Your attitude towards the things described.
Here are some Stylistic Devices which may help when describing events.
Epithet is a word or a group of words giving an expressive characterization of the object described. E. g.: fine open-faced boy; generous and soft in heart; wavy flaxen hair.
Simile is a comparison of two things which arc quite different, but which have one important quality in common. The purpose of the simile is to highlight this quality. E. g.: Andrew's face looked as if it were made of a rotten apple.
Metaphor compares two things which are quite unlike one another by identifying one with the other or replacing one with the other. E. g.: The doctor wrapped himself in a mist of words; He's a brick. He's a snake. He's a tiger. He's a mule. (Here metaphor consists in the use of a word or a phrase to describe an object with which it is not commonly associated.)
Personification is a description of an ob ject or an idea as if it were a human being. E. g.: The long arm of the law will catch him in the end.
Metonymy is a transfer of the name of one object to another with which it is in some way connected. E. g.: The hall applauded.
Hyperbole is a deliberate exaggeration of some quantity or quality. E. g.: 1 would give the whole world to know.
Irony is the clash of two opposite meanings within the same context, which is sustained in oral speech by intonation. Bitter, socially or politically aimed irony is called sarcasm. E. g.: Stoney smiled the sweet smile of an alligator.
Repetition is observed when some parts of the sentence or sentences are repeated. It is employed as a means of emphasis. E. g.: A smile would come into Mr. Pickwick's face, the smile extended into a laugh, the laugh into a roar, and the roar became general.
Oxymoron joins two antonymous words into one syntagma. E. g.: She was a damned nice woman.
ІІ. План лінгвістичного аналізу художнього тексту:
1. Інформація про автора, твір та його художні особливості.
2. Структура тексту.
3. Фоно-графічний і морфемний рівні актуалізації мовних одиниць.
4. Лексичний рівень висунення МО у тексті.
5. Синтаксичний рівень вираження МО.
6. Характеристика категорій тексту. Парадигматика й синтагматика.
7. Актуалізація на рівні тексту (заголовок, власне ім’я, художня деталь, сильна позиція ).
8. Типи, форми, способи викладу, представлені у художньому прозаїчному (ліричному) тексті.
ІІІ. Зразок лінгвістичного аналізу художнього тексту:
Оповідання E. Хемінгуея "Кішка під дощем" займає три неповних сторінки тексту, але при цьому воно повною мірою насичено змістовно Тут кожна мовна одиниця, включаючи і синсемантичні слова, не просто несе "квант інформації", але включається в складну систему контактних та дистантних семантичних, емоційних, оцінних зв'язків, які організують основний - підтекстний, імпліцитний - смисл оповіді. Це оповідання - зразок дивовижно щільної прози як у формальному, так і в змістовному відношенні.
В лінійному розгортанні тексту читач знайомиться з молодою парою, якій нічим зайнятися в дощовий день на модному курорті. Це, в термінології І. Р. Гальперіна, змістовно-фактуальна інформація (ЗФІ) оповідання. Однак не вона формує концепт - ідею, основну думку твору[1], яку автор проводить у своєму оповіданні, хоча саме ЗФІ має сигнали, що здійснюють передачу глибинної - змістовно-підтекстної - інформації (ЗПІ).
Термін "підтекст" зберіг свою внутрішню форму і адекватно відображає явище: підтекст - це глибина тексту. Отже, ми повинні знайти в мовній матерії твору ті сигнали, які несуть додаткову інформацію, що формує підтекст.
Читати оповідання слід повільно, зупиняючись на кожному такому сигналі, щоб кінцеві висновки базувалися не стільки на інтуїтивно-емо- ційному відношенні до того, що відбувається (що теж дуже важливо, але зазнає різких індивідуальних зміщень), скільки на об'єктивних, явних для всіх, матеріальних знаках.
Оповідання відкривається реченням "There were only two Americans at the hotel". Слово "only" нормативно передбачає наявність попереднього висловлювання: "Зазвичай... багато американців, а зараз -тільки двоє". Означений артикль, що вводить місце дії, підкріплює імплікацію передування, яка утворилася, - оповідання починається з середини, що характерно для Хемінгуея в цілому, як і для багатьох його сучасників та послідовників.
Потім йде дуже важлива для подальшої оповіді згадка, що вони тут нікого не знали: "They did not know any of the people they passed..." Ця фраза пояснює одну
з причин настрою героїв. Авжеж, якщо б у них були тут знайомі, все могло б бути інакше.
Далі йде надто детальний, на перший погляд, опис номера. Але й він дуже важливий: "second floor facing the sea", "faced the public garden" - все це говорить про те, що номер дорогий, та й готель не з дешевих, якщо він розташований в такому вдалому місці і приймає багато американців. Опис виду, що відкривається з вікон, підтверджує фешенебельність готелю: сад з високими пальмами, знаменитий пам'ятник (італійці приїжджали здалеку, щоб побачити його), художники тут пишуть пейзажі. Трохи нижче згадується, що тут завжди багато автомобілів. Автор спеціально вживає означений артикль: "The motorcars..." - "ті, які... ".
В цьому ж абзаці вводиться слово "rain", яке входить у заголовок оповідання. Повтор заголовних слів завжди несе їх семантичне усклад нення. Тут поки різні форми слова реалізують його основне номінативне значення - "дощ". За рахунок переключення граматичного часу - тобто за рахунок зміни граматичного значення, не порушуючи повтор, автор від загального опису переходить до цьогохвилинного сюжетного теперішнього: від Past Indefinite "... glistend in the rain" до Past Continuous - "It was raining".
Про монотонність того, що відбувається, про те, що дощ іде довго, стає відомо з непрямих деталей: на площі не залишилося жодного автомобіля; хоча стежки посилані гравієм і, отже, добре вбирають воду, на них стоять калюжі; широколисті пальми вже не захищають від дощу: "The rain dripped from the palm-trees". Дієслово "dripped" передає і характер дощу (далі буде кореневий повтор "dripping green tables"): це не літня гроза, а надокучливий осінній сіючий дощ. І поєднання "дощу" з "морем" в одному ритмізованому реченні, при синтаксичному паралелізмі та лексичному повторі й алітерації — все це підкреслює, укріплює відчуття нудного дня і включається в систему причинно-наслідкових відношень оповідання. Дійсно, знайомих немає, погуляти не можна, залишається сидіти в номері, задовольняючись спілкуванням один з одним.
