1.

Nothing Gold Can Stay

Nature’s first green is gold,

Her hardest hue to hold.

Her early leaf’s a flower;

But only so an hour.

Then leaf subsides to leaf.

So Eden sank to grief,

So dawn goes down to day.

Nothing gold can stay.

 2. Footnote to Youth- Jose Garcia Villa

The sun was salmon and hazy in the west. Dodong thought to himself he would
tell his father about Teang when he got home, after he had unhitched the
carabao from the plow, and let it to its shed and fed it. He was hesitant about
saying it, but he wanted his father to know. What he had to say was of serious
import as it would mark a climacteric in his life. Dodong finally decided to tell it,
at a thought came to him his father might refuse to consider it. His father was silent
hard-working farmer who chewed areca nut, which he had learned to do from
his mother, Dodong’s grandmother.
I will tell it to him. I will tell it to him.

The ground was broken up into many fresh wounds and fragrant with a sweetish
earthy smell. Many slender soft worms emerged from the furrows and then
burrowed again deeper into the soil. A short colorless worm marched blindly to
Dodong’s foot and crawled calmly over it. Dodong go tickled and jerked his
foot, flinging the worm into the air. Dodong did not bother to look where it fell,
but thought of his age, seventeen, and he said to himself he was not young any
more.

Dodong unhitched the carabao leisurely and gave it a healthy tap on the hip.
The beast turned its head to look at him with dumb faithful eyes. Dodong gave it
a slight push and the animal walked alongside him to its shed. He placed
bundles of grass before it land the carabao began to eat. Dodong looked at it
without interests.

Dodong started homeward, thinking how he would break his news to his father.
He wanted to marry, Dodong did. He was seventeen, he had pimples on his
face, the down on his upper lip already was dark–these meant he was no longer
a boy. He was growing into a man–he was a man. Dodong felt insolent and big
at the thought of it although he was by nature low in statue. Thinking himself a
man grown, Dodong felt he could do anything.

He walked faster, prodded by the thought of his virility. A small angled stone
bled his foot, but he dismissed it cursorily. He lifted his leg and looked at the hurt
toe and then went on walking. In the cool sundown he thought wild you dreams
of himself and Teang. Teang, his girl. She had a small brown face and small
black eyes and straight glossy hair. How desirable she was to him. She made him
dream even during the day.
Dodong tensed with desire and looked at the muscles of his arms. Dirty. This field
work was healthy, invigorating but it begrimed you, smudged you terribly. He
turned back the way he had come, then he marched obliquely to a creek.
Dodong stripped himself and laid his clothes, a gray undershirt and red
kundiman shorts, on the grass. The he went into the water, wet his body over,
and rubbed at it vigorously. He was not long in bathing, then he marched
homeward again. The bath made him feel cool.

It was dusk when he reached home. The petroleum lamp on the ceiling already
was lighted and the low unvarnished square table was set for supper. His parents
and he sat down on the floor around the table to eat. They had fried fresh-water
fish, rice, bananas, and caked sugar.

Dodong ate fish and rice, but did not partake of the fruit. The bananas were
overripe and when one held them they felt more fluid than solid. Dodong broke
off a piece of the cakes sugar, dipped it in his glass of water and ate it. He got
another piece and wanted some more, but he thought of leaving the
remainder for his parents.

Dodong’s mother removed the dishes when they were through and went out to
the batalan to wash them. She walked with slow careful steps and Dodong
wanted to help her carry the dishes out, but he was tired and now felt lazy. He
wished as he looked at her that he had a sister who could help his mother in the
housework. He pitied her, doing all the housework alone.

His father remained in the room, sucking a diseased tooth. It was paining him
again, Dodong knew. Dodong had told him often and again to let the town
dentist pull it out, but he was afraid, his father was. He did not tell that to
Dodong, but Dodong guessed it. Afterward Dodong himself thought that if he
had a decayed tooth he would be afraid to go to the dentist; he would not be
any bolder than his father.

Dodong said while his mother was out that he was going to marry Teang. There
it was out, what he had to say, and over which he had done so much thinking.
He had said it without any effort at all and without self-consciousness. Dodong
felt relieved and looked at his father expectantly. A decrescent moon outside
shed its feeble light into the window, graying the still black temples of his father.
His father looked old now.

“I am going to marry Teang,” Dodong said.

His father looked at him silently and stopped sucking the broken tooth. The
silence became intense and cruel, and Dodong wished his father would suck
that troublous tooth again. Dodong was uncomfortable and then became
angry because his father kept looking at him without uttering anything.

“I will marry Teang,” Dodong repeated. “I will marry Teang.”

His father kept gazing at him in inflexible silence and Dodong fidgeted on his
seat.

“I asked her last night to marry me and she said…yes. I want your permission. I…
want… it….” There was impatient clamor in his voice, an exacting protest at this
coldness, this indifference. Dodong looked at his father sourly. He cracked his
knuckles one by one, and the little sounds it made broke dully the night stillness.

“Must you marry, Dodong?”

Dodong resented his father’s questions; his father himself had married. Dodong
made a quick impassioned easy in his mind about selfishness, but later he got
confused.

“You are very young, Dodong.”

“I’m… seventeen.”

“That’s very young to get married at.”

“I… I want to marry…Teang’s a good girl.”

“Tell your mother,” his father said.

“You tell her, tatay.”

“Dodong, you tell your inay.”

“You tell her.”

“All right, Dodong.”

“You will let me marry Teang?”

“Son, if that is your wish… of course…” There was a strange helpless light in his
father’s eyes. Dodong did not read it, so absorbed was he in himself.

Dodong was immensely glad he had asserted himself. He lost his resentment for
his father. For a while he even felt sorry for him about the diseased tooth. Then
he confined his mind to dreaming of Teang and himself. Sweet young dream….
——————————————-

Dodong stood in the sweltering noon heat, sweating profusely, so that his
camiseta was damp. He was still as a tree and his thoughts were confused. His
mother had told him not to leave the house, but he had left. He had wanted to
get out of it without clear reason at all. He was afraid, he felt. Afraid of the
house. It had seemed to cage him, to compares his thoughts with severe
tyranny. Afraid also of Teang. Teang was giving birth in the house; she gave
screams that chilled his blood. He did not want her to scream like that, he
seemed to be rebuking him. He began to wonder madly if the process of
childbirth was really painful. Some women, when they gave birth, did not cry.

In a few moments he would be a father. “Father, father,” he whispered the word

with awe, with strangeness. He was young, he realized now, contradicting
himself of nine months comfortable… “Your son,” people would soon be telling
him. “Your son, Dodong.”

Dodong felt tired standing. He sat down on a saw-horse with his feet close
together. He looked at his callused toes. Suppose he had ten children… What
made him think that? What was the matter with him? God!

He heard his mother’s voice from the house:

“Come up, Dodong. It is over.”

Suddenly he felt terribly embarrassed as he looked at her. Somehow he was

ashamed to his mother of his youthful paternity. It made him feel guilty, as if he
had taken something no properly his. He dropped his eyes and pretended to
dust dirt off his kundiman shorts.

“Dodong,” his mother called again. “Dodong.”

He turned to look again and this time saw his father beside his mother.

“It is a boy,” his father said. He beckoned Dodong to come up.

Dodong felt more embarrassed and did not move. What a moment for him. His
parents’ eyes seemed to pierce him through and he felt limp.

He wanted to hide from them, to run away.

“Dodong, you come up. You come up,” he mother said.

Dodong did not want to come up and stayed in the sun.

“Dodong. Dodong.”
“I’ll… come up.”

Dodong traced tremulous steps on the dry parched yard. He ascended the
bamboo steps slowly. His heart pounded mercilessly in him. Within, he avoided
his parents eyes. He walked ahead of them so that they should not see his face.
He felt guilty and untrue. He felt like crying. His eyes smarted and his chest
wanted to burst. He wanted to turn back, to go back to the yard. He wanted
somebody to punish him.

His father thrust his hand in his and gripped it gently.

“Son,” his father said.

And his mother: “Dodong…”

How kind were their voices. They flowed into him, making him strong.

“Teang?” Dodong said.

“She’s sleeping. But you go on…”

His father led him into the small sawali room. Dodong saw Teang, his girl-wife,
asleep on the papag with her black hair soft around her face. He did not want
her to look that pale.

Dodong wanted to touch her, to push away that stray wisp of hair that touched
her lips, but again that feeling of embarrassment came over him and before his
parents he did not want to be demonstrative.

The hilot was wrapping the child, Dodong heard it cry. The thin voice pierced
him queerly. He could not control the swelling of happiness in him.

“You give him to me. You give him to me,” Dodong said.

——————————————-

Blas was not Dodong’s only child. Many more children came. For six successive
years a new child came along. Dodong did not want any more children, but
they came. It seemed the coming of children could not be helped. Dodong got
angry with himself sometimes.

Teang did not complain, but the bearing of children told on her. She was
shapeless and thin now, even if she was young. There was interminable work to
be done. Cooking. Laundering. The house. The children. She cried sometimes,
wishing she had not married. She did not tell Dodong this, not wishing him to
dislike her. Yet she wished she had not married. Not even Dodong, whom she
loved. There has been another suitor, Lucio, older than Dodong by nine years,
and that was why she had chosen Dodong. Young Dodong. Seventeen. Lucio
had married another after her marriage to Dodong, but he was childless until
now. She wondered if she had married Lucio, would she have borne him
children. Maybe not, either. That was a better lot. But she loved Dodong…

Dodong whom life had made ugly.

