IN A STRANGE LAND

W. S. Maugham (1874-1965)

I am of a roving disposition; but I travel not to see imposing monuments, which

indeed somewhat bore me, nor beautiful scenery, of which I soon tire; I travel to
see men. I avoid the great. I would not cross the road to meet a president or a king;
I am content to know the writer in the pages of his book and the painter in his
picture; but I have journeyed a hundred leagues to see a missionary of whom I
had heard a strange story and I have spent a fortnight in a vile hotel in order to
improve my acquaintance with a billiard-marker. I should be declined to say that I
am not surprised to meet any sort of person were it not that there is one sort that I
am constantly running against and that never fails to give me a little shock of
amused astonishment. This is the elderly Englishwoman, generally of adequate
means, who is to be found living alone, up and down the world, in unexpected
places. You do not wonder when you hear of her living in a villa on a hill outside a
small Italian town, the only Englishwoman, generally of adequate means , who is
to be found living alone, up and down the world, in unexpected places. You do not
wonder when you hear of her living in a villa on a hill outside a small Italian town,
the only Englishwoman in the neighbourhood, and you are almost prepared for it
when a lonely hacienda is pointed out to you in Andalusia and you are told that
here has dwelt for many years an English lady. But it is more surprising when you
hear that the only white person in a Chinese city is an Englishwoman, not a
missionary, who lives there none knows why; and there is another who inhabits an
island in the South Seas, and a third who has a bungalow on the outskirts of a large
village in the center of Java. They live solitary lives, these women, without friends,
and they do not welcome the stranger. Though they may not have seen one of their
race for months they will pass you on the road as though they did not see you, and
they will find scones. They will talk to you politely, as though they were
entertaining you in a Kentish vicarage, but when you take your leave will show no
particular desire to continue the acquaintance. One wonders in vain what strange
instinct it is that has driven them to separate themselves from their kith and kin
and thus to live apart from all their natural interests in an alien land. Is it romance
they have sought, or freedom?
But of all Englishwomen whom I have met or perhaps only heard of ( for as I
have said they are difficult of access ) the one who remains most vividly in my
memory is an elderly person who lived in Asia Minor. I had arrived after a tedious
journey at a little town from which I proposed to make the ascent of a celebrated
mountain and I was taken to a rambling hotel that stood at its foot. I arrived late at
night and signed my name in the book. I went up to my room. It was cold and I
shivered as I undressed, but in a moment there was a knock at the door and the
dragoman came in.
“Signora Niccolini’s compliments”, he said.
To my astonishment he handed me a hot-water. I took it with grateful hands.
“Who is Signora Niccolini?” I asked.
“She is the proprietor of this hotel”, he answered.
I sent her my thanks and he withdrew. The last thing I expected in a scrubby
hotel in Asia Minor kept by an old Italian woman was a beautiful hot-water bottle.
There is nothing I like more ( if we were not all sick to death of the war I would
tell you the story of how six men risked their lives to fetch a hot-water bottle from
a chateau in Flanders that was being bombarded ); and next morning, so that I
might thank her in person, I asked if I might see the Signora Niccolini. While I
waited for her I racked my brains to think what hotwater bottle could possibly be
in Italian. In a moment she came in. She was a little stout woman not without
dignity and she wore a black apron trimmed with lace and a small lace cap. She
stood with her hands crossed. I was astonished at her appearance for she looked
exactly like a house-keeper in a great English house.
“Did you wish to speak to me, sir?”
She was an Englishwoman and in those few words I surely recognized the trace
of a cockney accent.
“I wanted to thank you for the hot-water bottle”. I replied in some confusion.
 “I saw by the visitors’ book that you were English, sir, and I always send a ‘ot-
water bottle to English gentlemen”.
“Believe me, it was very welcome”.
“I was for many years in the service of the late Lord Ormskirk, sir. He always
used to travel with a ‘ot-water bottle. Is there anything else, sir?”
“Not at the moment, thank you”.
She gave me a polite nod and withdrew. I wondered how on earth it came about
that a funny old Englishwoman like that should be the landlady of a hotel in Asia
Minor. It was not easy to make her acquaintance, for she her place, as she would
herself have put it and she kept me at a distance. It was not for nothing that she had
been in service in a noble English family. But I was persistent and I induced her at
last to ask me to have a cup of tea in her own little parlour. I learnt that she had
been lady’s maid to a certain lady Ormskirk, and Signor Niccolini ( for she never
alluded to her deceased husband in any other way ) had been his lordship’s chef.
Signor Niccolini was a very handsome man and for some years there had been
“n’an understanding between them”. When they had both saved a certain amount
of money they were married, retired from service, and looked about for a hotel.
They had bought this one on an advertisement because Signor Niccolini thought
that he would like to see something of the world. This was nearly thirty years ago
and Signor Niccolini had been dead for fifteen. His widow had not once been to
England. I asked her if she was ever homesick.
“I don’t say as I couldn’t like to go back on a visit, though I expect I’d find
many changes. But my family didn’t like the idea of me marrying a foreigner and I
haven’t spoken to them since. Of course, there are many things here that are not the
same as what they ‘ave at ‘ome, but it’s surprising what you get used to. I see a lot
of life. I don’t know as I should care to live the ‘undrum life they do in a place like
London”.
I smiled. For what she said was strangely incongruous with her manner. She
was a pattern of decorum. It was extraordinary that she could have lived for thirty
years in this wild and almost barbaric country without its having touched her.
Though I knew no Turkish and she spoke it with ease I was convinced that she
spoke it most incorrectly and with a cockney accent. I suppose she had remained
the precise prim English lady’s maid, knowing her place, through all these
vicissitudes because she had no faculty of surprise. She took everything that came
as a matter of course. She looked upon everyone who wasn’t English as a foreigner
and therefore as someone, almost imbecile, for whom allowances must be made.
She ruled her staff despotically – for did she not know how an upper servant in a
great house should exercise his authority over the under servants? – and everything
about the hotel was clean and neat.
“I do my best”, she said, when I congratulated her on this, standing, as always
when she spoke to me, with her hands respectively crossed. “Of course one can’t
expect foreigners to’ave the same ideas that we ‘ave, but as his lordship used to say
to me, what we’ve got to do, Parker, he said to me, what we’ve got to do in this life
is to make the best of our raw material.”
But she kept her greatest surprise for the eve of my departure. “I’m glad you’re
not leaving before you’ve seen my two sons, sir”.
“I didn’t know you had any”.
“They’ve been away on business, but they’ve just come back. You’ll be
surprised when you’ve seen them. I’ve trained them with me own ’ands so to
speak, and when I am gone they’ll carry on the ‘otel between them”.
In a moment two tall, swarthy, strapping young fellows entered the hall. Her
eyes lit up with pleasure. They went up to her and took her in their arms and gave
her resounding kisses.
“They don’t speak English, sir, but they understand a little, and of course they
speak Turkish like natives, and Greek and Italian”.
I shook hands with the pair and then Signora Niccolini said something to them
and they went away.
“They are handsome fellows, Signora”, I said. “You must be very proud of
them”.
 “I am, sir, and they are good boys, both of them. They’ve never given me a
moment’s trouble from the day they was born and they’re the very image of Signor
Niccolini.
“I must say no one would think they had an English mother”.
“I am not exactly their mother. I’ve just sent them along to say ‘ow do you do
to ‘er”.
I dare say I looked a little confused.
“They are the sons that Signor Niccolini ‘ad by a Greek girl that used to work in
the ‘otel, sir, and ‘aving no children of me own I adopted them.”
I sought for some remark to make.
“I’ope you don’t think that there’s any blame attached to Signor Niccolini”, she
said, drawing herself up a little, “I shouldn’t like to think that, sir”. She folded her
hands again and with a mixture of pride, primness, and satisfaction added the final
word: “Signor Niccolini was a very full-blooded man”.

I. Speak about the author of the story.

II. Transcribe the given words and read them correctly:

Access (n), proprietor, signora, deceased, incongruous, decorum, vicissitude,
imbecile, despotically, swarthy
III. Learn the essential vocabulary: ( give definitions for the words and phrases
on the list; reproduce the situations in which they occur in the story; use them
in situations of your own).
A. General Vocabulary:
1. to attach blame to smb
2. to rack one’s brains
3. It is/was not for nothing that …
4. precise
5. humdrum
6. to make allowances ( for smb/smth )
 7. to make the best of smth
8. solitary
B. General Vocabulary:
1. to carry on smth/doing smth
2. to light up
3. to draw oneself up
C. Idioms ( Give their Russian equivalents ):
Kith and kin
To know one’s place
D. Prepositional Phrases:
To run against smb
On the outskirts of smth
In confusion
To be in service
In vain
To keep smb at a distance
On an advertisement
To congratulate smb on smth

IV. Explain the difference between these words; make up some sentences to
bring out the difference.
1. to fetch – to bring
2. used to do smth – to be used to doing smth

V. Memorize the following derivational pattern; explain its meaning; give 5-6
examples of derivatives built after it:
N + -ish/Adj. Kentish

VI. Say what is meant by:

League a hot-water bottle
Scones Old Worcester
Missionary chef
Cocxney billiard-marker

VII. Learn the pronunciation of the following place names. Find the places in a
geographical map. Find reference to them in the story:
Andalusia, the South Seas, Java, Asia Minor, Flandres, Kent

VIII. From the story, write out all the nouns denoting kinds of houses. Could
you describe them?

IX. Explain how you understand the following:

1. I’m of a roving disposition; but … I travel to see men.
2. “I smiled. For what she said was strangely incongruous with her manner.
She was a pattern of decorum”.
3. “I suppose she had remained the precise, prim English lady’s maid,
knowing her place, through all these vicissitudes because she had no faculty
of surprise. She took everything that came as a matter of course. She looked
upon everyone who wasn’t English as a foreigner and therefore as someone,
almost imbecile , for whom allowances must be made.”
4. “She folded her hands again and with a mixture of pride, primness, and
satisfaction added the final word: “Signor Niccolini was a very full-blooded
man”.

X. Answer the following questions.

1. What sort of persons was the narrator constantly running against?
2. What was the author doing in Turkey?
3. What was his reaction on receiving a hot-water bottle from the proprietor
of the hotel?
4. Why was the narrator confused on seeing her?
5. What impression did she produce on the author?
 6. Was Signora Niccolini homesick?
7. What did Signora Niccolini’s sons look like?
8. Why was the narrator greatly surprised by Signora Niccolini?
XI. Write a short summary of the story; retell it.
XII. Discussion Points:
1. Can you say that most people travel for the same reasons as the narrator
of the story?
2. How would you answer the question asked by the author about the
eccentric Englishwomen that leave their country for distant places? Is it
romance they are after, or freedom? Can anyone become free in a
foreign country? Why?
3. What were the typical traits of those Englishwomen? Did living in a
foreign country change Signora Niccolini’s outlook? Why or why not?
4. Give a character sketch of Signora Niccolini. What’s the author’s
attitude to her? What impression did she produce on you?

THE LITTLE GOVERNESS

K. Mansfield (1888 –1923)
Oh, dear, how she wished that it wasn't night-time. She'd have much rather
travelled by day, much much rather. But the lady at the Governess Bureau had
said: "You had better take an evening boat and then if you get into a compartment
for "Ladies Only" in the train you will be far safer than sleeping in a foreign hotel.
Don't go out of the carriage; don't walk about the corridors and be sure to lock the
lavatory door if you go there. The train arrives at Munich at eight o'clock, and Frau
Arnholdt says that the Hotel Grunewald is only one minute away. A porter can
take you there. She will arrive at six the same evening, so you will have a nice
quiet day to rest after the journey and rub up your German. And when you want
anything to eat I would advise you to pop into the nearest baker's and get a bun
and some coffee. You haven't been abroad before, have you?" "No." "Well, I
always tell my girls that it's better to mistrust people at first rather than trust them,
and it's safer to suspect people of evil intentions rather than good ones... It sounds
rather hard but we've got to be women of the world, haven't we?"
It had been nice in the Ladies' Cabin, The stewardess was so kind and
changed her money for her and tucked up her feet. But when the boat stopped and
she went up on deck, her dress - basket in one hand, her rug and umbrella in the
other, a cold, strange wind flew under her hat. She went down the gangway
balancing herself carefully on her heels. Then a man in a black leather cap came
forward and touched her on the arm. "Where for, Miss?" He spoke English - he
must be a guard or a station master with a cap like that. She had scarcely answered
when he pounced on her dress-basket. "This way," he shouted, in a rude ,
determined voice, and elbowing his way he strode past the people. "But I don't
want a porter." What a horrible man!" I don't want a porter. I want to carry it
myself." She had to run to keep up with him, and her anger, far stronger than she,
ran before her and snatched the bag out of the wretch's hand. He paid no attention
at all, but swung on down the long dark platform, and across a railway line. "He is
a robber." She was sure he was a robber as she stepped between the silvery rails
and felt the cinders crunch under her shoes. On the other side -oh, thank goodness!
- there was a train with Munich written on it. The man stooped by the huge lighted
carriages. "Second class?" asked the insolent voice. "Yes, a Ladies' compartment.
"She was quite out of breath. She opened her little purse to find something small
enough to give this horrible man while he tossed her dress-basket into the rack of
an empty carriage that had a ticket. Dames Seules, gummed on the window. She
got into the train and handed him twenty centimes. "What's this?" shouted the
man, glaring at the money and then at her, holding it up to his nose, sniffing at it as
though he had never in his life seen, much less held, such a sum. "It's a franc. You
know that, don't you? It's a franc. That's my fare." A franc! Did he imagine that she
was going to give him a franc for playing a trick like that just because she was a
girl and travelling alone at night? Never, never! She squeezed her purse in her hand
and simply did not see him - she looked at a view of St. Malo and simply did not
see him, "Ah, no. Ah, no. Four sous. You make a mistake. Here ,take it. It's a franc
I want." He leapt on to the step of the train and threw the money on to her lap.
Trembling with terror she screwed herself tight, tight, and put out an icy hand and
took the money-stowed it away in her hand. "That's all you're going to get," she
said.
For a minute or two she felt his sharp eyes pricking her all over, while he
nodded slowly, pulling down his mouth: "Very well. Trrres bien.” He shrugged his
shoulders and disappeared into the dark. Oh, the relief! How simply terrible that
had been! As she stood up to feel if the dress-basket was firm she caught sight of
herself in the mirror, quite white, with big round eyes. "But it's all over now," she
said to the mirror face, feeling in some way that it was more frightened than she.
People began to assemble on the platform. She looked out from her safe
corner, frightened no longer but proud that she had not given that franc. "I can look
after myself - of course I can. The great thing is not to -" Suddenly from the
corridor there came a stamping of feet and men's voices, high and broken with
snatches of loud laughter. They were coming her way. The little governess shrank
into her corner as four young men in bowler hats passed, staring through the door
and window. One of them, bursting with the joke, pointed to the notice Dames
Seules and the four bent down the better to see the one little girl in the corner. Oh
dear, they were in the carriage next door.
"I wish it wasn't night-time, I wish there was another woman in the
carriage. I'm frightened of the men next door. "The little governess looked out the
see her porter coming back again - the same man making for her carriage with his
arms full of luggage. But - but what was he doing? He put his thumb nail under the
label Dames Seules and tore it right off, and then stood aside squinting at her while
an old man wrapped in a plain cape climbed up the high step. "But this is a ladies’
compartment." "Oh, no, Mademoiselle, you make a mistake. No, no, I assure you,
Merci , Monsieur” . "The porter stepped off triumphant and' the train started. For a
moment two big tears brimmed her eyes and through them she saw the old man.
He looked very old. Ninety at least. He had a white moustache and big gold-
rimmed spectacles with little blue eyes behind them and pink wrinkled cheeks. A
nice face - and charming the way he bent forward and said in halting French: "Do I
disturb you, Mademoiselle? Would you rather I took all these things out of the rack
and found another carriage? "What! that old man have to move all those heavy
things just because she ..."No, it's quite all right. You don't disturb me at all." "Ah,
a thousand thanks." He sat down opposite her and unbuttoned the cape of his
enormous coat and flung it off his shoulders.
In the carriage next door the young men started singing "Une, deux, trois."
They sang the same song over and over at the tops of their voices. "I never could
have dared to go to sleep if I had been alone," she decided. "I couldn't have put my
feet or even taken off my hat." The singing gave her a queer little tremble in her
stomach and, hugging herself to stop it, with her arms crossed under her cape, she
felt really glad to have the old man in the carriage with her. Careful to see that he
was not looking she peeped at him through her long lashes He sat extremely
upright, the chest thrown out, the chin well in, knees pressed together, reading a
German paper. That was why he spoke French so funnily. He was a German.
Something in the army, she supposed - a Colonel or a General - once, of course,
not now; he was too old for that now. How spick and span he looked for an old
man. He wore a pearl pin stuck in his black tie and a ring with a dark red stone on
his little finger; the tip of a white silk handkerchief showed in the pocket of his
double-breasted jacket. Somehow, altogether, he was really nice to look at. Most
old men were so horrid. She couldn't bear them doddery - or they had a disgusting
cough or something. But not having a beard - that made all the difference - and
then his cheeks were so pink and his moustache so very white. Down went the
German paper and the old man leaned forward with the same delightful courtesy:
"Do you speak German, Mademoiselle?» “Ja, ein wenig, mehr als Franzosisch,"
said the little governess, blushing a deep pink colour that spread slowly over her
cheeks and made her blue eyes look almost black. "Ach, so!" The old man bowed
graciously. "Then perhaps you would care to look at some illustrated papers,"
"Thank you very much," How kindly the old man in the corner watched her bare
little hand turning over the big white pages, watched her lips moving as she
pronounced the long words to herself, rested upon her hair that fairly blazed under
the light. Alas! How tragic for a little governess to possess hair that made one think
of tangerines and marigolds, of apricots and tortoiseshell cats and champagne!
Perhaps that was what the old man was thinking as he gazed and gazed, and that
not even the dark ugly clothes could disguise her soft beauty. Perhaps the flush that
licked his cheeks and lips was a flush of rage that anyone so young and tender
should have to travel alone and unprotected through the night.
"Thank you very much. They were very interesting. "She smiled prettily
handing back the papers. "But you speak German extremely well," said the old
man. "You have been in Germany before, of course?" "0h no, this is the first time"
- a little pause, then - "This is the first time that I have ever been abroad at all."
"Really! I am surprised. You gave me the impression, if I may say so, that you
were accustomed to travelling." "Oh, well -I have been about a good deal in
England, and to Scotland, once." "You will like Munich," said the old man.
"Munich is a wonderful city. Museums, pictures, galleries, fine buildings and
shops, concerts, theatres, restaurants - all are in Munich. You will enjoy yourself
there.” “I am not going to stay in Munich," said the little governess, and she added
shyly, "I am going to a post as governess to a doctor's family in Augsburg.”
Augsburg - well - was not beautiful. A solid manufacturing town. "What a pity not
to see Munich before you go. You ought to take a little holiday on your way"-he
smiled -"and store up some pleasant memories." "I am afraid I could not do that,"
said the little governess, shaking her head, suddenly important and serious. He
quite understood. He bowed, serious, too. They were silent after that.
The train stopped. The old man pulled his coat round him and got up,
smiling at her. He murmured something she didn't quite understand, but she smiled
back at him as he left the carriage. The air tasted of water. She let down the
window and a fat woman with strawberries passed as if on purpose, holding up the
tray to her. "Nein, danke," said the little governess looking at the big berries on
their gleaming leaves. "Wie viel?" she asked as the fat woman passed. "Two
marks fifty, Fraulein." "Good gracious?" She hoped the old man wouldn't be left
behind. Oh, it was daylight - everything was lovely if only she hadn't been so
thirsty. Where was the old man - oh, here he was - she dimpled at him as though he
were an old accepted friend as he closed the door and, turning, took from under his
cape a basket of the strawberries . "If Fraulein would honour me by accepting
these..." "What, for me?" But she drew back and raised her hands as though he
were about to put a wild little cat on her lap.
"Certainly for you," said the old man. "For myself it is twenty years since I
was brave enough to eat strawberries. Eat them and see," said the old man, looking
pleased and friendly.
It was while she munched the berries that she first thought of the old man as a
grandfather. What a perfect grandfather he would make! Just like one out of a
book!
When she had eaten them she felt she had known him for years» She told him
about Frau Arnholdt and how she got the place. He listened, listened until he knew
as much about the affair as she did, until he said - not looking at her - but
smoothing the palms of his brown suede gloves together: "I wonder if you would
let me show you a little of Munich today. Nothing much - but just perhaps a
picture gallery and the Englischer Garten. You would be back at the hotel by the
early afternoon and you would give an old man a great deal of pleasure"
It was not until long after she had said "Yes" - because the moment she
had said it and he had thanked her he began telling her about his travels in Turkey
and attar of roses - that she wondered whether she had done wrong. After all, she
really did not know him. But he was so old and he had been so very kind - not to
mention the strawberries... And she couldn’t have explained the reason why she
said "No", and it was her last day in a way, her last day to really enjoy herself in.
"Was I wrong? Was I?" "If I might accompany you as far as the hotel," he
suggested, "and call for you again at about ten o'clock." He took out his pocket-
book and handed her a card. "Herr Regierungsrat…" He had a title! Well, it was
bound to be all right!
 He found her a porter, disposed of his own luggage in a few words, guided
her through the bewildering crowd out of the station to the hotel. He explained
who she was to the manager as though all this had been bound to happen, and then
for one moment her little hand lost itself in the big brown suede ones. "I will call
for you at ten o'clock." He was gone.
"This way, Fraulein," said a waiter, who had been dodging behind the
manager's back, all eyes and ears for the strange couple. She followed him up into
a dark ugly bedroom. The waiter had a curious way of staring as if there .vas
something funny about her. He pursed up his lips about to whistle, and then
changed his mind “Well , why didn't he go? Why did he stare so?" “Gehen Sie,"
said the little governess, with frigid English simplicity. "Gehen Sie sofort" she
repeated icily. At the door he turned. "And the gentleman, ''said he, "shall I show
the gentleman upstairs when he comes?"
Her grandfather came at ten, more beautifully brushed than ever. She wanted
to run, she wanted to hang on his arm, she wanted to cry every minute, "Oh, I am
so frightfully happy!" She ate two white sausages and two little rolls of fresh bread
at eleven o'clock in the morning and she drank some beer, which he told her wasn't
intoxicating, wasn't at all like English beer, out of a glass like a flower vase. And
then they took a cab and really she must have seen thousands and thousands of
wonderful classical pictures in about a quarter of an hour! When they came out it
was raining. The grandfather unfurled his umbrella and held it over the little
governess. They started to walk to the restaurant for lunch. "It goes easier," he
remarked in a detached way, "if you take my arm, Fraulein. And besides it is the
custom in Germany. "So she took his arm and walked beside him while he pointed
out the famous statues, so interested that he quite forgot to put down the umbrella
even when the rain was long over.
After lunch they went to a cafe to hear a gypsy band, but she did not like that
at all. Ugh! such horrible men were there with heads like eggs and cuts on their
faces. Then they went to the Englischer Garten. The shadows of the trees danced
on the tablecloths, and she sat with her back safely turned to the ornamental clock
that pointed to twenty-five minutes to seven. "Really and truly," said the little
governess earnestly, "this has been the happiest day of my life. I’ve never
imagined such a day. "In spite of the ice-cream her grateful baby heart glowed with
love for the fairy grandfather. So they walked out of the garden down a long alley.
The day was nearly over. "You see those big buildings opposite," said the old man.
"The third storey - that is where I live.1 and the old housekeeper who looks after
me. "She was very interested. "Now just before I find a cab for you, will you come
and see my little "home" and let me give you a bottle of the attar of roses I told you
about in the train?" She would love to. "I've never seen a bachelor's flat in my life,"
laughed the little governess.
His room wasn't pretty. In a way it was very ugly - but neat, and she
supposed, comfortable for such an old man. He knelt down and took from a
cupboard a round tray with two pink glasses and a tall pink bottle. As he was
pouring the liquid, his hand shook and the wine spilled over the tray. It was very
quiet in the room. She said: I think I ought to go now.""3ut you will have a tiny
glass of wine with me - just one before you go?" said the old man . "No , really ,no.
I never drink wine. I - I promised never to touch wine or anything like that." "Well,
will you just sit down on the sofa for five minutes and let me drink your health?"
The little governess sat down on the edge of the red velvet coach and he sat down
beside her and drank her health at a gulp. "Have you really been happy today?" as
asked the old man, turning round, so close beside her that she felt his knee
twitching against hers. Before she could answer he held her hands. "Are you going
to give me one little kiss before you go?" he asked , drawing her close still.
It was a dream! It wasn't true! It wasn't the same old man at all. Ah, how
horrible! The little governess stared at him in terror, "^o, no, no? "she stammered,
struggling out of his hands. "One little kiss. A kiss. What is it? Just a kiss, - tear
little Fraulein. A kiss. "He pushed his face forward, his lips smiling broadly. Never
- never. How can you! She sprang up, but he was too quick and he held her against
the wall, pressed against her his hard old body and his twitching knee, and though
she shook her head from side to side, distracted, kissed her on the mouth. On the
mouth? Where not a soul who wasn't a near relation had ever kissed her before ...
She ran, ran down the street until she found a broad road leading to the hotel.
When the little governess reached the hall of the Hotel Grunewald the same waiter
who had come into her room in the morning was standing by a table. He was ready
for her question. "Yes, Fraulein, the lady has been here. I told her that you had
arrived and gone out again immediately with a gentleman. She asked me when you
were coming back again - but of course I could not say." "Where is the lady now?"
asked the little governess, shuddering so violently that she had to hold her
handkerchief up to her mouth. "How should I know?" cried the waiter, as he
swooped past her to pounce upon a new arrival.

I. Speak about the author of the story.

II. Transcribe the given words and read them correctly:

Bureau, triumphant, enormous, moustache, courtesy, graciously, champagne,
restaurant, suede, scarcely

III. Learn the essential vocabulary:

A. General Vocabulary
To assure smb
To be bound to do smth
To suspect smb of smth, suspicion
Determined
To shrug ( one’s shoulders )
To catch sight of smth/smb
To blush Cf.: to flush
To disguise
B. Phrasal Verbs
To rub smth up
 To store up smth
To keep up with smb
C. Idioms
A man/woman of the world
Spick and span
All eyes and ears for smth
D. Prepositional Phrases:
Out of breath
To make for smth
At the top of one’s voice
On one’s way Cf: in smb’s /the way
On purpose
Smth/smb out of a book
At a gulp

IV. Explain the difference between these words; use them in sentences to bring
out the difference.
1. to tremble – to shudder – to shake – to shiver – to quiver
2. to look – to stare – to glare – to gaze – to peep – to squint

V. Remember the following derivational patterns; learn their meanings; give 5

examples of derivatives built after each.
1. mis- + v _ V mistrust
2. N + y _ A icy

VI. Say what or who is meant:

A bowler hat, a pocket-book, a governess, ladies’ cabin

VII. From the story, write out all the nouns denoting money units; memorize
their pronunciation.
VIII. Learn the pronunciation of the following place names; find the places in a
geographical map. Find reference to them in the story.
Munich, Augsburg, Turkey

IX. Explain how you understand the following:

1. Alas! How tragic for a little governess to possess hair that made one think of
tangerines and marigolds, of apricots and tortoise shell cats and champagne!
2. “What, for me?” But she drew back and raised her hands as though he were
about to put a wild little cat on her lap.
3. In spite of the ice-cream her grateful baby heart glowed with love for the
fairy grandfather.

VI. Answer the following questions:

1) Where was the little governess going to?
2) What languages did she speak?
3) Why did she wish it wasn't night-time?
4) Why was the French porter so angry with her? How did he avenge himself?
5) What impression did the old man produce on the girl? Why did she trust him?
6) Why were they stared at at the hotel?
7) How did the old man entertain the little governess in Munich?

VII. Write a short summary of the story; retell it.

XII. Discussion Points:

1. Give a character sketch of the little governess. What can you guess about her
background, upbringing?
2. Why does the author call her "the little governess" all the time?
3. Why did the girl get into trouble? Was it because she was so naïve and
inexperienced, or because she was light-minded?
What was going to happen to her in Munich?
4. Do you think that today a girl traveling alone is also likely to get into
trouble? Why or why not?
5. Comment on the words of the lady at the Coverness Bureau: “It’s better to
mistrust people rather than trust them, and it’s safer to suspect people of
evil intentions rather than good ones”.

INCIDENT ON A LAKE
John Collier (1901-1980)
Beaseley, while shaving on the day after his fiftieth birthday, eyed his
reflection, and admitted his remarkable resemblance to a mouse. "Cheep, cheep!"
he said to himself, with a shrug. "What do I care? At least, I wouldn't except for
Maria. I remember I thought her kittenish at the time of our marriage. How she has
matured!"
He knotted his thread-like necktie and hurried downstairs, scared out of his
life at the thought of being late for breakfast. Immediately afterwards he had to
open his drugstore, which then, in its small-town way, would keep him
unprofitably busy till ten o'clock at night. At intervals during the day, Maria would
drop in to supervise, pointing out his mistakes and weaknesses regardless of the
customers .
He found a brief solace every morning when, unfolding the newspaper, he
turned first of all to the engaging feature originated by Mr. Ripley. On Fridays he
had a great treat: he then received his copy of his favourite magazine. Nature
Science Marvels. This reading provided, so to speak, a hole in his otherwise
hopeless existence, through which he escaped from the intolerable into the
incredible.
 On this particular morning the incredible was kind enough to come to Mr.
Beaseley. It came in a long envelope and on the handsome note раpег of a
prominent law firm. "Believe it or not, ay dear," Mr. Beaseley said to his wife, "
but I have been left four hundred thousand dollars."
"Where? Let me see!" cried Mrs. Beaseley. "Don't hog the letter to
yourself in that fashion."
"Go on," said he. 'Read it. Stick your nose in it. Much good may it do
you ! "
“ Oh.! “ “Oh!” said she. “So you are already uppish!”
"Уеs," said he, picking his teeth. "I have been left four hundred thousand
dollars."
"We shall be able," said his wife," to have an apartment in New York or a
little house in Miami."
"You may have half the money and do what you like with it," said Mr.
Beaseley. "For my part, I intend to travel."
Mrs. Beaseley heard this remark with the consternation she always felt at
the prospect of losing anything that belonged to her, however old and valueless.
"So you would desert me," she said," to go chasing about after some native
woman? I thought you were past all that."
"The only native women I am interested in," said he, "are those that Ripley
had a picture of - those with lips big enough to have dinner plates set on them. In
the Nat re Science Marvels Magazine they had some with necks like giraffes. I
should 1ikе to see those, and pygmies, and birds of paradise, and the temples of
Yucatan. I offered to give you half the money because I know you like city life and
high society. I prefer to travel. If you want to, I suppose you can come along."
"I will," said she. "And don't forget I'm doing it for your sake to keep you
on the right path. And when you get tired of gawking an rubbering around, we'll
have an apartment in New York and a little house in Miami”.
So Mrs. Beaseley went resentfully along, prepared to endure Hell herself if she
could deprive her husband of a little of his Heaven. Their journeys took them into
profound forests, where, from their bare bedroom, whose walls, floor, and ceiling
were austerely fashioned of raw pine, they could see framed in every window a
perfect little Cezanne, with the slanting light cubing bluely аmong the perpendi-
culars of pine trees or exploding on the new green of a floating spray. In the high
Andes, on the other hand, their window was a square azure, with sometimes a
small, snow-white cloud like a tight roll of cotton in a lower corner. In the beach
huts on tropical islands, they found that the tide, like an original and tasteful
hotelier, deposited a little gift at their door every morning: a skeleton fan of violet
seaweed, a starfish, or a shell. Mrs. Beaseley, being one of the vulgar, would have
preferred a bottle of Grade A and a copy of the Examiner. She sighed incessantly
for an apartment in New York and a house in Miami, and she sought endlessly to
punish the poor man for depriving he" of them.
If a bird of paradise settled on a limb above her husband's head, she was
careful to let out a raucous cry and drive the interesting creature away before Mr.
Beaseley had time to examine it. She told him the wrong hour for the start of the
trip to the temples of Yucatan, and she diverted his attention from an armadillo by
pretending she had something in her eye. At the sight of a bevy of the celebrated
bosoms of Bali, clustered almost like grapes upon the quay, she just turned around
and went straight up the gangplank again, driving her protesting husband before
her.
She insisted they should stay a long time in Buenos Aires so that she could
get a permanent wave, a facial, some smart clothes, and go to the races. Mr.
Beaseley humoured her, for he wanted to be fair, and they took a suite in a
comfortable hotel. One afternoon when his wife was at the races, our friend struck
up an acquaintance with a little Portguese doctor in the lounge, and before long
they were talking vivaciously of hoatzins, anacondas and axolots. "And to that,"
said the little Portuguese, "I nave recently returned from the headwaters of the
Amazon, where the swamps and lakes are terrific. In one of those lakes, according
to the Indians, there is a creature entirely unknown to science: a creature of
tremendous size, something like an alligator, something like a turtle, armour-
plated, with a long neck, and teeth like sabres."
"What an interesting creature that must be!" cried Mr. Beaseley in a
rapture.
"Yes, уеs," said the Portuguese. "It is certainly interesting."
"If only I could get there!" cried Mr. Beaseley. "If only I could talk to those
Indians! If only I could see the creature itself .Are you by any chance at liberty?
Could you be persuaded to join a little expedition?"
The Portuguese was willing, and sооn everything was arranged. Mrs.
Beaseley returned from the races, and had the mortification of hearing that they
were to start almost immediately for a trip up the Amazon and a sojourns on the
unknown lake in the dysgenic society of Indians. She insulted the Portuguse, who
did nothing but bow, for he had an agreeable financial understanding with Mr.
Beaseley.
Mrs. Beaseley berated her husband all the way up the river, harping on the idea
that there was no such creature as he sought, and that he was the credulous victim
of a confidence man. Inured as he was to her usual flow of complaints, this one
made him wince and humiliated him before the Portuguese. Her voice, also, was so
loud and shrill that in all the thousands of miles they travelled up the celebrated
river he saw nothing but the rapidly vanishing hinder parts of tapirs, spider
monkeys, and giant ant-eaters, which hurried to secrete themselves in the
impenetrable deeps of the jungle.
Finally they arrived at the lake. "How do we know this is the lake he was
speaking of ?" Mrs. Beaseley said to her husband. "It is probably just any lake.
What are those Indians saying to him? You can't understand a word. You take
everything on trust. You ‘ll never see a monster. Only a fool would believe in it."
Mr. Beaseley said nothing. The Portuguese learned, from his conversation
with the Indians, of an abandoned grass hut, which in due time and after
considerable effort they located. They moved into it. The days passed by. Mr.
Beaseley crouched in the reeds with binoculars and was abominably bitten by
mosquitoes. There was nothing to be seen.
Mrs. Beaseley succeeded in taking on a note of satisfaction without in the
least abating her tone of injury. "I will stand this no longer," she said to her
husband. "I've allowed you to drag me about. I've tried to keep my eye on you. I've
travelled hundreds of miles in a canoe with natives. Now I see you wasting our
money on a confidence man. We have for Para in the morning,"
"You may, if you wish," said he. "I'll write you a check for two hundred
thousand dollars. Perhaps you can persuade some native in a passing canoe to take
you down the river. But I will not come with you. ”
"We will see about that," said she. She hadn't the faintest intention of
leaving her husband alone, for she feared he might enjoy himself. Nevertheless,
after he had written out the check and given it to her. She continued to threaten to
leave him, for if he surrendered, it would be a triumph, and if he didn't, it would be
another little black cross against, him.
She happened to rise early one morning and went out to make her
ungrateful breakfast on some of the delicious fruits that hung in profusion all
around the hut. She had not gone far before she happened to glance at the sandy
ground, and there she saw a footprint that was nearly a yard wide, splayed, spurred,
and clawed, and the mate to it was ten feet away.
''Mrs. Beaseley looked at these admirable footprints with neither awe nor
interest - only annoyance at the thought of her husband's triumph and the
vindication of the Portuguese. She did not cry out in wonder, or call to the sleeping
menfolk, but only gave a sort of honking snort. Then, picking up a sizeable palm
frond, this unscrupulous woman obliterated the highly interesting footprints, never
before seen by a white person's eyes. Having done so, she smiled grimly and
looked for the next, and she wiped out that one, too. A little farther on she saw
another, and then still one more, and so on, till she had removed every trace down
to the tepid lip of the lake where the last was printed at the very edge of the water.
 Having obliterated this final trace, Mrs. Beaseley straightened up and
looked back toward the hut. "You shall hear of this," she said, addressing her
sleeping husband," when we are settled down at Miami and you are too old to do
anything about it."
At that moment there was a swirl in the water behind her and she was
seized by a set of teeth which quite exactly resembled sabres. She had no leisure to
check up on the other points mentioned by the Portuguese doctor, but no doubt
they came up to specification. She uttered one brief scream as she disappeared, but
her voice was hoarse by reason of the strain she had put on it during the previous
weeks, and her cry, even if it had been heard, could easily have been confused with
the mating call of the Megatherium, thought to be extinct. In fact, the last
surviving Megatherium emerged from the jungle only shortly afterward, looked
around in all directions, shrugged his shoulders resignedly, and went back the way
he had come.
Shortly afterward, Mr. Beaseley awoke, noted the absence of his wife, and
finally went and woke the Portuguese. "Have you seen my wife?" said he.
"Really!" said the little Portuguese, and went to sleep again.
Mr. Beaseley went out and looked around, and at last returned to his friend.
"I’ m afraid my wife has run away”, said he. "I have found her footprints leading
down to the lake” where she has evidently encountered some native in a canoe and
persuaded him to transport her down the river. She was always threatening to do so
in order to take a small house at Miami.»
"That is not a bad town" said the Portuguese, “but in the circumstances
perhaps Buenos Aires is better. This monster is a great disappointment, my dear
friend. Let us go back to Buenos Aires, where I will show you some extraordinary
things - in quite a different line of course - such as your Ripley has never dreamed
of."
"What an agreeable companion you are?" said Mr. Beaseley. "You make
even city life sound attractive."
"Well, if you get tired of it» we can always move on", said the little
Portuguese. " I know some tropical islands where the girls - though their lips are
not designed to hold dinner plates - are nevertheless marvels of nature, and their
dances are wonders of art."

