Inglese 3 Testi Primari 3

7/30/2019 Inglese 3 Testi Primari 3

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Katherine Mansfield, Feuille dAlbum, 1920

HE really was an impossible person. Too shy altogether. With absolutely nothing to say for himself.

And such a weight. Once he was in your studio he never knew when to go, but would sit on and on

until you nearly screamed, and burned to throw something enormous after him when he did finally

blush his way outsomething like the tortoise stove. The strange thing was that at first sight he

looked most interesting. Everybody agreed about that. You would drift into the caf one eveningand there you would see, sitting in a corner, with a glass of coffee in front of him, a thin dark boy,

wearing a blue jersey with a little grey flannel jacket buttoned over it. And somehow that blue

jersey and the grey jacket with the sleeves that were too short gave him the air of a boy that has

made up his mind to run away to sea. Who has run away, in fact, and will get up in a moment and

sling a knotted handkerchief containing his nightshirt and his mother's picture on the end of a stick,

and walk out into the night and be drowned. . . . Stumble over the wharf edge on his way to the

ship, even. . . . He had black close-cropped hair, grey eyes with long lashes, white cheeks and a

mouth pouting as though he were determined not to cry. . . . How could one resist him? Oh, one's

heart was wrung at sight. And, as if that were not enough, there was his trick of blushing. . . .

Whenever the waiter came near him he turned crimsonhe might have been just out of prison and

the waiter in the know. . . ."Who is he, my dear? Do you know?"

"Yes. His name is Ian French. Painter. Awfully clever, they say. Someone started by giving

him a mother's tender care. She asked him how often he heard from home, whether he had enough

blankets on his bed, how much milk he drank a day. But when she went round to his studio to give

an eye to his socks, she rang and rang, and though she could have sworn she heard someone

breathing inside, the door was not answered. . . . Hopeless!"

Someone else decided that he ought to fall in love. She summoned him to her side, called

him "boy," leaned over him so that he might smell the enchanting perfume of her hair, took his arm,

told him how marvellous life could be if one only had the courage, and went round to his studio one

evening and rang and rang. . . . Hopeless.

"What the poor boy really wants is thoroughly rousing," said a third. So off they went tocaf's and cabarets, little dances, places where you drank something that tasted like tinned apricot

juice, but cost twenty-seven shillings a bottle and was called champagne, other places, too thrilling

for words, where you sat in the most awful gloom, and where someone had always been shot the

night before. But he did not turn a hair. Only once he got very drunk, but instead of blossoming

forth, there he sat, stony, with two spots of red on his cheeks, like, my dear, yes, the dead image of

that rag-time thing they were playing, like a "Broken Doll." But when she took him back to his

studio he had quite recovered, and said "good night" to her in the street below, as though they had

walked home from church together. . . . Hopeless.

After heaven knows how many more attemptsfor the spirit of kindness dies very hard in

womenthey gave him up. Of course, they were still perfectly charming, and asked him to theirshows, and spoke to him in the caf but that was all. When one is an artist one has no time simply

for people who won't respond. Has one?

"And besides I really think there must be something rather fishy somewhere . . . don't you? It

can't all be as innocent as it looks! Why come to Paris if you want to be a daisy in the field? No, I'm

not suspicious. But"

He lived at the top of a tall mournful building overlooking the river. One of those buildings

that look so romantic on rainy nights and moonlight nights, when the shutters are shut, and the

heavy door, and the sign advertising "a little apartment to let immediately" gleams forlorn beyond

words. One of those buildings that smell so unromantic all the year round, and where the concierge

lives in a glass cage on the ground floor, wrapped up in a filthy shawl, stirring something in a

saucepan and ladling out tit-bits to the swollen old dog lolling on a bead cushion. . . . Perched up inthe air the studio had a wonderful view. The two big windows faced the water; he could see the

boats and the barges swinging up and down, and the fringe of an island planted with trees, like a


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dusky studio, tired, with one arm hanging over the back of his chair, staring in at her window and

seeing himself in there with her. She had a violent temper; they quarrelled terribly at times, he and

she. She had a way of stamping her foot and twisting her hands in her pinafore . . . furious. And she

very rarely laughed. Only when she told him about an absurd little kitten she once had who used to

roar and pretend to be a lion when it was given meat to eat. Things like that made her laugh. . . . But

as a rule they sat together very quietly; he, just as he was sitting now, and she with her hands folded

in her lap and her feet tucked under, talking in low tones, or silent and tired after the day's work. Ofcourse, she never asked him about his pictures, and of course he made the most wonderful drawings

of her which she hated, because he made her so thin and so dark. . . . But how could he get to know

her? This might go on for years. . . .

Then he discovered that once a week, in the evenings, she went out shopping. On two

successive Thursdays she came to the window wearing an old-fashioned cape over the pinafore, and

carrying a basket. From where he sat he could not see the door of her house, but on the next

Thursday evening at the same time he snatched up his cap and ran down the stairs. There was a

lovely pink light over everything. He saw it glowing in the river, and the people walking towards

him had pink faces and pink hands.

He leaned against the side of his house waiting for her and he had no idea of what he was

going to do or say. "Here she comes," said a voice in his head. She walked very quickly, with small,light steps; with one hand she carried the basket, with the other she kept the cape together. . . . What

could he do? He could only follow. . . . First she went into the grocer's and spent a long time in

there, and then she went into the butcher's where she had to wait her turn. Then she was an age at

the draper's matching something, and then she went to the fruit shop and bought a lemon. As he

watched her he knew more surely than ever he must get to know her, now. Her composure, her

seriousness and her loneliness, the very way she walked as though she was eager to be done with

this world of grown-ups all was so natural to him and so inevitable.

"Yes, she is always like that," he thought proudly. "We have nothing to do withthese

people."

But now she was on her way home and he was as far off as ever. . . . She suddenly turned

into the dairy and he saw her through the window buying an egg. She picked it out of the basketwith such carea brown one, a beautifully shaped one, the one he would have chosen. And when she

came out of the dairy he went in after her. In a moment he was out again, and following her past his

house across the flower market, dodging among the huge umbrellas and treading on the fallen

flowers and the round marks where the pots had stood. . . . Through her door he crept, and up the

stairs after, taking care to tread in time with her so that she should not notice. Finally, she stopped

on the landing, and took the key out of her purse. As she put it into the door he ran up and faced her.

Blushing more crimson than ever, but looking at her severely he said, almost angrily:

"Excuse me, Mademoiselle, you dropped this."

And he handed her an egg.


