The Gift of the Magi
As you all know, the Magi are smart people, brilliant people, and they bring gifts to Jesus, who was born in a manger. They invented the plaything of giving Christmas gifts. And since they were smart people, no doubt their gifts were also smart gifts, and probably had the right to be exchanged if they happened to be two things exactly alike. Here I have clumsily introduced you to the unsurprisingly banal story of two silly children living in an apartment suite who, most unwisely, sacrificed the most precious thing in their house for the sake of each other. But let us say one last word to the wise men of the present day; of all those who give gifts, those two are the wisest. Of all those who give and receive gifts, men like those two are also the wisest. They are the wisest of all men, wherever they are.
The Policeman and the Hymn
Sobey lay impatiently on a bench in Madison Square, tossing and turning. Whenever the geese craned their necks to sing in the night sky, when the woman who lacked a sealskin coat doubled her warmth and affection for her husband, and when Sobey fretted and tossed and turned on the bench in the street park, it became clear that winter was close at hand.
In a moment this new state of mind thrilled him. A swift and strong impulse inspired him to take on a bumpy life. He would drag himself out of the quagmire; he would conquer the demons that had once mastered him. It was not too late; he was still young enough to reproduce the ambition of his day and to realize it with determination. The solemn and sweet tones of the organ had already caused a revolution within him. To-morrow he was to seek employment in the busy business district. A leather importer, who had at one time offered him a job as a chauffeur, had approached him tomorrow to take the job. He was willing to be a figure of prominence. He wants to ......
The Last Leaf
In a neighborhood west of Washington Square, the streets all stretch out horizontally and split into small "alleyways". These "alleyways" take odd turns. Sometimes a street itself crosses more than once. Once a painter realized that this street had a certain advantage: if a bill collector came down the street to demand money for paints, papers and canvases, he would suddenly find himself empty-handed and return the way he came, without a penny of his bill!
She set up her drawing board and began to draw a pen illustration for the story in the magazine. Young painters had to illustrate stories in magazines in order to pave the way to art, and these were stories that young writers had to write in order to pave the way to literature.
Old Bellman was a painter who lived on the ground floor of their building. He was over 60 and had a beard like Michelangelo's statue of Moses, which grew over the head of a half-human, half-animal god of the forest and curled over a small, ghost-like body. Bellman was a failed painter. He had been working with a brush for forty years and was far from touching the dress of the goddess of art. He had always said that he was about to paint his masterpiece, but until now he had not put pen to paper. For several years he had painted nothing but the occasional commercial and such. He earned a little money by modeling for young painters in the art district who were too poor to afford professional models. He drank without restraint and often talked about the masterpiece he was going to paint. Other than that, he is a fiery little old man who despises the warmth of others, but sees himself as a watchdog dedicated to protecting the two young women painters in the studio upstairs.
Sue found Bellman, his mouth heavy with booze, downstairs in his dimly lit drawing room. A blank canvas stretched on an easel in the corner of the room had been waiting for that masterpiece for 25 years, but not even a line. Sue told him about Josie's ramblings, and said she was afraid that Josie, thin and tender as a leaf since each of them was getting fainter and fainter in her attachment to the world, might actually drift away from it.
Old Bellman, whose two reddened eyes were evidently weeping against the wind, scoffed very contemptuously at this silly nonsense. "What," he cried, "could there really be anyone in the world so stupid as to want to die just because those damned ivy leaves fall off? I've never heard of such a strange thing. No, I'm not going to model for your reclusive miner's fool. Why do you let her ramble on? Alas, poor Miss Jonesy."
"She's very sick and weak," said Sue, "and the fever has made her so dizzy that her head is full of queer ideas. Well, Mr. Bellman, if you don't want to model for me, so be it; I see you're a nasty old ... ... old nag." "You're simply too much of a nag!" Bellman shouted, "Who says I don't want to be a model? Come on, I'll go with you. Haven't I been talking about modeling for you all day? Good heavens, such a fine girl as Miss Jonsey really ought not to lie sick in a place like this. One of these days I'm going to paint a masterpiece and we can all move out." "I'm sure of it!
