Домашнє читання на уроках англійської мови
All Summer in a Day
(by Ray Bradbury)
"Ready?"
"Ready."
"Now?"
"Soon."
"Do the scientists really know? Will it happen today, will it?"
"Look, look; see for yourself!"
The children pressed to each other like so many roses, so many weeds, intermixed, peering out for a look at the hidden sun.
It rained.
It had been raining for seven years; thousands upon thousands of days compounded and filled from one end to the other with rain, with the drum and gush of water, with the sweet crystal fall of showers and the concussion of storms so heavy they were tidal waves come over the islands. A thousand forests had been crushed under the rain and grown up a thousand times to be crushed again. And this was the way life was forever on the planet Venus, and this was the school room of the children of the rocket men and women who had come to a raining world to set up civilization and live out their lives.
"It’s stopping, it’s stopping!"
"Yes, yes!"
Margot stood apart from them, from these children who could ever remember a time when there wasn’t rain and rain and rain. They were all nine years old, and if there had been a day, seven years ago, when the sun came out for an hour and showed its face to the stunned world, they could not recall. Sometimes, at night, she heard them stir, in remembrance, and she knew they were dreaming and remembering gold or a yellow crayon or a coin large enough to buy the world with. She knew they thought they remembered a warmness, like a blushing in the face, in the body, in the arms and legs and trembling hands. But then they always awoke to the tatting drum, the endless shaking down of clear bead necklaces upon the roof, the walk, the gardens, the forests, and their dreams were gone.
All day yesterday they had read in class about the sun. About how like a lemon it was, and how hot. And they had written small stories or essays or poems about it:
I think the sun is a flower,
That blooms for just one hour.
That was Margot’s poem, read in a quiet voice in the still classroom while the rain was falling outside.
"Aw, you didn’t write that!" protested one of the boys.
"I did," said Margot. "I did."
"William!" said the teacher.
But that was yesterday. Now the rain was slackening, and the children were crushed in the great thick windows.
Where’s teacher?"
"She’ll be back."
"She’d better hurry, we’ll miss it!"
They turned on themselves, like a feverish wheel, all tumbling spokes. Margot stood alone. She was a very frail girl who looked as if she had been lost in the rain for years and the rain had washed out the blue from her eyes and the red from her mouth and the yellow from her hair. She was an old photograph dusted from an album, whitened away, and if she spoke at all her voice would be a ghost. Now she stood, separate, staring at the rain and the loud wet world beyond the huge glass.
"What’re you looking at?" said William.
Margot said nothing.
"Speak when you’re spoken to."
He gave her a shove. But she did not move; rather she let herself be moved only by him and nothing else. They edged away from her, they would not look at her. She felt them go away. And this was because she would play no games with them in the echoing tunnels of the underground city. If they tagged her and ran, she stood blinking after them and did not follow. When the class sang songs about happiness and life and games her lips barely moved. Only when they sang about the sun and the summer did her lips move as she watched the drenched windows. And then, of course, the biggest crime of all was that she had come here only five years ago from Earth, and she remembered the sun and the way the sun was and the sky was when she was four in Ohio. And they, they had been on Venus all their lives, and they had been only two years old when last the sun came out and had long since forgotten the color and heat of it and the way it really was.
But Margot remembered.
"It’s like a penny," she said once, eyes closed.
"No it’s not!" the children cried.
"It’s like a fire," she said, "in the stove."
"You’re lying, you don’t remember!" cried the children.
But she remembered and stood quietly apart from all of them and watched the patterning windows. And once, a month ago, she had refused to shower in the school shower rooms, had clutched her hands to her ears and over her head, screaming the water mustn’t touch her head. So after that, dimly, dimly, she sensed it, she was different and they knew her difference and kept away. There was talk that her father and mother were taking her back to Earth next year; it seemed vital to her that they do so, though it would mean the loss of thousands of dollars to her family. And so, the children hated her for all these reasons of big and little consequence. They hated her pale snow face, her waiting silence, her thinness, and her possible future.
"Get away!" The boy gave her another push. "What’re you waiting for?"
Then, for the first time, she turned and looked at him. And what she was waiting for was in her eyes.
"Well, don’t wait around here!" cried the boy savagely. "You won’t see nothing!"
Her lips moved.
"Nothing!" he cried. "It was all a joke, wasn’t it?" He turned to the other children. "Nothing’s happening today. Is it?"
They all blinked at him and then, understanding, laughed and shook their heads.
"Nothing, nothing!"
"Oh, but," Margot whispered, her eyes helpless. "But this is the day, the scientists predict, they say, they know, the sun…"
"All a joke!" said the boy, and seized her roughly. "Hey, everyone, let’s put her in a closet before the teacher comes!"
"No," said Margot, falling back.
They surged about her, caught her up and bore her, protesting, and then pleading, and then crying, back into a tunnel, a room, a closet, where they slammed and locked the door. They stood looking at the door and saw it tremble from her beating and throwing herself against it. They heard her muffled cries. Then, smiling, the turned and went out and back down the tunnel, just as the teacher arrived.
"Ready, children?" She glanced at her watch.
"Yes!" said everyone.
"Are we all here?"
"Yes!"
The rain slacked still more.
They crowded to the huge door.
The rain stopped.
It was as if, in the midst of a film concerning an avalanche, a tornado, a hurricane, a volcanic eruption, something had, first, gone wrong with the sound apparatus, thus muffling and finally cutting off all noise, all of the blasts and repercussions and thunders, and then, second, ripped the film from the projector and inserted in its place a beautiful tropical slide which did not move or tremor. The world ground to a standstill. The silence was so immense and unbelievable that you felt your ears had been stuffed or you had lost your hearing altogether. The children put their hands to their ears. They stood apart. The door slid back and the smell of the silent, waiting world came in to them.
The sun came out.
It was the color of flaming bronze and it was very large. And the sky around it was a blazing blue tile color. And the jungle burned with sunlight as the children, released from their spell, rushed out, yelling into the springtime.
"Now, don’t go too far," called the teacher after them. "You’ve only two hours, you know. You wouldn’t want to get caught out!"
But they were running and turning their faces up to the sky and feeling the sun on their cheeks like a warm iron; they were taking off their jackets and letting the sun burn their arms.
"Oh, it’s better than the sun lamps, isn’t it?"
"Much, much better!"
They stopped running and stood in the great jungle that covered Venus, that grew and never stopped growing, tumultuously, even as you watched it. It was a nest of octopi, clustering up great arms of fleshlike weed, wavering, flowering in this brief spring. It was the color of rubber and ash, this jungle, from the many years without sun. It was the color of stones and white cheeses and ink, and it was the color of the moon.
The children lay out, laughing, on the jungle mattress, and heard it sigh and squeak under them resilient and alive. They ran among the trees, they slipped and fell, they pushed each other, they played hide-and-seek and tag, but most of all they squinted at the sun until the tears ran down their faces; they put their hands up to that yellowness and that amazing blueness and they breathed of the fresh, fresh air and listened and listened to the silence which suspended them in a blessed sea of no sound and no motion. They looked at everything and savored everything. Then, wildly, like animals escaped from their caves, they ran and ran in shouting circles. They ran for an hour and did not stop running.
And then -
In the midst of their running one of the girls wailed.
Everyone stopped.
The girl, standing in the open, held out her hand.
"Oh, look, look," she said, trembling.
They came slowly to look at her opened palm.
In the center of it, cupped and huge, was a single raindrop. She began to cry, looking at it. They glanced quietly at the sun.
"Oh. Oh."
A few cold drops fell on their noses and their cheeks and their mouths. The sun faded behind a stir of mist. A wind blew cold around them. They turned and started to walk back toward the underground house, their hands at their sides, their smiles vanishing away.
A boom of thunder startled them and like leaves before a new hurricane, they tumbled upon each other and ran. Lightning struck ten miles away, five miles away, a mile, a half mile. The sky darkened into midnight in a flash.
They stood in the doorway of the underground for a moment until it was raining hard. Then they closed the door and heard the gigantic sound of the rain falling in tons and avalanches, everywhere and forever.
"Will it be seven more years?"
"Yes. Seven."
Then one of them gave a little cry.
"Margot!"
"What?"
"She’s still in the closet where we locked her."
"Margot."