One night, as he lay beside his wife, he rose and went out of the house. He
stood in the moonlight, tired and querulous. He wanted to ask questions and
somebody to answer him. He w anted to be wise about many things.

One of them was why life did not fulfill all of Youth’s dreams. Why it must be so.
Why one was forsaken… after Love.

Dodong would not find the answer. Maybe the question was not to be
answered. It must be so to make youth Youth. Youth must be dreamfully sweet.
Dreamfully sweet. Dodong returned to the house humiliated by himself. He had
wanted to know a little wisdom but was denied it.

When Blas was eighteen he came home one night very flustered and happy. It
was late at night and Teang and the other children were asleep. Dodong heard
Blas’s steps, for he could not sleep well of nights. He watched Blas undress in the
dark and lie down softly. Blas was restless on his mat and could not sleep.
Dodong called him name and asked why he did not sleep. Blas said he could
not sleep.

“You better go to sleep. It is late,” Dodong said.

Blas raised himself on his elbow and muttered something in a low fluttering
voice.

Dodong did not answer and tried to sleep.

“Itay …,” Blas called softly.

Dodong stirred and asked him what it was.

“I am going to marry Tona. She accepted me tonight.”

Dodong lay on the red pillow without moving.

“Itay, you think it over.”

Dodong lay silent.

“I love Tona and… I want her.”

Dodong rose from his mat and told Blas to follow him. They descended to the
yard, where everything was still and quiet. The moonlight was cold and white.

“You want to marry Tona,” Dodong said. He did not want Blas to marry yet. Blas
was very young. The life that would follow marriage would be hard…

“Yes.”

“Must you marry?”

Blas’s voice stilled with resentment. “I will marry Tona.”

Dodong kept silent, hurt.

“You have objections, Itay?” Blas asked acridly.

“Son… n-none…” (But truly, God, I don’t want Blas to marry yet… not yet. I don’t
want Blas to marry yet….)

But he was helpless. He could not do anything. Youth must triumph… now. Love
must triumph… now. Afterwards… it will be life.

As long ago Youth and Love did triumph for Dodong… and then Life.

Dodong looked wistfully at his young son in the moonlight. He felt extremely sad
and sorry for him.
 3. My Father Goes To Court

When I was four, I lived with my mother and brothers and sisters in a small town
on the island of Luzon. Father’s farm had been destroyed in 1918 by one of our
sudden Philippine floods, so several years afterwards we all lived in the town
though he preferred living in the country. We had as a next door neighbour a
very rich man, whose sons and daughters seldom came out of the house. While
we boys and girls played and sang in the sun, his children stayed inside and kept
the windows closed. His house was so tall that his children could look in the
window of our house and watched us played, or slept, or ate, when there was
any food in the house to eat.

Now, this rich man’s servants were always frying and cooking something good,
and the aroma of the food was wafted down to us form the windows of the big
house. We hung about and took all the wonderful smells of the food into our
beings. Sometimes, in the morning, our whole family stood outside the windows
of the rich man’s house and listened to the musical sizzling of thick strips of
bacon or ham. I can remember one afternoon when our neighbour’s servants
roasted three chickens. The chickens were young and tender and the fat that
dripped into the burning coals gave off an enchanting odour. We watched the
servants turn the beautiful birds and inhaled the heavenly spirit that drifted out
to us.

Some days the rich man appeared at a window and glowered down at us. He
looked at us one by one, as though he were condemning us. We were all
healthy because we went out in the sun and bathed in the cool water of the
river that flowed from the mountains into the sea. Sometimes we wrestled with
one another in the house before we went to play. We were always in the best of
spirits and our laughter was contagious. Other neighbours who passed by our
house often stopped in our yard and joined us in laughter.

As time went on, the rich man’s children became thin and anaemic, while we
grew even more robust and full of life. Our faces were bright and rosy, but theirs
were pale and sad. The rich man started to cough at night; then he coughed
day and night. His wife began coughing too. Then the children started to cough,
one after the other. At night their coughing sounded like the barking of a herd
of seals. We hung outside their windows and listened to them. We wondered
what happened. We knew that they were not sick from the lack of nourishment
because they were still always frying something delicious to eat.

One day the rich man appeared at a window and stood there a long time. He
looked at my sisters, who had grown fat in laughing, then at my brothers, whose
arms and legs were like the molave, which is the sturdiest tree in the Philippines.
He banged down the window and ran through his house, shutting all the
windows.

From that day on, the windows of our neighbour’s house were always closed.
The children did not come out anymore. We could still hear the servants cooking
in the kitchen, and no matter how tight the windows were shut, the aroma of
the food came to us in the wind and drifted gratuitously into our house.

One morning a policeman from the presidencia came to our house with a
sealed paper. The rich man had filed a complaint against us. Father took me
with him when he went to the town clerk and asked him what it was about. He
told Father the man claimed that for years we had been stealing the spirit of his
wealth and food.

When the day came for us to appear in court, father brushed his old Army
uniform and borrowed a pair of shoes from one of my brothers. We were the first
to arrive. Father sat on a chair in the centre of the courtroom. Mother occupied
a chair by the door. We children sat on a long bench by the wall. Father kept
jumping up from his chair and stabbing the air with his arms, as though we were
defending himself before an imaginary jury.

The rich man arrived. He had grown old and feeble; his face was scarred with
deep lines. With him was his young lawyer. Spectators came in and almost filled
the chairs. The judge entered the room and sat on a high chair. We stood in a
hurry and then sat down again.

After the courtroom preliminaries, the judge looked at the Father. “Do you have
a lawyer?” he asked.

“I don’t need any lawyer, Judge,” he said.

“Proceed,” said the judge.

The rich man’s lawyer jumped up and pointed his finger at Father. “Do you or
you do not agree that you have been stealing the spirit of the complaint’s
wealth and food?

“I do not!” Father said.

“Do you or do you not agree that while the complaint’s servants cooked and
fried fat legs of lamb or young chicken breast you and your family hung outside
his windows and inhaled the heavenly spirit of the food?”

“I agree.” Father said.

“Do you or do you not agree that while the complaint and his children grew
sickly and tubercular you and your family became strong of limb and fair in
complexion?”

“I agree.” Father said.

“How do you account for that?”

Father got up and paced around, scratching his head thoughtfully. Then he
said, “I would like to see the children of complaint, Judge.”

“Bring in the children of the complaint.”

They came in shyly. The spectators covered their mouths with their hands, they
were so amazed to see the children so thin and pale. The children walked
silently to a bench and sat down without looking up. They stared at the floor and
moved their hands uneasily.

Father could not say anything at first. He just stood by his chair and looked at
them. Finally he said, “I should like to cross – examine the complaint.”

“Proceed.”

“Do you claim that we stole the spirit of your wealth and became a laughing
family while yours became morose and sad?” Father said.

“Yes.”

“Do you claim that we stole the spirit of your food by hanging outside your
windows when your servants cooked it?” Father said.

“Yes.”

“Then we are going to pay you right now,” Father said. He walked over to where
we children were sitting on the bench and took my straw hat off my lap and
began filling it up with centavo pieces that he took out of his pockets. He went
to Mother, who added a fistful of silver coins. My brothers threw in their small
change.

“May I walk to the room across the hall and stay there for a few minutes,
Judge?” Father said.

“As you wish.”

“Thank you,” father said. He strode into the other room with the hat in his hands.
It was almost full of coins. The doors of both rooms were wide open.

“Are you ready?” Father called.

“Proceed.” The judge said.

The sweet tinkle of the coins carried beautifully in the courtroom. The spectators
turned their faces toward the sound with wonder. Father came back and stood
before the complaint.

“Did you hear it?” he asked.

“Hear what?” the man asked.

“The spirit of the money when I shook this hat?” he asked.

“Yes.”
“Then you are paid,” Father said.

The rich man opened his mouth to speak and fell to the floor without a sound.
The lawyer rushed to his aid. The judge pounded his gravel.

“Case dismissed.” He said.

Father strutted around the courtroom the judge even came down from his high
chair to shake hands with him. “By the way,” he whispered, “I had an uncle who
died laughing.”

“You like to hear my family laugh, Judge?” Father asked?

“Why not?”

“Did you hear that children?” father said.

My sisters started it. The rest of us followed them soon the spectators were
laughing with us, holding their bellies and bending over the chairs. And the
laughter of the judge was the loudest of all.
4. Sonnet 29: When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes

When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes,

I all alone beweep my outcast state,

And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,

And look upon myself and curse my fate,

Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,

Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,

Desiring this man’s art and that man’s scope,

With what I most enjoy contented least;

Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,

Haply I think on thee, and then my state,

(Like to the lark at break of day arising

From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven’s gate;

For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings

That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

 5. The Tell-Tale Heart

TRUE! -- nervous -- very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but
why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses -- not
destroyed -- not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard
all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then,
am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily -- how calmly I can tell you the
whole story.