Joncie was asleep when they went upstairs. Sue pulled the curtains down over the window sill and gestured for Bellman to go into the next room. There they looked fearfully at the ivy outside the window. Then they were silent and looked at each other for a while. A cold rain with snowflakes fell incessantly. Berman, in his old blue shirt, sat on an iron kettle that had been turned over to act as a rock, pretending to be a reclusive miner.
However, lo and behold! After a long night of wind and rain, there was still a vine leaf hanging on the brick wall. It was the last leaf left on the ivy. It was still dark green near the stem, but the jagged edges of the leaf had withered and yellowed, and it hung proudly on a vine branch more than twenty feet off the ground. "
This is the last leaf." Jonsey said, "I thought it must have fallen last night. I heard the wind. Today it must fall, and I will die."
But Jonsey would not answer. She is the loneliest person in the world when a soul is preparing to go on that mysterious, distant journey to death. After the ties that bound her to friendship and the earth had faded away, that rhapsody of hers grew stronger and stronger.
The day passed at last, and even in the twilight they could see the lone leaf of the vine still clinging to the branch against the wall. Then the arrival of night brought a howling north wind, and the rain kept tapping on the windows as it cascaded down from the low-hanging Dutch eaves.
'I was a bad girl, Sudie,' said Joan of Arc, 'and Providence left that last vine leaf there to prove how bad I was. It's a sin to want to die. You will bring me some chicken soup now, and some milk mixed with wine, and--no, first a little mirror, and a pillow cushion, and I will sit up and watch you cook."
"I have something to tell you, little one," she said, "Mr. Bellman died of pneumonia in the hospital today. He had only been ill for two days. The first morning the concierge found him downstairs in his own room in pain and unable to move. His shoes and clothes were all wet and cold. They couldn't figure out where he had been that miserable night. Then they found an unlit lantern, a ladder that had moved out of its place, a few paintbrushes thrown all over the floor, a palette with green and yellow paint, and, my dear, look out of the window, look at the last vine leaf on the wall. Haven't you ever wondered why it never shakes or moves when the wind blows so hard? Alas, my dear, this leaf is Bellman's masterpiece. It was on the night the last leaf fell that he painted it there."
Chekhov
The Chameleon
Police officer Otrudov, wearing a new military coat and carrying a small bag, crossed the market square. He was followed by a fire-red-haired patrolman carrying a roving sieve full of confiscated currants. There was silence in all directions. There was not a soul in the square. The doors of the stores and restaurants stood listlessly open, facing this world of God's creation like so many hungry mouths. There was not even a beggar at the door.
The dogs squealed. Ochuprov looked that way and saw a dog scurrying out of the merchant Petrukhin's firewood yard, running on three legs, unable to stop looking back. Behind it, a man came out after him, wearing a stiffly pulped calico shirt and an open shoulder. He was in hot pursuit of the dog, leaned forward, flung himself to the ground, and grabbed the dog by its hind legs. It was followed by the barking of dogs and the shouts of men, "Don't let it go!" Faces with sleepy faces poked out of the bunkhouse in droves, and soon a crowd gathered at the entrance to the firewood yard as if they had come out of the ground.
Otrudov turned his body slightly to the left and stepped toward the crowd. At the entrance to the firewood yard, he saw the aforementioned man with the open shoulder standing there, raising his right hand and holding out a bloody finger to the crowd. His half-drunken face showed this look: "I'm going to skin you, villain!" And the finger itself was like a victory flag. Otrublov recognized the man as the jeweler Khryugin. The culprit of this mess was a white-haired beagle, with a pointed face and a yellow spot on its back, which was sitting on the ground in the center of the crowd, with its forelegs splayed and shivering. Its tearful eyes showed distress and fear
The Death of a Little Civil Servant
One fine evening, Ivan Dmitry Cherviakov, a plebeian official in a good mood, was sitting in the second row of seats in the theater and was watching the light opera "The Bells of Korneveli" with binoculars. He watched the performance and felt immensely happy. But all of a sudden ...... this "but all of a sudden" is often found in novels. Writers are right: life is full of unexpected events. But suddenly his face scrunched up, his eyes rolled up, his breathing stopped ...... He put down his binoculars, lowered his head, and ...... sneezed! He sneezed, ye see. Whenever and wherever anyone sneezes it cannot be forbidden. The crofter sneezes, the sheriff sneezes, and sometimes even the dignitaries are inevitable. Everyone sneezes. Cherviakov, unperturbed, took out his little handkerchief and wiped his face, and, like a polite man, raised his eyes and looked around him: had his sneeze splashed someone? But at that moment he could not help panicking. He saw that a little old man sitting in the first row of seats in front of him was rubbing his bald head and neck vigorously with his glove and muttering something. Chervyakov recognized the man as General Brizalov, a third-ranking civilian who served in the transportation department.
