Eng21 Compilation 2nd Tri 18 19

I ntr o t o L i te r atur e |1
TABLE OF CONTENTS
COURSE SYLLABUS ------------------------------------------ 2
PART I INTRODUCTION --------------------------------- 5

Literature and its importance -------------------------------------------- 5
Genres of literature ------------------------------------------------------ 7
PART II SHORT STORY ---------------------------------- 10

Elements of Short Story ------------------------------------------------- 10
ASIAN SHORT STORIES
Footnote to Youth by Jose Garcia Villa -------------------- 15

Champoon by Theb Mahapaorya ---------------------------------- 24
Rashomon by Ryunusuke Akutagawa ----------------------------- 37
Karma by Khuswant Singh ---------------------------------------- 46
Feast of the Dead by Cevdet Kudret ----------------- 53
WESTERN SHORT STORIES

The Cask of Amontillado by Edgar Allan Poe ------------------- 59
The Unicorn in the Garden by James Thurber ------------------ 68
The Law of Life by Jack London --------------------------------- 72
The Necklace by Guy De Maupassant --------------------------- 78
The Lady or the Tiger? by Frank Stockston ---------------- 89
PART III POETRY 96

Poetry and its Forms ------------------------------------------------- 97
Elements of Poetry --------------------------------------------------- 97
POETRY ANALYSIS GUIDE-------------------------------------------------- 102
Figures of Speech ---------------------------------------------------- 105
Some poems for interpretations ------------------------------------ 107
References ----------------------------------------------------------------------- 116

REPUBLIC OF THE PHILIPPINES

RC-AL KHWARIZMI INTERNATIONAL COLLEGE, FOUNDATION, INC.
BASAK MALUTLUT, MARAWI CITY
COURSE SYLLABUS
Course: ENGLISH 21
Course Description: INTRODUCTION TO LITERATURE
Units: 3 (4 hours/week)
Course Description:
This course covers the basic aspects of literature including its genres,
elements, and types. Some chosen classic literary pieces are included to be tackled
throughout the trimester. Additional literary pieces may be included if needed.
Objectives:
At the end of the course, students are expected to:
1. define what is literature;

2. discuss why literature reflects life;
3. enumerate and classify the genres of literature;
4. write a reflection paper on the different literary pieces covered in the
class;
5. and appreciate the beauty in reading and be able to develop their reading
skills.
COURSE CONTENT
I. INTRODUCTION
A. Literature and its importance
B. Genres of literature
II. SHORT STORY
A. Elements of Short Story
B. ASIAN SHORT STORIES
1. Footnote to Youth by Jose Garcia Villa (Philippines)

2. Champoon by Theb Mahapaorya (Thailand)
3. Rashomon By Ryunusuke Akutagawa (Japan)

4. Karma by Khuswant Singh (India)
5. Feast of the Dead by Cevdet Kudret (Turkey)
C. WESTERN SHORT STORIES

1. The Cask of Amontillado by Edgar Allan Poe (United States)
2. The Unicorn in the Garden by James Thurber (United States)
3. The Law of Life by Jack London(United States)
4. The Necklace by Guy De Maupassant (Europe)
5. The Lady or the Tiger? by Frank Stockston (United States)
III. POETRY
A. Poetry and its Forms
B. Elements of Poetry
C. Poetry Analysis Guide
D. Figures of Speech
E. Some poems for interpretations
MAJOR COURSE REQUIREMENTS:
1. COMPILATION. Get a copy of the compilation on the short stories and

poems included in the syllabus.
GRADING SYSTEM:
Attendance and Behavior ----------------------------- 10%

Assignments/Classroom Activity/Oral Rec. ---------------- 20%
Compilation, Major Requirements and Chapter Tests -------- 35%
Major Exams --------------------------------------- 35%
100%
(50% Passing Rate)
REFERENCES:
Tomeldan, Y et.al. (2009). PRISM: An Introduction to Literature. Mandaluyong
City: National Book Store.
Foresman, Scott. (1997). Literature and Integrated Studies. Scott and Company,
Glenview Illinois, United States of America.
Macagaan, Ailannie. POETRY (workbook). 2015

PART I
LITERATURE
PART I
LITERATURE
"Literature adds to reality, it does not simply

describe it. It enriches the necessary
competencies that daily life requires and
provides; and in this respect, it irrigates the
deserts that our lives have already become."
- C.S. Lewis, a British scholar and novelist.
The given quote is perhaps the most appropriate description of the

importance of literature in our lives. Literature reminds us of stories, epics,
sacred scriptures and classical works of the ancient and modern times. Literature
is defined as the body of written works of a language, period or culture,
produced by scholars and researchers, specialized in a given field.
Why is literature important? As stated in the quotation by C.S. Lewis,

literature not only describes reality but also adds to it. Yes, literature is not
merely a depiction of reality; it is rather a value-addition. Literary works are
portrayals of the thinking patterns and social norms prevalent in society. They are
a depiction of the different facets of common man's life. Classical literary works
serve as a food for thought and an avenue for imagination and creativity. Exposing
an individual to good literary works, is equivalent to providing him/her with the
finest of educational opportunities. On the other hand, the lack of exposure to
classic literary works is equal to depriving an individual from an opportunity to
grow as an individual.
Prose, poetry, drama, essays, fiction, literary works based on philosophy,

art, history, religion, and culture and also scientific and legal writings are grouped
under the category of literature. Creative nonfiction of the ancient times and
literary journalism also fall under literature.
Some of the great literary works like the Bible and Indian epics like
Ramayana and Mahabharata, among others, provide society with the guiding
principles of life. Ancient poetic works by poets like Homer, Plato, Sappho, Horace
and Virgil, Shakespeare's sonnets and notable poetry by W.B. Yeats, John Keats,
Wordsworth, Tennyson and William Blake are timeless. The Lord of the Rings, The
Godfather, A Tale of Two Cities, James Bond series are some of the best-selling
books of all time. The Adventures of Pinocchio, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland,
Winnie-the-Pooh were some of the greatest works in children's literature. The

relatively recent Harry Potter series made record sales across the globe. These
are few examples of literary pieces.
It is through reading such great literary and poetic works, that one
understands life. They help a person take a closer look at the different faces of
life. In many ways, it can change one's perspective towards life.
Check for Understanding:

Name: ____________________________ Date: __________
Why is reading literature important for you as a future professional? 10

pts.
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GENRES OF LITERATURE
 Fiction refers to literary works of imagination such as novels and
stories that describe imaginary people and events.
 Nonfiction refers to factual writing: writings that convey factual
information and are not primarily works of the creative imagination
Types of Fiction
 Drama is the genre of literature that‘s subject for compositions , dramatic art
in the way it is represented. This genre is stories composed in verse or
prose, usually for theatrical performance, where conflicts and emotion
are expressed through dialogue and action.
 Poetry is verse and rhythmic writing with imagery that evokes an emotional
response from the reader. The art of poetry is rhythmical in
composition, written or spoken.
 A Fable is a story about supernatural or extraordinary people usually in the form

of narration that demonstrates a useful truth. In Fables, animals often
speak as humans that are legendary and supernatural tales.
 Short Story is fiction of such briefness that is not able to support any subplots.
 Folklore are songs, stories, myths, and proverbs of a person of ―folk‖ that was
handed down by word of mouth. Folklore is a genre of literature that is
widely held, but false and based on unsubstantiated beliefs.
 Historical Fiction is a story with fictional characters and events in a historical

setting.
 Legend is a story that sometimes of a national or folk hero. Legend is based on

fact but also includes imaginative material.
 Mystery is a genre of fiction that deals with the solution of a crime or the
unraveling of secrets. Anything that is kept secret or remains
unexplained or unknown.
 Mythology is a type of legend or traditional narrative. This is often based in part
on historical events, that reveals human behavior and natural
phenomena by its symbolism; often pertaining to the actions of the
gods.
Types of Nonfiction:
 Narrative Nonfiction is information based on fact that is presented in a format
which tells a story.
 Essays are a short literary composition that reflects the author‘s outlook or point.
A short literary composition on a particular theme or subject, usually
in prose and generally analytic, speculative, or interpretative.
 A Biography is a written account of another person‘s life.
 An Autobiography gives the history of a person‘s life, written or told by that
person.
 Speech is the faculty or power of speaking; oral communication; ability to express
one‘s thoughts and emotions by speech, sounds, and gesture.
Name: ____________________________ Date: __________
TRUE OR FALSE. Write your family name if the statement is true, and write you
first name if the statement is false.
_____________ 1. A song is a poetry.
_____________ 2. Murder, obsession, revenge can be a tool for writing a
mystery.
_____________ 3. Noli Me Tangere and El Filibusterismo are examples of fables.
_____________ 4. Autobiography is writing about other people‘s lives.
_____________ 5. Fictions are real.
_____________ 6. Jose Rizal is considered a legend.
_____________ 7. Dramas are made to be enacted on stage.
_____________ 8. Zeus, Athena, Apollo and other gods and goddesses are
characters in mythology.
_____________ 9. Essays are not writing about own opinions.
_____________ 10. Fiction and Nonfiction are genres of literature.
PART II
SHORT STORY
I n t r o t o L i t e r a t u r e | 10
PART II
SHORT STORY
ELEMENTS OF SHORT STORY
1. SETTING
The time and location in which a story takes place is called the setting.
There are several aspects of a story's setting to consider when examining
how setting contributes to a story:
a) place - geographical location. Where is the action of the story taking
place?
b) time - When is the story taking place? (historical period, time of day,
year, etc)
c) weather conditions - Is it rainy, sunny, stormy, etc?
d) social conditions - What is the daily life of the characters like? Does
the story contain local colour (writing that focuses on the speech, dress,
mannerisms, customs, etc. of a particular place)?
e) mood or atmosphere - What feeling is created at the beginning of the
story? Is it bright and cheerful or dark and frightening?
2. PLOT
The plot is how the author arranges events to develop his basic idea; It is
the sequence of events in a story or play. The plot is a planned, logical series of
events having a beginning, middle, and end. The figure below shows the traditional
plot.
Climax/Crisis
Complication
Conflict
Dénouement/
Resolution
Exposition
Types of Plot:
1. Linear (Traditional/a-z plot). The story is in chronological order—
from the very beginning to the end.
2. In media res. The story starts in the middle, that is, it
immediately opens with the conflict of the story, while the
characters and settings are described all throughout the story.
3. Circular. The story uses flashback to reveal important past events
that contribute to the plot of the story.
3. CONFLICT
Conflict is essential to plot. Without conflict there is no plot. It is the
opposition of forces which ties one incident to another and makes the plot
move. Conflict is not merely limited to open arguments; rather it is any form of
opposition that faces the main character. Within a short story there may be only
one central struggle, or there may be one dominant struggle with many minor ones.
There are two major types of conflict:
1) External - A struggle with a force outside one's self.

2) Internal - A struggle within one's self; a person must make some
decision, overcome pain, quiet their temper, resist an urge, etc.
There are four sub-types of conflict:
1) Man vs. Man (physical) - The leading character struggles with his
physical strength against other men, forces of nature, or animals.
2) Man vs. Circumstances (classical) - The leading character
struggles against fate, or the circumstances of life facing him/her.
3) Man vs. Society (social) - The leading character struggles against
ideas, practices, or customs of other people.
4) Man vs. Himself/Herself (psychological) - The leading character
struggles with himself/herself; with his/her own soul, ideas of right
or wrong, physical limitations, choices, etc.
4. CHARACTER
Short stories use few characters. One character who is clearly
central to the story is the PROTAGONIST. And the character opposed to
the main character is called the ANTAGONIST.
5. POINT OF VIEW
Point of view is defined as the angle from which the story is told.
Most commonly used point of views are:
1. First Person - The story is told by the protagonist or one of the
characters who interacts closely with the protagonist or other
characters (using pronouns I, me, we, etc). The reader sees the story
through this person's eyes as he/she experiences it and only knows what
he/she knows or feels.
2. Omniscient- The author can narrate the story using the THIRD
PERSON point of view. He can move from character to character, event
to event, having free access to the thoughts, feelings and motivations of
his characters and he introduces information where and when he
chooses.
6. SYMBOLISM
Many novelists deepen the meaning of their stories by employing symbolism,
the use of objects or ideas as symbols that represent other, more abstract
concepts. With symbols, authors can write scenes that deepen the reader‘s
understanding of the theme of the literary piece.
Examples: eagle would symbolize bravery and strength

Dove would symbolize peace.
7. THEME
The theme in a piece of fiction is its controlling idea or its central
insight. It is the author's underlying meaning or main idea that he is trying to
convey. The theme may be the author's thoughts about a topic or view of human
nature. The title of the short story usually points to what the writer is saying.
Example: Love conquers all.

Death is inevitable.
NOTES
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Compiled by Ms. Jao Yusoph

ASIAN
SHORT STORIES
FOOTNOTE TO YOUTH
by Jose Garcia Villa
The sun was salmon and hazy in the west. Dodong thought to himself he would tell
his father about Teang when he got home, after he had unhitched the carabao
from the plow, and led it to its shed and fed it. He was hesitant about saying it, he
wanted his father to know what he had to say was of serious importance as it
would mark a climacteric in his life. Dodong finally decided to tell it, but a thought
came to him that his father might refuse to consider it. His father was a silent
hardworking farmer, who chewed areca nut, which he had learned to do from his
mother, Dodong‘s grandmother.
He wished as he looked at her that he had a sister who could help his mother in
the housework.
I will tell him. I will tell it to him.
The ground was broken up into many fresh wounds and fragrant with a sweetish
earthy smell. Many slender soft worm emerged from the further rows and then
burrowed again deeper into the soil. A short colorless worm marched blindly to
Dodong‘s foot and crawled clammilu over it. Dodong got tickled and jerked his foot,
flinging the worm into the air. Dodong did not bother to look where into the air,
but thought of his age, seventeen, and he said to himself he was not young
anymore.
Dodong unhitched the it a carabao leisurely and fave healthy tap on the hip. The
beast turned its head to look at him with dumb faithful eyes. Dodong gave it a
slight push and the animal walked alongside him to its shed. He placed bundles of
grass before it and the carabao began to eat. Dodong looked at it without interest.
Dodong started homeward thinking how he would break his news to his father. He
wanted to marry, Dodong did. He was seventeen, he had pimples on his face, then
down on his upper lip was dark-these meant he was no longer a boy. He was growing
into a man – he was a man. Dodong felt insolent and big at the thought of it,
although he was by nature low in stature.
Thinking himself man – grown, Dodong felt he could do anything.
He walked faster, prodded by the thought of his virility. A small angled stone bled
his foot, but he dismissed it cursorily. He lifted his leg and looked at the hurt toe
and then went on walking. In the cool sundown, he thought wild young dreams of
himself and Teang, his girl. She had a small brown face and small black eyes
and straight glossy hair.How desirable she was to him. She made him want to
touch her, to hold her. She made him dream even during the day.
Dodong tensed with desire and looked at the muscle of his arms. Dirty. This
fieldwork was healthy invigorating, but it begrimed you, smudged you terribly. He
turned back the way he had come, then marched obliquely to a creek.
Must you marry, Dodong?‖
Dodong resented his father‘s question; his father himself had married early.
Dodong stripped himself and laid his clothes, a gray under shirt and
red kundiman shorts, on the grass. Then he went into the water, wet his body over
and rubbed at it vigorously.He was not long in bathing, then he marched homeward
again. The bath made him feel cool.
It was dusk when he reached home. The petroleum lamp on the ceiling was already
lighted and the low unvarnished square table was set for supper. He and his
parents sat down on the floor around the table to eat. They had fried freshwater
fish, and rice, but did not partake of the fruit. The bananas were overripe and
when one held the,, they felt more fluid than solid. Dodong broke off a piece of
caked sugar, dipped it in his glass of water and ate it. He got another piece and
wanted some more, but he thought of leaving the remainder for his parent.
Dodong‘s mother removed the dishes when they were through, and went with slow
careful steps and Dodong wanted to help her carry the dishes out. But he was
tired and now, feld lazy. He wished as he looked at her that he had a sister who
could help his mother in the housework. He pitied her, doing all the housework
alone.
His father remained in the room, sucking a diseased tooth. It was paining him,
again. Dodong knew, Dodong had told him often and again to let the town dentist
pull it out, but he was afraid, his father was. He did not tell that to Dodong, but
Dodong guessed it. Afterward, Dodong himself thought that if he had a decayed
tooth, he would be afraid to go to the dentist; he would not be any bolder than his
father.
Dodong said while his mother was out that he was going to marry Teang. There it
was out, what we had to say, and over which he head said it without any effort at
all and without self-consciousness. Dodong felt relieved and looked at his father
expectantly. A decresent moon outside shed its feebled light into the window,
graying the still black temples of his father. His father look old now.
―I am going to marry Teang,‖ Dodong said.