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Katherine Mansfield, Bliss, 1920

ALTHOUGH Bertha Young was thirty she still had moments like this when she wanted to run

instead of walk, to take dancing steps on and off the pavement, to bowl a hoop, to throw something

up in the air and catch it again, or to stand still and laugh atnothingat nothing, simply.

What can you do if you are thirty and, turning the corner of your own street, you are

overcome, suddenly by a feeling of blissabsolute bliss!as though you'd suddenly swallowed abright piece of that late afternoon sun and it burned in your bosom, sending out a little shower of

sparks into every particle, into every finger and toe? . . .

Oh, is there no way you can express it without being "drunk and disorderly" ? How idiotic

civilisation is! Why be given a body if you have to keep it shut up in a case like a rare, rare fiddle?

"No, that about the fiddle is not quite what I mean," she thought, running up the steps and

feeling in her bag for the keyshe'd forgotten it, as usualand rattling the letter-box. "It's not what I

mean, becauseThank you, Mary"she went into the hall. "Is nurse back?"

"Yes, M'm."

"And has the fruit come?"

"Yes, M'm. Everything's come."

"Bring the fruit up to the dining-room, will you? I'll arrange it before I go upstairs."It was dusky in the dining-room and quite chilly. But all the same Bertha threw off her coat;

she could not bear the tight clasp of it another moment, and the cold air fell on her arms.

But in her bosom there was still that bright glowing placethat shower of little sparks

coming from it. It was almost unbearable. She hardly dared to breathe for fear of fanning it higher,

and yet she breathed deeply, deeply. She hardly dared to look into the cold mirrorbut she did look,

and it gave her back a woman, radiant, with smiling, trembling lips, with big, dark eyes and an air

of listening, waiting for something . . . divine to happen . . . that she knew must happen . . .

infallibly.

Mary brought in the fruit on a tray and with it a glass bowl, and a blue dish, very lovely,

with a strange sheen on it as though it had been dipped in milk.

"Shall I turn on the light, M'm?""No, thank you. I can see quite well."

There were tangerines and apples stained with strawberry pink. Some yellow pears, smooth

as silk, some white grapes covered with a silver bloom and a big cluster of purple ones. These last

she had bought to tone in with the new dining-room carpet. Yes, that did sound rather far-fetched

and absurd, but it was really why she had bought them. She had thought in the shop: "I must have

some purple ones to bring the carpet up to the table." And it had seemed quite sense at the time.

When she had finished with them and had made two pyramids of these bright round shapes,

she stood away from the table to get the effectand it really was most curious. For the dark table

seemed to melt into the dusky light and the glass dish and the blue bowl to float in the air. This, of

course, in her present mood, was so incredibly beautiful. . . . She began to laugh.

"No, no. I'm getting hysterical." And she seized her bag and coat and ran upstairs to the

nursery.

Nurse sat at a low table giving Little B her supper after her bath. The baby had on a white flannel

gown and a blue woollen jacket, and her dark, fine hair was brushed up into a funny little peak. She

looked up when she saw her mother and began to jump.

"Now, my lovey, eat it up like a good girl," said nurse, setting her lips in a way that Bertha

knew, and that meant she had come into the nursery at another wrong moment.

"Has she been good, Nanny?"

"She's been a little sweet all the afternoon," whispered Nanny. "We went to the park and I sat

down on a chair and took her out of the pram and a big dog came along and put its head on my kneeand she clutched its ear, tugged it. Oh, you should have seen her."

Bertha wanted to ask if it wasn't rather dangerous to let her clutch at a strange dog's ear. But


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she did not dare to. She stood watching them, her hands by her side, like the poor little girl in front

of the rich girl with the doll.

The baby looked up at her again, stared, and then smiled so charmingly that Bertha couldn't

help crying:

"Oh, Nanny, do let me finish giving her her supper while you put the bath things away.

"Well, M'm, she oughtn't to be changed hands while she's eating," said Nanny, still

whispering. "It unsettles her; it's very likely to upset her."How absurd it was. Why have a baby if it has to be keptnot in a case like a rare, rare

fiddlebut in another woman's arms?

"Oh, I must!" said she.

Very offended, Nanny handed her over.

"Now, don't excite her after her supper. You know you do, M'm. And I have such a time with

her after!"

Thank heaven! Nanny went out of the room with the bath towels.


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From Katherine Mansfield, Je ne parle pas franais, 1920

I DO not know why I have such a fancy for this little caf. It's dirty and sad, sad. It's not as if it had

anything to distinguish it from a hundred othersit hasn't; or as if the same strange types came here

every day, whom one could watch from one's corner and recognize and more or less (with a strong

accent on the less) get the hang of.

But pray don't imagine that those brackets are a confession of my humility before themystery of the human soul. Not at all; I don't believe in the human soul. I never have. I believe that

people are like portmanteauxpacked with certain things, started going, thrown about, tossed away,

dumped down, lost and found, half emptied suddenly, or squeezed fatter than ever, until finally the

Ultimate Porter swings them on to the Ultimate Train and away they rattle. . . .

Not but what these portmanteaux can be very fascinating. Oh, but very! I see myself

standing in front of them, don't you know, like a Customs official.

"Have you anything to declare? Any wines, spirits, cigars, perfumes, silks?"

And the moment of hesitation as to whether I am going to be fooled just before I chalk that

squiggle, and then the other moment of hesitation just after, as to whether I have been, are perhaps

the most thrilling instants in life. Yes, they are, to me.

But before I started that long and rather far-fetched and not frightfully original digression,what I meant to say quite simply was that there are no portmanteaux to be examined here because

the clientele of this caf, ladies and gentlemen, does not sit down. No, it stands at the counter, and it

consists of a handful of workmen who come up from the river, all powdered over with white flour,

lime or something, and a few soldiers, bringing with them thin, dark girls with silver rings in their

ears and market baskets on their arms.

Madame is thin and dark, too, with white cheeks and white hands. In certain lights she looks

quite transparent, shining out of her black shawl with an extraordinary effect. When she is not

serving she sits on a stool with her face turned, always, to the window. Her dark-ringed eyes search

among and follow after the people passing, but not as if she was looking for somebody. Perhaps,

fifteen years ago, she was; but now the pose has become a habit. You can tell from her air of fatigue

and hopelessness that she must have given them up for the last ten years, at least. . . .And then there is the waiter. Not patheticdecidedly not comic. Never making one of those

perfectly insignificant remarks which amaze you so coming from a waiter (as though the poor

wretch were a sort of coffee-pot and a wine bottle and not expected to hold so much as a drop of

anything else). He is grey, flat-footed, and withered, with long, brittle nails that set your nerves on

edge while he scrapes up your two sous. When he is not smearing over the table or flicking at a

dead fly or two, he stands with one hand on the back of a chair, in his far too long apron, and over

his other arm the three-cornered dip of dirty napkin, waiting to be photographed in connexion with

some wretched murder. "Interior of Caf where Body was Found." You've seen him hundreds of

times.

