CHAPTER

4
Stories and Meanings: Plot, Character, Theme
People tell stories for many reasons, including the sheer delight of talking, but probably most of the best storytelling proceeds from one of two more commendable desires: a desire to entertain or a desire to instruct. mong the most famous of the stories designed to instruct are the parables that !esus told,

including The Parable of the Prodigal Son, which we discussed in Chapter ". # Parable comes from the $reek word meaning to %throw beside&'that is, %to compare.& (e are to compare these little stories with our own beha)ior.* (e can say that the parable is told for the sake of the point+ we also can say that it is told for our sake, because we are implicitly in)ited to see oursel)es in the story, and to li)e our li)es in accordance with it. This simple but powerful story, with its memorable characters'though nameless and briefly sketched'makes us feel the point in our hearts. ,)en older than !esus- parables are the fables attributed to esop, some of which go back to the

se)enth century before !esus. These stories also teach lessons by recounting brief incidents from which homely morals may easily be drawn, e)en though the stories are utterly fanciful. mong famous e.amples

are the stories of the hare and the tortoise, the boy who cried %(olf,& the ant and the grasshopper, and a good many others that stick in the mind because of the sharply contrasted characters in sharply imagined situations. The fables /ust mentioned take only four or fi)e sentences apiece, but brief as they are, told some briefer ones. 0ere is the briefest of all, about a female fo. and a lioness. esop

AESOP
Aesop, a semi-legendary Greek storyteller, was said to have lived in the sixth century the stories he told are ound in Egypt, in texts that are hundreds o years older!
BCE,

but some o

The Vixen and the Lioness

)i.en sneered at a lioness because she ne)er bore more than one cub. %1nly one,& the lioness replied, %but a lion.& !ust that: a situation with a conflict #the mere confrontation of a fo. and a lion brings together the ignoble and the noble* and a resolution # something must come out of such a confrontation*. There is no setting #we are not told that %one day in !une a )i.en, walking down a road, met a lioness&*, but none is needed here. (hat there is'howe)er briefly set forth'is characteri2ation. The fo.-s baseness is effecti)ely communicated through the )erb %sneered& and through her taunt, and the lioness-s nobility is e)en more effecti)ely communicated through the bre)ity and decisi)eness of her reply. This reply at first seems to agree with the fo. #%1nly one&* and then, after a suspenseful delay pro)ided by the words %the lioness replied,& the reply is tersely and powerfully completed #%but a lion&*, placing the matter firmly in a new light. $ranted that the story is not much of a story, still, it is finely told, and more potent'more memorable, more li)ely, we might e)en say more real, despite its talking animals'than the mere moral: %Small3minded people confuse 4uantity with 4uality.& The fable is frankly imaginati)e, made3up+ no one belie)es that fo.es and lions discuss their offspring, or, for that matter, that tortoises and hares engage in races. 0ere is another fable, this one not about animals but still 4uite e)idently not to be taken as history.

(. Somerset Maugham
"#illiam$ %omerset &augham #'()*+',-.$, born in Paris but o English origin, grew up in England, where he was trained as a physician, but he never practiced medicine! /ather, he pre erred to make his living as a novelist, playwright, and writer o short stories! 0he ollowing story is in act a speech uttered by a character in one o &augham1s plays, %heppey #',22$!

The Appointment in Samarra

[1933]

3eath speaks4 There was a merchant in 5agdad who sent his ser)ant to market to buy pro)isions and in a little while the ser)ant came back, white and trembling, and said, Master, /ust now when 6 was in the marketplace 6 was /ostled by a woman in the crowd and when 6 turned 6 saw it was 7eath that /ostled me. She looked at me and made a threatening gesture, now, lend me your horse, and 6 will ride away from the city and a)oid my fate. 6 will go to Samarra and there 7eath will not find me. The merchant lent him his horse, and the ser)ant mounted it, and he dug his spurs in its flanks and as fast

as the horse could gallop he went. Then the merchant went down to the marketplace and he saw me standing in the crowd and he came to me and said, (hy did you make a threatening gesture to my ser)ant when you saw him this morning8 That was not a threatening gesture, 6 said, it was only a start of surprise. 6 was astonished to see him in 5agdad, for 6 had an appointment with him tonight in Samarra. The moral is not stated e.plicitly, and perhaps we might 4uibble a little about how we might word the moral, but the gist surely is clear: (e cannot elude death+ it comes to us at an appointed time. Man proposes, $od disposes. This is the sort of story that Maugham was especially fond of, the story with a decisi)e ending, and with relati)ely little interest in the personalities in)ol)ed. The emphasis is on plot #what happens*, not on character #what kinds of people these are*. likely to emphasi2e character as well as plot. nother sort of )ery short story, howe)er, the anecdote, is n anecdote is a short narrati)e that is supposed to be true,

such as the story of $eorge (ashington and the cherry tree. The si.3year3old (ashington, gi)en a hatchet, tried it out on a cherry tree on his father-s farm. (hen the father asked if the boy had chopped down the tree, $eorge supposedly answered. %6 cannot tell a lie+ you know 6 cannot tell a lie. 6 cut it with my hatchet.& 6n fact the story is an in)ention of Parson (eems, who told it in his 5i e o "ashington #"9::*. 1f course one can easily morali2e an anecdote #%;ou should be honest, /ust as $eorge (ashington was&*, but the emphasis in an anecdote usually is on the person in)ol)ed, not the moral. #Think of numerous anecdotes that essentially show how unpretentious braham <incoln was, or how witty (inston Churchill was.* 0ere is a nineteenth3century !apanese anecdote of anonymous authorship. 6t is said to be literally true, but whether it really occurred or not is scarcely of any importance. 6t is the story, not the history, that counts.

Muddy Road
Two monks, Tan2an and ,kido, were once tra)eling together down a muddy road. still falling. Coming around a bend, they met a lo)ely girl in a silk kimono and sash, unable to cross the intersection. %Come on, girl,& said Tan2an at once. <ifting her in his arms, he carried her o)er the mud. hea)y rain was

,kido did not speak again until that night when they reached a lodging temple. Then he no longer could restrain himself. %(e monks don-t go near females,& he told Tan2an, %especially not young and lo)ely ones. 6t is dangerous. (hy did you do that8& %6 left the girl there,& said Tan2an. % re you still carrying her8& superb story: The opening paragraph, though simple and matter3of3fact, holds our attention as we sense that something interesting is going to happen during this /ourney along a muddy road on a rainy day. Perhaps we e)en sense, somehow, by )irtue of the references to the mud and the rain, that the /ourney itself rather than the tra)elers- destination will be the heart of the story: getting there will be more than half the fun. nd then, after the introduction of the two characters and the setting, we 4uickly get the

complication, the encounter with the girl. Still there is apparently no conflict, though in %,kido did not speak again until that night& we sense an unspoken conflict, an action #or, in this case, an inaction* that must be e.plained, an imbalance that must be righted before we are finished. t last ,kido, no longer able

to contain his thoughts, lets his indignation burst out: %(e monks don-t go near females, especially not young and lo)ely ones. 6t is dangerous. (hy did you do that8& 0is statement and his 4uestion re)eal not only his moral principles, but also his insecurity and the anger that grows from it. nd now, when the

conflict is out in the open, comes the brief reply that re)eals Tan2an-s )ery different character as clearly as the outburst re)ealed ,kido-s. This reply'though we could not ha)e predicted it'strikes us as e.actly right, bringing the story to a perfect end, that is to a point #like the ends of !esus- parable and esop-s

fable* at which there is no more to be said. 6t pro)ides the dnouement #literally, %unknotting&*, or resolution. <et-s look now at another short piece, though this one is somewhat longer than the stories we ha)e /ust read, and it is less concerned than they are with teaching a lesson.

ANTON CHE!HO"
Anton Chekhov #'(-6+',6*$ was born in /ussia, the son o a shopkeeper! "hile a medical student at &oscow 7niversity, Chekhov wrote stories, sketches, and reviews to help support his amily and to inance his education! 8n '((* he received his medical degree, began to practice medicine, published his irst book o stories, and su ered the irst o a series o hemorrhages rom tuberculosis! 8n his remaining twenty years, in addition to writing several hundred stories, he wrote plays, hal a do9en o which have established themselves as classics! :e died rom tuberculosis at the age o orty- our!