Notes:
1. Mr. Ripley - a newspaper columnist writing mostly about paranormal
phenomena, the author of brochures "Believe It or Not".
2. hoatzin - a South America bird, the young of which have a claw on the 2nd and
3rd fingers of the wing
3. axoloti - any larval salamander of the genus Ambystoma, found esp. in lakes and
ponds of the south-western U.S. and Mexico that is capable of
breeding in its larval state.
4. armadillo - any of several burrowing, chiefly nocturnal, endendate mammals of
the family Dasypodidae, ranging from the southern U.S. through
South America, having strong claws and a jointed protective
covering of bony plates.
5. spider monkeys - any of several tropical American monkeys of the
genus Ateles, having a slender body, long slender limbs, a long
prehensible tail.

I. Speak about the author of the story.

II. Transcribe these words and read them correctly:

solace, consternation, paradise, profound, austerely, azure, raucous, quay,
canoe, triumph, sojourn

III. Learn the essential vocabulary.

A. General Vocabulary
To mature
A treat
To provide
 Incredible
Vulgar
Unscrupulous
To keep an eye on smb
To deprive smb of smth
B. Phrasal Verbs
To drop in
To point out smth
To come along
To check up (on smth)
To come up to smth
C. Prepositional Phrases
For one’s part Cf: on the part of
In a rapture
At liberty
Resemblance to smth/smb
On trust

IV. Explain the difference between these words; make up some sentences to
bring out the difference:
1. to persuade – to convince
2. to believe smth/smb – to believe in smth/smb;

V. Learn the following derivational patterns; explain their meaning; give 5

examples of derivatives built after them.
1. un- + v - V unfold
2. in/im- + a - A impenetrable, intolerable

VI. Say who or what is meant:

Drugstore, feature, Cezanne, facial, con man, the Examiner, yard, foot
VII. Learn the pronunciation of the following place-names; find them in a
geographical map; find reference to them in the story:
Miami, Yucatan, Bali, Buenos Aires, the Amazon, the Andes

VIII. From the story, write out all the names of wild animals and birds. Make
sure that you know how to pronounce them. Do you know their Russian names?

IX. Explain how the following sentences:

1."I thought her (Maria) kittenish at the time of our marriage. How she has
matured!"
2. "He (Mr. Beaseley) found a brief solace every morning when, unfolding the
newspaper, he turned first of all to the engaging feature originated by Mr.Ripley”.
3. “On this particular morning the incredible was kind to come to Mr.Beaseley. It
came in a long envelope and on the handsome note paper of a prominent law
firm”.
4. “So Mrs. Beaseley went resentfully along, prepared to endure Hell herself if she
could deprive her husband of a little of his Heaven”.
5. "Mrs. Beaseley, being one of the vulgar, would have preferred a bottle of Grade
A and a copy of the Examiner."
6. "The little Portuguese had an agreeable financial understanding,"

X. Answer the following questions:

1. Where did Mr. and Mrs, Beaseiey live9
2. What was Mr. Beaseley's occupation? Was he successful in his business?
3. What did Mr. Beaseley like to read?
4. What changed Mr. Beaseley's life?
5.What countries did the couple visit?
6. What did the little Portuguese tell Mr. Beaseley?
7. Why didn't Mrs. Beaseley cry for the menfolk when she'd seen the
 footprints?
8. What did the little Portuguese propose?

XI. Write a summary of the story; retell it.

X. Discussion points.
1. Sum up everything you've learnt about Mr. Beaseley. What kind of man was he?
How would you explain his choice of reading matter?
2. Why did Mr. Beaseley want to travel? Was his wife a good companion to him9
3. Why did Mrs. Beasely follow her husband in his travels? Were they a well-
matched couple, do you think?

THE STEAL
Jeffrey Howard Archer (1940)
Christopher and Margaret Roberts always spent their summer holiday as far
away from England as they could possibly afford. However, as Christopher was
the classics master at St Cuthbert's, a small preparatory school just north of Yeovil,
and Margaret was the school matron, their experience of four of the five continents
was largely confined to periodicals such as the National Geographic Magazine and
Time . The Roberts' annual holiday each August was nevertheless sacrosanct and
they spent eleven months of the year saving, planning and preparing for their one
extravagant luxury. The following eleven months were then spent passing on their
discoveries to the "offspring": the Roberts, without children of their own, looked
on all the pupils of St Cuthbert's as "offspring". During the long evenings when the
"offspring" were meant to be asleep in their dormitories, the Roberts would pore
over maps, analyse expert opinion and then finally come up with a shortlist to
consider. In recent expeditions they had been as far afield as Norway, Northern
Italy and Yugoslavia, ending up the previous year exploring Achilles' island,
Skyros, off the east coast of Greece. "It has to be Turkey this year," said
Christopher after much soul-searching. A week later Margaret came to the same
conclusion, and so they were able to move on to Phase Two. Every book on
Turkey in the local library was borrowed, consulted, re-borrowed and re-consulted.
Every brochure obtainable from the Turkish Embassy or local travel agents
received the same relentless scrutiny. By the first day of the summer term, charter
tickets had been paid for, a car hired, accommodation booked and everything that
could be insured comprehensively covered. Their plans lacked only one final
detail. "So what will be our 'steal' this year?" asked Christopher. "A carpet,"
Margaret said, without hesitation. "It has to be. For over a thousand years Turkey
has produced the most sought-after carpets in the world. We'd be foolish to
consider anything else." "How much shall we spend on it?" "Five hundred
pounds," said Margaret, feeling very extravagant. Having agreed, they once again
swapped memories about the "steals" they had made over the years. In Norway, it
had been a whale's tooth carved in the shape of a galleon by a local artist who soon
after had been taken up by Steuben. In Tuscany, it had been a ceramic bowl found
in a small village where they cast-and fired them to be sold in Rome at exorbitant
prices: a small blemish which only an expert would have noticed made it a " steal".
Just outside Skopje the Roberts had visited a local glass factory and acquired a
water jug moments after it had been blown in front of their eyes, and in Skyros
they had picked up their greatest triumph to date, a fragment of an urn they
discovered near an old excavation site. The Roberts reported their find
immediately to the authorities, but the Greek officials had not considered the
fragment important enough to prevent it being exported to St Cuthbert's. On
returning to England Christopher couldn't resist just checking with the senior
classics don at his old alma mater. He confirmed the piece was probably twelfth
century. This latest "steal" now stood, carefully mounted, on their drawing room
mantelpiece. "Yes, a carpet would be perfect," Margaret mused. "The trouble is,
everyone goes to Turkey with the idea of picking up a carpet on the cheap. So to
find a really good one...."
She knelt and began to measure the small space in front of their drawing room
fireplace. "Seven by three should do it," she said. Within a few days of term
ending, the Roberts travelled by bus to Heathrow. The journey took a little longer
than by rail but at half the cost. "Money saved is money that can be spent on the
carpet," Margaret reminded her husband. "Agreed, Matron," said Christopher,
laughing. On arrival at Heathrow they checked their baggage on to the charter
flight, selected two non- smoking seats and, finding they had time to spare, decided
to watch other planes taking off to even more exotic places. It was Christopher
who first spotted the two passengers dashing across the tarmac, obviously late.
"Look," he said, pointing at the running couple. His wife studied the overweight
pair, still brown from a previous holiday, as they lumbered up the steps to their
plane. "Mr and Mrs Kendall-Hume," Margaret said in disbelief. After hesitating for
a moment, she added, "I wouldn't want to be uncharitable about any of the
offspring, but I do find young Malcolm Kendall-Hume a . . ." She paused. "'Spoilt
little brat'?" suggested her husband. "Quite," said Margaret. "I can't begin to think
what his parents must be like." "Very successful, if the boy's stories are to be
believed," said Christopher. "A string of second- hand garages from Birmingham
to Bristol." "Thank God they're not on our flight." "Bermuda or the Bahamas
would be my guess," suggested Christopher. A voice emanating from the
loudspeaker gave Margaret no chance to offer her opinion. "Olympic Airways
Flight 172 to Istanbul is now boarding at Gate No. 37." "That's us," said
Christopher happily as they began their long route-march to their departure gate.
They were the first passengers to board, and once shown to their seats they settled
down to study the guidebooks of Turkey and their three files of research. "We must
be sure to see Diana's Temple when we visit Ephesus," said Christopher, as the
plane taxied out on to the runway. "Not forgetting that at that time we shall be only
a few kilometers away from the purported last home of the Virgin Mary," added
Margaret. "Taken with a pinch of salt by serious historians," Christopher remarked
as if addressing a member of the Lower Fourth, but his wife was too engrossed in
her book to notice. They both continued to study on their own before Christopher
asked what his wife was reading. " Carpets - Fact and Fiction by Abdul Verizoglu -
seventeenth edition," she said, confident that any errors would have been
eradicated in the previous sixteen. "It's most informative. The finest examples, it
seems, are from Hereke and are woven in silk and are sometimes worked on by up
to twenty young women, even children, at a time." "Why young?" pondered
Christopher. "You'd have thought experience would have been essential for such a
delicate task." "Apparently not," said Margaret. "Herekes are woven by those with
young eyes which can discern intricate patterns sometimes no larger than a
pinpoint and with up to nine hundred knots a square inch. Such a carpet,"
continued Margaret, "can cost as much as fifteen, even twenty, thousand pounds."
"And at the other end of the scale? Carpets woven in old leftover wool by old
leftover women?" suggested Christopher, answering his own question. "No doubt,"
said Margaret. "But even for our humble purse there are some simple guidelines to
follow." Christopher leaned over so that he could be sure to take in every word
above the roar of the engines. "The muted reds and blues with a green base are
considered classic and are much admired by Turkish collectors, but one should
avoid the bright yellows and oranges," read his wife aloud. "And never consider a
carpet that displays animals, birds or fishes, as they are produced only to satisfy
Western tastes." "Don't they like animals?" "I don't think that's the point," said
Margaret. "The Sunni Muslims, who are the country's religious rulers, don't
approve of graven images. But if we search diligently round the bazaars we should
still be able to come across a bargain for a few hundred pounds." "What a
wonderful excuse to spend all day in the bazaars." Margaret smiled, before
continuing. "But listen. It's most important to bargain. The opening price the dealer
offers is likely to be double what he expects to get and treble what the carpet is
worth." She looked up from her book. "If there's any bargaining to be done it will
have to be carried out by you, my dear. They're not used to that sort of thing at
Marks & Spencer." Christopher smiled. - "And finally," continued his wife, turning
a page of her book, "if the dealer offers you coffee you should accept. I t means he
expects the process to go on for some time as he enjoys the bargaining as much as
the sale." "If that's the case they had better have a very large pot percolating for
us," said Christopher as he closed his eyes and began to contemplate the pleasures
that awaited him. Margaret only closed her books on carpets when the plane
touched down at Istanbul airport, and at once opened file Number One, entitled
"Pre-Turkey". "A shuttle bus should be waiting for us at the north side of the
terminal. It will take us on to the local flight," she assured her husband as she
carefully wound her watch forward two hours.
The Roberts were soon following the stream of passengers heading in the
direction of passport control. The first people they saw in front of them were the
same middle-aged couple they had assumed were destined for more exotic shores.
"Wonder where they're heading," said Christopher. "Istanbul Hilton, I expect," said
Margaret as they climbed into a vehicle that had been declared redundant by the
Glasgow Corporation Bus Company some twenty years before. It spluttered out
black exhaust fumes as it revved up before heading off in the direction of the local
THY flight. The Roberts soon forgot all about Mr and Mrs Kendall-Hume once
they looked out of the little aeroplane windows to admire the west coast of Turkey
highlighted by the setting sun. The plane landed in the port of Izmirjust as the
shimmering red ball disappeared behind the highest hill. Another bus, even older
than the earlier one, ensured that the Roberts reached their little guest house just in
time for late supper. Their room was tiny but clean and the owner much in the
same mould. He greeted them both with exaggerated gesturing and a brilliant smile
which augured well for the next twenty-one days. Early the following morning, the
Roberts checked over their detailed plans for Day One in file Number Two. They
were first to collect the rented Fiat that had already been paid for in England,
before driving off into the hills to the ancient Byzantine fortress at Selcuk in the
morning, to be followed by the Temple of Diana in the afternoon if they still had
time. After breakfast had been cleared away and they had cleaned their teeth, the
Roberts left the guest house a few minutes before nine. Armed with their hire car
form and guidebook, they headed off for Beyazik's Garage where their promised
car awaited them. They strolled down the cobbled streets past the little white
houses, enjoying the sea breeze until they reached the bay. Christopher spotted the
sign for Beyazik's Garage when it was still a hundred yards ahead of them. As they
passed the magnificent yachts moored alongside the harbour, they tested each other
on the nationality of each flag, feeling not unlike the "offspring" completing a
geography test. "Italian, French, Liberian, Panamanian, German. There aren't many
British boats," said Christopher, sounding unusually patriotic, the way he always
did, Margaret reflected, the moment they were abroad. She stared at the rows of
gleaming hulls lined up like buses in Piccadilly during the rush hour; some of the
boats were even bigger than buses. "I wonder what kind of people can possibly
afford such luxury?" she asked, not expecting a reply. "Mr and Mrs Roberts, isn't
it?" shouted a voice from behind them. They both turned to see a now -familiar
figure dressed in a white shirt and white shorts, wearing a hat that made him look
not unlike the "Bird's Eye" captain, waving at them from the bow of one of the
bigger yachts. "Climb on board, me hearties," Mr Kendall-Hume declared
enthusiastically, more in the manner of a command than an invitation. Reluctantly
the Roberts walked the gangplank. "Look who's here," their host shouted down a
large hole in the middle of the deck. A moment later Mrs Kendall-Hume appeared
from below, dressed in a diaphanous orange sarong and a matching bikini top. "It's
Mr and Mrs Roberts - you remember, from Malcolm's school."
Kendall-Hume turned back to face the dismayed couple. "I don't remember
your first names, but this is Melody and I'm Ray." "Christopher and Margaret," the
schoolmaster admitted as handshakes were exchanged. "What about a drink? Gin,
vodka or . . . ?" "Oh, no," said Margaret. "Thank you very much, we'll both have
an orange juice." "Suit yourselves ," said Ray Kendall-Hume. "You must stay for
lunch." "But we couldn't impose . . ." "I insist," said Mr Kendall-Hume. "After all,
we're on holiday. By the way, we'll be going over to the other side of the bay for
lunch. There's one hell of a beach there, and it will give you a chance to sunbathe
and swim in peace." "How considerate of you," said Christopher. "And where's
young Malcolm?" asked Margaret. "He's on a scouting holiday in Scotland.
Doesn't like to mess about in boats the way we do." For the first time he could
recall Christopher felt some admiration for the boy. A moment later the engine
started thunderously. On the trip across the bay, Ray Kendall-Hume expounded his
theories about "having to get away from it all" ."Nothing like a yacht to ensure
your privacy and not having to mix with the hoi polloi." He only wanted the simple
things in life: the sun, the sea and an infinite supply of good food and drink. The
Roberts could have asked for nothing less. By the end of the day they were both
suffering from a mild bout of sunstroke and were also feeling a little seasick.
Despite white pills, red pills and yellow pills, liberally supplied by Melody, when
they finally got back to their room that night they were unable to sleep. Avoiding
the Kendall-Humes over the next twenty days did not prove easy. Beyazik's, the
garage where their little hire car awaited them each morning and to which it had to
be returned each night, could only be reached via the quayside where the Kendall-
Humes' motor yacht was moored like an insuperable barrier at a gymkhana. Hardly
a day passed that the Roberts did not have to spend some part of their precious
time bobbing up and down on Turkey's choppy coastal waters, eating oily food and
discussing how large a carpet would be needed to fill the Kendall-Humes' front
room. However, they still managed to complete a large part of their programme
and determinedly set aside the whole of the last day of the holiday in their quest for
a carpet. As they did not need Beyazik's car to go into town, they felt confident that
for that day at least they could safely avoid their tormentors. On the final morning
they rose a little later than planned and after breakfast strolled down the tiny
cobbled path together, Christopher in possession of the seventeenth edition of
Carpets - Fact and Fiction, Margaret with a tape measure and five hundred pounds
in travellers' cheques.
Once the schoolmaster and his wife had reached the bazaar they began to
look around a myriad of little shops, wondering where they should begin their
adventure. Fez-topped men tried to entice them to enter their tiny emporiums but
the Roberts spent the first hour simply taking in the atmosphere. "I'm ready to start
the search now," shouted Margaret above the babble of voices around her. "Then
we've found you just in time," said the one voice they thought they had escaped.
"We were just about to -" "Then follow me." The Roberts' hearts sank as they were
led by Ray Kendall-Hume out of the bazaar and back towards the town. "Take my
advice, and you'll end up with one hell of a bargain," Kendall-Hume assured them
both. "I've picked up some real beauties in my time from every corner of the globe
at prices you wouldn't believe. I am happy to let you take full advantage of my
expertise at no extra charge." "I don't know how you could stand the noise and
smell of that bazaar," said Melody, obviously glad to be back among the familiar
signs of Gucci, Lacoste and Saint Laurent. "We rather like . . ." "Rescued in the
nick of time," said Ray Kendall Hume. "And the place I'm told you have to start
and finish at if you want to purchase a serious carpet is Osman's." Margaret
recalled the name from her carpet book: "Only to be visited if money is no object
and you know exactly what you are looking for." The vital last morning was to be
wasted, she reflected as she pushed open the large glass doors of Osman's to enter
a ground-floor area the size of a tennis court. The room was covered in carpets on
the floor, the walls, the windowsills, and even the tables. Anywhere a carpet could
be laid out, a carpet was there to be seen. Although the Roberts realized
immediately that nothing on show could possibly be in their price range, the sheer
beauty of the display entranced them. Margaret walked slowly round the room,
mentally measuring the small carpets so she could anticipate the sort of thing they
might look for once they had escaped. A tall, elegant man, hands raised as if in
prayer and dressed immaculately in a tailored worsted suit that could have been
made in Savile Row, advanced to greet them. "Good morning, sir," he said to Mr
Kendall Hume, selecting the serious spender without difficulty. "Can I be of
assistance?" "You certainly can," replied Kendall-Hume. "I want to be shown your
finest carpets, but I do not intend to pay your finest prices." The dealer smiled
politely and clapped his hands. Six small carpets were brought in by three
assistants who rolled them out in the centre of the room. Margaret fell in love with
a muted green- based carpet with a pattern of tiny red squares woven around the
borders. The pattern was so intricate she could not take her eyes off it. She
measured the carpet out of interest: seven by three exactly.
 "You have excellent taste, madam," said the dealer. Margaret, colouring
slightly, quickly stood up, took a pace backwards and hid the tape measure behind
her back. "How do you feel about that lot, pet?" asked Kendall-Hume, sweeping a
hand across the six carpets. "None of them are big enough," Melody replied, giving
them only a fleeting glance. The dealer clapped his hands a second time and the
exhibits were rolled up and taken away. Four larger ones soon replaced them.
"Would you care for some coffee?" the dealer asked Mr Kendall-Hume as the new
carpets lay unfurled at their feet. "Haven't the time," said Kendall-Hume shortly.
"Here to buy a carpet. If I want a coffee, I can always go to a coffee shop," he said
with a chuckle. Melody smiled her complicity. "Well, I would like some coffee,"
declared Margaret, determined to rebel at some point on the holiday. "Delighted,
madam," said the dealer, and one of the assistants disappeared to carry out her
wishes while the Kendall-Humes studied the new carpets. The coffee arrived a few
moments later. She thanked the young assistant and began to sip the thick black
liquid slowly. Delicious, she thought, and smiled her acknowledgment to the
dealer. "Still not large enough," Mrs Kendall-Hume insisted. The dealer gave a
slight sigh and clapped his hands yet again. Once more the assistants began to roll
up the rejected goods. He then addressed one of his staff in Turkish. The assistant
looked doubtfully at his mentor but the dealer gave a firm nod and waved him
away. The assistant returned a little later with a small platoon of lesser assistants
carrying two carpets, both of which when unfolded took up most of the shop floor.
Margaret liked them even less than the ones she had just been shown, but as her
opinion was not sought she did not offer it. "That's more like it," said Ray Kendall-
Hume. "Just about the right size for the lounge, wouldn't you say, Melody?"
"Perfect," his wife replied, making no attempt to measure either of the carpets. "I'm
glad we agree," said Ray Kendall-Hume." But which one, my pet? The faded red
and blue, or the bright yellow and orange?" "The yellow and orange one," said
Melody without hesitation. "I like the pattern of brightly coloured birds running
round the outside." Christopher thought he saw the dealer wince. "So now all we
have left to do is agree on a price," said Kendall-Hume. "You'd better sit down,
pet, as this may take a while." "I hope not," said Mrs Kendall-Hume, resolutely
standing. The Roberts remained mute. "Unfortunately, sir," began the dealer, "your
wife has selected one of the finest carpets in our collection and so I fear there can
be little room for any re-adjustment." "How much?" said Kendall-Hume.
"You see, sir, this carpet was woven in Demirdji , in the province of Izmir,
by over a hundred seamstresses and it took them more than a year to complete."
"Don't give me that baloney," said Kendall Hume , winking at Christopher. "Just
tell me how much I'm expected to pay." "I feel it my duty to point out, sir, that this
carpet shouldn't be here at all," said the Turk plaintively. "It was originally made
for an Arab prince who failed to complete the transaction when the price of oil
collapsed." "But he must have agreed on a price at the time?" "I cannot reveal the
exact figure, sir. It embarrasses me to mention it." "It wouldn't embarrass me," said
Kendall-Hume. "Come on, what's the price?" he insisted. "Which currency would
you prefer to trade in?" the Turk asked. "Pounds." The dealer removed a slim
calculator from his jacket pocket, programmed some numbers into it, then looked
unhappily towards the Kendall-Humes. Christopher and Margaret remained silent,
like schoolchildren fearing the headmaster might ask them a question to which
they could not possibly know the answer. "Come on, come on, how much were
you hoping to sting me for?" "I think you must prepare yourself for a shock, sir,"
said the dealer. "How much?" repeated Kendall-Hume, impatiently. "Twenty-five
thousand." 'Pounds?" "Pounds." "You must be joking," said Kendall-Hume,
walking round the carpet and ending up standing next to Margaret. "You're about
to find out why I'm considered the scourge of the East Midlands car trade," he
whispered to her. "I wouldn't pay more than fifteen thousand for that carpet." He
turned back to nice the dealer. "Even if my life depended on it." "Then I fear your
time has been wasted, sir," the Turk replied. "For this is a carpet intended only for
the cognoscenti. Perhaps madam might reconsider the red and blue?" "Certainly
not," said Kendall-Hume. "The colour's all faded. Can't you see? You obviously
left it in the window too long, and the sun has got at it. No, you'll have to
reconsider your price if you want the orange and yellow one to end up in the home
of a connoisseur."
The dealer sighed as his fingers tapped the calculator again. While the
transaction continued, Melody looked on vacantly, occasionally gazing out of the
window towards the bay. "I could not drop a penny below twenty-three thousand
pounds." "I'd be willing to go as high as eighteen thousand," said Kendall-Hume,
"but not a penny more." The Roberts watched the dealer tap the numbers into the
calculator. "That would not even cover the cost of what I paid for it myself," he
said sadly, staring down at the little glowing figures. "You're pushing me, but don't
push me too far. Nineteen thousand," said Mr Kendall-Hume. "That's my final
offer." "Twenty thousand pounds is the lowest figure I could consider," replied the
dealer. "A give-away price on my mother's grave." Kendall-Hume took out his
wallet and placed it on the table by the side of the dealer. "Nineteen thousand
pounds and you've got yourself a deal," he said. "But how will I feed my
children?" asked the dealer, his arms raised above his head. "The same way I feed
mine," said Kendall-Hume, laughing. "By making a fair profit." The dealer paused
as if re-considering, then said, "I can't do it, sir. I'm sorry. We must show you some
other carpets." The assistants came forward on cue. "No, that's the one I want,"
said Mrs Kendall-Hume. "Don't quarrel over a thousand pounds, pet." "Take my
word for it, madam," the dealer said, turning towards Mrs Kendall-Hume. "My
family would starve if we only did business with customers like your husband."
"Okay, you get the twenty thousand, but on one condition." "Condition?" "My
receipt must show that the bill was for ten thousand pounds. Otherwise I'll only
end up paying the difference in customs duty." The dealer bowed low as if to
indicate he did not find the request an unusual one. Mr Kendall-Hume opened his
wallet and withdrew ten thousand pounds in travellers' cheques and ten thousand
pounds in cash. "As you can see," he said, grinning, "I came prepared." He
removed another five thousand pounds and, waving it at the dealer, added, "and I
would have been willing to pay far more."
 The dealer shrugged. "You drive a hard bargain, sir. But you will not hear
me complain now the deal has been struck." The vast carpet was folded, wrapped
and a receipt for ten thousand pounds made out while the travellers' cheques and
cash were paid over. The Roberts had not uttered a word for twenty minutes. When
they saw the cash change hands it crossed Margaret's mind that it was more money
than the two of them earned in a year. "Time to get back to the yacht," said Kendall
Hume. "Do join us for lunch if you choose a carpet in time." "Thank you," said the
Roberts in unison. They waited until the Kendall-Humes were out of sight, two
assistants bearing the-orange and yellow carpet in their wake, before they thanked
the dealer for the coffee and in turn began to make their move towards the door.
"What sort of carpet were you looking for?" asked the dealer. "I fear your prices
are way beyond us," said Christopher politely. "But thank you." "Well, let me at
least find out. Have you or your wife seen a carpet you liked?" "Yes," replied
Margaret, "the small carpet, but . . ." "Ah, yes," said the dealer. "I remember
madam's eyes when she saw the Hereke." He left them, to return a few moments
later with the little soft-toned, green-based carpet with the tiny red squares that the
Kendall-Humes had so firmly rejected. Not waiting for assistance he rolled it out
himself for the Roberts in inspect more carefully. Margaret thought it looked even
more magnificent the second time and feared that she could never hope to find its
equal in the few hours left to them. "Perfect," she admitted, quite unashamedly.
"Then we have only the price to discuss," said the dealer kindly. "How much were
you wanting to spend, madam?" "We had planned to spend three hundred pounds,"
said Christopher, jumping in. Margaret was unable to hide her surprise. "But we
agreed -" she began. "Thank you, my dear, I think I should deal with this matter."
The dealer smiled and returned to the bargaining. "I would have to charge you six
hundred pounds," he said. "Anything less would be mbbery ." "Four hundred
pounds is my final offer,"said .
Christopher, trying to sound in control. "Five hundred pounds would have to
be my bottom price," said the dealer. "I'll take it!" cried Christopher. An assistant
began waving his arms and talking to the dealer noisily in his native tongue. The
owner raised a hand to dismiss the young man's protests, while the Roberts looked
on anxiously. "My son," explained the dealer, "is not happy with the arrangement,
but I am delighted that the little carpet will reside in the home of a couple who will
so obviously appreciate its true worth." "Thank you," said Christopher quietly.
"Will you also require a bill of a different price?" "No, thank you," said
Christopher, handing over ten fifty-pound notes and then waiting until the carpet
was wrapped and he was presented with the correct receipt. As he watched the
Roberts leave his shop clinging on to their purchase, the dealer smiled to himself .
When they arrived at the quayside, the Kendall-Humes’ boat was already half way
across the bay heading towards the quiet beach. The Roberts sighed their combined
relief and returned to the bazaar for lunch. It was while they were waiting for their
baggage to appear on the carousel at Heathrow Airport that Christopher felt a tap
on his shoulder. He turned round to face a beaming Ray Kendall-Hume. "I wonder
if you could do mesa favour, old boy? " "I will if I can," said Christopher, who still
had not fully recovered from their last encounter. "It's simple enough," said
Kendall-Hume. "The old girl and I have brought back far too many presents and I
wondered if you could take one of them through customs. Otherwise we're likely to
be held up all night." Melody, standing behind an already laden trolley, smiled at
the two men benignly. "You would still have to pay any duty that was due on it,"
said Christopher firmly. "I wouldn't dream of doing otherwise," said Kendall-
Hume, struggling with a massive package before pushing it on the Roberts' trolley.
Christopher wanted to protest as Kendall-Hume peeled off two thousand pounds
and handed the money and the receipt over to the schoolmaster. "What do we do if
they claim your carpet is worth a lot more than ten thousand pounds?" asked
Margaret anxiously, coming to stand by her husband's side. "Pay the difference and
I'll refund you immediately. But I assure you it's most unlikely to arise." "I hope
you're right."
"Of course I'm right," said Kendall-Hume. "Don't worry, I've done this sort
of thing before. And I won't forget your help when it comes to the next school
appeal," he added, leaving them with the huge parcel. Once Christopher and
Margaret had located their own bags, they collected the second trolley and took
their place in the red "Something to Declare" queue. "Are you in possession of any
items over five hundred pounds in value?" asked the young customs official
politely. "Yes," said Christopher. "We purchased two carpets when we were on
holiday in Turkey." He handed over the two bills. The customs official studied the
receipts carefully, then asked if he might be allowed to see the carpets for himself.
"Certainly," said Christopher, and began the task of undoing the larger package
while Margaret worked on the smaller one. "I shall need to have these looked at by
an expert," said the official once the parcels were unwrapped. "It shouldn't take
more than a few minutes." The carpets were soon taken away. The "few minutes"
turned out to be over fifteen and Christopher and Margaret were soon regretting
their decision to assist the Kendall-Humes, whatever the needs of the school
appeal. They began to indulge in irrelevant small-talk that wouldn't have fooled the
most amateur of sleuths. At last the customs official returned. "I wonder if you
would be kind enough to have a word with my colleague in private?" he asked. "Is
that really necessary?" asked Christopher, reddening. "I'm afraid so, sir." "We
shouldn't have agreed to it in the first place," whispered Margaret. "We've never
been in any trouble with the authorities before." "Don't fret, dear. It will be all over
in a few minutes, you'll see," said Christopher, not sure that he believed his own
words. They followed the young man out through the back and into a small room.
"Good afternoon, sir," said a white-haired man with several gold rings around the
cuff of his sleeve. "I am sorry to have kept you waiting but we have had your
carpets looked at by our expert and he feels sure a mistake must have been made."
Christopher wanted to protest but he couldn't get a word out. "A mistake?"
managed Margaret. "Yes, madam. The bills you presented don't make any sense to
him." "Don't make any sense?"
"No, madam," said the senior customs officer. "I repeat, we feel certain a
mistake has been made." "What kind of mistake?" asked Christopher, at last
finding his voice. "Well, you have come forward and declared two carpets, one at a
price of ten thousand pounds and one at a price of five hundred pounds, according
to these receipts." "Yes?" "Every year hundreds of people return to England with
Turkish carpets, so we have some experience in these matters. Our adviser feels
certain that the bills have been incorrectly made out." "I don't begin to understand .
. ." said Christopher. "Well," explained the senior officer, "the large carpet, we are
assured, has been spun with a crude distaff and has only two hundred ghiordes, or
knots, per square inch. Despite its size we estimate it to be valued around five
thousand pounds. The small carpet, on the other hand, we estimate to have nine
hundred knots per square inch and is a fine example of a silk hand-woven
traditional Hereke and undoubtedly would have been a bargain at five thousand
pounds. As both carpets come from the same shop, we assume it must be a clerical
error." The Roberts remained speechless. "It doesn't make any difference to the
duty you will have to pay, but we felt sure you would want to know, for insurance
purposes." Still the Roberts said nothing. "As you're allowed five hundred pounds
before paying any duty, the excise will still be two thousand pounds." Christopher
quickly handed over the Kendall-Humes’ wad of notes. The senior officer counted
them while his junior carefully re-wrapped the two carpets. "Thank you," said
Christopher, as they were handed back the parcels and a receipt for the two
thousand pounds. The Roberts quickly bundled the large package on to its trolley
before wheeling it through the concourse and on to the pavement outside where the
Kendall-Humes impatiently awaited them. "You were in there a long time," said
Kendall-Hume. "Any problems?" "No, they were just assessing the value of the
carpets." "Any extra charge? "Kendall-Hume asked apprehensively. "No, your two
thousand pounds covered everything," said Christopher, passing over the receipt.
"Then we got away with it, old fellow. Well done. One hell of a bargain to add to
my collection." Kendall-Hume turned to bundle the large package into the boot of
his Mercedes before locking it and taking his place behind the steering wheel.
"Well done," he repeated through the open window, as the car drove off. "I won't
forget the school appeal." The Roberts stood and watched as the silver grey car
joined a line of traffic leaving the airport. "Why didn't you tell Mr Kendall-Hume
the real value of his carpet?" asked Margaret once they were seated in the bus. "I
did give it some considerable thought but I came to the conclusion that the troth
was the last thing Kendall-Hume wanted to be told." "But don't you feel any guilt?
After all, we've stolen ". "Not at all, my dear. We haven't stolen anything. But we
did get one hell of a 'steal'.

I. Speak about the author of the story.

II. Transcribe the given words and read them correctly:

annual, brochure, connoisseur, quay, receipt, queue, carousel, bazaar, yacht,
exorbitant, triumph, exotic.

III. Learn the essential vocabulary: (give definitions for the words and phrases
on the list; reproduce the situations in which they occur in the story; use them in
situations of your own).
A. General vocabulary
to steal, a steal
a bargain, to bargain, to drive a hard bargain
reluctant
to be confined to
to assume
to make profit
to make sense
privacy
charge, to charge
purchase
to rebel
resolute
expert, expertise
to regret
B. Phrasal verbs
to pick smth up
to point smth out, to point out
to take in (every word)
to mess about
to end up with/in smth
to pore over smth
C. Idioms
small talk
to take smth with a pinch of salt
in the nick of time
to take smb’s word for it
D. Prepositional phrases
on the cheap
engrossed in smth
in unison
to approve of smth/smb
a book on/about smth
on cue
to wink at smth
on condition

IV. Explain the difference between these words; make up some sentences to
bring out the difference.
A. cost – price
B. assure – insure - ensure

V. Learn the following derivational patterns, explain their meaning, give 5-6
examples of derivatives built on them:
un- + v = V undo, unwrap
VI. Say what is meant by:
preparatory school, school matron, classics master, don, charter flight, alma
mater, Sunni Muslim, Marx and Spenser, Hilton, guest house, Fiat, Sarong, Bikini
top, gym khana, travellers’ cheque, Gucci, Lacoste, Saint Laurent, school appeal,
Mercedes, Saville Row, lounge, Time, the National Magazine.

