Основы интерпретации художественного текста (на материале английского языка). Учебно-методическое пособие

Практическое занятие №3

Practical Analysis

Specimen Story

While reading the following story, note the narrative method used by the author.

1.What narrative type did K. Mansfield resort to?

2.How reliable is the narrator? At what points does she speak the truth and at what points does she utter misjudgements?

3.What makes The Lady's Maid a deep psychological story?

Katherine Mansfield

THE LADY'S MAID

Eleven o'clock. A knock at the door.

I hope I haven't disturbed you, madam. You weren't asleep -were you? But I've just given my lady her tea, and there was such a nice cup over, I thought, perhaps ...

Not at all, madam1. I always make a cup of tea last thing. She drinks it in bed after her prayers to warm her up. I put the kettle on when she kneels down and I say to it; "Now you needn't be in too much of a hurry to say your prayers." But it's always boiling before my lady is half through. You see, madam, we know such a lot of people and they've all got to be prayed for

— everyone. My lady keeps a list of the names in a little red book. Oh dear! whenever someone new has been to see us and my lady says afterwards, "Ellen, give me my little red book," I feel quite wild, I do. "There's another," I think, "keeping her out of her bed in all weathers." And she won't have a cushion, you know, madam; she kneels on the hard carpet. It fidgets me something dreadful to see her, knowing her as I do. I've tried to cheat her; I've spread out the eider-down. But the first time I did it - oh, she gave me such a look - holy it was, madam. "Did our Lord have an eider-down, Ellen? " she said. But - I was younger at that time - I felt inclined to say, "No, but our Lord wasn't your age, and He didn't know what it was to have your lumbago." Wicked - wasn't it? But she's too good, you know, madam. When I tucked her up just now and seen - saw her lying back, her hands outside and her head on the pillow - so pretty - I couldn't help thinking, "Now you look just like your dear mother when I laid her out! "2

... Yes, madam, it was all left to me. Oh, she did look sweet. I did her hair, soft-like, round her forehead, all in dainty curls, and just to one side of her neck I put a bunch of most beautiful purple pansies. Those pansies made a picture of her, madam! I shall never forget them. I thought to-night, when I looked at my lady, "Now, if only the pansies was there no one could tell the difference."

... Only the last year, madam. Only after she'd got a little — well -feeble as you might say. Of course, she was never dangerous; she was the sweetest old lady. But how it took her was — she thought she'd lost something. She couldn't keep still, she couldn't settle. All day long she'd be up and down, up and down; you'd meet her everywhere — on the stairs, in the porch, making for the kitchen. And she'd look up at you, and she'd say — just like a child, "I've lost it; I've lost it." "Come along," I'd say, "come along and I'll lay out your patience3 for you." But she'd catch me by the hand — I was a favorite of her — and whisper, "Find it for me, Ellen. Find it for me." Sad, wasn't it?

... No, she never recovered, madam. She had a stroke at the end Last words she ever said was — very slow. "Look in — the — Lookin —" And then she was gone.

... No, madam, I can't say I noticed it. Perhaps some girls. But you see, it's like this, I've got nobody but my lady. My mother died of consumption when I was four, and I lived with my grandfather, who kept a hairdresser's shop. I used to spend all my time in the shop under a table

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dressing my doll's hair — copying the assistants, I suppose. They were ever so kind to me. Used to make me little wigs, all colors, the latest fashions and all. And there I'd sit all day, quiet as quiet—the customers never knew. Only now and again I'd take my peep from under the tablecloth.

... But one day I managed to get a pair of scissors and — would you believe it, madam? — I cut off all my hair; snipped it all off in bits, like the little monkey I was. Grandfather was furious! He caught hold of the tongs — I shall never forget it — grabbed me by the hand and shut my fingers in them. "That'll teach you! " he said. It was a fearful burn. I've got the mark of it to-day.

... Well, you see, madam, he'd taken such pride in my hair. He used to sit me up on the counter, before the customers came, and do it something beautiful — big, soft curls and waved over the top. I re-member the assistants standing round, and me ever so solemn with the penny grandfather gave me to hold while it was being done ... But he always took the penny back afterwards. Poor grandfather! Wild, he was, at the fright I'd made of myself. But he frightened me that time. Do you know what I did, madam? I ran away. Yes, I did, round the corners, in and out, I don't know how far I didn't run. Oh, dear, I must have looked a sight, with my hand rolled up in my pinny and my hair stick¬ing out. People must have laughed when they saw me ...