They stood as if someone had driven them, like so many stakes, into the floor. They looked at each other and then looked away. They glanced out at the world that was raining now and raining and raining steadily. They could not meet each other’s glances. Their faces were solemn and pale. They looked at their hands and feet, their faces down.
"Margot."
One of the girls said, "Well…?"
No one moved.
"Go on," whispered the girl.
They walked slowly down the hall in the sound of cold rain. They turned through the doorway to the room in the sound of the storm and thunder, lightning on their faces, blue and terrible. They walked over to the closet door slowly and stood by it.
Behind the closet door was only silence.
They unlocked the door, even more slowly, and let Margot out.
Mike Krath
A Most Ambitious Experiment
"Now," Robert told his wife, "I am going on a long trip. You won't see me for years, but I will come back and see you."
"Where are you going?"
"I am going into the future. I am sure you will be angry when you see me, but it won't be for long, because once I have seen you, I will then vanish again and you will see me standing in this very spot exactly five minutes from now."
Robert's wife was puzzled.
"I am curious what our 401k will do if I invest in certain options and leave them," he said. "I've decided to go twenty years into the future and see the outcome."
"What if you can't come back?"
A slight pause - then, "I hope I made the right choice."
"What do you want for dinner?"
"I wouldn't make anything for me now, but, five minutes later, I will tell you what I want."
Robert left for the basement. His wife, still confused, but knowing that Robert was a puzzling man, went to the kitchen to make dinner, with or without her husband's request. She was quite unsure what to make of all of it, but, after a few minutes, she quickly forgot the conversation.
Later in the afternoon, Robert's wife walked over to the basement door and knocked. She waited. She knocked again, and, again, nothing. Finally, she opened the door and walked down to the laboratory. Robert was nowhere to be seen. She hadn't heard him come up. Where had he gone?
When supper was ready, and the light outside turned a dim color, Robert's wife called out his name, but no one answered. The house was quite still.
"I don't like this," she thought. "He's never been late for dinner before."
Robert's dinner grew cold, and his wife placed it in the oven to keep warm hoping he would notice it when he came back. In the morning, Robert's plate was still warm in the oven. He had never touched it. His wife looked for him once again and called out his name, but it was to no avail - he wasn't in the house.
After several days, Robert's wife contacted the authorities and told them what had happened. They searched the house for clues, but all they could find was a slightly discolored spot on the basement floor.
"Did he say anything before he left?" they asked.
"I'll be back in five minutes," she said.
After the authorities had left, and after several more days, weeks and months, the case was officially closed. Robert was missing, but since no foul play could be determined, it was decided that he had just deserted his wife. Robert's wife was not pleased.
Years passed, and Robert's wife was able to secure a job that kept her living slightly above poverty level. Day after day, while working, she cursed her husband for leaving her. She would never forgive him. Never! Her face became more wrinkled and the pretty smile she once wore turned into a permanent scowl.
Finally, twenty years to the day her husband had left, Robert's wife was sitting at the kitchen table when she heard a noise coming from the basement. She immediately got up in fright. Who was down there? She heard footsteps slowly walking up the stairs and - finally - the door flew open and there, before her eyes, was none other than Robert. He didn't look any different than when he had left.
"Okay, what's the value of our 401K?" Robert asked.
"Where have you been?"
"That doesn't matter. What matters is the value of our 401K. I need to know if I invested wisely or not."
"You left me twenty years ago with nothing to live in and expect to find anything left of the 401k?"
"You spent it all?" Robert asked. "Oh great - that's just great. I'll be right back."
Robert turned and went down into the basement.
"Robert? Robert, where are you?" Robert's wife said but suddenly saw a brilliant blue flash of light and then nothing. Robert had vanished once again.
Robert's wife went back to the dining table. She sat down and tried to think of what had happened. Her mind was muddled. She couldn't think. The 401k had been - had been - she thought - left untouched when Robert had first left, but now - she was beginning to remember different things. The 401k had been placed in a trust. A trust where she couldn't touch the money for twenty years. Then, she remembered that when the authorities had informed her that Robert had deserted her and was never located, that she had him declared legally dead so the trust would be legally hers without waiting for twenty years.
Another flash of light in the basement, more footsteps, and Robert walked into the kitchen.
"The value?"
"I told you I spent it."
"I put it in a trust."
"I had you declared legally dead." Robert's wife said.
"Oh bother," Robert said. "I'll be back again."
A flash of light and Robert's wife was again confused.
"Did I say spent it? Spent what?" she thought. She had tried to obtain some money after Robert had left her. When she had gone to inquire how much was in their 401k, she had found out that Robert had withdrawn the money and had hidden it somewhere - but where?
Another light and Robert was there in the kitchen again.
"Do you know how much you put me through? You left me nothing to live on."
"This will all be a bad dream," Robert said.
"If it wasn't for some gold coins that I found buried in the backyard, I would never have survived."
"You found the gold coins?"
"So that's where you hid the money!" Robert's wife said. "Good. I'm glad I found it and spent it all!"
Robert went back into the basement and disappeared. His wife sat still for awhile expecting him to appear, but he never did. She got up and went to cook. She thought of her husband and tried to remain bitter against him. She suddenly couldn't think of what would make her bitter. Deserted her? He had never deserted. What an imagination she must have. As she opened a cupboard, Robert walked into the kitchen.
"Have you decided what you want for dinner?" she asked. "I haven't started making anything yet."
"Leave me alone, I'm not hungry," Robert said and sat down at the kitchen table.
"What's wrong?"
"Can't you keep your grubby hands off our money for twenty years?"
"What?"
"You can't let me leave you for a measly twenty years without spending everything we have, can you?"
"What are you talking about, honey? You haven't been gone for five minutes and already something is troubling you."
Robert looked at the wife of his youth.
What if he killed her? He could strangle her now, go into the future, see what the 401k did, come back a few minutes before, and live happily ever after.
"May I see that dish towel for a sec?"
Robert's wife handed it to him, and, much to her desperate surprise, he tied it around her neck and choked her, all the while telling her, "Don't worry, this is just an experiment."
Robert went back down into the basement, and twenty years later reappeared in a flash of light.
"Who's down there?" a man asked walking down the basement stairs.
Robert hadn't thought of this. He looked for somewhere to hide, but it was too late. The new owner of the house had a rifle.
"Say your prayers."
"Wait! I can explain!", but it was too late. Robert was immediately shot and fell backwards quite dead - a most miserable end to a most ambitious experiment.
An Egg
by Andy Weir
It was a car accident. Nothing particularly remarkable, but fatal nonetheless. You left behind a wife and two children. It was a painless death. The EMTs tried their best to save you, but to no avail. Your body was so utterly shattered you were better off, trust me.
And that's when you met me.
"What... what happened?" You asked. "Where am I?"
"You died," I said, matter-of-factly. No point mincing words.
"There was a... a truck and it was skidding..."
"Yup." I said
"I... I died?"
"Yup. But don't feel bad about it. Everyone dies." I said.
You looked around. There was nothingness. Just you and me. "What is this place?" You asked. "Is this the afterlife?"
"More or less," I said.
"Are you God?" You asked.
"Yup." I replied. "I'm God."
"My kids... my wife," you said.
"What about them?"
"Will they be alright?"
"That what I like to see," I said. "You just died and your main concern is for your family. That's good stuff right there."
You looked at me with fascination. To you, I didn't look like God. I just looked like some man. Some vague authority figure. More of a grammar school teacher than the almighty.
"Don't worry," I said. "They'll be fine. Your kids will remember you as perfect in every way. They didn't have time to grow contempt for you. Your wife will cry on the outside, but will be secretly relieved. To be fair, your marriage was falling apart. If it's any consolation, she'll feel very guilty for feeling relieved."
"Oh," you said. "So what happens now? Do I go to heaven or hell or something?"
"Neither," I said. "You'll be reincarnated."
"Ah," you said. "So the Hindus were right."
"All the religions are right in their own way," I said. "Walk with me."
You followed along as we strolled in the void. "Where are we going?" "Nowhere in particular," I said. "It's just nice to walk while we talk."
"So what's the point, then?" You asked. "When I get reborn, I'll just be a blank slate, right? A baby. So all my experiences and everything I did in this life won't matter."