VII. Learn the pronunciation of the following place names. Find the places in a
geographical map. Find reference to them in the story:
Diana, Achilles, the Virgin Mary.

VIII. Explain how you understand the following:

1. As Christopher was the classics master at St.Cuthbert’s, a small preparatory
school, and Margaret was the school matron, their experience of four of the five
continents was largely confined to periodicals such as the National Geographic
Magazine and Time.
2. The Roberts’ annual holiday each August was sacrosanct and they spent eleven
months of the year saving, planning and preparing for their one extravagant
luxury.
3. On the trip across the bay, Ray Kendall-Hume expounded his theories about
“having to get away from it all”.

IX. Answer the following questions:

1. What were Christopher and Margaret Roberts?
2. How did they spend eleven months of the year? Why?
3. What preparations did they make before going to Turkey? Were their plans
detailed and elaborately worked out?
4. What were “the steals” they had made over the years in different countries?
What was “the steal” they decided to make in Turkey?
5. What did they get to know about Turkish carpets?
6. What did the Roberts think about the Kendall-Humes?
7. Why were the Roberts so reluctant about getting on board the Kendall-Humes”
yacht?
8. The Roberts tried to avoid the Kendall-Humes over the rest of their holiday,
didn’t they? Why?
9. What carpet did Margaret fall in love with at Osman’s?
10. How did the Kendall-Humes and the Roberts behave in the carpet shop?
11.What carpet did the Kendall-Humes buy? How much did they pay for it?
12. The prices at Osman’s were far beyond the Roberts, weren’t they? How did it
happen that Margaret bought the carpet she liked so much?
13. What was the true worth of the carpet the Roberts had purchased? How did
they learn it?
14. Why didn’t they tell the truth to the Kendall-Humes?

X. Write a short summary of the story; retell it in brief.

XI. Choose a passage and prepare to read it aloud in class. Back up your choice.

XII. Write out all the words, phrases and passages the author uses to portray the
Roberts and the Kendall-Humes.

XIII. Describe the scene in the Carpet shop in detail.

XIV. Discussion Points:

1. Evidently, the Roberts and the Kendall-Humes travelled for different reasons,
didn’t they? Why did the Roberts travel? What about the other family?
2. What sort of travelers were the Roberts? How did they prepare for their trips?
Is that “poring over brochures,” etc. and working out elaborate plans before
setting off really necessary?
3. Give character sketches of the Roberts and the Kendall-Humes. What is the
author’s attitude to them? What impression did they produce on you?
4. Howwould you account for the shop owner’s decision to sell the carpet to the
Roberts?
5. How would you comment on the title of the story?
6. Why did the Roberts have no qualms about the carpet?
7. The Roberts didn’t tell Kendall-Hume the real value of his carpet, because
Christopher thought “the truth was the last thing Kendall-Hume wanted to be
told”. Comment on it.

MANHOOD
John Wain (1925 –1994)

Swiftly free-wheeling, their breath coming easily, the man and the boy steered
their bicycles down the short dip which led them from woodland into open
country. Then they looked ahead and saw that the road began to climb.
“Now, Rob,” said Mr Willison, setting his plump haunches firmly on the
saddle, “just up that rise and we’ll get off and have a good rest.”
“Can’t we rest now?” the boy asked. ”My legs feel all funny. As if they’re
turning to water.”
“Rest at the top,” said Mr Willison firmly. “Remember what I told you? The
first thing any athlete has to learn is to break the fatigue barrier.”
“I’ve broken it already. I was feeling tired when we were going the main road
and I – “
“When fatigue sets in, the thing to do is to keep going until it wears off. Then
you get your second wind and your second endurance.”
“I’ve already done that.”
“Up we go,” said Mr Willison, ”and at the top we’ll have a good rest.” He
panted slightly and stood on his pedals, causing his machine to sway from side to
side in a laboured manner. Rob, falling silent, pushed doggedly at his pedals.
Slowly, the pair wavered up the straight road to the top. Once there, Mr Willison
dismounted with exaggerated steadiness, laid his bicycle carefully on its side, and
spread his jacket on the ground before sinking down to rest. Rob slid hastily from
the saddle and flung himself full-length on the grass.
“Don’t lie there,” said his father. “You’ll catch cold.”
“I’m all right. I’m warm.”
“Come and sit on this. When you’re over-heated, that’s just when you’re prone
to – “
“I’m all right, Dad. I want to lie here. My back aches.”
“Your back needs strengthening, that’s why it aches. It’s a pity we don’t live
near a river where you could get some rowing.”
The boy did not answer, and Mr Willison, aware that he was beginning to
sound like a nagging, over-anxious parent, allowed himself to be defeated and did
not press the suggestion about Rob’s coming to sit on his jacket. Instead, he waited
a moment and then glanced at his watch.
“Twenty to twelve. We must get going in a minute.”
“What? I thought we were going to have a rest.”
“Well, we’re having one, aren’t we?” said Mr Willison reasonably. “I’ve got
my breath back, so surely you must have.”
“My back still aches. I want to lie here a bit.”
“Sorry,” said Mr Willison, getting up and moving over to his bicycle. “We’ve
got at least twelve miles to do and lunch is at one.”
“Dad, why did we have to come so far if we’ve got to get back for one o’clock?
I know, let’s find a telephone box and ring up Mum and tell her we –“
“Nothing doing. There’s no reason why two fit men shouldn’t cycle twelve
miles in an hour and ten minutes.”
“But we’ve already done about a million miles.”
“We’ve done about fourteen, by my estimation,” said Mr Willison stiffly.
“What’s the good of going for a bike ride if you don’t cover a bit of distance?”
He picked up his bicycle and stood waiting. Rob, with his hand over his eyes,
lay motionless on the grass. His legs looked thin and white among the rich grass.
“Come in, Rob.”
 The boy showed no sigh of having heard. Mr Willison got on to his bicycle and
began to ride slowly away. “Rob,” he called over his shoulder, “I’m going.”
Rob lay like a sullen corpse by the roadside. He looked horribly like the victim
of an accident, unmarked but dead from internal injuries. Mr Willison cycled fifty
yards, then a hundred then turned in a short, irritable circle and came back to where
his son lay.
“Rob, is there something the matter or are you just being awkward?”
The boy removed his hand and looked up into his father’s face. His eyes were
surprisingly mild: there was no fire of rebellion in them.”
“I’m tired and my back aches. I can’t go on yet.”
“Look, Rob,” said Mr Willison gently, “ I wasn’t going to tell you this, because
I meant it to be a surprise, but when you get home you’ll find a present waiting for
you.”
“What kind of present?”
“Something very special. I’ve bought for you. The man’s coming this morning
to fix it up. That’s one reason why I suggested a bike ride this morning. He’ll have
done it already.”
“What is it?|”
“Aha. It’s a surprise. Come on, get on your bike and let’s go home and see.”
Rob sat up, then slowly clambered to his feet. “Isn’t there a short cut home?”
“I’m afraid not. It’s only twelve miles.”
Rob said nothing.
“And a lot of that’s downhill,” Mr Willison added brightly. His own legs were
tired and his muscles fluttered unpleasantly. In addition, he suddenly realized he
was very thirsty. Rob, still without speaking, picked up his bicycle, and they
pedalled away.
“Where is he?” Mrs Willison asked, coming into the garage.
“Gone up to his room,” said Mr Willison. He doubled his fist and gave the
punch-ball a thudding blow. “Seems to have fixed it pretty firmly. You gave him
the instructions, I suppose.”
 “What’s he doing up in his room? It’s lunch-time.”
“He said he wanted to rest a bit.”
“I hope you’re satisfied,” said Mrs Willison. “A lad of thirteen, nearly fourteen
years of age, just when he should have a really big appetite, and when the lunch is
put on the table he’s resting – “
“Now, look, I know what I’m – “
“Lying down in his room, resting, too tired to eat because you’ve dragged him
up hill and down dale on one of your –“
“We did nothing that couldn’t be reasonably expected of a boy of his age.”
“How do you know?” Mrs Willison demanded. “You never did anything of
that kind when you were a boy. How do you know exactly what can be reasonably
–“
“Now look,” said Mr Willison again. “When I was a boy, it was study, study,
study all the time, with the fear of unemployment and insecurity in everybody’s
mind. I was never able to do anything to develop my physique. It was just work,
work, work, pass this exam, get that certificate. Well, I did it and now I’m
qualified and in a secure job. But you know as well as I do that they let me down.
Nobody encouraged me to build myself up.”
“Well, what does it matter? You’re all right-“
“Grace!” Mr Willison interrupted sharply. “I’m not all right and you know it. I
am under average height, my chest is flat and I’m –“
“What nonsense. You’re taller than I am and I’m –“
“No son of mine is going to grow up with the same wretched physical heritage
that I – “
“No, he’ll just have heart disease through overtaxing his strength, because you
haven’t got the common sense to –“
“His heart is one hundred per cent all right. Not three weeks have gone by
since the doctor looked at him.”
“Well, why does he get so over-tired if he’s all right? Why is he lying down
instead of coming to the table, a boy of his age?”
 A slender shadow blocked part of the dazzling sun in the doorway. Looking up
simultaneously, the Willisons greeted their son.
“Lunch ready, Mum? I’m hungry.”
“Read when you are,” Grace Willison beamed. “Just wash your hands and
come to the table.”
“Look, Rob,” said Mr Willison. “If you it with your left hand and then catch it
on the rebound with your right, it’s excellent ring training.” He dealt the punch-ball
two amateurish blows. “That’s what they call a right cross,” he said.
“I think it’s fine. I’ll have some fun with it,” said Rob. He watched mildly as
his father peeled off the padded mittens.
“Here, slip these on,” said Mr Willison. “They’re just training gloves. They
harden your fists. Of course, we can get a pair of proper gloves later. But these are
specially for use with the ball.”
“Lunch,” called Mrs Willison from the house.
“Take a punch at it,” Mr Willison urged.
“Let’s go and eat.”
“Go on. One punch before you go in. I haven’t seen you hit it yet.”
Rob took the gloves, put on the right-hand one, and gave the punch-ball one
conscientious blow, aiming at the exact centre.
“Now let’s go in,” he said.
“Lunch!”
“All right. We’re coming…”
“Five feet eight, Rob,” said Mr Willison, folding up the wooden ruler. “You
are taller than I am. This is a great landmark.”
“Only just taller.”
“But you’re growing all the time. Now all you have to do is to start growing
outwards as well as upwards. We’ll have you in the middle of that scrum. The
heaviest forward in the pack.”
Rob picked up his shirt and began uncertainly poking his arms into the sleeves.
 “When do they pick the team?” Mr Willison asked. “I should have thought
they’d have done it by now.”
“They have done it,” said Rob. He bent down to pick up his socks from under a
chair.
“They have? And you –“
“I wasn’t selected,” said the boy looking intently at the socks as if trying to
detect minute differences in colour and weave.
Mr Willison opened his mouth, closed it again, and stood for a moment looking
out of the window. Then he gently laid his hand on his son’s shoulder. “Bad luck,”
he said quietly.
“I tried hard,” said Rob quickly.
“I’m sure you did.”
“I played my hardest in the trial games.”
“It’s just bad luck,” said Mr Willison.” It could happen to anybody.”
There was silence as they both continued with their dressing. A faint smell of
frying rose into the air, and they could hear Mrs Willison laying the table for
breakfast.
“That’s it, then, for this season,” said Mr Willison, as if to himself.
“I forgot to tell you, though,” said Rob. “I was selected for the boxing team.”
“You were? I didn’t know the school had one.”
“It’s new. Just formed. They had some trials for it at the end of last term. I
found my punching was better than most people’s because I’d been getting plenty
of practice with the ball.”
Mr Willison put out a hand and felt Rob’s biceps. “Not bad, not bad at all,” he
said critically. “But if you’re going to be a boxer and represent the school, you’ll
need more power up there. I tell you what. We’ll train together.
“That’ll be fun,” said Rob. I’m training at school too.”
“What weight do they put you in?”
“It isn’t weight, it’s age. Under fifteen. Then when you get over fifteen you get
classified into weights.”
 “Well,” said Mr Willison, tying his tie, “you’ll be in a good position for the
under-fifteens. You’ve got six months to play with. And there’s no reason why you
shouldn’t steadily put muscle on all the time. I suppose you’ll be entered as a team,
for tournaments and things?”
“Yes. There’s a big one at the end of next term. I’ll be in that.”
Confident, joking, they went down to breakfast. “Two eggs for Rob, Mum,”
said Mr Willison. “He’s in training. He’s going to be a heavyweight.”
“A heavyweight what?” Mrs Willison asked, teapot in hand.
“Boxer,” Rob smiled.
Grace Willison put down the teapot, her lips compressed, and looked from one
to the other. “Boxing?” she repeated.
“Boxing,” Mr Willison replied calmly.
“Over my dead body,” said Mrs Willison. “That’s one sport I’m definite that
he’s never going in for.”
“Too late. They’ve picked him for the under-fifteens. He’s had trials and
everything.”
“Is this true, Rob?” she demanded.
“Yes,” said the boy, eating rapidly.
“Well, you can just tell them you’re dropping it. Baroness Summerskill –“
“To hell with Baroness Summerskill!” her husband shouted. “The first time he
gets a chance to something, the first time he gets picked for a team and given a
chance to show what he’s made of, and you have to bring up Baroness
Summerskill.”
“But it injures their brains! All those blows on the front of the skull. I’ve read
about it –“
“Injures their brains!” Mr Willison snorted. “Has it injured Ingemar
Johansson’s brain? Why, he’s one of the acutest businessmen in the world.”
“Rob,” said Mrs Willison steadily, “when you get to school, go and see the
sports master and tell him you’re giving up boxing.”
“There isn’t a sports master. All the masters do bits of it at different times.”
 “There must be one who’s in charge of the boxing. All you have to do is tell
him –“
“Are you ready, Rob?” said Mr Willison. “You’ll be late for school if you
don’t go.”
“I’m in plenty of time, Dad. I haven’t finished my breakfast.”
“Never mind, push along, old son. You’ve had your egg and bacon, that’s what
matters. I want to talk to your mother.”
Cramming a piece of dry toast into his mouth, the boy picked up his satchel
and wandered from the room. Husband and wife sat back, glaring at each other.
The quarrel began and continued for many days. In the end it was decided that
Rob should continue boxing until he had represented the school at the tournament
in March of the following year, and should then give it up.
“Ninety-six, ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, a hundred,” Mr Wllison
counted. “Right, that’s it. Now go and take your shower and get into bed.”
“I don’t feel tired, honestly,” Rob protested.
“Who’s manager here, you or me?” Mr Willison asked bluffly. “I’m in charge
of training and you can’t say my methods don’t work. Fifteen solid weeks and you
start questioning my decision on the very night of the fight?”
“It just seems silly to go to bed when I’m not –“
“My dear Rob, please trust me. No boxer ever went into a big fight without
spending an hour or two in bed, resting, just before going to his dressing-room.”
“All right. But I bet none of the others are bothering to do all this.”
“That’s exactly why you’re going to be better than the others. Now go and get
your shower before you catch cold. Leave the skipping-rope, I’ll put it away.
After Rob had gone. Mr Willison folded the skipping-rope into a neat ball and
packed it away in the case that contained the boy’s gloves, silk dressing gown,
lace-up boxing boots, and trunks with the school badge sewn into the correct
position on the right leg. There would be no harm in a little skipping, to limber up
and conquer his nervousness while waiting to go on. Humming, he snapped down
the catches of the small leather case and went into the house.
Mrs Willison did not lift her eyes from the television set as he entered. “All ready
now, Mother,” said Mr Willison. “He’s going to rest in bed now, and go along at
about six o’clock. I’ll go with him and wait till the doors open to be sure of a
ringside seat.” He sat down on the sofa beside his wife, and tried to put his arm
round her. “Come on, love,” he said coaxingly. “Don’t spoil my big night.”
She turned to him and he was startled to see her eyes brimming with angry
tears. ”What about my big night?” she asked, her voice harsh. ”Fourteen years ago,
remember? When he came into the world.”
“Well. What about it?” Mr Willison parried, uneasily aware that the television
set was quacking and signaling on the fringe of his attention, turning the scene
from clumsy tragedy into a clumsier farce.
“Why didn’t you tell me then?” she sobbed. “Why did you let me have a son if
all you were interested in was having him punched to death by a lot of rough
bullet-headed louts who –“
“Take a grip on yourself, Grace. A punch on the nose won’t hurt him.”
“You’re an unnatural father,” she keened. “I don’t know how you can bear to
send him into that ring to be beaten and humped – Oh, why can’t you stop him
now? Keep him at home?”
“There is a law. The unalterable law of nature that says that the young males of
the species indulge in manly trials of strength. Think of all the other lads who are
going into the ring tonight. D’you think their mothers are sitting about crying and
kicking up a fuss? No – they’re proud to have strong, masculine sons who can
stand up in the ring and take a few punches.”
“Go away, please,” said Mrs Willison, sinking back with closed eyes. “Just go
right away and don’t come near me until it’s all over.”
“Grace!”
“Please. Please leave me alone. I can’t bear to look at you and I can’t bear to
hear you.”
“You’re hysterical,” said Mr Willison bitterly. Rising, he went out into the hall
and called up the stairs. “Are you in bed, Rob?”
 There was a slight pause and then Rob’s voice called faintly, ”Could you come
up, Dad?”
“Come up? Why? Is something the matter?”
“Could you come up?”
Mr Willison ran up the stairs. “What is it?” he panted. ”D’you want
something?”
“I think I’ve got appendicitis,” said Rob. He lay squinting among the pillows,
his face suddenly narrow and crafty.”
“I don’t believe you,” said Mr Willison shortly. “I’ve supervised your training
for fifteen weeks and I know you’re as fit as a fiddle. You can’t possibly have
anything wrong with you.”
“I’ve got a terrible pain in my side,” said Rob. “Low down, on the right –hand
side. That’s where appendicitis comes, isn’t it?”
Mr Willison sat down on the bed. “Listen, Rob,” he said, “Don’t do this to me.
All I’m asking you to do is to go into the ring and have one bout. You’ve been
picked for the school team and everyone’s depending on you.”
“I’ll die if you don’t get the doctor.” Rob suddenly hissed. “Mum!” he shouted.
Mrs Willison came bounding up the stairs. “What is it, my pet?”
“My stomach hurts. Low down on the right-hand side.”
“Appendicitis!” She whirled to face Mr Willison. “That’s what comes of your
foolishness!”
“I don’t believe it,” said Mr Willison. He went out of the bedroom and down
the stairs. The television was still jabbering in the living-room, and for fifteen
minutes Mr Willison forced himself to sit staring at the strident puppets, glistening
in metallic light, as they enacted their Lilliputian rituals. Then he went up the
bedroom again. Mrs Willison was bathing Rob’s forehead.
“His temperature’s normal,” she said.
“Of course his temperature is normal,” said Mr Willison. “He doesn’t want to
fight, that’s all.”
 “Fetch the doctor,” said a voice from under the cold flannel that swathed Rob’s
face.
“We will, pet, if you don’t get better very soon,” said Mrs Willison, darting a
murderous glance at her husband.
Mr Willison slowly went downstairs. For a moment he stood looking at the
telephone, then picked it up and dialed the number of the grammar school. No one
answered. He replaced the receiver, went to the foot of the stairs and
called,”What’s the name of the master in charge of this tournament?’
“I don’t know,” Rob called weakly.
“You told me you’d been training with Mr. Granger,” Mr Willison called.
“Would he know anything about it?”
Rob did not answer, so Mr Willison looked up all the Grangers in the
telephone book. There were four in the town, but only one was M.A. “That’s him”,
said Mr Willison. With lead in his heart and ice in his fingers, he dialed the
number.
Mrs Granger fetched Mr Granger. Yes, he taught at the school. He was the
right man. What could he do for Mr Willison?
“It’s about tonight’s boxing tournament.”
“Sorry, what? The line is bad.”
“Tonight’s boxing tournament.”
“Have you got the right person?”
“You teach my son, Rob – we’ve just agreed on that. Well, it’s about the
boxing tournament he’s supposed to be taking part in tonight.”
“Where?”
“Where? At the school, of course. He’s representing the under-fifteens.”
There was a pause. ”I’m not quite sure what mistake you’re making, Mr
Willison, but I think you’ve got hold of the wrong end of at least one stick.” A
hearty, defensive laugh. “If Rob belongs to a boxing-club it’s certainly news to me,
but in any case it can’t be anything to do with the school. We don’t go in for
boxing.”
 “Don’t go in for it?”
“We don’t offer it. It’s not in our curriculum.”
“Oh,” said Mr Willison. ”Oh. Thank you. I must have – well, thank you.”
“Not at all. I’m glad to answer any queries. Everything’s all right, I trust?”
“Oh, yes,” said Mr Willison, “yes, thanks. Everything’s all right.’
He put down the telephone, hesitated, then turned and began slowly to climb
the stairs.

I. Speak about the author of the story.

II. Transcribe the given words and read them correctly:

doggedly, corpse, irritable, rebellion, appetite, physique, biceps, tournament,
satchel, conquer, stomach, unalterable, masculine, hysterical, appendicitis

III. Learn the essential vocabulary.

A. General vocabulary:
to exaggerate
to be prone to smth
to nag (at) smb
to be in charge of smth
to have common sense
amateur, amateurish
confident
reasonable
to get a certificate
B. Phrasal verbs:
to set in
to wear off
to build oneself up
to bring up smb/smth
to kick up a fuss
C. Idioms:
smb’s legs turn to water
to get one’s second wind
Nothing doing.
Over my dead body.
as fit as a fiddle
to get hold of the wrong end of the stick
D. Watch out for prepositions:
by smb’s estimation
to expect smth of smb
in the curriculum
That’s what comes of …ing!
to brim with tears
on the fringe of smb’s attention
beat smb to death
to take a grip on oneself

IV. Explain the difference between:

A. on time - in time
B. pain – ache
Make some sentences to bring out the difference.

V. Learn the following derivational patterns; explain their meaning; give

5 examples of derivatives built on each pattern:
A. over- + a = A over-anxious, over-tired
over- + v= V overtax
over- + n = N overcoat, overtime, overconfidence

B. a + -en = V harden
 N + -en = V strengthen

VI. Explain what is meant by:

sports master, rugby, M.A.

VII. Say what you know about grammar schools in Great Britain.

VIII. Explain how you understand the following:

1. Rob lay like a sullen corpse by the roadside. He looked horribly like the
victim of an accident, unmarked but dead from internal injuries.
2. “You’re taller than I am. This is a great landmark.”
3. Mr. Willison (was) uneasily aware that the television set was quacking and
signaling on the fringe of his attention, turning the scene from clumsy
tragedy into a clumsier farce.
4. “There is a law. The unalterable law of nature that says that the young
males of the species indulge in manly trials of strength.”
5. Rob lay squinting among the pillows, his face suddenly narrow and crafty.

IX. Answer the following questions:

1. Who are the main characters of the story?
2. How many miles did the father and son cover on the bike ride?
3. Why did Mr Willison take Rob on such a long ride?
4. What surprise did Mr Willison arrange for Rob? What was Rob’s reaction
to the present?
5. What did Mr Willison think of his son’s physique?
6. Was Rob picked for the school rugby team? Was he selected for the boxing
team?
7. Did the father expect Rob to take part in a big boxing tournament at the end
of the term?
 8. How did Mrs Willison react when she learnt about Rob’s going in for
boxing? Did she kick up a fuss?
9. Why did Mr Willison decide to train Rob himself?
10.What happened on the night of the tournament? Was Rob taken ill or was he
just scared?
11.What did Mr Willison discover when he phoned Mr Granger?

X. Write a short summary of the story. Retell the story in brief.

XI. Points for discussion:

1. Give character-sketches of the father and the son. What do you think of the
father-son relationship described in the story? Does it seem typical to you?
2. Why was the father so keen to make an athlete out of Rob?
3. Why did Rob make up a story about his going in for boxing?
4. What will the father do, to your mind, after the telephone talk with the
teacher?
5. Do you think that parents have any right to try to realize themselves through
their children?
6. Comment on the title of the story.

THE THREE FAT WOMEN OF ANTIBES

W. S. Maugham (1874-1965)

One was сa1led Mrs Riсhman and she was a widоw. The second was
called MRS. Sutcliffe; she was American and she had divorced two husbands. The
third was called Miss Nickson and she was a spinster. They were all in the
comfortable forties and they were all well off. Mrs. Sutcliffe had the odd first name
of Arrow. When she was young and slender she had liked it well enough. It suited
her and the jests it occasioned though too often repeated were very flattering; she
was not disinclined to believe that it suited her character too: it suggested
directness, speed and purpose. She liked it less now that her delicate features lied
grown muzzy with fat, that her arms and shoulders were so substantial and her
hips so massive. It was increasingly difficult to fine cresses -co make her look as
she liked to look. The jests her name gave rise to now were made behind her back
and she very well knew that they were far from obliging. But she was by no means
resigned to middle age. She still wore blue to bring out the colour of her eyes and,
with the help of art, her fair hair had kept its luster. What she liked about Beatrice
Richman arid Frances Hickson was that they were both so much fatter than she, it
made her look quite slim; they were both of them older and much inclined to treat
her as a little young thing. It was not disagreeable. They were good-natured women
and they chaffed her pleasantly about her beaux; they had both given up the
thought of that kind of nonsense, indeed Miss Nickson had never given it a
moment's соnsideration, but they were sуmpathetic to her flirtations. It was
understood that one of these daуs Arrоw would make a third man happy.
"Only you mustn't get any heavier, darling," said Mrs. Richman. They saw
for her a man of about fifty, but well-preserved and of distinguished carriage, an
admiral on the retired list and a good golfer, or a widower without encumbrances,
but in any case with a substantial income. Arrow listened to them amiably, and
kept to herself that fact that this was not at all her idea. It was true that she would
like to marry again, but her fancy turned to a dark slim Italian with flashing eyes
and a sonorous title or to a Spanish don of noble lineage; and not a cay more than
thirty. There were times when, looking at herself in her mirror, she was certain she
did not look any more than -chat herself.
They were great friends , Miss Nickson, Mrs. Richman and Arrow
Sutcliffe. It was their fat that had brought them together and bridge that had.
cemented their alliance. They had met first at Carlsbad, where they were staying at
the same hotel and were treated by the same doctor who used them will the same
ruthlessness. Beatrice Richman was enormous. She was a handsome woman with
fine eyes, rouged cheeks and printed lips. She was very well content to be a widow
with a handsome fortune. She adored her food. She liked bread and butter, cream,
potatoes, and for eleven months of the year ate pretty well everything sue had a
mind to, and for one month went to Carlsbad to reduce. But every year she grew
fatter. She upbraided the doctor, but got no sympathy from bin. He pointed out to
her various plain and simple facts.
“But if I’m never to eat a thing I like, life isn’t worth living”, she
expostulated.

He shrugged his disapproving shoulders. Afterwards she told Miss

Hickson that she was beginning to suspect he wasn't so clever as she had thought,
hiss Hickson gave a great guffaw. She was that sort of woman. She had a deep bass
voice, a large flat sallow face from which twinkled little bright eyes; she walked
with a slouch, her hands in her pockets, and when she could do so without exciting
attention smoked a long cigar. She dressed as like a man as she could.
"What the deuce should I look like in frills ? " she said "When you’ re as
fat as I an you may just as well be comfortable."
She wore tweeds and heavy boots and whenever she could went about bareheaded.
But she was as strong as an ox and boasted that few men could drive a longer ball
than she. She was plain of speech, and she could swear more variously than a
stevedore. Though her name was Frances she preferred to be called Frank.
Masterful, but with tact, it was her jovial strength of character that held the three
together. They drank their waters together, had their strenuous walks together,
pounded about the tennis court with a professional to make them run, and ate at the
same table their scarce and regulated meals, nothing impaired their good humour
but the scales, and when one or other of them weighted as much on one day as she
had the day before, neither Frank's coarse jokes, nor Arrow's kittenish ways suffice
to dispel the gloom. Then drastic measures were resorted to, the culprit went to bed
for twenty- four hours and nothing passed her lips but the doctor's famous
vegetable soup which tasted like hot water in which a cabbage ha a been well
rinsed.
 Never were three women greater friends. They would hove been independent
of anyone else if they had not needed a fourth at bridge. They were fierce,
enthusiastic players and the moment the day's cure was over they sat down а t the
bridge table. Arrow, feminine as she was, played the best game of the three, a hard,
brilliant game, in which she showed no mercy and, never conceded a point or
failed to take advantage of a mistake. Beatrice was solid and reliable. Frank was
dashing; she was a great theorist, and had all the authorities at the tip of her
tongue. They had long arguments over the rival systems. Life would have been
perfect, even with the prospect of twenty-four hours of that filthy soup when the
doctor's rotten ( Beatrice ) bloody ( Frank ) louse ( Arrow ) scales pretended one
hadn't lost an ounce in two days, if only there had not been this constant difficulty
of finding someone to play with them who was in their class.
It was for this reason that on the occasion with which this narrative deals
Frank invited Lena Finch to come and stay with them at Antibes. They were
spending some weeks there on Frank's suggestion. It seemed absurd to her, with
her common sense, that immediately the cure was over Beatrice who always lost
twenty pounds should by giving way to her ungovernable appetite put it all on
again . Beatrice was weak. She needed a person of strong will to watch her diet.
She proposed then that on leaving Carlsbad they should take a house at Antibes,
where they could get plenty of exercise - everyone knew that nothing slimmed you
like swimming - and as far as possible could go on with the cure. With a cook of
their own they could at least avoid things that were obviously fattening. There was
no reason why they should not all lose several pounds more. It seemed a very good
idea. Beatrice knew what was good for her, and she could resist temptation well
enough if temptation was not put right under her nose.

Besides, she liked gambling, and a fluster at the Casino two or three times a week
would pass the time very pleasantly. Arrow adored Antibes, and she would be
looking her best after a month at Carlsbad. She could just pick and choose among
the young Italians, the passionate Spaniards, the gallant Frenchmen, and the long-
limbed English who sauntered about all day in bathing trunks and gay-coloured
dressing-gowns. The plan worked very well. They had a grand time. Two days a
week they ate nothing but hard-boiled eggs and raw tomatoes and they mounted
the scales every morning with light hearts.
But the forth at bridge continued to be the difficulty. One morning when
they were sitting; in pyjamas on the terrace overlooking the sea, drinking their tea
(without milk or sugar) and eating a rusk prepared by Jr. Hudebert and: guaranteed
not to be fattening, Frank looked up from her letters.
"Lena Finch is coning down to the Riviera, " she said.
"Who is she?" asked Arrow.
"She married a cousin of mine. He died a couple of months ago and she ‘ s
just recovering from a nervous breakdown. What about asking her to core here for
n fortnight?"
"Does she play bridge?" asked Beatrice.
"You bet your life she does," boomed Frank in her deep voice, "And a
damned good game too. We should be absolutely independent of outsiders."
"How old is she" asked Arrow.
"Same age as I am."
"That sounds all right."
It was sett1ed . Frank, with her usua1 decisiveness, sta1ked out as soon as she
had finished her breakfast to send a wire, and three days later Lena Finch arrived.
Frank met her at the station. She was in deep but not obtrusive mourning for the
recent death of her husband. Frank had not seen her for two years. She kissed her
warmly and took a gооd look at her.
"You're very thin, darling," she said.
Lena smiled bravely.
"I've been through a good deal lately. I've lost a lot of weight."
 Frank sighed, but whether from sympathy with her cousin's loss, or from
envy, was not obvious.
Lena was not, however, unduly depressed, and after a quick bath was quite
readу to accompany Frank to Eden Roc. Frank introduced the stranger to her two
friends and; they sat down in what was known as the Monkey House. A waiter
approached them.
"What will you have, Lena dear?” Frank asked.
"Oh, 1 don't know, what you all have, a dry Martini or a White
Lady" .
Arrow and Beatrice gave пег a quick look. Everyone knows now fattening
cocktails are.
"I dare say you're tired after your journey," said Frank kindly.
She ordered a dry Martini for Lena and a mixed lemon and orange
juice for herself and her two friends.
"We find alcohol isn't very good in all this heat," she explained.
"Oh, it never affects me at all," Lena answered airily. "I like cocktails."
Arrow went very slightly pale under her rouge (neither she nor Beatrice
ever wet their faces when they bathed and they thought it absurd of Frank, woman
of her size, to pretend she liked diving) but she said nothing. The conversation was
gay and easy, they all said the obvious things with gusto and presently they strolled
back to the villa for luncheon.
In each napkin were two little antifat rusks. Lena gave a bright smile as she
put them by the side of her plate.
"May I have some bread?” she asked.
The grossest indecency would not nave fallen on the ears of those three women
with such a shock. Not one of them had eaten bread for ten years. Even Beatrice,
greedy as she was, drew the line there. Frank, the goоd hostess, recovered herself
first.
"Of course, darling," she said and turning to the butler asked him to bring
some.
 “And some butter," said Lena in that pleasant easy way of hers.
There was a moment's embarrassed silence.
"I don't know if there's any in the house," said Frank, "but I’11 inquire. There
may be some in the kitchen."
"I аdore bread and butter, don’t you?" said Lena turning to Beatrice
Beatrice gave a sickly smile and an evasive reply. The butler brought a long
crisp roll of French bread. Lena slit it in two and plastered it with the butter which
was miraculously produced. Л grilled sole was served.
"We eat very simply here," said Frank. "I hope you won't mind."
"Oh, no , I like my food very plain," said Lena as she took some butter and
spread it over her fish. "As long as I can have bread and butter and potatoes and
сrеаm I’m quite happy."
The three friends exchanged a glance. Frank's great sallow face sagged a little
and she looked with distaste at the dry, insipid sole оn her plate. Beatrice came to
he r rescue.
"It's such a bore, we can't get с ream here," she said. "It's one of the things one
has to do without on the Riviera,"
"What a pity," said Lena.
The rest: of the luncheon consisted of lamb cutlets, with the fat carefully
removed so that Beatrice should not be led astray, and spinach boiled in 'water,
with stewed реагs to end up with. Lena tasted her pears and gave the butler e look
of inquiry. That resourceful man understood her at once and chough powdered
sugar had never been served at that table before handed her without a moment's he-
sitation a bowl of it. She helped herself liberally. The other three pretended not to
notice. Coffee was served and Lena 'cook three lumps of sugar in hers.
"You have a very sweet tooth," said Arrow in a tone which struggled to keep
friendly.
“We think saccharine so much more sweetening”, said Frank, as she put a tiny
tablet of it into her coffee.
“Disgusting stuff”, said Lena.
 Beatrice’s mouth drooped at the corners, and she gave the lump of sugar a
yearning look.
“Beatrice”, said Frank sternly.
Beatrice stifled a sigh, and reached for the saccharine.
Frank was relieved when they could sit down to the bridge table.
It was plain to her that Arrow and Beatrice were upset. She wanted them to like
Lena and she was anxious that Lena should enjoy her fortnight with them.

