What is the effect of the setting episode? Is the story framed by the descriptive passages?
Where does a clash of two characters begin? What means does the author use to reveal the characters?
Does the author speak in his own voice or present the events from the point of view of one of the characters?
What light is thrown on the story by its title?
Text five
LAUGHTER
by William Saroyan (1908-1981)
“You want me to laugh?”
He felt lonely and ill in the empty classroom, all the boys going home, Dan Seed, James Misippo, Dick Corcoran, all of them walking along the Southern Pacific tracks, laughing and playing, and this insane idea of Miss Wissig’s making him sick.
“Yes”.
The severe lips, the trembling, the eyes, such pathetic melancholy.
“But I do not want to laugh”.
It was strange. The whole world, the turn of things, the way they came about.
“Laugh”.
The increasing tenseness, electrical, her stiffness, the nervous movements of her body and her arms, the cold she made, and the illness in his blood.
“But why?”
Why? Everything tied up, everything graceless and ugly, the caught mind, something in a trap, no sense, no meaning.
“As a punishment. You laughed in class, now as a punishment you must laugh for an hour, all alone, by yourself. Hurry, you have already wasted four minutes”.
It was disgusting: it wasn’t funny at all, being kept after school, being asked to laugh. There was no sense in the idea. What should he laugh about? A fellow couldn’t just laugh. There had to be something of that kind, something amusing, or pompous, something comical. This was so strange, because of her manner, the way she looked at him, the subtlety; it was frightening. What did she want of him? And the smell of school, the oil in the floor, chalk dust, the smell of the idea, children gone: loneliness, the sadness.
“I am sorry I laughed”.
The flower bending, ashamed. He felt sorry, he was not merely bluffing; he was sorry, not for himself but for her. She was a young girl, a substitute teacher, and there was that sadness in her, so far away and so hard to understand; it came with each morning and he had laughed at it, it was comical, something she said, the way she said it, the way she stared at everyone, the way she moved. He hadn’t felt like laughing at all, but all of a sudden he had laughed and she had looked at him and he had looked into her face, and for a moment that vague communion, then the anger, the hatred, in her eyes. “You will stay in after school”. He hadn’t wanted to laugh, it simply happened, and he was ashamed, she ought to know, he was telling her. Jiminy crickets.
“You are wasting time. Begin laughing”.
Her back was turned and she was erasing words from the blackboard: AFRICA, CAIRO, the pyramids, the sphinx, Nile; and the figures 1865, 1914. But the tenseness, even with her back turned; it was still in the class-room, emphasized because of the emptiness, magnified, made precise, his mind and her mind, their grief, side by side, conflicting; why? He wanted to be friendly; the morning she had entered the class-room he had wanted to be friendly; he felt it immediately, her strangeness, the remoteness, so why had he laughed?
Why did everything happen in a false way? Why should he be the one to hurt her, when really he had wanted to be her friend from the beginning?
“I don’t want to laugh”.
Defiance and at the same time weeping, shameful weeping in his voice. By what right should he be made to destroy in himself an innocent thing? He hadn’t meant to be cruel; why shouldn’t she be able to understand? He began to feel hatred for her stupidity, her dullness, the stubbornness of her will. I will not laugh, he thought; she can call Mr. Casewell and have me whipped; I will not laugh again. It was a mistake. I had meant to cry; something else, anyway; I hadn’t meant it. I can stand a whipping, golly Moses, it hurts, but not like this; I’ve felt that strap on my behind, I know the difference.
Well, let them whip him, what did he care? It stung and he could feel the sharp pain for days after, thinking about it, but let them go ahead and make him bend over, he wouldn’t laugh.
He saw her sit at her desk and stare at him, and for crying out loud, she looked sick and startled, and the pity came up to his mouth again, the sickening pity for her, and why was he making so much trouble for a poor substitute teacher he really liked, not an old and ugly teacher, but a nice small girl who was frightened from the first?
“Please laugh”.
