CONTENTS DRAMA POETRY

Transcription

1 Welcome to AS Literature! This year you will be studying prose, poetry and drama centred around the theme of love. This anthology is an introduction to a range of texts from all three genres and throughout time. Apart from poetry, all texts are extracts; you are encouraged to source some of the full texts and read these yourself-pick the ones that interest you! Read and enjoy DRAMA Christopher Marlowe, The Jew of Malta, pp. 3-5 William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet, p.5 John Webster, The White Devil, pp.5-8 Henrik Ibsen, A Doll s House, pp.8-15 David Hare, Skylight, pp Alan Bennett, The History Boys, pp POETRY CONTENTS Geoffrey Chaucer, from The Wife of Bath, pp Christopher Marlowe, The Passionate Shepherd to His Love, p.21 William Shakespeare, Sonnet 116, p. 22 John Donne, The Flea, pp Andrew Marvell, To his Coy Mistress, pp Alexander Pope, from The Rape of the Lock, pp Lord Byron, from Don Juan, p.26 Christina Rossetti, Remember, p.27 Rupert Brooke, The Solider, p.27 May Wedderburn Cannan, Lamplight, p.28 W.H. Auden, Funeral Blues, p.29 Sylvia Plath, You re, pp

2 Philip Larkin, This Be the Verse, p.30 Carol Ann Duffy, Anne Hathaway, pp PROSE Samuel Richardson, Pamela, pp Jane Austen, Sense and Sensibility, pp Charles Dickens, Our Mutual Friend,pp F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby, pp Richard Yates, Revolutionary Road, p.38 Jeanette Winterson, Oranges are not the only fruit, pp Penelope Lively, Moon Tiger, p.41 2

3 DRAMA The following extracts are all from plays from Elizabethan times to the modern day. Theatre is thousands of years old, originating with the ancient Greeks, and the notion of tragedy dominates the genre even now. Plays are meant to be performed and this should be considered when studying drama; think about staging, costume, lighting and expression when analyzing plays. Christopher Marlowe, The Jew of Malta, first performed 1592 Marlowe was a contemporary of Shakespeare s; born in the same year and writing at the same time. Some critics have argued that had Marlowe lived (he was stabbed to death in a bar brawl at the age of 29), he would have surpassed Shakespeare. He wrote only seven plays as well as a number of poems. In The Jew of Malta, Barabas (a wealthy Jew) plots to seek revenge on those who have ordered his home to be reclaimed as a nunnery. Set against a backdrop of religious tension, Barabas is the ultimate villain. In this scene, Barabas orders his daughter Abigail to pretend to be in love with Lodowick and her real love, Don Mathias, sees them together. BARABAS. (aside to her) Daughter, a word more: kiss him, speak him fair, And like a cunning Jew so cast about, That ye be both made sure ere you come out. ABIGAIL. O father, Don Mathias is my love! BARABAS. (aside to her) I know it: yet, I say, make love to him; Do, it is requisite it should be so.-- Nay, on my life, it is my factor's hand; But go you in, I'll think upon the account. [Exeunt ABIGAIL and LODOWICK into the house.] The account is made, for Lodovico dies. My factor sends me word a merchant's fled That owes me for a hundred tun of wine: I weigh it thus much [snapping his fingers]! I have wealth enough; For now by this has he kiss'd Abigail, And she vows love to him, and he to her. As sure as heaven rain'd manna for the Jews, So sure shall he and Don Mathias die: His father was my chiefest enemy. [Enter MATHIAS.] Whither goes Don Mathias? stay a while. MATHIAS. Whither, but to my fair love Abigail? 3

4 BARABAS. Thou know'st, and heaven can witness it is true, That I intend my daughter shall be thine. MATHIAS. Ay, Barabas, or else thou wrong'st me much. BARABAS. O, heaven forbid I should have such a thought! Pardon me though I weep: the governor's son Will, whether I will or no, have Abigail; He sends her letters, bracelets, jewels, rings. MATHIAS. Does she receive them? BARABAS. She! no, Mathias, no, but sends them back; And, when he comes, she locks herself up fast; Yet through the key-hole will he talk to her, While she runs to the window, looking out When you should come and hale him from the door. MATHIAS. O treacherous Lodowick! BARABAS. Even now, as I came home, he slipt me in, And I am sure he is with Abigail. MATHIAS. I'll rouse him thence. BARABAS. Not for all Malta; therefore sheathe your sword; If you love me, no quarrels in my house; But steal you in, and seem to see him not: I'll give him such a warning ere he goes, As he shall have small hopes of Abigail. Away, for here they come. [Re-enter LODOWICK and ABIGAIL.] MATHIAS. What, hand in hand! I cannot suffer this. BARABAS. Mathias, as thou lov'st me, not a word. MATHIAS. Well, let it pass; another time shall serve. William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet, c

5 William Shakespeare needs no introduction. The most influential English writer of all time, his works have been translated and performed all over the world. Romeo and Juliet is arguably his most well-known play and the seminal love story. In this scene, the lovers meet for the first time. Critics have referred to this as the hidden sonnet as it is written in iambic pentameter, is 14 lines long and ends in a rhyming couplet. Act I Scene 5 ROMEO [To JULIET] If I profane with my unworthiest hand This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this: My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss. JULIET Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, Which mannerly devotion shows in this; For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch, And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss. ROMEO Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too? JULIET Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer. ROMEO O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do; They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair. JULIET Saints do not move, though grant for prayers' sake. ROMEO Then move not, while my prayer's effect I take. John Webster, The White Devil (1612) The White Devil is a revenge tragedy by English playwright John Webster ( ). According to Webster's own preface to the 1612 Quarto Edition, the play's first performance in that year was a notorious failure. In the play, The Duke of Brachiano holds a violent passion for Vittoria Corombona, daughter of a noble but impoverished Venetian family, despite the fact they are both married to other people. These two characters succesfully plot to murder their spouses. This attracts the anger of Count Lodovico, who sets out to avenge the death of Brachiano s wife Isabella, who he claims to have loved. In this extract, Vittoria's brother Flamineo, employed as a secretary to Brachiano, has been scheming to bring his sister and the Duke together in the hope of advancing his career. He has just tricked Vittoria s husband Camillo into spending a night away from his wife and so Flamineo is able to sneak Brachiano into his sister s chamber. He stays, hidden, to watch what happens. Flamineo: Come, sister, darkness hides your blush. Women are like cursed dogs: civility keeps them tied all daytime, but they are let loose at midnight; then they do most good, or most mischief. My lord, my lord! Zanche brings out a carpet, spreads it, and lays on it two fair cushions. Enter Cornelia (Flamineo and Vittoria s mother), unobserved. 5

6 Brachiano: Give credit: I could wish time would stand still, And never end this interview, this hour; But all delight doth itself soon'st devour. Let me into your bosom, happy lady, Pour out, instead of eloquence, my vows. Loose me not, madam, for if you forgo me, I am lost eternally. Vittoria: Sir, in the way of pity, I wish you heart-whole. Brachiano: You are a sweet physician. Vittoria: Sure, sir, a loathed cruelty in ladies Is as to doctors many funerals: It takes away their credit. Brachiano: Excellent creature! We call the cruel fair; what name for you That are so merciful? Zanche: See now they close. Flamineo: Most happy union. Cornelia: [Aside.] My fears are fall'n upon me: oh, my heart! My son the pander! now I find our house Sinking to ruin. Earthquakes leave behind, Where they have tyranniz'd, iron, or lead, or stone; But woe to ruin, violent lust leaves none. Brachiano: What value is this jewel? Vittoria: 'Tis the ornament of a weak fortune. Brachiano: In sooth, I 'll have it; nay, I will but change My jewel for your jewel. Flamineo: Excellent; His jewel for her jewel: well put in, duke. Brachiano: Nay, let me see you wear it. Vittoria: Here, sir? 6

