The Yellow Wallpaper Plot Structure

SECTION I PLOT AND PLOT STRUCTURE THEORETICAL PRELIMINARIES The impact of a literary work, as it has already been stated, depends on all its elements. Among them plot and plot structure play an important role. The plot is a series of interlinked events in which the characters of the story participate. The events are arranged in a definite sequence to catch and hold the reader's interest. The writer arranges the events, ordering them as he sees fit. Most stories and novels have plots. But there are some which have no plots. To these belong stories and poems describing nature. It is difficult to trace the plots in the so-called "novels of ideas" and stories presenting the stream of consciousness, since the thoughts of the
character are set down as they occur regardless of their logic. Yet one should bear in mind that the events in a plot need not always involve physical movement, the movement may be psychological. In the latter case the plot reveals the dynamics in the psychological state of a character. Every plot is a series of meaningful events. They are meaningful in the sense that the writer does not follow all the events in which the characters of his story would participate in real life during the span of time covered by the story. He selects the events which are meaningful to the message contained in the story, and to characterization, i. e. he chooses those that serve to reveal certain features of the characters. their motives and morals. Therefore, each event in the story is always logically related to the message, the theme, the conflict, and is psychologically related to the development of the characters within the story. Sometimes the logical, and sometimes the psychological aspect may be the more obvious. Since the writer selects events that have special meaning in relation to the message of the story, every event in the plot is always suggestive. And this is what the reader should keep in mind. He should discover the role the events of the story play in characterization and in conveying the message. Any plot involves repetition, but it does not mean mechanical repetition. A plot is comprised of a variety of events, each of which recalls the reader, directly or indirectly, to the central problem. No matter how casual each event might seem to be at first glance, it generally returns the reader to the main problem of the story. The plot of any story always involves character and conflict. They imply each other. Conflict in fiction is the opposition (or struggle) between forces or characters. Conflicts are classified into external and internal conflicts. Different types of external conflicts are usually termed in the following way:
Man against man, when the plot is based on the opposition between two or more people, as in The Roads We Take by O'Henry.
Man against nature (the sea, the desert, the frozen North or wild beasts). The conflict in The Old Man and the Sea by F. Hemingway, The Hunter by J. Aldridge, or the scientist's effort to discover the secrets of nature involve a conflict between man and nature. 3. Man against society or man against the established order in the society, when the individual fights his social environment openly, or when there is a conflict between the individual and the established order: a conflict with poverty, racial hostility, injustice, exploitation, inequality. 4. The conflict between one set of values against another set of values. These sets of values may be supported by two groups or two worlds in opposition. For example, the conflict in The Fall of Edward Barnard by S. Maugham is between ambition and prosperity, on the one hand, and truth, beauty and goodness, on the other. Internal conflicts, often termed as "man against himself", take place within one character. The internal conflict is localized in the inner world of the character and is rendered through his thoughts, feelings, intellectual processes. Here the character is torn between opposing features of his personality. For example, the tragedy of Soames Forsyte in The Man of Property is his conflict with himself: the sense of property, on the one hand, and a keen sense of beauty, on the other. The internal conflict within an individual often involves a struggle of his sense of duty against self-interest. The plot of a story may be based on several conflicts of different types, it may involve both an internal and an external conflict. Conflicts in fiction are suggested by contradictions in reality. On the other hand, conflicts in fiction are affected by the writer's outlook, by his personality and his view of certain types of people, problems and social phenomena. The writer observes reality and the fates, problems, difficulties of his fellow creatures inspire him to write. It is reality that he reflects in his work, but he does it from his own standpoint, as he sees and understands it. Therefore, when evaluating a literary work one should take into account not only the types of human nature and class contradictions described, but also the standpoint flare viewed from. The events of the plot are generally localized, i. e. they are set in a particular place and lime. The place and time of the actions of a story (or novel) form the setting. For the setting the writer selects the relevant detail which would suggest the whole scene. In some stories, the setting is scarcely noticeable, in others it plays a very important role. The functions of the setting may vary.
The setting, especially description of nature, helps lo evoke the necessary atmosphere (or mood), appropriate to the general intention of the story. It may be an atmosphere of gloom and foreboding as in Rain by S. Maugham, or a mysterious atmosphere as in The Oval Portrait by E. A. Poe.
The setting may reinforce characterization by either paralleling or contrasting the actions. Thus in S. Maugham's story Rain the description of the unceasing rain parallels the actions of Mr. Davidson. The setting here suggests similarity between his actions and the merciless rain.
The setting may be a reflection of the inner state of a character, as in Jane Eyre by Ch. Bronte. The setting reflects remarkably well the feelings that Jane experiences. The function of the setting in King Lear by W. Shakespeare is identical. The raging storm reflects King Lear's emotional slate. 4 The setting may place the character in a recognizable realistic environment. Such a setting may include geographical names and allusions to historical events. A setting, which is realistic and which is rendered vividly, tends to increase the credibility of the whole plot. It means that if the reader accepts the setting as real, he tends to accept the inhabitants of the setting, i. e. the characters and their actions, more readily.
In fiction the setting, especially domestic interiors, may serve to reveal certain features of the character. "A man's house is an extension of himself. Describe it and you have described him ..." Such settings may be viewed as "metonymic, or metaphoric, expressions of Character"
When the theme and the main problem involves the conflict between man and nature, the setting becomes in effect the chief antagonist whom the hero must overcome, as in The Old Man and the Sea by E. Hemingway. The setting in a story may perform either one or several functions simultaneously. It should be also noted that characters, actions, conflict and setting work together to accomplish the author's purpose. The setting is generally established at the beginning of the story, in the exposition, which is the first component of plot structure. In the exposition the writer introduces the theme, the characters and establishes the setting. The exposition, therefore, contains the necessary preliminaries to the events of the plot, casts light on the circumstances influencing the development of characters and supplies some information on either all or some of the following questions: Who? What? Where? When? The exposition may be compressed into one sentence or extended into several paragraphs. Fairy tales usually begin with an extended exposition that provides the reader with exhaustive information about when and where the events are set, who the characters are and what the story is about. Such is the exposition in The Magic Fish-bone by Ch. Dickens: "There was once a king, and he had a queen; and he was the manliest of his sex, and she was the loveliest of hers. The king was, in his private profession, under government. The queen's father had been a medical man out of town. They had nineteen children, and were always having more. Seventeen of these children took care of the baby; and Alicia, the eldest, took care of them all. Their ages varied from seven years to seven months." If the character and backgrounds are not special, not much exposition is required. Such is the case in D. Parker's story Arrangement in Black and While. The characters and the setting are not specified. What matters in this story is the state and behaviour of the protagonist, who despite her efforts fails to conceal her racial prejudice. There may even be no exposition at all and the descriptions of the setting may be scattered in the other structural components of the story. The reader has to collect the directly and indirectly expressed information about the characters and the setting, gradually constructing the world of the story himself while he reads on. Such is the case in The Lady’s Maid by K. Mansfield. The second structural component which follows the exposition is complications. Complications generally involve actions, though they might involve thoughts and feelings as well. As a rule, this structural component consists of several events (or moments of complications). They become tenser as the plot moves toward the moment of decision — the climax. Such a direct scaling upwards in the moments of complications occurs in The Cop and the Anthem by O'Henry. In some stories there may be a good deal of fluctuation in intensity among the moments of complications, although the general tendency is upward. Each of these moments is related to the theme of the story, the message or to the development of characters. The third structural component is the climax. The climax is the key event, the crucial moment of the story. It is often referred to as the moment of illumination for the whole story, as it is the moment when the relationship among the events becomes clear, when their role in the development of characters is clarified, and when the story is seen to have a structure. In The Cop and the Anthem, for example, the climax is Soapy's arrest. The denouement (or resolution) is the fourth structural component or the plot. The denouement is the unwinding of the actions: it includes the event, or events, in the story immediately following the climax and bringing the actions to an end. It is the point at which the fate of the main character is clarified. The denouement suggests to the reader certain crucial conclusions. A story may have no denouement. By leaving it out the author achieves a certain effect — he invites the reader to reflect on all the circumstances that accompanied the character of the story and to imagine the outcome of all the events himself. Such is the case m The Cop and the Anthem. The usual order in which the components of plot structure occur is as follows: exposition, complications, climax and denouement. Novels may have two more components of plot structure: the prologue and the epilogue (see, for example, Angel Pavement by J. Priestley). The prologue contains facts from beyond the past of the story, the epilogue contains additional facts about the future of the characters if it is not made clear enough in the denouement. Sometimes the author rearranges the components of plot structure. The story then begins with complications, or even with the denouement. Any shift in the organization of the plot structure affects the total response of the reader. For example. The Apple Tree by J. Galsworthy begins with the denouement. Ashurst, an elderly man, and his wife Stella on their silver wedding anniversary stop at crossroads and admire the beauty of spring nature; they see a suicide's grave; Ashurst seems to recognize the beautiful landscape, it reminds him of an event in his youth. “…And then a sudden ache beset his heart; he had stumbled on just one of those past moments in life, whose beauty and rapture he had tailed to arrest, whose wings had fluttered away into the unknown: he had stumbled on a buried memory, a wild sweet time, swiftly choked and ended. And this is what he remembered..." Then occurs a flashback to the past — Ashurst, twenty-six years ago, a college student, is on a tramp tour in the countryside; he meets Megan, a beautiful country girl and falls in love with her. That is followed by his decision to marry her and take her home to London, then his meeting with Stella, his internal conflict (whether to give up Stella and return to Megan, or to desert Megan for Stella), his final decision to marry Stella. All these events form the complications. The climax of the story returns the reader from Ashurst's recollections of his youth to the crossroads, where an old man who passes by tells him that the grave under the apple tree is that of a young girl, who had committed suicide – “ 'tis wonderful, it seems,” he added slowly “what maids'll do for love. She had a lovin' heart; I guess 'twas broken. But us knew nothing.' This is the moment of illumination. At this moment the reader realizes why Ashurst was struck by the familiarity of the landscape. The reader understands the outcome of Megan's tragic love. It becomes clear that the event described at the beginning of the story is the denouement, that Ashurst never returned to Megan, he married Stella, and that the suicide's grave is Megan's paw. The denouement placed at the beginning of the story gives a melancholy ring to all the events of the story from the very start, creates a pensive mood, a cheerless atmosphere, increases suspense (the state of uncertainty and expectation), sharpens the reader's interest. The reader is puzzled by the suicide's grave. Whose grave can it be? And what has Ashurst got to do with it? The plot of the story is thus constructed in a circular pattern, as the end of the story returns the reader to the beginning, Therefore, any rearrangement of the components or plot structure is meaningful. It may affect the atmosphere and introduce the necessary mood. It may increase the tension and the reader’s suspense, and in this way affect the reader's emotional response to the story. We may generalize by saying that there is a variety of plot structure techniques. A story may have a straight line narrative presentation, when the events are arranged as they occur, in chronological order; a complex narrative structure, when the events are not arranged in chronological order and when there are flashbacks to past events; a circular pattern, when the closing event in the story returns the reader to the introductory part; a frame structure, when there is a story within a story. The two stories contrast or parallel. It should also be added that the intensity of the impression depends on presentational sequencing, i e. the order in which the writer presents the information included into the story. Hence presentational sequencing is interlinked with plot structure. The writer may withhold some information and keep the reader guessing. The reader will then be uncertain of some things or suspect certain facts. A number of questions may arise, the answers to which may either follow rapidly or emerge gradually in the course of the narrative. Most stories contain an enigma, which is an important factor in story-telling. Some stories contain a whole series of enigmas. Mistaken Identity by M. Twain is built round one major enigma: What caused the sudden change in the attitude towards the narrator and his companion? By holding back the fact that the narrator was taken for a general until the very end of the story M. Twain builds suspense which constantly mounts in the course of the story. The withholding of information until the appropriate time is called retardation. Retardation is a widely used literary technique of presentational sequencing. Retardation heightens suspense. The flashback technique is another device of presentational sequencing. A flashback is a scene of the past inserted into the narrative. For example, the narrative in The Lady's Maid contains flashbacks to Ellen's childhood and youth. Foreshadowing is a look towards the future, a remark or hint that prepares the reader for what is to follow. This device of presentational sequencing heightens suspense. The title in Mistaken Identity is a case of foreshadowing. It hints at the outcome of the event without revealing its cause and in this way intensifies suspense. Presentational sequencing may be traced on different levels. It may involve sequencing of information, as shown above. Besides, it may involve sequencing of literary representational forms, such as narration, description, reasoning, direct speech (monologue, dialogue), interior speech, represented speech, quotations, the author's digressions. It may also involve the sequencing of viewpoints in the story, which form the so-called underlying compositional structure of a literary work.

TEXT 1.

THE COP AND THE ANTHEM

O’HENRY

O. Henry is the pen name of American writer William Sydney Porter (September 11, 1862 – June 5, 1910). Porter's 400 short stories are known for their wit, wordplay, characterization and the clever use of twist endings. Most of O. Henry's stories are set in his own time, the early years of the 20th century. Many take place in New York City, and deal for the most part with ordinary people: clerks, policemen, waitresses. His stories are also well known for witty narration. Fundamentally a product of his time, O. Henry's work provides one of the best English examples of catching the entire flavor of an age. Whether roaming the cattle-lands of Texas, exploring the art of the "gentle grafter", or investigating the tensions of class and wealth in turn-of-the-century New York, O. Henry had an inimitable hand for isolating some element of society and describing it with an incredible economy and grace of language. Some of his best and least-known work resides in the collection Cabbages and Kings, a series of stories which each explore some individual aspect of life in a paralytically sleepy Central American town while each advancing some aspect of the larger plot and relating back one to another in a complex structure which slowly explicates its own background even as it painstakingly erects a town which is one of the most detailed literary creations of the period.

On his bench in Madison Square Soapy moved uneasily. When wild geese honk high of nights, and when women without sealskin coats grow kind to their husbands, and when Soapy moves uneasily on his bench in the park, you may know that winter is near at hand. A dead leaf fell in Soapy's lap. That was Jack Frost's card. Jack is kind to the regular denizens1 of Madison Square, and gives fair warning of his annual call. At the corners of four streets he hands his pasteboard to the North Wind, footman of the mansion of All Outdoors, so that the inhabitants thereof may make ready. Soapy's mind became cognizant of the fact that the time had come for him to resolve himself into a singular Committee of Ways and Means to provide against the coming rigor. And therefore he moved uneasily on his bench. The hibernatoria2 ambitions of Soapy were not of the highest. In them were no considerations of Mediterranean cruises, of soporific Southern skies or drifting in the Vesuvian Bay. Three months on the Island3 was what his soul craved. Three months of assured board and bed and congenial company, safe from Boreas4 and bluecoats, seemed to Soapy the essence of things desirable. For years the hospitable Blackwell's had been his winter quarters. Just as his more fortunate fellow New Yorkers had bought their tickets to Palm Beach and the Riviera each winter, so Soapy had made his humble arrangements for his annual hegi-ra5 to the Island. And now the time was come. On the previous night three Sabbath newspapers, distributed beneath his coat, about his ankles and over his lap, had failed to repulse the cold as he slept on his bench near the spurting fountain in the ancient square. So the Island loomed big and timely in Soapy's mind. He scorned the provisions made in the name of charity for the city's dependents. In Soapy's opinion the Law was more benign than Philanthropy. There was an endless round of institutions, municipal and eleemosynary6, on which he might set out and receive lodging and food accordant with the simple life. But to one of Soapy's proud spirit the gifts of charity are encumbered. If not in coin you must pay in humiliation of spirit for every benefit received at the hands of philanthropy. As Caesar had his Brutus, every bed of charity must have its toll of a bath, every loaf of bread its compensation of a private and personal inquisition. Wherefore it is better to be a guest of the law, which, though conducted by rules, does not meddle unduly with a gentleman's private affairs. Soapy, having decided to go to the Island, at once set about accomplishing his desire. There were many easy ways of doing this. The pleasantest was to dine luxuriously at some expensive restaurant; and then, after declaring insolvency, be handed over quietly and without uproar to a policeman. An accommodating magistrate would do the rest. Soapy left his bench and strolled out of the square and across the level sea of asphalt, where Broadway and Fifth Avenue flow together. Up Broadway he turned, and halted at a glittering cafe, where are gathered together nightly the choicest products of the grape; the silkworm, and the protoplasm. Soapy had confidence in himself from the lowest button of his vest upward. He was shaven, and his coat -was decent and his neat black, ready-tied four-in-hand had been presented to him by a lady missionary on Thanksgiving Day. If he could reach a table in the restaurant unsuspected success would be his. The portion of him that would show above the table would raise no doubt in the waiter's mind. A roasted mallard duck, thought Soapy, would be about the thing — with a bottle of Chablis, and then Camembert7', a demi-tasse8 and a cigar. One dollar for the cigar would be enough. The total would not be so high as to call forth any supreme manifestation of revenge from cafe management; and yet the meat would leave him filled and happy for the journey to his winter refuge. But as Soapy set foot inside the restaurant door the head waiter's eye fell upon his frayed trousers and decadent shoes. Strong and ready hands turned him about and conveyed him in silence and haste to the sidewalk and averted the ignoble fate of the menaced mallard. Soapy turned off Broadway. It seemed that his route to the coveted Island was not to be an epicurean9 one. Some other way of entering limbo10 must be thought of. At a corner of Sixth Avenue electric lights and cunningly displayed wares behind plate-glass made a shop window conspicuous. Soapy took a cobblestone and dashed it through the glass. People came running around the corner, a policeman in the lead. Soapy stood still, with his hands in his pockets, and smiled at the sight of brass buttons. "Where's the man that done that?" inquired the officer, excitedly. "Don't you figure out that I might have had something to do with it?" said Soapy, not without sarcasm, but friendly, as one greets good fortune. The policeman's mind refused to accept Soapy even as a clue. Men who smash windows do not remain to parley with the law's minions. They take to their heels. The policeman saw a man halfway down the block running to catch a car. With drawn club he joined to the pursuit. Soapy, with disgust in his heart, loafed along, twice unsuccessful. On the opposite side of the street was a restaurant of no great pretensions. It catered to large appetites and modest purses. Its crockery and atmosphere were thick; its soup and napery thin. Into this place Soapy took his accusive shoes and telltale - trousers without challenge. At a table he sat and consumed beefsteak, flapjacks, doughnuts and pie. And then to the waiter he betrayed the fact that the minutest coin and himself were strangers. "Now, get busy and call a cop," said Soapy. "And don't keep a gentleman waiting." "No cop for youse," said the waiter, with a voice like butter cakes and an eye like the cherry in a Manhattan cocktail. "Hey, Con!" Neatly upon his left ear on the callous pavement two waiters pitched Soapy. He arose joint by joint, as a carpenter's rule opens, and beat the dust from his clothes. Arrest seemed but a rosy dream. The Island seemed very far away. A policeman who stood before a drug store two doors away laughed and walked down the street. Five blocks Soapy travelled before his courage permitted him to woo capture again. This time the opportunity presented what, he fatuously termed to himself a "cinch".11 A young woman of a modest and pleasing guise was standing before a show window gazing with sprightly interest at its display of shaving mugs and inkstands, and two yards from the window a large policeman of severe demeanor leaned against a water plug. It was Soapy's design to assume the role of the despicable and execrated "masher". The refined and elegant appearance of his victim and the contiguity of the conscientious cop encouraged him to believe that he would soon feel the pleasant official clutch upon his arm that would insure his winter quarters on the right little, tight little isle. Soapy straightened the lady missionary's ready-made tie, dragged his shrinking cuffs into the open, set his hat at a killing cant and sidled toward the young woman. He made eyes at her, was taken with sudden coughs and "hems", smiled, smirked and went brazenly through the impudent, and contemptible. litany of the "masher". With half an eye Soapy saw that the policeman was watching him fixedly. The young woman moved away a few steps, and again bestowed her absorbed attention upon the shaving mugs. Soapy followed, boldly stepping to her side, raised his hat and said: "Ah there, Bedelia! Don't you want to come and play in my yard?" The policeman was still looking. The persecuted young woman had but to beckon a finger and Soapy would be practically en route for his insular haven. Already he imagined he could feel the cozy warmth of the station-house. The young woman faced him and, stretching out a hand, caught Soapy's coat sleeve. "Sure, Mike," she said, joyfully, "if you'll blow me to a pail of suds12. I'd have spoke to you sooner, but the cop was watching". With the young woman playing the clinging ivy to his oak Soapy walked past the policeman overcome with gloom. He seemed doomed to liberty. At the next corner he shook off his companion and ran. He halted in the district where by night are found the lightest streets, hearts, vows and librettos. Women in furs and men in greatcoats moved gaily in the wintry air. A sudden, fear seized Soapy that some dreadful enchantment had rendered him immune to arrest. The thought brought a little of panic upon it, and when he came upon another policeman lounging grandly in front of a transplendent theatre he caught at the immediate straw of "disorderly conduct." On the sidewalk Soapy began to yell drunken gibberish at the top of his harsh voice.
He danced, howled, raved and otherwise disturbed the welkin. The policeman twirled his club, turned his back to Soapy and remarked to a citizen. 'Tis one of them Yale lads celebratin' the goose egg they give to the Hartford College. Noisy; but no harm. We've instructions to lave them be." Disconsolate, Soapy ceased his unavailing, racket. Would never a policeman lay hands on him? In his fancy the Island seemed an unattainable – Arcadia. He buttoned his thin coat against the chilling wind. In a cigar store he saw a well-dressed man lighting a cigar at a swinging light. His silk umbrella he had set by the door on entering. Soapy stepped inside, secured the umbrella and sauntered off with it slowly. The man at the cigar light followed hastily. "My umbrella," he said, sternly. "Oh, is it?" sneered Soapy, adding insult to petit larceny. "Well, why don't you call a policeman? I took it. Your umbrella! Why don't you call a cop? There stands one on the corner." The umbrella owner slowed his steps. Soapy did likewise, with a presentiment that luck would again run against him. The policeman looked at the two
curiously. "Of course," said the umbrella man "that is — well you know how these mistakes occur — I — if it's your umbrella I hope you'll excuse me — I picked it up this morning in a restaurant — If you recognize it as yours, why — I hope you'll — " "Of course it's mine," said Soapy, viciously. The ex-umbrella man retreated. The policeman hurried to assist a tall blonde in an opera cloak across the street in front of a street car that was approaching two blocks away. Soapy walked eastward through a street damaged by improvements. He hurled the umbrella wrathfully into an excavation. He muttered against the men who wear helmets and carry clubs. Because he wanted to fall into their clutches, they seemed to regard him as a king who could do no wrong. At length Soapy reached one of the avenues to the east where the glitter and turmoil was but faint. He set his face down this toward Madison Square, for the homing instinct survives even when the home is a park bench. But on an unusually quiet corner Soapy came to a standstill. Here was an old church, quaint and rambling and gabled. Through one violet stained window a soft light glowed, where, no doubt, the organist loitered over the keys, making sure of his mastery of the coming Sabbath anthem. For there drifted out to Soapy's ears sweet music that caught and held him transfixed against the convolutions of the iron fence. The moon was above, lustrous and serene; vehicles and pedestrians were few; sparrows twittered sleepily in the eaves — for a little while the scene might have been a country churchyard. And the anthem that the organist played cemented Soapy to the iron fence, for he had known it well in the days when his life contained such things as mothers and roses and ambitions and friends and immaculate thoughts and collars. The conjunction of Soapy's receptive state of mind and the influences about the old church wrought a sudden and wonderful change in his soul. He viewed with swift horror the pit into which he had tumbled, the degraded days, unworthy desires, dead hopes, wrecked faculties and base motives that made up his existence. And also in a moment his heart responded thrillingly to this novel mood. An instantaneous and strong impulse moved him to battle with his desperate fate. He would pull himself out of the mire; he would make a man of himself again; he would conquer the evil that had taken possession of him. There was time; he was comparatively young yet: he would resurrect his old eager ambitions and pursue them without faltering. Those solemn but sweet organ notes had set up a revolution in him. To-morrow he would go into the roaring downtown district and find work. A fur importer had once offered him a place as driver. He would find him to-morrow and ask for the position. He would be somebody in the world. He would — Soapy felt a hand laid on his arm. He looked quickly around into the broad face of a policeman. "What are you doin' here?" asked the officer. "Nothin’," said Soapy. "Then come along," said the policeman. "Three months on the Island," said the Magistrate in the Police Court the next morning.

NOTES
1 a denizen — literary or humorous: an animal or plant, or sometimes a person, that lives or grows in a particular place
2 to hibernate — (of animals) to be or go into a state like a long sleep during the winter 3 the Island — here: a prison 4 Boreas — the north wind 5 hegira — here: escape 5 eleemosynary — formal: (of work or gifts) given or received without payment 7 Camembert — a type of soft French cheese 8 a demi-tasse — Fr.: half a drinking cup or its contents 9 an epicure — a person who takes great interest in the pleasures of food and drink 10 limbo — a place neither heaven nor hell where the souls of those who have not done evil go 11 a cinch — slang: something done easily; something certain 12 if you'll blow me to a pail of suds — Am. slang: if you treat me to some beer

Plot, Setting 1. What type of conflict is the plot based on? 2. Does the plot comprise a variety of events? 3. Do the events involve physical movement or psychological movement, or both? 4. Are all the events logically related to the theme of the story? 5. A successful work of literature requires a highly credible plot, effectively arranged, and a suitable setting. Which one, if any, of these two aspects appears to be more effective in The Cop and the Anthem''? 6. What is the effect of setting the story in Madison Square late in autumn? What are the functions of this setting? 7. Is this setting related to the message of the story? 8. What time span does the story cover? Literary Techniques

1. Coincidence plays a rather important role in the plot — there is a whole series of incidents that turn out opposite to what the character had hoped and expected. Did O'Henry use coincidence to excess? Does it make the story sound less credible? How did the author manage to make his readers accept the coincidences? 2. What effect does the series of coincidences serve? Does it suggest the irony of circumstance? Does it increase the unexpectedness of the climax? 3. How do those incidents contribute thematically and artistically? 4. O'Henry is a master of surprise endings. Is this skill revealed in the story? 5. How well did the author use dialogue to create real characters and episodes? Choose several passages of dialogue that can prove the effectiveness of this technique. 6. What did the author gain by the detailed description of the anthem and the night scene? 7. Does the detailed description of Soapy's thoughts serve the same purpose? Does the scene affect your understanding of the message? Does the case of retardation heighten the reader's suspense? 8. O'Henry made several digressions. Find instances of these digressions. Are they unnecessarily interruptive? Do they advance the actions of the story? Do they help to explain plot or character, or both? Do they in any way affect your attitude to the events of the story? Do they add to or interfere with the enjoyment of the reader?

Plot Structure

1 Are the events arranged chronologically? Do they catch and hold the reader's interest? 2 What is the role of the exposition? 3 What is the climax of the story? 4. Is there a denouement in the story? 5. What did the author achieve by leaving out the denouement? 6. What advantage, if any, did the story gain by its plot structure? 7. What can you say to evaluate the contribution of the plot structure to the exciting narrative of the story? To what extent does it affect the general impression produced by the story?

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TEXT 2.

MISTAKEN IDENTITY

MARK TWAIN

Samuel Langhorne Clemens (November 30, 1835 — April 21, 1910), better known by the pen name Mark Twain, was an American humorist, satirist, writer, and lecturer. Twain is most noted for his novels Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, which has since been called the Great American Novel, and The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. He is also known for his quotations. During his lifetime, Clemens became a friend to presidents, artists, leading industrialists, and European royalty. Clemens enjoyed immense public popularity, and his keen wit and incisive satire earned him praise from both critics and peers. American author William Faulkner called Twain "the father of American literature".

Years ago I arrived one day at Salamanca, New York, eastward bound; must change cars there and take the sleeper train. There were crowds of people there, and they were swarming into the long sleeper train and packing it full, and it was a perfect purgatory1 of dust and confusion and gritting of teeth and soft, sweet, and low profanity. I asked the young man in the ticket office if I could have a sleeping-section, and he answered "No," with a snarl that shrivelled me up like burned leather. I went off, smarting under this insult to my dignity, and asked another local official, supplicatingly, if I couldn't have some poor little corner, somewhere in a sleeping car; but he cut me short with a venomous "No, you can't; every corner is full. Now, don't bother me any more"; and he turned his back and walked off. My dignity was in a state now which cannot be described. I was so ruffled that — well, I said to my companion, "If these people knew who I am they — "But my companion cut me short there — "Don't talk such folly," he said; "If they did know who you are, do you suppose it would help your high-mightiness2 to a vacancy in a train which has no vacancies in it?" This did not improve my condition any to speak of, but just then I observed that the colored porter of a sleeping car had his eye on me. I saw his dark countenance light up. He whispered to the uniformed conductor, punctuating with nods and jerks toward me, and straightway this conductor came forward, oozing politeness from every pore. "Can I be of any service to you?" he asked. "Will you have a place in the sleeper?" "Yes," I said, "and much oblige me, too. Give me anything — anything will answer." "We have nothing left but the big family stateroom," he continued, "with two berths and a couple of armchairs in it, but it is entirely at your disposal. Here, Tom, take these satchels aboard." Then he touched his hat and we and the colored Tom moved along. I was bursting to drop just one little remark to my companion, but I held in and waited. Tom made us comfortable in that sumptuous, great apartment, and then said, with many bows and a perfect affluence of smiles: "Now, is dey anything you want, sah? Case you kin have jes' anything you wants. It don't make no difference what it is."4 "Can I have some hot water and a tumbler at nine tonight — blazing hot? I asked. "You know about the right temperature for a hot Scotch punch?" "Yes, sah, dat you kin; you kin pen on it; I'll get it myself." "Good. Now, that lamp is hung too high. Can I have a big coach candle fixed up just at the head of my bed, so that I can read comfortably?" "Yes, sah, you kin; I'll fix her up myself, an' I'll fix her so she'll burn all night. Yes, sah; an' you can jes' call for anything you want, and dish yer whole railroad'll be turned wrong end up an' inside out for to get it for you. Dat's so." And he disappeared. Well, I tilted my head back, hooked my thumbs in my armholes, smiled a smile on my companion, and said, gently: "Well, what do you say now?" My companion was not in the humor to respond, and didn't. The next moment that smiling black face was thrust in at the crack of the door, and this speech followed: "Laws bless you, sah, I knowed you in a minute. I told de conductah so. Laws! I knowed you de minute I sot eyes on you." "Is that so, my boy?" (Handing him a quadruple fee.) "Who am I?" "Jenuel McClellan," and he disappeared again.

NOTES
1 a purgatory — any state or place of temporary punishment (here it is used figuratively)
2 your high-mightiness — ironical: on analogy with your highness 3 oozing politeness Irom every pore - ironical: looking extremely polite 4 The coloured porter speaks non-standard American English — the so-called "Black English", spoken by the uneducated Negro population in the USA. The phonetic features of "Black English" are recorded by means of deviations from the spelling norm.

