The Value Of A Relationship

After M. Lucado

I used to visit George every Thursday when I lived in Miami. At the time I wasn't sure what kept drawing me to his musty little trailer. But looking back on it now, I think I know.

George had an unusual appearance - a patch over one eye ("I lost it in the war") and not a hair on his head. He was Canadian to the core and always kept the "maple leaf' draped in front of his trailer. Though over sixty, he swam and golfed daily and danced nightly. His voice boomed like a cannon when he talked, and he walked with such a pendulum swagger that he could have cleared a path for a bull.

But there was something much more profound about George that made me want to visit him. One summer day I realised what it was.

It was a hot Miami afternoon when I knocked on his door. He invited me in with his customary "'Well, hello, Max! Come on in here!" (He gave every visitor a glass of lemonade and some secretrecipe popcorn.) I stepped into the trailer.

"I've got someone I want you to meet," continued George with his Canadian twang. "My friend, Ralph."

I looked toward the comer. My eyes were still adjusting from the outside sun to the dimly lit trailer. As my vision cleared, I could see Ralph - and I wasn't sure what to think. There was a certain wildness about him - shoulder-length unkempt hair, a chest-length untamed beard. He was at least George's age, probably older. Apparently he didn't know what to think of me, either. His darting eyes sized me up from beneath his salt-and-pepper hair.

My palms began to sweat.

George interrupted the silence. "Sit down, Max. I've got something to show you." I sat on one side of the table while George scooted in next to Ralph, across from me. "My most valued possession is right here."

I looked at his hands and then around the trailer. "Where, George?"

"Right here." George put his big arm around Ralph's bony shoulders. "My most valued possession is my buddy. Ralph."

A new set of wrinkles appeared on Ralph's face as he broke into a toothless grin. Old friends. George and Ralph. Two crusty old travellers on the backcurve of life's circle. They had found life's most precious element - a relationship.

A relationship. The delicate fusion of two human beings. The intricate weaving of two lives; two sets of moods, mentalities, and temperaments. Two intenningling hearts, both seeking solace and security.

Ah, but George said it best. "My most valued possession is my buddy."

What matters most in life is not what ladders we climb or what ownings we accumulate. What matters most is a relationship.

What steps are you taking to protect your "possessions"? What measures are you using to insure that your relationships are strong and healthy? What are you doing to solidify the bridges between you and those in your world?

Do you resolve conflict as soon as possible, or do you "allow the sun to go down on your wrath"? Do you verbalize your love every day to your mate and children? Do you count the lives of your family members and friends more important than your own?

It's a wise man who values people above possessions. Many wealthy men have died paupers because they gave their lives to things and not to people. And many paupers have left this earth in contentment because they loved their neighbours.

"My most valued possession is my buddy."

Answer thefollowing questions.

1. Have you or your parents got such a friend who is ready to help you in any difficult situation?

2. What kind of music matches, do you think, these two stories: rock-n-roll, waltz, folk music, symphony, hymn? Why?

Footprints In The Jungle

After fV.S. Maugham

When I was in Malaya, I was staying with a man called Gaze who was head of the police. One day we were playing bridge in the billiard-room. There Gaze introduced me to the Cartwrights. The Cartwrights were planters and they came to Malaya because it gave their daughter a chance of a little fun. They were very nice people and played a very pleasant game of bridge.

Mrs. Cartwright was a woman somewhere in the fifties. I thought her a very agreeable person. I liked her frankness, her quick wit, her plain face. As for Mr. Cartwright, he looked tired and old. He talked little, but it was plain that he enjoyed his wife's humour. They were evidently very good friends. It was pleasing to see so solid and tolerant affection between two people who were almost elderly and must have lived together for so many years.

When we separated, Gaze and I set out to walk to his house. "What did you think of the Cartwrights?" he asked me.

"I liked them and their daughter who isjust the image of her father."

To my surprise Gaze told me that Cartwright wasn't her father. Mrs. Cartwright was a widow when he married her. Olive was bom after her father's death. And when we came to Gaze's house he told me the Cartwrights' story.

"I've known Mrs. Cartwright for over twenty years," he said slowly. "She was married to a man called Bronson. He was a planter in Selantan. It was a much smaller place than it is now, but they had a jolly little club, and we used to have a very good time. Bronson was a handsome chap. He hadn't much to talk about but tennis, golf and shooting; and I don’t suppose he read a book from year's end to year's end. He was about thirty-five when I first knew him, but he had the mind of a boy of eighteen. But he was no fool. He knew his work from A to Z. He was generous with his money and always ready to do anybody a good turn.