7 Brachiano: Nay, lower, you shall wear my jewel lower. Flamineo: That 's better: she must wear his jewel lower. Vittoria: To pass away the time, I 'll tell your grace A dream I had last night. Brachiano: Most wishedly. Vittoria A foolish idle dream: Methought I walked about the mid of night Into a churchyard, where a goodly yew-tree Spread her large root in ground: under that yew, As I sat sadly leaning on a grave, Chequer'd with cross-sticks, there came stealing in Your duchess and my husband; one of them A pickaxe bore, th' other a rusty spade, And in rough terms they 'gan to challenge me About this yew. Brachiano: That tree? Vittoria: This harmless yew; They told me my intent was to root up That well-grown yew, and plant i' the stead of it A wither'd blackthorn; and for that they vow'd To bury me alive. My husband straight With pickaxe 'gan to dig, and your fell duchess With shovel, like a fury, voided out The earth and scatter'd bones: Lord, how methought I trembled, and yet for all this terror I could not pray. Flamineo: No; the devil was in your dream. Vittoria: When to my rescue there arose, methought, A whirlwind, which let fall a massy arm From that strong plant; And both were struck dead by that sacred yew, In that base shallow grave that was their due. Flamineo: Excellent devil! She hath taught him in a dream To make away his duchess and her husband. Brachiano: Sweetly shall I interpret this your dream. You are lodg'd within his arms who shall protect you From all the fevers of a jealous husband, 7

8 From the poor envy of our phlegmatic duchess. I 'll seat you above law, and above scandal; Give to your thoughts the invention of delight, And the fruition; nor shall government Divide me from you longer, than a care To keep you great: you shall to me at once Be dukedom, health, wife, children, friends, and all. Henrik Ibsen, A Doll s House (1879) The play, hugely controversial when first published and performed in Copenhagen in 1879, is about the unravelling of a family. Nora and Torvald Helmer believe they are happily married and on the brink of a blissful new phase of life: Torvald has been promoted to bank manager and their money worries are over. But Nora has a secret debt, incurred with good intentions and a forged signature, and with her husband's new power comes the threat of blackmail. Over three acts the illusion of bourgeois contentment unravels, and the play culminates in this scene between the couple: Nora's lie has been exposed and Torvald first blames, then forgives her. Finally, in this last section of the play s final scene, he is abandoned as Nora recognises the truth of her situation. Nora [looking at her watch]. It is not so very late. Sit down here, Torvald. You and I have much to say to one another. [She sits down at one side of the table.] Helmer. Nora--what is this?--this cold, set face? Nora. Sit down. It will take some time; I have a lot to talk over with you. Helmer [sits down at the opposite side of the table]. You alarm me, Nora!--and I don't understand you. Nora. No, that is just it. You don't understand me, and I have never understood you either--before tonight. No, you mustn't interrupt me. You must simply listen to what I say. Torvald, this is a settling of accounts. Helmer. What do you mean by that? Nora [after a short silence]. Isn't there one thing that strikes you as strange in our sitting here like this? Helmer. What is that? Nora. We have been married now eight years. Does it not occur to you that this is the first time we two, you and I, husband and wife, have had a serious conversation? Helmer. What do you mean by serious? Nora. In all these eight years--longer than that--from the very beginning of our acquaintance, we have never exchanged a word on any serious subject. 8

9 Helmer. Was it likely that I would be continually and forever telling you about worries that you could not help me to bear? Nora. I am not speaking about business matters. I say that we have never sat down in earnest together to try and get at the bottom of anything. Helmer. But, dearest Nora, would it have been any good to you? Nora. That is just it; you have never understood me. I have been greatly wronged, Torvald--first by papa and then by you. Helmer. What! By us two--by us two, who have loved you better than anyone else in the world? Nora [shaking her head]. You have never loved me. You have only thought it pleasant to be in love with me. Helmer. Nora, what do I hear you saying? Nora. It is perfectly true, Torvald. When I was at home with papa, he told me his opinion about everything, and so I had the same opinions; and if I differed from him I concealed the fact, because he would not have liked it. He called me his doll-child, and he played with me just as I used to play with my dolls. And when I came to live with you-- Helmer. What sort of an expression is that to use about our marriage? Nora [undisturbed]. I mean that I was simply transferred from papa's hands into yours. You arranged everything according to your own taste, and so I got the same tastes as your else I pretended to, I am really not quite sure which--i think sometimes the one and sometimes the other. When I look back on it, it seems to me as if I had been living here like a poor woman--just from hand to mouth. I have existed merely to perform tricks for you, Torvald. But you would have it so. You and papa have committed a great sin against me. It is your fault that I have made nothing of my life. Helmer. How unreasonable and how ungrateful you are, Nora! Have you not been happy here? Nora. No, I have never been happy. I thought I was, but it has never really been so. Helmer. Not--not happy! Nora. No, only merry. And you have always been so kind to me. But our home has been nothing but a playroom. I have been your doll-wife, just as at home I was papa's doll-child; and here the children have been my dolls. I thought it great fun when you played with me, just as they thought it great fun when I played with them. That is what our marriage has been, Torvald. Helmer. There is some truth in what you say--exaggerated and strained as your view of it is. But for the future it shall be different. Playtime shall be over, and lesson-time shall begin. Nora. Whose lessons? Mine, or the children's? Helmer. Both yours and the children's, my darling Nora. Nora. Alas, Torvald, you are not the man to educate me into being a proper wife for you. 9

10 Helmer. And you can say that! Nora. And I--how am I fitted to bring up the children? Helmer. Nora! Nora. Didn't you say so yourself a little while ago--that you dare not trust me to bring them up? Helmer. In a moment of anger! Why do you pay any heed to that? Nora. Indeed, you were perfectly right. I am not fit for the task. There is another task I must undertake first. I must try and educate myself--you are not the man to help me in that. I must do that for myself. And that is why I am going to leave you now. Helmer [springing up]. What do you say? Nora. I must stand quite alone, if I am to understand myself and everything about me. It is for that reason that I cannot remain with you any longer. Helmer. Nora, Nora! Nora. I am going away from here now, at once. I am sure Christine will take me in for the night- Helmer. You are out of your mind! I won't allow it! I forbid you! Nora. It is no use forbidding me anything any longer. I will take with me what belongs to myself. I will take nothing from you, either now or later. Helmer. What sort of madness is this! Nora. Tomorrow I shall go home--i mean, to my old home. It will be easiest for me to find something to do there. Helmer. You blind, foolish woman! Nora. I must try and get some sense, Torvald. Helmer. To desert your home, your husband and your children! And you don't consider what people will say! Nora. I cannot consider that at all. I only know that it is necessary for me. Helmer. It's shocking. This is how you would neglect your most sacred duties. Nora. What do you consider my most sacred duties? Helmer. Do I need to tell you that? Are they not your duties to your husband and your children? Nora. I have other duties just as sacred. Helmer. That you have not. What duties could those be? 10

11 Nora. Duties to myself. Helmer. Before all else, you are a wife and a mother. Nora. I don't believe that any longer. I believe that before all else I am a reasonable human being, just as you are--or, at all events, that I must try and become one. I know quite well, Torvald, that most people would think you right, and that views of that kind are to be found in books; but I can no longer content myself with what most people say, or with what is found in books. I must think over things for myself and get to understand them. Helmer. Can you not understand your place in your own home? Have you not a reliable guide in such matters as that?--have you no religion? Nora. I am afraid, Torvald, I do not exactly know what religion is. Helmer. What are you saying? Nora. I know nothing but what the clergyman said, when I went to be confirmed. He told us that religion was this, and that, and the other. When I am away from all this, and am alone, I will look into that matter too. I will see if what the clergyman said is true, or at all events if it is true for me. Helmer. This is unheard of in a girl of your age! But if religion cannot lead you aright, let me try and awaken your conscience. I suppose you have some moral sense? Or--answer me--am I to think you have none? Nora. I assure you, Torvald, that is not an easy question to answer. I really don't know. The thing perplexes me altogether. I only know that you and I look at it in quite a different light. I am learning, too, that the law is quite another thing from what I supposed; but I find it impossible to convince myself that the law is right. According to it a woman has no right to spare her old dying father, or to save her husband's life. I can't believe that. Helmer. You talk like a child. You don't understand the conditions of the world in which you live. Nora. No, I don't. But now I am going to try. I am going to see if I can make out who is right, the world or I. Helmer. You are ill, Nora; you are delirious; I almost think you are out of your mind. Nora. I have never felt my mind so clear and certain as tonight. Helmer. And is it with a clear and certain mind that you forsake your husband and your children? Nora. Yes, it is. Helmer. Then there is only one possible explanation. Nora. What is that? Helmer. You do not love me anymore. Nora. No, that is just it. Helmer. Nora!--and you can say that? 11

