The Bishop's Candlesticks - Norman Mackinnel

THE BISHOP’S CANDLESTICKS – Norman Mckinnel (one Act Play)

SCENE: (The kitchen of the BISHOP’s cottage. It is plainly but substantially furnished. Doors R. and L. and L. C. Window R.C. Fire place with heavy mantelpiece down R. Oak settee with cushions behind door L.C. Table in window R.C. with writing materials and crucifix (wood). Eight-day clock R. of window. Kitchen dresser with cupboard to lock, down L. Oak dining table R. C. Chairs, Books, etc. Winter wood scene without. On the mantelpiece are two very handsome candlesticks which look strangely out of place with their surroundings.)

(MARIE and PERSOME are discovered. MARIE stirring some soup on the fire. PERSOME laying the cloth, etc.)

PERSOME:      MARIE, why isn’t the soup boiling yet? It ought to be. You haven’t tended the fire properly, child.

MARIE:           But, Madam, you yourself made the fire up.

PERSOME:      Don’t answer me back like that. It is rude.

MARIE:           Yes, Madam

PERSOME:      I wonder where my brother can be. It is after eleven O’clock (looking at the clock) and no sign of him. Marie, did Monseigneur, the Bishop leave any message for me?

MARIE:           No, Madam.

PERSOME:      Did he tell you where he was going?

MARIE:           Yes, Madam.

PERSOME:      “Yes, Madam” (imitating). Then why haven’t you told me, stupid!

MARIE:           Madam didn’t ask me.

PERSOME:      But that is no reason for your not telling me is it?

MARIE:           Madam said only this morning I was not to chatter, so I thought ….

PERSOME:      Ah Mon Dieu, you thought! Ah! It is hopeless.

MARIE:           Yes, Madam.

PERSOME:      Don’t keep saying “Yes, Madam,” like a parrot, Nincompoop. (MARIE nods) Well, where did Monseigneur say he was going?

MARIE:           To my mother’s, Madam. Monseigneur asked me how she was, and I told him she was feeling poorly.

PERSOME:      You told him she was feeling poorly, did you? And so my brother is to be kept out of his bed, and go without his supper because you told him she was feeling poorly. There is gratitude for you!

MARIE:           Madam, the soup is boiling!

PERSOME:      Then pour it out, fool, and don’t chatter. (MARIE about to do so) No, no. Not like that, here let me do it, and do you put the salt cellars on the table the silver ones.

MARIE:           The silver one, madam? They are sold.

PERSOME:      Sold! (with horror) sold? Are you mad? Who sold them? Why were they sold?

MARIE:           Monseigneur the Bishop told me this afternoon while you were out to take them to Monsieur Gervais who has often admired them, and sell them for as much as I could.

PERSOME:      But you had no right to do so without asking me.

MARIE:           But, Madam, Monseigneur the Bishop told me. (with awe)

PESOME:         Monseigneur the Bishop is a – ahem! But, but what can he have wanted with the money!

MARIE:           Pardon, Madam, but I think it was for Mere Gringoire, for the rent. The Bailiff would not wait any longer and threatened to turn her out to-day if it were not paid, so she sent little Jean to Monseigneur to ask for help and ….

PERSOME:      Mere Gringoire indeed. Mere Gringoire! What, the old witch who lives at the top of the hill, and who says she is bedridden because she is too lazy to do any work? Oh Mon Dieu! It is hopeless, hopeless. We shall have nothing left. His estate is sold, his savings have gone, his furniture…. everything. Were it not for my little doubt we should starve, and now my beautiful – beautiful (sobs) salt cellars. Ah, it is too much, too much. (She breaks down crying)

MARIE:           Madam, I am sorry, if I had known—

PERSOME:      Sorry and why, pray? If Monseigneur the Bishop chooses to sell his salt cellars he may do so, I suppose.

MARIE:           Yes, madam, (going towards R.)

(Enter the BISHOP, C.)

BISHOP:          (rubbing his shoulders and brushing snow off them) Ah! It is worth going out in the cold for the sake of the comfort of coming in.

(PERSOME has hastened to help him off with his coat, etc. Marie has dropped a deep courtesy.)

BISHOP:          Thank you, dear; (looking at her) why, what is the matter? You have been crying. Marie’s been troublesome, eh? (glances at Marie and shakes his finger at her). Marie, my child, run home now, your mother is better, I have prayed with her, and the doctor has bee. Run home!         (Marie putting on cloak and going) And, Marie let yourself in quietly in case your mother asleep.

MARIE:           Oh thanks, thanks, Monseigneur.

BISHOP:          Here, Marie, take my comforter, it will keep you warm. It is very cold to-night.

MARIE:           Oh no, Monseigneur! (Shamefacedly)

PERSOME:      What nonsense, brother, she is young, she won’t hurt.

BISHOP:             Ah, PERSOME, you have not been out, you don’t know how cold it has become. Here, Marie, let me put on for you. (does so) There! Run along, little one.

(Exit MARIE, C.)

PERSOME:      Brother, I have no patience with you. There, sit down and take your soup, it has been waiting ever so long. And if it is spoilt, it serves you right.

BISHOP:          It smells delicious.

PERSOME:      I’m sure Marie’s mother is not so ill that you need have stayed out on such a night as this. I believe those people pretend to be ill just to have the Bishop call on them. They have no thought of the Bishop!

BISHOP:          It is kind of them to want to see me.

PERSOME:      Well for my part I believe that charity begins at home.

BISHOP:          And so you make me this delicious soup. You are very good to me, sister. (hangs his head)

PERSOME:      Good to you, yes! I should think so. I should like to know where you would be without me to look after you. The dupe of every idle scamp or lying old woman in the Parish. It is ridiculous; you will soon have nothing left. You give away everything!

BISHOP:          My dear, there is so much suffering in the world, and I can do so little (sighs) so very little.

PERSOME:      Suffering, yes, but you never think of what you cause to those who love you best, the suffering you cause to me.

BISHOP:          (rising) Have I hurt you? You had been crying. Was that my fault? I didn’t mean to hurt you. I am sorry.

PERSOME:      Sorry won’t mend it. Humph! Oh, do go on eating your soup before it gets cold.

BISHOP:          Very well, dear, (sits) but tell me—

PERSOME:      You are like a child; I can’t trust you out of my sight. No sooner is my back turned than you get that little minx Marie to sell the silver salt cellars.

BISHOP:          Ah, yes, the salt cellars. It is a pity. You, you were proud of them?

PERSOME:      They have been in our family for years.

BISHOP:          But one can eat salt out of china just as well.

PERSOME:      Yes, or meat off the floor I suppose. Oh it’s coming to tat. And as for that wretch Gringoire, I wonder she had the audacity to send here again.

BISHOP:          I had actually offered to take her in here for a day or two, but she seemed to think it might distress you. And the bailiff, who is a very just man, would not wait longer for the rent, so you see I had to pay it.

PERSOME:      You had to pay it. (gesture of comic despair.)

