The Nightingale by Hans Christian Andersen

In China, you know, the emperor is a Chinese, and all those about him are Chinamen also. The story I am going to tell you happened a great many years ago, so it is well to hear it now before it is forgotten. The emperor’s palace was the most beautiful in the world. It was built entirely of porcelain, and very costly, but so delicate and brittle that whoever touched it was obliged to be careful. In the garden could be seen the most singular flowers, with pretty silver bells tied to them, which tinkled so that every one who passed could not help noticing the flowers. Indeed, everything in the emperor’s garden was remarkable, and it extended so far that the gardener himself did not know where it ended. Those who travelled beyond its limits knew that there was a noble forest, with lofty trees, sloping down to the deep blue sea, and the great ships sailed under the shadow of its branches. In one of these trees lived a nightingale, who sang so beautifully that even the poor fishermen, who had so many other things to do, would stop and listen. Sometimes, when they went at night to spread their nets, they would hear her sing, and say, “Oh, is not that beautiful?” But when they returned to their fishing, they forgot the bird until the next night. Then they would hear it again, and exclaim “Oh, how beautiful is the nightingale’s song!”

Travellers from every country in the world came to the city of the emperor, which they admired very much, as well as the palace and gardens; but when they heard the nightingale, they all declared it to be the best of all. And the travellers, on their return home, related what they had seen; and learned men wrote books, containing descriptions of the town, the palace, and the gardens; but they did not forget the nightingale, which was really the greatest wonder. And those who could write poetry composed beautiful verses about the nightingale, who lived in a forest near the deep sea. The books travelled all over the world, and some of them came into the hands of the emperor; and he sat in his golden chair, and, as he read, he nodded his approval every moment, for it pleased him to find such a beautiful description of his city, his palace, and his gardens. But when he came to the words, “the nightingale is the most beautiful of all,” he exclaimed, “What is this? I know nothing of any nightingale. Is there such a bird in my empire? and even in my garden? I have never heard of it. Something, it appears, may be learnt from books.”

Then he called one of his lords-in-waiting, who was so high-bred, that when any in an inferior rank to himself spoke to him, or asked him a question, he would answer, “Pooh,” which means nothing.

“There is a very wonderful bird mentioned here, called a nightingale,” said the emperor; “they say it is the best thing in my large kingdom. Why have I not been told of it?”

“I have never heard the name,” replied the cavalier; “she has not been presented at court.”

“It is my pleasure that she shall appear this evening.” said the emperor; “the whole world knows what I possess better than I do myself.”

“I have never heard of her,” said the cavalier; “yet I will endeavor to find her.”

But where was the nightingale to be found? The nobleman went up stairs and down, through halls and passages; yet none of those whom he met had heard of the bird. So he returned to the emperor, and said that it must be a fable, invented by those who had written the book. “Your imperial majesty,” said he, “cannot believe everything contained in books; sometimes they are only fiction, or what is called the black art.”

“But the book in which I have read this account,” said the emperor, “was sent to me by the great and mighty emperor of Japan, and therefore it cannot contain a falsehood. I will hear the nightingale, she must be here this evening; she has my highest favor; and if she does not come, the whole court shall be trampled upon after supper is ended.”

“Tsing-pe!” cried the lord-in-waiting, and again he ran up and down stairs, through all the halls and corridors; and half the court ran with him, for they did not like the idea of being trampled upon. There was a great inquiry about this wonderful nightingale, whom all the world knew, but who was unknown to the court.

At last they met with a poor little girl in the kitchen, who said, “Oh, yes, I know the nightingale quite well; indeed, she can sing. Every evening I have permission to take home to my poor sick mother the scraps from the table; she lives down by the sea-shore, and as I come back I feel tired, and I sit down in the wood to rest, and listen to the nightingale’s song. Then the tears come into my eyes, and it is just as if my mother kissed me.”

“Little maiden,” said the lord-in-waiting, “I will obtain for you constant employment in the kitchen, and you shall have permission to see the emperor dine, if you will lead us to the nightingale; for she is invited for this evening to the palace.” So she went into the wood where the nightingale sang, and half the court followed her. As they went along, a cow began lowing.

“Oh,” said a young courtier, “now we have found her; what wonderful power for such a small creature; I have certainly heard it before.”

“No, that is only a cow lowing,” said the little girl; “we are a long way from the place yet.”

Then some frogs began to croak in the marsh.

“Beautiful,” said the young courtier again. “Now I hear it, tinkling like little church bells.”

“No, those are frogs,” said the little maiden; “but I think we shall soon hear her now:” and presently the nightingale began to sing.

“Hark, hark! there she is,” said the girl, “and there she sits,” she added, pointing to a little gray bird who was perched on a bough.

“Is it possible?” said the lord-in-waiting, “I never imagined it would be a little, plain, simple thing like that. She has certainly changed color at seeing so many grand people around her.”

“Little nightingale,” cried the girl, raising her voice, “our most gracious emperor wishes you to sing before him.”

“With the greatest pleasure,” said the nightingale, and began to sing most delightfully.

“It sounds like tiny glass bells,” said the lord-in-waiting, “and see how her little throat works. It is surprising that we have never heard this before; she will be a great success at court.”

“Shall I sing once more before the emperor?” asked the nightingale, who thought he was present.

“My excellent little nightingale,” said the courtier, “I have the great pleasure of inviting you to a court festival this evening, where you will gain imperial favor by your charming song.”

“My song sounds best in the green wood,” said the bird; but still she came willingly when she heard the emperor’s wish.

The palace was elegantly decorated for the occasion. The walls and floors of porcelain glittered in the light of a thousand lamps. Beautiful flowers, round which little bells were tied, stood in the corridors: what with the running to and fro and the draught, these bells tinkled so loudly that no one could speak to be heard. In the centre of the great hall, a golden perch had been fixed for the nightingale to sit on. The whole court was present, and the little kitchen-maid had received permission to stand by the door. She was not installed as a real court cook. All were in full dress, and every eye was turned to the little gray bird when the emperor nodded to her to begin. The nightingale sang so sweetly that the tears came into the emperor’s eyes, and then rolled down his cheeks, as her song became still more touching and went to every one’s heart. The emperor was so delighted that he declared the nightingale should have his gold slipper to wear round her neck, but she declined the honor with thanks: she had been sufficiently rewarded already. “I have seen tears in an emperor’s eyes,” she said, “that is my richest reward. An emperor’s tears have wonderful power, and are quite sufficient honor for me;” and then she sang again more enchantingly than ever.

“That singing is a lovely gift;” said the ladies of the court to each other; and then they took water in their mouths to make them utter the gurgling sounds of the nightingale when they spoke to any one, so thay they might fancy themselves nightingales. And the footmen and chambermaids also expressed their satisfaction, which is saying a great deal, for they are very difficult to please. In fact the nightingale’s visit was most successful. She was now to remain at court, to have her own cage, with liberty to go out twice a day, and once during the night. Twelve servants were appointed to attend her on these occasions, who each held her by a silken string fastened to her leg. There was certainly not much pleasure in this kind of flying.