"Not so!" I said. "You have within you all the knowledge and experiences of all your past lives. You just don't remember them right now."
I stopped walking and took you by the shoulders. "Your soul is more magnificent, beautiful, and gigantic than you can possibly imagine. A human mind can only contain a tiny fraction of what you are. It's like sticking your finger in a glass of water to see if it's hot or cold. You put a tiny part or yourself into the vessel, and when you bring it back out, you've gained all the experiences it had."
"You've been a human for the last 34 years, so you haven't stretched out yet and felt the rest of your immense consciousness. If we hung out here for longer, you'd start remembering everything. But there's no point doing that between each life."
"How many times have I been reincarnated, then?"
"Oh, lots. Lots and lots. And into lots of different lives." I said. "This time around you'll be a Chinese peasant girl in 540 A.D."
"Wait, what?" You stammered. "You're sending me back in time?"
"Well, I guess technically. Time, as you know it, only exists in your universe. Things are different where I come from."
"Where do you come from?" You pondered.
"Oh sure!" I explained. "I come from somewhere. Somewhere else. And there are others like me. I know you'll want to know what it's like there but you honestly won't understand."
"Oh." you said, a little let down. "But wait. If I get reincarnated to other places in time, could I have interacted with myself at some point?"
"Sure. Happens all the time. And with both lives only aware of their own timespan you don't even know it's happening."
"So what's the point of it all?"
"Seriously?" I asked. "Seriously? Your asking me for the meaning of life? Isn't that a little stereotypical?"
"Well it's a reasonable question." you persisted.
I looked in your eye. "The meaning of life, the reason I made this whole universe, is for you to mature."
"You mean mankind? You want us to mature?"
"No. just you. I made this whole universe for you. With each new life you grow and mature, and become a larger and greater intellect"
"Just me? What about everyone else?"
"There is no one else," I said. "In this universe, there's just you, and me."
You stared blankly at me. "But all the people on earth..."
"All you. Different incarnations of you."
"Wait. I'm everyone!?"
"Now you're getting it." I said, with a congratulatory slap on the back.
"I'm every human who ever lived?"
"Or who will ever live, yes."
"I'm Abraham Lincoln?"
"And you're John Wilkes Booth, too." I added.
"I'm Hitler?" you said, appalled.
"And you're the millions he killed."
"I'm Jesus?"
"And you're everyone who followed him."
You fell silent.
"Every time you victimized someone," I said, "You were victimizing yourself. Every act of kindness you've done, you've done to yourself. Every happy and sad moment ever experienced by any human was, or will be, experienced by you."
"Why?" You asked me. "Why do all this?"
"Because someday, you will become like me. Because that's what you are. You're one of my kind. You're my child."
"Whoa." you said, incredulous. "You mean I'm a god?"
"No. Not yet. You're a fetus. You're still growing. Once you've lived every human life throughout all time, you will have grown enough to be born."
"So the whole universe," you said. "It's just..."
"An egg of sorts." I answered. "Now its time for you to move on to your next life."
And with that, I sent you on your way.
A SERVICE OF LOVE
by O. Henry
Joe Larrabee dreamed of becoming a great artist. Even when he was six, people in the little western town where he lived used to say, "Joe has great talent, he will become a famous artist." At twenty, he left his home town and went to New York. He had his dreams — but very little money.
Delia had her dreams too. She played the piano so well in the little southern village where she lived that her family said, "She must finish her musical training in New York." With great difficulty they collected enough money to send her north "to finish".
Joe and Delia got acquainted at a friend's house where some art and music students had gathered to discuss art, music and the newest plays. They fell in love with each other, and in a short time they married.
Mr. and Mrs. Larrabee began their married life in a little room. But they were happy, for they had their Art, and they had each other. Joe was painting in, he class of the great Magister. Mr. Magister got a lot of money for his pictures — and he took a lot of money for his lessons. Delia was taking piano lessons from the great Rosenstock, and he was taking a lot of money from Delia.
The two young dreamers were very, very happy while their money lasted. But it didn't last very long. Soon, they didn't have enough to pay for their lessons and eat three times a day. When one loves one's Art, no service seems too hard. So Delia decided she must stop taking lessons and give lessons herself. She began to look for pupils. One evening, she came home very excited, with shining eyes.
"Joe, dear," she announced happily, "I've got a pupil. General Pinkney — I mean — his daughter, Clementina. He's very rich, and they have a wonderful house. She's so beautiful — she dresses in white; and she's so nice and pleasant! I'm going to give her three lessons a week; and just think, Joe! Five dollars a lesson. Now, dear, don't look so worried, and let's have supper. I've bought some very nice fish."
But Joe refused to listen to her. "That's all right for you, Dellie, but all wrong for me," he protested. "Do you suppose I'm going to let you work while I continue to study Art? No! Never! I can get a job as a mechanic or clean windows. I'll get some kind of work."
Delia threw her arms around him. "Joe, dear, you mustn't think of leaving Mr. Magister and your Art. I am not giving up music. The lessons won't interfere with my music. While I teach, I learn, and I can go back to Rosenstock when I get a few more pupils."
"All right," said Joe. "But giving lessons isn't Art."
"When one loves one's Art, no service seems too hard," said Delia.
During the next week, Mr. and Mrs. Larrabee had breakfast very early. Joe was painting some pictures in Central Park, and he needed the morning light especially, he said. Time flies when you love Art, and it was usually seven o'clock in the evening when Joe returned home. At the end of the week, Delia, very proud but a little tired, put fifteen dollars on the table. "Sometimes," she said, "Clementina is a very dif f icult pupil. And she always wears white. I'm tired of seeing the same colour."
And then Joe, with the manner of Monte Cristo, pulled eighteen dollars out of his pocket and put it on the table too. "I sold one of my pictures to a man from Washington," he said. "And now, he wants a picture of the East River to take with him to Washington."
"I'm so glad you haven't given up your Art, dear," Delia said. "You are sure to win! Thirty-three dollars! We have never had so much money to spend."
The next Saturday evening, Joe came home first. He put his money on the table and then washed what seemed to look like a lot of paint from his hands. Half an hour later, Delia arrived. There was a big bandage on her right hand. "Dellie, dear, what has happened? What is the matter with your hand?" Joe asked.
Delia laughed, but not very happily. "Clementina," she explained, "asked me to have lunch with her and the General af ter our lesson. She's not very strong, you know, and when she was giving me some tea, her hand shook and she spilled a lot of very hot water over my hand. But General Pinkney bandaged my hand himself. They were both so sorry. Oh, Joe, did you sell another picture?" She had seen the money on the table.
"Yes," said Joe. "To the man from Washington. What time this afternoon did you burn your hand, Dellie?"
"Five o'clock, I think," said Delia. "The iron — the water was very hot. And Clementina cried, and General Pinkney..."
Joe put his arms round Delia. "Where are you working, Dellie? Tell me," he asked in a serious voice.
Delia was about to say something, but-suddenly tears appeared in her eyes and she began to cry. "I couldn't get any pupils," she said. "And I didn't want you to stop taking lessons, so I got a job ironing shirts in the big laundry on Twenty-Fourth Street. This afternoon, I burned my hand with a hot iron. Don't be angry with me, Joe. I did it for your Art. And now, you have painted those pictures for the rrian from Washington..."
"He isn't from Washington," said Joe slowly.
"It makes no difference where he is from," said Delia. "How clever you are, Joe! How did you guess that I wasn't giving music lessons?"
“I guessed”, Joe said, "because about five o'clock this afternoon, I sent some oil up to the ironing-room. They said a girl had burned her hand. You see, dear, I work as a mechanic in that same laundry on Twenty-Fourth Street."
“And the man from Washington…?”
“Yes, dear”, Joe said. “The man from Washington and General Pinkney are both creations of the same art, but you cannot call it painting or music”. And they both began to laugh.
“You know, dear”, Joe said. “When one loves one’s Art, no service seems…”
But Delia stopped him with her hand on his mouth. “No”, she said, “just — “when one loves”.”
Beyond Pandora
by Robert J. Martin
The doctor's pen paused over the chart on his desk, "This is your third set of teeth, I believe?"
His patient nodded, "That's right, Doctor. But they were pretty slow coming in this time."
The doctor looked up quizzically, "Is that the only reason you think you might need a booster shot?"