Misery

[1886]

0ranslated by Constance Garnett

%To (hom Shall 6 Tell My $rief8&

The twilight of e)ening. 5ig flakes of wet snow are whirling la2ily about the street lamps, which ha)e /ust been lighted, and lying in a thin soft layer on roofs, horses- backs, shoulders, caps. 6ona Potapo), the sledgedri)er, is all white like a ghost. 0e sits on the bo. without stirring, bent as double as the li)ing body can be bent. 6f a regular snowdrift fell on him it seems as though e)en then he would not think it necessary to shake it off. . . . 0is little mare is white and motionless too. 0er stillness, the angularity of her lines, and the stick3like straightness of her legs make her look like a halfpenny gingerbread horse. She is probably lost in thought. nyone who has been torn away from the plough,

from the familiar gray landscapes, and cast into this slough, full of monstrous lights, of unceasing uproar and hurrying people, is bound to think. 6t is a long time since 6ona and his nag ha)e budged. They came out of the yard before dinner3 time and not a single fare yet. 5ut now the shades of e)ening are falling on the town. The pale light of the street lamps changes to a )i)id color, and the bustle of the street grows noisier. %Sledge to =yborgskaya>& 6ona hears. %Sledge>& 6ona starts, and through his snow3plastered eyelashes sees an officer in a military o)ercoat with a hood o)er his head. %To =yborgskaya,& repeats the officer. % re you asleep8 To =yborgskaya>& 6n token of assent 6ona gi)es a tug at the reins which sends cakes of snow flying from the horse-s back and shoulders. The officer gets into the sledge. The sledge3dri)er clicks to the horse, cranes his neck like a swan, rises in his seat, and more from habit than necessity brandishes his whip. The mare cranes her neck, too, crooks her stick3like legs, and hesitatingly sets off. . . . %(here are you sho)ing, you de)il8& 6ona immediately hears shouts from the dark mass shifting to and fro before him. %(here the de)il are you going8 ?eep to the r3right>& %;ou don-t know how to dri)e> ?eep to the right,& says the officer angrily. coachman dri)ing a carriage swears at him+ a pedestrian crossing the road and brushing the horse-s nose with his shoulder looks at him angrily and shakes the snow off his slee)e. 6ona fidgets on the bo. as though he were sitting on thorns, /erks his elbows, and turns his eyes about like one

possessed, as though he did not know where he was or why he was there. %(hat rascals they all are>& says the officer /ocosely. %They are simply doing their best to run up against you or fall under the horse-s feet. They must be doing it on purpose.& 6ona looks at his fare and mo)es his lips. . . . comes out but a sniff. %(hat8& in4uires the officer. 6ona gi)es a wry smile, and straining his throat, brings out huskily: %My son . . . , er . . . my son died this week, sir.& %0-m> (hat did he die of8& 6ona turns his whole body round to his fare, and says: %(ho can tell> 6t must ha)e been from fe)er. . . . 0e lay three days in the hospital and then he died. . . . $od-s will.& %Turn round, you de)il>& comes out of the darkness. %0a)e you gone cracked, you old dog8 <ook where you are going>& %7ri)e on> dri)e on> . . .& says the officer. %(e shan-t get there till tomorrow going on like this. 0urry up>& The sledge3dri)er cranes his neck again, rises in his seat, and with hea)y grace swings his whip. Se)eral times he looks round at the officer, but the latter keeps his eyes shut and is apparently disinclined to listen. Putting his fare down at =yborgskaya, 6ona stops by a restaurant, and again sits huddled up on the bo.. . . . then another. . . . Three young men, two tall and thin, one short and hunchbacked, come up, railing at each other and loudly stamping on the pa)ement with their galoshes. %Cabby, to the Police 5ridge>& the hunchback cries in a cracked )oice. %The three of us, . . . twenty kopecks>& 6ona tugs at the reins and clicks to his horse. Twenty kopecks is not a fair price, but he has no thoughts for that. (hether it is a rouble or whether it is fi)e kopecks does not matter to him now so long as he has a fare. . . . The three young men, sho)ing each other and using bad language, go up to the sledge, and all three try to sit down at once. The 4uestion remains to be settled: (hich are to sit gain the wet snow paints him and his horse white. 1ne hour passes, and pparently he means to say something, but nothing

down and which one is to stand8

fter a long altercation, ill3temper, and abuse, they come to the

conclusion that the hunchback must stand because he is the shortest. %(ell, dri)e on,& says the hunchback in his cracked )oice, settling himself and breathing down 6ona-s neck. %Cut along> (hat a cap you-)e got, my friend> ;ou wouldn-t find a worse one in all Petersburg. . . .& %0e3he> . . . he3he> . . .& laughs 6ona. %6t-s nothing to boast of>& %(ell, then, nothing to boast of, dri)e on> 6 gi)e you one in the neck8& %My head aches,& says one of the tall ones. % t the 7ukmaso)s- yesterday =aska and 6 drank four bottles of brandy between us.& %6 can-t make out why you talk such stuff,& says the other tall one angrily. %;ou lie like a brute.& %Strike me dead, it-s the truth> . . .& %6t-s about as true as that a louse coughs.& %0e3he>& grins 6ona. %Me3er3ry gentlemen>& %Tfoo> the de)il take you>& cries the hunchback indignantly. %(ill you get on, you old plague, or won-t you8 6s that the way to dri)e8 $i)e her one with the whip. 0ang it all, gi)e it her well.& 6ona feels behind his back the /olting person and 4ui)ering )oice of the hunchback. 0e hears abuse addressed to him, he sees people, and the feeling of loneliness begins little by little to be less hea)y on his heart. The hunchback swears at him, till he chokes o)er some elaborately whimsical string of epithets and is o)erpowered by his cough. 0is tall companions begin talking of a certain @adye2hda Petro)na. 6ona looks round at them. (aiting till there is a brief pause, he looks round once more and says: %This week . . . er . . . my . . . er . . . son died>& %(e shall all die, . . .& says the hunchback with a sigh, wiping his lips after coughing. %Come, dri)e on> dri)e on> My friends, 6 simply cannot stand crawling like this> (hen will he get us there8& %(ell, you gi)e him a little encouragement . . . one in the neck>& %7o you hear, you old plague8 6-ll make you smart. 6f one stands on ceremony with fellows like you one may as well walk. 7o you hear, you old dragon8 1r don-t you care a hang what we say8& nd 6ona hears rather than feels a slap on the back of his neck. re you going to dri)e like this all the way8 ,h8 Shall

%0e3he> . . .& he laughs. %Merry gentlemen . . . $od gi)e you health>& %Cabman, are you married8& asks one of the tall ones. %68 0e3he> Me3er3ry gentlemen. The only wife for me now is the damp earth. . . . 0e3ho3ho>. . . The gra)e that is>. . . 0ere my son-s dead and 6 am ali)e. . . . 6t-s a strange thing, death has come in at the wrong door. . . . 6nstead of coming for me it went for my son. . . .& nd 6ona turns round to tell them how his son died, but at that point the hunchback gi)es a faint sigh and announces that, thank $od> they ha)e arri)ed at last. fter taking his twenty kopecks, 6ona gain he is alone and again

ga2es for a long while after the re)elers, who disappear into a dark entry.

there is silence for him. . . . The misery which has been for a brief space eased comes back again and tears his heart more cruelly than e)er. (ith a look of an.iety and suffering 6ona-s eyes stray restlessly among the crowds mo)ing to and fro on both sides of the street: can he not find among those thousands someone who will listen to him8 5ut the crowds flit by heedless of him and his misery. . . . 0is misery is immense, beyond all bounds. 6f 6ona-s heart were to burst and his misery to flow out, it would flood the whole world, it seems, but yet it is not seen. 6t has found a hiding3place in such an insignificant shell that one would not ha)e found it with a candle by daylight. . . . 6ona sees a house3porter with a parcel and makes up his mind to address him. %(hat time will it be, friend8& he asks. %$oing on for ten. . . . (hy ha)e you stopped here8 7ri)e on>& 6ona dri)es a few paces away, bends himself double, and gi)es himself up to his misery. 0e feels it is no good to appeal to people. 5ut before fi)e minutes ha)e passed he draws himself up, shakes his head as though he feels a sharp pain, and tugs at the reins. . . . 0e can bear it no longer. %5ack to the yard>& he thinks. %To the yard>& nd his little mare, as though she knew his thoughts, falls to trotting. n hour and a half later

6ona is sitting by a big dirty sto)e. 1n the sto)e, on the floor, and on the benches are people snoring. The air is full of smells and stuffiness. 6ona looks at the sleeping figures, scratches himself, and regrets that he has come home so early. . . . %6 ha)e not earned enough to pay for the oats, e)en,& he thinks. %That-s why 6 am so miserable. man who knows how to do his work,. . . who has had enough to eat, and whose horse has had enough to eat, is always at ease. . . .&