His father looked at him silently and stopped sucking the broken tooth, The
silenece became intense and cruel, and Dodong was uncomfortable and then became
very angry because his father kept looking at him without uttering anything.
―I will marry Teang,‖ Dodong repeated. ―I will marry Teang.‖
His father kept gazing at him in flexible silence and Dodong fidgeted on his seat.
I asked her last night to marry me and she said… ―Yes. I want your permission… I…
want… it…‖ There was an impatient clamor in his voice, an exacting protest at his
coldness, this indifference. Dodong looked at his father sourly. He cracked his
knuckles one by one, and the little sound it made broke dully the night stillness.
―Must you marry, Dodong?‖
Dodong resented his father‘s question; his father himself had married
early.Dodong made a quick impassioned essay in his mind about selfishness, but
later, he got confused.
―You are very young, Dodong.‖
―I‘m seventeen.‖
―That‘s very young to get married at.‖
―I… I want to marry… Teang‘s a good girl…
―Tell your mother,‖ his father said.
―You tell her, Tatay.‖
―Dodong, you tell your Inay.‖
―You tell her.‖
―All right, Dodong.‖
―All right, Dodong.‖
―You will let me marry Teang?‖
―Son, if that is your wish… of course…‖ There was a strange helpless light in his
father‘s eyes. Dodong did not read it. Too absorbed was he in himself.
Dodong was immensely glad he has asserted himself. He lost his resentment for his
father, for a while, he even felt sorry for him about the pain I his tooth. Then he
confined his mind dreaming of Teang and himself. Sweet young dreams…
***
Dodong stood in the sweltering noon heat, sweating profusely so that

his camisetawas damp. He was still like a tree and his thoughts were confused. His
mother had told him not to leave the house, but he had left. He wanted to get out
of it without clear reason at all.He was afraid, he felt afraid of the house. It had
seemingly caged him, to compress his thoughts with severe tyranny. He was also
afraid of Teang who was giving birth in the house; she face screams that chilled
his blood. He did not want her to scream like that. He began to wonder madly if
the process of childbirth was really painful. Some women, when they gave birth,
did not cry.
In a few moments he would be a father. ―Father, father,‖ he whispered the word

with awe, with strangeness. He was young, he realized now contradicting himself of
nine months ago. He was very young… He felt queer, troubled, uncomfortable.
Dodong felt tired of standing. He sat down on a saw-horse with his feet close
together. He looked at his calloused toes. Then he thought, supposed he had ten
children…
The journey of thought came to a halt when he heard his mother‘s voice from the
house.
Somehow, he was ashamed to his mother of his youthful paternity. It made him
feel guilty, as if he had taken something not properly his.
―Come up, Dodong. It is over.‖
Suddenly, he felt terribly embarrassed as he looked at her. Somehow, he was

ashamed to his mother of his youthful paternity. It made him feel guilty, as if he
has taken something not properly his. He dropped his eyes and pretended to dust
off his kundimanshorts.
―Dodong,‖ his mother called again. ―Dodong.‖
He turned to look again and this time, he saw his father beside his mother.
―It is a boy.‖ His father said. He beckoned Dodong to come up.

Dodong felt more embarrassed and did not move. His parent‘s eyes seemed to
pierce through him so he felt limp. He wanted to hide or even run away from them.
―Dodong, you come up. You come up,‖ his mother said.
Dodong did not want to come up. He‘d rather stayed in the sun.
―Dodong… Dodong.‖
I‘ll… come up.
Dodong traced the tremulous steps on the dry parched yard. He ascended the
bamboo steps slowly. His heart pounded mercilessly in him. Within, he avoided his
parent‘s eyes. He walked ahead of them so that they should not see his face. He
felt guilty and untru. He felt like crying. His eyes smarted and his chest wanted to
burst. He wanted to turn back, to go back to the yard. He wanted somebody to
punish him.
―Son,‖ his father said.
And his mother: ―Dodong..‖
How kind their voices were. They flowed into him, making him strong.
―Teanf?‖ Dodong said.
―She‘s sleeping. But you go in…‖
His father led him into the small sawali room. Dodong saw Teang, his wife, asleep
on the paper with her soft black hair around her face. He did not want her to look
that pale.
Dodong wanted to touch her, to push away that stray wisp of hair that touched her
lips. But again that feeling of embarrassment came over him, and before his
parent, he did not want to be demonstrative.
The hilot was wrapping the child Dodong heard him cry. The thin voice touched his
heart. He could not control the swelling of happiness in him.
―You give him to me. You give him to me,‖ Dodong said.
***
Blas was not Dodong‘s only child. Many more children came. For six successive
years, a new child came along. Dodong did not want any more children. But they
came. It seemed that the coming of children could not helped. Dodong got angry
with himself sometimes.
Teang did not complain, but the bearing of children tolled on her. She was
shapeless and thin even if she was young. There was interminable work that kept
her tied up. Cooking, laundering. The house. The children. She cried sometimes,
wishing she had no married. She did not tell Dodong this, not wishing him to dislike
her. Yet, she wished she had not married. Not even Dodong whom she loved. There
had neen another suitor, Lucio older than Dodong by nine years and that wasw why
she had chosen Dodong.Young Dodong who was only seventeen. Lucio had married
another. Lucio, she wondered, would she have born him children? Maybe not,
either. That was a better lot. But she loved Dodong… in the moonlight, tired and
querulous. He wanted to ask questions and somebody to answer him. He wanted to
be wise about many things.
Life did not fulfill all of Youth‘s dreams.
Why must be so? Why one was forsaken… after love?
One of them was why life did not fulfill all of the youth‘ dreams. Why it must be
so. Why one was forsaken… after love.
Dodong could not find the answer. Maybe the question was not to be answered. It
must be so to make youth. Youth must be dreamfully sweet. Dreamfully sweet.
Dodong returned to the house, humiliated by himself. He had wanted to know little
wisdom but was denied it.
When Blas was eighteen, he came home one night, very flustered and happy.Dodong
heard Blas‘ steps for he could not sleep well at night. He watched Blass undress in
the dark and lie down softly. Blas was restless on his mat and could not
sleep. Dodong called his name and asked why he did not sleep.
You better go to sleep. It is late,‖ Dodong said.
Life did not fulfill all of youth‘s dreams. Why it must be so? Why one was forsaken
after love?
―Itay..‖ Blas called softly.
Dodong stirred and asked him what it was.
―I‘m going to marry Tona. She accepted me tonight.
―Itay, you think it‘s over.‖

Dodong lay silent.
I loved Tona and… I want her.‖
Dodong rose from his mat and told Blas to follow him. They descended to the yard
where everything was still and quiet.
The moonlight was cold and white.
―You want to marry Tona, Dodong said, although he did not want Blas to marry
yet. Blas was very young. The life that would follow marriage would be hard…
―Yes.‖
―Must you marry?‖
Blas‘ voice was steeled with resentment. ―I will mary Tona.‖
―You have objection, Itay?‖ Blas asked acridly.
―Son… none…‖ But for Dodong, he do anything. Youth must triumph… now.
Afterward… It will be life.
As long ago, Youth and Love did triumph for Dodong… and then life.
Dodong looked wistfully at his young son in the moonlight. He felt extremely sad
and sorry for him.
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NAME: ___________________________ Date: __________
Elements:
Setting(s): __________________________________________
Characters:
Protagonist(s): ______________________________ (main character)
_____________________________ (main character)
Antagonist: ______________________________ (main character)
Plot: Type: Please check: [ ] linear [ ] circular [ ] in medias res