The whole city spoke of the wonderful bird, and when two people met, one said “nightin,” and the other said “gale,” and they understood what was meant, for nothing else was talked of. Eleven peddlers’ children were named after her, but not of them could sing a note.

One day the emperor received a large packet on which was written “The Nightingale.” “Here is no doubt a new book about our celebrated bird,” said the emperor. But instead of a book, it was a work of art contained in a casket, an artificial nightingale made to look like a living one, and covered all over with diamonds, rubies, and sapphires. As soon as the artificial bird was wound up, it could sing like the real one, and could move its tail up and down, which sparkled with silver and gold. Round its neck hung a piece of ribbon, on which was written “The Emperor of Japan’s nightingale is poor compared with that of the Emperor of China’s.”

“This is very beautiful,” exclaimed all who saw it, and he who had brought the artificial bird received the title of “Imperial nightingale-bringer-in-chief.”

“Now they must sing together,” said the court, “and what a duet it will be.” But they did not get on well, for the real nightingale sang in its own natural way, but the artificial bird sang only waltzes.

“That is not a fault,” said the music-master, “it is quite perfect to my taste,” so then it had to sing alone, and was as successful as the real bird; besides, it was so much prettier to look at, for it sparkled like bracelets and breast-pins. Three and thirty times did it sing the same tunes without being tired; the people would gladly have heard it again, but the emperor said the living nightingale ought to sing something. But where was she? No one had noticed her when she flew out at the open window, back to her own green woods.

“What strange conduct,” said the emperor, when her flight had been discovered; and all the courtiers blamed her, and said she was a very ungrateful creature.

“But we have the best bird after all,” said one, and then they would have the bird sing again, although it was the thirty-fourth time they had listened to the same piece, and even then they had not learnt it, for it was rather difficult. But the music-master praised the bird in the highest degree, and even asserted that it was better than a real nightingale, not only in its dress and the beautiful diamonds, but also in its musical power. “For you must perceive, my chief lord and emperor, that with a real nightingale we can never tell what is going to be sung, but with this bird everything is settled. It can be opened and explained, so that people may understand how the waltzes are formed, and why one note follows upon another.”

“This is exactly what we think,” they all replied, and then the music-master received permission to exhibit the bird to the people on the following Sunday, and the emperor commanded that they should be present to hear it sing. When they heard it they were like people intoxicated; however it must have been with drinking tea, which is quite a Chinese custom. They all said “Oh!” and held up their forefingers and nodded, but a poor fisherman, who had heard the real nightingale, said, “it sounds prettily enough, and the melodies are all alike; yet there seems something wanting, I cannot exactly tell what.”

And after this the real nightingale was banished from the empire, and the artificial bird placed on a silk cushion close to the emperor’s bed. The presents of gold and precious stones which had been received with it were round the bird, and it was now advanced to the title of “Little Imperial Toilet Singer,” and to the rank of No. 1 on the left hand; for the emperor considered the left side, on which the heart lies, as the most noble, and the heart of an emperor is in the same place as that of other people.

The music-master wrote a work, in twenty-five volumes, about the artificial bird, which was very learned and very long, and full of the most difficult Chinese words; yet all the people said they had read it, and understood it, for fear of being thought stupid and having their bodies trampled upon.

So a year passed, and the emperor, the court, and all the other Chinese knew every little turn in the artificial bird’s song; and for that same reason it pleased them better. They could sing with the bird, which they often did. The street-boys sang, “Zi-zi-zi, cluck, cluck, cluck,” and the emperor himself could sing it also. It was really most amusing.

One evening, when the artificial bird was singing its best, and the emperor lay in bed listening to it, something inside the bird sounded “whizz.” Then a spring cracked. “Whir-r-r-r” went all the wheels, running round, and then the music stopped. The emperor immediately sprang out of bed, and called for his physician; but what could he do? Then they sent for a watchmaker; and, after a great deal of talking and examination, the bird was put into something like order; but he said that it must be used very carefully, as the barrels were worn, and it would be impossible to put in new ones without injuring the music. Now there was great sorrow, as the bird could only be allowed to play once a year; and even that was dangerous for the works inside it. Then the music-master made a little speech, full of hard words, and declared that the bird was as good as ever; and, of course no one contradicted him.

Five years passed, and then a real grief came upon the land. The Chinese really were fond of their emperor, and he now lay so ill that he was not expected to live. Already a new emperor had been chosen and the people who stood in the street asked the lord-in-waiting how the old emperor was; but he only said, “Pooh!” and shook his head.

Cold and pale lay the emperor in his royal bed; the whole court thought he was dead, and every one ran away to pay homage to his successor. The chamberlains went out to have a talk on the matter, and the ladies’-maids invited company to take coffee. Cloth had been laid down on the halls and passages, so that not a footstep should be heard, and all was silent and still. But the emperor was not yet dead, although he lay white and stiff on his gorgeous bed, with the long velvet curtains and heavy gold tassels. A window stood open, and the moon shone in upon the emperor and the artificial bird. The poor emperor, finding he could scarcely breathe with a strange weight on his chest, opened his eyes, and saw Death sitting there. He had put on the emperor’s golden crown, and held in one hand his sword of state, and in the other his beautiful banner. All around the bed and peeping through the long velvet curtains, were a number of strange heads, some very ugly, and others lovely and gentle-looking. These were the emperor’s good and bad deeds, which stared him in the face now Death sat at his heart.

“Do you remember this?” “Do you recollect that?” they asked one after another, thus bringing to his remembrance circumstances that made the perspiration stand on his brow.

“I know nothing about it,” said the emperor. “Music! music!” he cried; “the large Chinese drum! that I may not hear what they say.” But they still went on, and Death nodded like a Chinaman to all they said. “Music! music!” shouted the emperor. “You little precious golden bird, sing, pray sing! I have given you gold and costly presents; I have even hung my golden slipper round your neck. Sing! sing!” But the bird remained silent. There was no one to wind it up, and therefore it could not sing a note.

Death continued to stare at the emperor with his cold, hollow eyes, and the room was fearfully still. Suddenly there came through the open window the sound of sweet music. Outside, on the bough of a tree, sat the living nightingale. She had heard of the emperor’s illness, and was therefore come to sing to him of hope and trust. And as she sung, the shadows grew paler and paler; the blood in the emperor’s veins flowed more rapidly, and gave life to his weak limbs; and even Death himself listened, and said, “Go on, little nightingale, go on.”

“Then will you give me the beautiful golden sword and that rich banner? and will you give me the emperor’s crown?” said the bird.

So Death gave up each of these treasures for a song; and the nightingale continued her singing. She sung of the quiet churchyard, where the white roses grow, where the elder-tree wafts its perfume on the breeze, and the fresh, sweet grass is moistened by the mourners’ tears. Then Death longed to go and see his garden, and floated out through the window in the form of a cold, white mist.

“Thanks, thanks, you heavenly little bird. I know you well. I banished you from my kingdom once, and yet you have charmed away the evil faces from my bed, and banished Death from my heart, with your sweet song. How can I reward you?”

