent. Maugham agreed and over the next few years acted as a link between MI6 in London and its agents working in Europe.

Maugham had sexual relationships with both men and women and in 1915, Syrie Wellcome, the daughter of Dr. Thomas Barnardo, gave birth to his child. Her husband, Henry Wellcome,

86 cited Maugham as co-respondent in divorce proceedings. After the divorce in 1916, Maugham married Syrie but continued to live with Gerald Haxton.

During the war, Maugham’s best-known novel, Of Human Bondage (1915) was published. This was followed by another successful book, The Moon and Sixpence (1919). Maugham also developed a reputation as a fine short-story writer, one story, Rain, which appeared in The Trembling of a Leaf(1921), was also turned into a successful feature film.

William Somerset Maugham died in 1965.

MR. KNOW ALL By W. Somerset Maugham I was prepared to dislike Max Kelada even before I knew him. The war had just finished and the passenger traffic in the ocean-going liners was heavy. Accommodation was very hard to get and you had to put up with whatever the agents chose to offer you. You could not hope for a cabin to yourself and I was thankful to be given one in which there were only two berths. But when I was told the name of my companion my heart sank. It suggested closed portholes and the night air rigidly excluded.

It was bad enough to share a cabin for fourteen days with anyone (I was going from San Francisco to Yokohama, but I should have looked upon it with less dismay if my fellow passenger’s name had been Smith or Brown.

When I went on board I found Mr Kelada’s luggage already below. I did not like the look of it; there were too many labels on the suit-cases, and the wardrobe trunk was too big. He had unpacked his toilet things, and I observed that he was a patron of the excellent Monsieur Coty; for I saw on the washing-stand his scent, his hair-wash and his brilliantine. Mr Kelada’s brushes, ebony with his monogram in gold, would have been all the better for a scrub. I did not at all like Mr Kelada. I made my way into the smoking-room. I called for a pack of cards and began to play patience. I had scarcely started before a man came up to me and asked me if he was right in thinking my name was so and so.

“I am Mr Kelada,” he added, with a smile that showed a row of flashing teeth, and sat down. “Oh, yes, we’re sharing a cabin, I think.”

87 “Bit of luck, I call it. You never know who you’re going to be put in with. I was jolly glad when I heard you were English. I’m all for us English slicking together when we’re abroad, if you understand what I mean.” I blinked. “Are you English?” I asked, perhaps tactlessly. “Rather. You don’t think I look like an American, do you? British to the backbone, that’s what I am.”

To prove it, Mr Kelada took out of his pocket a passport and airily waved it under my nose. King George has many strange subjects. Mr Kelada was short and of a sturdy build, clean- shaven and dark-skinned, with a fleshy hooked nose and very large, lustrous and liquid eyes. His long black hair was sleek and curly. He spoke with a fluency in which there was nothing English and his gestures were exuberant. I fell pretty sure that a closer inspection of that British passport would have betrayed the fact that Mr Kelada was born under a bluer sky than is generally seen in England. “What will you have?” he asked me. I looked at him doubtfully. Prohibition was in force and to all appearance the ship was bone- dry. When I am not thirsty I do not know which I dislike more, ginger ale or lemon squash. But Mr Kelada flashed an oriental smile at me. “Whisky and soda or a dry martini, you have only to say the word.” From each of his hip pockets he fished a flask and laid it on the table before me. I chose the martini, and calling the steward he ordered a tumbler of ice and a couple of glasses. “A very good cocktail,” I said. “Well, there are plenty more where that came from, and if you’ve got any friends on board, you tell them you’ve got a pal who’s got all the liquor in the world.” Mr Kelada was chatty. He talked of New York and of San Francisco. He discussed plays, pictures, and politics. He was patriotic. The Union Jack is an impressive piece of drapery, but when it is nourished by a gentleman from Alexandria or Beirut, I cannot but feel that it loses somewhat in dignity. Mr Kelada was familiar.” I do not wish to put on airs, but I cannot help feeling that it is seemly in a total stranger to put “mister” before my name when he addresses me. Mr Kelada, doubtless to set me at my case, used no such formality. I did not like Mr Kelada. I had put aside the cards when he sat down, but now, thinking that for this first occasion our conversation had lasted long enough, I went on with my game. “The three on the four,” said Mr Kelada. There is nothing more exasperating when you are playing patience than to be told where to put the card you have turned up before you have had a chance to look for yourself. “It’s coming out, it’s coming out,” he cried. “The ten on the knave.”

88 With rage and hatred in my heart I finished. Then he seized the pack. “Do you like card tricks?” “No, I hate card tricks,” I answered. “Well, I’ll just show you this one.” He showed me three. Then I said I would go down to the dining-room and get my seat at table. “Oh, that’s all right,” he said. “I’ve already taken a seat for you. I thought that as we were in the same state-room we might just as well sit at the same table.” I did not like Mr Kelada.

I not only shared a cabin with him and ate three meals a day at the same table, but I could not walk round the deck without his joining me. It was impossible to snub him. It never occurred to him that he was not wanted. He was certain that you were as glad to see him as he was to see you. In your own house you might have kicked him downstairs and slammed the door in his face without the suspicion dawning on him that he was not a welcome visitor. He was a good mixer, and in three days knew everyone on board. He ran everything. He managed the sweeps, conducted the auctions, collected money for prizes at the sports, got up quoit and golf matches, organized the concert and arranged the fancy-dress ball. He was everywhere and always. He was certainly the best haled man in the ship. We called him Mr Know-All, even to his face. He took it as a compliment. But it was at mealtimes that he was most intolerable. For the better part of an hour then he had us at his mercy. He was hearty, jovial, loquacious and argumentative. He knew everything better than anybody else, and it was an affront to his overweening vanity that you should disagree with him. He would not drop a subject, however unimportant, till he had brought you round to his way of thinking. The possibility that he could be mistaken never occurred to him. He was the chap who knew. We sat at the doctor’s table. Mr Kelada would certainly have his own way, for the doctor was lazy and I was frigidly indifferent, except for a man called Ramsay who sat there also. He was as dogmatic as Mr Kelada and resented bitterly the Levantine’s cocksureness. The discussions they had were acrimonious and interminable.

Ramsay was in the American Consular Service and was stationed at Kobe. He was a great heavy fellow from the Middle West, with loose fat under a tight skin, and he bulged out of this really-made clothes. He was on his way back to resume his post, having been on a flying visit to New York to retell his wife who had been spending a year at home. Mrs Ramsay was a very pretty little thing, with pleasant manners and a sense of humour. The Consular Service is

89 ill-paid, and she was dressed always very simply; but she knew how to wear her clothes. She achieved an effect of quiet distinction. I should not have paid any particular attention to her but that she possessed a quality that may be common enough in women, but nowadays is not obvious in their demeanour. You could not look at her without being struck by her modesty. It shone in her like a flower on a coat.

One evening at dinner the conversation by chance drifted to the subject of pearls. There had been in the papers a good deal of talk about the culture pearls which the cunning Japanese were making, and the doctor remarked that they must inevitably diminish the value of real ones. They were very good already; they would soon be perfect. Mr Kelada, as was his habit, rushed the new topic. He told us all that was to be known about pearls. I do not believe Ramsay knew anything about them at all, but he could not resist the opportunity to have a fling at the Levantine, and in five minutes we were in the middle of a heated argument. I had seen Mr Kelada vehement and voluble before, but never so voluble and vehement as now.

At last something that Ramsay said stung him, for he thumped the table and shouted: “Well, I ought to know what I am talking about. I’m going to Japan just to look into this Japanese pearl business. I’m in the trade and there’s not a man in it who won’t tell you that what I say about pearls goes. I know all the best pearls in the world, and what I don’t know about pearls isn’t worth knowing.”

Here was news for us, for Mr Kelada, with all his loquacity, had never told anyone what his business was. We only knew vaguely that he was going to Japan on some commercial errand. He looked round the table triumphantly. “They’ll never be able to get a culture pearl that an expert like me can’t tell with half an eye.” He pointed to a chain that Mrs Ramsay wore. “You take my word for it, Mrs Ramsay, that chain you’re wearing will never be worth a cent less than it is now.”

Mrs Ramsay in her modest way flushed a little and slipped the chain inside her dress. Ramsay leaned forward. He gave us all a look and a smile flickered in his eyes. “That’s a pretty chain of Mrs Ramsay’s, isn’t it?” “I noticed it at once,” answered Mr Kelada. “Gee, I said to myself, those are pearls all right.” “I didn’t buy it myself, of course. I’d be interested to know how much you think it cost.” “Oh, in the trade somewhere round fifteen thousand dollars. But if it was bought on Fifth Avenue shouldn’t be surprised to hear that anything up to thirty thousand was paid for it.” Ramsay smiled grimly.

90 “You’ll be surprised to hear that Mrs Ramsay bought that siring at a department store the day before we left New York, for eighteen dollars.” Mr Kelada flushed. “Rot. It’s not only real, but it’s as fine a siring for its size as I’ve ever seen.” “Will you bet on it? I’ll bet you a hundred dollars it’s imitation.” “Done.” “Oh, Elmer, you can’t bet on a certainty,” said Mrs Ramsay. She had a little smile on her lips and her tone was gently deprecating. “Can’t I? If I get a chance of easy money like that I should be all sorts of a fool not to take it.” “But how can it be proved?” she continued. “It’s only my word against Mr Kelada’s.” “Let me look at the chain, and if it’s imitation I’ll tell you quickly enough. I can afford to lose a hundred dollars,” said Mr Kelada. “Take it off, dear. Let the gentleman look at it as much as he wants.” Mrs Ramsay hesitated a moment. She put her hands to the clasp. “I can’t undo it,” she said. “Mr Kelada will just have to take my word for it.” I had a sudden suspicion that something unfortunate was about to occur, but I could think of nothing to say. Ramsay jumped up. “I’ll undo it.” He handed the chain to Mr Kelada. The Levantine look a magnifying glass from his pocket and closely examined it. A smile of triumph spread over his smooth and swarthy face. He handed back the chain. He was about to speak. Suddenly he caught sight of Mrs Ramsay’s face. It was so white that she looked as though she were about to faint. She was staring at him with wide and terrified eyes. They held a desperate appeal; it was so clear that I wondered why her husband did not see it. Mr Kelada stopped with his mouth open. He flushed deeply. You could almost see the effort he was making over himself. “I was mistaken,” he said. “It’s a very good imitation, but of course as soon as I looked through my glass I saw that it wasn’t real. I think eighteen dollars is just about as much as the damned thing’s worth.” He took out his pocket book and from it a hundred-dollar bill. He handed it to Ramsay without a word. “Perhaps that’ll teach you not to be so cocksure another time, my young friend,” said Ramsay as he took the note. I noticed that Mr Kelada’s hands were trembling.

91 The story spread over the ship as stories do, and he had to put up with a good deal of chaff that evening. It was a fine joke that Mr Know-All had been caught out. But Mrs Ramsay retired to her state-room with a headache.

Next morning I got up and began to shave. Mr Kelada lay on his bed smoking a cigarette. Suddenly there was a small scraping sound and I saw a letter pushed under the door. I opened the door and looked out. There was nobody there. I picked up the letter and saw that it was addressed to Max Kelada. The name was written in block letters. I handed it to him. “Who’s this from?” He opened it. “Oh!” He took out of the envelope, not a letter, but a hundred-dollar bill. He looked at me and again he reddened. He tore the envelope into little bits and gave them to me. “Do you mind just throwing them out of the porthole?” I did as he asked, and then I looked at him with a smile. “No one likes being made to look a perfect damned fool,” he said. “Were the pearls real?” “If I had a pretty little wife I shouldn’t let her spend a year in New York while I stayed at Kobe,” said he.

At that moment I did not entirely dislike Mr Kelada. He reached out for his pocket book and carefully put in it the hundred-dollar note.

Discussion questions

1. Write down at least 3 things that Mr. Kelada did that annoyed the narrator. 2. Which of those could be considered cultural difference, and which were just a part of his personality that clashed with that of the narrator’s? 3. Why is the story told in the first person? What effect does it have on us, the readers? 4. Pretend that you are Mr. Kelada, and tell the story to your friend in Japan (from your - Mr. Kelada’s - point of view). 5. Mr. Kelada / Mrs. Ramsay Why did Mr. Kelada decide to protect Mrs. Ramsay? What does this tell about him? What does Mrs. Ramsay do in return? What do you think about her reaction?

VIRGINIA WOOLF

92 Virginia Woolf, the daughter of Leslie Stephen and Julia Princep, was born in 1882. Julia had three children from a previous marriage and four more with her second husband. When Virginia was thirteen her mother died and this brought on the first of her several breakdowns. Stephen held conventional views on education and unlike her two brothers, Virginia did not go to university. After her father’s death in 1904, Virginia came under the control of her older stepbrother George Duckworth, who bullied and sexually abused her.

In 1904 Woolf started work as a tutor at Morley College. She also had reviews of books published in the Times Literary Supplement. In 1905 Virginia and several friends and relatives began meeting to discuss literary and artistic issues. The friends, who eventually became known as the Bloomsbury Group, included Virginia’s sister, Vanessa Bell, Clive Bell, John Maynard Keynes, E. M. Forster, Leonard Woolf, Lytton Strachey, David Garnett, Roger Fry and Duncan Grant.

Woolf was active in the campaign for women’s suffrage and was a member of the People’s Suffrage Federation. However, her main political involvement was as a member of the Women’s Co-operative Guild, a radical organisation led by Margaret Llewelyn Davies.

Virginia married the writer, Leonard Woolf in 1912. The following year she had a severe mental breakdown. Leonard nursed her back to recovery and in 1915 her first novel, The Voyage Out, was published. The couple shared a strong interest in literature and in 1917 founded the Hogarth Press.

Night and Day, a novel that deals with the subject of women’s suffrage appeared in 1919. This was followed by Jacob’s Room (1922), a novel that tells the story of Jacob Flanders, a soldier killed in the First World War.

Virginia wrote about literature for The Nation and in an article published in December, 1923, attacked the realism of Arnold Bennett and advocated a more “internal approach” to literature. This article was an important step in the development of what became known as . Woolf rejected the traditional framework of narrative, description and rational exposition in prose and made considerable use of the stream of consciousness technique (recording the flow of thoughts and feelings as they pass through the character’s mind). This approach was explored in Virginia’s novels: Mrs Dalloway (1925), To the Lighthouse (1927), and The Waves (1931).

93 In the 1920s Woolf became romantically involved with the writer, Vita Sackville-West. Virginia celebrated this love affair in her novel, Orlando, published in 1928. Dedicated to Sackville-West, the book traces the history of the youthful, beautiful, and aristocratic Orlando, and explores the themes of sexual ambiguity.

A highly respected journalist and literary critic, Virginia published a series of important non- fiction books including A Room of One’s Own that appeared in 1929. An important book in the history of feminism, it argues the need for the economic independence of women and explores the consequences of a male-dominated society. Woolf returned to the theme of women’s liberation in her book Three Guineas (1938).

Virginia Woolf had recurring bouts of depression. The outbreak of the Second World War increased her mental turmoil and on 28th March, 1941, she committed suicide by drowning herself in the Ouse, near her home in Rodmell, Sussex.

“THE DUCHESS AND THE JEWELER”

Oliver Bacon lived at the top of a house overlooking the Green Park. He had a flat; chairs jutted out at the right angles—chairs covered in hide. Sofas filled the bays of the windows— sofas covered in tapestry. The windows, the three long windows, had the proper allowance of discreet net and figured satin. The mahogany sideboard bulged discreetly with the right brandies, whiskeys and liqueurs. And from the middle window he looked down upon the glossy roofs of fashionable cars packed in the narrow straits of Piccadilly. A more Central position could not be imagined.

And at eight in the morning he would have his breakfast brought in on a tray by a manservant: the manservant would unfold his crimson dressing-gown; he would rip his letters open with his long pointed nails and would extract thick white cards of invitation upon which the engraving stood up roughly from duchesses, countesses, viscountesses and Honourable Ladies. Then he would wash; then he would eat his toast; then he would read his paper by the bright burning fire of electric coals.

“Behold Oliver,” he would say, addressing himself. “You who began life in a filthy little alley, you who… “ and he would look down at his legs, so shapely in their perfect trousers; at his boots; at his spats. They were all shapely, shining; cut from the best cloth by the best

94 scissors in Savile Row. But he dismantled himself often and became again a little boy in a dark alley. He had once thought that the height of his ambition—selling stolen dogs to fashionable women in Whitechapel. And once he had been done. “Oh, Oliver,” his mother had wailed. “Oh, Oliver! When will you have sense, my son?”… Then he had gone behind a counter; had sold cheap watches; then he had taken a wallet to Amsterdam…. At that memory he would chuckle—the old Oliver remembering the young. Yes, he had done well with the three diamonds; also there was the commission on the emerald.

After that he went into the private room behind the shop in Hatton Garden; the room with the scales, the safe, the thick magnifying glasses. And then… and then… He chuckled. When he passed through the knots of jewellers in the hot evening who were discussing prices, gold mines, diamonds, reports from South Africa, one of them would lay a finger to the side of his nose and murmur, “Hum—m—m,” as he passed. It was no more than a murmur; no more than a nudge on the shoulder, a finger on the nose, a buzz that ran through the cluster of jewellers in Hatton Garden on a hot afternoon—oh, many years ago now! But still Oliver felt it purring down his spine, the nudge, the murmur that meant, “Look at him—young Oliver, the young jeweller—there he goes. “ Young he was then. And he dressed better and better; and had, first a hansom cab; then a car; and first he went up to the dress circle, then down into the stalls. And he had a villa at Richmond, overlooking the river, with trellises of red roses; and Mademoiselle used to pick one every morning and stick it in his buttonhole. “So,” said Oliver Bacon, rising and stretching his legs. “So… “

And he stood beneath the picture of an old lady on the mantelpiece and raised his hands. “I have kept my word,” he said, laying his hands together, palm to palm, as if he were doing homage to her. “I have won my bet. “ That was so; he was the richest jeweller in England; but his nose, which was long and flexible, like an elephant’s trunk, seemed to say by its curious quiver at the nostrils (but it seemed as if the whole nose quivered, not only the nostrils) that he was not satisfied yet; still smelt something under the ground a little further off. Imagine a giant hog in a pasture rich with truffles; after unearthing this truffle and that, still it smells a bigger, a blacker truffle under the ground further off. So Oliver snuffed always in the rich earth of Mayfair another truffle, a blacker, a bigger further off.

Now then he straightened the pearl in his tie, cased himself in his smart blue overcoat; took his yellow gloves and his cane; and swayed as he descended the stairs and half snuffed, half sighed through his long sharp nose as he passed out into Piccadilly. For was he not still a sad

95 man, a dissatisfied man, a man who seeks something that is hidden, though he had won his bet?

He swayed slightly as he walked, as the camel at the zoo sways from side to side when it walks along the asphalt paths laden with grocers and their wives eating from paper bags and throwing little bits of silver paper crumpled up on to the path. The camel despises the grocers; the camel is dissatisfied with its lot; the camel sees the blue lake and of palm trees in front of it. So the great jeweller, the greatest jeweller in the whole world, swung down Piccadilly, perfectly dressed, with his gloves, with his cane; but dissatisfied still, till he reached the dark little shop, that was famous in France, in Germany, in Austria, in Italy, and all over America—the dark little shop in the street off Bond Street.

As usual, he strode through the shop without speaking, though the four men, the two old men, Marshall and Spencer, and the two young men, Hammond and Wicks, stood straight behind the counter as he passed and looked at him, envying him. It was only with one finger of the amber-coloured glove, waggling, that he acknowledged their presence. And he went in and shut the door of his private room behind him.

Then he unlocked the grating that barred the window. The cries of Bond Street came in; the purr of the distant traffic. The light from reflectors at the back of the shop struck upwards. One tree waved six green leaves, for it was June. But Mademoiselle had married Mr. Pedder of the local brewery—no one stuck roses in his buttonhole now. “So,” he half sighed, half snorted, “so. . . “

Then he touched a spring in the wall and slowly the panelling slid open, and behind it were the steel safes, five, no, six of them, all of burnished steel. He twisted a key; unlocked one; then another. Each was lined with a pad of deep crimson velvet; in each lay jewels—bracelets, necklaces, rings, tiaras, ducal coronets; loose stones in glass shells; rubies, emeralds, pearls, diamonds. All safe, shining, cool, yet burning, eternally, with their own compressed light. “Tears!” said Oliver, looking at the pearls. “Heart’s blood!” he said, looking at the rubies. “Gunpowder!” he continued, rattling the diamonds so that they flashed and blazed. “Gunpowder enough to blow Mayfair—sky high, high, high!” He threw his head back and made a sound like a horse neighing as he said it. The telephone buzzed obsequiously in a low muted voice on his table. He shut the safe.

96 “In ten minutes,” he said. “Not before. “ And he sat down at his desk and looked at the heads of the Roman emperors that were graved on his sleeve links. And again he dismantled himself and became once more the little boy playing marbles in the alley where they sell stolen dogs on Sunday. He became that wily astute little boy, with lips like wet cherries. He dabbled his fingers in ropes of tripe; he dipped them in pans of frying fish; he dodged in and out among the crowds. He was slim, lissome, with eyes like licked stones. And now—now—the hands of the clock ticked on. One, two, three, four… The Duchess of Lambourne waited his pleasure; the Duchess of Lambourne, daughter of a hundred Earls. She would wait for ten minutes on a chair at the counter. She would wait his pleasure. She would wait till he was ready to see her. He watched the clock in its shagreen case. The hand moved on. With each tick the clock handed him—so it seemed—pâté de foie gras, a glass of champagne, another of fine brandy, a cigar costing one guinea. The clock laid them on the table beside him as the ten minutes passed. Then he heard soft slow footsteps approaching; a rustle in the corridor. The door opened. Mr. Hammond flattened himself against the wall. “Her Grace!” he announced. And he waited there, flattened against the wall. And Oliver, rising, could hear the rustle of the dress of the Duchess as she came down the passage. Then she loomed up, filling the door, filling the room with the aroma, the prestige, the arrogance, the pomp, the pride of all the Dukes and Duchesses swollen in one wave. And as a wave breaks, she broke, as she sat down, spreading and splashing and falling over Oliver Bacon, the great jeweller, covering him with sparkling bright colours, green, rose, violet; and odours; and iridescences; and rays shooting from fingers, nodding from plumes, flashing from silk; for she was very large, very fat, tightly girt in pink taffeta, and past her prime. As a parasol with many flounces, as a peacock with many feathers, shuts its flounces, folds its feathers, so she subsided and shut herself as she sank down in the leather armchair.

“Good morning, Mr. Bacon,” said the Duchess. And she held out her hand which came through the slit of her white glove. And Oliver bent low as he shook it. And as their hands touched the link was forged between them once more. They were friends, yet enemies; he was master, she was mistress; each cheated the other, each needed the other, each feared the other, each felt this and knew this every time they touched hands thus in the little back room with the white light outside, and the tree with its six leaves, and the sound of the street in the distance and behind them the safes.

“And today, Duchess—what can I do for you today?” said Oliver, very softly.

97 The Duchess opened; her heart, her private heart, gaped wide. And with a sigh, but no words, she took from her bag a long wash-leather pouch—it looked like a lean yellow ferret. And from a slit in the ferret’s belly she dropped pearls—ten pearls. They rolled from the slit in the ferret’s belly—one, two, three, four—like the eggs of some heavenly bird. “All that’s left me, dear Mr. Bacon,” she moaned. Five, six, seven—down they rolled, down the slopes of the vast mountain sides that fell between her knees into one narrow valley—the eighth, the ninth, and the tenth. There they lay in the glow of the peach–blossom taffeta. Ten pearls.