... No, madam, grandfather never got over it. He couldn't bear the sight of me after. Couldn't eat his dinner, even, if I was there. So my aunt took me. She was a cripple, an upholstress.4 Tiny! She had to stand on the sofa when she wanted to cut out the backs. And it was helping her I met my lady ...

... Not so very, madam. I was thirteen, turned. And I don't remember ever feeling — well — a child, as you might say. You see there was my uniform, and one thing and another. My lady put me into collars and cuffs from the first. Oh yes, — once I did! That was — funny! It was like this. My lady had her two little nieces staying with her — we were at Sheldon at the time — and there was a fair on the common.5

"Now, Ellen," she said, "I want you to take the two young ladies for a ride on the donkeys." Off we went; solemn little loves they were; each had a hand. But when we came to the donkeys they were too shy to go on. So we stood and watched instead. Beautiful those donkeys were! They were the first I'd seen out of a cart — for pleasure, as you might say. They were a lovely silver grey, with little red saddles and blue bridles and bells jing-a-jingling on their ears. And quite big girls — older than me, even — were riding them, ever so gay. Not at all common. I don't mean, madam, just enjoying themselves. And I don't know what it was, but the way the little feet went, and the eyes — so gentle — and the soft ears — made me want to go on a donkey more than anything in the world!

... Of course, I couldn't. I had my young ladies. And what would I have looked like perched up there in my uniform? But all the rest of the day it was donkeys — donkeys on the brain with me. I felt I should have burst if I didn't tell someone; and who was there to tell? But when I went to bed — I was sleeping in Mrs. James's bedroom, our cook that was, at the time — as soon as the lights was out, there they were, my donkeys, jingling along, with their neat little feet and sad eyes ... Well, madam, would you believe it, I waited for a long time and pretended to be asleep, and then suddenly I sat up and called out as loud as I could. "I do want to go on a donkey! I do want a donkey-ride! " You see, I had to say it, and I thought they wouldn't laugh at me, if they knew I was only dreaming. Artful — wasn't it? Just what a silly child would

think ...

No, madam, never now. Of course, I did think of it at one time. But it wasn't to be. He had a little flower-shop just down the road and across from where we was living. Funny, wasn't it? And me such a one for flowers. We were having a lot of company at the time and I was in and out of the shop more often than not, as the saying is. And Harry and I (his name was Harry) got to quarrelling about how things ought to be arranged — and that began it. Flowers! you wouldn't believe it, madam, the flowers he used to bring me. He'd stop at nothing. It was lillies-of-the- valley more than once, and I'm not exaggerating. Well, of course, we were going to be married

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and live over the shop, and it was all going to be jus; so, and I was to have the window to arrange

... Oh, how I've done that window of a Saturday! Not really, of course, madam, just dreaming, as you might say. I've done it for Christmas -motto in holly, and all — and I've had my Easter lilies with a gorgeous star all daffodils in the middle. I've hung — well, that's enough of that. The day came he was to call for me to choose the furniture. Shall I have forget it? It was a Tuesday. My lady wasn't quite herself that afternoon. Not that she'd said anything, of course; she never does or will. But I knew by the way that she kept wrapping herself up and asking me if it was cold — and her little nose looked ... pinched. I didn't like leaving her; I knew I'd be worrying all the time. At last I asked her if she'd rather I put it off. "Oh no, Ellen," she said, "you mustn't mind about me. You mustn't disappoint your young man." And so cheerful, you know, madam, never thinking about herself. It made me feel worse than ever. I began to wonder ... then she dropped her handkerchief and began to stoop down to pick it up herself — a thing she never did. "Whatever are you doing! " I cried, running to stop her. "Well," she said, smiling, you know, madam, "I shall have to begin to practise." Oh, it was all I could do not to burst out crying. I went over to the dressing-table and made believe to rub up the silver, and I couldn't keep myself in, and I asked if she'd rather I ... didn't get married. "No, Ellen," she said - that was her voice, madam, like I'm giving you — "No, Ellen, not for the wide world! "But while she said it, madam - I was looking in her glass; of course, she didn't know I could see her - she put her little hand on her heart just like her dear mother used to, and lifted her eyes... Oh, madam.