“You have already rewarded me,” said the nightingale. “I shall never forget that I drew tears from your eyes the first time I sang to you. These are the jewels that rejoice a singer’s heart. But now sleep, and grow strong and well again. I will sing to you again.”

And as she sung, the emperor fell into a sweet sleep; and how mild and refreshing that slumber was! When he awoke, strengthened and restored, the sun shone brightly through the window; but not one of his servants had returned—they all believed he was dead; only the nightingale still sat beside him, and sang.

“You must always remain with me,” said the emperor. “You shall sing only when it pleases you; and I will break the artificial bird into a thousand pieces.”

“No; do not do that,” replied the nightingale; “the bird did very well as long as it could. Keep it here still. I cannot live in the palace, and build my nest; but let me come when I like. I will sit on a bough outside your window, in the evening, and sing to you, so that you may be happy, and have thoughts full of joy. I will sing to you of those who are happy, and those who suffer; of the good and the evil, who are hidden around you. The little singing bird flies far from you and your court to the home of the fisherman and the peasant’s cot. I love your heart better than your crown; and yet something holy lingers round that also. I will come, I will sing to you; but you must promise me one thing.”

“Everything,” said the emperor, who, having dressed himself in his imperial robes, stood with the hand that held the heavy golden sword pressed to his heart.

“I only ask one thing,” she replied; “let no one know that you have a little bird who tells you everything. It will be best to conceal it.” So saying, the nightingale flew away.

The servants now came in to look after the dead emperor; when, lo! there he stood, and, to their astonishment, said, “Good morning.”

A Coward A short story by Guy de Maupassant

Society called him Handsome Signoles. His name was Viscount Gontran-Joseph de Signoles.