“From the Appleby cincture,” she mourned. “The last… the last of them all. “ Oliver stretched out and took one of the pearls between finger and thumb. It was round, it was lustrous. But real was it, or false? Was she lying again? Did she dare? She laid her plump padded finger across her lips. “If the Duke knew… “ she whispered. “Dear Mr. Bacon, a bit of bad luck. . . “ Been gambling again, had she? “That villain! That sharper!” she hissed. The man with the chipped cheek bone?A bad ‘un. And the Duke was straight as a poker; with side whiskers; would cut her off, shut her up down there if he knew—what I know, thought Oliver, and glanced at the safe. “Araminta, Daphne, Diana,” she moaned. “It’s for them. “ The ladies Araminta, Daphne, Diana—her daughters. He knew them; adored them. But it was Diana he loved. “You have all my secrets,” she leered. Tears slid; tears fell; tears, like diamonds, collecting powder in the ruts of her cherry-blossom cheeks. Old friend,” she murmured, “old friend. “ “Old friend,” he repeated, “old friend,” as if he licked the words. “How much?” he queried. She covered the pearls with her hand. “Twenty thousand,” she whispered. But was it real or false, the one he held in his hand? The Appleby cincture—hadn’t she sold it already? He would ring for Spencer or Hammond. “Take it and test it,” he would say. He stretched to the bell. “You will come down tomorrow?” she urged, she interrupted. “The Prime Minister—His Royal Highness… “ She stopped. “And Diana…“ she added. Oliver took his hand off the bell.

98 He looked past her, at the backs of the houses in Bond Street. But he saw, not the houses in Bond Street, but a dimpling river; and trout rising and salmon; and the Prime Minister; and himself too, in white waistcoat; and then, Diana. He looked down at the pearl in his hand. But how could he test it, in the light of the river, in the light of the eyes of Diana? But the eyes of the Duchess were on him. “Twenty thousand,” she moaned. “My honour!” The honour of the mother of Diana! He drew his cheque book towards him; he took out his pen. “Twenty—” he wrote. Then he stopped writing. The eyes of the old woman in the picture were on him—of the old woman, his mother. “Oliver!” she warned him. “Have sense! Don’t be a fool!” “Oliver!” the Duchess entreated—it was “Oliver” now, not “Mr. Bacon. ““You’ll come for a long weekend?” Alone in the woods with Diana! Riding alone in the woods with Diana! “Thousand,” he wrote, and signed it. “Here you are,” he said.

And there opened all the flounces of the parasol, all the plumes of the peacock, the radiance of the wave, the swords and spears of Agincourt, as she rose from her chair. And the two old men and the two young men, Spencer and Marshall, Wicks and Hammond, flattened themselves behind the counter envying him as he led her through the shop to the door. And he waggled his yellow glove in their faces, and she held her honour—a cheque for twenty thousand pounds with his signature—quite firmly in her hands.

“Are they false or are they real?” asked Oliver, shutting his private door. There they were, ten pearls on the blotting paper on the table. He took them to the window. He held them under his lens to the light…. This, then, was the truffle he had routed out of the earth! Rotten at the centre—rotten at the core! “Forgive me, oh, my mother!” he sighed, raising his hand as if he asked pardon of the old woman in the picture. And again he was a little boy in the alley where they sold dogs on Sunday. “For,” he murmured, laying the palms of his hands together, “it is to be a long week–end. “

Discussion questions

99 1. In the story The Duchess and the Jeweler, how is the duchess deceitful? 2. What does the Duchess really want to sell? 3. What is the meaning of “the tree of six leaves”? 4. What is the significance of the line “Was she lying again?”? 5. Why does the duchess want to sell the pearls? 6. What is the relationship between the jeweler and the duchess? 7. Who wins in this story? Oliver or the duchess?

THE LEGACY

“For Sissy Miller.” Gilbert Clandon, taking up the pearl brooch that lay among a litter of rings and brooches on a little table in his wife’s drawing-room, read the inscription: “For Sissy Miller, with my love.”

It was like Angela to have remembered even Sissy Miller, her secretary. Yet how strange it was, Gilbert Clandon thought once more, that she had left everything in such order-a little gift of some sort for every one of her friends. It was as if she had foreseen her death. Yet she had been in perfect health when she left the house that morning, six weeks ago; when she stepped off the kerb in Piccadilly and the car had killed her.

He was waiting for Sissy Miller. He had asked her to come; he owed her, he felt, after all the years she had been with them, this token of consideration. Yes, he went on, as he sat there waiting, it was strange that Angela had left everything in such order. Every friend had been left some little token of her affection. Every ring, every necklace, every little Chinese box-she had a passion for little boxes-had a name on it. And each had some memory for him. This he had given her; this -the enamel dolphin with the ruby eyes-she had pounced upon one day in a back street in Venice. He could remember her little cry of delight. To him, of course, she had left nothing in particular, unless it were her diary. Fifteen little volumes, bound in green leather, stood behind him on her writing table. Ever since they were married, she had kept a diary. Some of their very few-he could not call them quarrels, say tiffs-had been about that diary. When he came in and found her writing, she always shut it or put her hand over it. “No, no, no,” he could hear her say, “After I’m dead-perhaps.” So she had left it him, as her legacy.

100 It was the only thing they had not shared when she was alive. But he had always taken it for granted that she would outlive him. If only she had stopped one moment, and had thought what she was doing, she would be alive now. But she had stepped straight off the kerb, the driver of the car had said at the inquest. She had given him no chance to pull up. . .. Here the sound of voices in the hall interrupted him.“Miss Miller, Sir,” said the maid.

She came in. He had never seen her alone in his life, nor, of course, in tears. She was terribly distressed, and no wonder. Angela had been much more to her than an employer. She had been a friend. To himself, he thought, as he pushed a chair for her and asked her to sit down, she was scarcely distinguishable from any other woman of her kind. There were thousands of Sissy Millers-drab little women in black carrying attache cases. But Angela, with her genius for sympathy, had discovered all sorts of qualities in Sissy Miller. She was the soul of discretion; so silent; so trustworthy, one could tell her anything, and so on.

Miss Miller could not speak at first. She sat there dabbing her eyes with her pocket handkerchief. Then she made an effort. “Pardon me, Mr. Clandon,” she said. He murmured. Of course he understood. It was only natural. He could guess what his wife had meant to her.

“I’ve been so happy here,” she said, looking round. Her eyes rested on the writing table behind him. It was here they had worked-she and Angela. For Angela had her share of the duties that fall to the lot of a prominent politician’s wife. She had been the greatest help to him in his career. He had often seen her and Sissy sitting at that table-Sissy at the typewriter, taking down letters from her dictation. No doubt Miss Miller was thinking of that, too. Now all he had to do was to give her the brooch his wife had left her. A rather incongruous gift it seemed. It might have been better to have left her a sum of money, or even the typewriter. But there it was-”For Sissy Miller, with my love.” And, taking the brooch, he gave it her with the little speech that he had prepared. He knew, he said, that she would value it. His wife had often worn it. . .. And she replied, as she took it almost as if she too had prepared a speech, that it would always be a treasured possession. . .. She had, he supposed, other clothes upon which a pearl brooch would not look quite so incongruous. She was wearing the little black coat and skirt that seemed the uniform of her profession. Then he remembered-she was in mourning, of course. She, too, had had her tragedy-a brother, to who m she was devoted, had died only a week or two before Angela. In some accident was it? He could not remember-only Angela telling him. Angela, with her genius for sympathy, had been terribly upset. Meanwhile Sissy Miller had risen. She was putting on her gloves. Evidently she felt that she ought not to

101 intrude. But he could not let her go without saying something about her future. What were her plans? Was there any way in which he could help her?

She was gazing at the table, where she had sat at her typewriter, where the diary lay. And, lost in her memories of Angela, she did not at once answer his sug gestion that he should help her. She seemed for a moment not to understand. So he repeated: “What are your plans, Miss Miller?” “My plans? Oh, that’s all right, Mr. Clandon,” she exclaimed. “Please don’t bother yourself about me.”

He took her to mean that she was in no need of financial assistance. It would be better, he realized, to make any suggestion of that kind in a letter. All he could do now was to say as he pressed her hand, “Remember, Miss Miller, if there’s any way in which I can help you, it will be a pleasure. . . .” Then he opened the door. For a moment, on the threshold, as if a sudden thought had struck her, she stopped. “Mr. Clandon,” she said, looking straight at him for the first time, and for the first time he was struck by the expression, sympathetic yet searching, in her eyes. “If at any time,” she continued, “there’s anything I can do to help you, remember, I shall feel it, for your wife’s sake, a pleasure . . .” With that she was gone. Her words and the look that went with them were unexpected. It was almost as if she believed, or hoped, that he would need her. A curious, perhaps a fantastic idea occurred to him as he returned to his chair. Could it be, that during all those years when he had scarcely noticed her, she, as the novelists say, had entertained a passion for him? He caught his own reflection in the glass as he passed. He was over fifty; but he could not help admitting that he was still, as the looking-glass showed him, a very distinguished-looking man.

“Poor Sissy Miller!” he said, half laughing. How he would have liked to share that joke with his wife! He turned instinctively to her diary. “Gilbert,” he read, opening it at random, “looked so wonderful. . . .” It was as if she had answered his question. Of course, she seemed to say, you’re very attractive to women. Of course Sissy Miller felt that too. He read on. “How proud I am to be his wife!” And he had always been very proud to be her husband. How often, when they dined out somewhere, he had looked at her across the table and said to himself, She is the loveliest woman here! He read on. That first year he had been standing for Parliament. They had toured his constituency. “When Gilbert sat down the applause was terrific. The whole audience rose and sang: ‘For he’s a jolly good fellow.’ I was quite overcome.” He remembered that, too. She had been sitting on the platform beside him. He could still see the glance she cast at him, and how she had tears in her eyes. And then? He turned the pages.

102 They had gone to Venice. He recalled that happy holiday after the election. “We had ices at Florians.” He smiled-she was still such a child; she loved ices. “Gilbert gave me a most interesting account of the history of Venice. He told me that the Doges. . .” she had written it all out in her schoolgirl hand. One of the delights of travelling with Angela had been that she was so eager to learn. She was so terribly ignorant, she used to say, as if that were not one of her charms. And then-he opened the next volume-they had come back to London. “I was so anxious to make a good impression. I wore my wedding dress.” He could see her now sitting next old Sir Edward; and making a conquest of that formidable old man, his chief. He read on rapidly, filling in scene after scene from her scrappy fragments. “Dined at the House of Commons. . ..

To an evening party at the Lovegroves. Did I realize my responsibility, Lady L. asked me, as Gilbert’s wife?” Then, as the years passed-he took another volume from the writing table-he had become more and more absorbed in his work. And she, of course, was more often alone. . .. It had been a great grief to her, apparently, that they had had no children. “How I wish,” one entry read, “that Gilbert had a son!” Oddly enough he had never much regretted that himself. Life had been so full, so rich as it was. That year he had been given a minor post in the government. A minor post only, but her comment was: “I am quite certain now that he will be Prime Minister!” Well, if things had gone differently, it might have been so. He paused here to speculate upon what might have been. Politics was a gamble, he reflected; but the game wasn’t over yet. Not at fifty. He cast his eyes rapidly over more pages, full of the little trifles, the insignificant, happy, daily trifles that had made up her life.

He took up another volume and opened it at random. “What a coward I am! I let the chance slip again. But it seemed selfish to bother him with my own affairs, when he has so much to think about. And we so seldom have an evening alone.” What was the meaning of that? Oh, here was the explanation-it referred to her work in the East End. “I plucked up courage and talked to Gilbert at last. He was so kind, so good. He made no objection.” He remembered that conversation. She had told him that she felt so idle, so useless. She wished to have some work of her own. She wanted to do something-she had blushed so prettily, he remembered, as she said it, sitting in that very chair-to help others. He had bantered her a little. Hadn’t she enough to do looking after him, after her home? Still, if it amused her, of course he had no objection. What was it? Some district?Some committee? Only she must promise not to make herself ill. So it seemed that every Wednesday she went to White Chapel. He remembered how he hated the clothes she wore on those occasions. But she had taken it very seriously, it seemed.

103 The diary was full of references like this: “Saw Mrs. Jones. . . She has ten children. . . . Husband lost his arm in an accident. . . . Did my best to find a job for Lily.” He skipped on. His own name occurred less frequently. His interest slackened. Some of the entries conveyed nothing to him. For example: “Had a heated argument about socialism with B. M.” Who was B. M.? He could not fill in the initials; some woman, he supposed, that she had met on one of her committees. “B. M. made a violent attack upon the upper classes. . .. I walked back after the meeting with B. M. and tried to convince him. But he is so narrow-minded.” So B. M. was a man-no doubt one of those “intellectuals,” as they call themselves, who are so violent, as Angela said, and so narrow-minded. She had invited him to come and see her apparently. “B. M. came to dinner. He shook hands with Minnie!” That note of exclamation gave another twist to his mental picture. B. M., it seemed, wasn’t used to parlour maids; he had shaken hands with Minnie. Presumably he was one of those tame working men who air their views in ladies’ drawing-rooms. Gilbert knew the type, and had no liking for this particular specimen, whoever B. M. might be. Here he was again. “Went with B. M. to the Tower of London. . . . He said revolution is bound to come . . . He said we live in a Fool’s Paradise.” That was just the kind of thing B. M. would say-Gilbert could hear him. He could also see him quite distinctly-a stubby little man, with a rough beard, red tie, dressed as they always did in tweeds, who had never done an honest day’s work in his life. Surely Angela had the sense to see through him? He read on. “B. M. said some very disagreeable things about-” The name was carefully scratched out. “I told him I would not listen to any more abuse of-” Again the name was obliterated. Could it have been his own name? Was that why Angela covered the page so quickly when he came in? The thought added to his growing dislike of B. M. He had had the impertinence to discuss him in this very room. Why had Angela never told him? It was very unlike her to conceal anything; she had been the soul of candour. He turned the pages, picking out every reference to B. M. “B. M. told me the story of his childhood. His mother went out charring . . . When I think of it, I can hardly bear to go on living in such luxury. . ..Three guineas for one hat!” If only she had discussed the matter with him, instead of puzzling her poor little head about questions that were much too difficult for her to understand! He had lent her books. KARL MARX, THE COMING REVOLUTION. The initials B.M., B. M., B. M., recurred repeatedly. But why never the full name?

There was an informality, an intimacy in the use of initials that was very unlike Angela. Had she called him B. M. to his face? He read on. “B. M. came unexpectedly after dinner. Luckily, I was alone.” That was only a year ago. “Luckily”-why luckily?-”I was alone.” Where had he been that night? He checked the date in his engagement book. It had been the night of the Mansion House dinner. And B. M. and Angela had spent the evening alone! He tried to recall

104 that evening. Was she waiting up for him when he came back? Had the room looked just as usual? Were there glasses on the table? Were the chairs drawn close together? He could remember nothing-nothing whatever, nothing except his own speech at the Mansion House dinner. It became more and more inexplicable to him-the whole situation; his wife receiving an unknown man alone. Perhaps the next volume would explain. Hastily he reached for the last of the diaries-the one she had left unfinished when she died. There, on the very first page, was that cursed fellow again. “Dined alone with B. M. . .. He became very agitated. He said it was time we understood each other. . .. I tried to make him listen. But he would not. He threatened that if I did not . . .” the rest of the page was scored over.

She had written “Egypt. Egypt. Egypt,” over the whole page. He could not make out a single word; but there could be only one interpretation: the scoundrel had asked her to become his mistress. Alone in his room! The blood rushed to Gilbert Clandon’s face. He turned the pages rapidly. What had been her answer? Initials had ceased. It was simply “he” now. “He came again. I told him I could not come to any decision. . . . I implored him to leave me.” He had forced himself upon her in this very house. But why hadn’t she told him? How could she have hesitated for an instant? Then: “I wrote him a letter.” Then pages were left blank. Then there was this: “No answer to my letter.” Then more blank pages; and then this: “He has done what he threatened.” After that-what came after that? He turned page after page. All were blank. But there, on the very day before her death, was this entry: “Have I the courage to do it too?” That was the end.

Gilbert Clandon let the book slide to the floor. He could see her in front of him. She was standing on the kerb in Piccadilly. Her eyes stared; her fists were clenched. Here came the car. . He could not bear it. He must know the truth. He strode to the telephone. “Miss Miller!” There was silence. Then he heard someone moving in the room. “Sissy Miller speaking”-her voice at last answered him. “Who,” he thundered, “is B. M.?” He could hear the cheap clock ticking on her mantelpiece; then a long drawn sigh. Then at last she said: “He was my brother.” He WAS her brother; her brother who had killed himself. “Is there,” he heard Sissy Miller asking, “anything that I can explain?”“Nothing!” he cried. “Nothing!” He had received his legacy. She had told him the truth. She had stepped off the kerb to rejoin her lover. She had stepped off the kerb to escape from him.

Discussion questions

105 1. What puzzles Gilbert Clandon about the circumstances surrounding his wife’s death? 2. How does Gilbert initially account for Sissy Miller’s extreme distress when she enters the room? What does he later remember about her? Why does Gilbert feel that the brooch is a ‘rather incongruous gift’ for Sissy Miller? 3. Why does Sissy Miller extend an offer to help Gilbert? What is the role of B. M. in the story? 4. What does “that first year’ refer to? What was Gilbert trying to achieve then? Was he successful? 5. Why did Gilbert particularly enjoy travelling with his wife, Angela? What are Gilbert’s career ambitions at age fifty? 6. Why did Angela Clandon want to do volunteer work in the East End of London? What was Gilbert’s responce to her request? 7. How does Gilbert Clandon expect his wife to behave throughout their married life? How does Angela Clandon change during the course of their marriage? 8. What is Gilbert’s attitude toward the working class? Why do you think Angela was so attached to B. M.? 9. Do you feel sympathetic towards Gilbert Clandon? Do you think learning the truth about Angela and B. M. will affect Gilbert’s future plans? Explain your answer. 10. In your view, should Angela Clandon have confessed to what was going on while she was still alive?

JAMES JOYCE

The author James Joyce was born on February 2, 1882 in Dublin. He was the oldest of twelve children born to John Stanislaus Joyce and his wife Mary Jane. Joyce’s childhood was marked by constant moves and persistent financial difficulties. The children received a strict Catholic education.

James was supposed to become a priest. He attended several Jesuit schools, and studied philosophy and languages at the University College, Dublin. Announcing his intention to study medicine, Joyce moved to Paris in 1902.

This is where he first came into contact with the literature of Symbolism and Realism. Because of financial reasons, Joyce had to return to Dublin. He worked as a teacher and the

106 next year he met his future wife, Nora Barnacle, with whom he would leave his homeland forever.

In 1914 Joyce published his first literary work, “The Dubliners,” a volume of short stories. His short autobiographical novel “A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man” appeared in 1916 and became a source for his masterpiece “Ulysses,” very controversial during Joyce’s lifetime.

A preview of “Ulysses” appeared in the “Little Review,” and a censored version was published in 1922. Joyce broke all previous linguistic conventions with the forms of expression in this novel. It was considered outrageous and scandalous to contemporaries, who objected to the sexually charged language.

His late work, “Finnegan’s Wake,” which appeared in 1939, was considered by contemporary critics as unreadable, due to the complexity and opacity of the form and content. Joyce married Nora in 1931 and they lived with their two children all over Europe, in Pula, Triest, Zurich, Paris, and London.

Joyce worked as a journalist and language teacher for the Berlitz schools during this time. Joyce was financially supported much of his life by his brother Stanislaus and by his patroness Harriet Shaw Weaver. Almost blind and suffering from the complications of an operation on a perforated ulcer, James Joyce died on January 13, 1941 in Zurich.

EVELINE

She sat at the window watching the evening invade the avenue. Her head was leaned against the window curtains and in her nostrils was the odor of dusty cretonne. She was tired.

Few people passed. The man out of the last house passed on his way home; she heard his footsteps clacking along the concrete pavement and afterwards crunching on the cinder path before the new red houses. One time there used to be a field there in which they used to play every evening with other people’s children. Then a man from bought the field and built houses in it -- not like their little brown houses but bright brick houses with shining roofs. The children of the avenue used to play together in that field -- the Devines, the Waters, the Dunns, little Keogh the cripple, she and her brothers and sisters. Ernest, however, never played: he was too grown up. Her father used often to hunt them in out of the field with his

107 blackthorn stick; but usually little Keogh used to keep nix and call out when he saw her father coming. Still they seemed to have been rather happy then. Her father was not so bad then; and besides, her mother was alive. That was a long time ago; she and her brothers and sisters were all grown up her mother was dead. Tizzie Dunn was dead, too, and the Waters had gone back to England. Everything changes. Now she was going to go away like the others, to leave her home.

Home! She looked round the room, reviewing all its familiar objects which she had dusted once a week for so many years, wondering where on earth all the dust came from. Perhaps she would never see again those familiar objects from which she had never dreamed of being divided. And yet during all those years she had never found out the name of the priest whose yellowing photograph hung on the wall above the broken harmonium beside the coloured print of the promises made to Blessed Margaret Mary Alacoque. He had been a school friend of her father. Whenever he showed the photograph to a visitor her father used to pass it with a casual word: “He is in Melbourne now.” She had consented to go away, to leave her home. Was that wise? She tried to weigh each side of the question. In her home anyway she had shelter and food; she had those whom she had known all her life about her. Of course, she had to work hard, both in the house and at business.

What would they say of her in the Stores when they found out that she had run away with a fellow? Say she was a fool, perhaps; and her place would be filled up by advertisement. Miss Gavan would be glad. She had always had an edge on her, especially whenever there were people listening. “Miss Hill, don’t you see these ladies are waiting?”“Look lively, Miss Hill, please.” She would not cry many tears at leaving the Stores. But in her new home, in a distant unknown country, it would not be like that. Then she would be married -- she, Eveline. People would treat her with respect then. She would not be treated as her mother had been.

Even now, though she was over nineteen, she sometimes felt herself in danger of her father’s violence. She knew it was that that had given her the palpitations. When they were growing up he had never gone for her like he used to go for Harry and Ernest, because she was a girl but latterly he had begun to threaten her and say what he would do to her only for her dead mother’s sake. And no she had nobody to protect her. Ernest was dead and Harry, who was in the church decorating business, was nearly always down somewhere in the country. Besides, the invariable squabble for money on Saturday nights had begun to weary her unspeakably. She always gave her entire wages -- seven shillings -- and Harry always sent up what he could but the trouble was to get any money from her father. He said she used to squander the

108 money, that she had no head, that he wasn’t going to give her his hard-earned money to throw about the streets, and much more, for he was usually fairly bad on Saturday night. In the end he would give her the money and ask her had she any intention of buying Sunday’s dinner.