But when it came to bridge even Frank’s family feelings were forgotten and she
settled down with the same determination as the others to trim the stranger in their
midst. But the light of nature served Lena very well. She had a natural gift for the
game and great experience. She played with imagination, quickly, boldly, and with
assurance. The other players were in too high a class not to realise very soon that
Lena knew what she was about, and since they were all thoroughly good-natured,
generous women, they were gradually mollified. This was real bridge. They all
enjoyed themselves. Arrow and Beatrice began to feel more kindly towards Lena,
and Frank, noticing this, heaved a fat sigh of relief. It was going to be a success.
After a couple of hours they carted., Frank and Beatrice to have a round of golf,
and Arrow to take a brisk walk with a young Prince Roccamare whose
acquaintance she had lately made. he was very sweet and young and good-looking.
Lena said she would rest.
They met again just before dinner.
I hope you've been all right, Lena dear," said Frank. "I was rather conscience-
stricken at leaving you with nothing to do all this time."
"Oh, don’t apologize. I had a lovely sleep and then I went down to Juan and had a
cocktail. And d'you know what I discovered? You’ll be so pleased. 1 found a dear
little tea-shop where they’ve got the most beautiful thick fresh cream. I’ve ordered
half a pint to be sent every day. I thought it would be my little contribution to the
household."
Her eyes were shining. She was evidently expecting to be delighted.
"How very kind of you," aid Frank, with a look that sought to quell the indignation
that she saw on the faces of her two friends. "But we never eat cream. In this
climate it makes one so billions."
"I shall have to eat it all myself then," said Lena cheerfully.
"Don't you ever think of your figure?" Arrow asked with icy de-1iberation.
"The doctor said I must eat."
"Did he say you must eat bread and butter and potatoes and cream?"
"Yes, that's what I thought you meant when you said you had simple food."
"You'll get simply enormous," said Beatrice.
Lena laughed gaily.
"No, I shan't. You see, nothing ever makes me fat. I've always eaten everything I
wanted to and it's never had the slightest effect on me . "
The stony silence that followed this speech was only broken by the entrance of the
butler.
They talked the matter over late that night, after Lena had gone to bed, in Frank's
room. During the evening they had been furiously cheerful, and they had chaffed
one another with a friendliness that would have taken in the keenest observer. But
now they dropped the mask. Beatrice was sullen. Arrow was spiteful and Frank
was unmannered.
"It's not very nice for me to sit and see her eat the things I particularly like," said
Beatrice plaintively.
"It's not very nice for any of us," Frank snapped back,
"You should never have asked her here," said Arrow.
"Mow was I to know?" cried Frank.
"I can't help thinking that if she really cared for her husband she would hardly
eat so much," said Beatrice. "He's only been buried two months. I mean, I think
you ought to show some respect for the dead.
 "Why can’t she eat the same аs we do?" asked Arrow viciously. "She’s a
guest “
"Well, you heard what she said. The doctor told her she must eat. "
"Then she ought to go to a sanatorium."
"It's more than flesh and blood can stand, Frank." moaned Arrow.
"If I can stand it you can stand it."
"She is your cousin, she's not our cousin," said Arrow. "I'm not going to sit
there for fourteen days and watch that woman make a hog of herself."
"It's so vulgar to attach all this importance to food," Frank boomed, and her
voice was deepest than ever. " After all the only thing that counts really is spirit."
"Are you calling me vulgar, Frank?" asked Arrow with flashing eyes.
'No, of course she isn't," interrupted Beatrice.
"I wouldn't put it past you to go down in the kitchen when we're all in bed and
have a good square meal on tine sly."
Frank sprang to her feet.
"How dare you say that, Arrow! " I'd never ask anybody to do what I'm not
prepared to do myself. Have you known me all these years and do you think me
capable of such a mean thing?"
"How is it you never take off any weight then?"
Frank gave a gasp and burst into a flood of tears.
"What a cruel thing to say! I've lost pounds and pounds."
She wept like a child. Her vast body shook and great tears splashed on her
mоuntainоus bоsom.
"Darling, I didn’t mean it," cried Аггоw.
She threw herself on her knees and enveloped what she could of Frank in her
plump arms. She wept, the mascara ran down her cheeks.
"D'you mean to say I don't look thinner?" Frank sobbed.
"Yes, dear, of course you do," cried Arrow through her tears. "Everybody's
noticed it."
 Beatrice, though naturally of a placid disposition, began to cry gently. It was
very pathetic. Presently, however, they dried their tears and had a little brandy and
water, which every doctor had told them was the least fattening thing they could
drink, and then they felt much better. They decided that Lena should have the
nourishing food that had been ordered her end they made a solemn resolution not
to let it disturb their equanimity. She wаs certainly a first-rate bridge player and
after all it was only a fortnight. They would do whatever they could to make her
stay enjoyable. They kissed one another warmly for the night feeling strangely
uplifted. Nothing should interfere with the wonderful friendship that had brought
so much happiness into their three lives.
But human nature is weak. You must not ask too much of it. They ate grilled
fish while Lena ate macaroni sizzling with cheese and butter; they ate grilled
cutlets and boiled spinach while Lena ate pate de foie gras ; twice a week they ate
nothing but hard boiled eggs and raw tomatoes, while Lena ate peas swimming in
cream and potatoes cooked in all sorts of delicious ways. The chef was a good
chef and he leapt at the opportunity afforded him to send up one dish more rich,
tasty and succulent than the other.
The three fat women persevered. They were gay, chatty and even hilarious
(such is the natural gift that women have for deception) but Beatrice grew limp and
forlorn, and Arrow's tender blues acquired a steely glint. Frank’s deep voice grew
more raucous. It was when

7.
they played bridge that the strain showed itself. They had always been fond of
talking over their hands, but their discussions had been friendly. Now a distinct
bitterness crept in and sometimes one pointed out a mistake to another with quite
unnecessary frankness. Discussion turned to argument and argument to alternation.
Sometimes the session ended in angry silence. Their tempers were getting frayed.
Lena was the peacemaker.
 "1 think it's such a pity to quarrel over bridge,” she said. "After all, it's only a
game."
It was all very well for her. She had had a square meal and half a bottle of
champagne. Besides, she had phenomenal luck. She was winning all their money.
Was there no justice in the world? They began to hate one another, and though
they hated her too they could not resist confiding in her. E а с h of them vent to her
separately and told her how detestable the оthers were. Arrow said she was sure it
was bad for her to see so much of women so much older than herself. Frank said
Lena that with her masculine mind it was too much to expect that she could be
satisfied with anyone so frivolous as Arrow and so frankly stupid as Beatrice.
Beatrice only wanted peace and quiet. "Really I hate women," she said. "Theу are
so unreliable; they ' re so malicious."
By the time Lena's fortnight drew to its close, the three women were barely on
speaking terms. They kept up appearances before Lena, but when she was not there
made no pretences . They had got past Quarreling. They ignored one another and
when tills was not possible treated each other with icy politeness.
Lena was going to stау with friends on the Italian Riviera and Frank saw
her off . When Frank turned away from the departing train she heaved such a vast
sigh of relief that the platform shook beneath her. On her way to Eden Roc she
saw Beatrice sitting at one of the tables at Monkey House. In front of Beatrice was
a plate of croissants and a plate of butter, a pot of strawberry jam , coffee and a
jug" of cream. Beatrice was spreading butter thick on the delicious hot bread,
covering this with jam, and then pouring the thick cream over all.
"You'll kill yourself," said Frank.
"I don't care," mumbled Beatrice with her mouth full.
"You'll put on pounds and pounds."
"Сто to hell!"
She actually laughed in Frank's face. “My Cod, now good those croissants
smelt!”
"I’ m disappointed in you, Beatrice. I thought you had more character."
 "It's your fault. That blasted woman. For a fortnight I've watched her gorge like
a hоg . It’s more than flesh and blood can stand. I'm going to have one square
meal if I burst."
The tears welled up to Frank's eyes. Suddenly she felt very weak and womanly.
She would like a strong man to take her on his knee and pet her and cuddle her and
call her little baby names. Speeсhless she sank on a chair by Beatrice's side. A
waiter came up. With a pathetic gesture she waved towards the coffee and
croissants.
"I'll have the same," she signed.
She listlessly reached her hand to tаkе a roll but Beatrice snatched away the
plate.
"No, you don't" she said. "You wait till you get your own."
Frank called her a name which ladies seldom apply to one another in affection. In
а mоmеnt the waiter brought her croissants,
“I’ll have the same”, she signed.
She listlessly reached her hand to take a roll but Beatrice snatched away the
plate.
“No, you don’t”, she said. “You wait till you get your own”.
Frank called her a name which ladies seldom apply to one another in
affection. In a moment the waiter brought her croissants, butter, jam and coffee.
“Where’s the cream, you fool?” she roared like a lioness at bay.
She began to eat. She ate gluttonously.
Presently Arrow strolled along with Prince Foccamare. She had on a beautiful
silk wrap which she held tightly round her with one hand in order to look as slim
as possible and she bore her chin high so that he should not see her double chin.
She was laughing gaily. She felt like a girl. He had just told her (in Italian) that her
eyes made the blue of the Mediterranean look like pea-soup. He left her to go into
the men's room to brush his sleek black hair and they аgreed to meet in five
minutes for a drink. Arrow caught sight of Frank and Beatrice. She stopped. She
could hard1у be1ieve her eyes,
"My God!" she cried. “You beasts. You hogs . " She seized a chair. "Waiter.”
Her appointment went clean out of her head. In the twinkling of an eye the waiter
was at her side» "Bring me what these ladies are having," she ordered.
Frаnk lifted her great heavy head from her plate. "Bring me some расё de foie
gras," she boomed.
"Frank!" cried Beatrice.
"Shut up!"
"All right. I'll have some too."
The coffee was brought and the hot rolls and jam and the pate de foie gras and theу
set to. They spread the cream or the pate and they ate it. They devoured great
spoonfuls of jam. They munched the delicious crisp bread voluptuously. What was
love to Arrow then? Let the Prince keep his place in home. They did not speak.
They ate with solemn, ecstatic fervour.
"I haven't eaten potatoes for twenty—five years," said Frank in a far-off brooding
tone.
"Waiter," cried Beatrice, "bring fried potatoes for three."
The potatoes were brought. Not all the perfume of Arabia smelt so sweet. They ate
with solemn , ecstatic fervour.
"Bring me a dry Martini," said Arrow.
"You can't have a dry Martini in the middle of a meal, Arrow," said Frank.
"Can't I? You wait and see."
"All right then. Bring me a double dry Martini," said Frank.
"Bring three double dry Martinis," said Beatrice.
They were brought and drunk at a gulp. The women looked at one another and
sighed. The misunderstandings of the last fortnight dissolved and the sincere
affection each had for the other welled up again in their hearts. Тhеу could hardly
believe that they had ever contemplated the possibility of severing a friendship that
had brought them so much solid satisfaction. They finished the potatoes.
"I wonder if they've pot any chocolate eclairs," said Beatrice.
"Of course they have."
And of course they had. Frank thrust one whole into her huge mouth, swallowed it
arid seized another, but before she ate it she looked at the other two and plunged a
vindictive dagger into the heart of the monstrous Lena.
"You can say what you like, but the truth is she played a damned rotten game of
bridge, really."
"Lousy," agreed Arrow.
But Beatrice suddenly thought she would like a meringue.

I. Speak about the author of the story.

II. Transcribe and read these words:

Alliance, equanimity, expostulate, feminine, guffaw, beau, insipid, masculine,
luster, perfume, sparse, succulent, pyjamas, substantial

III. Learn the essential vocabulary .

/
1. to give rise to smth.
2. to have a mind to do smth.
3. to resort to smth.
4. to take an advantage of smb./smth.
5. to give way to smth.
6. to come to smb’s rescue
7. to resist temptation
8. to affect smb.
9. to keep up appearances
10. to be on speaking -terms
B. Phrasal Verbs
To bring smth out
To take smb. in
To well up
To point smth out
To see smb off
C. Idioms:
As strong as an ox
To draw the line
To have a sweet tooth
At the tip of one’s tongue
More than flesh and blood can stand
in the twinkling of an eye
D. Prepositional Phrases
To reach for smth
A gift for smth
On the sly
Contribution to smth
To drink at a gulp
To laugh in smb’s face
On an occasion

IV. Explain the difference between these words; use them in some sentences to
bring out the difference:
1. to suit – to match – to fit – to become
2. host(ess) – owner – master/mistress – landlord/landlady

V. Remember the following derivational patterns; learn their meaning; give 5

derivatives built after each:
1. dis- + a – A disinclined
2. dis- + n – N distaste
3. (a+n) –ed – A bareheaded

VI. Say who or what is meant:

Stevedore, ounce, butler, French bread, a tea-shop, pint, Martini, casino, bridge
VII. Learn the pronunciation of the following place-names; find reference to
them in the story; say what you know about the places:
Antibes, Carlsbad, the (Italian) Riviera

VIII. From the story, write out:

1. all the nouns denoting food; make sure you know their pronunciation and
the Russian for them;
2. all the verbs the author uses to describe the women’s matter of eating.

X. Answer the following questions:

1. Where did the three women first meet? What brought them together? Why
did they become such great friends?
2. Why did they spend a month in Carlsbad every year? What did they do to
lose weight? Did they put it all on again?
3. What sort of bridge players were the three women?
4. Why did they go to Antebes? How did they like it there?
5. Who invited Lena Finch to come and stay at Antebes? Why?
6. What sort of person was Lena Finch? Why did the three women come to
hate her? Was it only envy?
7. What terms were the 3 women on at the end of the fortnight?

XI. Explain how you understand the following:

1. It was their fat that had brought them together and bridge that had
cemented their alliance.
2. Nothing impaired their good humour but the scales.
3. Beatrice knew what was good for her, and she could resist temptation well
enough if temptation was not put right under her nose.
4. Their tempers were getting frayed.
 5. Frank … looked at the other two and plunged a vindictive dagger into the
heart of the monstrous Lena.

XII. Discussion Points.

1. Give character sketches of the three women. Which of the women would you
most like to meet? Why? What are the narrators feelings about the women?
What are yours?
2. How did the company of Lena Finch affect their relationship? How do you
account for it?
3. Why did Frank say about Lena that “she played a damn rotten game of
bridge”, though it was obviously not true?
4. Comment upon Mrs.Richman’s statement: “If I’m never to eat a thing I like
life isn’t worth living”. Do you agree? Why or why not?

Stephen King "Quitters, Inc."

Stephen King (1947)

Morrison was waiting for someone who was hung up in the air traffic jam over
Kennedy International when he saw a familiar face at the end of the bar and
walked down.
"Jimmy? Jimmy McCann?"
It was. A little heavier than when Morrison had seen him at the Atlanta Exhibition
the year before, but otherwise he looked awesomely fit. In college he had been a
thin, pallid chain smoker buried behind huge horn-rimmed glasses. He had
apparently switched to contact lenses.
"Dick Morrison?"
"Yeah. You look great. " He extended his hand and they shook.
"So do you," McCann said, but Morrison knew it was a lie. He had been
overworking, overeating, and smoking too much. "What are you drinking?"
"Bourbon and bitters," Morrison said. He hooked his feet around a bar stool and
lighted a cigarette. "Meeting someone, Jimmy?"
"No. Going to Miami for a conference. A heavy client. Bills six million. I'm
supposed to hold his hand because we lost out on a big special next spring."
"Are you still with Crager and Barton?"
"Executive veep now."
"Fantastic! Congratulations! When did all this happen?" He tried to tell himself
that the little worm of jealousy in his stomach was just acid indigestion. He pulled
out a roll of antacid pills and crunched one in his mouth.
"Last August. Something happened that changed my life. " He looked
speculatively at Morrison and sipped his drink. "You might be interested."
My God, Morrison thought with an inner wince. Jimmy McCann's got religion.
"Sure," he said, and gulped at his drink when it came. "I wasn't in very good
shape," McCann said. "Personal problems with Sharon, my. dad died-heart attack-
and I'd developed this hacking cough. Bobby Crager dropped by my office one day
and gave me a fatherly little pep talk. Do you remember what those are like?"
"Yeah. " He had worked at Crager and Barton for eighteen months before joining
the Morton Agency. "Get your butt in gear or get your butt out."
McCann laughed. "You know it. Well, to put the capper on it, the doc told me I
had an incipient ulcer. He told me to quit smoking. " McCann grimaced. "Might as
well tell me to quit breathing."
Morrison nodded in perfect understanding. Non-smokers could afford to be smug.
He looked at his own cigarette with distaste and stubbed it out, knowing he would
be lighting another in five minutes.
"Did you quit?" He asked.
"Yes, I did. At first I didn't think I'd be able to-I was cheating like hell. Then I met
a guy who told me about an outfit over on Forty-sixth Street. Specialists. I said
what do I have to lose and went over. I haven't smoked since."
Morrison's eyes widened. "What did they do? Fill you full of some drug?"
"No. " He had taken out his wallet and was rummaging through it. "Here it is. I
knew I had one kicking around. " He laid a plain white business card on the bar
between them.
QUITTERS, INC.
Stop Going Up in Smoke!
237 East 46th Street
Treatments by Appointment
"Keep it, if you want," McCann said. "They'll cure you. Guaranteed."
"How?"
"I can't tell you," McCann said.
"Huh? Why not?"
"It's part of the contract they make you sign. Anyway, they tell you how it works
when they interview you."
"You signed a contract?"
McCann nodded.
"And on the basis of that-"
"Yep. " He smiled at Morrison, who thought: Well, it's happened. Jim McCann has
joined the smug bastards.
"Why the great secrecy if this outfit is so fantastic? How come I've never seen any
spots on TV, billboards, magazine ads-"
"They get all the clients they can handle by word of mouth."
"You're an advertising man, Jimmy. You can't believe that."
"I do," McCann said. "They have a ninety-eight per cent cure rate."
"Wait a second," Morrison said. He motioned for another drink and lit a cigarette.
"Do these guys strap you down and make you smoke until you throw up?"
"No."
"Give you something so that you get sick every time you light-"
"No, it's nothing like that. Go and see for yourself. " He gestured at Morrison's
cigarette. "You don't really like that, do you?"
"Nooo, but-"
"Stopping really changed things for me," McCann said. "I don't suppose it's the
same for everyone, but with me it was just like dominoes falling over. I felt better
and my relationship with Sharon improved. I had more energy, and my job
performance picked up."
"Look, you've got my curiosity aroused. Can't you just -" "I'm sorry, Dick. I really
can't talk about it. " His voice was firm.
"Did you put on any weight?"
For a moment he thought Jimmy McCann looked almost grim. "Yes. A little too
much, in fact. But I took it off again. I'm about right now. I was skinny before."
"Flight 206 now boarding at Gate 9," the loudspeaker announced.
"That's me," McCann said, getting up. He tossed a five on the bar. "Have another,
if you like. And think about what I said, Dick. Really. " And then he was gone,
making his way through the crowd to the escalators. Morrison picked up the card,
looked at it thoughtfully, then tucked it away in his wallet and forgot it.
The card fell out of his wallet and on to another bar a month later. He had left the
office early and had come here to drink the afternoon away. Things had not been
going so well at the Morton Agency. In fact, things were bloody horrible.
He gave Henry a ten to pay for his drink, then picked up the small card and reread
it-237 East Forty-sixth Street was only two blocks over; it was a cool, sunny
October day outside, and maybe, just for chuckles -When Henry brought his
change, he finished his drink and then went for a walk.
Quitters, Inc., was in a new building where the monthly rent on office space was
probably close to Morrison's yearly salary. From the directory in the lobby, it
looked to him like their offices took up one whole floor, and that spelled money.
Lots of it.
He took the elevator up and stepped off into a lushly carpeted foyer and from there
into a gracefully appointed reception room with a wide window that looked out on
the scurrying bugs below. Three men and one woman sat in the chairs along the
walls, reading magazines. Business types, all of them. Morrison went to the desk.
"A friend gave me this," he said, passing the card to the receptionist. "I guess you'd
say he's an alumnus."
She smiled and rolled a form into her typewriter. "What is your name, sir?"
"Richard Morrison."
Clack-clackety-clack. But very muted clacks; the typewriter was an IBM.
"Your address?"
"Twenty-nine Maple Lane, Clinton, New York."
"Married?"
"Yes."
"Children?"
"One. " He thought of Alvin and frowned slightly. "One" was the wrong word. "A
half" might be better. His son was mentally retarded and lived at a special school in
New Jersey.
"Who recommended us to you, Mr Morrison?"
"An old school friend. James McCann."
"Very good. Will you have a seat? It's been a very busy day."
"All right."
He sat between the woman, who was wearing a severe blue suit, and a young
executive type wearing a herring-bone jacket and modish sideburns. He took out
his pack of cigarettes, looked around, and saw there were no ashtrays.
He put the pack away again. That was all right. He would see this little game
through and then light up while he was leaving. He might even tap some ashes on
their maroon shag rug if they made him wait long enough. He picked up a copy of
Time and began to leaf through it.
He was called a quarter of an hour later, after the woman in the blue suit. His
nicotine centre was speaking quite loudly now. A man who had come in after him
took out a cigarette case, snapped it open, saw there were no ashtrays, and put it
away looking a little guilty, Morrison thought. It made him feel better.
At last the receptionist gave him a sunny smile and said, "Go right in, Mr
Morrison."
Morrison walked through the door beyond her desk and found himself in an
indirectly lit hallway. A heavy-set man with white hair that looked phoney shook
his hand, smiled affably, and said, "Follow me, Mr Morrison."
He led Morrison past a number of closed, unmarked doors and then opened one of
them about halfway down the hall with a key. Beyond the door was an austere little
room walled with drilled white cork panels. The only furnishings were a desk with
a chair on either side. There was what appeared to be a small oblong window in the
wall behind the desk, but it was covered with a short green curtain. There was a
picture on the wall to Morrison's left -a tall man with iron-grey hair. He was
holding a sheet of paper in one hand. He looked vaguely familiar.
"I'm Vic Donatti," the heavy-set man said. "If you decide to go ahead with our
programme, I'll be in charge of your case."
"Pleased to know you," Morrison said. He wanted a cigarette very badly.
"Have a seat."
Donatti put the receptionist's form on the desk, and then drew another form from
the desk drawer. He looked directly into Morrison's eyes. "Do you want to quit
smoking?"
Morrison cleared his throat, crossed his legs, and tried to think of a way to
equivocate. He couldn't. "Yes," he said.
"Will you sign this?" He gave Morrison the form. He scanned it quickly. The
undersigned agrees not to divulge the methods or techniques or et cetera, et cetera.
"Sure," he said, and Donatti put a pen in his hand. He scratched his name, and
Donatti signed below it. A moment later the paper disappeared back into the desk
drawer. Well, he thought ironically, I've taken the pledge.
He had taken it before. Once it had lasted for two whole days.
"Good," Donatti said. "We don't bother with propaganda here, Mr Morrison.
Questions of health or expense or social grace. We have no interest in why you
want to stop smoking. We are pragmatists."
"Good," Morrison said blankly.
"We employ no drugs. We employ no Dale Carnegie people to sermonize you. We
recommend no special diet. And we accept no payment until you have stopped
smoking for one year."
"My God," Morrison said.
"Mr McCann didn't tell you that?"
"No."
"How is Mr McCann, by the way? Is he well?"
"He's fine."
"Wonderful. Excellent. Now.... just a few questions, Mr Morrison. These are
somewhat personal, but I assure you that your answers will be held in strictest
confidence."
"Yes?" Morrison asked noncommittally.
"What is your wife's name?"
"Lucinda Morrison. Her maiden name was Ramsey."
"Do you love her?"
Morrison looked up sharply, but Donatti was looking at him blandly. "Yes, of
course," he said.
"Have you ever had marital problems? A separation, perhaps?"
"What has that got to do with kicking the habit?" Morrison asked. He sounded a
little angrier than he had intended, but he wanted-hell, he needed-a cigarette.
"A great deal," Donatti said. "Just bear with me."
"No. Nothing like that. " Although things had been a little tense just lately.
"You just have the one child?"
"Yes. Alvin. He's in a private school."
"And which school is it?"
"That," Morrison said grimly, "I'm not going to tell you."
"All right," Donatti said agreeably. He smiled disarmingly at Morrison. "All your
q~estions will be answered tomorrow at your first treatment."
"How nice," Morrison said, and stood.
"One final question," Donatti said. "You haven't had a cigarette for over an hour.
How do you feel?"
"Fine," Morrison lied. "Just fine."
"Good for you!" Donatti exclaimed. He stepped around the desk and opened the
door. "Enjoy them tonight. After tomorrow, you'll never smoke again."
"Is that right?"
"Mr Morrison," Donatti said solemnly, "we guarantee it."
He was sitting in the outer office of Quitters, Inc.,the next day promptly at three.
He had spent most of the day swinging between skipping the appointment the
receptionist had made for him on the way out and going in a spirit of mulish co-
operation-Throw your best pitch at me, buster.
In the end, something Jimmy McCann had said convinced him to keep the
appointment-It changed my whole fife. God knew his own life could do with some
changing. And then there was his own curiosity. Before going up in the elevator,
he smoked a cigarette down to the filter. Too damn bad if it's the last one, he
thought. It tasted horrible.
The wait in the outer office was shorter this time. When the receptionist told him to
go in, Donatti was waiting. He offered his hand and smiled, and to Morrison the
smile looked almost predatory. He began to feel a little tense, and that made him
wa~t a cigarette.
"Come with me," Donatti said, and led the way down to the small room. He sat
behind the desk again, and Morrison took the other chair.
"I'm very glad you came," Donatti said. "A great many prospective clients never
show up again after the initial interview. They discover they don't want to quit as
badly as they thought. It's going to be a pleasure to work with you on this."
"When does the treatment start?" Hypnosis, he was thinking. It must be hypnosis.
"Oh, it already has. It started when we shook hands in the hall. Do you have
cigarettes with you, Mr Morrison?"
"Yes."
"May I have them, please?"
Shrugging, Morrison handed Donatti his pack. There were only two or three left in
it, anyway.
Donatti put the pack on the desk. Then, smiling into Morrison's eyes, he curled his
right hand into a fist and began to hammer it down on the pack of cigarettes, which
twisted and flattened. A broken cigarette end flew out. Tobacco crumbs spilled.
The sound of Donatti's fist was very loud in the closed room. The smile remained
on his face in spite of the force of the blows, and Morrison was chilled by it.
Probably just the effect they want to inspire, he thought.
At last Donatti ceased pounding. He picked up the pack, a twisted and battered
ruin. "You wouldn't believe the pleasure that gives me," he said, and dropped the
pack into the wastebasket. "Even after three years in the business, it still pleases
me."
"As a treatment, it leaves something to be desired. Morrison said mildly. "There's a
news-stand in the lobby of this very building. And they sell all brands."
"As you say," Donatti said. He folded his hands. "Your son, Alvin Dawes
Morrison, is in the Paterson School for Handicapped Children. Born with cranial
brain damage. Tested IQ of 46. Not quite in the educable retarded category. Your
wife -,
"How did you find that out?" Morrison barked. He was startled and angry. "You've
got no goddamn right to go poking around my-"
"We know a lot about you," Donatti said smoothly. "But, as I said, it will all be
held in strictest confidence."
"I'm getting out of here," Morrison said thinly. He stood up.
"Stay a bit longer."
Morrison looked at him closely. Donatti wasn't upset. In fact, he looked a little
amused. The face of a man who has seen this reaction scores of times-maybe
hundreds.
"All right. But it better be good."
"Oh, it is. " Donatti leaned back. "I told you we were pragmatists here. As
pragmatists, we have to start by realizing how difficult it is to cure an addiction to
tobacco. The relapse rate is almost eight-five per cent. The relapse rate for heroin
addicts is lower than that. It is an extraordinary problem. Extraordinary."
Morrison glanced into the wastebasket. One of the cigarettes, although twisted, still
looked smokeable.
Donatti laughed good-naturedly, reached into the wastebasket, and broke it
between his fingers.
"State legislatures sometimes hear a request that the prison systems do away with
the weekly cigarette ration. Such proposals are invariably defeated. In a few cases
where they have passed, there have been fierce prison riots. Riots, Mr Morrison.
Imagine it."
"I," Morrison said, "am not surprised."
"But consider the implications. When you put a man in prison you take away any
normal sex life, you take away his liquor, his politics, his freedom of movement.
No riots-or few in comparison to the number of prisons. But when you take away
his cigarettes-wham! bam!" He slammed his fist on the desk for emphasis.
"During World War I, when no one on the German home front could get cigarettes,
the sight of German aristocrats picking butts out of the gutter was a common one.
During World War II, many American women turned to pipes when they were
unable to obtain cigarettes. A fascinating problem for the true pragmatist, Mr
Morrison."
"Could we get to the treatment?"
"Momentarily. Step over here, please. " Donatti had risen and was standing by the
green curtains Morrison had noticed yesterday. Donatti drew the curtains,
discovering a rectangular window that looked into a bare room. No, not quite bare.
There was a rabbit on the floor, eating pellets out of a dish.
"Pretty bunny," Morrison commented.
"Indeed. Watch him. " Donatti pressed a button by the window-sill. The rabbit
stopped eating and began to hop about crazily. It seemed to leap higher each time
its feet struck the floor. Its fur stood out spikily in all directions. Its eyes were wild.
"Stop that! You're electrocuting him!"
Donatti released the button. "Far from it. There's a very low-yield charge in the
floor. Watch the rabbit, Mr Morrison!"
The rabbit was crouched about ten feet away from the dish of pellets. His nose
wriggled. All at once he hopped away into a corner.
"If the rabbit gets a jolt often enough while he's eating," Donatti said, "he makes
the association very quickly. Eating causes pain. Therefore, he won't eat. A few
more shocks, and the rabbit will starve to death in front of his food. It's called
aversion training."
Light dawned in Morrison's head.
"No, thanks. " He started for the door.
"Wait, please, Morrison."
Morrison didn't pause. He grasped the doorknob . and felt it slip solidly through his
hand. "Unlock this."
"Mr Morrison, if you'll just sit down-"
"Unlock this door or I'll have the cops on you before you can say Marlboro Man."
"Sit down. " The voice was as cold as shaved ice.
Morrison looked at Donatti. His brown eyes were muddy and frightening. My God,
he thought, I'm locked in here with a psycho. He licked his lips. He wanted a
cigarette more than he ever had in his life.
"Let me explain the treatment in more detail," Donatti said.
"You don't understand," Morrison said with counterfeit patience. "I don't want the
treatment. I've decided against it."
"No, Mr Morrison. You're the one who doesn't understand. You don't have any
choice. When I told you the treatment had already begun, I was speaking the literal
truth. I would have thought you'd tipped to that by now."
"You're crazy," Morrison said wonderingly.
"No. Only a pragmatist. Let me tell you all about the treatment."
"Sure," Morrison said. "As long as you understand that as soon as I get out of here
I'm going to buy five packs of cigarettes and smoke them all on the way to the
police station. " He suddenly realized he was biting his thumb-nail, sucking on it,
and made himself stop.
"As you wish. But I think you'll change your mind when you see the whole
picture."
Morrison said nothing. He sat down again and folded his hands.
"For the first month of the treatment, our operatives will have you under constant
supervision," Donatti said. "You'll be able to spot some of them. Not all. But they'll
always be with you. Always. If they see you smoke a cigarette, I get a call."
"And I suppose you bring me here and do the old rabbit trick," Morrison said. He
tried to sound cold and sarcastic, but he suddenly felt horribly frightened. This was
a nightmare.
"Oh, no," Donatti said. "Your wife gets the rabbit trick, not you."
Morrison looked at him dumbly.
Donatti smiled. "You," he said, "get to watch."
After Donatti let him out, Morrison walked for over two hours in a complete daze.
It was another fine day, but he didn't notice. The monstrousness of Donatti's
smiling face blotted out all else.
"You see," he had said, "a pragmatic problem demands pragmatic solutions. You
must realize we have your best interests at heart.
Quitters, Inc., according to Donatti, was a sort of foundation-a non-profit
organization begun by the man in the wall portrait. The gentleman had been
extremely successful in several family businesses-including slot machines,
massage parlours, numbers, and a brisk (although clandestine) trade between New
York and Turkey. Mort "Three-Fingers" Minelli had been a heavy smoker-up in
the three-pack-a-day range. The paper he was holding in the picture was a doctor's
diagnosis: lung cancer. Mort had died in 1970, after endowing Quitters, Inc., with
family funds.
"We try to keep as close to breaking even as possible," Donatti had said. "But
we're more interested in helping our fellow man. And of course, it's a great tax
angle."
The treatment was chillingly simple. A first offence and Cindy would be brought
to what Donatti called "the rabbit room". A second offence, and Morrison would
get the dose. On a third offence, both of them would be brought in together. A
fourth offence would show grave co-operation problems and would require sterner
measures. An operative would be sent to Alvin's school to work the boy over.
"Imagine," Donatti said, smiling, "how horrible it will be for the boy. He wouldn't
understand it even jf someone explained. He'll only know someone is hurting him
because Daddy was bad. He'll be very frightened."
"You bastard," Morrison said helplessly. He felt close to tears. "You dirty, filthy
bastard."
"Don't misunderstand," Donatti said. He was smiling sympathetically. "I'm sure it
won't happen. Forty per cent of our clients never have to be disciplined at all-and
only ten per cent have more than three falls from grace. Those are reassuring
figures, aren't they?"
Morrison didn't find them reassuring. He found them terrifying.
"Of course, if you transgress a fifth time-"
"What do you mean?"
Donatti beamed. "The room for you and your wife, a second beating for your son,
and a beating for your wife."
Morrison, driven beyond the point of rational consideration, lunged over the desk
at Donatti. Donatti moved with amazing speed for a man who had apparently been
completely relaxed. He shoved the chair backwards and drove both of his feet over
the desk and into Morrison's belly. Gagging and coughing, Morrison staggered
backward.
"Sit down, Mr Morrison," Donatti said benignly. "Let's talk this over like rational
men."
When he could get his breath, Morrison did as he was told. Nightmares had to end
some time, didn't they?
Quitters, Inc., Donatti had explained further, operated on a ten-step punishment
scale. Steps six, seven, and eight consisted of further trips to the rabbit room (and
increased voltage) and more serious beatings. The ninth step would be the breaking
of his son's arms.
"And the tenth?" Morrison asked, his mouth dry.
Donatti shook his head sadly. "Then we give up, Mr Morrison. You become part of
the unregenerate two per cent."
"You really give up?"
"In a manner of speaking. " He opened one of the desk drawers and laid a
silenced . 45 on the desk. He smiled into Morrison's eyes. "But even the
unregenerate two per cent never smoke again. We guarantee it."
The Friday Night Movie was Bullitt, one of Cindy's favourites, but after an hour of
Morrison's mutterings and fidgetings, her concentration was broken.
"What's the matter with you?" she asked during station identification.
"Nothing.... everything," he growled. "I'm giving up smoking."
She laughed. "Since when? Five minutes ago?"
"Since three o'clock this afternoon."
"You really haven't had a cigarette since then?"
"No," he said, and began to gnaw his thumb-nail. It was ragged, down to the quick.
"That's wonderful! What ever made you decide to quit?"
"You," he said. "And... and Alvin."
Her eyes widened, and when the movie came back on, she didn't notice. Dick
rarely mentioned their retarded son. She came over, looked at the empty ashtray by
his right hand, and then into his eyes: "Are you really trying to quit, Dick?"
"Really. " And if I go to the cops, he added mentally, the local goon squad will be
around to rearrange your face, Cindy.
"I'm glad. Even if you don't make it, we both thank you for the thought, Dick."
"Oh, I think I'll make it," he said, thinking of the muddy, homicidal look that had
come into Donatti's eyes when he kicked him in the stomach.
He slept badly that night, dozing in and out of sleep. Around three o'clock he woke
up completely. His craving for a cigarette was like a low-grade fever. He went
downstairs and to his study. The room was in the middle of the house. No
windows. He slid open the top drawer of his desk and looked in, fascinated by the
cigarette box. He looked around and licked his lips.
Constant supervision during the first month, Donatti had said. Eighteen hours a day
during the next two-but he would never know which eighteen. During the fourth
month, the month when most clients backslid, the "service" would return to
twenty-four hours a day. Then twelve hours of broken surveillance each day for the
rest of the year. After that? Random surveillance for the rest of the client's life.
For the rest of his life.
"We may audit you every other month," Donatti said. "Or every other day. Or
constantly for one week two years from now. The point is, you won't know. If you
smoke, you'll be gambling with loaded dice. Are they watching? Are they picking
up my wife or sending a man after my son right now? Beautiful, isn't it? And if you
do sneak a smoke, it'll taste awful. It will taste like your son's blood."
But they couldn't be watching now, in the dead of night, in his own study. The
house was grave-quiet.
He looked at the cigarettes in the box for almost two minutes, unable to tear his
gaze away. Then he went to the study door, peered out into the empty hall, and
went back to look at the cigarettes some more. A horrible picture came: his life
stretching before him and not a cigarette to be found. How in the name of God was
he ever going to be able to make another tough presentation to a wary client,
without that cigarette burning nonchalantly between his fingers as he approached
the charts and layouts? How would he be able to endure Cindy's endless garden
shows without a cigarette? How could he even get up in the morning and face the
day without a cigarette to smoke as he drank his coffee and read the paper?
He cursed himself for getting into this. He cursed Donatti. And most of all, he
cursed Jimmy McCann. How could he have done it? The son of a bitch had known.
His hands trembled in their desire to get hold of Jimmy Judas McCann.
Stealthily, he glanced around the study again. He reached into the drawer and
brought out a cigarette. He caressed it, fondled it. What was that old slogan? So
round, so firm, so fully packed. Truer words had never been spoken. He put the
cigarette in his mouth and then paused, cocking his head.
Had there been the slightest noise from the closet? A faint shifting? Surely not. But
-Another mental image-that rabbit hopping crazily in the grip of electricity. The
thought of Cindy in that room -He listened desperately and heard nothing. He told
himself that all he had to do was go to the closet door and yank it open. But he was
too afraid of what he might find. He went back to bed but didn't sleep for a long
time.
In spite of how lousy he felt in the morning, breakfast tasted good. After a
moment's hesitation, he followed his customary bowl of cornflakes with scrambled
eggs. He was grumpily washing out the pan when Cindy came downstairs in her
robe.
"Richard Morrison! You haven't eaten an egg for break-fast since Hector was a
pup.
Morrison grunted. He considered since Hector was a pup to be one of Cindy's
stupider sayings, on a par with I should smile and kiss a pig.
"Have you smoked yet?" she asked, pouring orange juice.
"No."
"You'll be back on them by noon," she proclaimed airily. "Lot of goddamn help
you are!" he rasped, rounding on her. "You and anyone else who doesn't smoke,
you all think ah, never mind."
He expected her to be angry, but she was looking at him F with something like
wonder. "You're really serious," she said. "You really are."
"You bet I am. " You'll never know how serious. I hope.
"Poor baby," she said, going to him. "You look like death warmed over. But I'm
very proud."
Morrison held her tightly.
Scenes from the life of Richard Morrison, October-November:
Morrison and a crony from Larkin Studios at Jack Dempsey's bar. Crony offers a
cigarette. Morrison grips his glass a little more tightly and says: I'm quitting. Crony
laughs and says: I give you a week.
Morrison waiting for the morning train, looking over the top of the Times at a
young man in a blue suit. He sees the young man almost every morning now, and
sometimes at other places. At Onde's, where he is meeting a client. Looking at 45s
in Sam Goody's, where Morrison is looking for a Sam Cooke album. Once in a
foursome behind Morrison's group at the local golf course.
Morrison getting drunk at a party, wanting a cigarette -but not quite drunk enough
to take one.
Morrison visiting his son, bringing him a large ball that squeaked when you
squeezed it. His son's slobbering, delighted kiss. Somehow not as repulsive as
before. Hugging his son tightly, realizing what Donatti and his colleagues had so
cynically realized before him: love is the most pernicious drug of all. Let the
romantics debate its existence. Pragmatists accept it and use it.
Morrison losing the physical compulsion to smoke little by little, but never quite
losing the psychological craving, or the need to have something in his mouth-
cough drops, Life Savers, a tooth-pick. Poor substitutes, all of them.
And finally, Morrison hung up in a colossal traffic jam in the Midtown Tunnel.
Darkness. Horns blaring. Air stinking. Traffic hopelessly snarled. And suddenly,
thumbing open the glove compartment and seeing the half-open pack of cigarettes
in there. He looked at them for a moment, then snatched one and lit it with the
dashboard lighter. If anything happens, it's Cindy's fault, he told himself defiantly.
I told her to get rid of all the damn cigarettes.
The first drag made him cough smoke out furiously. The second made his eyes
water. The third made him feel light-headed and swoony. It tastes awful, he
thought.
And on the heels of that: My God, what am I doing?
Horns blatted impatiently behind him. Ahead, the traffic had begun to move again.
He stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray, opened both front windows, opened the
vents, and then fanned the air helplessly like a kid who has just flushed his first
butt down the john.
He joined the traffic flow jerkily and. drove home.
"Cindy?" he called. "I'm home. " No answer.
"Cindy? Where are you, hon?"
The phone rang, and he pounced on it. "Hello? Cindy?"
"Hello, Mr Morrison," Donatti said. He sounded pleasantly brisk and businesslike.
"It seems we have a small business matter to attend to. Would five o'clock be
convenient?"
"Have you got my wife?"
"Yes, indeed. " Donatti chuckled indulgently.
"Look, let her go," Morrison babbled. "It won't happen again. It was a slip, just a
slip, that's all. I only had three drags and for God's sake it didn't even taste good!"
"That's a shame. I'll count on you for five then, shall I?"
"Please," Morrison said, close to tears. "Please -He was speaking to a dead line.
At 5p. m. the reception room was empty except for the secretary, who gave him a
twinkly smile that ignored Morrison's pallor and dishevelled appearance. "Mr
Donatti?" she said into the intercom. "Mr Morrison to see you. " She nodded to
Morrison. "Go right in."
Donatti was waiting outside the unmarked room with a man who was wearing a
SMILE sweatshirt and carrying a . 38. He was built like an ape.
"Listen," Morrison said to Donatti. "We can work something out, can't we? I'll pay
you. I'll-"
"Shaddap," the man in the SMILE sweatshirt said.
"It's good to see you," Donatti said. "Sorry it has to be under such adverse
circumstances. Will you come with me? We'll make this as brief as possible. I can
assure you your wife won't be hurt... this time."
Morrison tensed himself to leap at Donatti.
"Come, come," Donatti said, looking annoyed. "If you do that, Junk here is going
to pistol-whip you and your wife is still going to get it. Now where's the percentage
in that?"
"I hope you rot in hell," he told Donatti.
Donatti sighed. "If I had a nickel for every time someone expressed a similar
sentiment, I could retire. Let it be a lesson to you, Mr Morrison. When a romantic
tries to do a good thing and fails, they give him a medal. When a pragmatist
succeeds, they wish him in hell. Shall we go?"
Junk motioned with the pistol.
Morrison preceded them into the room. He felt numb.
The small green curtain had been pulled. Junk prodded him with the gun. This is
what being a witness at the gas chamber must have been like, he thought.
He looked in. Cindy was there, looking around bewilderedly.
"Cindy!" Morrison called miserably. "Cindy, they-"
"She can't hear or see you," Donatti said. "One-way glass. Well, let's get it over
with. It really was a very small slip. I believe thirty seconds should be enough.
Junk?"
Junk pressed the button with one hand and kept the pistol jammed firmly into
Morrison's back with the other.
It was the longest thirty seconds of his life.
When it was over, Donatti put a hand on Morrison's shoulder and said, "Are you
going to throw up?"
"No," Morrison said weakly. His forehead was against the glass. His legs were
jelly. "I don't think so. " He turned around and saw that Junk was gone.
"Come with me," Donatti said.
"Where?" Morrison asked apathetically.
"I think you have a few things to explain, don't you?"
"How can I face her? How can I tell her that I... I... "I think you're going to be
surprised," Donatti said.
The room was empty except for a sofa. Cindy was on it, sobbing helplessly.
"Cindy?" he said gently.
She looked up, her eyes magnified by tears. "Dick?" she whispered. "Dick? Oh....
Oh God.... " He held her tightly. "Two men," she said against his chest. "In the
house and at first I thought they were burglars and then I thought they were going
to rape me and then they took me someplace with a blindfold over my eyes and...
and... oh it was h-horrible-"
"Shhh," he said. "Shhh."
"But why?" she asked, looking up at him. "Why would they-"
"Because of me," he said "I have to tell you a story, Cindy-"
When he had finished he was silent a moment and then said, "I suppose you hate
me. I wouldn't blame you."
He was looking at the floor, and she took his face in both hands and turned it to
hers. "No," she said. "I don't hate you."
He looked at her in mute surprise.
"It was worth it," she said. "God bless these people. They've let you out of prison."
"Do you mean that?"
"Yes," she said, and kissed him. "Can we go home now? I feel much better. Ever
so much."
The phone rang one evening a week later, and when Morrison recognized Donatti's
voice, he said, "Your boys have got it wrong. I haven't even been near a cigarette."
"We know that. We have a final matter to talk over. Can you stop by tomorrow
afternoon?"
"Is it -,
"No, nothing serious. Book-keeping really. By the way, congratulations on your
promotion."
"How did you know about that?"
"We're keeping tabs," Donatti said noncommittally, and hungup.
When they entered the small room, Donatti said, "Don't look so nervous. No one's
going to bite you. Step over here, please."
Morrison saw an ordinary bathroom scale. "Listen, I've gained a little weight, but-"
"Yes, seventy-three per cent of our clients do. Step up, please."
Morrison did, and tipped the scales at one seventy-four.
"Okay, fine. You can step off. How tall are you, Mr Morrison?"
"Five-eleven."
"Okay, let's see. " He pulled a small card laminated in plastic from his breast
pocket. "Well, that's not too bad. I'm going to write you a prescrip for some highly
illegal diet pills. Use them sparingly and according to directions. And I'm going to
set your maximum weight at... let's see...
He consulted the card again. "One eighty-two, how does that sound? And since this
is December first, I'll expect you the first of every month for a weigh-in. No
problem if you can't make it, as long as you call in advance."
"And what happens if I go over one-eighty-two?"
Donatti smiled. "We'll send someone out to your house to cut off your wife's little
finger," he said. "You can leave through this door, Mr Morrison. Have a nice day."
Eight months later:
Morrison runs into the crony from the Larkin Studios at Dempsey's bar. Morrison
is down to what Cindy proudly calls his fighting weight: one sixty-seven. He
works out three times a week and looks as fit as whipcord. The crony from Larkin,
by comparison, looks like something the cat dragged in.
Crony: Lord, how'd you ever stop? I'm locked into this damn habit tighter than
Tillie. The crony stubs his cigarette out with real revulsion and drains his scotch.
Morrison looks at him speculatively and then takes a small white business card out
of his wallet. He puts it on the bar between them. You know, he says, these guys
changed my life.