BISHOP:          Yes, and you see I had no money so I had to dispose of the salt cellars. It was fortunate I had them, wasn’t it? (smiling) But, I’m sorry I have grieved you.

PERSOME:      Oh, go on! You are incorrigible. You’ll sell your candlesticks next.

BISHOP:          (with real concern) No, no, sister, not my candlesticks.

PERSOME:      Oh! Why not? They would pay somebody’s rent I suppose.

BISHOP:          Ah, you are good, sister, to think of that, but— but I don’t want to sell them. You see, dear, my mother gave them to me on her deathbed just after you were born, and she asked me to keep them in remembrance of her, so I would like to keep them. But perhaps it is a sin to set such store by them?

PERSOME:      Brother, brother, you will break my heart (with tears in her voice). There! Don’t say anything more. Kiss me and give me your blessing. I’m going to bed. (they kiss)

BISHOP:          (making sign of the cross and murmuring blessing)

PERSOME:      (locks cupboard door and goes.) Don’t sit up too long and tire your eyes.

BISHOP:          No, dear. Good night!

(PERSOME Exits R.)

BISHOP:          (comes to table and opens a book then looks up at the candlesticks) they would pay somebody’s rent. It was kind of her to think of that.

(He stirs the fire, trims the lamp, arranges some books and papers, sits down, is restless, shivers slightly, clock outside strikes twelve and he settles to read. Music during this. Enter the CONVICT stealthily, he has a long knife and seizes the Bishop from behind.)

CONVICT:       If you call out you are a dead man!

BISHOP:          But, my friend, as you see, I’m reading. Why should I call out? Can I help you in any way?

CONVICT:       (hoarsely) I want food. I’m starving. I haven’t eaten anything for three days. Give me food quickly, quickly, curse you.

BISHOP:          (eagerly) But certainly, my son, you shall have food. I will ask my sister for the keys of the cupboard, (rising)

CONVICT:       Sit down! (The BISHOP sits, smilingly) None of that, my friend! I’m too old a bird to be caught with chaff. You would ask your sister for the keys, would you? You would rouse the house too. Eh? Ha! Ha! (pause) come, where is the food? I want no keys. I have a wolf inside me tearing at my entrails, tearing me; quick, tell me where the food is.

BISHOP:          (aside) I wish PERSOME would not lock the cupboard. (aloud) come, my friend, you have nothing to fear. My sister and I are alone here.

CONVICT:       How do I know that?

BISHOP:          why I have just told you.

(CONVICT looks long at the BISHOP.)

CONVICT:       Humph! I’ll risk it.(BISHOP, going to door.) But mind! Play me false and as sure as there are devils in Hell I’ll drive my knife through your heart. I have nothing to lose.

BISHOP:          You have your soul to lose, my son; it is of more value than my heart. (at door R. calling) PERSOME, PERSOME. (The CONVICT stands behind him with his knife ready.)

PERSOME:      (within) Yes, Brother.

BISHOP:          Here is a poor traveler who is hungry. If you are not undressed will you come and open the cupboard and I will give him some supper.

PERSOME:      (within) What, at this time of night? A pretty business truly. Are we to have no sleep now?

BISHOP:          But, PERSOME, the traveler is hungry.

PERSOME:      Oh, very well, I am coming. (PERSOME Enters R., she sees the knife in the CONVICT’s hand) (frightened) Brother, what is he doing with that knife?

BISHOP:          The Knife, oh, well, you see, dear, perhaps he may have thought that I had sold ours. (laughs gently)

PERSOME:      Brother, I am frightened. He glares at us like a wild beast. (aside to him)

CONVICT:       Hurry, I tell you. Give me food or I’ll stick my knife in you both and help myself.

BISHOP:          Give me the keys, PERSOME, (she gives them to him) and now, dear, you may go to bed. (PERSOME going. The CONVICT springs in front of her.)

CONVICT:      Stop! Neither of you leave this room till I do. (She looks at the BISHOP.)

BISHOP:          PERSOME, will you favour this gentleman with your company at supper. He evidently desires it.

PERSOME:      very well, brother, (she sits down at table staring at the two)

BISHOP:          Here is some cold pie and a bottle of wine and some bread.

CONVICT:       Put them on the table, and stand below it so that I can see you.

(BISHOP does so and opens drawer in table taking out knife and fork, looking at the knife in convict’s hand.)

CONVICT:       My Knife is sharp, (he runs his finger along the edge and looks at them meaningfully) and as for forks (taking it up) Steel! (he throws it away) we don’t use forks in Prison.

PERSOME:      Prison.

CONVICT:       (cutting off an enormous slice, which he tears with his fingers like an animal. Then starts) What was that? (he looks at the door) Why the devil do you leave the window unshuttered and the door unbarred, so that anyone can come in? (shutting them)

BISHOP:          That is why they are left open.

CONVICT:      Well they are shut now!

(CONVICT eats voraciously and throws a bone on the floor. Bishop picks up the bone and puts it on plate.)

CONVICT:       You’re not afraid of thieves?

BISHOP:          I am sorry for them.

CONVICT:       Sorry for them. Ha! Ha! Ha! (drinks from bottle) that’s a good one. Sorry for them. Ha! Ha! Ha! (drinks suddenly) what the devil are you?

BISHOP:          I am a Bishop.

CONVICT:       Ha! Ha! Ha! A Bishop. Holy Virgin, a Bishop.

BISHOP:          PERSOME, you may leave us, this gentleman will excuse you.

PERSOME:      Leave you with— (glares at BISHOP)

BISHOP:          Please! My friend and I can talk more freely then. (by this time, owing to his starving condition the wine has affected him.)

CONVICT:       What’s that? Leave us. Yes, yes, leave us. Good night. I want to talk to the Bishop. The Bishop.  Ha! Ha! Ha! (laughs as he drinks and coughs)

BISHOP:          Good night, PERSOME. (he holds the door-open and she goes out R. holding in her skirts as she passes the CONVICT)

CONVICT:       (chuckling to himself) The BISHOP. Ha! Ha! (suddenly very loudly) D’ you know what I am?

BISHOP:          I think one who suffered much.

CONVICT:       Suffered? (puzzled) suffered? My God, yes. (drinks) but that was when I was a man. Now I’m not a man; now I’m a number: number 15729 and I’ve lived in Hell for ten years.

BISHOP:          Tell me about it-about Hell.

CONVICT:       Why? (suspiciously) do you want to tell the police to set them on my track?

BISHOP:          No! I will not tell the police.

CONVICT:       But – It’s so long ago I forget – but I had a little cottage, there were vines growing on it (dreamily) they looked pretty with the evening sun on them and, and there was a woman. She was…. (thinking hard) she must have been my wife – yeas. (suddenly and veryrapidly) yes, I remember! She was ill, we had no food, I could get no work, it was a bad year, and my wife, my Jeanette was ill, dying (pauses) so I stole to buy her food. (long pause the Bishop gently pats his hand) They caught me. I pleaded to them, I told them why I stole but they laughed at me, and I was sentenced to ten years in the prison hulks. (pause) ten years in Hell. The night I was sentenced the gaoler told me Jeanette was dead, (sobs, with fury) Ah, damn them, damn them. God curse them all (he sinks on the tablesobbing).