One day Mrs. Bronson told us that she was expecting a friend to stay with them and a few days later they brought Cartwright along. Cartwright was an old friend of Bronson's. He had been out of work for a long time and when he wrote to Bronson asking him whether he could do anything for him, Bronson wrote back inviting him to come and stay till things got better. When Cartwright came Mrs. Bronson told him that he was to look upon the place as his home and stay as long as he liked. Cartwright was very pleasant and unassuming; he fell into our little company very naturally and the Bronsons, like everyone else, liked him."

"Hadn't the Bronsons any children at that time?" I asked Gaze.

"No," Gaze answered. "I don't know why, they could have afforded it. Bronson was murdered," he said suddenly.

"Killed?"

"Yes, murdered. That night we had been playing tennis without Cartwright who had gone shooting to the jungle and without Bronson who had cycled to Kabulong to get the money to pay his coolies their wages and he was to come along to the club when he got

back. Cartwright саше back when we started playing bridge. Suddenly I was called to police sergeant outside. I went out. The sergeant told me that the Malays had come to the police station and said that there was a white man with red hair lying dead on the path that led through the jungle to Kabulong. I understood that it was Bronson.

For a moment I didn't know what to do and how to break the news to Mrs. Bronson. I came up to her and said that there had been an accident and her husband had been wounded. She leapt to her feet and stared at Cartwright who went as pale as death. Then I said that Bronson was dead after which she collapsed into her chair and burst into tears.

When the sergeant, the doctor and I arrived at the scene of the accident we saw that Bronson had been shot through the head and there was no money about him. From the footprints I saw that the poor man had stopped to talk to someone before he was shot. Whoever had murdered Bronson hadn't done it for money. It was obvious that he had stopped to talk with a friend.

Meanwhile Cartwright took up the management of Bronson's estate. He moved in at once. Four months later Olive, the daughter, was bom. And soon Mrs. Bronson and Cartwright were married. The murderer was never found. Suspicion fell on the coolies, of course. We examined them all - pretty carefully - but there was not a scrap of evidence to connect them with the crime. I knew who the murderer was..."

"Who?"

"Don't you guess?"

Answer thefollowing questions.

1. Describe Mrs. Cartwright and her husband. What were the relationships between

them?

2.Who was Mrs.Cartwright's first husband and how did Gaze characterize him?

3.Why did Bronson invite Cartwright to come and stay at their place? Was it wise of him to do it?

4.What kind of person was Cartwright as local society saw him?

5.Why were Bronson and Cartwright absent at the club on the night of the murder?

6.How did Mrs.Bronson behave when she leamt that her husband was wounded?

7.How did she take the news that he was dead?

8.What were Cartwright's actions after Bronson's death?

9.Was the crime disclosed?

10.Have you guessed who the murderer was? What helped you to guess?

11.Why did Mrs. Cartwright prefer Cartwright to Bronson? Do many women prefer such kind of men?

12.Is it a story about real friendship?

A Man With A Conscience

After Somerset Maugham

St. Laurent de Maroni is a pretty little place. It is neat and clean. It exists for the group of prison camps of which it is the centre. My object here is to tell a story. As I am well aware, one can never know everything about human nature. One can be sure only of one thing, and that is that it will never cease to have a surprise in store for you. I should inform the reader that three-quarters of the convicts at St. Laurent de Maroni are there for murder. I spent the better part of one day inquiring into crimes of passion. I wanted to know exactly what was the motive that had made a man kill his wife or his girl.

I spent another day inquiring into the matter of conscience. Moralists persuade us that it is one of the most powerful agents in human behaviour. It is generally accepted that

murder is a shocking crime, and it is the murderer above all other criminals who is supposed to suffer remorse.

But only in one man did I find anything that might be called a conscience, and his story was so remarkable that I think it well worth narrating.

of some official business.

"He's a very decent fellow," he said. "He's an accountant here." "What is he here for? " 1 asked.

"He killed his wife."

I saw him twice more during my stay at St. Laurent. He told me his story, but I will tell it now in my words.

Jean worked as an accountant in a large exporting house. In his childhood and youth, he was friendly with a boy called Henri Renar. Jean and Riri went to school together, played together, worked for their examinations together, spent their holidays together, for the two families were intimate, had their first affairs with girls together, partnered one another in the local tennis tournaments, and did their military service together. They never quarrelled. They were inseparable. When the time came for them to start working they decided that they would go into the same firm; but that was not so easy - Riri remained unemployed.

Riri was a light-hearted youth, and he enjoyed his leisure. He danced, bathed and played tennis. It was thus that he made the acquaintance of a girl who had recently come to live at Le Havre, and first Riri, then Jean, fell in love with her. Perhaps that was inevita­ ble; it was certainly unfortunate. She was a well-brought-up girl, an only child, and her mother, besides her pension, had a little money of her own. It was evident that she could be pursued only with a view to marriage. Of course Riri could not make an offer, as he had no work. The girl knew that both Riri and Jean were in love with her, she liked them both and was pleased by their attentions, but she gave no sign that she was in love with either. It was impossible to tell which she preferred. She was well aware that Riri was not in a position to marry her.