12 Nora. It gives me great pain, Torvald, for you have always been so kind to me, but I cannot help it. I do not love you any more. Helmer [regaining his composure]. Is that a clear and certain conviction too? Nora. Yes, absolutely clear and certain. That is the reason why I will not stay here any longer. Helmer. And can you tell me what I have done to forfeit your love? Nora. Yes, indeed I can. It was tonight, when the wonderful thing did not happen; then I saw you were not the man I had thought you were. Helmer. Explain yourself better. I don't understand you. Nora. I have waited so patiently for eight years; for, goodness knows, I knew very well that wonderful things don't happen every day. Then this horrible misfortune came upon me; and then I felt quite certain that the wonderful thing was going to happen at last. When Krogstad's letter was lying out there, never for a moment did I imagine that you would consent to accept this man's conditions. I was so absolutely certain that you would say to him: Publish the thing to the whole world. And when that was done-- Helmer. Yes, what then?--when I had exposed my wife to shame and disgrace? Nora. When that was done, I was so absolutely certain, you would come forward and take everything upon yourself, and say: I am the guilty one. Helmer. Nora--! Nora. You mean that I would never have accepted such a sacrifice on your part? No, of course not. But what would my assurances have been worth against yours? That was the wonderful thing which I hoped for and feared; and it was to prevent that, that I wanted to kill myself. Helmer. I would gladly work night and day for you, Nora--bear sorrow and want for your sake. But no man would sacrifice his honour for the one he loves. Nora. It is a thing hundreds of thousands of women have done. Helmer. Oh, you think and talk like a heedless child. Nora. Maybe. But you neither think nor talk like the man I could bind myself to. As soon as your fear was over--and it was not fear for what threatened me, but for what might happen to you--when the whole thing was past, as far as you were concerned it was exactly as if nothing at all had happened. Exactly as before, I was your little skylark, your doll, which you would in future treat with doubly gentle care, because it was so brittle and fragile. [Getting up.] Torvald--it was then it dawned upon me that for eight years I had been living here with a strange man, and had borne him three children- -. Oh, I can't bear to think of it! I could tear myself into little bits! Helmer [sadly]. I see, I see. An abyss has opened between us--there is no denying it. But, Nora, would it not be possible to fill it up? Nora. As I am now, I am no wife for you. Helmer. I have it in me to become a different man. Nora. Perhaps--if your doll is taken away from you. 12

13 Helmer. But to part!--to part from you! No, no, Nora, I can't understand that idea. Nora [going out to the right]. That makes it all the more certain that it must be done. [She comes back with her cloak and hat and a small bag which she puts on a chair by the table.] Helmer. Nora, Nora, not now! Wait until tomorrow. Nora [putting on her cloak]. I cannot spend the night in a strange man's room. Helmer. But can't we live here like brother and sister--? Nora [putting on her hat]. You know very well that would not last long. [Puts the shawl round her.] Goodbye, Torvald. I won't see the little ones. I know they are in better hands than mine. As I am now, I can be of no use to them. Helmer. But some day, Nora--some day? Nora. How can I tell? I have no idea what is going to become of me. Helmer. But you are my wife, whatever becomes of you. Nora. Listen, Torvald. I have heard that when a wife deserts her husband's house, as I am doing now, he is legally freed from all obligations towards her. In any case, I set you free from all your obligations. You are not to feel yourself bound in the slightest way, any more than I shall. There must be perfect freedom on both sides. See, here is your ring back. Give me mine. Helmer. That too? Nora. That too. Helmer. Here it is. Nora. That's right. Now it is all over. I have put the keys here. The maids know all about everything in the house--better than I do. Tomorrow, after I have left her, Christine will come here and pack up my own things that I brought with me from home. I will have them sent after me. Helmer. All over! All over!--nora, shall you never think of me again? Nora. I know I shall often think of you, the children, and this house. Helmer. May I write to you, Nora? Nora. No--never. You must not do that. Helmer. But at least let me send you-- Nora. Nothing--nothing-- Helmer. Let me help you if you are in want. Nora. No. I can receive nothing from a stranger. Helmer. Nora--can I never be anything more than a stranger to you? 13

14 Nora [taking her bag]. Ah, Torvald, the most wonderful thing of all would have to happen. Helmer. Tell me what that would be! Nora. Both you and I would have to be so changed that--. Oh, Torvald, I don't believe any longer in wonderful things happening. Helmer. But I will believe in it. Tell me! So changed that--? Nora. That our life together would be a real wedlock. Goodbye. [She goes out through the hall.] Helmer [sinks down on a chair at the door and buries his face in his hands]. Nora! Nora! [Looks round, and rises.] Empty. She is gone. [A hope flashes across his mind.] The most wonderful thing of all--? [The sound of a door shutting is heard from below.] David Hare, Skylight, 1995 Skylight was first performed in Kyra had an affair with Tom, a wealthy restaurant owner, when she used to work for him and live in his household. The affair ended three years ago, as soon as it was discovered by Tom s wife, Alice, who later died of cancer. In the following extract, Tom has come to Kyra s flat and has left his driver, Frank, waiting for him in his car. Tom and Kyra have been discussing Tom s son, Edward. TOM... Sometimes, I know, I can be hard on the boy. KYRA And why? TOM He s such a jerk. That s the reason. KYRA Oh come on, Tom. He looks at her reproachfully a moment, then suddenly admits the truth. TOM All right, it s true. I couldn t face Alice. I couldn t. Not at the end. Any excuse. I went travelling. I opened hotels abroad. New York. Los Angeles. The further the better. I couldn t I know it was wrong of me do you really think I don t know it? but, Jesus... I could not stay in that room. All right, I m not proud. We both knew what was happening. I kept thinking, It s not like a test. What s happening is chance. It s pure chance. It s simply bad luck. But I couldn t fight it. I felt... oh, everyone s watching. Her friends. I know what they think. This is some sort of trial of my character. And no doubt the bastards are saying I fail. (He is suddenly vehement.) But Edward was as bad. Don t ever think otherwise. He failed just as badly. In a different way. I came home, six friends of his lying on the floor, drinking Heineken. Drugs. Shit, I don t know... I remember screaming, What the hell are you doing? Don t you know your mother is lying up there? I was so angry. I felt this anger, I never got over it. Every day this fury that you had walked out. Walked out and left me to handle this thing. I did try to use it. I used your memory. I kept saying, Look, I must behave well. I must try. Because who knows? If I behave well, I still have a chance here. KYRA A chance? TOM Yes. KYRA 14