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once
conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there
was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given
me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! yes, it was this! He had
the eye of a vulture --a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon
me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees -- very gradually --I made up my
mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye forever.

Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you
should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded --with
what caution --with what foresight --with what dissimulation I went to work! I was
never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And
every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it --oh so
gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a
dark lantern, all closed, closed, so that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my
head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it
slowly --very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man's sleep. It took
me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see
him as he lay upon his bed. Ha! --would a madman have been so wise as this?
And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously --
oh, so cautiously --cautiously (for the hinges creaked) --I undid it just so much
that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights
--every night just at midnight --but I found the eye always closed; and so it was
impossible to do the work; for it was not the old man who vexed me, but his Evil
Eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the chamber,
and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and
inquiring how he has passed the night. So you see he would have been a very
profound old man, indeed, to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in
upon him while he slept.

Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. A
watch's minute hand moves more quickly than did mine. Never before that
night had I felt the extent of my own powers --of my sagacity. I could scarcely
contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I was, opening the door, little
by little, and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly
chuckled at the idea; and perhaps he heard me; for he moved on the bed
suddenly, as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back --but no. His room
was as black as pitch with the thick darkness, (for the shutters were close
fastened, through fear of robbers,) and so I knew that he could not see the
opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily.

I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb
slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in bed, crying out --
"Who's there?"

I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle,
and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed
listening; --just as I have done, night after night, hearkening to the death
watches in the wall.

Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It
was not a groan of pain or of grief --oh, no! --it was the low stifled sound that
arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the
sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled
up from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that
distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt, and pitied him,
although I chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since
the first slight noise, when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever
since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could
not. He had been saying to himself --"It is nothing but the wind in the chimney --it
is only a mouse crossing the floor," or "It is merely a cricket which has made a
single chirp." Yes, he had been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions:
but he had found all in vain. All in vain; because Death, in approaching him had
stalked with his black shadow before him, and enveloped the victim. And it was
the mournful influence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel --
although he neither saw nor heard --to feel the presence of my head within the
room.

When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing him lie down, I
resolved to open a little --a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it --
you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily --until, at length a single dim ray,
like the thread of the spider, shot from out the crevice and fell full upon the
vulture eye.

It was open --wide, wide open --and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it
with perfect distinctness --all a dull blue, with a hideous veil over it that chilled
the very marrow in my bones; but I could see nothing else of the old man's face
or person: for I had directed the ray as if by instinct, precisely upon the damned
spot.

And have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over
acuteness of the senses? --now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick
sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound
well, too. It was the beating of the old man's heart. It increased my fury, as the
beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage.

But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern
motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eye. Meantime
the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder
and louder every instant. The old man's terror must have been extreme! It grew
louder, I say, louder every moment! --do you mark me well? I have told you that
I am nervous: so I am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful
silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable
terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating
grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst. And now a new anxiety
seized me --the sound would be heard by a neighbor! The old man's hour had
come! With a loud yell, I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He
shrieked once --once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and pulled
the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done. But, for
many minutes, the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not
vex me; it would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old
man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was
stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many
minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eye would trouble me
no more.

If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise
precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and I
worked hastily, but in silence. First of all I dismembered the corpse. I cut off the
head and the arms and the legs.

I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and deposited
all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly,
that no human eye -- not even his --could have detected any thing wrong.
There was nothing to wash out --no stain of any kind --no blood-spot whatever. I
had been too wary for that. A tub had caught all --ha! ha!

When I had made an end of these labors, it was four o'clock --still dark as
midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street
door. I went down to open it with a light heart, --for what had I now to fear?
There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as
officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbor during the night;
suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged at the
police office, and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the premises.

I smiled, --for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I
said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the
country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search --search well. I
led them, at length, to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure,
undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room,
and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild
audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot
beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim.

The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was singularly at
ease. They sat, and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things.
But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached,
and I fancied a ringing in my ears: but still they sat and still chatted. The ringing
became more distinct: --it continued and became more distinct: I talked more
freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained definiteness --until, at
length, I found that the noise was not within my ears.
 No doubt I now grew very pale; --but I talked more fluently, and with a
heightened voice. Yet the sound increased --and what could I do? It was a low,
dull, quick sound --much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in
cotton. I gasped for breath -- and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more
quickly --more vehemently; but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued
about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily
increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with
heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men -- but the noise
steadily increased. Oh God! what could I do? I foamed --I raved --I swore! I
swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards,
but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder --louder --
louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they
heard not? Almighty God! --no, no! They heard! --they suspected! --they knew! --
they were making a mockery of my horror! --this I thought, and this I think. But
anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than
this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must
scream or die! --and now --again! --hark! louder! louder! louder! louder! --

"Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed! --tear up the

planks! --here, here! --it is the beating of his hideous heart!"
 6. Africa’s Plea

I am not you –
But you will not
Give me a chance,
Will not let me be me.

“If I were you”

but you know
I am not you,

You meddle, interfere

In my affairs
As if they were yours
And you were me.

You are unfair, unwise,

Foolish to think
That I can be you,
Talk, act
And think like you.

God made me, me.

He made you, you.
For God’s sake
Let me be me
Yet you will not
Let me be me.
 7. A Poem Must Be Magical

First, a poem must be magical,

Then musical as a seagull.

It must be a brightness moving

And hold secret a bird’s flowering

It must be slender as a bell,

And it must hold fire as well.

It must have the wisdom of bows

And it must kneel like a rose.

It must be able to hear

The luminance of dove and deer.

It must be able to hide

What it seeks, like a bride.

And over all I would like to hover

God, smiling from the poem’s cover.

 8. The Necklace

She was one of those pretty and charming girls born, as if by an error of fate,
into a family of clerks. She had no dowry, no expectations, no means of
becoming known, understood, loved or wedded by a man of wealth and
distinction; and so she let herself be married to a minor official at the Ministry of
Education.

She dressed plainly because she had never been able to afford anything
better, but she was as unhappy as if she had once been wealthy. Women don't
belong to a caste or class; their beauty, grace, and natural charm take the
place of birth and family. Natural delicacy, instinctive elegance and a quick wit
determine their place in society, and make the daughters of commoners the
equals of the very finest ladies.

She suffered endlessly, feeling she was entitled to all the delicacies and
luxuries of life. She suffered because of the poorness of her house as she looked
at the dirty walls, the worn-out chairs and the ugly curtains. All these things that
another woman of her class would not even have noticed, tormented her and
made her resentful. The sight of the little Brenton girl who did her housework filled
her with terrible regrets and hopeless fantasies. She dreamed of silent
antechambers hung with Oriental tapestries, lit from above by torches in bronze
holders, while two tall footmen in knee-length breeches napped in huge
armchairs, sleepy from the stove's oppressive warmth. She dreamed of vast
living rooms furnished in rare old silks, elegant furniture loaded with priceless
ornaments, and inviting smaller rooms, perfumed, made for afternoon chats with
close friends - famous, sought after men, who all women envy and desire.

When she sat down to dinner at a round table covered with a three-day-old
cloth opposite her husband who, lifting the lid off the soup, shouted excitedly,
"Ah! Beef stew! What could be better," she dreamed of fine dinners, of shining
silverware, of tapestries which peopled the walls with figures from another time
and strange birds in fairy forests; she dreamed of delicious dishes served on
wonderful plates, of whispered gallantries listened to with an inscrutable smile as
one ate the pink flesh of a trout or the wings of a quail.

She had no dresses, no jewels, nothing; and these were the only things she
loved. She felt she was made for them alone. She wanted so much to charm, to
be envied, to be desired and sought after.
 She had a rich friend, a former schoolmate at the convent, whom she no
longer wanted to visit because she suffered so much when she came home. For
whole days afterwards she would weep with sorrow, regret, despair and misery.

One evening her husband came home with an air of triumph, holding a large
envelope in his hand.
"Look," he said, "here's something for you."

She tore open the paper and drew out a card, on which was printed the
words:

"The Minister of Education and Mme. Georges Rampouneau request the

pleasure of M. and Mme. Loisel's company at the Ministry, on the evening of
Monday January 18th."

Instead of being delighted, as her husband had hoped, she threw the
invitation on the table resentfully, and muttered:
"What do you want me to do with that?"

"But, my dear, I thought you would be pleased. You never go out, and it will
be such a lovely occasion! I had awful trouble getting it. Every one wants to go;
it is very exclusive, and they're not giving many invitations to clerks. The whole
ministry will be there."
She stared at him angrily, and said, impatiently:
"And what do you expect me to wear if I go?"
He hadn't thought of that. He stammered:
"Why, the dress you go to the theatre in. It seems very nice to me ..."

He stopped, stunned, distressed to see his wife crying. Two large tears ran
slowly from the corners of her eyes towards the corners of her mouth. He
stuttered:
"What's the matter? What's the matter?"
With great effort she overcame her grief and replied in a calm voice, as she
wiped her wet cheeks:

"Nothing. Only I have no dress and so I can't go to this party. Give your
invitation to a friend whose wife has better clothes than I do."
He was distraught, but tried again:
 "Let's see, Mathilde. How much would a suitable dress cost, one which you
could use again on other occasions, something very simple?"