BISHOP:          Now tell me about the prison ship, about Hell.

CONVICT:       Tell you about it? Look here, I was a man once. I’m a beast now and they made me what I am. They chained me up and lashed me. I fed on filth, I was covered with vermin, I slept on boards and I complained. Then they lashed me again. For ten years, ten years. Oh God! They took away my name, they took away my soul and they gave me a devil in its place. But one day they were careless-forget to chain up their wild beast and he escaped. He was free. That was six weeks ago. I was free, free to starve. They feed you in Hell, but when you escape from it you starve. They were hunting me everywhere and I had no passport, no name. So I stole again, I stole these rags, I stole my food daily, I slept in the woods, in barns, anywhere. I dare not ask for work, I dare not go into a town to beg, so I stole and they have made me what I am, they have made me a thief. God curse them all. (Empties the bottle and throws it into the fireplace R. smashing it.)

BISHOP:          My son, you have suffered much but there is hope for all.

CONVICT:       Hope! Hope! Ha! Ha! Ha! (loughs wildly)

BISHOP:          You are tired. Lie down and sleep on the couch there and I will get you some coverings.

CONVICT:      And if any one comes?

BISHOP:          No one will come, but if they do, are you not my friend?

CONVICT:       your friend? (puzzled) the Bishop’s friend. (scratching his head utterly puzzled)

BISHOP:          I will get you the coverings. (Exit L.)

CONVICT:       (looks after him, scratches his head) the Bishop’s friend! (He goes to fire to warm himself and notices the candlesticks. He looks round to see if he is alone and takes them down, weighing them.) Silver, my God, and heavy. What a prize! (He hears the BISHOP coming and in his haste drops one candlestick on the table)

(Enter the BISHOP)

BISHOP:          (sees what is going on but goes to the settle up L. with coverings)Ah, you are admiring my candle sticks. I am proud of them. They were a gift from my mother. A little too handsome for this poor cottage perhaps, but all I have to remind me of her. Your bed is ready. Will you lie down now?

CONVICT:       yes, yes, I’ll lie down now. (puzzled) look here, why the devil are you ki-kind to me. (suspiciously) what do you want? Do you want to convert me? I don’t want any damned religion, and as for the Church, bah! I hate the Church.

BISHOP:          That is a pity, my son, as the Church does not hate you.

CONVICT:       Oh, Ha! Ha! It’s a good idea, but I don’t want any of your Faith, Hope and Charity, see? So anything you do for me you’re doing to the devil, understand? (defiantly)

BISHOP:          One must do a great deal for the devil in order to do a little for God.

CONVICT:       (angrily) I don’t want any damned religion, I tell you.

BISHOP:          Won’t you lie down now, it is late.

CONVICT:       (grumbling) Well all right, but I won’t be preached at, I – I – (on couch). You’re sure no one will come?

BISHOP:          I don’t think they will, but if they do – you yourself have locked the door.

CONVICT:       Hump! I wonder if it’s safe, (he goes to the door and tries it, then turns and sees the BISHOP holding the covering, annoyed) here! You go to bed. I’ll cover myself (the BISHOP hesitates) Go on, I tell you.

BISHOP:          Good night, my son. (Exit L.)

(CONVICT waits till he is off then tries the BISHOP’s door.)

CONVICT:       No lock of course. Curse it. (looks round and sees the candlesticks again) Humph! I’ll have another look at them (he takes them up and toys with them) worth hundreds I’ll warrant. If I had these turned into money they’d start me fair. Humph! Old boy’s fond of them too, said his mother gave them. His mother, yes. They didn’t think of my mother when they sent me to Hell. He was kind to me too but what’s a Bishop for except to be kind to you. Here, cheer up, my heart, you’re getting soft. God I wouldn’t my chain mates laugh to see 15729 hesitating about collaring the plunder because he felt good. Good! Ha! Ha! Oh my God! Good! Ha! Ha! 15729 getting soft. That’s a good one. Ha! Ha! No, I’ll take his candlesticks and go, if I stay here he’ll preach at me in the morning and I’ll get soft. Damn him and his preaching too.  Here goes! (he takes the candlesticks, stows them in his coat and cautiously exits L. C. as he does so the door slams.)

PERSOME:      (without) who’s there? Who’s there? I say? Am I to get no sleep tonight? Who’s there, I say? (Enter R. PERSOME) I’m sure I hear the door shut (looking round) No one here? (Knocks at the BISHOP’s door. Sees the candlesticks have gone) the candlesticks, the candlesticks. They are gone. Brother, come out. Fire, murder, thieves!

(EnterBISHOP, L.)

BISHOP:          What is it? Dear, what is it? What is the matter?

PERSOME:      He has gone. The man with the hungry eyes has gone, and he has taken your candlesticks.

BISHOP:          Not my candlesticks, sister, surely not those (he looks and sighs) Ah that is hard, very hard, I – I – he might have left me those. They were all I had. (Almost breaking down.) But it was my fault. I led him into temptation.

PERSOME:      Oh nonsense! Led him into temptation indeed! The man is a thief, a common scoundrel thief. I knew it the moment I saw him. Go and inform the police or I will. (Going but he stops her)

BISHOP:          And have him sent back to prison – (very softly) sent back to Hell! No, PERSOME. It is a just punishment for me; I set too great store by them. It was a sin. My punishment is just but, oh God, it is hard, it is very hard. (He buries his head in his hands.)

PERSOME:      No, brother, you are wrong. If you won’t tell the police I will. I will not stand by and see you robbed. You are a fool, a child, I tell you, and I will not have your goodness abused. I shall go and inform the police. (going)

BISHOP:          Stop, PERSOME. The candlesticks were mine, they are his now. It is better so, He has more need of them than I. My mother would have wished it so had she been here.

PERSOME:      But – (great knocking without).

SERGENT:       (without) Monseigneur, Monseigneur, we have something for you, may we enter?

BISHOP:          Enter, my son.

(Enter SERGENT and three GENDARMES with CONVICT bound. The SERGENT carries the candlesticks)

PERSOME:      Ah, so they have caught you, villain, have they?

SERGENT:       Yes, madam, we found this scoundrel slinking along the road, and as he wouldn’t give any account of himself we arrested him on suspicion. Holy virgin, isn’t he strong and didn’t he struggle? While we were securing him these candlesticks fell out of his pockets.

(PERSOME seizes them, goes to table and brushes them with her apron lovingly)

I remembered the candlesticks of Monseigneur the BISHOP, so we brought him here that you might identify them and then we’ll lock him up. (The BISHOP and the CONVICT have been looking at each other. The CONVICT with dogged defiance.)

