Knowing that Mrs. Mallard was afflicted with a heart trouble, great care was taken to break to her as gently as possible the news of her husband's death.
It was her sister Josephine who told her, in broken sentences; veiled hints that revealed in half concealing. Her husband's friend Richards was there, too, near her. It was he who had been in the newspaper office when intelligence of the railroad disaster was received, with Brently Mallard's name leading the list of “ killed.” He had only taken the time to assure himself of its truth by a second telegram, and had hastened to forestall any less careful, less tender friend in bearing the sad message.
She did not hear the story as many women have heard the same, with a paralyzed inability to accept its significance. She wept at once, with sudden, wild abandonment, in her sister's arms. When the storm of grief had spent itself she went away to her room alone. She would have no one follow her.
There stood, facing the open window, a comfortable, roomy armchair. Into this she sank, pressed down by a physical exhaustion that haunted her body and seemed to reach into her soul.
She could see in the open square before
her house the tops of trees that were all aquiver with the new spring life. The delicious breath of rain was in the air. In the street below a peddler was crying his wares. The notes of a distant song which some one was singing reached her faintly, and countless sparrows were twittering in the eaves.
There were patches of blue sky showing here and there through the clouds that had met and piled one above the other in the west facing her window.
She sat with her head thrown back upon the cushion of the chair, quite motionless, except when a sob came up into her throat and shook her, as a child who has cried itself to sleep continues to sob in its dreams.
She was young, with a fair, calm face, whose lines bespoke repression and even a certain strength. But now there was a dull stare in her eyes, whose gaze was fixed away off yonder on one of those patches of blue sky. It was not a glance of reflection, but rather indicated a suspension of intelligent thought.
There was something coming to her and she was waiting for it, fearfully. What was it? She did not know; it was too subtle and elusive to name. But she felt it, creeping out of the sky, reaching toward her through the sounds, the scents, the color that filled the air.
Now her bosom rose and fell tumultuously. She was beginning to recognize this thing that was approaching to possess her, and she was striving to beat it back with her will as powerless as her two white slender hands would have been.
When she abandoned herself a little whispered word escaped her slightly parted lips. She said it over and over under her breath:“ free,free,free!” The vacant stare and the look of terror that had followed it went from her eyes.They stayed keen and bright.Her pulses beat fast,and the coursing blood warmed and relaxed every inch of her body.
There would be no one to live for during those coming years; she would live for herself. There would be no powerful will bending hers in that blind persistence with which men and women believe they have a right to impose a private will upon a fellow creature. A kind intention or a cruel intention made the act seem no less a crime as she looked upon it in that brief moment of illumination.
And yet she had loved him -- sometimes. Often she had not. What did it matter! What could love, the unsolved mystery, count for in face of this possession of self assertion which she suddenly recognized as the strongest impulse of her being!
“ Free! Body and soul free!” she kept whispering.
Her fancy was running riot along those days ahead of her.Spring days,and summer days,and all sorts of days that would be her own.She breathed a quick prayer that life might be long.It was only yesterday she had thought with a shudder that life might be long.
She arose at length and opened the door to her sister's importunities. There was a feverish triumph in her eyes, and she carried herself unwittingly like a goddess of Victory. She clasped her sister's waist, and together they descended the stairs. Richards stood waiting for them at the bottom.
Someone was opening the front door with a latchkey. It was Brently Mallard who entered, a little travel stained, composedly carrying his grip sack and umbrella. He had been far from the scene of accident, and did not even know there had been one. He stood amazed at Josephine's piercing cry; at Richards' quick motion to screen him from the view of his wife.
But Richards was too late.
When the doctors came they said she had died of heart disease -- of joy that kills.
2007年12月14日星期五
Two Types of People
There are two types of people in the world. Although they have equal degrees of health and wealth and the other comforts of life, one becomes happy, the other becomes miserable. This arises from the different ways in which they consider things, persons, and events, and the resulting effects upon their minds.The people who are to be happy fix their attention on the conveniences of things, the pleasant parts of conveniences of things, the pleasant parts of conversation, the well-prepared dishes, the dishes, the goodness of wines, the fine weather. They enjoy all the cheerful things. Those who are to be unhappy think and speak only of the contrary things. Therefore, they are continually discontented. By their remarks, they sour the pleasures of society, offend many people, and make themselves disagreeable everywhere. If this turn of mind were founded in nature, such unhappy persons would be more to be pitied. The tendency to criticize and be disgusted is perhaps taken up originally by imitation. It grows into a habit, unknown to its possessors. The habit may be strong, but it may be cured when those who have it are convinced of its bad effects on their interests and tastes.Although in fact it is chiefly an act of imagination, it has serious consequence in life, since it brings on deep sorrow and bad luck. Those people offend many others, nobody loves them, and no one treats them with more than the most common politeness and respect, and scarcely that. This frequently puts them in bad temper and draws them into arguments. If they aim at obtaining some advantage in rank or fortune, nobody wishes them success. If they bring on themselves public disapproval, no one will defend or excuse them, and many will join to criticize their misconduct. These people should change this bad habit and condescend to be pleased with what is pleasing, without worrying needlessly about themselves and others. If they do not, it will be good for others to avoid any contact with them.