Plot Structure and Literary Techniques 1. How is the story structured? Trace the retardation and unexpected turn of events used in the story. Do they contribute to the humorous effect? 2. To what extent does the title prepare the reader for what is to follow? Why is it useful for the author to arouse expectation in the mind of the reader? 3. How sucessfully is the surprise ending technique used in the story? 4. By which technique do you learn more about the characters — by what they say and do, or by what the narrator tells about them? 5. Cite specific instances in the story that bring character to life. 6. How does the narrator differ from his companion in temperament and character? How does each of them view the prospects of getting a ticket for the train? Does it tell you anything about the characters? 7. What is the narrator's reaction when treated disrespectfully? Is this reaction contrasted to his reaction when treated with slavish politeness? 8. Was it really a lamp that he wanted, or was it rather his intention to show his companion how Tom fussed over his whims? 9. How did M. Twain reveal the satisfaction of the narrator at being danced attendance on? 10. How well did the author use dialogue to create reality in character and episode? Choose several passages of dialogue that could also have been written in narrative form, and show why the former approach is more effective as a literary technique. 11. How faithfully did M. Twain record the features of Black English in Tom's speech? 12. Would the story lend itself well to dramatic presentation as a film or a stage-production? 13. What does the story tell us about the author's attitude to social vices and weaknesses of human nature? 14. Does the story exhibit M. Twain's excellent sense of humour? 15. Thomas E. Edison, an American inventor, wrote: "The average American loves his family. If he has any love left over for some other person, he generally selects Mark Twain." How would you account for that?

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TEXT 3.

THE LADY OR THE TIGER?

FRANK R. STOCKTON

Frank R. Stockton (April 5, 1834 - April 20, 1902), was an American writer and humorist, best known today for a series of innovative children's fairy tales that were widely popular during the last decades of the 19th century. Stockton avoided the didactic moralizing common to children's stories of the time, instead using clever humor to poke at greed, violence, abuse of power and other human foibles, describing his fantastic characters' adventures in a charming, matter-of-fact way in stories like "The Griffin and the Minor Canon" (1885) and "The Bee-Man of Orn" (1887). His most famous fable is "The Lady or the Tiger?" (1882), about a man sentenced to an unusual punishment for having a romance with a king's beloved daughter. Taken to the public arena, he is faced with two doors, behind one of which is a hungry tiger that will devour him. Behind the other is a beautiful lady-in-waiting, whom he will have to marry, if he finds her. While the crowd waits anxiously for his decision, he sees the princess among the spectators, who points him to the door on the right. The lover starts to open the door and....the story ends abruptly there. Did the princess save her love by pointing to the door leading to the lady-in-waiting, or did she prefer to see her lover die rather than see him marry someone else? That discussion hook has made the story a staple in English classes in American schools, especially since Stockton was careful never to hint at what he thought the ending would be.

In the very olden time, there lived a semi-barbaric king, whose ideas, though somewhat polished and sharpened by the progressiveness of distant Latin neighbors, were still large, florid, and untrammelled, as became the half of him which was barbaric. He was a man of exuberant fancy, and, withal, of an authority so irresistible that, at his will, he turned his varied fancies into facts. He was greatly given to self-communing; and, when he and himself agreed upon anything, the thing was done. When every member of his domestic and political systems moved smoothly in its appointed course, his nature was bland and genial; but whenever there was a little hitch1, and some of his orbs2 got out of their orbits, he was blander and more genial still, for nothing pleased him so much as to make the crooked straight, and crush down uneven places. Among the borrowed notions by which his barbarism had become semified was that of the public arena, in which, by exhibitions of manly and beastly valor, the minds of his subjects were refined and cultured. But even here the exuberant and barbaric fancy asserted itself. The arena of the king was built, not to give the people an opportunity of hearing the rhapsodies of dying gladiators, nor to enable them to view the inevitable conclusion of a conflict between religious opinions and hungry jaws, but for purposes far better adapted to widen and develop the mental energies of the people. This vast amphitheater, with its encircling galleries, its mysterious vaults, and its unseen passages, was an agent of poetic justice, in which crime was punished, or virtue rewarded, by the decrees of an impartial and incorruptible chance. When a subject was accused of a crime of sufficient importance to interest the king, public notice was given that on an appointed day the fate of the accused person would be decided in the king's arena, — a structure which well deserved its name; for, although its form and plan were borrowed from afar, its purpose emanated solely from the brain of this man, who, every barleycorn a king, knew no tradition to which he owed more allegiance than pleased his fancy, and who ingrafted on every adopted form of human thought and action the rich growth of his barbaric idealism. When all the people had assembled in the galleries, and the king, surrounded by his court, sat high up on his throne of royal state on one side of the arena, he gave a signal, a door beneath him opened, and the accused subject stepped out into the amphitheater. Directly opposite him, on the other side of the enclosed space, were two doors, exactly alike and side by side. It was the duty and the privilege of the person on trial, to walk directly to these doors and open one of them. He could open either door he pleased: he was subject to no guidance or influence but that of the aforementioned impartial and incorruptible chance. If he opened the one, there came out of it a hungry tiger, the fiercest and most cruel that could be procured, which immediately sprang upon him, and tore him to pieces, as a punishment for his guilt. The moment that the case of the criminal was thus decided, doleful iron bells were clanged, great wails went up from the hired mourners posted on the outer rim of the arena, and the vast audience, with bowed heads and downcast hearts, wended slowly their homeward way, mourning greatly that one so young and fair, or so old and respected, should have merited so dire a fate. But, if the accused person opened the other door, there came forth from it a lady, the most suitable to his years and station that his majesty could select among his fair subjects; and to this lady he was immediately married, as a reward of his innocence. It mattered not that he might already possess a wife and family, or that his affections might be engaged upon an object of his own selection: the king allowed no such subordinate arrangements to interfere with his great scheme of retribution and reward. The exercises, as in the other instance, took place immediately, and in the arena. Another door opened beneath the king, and a priest, followed by a band of choristers, and dancing maidens blowing joyous airs3 on golden horns and treading an epithalamic measure4, advanced to where the pair stood, side by side; and the wedding was promptly and cheerily solemnized. Then the gay brass bells rang forth their merry peals, the people shouted glad hurrahs, and the innocent man, preceded by children strewing flowers on his path, led his bride to his home. This was the king's semi-barbaric method of administering justice. Its perfect fairness is obvious. The criminal could not know out of which door would come the lady: he opened either he pleased, without having the slightest idea whether, in the next instant, he was to be devoured or married. On some occasions the tiger came out of one door, and on some out of the other. The decisions of this tribunal were not only fair, they were positively determinate: the accused person was instantly punished if he found himself guilty; and, if innocent, he was rewarded on the spot, whether he liked it or not. There was no escape from the judgment of the king's arena. The institution was a very popular one. When the people gathered together on one of the great trial days, they never knew whether they were to witness a bloody slaughter or a hilarious wedding. This element of uncertainty lent an interest to the occasion which it could not otherwise have attained. Thus, the masses were entertained and pleased, and the thinking part of the community could bring charge of unfairness against this plan; for did not the accused person have the whole matter in his own hands? This semi-barbaric king had a daughter as blooming as his most florid fancies, and with a soul as fervent and imperious as his own. As is usual in such cases, she was the apple of his eye, and was loved by him above all humanity. Among his courtiers was a young man that fineness of blood and lowness of station common to the conventional heroes of romance who love royal maidens. This royal maiden was well satisfied with her lover, for he was handsome and brave to a degree unsurpassed in all this kingdom; and she loved him with an ardor that had enough of barbarism in it to make it exceeding warm and strong. This love affair moved on happily for many months, until one day the king happened to discover its existence. He did not hesitate nor waver in regard to his duty in the premises. The youth was immediately cast into prison, and a day was appointed for his trial in the king's arena. This, of course, was an especially important occasion; and his majesty, as well as all the people, was greatly interested in the workings and development of this trial. Never before had such a case occurred; never before had a subject dared to love the daughter of a king. In after-years such things became commonplace enough; but then they were, in no slight degree, novel and startling. The tiger-cages of the kingdom were searched for the most savage and relentless beasts, from which the fiercest monster might be selected for the arena; and the ranks of maiden youth and beauty throughout the land were carefully surveyed by competent judges, in order that the young man might have a fitting bride in case fate did not determine for him a different destiny. Of course, everybody knew that the deed with which the accused was charged had been done. He had loved the princess, and neither he, she, nor any one else thought of denying the fact; but the king would not think of allowing any fact of this kind to interfere with the workings of the tribunal, in which he took such great delight and satisfaction. No matter how the affair turned out, the youth would be disposed of; and the king would take an aesthetic pleasure in watching the course of events, which would determine whether or not the young man had done wrong in allowing himself to love the princess. The appointed day arrived. From far and near the people gathered, and thronged the great galleries of the arena; and crowds, unable to gain admittance, massed themselves against its outside walls. The king and his court were in their places, opposite the twin doors, — those fateful portals, so terrible in their similarity. All was ready. The signal was given. A door beneath the royal party opened, and the lover of the princess walked into the arena. Tall, beautiful, fair, his appearance was greeted with a low hum of admiration and anxiety. Half the audience had not known so grand a youth had lived among them. No wonder the princess loved him! What a terrible thing for him to be there! As the youth advanced into the arena, he turned, as the custom was, to bow to the king: but he did not think at all of that royal personage; his eyes were fixed upon the princess, who sat to the right of her father. Had it not been for the moiety5 of barbarism in her nature, it is probable that lady would not have been there; but her intense and fervid soul would not allow her to be absent on an occasion in which she was so terribly interested. From the moment that the decree had gone forth, that her lover should decide his fate in the king's arena, she had thought of nothing, night or day, but this great event: and the various subjects connected with it. Possessed of more power, influence, and force of character than any one who had ever before been interested in such a case, she had done what no other person had done, — she had possessed herself of the secret of the doors. She knew in which of the two rooms, that lay behind those doors, stood the rage of the tiger, with its open front, and in which waited the lady. Through these thick doors, heavily curtained with skins on the inside, it was impossible that any noise or suggestion should come from within, to the person who should approach to raise the latch of one of them; but gold, and the power of a woman's will, had brought the secret to the princess. And not only did she know in which room stood the lady ready to emerge, all blushing and radiant, should her door be opened, but she knew who the lady was. It was one of the fairest and loveliest of the damsels of the court who had been selected as the reward of the accused youth, should he be proved innocent of the crime, of aspiring to one so far above him; and the princess hated her. Often had she seen, or imagined that she had seen, this fair creature throwing glances of admiration upon the person of her lover, and sometimes she thought these glances were perceived and even returned. Now and then she had seen them talking together; it was but for a moment or two, but much can be said in a brief space; it may have been on most unimportant topics, but how could she know that? The girl was lovely, but she had dared to raise her eyes to the loved one of the princess; and, with all the intensity of the savage blood transmitted to her through long lines of wholly barbaric ancestors, she hated the woman who blushed and trembled behind that silent door. When her lover turned and looked at her, and his eye met hers as she sat there paler and whiter than any one in the vast ocean of anxious faces about her, he saw, by that power of quick perception which is given to those whose souls are one, that she knew behind which door crouched the tiger, and behind which stood the lady. He had expected her to know it. He understood her nature, and his soul was assured that she would never rest until she had made plain to herself this thing, hidden to all other lookers-on, even to the king. The only hope for the youth in which there was any element of certainty was based upon the success of the princess in discovering this mystery; and the moment he looked upon her, he saw she had succeeded, as in his soul he knew she would succeed. Then it was that his quick and anxious glance asked the question: "Which?" If was as plain to her as if he shouted it from where he stood. There was not an instant to be lost. The question was asked in a flash; it must be answered in another. Her right arm lay on the cushioned parapet before her. She raised her hand, and made a slight, quick movement toward the right. No one but her lover saw her. Every eye but his was fixed on the man in the arena. He turned, and with a firm and rapid step he walked across the empty space. Every heart stopped beating, every breath was held, every eye was fixed immovably upon that man. Without the slightest hesitation, he went to the door on the; right, and opened it. Now, the point of the story is this: Did the tiger come out of that door, or did the lady? The more, we reflect upon this question, the harder it is to answer. It involves a study of the human heart which leads us through devious mazes of passion, out of which it is difficult to find our way. Think of it, fair reader, not as if the decision of the question depended upon yourself, but upon that hot-blooded, semi-barbaric princess, her soul at a white heat beneath the combined fires of despair and jealousy. She had lost him, but who should have him? How often, in her waking hours and in her dreams, had she started in wild horror, and covered her face with her hands as she thought of her lover opening the door on the other side of which waited the cruel fangs of the tiger! But how much oftener had she seen him at the other door! How in her grievous reveries had she gnashed her teeth, and torn her hair, when she saw his start of rapturous delight as he opened the door of the lady! How her soul had burned in agony when she had seen him rush to meet that woman, with her flushing check and sparkling eye of triumph; when she had seen him lead her forth, his whole frame kindled with the joy of recovered life; when she had heard the glad shouts from the multitude, and the wild ringing of the happy bells; when she had seen the priest, with his joyous followers, advance to the couple, and make them man and wife before her very eyes; and when she had seen them walk 'away together upon their path of flowers, followed by the tremendous shouts of the hilarious multitude, in which her one desparing shriek was lost and drowned! Would it not be better for him to die at once, and go to wait for her in the blessed regions of semi-barbaric futurity? And yet, that awful tiger, those shrieks, that blood! Her decision had been indicated in an instant, but it had been made after days and nights of anguished deliberation. She had known she would be asked, she had decided what she would answer, and, without the slightest hesitation, she had moved her hand to the right. The question of her decision is one not to be lightly considered, and it is not for me to presume to set myself up as the one person able to answer it. And so I leave it with all of you: Which came out of the opened door, — the lady, or the tiger?

NOTES
1 a hitch — a difficulty which delays something for a while
2 orbs (usually plural) — a poetic word for eyes
3 to blow joyous airs — to produce the sounds of joyous tunes
4 to tread an epithalamic measure — to step rhythmically following the beat of a wedding song (an epithalamium — a song or poem in celebration of a marriage
5 a moiety — a half share or division of something

Plot Structure
1. Is the plot of the story incomplete? What is the climax of the story? At what point does me author break off the narration? 2. How does the author create and increase the suspense as the plot unfolds? 3. What is the major conflict based on? 4. In what way docs the story resemble a fairy tale? What role does the setting play? 5. What effect is produced by the unexpected shift from narration to reasoning? Style, Message 1. How does the first part of the story (the narrative) differ from the end of the story (the reasoning ) in terms of style? 2. Is the diction of the narrative in keeping with its fantastic plot? Does the end acquire an ironic ring? Support your view with reference to the text. 3. How does the author accentuate the never-ending question — the lady or the tiger? 4. What ending does the story suggest — a happy end, or an ending which would turn out to be quite opposite to what the accused man had hoped and expected? Would that be a case of dramatic irony? 5. Do you believe that love conquers all? Or do you rather think that jealousy is stronger than love? 6. What is the author's intention? 7. What effect did the story have upon you?

SUGGESTIONS FOR COMPARATIVE ANALYSIS 1. Compare the plot structure of Mistaken Identity by M. Twain with that of The Cop and the Anthem by O'Henry. Are they identical? 2. Compare the two stories in terms of presentational sequencing. 3. Are both stories based on defeated expectancy? 4. How effective are the surprise endings in each of the stories? 5. Do both the stories contain such techniques of presentational sequencing as foreshadowing and retardation? 6. Do the stories have a straight line or a complex narrative structure? 7. Are the functions of the setting in both the stories identical? 8. Compare both the stories with The Lady or Tiger in terms of plot structure, presentational sequencing and literary techniques.

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SECTION II SYSTEM OF IMAGES. MEANS OF CHARACTERIZATION THEORETICAL PRELIMINARIES An image in art is a subjective reflection of reality. It is affected by the writer's power of imagination. Though every image is inspired by life, the writer reflects reality as he sees it. Moreover, he may create images of scenes which he could have never observed (as in historical novels). Аn image is, on the one hand, a generalization and is never a complete identity of a person, thing or phenomenon. There is always something left out by the writer, and something that is emphasized or even exaggerated. On the other hand, an image in art is concrete with its individual peculiarities. Since images in art reflect the writer's subjective attitude to them, they are always emotive. Literary art appeals to the reader through all the senses: sight, hearing, touch, smell, taste. In the reader's mind images call up not only visual pictures and other sense impressions, they also arouse feelings, such as warmth, compassion, affection, delight, or dislike, disgust, resentment. Our emotional responses are directed by the words with which the author creates his images. This explains why writers are so particular about the choice of words. However, when we read fiction, it is not the words that we actually respond to, it is the images which these words create that arouse the reader's response. This does not mean that wording in literary art is irrelevant. Any change of a word affects the reader's response, as words may evoke sense impressions. Compare:

He was a stout man. "His features were sunk into fatness... His neck was buried in rolls of fat. He sat in his chair... his great belly thrust forward..." (S. Maugham. Red) The images created by figures of speech in S. Maugham's description call up a visual picture of a concrete fat man and evoke in the reader definite feelings, including those of antipathy and even aversion. Whereas "He was a stout man" does not arouse negative feelings. As Joseph Conrad puts it, a writer creates images by means of the commonplace words that we all use, "the old, old words, worn thin, defaced by ages of careless usage... My task which I am trying to achieve is, by the power of the written word to make you hear, to make you feel — it is before all, to make you see. That — and no more, and it is everything." "Художник не столько сообщает о переживаниях своего героя, сколько создает эти переживания в форме художественной речи." It must be noted that the images of a literary work form a system, which comprises a hierarchy of images, beginning with micro-images (formed by a word or a combination of words) and ending with synthetic images (formed by the whole literary work). Between the lowest level (the micro-images) and the highest level (the synthetic images) there are images which may be termed "extended images". In the story The Pawnbroker's Shop by M. Spark the scene of Mrs. Cloote's examination of the articles brought to her pawnshop affords a vivid illustration of the hierarchy of images. "The examination would be conducted with utter intensity, seeming to have its sensitive point, its assessing faculty, in her long nose ... She would not smell the thing actually, but it would appear to be her nose which calculated and finally judged ... A list of the object's defects would proceed like a ticker tape from the mouth of Mrs. Jan Cloote." The micro-images of the separate peculiarities of Mrs. Cloote constitute an extended image of a feature of her personality. Whereas the synthetic image of Mrs. Jan Cloote is comprised of a whole series of microimages and extended images which the whole story contains. In literature attention is by far centered on man, human character and human behaviour. That explains why the character-image (synthetic image) is generally considered to be the main element of a literary work; the images of things and landscape are subordinated to the character-image. Thus, landscape-images are generally introduced to describe the setting, to create a definite mood or atmosphere. Yet even a landscape-image, as well as an animal-image, may become the central character of the story. For instance, Nature is the main antagonist of the major character in The Old Man and the Sea by E. Hemingway; or again animal-images are the central characters in The Jungle Book by R. Kipling. Character-images are both real and unreal. They are real in the sense that they can be visualized, you easily see them act, you hear I hem talk, you understand and believe them. They are unreal in the sense that they are imaginary. Even if they are drawn from life and embody the most typical features of human nature, even if they are images of historic J people, they are not identical with them, and are products of the writer's imagination. In The Summing Up S. Maugham writes, "I have been blamed because I have drawn my characters from living persons ... But people are all elusive, too shadowy, to be copied, and they are also too ... contradictory. The writer doesn't copy his originals; he takes what he wants from them, a few traits that have caught his attention.” Nevertheless characters in literature often reveal so much of human nature and seem so real, that the readers tend to forget that they are fictions. In most stories one character is clearly central and dominates the story from the beginning up to the end. Such a character is generally called the main, central, or major character, or the protagonist. The main character is also be called hero or heroine, if he or she deserves to be called so. The antagonist is the personage opposing the protagonist or hero. The villain is the character with marked negative features. Sometimes in a literary work the writer will give us two characters with distinctly opposing features, we then say that one character serves as a foil to the other. The foil is so different that the important characteristics of the opposite personage are thereby sharply accentuated. Thus a mean person will act as a foil to a kind and generous man. It is through the use of the foil that the contrast between the characters is seen more clearly. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson are designed as foils for each other. In J. B. Priestley's novel Angel Pavement Mr. and Mrs. Smeeth are also foils, as they are distinctly opposed personalities. Mr. Smeeth's constant apprehension and fear of losing his job is contrasted with Mrs. Smeeth's jolly nature and thoughtlessness, his worries about the insecurity of his family and his desire to save money for a rainy day are emphasized by the contrast with Mrs. Smeeth's extravagance and passion to spend immediately all the money she gets. When a character expresses the author's viewpoint directly, he is said to be the author's mouthpiece. Dr. Watson is considered to be Conan Doyle's mouthpiece. If a character is developed round one or several features, he becomes a type or a caricature. A type is characterized by qualities that are typical of a certain social group or class. A caricature is a character so exaggerated that he appears ridiculous and distorted, yet recognizable. M. Twain's story Mistaken Identity contains masterfully created caricatures. The conductor's and the porter's slavish politeness and eagerness to dance attendance on a man whom they took for a general, are exaggerated to the utmost. Their "bows and a perfect affluence of smiles", the way they approached “oozing politeness from every pore”, Tom's smiling face which was "thrust in at the crack of the door" create a grotesque caricature on servility to men of rank and wealth. It is a contrast to vanity, cocksureness and satisfaction at being treated servilely, the features round which the narrator's character is developed. Characters may be simple (flat) or complex (well-rounded). Simple characters are constructed round a single trait. Complex characters undergo change and growth, reveal various sides of their personalities. Hamlet is a complex character, as he is .brave and hesitant, sensitive and unyielding. Contradictory features within a character make it true-to-life and convincing. The main character is most relevant in a literary work, since it is through his fate that the message is conveyed. The minor characters are subordinate, they are generally introduced to reveal some aspects of the main character, or his relationship with people. Complete descriptions of absolutely all the actions, thoughts, feelings of the characters in fiction are impossible and unnecessary. The writer selects only those that have special meaning in relation to the message of the story. Moreover, a full and photographic description is often substituted by a detail. Depending on the value which details have, in fiction, one should distinguish between the so-called artistic details and particularities. The artistic detail is always suggestive. It therefore has a larger meaning than its surface meaning, as it implies a great deal more than is directly expressed by it. An artistic detail acquires expressive force and has both direct and indirect meaning. It is a poetic representation of a whole scene. In this sense an artistic detail may be treated as a metonymic expression of the whole. An artistic detail, just as any micro-image, is stimulating to the imagination. A few artistic details may suggest a whole life-story. Thus, the "swollen" face, feet and hands with "fingers worked to the bone", which Priestley mentions about Mrs. Cross (in Angel Pavement) tell us just as much of her hard life as a whole page of her life-story would. The sharpness of those artistic details stimulates the reader's imagination and creates the image of a woman exhausted by a life full of hardships. At the same time an artistic detail contributes to individualization and verisimilitude. It creates the sense of reality, the sense of getting to know a concrete real individuality with its specific characteristics. An artistic detail is therefore both implicative and individualizing. In fiction not all details are artistic details. There often occur details that cannot be treated as poetic representations-of the whole (such as the colour of the eyes of a character, the time at which he left his home, etc). They serve to add something new about a character, or place, or event. Such details are called particularities. They are incidental in the sense that it is difficult (or impossible) to explain the writer's choice of this rather than that colour, or time, etc. Nevertheless, particularities are not absolutely irrelevant. They contribute to verisimilitude, as they help to create a realistic picture of a person or event. Particularities are used for representing reality in a concrete form. Therefore, an artistic detail is significant beyond its literal meaning and has expressive force, whereas a particularity signifies only what is directly expressed by it and has no implication. However, both artistic details, and particularities contribute to verisimilitude and credibility of the story, as they individualize, particularize and specify the characters, objects and events, thus representing actual life in all its diversity. They encourage acceptance on the part of the reader and increase convincingness of what is described. One of the most essential factors in literature is the convincingness of the characters. Their behaviour, thoughts and feelings will arouse the reader's response if he believes them. "The foundation of good fiction is character-creating and nothing else ... Style counts; plot counts; originality of outlook counts. But none of these counts anything like so much as the convincingness of the characters. If the characters are real, the novel will have a chance; if they are not, oblivion will be its portion ..." The characters may be described from different aspects: physical, emotional, moral, spiritual, social. The description of the different aspects of a character is known as characterization. There are two main types of characterization: direct and indirect. When the author rates the character himself, it is direct characterization. For example, when J. Priestley says that Golspie "was dogmatic, rough, domineering, and was apt to jeer and sneer”, he uses the direct method of characterization. Direct characterization may be made by a character in the story. But when the author shows us the character in action, lets us hear him, watch him and evaluate him for ourselves, the author uses the indirect method of characterization. The various means of indirect characterization are as follows: 1. Presentation of the character through action. A character in fiction is not just a static portrait, he acts. Since action, movement, change, development always occur in fiction, action serves as the main means of characterization. People are generally judged by their deeds. Actions are the most effective means of character presentation. They may reveal the character from different aspects. For example, the actions of Matfield in Angel Pavement show that physically she is strong, healthy, energetic, active, spirited; emotionally she is bitter, dissatisfied, depressed; in spite of her more or less satisfactory education, mentally she is a mediocrity (though she fancies herself sophisticated and shrewd); morally she is honest, strong-willed; spiritually Matfield is shallow as she is doped by cheap literature and is given to illusions, all her ideals are affected by the adventure stories she is fond of. Actions include small gestures. In Chapter 1 Matfield's resoluteness, decisiveness and dissatisfaction are suggested, by her gestures: "...she flung down a library book, ..' rummaged in her bag, ... said "Curse!", then closed the bag with a sharp snap, seized her gloves and marched them over to her coat". Action includes a thought, a word, a decision, an impulse, and a whole event. For example, Matfield's decision to have a weekend with the brigandish Golspie is an action, her impulse to make a change in her life is also an action. Each of these actions characterizes a definite aspect of her personality. 2. Speech characteristics. Speech characteristics reveal the social and intellectual standing of the character, his age, education and occupation, his state of mind and feelings, his attitude and relationship with his interlocutors"'. When analysing speech characteristics, one should be alert for: (l) style markers, such as a) markers of official style ("I presume", "I beg your pardon", etc.); b) markers of informal conversational style: contracted" forms, colloquialisms, elliptical sentences, tag constructions (as "you know"), initiating signals (as "Well", "Oh"), hesitation pauses, false starts — all of which normally occur in spontaneous colloquial speech and often remain unnoticed, but in "fictional conversation" they may acquire a certain function, as they create verisimilitude and may indicate some features of the speaker's character, his state of mind and his attitude to others: markers of the emotional state of the character: emphatic inversion, the use of emotionally coloured words, the use of breaks-in-the-narrative that stand for silence (e. g. "and I asked her if she'd rather I ... didn't get married", "and there I stayed in the middle of the road ... staring" — the pause lays emphasis on the words that follow the pause), the tailing of)" into silence which reflects deep emotions or doubt, the use of italics, interjections; hesitation pauses and false starts if they are frequent may be a sign of nervousness, irresoluteness or great excitement; attitudinal markers: words denoting attitudes (as "resent", "despise", "hate", "adore" etc.), intensifies (as "very", "absolutely" etc.); markers of the character's educational level: bookish words, rough words, slang, vulgarisms, deviations from the standard; markers of regional and dialectal speech, which define the speaker as to his origin, nationality and social standing: foreign words, local words, graphons; markers of the character's occupation: terms, jargonisms; markers of the speaker's idiolect (i. e. his individual speech peculiarities), which serve as a means of individualization and verisimilitude. If we turn to Mistaken Identity, we can see how skillfully M. Twain used speech peculiarities as a means of characterization. The markers of informal conversational style ("Years ago 1 arrived one day ...". "asked ... if I could have some poor little corner somewhere", "a couple of armchairs” etc.), the markers of dialectal speech ("dey" for "there", "dat" for "that", "sah" for "sir" etc., which are typical of "Black English"), the numerous markers of the emotional state of the characters and their attitudes to one another contribute to creating verisimilitude. The reader gets the impression of hearing the characters and witnessing the scenes. Besides, the reader gets all the necessary information about the characters: their feelings, mood, relations with one another, their social and intellectual standing, and even their origin. In one of his pamphlets M. Twain wrote that conversation in fiction should "sound like human talk, and be talk such as human beings would be likely to talk in the given circumstances, and have a discoverable meaning, also a discoverable purpose, and show a relevancy, and remain in the neighbourhood of the subject in hand, and be interesting to the reader, and help out the tale, and stop when the people cannot think of anything more to say." The story Mistaken Identity may well serve as an illustration of all the requirements that the writer sets. His characters are well-conceived not only due to their speech characteristics, but also due to the exactness in the choice and presentation of their actions. They are defined in full accordance with his principle: characters should be "so clearly defined that the reader can tell beforehand what each will do in a given emergency.” 3. Psychological portrayal and analysis of motive. The penetration into the mind of the character, description of his mental processes and subtle psychological changes that motivate his actions, the penetration into his thoughts — all that is an effective means of characterization that writers very often resort to. Priestley’s Angel Pavement abounds in illustrations of psychological portrayal. For example, the description of Miss Matfield's state of mind when she realized at the station that she had been waiting for Golspie in vain, standing there with a suitcase and a cheap imitation of a wedding ring in her bag, while Golspie was miles away from London "not caring if she spent the rest of her life in Victoria Station. Never before had she felt such bitter contempt for herself. She could have cried and cried, not because he had gone and she would probably never set eyes on him again, but because his sudden indifference, at this time of all times, left her feeling pitiably small and silly. The misery of it was like the onslaught of some unexpected, terrible disease. Her mangled pride bled and ached inside her, so that she felt faint". This description of her psychological state and thoughts not only reveals the shame and humiliation that she experienced, it also characterizes Matfield as a sensitive creature, capable of experiencing profound and acute feelings. The psychological state of a character is generally revealed by means of inner represented speech in the form of either free indirect speech or free direct speech. In the following example J. Priestley resorts to free indirect speech to reveal Turgis's state when he was dismissed: "His job was gone. What could he do? A bit of typing and clerking, that was all, and anybody could do that; even girls would do it, ... just as well as he would ... Something had gone wrong. Where, how had it gone wrong? He could be as anybody, if only he had a chance to be; and why hadn't he a chance to be?". His thoughts reveal his despair, his awareness of the injustices that were done to him. It also reveals his ability to think clearly and to realize how unfair life was to him. 4. Description of the outward appearance, the portrayal of a character. In fiction there exist some relationships between the character and his appearance. Thus, features as "hard eyes" or a "cruel mouth like scar" create the picture of a man who is capable of mean and wicked actions. The writer often marks some suitable feature in the character's portrait which is suggestive of his nature. In literature physical portrayal often suggests moral, mental or spiritual characteristics. For example, Turgis from Angel Pavement — a weak-willed day-dreamer who is doped by trashy Hollywood films — is introduced to the reader in the following way: 'This was Turgis, the clerk ... a thinnish, awkward young man, with ... poor shoulders, ... a small, still babyish mouth, usually open, ... drooping rather than retreating chin. ... the faint grey film that seemed to cover and subdue him ..." All that suggests that he is feeble, defenceless, irresolute, weak-willed, unintelligent. Whereas Miss Matfield's description is as follows: "What they saw was a girl of twenty-seven or twenty-eight, or even twenty-nine, with decided eyebrows, a smouldering eye,... a mouth that was a discontented crimson curve, and a firm round chin that was ready to double itself at any moment." All that suggests a resolute, decisive personage, though dissatisfied with her life. 5. Description of the world of things that surround the character. The character's room, clothing and other belongings may also serve as a means of characterization. For example, "the blue serge suit that bagged and sagged and shone, ... the pulpy look about his shoes ...which soaked up the rain" characterize Turgis as a miserable creature, who lives in need, with no one to care for him. It adds to his portrait and helps the reader to understand the character. Or again, the description of the books that Miss Matfield was so fond of — "the exotic and adventurous tales" with "coral reefs, jungles and a strong, adventurous brigandish hero" is a key to understanding her idea of happiness. It explains why Mr. Golspie claimed her attention, it reveals that she was also doped by the cheap literature which she so often turned to, and that she was not at all sophisticated as she tried to appear. Domestic inferiors of the setting are sometimes treated as metonymic, or metaphoric, expressions of character. "A man’s house is an extension of himself. Describe it and you have described him ... These houses express their owners; they affect as atmosphere those who must live in them ..." 6. The use of a foil The writer may introduce a foil as a means of characterization. The foil accentuates the opposed features of the character he is contrasted with. 7. The naming of characters. The naming of characters may also serve as a means of characterization. The name may be deliberately chosen to fit a certain character. Take, for example, Fielding's Sir Benjamin Backbite, or Dickens's Mr. and Mrs. Murdstone (murder + stone), or O'Henry's Shark Dodson. Such names are suggestive, as they bring into play the associations which the words they are composed of have. For instance, Shark has acquired symbolic meaning. Longman Dictionary of
Contemporary English (1983) defines "shark" as follows: “A person clever at getting money from others in dishonest or merciless ways, as by lending money at high rates". The use of a proper name to express a general idea is called antonomasia. All the means of characterization writers resort to, enable the reader to visualize and understand the characters, to think, feel and worry with them as they face their problems, to trace the changes and growth in their personalities.

