K13 Revisi Antiremed Kelas 10 Bahasa Inggris
04 Narrative Texts - Exercise
Doc. Name: RK13AR10ING0104
The Little Match Girl by Hans Christian
Andersen
It was so terribly cold. Snow was falling, and it
was almost dark. Evening came on, the last
evening of the year. In the cold and gloom a
poor little girl, bareheaded and barefoot, was
walking through the streets. Of course when she
had left her house she'd had slippers on, but
what good had they been? They were very big
slippers, way too big for her, for they belonged
to her mother. The little girl had lost them
running across the road, where two carriages had
rattled by terribly fast. One slipper she'd not
been able to find again, and a boy had run off
with the other, saying he could use it very well as
a cradle some day when he had children of his
own. And so the little girl walked on her naked
feet, which were quite red and blue with the
cold. In an old apron she carried several
packages of matches, and she held a box of
them in her hand. No one had bought any from
her all day long, and no one had given her a cent.
Shivering with cold and hunger, she crept along,
a picture of misery, poor little girl! The
snowflakes fell on her long fair hair, which hung
in pretty curls over her neck. In all the windows
lights were shining, and there was a wonderful
smell of roast goose, for it was New Year's eve.
Yes, she thought of that!
In a corner formed by two houses, one of which
projected farther out into the street than the
other, she sat down and drew up her little feet
under her. She was getting colder and colder, but
did not dare to go home, for she had sold no
matches, nor earned a single cent, and her father
would surely beat her. Besides, it was cold at
home, for they had nothing over them but a
roof through which the wind whistled even
though the biggest cracks had been stuffed with
straw and rags.
Her hands were almost dead with cold. Oh, how
much one little match might warm her! If she
could only take one from the box and rub it
against the wall and warm her hands. She drew
one out. R-r-ratch! How it sputtered and burned!
Version: 2017-02 |
halaman 1
It made a warm, bright flame, like a little candle,
as she held her hands over it; but it gave a
strange light! It really seemed to the little girl as
if she were sitting before a great iron stove with
shining brass knobs and a brass cover. How
wonderfully the fire burned! How comfortable it
was! The youngster stretched out her feet to
warm them too; then the little flame went out,
the stove vanished, and she had only the remains
of the burnt match in her hand.
She struck another match against the wall. It
burned brightly, and when the light fell upon the
wall it became transparent like a thin veil, and
she could see through it into a room. On the
table a snow-white cloth was spread, and on it
stood a shining dinner service. The roast goose
steamed gloriously, stuffed with apples and
prunes. And what was still better, the goose
jumped down from the dish and waddled along
the floor with a knife and fork in its breast, right
over to the little girl. Then the match went out,
and she could see only the thick, cold wall. She
lighted another match. Then she was sitting
under the most beautiful Christmas tree. It was
much larger and much more beautiful than the
one she had seen last Christmas through the
glass door at the rich merchant's home.
Thousands of candles burned on the green
branches, and colored pictures like those in the
printshops looked down at her. The little girl
reached both her hands toward them. Then the
match went out. But the Christmas lights mounted higher. She saw them now as bright stars in
the sky. One of them fell down, forming a long
line of fire.
"Now someone is dying," thought the little girl,
for her old grandmother, the only person who
had loved her, and who was now dead, had told
her that when a star fell down a soul went up to
God.
She rubbed another match against the wall. It
became bright again, and in the glow the old
grandmother stood clear and shining, kind and
lovely.
"Grandmother!" cried the child. "Oh, take me
with you! I know you will disappear when the
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K13 Revisi Antiremed Kelas 10 Bahasa Inggris, 04 Narrative Texts - Exercise
Doc. Name: RK13AR10ING0104
Version: 2017-02 |
match is burned out. You will vanish like the
warm stove, the wonderful roast goose and the
beautiful big Christmas tree!" And she quickly
struck the whole bundle of matches, for she
wished to keep her grandmother with her. And
the matches burned with such a glow that it
became brighter than daylight. Grandmother had
never been so grand and beautiful. She took the
little girl in her arms, and both of them flew in
brightness and joy above the earth, very, very
high, and up there was neither cold, nor hunger,
nor fear-they were with God.