"Oh, no ... of course not!" The man leaned forward and placed one hand, palm up, on the desk. "Last year I had an accident ... stupid ... lost a thumb." He shrugged apologetically, "It took almost six months to grow back."
Thoughtfully, the doctor leaned back in his chair, "Hm-m-m ... I see." As the man before him made an involuntary movement toward his pocket, the doctor smiled, "Go on, smoke if you want to." Picking up the chart, he murmured, "Six months ... much too long. Strange we didn't catch that at the time." He read silently for a few moments, then began to fill out a form clipped to the folder. "Well, I think you probably are due for another booster about now. There'll have to be the usual tests. Not that there's much doubt ... we like to be certain."
The middle-aged man seemed relieved. Then, on second thought, he hesitated uneasily, "Why? Is there any danger?"
Amusement flickered across the doctor's face, turned smoothly into a reassuring half-smile. "Oh, no. There's absolutely no danger involved. None at all. We have tissue-regeneration pretty well under control now. Still, I'm sure you understand that accurate records and data are very necessary to further research and progress."
Reassured, the patient thawed and became confidential, "I see. Well, I suppose it's kinda silly, but I don't much like shots. It's not that they hurt ... it's just that I guess I'm old-fashioned. I still feel kinda 'creepy' about the whole business." Slightly embarrassed, he paused and asked defensively, "Is that unusual?"
The doctor smiled openly now, "Not at all, not at all. Things have moved pretty fast in the past few years. I suppose it takes people's emotional reactions a while to catch up with developments that, logically, we accept as matter of fact."
He pushed his chair back from the desk, "Maybe it's not too hard to understand. Take 'fire' for example: Man lived in fear of fire for a good many hundred-thousand years—and rightly so, because he hadn't learned to control it. The principle's the same; First you learn to protect yourself from a thing; then control it; and, eventually, we learn to 'harness' it for a useful purpose." He gestured toward the man's cigarette, "Even so, man still instinctively fears fire—even while he uses it. In the case of tissue-regeneration, where the change took place so rapidly, in just a generation or so, that instinctive fear is even more understandable—although quite as unjustified, I assure you."
The doctor stood up, indicating that the session was ending. While his patient scrambled to his feet, hastily putting out his cigarette, the physician came around the desk. He put his hand on the man's shoulder, "Relax, take it easy—nothing to worry about. This is a wonderful age we live in. Barring a really major accident, there's no reason why you shouldn't live at least another seventy-five years. After all, that's a very remarkable viral-complex we have doing your 'repair' work."
As they walked to the door, the man shook his head, "Guess you're right, Doc. It's certainly done a good job so far, and I guess you specialists know what you're doing, even if folks don't understand it."
At the door he paused and half turned to the doctor, "But say ... something I meant to ask you. This 'stuff' ... er, this vaccine ... where did it come from? Seems to me I heard somewhere that, way back before you fellows got it 'tamed' it was something else—dangerous. There was another name for it. Do you know what I mean?"
The doctor's hand tightened on the doorknob. "Yes, I know," he said grimly, "but not many laymen remember. Just keep in mind what I told you. With any of these things, the pattern is protection, then control, then useful application." He turned to face his patient, "Back in the days before we put it to work for us—rebuilding tissue, almost ending aging and disease—the active basis for our vaccine caused a whole group of diseases, in itself."
Returning the man's searching gaze, the doctor opened the door, "We've come a long way since then. You see," he said quietly, "in those days they called it 'cancer'."
Neighbours
Alberto took one look at his new neighbours and knew that his life was going to get more difficult. He watched them arrive in their big, noisy car and watched them get out. There they were, two of them, as big and as noisy as their car, and smelly and stupid as well.
'Terrible!' he thought. 'How am I going to put up with them?' He went to tell Mimi. Mimi was the friend he lived with.
'Have you seen the new neighbours?' he asked her.
'No' she said. 'Who are they?'
'Two of them. The ones we don’t like. Big and noisy and stupid and smelly. Just like they always are.'
'Oh, no' said Mimi. 'How awful! Still, I suppose we can just ignore them.'
'I suppose you’re right' agreed Alberto. 'We’ll just have to ignore them.'
For a few days, then, Alberto and Mimi tried to ignore their new neighbours. When the neighbours went out for a walk, Alberto and Mimi didn’t say hello to them. When the neighbours were in their garden, Alberto and Mimi went inside. This was ok for a few days, but, perhaps inevitably, things didn’t stay this way …
One day Alberto woke up from his sleep to find one of the neighbours in his garden. “Mimi!” he shouted. 'Have you seen this!? He’s in our garden!!!! Look!'
'How terrible” said Mimi. 'Let’s call our staff and make sure they get rid of him immediately!'
Mimi went off to call their staff. Two minutes later Alberto and Mimi’s head of staff was out in the garden trying to get rid of the unwelcome neighbour. 'Go on!' he shouted. 'Get out of here! Go home!' The neighbour didn’t say anything, but gave Alberto and Mimi’s head of staff a dirty look, then he went back into his garden. Alberto and Mimi felt better, and then asked their head of staff to prepare their lunch for them.
However, it wasn’t enough. Over the next few days Alberto and Mimi often found one or other or both of their new neighbours walking around their own garden. It was terrible. To show how they felt, Alberto and Mimi went into their neighbours’ garden, at night, when the neighbours were inside, and broke all the flowers.
The next morning one of the neighbours came to talk to Alberto.
'Hey!' he said. 'Hey you!' Alberto ignored him, but he continued talking. 'You came into our garden last night and broke all the flowers!' Alberto didn’t say anything, but gave his neighbour a dirty look. 'Now I’m in trouble! continued his neighbour. They think I did it!'
'Who are ‘they’?' asked Alberto.
'My owners, of course … 'replied the neighbour.
'Owners !!???' said Alberto. 'You have ‘owners’?'
'Course we do' said his neighbour. 'Don’t you?'
'Oh no' replied Alberto. 'We have staff.'
Alberto went to tell Mimi that the neighbours didn’t have staff, but they had owners.
'That’s not a surprise' said Mimi. 'That explains everything. That’s why they’re so noisy and smelly and stupid. We need to make their "owners" become "staff.
The next day, Alberto and Mimi were actually very friendly with their new neighbours. They tried to explain how to make their owners become "staff."
'Listen' said Alberto to them. 'It’s very easy. First, understand that the house is your house, not theirs … '
'And second' said Mimi, 'make sure that you are always clean.'
'Make sure they give you food whenever you want!'
'Sit on the newspaper while they are reading it!'
'Sleep as much as possible – on their beds!'
'And finally, try not to bark, but to miaow instead.'
But it was no good. The neighbours just didn’t understand. After a week, they gave up.
'It’s no good' said Mimi. 'They’ll never understand – dogs have owners, cats have staff.'
The Exact Science of Matrimony (by O. Henry)
Jeff Peters and Andy Tucker could never be trusted. One day, the two men decided to open a marriage business to make some quick and easy money. The first thing they did was to write an advertisement to be published in newspapers. Their advertisement read like this:
"A charming widow, beautiful and home-loving, would like to remarry. She is only thirty-two years old. She has three thousand dollars in cash and owns valuable property in the country. She would like a poor man with a loving heart. No objection to an older man or to one who is not good-looking. But he needs to be faithful and true, can take care of property and invest money with good judgment. Give address, with details about yourself. Signed: Lonely, care of Peters and Tucker, agents, Cairo, Illinois."
When they finished writing the ad, Jeff Peters said to Andy Tucker: "So far, so good. And now, where is the lady?"
Andy gave Jeff an unhappy look. "What does a marriage advertisement have to do with a lady?" he asked.
"Now listen," Jeff answered. "You know my rule, Andy. In all illegal activities, we must obey the law, in every detail. Something offered for sale must exist. It must be seen. You must be able to produce it. That is how I have kept out of trouble with the police. Now, for this business to work, we must be able to produce a charming widow, with or without the beauty, as advertised."
"Well," said Andy, after thinking it over, "it might be better, if the United States Post Office should decide to investigate our marriage agency. But where can you hope to find a widow who would waste her time on a marriage proposal that has no marriage in it?"
Jeff said that he knew just such a woman.