TEXT 4.

THE PAWNBROKER’S WIFE

MURIEL SPARK

She was born Muriel Sarah Camberg in Edinburgh, to a Jewish father and an Anglican mother. She taught English for a brief time and then worked as a secretary in a department store. In 1937, she married Sidney Oswald Spark, followed him to Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe) and had a son with him, but their marriage was a disaster. She returned to the United Kingdom in 1944 and worked in intelligence during World War II. She began writing seriously after the war, under her married name, beginning with poetry and literary criticism. In 1947, she became editor of the Poetry Review. In 1954, she decided to join the Roman Catholic Church, which she considered crucial in her development toward becoming a novelist. Her first novel, The Comforters, was published in 1957, but it was The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie (1961) that established her reputation. Spark's originality of subject and tone became apparent at the outset of her career: The Comforters featured a character who knew she was in a novel, and in The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie she told her characters' stories from the past and the future simultaneously. She received the US Ingersoll Foundation TS Eliot Award in 1992 and the British Literature Prize in 1997. She became Dame Commander of the Order of the British Empire in 1993, in recognition of her services to literature.

At Sea Point, on the coast of the Cape of Good Hope, in 1942, there was everywhere the sight of rejoicing, there was the sound of hilarity, and the sea washed up each day one or two bodies of servicemen in all kinds of uniform. The waters round the Cape were heavily mined. The people flocked to bring in the survivors. The girls of the seashore and harbour waited two by two for the troops on shore-leave from ships which had managed to enter the bay safely. I was waiting for a ship to take me to England, and lived on the sea front in the house of Mrs. Jan Cloote, a pawnbroker's wife. From her window where, in the cool evenings, she sat knitting khaki socks till her eyes ached, Mrs. Jan Cloote took note of these happenings, and whenever I came or went out she would open her door a little, and, standing in the narrow aperture, would tell me the latest. She was a small woman of about forty-three, a native of Somerset. Her husband, Jan Cloote, had long ago disappeared into the Transvaal, where he was living, it was understood, with a native woman. With his wife, he had left three daughters, the house on the sea front, and, at the back of the house which opened on to a little mean street, a pawnshop. Mrs. Jan Cloote had more or less built up everything that her husband had left half-finished. The house was in better repair than it ever had been, and she let off most of the rooms. The pawnshop had so flourished that Mrs. Jan Cloote was able to take a shop next door where she sold a second-hand miscellany, unredeemed from the pawnshop. The three daughters had likewise flourished. From all accounts, they had gone barefoot to school at the time of their father's residence at home, because all his profit had gone on his two opulent passions, yellow advocaat1 and black girls. As I saw the daughters now, I could hardly credit their unfortunate past life. The youngest, Isa, was a schoolgirl with long yellow plaits, and she was quite a voluptuary in her manner. The other two, in their late teens, were more like the mother, small, shy, quiet, lady-like, secretarial, and discreet. Greta and Maida, they were called. It was seldom that Mrs. Jan Coote opened the door of her own apartment wide enough for anyone to see inside. This was a habit of the whole family, but they had nothing really to hide, that one could see. And there Mrs. Jan Cloote would stand, with one of the girls, perhaps, looking over her shoulder, wedged in the narrow doorway, and the door not twelve inches open. The hall was very dark, and being a frugal woman, she did not keep a bulb in the hall light, which therefore did not function. One day, as I came in, I saw her little shape, the thin profile and knobbly bun2, outlined against the light within her rooms. "Sh-sh-sh," she said. "Can you come in tonight for a little cup of tea with the others?" she said in a hushed breath. And I understood, as I accepted, that the need for the hush had something to do with the modesty of the proposed party, conveyed in words, "a little cup ..." I knocked on her door after dinner. Maida opened it just wide enough for me to enter, then closed it again quickly. Some of the other lodgers were there: a young man who worked in an office on the docks, and a retired insurance agent and his wife. Isa, the schoolgirl, arrived presently. I was surprised to see that she was heavily made up on the mouth and eyes. "Another troopship gone down," stated Isa. "Hush, dear," said her mother; "we are not supposed to talk about the shipping." Mrs. Jan Cloote winked at me as she said this, it struck me then that she was very proud of Isa. "An Argentine boat in," said Isa. "Really?" said Mrs. Jan Cloote. "Any nice chaps?" The old couple looked at each other. The young man, who was new to many things, looked puzzled but said nothing. Maida and Greta, like their mother, seemed agog for news. "A lot of nice ones, eh?" said Maida. She had the local habit of placing the word "eh" at the end of her remarks, questions and answers alike. "I'll say, man," said Isa, for she also used the common currency, adding "man" to most of the statements she addressed to man and woman alike. "You'll be going to the Stardust!" said Mrs. Jan Cloote. "Won't you now, Isa?" "The Stardust?" said Mrs. Marais, the insurance agent's wife. "You surely don't mean the nightclub, man?" "Why, yes," said Mrs. Cloote in her precise voice. She alone of the family did not use the local idiom, and in fact her speech had improved since her Somerset days. "Why, yes," she said, "she enjoys herself, why not?" "Only young once, eh?" said the young man, putting ash in his saucer as Mrs. Jan Cloote frowned at him. Mrs. Jan Cloote sent Maida upstairs to fetch some of Isa's presents, things she had been given by men; evening bags, brooches, silk stockings. It was rather awkward. What could one say? "They are very nice," I said. "This is nothing, nothing," said Mrs, Jan Cloote, "nothing to the things she could get. But she only goes with the nice fellows." "And do you dance too?" I inquired of Greta. "No, man," she said. "Isa does it for us, eh. Isa dances lovely." "You said it, man," said Maida. "Ah yes," sighed Mrs. Jan Cloote, "we're quiet folk. We would have a dull life of it, if it wasn't for Isa." "She needs taking care of, that child," said Mrs. Marais. "Isa!" said her mother. "Do you hear Mrs. Marais, what she says?" "I do, man," said Isa. "I do, eh." From my room it was impossible not to overhear all that was going on in the pawnshop just beneath my window. "I hope it doesn't disturb you," said Mrs. Jan Cloote, with a sideways glance at her two elder daughters. "No," I thought it best to say, "I don't hear a thing." "I always tell the girls," said Mrs. Jan Cloote, "that there is nothing to be ashamed of, being a P. B." "A P. B.?" asked the young clerk, who had a friend who played the drums in the Police Band. Mrs. Jan Cloote lowered her voice "A pawnbroker," she informed him rapidly. "That's right," said the young man. "There's nothing to be ashamed of in it," said Mrs. Jan Cloote. "And of course I'm only down as a P. B. 's wife, not a P. B." "We keep the shop beautiful, man," said Maida. "Have you seen it?" Mrs. Jan Cloote asked me. "No," I said. "Well, here's nothing to see inside, really," she said; "but some P. B. shops are a sight enough. You should see some of the English ones. The dirt!" "Or so I’m told," she added. "They a-e very rough-and-tumble4 in England," I admitted. "Why," said Mrs. Jan Cloote, "have you been inside one?" "Oh, yes, quite a few," I said, pausing to recollect; "... in London, of course, and then there was one in Manchester, and — " "But what for, man?" said Greta. "To pawn things," I said, glad to impress them with my knowledge of their trade. "There was my compass," I said, "but I never saw that again. Not that I ever used the thing." Mrs. Jan Cloote put down her cup and looked round the room to see if everyone had unfortunately heard me. She was afraid they had. "Thank God," she said; "touch wood I have never had to do it." "I can't say that I've popped anything, myself," said Mrs. Marais. "My poor mother used to take things now and again," said Mr. Marais. "I dare say," said Mrs. Marais. "We get some terrible scum coming in," said the pawnbroker's wife. "I'm going to the P. B.'s dinner-dance," said Isa. "What'll I way?" she added, meaning what would she wear. The girl did not pronounce the final "r" in certain words. "You can way your midnight blue," said Greta. "No," said her mother, "no, no, no. She'll have to get a new dress." "I'm going to get my hay cut short," announced Isa, indicating her yellow pigtails. Her mother squirmed with excitement at the prospect. Greta and Maida blushed, with a strange and greedy look. At last the door was opened a few inches and we were allowed to file oft, one by one. Next morning as usual I heard Mrs. Jan Cloote opening up the pawnshop. She dealt expertly with the customers who, as usual, waited on the doorstep. Once the first rush was over, business generally became easier as the day progressed. But for the first half-hour the bell tinkled incessantly as sailors and other troops arrived, anxious to deposit cameras, cigarette cases, watches, suits of clothes and other things which, like my compass, would never be redeemed. Though I could not see her, it was easy to visualize what actions accompanied the words I could hear so well; Mrs. Jan Cloote would, I supposed, examine the proffered article for about three minutes (this would account for a silence which followed her opening "Well?"). The examina-tion would be conducted with utter intensify, seeming to have its sensitive point, its assessing faculty, in her long nose. (I had already seen her perform this feat with Isa's treasures). She would not smell the thing, actually; but it would appear to be her nose which calculated and finally judged. Then she would sharply name her figure. If this evoked a protest, she would become really eloquent; though never unreasonable, at this stage. A list of the object's defects would proceed like ticker tape from the mouth of Mrs. Jan Cloote; its depreciating market value was known to her; this suit of clothes would never fit another man; that ring was not worth the melting. Usually, the pawners accepted her offer, after she ceased. If not, the pawnbroker's wife turned to the next customer without further comment. "Well?" she would say to the next one. Should the first-comer still linger, hesitant, perplexed, it was then that Mrs. Jan Cloote became unreasonable in tone. "Haven't you made up your mind yet?" she would demand. "What are you waiting for, what are you waiting for?" the effect of this shock treatment was either the swift disappearance of the customer, or his swift clinching of the bargain. Like most establishments in those parts, Mrs. Jan Cloote's pawnshop was partitioned off into sections, rather like a public house with its saloon, public, and private bars. These compartments separated white customers from black, and black from those known as coloured — the Indians, Malays, and half-castes. Whenever someone with a tanned face came in at the white entrance, Mrs. Jan Cloote always gave the customer the benefit of the doubt. But she would complain wearily of this to Maida and Greta as she rushed back and forth. "Did you see that coloured girl that went out?" she would say. "Came it the white way. Oh, coloured, of course she was coloured, but you daren't say anything. We'd be up for slander." This particular morning, trade was pressing. A troopship had come in. "Now that was a coloured," said Mrs. Jan Cloote in a lull between shop bells. "He came in the white way." "I'd have kicked his behind," said Isa. "Listen to Isa, eh!" giggled Maida. "Isa's the one!" said the mother, as she rushed away again, summoned by the bell. This time the voices came from another part of the shop set aside from the rest. I had noticed, from the outside, that it was marked "OFFICE — PRIVATE." "Oh, it's you?" said Mrs. Jan Cloote. "That picture," said the voice. "Here's the ticket." "A month late," she said. "You've lost it." "Here's the fifteen bob," said the man. "No, no," she said. "It's too late. You haven't paid up the interest; it's gone." "I'll pay up the interest now," he said. "Come now," he said, "we're old friends and you promised to keep it for me." "My grandfather painted that picture," he said. "You promised to keep it for me," he said. "Not for a month," she said at last. "Not for a whole month. It was only worth the price of the frame." "It's a good picture," he said. "A terrible picture," she said. "Who would want a picture like that? It might bring us bad luck. I've thrown it away." "Listen, old dear —" he began. "Out!" she said. "Outside!" "I'm staying here," he said, "till I get my picture." "Maida, Greta!" she called. "All right," he said, hopeless and lost. "I'm going." A week later Mrs. Jan Cloote caught me in the hall again. "A little cup of tea," she whispered. "Come in for a chat, just with ourselves and young Mr. Flaming, tonight." It was imperative to attend these periodic tea sittings. Those of Mrs. Jan Cloote's lodgers who did not attend suffered many discomforts; rooms were not cleaned nor beds made: morning tea was brought up cold and newspapers not at all. It was difficult to find rooms at that time. "Thank you," I said. I joined the family that night. The Marais couple had left, but I found the young clerk there. Isa came in, painted up as before. There was one addition to the room; a picture on the wall. It was dreadful as a piece of work, at the same time as it was fascinating on account of the period it stood for. The date of this period would be about the mid eighteen-nineties. It represented a girl bound to a railway line. Her blue sash fluttered across her body, and her hands were raised in anguish to her head, where the hair, yellow and abundant, was spreading over the rail around her. Twenty yards away was a bend on the rail-track. A train approached this bend, full-steam. The driver could not see the girl. As you know, the case was hopeless. A moment, and she would be pulp. But wait! A motor-car, one of the first of its kind, was approaching a level crossing near by. A group of young men, out for a joy-ride, were loaded into this high, bright vehicle. One of them had seen the girl's plight. This Johnnie was standing on the seat, waving his motoring cap high above his head and pointing to her. His companions were just on the point of realizing what had happened. Would they be in time to rescue her? — to stop the onrushing train? Of course not. The perspective of the picture told me this clearly enough. There was not a chance for the girl. And anyhow, I reflected, she lies there for as long as the picture lasts: the train approaches; the young mashers6 in their brand-new automobile — they are always on the point of seeing before them the girl tied to the rails, her hair spread around her, the ridiculous sash waving about, and her hands uplifted to her head. On the whole, I liked the picture. It was the prototype of so many other paintings of its kind; and the prototype, the really typical object, is something I rarely have a chance of seeing. "You're looking at Isa's picture," said Mrs. Jan Cloote. "It's a very wonderful picture," she declared. "A very famous English artist flew out on a Sunderland on purpose to paint Isa. The R.A.F. let him have the plane and all the crew so that he could come. As soon as they saw Isa's photo at the R.A.F. Headquarters in London, they told the artist to take the Sunderland." "He put Isa in that pose, doing her hair," Mrs. Jan Cloote continued, gazing fondly at the picture. I said nothing. Nor did the young clerk. I tried looking at the picture with my head on one side, and, indeed, the girl bore a slight resemblance to Isa; the distracted hands around her head did look rather as if she were doing her hair. Of course, to get this effect, one had to ignore the train, and the motor-car, and the other details. I decided that the picture would be about fifty years old. Undoubtedly, it was not recent. "What do you think of it?" said Mrs. Jan Cloote. "Very nice", I said. The young clerk was silent. "You're very quiet tonight, Mr. Fleming," said Maida. He gave a jerky laugh which nearly knocked over his cup. "I saw Mrs. Marais today", he ventured. "Oh, her", said Mrs. Jan Cloote. "Did you speak;" "Certainly not", he said; "I just passed her by". "Quite right", said Mrs. Jan Cloote. "I gave them notice", she explained to me. "Mr. wasn't so bad, but Mrs. was the worst tenant I've ever had". "The things she said!" Greta added. "I showed her every consideration", said the pawnbroker's wife, "and all I got was insults." "Insults", Mr. Fleming said. "Mr. Fleminc was here when it happened", said Mrs. Jan Cloote. "We were showing her Isa's picture", she continued, "and do you believe it, she said it wasn't Isa at all. To my face she as good as called me a liar, didn't she, Mr. Fleming?" "That's true", said Mr. Fleming, examining a tealeaf on his spoon. "Mr. Marais, of course, was in an awkward position", said Mrs. Jan Cloote. 'You see, he's right under his wife's thumb, and he didn't dare contradict her. He only said there might be some mistake. But she sat on him at once. 'That's not Isa', she said". "Poor Mr. Marais!" said Greta. "I'm sorry for Mr. Marais", said Maida. "He's soft in the head, man", said Isa. "Isa's a real scream", said her mother when she had recovered from her gust of laughter. "And she's right. Old Marais isn't all there". "What was it again?" she inquired of the young clerk. "What was it again, that old Marais told you afterwards, about Isa's picture?" The young clerk looked at me, and quickly looked away. "What did Mr. Marais say about the picture?" I said insistently. "Well," said Mr. Fleming," I don't really remember". "Now, you remember all right", said Mrs. Jan Cloote. "Come on, give us a laugh". "Oh, he only said", Mr. Fleming replied, gazing manfully at the painting, "he only said there were railway lines and a train in the picture." "Only said! Mrs. Jan Cloote put in. "Well, poor thing," said Mr. Fleming; "he can't help it, I suppose. He's mad." "And didn't he say there was an old-fashioned car in the picture, man?" said Greta. "That's what you told us, man." "Yes," said the clerk, with a giggle, "he said that too." "So you see," said Mrs. Jan Cloote. "The man's out of his mind. A railway in Isa's picture! I laugh every time I think of it." "As for Mrs. Marais", she added; "as for her, I never trusted the woman from the start. 'Mrs. Marais, ' said I, 'you'll take a week's notice.' And they left the next day." "Good riddance to the old bitch, said Isa. "She was jealous of Isa's picture, eh," chuckled Greta. "We had a nice time with the artist, though, when he was painting Isa," said Mrs. Jan Cloote. "I'll say, man," said Maida, "and the crew as well". "We often have famous artists here," said the mother, "don't we?" "We do, man," said Greta. "They come after Isa". "And the crew," said Maida. "They was nice. But the pilot did a real man's trick on Isa". "Yes, the swine," said the mother. "But never mind, Isa's got other boys. Isa could go on the films". "Isa would be great on the films", said Greta. "All the famous actors come here", said Mrs. Jan Cloote. "We get all the actors. They want Isa for the films. But we wouldn't let her go on the films". "She'd be a star, man," said Greta. "But we wouldn't let her go on the films," Maida said. "She'll do what she likes," said the mother, "when she leaves school." "Bloody right," said Isa. "You know Max Melville?" said Mrs. Jan Cloote to me. "I've heard the name..." I said warily. "Heard the name! Why, Max Melville's a top-ranking star! He was here after Isa the other day. Isn't that right, Greta?" "Sure," said Greta. And Mrs. Jan Cloote took up the story again. "I told him there was too much publicity on the films for Isa. 'We're quiet folk, Max', I said. Max, I called him, just like that." "Max was a rare guy," said Maida. "He gave Isa a wonderful present," said Mrs. Jan Cloote. "Not that it's worth much, but it belonged to his family and it's got the sentimental value, and he wouldn't have parted with it to anyone else but Isa. Run upstairs and fetch it, Maida." Maida hesitated. "Was is that brooch...?" she began. "No", said her mother sorrowfully end slowly. "Isa got the brooch from the artist. I'm surprised at you forgetting what Max Melville gave to Isa". "I'll get it", said Greta, jumping up. She returned presently, with a small compass in her hand. "It isn't worth much," Mrs. Jan Cloote was saying as she handed it round. "But Max's great-grandfather was an explorer, and he had this very compass on him when he crossed the Himalays. He never came back, but the compass was found on his body. So if was very precious to Maxie, but he parted with it to Isa." I had been given the compass when I was fourteen; it was new then; I recognized it immediately, and while Mrs. Jan Cloote was talking, I recognized it more and more. The scratches and dents which I made on my own possessions are always familiar to me, like my own signature... "A very old antique comcass." said the pawnbroker's wife, passing her hand over its face appraisingly. "It was nice of Max Melville to give it away. But of course he warded Isa for the films, and that may have been the reason". "What do you think of it?" she asked me. "Very interesting." I said. What voyager had fetched it over the seas? How many hands had it passed through in its passage from the pawnshop where I had pledged it, to the pawnshop of Mrs. Jan Cloote? I wondered these things, and also, why it was that I didn't really mind seeing my compass caressed by the hands of this pawnbroker's wife — seeing it made to serve her pleasure. I didn't care. Her nose pointed towards it, as to a North … "We shall never part with this", Mrs. Jan Coote was saying; "because of the sentimental reason, you know. It wouldn't fetch a price, of course". I had, for a few years, kept the compass lying about amongst my things, until the day came to pawn it. That was how it had got scratched and knocked about. It was knocked about in the drawer, thrown aside always, because I was looking for something else. I had never used the compass, never taken my bearings by it. Perhaps, it had never been very much used at ail. The marks of wear upon it were mainly those I had made. Whoever had pledged it at Mrs. Jan Cloote's pawnshop did not think enough of it to redeem it. The pawnbroker's wife was welcome to the compass for it was truly hers. "It wouldn't fetch a price", said Mrs. Jan Coote. "Not that we think of the price; it's the thought that matters". "It's Isa's lucky mascot", said Maida. "You'll have to take it with you when you go to Hollywood, Isa, man." "Hollywood!" said Mrs. Jan Cloote. "Oh, no, no. If Isa goes on the pictures she'll go to an English studio. There’s too much publicity in Hollywood. Do you see our Isa in Hollywood, Mr. Fleming? "Not exactly," said the young man. "I'd be great in Hollywood, man," said young Isa. "Well, maybe..." said the mother. "Yes, maybe," said Mr. Fleming. "But there's too much shown in Hollywood," said Isa. "You see," said Mrs. Jan Cloote, turning to me, "we're quiet people. We keep ourselves to ourselves, and as Mr. Fleming was saying the other day, we live in quite a world of our own, don't we, Mr. Fleming?" They opened the door and let me sidle through, into the dark hall.

NOTES 1 advocaat — wine made of grapes, yoke and sugar 2 a knobbly bun — hair twisted and fastened into a tight wound knob at the back of the head 3 agog — informal: excited and expecting something to happen 4 rough-and-tumble — noisily violent, not quiet and pleasant 5 to touch wood — to touch something made of -wood in order to turn away bad luck 6 a masher — slang: a dandy and a beau: a man who tries to force his attentions on a woman (against her will)

The Major Character 1. Who is the major character in the story? 2. Is the major character structured round one key quality? What is her dominant feature? 3. What is Mrs. Jan Cloote's age, occupation, social position? What are the sources of her income? 4. Which of her actions show how she treats those whom misfortune brings to her pawnshop? Comment on her remark "We get some terrible scum coming in". 5. Which of her actions reveal her attitude to her trade? What does the repetition of "There's nothing to be ashamed of" suggest? 6. What is her set of values? What is her understanding of happiness? Explain how we are given insights into her value system and view of life? 7. How does the writer reveal Mrs. Cloote's attitude to her lodgers, customers, and daughters? 8. What does she reveal about herself in what she says about others? 9. What do the following constantly repeated details signify? (a) "...she would open her door a little", "wedged in the narrow doorway", "the door was opened a few inches and we were allowed to file out, one by one." (b) "We're quiet folk," "We're quiet people". (c) "Sh-sh-sh", "she said in a hushed breath", "Hush, dear", "she whispered". Are they artistic details? Do they serve as a means of characterization? How do they characterize Mrs. Jan Cloote? 10. In which of Mrs. Cloote's actions can you trace her base, mean nature? 11. Is she a type or a caricature? 12. M. Spark is generally considered to he a master of the grotesque. Can you trace this feature of her style in The Pawnbroker's Wife? 13. What is the author's attitude to the protagonist? 14. Are the descriptions of Mrs. Jan Cloote (which are few and laconic) colourful and impressive? Prove it by reference to the text of the story. 15. Does M. Spark use a diversity of means of character-creating? 16. What role do all the other characters play? Can they be treated as a means of characterizing Mrs. Jan Cloote? 17. Are the speech characteristics of the personages in keeping with their education and social status?

Plot Structure 1. What are the functions of the exposition in this story? 2. How many events form the complications? 3.What event serves to be the climax of the story'? 4. Does the denouement stimulate the reader to draw his own conclusions and make his own judgement of Mrs. Jan Cloote?

Message 1. What does the contrast in the first paragraph of the story suggest? What role does it play in revealing the message of the story? 2. What role does the setting play in conveying the message? 3. Does the title contribute to the message?

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TEXT 5.

THE TIGHT HAND

ARNOLD BENNETT

Enoch Arnold Bennett (May 27, 1867-March 27, 1931) was a British novelist. Arnold was employed by his father as a rent collector, but was unhappy working for his father as he was rather mean. At age 21 he left his father's practice and went to London as a solicitor's clerk. He won a literary competition in Tit Bits magazine in 1889 and was encouraged to take up journalism full time. From 1900 he devoted himself full time to writing, serious criticism, and also theatre journalism.

His most famous works are the Clayhanger trilogy and The Old Wives' Tale. These books draw on his experience of life in the Potteries, as did most of his best work. Bennett believed that ordinary people had the potential to be the subject of interesting books like his "The Old Wives'Tale". As well as novels, Bennett produced plenty of fine non-fiction work. One of his most popular non-fiction works, which is still read to this day, is the self-help book "How to Live on 24 Hours a Day". Extracts from his published diaries are often quoted in the British press. Bennett also wrote for the stage and the screen.

His novel Buried Alive was made into the 1912 movie The Great Adventure and the 1968 musical Darling of the Day. Over the years, several of his other books have been made into films and television mini-series.

I. The tight hand was Mrs. Garlick's. A miser, she was not the ordinary miser, being exceptional in the fact that her temperament was joyous. She had reached the thirtieth year of her widowhood and the sixtieth of her age, with cheerfulness unimpaired. The people of Bursley, when they met her sometimes of a morning coming down into the town from her singular house up at Toft End, would be conscious of pleasure in her brisk gait, her slightly malicious but broad-minded smile, and her cheerful greeting. She was always in black. She always wore one of those nodding black bonnets which possess neither back nor front, nor any clue of any kind to their ancient mystery. She always wore a mantle which hid her waist and spread forth in curves over her hips; and as her skirts stuck stiffly out, she thus had the appearance of one who had been to sleep since 1870, and who had got up, thoroughly refreshed and bright, into the costume of her original period. She always carried a reticule. It was known that she suffered from dyspepsia, and this gave real value to her reputation for cheerfulness. Her nearness, closeness, stinginess, close-fistedness — as the quality was variously called — was excused to her, partly because it had been at first caused by a genuine need of severe economy (she having been "left poorly off" by a husband who had lived "in a large way"), partly because it inconvenienced nobody save perhaps her servant Maria, and partly because it was so picturesque and afforded much excellent material for gossip. Mrs. Garlick's latest feat of stinginess was invariably a safe card to play in the conversational game. Each successive feat was regarded as funnier than the one before it. Maria, who had a terrific respect for appearances, never disclosed her mistress's peculiarities. It was Mrs. Garlick herself who humorously ventilated and discussed them; Mrs. Garlick, being a philosopher, got quite as much amusement as anyone out of her most striking quality. "Is there anything interesting in the Signal¹ to-night?" she had innocently asked one of her sons. "No", said Sam Garlick, unthinkingly. "Well, then," said she, "suppose I turn out the gas and we talk in the dark?" Soon afterwards Sam Garlick married; his mother remarked drily that she was not surprised. It was supposed that this feat of turning out the gas when the Signal happened to fail in interest would remain unparalleled in the annals of Five Towns skinflintry. But in the summer after her son's marriage, Mrs. Garlick was discovered in the evening habit of pacing slowly up and down Toft Lane. She said that she hated sitting in the dark alone, that Maria would not have her in the kitchen, and that she saw no objection to making harmless use of the Corporation gas by strolling to and fro under the Corporation gas-lamps on fine nights. Compared to this feat the previous feat was as naught. It made Mrs. Garlick celebrated even as far as Longshaw. It made the entire community proud of such an inventive miser. Once Mrs. Garlick, before what she called her dinner, asked Maria. "Will there be enough motton for tomorrow?" And Maria had gloomily and firmly said, "No". "Will there be enough if I don't have any today?" pursued Mrs. Garlick. And Maria had said, "Yes." "I won't have any then," said Mrs. Garlick. Maria was offended; there are some things that a servant will not stand. She informed Mrs. Garlick that if Mrs. Garlick meant "to go on going on like that" she should leave; she wouldn't stay in such a house. In vain Mrs. Garlick protested that the less she ate the better she felt; in vain she referred to her notorious indigestion. "Either you eats your dinner, mum, or out I clears!" Mrs. Garlick offered her a rise of £1 a year to stay. She was already because she would stop and most servants wouldn't, receiving £18, a high wage. She refused the increment. Pushed by her passion for economy in mutton, Mrs. Garlick then offered her a rise of £2 a year. Maria accepted, and Mrs. Garlick went without mutton. Persons unacquainted with the psychology of parsimoniousness may hesitate to credit this incident. But more advanced students of humanity will believe it without difficulty. In the five Towns it is known to be true.