Conflict: Please check: [ ] man vs. man
[ ] man vs. society
[ ] man vs. circumstance
[ ] man vs. himself
Point of View: ___________________________
Symbol(s)
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Theme:
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NAME: _______________________________________Date: ___________
Question:
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Answer:
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CHAMPOON
Theb Mahapaorya
Before we went up to the special ward, the director of the hospital warned me. ―This
patient comes from a good family and the story which I have together from his
relatives and friends is connected with people who are still living, wealthy and
influential. And these symptoms are such that, well, in this hospital… We cannot
come to any definite conclusion. You see, we hesitate to call him insane especially in
the legal sense.‖
―Officially, I can only state that this patient received a violent shock. It has been
five months now, and yet, he cannot shake himself free of it. The whole world is shut
off from his consciousness. Only what led up to that shocking event is remembered.
His brain cannot accept any other impressions. This is the whole trouble. We have
tried everything to bring him back to normal. To make him reacts in the normal way.
If he can do it, he will be cured, we think, but if we can‘t then...‖
The doctor shrugged, drew up his hands in a rather hopeless gesture.
The patient was about twenty-seven or twenty-eight. He was well built, and his
illness in no way affected his look. He was not poisoned or emaciated as one might
suppose. In fact, he did not look sick at all. He was good-looking and seemed, his
clothes were proper. He gets up to greet us in a manner of well-bred man. His
personality reflected that of a leader and not a follower.
After the usual introductions by the doctor, he gazed vaguely at me and maintained
a disturbing silence. Nothing that I did or said elicited a response. I remembered
the doctor‘s warnings.
―You must have stayed sometimes in Bhuket?‖
―No, not in Bhuket. It was in Taimuang in Pangnga where I stayed for many years.‖
―Taimuang is the center of many mining districts. Isn‘t it? It must have been great
fun.‖
―It was hell.‖
I was alarmed. ―What? Did it have anything that other places didn‘t have? Like
Hadyai, for example?‖
―Haydai and other such places had women, drinking and gambling. But Taimuang had
champoons, crocodiles and iron chains.‖
―I don‘t understand. What had champoons, crocodiles and iron chains to do with
three voices you have mentioned?‖
―I will tell you.‖ He said.
FROM THEN ON. The current flowed. I had succeeded in breaking the dam that
barred his voice. What follows is the story I got from him I have, however, filled
the gaps with information gather elsewhere. The names of all persons and places are,
of course fictitious.
―My father is governor of Pangnga. I was educated in a boarding school reputed to
be one of the best institutions in Bangkok at the same time. When I was sixteen, I
became a little wild and my father ordered me to go back to Pangnga and I went to
school there. I stayed there for five years.
―My father was one of those people who had long realized that we Thais should do
something about freeing ourselves from foreign economics domination. He had
always tried to lead me towards going into business rather than work in the
government, and he convinced me quite easily, I was out for it. My father retired
and went back to Bangkok. I became independent and took a clerical job in Australian
mining company in Pangnga. My father irregular life and education is equipped me for
this job since I spoke, Malay, Hokken and Hailam. The firm was ready to pay any
price for someone who knew three languages in addition to English and Thai. I was
paid two hundred baths, a salary I couldn‘t dream of getting if I went to live with my
father in Bangkok.‖
―However, I only worked for two years with Australians. An American firm, the
Yukon Gold Mining Company, opened a mine near Taimuang and wanted someone who
could control all its Asiatic labourers and also act as liaison with government
officials. I applied at once and out of more than ten applicants, the company chose
me, the youngest. I was paid about four hundred baths, Aside from this, the
manager allowed me to handle the building and other contracts, so that in a very
short time I was earning an average eight hundred baths a month.
―For a young man of twenty-four who earned eight hundred baths, though this was
not unusual in Bucket, it means a significant and inevitable change in my life. When I
was earning two hundred baths. I always had enough money left to save. I led a quiet
life, I read, and listened to the radio after work.
―But when I began to earn eight hundred, my money rarely lasted the month. It was
not anything to wonder at Nai Amnuey had made a reputation for himself, a
reputation for all the vices in the garden, Yes, I was news where women, drinking,
gambling were concerned.
―I was also ahead in other things. I never allowed anybody to act superior to me; I
was always the leader, never a follower. And I played the role well too. I believe my
social background came in handy; I left at home in an any company, weather of Thais
or of a foreigners and what is more my money made me a friend of everyone.
―The places where I love to spend my time best were the various clubs in Taimuang.
The town was the center of travel in the region, from its roads led to all directions.
From there one could go to many places and company‘s headquarters only a short
distance away at the most interesting dens were there too.
―I would like you to pay close attention because what follows is important.
―There were two ways of travelling from Taimuang to the mouth of the river where
the company headquarters was from here, you could go upstream in a boat up
toTaqupa Tungmaprao Road, on the other bank. You wait for a bus, and then you go
downstream of Taimuang towards the mouth of the river. This took a lot of time. It
meant sitting stiff in the boat for five or six hours. On top of this, you are never
sure whether you can catch a bus.
―The other way was to get a boat that would take you across the river right to the
area near to the mouth. Then you trek on foot across the jungle to Taimuang. This
would take only about three hours. But there are serious disadvantage traveling this
way, you could easily lose your way in the jungle unless you know the paths very well.
Besides, the part of the river swarmed with crocodiles, the fiercest that I have
ever seen. When my father was governor of Nakom Sritammaraj, I accompanied him
during his crocodile hunting trips in the Park Payuk District which was believed to be
the ideal for crocodile hunting. But really that cannot compare with the river near
our mines. Here the crocodiles would jump without warning at me in the boat. No
wonder that part of the country was desolate with just few families along the banks
of the river. You can imagine why very few people would venture across this river,
especially in a small boat. This district was widely notorious in the province of
Bhuket. Taimuang people, who wanted to visit our mines, refused to cross that river
unless their boat was firm enough and equipped with high, productive walls on both
sides.
―I, of course, used the company‘s boat which was bug and safe. That way was I able
to cross even the dangerous spots. From the bank I would cut across jungle. I
mastered those paths very well since I used them often. Still, I saw to it that I
would be out of the jungle before the dark. Tiger‘s footprints were not rare in the
place.
―You see how attractive vice is. Even tigers and crocodiles would not keep one way.
―I don‘t want to boast, but I must say that I was very popular at Taimuang. And this
led to clash with one important person in Taimuang, in fact the whole Bhuket. The
man was Taokae Soon.
―Taokae Soon was also known as Big Brother Soon. Now if this man had prospered in
Bangkok, his name would have been pronounced in a way that the Chinese meaning
would be kept. But in southern speech it was pronounced either to sound like a
foreigner‘s names as suited the occasion. Taokae Soon was friend and acquaintance
to every man in the regions around Bhuket. But the areas in which influence was
most felt were Taimuang, Takuapa, Pangnga, Koakloy and Tungmaprao. As it were
very case legal or illegal was taken by Big Brother before it reached the court or
was settled outside the court. He visited and he brought them to the best laces.
―All the luxuries available in the region would then be out at their disposal, if an
important official made a wish known, it was at once fulfilled easily succumbed to
the comforts he offered and soon were made into useful instruments.
―Big Brother was strongly nationalistic; he worked for his country, of course. He was
beyond reprimand as far as that goes. I to, was violently nationalistic, but what
enraged me was when he would for a moment forget himself and misbehaves in any
way. Taokae Soon, of course, never insulted anyone in public. He was sarcastically
subtle. I thought I would match subtlety. I was therefore never openly hostile. He
was a veteran gambler, which I was and new in that sort of game. Although several
times, I managed to weaken the tiger‘s stripes with some of my private original
tactics. People began to talk about my strategies and secretly laughed at him. It was
something soon could not forgive.
―Though we never meet in open battle, our conflict became known all over the area,
and it was always incomprehensible to me how everyone, both Chinese and Thai,
seemed to await our meeting and managed to confront us with opportunities by which
we could clash. It seemed to be more kind of an exciting game for them to see me, a
greenhorn, at war with an old tiger like Soon. I was anxious about the day when they
could force us into open battle. Soon had been the king of the jungle for so long that
it was impossible for him to tolerate the situation. How could a tiger, the king, allow
a strange animal to invade his territory without doing anything about it? I told
myself that this would eventually happen to me, if not in broad daylight, then the
dark of the night. I passed the precarious ground between us more carefully. Until….
―Do you know a champoon?‖
―| was started by his question and the new turn in his narration. The doctor left me
alone with this patient. Am I safe? I quickly replied, ―I have heard of it, but have
never really seen one.
―It‘s rare flower in Bangkok, but in the southern provinces, especially in the areas
around Taimuang. I will describe it.
―It‘s of the family of champak. It looks like a champee, but with a velvety calyx
which first wraps up the petals inside the white flower is bud, then this velvety part
opens and later the petals spread out. You can imagine the fragrance released. The
petals are wax like, thick and stiff. They don‘t fade like those of champee. After it
has bloomed the champion lasts several days. Its scent marks that of all other
flowers around it. The scent is over powering compelling, and unyielding.
Isn‘t it strange that soon with all his nationalism should name his only daughter after
this flower? Champoon. Probably he knew how it suited her. At nineteen, Champoon
was a bright and attractive girl, she did not attract at first sight just like the
flower, her name sake. But one you take a second, earnest look, her beauty is
revealed to you. Her emotions are exactly what you should except form a girl with
that name. They changed frequently and they have the same power as the scent of
the flower. They made Champoon‘s made up nothing in the world could change it. No
one could stop her from carrying out what she determined to do.
―Champoon went to school in Bhuket until she was twelve years old, after which her
father thought it was time she stayed home like a good Chinese girl. But Champoon
was that time in Matayom IV, and had tasted enough freedom to rebel at the idea of
spending her life the way her father had mapped it out. Somehow, soon appreciated
the fact that Champoon inherited his wilfulness. He compromised by allowing her to
continue her education at a convent in Penang. This shows that it was not the
education of the girls in itself that he objected to, but he wanted to prevent
Champoon from becoming absorbed into Thai life. It means, of course, that he did
not wish daughter to marry a Thai.
―Soon after Champoon‘s return from school her father‘s will clashed with hers
Taokae Soon continued to be strict with his daughter. And Champoon would yield to a
certain degree, such as refraining from going out all by herself and staying away
from the front of the house which was un-Chinese. This would somewhat offend her
father, but when Champoon decided to go to a place or her presence was required
somewhere, she would not let her father stand in her way. Her father would pretend
knew nothing about it, because his courage failed before her stubbornness, and he
would not press obedience whenever it was more convenient to compromise.
―I must describe to you the way houses are built in the south, so that you would
understand what I meant when I said Champoon agreed not to be seen in the front
porch.
―Lodgings in the southern provinces are built so that they look or less like lodging
house in Bangkok, one room after the long the edge of the street. The houses appear
to have the same length from the street as lodging houses in Bangkok, But they
usually are much longer.Eaxh house may be thirty or forty wah in length. A wah is
nearly one meter to obtain sufficient light; the roof is open in certain places. The
openings are covered either with glass or tin according to what the owner can
afford. The glass or tin covers are movable so that they could be slid over the
openings when it rains. The wealthiest Chinese in the region lived in this kind of
house. Chinese businessmen built beautiful mansions for show, but they preferred to
live where they had prospered in.
Taokae Soon‘s home was built in the way that I have just described. But the house
was outside the town and did not face a busy street. While the back of the house
touched the fringe of the jungle. In Chinese homes, girls were rarely seen in the
front part, and though Champoon did not approve of the practice of keeping women
in the house, she did not care to show herself there and be conspicuously different
from her neighbours. She really enjoyed keeping herself busy with all kinds of
housework and home crafts. She read a great deal, had books sent to her from
penang and Bangkok, and she enjoyed excursions to the jungle.
―We met by accident, and fell in love as if it had long been planned by Brahma. Our
love was sudden but strong and deep. The fact that we have to keep it secret and
that it all seemed hopeless only intensified it. We knew very well that Taokae Soon
would rather see Champoon dead than see her married to the man he hated and
regarded as his worst enemy.
I want you to take note of this. Champoon was very determined girl. Yet she
refused to elope with me. Her education and upbringing held her back. As for me, I
can swear to all the Gods that I loved her. Although we could have eloped, we
preferred to keep within the bounds of tradition and Champoon chose to suffer than
take easy way out.
―Taimuang was a small community, and nothing remained a secret for long. Especially
a love affair like ours. The talk spread in town and soon reached the ear of
Champoon‘s father. I could not see her again. I knew that she was not sent away
because I had men posted around her house to tell me. Don‘t let me tell you if I went
through. I tried every means to communicate with her. I even offered a reward to
anyone who should succeed in taking my letter to her and more reward to the one
who can bring her letter to me. Several attempted but no one succeeded in
transmitting our messages for each other. They only put their lives in danger. During
the period of our earlier hostilities. Taokae Soon and I still observed certain rules
of civility. We were outwardly polite to each other, but now it was an open war. We
glared at each other when we happened to meet, though we tried to avoid each
other. As for Champoon, I got some news about her from some of my agents. She
had been lashed, tortured and was like prisoner in that long dark house. I was exiled
from Bhuket for a long time.
This became a topic for discussion in several circles around the region. A group of
friends hired a motorboat and threw a wild party in place to console me.
That party was memorable. It was in the style that Bhuket was famous for food,
drink and women, I don‘t want to tell you about the quality of the food and wine, but
there was something which money could buy. There was a courtesan from Penang who
was brought along especially for me, but on this occasion, she came on an invitation
which she accepted. On a dark knight a little light is enough for a darkened soul. So
when one suffers because of the absence of one woman one finds consolation in
another. My friends thought they were helping me. I accepted the gift of the devil.
She was called Anita. She was Filipina with a trace of Portuguese. She could pass for
a Thai. She was beautiful beyond doubt and her personality was fascinating. A
beauty that I saw. It was difficult to believe that she was dirt. My friends and I
spent three days and three nights on the boat. They wanted to take me Ranong but I
could not join them because of an important business which detained me. They left
to go on while Anita played behind with me in five or six days, they would be back to
pick her up and bring her back to Penang.
I told Anita to go with my friends on Ranong, but surprisingly, she liked my youth, my
looks, and my good manners, she said.
How those attributes undid me! Yet, what could have laid in store for me? What
could the beautiful Anita do to my life and soul? As soon as my friends had left,
Anita and I went to my residents; it rather excited us to really know each other. My
residence was roughly built wooden bungalow. Three rooms opened to the verandah
from which steps led to the ground. The first room was my bedroom. I had my meals
in the second. A passage from this room takes you to the kitchen and the bathroom.
The last room was always locked since I kept my documents there. Even at night,
However, I seldom locked my bedroom. My bungalow was a little away from the other
houses of the other houses of the company, just a short stretch from the river and
the fringe of the jungle. It was usually quiet and often deserted. I had a servant and
a cook in a daytime. In the evening, all the workmen were mostly in their own
lodgings, gambling or enjoying themselves. The evening before Anita was to be
fetched by my friends, I accepted an invitation to a dinner at the house of the
company‘s engineers by the sea. There were dancing after dinner and the two
engineers had a very good time. I knew that they wanted to meet Anita; hence, the
invitation. It had been quite a long times since the engineers were the women and
the presence of the beautiful woman simply melted their reserve. Nether less, they
were very proper and behaved like gentlemen. They dance and flirted with her, the
party lasted till dawn. I am a light sleeper and it was always takes some time to put
me sleep, but after the party that night, I was soon asleep. After a short while, I
awoke. I heard the creaking of what seemed to be the front door whose hangers
were never were never properly oiled, it was rather strange since I was sure I
closed the door before I went to bed. I got up when d morning sun glared right in my
face through the open door, then I saw someone‘s silhouette at the door way. I could
not believe it and dubbed my eyes. God I was dreaming? Have I gone crazy? With
eyes closed, I still saw what seemed to be and apparition by the door. It was
Champoon, all nude; her long-black hair fell down her shoulders.
An iron chain, around her ankles and her waist. We were speechless. I saw her eyes
moves away slowly from my face. I followed them as if I had been hypnotized. I held
my breath as our eyes fell on Anita, her body pressed against mine on the bed under
the gauzelike and nebulous mosquito net. She was breathing sleeping softly. I don‘t
know why I found no shamed me that I quickly drew the coverlet over her. I could
not look at Champoon. I waited for her to say something. My hear reeled. Was
dreaming? Was this real? I pressed my eyes. When looked up, Champoon was gone.
Champoon confessed to her father that she was in loved with Nai Amnuey and that
they had trusts. But she assured him that nothing to her which would bring shame
and dishonor herself on her family. Soon would not believe her. He did not believe
because he could not understand how a woman could still preserve herself after
several secret meeting with a man. Soon himself had six concubines in his home.
Besides being a normal young man, prone to those unusual temptations. Nai Amnuey
had been his enemy, the only man who had dared to stand up against him in that part
of the country over which he had ruled for decades, and therefore, was likely to put
his out his range for the father on his daughter. In allowing herself to love the very
man whom he hated, he thought Champoon had betrayed him. He refused to listen to
her pleas and explanation. When both father and daughter have the same obstinacy
and determinations, and neither would give in, the result coul be foreseen. They
recourse to violence. He aimed a big piece of firewood at Champoon. She dodged and
he missed. However Champoon was severely beaten. The noise attracted the
attention of the neighbors. Chmapoon tried her best to utter only faint moans even
when the pain was too great for her to bear, and when Taokae Soon was done with
his brutality, she raised herself from the floor. I told you I am still untouched, and
you don‘t believe me, you cursed and beat me, I will now go to Amnuey and give
myself to him, heaven be my witness. Everyone knew that Champoon would keep her
word for she had not said anything which she did not carry out. A week later, she
left the house while her father was out. The word of a Chinese family head was law
in the household. Soon had threatened to punish everyone, wives, son, servant, If
Champoon should ever get away. It was hard for Champoon to escape. The whole
household literally grabbed her back, while some fetched the master of the house.
Champoons was punished for her first attempt. She tried again several times but
failed. To stop her, Taokae Soon finally ordered that she be chain to be loosened,
from the post but still kept it around her ankles. Finding that Champoon tried to
escape, in spite of the chain, he ordered one of the stepmother or to divest her of
every piece of clothing she wore before she went to stop sleep every night. This last
measure would be more effective than any other, he was sure. He had sworn that he
would not relent if the conflict between them would eventually destroy one of them.
One morning, Champoon‘s room was empty. The roof was open and the glass cover
was slide back. Champoon apparently used herbed sheet to hoist herself up.
Champoon had fled to Nai Amnuey, her beloved. What pains and dangers she must
have gone through to reach my dwelling!
Champoon have held up her chain from her ankle and tried the free end around her
waist. Shemust have climbed on to her wardrobe and hauled herself up the roof.
She probably used her foot to push open the roof cover and finally slipped away. She
was strong and healthy and it shouldn‘t have been difficult for her to escape that
way. But I was a miracle how she found her way to my house. How did she cross the
crocodile infested river? No one could answer this. People concluded that the bed
sheet which Champoon must have used to cloth herself with probably been washed
away in the river. So it was really Champoon that I saw at the doorway across my
bedroom. I was certain that she really been there. The open door proved that it was
no illusion. I rushed to the river. I searched for her wildly desperately until morning.
I then realized that she intentionally kept way from mew. It was from me. It was
impossible for her to have gone far enough and missed my calls in the short time it
took me recover my senses. I run to the workmen‘s quarter and ordered twenty men
to spread out to the river for any sign of her. I made them search until dark. At
sunset we return home. I set out for Taimuang without going back to my Bungalow. I
told myself that I would kiss Taokae Soon‘s feet just to learn that if Champoon was
safe at home. When I reach Taimuang, my secret agents confined that Champoon
had not been at home. Nevertheless. I wanted to be sure and went to Champoon
father after all; Champoon was dear to both of us and should merit a concern no
matter how we hated each other, but us wretched Chinama was a perfect beast. He
laughed at my face and said that if Champoon should be shameless enough to return
he would beat her to death and send me her corps in a coffin. I went home and
gathered again thirty men, dividing them into two groups. They marched on both
banks of the river and search again of Champoon. She couldn‘t have pass anywhere
except through the river. I thought she might have crossed the narrow part. I
followed both groups in a boat which rowed upstream. I had been walking and running
for the last twenty-four hours. I did not remember having taken anything except
four or five gulps of brandy. I must have dozed off, I woke up surprised because the
bow of my boat was pushed hard against the bank river. What happened, I asked,
and one of the boatman pointed something. Do you know how crocodiles make a meal
of a human being?
―No. I said.‖
No matter how big a crocodile is, it can swallow whole human body. Though its mouth
is big, it cannot bite pieces off, and its legs are too short to help tear the prey‘s
flesh. It must always take the body on land to make a meal of it. It would hold a part
of the body with its mouth and beat the body against a tree. It would eat whatever
part fell off the body. I would eat one of those parts each time and would go on
beating and eating until the whole thing was in shreds.
The patient stopped talking at this point, he gazed into the distance. The silence
made me nervous so blurted out.
Did the boatmen find Champoon?
―No,‖ the patient said. ―What they found was a piece of chain tied around a
human leg that was torn away at the knee. It was on a low branch of tree…
―Sir, can you tell me, did Champoon throw herself into the river to be
purposely eaten by crocodiles? Or did she try to swim back to go home to her
father and confess that she loved the wrong man?‖
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RASHOMON
Ryunuske Akutagawa
It happened one evening. A lowly servant was under Rashōmon Gate, waiting for the
rain to stop. Under the broad gate, there was no one but him. On one of the large
round pillars whose red paint was peeling off in places, there was only a solitary
katydid. Because the gate was located on Suzaku Boulevard, you would normally
expect to find two or three other people there, waiting for the rain to let up. But
there was nobody there but him.
You see, over the last two or three years there had been a series of disasters in
Kyoto: earthquakes, whirlwinds, fires, and famines. The capital was falling apart in
many different ways. According to old records, Buddhist statues and altars had
been smashed, and their vermilion-lacquered and gold- or silver-foiled wood piled
up on the side of the road and sold as kindling. Needless to say, with the capital in
this condition, there was no one to repair the gate, and indeed, nobody even gave it
a second thought. Taking advantage of this state of neglect, foxes and badgers
began to live there. Robbers lived there. Eventually, it had even become customary
to take unclaimed corpses to the gate and dump them there. So after sunset,
people got scared, and nobody dared set foot near the gate after dark.
In their place, a large murder of crows had flocked there. During the day,
countless birds could be seen flying around in circles while cawing at the high
ornamental ridge-end tiles. They looked just like scattered sesame seeds,
particularly when the sky above the gate turned red at sunset. The crows, of
course, had come to peck at the flesh of the dead bodies on top of the gate.
Today, however, perhaps because it was late, not a single bird could be seen. But
what you could see were their white droppings, stuck in patches to the stone
steps, which were crumbling in places, with long weeds growing from the cracks.
The servant, wearing a navy-blue kimono that had faded from over-washing, sat
down on the seventh-and-top step of the stone staircase. He watched the rain fall
while playing with a large pimple on his right cheek, lost in his own thoughts.
A little while ago, I wrote, "A lowly servant was waiting for the rain to stop".
However, even if the rain did stop, the servant still wouldn't have anything to do.
Normally, of course, he would have been expected to return to his master's house,
but he had been released from the service of his master four or five days before.
As I wrote earlier, at this time, the city of Kyoto was deteriorating in many
different ways. That this servant had been dismissed by his master, who had
employed him for so many years, was merely another small side effect of this
decline. So, rather than saying, "A lowly servant was waiting for the rain to stop",
it would have been more appropriate to say, "A lowly servant, trapped by the rain,
had nowhere to go, and didn't know what to do". The weather that day further
served to darken the mood of this Heian-period servant. The rain had started
falling at a little after 4 PM, and it still showed no signs of letting up. For now,
foremost on the servant's mind was how he would make his living tomorrow—how
he would get through this "hopeless situation". As he tried to piece together his
wandering thoughts, he listened pensively to the sound of the rain falling on
Suzaku Boulevard.
The rain engulfed Rashōmon, and gales of rain from far away pounded down upon
the gate with a tremendous noise. The darkness of night gradually set in from
above, and if you were to look up, it might seem as if the large, gloomy clouds were
suspended from the ends of the tiles that jutted out from the roof of the gate.
In order to somehow get through his "hopeless situation", the servant might have
to set his morals aside. If he refused to do things that he thought were morally
questionable, then he would only end up starving to death under a roofed mud wall
or on the side of the road. And then he would be taken to this gate, to be
discarded, like a dog. "If I am willing to do whatever it takes to survive…" His
thoughts had circled through his head a number of times, and they had finally
arrived here. But this "if" would always remain a mere hypothetical. For although
the servant acknowledged that he had to do whatever he could to get by, he didn't
have the courage to bring the sentence to its foregone conclusion: "I am bound to
become a thief."
The servant sneezed, and he stood up wearily. Kyoto—so chilly in the evening—was
already cold enough that he wished he had a brazier. The wind and the darkness
blew mercilessly between the pillars of the gate. The katydid that had been sitting
on the red pillar was long gone.
The servant tucked his head into his chest, hunched up his shoulders—clad in the
blue kimono he wore over his thin yellow underclothes—and looked around the gate.
"If there is a place where I won't be bothered by the wind or the rain… a place
where I won't be seen… a place where it looks like I can sleep comfortably all
night… then I will spend the night there", he thought. Luckily, just then, he
spotted the wide, red staircase that led to the tower atop the gate. The only
people he might find up there would already be dead! So, the servant, being careful
that his simple wooden-hilted sword did not slip out of its sheath, stepped on the
bottom stair with his straw sandal.
It was a few minutes later. Halfway up the wide staircase leading to the top of the
gate's tower, the man held his breath, and, crouching like a cat, he looked up
cautiously. The light of a fire shone down softly upon the man's right cheek from
the top of the tower. It was that same cheek, with the red pus-filled pimple among
the stubble. The servant had taken for granted that everyone up there would
already be dead. But when he climbed up two or three more steps, he saw that not
only had someone had lit a fire up there, they seemed to be moving it back and
forth... He could tell this from the way that the muddy, yellow light wavered in the
spider webs hanging from every nook and cranny of the ceiling. A lighted fire… on
this rainy night… and on top of this gate… Surely this could be no ordinary human.
The servant crept up to the top step of the steep staircase, his feet as silent as a
gecko's. He straightened out his body as much as he could, stuck his neck out as
far as possible, and cautiously peered into the tower. As the rumours had said, a
number of corpses had been discarded in the tower, but the firelight wasn't as
bright as he had expected, so he couldn't tell how many. Although the light was
dim, what he did know was that some of the bodies were wearing kimonos and
others were naked. Predictably, the corpses' numbers counted both men and
woman, mixed together amongst the dead. The bodies looked so much like clay
dolls, that you might doubt that any of them had ever even been alive. Their
mouths open and their arms outstretched, they were strewn haphazardly across
the floor. And while the higher parts of their bodies—like their chests and
shoulders—caught some of the dim firelight, they cast shadows on the lower parts,
and the corpses were as eternally silent as a mute.
The servant instinctively covered his nose from the putrid stench of the rotting
bodies. But the next instant, his hand fell away from his face. A strong emotion
had almost completely robbed him of his sense of smell.
It was at that moment that the servant first caught glimpse of the person
squatting among the corpses. It was an emaciated little old white-haired woman in
a dusky-red kimono. The old woman was carrying a lighted pine torch and staring at
one of the corpses' faces. Judging from the length of its hair in places, it was
probably the body of a woman.
For a while, moved by six parts fear and four parts curiosity, the servant forgot
even to breathe. To borrow a phrase from the writers of the chronicles of old, he
felt as if "the hairs on his head and body had grown thick". The old woman thrust
the handle of the pine torch into the space between the floorboards. She placed
both hands on the corpse's head, and like a monkey picking the lice off its child,
she began to pull out strands of the corpse's long hair, one-by-one. The hairs
seemed to be coming out with very little effort.
Each time she plucked one of those hairs, the servant grew a little bit less
frightened. And each time she plucked one of those hairs, the intense hatred that
he now felt for this woman grew a little bit stronger. No—it is probably misleading
to say that he hated her, per se. Rather, it was a revulsion against all forms of evil,
which was growing stronger by the minute. At that moment, if someone again
raised the question that the servant had been thinking about under the gate—
whether he would starve to death or become a criminal—the servant would almost
certainly have chosen starvation, without an ounce of regret. Like the torch the
old woman had jammed between the floorboards, this was how ardently the man's
heart burned against all that was evil.
The servant, of course, didn't know why the old woman was pulling out the corpse's
hair, so, rationally, he had no way of knowing if it was immoral or not. But for this
servant, on this rainy night, on top of this gate, pulling out a dead woman's hair was
an unforgivable sin. Of course, the servant had already forgotten that until very
recently, he was considering becoming a robber himself.
The servant strained his legs, and, suddenly, leapt up from the stairs without
warning. He strode over to the woman, his hand on the wooden hilt of his sword.
Needless to say, the woman was scared out of her wits.
As soon as the old woman saw the servant, she sprung up as if she had been fired
from a crossbow.
"You! Where are you going?"
The servant shouted. He stood firmly in the old woman's way, as she tripped over
corpses in a frenzied attempt to escape. The old woman tried to shove him aside.
But the servant still had no intention of letting her go, and he pushed her back.
For a while, the two grappled among the corpses without saying a word. But the
outcome of this battle was clear from the beginning. In the end, the servant
grabbed the old woman's arm and wrenched her down to the floor. Her arm, like a
chicken leg, was merely skin and bones.
"What were you doing? Well, what were you doing? SPEAK! If you don't tell me,
you'll get THIS!"
The servant pushed the old woman away from him, and, suddenly, he drew his
sword and thrust the pale white steel before her eyes. But the old woman said
nothing. Her hands shook uncontrollably, her shoulders heaved as she panted. Her
eyes were open so wide that they looked like they were going to pop right out their
sockets, but still, like a mute, she remained obstinately silent. Seeing this, the
servant then realized that he held this woman's life in the palm of his hand. When
he realized this, his heart, which had been burning so fiercely with hatred, cooled
down, until all that remained were the feelings of pride and satisfaction that come
with a job well done. The servant looked down at the woman, lowered his voice and
said:
"I'm not an official from the police department or anything. I'm just a traveller
who happened to be passing under the gate a moment ago. So I'm not going to tie
you up or anything like that. But it would be best if you told me what you were
doing on top of this gate just now."
The bug-eyed old woman opened her eyes even wider, and stared at the servant's
face. She looked at him with the piercing red eyes of a bird of prey. And then, her
lips—so wrinkled that they were almost a part of her nose—moved, as if she were
chewing something. You could see her pointed Adam's apple moving in her gaunt
throat. Then, from that throat, came a pant-broken voice that sounded like the
cawing of a crow.
"I'm taking this hair… I'm taking this woman's hair to… Well, I thought I'd make a
wig."
The servant was disappointed that the old woman's answer was so unexpectedly
dull. Along with the disappointment, those old feelings of hatred and contempt
came flooding back to him. And somehow, he must have conveyed these feelings to
the old woman. With the hairs she had stolen from the corpse still clutched in one
hand, she mumbled in a raspy, toadish voice:
"I see. Well, perhaps it is immoral to pull out the hairs of the dead. But these
corpses up here—all of them—they were just the sort of people who wouldn't have
minded. In fact, this woman whose hair I was just pulling out a moment ago—she
used to cut snakes into 5-inch pieces, dry them, and go sell them at the camp of
the crown prince's palace guard, saying it was dried fish. If she hadn't died in the
plague, she would probably still be going there now. And yet, the guards said this
woman's dried fish tasted good, and they always bought it to go with their rice. I
don't think what she did was immoral. If she hadn't done it, she would have
starved to death, so, she just did what she had to. And this woman, who
understood so well these things we have to do, would probably forgive me for what
I'm doing to her too."
The old woman said something along those lines.
The servant put his sword back in its scabbard and rested his hand on its hilt while
he listened to her story unsympathetically. Sure enough, while he listened, his
right hand nursed the red pus-filled pimple on his cheek. As he was listening to her
story, he felt the courage that he had lacked under the gate a few moments
earlier building up inside him. It was leading him in the completely opposite
direction of the courage he had when he climbed up the gate and grabbed the old
woman. The servant was no longer debating whether to starve to death or become
a thief. The way he felt now, the idea of starving to death was virtually
unthinkable.
"That's definitely true," the servant agreed derisively when she had finished
speaking. He took a step forward and suddenly tore his right hand away from the
pimple. Grabbing the woman by the scruff of the neck, he said to her in a biting
tone:
"Well then, you won't hold it against me if I try to steal your clothes. If I don't,
you see, I too will starve."
The servant deftly stripped the woman of her kimono. She tried to cling to his leg,
but he kicked her violently onto the corpses. The entrance to the stairwell was a
mere five paces away. In the blink of an eye, the servant ran down the steep
staircase and into the darkness, carrying the dusky-red kimono under his arm.
For a while, the old woman lay there as if she were dead, but it was only a short
time before she lifted her naked body off the corpses. Whimpering, she crawled
over to the stairs, by the light of her still-lit torch. She stuck her head into the
stairwell door, and looked down to the bottom of the gate, her short white hair
hanging upside down. But outside, there was only the pitch-black darkness of night.
Where the servant went to, nobody knows
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KARMA
Khushwant Singh
Sir Mohan Lal looked at himself in the mirror of a first class waiting room at the
railway station. The mirror was obviously made in India. The red oxide at its back
had come off at several places and long lines of translucent glass cut across its
surface. Sir Mohan smiled at the mirror with an air of pity and patronage.
'You are so very much like everything else in this country, inefficient, dirty,
indifferent,' he murmured.
The mirror smiled back at Sir Mohan.
'You are a bit of all right, old chap,' it said. 'Distinguished, efficient - even
handsome. That neatly-trimmed moustache - the suit from Saville Row with the
carnation in the buttonhole - the aroma of eau de cologne, talcum powder and
scented soap all about you ! Yes, old fellow, you are a bit of all right.'
Sir Mohan threw out his chest, smoothed his Balliol tie for the umpteenth time and
waved a goodbye to the mirror.
He glanced at his watch. There was still time for a quick one.
'Koi Hai !'
A bearer in white livery appeared through a wire gauze door.
'Ek Chota,' ordered Sir Mohan, and sank into a large cane chair to drink and
ruminate.
Outside the waiting room, Sir Mohan Lal's luggage lay piled along the wall. On a
small grey steel trunk, Lachmi, Lady Mohan Lal, sat chewing a betel leaf and
fanning herself with a newspaper. She was short and fat and in her middle forties.
She wore a dirty white sari with a red border. On one side of her nose glistened a
diamond nose-ring, and she had several gold bangles on her arms. She had been
talking to the bearer until Sir Mohan had summoned him inside. As soon as he had
gone, she hailed a passing railway coolie.
'Where does the zenana stop ?'
'Right at the end of the platform.'
The coolie flattened his turban to make a cushion, hoisted the steel trunk on his
head, and moved down the platform. Lady Lal picked up her brass tiffin carrier and
ambled along behind him. On the way she stopped by a hawker's stall to replenish
her silver betel leaf case, and then joined the coolie. She sat down on her steel
trunk (which the coolie had put down) and started talking to him.
"Are the trains very crowded on these lines ?"
'These days all trains are crowded, but you'll find room in the zenana.'
'Then I might as well get over the bother of eating.'
Lady Lal opened the brass carrier and took out a bundle of cramped chapatties and
some mango pickle. While she ate, the coolie sat opposite her on his haunches,
drawing lines in the gravel with his finger.
'Are you travelling alone, sister ?'
'No, I am with my master, brother. He is in the waiting room. He travels first
class. He is a vizier and a barrister, and meets so many officers and Englishmen in
the trains - and I am only a native woman. I can't understand English and don't
know their ways, so I keep to my zenana inter-class.'
Lachmi chatted away merrily. She was fond of a little gossip and had no one to talk
to at home. Her husband never had any time to spare for her. She lived in the
upper storey of the house and he on the ground floor. He did not like her poor
illiterate relatives hanging around his bungalow, so they never came. He came up to
her once in a while at night and stayed for a few minutes. He just ordered her
about in anglicised Hindustani, and she obeyed passively. These nocturnal visits
had, however, borne no fruit.
The signal came down and the clanging of the bell announced the approaching train.
Lady Lal hurriedly finished off her meal. She got up, still licking the stone of the
pickled mango. She emitted a long, loud belch as she went to the public tap to rinse
her mouth and wash her hands. After washing she dried her mouth and hands with
the loose end of her sari, and walked back to her steel trunk, belching and
thanking the Gods for the favour of a filling meal.
The train steamed in. Lachmi found herself facing an almost empty inter-class
zenana compartment next to the guard's van, at the tail end of the train. The rest
of the train was packed. She heaved her squat, bulky frame through the door and
found a seat by the window. She produced a two-anna bit from a knot in her sari
and dismissed the coolie. She then opened her betel case and made herself two
betel leaves charged with a red and white paste, minced betelnuts and cardamoms.
These she thrust into her mouth till her cheeks bulged on both sides. Then she
rested her chin on her hands and sat gazing idly at the jostling crowd on the
platform.
The arrival of the train did not disturb Sir Mohan Lal's sang-froid. He continued
to sip his scotch and ordered the bearer to tell him when he had moved the
luggage to a first class compartment. Excitement, bustle and hurry were
exhibitions of bad breeding, and Sir Mohan was eminently well-bred. He wanted
everything 'tickety-boo' and orderly. In his five years abroad, Sir Mohan had
acquired the manners and attitudes of the upper classes. He rarely spoke
Hindustani. When he did, it was like an Englishman's - only the very necessary
words and properly anglicised. But he fancied his English, finished and refined at
no less a place than the University of Oxford. He was fond of conversation, and
like a cultured Englishman, he could talk on almost any subject - books, politics,
people. How frequently had he heard English people say that he spoke like an
Englishman !
Sir Mohan wondered if he would be travelling alone. It was a Cantonment and some
English officers might be on the train. His heart warmed at the prospect of an
impressive conversation. He never showed any sign of eagerness to talk to the
English as most Indians did. Nor was he loud, aggressive and opinionated like them.
He went about his business with an expressionless matter-of-factness. He would
retire to his corner by the window and get out a copy of The Times. He would fold
it in a way in which the name of the paper was visible to others while he did the
crossword puzzle. The Times always attracted attention. Someone would like to
borrow it when he put it aside with a gesture signifying 'I've finished with it.'
Perhaps someone would recognize his Balliol tie which he always wore while
travelling. That would open a vista leading to a fairy-land of Oxford colleges,
masters, dons, tutors, boat-races and rugger matches. If both The Times and the
tie failed, Sir Mohan would 'Koi Hai' his bearer to get the Scotch out. Whiskey
never failed with Englishmen. Then followed Sir Mohan's handsome gold cigarette
case filled with English cigarettes. English cigarettes in India ? How on earth did
he get them ? Sure he didn't mind ? And Sir Mohan's understanding smile - of
course he didn't. But could he use the
Englishman as a medium to commune with his dear old England ? Those five years
of grey bags and gowns, of sports blazers and mixed doubles, of dinners at the
inns of Court and nights with Piccadilly prostitutes. Five years of a crowded
glorious life. Worth far more than the forty-five in India with his dirty, vulgar
countrymen, with sordid details of the road to success, of nocturnal visits to the
upper storey and all-too-brief sexual acts with obese old Lachmi, smelling of sweat
and raw onions.
Sir Mohan's thoughts were disturbed by the bearer announcing the installation of
the Sahib's luggage in a first class coupe next to the engine. Sir Mohan walked to
his coupe with a studied gait. He was dismayed. The compartment was empty. With
a sigh he sat down in a corner and opened the copy of 'The Times', he had read
several times before.
Sir Mohan looked out of the window down the crowded platform. His face lit up as
he saw two English soldiers trudging along, looking in all the compartments for
room. They had their haversacks slung behind their backs and walked unsteadily.
Sir Mohan decided to welcome them, even though they were entitled to travel only
second class. He would speak to the guard.
One of the soldiers came up to the last compartment and stuck his face through
the window. He surveyed the compartment and noticed the unoccupied berth.
'Ere, Bill, he shouted, 'one ere.'