An orphan, and possessed of an adequate income, he cut a dash, as the saying is. He had a good figure and a good carriage, a sufficient flow of words to pass for wit, a certain natural grace, an air of nobility and pride, a gallant moustache and an eloquent eye, attributes which women like.
He was in demand in drawing-rooms, sought after for valses, and in men he inspired that smiling hostility which is reserved for vital and attractive rivals. He had been suspected of several love-affairs of a sort calculated to create a good opinion of a youngster. He lived a happy, care-free life, in the most complete well-being of body and mind. He was known to be a fine swordsman and a still finer shot with the pistol.
"When I come to fight a duel," he would say, "I shall choose pistols. With that weapon, I'm sure of killing my man."
One evening, he went to the theatre with two ladies, quite young, friends of his, whose husbands were also of the party, and after the performance he invited them to take ices at Tortoni's.
They had been sitting there for a few minutes when he noticed a gentleman at a neighbouring table staring obstinately at one of the ladies of the party. She seemed embarrassed and ill at ease, and bent her head. At last she said to her husband:
"There's a man staring at me. I don't know him; do you?"
The husband, who had seen nothing, raised his eyes, but declared:
"No, not in the least."
Half smiling, half in anger, she replied:
"It's very annoying; the creature's spoiling my ice."
Her husband shrugged his shoulders.
"Deuce take him, don't appear to notice it. If we had to deal with all the discourteous people one meets, we'd never have done with them."
But the Viscount had risen abruptly. He could not permit this stranger to spoil an ice of his giving. It was to him that the insult was addressed, since it was at his invitation and on his account that his friends had come to the cafe. The affair was no business of anyone but himself.
He went up to the man and said:
"You have a way of looking at those ladies, sir, which I cannot stomach. Please be so good as to set a limit to your persistence."
"You hold your tongue," replied the other.
"Take care, sir," retorted the Viscount, clenching his teeth;" you'll force me to overstep the bounds of common politeness."
The gentleman replied with a single word, a vile word which rang across the cafe from one end to the other, and, like the release of a spring, jerked every person present into an abrupt movement. All those with their backs towards him turned round, all the rest raised their heads; three waiters spun round on their heels like tops; the two ladies behind the counter started, then the whole upper half of their bodies twisted round, as though they were a couple of automata worked by the same handle.
There was a profound silence. Then suddenly a sharp noise resounded in the air. The Viscount had boxed his adversary's ears. Every one rose to intervene. Cards were exchanged.
Back in his home, the Viscount walked for several minutes up and down his room with long quick strides. He was too excited to think. A solitary idea dominated his mind: "a duel"; but as yet the idea stirred in him no emotion of any kind. He had done what he was compelled to do; he had shown himself to be what he ought to be. People would talk of it, would approve of him, congratulate him. He repeated aloud, speaking as a man speaks in severe mental distress:
"What a hound the fellow is!"
Then he sat down and began to reflect. In the morning he must find seconds. Whom should he choose? He searched his mind for the most important and celebrated names of his acquaintance. At last he decided on the Marquis de la Tour-Noire and Colonel Bourdin, an aristocrat and a soldier; they would do excellently. Their names would look well in the papers. He realised that he was thirsty, and drank three glasses of water one after the other; then he began to walk up and down again. He felt full of energy. If he played the gallant, showed himself determined, insisted on the most strict and dangerous arrangements, demanded a serious duel, a thoroughly serious duel, a positively terrible duel, his adversary would probably retire an apologist.
He took up once more the card which he had taken from his pocket and thrown down upon the table, and read it again as he had read it before, in the cafe, at a glance, and in the cab, by the light of each gas-lamp, on his way home.
"Georges Lamil, 51 rue Moncey." Nothing more.
He examined the grouped letters; they seemed to him mysterious, full of confused meaning. Georges Lamil? Who was this man? What did he do? Why had he looked at the woman in that way? Was it not revolting that a stranger, an unknown man, could thus disturb a man's life, without warning, just because he chose to fix his insolent eyes upon a woman? Again the Viscount repeated aloud:
"What a hound!"
Then he remained standing stock-still, lost in thought, his eyes still fixed upon the card. A fury against this scrap of paper awoke in him, a fury of hatred in which was mingled a queer sensation of uneasiness. This sort of thing was so stupid! He took up an open knife which lay close at hand and thrust it through the middle of the printed name, as though he had stabbed a man.
So he must fight. Should he choose swords or pistols?--for he regarded himself as the insulted party. With swords there would be less risk, but with pistols there was a chance that his adversary might withdraw. It is very rare that a duel with swords is fatal, for mutual prudence is apt to restrain combatants from engaging at sufficiently close quarters for a point to penetrate deeply. With pistols he ran a grave risk of death; but he might also extricate himself from the affair with all the honours of the situation and without actually coming to a meeting.
"I must be firm," he said. "He will take fright."
The sound of his voice set him trembling, and he looked round. He felt very nervous. He drank another glass of water, then began to undress for bed.
As soon as he was in bed, he blew out the light and closed his eyes.
"I've the whole of to-morrow," he thought, "in which to set my affairs in order. I'd better sleep now, so that I shall be quite calm."
He was very warm in the blankets, but he could not manage to compose himself to sleep. He turned this way and that, lay for five minutes upon his back, turned on to his left side, then rolled over on to his right.
He was still thirsty. He got up to get a drink. A feeling of uneasiness crept over him:
"Is it possible that I'm afraid?"
Why did his heart beat madly at each familiar sound in his room? When the clock was about to strike, the faint squeak of the rising spring made him start; so shaken he was that for several seconds afterwards he had to open his mouth to get his breath.
He began to reason with himself on the possibility of his being afraid.
"Shall I be afraid?"
No, of course he would not be afraid, since he was resolved to see the matter through, and had duly made up his mind to fight and not to tremble. But he felt so profoundly distressed that he wondered:
"Can a man be afraid in spite of himself?"
He was attacked by this doubt, this uneasiness, this terror; suppose a force more powerful than himself, masterful, irresistible, overcame him, what would happen? Yes, what might not happen? Assuredly he would go to the place of the meeting, since he was quite ready to go. But supposing he trembled? Supposing he fainted? He thought of the scene, of his reputation, his good name.
There came upon him a strange need to get up and look at himself in the mirror. He relit his candle. When he saw his face reflected in the polished glass, he scarcely recognised it, it seemed to him as though he had never yet seen himself. His eyes looked to him enormous; and he was pale; yes, without doubt he was pale, very pale.
He remained standing in front of the mirror. He put out his tongue, as though to ascertain the state of his health, and abruptly the thought struck him like a bullet:
"The day after to-morrow, at this very hour, I may be dead."
His heart began again its furious beating.
"The day after to-morrow, at this very hour, I may be dead. This person facing me, this me I see in the mirror, will be no more. Why, here I am, I look at myself, I feel myself alive, and in twenty-four hours I shall be lying in that bed, dead, my eyes closed, cold, inanimate, vanished."
He turned back towards the bed, and distinctly saw himself lying on his back in the very sheets he had just left. He had the hollow face of a corpse, his hands had the slackness of hands that will never make another movement.
At that he was afraid of his bed, and, to get rid of the sight of it, went into the smoking-room. Mechanically he picked up a cigar, lit it, and began to walk up and down again. He was cold; he went to the bell to wake his valet; but he stopped, even as he raised his hand to the rope.
"He will see that I am afraid."
He did not ring; he lit the fire. His hands shook a little, with a nervous tremor, whenever they touched anything. His brain whirled, his troubled thoughts became elusive, transitory, and gloomy; his mind suffered all the effects of intoxication, as though he were actually drunk.
Over and over again he thought:
"What shall I do? What is to become of me?"
His whole body trembled, seized with a jerky shuddering; he got up and, going to the window, drew back the curtains.
Dawn was at hand, a summer dawn. The rosy sky touched the town, its roofs and walls, with its own hue. A broad descending ray, like the caress of the rising sun, enveloped the awakened world; and with the light, hope--a gay, swift, fierce hope--filled the Viscount's heart! Was he mad, that he had allowed himself to be struck down by fear, before anything was settled even, before his seconds had seen those of this Georges Lamil, before he knew whether he was going to fight?
He washed, dressed, and walked out with a firm step.
He repeated to himself, as he walked:
"I must be energetic, very energetic. I must prove that I am not afraid."
His seconds, the Marquis and the Colonel, placed themselves at his disposal, and after hearty handshakes discussed the conditions.
"You are anxious for a serious duel? " asked the Colonel.
"Yes, a very serious one," replied the Viscount.
"You still insist on pistols?" said the Marquis.
"Yes."
"You will leave us free to arrange the rest?"
In a dry, jerky voice the Viscount stated:
"Twenty paces; at the signal, raising the arm, and not lowering it. Exchange of shots till one is seriously wounded."
"They are excellent conditions," declared the Colonel in a tone of satisfaction. "You shoot well, you have every chance."
They departed. The Viscount went home to wait for them. His agitation, momentarily quietened, was now growing minute by minute. He felt a strange shivering, a ceaseless vibration, down his arms, down his legs, in his chest; he could not keep still in one place, neither seated nor standing. There was not the least moistening of saliva in his mouth, and at every instant he made a violent movement of his tongue, as though to prevent it sticking to his palate.
He was eager to have breakfast, but could not eat. Then the idea came to him to drink in order to give himself courage, and he sent for a decanter of rum, of which he swallowed six liqueur glasses full one after the other.
A burning warmth flooded through his body, followed immediately by a sudden dizziness of the mind and spirit.
"Now I know what to do," he thought. "Now it is all right."
But by the end of an hour he had emptied the decanter, and his state of agitation had once more become intolerable. He was conscious of a wild need to roll on the ground, to scream, to bite. Night was falling.
The ringing of a bell gave him such a shock that he had not strength to rise and welcome his seconds.
He did not even dare to speak to them, to say "Good evening" to them, to utter a single word, for fear they guessed the whole thing by the alteration in his voice.
"Everything is arranged in accordance with the conditions you fixed," observed the Colonel. "At first your adversary claimed the privileges of the insulted party, but he yielded almost at once, and has accepted everything. His seconds are two military men."
"Thank you," said the Viscount.
"Pardon us," interposed the Marquis, "if we merely come in and leave again immediately, but we have a thousand things to see to. We must have a good doctor, since the combat is not to end until a serious wound is inflicted, and you know that pistol bullets are no laughing-matter. We must appoint the ground, near a house to which we may carry the wounded man if necessary, etc. In fact, we shall be occupied for two or three hours arranging all that there is to arrange."
"Thank you," said the Viscount a second time.
"You are all right?" asked the Colonel. "You are calm?"
"Yes, quite calm, thank you."
The two men retired.When he realised that he was once more alone, he thought that he was going mad. His servant had lit the lamps, and he sat down at the table to write letters. After tracing, at the head of a sheet: "This is my will," he rose shivering and walked away, feeling incapable of connecting two ideas, of taking a resolution, of making any decision whatever.
So he was going to fight! He could no longer avoid it. Then what was the matter with him? He wished to fight, he had absolutely decided upon this plan of action and taken his resolve, and he now felt clearly, in spite of every effort of mind and forcing of will, that he could not retain even the strength necessary to get him to the place of meeting. He tried to picture the duel, his own attitude and the bearing of his adversary.
From time to time his teeth chattered in his mouth with a slight clicking noise. He tried to read, and took down Chateauvillard's code of duelling. Then he wondered:
"Does my adversary go to shooting-galleries? Is he well known? Is he classified anywhere? How can I find out?"
He bethought himself of Baron Vaux's book on marksmen with the pistol, and ran through it from end to end. Georges Lamil was not mentioned in it. Yet if the man were not a good shot, he would surely not have promptly agreed to that dangerous weapon and those fatal conditions?
He opened, in passing, a case by Gastinne Renette standing on a small table, and took out one of the pistols, then placed himself as though to shoot and raised his arm. But he was trembling from head to foot and the barrel moved in every direction.
At that, he said to himself:
"It's impossible. I cannot fight in this state."
He looked at the end of the barrel, at the little, black, deep hole that spits death; he thought of the disgrace, of the whispers at the club, of the laughter in drawing-rooms, of the contempt of women, of the allusions in the papers, of the insults which cowards would fling at him.
He was still looking at the weapon, and, raising the hammer, caught a glimpse of a cap gleaming beneath it like a tiny red flame. By good fortune or forgetfulness, the pistol had been left loaded. At the knowledge, he was filled with a confused inexplicable sense of joy.
If, when face to face with the other man, he did not show a proper gallantry and calm, he would be lost for ever. He would be sullied, branded with a mark of infamy, hounded out of society. And he would not be able to achieve that calm, that swaggering poise; he knew it, he felt it. Yet he was brave, since he wanted to fight I ... He was brave, since....
The thought which hovered in him did not even fulfil itself in his mind; but, opening his mouth wide, he thrust in the barrel of his pistol with savage gesture until it reached his throat, and pressed on the trigger.
When his valet ran in, at the sound of the report, he found him lying dead upon his back. A shower of blood had splashed the white paper on the table, and made a great red mark beneath these four words:
"This is my will."