And what humiliation, not commanding him, begging him now, begging him to laugh when he didn’t want to laugh. What should a fellow do, honestly; what should a fellow do that would be right, by his own will, not accidentally, like the wrong things? And what did she mean? What pleasure could she get out of hearing him laugh? What a stupid world, the strange feelings of people, the secretiveness, each person hidden within himself, wanting something and always getting something else, wanting to give something and always giving something else. Well, he would. Now he would laugh, not for himself but for her. Even if it sickened him, he would laugh. He wanted to know the truth, how it was. She wasn’t making him laugh, she was asking him, begging him to laugh. He didn’t know how it was, but he wanted to know. He thought, Maybe I can think of a funny story, and he began to try to remember all the funny stories he had ever heard, but it was very strange, he couldn’t remember a single one. And the other funny things, the way Annie Gran walked; gee, it wasn’t funny any more; and Henry Mayo making fun of Hiawatha, saying the lines wrong; it wasn’t funny either. It used to make him laugh until his face got red and he lost his breath, but now it was a dead and pointless thing, by the big sea waters, by the big sea waters, came the mighty, but gee, it wasn’t funny; he couldn’t laugh about it, golly Moses. Well, he would just laugh, any old laugh, be an actor, ha, ha, ha. God, it was hard, the easiest thing in the world for him to do, and now he couldn’t make a little giggle.
Somehow he began to laugh, feeling ashamed and disgusted. He was afraid to look into her eyes, so he looked up at the clock and tried to keep on laughing, and it was startling, to ask a boy to laugh for an hour, at nothing, to beg him to laugh without giving him a reason. But he would do it, maybe not an hour, but he would try, anyway; he would do something. The funniest thing was his voice, the falseness of his laughter, and after a while it got to be really funny, a comical thing, and it made him happy because it made him really laugh, and now he was laughing his real way, with all his breath, with all his blood, laughing at the falseness of his laughter, and the shame was going away because this laughter was not fake, and it was the truth, and the empty class-room was full of his laughter and everything seemed all right, everything was splendid, and two minutes had gone by.
And he began to think of really comical things everywhere, the whole town, the people walking in the streets, trying to look important, but he knew how important they were, and the way they talked big business, and all of it pompous and fake, and it made him laugh, and he thought of the preacher at the Presbyterian church, the fake way he prayed, O God, if it is your will, and nobody believing in prayers, and the important people with big automobiles, Cadillacs and Packards, speeding up and down the country, as if they had some place to go, and the public band concerts, all that fake stuff, making him really laugh, and the big boys running after the big girls because of the heat, and the streetcars going up and down the city with never more than two passengers, that was funny, those big cars carrying an old lady and a man with a moustache, and he laughed until he lost his breath and his face got red, and suddenly all the shame was gone and he was laughing and looking at Miss Wissig, and then bang: jiminy Christmas tears in her eyes. For God’s sake, he hadn’t been laughing at her. He had been laughing at all those fools, all those fool things they were doing day after day, all that falseness. It was disgusting. He was always wanting to do the right thing, and it was always turning out the other way. He wanted to know why, how it was with her, inside, the part that was secret, and he had laughed for her, not to please himself, and there she was, trembling, her eyes wet and tears coming out of them, and her face in agony, and he was still laughing because of all the anger and yearning and disappointment in his heart, and he was laughing at all the pathetic things in the world, the things good people cried about, the stray dogs in the streets, the tired horses being whipped, stumbling, the timid people being smashed inwardly by the fat and cruel people, fat inside, pompous, and the small birds, dead on the sidewalk, and the misunderstandings everywhere, the everlasting conflict, the cruelty, the things that made man a malignant thing, a vile growth, and the anger was changing his laughter and tears were coming into his eyes. The two of them in the empty class-room, naked together in their loneliness and bewilderment, brother and sister, both of them wanting the same cleanliness and decency of life, both of them wanting to share the truth of the other, and yet, somehow, both of them alien, remote and alone. He heard the girl stifle the sob and then everything turned up-side-down, and he was crying, honest and truly crying, like a baby, as if something had really happened, and he hid his face in his arms, and his chest was heaving, and he was thinking he did not want to live; if this was the way it was, he wanted to be dead.
He did not know how long he cried, and suddenly he was aware that he was no longer crying or laughing, and that the room was very still. What a shameful thing. He was afraid to lift his head and look at the teacher. It was disgusting.
“Ben.”
The voice calm, quiet, solemn; how could he ever look at her again?
“Ben.”
He lifted his head. Her eyes were dry and her face seemed brighter and more beautiful than ever.
“Please dry your eyes. Have you a handkerchief?”
“Yes.”
He wiped the moisture from his eyes, and blew his nose. What a sickness in the earth. How bleak everything was.
“How old are you, Ben?”
“Ten.”
“What are you going to do? I mean-”
“I don’t know.”
“Your father?”
“He is a tailor.”
“Do you like it here?”
“I guess so.”
“You have brothers, sisters?”
“Three brothers, two sisters.”