Then she had to rush out as quickly as she could and do her marketing, holding her black leather purse tightly in her hand as she elbowed her way through the crowds and returning home late under her load of provisions. She had hard work to keep the house together and to see that the two young children who had been left to her charge went to school regularly and got their meals regularly. It was hard work -- a hard life -- but now that she was about to leave it she did not find it a wholly undesirable life. She was about to explore another life with Frank. Frank was very kind, manly, open-hearted. She was to go away with him by the night- boat to be his wife and to live with him in Buenos Ayres where he had a home waiting for her. How well she remembered the first time she had seen him; he was lodging in a house on the main road where she used to visit. It seemed a few weeks ago. He was standing at the gate, his peaked cap pushed back on his head and his hair tumbled forward over a face of bronze. Then they had come to know each other. He used to meet her outside the Stores every evening and see her home. He took her to see The Bohemian Girl and she felt elated as she sat in an unaccustomed part of the theatre with him. He was awfully fond of music and sang a little. People knew that they were courting and, when he sang about the lass that loves a sailor, she always felt pleasantly confused. He used to call her Poppens out of fun. First of all it had been an excitement for her to have a fellow and then she had begun to like him. He had tales of distant countries. He had started as a deck boy at a pound a month on a ship of the Allan Line going out to Canada. He told her the names of the ships he had been on and the names of the different services. He had sailed through the Straits of Magellan and he told her stories of the terrible Patagonians. He had fallen on his feet in Buenos Ayres, he said, and had come over to the old country just for a holiday. Of course, her father had found out the affair and had forbidden her to have anything to say to him. “I know these sailor chaps,” he said.

One day he had quarrelled with Frank and after that she had to meet her lover secretly. The evening deepened in the avenue. The white of two letters in her lap grew indistinct. One was to Harry; the other was to her father. Ernest had been her favourite but she liked Harry too. Her father was becoming old lately, she noticed; he would miss her. Sometimes he could be very nice. Not long before, when she had been laid up for a day, he had read her out a ghost story and made toast for her at the fire. Another day, when their mother was alive, they had all gone for a picnic to the Hill of Howth. She remembered her father putting on her mother’s bonnet to make the children laugh. Her time was running out but she continued to sit by the

109 window, leaning her head against the window curtain, inhaling the odor of dusty cretonne. Down far in the avenue she could hear a street organ playing. She knew the air Strange that it should come that very night to remind her of the promise to her mother, her promise to keep the home together as long as she could. She remembered the last night of her mother’s illness; she was again in the close dark room at the other side of the hall and outside she heard a melancholy air of Italy. The organ-player had been ordered to go away and given sixpence. She remembered her father strutting back into the sickroom saying: “Damned Italians! Coming over here!” As she mused the pitiful vision of her mother’s life laid its spell on the very quick of her being -- that life of commonplace sacrifices closing in final craziness. She trembled as she heard again her mother’s voice saying constantly with foolish insistence: “Derevaun Seraun! Derevaun Seraun!” She stood up in a sudden impulse of terror. Escape! She must escape! Frank would save her. He would give her life, perhaps love, too. But she wanted to live. Why should she be unhappy? She had a right to happiness. Frank would take her in his arms, fold her in his arms. He would save her. She stood among the swaying crowd in the station at the North Wall. He held her hand and she knew that he was speaking to her, saying something about the passage over and over again. The station was full of soldiers with brown baggages. Through the wide doors of the sheds she caught a glimpse of the black mass of the boat, lying in beside the quay wall, with illumined portholes. She answered nothing. She felt her cheek pale and cold and, out of a maze of distress, she prayed to God to direct her, to show her what her duty was. The boat blew a long mournful whistle into the mist. If she went, tomorrow she would be on the sea with Frank, steaming towards Buenos Ayres.

Their passage had been booked. Could she still draw back after all he had done for her? Her distress awoke the nausea in her body and she kept moving her lips in silent fervent prayer. A bell clanged upon her heart. She felt him seize her hand: “Come!” All the seas of the world tumbled about her heart. He was drawing her into them: he would drown her. She gripped with both hands at the iron railing. “Come!” No! No! No! It was impossible. Her hands clutched the iron in frenzy. Amid the seas she sent a cry of anguish. “Eveline!Evvy!” He rushed beyond the barrier and called to her to follow. He was shouted at to go on but he still called to her. She set her white face to him, passive, like a helpless animal. Her eyes gave him no sign of love or farewell or recognition.

Discussion questions

110 1. Why didn’t Eveline go with Frank? Was it a rational decision or more of an emotional response? What do you think about her decision? What do you think the writer thinks about her decision? 2. Where in the story is Eveline compared to an animal? Why does the writer compare her to an animal? 3. After reading Eveline, what impression do you get of James Joyce’s attitude towards the Catholic Church? Find evidence in the story to prove this. 4. Discuss the motif ofdust which pervades the story. What does the dust symbolize? 5. There are two points of view present in this story: that of Eveline herself and that of the narrator. How can we differentiate in the story between these two points of view?

DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE

David Herbert Lawrence was born in 1885 in Eastwood, Nottinghamshire, the fourth child of Arthur Lawrence and Lydia Beardsall.

After attending Beauvale Board School he won a scholarship to Nottingham High School. On leaving school in 1901 he was employed for a short time as a clerk at the Nottingham firm of Haywards, manufacturers of surgical appliances, and from 1902 as a pupil teacher at the British School in Eastwood.

He attended the Pupil-Teacher Centre in Ilkeston from 1904 and in 1906 took up a teacher- training scholarship at University College, Nottingham. After qualifying in 1908 he took up a teaching post at the Davidson School in Croydon, remaining there until 1912.

In early 1912, after a period of serious illness, Lawrence left his teaching post at Croydon to return to Nottinghamshire, shortly afterwards eloping to Germany with Frieda Weekley, the wife of Professor Ernest Weekley. They returned to England in 1914 prior to the outbreak of war and were married at Kensington Register Office on 14 July. Confined to England during the war years, the Lawrences spent much of this time at Tregerthen in Cornwall.

In 1919 they left England once more, embarking on a period of extensive travelling within Europe and then further afield to Ceylon, Australia, Mexico and New Mexico.

111 His health continued to deteriorate and Lawrence returned to Europe with Frieda in 1925. During his last years Lawrence spent much of his time in Italy making only brief visits to England, the last in 1926. He died on 2 March 1930 at Vence in the south of France. Lawrence was a prolific writer - of poetry, novels, short stories, plays, essays, and criticism. His works are heavily autobiographical and the experiences of his early years in Nottinghamshire continued to exert a profound influence throughout his life.

ROCKING HORSE WINNER

There was a woman who was beautiful, who started with all the advantages, yet she had no luck. She married for love, and the love turned to dust. She had bonny children, yet she felt they had been thrust upon her, and she could not love them. They looked at her coldly, as if they were finding fault with her. And hurriedly she felt she must cover up some fault in herself. Yet what it was that she must cover up she never knew. Nevertheless, when her children were present, she always felt the centre of her heart go hard. This troubled her, and in her manner she was all the more gentle and anxious for her children, as if she loved them very much. Only she herself knew that at the centre of her heart was a hard little place that could not feel love, no, not for anybody. Everybody else said of her: “She is such a good mother. She adores her children.” Only she herself, and her children themselves, knew it was not so. They read it in each other’s eyes.

There were a boy and two little girls. They lived in a pleasant house, with a garden, and they had discreet servants, and felt themselves superior to anyone in the neighbourhood. Although they lived in style, they felt always an anxiety in the house. There was never enough money. The mother had a small income, and the father had a small income, but not nearly enough for the social position which they had to keep up. The father went into town to some office. But though he had good prospects, these prospects never materialised. There was always the grinding sense of the shortage of money, though the style was always kept up. At last the mother said: “I will see if I can’t make something.” But she did not know where to begin. She racked her brains, and tried this thing and the other, but could not find anything successful. The failure made deep lines come into her face. Her children were growing up, they would have to go to school. There must be more money, there must be more money. The father, who was always very handsome and expensive in his tastes, seemed as if he never

112 would be able to do anything worth doing. And the mother, who had a great belief in herself, did not succeed any better, and her tastes were just as expensive.

And so the house came to be haunted by the unspoken phrase: There must be more money! There must be more money! The children could hear it all the time though nobody said it aloud. They heard it at Christmas, when the expensive and splendid toys filled the nursery. Behind the shining modern rocking-horse, behind the smart doll’s house, a voice would start whispering: “There must be more money! There must be more money!” And the children would stop playing, to listen for a moment. They would look into each other’s eyes, to see if they had all heard. And each one saw in the eyes of the other two that they too had heard. “There must be more money! There must be more money!”

It came whispering from the springs of the still-swaying rocking-horse, and even the horse, bending his wooden, champing head, heard it. The big doll, sitting so pink and smirking in her new pram, could hear it quite plainly, and seemed to be smirking all the more self-consciously because of it. The foolish puppy, too, that took the place of the teddy-bear, he was looking so extraordinarily foolish for no other reason but that he heard the secret whisper all over the house: “There must be more money!”

Yet nobody ever said it aloud. The whisper was everywhere, and therefore no one spoke it. Just as no one ever says: “We are breathing!” in spite of the fact that breath is coming and going all the time. “Mother,” said the boy Paul one day, “why don’t we keep a car of our own? Why do we always use uncle’s, or else a taxi?” “Because we’re the poor members of the family,” said the mother. “But why are we, mother?” “Well - I suppose,” she said slowly and bitterly, “it’s because your father has no luck.” The boy was silent for some time. “Is luck money, mother?” he asked, rather timidly. “No, Paul. Not quite. It’s what causes you to have money.” “Oh!” said Paul vaguely. “I thought when Uncle Oscar said filthy lucker, it meant money.” “Filthy lucre does mean money,” said the mother. “But it’s lucre, not luck.” “Oh!” said the boy. “Then what is luck, mother?” “It’s what causes you to have money. If you’re lucky you have money. That’s why it’s better to be born lucky than rich. If you’re rich, you may lose your money. But if you’re lucky, you will always get more money.”

113 “Oh! Will you? And is father not lucky?” “Very unlucky, I should say,” she said bitterly. The boy watched her with unsure eyes. “Why?” he asked. “I don’t know. Nobody ever knows why one person is lucky and another unlucky.” “Don’t they? Nobody at all? Does nobody know?” “Perhaps God. But He never tells.” “He ought to, then. And aren’t you lucky either, mother?” “I can’t be, it I married an unlucky husband.” “But by yourself, aren’t you?” “I used to think I was, before I married. Now I think I am very unlucky indeed.” “Why?” “Well - never mind! Perhaps I’m not really,” she said. The child looked at her to see if she meant it. But he saw, by the lines of her mouth, that she was only trying to hide something from him. “Well, anyhow,” he said stoutly, “I’m a lucky person.” “Why?” said his mother, with a sudden laugh. He stared at her. He didn’t even know why he had said it. “God told me,” he asserted, brazening it out. “I hope He did, dear!”, she said, again with a laugh, but rather bitter. “He did, mother!” “Excellent!” said the mother, using one of her husband’s exclamations. The boy saw she did not believe him; or rather, that she paid no attention to his assertion. This angered him somewhere, and made him want to compel her attention. He went off by himself, vaguely, in a childish way, seeking for the clue to ‘luck’. Absorbed, taking no heed of other people, he went about with a sort of stealth, seeking inwardly for luck. He wanted luck, he wanted it, he wanted it. When the two girls were playing dolls in the nursery, he would sit on his big rocking-horse, charging madly into space, with a frenzy that made the little girls peer at him uneasily. Wildly the horse careered, the waving dark hair of the boy tossed, his eyes had a strange glare in them. The little girls dared not speak to him. When he had ridden to the end of his mad little journey, he climbed down and stood in front of his rocking-horse, staring fixedly into its lowered face. Its red mouth was slightly open, its big eye was wide and glassy-bright. “Now!” he would silently command the snorting steed. “Now take me to where there is luck! Now take me!”

114 And he would slash the horse on the neck with the little whip he had asked Uncle Oscar for. He knew the horse could take him to where there was luck, if only he forced it. So he would mount again and start on his furious ride, hoping at last to get there. “You’ll break your horse, Paul!” said the nurse. “He’s always riding like that! I wish he’d leave off!” said his elder sister Joan. But he only glared down on them in silence. Nurse gave him up. She could make nothing of him. Anyhow, he was growing beyond her. One day his mother and his Uncle Oscar came in when he was on one of his furious rides. He did not speak to them. “Hallo, you young jockey! Riding a winner?” said his uncle. “Aren’t you growing too big for a rocking-horse? You’re not a very little boy any longer, you know,” said his mother. But Paul only gave a blue glare from his big, rather close-set eyes. He would speak to nobody when he was in full tilt. His mother watched him with an anxious expression on her face. At last he suddenly stopped forcing his horse into the mechanical gallop and slid down. “Well, I got there!” he announced fiercely, his blue eyes still flaring, and his sturdy long legs straddling apart. “Where did you get to?” asked his mother. “Where I wanted to go,” he flared back at her. “That’s right, son!” said Uncle Oscar. “Don’t you stop till you get there. What’s the horse’s name?” “He doesn’t have a name,” said the boy. “Gets on without all right?” asked the uncle. “Well, he has different names. He was called Sansovino last week.” “Sansovino, eh?Won the Ascot. How did you know this name?” “He always talks about horse-races with Bassett,” said Joan.

The uncle was delighted to find that his small nephew was posted with all the racing news. Bassett, the young gardener, who had been wounded in the left foot in the war and had got his present job through Oscar Cresswell, whose batman he had been, was a perfect blade of the ‘turf’. He lived in the racing events, and the small boy lived with him. Oscar Cresswell got it all from Bassett. “Master Paul comes and asks me, so I can’t do more than tell him, sir,” said Bassett, his face terribly serious, as if he were speaking of religious matters. “And does he ever put anything on a horse he fancies?”

115 “Well - I don’t want to give him away - he’s a young sport, a fine sport, sir. Would you mind asking him himself? He sort of takes a pleasure in it, and perhaps he’d feel I was giving him away, sir, if you don’t mind. Bassett was serious as a church. The uncle went back to his nephew and took him off for a ride in the car. “Say, Paul, old man, do you ever put anything on a horse?” the uncle asked. The boy watched the handsome man closely. “Why, do you think I oughtn’t to?” he parried. “Not a bit of it! I thought perhaps you might give me a tip for the Lincoln.” The car sped on into the country, going down to Uncle Oscar’s place in Hampshire. “Honour bright?” said the nephew. “Honour bright, son!” said the uncle. “Well, then, Daffodil.” “Daffodil! I doubt it, sonny. What about Mirza?” “I only know the winner,” said the boy. “That’s Daffodil.” “Daffodil, eh?” There was a pause. Daffodil was an obscure horse comparatively. “Uncle!” “Yes, son?” “You won’t let it go any further, will you? I promised Bassett.” “Bassett be damned, old man! What’s he got to do with it?” “We’re partners. We’ve been partners from the first. Uncle, he lent me my first five shillings, which I lost. I promised him, honour bright, it was only between me and him; only you gave me that ten-shilling note I started winning with, so I thought you were lucky. You won’t let it go any further, will you?” The boy gazed at his uncle from those big, hot, blue eyes, set rather close together. The uncle stirred and laughed uneasily. “Right you are, son! I’ll keep your tip private. How much are you putting on him?” “All except twenty pounds,” said the boy. “I keep that in reserve.” The uncle thought it a good joke. “You keep twenty pounds in reserve, do you, you young romancer? What are you betting, then?” “I’m betting three hundred,” said the boy gravely. “But it’s between you and me, Uncle Oscar! Honour bright?” “It’s between you and me all right, you young Nat Gould,” he said, laughing. “But where’s your three hundred?”

116 “Bassett keeps it for me. We’re partners.” “You are, are you! And what is Bassett putting on Daffodil?” “He won’t go quite as high as I do, I expect. Perhaps he’ll go a hundred and fifty.” “What, pennies?” laughed the uncle. “Pounds,” said the child, with a surprised look at his uncle. “Bassett keeps a bigger reserve than I do.” Between wonder and amusement Uncle Oscar was silent. He pursued the matter no further, but he determined to take his nephew with him to the Lincoln races. “Now, son,” he said, “I’m putting twenty on Mirza, and I’ll put five on for you on any horse you fancy. What’s your pick?” “Daffodil, uncle.” “No, not the fiver on Daffodil!” “I should if it was my own fiver,” said the child. “Good! Good! Right you are! A fiver for me and a fiver for you on Daffodil.” The child had never been to a race-meeting before, and his eyes were blue fire. He pursed his mouth tight and watched. A Frenchman just in front had put his money on Lancelot. Wild with excitement, he flayed his arms up and down, yelling “Lancelot!, Lancelot!” in his French accent. Daffodil came in first, Lancelot second, Mirza third. The child, flushed and with eyes blazing, was curiously serene. His uncle brought him four five-pound notes, four to one. “What am I to do with these?” he cried, waving them before the boys eyes. “I suppose we’ll talk to Bassett,” said the boy. “I expect I have fifteen hundred now; and twenty in reserve; and this twenty.” His uncle studied him for some moments. “Look here, son!” he said. “You’re not serious about Bassett and that fifteen hundred, are you?” “Yes, I am. But it’s between you and me, uncle. Honour bright?” “Honour bright all right, son! But I must talk to Bassett.” “If you’d like to be a partner, uncle, with Bassett and me, we could all be partners. Only, you’d have to promise, honour bright, uncle, not to let it go beyond us three. Bassett and I are lucky, and you must be lucky, because it was your ten shillings I started winning with ...”

Uncle Oscar took both Bassett and Paul into Richmond Park for an afternoon, and there they talked. “It’s like this, you see, sir,” Bassett said. “Master Paul would get me talking about racing events, spinning yarns, you know, sir. And he was always keen on knowing if I’d made or if

117 I’d lost. It’s about a year since, now, that I put five shillings on Blush of Dawn for him: and we lost. Then the luck turned, with that ten shillings he had from you: that we put on Singhalese. And since that time, it’s been pretty steady, all things considering. What do you say, Master Paul?” “We’re all right when we’re sure,” said Paul. “It’s when we’re not quite sure that we go down.” “Oh, but we’re careful then,” said Bassett. “But when are you sure?” smiled Uncle Oscar. “It’s Master Paul, sir,” said Bassett in a secret, religious voice. “It’s as if he had it from heaven. Like Daffodil, now, for the Lincoln. That was as sure as eggs.” “Did you put anything on Daffodil?” asked Oscar Cresswell. “Yes, sir, I made my bit.” “And my nephew?” Bassett was obstinately silent, looking at Paul. “I made twelve hundred, didn’t I, Bassett? I told uncle I was putting three hundred on Daffodil.” “That’s right,” said Bassett, nodding. “But where’s the money?” asked the uncle. “I keep it safe locked up, sir. Master Paul he can have it any minute he likes to ask for it.” “What, fifteen hundred pounds?” “And twenty! And forty, that is, with the twenty he made on the course.” “It’s amazing!” said the uncle. “If Master Paul offers you to be partners, sir, I would, if I were you: if you’ll excuse me,” said Bassett. Oscar Cresswell thought about it. “I’ll see the money,” he said. They drove home again, and, sure enough, Bassett came round to the garden-house with fifteen hundred pounds in notes. The twenty pounds reserve was left with Joe Glee, in the Turf Commission deposit. “You see, it’s all right, uncle, when I’m sure! Then we go strong, for all we’re worth, don’t we, Bassett?” “We do that, Master Paul.” “And when are you sure?” said the uncle, laughing. “Oh, well, sometimes I’m absolutely sure, like about Daffodil,” said the boy; “and sometimes I have an idea; and sometimes I haven’t even an idea, have I, Bassett? Then we’re careful, because we mostly go down.”

118 “You do, do you! And when you’re sure, like about Daffodil, what makes you sure, sonny?” “Oh, well, I don’t know,” said the boy uneasily. “I’m sure, you know, uncle; that’s all.” “It’s as if he had it from heaven, sir,” Bassett reiterated. “I should say so!” said the uncle.

But he became a partner. And when the Leger was coming on Paul was ‘sure’ about Lively Spark, which was a quite inconsiderable horse. The boy insisted on putting a thousand on the horse, Bassett went for five hundred, and Oscar Cresswell two hundred. Lively Spark came in first, and the betting had been ten to one against him. Paul had made ten thousand. You see,” he said. “I was absolutely sure of him.” Even Oscar Cresswell had cleared two thousand. “Look here, son,” he said, “this sort of thing makes me nervous.” “It needn’t, uncle! Perhaps I shan’t be sure again for a long time.” “But what are you going to do with your money?” asked the uncle. “Of course,” said the boy, “I started it for mother. She said she had no luck, because father is unlucky, so I thought if I was lucky, it might stop whispering.” “What might stop whispering?” “Our house. I hate our house for whispering.” “What does it whisper?” “Why - why” - the boy fidgeted - “why, I don’t know. But it’s always short of money, you know, uncle.” “I know it, son, I know it.” “You know people send mother writs, don’t you, uncle?” “I’m afraid I do,” said the uncle. “And then the house whispers, like people laughing at you behind your back. It’s awful, that is! I thought if I was lucky -” “You might stop it,” added the uncle. The boy watched him with big blue eyes, that had an uncanny cold fire in them, and he said never a word. “Well, then!” said the uncle. “What are we doing?” “I shouldn’t like mother to know I was lucky,” said the boy. “Why not, son?” “She’d stop me.” “I don’t think she would.” “Oh!” - and the boy writhed in an odd way - “I don’t want her to know, uncle.” “All right, son! We’ll manage it without her knowing.”

119 They managed it very easily. Paul, at the other’s suggestion, handed over five thousand pounds to his uncle, who deposited it with the family lawyer, who was then to inform Paul’s mother that a relative had put five thousand pounds into his hands, which sum was to be paid out a thousand pounds at a time, on the mother’s birthday, for the next five years. “So she’ll have a birthday present of a thousand pounds for five successive years,” said Uncle Oscar. “I hope it won’t make it all the harder for her later.”

Paul’s mother had her birthday in November. The house had been ‘whispering’ worse than ever lately, and, even in spite of his luck, Paul could not bear up against it. He was very anxious to see the effect of the birthday letter, telling his mother about the thousand pounds. When there were no visitors, Paul now took his meals with his parents, as he was beyond the nursery control. His mother went into town nearly every day. She had discovered that she had an odd knack of sketching furs and dress materials, so she worked secretly in the studio of a friend who was the chief ‘artist’ for the leading drapers. She drew the figures of ladies in furs and ladies in silk and sequins for the newspaper advertisements. This young woman artist earned several thousand pounds a year, but Paul’s mother only made several hundreds, and she was again dissatisfied. She so wanted to be first in something, and she did not succeed, even in making sketches for drapery advertisements.

She was down to breakfast on the morning of her birthday. Paul watched her face as she read her letters. He knew the lawyer’s letter. As his mother read it, her face hardened and became more expressionless. Then a cold, determined look came on her mouth. She hid the letter under the pile of others, and said not a word about it. “Didn’t you have anything nice in the post for your birthday, mother?” said Paul. “Quite moderately nice,” she said, her voice cold and hard and absent. She went away to town without saying more. But in the afternoon Uncle Oscar appeared. He said Paul’s mother had had a long interview with the lawyer, asking if the whole five thousand could not be advanced at once, as she was in debt. “What do you think, uncle?” said the boy. “I leave it to you, son.” “Oh, let her have it, then! We can get some more with the other,” said the boy. “A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, laddie!” said Uncle Oscar. “But I’m sure to know for the Grand National; or the Lincolnshire; or else the Derby. I’m sure to know for one of them,” said Paul.