15 What sort of chance? TOM I think you know what I mean. I kept on saying, If I behave well, if I get through this, then maybe Kyra is going to come back. Kyra stands stunned, understanding how deep his feeling is. He goes on haltingly. Sitting by the bed. Just awful. Looking at Alice, propped up on the pillows, her eyes liquid, cut off... I d think, Oh shit, if Kyra were with us, if Kyra were here... He stops a moment and shakes his head. Jesus, why weren t you? If Kyra were here, she d know what to do. Kyra stands absolutely taken aback, as if not knowing what to think about his shocking devotion to her. He knows how much this has affected her. But you ran and left us. KYRA Yes. I had to. TOM You did what you said people never should do. KYRA I had no alternative. I had to get out of Alice s way. I had to make a new life of my own. TOM And this is it, Kyra? This is the life that you made? Will you tell me, will you tell me, please, Kyra, what exactly are you doing here? Suddenly there are two shocked people in the room. She is holding the edge of the table. When she speaks she is very quiet. KYRA Are you going to go down? Will you speak to Frank then? TOM What shall I say to him? KYRA Send him away. Without looking at her Tom walks across the room and opens the door and goes out. Kyra is alone, dazed now, white, like a shadow. She goes into the kitchen and pours the sauce into a bowl. She puts the bowl on the table, mechanically, not really thinking. She puts a second wine glass on the table. Then she gets a loaf of bread, takes a knife and cuts slices. The room seems dark, like a painting, the little red fire burning and the shadows falling across her face. Then Tom appears at the door. He closes it but does not yet move towards her. TOM He s gone. He moves across the room. They take each other in their arms and she holds him tightly, hugging him desperately, and beginning to cry, shaking with grief in his arms. He puts his hand through her hair. Kyra, Kyra I m back. He runs his hand over and over through her hair. The lights fade to darkness. Alan Bennett, The History Boys, first performed 2004 The History Boys follows a group of students at a grammar school in Sheffield as they attempt to secure a place at Oxbridge. It is set in the 1980s; a time of political, economic and social change in which identity and selfhood were very much in flux. In this scene, Irwin, a new teacher to the school, is reflecting on a conversation he has had with Posner, a student, with one of his colleagues. Staffroom Mrs Lintott: So have the boys given you a nickname? 15

16 Irwin: Not that I m aware of. Mrs Lintott: A nickname is an achievement. Both in the sense of something won and also in its armorial sense. Of a badge, a blazon. Unsurprisingly, I am Tott. Or Tottie. Some irony there, one feels. Irwin: Hector has no nickname. Mrs Lintott: Yes, he has. Hector. Irwin: But he's called Hector. Mrs Lintott: That's his nickname too. He isn't called Hector. His name's Douglas. Though the only person I've ever heard address him as such is his somewhat unexpected wife. Irwin: Posner came to see me yesterday. He has a problem. Mrs Lintott: No nickname, but at least you get their problems. I seldom do. Posner: Sir, I think I may be homosexual. Irwin: Posner, I wanted to say, you are not yet in a position to be anything. Mrs Lintott: You re young, of course. I never had that advantage. Posner: I love Dakin. Irwin: Does Dakin know? Posner: Yes. He doesn't think it's surprising. Though Dakin likes girls, basically. Irwin: I sympathized, though not so much as to suggest I might be in the same boat. Mrs Lintott: With Dakin? Irwin: With anybody. Mrs Lintott: That's sensible. One of the hardest things for boys to learn is that a teacher is human. One of the hardest things for a teacher to learn is not to try and tell them. Posner: Is it a phase, sir? Irwin: Do you think it s a phase? Posner: Some of the literature says it will pass. Irwin: I wanted to say that the literature may say that, but that literature doesn t. Posner: I m not sure I want it to pass. But I want to get into Cambridge, sir. If I do, Dakin might love me. Or I might stop caring. Do you look at your life, sir? Irwin: I thought everyone did. 16

17 Posner: I m a Jew. I m small. I m homosexual. And I live in Sheffield. I m fucked. 17

18 POETRY Widely regarded as the highest form of literature, poetry encompasses a range of forms from sonnets to narrative epics. Poetry is linguistically and stylistically distinct from drama and prose; consider stanza, meter, rhyme and shape when reading poems. Geoffrey Chaucer, The Wife of Bath, c Geoffrey Chaucer is widely regarded as the father of English literature. The most famous Middle Ages poet, Chaucer was also a philosopher and astronomer. His most famous work is The Canterbury Tales, a series of narrative poetry, distinctive for its use of vernacular English which was unusual at the time. In the following extract, the wife of Bath explains how she knows a lot about marriage as she has been married five times. Please note, the translation is underneath each line and is not part of the text itself. "Experience, though noon auctoritee "Experience, though no written authority 2 Were in this world, is right ynogh for me Were in this world, is good enough for me 3 To speke of wo that is in mariage; To speak of the woe that is in marriage; 4 For, lordynges, sith I twelve yeer was of age, For, gentlemen, since I was twelve years of age, 5 Thonked be God that is eterne on lyve, Thanked be God who is eternally alive, 6 Housbondes at chirche dore I have had fyve -- I have had five husbands at the church door -- 7 If I so ofte myghte have ywedded bee -- If I so often might have been wedded -- 8 And alle were worthy men in hir degree. And all were worthy men in their way. 9 But me was toold, certeyn, nat longe agoon is, But to me it was told, certainly, it is not long ago, 10 That sith that Crist ne wente nevere but onis That since Christ went never but once 11 To weddyng, in the Cane of Galilee, To a wedding, in the Cana of Galilee, 12 That by the same ensample taughte he me That by that same example he taught me 13 That I ne sholde wedded be but ones. That I should be wedded but once. 14 Herkne eek, lo, which a sharp word for the nones, Listen also, lo, what a sharp word for this purpose, 15 Biside a welle, Jhesus, God and man, Beside a well, Jesus, God and man, 16 Spak in repreeve of the Samaritan: Spoke in reproof of the Samaritan: 17 `Thou hast yhad fyve housbondes,' quod he, `Thou hast had five husbands,' he said, 18 `And that ilke man that now hath thee 18

19 `And that same man that now has thee 19 Is noght thyn housbonde,' thus seyde he certeyn. Is not thy husband,' thus he said certainly. 20 What that he mente therby, I kan nat seyn; What he meant by this, I can not say; 21 But that I axe, why that the fifthe man But I ask, why the fifth man 22 Was noon housbonde to the Samaritan? Was no husband to the Samaritan? 23 How manye myghte she have in mariage? How many might she have in marriage? 24 Yet herde I nevere tellen in myn age I never yet heard tell in my lifetime 25 Upon this nombre diffinicioun. A definition of this number. 26 Men may devyne and glosen, up and doun, Men may conjecture and interpret in every way, 27 But wel I woot, expres, withoute lye, But well I know, expressly, without lie, 28 God bad us for to wexe and multiplye; God commanded us to grow fruitful and multiply; 29 That gentil text kan I wel understonde. That gentle text I can well understand. 30 Eek wel I woot, he seyde myn housbonde Also I know well, he said my husband 31 Sholde lete fader and mooder and take to me. Should leave father and mother and take to me. 32 But of no nombre mencion made he, But he made no mention of number, 33 Of bigamye, or of octogamye; Of marrying two, or of marrying eight; 34 Why sholde men thanne speke of it vileynye? Why should men then speak evil of it? 19

20 Christopher Marlowe, A Passionate Shepherd to His Love, 1599 (published posthumously) Marlowe s poetry tends to be longer, narrative poems or translations from Latin and therefore this poem is unique amongst his work. Thought to be written around ten years before his death, it is written from the point of view of a shepherd attempting to convince his love to come and live with him in the rural setting he describes. This is one of the earliest representations of the pastoral, creating an idyllic scene to tempt his lover (presumably away from the city). This poem prompted a number of responses, most notably Sir Walter Ralegh who wrote The Nymph s Reply and John Donne s The Bait. Come live with me and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove, That Valleys, groves, hills, and fields, Woods, or steepy mountain yields. And we will sit upon the Rocks, Seeing the Shepherds feed their flocks, By shallow Rivers to whose falls Melodious birds sing Madrigals. And I will make thee beds of Roses And a thousand fragrant posies, A cap of flowers, and a kirtle Embroidered all with leaves of Myrtle; A gown made of the finest wool Which from our pretty Lambs we pull; Fair lined slippers for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold; A belt of straw and Ivy buds, With Coral clasps and Amber studs: And if these pleasures may thee move, Come live with me, and be my love. The Shepherds Swains shall dance and sing For thy delight each May-morning: If these delights thy mind may move, Then live with me, and be my love. 20