II The supreme crisis, to which the foregoing is a mere prelude, in the affairs of Mrs. Garlick and Maria, was occasioned by the extraordinary performances of the Mayor of Bursley. This particular mayor was invested with the chain² almost immediately upon the conclusion of a great series of revival services in which he had conspicuously figured. He had an earthenware manufactory half-way up the hill between Bursley and its loftiest suburb, Toft End, and the smoke of his chimneys and kilns was generally blown by a favourable wind against the windows of Mrs. Garlick's house, which stood by itself. Mrs. Garlick made nothing of this. In the Five Towns they think no more of smoke than the world at large used to think of small-pox. The smoke plague is exactly as curable as the small-pox plague. It continues to flourish, not because smokiness is cheaper than cleanliness — it is dearer — but because a greater nuisance than smoke is the nuisance of a change, and because human nature in general is rather like Mrs. Garlick: its notion of economy is to pay heavily for the privilege of depriving itself of something — mutton or cleanliness. However, this mayor was different. He had emerged from the revival services with a very tender conscience, and in assuming the chain of office he assumed the duty of setting an example, it was to be no excuse to him that in spite of bye-laws ten thousand other chimneys and kilns were breathing out black filth all over the Five Towns. So far as he could cure it the smoke nuisance had to be cured, or his conscience would know the reason why! So he sat on the borouch bench and fined himself for his own smoke, and then he installed gas ovens. The town laughed, of course, and spoke of him alternately as a rash fool, a hypocrite, and a mere pompous ass. In a few months smoke had practically ceased to ascend from the mayoral manufactory. The financial result to the mayor was such as to encourage the tenderness of consciences. But that is not the point. The point is that Mrs. Garlick, re-entering her house one autumn morning after a visit to the market, paused to took at the windows, and then said to Maria: "Maria, what have you to do this afternoon?" Now Mrs. Garlick well knew what Maria had to do. "I'm going to change the curtains, mum." "Well, you needn't," said Mrs. Garlick; "It's made such a difference up here, there being so much less smoke, that upon my word the curtains will do another three months quite well!" "Well, mum, I never did!" observed Maria, meaning that so shocking a proposal was unprecedented in her experience. Yet she was thirty-five. "Quite well!" said Mrs. Garlick, gaily. Maria said no more. But in the afternoon Mrs. Garlick, hearing sounds in the drawing-room, went into the drawing-room and discovered Maria balanced on a pair of steps and unhooking lace curtains. "Maria," said she, "what are you doing?" Maria answered as busy workers usually do answer unnecessary questions from idlers. "I should had thought you could see, mum," she said tartly, insolently, inexcusably. One curtain was already down. "Put that curtain back," Mrs. Garlick commanded. "I shall put no curtain back!" said Maria, grimly: her excited respiration shock the steps. "All to save the washing of four pair o'curtains! And you know you beat the washerwoman down³ to tenpence a pair last March! Three and fo'pence, that is! For the sake o'three and fo'pence you're willing for all Toft End to point their finger at these 'ere windows." "Put that curtain back", Mrs. Garlick repeated haughtily. She saw that she had touched Maria in a delicate spot — her worship of appearances. The mutton was simply nothing to these curtains. Nevertheless, as there seemed to be some uncertainty in Maria's mind as to who was the mistress of the house, Mrs. Garlick's business was to dispel that uncertainty. It may be said without exaggeration that she succeeded in dispelling it. But she did not succeed in compelling Maria to re-hang the curtain. Maria had as much force of character as Mrs. Garlick herself. The end of the scene, whose details are not sufficiently edifying to be recounted, was that Maria went upstairs to pack her box, and Mrs. Garlick personally re-hung the curtain. One's dignity is commonly an expensive trifle, and Mrs. Garlick's dignity was expensive! To avoid prolonging the scene she paid Maria a month's wages in lieu of notice4— £1, 13s. 4d. Then she showed her the door. Doubtless (Mrs. Garlick meditated) the girl thought she would get another rise of wages. If so, she was finely mistaken. A nice thing if the servant is to decide when curtains are to go to the wash! She would soon learn, when she went into another situation, what an easy, luxurious place she had lost by her own stupid folly! Three and fourpences might be picked up in the street, eh? And so on. After Maria's stormy departure Mrs. Garlick regained her sense of humour and her cheerfulness; but the inconveniences of being without Maria were important.

III On the second day following, Mrs. Garlick received a letter from "young Lawton," the solicitor. Young Lawton, aged over forty, and not so-called because in the Five Towns youthfutness is supposed to extend to the confines of forty-five but because he had succeeded his father, known as "old Lawton"; it is true that the latter had been dead many years. The Five Towns, however, is not a country of change. This letter pointed out that Maria's wages were not £1,13s. 4d. a month, but £1,13s. 4d. a month plus her board and lodging, and that consequently, in lieu of a month's notice, Maria demanded £1,13s 4d. plus the value of a month's keep. There was more in this letter than met the eye of Mrs. Garlick. Young Lawton's offices were cleaned by a certain old woman; this old woman had a nephew; this nephew was a warehouseman at the Mayor's works, and lived up in Toft End, and at least twice every day he passed by Mrs. Garlick's house. He was a respectful worshipper of Maria's and it had been exclusively on his account that Maria had insisted on changing the historic curtains. Nobody else of the slightest importance ever passed in front of the house, for important people have long since ceased to live at Toft End. The subtle flattering of an unspoken love had impelled Maria to leave her situation rather than countenance soiled curtains. She could not bear that the warehouseman should suspect her of tolerating even the semblances of dirt. She had permitted the warehouseman to hear the facts of her departure from Mrs. Garlick's. The warehouseman was nobly indignant, advising an action for assault and battery. Through his aunt's legal relations Maria had been brought into contact with the law, and, while putting aside as inadvisable an action for assault and battery, the lawyer had counselled a just demand for more money. Hence the letter. Mrs. Garlick called at Lawton's office, and, Mr. Lawton being out, she told an office-boy to tell him with her compliments that she should not pay. Then the County Court bailiff paid her a visit, and left with her a blue summons for £2, 8s., being four weeks of twelve shillings each. Many house-mistresses in Bursley sympathised with Mrs. Garlick when she fought this monstrous claim. She fought it gaily, with the aid of a solicitor. She might have won it, if the Country Court Judge had not happened to be in one of his peculiar moods — one of those moods in which he felt himself bound to be original at all costs, tie delivered a judgment sympathising with domestic servants in general, and with Maria in particular. It was a lively trial. That night the Signal was very interesting. When Mrs. Garlick had finished with the action she had two and threepence change out of a five-pound note. Moreover, she was forced to employ a charwoman — a charwoman who had made a fine art of breaking china, of losing silver teaspoons down sinks, and of going home of a night with vast pockets full of things that belonged to her by only nine-tenths of the law. The charwoman ended by tumbling through a window, smashing panes to the extent of seventeen and elevenpence, and irreparably ripping one of the historic curtains. Mrs. Garlick then dismissed the charwoman, and sat down to count the cost of small economies. The privilege of half-dirty curtains had involved her in an expense of £9,19s. (call it £10). It was in the afternoon. The figure of Maria crossed the recently-repaired window. Without a second's thought Mrs. Garlick rushed out of the house. "Maria!" she cried abruptly — with grim humour. "Come here. Come right inside." Maria stopped, then obeyed. "Do you know how much you've let me in for, with your wicked, disobedient temper?" "I'd have you know, mum — "Maria retorted, putting her hands on the hips and forwarding her face. Their previous scene together was as nothing to this one in sound and fury. But the close was peace. The next day half Bursley knew that Maria had gone back to Mrs. Garlick, and there was a facetious note about the episode in the "Day by Day" column of the Signal. The truth was that Maria and Mrs. Garlick were "made for each other". Maria would not look at the ordinary "place". The curtains, as much as remained, were sent to the wash, but as three months had elapsed the mistress reckoned that she had won. Still, the cleansing of the curtains had run up to appreciably more than a sovereign per curtain. The warehouseman did not ask for Maria's hand. The stridency of her behaviour in court had frightened him. Mrs. Garlick's chief hobby continues to be the small economy. Happily, owing to a rise in the value of land and a fortunate investment, she is in fairly well-to-do circumstances. As she said one day to an acquaintance, "It's a good thing I can afford to keep a tight hand on things".

NOTES
1 The Signal — the name of a local newspaper
2 was invested with a chain — was given officially the outward sign of mayor
3 to beat down -- to persuade to reduce the price
4 in lieu of notice — instead of a warning that a person will be dismissed in a month's time; in lieu [lu:] of — formal: instead of

Character Drawing 1. What is the major feature of the protagonist? Is she an embodiment of greed and avarice? 2. What methods of characterization are employed? Pick out the words which A. Bennett used to characterize her directly. Find instances of indirect characterization. 3. Is her name a case of antanomasia? 4. Can you easily visualize Mrs. Garlick? 5. What is the author's attitude to her? 6. Does the author stir up an agreeable attitude to the protagonist? 7. A. Bennett wrote: "The foundation of good fiction is character-creating and nothing else... Style counts; plot counts; originality of outlook counts. Rut none of these count anything like so much as the convincingness of the characters." Do you think he managed to create a convincing character of a miser with a kink and a whim?

Conflict, Representational Forms 1. What is there in common between Mrs. Garlick and her maid? Is the conflict of the story in any way connected with their unyielding temper and passion to have it one's own way? 2. How can you account for the division of the story into three parts? 3. The writer makes several digressions in the story. Do they detract from the flow of his narrative? Do they help to explain the characters and message of the story?j 4. Compare the title with the final sentence in the story. What does it suggest? 5. Does A. Bennett satirize Mrs. Garlick as one would expect a writer to do when creating an image of a miser? 6. What weaknesses of human nature does the author poke fun at?

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TEXT 6.

CHARLES

SHIRLEY JACKSON

Shirley Jackson (December 14, 1916 – August 8, 1965) was an influential American author. Although a popular writer in her time, her work has received increasing attention from literary critics in recent years. She has influenced such writers as Stephen King, Nigel Kneale and Richard Matheson.

She is perhaps best known for her short story "The Lottery" (1948), which suggests there is a deeply unsettling underside to bucolic, smalltown America. In her critical biography of Shirley Jackson, Lenemaja Friedman notes that when Shirley Jackson's story "The Lottery" was published in the June 28, 1948 issue of The New Yorker, it received a response that "no New Yorker story had ever received." Hundreds of letters poured in that were characterized by, as Jackson put it, "bewilderment, speculation and old-fashioned abuse."

In addition to her adult literary novels, Jackson also wrote a children's novel, Nine Magic Wishes, as well as a children's play based on Hansel and Gretel and entitled The Bad Children. In a series of short stories, later collected in the books Life Among the Savages and Raising Demons, she presented a fictionalized version of her marriage and the experience of bringing up four children. These stories pioneered the "true-to-life funny-housewife stories". In 1965, Shirley Jackson died of heart failure in her sleep at the age of 48. After her death, her husband released a posthumous volume of her work, Come Along With Me, containing several chapters of her unfinished last novel as well as several rare short stories (among them "Louisa, Please Come Home") and three speeches given by Jackson in her writing seminars.

The day my son Laurie started kindergarten he renounced corduroy overalls with bibs and began wearing blue jeans with a belt; I watched him go off the first morning with the older girl next door, seeing clearly that an era of my life was ended, my sweet-voiced nursery-school tot replaced by a longtrousered, swaggering character who forgot to stop at the corner and wave good-bye to me. He came home the same way, the front door slamming open, his cap on the floor, and the voice suddenly become raucous shouting, "Isn't anybody here?" At lunch he spoke insolently to his father, spilled his baby sister's milk, and remarked that his teacher said we were not to take the name of the Lord in vain. "How was school today?" I asked, elaborately casual. "All right," he said. "Did you learn anything?" his father asked. Laurie regarded his father coldly. "I didn't learn nothing," he said. "Anything," I said. "Didn't learn anything." "The teacher spanked a boy, though," Laurie said, addressing his bread and butter. "For being fresh," he added, with his mouth full. "What did he do?" I asked. "Who was it?" Laurie thought. "It was Charles", he said. "He was fresh. The teacher spanked him and made him stand in a corner. He was awfully fresh." "What did he do?" I asked again, but Laurie slid off his chair, took a cookie, and left, while his father was still saying, "See here, young man". The next day Laurie remarked at lunch, as soon as he sat down, "Well, Charles was bad again today". He grinned enormously and said, "Today Charles hit the teacher." "Good heavens," I said, mindful of the Lord's name, "I suppose he got spanked again?" "He sure did," Laurie said. "Look up," he said to his father. "What?" his father said, looking up. "Look down," Laurie said. "Look at my thumb. Gee, you're dumb¹". He began to laugh insanely. "Why did Charles hit the teacher?" I asked quickly. "Because she tried to make him color with red crayons," Laurie said. "Charles wanted to color with green crayons so he hit the teacher and she spanked him and said nobody play with Charles but everybody did." The third day — it was Wednesday of the first week — Charles bounced a see-saw on to the head of a little girl and made her bleed, and the teacher made him stay inside all during recess. Thursday Charles had to stand in a corner during story-time because he kept pounding his feet on the floor. Friday Charles was deprived of blackboard privileges because he threw chalk. On Saturday I remarked to my husband, "Do you think kindergarten is too unsettling for Laurie? All this toughness, and bad grammar, and this Charles boy sounds like such a bad influence." "It'll be all right," my husband said reassuringly. "Bound to be people like Charles in the world. Might as well meet them now as later." On Monday Laurie came home late, full of news. "Charles," he shouted as he came up the hill; I was waiting anxiously on the front steps. "Charles," Laurie yelled all the way up the hill, "Charles was bad again." "Come right in," I said, as soon as he came close enough. "Lunch is waiting." "You know what Charles did?" he demanded, following me through the door. "Charles yelled so in school they sent a boy in from first grade to tell the teacher she had to make Charles keep quiet, and so Charles had to stay after school. And so all the children stayed to watch him." "What did he do?" I asked. "He just sat there," Laurie said, climbing into his chair at the table. "Hi, Pop, y'old dust mop." "Charles had to stay after school today," I told my husband. "Everyone stayed with him." "What does this Charles look like?" my husband asked Laurie. "What's his other name?" "He's bigger than me," Laurie said. "And he doesn't have any rubbers and he doesn't, ever wear a jacket." Monday night was the first Parent-Teachers meeting, and only the fact that the baby had a cold kept me from going; I wanted passionately to meet Charles's mother. On Tuesday Laurie remarked suddenly, "Our teacher had a friend come to see her in school today." "Charles's mother!" my husband and I asked simultaneously. "Naaah'' Laurie said scornfully. "It was a man who came and made us do exercises, we had to touch our toes. Look." He climbed down from his chair and squatted down and touched his toes. "Like this," he said. He got solemnly back into his chair and said, picking up his fork, "Charles didn't even do exercises." "That's fine," I said heartily. "Didn't Charles want to do exercises?" "Naaah " Laurie said "Charles was so fresh to the teacher's friend he wasn't let do exercises." "Fresh again?" I said. "He kicked the teacher's friend," Laurie said. "The teacher's friend told Charles to touch his toes like I just did and Charles kicked him." "What are they going to do about Charles, do you suppose?" Laurie's father asked him. Laurie shrugged elaborately. "Throw him out of school, I guess," he said. Wednesday and Thursday were routine; Charles yelled during story hour and hit a boy in the stomach and made him cry. On Friday Charles stayed after school again and so did all the other children. With the third week of kindergarten Charles was an institution2 in our family; the baby was being a Charles when she cried all afternoon; Laurie did a Charles when he filled his wagon full of mud and pulled it through the kitchen; even my husband, when he caught his elbow in the telephone cord and pulled telephone, ashtray, and a bowl of flowers off the table, said, after the first minute, "Looks like Charles." During the third and fourth weeks it looked like a reformation in Charles; Laurie reported grimly at lunch on Thursday of the third week, "Charles was so good today the teacher gave him an apple." "What?" I said, and my husband added warily, "You mean Charles?" "Charles," Laurie said. "He gave the crayons around and he picked up the books afterward and the teacher said he was her helper." "What happened?" I asked incredulously. "He was her helper, that's all," Laurie said, and shrugged. "Can this be true, about Charles?" I asked my husband that night. "Can something like this happen?" "Wait and see," my husband said cynically. "When you've got a Charles to deal with, this may mean he's only plotting." He seemed to be wrong. For over a week Charles was the teacher's helper; each day he handed things out and he picked things up; no one had to stay after school. "The P.T.A. meeting's next week again," I told my husband one evening. "I'm going to find Charles's mother there." "Ask her what happened to Charles," my husband said. "I'd like to know." "I'd like to know myself," I said. On Friday of that week things were back to normal. "You know what Charles did today?" Laurie demanded at the lunch table, in a voice slightly awed. ''He told a little girl to say a word and she said it and the teacher washed her mouth out with soap and Charles laughed." "What word?" his father asked unwisely, and Laurie said, "I'll have to whisper it to you, it's so bad." He got down off his chair and went around to his father. His father bent his head down and Laurie whispered joyfully. His father's eyes widened. "Did Charles tell the little girl to say that?" he asked respectfully. "She said it twice," Laurie said. 'Charles told her to say it twice." "What happened to Charles?" my husband asked. "Nothing,” Laurie said. "He was passing out the crayons." Monday morning Charles abandoned the little girl and said the evil word himself three or four times, getting his mouth washed out with soap each time. He also threw chalk. My husband came to the door with me that evening as I set out for the P.T.A. meeting. "Invite her over for a cup of tea after the meeting," he said. "I want to get a look at her." "If only she's there," I said prayerfully. "She'll be there," my husband said. "I don't see how they could hold a P.T.A. meeting without Charles's mother." At the meeting I sat restlessly, scanning each comfortable matronly face, trying to determine which one hid the secret of Charles. None of them looked to me haggard enough. No one stood up in the meeting and apologized for the way her son had been acting. No one mentioned Charles. After the meeting I identified and sought out Laurie's kindergarten teacher. She had a plate with a cup of tea and a piece of chocolate cake; I had a plate with a cup of tea and a piece of marshmallow cake. We maneuvered up to one another cautiously, and smiled. "I've been so anxious to meet you," I said. "I'm Laurie's mother." "We're all so interested in Laurie," she said. "Well, he certainly likes kindergarten," I said. "He talks about it all the time," "We had a little trouble adjusting, the first week or so," she said primly, "but now he's a fine little helper. With occasional lapses, of course." "Laurie usually adjusts very quickly," I said. "I suppose this time it's Charles's influence." "Charles?" "Yes," I said, laughing, "you must have your hands full in that kindergarten, with Charles." "Charles?" she said. "We don't have any Charles in the kindergarten."

NOTES 1 dumb — informal: stupid 2 an institution — a habit or custom which has been in existence for a long time

Plot Structure and Character-Drawing 1. How is the plot structured? 2. What makes the climax of the story a surprise ending? 3. Is Charlie an imaginary character? What makes Laurie's parents believe that Charlie was really one of their son's playmates? 4. How are the major features developed in the protagonist? Gather supporting evidence from the text of the story. 5. What means of characterization does Shirley Jackson resort to? How does the image of Charles contribute to characterize Laurie? 6. What makes the protagonist lifelike and convincing? 7 Give a character sketch of Laurie. Support your view by reference to the text of the story. 8. Does the contrast between what appears to be true and what is actually true create an ironic effect? 9. Is the title of the story ironic? Why did the author choose "Charles" rather than "Laurie" for the title of the stop.'? 10. What do you think of the parents' reaction to their son's conduct? Would you call the teacher's reaction excessive permissiveness?

SUGGESTIONS FOR COMPARATIVE ANALYSIS

1. Compare the dominant means of characterization used in The Pawnbroker's Wife, The Tight Hand, Charles and Mistaken Identity. Are they identical? Which means do you think are more effective? 2. What role do descriptions of actions and appearance play in character-creating? 3. Do the speech characteristics in The Pawnbroker's Wife play an equally important role, or do they play a less important role than in Mistaken Identity? Support your answer in each case by specific reference to the texts of both the stories. To what extent do the spoken words reveal the characters in the two stories? 4. Did the authors of the compared stories deliberately exaggerate some features of the protagonists? To what extent are these features mirrored in the characters' behaviour? Are these features made fun of, or ridiculed, or rather satirized?

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SECTION III NARRATIVE METHOD THEORETICAL PRELIMINARIES

The narrative method involves such aspects as (a) who narrates the story and (b) the way the narrator stands in relation to the events and to the other characters of the story. We are all well aware of the fact that the same people and events may seem quite different when seen by various people or from different angles. Like in photography, the effect may be absolutely different if a picture is taken from below or above the usual eye level. In the same way the author can vary the narrative method depending on what he wants his readers to concentrate on. He can tell the story from the point of view of a character in the story, or from without — as an onlooker. The author may select either of the following four types of narrators: (1) the main character, (2) a minor character (3) the omniscient author, (4) the observer-author.
1. When the main character tells his story, the events of the story are presented to the reader through his perception. The author in this case places himself in the position of the main character and tells of things that only the main character saw and felt. (E. g. Jane Eyre by Ch. Bronte, The Catcher in the Rye by J. Salinger).
2. When a minor character, who participates in the actions, narrates the story, the events are described through the perception of this character. The author places himself in the position of a minor character and gives this character's version of the events and personages. (E g. The Pawnbroker's Wife by M. Spark)
3. The author may narrate his story anonymously, analysing and interpreting the character's motives and feelings. The reader sees what goes on in the minds of all the characters. He is then guided by what is known to be the omniscient (or analytic) author. The omniscient author reproduces the characters' thoughts and comments on their actions. (E. g. Angel Pavement by J. Priestley, The Cop and the Anthem by O'Henry). 4. The story may be told in such a way that we are given the impression of witnessing the events as they happen —we see the actions and hear the conversations, but we never enter directly the minds of any of the characters. In this case the reader is guided by the observer-author. The observer-author merely records the speech and actions of the characters without analysing them (as it is often done in E. Hemingway's stories). The following table shows the interrelationship between the narrative types and the types of narrators.
|Narrative Types |Types of Narrators |
|First-person narrative |Main character tells |Minor character tells the story (Outside |
| |the story (Internal analysis of events)|observation of events) |
|Third-person narrative |Omniscient or analytic author tells the|Observer-author tells the story (Outside |
| |story (Internal analysis of events) |observation of events) |

It may be seen from the table that there are common features between the four types of narrators. When the story is told by the main character or the omniscient author, the events are analysed internally, reflecting the main character's point of view. When the narrator is either a minor character or the observer-author, the story is an outside observation of events and does not reflect the main character's feelings and attitude, his point of view. When told by a character in the story, the story is a first-person narrative. When told by the author» it is a third-person narrative. If the story is a first-person narrative, it is told from the narrator's point of view and the reader gets a biased understanding of the events and the other characters, because he sees them through the perception of the character who narrates. At the same time any story always reveals the author's point of view even if it is implied. The character's and the author's viewpoints may or may not coincide. The point of view of the author may even be contrary to that of the narrator; as in The Lady's Maid by K. Mansfield. The story is narrated by a maid who proves to be naive. Though the reader learns no more about her life than she herself tells, he suspects that the maid is misjudging people, that she, so to say, measures them according to her own yardstick. The more the maid praises and justifies her cruel grandfather and her egoistic mistress, the more obvious is her naivety, the clearer is the fact that she is utterly mistaken and that she does not realize how those people ill-treat her, how miserable her life has always been. The discrepancy between the maid's view of the way things are and the reader's opinion is the irony of her life. Indirectly (through this irony) K. Mansfield makes it clear that she does not share the maid's point of view and invites the reader to reject it, too. Therefore, when the author shifts the responsibility of telling the story to a first-person narrator, he actually provides his reader with two versions of one and the same story: (1) the explicity expressed subjective version (the narrator’s version) and (2) the implied objective version, which the skilled reader is expected to derive. To understand the implied objective version one should take into account which type of narrator the story-teller is and whether he is a reliable narrator or an unreliable one. Several advantages of the first two methods (i. e. the first-person narrative made by one of the characters) should be mentioned. A 1st-person narrative is a very effective means of revealing the personality of the character who narrates. The narrator tells what he thinks and feels, and the reader easily understands his motives, his nature. The writer without resorting to analysis gets the advantage of defining this character more closely. He does not have to say whether the character is sensitive, easily affected or self-controlled, kind or cruel, he simply lets the character demonstrate his features. That becomes clear and visible to the reader, and this first-hand testimony increases the immediacy and freshness of the impression. Secondly, these two narrative methods increase the credibility of the story. The narrator's statements gain in weight and are more readily accepted by the reader, for they are backed by the narrator's presence in the described events — he relates what he himself has seen. Thirdly, a story told by a first-person narrator tends to be more confiding. The narrator often assumes the informal tone, addresses the reader directly and establishes a personal relationship with him. The reader is treated trustfully as one to whom the narrator confides his personal impressions and thoughts. This can be clearly seen in The Lady's Maid by K. Mansfield. On account of all that, it is the inner world of the character-narrator that is generally in the focus of interest. However, the possibilities of the first-person narrator are limited. One of the basic limitations is that a story told by a character is limited to what that character could reasonably be expected to know. (The first-person narrator is a person, and he can see and hear only what would be possible for a person to see and hear in his situation. He cannot enter into the minds of the other characters, he cannot know all that they do and say.The first-person narrator may be reliable or unreliable. He may misinterpret some events, which he sometimes cannot fully understand He relates them and meditates about them from his subjective point of view. The reader, therefore, gets a biased view of the other characters (as in the case of The Lady's Maid by K. Mansfield). But this limitation may turn into an advantage: the reader is stimulated to reflect and pronounce his own judgement. The fact that the character who narrates has less experience than the reader creates an irony. If The Lady's Maid had not been told by the maid herself, if she had not been so naive, and if her life-story had been told by a dispassionate narrator, it is doubtful that the story would arouse such deep emotional response and convey its message so effectively. There are no limitations on the freedom of the omniscient author. He is all-seeing and all-knowing. He can follow any character to a locked room or a desert island. He may get inside his characters’ minds, add his own analysis of their motives and actions. It is the author's voice, his evaluations, his opinion of the events and characters that the reader hears and, therefore, the reader can easily understand the author's point of view. Moreover, the omniscient author may wander away from the subject of the narrative to state his personal view or to make a general statement. Such a statement is known as the author's digression. A digression usually involves a change of tense from the past (the usual tense in stories and novels) to the generic 'timeless' present. In this way the author directly conveys his presence as a guide and interpreter. The story The Cop and the Anthem by O'Henry can serve as an illustration of the possibilities of the omniscient author. Here the omniscient author resorts to digressions. He does not only relate the events, he tells the reader what his character longs for and plans to do. To convey Soapy's thoughts the omniscient author uses indirect speech: "...A roasted mallard duck, thought Soapy, would be about the thing...", inner represented speech: "...Disconsolate, Soapy ceased his unavailing racket. Would a policeman lay hands on him? In his fancy the Island seemed an unattainable Arcadia. The reader generally places complete reliance on all the judgements made by the omniscient author and adopts his point of view.(The objectivity of the author's evidence is taken for granted] At the same time the reader gets the possibility to accompany the characters anywhere, to see what happens to them when they are alone, to know what goes on in their minds and what they think about one another. It means that the omniscient author reveals the viewpoints of the characters, too. The omniscient author may also assume a detached attitude and tell the readers all about his characters, concealing his own point of view. For example, the story The Pleasures of Solitude by J. Cheever is told by a detached omniscient author, who describes what the protagonist saw, felt, thought and did, without giving his own analysis of her actions. In many modern short stories since A P. Chekhov the omniscient author appears to have a limited omniscient point of view. The author chooses one character, whose thoughts and actions are analysed, giving no analysis of the other characters. The author therefore may by partially omniscient. The omniscient author may tell the story so vividly that his presence is forgotten, the characters and the scenes become visible. Such are the advantages of the narrative made by the omniscient author. In the case of the observer-author, the story is a scene or a series of scenes, narrated by an onlooker who does not interfere for any comments or reflections of these events. The main focus of interest is the study of actions and events. The advantage of this narrative method is that the observer-author lets the reader see, hear, and judge the characters and their actions for himself. He stimulates the reader to form his own impression and make his own judgements. Stories told by the observer-author may be presented in either of the following two forms: (1) the dramatic, or (2) the pictorial form. A story is said to have a dramatic form, when one scene follows another and the characters act and speak as in drama. (In drama nobody comments and explains the scenes, they appear). Arrangement in Black and White by D. Parker and The Killers by E. Hemingway serve as examples. A story is considered to have pictorial form, when the observer-author pictures the scenes, but he tells of what anyone might see and hear in his position without entering into, the minds of any of the characters, without analysing their motives. (Indian Camp by E. Hemingway illustrates the pictorial form of presentation). In one and the same story the author may vary the narrative method, sometimes giving us one character's version of events (or point of view) and sometimes that of another, sometimes assuming omniscience and sometimes narrating as an onlooker. Thus in The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber when describing a lion hunt Hemingway lets the reader see things through the eyes of the lion, whereas the events preceding Macomber’s death are given through the perception of Macomber himself. There are, therefore, several shifts in the point of view. The narrative method determines the dominant point of view. Depending on who tells the story, the dominant point of view may be either that of the character (if he tells the story), or that of the author (if the story is told by the author). The dominant point of view does not rule out the possibility of introducing other viewpoints into the story. If the viewpoints are presented as independent, the story is said to be “polyphonic”. However, the dominant point of view generally subordinates the other viewpoints. The narrative method conditions the language of the story. Thus if the story is told by an omniscient author, the language is always literary. When the story is told by a character, the language becomes a means of characterization (as direct speech always characterizes the speaker). It reflects the narrator's education, occupation, emotional state and his attitude. The social standing of the character is marked by the use of either standard or non-standard lexical units and syntactic structures. In The Ladie’s Maid markers of Ellen’s social standing are as follows: "we was living", "all of I a tremble", a ducky little brooch" and others. The use of rare and specialized vocabulary serves as a marker of the character's occupation (or educational level, or both). In the case of The Ladie’s Maid these are "No, madam", "...is it, madam". The emotive and evaluative lexical units (such as "she's too good", "the sweetest lady", "poor grandfather", etc.) reflect the feelings of the narrator, her attitude to the people she describes. In this particular story some of the evaluative units appear to be reappraised, as the narrator's point of view is unreliable (she misinterprets events and misjudges people). From the way Ellen's lady and grandfather are presented it becomes clear that the lady is by no means "too good" — on the contrary, she is hypocritical, cunning and egoistic; the grandfather appears to be mean, calculating and deserves no justification for his cruelty. One has to keep in mind that the language of a first-person narrative requires careful attention not only because it characterizes the narrator, but also because it is a means of representing the world through the eyes of that character. It therefore reflects his outlook (which may be naive, or primitive, or limited), his pattern of cognition, his psychology. That is why most stories related by the main character are deeply psychological. Moreover, the narrative method may affect presentational sequencing of events. Thus the omniscient author will arrange the events of the story as they occur in chronological order. A first-person narrative more often than not is disrupted by digressions, or may have haphazard transitions from one topic to another, or may contain flashbacks to past events (as in the case of the The Lady's Maid). The events are then presented in psychological order. Apart from that, the narrative method may also affect the sequencing of literary representational forms. If we turn to The Ladie’s Maid we can see that it is a complex pattern of narration, description, direct speech and reasoning, but it does not include the author's digressions because the author has shifted the responsibility of telling the story to the major character. Whereas in a story told by the omniscient author (e. g. The Cop and the Anthem) one may find all the literary representational forms. Whether a story is convincing and exciting, whether it produces a vivid and enduring impression, whether it arouses interest and emotional response – all that relies heavily on the narrative method employed by the author. TEXT 7.

THE LADIE’S MAID

KATHERINE MANSFILD

Katherine Mansfield (14 October 1888 – 9 January 1923) was a prominent modernist writer of short fiction. She was born Kathleen Mansfield Beauchamp into a socially prominent family in Wellington, New Zealand. In England, her work drew the attention of several publishing houses, and Beauchamp took on the pen-name Katherine Mansfield upon the publication of her first collection of short stories, In a German Pension, in 1911. Although she continued writing, she rarely published her work, and sank into depression. Her health declined, she contracted tuberculosis and it was while combating the disease in health spas across Europe, suffering a serious hemorrhage in 1918, that Mansfield began writing the works she would become best known for. Mansfield proved to be a prolific writer in the final years of her life, and much of her prose and poetry remained unpublished at her death. Katherine Mansfield is widely considered one of the best short story writers of her period. A number of her works, including "Miss Brill", "Prelude", "The Garden Party", "The Doll's House", and later works such as "The Fly", are frequently collected in short story anthologies. Mansfield also proved ahead of her time in her adoration of Russian playwright Anton Chekhov, and incorporated some of his themes and techniques into her writing. The fact that Mansfield died relatively young only added to her legacy.