His companion came up, also looked in, and looked at Sir Mohan.
'Get the nigger out,' he muttered to his companion.
They opened the door , and turned to the half-smiling, half-protesting Sir Mohan.
'Reserved !' yelled Bill.
'Janta - Reserved. Army - Fauj,' exclaimed Jim, pointing to his khaki shirt.
'Ek Dum jao - get out !"
'I say, I say, surely,' protested Sir Mohan in his Oxford accent. The soldiers
paused. It almost sounded like English, but they knew better than to trust their
inebriated ears. The engine whistled and the guard waved his green flag.
They picked up Sir Mohan's suitcase and flung it on to the platform. Then followed
his thermos flask, briefcase, bedding and The Times. Sir Mohan was livid with
rage.
'Preposterous, preposterous,' he shouted, hoarse with anger.
I'll have you arrested - guard, guard !'
Bill and Jim paused again. It did sound like English, but it was too much of the
King's for them.
'Keep yer ruddy mouth shut !' And Jim struck Sir Mohan flat on the face.
The engine gave another short whistle and the train began to move. The soldiers
caught Sir Mohan by the arms and flung him out of the train. He reeled backwards,
tripped on his bedding, and landed on the suitcase.
'Toodle-oo !'
Sir Mohan's feet were glued to the earth and he lost his speech. He stared at the
lighted windows of the train going past him in quickening tempo. The tail-end of
the train appeared with a red light and the guard standing in the open doorway
with the flags in his hands.
In the inter-class zenana compartment was Lachmi, fair and fat, on whose nose the
diamond nose-ring glistened against the station lights. Her mouth was bloated with
betel saliva which she had been storing up to spit as soon as the train had cleared
the station. As the train sped past the lighted part of the platform, Lady Lal spat
and sent a jet of red dribble flying across like a dart.
NOTES
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FEAST OF THE DEAD