21 William Shakespeare, Sonnet 116, 1609 Shakespeare wrote 154 sonnets, which can be read in isolation or as a sequence. Each sonnet follows a similar structure; written in iambic pentameter, three quatrains with an abab rhyme scheme and a rhyming couplet. Critics have loosely divided his sonnets into three stages, addressed to different people. It is thought sonnets are written to a young man, sonnets to the Dark Lady and sonnets to a rival poet. Sonnet 116 is concerned with the constant nature of love battling with the onslaught of time. Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove: O no; it is an ever-fixed mark, That looks on tempests, and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved. John Donne, The Flea, published post humously in 1633 John Donne is seen as the archetypal metaphysical poet, yet he was also a cleric and preached the first public sermon before King Charles I as the Dean of St Paul s Cathedral. Yet, much of his work is evocative and sensual. The Flea is a comic demonstration of the speaker s attempt to convince a woman to have sex with him. Mark but this flea, and mark in this, How little that which thou deniest me is; It sucked me first, and now sucks thee, And in this flea our two bloods mingled be; Thou know st that this cannot be said A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead, Yet this enjoys before it woo, And pampered swells with one blood made of two, And this, alas, is more than we would do. Oh stay, three lives in one flea spare, Where we almost, nay more than married are. This flea is you and I, and this Our mariage bed, and marriage temple is; Though parents grudge, and you, w'are met, And cloistered in these living walls of jet. Though use make you apt to kill me, Let not to that, self-murder added be, And sacrilege, three sins in killing three. Cruel and sudden, hast thou since Purpled thy nail, in blood of innocence? 21

22 Wherein could this flea guilty be, Except in that drop which it sucked from thee? Yet thou triumph st, and say'st that thou Find st not thy self, nor me the weaker now; Tis true; then learn how false, fears be: Just so much honor, when thou yield st to me, Will waste, as this flea s death took life from thee. Andrew Marvell, To His Coy Mistress, c.1650s Andrew Marvell was a poet and politician writing in a time of political turmoil following the English Civil War. He was a supporter of Cromwell, following his coffin along with fellow poets John Milton and John Dryden. To His Coy Mistress is his most famous poem; the narrator implores a woman to enter a sexual relationship with him, arguing that life is short and they do not have time to lose. Had we but world enough and time, This coyness, lady, were no crime. We would sit down, and think which way To walk, and pass our long love s day. Thou by the Indian Ganges side Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide Of Humber would complain. I would Love you ten years before the flood, And you should, if you please, refuse Till the conversion of the Jews. My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires and more slow; An hundred years should go to praise Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze; Two hundred to adore each breast, But thirty thousand to the rest; An age at least to every part, And the last age should show your heart. For, lady, you deserve this state, Nor would I love at lower rate. But at my back I always hear Time s wingèd chariot hurrying near; And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity. Thy beauty shall no more be found; Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound My echoing song; then worms shall try That long-preserved virginity, And your quaint honour turn to dust, And into ashes all my lust; The grave s a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace. Now therefore, while the youthful hue Sits on thy skin like morning dew, And while thy willing soul transpires At every pore with instant fires, Now let us sport us while we may, And now, like amorous birds of prey, 22

23 Rather at once our time devour Than languish in his slow-chapped power. Let us roll all our strength and all Our sweetness up into one ball, And tear our pleasures with rough strife Through the iron gates of life: Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run. Alexander Pope, The Rape of the Lock, 1714 The 18 th century did not produce as much notable poetry as the previous and following centuries, partly due to the rise of the novel during this time. Yet, satirical poetry marked a departure from the courtly love poems of Elizabethan and Jacobean poets. Pope s The Rape of the Lock is a lengthy narrative poem, divided into five cantos. It is based on a real event in which a suitor cuts off the hair of a lady without permission. The following is taken from the first canto. Nolueram, Belinda, tuos violare capillos; Sedjuvat, hoc precibus me tribuisse tuis. (Martial, Epigrams 12.84) What dire offence from am'rous causes springs, What mighty contests rise from trivial things, I sing This verse to Caryl, Muse! is due: This, ev'n Belinda may vouchsafe to view: Slight is the subject, but not so the praise, If she inspire, and he approve my lays. Say what strange motive, Goddess! could compel A well-bred lord t' assault a gentle belle? O say what stranger cause, yet unexplor'd, Could make a gentle belle reject a lord? In tasks so bold, can little men engage, And in soft bosoms dwells such mighty rage? Sol thro' white curtains shot a tim'rous ray, And op'd those eyes that must eclipse the day; Now lap-dogs give themselves the rousing shake, And sleepless lovers, just at twelve, awake: Thrice rung the bell, the slipper knock'd the ground, And the press'd watch return'd a silver sound. Belinda still her downy pillow press'd, Her guardian sylph prolong'd the balmy rest: 'Twas he had summon'd to her silent bed The morning dream that hover'd o'er her head; A youth more glitt'ring than a birthnight beau, (That ev'n in slumber caus'd her cheek to glow) Seem'd to her ear his winning lips to lay, And thus in whispers said, or seem'd to say. "Fairest of mortals, thou distinguish'd care Of thousand bright inhabitants of air! If e'er one vision touch'd thy infant thought, Of all the nurse and all the priest have taught, Of airy elves by moonlight shadows seen, The silver token, and the circled green, 23

24 Or virgins visited by angel pow'rs, With golden crowns and wreaths of heav'nly flow'rs, Hear and believe! thy own importance know, Nor bound thy narrow views to things below. Some secret truths from learned pride conceal'd, To maids alone and children are reveal'd: What tho' no credit doubting wits may give? The fair and innocent shall still believe. Know then, unnumber'd spirits round thee fly, The light militia of the lower sky; These, though unseen, are ever on the wing, Hang o'er the box, and hover round the Ring. Think what an equipage thou hast in air, And view with scorn two pages and a chair. As now your own, our beings were of old, And once inclos'd in woman's beauteous mould; Thence, by a soft transition, we repair From earthly vehicles to these of air. Think not, when woman's transient breath is fled, That all her vanities at once are dead; Succeeding vanities she still regards, And tho' she plays no more, o'erlooks the cards. Her joy in gilded chariots, when alive, And love of ombre, after death survive. For when the fair in all their pride expire, To their first elements their souls retire: The sprites of fiery termagants in flame Mount up, and take a Salamander's name. Soft yielding minds to water glide away, And sip with Nymphs, their elemental tea. The graver prude sinks downward to a Gnome, In search of mischief still on earth to roam. The light coquettes in Sylphs aloft repair, And sport and flutter in the fields of air. 24

25 Lord Byron, Don Juan, 1819 (unfinished by his death in 1824) Byron is seen to be at the forefront of the later Romantic period and his work is influenced by his extensive travelling. Byron is a complex figure; he is widely lauded for joining the fight for Greek independence (he died in Greece after contracting an infection) yet he invoked scandal through his involvement in numerous affairs, rumored incest and excessive gambling. Don Juan is an epic satire on the legend of Don Juan in which Byron subverts the traditional belief that Don Juan seduced hundreds of women. In this extract from the first canto, Don Juan falls in love with Donna Julia, who is married. XVII. Oh! she was perfect past all parallel-- Of any modern female saint's comparison; So far above the cunning powers of Hell, Her Guardian Angel had given up his garrison; Even her minutest motions went as well As those of the best time-piece made by Harrison:[32] In virtues nothing earthly could surpass her, Save thine "incomparable oil," Macassar![33] XVIII. Perfect she was, but as perfection is Insipid in this naughty world of ours, Where our first parents never learned to kiss Till they were exiled from their earlier bowers, Where all was peace, and innocence, and bliss,[b] (I wonder how they got through the twelve hours), Don José, like a lineal son of Eve, Went plucking various fruit without her leave. XIX. He was a mortal of the careless kind, With no great love for learning, or the learned, Who chose to go where'er he had a mind, And never dreamed his lady was concerned; The world, as usual, wickedly inclined To see a kingdom or a house o'erturned, Whispered he had a mistress, some said _two_. But for domestic quarrels _one_ will do. 25