She thought for a moment, computing the cost, and also wondering what
amount she could ask for without an immediate refusal and an alarmed
exclamation from the thrifty clerk.
At last she answered hesitantly:
"I don't know exactly, but I think I could do it with four hundred francs."

He turned a little pale, because he had been saving that exact amount to
buy a gun and treat himself to a hunting trip the following summer, in the
country near Nanterre, with a few friends who went lark-shooting there on
Sundays.
However, he said:

"Very well, I can give you four hundred francs. But try and get a really
beautiful dress."

The day of the party drew near, and Madame Loisel seemed sad, restless,
anxious. Her dress was ready, however. One evening her husband said to her:
"What's the matter? You've been acting strange these last three days."

She replied: "I'm upset that I have no jewels, not a single stone to wear. I will
look cheap. I would almost rather not go to the party."

"You could wear flowers, " he said, "They are very fashionable at this time of
year. For ten francs you could get two or three magnificent roses."
She was not convinced.

"No; there is nothing more humiliating than looking poor in the middle of a lot
of rich women."

"How stupid you are!" her husband cried. "Go and see your friend Madame
Forestier and ask her to lend you some jewels. You know her well enough for
that."
She uttered a cry of joy.
"Of course. I had not thought of that."
The next day she went to her friend's house and told her of her distress.
Madame Forestier went to her mirrored wardrobe, took out a large box,
brought it back, opened it, and said to Madame Loisel:
 "Choose, my dear."

First she saw some bracelets, then a pearl necklace, then a gold Venetian
cross set with precious stones, of exquisite craftsmanship. She tried on the jewelry
in the mirror, hesitated, could not bear to part with them, to give them back.
She kept asking:
"You have nothing else?"
"Why, yes. But I don't know what you like."

Suddenly she discovered, in a black satin box, a superb diamond necklace,

and her heart began to beat with uncontrolled desire. Her hands trembled as
she took it. She fastened it around her neck, over her high-necked dress, and
stood lost in ecstasy as she looked at herself.
Then she asked anxiously, hesitating:
"Would you lend me this, just this?"
"Why, yes, of course."

She threw her arms around her friend's neck, embraced her rapturously, then
fled with her treasure.

The day of the party arrived. Madame Loisel was a success. She was prettier
than all the other women, elegant, gracious, smiling, and full of joy. All the men
stared at her, asked her name, tried to be introduced. All the cabinet officials
wanted to waltz with her. The minister noticed her.

She danced wildly, with passion, drunk on pleasure, forgetting everything in

the triumph of her beauty, in the glory of her success, in a sort of cloud of
happiness, made up of all this respect, all this admiration, all these awakened
desires, of that sense of triumph that is so sweet to a woman's heart.

She left at about four o'clock in the morning. Her husband had been dozing
since midnight in a little deserted anteroom with three other gentlemen whose
wives were having a good time.

He threw over her shoulders the clothes he had brought for her to go outside
in, the modest clothes of an ordinary life, whose poverty contrasted sharply with
the elegance of the ball dress. She felt this and wanted to run away, so she
wouldn't be noticed by the other women who were wrapping themselves in
expensive furs.
Loisel held her back.
 "Wait a moment, you'll catch a cold outside. I'll go and find a cab."

But she would not listen to him, and ran down the stairs. When they were
finally in the street, they could not find a cab, and began to look for one,
shouting at the cabmen they saw passing in the distance.

They walked down toward the Seine in despair, shivering with cold. At last
they found on the quay one of those old night cabs that one sees in Paris only
after dark, as if they were ashamed to show their shabbiness during the day.

They were dropped off at their door in the Rue des Martyrs, and sadly walked
up the steps to their apartment. It was all over, for her. And he was remembering
that he had to be back at his office at ten o'clock.

In front of the mirror, she took off the clothes around her shoulders, taking a
final look at herself in all her glory. But suddenly she uttered a cry. She no longer
had the necklace round her neck!
"What is the matter?" asked her husband, already half undressed.
She turned towards him, panic-stricken.
"I have ... I have ... I no longer have Madame Forestier's necklace."
He stood up, distraught.
"What! ... how! ... That's impossible!"

They looked in the folds of her dress, in the folds of her cloak, in her pockets,
everywhere. But they could not find it.
"Are you sure you still had it on when you left the ball?" he asked.
"Yes. I touched it in the hall at the Ministry."
"But if you had lost it in the street we would have heard it fall. It must be in the
cab."
"Yes. That's probably it. Did you take his number?"
"No. And you, didn't you notice it?"
"No."
They stared at each other, stunned. At last Loisel put his clothes on again.

"I'm going back," he said, "over the whole route we walked, see if I can find
it."
 He left. She remained in her ball dress all evening, without the strength to go
to bed, sitting on a chair, with no fire, her mind blank.
Her husband returned at about seven o'clock. He had found nothing.

He went to the police, to the newspapers to offer a reward, to the cab

companies, everywhere the tiniest glimmer of hope led him.

She waited all day, in the same state of blank despair from before this frightful
disaster.
Loisel returned in the evening, a hollow, pale figure; he had found nothing.

"You must write to your friend," he said, "tell her you have broken the clasp of
her necklace and that you are having it mended. It will give us time to look
some more."
She wrote as he dictated.
At the end of one week they had lost all hope.
And Loisel, who had aged five years, declared:
"We must consider how to replace the jewel."

The next day they took the box which had held it, and went to the jeweler
whose name they found inside. He consulted his books.

"It was not I, madame, who sold the necklace; I must simply have supplied
the case."

And so they went from jeweler to jeweler, looking for an necklace like the
other one, consulting their memories, both sick with grief and anguish.

In a shop at the Palais Royal, they found a string of diamonds which seemed
to be exactly what they were looking for. It was worth forty thousand francs.
They could have it for thirty-six thousand.

So they begged the jeweler not to sell it for three days. And they made an
arrangement that he would take it back for thirty-four thousand francs if the
other necklace was found before the end of February.

Loisel had eighteen thousand francs which his father had left him. He would
borrow the rest.

And he did borrow, asking for a thousand francs from one man, five hundred
from another, five louis here, three louis there. He gave notes, made ruinous
agreements, dealt with usurers, with every type of money-lender. He
compromised the rest of his life, risked signing notes without knowing if he could
ever honor them, and, terrified by the anguish still to come, by the black misery
about to fall on him, by the prospect of every physical privation and every moral
torture he was about to suffer, he went to get the new necklace, and laid down
on the jeweler's counter thirty-six thousand francs.
When Madame Loisel took the necklace back, Madame Forestier said coldly:

"You should have returned it sooner, I might have needed it."

To the relief of her friend, she did not open the case. If she had detected the
substitution, what would she have thought? What would she have said? Would
she have taken her friend for a thief?

From then on, Madame Loisel knew the horrible life of the very poor. But she
played her part heroically. The dreadful debt must be paid. She would pay it.
They dismissed their maid; they changed their lodgings; they rented a garret
under the roof.

She came to know the drudgery of housework, the odious labors of the
kitchen. She washed the dishes, staining her rosy nails on greasy pots and the
bottoms of pans. She washed the dirty linen, the shirts and the dishcloths, which
she hung to dry on a line; she carried the garbage down to the street every
morning, and carried up the water, stopping at each landing to catch her
breath. And, dressed like a commoner, she went to the fruiterer's, the grocer's,
the butcher's, her basket on her arm, bargaining, insulted, fighting over every
miserable sou.
Each month they had to pay some notes, renew others, get more time.

Her husband worked every evening, doing accounts for a tradesman, and
often, late into the night, he sat copying a manuscript at five sous a page.
And this life lasted ten years.

At the end of ten years they had paid off everything, everything, at usurer's
rates and with the accumulations of compound interest.

Madame Loisel looked old now. She had become strong, hard and rough like
all women of impoverished households. With hair half combed, with skirts awry,
and reddened hands, she talked loudly as she washed the floor with great
swishes of water. But sometimes, when her husband was at the office, she sat
down near the window and thought of that evening at the ball so long ago,
when she had been so beautiful and so admired.
 What would have happened if she had not lost that necklace? Who knows,
who knows? How strange life is, how fickle! How little is needed for one to be
ruined or saved!

One Sunday, as she was walking in the Champs Élysées to refresh herself after
the week's work, suddenly she saw a woman walking with a child. It was
Madame Forestier, still young, still beautiful, still charming.

Madame Loisel felt emotional. Should she speak to her? Yes, of course. And
now that she had paid, she would tell her all. Why not?
She went up to her.
"Good morning, Jeanne."

The other, astonished to be addressed so familiarly by this common woman,

did not recognize her. She stammered:
"But - madame - I don't know. You must have made a mistake."
"No, I am Mathilde Loisel."
Her friend uttered a cry.
"Oh! ... my poor Mathilde, how you've changed! ..."

"Yes, I have had some hard times since I last saw you, and many miseries ...
and all because of you! ..."
"Me? How can that be?"

"You remember that diamond necklace that you lent me to wear to the
Ministry party?"
"Yes. Well?"
"Well, I lost it."
"What do you mean? You brought it back."