BISHOP:          But, but I don’t understand, this gentleman is my very good friend.

SERGENT:       Your friend, Monseigneur! Holy Virgin! Well!!!

BISHOP:          Yes, my friend, he did me the honour to sup with me tonight and I – I have given him the candlesticks.

SERGENT:       (incredulously) You gave him your candlesticks? Holy Virgin!

BISHOP:          I have told you he is my friend.

SERGENT:       Yes, that’s all very well, but he won’t show me his papers, he won’t tell me who he is.

BISHOP:          He is your Bishop’s friend, surely that is enough.

SERGENT:       Well, but –

BISHOP:          Surely?

(A pause. The SERGENT and the BISHOP look at each other.)

SERGENT:       I – I – Humph! (to his men) :Loose the prisoner. (they do so) right about turn, quick march! (Exit SERGENT and GENDARMES. A long pause.)

CONVICT:       (very slowly as if in a dream) You told them you had given me the candlesticks, given me them. By God!

PERSOME:      (shaking her fist at his and hugging the candlesticks to her breast) Oh you scoundrel, you pitiful scoundrel, you come here and are fed and warmed, and … and you thief; steal from your benefactor. Oh you blackguard.

BISHOP:          PERSOME, you are overwrought, Go to your room.

PERSOME:      What, and leave you with him to be cheated again, perhaps murdered. No, I will not. (She looks hard at him then turns towards the door.) Well, if I must go at least I’ll take the candlesticks with me.

BISHOP:          (more severely) PERSOME, place the candlesticks on that table and leave us.

PERSOME:      (defiantly) I will not!

BISHOP:          (loudly and with great severity) I, your Bishop, command it.

(PERSOME does so with great reluctance and Exits R.)

CONVICT:       (shamefacedly) Monseigneur, I’m glad I didn’t get away with them, curse me, I am. I’m glad.

BISHOP:          Now won’t you sleep here, see your bed is ready.

CONVICT:       (looking at the candlesticks) No! No, I … I daren’t, I daren’t. Besides I must go on, I must get to Paris, it is big, and I – I can be lost there. They won’t find me there and I must travel at night, do you understand?

(BISHOP nods)

CONVICT:       I – I didn’t believe there was any good in the world. One doesn’t when one has been in Hell; but somehow I – I know you’re good-but could you, would you bless me before I go? I – I think it would help me. I – (hangs his head very shamefacedly)

BISHOP:          (Makes sign of the cross and murmurs blessing)

CONVICT:       (tries to speak: a sob almost chokes him). Good night. (he hurries towards the door)

BISHOP:          Stay, my son, you have forgotten your property (giving him the candlesticks).

(the CONVICT takes the candlesticks in absolute amazement.)

BISHOP:          And, my son. There is a path through the woods at the back of this cottage which leads to Paris; it is a very lonely path, and I have noticed that my good friends the Gendarmes do not like lonely paths at night. It is curious.

CONVICT:       ah, thanks, thanks, Monseigneur. I – I – (he sobs) Ah! I’m a fool, a child to cry, but somehow you have made me feel that – that it is just as if something had come into me – as if I were a man again and not a wild beast. (the door at back is open and the CONVICT is standing in it.)

BISHOP:          (Putting his hand on his shoulder.) Always remember, my son, that this poor body is the Temple of the Living God.

CONVICT:       (with great awe). THE Temple of the Living God. I’ll remember. (Exit L. C.)

(The BISHOP closes the door and goes quietly to the prie-dieu in the window R., he sinks on his knees, and bows his head in prayer.)

SLOW CURTAIN

* * * *

The Bishop’s Candlesticks – Norman McKinnel (III Semester) Additional English

The play 'The Bishop’s Candlesticks' opens with a scene in the Bishop’s kitchen. Bishop’s younger sister Persome and maid servant Marie are busy in conversation, while soup is being cooked on the stove. Persome is worried that her brother has gone out in extreme cold. When she learns that her brother has gone to see Marie’s mother, she bursts out in anger at the selfishness of the people, who went about troubling him. Persome’s anger is genuine because her brother has already sold off his estate, furniture and other valuables to help the poor and the needy. Persome is shocked to discover further that the Bishop has even sold off his silver-cellars to help another ailing lady to pay her rent. 

The Bishop promptly arrives and dispatches Marie to tend her mother. He gives away his comforter to her to ward off the cold outside. Persome gets very furious and says, “You’ll sell your candlesticks next.”  The Bishop thanks for her giving him the idea, although he admits that the candlesticks were his proud possessions, a gift from his dying mother and he would not like to part with them.

Persome takes leave and the Bishop settles down to read. It is already midnight. A Convict enters from the room stealthily, seizes the Bishop from behind and demands something to eat. He threatens to kill the Bishop if he raises an alarm. The Bishop is unflustered. He calls the Convict ‘son’ and wakes his sister to serve some food and wine to the Convict. He also calms down Persome, who was frightened to see the knife in the Convict’s hand.

The convict pounces on the food greedily. After eating, the Convict warms up and relates his sad story to the Bishop. He tells the Bishop that he was once a normal man. He had a wife and a home but no work, so stole to feed his sick wife. He was chained like an animal and beaten mercilessly and fed on filth. The Bishop consoles him and arranges for him to rest there for the night.

The next morning Persome finds that the Convict and the silver candlesticks are missing. She raises an alarm and informs the Bishop about the theft. The Bishop is upset but he refuses to report to the police.   

Soon a sergeant appears with two soldiers and the Convict in chains. They had arrested the Convict on the suspicion of stealing the Bishop’s Candlesticks. The Bishop tells the police that the Convict was his friend and he had gifted the candlesticks to him. The police free the Convict and allow him to go away. The Convict is wonderstruck by such kindness. He promises to reform himself and begin his life anew. The Bishop blesses him and gifts the candlesticks to him. He shows him a secret path to Paris, where the Convict could lead safe and respectable life.    

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God Sees the Truth, But Waits - Leo Tolstoy (Text and Summary)

God Sees the Truth, But Waits - Leo Tolstoy (Text) (For summary see below)

In the town of Vladimir lived a young merchant named Ivan Dmitrich Aksionov. He had two shops and a house of his own.

Aksionov was a handsome, fair-haired, curly-headed fellow, full of fun, and very fond of singing. When quite a young man he had been given to drink, and was riotous when he had had too much; but after he married he gave up drinking, except now and then.

One summer Aksionov was going to the Nizhny Fair, and as he bade good-bye to his family, his wife said to him, "Ivan Dmitrich, do not start to-day; I have had a bad dream about you."

Aksionov laughed, and said, "You are afraid that when I get to the fair I shall go on a spree."

His wife replied: "I do not know what I am afraid of; all I know is that I had a bad dream. I dreamt you returned from the town, and when you took off your cap I saw that your hair was quite grey."

Aksionov laughed. "That's a lucky sign," said he. "See if I don't sell out all my goods, and bring you some presents from the fair."

So he said good-bye to his family, and drove away.