120 So Uncle Oscar signed the agreement, and Paul’s mother touched the whole five thousand.

Then something very curious happened. The voices in the house suddenly went mad, like a chorus of frogs on a spring evening. There were certain new furnishings, and Paul had a tutor. He was really going to Eton, his father’s school, in the following autumn. There were flowers in the winter, and a blossoming of the luxury Paul’s mother had been used to. And yet the voices in the house, behind the sprays of mimosa and almond-blossom, and from under the piles of iridescent cushions, simply trilled and screamed in a sort of ecstasy: “There must be more money! Oh-h-h; there must be more money. Oh, now, now-w! Now-w-w - there must be more money! - more than ever! More than ever!” It frightened Paul terribly. He studied away at his Latin and Greek with his tutor. But his intense hours were spent with Bassett. The Grand National had gone by: he had not ‘known’, and had lost a hundred pounds. Summer was at hand. He was in agony for the Lincoln. But even for the Lincoln he didn’t ‘know’, and he lost fifty pounds. He became wild-eyed and strange, as if something were going to explode in him. “Let it alone, son! Don’t you bother about it!” urged Uncle Oscar. But it was as if the boy couldn’t really hear what his uncle was saying. “I’ve got to know for the Derby! I’ve got to know for the Derby!” the child reiterated, his big blue eyes blazing with a sort of madness. His mother noticed how overwrought he was. “You’d better go to the seaside. Wouldn’t you like to go now to the seaside, instead of waiting? I think you’d better,” she said, looking down at him anxiously, her heart curiously heavy because of him. But the child lifted his uncanny blue eyes. “I couldn’t possibly go before the Derby, mother!” he said. “I couldn’t possibly!” “Why not?” she said, her voice becoming heavy when she was opposed.“Why not? You can still go from the seaside to see the Derby with your Uncle Oscar, if that that’s what you wish. No need for you to wait here. Besides, I think you care too much about these races. It’s a bad sign. My family has been a gambling family, and you won’t know till you grow up how much damage it has done. But it has done damage. I shall have to send Bassett away, and ask Uncle Oscar not to talk racing to you, unless you promise to be reasonable about it: go away to the seaside and forget it. You’re all nerves!” “I’ll do what you like, mother, so long as you don’t send me away till after the Derby,” the boy said. “Send you away from where? Just from this house?” “Yes,” he said, gazing at her.

121 “Why, you curious child, what makes you care about this house so much, suddenly? I never knew you loved it.” He gazed at her without speaking. He had a secret within a secret, something he had not divulged, even to Bassett or to his Uncle Oscar. But his mother, after standing undecided and a little bit sullen for some moments, said: “Very well, then! Don’t go to the seaside till after the Derby, if you don’t wish it. But promise me you won’t think so much about horse-racing and events as you call them!” “Oh no,” said the boy casually. “I won’t think much about them, mother. You needn’t worry. I wouldn’t worry, mother, if I were you.” “If you were me and I were you,” said his mother, “I wonder what we should do!” “But you know you needn’t worry, mother, don’t you?” the boy repeated. “I should be awfully glad to know it,” she said wearily. “Oh, well, you can, you know. I mean, you ought to know you needn’t worry,” he insisted. “Ought I? Then I’ll see about it,” she said. Paul’s secret of secrets was his wooden horse, that which had no name. Since he was emancipated from a nurse and a nursery-governess, he had had his rocking-horse removed to his own bedroom at the top of the house. “Surely you’re too big for a rocking-horse!” his mother had remonstrated. “Well, you see, mother, till I can have a real horse, I like to have some sort of animal about,” had been his quaint answer. “Do you feel he keeps you company?” she laughed. “Oh yes! He’s very good, he always keeps me company, when I’m there,” said Paul. So the horse, rather shabby, stood in an arrested prance in the boy’s bedroom. The Derby was drawing near, and the boy grew more and more tense. He hardly heard what was spoken to him, he was very frail, and his eyes were really uncanny. His mother had sudden strange seizures of uneasiness about him. Sometimes, for half an hour, she would feel a sudden anxiety about him that was almost anguish. She wanted to rush to him at once, and know he was safe.

Two nights before the Derby, she was at a big party in town, when one of her rushes of anxiety about her boy, her first-born, gripped her heart till she could hardly speak. She fought with the feeling, might and main, for she believed in common sense. But it was too strong. She had to leave the dance and go downstairs to telephone to the country. The children’s nursery-governess was terribly surprised and startled at being rung up in the night.

122 “Are the children all right, Miss Wilmot?” “Oh yes, they are quite all right.” “Master Paul? Is he all right?” “He went to bed as right as a trivet. Shall I run up and look at him?” “No,” said Paul’s mother reluctantly. “No! Don’t trouble. It’s all right. Don’t sit up. We shall be home fairly soon.” She did not want her son’s privacy intruded upon. “Very good,” said the governess.

It was about one o’clock when Paul’s mother and father drove up to their house. All was still. Paul’s mother went to her room and slipped off her white fur cloak. She had told her maid not to wait up for her. She heard her husband downstairs, mixing a whisky and soda. And then, because of the strange anxiety at her heart, she stole upstairs to her son’s room. Noiselessly she went along the upper corridor. Was there a faint noise? What was it? She stood, with arrested muscles, outside his door, listening. There was a strange, heavy, and yet not loud noise. Her heart stood still. It was a soundless noise, yet rushing and powerful. Something huge, in violent, hushed motion. What was it? What in God’s name was it? She ought to know. She felt that she knew the noise. She knew what it was. Yet she could not place it. She couldn’t say what it was. And on and on it went, like a madness. Softly, frozen with anxiety and fear, she turned the door-handle. The room was dark. Yet in the space near the window, she heard and saw something plunging to and fro. She gazed in fear and amazement.

Then suddenly she switched on the light, and saw her son, in his green pyjamas, madly surging on the rocking-horse. The blaze of light suddenly lit him up, as he urged the wooden horse, and lit her up, as she stood, blonde, in her dress of pale green and crystal, in the doorway. “Paul!” she cried. “Whatever are you doing?” “It’s Malabar!” he screamed in a powerful, strange voice. “It’s Malabar!” His eyes blazed at her for one strange and senseless second, as he ceased urging his wooden horse. Then he fell with a crash to the ground, and she, all her tormented motherhood flooding upon her, rushed to gather him up. But he was unconscious, and unconscious he remained, with some brain-fever. He talked and tossed, and his mother sat stonily by his side. “Malabar! It’s Malabar! Bassett, Bassett, I know! It’s Malabar!” So the child cried, trying to get up and urge the rocking-horse that gave him his inspiration. “What does he mean by Malabar?” asked the heart-frozen mother.

123 “I don’t know,” said the father stonily. “What does he mean by Malabar?” she asked her brother Oscar. “It’s one of the horses running for the Derby,” was the answer. And, in spite of himself, Oscar Cresswell spoke to Bassett, and himself put a thousand on Malabar: at fourteen to one.

The third day of the illness was critical: they were waiting for a change. The boy, with his rather long, curly hair, was tossing ceaselessly on the pillow. He neither slept nor regained consciousness, and his eyes were like blue stones. His mother sat, feeling her heart had gone, turned actually into a stone. In the evening Oscar Cresswell did not come, but Bassett sent a message, saying could he come up for one moment, just one moment? Paul’s mother was very angry at the intrusion, but on second thoughts she agreed. The boy was the same. Perhaps Bassett might bring him to consciousness. The gardener, a shortish fellow with a little brown moustache and sharp little brown eyes, tiptoed into the room, touched his imaginary cap to Paul’s mother, and stole to the bedside, staring with glittering, smallish eyes at the tossing, dying child. “Master Paul!” he whispered. “Master Paul! Malabar came in first all right, a clean win. I did as you told me. You’ve made over seventy thousand pounds, you have; you’ve got over eighty thousand. Malabar came in all right, Master Paul.” “Malabar! Malabar! Did I say Malabar, mother? Did I say Malabar? Do you think I’m lucky, mother? I knew Malabar, didn’t I? Over eighty thousand pounds! I call that lucky, don’t you, mother? Over eighty thousand pounds! I knew, didn’t I know I knew? Malabar came in all right. If I ride my horse till I’m sure, then I tell you, Bassett, you can go as high as you like. Did you go for all you were worth, Bassett?”“I went a thousand on it, Master Paul.” “I never told you, mother, that if I can ride my horse, and get there, then I’m absolutely sure - oh, absolutely! Mother, did I ever tell you? I am lucky!”“No, you never did,” said his mother.

But the boy died in the night. And even as he lay dead, his mother heard her brother’s voice saying to her, “My God, Hester, you’re eighty-odd thousand to the good, and a poor devil of a son to the bad. But, poor devil, poor devil, he’s best gone out of a life where he rides his rocking-horse to find a winner.”

Discussion questions

1. The second sentence of the story says Paul’s mother “married for love.” Do you believe she was truly in love or merely infatuated?

124 2. Is Bassett genuinely concerned about Paul’s welfare or does he simply regard Paul as a “money machine”? 3. Are the house voices real? Or does Paul hear them because he is mentally disturbed? 4. Do you believe this ....practice can be beneficial under certain circumstances? 5. What is the climax in ‘The Rocking Horse Winner’?

HECTOR HUGH MUNRO (SAKI)

Saki was born Hector Hugh Munro on December 18, 1870, in Akyab, Burma, the third child of Major Charles Augustus Munro and his wife, Mary (née Mercer) Frances. Saki’s mother would die in pregnancy two years later. Brought to Great Britain by their father, Hector and his siblings were reared by two rather repressive aunts until Major Munro resigned his commission and took his children on extended tours through Europe to further their education; this period marked the end of Hector’s time at one of Great Britain’s upper-class public schools. During this time, the Munros liked to stay in Davos, Switzerland; it was there that the boy made the acquaintance of the writer John Addington Symonds, a man whose homosexual orientation the adult Munro would share. At twenty-three, Munro served for a short time as a military police officer in Burma before malaria brought him back to Great Britain, where he set up bachelor’s quarters in London. Munro published his first book, The Rise of the Russian Empire, in 1900, yet readers delighted much more in his political , which featured an Alice in Wonderland who encountered modern political figures. Accompanied by the drawings of F. Carruthers Gould, The Westminster Alice (collected in 1902) made famous its creator, who took the pen name of Saki from the boyish cupbearer to the gods of Edward FitzGerald’s The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (1859) and would continue to write all of his fiction under this pseudonym. In 1902, Saki served as correspondent for the conservative London newspaper Morning Post and saw the Balkans, Russia, and France before he retired to London after the death of his father in 1908. As Saki, he steadily wrote his short stories for publication in British magazines and enjoyed such a success among his exclusive readership that his stories were collected in book form in 1910 and 1911. A year later, Saki’s novel The Unbearable Bassington (1912) appeared, and another novel followed, When William Came (1913).

125 At the height of his fame for his short fiction and while he was working on a play, broke out. Saki volunteered for military service. Refusing an officer’s commission or a “safe” position, Munro fought in France and was killed in action during the Beaumont-Hamel offensive on November 14, 1916.

THE OPEN WINDOW

“My aunt will be down presently, Mr. Nuttel,” said a very self-possessed young lady of fifteen; “in the meantime you must try and put up with me.”

Framton Nuttel endeavoured to say the correct something which should duly flatter the niece of the moment without unduly discounting the aunt that was to come. Privately he doubted more than ever whether these formal visits on a succession of total strangers would do much towards helping the nerve cure which he was supposed to be undergoing. “I know how it will be,” his sister had said when he was preparing to migrate to this rural retreat; “you will bury yourself down there and not speak to a living soul, and your nerves will be worse than ever from moping. I shall just give you letters of introduction to all the people I know there. Some of them, as far as I can remember, were quite nice.”

Framton wondered whether Mrs. Sappleton, the lady to whom he was presenting one of the letters of introduction, came into the nice division. “Do you know many of the people round here?” asked the niece, when she judged that they had had sufficient silent communion. “Hardly a soul,” said Framton. “My sister was staying here, at the rectory, you know, some four years ago, and she gave me letters of introduction to some of the people here.” He made the last statement in a tone of distinct regret. “Then you know practically nothing about my aunt?” pursued the self-possessed young lady. “Only her name and address,” admitted the caller. He was wondering whether Mrs. Sappleton was in the married or widowed state. An undefinable something about the room seemed to suggest masculine habitation.

126 “Her great tragedy happened just three years ago,” said the child; “that would be since your sister’s time.” “Her tragedy?” asked Framton; somehow in this restful country spot tragedies seemed out of place. “You may wonder why we keep that window wide open on an October afternoon,” said the niece, indicating a large French window that opened on to a lawn. “It is quite warm for the time of the year,” said Framton; “but has that window got anything to do with the tragedy?” “Out through that window, three years ago to a day, her husband and her two young brothers went off for their day’s shooting. They never came back. In crossing the moor to their favourite snipe-shooting ground they were all three engulfed in a treacherous piece of bog. It had been that dreadful wet summer, you know, and places that were safe in other years gave way suddenly without warning. Their bodies were never recovered. That was the dreadful part of it.” Here the child’s voice lost its self-possessed note and became falteringly human.

“Poor aunt always thinks that they will come back some day, they and the little brown spaniel that was lost with them, and walk in at that window just as they used to do. That is why the window is kept open every evening till it is quite dusk. Poor dear aunt, she has often told me how they went out, her husband with his white waterproof coat over his arm, and Ronnie, her youngest brother, singing ‘Bertie, why do you bound?’ as he always did to tease her, because she said it got on her nerves. Do you know, sometimes on still, quiet evenings like this, I almost get a creepy feeling that they will all walk in through that window – “ She broke off with a little shudder. It was a relief to Framton when the aunt bustled into the room with a whirl of apologies for being late in making her appearance. “I hope Vera has been amusing you?” she said. “She has been very interesting,” said Framton. “I hope you don’t mind the open window,” said Mrs. Sappleton briskly; “my husband and brothers will be home directly from shooting, and they always come in this way. They’ve been out for snipe in the marshes to-day, so they’ll make a fine mess over my poor carpets. So like you men-folk, isn’t it?”

She rattled on cheerfully about the shooting and the scarcity of birds, and the prospects for duck in the winter. To Framton it was all purely horrible. He made a desperate but only partially successful effort to turn the talk on to a less ghastly topic; he was conscious that his hostess was giving him only a fragment of her attention, and her eyes were constantly straying

127 past him to the open window and the lawn beyond. It was certainly an unfortunate coincidence that he should have paid his visit on this tragic anniversary. “The doctors agree in ordering me complete rest, an absence of mental excitement, and avoidance of anything in the nature of violent physical exercise,” announced Framton, who laboured under the tolerably widespread delusion that total strangers and chance acquaintances are hungry for the least detail of one’s ailments and infirmities, their cause and cure. “On the matter of diet they are not so much in agreement,” he continued. “No?” said Mrs. Sappleton, in a voice which only replaced a yawn at the last moment. Then she suddenly brightened into alert attention – but not to what Framton was saying. “Here they are at last!” she cried. “Just in time for tea, and don’t they look as if they were muddy up to the eyes!”

Framton shivered slightly and turned towards the niece with a look intended to convey sympathetic comprehension. The child was staring out through the open window with dazed horror in her eyes. In a chill shock of nameless fear Framton swung round in his seat and looked in the same direction.

In the deepening twilight three figures were walking across the lawn towards the window; they all carried guns under their arms, and one of them was additionally burdened with a white coat hung over his shoulders. A tired brown spaniel kept close at their heels. Noiselessly they neared the house, and then a hoarse young voice chanted out of the dusk: “I said, Bertie, why do you bound?”

Framton grabbed wildly at his stick and hat; the hall-door, the gravel-drive, and the front gate were dimly-noted stages in his headlong retreat. A cyclist coming along the road had to run into the hedge to avoid an imminent collision.

“Here we are, my dear,” said the bearer of the white mackintosh, coming in through the window; “fairly muddy, but most of it’s dry. Who was that who bolted out as we came up?” “A most extraordinary man, a Mr. Nuttel,” said Mrs. Sappleton; “could only talk about his illnesses, and dashed off without a word of good-bye or apology when you arrived. One would think he had seen a ghost.”

“I expect it was the spaniel,” said the niece calmly; “he told me he had a horror of dogs. He was once hunted into a cemetery somewhere on the banks of the Ganges by a pack of pariah

128 dogs, and had to spend the night in a newly dug grave with the creatures snarling and grinning and foaming just above him. Enough to make anyone lose their nerve.” Romance at short notice was her speciality.

Discussion questions

1. Mr. Frampton Nuttel is a visitor to the area and to the home. How is he? What is his attitude about his neighbors? 2. What is Mrs. Sappleton’s tragedy? What different things does the open window in the story symbolize to the characters 3. When and how do readers know that Mrs. Sappleton’s niece has been lying? Once it is revealed that she has been lying, can you find anything earlier in the story that, in retrospect, might seem like a clue to her deception? 4. What is the irony in “The Open Window”? 5.Why does Framton “need” to take a journey? 6. What causes Framton’s sudden departure? What explanation does Vera offer? 7. In your opinion, is Framton or Vera the more likeable character? Why?

THE MOUSE

Theodoric Voler had been brought up, from infancy to the confines of middle age, by a fond mother whose chief solicitude had been to keep him screened from what she called the coarser realities of life.

When she died she left Theodoric alone in a world that was as real as ever, and a good deal coarser than he considered it had any need to be. To a man of his temperament and upbringing even a simple railway journey was crammed with petty annoyances and minor discords, and as he settled himself down in a second-class compartment one September morning he was conscious of ruffled feelings and general mental discomposure. He had been staying at a country vicarage, the inmates of which had been certainly neither brutal nor bacchanalian, but their supervision of the domestic establishment had been of that lax order which invites disaster. The pony carriage that was to take him to the station had never been properly ordered, and when the moment for his departure drew near, the handyman who should have produced the required article was nowhere to be found. In this emergency Theodoric, to his mute but very intense disgust, found himself obliged to collaborate with the vicar’s daughter

129 in the task of harnessing the pony, which necessitated groping about in an ill-lighted outbuilding called a stable, and smelling very like one--except in patches where it smelled of mice. Without being actually afraid of mice, Theodoric classed them among the coarser incidents of life, and considered that Providence, with a little exercise of moral courage, might long ago have recognized that they were not indispensable, and have withdrawn them from circulation.

As the train glided out of the station Theodoric’s nervous imagination accused himself of exhaling a weak odor of stable yard, and possibly of displaying a moldy straw or two on his unusually well-brushed garments. Fortunately the only other occupation of the compartment, a lady of about the same age as himself, seemed inclined for slumber rather than scrutiny; the train was not due to stop till the terminus was reached, in about an hour’s time, and the carriage was of the old-fashioned sort that held no communication with a corridor, therefore no further traveling companions were likely to intrude on Theodoric’s semi-privacy.

And yet the train had scarcely attained its normal speed before he became reluctantly but vividly aware that he was not alone with the slumbering lady; he was not even alone in his own clothes. A warm, creeping movement over his flesh betrayed the unwelcome and highly resented presence, unseen but poignant, of a strayed mouse, that had evidently dashed into its present retreat during the episode of the pony harnessing. Furtive stamps and shakes and wildly directed pinches failed to dislodge the intruder, whose motto, indeed, seemed to be Excelsior; and the lawful occupant of the clothes lay back against the cushions and endeavored rapidly to evolve some means for putting an end to the dual ownership.

It was unthinkable that he should continue for the space of a whole hour in the horrible position of a Rowton House for vagrant mice (already his imagination had at least doubled the numbers of the alien invasion). On the other hand, nothing less drastic than partial disrobing would ease him of his tormentor, and to undress in the presence of a lady, even for so laudable a purpose, was an idea that made his ear tips tingle in a blush of abject shame. He had never been able to bring himself even to the mild exposure of openwork socks in the presence of the fair sex. And yet--the lady in this case was to all appearances soundly and securely asleep; the mouse, on the other hand, seemed to be trying to crowd a wanderjar into a few strenuous minutes. If there is any truth in the theory of transmigration, this particular mouse must certainly have been in a former state a member of the Alpine Club. Sometimes in its eagerness it lost its footing and slipped for half an inch or so; and then, in fright, or more probably temper, it bit. Theodoric was goaded into the most audacious undertaking of his life.

130 Crimsoning to the hue of a beetroot and keeping an agonized watch on his slumbering fellow traveler, he swiftly and noiselessly secured the ends of his railway rug to the racks on either side of the carriage, so that a substantial curtain hung athwart the compartment. In the narrow dressing room that he had thus improvised he proceeded with violent haste to extricate himself partially and the mouse entirely from the surrounding casings of tweed and half-wool.

As the unraveled mouse gave a wild leap to the floor, the rug, slipping its fastening at either end, also came down with a heart-curdling flop, and almost simultaneously the awakened sleeper opened her eyes. With a movement almost quicker than the mouse’s, Theodoric pounced on the rug and hauled its ample folds chin-high over his dismantled person as he collapsed into the farther corner of the carriage. The blood raced and beat in the veins of his neck and forehead, while he waited dumbly for the communication cord to be pulled. The lady, however, contented herself with a silent stare at her strangely muffled companion. How much had she seen, Theodoric queried to himself; and in any case what on earth must she think of his present posture? “I think I have caught a chill,” he ventured desperately. “Really, I’m sorry,” she replied. “I was just going to ask you if you would open this window.” “I fancy it’s malaria,” he added, his teeth chattering slightly, as much from fright as from a desire to support his theory. “I’ve got some brandy in my holdall, if you’ll kindly reach it down for me,” said his companion. “Not for worlds--I mean, I never take anything for it,” he assured her earnestly. “I suppose you caught it in the tropics?”

Theodoric, whose acquaintance with the tropics was limited to an annual present of a chest of tea from an uncle in Ceylon, felt that even the malaria was slipping from him. Would it be possible, he wondered to disclose the real state of affairs to her in small installments? “Are you afraid of mice?” he ventured, growing, if possible, more scarlet in the face. “Not unless they came in quantities. Why do you ask?” “I had one crawling inside my clothes just now,” said Theodoric in a voice that hardly seemed his own. “It was a most awkward situation.” “It must have been, if you wear your clothes at all tight,” she observed. “But mice have strange ideas of comfort.” “I had to get rid of it while you were asleep,” he continued. Then, with a gulp, he added, “It was getting rid of it that brought me to-to this.”

131 “Surely leaving off one small mouse wouldn’t bring on a chill,” she exclaimed, with a levity that Theodoric accounted abominable. Evidently she had detected something of his predicament, and was enjoying his confusion. All the blood in his body seemed to have mobilized in one concentrated blush, and an agony of abasement, worse than a myriad mouse, crept up and down over his soul. And then, as reflection began to assert itself, sheer terror took the place of humiliation. With every minute that passed the train was rushing nearer to the crowded and bustling terminus, where dozens of prying eyes would be exchanged for the one paralyzing pair that watched him from the farther corner of the carriage. There was one slender, despairing chance, which the next few minutes must decide. His fellow traveler might relapse into a blessed slumber. But as the minutes throbbed by that chance ebbed away. The furtive glance which Theodoric stole at her from time to time disclosed only an unwinking wakefulness. “I think we must be getting near now,” she presently observed.

Theodoric had already noted with growing terror the recurring stacks of small, ugly dwellings that heralded the journey’s end. The words acted as a signal. Like a hunted beast breaking cover and dashing madly toward some other haven of momentary safety he threw aside his rug, and struggled frantically into his disheveled garments. He was conscious of dull suburban stations racing past the window, of a choking, hammering sensation in his throat and heart, and of an icy silence in that corner toward which he dared not look. Then as he sank back in his seat, clothed and almost delirious, the train slowed down to a final crawl, and the woman spoke.