“Do you ever think of going away? Other cities?”
It was amasing, talking to him as if he were a grown person, getting into his secret.
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know. New York, I guess. The old country, maybe”.
“The old country?”
“Milan. My father’s city.”
“Oh.”
He wanted to ask her about herself, where she had been, where she was going; he wanted to be grown up, but he was afraid. She went to the cloak-room and brought out her coat and hat and purse, and began to put on her coat.
“I will not be here tomorrow. Miss Shorb is well again. I am going away.”
He felt very sad, but he could think of nothing to say. She tightened the belt of her coat and placed her hat on her head, smiling, golly Moses, what a world, first she made him laugh, then she made him cry, and now this. And it made him feel so lonely for her. Where was she going? Wouldn’t he ever see her again?
“You may go now, Ben.”
And there he was looking up at her and not wanting to go, there he was wanting to sit and look at her. He got up slowly and went to the cloak-room for his cap. He walked to the door, feeling ill with loneliness, and turned to look at her for the last time.
“Good-bye, Miss Wissig.”
“Good-bye, Ben.”
And then he was running lickety split across the school grounds, and the young substitute teacher was standing in the yard, following him with her eyes. He didn’t know what to think, but he knew that he was feeling very sad and that he was afraid to turn around and see if she was looking at him. He thought, If I hurry, maybe I can catch up with Dan Seed and Dick Corcoran and the other boys, and maybe I’ll be in time to see the freight train leaving town. Well, nobody would know, anyway. Nobody would ever know what had happened and how he had laughed and cried.
He ran all the way to the Southern Pacific tracks, and all the boys were gone, and the train was gone, and he sat down beneath the eucalyptus trees. The whole world, in a mess.
Then he began to cry again.
Who is the protagonist of the story? What type of conflict is the plot based on?
What is the climax? What events serve to be the climax?
What is the character’s psychological condition? What are the underlying stylistic devices employed by the author to portray the main character?
What values are revealed in the story? Are these values implied or stated directly?
What light is thrown on the story by its title?
TEXT SIX
You should have seen
the mess
by Muriel Spark (b.1918)
I am now more than glad that I did not pass into the Grammar School five years ago, although it was a disappointment at the time. I was always good at English, but not so good at the other subjects!
I an glad that I went to the Secondary Modern School, because it was only constructed the year before. Therefore, it was much more hygienic than the Grammar School. The Secondary Modern was light and airy, and the walls were painted with a bright, washable, gloss. One day, I was sent over to the Grammar School with a note for one of the teachers, and you should have seen the mess! The corridors were dusty, and I saw dust on the window ledges, which were chipped. I saw into one of the classrooms. It was very untidy in there.
I am also glad that I did not go to the Grammar School, because of what it does to one’s habits. This may appear to be a strange remark, at first sight. It is a good thing to have an education behind you, and I do not believe in ignorance, but I have had certain experiences, with educated people, since going out into the world.
I am seventeen years of age, and left school two years ago last month. I had my A certificate for typing, so got my first job, as a junior, in a solicitor’s office. Mum was pleased at this, and Dad said it was a first-class start, as it was an old established firm. I must say that when I went for the interview I was surprised at the windows, and the stairs up to the offices were also far from clean. There was a little waiting room, where some of the elements were missing from the gas fire, and the carpet on the floor was worn. However, Mr. Heygate’s office, into which I was shown for the interview, was better. The furniture was old, but it was polished and there was a good carpet, I will say that. The glass of the bookcase was very clean.
I was to start on the Monday, so along I went. They took me to the general office, where there were two senior shorthand-typists, and a clerk, Mr. Gresham, who was far from smart in appearance. You should have seen the mess! There was no floor covering whatsoever, and so dusty everywhere. There were shelves all around the room, with old box files in them. The box files were falling to pieces and all the old papers inside them were crumbled. The worst shock of all was the tea cups. It was my duty to make tea, mornings and afternoons. Miss Bewlay showed me where everything was kept. It was kept in an old orange box, and the cups were all cracked. There were not enough saucers to go round, etc. I will not go into the facilities, but they were also far from hygienic. After three days, I told Mum, and she was upset, most of all about the cracked cups. We never keep a cracked cup, but throw it out, because those cracks can harbour germs. So Mum gave me my own cup to take to the office.