26 Christina Rossetti, Remember, 1862 Christina Rossetti is one of the most distinguished poets associated with the Pre-Raphaelite movement of the mid 19 th century, in which a group of poets, painters and critics collaborated to reform English art. One of the founding principles of the movement was to express genuine feeling, and while this sonnet is simple in its expression, it is rich in detail. Remember me when I am gone away, Gone far away into the silent land; When you can no more hold me by the hand, Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay. Remember me when no more day by day You tell me of our future that you plann'd: Only remember me; you understand It will be late to counsel then or pray. Yet if you should forget me for a while And afterwards remember, do not grieve: For if the darkness and corruption leave A vestige of the thoughts that once I had, Better by far you should forget and smile Than that you should remember and be sad. Rupert Brooke, The Soldier, 1914 Among the unprecedented devastation resulting from World War One, came a new generation of poetry, in which art was created by those serving on the front line along with those on the Home Front. Much war poetry is spontaneous, irregular and incredibly emotive, yet early war poetry typifies the patriotism and optimism of Britain entering the war; most notably pre-somme. This sonnet is one of the most famous early war poems, yet Brooke never saw war; he died of an infected mosquito bite on the way to Gallipoli. IF I should die, think only this of me: That there's some corner of a foreign field That is forever England. There shall be In that rich earth a richer dust concealed; A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam, A body of England's, breathing English air, Washed by the rivers, blest by the suns of home. And think, this heart, all evil shed away, A pulse in the eternal mind, no less Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given; Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day; And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness, In hearts at peace, under an English heaven. May Wedderburn Cannan, Lamplight, 1917 As well as the trench poets (literally poets writing in the trenches), much poetry was published from the Home Front during World War 1. An anthology of women s World War One poetry entitled 26

27 Scars Upon My Heart (the title is taken from a Vera Brittain poem) was compiled in 1984 by Catherine Reilly and Lamplight is characteristic of the collection and of feeling at the time; a lament for a lost generation. We planned to shake the world together, you and I. Being young, and very wise; Now in the light of the green shaded lamp Almost I see your eyes Light with the old gay laughter; you and I Dreamed greatly of an Empire in those days, Setting our feet upon laborious ways, And all you asked of fame Was crossed swords in the Army List; My Dear, against your name. We planned a great Empire together, you and I, Bound only by the sea; Now in the quiet of a chill Winter's night Your voice comes hushed to me Full of forgotten memories: you and I Dreamed great dreams of our future in those days, Setting our feet on undiscovered ways, And all I asked of fame A scarlet cross on my breast, my Dear, For the swords by your name. We shall never shake the world together, you and I, For you gave your life away; And I think my heart was broken by war, Since on a summer day You took the road we never spoke of; you and I Dreamed greatly of an Empire in those days; You set your feet upon the Western ways And have no need of fame - There's a scarlet cross on my breast, my Dear, And a torn cross with your name. 27

28 W.H. Auden, Funeral Blues, 1936 Auden is notable for his anti-fascist politics; he was deeply troubled by the Spanish Civil War and the rise of Hitler during the 1930s. In 1935, Auden married Erika Mann, the daughter of the German novelist Thomas Mann. It was a marriage of convenience to enable her to gain British citizenship and escape Nazi Germany - Auden was himself homosexual. He spent a lot of time in Europe before becoming an American citizen in He published hundreds of poems in his lifetime, yet Funeral Blues is his most memorable, mainly due to its inclusion in the 1994 film Four Weddings and A Funeral. Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, Silence the pianos and with muffled drum Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead, Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves, Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong. The stars are not wanted now: put out every one; Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun; Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood. For nothing now can ever come to any good. Sylvia Plath, You re, 1965 Sylvia Plath s collection of poetry Ariel is one of the most highly regarded volumes of work of the 20 th century. During her short life (she took her own life aged 30), she wrote poetry and prose concerned with identity, motherhood, love and mortality. It is difficult to read Plath s poetry without a biographical reading; Plath suffered from depression throughout most of her adult life. Clownlike, happiest on your hands, Feet to the stars, and moon-skulled, Gilled like a fish. A common-sense Thumbs-down on the dodo s mode. Wrapped up in yourself like a spool, Trawling your dark as owls do. Mute as a turnip from the Fourth Of July to All Fools Day, O high-riser, my little loaf. Vague as fog and looked for like mail. Farther off than Australia. Bent-backed Atlas, our traveled prawn. Snug as a bud and at home Like a sprat in a pickle jug. 28

29 A creel of eels, all ripples. Jumpy as a Mexican bean. Right, like a well-done sum. A clean slate, with your own face on. Philip Larkin, This Be the Verse, 1971 Larkin is the most famous librarian in British history! He studied at Oxford during World War II (his poor eyesight prevented him from signing up) and worked in various libraries before settling at the University of Hull. His poetry is varied in theme and style; the following poem is one of his most well-known. They fuck you up, your mum and dad. They may not mean to, but they do. They fill you with the faults they had And add some extra, just for you. But they were fucked up in their turn By fools in old-style hats and coats, Who half the time were soppy-stern And half at one another s throats. Man hands on misery to man. It deepens like a coastal shelf. Get out as early as you can, And don t have any kids yourself. Carol Ann Duffy, Anne Hathaway, 1999 Carol Ann Duffy is the current Poet Laureate and has been writing poetry for thirty years. Her work is very much a product of its time; giving a modern twist to a familiar story, fictionalizing real people or representing a well-known character in a new way. In this sonnet, Duffy writes from the point of view of Anne Hathaway, Shakespeare s wife. Shakespeare left his wife the second best bed, perceived to be an insult, yet Duffy makes this bed the place where they made love as their guests lounge in the best bed. Item I gyve unto my wief my second best bed (from Shakespeare s will) The bed we loved in was a spinning world of forests, castles, torchlight, cliff-tops, seas where he would dive for pearls. My lover s words were shooting stars which fell to earth as kisses on these lips; my body now a softer rhyme to his, now echo, assonance; his touch a verb dancing in the centre of a noun. Some nights I dreamed he d written me, the bed a page beneath his writer s hands. Romance and drama played by touch, by scent, by taste. In the other bed, the best, our guests dozed on, dribbling their prose. My living laughing love I hold him in the casket of my widow s head as he held me upon that next best bed. 29