"I brought you back another exactly like it. And it has taken us ten years to
pay for it. It wasn't easy for us, we had very little. But at last it is over, and I am
very glad."
Madame Forestier was stunned.
"You say that you bought a diamond necklace to replace mine?"
"Yes; you didn't notice then? They were very similar."
 And she smiled with proud and innocent pleasure.
Madame Forestier, deeply moved, took both her hands.

"Oh, my poor Mathilde! Mine was an imitation! It was worth five hundred
francs at most! ..."
 9. The Lady Or The Tiger?

In the very olden time there lived a semi-barbaric king, whose ideas, though
somewhat polished and sharpened by the progressiveness of distant Latin
neighbors, were still large, florid, and untrammeled, as became the half of him
which was barbaric. He was a man of exuberant fancy, and, withal, of an
authority so irresistible that, at his will, he turned his varied fancies into facts. He
was greatly given to self-communing, and, when he and himself agreed upon
anything, the thing was done. When every member of his domestic and political
systems moved smoothly in its appointed course, his nature was bland and
genial; but, whenever there was a little hitch, and some of his orbs got out of
their orbits, he was blander and more genial still, for nothing pleased him so
much as to make the crooked straight and crush down uneven places.

Among the borrowed notions by which his barbarism had become semified
was that of the public arena, in which, by exhibitions of manly and beastly valor,
the minds of his subjects were refined and cultured.

But even here the exuberant and barbaric fancy asserted itself. The arena of
the king was built, not to give the people an opportunity of hearing the
rhapsodies of dying gladiators, nor to enable them to view the inevitable
conclusion of a conflict between religious opinions and hungry jaws, but for
purposes far better adapted to widen and develop the mental energies of the
people. This vast amphitheater, with its encircling galleries, its mysterious vaults,
and its unseen passages, was an agent of poetic justice, in which crime was
punished, or virtue rewarded, by the decrees of an impartial and incorruptible
chance. girlplays

When a subject was accused of a crime of sufficient importance to interest

the king, public notice was given that on an appointed day the fate of the
accused person would be decided in the king's arena, a structure which well
deserved its name, for, although its form and plan were borrowed from afar, its
purpose emanated solely from the brain of this man, who, every barleycorn a
king, knew no tradition to which he owed more allegiance than pleased his
fancy, and who ingrafted on every adopted form of human thought and action
the rich growth of his barbaric idealism.

When all the people had assembled in the galleries, and the king, surrounded
by his court, sat high up on his throne of royal state on one side of the arena, he
gave a signal, a door beneath him opened, and the accused subject stepped
out into the amphitheater. Directly opposite him, on the other side of the
enclosed space, were two doors, exactly alike and side by side. It was the duty
and the privilege of the person on trial to walk directly to these doors and open
one of them. He could open either door he pleased; he was subject to no
guidance or influence but that of the aforementioned impartial and
incorruptible chance. If he opened the one, there came out of it a hungry tiger,
the fiercest and most cruel that could be procured, which immediately sprang
upon him and tore him to pieces as a punishment for his guilt. The moment that
the case of the criminal was thus decided, doleful iron bells were clanged, great
wails went up from the hired mourners posted on the outer rim of the arena, and
the vast audience, with bowed heads and downcast hearts, wended slowly
their homeward way, mourning greatly that one so young and fair, or so old and
respected, should have merited so dire a fate.

But, if the accused person opened the other door, there came forth from it a
lady, the most suitable to his years and station that his majesty could select
among his fair subjects, and to this lady he was immediately married, as a
reward of his innocence. It mattered not that he might already possess a wife
and family, or that his affections might be engaged upon an object of his own
selection; the king allowed no such subordinate arrangements to interfere with
his great scheme of retribution and reward. The exercises, as in the other
instance, took place immediately, and in the arena. Another door opened
beneath the king, and a priest, followed by a band of choristers, and dancing
maidens blowing joyous airs on golden horns and treading an epithalamic
measure, advanced to where the pair stood, side by side, and the wedding was
promptly and cheerily solemnized. Then the gay brass bells rang forth their merry
peals, the people shouted glad hurrahs, and the innocent man, preceded by
children strewing flowers on his path, led his bride to his home.

This was the king's semi-barbaric method of administering justice. Its perfect
fairness is obvious. The criminal could not know out of which door would come
the lady; he opened either he pleased, without having the slightest idea
whether, in the next instant, he was to be devoured or married. On some
occasions the tiger came out of one door, and on some out of the other. The
decisions of this tribunal were not only fair, they were positively determinate: the
accused person was instantly punished if he found himself guilty, and, if
innocent, he was rewarded on the spot, whether he liked it or not. There was no
escape from the judgments of the king's arena.
 The institution was a very popular one. When the people gathered together
on one of the great trial days, they never knew whether they were to witness a
bloody slaughter or a hilarious wedding. This element of uncertainty lent an
interest to the occasion which it could not otherwise have attained. Thus, the
masses were entertained and pleased, and the thinking part of the community
could bring no charge of unfairness against this plan, for did not the accused
person have the whole matter in his own hands?

This semi-barbaric king had a daughter as blooming as his most florid fancies,
and with a soul as fervent and imperious as his own. As is usual in such cases, she
was the apple of his eye, and was loved by him above all humanity. Among his
courtiers was a young man of that fineness of blood and lowness of station
common to the conventional heroes of romance who love royal maidens. This
royal maiden was well satisfied with her lover, for he was handsome and brave
to a degree unsurpassed in all this kingdom, and she loved him with an ardor
that had enough of barbarism in it to make it exceedingly warm and strong. This
love affair moved on happily for many months, until one day the king happened
to discover its existence. He did not hesitate nor waver in regard to his duty in
the premises. The youth was immediately cast into prison, and a day was
appointed for his trial in the king's arena. This, of course, was an especially
important occasion, and his majesty, as well as all the people, was greatly
interested in the workings and development of this trial. Never before had such
a case occurred; never before had a subject dared to love the daughter of the
king. In after years such things became commonplace enough, but then they
were in no slight degree novel and startling.

The tiger-cages of the kingdom were searched for the most savage and
relentless beasts, from which the fiercest monster might be selected for the
arena; and the ranks of maiden youth and beauty throughout the land were
carefully surveyed by competent judges in order that the young man might
have a fitting bride in case fate did not determine for him a different destiny. Of
course, everybody knew that the deed with which the accused was charged
had been done. He had loved the princess, and neither he, she, nor any one
else, thought of denying the fact; but the king would not think of allowing any
fact of this kind to interfere with the workings of the tribunal, in which he took
such great delight and satisfaction. No matter how the affair turned out, the
youth would be disposed of, and the king would take an aesthetic pleasure in
watching the course of events, which would determine whether or not the
young man had done wrong in allowing himself to love the princess.
 The appointed day arrived. From far and near the people gathered, and
thronged the great galleries of the arena, and crowds, unable to gain
admittance, massed themselves against its outside walls. The king and his court
were in their places, opposite the twin doors, those fateful portals, so terrible in
their similarity.

All was ready. The signal was given. A door beneath the royal party opened,
and the lover of the princess walked into the arena. Tall, beautiful, fair, his
appearance was greeted with a low hum of admiration and anxiety. Half the
audience had not known so grand a youth had lived among them. No wonder
the princess loved him! What a terrible thing for him to be there!

As the youth advanced into the arena he turned, as the custom was, to bow
to the king, but he did not think at all of that royal personage. His eyes were
fixed upon the princess, who sat to the right of her father. Had it not been for the
moiety of barbarism in her nature it is probable that lady would not have been
there, but her intense and fervid soul would not allow her to be absent on an
occasion in which she was so terribly interested. From the moment that the
decree had gone forth that her lover should decide his fate in the king's arena,
she had thought of nothing, night or day, but this great event and the various
subjects connected with it. Possessed of more power, influence, and force of
character than any one who had ever before been interested in such a case,
she had done what no other person had done - she had possessed herself of
the secret of the doors. She knew in which of the two rooms, that lay behind
those doors, stood the cage of the tiger, with its open front, and in which waited
the lady. Through these thick doors, heavily curtained with skins on the inside, it
was impossible that any noise or suggestion should come from within to the
person who should approach to raise the latch of one of them. But gold, and
the power of a woman's will, had brought the secret to the princess.

And not only did she know in which room stood the lady ready to emerge, all
blushing and radiant, should her door be opened, but she knew who the lady
was. It was one of the fairest and loveliest of the damsels of the court who had
been selected as the reward of the accused youth, should he be proved
innocent of the crime of aspiring to one so far above him; and the princess
hated her. Often had she seen, or imagined that she had seen, this fair creature
throwing glances of admiration upon the person of her lover, and sometimes
she thought these glances were perceived, and even returned. Now and then
she had seen them talking together; it was but for a moment or two, but much
can be said in a brief space; it may have been on most unimportant topics, but
how could she know that? The girl was lovely, but she had dared to raise her
eyes to the loved one of the princess; and, with all the intensity of the savage
blood transmitted to her through long lines of wholly barbaric ancestors, she
hated the woman who blushed and trembled behind that silent door.