"An old friend of mine, Zeke Trotter," he said, "used to work in a tent show. He made his wife a widow by drinking too much of the wrong kind of alcohol. I used to stop at their house often. I think we can get her to work with us."
Missus Zeke Trotter lived in a small town not far away. Jeff Peters went out to see her. She was not beautiful and not so young. But she seemed all right to Jeff.
"Is this an honest deal you are putting on, Mister Peters?" she asked when he told her what he wanted.
"Missus Trotter," said Jeff, "three thousand men will seek to marry you to get your money and property. What are they prepared to give in exchange? Nothing! Nothing but the bones of a lazy, dishonest, good-for-nothing fortune-seeker. We will teach them something. This will be a great moral campaign. Does that satisfy you?"
"It does, Mister Peters," she said. "But what will my duties be? Do I have to personally reject these three thousand good-for-nothings you speak of? Or can I throw them out in bunches?"
Jeff explained that her job would be easy. She would live in a quiet hotel and have no work to do. He and Andy would take care of all letters and the business end of the plot. But he warned her that some of the men might come to see her in person. Then, she would have to meet them face-to-face and reject them. She would be paid twenty-five dollars a week and hotel costs.
"Give me five minutes to get ready," Missus Trotter said. "Then you can start paying me."
So Jeff took her to the city and put her in a hotel far enough from Jeff and Andy's place to cause no suspicion.
Jeff Peters and Andy Tucker were now ready to catch a few fish on the hook. They placed their advertisement in newspapers across the country. They put two thousand dollars in a bank in Missus Trotter's name. They gave her the bank book to show if anyone questioned the honesty of their marriage agency. They were sure that Missus Trotter could be trusted and that it was safe to leave the money in her name.
Their ad in the newspapers started a flood of letters – more than one hundred a day. Jeff and Andy worked twelve hours a day answering them. Most of the men wrote that they had lost their jobs. The world misunderstood them. But they were full of love and other good qualities.
Jeff and Andy answered every letter with high praise for the writer. They asked the men to send a photograph and more details. And they told them to include two dollars to cover the cost of giving the second letter to the charming widow.
Almost all the men sent in the two dollars requested. It seemed to be an easy business. Still, Andy and Jeff often spoke about the trouble of cutting open envelopes and taking the money out.
A few of the men came in person. Jeff and Andy sent them to Missus Trotter and she did the rest. Soon, Jeff and Andy were receiving about two hundred dollars a day. One day, a federal postal inspector came by. But Jeff satisfied him that they were not breaking the law.
After about three months, Jeff and Andy had collected more than five thousand dollars, and they decided it was time to stop. Some people were beginning to question their honesty. And, Missus Trotter seemed to have grown tired of her job. Too many men had come to see her and she did not like that.
Jeff went to Missus Trotter's hotel to pay her what she was owed, and to say goodbye. He also wanted her to repay the two thousand dollars that was put into her bank account.
When Jeff walked into the room she was crying, like a child who did not want to go to school.
"Now, now," he said. "What's it all about? Somebody hurt you? Are you getting homesick?"
"No, Mister Peters," she said. "I'll tell you. You were always a good friend of my husband Zeke. Mister Peters, I am in love. I just love a man so hard I can't bear not to get him. He's just the kind I've always had in mind."
"Then take him," said Jeff. "Does he feel the same way about you?"
"He does," Missus Trotter answered. "But there is a problem. He is one of the men who have been coming to see me in answer to your advertisement. And he will not marry me unless I give him the two thousand dollars. His name is William Wilkinson."
Jeff felt sorry for her. He said he would be glad to let her give the two thousand dollars to Mister Wilkinson, so that she could be happy. But he said he had to talk to his partner about it.
Jeff returned to his hotel and discussed it with Andy.
"I was expecting something like this," Andy said. "You can't trust a woman to stick with you in any plan that involves her emotions."
Jeff said it was a sad thing to think that they were the cause of the breaking of a woman's heart. Andy agreed with him.
"I'll tell you what I am willing to do," said Andy. "Jeff, you have always been a man of a soft and generous heart. Perhaps I have been too hard and worldly and suspicious. For once, I will meet you half-way. Go to Missus Trotter. Tell her to take the two thousand dollars out of the bank and give it to this Wilkinson fellow and be happy."
Jeff shook Andy's hand for a long time. Then he went back to Missus Trotter. She cried as hard for joy as she had done for sorrow.
Two days later, Jeff and Andy prepared to leave town.
"Wouldn't you like to go meet Missus Trotter once before we leave?" Jeff asked Andy. "She'd like to express her thanks to you."
"Why, I guess not," Andy said. "I think we should hurry and catch the train."
Jeff was putting all the money they had received in a belt he tied around his body. Then Andy took a large amount of money out of his pocket and asked Jeff to put it together with the other money.
"What's this?" Jeff asked.
"It's Missus Trotter's two thousand dollars," said Andy.
"How do you come to have it?" Jeff asked.
"Missus Trotter gave it to me," Andy answered. "I have been calling on her three nights a week for more than a month."
"Then you are William Wilkinson?" Jeff asked.
"I was," Andy said.
THE GREEN DOCTOR by O. Henry
Rudolf Steiner, a young piano salesman, was a true adventurer. Few were the evenings when he did not go to look for the unexpected. It seemed to him that the most interesting things in life might lie just around the corner. He was always dreaming of adventures.
Once when he was walking along the street his attention was attracted by a Negro handing out a dentist's cards. The Negro slipped a card into Rudolf's hand. He turned it over and looked at it. Nothing was written on one side of the card; on the other three words were written: "The Green Door". And then Rudolf saw, three steps in front of him, a man throw away the card the Negro had given him as he passed. Rudolf picked it up. The dentist's name and address were printed on it.
The adventurous piano salesman stopped at the corner and considered. Then he returned and joined the stream of people again. When he was passing the Negro the second time, he again got a card. Ten steps away he examined it. In the same handwriting that appeared on the first card "The Green door" was written upon it. Three or four cards were lying on the pavement. On all of them were the name and the address of the dentist. Whatever the written words on the cards might mean, the Negro had chose him twice from the crowd.
Standing aside from the crowd, the young man looked at the building in which he thought his adventure must lie. It was a five-storey building. On the f irst floor there was a store. The second up were apartments.
After finishing his inspection Rudolf walked rapidly up the stairs into the house. The hallway there was badly lighted. Rudolf looked toward the nearer door and saw that it was green. He hesitated for a moment, then he went straight to the green door and knocked on it. The door slowly opened. A girl not yet twenty stood there. She was very pale and as it seemed to Rudolf was about to faint. Rudolf caught her and laid her on a sofa. He closed the door and took a quick glance round the room. Neat, but great poverty was the story he read.
"Fainted, didn't I?" the girl asked weakly. "Well, no wonder. You try going without anything to eat for three days and see."
"Heavens!" cried Rudolf, jumping up. "Wait till I come back." He rushed out of the green door and in twenty minutes he was back with bread and butter, cold meat, cakes, pies, milk and hot tea.
"It is foolish to go without eating. You should not do it again," Rudolf said. "Supper is ready."
When the girl cheered up a little she told him her story. It was one of a thousand such as the city wears with indifference every day — a shop girl's story of low wages; of time lost through illness; and then of lost jobs, lost hope and unrealised dreams and — the knock of the young man upon the door.
Rudolf looked at the girl with sympathy.
"To think of you going through all that," he exclaimed. "And you have no relatives or friends in the city?"
"None whatever."
"As a matter of fact, I am all alone in the world too," said Rudolf after a pause.
"I am glad of that," said the girl, and somehow it pleased the young man to hear that she approved of his having no relatives.
Then the girl sighed deeply. "'I'm awfully sleepy," she said.
Rudolf rose and took his hat.
"How did it happen that you knocked at my door?" she asked.
"One of our piano tuners lives in this house. I knocked at your door by mistake."
There was no reason why the girl should not believe him.
In the hallway he looked around and discovered to his great surprise that all the doors were green.
In the street he met the same Negro. "Will you tell me why you gave me these cards and what they mean?" he asked.
Pointing down the street to the entrance to a theatre with a bright electric sign of its new play, "The Green Door", the Negro told Rudolf that the theatre agent had given him a dollar to hand out a few of his cards together with the dentist's.