When Harry came I had his letters all ready, and the ring and a ducky little brooch he'd given me — a silver bird it was, with a chain in its beak, and on the end of the chain a heart with a dagger. Quite the thing! I opened the door to him. I never gave him time for a word. "There you are." I said. "Take them all back," I said, "It's all over. I'm not going to marry you," I said, "I can't leave my lady." White! he turned as white as a woman. I had to slam the door, and there I stood, all of a tremble, till I knew he had gone., When I opened the door —believe me or not, madam — that man was gone! I ran out into the road just as I was, in my apron and my houseshoes,; and there I stayed in the middle of the road ... staring. People must have laughed if they saw me

... Goodness gracious! - What's that? It's the clock striking! And here I've been keeping you awake. Oh, madam, you ought to have stopped me ... Can I tuck in your feet? I always tuck in my lady's feet, every night, just the same. And she says, "Good night, Ellen.

Sleep sound and wake early! " I don't know what I should do if she didn‘ t say that, now.

... Oh dear, I sometimes think ... whatever should I do if anything were to ... But, there, thinking's no good to anyone — is it, madam?' Thinking won't help. Not that I do it often. And if ever I do I pull myself up sharp. "Now then, Ellen. At it again - you silly girl! If you can't find anything better to do than to start thinking ...! "

Glossary

K. Mansfield leaves out the words of the maid's interlocutor and concentrates the reader's attention on the maid's story. This sharpens the reader's perception of the story, which seems to be confided directly to the reader.

to lay out — to arrange (a dead body) for burial

to lay out a patience — to arrange the cards for a card game, usually for one player

an upholstress — a woman whose job is stuffing and covering soft chairs and other furniture

a common — an area of grassland with no fences which is free to all (whereas most of the land in England is private property and is surrounded by fences or hedges to keep out strangers). In villages the fairs or performances of travelling musicians are held on the common.

Ideas and Questions for Further Discussion

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NARRATIVE METHOD

Through whose eyes and mind does the reader receive the story?

What advantage did the author gain in having the story told by the old maid? Does it increase credibility of the story and reveal the personality of the narrator?

What did the author gain by leaving out the remarks of the interlocutor? Does the story sound as if it were told to the reader?

How many episodes did the author choose in order to describe the hardships and privations of those who serve?

Did K. Mansfield resort to the flashback technique?

What is gained by arranging the events in a non-chronological order?

How does the maid evaluate her lady's and her grandfather's actions? How does she evaluate her own actions and thoughts? Does she constantly reproach herself?

How does the author make his readers understand that the maid has a wrong opinion of her lady, her grandfather, and that she constantly misinterprets their actions?

What is implied in the contrast between the maid and her mistress-their mode of life, their moral features, the motives that urge them to act in a certain way?

What details did the author linger on? What do they suggest? What does the title draw the reader's attention to?

What is the message of the story?

MEANS OF CHARACTERIZATION

1.What features of Ellen's nature are accentuated?

2.What means of characterization are employed by the writer?

3.Is Ellen's language in accordance with her social status?

4.What markers of uneducated speech occur in the narrative?

5.What stylistic devices emphasize the maid's earnest attempts to praise her mistress, and to express her annoyance with herself?

6.Does her language reflect her emotional state? Comment on the emotionally colored words and structures; the use of silence for purposes of emphasis (reflected graphicall) by means of dots); the emphatic accent in her speech (reflected by, means of italics).]

SUGGESTIONS FOR COMPARATIVE ANALYSIS

Compare the narrative methods used in The Lady's Maid and Mistaken Identity. Are both stories first-person narratives? What is in common between them? What distinguishes them?

Does the first-person narrative serve the same purpose in both the stories? Do the authors share the narrator's views in both the stories?

What did M. Twain gain by selecting a first-person narrative?

Does it increase the credibility of the story and reveal the personality of the narrator?

Would mistaken identity sound just as humorous if the story were told by an omniscient author?

Did M. Twain vary the narrative method? Does the final scene acquire a dramatic form? What effect did the author achieve?

Compare the means of characterization that are employed by the writers in the two stories. Are they identical?

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Практическое занятие №4

Practical Analysis

Specimen story

While reading the tale, note the tone and atmosphere.

1.Define the tone and atmosphere in the tale. Do they contribute to the total effect?

2.What language means help to create the prevailing tone?