Cevdet Kudret
"Dursun Agha is dead!" A boy told the first man he saw.

Dursun Agha was a familiar figure of the street. He was the water carrier, who
barely made both ends meet, with
wife and two children in his small, two-story house. His entire capital consistent of
two water cans and a pole, with a chain dangling from either end.
When Gulnaz heard the news, she froze.

What was Gulnazgoing to do now? She thought and thought but could make no
decision.
It is Moslem tradition for the neighbores to send food, for a day or two, to the
bereaved household. The first meal came to Gulnaz and her two children from the
white house at the corner.
To tell the truth, no one had though t of eating that day, but soon as the cover was
lifted from the tray there was a giving in, a relaxation of feelings.
Another neighbor took care of the food for the next day. This went on for three
of four days.
The first day food stopped coming in. They kept their hopes up till noon time,
running to the door with the sound of each foot step in the street outside, hoping
to see a big tray with a white cloth cover over it. But instead they saw people
simply going about their daily lives, merely passing by, their empty hands hanging
at the end of their arms.
For the next few days they ate whatever they found here and there in the house:
two onions, one clove of garlic, a handful of dry lima beans found in the corner of
the cupboard. Finally, there came a day when all the pots, baskets, and boxes in
the house were empty. That day for the first time, they went to bed on empty
stomachs.
The next day was the same. In the late afternoon, the little boy started crying,
"Mother, it hurts inside!" Gulnaz beckoned to the older boy. He got up and both
left the room. "We must go to Bodes, the grocer,ask for some rice, flour, and
potatoes. Tell him we'll pay him in a few days".
The boy's shabby coat was not heavy enough to keep out of cold of th e street. He
had to steady himself against the walls as he walked. Finally he reached the store.
He let others take their turn. After everyone gone, he ordered a pound of rice, a
pound of flour and a pound of potatoes, put his hand in his pocket as if reaching
for his money and then pretending to have left it at home, looking annoyed, he said
"Oh, I left the money home. How do you like that! I have to go all the way home in
this cold and come back again. Write it down, won't you, and I'll bring it when I
come tomorrow."
Bodes knew the tricks of the game only too well. Looking over his glasses, he said,
"You've become so thin. Someone who has money at home doesn't get so thin."
He put the boy's order on one side. "First bring the money and then you take this,"
he said. "All right," the boy said embarrassed to see his lie found out. "I'll bring
it." He hurried out.
The boy was finding the iciness of the street more unbearable than he had before
he entered the store. He walked toward his own house as quickly as he could, his
teeth chattering. Entering the room, he said nothing to his mother and brother.
His empty hands spoke for him.
Before their questioning eyes, he took off his clothes and went to his bed. When
he spoke, he said, "I am cold." The blanket rose and fell on his trembling body. The
trembling lasted for an hour and a half or more. Then came the fever and
exhaustion. The boy lay flat on his back, stretched out motionless, his eyes staring
vacantly.
The woman paced through the house till evening, desperate. She did not know what
to do. She couldn't think. She kept on going into the room and out again, looking
with empty, glazed eyes at the walls, the ceiling and the furniture.
The boy's fever went up. The woman sat motionless, staring. The younger boy
couldn't sleep from hunger. He, too, was watching the sick boy moan slowly.
When the sick boy started talking again with the fever, the younger boy sat up in
his bed and said, in a low, soft voice audible only to his mother, "Mother, will my
brother die?"
The woman shivered as if touched by a cold wind on her skin. She looked at her son
with frightened eyes, "Why do you ask that?"
The boy paused for a minute under his mother's graze, then he leaned close to her
ear and said softly trying hard to hide his voice from his brother.
"Because, then the food will come from the white house"
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WESTERN
SHORT STORIES
THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO

by Edgar Allan Poe
(1846)
THE thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could, but when he
ventured upon insult I vowed revenge. You, who so well know the nature of my soul,
will not suppose, however, that gave utterance to a threat. At length I would be
avenged; this was a point definitely, settled --but the very definitiveness with
which it was resolved precluded the idea of risk. I must not only punish but punish
with impunity. A wrong is unredressed when retribution overtakes its redresser. It
is equally unredressed when the avenger fails to make himself felt as such to him
who has done the wrong.
It must be understood that neither by word nor deed had I given Fortunato cause to doubt
my good will. I continued, as was my in to smile in his face, and he did not perceive that my
to smile now was at the thought of his immolation.
He had a weak point --this Fortunato --although in other regards he was a man to be
respected and even feared. He prided himself on his connoisseurship in wine. Few Italians
have the true virtuoso spirit. For the most part their enthusiasm is adopted to suit the
time and opportunity, to practise imposture upon the British and Austrian millionaires. In
painting and gemmary, Fortunato, like his countrymen, was a quack, but in the matter of old
wines he was sincere. In this respect I did not differ from him materially; --I was skilful in
the Italian vintages myself, and bought largely whenever I could.
It was about dusk, one evening during the supreme madness of the carnival season, that I
encountered my friend. He accosted me with excessive warmth, for he had been drinking
much. The man wore motley. He had on a tight-fitting parti-striped dress, and his head was
surmounted by the conical cap and bells. I was so pleased to see him that I thought I
should never have done wringing his hand.
I said to him --"My dear Fortunato, you are luckily met. How remarkably well you are
looking to-day. But I have received a pipe of what passes for Amontillado, and I have my
doubts."
"How?" said he. "Amontillado, A pipe? Impossible! And in the middle of the carnival!"
"I have my doubts," I replied; "and I was silly enough to pay the full Amontillado price
without consulting you in the matter. You were not to be found, and I was fearful of losing
a bargain."
"Amontillado!"
"I have my doubts."

"Amontillado!"
"And I must satisfy them."
"Amontillado!"
"As you are engaged, I am on my way to Luchresi. If any one has a critical turn it is he. He
will tell me --"
"Luchresi cannot tell Amontillado from Sherry."
"And yet some fools will have it that his taste is a match for your own.
"Come, let us go."
"Whither?"
"To your vaults."
"My friend, no; I will not impose upon your good nature. I perceive you have an engagement.
Luchresi--"
"I have no engagement; --come."
"My friend, no. It is not the engagement, but the severe cold with which I perceive you are
afflicted. The vaults are insufferably damp. They are encrusted with nitre."
"Let us go, nevertheless. The cold is merely nothing. Amontillado! You have been imposed
upon. And as for Luchresi, he cannot distinguish Sherry from Amontillado."
Thus speaking, Fortunato possessed himself of my arm; and putting on a mask of black silk
and drawing a roquelaire closely about my person, I suffered him to hurry me to my
palazzo.
There were no attendants at home; they had absconded to make merry in honour of the
time. I had told them that I should not return until the morning, and had given them
explicit orders not to stir from the house. These orders were sufficient, I well knew, to
insure their immediate disappearance, one and all, as soon as my back was turned.
I took from their sconces two flambeaux, and giving one to Fortunato, bowed him through
several suites of rooms to the archway that led into the vaults. I passed down a long and
winding staircase, requesting him to be cautious as he followed. We came at length to the
foot of the descent, and stood together upon the damp ground of the catacombs of the
Montresors.
The gait of my friend was unsteady, and the bells upon his cap jingled as he strode.
"The pipe," he said.

"It is farther on," said I; "but observe the white web-work which gleams from these
cavern walls."
He turned towards me, and looked into my eves with two filmy orbs that distilled the
rheum of intoxication.
"Nitre?" he asked, at length.
"Nitre," I replied. "How long have you had that cough?"
"Ugh! ugh! ugh! --ugh! ugh! ugh! --ugh! ugh! ugh! --ugh! ugh! ugh! --ugh! ugh! ugh!"
My poor friend found it impossible to reply for many minutes.
"It is nothing," he said, at last.
"Come," I said, with decision, "we will go back; your health is precious. You are rich,
respected, admired, beloved; you are happy, as once I was. You are a man to be missed. For
me it is no matter. We will go back; you will be ill, and I cannot be responsible.
Besides, there is Luchresi --"
"Enough," he said; "the cough's a mere nothing; it will not kill me. I shall not die of
a cough."
"True --true," I replied; "and, indeed, I had no intention of alarming you

unnecessarily --but you should use all proper caution. A draught of this Medoc will
defend us from the damps.
Here I knocked off the neck of a bottle which I drew from a long row of its
fellows that lay upon the mould.
"Drink," I said, presenting him the wine.
He raised it to his lips with a leer. He paused and nodded to me familiarly, while his
bells jingled.
"I drink," he said, "to the buried that repose around us."
"And I to your long life."
He again took my arm, and we proceeded.
"These vaults," he said, "are extensive."
"The Montresors," I replied, "were a great and numerous family."
"I forget your arms."

"A huge human foot d'or, in a field azure; the foot crushes a serpent rampant
whose fangs are imbedded in the heel."
"And the motto?"
"Nemo me impunelacessit."
"Good!" he said.
The wine sparkled in his eyes and the bells jingled. My own fancy grew warm with
the Medoc. We had passed through long walls of piled skeletons, with casks and
puncheons intermingling, into the inmost recesses of the catacombs. I paused
again, and this time I made bold to seize Fortunato by an arm above the elbow.
"The nitre!" I said; "see, it increases. It hangs like moss upon the vaults. We are
below the river's bed. The drops of moisture trickle among the bones. Come, we
will go back ere it is too late. Your cough --"
"It is nothing," he said; "let us go on. But first, another draught of the Medoc."
I broke and reached him a flagon of De Grave. He emptied it at a breath. His eyes
flashed with a fierce light. He laughed and threw the bottle upwards with a
gesticulation I did not understand.
I looked at him in surprise. He repeated the movement --a grotesque one.
"You do not comprehend?" he said.
"Not I," I replied.
"Then you are not of the brotherhood."
"How?"
"You are not of the masons."
"Yes, yes," I said; "yes, yes."
"You? Impossible! A mason?"
"A mason," I replied.
"A sign," he said, "a sign."
"It is this," I answered, producing from beneath the folds of my roquelaire a

trowel.
"You jest," he exclaimed, recoiling a few paces. "But let us proceed to the
Amontillado."
"Be it so," I said, replacing the tool beneath the cloak and again offering him my
arm. He leaned upon it heavily. We continued our route in search of the
Amontillado. We passed through a range of low arches, descended, passed on, and
descending again, arrived at a deep crypt, in which the foulness of the air caused
our flambeaux rather to glow than flame.
At the most remote end of the crypt there appeared another less spacious. Its
walls had been lined with human remains, piled to the vault overhead, in the fashion
of the great catacombs of Paris. Three sides of this interior crypt were still
ornamented in this manner. From the fourth side the bones had been thrown down,
and lay promiscuously upon the earth, forming at one point a mound of some size.
Within the wall thus exposed by the displacing of the bones, we perceived a still
interior crypt or recess, in depth about four feet, in width three, in height six or
seven. It seemed to have been constructed for no especial use within itself, but
formed merely the interval between two of the colossal supports of the roof of
the catacombs, and was backed by one of their circumscribing walls of solid
granite.
It was in vain that Fortunato, uplifting his dull torch, endeavoured to pry into the
depth of the recess. Its termination the feeble light did not enable us to see.
"Proceed," I said; "herein is the Amontillado. As for Luchresi --"
"He is an ignoramus," interrupted my friend, as he stepped unsteadily forward,

while I followed immediately at his heels. In niche, and finding an instant he had
reached the extremity of the niche, and finding his progress arrested by the rock,
stood stupidly bewildered. A moment more and I had fettered him to the granite.
In its surface were two iron staples, distant from each other about two feet,
horizontally. From one of these depended a short chain, from the other a padlock.
Throwing the links about his waist, it was but the work of a few seconds to secure
it. He was too much astounded to resist. Withdrawing the key I stepped back from
the recess.
"Pass your hand," I said, "over the wall; you cannot help feeling the nitre. Indeed,
it is very damp. Once more let me implore you to return. No? Then I must
positively leave you. But I must first render you all the little attentions in my
power."
"The Amontillado!" ejaculated my friend, not yet recovered from his astonishment.
"True," I replied; "the Amontillado."