6n one of the corners a young cabman gets up, clears his throat sleepily, and makes for the waterbucket. %(ant a drink8& 6ona asks him. %Seems so.& %May it do you good. . . . 5ut my son is dead, mate. . . .7o you hear8 This week in the hospital. . . . 6t-s 4ueer business. . . .& 6ona looks to see the effect produced by his words, but he sees nothing. The young man has co)ered his head o)er and is already asleep. The old man sighs and scratches himself. . . . !ust as the young man had been thirsty for water, he thirsts for speech. 0is son will soon ha)e been dead a week, and he has not really talked to anybody yet. . . . 0e wants to talk of it properly, with deliberation. . . . 0e wants to tell how his son was taken ill, how he suffered, what he said before he died, how he died. . . . 0e wants to describe the funeral, and how he went to the hospital to get his son-s clothes. 0e still has his daughter nisya in the country. . . . nd he wants to talk about her too. . . . ;es, he

has plenty to talk about now. 0is listener ought to sigh and e.claim and lament. . . . 6t would be e)en better to talk to women. Though they are silly creatures, they blubber at the first word. %<et-s go out and ha)e a look at the mare,& 6ona thinks. %There is always time for sleep. . . . ;ou-ll ha)e sleep enough, no fear. . . .& 0e puts on his coat and goes into the stables where his mare is standing. 0e thinks about oats, about hay, about the weather. . . . 0e cannot think about his son when he is alone. . . . To talk about him with someone is possible, but to think of him and picture him is insufferable anguish. . . . % re you munching8& 6ona asks his mare, seeing her shining eyes. %There, munch away, munch away. . . . Since we ha)e not earned enough for oats, we will eat hay. . . . ;es,. . . 6 ha)e grown too old to dri)e. . . . My son ought to be dri)ing, not 6. . . . 0e was a real coachman. . . . 0e ought to ha)e li)ed. . . .& 6ona is silent for a while, and then he goes on: %That-s how it is, old girl.... ?u2ma 6onitch is gone. . . . 0e said good3by to me. . . . 0e went and died for no reason. . . . @ow, suppose you had a little colt, and you were mother to that little colt. . . . nd all at once that same little colt went and died. . . . ;ou-d be sorry, wouldn-t you8 . . . & The little mare munches, listens, and breathes on her master-s hands. 6ona is carried away and

tells her all about it. <et-s look at Chekho)-s %Misery& as a piece of craftsmanship. The happenings #here, a cabman seeks to tell his grief to se)eral people, but is rebuffed and finally tells it to his horse* are the plot# the participants #cabman, officer, drunks, etc.* are the characters# the locale, time, and social circumstances #a snowy city in Aussia, in the late nineteenth century* are the setting# and #though, as we will urge later, this word should be used with special caution* the meaning or point is the theme. The traditional plot has this structure: ". 3E$position #setting forth of the initial situation* B. 3Conflict #a complication that mo)es to a clima.* C. 3%nouement #the outcome of the conflict+ the resolution* Chekho)-s first paragraph, de)oted to e$position, begins by introducing a situation that seems to be static: 6t briefly describes a motionless cabdri)er, who %is all white like a ghost,& and the cabdri)er-s mare, whose immobility and angularity %make her look like a halfpenny gingerbread horse.& reader

probably anticipates that something will intrude into this apparently static situation+ some sort of conflict will be established, and then in all probability will be #in one way or another* resol)ed. 6n fact, the inertia described at the )ery beginning is disturbed e)en before the paragraph ends, when Chekho) rather surprisingly takes us into the mind not of the cabdri)er but of the horse, telling us that if we were in such a situation as the horse finds itself, we too would find it difficult not to think. 5y the middle of the first paragraph, we ha)e been gi)en a brief but entirely ade4uate )iew of the setting: a Aussian city in the days of horse3drawn sleighs, that is, in Chekho)-s lifetime. Strictly speaking, the paragraph does not specify Aussia or the period, but the author is a Aussian writing in the late nineteenth century, the character has a Aussian name, and there is lots of snow so one concludes that the story is set in Aussia. # reader somewhat familiar with Chekho) does not e)en ha)e to read the first

paragraph of this story to know the setting, since all of Chekho)-s work is set in the Aussia of his day.* 1ne might almost say that by the end of the first paragraph we ha)e met all the chief characters ' though we can-t know this until we finish the story. 6n later paragraphs we will meet additional figures, but the chief characters'the characters whose fates we are concerned with'are simply the cabdri)er and the horse. 6t-s odd to call the horse a character+ but as we noticed, e)en in the first paragraph Chekho) takes us into the mind of the horse. @otice, too, how Chekho) establishes connections between the man

and the horse+ for instance, when the first fare gets into the sleigh, the dri)er %cranes his neck& and %then the mare cranes her neck, too.& 5y the end of the story, the horse seems almost a part of 6ona. Perhaps the horse will be the best possible listener, since perhaps grief of 6ona-s sort can be told only to the self. 5efore talking further about the characters, we should point out that the word %character& has two chief meanings: ". 3 figure in a literary work #thus 6ona is a character, the officer who hires the cab is another

character, and the drunks are additional characters*. B. 3Personality, as when we say that 6ona-s character is described only briefly, or that 0amlet-s character is comple., or that So3and3So-s character is unpleasant. Dsually the conte.t makes clear the sense in which the word is used, but in your own writing, make sure that there is no confusion. 6t is sometimes said that figures in literature are either flat characters #one3dimensional figures, figures with simple personalities* or round characters #comple. figures*. The usual implication is that good writers gi)e us round characters, belie)able figures who are more than cardboard cutouts holding up signs saying %/ealous lo)er,& %cruel landlord,& %kind mother,& and so forth. 5ut a short story scarcely has space to show the comple.ity or roundness of se)eral characters, and in fact, many good stories do not gi)e e)en their central characters much comple.ity. 6n %Misery,& for instance, 6ona is shown chiefly as a grie)ing father aching to speak of the death of his son. (e don-t know what sort of food he likes, whether he e)er gets drunk, what he thinks of the C2ar, or whether he belongs to the church. 5ut it is hard to imagine that knowing any of these things would be rele)ant and would increase our interest in him. Similarly, the other characters in the story are drawn with a few simple lines. The officer who first hires the cab is arrogant #%Sledge to =yborgskaya>. . . re you asleep8 To =yborgskaya>&*, and though he at

first makes a little /oke that leads 6ona to think the officer will listen to his story, the officer 4uickly changes the sub/ect. (e know of him only that he wants to get to =yborg. The three noisy drunks whom 6ona ne.t picks up can be fairly characteri2ed as /ust that'three noisy drunks. imagine that the story would be better if we knew much more about these drunks. 1n the other hand, 6ona is not 4uite so flat as we ha)e perhaps implied. careful reader notices, for gain, we can hardly

instance, that 6ona re)eals other things about himself in addition to his need to e.press his grief. Eor instance, he treats his horse as kindly as possible. (hen the officer gets into the cab, 6ona %more from

habit than necessity brandishes his whip&'but he gets the horse mo)ing by making a clicking sound, and he actually whips the horse only when the officer tells him to hurry. <ater the hunchback will say of the mare, %$i)e her one with the whip. 0ang it all, gi)e it her well,& but we feel that 6ona uses his horse as gently as is possible. 6t should be noted, howe)er, that the drunks, though they are not much more than drunks, are not less than drunks either. They are 4uarrelsome and they e)en display touches of cruelty, but we cannot call them )illains. 6n some degree, the fact that they are drunk e.cuses their %bad language,& their %ill3 tempers,& and e)en their displays of cruelty. 6f these characters are fairly flat, they ne)ertheless are thoroughly belie)able, and we know as much about them as we need to know for the purposes of the story. Eurthermore, the characters in a story help to characteri2e other characters, by their resemblances or their differences. 0ow 6ona might beha)e if he were an officer, or if he were drunk, we do not know, but he is in some degree contrasted with the other characters and thus gains some comple.ity, to the e.tent that we can at least say that he is not drunk, arrogant, or 4uarrelsome. (e need hardly ask if there is moti&ation #compelling grounds, e.ternal and also within one-s personality* for 6ona-s final action. 0e has tried to e.press his grief to the officer, and then to the drunks. @e.t, his eyes search the crowds to %find someone who will listen to him.& fter speaking to the house3

porter, 6ona sees, Chekho) tells us, that %it is no good to appeal to people.& (hen we read this line, we probably do not think, or at least do not think consciously, that he will turn from people to the mare, but when at the end of the story he does turn to the mare, the action seems entirely natural, ine)itable. 6n some stories, we are chiefly interested in plot #the arrangement of happenings or doings*, in others we are chiefly interested in character #the personalities of the doers*, but on the whole the two are so intertwined that interest in one in)ol)es interest in the other. 0appenings occur #people cross paths*, and personalities respond, engendering further happenings. s 0enry !ames rhetorically asked, %(hat is

character but the determination of incident8 (hat is incident but the illustration of character8& Commonly, as a good story proceeds and we become increasingly familiar with the characters, we get intimations of what they may do in the future. (e may not know precisely how they will act, but we ha)e a fairly good idea, and when we see their subse4uent actions, we usually recogni2e the appropriateness. Sometimes there are hints of what is to come, and because of this foreshado'ing, we are not shocked by what happens later, but rather we e.perience suspense as we wait for the e.pected to come about.