Eleven o'clock. A knock at the door. ...I hope I haven't disturbed you, madam. You weren't asleep — were you? But I've just given my lady her tea, and here was such a nice cup over, I thought, perhaps... ...Not at all, madam 1. I always make a cup of tea last thing, she drinks it in bed after her prayers to warm her up. I put the kettle on when she kneels down and I say to it, "Now you needn't be in too much of a hurry to say your prayers". But it's always boiling before my lady is half through. You see, madam, we know such a lot of people and they've alt got to be prayed for — every one. My lady keeps a list of the names in a little red book. Oh dear! whenever someone new has been to see us and my lady says afterwards, "Ellen, give me my little red book," I feel quite wild, I do. "There's another". I think, "keeping her out of her bed in alt weathers". And she won't have a cushion, you know, madam; she kneels on the hard carpet. It fidgets me something dreadful to see her, knowing her as I do. I've tried to cheat her; I've spread out the eider-down. But the first time I did it — oh, she gave me such a look — holy it was, madam, "Did our Lord have an eider-down, Ellen?" she said. But — I was younger at that time — I felt inclined to say, "No, but our Lord wasn't your age, and He didn't know what it was to have your lumbago." Wicked — wasn't it? But she's too good, you know, madam. When I tucked her up just now and seen — saw her lying back, her hands outside and her head on the pillow — so pretty — I couldn't help thinking, "Now you look just like your dear mother when I laid her out!"2 ...Yes, madam, it was all left to me. Oh, she did look sweet. I did her hair, soft-like, round her forehead, all in dainty curls, and just to one side of her neck I put a bunch of most beautiful purple panties. Those pansies made a picture of her, madam! I shall never forget them. I thought to-night, when I looked at my lady, "Now, if only the pansies was there no one could tell the difference." ...Only the last year, madam. Only after she'd got a little — well — feeble as you might say. Of course, she was never dangerous; she was the sweetest old lady. But how it took her was — she thought she'd lost something. She couldn't keep still, she couldn't settle. Ail day long she'd be up and down, up and down; you'd meet her everywhere — on the stairs, in the porch, making for the kitchen. And she'd look up at you, and she'd say — just like a child, "I've lost it; I've lost it." "Come along," I'd say, "come along and I'll lay out your patience3 for you." But she'd catch me by the hand — I was a favourite of her — and whisper, "Find it for me, Ellen. Find it for' me." Sad, wasn't it? ... No, she never recovered, madam. She had a stroke at the end. Last words she ever said was — very slow. "Look in — the — Look — in —" And then she was gone. … No, madam, I can't say 1 noticed it. Perhaps some girls. But you see, it's like this, I've got nobody but my lady. My mother died of consumption when I was four, and I lived with my grandfather, who kept a hairdresser's shop. I used to spend all my time in the shop under a table dressing my doll’s hair — copying the assistants, I suppose. They were ever so kind to me. Used to make me little wigs, all colours, the latest fashions and all. And there I'd sit all day, quiet as quiet — the customers never knew. Only now and again I'd take my peep from under the tablecloth. ...But one day I managed to get a pair of scissors and — would you believe it, madam! — I cut off all my hair; snipped it all off in bits, like the little monkey I was. Grandfather was furious! He caught hold of the tings — I shall never forget if — grabbed me by the hand and shut my fingers in them. "That'll teach you!" he said. It was a fearful burn. I've got the mark of it to-day. ...Well, you see, madam, he’d taken such pride in my hair. He used to sit me up on the counter, before the customers came, and do it something beautiful — big, soft curls and waved over the top. I remember the assistants standing round, and me ever so solemn with the penny grandfather gave me to hold while it was being done... But he always took the penny back afterwards. Poor grandfather! Wild, he was, at the fright I'd made of myself. But he frightened me that time. Do you know what I did, madam? I ran away. Yes, I did, round the corners, in and out, I don't know how far I didn't run. Oh, dear, I must have looked a sight, with my hand rolled up in my pinny and my hair sticking out. People must have laughed when they saw me... ...No, madam, grandfather never got over it. He couldn't bear the sight of me after. Couldn't eat his dinner, even, if I was there. So my aunt took me. She was a cripple, an upholstress.4 Tiny! She had to stand on the sofa when she wanted to cut out the backs. And it was helping her I met my lady... ...Not so very, madam. I was thirteen, turned. And I don't remember ever feeling — well — a child, as you might say. You see there was my uniform, and one thing and another. My lady put me into collars and cuffs from the first. Oh yes, — once I did! That was — funny! It was like this. My lady had her two little nieces staying with her — we were at Sheldon at the time — and there was a fair on the common. 5 "Now, Ellen," she said, "I want you to take the two young ladies for a ride on the donkeys." Off we went; solemn little loves they were; each had a hand. But when we came to the donkeys they were too shy to go on. So we stood and watched instead. Beautiful those donkeys were! They were the first I'd seen out of a cart — for pleasure, as you might say. They were a lovely silver grey, with little red saddles and blue bridles and bells jing-a-jingling on their ears. And quite big girls — older than me, even — were riding them, ever so gay. Not at all common. I don't mean, madam, just enjoying themselves. And I don't know what it was, but the way the little feet went, and the eyes — so gentle — and the soft ears — made me want to go on a donkey more than anything in the world! ...Of course, I couldn't. I had my young ladies. And what would I have looked like perched up there in my uniform? But all the rest of the day it was donkeys — donkeys on the brain with me. I felt I should have burst if I didn't tell someone; and who was there to tell? But when I went to bed — I was sleeping in Mrs. James's bedroom, our cook that was, at the time — as soon as the lights was out, there they were, my donkeys, jingling along, with their neat little feet and sad eyes... Well, madam, would you believe it, I waited for a long time and pretended to be asleep, and then suddenly I sat up and called out as loud as I could. "/ do want to go on a donkey! I do want a donkey-ride!" You see, I had to say it, and I thought they wouldn't laugh at me, if they knew I was only dreaming. Artful — wasn't it? Just what a silly child would think... ...No, madam, never now. Of course, I did think of it at one time. But it wasn't to be. He had a little flower-shop just down the road and across from where we was living. Funny, wasn't it? And me such a one for flowers. We were having a lot of company at the time and I was in and out of the shop more often than not, as the saying is. And Harry and I (his name was Harry) got to quarrelling about how things ought to be arranged — and that began it. Flowers! you wouldn't believe it, madam, the flowers he used to bring me. He'd stop at nothing. It was lillies-of-the-valley more than once, and I'm not exaggerating! Well, of course, we were going to be married and live over the shop, and it was all going to be just so, and I was to have the window to arrange... Oh, how I've done that window of a Saturday! Not really, of course, madam, just dreaming, as you might say. I've done it for Christmas — motto in holly, and all — and I've had my Easter lilies with a gorgeous star all daffodils in the middle. I've hung — well, that's enough of that. The day came he was to call for me to choose the furniture. Shall I ever forget it? It was a Tuesday. My lady wasn't quite herself that afternoon. Not that she'd said anything, of course; she never does or will. But I knew by the way that she kept wrapping herself up and asking me if it was cold — and her little nose looked... pinched. I didn't like leaving her; I knew I'd be worrying all the time. At last I asked her if she'd rather I put it off. "Oh no, Ellen," she said, "you mustn't mind about me. You mustn't disappoint your young man." And so cheerful, you know, madam, never thinking about herself. It made me feel worse than ever. I began to wonder... then she dropped her handkerchief and began to stoop down to pick it up herself — a thing she never did. "Whatever are you doing!" I cried, running to stop her. "Well," she said, smiling, you know, madam, "I shall have to begin to practise." Oh, it was all I could do not to burst out crying. I went over to the dressing-table and made believe to rub up the silver, and I couldn't keep myself in, and I asked if she’d rather I ... didn’t get married. "No, Ellen," she said — that was her voice, madam, like I'm giving you — "No, Ellen, not for the wide world!" But while she said it, madam — I was looking in her glass; of course, she didn't know I could see her — she put her little hand on her heart just like her dear mother used to, and lifted her eyes... Oh, madam. When Harry came I had his letters all ready, and the ring and a ducky little brooch he'd given me — a silver bird it was, with a chain in its beak, and on the end of the chain a heart with a dagger. Quite the thing! I opened the door to him. I never gave him time for a word. "There you are." I said. "Take them all back," I said, "It's all over. I'm not going to marry you," I said, "I can't leave my lady." White! he turned as white as a woman. I had to slam the door, and there I stood, all of a tremble, till I knew he had gone. When I opened the door — believe me or not, madam — that man was gone! I ran out into the road just as I was, in my apron and my houseshoes, and there I stayed in the middle of the road ... staring. People must have laughed if they saw me ... ...Goodness gracious! — What's that? It's the clock striking! And here I've been keeping you awake. Oh, madam, you ought to have stopped me... Can I tuck in your feet? I always tuck in my lady's feet, every night, just the same. And she says, "Good night, Ellen. Sleep sound and wake early!" I don't know what I should do if she didn't say that, now. ...Oh dear, I sometimes think... whatever should I do if anything were to... But, there, thinking's no good to anyone — is it, madam? Thinking won't help. Not that I do it often. And if ever I do I pull myself up sharp. "Now then, Ellen. At it again — you silly girl! If you can't find anything better to do than to start thinking ...!"

NOTES 1 K. Mansfield leaves out the words of the maid's interlocutor and concentrates the readers attention on the maid's story. This sharpens the reader’s perception of the story, which seems to be confided directly to the reader. 2 to lay out — to arrange (a dead body) for burial 3 to try out patience — to arrange the cards for a card game, usually for one player 4 an upholstress — a woman whose job is stuffing and covering soft chairs and other furniture 5 a common — an area of grassland with no fences which is free to all (whereas most of the land m England is private property and is surrounded by fences or hedges to keep out strangers). In villages the fairs or performances of travelling musicians are held on the common.

Narrative Method 1. What narrative type did K. Mansfield resort to? Through whose eyes and mind does the reader receive the story? How reliable is the narrator? At what points does she speak the truth and at what points does she utter misjudgements? 2. What advantage did the author gain in having the story told by the old maid? Does it increase credibility of the story and reveal the personality of the narrator? 3. What did the author gain by leaving out the remarks of the interlocutor? Does the story sound as if it were told to the reader? 4. How many episodes did the author choose in order to describe the hardships and privations of those who serve? 5. Did K. Mansfield resort to the flashback technique? What is gained by arranging the events in a non-chronological order? 6. How does the maid evaluate her lady's and her grandfathers actions? How does she evaluate her own actions and thoughts? Does she constantly reproach herself? 7. How does the author make his readers understand that the maid has a wrong opinion of her lady, her grandfather, and that she constantly misinterprets their actions? 8. What is implied in the contrast between the maid and her mistress their mode of life, their moral features, the motives that urge them to act in a certain way? 9. What details did the author linger on? What do they suggest? 10. What does the title draw the readers attention to? 11. What is the message of the story? 12. What makes The Lady’s Maid a deep psychological story?

Means of Characterization 1. What features of Ellen's nature are accentuated? 2. What means of characterization are employed by the writer? 3. Is Ellen's language in accordance with her social status? 4. What markers of uneducated speech occur in the narrative? 5. What stylistic devices emphasize the maid's earnest attempts to praise her mistress, and to express her annoyance with herself? 6. Does her language reflect her emotional state? Comment on (a) the emotionally coloured words and structures; (b) the use of silence for purposes of emphasis (reflected graphically by means of dots), (c) the emphatic accent in her speech (reflected by means of italics).

SUGGESTIONS FOR COMPARATIVE ANALYSIS 1. Compare the narrative methods used in The Lady's Maid and Mistaken Identity. Are both the stories first-person narratives? What is in common between them? What distinguishes them? 2. Does the first-person narrative serve the same purpose in both the stories? 3. Do the authors share the narrator's views in both the stories? 4. What did M. Twain gain by selecting a first-person narrative? Does it increase the credibility of the story and reveal the personality of the narrator? 5. Would Mistaken Identity sound just as humorous if the story were told by an omniscient author? 6. Did M. Twain vary the narrative method? Does the final scene acquire a dramatic form? What effect did the author achieve? 7. Compare the means of characterization that are employed by the writers in the two stories. Are they identical?

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TEXT 8.

THE ESCAPE

SOMERSET MAUGHAM

William Somerset Maugham, (January 25, 1874 – December 16, 1965) was an English playwright, novelist, and theatre writer. He was one of the most popular authors of his era, and reputedly the highest paid of his profession during the 1930s. Commercial success with high book sales, successful play productions and a string of film adaptations, backed by astute stock market investments, allowed Maugham to live a very comfortable life. Yet, despite his triumphs, he never attracted the highest respect from the critics or his peers. Maugham himself attributed this to his lack of "lyrical quality", his small vocabulary and failure to make expert use of metaphor in his work. His plain prose style was criticized as "such a tissue of clichés that one's wonder is finally aroused at the writer's ability to assemble so many and at his unfailing inability to put anything in an individual way". Maugham's masterpiece is generally agreed to be Of Human Bondage, an autobiographical novel that deals with the life of the main character Philip Carey, who like Maugham, was orphaned and brought up by his pious uncle. Later successful novels were also based on real-life characters: The Moon and Sixpence fictionalizes the life of Paul Gauguin; and Cakes and Ale contains thinly veiled characterizations of authors Thomas Hardy and Hugh Walpole. Among his short stories, some of the most memorable are those dealing with the lives of Western, mostly British, colonists in the Far East, and are typically concerned with the emotional toll exacted on the colonists by their isolation. Some of his more outstanding works in this genre include Rain, Footprints In The Jungle, and The Outstation. Maugham's restrained prose allows him to explore the resulting tensions and passions without appearing melodramatic.

I have always been convinced that if a woman once made up her mind to marry a man nothing but instant flight could save him. Not always that; for once a friend of mine, seeing the inevitable loom menacingly before him, took ship from a certain port (with a tooth-brush for all his luggage, so conscious was he of his danger and the necessity for immediate action) and spent a year travelling round the world; but when, thinking himself safe (women are fickle, he said, and in twelve months she will have forgotten all about me), he landed at the selfsame port the first person he saw gaily waving to him from the quay was the little lady from whom he had fled. I have only once known a man who in such circumstances managed to extricate himself. His name was Roger Charing. He was no longer young when he fell in love with Ruth Barlow and he had sufficient experience to make him careful; but Ruth Barlow had a gift (or should I call it a quality?) that renders most men defenseless, and it was this that dispossessed Roger of his common sense, his prudence and his worldly wisdom. He went down like a row of ninepins.¹ This was the gift of pathos. Mrs. Bailow, for she was twice a widow, had splendid dark eyes and they were the most moving I ever saw; they seemed to be ever on the point of filling with tears; they suggested that the world was too much for her, and you felt that, poor dear, her sufferings had been more than anyone should be asked to bear. If, like Roger Charing, you were a strong, hefty fellow with plenty of money, it was almost inevitable that you should say to yourself: I must stand between the hazards of life and this helpless little thing, oh, how wonderful it would be to take the sadness out of those big and lovely eyes! I gathered (ram Roger that everyone had treated Mrs. Barlow very badly. She was apparently one of those unfortunate persons with whom nothing by any chance goes right. If she married a husband he beat her: if she employed a broker he cheated her; if she engaged a cook she drank. She never had a little lamb but it was sure to die.2 When Roger told me that he had at last persuaded her to marry him, I wished him joy. "I hope you'll be good friends," he said. "She's a little afraid of you, you know; she thinks you're callous." "Upon my word I don't know why she should think that." You do like her, don't you?" "Very much." "She's had a rotten time, poor dear. I feel so dreadfully sorry for her." "Yes," I said. I couldn't say less. I knew she was stupid and I thought she was scheming My belief was that she was as hard as nails.3 The first time I met her we had played bridge together and when she was my partner she twice trumped my best card. I behaved like an angel, but I confess that I thought if the tears were going to well up into anybody s eyes they should have been mine rather than hers. And when, having by the end of the evening lost a good deal of money to me, she said she would send me a cheque and never did, I could not but think that I and not she should have worn a pathetic expression when next we met. Roger introduced her to his friends. He gave her lovely jewels. He took her here, there, and everywhere. Their marriage was announced for the immediate future. Roger was very happy. He was committing a good action and at the same time doing something he had very much a mind to. It is an uncommon situation and it is not surprising if he was a trifle more pleased with himself than was altogether becoming. Then, on a sudden, he fell out of love. I do not know why. It could hardly have been that he grew tired of her conversation, for she had never had any conversation. Perhaps it was merely that this pathetic look of hers ceased to wring his heart-strings. His eyes were opened and he was once more the shrewd man of the world he had been. He became acutely conscious that Ruth Barlow had made up her mind to marry him and he swore a solemn oath that nothing would induce him to marry Ruth Barlow. But he was in a quandary. Now that he was in possession of his senses he saw with clearness the sort of woman he had to deal with and he was aware that, if he asked her to release him, she would (in her appealing way) assess her wounded feelings at an immoderately high figure. Besides, it is always awkward for a man to jilt a woman. People are apt to think he has behaved badly. Roger kept his own counsel. He gave neither by word nor gesture an indication that his feelings towards Ruth Barlow had changed. He remained attentive to all her wishes; he took her to dine at restaurants, they went to the play together, he sent her flowers; he was sympathetic and charming. They had made up their minds that they would be married as soon as they found a house that suited them, for he lived in chambers and she in furnished rooms; and they set about looking at desirable residences. The agents sent Roger orders to view and he took Ruth to see a number of houses. It was very hard to find anything that was quite satisfactory. Roger applied to more agents. They visited house after house. They went over them thoroughly, examining them from the cellars in the basement to the attics under the roof. Sometimes they were too large and sometimes they were too small; sometimes they were too far from the centre of things and sometimes they were too close; sometimes they were too expensive and sometimes they wanted too many repairs; sometimes they were too stuffy and sometimes they were too airy; sometimes they were too dark and sometimes they were too bleak. Roger always found a fault that made the house unsuitable. Of course he was hard to please; he could not bear to ask his dear Ruth to live in any but the perfect house, and the perfect house wanted finding. Househunting is a tiring and a tiresome business and presently Ruth began to grow peevish. Roger begged her to have patience; somewhere, surely, existed the very house they were looking for, and it only needed a little perseverance and they would find it. They looked at hundreds of houses; they climbed thousands of stairs; they inspected innumerable kitchens. Ruth was exhausted and more than once lost her temper. "If you don't find a house soon," she said, "I shall have to reconsider my position. Why, if you go on like this we shan't be married for years." "Don't say that," he answered, "I beseech you to have patience. I've just received some entirely new lists from agents I've only just heard of. There must be at least sixty houses on them." They set out on the chase again. They looked at more houses and more houses. For two years they looked at houses. Ruth grew silent and scornful: her pathetic, beautiful eyes acquired an expression that was almost sullen. There are limits to human endurance. Mrs. Barlow had the patience of an angel, but at last she revolted. "Do you want to marry me or do you not?" she asked him. There was an unaccustomed hardness in her voice, but it did not affect the gentleness of his reply. "Of course I do. We'll be married the very moment we find a house. By the way I've just heard of something that might suit us." "I don't feel well enough to look at any more houses just yet." "Poor dear, I was afraid you were looking rather tired." Ruth Barlow took to her bed. She would not see Roger and he had to content himself with calling at her lodgings to enquire and sending her flowers. He was as ever assiduous and gallant. Every day he wrote and told her that he had heard of another house for them to look at. A week passed and then he received the following letter:

Roger, I do not think you really love me. I have found someone who is anxious to take care of me and I err, going to be married to him to-day. Ruth.

He sent back his reply by special messenger:

Ruth, Your news shatters me. I shall never get over the blow, but of course your happiness must be my first consideration. I send you herewith seven orders to view; they arrived by this morning's post and I am quite sure you will find among them a house that will exactly suit you. Roger.

NOTES 1 to go down like a row of pins — to be completely crushed 2 She never had a little lamb but it was sure to die — There was never anything dear to her that she wouldn't lose. ("A little lamb" is something or somebody one loves dearly; it is an allusion to a nursery rhyme "Mary had a little lamb") 3 to be as hard as nails — to be without any tender feelings

Plot Structure and Literary Techniques

1. How is the plot structured? 2. Does the title foreshadow what is to follow? Does it arouse expectation on the part of the reader? 3. Is there an unexpected turn of events as the plot unfolds? What other example of foreshadowing is there? To what extent do these structural techniques add to the enjoyment of the reader? 4. How does S. Maugham emphasize the contrast in Roger's attitude to Ruth when he fell out of love and decided to back out before it was too late? 5. What did Roger decide to do finally to make sure that Ruth wouldn't ever feel like changing her mind? 6. How does the author create and intensify the suspense? 7. What is the climax of the story? Is it a surprise ending, a case of retardation, or defeated expectancy?

Narrative Method and Tone 1. What narrative method does S. Maugham employ? What does the writer gain by giving the narrator's vision of the characters and events? 2 What is the narrator's attitude to Ruth? Does it differ from that of Roger? Make references to the text to prove your viewpoint. 3 Define the tone of each of the letters. Are they reproachful, bitter, pathetic, ironical, or dramatic? 4. What makes the description of the househunting so lively and rhythmical? 5. Is the humorous effect mainly created by deliberate exaggerations and contrast? 6. What was the author's intention? Was it to entertain the reader, or was it rather to ridicule weaknesses of human nature? Does he manage to catch reader’s attention from the start and hold it up to the very end?

TEXT 9.

NEW YORK TO DETROIT

DOROTHY PARKER

Dorothy Parker (August 22, 1893 – June 7, 1967) was an American writer and poet, best known for her caustic wit, wisecracks, and sharp eye for 20th century urban foibles. In 1919, her career took off while writing theatre criticism for Vanity Fair. Parker became famous for her short, viciously humorous poems, many about the perceived ludicrousness of her many (largely unsuccessful) romantic affairs and others wistfully considering the appeal of suicide. She never considered these poems as her most important works. She published seven volumes of short stories and poetry: Enough Rope, Sunset Gun, Laments for the Living, Death and Taxes, After Such Pleasures, Not So Deep as a Well (collected poems) and Here Lies. Her best-known story, published in Bookman Magazine under the title "Big Blonde," was awarded the O. Henry Award as the most outstanding short story of 1929. Her short stories, though often witty, were also spare and incisive, and more bittersweet than comic. Parker was a longtime advocate of left-wing causes, a fierce civil libertarian and civil rights advocate, and a frequent critic of those in authority. During the 1930s she drifted increasingly towards the left, even declared herself a Communist, though she never joined the Communist party. D. Parker depicts life’s little ironies with great skill. She is a master of character drawing, psychological portrayal and speech characteristics, which reflect minutely the emotional state of the protagonists. Her stories derive emotional power from her sharp observations of contrasts between outward appearances and inner realities, especially the realities of loneliness and emptiness. She usually shows sympathy and compassion for her women characters, especially those in trouble but treats the defects of men with bitter irony.

"Already with Detroit," said the telephone operator. "Hello," said the girl in New York. "Hello?" said the young man in Detroit. "Oh, Jack!" she said. "Oh, darling, it's so wonderful to hear you. You don't know how much I — " "Hello?" he said. "Ah, can't you hear me?" she said. "Why, I can hear you just as if you were right beside me. Is this any better, dear? Can you hear me now?" "Who did you want to speak to?" he said. "You, Jack!" she said. "You, you. This is Jean, darling. Oh, please try to hear me. This is Jean " "Who?" he said. "Jean," she said. "Ah, don't you know my voice? It's Jean, dear. Jean." "Oh, hello there," he said. "Well. Well, for heaven’s sake. How are you?" "I'm all right," she said. "Oh, I'm not, either, darling. I — oh, its just terrible. I can’t stand it any more. Aren't you coming back? Please, when are you coming back! You don't know how awful it is, without you. It's been such a long time, dear — you said it would be just four or five days, and it s nearly three weeks. It's like years and years. Oh, its been so awful, sweetheart — it's just —" "Hey, I'm terribly sorry," he said, "but I can't hear one damn thing you're saying. Can't you talk louder, or something?" "I'll try, I'll try," she said. "Is this better? Now can you hear?" "Yeah, now I can, a little," he said. "Don't talk so fast, will you? What did you say, before?" "I said it's just awful without you," she said. "It's such a long time, dear. And I haven't had a word from you. I — oh, I've just been nearly crazy, Jack. Never even a postcard, dearest, or a —" "Honestly, I haven't had a second," he said, "I've been working like a fool. God, I've been rushed." "Ah, have you?" she said. "I'm sorry, dear. I've been silly. But it was just — oh, it was just hell, never hearing a word. I thought maybe you'd telephone to say good night, sometimes, — you know, the way you used to, when you were away." "Why, I was going to, a lot of times," he said, "but I thought you'd probably be out, or something." "I haven't been out," she said. "I've been staying here, all by myself. It's — it's sort of better, that way. I don't want to see people. Everybody says, 'When's Jack coming back?' and 'What do you hear from Jack?' and I'm afraid I'll cry in front of them. Darling, it hurts so terribly when they ask me about you, and I have to say I don't — " "This is the damnedest, lousiest connection I ever saw in my life," he said. "What hurts? What's the matter?" "I said, it hurts so terribly when people ask me about you," she said, "and I have to say — Oh, never mind. Never mind. How are you, dear? Tell me how you are." "Oh, pretty good," he said. "Tired as the devil. You all right?" "Jack, I — that's what I wanted to tell you," she said. "I'm terribly worried. I'm nearly out of my mind. Oh, what will I do, dear, what are we going to do? Oh, Jack, Jack, darling!" "Hey, how can I hear you when you mumble like that?" he said. "Can't you talk louder? Talk right into the what-you-call-it." "I can’t scream it over the telephone!" she said. "Haven’t you any sense? Don't you know what I’m telling you? Don't you know? Don't you know?" "I give up," he said. "First you mumble, and then you yell. Look this doesn't make sense. I can’t hear anything, with this rotten connection. Why don't you write me a letter, in the morning? Do that, why don't you? And I'll write you one. See?" "Jack, listen, listen!" she said. "You listen to me! I've got to talk to you. I tell you I'm nearly crazy. Please, dearest, hear what I'm saying. Jack, I —" "Just a minute," he said. "Someone's knocking at the door. Come in. Well, for cryin' out loud! Come on in, bums.¹ Hang your coats up on the floor, and sit down. The Scotch is in the closet, and there's ice in that pitcher. Make yourselves at home — act like you were in a regular bar. Be with you right away. Hey, listen, there's a lot of crazy Indians just come in here, and I can't hear myself think. You go ahead and write me a letter tomorrow. Will you?" "Write you a letter!" she said. "Oh, God, don't you think I'd have written you before, if I'd known where to reach you? I didn't even know that, till they told me at your office today. I got so —" "Oh, yeah, did they?" he said. "I thought I — Ah, pipe down, will you? Give a guy a chance. This is an expensive talk going on here. Say, look, this must be costing you a million dollars. You oughtn't to do this." "What do you think I care about that?" she said. "I'll die if I don't talk to you. I tell you I'll die, Jack. Sweetheart, what is it? Don't you want to talk to me? Tell me what makes you this way. Is it — don't you really like me any more? Is that it? Don't you, Jack?" "Hell, I can't hear," he said. "Don't what?" "Please," she said. "Please, please. Please, Jack, listen. When are you coming back, darling? I need you so. I need you so terribly. When are you coming back?" "Why, that's the thing," he said. "That's what I was going to write you about tomorrow. Come on, now, how about shutting up just a minute? A joke's a joke. Hello. Hear me all right? Why, you see, the way things came out today, it looks a little bit like I’d have to go on to Chicago for a while. Looks like a pretty big thing, and it won’t mean a very long time? I don’t believe. Looks as if I’d be going out there next week, I guess." "Jack, no!" she said. "Oh, don't do that! You can't do that. You can’t leave me alone like this. I've got to see you, dearest. I've got to. You've got to come back, or I've got to come there to you. I can’t go through this. Jack, I can't, I —" "Look, we better say good-night now," he said, "No use trying to make out what you say, when you talk all over yourself like that. And there's so much racket here — Hey, can the harmony,3 will you! Cod, it's terrible. Want me to be thrown out of here! You go get a good night's sleep, and I'll write you all about it tomorrow." "Listen!" she said. "Jack, don't go 'way! Help me, darling. Say something to help me through tonight. Say you love me, for God's sake say you still love me. Say it. Say it." "Ah, I can't talk," he said. "This is fierce. I'll write you first thing in the morning. "Bye. Thanks for calling up." "Jack!" she said. "Jack, don't go. Jack, wait a minute. I've got to talk to you. I'll talk quietly. I won't cry. I'll talk so you can hear me. Please, dear, please —" "All through4 with Detroit?" said the operator. "No!" she said. "No, no, no! Get him," get him back again right away! Get him back. No, never mind. Never mind it now. Never —"

NOTES ¹ bum — AmE and AustrE derog. slang: a person who spends a lot of time on games or amusement; a person who doesn't work, a beggar 2 to pipe down — informal: to stop talking, to shut up 3 Can the harmony — Am. slang: Stop the noise 4 to be through — AmE: to have finished with; to be disconnected; to be through — BrE: (when telephoning) to be connected to a person or place

Narrative Method, Plot Structure 1. What narrative method docs D. Parker choose to tell this story? What does she gain by it? 2. How does the author create the effect of verisimilitude? 3. How is the story structured? Does the author gain or lose by leaving out the denouement? 4. Does the story stimulate the reader's imagination? Can you, the reader, easily imagine the events which preceded the telephone call? 5. Can you anticipate the events that will follow the call? 6. What is the basic conflict in the story?

Means of Characterization. Tone. Mood 1 Which means of characterization are employed by the writer? 2 How does D. Parker manage to show all the subtle changes in Jeans state of mind (from delight at hearing Jacks voice to utter despair)? What does Jean mean by saying, "I can't scream it over the telephone! Haven't you any sense? Don't you know what I'm telling you?" 3. Does D. Parker stir up sympathy towards Jean? 4. Is Jacks mood reflected just as well in his speech? Support your answer with references to the text. 5. What tells you that he is a promiscuous and insincere man? 6. Which of his remarks sound rude? Which of them sound evasive? Which reflect his irritation? 7. Are there any indications of Jacks nationality, social status. occupation, and personal habits? 8. To whom does Jack say the italicized utterances? What impression do his companions produce? Since "birds of a feather flock together", do his companions in any way characterize him? What attitude towards Jack does the author stir up? 9. What makes the characters real and convincing? 10. How does the author reflect the tone and mood of the protagonists?

SUGGESTIONS FOR COMPARATIVE ANALYSIS 1. Compare the narrative methods used in New York to Detroit and in The Cop and the Anthem. Are both stories third-person narratives? 2. What distinguishes the narrative methods used in the two stories? 3. What evidence is there that in The Cop and the Anthem the author assumes omniscience? 4. What advantages did O'Henry gain by telling the story from the omniscient point of view? 5. How did he reveal the personality of his major character taking the advantages that the omniscient author affords? 6. Compare the two stones in terms of characterization, plot structure and point of view. 7. Compare the stories The Lady’s Maid and The Escape in terms of narrative method, point of view and characterization?