"Still it was the hand of Fate that showed me the way to her," said Rudolf to himself.
The Legend of Sleepy Hollow
by Washington Irving
The valley known as Sleepy Hollow hides from the world in the high hills of New York state. There are many stories told about the quiet valley. But the story that people believe most is about a man who rides a horse at night. The story says the man died many years ago during the American revolutionary war. His head was shot off. Every night he rises from his burial place, jumps on his horse and rides through the valley looking for his lost head.
Near Sleepy Hollow is a village called Tarry Town. It was settled many years ago by people from Holland. The village had a small school. And one teacher, named Ichabod Crane. Ichabod Crane was a good name for him, because he looked like a tall bird, a crane. He was tall and thin like a crane. His shoulders were small, joined two long arms. His head was small, too, and flat on top. He had big ears, large glassy green eyes and a long nose.
Ichabod did not make much money as a teacher. And although he was tall and thin, he ate like a fat man. To help him pay for his food he earned extra money teaching young people to sing. Every Sunday after church Ichabod taught singing.
Among the ladies Ichabod taught was one Katrina Van Tassel. She was the only daughter of a rich Dutch farmer. She was a girl in bloom, much like a round red, rosy apple. Ichabod had a soft and foolish heart for the ladies, and soon found himself interested in Miss Van Tassel.
Ichabod's eyes opened wide when he saw the riches of Katrina's farm: the miles of apple trees and wheat fields, and hundreds of fat farm animals. He saw himself as master of the Van Tassel farm with Katrina as his wife.
But there were many problems blocking the road to Katrina's heart. One was a strong young man named Brom Van Brunt. Brom was a hero to all the young ladies. His shoulders were big. His back was wide. And his hair was short and curly. He always won the horse races in Tarry Town and earned many prizes. Brom was never seen without a horse.
Sometimes late at night Brom and his friends would rush through town shouting loudly from the backs of their horses. Tired old ladies would awaken from their sleep and say: "Why, there goes Brom Van Brunt leading his wild group again!"
Such was the enemy Ichabod had to defeat for Katrina's heart.
Stronger and wiser men would not have tried. But Ichabod had a plan. He could not fight his enemy in the open. So he did it silently and secretly. He made many visits to Katrina's farm and made her think he was helping her to sing better.
Time passed, and the town people thought Ichabod was winning. Brom's horse was never seen at Katrina's house on Sunday nights anymore.
One day in autumn Ichabod was asked to come to a big party at the Van Tassel home. He dressed in his best clothes. A farmer loaned him an old horse for the long trip to the party.
The house was filled with farmers and their wives, red-faced daughters and clean, washed sons. The tables were filled with different things to eat. Wine filled many glasses.
Brom Van Brunt rode to the party on his fastest horse called Daredevil. All the young ladies smiled happily when they saw him. Soon music filled the rooms and everyone began to dance and sing.
Ichabod was happy dancing with Katrina as Brom looked at them with a jealous heart. The night passed. The music stopped, and the young people sat together to tell stories about the revolutionary war.
Soon stories about Sleepy Hollow were told. The most feared story was about the rider looking for his lost head. One farmer told how he raced the headless man on a horse. The farmer ran his horse faster and faster. The horseman followed over bush and stone until they came to the end of the valley. There the headless horseman suddenly stopped. Gone were his clothes and his skin. All that was left was a man with white bones shining in the moonlight.
The stories ended and time came to leave the party. Ichabod seemed very happy until he said goodnight to Katrina. Was she ending their romance? He left feeling very sad. Had Katrina been seeing Ichabod just to make Brom Van Brunt jealous so he would marry her?
Well, Ichabod began his long ride home on the hills that surround Tarry Town. He had never felt so lonely in his life. He began to whistle as he came close to the tree where a man had been killed years ago by rebels.
He thought he saw something white move in the tree. But no, it was only the moonlight shining and moving on the tree. Then he heard a noise. His body shook. He kicked his horse faster. The old horse tried to run, but almost fell in the river, instead. Ichabod hit the horse again. The horse ran fast and then suddenly stopped, almost throwing Ichabod forward to the ground.
There, in the dark woods on the side of the river where the bushes grow low, stood an ugly thing. Big and black. It did not move, but seemed ready to jump like a giant monster.
Ichabod's hair stood straight up. It was too late to run, and in his fear, he did the only thing he could. His shaking voice broke the silent valley.
"Who are you?" The thing did not answer. Ichabod asked again. Still no answer. Ichabod's old horse began to move forward. The black thing began to move along the side of Ichabod's horse in the dark. Ichabod made his horse run faster. The black thing moved with them. Side by side they moved, slowly at first. And not a word was said.
Ichabod felt his heart sink. Up a hill they moved above the shadow of the trees. For a moment the moon shown down and to Ichabod's horror he saw it was a horse. And it had a rider. But the rider's head was not on his body. It was in front of the rider, resting on the horse.
Ichabod kicked and hit his old horse with all his power. Away they rushed through bushes and trees across the valley of Sleepy Hollow. Up ahead was the old church bridge where the headless horseman stops and returns to his burial place.
"If only I can get there first, I am safe," thought Ichabod. He kicked his horse again. The horse jumped on to the bridge and raced over it like the sound of thunder. Ichabod looked back to see if the headless man had stopped. He saw the man pick up his head and throw it with a powerful force. The head hit Ichabod in the face and knocked him off his horse to the dirt below.
They found Ichabod's horse the next day peacefully eating grass. They could not find Ichabod.
They walked all across the valley. They saw the foot marks of Ichabod's horse as it had raced through the valley. They even found Ichabod's old hat in the dust near the bridge. But they did not find Ichabod. The only other thing they found was lying near Ichabod's hat.
It was the broken pieces of a round orange pumpkin.
The town people talked about Ichabod for many weeks. They remembered the frightening stories of the valley. And finally they came to believe that the headless horseman had carried Ichabod away.
Much later an old farmer returned from a visit to New York City. He said he was sure he saw Ichabod there. He thought Ichabod silently left Sleepy Hollow because he had lost Katrina.
As for Katrina, her mother and father gave her a big wedding when she married Brom Van Brunt. Many people who went to the wedding saw that Brom smiled whenever Ichabod's name was spoken. And they wondered why he laughed out loud when anyone talked about the broken orange pumpkin found lying near Ichabod's old dusty hat.
There's a Man in the Habit of Hitting Me on the Head with an Umbrella
There's a man in the habit of hitting me on the head with an umbrella. It's exactly five years today that he's been hitting me on the head with his umbrella. At first I couldn't stand it; now I'm used to it.
I don't know his name. I know he's average in appearance, wears a gray suit, is graying at the temples, and has a common face. I met him five years ago one sultry morning. I was sitting on a tree-shaded bench in Palermo Park, reading the paper. Suddenly I felt something touch my head. It was the very same man who now, as I'm writing, keeps whacking me, mechanically and impassively, with an umbrella.
On that occasion I turned around filled with indignation: he just kept on hitting me. I asked him if he was crazy: he didn't even seem to hear me. Then I threatened to call a policeman. Unperturbed, cool as a cucumber, he stuck with his task. After a few moments of indecision, and seeing that he was not about to change his attitude, I stood up and punched him in the nose. The man fell down, and let out an almost inaudible moan. He immediately got back on his feet, apparently with great effort, and without a word again began hitting me on the head with the umbrella. His nose was bleeding and, at that moment, I felt sorry for him. I felt remorse for having hit him so hard. After all, the man wasn't exactly bludgeoning me; he was merely tapping me lightly with his umbrella, not causing any pain at all. Of course, those taps were extremely bothersome. As we all know, when a fly lands on your forehead, you don't feel any pain whatsoever; what you feel is annoyance. Well then, that umbrella was one humongous fly that kept landing on my head time after time, and at regular intervals.
Convinced that I was dealing with a madman, I tried to escape. But the man followed me, wordlessly continuing to hit me. So I began to run (at this juncture I should point out that not many people run as fast as I do). He took off after me, vainly trying to land a blow. The man was huffing and puffing and gasping so that I thought, if I continued to force him to run at that speed, my tormenter would drop dead right then and there.