When her lover turned and looked at her, and his eye met hers as she sat
there, paler and whiter than any one in the vast ocean of anxious faces about
her, he saw, by that power of quick perception which is given to those whose
souls are one, that she knew behind which door crouched the tiger, and behind
which stood the lady. He had expected her to know it. He understood her
nature, and his soul was assured that she would never rest until she had made
plain to herself this thing, hidden to all other lookers-on, even to the king. The
only hope for the youth in which there was any element of certainty was based
upon the success of the princess in discovering this mystery; and the moment he
looked upon her, he saw she had succeeded, as in his soul he knew she would
succeed.

Then it was that his quick and anxious glance asked the question: "Which?" It
was as plain to her as if he shouted it from where he stood. There was not an
instant to be lost. The question was asked in a flash; it must be answered in
another.

Her right arm lay on the cushioned parapet before her. She raised her hand,
and made a slight, quick movement toward the right. No one but her lover saw
her. Every eye but his was fixed on the man in the arena.

He turned, and with a firm and rapid step he walked across the empty space.
Every heart stopped beating, every breath was held, every eye was fixed
immovably upon that man. Without the slightest hesitation, he went to the door
on the right, and opened it.

Now, the point of the story is this: Did the tiger come out of that door, or did
the lady ?

The more we reflect upon this question, the harder it is to answer. It involves a
study of the human heart which leads us through devious mazes of passion, out
of which it is difficult to find our way. Think of it, fair reader, not as if the decision
of the question depended upon yourself, but upon that hot-blooded, semi-
barbaric princess, her soul at a white heat beneath the combined fires of
despair and jealousy. She had lost him, but who should have him?
 How often, in her waking hours and in her dreams, had she started in wild
horror, and covered her face with her hands as she thought of her lover opening
the door on the other side of which waited the cruel fangs of the tiger!

But how much oftener had she seen him at the other door! How in her
grievous reveries had she gnashed her teeth, and torn her hair, when she saw his
start of rapturous delight as he opened the door of the lady! How her soul had
burned in agony when she had seen him rush to meet that woman, with her
flushing cheek and sparkling eye of triumph; when she had seen him lead her
forth, his whole frame kindled with the joy of recovered life; when she had heard
the glad shouts from the multitude, and the wild ringing of the happy bells; when
she had seen the priest, with his joyous followers, advance to the couple, and
make them man and wife before her very eyes; and when she had seen them
walk away together upon their path of flowers, followed by the tremendous
shouts of the hilarious multitude, in which her one despairing shriek was lost and
drowned!

Would it not be better for him to die at once, and go to wait for her in the
blessed regions of semi-barbaric futurity?

And yet, that awful tiger, those shrieks, that blood!

Her decision had been indicated in an instant, but it had been made after
days and nights of anguished deliberation. She had known she would be asked,
she had decided what she would answer, and, without the slightest hesitation,
she had moved her hand to the right.

The question of her decision is one not to be lightly considered, and it is not
for me to presume to set myself up as the one person able to answer it. And so I
leave it with all of you: Which came out of the opened door - the lady, or the
tiger?
 10. THE TREASURE IN THE FOREST

Herbert George Wells (1866-1946) was a British author and father of the science
fiction genre, best known for his novel The Time Machine. In this story, two men
search for Spanish treasure, letting greed get the better of their awareness. As
you read, take notes on what drives the men to find this treasure, as well as how
the author uses symbols to foreshadow potential tragedy.

"Gold Bar with Reflected Coins" by Bullion Vault is licensed under CC BY-ND 2.0.

The canoe was now approaching the land. The bay opened out, and a gap in
the white surf of the reef marked where the little river ran out to the sea; the
thicker and deeper green of the virgin forest showed its course down the distant
hill slope. The forest here came close to the beach. Far beyond, dim and almost
cloudlike in texture, rose the mountains, like suddenly frozen waves. The sea was
still save for an almost imperceptible swell. The sky blazed.

The man with the carved paddle stopped. “It should be somewhere here,” he
said. He shipped1 the paddle and held his arms out straight before him.

The other man had been in the fore2 part of the canoe, closely scrutinising the
land. He had a sheet of yellow paper on his knee.
“Come and look at this, Evans,” he said.
Both men spoke in low tones, and their lips were hard and dry.

The man called Evans came swaying along the canoe until he could look over
his companion’s shoulder.

The paper had the appearance of a rough map. By much folding it was
creased and worn to the pitch of separation, and the second man held the
discoloured fragments together where they had parted. On it one could dimly
make out, in almost obliterated pencil, the outline of the bay.
“Here,” said Evans, “is the reef, and here is the gap.” He ran his thumb-nail over
the chart.

“This curved and twisting line is the river—I could do with a drink now!—and this
star is the place.”

“You see this dotted line,” said the man with the map; “it is a straight line, and
runs from the opening of the reef to a clump of palm-trees. The star comes just
where it cuts the river. We must mark the place as we go into the lagoon.”
“It’s queer,”3 said Evans, after a pause, “what these little marks down here are
for. It looks like the plan of a house or something; but what all these little dashes,
pointing this way and that, may mean I can’t get a notion. And what’s the
writing?”
“Chinese,” said the man with the map.
“Of course! He was a Chinese,” said Evans.
“They all were,” said the man with the map.

They both sat for some minutes staring at the land, while the canoe drifted
slowly. Then Evans looked towards the paddle.
“Your turn with the paddle now, Hooker,” said he.
And his companion quietly folded up his map, put it in his pocket, passed Evans
carefully, and began to paddle. His movements were languid, like those of a
man whose strength was nearly exhausted.

Evans sat with his eyes half closed, watching the frothy breakwater of the coral
creep nearer and nearer. The sky was like a furnace, for the sun was near the
zenith.4 Though they were so near the Treasure he did not feel the exaltation5
he had anticipated. The intense excitement of the struggle for the plan, and the
long night voyage from the mainland in the unprovisioned canoe had, to use his
own expression, “taken it out of him.” He tried to arouse himself by directing his
mind to the ingots6 the Chinamen7 had spoken of, but it would not rest there; it
came back headlong to the thought of sweet water rippling in the river, and to
the almost unendurable dryness of his lips and throat. The rhythmic wash of the
sea upon the reef was becoming audible now, and it had a pleasant sound in
his ears; the water washed along the side of the canoe, and the paddle
dripped between each stroke. Presently he began to doze.Q1

He was still dimly conscious of the island, but a queer dream texture interwove
with his sensations. Once again it was the night when he and Hooker had hit
upon the Chinamen’s secret; he saw the moonlit trees, the little fire burning, and
the black figures of the three Chinamen—silvered on one side by moonlight,
and on the other glowing from the firelight—and heard them talking together in
pigeon-English8—for they came from different provinces. Hooker had caught
the drift of their talk first, and had motioned to him to listen. Fragments of the
conversation were inaudible, and fragments incomprehensible. A Spanish
galleon9 from the Philippines hopelessly aground, and its treasure buried against
the day of return, lay in the background of the story; a shipwrecked crew
thinned by disease, a quarrel or so, and the needs of discipline, and at last
taking to their boats never to be heard of again. Then Chang-hi, only a year
since, wandering ashore, had happened upon the ingots hidden for two
hundred years, had deserted his junk, and reburied them with infinite toil, single-
handed but very safe. He laid great stress on the safety—it was a secret of his.
Now he wanted help to return and exhume10 them. Presently the little map
fluttered and the voices sank. A fine story for two, stranded British wastrels11 to
hear! Evans’ dream shifted to the moment when he had Chang-hi’s pigtail in his
hand. The life of a Chinaman is scarcely sacred like a European’s. The cunning
little face of Chang-hi, first keen and furious like a startled snake, and then
fearful, treacherous, and pitiful, became overwhelmingly prominent in the
dream. At the end Chang-hi had grinned, a most incomprehensible and
startling grin. Abruptly things became very unpleasant, as they will do at times in
dreams. Chang-hi gibbered and threatened him. He saw in his dream heaps
and heaps of gold, and Chang-hi intervening and struggling to hold him back
from it. He took Chang-hi by the pig-tail—how big the yellow brute12 was, and
how he struggled and grinned! He kept growing bigger, too. Then the bright
heaps of gold turned to a roaring furnace, and a vast devil, surprisingly like
Chang-hi, but with a huge black tail, began to feed him with coals. They burnt
his mouth horribly. Another devil was shouting his name: “Evans, Evans, you
sleepy fool!”—or was it Hooker?
He woke up. They were in the mouth of the lagoon.Q2

“There are the three palm-trees. It must be in a line with that clump of bushes,”
said his companion. “Mark that. If we, go to those bushes and then strike into the
bush in a straight line from here, we shall come to it when we come to the
stream.”

They could see now where the mouth of the stream opened out. At the sight of
it Evans revived. “Hurry up, man,” he said, “or by heaven I shall have to drink sea
water!” He gnawed his hand and stared at the gleam of silver among the rocks
and green tangle.
Presently he turned almost fiercely upon Hooker. “Give me the paddle,” he said.

So they reached the river mouth. A little way up Hooker took some water in the
hollow of his hand, tasted it, and spat it out. A little further he tried again. “This
will do,” he said, and they began drinking eagerly.

“Curse this!” said Evans suddenly. “It’s too slow.” And, leaning dangerously over
the fore part of the canoe, he began to suck up the water with his lips.
Presently they made an end of drinking, and, running the canoe into a little
creek, were about to land among the thick growth that overhung the water.
“We shall have to scramble through this to the beach to find our bushes and get
the line to the place,” said Evans.
“We had better paddle round,” said Hooker.