Coleridge had Shakespeare-s use of foreshadowing in mind when he praised him for gi)ing us not surprise, but e.pectation'the acti)e reader participates in the work by reading it responsi)ely'and then the fulfillment of e.pectation. ,. M. Eorster, in Aspects o the ;ovel, has a shrewd comment on the importance of both fulfilling e.pectation and offering a slight surprise: %Shock, followed by the feeling, F1h, that-s all right,- is a sign that all is well with plot: characters, to be real, ought to run smoothly, but a plot ought to cause surprise.& Einally, a few words about theme. Dsually we feel that a story is about something, it has a point'a theme. #(hat happens is the plot+ what the happenings add up to is the theme.* 5ut a word of caution is needed here. (hat is the theme of %Misery&8 1ne student formulated the theme thus: 0uman beings must utter their grief, e)en if only to an animal. nother student formulated it thus: 0uman beings are indifferent to the sufferings of others. Still another student offered this: 7eep suffering is incommunicable, but the sufferer must try to find an outlet. Many other formulations are possible. Probably there is no %right& statement of the theme of %Misery& or of any other good story: a story is not simply an illustration of an abstract statement of theme. story has

a comple. )ariety of details that modify any summary statement we may offer when we try to say what it is about. nd what li)es in our memory is not an abstract statement'certainly not a thesis, that is, a

proposition offered and argued, such as %(e should pay attention to the suffering of others.& (hat li)es is an image that by e)ery word in the story has con)inced us that it is a representation, if not of %reality,& of at least an aspect of reality. Still, the writer is guided by a theme in the choice of details+ of many possible details, Chekho) decided to present only a few. The musical sense of the word %theme& can help us to understand what a theme in literature is: %a melody constituting the basis of )ariation, de)elopment, or the like.& The )ariations and the de)elopment cannot be random, but must ha)e a basis. #(e ha)e already suggested that the episodes in %Misery&'the mo)ement from the officer to the drunks and then to the house3porter and the other cabman'are not random, but somehow seem e.actly %right,& /ust as the remarks about the man and the horse both stretching their necks seem %right.&* (hat is it, Aobert Erost asks, that pre)ents the writer from /umping %from one chance suggestion to another in all directions as of a hot afternoon in the

life of a grasshopper8& Erost-s answer: %Theme alone can steady us down.& (e can, then, talk about the theme'again, what the story adds up to'as long as we do not think a statement of the theme is e4ui)alent to or is a substitute for the whole story. s Elannery 1-Connor said,

%Some people ha)e the notion that you can read the story and then climb out of it into the meaning, but for the fiction writer himself the whole story is the meaning.& theme, she said, is not like a string tying story is a way to say something

a sack of chicken feed, to be pulled out so that the feed can be got at. %

that can-t be said any other way.& That %something&'which can-t be said in any other way'is the theme. #1n theme, see also page "GH.*

Topics for Critical Thinking and (riting

". 3(hat do you admire or not admire about Chekho)-s story8 (hy8 B. 3Try to e.amine in detail your response to the ending. 7o you think the ending is, in a way, a happy ending8 (ould you prefer a different ending8 Eor instance, should the story end when the young cabman falls asleep8 1r when 6ona sets out for the stable8 1r can you imagine a better ending8 6f so, what8 C. 3 literary critic has said of %Misery&: %Eor the story it tells, its length is perfect.& 7o you agree8

7o you think that the story could be made e)en shorter8 6f so, where would you seek to cut or condense it8 Could this story be made longer8 6f so, which features of it would you e.pand and de)elop further8 4. 3Erom working on the pre)ious topic, what ha)e you learned about Chekho) as a writer8 (hat ha)e you learned about the craft in)ol)ed in the writing of a short story8 I. 3(hich do you think is more challenging: writing a short story about a sad e.perience or about a happy one8 Please be as specific as you can about the nature of the challenge and how you, as the writer of such a story, would attempt to deal with it. (hat would you do to make the story effecti)e8

!ATE CHOP(N

)*+,-.

<or a biographical note, see page =(!

D sir e!s "a#y

s the day was pleasant, Madame =almondJ dro)e o)er to <- bri to see 7JsirJe and the baby. 6t made her laugh to think of 7JsirJe with a baby. (hy, it seemed but yesterday that 7JsirJe was

little more than a baby herself+ when Monsieur in riding through the gateway of =almondJ had found her lying asleep in the shadow of the big stone pillar. The little one awoke in his arms and began to cry for %7ada.& That was as much as she could do or say. Some people thought she might ha)e strayed there of her own accord, for she was of the toddling age. The pre)ailing belief was that she had been purposely left by a party of Te.ans, whose can)as3co)ered wagon, late in the day, had crossed the ferry that Coton MaKs kept, /ust below the plantation. 6n time Madame =almondJ abandoned e)ery speculation but the one that 7JsirJe had been sent to her by a beneficent Pro)idence to be the child of her affection, seeing that she was without child of the flesh. Eor the girl grew to be beautiful and gentle, affectionate and sincere,'the idol of =almondJ. 6t was no wonder, when she stood one day against the stone pillar in whose shadow she had lain asleep, eighteen years before, that with her. That was the way all the rmand ubigny riding by and seeing her there, had fallen in lo)e

ubignys fell in lo)e, as if struck by a pistol shot. The wonder was

that he had not lo)ed her before+ for he had known her since his father brought him home from Paris, a boy of eight, after his mother died there. The passion that awoke in him that day, when he saw her at the gate, swept along like an a)alanche, or like a prairie fire, or like anything that dri)es headlong o)er all obstacles. I Monsieur =almondJ grew practical and wanted things well considered: that is, the girl-s obscure origin. rmand looked into her eyes and did not care. 0e was reminded that she was nameless. (hat

did it matter about a name when he could gi)e her one of the oldest and proudest in <ouisiana8 0e ordered the corbeille " from Paris, and contained himself with what patience he could until it arri)ed+ then they were married. Madame =almondJ had not seen 7JsirJe and the baby for four weeks. (hen she reached <- bri she shuddered at the first sight of it, as she always did. 6t was a sad looking place, which for many years had not known the gentle presence of a mistress, old Monsieur ubigny ha)ing married and

buried his wife in Erance, and she ha)ing lo)ed her own land too well e)er to lea)e it. The roof came down steep and black like a cowl, reaching out beyond the wide galleries that encircled the yellow stuccoed house. 5ig, solemn oaks grew close to it, and their thick3lea)ed, far3reaching branches shadowed it like a pall. ;oung ubigny-s rule was a strict one, too, and under it his negroes had

forgotten how to be gay, as they had been during the old master-s easy3going and indulgent lifetime. The young mother was reco)ering slowly, and lay full length, in her soft white muslins and laces, upon a couch. The baby was beside her, upon her arm, where he had fallen asleep, at her breast. The yellow nurse woman sat beside a window fanning herself. Madame =almondJ bent her portly figure o)er 7JsirJe and kissed her, holding her an instant tenderly in her arms. Then she turned to the child. %This is not the baby>& she e.claimed, in startled tones. Erench was the language spoken at =almondJ in those days. ": %6 knew you would be astonished,& laughed 7JsirJe, %at the way he has grown. The little cochon de lait>B <ook at his legs, mamma, and his hands and fingernails,'real fingernails. Landrine had to cut them this morning. 6sn-t it true, Landrine8& The woman bowed her turbaned head ma/estically, %Mais si,C Madame.& % nd the way he cries,& went on 7JsirJe, %is deafening. away as <a 5lanche-s cabin.& Madame =almondJ had ne)er remo)ed her eyes from the child. She lifted it and walked with it o)er to the window that was lightest. She scanned the baby narrowly, then looked as searchingly at Landrine, whose face was turned to ga2e across the fields. %;es, the child has grown, has changed,& said Madame =almondJ, slowly, as she replaced it beside its mother. %(hat does rmand say8& "I 7JsirJe-s face became suffused with a glow that was happiness itself. %1h, rmand is the proudest father in the parish, 6 belie)e, chiefly because it is a boy, to bear his rmand heard him the other day as far

name+ though he says not'that he would ha)e lo)ed a girl as well. 5ut 6 know it isn-t true. 6 know he says that to please me. nd mamma,& she added, drawing Madame =almondJ-s head down to her,

and speaking in a whisper, %he hasn-t punished one of them'not one of them'since baby is born. ,)en @Jgrillon, who pretended to ha)e burnt his leg that he might rest from work'he only laughed, and said @Jgrillon was a great scamp. 1h, mamma, 6-m so happy+ it frightens me.& (hat 7JsirJe said was true. Marriage, and later the birth of his son had softened rmand

ubigny-s imperious and e.acting nature greatly. This was what made the gentle 7JsirJe so happy, for she lo)ed him desperately. (hen he frowned she trembled, but lo)ed him. (hen he smiled, she