Twelve months later:

Morrison receives a bill in the mail. The bill says:
QUITTERS,INC.
237 East 46th Street
New York, N. Y. 10017
1 Treatment $2500. 00
Counsellor (Victor Donatti) $2500. 00
Electricity $ . 50
TOTAL (Please pay this amount) $5000. 50
Those sons of bitches! he explodes. They charged me for the electricity they used
to... to:
Just pay it, she says, and kisses him.

Twenty months later:

Quite by accident, Morrison and his wife meet the Jimmy McCanns at the Helen
Hayes Theatre. Introductions are made all around. Jimmy looks as good, if not
better than he did on that day in the airport terminal so long ago. Morrison has
never met his wife. She is pretty in the radiant way plain girls sometimes have
when they are very, very happy.
She offers her hand and Morrison shakes it. There is something odd about her grip,
and halfway through the second act, he realizes what it was. The little finger on her
right hand is missing.

XII. Speak about the author of the story.

XIII. Transcribe the given words and read them correctly:

homicidal, surveiilence, operaive, illegal, aversion, electrocute, equivocate,

hypnosis, heroine, awesomely, foyer, nicotine, austere

III. Learn the essential vocabulary: (give definitions for the words and
phrases on the list; reproduce the situations in which they occur in the story;
use them in situations of your own).
A. General vocabulary
to quit
prompt
to chest
smug
to arouse
to be in charge of smth
bland
retarded
addict, addiction (to smth)
to have smb's interests at heart
pragmatic, pragmatist
to gnaw
desperate

B. Phrasal verbs
to throw up
to pick up
to see smth through
to blot out

C. Idioms
as cold as shaved ice
by word of mouth
a lesson to smb
by accident
to attend to smb
to smile at
to rummage

IV. Explain the difference between these words; make up some sentences to
bring out the difference.
A. congratulations - congratulate
B. as - like
C. work - job - position - post - situation
D. brand - make

V. Learn the following derivational patterns, explain their meaning, give 5-6
examples of derivatives built on them:
A. n + -ly - A yearly
B. non- + n - N nonsmoker
non- + n - A nonprofit
VI. Learn the pronunciation of the following place names. Find the places in a
geographical map. Find reference to them in the story:
Atlants, Miami, New Jersey, Kennedy International

VII. Say who is meant by:

Judas, Dale Carnegie

VIII. Say what is meant by:

Inc., executive veep, billboard, alumnus, IBM, IQ, numbers, chain smoker

IX. Explain how you understand the following:

1. "Get your butt in gear or get your butt out".
2. His nicotine center was speaking quite loudly now.
3. "We employ no Dale Carnegie people to sermonize you".
4. The relapse ... 85 per cent".
5. The gentleman had been ... Turkey.
6. Mort Minelli had been ... range".
7. It's a great tax angle.
8. Quitters, Inc. operated on a ten-step punisment scale.

X. Answer the following questions:

1. Whom did Richard Morrison see at Kennedy International?
2. Had Jimmy McCann changed greatly? In what way?
3. How did it happen that Richard Morrison decided to go to Quitters, Inc.?
4. How did he feel visiting Quitters, Inc. for the first time?
5. What question did Vic Donatti, the man in charge of his case, ask him?
6. On reflection, Richard decided not to skip the appointment the receptionist at
Quitters, Inc. had made for him. Why did he keep it?
7. What did Vic Donatti tell Morrison about Quitters, Inc. and their methods of
treatment?
8. Richard Morrison felt horribly frightened, didn't he? Why?
9. What was Cindy's reaction when she got to know that Richard was giving up
smoking?
10. It was no easy matter for Morrison to kick the habit, was it?
11. Why didn't Cindy het angry and start hating her husband when Richard broke
the rules for the first time?
12. What else did Quitters, Inc. demand from Richard, besides giving up the habit
of smoking?
13. How did breaking the habit change Morrison's life?
14. Did Morrison recommend Quitters, Inc. to any of his friends or
acquaintances? Why?

XI. Summary

XII. Choose a passage and prepare

XIII. Write out all the words and phrases used in the story to describe the
emotional and physical condition of someone trying to quit smoking.

XIV. Comment upon the following:

1. Love is the most pernicious drug of all. Let the romantics debate its existence.
Pragmatists accept it and use it.
2. "Gob bless these people. They've let you out of prison".
3. When a romantic tries to do a good thing and fails, they give him a medal. When
a pragmatist succeeds, they wish him in hell.
4. "The end justifies the means". What do you think of this maxim.
Can we use force to ensure people's happiness against their will?
5. In Dick Morrison's case, the treatment was successful. But what about "the
unregenerate two percent"?
6. Would you send your husband or son to Quitters, Inc. to cure him of tobacco or
heroine addiction? Why or wy not?

On Writing (Excerpt)
by Stephen King (1947)

[…] That year my brother David jumped ahead to the fourth grade and I was
pulled out of school entirely. I had missed too much of the first grade, my mother
and the school agreed; I could start it fresh in the fall of the year, if my health was
good.
Most of that year I spent either in bed or household. I read my way through
approximately six tons of comic books, progressed to Tom Swift and Dave
Dawson (a heroic World War II pilot whose various planes were always “prop-
clawing for altitude”), then moved on to Jack London’s bloodcurdling animal tales.
At some point I began to write my own stories. Imitation preceded creation: I
would copy Сombat Casey comics word for word in my Blue Horse tablet,
sometimes adding my own descriptions where they seemed appropriate. “They
were camped in a big dratty farmhouse room,” I might write; it was another year or
two before I discovered that drat and draft were different words. During that same
period I remember believing that details were dentals and that a bitch was an
extremely tall woman. A son of a bitch was apt to be a basketball player. When
you’re six, most of your Bingo balls are still floating around in the draw-tank.
Eventually I showed one of those copycat hybrids to my mother, and she was
charmed – I remember her slightly amazed smile, as if she was unable to believe a
kid of hers could be so smart – practically a damned prodigy, for God’s sake. I had
never seen that look on her face before – not on my account, anyway – and I
absolutely loved it.
 She asked me if I had made up the story myself, and I was forced to admit that
I had copied most of it of a funny-book. She seemed disappointed, and that drained
away much of my pleasure. At last she handed back my tablet. “Write one of your
own, Stevie,” she said. “Those Combat Casey funny-books are just junk – he’s
always knocking someone’s teeth out. I bet you could do better. Write one of your
own.”
I remember an immense feeling of possibility at the idea, as if I had been
ushered into a vast building filled with closed doors and had been given leave to
open any I liked. There were more doors than one person could ever open in a life-
time, I thought (and still think).
I eventually wrote a story about four magic animals who rode around in an old
car, helping out little kids. Their leader was a large white bunny named Mr. Rabbit
Trick. He got to drive the car. The story was four pages long, laboriously printed in
pencil. No one in it, so far as I can remember, jumped from the roof of the
Graymore Hotel. When I finished, I gave it to my mother, who sat down in the
living room, put her pocketbook on the floor beside her, and read it all at once. I
could tell she liked it – she laughed in all the right places – but I couldn’t tell if that
was because she liked me and wanted me to feel good or because it really was
good.
“You didn’t copy this one?” she asked when she had finished. I said no, I
hadn’t. She said it was good enough to be in a book. Nothing anyone has said to
me since has made me feel any happier. I wrote four more stories about Mr. Rabbit
Trick and his friends. She gave me a quarter apiece for them and sent them around
to her our sisters, who pitied her a little, I think.
Four stories. A quarter apiece. That was the first buck I made in this business.
[…] I wasn’t much interested in the printing process, and I wasn’t interested at
all in the arcane of first developing and then reproducing photographs. I didn’t care
about putting Hearst shifters in cars, making cider, or seeing if a certain formula
would send a plastic rocket into the stratosphere (usually they didn’t even make it
over the house). What I cared about most between 1958 and 1966 was movies.
 As the fifties gave way to the sixties, there were only two movie theaters in the
area, both in Lewiston. The Empire was the first-run house, showing Disney
pictures, Bible epics, and musicals in which widescreen ensembles of well-
scrubbed folks danced and sang. I went to these if I had a ride – a movie was a
movie, after all – but I didn’t like them very much. They were boringly
wholesome. They were predictable. During The Parent Trap, I kept hoping Hayley
Mills would run into Vic Morrow from The Blackboard Jungle. That would have
livened things up a little, by God. I felt that one look at Vic’s switchblade knife
and gimlet gaze would have put Hayley’s piddling domestic problems in some
kind of reasonable perspective. And when I lay in bed at night under my eave,
listening to the wind in the trees or the rats in the attic, it was not Debbie Reynolds
as Tammy or Sandra Dee as Gidget that I dreamed of, but Yvette Vickers from
Attack of the Giant Leeches or Luana Anders from Dementia 13.Never mind sweet;
never mind uplifting; never mind Snow White and the Seven Goddam Dwarfs. At
thirteen I wanted monsters that ate whole cities, radioactive corpses that came out
of the ocean and ate surfers, and girls in black bras who looked like trailer trash.
Horror movies, science fiction movies, movies about teenager gangs on the
prowl, movies about losers on motorcycles – this was the stuff that turned my dials
up to ten. The place to get all this was not at the Empire, on the upper end of
Lisbon Street, but at the Ritz, down at the lower end, amid the pawnshops and not
far from Louie’s Clothing, where in 1964 I bought my first pair of Beatle boots.
The distance from my house to the Ritz was fourteen miles, and I hitchhiked there
almost every weekend during the eight years between 1958 and 1966, when I
finally got my driver’s license. Sometimes I went with my friend Chris Chesley,
sometimes I went alone, but unless I was sick or something, I always went. It was
at the Ritz that I saw I Married a Monster from Outer Space, with Tom Tryon; The
Hunting, with Claire Bloom and Julie Harris; The Wild Angels, with Peter Fonda
and Nancy Sinatra. I saw Olivia de Havilland put out James Caan’s eyes with
makeshift knives in Lady in a Cage, saw Joseph Cotton come back from the dead
in Hush…Hush, Sweet Charlotte, and watched with held breath (and not a little
prurient interest) to see if Allison Hayes would grow all the way out of her clothes
in Attack of the 50ft. Woman. At the Ritz, all the finer things in life were
available… or might be available, if you only sat in the third row, paid close
attention, and did not blink at the wrong moment.
Chris and I liked just about any horror movie, but our faves were the string of
American-International films, most directed by Roger Corman, with titles cribbed
from Edgar Allan Poe. I wouldn’t say based upon the works of Edgar Allan Poe,
because there is little in any of them which has anything to do with Poe’s actual
stories and poems (The Raven was filmed as a comedy – no kidding). And yet the
best of them – The Haunted Palace, The Conqueror Worm, The Masque of the Red
Death – achieved a hallucinatory eeriness that made them special. Chris and I had
our own name for these films, one that made them into a separate genre. There
were westerns, there were love stories, there were war stories… and there were
Poepictures.
“Wanna hitch to the show Saturday afternoon?” Chris would ask. “Go to the
Ritz?”
“What’s on?” I’d ask.
“A motorcycle picture and a Poepicture,” he’d say. I, of course, was on that combo
like white on rice. Bruce Dern going batshit on a Harley and Vincent Price going
batshit in a haunted castle overlooking a restless ocean: who could ask for more?
You might even get Hazel Court wandering around in a lacy low-cut nightgown, if
you were lucky.
Of all Poepictiures, the one that affected Chris and me the most deeply was
The Pit and the Pendulum. Written by Richard Matheson and filmed in both
widescreen and Techicolor (color horror pictures were still a rarity in 1961, when
this came out), Pit took a bunch of standard gothic ingredients and turned them
into something special. It might have been the last really great studio horror picture
before George Romero’s ferocious indie The Night of the Living Dead came along
and changed everything forever ( in some few cases for the better , in most for the
worse). The best scene – the one which froze Chris and me into our seats –
depicted John Kerr digging into a castle wall and discovering the corpse of his
sister, who was obviously buried alive. I have never forgotten the corpse’s close-
up, shot through a red filter and a distorting lens which elongated the face into a
huge silent scream.
On the long hitch home that night (if rides were slow in coming, you might end
up walking four or five miles and not get home until well after dark) I had a
wonderful idea: I would turn The Pit and the Pendulum into a book! Would
novelize it, as Monarch Books had novelized such undying film classics as Jack
the Ripper, Gorgo and Konga. But I wouldn’t just write this masterpiece; I would
also print it, using the drumpress in our basement, and sell copies at school! Zap!
Ka-pow!
As it was conceived, so was it done. Working with the care and deliberation for
which I would later be critically acclaimed, I turned out my “novel version” of The
Pit and the Pendulum in two days, composing directly onto the stencils from which
I’d print. Although no copies of that particular masterpiece survive (at least to my
knowledge), I believe it was eight pages long, each page single-spaced and
paragraph breaks to an absolute minimum (each stencil cost nineteen cents,
remember). I printed sheets on both sides, just as in a standard book, and added a
title page on which I drew a rudimentary pendulum dripping small black blotches
which I hoped would look like blood. At the last moment I realized I had forgotten
to identify the publishing house. After a half-hour or so of pleasant mulling, I
typed the words A V.I.B. BOOK in the upper right corner of my title page. V.I.B.
stood for Very Important Book.
I ran off about forty copies of The Pit and the Pendulum, blissfully unaware
that I was in violation of every plagiarism and copyright statute in the history of
the world; my thoughts were focused almost entirely on how much money I might
make if my story was a hit at school. The stencils had cost me $1.71 (having to use
up one whole stencil for the title page seemed a hideous waste of money, but you
had to look good, I’d reluctantly decided: you had to go out there with a bit of the
old attitude), the paper had cost another two bits or so, the staples were free,
cribbed from my brother (you might have to paperclip stories you were sending out
to magazines, but this was a book, this was the bigtime). After some further
thought, I priced V.I.B. #1, The Pit and the Pendulum by Steve King, at a quarter a
copy. I thought I might be able to sell ten (my mother would buy one to get me
started: she could always be counted on), and that would add up to $2.50. I’d make
about forty cents, which would be enough to finance another educational trip to the
Ritz. If I sold two more, I could get a big sack of popcorn and a Coke as well.
The Pit and the Pendulum turned out to be my first bestseller. I took the entire
print-run to school in my book-bag (in 1961 I would have been an eight-grader at
Durham’s newly built four-room elementary school), and by noon that day I had
sold two dozens. By the end of lunch hour, when word had gotten around the lady
buried in the wall (“They stared with horror at the bones sticking out from the ends
of her fingers, realizing she had died scratching madley for escape”), I had sold
three dozen. I had nine dollars in change weighing down the bottom of my book-
bag (upon which Durham’s answer to Daddy Cool had carefully printed most of
the lyrics to “The Lion Sleeps Tonight”) and was walking around in a kind of
dream, unable to believe my sudden ascension to previously unsuspected realms of
wealth. It all seemed too good to be true.
It was. When the school day ended at two o’clock, I was summoned to the
principal’s office, where I was told I couldn’t turn the school into a marketplace,
especially not, Miss Hisler said, to sell such trash as The Pit and the Pendulum.
Her attitude didn’t much surprise me. Miss Hisler had been the teacher at my
previous school, the one-roomer at Methodist Corners, where I went to the fifth
and sixth grades. During that time she had spied me reading a rather sensational
“teenage rumble” novel (The Amboy Dukes, by Irving Shulman), and had taken it
away. This was just more of the same, and I was disgusted with myself for not
seeing the outcome in advance. In those days we called someone who did an
idiotic thing a dubber (pronounced dubba if you were from Maine). I had just
dubbed up bigtime.
 “What I don’t understand, Stevie,” she said, “is why you’d write junk like this
in the first place. You’re talented. Why do you want to waste your abilities?” She
had rolled up a copy of V.I.B. #1 and was brandishing it at me the way a person
might brandish a rolled-up newspaper at a dog that has piddled on the rug. She
waited for me to answer – to her credit, the question was not entirely rhetorical –
but I had no answer to give. I was ashamed. I have spent a good many years since
– too many, I think – being ashamed about what I write. I think I was forty before I
realized that almost every writer of fiction and poetry who has ever published a
line has been accused by someone of wasting his or her God-given talent. If you
write (or pain tor dance or sculpt or sing, I suppose), someone will try to make you
lousy about it, that’s all. I’m not editorializing, just trying to give you the facts as I
see them.
Miss Hisler told me I would have to give everyone’s money back. I did so with
no argument, even to those kids (and there were quite a few, I’m happy to say)
who insisted on keeping their copies of V.I.B.# 1. I ended up losing money on the
deal after all, but when that summer vacation came I printed four dozen copies of a
new story, an original called The Invasion of the Star-Creatures, and sold all but
four or five. I guess that means I won in the end, at least in a financial sense. But in
my heart I stayed ashamed. I kept hearing Miss Hisler asking why I wanted to
waste my talent, why I wanted to waste my time, why I wanted to write junk.

I. Speak about the author.

II. Translate the given words and read them correctly:

appropriate, plagiarism, laboriously, hallucinatory, genre, rarity, ingredient,
ferocious, prodigy, realm, rhetorical

III. Learn the Essential vocabulary:

A. General Vocabulary
bloodcurdling
apt to be
copycat
junk/trash
disgusted with
to focus on smth
epic
to crib smth from smth
eerie, eeriness
hideous
masterpiece
to have nothing/anything to do with smth
B. Phrasal Verbs
to jump ahead to smth
to make smth up
to liven things up
to turn out ]
to come out]
to add up to smth
word gets around
C. Idioms
to start afresh
word for word
no kidding
D. Prepositional phrases
to smb’s credit
based upon
on smb’s account
in pencil
to put smth in perspective
on the prowl
lose money on the deal
to be in violation of smth
to change smth for the better/worse
to one’s knowledge
to keep to a minimum
to walk around in a dream
in the first place
IV. Learn the following derivational pattern: define its meaning: give 5-6
examples of derivatives built after it:
n + -ize - novelize

V. Explain the difference between:

A. precede – proceed
B. copy- issue- edition – printing
Make up some sentences to bring out the difference.

VI. Explain who or what is meant:

Eighth-grader, grade, principal, elementary school, quarter, buck, pocketbook,
indie

VII. Say what you know about the authors:

Jack London, Edgar Allan Poe

VIII. Explain what is meant by the following:

1. Imitation preceded creation.
2. When you are six, most of your Bingo balls are still floating around in the
draw-tank.
3. I remember an immense feeling of possibility at the idea, as if I had been
ushered into a vast building filled with closed doors and had been given
leave to open any I liked.
4. At thirteen wanted monsters that ate whole cities, radioactive corpses that
came out of the ocean and ate surfers, and girls in black bras who looked
like trailer trash.
5. She had rolled up a copy of V.I.B. #1 and was brandishing it at me the way
a person might brandish a rolled-up newspaper at a dog that has piddled on
the rug.

IX. Write a short summary o f the excerpt.

X. Answer the questions:

1. When did Stephen begin writing his own stories? How original were they?
2. What advice did his mother give the boy? What did it inspire him to do?
3. What was the subject of his first original story? Did his mother like it? How
much did she pay him for it?
4. What movies were Stephen’s favourites when he was thirteen? Which of
them did he decide to novelize?
5. How many copies of his “masterpiece” did he print? Was it a hit?
6. In the end, did he make a profit or lose money on the deal?
7. What did the principal tell Stephen about his bestseller? How did the boy
react to her words? How did it affect him in the long run?

XI. Discussion points:

1. In his childhood Stephen King read tons of comics. Have you ever read a
comic book? Are comics popular in this country? Can a comic be a stepping
stone to good literature?
2. Stephen King’s first self-made book proved to be an instant bestseller
among his peers. How would you explain it? What are the reading tastes of
teenagers? Why are they interested in horror stories? What sort of books
did you read at the age of thirteen to sixteen?
 3. What do you think of the recommendation given to Stephen King by the
principal? Does he write trashy literature? What is your opinion of horror
fiction?

THE GREAT AUTOMATIC GRAMMATIZATOR

Roald Dahl  (1916 - 1990)