Edgar Allan Poe

THE OVAL PORTRAIT

The chateau into which my valet had ventured to make forcible entrance, rather than permit me, in my desperately wounded condition, to pass a night in the open air, was one of those piles of commingled gloom and grandeur which have so long frowned among the Appennines, nor less in fact than in the fancy of Mrs. Radcliffe. To all appearance it had been temporarily and very lately abandoned. We established ourselves in one of the smallest and least sumptuously furnished apartments. It lay in a remote turret of the building. Its decorations were rich, yet tattered and antique. Its walls were hung with tapestry and bedecked with manifold and multiform armorial trophies, together with an unusually great number of very spirited modern paintings in frames of rich golden arabesque. In these paintings, which depended from the walls not only in their main surfaces, but in very many nooks which the bizarre architecture of the chateau rendered necessary — in these paintings my incipient delirium, perhaps, had caused me to take deep interest; so that I bade Pedro to close the heavy shutters of the room — since it was already night, — to light the tongues of a tall candelabrum which stood by the head of my bed, and to throw open far and wide the fringed curtains of black velvet which enveloped the bed itself. I wished all this done that I might resign myself, if not to sleep, at least alternately to the contemplation of these pictures, and the perusal of a small volume which had been found upon the pillow, and which purported to criticise and describe them.

Long, long I read — and devoutly, devoutly I gazed. Rapidly and gloriously the hours flew by and the deep midnight came. The position of the candelabrum displeased me, and outreaching my hand with difficulty, rather than disturb my slumbering valet, I placed it so as to throw its rays more fully upon the book.

But the action produced an effect altogether unanticipated. The rays of the numerous candles (for there were many) now fell within a niche of the room which had hitherto been thrown into deep shade by one of the bedposts. I thus saw in vivid light a picture all unnoticed before. It was the portrait of a young girl just ripening into womanhood.

I glanced at the painting hurriedly, and then closed my eyes. Why I did this was not at first apparent even to my own perception. But while my lids remained thus shut, I ran over in mind my reason for so shutting them. It was an impulsive movement to gain time for thought — to make sure that my vision had not deceived me — to calm and subdue my fancy for a more sober and more certain gaze. In a very few moments I again looked fixedly at the painting.

That I now saw aright I could not and would not doubt; for the first flashing of the candles upon that canvas had seemed to dissipate the dreamy stupor which was stealing over my senses, and to startle me at once into waking life.

The portrait, I have already said, was that of a young girl. It was a mere head and shoulders, done in what is technically termed a vignette manner; much in the style of the favourite heads of Sully. The arms, the bosom, and even the ends of the radiant hair melted imperceptibly into the vague yet deep shadow which formed the background of the whole. The frame was oval, richly gilded and filigreed in Moresque. As a thing of art nothing could be more admirable than the painting itself. But it could have been neither the execution of the work, nor the immortal beauty of the countenance, which had so suddenly and so vehemently moved me. Least of all, could it

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have been that my fancy, shaken from its half slumber, had mistaken the head for that of a living person. I saw at once that the peculiarities of the design, of the vignetting, and of the frame, must have instantly dispelled such idea — must have prevented even its momentary entertainment. Thinking earnestly upon these points, I remained, for an hour perhaps, half sitting, half reclining, with my vision riveted upon the portrait. At length, satisfied with the true secret of its effect, I fell back within the bed. I had found the spell of the picture in an absolute life-likeliness of expression, which, at first startling, finally confounded, subdued, and appalled me. With deep and reverent awe I replaced the candelabrum in its former position. The cause of my deep agitation being thus shut from view, I sought eagerly the volume which discussed the paintings and their histories. Turning to the number which designated the oval portrait, I there read the vague and quaint words which follow;