Do you believe that every place has its hour of the day when it really does come alive?

That's not exactly what I mean. It's more like this. There does seem to be a moment when you

realize that, quite by accident, you happen to have come on to the stage at exactly the moment you

were expected. Everything is arranged for youwaiting for you. Ah, master of the situation ! You fill

with important breath. And at the same time you smile, secretly, slyly, because Life seems to be

opposed to granting you these entrances, seems indeed to be engaged in snatching them from you

and making them impossible, keeping you in the wings until it is too late, in fact. . . . Just for once

you've beaten the old hag.

I enjoyed one of these moments the first time I ever came in here. That's why I keep coming

back, I suppose. Revisiting the scene of my triumph, or the scene of the crime where I had the old

bitch by the throat for once and did what I pleased with her.

Query: Why am I so bitter against Life? And why do I see her as a rag-picker on theAmerican cinema, shuffling along wrapped in a filthy shawl with her old claws crooked over a

stick?


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Answer: The direct result of the American cinema acting upon a weak mind.

Anyhow, the "short winter afternoon was drawing to a close," as they say, and I was drifting

along, either going home or not going home, when I found myself in here, walking over to this seat

in the corner.

I hung up my English overcoat and grey felt hat on that same peg behind me, and after I had

allowed the waiter time for at least twenty photographers to snap their fill of him, I ordered a coffee.

He poured me out a glass of the familiar, purplish stuff with a green wandering light playingover it, and shuffled off, and I sat pressing my hands against the glass because it was bitterly cold

outside.

Suddenly I realized that quite apart from myself, I was smiling. Slowly I raised my head and

saw myself in the mirror opposite. Yes, there I sat, leaning on the table, smiling my deep, sly smile,

the glass of coffee with its vague plume of steam before me and beside it the ring of white saucer

with two pieces of sugar.

I opened my eyes very wide. There I had been for all eternity, as it were, and now at last I

was coming to life. . . .

It was very quiet in the caf. Outside, one could just see through the dusk that it had begun

to snow. One could just see the shapes of horses and carts and people, soft and white, moving

through the feathery air. The waiter disappeared and reappeared with an armful of straw. He strewedit over the floor from the door to the counter and round about the stove with humble, almost adoring

gestures. One would not have been surprised if the door had opened and the Virgin Mary had come

in, riding upon an ass, her meek hands folded over her big belly. . . .

That's rather nice, don't you think, that bit about the Virgin? It comes from the pen so gently;

it has such a "dying fall." I thought so at the time and decided to make a note of it. One never knows

when a little tag like that may come in useful to round off a paragraph. So, taking care to move as

little as possible because the "spell" was still unbroken (you know that?), I reached over to the next

table for a writing pad.

No paper or envelopes, of course. Only a morsel of pink blotting-paper, incredibly soft and

limp and almost moist, like the tongue of a little dead kitten, which I've never felt.

I satbut always underneath, in this state of expectation, rolling the little dead kitten's tongueround my finger and rolling the soft phrase round my mind while my eyes took in the girls' names

and dirty jokes and drawings of bottles and cups that would not sit in the saucers, scattered over the

writing pad.

They are always the same, you know. The girls always have the same names, the cups never

sit in the saucers; all the hearts are stuck and tied up with ribbons.

But then, quite suddenly, at the bottom of the page, written in green ink, I fell on to that

stupid, stale little phrase:Je ne parle pas francais.

There ! it had comethe momentthegeste! and although I was so ready, it caught me, it

tumbled me over; I was simply overwhelmed. And the physical feeling was so curious, so particular.

It was as if all of me, except my head and arms, all of me that was under the table, had simply

dissolved, melted, turned into water. Just my head remained and two sticks of arms pressing on to

the table. But, ah! the agony of that moment! How can I describe it? I didn't think of anything. I

didn't even cry out to myself. Just for one moment I was not. I was Agony, Agony, Agony.

Then it passed, and the very second after I was thinking: "Good God! Am I capable of

feeling as strongly as that? But I was absolutely unconscious! I hadn't a phrase to meet it with! I

was overcome! I was swept off my feet! I didn't even try, in the dimmest way, to put it down!"

And up I puffed and puffed, blowing off finally with: "After all I must be first-rate. No

second-rate mind could have experienced such an intensity of feeling so . . . purely."

The waiter has touched a spill at the red stove and lighted a bubble of gas under a spreading shade.

It is no use looking out of the window, Madame; it is quite dark now. Your white hands hover overyour dark shawl. They are like two birds that have come home to roost. They are restless, restless. . .

. You tuck them, finally, under your warm little armpits.


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Now the waiter has taken a long pole and dashed the curtains together. "All gone," as

children say.

And besides, I've no patience with people who can't let go of things, who will follow after

and cry out. When a thing's gone, it's gone. It's over and done with. Let it go then ! Ignore it, and

comfort yourself, if you do want comforting, with the thought that you never do recover the same

thing that you lose. It's always a new thing. The moment it leaves you it's changed. Why, that's even

true of a hat you chase after; and I don't mean superficiallyI mean profoundly speaking . . . I havemade it a rule of my life never to regret and never to look back. Regret is an appalling waste of

energy, and no one who intends to be a writer can afford to indulge in it. You can't get it into shape;

you can't build on it; it's only good for wallowing in. Looking back, of course, is equally fatal to

Art. It's keeping yourself poor. Art can't and won't stand poverty.

Je ne parle pas francais. Je ne parle pas francais. All the while I wrote that last page my

other self has been chasing up and down out in the dark there. It left me just when I began to

analyse my grand moment, dashed off distracted, like a lost dog who thinks at last, at last, he hears

the familiar step again.

"Mouse! Mouse! Where are you? Are you near? Is that you leaning from the high window

and stretching out your arms for the wings of the shutters? Are you this soft bundle moving towards

me through the feathery snow? Are you this little girl pressing through the swing-doors of therestaurant? Is that your dark shadow bending forward in the cab? Where are you? Where are you?

Which way must I turn? Which way shall I run? And every moment I stand here hesitating you are

farther away again. Mouse! Mouse!"

Now the poor dog has come back into the caf, his tail between his legs, quite exhausted.

"It was a . . . false . . . alarm. She's nowhere . . . to . . . be seen."

"Lie down then! Lie down! Lie down!"