“Well, Knipe, my boy. Now that it’s finished, I just called you in to tell you I
think you’ve done a fine job.”
Adolph Knipe stood still in front of Mr Bohlen’s desk. There seemed to be no
enthusiasm in him at all.
“Aren’t you pleased?”
“Oh yes, Mr Bohlen.”
“Did you see what the papers said this morning?”
“No, sir, I didn’t.”
The man behind the desk pulled a folded newspaper towards him, and began to
read:” The building of the great automatic computing engine, ordered by the
government some time ago, is now complete. It is probably the fastest electronic
calculating machine in the world today. Its function is to satisfy the ever-increasing
need of science, industry, and administration for rapid mathematical calculation
which, in the past, by traditional methods, would have been physically impossible,
or would have required more time than the problems justified. The speed with
which the new engine works, said Mr John Bohlen, head of the firm of electrical
engineers mainly responsible for its construction, may be grasped by the fact that it
can provide the correct answer in five seconds to a problem that would occupy a
mathematician for a month. In three minutes, it can produce a calculation that by
hand (if it were possible) would fill half a million sheets of foolscap paper. The
automatic computing engine uses pulses of electricity at the rate of a million a
second to solve all calculations that resolve themselves into addition, subtraction,
multiplication, and division. For practical purposes there is no limit to what it can
do…”
Mr Bohlen glanced up at the long, melancholy face of the younger man.
“Aren’t you proud, Knipe? Aren’t you pleased?”
“Of course, Mr Bohlen.”
“I don’t think I have to remind you that your own contribution, especially to
the original plans, was an important one. In fact, I might go so far as to say that
without you and some of your ideas, this project might still be on the drawing-
boards today.”
Adolph Knipe moved his feet on the carpet, and he watched the two small
white hands of his chief, the nervous fingers paying with a paperclip, unbending it,
straightening out the hairpin curves. He didn’t like the man’s hands. He didn’t like
his face either, with the tiny mouth and the narrow purplecoloured lips. It was
unpleasant the way only the lower lip moved when he talked.
“Is anything bothering you, Knipe? Anything on your mind?”
“Oh no, Mr Bohlen. No.”
“How would you like to take a week’s holiday? Do you good. You’ve earned
it.”
“Oh, I don’t know, sir.”
The older man waited, watching this tall, thin person who stood so sloppily
before him. He was a difficult boy. Why couldn’t he stand up straight? Always
drooping and untidy, with spots on his jacket, and hair falling all over his face.
“I’d like you to take a holiday, Knipe. You need it.”
“All right, sir. If you wish.”
“Take a week. Two weeks if you like. Go somewhere warm. Get some
sunshine. Swim. Relax. Sleep. Then come back, and we’ll have another talk about
the future.”
Adolph Knipe went home by bus to his two-room apartment. He threw his coat
on the sofa, poured himself a drink of whisky, and sat down in front of the
typewriter that was on the table. Mr Bohlen was right. Of course he was right.
Except that he didn’t know half of it. He probably thought it was a woman.
Whenever a young man gets depressed, everybody thinks it’s a woman.
He leaned forward and began to read through the half-finished sheet of typing
still in the machine. It was headed “A Narrow Escape”, and it began “The night
was dark and stormy, the wind whistled in the trees, the rain poured down like cats
and dogs…”
Adolph Knipe took a sip of whisky, tasting the malty-bitter flavour, feeling the
trickle of cold liquid as it travelled down his throat and settled in the top of his
stomach, cool at first, then spreading and becoming warm, making a little area of
warmness in the gut. To hell with Mr John Bohlen anyway. And to hell with the
great electrical computing machine. To hell with …
At exactly that moment, his eyes and mouth began slowly to open, in a sort of
wonder, and slowly he raised his head and became still, absolutely motionless,
gazing at the wall opposite with this look that was more perhaps of astonishment
than of wonder, but quite fixed now, unmoving, and remaining thus for forty, fifty,
sixty seconds. Then gradually (the head still motionless), a subtle change spreading
over the face, astonishment becoming pleasure, very slight at first, only around the
corners of the mouth, increasing gradually, spreading out until at last the whole
face was open wide and shining with extreme delight. It was the first time Adolph
Knipe had smiled in many, many months.
“Of course,” he said, speaking aloud, “it’s completely ridiculous.” Again he
smiled, raising his upper lip and baring his teeth in a queerly sensual manner.
”It’s a delicious idea, but so impracticable it doesn’t really bear thinking about
at all.”
From then on, Adolph Knipe began to think about nothing else. The idea
fascinated him enormously, at first because it gave him a promise – however
remote – of revenging himself in a most devilish manner upon his greatest
enemies. From this angle alone, he toyed idly with it for perhaps ten or fifteen
minutes; then all at once he found himself examining it quite seriously as a
practical possibility. He took paper and made some preliminary notes. But he
didn’t get far. He found himself, almost immediately up against the old truth that a
machine, however ingenious, is incapable of original thought. It can handle no
problems except those that resolve themselves into mathematical terms – problems
that contain one, and only one, correct answer.
This was a stumper. There didn’t seem any way around it. A machine cannot
have a brain. On the other hand, it can have a memory, can it not? Their own
electronic calculator had a marvelous memory. Simply by converting electric
pulses, through a column of mercury, into supersonic waves, it could store away at
least a thousand numbers at a time, extracting any one of them at the precise
moment it was needed. Would it not be possible, therefore, on this principle, to
build a memory section of almost unlimited size?
Now what about that?
Then suddenly, he was struck by a powerful but simple little truth, and it was
this: that English grammar is governed by rules that are almost mathematical in
their strictness! Given the words, and given the sense of what is to be said, then
there is only one correct order in which those words can be arranged.
No, he thought, that isn’t quite accurate. In many sentences there are several
alternative positions for words and phrases, all of which may be grammatically
correct. But what the hell. The theory itself is basically true. Therefore, it stands to
reason that an engine built along the lines of the electric computer could be
adjusted to arrange words (instead of numbers) in their right order according to the
rules of grammar. Give it the verbs, the nouns, the adjectives, the pronouns, store
them in the memory section as a vocabulary, and arrange for them to be extracted
as required. Then feed it with plots and leave it to write the sentences.
There was no stopping Knipe now. He went to work immediately, and there
followed during the next few days a period of intense labour. The living-room
became littered with sheets of paper; formulae and calculations; lists of words,
thousands and thousands of words; the plots of stories, curiously broken up and
subdivided; huge extracts from Roget’s Thesaurus; pages filled with the first
names of men and women; hundreds of surnames taken from the telephone
directory; intricate drawings of wires and circuits and switches and thermionic
valves; drawings of machines that could punch holes of different shapes in little
cards, and of a strange electric typewriter that could type ten thousand words a
minute. Also a kind of control panel with a series of small push-buttons, each one
labeled with the name of a famous American magazine.
He was working in a mood of exultation, prowling around the room amidst this
littering of paper, rubbing his hands together, talking out loud to himself; and
sometimes, with a sly curl of the nose he would mutter a series of murderous
imprecations in which the word “editor” seemed always to be present. On the
fifteenth day of continuous work, he collected the papers into two large folders
which he carried – almost at a run – to the officers of John Bohlen Inc., electrical
engineers.
Mr Bohlen was pleased to see him back.
“Well, Knipe, good gracious me, you look a hundred per cent better. You have
a good holiday? Where’d you go?”
He’s just as ugly and untidy as ever, Mr Bohlen thought. Why doesn’t he stand
up straight? He looks like a bent stick. “You look a hundred per cent better, my
boy.” I wonder what he’s grinning about. Every time I see him, his ears seem to
have got larger.
Adolph Knipe placed the folders on the desk. “Look, Mr Bohlen!” he cried.
“Look at these!”
Then he poured out his story. He opened the folders and pushed the plans in
front of the astonished little man. He talked for over an hour, explaining
everything, and when he had finished, he stepped back, breathless, flushed, waiting
for the verdict.
“You know what I think, Knipe? I think you’re nuts.” Careful now, Mr Bohlen
told himself. Treat him carefully. He’s valuable, this one is. If only he didn’t look
so awful, with that long horse face and the big teeth. The fellow had ears as big as
rhubarb leaves.
 “But Mr Bohlen! It’ll work! I’ve proved to you it’ll work! You can’t deny
that!”
“Take it easy now, Knipe. Take it easy and listen to me.”
Adolph Knipe watched this man, disliking him more every second.
“This idea,” Mr Bohlen’s lower lip was saying, “is very ingenious – I might
say almost brilliant – and it only goes to confirm my opinion of your abilities,
Knipe. But don’t take it too seriously. After all, my boy, what possible use can it
be to us? Who on earth wants a machine for writing stories? And where’s the
money in it anyway? Just tell me that.”
“May I sit down, sir?”
“Sure, take a seat.”
Adolph Knipe seated himself on the edge of a chair. The older man watched
him with alert brown eyes, wondering what was coming now.
“I would like to explain something Mr Bohlen, if I may, about how I came to do
all this.”
“Go right ahead, Knipe.” He would have to be humoured a little now, Mr
Bohlen told himself. The boy was really valuable – a sort of genius, almost – worth
his weight in gold to the firm. Just look at these papers here. Darndest thing ever
saw. Astonishing piece of work. Quite useless, of course. No commercial value.
But it proved again the boy’s ability.
“It’s a sort of confession, I suppose, Mr Bohlen. I think it explains why I’ve
always been so …so kind of worried.”
“You tell me anything you want, Knipe. I’m here to help you – you know that.”
The young man clasped his hands together tight on his lap, hugging himself
with his elbows. It seemed as though suddenly he was feeling very cold.
“You see, Mr Bohlen, to tell the honest truth, I don’t really care much for my
work here. I know I’m good at it and all that sort of thing, but my heart’s not in it.
It’s not what I want to do most.”
Up went Mr Bohlen’s eyebrows, quick like a spring. His whole body became
very still.
 “You see, sir, all my life I’ve wanted to be a writer.”
“A writer!”
“Yes, Mr Bohlen. You may not believe it, but every bit of spare time I’ve had,
I’ve spent writing stories. In the last ten years I’ve written hundreds, literally
hundreds of short stories. Five hundred and sixty-six, to be precise. Approximately
one a week.”
“Good heavens. Man! What on earth did you do that for?”
“All I know, sir, is I have the urge.”
“What sort of urge?”
“The creative urge, Mr Bohlen.” Every time he looked up he saw Mr Bohlen’s
lips. They were growing thinner and thinner, more and more purple.
“And may I ask you what you do with these stories, Knipe?”
“Well, sir, that’s the trouble. No one will buy them. Each time I finish one, I
send it out on the rounds. It goes to one magazine after another. That’s all that
happens, Mr Bohlen, and they simply send them back. It’s very depressing.”
Mr Bohlen relaxed. “I can see quite well how you feel, my boy.” His voice was
dripping with sympathy. “We all go through it one time or another in our lives. But
now – now that you’ve had proof – positive proof – from the experts themselves,
from the editors, that your stories are – what shall I say – rather unsuccessful, it’s
time to leave off. Forget it, my boy. Just forget all about it.”
“No, Mr Bohlen! No! That’s not true! I know my stories are good. My heavens,
when you compare them with the stuff some of those magazines print – oh my
word, Mr Bohlen! – the sloppy, boring stuff that you see in the magazines week
after week – why, it drives me mad!”
“Now, wait a minute, my boy…”
“Do you ever read the magazines, Mr Bohlen?”
“You’ll pardon me, Knipe, but what’s all this got to do with your machine?”
“Everything, Mr Bohlen, absolutely everything! What I want to tell you is, I’ve
made a study of magazines, and it seems that each one tends to have its own
particular type of story. The writers – the successful ones – know this, and they
write accordingly.”
“Just a minute, my boy. Calm yourself down, will you. I don’t think all this is
getting us anywhere.”
“Please, Mr Bohlen, hear me through. It’s all terribly important.” He paused to
catch his breath. He was properly worked up now, throwing his hands around as he
talked. The long, toothy face, with the big ears on either side, simply shone with
enthusiasm, and there was an excess of saliva in his mouth which caused him to
speak his words wet. “So you see, on my machine, by having an adjustable co-
ordinator between the “plot-memory” section and the “word-memory” section I am
able to produce any type of story I desire simply by pressing the required button.”
“Yes, I know, Knipe, This is all very interesting, but what’s the point of it?”
“Just this, Mr Bohlen. The market is limited. We’ve got to be able to produce
the right stuff, at the right time, whenever we want it. It’s a matter of business,
that’s all. I’m looking at it from your point of view now – as a commercial
proposition.”
“My dear boy, it can’t possibly be a commercial proposition – ever. You know
as well as I do what it costs to build one of these machines.”
“Yes, sir, I do. But with due respect, I don’t believe you know what the
magazines pay writers for stories.”
“What do they pay?”
“Anything up to twenty-five hundred dollars. It probably averages around a
thousand.”
Mr Bohlen jumped.
“Yes sir, it is true.”
“Absolutely impossible, Knipe! Ridiculous!”
“No sir, it is true.”
“You mean to sit there and tell me that these magazines pay out money like
that to a man for …just for scribbling off a story! Good heavens, Knipe! Whatever
next! Writers must all be millionaires!”
 “That’s exactly it, Mr Bohlen! That’s where the machine comes in. Listen a
minute, sir, while I tell you some more. I’ve got it all worked out. The big
magazines are carrying approximately three fiction stories in each issue. Now, take
the fifteen most important magazines – the ones paying the most money. A few of
them are monthlies, but most of them come out every week. All right. That makes,
let us say, around forty big stories being bought each week. That’s forty thousand
dollars. So with our machine – when we get it working properly – we can collar
nearly the whole of this market!”
“My dear boy, you are mad!”
“No sir, honestly, it’s true what I say. Don’t you see that with volume alone
we’ll completely overwhelm them! This machine can produce a five-thousand
word story, all typed and ready for dispatch, in thirty seconds. How can the writers
compete with that? I ask you, Mr Bohen, how?”
At that point, Adolph Knipe noticed a slight change in the man’s expression, an
extra brightness in the eyes, the nostrils distending, the whole face becoming still,
almost rigid. Quickly, he continued.
“Nowadays, Mr Bohlen, the hand-made article hasn’t a hope. It can’t possibly
compete with mass-production., especially in this country – you know that.
Carpets…chairs…shoes…bricks…crockery…anything you like to mention - they
are all made by machinery now. The quality may be inferior, but that doesn’t
matter. It’s the cost of production that counts. And stories – well - they are just
another product, like carpets and chairs, and no one cares how you produce them
so long as you deliver the goods. We’ll sell them wholesale, Mr Bohlen! We’ll
undercut every writer in the country! We’ll corner the market!”
Mr Bohlen edged up straighter in the chair. He was leaning forward now, both
elbows on the desk, the face alert, the small brown eyes on the speaker.
“I sill think it’s impracticable, Knipe.”
“Forty thousand a week!” cried Knipe. “And if we halve the price, making it
twenty thousand a week, that’s still a million a year!” And softly added. “You
didn’t get any million a year for building the old electronic calculator, did you, Mr
Bohlen?”
“But seriously now, Knipe. D’you really think they’d buy them?”
“Listen, Mr Bohlen. Who on earth is going to want custom-made stories when
they can get the other kind at half the price? It stands to reason, doesn’t it?”
“And how will you sell them? Who will you say has written them?”
“We’ll set up our own literary agency, and we’ll distribute them through
that. And we’ll invent all the names we want for the writers.”
“I don’t like it, Knipe. To me, that smacks of trickery, does it not?”
“And another thing, Mr Bohlen. There’s all manner of valuable by-products
once you’ve got started. Take advertising, for example. Beer manufacturers and
people like that are willing to pay good money these days if famous writers will
lend their names to their products. Why, my heavens, Mr Bohlen! This isn’t any
children’s playing we’re talking about. It’s big business.”
“Don’t get too ambitious, my boy.”
“And another thing. There isn’t any reason why we shouldn’t put your name,
Mr Bohlen, on some of the better stories, if you wished it.”
“My goodness, Knipe. What should I want that for?”
“I don’t know, sir, except that some writers get to be very much respected –
like Mr Erle Gardner or Kathleen Morris, for example. We’ve got to have names,
and I was certainly thinking of using my own on one or two stories, just to help
out.”
“A writer, eh?” Mr Bohlen said, musing. “Well, it would surely surprise them
over at the club when they saw my name in the magazines – the good magazines.”
“That’s right, Mr Bohlen.”
For a moment, a dreamy, faraway look came into Mr Bohlen’s eyes, and he
smiled. Then he stirred himself and began leafing through the plans that lay before
him.”
“One thing I don’t quite understand, Knipe. Where do the plots come from?
The machine can’t possibly invent plots.”
 “We feed those in, sir. That’s no problem at all. Everyone has plots. There’s
three of four hundred of them written down in that folder there on your left. Feed
them straight into the “plot memory” section of the machine.”
“Go on.”
“There are many other little refinements, too, Mr Bohlen. You’ll see them all
when you study the plans carefully. For example, there’s a trick that nearly every
writer uses, of inserting at least one long, obscure word into each story. This makes
the reader think that the writer is wise and clever. So I have the machine do the
same thing. There’ll be a whole stack of long words stored away just for this
purpose.”
“Where?”
“In the “word-memory” section,” he said, epexegetically.
Through most of that day the two men discussed the possibilities of the new
engine. In the end, Mr Bohlen said he would have to think about it some more. The
next morning, he was quietly enthusiastic. Within a week, he was completely sold
on the idea.
“What we’ll have to do, Knipe, is to say that we are merely building another
mathematical calculator, but of a new type. That’ll keep the secret.”
“Exactly. Mr Bohlen.”
And in six months the machine was completed. It was housed in a separate
brick building at the back of the premises, and now that it was ready for action, no
one was allowed near it excepting Mr Bohlen and Adolph Knipe.
It was an exciting moment when the two men – the one, short, plump, breviped
– the other tall, thin and toothy – stood in the corridor before the control panel and
got ready to run off the first story. All around them were walls dividing up into
many small corridors and the walls were covered with wiring and plugs and
switches and huge glass valves. They were both nervous, Mr Bohlen hopping from
one foot to the other, quite unable to keep still.
“Which button?” Adolph Knipe asked, eyeing a row of small white discs that
resembled the keys of a typewriter. “You choose, Mr Bohlen. Lots of magazines to
pick from – Saturday Evening Post, Collier’s, Ladies’ Home Journal – any one
you like.”
“Goodness me, boy! How do I know?” He was jumping down like a man with
hives.
“Mr Bohlen,” Adolph Knipe said gravely, “do you realize that at this moment,
with your little finger alone, you have it in your power to become the most
versatile writer on this continent?”
“Listen, Knipe, just get on with it, will you please and cut out the
preliminaries.”
“Okay, Mr Bohlen. Then we’ll make it … let me see – this one. How’s that?
He extended one finger and pressed down a button with the name TODAY’S
WOMAN printed across it in diminutive black type. There was a sharp click, and
when he took his finger away, the button remained down, below the level of the
others.
“So much for the selection,” he said. “Now – here we go!” He reached up and
pulled a switch on the panel. Immediately, the room was filled with a loud
humming noise, and a cracking of electric sparks, and the jingle of many, tiny,
quickly-moving levers: and almost in the same instant, sheets of quarto paper
began sliding out from a slot to the right of the control panel and dropping into a
basket below. They came out quick, one sheet a second, and in less than half a
minute it was all over. The sheets stopped coming.
“That’s it!” Adolph Knipe cried. “There’s your story!”
They grabbed the sheets and began to read. The first one they picked up started
as follows:” fhgur,ncds,afkjffhtymdfn,akj,djwkhfgrth,e,vmaelLKDUERB…” They
looked at the others. The style was roughly similar in all of them. Mr Bohlen began
to shout. The younger man tried to calm him down.
“It’s all right, sir. Really it is. It only needs a little adjustment. We’ve got a
connection wrong somewhere, that’s all. You must remember, Mr Bohlen, there’s
over a million feet of writing in this room. You can’t expect everything to be right
first time.”
 “It’ll never work,” Mr Bohlen said.
“Be patient, sir. Be patient.”
Adolph Knipe set out to discover the fault, and in four days’ time he
announced that all was ready for the next try.
“It’ll never work,” Mr Bohlen said. “I know it’ll never work.” Knipe smiled
and pressed the selector button marked Reader’s Digest. Then he pulled the switch,
and again the strange, exciting, humming sound filled the room. One page of
typescript flew out of the slot into the basket.
“Where’s the rest?” Mr Bohlen cried. “It’s stopped! It’s gone wrong!”
“No, sir, it hasn’t. It’s exactly right. It’s for the Digest, don’t you see?”
This time it began:
“Fewpeopleyetknowthatarevolutionarynewcurehsabeendiscoveredwhichmaywellbr
ingpermanentrelieftosuferersofthemostdreadeddiseaseofourtime…” And so on.
“It’s gibberish!” Mr Bohlen shouted.
“No, sir, it’s fine. Can’t you see? It’s simply that she’s not breaking up the
words. That’s an easy adjustment. But the story’s there. Look, Mr Bohlen, look!
It’s all there except that the words are joined together.”
And indeed it was.
On the next try a few days later, everything was perfect, even the punctuation.
The first story they ran off, for a famous women’s magazine, was a solid, plotty
story of a boy who wanted to better himself with his rich employer. This boy
arranged, so that story went, for a friend to hold up the rich man’s daughter on a
dark night when she was driving home. Then the boy himself, happening by,
knocked the gun out of his friend’s hand and rescued the girl. The girl was grateful.
But the father was suspicious. He questioned the boy sharply. The boy broke down
and confessed. Then the father, instead of kicking him out of the house, said that
he admired the boy’s resourcefulness. The girl admired his honesty – and his
looks. The father promised him to be head of the Accounts Department. The girl
married him.
“It’s tremendous, Mr Bohlen! It’s exactly right!”
 “Seems a bit sloppy to me, my boy!”
“No, sir, it’s a seller, a real seller!”
In his excitement, Adolph Knipe promptly ran off six more stories in as many
minutes. All of them – except one, which for some reason came out a trifle lewd –
seemed entirely satisfactory.
Mr Bohlen was now mollified. He agreed to set up a literary agency in an
office downtown, and to put Knipe in charge. In a couple of weeks, this was
accomplished. Then Knipe mailed out the first dozen stories. He put his own name
to four of them, Mr Bohlen’s to one, and for the others he simply invented names.
Five of these stories were promptly accepted. The one with Mr Bohlen’s name
on it was turned down with a letter from the fiction editor saying. “This is a skillful
job, but in our opinion it doesn’t quite come off. We would like to see more of this
writer’s work…” Adolph Knipe took a cab to the factory and ran off another story
for the same magazine. He again put Mr Bohlen’s name to it, and mailed it
immediately. That one they bought.
The money started pouring in. Knipe slowly and carefully stepped up the
output, and in six months’ time he was delivering thirty stories a week, and selling
about half.
He began to make a name for himself in literary circles as a prolific and
successful writer. So did Mr Bohlen; but not quite such a good name, although he
didn’t know it. At the same time, Knipe was building up a dozen or more fictitious
persons as promising young writers. Everything was going fine.
At this point it was decided to adapt the machine for writing novels as well as
stories. Mr Bohlen, thirsting now for greater honours in the literary world, insisted
that Knipe go to work at once on this prodigious task.
“I want to do a novel,” he kept saying. “I want to do a novel.”
“And so you will, sir. And so you will. But please be patient. This is a very
complicated adjustment I have to make.”
“Everyone tells me I ought to do a novel,” Mr Bohlen cried. “All sorts of
publishers are chasing after me day and night begging me to stop fooling around
with stories and do something really important instead. A novel’s the only thing
that counts – that’s what they say.”
“We’re going to do novels.” Knipe told him. “Just as many as we want. But
please be patient.”
“Now listen to me, Knipe. What I’m going to do is a serious novel, something
that I’ll make ‘em sit up and take notice. I’ve been getting rather tired of the sort of
stories you’ve been putting my name to lately. As a matter of fact, I’m none too
sure you haven’t been trying to make a monkey out of me.”
“A monkey, Mr Bohlen?”
“Keeping all the best ones for yourself, that’s what you’ve been doing.”
“Oh no, Mr Bohlen! No!”
“So this time I’m going to make damn sure I write a high class intelligent book.
You understand that.”
“Look, Mr Bohlen. With the sort of switchboard I’m rigging up, you’ll be able
to write any sort of book you want.”
And this was true, for within another couple of months, the genius of Adolph
Knipe had not only adapted the machine for novel writing, but had constructed a
marvelous new control system which enabled the author to pre-select literally any
type of plot and any style of writing he desired. There were so many dials and
levers on the thing, it looked like the instrumental panel of some enormous
aeroplane.
First, by depressing one of a series of master buttons, the writer made his
primary decision: historical, satirical, philosophical, political, romantic, erotic,
humorous, or straight. Then, from the second row (the basic buttons), he chose his
theme: army life, pioneer days, civil war, world war, racial problem, wild west,
country life, childhood memories, seafaring, the sea bottom and many, many more.
The third row of buttons gave a choice of literary style: classical, whimsical, racy,
Hemingway, Faulkner, Joyce, feminine, etc. The fourth row was for characters, the
forth for wordage – and so on and so on – ten long rows of pre-elect buttons.
 But that wasn’t all. Control had also to be exercised during the actual writing
process (which took about fifteen minutes per novel), and to do this the author had
to sit, as it were, in the driver’s seat, and pull (or push) a battery of labeled stops,
as on an organ. By so doing, he was able continually to modulate or merge fifty
different and variable qualities such as tension, surprise, humour, pathos, and
mystery. Numerous dials and gauges on the dashboard itself told him throughout
exactly how far along he was with his work.
Finally, there was the question of “passion”. From a careful study of the books
at the top of the bestseller lists for the past year, Adolph Knipe had decided that
this was the most important ingredient of all – a magical catalyst that somehow or
other could transform the dullest novel into a howling success – at any rate
financially. But Knipe also knew that passion was powerful, heady stuff, and must
be prudently dispensed – the right proportions at the right moments: and to ensure
this, he had devised an independent control consisting of two sensitive sliding
adjusters operated by foot-pedals, similar to the throttle and brake in a car. One
pedal governed the percentage of passion to be injected, the other regulated its
intensity. There was no doubt, of course – and this was the only drawback – that
the writing of a novel by the Knipe methods was going to be rather like flying a
plane and driving a car and playing an organ all at the same time, but this did not
trouble the inventor. When all was ready, he proudly escorted Mr Bohlen into the
machine house and began to explain the operating procedure for the new wonder.
“Good God, Knipe! I’ll never be able to do all that! Dammit man, it’d be easier
to write the thing by hand!”
“You’ll soon get used to it, Mr Bohlen, I promise you. In a week or two, you’ll
be doing it without hardly thinking. It’s just like learning to drive.”
Well, it wasn’t quite as easy as that, but after many hours of practice, Mr
Bohlen began to get the hang of it, and finally, late one evening, he told Knipe to
make ready for running off the first novel. It was a tense moment, with the fat little
man crouching nervously in the driver’s seat, and the tall toothy Knipe fussing
excitedly around him.
 “I intend to write an important novel, Knipe.”
“I am sure you will, sir. I am sure you will.”
With one finger, Mr Bohlen carefully pressed the necessary preselector buttons:
Master button - satirical
Subject – racial problem
Style – classical
Characters – six men, four women, one infant
Length – fifteen chapters
At the same time he had his eye particularly upon three organ stops marked
power, mystery, profundity.
“Are you ready, sir?”
“Yes, yes, I’m ready.”
Knipe pulled the switch. The great engine hummed. There was a deep whirring
sound from the oiled movement of fifty thousand cogs and rods and levers; then
came the drumming of the rapid electrical typewriter, setting up a shrill, almost
intolerable clatter. Out into the basket flew the typewritten pages – one very two
seconds. But what with the noise and the excitement and having to play upon the
stops, and watch the chapter-counter and the pace-indicator and the passion-gauge,
Mr Bohlen began to panic. He reacted in precisely the way a learner driver does in
a car – by pressing both feet hard on the pedals and keeping them there until the
thing stopped.
“Congratulations on your first novel,” Knipe said, picking up the great bundle
of typed pages from the basket.
Little pearls of sweat were oozing all over Mr Bohlen’s face. “It sure was hard
work, my boy.”
“But you got it done, sir. You got it done.”
“Let me see it, Knipe. How does it read?”
He started to go through the first chapter, passing each finished page to the
younger man.
 “Good heavens, Knipe! What’s this!” Mr Bohlen’s thin purple fish-lip was
moving slightly as it mouthed the words, his cheeks were beginning slowly to
inflate.
“But look here, Knipe! This is outrageous!”
“I must say it’s a bit fruity, sir”
“Fruity! It’s perfectly revolting! I can’t possibly put my name to this!”
“Quite right, sir. Quite right!”
“Knipe! Is this some nasty trick you’ve been playing on me?”
“Oh no, sir! No!”
“It certainly looks like it.”
“You don’t think, Mr Bohlen, that you mightn’t have been pressing a little
hard on the passion control pedals, do you?”
“My dear boy, how should I know.”
“Why don’t you try another?”
So Mr Bohlen ran off a second novel, and this time it went according to plan.
Within a week, the manuscript had been read and accepted by an enthusiastic
publisher. Knipe followed with one in his own name, then made a dozen more for
good measure. In no time at all, Adolph Knipe’s Literary Agency had become
famous for its large stable of promising young novelists. And once again the
money started rolling in.
It was at this stage that young Knipe began to display a real talent for big
business.
“See here, Mr Bohlen,” he said. “We still got too much competition. Why
don’t we just absorb all the other writers in the country?”
Mr Bohlen, who now sported a bottle-green velvet jacket and allowed his hair
to cover two-thirds of his ears, was quite content with things the way they were.
”Don’t know what you mean, my boy. You can’t just absorb writers.”
“Of course you can, sir, exactly like Rockefeller did with his oil companies.
Simply buy them out, and if they won’t sell, squeeze them out. It’s easy!”
“Careful now, Knipe. Be careful.”
 “I’ve got a list here, sir, of fifty of the most successful writers in the country,
and what I intend to do is offer each one of them a lifetime contract with pay. All
they have to do is undertake never to write another word; and, of course, to let us
use their names on our own stuff. How about that.”
“They’ll never agree.”
“You don’t know writers, Mr Bohlen. You watch and see.”
“What about the creative urge, Knipe?”
“It’s bunk! All they are really interested in is the money – just like everybody
else.”
In the end, Mr Bohlen reluctantly agreed to give it a try, and Knipe, with his
list of writers in his pocket, went off in a large chauffeur-driven Cadillac to make
his calls.
He journeyed first to the man at the top of the list, a very great and wonderful
writer, and he had no trouble getting into the house. He told his story and produced
a suitcase full of sample novels and a contract for the man to sign which
guaranteed him so much a year for life. The man listened politely, decided he was
dealing with a lunatic, gave him a drink, then firmly showed him to the door.
The second writer on the list, when he saw Knipe was serious, actually
attacked him with a large metal paper-weight, and the inventor had to flee down
the garden followed by such a torrent of abuse and obscenity as he had never heard
before.
But it took more than this to discourage Adolph Knipe. He was disappointed
but not dismayed, and off he went in his big car to seek his next client. This one
was a female, famous and popular, whose fat romantic books sold by the million
across the country. She received Knipe graciously, gave him tea, and listened
attentively to his story.
“It all sounds very fascinating,” she said. “But of course I find it a little hard to
believe.”
“Madam,” Knipe answered. “Come with me and see it with your own eyes. My
car awaits you.”
 So off they went, and in due course, the astonished lady was ushered into the
machine house where the wonder was kept. Eagerly, Knipe explained its workings,
and after a while he even permitted her to sit in the driver’s seat and practice with
the buttons.
“All right,” he said suddenly, “you want to do a book now?”
“Oh yes!” she cried. “Please!”
She was very competent and seemed to know exactly what she wanted. She
made her own pre-selections, then ran off a long, romantic, passion-filled novel.
She read through the first chapter and became so enthusiastic that she signed up on
the spot.
“That’s one of them out of the way,” Knipe said to Mr Bohlen afterwards. “A
pretty big one too.”
“Nice work, my boy.”
“And you know why she signed?”
“Why?”
“It wasn’t the money. She’s got plenty of that.”
“Then why?”
Knipe grinned, lifting his lip and baring a long pale upper gum. “Simply
because she saw the machine-made stuff was better than her own.”
Thereafter, Knipe wisely decided to concentrate only upon mediocrity.
Anything better than that – and there were so few it didn’t matter much – was
apparently not quite so easy to seduce.
In the end, after several months of work, he had persuaded something like
seventy per cent of the writers on his list to sign the contract. He found that the
older ones, those who were running out of ideas and had taken to drink, were the
easiest to handle. The younger people were more troublesome. They were apt to
become abusive, sometimes violent when he approached them; and more than once
Knipe was slightly injured on his rounds.
But on the whole, it was a satisfactory beginning. This last year – the first full
year of the machine’s operation – it was estimated that at least one half of all the
novels and stories published in the English language were produced by Adolph
Knipe upon the Great Automatic Grammatizator.
Does this surprise you?
I doubt it.
And worse is yet to come. Today, as the secret spreads, many more are
hurrying to tie up with Mr Knipe. And all the time the screw turns tighter for those
who hesitate to sign their names.
This very moment, as I sit here listening to the howling of my nine starving
children in the other room, I can feel my own hand creeping closer and closer to
that golden contract that lies over on the other side of the desk.
Give us strength, Oh Lord, to let our children starve.

I. Speak about the author of the story.

II. Transcribe the given words and read them correctly:

accomplish, ambitious, genius, gibberish, enthusiastic, mediocrity, obscure,
pathos, preliminary, prolific, ridiculous, versatile

III. Learn the essential vocabulary:

A. General Vocabulary
rapid
contribute, contribution to smth.
sloppily, sloppy
impracticable
to revenge oneself on/upon smb
to astonish
precise
urge (n.)

B. Phrasal Verbs
 to be worked up
to break down
to turn smth/smb down
to come off
to run smth off
to step smth up
to sign up

C. Idioms
smb doesn’t know the half of it
it stands to reason that
worth its/his, etc. weight in gold
my/his etc. heart is not in it
Whatever next!
for good measure

D. Prepositional Phrases
(sell) by the million
to adapt for smth
from a (certain) angle
along the lines of
at half the price

IV. Learn the following derivational patterns; define its meaning; give 5-6
examples of derivatives built after it:
Sub + -v = V subdivide
N + -ery = N machinery
Pre +v = V pre-select

V. Say who is meant; find reference to the people in the story:

 Erle Gardner, Hemingway, Faulkner, Joyce, Rockefeller

VI. Explain what is meant by:

telephone directory, a literary agency/agent, Collier’s, Saturday Evening Post,
Reader’s Digest, thesaurus, Cadillac

VII. Explain the difference between:

1. continuous – continual
2. to care for – to care about
3. ingenious - ingenuous

VIII. Write a short summary of the story. Retell the story

IX. Explain how you understand the following:
1. Whenever a young man gets depressed, everybody thinks it’s a woman.
2. And stories – well - they are just another product, like carpets and chairs, and
no one cares how you produce them so long as you deliver the goods. We’ll sell
them wholesale, Mr Bohlen! We’ll undercut every writer in the country! We’ll
corner the market!”
3. “They’ll never agree.”
“You don’t know writers, Mr Bohlen. You watch and see.”
“What about the creative urge, Knipe?”
“It’s bunk! All they are interested in is the money – just like everybody else.”
4. Thereafter, Knipe wisely decided to concentrate only upon mediocrity.
Anything better than that – and there were so few it didn’t matter much – was
apparently not quite so easy to seduce.
5. Give us strength. Oh Lord, to let our children starve.

X. Answer the questions:

 1. Who are the main characters of the story? What is the relationship between
them like?
2. What machine did Mr Bohlen’s firm build? What was Adolph Knipe’s
contribution to the project?
3. Knipe was a mathematical genius. But what was his secret ambition?
4. What was Knipe’s motive for building the Great Automatic Grammatizator?
What did Mr Bohlen think of the idea?
5. Why did Mr Bohlen agree to have the Grammatizator built? What was the
decisive argument?
6. Did Knipe get the machine working properly in the end? How long did it
take for the machine to produce a short story? What was the first story they
ran off?
7. Were all the stories produced by the machine published? Whose names did
Knipe put to the stories?
8. How was the machine adapted for writing novels? Was the first novel Mr
Bohlen ran off a seller? What reputation did Knipe’s literary agency get?
9. Whose idea was it to buy out all the other writers in the country? What
contract did the authors have to sign?
10.Did all the writers agree to sign up? Who was the first one to be persuaded?
How? Who were the easiest to handle? Who were the most troublesome?
11.At the end of the first year of the machine operation, how many of all the
novels and short stories published in English were produced by the
Grammatizator?

XI. Discussion points:

1. Give Adolph Knipe’s character sketch.
2. With modern computers being so much superior to the Great Automatic
Grammatizator, do you find the idea of using a computer to mass produce
stories plausible/practicable? Why or why not?
 3. Would “machine-made” stories be inferior to “custom-made” ones? If so,
why? R. Dahl implies that most readers didn’t notice any difference. How
would you explain it?
4. If you knew for sure that a story or a novel was written by a computer,
would you enjoy reading it?
5. Why did some writers sign Mr Knipe’s contract? Why did some refuse to do
it?
6. “At least one half of all the novels and stories published in English were
produced upon the Great Automatic Grammatizator. Does it surprise you? I
doubt it.” Could you comment upon the statement?
7. What makes a good story? What are the essential ingredients?