Chelvyakov felt something shatter in his stomach. Seeing nothing, hearing nothing, he retreated step by step to the door. He came out onto the street, his steps hard ...... He returned home in a daze, and without taking off his uniform, he collapsed on the long couch and later ...... died.
Maupassant
The Goatherd
For days at a time, the remnants of many of the routed troops passed right through the downtown area of Rouen. It wasn't even a column anymore, just
a number of scattered nomadic tribes. With dirty, long beards all over their faces, tattered uniforms, and no
regimental flags or regimental numbers, the men marched forward with a weary posture. They were all crushed and broken, too slow to think of anything, too slow to think of any idea, moving forward only by habit, and if they stopped, they would instantly fall down from lack of strength. What we saw, in the main, were men enlisted on mobilization orders, and
national guards, famous for their vigilance, who were on this occasion out of the line of battle: the former were peace-loving, quiet men, living on fixed interest, and stooping with rifles on their shoulders; the latter were easily shocked and impulsive, ready to charge and to desert, as well as to be ready to be taken by surprise. ready to desert. And in the midst of these two classes there were a few red-pantsed infantrymen who were the remnants of a division that had been annihilated in a terrible
battle; a number of drooping artillerymen mingled with these different kinds of infantrymen; and occasionally
a dragoon in a shining bronze helmet shuffled his heavy feet behind the brisk steps of the infantrymen.
Several squads of volunteers were formed with all sorts of heroic names: the Revenge of Defeat - the Citizens of the Market Tomb -
Life seemed to come to a standstill, the stores were all closed and the streets were all silent. An occasional resident cowed by the silent
look of this community slipped quickly along the wall.
However, there was always something in the air, a little something that wavered and eluded, an intolerably strange
atmosphere, as if it were a dispersed odor, the smell of intrusion by a foreign scourge. It fills private homes and public ****ing places,
it renders food and drink unpalatable, and it makes one feel that one is in the middle of a journey, traveling far, into barbaric and dangerous parts of the world
.
The Necklace
The beautiful and beautiful women of the world are born, as if by some mistake of fate, into the family of a clerk; and such was the case with the one we are now speaking of. She had no dowry, no hope, no means of getting a man of
money and position to know her, to understand her, to love her, to marry her; and at the end of the day, she married a petty clerk in the Ministry of Education
.
Not capable of adornment, she was plain, but unfortunate enough to be a degraded woman; for women have no
class, no rank, and their beauty, their voluptuousness, and their seductiveness are for their birth and family
. Their natural alertness, their outstanding instincts, their supple hearts, constitute their only rank, and can raise the women of the people
as high as the highest noblewomen.
She felt that she was meant for all that was fine and all that was luxurious, and therefore could not help feeling miserable. She was very much saddened by the shabbiness of her house, the roughness of its walls, the antiquity of its furniture, and the vulgarity of its clothing. All this, which might have escaped the notice of another woman equal to her, saddened and chagrined her, and the appearance of the little Breton maid, who took care of her trifling household duties, gave her all sorts of bitter regrets and whims. She dreamed of the quiet reception rooms, with their oriental curtains, their bronze stilettos, and their two tall waiters in short pants at their disposal, who dozed in large lounge chairs with their hot air-heaters. She dreamed of large parlors clad in antique wall coverings, beautifully furnished with priceless vases; she dreamed of small, delicate, fragrant parlors where, at five o'clock in the afternoon, she could gossip with affectionate boyfriends, with famous men who were envied and eagerly sought after by the women's world.
Pretty Friends
He was handsome, slender, and had been a cadet for two years, adding to his military bearing. With that in mind, he couldn't help but puff out his chest and stroke the two moustaches at the corners of his mouth with the skillful motions of a soldier, all the while giving a quick glance to the guests still lingering at their tables to eat. This gaze, spread around like a fishing net, was exactly what his handsome teenager was good at.