My name is Raoul Duquette. I am twenty-six years old and a Parisian, a true Parisian. About my

familyit really doesn't matter. I have no family; I don't want any. I never think about my childhood.

I've forgotten it. In fact, there's only one memory that stands out at all. That is rather interesting

because it seems to me now so very significant as regards myself from the literary point of view. Itis this.

When I was about ten our laundress was an African woman, very big, very dark, with a

check handkerchief over her frizzy hair. When she came to our house she always took particular

notice of me, and after the clothes had been taken out of the basket she would lift me up into it and

give me a rock while I held tight to the handles and screamed for joy and fright. I was tiny for my

age, and pale, with a lovely little half-open mouthI feel sure of that.

One day when I was standing at the door, watching her go, she turned round and beckoned

to me, nodding and smiling in a strange secret way. I never thought of not following. She took me

into a little outhouse at the end of the passage, caught me up in her arms and began kissing me. Ah,

those kisses! Especially those kisses inside my ears that nearly deafened me.

When she set me down she took from her pocket a little round fried cake covered with sugar,

and I reeled along the passage back to our door.

As this performance was repeated once a week it is no wonder that I remember it so vividly.

Besides, from that very first afternoon, my childhood was, to put it prettily, "kissed away." I became

very languid, very caressing, and greedy beyond measure. And so quickened, so sharpened, I

seemed to understand everybody and be able to do what I liked with everybody.

I suppose I was in a state of more or less physical excitement, and that was what appealed to

them. For all Parisians are more than halfoh, well, enough of that. And enough of my childhood,

too. Bury it under a laundry basket instead of a shower of roses andpassons oultre.

I date myself from the moment that I became the tenant of a small bachelor flat on the fifth floor ofa tall, not too shabby house, in a street that might or might not be discreet. Very useful, that. . . .

There I emerged, came out into the light, and put out my two horns with a study and a bedroom and


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a kitchen on my back. And real furniture planted in the rooms. In the bedroom a wardrobe with a

long glass, a big bed covered with a yellow puffed-up quilt, a bed table with a marbled top, and a

toilet set sprinkled with tiny apples. In my studyEnglish writing table with drawers, writing chair

with leather cushions, books, arm-chair, side table with paper-knife and lamp on it, and some nude

studies on the walls. I didn't use the kitchen except to throw old papers into.

Ah, I can see myself that first evening, after the furniture men had gone and I'd managed to

get rid of my atrocious old conciergewalking about on tip-toe, arranging and standing in front ofthe glass with my hands in my pockets, and saying to that radiant vision: "I am a young man who

has his own flat. I write for two newspapers. I am going in for serious literature. I am starting a

career. The book that I shall bring out will simply stagger the critics. I am going to write about

things that have never been touched before. I am going to make a name for myself as a writer about

the submerged world. But not as others have done before me. Oh, no! Very naively, with a sort of

tender humour and from the inside, as though it were all quite simple, quite natural. I see my way

quite perfectly. Nobody has ever done it as I shall do it because none of the others have lived my

experiences. I'm richI'm rich."

All the same I had no more money than I have now. It's extraordinary how one can live

without money. . . . I have quantities of good clothes, silk underwear, two evening suits, four pairs

of patent leather boots with light uppers, all sorts of little things, like gloves and powder boxes anda manicure set, perfumes, very good soap, and nothing is paid for. If I find myself in need of right-

down cashwell, there's always an African laundress and an outhouse, and I am very frank and bon

enfantabout plenty of sugar on the little fried cake afterwards. . . .

And here I should like to put something on record. Not from any strutting conceit, but rather

with a mild sense of wonder. I've never yet made the first advances to any woman. It isn't as though

I've known only one class of womannot by any means. But from little prostitutes and kept women

and elderly widows and shop girls and wives of respectable men, and even advanced modern

literary ladies at the most select dinners and soires (I've been there), I've met invariably with not

only the same readiness, but with the same positive invitation. It surprised me at first. I used to look

across the table and think "Is that very distinguished young lady, discussing le Kiplingwith the

gentleman with the brown beard, really pressing my foot?" And I was never really certain until Ihad pressed hers.

Curious, isn't it? I don't look at all like a maiden's dream. . . .

I am little and light with an olive skin, black eyes with long lashes, black silky hair cut short,

tiny square teeth that show when I smile. My hands are supple and small. A woman in a bread shop

once said to me: "You have the hands for making fine little pastries." I confess, without my clothes

I am rather charming. Plump, almost like a girl, with smooth shoulders, and I wear a thin gold

bracelet above my left elbow.

But, wait! Isn't it strange I should have written all that about my body and so on? It's the

result of my bad life, my submerged life. I am like a little woman in a caf who has to introduce

herself with a handful of photographs. "Me in my chemise, coming out of an eggshell. . . . Me

upside down in a swing, with a frilly behind like a cauliflower. . . . " You know the things.

If you think what I've written is merely superficial and impudent and cheap you're wrong. I'll admit

it does sound so, but then it is not all. If it were, how could I have experienced what I did when I

read that stale little phrase written in green ink, in the writing-pad? That proves there's more in me

and that I really am important, doesn't it? Anything a fraction less than that moment of anguish I

might have put on. But no! That was real.

"Waiter, a whisky."

I hate whisky. Every time I take it into my mouth my stomach rises against it, and the stuff

they keep here is sure to be particularly vile. I only ordered it because I am going to write about an

Englishman. We French are incredibly old-fashioned and out of date still in some ways. I wonder Ididn't ask him at the same time for a pair of tweed knickerbockers, a pipe, some long teeth, and a set

of ginger whiskers.


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"Thanks, mon vieux. You haven't got perhaps a set of ginger whiskers?"

"No, monsieur," he answers sadly. "We don't sell American drinks."

And having smeared a corner of the table he goes back to have another couple of dozen

taken by artificial light.

Ugh! The smell of it! And the sickly sensation when one's throat contracts.

"It's bad stuff to get drunk on," says Dick Harmon, turning his little glass in his fingers and

smiling his slow, dreaming smile. So he gets drunk on it slowly and dreamily and at a certainmoment begins to sing very low, very low, about a man who walks up and down trying to find a

place where he can get some dinner.

Ah! how I loved that song, and how I loved the way he sang it, slowly, slowly, in a dark, soft

voice:

There was a man

Walked up and down

To get a dinner in the town . . .

It seemed to hold, in its gravity and muffled measure, all those tall grey buildings, those

fogs, those endless streets, those sharp shadows of policemen that mean England.

And thenthe subject! The lean, starved creature walking up and down with every house

barred against him because he had no "home." How extraordinarily English that is. . . . I rememberthat it ended where he did at last "find a place" and ordered a little cake of fish, but when he asked

for bread the waiter cried contemptuously, in a loud voice: "We don't serve bread with one fish

ball."