TOMORROW AND TOMORROW AND SO FORTH

John Updike (1932 – 2009)

Whirling, talking 11D began to enter Room 109. From the quality of their
excitement Mark Prosser guessed it would rain. He had been teaching high school
for three years, yet his students still impressed him; they were such sensitive
animals. They reacted so infallibly to merely barometric pressure.
In the doorway, Brute Young paused while little Barry Snyder giggled at his
elbow. Barry’s stagy laugh rose and fell, dipping down toward some vile secret
that had to be tasted and retasted, then soaring artificially to proclaim that he, little
Barry, shared such a secret with the school’s fullback. Being Brute’s stooge was
precious to Barry. The fullback paid no attention to him; he twisted his neck to
stare at something not yet coming through the door. He yielded reluctantly to the
procession pressing him forward.
Right under Prosser’s eyes, like a murder suddenly appearing in an
annalistic frieze of kings and queens, someone stabbed a girl in the back with a
pencil; she ignored the assault saucily. Another hand yanked out Geoffrey
Langer’s shirt-tail. Geoffrey, a bright student, was uncertain whether to laugh it off
or defend himself with anger, and made a weak, half-turning gesture of
compromise, wearing an expression of distant arrogance that Prosser instantly
coordinated with baffled feelings he used to have. All along the line, in the glitter
of key chains and the acute angles of turned-back shirt cuffs, an electricity was
expressed which simple weather couldn’t generate.
Mark wondered if today Gloria Angstrom would wear that sweater, an ember-pink
angora, with very short sleeves. The virtual sleevelessness was the disturbing
factor: the exposure of those two serene arms to the air, white as thighs against the
delicate wool.
His guess was correct. A vivid pink patch flashed through the jiggle of arms and
shoulders as the final knot of youngsters entered the room.
“Take your seats,” Mr. Prosser said. “Come on. Let’s go.”
Most obeyed, but Peter Forrester, who had been at the center of the group around
Gloria, still lingered in the doorway with her, finishing some story, apparently
determined to make her laugh or gasp. When she did gasp, he tossed his head with
satisfaction. His apricot-colored hair bounced. Red-haired boys are all alike, Mark
thought, with their white eyelashes and wise-guy faces, their mouths always
twisted with an unearned self-confidence. Bluffers, the bunch of them.
When Gloria, moving in a considered, stately way, had taken her seat, and Peter
had swerved into his, Mr. Prosser said, “Peter Forrester.”
“Yes?” Peter rose, scrabbling through his book for the assigned pages.
“Kindly tell the class the exact meaning of the words „Tomorrow, and tomorrow,
and tomorrow, / Creeps in this petty pace from day to day.‟”
Peter glanced down at the high-school edition of Macbeth lying open on his desk.
One of the duller girls tittered expectantly from the back of the room. Peter was
popular with the girls; girls that age had minds like moths.
“Peter. With your book shut. We have all memorized this passage for today.
Remember?” The girl in the back of the room squealed in delight. Gloria laid her
own book face-open on her desk, where Peter could see it.
Peter shut his book with a bang and stared into Gloria’s. “Why,” he said at last, “I
think it means pretty much what it says.”
“Which is?”
“Why, that tomorrow is something we often think about. It creeps into our
conversation all the time. We couldn’t make any plans without thinking about
tomorrow.”
“I see. Then you would say that Macbeth is here referring to the, the date-book
aspect of life?”
Geoffrey Langer laughed, no doubt to please Mr. Prosser. For a moment, Mark was
pleased. But he shouldn’t play for laughs at a student’s expense. His paraphrase
had made Peter’s reading of the lines seem more ridiculous than it was. He began
to retract. “I admit—”
But Peter was going on; redheads never know when to quit. “Macbeth means that
if we quit worrying about tomorrow, and just lived for today, we could appreciate
all the wonderful things that are going on under our noses.”
Mark considered this a moment before he spoke. He would not be sarcastic. “Uh,
without denying that there is truth in what you say, Peter, do you think it likely that
Macbeth, in his situation, would be expressing such”—he couldn’t help himself
—“such sunny sentiments?”
Geoffrey laughed again. Peter’s neck reddened; he studied the floor. Gloria glared
at Mr. Prosser, the anger in her face clearly meant for him to see.
Mark hurried to undo his mistake. “Don’t misunderstand me, please,” he told
Peter. “I don’t have all the answers myself. But it seems to me the whole speech,
down to „Signifying nothing,‟ is saying that life is—well, a fraud. Nothing
wonderful about it.” “Did Shakespeare really think that?” Geoffrey Langer asked, a
nervous quickness pitching his voice high.
Mark read into Geoffrey’s question his own adolescent premonitions of the terrible
truth. The attempt he must make was plain. He turned his attention from Peter and
looked through the window toward the steadying sky. The clouds were lowering,
getting darker. “There is,” Mr. Prosser slowly began, “much darkness in
Shakespeare’s work, and no play is darker than Macbeth. The atmosphere is
poisonous, oppressive. One critic has said that in this play humanity suffocates.”
This was too fancy.
“In the middle of his career, Shakespeare wrote plays about men like Hamlet and
Othello and Macbeth—men who aren‟t allowed by their society, or bad luck, or
some minor flaw in themselves, to become the great men they might have been.
Even Shakespeare‟s comedies of this period deal with a world gone sour. It is as if
he had seen through the bright, bold surface of his earlier comedies and histories
and had looked upon something terrible. It frightened him, just as some day it may
frighten some of you.” In his determination to find the right words, he had been
staring at Gloria, without meaning to. Embarrassed, she nodded, and, realizing
what had been happening, he nodded back.
He tried to make his remarks more diffident. “But then I think Shakespeare sensed
a redeeming truth. His last plays are serene and symbolical, as if he had pierced
through the ugly facts and reached a realm where the facts are again beautiful. In
this way, Shakespeare’s total work is a more complete image of life than that of
any other writer, except perhaps for Dante, an Italian poet who wrote three
centuries earlier.” He had been taken far from the Macbeth soliloquy. Other
teachers had been happy to tell him how the kids made a game of getting him
talking. He looked toward Geoffrey. The boy was doodling on his tablet,
indifferent. Mr. Prosser concluded, “The last play Shakespeare wrote is an
extraordinary poem called The Tempest. Some of you may want to read it for your
next book reports—the ones due May tenth. It‟s a short play.”
The class had been taking a holiday. Barry Snyder was snicking BBs off the
blackboard and glancing over at Brute Young to see if he noticed. “Once more,
Barry,” Mr. Prosser said, “and out you go.” Barry blushed, and grinned to cover
the blush, his eyeballs sliding toward Brute. The dull girl in the rear of the room
was putting on lipstick. “Put that away, Alice,” Mr. Prosser commanded. She
giggled and obeyed. Sejak, the Polish boy who worked nights, was asleep at his
desk, his cheek white with pressure against the varnished wood, his mouth sagging
sidewise. Mr. Prosser had an impulse to let him sleep. But the impulse might not
be true kindness, just the self-congratulatory, kindly pose in which he sometimes
discovered himself. Besides, one breach of discipline encouraged others. He
moved down the aisle and gently shook Sejak awake. Then he turned his attention
to the mumble growing at the front of the room.
Peter Forrester was whispering to Gloria, trying to make her laugh. The girl‟s face,
though, was cool and solemn, as if a thought had been provoked in her head.
Perhaps at least she had been listening to what Mr. Prosser had been saying. With a
bracing sense of chivalrous intercession, Mark said, “Peter. I gather from this noise
that you have something to add to your theories.”
Peter responded courteously. “No, sir. I honestly don‟t understand the speech.
Please, sir, what does it mean?”
This candid admission and odd request stunned the class. Every white, round face,
eager, for once, to learn, turned toward Mark. He said, “I don‟t know. I was hoping
you would tell me.”
In college, when a professor made such a remark, it was with grand effect. The
professor‟s humility, the necessity for creative interplay between teacher and
student were dramatically impressed upon the group. But to 11D, ignorance in an
instructor was as wrong as a hole in a roof. It was as if he had held thirty strings
pulling thirty faces taut toward him and then had slashed the strings. Heads
waggled, eyes dropped, voices buzzed. Some of the discipline problems, like Peter
Forrester, smirked signals to one another.
“Quiet!” Mr. Prosser shouted. “All of you. Poetry isn’t arithmetic. There’s no
single right answer. I don’t want to force my own impression on you, even if I
have had much more experience with literature; that’s not why I’m here.” The
silent question, WHY ARE YOU HERE?, seemed to steady the air with suspense.
“I’m here”, he said, “to let you teach yourselves”.
Whether or not they believed him, they subsided, somewhat. Mark judged he could
safely assume his human-among-humans pose. He perched on the edge of the desk
and leaned forward beseechingly. “Now, honestly. Don’t any of you have some
personal feeling about the lines that you would like to share with the class and
me?”
One hand, with a flowered handkerchief balled in it, unsteadily rose. “Go ahead,
Teresa,” Mr. Prosser said encouragingly. She was a timid, clumsy girl whose
mother was a Seventh-Day Adventist.
“It makes me think of cloud shadows,” Teresa said.
Geoffrey Langer laughed. “Don’t be rude, Geoff,” Mr. Prosser said sideways,
softly, before throwing his voice forward: “Thank you, Teresa. I think that’s an
interesting and valid impression. Cloud movement has something in it of the slow,
monotonous rhythm one feels in the line „Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and
tomorrow.‟ It‟s a very gray line, isn‟t it, class?” No one agreed or disagreed.
Beyond the windows actual clouds were moving rapidly, and erratic sections of
sunlight slid around the room. Gloria‟s arm, crooked gracefully above her head,
turned gold. “Gloria?” Mr. Prosser asked.
She looked up from something on her desk with a face of sullen radiance. “I think
what Teresa said was very good,” she said, glaring in the direction of Geoffrey
Langer. Geoffrey snickered defiantly. “And I have a question. What does „petty
pace‟ mean?”
“It means the trivial day-to-day sort of life that, say, a bookkeeper or a bank clerk
leads. Or a schoolteacher,” he added, smiling.
She did not smile back. Thought wrinkles irritated her shining brow. “But Macbeth
has been fighting wars, and killing kings, and being a king himself, and all,” she
pointed out.
“Yes, but it‟s just these acts Macbeth is condemning as „nothing.‟ Can you see
that?”
Gloria shook her head. “Another thing I worry about—isn‟t it silly for Macbeth to
be talking to himself right in the middle of this war, with his wife just dead, and
all?”
“I don‟t think so, Gloria. No matter how fast events happen, thought is faster.”
His answer was weak; everyone knew it, even if Gloria hadn‟t mused, supposedly
to herself, but in a voice the entire class could hear, “It seems so stupid.”
Mark winced, pierced by the awful clarity with which his students saw him.
Through their eyes, how queer he looked, with his soft hands, and his horn-rimmed
glasses, and his hair never slicked down, all wrapped up in “literature,” where,
when things get rough, the king mumbles a poem nobody understands. The delight
Mr. Prosser took in such crazy junk made not only his good sense but his
masculinity a matter of doubt. It was gentle of them not to laugh him out of the
room. He looked down and rubbed his fingertips together, trying to erase the chalk
dust. The class noise sifted into unnatural quiet. “It‟s getting late,” he said finally.
“Let‟s start the recitations of the memorized passage. Bernard Amilson, you
begin.”
Bernard had trouble enunciating, and his rendition began, “T‟mau „n‟ t‟mau „n‟
t‟mau.‟” Mr. Prosser admired the extent to which the class tried to repress its
amusement, and wrote “A” in his marking book opposite Bernard‟s name. He
always gave Bernard A on recitations, despite the school nurse, who claimed there
was nothing organically wrong with the boy‟s mouth.
It was the custom, cruel but traditional, to deliver recitations from the front of the
room. Alice, when her turn came, was reduced to a helpless state by the first funny
face Peter Forrester made at her. Mark let her hang up there a good minute while
her face ripened to cherry redness, and at last relented: “Very well, Alice—you
may try again later.”
Many of the youngsters knew the passage gratifyingly well, though there was a
tendency to leave out the line “To the last syllable of recorded time” and to turn
“struts and frets” into “frets and struts” or simply “struts and struts.” Even Sejak,
who couldn‟t have looked at the passage before he came to class, got through it as
far as “And then is heard no more.”
Geoffrey Langer showed off, as he always did, by interrupting his own recitation
with bright questions. “„Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,‟” he said,
“„creeps in‟—shouldn‟t that be „creep in,‟ Mr. Prosser?”
“It is „creeps.‟ The trio is in effect singular. Go on. Without the footnotes”. Mr.
Prosser was tired of coddling Langer. The boy’s black hair, short and stiff, seemed
deliberately ratlike.
“„Creepsss in this petty pace from day to day, / To the last syllable of recorded
time; / And all our yesterdays have lighted fools / The way to dusty death. Out, out
—‟”
“No, no!” Mr. Prosser jumped out of his chair. “This is poetry. Don‟t mushmouth
it! Pause a little after „fools.‟” Geoffrey looked genuinely startled this time, and
Mark himself did not quite understand his annoyance and, mentally turning to see
what was behind him, seemed to glimpse in the humid undergrowth the two stern
eyes of the indignant look Gloria had thrown Geoffrey. He glimpsed himself in the
absurd position of acting as Gloria’s champion in her inscrutable private war with
this intelligent boy. He sighed apologetically. “Poetry is made up of lines,” he
began, turning to the class. Gloria was passing a note to Peter Forrester.
The rudeness of it! To pass notes during a scolding that she herself had caused!
Mark caged in his hand the girl‟s wrist—how small and frail it was!—and ripped
the note from her fingers. He read it to himself, letting the class see he was reading
it though he despised such methods of discipline. The note went:
Pete—I think you’re wrong about Mr. Prosser. I think he’s wonderful and I get a
lot out of his class. He’s heavenly with poetry. I think I love him. I really do love
him. So there.
Mr. Prosser folded the note once and slipped it into his side coat pocket. “See me
after class, Gloria,” he said. Then, to Geoffrey, “Let‟s try it again. Begin at the
beginning. Let the words talk, Geoffrey.”
While the boy was reciting the passage, the buzzer sounded the end of the period.
It was the last class of the day. The room quickly emptied, except for Gloria. The
noise of lockers slamming open and books being thrown against metal and shouts
drifted in:

“Who has a car?”

“Lend me a cig, pig.”
“We can‟t have practice in this slop.”
Mark hadn‟t noticed exactly when the rain started, but it was coming down hard
now. He moved around the room with the window pole, closing windows and
pulling down shades. Spray bounced in on his hands. He began to talk to Gloria in
a crisp voice that like his device of shutting the windows, was intended to protect
them both from embarrassment.
“About note passing.” She sat motionless at her desk in the front of the room, her
short, brushed-up hair like a cool torch. From the way she sat, her naked arms
folded at her breasts and her shoulders hunched, he felt she was chilly. “It is not
only rude to scribble when a teacher is talking, it is stupid to put one‟s words down
on paper, where they look much more foolish than they might have sounded if
spoken.” He leaned the window pole in its corner and walked toward his desk.
“And about love. „Love‟ is one of those words that illustrate what happens to an
old, overworked language. These days, with movie stars and crooners and
preachers and psychiatrists all pronouncing the word, it‟s come to mean nothing
but a vague fondness for something. In this sense, I love the rain, this blackboard,
these desks, you. It means nothing, you see, whereas once the word signified a
quite explicit thing—a desire to share all you own and are with someone else. It is
time we coined a new word to mean that, and when you think up the word you
want to use, I suggest that you be economical with it. Treat it as something you can
spend only once—if not for your own sake, for the good of the language.” He
walked over to his own desk and dropped two pencils on it, as if to say, “That‟s
all.”
“I‟m sorry,” Gloria said.
Rather surprised, Mr. Prosser said, “Don‟t be.”
“But you don‟t understand.”
“Of course I don‟t. I probably never did. At your age, I was like Geoffrey Langer.”
“I bet you weren‟t.” The girl was almost crying; he was sure of that.
“Come on, Gloria. Run along. Forget it.” She slowly cradled her books between
her bare arm and her sweater, and left the room with that melancholy teen-age
shuffle, so that her body above her hips seemed to float over the desks.
What was it, Mark asked himself, these young people were after? What did they
want? Glide, he decided, the quality of glide. To slip along, always in rhythm,
always cool, the little wheels humming under you, going nowhere special. If
Heaven existed, that‟s the way it would be there. “He‟s heavenly with poetry.”
They loved the word.
Heaven was in half their songs.
“Christ, he‟s humming.” Strunk, the phys-ed teacher, had come into the room
without Prosser‟s noticing. Gloria had left the door ajar.
“Ah,” Mark said, “a fallen angel, full of grit.”
“What the hell makes you so happy?”
“I‟m not happy, I‟m just serene. Now the day is over, et cetera.”
“Say.” Strunk came up an aisle with a disagreeably effeminate waddle, pregnant
with gossip. “Did you hear about Murchison?”
“No.” Mark mimicked Strunk‟s whisper.
“He got the pants kidded off him today.”
“Oh dear.”
Strunk started to laugh, as he often did before beginning a story. “You know what
a goddamn ladies‟ man he thinks he is?”
“You bet,” Mark said, although Strunk said that about every male member of the
faculty.
“You have Gloria Angstrom, don‟t you?”
“You bet.”
“Well, this morning Murky intercepts a note she was writing, and the note says
what a damn neat guy she thinks Murchison is and how she loves him!” Strunk
waited for Mark to say something, and then, when he didn‟t, continued, “You
could see he was tickled pink. But—get this—it turns out at lunch that the same
damn thing happened to Fryeburg in history yesterday!” Strunk laughed and, still
getting no response, gave Mark a little push—a schoolyard push. “The girl‟s too
dumb to have thought it up herself. We all think it was Peter Forrester‟s idea.”
“Probably was,” Mark agreed. Strunk followed him out to his locker, describing
Murchison‟s expression when Fryeburg (in all innocence, mind you) told what had
happened to him.
Mark turned the combination of his locker: 18, 24, 3. “Would you excuse me,
Dave?” he said. “My wife may be out front waiting. She picks me up when it
rains.”
Strunk was too thick to catch Mark’s anger. “Help yourself,” he said. “I got to get
over to the gym. Can‟t take the little darlings outside in the rain; their mommies‟ll
write notes to Teacher.” He clattered down the hall and wheeled at the far end,
shouting, “Now, don‟t tell You-know-who! The ladies‟ man!”
Mr. Prosser took his coat from the locker and shrugged it on. He placed his hat
upon his head. He fitted his rubbers over his shoes, pinching his fingers painfully,
and lifted his umbrella off the hook. He thought of opening it right there in the
vacant hall, as a kind of joke on himself, and decided not to. The girl had been
almost crying; he was sure of that.

I. Speak about the author of the story.

II. Transcribe the given words and read them correctly:
virtual, adolescent, discipline, infallibly, explicit, effeminate, sarcastic,
melancholy, soliloquy, aisle, courteously, arithmetic, chivalrous.

III. Learn the essential vocabulary:

A. General vocabulary
compromise
to provoke
odd Syn.: queer
suspense
deliberate
valid
to encourage
to scold
genuine
for the good of smb

B. Phrasal verbs
to laugh smth off
to be wrapped up in smth
to think smth up
to hang up (somewhere)

C. Idioms
a lady's man
to be tickled pink

D. Prepositional phrases
right under smb's eyes
at smb's expense
for once
in all innocence
to make a face at smb
to read smth into smth
to read to oneself
to refer to smth

IV. Explain the difference between these words; make up some sentences to
bring out the difference.
A. sensitive - sensual - sensible
B. to disturb - to bother - to worry
C. to stare - to glare
D. economic - economical
Make up some sentences to bring out the difference.

V. Learn the following derivational patterns, explain their meaning, give 5-6
examples of derivatives built on them:
A. v + -ance - N annoyance
a + -ance - N arrogant - arrogance, ignorance
B. v + -ure - N exposure
C. n + -ous - A poisonous
D. inter- + n - N interplay

VI. Explain who is meant:

Shakespeare, Dante, Hamlet, Macbeth, Othello

VII. Explain what is meant by:

fullback, thyroid eyes, beauty parlor, a Jehovah's Witness, footnote, crooner,
faculty, locker.

VIII. Read the soliloquy from "Macbeth" which Mark's students discussed in
class. How do you interpret it?

IX. Write a short summary o f the excerpt.

X. Choose a passage and prepare to read it aloud in class; explain your choice.

XI. Write out all the words, phrases, passages that characterize Mark Prosser.

XII. Explain what is meant by the following:

1. ...wearing an expression of distant arrogance that Prosser instantly coordinated
with baffled feelings he used to have.
2. a race of bluffers
3. He realized he had been playing for laughs at a student’s expense.
4. Mark read into Geoffrey’s question his own adolescent premonitions.
5. But the impulse might not be true kindness, just the self-congratulatory, kindly
pose in which he sometimes discovered himself.
6. Mark judged he could safely assume his human-among-humans pose.

XIII. Answer the following questions:

1. How long had Mark been teaching high school?
2. Why did Mark guess, looking at 11 D, that it would rain?
3. Mark disliked Peter Forrester, didn't he? Why?
4. What literary work did 11 D discuss in class?
5. Were the students interested in what they were discussing? How did they
behave?
6. Mark tried to be friendly, frank and informal, didn't he? Did he succeed?
7. How did he try to maintain discipline?
8. What did Gloria write in her note?
9. What did the physical education teacher tell Mark?

XIV. Discussion points:

1. What do you think of Mark Prosser? Give his character-sketch. What sort of
teacher was he, in your opinion? Was your literature teacher in any way like him?
2. Mark couldn't maintain discipline very well in class, could he? Why not? Was
he too young and inexperienced? Did he lack strength of character? Was he in
awe of his students? Any other reason?
What did his students think of him?
3. Mark intercepted and read the note Gloria was passing to Peter Forrester.
What do you think of this action? What would you do if it happened in your class
and you read such a note about yourself?
4. How did Mark react when he was told that Gloria's note was only a practical
joke? Did he believe it? Do you believe it? If it was a joke, it was rather a cruel
one, wasn't it?
5. What do you think of the literature lesson described in the story? Should
literature be taught at school at all? How? Should Shakespeare be taught at
school?
6. Comment upon the passage that begins with "And about love".

THE BOARDING HOUSE

James Joyce (1882 –1941)

Mrs Mooney was a butcher's daughter. She was a woman who was quite able to
keep things to herself: a determined woman. She had married her father's foreman,
and opened a butcher's shop near Spring Gardens. But as soon as his father-in-law
was dead Mr Mooney began to go to the devil. He drank, plundered the till, ran
headlong into debt. It was no use making him take the pledge: he was sure to break
out again a few days after. By fighting his wife in the presence of customers and by
buying bad meat he ruined his business. One night he went for his wife with the
cleaver, and she had to sleep in a neighbour's house.
After that they lived apart. She went to the priest and got a separation from him,
with care of the children. She would give him neither money nor food nor house-
room; and so he was obliged to enlist himself as a sheriff's man. He was a shabby
stooped little drunkard with a white face and a white moustache and white
eyebrows, pencilled above his little eyes, which were pink-veined and raw; and all
day long he sat in the bailiff's room, waiting to be put on a job. Mrs Mooney, who
had taken what remained of her money out of the butcher business and set up a
boarding house in Hardwicke Street, was a big imposing woman. Her house had a
floating population made up of tourists from Liverpool and the Isle of Man and,
occasionally, artistes from the music halls. Its resident population was made up of
clerks from the city. She governed the house cunningly and firmly, knew when to
give credit, when to be stern and when to let things pass. All the resident young
men spoke of her as The Madam.
Mrs Mooney's young men paid fifteen shillings a week for board and lodgings
(beer or stout at dinner excluded). They shared in common tastes and occupations
and for this reason they were very chummy with one another. They discussed with
one another the chances of favourites and outsiders. Jack Mooney, the Madam's
son, who was clerk to a commission agent in Fleet Street, had the reputation of
being a hard case. He was fond of using soldiers' obscenities: usually he came
home in the small hours. When he met his friends he had always a good one to tell
them, and he was always sure to be on to a good thing — that is to say, a likely
horse or a likely artiste. He was also handy with the mits and sang comic songs. On
Sunday nights there would often be a reunion in Mrs Mooney's front drawing-
room. The music-hall artistes would oblige; and Sheridan played waltzes and
polkas and vamped accompaniments. Polly Mooney, the Madam's daughter, would
also sing. She sang:
I'm a... naughty girl
You needn't sham:
You know I am.
Polly was a slim girl of nineteen; she had light soft hair and a small full mouth. Her
eyes, which were grey with a shade of green through them, had a habit of glancing
upwards when she spoke with anyone, which made her look like a little perverse
madonna. Mrs Mooney had first sent her daughter to be a typist in a corn-factor's
office, but as a disreputable sheriff's man used to come every other day to the
office, asking to be allowed to say a word to his daughter, she had taken her
daughter home again and set her to do housework. As Polly was very lively, the
intention was to give her the run of the young men. Besides, young men like to feel
that there is a young woman not very far away. Polly, of course, flirted with the
young men, but Mrs Mooney, who was a shrewd judge, knew that the young men
were only passing the time away: none of them meant business. Things went on so
for a long time, and Mrs Mooney began to think of sending Polly back to
typewriting, when she noticed that something was going on between Polly and one
of the young men. She watched the pair and kept her own counsel.
Polly knew that she was being watched, but still her mother's persistent silence
could not be misunderstood. There had been no open complicity between mother
and daughter, no open understanding, but though people in the house began to talk
of the affair, still Mrs Mooney did not intervene. Polly began to grow a little
strange in her manner, and the young man was evidently perturbed. At last, when
she judged it to be the right moment, Mrs Mooney intervened. She dealt with
moral problems as a cleaver deals with meat: and in this case she had made up her
mind.
It was a bright Sunday morning of early summer, promising heat, but with a fresh
breeze blowing. All the windows of the boarding house were open and the lace
curtains ballooned gently towards the street beneath the raised sashes. The belfry
of George's Church sent out constant peals, and worshippers, singly or in groups,
traversed the little circus before the church, revealing their purpose by their self-
contained demeanour no less than by the little volumes in their gloved hands.
Breakfast was over in the boarding house, and the table of the breakfast-room was
covered with plates on which lay yellow streaks of eggs with morsels of bacon-fat
and bacon-rind. Mrs Mooney sat in the straw arm-chair and watched the servant
Mary remove the breakfast things. She made Mary collect the crusts and pieces of
broken bread to help to make Tuesday's bread-pudding. When the table was
cleared, the broken bread collected, the sugar and butter safe under lock and key,
she began to reconstruct the interview which she had had the night before with
Polly. Things were as she had suspected: she had been frank in her questions and
Polly had been frank in her answers. Both had been somewhat ewkward, of course.
She had been made awkward by her not wishing to receive the news in too cavalier
a fashion or to seem to have connived, and Polly had been made awkward not
merely because allusions of that kind always made her awkward, but also because
she did not wish it to be thought that in her wise innocence she had divined the
intention behind her mother's tolerance.
Mrs Mooney glanced instinctively at the little gilt clock on the mantelpiece as soon
as she had become aware through her reverie that the bells of George's Church had
stopped ringing. It was seventeen minutes past eleven: she would have lots of time
to have the matter out with Mr Doran and then catch short twelve at Marlborough
Street. She was sure she would win. To begin with, she had all the weight of social
opinion on her side: she was an outraged mother. She had allowed him to live
beneath her roof, assuming that he was a man of honour, and he had simply abused
her hospitality. He was thirty-four or thirty-five years of age, so that youth could
not be pleaded as his excuse; nor could ignorance be his excuse, since he was a
man who had seen something of the world. He had simply taken advantage of
Polly's youth and inexperience: that was evident. The question was: What
reparation would he make?
There must be reparation made in such a case. It is all very well for the man: he
can go his ways as if nothing had happened, having had his moment of pleasure,
but the girl has to bear the brunt. Some mothers would be content to patch up such
an affair for a sum of money: she had known cases of it. But she would not do so.
For her only one reparation could make up for the loss of her daughter's honour:
marriage.
She counted all her cards again before sending Mary up to Mr Doran's room to say
that she wished to speak with him. She felt sure she would win. He was a serious
young man, not rakish or loud-voiced like the others. If it had been Mr Sheridan or
Mr Meade or Bantam Lyons, her task would have been much harder. She did not
think he would face publicity. All the lodgers in the house knew something of the
affair; details had been invented by some. Besides, he had been employed for
thirteen years in a great Catholic wine-merchant's office, and publicity would mean
for him, perhaps, the loss of his job. Whereas if he agreed all might be well. She
knew he had a good screw for one thing, and she suspected he had a bit of stuff put
by.
Nearly the half-hour! She stood up and surveyed herself in the pier-glass. The
decisive expression of her great florid face satisfied her, and she thought of some
mothers she knew who could not get their daughters off their hands.
Mr Doran was very anxious indeed this Sunday morning. He had made two
attempts to shave, but his hand had been so unsteady that he had been obliged to
desist. Three days' reddish beard fringed his jaws, and every two or three minutes a
mist gathered on his glasses so that he had to take them off and polish them with
his pocket-handkerchief. The recollection of his confession of the night before was
a cause of acute pain to him; the priest had drawn out every ridiculous detail of the
affair, and in the end had so magnified his sin that he was almost thankful at being
afforded a loophole of reparation. The harm was done. What could he do now but
marry her or run away? He could not brazen it out. The affair would be sure to be
talked of, and his employer would be certain to hear of it. Dublin is such a small
city: everyone knows everyone else's business. He felt his heart leap warmly in his
throat as he heard in his excited imagination old Mr Leonard calling out in his
rasping voice: `Send Mr Doran here, please.'
All his long years of service gone for nothing! All his industry and diligence
thrown away! As a young man he had sown his wild oats, of course; he had
boasted of his free-thinking and denied the existence of God to his companions in
public-houses. But that was all passed and done with... nearly. He still bought a
copy of Reynolds Newspaper every week, but he attended to his religious duties,
and for nine-tenths of the year lived a regular life. He had money enough to settle
down on; it was not that. But the family would look down on her. First of all there
was her disreputable father, and then her mother's boarding house was beginning to
get a certain fame. He had a notion that he was being had. He could imagine his
friends talking of the affair and laughing. She was a little vulgar; sometimes she
said `I seen' and `If I had've known.' But what would grammar matter if he really
loved her? He could not make up his mind whether to like her or despise her for
what she had done. Of course he had done it too. His instinct urged him to remain
free, not to marry. Once you are married you are done for, it said.
While he was sitting helplessly on the side of the bed in shirt and trousers, she
tapped lightly at his door and entered. She told him all, that she had made a clean
breast of it to her mother and that her mother would speak with him that morning.
She cried and threw her arms round his neck, saying: While he was sitting
helplessly on the side of the bed in shirt and trousers, she tapped lightly at his door
and entered. She told him all, that she had made a clean breast of it to her mother
and that her mother would speak with him that morning. She cried and threw her
arms round his neck, saying:
`O Bob! Bob! What am I to do? What am I to do at all?'
She would put an end to herself, she said.
He comforted her feebly, telling her not to cry, that it would be all right, never fear.
He felt against his shirt the agitation of her bosom.
It was not altogether his fault that it had happened. He remembered well, with the
curious patient memory of the celibate, the first casual caresses her dress, her
breath, her fingers had given him. Then late one night as he was undressing for bed
she had tapped at his door, timidly. She wanted to relight her candle at his, for hers
had been blown out by a gust. It was her bath night. She wore a loose open
combing-jacket of printed flannel. Her white instep shone in the opening of her
furry slippers and the blood glowed warmly behind her perfumed skin. From her
hands and wrists too as she lit and steadied her candle a faint perfume arose.
On nights when he came in very late it was she who warmed up his dinner. He
scarcely knew what he was eating, feeling her beside him alone, at night, in the
sleeping house. And her thoughtfulness! If the night was anyway cold or wet or
windy there was sure to be a little tumbler of punch ready for him. Perhaps they
could be happy together...
They used to go upstairs together on tiptoe, each with a candle, and on the third
landing exchange reluctant good nights. They used to kiss. He remembered well
her eyes, the touch of her hand and his delirium...
But delirium passes. He echoed her phrase, applying it to himself: `What am I to
do?' The instinct of the celibate warned him to hold back. But the sin was there;
even his sense of honour told him that reparation must be made for such a sin.
While he was sitting with her on the side of the bed Mary came to the door and
said that the missus wanted to see him in the parlour. He stood up to put on his
coat and waistcoat, more helpless than ever. When he was dressed he went over to
her to comfort her. It would be all right, never fear. He left her crying on the bed
and moaning softly: `O my God!'
Going down the stairs his glasses became so dimmed with moisture that he had to
take them off and polish them. He longed to ascend through the roof and fly away
to another country where he would never hear again of his trouble, and yet a force
pushed him downstairs step by step. The implacable faces of his employer and of
the Madam stared upon his discomfiture. On the last flight of stairs he passed Jack
Mooney, who was coming up from the pantry nursing two bottles of Bass. They
saluted coldly; and the lover's eyes rested for a second or two on a thick bulldog
face and a pair of thick short arms. When he reached the foot of the staircase he
glanced up and saw Jack regarding him from the door of the return-room. Going
down the stairs his glasses became so dimmed with moisture that he had to take
them off and polish them. He longed to ascend through the roof and fly away to
another country where he would never hear again of his trouble, and yet a force
pushed him downstairs step by step. The implacable faces of his employer and of
the Madam stared upon his discomfiture. On the last flight of stairs he passed Jack
Mooney, who was coming up from the pantry nursing two bottles of Bass. They
saluted coldly; and the lover's eyes rested for a second or two on a thick bulldog
face and a pair of thick short arms. When he reached the foot of the staircase he
glanced up and saw Jack regarding him from the door of the return-room.
Suddenly he remembered the night when one of the music-hall artistes, a little
blond Londoner, had made a rather free allusion to Polly. The reunion had been
almost broken up on account of Jack's violence. Everyone tried to quiet him. The
music-hall artiste, a little paler than usual, kept smiling and saying that there was
no harm meant; but Jack kept shouting at him that if any fellow tried that sort of a
game on with his sister he'd bloody well put his teeth down his throat: so he would.
Polly sat for a little time on the side of the bed, crying. Then she dried her eyes and
went over to the looking-glass. She dipped the end of the towel in the water-jug
and refreshed her eyes with the cool water. She looked at herself in profile and
readjusted a hairpin above her ear. Then she went back to the bed again and sat at
the foot. She regarded the pillows for a long time, and the sight of them awakened
in her mind secret, amiable memories. She rested the nape of her neck against the
cool iron bedrail and fell into a reverie. There was no longer any perturbation
visible on her face.
She waited on patiently, almost cheerfully, without alarm, her memories gradually
giving place to hopes and visions of the future. Her hopes and visions were so
intricate that she no longer saw the white pillows on which her gaze was fixed, or
remembered that she was waiting for anything.
At last she heard her mother calling. She started to her feet and ran to the banisters.
`Polly! Polly!'
`Yes, mamma?'
`Come down, dear. Mr Doran wants to speak to you.'
Then she remembered what she had been waiting for.

I. Speak about the author of the story.

II. Transcribe the given words:

publicity, survey (v), anxious, disreputable, complicity, demeanour, awkward,
perfume, delirium, reparation.

III. Learn the essential vocabulary.

A. General vocabulary
determined Cf.: decisive
to have one’s way
cunning
shrewd
to have smb/smth on one’s side
to take advantage of smb/smth
to look down on smb/smth
to despise smb for smth
to put an end to smb/smth
to caress/a caress
to mean/do no harm (to smb)

B. Phrasal verbs
to break up (a meeting, etc)
to set up (a boarding house, etc)
to be made up of smth/smb
to have (the matter) out (with smb)
C. Watch out for prepositions:
to keep things to oneself
to get smb’smth off one’s hands
to be done with Cf.: to be done for
on tiptoe
step by step

D. Idioms.
to show one’s wild oats
in the small hours
to bear the brunt
to go to the devil

IV. Explain the difference between:

A. remember – recall - recollect
B. persistent- insistent
Use the given words in situations to bring out the difference.

V. Learn the pronunciation of the following place names:

Liverpool, the Isle of Man, Dublin
Find reference to them in the story; find the places in a geographical map.

VI. Say what is meant by:

a boarding house, a boarder, board, board and lodging, board and bed, half,
board, full board.

VII. Write a short summary of the story; retell the story.

VIII. Choose a passage and prepare its phonetic reading. Give reasons for your
choice.

IX. Write out all the words, phrases and passages the author uses to portray Mrs
Mooney, Polly, Mr Doran; give their character sketches.

X. Points for discussion:

1. Was there anything in Mrs Mooney’s character that perhaps made her husband
go to the devil?
2. Comment on the sentence “She dealt with moral problems as a cleaver deals
with meat”.
3. Does Polly seem to be taking after her mother? In what way?
4. What do you think of Mr Doran? Do you agree that he was a victim of Mrs
Mooney’s scheme? Do you feel pity for him?
5. Is the marriage of Polly and Mr Doran Likely to be happy?
6. Do you agree with the following: “Once you are married you are done for”?
Why or why not?
 LOUISE
W. S. Maugham (1874-1965)

I could never understand why Louise bothered with me. She disliked me and
I knew that behind my back, in that gentle way of hers, she seldom lost the
opportunity of saying a disagreeable thing about me. She had too much delicacy
ever to make a direct statement, but with a hint and a sigh and a little flutter of her
beautiful hands she was able to make her meaning plain. She was a mistress of
cold praise. It was true that we had known one another almost intimately, for five-
and-twenty years, but it was impossible for me to believe that she could be affected
by the claims of old association. She thought me a coarse, brutal, cynical, and
vulgar fellow. I was puzzled at her not taking the obvious course and dropping me.
She did nothing of the kind; indeed, she would not leave me alone; she was
constantly asking me to lunch and dine with her and once or twice a year invited
me to spend a week-end at her house in the country. At last I thought that I had
discovered her motive. She had an uneasy suspicion that I did not believe in her;
and if that was why she did not like me, it was also why she sought my
acquaintance: it galled her that I alone should look upon her as a comic figure and
she could not rest till I acknowledged myself mistaken and defeated. Perhaps she
had an inkling that I saw the face behind the mask and because I alone held out
was determined that sooner or later I too should take the mask for the face. I was
never quite certain that she was a complete humbug. I wondered whether she
fooled herself as thoroughly as she fooled the world or whether there was some
spark of humour at the bottom of her heart. If there was it might be that she was
attracted to me, as a pair of crooks might be attracted to one another, by the
knowledge that we shared a secret that was hidden from everybody else.
I knew Louise before she married. She was then a frail, delicate girl with
large and melancholy eyes. Her father and mother worshipped her with an anxious
adoration, for some illness, scarlet fever I think, left her with a weak heart and she
had to take the greatest care of herself. When Tom Maitland proposed to her they
were dismayed, for they were convinced that she was much too delicate for the
strenuous state of marriage. But they were not too well off and Tom Maitland was
rich. He promised to do everything in the world for Louise and finally they
entrusted her to him as a sacred charge. Tom Maitland was a big, husky fellow,
very good-looking, and a fine athlete. He doted on Louise. With her weak heart he
could not hope to keep her with him long and he made up his mind to do
everything he could to make her few years on earth happy. He gave up the games
he excelled in, not because she wished him to, she was glad that he should play
golf and hunt, but because by a coincidence she had a heart attack whenever he
proposed to leave her for a day. If they had a difference of opinion she gave in to
him at once, for she was the most submissive wife a man could have, but her heart
failed her and she would be laid up, sweet and uncomplaining, for a week. He
could not be such a brute as to cross her. Then they would have a quiet little tussle
about which should yield and it was only with difficulty that at last he persuaded
her to have her own way. On one occasion seeing her walk eight miles on an
expedition that she particularly wanted to make, I suggested to Tom Maitland that
she was stronger than one would have thought. He shook his head and sighed.
“No, no, she’s dreadfully delicate. She’s been to all the best heart specialists
in the world, and they all say that her life hangs on a thread. But she has an
unconquerable spirit.”
He told her that I had remarked on her endurance.
“I shall pay for it tomorrow” she said to me in her plaintive way. ?I shall be
at death’s door.?
“I sometimes think that you're quite strong enough to do the things you want
to,” I murmured.
I had noticed that if a party was amusing she could dance till five in the
morning, but if it was dull she felt very poorly and Tom had to take her home
early. I am afraid she did not like my reply, for though she gave me a pathetic little
smile I saw no amusement in her large blue eyes.
“You can’t very well expect me to fall down dead just to please you,” she
answered.
Louise outlived her husband. He caught his death of cold one day when they were
sailing and Louise needed all the rugs there were to keep her warm. He left her a
comfortable fortune and a daughter. Louise was inconsolable. It was wonderful
that she managed to survive the shock. Her friends expected
her speedily to follow poor Tom Maitland to the grave. Indeed they already felt
dreadfully sorry for Iris, her daughter, who would be left an orphan. They
redoubled their attentions towards Louise. They would not let her stir a finger; they
insisted on doing everything in the world to save her trouble. They had to, because
if she was called upon to do anything tiresome or inconvenient her heart went back
on her and there she was at death?s door. She was entirely lost without a man to
take care of her, she said, and she did not know how, with her delicate health, she
was going to bring up her dear Iris. Her friends asked why she did not marry again.
Oh, with her heart it was out of the question, though of course she knew that dear
Tom would have wished her to, and perhaps it would be the best thing for Iris if
she did; but who would want to be bothered with a wretched invalid like herself?
Oddly enough more than one young man showed himself quite ready to undertake
the charge and a year after Tom?s death she allowed George Hobhouse to lead her
to the altar. He was a fine, upstanding fellow, and he was not at all badly off. I
never saw anyone so grateful as he for the privilege of being allowed to take care
of this frail little thing.