Спілкування ж носить надзвичайно обмежений характер. З першої фрази другого абзацу ми взнаємо, що ці двоє американців - подружжя. Ця інформація вводиться не спеціально, а мимохідь: "The American wife stood... looking out". Наявність дієслова сприйняття дозволяє віднести описи, які його обрамляють, до так званих авторизованих висловлювань. Опис площі на початку оповідання і далі - столу, з якого крапає вода, авторизовані: вони мають автора, конкретну особу, що сприймає картину, а слово "outside", яке починає друге речення другого абзацу, підкреслює наявність спостерігаючої особи, імпліцитно припускаючи антитезу "inside"[2].
В цьому ж реченні вводиться друге заголовне слово - "cat". Воно буде повторено протягом оповідання 13 разів. Слід також врахувати, що молода американка використовує це слово в мовленні, тільки коли спілкується італійською і в самій останній своїй репліці. У всіх інших випадках вона називає кішку кицькою - спочатку це просто "kitty", потім ще тричі "poor kitty", і знову "kitty" - всього 7 разів. Отже, протягом маленького оповідання, що нараховує всього 1142: слововживання, з яких 495 - автосемантичні слова, 20 одиниць, або 4%, віддані лексемі "кішка".
Повтори Хемінгуея знамениті. Про них неодноразово писали і у нас, і за кордоном. Навіть в маленькій "Кішці під дощем" їх кілька. Це "cat", "rain", "I want", яке повторюється 11 разів в кінці оповідання в межах однієї третьої сторінки, і дієслово "to read'" (Fa = 6), і обов'язкова авторська ремарка "he (she) said", якою вводиться навіть остання відчайдушна реплііка героїні.
Навіщо потрібні ці повтори? Можливо, вони використовуються автором тому, що "він не знає інших слів", як сказав один роздратований критіик? Звичайно, ні. Повтори несуть додаткову інформацію, тому що кожне наступне вживання слова свідомо або несвідомо приєднується читачем до попереднього. Семантичний об'єм слова зростає, воно набуває нових значень, які в мові - в словнику - не існують. Цій ж меті служ:ать і повтори в даному оповіданні. "Кішка під дощем" - це не оповідання про любов до тварин. За незначною ситуацією приховані значні узагаїльнення. Чи так це? Чи правильно, тобто чи згідно з авторським задумом, ми розкриваємо істинний, концептуальний, смисл оповідання? Чи справедлива широка поширена думка про те, що "Кішка під дощем" - це символ самотньої, тонкої натури, незрозумілої та страждаючої представниці втраченого покоління? Відповіді на питання, що нас цікавлять, слід ішукати в тексті.
Шо-перше, слід розібратися, для чого багата американська пара перебуває на фешенебельному курорті. Туристи? Ні, туристичний сезон закінічено. Справи?
Судячи з місця дії та поведінки чоловіка, також ні. Американські експатріанти типу тих, які пізніше з'являться в романі Е. Хемінгуея "Фієста"?
Також ні. Ті тулилися один до одного і не відда- лялися від звичних кафе та барів великих міст. Враховуючи вік героїв тирадду молодої жінки перед дзеркалом, її безперечну фізичну привабливість. для чоловіка ("Не hadn't looked away from her..."; "You look pretty darn nice", he said..."), можна зробити висновок, що це молодята, які перебувають у весільній подорожі.
Як же поводить себе молодий чоловік? Постійний повтор слова "read (ing)" і тематичного пов'язаного з ним слова "book", взятий поза макро- контекстом, може навести на думку, що Джордж - інтелектуал, який не може відірватися від книги. Однак - і тут читач ще раз переконується, що кожне явище в художньому тексті слід розглядати не ізольовано, а н текстовій системі, - умови повтору змушують його прийти до діаметрально протилежної думки. Книга в руках Джорджа стає показником його невихованості, низької культури. Він не слухає дружину, коли вона вимовляє свій монолог, не вникає у зміст її окремих реплік і пропонує свої послуги принести кішку лише формально, не змінюючи положення II ліжку: "I'll do it", her husband offered from the bed", і далі, у відповідь на її репліку "(he)... went on reading". Враховуючи дієслівні часи і лексичне значення дієслів, читач розуміє, що він запропонував допомогу дружині, не відриваючись від читання, і читаючи продовжував розмовляти. Не випадково дієслово "to read" вживається переважно в Past Continuous tense - читання служить постійним фоном: "The husband went on reading", "George was on the bed reading", "George was reading again", "George was not listening" (весь час її монологу), "Не was reading his book". Навіть коли дружина входить до кімнати і він нарешті підіймає очі від книги - це не прояв до неї цікавості і уваги - він відпочиває від читання: "...he said, resting his eyes from reading". Його мовленнєва партія складається лише з 8 маленьких реплік з 3-5 слів. Найкоротша - "Yeah?" - відвертий прояв неуваги до мовлення жінки, найдовша - 8 слів - починається з образливого "Shut up".
Мистецтву спілкування він дійсно не навчений. Будучи удвох з молодою дружиною, її привабливість оцінити він може, а говорити нема про що.
Ну а вона? Її мовленнєва партія набагато розгорнутіша. Що ж домінує в її мовленні? По-перше, звертає на себе увагу дуже характерне міщансько-манірне слово "киця". Не "кішка", не "кошеня", а "киця". Далі, повтор "I want" з досить неочікуваним набором бажаного: у нас на очах розгортається асоціативний ряд, відбувається одночасний процес думки - мовлення, висловлюється вголос не те, що раніше думалося, а спонтанне, те, що прийшло в голову за асоціацією. Випадковість та нерівноз- начність згадуваних поряд об'єктів змушує сприймати їх не як серйозні, виношені претензії та переживання, а як примху, обумовлену і тим, що її примхи, мабуть, раніше усіма виконувалися (молода, гарна, багата), і тим, що зараз тоскно, нудно, повеселитися нема з ким, робити нічого. Спілкування з чоловіком не виходить не тільки через те, що він сам цього не вміє і від відсутності цього не страждає, але й тому, що її мовлення - це не спілкування в повному розумінні слова (обмін думками, емоціями, судженнями), а лише рамковий розвиток одного наполегливого мотиву "хочу". Молодій героїні можна поспівчувати, але навряд чи можна визначити її як натуру вишукану та незрозумілу. Ця багата пара однаковою мірою убога духовно, і вимушене довге перебування наодинці один з одним розвінчує обох.
В оповіданні розсипані непрямі деталі, що підкреслюють причини їх випадкової ізоляції: інших американців не було, з іншими постояльцями готелю вони не знайомі (зверніть увагу на незначну міру володіння героями італійською мовою, що також обмежує контакти, і на те, як автор передає іноземну мову діалогу), кафе пусте (офіціант стоїть у дверях і дивиться на вулицю) - йти до нього немає сенсу, погоди також немає.