So they pushed out again into the river and paddled back down it to the sea,
and along the shore to the place where the clump of bushes grew. Here they
landed, pulled the light canoe far up the beach, and then went up towards the
edge of the jungle until they could see the opening of the reef and the bushes
in a straight line. Evans had taken a native implement out of the canoe. It was L-
shaped, and the transverse piece was armed with polished stone. Hooker
carried the paddle. “It is straight now in this direction,” said he; “we must push
through this till we strike the stream. Then we must prospect.”13Q3

They pushed through a close tangle of reeds, broad fronds, and young trees,
and at first it was toilsome going, but very speedily the trees became larger and
the ground beneath them opened out. The blaze of the sunlight was replaced
by insensible degrees by cool shadow. The trees became at last vast pillars that
rose up to a canopy of greenery far overhead. Dim white flowers hung from
their stems, and ropy creepers swung from tree to tree. The shadow deepened.
On the ground, blotched fungi and a red-brown incrustation became frequent.
Evans shivered. “It seems almost cold here after the blaze outside.”
“I hope we are keeping to the straight,” said Hooker.

Presently they saw, far ahead, a gap in the somber darkness where white shafts
of hot sunlight smote into the forest. There also was brilliant green undergrowth
and coloured flowers. Then they heard the rush of water.
“Here is the river. We should be close to it now,” said Hooker.

The vegetation was thick by the river bank. Great plants, as yet unnamed, grew
among the roots of the big trees, and spread rosettes of huge green fans
towards the strip of sky. Many flowers and a creeper with shiny foliage clung to
the exposed stems. On the water of the broad, quiet pool which the treasure-
seekers now overlooked there floated big oval leaves and a waxen, pinkish-
white flower not unlike a water-lily. Further, as the river bent away from them, the
water suddenly frothed and became noisy in a rapid.
“Well?” said Evans.

“We have swerved a little from the straight,” said Hooker. “That was to be
expected.”
He turned and looked into the dim cool shadows of the silent forest behind
them. “If we beat a little way up and down the stream we should come to
something.”
“You said—” began Evans.
“He said there was a heap of stones,” said Hooker.
The two men looked at each other for a moment.
“Let us try a little down-stream first,” said Evans.

They advanced slowly, looking curiously about them. Suddenly Evans stopped.
“What the devil’s that?” he said.

Hooker followed his finger. “Something blue,” he said. It had come into view as
they topped a gentle swell of the ground. Then he began to distinguish what it
was.

He advanced suddenly with hasty14 steps, until the body that belonged to the
limp hand and arm had become visible. His grip tightened on the implement he
carried. The thing was the figure of a Chinaman lying on his face. The abandon
of the pose was unmistakable.

The two men drew closer together, and stood staring silently at this ominous15
dead body. It lay in a clear space among the trees. Nearby was a spade after
the Chinese pattern, and further off lay a scattered heap of stones, close to a
freshly dug hole.
“Somebody has been here before,” said Hooker, clearing his throat.
Then suddenly Evans began to swear and rave, and stamp upon the ground.

Hooker turned white but said nothing. He advanced towards the prostrate16
body. He saw the neck was puffed and purple, and the hands and ankles
swollen. “Pah!” he said, and suddenly turned away and went towards the
excavation. He gave a cry of surprise. He shouted to Evans, who was following
him slowly.

“You fool! It’s all right. It’s here still.” Then he turned again and looked at the
dead Chinaman, and then again at the hole.

Evans hurried to the hole. Already half exposed by the ill-fated wretch beside
them lay a number of dull yellow bars. He bent down in the hole, and, clearing
off the soil with his bare hands, hastily pulled one of the heavy masses out. As he
did so a little thorn pricked his hand. He pulled the delicate spike out with his
fingers and lifted the ingot.
“Only gold or lead could weigh like this,” he said exultantly.
Hooker was still looking at the dead Chinaman. He was puzzled.

“He stole a march17 on his friends,” he said at last. “He came here alone, and
some poisonous snake has killed him... I wonder how he found the place.”Q4

Evans stood with the ingot in his hands. What did a dead Chinaman signify?
“We shall have to take this stuff to the mainland piecemeal,18 and bury it there
for a while. How shall we get it to the canoe?”

He took his jacket off and spread it on the ground, and flung two or three ingots
into it. Presently he found that another little thorn had punctured his skin.

“This is as much as we can carry,” said he. Then suddenly, with a queer rush of
irritation, “What are you staring at?”

Hooker turned to him. “I can’t stand him ...” He nodded towards the corpse. “It’s
so like—”
“Rubbish!” said Evans. “All Chinamen are alike.”

Hooker looked into his face. “I’m going to bury that, anyhow, before I lend a
hand with this stuff.”
“Don’t be a fool, Hooker,” said Evans, “Let that mass of corruption bide.”

Hooker hesitated, and then his eye went carefully over the brown soil about
them. “It scares me somehow,” he said.

“The thing is,” said Evans, “what to do with these ingots. Shall we re-bury them
over here, or take them across the strait in the canoe?”
Hooker thought. His puzzled gaze wandered among the tall tree-trunks, and up
into the remote sunlit greenery overhead. He shivered again as his eye rested
upon the blue figure of the Chinaman. He stared searchingly among the grey
depths between the trees.
“What’s come to you, Hooker?” said Evans. “Have you lost your wits?”
“Let’s get the gold out of this place, anyhow,” said Hooker.Q5

He took the ends of the collar of the coat in his hands, and Evans took the
opposite corners, and they lifted the mass. “Which way?” said Evans. “To the
canoe?”

“It’s queer,” said Evans, when they had advanced only a few steps, “but my
arms ache still with that paddling.”
“Curse it!” he said. “But they ache! I must rest.”

They let the coat down, Evans’ face was white, and little drops of sweat stood
out upon his forehead. “It’s stuffy, somehow, in this forest.”

Then with an abrupt transition to unreasonable anger: “What is the good of

waiting here all the day? Lend a hand, I say! You have done nothing but moon
since we saw the dead Chinaman.”

Hooker was looking steadfastly at his companion’s face. He helped raise the
coat bearing the ingots, and they went forward perhaps a hundred yards in
silence. Evans began to breathe heavily. “Can’t you speak?” he said.
“What’s the matter with you?” said Hooker.

Evans stumbled, and then with a sudden curse flung the coat from him. He
stood for a moment staring at Hooker, and then with a groan clutched at his
own throat.

“Don’t come near me,” he said, and went and leant against a tree. Then in a
steadier voice, “I’ll be better in a minute.”

Presently his grip upon the trunk loosened, and he slipped slowly down the stem
of the tree until he was a crumpled heap at its foot. His hands were clenched
convulsively. His face became distorted with pain. Hooker approached him.

“Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me!” said Evans in a stifled voice. “Put the gold
back on the coat.”
“Can’t I do anything for you?” said Hooker.
“Put the gold back on the coat.”

As Hooker handled the ingots he felt a little prick on the ball of his thumb. He
looked at his hand and saw a slender thorn, perhaps two inches in length.
Evans gave an inarticulate cry and rolled over.

Hooker’s jaw dropped. He stared at the thorn for a moment with dilated eyes.
Then he looked at Evans, who was now crumpled together on the ground, his
back bending and straightening spasmodically. Then he looked through the
pillars of the trees and net-work of creeper stems, to where in the dim grey
shadow the blue-clad body of the Chinaman was still indistinctly visible. He
thought of the little dashes in the corner of the plan, and in a moment he
understood.
“God help me!” he said. For the thorns were similar to those the Dyaks19 poison
and use in their blowing-tubes. He understood now what Chang-hi’s assurance
of the safety of his treasure meant. He understood that grin now.
“Evans!” he cried.

But Evans was silent and motionless, save for a horrible spasmodic twitching of
his limbs. A profound silence brooded over the forest.

Then Hooker began to suck furiously at the little pink spot on the ball of his
thumb—sucking for dear life. Presently he felt a strange aching pain in his arms
and shoulders, and his fingers seemed difficult to bend. Then he knew that
sucking was no good.

Abruptly he stopped, and sitting down by the pile of ingots, and resting his chin
upon his hands and his elbows upon his knees, stared at the distorted but still
quivering body of his companion. Chang-hi’s grin came into his mind again. The
dull pain spread towards his throat and grew slowly in intensity. Far above him a
faint breeze stirred the greenery, and the white petals of some unknown flower
came floating down through the gloom.
 11. Federigo's Falcon

This story comes from Boccaccio's The Decameron (1353). This version was
translated by Mark Musa and Peter Bondanella.
An illustration for the story Federigo's Falcon by the author Giovanni Boccaccio

There was once in Florence a young man named Federigo, the son of Messer
Filippo Alberighi, renowned above all other men in Tuscany for his prowess in
arms and for his courtliness. As often happens to most gentlemen, he fell in love
with a lady named Monna Giovanna, in her day considered to be one of the
most beautiful and one of the most charming women that ever there was in
Florence; and in order to win her love, he participated in jousts and
tournaments, organized and gave feasts, and spent his money without restraint;
but she, no less virtuous than beautiful, cared little for these things done on her
behalf, nor did she care for him who did them. Now, as Federigo was spending
far beyond his means and was taking nothing in, as easily happens he lost his
wealth and became poor, with nothing but his little farm to his name (from
whose revenues he lived very meagerly) and one falcon which was among the
best in the world.