Then at the end of the week, when I got my salary, Mr. Heygate said, “Well, Lorna, what are you going to do with your first pay?” I did not like him saying this, and I nearly passed a comment, but I said, “I don’t know”. He said, “What do you do in the evenings, Lorna? Do you watch Telly?” I did take this as an insult, because we call it TV, and his remark made me out to be uneducated. I just stood, and did not answer, and he looked surprised. Next day, Saturday, I told Mum and Dad about the facilities, and we decided I should not go back to that job. Also, the desks in the general office were rickety. Dad was indignant, because Mr. Heygate’s concern was flourishing, and he had letters after his name.
Everyone admires our flat, because Mum keeps it spotless, and Dad keeps doing things to it. He has done it up all over, and got permission from the Council to re-modernise the kitchen. I well recall the Health Visitor remarking to Mum, “You could eat off your floor, Mrs. Merrifield”. It is true that you could eat your lunch off Mum’s floors, and any hour of the day or night you will find every corner spick and span.
Next, I was sent by the agency to a Publisher’s for an interview, because of being good at English. One look was enough!! My next interview was a success, and I am still at Low’s Chemical Co. It is a modern block, with a quarter of an hour rest period, morning and afternoon. Mr. Marwood is very smart in appearance. He is well spoken, although he has not got a university education behind him. There is special lighting over the desks, and the typewriters are latest models.
So I am happy at Low’s. But I Have met other people, of an educated type, in the past year, and it has opened my eyes. It so happened that I had to go to the Doctor’s house, to fetch a prescription for my younger brother, Trevor, when the epidemic was on. I rang the bell, and Mrs. Darby came to the door. She was small, with fair hair, but too long, and a green maternity dress. But she was very nice to me. I had to wait in their living-room, and you should have seen the state it was in! There were broken toys on the carpet, and the ash trays were full up. There were contemporary, but old-fashioned, with covers which were past standing up to another wash, I should say. To cut a long story short, Dr. Darby and Mrs. Darby have always been very kind to me, and they meant everything for the best. Dr. Darby is also short and fair, and they have three children , a girl and a boy, and now a baby boy.
When I went that day for the prescription, Mr. Darby said to me, “You look pale, Lorna. It’s the London atmosphere. Come on a picnic with us, in the car, on Saturday.” After that I went with the Darbys more and more. I liked them, but I did not like the mess, and it was a surprise. But I also kept in with them for the opportunity of meeting people, and Mum and Dad were pleased that I had made nice friends. So I did not say anything about the cracked lino, and the paintwork all chipped. The children’s clothes were very shabby for a doctor, and she changed them out of their school clothes when they came home from school, into those worn-out garments. Mum always kept us spotless to go out to play, and I do not like to say it, but those Darby children frequently looked like the Leary family, which the Council evicted from our block, as they were far from houseproud.
One day, when I was there, Mavis (as I called Mrs. Darby by then) put her head out of the window, and shouted to the boy, “John, stop peeping over the cabbages at once. Pee on the lawn.” I did not know which way to look. Mum would never say a word like that from the window, and I know for a fact that Trevor would never pass water outside, not even bathing in the sea.
I went there usually at the weekends, but sometimes on weekdays, after supper. They had an idea to make a match for me with a chemist’s assistant, whom they had taken up too. He was an orphan, and I do not say there was anything wrong with that. But he was not accustomed to those little extras that I was. He was a good-looking boy, I will say that. So I went once to a dance, and twice to the films with him. To look at, he was quite clean in appearance. But there was only hot water at the weekend at his place, and he said that a bath once a week was sufficient. Jim (as I called Dr. Darby by then) said it was sufficient also, and surprised me. He did not have much money, and I do not hold that against him. But there was no hurry for me, and I could wait for a man in a better position, so that I would not miss those little extras. So he started going out with a girl from the coffee bar, and did not come to the Darbys very much then.
There were plenty of boys at the office, but I will say this for the Darbys, they had lots of friends coming and going, and they had interesting conversation, although sometimes it gave me a surprise, and I did not know where to look. And sometimes they had people who were very down and out, although there is no need to be. But most of the guests were different, so it made a comparison with the boys at the office, who were not so educated in their conversation.
Now it was near the time for Mavis to have her baby, and I was to come in the weekend, to keep an eye on the children, while the help had her day off. Mavis did not go away to have her baby, but would have it at home, in their double bed, as they did not have twin beds, although he was a Doctor. A girl I knew, in our block, was engaged, but was let down, and even she had her baby in the labour ward. I was sure the bedroom was not hygienic for having a baby, but I did not mention it.