Walking to the door of the restaurant, Duroy paused, his mind pondering what he should do next. It was June 28th, and to finish the month, he had only three francs and forty sous left on him. The problem was clear: for the remaining two days, it was either dinner and no lunch, or lunch and no dinner, or one or the other. A lunch, he thought, was twenty-two sous, while a dinner cost thirty sous. If he ate only lunch, he would save one franc and twenty sous. With this saving he would not only be able to buy a loaf of bread with sausage in it at dinner time every day, but he could also have a glass of beer in the street. Beer, it must be remembered, was one of his great evening expenses, and one of his most indispensable addictions. With that in mind, he too walked down the lower slopes of the Rue Notre Dame de la Lorette.
He walked down the street as he had done when he was in the military and in full cavalry regalia, not only with his chest high, but with his legs slightly spread as if he had just jumped out of the saddle. The street was crowded with pedestrians, and he barreled forward, sometimes touching the shoulder of a line of people, sometimes pushing another out of his way. He pressed his old bowler hat to one side of his head, and his heels made a tom-tom sound on the stone floor. It was almost as if he were fighting with someone, as if he were a well-built soldier who felt out of place in his surroundings -- pedestrians, houses, even the city -- after he had suddenly said goodbye to his military career and returned to the city.
While wearing a suit worth only 60 francs, he is still strikingly handsome. Yes, the "handsomeness" was a bit generic, but it was the real thing, and it wasn't fake. He was long and well-built, with slightly reddish-brown blonde hair that was naturally curly and split in two at the center of his head. His upper lip and moustache were slightly upturned, as if a pile of bubbles were "floating" under his nose. A pair of blue eyes look exceptionally bright, but the pupils embedded in the eye sockets are very, very small. This look, with the popular novel "bad guys" is really no different.
On a summer night in Paris, the weather is sweltering, and the city looks like a steaming bath. The granite guttering of the gutter spills over with a putrid stench. The smell of slop and leftovers wafting from the basement kitchens, where the street windows are just above ground level, is also stifling.
In the doorways on both sides of the street, the gatekeepers, who have long since taken off their coats, are sitting on chairs with straw cushions, with a pipe in their mouths. Pedestrians on the street had taken their hats off their heads and were holding them in their hands, each looking tired and listless.
"A Life"
Back upstairs in her bedroom. This young woman remembered why two times before and after the same return to Poplar Castle this beloved place actually have very different feelings. Why did she now feel traumatized, why did this house, this dear hometown, all the things that had always made her heartstrings flutter, make her feel so sad today?
But suddenly her eyes fell on the clock. The little bee at the bottom of the pendulum was always swinging from left to right and back again with the same swift, uninterrupted motion over the handful of gilded flowers. At that moment, Rani was struck by a sudden impulse of love, which brought tears to her eyes as she looked at this little piece of machinery which seemed to be alive, which sang to her of time and pulsed like a breast.
She had apparently not been so moved in her embrace with her parents. The heartstrings held mysteries that no amount of reasoning could penetrate.
A dry, stinging, cold breeze blew into the bedroom, chipping at her skin with a sharp, tearful chill. There was a huge sun wheel in the center of a haze-filled sky, gold and red and plump like the face of a drunken man showing from behind the trees. The ground, covered with white frost, became dry and hard, and rattled under the soles of the feet of the men in the farmhouse. In a single night, the aspens, whose branches had not yet shed their leaves, were now bare, and behind the barren land appeared a sea of turquoise dotted with white spots.
The afternoon passed like yesterday's, the dampness gone, of course, but replaced by a chill. The rest of that week was like these two days, and the rest of that month was like this first week.
And yet her fondness for the distance faded. Habit, like some water spring precipitating a calcareous coating on a vessel, had fostered a mood of resignation in her life. Then an interest in the thousands of meaningless things of daily life, a concern for the simple, mundane routine, arose in her mind. Later on, it developed in her into a sad disposition, a vague disillusionment with life. What was she not satisfied with? What did she expect? She herself did not know. There was never a need for worldly splendor to dominate her; she never longed for amusement, she was never even enthusiastic about the pleasures to be met with, and which ones? So it is like those old chairs in the living room that have lost their luster because of age, what all slowly faded in her eyes, what all obscure, showing a pale and melancholy mood.