asked no greater blessing of $od. 5ut

rmand-s dark, handsome face had not often been disfigured

by frowns since the day he fell in lo)e with her. (hen the baby was about three months old, 7JsirJe awoke one day to the con)iction that there was something in the air menacing her peace. 6t was at first too subtle to grasp. 6t had only been a dis4uieting suggestion+ an air of mystery among the blacks+ une.pected )isits from far3off neighbors who could hardly account for their coming. Then a strange, an awful change in her husband-s manner, which she dared not ask him to e.plain. (hen he spoke to her, it was with a)erted eyes, from which the old lo)e3light seemed to ha)e gone out. 0e absented himself from home+ and when there, a)oided her presence and that of her child, without e.cuse. nd the )ery spirit of Satan seemed

suddenly to take hold of him in his dealings with the sla)es. 7JsirJe was miserable enough to die. She sat in her room, one hot afternoon, in her peignoir, listlessly drawing through her fingers the strands of her long, silky brown hair that hung about her shoulders. The baby, half naked, lay asleep upon her own great mahogany bed, that was like a sumptuous throne, with its satin3lined half3canopy. 1ne of <a 5lanche-s little 4uadroon boys'half naked too'stood fanning the child slowly with a fan of peacock feathers. 7JsirJe-s eyes had been fi.ed absently and sadly upon the baby, while she was stri)ing to penetrate the threatening mist that she felt closing about her. She looked from her child to the boy who stood beside him, and back again+ o)er and o)er. % h>& 6t was a cry that she could not help+ which she was not conscious of ha)ing uttered. The blood turned like ice in her )eins, and a clammy moisture gathered upon her face. B: She tried to speak to the little 4uadroon boy+ but no sound would come, at first. (hen he heard his name uttered, he looked up, and his mistress was pointing to the door. 0e laid aside the great, soft fan, and obediently stole away, o)er the polished floor, on his bare tiptoes. She stayed motionless, with ga2e ri)eted upon her child, and her face the picture of fright. Presently her husband entered the room, and without noticing her, went to a table and began to search among some papers which co)ered it. % rmand,& she called to him, in a )oice which must ha)e stabbed him, if he was human. 5ut he did not notice. % rmand,& she said again. Then she rose and tottered towards him. % rmand,& she panted once more, clutching his arm, %look at our child. (hat does it mean8 tell me.& 0e coldly but gently loosened her fingers from about his arm and thrust the hand away from him.

%Tell me what it means>& she cried despairingly. BI %6t means,& he answered lightly, %that the child is not white+ it means that you are not white.& 4uick conception of all that this accusation meant for her ner)ed her with unwonted courage to deny it. %6t is a lie+ it is not true, 6 am white> <ook at my hair, it is brown+ and my eyes are gray, rmand, you know they are gray. nd my skin is fair,& sei2ing his wrist. %<ook at my hand+ whiter

than yours, rmand,& she laughed hysterically. % s white as <a 5lanche-s,& he returned cruelly+ and went away lea)ing her alone with their child. (hen she could hold a pen in her hand, she sent a despairing letter to Madame =almondJ. %My mother, they tell me 6 am not white. rmand has told me 6 am not white. Eor $od-s sake tell them it is not true. ;ou must know it is not true. 6 shall die. 6 must die. 6 cannot be so unhappy, and li)e.& C: The answer that came was as brief: %My own 7JsirJe: Come home to =almondJ+ back to your mother who lo)es you. Come with your child.& (hen the letter reached 7JsirJe she went with it to her husband-s study, and laid it open upon the desk before which he sat. She was like a stone image: silent, white, motionless after she placed it there. 6n silence he ran his cold eyes o)er the written words. 0e said nothing. %Shall 6 go, she asked in tones sharp with agoni2ed suspense. %;es, go.& CI %7o you want me to go8& %;es, 6 want you to go.& 0e thought lmighty $od had dealt cruelly and un/ustly with him+ and felt, somehow, that he rmand8&

was paying 0im back in kind when he stabbed thus into his wife-s soul. Moreo)er he no longer lo)ed her, because of the unconscious in/ury she had brought upon his home and his name. She turned away like one stunned by a blow, and walked slowly towards the door, hoping he would call her back. %$ood3by, rmand,& she moaned.

4:

0e did not answer her. That was his last blow at fate. 7JsirJe went in search of her child. Landrine was pacing the sombre gallery with it. She took the little one from the nurse-s arms with no word of e.planation, and descending the steps, walked away, under the li)e3oak branches. 6t was an 1ctober afternoon+ the sun was /ust sinking. 1ut in the still fields the negroes were picking cotton. 7JsirJe had not changed the thin white garment nor the slippers which she wore. 0er hair was unco)ered and the sun-s rays brought a golden gleam from its brown meshes. She did not take the broad, beaten road which led to the far3off plantation of =almondJ. She walked across a deserted field, where the stubble bruised her tender feet, so delicately shod, and tore her thin gown to shreds. She disappeared among the reeds and willows that grew thick along the banks of the deep, sluggish bayou+ and she did not come back again.

4I

Some weeks later there was a curious scene enacted at <- bri. 6n the centre of the smoothly swept back yard was a great bonfire. rmand ubigny sat in the wide hallway that commanded a

)iew of the spectacle+ and it was he who dealt out to a half do2en negroes the material which kept this fire abla2e. graceful cradle of willow, with all its dainty furbishings, was laid upon the pyre, which had already been fed with the richness of a priceless layette! Then there were silk gowns, and )el)et and satin ones added to these+ laces, too, and embroideries+ bonnets and glo)es+ for the corbeille had been of rare 4uality. The last thing to go was a tiny bundle of letters+ innocent little scribblings that 7JsirJe had sent to him during the days of their espousal. There was the remnant of one back in the drawer from which he took them. 5ut it was not 7JsirJe-s+ it was part of an old letter from his mother to his father. 0e read it. She was thanking $od for the blessing of her husband-s lo)e:' %5ut, abo)e all,& she wrote, %night and day, 6 thank the good $od for ha)ing so arranged our li)es that our dear rmand will ne)er know that his mother, who adores him, belongs to the

race that is cursed with the brand of sla)ery.&

Topics for Critical Thinking and (riting

". 3<et-s start with the ending. Aeaders find the ending powerful, but they differ in their interpretations of it. 7o you think that when rmand reads the letter he learns something he had

ne)er suspected or, instead, something that he had sensed about himself all along8 Eind e)idence in the te.t to support your )iew. B. 37escribe 7JsirJe-s feelings toward makes him into a $od&8 C. 3Chopin writes economically: each word counts, each phrase and sentence is significant. (hat is she re)ealing about rmand #and perhaps about the disco)ery he has made* when she writes, % nd rmand. 7o you agree with the student who told us, %She

the )ery spirit of Satan seemed suddenly to take hold of him in his dealings with the sla)es&8 4. 36s this story primarily a character study, or is Chopin seeking to make larger points in it about race, sla)ery, and gender8

A/(CE 0A/!ER
Alice "alker was born in ',** in Eatonton, Georgia, where her parents eked out a living as sharecroppers and dairy armers? her mother also worked as a domestic! #8n a collection o essays, 8n %earch o @ur &others1 Gardens A',(*B, "alker celebrates women who, like her mother, passed on a Crespect or the possibilities Ao li eBDand the will to grasp them!E$ "alker attended %pelman College in Atlanta, and in ',-. she inished her undergraduate work at %arah 5awrence College near ;ew Fork City! %he then became active in the wel are rights movement in ;ew Fork and in the voter registration movement in Georgia! 5ater she taught writing and literature in &ississippi, at Gackson %tate College and 0ougaloo College, and at "ellesley College, the 7niversity o &assachusetts, and Fale 7niversity! "alker has written essays, poetry, and iction! :er best-known novel, 0he Color Purple #',(=$, won a Pulit9er Pri9e and the ;ational Book Award! %he has said that her chie concern is Cexploring the oppressions, the insanities, the loyalties, and the triumphs o black women!E

$%eryday &se
<or your grandmama

[19'3]

6 will wait for her in the yard that Maggie and 6 made so clean and wa)y yesterday afternoon.

yard

like this is more comfortable than most people know. 6t is not /ust a yard. 6t is like an e.tended li)ing room. (hen the hard clay is swept clean as a floor and the fine sand around the edges lined with tiny, irregular groo)es, anyone can come and sit and look up into the elm tree and wait for the bree2es that

ne)er come inside the house. Maggie will be ner)ous until after her sister goes: she will stand hopelessly in corners homely and ashamed of the burn scars down her arms and legs, eyeing her sister with a mi.ture of en)y and awe. She thinks her sister has held life always in the palm of one hand, that %no& is a word the world ne)er learned to say to her. ;ou-)e no doubt seen those T= shows where the child who has %made it& is confronted, as a surprise, by her own mother and father, tottering in weakly from backstage. # pleasant surprise, of course:

(hat would they do if parent and child came on the show only to curse out and insult each other8* 1n T= mother and child embrace and smile into each other-s faces. Sometimes the mother and father weep, the child wraps them in her arms and leans across the table to tell how she would not ha)e made it without their help. 6 ha)e seen these programs. Sometimes 6 dream a dream in which 7ee and 6 are suddenly brought together on a T= program of this sort. 1ut of a dark and soft3seated limousine 6 am ushered into a bright room filled with many people. There 6 meet a smiling, gray, sporty man like !ohnny Carson who shakes my hand and tells me what a fine girl 6 ha)e. Then we are on the stage and 7ee is embracing me with tears in her eyes. She pins on my dress a large orchid, e)en though she has told me once that she thinks orchids are tacky flowers. I 6n real life 6 am a large, big3boned woman with rough, man3working hands. 6n the winter 6 wear flannel nightgowns to bed and o)eralls during the day. 6 can kill and clean a hog as mercilessly as a man. My fat keeps me hot in 2ero weather. 6 can work outside all day, breaking ice to get water for washing. 6 can eat pork li)er cooked o)er the open fire minutes after it comes steaming from the hog. 1ne winter 6 knocked a bull calf straight in the brain between the eyes with a sledge hammer and had the meat hung up to chill before nightfall. 5ut of course all this does not show on tele)ision. 6 am the way my daughter would want me to be: a hundred pounds lighter, my skin like an uncooked barley pancake. My hair glistens in the hot bright lights. !ohnny Carson has much to do to keep up with my 4uick and witty tongue. 5ut that is a mistake. 6 know e)en before 6 wake up. (ho e)er knew a !ohnson with a 4uick tongue8 (ho can e)en imagine me looking a strange white man in the eye8 6t seems to me 6 ha)e talked to them always with one foot raised in flight, with my head turned in whiche)er way is farthest

from them. 7ee, though. She would always look anyone in the eye. 0esitation was no part of her nature. %0ow do 6 look, Mama8& Maggie says, showing /ust enough of her thin body en)eloped in pink skirt and red blouse for me to know she-s there, almost hidden by the door. %Come out into the yard,& 6 say. 0a)e you e)er seen a lame animal, perhaps a dog run o)er by some careless person rich enough to own a car, sidle up to someone who is ignorant enough to be kind to him8 That is the way my Maggie walks. She has been like this, chin on chest, eyes on ground, feet in shuffle, e)er since the fire that burned the other house to the ground. ": 7ee is lighter than Maggie, with nicer hair and a fuller figure. She-s a woman now, though sometimes 6 forget. 0ow long ago was it that the other house burned8 Ten, twel)e years8 Sometimes 6 can still hear the flames and feel Maggie-s arms sticking to me, her hair smoking and her dress falling off her in little black papery flakes. 0er eyes seemed stretched open, bla2ed open by the flames reflected in them. nd 7ee. 6 see her standing off under the sweet gum tree she used to dig gum out

of+ a look of concentration on her face as she watched the last dingy gray board of the house fall in toward the red3hot brick chimney. (hy don-t you do a dance around the ashes8 6-d wanted to ask her. She had hated the house that much. 6 used to think she hated Maggie, too. 5ut that was before we raised the money, the church and me, to send her to ugusta to school. She used to read to us without pity+ forcing words, lies, other

folks- habits, whole li)es upon us two, sitting trapped and ignorant underneath her )oice. She washed us in a ri)er of make3belie)e, burned us with a lot of knowledge we didn-t necessarily need to know. Pressed us to her with the serious way she read, to sho)e us away at /ust the moment, like dimwits, we seemed about to understand. 7ee wanted nice things. yellow organdy dress to wear to her graduation from high school+

black pumps to match a green suit she-d made from an old suit somebody ga)e me. She was determined to stare down any disaster in her efforts. 0er eyelids would not flicker for minutes at a time. 1ften 6 fought off the temptation to shake her. what style was. 6 ne)er had an education myself. fter second grade the school was closed down. 7on-t ask me t si.teen she had a style of her own: and knew

why: in "HBG colored asked fewer 4uestions than they do now. Sometimes Maggie reads to me. She stumbles along goodnaturedly but can-t see well. She knows she is not bright. <ike good looks and money, 4uickness passed her by. She will marry !ohn Thomas #who has mossy teeth in an earnest face* and then 6-ll be free to sit here and 6 guess /ust sing church songs to myself. lthough 6 ne)er

was a good singer. @e)er could carry a tune. 6 was always better at a man-s /ob. 6 used to lo)e to milk till 6 was hoofed in the side in -4H. Cows are soothing and slow and don-t bother you, unless you try to milk them the wrong way. 6 ha)e deliberately turned my back on the house. 6t is three rooms, /ust like the one that burned, e.cept the roof is tin+ they don-t make shingle roofs any more. There are no real windows, /ust some holes cut in the sides, like the portholes in a ship, but not round and not s4uare, with rawhide holding the shutters up on the outside. This house is in a pasture, too, like the other one. @o doubt when 7ee sees it she will want to tear it down. She wrote me once that no matter where we %choose& to li)e, she will manage to come see us. 5ut she will ne)er bring her friends. Maggie and 6 thought about this and Maggie asked me, %Mama, when did 7ee e)er have any friends8& "I She had a few. Eurti)e boys in pink shirts hanging about on washday after school. @er)ous girls who ne)er laughed. 6mpressed with her they worshiped the well3turned phrase, the cute shape, the scalding humor that erupted like bubbles in lye. She read to them. (hen she was courting !immy T she didn-t ha)e much time to pay to us, but turned all her faultfinding power on him. 0e lew to marry a cheap gal from a family of ignorant flashy people. She hardly had time to recompose herself. (hen she comes 6 will meet'but there they are> Maggie attempts to make a dash for the house, in her shuffling way, but 6 stay her with my hand. %Come back here,& 6 say. nd she stops and tries to dig a well in the sand with her toe.

6t is hard to see them clearly through the strong sun. 5ut e)en the first glimpse of leg out of the car tells me it is 7ee. 0er feet were always neat3looking, as if $od himself had shaped them with a certain style. Erom the other side of the car comes a short, stocky man. 0air is all o)er his head a foot long and hanging from his chin like a kinky mule tail. 6 hear Maggie suck in her breath. %Dhnnnh,& is what it sounds like. <ike when you see the wriggling end of a snake /ust in front of your foot on the road. %Dhnnnh.&

B:

7ee ne.t.

dress down to the ground, in this hot weather.

dress so loud it hurts my eyes.

There are yellows and oranges enough to throw back the light of the sun. 6 feel my whole face warming from the heat wa)es it throws out. ,arrings, too, gold and hanging down to her shoulders. 5racelets dangling and making noises when she mo)es her arm up to shake the folds of the dress out of her armpits. The dress is loose and flows, and as she walks closer, 6 like it. 6 hear Maggie go %Dhnnnh& again. 6t is her sister-s hair. 6t stands straight up like the wool on a sheep. 6t is black as night and around the edges are two long pigtails that rope about like small li2ards disappearing behind her ears. %(a3su32o3Tean3o>& she says, coming on in that gliding way the dress makes her mo)e. The short stocky fellow with the hair to his na)el is all grinning and he follows up with % salamalakim, my mother and sister>& 0e mo)es to hug Maggie but she falls back, right up against the back of my chair. 6 feel her trembling there and when 6 look up 6 see the perspiration falling off her chin. %7on-t get up,& says 7ee. Since 6 am stout it takes something of a push. ;ou can see me trying to mo)e a second or two before 6 make it. She turns, showing white heels through her sandals, and goes back to the car. 1ut she peeks ne.t with a Polaroid. She stoops down 4uickly and lines up picture after picture of me sitting there in front of the house with Maggie cowering behind me. She ne)er takes a shot without making sure the house is included. (hen a cow comes nibbling around the edge of the yard she snaps it and me and Maggie and the house. Then she puts the Polaroid in the back seat of the car, and comes up and kisses me on the forehead. Meanwhile salamalakim is going through the motions with Maggie-s hand. Maggie-s hand is

as limp as a fish, and probably as cold, despite the sweat, and she keeps trying to pull it back. 6t looks like salamalakim wants to shake hands but wants to do it fancy. 1r maybe he don-t know how nyhow, he soon gi)es up on Maggie.

people shake hands.