An Open Heart
My aunt Edith was a widow of 50, working as a secretary, when doctors discovered what was then thought to be a very serious heart ailment.Aunt Edith doesn’t accept defeat easily. She began studying medical reports in the library and found an article in a magazine about a well-known heart surgeon, Dr. Michael DeBakey, of Houston, Texas. HE had saved the life of someone with the same ailment. The article said Dr. DeBakey’s fees were very high; Aunt Edith couldn’t possibly pay them. But could he tell her of someone whose fee she could pay?So Aunt Edith wrote to him. She simply listed her reasons for wanting live: her three children, who would be on their own in three or four more years, her little-girl dream of traveling and seeing the world. There wasn’t a word of self-pity---only warmth and humor and the joy of living. She mailed the letter, not really expecting an answer.A few days later, my doorbell rang. Aunt Edith didn’t wait to come in; she stood in the hall and read aloud: “Your beautiful letter moved me very deeply. If you can come to Houston, there will be no charge for either the hospital or the operation. Signed—Michael DeBakey.”That was seven years ago. Since then, Aunt Edith has been around the world. Her three children are happily married. For her age, she is one of the youngest, most alive people I know----all because of an open heart surgeon who knew how to honor of his profession, and how to open his own heart.
Love Your Life
However mean your life is, meet it and live it，do not shun it and call it hard names. It is not so bad as you are. It looks poorest when you are richest. The fault-finder will find faults in paradise. Love your life, poor as it is. You may perhaps have some pleasant, thrilling, glorious hours, even in a poor-house. The setting sun is reflected from the windows of the alms-house as brightly as from the rich man's abode; the snow melts before its door as early in the spring. I do not see but a quiet mind may live as contentedly there, and have as cheering thoughts, as in a palace. The town's poor seem to me often to live the most independent lives of any. May be they are simply great enough to receive without misgiving. Most think that they are above being supported by the town; but it often happens that they are not above supporting themselves by dishonest means, which should be more disreputable. Cultivate poverty like a garden herb, like sage. Do not trouble yourself much to get new things, whether clothes or friends, Turn the old, return to them. Things do not change; we change. Sell your clothes and keep your thoughts.
Good Thoughts to Keep in Mind
Imagine life as a game in which you are juggling some five balls in the air. You name them: Work, Family, Health, Friends, Spirit. And you re keeping all of these in the air. You will soon understand that work is a rubber ball. If you drop it, it will bounce back. But the other four balls-family, health, friends and spirit are made of glass. If you drop one of these, they will be irrevocably scuffed , marked, nicked , damaged or even shattered . They will never be the same. You must understand that and strive for balance in your life.
How?
Don t undermine your worth by comparing yourself with others. It is because we are different that each of us is special.
Don t set your goals by what other people deem important. Only you know what is best for you.
Don t take for granted the things closest to your heart. Cling to them as you would cling to your life, for without them, life is meaningless.
Don t let your life slip through your fingers by living in the past or for the future. By living your life one day at a time, you live ALL the days of your life.
Don t give up when you still have something to give. Nothing is really over until the moment you stop trying.
Don t be afraid to admit that you are less than perfect. It is this fragile thread that binds us each together.
Don t be afraid to encounter risks. It is by taking chances that we learn how to be brave.
Don t shut love out of your life by saying it s impossible to find. The quickest way to receive love is to give; the fastest way to lose love is to hold it too tightly; and the best way to keep love is to give it wings.
Don t run through life so fast that you forget not only where you ve been, but also where you are going.
How?
Don t undermine your worth by comparing yourself with others. It is because we are different that each of us is special.
Don t set your goals by what other people deem important. Only you know what is best for you.
Don t take for granted the things closest to your heart. Cling to them as you would cling to your life, for without them, life is meaningless.
Don t let your life slip through your fingers by living in the past or for the future. By living your life one day at a time, you live ALL the days of your life.
Don t give up when you still have something to give. Nothing is really over until the moment you stop trying.
Don t be afraid to admit that you are less than perfect. It is this fragile thread that binds us each together.
Don t be afraid to encounter risks. It is by taking chances that we learn how to be brave.
Don t shut love out of your life by saying it s impossible to find. The quickest way to receive love is to give; the fastest way to lose love is to hold it too tightly; and the best way to keep love is to give it wings.
Don t run through life so fast that you forget not only where you ve been, but also where you are going.
