The Road Not Taken
By: Robert Frost
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that, the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
two roads diverged in a wood, and I --
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
The Passionate Shepherd to His Love
By: Christopher Marlowe
Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountain yields.
And we will sit upon rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
And I will make thee beds of roses
And a thousand fragrant poises,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;
A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;
A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs;
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.
The shepherds's swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my love.
I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud
By: William Wordsworth
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed---and gazed---but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
The Rhodora
By: Ralph Waldo Emerson
On being asked, Whence is the flower?
In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes,
I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods,
Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook,
To please the desert and the sluggish brook.
The purple petals, fallen in the pool,
Made the black water with their beauty gay;
Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool,
And court the flower that cheapens his array.
Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why
This charm is wasted on the earth and sky,
Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing,
Then Beauty is its own excuse for being:
Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose!
I never thought to ask, I never knew:
But, in my simple ignorance, suppose
The self-same Power that brought me there
brought you.
SINGAPORE: Ang Istorya Ng Taxi Driver
By Catherine Lim
Revised By: M.R. Avena
(1)Ayos, Ma’am. Sigurado-Darating kayo sa
miting ng mas maaga sa t’yempo. Dito tayo
dumaan, Ma’am. Konting Trapik, konting bara ng
mga kotse. Medya-ora lang, Naro’n na tayo. Kaya
h’wag kayong mag-alala, Ma’am
(2)Ano yon. Ma’am? Oho, oho. Ha, ha-
dalawampung taon na ‘kong taxi driver, Ma’am.
Panahon pa ng kopong-kopong. Di pa ganito ang
Singapore-nanikip sa tao, bising-bisi. Noon mas
tahimik, kokonti pa lang ang taxi drivers, at di-
masyadong maraming kotse at bus
(3)Oho, Ma’am, kumikita naman. Di malaki pero
pwede na. Anong mabuti? Para umasenso sa
Singapore, sipagLang. Sa mga tulad naming no
read, no write,w alang kapital para sa negosyo,
kailangang magpatulo ng pawis nang kumita para
sa misis at mga bata
(4)Oho, Ma’am malaki ang pamilya ko. Walong
anak-anim na lalaki,dalawang babae.Talagang
malaki, ha, ha problema,, no Ma’am? Pero noon,
wala naming family planning sa Singapore. Ang
daming mag-anak ng pamilya;taun-taon.
Dalawa,tatlong anak, pigil na. Sabi ng gobyerno,
“tama na.”
(5)Buti na lang, malalaki na ang mga anak ko.
Apat sa mga anak kong lalaki kumakayod na,
isang negosyante, dalawang clerk, ‘yong isa titser
sa primary school. Yong isa namay nasa National
Service, at yong isa, nag-aaral pa, sa Secondary
Four. Yong pinakamatanda kong
babae, beynte anyos na siyang mahigit, sa bahay
lang, tumutulung sa nanay niya
(6)Wala po, wala pa siyang asawa. Masyadong
mahiyain at medyo sakitin pero ang bait,
masunurin. Yong isa kong babe-ay, naku, Ma’am,
laking problema sa ama pag’yong anak na babae’y
salbahe at lumalaban sa magulang.
Napakalungkot, parang parusa sa Diyos.
(7)Ngayon, iba ang kabataan, di tulad naming
noon noon, wala sa amin ang matigas ang ulo.
‘Pag sinabi ng magulang namin na, h’wag gawin
ito, di naming ginagawa. Kundi, naron ang baston.
Nabaston ako ng tatay ko. Kahit binata na at
malapit nang mag-asawa baston parin. Istriktong
masyado ang tatay ko, at mabuti ‘yon-maging
istrikto ang magulang. Kundi,
walang silbi ang labas ng mga bata. Di mag-aaral,
aalpas at magna-night club o magda-drugs o sex.
Tama ba ako, Ma’am? Ngayong, laking sakit ng
ulo sa magulang ang kabataan. Nakita na n’yo
yong teenager d’on sa labas ng coffee shop? Kita
nyo na Ma’am? Mga estudyante palang ‘yon, pero
kung umasta ‘kala mo mga big shot magastos,
naninigarilyo na, kung magbihis
sunod sa moda at mahilig na sa sex. Naku,
Ma’am, kabisado ko na yan. Bilang taxi driver,
kilala ko ang mga iyan at mga bisyo nila
(8)Kayo, Ma’am dib a sabi nyo titser kayo? Alam
nyo ba ang mga batang babae na ‘yan-kinse,
disisais anyos? Papasok ng eskwela ang mga ‘yan
sa umaga na nakauniporme. Pagkatapos ng
eskwela, di uuwi ang mga ‘yan. May dalang damit
ang mga ‘yan sa school magpapalit ng suot,
magmemeyk-up. Walang alam ang mga magulang
nila. Sasabihin sa mama nila, may miting
daw, may sports o laro, may gano’n, ganito, pero
ang totoo e naglalakwatsa at kung anu-anong
kalokohan ang pinaggagawa
(9)A, Ma’am, mukhang ayaw ninyong
maniniwala. Pero ‘yan ang totoo. Alam ko lahat
ang kalokohan nila Isinisakay ko sila sa taxi ko.
Madalas, do’n sila sa bowling Alley o coffee shop
o hotel naghihintay. Tapos lalapitan ng mga
turisting kano o Europeo. Gan’on sila maglibang
at kumita ng extrang pera. Maniniwala ba kayo,
Ma’am, kung sasabihin ko kung ga’no kadami ng
pera nila? Anak ng-! Kagabi, tong batang sakay
ko-kyut na kyut, nakameyk-ap at seksi ang suot.
Sabi sa akin, dalhin ko ra sa Orchid Mansions.
Kilalang-kilala ang lugar na ‘yon, isang four
storey na apartment. Tapos greenbacks-teg ten
dollars lahat. Humugot ito ng isa at
sabi, “keep the change” wala raw s’yang tyempo.
Para sabihin ko sa inyo, Ma’am buwan buway
mas malaki ang kinikita ko sa mga teenager na ito
kaysa d’on sa nakikiapagbargain sa ‘kin na ‘wag
na raw ibaba ang metro pero naghihintay pa ng
sukli nilang ten cents. Pwe! Binubwisit akong
talaga ng iba sa kanila. Pero Itong mga batang ‘to
walang tawaran. Bayad lang nang
Bayad. At sobrang makikipagromansa sa taxi,
kaya di bale kung mag-iikot ka nang husto at
singilin sila sa metro!
(10)Sabihin ko sa inyo, Ma’am, meron dy’an na di
pinoproblema kung magkano ang ginagasta sa
taxi. Ganito yon Ma’am: Paglampas ng ala-una ng
umaga, mas malaki ang kita. Doon ako paparada
sa labas ng Elory Hotel o Tung Court o Orchid
Mansions at sigurado, Ma’am ayos ang buto-buto.
Noong sabado, Ma’am, walang biro-sa isang araw
lang kumita ako ng halos
one hundred fifty dollars! Ang iba ny’on, para sa
serbisyo. May turista kasi na di alam kung saan
pupunta, kaya ako na ang nagsasabi at dinadala ko
sila d’on. Ekstrang kita din ‘yon. Ay, naku,
Ma’am, kung ikukw’ento ko sa inyo ang lahat, di
tayo matatapos
(11)Pero ito ang masasabi ko sa inyo. Kung meron
kayong dalagita at sasabihin sa inyo, “Mommy,
may miting kami sa iskwela ngayon at di ako
uuwi,” h’wag n’yong sasabihin, “Sige hija” pero
usisain nyo ang lahat. Ngayo’y di ninyo
mapagkakatiwalaan ang mga bata, di tulad noon.
Ay naku, Ma’am nasasabi ko ito dahil ako
mismo’y may dalagita. Mahal na mahal ko ang
batang ito. Napakabait nya at ang sipag mag-aral.
Nakikita ko ang report cards at ‘yong sinusulat ng
kanyang titser na “Very Good” o “Excellent”, sa
report cards nya. Nag-aaral sya sa bahay at
tumutulong sa nanay nya. Pero minsay tinatamad
at sasabihin n’ya, pinababalik daw s’ya ng titser sa
iskwela para makapag-aaral pa, para maturuan pa
sa subject na mahina siya – yon daw Math,
Ma’am. At ako naman, pinayagan ko sya, at araw-
araw, gabi na siya umuwi,
tapos mag-aral, tuloy tulog. Isang araw-naku,
Ma’am hanggang ngayoy ginagalit pa ako. Isang
araw, nagdadrive ako ng taksi, parelaks-relaks
lang, nang may nakita akong dalagita ng
nakakahawig ng sa aking Lay Choo, may
kasamang mga batang babae at ilang Europeo sa
labas ng coffee shop. Sabi ko, hindi pwedeng si
Lay Choo at ang isang ito e bihis na bihis,
nakameyk-ap At magaslaw kumilos.Di ganon ang
anak ko. Tapos Pumasok sila sa coffee shop. At
‘yong puso ko sobra ang- Pa’no nga sabihin ‘yon,
Ma’am? Yong puso ko, parang binabayo ng kung
ano. Sabi ko, mabantyagan nga, at tingnan ko ang
kalokohan nya. Nong sumunod na araw, nand’yon
sa uli. Ipinarada ko ang taxi ko, Ma’am. Galit na
galit ako noon. Sinugod ko ang
Tarantadong anak ko at sinunggaban ko sa balikat
at leeg at saka pinagsasampal ko at binugbog
syang muli. Estupida! Walang hiya! Pinilit ako
ilayo ng asawa ko at ilang kapitbahay. Palagay
ko’y napatay ko ang batang iyon kung di ako
naawat.
(12)Tatlong araw kinulong sa kanyang kwarto.
Nahiya akong sabihin sa kanyang titser kung ano
ang nangyari, kaya sabi ko nalang may sakit si
Lay Choo, at kung p’wede, i-excuse nya sa klase.
Ay naku, Ma’am. Anong nararamdaman ninyo
kung nasa lugar ko kayo? Pinababa n’ya ang
kanyang sarili, ganyon ang ama n’yay maghapong
pasada nang pasada ng taksi para
Maipadala sya sa unibersidad.
(13)Ano ‘yon Ma’am? Oho, oho – okey na ho ang
lahat Salamat. Di sya pwedeng lumabas ng bahay,
liban kung Papasok sa iskwela at bilin ko sa ina
nya, check-in lagi ang ginagawa nyan at ‘yong
mga kabarkada nya, kung anong klaseng mga ito.
Ay, naku Ma’am ang kabataan ngayon – anong
sakit ng ulo.
(14)Ano ‘yon Ma’am? A, sorry ho, Ma’am di ko
kayo mahihintay matapos ang inyong miting.
Kailangan kong lumarga, kaya pasensya na ho.
Nagmamadali ako Ma’am, papuntang Hotel Elory.
Maraming mga batang Maisasakay. Kaya sorry
nalang, Ma’am at maraming salamat.
God Sees the Truth, But Waits
By: Leo Tolstoy
In the town of Vladimir lived a young merchant
named Ivan Dmitrich Aksionov. He had two shops
and a house of his own.
Aksionov was a handsome, fair-haired, curly-
headed fellow, full of fun, and very fond of
singing. When quite a young man he had been
given to drink, and was riotous when he had had
too much; but after he married he gave up
drinking, except now and then.
One summer Aksionov was going to the Nizhny
Fair, and as he bade good-bye to his family, his
wife said to him, "Ivan Dmitrich, do not start to-
day; I have had a bad dream about you."
Aksionov laughed, and said, "You are afraid that
when I get to the fair I shall go on a spree."
His wife replied: "I do not know what I am afraid
of; all I know is that I had a bad dream. I dreamt
you returned from the town, and when you took
off your cap I saw that your hair was quite grey."
Aksionov laughed. "That's a lucky sign," said he.
"See if I don't sell out all my goods, and bring you
some presents from the fair."
So he said good-bye to his family, and drove
away.
When he had travelled half-way, he met a
merchant whom he knew, and they put up at the
same inn for the night. They had some tea
together, and then went to bed in adjoining rooms.
It was not Aksionov's habit to sleep late, and,
wishing to travel while it was still cool, he aroused
his driver before dawn, and told him to put in the
horses.
Then he made his way across to the landlord of
the inn (who lived in a cottage at the back), paid
his bill, and continued his journey.
When he had gone about twenty-five miles, he
stopped for the horses to be fed. Aksionov rested
awhile in the passage of the inn, then he stepped
out into the porch, and, ordering a samovar to be
heated, got out his guitar and began to play.
Suddenly a troika drove up with tinkling bells and
an official alighted, followed by two soldiers. He
came to Aksionov and began to question him,
asking him who he was and whence he came.
Aksionov answered him fully, and said, "Won't
you have some tea with me?" But the official went
on cross-questioning him and asking him. "Where
did you spend last night? Were you alone, or with
a fellow-merchant? Did you see the other
merchant this morning? Why did you leave the inn
before dawn?"
Aksionov wondered why he was asked all these
questions, but he described all that had happened,
and then added, "Why do you cross-question me
as if I were a thief or a robber? I am travelling on
business of my own, and there is no need to
question me."
Then the official, calling the soldiers, said, "I am
the police-officer of this district, and I question
you because the merchant with whom you spent
last night has been found with his throat cut. We
must search your things."
They entered the house. The soldiers and the
police-officer unstrapped Aksionov's luggage and
searched it. Suddenly the officer drew a knife out
of a bag, crying, "Whose knife is this?"
Aksionov looked, and seeing a blood-stained knife
taken from his bag, he was frightened.
"How is it there is blood on this knife?"
Aksionov tried to answer, but could hardly utter a
word, and only stammered: "I--don't know--not
mine." Then the police-officer said: "This
morning the merchant was found in bed with his
throat cut. You are the only person who could
have done it. The house was locked from inside,
and no one else was there. Here is this blood-
stained knife in your bag and your face and
manner betray you! Tell me how you killed him,
and how much money you stole?"
Aksionov swore he had not done it; that he had
not seen the merchant after they had had tea
together; that he had no money except eight
thousand rubles of his own, and that the knife was
not his. But his voice was broken, his face pale,
and he trembled with fear as though he went
guilty.
The police-officer ordered the soldiers to bind
Aksionov and to put him in the cart. As they tied
his feet together and flung him into the cart,
Aksionov crossed himself and wept. His money
and goods were taken from him, and he was sent
to the nearest town and imprisoned there.
Enquiries as to his character were made in
Vladimir. The merchants and other inhabitants of
that town said that in former days he used to drink
and waste his time, but that he was a good man.
Then the trial came on: he was charged with
murdering a merchant from Ryazan, and robbing
him of twenty thousand rubles.
His wife was in despair, and did not know what to
believe. Her children were all quite small; one was
a baby at her breast. Taking them all with her, she
went to the town where her husband was in jail.
At first she was not allowed to see him; but after
much begging, she obtained permission from the
officials, and was taken to him. When she saw her
husband in prison-dress and in chains, shut up
with thieves and criminals, she fell down, and did
not come to her senses for a long time. Then she
drew her children to her, and sat down near him.
She told him of things at home, and asked about
what had happened to him. He told her all, and she
asked, "What can we do now?"
"We must petition the Czar not to let an innocent
man perish."
His wife told him that she had sent a petition to
the Czar, but it had not been accepted.
Aksionov did not reply, but only looked downcast.
Then his wife said, "It was not for nothing I
dreamt your hair had turned grey. You remember?
You should not have started that day." And
passing her fingers through his hair, she said:
"Vanya dearest, tell your wife the truth; was it not
you who did it?"
"So you, too, suspect me!" said Aksionov, and,
hiding his face in his hands, he began to weep.
Then a soldier came to say that the wife and
children must go away; and Aksionov said good-
bye to his family for the last time.
When they were gone, Aksionov recalled what
had been said, and when he remembered that his
wife also had suspected him, he said to himself,
"It seems that only God can know the truth; it is to
Him alone we must appeal, and from Him alone
expect mercy."
And Aksionov wrote no more petitions; gave up
all hope, and only prayed to God.
Aksionov was condemned to be flogged and sent
to the mines. So he was flogged with a knot, and
when the wounds made by the knot were healed,
he was driven to Siberia with other convicts.
For twenty-six years Aksionov lived as a convict
in Siberia. His hair turned white as snow, and his
beard grew long, thin, and grey. All his mirth
went; he stooped; he walked slowly, spoke little,
and never laughed, but he often prayed.
In prison Aksionov learnt to make boots, and
earned a little money, with which he bought The
Lives of the Saints. He read this book when there
was light enough in the prison; and on Sundays in
the prison-church he read the lessons and sang in
the choir; for his voice was still good.
The prison authorities liked Aksionov for his
meekness, and his fellow-prisoners respected him:
they called him "Grandfather," and "The Saint."
When they wanted to petition the prison
authorities about anything, they always made
Aksionov their spokesman, and when there were
quarrels among the prisoners they came to him to
put things right, and to judge the matter.
No news reached Aksionov from his home, and he
did not even know if his wife and children were
still alive.
One day a fresh gang of convicts came to the
prison. In the evening the old prisoners collected
round the new ones and asked them what towns or
villages they came from, and what they were
sentenced for. Among the rest Aksionov sat down
near the newcomers, and listened with downcast
air to what was said.
One of the new convicts, a tall, strong man of
sixty, with a closely-cropped grey beard, was
telling the others what be had been arrested for.
"Well, friends," he said, "I only took a horse that
was tied to a sledge, and I was arrested and
accused of stealing. I said I had only taken it to get
home quicker, and had then let it go; besides, the
driver was a personal friend of mine. So I said,
'It's all right.' 'No,' said they, 'you stole it.' But how
or where I stole it they could not say. I once really
did something wrong, and ought by rights to have
come here long ago, but that time I was not found
out. Now I have been sent here for nothing at all...
Eh, but it's lies I'm telling you; I've been to Siberia
before, but I did not stay long."
"Where are you from?" asked some one.
"From Vladimir. My family are of that town. My
name is Makar, and they also call me Semyonich."
Aksionov raised his head and said: "Tell me,
Semyonich, do you know anything of the
merchants Aksionov of Vladimir? Are they still
alive?"
"Know them? Of course I do. The Aksionovs are
rich, though their father is in Siberia: a sinner like
ourselves, it seems! As for you, Gran'dad, how did
you come here?"
Aksionov did not like to speak of his misfortune.
He only sighed, and said, "For my sins I have
been in prison these twenty-six years."
"What sins?" asked Makar Semyonich.
But Aksionov only said, "Well, well--I must have
deserved it!" He would have said no more, but his
companions told the newcomers how Aksionov
came to be in Siberia; how some one had killed a
merchant, and had put the knife among
Aksionov's things, and Aksionov had been
unjustly condemned.
When Makar Semyonich heard this, he looked at
Aksionov, slapped his own knee, and exclaimed,
"Well, this is wonderful! Really wonderful! But
how old you've grown, Gran'dad!"
The others asked him why he was so surprised,
and where he had seen Aksionov before; but
Makar Semyonich did not reply. He only said:
"It's wonderful that we should meet here, lads!"
These words made Aksionov wonder whether this
man knew who had killed the merchant; so he
said, "Perhaps, Semyonich, you have heard of that
affair, or maybe you've seen me before?"
"How could I help hearing? The world's full of
rumours. But it's a long time ago, and I've
forgotten what I heard."
"Perhaps you heard who killed the merchant?"
asked Aksionov.
Makar Semyonich laughed, and replied: "It must
have been him in whose bag the knife was found!
If some one else hid the knife there, 'He's not a
thief till he's caught,' as the saying is. How could
any one put a knife into your bag while it was
under your head? It would surely have woke you
up."
When Aksionov heard these words, he felt sure
this was the man who had killed the merchant. He
rose and went away. All that night Aksionov lay
awake. He felt terribly unhappy, and all sorts of
images rose in his mind. There was the image of
his wife as she was when he parted from her to go
to the fair. He saw her as if she were present; her
face and her eyes rose before him; he heard her
speak and laugh. Then he saw his children, quite
little, as they: were at that time: one with a little
cloak on, another at his mother's breast. And then
he remembered himself as he used to be-young
and merry. He remembered how he sat playing the
guitar in the porch of the inn where he was
arrested, and how free from care he had been. He
saw, in his mind, the place where he was flogged,
the executioner, and the people standing around;
the chains, the convicts, all the twenty-six years of
his prison life, and his premature old age. The
thought of it all made him so wretched that he was
ready to kill himself.
"And it's all that villain's doing!" thought
Aksionov. And his anger was so great against
Makar Semyonich that he longed for vengeance,
even if he himself should perish for it. He kept
repeating prayers all night, but could get no peace.
During the day he did not go near Makar
Semyonich, nor even look at him.
A fortnight passed in this way. Aksionov could
not sleep at night, and was so miserable that he
did not know what to do.
One night as he was walking about the prison he
noticed some earth that came rolling out from
under one of the shelves on which the prisoners
slept. He stopped to see what it was. Suddenly
Makar Semyonich crept out from under the shelf,
and looked up at Aksionov with frightened face.
Aksionov tried to pass without looking at him, but
Makar seized his hand and told him that he had
dug a hole under the wall, getting rid of the earth
by putting it into his high-boots, and emptying it
out every day on the road when the prisoners were
driven to their work.
"Just you keep quiet, old man, and you shall get
out too. If you blab, they'll flog the life out of me,
but I will kill you first."
Aksionov trembled with anger as he looked at his
enemy. He drew his hand away, saying, "I have no
wish to escape, and you have no need to kill me;
you killed me long ago! As to telling of you--I
may do so or not, as God shall direct."
Next day, when the convicts were led out to work,
the convoy soldiers noticed that one or other of
the prisoners emptied some earth out of his boots.
The prison was searched and the tunnel found.
The Governor came and questioned all the
prisoners to find out who had dug the hole. They
all denied any knowledge of it. Those who knew
would not betray Makar Semyonich, knowing he
would be flogged almost to death. At last the
Governor turned to Aksionov whom he knew to
be a just man, and said:
"You are a truthful old man; tell me, before God,
who dug the hole?"
Makar Semyonich stood as if he were quite
unconcerned, looking at the Governor and not so
much as glancing at Aksionov. Aksionov's lips
and hands trembled, and for a long time he could
not utter a word. He thought, "Why should I
screen him who ruined my life? Let him pay for
what I have suffered. But if I tell, they will
probably flog the life out of him, and maybe I
suspect him wrongly. And, after all, what good
would it be to me?"
"Well, old man," repeated the Governor, "tell me
the truth: who has been digging under the wall?"
Aksionov glanced at Makar Semyonich, and said,
"I cannot say, your honour. It is not God's will that
I should tell! Do what you like with me; I am your
hands."
However much the Governor! tried, Aksionov
would say no more, and so the matter had to be
left.
That night, when Aksionov was lying on his bed
and just beginning to doze, some one came quietly
and sat down on his bed. He peered through the
darkness and recognised Makar.
"What more do you want of me?" asked
Aksionov. "Why have you come here?"
Makar Semyonich was silent. So Aksionov sat up
and said, "What do you want? Go away, or I will
call the guard!"
Makar Semyonich bent close over Aksionov, and
whispered, "Ivan Dmitrich, forgive me!"
"What for?" asked Aksionov.
"It was I who killed the merchant and hid the
knife among your things. I meant to kill you too,
but I heard a noise outside, so I hid the knife in
your bag and escaped out of the window."
Aksionov was silent, and did not know what to
say. Makar Semyonich slid off the bed-shelf and
knelt upon the ground. "Ivan Dmitrich," said he,
"forgive me! For the love of God, forgive me! I
will confess that it was I who killed the merchant,
and you will be released and can go to your
home."
"It is easy for you to talk," said Aksionov, "but I
have suffered for you these twenty-six years.
Where could I go to now?... My wife is dead, and
my children have forgotten me. I have nowhere to
go..."
Makar Semyonich did not rise, but beat his head
on the floor. "Ivan Dmitrich, forgive me!" he
cried. "When they flogged me with the knot it was
not so hard to bear as it is to see you now ... yet
you had pity on me, and did not tell. For Christ's
sake forgive me, wretch that I am!" And he began
to sob.
When Aksionov heard him sobbing he, too, began
to weep. "God will forgive you!" said he. "Maybe
I am a hundred times worse than you." And at
these words his heart grew light, and the longing
for home left him. He no longer had any desire to
leave the prison, but only hoped for his last hour
to come.
In spite of what Aksionov had said, Makar
Semyonich confessed, his guilt. But when the
order for his release came, Aksionov was already
dead.
Marriage Is a Private Affair 
by: Chinua Achebe 
“Have you written to your dad yet?” asked Nene1
one afternoon as she sat with Nnaemeka in her
room at 16 Kasanga Street, Lagos.
“ No. I’ve been thinking about it. I think it’s better
to tell him when I get home on leave!” 
“But why? Your leave is such a long way off yet
—six whole weeks. He should be let into our
happiness now.” 
Nnaemeka was silent for a while, and then began
very slowly as if he groped for his words: “I wish
I were sure it would be happiness to him.” 
“Of course it must,” replied Nene, a little
surprised. “Why shouldn’t it?” 
“You have lived in Lagos all your life, and you
know very little about people in remote parts of
the country.” 
“That’s what you always say. But I don’t believe
anybody will be so unlike other people that they
will be unhappy when their sons are engaged to
marry.” 
“Yes. They are most unhappy if the engagement is
not arranged by them. In our case it’s worse—you
are not even an Ibo.”
This was said so seriously and so bluntly that
Nene could not find speech immediately. In the
cosmopolitan atmosphere of the city it had always
seemed to her something of a joke that a person’s
tribe could determine whom he married.  “Father,” began Nnaemeka suddenly, “I have
At last she said, “You don’t really mean that he
will object to your marrying me simply on that
account? I had always thought you Ibos were
kindly disposed to other people.” 
“So we are. But when it comes to marriage, well,
it’s not quite so simple. And this,” he added, “is
not peculiar to the Ibos. If your father were alive
and lived in the heart of Ibibio-land he would be
exactly like my father.”  to marry Nweke’s daughter.”
“I don’t know. But anyway, as your father is so
fond of you, I’m sure he will forgive you soon
enough. Come on then, be a good boy and send
him a nice lovely letter . . .” 
“It would not be wise to break the news to him by
writing. A letter will bring it upon him with a
shock. I’m quite sure about that.”  “Marriage today is different . . .”
“All right, honey, suit yourself. You know your
father.”  “nothing is different. What one looks for in a wife
As Nnaemeka walked home that evening he
turned over in his mind different ways of
overcoming his father’s opposition, especially
now that he had gone and found a girl for him. He
had thought of showing his letter to Nene but
decided on second thoughts not to, at least for the
moment. He read it again when he got home and
couldn’t help smiling to himself. He remembered
Ugoye quite well, an Amazon of a girl who used
to beat up all the boys, himself included, on the
way to the stream, a complete dunce at school. 
I have found a girl who will suit you admirably—
Ugoye Nweke, the eldest daughter of our
neighbor, Jacob Nweke. She has a proper
Christian upbringing. When she stopped
schooling some years ago her father (a man of
sound judgment) sent her to live in the house of a
pastor where she has received all the training a
wife could need. Her Sunday school teacher has
told me that she reads her Bible very fluently. I
hope we shall begin negotiations when you come
home in December.  and he condemned vehemently those church
On the second evening of his return from Lagos,
Nnaemeka sat with his father under a cassia tree.
This was the old man’s retreat where he went to
read his Bible when the parching December sun
had set and a fresh, reviving wind blew on the
leaves. 
come to ask for forgiveness.”
“Forgiveness? For what, my son?” he asked in
amazement. 
“It’s about this marriage question.” 
“Which marriage question?” 
“I can’t—we must—I mean it is impossible for me
 
“Impossible? Why?” asked his father. 
“I don’t love her.” 
“Nobody said you did. Why should you?” he
asked. 
 
“Look here, my son,” interrupted his father,
are a good character and a Christian background.” 
Nnaemeka saw there was no hope along the
present line of argument. 
“Moreover,” he said, “I am engaged to marry
another girl who has all of Ugoye’s good qualities,
and who . . .” 
His father did not believe his ears. “What did you
say?” he asked slowly and disconcertingly. 
“She is a good Christian,” his son went on, “and a
teacher in a girls’ school in Lagos.” 
“Teacher, did you say? If you consider that a
qualification for a good wife I should like to point
out to you, Emeka, that no Christian woman
should teach. St. Paul in his letter to the
Corinthians says that women should keep
silence.” He rose slowly from his seat and paced
forward and backward. This was his pet subject,
leaders who encouraged women to teach in their
schools. After he had spent his emotion on a long
homily he at last came back to his son’s “What did Our Lord say?” asked another
engagement, in a seemingly milder tone. gentleman. “Sons shall rise against their Fathers; it
is there in the Holy Book.” 
“Whose daughter is she, anyway?” 
“It is the beginning of the end,” said another. 
“She is Nene Atang.” 
The discussion thus tending to become
“What!” All the mildness was gone again. “Did theological, Madubogwu, a highly practical man,
you say Neneataga, what does that mean?”  brought it down once more to the ordinary level. 

“Nene Atang from Calabar. She is the only girl I “Have you thought of consulting a native doctor
can marry.” This was a very rash reply and about your son?” he asked Nnaemeka’s father. 
Nnaemeka expected the storm to burst. But it did
not. His father merely walked away into his room. “He isn’t sick,” was the reply. 
This was most unexpected and perplexed
Nnaemeka. His father’s silence was infinitely “What is he then? The boy’s mind is diseased and
more menacing than a flood of threatening speech. only a good herbalist can bring him back to his
That night the old man did not eat.  right senses. The medicine he requires is Amalile,
the same that women apply with success to
When he sent for Nnaemeka a day later he applied recapture their husbands’ straying affection.” 
all possible ways of dissuasion. But the young
man’s heart was hardened, and his father “Madubogwu is right,” said another gentleman.
eventually gave him up as lost.  “This thing calls for medicine.” 

“I owe it to you, my son, as a duty to show you
what is right and what is wrong. Whoever put this
idea into your head might as well have cut your
throat. It is Satan’s work.” He waved his son
away.  to kill himself let him do it with his own hands. It
“You will change your mind, Father, when you
know Nene.”  “But it was her fault,” said Madubogwu. “She
“I shall never see her,” was the reply. From that
night the father scarcely spoke to his son. He did
not, however, cease hoping that he would realize
how serious was the danger he was heading for.
Day and night he put him in his prayers.  often said, they were incapable of reasoning. “The
Nnaemeka, for his own part, was very deeply
affected by his father’s grief. But he kept hoping
that it would pass away. If it had occurred to him
that never in the history of his people had a man
married a woman who spoke a different tongue,
he might have been less optimistic. “It has never
been heard,” was the verdict of an old man
speaking a few weeks later. In that short sentence
he spoke for all of his people. This man had come
with others to commiserate with Okeke when
news went round about his son’s behavior. By that
time the son had gone back to Lagos.
“It has never been heard,” said the old man again
with a sad shake of his head. 
“I shall not call in a native doctor.” Nnaemeka’s
father was known to be obstinately ahead of his
more superstitious neighbors in these matters. “I
will not be another Mrs. Ochuba. If my son wants
is not for me to help him.” 
ought to have gone to an honest herbalist. She was
a clever woman, nevertheless.” 
“She was a wicked murderess,” said Jonathan,
who rarely argued with his neighbors because, he
medicine was prepared for her husband, it was his
name they called in its preparation, and I am sure
it would have been perfectly beneficial to him. It
was wicked to put it into the herbalist’s food, and
say you were only trying it out.”
Six months later, Nnaemeka was showing his
young wife a short letter from his father: 
It amazes me that you could be so unfeeling as to
send me your wedding picture. I would have sent
it back. But on further thought I decided just to
cut off your wife and send it back to you because I
have nothing to do with her. How I wish that I had
nothing to do with you either. 
When Nene read through this letter and looked at Nnaemeka to bring them home for a short time
the mutilated picture her eyes filled with tears, and during his leave next month. I shall remain here
she began to sob.  in Lagos . . . 

“Don’t cry, my darling,” said her husband. “He is
essentially good-natured and will one day look
more kindly on our marriage.”  telling himself that he must not give in. He tried to
But years passed and that one day did not come.  a reenactment of that other struggle. He leaned
For eight years, Okeke would have nothing to do
with his son, Nnaemeka. Only three times (when
Nnaemeka asked to come home and spend his
leave) did he write to him.  even Nature takes a hand in a human fight. Very
“I can’t have you in my house,” he replied on one
occasion. “It can be of no interest to me where or
how you spend your leave—or your life, for that
matter.”  not to think of his two grandsons. But he knew he
The prejudice against Nnaemeka’s marriage was
not confined to his little village. In Lagos,
especially among his people who worked there, it
showed itself in a different way. Their women,
when they met at their village meeting, were not
hostile to Nene. Rather, they paid her such
excessive deference as to make her feel she was
not one of them. But as time went on, Nene
gradually broke through some of this prejudice
and even began to make friends among them.
Slowly and grudgingly they began to admit that
she kept her home much better than most of them. 
The story eventually got to the little village in the
heart of the Ibo country that Nnaemeka and his
young wife were a most happy couple. But his
father was one of the few people in the village
who knew nothing about this. He always
displayed so much temper whenever his son’s
name was mentioned that everyone avoided it in
his presence. By a tremendous effort of will he
had succeeded in pushing his son to the back of
his mind. The strain had nearly killed him but he
had persevered, and won.
Then one day he received a letter from Nene, and
in spite of himself he began to glance through it
perfunctorily until all of a sudden the expression
on his face changed and he began to read more
carefully.  Omnibus squelching tar. It was real! Shamed
. . . Our two sons, from the day they learnt that
they have a grandfather, have insisted on being
taken to him. I find it impossible to tell them that
you will not see them. I implore you to allow
The old man at once felt the resolution he had
built up over so many years falling in. He was
steel his heart against all emotional appeals. It was
against a window and looked out. The sky was
overcast with heavy black clouds and a high wind
began to blow, filling the air with dust and dry
leaves. It was one of those rare occasions when
soon it began to rain, the first rain in the year. It
came down in large sharp drops and was
accompanied by the lightning and thunder which
mark a change of season. Okeke was trying hard
was now fighting a losing battle. He tried to hum a
favorite hymn but the pattering of large raindrops
on the roof broke up the tune. His mind
immediately returned to the children. How could
he shut his door against them? By a curious
mental process he imagined them standing, sad
and forsaken, under the harsh angry weather—
shut out from his house. 
That night he hardly slept, from remorse—and a
vague fear that he might die without making it up
to them.
Telephone Conversation
by: Wole Soyinka
The price seemed reasonable, location
Indifferent. The landlady swore she lived
Off premises. Nothing remained
But self-confession. "Madam," I warned,
"I hate a wasted journey—I am African."
Silence. Silenced transmission of
Pressurized good-breeding. Voice, when it came,
Lipstick coated, long gold rolled
Cigarette-holder pipped. Caught I was foully.
"HOW DARK?" . . . I had not misheard . . . "ARE
YOU LIGHT
OR VERY DARK?" Button B, Button A.* Stench
Of rancid breath of public hide-and-speak.
Red booth. Red pillar box. Red double-tiered
By ill-mannered silence, surrender
Pushed dumbfounded to beg simplification.
Considerate she was, varying the emphasis--
"ARE YOU DARK? OR VERY LIGHT?"
Revelation came.
"You mean--like plain or milk chocolate?"
Her assent was clinical, crushing in its light
Impersonality. Rapidly, wave-length adjusted,
I chose. "West African sepia"--and as
afterthought,
"Down in my passport." Silence for spectroscopic
Flight of fancy, till truthfulness clanged her accent
Hard on the mouthpiece. "WHAT'S THAT?"
conceding
"DON'T KNOW WHAT THAT IS." "Like
brunette."
"THAT'S DARK, ISN'T IT?" "Not altogether.
Facially, I am brunette, but, madam, you should
see
The rest of me. Palm of my hand, soles of my feet
Are a peroxide blond. Friction, caused--
Foolishly, madam--by sitting down, has turned
My bottom raven black--One moment, madam!"--
sensing
Her receiver rearing on the thunderclap
About my ears--"Madam," I pleaded, "wouldn't
you rather
See for yourself?"
The Necklace
By: Guy de Maupassant
She was one of those pretty and charming girls
born, as though fate had blundered over her, into a
family of artisans. She had no marriage portion,
no expectations, no means of getting known,
understood, loved, and wedded by a man of
wealth and distinction; and she let herself be
married off to a little clerk in the Ministry of
Education. Her tastes were simple because she had
never been able to afford any other, but she was as
unhappy as though she had married beneath her;
for women have no caste or class, their beauty,
grace, and charm serving them for birth or family,
their natural delicacy, their instinctive elegance,
their nimbleness of wit, are their only mark of
rank, and put the slum girl on a level with the
highest lady in the land.
     She suffered endlessly, feeling herself born for
every delicacy and luxury. She suffered from the
poorness of her house, from its mean walls, worn
chairs, and ugly curtains. All these things, of
which other women of her class would not even
have been aware, tormented and insulted her. The
sight of the little Breton girl who came to do the
work in her little house aroused heart-broken
regrets and hopeless dreams in her mind. She
imagined silent antechambers, heavy with Oriental
tapestries, lit by torches in lofty bronze sockets,
with two tall footmen in knee-breeches sleeping in
large arm-chairs, overcome by the heavy warmth
of the stove. She imagined vast saloons hung with
antique silks, exquisite pieces of furniture
supporting priceless ornaments, and small,
charming, perfumed rooms, created just for little
parties of intimate friends, men who were famous
and sought after, whose homage roused every
other woman's envious longings.
     When she sat down for dinner at the round
table covered with a three-days-old cloth, opposite
her husband, who took the cover off the soup-
tureen, exclaiming delightedly: "Aha! Scotch
broth! What could be better?" she imagined
delicate meals, gleaming silver, tapestries
peopling the walls with folk of a past age and
strange birds in faery forests; she imagined
delicate food served in marvellous dishes,
murmured gallantries, listened to with an
inscrutable smile as one trifled with the rosy flesh
of trout or wings of asparagus chicken.
     She had no clothes, no jewels, nothing. And
these were the only things she loved; she felt that
she was made for them. She had longed so eagerly
to charm, to be desired, to be wildly attractive and
sought after.
     She had a rich friend, an old school friend
whom she refused to visit, because she suffered so
keenly when she returned home. She would weep
whole days, with grief, regret, despair, and misery.
*
One evening her husband came home with an
exultant air, holding a large envelope in his hand.
     "Here's something for you," he said.
     Swiftly she tore the paper and drew out a
printed card on which were these words:
     "The Minister of Education and Madame
Ramponneau request the pleasure of the company
of Monsieur and Madame Loisel at the Ministry
on the evening of Monday, January the 18th."
     Instead of being delighted, as her husband
hoped, she flung the invitation petulantly across
the table, murmuring:
     "What do you want me to do with this?"
     "Why, darling, I thought you'd be pleased. You
never go out, and this is a great occasion. I had
tremendous trouble to get it. Every one wants one;
it's very select, and very few go to the clerks.
You'll see all the really big people there."
     She looked at him out of furious eyes, and said
impatiently: "And what do you suppose I am to
wear at such an affair?"
     He had not thought about it; he stammered:
     "Why, the dress you go to the theatre in. It
looks very nice, to me . . ."
     He stopped, stupefied and utterly at a loss
when he saw that his wife was beginning to cry.
Two large tears ran slowly down from the corners
of her eyes towards the corners of her mouth.
     "What's the matter with you? What's the matter
with you?" he faltered.
     But with a violent effort she overcame her grief
and replied in a calm voice, wiping her wet
cheeks:
     "Nothing. Only I haven't a dress and so I can't
go to this party. Give your invitation to some
friend of yours whose wife will be turned out
better than I shall."
     He was heart-broken.
     "Look here, Mathilde," he persisted. "What
would be the cost of a suitable dress, which you
could use on other occasions as well, something
very simple?"
     She thought for several seconds, reckoning up
prices and also wondering for how large a sum she
could ask without bringing upon herself an
immediate refusal and an exclamation of horror
from the careful-minded clerk.
At last she replied with some hesitation:
     "I don't know exactly, but I think I could do it
on four hundred francs."
     He grew slightly pale, for this was exactly the
amount he had been saving for a gun, intending to
get a little shooting next summer on the plain of
Nanterre with some friends who went lark-
shooting there on Sundays.
Nevertheless he said: "Very well. I'll give
you four hundred francs. But try and get a really
nice dress with the money."
     The day of the party drew near, and Madame
Loisel seemed sad, uneasy and anxious. Her dress
was ready, however. One evening her husband
said to her:
     "What's the matter with you? You've been very
odd for the last three days."
     "I'm utterly miserable at not having any jewels,
not a single stone, to wear," she replied. "I shall
look absolutely no one. I would almost rather not
go to the party."
     "Wear flowers," he said. "They're very smart at
this time of the year. For ten francs you could get
two or three gorgeous roses."
     She was not convinced.
     "No . . . there's nothing so humiliating as
looking poor in the middle of a lot of rich
women."
     "How stupid you are!" exclaimed her husband.
"Go and see Madame Forestier and ask her to lend
you some jewels. You know her quite well enough
for that."
     She uttered a cry of delight.
     "That's true. I never thought of it."
     Next day she went to see her friend and told
her her trouble.
     Madame Forestier went to her dressing-table,
took up a large box, brought it to Madame Loisel,
opened it, and said:
     "Choose, my dear."
     First she saw some bracelets, then a pearl
necklace, then a Venetian cross in gold and gems,
of exquisite workmanship. She tried the effect of
the jewels before the mirror, hesitating, unable to
make up her mind to leave them, to give them up.
She kept on asking:
     "Haven't you anything else?"
     "Yes. Look for yourself. I don't know what you
would like best."
     Suddenly she discovered, in a black satin case,
a superb diamond necklace; her heart began to
beat covetously. Her hands trembled as she lifted
it. She fastened it round her neck, upon her high
dress, and remained in ecstasy at sight of herself.
     Then, with hesitation, she asked in anguish:
     "Could you lend me this, just this alone?"
     "Yes, of course."
     She flung herself on her friend's breast,
embraced her frenziedly, and went away with her
treasure. The day of the party arrived. Madame
Loisel was a success. She was the prettiest woman
present, elegant, graceful, smiling, and quite
above herself with happiness. All the men stared
at her, inquired her name, and asked to be
introduced to her. All the Under-Secretaries of
State were eager to waltz with her. The Minister
noticed her.
     She danced madly, ecstatically, drunk with
pleasure, with no thought for anything, in the
triumph of her beauty, in the pride of her success,
in a cloud of happiness made up of this universal
homage and admiration, of the desires she had
aroused, of the completeness of a victory so dear
to her feminine heart.
     She left about four o'clock in the morning.
Since midnight her husband had been dozing in a
deserted little room, in company with three other
men whose wives were having a good time. He
threw over her shoulders the garments he had
brought for them to go home in, modest everyday
clothes, whose poverty clashed with the beauty of
the ball-dress. She was conscious of this and was
anxious to hurry away, so that she should not be
noticed by the other women putting on their costly
furs.
     Loisel restrained her.
     "Wait a little. You'll catch cold in the open. I'm
going to fetch a cab."
     But she did not listen to him and rapidly
descended the staircase. When they were out in
the street they could not find a cab; they began to
look for one, shouting at the drivers whom they
saw passing in the distance.
     They walked down towards the Seine,
desperate and shivering. At last they found on the
quay one of those old nightprowling carriages
which are only to be seen in Paris after dark, as
though they were ashamed of their shabbiness in
the daylight.
     It brought them to their door in the Rue des
Martyrs, and sadly they walked up to their own
apartment. It was the end, for her. As for him, he
was thinking that he must be at the office at ten.
     She took off the garments in which she had
wrapped her shoulders, so as to see herself in all
her glory before the mirror. But suddenly she
uttered a cry. The necklace was no longer round
her neck!
     "What's the matter with you?" asked her
husband, already half undressed.
     She turned towards him in the utmost distress.
     "I . . . I . . . I've no longer got Madame
Forestier's necklace. . . ."
     He started with astonishment.
     "What! . . . Impossible!"
     They searched in the folds of her dress, in the
folds of the coat, in the pockets, everywhere. They
could not find it.
     "Are you sure that you still had it on when you
came away from the ball?" he asked.
     "Yes, I touched it in the hall at the Ministry."
     "But if you had lost it in the street, we should
have heard it fall."
     "Yes. Probably we should. Did you take the
number of the cab?"
     "No. You didn't notice it, did you?"
     "No."
     They stared at one another, dumbfounded. At
last Loisel put on his clothes again.
     "I'll go over all the ground we walked," he said,
"and see if I can't find it."
     And he went out. She remained in her evening
clothes, lacking strength to get into bed, huddled
on a chair, without volition or power of thought.
     Her husband returned about seven. He had
found nothing.
     He went to the police station, to the
newspapers, to offer a reward, to the cab
companies, everywhere that a ray of hope
impelled him.
     She waited all day long, in the same state of
bewilderment at this fearful catastrophe.
     Loisel came home at night, his face lined and
pale; he had discovered nothing.
     "You must write to your friend," he said, "and
tell her that you've broken the clasp of her
necklace and are getting it mended. That will give
us time to look about us."
     She wrote at his dictation.
*      "You ought to have brought it back sooner; I
By the end of a week they had lost all hope.
     Loisel, who had aged five years, declared:
     "We must see about replacing the diamonds."
     Next day they took the box which had held the
necklace and went to the jewellers whose name
was inside. He consulted his books.
     "It was not I who sold this necklace, Madame;
I must have merely supplied the clasp."
     Then they went from jeweller to jeweller,
searching for another necklace like the first,
consulting their memories, both ill with remorse
and anguish of mind.
     In a shop at the Palais-Royal they found a
string of diamonds which seemed to them exactly
like the one they were looking for. It was worth
forty thousand francs. They were allowed to have
it for thirty-six thousand.
     They begged the jeweller not to sell it for three
days. And they arranged matters on the
understanding that it would be taken back for
thirty-four thousand francs, if the first one were
found before the end of February.
     Loisel possessed eighteen thousand francs left
to him by his father. He intended to borrow the
rest.
     He did borrow it, getting a thousand from one
man, five hundred from another, five louis here,
three louis there. He gave notes of hand, entered
into ruinous agreements, did business with usurers
and the whole tribe of money-lenders. He
mortgaged the whole remaining years of his
existence, risked his signature without even
knowing if he could honour it, and, appalled at the
agonising face of the future, at the black misery
about to fall upon him, at the prospect of every
possible physical privation and moral torture, he
went to get the new necklace and put down upon
the jeweller's counter thirty-six thousand francs.
     When Madame Loisel took back the necklace
to Madame Forestier, the latter said to her in a
chilly voice:
might have needed it."
     She did not, as her friend had feared, open the
case. If she had noticed the substitution, what
would she have thought? What would she have
said? Would she not have taken her for a thief?
*
Madame Loisel came to know the ghastly life of
abject poverty. From the very first she played her
part heroically. This fearful debt must be paid off.
She would pay it. The servant was dismissed.
They changed their flat; they took a garret under
the roof.
     She came to know the heavy work of the
house, the hateful duties of the kitchen. She
washed the plates, wearing out her pink nails on
the coarse pottery and the bottoms of pans. She
washed the dirty linen, the shirts and dish-cloths,
and hung them out to dry on a string; every
morning she took the dustbin down into the street
and carried up the water, stopping on each landing
to get her breath. And, clad like a poor woman,
she went to the fruiterer, to the grocer, to the
butcher, a basket on her arm, haggling, insulted,
fighting for every wretched halfpenny of her
money.
     Every month notes had to be paid off, others
renewed, time gained.
     Her husband worked in the evenings at putting
straight a merchant's accounts, and often at night
he did copying at twopence-halfpenny a page.
     And this life lasted ten years.
     At the end of ten years everything was paid off,
everything, the usurer's charges and the
accumulation of superimposed interest.
     Madame Loisel looked old now. She had
become like all the other strong, hard, coarse
women of poor households. Her hair was badly
done, her skirts were awry, her hands were red.
She spoke in a shrill voice, and the water slopped
all over the floor when she scrubbed it. But
sometimes, when her husband was at the office,
she sat down by the window and thought of that
evening long ago, of the ball at which she had
been so beautiful and so much admired.
     What would have happened if she had never
lost those jewels. Who knows? Who knows? How
strange life is, how fickle! How little is needed to
ruin or to save!
     One Sunday, as she had gone for a walk along
the Champs-Elysees to freshen herself after the
labours of the week, she caught sight suddenly of
a woman who was taking a child out for a walk. It
was Madame Forestier, still young, still beautiful,
still attractive.
     Madame Loisel was conscious of some
emotion. Should she speak to her? Yes, certainly.
And now that she had paid, she would tell her all.
Why not?
     She went up to her.
     "Good morning, Jeanne."
     The other did not recognise her, and was
surprised at being thus familiarly addressed by a
poor woman.
     "But . . . Madame . . ." she stammered. "I don't
know . . . you must be making a mistake."
     "No . . . I am Mathilde Loisel."
     Her friend uttered a cry.
     "Oh! . . . my poor Mathilde, how you have
changed! . . ."
     "Yes, I've had some hard times since I saw you
last; and many sorrows . . . and all on your
account."
     "On my account! . . . How was that?"
     "You remember the diamond necklace you lent
me for the ball at the Ministry?"
     "Yes. Well?"
     "Well, I lost it."
     "How could you? Why, you brought it back."
     "I brought you another one just like it. And for
the last ten years we have been paying for it. You
realise it wasn't easy for us; we had no money. . . .
Well, it's paid for at last, and I'm glad indeed."
     Madame Forestier had halted.
     "You say you bought a diamond necklace to
replace mine?"
     "Yes. You hadn't noticed it? They were very
much alike."
     And she smiled in proud and innocent
happiness.
     Madame Forestier, deeply moved, took her two
hands.
     "Oh, my poor Mathilde! But mine was
imitation. It was worth at the very most five
hundred francs! . . . "
She Was A Phantom of Delight
By: William Wordsworth
She was a Phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight;
A lovely Apparition, sent
To be a moment's ornament;
Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair;
Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful Dawn;
A dancing Shape, an Image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and waylay.

I saw her upon nearer view,

A Spirit, yet a Woman too!
Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin-liberty;
A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A Creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food,
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

And now I see with eye serene

The very pulse of the machine;
A Being breathing thoughtful breath,
A Traveller between life and death;
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect Woman, nobly planned,
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a Spirit still, and bright
With something of angelic light.