What more do you want? How profound those songs are ! There is the whole psychology of

a people; and how un-Frenchhow un-French!

"Once more, Dick, once more!" I would plead, clasping my hands and making a pretty

mouth at him. He was perfectly content to sing it for ever.

There again. Even with Dick. It was he who made the first advances.

I met him at an evening party given by the editor of a new review. It was a very select, very

fashionable affair. One or two of the older men were there and the ladies were extremely comme ilfaut. They sat on cubist sofas in full evening dress and allowed us to hand them thimbles of cherry

brandy and to talk to them about their poetry. For, as far as I can remember, they were all poetesses.


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From Jane Austen, Sense and Sensibility, 1811

CHAPTER 1

The family of Dashwood had long been settled in Sussex. Their estate was large, and their residence

was at Norland Park, in the centre of their property, where, for many generations, they had lived in

so respectable a manner as to engage the general good opinion of their surrounding acquaintance.The late owner of this estate was a single man, who lived to a very advanced age, and who for many

years of his life, had a constant companion and housekeeper in his sister. But her death, which

happened ten years before his own, produced a great alteration in his home; for to supply her loss,

he invited and received into his house the family of his nephew Mr. Henry Dashwood, the legal

inheritor of the Norland estate, and the person to whom he intended to bequeath it. In the society of

his nephew and niece, and their children, the old Gentleman's days were comfortably spent. His

attachment to them all increased. The constant attention of Mr. and Mrs. Henry Dashwood to his

wishes, which proceeded not merely from interest, but from goodness of heart, gave him every

degree of solid comfort which his age could receive; and the cheerfulness of the children added a

relish to his existence.

By a former marriage, Mr. Henry Dashwood had one son: by his present lady, three daughters. The

son, a steady respectable young man, was amply provided for by the fortune of his mother, which

had been large, and half of which devolved on him on his coming of age. By his own marriage,

likewise, which happened soon afterwards, he added to his wealth. To him therefore the succession

to the Norland estate was not so really important as to his sisters; for their fortune, independent of

what might arise to them from their father's inheriting that property, could be but small. Their

mother had nothing, and their father only seven thousand pounds in his own disposal; for the

remaining moiety of his first wife's fortune was also secured to her child, and he had only a life-

interest in it.

The old gentleman died: his will was read, and like almost every other will, gave as much

disappointment as pleasure. He was neither so unjust, nor so ungrateful, as to leave his estate from

his nephew;but he left it to him on such terms as destroyed half the value of the bequest. Mr.

Dashwood had wished for it more for the sake of his wife and daughters than for himself or his

son;but to his son, and his son's son, a child of four years old, it was secured, in such a way, as to

leave to himself no power of providing for those who were most dear to him, and who most needed

a provision by any charge on the estate, or by any sale of its valuable woods. The whole was tied up

for the benefit of this child, who, in occasional visits with his father and mother at Norland, had so

far gained on the affections of his uncle, by such attractions as are by no means unusual in children

of two or three years old; an imperfect articulation, an earnest desire of having his own way, many

cunning tricks, and a great deal of noise, as to outweigh all the value of all the attention which, for

years, he had received from his niece and her daughters. He meant not to be unkind, however, and,as a mark of his affection for the three girls, he left them a thousand pounds a-piece.

Mr. Dashwood's disappointment was, at first, severe; but his temper was cheerful and sanguine; and

he might reasonably hope to live many years, and by living economically, lay by a considerable sum

from the produce of an estate already large, and capable of almost immediate improvement. But the

fortune, which had been so tardy in coming, was his only one twelvemonth. He survived his uncle

no longer; and ten thousand pounds, including the late legacies, was all that remained for his widow

and daughters.

His son was sent for as soon as his danger was known, and to him Mr. Dashwood recommended,

with all the strength and urgency which illness could command, the interest of his mother-in-law

and sisters.Mr. John Dashwood had not the strong feelings of the rest of the family; but he was affected by a


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recommendation of such a nature at such a time, and he promised to do every thing in his power to

make them comfortable. His father was rendered easy by such an assurance, and Mr. John

Dashwood had then leisure to consider how much there might prudently be in his power to do for

them.

He was not an ill-disposed young man, unless to be rather cold hearted and rather selfish is to be ill-

disposed: but he was, in general, well respected; for he conducted himself with propriety in the

discharge of his ordinary duties. Had he married a more amiable woman, he might have been madestill more respectable than he was:he might even have been made amiable himself; for he was

very young when he married, and very fond of his wife. But Mrs. John Dashwood was a strong

caricature of himself;more narrow-minded and selfish.

When he gave his promise to his father, he meditated within himself to increase the fortunes of his

sisters by the present of a thousand pounds a-piece. He then really thought himself equal to it. The

prospect of four thousand a-year, in addition to his present income, besides the remaining half of his

own mother's fortune, warmed his heart, and made him feel capable of generosity."Yes, he would

give them three thousand pounds: it would be liberal and handsome! It would be enough to make

them completely easy. Three thousand pounds! he could spare so considerable a sum with little

inconvenience."He thought of it all day long, and for many days successively, and he did notrepent.

No sooner was his father's funeral over, than Mrs. John Dashwood, without sending any notice of

her intention to her mother-in-law, arrived with her child and their attendants. No one could dispute

her right to come; the house was her husband's from the moment of his father's decease; but the

indelicacy of her conduct was so much the greater, and to a woman in Mrs. Dashwood's situation,

with only common feelings, must have been highly unpleasing;but in HER mind there was a

sense of honor so keen, a generosity so romantic, that any offence of the kind, by whomsoever

given or received, was to her a source of immovable disgust. Mrs. John Dashwood had never been a

favourite with any of her husband's family; but she had had no opportunity, till the present, of

shewing them with how little attention to the comfort of other people she could act when occasionrequired it.

So acutely did Mrs. Dashwood feel this ungracious behaviour, and so earnestly did she despise her

daughter-in-law for it, that, on the arrival of the latter, she would have quitted the house for ever,

had not the entreaty of her eldest girl induced her first to reflect on the propriety of going, and her

own tender love for all her three children determined her afterwards to stay, and for their sakes

avoid a breach with their brother.

Elinor, this eldest daughter, whose advice was so effectual, possessed a strength of understanding,

and coolness of judgment, which qualified her, though only nineteen, to be the counsellor of her

mother, and enabled her frequently to counteract, to the advantage of them all, that eagerness of

mind in Mrs. Dashwood which must generally have led to imprudence. She had an excellentheart;her disposition was affectionate, and her feelings were strong; but she knew how to govern

them: it was a knowledge which her mother had yet to learn; and which one of her sisters had

resolved never to be taught.