The Good Bargain by Brothers Grimm

There was once a peasant who had driven his cow to the fair, and sold

her for seven talers. On the way home he had to pass a pond, and
already from afar he heard the frogs crying, aik, aik, aik, aik.
Well, said he to himself, they are talking without rhyme or reason,
it is seven that I have received, not eight. When he got to the
water, he cried to them, stupid animals that you are. Don't you know
better than that. It is seven thalers and not eight. The frogs,
however, stuck to their, aik aik, aik, aik. Come, then, if you won't
believe it, I can count it out to you. And he took his money out of
his pocket and counted out the seven talers, always reckoning four
and twenty groschen to a taler. The frogs, however, paid no
attention to his reckoning, but still cried, aik, aik, aik, aik.
What, cried the peasant, quite angry, if you know better than I,
count it yourselves, and threw all the money at them into the water.
He stood still and wanted to wait until they were through and had
returned to him what was his, but the frogs maintained their opinion
and cried continually, aik, aik, aik, aik. And besides that, did not
throw the money out again. He still waited a long while until
evening came on and he was forced to go home. Then he abused the
frogs and cried, you water-splashers, you thick-heads, you
goggle-eyes, you have great mouths and can screech till you hurt
one's ears, but you cannot count seven talers. Do you think I'm
going to stand here till you get through. And with that he went
away, but the frogs still cried, aik, aik, aik, aik, after him till
he went home sorely vexed. After a while he bought another cow, which
he slaughtered, and he made the calculation that if he sold the meat
well he might gain as much as the two cows were worth, and have the
hide into the bargain. When therefore he got to the town with the
meat, a great pack of dogs were gathered together in front of the
gate, with a large greyhound at the head of them, which jumped at the
meat, sniffed at it, and barked, wow, wow, wow. As there was no
stopping him, the peasant said to him, yes, yes, I know quite well
that you are saying wow, wow, wow, because you want some of the meat,
but I should be in a fine state if I were to give it to you. The
dog, however, answered nothing but wow, wow. Will you promise not to
devour it all then, and will you go bail for your companions. Wow,
wow, wow, said the dog. Well, if you insist on it, I will leave it
for you, I know you well, and know whom you serve, but this I tell
you, I must have my money in three days or else it will go ill with
you, you can just bring it out to me. Thereupon he unloaded the meat
and turned back again.
wow. The countryman, who heard them from afar, said to himself, hark,
now they all want some, but the big one is responsible to me for it.
When three days had passed, the countryman thought, to-night my money
will be in my pocket, and was quite delighted. But no one would come
and pay it. There is no trusting any one now, said he. At last he
lost patience, and went into the town to the butcher and demanded his
money. The butcher thought it was a joke, but the peasant said,
jesting apart, I will have my money. Did not the big dog bring you
the whole of the slaughtered cow three days ago. Then the butcher
grew angry, snatched a broomstick and drove him out. Wait, said the
peasant, there is still some justice in the world, and went to the
royal palace and begged for an audience. He was led before the king,
who sat there with his daughter, and asked him what injury he had
suffered. Alas, said he, the frogs and the dogs have taken from me
what is mine, and the butcher has paid me for it with the stick. And
he related at full length what had happened. Thereupon the king's
daughter began to laugh heartily, and the king said to him, I cannot
give you justice in this, but you shall have my daughter to wife for
it - in her whole life she has never yet laughed as she has just done
at you, and I have promised her to him who could make her laugh. You
may thank God for your good fortune. Oh, answered the peasant, I do
not want her at all. I have a wife already, and she is one too many
for me, when I go home, it is just as if I had a wife standing in
every corner. Then the king grew angry, and said, you are a boor.
Ah, lord king, replied the peasant, what can you expect from an ox,
but beef. Stop, answered the king, you shall have another reward.
Be off now, but come back in three days, and then you shall have five
hundred counted out in full. When the peasant went out by the gate,
the sentry said, you have made the king's daughter laugh, so you will
certainly receive something good. Yes, that is what I think,
answered the peasant, five hundred are to be counted out to me.
Listen, said the soldier, give me some of it. What can you do with
all that money. As it is you, said the peasant, you shall have two
hundred, present yourself in three days, time before the king, and
let it be paid to you. A Jew, who was standing by and had heard the
conversation, ran after the peasant, held him by the coat, and said,
oh, wonder of God, what a child of fortune you are. I will change it
for you, I will change it for you into small coins, what do you want
with the great talers. Jew, said the countryman, three hundred can
you still have, give it to me at once in coin, in three days from
this, you will be paid for it by the king. The Jew was delighted
with the small profit, and brought the sum in bad groschen, three of
which were worth two good ones. After three days had passed,
according to the king's command, the peasant went before the king.
Pull his coat off, said the latter, and he shall have his five
hundred. Ah, said the peasant, they no longer belong to me, I
presented two hundred of them to the sentry, and three hundred the
Jew has changed for me, so by right nothing at all belongs to me. In
the meantime the soldier and the Jew entered and claimed what they
had gained from the peasant, and they received the blows strictly
counted out. The soldier bore it patiently and knew already how it
tasted, but the Jew said sorrowfully, alas, alas, are these the heavy
talers. The king could not help laughing at the peasant, and when
all his anger was spent, he said, as you have already lost your
reward before it fell to your lot, I will give you compensation. Go
into my treasure chamber and get some money for yourself, as much as
you will. The peasant did not need to be told twice, and stuffed
into his big pockets whatsoever would go in. Afterwards he went to
an inn and counted out his money. The Jew had crept after him and
heard how he muttered to himself, that rogue of a king has cheated me
after all, why could he not have given me the money himself, and then
I should have known what I had. How can I tell now if what I have
had the luck to put in my pockets is right or not. Good heavens,
said the Jew to himself, that man is speaking disrespectfully of our
lord the king, I will run and inform, and then I shall get a reward,
and he will be punished as well. When the king heard of the peasant's
words he fell into a passion, and commanded the Jew to go and bring
the offender to him. The Jew ran to the peasant, you are to go at
once to the lord king in the very clothes you have on. I know what's
right better than that, answered the peasant, I shall have a new coat
made first. Do you think that a man with so much money in his pocket
should go there in his ragged old coat. The Jew, as he saw that the
peasant would not stir without another coat, and as he feared that if
the king's anger cooled, he himself would lose his reward, and the
peasant his punishment, said, I will out of pure friendship lend you
a coat for the short time. What people will not do for love. The
peasant was contented with this, put the Jew's coat on, and went off
with him. The king reproached the countryman because of the evil
speaking of which the Jew had informed him. Ah, said the peasant,
what a Jew says is always false - no true word ever comes out of his
mouth. That rascal there is capable of maintaining that I have his
coat on. What is that, shrieked the Jew, is the coat not mine. Have
I not lent it to you out of pure friendship, in order that you might
appear before the lord king. When the king heard that, he said, the
Jew has assuredly deceived one or the other of us, either myself or
the peasant. And again he ordered something to be counted out to him
in hard thalers. The peasant, however, went home in the good coat,
with the good money in his pocket, and said to himself, this time I
have made it.