“Would you be so kind,” she asked, “as to get me a porter to put me into a cab? It’s a shame to trouble you when you’re feeling unwell, but being blind makes one so helpless at a railway station.”

Discussion questions

1. What motivates Theodoric to take his pants off on the train and to lie about having malaria? 2. List three things that the narrator directly tells about Theodoric. 3. Is Theodoric a round or a flat character? 4. How did Theodoric’s predicament get started? How long is the train ride scheduled to last? 5. Imagine that you were Theodoric. How would you have solved the conflict? 6. What is the main theme of The Mouse? 7. What is the climax? When and where?

132 8. How does Theodoric feel when he knows that the young lady is blind?

MARY SHELLY

Mary Shelly was born in London on August 30th 1797. Mary was born to William Godwin and Mary Wollstonecraft. Both William Godwin and Mary Wollstonecraft were radical writers, her mother specializing in feminist writings. Mary Wollstonecraft died only 10 days after giving birth to Mary Shelley, from puerperal fever.

At the age of 19 in 1816, Mary Shelley married Percy Bysshe Shelley, in Italy where the two would reside until Percy’s death only 6 years later. At the start of their relationship Percy was already married to a woman, and married Mary when his pregnant wife was found drowned in a local river, after being missing for nine days.

One year prior to their nuptials Marry Shelley gave birth to a premature daughter, Clara, who died at birth. The child is Percy Shelley’s, but was kept quiet because they were not married. One year later Mary gave birth to another child, William. One year after the birth of William, Mary gave birth to her second daughter, whom she also named Clara. Clara died just a few months later from dysentery that she contracted during a trip to Este. Two years after Clara’s death, her son William died from Malaria. Six months after the death of her third Child, Mary Shelley gave birth to another son, Percy Florence, her fourth child. Percy Florence is the only child of Percy and Mary Shelley that lived through adulthood.

In the midst of her childbirths and marriage to Percy Bysshe Shelley, Mary Shelley began her well-known story “Frankenstein”. While on a boating tour of Lake Geneva, Mary Shelley congered up images and ideas for her story, which is based in Lake Geneva. On January 1st 1818 at the young age of 21, Mary Shelley’s well known story Frankenstein: or, The Modern Prometheus was published in three volumes. The story of Frankenstein’s monster has inspired over 50 films.

On July 1st 1822 Percy Bysshe Shelley and Edward Williams sailed to Leghorn in Shelley’s boat, the Don Juan, to meet their friends. On July 8th, they began their return journey and, sometime during the voyage, drown in the Gulf of Spezia. Their bodies were found ten days later. Percy was cremated. The death of her husband was so traumatic Mary Shelley

133 miscarried her fifth child only a few days later. The miscarriage was especially dangerous because Mary hemorrhaged, almost killing her.

In her life Mary wrote and published over 30 works. Her later works include LODORE (1835) and FAULKNER (1937), both romantic stories, and unfinished MATHILDE (1819, published 1959), which draws on her relations with Godwin and Shelley. VALPERGA (1823) is a romance set in the 14th-century, and THE LAST MAN (1826) depicts the end of human civilization, set in the 21st century republican England. Its second part describes the gradual destruction of the human race by plague. The story is narrated by Lionel Verney, the last man of the title, living amidst the ruins of Rome. Feminist critics have paid attention to its fantasy of the total corrosion of patriarchal order.

Mary Shelley died at age 53 in her home at Chester Square, London, on February 1st 1851. The remains of Mary Wollstonecraft and William Godwin were to be moved from St. Pancras to the churchyard at St. Peters, Bournemouth, and on February 8th, Mary Shelley was buried between her parents.

On December 5th 1889 Mary’s only surviving child, Percy Florence Shelley dies.

FRANKENSTEIN

The novel begins with explorer Robert Walton looking for a new passage from Russia to the Pacific Ocean via the Arctic Ocean. After weeks as sea, the crew of Walton’s ship finds an emaciated man, Victor Frankenstein, floating on an ice flow near death. In Walton’s series of letters to his sister in England, he retells Victor’s tragic story. Growing up in Geneva, Switzerland, Victor is a precocious child, quick to learn all new subjects. He is raised with Elizabeth, an orphan adopted by his family. Victor delights in the sciences and vows to someday study science. Victor prepares to leave for his studies at the University of Ingolstadt, when his mother and Elizabeth become ill with scarlet fever. Caroline dies from the disease, and Elizabeth is nursed back to health.

At the university, Victor meets his professors M. Krempe and M. Waldman. For two years, Victor becomes very involved with his studies, even impressing his teachers and fellow

134 students. He devises a plan to re-create and reanimate a dead body. He uses a combination of , alchemy, and electricity to make his ambition a reality. After bringing the creature to life, Victor feels guilty that he has brought a new life into the world with no provisions for taking care of the “monster.” He runs away in fear and disgust from his creation and his conscience. The monster wanders the countryside while Victor seeks solace in a tavern near the university. Henry Clerval appears to save Victor and restore him to health.

Alphonse writes to Victor telling him to come home immediately since an unknown assailant murdered his youngest brother, William, by strangulation. Justine Moritz, their housekeeper, is falsely accused of the murder of William, and she goes to the gallows willingly. Victor knows who the killer is but cannot tell his family or the police. He journeys out of Geneva to refresh his tortured soul and visits Mount Montanvert when he sees the monster coming to confront his maker with a proposition — “make me a mate of my own.” Victor refuses, and the monster asks that his part of the story be heard. The pair retreats to a small hut on the mountain where the monster tells his story.

The monster has taught himself to read and understand language so that he can follow the lives of his “adopted” family, the De Laceys. While the monster wanders the woods, he comes upon a jacket with a notebook and letters that were lost by Victor. From the notes, the monster learns of his creation. He has endured rejection by mankind, but he has not retaliated upon mankind in general for his misfortune. Instead, he has decided to take revenge on his creator’s family to avenge the injury and sorrow he endures from others.

Victor refuses to make a second monster, but is convinced when the monster assures Victor that he will leave Europe and move to South America. Victor agrees to begin work on a second creation and makes plans to go to England and Scotland, with Henry Clerval, to begin his secret work. Before he leaves Geneva, Victor agrees to marry Elizabeth immediately upon his return from the British Isles. Victor takes up residence in the Orkney Islands, off the coast of Scotland. Victor destroys his project and goes out to sea to dispose of the remains. The monster vows revenge on Victor not upholding his end of their bargain. While at sea, Victor’s boat is blown off course by a sudden storm, and he ends up in Ireland. Henry Clerval’s body has washed up on the shores of Ireland, and Victor is set to stand trial for murder. Fortunately, Mr. Kirwin, a local magistrate, intercedes on Victor’s behalf and pleads his case before a court, which then finds Victor innocent of the crime. Victor is miserable knowing he has

135 caused the deaths of so many, but recovers enough to finalize the plans for his marriage to Elizabeth. With a wedding date set, Victor torments himself with the thought of the monster’s threat to be with him on his wedding night. The wedding goes off as planned. While Victor makes sure he covers all possible entrances that the monster could use to get into the wedding chamber, the monster steals into Elizabeth’s room and strangles her. Victor now wants revenge and chases the monster through Europe and Russia. Victor nearly catches the monster near the Arctic Circle when Robert Walton discovers him. Victor, now near death, is taken aboard Walton’s ship to recover from exhaustion and exposure. The monster appears out of the mists and ice to visit his foe one last time. The monster enters the cabin of the ship and tells Walton his side of the story. Victor dies, and the monster tells Walton that he will burn his own funeral pyre. The monster then disappears in the waves and darkness, never to be seen again.

Victor Frankenstein Creator of the monster. Victor becomes obsessed with the idea of creating the human form and acts upon it. Immediately after creating the monster, he falls into a depression and fear. He leaves the school and returns home to his family, only to find tragedy there. Not fully aware of the consequences of his creating a new human, he spends his entire life trying to destroy the same creation. The monster The creature created by Victor Frankenstein while at the University of Ingolstadt.”Formed into a hideous and gigantic creature,” the monster faces rejection and fear from his creator and society. The monster’s rejection from society pushes him to commit murder against his creator’s family. Henry Clerval Victor’s best friend who helps Victor in his time of need. The monster kills Henry after Victor breaks his promise of creating a female companion for the monster. He studies language at the University of Ingolstadt and is totally unaware of Victor’s creation. Elizabeth Lavenza The orphan child taken in by the Frankenstein family and lovingly raised with Victor. Elizabeth later becomes Victor’s wife and is killed by the monster on their honeymoon. She is a champion for the poor and under-privileged. Alphonse Frankenstein Victor’s father. He suffers from illness probably brought on from his advanced age and depression from the events that have happened. Caroline Beaufort Frankenstein Victor’s mother. Caroline dies of scarlet fever when Victor is 17. Caroline was very involved in charity work — much like Mary Shelley and her mother Mary Wollestonecraft — especially for families in poverty.

136 William Frankenstein Victor’s youngest brother who is killed by the monster. Symbolically, William’s murder is the turning point of the novel, when turmoil engulfs the Frankenstein family and all innocence is lost in the family. Also, William’s death signals for the reader the end of Victor’s belief that his actions can have no consequences. Justine Moritz The housekeeper for the Frankenstein family. Accused of William’s murder, Justine is the stolid martyr who goes to her death with grace and dignity. If William’s death symbolizes the loss of innocence, Justine’s death marks the end of all that is noble and righteous. The De Lacey family M. De Lacey, Felix, Agatha, and Safie. The monster’s adopted family. Exiled from France for treason against their government. Robert Walton Arctic explorer on his way to find a Northwest Passage through the Arctic Ocean from Russia to the Pacific Ocean. Robert finds Victor Frankenstein near death, listens to his tale, and records it in letters to his sister Margaret Saville. Margaret Saville Robert’s sister. Robert writes to her detailing the events that transpire on the voyage and Victor’s story.

Discussion questions

1. Discuss what is meant by the Romantic patterns found in the novel? 2. Describe the personality of Victor Frankenstein and the monster he creates. 3. How does the monster learn about the world in which he lives? 4.Is the ending inevitable? Do the monster and Victor have to be destroyed in order for there to be order restored among men? 5. How is Frankenstein both a Romantic novel and a Gothic horror novel? 6. Discuss the role that nature plays in this novel. 7.Are the characters of Robert Walton and Victor Frankenstein similar or dissimilar? Discuss your viewpoint fully. 8.What are the significant messages of Frankenstein that the author wants to send the readers

EMILY BRONTË (1818-1848) Birth Emily Brontë (1818 - 1848) was born in Thornton, Yorkshire. Her father, Patrick Brontë, married Maria Branwell of Penzance in 1812, and by 1820 (2), when he moved to Haworth in

137 Yorkshire as rector, there were six children : Maria, Elizabeth, Charlotte, Branwell, Emily and Anne. Mother dies Maria Brontë (senior) died in 1821 (3), and Patrick asked her elder sister, Elizabeth, to come and look after the children, which she did until her death in 1842 (24). Education Emily attended the Clergy Daughters’ School at Cowan Bridge between 1824 (6) and 1825 (7), but when her two elder sisters, Maria and Elizabeth, died in 1825, she was withdrawn from the school, and thereafter educated largely at home by her father, her aunt, her elder sister Charlotte, and by drawing and music masters who visited the parsonage. First writings Emily’s first literary endeavours were the Gondal sagas, stories, plays and games written by the Brontë children in tiny books. The prose stories of Gondal are now mainly lost, but the poems were transcribed by Emily, and formed the basis of her contribution to the sisters’ first publication. Roe Head School In 1835 (17) Emily went to study at Roe Head School near Dewsbury (where her sister Charlotte had also been a student and was now teaching), but suffered with homesickness, and returned home after 3 months. Teaching post In 1837 (19) she became governess at Miss Patchett’s School in Law Hill near Halifax, where she appears to have been told the story of Jack Sharp, who was to be the basis for the character of Heathcliffe in her novel Wuthering Heights. Once again, Emily returned home after a few months. Travels to Belgium with her sister, Charlotte In 1842 (24) Charlotte and Emily conceived a plan to open a school of their own in Haworth, and, in preparation, Emily accompanied her sister to Belgium, where they studied French and German at the Pensionnat Heger, from which period nine of Emily’s French essays survive. They give eloquent testimony to her lively intelligence. First publication of poetry and novels The sisters returned to Haworth when their aunt died later that year, and in 1846 (28), together with Anne, published at their own expense Poems by Currer, Ellis and Acton Bell. Only two copies were sold during the first year, but the commercial and critical failure of their poetry only encouraged them to complete the novels they had begun, and Charlotte’s Jane Eyre was published in 1847 (29), followed by Anne’s Agnes Grey and Emily’s Wuthering Heights. Jane

138 Eyre was an immediate critical and financial success, but Wuthering Heights was condemned for its uncompromising, sometimes brutal passions. Death Her brother, Branwell, who had become an alcoholic and opium addict, died in September 1848 (30). Emily herself died of tuberculosis shortly afterwards.

WUTHERING HEIGHTS

In the late winter months of 1801, a man named Lockwood rents a manor house called Thrushcross Grange in the isolated moor country of England. Here, he meets his dour landlord, Heathcliff, a wealthy man who lives in the ancient manor of Wuthering Heights, four miles away from the Grange. In this wild, stormy countryside, Lockwood asks his housekeeper, Nelly Dean, to tell him the story of Heathcliff and the strange denizens of Wuthering Heights. Nelly consents, and Lockwood writes down his recollections of her tale in his diary; these written recollections form the main part of Wuthering Heights.

Nelly remembers her childhood. As a young girl, she works as a servant at Wuthering Heights for the owner of the manor, Mr. Earnshaw, and his family. One day, Mr. Earnshaw goes to Liverpool and returns home with an orphan boy whom he will raise with his own children. At first, the Earnshaw children—a boy named Hindley and his younger sister Catherine—detest the dark-skinned Heathcliff. But Catherine quickly comes to love him, and the two soon grow inseparable, spending their days playing on the moors. After his wife’s death, Mr. Earnshaw grows to prefer Heathcliff to his own son, and when Hindley continues his cruelty to Heathcliff, Mr. Earnshaw sends Hindley away to college, keeping Heathcliff nearby.

Three years later, Mr. Earnshaw dies, and Hindley inherits Wuthering Heights. He returns with a wife, Frances, and immediately seeks revenge on Heathcliff. Once an orphan, later a pampered and favored son, Heathcliff now finds himself treated as a common laborer, forced to work in the fields. Heathcliff continues his close relationship with Catherine, however. One night they wander to Thrushcross Grange, hoping to tease Edgar and Isabella Linton, the cowardly, snobbish children who live there. Catherine is bitten by a dog and is forced to stay at the Grange to recuperate for five weeks, during which time Mrs. Linton works to make her a proper young lady. By the time Catherine returns, she has become infatuated with Edgar, and her relationship with Heathcliff grows more complicated.

139 When Frances dies after giving birth to a baby boy named Hareton, Hindley descends into the depths of alcoholism, and behaves even more cruelly and abusively toward Heathcliff. Eventually, Catherine’s desire for social advancement prompts her to become engaged to Edgar Linton, despite her overpowering love for Heathcliff. Heathcliff runs away from Wuthering Heights, staying away for three years, and returning shortly after Catherine and Edgar’s marriage.

When Heathcliff returns, he immediately sets about seeking revenge on all who have wronged him. Having come into a vast and mysterious wealth, he deviously lends money to the drunken Hindley, knowing that Hindley will increase his debts and fall into deeper despondency. When Hindley dies, Heathcliff inherits the manor. He also places himself in line to inherit Thrushcross Grange by marrying Isabella Linton, whom he treats very cruelly. Catherine becomes ill, gives birth to a daughter, and dies. Heathcliff begs her spirit to remain on Earth—she may take whatever form she will, she may haunt him, drive him mad—just as long as she does not leave him alone. Shortly thereafter, Isabella flees to London and gives birth to Heathcliff’s son, named Linton after her family. She keeps the boy with her there. Thirteen years pass, during which Nelly Dean serves as Catherine’s daughter’s nursemaid at Thrushcross Grange. Young Catherine is beautiful and headstrong like her mother, but her temperament is modified by her father’s gentler influence. Young Catherine grows up at the Grange with no knowledge of Wuthering Heights; one day, however, wandering through the moors, she discovers the manor, meets Hareton, and plays together with him. Soon afterwards, Isabella dies, and Linton comes to live with Heathcliff. Heathcliff treats his sickly, whining son even more cruelly than he treated the boy’s mother.

Three years later, Catherine meets Heathcliff on the moors, and makes a visit to Wuthering Heights to meet Linton. She and Linton begin a secret romance conducted entirely through letters. When Nelly destroys Catherine’s collection of letters, the girl begins sneaking out at night to spend time with her frail young lover, who asks her to come back and nurse him back to health. However, it quickly becomes apparent that Linton is pursuing Catherine only because Heathcliff is forcing him to; Heathcliff hopes that if Catherine marries Linton, his legal claim upon Thrushcross Grange—and his revenge upon Edgar Linton—will be complete. One day, as Edgar Linton grows ill and nears death, Heathcliff lures Nelly and Catherine back to Wuthering Heights, and holds them prisoner until Catherine marries Linton. Soon after the marriage, Edgar dies, and his death is quickly followed by the death of the sickly Linton. Heathcliff now controls both Wuthering Heights and Thrushcross Grange. He

140 forces Catherine to live at Wuthering Heights and act as a common servant, while he rents Thrushcross Grange to Lockwood.

Nelly’s story ends as she reaches the present. Lockwood, appalled, ends his tenancy at Thrushcross Grange and returns to London. However, six months later, he pays a visit to Nelly, and learns of further developments in the story. Although Catherine originally mocked Hareton’s ignorance and illiteracy (in an act of retribution, Heathcliff ended Hareton’s education after Hindley died), Catherine grows to love Hareton as they live together at Wuthering Heights. Heathcliff becomes more and more obsessed with the memory of the elder Catherine, to the extent that he begins speaking to her ghost. Everything he sees reminds him of her. Shortly after a night spent walking on the moors, Heathcliff dies. Hareton and young Catherine inherit Wuthering Heights and Thrushcross Grange, and they plan to be married on the next New Year’s Day. After hearing the end of the story, Lockwood goes to visit the graves of Catherine and Heathcliff.

Chronology  1500 - The stone above the front door of Wuthering Heights, bearing the name of Hareton Earnshaw, is inscribed, possibly to mark the completion of the house.  1758 - Nelly is born.  1761 - Heathcliff and Catherine are born.  1767 - Mr. Earnshaw brings Heathcliff to live at Wuthering Heights.  1774 - Mr. Earnshaw sends Hindley away to college.  1777 - Mr. Earnshaw dies; Hindley and Frances take possession of Wuthering Heights; Catherine first visits Thrushcross Grange around Christmastime.  1778 - Hareton is born in June; Frances dies; Hindley begins his slide into alcoholism.  1780 - Catherine becomes engaged to Edgar Linton; Heathcliff leaves Wuthering Heights.  1783 - Catherine and Edgar are married; Heathcliff arrives at Thrushcross Grange in September.  1784 - Heathcliff and Isabella elope in the early part of the year; Catherine becomes ill with brain fever; young Catherine is born late in the year; Catherine dies.  1785 - Early in the year, Isabella flees Wuthering Heights and settles in London; Linton is born.  1785 - Hindley dies; Heathcliff inherits Wuthering Heights.

141  1797 - Young Catherine meets Hareton and visits Wuthering Heights for the first time; Linton comes from London after Isabella dies (in late 1797 or early 1798).  1800 - Young Catherine stages her romance with Linton in the winter.  1801 - Early in the year, young Catherine is imprisoned by Heathcliff and forced to marry Linton; Edgar Linton dies; Linton dies; Heathcliff assumes control of Thrushcross Grange. Late in the year, Lockwood rents the Grange from Heathcliff and begins his tenancy. In a winter storm, Lockwood takes ill and begins conversing with Nelly Dean.  1801–1802 - During the winter, Nelly narrates her story for Lockwood.  1802 - In spring, Lockwood returns to London; Catherine and Hareton fall in love; Heathcliff dies; Lockwood returns in September and hears the end of the story from Nelly.  1803 - On New Year’s Day, young Catherine and Hareton plan to be married. 