Marianne's abilities were, in many respects, quite equal to Elinor's. She was sensible and clever; but

eager in everything: her sorrows, her joys, could have no moderation. She was generous, amiable,

interesting: she was everything but prudent. The resemblance between her and her mother was

strikingly great.

Elinor saw, with concern, the excess of her sister's sensibility; but by Mrs. Dashwood it was valued

and cherished. They encouraged each other now in the violence of their affliction. The agony of

grief which overpowered them at first, was voluntarily renewed, was sought for, was created againand again. They gave themselves up wholly to their sorrow, seeking increase of wretchedness in

every reflection that could afford it, and resolved against ever admitting consolation in future.


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"To be sure it would."

"Perhaps, then, it would be better for all parties, if the sum were diminished one half.Five

hundred pounds would be a prodigious increase to their fortunes!"

"Oh! beyond anything great! What brother on earth would do half so much for his sisters, even if

REALLY his sisters! And as it isonly half blood!But you have such a generous spirit!"

"I would not wish to do any thing mean," he replied. "One had rather, on such occasions, do toomuch than too little. No one, at least, can think I have not done enough for them: even themselves,

they can hardly expect more."

"There is no knowing what THEY may expect," said the lady, "but we are not to think of their

expectations: the question is, what you can afford to do."

"Certainlyand I think I may afford to give them five hundred pounds a-piece. As it is, without any

addition of mine, they will each have about three thousand pounds on their mother's deatha very

comfortable fortune for any young woman."

"To be sure it is; and, indeed, it strikes me that they can want no addition at all. They will have ten

thousand pounds divided amongst them. If they marry, they will be sure of doing well, and if theydo not, they may all live very comfortably together on the interest of ten thousand pounds."

"That is very true, and, therefore, I do not know whether, upon the whole, it would not be more

advisable to do something for their mother while she lives, rather than for themsomething of the

annuity kind I mean.My sisters would feel the good effects of it as well as herself. A hundred a

year would make them all perfectly comfortable."

His wife hesitated a little, however, in giving her consent to this plan.

"To be sure," said she, "it is better than parting with fifteen hundred pounds at once. But, then, if

Mrs. Dashwood should live fifteen years we shall be completely taken in."

"Fifteen years! my dear Fanny; her life cannot be worth half that purchase.""Certainly not; but if you observe, people always live for ever when there is an annuity to be paid

them; and she is very stout and healthy, and hardly forty. An annuity is a very serious business; it

comes over and over every year, and there is no getting rid of it. You are not aware of what you are

doing. I have known a great deal of the trouble of annuities; for my mother was clogged with the

payment of three to old superannuated servants by my father's will, and it is amazing how

disagreeable she found it. Twice every year these annuities were to be paid; and then there was the

trouble of getting it to them; and then one of them was said to have died, and afterwards it turned

out to be no such thing. My mother was quite sick of it. Her income was not her own, she said, with

such perpetual claims on it; and it was the more unkind in my father, because, otherwise, the money

would have been entirely at my mother's disposal, without any restriction whatever. It has given me

such an abhorrence of annuities, that I am sure I would not pin myself down to the payment of onefor all the world."

"It is certainly an unpleasant thing," replied Mr. Dashwood, "to have those kind of yearly drains on

one's income. One's fortune, as your mother justly says, is NOT one's own. To be tied down to the

regular payment of such a sum, on every rent day, is by no means desirable: it takes away one's

independence."

"Undoubtedly; and after all you have no thanks for it. They think themselves secure, you do no

more than what is expected, and it raises no gratitude at all. If I were you, whatever I did should be

done at my own discretion entirely. I would not bind myself to allow them any thing yearly. It may

be very inconvenient some years to spare a hundred, or even fifty pounds from our own expenses."

"I believe you are right, my love; it will be better that there should be no annuity in the case;

whatever I may give them occasionally will be of far greater assistance than a yearly allowance,


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because they would only enlarge their style of living if they felt sure of a larger income, and would

not be sixpence the richer for it at the end of the year. It will certainly be much the best way. A

present of fifty pounds, now and then, will prevent their ever being distressed for money, and will, I

think, be amply discharging my promise to my father."

"To be sure it will. Indeed, to say the truth, I am convinced within myself that your father had no

idea of your giving them any money at all. The assistance he thought of, I dare say, was only such

as might be reasonably expected of you; for instance, such as looking out for a comfortable smallhouse for them, helping them to move their things, and sending them presents of fish and game, and

so forth, whenever they are in season. I'll lay my life that he meant nothing farther; indeed, it would

be very strange and unreasonable if he did. Do but consider, my dear Mr. Dashwood, how

excessively comfortable your mother-in-law and her daughters may live on the interest of seven

thousand pounds, besides the thousand pounds belonging to each of the girls, which brings them in

fifty pounds a year a-piece, and, of course, they will pay their mother for their board out of it.

Altogether, they will have five hundred a-year amongst them, and what on earth can four women

want for more than that?They will live so cheap! Their housekeeping will be nothing at all. They

will have no carriage, no horses, and hardly any servants; they will keep no company, and can have

no expenses of any kind! Only conceive how comfortable they will be! Five hundred a year! I am

sure I cannot imagine how they will spend half of it; and as to your giving them more, it is quite

absurd to think of it. They will be much more able to give YOU something."

"Upon my word," said Mr. Dashwood, "I believe you are perfectly right. My father certainly could

mean nothing more by his request to me than what you say. I clearly understand it now, and I will

strictly fulfil my engagement by such acts of assistance and kindness to them as you have described.

When my mother removes into another house my services shall be readily given to accommodate

her as far as I can. Some little present of furniture too may be acceptable then."

"Certainly," returned Mrs. John Dashwood. "But, however, ONE thing must be considered. When

your father and mother moved to Norland, though the furniture of Stanhill was sold, all the china,

plate, and linen was saved, and is now left to your mother. Her house will therefore be almostcompletely fitted up as soon as she takes it."

"That is a material consideration undoubtedly. A valuable legacy indeed! And yet some of the plate

would have been a very pleasant addition to our own stock here."

"Yes; and the set of breakfast china is twice as handsome as what belongs to this house. A great deal

too handsome, in my opinion, for any place THEY can ever afford to live in. But, however, so it is.

Your father thought only of THEM. And I must say this: that you owe no particular gratitude to him,

nor attention to his wishes; for we very well know that if he could, he would have left almost

everything in the world to THEM."