When he had travelled half-way, he met a merchant whom he knew, and they put up at the same inn for the night. They had some tea together, and then went to bed in adjoining rooms.

It was not Aksionov's habit to sleep late, and, wishing to travel while it was still cool, he aroused his driver before dawn, and told him to put in the horses.

Then he made his way across to the landlord of the inn (who lived in a cottage at the back), paid his bill, and continued his journey.

When he had gone about twenty-five miles, he stopped for the horses to be fed. Aksionov rested awhile in the passage of the inn, then he stepped out into the porch, and, ordering a samovar to be heated, got out his guitar and began to play.

Suddenly a troika drove up with tinkling bells and an official alighted, followed by two soldiers. He came to Aksionov and began to question him, asking him who he was and whence he came. Aksionov answered him fully, and said, "Won't you have some tea with me?" But the official went on cross-questioning him and asking him. "Where did you spend last night? Were you alone, or with a fellow-merchant? Did you see the other merchant this morning? Why did you leave the inn before dawn?"

Aksionov wondered why he was asked all these questions, but he described all that had happened, and then added, "Why do you cross-question me as if I were a thief or a robber? I am travelling on business of my own, and there is no need to question me."

Then the official, calling the soldiers, said, "I am the police-officer of this district, and I question you because the merchant with whom you spent last night has been found with his throat cut. We must search your things."

They entered the house. The soldiers and the police-officer unstrapped Aksionov's luggage and searched it. Suddenly the officer drew a knife out of a bag, crying, "Whose knife is this?"

Aksionov looked, and seeing a blood-stained knife taken from his bag, he was frightened.

"How is it there is blood on this knife?"

Aksionov tried to answer, but could hardly utter a word, and only stammered: "I--don't know--not mine." Then the police-officer said: "This morning the merchant was found in bed with his throat cut. You are the only person who could have done it. The house was locked from inside, and no one else was there. Here is this blood-stained knife in your bag and your face and manner betray you! Tell me how you killed him, and how much money you stole?"

Aksionov swore he had not done it; that he had not seen the merchant after they had had tea together; that he had no money except eight thousand rubles of his own, and that the knife was not his. But his voice was broken, his face pale, and he trembled with fear as though he went guilty.

The police-officer ordered the soldiers to bind Aksionov and to put him in the cart. As they tied his feet together and flung him into the cart, Aksionov crossed himself and wept. His money and goods were taken from him, and he was sent to the nearest town and imprisoned there. Enquiries as to his character were made in Vladimir. The merchants and other inhabitants of that town said that in former days he used to drink and waste his time, but that he was a good man. Then the trial came on: he was charged with murdering a merchant from Ryazan, and robbing him of twenty thousand rubles.

His wife was in despair, and did not know what to believe. Her children were all quite small; one was a baby at her breast. Taking them all with her, she went to the town where her husband was in jail. At first she was not allowed to see him; but after much begging, she obtained permission from the officials, and was taken to him. When she saw her husband in prison-dress and in chains, shut up with thieves and criminals, she fell down, and did not come to her senses for a long time. Then she drew her children to her, and sat down near him. She told him of things at home, and asked about what had happened to him. He told her all, and she asked, "What can we do now?"

"We must petition the Czar not to let an innocent man perish."

His wife told him that she had sent a petition to the Czar, but it had not been accepted.

Aksionov did not reply, but only looked downcast.

Then his wife said, "It was not for nothing I dreamt your hair had turned grey. You remember? You should not have started that day." And passing her fingers through his hair, she said: "Vanya dearest, tell your wife the truth; was it not you who did it?"

"So you, too, suspect me!" said Aksionov, and, hiding his face in his hands, he began to weep. Then a soldier came to say that the wife and children must go away; and Aksionov said good-bye to his family for the last time.

When they were gone, Aksionov recalled what had been said, and when he remembered that his wife also had suspected him, he said to himself, "It seems that only God can know the truth; it is to Him alone we must appeal, and from Him alone expect mercy."

And Aksionov wrote no more petitions; gave up all hope, and only prayed to God.

Aksionov was condemned to be flogged and sent to the mines. So he was flogged with a knot, and when the wounds made by the knot were healed, he was driven to Siberia with other convicts.

For twenty-six years Aksionov lived as a convict in Siberia. His hair turned white as snow, and his beard grew long, thin, and grey. All his mirth went; he stooped; he walked slowly, spoke little, and never laughed, but he often prayed.

In prison Aksionov learnt to make boots, and earned a little money, with which he bought The Lives of the Saints. He read this book when there was light enough in the prison; and on Sundays in the prison-church he read the lessons and sang in the choir; for his voice was still good.

The prison authorities liked Aksionov for his meekness, and his fellow-prisoners respected him: they called him "Grandfather," and "The Saint." When they wanted to petition the prison authorities about anything, they always made Aksionov their spokesman, and when there were quarrels among the prisoners they came to him to put things right, and to judge the matter.

No news reached Aksionov from his home, and he did not even know if his wife and children were still alive.

One day a fresh gang of convicts came to the prison. In the evening the old prisoners collected round the new ones and asked them what towns or villages they came from, and what they were sentenced for. Among the rest Aksionov sat down near the newcomers, and listened with downcast air to what was said.

One of the new convicts, a tall, strong man of sixty, with a closely-cropped grey beard, was telling the others what be had been arrested for.

"Well, friends," he said, "I only took a horse that was tied to a sledge, and I was arrested and accused of stealing. I said I had only taken it to get home quicker, and had then let it go; besides, the driver was a personal friend of mine. So I said, 'It's all right.' 'No,' said they, 'you stole it.' But how or where I stole it they could not say. I once really did something wrong, and ought by rights to have come here long ago, but that time I was not found out. Now I have been sent here for nothing at all... Eh, but it's lies I'm telling you; I've been to Siberia before, but I did not stay long."

"Where are you from?" asked some one.

"From Vladimir. My family are of that town. My name is Makar, and they also call me Semyonich."

Aksionov raised his head and said: "Tell me, Semyonich, do you know anything of the merchants Aksionov of Vladimir? Are they still alive?"

"Know them? Of course I do. The Aksionovs are rich, though their father is in Siberia: a sinner like ourselves, it seems! As for you, Gran'dad, how did you come here?"

Aksionov did not like to speak of his misfortune. He only sighed, and said, "For my sins I have been in prison these twenty-six years."

"What sins?" asked Makar Semyonich.

But Aksionov only said, "Well, well--I must have deserved it!" He would have said no more, but his companions told the newcomers how Aksionov came to be in Siberia; how some one had killed a merchant, and had put the knife among Aksionov's things, and Aksionov had been unjustly condemned.

When Makar Semyonich heard this, he looked at Aksionov, slapped his own knee, and exclaimed, "Well, this is wonderful! Really wonderful! But how old you've grown, Gran'dad!"

The others asked him why he was so surprised, and where he had seen Aksionov before; but Makar Semyonich did not reply. He only said: "It's wonderful that we should meet here, lads!"