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SECTION IV TONAL SYSTEM THEORETICAL PRELIMINARIES

There is no art without emotion. Fiction (as all other art-forms) appeals to the reader through the senses and evokes responsive emotions. In fiction the representation of reality, as has already been noted, is always a subjective reflection. Fiction is therefore affected by the author's view of the world, his outlook, his personal attitude to it. That is why in fiction the representation of reality can never be entirely neutral. In every literary work the writer's feelings and emotions are reflected in the tone, attitude and atmosphere. Atmosphere is the general mood of a literary work. It is affected by such strands of a literary work as the plot, setting, characters, details, symbols, and language means. Thus, in The Oval Portrait E. A. Poe sets the story in a remote turret of an abandoned castle. The main event takes place at midnight. The oval portrait is in a niche and "in deep shade". All these details; the language and the fantastic history of the portrait create the mysterious atmosphere (or mood) of the tale. The author's attitude is his view of the characters and actions. It reflects his judgement of them. The author's attitude establishes the moral standards according to which the reader is to make his judgements about the problems raised in the story. The reader is expected to share the author's attitude. The attitude of a writer to his subject matter determines the tone of the story. The tone is the light in which the characters and events are depicted. The tone, therefore, is closely related to atmosphere and attitude. Tone in oral speech is a component of intonation and is one of the prosodic means of expressing the speaker's attitude to the subject matter (i.e. to what is being said) and to his interlocutor (i.e. to whom it is said). Tone is so important in oral communication that it can overrule the sense of the grammatical structure of an utterance or the lexical meanings of words. Thus "You like it?" pronounced with a rising tone is taken for a question though the word-order, i. e. the grammatical structure is that of a statement. "Yes" with a falling tone means "It is so". "Yes" pronounced with a falling-rising tone signifies "It may be so". In fiction there are two aspects of tone, too. Tone expresses the relationship between the author (or narrator) and the subject matter. Hence it may be sympathetic, or impassive, cheerful or serious, vigorous or matter-of-fact, humorous or melancholy and so on. On the other hand, tone expresses the relationship between the author (or narrator) and the reader. Hence the tone may be familiar or official. There are scales of variations of tone. Thus, the tone may be casual, familiar, impolite, defiant, offensive; it may be sarcastic, ironical, sneering or bitter. Tone in oral speech is primarily conveyed by modulations of the voice pitch, whereas in written speech the tone is mainly conveyed verbally, primarily by emotionally coloured words. For example, the indices of the somber and gloomy tone in The Oval Portrait are such words as "gloom", "deep midnight", "deep shadow", "dreamy stupour", "vague yet deep shadow", "vague and quaint words", etc. The tone in the fantastic history of the oval portrait is lyrical and dramatic. Its indices are as follows: (a) emotionally coloured words, such as "glee", "cherishing", "pined", "dreading", "passionate",' "austere", "ardour", "entranced", "aghast"; (b) an extensive use of imagery created by similes ("frolicsome as the young fawn", "the spirit ... flickered up as the flame within the socket of the lamp"); epithets ("rarest beauty", "lone turret", "fervid and burning pleasure", "mighty marvel"; metaphors ("the light dripped", "withered the health and spirits of the bride", "lost in reveries"); (c) poetic words, such as "wrought", "took glory in his work", "beheld""; (d) poetic structures, such as "wrought day and night to depict her, who so loved him", "there were admitted none into the turret", "were drawn from the cheeks of her, who sat ...", "but little remained to do"; (e) intensifies, as in "the light which fell so ghastly", "to depict her who so loved him", "so surpassingly well", "very pallid", "on and still on"; (f) polysyndeton, as in "And he was a passionate, .and wild, and moody man", "he grew tremulous and very pallid, and aghast, and crying ...". The fantastic history is remarkably rhythmical due to the numerous parallel constructions ("loving and cherishing all things, hating only ..., dreading only ..."), anaphora ("But she was humble ... But he ... "), doublets ("all light arid smiles", "humble and obedient", "from hour to hour", "from day to day"), triplets ("she saw, and loved, and wedded the painter", "he, passionate, studious, austere", "pallet and brushes and other toward instruments", "passionate, and wild, and moody"), alliteration of sonorants ("all light and smiles, and frolicsome as the young fawn, loving", "yet she smiled on, and still on uncomplainingly"). The syntax and the subtle choice of vocabulary seem to obey a strict orderly arrangement which results in brilliant rhythm, a lyrical and dramatic tone, a style which is characteristic of "poetic prose'' i.е. an elaborately constructed prose with devices of poetry.
The interaction of rhythm, style and tone generally establishes and maintains a mood, or an atmosphere. In The Oval Portrait this interaction sets the events in a distant time and a mysterious place, tunes the reader to romantic descriptions and arouses fantastic expectations. Tone-shifts often occur in fiction and may accompany not only a change in the subject, but also a change in the narrative method or in the style. In The Oval Portrait tone-shifts accompany the changes in both the narrative method and style (the first part of the tale is a first-person narration with stylistic features typical of emotive prose, whereas the second part is a third-person narration written in the conventional style of English folk tales). Thus the main indices of tone in fiction are the author's choice of words and structures, stylistic devices and setting. But those signals are not sufficient when detecting humour or irony, which are generally a stumbling block for non-native readers. That is why humour and irony require special attention. Humour is a device used in fiction and intended to cause laughter. The object of humour may be a funny incident or an odd feature of human character. The essence of humour is generally warmth, sympathy, fellow feeling. Schiller compared it with "the playful teasing fondness of a mother to her child". Humour requires wit and sensibility on the part of the humorist. Addison gives humour its genealogy. He says that Truth was the founder of the family, and father of Good Sense. His son was Wit who married Mirth, and Humour was their child. A humorous tone is created by an apt usage of deliberate exaggerations (or hyperbole), a round-about way of naming things (or periphrasis), unexpected comparison (or simile), jargonisms, dialectal words, words whiсh sound amusing in the particular situation because they do not belong in it. The usage of these means often produces humorous effect and testifies to the inventiveness and wit of the author. For example, in O'Henry's story The Cop and the Anthem humour is attained by unexpected occurrence of foreign and learned words in very homely situations: "It seemed that his route to the coveted Island was not to be an epicurean one. Some other way of entering limbo must be thought of." Or again, 'The persecuted young woman had but to beckon a finger and Soapy would be practically en route for his insular haven". Unexpected combinations of words, such as "insular haven" or "He seemed doomed to liberty" also contribute to the humorous effect. But humour may be achieved even when the tone is not humorous. Some writers like M. Twain, St. Leacock often develop humour using a mock -serious tone, maintaining all the while a perfectly "straight face". In such cases humour is developed through situation and character. Humour may be attained by a funny incident when a character finds himself in an amusing or ridiculous situation, or by a comical personage who says or does absurd things. Humour may be achieved by unexpected turns of events which catch the reader off guard, amazing and amusing him. The sense of humour both on the part of the writer and that of the reader depends on the nature of the mind and awareness of national cultural specifications. That makes it difficult to detect humour in foreign literature. The following diagram summarizes the indices of humour. Humour is developed
|Linguistically |Extra-linguistically |
|Deliberate exaggeration (hyperbole) |A comical character |
|Unexpected comparison (simile) |A funny incident or ridiculous situation |
|A round-about way of naming things |Any literary technique with an amusing effect (An |
|(periphrasis) |unexpected turn of events, retardation, surprise ending etc.)|
|The use of words which are not generally used in such |Etc. |
|situations (jargonisms, dialectal words, learned words| |
|etc.) Etc. | |

When the writer ridicules social vices and weaknesses of human nature that are typical of social groups or classes, the humour is then ironical or satirical humour. Mistaken Identity serves to be an illustration of satirical humour. In a most amusing, way the writer ridicules such socially conditioned vices as servility and vanity. Humour is intended to improve imperfections by means of laughter, whereas irony always conveys an obviously negative attitude and is intended to mock and satirize. On what basis do we infer that what we are reading is ironical? Irony is generally defined as a double sense based on contrast between the explicitly expressed and the implied meaning. In its turn, the implied is always the direct opposite of what is actually said. Thus, a word or a statement in a particular context or situation may acquire a meaning opposite to what it has as a rule. The irony suggests the discrepancy between the word or statement and its actual sense, which is the true one and which the intelligent reader is expected to infer. For example, "This is beautiful weather!" (when the weather is bad). The word beautiful is the direct opposite of what it literally means. In oral communication beautiful would be marked by ironical intonation, whereas in writing it might be marked by means of italics, inverted commas or it might not be marked at all. As a rule, the ironist does not tell us directly that he is being ironical. That is why it is generally considered that detecting irony depends on one's intelligence. When reading fiction we might sometimes fail to detect irony even if the author's intention was to be ironical, or we might tend to perceive irony in what was not meant to be ironical at all. What types of irony should the readers of fiction be aware of to be able to understand the real intentions of the author? For this purpose one should distinguish three types of irony in fiction: verbal irony, irony of situation and dramatic irony. Verbal irony is a figure of speech in which the literal meaning of a word or statement is the opposite of the intended meaning (as in the case of “This is beautiful weather!”). It is used to make а contemptible, bitter or satirical remark about a person, thing or phenomenon in words which generally denote all kinds of approval, praise or admiration. Irony may be extended over a whole story and may be created extralinguistically by contrasting what the character seeks by his actions and what he obtains. This is 'irony of situation' or 'irony of fate'. Irony of situation arises from the contrast between how a set of circumstances looks on the surface and what it actually is in reality. It is a literary technique based on the discrepancy between what is intended when one acts and what the result is. For example, the story The Cop and the Anthem by O'Henry affords an excellent example of situational irony. The series of actions which Soapy intentionally undertakes to get into prison fail, whereas the final scene, when he decides to reform, results in an unexpected arrest. The story also abounds in verbal irony. For example, the reader senses the writer's ironic attitude and tone in the following: "When wild geese honk high of nights, and when women without sealskin coats grow kind to their husbands, and when Soapy moves uneasily on his bench in the park, you may know that winter is near at hand." The generic present tense in this statement makes it sound as a generally acknowledged truth. But nobody can accept it as a universal truth and that also contributes to the ironical effect it produces. Dramatic irony is a literary technique in which the reader understands the actual meaning of what is happening, but the character does not. Mistaken Identity by M. Twain contains dramatic irony: the reader knows that the narrator is mistakenly identified, as he is informed about it in the title of the story, but the narrator believes that he is recognized and known for what he really is. There is a second variant of dramatic irony when the author adopts the characters wrong viewpoint in order finally to ridicule him/her and reveal his/her naivety. The contrast between the adopted viewpoint and the author's viewpoint results in irony. Such is the case in The Lady's Maid by K. Mansfield, where irony is developed by contrasting the point of view of the naive narrator and that of the author. The irony is clearly felt despite the lively and friendly tone of the maid’s narrative. One should, therefore, distinguish between the authorial tone and the character’s tone. Recall the story Arrangement in Black and White. The tone of the main character is lively, vigorous, excited. At the same time the story is a manifestation of the author's ironic attitude to radically prejudiced Americans. The irony is created by the contrast between the protagonist's simulated friendliness towards Negroes and her actual prejudiced attitude to them. The character's vigorous tone is expressed verbally, whereas the authorial ironic tone is implied. Therefore, when irony is developed verbally, it affects the tone of the narrative and gives it an ironic ring. But when it is developed by extra-linguistic means, the tone need not be ironical. One should distinguish between the prevailing tone of a literary work and emotional overtones, which may accompany particular scenes in the story. They all form a "tonal system" which reflects the changes of the narrator's attitude to his subject matter. The emotional overtones generally form a “tonal unity”, which means a consistency of attitudes towards the events and characters. This consistency of attitudes is reflected in the consistent use of language appropriate to the events and characters. The tonal unity forms the prevailing tone of the story, which plays the dominant role and determines to a great extent the message of the literary work. In The Cop and the Anthem the emotional overtones vary as the plot unfolds. The tone is humorous in the following passage: "If he could reach a table in the restaurant unsuspected success would be his...The total would not be so high as to call forth any supreme manifestation of revenge from cafe management; and yet the meat would leave him filled and happy for the journey to his winter refuge". The tone is dramatic in "He would pull himself out of the mire; he would make a man of himself again; he would conquer the evil that had taken possession of him... "But the prevailing tone of the story is ironic. It is produced by the numerous cases of verbal irony in the narrative and reflects the author's attitude to the problem raised. As stated above, the tone expresses not only the relationship between the narrator and the subject matter, but also the relationship between the narrator and the reader. The narrator may establish an intimate, personal, or formal relationship with the reader. Hence he may discourse at ease and assume a familiar tone, or he may retain a relative distance and narrate in an official tone. The indices of this aspect of tone are also linguistic. The official tone is set up by words and idioms that have an official ring, e.g. "relevant"(for “important”), "up to the present time" (for “up-to-now”), “Permit me to inform you” (for “Let me inform you”). It may be set up by carefully organized syntax and carefully expressed ideas admitting no deviations from the standard. In general, the official tone accompanies narratives with a well-defined progression of ideas. The familiar tone is established by features of the spoken language, the conversational style in particular. To these features belong colloquial words and idioms. Informality of tone may be аchieved bу the occurrence of very formal language alongside jargonisms and slang, without its being linguistically inappropriate, since that is a characteristic feature of conversation. Delaying formulas (e.g. "sort of”, “well”, “shall I say”), colloquial parenthetic phrases (e. g. “you know what I mean”), disregard of the end focus principle by placing the nucleus not in final position (e. g. “Fine you think it is”) – all contribute to the establishment of a personal relationship between the narrator and the reader, at the same time they set up a familiar tone. It ought to be added that in fictional speech such signals also function as effective means of characterization, individualization and verisimilitude. The familiar tone in J. Turner's amusing story The Night the Bed Fell is maintained by an abundance of means traditionally used in spoken conversational style. Among them are colloquial idioms ("one of those affairs" for "a cottage"), colloquial words ("wobbly", “bawl", "yell", "quit"), repetition which is generally avoided in other styles ("exchanged shout for shout", "By this time my mother, still shouting, pursued by Herman, still shouting, was trying, to..."). The narrator is at his ease and sets up a very personal relationship with the reader assuming an informal tone which is in keeping with the domesticity of the subject of his narrative. The tone of the story is familiar, on the one hand, and vigorous, excited and humorous, on the other. Deliberate exaggerations, unexpected comparisons, the prevalence of physical descriptions containing vocabulary which appeals to our hearing and to our sight contribute greatly to the humorous effect the story produces. Finally, it should be stated that tone, attitude and atmosphere are important elements of any literary work, which affect the reader's emotional response. The analysis of tone, attitude and atmosphere is a move towards the underlying thoughts and ideas contained in the work; it can be seen as a link between the surface content and all that lies beneath it.

TEXT 10.

THE OVAL PORTRAIT

EDGAR ALAN POE

Edgar Allan Poe (January 19, 1809 – October 7, 1849) was an American poet, short story writer, playwright, editor, critic, essayist and one of the leaders of the American Romantic Movement. Best known for his tales of the macabre and mystery, Poe was one of the early American practitioners of the short story and a progenitor of detective fiction and crime fiction. He is also credited with contributing to the emergent science fiction genre. In his book “The Poetic Principle” Poe insists on the importance of “excitement”, “unity” and “harmony” of all the elements within a literary work. His poems and prose answer these demands and strike the reader by their original plots, expressiveness, rhythmicality and exquisite style. His stories “Murder in the Rue Morgue”, “The Mystery of Marie Roget”, “The Purloined Letter” and many others are considered to be at his best. Poe's works have had a broad influence on American and world literature (sometimes even despite those who tried to resist it), and even on the art world beyond literature. The scope of Poe's influence on art is evident when one sees the many and diverse artists who were directly and profoundly influenced by him. Poe died at the age of 40. The cause of his death is undetermined and has been attributed to alcohol, drugs, cholera, rabies, suicide (although likely to be mistaken with his suicide attempt in the previous year), tuberculosis, heart disease, brain congestion and other agents.

The chateau into which my valet had ventured to make forcible entrance, rather than permit me, in my desperately wounded condition, to pass a night in the open air, was one of those piles of commingled gloom and grandeur which have so long frowned among the Appennines, not less in fact than in the fancy of Mrs. Radcliffe. To all appearance it had been temporarily and very lately abandoned. We established ourselves in one of the smallest and least sumptuously furnished apartments. It lay in a remote turret of the building. Its decorations were rich, yet tattered and antique. Its walls were hung with tapestry and bedecked with manifold and multiform armorial trophies, together with an unusually great number of very spirited modern paintings in frames of rich golden arabesque. In these paintings, which depended from the walls not only in their main surfaces, but in very many nooks which the bizarre architecture of the chateau rendered necessary — in these paintings my incipient delirium, perhaps, had caused me to take deep interest; so that I bade Pedro to close the heavy shutters of the room — since it was already night — to light the tongues of a tall candelabrum which stood by the head of my bed — and to throw open far and wide the fringed curtains of black velvet which enveloped the bed itself. I wished all this done that I might resign myself, if not to sleep, at least alternately to the contemplation of these pictures, and the perusal of a small volume which had been found upon the pillow, and which purported to criticise and describe them. Long — long I read — and devoutly, devotedly I gazed. Rapidly and gloriously the hours flew by and the deep midnight came. The position of the candelabrum displeased me, and outreaching my hand with difficulty, rather than disturb my slumbering valet, I placed it so as to throw its rays more fully upon the book. But the action produced an effect altogether unanticipated. The rays of the numerous candles (for there were many) now fell within a niche of the room which had hitherto been thrown into deep shade by one of the bed-posts. I thus saw in vivid light a picture all unnoticed before. It was the portrait of a young girl just ripening into womanhood. I glanced at the painting hurriedly, and then closed my eyes. Why I did this was not at first apparent even to my own perception. But while my lids remained thus shut, I ran over in my mind my reason for so shutting them. It was an impulsive movement to gain time for thought — to make sure that my vision had not deceived me — to calm and subdue my fancy for a more sober and more certain gaze. In a very few moments I again looked fixedly at the painting. That I now saw aright I could not and would not doubt; for the first flashing of the candles upon that canvas had seemed to dissipate the dreamy stupor which was stealing over my senses, and to startle me at once into waking life. The portrait, I have already said, was that of a young girl. It was a mere head and shoulders, done in what is technically termed a vignette manner; much in the style of the favorite heads of Sully. The arms, the bosom, and even the ends of the radiant hair melted imperceptibly into the vague yet deep shadow which formed the back-ground of the whole. The frame was oval, richly gilded and filigreed in Moresque. As a thing of art nothing could be more admirable than the painting itself. But it could have been neither the execution of the work, nor the immortal beauty of the countenance, which had so suddenly and so vehemently moved me. Least of all, could it have been that my fancy, shaken from its half slumber, had mistaken the head for that of a living person. I saw at once that the peculiarities of the design, of the vignetting, and of the frame, must have instantly dispelled such idea — must have prevented even its momentary entertainment. Thinking earnestly upon these points, I remained, for an hour perhaps, half sitting, half reclining, with my vision riveted upon the portrait. At length, satisfied with the true secret of its effect, I fell back within the bed. I had found the spell of the picture in an absolute life-likeliness of expression, which, at first startling, finally confounded, subdued, and appalled me. With deep and reverent awe I replaced the candelabrum in its former position. The cause of my deep agitation being thus shut from view, I sought eagerly the volume which discussed the paintings and their histories. Turning to the number which designated the oval portrait, I there read the vague and quaint words which follow: "She was a maiden of rarest beauty, and not more lovely than full of glee. And evil was the hour when she saw, and loved, and wedded the painter. He, passionate, studious, austere, and having already a bride in his Art; she a maiden of rarest beauty, and not more lovely than full of glee; all light and smiles, and frolicsome as the young fawn; loving and cherishing all things; hating only the Art which was her rival; dreading only the pallet and brushes and other untoward instruments which deprived her of the countenance of her lover. It was thus a terrible thing for this lady to hear the painter speak of his desire to portray even his young bride. But she was humble and obedient, and sat meekly for many weeks in the dark, high turret-chamber where the light dripped upon the pale canvas only from overhead. But he, the painter, took glory in his work, which went on from hour to hour, and from day to day. And be was a passionate, and wild, and moody man, who became lost in reveries; so that he would not see that the light which fell so ghastly in that lone turret withered the health and the spirits of his bride, who pined visibly to all but him. Yet she smiled on and still on, uncomplainingly, because she saw that the painter (who had high renown) took a fervid and burning pleasure in his task, and wrought day and night to depict her who so loved him, yet who grew daily more dispirited and weak. And in sooth some who beheld the portrait spoke of its resemblance in low words, as of a mighty marvel, and a proof not less of the power of the painter than of his deep love for her whom he depicted so surpassingly well. But at length, as the labor drew nearer to its conclusion, there were admitted none into the turret; for the painter had grown wild with the ardor of his work, and turned his eyes from canvas merely, even to regard the countenance of his wife. And he would not see that the tints which he spread upon the canvas were drawn from the cheeks of her who sate beside him. And when many weeks bad passed, and but little remained to do, save one brush upon the mouth and one tint upon the eye, the spirit of the lady again flickered up as the flame within the socket of the lamp. And then the brush was given, and then the tint was placed; and, for one moment, the painter stood entranced before the work which he had wrought; but in the next, while he yet gazed, he grew tremulous and very pallid, and aghast, and crying with a loud voice, 'This is indeed Life itself!' turned suddenly to regard his beloved: — She was dead!

Plot Structure 1. What makes the exposition of the story? 2. Which events make up the complications of the story? 3. Do the detailed descriptions of the characters' state of mind create an impression of truth? 4. Do the borrowings and terms distract from the flow of the narrative or add to credibility? 5. Where does Poe's descriptive strength seem to be most notable — in dealing with human emotions or depicting sights? Refer to specific passages from the text to support your view. 6. What is the climax of the story? 7. Is there a denouement?

Setting 1. What did the author achieve by setting the tale in an old abandoned castle? 2. To what extent does loneliness and remoteness in the setting affect the atmosphere? 3. Does the outside world intrude into the tale? 4. Does such a setting stir the reader's imagination? 5. Collect the phrases, in which light and darkness are described. How effectively are the different variations in the light and darkness used? What artistic effect do they produce?

Narrative Method 1. What did the author gain by resorting to a first-person narration? 2. Does the shift in the narrative method and style affect the general impression of the tale?

Tone, Atmosphere, Style 1. Do the descriptions of light and shade add to the atmosphere? 2. What specific words and phrases convey the gloomy and mysterious atmosphere? 3. How does the tone vary? 4. What linguistic means create a sombre and gloomy tone in the first part or the tale, and then a lyrical and dramatic tone in the second part? 5. Does the language of the history of the oval portrait differ from that of the first part of the tale? 6. What artistic effect does the narrator's forceful diction produce? 7. What effect do the rare and bookish words produce? 8. Collect the words that Poe used to describe the variations of emotions experienced by a) the narrator, b) the maiden, c) the painter. Does Poe depict subtle changes in their state of mind? 9. Is Poe's language designed to appeal to all the senses — sight, touch, smell, taste, hearing? 10. How does the language of the second part contribute to its fantastic theme? What devices make it sound rhythmical, lyrical and dramatic?

SUGGESTIONS FOR COMPARATIVE ANALYSIS 1. Compare the tone of The Oval Portrait with that of The Cop and the Anthem. Is it emotional in both the stories? What ring does it have in each of the stories? Does it sound ironic or humorous, quiet or excited, cheerful or gloomy; objective or subjective? Support your view with references to the text. 2. What linguistic means create the tone in the story The Cop and the Anthem? 3. Compare the atmosphere in both the stories. How does the plot in each of the stories affect the atmosphere? 4. How reasonable is it to define O'Henry's diction as forceful, too? 5. Is O'Henry's language designed to appeal to the senses? Give examples to support your view. 6. Does light also play an important part in The Cop and the Anthem? Does it affect the atmosphere and tone? 7. Where is O'Henry's descriptive strength — in describing human emotions or depicting sights? Cite specific instances from The Cop and the Anthem to support your opinion. 8. Is his language colourful and expressive? Support your view with references to the text. 9. Yet what distinguishes the tone of The Cop and the Anthem from that of The Oval Portrait?

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TEXT 11.

THE NIGHT THE BED FELL

JAMES THURBER

James Grover Thurber (December 8, 1894–November 2, 1961) was a U.S. humorist and cartoonist. Thurber was best known for his contributions (both cartoons and short stories) to The New Yorker magazine. Both of his parents greatly influenced his work. His father, a sporadically employed clerk and minor politician who dreamed of being a lawyer or an actor, is said to have been the inspiration for the small, timid protagonist typical of many of his stories. Thurber describes his mother as a "born comedienne" and "one of the finest comic talents I think I have ever known." She was a practical joker, on one occasion pretending to be crippled and attending a faith healer revival, only to jump up and proclaim herself healed. Thurber worked hard in the 1920s, both in the U.S. and in France, to establish himself as a professional writer. However, unique among major American literary figures, he became equally well known for his simple, surrealistic drawings and cartoons. Many of his short stories are humorous fictional memoirs from his life, but he also wrote darker material. "The Dog Who Bit People" and "The Night the Bed Fell" are his most well known short stories; they can be found in My Life and Hard Times, the creative mix of autobiography and fiction which was his 'break-out' book. Also notable, and often anthologized, are "The Secret Life of Walter Mitty", "The Catbird Seat," "The Greatest Man in the World" and "If Grant Had Been Drinking at Appomattox", which can be found in The Thurber Carnival. The Middle Aged Man on the Flying Trapeze has several short stories with a tense undercurrent of marital discord.

I suppose that high-water mark of my youth in Columbus, Ohio, was the night the bed fell on my father. It makes a better recitation (unless, as some friends of mine have said, one has heard it five or six times) than it does a piece of writing, for it is almost necessary to throw furniture around, shake doors, and bark like a dog, to lend the proper atmosphere and verisimilitude to what is admittedly a somewhat incredible tale. Still, it did take place. It happened, then, that my father had decided to sleep in the attic one night, to be away where he could think. My mother opposed the notion strongly because, she said, the old wooden bed up there was unsafe; it was wobbly and the heavy headboard would crash down on father's head in case the bed fell, and kill him. There was no dissuading him, however, and at a quarter past ten he closed the attic door behind him and went up the narrow twisted stairs. We later heard ominous creakings as he crawled into bed. Grandfather, who usually slept in the attic bed when he was with us, had disappeared some days before. (On these occasions he was usually gone six or eight days and returned growling and out of temper, with the news that the Federal Union was run by a passel of blockheads and that the Army of the Potomac didn't have a chance). We had visiting us at this time a nervous first cousin of mine named Briggs Beall, who believed that he was likely to cease breathing when he was asleep. It was his feeling that if he were not awakened every hour during the night, he might die of suffocation. He had been accustomed to setting an alarm clock to ring at intervals until morning, but I persuaded him to abandon this. He slept in my room and I told him that I was such a light sleeper that if anybody quit breathing in the same room with me, I would wake instantly. He tested me first night — which I had suspected he would — by holding his breath after my regular breathing had convinced him I was asleep. I was not asleep, however, and called to him. This seemed to allay his fears a little, but he took the precaution of putting a glass of spirits of camphor on a little table at the head of his bed. In case I didn't arouse him until he was almost gone, he said, he would sniff the camphor, a powerful reviver. Briggs was the only member of his family who had his crotches. Old Aunt Melissa Beall (who could whistle like a man, with two fingers in her mouth) suffered under the premonition that she was destined to die on South High Street, because she had been born on South High Street and married on South High Street. Then there was Aunt Sarah Shoaf, who never went to bed at night without the fear that a burglar was going to get in and blow chloroform under her door through a tube. To avert this calamity — for she was in greater dread of anesthetics than of losing her household goods — she always piled her money, silverware, and other valuables in a neat stack just outside her bedroom, with a note reading: "This is all I have. Please take it and do not use your chloroform, as this is all I have." Aunt Gracie Shoaf also had a burglar phobia, but she met it with more fortitude. She was confident that burglars had been getting into her house every night for forty years. The fact that she never missed anything was to her no proof to the contrary. She always claimed that she scared them off before they could take anything, by throwing shoes down the hallway. When she went to bed she piled, where she could get at them handily all the shoes there were about her house. Five minutes after she had turned off the light, she would sit up in bed and say "Hark!" Her husband, who had learned to ignore the whole situation as long ago as 1903, would either be sound asleep or pretend to be sound asleep. In either case he would not respond to her tugging and pulling, so that presently she would arise, tiptoe to the door, open if slightly and heave a shoe down the hall in one direction, and its mate down the hall in the other direction. Some nights she threw them all, some nights only a couple of pair. But I am straying from the remarkable incidents that took place during the night that the bed fell on father. By midnight we were all in bed. The layout of the rooms and the disposition of their occupants is important to an understanding of what later occurred. In the front room upstairs (just under father's attic bedroom) were my mother and my brother Herman, who sometimes sang in his sleep, usually "Marching Through Georgia" or "Onward, Christian Soldiers". Briggs Beall and myself were in a room adjoining this one. My brother Roy was in a room across the hall from ours. Our bullterrier, Rex, slept in the hall. My bed was an army cot, one of those affairs which are made wide enough to sleep on comfortably only by putting up, flat with the middle section, the two sides which ordinarily hang down like sideboards of a drop-leaf table. When these sides are up, it is perilous to roll too far toward the edge, for then the cot is likely to tip completely over, bringing the whole bed on top of one, with a tremendous banging crash. This, in fact, is precisely what happened, about two o’clock in the morning. (It was mother who, in recalling the scene later, first referred to it as "the night the bed fell on your father"). Always a deep sleeper, slow to arouse (I had lied to Briggs), I was at first unconscious of what had happened when the iron cot rolled me onto the floor and toppled over on me. It left me still warmly bundled up and unhurt, for the bed rested above me like a canopy. Hence I did not wake up, only reached the edge of consciousness and went back. The racket, however, instantly awakened my mother, in the next room, who came to the immediate conclusion that her worst dread was realized: the big wooden bed upstairs had fallen on father. She therefore screamed, "Let's go to your poor father!" It was this shout, rather than the noise of my cot falling, that awakened Herman in the same room with her. He thought that mother had become, for no apparent reason, hysterical. "You're all right, Mamma!” he shouted, trying to calm her. They exchanged shout for shout for perhaps ten seconds: "Let's go to your poor father!" and "You're all right!" That woke up Briggs. By this time I was conscious of what was going on, in a vague way, but did not yet realize that I was under my bed instead of on it. Briggs, awakening in the midst of loud shouts of fear and apprehension, came to the quick conclusion that he was suffocating and that we were all trying to "bring him out". With a low moan, he grasped the glass of camphor at the head of his bed find instead of sniffing it poured it over himself. The room reeked of camphor. "Ugf, ahfg," choked Briggs, like a drowning man, for he had almost succeeded in stopping his breath under the deluge of pungent spirits. He leaped out of bed and groped, toward the open window, but he came up against one that was closed. With his hand, he beat out the glass, and I could hear it crash and tinkle on the alleyway below. It was at this juncture that I, in trying to get up, had the uncanny sensation of feeling my bed above me! Foggy with sleep, I now suspected, in my turn, that the whole uproar was being made in a frantic endeavor to extricate me from what must be an unheard-of and perilous situation. "Get me out of this!" I bawled. "Get me put!" I think I had the nightmarish belief that I was entombed in a mine. "Gugh," gasped Briggs, floundering in his camphor. By this time my mother, still shouting, pursued by Herman, still shouting, was trying to open the door to the attic, in order to go up and get my father's body out of the wreckage. The door was stuck, however, and wouldn't yield. Her frantic pulls on it only added to the general banging and confusion. Roy and the dog were now up, the one shouting questions, the other barking. Father, farthest away and soundest sleeper of all, had by this time been awakened by the battering on the attic door. He decided that the house was on fire. "I'm coming, I'm coming!" he wailed in a slow, sleepy voice — it took him many minutes to regain full consciousness. My mother, still believing he was caught under the bed, detected in his "I'm coming!" the mournful, resigned note of one who is preparing to meet his Maker. "He's dying!" she shouted. "I'm all right!" Briggs yelled to reassure her. "I'm all right!" He still believed that it was his own closeness to death that was worrying mother. I found at last the light switch in my room, unlocked the door, and Briggs and I joined the others at the attic door. The dog, who never did like Briggs, jumped for him —assuming that he was the culprit in whatever was going on — and Roy had to throw Rex and hold him. We could hear father crawling out of bed upstairs. Roy pulled the attic door open, with a mighty jerk, and father came down the stairs, sleepy and irritable but safe and sound. My mother began to weep when she saw him. Rex began to howl. "What in the name of heaven is going on here?" asked father. The situation was finally put together like a gigantic jigsaw puzzle. Father caught a cold from prowling around in his bare feet but there were no other bad results. "I'm glad," said mother, who always looked on the bright side of things, "that your grandfather wasn't here."