30 PROSE To some extent, prose is the newest of the three genres. Novels have only been around for a few hundred years and have evolved over this time. Early novels were written in the epistolary formas a series of letters. The 19 th century saw the growth of the novel accelerate, particularly among female writers, and is reflective of the society within which it is written. Novels are reflective and allow the reader to inhabit the fictional world created by the writer, as well as being privy to the internal thoughts of characters. Samuel Richardson, Pamela, 1740 Pamela is one of the first epistolary novels of the 18 th century. It tells the story of a beautiful 15- year-old maidservant named Pamela Andrews, whose country landowner master, Mr. B, makes unwanted advances towards her after the death of his mother through a series of letters between Pamela and her parents. In the following letter, Pamela reflects after a man made advances towards her. LETTER XII DEAR MOTHER, Well, I will now proceed with my sad story. And so, after I had dried my eyes, I went in, and began to ruminate with myself what I had best to do. Sometimes I thought I would leave the house and go to the next town, and wait an opportunity to get to you; but then I was at a loss to resolve whether to take away the things he had given me or no, and how to take them away: Sometimes I thought to leave them behind me, and only go with the clothes on my back, but then I had two miles and a half, and a byway, to the town; and being pretty well dressed, I might come to some harm, almost as bad as what I would run away from; and then may-be, thought I, it will be reported, I have stolen something, and so was forced to run away; and to carry a bad name back with me to my dear parents, would be a sad thing indeed! O how I wished for my grey russet again, and my poor honest dress, with which you fitted me out, (and hard enough too it was for you to do it!) for going to this place, when I was not twelve years old, in my good lady's days! Sometimes I thought of telling Mrs. Jervis, and taking her advice, and only feared his command to be secret; for, thought I, he may be ashamed of his actions, and never attempt the like again: And as poor Mrs. Jervis depended upon him, through misfortunes, that had attended her, I thought it would be a sad thing to bring his displeasure upon her for my sake. In this quandary, now considering, now crying, and not knowing what to do, I passed the time in my chamber till evening; when desiring to be excused going to supper, Mrs. Jervis came up to me, and said, Why must I sup without you, Pamela? Come, I see you are troubled at something; tell me what is the matter. I begged I might be permitted to be with her on nights; for I was afraid of spirits, and they would not hurt such a good person as she. That was a silly excuse, she said; for why was not you afraid of spirits before? (Indeed I did not think of that.) But you shall be my bed-fellow with all my heart, added she, let your reason be what it will; only come down to supper. I begged to be excused; for, said I, I have been crying so, that it will be taken notice of by my fellow-servants; and I will hide nothing from you, Mrs. Jervis, when we are alone. She was so good to indulge me; but made haste to come up to bed; and told the servants, that I should be with her, because she could not rest well, and would get me to read her to sleep; for she knew I loved reading, she said. 30

31 When we were alone, I told her all that had passed; for I thought, though he had bid me not, yet if he should come to know I had told, it would be no worse; for to keep a secret of such a nature, would be, as I apprehended, to deprive myself of the good advice which I never wanted more; and might encourage him to think I did not resent it as I ought, and would keep worse secrets, and so make him do worse by me. Was I right, my dear mother? Mrs. Jervis could not help mingling tears with my tears; for I cried all the time I was telling her the story, and begged her to advise me what to do; and I shewed her my dear father's two letters, and she praised the honesty and editing of them, and said pleasing things to me of you both. But she begged I would not think of leaving my service; for, said she, in all likelihood, you behaved so virtuously, that he will be ashamed of what he has done, and never offer the like to you again: though, my dear Pamela, said she, I fear more for your prettiness than for anything else; because the best man in the land might love you: so she was pleased to say. She wished it was in her power to live independent; then she would take a little private house, and I should live with her like her daughter. And so, as you ordered me to take her advice, I resolved to tarry to see how things went, except he was to turn me away; although, in your first letter, you ordered me to come away the moment I had any reason to be apprehensive. So, dear father and mother, it is not disobedience, I hope, that I stay; for I could not expect a blessing, or the good fruits of your prayers for me, if I was disobedient. All the next day I was very sad, and began my long letter. He saw me writing, and said (as I mentioned) to Mrs. Jervis, That girl is always scribbling; methinks she might find something else to do, or to that purpose. And when I had finished my letter, I put it under the toilet in my late lady's dressing-room, whither nobody comes but myself and Mrs. Jervis, besides my master; but when I came up again to seal it, to my great concern, it was gone; and Mrs. Jervis knew nothing of it; and nobody knew of my master's having been near the place in the time; so I have been sadly troubled about it: But Mrs. Jervis, as well as I, thinks he has it, some how or other; and he appears cross and angry, and seems to shun me, as much as he said I did him. It had better be so than worse! But he has ordered Mrs. Jervis to bid me not pass so much time in writing; which is a poor matter for such a gentleman as he to take notice of, as I am not idle other ways, if he did not resent what he thought I wrote upon. And this has no very good look. But I am a good deal easier since I lie with Mrs. Jervis; though, after all, the fears I live in on one side, and his frowning and displeasure at what I do on the other, make me more miserable than enough. O that I had never left my little bed in the loft, to be thus exposed to temptations on one hand, or disgusts on the other! How happy was I awhile ago! How contrary now! Pity and pray for Your afflicted PAMELA. 31

32 Jane Austen, Sense and Sensibility, 1811 Sense and Sensibility tells the stories of two sisters, Elinor and Marianne Dashwood. Marianne s life is thrown into turmoil when John Willoughby, the man she hoped to marry, leaves suddenly for London. The Dashwoods go to London to stay with their friend, Mrs Jennings; Marianne writes to Willoughby, but receives no reply. In the following extract, the sisters and Mrs Jennings are attending a party hosted by Sir John and Lady Middleton where Marianne is shocked to see Willoughby talking to a very fashionable looking young woman. Good heavens! she exclaimed, he is there he is there Oh! why does he not look at me? why cannot I speak to him? Pray, pray be composed, cried Elinor, and do not betray what you feel to every body present. Perhaps he has not observed you yet. This however was more than she could believe herself; and to be composed at such a moment was not only beyond the reach of Marianne, it was beyond her wish. She sat in an agony of impatience, which affected every feature. At last he turned round again, and regarded them both; she started up, and pronouncing his name in a tone of affection, held out her hand to him. He approached, and addressing himself rather to Elinor than Marianne, as if wishing to avoid her eye, and determined not to observe her attitude, inquired in a hurried manner after Mrs Dashwood, and asked how long they had been in town. Elinor was robbed of all presence of mind by such an address, and was unable to say a word. But the feelings of her sister were instantly expressed. Her face was crimsoned over, and she exclaimed in a voice of the greatest emotion, Good God! Willoughby, what is the meaning of this? Have you not received my letters? Will you not shake hands with me? He could not then avoid it, but her touch seemed painful to him, and he held her hand only for a moment. During all this time he was evidently struggling for composure. Elinor watched his countenance and saw its expression becoming more tranquil. After a moment s pause, he spoke with calmness. I did myself the honour of calling in Berkeley-street last Tuesday, and very much regretted that I was not fortunate enough to find yourselves and Mrs Jennings at home. My card was not lost, I hope. But have you not received my notes? cried Marianne in the wildest anxiety. Here is some mistake I am sure some dreadful mistake. What can be the meaning of it? Tell me, Willoughby; for heaven s sake tell me, what is the matter? He made no reply; his complexion changed and all his embarrassment returned; but as if, on catching the eye of the young lady with whom he had been previously talking, he felt the necessity of instant exertion, he recovered himself again, and after saying, Yes, I had the pleasure of receiving the information of your arrival in town, which you were so good as to send me, turned hastily away with a slight bow and joined his friend. Marianne, now looking dreadfully white, and unable to stand, sunk into her chair, and Elinor, expecting every moment to see her faint, tried to screen her from the observation of others, while reviving her with lavendar water. Go to him, Elinor, she cried, as soon as she could speak, and force him to come to me. Tell him I must see him again must speak to him instantly. I cannot rest I shall not have a moment s peace till this is explained some dreadful misapprehension or other. Oh go to him this moment. How can that be done? No, my dearest Marianne, you must wait. This is not a place for explanations. Wait only till to-morrow. With difficulty however could she prevent her from following him herself; and to persuade her to check her agitation, to wait, at least, with the appearance of composure, till she might speak to him with more privacy and more effect, was impossible; for Marianne continued incessantly to give way in a low voice to the misery of her feelings, by exclamations of wretchedness. In a short time Elinor saw Willoughby quit the room by the door towards the staircase, and telling Marianne that he was gone, urged the impossibility of speaking to him again that evening, as a fresh argument for her to 32