The dogs fell upon it and loudly barked, wow,

The Devil and the Three Golden Hairs by Brothers Grimm

There was once a poor woman who gave birth to a little son,

and as he came into the world with a caul on, it was predicted
that in his fourteenth year he would have the king's daughter
for his wife. It happened that soon afterwards the king
came into the village, and no one knew that he was the king,
and when he asked the people what news there was, they answered,
a child has just been born with a caul on, whatever anyone so
born undertakes turns out well. It is prophesied, too, that
in his fourteenth year he will have the king's daughter for his
wife.

The king, who had a bad heart, and was angry about the prophecy,
went to the parents, and, seeming quite friendly, said, you poor
people, let me have your child, and I will take care of it. At
first they refused, but when the stranger offered them a large
amount of gold for it, and they thought, it is a child of good
fortune, and everything must turn out well for it, they at last
consented, and gave him the child.

The king put it in a box and rode away with it until he came to
a deep piece of water, then he threw the box into it and thought,
I have freed my daughter from her undesired suitor.

The box, however, did not sink, but floated like a boat, and not
a drop of water made its way into it. And it floated to within
two miles of the king's chief city, where there was a mill, and
it came to a halt at the mill-dam. A miller's boy, who by good
luck was standing there, noticed it and pulled it out with a hook,
thinking that he had found a great treasure, but when he opened
it there lay a pretty boy inside, quite fresh and lively. He
took him to the miller and his wife, and as they had no children
they were glad, and said, "God has given him to us." They took
great care of the foundling, and he grew up in all goodness.

It happened that once in a storm, the king went into the mill, and
asked the mill-folk if the tall youth were their son. No,
answered they, he's a foundling. Fourteen years ago he floated
down to the mill-dam in a box, and the mill-boy pulled him out
of the water.

Then the king knew that it was none other than the child of
good fortune which he had thrown into the water, and he said,
my good people, could not the youth take a letter to the queen.
I will give him two gold pieces as a reward. Just as the king
commands, answered they, and they told the boy to hold himself
in readiness. Then the king wrote a letter to the queen, wherein
he said, as soon as the boy arrives with this letter, let him be
killed and buried, and all must be done before I come home.
The boy set out with this letter, but he lost his way, and in the
evening came to a large forest. In the darkness he saw a small
light, he went towards it and reached a cottage. When he went in,
an old woman was sitting by the fire quite alone. She started
when she saw the boy, and said, whence do you come, and whither
are you going. I come from the mill, he answered, and wish
to go to the queen, to whom I am taking a letter, but as I have
lost my way in the forest I should like to stay here over night.
You poor boy, said the woman, you have come into a den of thieves,
and when they come home they will kill you. Let them come,
said the boy, I am not afraid, but I am so tired that I cannot go
any farther. And he stretched himself upon a bench and fell
asleep.

Soon afterwards the robbers came, and angrily asked what strange
boy was lying there. Ah, said the old woman, it is an innocent
child who has lost himself in the forest, and out of pity I have
let him come in, he has to take a letter to the queen. The robbers
opened the letter and read it, and in it was written that the
boy as soon as he arrived should be put to death. Then the
hardhearted robbers felt pity, and their leader tore up the letter
and wrote another, saying, that as soon as the boy came, he should
be married at once to the king's daughter. Then they let him lie
quietly on the bench until the next morning, and when he awoke
they gave him the letter, and showed him the right way.

And the queen, when she had received the letter and read it,
did as was written in it, and had a splendid wedding-feast
prepared, and the king's daughter was married to the child of
good fortune, and as the youth was handsome and friendly she lived
with him in joy and contentment.

After some time the king returned to his palace and saw that
the prophecy was fulfilled, and the child married to his daughter.
How has that come to pass, said he, I gave quite another order
in my letter.

So the queen gave him the letter, and said that he might see for
himself what was written in it. The king read the letter and
saw quite well that it had been exchanged for the other. He
asked the youth what had become of the letter entrusted to him,
and why he had brought another instead of it. I know nothing
about it, answered he, it must have been changed in the night,
when I slept in the forest. The king said in a passion, you shall
not have everything quite so much your own way, whosoever marries
my daughter must fetch me from hell three golden hairs from
the head of the devil, bring me what I want, and you shall keep
my daughter. In this way the king hoped to be rid of him for ever.
But the child of good fortune answered, I will fetch the golden
hairs, I am not afraid of the devil. Whereupon he took leave of
them and began his journey.

The road led him to a large town, where the watchman by the gates
asked him what his trade was, and what he knew. I know
everything, answered the child of good fortune. Then you can do us
a favor, said the watchman, if you will tell us why our market
fountain, which once flowed with wine has become dry, and no
longer gives even water. That you shall know, answered he, only
wait until I come back.

Then he went farther and came to another town, and there also the
gatekeeper asked him what was his trade, and what he knew.
I know everything, answered he. Then you can do us a favor and
tell us why a tree in our town which once bore golden apples now
does not even put forth leaves. You shall know that, answered he,
only wait until I come back.

Then he went on and came to a wide river over which he must cross.
The ferryman asked him what his trade was, and what he knew. I
know everything, answered he. Then you can do me a favor, said
the ferryman, and tell me why I must always be rowing backwards
and forwards, and am never set free. You shall know that,
answered he, only wait until I come back.

When he had crossed the water he found the entrance to hell. It
was black and sooty within, and the devil was not at home, but
his grandmother was sitting in a large arm-chair. What do you
want, said she to him, but she did not look so very wicked. I
should like to have three golden hairs from the devil's head,
answered he, else I cannot keep my wife. That is a good deal
to ask for, said she, if the devil comes home and finds you, it
will cost you your life, but as I pity you, I will see if I cannot
help you.

She changed him into an ant and said, creep into the folds of my
dress, you will be safe there. Yes, answered he, so far, so good,
but there are three things besides that I want to know - why a
fountain which once flowed with wine has become dry, and no
longer gives even water, why a tree which once bore golden apples
does not even put forth leaves, and why a ferryman must always be
going backwards and forwards, and is never set free.
Those are difficult questions, answered she, but just be silent
and quiet and pay attention to what the devil says when I pull out
the three golden hairs.