CHARACTER LIST Heathcliff - An orphan brought to live at Wuthering Heights by Mr. Earnshaw, Heathcliff falls into an intense, unbreakable love with Mr. Earnshaw’s daughter Catherine. After Mr. Earnshaw dies, his resentful son Hindley abuses Heathcliff and treats him as a servant. Because of her desire for social prominence, Catherine marries Edgar Linton instead of Heathcliff. Heathcliff’s humiliation and misery prompt him to spend most of the rest of his life seeking revenge on Hindley, his beloved Catherine, and their respective children (Hareton and young Catherine). A powerful, fierce, and often cruel man, Heathcliff acquires a fortune and uses his extraordinary powers of will to acquire both Wuthering Heights and Thrushcross Grange, the estate of Edgar Linton. Catherine - The daughter of Mr. Earnshaw and his wife, Catherine falls powerfully in love with Heathcliff, the orphan Mr. Earnshaw brings home from Liverpool. Catherine loves Heathcliff so intensely that she claims they are the same person. However, her desire for social advancement motivates her to marry Edgar Linton instead. Catherine is free-spirited, beautiful, spoiled, and often arrogant. She is given to fits of temper, and she is torn between her wild passion for Heathcliff and her social ambition. She brings misery to both of the men who love her. Edgar Linton - Well-bred but rather spoiled as a boy, Edgar Linton grows into a tender, constant, but cowardly man. He is almost the ideal gentleman: Catherine accurately describes him as “handsome,”“pleasant to be with,”“cheerful,” and “rich.” However, this full assortment

142 of gentlemanly characteristics, along with his civilized virtues, proves useless in Edgar’s clashes with his foil, Heathcliff, who gains power over his wife, sister, and daughter. Nelly Dean - Nelly Dean (known formally as Ellen Dean) serves as the chief narrator of Wuthering Heights. A sensible, intelligent, and compassionate woman, she grew up essentially alongside Hindley and Catherine Earnshaw and is deeply involved in the story she tells. She has strong feelings for the characters in her story, and these feelings complicate her narration. Lockwood - Lockwood’s narration forms a frame around Nelly’s; he serves as an intermediary between Nelly and the reader. A somewhat vain and presumptuous gentleman, he deals very clumsily with the inhabitants of Wuthering Heights. Lockwood comes from a more domesticated region of England, and he finds himself at a loss when he witnesses the strange household’s disregard for the social conventions that have always structured his world. As a narrator, his vanity and unfamiliarity with the story occasionally lead him to misunderstand events. Young Catherine - For clarity’s sake, this SparkNote refers to the daughter of Edgar Linton and the first Catherine as “young Catherine.” The first Catherine begins her life as Catherine Earnshaw and ends it as Catherine Linton; her daughter begins as Catherine Linton and, assuming that she marries Hareton after the end of the story, goes on to become Catherine Earnshaw. The mother and the daughter share not only a name, but also a tendency toward headstrong behavior, impetuousness, and occasional arrogance. However, Edgar’s influence seems to have tempered young Catherine’s character, and she is a gentler and more compassionate creature than her mother. Hareton Earnshaw - The son of Hindley and Frances Earnshaw, Hareton is Catherine’s nephew. After Hindley’s death, Heathcliff assumes custody of Hareton, and raises him as an uneducated field worker, just as Hindley had done to Heathcliff himself. Thus Heathcliff uses Hareton to seek revenge on Hindley. Illiterate and quick-tempered, Hareton is easily humiliated, but shows a good heart and a deep desire to improve himself. At the end of the novel, he marries young Catherine. Linton Heathcliff - Heathcliff’s son by Isabella. Weak, sniveling, demanding, and constantly ill, Linton is raised in London by his mother and does not meet his father until he is thirteen years old, when he goes to live with him after his mother’s death. Heathcliff despises Linton, treats him contemptuously, and, by forcing him to marry the young Catherine, uses him to cement his control over Thrushcross Grange after Edgar Linton’s death. Linton himself dies not long after this marriage. Hindley Earnshaw - Catherine’s brother, and Mr. Earnshaw’s son. Hindley resents it when Heathcliff is brought to live at Wuthering Heights. After his father dies and he inherits the

143 estate, Hindley begins to abuse the young Heathcliff, terminating his education and forcing him to work in the fields. When Hindley’s wife Frances dies shortly after giving birth to their son Hareton, he lapses into alcoholism and dissipation. Isabella Linton - Edgar Linton’s sister, who falls in love with Heathcliff and marries him. She sees Heathcliff as a romantic figure, like a character in a novel. Ultimately, she ruins her life by falling in love with him. He never returns her feelings and treats her as a mere tool in his quest for revenge on the Linton family. Mr. Earnshaw - Catherine and Hindley’s father. Mr. Earnshaw adopts Heathcliff and brings him to live at Wuthering Heights. Mr. Earnshaw prefers Heathcliff to Hindley but nevertheless bequeaths Wuthering Heights to Hindley when he dies. Mrs. Earnshaw - Catherine and Hindley’s mother, who neither likes nor trusts the orphan Heathcliff when he is brought to live at her house. She dies shortly after Heathcliff’s arrival at Wuthering Heights. Joseph - A long-winded, fanatically religious, elderly servant at Wuthering Heights. Joseph is strange, stubborn, and unkind, and he speaks with a thick Yorkshire accent. Frances Earnshaw - Hindley’s simpering, silly wife, who treats Heathcliff cruelly. She dies shortly after giving birth to Hareton. Mr. Linton - Edgar and Isabella’s father and the proprietor of Thrushcross Grange when Heathcliff and Catherine are children. An established member of the gentry, he raises his son and daughter to be well-mannered young people. Mrs. Linton - Mr. Linton’s somewhat snobbish wife, who does not like Heathcliff to be allowed near her children, Edgar and Isabella. She teaches Catherine to act like a gentle- woman, thereby instilling her with social ambitions. Zillah - The housekeeper at Wuthering Heights during the latter stages of the narrative. Mr. Green - Edgar Linton’s lawyer, who arrives too late to hear Edgar’s final instruction to change his will, which would have prevented Heathcliff from obtaining control over Thrushcross Grange.

Discussion questions

1. What is important about the title? 2. What are the conflicts in Wuthering Heights? What types of conflict (physical, moral, intellectual, or emotional) did you notice in this novel? 3. What are some themes in the story? How do they relate to the plot and characters?

144 4. What are some symbols in Wuthering Heights? How do they relate to the plot and characters? 5. Are the characters consistent in their actions? Which of the characters are fully developed? How? Why? Do you find the characters likable? 6. Where did Heathcliff go? (And where did he get his money?) 7. Was Catherine and Heathcliff’s love incestuous?Was Heathcliff the father of Cathy? 8. When did Heathcliff embrace Catherine’s body?Is Heathcliff a murderer? Does the story end the way you expected? How? Why?

GRAHAM GREENE

Graham Greene describes his boyhood traumas in A Sort of Life(1971), the first volume of his autobiography. He was born in 1904, attended a public school, of which his father was headmaster, and later he studied at Oxford. The unhappiness of his home and school life led him to attempt suicide through a variation of Russian roulette and brought about his treatment by a psychoanalyst. Graham became a Catholic in 1926, his faith stemming in part from his deep conviction of evil in the world. Much of his life up to that point had been a nightmare, and no doubt because he has long kept dream journals, many of the characters in his novels incur horrifying dreams. The novels also reflect Greene’s experiences with the seamy side of life. His protagonists’ experiences, for example, often parallel his labors as a journalist (for a Nottingham paper), his government work, and his travels through totalitarian Mexico. Greene maintains that his works fall into two categories, novels and “entertainments,” though often the latter are quite serious in parts. The Honorary Consul (1973) is “entertaining,” but it is also a profound view of terrorism and the military state in Argentina. Greene’s novels are frequently characterized by their focus on (1) a hunted man as the protagonist; on (2) the discrepancy between the outer man and the inner man — in fact, his first novel is entitled The Man Within (1929); on (3) multi points-of-view and vivid metaphysical detail; and (4) on a nineteenth-century method of storytelling which is more reminiscent of Robert Louis Stevenson than, say, of a modern writer such as James Joyce. Setting also plays a pronounced

145 role in Greene’s novels, whether it is an abandoned section of Africa, as in The Heart of the Matter(1948), or a leper colony, as in A Burnt-Out Case (1961). Many of his works focus upon religious themes, and the protagonist is almost always the sinner, the spiritual outcast. Greene’s milieu is the fallen world, and he has been criticized for focusing on the eccentric believer, rather than on the conventional believer, and for combining theological strictures with somewhat lurid, perhaps overly personal, views of sex. The End of the Affair (1951), for example, is as much a study of hate as it is a study of triangular love. Greene died April 3, 1991, at La Providence Hospital in Vevey, Switzerland. He was 86. Lord of the Flies author William Golding commented, “The best of his novels will be remembered as literary perfection.” Novelist John Le Carre described Green as his “guiding star.” During his lifetime, Greene was honored by Queen Elizabeth II, but never won a Nobel Prize despite several nominations by colleagues. He was fond of traveling all over the world, seeking out such trouble spots as Vietnam, Israel, Chile, and South Africa. “I like to keep my eye on world politics,” he said. A SHOCKING ACCIDENT 1 Jerome was called into his housemaster’s room in the break between the second and the third class on a Tuesday morning. He had no fear of trouble, for he was a warden - the name that the proprietor and headmaster of a rather expensive preparatory school had chosen to give to approved, reliable boys in the lower forms (from a warden one became a guardian and finally before leaving, it was hoped for Marlborough or Rugby, a crusader). The housemaster, Mr Wordsworth, sat behind his desk with an appearance of perplexity and apprehension. Jerome had the odd impression when he entered that he was a cause of fear.

‘Sit down, Jerome,’ Mr Wordsworth said. ‘All going well with the trigonometry?’ ‘Yes, sir.’‘I’ve had a telephone call, Jerome. From your aunt. I’m afraid I have bad news for you. “Yes, sir?” Your father has had an accident.”Oh.’Mr Wordsworth looked at him with some surprise. ‘A serious accident.“Yes, sir?’ Jerome worshipped his father: the verb is exact. As man re-creates God, so Jerome re-created his father - from a restless widowed author into a mysterious adventurer who travelled in far places - Nice, Beirut, Majorca, even the Canaries. The time had arrived about his eighth birthday when Jerome believed that his father either ‘ran guns’ or was a member of the British Secret Service. Now it occurred to him that his father might have been wounded in ‘a hail of

146 machine-gun bullets’. Mr Wordsworth played with the ruler on his desk. He seemed at a loss how to continue. He said, ‘You know your father was in Naples?’‘Yes, sir.’ ‘Your aunt heard from the hospital today.’ ‘Oh.’ Mr Wordsworth said with desperation, ‘It was a street accident.’‘Yes, sir?’ It seemed quite likely to Jerome that they would call it a street accident. The police of course fired first; his father would not take human life except as a last resort. ‘I’m afraid your father was very seriously hurt indeed.’‘Oh.”In fact, Jerome, he died yesterday. Quite without pain.’‘Did they shoot him through the heart?”I beg your pardon. What did you say, Jerome?’‘Did they shoot him through the heart?’

‘Nobody shot him, Jerome. A pig fell on him.’ An inexplicable convulsion took place in the nerves of Mr Wordsworth’s face; it really looked for a moment as though he were going to laugh. He closed his eyes, composed his features and said rapidly as though it were necessary to expel the story as rapidly as possible. ‘Your father was walking along a street in Naples when a pig fell on him. A shocking accident. Apparently in the poorer quarters of Naples they keep pigs on their balconies. This one was on the fifth floor. It had grown too fat. The balcony broke. The pig fell on your father.’ Mr Wordsworth left his desk rapidly and went to the window, turning his back on Jerome. He shook a little with emotion.Jerome said, ‘What happened to the pig?’

2 This was not callousness on the part of Jerome, as it was interpreted by Mr Wordsworth to his colleagues (he even discussed with them whether, perhaps, Jerome was yet fitted to be a warden). Jerome was only attempting to visualize the strange scene to get the details right. Nor was Jerome a boy who cried; he was a boy who brooded, and it never occurred to him at his preparatory school that the circumstances of his father’s death were comic - they were still part of the mysteries of life. It was later, in his first term at his public school, when he told the story to his best friend, that he began to realize how it affected others. Naturally after that disclosure he was known, rather unreasonably, as Pig.

Unfortunately his aunt had no sense of humour. There was an enlarged snapshot of his father on the piano; a large sad man in an unsuitable dark suit posed in Capri with an umbrella (to guard him against sunstroke), the Faraglione rocks forming the background. By the age of sixteen Jerome was well aware that the portrait looked more like the author of Sunshine and Shade and Ramblers in the Balearics than an agent of the Secret Service. All the same he

147 loved the memory of his father: he still possessed an album fitted with picture-postcards (the stamps had been soaked off long ago for his other collection), and it pained him when his aunt embarked with strangers on the story of his father’s death.

‘A shocking accident,’ she would begin, and the stranger would compose his or her features into the correct shape for interest and commiseration. Both reactions, of course, were false, but it was terrible for Jerome to see how suddenly, midway in her rambling discourse, the interest would become genuine. ‘I can’t think how such things can be allowed in a civilized country,’ his aunt would say. ‘I suppose one has to regard Italy as civilized. One is prepared for all kinds of things abroad, of course, and my brother was a great traveller. He always carried a water-filter with him. It was far less expensive, you know, than buying all those bottles of mineral water. My brother always said that his filter paid for his dinner wine. You can see from that what a careful man he was, but who could possibly have expected when he was walking along the Via Dottore Manuele Panucci on his way to the Hydrographic Museum that a pig would fall on him?’ That was the moment when the interest became genuine.

Jerome’s father had not been a very distinguished writer, but the time always seems to come, after an author’s death, when somebody thinks it worth his while to write a letter to the Times Literary Supplement announcing the preparation of a biography and asking to see any letters or documents or receive anecdotes from friends of the dead man. Most of the biographies, of course, never appear - one wonders whether the whole thing may not be an obscure form of blackmail and whether many a potential writer of a biography or thesis finds the means in this way to finish his education at Kansas or Nottingham. Jerome, however, as a chartered accountant, lived far from the literary world. He did not realize how small the menace really was, or that the danger period for someone of his father’s obscurity had long passed. Sometimes he rehearsed the method of recounting his father’s death so as to reduce the comic element to its smallest dimensions - it would be of no use to refuse information, for in that case the biographer would undoubtedly visit his aunt who was living to a great old age with no sign of flagging.

It seemed to Jerome that there were two possible methods - the first led gently up to the accident, so that by the time it was described the listener was so well prepared that the death came really as an anti-climax. The chief danger of laughter in such a story was always surprise. When he rehearsed his method Jerome began boringly enough.

148 ‘You know Naples and those high tenement buildings? Somebody once told me that the Neapolitan always feels at home in New York just as the man from Turin feels at home in London because the river runs in much the same way in both cities. Where was I? Oh, yes. Naples, of course. You’d be surprised in the poorer quarters what things they keep on the balconies of those sky-scraping tenements - not washing, you know, or bedding, but things like livestock, chickens or even pigs. Of course the pigs get no exercise whatever and fatten all the quicker.’ He could imagine how his hearer’s eyes would have glazed by this time. ‘I’ve no idea, have you, how heavy a pig can be, but these old buildings are all badly in need of repair. A balcony on the fifth floor gave way under one of those pigs. It struck the third floor balcony on its way down and sort of ricochetted into the street. My father was on the way to the Hydrographic Museum when the pig hit him. Coming from that height and that angle it broke his neck.’ This was really a masterly attempt to make an intrinsically interesting subject boring.

The other method Jerome rehearsed had the virtue of brevity. ‘My father was killed by a pig.’ ‘Really?In India?”No, in Italy.’‘How interesting. I never realized there was pig-sticking in Italy. Was your father keen on polo?’ In course of time, neither too early nor too late, rather as though, in his capacity as a chartered accountant, Jerome had studied the statistics and taken the average, he became engaged to be married: to a pleasant fresh-faced girl of twenty-five whose father was a doctor in Pinner. Her name was Sally, her favourite author was still Hugh Walpole, and she had adored babies ever since she had been given a doll at the age of five which moved its eyes and made water. Their relationship was contented rather than exciting, as became the love-affair of a chartered accountant; it would never have done if it had interfered with the figures.

One thought worried Jerome, however. Now that within a year he might himself become a father, his love for the dead man increased; he realized what affection had gone into the picture-postcards. He felt a longing to protect his memory, and uncertain whether this quiet love of his would survive if Sally were so insensitive as to laugh when she heard the story of his father’s death. Inevitably she would hear it when Jerome brought her to dinner with his aunt. Several times he tried to tell her himself, as she was naturally anxious to know all she could that concerned him. ‘You were very small when your father died?”Just nine.”Poor little boy,’ she said.’I was at school. They broke the news to me. “Did you take it very hard?”I can’t remember. “You never told me how it happened.”It was very sudden. A street accident.’

149 ‘You’ll never drive fast, will you, Jemmy?’ (She had begun to call him ‘Jemmy’.) It was too late then to try the second method - the one he thought of as the pig-sticking one.

They were going to marry quietly in a registry-office and have their honeymoon at Torquay. He avoided taking her to see his aunt until a week before the wedding, but then the night came, and he could not have told himself whether his apprehension was more for his father’s memory or the security of his own love.

The moment came all too soon. ‘Is that Jemmy’s father?’ Sally asked, picking up the portrait of the man with the umbrella.’Yes, dear. How did you guess?’‘He has Jemmy’s eyes and brow, hasn’t he?’ ‘Has Jerome lent you his books?”No.’‘I will give you a set for your wedding. He wrote so tenderly about his travels. My own favourite is Nooks and Crannies . He would have had a great future. It made that shocking accident all the worse.”Yes?’ Jerome longed to leave the room and not see that loved face crinkle with irresistible amusement. ‘I had so many letters from his readers after the pig fell on him.’ She had never been so abrupt before. And then the miracle happened. Sally did not laugh. Sally sat with open eyes of horror while his aunt told her the story, and at the end, ‘How horrible,’ Sally said. ‘It makes you think, doesn’t it? Happening like that.Out of a clear sky.‘Jerome’s heart sang with joy. It was as though she had appeased his fear forever. In the taxi going home he kissed her with more passion than he had ever shown and she returned it. There were babies in her pale blue pupils, babies that rolled their eyes and made water. ‘A week today,’ Jerome said, and she squeezed his hand. ‘Penny for your thoughts, my darling.”I was wondering,’ Sally said, ‘what happened to the poor pig?’‘They almost certainly had it for dinner,’ Jerome said happily and kissed the dear child again.

Discussion questions

1) What is the setting of the story? 2) What is the main theme of the story? 3) What are the protagonist and the antagonist of the story? 4) What is the climax of the story? 5) Is the main conflict in the story resolved? 6) Why does the accident happen?

150 Chapter Four: Further reading Objectives By the end of this chapter, students will be able to read some British modern short stories with by famous writers

NEVER by H.E. Bates It was afternoon: great clouds stumbled across the sky, In the drowsy, half-dark room the young girl sat in a heap near the window, scarcely moving herself, as if she expected a certain timed happening, such as a visit, sunset, a command… Slowly she would draw the fingers of one hand across the back of the other, in the little hollows between the guides, and move her lips in the same sad, vexed way in which her brows came together, and like this too, her eyes would shift about, from the near, shadowed fields, to the west hills, where the sun had dropped a strip of light, and to the woods between, looking like black scars one minute, and like friendly sanctuaries the next, It was all confused… There was the room, too… The white keys of the piano would now and then exercise a fascination over her which would keep her whole body perfectly still for perhaps a minute. But when this passed, full of hesitation, her fingers would recommence the slow exploration of her hands, and the restlessness took her again. Yes: It was all confused. She was going away: already she had said a hundred times during the afternoon- “I am going away… I am going away. I can’t stand it any longer.” But she had made no attempt to go, In this same position, hour after hour had passed her and all she could think was: “Today I’m going away, I’m tired here, I never do anything, It’s dead, rotten,” She said, or thought it all without the slightest trace of exultation and was sometimes even methodical when she began to consider: “What shall I take? The blue dress with the rosette? Yes. What else? what else?” And then it would all begin again: “Today I’m going away. I never do anything.” It was true: she never did anything. In the mornings she got up late, was slow over her breakfast, over everything-her reading, her mending, her eating, her playing the piano, cards in the evening, going to bed. It was all slow-purposely done, to fill up the day. And it was true, day succeeded day and she never did anything different. But today something was about to happen: no more cards in the evening, every evening the same, with her father declaring: “I never have a decent hand, I thought the ace of trumps had gone! It’s too bad!” and no more: “Nellie, it’s ten o’clock- Bed!” and the slow unimaginative

151 climb of the stairs. Today she was going away: no one knew, but it was so. She was catching the evening train to London. “I’m going away. What shall I take? The blue dress with the rosette? What else?” She crept upstairs with difficulty, her body stiff after sitting. The years she must have sat, figuratively speaking, and grown stiff! And as if in order to secure some violent reaction against it all she threw herself into the packing of her things with a nervous vigor, throwing in the blue dress first and after it a score of things she had just remembered. She fastened her bag: it was not heavy. She counted her money a dozen times. It was all right! It was all right. She was going away! She descended into the now-dark room for the last time. In the dining room someone was rattling teacups, an unbearable, horribly domestic sound! She wasn’t hungry: she would be in London by eight-eating now meant making her sick. It was easy to wait. The train went at 6.18. She looked it up again: “Elden 6.13, Olde 6.18, London 7.53.” She began to play a waltz. It was a slow, dreamy tune, ta-tum, turn, ta-tum, turn, ta-tum, turn, of which the notes slipped out in mournful, sentimental succession. The room was quite dark, she could scarcely see the keys, and into the tune itself kept insinuating: “Elden, 6.13, Olde 6.18,” impossible to mistake or forget. As she played on she thought: “I’ll never play this waltz again. It has the atmosphere of this room. It’s the last time!” The waltz slid dreamily to an end: for a minute she sat in utter silence, the room dark and mysterious, the air of the waltz quite dead, then the teacups rattled again and the thought came back to her: “I’m going away!” She rose and went out quietly. The grass on the roadside moved under the evening wind, sounding like many pairs of hands rubbed softly together. But there was no other sound, her feet were light, no one heard her, and as she went down the road she told herself: “It’s going to happen! It’s come at last!”“Elden 6.13.Olde 6.18.” Should she go to Elden or Olde? At the crossroads she stood to consider, thinking that if she went to Elden no one would know her. But at Olde someone would doubtless notice her and prattle about it. To Elden, then, not that it mattered. Nothing mattered now. She was going, was as good as gone! Her breast, tremulously warm, began to rise and fall as her excitement increased. She tried to run over the things in her bag and could remember only “the blue dress with the rosette,” which she had thrown in first and had since covered over. But it didn’t matter. Her money was safe, everything was safe, and with that thought she dropped into a strange quietness, deepening as she went on, in which she had a hundred emotions and convictions. She was never going to strum that waltz again, she had played cards for the last, horrible time, the loneliness, the slowness, the oppression were ended, all ended.

152 “I’m going away!” She felt warm, her body tingled with a light delicious thrill that was like the caress of a soft night-wind. There were no fears now. A certain indignation, approaching fury even, sprang up instead, as she thought: “No one will believe I’ve gone. But it’s true-I’m going at last.” Her bag grew heavy. Setting it down in the grass she sat on it for a brief while, in something like her attitude in the dark room during the afternoon, and indeed actually began to rub her gloved fingers over the backs of her hands. A phrase or two of the waltz came back to her… That silly piano! Its bottom G was flat, had always been flat! How ridiculous! She tried to conjure up some sort of vision of London, but it was difficult and in the end she gave way again to the old cry: “I’m going away.” And she was pleased more than ever deeply. On the station a single lamp burned, radiating a fitful yellowness that only increased the gloom. And worse, she saw no one and in the cold emptiness traced and retraced her footsteps without the friendly assurance of another sound. In the black distance all the signals showed hard circles of red, looking as if they could never change. But she nevertheless told herself over and over again: “ I’m going away-I’m going away.” And later: “I hate everyone. I’ve changed until I hardly know myself.”

Impatiently she looked for the train. It was strange. For the first time it occurred to her to know the time and she pulled back the sleeve of her coat. Nearly six-thirty! She felt cold. Up the line every signal displayed its red ring, mocking her. “Six-thirty, of course, of course.” She tried to be careless. “Of course, it’s late, the train is late,” but the coldness, in reality her fear, increased rapidly, until she could no longer believe those words. Great clouds, lower and more than ever depressing, floated above her head as she walked back. The wind had a deep note that was sad too. These things had not troubled her before, now they, also, spoke failure and foretold misery and dejection. She had no spirit, it was cold, and she was too tired even to shudder.

In the absolutely dark, drowsy room she sat down, telling herself: “This isn’t the only day. Some day I shall go. Some day.” She was silent. In the next room they were playing cards and her father suddenly moaned: “I thought the ace had gone.” Somebody laughed. Her father’s voice came again: “I never have a decent hand! I never have a decent hand! Never!” It was too horrible! She couldn’t stand it! She must do something to stop it! It was too much. She began to play the waltz again and the dreamy, sentimental arrangement made her cry. “This isn’t the only day,” she reassured herself.” I shall go. Some day!”

153 And again and again as she played the waltz, bent her head and cried, she would tell herself that same thing: “Some day! Some day!” Discussion questions

1) What is the setting of the story? 2) What is the main theme of the story? 3) What are the protagonist and the antagonist of the story? 4) What is the climax of the story? 5) Is the main conflict in the story resolved?

MR LOVEDAY’S LITTLE OUTING By Evelyn Waugh

‘You will not find your father greatly changed,’ remarked Lady Moping, as the car turned into the gates of the County Asylum. ‘Will he be wearing a uniform?’ asked Angela, “No, dear, of course not. He is receiving the very best attention.’ It was Angela’s first visit and it was being made at her own suggestion. Ten years had passed since the showery day in late summer when Lord Moping had been taken away; a day of confused but bitter memories for her; the day of Lady Moping’s annual garden party, always bitter, confused that day by the caprice of the weather which, remaining clear and brilliant with promise until the arrival of the first guests, had suddenly blackened into a squall. There had been a scuttle for cover; the marquee had capsized; a frantic carrying of cushions and chairs; a table-cloth lofted to the boughs of the monkey-puzzler, fluttering in the rain; a bright period and the cautious emergence of guests on to the soggy lawns; another squall; another twenty minutes of sunshine. It had been an abominable afternoon, culminating at about six o’clock in her father’s attempted suicide.