This argument was irresistible. It gave to his intentions whatever of decision was wanting before;

and he finally resolved, that it would be absolutely unnecessary, if not highly indecorous, to domore for the widow and children of his father, than such kind of neighbourly acts as his own wife

pointed out.

CHAPTER 3

Mrs. Dashwood remained at Norland several months; not from any disinclination to move when the

sight of every well known spot ceased to raise the violent emotion which it produced for a while;

for when her spirits began to revive, and her mind became capable of some other exertion than that

of heightening its affliction by melancholy remembrances, she was impatient to be gone, and

indefatigable in her inquiries for a suitable dwelling in the neighbourhood of Norland; for to remove

far from that beloved spot was impossible. But she could hear of no situation that at once answeredher notions of comfort and ease, and suited the prudence of her eldest daughter, whose steadier


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judgment rejected several houses as too large for their income, which her mother would have

approved.

Mrs. Dashwood had been informed by her husband of the solemn promise on the part of his son in

their favour, which gave comfort to his last earthly reflections. She doubted the sincerity of this

assurance no more than he had doubted it himself, and she thought of it for her daughters' sake with

satisfaction, though as for herself she was persuaded that a much smaller provision than 7000L

would support her in affluence. For their brother's sake, too, for the sake of his own heart, sherejoiced; and she reproached herself for being unjust to his merit before, in believing him incapable

of generosity. His attentive behaviour to herself and his sisters convinced her that their welfare was

dear to him, and, for a long time, she firmly relied on the liberality of his intentions.

The contempt which she had, very early in their acquaintance, felt for her daughter-in-law, was very

much increased by the farther knowledge of her character, which half a year's residence in her

family afforded; and perhaps in spite of every consideration of politeness or maternal affection on

the side of the former, the two ladies might have found it impossible to have lived together so long,

had not a particular circumstance occurred to give still greater eligibility, according to the opinions

of Mrs. Dashwood, to her daughters' continuance at Norland.

This circumstance was a growing attachment between her eldest girl and the brother of Mrs. John

Dashwood, a gentleman-like and pleasing young man, who was introduced to their acquaintance

soon after his sister's establishment at Norland, and who had since spent the greatest part of his time

there.

Some mothers might have encouraged the intimacy from motives of interest, for Edward Ferrars

was the eldest son of a man who had died very rich; and some might have repressed it from motives

of prudence, for, except a trifling sum, the whole of his fortune depended on the will of his mother.

But Mrs. Dashwood was alike uninfluenced by either consideration. It was enough for her that he

appeared to be amiable, that he loved her daughter, and that Elinor returned the partiality. It was

contrary to every doctrine of hers that difference of fortune should keep any couple asunder who

were attracted by resemblance of disposition; and that Elinor's merit should not be acknowledgedby every one who knew her, was to her comprehension impossible.

Edward Ferrars was not recommended to their good opinion by any peculiar graces of person or

address. He was not handsome, and his manners required intimacy to make them pleasing. He was

too diffident to do justice to himself; but when his natural shyness was overcome, his behaviour

gave every indication of an open, affectionate heart. His understanding was good, and his education

had given it solid improvement. But he was neither fitted by abilities nor disposition to answer the

wishes of his mother and sister, who longed to see him distinguishedasthey hardly knew what.

They wanted him to make a fine figure in the world in some manner or other. His mother wished to

interest him in political concerns, to get him into parliament, or to see him connected with some of

the great men of the day. Mrs. John Dashwood wished it likewise; but in the mean while, till one ofthese superior blessings could be attained, it would have quieted her ambition to see him driving a

barouche. But Edward had no turn for great men or barouches. All his wishes centered in domestic

comfort and the quiet of private life. Fortunately he had a younger brother who was more

promising.

Edward had been staying several weeks in the house before he engaged much of Mrs. Dashwood's

attention; for she was, at that time, in such affliction as rendered her careless of surrounding objects.

She saw only that he was quiet and unobtrusive, and she liked him for it. He did not disturb the

wretchedness of her mind by ill-timed conversation. She was first called to observe and approve

him farther, by a reflection which Elinor chanced one day to make on the difference between him

and his sister. It was a contrast which recommended him most forcibly to her mother.

"It is enough," said she; "to say that he is unlike Fanny is enough. It implies everything amiable. I

love him already."


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"I think you will like him," said Elinor, "when you know more of him."

"Like him!" replied her mother with a smile. "I feel no sentiment of approbation inferior to love."

"You may esteem him."

"I have never yet known what it was to separate esteem and love."

Mrs. Dashwood now took pains to get acquainted with him. Her manners were attaching, and soonbanished his reserve. She speedily comprehended all his merits; the persuasion of his regard for

Elinor perhaps assisted her penetration; but she really felt assured of his worth: and even that

quietness of manner, which militated against all her established ideas of what a young man's address

ought to be, was no longer uninteresting when she knew his heart to be warm and his temper

affectionate.

No sooner did she perceive any symptom of love in his behaviour to Elinor, than she considered

their serious attachment as certain, and looked forward to their marriage as rapidly approaching.


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From Henry Fielding, The History of Tom Jones,A Foundling(1749)

BOOK I.

CONTAINING AS MUCH OF THE BIRTH OF THE FOUNDLING AS IS NECESSARY ORPROPER TO ACQUAINT THE READER WITH IN THE BEGINNING OF THIS

HISTORY.

Chapter i.

The introduction to the work, or bill of fare to the feast.

An author ought to consider himself, not as a gentleman who gives a private or eleemosynary treat,

but rather as one who keeps a public ordinary, at which all persons are welcome for their money. In

the former case, it is well known that the entertainer provides what fare he pleases; and though this

should be very indifferent, and utterly disagreeable to the taste of his company, they must not findany fault; nay, on the contrary, good breeding forces them outwardly to approve and to commend

whatever is set before them. Now the contrary of this happens to the master of an ordinary. Men

who pay for what they eat will insist on gratifying their palates, however nice and whimsical these

may prove; and if everything is not agreeable to their taste, will challenge a right to censure, to

abuse, and to dn their dinner without controul.

To prevent, therefore, giving offence to their customers by any such disappointment, it hath been

usual with the honest and well-meaning host to provide a bill of fare which all persons may peruse

at their first entrance into the house; and having thence acquainted themselves with the

entertainment which they may expect, may either stay and regale with what is provided for them, or

may depart to some other ordinary better accommodated to their taste.

As we do not disdain to borrow wit or wisdom from any man who is capable of lending us either,

we have condescended to take a hint from these honest victuallers, and shall prefix not only a

general bill of fare to our whole entertainment, but shall likewise give the reader particular bills to

every course which is to be served up in this and the ensuing volumes.