"What did she look like?" I asked Jean Charvin.

"She was small, with a pretty little figure, with large grey eyes, a pale skin and soft, mouse-coloured hair. She was rather like a little mouse. She was not beautiful, but pretty; there was something very appealing about her. She was easy to get on with. You couldn't help feeling that she would make anyone a good wife."

Jean and Riri hid nothing from one another and Jean made no secret of the fact that he was also in love with this girl, Marie-Louise, but Riri had met her first and it was an under­ stood thing between them that Jean should not stand in his way. At last she made her choice. One day Riri told Jean that Marie-Louise had agreed to marry him. They had arranged that as soon as he got a job his father should go to her mother and make the formal offer. Jean was hard hit. It was not easy to listen with sympathy to the plans Riri made for the future. He tried with all his might to accept honestly the sacrifice he made on the altar of friendship.

"Why did she choose him rather than you? " I asked.

"He had great vitality. His high spirits were infectious. You couldn't be dull in his company."

"Was he good-looking?"

"No, not very. I think I can say that I was better-looking than Riri."

But Riri did not get a job. His father wrote to everyone, he could think of, asking them to find something for Riri to do; and at last Riri was offered a job in Cambodia to buy native

would soon forget Marie-Louise, and his letter looked as if he had already done so. It was a justification. For, as Jean thought, if he had lost Marie-Louise he would have died; with him it was a matter of life and death.

For a year Jean and Marie-Louise were extremely happy. But with the depression and the unstable economic situation in the country they decided not to have a child till better times. Marie-Louise was a good housekeeper. She was a good wife. But she was placid. This before he married her had seemed to Jean a rather charming trait, but as time went on he understood that her placidity came from a certain lack of emotions. She had her own tiny little set of interests and they left no room for any others. She sometimes began a novel, but seldom cared to finish it. Jean was obliged to admit to himself that she was rather dull. The uneasy thought came to him that perhaps it had not been worth while to do a dirty trick for her sake. It began to worry him. He missed Riri and felt the prickings of his conscience. He wished now that when the director of his firm spoke to him he had answered differently.

Then a terrible thing happened. Riri caught typhoid fever and died. It was a frightful shock for Jean. It was a shock to Marie-Louise too, but she neither ate less heartily nor slept less soundly.

Jean felt that he had killed Riri. If he had told the director all the good he knew of his friend, the latter would have got the post and would now be alive and well.

Jean was tortured by remorse. What he had suffered before was nothing to what he suffered now. He began to dislike his wife. For it was for her that he had done the shameful thing, and what was she? An ordinary, rather calculating little woman.

"What a fool I've been," he repeated.

He did not even find her pretty any more. He knew now that she was terribly stupid. She bored him to distraction. Though he said nothing, though he was kind and amiable, he often wanted to kill her. When he did, however, it was almost without meaning to.

It was ten months after Riri's death, and Riri's parents, Monsieur and Madame Renard, gave a party to celebrate the engagement of their daughter. There was plenty of champagne. Jean drank a great deal to drown the bitter remorse that tormented him. It was three o'clock when they got home. Next day was Sunday, so Jean had no work to go to. They slept late. The rest I can tell in Jean Charvin's own words.

"I had a headache when I woke. Marie-Louise was not in bed. She was sitting at the dressing-table brushing her hair. I've always been very keen on physical culture, and I was in the habit of doing exercises every morning. I got out of bed and took up my Indian clubs. Our bedroom was fairly large and there was plenty of room to swing them between the bed and the dressing-table where Marie-Louise was sitting and doing her hair which was cut too short and I thought it repulsive. I did my usual exercises. Suddenly she gave a nasty little laugh."

"What are you laughing at?" I asked.

"Madame Renard. That was the same dress she wore at our wedding, she'd had it dyed and done over; but it didn't deceive me. I'd have known it anywhere."

"It was such a stupid remark, it infuriated me. I was seized with rage, and with all my might I hit her over the head with my Indian club. I broke her skull, apparently, and she died two days later in hospital without recovering consciousness."

He paused for a moment. I handed him a cigarette and lit another myself. "I was glad she did. We could never have lived together again, and it would have been very hard to explain my action." "Very."

"I was arrested and tried for murder. Of course I said it was an accident, I said the club had slipped out of my hand, but the medical evidence was against me. Fortunately for me they could find no motive. We were generally looked upon as a devoted couple. My character was excellent and my employer spoke in the highest terms of me. In the end I was