Plot Structure 1. What is the exposition of the story? 2. What started the uproar in the family? 3. What did the mother think had happened? 4. What various events complicated the situation? 5. Is the sequencing of events in the narrative chronological? 6. What effect do the digressions from the narrative produce? 7. What is the climax of the story? 8. Does the author ridicule social vices? Or does he poke fun at absurd situations which people take too much to heart?

Narrative Method 1. What did the author gain by having the story told by a first-person narrator? 2. Did he manage to turn the limitations of this narrative type into an advantage? How? 3. What makes the narrative sound credible, as a first-hand testimony? 4. What other devices did the author use to create verisimilitude?

Means of Characterization 1. Who are the major characters? 2. Which of the characters seem to be eccentric and funny? Why? 3. What means of characterization did the author use in developing the major characters? 4. Who are the minor characters? What makes them amusing? 5. Are the characters well-developed, complex or simple?

Attitude and Tone 1. Does the tone accord with the homely theme of the story? 2. Do the stylistic devices contribute to the familiar tone or not? 3. How effectively did the author use words which appeal to the senses — sight, hearing, touch and smell? 4. Does the narrator often resort to direct speech? What effect does it produce? Does it intrude with his narrative? 5. What do the emotionally coloured words add to the humour of the story? 6. What stylistic devices produce a humorous tone? 7. Is the humour of the story developed through ridiculous situations and comical personages? 8. Does the author amuse the reader by giving the situations unexpected absurd turns?

SUGGESTIONS FOR COMPARATIVE ANALYSIS 1. Compare the stories The Night the Bed Fell and Mistaken Identity in terms of humour and how it is achieved. What distinguishes them? 2. How is the humour developed in each of the two stories? 3. Do such literary techniques as unexpected turns of events, surprise ending, foreshadowing, retardation play an equally important role in both the stories? 4. Is the humorous effect achieved by exaggerating some features of the characters in both the stones? Which features? Are they features of their outward or psychological portraits, speech characteristics or actions? 5. Comment on the linguistic means that create the humorous tone in each of the two stories. What identical means do the authors resort to? 6. Do both the humorists use laughter to help people see themselves more clearly? 7. Do both the stories ridicule social vices and typical weaknesses of human nature? 8. Which of the two stories is amusing on the surface, but serious underneath? Which contains a deep and serious message? 9. Do the writers in both the stones assume a familiar tone? What are the indices of the tone expressing the relationship between the narrator and the reader?

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TEXT 12.

ARRANGEMENT IN BLACK AND WHITE

DOROTHY PARKER

The woman with the pink velvet poppies twined round the assisted gold of her hair traversed the crowded room at an interesting combining a skip with a sidle, and clutched the lean arm of her host. "Now I got you!" she said. "Now you can't get away! "Why, hello," said her host. "Well. How are you!" "Oh, I'm finely," she said. "just simply finely. Listen. I want you to do me the most terrible favour. Will you! Will you please! Pretty please?" ''What is it? " said her host. "Listen," she said. "I want to meet Walter Williams. Honestly, I'm just simply crazy about that man. Oh, when he sings! When he sings those spirituals! Well, I said to Burton, ‘It’s a good thing for you Walter Williams is coloured,' I said', or you'd have lots of reason to be jealous.' I'd really love to meet him. I'd like to tell him I've heard him sing. Will you be an angel and introduce me to him?" "Why, certainly," said her host. "I thought you'd met him. The party's for him. Where is he, anyway?" "He's over there by the bookcase," she said. "Let's wait till those people get through talking to him. Well, I think you're simply marvellous, giving this perfectly, marvellous party for him, and having him meet all these white people and all. Isn't he terribly grateful?" " I hope not, " said her host. "I think it's terribly nice," she said. "I do. I don't see why on earth it isn't perfectly an right to meet coloured people. I haven't any feeling at all about it — not one single bit. Burton — oh, he's just the other way. Well, you know, he comes from Virginia and you know how they are." "Did he come tonight?" said her host. "No, he couldn’t," she said. "I'm a regular grass widow tonight. I told him when I left, 'There's no telling what I'll do,' I said. He was just so tired out, he couldn't move. Isn't it a shame?" "Ah," said her host.
"Wait till I tell him I met Walter Williams!" she said. "He'll just about die. Oh, we have more arguments about coloured people. I talk to him like I don't know what, I get so excited. 'Oh, don't be so silly,' I say. But I must say for Burton, he’s heaps broader-minded than lots of these Southerners. He's really awfully fond of coloured people. Well, he says himself, he wouldn’t have white servants. And you know, he had this old coloured nurse, this regular old nigger mammy,¹ and he just simply loves her. Why, every time he goes home, he goes out in the kitchen to see her. He does, really, to this day. All he says is, he says he hasn't got a word to say against coloured people as long as they keep their place. He's always doing things for them — giving them clothes and I don't know what all. The only thing he says, he says he wouldn't sit down at the table with one for a million dollars. 'Oh,' I say to him, 'you make me sick, talking like that.' I'm just terrible to him. Aren't I terrible?" "Oh, no, no, no", said her host. "No, no". "I am," she said. "I know I am. Poor Burton! Now, me, I don't feel that way at all. I haven't the slightest feeling about coloured people. Why, I'm just crazy about some of them. They're just like children — just as easy-going, and always singing and laughing and everything. Aren't they the happiest things you ever saw in your life? Honestly, it makes me laugh just to hear them. Oh, I like them. I really do. Well, now, listen, I have this coloured laundress, I've had her for years, and I'm devoted to her. She's a real character. And I want to tell you, I think of her as my friend. That's the way I think of her. As I say to Burton, "Well, for heaven's sake, we're all human beings! Aren't we? " "Yes," said her host. "Yes, indeed." "Now this Walter Williams," she said. "I think a man like that's a real artist. I do. I think he deserves an awful lot of credit. Goodness, I'm so crazy about music or anything. I don't care what colour he is. I honestly think if a person's an artist, nobody ought to have any feeling at all about meeting them. That's absolutely what I say to Burton. Don't you think I'm right?'' "Yes," said her host. "Oh, yes." "That's the way I feel," she said. "I just can’t understand people being narrow-minded. Why, I absolutely think it's a privilege to meet a man like Walter Williams. Yes, I do. I haven't any feeling at all. Well, my goodness, the good Lord made him, just the same as He did any of us. Didn’t He?" "Surely," said her host. "Yes, indeed." "That's what I say," she said. "Oh, I get so furious when people are narrow-minded about coloured people. It's just all I can do not to say something. Of course, I do admit when you get a bad coloured man, they're simply terrible. But as I say to Burton, there are some bad white people, too, in this world. Aren't there?" "I guess there are," said her host. "Why, I'd really be glad to have a man like Walter Williams come to my house and sing for us, some time," she said. "Of course, I couldn't ask him on account of Burton, but I wouldn't have any feeling about it at all. Oh, can't he sing! Isn't it marvellous, the way they all have music in them? It just seems to be right in them. Come on, let's go on over and talk to him. Listen, what shall I do when I'm introduced? Ought I to shake hands? Or what?" "Why, do whatever you want," said her host. "I guess maybe I'd better," she said. "I wouldn't for the world have him think I had any feeling. I think I'd better shake hands, just the way I would with anybody else. That's just exactly what I'll do." They reached the tall young Negro, standing by the bookcase. The host performed introductions; the Negro bowed. "How do you do?" he said. The woman with the pink velvet poppies extended her hand at the length of her arm and held it so for all the world to see until the Negro took it, shook it, and gave it back to her. "Oh, how do you do, Mr. Williams," she said. "Well, how do you do. I've just been saying, I've enjoyed your singing so awfully much. I've been to your concerts and we have you on the phonograph and everything. Oh, I just enjoy it!" She spoke with great distinctness, moving her lips meticulously, as if in parlance² with the deaf. "I'm so glad," he said. "I'm just simply crazy about that 'Water Boy' thing you sing," she said. "Honestly, I can’t get it out of my head. I have my husband nearly crazy, the way I go around humming it all the time. Oh, he looks just as black as the ace of — Well. Tell me, where on earth do you ever get all those songs of yours? How do you ever get hold of them?" "Why," he said, "there are so many different —". "I should think you'd love singing them," she said. "It must be more fun. All those darling old spirituals — oh, I just love them! Well, what are you doing, now? Are you still keeping up your singing? Why don't you have another concert, some time?" "I'm having one the sixteenth of this month," he said. "Well, I'll be there," she said. "I'll be there, if I possibly can. You can count on me. Goodness, here comes a whole raft³ of people to talk to you. You're just a regular guest of honour! Oh, who's that girl in white? I've seen her some place." "That's Katherine Burke," said her host. "Good Heavens," she said, "is that Katherine Burke? Why, she looks entirely different off the stage. I thought she was much betterlooking. I had no idea she was so terribly dark. Why she looks almost like — Oh, I think she is a wonderful actress! Don't you think she’s a wonderful actress, Mr. Williams? Oh, I think she's marvellous. Don't you? " "Yes, I do," he said. "Oh, I do, too," she said. "Just wonderful. Well, goodness, we must give someone else a chance to talk to the guest of honour. Now, don't forget, Mr. Williams, I'm going to be at that concert if I possibly can. I'll be there applauding like everything. And if I can't come, I'm going to tell everybody I know to go, anyway. Don't you forget!" "I won't," he said. "Thank you so much." The host took her arm and piloted her into the next room. "Oh, my dear," she said. "I nearly died! Honestly, I give you my word, I nearly passed away. Did you hear that terrible break I made? I was just going to say Katherine Burke looked almost like a nigger. I just caught myself in time. Oh, do you think he noticed?" "I don't believe so," said her host. "Well, thank goodness," she said, "because I wouldn't have embarrassed him for anything. Why, he's awfully nice. Just as nice as he can be. Nice manners, and everything. You know, so many coloured people, you give them an inch4 and they walk all over you5. But he doesn't try any of that. Well, he's got more sense, I suppose. He's really nice. Don't you think so?" "Yes," said her host. "I like him," she said. "I haven't any feeling at all because he's a coloured man. I felt just as natural as I would with anybody. Talked to him just as naturally, and everything. But honestly, I could hardly keep a straight face. I kept thinking of Burton. Oh, wait till I tell Burton I called him 'Mister'!"

NOTES 1 mammy — AmE, usually derog.: a black woman who cares for white children 2parlance with the deaf — a particular manner of speech used with the deaf 3 a raft — AmE, informal: a large number or amount of 4 Give him an inch (and he'll take a yard/mile) — If you allow him a little freedom or power, he'll try to get more 5 to walk over smb. — to treat badly

Narrative Method 1. Is the story told by the omniscient author or by the observer-author? 2. What advantage did the author have in adopting this narrative method? 3. What limitations are involved in telling the story by an observer-author? 4. Is it a one-scene story? 5. Does the extensive use of dialogue contribute to character development? 6. Comment on the author's skill in writing dialogue, which comprises the major part M the story. How successful is D. Parker in using this technique?

Plot Structure 1. Does the story contain all the components of plot structure? 2. Where is the story set and what time-span does it cover? 3. What evidence is there that the story is set in the USA?

Means of Characterization 1. What is the dominant means of characterization that the writer resorts to? 2. What is the main feature that is accentuated in the protagonist? 3. Which words in the protagonist's speech reveal her contemptuous attitude to the blacks? 4. What other traits does she reveal in what she says about herself and about others? Refer to specific instances in the story to support your views. 5. What social class does the protagonist represent? What evidence can you find in the text of the story? 6. Describe her personality. In your assessment of her personality consider a) her speech, b) her manners and actions, c) her appearance. How is her nature reflected in her behaviour? 7. What other characters are introduced in the story? 8. The minor characters of the story are hardly identified and are not clearly outlined. Why do you suppose the author used this technique? 9. What purpose do the minor characters serve? What traits in the protagonist's character do they help to reveal? 10. What is the author's attitude to the protagonist? 11. Irony as a literary device uses characters, situations or plot development to reveal the contradictions between what people (or things) seem to be and what their real nature is like. Does D. Parker use irony in developing the character of the protagonist? 12. Does the title also reveal her ironic attitude to the people whom the protagonist represents? 13. How is the hypocrisy of the protagonist revealed? 14. What is the messsage of the story?

SUGGESTIONS FOR COMPARATIVE ANALYSIS 1. Compare the stones The Pawnbroker's Wife, The Lady's Maid and Arrangement in Black and While in terms of irony and the way it is developed. Is irony in those stories developed linguistically or extralinguistically? 2. What contrasts reveal the author’s ironical attitude in each of those stones? Indicate whether you think these means of creating irony effective or not. 3. What does the title of each story imply? To what extent does it contribute to the irony conveyed by the author? 4. Define the tone and trace its changes in the course of each story. Is the tone of the narrative ironical? What evidence can you offer to support your view? 5. What social vices does each of the three stories satirize? 6. Consider the contribution of irony to the message of each story.

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SECTION V THE MESSAGE OF A LITERARY WORK THEORETICAL PRELIMINARIES

The plot with its characters, actions and setting forms the so-called 'surface content' of a literary work. The surface content, which is represented in. concrete individuals, situations and actions, may entertain and keep the reader curious. Some read only to learn what happens next. But a skilled reader discovers what lies beyond the surface content. In a literary work he looks for the theme. He understands all the implications encoded in the story. He is sensitive to the author's attitude towards the characters, events and problems in the story. In other words, he looks for and understands what is known as “the underlying thought content” of the literary work, which conveys its message. The theme of a story is the main area of interest treated in the story. There are stories on the theme of love, or love for one's Motherland; there are books on the theme of family relations, or on the anti-war theme. The plots of different stories on one and the same theme may be based on an identical type of conflict, as The Lady's Maid by K. Mansfield and Arrangement in Black and White by D. Parker. The theme of both the stories is human relations in society, both are based on the conflict between man and the established order with its racial hostility, injustice and exploitation. But K. Mansfield and Parker have embodied the similar theme and conflict into unique artistic forms, incomparable characters and events, and have managed to do it in a most effective way. The stories reveal different aspects of human relationship and arouse different responses on the part of the reader. The theme performs a unifying function. It is clearly seen in The Oval Portrait by E. A. Poe. The theme of each part of the tale is the power of beauty and art to stir emotions. Despite the differences in the described events and the style, both the parts reveal the storm of emotions which beauty stirs up in man. The two episodes develop the same theme. Hence, they both express it and thus bind the two parts into an organic whole. The effect that the artistic unity produces is brilliant, vivid and enduring. The theme of the story implies the problem which the writer raises. His view and attitude to this problem is revealed in the way he develops the theme of the story. The most important idea that the author expresses in the process of developing the theme is the message of the story. The theme is therefore organically connected with the author's message. The message is generally expressed implicitly, i. e. indirectly, and has a complex analytical character, being created by the interaction of numerous implications which the different elements of the literary work have. It is only by analysis of those implications that one may reveal the message of a literary work. Implication is the suggestion that is not expressed directly but understood. Implication may be conveyed by different techniques, such as parallelism, contrast, recurrence of events or situations, artistic details, symbols, arrangement of plot structure, etc. Thus parallelism may be deeply suggestive. For example, in The Roads We Take by O'Henry there is deep implication in the parallel actions of the dream and reality (in the dream Shark Dodson murders his companion "with cold ferocity" to get the booty; in the event that presents reality Dodson, the businessman, ruins his friend "with cold ferocity" again in order to increase his profits). Parallelism here invites the reader to compare these actions. It is suggestive not only of the ugly nature of the protagonist, but also of the immoral means he uses to make money. Events which begin and end a story sometimes parallel. This circling of the action back to its beginning implies that nothing has changed and this may be the whole point. The story of the firm Twigg and Dersingham in Priestley's Angel Pavement begins with Dersingham's talk with Smeeth about the sad affairs of the firm and the necessity to dismiss one of the clerks. At the end of the novel Dersingham has a similar talk, with Smeeth again, about the bankruptcy of the firm. It returns the reader to the opening scene. This circling of actions suggests and emphasizes that nothing has improved, none of the characters have managed to avoid ruin and poverty. Implication may be conveyed by contrast on different levels: linguistic and extralinguistic. In the story Arrangement in Black and White, which is an attack on racial prejudices and hypocrisy among the middle classes in the USA, the implication is mainly conveyed by the contrast between the impression that the protagonist tries to produce and the impression she actually produces. The contrast is reinforced by the antithetical thematic planes of the vocabulary: "the coloured people", "nigger" versus "the white people"; "broad-minded" versus "narrow-minded"; "awfully fond of”, "love", "crazy about some of them" versus "wouldn't sit at the table with one for a million dollars", "keep their place". Moreover, this implication is also suggested by the antithesis in the title Arrangement in Black and White. Recurence (or repetition) is another means of conveying implication. Among the repeated linguistic elements there may be stylistic devices, or emotionally coloured words, or even neutral words, but when repeated the latter may acquire special semantic relevance. The semantically relevant word need not be the most frequent one in the story. It is a well-known fact that functional words, such as "a", "the", "to", "be", generally recur most often, but they are not necessarily the most important words in the text. However, once a word or any element of the story is felt to be especially significant for the understanding of the whole, its recurrence acquires relevance in the context of the story.«The repeated word (or phrase), even if it is a neutral one, may acquire emotional charge and become a key-word, important for the understanding of the message of the story/There often occurs semantic repetition, when one and the same idea is repeated, though every time it is formulated differently. It should be emphasized that the recurrent elements do not contain in themselves indications of what in particular their implications are. They acquire relevance and suggest implication only in the context of the story in which they occur. Recurrence may be traced in the plot of any story. Though the events in the plot generally vary among themselves, they have a similarity in, function — each of them recalls the reader to the central problem. For instance, no matter how different the events in the story The Lady's Maid may seem to be, each of them returns the reader to the main problem — the inequality between the rich and those who serve them. In this sense writers fulfil contradictory demands: the demand for variation and the demand for recurrence. If a writer fails to fulfil the former, his story will be monotonous and uninteresting. If he fails to fulfil the latter, it will seem aimless and not directed at any definite message. Implication is often suggested by the similar features in the varying scenes and by the varying features in the similar scenes. The Pawnbroker's Wife affords a good illustration of that. No matter how different the scenes in the story might seem to be, they reveal similar aspects of Mrs. Cloote's character: her immorality, her covetous, deceitful and wicked nature. Fiction provides many examples of recurrence with implication. Among them one often finds details. For instance, in J. Cheever's story The Pleasures of Solitude the "coldness" of the wind, the rain, the weather, the boys who came "shaking with cold" are artistic details. The neutral word "cold" acquires expressive force in the context of the story and conveys deep implication. It suggests the world that Ellen was afraid of and was eager to isolate and shelter herself from. When an artistic detail is-repeated several times and is associated with a broader concept than the original, it develops into a symbol. A symbol is a word (or an object the word stands for), which represents a concept broader than the literal sense of the word. It is therefore something concrete and material standing for something else that is immaterial and has a more significant sense. A symbol is a metaphoric expression of the concept it stands for. Like the metaphor, it is based on the use of a word in its transferred meaning and suggests some likeness between two different objects or concepts. Symbols may be traditional or personal. An example of a traditional symbol is a rose. The rose is a traditional symbol of beauty. A writer establishes personal symbols by means of repetition and repeated association with a broader concept. For example, in Rain by S. Maugham the rain is a symbol of the primitive powers of nature before which man is powerless and all his efforts are useless and hopeless. The association of rain with this broad concept is established in the following passage: "...it (rain) was unmerciless and somehow terrible; you felt in it the malignancy of the primitive powers of nature. It did not pour, it flowed. ...it seemed to have a fury of its own. And sometimes you felt that you must scream if it did not stop, and then suddenly you felt powerless, as though your bones had suddenly become soft: and you were miserable and hopeless." Rain, therefore, symbolizes the powers of nature which proved irresistible for Mr. Davidson. To use a symbol is to represent an idea by suggestion rather than by direct expression. The symbol is generally recognized only after the story is read. The so-called "shock of recognition" intensifies the effect. Presupposition is also a means of conveying special implication. For example, it is a characteristic feature of modern fiction to begin a story at a point where certain things are already taken for granted. Thus the story Arrangement in Black and White opens as follows: "The woman with the pink velvet poppies ... traversed the crowded room ... and clutched the lean arm of her host." The definite articles are indications of previous knowledge about the identity of the referents, although the reader can work them out only by reading on. The writer does not introduce the woman and the place she comes to. Each of the definite articles carries a presupposition that the reader already shares the author's knowledge about them. By this device the author sets up the world of the story with its implications of the past right from the start, though the reader has to construct this world himself while reading on. Presupposition creates implication and at the same time arouses the reader's interest. As stated above, the author's message does not lie on the surface. It is usually expressed implicitly and may be suggested by a variety of means — parallelism, contrast, repetition, artistic details, symbols. The author's message is not always a solution of the problems raised in the story. At times the writer raises urgent and relevant problems, the solution of which it is as yet difficult to foresee. His intention may not be to suggest a certain solution (the problem may hardly admit solution), the writer may intend only to raise the problem and focus the reader's attention on it. In such cases the message of his literary work will not suggest any solution, it will pose the problem and reveal its relevance. Moreover, the message depends on the writer's outlook, and the reader may either share the writer's views or not. On account of all that, L. I. Timofeyev distinguishes the following types of messages: (a) messages that suggest definite solutions ("идея-ответ"), (b) messages that raise a problem ("идея-вопрос"), (с) messages in which the solution of the problem is not adequate ("идея-ошибка"). The author's message is closely connected with the author's attitude. A literary work "is not simply a fictitious record of conduct, but also a study and judgement of conduct...". Even if the writer attempts to conceal his attitude by shifting the responsibility of storytelling on to a character in the story and assumes an impartial or detached tone, he cannot prevent his characters from suggesting a definite attitude in the reader's mind. The message more often than not acquires definite shape in the process of deep thought about what the writer discovered when observing reality. It reflects his attitude to the discovered aspect of people's nature and relations, his understanding of the influence of social phenomena and conventions upon the individual. A. N. Vasilyeva writes: "Идея художественного произведения — это квинт-эссенция открытой художником в жизни истины, активно утверждаемая им средствами искусства... ". Hence the message generally has an evaluative character. The message of a story is inferred from the synthetic images created by the author and does not exist separately from them." The synthetic images embody the message. The protagonist, in particular, is often considered to be the message itself. Therefore, it is mainly through the characters that the message is revealed. Besides that, the message "cannot be revealed without taking into account the theme of the story, as well as the author's attitude. When analysing the message contained in the work one must also take into consideration the title of the story. The title is the first element to catch our eye, but its meaning and function may be determined only retrospectively. The title acquires its precise meaning when related to the whole story. Then it may acquire a totally different meaning, contrary to what its components generally mean. The title of S. Maugham's story Mr. Know-All illustrates that. A “know-all” has a derogatory connotation, but when related to the main character of the story, it acquires a positive meaning, as Mr. Know-All turns out to be not only a knowledgeable man, but also a good psychologist and a real gentleman. The story may clarify the meaning of one of the components of the title. In The Quiet American by G. Greene "quiet" acquires an ironical shade, as the "quiet" Pyle turns out to be vicious and brings a great deal of evil and harm. The title may acquire a symbolic meaning. Thug the components in the title “The Moon and Sixpence” symbolize different set of values. The title may have the following functions: 1. It may serve as a means of conveying the author's message. There are titles which actually formulate the author's message (e. g. Say No to Death by D. Cusak). 2. It may serve as a means of cohesion – it may unite the components of a story to form a whole. In The Apple Tree by J. Galsworthy, for example, the "apple tree" links all the scenes. When Ashurst first met Megan and she brought him to the village, the apple tree is "in leaf, and all but in flower — its crimson buds just bursting." When he first kissed Megan, "the pink clusters of the apple blossom and "the unearthly beauty of the apple blossom" form the setting of the scene. The story ends with the words "The Apple tree, the singing and the gold!" The final phrase repeats the epigraph. By framing the story, this phrase unites it into an indivisible whole. The repetition of "the apple tree" and its constant associations attach to it a symbolic meaning — that of love, spring and beauty. 3. The title may serve as a means of focussing the reader's attention on the most relevant characters or details (e. g. The lady's Maid by K. Mansfield, Hamlet by W. Shakespeare). 4. The title may characterize the protagonist (e. g. The Man of Property by J. Galsworthy). 5. Any title orients the reader towards the story. It may then serve as a means of foreshadowing (e. g. Mistaken Identity by M. Twain). It may also disorientate the reader, when it contrasts with the story and acquires an ironic ring (e. g. The Pleasures of Solitude by J. Cheever). Therefore, the title is another aid for the reader, which he should not neglect when probing into the underlying content. On revealing the author’s message, the reader generally analyses his own rational and emotional response to the story, draws his own conclusions. These conclusions may not necessarily coincide with the author's message. That is why M. B. Khrapchenko and L. I. Timofeyev distinguish between the so-called objective message and the author's message. The objective message is the final conclusion that the reader draws from the analysis of his own response to the story and from the author's message, contained in the story. The objective message may be broader than the author's message, because it is based on more profound historical experience. Every new generation judges the literary works created a century or more ago in a new way, as the new generation possesses more information about the outcome of many historical processes than the writers of those works could foresee. The effectiveness of the writer's presentation of the message depends on how credible and exciting the plot is, how lifelike and convincing the characters are, how expressive the language is, how well the literary techniques are used.

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TEXT 13.

THE PLEASURES OF SOLITUDE

JOHN CHEEVER John Cheever (May 27, 1912–June 18, 1982) was an American novelist and short story writer, sometimes called "the Chekhov of the suburbs." His fiction is mostly set in the Upper East Side of Manhattan, the Westchester suburbs, and old New England villages based on various South Shore towns around Quincy, Massachusetts, where he was born. Cheever is perhaps best remembered for his short stories (including "The Enormous Radio," "Goodbye, My Brother," "The Five-Forty-Eight," "The Country Husband," and "The Swimmer"), but also wrote a number of novels, such as The Wapshot Chronicle, The Wapshot Scandal, Bullet Park, and Falconer. His main themes include the duality of human nature: sometimes dramatized as the disparity between a character's decorous social persona and inner corruption, and sometimes as a conflict between two characters (often brothers) who embody the salient aspects of both--light and dark, flesh and spirit. Many of his works also express a nostalgia for a vanishing way of life, characterized by abiding cultural traditions and a profound sense of community, as opposed to the alienating nomadism of modern suburbia. A compilation of his short stories, The Stories of John Cheever, won the 1979 Pulitzer Prize for Fiction and the National Book Critics Circle Award. On April 27, 1982, six weeks before his death, Cheever was awarded the National Medal for Literature by the American Academy of Arts and Letters.