More in love than ever, but knowing that he would never be able to live the way
he wished to in the city, he went to live at Campi, where his farm was. There he
passed his time hawking whenever he could, asked nothing of anyone, and
endured his poverty patiently. Now, during the time that Federigo was reduced
to dire need, it happened that the husband of Monna Giovanna fell ill, and
realizing death was near, he made his last will. He was very rich, and he made
his son, who was growing up, his heir, and, since he had loved Monna Giovanna
very much, he made her his heir should his son die without a legitimate heir; and
then he died.
Monna Giovanna was now a widow, and as is the custom among our women,
she went to the country with her son to spend a year on one of her possessions
very close by to Federigo’s farm, and it happened that this young boy became
friends with Federigo and began to enjoy birds and hunting dogs; and after he
had seen Federigo’s falcon fly many times, it pleased him so much that he very
much wished it were his own, but he did not dare to ask for it, for he could see
how dear it was to Federigo. And during this time, it happened that the young
boy took ill, and his mother was much grieved, for he was her only child and she
loved him enormously. She would spend the entire day by his side, never
ceasing to comfort him, and often asking him if there was anything he desired,
begging him to tell her what it might be, for if it were possible to obtain it, she
would certainly do everything possible to get it. After the young boy had heard
her make this offer many times, he said:

“Mother, if you can arrange for me to have Federigo’s falcon, I think I would be
well very soon.”

When the lady heard this, she was taken aback for a moment, and she began
to think what she should do. She knew that Federigo had loved her for a long
while, in spite of the fact that he never received a single glance from her, and
so, she said to herself:

“How can I send or go and ask for this falcon of his which is, as I have heard tell,
the best that ever flew, and besides this, his only means of support? And how
can I be so insensitive as to wish to take away from this gentleman the only
pleasure which is left to him?”

And involved in these thoughts, knowing that she was certain to have the bird if
she asked for it, but not knowing what to say to her son, she stood there without
answering him. Finally the love she bore her son persuaded her that she should
make him happy, and no matter what the consequences might be, she would
not send for the bird, but rather go herself for it and bring it back to him; so she
answered her son:

“My son, take comfort and think only of getting well, for I promise you that the
first thing I shall do tomorrow morning is to go for it and bring it back to you.”

The child was so happy that he showed some improvement that very day. The
following morning, the lady, accompanied by another woman, as if going for a
stroll, went to Federigo’s modest house and asked for him. Since it was not the
season for it, Federigo had not been hawking for some days and was in his
orchard, attending to certain tasks. When he heard that Monna Giovanna was
asking for him at the door, he was very surprised and happy to run there. As she
saw him coming, she greeted him with feminine charm, and once Federigo had
welcomed her courteously, she said:

“Greetings, Federigo!” Then she continued: “I have come to compensate you

for the harm you have suffered on my account by loving me more than you
needed to; and the compensation is this: I, along with this companion of mine,
intend to dine with you—a simple meal—this very day.”

To this Federigo humbly replied: “Madonna, I never remember having suffered

any harm because of you. On the contrary, so much good have I received from
you that if ever I have been worth anything, it has been because of your merit
and the love I bore for you; and your generous visit is certainly so dear to me
that I would spend all over again that which I spent in the past; but you have
come to a poor host.”

And having said this, he received her into his home humbly, and from there he
led her into his garden, and since he had no one there to keep her company,
he said:

“My lady, since there is no one else, this good woman here, the wife of this
workman, will keep you company while I go to set the table.”

Though he was very poor, Federigo, until now, had never before realized to
what extent he had wasted his wealth; but this morning, the fact that he found
nothing with which he could honor the lady for the love of whom he had once
entertained countless men in the past gave him cause to reflect. In great
anguish, he cursed himself and his fortune and, like a man beside himself, he
started running here and there, but could find neither money nor a pawnable
object. The hour was late and his desire to honor the gracious lady was great,
but not wishing to turn for help to others (not even to his own workman), he set
his eyes upon his good falcon, perched in a small room; and since he had
nowhere else to turn, he took the bird, and finding it plump, he decided that it
would be a worthy food for such a lady. So, without further thought, he wrung its
neck and quickly gave it to his servant girl to pluck, prepare, and place on a spit
to be roasted with care; and when he had set the table with the whitest of
tablecloths (a few of which he still had left), he returned, with a cheerful face, to
the lady in his garden, saying that the meal he was able to prepare for her was
ready.

The lady and her companion rose, went to the table together with Federigo,
who waited upon them with the greatest devotion, and they ate the good
falcon without knowing what it was they were eating. And having left the table
and spent some time in pleasant conversation, the lady thought it time now to
say what she had come to say, and so she spoke these kind words to Federigo:

“Federigo, if you recall your past life and my virtue, which you perhaps mistook
for harshness and cruelty, I do not doubt at all that you will be amazed by my
presumption when you hear what my main reason for coming here is; but if you
had children, through whom you might have experienced the power of
parental love, it seems certain to me that you would, at least in part, forgive me.
But, just as you have no child, I do have one, and I cannot escape the common
laws of other mothers; the force of such laws compels me to follow them,
against my own will and against good manners and duty, and to ask of you a
gift which I know is most precious to you; and it is naturally so, since your extreme
condition has left you no other delight, no other pleasure, no other consolation;
and this gift is your falcon, which my son is so taken by that if I do not bring it to
him, I fear his sickness will grow so much worse that I may lose him. And therefore
I beg you, not because of the love that you bear for me, which does not oblige
you in the least, but because of your own nobility, which you have shown to be
greater than that of all others in practicing courtliness, that you be pleased to
give it to me, so that I may say that I have saved the life of my son by means of
this gift, and because of it I have placed him in your debt forever.”

When he heard what the lady requested and knew that he could not oblige her
since he had given her the falcon to eat, Federigo began to weep in her
presence, for he could not utter a word in reply. The lady, at first, thought his
tears were caused more by the sorrow of having to part with the good falcon
than by anything else, and she was on the verge of telling him she no longer
wished it, but she held back and waited for Federigo’s reply after he stopped
weeping. And he said:

“My lady, ever since it pleased God for me to place my love in you, I have felt
that Fortune has been hostile to me in many things, and I have complained of
her, but all this is nothing compared to what she has just done to me, and I must
never be at peace with her again, thinking about how you have come here to
my poor home where, while it was rich, you never deigned to come, and you
requested a small gift, and Fortune worked to make it impossible for me to give
it to you; and why this is so I shall tell you briefly. When I heard that you, out of
your kindness, wished to dine with me, I considered it fitting and right, taking into
account your excellence and your worthiness, that I should honor you,
according to my possibilities, with a more precious food than that which I usually
serve to other people; therefore, remembering the falcon that you requested
and its value, I judged it a food worthy of you, and this very day you had it
roasted and served to you as best I could; but seeing now that you desired it in
another way, my sorrow in not being able to serve you is so great that I shall
never be able to console myself again.”

And after he had said this, he laid the feathers, the feet, and the beak of the
bird before her as proof. When the lady heard and saw this, she first reproached
him for having killed such a falcon to serve as a meal to a woman; but then to
herself she commended the greatness of his spirit, which no poverty was able or
would be able to diminish; then, having lost all hope of getting the falcon and,
perhaps because of this, of improving the health of her son as well, she thanked
Federigo both for the honor paid to her and for his good will, and she left in grief,
and returned to her son. To his mother’s extreme sorrow, either because of his
disappointment that he could not have the falcon, or because his illness must
have necessarily led to it, the boy passed from this life only a few days later.
After the period of her mourning and bitterness had passed, the lady was
repeatedly urged by her brothers to remarry, since she was very rich and was still
young; and although she did not wish to do so, they became so insistent that
she remembered the merits of Federigo and his last act of generosity—that is, to
have killed such a falcon to do her honor—and she said to her brothers:

“I would prefer to remain a widow, if that would please you; but if you wish me
to take a husband, you may rest assured that I shall take no man but Federigo
degli Alberighi.”
In answer to this, making fun of her, her brothers replied:

“You foolish woman, what are you saying? How can you want him; he hasn’t a
penny to his name?”

To this she replied: “My brothers, I am well aware of what you say, but I would
rather have a man who needs money than money that needs a man.”

Her brothers, seeing that she was determined and knowing Federigo to be of
noble birth, no matter how poor he was, accepted her wishes and gave her in
marriage to him with all her riches. When he found himself the husband of such
a great lady, whom he had loved so much and who was so wealthy besides, he
managed his financial affairs with more prudence than in the past and lived
with her happily the rest of his days.
 Gettysburg Address

Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new
nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created
equal.

Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so
conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that
war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those
who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper
that we should do this.

But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate -- we can not consecrate -- we can not
hallow -- this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have
consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract.

The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget
what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished
work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to
be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us -- that from these honored dead
we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of
devotion -- that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain -- that
this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom -- and that government of the
people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

-- Abraham Lincoln

Nov. 19, 1863