Є в оповіданні ще один персонаж, дуже важливий для розвитку основної думки твору - господар готелю. Його поведінка - повна протилежність Джорджу. Він поблажливий до капризу американки, тому що розуміє його витоки. Не випадково в присутності цього старого молода жінка відчуває одночасно і свою жіночу силу, і свою жіночу слабкість - те розуміння, якого вона безуспішно чекає від чоловіка.
Отже, розглянувши оповідання, безумовно, слід говорити про семантичне розширення заголовних слів, про набуття ними нового - текстового - значення "незатишно, неприємно, недобре". При цьому "Кішка під дощем" зберігає і своє початкове пряме значення, і виражає той привід, який послужив відправним пунктом для формування змістовно-концептуальної інформації твору (ЗКІ) - ідеї про духовну глухоту зовні благополучних, соціально та фінансово процвітаючих молодих американців 20-х років.
Спеціальних мовних засобів, що експліцитно виражають авторську ідею, в тексті немає. ЗКІ накопичується поступово - через акценти (виражені повторами) на певні риси поведінки і мовлення персонажів, через зі- та протиставлення їх характеристик, через широко та різноманітно використану художню деталь.
Можна сказати, що проза Хемінгуея добре спаяна - так тісно пов'язані в ній сусідні речення. Розгляньте перший абзац оповідання, і ви побачите, як розгортається ланцюжок повторів, що забезпечує жорстку текстову когезію.
Слід також звернути увагу на те, як вводиться внутрішнє мовлення героїні: відчинивши двері, вона визирнула на вулицю - "looked out". Далі авторизований опис того, що вона побачила: "...raining... a man... crossing". І в наступному реченні - несподівана зміна граматичного часу та поява Future in the Past: "The cat would be around... she could go along..."
- немов би дієслівні часи змінилися тому, що є ввідна фраза "She thought the cat would be... and she could go...". Взагалі поява Future in the Past n авторському тексті без лапок - сигнал введення голосу персонажа, передачі викладу цьому персонажу, свідчення переходу до внутрішнього або невласне-прямого мовлення.
ЧАСТИНА ІІ
Ernest Hemingway (1899-1961)
CAT IN THE RAIN
Ernest Hemingway's importance as a creator of a unique style, as n speaker for the "lost generation", as a humanitarian and an antifascist cannol be overestimated.
"Cat in the Rain", published in the first collection of his short prose (192 S) remains one of the stories most often reprinted, translated and admired by tin- readers. It is also highly characteristic of his individual manner.
There were only two Americans at the hotel. They did not know any of the people they passed on the stairs to their room. Their room was on llit second floor facing the sea. It also faced the public garden and the win monument. There were big palms and green benches in the public garden In the good weather there was always an artist with his easel. Artists liked lln way the palms grew and the bright colours of the hotels facing the garden* and the sea. Italians came from a long way off to look up at the war mOIIH ment. It was made of bronze and glistened in the rain. It was raining. The Mill dripped from the palm trees. Water stood in pools on the gravel paths. I lit sea broke in a long line in the rain and slipped back down the beach to i unit» up and break again in a long line in the rain.
The motor-cars were gone from the square by the war monunwH| Across the square in the doorway of the cafe a waiter stood looking out the empty square.
The American wife stood at the window looking out. Outside right inn their window a cat was crouched under one of the dripping green table* T cat was trying to make herself so compact that she would not be drippfil i
"I'm going down and get that kitty," the American wife said.
"I'll do it," her husband offered from the bed.
'No, I'll get it. The poor kitty out trying to keep dry under a table '
The husband went on reading, lying propped up with the two pillow* the foot of the bed.
"Don't get wet," he said.
The wife went downstairs and the hotel owner stood up and bowMil her as she passed the office. He was an old man and very tall.
"II piove," the wife said. She liked the hotel-keeper.
"Si, si, Signora, brutto tempo. It's very bad weather. "
He stood behind his desk in the far end of the dim room. The wife liked him. She liked the deadly serious way he received any complaints. She liked his dignity. She liked the way he wanted to serve her. She liked the way lie felt about being a hotel-keeper. She liked his old, heavy face and big hands.
Liking him she opened the door and looked out. It was raining harder. A man in a rubber cape was crossing the empty square to the cafe. The cat would be around to the right. Perhaps she could go along under the eaves. As she stood in the doorway an umbrella opened behind her. It was the maid who looked after their room.
"You must not get wet," she smiled, speaking Italian. Of course, the liotel-keeper had sent her.
With the maid holding the umbrella over her, she walked along the gravel path until she was under their window. The table was there, washed bright цгееп in the rain, but the cat was gone. She was suddenly disappointed. The maid looked up at her.
"Ha perduto qualque cosa, Signora?"
"There was a cat," said the American girl.
"A cat?"
"Si, il gatto."
' "A cat?" the maid laughed. "A cat in the rain?"
"Yes," she said, "under the table. "Then, "Oh, I wanted it so much. I w.mted a kitty."
When she talked English the maid's face tightened.
"Come, Signora," she said. "We must get back inside. You will be wet."
; "I suppose so," said the American girl.
They went back along the gravel path and passed in the door. The maid ;#toyed outside to close the umbrella. As the American girl passed the office, llu* padrone bowed from his desk. Something felt very small and tight inside ||hc girl. The padrone made her feel very small and at the same time really Important. She had a momentary feeling of being of supreme importance. Bile went on up the stairs. She opened the door of the room. George was on Hie bed, reading.
"Did you get the cat?" he asked, putting the book down.
"It was gone."
! "Wonder where it went to?" he said, resting his eyes from reading.
She sat down on the bed.
| "I wanted it so much," she said. "I don't know why I wanted it so much, limited that poor kitty. It isn't any fun to be a poor kitty out in the rain!"
George was reading again.
She went over and sat in front of the mirror of the dressing-table looking at herself with the hand glass. She studied her profile, first one side and then the other. Then she studied the back of her head and her neck.
"Don't you think it would be a good idea if I let my hair grow out?" she asked, looking at her profile again.
George looked up and saw the back of her neck, clipped close like a boy's.
"I like it the way it is."
"I get so tired of it," she said. "I get so tired of looking like a boy."
George shifted his position in the bed. He hadn't looked away from her since she started to speak.
"You look pretty darn nice," he said.
She laid the mirror down on the dresser and went over to the window and looked out. It was getting dark.
"I want to pull my hair back tight and smooth and make a big knot at the back that I can feel," she said. "I want to have a kitty to sit on my lap and purr when I stroke her."
"Yeah?" George said from the bed.
"And I want to eat at a table with my own silver and I want candles. And I want it to be spring and I want to brush my hair out in front of a mirror and I want a kitty and I want some new clothes."
"Oh, shut up and get something to read," George said. He was reading again.
His wife was looking out of the window. It was quite dark now and still raining in the palm trees
"Anyway, I want a cat," she said. "I want a cat. I want a cat now. If I can't have long hair or any fun, I can have a cat."