As I said these words I busied myself among the pile of bones of which I have
before spoken. Throwing them aside, I soon uncovered a quantity of building stone
and mortar. With these materials and with the aid of my trowel, I began vigorously
to wall up the entrance of the niche.
I had scarcely laid the first tier of the masonry when I discovered that the
intoxication of Fortunato had in a great measure worn off. The earliest indication
I had of this was a low moaning cry from the depth of the recess. It was not the
cry of a drunken man. There was then a long and obstinate silence. I laid the
second tier, and the third, and the fourth; and then I heard the furious vibrations
of the chain. The noise lasted for several minutes, during which, that I might
hearken to it with the more satisfaction, I ceased my labours and sat down upon
the bones. When at last the clanking subsided, I resumed the trowel, and finished
without interruption the fifth, the sixth, and the seventh tier. The wall was now
nearly upon a level with my breast. I again paused, and holding the flambeaux over
the mason-work, threw a few feeble rays upon the figure within.
A succession of loud and shrill screams, bursting suddenly from the throat of the chained
form, seemed to thrust me violently back. For a brief moment I hesitated, I trembled.
Unsheathing my rapier, I began to grope with it about the recess; but the thought of an
instant reassured me. I placed my hand upon the solid fabric of the catacombs, and felt
satisfied. I reapproached the wall; I replied to the yells of him who clamoured. I re-
echoed, I aided, I surpassed them in volume and in strength. I did this, and the clamourer
grew still.
It was now midnight, and my task was drawing to a close. I had completed the eighth, the
ninth and the tenth tier. I had finished a portion of the last and the eleventh; there
remained but a single stone to be fitted and plastered in. I struggled with its weight; I
placed it partially in its destined position. But now there came from out the niche a low
laugh that erected the hairs upon my head. It was succeeded by a sad voice, which I had
difficulty in recognizing as that of the noble Fortunato. The voice said--
"Ha! ha! ha! --he! he! he! --a very good joke, indeed --an excellent jest. We will have many a
rich laugh about it at the palazzo --he! he! he! --over our wine --he! he! he!"
"The Amontillado!" I said.
"He!he! he! --he! he! he! --yes, the Amontillado. But is it not getting late? Will not they be
awaiting us at the palazzo, the Lady Fortunato and the rest? Let us be gone."
"Yes," I said, "let us be gone."
"For the love of God, Montresor!"
"Yes," I said, "for the love of God!"

But to these words I hearkened in vain for a reply. I grew impatient. I called aloud --
"Fortunato!"
No answer. I called again --
"Fortunato!"
No answer still. I thrust a torch through the remaining aperture and let it fall
within. There came forth in return only a jingling of the bells. My heart grew sick;
it was the dampness of the catacombs that made it so. I hastened to make an end
of my labour. I forced the last stone into its position; I plastered it up. Against
the new masonry I re-erected the old rampart of bones. For the half of a century
no mortal has disturbed them. In pace requiescat!
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THE UNICORN IN THE GARDEN

by James Thurber
Once upon a sunny morning a man who sat in a breakfast nook looked up
from his scrambled eggs to see a white unicorn with a golden horn quietly cropping
the roses in the garden. The man went up to the bedroom where his wife was still
asleep and woke her. "There's a unicorn in the garden," he said. "Eating roses." She
opened one unfriendly eye and looked at him.
"The unicorn is a mythical beast," she said, and turned her back on him. The man
walked slowly downstairs and out into the garden. The unicorn was still there; now
he was browsing among the tulips. "Here, unicorn," said the man, and he pulled up a
lily and gave it to him. The unicorn ate it gravely. With a high heart, because there
was a unicorn in his garden, the man went upstairs and roused his wife again. "The
unicorn," he said,"ate a lily." His wife sat up in bed and looked at him coldly. "You
are a booby," she said, "and I am going to have you put in the booby-hatch."
The man, who had never liked the words "booby" and "booby-hatch," and who liked
them even less on a shining morning when there was a unicorn in the garden,
thought for a moment. "We'll see about that," he said. He walked over to the door.
"He has a golden horn in the middle of his forehead," he told her. Then he went
back to the garden to watch the unicorn; but the unicorn had gone away. The man
sat down among the roses and went to sleep.
As soon as the husband had gone out of the house, the wife got up and dressed as
fast as she could. She was very excited and there was a gloat in her eye. She
telephoned the police and she telephoned a psychiatrist; she told them to hurry to
her house and bring a strait-jacket. When the police and the psychiatrist arrived
they sat down in chairs and looked at her, with great interest.
"My husband," she said, "saw a unicorn this morning." The police looked at the
psychiatrist and the psychiatrist looked at the police. "He told me it ate a lilly,"
she said. The psychiatrist looked at the police and the police looked at the
psychiatrist. "He told me it had a golden horn in the middle of its forehead," she
said. At a solemn signal from the psychiatrist, the police leaped from their chairs
and seized the wife. They had a hard time subduing her, for she put up a terrific
struggle, but they finally subdued her. Just as they got her into the strait-jacket,
the husband came back into the house.
"Did you tell your wife you saw a unicorn?" asked the police. "Of course not," said
the husband. "The unicorn is a mythical beast." "That's all I wanted to know," said
the psychiatrist. "Take her away. I'm sorry, sir, but your wife is as crazy as a
jaybird."
So they took her away, cursing and screaming, and shut her up in an institution.
The husband lived happily ever after.
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THE LAW OF LIFE

Jack London
The old Indian was sitting on the snow. It was Koskoosh, former chief of his tribe.
Now, all he could do was sit and listen to the others. His eyes were old. He could
not see, but his ears were wide open to every sound.
"Aha." That was the sound of his daughter, Sit-cum-to-ha. She was beating the
dogs, trying to make them stand in front of the snow sleds. He was forgotten by
her, and by the others, too. They had to look for new hunting grounds. The long,
snowy ride waited. The days of the northlands were growing short. The tribe could
not wait for death. Koskoosh was dying.
The stiff, crackling noises of frozen animal skins told him that the chief's tent
was being torn down. The chief was a mighty hunter. He was his son, the son of
Koskoosh. Koskoosh was being left to die.
As the women worked, old Koskoosh could hear his son's voice drive them to work
faster. He listened harder. It was the last time he would hear that voice. A child
cried, and a woman sang softly to quiet it. The child was Koo-tee, the old man
thought, a sickly child. It would die soon, and they would burn a hole in the frozen
ground to bury it. They would cover its small body with stones to keep the wolves
away.
"Well, what of it? A few years, and in the end, death. Death waited ever hungry.
Death had the hungriest stomach of all."
Koskoosh listened to other sounds he would hear no more: the men tying strong
leather rope around the sleds to hold their belongings; the sharp sounds of leather
whips, ordering the dogs to move and pull the sleds.
"Listen to the dogs cry. How they hated the work."
They were off. Sled after sled moved slowly away into the silence. They had
passed out of his life. He must meet his last hour alone.
"But what was that?" The snow packed down hard under someone's shoes. A man
stood beside him, and placed a hand gently on his old head. His son was good to do
this. He remembered other old men whose sons had not done this, who had left
without a goodbye.
His mind traveled into the past until his son's voice brought him back. "It is well
with you?" his son asked. And the old man answered, "It is well."
"There is wood next to you and the fire burns bright," the son said. "The morning
is gray and the cold is here. It will snow soon. Even now it is snowing. Ahh, even
now it is snowing.
"The tribesmen hurry. Their loads are heavy and their stomachs flat from little
food. The way is long and they travel fast. I go now. All is well?"
"It is well. I am as last year's leaf that sticks to the tree. The first breath that
blows will knock me to the ground. My voice is like an old woman's. My eyes no
longer show me the way my feet go. I am tired and all is well."
He lowered his head to his chest and listened to the snow as his son rode away. He
felt the sticks of wood next to him again. One by one, the fire would eat
them. And step by step, death would cover him. When the last stick was gone, the
cold would come. First, his feet would freeze. Then, his hands. The cold would
travel slowly from the outside to the inside of him, and he would rest. It was
easy…all men must die.
He felt sorrow, but he did not think of his sorrow. It was the way of life. He had
lived close to the earth, and the law was not new to him. It was the law of the
body. Nature was not kind to the body. She was not thoughtful of the person
alone. She was interested only in the group, the race, the species.
This was a deep thought for old Koskoosh. He had seen examples of it in all his life.
The tree sap in early spring; the new-born green leaf, soft and fresh as skin; the
fall of the yellowed, dry leaf. In this alone was all history.
He placed another stick on the fire and began to remember his past. He had been a
great chief, too. He had seen days of much food and laughter; fat stomachs when
food was left to rot and spoil; times when they left animals alone, unkilled; days
when women had many children. And he had seen days of no food and empty
stomachs, days when the fish did not come, and the animals were hard to find.
For seven years the animals did not come. Then, he remembered when as a small
boy how he watched the wolves kill a moose. He was with his friend Zing-ha, who
was killed later in the Yukon River.
Ah, but the moose. Zing-ha and he had gone out to play that day. Down by the
river they saw fresh steps of a big, heavy moose. "He's an old one," Zing-ha had
said. "He cannot run like the others. He has fallen behind. The wolves have
separated him from the others. They will never leave him."
And so it was. By day and night, never stopping, biting at his nose, biting at his
feet, the wolves stayed with him until the end.
Zing-ha and he had felt the blood quicken in their bodies. The end would be a sight
to see.
They had followed the steps of the moose and the wolves. Each step told a
different story. They could see the tragedy as it happened: here was the place
the moose stopped to fight. The snow was packed down for many feet. One wolf
had been caught by the heavy feet of the moose and kicked to death. Further on,
they saw how the moose had struggled to escape up a hill. But the wolves had
attacked from behind. The moose had fallen down and crushed two wolves. Yet, it
was clear the end was near.
The snow was red ahead of them. Then they heard the sounds of battle. He and
Zing-ha moved closer, on their stomachs, so the wolves would not see them. They
saw the end. The picture was so strong it had stayed with him all his life. His dull,
blind eyes saw the end again as they had in the far off past.
For long, his mind saw his past. The fire began to die out, and the cold entered his
body. He placed two more sticks on it, just two more left. This would be how long
he would live.
It was very lonely. He placed one of the last pieces of wood on the fire. Listen,
what a strange noise for wood to make in the fire. No, it wasn't wood. His body
shook as he recognized the sound…wolves.
The cry of a wolf brought the picture of the old moose back to him again. He saw
the body torn to pieces, with fresh blood running on the snow. He saw the clean
bones lying gray against the frozen blood. He saw the rushing forms of the gray
wolves, their shinning eyes, their long wet tongues and sharp teeth. And he saw
them form a circle and move ever slowly closer and closer.
A cold, wet nose touched his face. At the touch, his soul jumped forward to
awaken him. His hand went to the fire and he pulled a burning stick from it. The
wolf saw the fire, but was not afraid. It turned and howled into the air to his
brother wolves. They answered with hunger in their throats, and came running.
The old Indian listened to the hungry wolves. He heard them form a circle around
him and his small fire. He waved his burning stick at them, but they did not move
away. Now, one of them moved closer, slowly, as if to test the old man's
strength. Another and another followed. The circle grew smaller and smaller. Not
one wolf stayed behind.
Why should he fight? Why cling to life? And he dropped his stick with the fire on
the end of it. It fell in the snow and the light went out.
The circle of wolves moved closer. Once again the old Indian saw the picture of
the moose as it struggled before the end came. He dropped his head to his knees.
What did it matter after all? Isn't this the law of life?
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THE NECKLACE
Guy De Maupassant
She was one of those pretty and charming girls born, as though fate had blundered
over her, into a family of artisans. She had no marriage portion, no expectations,
no means of getting known, understood, loved, and wedded by a man of wealth and
distinction; and she let herself be married off to a little clerk in the Ministry of
Education. Her tastes were simple because she had never been able to afford any
other, but she was as unhappy as though she had married beneath her; for women
have no caste or class, their beauty, grace, and charm serving them for birth or
family, their natural delicacy, their instinctive elegance, their nimbleness of wit,
are their only mark of rank, and put the slum girl on a level with the highest lady in
the land.
She suffered endlessly, feeling herself born for every delicacy and luxury. She
suffered from the poorness of her house, from its mean walls, worn chairs, and
ugly curtains. All these things, of which other women of her class would not even
have been aware, tormented and insulted her. The sight of the little Breton girl
who came to do the work in her little house aroused heart-broken regrets and
hopeless dreams in her mind. She imagined silent antechambers, heavy with
Oriental tapestries, lit by torches in lofty bronze sockets, with two tall footmen in
knee-breeches sleeping in large arm-chairs, overcome by the heavy warmth of the
stove. She imagined vast saloons hung with antique silks, exquisite pieces of
furniture supporting priceless ornaments, and small, charming, perfumed rooms,
created just for little parties of intimate friends, men who were famous and
sought after, whose homage roused every other woman's envious longings.
When she sat down for dinner at the round table covered with a three-days-old
cloth, opposite her husband, who took the cover off the soup-tureen, exclaiming
delightedly: "Aha! Scotch broth! What could be better?" she imagined delicate
meals, gleaming silver, tapestries peopling the walls with folk of a past age and
strange birds in faery forests; she imagined delicate food served in marvellous
dishes, murmured gallantries, listened to with an inscrutable smile as one trifled
with the rosy flesh of trout or wings of asparagus chicken.
< 2 >
She had no clothes, no jewels, nothing. And these were the only things she
loved; she felt that she was made for them. She had longed so eagerly to charm, to
be desired, to be wildly attractive and sought after.
She had a rich friend, an old school friend whom she refused to visit, because
she suffered so keenly when she returned home. She would weep whole days, with
grief, regret, despair, and misery.
*
One evening her husband came home with an exultant air, holding a large envelope
in his hand.
"Here's something for you," he said.
Swiftly she tore the paper and drew out a printed card on which were these
words:
"The Minister of Education and Madame Ramponneau request the pleasure of
the company of Monsieur and Madame Loisel at the Ministry on the evening of
Monday, January the 18th."
Instead of being delighted, as her husband hoped, she flung the invitation
petulantly across the table, murmuring:
"What do you want me to do with this?"
"Why, darling, I thought you'd be pleased. You never go out, and this is a great
occasion. I had tremendous trouble to get it. Every one wants one; it's very select,
and very few go to the clerks. You'll see all the really big people there."
She looked at him out of furious eyes, and said impatiently: "And what do you
suppose I am to wear at such an affair?"
He had not thought about it; he stammered:
"Why, the dress you go to the theatre in. It looks very nice, to me . . ."
He stopped, stupefied and utterly at a loss when he saw that his wife was
beginning to cry. Two large tears ran slowly down from the corners of her eyes
towards the corners of her mouth.
< 3 >
"What's the matter with you? What's the matter with you?" he faltered.
But with a violent effort she overcame her grief and replied in a calm voice,
wiping her wet cheeks:
"Nothing. Only I haven't a dress and so I can't go to this party. Give your
invitation to some friend of yours whose wife will be turned out better than I
shall."
He was heart-broken.
"Look here, Mathilde," he persisted. "What would be the cost of a suitable
dress, which you could use on other occasions as well, something very simple?"
She thought for several seconds, reckoning up prices and also wondering for
how large a sum she could ask without bringing upon herself an immediate refusal
and an exclamation of horror from the careful-minded clerk.
At last she replied with some hesitation:

"I don't know exactly, but I think I could do it on four hundred francs."
He grew slightly pale, for this was exactly the amount he had been saving for a
gun, intending to get a little shooting next summer on the plain of Nanterre with
some friends who went lark-shooting there on Sundays.
Nevertheless he said: "Very well. I'll give you four hundred francs. But try and
get a really nice dress with the money."
The day of the party drew near, and Madame Loisel seemed sad, uneasy and
anxious. Her dress was ready, however. One evening her husband said to her:
"What's the matter with you? You've been very odd for the last three days."
"I'm utterly miserable at not having any jewels, not a single stone, to wear," she
replied. "I shall look absolutely no one. I would almost rather not go to the party."
< 4 >
"Wear flowers," he said. "They're very smart at this time of the year. For ten
francs you could get two or three gorgeous roses."
She was not convinced.
"No . . . there's nothing so humiliating as looking poor in the middle of a lot of
rich women."
"How stupid you are!" exclaimed her husband. "Go and see Madame Forestier
and ask her to lend you some jewels. You know her quite well enough for that."
She uttered a cry of delight.
"That's true. I never thought of it."
Next day she went to see her friend and told her her trouble.
Madame Forestier went to her dressing-table, took up a large box, brought it
to Madame Loisel, opened it, and said:
"Choose, my dear."
First she saw some bracelets, then a pearl necklace, then a Venetian cross in
gold and gems, of exquisite workmanship. She tried the effect of the jewels
before the mirror, hesitating, unable to make up her mind to leave them, to give
them up. She kept on asking:
"Haven't you anything else?"
"Yes. Look for yourself. I don't know what you would like best."
Suddenly she discovered, in a black satin case, a superb diamond necklace; her
heart began to beat covetously. Her hands trembled as she lifted it. She fastened
it round her neck, upon her high dress, and remained in ecstasy at sight of herself.
Then, with hesitation, she asked in anguish:
"Could you lend me this, just this alone?"
"Yes, of course."
She flung herself on her friend's breast, embraced her frenziedly, and went
away with her treasure. The day of the party arrived. Madame Loisel was a
success. She was the prettiest woman present, elegant, graceful, smiling, and quite
above herself with happiness. All the men stared at her, inquired her name, and
asked to be introduced to her. All the Under-Secretaries of State were eager to
waltz with her. The Minister noticed her.
< 5 >
She danced madly, ecstatically, drunk with pleasure, with no thought for
anything, in the triumph of her beauty, in the pride of her success, in a cloud of
happiness made up of this universal homage and admiration, of the desires she had
aroused, of the completeness of a victory so dear to her feminine heart.
She left about four o'clock in the morning. Since midnight her husband had
been dozing in a deserted little room, in company with three other men whose
wives were having a good time. He threw over her shoulders the garments he had
brought for them to go home in, modest everyday clothes, whose poverty clashed
with the beauty of the ball-dress. She was conscious of this and was anxious to
hurry away, so that she should not be noticed by the other women putting on their
costly furs.
Loisel restrained her.
"Wait a little. You'll catch cold in the open. I'm going to fetch a cab."
But she did not listen to him and rapidly descended the staircase. When they
were out in the street they could not find a cab; they began to look for one,
shouting at the drivers whom they saw passing in the distance.
They walked down towards the Seine, desperate and shivering. At last they
found on the quay one of those old nightprowling carriages which are only to be
seen in Paris after dark, as though they were ashamed of their shabbiness in the
daylight.
It brought them to their door in the Rue des Martyrs, and sadly they walked up
to their own apartment. It was the end, for her. As for him, he was thinking that
he must be at the office at ten.
She took off the garments in which she had wrapped her shoulders, so as to
see herself in all her glory before the mirror. But suddenly she uttered a cry. The
necklace was no longer round her neck!
< 6 >
"What's the matter with you?" asked her husband, already half undressed.
She turned towards him in the utmost distress.
"I . . . I . . . I've no longer got Madame Forestier's necklace. . . ."
He started with astonishment.
"What! . . . Impossible!"
They searched in the folds of her dress, in the folds of the coat, in the
pockets, everywhere. They could not find it.
"Are you sure that you still had it on when you came away from the ball?" he
asked.
"Yes, I touched it in the hall at the Ministry."
"But if you had lost it in the street, we should have heard it fall."
"Yes. Probably we should. Did you take the number of the cab?"
"No. You didn't notice it, did you?"
"No."
They stared at one another, dumbfounded. At last Loisel put on his clothes
again.
"I'll go over all the ground we walked," he said, "and see if I can't find it."
And he went out. She remained in her evening clothes, lacking strength to get
into bed, huddled on a chair, without volition or power of thought.
Her husband returned about seven. He had found nothing.
He went to the police station, to the newspapers, to offer a reward, to the cab
companies, everywhere that a ray of hope impelled him.
She waited all day long, in the same state of bewilderment at this fearful
catastrophe.
Loisel came home at night, his face lined and pale; he had discovered nothing.
< 7 >
"You must write to your friend," he said, "and tell her that you've broken the
clasp of her necklace and are getting it mended. That will give us time to look
about us."
She wrote at his dictation.

*
By the end of a week they had lost all hope.
Loisel, who had aged five years, declared:
"We must see about replacing the diamonds."
Next day they took the box which had held the necklace and went to the
jewellers whose name was inside. He consulted his books.
"It was not I who sold this necklace, Madame; I must have merely supplied the
clasp."
Then they went from jeweller to jeweller, searching for another necklace like
the first, consulting their memories, both ill with remorse and anguish of mind.
In a shop at the Palais-Royal they found a string of diamonds which seemed to
them exactly like the one they were looking for. It was worth forty thousand
francs. They were allowed to have it for thirty-six thousand.
They begged the jeweller not to sell it for three days. And they arranged
matters on the understanding that it would be taken back for thirty-four thousand
francs, if the first one were found before the end of February.
Loisel possessed eighteen thousand francs left to him by his father. He
intended to borrow the rest.
He did borrow it, getting a thousand from one man, five hundred from another,
five louis here, three louis there. He gave notes of hand, entered into ruinous
agreements, did business with usurers and the whole tribe of money-lenders. He
mortgaged the whole remaining years of his existence, risked his signature without
even knowing if he could honour it, and, appalled at the agonising face of the
future, at the black misery about to fall upon him, at the prospect of every
possible physical privation and moral torture, he went to get the new necklace and
put down upon the jeweller's counter thirty-six thousand francs.
< 8 >
When Madame Loisel took back the necklace to Madame Forestier, the latter
said to her in a chilly voice:
"You ought to have brought it back sooner; I might have needed it."
She did not, as her friend had feared, open the case. If she had noticed the
substitution, what would she have thought? What would she have said? Would she
not have taken her for a thief?
*
Madame Loisel came to know the ghastly life of abject poverty. From the very
first she played her part heroically. This fearful debt must be paid off. She would
pay it. The servant was dismissed. They changed their flat; they took a garret
under the roof.
She came to know the heavy work of the house, the hateful duties of the
kitchen. She washed the plates, wearing out her pink nails on the coarse pottery
and the bottoms of pans. She washed the dirty linen, the shirts and dish-cloths,
and hung them out to dry on a string; every morning she took the dustbin down into
the street and carried up the water, stopping on each landing to get her breath.
And, clad like a poor woman, she went to the fruiterer, to the grocer, to the
butcher, a basket on her arm, haggling, insulted, fighting for every wretched
halfpenny of her money.
Every month notes had to be paid off, others renewed, time gained.
Her husband worked in the evenings at putting straight a merchant's accounts,
and often at night he did copying at twopence-halfpenny a page.
And this life lasted ten years.
At the end of ten years everything was paid off, everything, the usurer's
charges and the accumulation of superimposed interest.
Madame Loisel looked old now. She had become like all the other strong, hard,
coarse women of poor households. Her hair was badly done, her skirts were awry,
her hands were red. She spoke in a shrill voice, and the water slopped all over the
floor when she scrubbed it. But sometimes, when her husband was at the office,
she sat down by the window and thought of that evening long ago, of the ball at
which she had been so beautiful and so much admired.
< 9 >
What would have happened if she had never lost those jewels. Who knows? Who
knows? How strange life is, how fickle! How little is needed to ruin or to save!
One Sunday, as she had gone for a walk along the Champs-Elysees to freshen
herself after the labours of the week, she caught sight suddenly of a woman who
was taking a child out for a walk. It was Madame Forestier, still young, still
beautiful, still attractive.
Madame Loisel was conscious of some emotion. Should she speak to her? Yes,
certainly. And now that she had paid, she would tell her all. Why not?
She went up to her.
"Good morning, Jeanne."
The other did not recognise her, and was surprised at being thus familiarly
addressed by a poor woman.
"But . . . Madame . . ." she stammered. "I don't know . . . you must be making a
mistake."
"No . . . I am Mathilde Loisel."
Her friend uttered a cry.
"Oh! . . . my poor Mathilde, how you have changed! . . ."
"Yes, I've had some hard times since I saw you last; and many sorrows . . . and
all on your account."
"On my account! . . . How was that?"
"You remember the diamond necklace you lent me for the ball at the Ministry?"
"Yes. Well?"
"Well, I lost it."
"How could you? Why, you brought it back."
"I brought you another one just like it. And for the last ten years we have been
paying for it. You realise it wasn't easy for us; we had no money. . . . Well, it's paid
for at last, and I'm glad indeed."
< 10 >
Madame Forestier had halted.
"You say you bought a diamond necklace to replace mine?"
"Yes. You hadn't noticed it? They were very much alike."
And she smiled in proud and innocent happiness.
Madame Forestier, deeply moved, took her two hands.
"Oh, my poor Mathilde! But mine was imitation. It was worth at the very most
five hundred francs! . . . "
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[ ] man vs. society
[ ] man vs. himself
Point of View: ___________________________
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THE LADY OR THE TIGER?

Frank Stockston
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 untrammeled, 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 hitch, and some of his orbs 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.
< 2 >
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 airs on golden horns and treading an epithalamic measure, 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.
< 3 >
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 judgments 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 no 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 of
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 exceedingly 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
the king. In after years such things became commonplace enough, but then they were in no
slight degree novel and startling.
< 4 >
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 moiety 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 cage 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.
< 5 >
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?" It 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.
< 6 >
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 cheek 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 despairing shriek was lost and drowned!
< 7 >
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
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NAME: ___________________________ Date: __________
Elements:
Setting(s): __________________________________________
Characters:
_____________________________ (main character)

[ ] man vs. society
[ ] man vs. himself
Point of View: ___________________________
Symbol(s)
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Theme:
_____________________________________________________________
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NAME: _______________________________________Date: ___________
Question:
_____________________________________________________________
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________________
Answer:
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PART III
Part III
POETRY
What is poetry?
―Poetry is the overflow of powerful feelings.‖ –William Wordsworth
―Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found
words.‖ –Robert Frost
ELEMENTS OF POETRY
Some basic elements of poetry are:
1. Rhyme. This is the repetition of the same sound at the end of the lines or
within the lines themselves. This emphasizes poetic beat. Rhyme Scheme is
the skeletal order of end rhymes of the whole poem that somehow
determines the type of poetic form. This is represented by the use of
English alphabet, in small letters.
2. Stanza Forms. These are the basic groups of lines into which the poem is
divided. Often their rhyme scheme indicates how many parts there are in a
poem.
a. Couplet (pair of rhyming rhymes)
b. Tercet (three-liner unit with a rhyming scheme)
c. Quatrain (a four-liner unit with a rhyming scheme)
d. Cinquain (a five-liner unit with unique pattern)
e. Sestet (a six-liner unit)
f. Octave (an eight-liner unit)
3. Poetic Forms.
a. Free Verse
Not to be mixed up with blank verse, free verse is poetic

form/technique where the poet does not follow the conventions of any
meter or rhyme.
Example: Disappointments by Vivian Gilbert Zabel
Every life has a room

where memories are stored:
A box of special occasions here,
Shelves of shared laughter there.
But back in the shadows
Lurks a trunk locked tight,
Not to be opened and searched.
There hide disappointments
Which darken every heart.
b. Haiku
This is the only poem that rivals free verse these days. People love
the Haiku. It‘s a 3 line poem generally where first and last lines have 5
syllables, and the middle has seven syllables.
Example: From Haiku: This Other World

Richard Wright (1908-1960)
Whitecaps on the bay:

A broken signboard banging
In the April wind.
c. Sonnet
There are various forms of sonnets, but the most popular tends to
be the English or Shakespearean sonnet. It is a 14 line poem written in
iambic pentameter. The poem will end in a rhyming couplet. There are much
more to these of course, but this is the general definition. There is also the
Italian or Petrarchan sonnet. The English sonnet seems to be the most
attempted.
A. Petrarchan/Italian Sonnet
Sonnet
Dante Alighieri (1265-1321)
Ye ladies, walking past me piteous-eyed,
Who is the lady that lies prostrate here?
Can this be even she my heart holds dear?
Nay, if it be so, speak, and nothing hide.
Her very aspect seems itself beside,
And all her features of such altered cheer
That to my thinking they do not appear
Hers who makes others seem beatified.
‗If thou forget to know our lady thus,
Whom grief o'ercomes, we wonder in no wise,
For also the same thing befalleth us,
Yet if thou watch the movement of her eyes,
Of her thou shalt be straightaway conscious.
O weep no more; thou art all wan with sighs.
(Trans. D.G. Rossetti)
B. Spenserian Sonnet
From Amoretti
Edmund Spenser (c. 1552-1599)
What guile is this, that those her golden tresses

She doth attire under a net of gold;
And with sly skill so cunningly them dresses,
That which is gold or hair, may scarce be told?
Is it that men‘s frail eyes, which gaze too bold,
She may entangle in that golden snare;
And being caught may craftily enfold
Their weaker hearts, which are not yet well aware?
Take heed therefore, mine eyes, how ye do stare
Henceforth too rashly on that guileful net,
In which if ever ye entrapped are,
Out of her bands ye by no means shall get.
Folly it were for any being free,
To covet fetters, though they golden be.
C. Shakespearean Sonnet/English Sonnet

From Sonnets
William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
From fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty‘s rose might never die.
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light‘s flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world‘s fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, mak'st waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world‘s due, by the grave and thee.
d. Limerick
A Limerick is at it‘s core (and there is more too them) a 5 line poem
that follows a strict meter and always has a AABBA rhyme scheme.
Example: There once was a man from Nantucket,

who kept all his cash in a bucket.
But his daughter, named Nan,
ran away with a man,
And as for the bucket, Nantucket. (Edward Lear)
e. Tanka
Related in a sense to the Haiku, the Tanka poem is basically a poem

that has 5,7,5,7,7 for it‘s lines. So it‘s basically a Haiku with 2 seven
syllable lines added on to the end.
Example: Beautiful mountains

Rivers with cold, cold water.
White cold snow on rocks
Trees over the place with frost
White sparkly snow everywhere.
f. Cinquain
At it‘s very base this is simply a 5 line poem. So The Tanka above
falls into this classification, but the most popular Cinquain that people want
you to write when you say, Let‘s write a cinquain is generally in English that
follows a rhyme scheme of ababb, abaab or abccb.
Each line has a set number of syllables:
Line 1-2 syllables

Line 2-4 syllables
Line 3-6 syllables
Line 4-8 syllables
Lines 5-2 syllables
There are some variations on the form. For example, the Didactic
Cinquain has the following characteristics:
Line 1-One word, also the title

Line 2-Two adjectives that describe the word in line one
Line 3-Three words that give more information about the subject.
Line 4-Four words that show emotion about the subject-either
individual words or a phrase/sentence Line 5-Synonym of the title or a
word very similar to it.
Example: Didactic form:
Computer
Cold, silent
Thinking, Producing, Calculating
Smarter than me, maybe?
Unfeeling
g. Villanelle
Here is another poetic, but it‘s not easy to explain nor easy to write.
The most famous one of these is Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night by
Dylan Thomas. The form is basically a 19 line poem that has five 3 line
stanzas. The first line of the poem and the last line of the first stanza
becomes a refrains (repeated) again and again until the last stanza.
Basically, line 1, 3 become beginning and ending lines of all the other
stanzas.
h. Acrostic
This is a simple poetry form, newer than the rest on this page. The
Acrostic is basically a poem that uses the up and down letters of a poem to
spell a word or phrase. So the first letter of each line could be pulled out to
spell a word.
Example: L is for 'laughter' we had along the way.
O is for 'optimism' you gave me every day.
V is for 'value' of being my best friend.
E is for 'eternity,' a love that has no end
Source: https://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poems/other/acrostic/
4. Persona. He is the speaker of the poem.