Lord Moping habitually threatened suicide on the occasion of the garden party; that year he had been found black in the face, hanging by his braces in the orangery; some neighbours, who were sheltering there from the rain, set him on his feet again, and before dinner a van had called for him. Since then Lady Moping had paid seasonal calls at the asylum and returned in time for tea, rather reticent of her experience. Many of her neighbours were inclined to be critical of Lord Moping’s accommodation. He was not, of course, an ordinary inmate. He lived in a separate wing of the asylum, specially devoted to the segregation of wealthier

154 lunatics. These were given every consideration which their foibles permitted. They might choose their own clothes (many indulged in the liveliest fancies), smoke the most expensive brands of cigars and, on the anniversaries of their certification, entertain any other inmates for whom they had an attachment to private dinner parties.

The fact remained, however, that it was far from being the most expensive kind of institution; the uncompromising address, ‘COUNTY HOME FOR MENTAL DEFECTIVES’, stamped across the notepaper, worked on the uniforms of their attendants, painted, even, upon a prominent hoarding at the main entrance, suggested the lowest associations. From time to time, with less or more tact, her friends attempted to bring to Lady Moping’s notice particulars of seaside nursing homes, of ‘qualified practitioners with large private grounds suitable for the charge of nervous or difficult cases’, but she accepted them lightly; when her son came of age he might make any changes that he thought fit; meanwhile she felt no inclination to relax her economical regime; her husband had betrayed her basely on the one day in the year when she looked for loyal support, and was far better off than he deserved.

A few lonely figures in great-coats were shuffling and loping about the park. ‘Those are the lower-class lunatics,’ observed Lady Moping. There is a very nice little flower garden for people like your, father. I sent them some cuttings last year.’ They drove past the blank, yellow brick facade to the doctor’s private entrance and were received by him in the ‘visitors room’, set aside for interviews of this kind. The window was protected on the inside by bars and wire netting; there was no fireplace; when Angela nervously attempted to move her chair further from the radiator, she found that it was screwed to the floor.

“Lord Moping is quite ready to see you,’ said the doctor. ‘How is he?’‘Oh, very well, very well indeed, I’m glad to say. He had rather a nasty cold some time ago, but apart from that his condition is excellent He spends a lot of his time in writing.” They heard a shuffling, skipping sound approaching along the flagged passage. Outside the door a high peevish voice, which Angela recognized as her father’s, said: ‘I haven’t the time, I tell you. Let them come back later.’

A gentler tone, with a slight rural burr, replied, ‘Now come along. It is a purely formal audience. You need stay no longer than you like.’ Then the door was pushed open (it had no lock or fastening) and Lord Moping came into the room. He was attended by an elderly little man with full white hair and an expression of great kindness.

155 ‘That is Mr Loveday who acts as Lord Moping’s attendant.’‘Secretary,’ said Lord Moping. He moved with a jogging gait and shook hands with his wife. ‘This is Angela. You remember Angela, don’t you?’“No, I can’t say that I do. What does she want?’“We just came to see you.’‘Well, you have come at an exceedingly inconvenient time. I am very busy. Have you typed out that letter to the Pope yet, Loveday ?’‘No, my lord. If you remember, you asked me to look up the figures about the Newfoundland fisheries first ?’‘So I did. Well, it is fortunate, as I think the whole letter will have to be redrafted. A great deal of new information has come to light since luncheon. A great deal ... You see, my dear, I am fully occupied.’ He turned his restless, quizzical eyes upon Angela. ‘I suppose you have come about the Danube. Well, you must come again later. Tell them it will be all right, quite all right, but I have not had time to give my full attention to it. Tell them that.’‘Very well, Papa.’‘Anyway,’ said Lord Moping rather petulantly, ‘it is a matter of secondary importance. There is the Elbe and the Amazon and the Tigris to be dealt with first, eh, Loveday? ... Danube indeed.Nasty little river. I’d only call it a stream myself. Well, can’t stop, nice of you to come. I would do more for you if I could, but you see how I’m fixed. Write to me about it That’s it. Put it in black and white.’ And with that he left the room. “You see,’ said the doctor, “he is in excellent condition. He is putting on weight, eating and sleeping excellently. In fact, the whole tone of his system is above reproach.’ The door opened again and Loveday returned. ‘Forgive my coming back, sir, but I was afraid that the young lady might be upset at his lordship’s not knowing her. You mustn’t mind him, miss. Next time he’ll be very pleased to see you. It’s only today he’s put out on account of being behindhand with his work. You see, sir, all this week I’ve been helping in the library and I haven’t been able to get all his lordship’s reports typed out. And he’s got muddled with his card index. That’s all it is. He doesn’t mean any harm.’‘What a nice man,’ said Angela, when Loveday had gone back to his charge. ‘Yes. I don’t know what we should do without old Loveday. Everybody loves him, staff and patients alike.’‘I remember him well It’s a great comfort to know that you are able to get such good warders,’ said Lady Moping; ‘people who don’t know, say such foolish things about asylums.’‘Oh, but Loveday isn’t a warder,’ said the doctor. ‘You don’t mean he’s cuckoo, too?’ said Angela. The doctor corrected her. ‘He is an inmate. It is rather an interesting case. He has been here for thirty-five years.’‘But I’ve never seen anyone saner,’ said Angela. ‘He certainly has that air,’ said the doctor, ‘and in the last twenty years we have treated him as such. He is the life and soul of the place. Of course he is not one of the private patients, but we allow him to mix freely with them. He plays billiards excellently, does conjuring tricks at the concert, mends their gramophones, valets them, helps them in their crossword puzzles and various - er- hobbies. We allow them to give him small tips for services rendered, and he must by now have amassed quite a little

156 fortune. He has a way with even the most troublesome of them. An invaluable man about the place.’‘Yes, but why is he here?’“Well, it is rather sad. When he was a very young man he killed somebody - a young woman quite unknown to him, whom he knocked off her bicycle and then throttled. He gave himself up immediately afterwards and has been here ever since.’‘But surely he is perfectly safe now. Why is he not let out?’‘Well, I suppose if it was to anyone’s interest, he would be. He has no relatives except a step-sister who lives in Plymouth. She used to visit him at one time, but she hasn’t been for years now. He’s perfectly happy here and I can assure you we aren’t going to take the first steps in turning him out. He’s far too useful to us.’‘But it doesn’t seem fair,’ said Angela. ‘Look at your father,’ said the doctor. ‘He’d be quite lost without Loveday to act as his secretary.’‘It doesn’t seem fair.’ 2 Angela left the asylum, oppressed by a sense of injustice. Her mother was unsympathetic. ‘Think of being locked up in a looney bin all one’s life.’‘He attempted to hang himself in the orangery,’ replied Lady Moping, ‘in front of the ChesterMartins.’‘I don’t mean Papa. I mean Mr Loveday.’‘I don’t think I know him.’‘Yes, the looney they have put to look after Papa.’“Your father’s secretary. A very decent sort of man, I thought, and eminently suited to his work.’ Angela left the question for the time, but returned to it again at luncheon on the following day. ‘Mums, what does one have to do to get people out of the bin?’“The bin? Good gracious, child, I hope that you do not anticipate your father’s return here.’‘No, no. Mr Loveday.’‘Angela, you seem to me to be totally bemused. I see it was a mistake to take you with me on our little visit yesterday.’ After luncheon Angela disappeared to the library and was’ soon immersed in the lunacy laws as represented in the encyclopedia. She did not re- open the subject with her mother, but a fortnight later, when there was a question of taking some pheasants over to her father for his eleventh Certification Party she showed an unusual willingness to run over with them. Her mother was occupied with other interests and noticed nothing suspicious. Angela drove her small car to the asylum, and after delivering the game, asked for Mr Loveday. He was busy at the time making a crown for one of his companions who expected hourly to be anointed Emperor of Bra2il, but he left his work and enjoyed several minutes’ conversation with her. They spoke about her father’s health and spirits. After a time Angela remarked, ‘Don’t you ever want to get away ?’ Mr Loveday looked at her with his gentle, blue-grey eyes. ‘I’ve got very well used to the life, miss. I’m fond of the poor people here, and I think that several of them are quite fond of me. At least, I think they would miss me if I were to go.’‘But don’t you ever think of being free again?’‘Oh yes, miss, I think of it - almost all the time I think of it.’‘What would you do if you got out? There must be something you would sooner do than stay here.’

157 The old man fidgeted uneasily. ‘Well, miss, it sounds ungrateful, but I can’t deny I should welcome a little outing, once, before I get too old to enjoy it. I expect we all have our secret ambitions, and there is one thing I often wish I could do. You mustn’t ask me what.... It wouldn’t take long. But I do feel that if I had done it, just for a day, art afternoon even, then I would die quiet. I could settle down again easier, and devote myself to the poor crazed people here with a better heart. Yes, I do feel that.’

There were tears in Angela’s eyes that afternoon as she drove away. ‘He shall have his little outing, bless him,” she said. 3 From that day onwards for many weeks Angela had a new purpose in life. She moved about the ordinary routine of her home with an abstracted air and an unfamiliar, reserved courtesy which greatly disconcerted Lady Moping. ‘I believe the child’s in love. I only pray that it isn’t that uncouth Egbertson boy.’ She read a great deal in the library, she cross-examined any guests who had pretensions to legal or medical knowledge, she showed extreme goodwill to old Sir Roderick Lane-Foscote, their Member. The names ‘alienist’, ‘barrister’ or ‘government official’ now had for her the glamour that formerly surrounded film actors and professional wrestlers. She was a woman with a cause, and before the end of the hunting season she had triumphed. Mr Loveday achieved his liberty. The doctor at the asylum showed reluctance but no real opposition. Sir Roderick wrote to the Home Office. The necessary papers were signed, and at last the day came when Mr Loveday took leave of the home where he had spent such long and useful years. His departure was marked by some ceremony. Angela and Sir Roderick Lane-Foscote sat with the doctors on the stage of the gymnasium. Below them were assembled everyone in the institution who was thought to be stable enough to endure the excitement.

Lord Moping, with a few suitable expressions of regret, presented Mr Loveday on behalf of the wealthier lunatics with a gold cigarette case; those who supposed themselves to be emperors showered him with decorations and titles of honour. The warders gave him a silver watch and many of the nonpaying inmates were in tears on the day of the presentation. The doctor made the main speech of the afternoon. ‘Remember,’ he remarked, ‘that you leave behind you nothing but our warmest good wishes. You are bound to us by ties that none will forget. Time will only deepen our sense of debt to you. If at any time in the future you should grow tired of your life in the world, there will always be a welcome for you here. Your post will be open.’

A dozen or so variously afflicted lunatics hopped and skipped after him down the drive until the iron gates opened and Mr Loveday stepped into his freedom. His small trunk had already

158 gone to the station; he elected to walk. He had been reticent about his plans, but he was well provided with money, and the general impression was that he would go to London and enjoy himself a little before visiting his step-sister in Plymouth. It was to the surprise of all that he returned within two hours of his liberation. He was smiling whimsically, a gentle, self- regarding smile of reminiscence. ‘I have come back,’ he informed the doctor. ‘I think that I now I shall be here for good.’‘But, Loveday, what a short holiday. I’m afraid that you have hardly enjoyed yourself at all.’‘Oh yes, sir, thank you, sir, I’ve enjoyed myself very much. I’d been promising myself one little treat, all these years. It was short, sir, but most enjoyable. Now I shall be able to settle down again to my work here without any regrets.’

Half a mile up the road from the asylum gates, they later discovered an abandoned bicycle. It was a lady’s machine of some antiquity. Quite near it in the ditch lay the strangled body of a young woman, who, riding home to her tea, had chanced to overtake Mr Loveday, as he strode along, musing on his opportunities.

Discussion questions

1) What is the setting of the story? 2) What is the main theme of the story? 3) What are the protagonist and the antagonist of the story? 4) What is the climax of the story? 5) Is the main conflict in the story resolved?

ARABY by James Joyce

North Richmond Street, being blind, was a quiet street except at the hour when the Christian Brothers’ School set the boys free. An uninhabited house of two storeys stood at the blind end, detached from its neighbours in a square ground. The other houses of the street, conscious of decent lives within them, gazed at one another with brown imperturbable faces. The former tenant of our house, a priest, had died in the back drawing-room. Air, musty from having been long enclosed, hung in all the rooms, and the waste room behind the kitchen was littered with old useless papers. Among these I found a few paper-covered books, the pages of which were curled and damp: The Abbot, by Walter Scott, The Devout Communicant, and The Memoirs of Vidocq. I liked the last best because its leaves were yellow. The wild garden

159 behind the house contained a central apple-tree and a few straggling bushes, under one of which I found the late tenant’s rusty bicycle-pump. He had been a very charitable priest; in his will he had left all his money to institutions and the furniture of his house to his sister. When the short days of winter came, dusk fell before we had well eaten our dinners. When we met in the street the houses had grown sombre. The space of sky above us was the colour of ever-changing violet and towards it the lamps of the street lifted their feeble lanterns. The cold air stung us and we played till our bodies glowed. Our shouts echoed in the silent street. The career of our play brought us through the dark muddy lanes behind the houses, where we ran the gauntlet of the rough tribes from the cottages, to the back doors of the dark dripping gardens where odours arose from the ashpits, to the dark odorous stables where a coachman smoothed and combed the horse or shook music from the buckled harness. When we returned to the street, light from the kitchen windows had filled the areas. If my uncle was seen turning the corner, we hid in the shadow until we had seen him safely housed. Or if Mangan’s sister came out on the doorstep to call her brother in to his tea, we watched her from our shadow peer up and down the street. We waited to see whether she would remain or go in and, if she remained, we left our shadow and walked up to Mangan’s steps resignedly. She was waiting for us, her figure defined by the light from the half-opened door. Her brother always teased her before he obeyed, and I stood by the railings looking at her. Her dress swung as she moved her body, and the soft rope of her hair tossed from side to side. Every morning I lay on the floor in the front parlour watching her door. The blind was pulled down to within an inch of the sash so that I could not be seen. When she came out on the doorstep my heart leaped. I ran to the hall, seized my books and followed her. I kept her brown figure always in my eye and, when we came near the point at which our ways diverged, I quickened my pace and passed her. This happened morning after morning. I had never spoken to her, except for a few casual words, and yet her name was like a summons to all my foolish blood. Her image accompanied me even in places the most hostile to romance. On Saturday evenings when my aunt went marketing I had to go to carry some of the parcels. We walked through the flaring streets, jostled by drunken men and bargaining women, amid the curses of labourers, the shrill litanies of shop-boys who stood on guard by the barrels of pigs’ cheeks, the nasal chanting of street-singers, who sang a come-all-you about O’Donovan Rossa, or a ballad about the troubles in our native land. These noises converged in a single sensation of life for me: I imagined that I bore my chalice safely through a throng of foes. Her name sprang to my lips at moments in strange prayers and praises which I myself did not understand. My eyes were often full of tears (I could not tell why) and at times a flood from my heart seemed to pour itself out into my bosom. I thought little of the future. I did not know

160 whether I would ever speak to her or not or, if I spoke to her, how I could tell her of my confused adoration. But my body was like a harp and her words and gestures were like fingers running upon the wires. One evening I went into the back drawing-room in which the priest had died. It was a dark rainy evening and there was no sound in the house. Through one of the broken panes I heard the rain impinge upon the earth, the fine incessant needles of water playing in the sodden beds. Some distant lamp or lighted window gleamed below me. I was thankful that I could see so little. All my senses seemed to desire to veil themselves and, feeling that I was about to slip from them, I pressed the palms of my hands together until they trembled, murmuring: ‘O love! O love!’ many times. At last she spoke to me. When she addressed the first words to me I was so confused that I did not know what to answer. She asked me was I going to Araby. I forgot whether I answered yes or no. It would be a splendid bazaar; she said she would love to go. ‘And why can’t you?’ I asked.While she spoke she turned a silver bracelet round and round her wrist. She could not go, she said, because there would be a retreat that week in her convent. Her brother and two other boys were fighting for their caps, and I was alone at the railings. She held one of the spikes, bowing her head towards me. The light from the lamp opposite our door caught the white curve of her neck, lit up her hair that rested there and, falling, lit up the hand upon the railing. It fell over one side of her dress and caught the white border of a petticoat, just visible as she stood at ease. ‘It’s well for you,’ she said. ‘If I go,’ I said, ‘I will bring you something.’ What innumerable follies laid waste my waking and sleeping thoughts after that evening! I wished to annihilate the tedious intervening days. I chafed against the work of school. At night in my bedroom and by day in the classroom her image came between me and the page I strove to read. The syllables of the word Araby were called to me through the silence in which my soul luxuriated and cast an Eastern enchantment over me. I asked for leave to go to the bazaar on Saturday night. My aunt was surprised, and hoped it was not some Freemason affair. I answered few questions in class. I watched my master’s face pass from amiability to sternness; he hoped I was not beginning to idle. I could not call my wandering thoughts together. I had hardly any patience with the serious work of life which, now that it stood between me and my desire, seemed to me child’s play, ugly monotonous child’s play. On Saturday morning I reminded my uncle that I wished to go to the bazaar in the evening. He was fussing at the hallstand, looking for the hat-brush, and answered me curtly: ‘Yes, boy, I know.’ As he was in the hall I could not go into the front parlour and lie at the window. I felt the house in bad humour and walked slowly towards the school. The air was pitilessly raw and already my heart misgave me.

161 When I came home to dinner my uncle had not yet been home. Still it was early. I sat staring at the clock for some time and, when its ticking began to irritate me, I left the room. I mounted the staircase and gained the upper part of the house. The high, cold, empty, gloomy rooms liberated me and I went from room to room singing. From the front window I saw my companions playing below in the street. Their cries reached me weakened and indistinct and, leaning my forehead against the cool glass, I looked over at the dark house where she lived. I may have stood there for an hour, seeing nothing but the brown-clad figure cast by my imagination, touched discreetly by the lamplight at the curved neck, at the hand upon the railings and at the border below the dress.

When I came downstairs again I found Mrs Mercer sitting at the fire. She was an old, garrulous woman, a pawnbroker’s widow, who collected used stamps for some pious purpose. I had to endure the gossip of the tea-table. The meal was prolonged beyond an hour and still my uncle did not come. Mrs Mercer stood up to go: she was sorry she couldn’t wait any longer, but it was after eight o’clock and she did not like to be out late, as the night air was bad for her. When she had gone I began to walk up and down the room, clenching my fists. My aunt said: ‘I’m afraid you may put off your bazaar for this night of Our Lord.’ At nine o’clock I heard my uncle’s latchkey in the hall door. I heard him talking to himself and heard the hallstand rocking when it had received the weight of his overcoat. I could interpret these signs. When he was midway through his dinner I asked him to give me the money to go to the bazaar. He had forgotten. ‘The people are in bed and after their first sleep now,’ he said. I did not smile. My aunt said to him energetically: ‘Can’t you give him the money and let him go? You’ve kept him late enough as it is.’ My uncle said he was very sorry he had forgotten. He said he believed in the old saying: ‘All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.’ He asked me where I was going and, when I told him a second time, he asked me did I know The Arab’s Farewell to his Steed. When I left the kitchen he was about to recite the opening lines of the piece to my aunt. I held a florin tightly in my hand as I strode down Buckingham Street towards the station. The sight of the streets thronged with buyers and glaring with gas recalled to me the purpose of my journey. I took my seat in a third-class carriage of a deserted train. After an intolerable delay the train moved out of the station slowly. It crept onward among ruinous houses and over the twinkling river. At Westland Row Station a crowd of people pressed to the carriage doors; but the porters moved them back, saying that it was a special train for the bazaar. I remained alone in the bare carriage. In a few minutes the train drew up beside an improvised wooden platform. I passed out on to the road and saw by the lighted dial of a clock that it was ten minutes to ten. In front of me was a large building which displayed the magical name. I could

162 not find any sixpenny entrance and, fearing that the bazaar would be closed, I passed in quickly through a turnstile, handing a shilling to a weary-looking man. I found myself in a big hall girded at half its height by a gallery. Nearly all the stalls were closed and the greater part of the hall was in darkness. I recognized a silence like that which pervades a church after a service. I walked into the centre of the bazaar timidly. A few people were gathered about the stalls which were still open. Before a curtain, over which the words Café Chantant were written in coloured lamps, two men were counting money on a salver. I listened to the fall of the coins. Remembering with difficulty why I had come, I went over to one of the stalls and examined porcelain vases and flowered tea-sets. At the door of the stall a young lady was talking and laughing with two young gentlemen. I remarked their English accents and listened vaguely to their conversation.

‘O, I never said such a thing!’‘O, but you did!’‘O, but I didn’t!’‘Didn’t she say that?’‘Yes. I heard her.’‘O, there’s a... fib!’ Observing me, the young lady came over and asked me did I wish to buy anything. The tone of her voice was not encouraging; she seemed to have spoken to me out of a sense of duty. I looked humbly at the great jars that stood like eastern guards at either side of the dark entrance to the stall and murmured: ‘No, thank you.’ The young lady changed the position of one of the vases and went back to the two young men. They began to talk of the same subject. Once or twice the young lady glanced at me over her shoulder. I lingered before her stall, though I knew my stay was useless, to make my interest in her wares seem the more real. Then I turned away slowly and walked down the middle of the bazaar. I allowed the two pennies to fall against the sixpence in my pocket. I heard a voice call from one end of the gallery that the light was out. The upper part of the hall was now completely dark. Gazing up into the darkness I saw myself as a creature driven and derided by vanity; and my eyes burned with anguish and anger.

Discussion questions

1) What is the setting of the story? 2) What is the main theme of the story? 3) What are the protagonist and the antagonist of the story? 4) What is the climax of the story? 5) Is the main conflict in the story resolved?

163 FLIGHT By Doris Lessing Above the old man’s head was the dovecote, a tall wire-netted shelf on stilts, full of strutting, preening birds. The sunlight broke on their gray breasts into small rainbows. His ears were lulled by their crooning; his hands stretched up toward his favorite, a homing pigeon, a young plump-bodied bird, which stood still when it saw him and cocked a shrewd bright eye. “

‘Pretty, pretty, pretty’.he said, as he grasped the bird and drew it down, feeling the cold coral claws tighten around his finger. Content he rested the bird lightly on his chest and leaned against a tree, gazing our beyond the dovecote’ into the landscape of a late afternoon. In folds and hollows of-sunlight and shade, the dark red soil, which was broken into great dusty clods, stretched wide to a tall horizon. Trees marked the course of the valley, a stream of rich green grass the road.

His eyes traveled homeward along this road until he saw his granddaughter swinging on the gate underneath a frangipani tree. Her hair fell down her back in a wave of sunlight; and her long bare legs repeated the angles of the frangipani, stems, bare, shining brown stems among patterns of pale blossoms. She was gazing past the pink flowers, past the railway cottage where they lived, along the road to the village.