These words made Aksionov wonder whether this man knew who had killed the merchant; so he said, "Perhaps, Semyonich, you have heard of that affair, or maybe you've seen me before?"

"How could I help hearing? The world's full of rumours. But it's a long time ago, and I've forgotten what I heard."

"Perhaps you heard who killed the merchant?" asked Aksionov.

Makar Semyonich laughed, and replied: "It must have been him in whose bag the knife was found! If some one else hid the knife there, 'He's not a thief till he's caught,' as the saying is. How could any one put a knife into your bag while it was under your head? It would surely have woke you up."

When Aksionov heard these words, he felt sure this was the man who had killed the merchant. He rose and went away. All that night Aksionov lay awake. He felt terribly unhappy, and all sorts of images rose in his mind. There was the image of his wife as she was when he parted from her to go to the fair. He saw her as if she were present; her face and her eyes rose before him; he heard her speak and laugh. Then he saw his children, quite little, as they: were at that time: one with a little cloak on, another at his mother's breast. And then he remembered himself as he used to be-young and merry. He remembered how he sat playing the guitar in the porch of the inn where he was arrested, and how free from care he had been. He saw, in his mind, the place where he was flogged, the executioner, and the people standing around; the chains, the convicts, all the twenty-six years of his prison life, and his premature old age. The thought of it all made him so wretched that he was ready to kill himself.

"And it's all that villain's doing!" thought Aksionov. And his anger was so great against Makar Semyonich that he longed for vengeance, even if he himself should perish for it. He kept repeating prayers all night, but could get no peace. During the day he did not go near Makar Semyonich, nor even look at him.

A fortnight passed in this way. Aksionov could not sleep at night, and was so miserable that he did not know what to do.

One night as he was walking about the prison he noticed some earth that came rolling out from under one of the shelves on which the prisoners slept. He stopped to see what it was. Suddenly Makar Semyonich crept out from under the shelf, and looked up at Aksionov with frightened face. Aksionov tried to pass without looking at him, but Makar seized his hand and told him that he had dug a hole under the wall, getting rid of the earth by putting it into his high-boots, and emptying it out every day on the road when the prisoners were driven to their work.

"Just you keep quiet, old man, and you shall get out too. If you blab, they'll flog the life out of me, but I will kill you first."

Aksionov trembled with anger as he looked at his enemy. He drew his hand away, saying, "I have no wish to escape, and you have no need to kill me; you killed me long ago! As to telling of you--I may do so or not, as God shall direct."

Next day, when the convicts were led out to work, the convoy soldiers noticed that one or other of the prisoners emptied some earth out of his boots. The prison was searched and the tunnel found. The Governor came and questioned all the prisoners to find out who had dug the hole. They all denied any knowledge of it. Those who knew would not betray Makar Semyonich, knowing he would be flogged almost to death. At last the Governor turned to Aksionov whom he knew to be a just man, and said:

"You are a truthful old man; tell me, before God, who dug the hole?"

Makar Semyonich stood as if he were quite unconcerned, looking at the Governor and not so much as glancing at Aksionov. Aksionov's lips and hands trembled, and for a long time he could not utter a word. He thought, "Why should I screen him who ruined my life? Let him pay for what I have suffered. But if I tell, they will probably flog the life out of him, and maybe I suspect him wrongly. And, after all, what good would it be to me?"

"Well, old man," repeated the Governor, "tell me the truth: who has been digging under the wall?"

Aksionov glanced at Makar Semyonich, and said, "I cannot say, your honour. It is not God's will that I should tell! Do what you like with me; I am your hands."

However much the Governor! tried, Aksionov would say no more, and so the matter had to be left.

That night, when Aksionov was lying on his bed and just beginning to doze, some one came quietly and sat down on his bed. He peered through the darkness and recognised Makar.

"What more do you want of me?" asked Aksionov. "Why have you come here?"

Makar Semyonich was silent. So Aksionov sat up and said, "What do you want? Go away, or I will call the guard!"

Makar Semyonich bent close over Aksionov, and whispered, "Ivan Dmitrich, forgive me!"

"What for?" asked Aksionov.

"It was I who killed the merchant and hid the knife among your things. I meant to kill you too, but I heard a noise outside, so I hid the knife in your bag and escaped out of the window."

Aksionov was silent, and did not know what to say. Makar Semyonich slid off the bed-shelf and knelt upon the ground. "Ivan Dmitrich," said he, "forgive me! For the love of God, forgive me! I will confess that it was I who killed the merchant, and you will be released and can go to your home."

"It is easy for you to talk," said Aksionov, "but I have suffered for you these twenty-six years. Where could I go to now?... My wife is dead, and my children have forgotten me. I have nowhere to go..."

Makar Semyonich did not rise, but beat his head on the floor. "Ivan Dmitrich, forgive me!" he cried. "When they flogged me with the knot it was not so hard to bear as it is to see you now ... yet you had pity on me, and did not tell. For Christ's sake forgive me, wretch that I am!" And he began to sob.

When Aksionov heard him sobbing he, too, began to weep. "God will forgive you!" said he. "Maybe I am a hundred times worse than you." And at these words his heart grew light, and the longing for home left him. He no longer had any desire to leave the prison, but only hoped for his last hour to come.

In spite of what Aksionov had said, Makar Semyonich confessed, his guilt. But when the order for his release came, Aksionov was already dead.

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courtesy: website all time great stories

God Sees The Truth, But Waits – Leo Tolstoy (Summary)

The protagonist of Leo Tolstoy’s short story “God Sees The Truth, But Waits” is about a carefree young and handsome merchant named Ivan Dmitrich Akshionov of Vladimir. He is so carefree to enjoy his life with all types of joys, which are righteous to the rich young men. Too much carefree life should serve a fair warning to one that he/she may not enjoy the same type of life in his/her entire life. As readers of the story, we are warned that the stormy clouds are looming large on the horizons of Akshionov’s life when his wife had a bad dream about him. His young and beautiful wife who is well aware of life’s uncertainties – tells her husband that she had a bad dream about him, and asks him not to go to the Nizhny Fair, where he plans to sell his goods. He laughs at his wife’s warnings and goes to the fair anyway. 

Disaster does not surface immediately. Halfway to the Fair, Aksiniov stops at an inn for the night and winds up his supper by sharing a cup of tea with another merchant whom he knew a little. The two merchants have gone to bed in adjoining rooms in the inn. In the early morning Akshiniov gets up, pays his bill to the proprietor and gets back on to the road to the Fair.  After twenty-five miles journey he is overtaken by the soldiers, who question him about his activities of his previous night.

Aksiniov finally asks them why they are treating him as if he was committed a serious crime.  The soldiers informed him that the merchant with whom he spent the previous evening had been found murdered and his valuables are stolen.  When the soldiers search Akshiniov’s bags, they find a sharp knife smeared with blood.