The provision, then, which we have here made is no other thanHuman Nature. Nor do I fear that

my sensible reader, though most luxurious in his taste, will start, cavil, or be offended, because I

have named but one article. The tortoiseas the alderman of Bristol, well learned in eating, knows

by much experiencebesides the delicious calipash and calipee, contains many different kinds of

food; nor can the learned reader be ignorant, that in human nature, though here collected under one

general name, is such prodigious variety, that a cook will have sooner gone through all the several

species of animal and vegetable food in the world, than an author will be able to exhaust so

extensive a subject.

An objection may perhaps be apprehended from the more delicate, that this dish is too common and

vulgar; for what else is the subject of all the romances, novels, plays, and poems, with which the

stalls abound? Many exquisite viands might be rejected by the epicure, if it was a sufficient cause

for his contemning of them as common and vulgar, that something was to be found in the most

paltry alleys under the same name. In reality, true nature is as difficult to be met with in authors, as

the Bayonne ham, or Bologna sausage, is to be found in the shops.

But the whole, to continue the same metaphor, consists in the cookery of the author; for, as Mr Pope

tells us

"True wit is nature to advantage drest;

What oft was thought, but ne'er so well exprest."


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perfection, if it can be called one, without contempt; and would often thank God she was not as

handsome as Miss Such-a-one, whom perhaps beauty had led into errors which she might have

otherwise avoided. Miss Bridget Allworthy (for that was the name of this lady) very rightly

conceived the charms of person in a woman to be no better than snares for herself, as well as for

others; and yet so discreet was she in her conduct, that her prudence was as much on the guard as if

she had all the snares to apprehend which were ever laid for her whole sex. Indeed, I have observed,

though it may seem unaccountable to the reader, that this guard of prudence, like the trained bands,is always readiest to go on duty where there is the least danger. It often basely and cowardly deserts

those paragons for whom the men are all wishing, sighing, dying, and spreading, every net in their

power; and constantly attends at the heels of that higher order of women for whom the other sex

have a more distant and awful respect, and whom (from despair, I suppose, of success) they never

venture to attack.

Reader, I think proper, before we proceed any farther together, to acquaint thee that I intend to

digress, through this whole history, as often as I see occasion, of which I am myself a better judge

than any pitiful critic whatever; and here I must desire all those critics to mind their own business,

and not to intermeddle with affairs or works which no ways concern them; for till they produce the

authority by which they are constituted judges, I shall not plead to their jurisdiction.


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Robert Browning, My Last Duchess, 1842

Ferrara

That's my last Duchess painted on the wall,

Looking as if she were alive. I call

That piece a wonder, now: Fr Pandolf's handsWorked busily a day, and there she stands.

Will't please you sit and look at her? I said

"Fr Pandolf" by design, for never read

Strangers like you that pictured countenance,

The depth and passion of its earnest glance,

But to myselfthey turned (since none puts by

The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)

And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,

How such a glance came there; so, not the first

Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not

Her husband's presence only, called that spot

Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps

Fr Pandolf chanced to say "Her mantle laps

Over my Lady's wrist too much," or "Paint

Must never hope to reproduce the faint

Half-flush that dies along her throat": such stuff

Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough

For calling up that spot of joy. She had

A hearthow shall I say?too soon made glad,

Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er

She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.Sir, 'twas all one! My favour at her breast,

The dropping of the daylight in the West,

The bough of cherries some officious fool

Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule

She rode with round the terraceall and each

Would draw from her alike the approving speech,

Or blush, at least. She thanked men,good! but thanked

SomehowI know not howas if she ranked

My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name

With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame

This sort of trifling? Even had you skillIn speech(which I have not)to make your will

Quite clear to such an one, and say, "Just this

Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,

Or there exceed the mark"and if she let

Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set

Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse,

--E'en then would be some stooping, and I choose

Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,

Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without

Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;

Then all smiles stopped together. There she standsAs if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet


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The company below, then. I repeat,

The Count your master's known munificence

Is ample warrant that no just pretence

Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;

Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed

At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go

Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,

Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!


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Philip Larkin, Church Going, 1954

Once I am sure there's nothing going on

I step inside, letting the door thud shut.

Another church: matting, seats, and stone,

And little books; sprawlings of flowers, cutFor Sunday, brownish now; some brass and stuff

Up at the holy end; the small neat organ;

And a tense, musty, unignorable silence,

Brewed God knows how long. Hatless, I take off

My cycle-clips in awkward reverence.

Move forward, run my hand around the font.

From where I stand, the roof looks almost new -

Cleaned, or restored? Someone would know: I don't.

Mounting the lectern, I peruse a few

Hectoring large-scale verses, and pronounce'Here endeth' much more loudly than I'd meant.

The echoes snigger briefly. Back at the door

I sign the book, donate an Irish sixpence,

Reflect the place was not worth stopping for.

Yet stop I did: in fact I often do,

And always end much at a loss like this,

Wondering what to look for; wondering, too,

When churches will fall completely out of use

What we shall turn them into, if we shall keep

A few cathedrals chronically on show,Their parchment, plate and pyx in locked cases,

And let the rest rent-free to rain and sheep.

Shall we avoid them as unlucky places?

Or, after dark, will dubious women come

To make their children touch a particular stone;

Pick simples for a cancer; or on some

Advised night see walking a dead one?

Power of some sort will go on

In games, in riddles, seemingly at random;

But superstition, like belief, must die,

And what remains when disbelief has gone?

Grass, weedy pavement, brambles, buttress, sky,

A shape less recognisable each week,

A purpose more obscure. I wonder who

Will be the last, the very last, to seek

This place for what it was; one of the crew

That tap and jot and know what rood-lofts were?

Some ruin-bibber, randy for antique,

Or Christmas-addict, counting on a whiffOf gown-and-bands and organ-pipes and myrrh?

Or will he be my representative,


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Bored, uninformed, knowing the ghostly silt

Dispersed, yet tending to this cross of ground

Through suburb scrub because it held unspilt

So long and equably what since is found

Only in separation - marriage, and birth,

And death, and thoughts of these - for which was builtThis special shell? For, though I've no idea

What this accoutred frowsty barn is worth,

It pleases me to stand in silence here;

A serious house on serious earth it is,

In whose blent air all our compulsions meet,

Are recognized, and robed as destinies.

And that much never can be obsolete,

Since someone will forever be surprising

A hunger in himself to be more serious,

And gravitating with it to this ground,Which, he once heard, was proper to grow wise in,

If only that so many dead lie round.

Inglese 3 Testi Primari 3

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Transcript of Inglese 3 Testi Primari 3