5. Theme. This is the implied significant human experience of a literary piece.
This is a declarative statement which expresses the truth of life.
POETRY ANALYSIS GUIDE
Title of the poem:_____________________________________________________
Poet: _______________________________________________________________
1. Summarize or paraphrase the poem. React personally: How does it make you feel?
Does it remind you of a personal experience? a story you've heard? an issue? a
situation ?
2. Now analyze the poem using your annotations and the following:
Voice
Who is speaking?
How would you characterize the speaker?
To whom is he or she speaking?
What is the speaker's tone?
Why is he or she speaking?
Word Choice, Word Order

What type of diction is the poet employing?
How does the poet's word choice affect the meaning of the poem? the tone?
Does the poet employ figures of speech? (simile, metaphor, personification,
hyperbole, understatement, metonymy, synecdoche)
Does the word order impact the reading of or the meaning of the poem?
Imagery
Did you note any descriptive passages? For each image, name the sense that is
being appealed to.
What is the dominant impression being created?
What is the relationship of the descriptive images to the speaker's state of mind?
How do images create sense of time of day? season of year? atmosphere? mood?
Do the images progress? (day to night, hot to cold, soft to loud, color to color, etc)
Sound
Does the poem contain an obvious meter or rhythm?
What sounds are emphasized by the rhyme scheme?
Are there sight rhymes, slant rhymes, alliteration, assonance, etc?
Structure
Is the poem in a closed or open form?
Is the poem presented in a traditional form?
Is there a pattern of end rhymes? a syllabic line count? a set metrical pattern?
How are the stanzas arranged? the lines?
Theme
What seems to be the point of the poem?
What ideas are being communicated by the speaker?
How are the ideas being reinforced by the elements of the poem?
Other factors to consider

Is the poem a lyric or a narrative or other?
If it is a narrative, is there a setting? a conflict? a plot line? (elements of fiction)
Does the poet employ the use of symbol? allegory? allusion? myth?
Exploring Poetry
Questions to consider:
1. Who is the speaker (voice--not always the poet)? What does the poem reveal
about the speaker's character? In some poems the speaker may be nothing
more than a voice meditating on a theme, while in others the speaker takes on a
specific personality.
2. Is the speaker addressing a particular person? If so, who is that person and
why is the speaker interested in him or her? Many poems are addressed to no
one in particular and therefore to anyone, any reader. Others, while addressed
to a specific person, reveal nothing about the person because the focus of the
poem is on the speaker's feelings and attitudes.
3. Does the poem have a setting? Is the poem occasioned by a particular event?
The answer to these questions will often be no for lyric poems. It will always
be yes if the poem is a dramatic monologue or a poem that tells or implies a
story.
4. Is the theme of the poem stated directly or indirectly? Some poems use
language in a fairly straightforward and literal way and state the theme, often
in the final lines. Others may conclude with a statement of the theme that is
more difficult to apprehend because it is made with figurative language and/or
symbols.
5. From what perspective (or point of view) is the speaker describing specific
events? Is the speaker recounting events of the past or events that are
occurring in the present? If the past events are being recalled, what present
meaning do they have for the speaker?
6. Does a close examination of the figurative language of the poem reveal any
patterns?
7. What is the structure of the poem? Since narrative poems--those that tell
stories--reveal a high degree of selectivity, it is useful to ask why the poet has
focused on particular details and left out others. Analyzing the structure of a
non-narrative or lyric poem can be more difficult because it does not contain an
obvious series of chronologically related events.
8. What do sound and meter contribute to the poem? Alexander Pope said that in
good poetry, "The sound must seem an echo to the sense"--a statement that is
sometimes easier to agree with than to demonstrate.
9. What was your response to the poem on the first reading? Did your response
change after study of the poem or class discussions about it?
*******
To appreciate the sounds and meaning of a poem, it is best to start by
reading it aloud. Once you've listened to the poem, pay attention to the words
that make up the poem. Where a poem takes the reader is inseparable from how it
takes the reader. Poets pay close attention to diction or word choice (words have
connotative (associative) and denotative (dictionary) meanings); every word in a
poem counts.
Figurative language, or devices of language--i.e. imagery, metaphor, simile,
personification, allusion, and symbol--allow us to speak non-literally in order to
achieve a special affect. Figurative language makes a comparison between the
thing being written about and something else that allows the reader to better
picture or understand it.
The music of poetry, or the sound patterns found in poetry, is created by
various uses of language, such as alphabetical letter sounds; rhyme; alliteration;
assonance; onomatopoeia; rhythm created by stressed and unstressed syllables
(often most easily recognized in the poet's use of metrical feet); variations of line;
tone; etc.
FIGURES OF SPEECH
Figurative Language is the deliberate deviation from scientific technical

language to a poetic style that adds emotional coloring to a thought as it helps
intensify the impact into deeper meanings.
Some figures of speech are:
1. Alliteration: The repetition of an initial consonant sound.

Example: She sells seashells by the seashore.
2. Antithesis: The juxtaposition of contrasting ideas in balanced phrases.
Example: As Abraham Lincoln said, "Folks who have no vices have very few
virtues."
3. Apostrophe: Directly addressing a nonexistent person or an inanimate
object as though it were a living being.
Example: "Oh, you stupid car, you never work when I need you to," Bert
sighed.
4. Assonance: Identity or similarity in sound between internal vowels in
neighboring words.
Example: How now, brown cow?
5. Euphemism: The substitution of an inoffensive term for one considered
offensively explicit.
Example: "We're teaching our toddler how to go potty," Bob said.
6. Hyperbole: An extravagant statement; the use of exaggerated terms for
the purpose of emphasis or heightened effect.
Example: I have a ton of things to do when I get home.
7. Irony: The use of words to convey the opposite of their literal meaning.
Also, a statement or situation where the meaning is contradicted by the
appearance or presentation of the idea.
Example: "Oh, I love spending big bucks," said my dad, a notorious penny
pincher.
8. Litotes: A figure of speech consisting of an understatement in which an
affirmative is expressed by negating its opposite.
Example: A million dollars is no small chunk of change.
9. Metaphor: An implied comparison between two dissimilar things that have
something in common.
Example: "All the world's a stage."
10. Onomatopoeia: The use of words that imitate the sounds associated with
the objects or actions they refer to.
Example: The clap of thunder went bang and scared my poor dog.
11. Paradox: A statement that appears to contradict itself.
Example: "This is the beginning of the end," said Eeyore, always the
pessimist.
12. Personification: A figure of speech in which an inanimate object or
abstraction is endowed with human qualities or abilities.
Example: That kitchen knife will take a bite out of your hand if you don't
handle it safely.
13. Pun: A play on words, sometimes on different senses of the same word and
sometimes on the similar sense or sound of different words.
Example: Jessie looked up from her breakfast and said, "A boiled egg every
morning is hard to beat."
14. Simile: A stated comparison (usually formed with "like" or "as") between
two fundamentally dissimilar things that have certain qualities in common.
Example: Roberto was white as a sheet after he walked out of the horror
movie.
15. Understatement: A figure of speech in which a writer or speaker
deliberately makes a situation seem less important or serious than it is.
Example: "You could say Babe Ruth was a decent ballplayer," the reporter
said with a wink.
Some poems for interpretations
THE EMPEROR’S NEW SONNET
Jose Garcia Villia
DREAMS
Langston Hughes
Hold fast to dreams

For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams

For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.
WAR IS KIND
Stephen Crane
Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind.

Because your lover threw wild hands toward the sky
And the affrighted steed ran on alone,
Do not weep.
War is kind.
Hoarse, booming drums of the regiment,
Little souls who thirst for fight,
These men were born to drill and die.
That unexplained glory flies above them,
Great is the battle-god, great, and his kingdom
A field where a thousand corpses lie.
Do not weep, babe, for war is kind.

Because your father tumbled in yellow trenches,
Raged at his breast, gulped and died,
Do not weep.
War is kind.
Swift blazing flag of the regiment,

Eagle with crest of red and gold,
These men were born to drill and die.
Point for them the virtue of slaughter,
Make plain to them the excellence of killing
And field where a thousand corpses lie.
Mother whose heart hung humble as a button

On the bright splendid shroud of your son,
Do not weep.
War is kind.
A POISON TREE
William Blake
I was angry with my friend;

I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.
And I watered it in fears,

Night & morning with my tears:
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.
And it grew both day and night.

Till it bore an apple bright.
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine.
And into my garden stole,

When the night had veild the pole;
In the morning glad I see;
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.
SONNET 18
William Shakespeare
Shall I compare thee to a summer‘s day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer‘s lease hath all too short a date.
Sometimes too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair sometimes declines,
By chance or nature‘s changing course untrimmed.
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wanderest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest.
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
SONNET 43
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday‘s
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood‘s faith,
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints---I love thee with the breadth,
Smiles, tears, of all my life!---and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
BALLAD OF A MOTHER’S HEART

Jose La Villa Tierra
The night was dark Without another word,

For the moon was young, Youth left and went to his mother
And the Stars were asleep and dear.
rare, He opened her breast and took her
The clouds were thick, heart!
Yet youth went out, But he did not shed a tear.
To see his maiden fair.
Then back to his Maiden Fair,
Dear one, He run unmindful of the rain.
He pleaded as he knelt before her But his feet slipped, And he fell
feet in tears, down,
My love is true, And loud, he groaned in pain.
Why have you kept me waiting all
this years?
The maiden looked at him. Still in his hand he held the prize,
Unmoved it seemed, That would win his Maiden‘s hands.
And whispered low. But he thought of his mother dear,
So kind, so sweet, so fond.
Persistent Youth,
You have to prove by deeds, And then,
Your love is true. He heard a voice!
―There‘s not a thing Not from his lips,
I would not do for you, Beloved‖ But all apart!
said he,
―Then go,‖ said she ―to your ―Get up!‖ it said
mother dear, ―Were you hurt, Child?‖
And bring her heart to me.‖ It was his mother‘s heart.
THE ROAD NOT TAKEN
Robert Frost
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both,
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that, the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads onto way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence
Two roads diverged in a wood, and i—
I took the one less travelled by,
And that has made all the difference.
RICHARD CORY
Edwin Arlington Robison
Whenever Richard Cory went down town,

We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, ad imperially slim.
And he was always quietly arrayed,

And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
―Good morning,‖ and he glittered when he walked.
And he was rich---yes, richer than a king---

And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.
So on we worked, ad waited for the light,

And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.
HAIKU
Assignment:
1. Get three examples of Haiku.
2. Make your own Haiku.

REFERENCES
Tomeldan, Y et.al. (2009). PRISM: An Introduction to Literature. Mandaluyong

City: National Book Store.
Foresman, Scott. (1997). Literature and Integrated Studies. Scott and Company,
Glenview Illinois, United States of America.
Macagaan, Ailannie. POETRY (workbook). 2015

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COURSE SYLLABUS ------------------------------------------ 2

PART I INTRODUCTION --------------------------------- 5

PART II SHORT STORY ---------------------------------- 10

Footnote to Youth by Jose Garcia Villa -------------------- 15

Feast of the Dead by Cevdet Kudret ----------------- 53

WESTERN SHORT STORIES

PART III POETRY 96

References ----------------------------------------------------------------------- 116

REPUBLIC OF THE PHILIPPINES

At the end of the course, students are expected to:

1. define what is literature;

II. SHORT STORY

A. Elements of Short Story

B. ASIAN SHORT STORIES

1. Footnote to Youth by Jose Garcia Villa (Philippines)

3. Rashomon By Ryunusuke Akutagawa (Japan)

C. WESTERN SHORT STORIES

MAJOR COURSE REQUIREMENTS:

1. COMPILATION. Get a copy of the compilation on the short stories and

Attendance and Behavior ----------------------------- 10%

Tomeldan, Y et.al. (2009). PRISM: An Introduction to Literature. Mandaluyong

City: National Book Store.

Glenview Illinois, United States of America.

Macagaan, Ailannie. POETRY (workbook). 2015

"Literature adds to reality, it does not simply

- C.S. Lewis, a British scholar and novelist.

The given quote is perhaps the most appropriate description of the

Why is literature important? As stated in the quotation by C.S. Lewis,

Prose, poetry, drama, essays, fiction, literary works based on philosophy,

Winnie-the-Pooh were some of the greatest works in children's literature. The

Check for Understanding:

Why is reading literature important for you as a future professional? 10

 A Fable is a story about supernatural or extraordinary people usually in the form

 Historical Fiction is a story with fictional characters and events in a historical

 Legend is a story that sometimes of a national or folk hero. Legend is based on

Check for Understanding:

Name: ____________________________ Date: __________

1) External - A struggle with a force outside one's self.

There are four sub-types of conflict:

Examples: eagle would symbolize bravery and strength

Example: Love conquers all.

Compiled by Ms. Jao Yusoph

I will tell him. I will tell it to him.

Thinking himself man – grown, Dodong felt he could do anything.

Must you marry, Dodong?‖

―I am going to marry Teang,‖ Dodong said.

―I will marry Teang,‖ Dodong repeated. ―I will marry Teang.‖

―Must you marry, Dodong?‖

―You are very young, Dodong.‖

―That‘s very young to get married at.‖

―I… I want to marry… Teang‘s a good girl…

―Tell your mother,‖ his father said.

―You tell her, Tatay.‖

―Dodong, you tell your Inay.‖

―You tell her.‖

―All right, Dodong.‖

―All right, Dodong.‖

―You will let me marry Teang?‖

Dodong stood in the sweltering noon heat, sweating profusely so that

In a few moments he would be a father. ―Father, father,‖ he whispered the word

―Come up, Dodong. It is over.‖

Suddenly, he felt terribly embarrassed as he looked at her. Somehow, he was

―Dodong,‖ his mother called again. ―Dodong.‖

Name: __________________ Date:

NAME: _________________ Date:

NAME: _________________ Date:

NAME: _________________ Date:

NAME: _________________ Date:

NAME: _________________ Date: