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Friend or Foe?
The old wisdom says giving come and go,
But enemies accumulate, so
Sort them out carefully,
Pray and find prayerfully
Which is your friend and which is your foe.
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Friday, October 29, 2010
August 29th, 1859 by Oliver Wendall Holmes
Go to www.daneallred.com for a complete list of all audio short stories and poems available at Literature Out Loud
Click on the player to hear an audio version of this poem.
AUGUST 29, 1859
by Oliver Wendell Holmes
I REMEMBER–why, yes! God bless me! and was it so long ago?
I fear I’m growing forgetful, as old folks do, you know;
It must have been in ‘forty–I would say ‘thirty-nine–
We talked this matter over, I and a friend of mine.
He said, “Well now, old fellow, I’m thinking that you and I,
If we act like other people, shall be older by and by;
What though the bright blue ocean is smooth as a pond can be,
There is always a line of breakers to fringe the broadest sea.
“We’re taking it mighty easy, but that is nothing strange,
For up to the age of thirty we spend our years like Change;
But creeping up towards the forties, as fast as the old years fill,
And Time steps in for payment, we seem to change a bill.”
“I know it,” I said, “old fellow; you speak the solemn truth;
A man can’t live to a hundred and likewise keep his youth;
But what if the ten years coming shall silver-streak my hair,
You know I shall then be forty; of course I shall not care.
“At forty a man grows heavy and tired of fun and noise;
Leaves dress to the five-and-twenties and love to the silly boys;
No foppish tricks at forty, no pinching of waists and toes,
But high-low shoes and flannels and good thick worsted hose.”
But one fine August morning I found myself awake
My birthday:–By Jove, I’m forty! Yes, forty, and no mistake!
Why, this is the very milestone, I think I used to hold,
That when a fellow had come to, a fellow would then be old!
But that is the young folks’ nonsense; they’re full of their
foolish stuff;
A man’s in his prime at forty,–I see that plain enough;
At fifty a man is wrinkled, and may be bald or gray;
I call men old at fifty, in spite of all they say.
At last comes another August with mist and rain and shine;
Its mornings are slowly counted and creep to twenty-nine,
And when on the western summits the fading light appears,
It touches with rosy fingers the last of my fifty years.
There have been both men and women whose hearts were firm and bold,
But there never was one of fifty that loved to say “I’m old”;
So any elderly person that strives to shirk his years,
Make him stand up at a table and try him by his peers.
Now here I stand at fifty, my jury gathered round;
Sprinkled with dust of silver, but not yet silver-crowned,
Ready to meet your verdict, waiting to hear it told;
Guilty of fifty summers; speak! Is the verdict “old”?
No! Say that his hearing fails him; say that his sight grows dim;
Say that he’s getting wrinkled and weak in back and limb,
Losing his wits and temper, but pleading, to make amends,
The youth of his fifty summers he finds in his twenty friends.
Click on the player to hear an audio version of this poem.
AUGUST 29, 1859
by Oliver Wendell Holmes
I REMEMBER–why, yes! God bless me! and was it so long ago?
I fear I’m growing forgetful, as old folks do, you know;
It must have been in ‘forty–I would say ‘thirty-nine–
We talked this matter over, I and a friend of mine.
He said, “Well now, old fellow, I’m thinking that you and I,
If we act like other people, shall be older by and by;
What though the bright blue ocean is smooth as a pond can be,
There is always a line of breakers to fringe the broadest sea.
“We’re taking it mighty easy, but that is nothing strange,
For up to the age of thirty we spend our years like Change;
But creeping up towards the forties, as fast as the old years fill,
And Time steps in for payment, we seem to change a bill.”
“I know it,” I said, “old fellow; you speak the solemn truth;
A man can’t live to a hundred and likewise keep his youth;
But what if the ten years coming shall silver-streak my hair,
You know I shall then be forty; of course I shall not care.
“At forty a man grows heavy and tired of fun and noise;
Leaves dress to the five-and-twenties and love to the silly boys;
No foppish tricks at forty, no pinching of waists and toes,
But high-low shoes and flannels and good thick worsted hose.”
But one fine August morning I found myself awake
My birthday:–By Jove, I’m forty! Yes, forty, and no mistake!
Why, this is the very milestone, I think I used to hold,
That when a fellow had come to, a fellow would then be old!
But that is the young folks’ nonsense; they’re full of their
foolish stuff;
A man’s in his prime at forty,–I see that plain enough;
At fifty a man is wrinkled, and may be bald or gray;
I call men old at fifty, in spite of all they say.
At last comes another August with mist and rain and shine;
Its mornings are slowly counted and creep to twenty-nine,
And when on the western summits the fading light appears,
It touches with rosy fingers the last of my fifty years.
There have been both men and women whose hearts were firm and bold,
But there never was one of fifty that loved to say “I’m old”;
So any elderly person that strives to shirk his years,
Make him stand up at a table and try him by his peers.
Now here I stand at fifty, my jury gathered round;
Sprinkled with dust of silver, but not yet silver-crowned,
Ready to meet your verdict, waiting to hear it told;
Guilty of fifty summers; speak! Is the verdict “old”?
No! Say that his hearing fails him; say that his sight grows dim;
Say that he’s getting wrinkled and weak in back and limb,
Losing his wits and temper, but pleading, to make amends,
The youth of his fifty summers he finds in his twenty friends.
The Diamond Necklace by Guy de Maupassant
Go to www.daneallred.com for a complete list of all audio short stories and poems available at Literature Out Loud
Click on the player to hear an audio version of this short story.
The Diamond Necklace
by Guy De Maupassant
The girl was one of those pretty and charming young creatures who sometimes are born, as if by a slip of fate, into a family of clerks. She had no dowry, no expectations, no way of being known, understood, loved, married by any rich and distinguished man; so she let herself be married to a little clerk of the Ministry of Public Instruction.
She dressed plainly because she could not dress well, but she was unhappy as if she had really fallen from a higher station; since with women there is neither caste nor rank, for beauty, grace and charm take the place of family and birth. Natural ingenuity, instinct for what is elegant, a supple mind are their sole hierarchy, and often make of women of the people the equals of the very greatest ladies.
Mathilde suffered ceaselessly, feeling herself born to enjoy all delicacies and all luxuries. She was distressed at the poverty of her dwelling, at the bareness of the walls, at the shabby chairs, the ugliness of the curtains. All those things, of which another woman of her rank would never even have been conscious, tortured her and made her angry. The sight of the little Breton peasant who did her humble housework aroused in her despairing regrets and bewildering dreams. She thought of silent antechambers hung with Oriental tapestry, illumined by tall bronze candelabra, and of two great footmen in knee breeches who sleep in the big armchairs, made drowsy by the oppressive heat of the stove. She thought of long reception halls hung with ancient silk, of the dainty cabinets containing priceless curiosities and of the little coquettish perfumed reception rooms made for chatting at five o’clock with intimate friends, with men famous and sought after, whom all women envy and whose attention they all desire.
When she sat down to dinner, before the round table covered with a tablecloth in use three days, opposite her husband, who uncovered the soup tureen and declared with a delighted air, “Ah, the good soup! I don’t know anything better than that,” she thought of dainty dinners, of shining silverware, of tapestry that peopled the walls with ancient personages and with strange birds flying in the midst of a fairy forest; and she thought of delicious dishes served on marvelous plates and of the whispered gallantries to which you listen with a sphinx-like smile while you are eating the pink meat of a trout or the wings of a quail.
She had no gowns, no jewels, nothing. And she loved nothing but that. She felt made for that. She would have liked so much to please, to be envied, to be charming, to be sought after.
She had a friend, a former schoolmate at the convent, who was rich, and whom she did not like to go to see any more because she felt so sad when she came home.
But one evening her husband reached home with a triumphant air and holding a large envelope in his hand.
“There,” said he, “there is something for you.”
She tore the paper quickly and drew out a printed card which bore these words:
The Minister of Public Instruction and Madame Georges Ramponneau request the honor of M. and Madame Loisel’s company at the palace of the Ministry on Monday evening, January 18th.
Instead of being delighted, as her husband had hoped, she threw the invitation on the table crossly, muttering:
“What do you wish me to do with that?”
“Why, my dear, I thought you would be glad. You never go out, and this is such a fine opportunity. I had great trouble to get it. Everyone wants to go; it is very select, and they are not giving many invitations to clerks. The whole official world will be there.”
She looked at him with an irritated glance and said impatiently:
“And what do you wish me to put on my back?”
He had not thought of that. He stammered:
“Why, the gown you go to the theatre in. It looks very well to me.”
He stopped, distracted, seeing that his wife was weeping. Two great tears ran slowly from the corners of her eyes toward the corners of her mouth.
“What’s the matter? What’s the matter?” he answered.
By a violent effort she conquered her grief and replied in a calm voice, while she wiped her wet cheeks:
“Nothing. Only I have no gown, and, therefore, I can’t go to this ball. Give your card to some colleague whose wife is better equipped than I am.”
He was in despair. He resumed:
“Come, let us see, Mathilde. How much would it cost, a suitable gown, which you could use on other occasions–something very simple?”
She reflected several seconds, making her calculations and wondering also what sum she could ask without drawing on herself an immediate refusal and a frightened exclamation from the economical clerk.
Finally she replied hesitating:
“I don’t know exactly, but I think I could manage it with four hundred francs.”
He grew a little pale, because he was laying aside just that amount to buy a gun and treat himself to a little shooting next summer on the plain of Nanterre, with several friends who went to shoot larks there of a Sunday.
But he said:
“Very well. I will give you four hundred francs. And try to have a pretty gown.”
The day of the ball drew near and Madame Loisel seemed sad, uneasy, anxious. Her frock was ready, however. Her husband said to her one evening:
“What is the matter? Come, you have seemed very queer these last three days.”
And she answered:
“It annoys me not to have a single piece of jewelry, not a single ornament, nothing to put on. I shall look poverty-stricken. I would almost rather not go at all.”
“You might wear natural flowers,” said her husband. “They’re very stylish at this time of year. For ten francs you can get two or three magnificent roses.”
She was not convinced.
“No; there’s nothing more humiliating than to look poor among other women who are rich.”
“How stupid you are!” her husband cried. “Go look up your friend, Madame Forestier, and ask her to lend you some jewels. You’re intimate enough with her to do that.”
She uttered a cry of joy:
“True! I never thought of it.”
The next day she went to her friend and told her of her distress.
Madame Forestier went to a wardrobe with a mirror, took out a large jewel box, brought it back, opened it and said to Madame Loisel:
“Choose, my dear.”
She saw first some bracelets, then a pearl necklace, then a Venetian gold cross set with precious stones, of admirable workmanship. She tried on the ornaments before the mirror, hesitated and could not make up her mind to part with them, to give them back. She kept asking:
“Haven’t you any more?”
“Why, yes. Look further; I don’t know what you like.”
Suddenly she discovered, in a black satin box, a superb diamond necklace, and her heart throbbed with an immoderate desire. Her hands trembled as she took it. She fastened it round her throat, outside her high-necked waist, and was lost in ecstasy at her reflection in the mirror.
Then she asked, hesitating, filled with anxious doubt:
“Will you lend me this, only this?”
“Why, yes, certainly.”
She threw her arms round her friend’s neck, kissed her passionately, then fled with her treasure.
The night of the ball arrived. Madame Loisel was a great success. She was prettier than any other woman present, elegant, graceful, smiling and wild with joy. All the men looked at her, asked her name, sought to be introduced. All the attaches of the Cabinet wished to waltz with her. She was remarked by the minister himself.
She danced with rapture, with passion, intoxicated by pleasure, forgetting all in the triumph of her beauty, in the glory of her success, in a sort of cloud of happiness comprised of all this homage, admiration, these awakened desires and of that sense of triumph which is so sweet to woman’s heart.
She left the ball about four o’clock in the morning. Her husband had been sleeping since midnight in a little deserted anteroom with three other gentlemen whose wives were enjoying the ball.
He threw over her shoulders the wraps he had brought, the modest wraps of common life, the poverty of which contrasted with the elegance of the ball dress. She felt this and wished to escape so as not to be remarked by the other women, who were enveloping themselves in costly furs.
Loisel held her back, saying: “Wait a bit. You will catch cold outside. I will call a cab.”
But she did not listen to him and rapidly descended the stairs. When they reached the street they could not find a carriage and began to look for one, shouting after the cabmen passing at a distance.
They went toward the Seine in despair, shivering with cold. At last they found on the quay one of those ancient night cabs which, as though they were ashamed to show their shabbiness during the day, are never seen round Paris until after dark.
It took them to their dwelling in the Rue des Martyrs, and sadly they mounted the stairs to their flat. All was ended for her. As to him, he reflected that he must be at the ministry at ten o’clock that morning.
She removed her wraps before the glass so as to see herself once more in all her glory. But suddenly she uttered a cry. She no longer had the necklace around her neck!
“What is the matter with you?” demanded her husband, already half undressed.
She turned distractedly toward him.
“I have–I have–I’ve lost Madame Forestier’s necklace,” she cried.
He stood up, bewildered.
“What!–how? Impossible!”
They looked among the folds of her skirt, of her cloak, in her pockets, everywhere, but did not find it.
“You’re sure you had it on when you left the ball?” he asked.
“Yes, I felt it in the vestibule of the minister’s house.”
“But if you had lost it in the street we should have heard it fall. It must be in the cab.”
“Yes, probably. Did you take his number?”
“No. And you–didn’t you notice it?”
“No.”
They looked, thunderstruck, at each other. At last Loisel put on his clothes.
“I shall go back on foot,” said he, “over the whole route, to see whether I can find it.”
He went out. She sat waiting on a chair in her ball dress, without strength to go to bed, overwhelmed, without any fire, without a thought.
Her husband returned about seven o’clock. He had found nothing.
He went to police headquarters, to the newspaper offices to offer a reward; he went to the cab companies–everywhere, in fact, whither he was urged by the least spark of hope.
She waited all day, in the same condition of mad fear before this terrible calamity.
Loisel returned at night with a hollow, pale face. He had discovered nothing.
“You must write to your friend,” said he, “that you have broken the clasp of her necklace and that you are having it mended. That will give us time to turn round.”
She wrote at his dictation.
At the end of a week they had lost all hope. Loisel, who had aged five years, declared:
“We must consider how to replace that ornament.”
The next day they took the box that had contained it and went to the jeweler whose name was found within. He consulted his books.
“It was not I, madame, who sold that necklace; I must simply have furnished the case.”
Then they went from jeweler to jeweler, searching for a necklace like the other, trying to recall it, both sick with chagrin and grief.
They found, in a shop at the Palais Royal, a string of diamonds that seemed to them exactly like the one they had lost. It was worth forty thousand francs. They could have it for thirty-six.
So they begged the jeweler not to sell it for three days yet. And they made a bargain that he should buy it back for thirty-four thousand francs, in case they should find the lost necklace before the end of February.
Loisel possessed eighteen thousand francs which his father had left him. He would borrow the rest.
He did borrow, asking a thousand francs of one, five hundred of another, five louis here, three louis there. He gave notes, took up ruinous obligations, dealt with usurers and all the race of lenders. He compromised all the rest of his life, risked signing a note without even knowing whether he could meet it; and, frightened by the trouble yet to come, by the black misery that was about to fall upon him, by the prospect of all the physical privations and moral tortures that he was to suffer, he went to get the new necklace, laying upon the jeweler’s counter thirty-six thousand francs.
When Madame Loisel took back the necklace Madame Forestier said to her with a chilly manner:
“You should have returned it sooner; I might have needed it.”
She did not open the case, as her friend had so much feared. If she had detected the substitution, what would she have thought, what would she have said? Would she not have taken Madame Loisel for a thief?
Thereafter Madame Loisel knew the horrible existence of the needy. She bore her part, however, with sudden heroism. That dreadful debt must be paid. She would pay it. They dismissed their servant; they changed their lodgings; they rented a garret under the roof.
She came to know what heavy housework meant and the odious cares of the kitchen. She washed the dishes, using her dainty fingers and rosy nails on greasy pots and pans. She washed the soiled linen, the shirts and the dishcloths, which she dried upon a line; she carried the slops down to the street every morning and carried up the water, stopping for breath at every landing. And dressed like a woman of the people, she went to the fruiterer, the grocer, the butcher, a basket on her arm, bargaining, meeting with impertinence, defending her miserable money, sou by sou.
Every month they had to meet some notes, renew others, obtain more time.
Her husband worked evenings, making up a tradesman’s accounts, and late at night he often copied manuscript for five sous a page.
This life lasted ten years.
At the end of ten years they had paid everything, everything, with the rates of usury and the accumulations of the compound interest.
Madame Loisel looked old now. She had become the woman of impoverished households–strong and hard and rough. With frowsy hair, skirts askew and red hands, she talked loud while washing the floor with great swishes of water. But sometimes, when her husband was at the office, she sat down near the window and she thought of that gay evening of long ago, of that ball where she had been so beautiful and so admired.
What would have happened if she had not lost that necklace? Who knows? Who knows? How strange and changeful is life! How small a thing is needed to make or ruin us!
But one Sunday, having gone to take a walk in the Champs Elysees to refresh herself after the labors of the week, she suddenly perceived a woman who was leading a child. It was Madame Forestier, still young, still beautiful, still charming.
Madame Loisel felt moved. Should she speak to her? Yes, certainly. And now that she had paid, she would tell her all about it. Why not?
She went up.
“Good-day, Jeanne.”
The other, astonished to be familiarly addressed by this plain good-wife, did not recognize her at all and stammered:
“But–madame!–I do not know–You must have mistaken.”
“No. I am Mathilde Loisel.”
Her friend uttered a cry.
“Oh, my poor Mathilde! How you are changed!”
“Yes, I have had a pretty hard life, since I last saw you, and great poverty–and that because of you!”
“Of me! How so?”
“Do you remember that diamond necklace you lent me to wear at the ministerial ball?”
“Yes. Well?”
“Well, I lost it.”
“What do you mean? You brought it back.”
“I brought you back another exactly like it. And it has taken us ten years to pay for it. You can understand that it was not easy for us, for us who had nothing. At last it is ended, and I am very glad.”
Madame Forestier had stopped.
“You say that you bought a necklace of diamonds to replace mine?”
“Yes. You never noticed it, then! They were very similar.”
And she smiled with a joy that was at once proud and ingenuous.
Madame Forestier, deeply moved, took her hands.
“Oh, my poor Mathilde! Why, my necklace was paste! It was worth at most only five hundred francs!”
Click on the player to hear an audio version of this short story.
The Diamond Necklace
by Guy De Maupassant
The girl was one of those pretty and charming young creatures who sometimes are born, as if by a slip of fate, into a family of clerks. She had no dowry, no expectations, no way of being known, understood, loved, married by any rich and distinguished man; so she let herself be married to a little clerk of the Ministry of Public Instruction.
She dressed plainly because she could not dress well, but she was unhappy as if she had really fallen from a higher station; since with women there is neither caste nor rank, for beauty, grace and charm take the place of family and birth. Natural ingenuity, instinct for what is elegant, a supple mind are their sole hierarchy, and often make of women of the people the equals of the very greatest ladies.
Mathilde suffered ceaselessly, feeling herself born to enjoy all delicacies and all luxuries. She was distressed at the poverty of her dwelling, at the bareness of the walls, at the shabby chairs, the ugliness of the curtains. All those things, of which another woman of her rank would never even have been conscious, tortured her and made her angry. The sight of the little Breton peasant who did her humble housework aroused in her despairing regrets and bewildering dreams. She thought of silent antechambers hung with Oriental tapestry, illumined by tall bronze candelabra, and of two great footmen in knee breeches who sleep in the big armchairs, made drowsy by the oppressive heat of the stove. She thought of long reception halls hung with ancient silk, of the dainty cabinets containing priceless curiosities and of the little coquettish perfumed reception rooms made for chatting at five o’clock with intimate friends, with men famous and sought after, whom all women envy and whose attention they all desire.
When she sat down to dinner, before the round table covered with a tablecloth in use three days, opposite her husband, who uncovered the soup tureen and declared with a delighted air, “Ah, the good soup! I don’t know anything better than that,” she thought of dainty dinners, of shining silverware, of tapestry that peopled the walls with ancient personages and with strange birds flying in the midst of a fairy forest; and she thought of delicious dishes served on marvelous plates and of the whispered gallantries to which you listen with a sphinx-like smile while you are eating the pink meat of a trout or the wings of a quail.
She had no gowns, no jewels, nothing. And she loved nothing but that. She felt made for that. She would have liked so much to please, to be envied, to be charming, to be sought after.
She had a friend, a former schoolmate at the convent, who was rich, and whom she did not like to go to see any more because she felt so sad when she came home.
But one evening her husband reached home with a triumphant air and holding a large envelope in his hand.
“There,” said he, “there is something for you.”
She tore the paper quickly and drew out a printed card which bore these words:
The Minister of Public Instruction and Madame Georges Ramponneau request the honor of M. and Madame Loisel’s company at the palace of the Ministry on Monday evening, January 18th.
Instead of being delighted, as her husband had hoped, she threw the invitation on the table crossly, muttering:
“What do you wish me to do with that?”
“Why, my dear, I thought you would be glad. You never go out, and this is such a fine opportunity. I had great trouble to get it. Everyone wants to go; it is very select, and they are not giving many invitations to clerks. The whole official world will be there.”
She looked at him with an irritated glance and said impatiently:
“And what do you wish me to put on my back?”
He had not thought of that. He stammered:
“Why, the gown you go to the theatre in. It looks very well to me.”
He stopped, distracted, seeing that his wife was weeping. Two great tears ran slowly from the corners of her eyes toward the corners of her mouth.
“What’s the matter? What’s the matter?” he answered.
By a violent effort she conquered her grief and replied in a calm voice, while she wiped her wet cheeks:
“Nothing. Only I have no gown, and, therefore, I can’t go to this ball. Give your card to some colleague whose wife is better equipped than I am.”
He was in despair. He resumed:
“Come, let us see, Mathilde. How much would it cost, a suitable gown, which you could use on other occasions–something very simple?”
She reflected several seconds, making her calculations and wondering also what sum she could ask without drawing on herself an immediate refusal and a frightened exclamation from the economical clerk.
Finally she replied hesitating:
“I don’t know exactly, but I think I could manage it with four hundred francs.”
He grew a little pale, because he was laying aside just that amount to buy a gun and treat himself to a little shooting next summer on the plain of Nanterre, with several friends who went to shoot larks there of a Sunday.
But he said:
“Very well. I will give you four hundred francs. And try to have a pretty gown.”
The day of the ball drew near and Madame Loisel seemed sad, uneasy, anxious. Her frock was ready, however. Her husband said to her one evening:
“What is the matter? Come, you have seemed very queer these last three days.”
And she answered:
“It annoys me not to have a single piece of jewelry, not a single ornament, nothing to put on. I shall look poverty-stricken. I would almost rather not go at all.”
“You might wear natural flowers,” said her husband. “They’re very stylish at this time of year. For ten francs you can get two or three magnificent roses.”
She was not convinced.
“No; there’s nothing more humiliating than to look poor among other women who are rich.”
“How stupid you are!” her husband cried. “Go look up your friend, Madame Forestier, and ask her to lend you some jewels. You’re intimate enough with her to do that.”
She uttered a cry of joy:
“True! I never thought of it.”
The next day she went to her friend and told her of her distress.
Madame Forestier went to a wardrobe with a mirror, took out a large jewel box, brought it back, opened it and said to Madame Loisel:
“Choose, my dear.”
She saw first some bracelets, then a pearl necklace, then a Venetian gold cross set with precious stones, of admirable workmanship. She tried on the ornaments before the mirror, hesitated and could not make up her mind to part with them, to give them back. She kept asking:
“Haven’t you any more?”
“Why, yes. Look further; I don’t know what you like.”
Suddenly she discovered, in a black satin box, a superb diamond necklace, and her heart throbbed with an immoderate desire. Her hands trembled as she took it. She fastened it round her throat, outside her high-necked waist, and was lost in ecstasy at her reflection in the mirror.
Then she asked, hesitating, filled with anxious doubt:
“Will you lend me this, only this?”
“Why, yes, certainly.”
She threw her arms round her friend’s neck, kissed her passionately, then fled with her treasure.
The night of the ball arrived. Madame Loisel was a great success. She was prettier than any other woman present, elegant, graceful, smiling and wild with joy. All the men looked at her, asked her name, sought to be introduced. All the attaches of the Cabinet wished to waltz with her. She was remarked by the minister himself.
She danced with rapture, with passion, intoxicated by pleasure, forgetting all in the triumph of her beauty, in the glory of her success, in a sort of cloud of happiness comprised of all this homage, admiration, these awakened desires and of that sense of triumph which is so sweet to woman’s heart.
She left the ball about four o’clock in the morning. Her husband had been sleeping since midnight in a little deserted anteroom with three other gentlemen whose wives were enjoying the ball.
He threw over her shoulders the wraps he had brought, the modest wraps of common life, the poverty of which contrasted with the elegance of the ball dress. She felt this and wished to escape so as not to be remarked by the other women, who were enveloping themselves in costly furs.
Loisel held her back, saying: “Wait a bit. You will catch cold outside. I will call a cab.”
But she did not listen to him and rapidly descended the stairs. When they reached the street they could not find a carriage and began to look for one, shouting after the cabmen passing at a distance.
They went toward the Seine in despair, shivering with cold. At last they found on the quay one of those ancient night cabs which, as though they were ashamed to show their shabbiness during the day, are never seen round Paris until after dark.
It took them to their dwelling in the Rue des Martyrs, and sadly they mounted the stairs to their flat. All was ended for her. As to him, he reflected that he must be at the ministry at ten o’clock that morning.
She removed her wraps before the glass so as to see herself once more in all her glory. But suddenly she uttered a cry. She no longer had the necklace around her neck!
“What is the matter with you?” demanded her husband, already half undressed.
She turned distractedly toward him.
“I have–I have–I’ve lost Madame Forestier’s necklace,” she cried.
He stood up, bewildered.
“What!–how? Impossible!”
They looked among the folds of her skirt, of her cloak, in her pockets, everywhere, but did not find it.
“You’re sure you had it on when you left the ball?” he asked.
“Yes, I felt it in the vestibule of the minister’s house.”
“But if you had lost it in the street we should have heard it fall. It must be in the cab.”
“Yes, probably. Did you take his number?”
“No. And you–didn’t you notice it?”
“No.”
They looked, thunderstruck, at each other. At last Loisel put on his clothes.
“I shall go back on foot,” said he, “over the whole route, to see whether I can find it.”
He went out. She sat waiting on a chair in her ball dress, without strength to go to bed, overwhelmed, without any fire, without a thought.
Her husband returned about seven o’clock. He had found nothing.
He went to police headquarters, to the newspaper offices to offer a reward; he went to the cab companies–everywhere, in fact, whither he was urged by the least spark of hope.
She waited all day, in the same condition of mad fear before this terrible calamity.
Loisel returned at night with a hollow, pale face. He had discovered nothing.
“You must write to your friend,” said he, “that you have broken the clasp of her necklace and that you are having it mended. That will give us time to turn round.”
She wrote at his dictation.
At the end of a week they had lost all hope. Loisel, who had aged five years, declared:
“We must consider how to replace that ornament.”
The next day they took the box that had contained it and went to the jeweler whose name was found within. He consulted his books.
“It was not I, madame, who sold that necklace; I must simply have furnished the case.”
Then they went from jeweler to jeweler, searching for a necklace like the other, trying to recall it, both sick with chagrin and grief.
They found, in a shop at the Palais Royal, a string of diamonds that seemed to them exactly like the one they had lost. It was worth forty thousand francs. They could have it for thirty-six.
So they begged the jeweler not to sell it for three days yet. And they made a bargain that he should buy it back for thirty-four thousand francs, in case they should find the lost necklace before the end of February.
Loisel possessed eighteen thousand francs which his father had left him. He would borrow the rest.
He did borrow, asking a thousand francs of one, five hundred of another, five louis here, three louis there. He gave notes, took up ruinous obligations, dealt with usurers and all the race of lenders. He compromised all the rest of his life, risked signing a note without even knowing whether he could meet it; and, frightened by the trouble yet to come, by the black misery that was about to fall upon him, by the prospect of all the physical privations and moral tortures that he was to suffer, he went to get the new necklace, laying upon the jeweler’s counter thirty-six thousand francs.
When Madame Loisel took back the necklace Madame Forestier said to her with a chilly manner:
“You should have returned it sooner; I might have needed it.”
She did not open the case, as her friend had so much feared. If she had detected the substitution, what would she have thought, what would she have said? Would she not have taken Madame Loisel for a thief?
Thereafter Madame Loisel knew the horrible existence of the needy. She bore her part, however, with sudden heroism. That dreadful debt must be paid. She would pay it. They dismissed their servant; they changed their lodgings; they rented a garret under the roof.
She came to know what heavy housework meant and the odious cares of the kitchen. She washed the dishes, using her dainty fingers and rosy nails on greasy pots and pans. She washed the soiled linen, the shirts and the dishcloths, which she dried upon a line; she carried the slops down to the street every morning and carried up the water, stopping for breath at every landing. And dressed like a woman of the people, she went to the fruiterer, the grocer, the butcher, a basket on her arm, bargaining, meeting with impertinence, defending her miserable money, sou by sou.
Every month they had to meet some notes, renew others, obtain more time.
Her husband worked evenings, making up a tradesman’s accounts, and late at night he often copied manuscript for five sous a page.
This life lasted ten years.
At the end of ten years they had paid everything, everything, with the rates of usury and the accumulations of the compound interest.
Madame Loisel looked old now. She had become the woman of impoverished households–strong and hard and rough. With frowsy hair, skirts askew and red hands, she talked loud while washing the floor with great swishes of water. But sometimes, when her husband was at the office, she sat down near the window and she thought of that gay evening of long ago, of that ball where she had been so beautiful and so admired.
What would have happened if she had not lost that necklace? Who knows? Who knows? How strange and changeful is life! How small a thing is needed to make or ruin us!
But one Sunday, having gone to take a walk in the Champs Elysees to refresh herself after the labors of the week, she suddenly perceived a woman who was leading a child. It was Madame Forestier, still young, still beautiful, still charming.
Madame Loisel felt moved. Should she speak to her? Yes, certainly. And now that she had paid, she would tell her all about it. Why not?
She went up.
“Good-day, Jeanne.”
The other, astonished to be familiarly addressed by this plain good-wife, did not recognize her at all and stammered:
“But–madame!–I do not know–You must have mistaken.”
“No. I am Mathilde Loisel.”
Her friend uttered a cry.
“Oh, my poor Mathilde! How you are changed!”
“Yes, I have had a pretty hard life, since I last saw you, and great poverty–and that because of you!”
“Of me! How so?”
“Do you remember that diamond necklace you lent me to wear at the ministerial ball?”
“Yes. Well?”
“Well, I lost it.”
“What do you mean? You brought it back.”
“I brought you back another exactly like it. And it has taken us ten years to pay for it. You can understand that it was not easy for us, for us who had nothing. At last it is ended, and I am very glad.”
Madame Forestier had stopped.
“You say that you bought a necklace of diamonds to replace mine?”
“Yes. You never noticed it, then! They were very similar.”
And she smiled with a joy that was at once proud and ingenuous.
Madame Forestier, deeply moved, took her hands.
“Oh, my poor Mathilde! Why, my necklace was paste! It was worth at most only five hundred francs!”
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Biography Out Loud -- Guy de Maupassant
Go to Abundance for more selections, including other original pieces by Dane Allred and his audio versions of many famous short stories and poems called Literature Out Loud, plus lots more!!
Click on the player to hear an audio version of this episode.
Born on August 5th, 1850, he once said, “I entered literary life as a meteor, and I shall leave it like a thunderbolt.” One of many French people who despised the Eiffel Tower, he would often eat at the restaurant at its base to avoid having to see the structure. Who is this outspoken author who has been called one of the fathers of the modern short story? We’ll find out in a moment on Biography Out Loud.
Biography Out Loud
Guy de Maupassant
Guy de Maupassant and forty-six other notable French authors and artists wrote a letter to the Minister of Public Works protesting the construction of the Eiffel Tower. An influential writer, Maupassant is credited with inspiring the works of several authors including O. Henry, Somerset Maugham and Henry James. When he was eighteen, he saved the poet Algernon Charles Swinburne from drowning, and was passionate about boating. He served as a Naval clerk in the Franco-Prussian War for ten years. Flaubert was a great influence on Guy de Maupassant, guiding him in his efforts in writing. Maupassant became very popular with multiple reprinting of his short stories and novels. He knew Alexander Dumas, Turgenev and Zola. Maupassant once said, “It is the encounters with people that make life worth living.”
He desired more and more solitude in his advancing years, fearing death and feeling persecuted. He tried to commit suicide but was placed in a private asylum where he died on July 6th, 1893. Writing his own epitaph, he said, “I have coveted everything and taken pleasure in nothing.”
In his short story, “A Wife’s Confession”, Guy de Maupassant says, “A legal kiss is never as good as a stolen one.”
Click on the player to hear an audio version of this episode.
Born on August 5th, 1850, he once said, “I entered literary life as a meteor, and I shall leave it like a thunderbolt.” One of many French people who despised the Eiffel Tower, he would often eat at the restaurant at its base to avoid having to see the structure. Who is this outspoken author who has been called one of the fathers of the modern short story? We’ll find out in a moment on Biography Out Loud.
Biography Out Loud
Guy de Maupassant
Guy de Maupassant and forty-six other notable French authors and artists wrote a letter to the Minister of Public Works protesting the construction of the Eiffel Tower. An influential writer, Maupassant is credited with inspiring the works of several authors including O. Henry, Somerset Maugham and Henry James. When he was eighteen, he saved the poet Algernon Charles Swinburne from drowning, and was passionate about boating. He served as a Naval clerk in the Franco-Prussian War for ten years. Flaubert was a great influence on Guy de Maupassant, guiding him in his efforts in writing. Maupassant became very popular with multiple reprinting of his short stories and novels. He knew Alexander Dumas, Turgenev and Zola. Maupassant once said, “It is the encounters with people that make life worth living.”
He desired more and more solitude in his advancing years, fearing death and feeling persecuted. He tried to commit suicide but was placed in a private asylum where he died on July 6th, 1893. Writing his own epitaph, he said, “I have coveted everything and taken pleasure in nothing.”
In his short story, “A Wife’s Confession”, Guy de Maupassant says, “A legal kiss is never as good as a stolen one.”
Friends
Click on the player to hear an audio version of this episode.
Rules of Engagement
Friends
Brett was probably a better friend than I was. We did a lot of fun stuff together in high school, but I knew he had one weakness. I exploited it shamelessly and often. But it was really, really hard to resist, and I’m not known for my strong will when it comes to humor, especially at the expense of my fellow man. Will Rogers said it this way, “Everything is funny when it happens to someone else.”
So some background explanation will be necessary here. Brett was a kind of new kid at the high school, having gone to another junior high school. I was really only an established kid because I had moved in a year before. So as two newer kids we found each other as friends.
But I learned Brett had been hit by a car when he was in junior high. He said he was hit hard enough to fly 50 feet through the air. I don’t think there was any permanent damage, but when you have flown through the air after a collision with a car, there will always be some psychological scars.
Like when you get ready to cross the street.
The first few times Brett looked both ways about nine times I thought he was just being extra careful. But when I finally asked him about it, he told me about the accident. I felt bad that he had suffered such a trauma, but I should have warned him to be careful what he shared with me. I like to laugh, and sometimes, well, most times it’s at the expense of others.
It may explain why we tell Helen Keller jokes. We aren’t blind and deaf, but we also didn’t start a university and tour the world as one of the most famous people ever. Helen Keller overcame so much it makes many of us feel like slackers, and complaining about our aches and pains makes us seem like whiners. Did you know Helen Keller had an incredible playhouse in her backyard? Neither did she.
See what I mean? I’m trying to praise one of the great women the world has ever been blessed with, and I resort to cheap jokes. No more Helen Keller jokes.
But it was more than I could resist to not take advantage of this incredible opportunity every time we crossed the street. I even got to know the routine so well I could tell just before he was about to cross the street.
Which was when I usually reached over and jabbed him in the side and yelled “Boo!”.
He always jumped, and I always laughed. He laughed a little, too. But he probably didn’t think it was funny. It didn’t stop me from doing it whenever I had the chance.
Sometimes I’m not the best of friends.
You already know about my friend who squirted milk and then soda through his nose. But the really bad thing is I haven’t kept in touch with these high school friends since then. I went off to college, Brett went off to the service, and everyone else scattered the way we all do after high school.
But it hasn’t kept me from making new friends I turn out neglecting later. It’s like the friends I made when I lived in California for a couple of years. When they visited me in Utah later, we decided to run a 5K road race together. It was the beginning of my love of running, and has resulted in my running four marathons; very slowly. But that was the end of the contacts. I probably saw those friends once more since then, and that’s been 30 years.
A similar thing happens with actors. When the cast is together, there is a true camaraderie which makes everyone to stay in touch forever, but then when the show is over, nearly every actor moves on to the next show and the next group of true friends. I’ve been in so many plays, movies and commercials that when I see a familiar face we usually have to go through a list until we find out what we did together before.
These stages we go through might be normal, and passing from one cadre of friends to another may be the way we deal with change. We fall asleep each night and wake to what we think is the same world we were dealing with yesterday. But today is a word that carries change, and as we live each day, we encounter the new, the exciting, the disappointments and a kaleidoscope of difference. We feel the same, but while we slept, we have also changed.
Maybe one day I’ll change into a better friend. But as they say, never try to change a man unless he is in diapers.
Rules of Engagement
Friends
Brett was probably a better friend than I was. We did a lot of fun stuff together in high school, but I knew he had one weakness. I exploited it shamelessly and often. But it was really, really hard to resist, and I’m not known for my strong will when it comes to humor, especially at the expense of my fellow man. Will Rogers said it this way, “Everything is funny when it happens to someone else.”
So some background explanation will be necessary here. Brett was a kind of new kid at the high school, having gone to another junior high school. I was really only an established kid because I had moved in a year before. So as two newer kids we found each other as friends.
But I learned Brett had been hit by a car when he was in junior high. He said he was hit hard enough to fly 50 feet through the air. I don’t think there was any permanent damage, but when you have flown through the air after a collision with a car, there will always be some psychological scars.
Like when you get ready to cross the street.
The first few times Brett looked both ways about nine times I thought he was just being extra careful. But when I finally asked him about it, he told me about the accident. I felt bad that he had suffered such a trauma, but I should have warned him to be careful what he shared with me. I like to laugh, and sometimes, well, most times it’s at the expense of others.
It may explain why we tell Helen Keller jokes. We aren’t blind and deaf, but we also didn’t start a university and tour the world as one of the most famous people ever. Helen Keller overcame so much it makes many of us feel like slackers, and complaining about our aches and pains makes us seem like whiners. Did you know Helen Keller had an incredible playhouse in her backyard? Neither did she.
See what I mean? I’m trying to praise one of the great women the world has ever been blessed with, and I resort to cheap jokes. No more Helen Keller jokes.
But it was more than I could resist to not take advantage of this incredible opportunity every time we crossed the street. I even got to know the routine so well I could tell just before he was about to cross the street.
Which was when I usually reached over and jabbed him in the side and yelled “Boo!”.
He always jumped, and I always laughed. He laughed a little, too. But he probably didn’t think it was funny. It didn’t stop me from doing it whenever I had the chance.
Sometimes I’m not the best of friends.
You already know about my friend who squirted milk and then soda through his nose. But the really bad thing is I haven’t kept in touch with these high school friends since then. I went off to college, Brett went off to the service, and everyone else scattered the way we all do after high school.
But it hasn’t kept me from making new friends I turn out neglecting later. It’s like the friends I made when I lived in California for a couple of years. When they visited me in Utah later, we decided to run a 5K road race together. It was the beginning of my love of running, and has resulted in my running four marathons; very slowly. But that was the end of the contacts. I probably saw those friends once more since then, and that’s been 30 years.
A similar thing happens with actors. When the cast is together, there is a true camaraderie which makes everyone to stay in touch forever, but then when the show is over, nearly every actor moves on to the next show and the next group of true friends. I’ve been in so many plays, movies and commercials that when I see a familiar face we usually have to go through a list until we find out what we did together before.
These stages we go through might be normal, and passing from one cadre of friends to another may be the way we deal with change. We fall asleep each night and wake to what we think is the same world we were dealing with yesterday. But today is a word that carries change, and as we live each day, we encounter the new, the exciting, the disappointments and a kaleidoscope of difference. We feel the same, but while we slept, we have also changed.
Maybe one day I’ll change into a better friend. But as they say, never try to change a man unless he is in diapers.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Abundance Employment Oct. 17th
Click on the player to hear the complete episode of Abundance from Oct. 17th.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
After Apple Picking by Robert Frost
Click on the player to hear an audio version of this poem.
After Apple Picking
by Robert Frost
My long two-pointed ladder’s sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still,
And there’s a barrel that I didn’t fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn’t pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough
And held against the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I let it fall and break.
But I was well
Upon my way to sleep before it fell,
And I could tell
What form my dreaming was about to take.
Magnified apples appear and disappear,
Stem end and blossom end,
And every fleck of russet showing clear.
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.
And I keep hearing from the cellar bin
The rumbling sound
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much
Of apple-picking: I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.
For all
That struck the earth,
No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to the cider-apple heap
As of no worth.
One can see what will trouble
This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
Were he not gone,
The woodchuck could say whether it’s like his
Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,
Or just some human sleep.
After Apple Picking
by Robert Frost
My long two-pointed ladder’s sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still,
And there’s a barrel that I didn’t fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn’t pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough
And held against the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I let it fall and break.
But I was well
Upon my way to sleep before it fell,
And I could tell
What form my dreaming was about to take.
Magnified apples appear and disappear,
Stem end and blossom end,
And every fleck of russet showing clear.
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.
And I keep hearing from the cellar bin
The rumbling sound
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much
Of apple-picking: I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.
For all
That struck the earth,
No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to the cider-apple heap
As of no worth.
One can see what will trouble
This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
Were he not gone,
The woodchuck could say whether it’s like his
Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,
Or just some human sleep.
Overreached by Edward Sylvester Ellis
Click on the player to hear an audio version of this short story.
Overreached
by Edward Sylvester Ellis
Bushrod, or “Bush” Wyckoff was only twelve years old when he went to work for Zeph Ashton, who was not only a crusty farmer, but one of the meanest men in the country, and his wife was well fitted to be the life partner of such a parsimonious person.
They had no children of their own, and had felt the need for years of a willing, nimble-footed youngster to do the odd chores about the house, such as milking cows, cutting and bringing in wood, running of errands, and the scores of odd little jobs which are easy enough for boys, but sorely try the stiff and rheumatic limbs of a man in the decline of life.
Bush was a healthy little fellow–not very strong for his years, but quick of movement, bright-witted, willing, and naturally a general favorite. The misfortunes which suddenly overtook his home roused the keenest sympathy of his neighbors. His father was a merchant in New York, who went to and from the metropolis each week day morning and evening, to his pleasant little home in New Jersey. One day his lifeless body was brought thither, and woe and desolation came to the happy home. He was killed in a railway accident.
The blow was a terrible one, and for weeks it seemed as if his stricken widow would follow him across the dark river; but her Christian fortitude and her great love for their only child sustained her in her awful grief, and she was even able to thank her Heavenly Father that her dear boy was spared to her.
But how true it is that misfortunes rarely come singly. Her husband had amassed a competency sufficient to provide comfortably for those left behind; but his confidence in his fellow-men was wofully betrayed. He was one of the bondsmen of a public official who made a hasty departure to Canada, one evening, leaving his business in such a shape that his securities were compelled to pay fifty thousand dollars. Two others were associated with Mr. Wyckoff, and with the aid of their tricky lawyers they managed matters so that four-fifths of the loss fell upon the estate of the deceased merchant.
The result swept it away as utterly as were the dwellings in the Johnstown Valley by the great flood. The widow and her boy left their home and moved into a little cottage, with barely enough left to keep the wolf of starvation from the door.
It was then that Bush showed the stuff of which he was made. He returned one afternoon and told his mother, in his off-hand way, that he had engaged to work through the summer months for Mr. Ashton, who not only agreed to pay him six dollars a month, but would allow him to remain at home over night, provided, of course, that he was there early each morning and stayed late enough each day to attend to all the chores.
The tears filled the eyes of the mother as she pressed her little boy to her heart, and comprehended his self-sacrificing nature.
“You are too young, my dear child, to do this; we have enough left to keep us awhile, and I would prefer that you wait until you are older and stronger.”
“Why, mother, I am old enough and strong enough now to do all that Mr. Ashton wants me to do. He explained everything to me, and it won’t be work at all, but just fun.”
“Well, I hope you will find it so, but if he does not treat you kindly, you must not stay one day.”
Bush never complained to his mother, but he did find precious little fun and plenty of the hardest kind of work. The miserly farmer bore down heavily on his young shoulders. He and his wife seemed to be continually finding extra labor for the lad. The little fellow was on hand each morning, in stormy as well as in clear weather, at daybreak, ready and willing to perform to the best of his ability whatever he was directed to do. Several times he became so weak and faint from the severe labor, that the frugal breakfast he had eaten at home proved insufficient, and he was compelled to ask for a few mouthfuls of food before the regular dinner hour arrived. Although he always remained late, he was never invited to stay to supper, Mr. Ashton’s understanding being that the mid-day meal was the only one to which the lad was entitled.
But for his love for his mother, Bush would have given up more than once. His tasks were so severe and continuous that many a time he was hardly able to drag himself homeward. Every bone in his body seemed to ache, and neither his employer nor his wife ever uttered a pleasant or encouraging word.
But no word of murmuring fell from his lips. He resolutely held back all complaints, and crept away early to his couch under the plea that it was necessary in order to be up betimes. The mother’s heart was distressed beyond expression, but she comforted herself with the fact that his term of service was drawing to a close, and he would soon have all the rest and play he wanted.
Bush allowed his wages to stand until the first of September, when his three months expired. He had counted on the pride and happiness that would be his when he walked into the house and tossed the whole eighteen dollars in his mother’s lap. How her eyes would sparkle, and how proud he would be!
“Lemme see,” said the skinflint, when settling day arrived; “I was to give you four dollars a month, warn’t I?”
“It was six,” replied Bush, respectfully.
“That warn’t my understanding, but we’ll let it go at that; I’ve allers been too gin’rous, and my heart’s too big for my pocket. Lemme see.”
He uttered the last words thoughtfully, as he took his small account-book from his pocket, and began figuring with the stub of a pencil. “Three months at six dollars will be eighteen dollars.”
“Yes, sir; that’s right.”
“Don’t interrupt me, young man,” sternly remarked the farmer, frowning at him over his spectacles. “The full amount is eighteen dollars–Kerrect–L–em–m–e see; you have et seven breakfasts here; at fifty cents apiece that is three dollars and a half. Then, l–em–m–e see; you was late eleven times, and I’ve docked you twenty-five cents for each time; that makes two dollars and seventy-five cents.”
Inasmuch as Bush’s wages amounted hardly to twenty-five cents a day, it must be admitted that this was drawing it rather strong.
“L–em–m–e see,” continued Mr. Ashton, wetting the pencil stub between his lips, and resuming his figuring; “your board amounts to three dollars and a half; your loss of time to two seventy-five; that makes six and a quarter, which bein’ took from eighteen dollars, leaves ‘leven seventy-five. There you are!”
As he spoke, he extended his hand, picked up a small canvas bag from the top of his old-fashioned writing-desk, and tossed it to the dumfounded boy. The latter heard the coins inside jingle, as it fell in his lap, and, as soon as he could command his voice, he swallowed the lump in his throat, and faintly asked:
“Is that–is that right, Mr. Ashton?”
“Count it and see for yourself,” was the curt response.
This was not exactly what Bush meant, but he mechanically unfastened the cord around the throat of the little bag, tumbled the coins out in his hat and slowly counted them. They footed up exactly eleven dollars and seventy-five cents, proving that Mr. Ashton’s figuring was altogether unnecessary, and that he had arranged the business beforehand.
While Bush was examining the coins, his heart gave a sudden quick throb. He repressed all signs of the excitement he felt, however.
“How do you find it?” asked the man, who had never removed his eyes from him, “Them coins have been in the house more’n fifty year–that is, some of ‘em have, but they’re as good as if they’s just from the mint, and bein’ all coin, you can never lose anything by the bank bustin’.”
“It is correct,” said Bush.
“Ar’ you satisfied?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then sign this receipt, and we’re square.”
The lad sat down at the desk and attached his name in a neat round hand to the declaration that he had received payment in full for his services from Mr. Zephaniah Ashton, up to the first of September of the current year.
“This is all mine, Mr. Ashton?”
“Of course–what do you mean by axin’ that?”
“Nothing; good-day.”
“Good-day,” grunted the miser, turning his back, as a hint for him to leave–a hint which Bush did not need, for he was in a tumult of excitement.
“That is the queerest thing that ever happened,” he said to himself when he reached the public highway, and began hurrying along the road in the direction of Newark. “If he had paid me my full wages I would have told him, but all these are mine, and I shall sell them; won’t Professor Hartranft be delighted, but not half as much as mother and I will be.”
That evening Mr. Ashton and his wife had just finished their supper when Professor Hartranft, a pleasant, refined-looking gentleman, knocked at their door.
“I wish to inquire,” said he, after courteously saluting the couple, “whether you have any old coins in the house.”
“No,” was the surly response of the farmer, “we don’t keep ‘em.”
“But you “had” quite a collection.”
“I had ‘leven dollars and seventy-five cents’ worth, but I paid ‘em out this mornin’.”
“To a boy named Bushrod Wyckoff?”
“Yas.”
“They were given to him unreservedly?–that is, you renounce all claim upon them?”
“What the blazes ar’ you drivin’ at?” demanded the angry farmer. “I owed him ‘leven dollars and seventy-five cents for wages, and I paid him purcisely that amount, and have his receipt in full. I’d like to know what business it is of yours anyway.”
Now came the professor’s triumph.
“Young Wyckoff called at my office this afternoon, and I bought a number of the coins from him.”
“What!” exclaimed the amazed farmer, “you didn’t pay him nothin’ extra for that rusty old money, did you? You must be crazy.”
“I did, and shall make a handsome thing of it. For instance, among the coins which you gave him was a copper penny, with a liberty cap, of 1793; I paid Bush three dollars for that; I gave him twenty-five dollars for a half dime coined in 1802; twenty dollars for a quarter dollar of 1827; the same sum for a half dollar, fillet head, of 1796; and, what caps all, five hundred dollars for a silver dollar of 1804. There are only five or six of the latter in existence, and I shall sell this specimen for at least eight hundred dollars. Mr. Ashton, sometimes a mean man overreaches himself, and it looks as though you had made a mistake. I bid you good-day, sir.”
The numismatist spoke the truth; and when the miserly old farmer realized how completely he had turned the tables on himself, it is enough to say that his feelings may be “better imagined than described.”
Overreached
by Edward Sylvester Ellis
Bushrod, or “Bush” Wyckoff was only twelve years old when he went to work for Zeph Ashton, who was not only a crusty farmer, but one of the meanest men in the country, and his wife was well fitted to be the life partner of such a parsimonious person.
They had no children of their own, and had felt the need for years of a willing, nimble-footed youngster to do the odd chores about the house, such as milking cows, cutting and bringing in wood, running of errands, and the scores of odd little jobs which are easy enough for boys, but sorely try the stiff and rheumatic limbs of a man in the decline of life.
Bush was a healthy little fellow–not very strong for his years, but quick of movement, bright-witted, willing, and naturally a general favorite. The misfortunes which suddenly overtook his home roused the keenest sympathy of his neighbors. His father was a merchant in New York, who went to and from the metropolis each week day morning and evening, to his pleasant little home in New Jersey. One day his lifeless body was brought thither, and woe and desolation came to the happy home. He was killed in a railway accident.
The blow was a terrible one, and for weeks it seemed as if his stricken widow would follow him across the dark river; but her Christian fortitude and her great love for their only child sustained her in her awful grief, and she was even able to thank her Heavenly Father that her dear boy was spared to her.
But how true it is that misfortunes rarely come singly. Her husband had amassed a competency sufficient to provide comfortably for those left behind; but his confidence in his fellow-men was wofully betrayed. He was one of the bondsmen of a public official who made a hasty departure to Canada, one evening, leaving his business in such a shape that his securities were compelled to pay fifty thousand dollars. Two others were associated with Mr. Wyckoff, and with the aid of their tricky lawyers they managed matters so that four-fifths of the loss fell upon the estate of the deceased merchant.
The result swept it away as utterly as were the dwellings in the Johnstown Valley by the great flood. The widow and her boy left their home and moved into a little cottage, with barely enough left to keep the wolf of starvation from the door.
It was then that Bush showed the stuff of which he was made. He returned one afternoon and told his mother, in his off-hand way, that he had engaged to work through the summer months for Mr. Ashton, who not only agreed to pay him six dollars a month, but would allow him to remain at home over night, provided, of course, that he was there early each morning and stayed late enough each day to attend to all the chores.
The tears filled the eyes of the mother as she pressed her little boy to her heart, and comprehended his self-sacrificing nature.
“You are too young, my dear child, to do this; we have enough left to keep us awhile, and I would prefer that you wait until you are older and stronger.”
“Why, mother, I am old enough and strong enough now to do all that Mr. Ashton wants me to do. He explained everything to me, and it won’t be work at all, but just fun.”
“Well, I hope you will find it so, but if he does not treat you kindly, you must not stay one day.”
Bush never complained to his mother, but he did find precious little fun and plenty of the hardest kind of work. The miserly farmer bore down heavily on his young shoulders. He and his wife seemed to be continually finding extra labor for the lad. The little fellow was on hand each morning, in stormy as well as in clear weather, at daybreak, ready and willing to perform to the best of his ability whatever he was directed to do. Several times he became so weak and faint from the severe labor, that the frugal breakfast he had eaten at home proved insufficient, and he was compelled to ask for a few mouthfuls of food before the regular dinner hour arrived. Although he always remained late, he was never invited to stay to supper, Mr. Ashton’s understanding being that the mid-day meal was the only one to which the lad was entitled.
But for his love for his mother, Bush would have given up more than once. His tasks were so severe and continuous that many a time he was hardly able to drag himself homeward. Every bone in his body seemed to ache, and neither his employer nor his wife ever uttered a pleasant or encouraging word.
But no word of murmuring fell from his lips. He resolutely held back all complaints, and crept away early to his couch under the plea that it was necessary in order to be up betimes. The mother’s heart was distressed beyond expression, but she comforted herself with the fact that his term of service was drawing to a close, and he would soon have all the rest and play he wanted.
Bush allowed his wages to stand until the first of September, when his three months expired. He had counted on the pride and happiness that would be his when he walked into the house and tossed the whole eighteen dollars in his mother’s lap. How her eyes would sparkle, and how proud he would be!
“Lemme see,” said the skinflint, when settling day arrived; “I was to give you four dollars a month, warn’t I?”
“It was six,” replied Bush, respectfully.
“That warn’t my understanding, but we’ll let it go at that; I’ve allers been too gin’rous, and my heart’s too big for my pocket. Lemme see.”
He uttered the last words thoughtfully, as he took his small account-book from his pocket, and began figuring with the stub of a pencil. “Three months at six dollars will be eighteen dollars.”
“Yes, sir; that’s right.”
“Don’t interrupt me, young man,” sternly remarked the farmer, frowning at him over his spectacles. “The full amount is eighteen dollars–Kerrect–L–em–m–e see; you have et seven breakfasts here; at fifty cents apiece that is three dollars and a half. Then, l–em–m–e see; you was late eleven times, and I’ve docked you twenty-five cents for each time; that makes two dollars and seventy-five cents.”
Inasmuch as Bush’s wages amounted hardly to twenty-five cents a day, it must be admitted that this was drawing it rather strong.
“L–em–m–e see,” continued Mr. Ashton, wetting the pencil stub between his lips, and resuming his figuring; “your board amounts to three dollars and a half; your loss of time to two seventy-five; that makes six and a quarter, which bein’ took from eighteen dollars, leaves ‘leven seventy-five. There you are!”
As he spoke, he extended his hand, picked up a small canvas bag from the top of his old-fashioned writing-desk, and tossed it to the dumfounded boy. The latter heard the coins inside jingle, as it fell in his lap, and, as soon as he could command his voice, he swallowed the lump in his throat, and faintly asked:
“Is that–is that right, Mr. Ashton?”
“Count it and see for yourself,” was the curt response.
This was not exactly what Bush meant, but he mechanically unfastened the cord around the throat of the little bag, tumbled the coins out in his hat and slowly counted them. They footed up exactly eleven dollars and seventy-five cents, proving that Mr. Ashton’s figuring was altogether unnecessary, and that he had arranged the business beforehand.
While Bush was examining the coins, his heart gave a sudden quick throb. He repressed all signs of the excitement he felt, however.
“How do you find it?” asked the man, who had never removed his eyes from him, “Them coins have been in the house more’n fifty year–that is, some of ‘em have, but they’re as good as if they’s just from the mint, and bein’ all coin, you can never lose anything by the bank bustin’.”
“It is correct,” said Bush.
“Ar’ you satisfied?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then sign this receipt, and we’re square.”
The lad sat down at the desk and attached his name in a neat round hand to the declaration that he had received payment in full for his services from Mr. Zephaniah Ashton, up to the first of September of the current year.
“This is all mine, Mr. Ashton?”
“Of course–what do you mean by axin’ that?”
“Nothing; good-day.”
“Good-day,” grunted the miser, turning his back, as a hint for him to leave–a hint which Bush did not need, for he was in a tumult of excitement.
“That is the queerest thing that ever happened,” he said to himself when he reached the public highway, and began hurrying along the road in the direction of Newark. “If he had paid me my full wages I would have told him, but all these are mine, and I shall sell them; won’t Professor Hartranft be delighted, but not half as much as mother and I will be.”
That evening Mr. Ashton and his wife had just finished their supper when Professor Hartranft, a pleasant, refined-looking gentleman, knocked at their door.
“I wish to inquire,” said he, after courteously saluting the couple, “whether you have any old coins in the house.”
“No,” was the surly response of the farmer, “we don’t keep ‘em.”
“But you “had” quite a collection.”
“I had ‘leven dollars and seventy-five cents’ worth, but I paid ‘em out this mornin’.”
“To a boy named Bushrod Wyckoff?”
“Yas.”
“They were given to him unreservedly?–that is, you renounce all claim upon them?”
“What the blazes ar’ you drivin’ at?” demanded the angry farmer. “I owed him ‘leven dollars and seventy-five cents for wages, and I paid him purcisely that amount, and have his receipt in full. I’d like to know what business it is of yours anyway.”
Now came the professor’s triumph.
“Young Wyckoff called at my office this afternoon, and I bought a number of the coins from him.”
“What!” exclaimed the amazed farmer, “you didn’t pay him nothin’ extra for that rusty old money, did you? You must be crazy.”
“I did, and shall make a handsome thing of it. For instance, among the coins which you gave him was a copper penny, with a liberty cap, of 1793; I paid Bush three dollars for that; I gave him twenty-five dollars for a half dime coined in 1802; twenty dollars for a quarter dollar of 1827; the same sum for a half dollar, fillet head, of 1796; and, what caps all, five hundred dollars for a silver dollar of 1804. There are only five or six of the latter in existence, and I shall sell this specimen for at least eight hundred dollars. Mr. Ashton, sometimes a mean man overreaches himself, and it looks as though you had made a mistake. I bid you good-day, sir.”
The numismatist spoke the truth; and when the miserly old farmer realized how completely he had turned the tables on himself, it is enough to say that his feelings may be “better imagined than described.”
Monday, October 18, 2010
110 Percent
Click on the player to hear an audio version of this episode.
Rules of Engagement
110 Percent
We’ve probably all interviewed for jobs we really weren’t qualified to take. But when we see the salary and the requirements, we justify in our own minds we might just be able to fool the interviewer into letting us take the job and see what we can do. It can also sharpen our interview skills, and sometimes just getting out of the house and into the hotseat be a nice change.
The salary was fantastic, and I didn’t have the experience, but I thought I had the skill set, so I made an appointment. It was just after lunch, and I usually can’t eat when I’m nervous, so the next two hours seemed like longer. That’s right. I sat through a two hour interview trying to get a job I really didn’t deserve. I didn’t get the job, but more about that in a moment.
I believe what we give is what we get, and moreover, what we get is what we deserve. I also believe giving more is the real answer.
I am really surprised when people complain about their salaries. There are thousands of jobs available. All kinds of training are available to anyone who wants more skills. But most of us would rather gripe than do anything about it. We want more for less, when that ignores one of the basic laws of the universe. Moving that rock up the hill takes a certain amount of energy, and complaining doesn’t get it done. It seems a basic rule that what we give is what we get, not only in work, but in life. Walk around with a frown and the world seems a very unhappy place. Smile and even the worst of days can have some redeeming value. Work hard, and you’ll get rewarded with more than salary, benefits or satisfaction. You’ll know you’ve done the job you are being paid to do, and you’ll probably get the opportunity to do more. It does remind me of the old joke, “Do more than anyone expects and soon everyone will expect more.”
But in the balance of the universe, I truly believe what we get is what we deserve. Why would we get more than we deserve? Most times we want to do less and get more. But that just isn’t the way the world works. Just ask Thomas Edison. It may have taken hundreds of attempts, but he didn’t stop until the light bulb worked the way he wanted. Even then, he continued to try to perfect it. What goes into our work is what we get out – it’s what we deserve. But even more serious is when we don’t give what we can. We aren’t just cheating an employer, a spouse or the world; we are cheating ourselves. You know the feeling. We may just be trying to get by without really doing what we are supposed to, and we hope no one notices. And if they do notice, we decide to work a little harder for a little while. Then it’s back to cheating others, and mostly ourselves. What would our true potential be if we were always giving the 110 percent we hear so much about?
So here is the mystical problem. Do more, and you’ll get more. Try and put the universe in your debt, and it will reward your efforts. There really is no rational explanation for it, but doing more than is really required is always rewarded. Don’t ask me why it works. It just does. Don’t believe it? Try it for a few weeks and report back.
So what happened in the two hour interview for the job I didn’t get – and didn’t really deserve? I endured one of the most difficult interviews I have ever been through. The guy played nice, then he turned on me and acted angry. I was subjected to every kind of interview technique I had ever learned about. I was asked how I would decide who to fire if I was the boss. I was given hypothetical situation no one will ever have to face as a boss, but I answered my best. The interviewer even told me it was one of the best interviews he had ever conducted, but I was clearly not qualified for the job.
He then informed me he was getting ready to leave his job and take another higher level job back East. He was just trying all his interviewing skills on me to practice for his new job. He dismissed me and I left the building feeling both good and bad. He said it was a good interview, but he was just using me. But remember, I really wasn’t qualified for the job, so I was also using him.
It’s all right. I have a job I love.
Rules of Engagement
110 Percent
We’ve probably all interviewed for jobs we really weren’t qualified to take. But when we see the salary and the requirements, we justify in our own minds we might just be able to fool the interviewer into letting us take the job and see what we can do. It can also sharpen our interview skills, and sometimes just getting out of the house and into the hotseat be a nice change.
The salary was fantastic, and I didn’t have the experience, but I thought I had the skill set, so I made an appointment. It was just after lunch, and I usually can’t eat when I’m nervous, so the next two hours seemed like longer. That’s right. I sat through a two hour interview trying to get a job I really didn’t deserve. I didn’t get the job, but more about that in a moment.
I believe what we give is what we get, and moreover, what we get is what we deserve. I also believe giving more is the real answer.
I am really surprised when people complain about their salaries. There are thousands of jobs available. All kinds of training are available to anyone who wants more skills. But most of us would rather gripe than do anything about it. We want more for less, when that ignores one of the basic laws of the universe. Moving that rock up the hill takes a certain amount of energy, and complaining doesn’t get it done. It seems a basic rule that what we give is what we get, not only in work, but in life. Walk around with a frown and the world seems a very unhappy place. Smile and even the worst of days can have some redeeming value. Work hard, and you’ll get rewarded with more than salary, benefits or satisfaction. You’ll know you’ve done the job you are being paid to do, and you’ll probably get the opportunity to do more. It does remind me of the old joke, “Do more than anyone expects and soon everyone will expect more.”
But in the balance of the universe, I truly believe what we get is what we deserve. Why would we get more than we deserve? Most times we want to do less and get more. But that just isn’t the way the world works. Just ask Thomas Edison. It may have taken hundreds of attempts, but he didn’t stop until the light bulb worked the way he wanted. Even then, he continued to try to perfect it. What goes into our work is what we get out – it’s what we deserve. But even more serious is when we don’t give what we can. We aren’t just cheating an employer, a spouse or the world; we are cheating ourselves. You know the feeling. We may just be trying to get by without really doing what we are supposed to, and we hope no one notices. And if they do notice, we decide to work a little harder for a little while. Then it’s back to cheating others, and mostly ourselves. What would our true potential be if we were always giving the 110 percent we hear so much about?
So here is the mystical problem. Do more, and you’ll get more. Try and put the universe in your debt, and it will reward your efforts. There really is no rational explanation for it, but doing more than is really required is always rewarded. Don’t ask me why it works. It just does. Don’t believe it? Try it for a few weeks and report back.
So what happened in the two hour interview for the job I didn’t get – and didn’t really deserve? I endured one of the most difficult interviews I have ever been through. The guy played nice, then he turned on me and acted angry. I was subjected to every kind of interview technique I had ever learned about. I was asked how I would decide who to fire if I was the boss. I was given hypothetical situation no one will ever have to face as a boss, but I answered my best. The interviewer even told me it was one of the best interviews he had ever conducted, but I was clearly not qualified for the job.
He then informed me he was getting ready to leave his job and take another higher level job back East. He was just trying all his interviewing skills on me to practice for his new job. He dismissed me and I left the building feeling both good and bad. He said it was a good interview, but he was just using me. But remember, I really wasn’t qualified for the job, so I was also using him.
It’s all right. I have a job I love.
Friday, October 15, 2010
Abundance Decency Oct 10
Click on the player to hear the entire episode of Abundance from Oct. 10th.
Let It Go by e.e. cummings
Click on the player to hear an audio version of this poem.
let it go ‐ the
smashed word broken
open vow or
the oath cracked length
wise ‐ let it go it
was sworn to
go
let them go ‐ the
truthful liars and
the false fair friends
and the boths and
neithers ‐ you must let them go they
were born
to go
let all go ‐ the
big small middling
tall bigger really
the biggest and all
things ‐ let all go
dear
so comes love
let it go ‐ the
smashed word broken
open vow or
the oath cracked length
wise ‐ let it go it
was sworn to
go
let them go ‐ the
truthful liars and
the false fair friends
and the boths and
neithers ‐ you must let them go they
were born
to go
let all go ‐ the
big small middling
tall bigger really
the biggest and all
things ‐ let all go
dear
so comes love
Dusk by Saki -- H.H. Munro
Click on the player to hear an audio version of this short story.
Norman Gortsby sat on a bench in the Park, with his back to a strip of bush-planted sward, fenced by the park railings, and the Row fronting him across a wide stretch of carriage drive. Hyde Park Corner, with its rattle and hoot of traffic, lay immediately to his right. It was some thirty minutes past six on an early March evening, and dusk had fallen heavily over the scene, dusk mitigated by some faint moonlight and many street lamps. There was a wide emptiness over road and sidewalk, and yet there were many unconsidered figures moving silently through the half-light, or dotted unobtrusively on bench and chair, scarcely to be distinguished from the shadowed gloom in which they sat.
The scene pleased Gortsby and harmonized with his present mood. Dusk, to his mind, was the hour of the defeated. Men and women, who had fought and lost, who hid their fallen fortunes and dead hopes as far as possible from the scrutiny of the curious, came forth in this hour of gloaming, when their shabby clothes and bowed shoulders and unhappy eyes might pass unnoticed, or, at any rate, unrecognized.
A king that is conquered must see strange looks, So bitter a thing is the heart of man.
The wanderers in the dusk did not choose to have strange looks fasten on them; therefore they came out in this bat-fashion, taking their pleasure sadly in a pleasure-ground that had emptied of its rightful occupants. Beyond the sheltering screen of bushes and palings came a realm of brilliant lights and noisy, rushing traffic. A blazing, many-tiered stretch of windows shone through the dusk and almost dispersed it, marking the haunts of those other people, who held their own in life’s struggle, or at any rate had not had to admit failure. So Gortsby’s imagination pictured things as he sat on his bench in the almost deserted walk. He was in the mood to count himself among the defeated. Money troubles did not press on him; had he so wished he could have strolled into the thoroughfares of light and noise, and taken his place among the jostling ranks of those who enjoyed prosperity or struggled for it. He had failed in a more subtle ambition, and for the moment he was heart sore and disillusionized, and not disinclined to take a certain cynical pleasure in observing and labeling his fellow wanderers as they went their ways in the dark stretches between the lamp-lights.
On the bench by his side sat an elderly gentleman with a drooping air of defiance that was probably the remaining vestige of self-respect in an individual who had ceased to defy successfully anybody or anything. His clothes could scarcely be called shabby, at least they passed muster in the half-light, but one’s imagination could not have pictured the wearer embarking on the purchase of a half-crown box of chocolates or laying out ninepence on a carnation buttonhole. He belonged unmistakably to that forlorn orchestra to whose piping no one dances; he was one of the world’s lamenters who induce no responsive weeping. As he rose to go Gortsby imagined him returning to a home circle where he was snubbed and of no account, or to some bleak lodging where his ability to pay a weekly bill was the beginning and end of the interest he inspired. His retreating figure vanished slowly into the shadows, and his place on the bench was taken almost immediately by a young man, fairly well dressed but scarcely more cheerful of mien than his predecessor. As if to emphasize the fact that the world went badly with him the new-corner unburdened himself of an angry and very audible expletive as he flung himself into the seat.
“You don’t seem in a very good temper,” said Gortsby, judging that he was expected to take due notice of the demonstration.
The young man turned to him with a look of disarming frankness which put him instantly on his guard.
“You wouldn’t be in a good temper if you were in the fix I’m in,” he said; “I’ve done the silliest thing I’ve ever done in my life.”
“Yes?” said Gortsby dispassionately.
“Came up this afternoon, meaning to stay at the Patagonian Hotel in Berkshire Square,” continued the young man; “when I got there I found it had been pulled down some weeks ago and a cinema theatre run up on the site. The taxi driver recommended me to another hotel some way off and I went there. I just sent a letter to my people, giving them the address, and then I went out to buy some soap - I’d forgotten to pack any and I hate using hotel soap. Then I strolled about a bit, had a drink at a bar and looked at the shops, and when I came to turn my steps back to the hotel I suddenly realized that I didn’t remember its name or even what street it was in. There’s a nice predicament for a fellow who hasn’t any friends or connections in London! Of course I can wire to my people for the address, but they won’t have got my letter till to-morrow; meantime I’m without any money, came out with about a shilling on me, which went in buying the soap and getting the drink, and here I am, wandering about with twopence in my pocket and nowhere to go for the night.”
There was an eloquent pause after the story had been told. “I suppose you think I’ve spun you rather an impossible yarn,” said the young man presently, with a suggestion of resentment in his voice.
“Not at all impossible,” said Gortsby judicially; “I remember doing exactly the same thing once in a foreign capital, and on that occasion there were two of us, which made it more remarkable. Luckily we remembered that the hotel was on a sort of canal, and when we struck the canal we were able to find our way back to the hotel.”
The youth brightened at the reminiscence. “In a foreign city I wouldn’t mind so much,” he said; “one could go to one’s Consul and get the requisite help from him. Here in one’s own land one is far more derelict if one gets into a fix. Unless I can find some decent chap to swallow my story and lend me some money I seem likely to spend the night on the Embankment. I’m glad, anyhow, that you don’t think the story outrageously improbable.”
He threw a good deal of warmth into the last remark, as though perhaps to indicate his hope that Gortsby did not fall far short of the requisite decency.
“Of course,” said Gortsby slowly, “the weak point of your story is that you can’t produce the soap.”
The young man sat forward hurriedly, felt rapidly in the pockets of his overcoat, and then jumped to his feet.
“I must have lost it,” he muttered angrily.
“To lose an hotel and a cake of soap on one afternoon suggests willful carelessness,” said Gortsby, but the young man scarcely waited to hear the end of the remark. He flitted away down the path, his head held high, with an air of somewhat jaded jauntiness.
“It was a pity,” mused Gortsby; “the going out to get one’s own soap was the one convincing touch in the whole story, and yet it was just that little detail that brought him to grief. If he had had the brilliant forethought to provide himself with a cake of soap, wrapped and sealed with all the solicitude of the chemist’s counter, he would have been a genius in his particular line. In his particular line genius certainly consists of an infinite capacity for taking precautions.”
With that reflection Gortsby rose to go; as he did so an exclamation of concern escaped him. Lying on the ground by the side of the bench was a small oval packet, wrapped and sealed with the solicitude of a chemist’s counter. It could be nothing else but a cake of soap, and it had evidently fallen out of the youth’s overcoat pocket when he flung himself down on the seat. In another moment Gortsby was scudding along the dusk- shrouded path in anxious quest for a youthful figure in a light overcoat. He had nearly given up the search when he caught sight of the object of his pursuit standing irresolutely on the border of the carriage drive, evidently uncertain whether to strike across the Park or make for the bustling pavements of Knightsbridge. He turned round sharply with an air of defensive hostility when he found Gortsby hailing him.
“The important witness to the genuineness of your story has turned up,” said Gortsby, holding out the cake of soap; “it must have slid out of your overcoat pocket when you sat down on the seat. I saw it on the ground after you left. You must excuse my disbelief, but appearances were really rather against you, and now, as I appealed to the testimony of the soap I think I ought to abide by its verdict. If the loan of a sovereign is any good to you - “
The young man hastily removed all doubt on the subject by pocketing the coin.
“Here is my card with my address,” continued Gortsby; “any day this week will do for returning the money, and here is the soap - don’t lose it again it’s been a good friend to you.”
“Lucky thing your finding it,” said the youth, and then, with a catch in his voice, he blurted out a word or two of thanks and fled headlong in the direction of Knightsbridge.
“Poor boy, he as nearly as possible broke down,” said Gortsby to himself. “I don’t wonder either; the relief from his quandary must have been acute. It’s a lesson to me not to be too clever in judging by circumstances.”
As Gortsby retraced his steps past the seat where the little drama had taken place he saw an elderly gentleman poking and peering beneath it and on all sides of it, and recognized his earlier fellow occupant.
“Have you lost anything, sir?” he asked.
“Yes, sir, a cake of soap.”
Norman Gortsby sat on a bench in the Park, with his back to a strip of bush-planted sward, fenced by the park railings, and the Row fronting him across a wide stretch of carriage drive. Hyde Park Corner, with its rattle and hoot of traffic, lay immediately to his right. It was some thirty minutes past six on an early March evening, and dusk had fallen heavily over the scene, dusk mitigated by some faint moonlight and many street lamps. There was a wide emptiness over road and sidewalk, and yet there were many unconsidered figures moving silently through the half-light, or dotted unobtrusively on bench and chair, scarcely to be distinguished from the shadowed gloom in which they sat.
The scene pleased Gortsby and harmonized with his present mood. Dusk, to his mind, was the hour of the defeated. Men and women, who had fought and lost, who hid their fallen fortunes and dead hopes as far as possible from the scrutiny of the curious, came forth in this hour of gloaming, when their shabby clothes and bowed shoulders and unhappy eyes might pass unnoticed, or, at any rate, unrecognized.
A king that is conquered must see strange looks, So bitter a thing is the heart of man.
The wanderers in the dusk did not choose to have strange looks fasten on them; therefore they came out in this bat-fashion, taking their pleasure sadly in a pleasure-ground that had emptied of its rightful occupants. Beyond the sheltering screen of bushes and palings came a realm of brilliant lights and noisy, rushing traffic. A blazing, many-tiered stretch of windows shone through the dusk and almost dispersed it, marking the haunts of those other people, who held their own in life’s struggle, or at any rate had not had to admit failure. So Gortsby’s imagination pictured things as he sat on his bench in the almost deserted walk. He was in the mood to count himself among the defeated. Money troubles did not press on him; had he so wished he could have strolled into the thoroughfares of light and noise, and taken his place among the jostling ranks of those who enjoyed prosperity or struggled for it. He had failed in a more subtle ambition, and for the moment he was heart sore and disillusionized, and not disinclined to take a certain cynical pleasure in observing and labeling his fellow wanderers as they went their ways in the dark stretches between the lamp-lights.
On the bench by his side sat an elderly gentleman with a drooping air of defiance that was probably the remaining vestige of self-respect in an individual who had ceased to defy successfully anybody or anything. His clothes could scarcely be called shabby, at least they passed muster in the half-light, but one’s imagination could not have pictured the wearer embarking on the purchase of a half-crown box of chocolates or laying out ninepence on a carnation buttonhole. He belonged unmistakably to that forlorn orchestra to whose piping no one dances; he was one of the world’s lamenters who induce no responsive weeping. As he rose to go Gortsby imagined him returning to a home circle where he was snubbed and of no account, or to some bleak lodging where his ability to pay a weekly bill was the beginning and end of the interest he inspired. His retreating figure vanished slowly into the shadows, and his place on the bench was taken almost immediately by a young man, fairly well dressed but scarcely more cheerful of mien than his predecessor. As if to emphasize the fact that the world went badly with him the new-corner unburdened himself of an angry and very audible expletive as he flung himself into the seat.
“You don’t seem in a very good temper,” said Gortsby, judging that he was expected to take due notice of the demonstration.
The young man turned to him with a look of disarming frankness which put him instantly on his guard.
“You wouldn’t be in a good temper if you were in the fix I’m in,” he said; “I’ve done the silliest thing I’ve ever done in my life.”
“Yes?” said Gortsby dispassionately.
“Came up this afternoon, meaning to stay at the Patagonian Hotel in Berkshire Square,” continued the young man; “when I got there I found it had been pulled down some weeks ago and a cinema theatre run up on the site. The taxi driver recommended me to another hotel some way off and I went there. I just sent a letter to my people, giving them the address, and then I went out to buy some soap - I’d forgotten to pack any and I hate using hotel soap. Then I strolled about a bit, had a drink at a bar and looked at the shops, and when I came to turn my steps back to the hotel I suddenly realized that I didn’t remember its name or even what street it was in. There’s a nice predicament for a fellow who hasn’t any friends or connections in London! Of course I can wire to my people for the address, but they won’t have got my letter till to-morrow; meantime I’m without any money, came out with about a shilling on me, which went in buying the soap and getting the drink, and here I am, wandering about with twopence in my pocket and nowhere to go for the night.”
There was an eloquent pause after the story had been told. “I suppose you think I’ve spun you rather an impossible yarn,” said the young man presently, with a suggestion of resentment in his voice.
“Not at all impossible,” said Gortsby judicially; “I remember doing exactly the same thing once in a foreign capital, and on that occasion there were two of us, which made it more remarkable. Luckily we remembered that the hotel was on a sort of canal, and when we struck the canal we were able to find our way back to the hotel.”
The youth brightened at the reminiscence. “In a foreign city I wouldn’t mind so much,” he said; “one could go to one’s Consul and get the requisite help from him. Here in one’s own land one is far more derelict if one gets into a fix. Unless I can find some decent chap to swallow my story and lend me some money I seem likely to spend the night on the Embankment. I’m glad, anyhow, that you don’t think the story outrageously improbable.”
He threw a good deal of warmth into the last remark, as though perhaps to indicate his hope that Gortsby did not fall far short of the requisite decency.
“Of course,” said Gortsby slowly, “the weak point of your story is that you can’t produce the soap.”
The young man sat forward hurriedly, felt rapidly in the pockets of his overcoat, and then jumped to his feet.
“I must have lost it,” he muttered angrily.
“To lose an hotel and a cake of soap on one afternoon suggests willful carelessness,” said Gortsby, but the young man scarcely waited to hear the end of the remark. He flitted away down the path, his head held high, with an air of somewhat jaded jauntiness.
“It was a pity,” mused Gortsby; “the going out to get one’s own soap was the one convincing touch in the whole story, and yet it was just that little detail that brought him to grief. If he had had the brilliant forethought to provide himself with a cake of soap, wrapped and sealed with all the solicitude of the chemist’s counter, he would have been a genius in his particular line. In his particular line genius certainly consists of an infinite capacity for taking precautions.”
With that reflection Gortsby rose to go; as he did so an exclamation of concern escaped him. Lying on the ground by the side of the bench was a small oval packet, wrapped and sealed with the solicitude of a chemist’s counter. It could be nothing else but a cake of soap, and it had evidently fallen out of the youth’s overcoat pocket when he flung himself down on the seat. In another moment Gortsby was scudding along the dusk- shrouded path in anxious quest for a youthful figure in a light overcoat. He had nearly given up the search when he caught sight of the object of his pursuit standing irresolutely on the border of the carriage drive, evidently uncertain whether to strike across the Park or make for the bustling pavements of Knightsbridge. He turned round sharply with an air of defensive hostility when he found Gortsby hailing him.
“The important witness to the genuineness of your story has turned up,” said Gortsby, holding out the cake of soap; “it must have slid out of your overcoat pocket when you sat down on the seat. I saw it on the ground after you left. You must excuse my disbelief, but appearances were really rather against you, and now, as I appealed to the testimony of the soap I think I ought to abide by its verdict. If the loan of a sovereign is any good to you - “
The young man hastily removed all doubt on the subject by pocketing the coin.
“Here is my card with my address,” continued Gortsby; “any day this week will do for returning the money, and here is the soap - don’t lose it again it’s been a good friend to you.”
“Lucky thing your finding it,” said the youth, and then, with a catch in his voice, he blurted out a word or two of thanks and fled headlong in the direction of Knightsbridge.
“Poor boy, he as nearly as possible broke down,” said Gortsby to himself. “I don’t wonder either; the relief from his quandary must have been acute. It’s a lesson to me not to be too clever in judging by circumstances.”
As Gortsby retraced his steps past the seat where the little drama had taken place he saw an elderly gentleman poking and peering beneath it and on all sides of it, and recognized his earlier fellow occupant.
“Have you lost anything, sir?” he asked.
“Yes, sir, a cake of soap.”
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Dulce Decorum Est by Wiford
Click on the player to hear an audio version of this poem.
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.
Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! — An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime. —
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams before my helpless sight
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin,
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs
Bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, —
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie:
Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.
(sweet and fitting it is to die for one’s country.)
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.
Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! — An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime. —
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams before my helpless sight
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin,
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs
Bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, —
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie:
Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.
(sweet and fitting it is to die for one’s country.)
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Wilford Owen -- Biography Out Loud
Click on the player to hear an audio version of this episode.
Biography Out Loud
Considered to be the leading poet of World War I, he died a week before it ended. A telegram from the War Office in England notifying his mother of his death arrived as church bells were ringing, announcing the Armistice. He eventually became more famous than Sigfried Sassoon, the poet he most admired and emulated. When Sassoon returned from the war, this wounded soldier returned to the front in his place, hoping to continue to document the horrors of war. Who is this famous poet who died when only 25 years old? We’ll find out next on Biography Out Loud.
Wilford Owen is best known for his graphic World War I poetry, which told the story of gas warfare. In “Dulce Decorum Est” the famous line of “Gas! Gas! Quick boys!” is followed by a chilling description of a soldier dying from exposure to the deadly chemicals.
While once a critic of the other soldiers, who he called “expressionless lumps” in a letter to his mother, Owen went through two traumatic episodes which changed his opinion of his brave compatriots. A mortar once exploded beneath him, throwing him in the air. He landed on the remains of a fellow officer. He was also trapped for several days behind enemy lines. Diagnosed with shell shock, he was sent back to England to recuperate. In the hospital in Edinburgh he met the famous poet Siegfried Sassoon. Owen greatly admired Sassoon, declaring he was not worthy to light Sassoon’s pipe. But with encouragement from Sassoon, Owens began expressing his disgust with war in his own poetry, eventually eclipsing the fame of his friend.
When Sassoon returned from the front, Owen threatened to return to continue to document the savagery of war. Sassoon threatened to stab Owen in the leg to keep him from going. Owen notified his friend of his return to France after the fact.
When crossing a canal with his regiment, his superior officer was killed. Owen took command, manned a machine gun and inflicted many casualties. He was shot and killed almost exactly one week to the hour before the Armistice, and his mother received notice of his death as the local church bells announced the end of the war.
Because of his injuries, Owen could have remained in England but chose to return and fight. Though only 25 years old, his poetry reflects not only the reality of the terrors of war, but illustrate Owen’s dedication to the cause. Only five of his poems were published before his death. Others were later released in a book called “Poems”.
His poem “Dulce Decorum Est” is based on the writings of Horace. The phrase translates into “sweet and fitting it is to die for one’s country.” Unlike Horace, who once admitted to throwing down his shield and running away from battle, Wilfred Owen fought, was injured and returned to fight again, eventually giving his life in sacrifice for his country.
Biography Out Loud
Considered to be the leading poet of World War I, he died a week before it ended. A telegram from the War Office in England notifying his mother of his death arrived as church bells were ringing, announcing the Armistice. He eventually became more famous than Sigfried Sassoon, the poet he most admired and emulated. When Sassoon returned from the war, this wounded soldier returned to the front in his place, hoping to continue to document the horrors of war. Who is this famous poet who died when only 25 years old? We’ll find out next on Biography Out Loud.
Wilford Owen is best known for his graphic World War I poetry, which told the story of gas warfare. In “Dulce Decorum Est” the famous line of “Gas! Gas! Quick boys!” is followed by a chilling description of a soldier dying from exposure to the deadly chemicals.
While once a critic of the other soldiers, who he called “expressionless lumps” in a letter to his mother, Owen went through two traumatic episodes which changed his opinion of his brave compatriots. A mortar once exploded beneath him, throwing him in the air. He landed on the remains of a fellow officer. He was also trapped for several days behind enemy lines. Diagnosed with shell shock, he was sent back to England to recuperate. In the hospital in Edinburgh he met the famous poet Siegfried Sassoon. Owen greatly admired Sassoon, declaring he was not worthy to light Sassoon’s pipe. But with encouragement from Sassoon, Owens began expressing his disgust with war in his own poetry, eventually eclipsing the fame of his friend.
When Sassoon returned from the front, Owen threatened to return to continue to document the savagery of war. Sassoon threatened to stab Owen in the leg to keep him from going. Owen notified his friend of his return to France after the fact.
When crossing a canal with his regiment, his superior officer was killed. Owen took command, manned a machine gun and inflicted many casualties. He was shot and killed almost exactly one week to the hour before the Armistice, and his mother received notice of his death as the local church bells announced the end of the war.
Because of his injuries, Owen could have remained in England but chose to return and fight. Though only 25 years old, his poetry reflects not only the reality of the terrors of war, but illustrate Owen’s dedication to the cause. Only five of his poems were published before his death. Others were later released in a book called “Poems”.
His poem “Dulce Decorum Est” is based on the writings of Horace. The phrase translates into “sweet and fitting it is to die for one’s country.” Unlike Horace, who once admitted to throwing down his shield and running away from battle, Wilfred Owen fought, was injured and returned to fight again, eventually giving his life in sacrifice for his country.
Not Really Indecent
Click on the player to hear an audio version of this episode.
When I think back to what I wore in college, I’m not really sure why my wife ever married me. Most of us must have looked the same, but I was known around campus as the guy who walked around in Levi shorts with his boxers hanging out the bottom. I know that’s conjuring up a bad mental image, but I also wore a felt fedora. I don’t know why. I just thought I was being original just like all the other original people who looked just like me.
Decency really is a matter of perspective. My wife is a dancer, and the level of indecency backstage at a dance concert would shock most of us, but to the dancers the human body is their instrument. Changing clothes as fast as you can in front of everyone else is standard, because most of the time the dancers have to get right back on stage for the next number.
What is accepted in one part of the world can be vulgar in another part of the globe. Traditions from the past can seem barbaric, and who knows what the future will bring? When you think about what is decent and indecent, it really does come down to what are the accepted community standards.
When we consider what is a decent standard or living, it becomes even more specious. The word decorum is also another way to talk about what is proper or improper.
Decency can also be explained when we think about politeness, civility, modesty, integrity or honesty. It seems as a society we are less decent to each other, and it shows up in public discourse and in the newspapers and on television. There is an extraordinary clip on the Internet of a woman bashing a drive-up window and pulling the hair of the attendant because she couldn’t get what she wanted. It seems there really is no customer service these days, and it doesn’t seem to be a priority with most businesses. I wore a full scroungy beard this summer for a part I was playing at the Sundance Outdoor Theatre. I have never been treated with so much disrespect and unconcern. It makes me feel sorry for those who look different and are treated as inferior. It makes me wonder if Albert Einstein was wandering the streets today if he would be treated as a genius or a crazy homeless man. It really is a sad statement that after all the hate and division we have seen in the few thousand years of human history, we can’t let each other be what we are. Perhaps it just comes down to a basic insecurity with ourselves. We aren’t happy unless we are making others emulate our happiness.
When we apply the word decency to our standard of living, we tend to split into the regular divisions. A decent standard of living for you might be luxurious for someone else. When we think about the gap between the very poor and the very rich, we exist in a society which has begun to view people as disposable, instead of individuals. As a society, we ought to be able to find ways to train, educate, and motivate people to lift themselves from crushing poverty. But when it looks like someone will lose money and someone else gain, then the line has been drawn. I know there is a way to raise everyone, but we really aren’t interested in doing it, because we don’t want our own standard of living affected.
But what does it really take to have a decent standard of living? I think it includes shelter and food. It should include access to medical treatment. Is there really anyone we want to throw out into the street? But I already have a bad attitude about most of what has been proposed. If you don’t believe that, listen to my episode called “Spare Change” from “A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Dane Allred”. Let’s just say I am not the best example of largess and compassion.
So that leads us to decorum. Can’t we at least be on our best behavior, exhibiting good manners and a respect for one another? The word restraint could be used to describe what would be considered proper. Why can’t we all just get along? It seems that these days, the more rude or crass you can be, the more accepted you become. Those who receive the attention today are those who seem to have no manners, no sense of etiquette or what is proper or improper. But then this point seems to contradict what I said earlier about letting people be themselves. Decency is a complicated proposition.
Don’t ask me to fix it. I’m the guy who used to have his underwear hanging out.
When I think back to what I wore in college, I’m not really sure why my wife ever married me. Most of us must have looked the same, but I was known around campus as the guy who walked around in Levi shorts with his boxers hanging out the bottom. I know that’s conjuring up a bad mental image, but I also wore a felt fedora. I don’t know why. I just thought I was being original just like all the other original people who looked just like me.
Decency really is a matter of perspective. My wife is a dancer, and the level of indecency backstage at a dance concert would shock most of us, but to the dancers the human body is their instrument. Changing clothes as fast as you can in front of everyone else is standard, because most of the time the dancers have to get right back on stage for the next number.
What is accepted in one part of the world can be vulgar in another part of the globe. Traditions from the past can seem barbaric, and who knows what the future will bring? When you think about what is decent and indecent, it really does come down to what are the accepted community standards.
When we consider what is a decent standard or living, it becomes even more specious. The word decorum is also another way to talk about what is proper or improper.
Decency can also be explained when we think about politeness, civility, modesty, integrity or honesty. It seems as a society we are less decent to each other, and it shows up in public discourse and in the newspapers and on television. There is an extraordinary clip on the Internet of a woman bashing a drive-up window and pulling the hair of the attendant because she couldn’t get what she wanted. It seems there really is no customer service these days, and it doesn’t seem to be a priority with most businesses. I wore a full scroungy beard this summer for a part I was playing at the Sundance Outdoor Theatre. I have never been treated with so much disrespect and unconcern. It makes me feel sorry for those who look different and are treated as inferior. It makes me wonder if Albert Einstein was wandering the streets today if he would be treated as a genius or a crazy homeless man. It really is a sad statement that after all the hate and division we have seen in the few thousand years of human history, we can’t let each other be what we are. Perhaps it just comes down to a basic insecurity with ourselves. We aren’t happy unless we are making others emulate our happiness.
When we apply the word decency to our standard of living, we tend to split into the regular divisions. A decent standard of living for you might be luxurious for someone else. When we think about the gap between the very poor and the very rich, we exist in a society which has begun to view people as disposable, instead of individuals. As a society, we ought to be able to find ways to train, educate, and motivate people to lift themselves from crushing poverty. But when it looks like someone will lose money and someone else gain, then the line has been drawn. I know there is a way to raise everyone, but we really aren’t interested in doing it, because we don’t want our own standard of living affected.
But what does it really take to have a decent standard of living? I think it includes shelter and food. It should include access to medical treatment. Is there really anyone we want to throw out into the street? But I already have a bad attitude about most of what has been proposed. If you don’t believe that, listen to my episode called “Spare Change” from “A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Dane Allred”. Let’s just say I am not the best example of largess and compassion.
So that leads us to decorum. Can’t we at least be on our best behavior, exhibiting good manners and a respect for one another? The word restraint could be used to describe what would be considered proper. Why can’t we all just get along? It seems that these days, the more rude or crass you can be, the more accepted you become. Those who receive the attention today are those who seem to have no manners, no sense of etiquette or what is proper or improper. But then this point seems to contradict what I said earlier about letting people be themselves. Decency is a complicated proposition.
Don’t ask me to fix it. I’m the guy who used to have his underwear hanging out.
Friday, October 8, 2010
King Midas' Golden Touch by Jeanie Lang
Click on the player to hear an audio version of this story.
Once upon a time the kingdom of Phrygia lacked a king, and in much perplexity, the people sought help from an oracle. The answer was very definite:
“The first man who enters your city riding in a car shall be your king.”
That day there came slowly jogging into the city in their heavy, wooden-wheeled wain, the peasant Gordias and his wife and son, whose destination was the marketplace, and whose business was to sell the produce of their little farm and vineyard—fowls, a goat or two, and a couple of skinsful of strong, purple-red wine. An eager crowd awaited their entry, and a loud shout of welcome greeted them. And their eyes grew round and their mouths fell open in amaze when they were hailed as King and Queen and Prince of Phrygia.
The gods had indeed bestowed upon Gordias, the low-born peasant, a surprising gift, but he showed his gratitude by dedicating his wagon to the deity of the oracle and tying it up in its place with the wiliest knot that his simple wisdom knew, pulled as tight as his brawny arms and strong rough hands could pull. Nor could anyone untie the famous Gordian knot, and therefore become, as the oracle promised, lord of all Asia, until centuries had passed, and Alexander the Great came to Phrygia and sliced through the knot with his all-conquering sword.
In time Midas, the son of Gordias, came to inherit the throne and crown of Phrygia. Like many another not born and bred to the purple, his honors sat heavily upon him. From the day that his father’s wain had entered the city amidst the acclamations of the people, he had learned the value of power, and therefore, from his boyhood onward, power, always more power, was what he coveted. Also his peasant father had taught him that gold could buy power, and so Midas ever longed for more gold, that could buy him a place in the world that no descendant of a long race of kings should be able to contest. And from Olympus the gods looked down and smiled, and vowed that Midas should have the chance of realising his heart’s desire.
Therefore one day when he and his court were sitting in the solemn state that Midas required, there rode into their midst, tipsily swaying on the back of a gentle full-fed old grey ass, ivy-crowned, jovial and foolish, the satyr Silenus, guardian of the young god Bacchus.
With all the deference due to the friend of a god Midas treated this disreputable old pedagogue, and for ten days and nights on end he feasted him royally. On the eleventh day Bacchus came in search of his preceptor, and in deep gratitude bade Midas demand of him what he would, because he had done Silenus honor when to dishonor him lay in his power.
Not even for a moment did Midas ponder.
“I would have gold,” he said hastily—“much gold. I would have that touch by which all common and valueless things become golden treasures.”
And Bacchus, knowing that here spoke the son of peasants who many times had gone empty to bed after a day of toilful striving on the rocky uplands of Phrygia, looked a little sadly in the eager face of Midas, and answered: “Be it as thou wilt. Thine shall be the golden touch.”
Then Bacchus and Silenus went away, a rout of singing revellers at their heels, and Midas quickly put to proof the words of Bacchus.
An olive tree grew near where he stood, and from it he picked a little twig decked with leaves of softest grey, and lo, it grew heavy as he held it, and glittered like a piece of his crown. He stooped to touch the green turf on which some fragrant violets grew, and turf grew into cloth of gold, and violets lost their fragrance and became hard, solid, golden things. He touched an apple whose cheek grew rosy in the sun, and at once it became like the golden fruit in the Garden of the Hesperides. The stone pillars of his palace as he brushed past them on entering, blazed like a sunset sky. The gods had not deceived him. Midas had the Golden Touch. Joyously he strode into the palace and commanded a feast to be prepared—a feast worthy of an occasion so magnificent.
But when Midas, with the healthy appetite of the peasant-born, would have eaten largely of the savory food that his cooks prepared, he found that his teeth only touched roast kid to turn it into a slab of gold, that garlic lost its flavor and became gritty as he chewed, that rice turned into golden grains, and curdled milk became a dower fit for a princess, entirely unnegotiable for the digestion of man. Baffled and miserable, Midas seized his cup of wine, but the red wine had become one with the golden vessel that held it; nor could he quench his thirst, for even the limpid water from the fountain was melted gold when it touched his dry lips. Only for a very few days was Midas able to bear the affliction of his wealth. There was nothing now for him to live for. He could buy the whole earth if he pleased, but even children shrank in terror from his touch, and hungry and thirsty and sick at heart he wearily dragged along his weighty robes of gold. Gold was power, he knew well, yet of what worth was gold while he starved? Gold could not buy him life and health and happiness.
In despair, at length he cried to the god who had given him the gift that he hated.
“Save me, O Bacchus!” he said. “A witless one am I, and the folly of my desire has been my undoing. Take away from me the accursed Golden Touch, and faithfully and well shall I serve thee forever.”
Then Bacchus, very pitiful for him, told Midas to go to Sardis, the chief city of his worshippers, and to trace to its source the river upon which it was built. And in that pool, when he found it, he was to plunge his head, and so he would, for evermore, be freed from the Golden Touch.
It was a long journey that Midas then took, and a weary and a starving man was he when at length he reached the spring where the river Pactolus had its source. He crawled forward, and timidly plunged in his head and shoulders. Almost he expected to feel the harsh grit of golden water, but instead there was the joy he had known as a peasant boy when he laved his face and drank at a cool spring when his day’s toil was ended. And when he raised his face from the pool, he knew that his hateful power had passed from him, but under the water he saw grains of gold glittering in the sand, and from that time forth the river Pactolus was noted for its gold.
Once upon a time the kingdom of Phrygia lacked a king, and in much perplexity, the people sought help from an oracle. The answer was very definite:
“The first man who enters your city riding in a car shall be your king.”
That day there came slowly jogging into the city in their heavy, wooden-wheeled wain, the peasant Gordias and his wife and son, whose destination was the marketplace, and whose business was to sell the produce of their little farm and vineyard—fowls, a goat or two, and a couple of skinsful of strong, purple-red wine. An eager crowd awaited their entry, and a loud shout of welcome greeted them. And their eyes grew round and their mouths fell open in amaze when they were hailed as King and Queen and Prince of Phrygia.
The gods had indeed bestowed upon Gordias, the low-born peasant, a surprising gift, but he showed his gratitude by dedicating his wagon to the deity of the oracle and tying it up in its place with the wiliest knot that his simple wisdom knew, pulled as tight as his brawny arms and strong rough hands could pull. Nor could anyone untie the famous Gordian knot, and therefore become, as the oracle promised, lord of all Asia, until centuries had passed, and Alexander the Great came to Phrygia and sliced through the knot with his all-conquering sword.
In time Midas, the son of Gordias, came to inherit the throne and crown of Phrygia. Like many another not born and bred to the purple, his honors sat heavily upon him. From the day that his father’s wain had entered the city amidst the acclamations of the people, he had learned the value of power, and therefore, from his boyhood onward, power, always more power, was what he coveted. Also his peasant father had taught him that gold could buy power, and so Midas ever longed for more gold, that could buy him a place in the world that no descendant of a long race of kings should be able to contest. And from Olympus the gods looked down and smiled, and vowed that Midas should have the chance of realising his heart’s desire.
Therefore one day when he and his court were sitting in the solemn state that Midas required, there rode into their midst, tipsily swaying on the back of a gentle full-fed old grey ass, ivy-crowned, jovial and foolish, the satyr Silenus, guardian of the young god Bacchus.
With all the deference due to the friend of a god Midas treated this disreputable old pedagogue, and for ten days and nights on end he feasted him royally. On the eleventh day Bacchus came in search of his preceptor, and in deep gratitude bade Midas demand of him what he would, because he had done Silenus honor when to dishonor him lay in his power.
Not even for a moment did Midas ponder.
“I would have gold,” he said hastily—“much gold. I would have that touch by which all common and valueless things become golden treasures.”
And Bacchus, knowing that here spoke the son of peasants who many times had gone empty to bed after a day of toilful striving on the rocky uplands of Phrygia, looked a little sadly in the eager face of Midas, and answered: “Be it as thou wilt. Thine shall be the golden touch.”
Then Bacchus and Silenus went away, a rout of singing revellers at their heels, and Midas quickly put to proof the words of Bacchus.
An olive tree grew near where he stood, and from it he picked a little twig decked with leaves of softest grey, and lo, it grew heavy as he held it, and glittered like a piece of his crown. He stooped to touch the green turf on which some fragrant violets grew, and turf grew into cloth of gold, and violets lost their fragrance and became hard, solid, golden things. He touched an apple whose cheek grew rosy in the sun, and at once it became like the golden fruit in the Garden of the Hesperides. The stone pillars of his palace as he brushed past them on entering, blazed like a sunset sky. The gods had not deceived him. Midas had the Golden Touch. Joyously he strode into the palace and commanded a feast to be prepared—a feast worthy of an occasion so magnificent.
But when Midas, with the healthy appetite of the peasant-born, would have eaten largely of the savory food that his cooks prepared, he found that his teeth only touched roast kid to turn it into a slab of gold, that garlic lost its flavor and became gritty as he chewed, that rice turned into golden grains, and curdled milk became a dower fit for a princess, entirely unnegotiable for the digestion of man. Baffled and miserable, Midas seized his cup of wine, but the red wine had become one with the golden vessel that held it; nor could he quench his thirst, for even the limpid water from the fountain was melted gold when it touched his dry lips. Only for a very few days was Midas able to bear the affliction of his wealth. There was nothing now for him to live for. He could buy the whole earth if he pleased, but even children shrank in terror from his touch, and hungry and thirsty and sick at heart he wearily dragged along his weighty robes of gold. Gold was power, he knew well, yet of what worth was gold while he starved? Gold could not buy him life and health and happiness.
In despair, at length he cried to the god who had given him the gift that he hated.
“Save me, O Bacchus!” he said. “A witless one am I, and the folly of my desire has been my undoing. Take away from me the accursed Golden Touch, and faithfully and well shall I serve thee forever.”
Then Bacchus, very pitiful for him, told Midas to go to Sardis, the chief city of his worshippers, and to trace to its source the river upon which it was built. And in that pool, when he found it, he was to plunge his head, and so he would, for evermore, be freed from the Golden Touch.
It was a long journey that Midas then took, and a weary and a starving man was he when at length he reached the spring where the river Pactolus had its source. He crawled forward, and timidly plunged in his head and shoulders. Almost he expected to feel the harsh grit of golden water, but instead there was the joy he had known as a peasant boy when he laved his face and drank at a cool spring when his day’s toil was ended. And when he raised his face from the pool, he knew that his hateful power had passed from him, but under the water he saw grains of gold glittering in the sand, and from that time forth the river Pactolus was noted for its gold.
This World is Not Conclusion by Emily Dickenson
Click on the player to hear an audio version of this poem.
This world is not conclusion;
A sequel stands beyond,
Invisible, as music,
But positive, as sound.
It beckons and it baffles;
Philosophies don’t know,
And through a riddle, at the last,
Sagacity must go.
To guess it puzzles scholars;
To gain it, men have shown
Contempt of generations,
And crucifixion known.
This world is not conclusion;
A sequel stands beyond,
Invisible, as music,
But positive, as sound.
It beckons and it baffles;
Philosophies don’t know,
And through a riddle, at the last,
Sagacity must go.
To guess it puzzles scholars;
To gain it, men have shown
Contempt of generations,
And crucifixion known.
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