As the evening came on, the devil returned home. No sooner had he
entered than he noticed that the air was not pure. I smell man's
flesh, said he, all is not right here. Then he pried into
every corner, and searched, but could not find anything. His
grandmother scolded him. It has just been swept, said she, and
everything put in order, and now you are upsetting it again, you
have always got man's flesh in your nose. Sit down and eat your
supper.

When he had eaten and drunk he was tired, and laid his head in
his grandmother's lap, and told her she should louse him a little.
It was not long before he was fast asleep, snoring and breathing
heavily. Then the old woman took hold of a golden hair, pulled
it out, and laid it down beside her. Oh, cried the devil,
what are you doing. I have had a bad dream, answered the
grandmother, so I seized hold of your hair. What did you dream
then, said the devil. I dreamt that a fountain in a market-place
from which wine once flowed was dried up, and not even water
would flow out of it - what is the cause of it. Oh, ho, if they
did but know it, answered the devil, there is a toad sitting
under a stone in the well - if they killed it, the wine would flow
again.

The grandmother loused him again until he went to sleep and
snored so that the windows shook. Then she pulled the second hair
out. Ha, what are you doing, cried the devil angrily. Do not
take it ill, said she, I did it in a dream. What have you dreamt
this time, asked he. I dreamt that in a certain kingdom there
stood an apple-tree which had once borne golden apples, but now
would not even bear leaves. What, think you, was the reason.
Oh, if they did but know, answered the devil. A mouse is
gnawing at the root - if they killed it they would have golden
apples again, but if it gnaws much longer the tree will wither
altogether. But I have had enough of your dreams, if you disturb
me in my sleep again you will get a box on the ear.

The grandmother spoke gently to him and picked his lice once
more until he fell asleep and snored. Then she took hold of the
third golden hair and pulled it out. The devil jumped up,
roared out, and would have treated her ill if she had not
quieted him again and said, who can help bad dreams. What
was the dream, then, asked he, and was quite curious. I dreamt
of a ferryman who complained that he must always ferry from
one side to the other, and was never released. What is the
cause of it. Ah, the fool, answered the devil, when anyone
comes and wants to go across he must put the oar in his hand,
and the other man will have
to ferry and he will be free. As the grandmother had plucked
out the three golden hairs, and the three questions were
answered, she let the old devil alone, and he slept until
daybreak.

When the devil had gone out again the old woman took the ant
out of the folds of her dress, and gave the child of good
fortune his human shape again. There are the three golden
hairs for you, said she. What the devil said to your three
questions, I suppose you heard. Yes, answered he, I heard, and
will take care to remember. You have what you want, said she,
and now you can go your way. He thanked the old woman for
helping him in his need, and left hell well content that
everything had turned out so fortunately.

When he came to the ferryman he was expected to give the
promised answer. Ferry me across first, said the child of good
fortune, and then I will tell you how you can be set free, and
when he reached the opposite shore he gave him the devil's advice.
Next time anyone comes, who wants to be ferried over, just put the
oar in his hand.

He went on and came to the town wherein stood the unfruitful
tree, and there too the watchman wanted an answer. So he
told him what he had heard from the devil. Kill the mouse
which is gnawing at its root, and it will again bear golden
apples. Then the watchman thanked him, and gave him as a reward
two asses laden with gold, which followed him.

Finally, he came to the town whose well was dry. He told the
watchman what the devil had said, a toad is in the well beneath
a stone, you must find it and kill it, and the well will again
give wine in plenty. The watchman thanked him, and also
gave him two asses laden with gold.

At last the child of good fortune got home to his wife, who
was heartily glad to see him again, and to hear how well he had
prospered in everything. To the king he took what he had asked
for, the devil's three golden hairs, and when the king saw the
four asses laden with gold he was quite content, and said, now
all the conditions are fulfilled, and you can keep my daughter.

But tell
me, dear son-in-law, where did all that gold come from - this
is tremendous wealth. I was rowed across a river, answered he,
and got it there, it lies on the shore instead of sand. Can I
too fetch some of it, said the king, and he was quite eager
about it. As much as you like, answered he. There is a
ferryman on the river, let him ferry you over, and you can fill
your sacks on the other side. The greedy king set out in all
haste, and when he came to the river he beckoned to the ferryman
to put him across. The ferryman came and bade him get in,
and when they got to the other shore he put the oar in his
hand and sprang over. But from this time forth the king had to
ferry, as a punishment for his sins. Perhaps he is ferrying
still. If he is, it is because no one has taken the oar from
him.

Medusa

Many years ago there was a beautiful women called Medusa. She lived in a place called Athens in Greece. She was a very kind and she obeyed her Greek gods and goddesses. Even though there was pretty girls there, Medusa was one of them.

Every single day Medusa always boasted about her self. She says to other people she is the most prettiest out of everyone in the whole wide world.

On Sunday, Medusa told the miller that her skin is more beautiful then fresh white snow. On Monday, she babbled the cobbler that her hair is brighter than the sun. On Tuesday, she commented the blacksmith's son that her eyes are greener than Aegean sea. On Wednesday, she boasted to the public that her lips are redder than the reddest rose in the world.

When Medusa wasn't busy she would boast about her self while looking in a mirror. She thought she was the prettiest woman in the whole wide world. She admired her self.

On and on Medusa went about her beauty to anyone and everyone who stopped long enough to hear her. Until one day Medusa and her friends went to the Parthenon. It was Medusa's first time going to the Parthenon. The Parthenon was the biggest temple in Greece. In the Parthenon was the goddess of wisdom and beauty and that was Athena. There was statues of most of the gods and goddesses in the Greek culture. All the people who went there obeyed Athena, all except Medusa.

Medusa saw all the statues and she whispered "Who ever did this statue did do a good job but it would look better if I was the statues." Every picture she saw she said that the person did a good job but she would look better in the picture and she is so delicate.

When Medusa reached the altar she sighed happily and said, "My this is a beautiful temple. It is a shame it is wasted on Athena for I am much prettier than she is, perhaps one day people will build an even grander temple to my beauty."

Then Medusa's friend grew pale. The priestesses heard what Medusa said and they gasped. The roomer went really quickly through the whole temple and everyone started to leave. Everyone knew Athena will get angry if anyone compared her to someone else.

Before long the temple was empty of everyone except Medusa, who was so busy gazing proudly at her reflection in the large bronze doors that she hadn't noticed the fast departure of everyone else. While Medusa was gazing the figure changes. The figure changed into goddess Athena.

"Vain and foolish girl," Athena shouted angrily, "You think your a prettier girl than me. While other people are working, playing or learning you just boast about your self. Medusa there is more to life than beauty alone you see."

Medusa tried to point out that her beauty was an inspiration to those around her and that she made their lives better by simply looking so lovely, but Athena silenced her with an angry wave.

"Nonsense," screamed Athena "One day beauty will fade away. But I will make it fade away now and all your loveliness will be gone forever."