33 be calm. She instantly begged her sister would entreat Lady Middleton to take them home, as she was too miserable to stay a minute longer. Lady Middleton, though in the middle of a rubber, on being informed that Marianne was unwell, was too polite to object for a moment to her wish of going away, and making over her cards to a friend, they departed as soon as the carriage could be found. Scarcely a word was spoken during their return to Berkeley-street. Marianne was in silent agony, too much oppressed even for tears; but as Mrs Jennings was luckily not come home, they could go directly to their own room, where hartshorn1 restored her a little to herself. She was soon undressed and in bed, and as she seemed desirous of being alone, her sister then left her, and while she waited the return of Mrs Jennings, had leisure enough for thinking over the past. That some kind of engagement had subsisted between Willoughby and Marianne she could not doubt; and that Willoughby was weary of it, seemed equally clear; for however Marianne might still feed her own wishes, she could not attribute such behaviour to mistake or misapprehension of any kind. Nothing but a thorough change of sentiment could account for it. Her indignation would have been still stronger than it was, had she not witnessed that embarrassment which seemed to speak a consciousness of his own misconduct, and prevented her from believing him so unprincipled as to have been sporting with the affections of her sister from the first, without any design that would bear investigation. Absence might have weakened his regard, and convenience might have determined him to overcome it, but that such a regard had formerly existed she could not bring herself to doubt. 1 hartshorn a sharp-smelling substance inhaled to aid recovery Charles Dickens, Our Mutual Friend, This story centres around Bradley Headstone, a schoolmaster, who is in love with the penniless Lizzie Hexam. Lizzie has also attracted the attentions of Eugene Wrayburn; Mr Headstone hates this man and has urged Lizzie to end all contact with him. In the following extract, Lizzie has been taken by her brother to a graveyard to meet Mr Headstone. She has grown uncomfortable with Mr Headstone s talk of his feelings, and wants to return to her brother and leave. Despite Lizzie s wishes and her obvious discomfort, Mr Headstone persists. I entreat of you let us walk round this place again. You have no reason to look alarmed; I can restrain myself, and I will. She yielded to the entreaty how could she do otherwise? and they paced the stones in silence. One by one the lights leaped up, making the cold grey church tower more remote, and they were alone again. He said no more until they had regained the spot where he had broken off; there, he again stood still, and again grasped the stone. In saying what he said then, he never looked at her; but looked at it and wrenched at it. You know what I am going to say. I love you. What other men may mean when they use that expression, I cannot tell; what Imean is, that I am under the influence of some tremendous attraction which I have resisted in vain, and which overmasters me. You could draw me to fire, you could draw me to water, you could draw me to the gallows, you could draw me to any death, you could draw me to anything I have most avoided, you could draw me to any exposure and disgrace. This and the confusion of my thoughts, so that I am fit for nothing, is what I mean by your being the ruin of me. But if you would return a favourable answer to my offer of myself in marriage, you could draw me to any good every good with equal force. My circumstances are quite easy, and you would want for nothing. My reputation stands quite high, and would be a shield for yours. If you saw me at my work, able to do it well and respected in it, you might even come to take a sort of pride in me: I would try hard that you should. Whatever considerations I may have thought of against this offer, I have conquered, and I make it with all my heart. Your brother favours me to the utmost, and it is likely that we might live and work together; anyhow, it is certain that he would have my best influence and support. I don t know that I could say more if I tried. I might only weaken what is ill 33

34 enough said as it is. I only add that if it is any claim on you to be in earnest, I am in thorough earnest, dreadful earnest. The powdered mortar from under the stone at which he wrenched, rattled on the pavement to confirm his words. Mr. Headstone Stop! I implore you, before you answer me, to walk round this place once more. It will give you a minute s time to think, and me a minute s time to get some fortitude together. Again she yielded to the entreaty, and again they came back to the same place, and again he worked at the stone. Is it, he said, with his attention apparently engrossed by it, yes, or no? Mr. Headstone, I thank you sincerely, I thank you gratefully, and hope you may find a worthy wife before long and be very happy. But it is no. Is no short time necessary for reflection; no weeks or days? he asked, in the same half-suffocated way. None whatever. Are you quite decided, and is there no chance of any change in my favour? I am quite decided, Mr. Headstone, and I am bound to answer I am certain there is none. Then, said he, suddenly changing his tone and turning to her, and bringing his clenched hand down upon the stone with a force that laid the knuckles raw and bleeding; then I hope that I may never kill him! The dark look of hatred and revenge with which the words broke from his livid lips, and with which he stood holding out his smeared hand as if it held some weapon and had just struck a mortal blow, made her so afraid of him that she turned to run away. But he caught her by the arm. Mr. Headstone, let me go. Mr. Headstone, I must call for help! It is I who should call for help, he said; you don t know yet how much I need it. The working of his face as she shrank from it, glancing round for her brother, and uncertain what to do, might have extorted a cry from her in another instant; but all at once he sternly stopped it and fixed it, as if Death itself had done so. F.Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby, 1925 The Great Gatsby is widely regarded as one of the American great pieces of fiction. Written in the interwar period in New York, it is narrated by Nick Carraway, who has moved to the city to train as a stockbroker. He tells the story of his mysterious next door neighbour Gatsby. Gatsby is in love with Daisy Buchanan, Nick s second cousin, but they have not seen each other for five years. In this extract, Gatsby and Daisy are re-united in Nick s home. She turned her head as there was a light dignified knocking at the front door. I went out and opened it. Gatsby, pale as death, with his hands plunged like weights in his coat pockets, was standing in a puddle of water glaring tragically into my eyes. With his hands still in his coat pockets he stalked by me into the hall, turned sharply as if he were on a wire, and disappeared into the living-room. It wasn t a bit funny. Aware of the loud beating of my own heart I pulled the door to against the increasing rain. For half a minute there wasn t a sound. Then from the living-room I heard a sort of choking murmur and part of a laugh, followed by Daisy s voice on a clear artificial note: I certainly am awfully glad to see you again. A pause; it endured horribly. I had nothing to do in the hall, so I went into the room. Gatsby, his hands still in his pockets, was reclining against the mantelpiece in a strained counterfeit of perfect ease, even of boredom. His head leaned back so far that it rested against the face of a defunct mantelpiece clock, and from this position his distraught eyes stared down at Daisy, who was sitting, frightened but graceful, on the edge of a stiff chair. We ve met before, muttered Gatsby. His eyes glanced momentarily at me, and his lips parted with an abortive attempt at a laugh. Luckily the clock took this moment to tilt dangerously at the pressure of his head, whereupon he turned and caught it with trembling fingers, and set it back in place. Then he sat down, rigidly, his elbow on the arm of the sofa and his chin in his hand. 34

35 I m sorry about the clock, he said. My own face had now assumed a deep tropical burn. I couldn t muster up a single commonplace out of the thousand in my head. It s an old clock, I told them idiotically. I think we all believed for a moment that it had smashed in pieces on the floor. We haven t met for many years, said Daisy, her voice as matter-of-fact as it could ever be. Five years next November. The automatic quality of Gatsby s answer set us all back at least another minute. I had them both on their feet with the desperate suggestion that they help me make tea in the kitchen when the demoniac Finn brought it in on a tray. Amid the welcome confusion of cups and cakes a certain physical decency established itself. Gatsby got himself into a shadow and, while Daisy and I talked, looked conscientiously from one to the other of us with tense, unhappy eyes. However, as calmness wasn t an end in itself, I made an excuse at the first possible moment, and got to my feet. Where are you going? demanded Gatsby in immediate alarm. I ll be back. I ve got to speak to you about something before you go. He followed me wildly into the kitchen, closed the door, and whispered: Oh, God! in a miserable way. What s the matter? This is a terrible mistake, he said, shaking his head from side to side, a terrible, terrible mistake. You re just embarrassed, that s all, and luckily I added: Daisy s embarrassed too. She s embarrassed? he repeated incredulously. Just as much as you are. Don t talk so loud. You re acting like a little boy, I broke out impatiently. Not only that, but you re rude. Daisy s sitting in there all alone. He raised his hand to stop my words, looked at me with unforgettable reproach, and, opening the door cautiously, went back into the other room. 35

36 Richard Yates, Revolutionary Road, 1961 Another American masterpiece, Revolutionary Road charts the lives of Frank and April Wheeler, a bright young couple who are bored by the suburban life they find themselves chained to. The novel explores their marriage and the emerging society they live in. In the following extract, Frank and April argue after dinner with the Givings in which Frank has insulted their mentally ill son. 36