"She was a maiden of rarest beauty, and not more lovely than full of glee. And evil was the hour when she saw, and loved, and wedded the painter. He, passionate, studious, austere, and having already a bride in his Art: she a maiden of rarest beauty, and not more lovely than full of glee; all light and smiles, and frolicsome as the young fawn; loving and cherishing all things ;hating only the Art which was her rival ;dreading only the pallet and brushes and other untoward instruments which deprived her of the countenance of her lover. It was thus a terrible thing for this lady to hear the painter speak of his desire to portray even his young bride. But she was humble and obedient, and sat meekly for many wee in the dark high turret-chamber where the light dripped upon the pa canvas only from overhead. But he, the painter, took glory in his war which went on from hour to hour, and from day to day. And he a passionate, and wild, and moody man, who became lost in reverie so that he would not see that the light which fell so, ghastly in that lone turret withered the health and the spirits of his bride, who pined visible to all but him. Yet she smiled on and still on, uncomplainingly, because she saw that the painter (who had high renown) took a fervid and burning pleasure in his task, and wrought day and night to depict her who so loved him, yet who grew daily dispirited and weak. And in sooth some who beheld the portrait spoke of its resemblance in low words, as of a mighty marvel, and a proof not less of the power of the painter than of his deep love for her whom he depicted so surpassingly well. But at length, as the labour drew nearer to its conclusion, there were admitted none into the turret; for the painter had grown wild with the ardour of his work, and turned his eyes from the canvas rarely, even to regard the countenance of his wife. And he would not see that the tints which he spread upon the canvas were drawn from the cheeks of her who sat beside him. And when many weeks had passed, and but little remained to do, save one brush upon the mouth and one tint upon the eye, the spirit of the lady again flickered up as the flame within the socket of the lamp. And then the brush was given, and then the tint was placed; and, for one moment, the painter stood entranced before the work which he had wrought; but in the next, while he yet gazed, he grew tremulous and very pallid, and aghast, and crying with a loud voice, 'This is indeed Life itself! ' turned suddenly to regard his beloved: She was dead!

Ideas and Questions for Further Discussion

TONE, ATMOSPHERE, STYLE

What did the author achieve by setting the tale in an old abandoned castle?

To what extent does loneliness and remoteness in the setting affect the atmosphere? Does the outside world intrude into the tale?

Does such a setting stir the reader's imagination?

Do the descriptions of light and shade add to the atmosphere?

What specific words and phrases convey the gloomy and mysterious atmosphere? How does the tone vary?

What linguistic means create a sombre and gloomy tone in the first part of the tale, and then 46

a lyrical and dramatic tone in the second part?

Does the language of the history of the oval portrait differ from that of the first part of the tale?

What artistic effect does the narrator's forceful diction produce? Collect the phrases in which light and darkness are described.

How effectively are the different variations in the light and darkness used? What artistic effect do they produce?

Collect the words that Poe used to describe the variations of emotions experienced by a) the narrator, b) the maiden, c) the painter.

Does Poe depict subtle changes in their state of mind?

Do the detailed descriptions of the characters' state of mind create an impression of truth?

If. Is Poe's language designed to appeal to all the senses — sight, touch, smell, taste, hearing?

Do the borrowings and terms distract from the flow of the narrative or add to credibility? What effect do the rare and bookish words produce?

Where does Poe's descriptive strength seem to be most notable —in dealing with human emotions or depicting sights? Refer to specific passages from the text to support your view.

How does the language of the second part contribute to its fantastic theme? What devices make it sound rhythmical, lyrical and dramatic?

NARRATIVE METHOD

What did the author gain by resorting to a first-person narration?

Does the shift in the narrative method and style affect the general impression of the tale?

SUGGESTIONS FOR COMPARATIVE ANALYSIS

Compare the tone of The Oval Portrait with that of The Cop and the Anthem. Is it emotional in both the stories? What ring does it have in each of the stories? Does it sound ironic or humorous, quiet or excited, cheerful or gloomy; objective or subjective? Support your view with references to the text.

What linguistic means create the tone in the story The Cop and the Anthem?

Compare the atmosphere in both the stories. How does the plot in each of the stories affect the atmosphere?

How reasonable is it to define O'Henry's diction as forceful, too?

Is O'Henry's language designed to appeal to the senses? Give examples to support your view.

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Практическое занятие №5

Practical Analysis

Specimen Story

While reading the following story, note its underlying thought contents.

1.Ellen tries to convince herself that her solitude is by no means a tragedy and that it is a relief. Yet the reader senses the depth of her unhappiness. How does the writer suggest this implication?

2.The irony of the "pleasures" of solitude gradually emerges as the story unfolds. What small gestures and particularities convey this implication?

John Cheever

THE PLEASURES OF SOLITUDE

One evening when Ellen Goodrich had just returned from the office to her room in Chelsea1, she heard a light knock on her door. She knew no one in the city intimately; there was no one she could expect. She opened the door and found two small boys standing in the hallway. She supposed they were ten or eleven. Their clothing was thin and they were shaking with cold.