?I shan?t live to trouble you long,? she said.

He was a soldier and an ambitious one, but he resigned his commission. Louise?s
health forced her to spend the winter at Monte Carlo and the summer at Deauville.
He hesitated a little at throwing up his career, and Louise at first would not hear of
it; but at last she yielded as she always yielded, and he prepared to make his wife?s
last few years as happy as might be.

?It can?t be very long now,? she said. ?I?ll try not to be troublesome.?

For the next two or three years Louise managed, notwithstanding her weak heart,
to go beautifully dressed to all the most lively parties, to gamble very heavily, to
dance and even to flirt with tall, slim young men. But George Hobhouse had not
the stamina of Louise?s first husband and he had to brace himself now and then
with a stiff drink for his day?s work as Louise?s second husband. It is possible that
the habit would have grown on him, which Louise would not have liked at all, but
very fortunately (for her) the war broke out. He rejoined his regiment and three
months later was killed. It was a great shock to Louise. She felt, however, that in
such a crisis she must not give way to a private grief; and if she had a heart attack
nobody heard of it. In order to distract her mind, she turned her villa at Monte
Carlo into a hospital for convalescent officers. Her friends told her that she would
never survive the strain.

?Of course it will kill me,? she said, ?I know that. But what does it matter? I must
do my bit.?

It didn?t kill her. She had the time of her life. There was no convalescent home in
France that was more popular. I met her by chance in Paris. She was lunching at
the Ritz with a tall and very handsome Frenchman. She explained that she was
there on business connected with the hospital. She told me that the officers were
too charming to her. They knew how delicate she was and they wouldn?t let her do
a single thing. They took care of her, well?as though they were all her husbands.
She sighed.
?Poor George, who would ever have thought that I, with my heart, should survive
him??

?And poor Tom!? I said.

I don?t know why she didn?t like my saying that. She gave me her plaintive smile
and her beautiful eyes filled with tears.

?You always speak as though you grudged me the few years that I can expect to
live.?

?By the way, your heart?s much better, isn?t it??

“It’ll never be better. I saw a specialist this morning and he said I must be prepared
for the worst.”
“Oh, well, you’ve been prepared for that for nearly twenty years now, haven’t
you?”
When the war came to an end Louise settled in London. She was now a woman of
over forty, thin and frail still, with large eyes and pale cheeks, but she did not look
a day more than twenty-five. Iris, who had been at school and was now grown up,
came to live with her.
“She’ll take care of me,? said Louise. ?Of course it?ll be hard on her to live with
such a great invalid as I am, but it can only be for such a little while, I?m sure she
won’t mind.?

Iris was a nice girl. She had been brought up with the knowledge that her mother?s
health was precarious. As a child she had never been allowed to make a noise. She
had always realized that her mother must on no account be upset. And though
Louise told her now that she would not hear of her sacrificing herself for a
tiresome old woman the girl simply would not listen. It wasn?t a question of
sacrificing herself, it was a happiness to do what she could for her poor dear
mother. With a sigh her mother let her do a great deal.

?It pleases the child to think she?s making herself useful,? she said.

?Don?t you think she ought to go out and about more?? I asked.

?That?s what I?m always telling her. I can?t get her to enjoy herself. Heaven
knows, I never want any one to put themselves out on my account.?

And Iris, when I remonstrated with her, said: ?Poor dear mother, she wants me to
go and stay with friends and go to parties, but the moment I start off anywhere she
has one of her heart attacks, so I much prefer to stay at home.?

But presently she fell in love. A young friend of mine, a very good lad, asked her
to marry him and she consented. I liked the child and was glad that she was to be
given the chance to lead a life of her own. She had never seemed to suspect that
such a thing was possible. But one day the young man came to me in great distress
and told me that his marriage was indefinitely postponed. Iris felt that she could
not desert her mother. Of course it was really no business of mine, but I made the
opportunity to go and see Louise. She was always glad to receive her friends at tea-
time and now that she was older she cultivated the society of painters and writers.

?Well, I hear that Iris isn?t going to be married,? I said after a while.

?I don?t know about that. She?s not going to be married quite as soon as I could
have wished. I?ve begged her on my bended knees not to consider me, but she
absolutely refuses to leave me.?

?Don?t you think it?s rather hard on her??

?Dreadfully. Of course it can only be for a few months, but I hate the thought of
anyone sacrificing themselves for me.?

?My dear Louise, you?ve buried two husbands, I can?t see the least reason why
you shouldn?t bury at least two more.?

?Do you think that?s funny?? she asked me in a tone that she made as offensive as
she could.

?I suppose it?s never struck you as strange that you?re always strong enough to do
anything you want to and that your weak heart only prevents you from doing
things that bore you??

?Oh, I know, I know what you?ve always thought of me. You?ve never believed
that I had anything the matter with me, have you??

I looked at her full and square.

'Never. I think you?ve carried out for twenty-five years a stupendous bluff. I think
you?re the most selfish and monstrous woman I have ever known. You ruined the
lives of those two wretched men you married and now you?re going to ruin the life
of your daughter.?

I should not have been surprised if Louise had had a heart attack then. I fully
expected her to fly into a passion. She merely gave me a gentle smile.

?My poor friend, one of these days you?ll be so dreadfully sorry you said this to
me.?
?Have you quite determined that Iris shall not marry this boy??

?I?ve begged her to marry him. I know it?ll kill me, but I don?t mind. Nobody
cares for me. I?m just a burden to everybody.?

?Did you tell her it would kill you??

'She made me.?

?As if anyone ever made you do anything that you were not yourself quite
determined to do.?

?She can marry her young man to-morrow if she likes. If it kills me, it kills me.?

?Well, let?s risk it, shall we??

?Haven?t you got any compassion for me??

?One can?t pity anyone who amuses one as much as you amuse me,? I answered.

A faint spot of colour appeared on Louise?s pale cheeks and though she smiled still
her eyes were hard and angry.

?Iris shall marry in a month?s time,? she said, ?and if anything happens to me I
hope you and she will be able to forgive yourselves.?

Louise was as good as her word. A date was fixed, a trousseau of great
magnificence was ordered, and invitations were issued. Iris and the very good lad
were radiant. On the wedding-day, at ten o?clock in the morning, Louise, that
devilish woman, had one of her heart attacks?and died. She died gently forgiving
Iris for having killed her.

I. Speak about the author of the story.

II. Transcribe the given words and read them correctly:
melancholy, unconquerable, desert (V), privilege. crisis, stupendous, inconsolable,
convalescent, remonstrate, trousseau, radiant, consent.
III. Give definitions for the words and phrases on the Vocabulary list; reproduce
the situations in which they are used in the story; use them in situations of your
own.
A. General vocabulary
delicate, delicacy
intimate
to affect
to fly into passion
ambitious
brace oneself for smth
give way to smth
grudge about smth
to yield
submissive
pathetic
worship
B. Phrasal verbs
to hold out
to give in (to smb)
to be laid up (with smb)
to go back on smb
to throw up (one’s career)
to break out
to put oneself out
to carry out
C. Idioms (Give their Russian equivalents)
smb’s life hangs on a thread
to have the time of one’s life
to beg smb on one’s bended knees
to stir a finger
D. Watch out for prepositions
on no account Cf.: on smb’s account
burden to smb
to entrust smb/smth to smb
to dote on smb
by a coincidence
hard on smb
to grow on smb

IV. Explain the difference between:

A. apparent(ly) – evident(ly) – obvious(ly)
B. grateful – thankful
C. possibility – opportunity – chance

V. Learn the following derivational patterns, explain their meaning, give 5-6
examples of derivatives built on them:
A. out- + v = V outlive
B. re- + v = V rejoin

VI. Find out the pronunciation of the following place-names. Find the places in
the geographical map; find reference to them in the story. Say what you know
about the places: Monte Carlo, Deauville.
VII. Say what is meant by the Ritz. Find reference to it in the story.

VIII. Write a short summary of the story; retell the story.

IX. Choose a passage of 10-15 lines and prepare to read it aloud in class. Give
reasons for your choice.

X. Explain what is meant by the following phrases:

1. She was a mistress of cold praise.
2. I was never quite certain that she was a complete humbug.
3. She was attracted to me as a pair of crooks might be attracted to one another,
by the knowledge that we shared a secret that was hidden from everybody else.
4. Her father and mother worshipped her with an anxious adoration.

XI. Write out all the adjectives used in the story to describe and characterize
Louise and then arrange them in two columns: Louise as she is seen (1) by the
world and (2) by the narrator. Could you add any other words to either list?

XII. Answer the questions:

1. Were Louise and the narrator on good terms? How long had they known each
other?
2. what was Louise like when the narrator first knew her?
3. What illness did she suffer from in her childhood?
4. Why did she agree to marry Tom Maitland? What sort of man was her first
husband?
5. What sort of wife did Louise make?
6. How did it happen that Louise outlived her husband?
7. How soon did she remarry and what sort of man was her second husband?
8. Why did George take to drinking?
9. What was Louise’s life like during the war?
10. Where did she go to live after the war?
11. Why did the narrator think that Louise was unfair to her daughter?
12. Why was Louise Iris’s marriage postponed?
13. What happened on Iris’s wedding day?
14. Do you believe Iris’s life was ruined? Did she ever get married, in your
opinion?

XIII. Imagine that you are Iris. Tell your mother’s story and what happened to
you after her death.

XIV. Talking points:

1. What is the narrator’s attitude to Louise? On the one hand, he believes her to be
“comic” and “amusing”, but on the other, he calls her “a monstrous, devilish
woman”. Isn’t there a contradiction here? Why or why not?
What do you think of Louise? Perhaps she is neither “comic” nor “monstrous”,
but pathetic or even tragic? After all, she did die of heart attack on her daughter’s
wedding day.
2. Why could Louise fool the world so successfully, do you think? Why didn’t
anyone but the narrator see through her?
Could it be that the narrator was mistaken and Louise was really a wretched
invalid and sufferer?
3. what do you think of Louise’s husbands and daughter? Do you despise them,
pity them, admire them, envy them? Were they just fools to be taken in by Louise
and make sacrifices for her sake?
4. What do you make of the end of the story? Why did Louise die? In what way
would it affect Iris’s life?
5. Louise was very good at manipulating people. How did she do it?
In what other ways do we manipulate other people?
Do you ever do it? If so, when and how?
 THE LAST RUNG ON THE LADDER

Stephen King (1947)

I got Katrina's letter yesterday, less than a week after my father and I got
back from Los Angeles. It was addressed to Wilmington, Delaware, and I'd moved
twice since then. People move around so much now, and it's funny how those
crossed-off addresses and change-of-address stickers can look like accusations.
Her letter was rumpled and smudged, one of the corners dog-eared from handling.
I read what was in it and the next thing I knew I was standing in the living room
with the phone in my h8nd, getting ready to call Dad. I put the phone down with
something like horror. He was an old man, and he'd had two heart attacks. Was I
going to call him and tell about Katrina's letter so soon after we'd been in L.A.? To
do that might very well have killed him.

So I didn't call. And I had no one I could tell. . . a thing like that letter, it's too
personal to tell anyone except a wife or a very close friend. I haven't made many
close friends in the last few years, and my wife Helen and I divorced in 1971.
What we exchange now are Christmas cards. How are you? How's the job? Have a
Happy New Year.

I've been awake all night with it, with Katrina's letter. She could have put it on a
postcard. There was only a single sentence below the 'Dear Larry'. 'But a sentence
can mean enough. It can do enough.

I remembered my dad on the plane, his face seeming old and wasted in the harsh
sunlight at 18,000 feet as we went west from New York. We had 'just passed over
Omaha, according to the pilot, and Dad said, 'It's a lot further away than it looks,
Larry.' There was a heavy sadness in his voice that made me uncomfortable
because I couldn't understand it. I understood it better after getting Katrina's letter.
We grew up eighty miles west of Omaha in a town called Hemingford Home - my
dad, my mom, my sister Katrina, and me. I was two years older than Katrina,
whom everyone called Kitty. She was a beautiful child and a beautiful woman -
even at eight, the year of the incident in the barn, you could see that her cornsilk
hair was never going to darken and that those eyes would always be a dark,
Scandinavian blue. A look in those eyes and a man would be gone.

I guess you'd say we grew up hicks. My dad had three hundred acres of flat, rich
land, and he grew feed corn and raised cattle. Everybody just called it 'the home
place'. In those days all the roads were dirt except Interstate 80 and Nebraska
Route 96, and a trip to town was something you waited three days for.

Nowadays I'm one of the best independent corporation lawyers in America, so they
tell me - and I'd have to admit for the sake of honesty that I think they're right. A
president of a large company once introduced me to his board of directors as his
hired gun. I wear expensive suits and my shoe-leather is the best. I've got three
assistants on full-time pay, and I can call in another dozen if [need them. But in
those days I walked up a dirt road to a one-room school with books tied in a belt
over my shoulder, and Katrina walked with me. Sometimes, in the spring, we went
barefoot. That was in the days before you couldn't get served in a diner or shop in a
market unless you were wearing shoes.

Later on, my mother died - Katrina and I were in high school up at Columbia City
then - and two years after that my dad lost the place and went to work selling
tractors. It was the end of the family, although that didn't seem so bad then. Dad
got along in his work, bought himself a dealership, and got tapped for a
management position about nine years ago. I got a football scholarship to the
University of Nebraska and managed to learn something besides how to run the
ball out of a slot-right formation.

And Katrina? But it's her I want to tell you about.

It happened, the barn thing, one Saturday in early November. To tell you the truth I
can't pin down the actual year, but Ike was still President. Mom was at a bake fair
in Columbia city, and Dad had gone over to our nearest neighbour's (and that was
seven miles away) to help the man fix a hayrake. There was supposed to be a hired
man on the place, but he had never showed up that day, and my dad fired him not a
month later.

Dad left me a list of chores to do (and there were some for Kitty, too) and told us
not to get to playing until they were all done. But that wasn't long. It was
November, and by that time of the year the make-or-break time had gone past.
We'd made it again that year. We wouldn't always.

I remember that day very clearly. The sky was overcast and while it wasn't cold,
you could feel it wanting to be cold, wanting to get down to the business of frost
and freeze, snow and sleet. The fields were stripped. The animals were sluggish
and morose. There seemed to be funny little draughts in the house that had never
been there before.

On a day like that, the only really nice place to be was the barn. It was warm, filed
with a pleasant mixed aroma of hay and fur and dung, and with the mysterious
chuckling, cooing sounds of the barnswallows high up in the third loft. If you
cricked your neck up, you could see the white November light coming through the
chinks in the roof and try to spell your name. It was a game that really only seemed
agreeable on overcast autumn days.

There was a ladder nailed to a crossbeam high up in the third loft, a ladder that
went straight down to the main barn floor. We were forbidden to climb on it
because it was old and shaky. Dad had promised Mom a thousand times that he
would pull it down and put up a stronger one, but something else always seemed to
come up when there was time . . . helping a neighbour with his hayrake, for in-
stance. And the hired man was just not working out.
If you climbed up that rickety ladder - there were exactly forty-three rungs, Kitty
and I had counted them enough to know - you ended up on a beam that was
seventy feet above the straw-littered barn floor. And then if you edged out along
the beam about twelve feet, your knees jittering, your ankle joints creaking, your
mouth dry and tasting like a used fuse, you stood over the haymow. And then you
could jump off the beam and fall seventy feet straight down, with a horrible
hilarious dying swoop, into a huge soft bed of lush hay. It has a sweet smell, hay
does, and you'd come to rest in that smell of reborn summer with your stomach left
behind you way up there in the middle of the air, and you'd feel . . . well, like
Lazarus must have felt. You had taken the fall and lived to tell the tale.

It was a forbidden sport, all right. If we had been caught, my mother would have
shrieked blue murder and my father would have laid on the strap, even at our
advanced ages. Because of the ladder, and because if you happened to lose your
balance and topple from the beam before you had edged out over the loose fathoms
of hay, you would fall to utter destruction on the hard planking of the barn floor.

But the temptation was just too great. When the cats are away. . . well, you know
how. that one goes.

That day started like all the others, a delicious feeling of dread mixed with
anticipation. We stood at the foot of the ladder, looking at each other. Kitty's
colour was high, her eyes darker and more sparkling than ever.

'Dare you,' I said.

Promptly from Kitty: 'Dares go first.'

Promptly from me: 'Girls go before boys.'

'Not if it's dangerous,' she said, casting her eyes down demurely, as if everybody
didn't know she was the second biggest tomboy in Hemingford. But that was how
she was about it. She would go, but she wouldn't go first.
'Okay,' I said. 'Here I go.'

I was ten that year, and thin as Scratch-the-demon, about ninety pounds. Kitty was
eight, and twenty pounds lighter. The ladder had always held us before, we thought
it would always hold us again, which is a philosophy that gets men and nations in
trouble time after time.

I could feel it that day, beginning to shimmy around a little bit in the dusty barn air
as I climbed higher and higher. As always about halfway up, I entertained a vision
of what would happen to me if it suddenly let go and gave up the ghost. But I kept
going until I was able to clap my hands around the beam and boost myself up and
look down.

Kitty's face, turned up to watch me, was a small white oval. In her faded checked
shirt and blue denims, she looked like a doll. Above me still higher, in the dusty
reaches of the eaves, the swallows cooed mellowly.

Again, by rote:

'Hi, down there!' I called, my voice floating down to her on motes of chaff.

'Hi, up there!'

I stood up. Swayed back and forth a little. As always, there seemed suddenly to be
strange currents in the air that had not existed down below. I could hear my own
heartbeat as I began to inch along with my arms held out for balance. Once, a
swallow had swooped close by my head during this part of the adventure, and in
drawing back I had almost lost my balance. I lived in fear of the same thing
happening again.

But not this time. At last I stood above the safety of the hay. Now looking down
was not so much frightening as sensual. There was a moment of anticipation. Then
I stepped off into space, holding my nose for effect, and as it always did, the
sudden grip of gravity, yanking me down brutally, making me plummet, made me
feel like yelling:

Oh, I'm sorry, I made a mistake, let me back Up!

Then I hit the hay, shot into it like a projectile, its sweet and dusty smell billowing
up around me, still going down, as if into heavy water, coming slowly to rest
buried in the stuff. As always, I could feel a sneeze building up in my nose. And
hear a frightened field mouse or two fleeing for a more serene section of the
haymow. And feel, in that curious way, that I had been reborn. I remember Kitty
telling me once that after diving into the hay she felt fresh and new, like a baby. I
shrugged it off at the time - sort of knowing what she meant, sort of not knowing -
but since I got her letter I think about that, too.

I climbed out of the hay, sort of swimming through it, until I could climb out on to
the barn floor. I had hay down my pants and down the back of my shirt. It was on
my sneakers and sticking to my elbows. Hayseeds in my hair? You bet.

She was halfway up the ladder by then, her gold pigtails bouncing against her
shoulderblades, climbing through a dusty shaft of light. On other days that light
might have been as bright as her hair, but on this day her pigtails had no
competition - they were easily the most colourful thing up there.

I remember thinking that I didn't like the way the ladder was swaying back and
forth. It seemed like it had never been so loosey-goosey.

Then she was on the beam, high above me - now I was the small one, my face was
the small white upturned oval as her voice floated down on errant chaff stirred up
by my leap:

'Hi, down there!'

'Hi, up there!'
She edged along the beam, and my heart loosened a little in my chest when I
judged she was over the safety of the hay. It always did, although she was more
graceful than I was . . . and more athletic, if that doesn't sound like too strange a
thing to say about your kid sister.

She stood, poising on the toes of her old low-topped Keds, hands out in front of
her. And then she swanned. Talk about things you can't forget, things you can't
describe. Well, I can describe it. . . in a way. But not in a way that will make you
understand how beautiful that was, how perfect, one of the few things in my life
that seem utterly real, utterly true. No, I can't tell you that. I don't have the skill
with either my pen or my tongue.

For a moment she seemed to hang in the air, as if borne up by one of those
mysterious updraughts that only existed in the third loft, a bright swallow with
golden plumage such as Nebraska has never seen since. She was Kitty, my sister,
her arms swept behind her and her back arched, and how I loved her for that beat
of time!

Then she came down and ploughed into the hay and out of sight. An explosion of
chaff and giggles rose out of the hole she made. I'd forgotten about how rickety the
ladder had looked with her on it, and by the time she was out, I was halfway up
again.

I tried to swan myself, but the fear grabbed me the way it always did, and my swan
turned into a cannonball. I think I never believed the hay was there the way Kitty
believed it.

How long did the game go on? Hard to tell, But I looked up some ten or twelve
dives later and saw the light had changed. Our mom and dad were due back and we
were all covered with chaff. . . as good as a signed confession. We agreed on one
more turn each.
Going up first, I felt the ladder moving beneath me and I could hear - very faintly -
the whining rasp of old nails loosening up in the wood. And for the first time I was
really, actively scared. I think if I'd been closer to the bottom I would have gone
down and that would have been the end of it, but the beam was closer and seemed
safer. Three rungs from the top the whine of pulling nails grew louder and I was
suddenly cold with terror, with the certainty that I had pushed it too far.

Then I had the splintery beam in my hands, taking my weight off the ladder, and
there was a cold, unpleasant sweat matting the twigs of hay to my forehead. The
fun of the game was gone.

I hurried out over the hay and dropped off. Even the pleasurable part of the drop
was gone. Coming down, I imagined how I'd feel if that was solid barn planking
coming up to meet me instead of the yielding give of the hay.

I came out to the middle of the barn to see Kitty hurrying up the ladder. I called:
'Hey, come down! It's not safe!'

'It'll hold me!' she called back confidently. 'I'm lighter than you!'

'Kitty -'

But that never got finished. Because that was when the ladder let go.

It went with a rotted, splintering crack. I cried out and Kitty screamed. She was
about where I had been when I'd become convinced I'd pressed my luck too far.

The rung she was standing on gave way, and then both sides of the ladder split. For
a moment the ladder below her, which had broken entirely free, looked like a
ponderous insect - a praying mantis or a ladderbug - which had just decided to
walk off.

Then it toppled, hitting the barn floor with a flat clap that raised dust and caused
the cows to moo worriedly. One of them kicked at its stall door.
Kitty uttered a high, piercing scream.

Larry! Larry! Help me!'

I knew what had to be done, I saw right away. I was terribly afraid, but not quite
scared out of my wits. She was better than sixty feet above me, her blue-jeaned
legs kicking wildly at the blank air, then barnswallows cooing above her. I was
scared, all right. And you know, I still can't watch a circus aerial act, not even on
TV. It makes my stomach feel weak.

But I knew what had to be done.

'Kitty!' I bawled up at her. 'Just hold still! Hold still!'

She obeyed me instantly. Her legs stopped kicking and she hung straight down, her
small hands clutching the last rung on the ragged end of the ladder like an acrobat
whose trapeze has stopped.

I ran to the hayrnow, clutched up a double handful of the stuff, ran back, and
dropped it. I went back again. And .again. And again.

I really don't remember it after that, except the hay got up my nose and I started
sneezing and couldn't stop. I ran back and forth, building a haystack where the foot
of the ladder had been. It was a very small haystack. Looking at it, then looking at
her hanging so far above it, you might have thought of one of those cartoons where
the guy jumps three hundred feet into a water glass.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

'Larry, I can't hold on much longer!' Her voice was high and despairing.

'Kitty, you've got to! You've got to hold on!'

Back and forth. Hay down my shirt. Back and forth. The haystick was high as my
chin now, but the haymow we had been diving into was twenty-five feet deep. I
thought that if she only broke her legs it would be getting off cheap. And I knew if
she missed the hay altogether, she would be killed. Back and forth.

'Larry! The rung! It's letting go!

I could hear the steady, rasping cry of the rung pulling free under here weight. Her
legs began to kick again in panic, but if she was thrashing like that, she would
surely miss the hay.

'No!' I yelled. 'No! Stop that! Just let go! Let go, Kitty!' Because it was too late for
me to get any more hay. Too late for anything except blind hope.

She let go and dropped the second I told her to. She came straight down like a
knife. It seemed to me that she dropped forever, her gold pigtails standing straight
up from her head, her eyes shut, her face as pale as china. She didn't scream. Her
hands were locked in front of her lips, as if she was praying.

And she struck the hay right in the centre. She went down out of sight in it - hay
flew up all around as if a shell had struck - and I heard the thump of her body
hitting the boards. The sound, a loud thud, sent a deadly chill into me. It had been
too loud, much too loud. But I had to see.

Starting to cry, I pounced on the haystack and pulled it apart, flinging the straw
behind me in great handfuls. A blue-jeaned leg came to light, then a plaid shirt . . .
and then Kitty's face. It was deadly pale and her eyes were shut. She was dead, I
knew it as I looked at her. The world went grey for me, November grey. The only
things in it with any colour were her pigtails, bright gold.

And then the deep blue of her irises as she opened her eyes.

'Kitty?' My voice was hoarse, husky, unbelieving. My throat was coated with
haychaff. 'Kitty?'

'Larry?' she asked, bewildered. 'Am I alive?'

I picked her out of the hay and hugged her and she put her arms around my neck
and hugged me back.

'You're alive,' I said. 'You're alive, you're alive.'

She had broken her left ankle and that was all. When Dr Pederson, the GP from
Columbia City, came out to the barn with my father and me, looked up into the
shadows for a long time. The last rung on the ladder still hung there, aslant, from
one nail.

He looked, as I said, for a long time. 'A miracle,' he said to my father, and then
kicked disdainfully at the hay I'd put down. He went out to his dusty DeSoto and
drove away.

My father's hand came down on my shoulder. 'We're going to the woodshed,

Larry,' he said in avery calm voice. 'I believe you know what's going to happen
there.'

'Yes, sir,' I whispered.

'Every time I whack you, Larry, I want you to thank God your sister is still alive.'

'Yes, sir.'

Then we went. He whacked me plenty of times, so many times I ate standing up

for a week and with a cushion on my chair for two weeks after that. And every
time he whacked me with his big red calloused hand, I thanked God.

In a loud, loud voice. By the last two or three whacks, I was pretty sure He was
hearing me.

They let me in to see her just before bedtime. There was a catbird outside her
window, I remember that. Her foot, all wrapped up, was propped on a board.
She looked at me so long and so lovingly that I was uncomfortable. Then she said,
'Hay. You put down hay.'

'Course I did,' I blurted. 'What else would I do? Once the ladder broke there was no
way to get up there.'

'I didn't know what you were doing,' she said.

'You must have! I was right under you, for cripe's sake!'

'I didn't dare look down,' she said. 'I was too scared. I had my eyes shut the whole
time.'

I stared at her, thunderstruck.

'You didn't know? Didn't know what I was doing?' She shook her head.

'And when I told you to let go you. . . you just did it?'

She nodded.

'Kitty, how could you do that?'

She looked at me with those deep blue eyes. 'I knew you must have been doing
something to fix it,' she said. 'You're my big brother. I knew you'd take care of me.'

'Oh, Kitty, you don't know how close it was.'

I had put my hands over my face. She sat up and took them away. She kissed my
cheek. 'No,' she said. 'But I knew you were down there. Gee, am I sleepy. I'll see
you tomorrow, Larry. I'm going to have a cast, Dr Pederson says.'

She had the cast on for a little less than a month, and all her classmates signed it -
she even got me to sign it. And when it came off, that was the end of the barn
incident. My father replaced the ladder up to the third loft with a new strong one,
but I never climbed up to the beam and jumped off into the haymow again. So far
as I know, Kitty didn't either.

It was the end, but somehow not the end. Somehow it never ended until nine days
ago, when Kitty jumped from the top storey of an insurance building in Los
Angeles. I have the clipping from the L.A. Times in my wallet. I guess I'll always
carry it, not in the good way you carry snapshots of people you want to remember
or theatre tickets from a really good show or part of the programme from a World
Series game. I carry that clipping the way you carry something heavy, because
carrying it is your work. The headline reads: CALL GIRL SWAN-DIVES TO HER
DEATH.

We grew up. That's all I know, other than facts that don't mean anything. She was
going to go to business college in Omaha, but in the summer after she graduated
from high school, she won a beauty contest and married one of the judges. It
sounds like a dirty joke, doesn't it? My Kitty.

While I was in law school she got divorced and wrote me a long letter, ten pages or
more, telling me how it had been, how messy it had been, how it might have been
better if she could have had a child. She asked me if I could come. But losing a
week in law school is like losing a term in liberal-arts undergraduate. Those guys
are greyhounds. If you lose sight of the little mechanical rabbit, it's gone for ever.

She moved out to L.A. and got married again. When that one broke up I was out of
law school. There was another letter, a shorter one, more bitter. She was never
going to get stuck on that merry-go-round, she told me. It was a fix job. The only
way you could catch the brass ring was to tumble off the horse and crack your
skull. If that was what the price of a free ride was, who wanted it? PS, Can you
come, Larry? It's been a while.

I wrote back and told her I'd love to come, but I couldn't. I had landed a job in a
high-pressure firm, low guy on the totem pole, all the work and none of the credit.
If I was going to make it up to the next step, it would have to be that year. That
was my long letter, and it was all about my career.

I answered all of her letters. But I could never really believe that it was really Kitty
who was writing them, you know, no more than I could really believe that the hay
was really there . . . until it broke my fall at the bottom of the drop and saved my
life. I couldn't believe that my sister and the beaten woman who signed 'Kitty' in a
circle at the bottom of her letters were really the same person. My sister was a girl
with pigtails, still without breasts.

She was the one who stopped writing. I'd get Christmas cards, birthday cards, and
my wife would reciprocate. Then we got divorced and I moved and just forgot. The
next Christmas and the birthday after, the cards came through the forwarding
address. The first one. And I kept thinking:

Gee, I've got to write Kitty and tell her that I've moved. But I never did.

But as I've told you, those are facts that don't mean anything. The only things that
matter are that we grew up and she swanned from that insurance building, and that
Kitty was the one who always believed the hay would be there. Kitty was the one
who had said, 'I knew you must be doing something to fix it.' Those things matter.
And Kitty's letter.

People move around so much now, and it's funny how those crossed-off addresses
and change-of-address stickers can look like accusations. She's printed her return
address in the upper left corner of the envelope, the place she'd been staying at
until she jumped. A very nice apartment building on Van Nuys. Dad and I went
there to pick up her things. The landlady was nice. She had liked Kitty.

The letter was postmarked two weeks before she died. It would have got to me a
long time before, if not for the forwarding addresses. She must have got tired of
waiting.
Dear Larry

I've been thinking about it a lot lately. . . and what I've decided is that it would
have been better for me if that last rung had broken before you could put the hay
down.

Your,

Kitty

Yes, I guess she must have gotten tired of waiting. I'd rather believe that than think
of her deciding I must have forgotten. I wouldn't want her to think that, because
that one sentence was maybe the only thing that would have brought me on the
run.

But not even that is the reason sleep comes so hard now. When I close my eyes and
start to drift off, I see her coming down from the third loft, her eyes wide and dark
blue, her body arched, her arms swept up behind her.

She was the one who always knew the hay would be there.

I. Speak about the author of the story.

II. Transcribe the given words and read them correctly:
swallow, climb, hilarious, mysterious, aroma, arch, whack, morose, swan, wallet,
reciprocate.

III. Learn the essential vocabulary:

A. General vocabulary:
anticipate, anticipation
bewildered
miracle,
disdain, disdainful
divorce
admit
accuse, accusation
scare, scared (out of one's wits)
tempt, temptation
chore

B. Phrasal verbs:
to come up
to work out
to build up
to back up
to show up
to pin down
to bear up
to make up

C. Idioms:
to shriek blue murder
when the cats are away the mice will play
to give up the ghost
to press/push one's luck too far

D. Prepositional phrases:
to get to doing smth
by rote
on the run

IV. Explain the difference between these words; make up some sentences to
bring out the difference.
A. agree on smth - agree with smth - agree to smth - agree about smth

B. company - firm - enterprise

V. Learn the following derivational patterns, explain their meaning, give 5-6
examples of derivatives built on them:
A. n + -ship - N dealership, scholarship
n + -ful - N handful

VI. Learn the pronunciation of the following place names. Find the places in a
geographical map. Find reference to them in the story:
Los Angeles, Wilmington, Delaware, New York, Omaha, Nebraska, Columbia City

VII. Who is meant in the story?

Lasarus, Ike
VIII. Say what is meant by:
Interstate, high school, GP, bake fair, fathom, acre, a World Series game, a beauty
contest, law school, the totem pole, a forwarding address, a caal-girl

IX. Explain how you understand the following:

1. People move around so much now, and it's funny how those crossed-off
addresses and change-of-address stickers can look like accusations.
2. I carry that clipping the way you carry something heavy, because carrying it is
your work.

3. Those guys are greyhounds. If you lose sight of the little mechanical rabbit, it's
gone for ever.

4. She was never going to get stuck on that merry-go-round, she told me. It was a
fix job.
5. I had landed a job in a high-pressure firm, low guy on the totem pole, all the
work and none of the credit.

X. Answer the following questions:

1. It is a first-person narration. Who is the narrator?
2. What letter did Larry receive? What effect did it have upon him? Why did he get
Kitty's letter a week after her death?
Did he tell anyone about the letter? Why not?
3. What did we learn about Larry's and Kitty's childhood?
4. What was the children's favourite game? Why did they like it so much?
5. What happened in the barn one Saturday in early November? How did Larry
save Kitty's life? How did the barn incident end?
6. How did Kitty's utter confidence in her "big brother" reveal itself in the
incident?
7. Did the children ever climb the ladder to the loft again? Why not?
8. What happened to Kitty after she graduated from high school?
9. Did Larry and Kitty see much of each other when they grew up? Did they
correspond regularly? What letters did Kitty write to Larry? Who stopped writing?
Why?
10. How did Kitty choose to kill herself? Why did she do it, in your opinion?

XI. Describe the barn incident in detail.

XII. Write a passage and prepare to read it aloud in class: explain your choice.

XIV. Comment upon the following

1. We had just passed over Omaha, and Dad said ... letter.
2. The ladder had always held... after time.
3. I think I never ,,, believed it.

4. It was the end... in Los Angeles.

XV. Discussion points:

1. What did you learn about Larry's and Kitty's background and life-stories? Why,
in your opinion, were their life-stories so different? Give their character sketches.
2. What made Kitty kill herself, do you think? Do you blame Larry her death?
Evidently, he blames himself. What for? How did you understand the statement, "
“The only things that matter are that we grew up and she swanned from that
insurance building, and that Kitty was the one who always believed the hay would
be there".
3. Is the atmosphere of the story depressing? Why or why not?
4. The barn incident is the central part of the story. How would you explain its
importance?
5. Why was Kitty's last letter such a shock to Larry?
6. Comment on the title of the story. How did you understand it? Is it symbolic?
7. What is the message of the story? Are we always responsible for the people
around us, family and friends?