One evening when Ellen Goodrich had just returned from the office to her room in Chelsea1, she heard a light knock on her door. She knew no one in the city intimately; there was no one the could expect. She opened the door and found two small boys standing in the hallway. She supposed they were ten or eleven. Their clothing was thin and they were shaking with cold. "Florence Valle live here!" one of them asked. "I don't know anyone by that name", Ellen said. "Perhaps if you ask the landlady — she lives on the first floor". "We're looking for Florence Valle. She's his cousin," the second boy said, pointing to his friend. "She used to live here." "I'm very sorry," Ellen said, "but I don't know her". "Maybe she's moved," he said. 'We walked all the way over here..." Ellen very seldom felt that she could afford pity and sympathy for other people, but the boys looked frightened and cold, and her desire to help them was stronger than her reserve. She noticed them staring beyond her to a dish of candy in the room. When she invited them to have a piece, they refused with a shy elaborate politeness that made her want to take them in her arms. She suggested that they each take a piece of candy home and went into the room for the dish. They followed her. "You got a nice place here, Miss." "Yuh, you got a nice place here." The faces were thin and solemn and their voices were hoarse. "Haven't you any overcoats, you boys?" she asked. "Are you going around in the cold dressed like that? "We ain't got any overcoats, Miss " "I should think you'd take cold, walking around like that." "We ain't got any overcoats." They told her their names and ages when she asked for them, and said that they lived on the lower East Side. She had walked through the slums herself and she could imagine the squalor and neglect in which they must live. While she was talking with them, she realized that it was the first time in more than a year that she had allowed anyone other than the landlady to come into her room. Having the boys there pleased her and she kept asking them questions until she caught the tone of her own excited voice. She stopped abruptly. "I guess you had better go now," she said, "I have some things to do." They thanked her for the candy and backed out of the room. Altogether, the encounter left her feeling generous and happy. Ellen was not a generous person. She lived in a Chelsea rooming house in order to bank as much of her salary as possible toward purchasing an annuity. It had always been difficult for her to find friends. During the ten years she had lived in New York she had suffered a great deal from loneliness, but this suffering was forgotten now because of the care with which she arranged her solitude. She could be unmerciful with herself and others. Her mother had once written asking if she could help her younger brother with a loan. "I think it will be better," Ellen replied, "if Harold experiences a little hardship that he can understand the value of money. I don’t pretend to be poor, but the little I have in the bank was put by at a great sacrifice and have no intention of lending it to Harold when we all know that he could have done as well himself if he tried. I think he owes if to you to do more than I have done for after all, you and Father spent more on his education than you spent on mine." She was twenty-eight at the time. After the boys had gone that night, Ellen changed from her dress into a house coat and cooked her supper. The cold wind rattled the windows and made her appreciate the warm, light room. She washed the dishes and sat down to read a rental-library book. This was the way she spent most of her evenings and she was proud of the fact that she was no longer restless and lonely. But her mind kept returning to the boys. She saw their thin, solemn faces, and when she thought of them walking in the cold she was filled with sadness and pity. Her uneventful life led her to attach significance to the few irregular things that happened to her. There was some purpose, she felt, some reason for this accidental meeting. A week later, at the same hour, there was a knock on the door and she found the boys in the hallway again. "We were walking by." "We thought we'd come to see you." "Well, I'm very glad you stopped." Ellen said, and realized that her voice could be heard by the other tenants whose doors opened into the hallway. There was nothing wrong in what she was doing, but at the same time she didn't want the other tenants to know that she was asking strange boys into her room, so she waited until she had closed the door after them before she spoke again. "I'm very glad you stopped," she repeated. She invited them to sit down. Then she thought of giving them a drink of Coca-Cola, but this seemed a little too forward! They told her they were Italian, and she asked them if they knew how to make a veal parmigiana, something she had always wanted to learn. They didn't know, but they told her about other Italian dishes. One of the boys, the older, seemed interested in some ornaments on Ellen's dresser and she showed them to him. The younger boy took a cigarette end from his pocket and lighted it. "Aren't you too young to smoke?" Ellen asked. He looked at his friend and they both giggled. Ellen colored. The looks they exchanged and their laughter frightened her. "Those are called maracas.3 she said nervously, pointing to a pair of painted maracas that hung on the wall. "I bought them when I went for a Caribbean cruise in 1933. They use them in orchestras in the Caribbean." The incident of the cigarette seemed to have made the boys feel more at ease. Ellen might have asked them to leave, but she hesitated. The younger boy put out his cigarette in her pin tray and she watched him without saying anything. She was enjoying herself in a way she could not quite understand. They told her stories about their families, about their sisters, stories that were sly and lewd and that she should have stopped them from telling. At the end of half an hour she asked them lo leave. They had been gone for some time before she discovered that her purse was missing. If they had been in the room then, she might have murdered them. She took hold of the back of a chair and held it rigidly until her arms and her shoulders ached; "They don't have to steal!" she cried. "They don't have to steal! They don't have to!" She threw herself onto the bed and wept for a long time. When she sat up, she composed a discourse on honesty and imagined herself delivering it to them. She thought of calling the police, but when she tried to describe what had happened as if she were talking to the police, it sounded unconvincing and even suspicious, She went into the bathroom and washed her face with a cold cloth. "They don't have to steal," she said. "They don't have to steal. I would have given them money if they need money." She walked the floor, talking angrily to herself. In the morning, Ellen decided to forget about the boys; it was better to lose the fifteen or twenty dollars that had been in her purse than to lose her peace of mind. Usually she could forget things that troubled her, but this time it was not so easy. In the back of her mind, was the feeling she had somehow made a mistake that threatened her whole way of living. A few nights later, on a Wednesday, someone knocked on the door again. She opened it and found the two boys standing in the corridor. She should have been prepared. She had rehearsed often enough the things she wanted to say, but now, when she tried to speak, she could think of nothing. "Come in here," she said finally. "Come in here, both of you. I want to speak to you." They followed her into the room. "You don't have to steal," she said. "You ought to know that you don't have to steal.'' Her voice had risen and she was trembling so that she had to lean against the wall, "If you need money, if you really need money, there are honest ways of getting it. You stole my purse When you were here last lime". "We didn't steal nothing, Miss." "We ain't thiefs." "Well, there's no use in standing here arguing about it " she said. "Get out." "Give us five dollars, Miss." "Get out," Ellen said. "Get out of here before I call a policeman!" They backed out of the room and she closed and locked the door and listened, to them going down the hall. That night she dreamed about them. She could not remember the details of the dream clearly, but when she woke up she was depressed and frightened. Her sleep was troubled for the rest of that week. On Friday she felt that she was coming down with a cold and got permission to leave the office at noon. She picked up a book at a rental library and bought some groceries for dinner. In spite of her illness, she enjoyed her solitude more that afternoon than she had for some time. She read until dusk. Before turning on the light, she went to the window to draw the shade. A swift snow was falling slantwise between her window and the back yards. She bathed and went to bed at seven, slightly feverish. She was half asleep when she heard them knocking on the door. She remembered that she had forgotten to put the latch down. They talked for a while in the hall, knocked again, and then pushed the door open. When they saw her lying on the bed, they went over and stared at her. "You sick, Miss?" "Please leave me alone," she said weakly. "Please get out." "We want some money, Miss. " "Can't you see that I'm sick?" she said. It was an effort for. One of them saw her purse on the table. He went to it, removed the change purse, and started to take out the bills. She got out of bed and struck him, but he already had the money in his hand. She tried to get it away from him, but he was stronger than she; he was able to free his hand, and both boys ran out of the room and down the hall. She stood in the doorway shouting, "Mrs. Duval, Mrs. Duval!" There was no answer, and she threw herself on the bed, too sick and tired to cry. Ten minutes later the landlady knocked on the door and asked what the matter was. Ellen told her she thought she had heard some strange men in the corridor and the lock on the front door should be fixed. The next morning, Ellen decided to move. It was not easy for her, but she was desperate. One of the girls in her office recommended a rooming house on East Thirty-seventh Street, and Ellen went there that night and engaged a place. She took her possessions over the following night in a taxi. The new room was not as pleasant as the one she had left, but she tried hard to make it seem familiar. She felt that in a way she was beginning a new life. She walked to the rooming house the next night from the office. It was raining hard, and as she turned off Madison Avenue"5 onto Thirty-seventh Street she saw them standing in front of the house, staring up at the windows. The rain was cold and the boys were without hats and coats. She walked down to Thirty-fourth Street and ate her dinner in a restaurant there. If was eight o'clock before she started back, and they had gone. She went to her room, set her umbrella in a saucer, and changed from her wet dress into her house coat. Someone knocked on the door and she opened it and they were standing there. "How did you know I was living here?" "The lady in the other place told us." "For once and for all, get out. Leave me alone, leave me alone, can't you?" She took her umbrella and struck the younger one on the shoulders with all her strength. He fell to his knees and then to the floor and she continued to beat him while the other began shrieking, "Help! Police! Police!" so that his voice could be heard in the street.

NOTES 1 Chelsea — a district in Manhattan, New York 2parmigiana — an Italian dish 3 maracas — a musical instrument 4 Madison Avenue — a street in the central part of New York

Message, Means of characterization 1. Through what character is the message of the story conveyed? 2. At first the reader expects a change in Ellen's attitude to people, which finally proves false. What accounts for this expectation? 3. How does Ellen react when those who she expected to be grateful to her encroached upon her well-being? 4. Does the final scene reveal Ellen’s indignation and fury caused by the impudence of the boys? Is it at the same time an outbreak of the bitterness and despair that she could no longer endure and control? Provide evidence from the text of the story. 5. Does the final scene shatter the reader's hopes for any change in Ellen's relations with the surrounding world? 6. Does the writer show Ellen "from the outside" (i.e. through her actions) rather than "from the inside? 7. How is the reader made aware of the strain she had to undergo, which finally resulted in an outburst? 8. Ellen tries to convince herself that her solitude is by no means a tragedy and that it’s a relief. Yet the reader senses the depth of her unhappiness. What is implied in the following phrases: "Ellen very seldom felt that she could afford pity and sympathy for other people...", "... she was proud of the fact that she was no longer restless and lonely"? What other hints does the writer make that the solitude Ellen had obtained was actually cheerless and oppressive? 9. Can "solitude", "loneliness" and "cold" be treated as key words in the story? Which of them are artistic "details? What implication do they convey? 10. In 'what instances does the writer allow the reader to explore the features of Ellen's personality, the nuances of her feelings and motives? 11. What is the author's attitude to Ellen'1 12. What role do the images of the boys play? 13. Is the association of the boys with "coldness" suggestive? Comment on the following quotations from the text of the story: "they were shaking with cold", "the boys looked frightened and cold", "she thought of them walking in the cold". 14. What type of conflict is the plot based on? 15. What is the function of the title of the story? What ring does it acquire? Is it related to the message? 16. How would you formulate the author's message? How is it related to the theme of the story? 17. How effectively has the author revealed the conflict between a solitary individual and the world of egoism? Has he also managed to reveal the conflict between the protagonist's instinct of self-preservation and her natural desire for warmth and friendship?

Plot Structure 1. Is the plot structured conventionally? 2. How many moments of complications are there? Are they equally tense, or do they form an ascending scale? 3. What is the climax of the story? 4. Is there a denouement?

Setting, Tone 1. Where is the story set? How is the setting specified? Do the geographical names contribute to the credibility of the story? 2. Does the setting parallel or contrast with the events? What implication does it suggest? 3. Comment on the vocabulary which produces sensory impressions: tactile (such as "cold", "warm", "wet"), audible (such as "rattled", "knocked"), visual ("light", "dusk"). Does it contribute to the vivid impressions of the setting? Does it affect the tone? 4. What is the prevailing tone? How is it created?

Narrative Method 1. Is the story told by the omniscient author or by the observer-author? 2. Is the author involved or detached? Provide evidence. 3. What role do the dialogues play in the story? 4. How does the narrative method affect the language of the story and the sequencing of the events? 5. The choice of the narrative method depends on what is in the focus of interest. Is it a study of the protagonist's inner world or rather a study of actions and events?

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TEXT 14.

THE LEGACY

VIRGINIA WOOLF

Virginia Woolf (née Stephen) (January 25, 1882 – March 28, 1941) was an English novelist and essayist regarded as one of the foremost modernist literary figures of the twentieth century. During the interwar period, Woolf was a significant figure in London literary society and a member of the Bloomsbury Group. Her most famous works include the novels Mrs Dalloway (1925), To the Lighthouse (1927), and Orlando (1928), and the book-length essay A Room of One's Own (1929) with its famous dictum, "a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction". She has been hailed as one of the greatest novelists of the twentieth century and one of the foremost Modernists. Woolf is considered one of the greatest innovators in the English language. In her works she experimented with stream-of-consciousness, the underlying psychological as well as emotional motives of characters, and the various possibilities of fractured narrative and chronology. Her novels are highly experimental: a narrative, frequently uneventful and commonplace, is refracted—and sometimes almost dissolved—in the characters' receptive consciousness. Intense lyricism and stylistic virtuosity fuse to create a world overabundant with auditory and visual impressions.

"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. 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 whom 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 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. 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 Whitechapel. He remembered how he hated the clothes she wore on those occasions. But she had taken it very seriously, it seemed. 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 narrowminded. 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 parlourmaids; 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 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.

Character-Images 1. Who is the major character: Angela or Gilbert'' 2. Is V. Woolf more concerned with the emotional state of the characters rather than with their actions? What is the main means of characterization? 3. Comment on how skillfully the author uses different representational forms (inner represented speech, inner monologue, direct speech) to characterize her-protagonists. 4. Who do you lay the blame on for Angela's suicide? 5. Trace Gilbert's state of mind. Does the author reflect all the subtle changes in his mood and his shock at discovering the mystery of Angela's suicide? 6. What emotions were struggling within Angela? 7. Did Angela really care for Gilbert? Was she a compassionate woman by nature? 8. Why didn't Angela destroy her diary? Did she wish to revenge herself on her husband? 9. Who do you sympathize with?

Message 1. Do you think the author's intention was to relate the lifestory of Angela, or rather to describe the effect that Angela's diaries produced on Gilbert? 2. Are the events subordinated to rendering the impression they made on Gilbert? 3. Does the narrative method employed by the author allow the reader to see what was going on in the minds of both Gilbert and Angela? How does it add to the effectiveness of the story? 4. What is the basic conflict in the story? 5. What role does the title play? Why is the story called The Legacy? 6. What does the word "legacy" imply (see the last paragraph of the story)? Does it frame the story? Is it a symbol or an artistic detail? Does it acquire an ironic ring? 7. What role do the minor characters play in the story? 8. Are all the elements that make up the story subordinated to conveying its message? 9. Did the story produce a profound and vivid impression on you, the reader?

TEXT 15.

A PAINFUL CASE

JAMES JOYCE

James Augustine Aloysius Joyce (2 February 1882 – 13 January 1941) was an Irish expatriate writer, widely considered to be one of the most influential writers of the 20th century. He is best known for his landmark novel Ulysses and its highly controversial successor Finnegans Wake as well as the short story collection Dubliners and the semi-autobiographical novel A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. Although he spent most of his adult life outside Ireland, Joyce's fictional universe is firmly rooted in Dublin and provide the settings and much of the subject matter for all his fiction. In particular, his tempestuous early relationship with the Irish Roman Catholic Church is reflected through a similar inner conflict in his recurrent alter ego Stephen Dedalus. As the result of his minute attentiveness to a personal locale and his self-imposed exile and influence throughout Europe, Joyce became simultaneously one of the most cosmopolitan and one of the most local of all the great English language writers. Joyce's Irish experiences constitute an essential element of his writings, and provide all of the settings for his fiction and much of their subject matter. His early volume of short stories, Dubliners, is a penetrating analysis of the stagnation and paralysis of Dublin society.

MR. JAMES DUFFY lived in Chapelizod because he wished to live as far as possible from the city of which he was a citizen and because he found all the other suburbs of Dublin mean, modern and pretentious. He lived in an old sombre house and from his windows he could look into the disused distillery or upwards along the shallow river on which Dublin is built. The lofty walls of his uncarpeted room were free from pictures. He had himself bought every article of furniture in the room: a black iron bedstead, an iron washstand, four cane chairs, a clothes- rack, a coal-scuttle, a fender and irons and a square table on which lay a double desk. A bookcase had been made in an alcove by means of shelves of white wood. The bed was clothed with white bedclothes and a black and scarlet rug covered the foot. A little hand-mirror hung above the washstand and during the day a white-shaded lamp stood as the sole ornament of the mantelpiece. The books on the white wooden shelves were arranged from below upwards according to bulk. A complete Wordsworth stood at one end of the lowest shelf and a copy of the Maynooth Catechism, sewn into the cloth cover of a notebook, stood at one end of the top shelf. Writing materials were always on the desk. In the desk lay a manuscript translation of Hauptmann's Michael Kramer, the stage directions of which were written in purple ink, and a little sheaf of papers held together by a brass pin. In these sheets a sentence was inscribed from time to time and, in an ironical moment, the headline of an advertisement for Bile Beans had been pasted on to the first sheet. On lifting the lid of the desk a faint fragrance escaped — the fragrance of new cedarwood pencils or of a bottle of gum or of an overripe apple which might have been left there and forgotten. Mr. Duffy abhorred anything which betokened physical or mental disorder. A medival doctor would have called him saturnine. His face, which carried the entire tale of his years, was of the brown tint of Dublin streets. On his long and rather large head grew dry black hair and a tawny moustache did not quite cover an unamiable mouth. His cheekbones also gave his face a harsh character; but there was no harshness in the eyes which, looking at the world from under their tawny eyebrows, gave the impression of a man ever alert to greet a redeeming instinct in others but often disappointed. He lived at a little distance from his body, regarding his own acts with doubtful side-glasses. He had an odd autobiographical habit which led him to compose in his mind from time to time a short sentence about himself containing a subject in the third person and a predicate in the past tense. He never gave alms to beggars and walked firmly, carrying a stout hazel. He had been for many years cashier of a private bank in Baggot Street. Every morning he came in from Chapelizod by tram. At midday he went to Dan Burke's and took his lunch — a bottle of lager beer and a small trayful of arrowroot biscuits. At four o'clock he was set free. He dined in an eating-house in George's Street where he felt himself safe from the society o Dublin's gilded youth and where there was a certain plain honesty in the bill of fare. His evenings were spent either before his landlady's piano or roaming about the outskirts of the city. His liking for Mozart's music brought him sometimes to an opera or a concert: these were the only dissipations of his life. He had neither companions nor friends, church nor creed. He lived his spiritual life without any communion with others, visiting his relatives at Christmas and escorting them to the cemetery when they died. He performed these two social duties for old dignity's sake but conceded nothing further to the conventions which regulate the civic life. He allowed himself to think that in certain circumstances he would rob his hank but, as these circumstances never arose, his life rolled out evenly--an adventureless tale. One evening he found himself sitting beside two ladies in the Rotunda. The house, thinly peopled and silent, gave distressing prophecy of failure. The lady who sat next him looked round at the deserted house once or twice and then said: "What a pity there is such a poor house tonight! It's so hard on people to have to sing to empty benches." He took the remark as an invitation to talk. He was surprised that she seemed so little awkward. While they talked he tried to fix her permanently in his memory. When he learned that the young girl beside her was her daughter he judged her to be a year or so younger than himself. Her face, which must have been handsome, had remained intelligent. It was an oval face with strongly marked features. The eyes were very dark blue and steady. Their gaze began with a defiant note but was confused by what seemed a deliberate swoon of the pupil into the iris, revealing for an instant a temperament of great sensibility. The pupil reasserted itself quickly, this half- disclosed nature fell again under the reign of prudence, and her astrakhan jacket, moulding a bosom of a certain fullness, struck the note of defiance more definitely. He met her again a few weeks afterwards at a concert in Earlsfort Terrace and seized the moments when her daughter's attention was diverted to become intimate. She alluded once or twice to her husband but her tone was not such as to make the allusion a warning. Her name was Mrs. Sinico. Her husband's great-great-grandfather had come from Leghorn. Her husband was captain of a mercantile boat plying between Dublin and Holland; and they had one child. Meeting her a third time by accident he found courage to make an appointment. She came. This was the first of many meetings; they met always in the evening and chose the most quiet quarters for their walks together. Mr. Duffy, however, had a distaste for underhand ways and, finding that they were compelled to meet stealthily, he forced her to ask him to her house. Captain Sinico encouraged his visits, thinking that his daughter's hand was in question. He had dismissed his wife so sincerely from his gallery of pleasures that he did not suspect that anyone else would take an interest in her. As the husband was often away and the daughter out giving music lessons Mr. Duffy had many opportunities of enjoying the lady's society. Neither he nor she had had any such adventure before and neither was conscious of any incongruity. Little by little he entangled his thoughts with hers. He lent her books, provided her with ideas, shared his intellectual life with her. She listened to all. Sometimes in return for his theories she gave out some fact of her own life. With almost maternal solicitude she urged him to let his nature open to the full: she became his confessor. He told her that for some time he had assisted at the meetings of an Irish Socialist Party where he had felt himself a unique figure amidst a score of sober workmen in a garret lit by an inefficient oil-lamp. When the party had divided into three sections, each under its own leader and in its own garret, he had discontinued his attendances. The workmen's discussions, he said, were too timorous; the interest they took in the question of wages was inordinate. He felt that they were hard-featured realists and that they resented an exactitude which was the produce of a leisure not within their reach. No social revolution, he told her, would be likely to strike Dublin for some centuries. She asked him why did he not write out his thoughts. For what, he asked her, with careful scorn. To compete with phrasemongers, incapable of thinking consecutively for sixty seconds? To submit himself to the criticisms of an obtuse middle class which entrusted its morality to policemen and its fine arts to impresarios? He went often to her little cottage outside Dublin; often they spent their evenings alone. Little by little, as their thoughts entangled, they spoke of subjects less remote. Her companionship was like a warm soil about an exotic. Many times she allowed the dark to fall upon them, refraining from lighting the lamp. The dark discreet room, their isolation, the music that still vibrated in their ears united them. This union exalted him, wore away the rough edges of his character, emotionalised his mental life. Sometimes he caught himself listening to the sound of his own voice. He thought that in her eyes he would ascend to an angelical stature; and, as he attached the fervent nature of his companion more and more closely to him, he heard the strange impersonal voice which he recognised as his own, insisting on the soul's incurable loneliness. We cannot give ourselves, it said: we are our own. The end of these discourses was that one night during which she had shown every sign of unusual excitement, Mrs. Sinico caught up his hand passionately and pressed it to her cheek. Mr. Duffy was very much surprised. Her interpretation of his words disillusioned him. He did not visit her for a week, then he wrote to her asking her to meet him. As he did not wish their last interview to be troubled by the influence of their ruined confessional they meet in a little cakeshop near the Parkgate. It was cold autumn weather but in spite of the cold they wandered up and down the roads of the Park for nearly three hours. They agreed to break off their intercourse: every bond, he said, is a bond to sorrow. When they came out of the Park they walked in silence towards the tram; but here she began to tremble so violently that, fearing another collapse on her part, he bade her good-bye quickly and left her. A few days later he received a parcel containing his books and music. Four years passed. Mr. Duffy returned to his even way of life. His room still bore witness of the orderliness of his mind. Some new pieces of music encumbered the music-stand in the lower room and on his shelves stood two volumes by Nietzsche: Thus Spake Zarathustra and The Gay Science. He wrote seldom in the sheaf of papers which lay in his desk. One of his sentences, written two months after his last interview with Mrs. Sinico, read: Love between man and man is impossible because there must not be sexual intercourse and friendship between man and woman is impossible because there must be sexual intercourse. He kept away from concerts lest he should meet her. His father died; the junior partner of the bank retired. And still every morning he went into the city by tram and every evening walked home from the city after having dined moderately in George's Street and read the evening paper for dessert. One evening as he was about to put a morsel of corned beef and cabbage into his mouth his hand stopped. His eyes fixed themselves on a paragraph in the evening paper which he had propped against the water-carafe. He replaced the morsel of food on his plate and read the paragraph attentively. Then he drank a glass of water, pushed his plate to one side, doubled the paper down before him between his elbows and read the paragraph over and over again. The cabbage began to deposit a cold white grease on his plate. The girl came over to him to ask was his dinner not properly cooked. He said it was very good and ate a few mouthfuls of it with difficulty. Then he paid his bill and went out. He walked along quickly through the November twilight, his stout hazel stick striking the ground regularly, the fringe of the buff Mail peeping out of a side-pocket of his tight reefer overcoat. On the lonely road which leads from the Parkgate to Chapelizod he slackened his pace. His stick struck the ground less emphatically and his breath, issuing irregularly, almost with a sighing sound, condensed in the wintry air. When he reached his house he went up at once to his bedroom and, taking the paper from his pocket, read the paragraph again by the failing light of the window. He read it not aloud, but moving his lips as a priest does when he reads the prayers Secreto. This was the paragraph:

DEATH OF A LADY AT SYDNEY PARADE A PAINFUL CASE

Today at the City of Dublin Hospital the Deputy Coroner (in the absence of Mr. Leverett) held an inquest on the body of Mrs. Emily Sinico, aged forty-three years, who was killed at Sydney Parade Station yesterday evening. The evidence showed that the deceased lady, while attempting to cross the line, was knocked down by the engine of the ten o'clock slow train from Kingstown, thereby sustaining injuries of the head and right side which led to her death. James Lennon, driver of the engine, stated that he had been in the employment of the railway company for fifteen years. On hearing the guard's whistle he set the train in motion and a second or two afterwards brought it to rest in response to loud cries. The train was going slowly. P. Dunne, railway porter, stated that as the train was about to start he observed a woman attempting to cross the lines. He ran towards her and shouted, but, before he could reach her, she was caught by the buffer of the engine and fell to the ground. A juror. "You saw the lady fall?" Witness. "Yes." Police Sergeant Croly deposed that when he arrived he found the deceased lying on the platform apparently dead. He had the body taken to the waiting-room pending the arrival of the ambulance. Constable 57 corroborated. Dr. Halpin, assistant house surgeon of the City of Dublin Hospital, stated that the deceased had two lower ribs fractured and had sustained severe contusions of the right shoulder. The right side of the head had been injured in the fall. The injuries were not sufficient to have caused death in a normal person. Death, in his opinion, had been probably due to shock and sudden failure of the heart's action. Mr. H. B. Patterson Finlay, on behalf of the railway company, expressed his deep regret at the accident. The company had always taken every precaution to prevent people crossing the lines except by the bridges, both by placing notices in every station and by the use of patent spring gates at level crossings. The deceased had been in the habit of crossing the lines late at night from platform to platform and, in view of certain other circumstances of the case, he did not think the railway officials were to blame. Captain Sinico, of Leoville, Sydney Parade, husband of the deceased, also gave evidence. He stated that the deceased was his wife. He was not in Dublin at the time of the accident as he had arrived only that morning from Rotterdam. They had been married for twenty-two years and had lived happily until about two years ago when his wife began to be rather intemperate in her habits. Miss Mary Sinico said that of late her mother had been in the habit of going out at night to buy spirits. She, witness, had often tried to reason with her mother and had induced her to join a League. She was not at home until an hour after the accident. The jury returned a verdict in accordance with the medical evidence and exonerated Lennon from all blame. The Deputy Coroner said it was a most painful case, and expressed great sympathy with Captain Sinico and his daughter. He urged on the railway company to take strong measures to prevent the possibility of similar accidents in the future. No blame attached to anyone.

Mr. Duffy raised his eyes from the paper and gazed out of his window on the cheerless evening landscape. The river lay quiet beside the empty distillery and from time to time a light appeared in some house on the Lucan road. What an end! The whole narrative of her death revolted him and it revolted him to think that he had ever spoken to her of what he held sacred. The threadbare phrases, the inane expressions of sympathy, the cautious words of a reporter won over to conceal the details of a commonplace vulgar death attacked his stomach. Not merely had she degraded herself; she had degraded him. He saw the squalid tract of her vice, miserable and malodorous. His soul's companion! He thought of the hobbling wretches whom he had seen carrying cans and bottles to be filled by the barman. Just God, what an end! Evidently she had been unfit to live, without any strength of purpose, an easy prey to habits, one of the wrecks on which civilisation has been reared. But that she could have sunk so low! Was it possible he had deceived himself so utterly about her? He remembered her outburst of that night and interpreted it in a harsher sense than he had ever done. He had no difficulty now in approving of the course he had taken. As the light failed and his memory began to wander he thought her hand touched his. The shock which had first attacked his stomach was now attacking his nerves. He put on his overcoat and hat quickly and went out. The cold air met him on the threshold; it crept into the sleeves of his coat. When he came to the public-house at Chapelizod Bridge he went in and ordered a hot punch. The proprietor served him obsequiously but did not venture to talk. There were five or six workingmen in the shop discussing the value of a gentleman's estate in County Kildare They drank at intervals from their huge pint tumblers and smoked, spitting often on the floor and sometimes dragging the sawdust over their spits with their heavy boots. Mr. Duffy sat on his stool and gazed at them, without seeing or hearing them. After a while they went out and he called for another punch. He sat a long time over it. The shop was very quiet. The proprietor sprawled on the counter reading the Herald and yawning. Now and again a tram was heard swishing along the lonely road outside. As he sat there, living over his life with her and evoking alternately the two images in which he now conceived her, he realised that she was dead, that she had ceased to exist, that she had become a memory. He began to feel ill at ease. He asked himself what else could he have done. He could not have carried on a comedy of deception with her; he could not have lived with her openly. He had done what seemed to him best. How was he to blame? Now that she was gone he understood how lonely her life must have been, sitting night after night alone in that room. His life would be lonely too until he, too, died, ceased to exist, became a memory -- if anyone remembered him. It was after nine o'clock when he left the shop. The night was cold and gloomy. He entered the Park by the first gate and walked along under the gaunt trees. He walked through the bleak alleys where they had walked four years before. She seemed to be near him in the darkness. At moments he seemed to feel her voice touch his ear, her hand touch his. He stood still to listen. Why had he withheld life from her? Why had he sentenced her to death? He felt his moral nature falling to pieces. When he gained the crest of the Magazine Hill he halted and looked along the river towards Dublin, the lights of which burned redly and hospitably in the cold night. He looked down the slope and, at the base, in the shadow of the wall of the Park, he saw some human figures lying. Those venal and furtive loves filled him with despair. He gnawed the rectitude of his life; he felt that he had been outcast from life's feast. One human being had seemed to love him and he had denied her life and happiness: he had sentenced her to ignominy, a death of shame. He knew that the prostrate creatures down by the wall were watching him and wished him gone. No one wanted him; he was outcast from life's feast. He turned his eyes to the grey gleaming river, winding along towards Dublin. Beyond the river he saw a goods train winding out of Kingsbridge Station, like a worm with a fiery head winding through the darkness, obstinately and laboriously. It passed slowly out of sight; but still he heard in his ears the laborious drone of the engine reiterating the syllables of her name. He turned back the way he had come, the rhythm of the engine pounding in his ears. He began to doubt the reality of what memory told him. He halted under a tree and allowed the rhythm to die away. He could not feel her near him in the darkness nor her voice touch his ear. He waited for some minutes listening. He could hear nothing: the night was perfectly silent. He listened again: perfectly silent. He felt that he was alone.

NOTES

1 Maynootb Catechism - a book containing a short summary of the principles of the Roman Catholic religion, edited by the Royal Catholic college 2 Hauptmann's Michael Kramer — a tragedy written by Gerhard Hauptmann, a German writer (1862—1946) 3 The Rotunda — a concert hall in Dublin

Character-Images 1. What means of characterization does the writer employ to create the image of Mr. Duffy? 2. Do the house he lived in and his belongings serve to characterize Mr. Duffy? 3. What role do the descriptions of his habits and interests play in revealing his character? 4. Which of his features are mainly revealed by actions? 5. What means does the author use to characterize Mrs. Sinico? What details in her portrayal imply that she was a passioriafe'woman, able to experience strong and sincere emotions? 6. Can Mrs. Sinico be regarded as a foil to Mr. Duffy? How do they differ in temperament and character? 7. Who do you think is to blame for her death? 8. What was Mr. Duffy's first reaction to the news of Mrs. Sinico's death? Trace all the subtle changes of his state of mind later. Does he finally accuse himself? What feeling does he experience in the end?

Style, Setting, Message 1. Which of the settings reinforce characterization? 2. Does the narrative method which J. Joyce chose to tell the story enable him to trace all the workings of Mr. Duffy's mind? What representational form does he use for that purpose? 3. What role do the minor characters play? 4. Compare the style of the newspaper item with that of the story. Why do you think the author inserted it into the story? 5. Is the pounding of the train in the final scene an artistic detail or symbol? What does is imply? 6. What other artistic details or symbols did you find in the story? 7. Does the title in any way contribute to the message of the story? 8. What feelings does (he author arouse towards the protagonist? 9. What is the irony of the end of the story? 10. Does the story produce an enduring impression?

SUGGESTIONS FOR COMPARATIVE ANALYSIS 1. Compare the stories The Lady's Maid and The Pleasures of Solitude in terms of theme and message. 2. What similarities and distinctions do you trace in the major character-images? Are the means of characterization alike in both the stories? 3. Compare the stories in terms or point view and the author's altitude to the major characters. 4. How is the irony developed in each of the stories? 5. What emotional response does each story evoke in the reader? 6. Which of the two stories impressed you more? Account for your choice. 7. Compare the stories in terms of techniques conveying implication. Which techniques do K. Mansfield and J. Cheever resort lo? 8. Are the maid and her lady contrasted? Is the contrast suggestive? How is it related to the message of the story? 9. What similar features of the maid are revealed in the varying scenes of K. Mansfield's story? 10. In which of the two stories does the author resort to artistic details? How are the artistic details related to the message? 11. Compare the functions of the titles in the two stories. How is each title related to the message? Does it reveal the author's attitude? What role does the title play in each of the stories? 12. How is the author's message conveyed in each of the compared stories? Do the writers employ identical means of conveying the message? Support your view in each case by specific reference to the texts of both the stories. 13. Compare the stories The Legacy and A Painful Case in terms of theme and message. How do V. Woolf and J. Joyce bring the message home to the reader? Do they resort to different techniques? 14. Compare the two stories in terms of literary techniques that contribute to suspense. Are they identical? 15. What types of irony are used in each of the stories? How effective is the irony? 16. Compare the functions of the titles in both the stories. How is each title related to the message? 17. What type of conflict is each story based on? 18. Which of the two stories impressed you most? Why?