''Florence Valle live here? " one of them asked.

"I don't know anyone by that name," Ellen said. "Perhaps if you ask the landlady - she lives on the first floor"

"We're looking for Florence Valle. She's his cousin," the second boy said, pointing o his friend. "She used to live here."

"I'm very sorry," Ellen said, "but I don't know her".

"Maybe she's moved," he said. "We walked all the way over here..."

Ellen very seldom felt that she could afford pity and sympathy for other people, but the boys looked frightened and cold, and her desire to help them was stronger than her reserve. She noticed them staring beyond her to a dish of candy in the room. When she invited them to have a piece, they refused with a shy elaborate politeness that made her want to take them in her arms. She suggested that they each take a piece of candy home and went into the room for the dish. They followed her.

"You got a nice place here, Miss." "Yeh, you got a nice place here!'

The faces were thin and solemn and their voices were hoarse.

"Haven't you any overcoats, you boys? " she asked. "Are you going around in the cold dressed like that? "

"We ain't got any overcoats, Miss!"

"I should think you'd take cold, walking around like that." "We ain't got any overcoats1."

They told her their names and ages when she asked for them, and said that they lived on the lower East Side. She had walked through the slums herself and she could imagine the squalor and neglect in which they must live. While she was talking with them, she realized that it was the first time in more than a year that she had allowed anyone other than the landlady to come into her room. Having the boys there pleased her and she kept asking them questions until she caught the tone of her own excited voice. She stopped abruptly. "I guess you had better go now," she said. "I have some things to do-" They thanked her for the candy and backed out of the room. Altogether, the encounter left her feeling generous and happy.

Ellen was not a generous person. She lived in a Chelsea rooming house in order to bank as much of her salary as possible toward purchasing an annuity. It had always been difficult for her to find friends. During the ten years she had lived in New York she had suffered a great deal from loneliness, but this suffering was forgotten now because of the care with which she

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arranged her solitude. She could be unmerciful with herself and others. Her mother had once written asking if she would help her younger brother with a loan. "I think it will be better," Ellen replied, "if Harold experiences a little hardship. It is only in knowing hardship that he can understand the value of money. I don't pretend to be poor, but the little I have in the bank was put by at a great sacrifice and I have no intention of lending it to Harold when we all know that he could have done as well himself if he tried. I think he owes it to you to do more than I have done, for, after all, you and Father spent more on his education than you spent on mine." She was twenty-eight at the time.

After the boys had gone that night, Ellen changed from her dress into a house coat and cooked her supper. The cold wind rattled the windows and made her appreciate the warm, light room. She washed the dishes and sat down to read a rental-library book. This was the way she spent most of her evenings, and she was proud of the fact that she was no longer restless and lonely. But her mind kept returning to the boys. She saw their thin, solemn faces, and when she thought of them walking in the cold she was filled with sadness and pity. Her uneventful life led her to attach significance to the few irregular things that happened to her. There was some purpose, she felt, some reason for this accidental meeting.

A week later, at the same hour, there was a knock on the door and she found the boys in the hallway again. "We were walking by^" "We thought we'd come to see you:"

"Well, I'm very glad you stopped." Ellen said, and realized that her voice could be heard by the other tenants whose doors opened into the hallway. There was nothing wrong in what she was doing, but at the same time she didn't want the other tenants to know that she was asking strange boys into her room, so she waited until she had closed the door after them before she spoke again. "I'm very glad you stopped," she repeated. She invited them to sit down. Then she thought of giving them a drink of Coca-Cola, but this seemed a little too forward. They told her they were Italian, and she asked them if they knew how to make a veal parmigiana,2 something she had always wanted to learn. They didn't know, but they told her about other Italian dishes. One of the boys, the older, seemed interested in some ornaments on Ellen's dresser and she showed them to him. The younger boy took a cigarette end from his pocket and lighted it.

"Aren't you too young to smoke? " Ellen asked. He looked at his friend and they both giggled. Ellen colored. The looks they exchanged and their laughter frightened her. "Those are called maracas,3" she said nervously, pointing to a pair of painted maracas that hung on the wall. "I bought them when I went for a Caribbean cruise in 1933. They use them in orchestras in the Caribbean." The incident of the cigarette seemed to have made the boys feel more at ease. Ellen might have asked them to leave, but she hesitated. The younger boy put out his cigarette in her pin tray and she watched him without saying anything. She was enjoying herself in a way she could not quite understand. They told her stories about their families, about their sisters, stories that were sly and lewd and that she should have stopped them from telling. At the end of half an hour she asked them to leave. They had been gone for some time before she discovered that her purse was missing.