When Athena uttered those words Medusa turned into a terrible monster. Her hair thickened into hissing snakes and body turned into a snake.

"Are you happy for what I have done? Now anyone who looks in your eyes will now turn into stone and no one will be able to save them," snapped Athena,"Even you, Medusa, should you seek your reflection, will turn to rock the moment you see your face."

Athena then sent Medusa with her hair of snakes to live with the blind monsters, the gorgon sisters, at the end of the earth, so that no innocent people would be turned to stone at the sight of her by accident.

How to Analyze A Poem

1) Read through at least twice. You will have to read a poem multiple times before even attempting to approach it for deeper meanings. Give yourself a chance to thoroughly and fully experience the poem.

2) Is there a title? Don’t forget to take this into consideration. Readers often skip over a poem’s title, which may contain important clues for understanding the piece. Often the title is an introduction that can guide you; for example, Langston Hughes’ “Mother to Son” immediately lets you know who the speaker of the poem is and to whom she is speaking.

3) Stay calm! If there are any unfamiliar words or even a few foreign terms, don’t panic and don’t obsess. On your first read through, just let them go and try instead to focus on the larger meaning of the poem. On the second and subsequent passes, you should then look up those troublesome words or anything else that is problematic for you.

4) Read it aloud. Yes. You must do this. Poems are meant to be heard. Often you will find that places in the poem that gave you trouble on the page suddenly make sense when read out loud. You may feel silly at first, but soon you’ll be comfortable. (Cats and dogs, by the way, make particularly good audiences...though cats tend to be more critical and may leave at a pivotal point in your performance.) Read in your normal voice. Don’t try to sound like Maya Angelou. Unless you are Maya Angelou.

5) Pay attention to punctuation. Most poems use punctuation to help guide the voice of its reader. You need to pay attention because the end of a line is frequently not the end of a sentence. Consider these lines from Robert Frost’s “Birches”:

When I see birches bend to left and right

Across the lines of straighter darker trees,

I like to think some boy’s been swinging in them.

If you stop reading or pause at the end of the first line, it will sound broken and unnatural. If you read smoothly through, pausing briefly at the comma and making a full stop at the period, the poem will have its proper conversational tone.

6) Try paraphrasing. It may be best for you to write in your own words what the poet is saying in each line of the poem. As you work through it, you’ll see which areas you need to concentrate on. But again, avoid the notion that there is “one true meaning.”

7) Who is the speaker? Remember not to confuse the poet with the “speaker” of the poem. More often than not, the speaker is a character, just like in a novel or a play. Determining who the speaker is will help you approach the work more easily.

8) Be open to interpretation. Give it a chance. For example, William Carlos Williams’ poem “The Red Wheelbarrow” is often dismissed as cryptic, confusing, and ultimately unknowable. But being open to the poet’s intentions can lead you to some interesting ideas and questions (in this case, what is important to life?).

9) There are no useless words. Poets select each and every word carefully. None should be dismissed. Images and symbols all have a purpose in the overall meaning of the poem.

10) Don’t expect a definitive reading. Many poems are intentionally open-ended and refuse to resolve their internal tensions. While it is desirable to understand what a poem is saying, remember that there are approaches and interpretations other than your own.

The Drama From About 1550 To 1642 THE INFLUENCE OF CLASSICAL COMEDY AND TRAGEDY.

In Chapter IV we left the drama at that point, toward the middle of the sixteenth century, when the Mystery Plays had largely declined and Moralities and Interlude-Farces, themselves decadent, were sharing in rather confused rivalry that degree of popular interest which remained unabsorbed by the religious, political, and social ferment. There was still to be a period of thirty or forty years before the flowering of the great Elizabethan drama, but they were to be years of new, if uncertain, beginnings.

The first new formative force was the influence of the classical drama, for which, with other things classical, the Renaissance had aroused enthusiasm. This force operated mainly not through writers for popular audiences, like the authors of most Moralities and Interludes, but through men of the schools and the universities, writing for performances in their own circles or in that of the Court. It had now become a not uncommon thing for boys at the large schools to act in regular dramatic fashion, at first in Latin, afterward in English translation, some of the plays of the Latin comedians which had long formed a part of the school curriculum. Shortly after the middle of the century, probably, the head-master of Westminister School, Nicholas Udall, took the further step of writing for his boys on the classical model an original farce-comedy, the amusing 'Ralph Roister Doister.' This play is so close a copy of Plautus' 'Miles Gloriosus' and Terence's 'Eunuchus' that there is little that is really English about it; a much larger element of local realism of the traditional English sort, in a classical framework, was presented in the coarse but really skillful 'Gammer Gurton's Needle,' which was probably written at about the same time, apparently by the Cambridge student William Stevenson.

Meanwhile students at the universities, also, had been acting Plautus and Terence, and further, had been writing and acting Latin tragedies, as well as comedies, of their own composition. Their chief models for tragedy were the plays of the first-century Roman Seneca, who may or may not have been identical with the philosopher who was the tutor of the Emperor Nero. Both through these university imitations and directly, Seneca's very faulty plays continued for many years to exercise a great influence on English tragedy. Falling far short of the noble spirit of Greek tragedy, which they in turn attempt to copy, Seneca's plays do observe its mechanical conventions, especially the unities of Action and Time, the use of the chorus to comment on the action, the avoidance of violent action and deaths on the stage, and the use of messengers to report such events. For proper dramatic action they largely substitute ranting moralizing declamation, with crudely exaggerated passion, and they exhibit a great vein of melodramatic horror, for instance in the frequent use of the motive of implacable revenge for murder and of a ghost who incites to it. In the early Elizabethan period, however, an age when life itself was dramatically intense and tragic, when everything classic was looked on with reverence, and when standards of taste were unformed, it was natural enough that such plays should pass for masterpieces.

A direct imitation of Seneca, famous as the first tragedy in English on classical lines, was the 'Gorboduc, or Ferrex and Porrex,' of Thomas Norton and Thomas Sackville, acted in 1562. Its story, like those of some of Shakespeare's plays later, goes back ultimately to the account of one of the early reigns in Geoffrey of Monmouth's 'History.' 'Gorboduc' outdoes its Senecan models in tedious moralizing, and is painfully wooden in all respects; but it has real importance not only because it is the first regular English tragedy, but because it was the first play to use the iambic pentameter blank verse which Surrey had introduced to English poetry and which was destined to be the verse-form of really great English tragedy. When they wrote the play Norton and Sackville were law students at the Inner Temple, and from other law students during the following years came other plays, which were generally acted at festival seasons, such, as Christmas, at the lawyers' colleges, or before the Queen, though the common people were also admitted among the audience. Unlike 'Gorboduc,' these other university plays were not only for the most part crude and coarse in the same manner as earlier English plays, but in accordance also with the native English tradition and in violent defiance of the classical principle of Unity, they generally combined tragical classical stories with realistic scenes of English comedy (somewhat later with Italian stories). Nevertheless, and this is the main thing, the more thoughtful members of the Court and University circles, were now learning from the study of classical plays a sense for form and the fundamental distinction between tragedy and comedy.