%(ell,& 6 say. %7ee.& BI %@o, Mama,& she says. %@ot F7ee,- (angero <eewanika ?eman/o>& %(hat happened to F7ee-8& 6 wanted to know. %She-s dead,& (angero said. %6 couldn-t bear it any longer being named after the people who oppress me.& %;ou know as well as me you was named after your aunt 7icie,& 6 said. 7icie is my sister. She

named 7ee. (e called her %5ig 7ee& after 7ee was born. %5ut who was she named after8& asked (angero. C: %6 guess after $randma 7ee,& 6 said. % nd who was she named after8& asked (angero. %0er mother,& 6 said, and saw (angero was getting tired. %That-s about as far back as 6 can trace it,& 6 said. Though, in fact, 6 probably could ha)e carried it back beyond the Ci)il (ar through the branches. %(ell,& said salamalakim, %there you are.& %Dhnnnh,& 6 heard Maggie say. CI %There 6 was not,& 6 said, %before F7icie- cropped up in our family, so why should 6 try to trace it that far back8& 0e /ust stood there grinning, looking down on me like somebody inspecting a Model ,)ery once in a while he and (angero sent eye signals o)er my head. %0ow do you pronounce this name8& 6 asked. %;ou don-t ha)e to call me by it if you don-t want to,& said (angero. %(hy shouldn-t 68& 6 asked. %6f that-s what you want us to call you, we-ll call you.& 4: %6 know it might sound awkward at first,& said (angero. %6-ll get used to it,& 6 said. %Aeam it out again.& (ell, soon we got the name out of the way. times as hard. salamalakim had a name twice as long and three car.

fter 6 tripped o)er it two or three times he told me to /ust call him 0akim3a3barber. 6

wanted to ask him was he a barber, but 6 didn-t really think he was, so 6 didn-t ask. %;ou must belong to those beef3cattle peoples down the road,& 6 said. They said % salamalakim& when they met you, too, but they didn-t shake hands. lways too busy: feeding the cattle, fi.ing the

fences, putting up saltlick shelters, throwing down hay. (hen the white folks poisoned some of the herd the men stayed up all night with rifles in their hands. 6 walked a mile and a half /ust to see the sight. 0akim3a3barber said, %6 accept some of their doctrines, but farming and raising cattle is not my style.& #They didn-t tell me, and 6 didn-t ask, whether (angero M7eeN had really gone and married him.*

4I

(e sat down to eat and right away he said he didn-t eat collards and pork was unclean. (angero, though, went on through the chitlins and corn bread, the greens and e)erything else. She talked a blue streak o)er the sweet potatoes. ,)erything delighted her. ,)en the fact that we still used the benches her daddy made for the table when we couldn-t afford to buy chairs. %1h, Mama>& she cried. Then turned to 0akim3a3barber. %6 ne)er knew how lo)ely these benches are. ;ou can feel the rump prints,& she said, running her hands underneath her and along the bench. Then she ga)e a sigh and her hand closed o)er $randma 7ee-s butter dish. %That-s it>& she said. %6 knew there was something 6 wanted to ask you if 6 could ha)e.& She /umped up from the table and went o)er in the corner where the churn stood, the milk in it clabber by now. She looked at the churn and looked at it. %This churn top is what 6 need,& she said. %7idn-t Dncle 5uddy whittle it out of a tree you all used to ha)e8& %;es,& 6 said. %Dh huh,& she said happily. % nd 6 want the dasher, too.&

I:

%Dncle 5uddy whittle that, too8& asked the barber. 7ee #(angero* looked up at me. % unt 7ee-s first husband whittled the dash,& said Maggie so low you almost couldn-t hear her. %0is name was 0enry, but they called him Stash.& %Maggie-s brain is like an elephant-s,& (angero said, laughing. %6 can use the churn top as a centerpiece for the alco)e table,& she said, sliding a plate o)er the churn, %and 6-ll think of something artistic to do with the dasher.& (hen she finished wrapping the dasher the handle stuck out. 6 took it for a moment in my hands. ;ou didn-t e)en ha)e to look close to see where hands pushing the dasher up and down to make butter had left a kind of sink in the wood. 6n fact, there were a lot of small sinks+ you could see where thumbs and fingers had sunk into the wood. 6t was beautiful light yellow wood, from a tree that grew in the yard where 5ig 7ee and Stash had li)ed.

II

fter dinner 7ee #(angero* went to the trunk at the foot of my bed and started rifling through it. Maggie hung back in the kitchen o)er the dishpan. 1ut came (angero with two 4uilts. They had been pieced by $randma 7ee and then 5ig 7ee and me had hung them on the 4uilt frames on the

front porch and 4uilted them. 1ne was in the <one Star pattern. The other was (alk

round the

Mountain. 6n both of them were scraps of dresses $randma 7ee had worn fifty and more years ago. 5its and pieces of $randpa !arrell-s paisley shirts. nd one teeny faded blue piece, about the piece of

a penny matchbo., that was from $reat $randpa ,2ra-s uniform that he wore in the Ci)il (ar. %Mama,& (angero said sweet as a bird. %Can 6 ha)e these old 4uilts8& 6 heard something fall in the kitchen, and a minute later the kitchen door slammed. %(hy don-t you take one or two of the others8& 6 asked. %These old things was /ust done by me and 5ig 7ee from some tops your grandma pieced before she died.& %@o,& said (angero. %6 don-t want those. They are stitched around the borders by machine.& O: %That-ll make them last better,& 6 said. %That-s not the point,& said (angero. %These are all pieces of dresses $randma used to wear. She did all this stitching by hand. 6magine>& She held the 4uilts securely in her arms, stroking them. %Some of the pieces, like those la)ender ones, come from old clothes her mother handed down to her,& 6 said, mo)ing up to touch the 4uilts. 7ee #(angero* mo)ed back /ust enough so that 6 couldn-t reach the 4uilts. They already belonged to her. %6magine>& she breathed again, clutching them closely to her bosom. %The truth is,& 6 said, %6 promised to gi)e them 4uilts to Maggie, for when she marries !ohn Thomas.& OI She gasped like a bee had stung her. %Maggie can-t appreciate these 4uilts>& she said. %She-d probably be backward enough to put them to e)eryday use.& %6 reckon she would,& 6 said. %$od knows 6 been sa)ing -em for long enough with nobody using -em. 6 hope she will>& 6 didn-t want to bring up how 6 had offered 7ee #(angero* a 4uilt when she went away to college. Then she had told me they were old3fashioned, out of style. %5ut they-re priceless>& she was saying now, furiously+ for she has a temper. %Maggie would put them on the bed and in fi)e years they-d be in rags. <ess than that>& %She can always make some more,& 6 said. %Maggie knows how to 4uilt.& G: 7ee #(angero* looked at me with hatred. %;ou /ust will not understand. The point is these 4uilts, these 4uilts>&

%(ell,& 6 said, stumped. %(hat would you do with them8& %0ang them,& she said. s if that was the only thing you could do with 4uilts. Maggie by now was standing in the door. 6 could almost hear the sound her feet made as they scraped o)er each other. %She can ha)e them, Mama,& she said, like somebody used to ne)er winning anything, or ha)ing anything reser)ed for her. %6 can -member $randma 7ee without the 4uilts.& GI 6 looked at her hard. She had filled her bottom lip with checkerberry snuff and it ga)e her face a kind of dopey, hangdog look. 6t was $randma 7ee and 5ig 7ee who taught her how to 4uilt herself. She stood there with her scarred hands hidden in the folds of her skirt. She looked at her sister with something like fear but she wasn-t mad at her. This was Maggie-s portion. This was the way she knew $od to work. (hen 6 looked at her like that something hit me in the top of my head and ran down to the soles of my feet. !ust like when 6-m in church and the spirit of $od touches me and 6 get happy and shout. 6 did something 6 ne)er had done before: hugged Maggie to me, then dragged her on into the room, snatched the 4uilts out of Miss (angero-s hands and dumped them into Maggie-s lap. Maggie /ust sat there on my bed with her mouth open. %Take one or two of the others,& 6 said to 7ee. 5ut she turned without a word and went out to 0akim3a3barber. %;ou /ust don-t understand,& she said, as Maggie and 6 came out to the car. 9: %(hat don-t 6 understand8& 6 wanted to know. %;our heritage,& she said. nd then she turned to Maggie, kissed her, and said, %;ou ought to

try to make something of yourself, too, Maggie. 6t-s really a new day for us. 5ut from the way you and Mama still li)e you-d ne)er know it.& She put on some sunglasses that hid e)erything abo)e the tip of her nose and her chin. Maggie smiled+ maybe at the sunglasses. 5ut a real smile, not scared. dust settle 6 asked Maggie to bring me a dip of snuff. until it was time to go in the house and go to bed. fter we watched the car

nd then the two of us sat there /ust en/oying,

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". 3 lice (alker wrote the story, but the story is narrated by one of the characters, Mama. 0ow would you characteri2e Mama8 B. 3 t the end of the story, 7ee tells Maggie, %6t-s really a new day for us. 5ut from the way you and Mama still li)e you-d ne)er know it.& (hat does 7ee mean8 respond8& C. 36n paragraph GO the narrator says, speaking of Maggie, %(hen 6 looked at her like that something hit me in the top of my head and ran down to the soles of my feet.& (hat %hit& Mama8 That is, what does she understand at this moment that she had not understood before8 4. 36n %,)eryday Dse& why does the family conflict focus on who will possess the 4uilts8 (hy are the 4uilts important8 (hat do they symboli2e8 nd how do Maggie and Mama

1AR2ARET AT0OO%
Born in ',2, in @ttawa, Canada, the poet, critic, novelist, and short-story writer &argaret Atwood now lives in 0oronto! :er novels include 0he Edible "oman #',-,$, %ur acing #',)=$, and 0he :andmaid1s 0ale #',(.$!

(appy $ndin)s
!ohn and Mary meet. (hat happens ne.t8 6f you want a happy ending, try . A !ohn and Mary fall in lo)e and get married. They both ha)e worthwhile and remunerati)e /obs which they find stimulating and challenging. They buy a charming house. Aeal estate )alues go up. ,)entually, when they can afford li)e3in help, they ha)e two children, to whom they are de)oted. The children turn out well. !ohn and Mary ha)e a stimulating and challenging se. life and worthwhile friends. They go on fun )acations together. They retire. They both ha)e hobbies which they find stimulating and challenging. ,)entually they die. This is the end of the story. 3 Mary falls in lo)e with !ohn but !ohn doesn-t fall in lo)e with Mary. 0e merely uses her body for selfish pleasure and ego gratification of a tepid kind. 0e comes to her apartment twice a week and she cooks him dinner, you-ll notice that he doesn-t e)en consider her worth the price of a dinner out, and

after he-s eaten the dinner he fucks her and after that he falls asleep, while she does the dishes so he won-t think she-s untidy, ha)ing all those dirty dishes lying around, and puts on fresh lipstick so she-ll look good when he wakes up, but when he wakes up he doesn-t e)en notice, he puts on his socks and his shorts and his pants and his shirt and his tie and his shoes, the re)erse order from the one in which he took them off. 0e doesn-t take off Mary-s clothes, she takes them off herself, she acts as if she-s dying for it e)ery time, not because she likes se. e.actly, she doesn-t, but she wants !ohn to think she does because if they do it often enough surely he-ll get used to her, he-ll come to depend on her and they will get married, but !ohn goes out the door with hardly so much as a good3night and three days later he turns up at si. o-clock and they do the whole thing o)er again. Mary gets run3down. Crying is bad for your face, e)eryone knows that and so does Mary but she can-t stop. People at work notice. 0er friends tell her !ohn is a rat, a pig, a dog, he isn-t good enough for her, but she can-t belie)e it. 6nside !ohn, she thinks, is another !ohn who is much nicer. This other !ohn will emerge like a butterfly from a cocoon, a !ack from a bo., a pit from a prune, if the first !ohn is only s4uee2ed enough. 1ne e)ening !ohn complains about the food. 0e has ne)er complained about the food before. Mary is hurt. 0er friends tell her they-)e seen him in a restaurant with another woman, whose name is Madge. 6t-s not e)en Madge that finally gets to Mary: it-s the restaurant. !ohn has ne)er taken Mary to a restaurant. Mary collects all the sleeping pills and aspirins she can find, and takes them and half a bottle of sherry. ;ou can see what kind of a woman she is by the fact that it-s not e)en whiskey. She lea)es a note for !ohn. She hopes he-ll disco)er her and get her to the hospital in time and repent and then they can get married, but this fails to happen and she dies. !ohn marries Madge and e)erything continues as in C !ohn, who is an older man, falls in lo)e with Mary, and Mary, who is only twenty3two, feels sorry for him because he-s worried about his hair falling out. She sleeps with him e)en though she-s not in lo)e with him. She met him at work. She-s in lo)e with someone called !ames, who is twenty3two also and not yet ready to settle down. !ohn on the contrary settled down long ago: this is what is bothering him. !ohn has a steady, .

respectable /ob and is getting ahead in his field, but Mary isn-t impressed by him, she-s impressed by !ames, who has a motorcycle and a fabulous record collection. 5ut !ames is often away on his motorcycle, being free. Ereedom isn-t the same for girls, so in the meantime Mary spends Thursday e)enings with !ohn. Thursdays are the only days !ohn can get away. !ohn is married to a woman called Madge and they ha)e two children, a charming house which they bought /ust before the real estate )alues went up, and hobbies which they find stimulating and challenging, when they ha)e the time. !ohn tells Mary how important she is to him, but of course he can-t lea)e his wife because a commitment is a commitment. 0e goes on about this more than is necessary and Mary finds it boring, but older men can keep it up longer so on the whole she has a fairly good time. 1ne day !ames bree2es in on his motorcycle with some top3grade California hybrid and !ames and Mary get higher than you-d belie)e possible and they climb into bed. ,)erything becomes )ery underwater, but along comes !ohn, who has a key to Mary-s apartment. 0e finds them stoned and entwined. 0e-s hardly in any position to be /ealous, considering Madge, but ne)ertheless he-s o)ercome with despair. Einally he-s middle3aged, in two years he-ll be bald as an egg and he can-t stand it. 0e purchases a handgun, saying he needs it for target practice'this is the thin part of the plot, but it can be dealt with later'and shoots the two of them and himself. Madge, after a suitable period of mourning, marries an understanding man called Ered and e)erything continues as in % Ered and Madge ha)e no problems. They get along e.ceptionally well and are good at working out any little difficulties that may arise. 5ut their charming house is by the seashore and one day a giant tidal wa)e approaches. Aeal estate )alues go down. The rest of the story is about what caused the tidal wa)e and how they escape from it. They do, though thousands drown, but Ered and Madge are )irtuous and lucky. Einally on high ground they clasp each other, wet and dripping and grateful, and continue as in E ;es, but Ered has a bad heart. The rest of the story is about how kind and understanding they both are until Ered dies. then madge de)otes herself to charity work until the end of . 6f you like, it can be . , but under different names.

%Madge,& %cancer,& %guilty and confused,& and %bird watching.& 4 6f you think this is all too bourgeois, make !ohn a re)olutionary and Mary a counterespionage agent and see how far that gets you. Aemember, this is Canada. ;ou-ll still end up with , though in

between you may get a lustful brawling saga of passionate in)ol)ement, a chronicle of our times, sort of. ;ou-ll ha)e to face it, the endings are the same howe)er you slice it. 7on-t be deluded by any other endings, theyPre all fake, either deliberately fake, with malicious intent to decei)e, or /ust moti)ated by e.cessi)e optimism if not by downright sentimentality. The only authentic ending is the one pro)ided here: Gohn and &ary die! Gohn and &ary die! Gohn and &ary die! So much for endings. 5eginnings are always more fun. True connoisseurs, howe)er, are known to fa)or the stretch in between, since it-s the hardest to do anything with. That-s about all that can be said for plots, which anyway are /ust one thing after another, a what and a what and a what. @ow try 0ow and (hy.

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". 37id the form of twood-s story surprise you8 B. 37oes this story ha)e a plot8 7oes it present and de)elop characters8& C. 37escribe your response to the final paragraphs, which focus on endings and beginnings. (hich, in your )iew, is harder for a short3story writer, the beginning or the ending8 4. 3Some short stories are e.tremely short, while others are 4uite long. (hat do you think is the right length for a short story8 (hy do you say that8 (hat kinds of arguments can you use to support your claim8 I. Please compose a part $ for %0appy ,ndings.&

(. Somerset Maugham Chapter 4 Q Stories and Meanings: Plot, Character, Theme

nton Chekho) I Chapter 4 Q Stories and Meanings: Plot, Character, Theme ": "I B: BI nton Chekho) C: CI 4: 4I Chapter 4 Q Stories and Meanings: Plot, Character, Theme I: II Stories and Meanings: Plot, Character, Theme Chapter 4 Q Stories and Meanings: Plot, Character, Theme Stories and Meanings: Plot, Character, Theme Chapter 4 Q Stories and Meanings: Plot, Character, Theme ?ate Chopin "*or#ei++e wedding gifts from the groom to the bride. B*o*hon de +ait suckling pig #Erench*. C1ais si certainly #Erench*. Chapter 4 Q Stories and Meanings: Plot, Character, Theme ?ate Chopin Chapter 4 Q Stories and Meanings: Plot, Character, Theme lice (alker Chapter 4 Q Stories and Meanings: Plot, Character, Theme lice (alker Chapter 4 Q Stories and Meanings: Plot, Character, Theme

lice (alker Chapter 4 Q Stories and Meanings: Plot, Character, Theme Ruilt made by a sla)e in Mississippi about "9IIS"9I9. #Courtesy of Michigan State Dni)ersity Museum.* The crafting of a family heirloom. lice (alker Chapter 4 Q Stories and Meanings: Plot, Character, Theme Margaret twood

Chapter 4 Q Stories and Meanings: Plot, Character, Theme