That's why I slowed down to a walk. I looked at him. There was no trace of either gratitude or reproach on his face. He merely kept hitting me on the head with the umbrella. I thought of showing up at the police station and saying, "Officer, this man is hitting me on the head with an umbrella." It would have been an unprecedented case. The officer would have looked at me suspiciously, would have asked for my papers and begun asking embarrassing questions. And he might even have ended up placing me under arrest.
I thought it best to return home. I took the 67 bus. He, all the while hitting me with his umbrella, got on behind me. I took the first seat. He stood right beside me, and held on to the railing with his left hand. With his right hand he unrelentingly kept whacking me with that umbrella. At first, the passengers exchanged timid smiles. The driver began to observe us in the rearview mirror. Little by little the bus trip turned into one great fit of laughter, an uproarious, interminable fit of laughter. I was burning with shame. My persecutor, impervious to the laughter, continued to strike me.
I got off – we got off – at Pacifico Bridge. We walked along Santa Fe Avenue. Everyone stupidly turned to stare at us. It occurred to me to say to them, "What are you looking at, you idiots? Haven't you ever seen a man hit another man on the head with an umbrella?" But it also occurred to me that they probably never had seen such a spectacle. Then five or six little boys began chasing after us, shouting like maniacs.
But I had a plan. Once I reached my house, I tried to slam the door in his face. That didn't happen. He must have read my mind, because he firmly seized the doorknob and pushed his way in with me.
From that time on, he has continued to hit me on the head with his umbrella. As far as I can tell, he has never either slept or eaten anything. His sole activity consists of hitting me. He is with me in everything I do, even in my most intimate activities. I remember that at first, the blows kept me awake all night. Now I think it would be impossible for me to sleep without them.
Still and all, our relations have not always been good. I've asked him, on many occasions, and in all possible tones, to explain his behavior to me. To no avail: he has wordlessly continued to hit me on the head with his umbrella. Many times I have let him have it with punches, kicks, and even – God forgive me – umbrella blows. He would meekly accept the blows. He would accept them as though they were part of his job. And this is precisely the weirdest aspect of his personality: that unshakable faith in his work coupled with a complete lack of animosity. In short, that conviction that he was carrying out some secret mission that responded to a higher authority.
Despite his lack of physiological needs, I know that when I hit him, he feels pain. I know he is weak. I know he is mortal. I also know that I could be rid of him with a single bullet. What I don't know is if it would be better for that bullet to kill him or to kill me. Neither do I know if, when the two of us are dead, he might not continue to hit me on the head with his umbrella. In any event, this reasoning is pointless; I recognize that I would never dare to kill him or kill myself.
On the other hand, I have recently come to the realization that I couldn't live without those blows. Now, more and more frequently, a certain foreboding overcomes me. A new anxiety is eating at my soul: the anxiety stemming from the thought that this man, perhaps when I need him most, will depart and I will no longer feel those umbrella taps that helped me sleep so soundly.
The Sphinx Without a Secret
by Oscar Wilde
One afternoon I was sitting outside the Cafe cie la Paix in Paris, watching the people passing along the street. I was wondering why some people were very poor while others were so rich.
Suddenly I heard somebody call my name.
I turned round and saw Lord Murchison.We had not met since we were at Oxford University together, nearly ten years before, and I was pleased to see him again. We shook hands warmly.
I had liked him very much at Oxford, and we had been very good friends. He had been so handsome, so full of life, and a very honest young man. We used to say that he would be the best person in the world if he was not always so honest. But I think we really admired him for his honesty.
Now, looking at him ten years later, he seemed different. He looked anxious and worried, and he seemed to have doubts about something. I could not believe that he was in doubt about religion or politics, because he always had such definite opinions about everything. So I thought the problem must be a woman.
I asked him if he was married yet.
'I don't understand women well enough to marry one,' he answered.
'My dear Gerald,' I said,' it is our job to love women, not to understand them.'
'I can't love anyone that I can't trust,' he answered.
'I think you have a mystery in your life, Gerald,' I said. 'Tell me about it.'
'Let's go for a drive,' he answered. 'It's too crowded here. No, not a yellow carriage – there, that dark green one will be all right.'
And in a few moments we were driven away from the cafe.
'Where shall we gо to?' I said.
'Oh, I don't mind!' he answered. 'The restaurant in the Bois de Boulogne? We can have dinner there, and you can tell me about yourself.'
'I want to hear about you first,' I said. 'Tell me about your mystery.'
He took a little leather case from his pocket and gave it to me. I opened it. Inside was a photograph of a woman. She was tall and beautiful, with long hair, and large secretive eyes. Her clothes looked very expensive.
' What do you think of that face,' he said.' Is it an honest face?'
I examined the face in the photograph carefully. It seemed to me to be the face of a woman with a secret. But I could not say if that secret was good or bad. The beauty of the face was full of mystery, and the faint smile on the lips made me think of the smile of the Egyptian Sphinx in the moonlight. Or was it the mysterious smile that vou sometimes see on the face of Leonardo's painting, the Mona Lisa, in the Louvre in Paris?
'Well,' he cried impatiently, 'what do you think?'
'A beautiful sphinx,' I answered.' Tell me all about her.'
'Not now,' he said. 'After dinner.'
When we were drinking our coffee and smoking our cigarettes after dinner, I reminded him, and he told me this story:
'One evening,' he said, 'I was walking down Bond Street in London at about five o'clock. There were a lot of carriages, and the traffic was moving very slowly. There was a small yellow carriage on my side of the road which, for some reason or other, caught my attention. As the carriage passed, I saw the face that I showed you in the photograph earlier. It went straight to my heart. All that night, I thought about the face, and all the next day. I looked for the yellow carriage in the usual places, but I couldn't find it. I began to think that the beautiful stranger was only something from a dream.
'About a week later, I went to have dinner with Madame de Rastail. Dinner was for eight o'clock, but at half past eight we were still waiting in the sitting room. Finally the servant threw open the door and said "Lady Alroy". A woman entered the room — and it was the woman I was looking for! The woman in the yellow carriage.
'She came into the sitting room very slowly, looking lovely in a grey dress. I was pleased and excited when Madame de Rastail asked me to take Lady Alroy in to dinner. Lady Alroy then sat next to me at the table.
'After we sat down, I said quite innocently, "I think I saw you in Bond Street not long ago, Lady Alroy."
'She became very pale, and said to me in a low voice, "Please don't talk so loudly. Someone may hear you."
'I felt unhappy about such a bad start to our conversation, and I started talking quickly about French theatre and other unimportant things. She spoke very little, always in the same low musical voice. She seemed to be afraid that someone might be listening.
'I fell madly in love, and I was excited by the mystery that seemed to surround her. I wanted to know more — much more — about this mysterious lady.
'She left very soon after dinner, and when she was going, I asked if I could visit her. She said nothing for a moment, looked round to see if anyone was near us, and then said, "Yes. Tomorrow at a quarter to five."
'I asked Madame de Rastail to tell me about her, but I learned only that her husband had died, and she lived in a beautiful house in the most expensive part of London. I left soon after that, and went home.
'The next day I arrived at her London house at exactly a quarter to five. I asked to see Lady Alroy but I was told by a servant that she had just gone out.
'I went to the club, very unhappy and quite confused. After some thought, I wrote a letter. I asked her if I could try again another afternoon.
'I had no answer for several days, but at last I got a letter saying that I could visit her on Sunday at four o'clock. At the end of the letter there was a strange note: "Please don't write to me here again," it said. "I will explain when I see you."
'On Sunday she was at home when I visited her, and she was perfectly nice to me. But when I was leaving, she said, "If you want to write to me again, will you address your letter to: Mrs Knox, Whitaker's Library, Green Street? There are reasons why I can't receive letters in my own house."
'After that, I saw her often. She continued to be pleasant and mysterious. I thought for a time that she might be in the power of a man, but I could not believe it.
'At last I decided to ask her to be my wife. I wrote to her at the library and asked her to see me the following Monday, at six o'clock. She answered yes, and I was wonderfully happy. I was very much in love with her, you understand. Perhaps because of the mystery surrounding her. No, no, that's not right! I loved the woman.The mystery worried me, it's true. It made me angry.'
'So you discovered the answer to the mystery?' I cried.