Predictably, Aksionov is arrested, prosecuted and convicted him for the crime of murder. His wife is able to see him only once before he is exiled to Siberia; after rousing herself from the dead faint at the sight of him in shackles and fetters. They petitioned to Czar for mercy but the emperor rejects their mercy petition. Finally, she asked him what has possessed him to murder the stranger on the way to the fair. He is upset when his wife asked his involvement in the crime and tells himself that God alone knows the truth.

In Siberia, Aksinov spends his twenty-six years of prison life in meditation and prayers. He has become a model prisoner that the other convicts call him “Grand Father” and “The Saint”. All prisoners use to call on him with their problems and disputes among themselves and all such disputes are settled fairly and amicably with the kind words of Aksionov. One-day Aksionov learns a new convict; Makar Semyonich has come from his hometown, Vladimir. He asks him about the well-being of his sons in Vladimir. He says to him that he knows them and they have become successful merchants, though it is said to be that their father is a convict and serving in the Jail in Siberia. Further, he stunned to know that Makar Semyonich reveals himself that he was the true perpetrator of the crime for which Aksionov is now serving a life sentence.

Now, Aksionov is torn by conflict knowing this man is responsible for Aksionov’s twenty-six years misery. Yet, what good would come from revealing him to be the murderer now? The conflict is made even more acute when Makar Semyonich attempts to tunnel out of prison and the police discover his clandestine tunnel. All prisoners are assembled and asked to reveal who had dug the whole. This is the right opportunity for Aksionov to have his revenge on Makar Semyonich, but, he cannot do it. He thought what would be gained if I reveal his name. The damage to Aksionov’s life has already been done, and no good may come off by making someone’s life miserable.  So, he does not reveal Makar’s name who is responsible for the secret tunnel though it is known to him very well.

In Private, in the early morning, Makar Semyonich comes to Aksionov and begs his forgiveness. He confessed “when they flagged me with knout it was not so hard to bear as it is to see you now… yet you had pity on me, and did not tell. For Christ’s sake forgive me, wretch that I am!” but Aksionov says that forgiveness is not his to give, but God’s, and “God will forgive you…. Maybe I am a hundred times worse than you.” Later jail authorities learnt that Akshionov is innocent of his crime and issued release orders to Akshionov by then he is found dead before reaching his release orders to him. Thus, Leo Tolstoy proved in his short story that man proposes and God disposes.

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Girl – O Henry (Text and Summary)

Textual lesson for (VSKUB) B. Com. I Semester

Girl – O Henry  

IN GILT letters on the ground glass of the door of room No. 962 were the words: "Robbins & Hartley, Brokers." The clerks had gone. It was past five, and with the solid tramp of a drove of prize Percherons, scrub- women were invading the cloud-capped twenty-story office building. A puff of red-hot air flavoured with lemon peelings, soft-coal smoke and train oil came in through the half-open windows.

Robbins, fifty, something of an overweight beau, and addicted to first nights and hotel palm-rooms, pretended to be envious of his partner's commuter's joys.

"Going to be something doing in the humidity line to-night," he said. "You out-of-town chaps will be the people, with your katydids and moonlight and long drinks and things out on the front porch."

Hartley, twenty-nine, serious, thin, good-looking, ner-vous, sighed and frowned a little.

"Yes," said he, "we always have cool nights in Floral- hurst, especially in the winter."

A man with an air of mystery came in the door and went up to Hartley.

"I've found where she lives," he announced in the portentous half-whisper that makes the detective at work a marked being to his fellow men.

Hartley scowled him into a state of dramatic silence and quietude. But by that time Robbins had got his cane and set his tie pin to his liking, and with a debonair nod went out to his metropolitan amusements.

"Here is the address," said the detective in a natural tone, being deprived of an audience to foil.

Hartley took the leaf torn out of the sleuth's dingy memorandum book. On it were pencilled the words "Vivienne Arlington, No. 341 East --th Street, care of Mrs. McComus."

"Moved there a week ago," said the detective. "Now, if you want any shadowing done, Mr. Hartley, I can do you as fine a job in that line as anybody in the city. It will be only $7 a day and expenses. Can send in a daily typewritten report, covering --"

“You needn't go on," interrupted the broker. "It isn't a case of that kind. I merely wanted the address. How much shall I pay you?"

"One day's work," said the sleuth. "A tenner will cover it."

Hartley paid the man and dismissed him. Then he left the office and boarded a Broadway car. At the first large crosstown artery of travel, he took an eastbound car that deposited him in a decaying avenue, whose ancient structures once sheltered the pride and glory of the town.

Walking a few squares, he came to the building that he sought. It was a new flathouse, bearing carved upon its cheap stone portal its sonorous name, "The Vallambrosa." Fire escapes zigzagged down its front -- these laden with household goods, drying clothes, and squalling children evicted by the midsummer heat. Here and there a pale rubber plant peeped from the miscellaneous mass, as if wondering to what kingdom it belonged -- vegetable, animal or artificial.

Hartley pressed the "McComus" button. The door latch clicked spasmodically – now hospitably, now doubt- fully, as though in anxiety whether it might be admitting friends or duns. Hartley entered and began to climb the stairs after the manner of those who seek their friends in city flat-houses -- which is the manner of a boy who climbs an apple-tree, stopping when he comes upon what he wants.

On the fourth floor he saw Vivienne standing in an open door. She invited him inside, with a nod and a bright, genuine smile. She placed a chair for him near a window, and poised herself gracefully upon the edge of one of those Jekyll-and-Hyde pieces of furniture that are masked and mysteriously hooded, unguessable bulks by day and inquisitorial racks of torture by night.

Hartley cast a quick, critical, appreciative glance at her before speaking, and told himself that his taste in choosing had been flawless.

Vivienne was about twenty-one. She was of the purest Saxon type. Her hair was a ruddy golden, each filament of the neatly gathered mass shining with its own lustre and delicate graduation of colour. In perfect harmony were her ivory-clear complexion and deep sea-blue eyes that looked upon the world with the ingenuous calmness of a mermaid or the pixie of an undiscovered mountain stream. Her frame was strong and yet possessed the grace of absolute naturalness. And yet with all her Northern clearness and frankness of line and colouring, there seemed to be something of the tropics in her – something  of languor in the droop of her pose, of love of ease in her ingenious complacency of satisfaction and comfort in the mere act of breathing -- something that seemed to claim for her a right as a perfect work of nature to exist and be admired equally with a rare flower or some beatiful, milk-white dove among its sober-hued companions.

She was dressed in a white waist and dark skirt - that discreet masquerade of goose-girl and duchess.

"Vivienne," said Hartley, looking at her pleadingly, "you did not answer my last letter. It was only by nearly a week's search that I found where you had moved to. Why have you kept me in suspense when you knew how anxiously I was waiting to see you and hear from you?"

The girl looked out the window dreamily.

"Mr. Hartley," she said hesitatingly, "I hardly know what to say to you. I realize all the advantages of your offer, and sometimes I feel sure that I could be contented with you. But, again, I am doubtful. I was born a city girl, and I am afraid to bind myself to a quiet sub- urban life."