Fishing For Jasmine
The silent young woman in bed number six is called Jasmine. So am I, but names are only superficial things, floats bobbing on the surface of the water, and we share deeper connections than that. Which is why she fascinates me - why I spend my off-duty time sitting beside her.
Today is difficult. The ward heaves with patients and I am kept busy emptying bed-pans, filling out forms, changing dressings. Finally, late in the afternoon, I get a few moments to make coffee, to take it over to the orange plastic chair beside her bed. I am thankful to be off my feet, glad to be in her company once again.
‘Hello, Jasmine,’ I say, as if greeting myself.
She does not reply. Jasmine never replies. She is down too deep.
Like me, she has been sea-damaged. I too am the daughter of a fisherman, so I bait my words like fish-hooks, cast them into her ears, imagine them sinking down through cold, dark water. Down to wherever she may be.
‘I have little time today,’ I tell her, touching her hair.
With Jasmine, it is always difficult not to touch. She is that rare thing, a truly beautiful woman. Because of this, people invent reasons to walk by. I catch them looking, drinking her in, feeding on her. They are barracuda, all of them. Wheelchair-pushing porters who slow to a crawl when they near her bed. Roaming visitors with greedy eyes. Doctors who stop, draw the thin screen of curtain, and continually re-examine that which does not need examination.
Great beauty is something Jasmine and I do not share. I am glad of it.
‘Your father may be here soon,’ I say. ’Last week he said he would come.’
Jasmine says nothing. Her left eyelid flickers, perhaps.
It is two months since the incident on her father’s fishing boat, since she fell overboard, sank, became entangled in the nets. It was some time before anyone noticed, then there was panic. Her father hauled her back on board and sailed for home. When he finally arrived, he carried ashore what he thought was his daughter’s body.
‘Jasmine,’ I whisper. I want her to take our baited name. I want her to swallow it.
Fortunately, there was a doctor in the village that morning, a young man visiting relatives. It was he who brought this drowned woman back from the brink, he who told me her story. She opened her eyes, he said, looked up at her father and spoke a single word - then sank again, this time into coma.
Barracuda. That is what Jasmine said.
When her father visits, he touches her hair, kisses her cheek, sits in the orange plastic chair at the side of her bed and holds her hand. Like my own father, he has the big, brown, life-roughened hands of a fisherman. He too smells of the sea, and pretends he is a good, simple man.
Jasmine. We share so much, we are almost one.
I remember early mornings, my hair touched to wake me, my father lifting me half-asleep from my bed, carrying me, dropping me into his boat. His voice rough in my ear, his hands rough on my skin. I never wanted to go, but I was just a child. He did as he wished.
I remember salt water, hot sun, my mother shrinking on the shore. I remember the rocking of the boat, the screams of the gulls.
‘Jasmine, you have a life inside you. Can’t you hear it calling?’
Nothing.
The ward door bangs, and I see Jasmine’s father walking towards us, carrying flowers. He smiles at me.
Even in death, my own child had my father’s smile, and Jasmine’s will have this man’s. I know it.
He stops by her bed and touches her hair. Something stirs deep inside me. I watch Jasmine’s eyelids, waiting for her to bite.
Today is difficult. The ward heaves with patients and I am kept busy emptying bed-pans, filling out forms, changing dressings. Finally, late in the afternoon, I get a few moments to make coffee, to take it over to the orange plastic chair beside her bed. I am thankful to be off my feet, glad to be in her company once again.
‘Hello, Jasmine,’ I say, as if greeting myself.
She does not reply. Jasmine never replies. She is down too deep.
Like me, she has been sea-damaged. I too am the daughter of a fisherman, so I bait my words like fish-hooks, cast them into her ears, imagine them sinking down through cold, dark water. Down to wherever she may be.
‘I have little time today,’ I tell her, touching her hair.
With Jasmine, it is always difficult not to touch. She is that rare thing, a truly beautiful woman. Because of this, people invent reasons to walk by. I catch them looking, drinking her in, feeding on her. They are barracuda, all of them. Wheelchair-pushing porters who slow to a crawl when they near her bed. Roaming visitors with greedy eyes. Doctors who stop, draw the thin screen of curtain, and continually re-examine that which does not need examination.
Great beauty is something Jasmine and I do not share. I am glad of it.
‘Your father may be here soon,’ I say. ’Last week he said he would come.’
Jasmine says nothing. Her left eyelid flickers, perhaps.
It is two months since the incident on her father’s fishing boat, since she fell overboard, sank, became entangled in the nets. It was some time before anyone noticed, then there was panic. Her father hauled her back on board and sailed for home. When he finally arrived, he carried ashore what he thought was his daughter’s body.
‘Jasmine,’ I whisper. I want her to take our baited name. I want her to swallow it.