George was not listening. He was reading his book. His wife looked out of the window where the light had come on in the square.
Someone knocked at the door. "Avanti," George said. He looked up from his book.
In the doorway stood the maid. She held a big tortoise-shell cat pressed tight against her and swung down against her body.
"Excuse me," she said, "the padrone asked me to bring this for the Signora."
Katherine Mansfield (1888-1923)
THE STRANGER
Katherine Mansfield (pseudonym of Katherine Middleton Murry), in her brief lifetime, published only four collections of short stories, but they have set her among the internationally renowned masters of psychological prose. An admirer of the art of Chekhov and de Maupassant, she prefers subdued tones and colours and leaves her main message in implication.
"The Stranger", first published in 1922 in «The Garden Party» collection, is a perfect example of her style.
It seemed to the little crowd on the wharf that she was never going to move again. There she lay, immense, motionless on the grey crinkled water, a loop of smoke above her, an immense flock of gulls screaming and diving after the galley droppings in the stem. You could just see little couples parading - little flies walking up and down the dish on the grey wrinkled tablecloth. Other flies clustered and swarmed at the edge. Now there was a gleam of white on the lower deck - the cook's apron or the stewardess perhaps. Now a tiny black spider raced up the ladder on to the bridge.
In the front of the crowd a strong-looking, middle-aged man, dressed very well, very snugly in a grey overcoat, grey silk scarf, thick gloves and dark felt hat, marched up and down, twirling his folded umbrella. He seemed to be the leader of the little crowd on the wharf and at the same time to keep them together. He was something between the sheep-dog and the shepherd.
But what a fool - what a fool he had been not to bring any glasses! There wasn't a pair of glasses between the whole lot of them.
"Curious thing, Mr Scott, that none of us thought of glasses. We might have been able to stir'em up, eh? We might have managed a little signalling. Don't hesitate to land. Natives harmless. Or: A welcome awaits you. All is forgiven. What? Eh?"
Mr Hammond's quick, eager glance, so nervous and yet so friendly and confiding, took in everybody on the wharf, roped in even those old chaps lounging against the gangways. They knew, every manjack of them, that Mrs Hammond was on that boat, and he was so tremendously excited it never entered his head not to believe that this marvellous fact meant something to them too. It warmed his heart towards them. They were, he decided, as decent a crowd of people - those old chaps over by the gangways, too - fine, solid old chaps. What chests - by Jove! And he squared his own, plunged his thick-gloved hands into his pockets, rocked from heel to toe.
"Yes, my wife's been in Europe for the last ten months. On a visit to our eldest girl, who was married last year. I brought her up here, as far as Crawford, myself. So I thought I'd better come and fetch her back. Yes, yes, yes."
The shrewd eyes narrowed again and searched anxiously, quickly, the motionless liner. Again his overcoat was unbuttoned. Out came the thin, butter- yellow watch pin, and for the twentieth - fiftieth - hundredth time he made the calculation.
"Let me see, now, it was two fifteen when the doctor's launch went off. Two fifteen. It is now exactly twenty-eight minutes past four. That is to say, the doctor's been gone two hours and thirteen minutes. Two hours and thirteen minutes! Wheeooh!' He gave a queer little half-whistle and snapped his watch to again. "But I think we should have been told if there was anything up - don't you, Mr Gaven?"
"Oh, yes, Mr Hammond! I don't think there's anything to - anything to worry about," said Mr Gaven, knocking out his pipe against the heel of his shoe. "At the same time -"
"Quite so! Quite so!" cried Mr Hammond. "Dashed annoying!" He paced quickly up and down and came back again to his stand between Mr and Mrs Scott and Mr Gaven.
"It's getting quite dark, too," and he waved his folded umbrella as though the dusk at least might have had the decency to keep off for a bit. But the dusk came slowly, spreading like a slow train over the water. Little Jean Scott dragged at mother's hand.
"I wan' my tea, mammy!" she wailed.
"I expect you do," said Mr Hammond. "I expect all these ladies want their tea." And his kind, flushed, almost pitiful glance roped them all in again. He wondered whether Janey was having a final cup of tea in the saloon out there. He hoped so; he thought not. It would be just like her not to leave the deck. In that case perhaps the deck steward would bring her up a cup. If he'd been there he'd have got it for her - somehow. And for a moment he was on deck, standing over her, watching her little hand fold round the cup in the way she had, while she drank the only cup of tea to be got on board... But now he was back here, and the Lord only knew when that cursed Captain would stop hanging about in the stream. He took another turn, up and down, up and down. He walked as far as the cabstand to make sure his driver hadn't disappeared; back he swerved again to the little flock huddled in the shelter of the banana crates. Little Jean Scott was still wanting her tea. Poor little bcnn.ii' He wished he had a bit of chocolate on him.
"Here, Jean!" he said. "Like a lift up?" And easily, gently, he swung the little girl on to a higher barrel. The movement of holding her, steadying her, relieved him, wonderfully, lightened his heart.
"Hold on," he said, keeping an arm round her.
"Oh, don't worry about Jean, Mr Hammond!" said Mrs Scott.
"That's all right, Mrs Scott. No trouble. It's a pleasure. Jean's a little pal of mine, aren't you, Jean?"
"Yes, Mr Hammond," said Jean, and she ran her finger down the dent of his felt hat.
But suddenly she caught him by the ear and gave a loud scream. "Look, Mr Hammond! She's moving! Look, she's coming in!"
By Jove! So she was. At last! She was slowly, slowly turning round. A bell sounded far over the water and a great spout of steam gushed into the air. The gulls rose; they fluttered away like bits of white paper. And whether that deep throbbing was her engines or his heart Mr Hammond couldn't say. He had to nerve himself to bear it, whatever it was. At that moment old Captain Johnson, the harbour-master, came striding down the wharf, a leather portfolio under his arm.
"Jean'11 be all right," said Mr Scott. "I'll hold her. " He was just in time. Mr Hammond had forgotten about Jean. He sprang away to greet old Captain Johnson.
"Well, Captain," the eager, nervous voice rang out again, "you've taken pity on us at last."
"It's no good blaming me, Mr Hammond," wheezed old Captain Johnson staring at the liner. "You got Mrs Hammond on board, ain't yer?"
"Yes, yes!" said Hammond, and he kept by the harbour-master's side. "Mrs Hammond's there. Hullo! We shan't be long now!"
With her telephone ring-ringing, the thrum of her crew filling the air, the big liner bore down on them, cutting sharp through the dark water so that big white shavings curled to the either side. Hammond and the harbour-master kept in front of the rest. Hammond took off his hat; he raked the decks - they were crammed with passengers; he waved his hat and bawled a loud, strange "Hul-lo!" across the water, and then turned round and burst out laughing and said something - nothing - to old Captain Johnson.