His mood shifted. He deliberately held out his wrist for the bird to take flight, and caught it again at the moment it spread its wings. He felt the plump shape strive and strain under his fingers; and, in a sudden access of troubled spite, shut the bird into a small box and fastened the bolt. ‘Now you stay there’, he muttered and turned his back on the shelf of birds. He moved warily along the hedge stalking his granddaughter, who was now looped over the gate, her head loose on her arms, singing. The light happy sound mingled with the crooning of the birds, and his anger mounted. ‘Hey!’ he shouted, and saw her jump, look back, and abandon the gate. Her eyes veiled themselves, and she said in a pert, neutral voice, ‘Hullo, Grandad’. Politely she moved toward him, after a lingering backward glance at the road.

‘Waiting for Steven, hey?’ he said, his fingers curling like claws into his palm. ‘Any objection?’ she asked lightly refusing to look at him. He confronted her, his eyes narrowed; shoulders hunched, tight in a hard knot of pain that

164 included the preening birds, the sunlight, the flowers, herself. He said, ‘Think you’re old enough to go courting, hey?’ The girl tossed her head at the old-fashioned phrase and sulked, ‘Oh, Grandad!’, ‘Think you want to leave home, hey? Think you can go running around the fields at night?’ Her smile made him see her, as he had every evening this warm end-of-summer month, swinging hand in hand along the road to the village with that red-handed, red-throated , violent-bodied youth, the son of the postmaster. Misery went to his head and he shouted angrily: ‘I’ll tell your mother!’ ‘Tell away!’ she said, laughing, and went back to the gate. He beard her singing, for him to hear: ‘I’ve got you under my skin I’ve got you deep in the heart of ….’ ‘Rubbish’, he shouted. ‘Rubbish. Impudent little bit of rubbish!’ Growling under his breath, he turned toward the dovecote, which was his refuge from the house he shared with his daughter and her husband and their children. But now the house would be empty. Gone all the young girls with their laugher and their squabbling and their teasing. He would be left, uncherished and alone, with that square-fronted, calm-eyed woman, his daughter. He stopped, muttering, before the dovecote, resenting the absorbed, cooing birds. From the gate the girl shouted: ‘Go and tell! Go on, what are you waiting for?’ Obstinately he made his way to the house, with quick, pathetic, persistent glances of appeal back at her. But she never looked around. Her defiant but anxious young body stung him into love and repentance. He stopped. ‘But I never meant.’ he muttered, waiting for her to turn and run to him. ‘I didn’t mean...’ She did not turn. She had forgotten him. Along the road came the young man Steven, with something in his hand. A present for her? The old man stiffened as he watched the gate swing hack and the couple embrace. In the brittle shadows of the frangipani tree his granddaughter, his darling, lay in the arms of the postmaster’s son, and her hair flowed back over his shoulder. ‘I see you!’, shouted the old man spitefully. They did not move. He stumped into the little whitewashed house, hearing the wooden veranda creak angrily under his feet. His daughter was sewing in the front room, threading a needle held to the light. He stopped again, looking back into the garden. The couple were now sauntering among the bushes, laughing. As he watched he saw the girl escape from the youth with a sudden mischievous movement arid run off through the flowers with him in pursuit. He heard shouts, laughter, a scream, silence. “But it’s not like that at all’, he muttered miserably. ‘It’s not like that. Why can’t you see?

165 Running and giggling, and kissing and kissing. You’ll come to something quite different’. He looked at his daughter with sardonic hatred, hating himself. They were caught and finished, both of them, but the girl was still running free. ‘Can’t you see?’ he demanded of his invisible granddaughter, who was at that moment lying in tile thick green grass with the postmaster’s son. His daughter looked at him and her eyebrows went up in tired forbearance. ‘Put your birds to bed?’ she asked, humoring him. ‘Lucy’, he said urgently. ‘Lucy...’ ‘Well, what is it now?’ ‘She’s in the garden with Steven’. ‘Now you just sit down and have your tea’.

He stumped his feet alternately, thump, thump, on the hollow wooden floor and shouted: ‘She’ll marry him. I’m telling you, she’ll be marrying him next!’ His daughter rose swiftly, brought him a cup, set him a plate. ‘I don’t want any tea. I don’t want it, I tell you’. ‘Now, now’, she crooned. ‘What’s wrong with it? Why not?’ ‘She’s eighteen. Eighteen!’ ‘I was married at seventeen, and I never regretted it’ ‘Liar’, he said. ‘Liar. Then you should regret it. Why do you make your girl marry? It’s you who do it. What do you do it for? Why?’ ‘The other three have done fine. They’ve three fine husbands. ‘Why not Alice?’ ‘She’s the last’, he mourned. ‘Can’t we keep her a bit longer?’ ‘Come, now, Dad. She’ll he down the road, that’s all. She’ll be here every day to see you ‘. ‘But it’s not the same’. He thought of the other three girls, transformed inside a few months from charming, petulant, spoiled children into serious young matrons. ‘You never did like it when we married’, she said. ‘Why not? Every time, it’s the same. When I got married you made me feel like it was something wrong. And my girls the same. You get them all crying and miserable the way you go on. Leave Alice alone. She’s happy. She sighed, letting her eyes linger on the sunlit garden. ‘She’ll marry next month. There’s no reason to wait’. ‘You’ve said they can marry?’ he said incredulously. ‘Yes, Dad.‘Why not?’ she said coldly and took up her sewing.

His eyes stung, and he went out on to the veranda. Wet spread down over his chin, and he took’ out a handkerchief and mopped his whole face. The garden was empty.

166 From around the comer came the young couple; but their faces were no longer set against him. On the wrist of the postmaster’s son balanced a young pigeon, the light gleaming on its breast. ‘For me?’ said the old man, letting the drops shake off his chin. ‘For me?’ ‘Do you like it?’ The girl grabbed his hand and swung on it. ‘It’s for you, Grandad. Steven brought it for you’. They hung about him, affectionate, concerned, trying to charm away his wet eyes and his misery. They took his arms and directed him to the shelf of birds, one on each side enclosing him, petting him, saying wordlessly that nothing would be changed, nothing could change, and that they would be with him always. The bird was proof of it, they said, from their lying happy eyes, as they’ thrust it on him. ‘The Grandad, it’s yours. It’s for you’. They watched him as he held it on his wrist, stroking its soft, sun-warmed back, watching the wing lift and balance.

‘You must shut it up for a bit’, said the girl intimately, ‘until it knows this is its home’. ‘Teach your grandmother to suck eggs’ growled the old man. Released by his half-deliberate anger, they fell back, laughing athim. ‘We’re glad you like it’. They moved off, now serious and full of purpose, to the gate, where they hung, backs to him, talking quietly. “More than anything could, their grown up seriousness shut him out, making him alone; also, it quietened him, took the sting out of their’ tumbling like puppies on the grass. They had forgotten him again. Well, so they should, the old man reassured himself, feeling his throat clotted with tears, his lips trembling. He held the new bird to his face, for the caress of its silken feathers. Then he shut it in a box and took out his favor.ite. ‘Now you can go’, he said aloud. He held poised, ready for flight, while he looked down the garden toward the boy and the girl. Then, clenched in the pain of loss, he lifte4 the bird on his wrist and watched it soar. A whirr and a spatter of wings, and a cloud of birds rose into the evening from the dovecote. At the gate Alice and Steven forgot their talk and watched the birds. On the veranda, that woman, his daughter, stood gazing, her eyes shaded with a hand that still held her sewing. It seemed to the old man that the whole afternoon had stilled to watch his gesture of self-command, that even the leaves of the trees had stopped shaking. Dry-eyed and calm, he let his hands fall to his sides and stood erect, staring up into the sky. The cloud of shining silver birds flew up and up, with a shrill cleaving of wings, over the dark ploughed land and the darker belts of trees and the bright folds of grass, until they floated high in the sunlight, like a cloud of motes of dust. . They wheeled in a wide circle, tilting their wings so there was flash after flash of light, and one after another they dropped from the sunshine of the upper sky to shadow, one after

167 another, returning to the shadowed earth over trees and grass and field, returning to the valley and the shelter of night. The garden was all a fluster and a flurry of returning birds. Then silence, and the sky was empty. The old man turned, slowly, taking his time; he lifted his eyes to smile proudly down the garden at his granddaughter. She was staring at him. She did not smile. She was wide eyed and pale in the cold shadow, and he saw the tears run shivering off her face.

Discussion questions

1) What is the setting of the story? 2) What is the main theme of the story? 3) What are the protagonist and the antagonist of the story? 4) What is the climax of the story? 5) Is the main conflict in the story resolved?

THE PEARL OF LOVE By H.G. Wells

The pearl is lovelier than the most brilliant of crystalline stones, the moralist declares, because it is made through the suffering of a living creature. About that I can say nothing because I feel none of the fascination of pearls. Their cloudy luster moves me not at all. Nor can I decide for myself upon that age long dispute whether The Pearl of Love is the cruelest of stories or only a gracious fable of the immortality of beauty.

Both the story and the controversy will be familiar to students of mediaeval Persian prose. The story is a short one, though the commentary upon it is a respectable part of the literature of that period. They have treated it as a poetic invention and they have treated it as an allegory meaning this, that, or the other thing. Theologians have had their copious way with it, dealing with it particularly as concerning the restoration of the body after death, and it has been greatly used as a parable by those who write about aesthetics. And many have held it to be the statement of a fact, simply and baldly true. The story is laid in North India, which is the most fruitful soil for sublime love stories of all the lands in the world. It was in a country of sunshine and lakes and rich forests and hills and fertile valleys; and far away the great mountains hung in the sky, peaks, crests, and ridges of inaccessible and eternal snow. There was a young prince, lord of all the land; and he found a

168 maiden of indescribable beauty and delightfulness and he made her his queen and laid his heart at her feet. Love was theirs, full of joys and sweetness, full of hope, exquisite, brave and marvelous love, beyond anything you have ever dreamt of love. It was theirs for a year and a part of a year; and then suddenly, because of some venomous sting that came to her in a thicket, she died. She died and for a while the prince was utterly prostrated. He was silent and motionless with grief. They feared he might kill himself, and he had neither sons nor brothers to succeed him. For two days and nights he lay upon his face, fasting, across the foot of the couch which bore her calm and lovely body. Then he arose and ate, and went about very quietly like one who has taken a great resolution. He caused her body to be put in a coffin of lead mixed with silver, and for that he had an outer coffin made of the most precious and scented woods wrought with gold, and about that there was to be a sarcophagus of alabaster, inlaid with precious stones. And while these things were being done he spent his time for the most part by the pools and in the garden-houses and pavilions and groves and in those chambers in the palace where they two had been most together, brooding upon her loveliness. He did not rend his garments nor defile himself with ashes and sackcloth as the custom was, for his love was too great for such extravagances. At last he came forth again among his councilors and before the people, and told them what he had a mind to do. He said he could never more touch woman, he could never more think of them, and so he would find a seemly youth to adopt for his heir and train him to his task, and that he would do his princely duties as became him; but that for the rest of it, he would give himself with all his power and all his strength and all his wealth, all that he could command, to make a monument worthy of his incomparable, dear, lost mistress. A building it should be of perfect grace and beauty, more marvelous than any other building had ever been or could ever be, so that to the end of time it should be a wonder, and men would treasure it and speak of it and desire to see it and come from all the lands of the earth to visit and recall the name and the memory of his queen. And this building he said was to be called the Pearl of Love. And this his councilors and people permitted him to do, and so he did.

Year followed year and all the years he devoted himself to building and adorning the Pearl of Love. A great foundation was hewn out of the living rock in a place whence one seemed to be looking at the snowy wilderness of the great mountain across the valley of the world. Villages and hills there were, a winding river, and very far away three great cities. Here they put the sarcophagus of alabaster beneath a pavilion of cunning workmanship; and about it there were set pillars of strange and lovely stone and wrought and fretted walls, and a great casket of masonry bearing a dome and pinnacles and cupolas, as exquisite as a jewel. At first the design

169 of the Pearl of Love was less bold and subtle than it became later. At first it was smaller and more wrought and encrusted; there were many pierced screens and delicate clusters of rosy- hued pillars, and the sarcophagus lay like a child that sleeps among flowers. The first dome was covered with green tiles, framed and held together by silver, but this was taken away again because it seemed close, because it did not soar grandly enough for the broadening imagination of the prince.

For by this time he was no longer the graceful youth who had loved the girl queen. He was now a man, grave and intent, wholly set upon the building of the Pearl of Love. With every year of effort he had learnt new possibilities in arch and wall and buttress; he had acquired greater power over the material he had to use and he had learnt of a hundred stones and hues and effects that he could never have thought of in the beginning. His sense of colour had grown finer and colder; he cared no more for the enameled gold-lined brightness that had pleased him first, the brightness of an illuminated missal; he sought now for blue colourings like the sky and for the subtle hues of great distances, for recondite shadows and sudden broad floods of purple opalescence and for grandeur and space. He wearied altogether of carvings and pictures and inlaid ornamentation and all the little careful work of men. “Those were pretty things,” he said of his earlier decorations; and had them put aside into subordinate buildings where they would not hamper his main design. Greater and greater grew his artistry. With awe and amazement people saw the Pearl of Love sweeping up from its first beginnings to a superhuman breadth and height and magnificence. They did not know clearly what they had expected, but never had they expected so sublime a thing as this. “Wonderful are the miracles,” they whispered, “that love can do,” and all the women in the world, whatever other loves they had, loved the prince for the splendour of his devotion.

Through the middle of the building ran a great aisle, a vista, that the prince came to care for more and more. From the inner entrance of the building he looked along the length of an immense pillared gallery and across the central area from which the rose-hued columns had long since vanished, over the top of the pavilion under which lay the sarcophagus, through a marvelously designed opening, to the snowy wildernesses of the great mountain, the lord of all mountains, two hundred miles away. The pillars and arches and buttresses and galleries soared and floated on either side, perfect yet unobtrusive, like great archangels waiting in the shadows about the presence of God. When men saw that austere beauty for the first time they were exalted, and then they shivered and their hearts bowed down. Very often would the prince come to stand there and look at that vista, deeply moved and not yet

170 fully satisfied. The Pearl of Love had still something for him to do, he felt, before his task was done. Always he would order some little alteration to be made or some recent alterations to be put back again. And one day he said that the sarcophagus would be clearer and simpler without the pavilion; and after regarding it very steadfastly for a long time, he had the pavilion dismantled and removed. The next day he came and said nothing, and the next day and the next. Then for two days he stayed away altogether. Then he returned, bringing with him an architect and two master craftsmen and a small retinue.

All looked, standing together silently in a little group, amidst the serene vastness of their achievement. No trace of toil remained in its perfection. It was as if the God of nature’s beauty had taken over their offspring to himself.

Only one thing there was to mar the absolute harmony. There was a certain disproportion about the sarcophagus. It had never been enlarged, and indeed how could it have been enlarged since the early days. It challenged the eye; it nicked the streaming lines. In that sarcophagus was the casket of lead and silver, and in the casket of lead and silver was the queen, the dear immortal cause of all this beauty. But now that sarcophagus seemed no more than a little dark oblong that lay incongruously in the great vista of the Pearl of Love. It was as if someone had dropped a small valise upon the crystal sea of heaven. Long the prince mused, but no one knew the thoughts that passed through his mind. At last he spoke. He pointed. “Take that thing away,” he said.

Discussion questions

1) What is the setting of the story? 2) What is the main theme of the story? 3) What are the protagonist and the antagonist of the story? 4) What is the climax of the story? 5) Is the main conflict in the story resolved?

171 THE GOOD COP By Magnus Mills

The first time he came into the room I thought he had a rather preoccupied look about him. It was as if his mind was fully engaged in trying to solve some formidable problem, one that had been imposed upon him by powers beyond his control. He paid no attention to me, although I was the only person present, and instead paced around the floor, moving from one comer to the next, until eventually he arrived back at the door. This he opened, glancing briefly outside before closing it again. “All right,” he said, finally breaking his silence. “I’ve only got a few minutes, but if we’re quick we should be able to get all this settled before he comes back.” “Before who comes back?” I asked.

Only then did he look directly into my face. I saw that he was a tired, pale man, obviously overworked, wearing a shirt and tie (no jacket), his blue eyes regarding me through a pair of heavy spectacles. He remained standing for several long moments, then settled down in the chair opposite mine, at the other side of the desk. After removing his glasses, he leant forward and rested his head in his hands. “You’re not going to be difficult, are you?” he sighed. I said nothing. “Because if you’re going to be difficult it makes things very difficult for me.” He raised his eyes to meet mine. Without the glasses they seemed weak, and gave him a sad, vulnerable appearance. “I only came in here to see if I could help matters along, but if you’re going to be difficult there’s very little I can do. Don’t you understand it would all be so much easier if you let me help?”

He continued gazing across at me, his whole face appealing to me to accept his offer. “Well,” I said. “What is it you want to do exactly? To help.” His look brightened. “I want you to trust me.” ”Why?” I enquired. After a short pause he replaced his glasses and smiled. “Because I’m your friend.” The second time he came into the room he winced when the door clicked shut, as if the sharp sound was an intrusion, jarring the senses unnecessarily. Then he crept to the chair opposite mine and sat down, quiet as a mouse. “Shouts a lot, doesn’t he?” he ventured. I was about to ask, “Who does?” when he put his finger to his lips and frowned.“It’s all right,” he said. “There won’t be any shouting while

172 I’mhere, you can rely on that. Your ears can enjoy a well-earned rest. We’ll have a nice gentle talk, just the two of us, and you can tell me all about it.” I shrugged. “There isn’t much to tell.”

This brought another smile to his face, a broad, open smile of kindness and understanding. “Yes, I suppose that’s how it must seem from where you’re sitting. A barrage of questions, questions, and more questions until eventually you feel as if there’s nothing left to say. But let me ask you something. Have I asked you any questions?” “None to speak of, no.” He held out his hands, palm upwards. “Well then. Not once have I shouted at you, or criticised you, or demanded to know anything. Like I said before, I simply want you to trust me, to think of me as your friend.” He reached into his pocket and produced a bar of chocolate, which he passed across the desk. “Here you are. Expect you could do with a bite to eat, couldn’t you?” “Yes, thanks,” I said, unwrapping the chocolate and breaking off a chunk. “I have been here rather a long time.” ”Three or four hours?” ”At least.” ”That is a long time,” he agreed, puffing his cheeks out. “Yes, that must be the worst part. The interminable waiting. Never knowing what’s going to happen, and always wondering who’ll be the next person to come through that door.” ”I hadn’t thought of it like that,” I said. “To tell the truth.” ”Really?” he asked. ”Really,” I replied. “Well, I’m sure you will very soon.” He stood up and glanced at his watch. “Look, I’ve got to go now, but I’ll be back shortly I promise. In the meantime I’d keep that chocolate hidden if I were you.”

The third time he came into the room he looked deeply troubled. He was carrying a steaming hot towel, which he tossed to me before going over to the wall and leaning on one elbow, eyes closed, his fingers pressed hard against his brow. He maintained this stance for well over a minute. Meanwhile, I made full use of the towel, running it over my face and head, and breathing deeply as the vapours entered my pores. When at last he spoke his voice was grave. “I’m dreadfully sorry about this, dreadfully, dreadfully sorry. That man can be such a beast at times. A monster. None the less, you must understand that he’s only doing his ... “

All of a sudden he broke off, and I looked up to see that he was staring at me with a startled expression on his face. He came forward and gave me a closer look, then slumped down in the chair opposite mine.

173 “Are you all right?” he asked. ”Never better.” ”Not feeling rough?” ”No, not at all.” ”Well then you’d better let me have the towel back. I’m afraid everything has to be accounted for these days. You know how things are. Nice and refreshing, was it?” “Yes, thanks,” I replied. “A great comfort.” My words seemed to perk him up again, because he quickly rose to his feet and walked around the room saying, “Good, good. A great comfort. That’s very good.” Then he halted in his tracks and turned to face me again. “The trouble is that it’s likely to get worse.” ”Is it?” “Oh, yes, much, much worse. And of course there’ll be little I can do about it because I won’t be here to speak up for you.” ”But I thought you said you were going to help.” ”Well ... yes,” he stammered. “I am going to help you, yes I am. But I can only do that ...” ”When you come back,” I interrupted. ”Er ... yes, that’s quite right. I can only help you when I come back.” The fourth time he entered the room he was sweating profusely. His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar and his tie had come loose. Under his arm he carried a sheaf of papers, which he hurriedly laid out on the desk, glancing at me from time to time and adjusting his glasses when they slipped down his nose.

“Dear oh dear,” he said, breathing heavily. “Looks like we have an administrative problem. Can you remember what time you were brought in?” ”I wasn’t brought in,” I replied. “I came of my own accord.” ”What!” he said, plainly taken aback. “Whatever possessed you to do such a thing?” ”I thought it was the best course of action under the circumstances.” He put his hand to his head and began pacing around in an agitated manner. “Have you any idea what goes on here?” he demanded. “In this very room?” ”Well,” I answered. “Nothing most of the time, from what I’ve seen.” ”Nothing!? Nothing!? How can you say that after what you’ve been through? Hour after hour of interrogation, verbal abuse and the ever-present threat of physical violence, and you call that nothing!” ”But there’s only been you here,” I said. “And you were kind enough to give me a bar of chocolate.” He stood stock still, stared at me for several seconds, then marched out of the room.

When he came back I noticed he had changed his shirt. The new one was ironed, crisp and white, and his tie was knotted perfectly at the centre of his collar. He was also wearing a stiffly pressed jacket. “Sorry about all that earlier,” he said, taking the seat opposite mine. “Staff shortages.” “Thought so,” I said. “You’re the good cop, aren’t you?” To my surprise he reached over and slapped me hard across the face. “Silence!” he barked. “We will ask the questions!”

174 Discussion questions

1) What is the setting of the story? 2) What is the main theme of the story? 3) What are the protagonist and the antagonist of the story? 4) What is the climax of the story? 5) Is the main conflict in the story resolved?

175 REFERENCES Andrea Arnold. (Director), Andrea Arnold andOlivia Hetreed (screenplay), based on Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë. (2011). Wuthering Height.[Motion picture].Ecosse Films Company. http://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/a/american-poets-of-the-20th-century/how-to- analyze-poetry http://www.enotes.com/topics/how-analyze-poem http://www.online-literature.com/ http://www.vaniercollege.qc.ca/tlc/tipsheets/reading-and-analyzing/analysing-short- stories.pdf Joe Wright. (Director), Deborah Moggach (screenplay) based on Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen. (2005). Pride and Prejudice [Motion picture].Universal Studios Home Entertainment. USA. Jane Lin. (Director), Emma Thompson (screenplay). based on Sense & Sensibility by Jane Austen. (1995). Sense & Sensibility.[Motion picture].Columbia Motion Picture. Lộc, Lê Huy, (2003). Nhập môn văn học Anh. Nhà xuất bản ĐH Quốc Gia TP Hồ Chí Minh. Paul Mc Guigan. (Director), Max Landis (screenplay).(2015). Frankenstein [Motion picture]. Pandshore Entertianment Company. USA. Tánh, Nguyễn Trung, (n.d.) Dẫn luận văn học, in lần thứ 6. Sài Gòn: Nhà xuất bản TP Hồ Chí Minh. Toán, Bùi Minh, (2008).Giáo trình dẫn luận ngôn ngữ học, Nhà xuất bản Đại học Sư phạm, Hà Nội. Thu, Nguyễn Thị Kiều (2008).Giáo trình văn học Anh.Nhà xuất bản ĐH Quốc Gia TP Hồ Chí Minh. Uyên, Phan Thị Minh (2013).Giáo trình văn chương Anh, Lưu hành nội bộ.

176