"My dear girl," said Hartley, ardently, "have I not told you that you shall have everything that your heart can desire that is in my power to give you? You shall come to the city for the theatres, for shopping and to visit your friends as often as you care to. You can trust me, can you not?"

"To the fullest," she said, turning her frank eyes upon him with a smile. "I know you are the kindest of men, and that the girl you get will be a lucky one. I learned all about you when I was at the Montgomerys'."

"Ah!" exclaimed Hartley, with a tender, reminiscent light in his eye; "I remember well the evening I first saw you at the Montgomerys'. Mrs. Montgomery was sounding your praises to me all the evening. And she hardly did you justice. I shall never forget that supper. Come, Vivienne, promise me. I want you. You'll never regret coming with me. No one else will ever give you as pleasant a home."

The girl sighed and looked down at her folded hands.

A sudden jealous suspicion seized Hartley.

"Tell me, Vivienne," he asked, regarding her keenly, "is there another -- is there some one else ?"

A rosy flush crept slowly over her fair cheeks and neck.

"You shouldn't ask that, Mr. Hartley," she said, in some confusion. "But I will tell you. There is one other -- but he has no right -- I have promised him nothing."

"His name?" demanded Hartley, sternly.

"Townsend."

"Rafford Townsend!" exclaimed Hartley, with a grim tightening of his jaw. "How did that man come to know you? After all I've done for him -- "

"His auto has just stopped below," said Vivienne, bending over the window-sill. "He's coming for his answer. Oh I don't know what to do!"

The bell in the flat kitchen whirred. Vivienne hurried to press the latch button. "Stay here," said Hartley. "I will meet him in the hall."

Townsend, looking like a Spanish grandee in his light tweeds, Panama hat and curling black mustache, came up the stairs three at a time. He stopped at sight of Hartley and looked foolish.

"Go back," said Hartley, firmly, pointing downstairs with his forefinger.

"Hullo!" said Townsend, feigning surprise. "What's up? What are you doing here, old man?"

"Go back," repeated Hartley, inflexibly. "The Law of the Jungle. Do you want the Pack to tear you in pieces? The kill is mine."

"I came here to see a plumber about the bathroom connections," said Townsend, bravely.

"All right," said Hartley. "You shall have that lying plaster to stick upon your traitorous soul. But, go back." Townsend went downstairs, leaving a bitter word to be wafted up the draught of the staircase. Hartley went back to his wooing.

"Vivienne," said he, masterfully. "I have got to have you. I will take no more refusals or dilly-dallying."

"When do you want me?" she asked.

"Now. As soon as you can get ready."

She stood calmly before him and looked him in the eye.

"Do you think for one moment," she said, "that I would enter your home while Héloise is there?"

Hartley cringed as if from an unexpected blow. He folded his arms and paced the carpet once or twice.

"She shall go," he declared grimly. Drops stood upon his brow. "Why should I let that woman make my life miserable? Never have I seen one day of freedom from trouble since I have known her. You are right, Vivienne. Héloise must be sent away before I can take you home. But she shall go. I have decided. I will turn her from my doors."

"When will you do this?" asked the girl.

Hartley clinched his teeth and bent his brows together.

"To-night," he said, resolutely. "I will send her away to-night."

"Then," said Vivienne, "my answer is 'yes.' Come for me when you will."

She looked into his eyes with a sweet, sincere light in her own. Hartley could scarcely believe that her sur- render was true, it was so swift and complete.

"Promise me," he said feelingly, "on your word and honour."

"On my word and honour," repeated Vivienne, softly.

At the door he turned and gazed at her happily, but yet as one who scarcely trusts the foundations of his joy.

"To-morrow," he said, with a forefinger of reminder uplifted.

"To-morrow," she repeated with a smile of truth and candour.

In an hour and forty minutes Hartley stepped off the train at Floral Hurst. A brisk walk of ten minutes brought him to the gate of a handsome two-story cottage set upon a wide and well-tended lawn. Halfway to the house he was met by a woman with jet-black braided hair and flowing white summer gown, who half strangled him without apparent cause.

When they stepped into the hall she said:

"Mamma's here. The auto is coming for her in half an hour. She came to dinner, but there's no dinner."

"I've something to tell you," said Hartley. "I thought to break it to you gently, but since your mother is here we may as well out with it." He stooped and whispered something at her ear.

His wife screamed. Her mother came running into the hall. The dark-haired woman screamed again- the joyful scream of a well-beloved and petted woman.

"Oh, mamma!" she cried ecstatically, "what do you think? Vivienne is coming to cook for us! She is the one that stayed with the Montgomerys a whole year. And now, Billy, dear," she concluded, "you must go right down into the kitchen and discharge Héloise. She has been drunk again the whole day long."

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"Girl" - O Henry (Summary):

The very fascinating short story “Girl” written by O Henry is full of suspense and excitement in the way of its narration. It is all about a man, Hartley who persuades a woman, Vivienne to come to his home as a cook.

The short story “Girl” begins when Hartley, the partner of the Robbins and Hartley Brokers was waiting for somebody in his office after the office hours of the day. A mysterious person, probably a private investigator arrived at around half past five and gave him a small piece of torn paper that contained the address of a woman. Of course, Hartley commissioned him to know whereabouts of the woman and her address. Hartley paid him £10 for his service of finding out the address of the woman.

Hartley managed to reach the address of the woman of whom he was searching for, with the help of the address given by the detective.  It was a new flat house bearing the name ‘The Vallambrosa’. His heart leaped up with excitement as he was going to meet the woman of his choice. The woman who answered to the buzzer was an exceptionally beautiful woman and her name was Vivienne. He persuaded her to accept the proposal that he had made. She was a little hesitant about the situation because she was born and brought up in the city and she was not able to confine to the suburban lifestyle.  Hartley promised her and he would give her full freedom that she could go to the city whenever she wanted.  Vivienne said that she was confused because another man, Townsend had made her the same promise, but she had not given him any acceptance.

In the middle of their conversation, Townsend pulled in to the porch of the Vallambrosa and proceeded towards Vivienne’s place to know her acceptance. However, he was greeted by Hartley in the Hall and told him that it could be good to him to return without meeting Vivienne. So, Townsend had returned with Hartley’s serious warnings. Further, Hartley confesses that he will send Heloise, his present cook, who made his family’s life miserable being heavy drunkard, away as soon as Vivienne comes home. As Hartley agreed to get rid of Heloise, Vivienne asked him to take her to his home tomorrow.

With great pleasure, Hartley reached his home in Floralhurst. In the middle of his way to his beautiful, two storied cottage he met women with jet black braided hair, probably his wife and whispered with her about the happiest news that Vivienne had accepted to come to their house from tomorrow to give her the best services as a cook. She too felt very happy knowing Vivienne’s acceptance as she had already known her art of cooking at Montgomery’s house.      

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