"Seen her?" asked the harbour-master.
"No, not yet. Steady - wait a bit!" And suddenly, between two grcttl clumsy idiots - "Get out of the way there!" he signed with his umbrella - he saw a hand raised - a white glove shaking a handkerchief. Another moment, and - thank God, thank God! - there she was. There was Janey. There was Mrs Hammond, yes, yes, yes - standing by the rail and smiling and nodding and waving her handkerchief.
"Well, that's first class - first class! Well, well, well!" He positively stamped. Like lightning he drew out his cigar-case and offered it to old Captain Johnson. "Have a cigar, Captain! They're pretty good. Have a couple! Here" - and he pressed all the cigars in the case of the harbour-master - "I've a couple of boxes up at the hotel. "
"Thanks, Mr Hammond!" wheezed old Captain Johnson.
Hammond stuffed the cigar-case back. His hands were shaking, but he'd got hold of himself again. He was able to face Janey. There she was, leaning on the rail, talking to some woman and at the same time watching him, ready for him. It struck him, as the gulf of water closed, how small she looked on that huge ship. His heart was wrung with such a spasm that he could have cried out. How little she looked to have come all that long way and back by herself! Just like her, though. Just like Janey. She had the courage of a - And now the crew had come forward and parted the passengers; they had lowered the rails for the gangways.
The voices on shore and the voices on board flew to greet each other.
"All well?"
"All well."
"How's mother?"
"Much better."
"Hullo, Jean!"
"Hullo, Aun' Emily!"
"Had a good voyage?"
"Splendid!"
"Shan't be long now!"
"Not long now."
The engines stopped. Slowly she edged to the wharf-side.
"Make way there - make way - make way!" And the wharf hands brought the heavy gangways along at a sweeping run. Hammond signed to Janey to stand where she was. The old harbour-master stepped forward; he followed. As to "ladies first", or any row like that, it never entered his head.
"After you, Captain!" he cried genially. And treading on the old man's heels, he strode up the gangway on to the deck in a bee-line to Janey, and Janey was clasped in his arms.
"Well, well, well! Yes, yes! Here we are at last!" he stammered. It was all he could say. And Janey emerged, and her cool little voice - the only voice in the world for him - said.
"Well, darling! Have you been waiting long?"
No; not long. Or, at any rate, it didn't matter. It was over now. But the point was, he had a cab waiting at the end of the wharf. Was she ready to go off? Was her luggage ready? In that case they could cut off with her cabin luggage and let the rest go hang until to-morrow. He bent over her and she looked up with her familiar half-smile. She was just the same. Not a day changed. Just as he'd always known her. She laid her small hand on his sleeve.
"How are the children, John?" she asked.
(Hang the children!) "Perfectly well. Never better in their lives!"
"Haven't they sent me letters?'
"Yes, yes - of course! I've left them at the hotel for you to digest later on."
"We can't go quite so fast," said she. "I've got people to say good-bye to -and then there's the Captain. " As his face fell she gave his arm a small understanding squeeze. "If the Captain comes off the bridge I want you to thank him for having looked after your wife so beautifully. " Well, he'd got her. If she wanted another ten minutes—As he gave way she was surrounded. The whole first-class seemed to want to say good-bye to Janey.
"Good-bye, dear Mrs Hammond! And next time you are in Sydney I'll expect you."
"Darling Mrs Hammond! You won't forget to write to me, will you?"
"Well, Mrs Hammond, what this boat would have been without you!"
It was as plain as a pikestaff that she was by far the most popular woman on board. And she took it all just as usual. Absolutely composed. Just her little self-just Janey all over; standing there with her veil thrown back. Hammond never noticed what his wife had on. It was all the same to him whatever she wore. But to-day he did notice that she wore a black "costume" - didn't they call it? - with white frills, trimmings he supposed they were, at the neck and sleeves. All this while Janey handed him round.
"John, dear!" And then: "I want to introduce you to -"
Finally they did escape, and she led the way to her stateroom. To follow Janey down the passage that she knew so well - that was so strange to him; to part the green curtains after her and to step into the cabin that had been hers gave him exquisite happiness. But - confound it! - the stewardess was there on the floor, strapping up the rugs.
"That's the last, Mrs Hammond," said the stewardess, rising and pulling down her cuffs.
He was introduced again, and then Janey and the stewardess disappearal into the passage. He heard whisperings. She was getting the tipping busincH* over, he supposed. He sat down on the striped sofa and took his hat oil There were the rugs she had taken with her; they looked good as new. All hrt luggage looked fresh, perfect. The labels were written in her beautiful little clear hand - "Mrs John Hammond".
"Mrs John Hammond!" He gave a long sigh of content and leaned back, crossing his arms. The strain was over. He felt he could have sat there forevn sighing his relief at being rid of that horrible tug, pull, grip on his heart. Thl danger was over. That was the feeling. They were on dry land again. But ill that moment Janey's head came round the corner.
"Darling - do you mind? I just want to go and say goodbye to the doctor."
Hammond started up. "I'll come with you."
"No, no!" she said. "Don't bother. I'd rather not. I'll not be a minute."
And before he could answer she was gone. He had half a mind to run after her; but instead he sat down again.
Would she really not be long? What was the time now? Out came the watch; he stared at nothing. That was rather queer of Janey, wasn't it? Why couldn't she have told the stewardess to say good-bye for her? Why did she have to go chasing after the ship's doctor? She could have sent a note from the hotel even if the affair had been urgent. Urgent? Did it - could it mean that she had been ill on the voyage - she was keeping something from him? That was it! He seized his hat. He was going off to find that fellow and to wring the truth out of him at all costs. He thought he'd noticed just something. ; She was just a touch too calm - too steady. From the very first moment -
The curtain rang. Janey was back. He jumped to his feet.
"Janey, have you been ill on this voyage? You have!"
"111?" Her airy little voice mocked him. She stepped over the rugs, came up close, touched his breast, and looked up at him.
"Darling," she said, "don't frighten me. Of course I haven't! Whatever makes you think I have? Do I look ill?"
But Hammond didn't see her. He only felt that she was looking at him and that there was no need to worry about anything. She was here to look after things. It was all right. It was all right. Everything was.
The gentle pressure of her hand was so calming that he put his over hers to hold it there. And she said:
"Stand still. I want to look at you. I haven't seen you yet. You've had your beard beautifully trimmed, and you look - younger, I think, and decidedly thinner! Bachelor life agrees with you."
"Agrees with me!" He groaned for love and caught her close again. And again, as always, he had the feeling he was holding something that never was quite his - his. Something too delicate, too precious, that would fly away once he let go.
"For God's sake let's get off to the hotel so that we can be by ourselves." And he rang the bell hard for some one to look sharp with the luggage.
Walking down the wharf together she took his arm. He had her on his arm again. And the difference it made to get into the cab after Janey - to throw the red-and-yellow striped blanket round them both - to tell the driver to hurry because neither of them had had any tea. No more going without his tea or pouring out his own. She was back. He turned to her, squeezed her hand, and said gently, teasingly, in the "special" voice he had for her: "Glad to be home again, dearie?" She smiled; she didn't even bother to answer, but gently she drew his hand away as they came to the brighter streets. <... >
"We've got the best room in the hotel," he said. "1 wouldn't be put off with another. And I asked the chambermaid to put in a bit of a fire in case you felt chilly. She's a nice, attentive girl. And I thought now we were here we wouldn't bother to go home tomorrow, but spend the day looking round and leave the morning after. Does that suit you? There's no hurry, is there? The children will have you soon enough... I thought a day's sightseeing might make a nice break in your journey - eh honey?'
"Have you taken the tickets for the day after?" she asked.
"I should think I have!" He unbuttoned his overcoat and took out his bulging pocket-book. "Here we are! I reserved a first-class carriage to Salisbury. There it is - "Mr and Mrs John Hammond". I thought we might as well do ourselves comfortably, and we don't want other people butting in, do we? But if you like to stop here a bit longer - ?'
"Oh, no!" said Janey quickly, "not for the world! The day after tomorrow, then. And the children -"
But they had reached the hotel. The manager was standing in the broad, brilliantly-lighted porch. He came down to greet them. A porter ran from the hall for their boxes.
"Well, Mr Arnold, here's Mrs Hammond at last!
The manager led them through the hall himself and pressed the elevator- bell. Hammond knew there were business pals of his sitting at the little hall tables having a drink before dinner. But he wasn't going to risk interruption, he looked neither to the right nor the left. They could think what they pleased If they didn't understand, the more fools they - and he stepped out of the lill. unlocked the door of their room, and shepherded Janey in. The door shul Now, at last, they were alone together. He turned up the light. The curtains were drawn; the fire blazed. He flung his hat on to the huge bed and went towards her.
But - would you believe it! - again they were interrupted. This time il was the porter with the luggage. He made two journeys of it, leaving the dooi open in between, taking his time, whistling through his teeth in the corridor Hammond paced up and down the room, tearing off his gloves, tearing off his scarf. Finally he flung his overcoat on to the bedside.
At last the fool was gone. The door clicked. Now they were alone. Said Hammond: "I feel I'll never have yoifto myself again. These cursed people! Janey" - and he bent his flushed, eager gaze upon her - "let's have dinner up here. If we go down to the restaurant we'll be interrupted, and then there's the confounded music (the music he'd praised so highly, applauded so loudly last night!). We shan't be able to hear each other speak. Let's have something up here in front of the fire. It's too late for tea. I'll order a little supper, shall I? How does the idea strike you?"
"Do, darling!" said Janey. "And while you're away - the children's letters"
"Oh, later on will do!" said Hammond.
"But then we'd get it over," said Janey. "And I'd first have time to -"
"Oh, I needn't go down!" explained Hammond. "I'll just ring and give the order... you don't want to send me away, do you?"
Janey shook her head and smiled.
"But you're thinking of something else. You're worrying about something," said Hammond. "What is it? Come and sit here - come and sit on my knee before the fire."
"I'll just unpin my hat," said Janey, and she went over to the dressing- table. "A-ah!" She gave a little cry.
"What is it?"
"Nothing, darling. I've just found the children's letters. That's all right! They will keep. No hurry now!" She turned to him clasping them. She tucked them into her frilled blouse... She cried quickly, gaily: "Oh, how typical this dressing-table is of you!"
"Why? What's the matter with it?" said Hammond.
"If it were floating in eternity I should say «John!»", laughed Janey, staring at the big bottle of hair tonic, the wicker bottle of eau-de-Cologiu\ On Kvn hairbrushes, and a dozen new collars tied with pink tape. "Is this alI yoni 11inmk<''"
"Hang my luggage!" said Hammond; but all the same he liked bcrny laughed at by Janey. "Let's talk. Let's get down to things. Tell me" mid ir. Janey perched on his knees he leaned back and drew her into the deep, ugly chair - "Tell me you're really glad to be back, Janey."
"Yes, darling, I am glad," she said.
But just as when he embraced her he felt she would fly away, so Hammond never knew - never knew for dead certain that she was as glad as he was. How could he know? Would he ever know? Would he always have this craving - this pang like hunger, somehow, to make Janey so much part of him that there wasn't any of her to escape? He wanted to blot out everybody, everything. He wished now he'd turned off the light. That might have brought her nearer. And now those letters from the children rustled in her blouse. He could have chucked them into the fire.
"Janey," he whispered. "Yes, dear?" She lay on his breast, but so lightly, so remotely. Their breathing rose and fell together.
"Janey!"
"What is it?"
"Turn to me," he whispered. A slow, deep flush flowed into his forehead. "Kiss me, Janey! You kiss me!"
It seemed to him there was a tiny pause - but long enough for him to suffer torture - before her lips touched his, firmly, lightly - kissing them as she always kissed him, as though the kiss - how could he describe it? — confirmed what they were saying, signed the contract. But that wasn't what he wanted; that wasn't at all what he thirsted for. He felt suddenly, horribly tired.
"If you knew," he said, opening his eyes, "what it's been like waiting today. I thought the boat never would come in. There we were, hanging about. What kept you so long?"
She made no answer. She was looking away from him at the fire. The flames hurried - hurried over the coals, flickered, fell.
"Not asleep, are you?" said Hammond, and he jumped her up and down.
"No," she said. And then: "Don't do that, dear. No, I was thinking. As a matter of fact," she said, "one of the passengers died last night - a man. That's what held us up. We brought him in -1 mean, he wasn't buried at sea. So, of course, the ship's doctor and the shore doctor -"
"What was it?" asked Hammond uneasily. He hated to hear of death. He hated this to have happened. It was, in some queer way, as though he and Janey had met a funeral on their way to the hotel.
"Oh, it wasn't anything in the least infectioius!" said Janey. She w speaking scarcely above her breath. "It was heart. "' A pause. "Poor fellow she said. "Quite young. " And she watched the fire flicker and fall. "He <ll in my arms," said Janey.
The blow was so sudden that Hammond thought he would faint, lit couldn't move; he couldn't breathe. He felt all his strength flowing - flowing into the big dark chair, and the big dark chair held him fast, gripped Iiimi, forced him to bear it.
"What?" he said dully. "What's that you say?"'
"The end was quite peaceful," said the smatll voice. "He just" .mil Hammond saw her lift her gentle hand - "Breatheid his life away at the end And her hand fell.
"Who else was there?" Hammond managed to ask.
"Nobody. I was alone with him. "
Ah, my God, what was she saying! What was she doing to him! Thin would kill him. And all the while she spoke:
"I saw the change coming and I sent the steward for the doctor, but the doctor was too late. He couldn't have done anything, anyway."
"But - why you, why you!"
At that Janey turned quickly, quickly searched his face.
"You don't mind, John, do you?" she asked. "You don't - It's nothing to do with you and me. "
Somehow or other he managed to shake some sort of smile at her. Somehow or other he stammered: "No - go - on, go on! I want you to tell me."
"But, John darling -"
"Tell me, Janey!"
"There's nothing to tell," she said, wondering. "He was one of the first- class passengers. I saw he was very ill when he came on board... But he seemed to be much better until yesterday. He had a severe attack in the afternoon - excitement - nervousness, I think, about arriving. And after that he never recovered. "
"But why didn't the stewardess -"
"Oh, my dear - the stewardess!" said Janey. "What would you have felt? And besides... he might have wanted to leave a message... to -"
"Didn't he?" muttered Hammond. "Didn't he say anything?" "No, darling, not a word!" She shook her head softly. "All the time I was with him he was too weak... he was too weak even to move a finger..."
Janey was silent. But her words, so light, so soft, so chill, seemed to hover in the air, to r The fire had gone red. Now it fell in with a sharp sound and the room was colder. Cold crept up his arms. The room was huge, immense, glitter піц It fillled his whole world. There was the great blind bed, with his coat Пипц across it like some heartless man saying his prayers. There was the luggage, ready to be carried away again, anywhere, tossed into trains, carted on to boats.
... He was too weak. He was too weak to move a finger. And yet he died in Jfaney's arms. She - who'd never - never once in all these years - never on ione single solitary occasion -
No; he mustn't think of it. Madness lay in thinking of it. No, he wouldn't face it. He couldn't stand it. It was too much to bear!
And now Janey touched his tie with her fingers. She pinched the edges of the tie together.
"You're not - sorry I told you, John darling? It hasn't made you sad? It hasn't spoilt our evening - our being alone together?"
But at that he had to hide his face. He put his face into her bosom and his arms enfolded her.
Spoilt their evening! Spoilt their being alone together! They would never be alone together again.
The fire had gone red. Now it fell in with a sharp sound and the room was colder. Cold crept up his arms. The room was huge, immense, glitter піц It fillled his whole world. There was the great blind bed, with his coat Пипц across it like some heartless man saying his prayers. There was the luggage, ready to be carried away again, anywhere, tossed into trains, carted on to boats.
... He was too weak. He was too weak to move a finger. And yet he died in Jfaney's arms. She - who'd never - never once in all these years - never on ione single solitary occasion -
No; he mustn't think of it. Madness lay in thinking of it. No, he wouldn't face it. He couldn't stand it. It was too much to bear!
And now Janey touched his tie with her fingers. She pinched the edges of the tie together.
"You're not - sorry I told you, John darling? It hasn't made you sad? It hasn't spoilt our evening - our being alone together?"
But at that he had to hide his face. He put his face into her bosom and his arms enfolded her.
Spoilt their evening! Spoilt their being alone together! They would never be alone together again.
Erskine Сaldwell (1903-1987)
DAUGHTER
The literary career of Erskine Caldwell has been closely connected Willi the themes and scenes of the American South, where he was born. He ho» came the author who has been observing and writing about the South longol than any other acclaimed writer in the region. His numerous books, in his own words, form "a cyclorama of the South", always keenly feeling and respond ing to the most urgent social issues of the region and the country. The "Daugli ter" was first published in the late 30-s and was often included into varioiw collections and anthologies ever since.
At sunrise a Negro on his way to the big house to feed the mules had taken the word to Colonel Henry Maxwell, and Colonel Henry phoned the sheriff. The sheriff had hustled Jim into town and locked him up in the jail, and then he went home and ate breakfast.
Jim walked around the empty cellroom while he was buttoning his shirl, and after that he sat down on the bunk and tied his shoelaces. Everything thai morning had taken place so quickly that he had not even had time to get a drink of water. He got up and went to the water bucket near the door, but the sheriff had forgotten to put water into it.
By that time there were several men standing in the jailyard. Jim went to the window and looked out when he heard them talking. Just then another automobile drove up, and six or seven men got out. Other men were coming towards the jail from both directions of the street.
«What was the trouble out at your place this morning, Jim?» somebody said.
Jim stuck his chin between the bars and looked at the faces in the crowd. He knew everyone there.
While he was trying to figure out how everybody in town had heard about his being there, somebody else spoke to him.
«It must have been an accident, wasn't it, Jim?»
A colored boy hauling a load of cotton to the gin drove up the street. When the wagon got in front of the jail, the boy whipped up the mules with the ends of the reins and made them trot.
«1 hate to see the State have a grudge against you, Jim,» somebody said.
The sheriff came down the street swinging a tin dinner-pail in his hand. He pushed through the crowd, unlocked the door, and set the pail inside.
Several men came up behind the sheriff and looked over Ins shouldn into the jail.
«Here's your breakfast my wife fixed up for you, Jim. You'd belter cat n little, Jim boy.»
Jim looked at the pail, at the sheriff, at the open jail door, and he shook his head.
«1 don't feel hungry,» he said. «Daughter's been hungry, though - awlul
hungry.»
The sheriff backed out the door, his hand going to the handle of his pistol. He backed out so quickly that he stepped on the toes of the men behind him.
«Now, don'tyou get careless, Jim boy,» he said. «Just sit and calm yourself.»
He shut the door and locked it. After he had gone a few steps towards the street, he stopped and looked into the chamber of his pistol to make sure it had been loaded.
The crowd outside the window pressed in closer. Some of the men rapped on the bars until Jim came and looked out. When he saw them, he stuck his chin between the iron and gripped his hands around it.
«How come it to happen, Jim?» somebody asked. «It must have been an accident, wasn't it?»
Jim's long thin face looked as if it would come through the bars. The sheriff came up to the window to see if everything was all right.
«Now, just take it easy, Jim boy,» he said.
The man who had asked Jim to tell what had happened, elbowed the sheriff out of the way. The other men crowded closer.
«How come, Jim?» the man said. «Was it an accident?»
«No,» Jim said, his fingers twisting about the bars. «1 picked up my shotgun and done it.»
The sheriff pushed towards the window again.
«Go on, Jim, and tell us what it's all about.»
Jim's face squeezed between the bars until it looked as though only his ears kept his head from coming through.
«Daughter said she was hungry, and I just couldn't stand it no longer. I just couldn't stand to hear her say it.»
«Don't get all excited now, Jim boy,» the sheriff said, pushing forward one moment and being elbowed away the next.
«She waked up in the middle of the night again and said she was hungry. I just couldn't stand to hear her say it.»
Somebody pushed all the way through the crowd until he got to the window
«Why, Jim, you could have come and asked me for something for her in eat, and you know I'd have given you all I got in the world.»
The sheriff pushed forward once more.
«That wasn't the right thing to do,» Jim said. «I've been working all yew and I made enough for all of us to eat.»
He stopped and looked down into the faces on the other side of the bai s
«1 made enough working on shares, but they came and took it all away from me. I couldn't go around begging after I'd made enough to keep lis They just came and took it all off. Then Daughter woke up again this morning saying she was hungry, and I just couldn't stand it no longer.»
«You'd better go and get on the bunk now, Jim boy,» the sheriff said.
«It don't seem right that the little girl ought to be shot like that,» somebody said.
«Daughter said she was hungry,» Jim said. «She'd been saying that foi all of the past month. Daughter'd wake up in the middle of the night and say it. I just couldn't stand it no longer.»
«You ought to have sent her over to my house, Jim. Me and my wife could have fed her something, somehow. It don't look right to kill a little girl like her.»
«I'd made enough for all of us,» Jim said. «1 just couldn't stand it no longer. Daughter'd been hungry all the past month.»
«Take it easy, Jim boy,» the sheriff said, trying to push forward.
The crowd swayed from side to side.
«And so you just picked up the gun this morning and shot her?» somebody asked.
«When she woke up this morning saying she was hungry, I just couldn't stand it.»
The crowd pushed closer. Men were coming towards the jail from all directions, and those who were then arriving pushed forward to hear what Jim had to say.
«The State has got a grudge against you now, Jim,» somebody said, «but somehow it don't seem right.»
«1 can't help it,» Jim said. «Daughter woke up again this morning that way.»
The jailyard, the street, and the vacant lot on the other side were filled with men and boys. All of them were pushing forward to hear Jim. Word had spread all over town by that time that Jim Carlisle had shot and killed his eight-year-old daughter Clara.
«Who does Jim share-crop for?» somebody asked.
«Colonel Henry Maxwell,» a man in the crowd said. «Colonel Henry has had Jim out there about nine or ten years.»
«Henry Maxwell didn't have no business coming and taking all the shares. He's got plenty of his own. It ain't right for Henry Maxwell to come and take Jim's too.»
The sheriff was pushing forward once more.
«The State's got a grudge against Jim now,» somebody said. «Somehow it don't seem right, though.»
The sheriff pushed his shoulder into the crowd of men and worked his way in closer.
A man shoved the sheriff away.
«Why did Henry Maxwell come and take your share of the crop, Jim?»
«He said I owed it to him because one of his mules died about a month ago.»
The sheriff got in front of the barred window.
«You ought to go to the bunk now and rest some, Jim boy,» he said. «Take off your shoes and stretch out, Jim boy.»
He was elbowed out of the way.
«You didn't kill the mule, did you, Jim?»
«The mule dropped dead in the barn,» Jim said. «1 wasn't nowhere around. It just dropped dead.»
The crowd was pushing harder. The men in front were jammed against the jail, and the men behind were trying to get within earshot Those in the middle were squeezed against each other so tightly they could not move in any direction. Everyone was talking louder.
Jim's face pressed between the bars and his fingers gripped the iron until the knuckles were white.
The milling crowd was moving across the street to the vacant lot. Somebody was shouting. He climbed up on an automobile and began swearing at the top of his lungs.
A man in the middle of the crowd pushed his way out and went to his automobile. He got in and drove off alone.
Jim stood holding to the bars and looking through the window. The sheriff had his back to the crowd, and he was saying something to Jim. Jim did not hear what he said.
A man on his way to the gin with a load of cotton stopped to find out what the trouble was. He looked at the crowd in the vacant lot for a moment, and then he turned around and looked at Jim behind the bars. The shouting across the street was growing louder.
«What's the trouble, Jim?»
Somebody on the other side of the street came to the wagon. He put Iiin foot on a spoke in the wagon wheel and looked up at the man on the cotton while he talked.
«Daughter woke up this morning again saying she was hungry,» Jim said
The sheriff was the only person who heard him.
The man on the load of cotton jumped to the ground, tied the reins to the wagon wheel, and pushed through the crowd to the car where all the shouting and swearing was being done. After listening for a while, he came back to tin- street, called a Negro who was standing with several other Negroes on the corner, and handed him the reins. The Negro drove off with the cotton towards the gin, and the man went back into the crowd.
Just then the man who had driven off alone in his car came back. He sat for a moment behind the steering wheel, and then he jumped to the ground, He opened the rear door and took out a crowbar that was as long as he was tall.
«Pry that jail door open and let Jim out,» somebody said. «It ain't right for him to be in there.»
The crowd in the vacant lot was moving again. The man who had been standing on top of the automobile jumped to the ground, and the men moved towards the street in the direction of the jail.
The first man to reach it jerked six-foot crowbar out of the soft earth where it had been jabbed.
The sheriff backed off.
«Now, take it easy, Jim boy,» he said.
He turned and started walking rapidly up the street towards his house.
William Faulkner (1897-1962)
CARCASSONNE[3]
William Faulkner, one of the greatest American writers, is the author of nearly forty books. For his literary accomplishments he was awarded the Nobel prize in 1950. In his acceptance speech he made an important statement about his belief that man will not merely endure: he will prevail and the writer's duty and obligation before mankind is to portray it.
And me on a buckskin pony with eyes like blue electricity and a mane like tangled fire, galloping up the hill and right off into the high heaven of the world.
His skeleton lay still. Perhaps it was thinking about this. Anyway, after a time it groaned. But it said nothing, which is certainly not like you he thought you are not like yourself, but I cant say that a little quiet is not pleasant.
He lay beneath an unrolled strip of tarred roofing made of paper. All of him that is, save that part which suffered neither insects nor temperature and which galloped unflagging on the destinationless pony, up a piled silver hill of cumulae where no hoof echoed nor left print, toward the blue precipice never gained. This part was neither flesh nor unflesh and he tingled a little pleasantly with its lackful contemplation as he lay beneath the tarred paper bedclothing.
So were the mechanics of sleeping, of denning up for the night, simplified. Each morning the entire bed rolled back into a spool and stood erect in the corner. It was like those glasses, reading glasses which old ladies used to wear, attached to a cord that rolls onto a spindle in a neat case of unmarked gold; a spindle, a case, attached to the deep bosom of the mother of sleep.