Fortunately, there was a doctor in the village that morning, a young man visiting relatives. It was he who brought this drowned woman back from the brink, he who told me her story. She opened her eyes, he said, looked up at her father and spoke a single word - then sank again, this time into coma.
Barracuda. That is what Jasmine said.
When her father visits, he touches her hair, kisses her cheek, sits in the orange plastic chair at the side of her bed and holds her hand. Like my own father, he has the big, brown, life-roughened hands of a fisherman. He too smells of the sea, and pretends he is a good, simple man.
Jasmine. We share so much, we are almost one.
I remember early mornings, my hair touched to wake me, my father lifting me half-asleep from my bed, carrying me, dropping me into his boat. His voice rough in my ear, his hands rough on my skin. I never wanted to go, but I was just a child. He did as he wished.
I remember salt water, hot sun, my mother shrinking on the shore. I remember the rocking of the boat, the screams of the gulls.
‘Jasmine, you have a life inside you. Can’t you hear it calling?’
Nothing.
The ward door bangs, and I see Jasmine’s father walking towards us, carrying flowers. He smiles at me.
Even in death, my own child had my father’s smile, and Jasmine’s will have this man’s. I know it.
He stops by her bed and touches her hair. Something stirs deep inside me. I watch Jasmine’s eyelids, waiting for her to bite.
How To Be a Good Wife
This is allegedly actual text from an American home economics text book, circa 1950.
Have dinner ready. Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal on time. This is a way of letting him know you've been thinking about him and concerned about his needs. Most men are hungry when they come home and the prospect of a good meal is part of the warm welcome needed.
Prepare yourself. Take fifteen minutes to rest so that you will be refreshed when he arrives. Touch up your makeup, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh looking. He has just been with a lot of work-weary people. Be a little gay and a little more interesting. His boring day may need a lift.
Clear away the clutter. Make one last trip through the main part of the house just before your husband arrives, gather up school books, toys, paper, etc. Run a dust cloth over the tables. Your husband will feel he has reached a haven of rest and order; and it will give you a lift too.
Prepare the children. Take a few minutes to wash the children's hands and faces (if they're small), comb their hair, and if necessary, change their clothes. They are little treasures and he would like to see them playing the part.
Minimize all noise. At the time of his arrival, eliminate all noise of the washer, dryer, dishwasher, or vacuum. Try to encourage the children to be quiet. Be happy to see him. Greet him with a warm smile and be glad to see him.
Some Don'ts: Don't greet him with problems and complaints. Don't complain if he is late for dinner. Count this as minor compared to what he might have gone through that day. Make him comfortable. Have him lean back in a comfortable chair or suggest that he lie down in the bedroom. Have a cool drink ready for him. Arrange his pillow and offer to take off his shoes. Speak in a low, soft, soothing and pleasant voice. Allow him to relax and unwind.
Listen to him. You may have a dozen things to tell him, but the moment of his arrival is not the time. Let him talk first.
Make the evening his. Never complain if he does not take you out to dinner or other pleasant entertainment. Instead try to understand his world of strain and pressure, his need to unwind and relax.
The goal! Try to make your home a place of peace and order where your husband can relax in body and spirit.
Have dinner ready. Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal on time. This is a way of letting him know you've been thinking about him and concerned about his needs. Most men are hungry when they come home and the prospect of a good meal is part of the warm welcome needed.
Prepare yourself. Take fifteen minutes to rest so that you will be refreshed when he arrives. Touch up your makeup, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh looking. He has just been with a lot of work-weary people. Be a little gay and a little more interesting. His boring day may need a lift.
Clear away the clutter. Make one last trip through the main part of the house just before your husband arrives, gather up school books, toys, paper, etc. Run a dust cloth over the tables. Your husband will feel he has reached a haven of rest and order; and it will give you a lift too.
Prepare the children. Take a few minutes to wash the children's hands and faces (if they're small), comb their hair, and if necessary, change their clothes. They are little treasures and he would like to see them playing the part.
Minimize all noise. At the time of his arrival, eliminate all noise of the washer, dryer, dishwasher, or vacuum. Try to encourage the children to be quiet. Be happy to see him. Greet him with a warm smile and be glad to see him.
Some Don'ts: Don't greet him with problems and complaints. Don't complain if he is late for dinner. Count this as minor compared to what he might have gone through that day. Make him comfortable. Have him lean back in a comfortable chair or suggest that he lie down in the bedroom. Have a cool drink ready for him. Arrange his pillow and offer to take off his shoes. Speak in a low, soft, soothing and pleasant voice. Allow him to relax and unwind.
Listen to him. You may have a dozen things to tell him, but the moment of his arrival is not the time. Let him talk first.
Make the evening his. Never complain if he does not take you out to dinner or other pleasant entertainment. Instead try to understand his world of strain and pressure, his need to unwind and relax.
The goal! Try to make your home a place of peace and order where your husband can relax in body and spirit.
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