'In a way,' he answered. 'On Monday I had lunch with my uncle in his house in Regent's Park. After lunch, I wanted some exercise, and I decided to walk to Piccadilly. The shortest way is through a lot of poor little streets. I was going along one of these when I suddenly saw Lady Alroy in front of me. Her face was half-hidden by a large hat, but there was no doubt in my mind.
'She was walking fast. When she came to the last house in the street, she went up the steps to the front door, took a key from her bag, unlocked the door and went in.
'"So this is the mystery," I said to myself, and I hurried to the front of the house. It seemed to be a place where people can rent rooms.
'She had dropped her handkerchief when she took the key out of her bag. It was lying on the doorstep, and I picked it up and put it in my pocket.
'At six o'clock, I went to see her as we had arranged. She was lying on a sofa in a silver-coloured dress and looked very lovely.
I'm so glad to see you," she said. "I haven't been out all day."
'I stared at her, very surprised. I pulled the handkerchief out of my pocket, and gave it to her. " You dropped this in Cunmor Street this afternoon, Lady Alroy," I said very calmly.
'She looked at me in terror, but she didn't take the handkerchief.
"What were vou doing there?" I asked.
'"What right have you to question me?" she answered.
'"The right of a man who loves you," I said." I came here to ask you to be my wife."
'She hid her face in her hands, but I could see the tears pouring from her eyes.
"You must tell me," I continued.
'She stood up and, through her tears, she looked straight into my eyes." Lord Murchison," she said. "There is nothing to tell you."
'"You went to meet somebody!" I cried. "This is your mystery."
'Her face went terribly white, and she said, "I did not go to meet anybody."
'"That's not true," I said.
'"It is true," she replied.
'I was mad - completely out of control. I don't know what I said, but I said terrible things to her. Finally I rushed out of the house. She wrote me a letter the next day, but I sent it back unopened, and left for Norway with my friend, Alan Colville.
'After a month in Norway, I returned to London. When I returned I saw in the Morning Post newspaper a report about the death of Lady Alroy. She had caught a very bad cold at the theatre one evening, and had died a few days later.
'I shut myself in my rooms and saw nobody for days. I had loved her so much, so madly. God! I had loved that woman!'
'You went to the street – to the house in it?' I said.
'Yes, 'he answered. 'One day I went to Cumnor Street. I had to go. Doubts were destroying my mind. I knocked on the door, and a woman of good appearance opened it. I asked her if she had any rooms to rent.
'"Well, sir," she replied politely, "the sitting room is really taken, but I haven't seen the lady for three months. And the rent hasn't been paid, so I think I can let you have it."
'" Is this the lady ?" I asked, and I showed her the photograph.
'"Oh, yes! That's her!" she said. "When is she coming back, sir? "
'"The lady is dead," I replied.
'"Oh dear!" said the woman." I'm very sorry to hear it. She paid me three pounds a week and she just came and sat in my sitting room sometimes."
'"Did she meet someone here ?" I said.
'"No, sir," said the woman. "Never. She always came alone, and she saw nobody."
'"What did she do here ?" I cried.
'"She sat in the room, sir, reading books," answered the woman." Sometimes she had tea, but always alone."
'I didn't know what to say, so I gave the woman five pounds and walked home. What do you think it meant? Do you think the woman's story was true?'
'Yes, I do,' I said.
'Then why did Lady Alroy go there ?'
'Gerald,' I answered, 'Lady Alroy was simply a woman who had to have a mystery. She took the room for the pleasure of going there secretly. She imagined that she was a mysterious character in a story. She had a great love ot secrets and mysteries, but she herself was just a sphinx without a secret.'
'Do you really think so?' he said.
'I'm sure of it,' I said.
He took the leather case out of his pocket, opened it, and looked at the photograph.
'I'll never be sure,' he said at last.
Two peas in a pod
by Chris Rose
They even dressed us the same. My mother said that it was easier for her just to buy two of everything. Sometimes it was the same clothes but in different colours – a red top for me, and a yellow one for my sister, for example. When they did that we swapped the clothes so that they still couldn’t tell us apart. Not even our parents could tell us apart. Our schoolteachers never could.
And then there were our names. It was crazy - they called us Edie and Evie! Even our names were almost identical.
Two peas in a pod, they called us. Two drops of water.
Sometimes we couldn’t hardly tell ourselves from each other. At least when we were small. But as we grew up things began to change.
Everybody thinks identical twins are, well, identical. But if you’re a twin you’ll know that it’s not true. Physically, yes, we were almost identical. I say almost, because there was the birthmark. My sister has a very small brown spot on her left shoulder. I don’t. This was the only way we could ever be told apart.
But other than that, twins, even identical ones, are different inside. I think we started to change when we started school. I was always very good. I never got into trouble, I always did all of my homework and did very well in all the tests and exams. Evie wasn’t like that. Evie was always getting into trouble. Evie never did her homework. Evie was a really bad student who never studied and never learned anything. She would have failed her exams – but of course she didn’t. Why? Well, it’s simple, isn’t it?
If you have an identical twin, how do you know which is which?
Evie, of course, started by copying my homework. Then she got worse. When there was a class test she would write my name on her paper. When she got into trouble, she smiled beautifully at the teacher and said “No, I’m Edie, I’m the good one, it was my twin sister Evie who was naughty!”
They never took us seriously, we were only small children after all, there was no harm in being a bit naughty. Everyone used to laugh. And because they never really knew who was who, neither of us was ever punished for being naughty, and they never failed either of us in our exams, because they couldn’t be sure which one to fail and which one to pass.
But as we got older, it got worse. Evie started to steal things. At first it was only things from other children, sweets or pens or pencils or rubbers, the kind of things that sometimes happen in school. But when we were 15, some money was taken from a teacher’s bag. It was quite a lot of money, and the situation was serious. Then they found the money in Evie’s pocket. And what did Evie do? Well, of course, she did the same thing she always did. “No, it wasn’t me. It was my twin sister.” And I got into trouble, serious trouble this time. They called the police. They tried to expel me from school. It was only when our parents came in and pleaded with the headteacher that they agreed to drop the charges and say nothing about it. We were lucky that time.
But the trouble didn’t stop there. Evie was always playing truant, not going to school. Then when she came in again, she accused me of lying. She said that she was Edie, and that I had given the teachers the wrong name when they called the register. I thought about telling everyone about the birthmark on her shoulder, that they should check the birthmark to make sure who was who. That would solve the problem. I don’t know why I didn’t. Identical twins are always very close, and even though I knew she was bad, I didn’t want to get her into trouble. Perhaps also because I knew that trouble for her also meant trouble for me.
After we left school I began to worry more. I got a job working in an office. It wasn’t an interesting job, but it was ok. I worked hard in the office, I did well and was going to get a promotion. Evie, on the other hand, did nothing. She never got a job. She used to come and ask me for money. She often disappeared for long periods of time. I didn’t know where she was. This was bad, but it was worse when one day I looked at my passport, and found that I had Evie’s. I didn’t know where she was, but obviously she had taken my passport to get there. Wherever she was, and whatever she was doing , she was pretending to be me.
Eventually it happened. There was a loud knock on the door at six o’clock in the morning. There were three policemen there. Two of them in uniforms, the other one a detective. I looked at their serious faces and thought that they had come to tell me bad news. I thought they were coming to tell me that my sister had died. But it wasn’t that. They asked me to come to the police station with them. I understood that I couldn’t say no. They said that they didn’t want to arrest me just yet, but that if I refused to help them, they would arrest me.
Of course, they asked to see my documents. I had to show them Evie’s passport, and tried to explain that I wasn’t really Evie, but that my sister had taken my passport.
When I got to the police station Evie was there too. They had already arrested her – well, I say “her”, but of course, they had arrested me. As far as the police were concerned, they had arrested “Edie”. That’s what it said on her passport, and that’s who she said she was.
There was a long list of charges against her. Fraud and smuggling drugs. She told the police that she was really Edie, and that I had changed the passports. Edie, me, who had a perfect alibi. Edie hadn’t been to any other countries. She went to work everyday. It was Evie who the problem was, she said.
The trial lasted for days, with even the judge and the lawyers getting continually confused about who was who. Eventually, they convicted her. Ten years.
I still go to my job everyday. I’m still free. I never go to visit my sister in prison. I’m afraid that she might show someone that she doesn’t have a birthmark on her left shoulder. Then someone might look, and they will find that I do.
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