One day, after the baby boy came along, they took me in the car to the country, to see Jim’s mother. The baby was put in a carry-cot at the back of the car. He began to cry, and without a word of a lie, Jim said to him over his shoulder, “Oh, shut your gob, you little bastard.” I did not know what to do, and Mavis was smoking a cigarette. Dad would not dream of saying such a thing to Trevor or I. When we arrived at Jim’s mother’s place, Jim said, “It’s a fourteenth-century cottage, Lorna.” I could well believe it. It was a very cracked and old, and it made one wonder how Jim could let his old mother live in this tumble-down cottage, as he was so good to everyone else. So Mavis knocked at the door, and the old lady came. There was not much anyone could do to the inside. Mavis said, “Isn’t it charming, Lorna?” If that was a joke, it was going too far. I said to the old Mrs. Darby, “Are you going to be rehoused?” but she did not understand this, and I explained how you have to apply to the Council, and keep at them. But it was funny that the Council had not done something already, when they go round condemning. Then old Mrs. Darby said, “My dear, I shall be rehoused in the Grave.” I did not know where to look.
There was a carpet hanging on the wall, which I think was there to hide a damp spot. She had a good TV set, I will say that. But some of the walls were bare brick, and the facilities were outside, through the garden. The furniture was far from new.
One Saturday afternoon, as I happened to go to the Darbys, they were just going off to a film, and they took me too. It was the Curzon, and afterwards we went to a flat in Curzon Street. It was a very clean block, I will say that, and there were good carpets at the entrance. The couple there had contemporary furniture, and they also spoke about music. It was a nice place, but there was no Welfare. Centre to the flats, where people could go for social intercourse, advice and guidance. But they were well-spoken and I met Willy Morley, who was an artist. Willy sat beside me, and we had a drink. He was young, dark with a dark shirt, so one could not see right away if he was clean. Soon after this, Jim said to me, “Willy wants to paint you, Lorna. But you’d better ask your Mum.” Mum said it was all right if he was a friend of the Darbys.
I can honestly say that Willy’s place was the most unhygienic place I have seen in my life. He said I had an unusual type of beauty, which he must capture. This was when we came back to his place from the restaurant. The light was very dim, but I could see the bed had no be made, and the sheets were far from clean. He said he must paint me, but I told Mavis I did not like to go back there. “Don’t you like Willy?” she asked. I could not deny that I liked Willy, in a way. There was something about him, I will say that. Mavis said, “I hope he hasn’t been making a pass at you, Lorna.” I said he had not done so, which was almost true, because he did not attempt to go to the full extent. It was always unhygienic when I went to Willy’s place, and I told him so once, but he said, “Lorna, you are a joy.” He had a nice way, and he took me out in his car, which was a good one, but dirty inside, like his place. Jim said one day, “He has pots of money, Lorna,” and Mavis said, “You might make a man of him, as he is keen on you.” They always said Willy came from a good family.
But I saw that one could not do anything with him. He would not change his shirt very often, or get clothes, but he went around like a tramp, lending people money, as I have seen with my own eyes. His place was in a terrible mess, with the empty bottles, and laundry in the corner. He gave me several gifts over the period, which I took, as he would have only given them away, but he never tried to go to the full extent. He never painted my portrait, as he was painting fruit on a table all that time, and they said his pictures were marvellous, and thought Willy and I were getting married.
One night, when I went home, I was upset as usual, after Willy’s place. Mum and Dad had gone to bed, and I looked round our kitchen which is done in primrose and white. Then I went into the living-room, where Dad has done one wall in a patterned paper, deep rose and white, and the other walls pale rose with wood-work. The suite is new, and Mum keeps everything beautiful. So it came to me, all of a sudden, what a fool I was, going with Willy. I agree to equality, but as to me marrying Willy, as I said to Mavis, when I recall his place, and the good carpet gone greasy, not to mention the paint oozing out of the tubes, I think it would break my heart to sink so low.
The title of the story establishes the tone of informal amicable chat. Find in the text those elements that sustain this effect.
Does the author introduce her own voice in the text? Who is condemned by the author? What means are used to ensure that the author’s message reaches the reader?
Select the words and phrases which are numerously repeated by the narrator. What is the function of the repetition?
Don’t you think there is a distinct parallel between Lorna and the famous Pussycat from a nursery rhyme, who visiting the Queen noticed only a mouse under the chair?
Does the story produce the impression of an authentic monologue? Look for the words, phrases, punctuation and other means that create this effect.
TEXT SEVEN