If they had been in the room then, she might have murdered them. She took hold of the back of a chair and held it rigidly until her arms and her shoulders ached. "They don't have to steal! " she cried. "They don't have to steal! They don't have to! " She threw herself onto the bed and wept for a long time. When she sat up, she composed a discourse on honesty and imagined herself delivering it to them. She thought of calling the police, but when she tried to describe what had happened as if she were talking to the police, it sounded unconvincing and even suspicious. She went into the bathroom and washed her face with a cold cloth. "They don't have to steal," she said. "They don't have to steal. I would have given them money if they need money." She walked the floor, talking angrily to herself.

In the morning, Ellen decided to forget about the boys; it was better -to lose the fifteen or twenty dollars that had been in her purse than to lose her peace of mind. Usually she could forget things that troubled her, but this time it was not so easy. In the back of her mind was the feeling she had somehow made a mistake that threatened her whole way of living. A few nights later, on

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a Wednesday, someone knocked on the door again. She opened it and found the two boys standing in the corridor.

She should have been prepared. She had rehearsed often enough the things she wanted to say, but now, when she tried to speak, she could think of nothing. "Come in here," she said finally. "Come in here, both of you. I want to speak to you!' They followed her into the room. "You don't have to steal," she said. "You ought to know that you don't have to steal." Her voice had risen and she was trembling so that she had to lean against the wall. "If you need money, if you really need money, there are honest ways of getting it. You stole my purse. When you were here last time."

"We didn't steal nothing, Miss." "We ain't thiefs."

"Well, there's no use in standing here arguing about it," she said "Get out." "Give us five dollars, Miss."

"Get out," Ellen said. "Get out of here before I call a policeman! "

They backed out of the room and she closed and locked the door and listened to them going down the hall. That night she dreamed about them. She could not remember the details of the dream clearly, but when she woke up she was depressed and frightened. Her sleep was troubled for the rest of that week. On Friday she felt that she was coming down with a cold and got permission to leave the office at noon. She picked up a book at a rental library and bought some groceries for dinner.

In spite of her illness, she enjoyed her solitude more that afternoon than she had for some time. She read until dusk. Before turning on the light, she went to the window to draw the shade. A swift snow was falling slantwise between her window and the back yards. She bathed and went to bed at seven, slightly feverish. She was half asleep when she heard them knocking on the door. She remembered that she had forgotten to put the latch down. They talked for a while in the hall, knocked again, and then pushed the door open. When they saw her lying on the bed, they went over and stared at her.

"You sick, Miss? "

"Please leave me alone," she said weakly. "Please get out!' "We want some money, Miss"

"Can't you see that I'm sick? " she said. It was an effort for her to talk. "Please get out. I haven't any money."

One of them saw her purse on the table. He went to it, removed the change purse, and started to take out the bills. She got out of bed and struck him, but he already had the money in his hand. She tried to get it away from him, but he was stronger than she; he was able to free his hand, and both boys ran out of the room and down the hall. She stood in the doorway shouting, "Mrs. Duval, Mrs. Duval! " There was no answer, and she threw herself on the bed, too sick and tired to cry. Ten minutes later the landlady knocked on the door and asked what the matter was. Ellen told her she thought she had heard some strange men in the corridor and the lock on the front door should be fixed.

The next morning, Ellen decided to move. It was not easy for her, but she was desperate. One of the girls in her office recommended a rooming house on East Thirty-seventh Street, and Ellen went there that night and engaged a place. She took her possessions over the following night in a taxi. The new room was not as pleasant as the one she had left, but she tried hard to make it seem familiar. She felt that in a way she was beginning a new life.

She walked to the rooming house the next night from the office. It was raining hard, and as she turned off Madison Avenue4 onto Thirty-seventh Street she saw them standing in front of the house, staring up at the windows. The rain was cold and the boys were without hats and coats. She walked down to Thirty-fourth Street and ate her dinner in a restaurant there. It was eight o'clock before she started back, and they had gone. She went to her room, set her umbrella in a saucer, and changed from her wet dress into her house coat. Someone knocked on the door and she opened it and they were standing there.

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