But in the corner, leaning against the wall, sat the
little girl with red cheeks and smiling mouth,
frozen to death on the last evening of the old
year. The New Year's sun rose upon a little
pathetic figure. The child sat there, stiff and
cold, holding the matches, of which one bundle
was almost burned.
"She wanted to warm herself," the people said.
No one imagined what beautiful things she had
seen, and how happily she had gone with her old
grandmother into the bright New Year.
01. Why didn’t the little match girl go home?
02. What did the first match seem like to the
girl?
What did the girl see in the window when
she lit the second match?
What did she see when she lit the third
match?
What did she see when she lit the fourth
match?
03. Where did the girl go after all the candles
were burned out?
04. Was the girl happy in end?
05. What is setting of the story?
halaman 2
Suicides by Guy de Maupassant
Hardly a day goes by without our reading a news
item like the following in some newspaper:
"On Wednesday night the people living in No.
40 Rue de-----, were awakened by two successive
shots. The explosions seemed to come from the
apartment occupied by M. X----. The door was
broken in and the man was found bathed in his
blood, still holding in one hand the revolver with
which he had taken his life.
"M. X---- was fifty-seven years of age, enjoying a
comfortable income, and had everything
necessary to make him happy. No cause can be
found for his action."
What terrible grief, what unknown suffering,
hidden despair, secret wounds drive these
presumably happy persons to suicide? We search,
we imagine tragedies of love, we suspect
financial troubles, and, as we never find anything
definite, we apply to these deaths the word
"mystery."
A letter found on the desk of one of these
"suicides without cause," and written during his
last night, beside his loaded revolver, has come
into our hands. We deem it rather interesting. It
reveals none of those great catastrophes which
we always expect to find behind these acts of
despair; but it shows us the slow succession of
the little vexations of life, the disintegration of a
lonely existence, whose dreams have disappeared; it gives the reason for these tragic ends,
which only nervous and high-strung people can
understand.
Here it is:
"It is midnight. When I have finished this letter I
shall kill myself. Why? I shall attempt to give the
reasons, not for those who may read these lines,
but for myself, to kindle my waning courage, to
impress upon myself the fatal necessity of this
act which can, at best, be only deferred.
"I was brought up by simple-minded parents
who were unquestioning believers. And I
believed as they did.
"My dream lasted a long time. The last veil has
just been torn from my eyes.
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K13 Revisi Antiremed Kelas 10 Bahasa Inggris, 04 Narrative Texts - Exercise
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"During the last few years a strange change has
been taking place within me. All the events of
Life, which formerly had to me the glow of a
beautiful sunset, are now fading away. The true
meaning of things has appeared to me in its
brutal reality; and the true reason for love has
bred in me disgust even for this poetic
sentiment: 'We are the eternal toys of foolish
and charming illusions, which are always being
renewed.'
"On growing older, I had become partly
reconciled to the awful mystery of life, to the
uselessness of effort; when the emptiness of
everything appeared to me in a new light, this
evening, after dinner.
"Formerly, I was happy! Everything pleased me:
the passing women, the appearance of the
streets, the place where I lived; and I even took
an interest in the cut of my clothes. But the
repetition of the same sights has had the result
of filling my heart with weariness and disgust,
just as one would feel were one to go every night
to the same theatre.
"For the last thirty years I have been rising at the
same hour; and, at the same restaurant, for thirty
years, I have been eating at the same hours the
same dishes brought me by different waiters.
"I have tried travel. The loneliness which one
feels in strange places terrified me. I felt so
alone, so small on the earth that I quickly started
on my homeward journey.
"But here the unchanging expression of my
furniture, which has stood for thirty years in the
same place, the smell of my apartments (for,
with time, each dwelling takes on a particular
odor) each night, these and other things disgust
me and make me sick of living thus.
"Everything repeats itself endlessly. The way in
which I put my key in the lock, the place where I
always find my matches, the first object which
meets my eye when I enter the room, make me
feel like jumping out of the window and putting
an end to those monotonous events from which
we can never escape.
"Each day, when I shave, I feel an inordinate
desire to cut my throat; and my face, which I see
in the little mirror, always the same, with soap on
my cheeks, has several times made me weak
from sadness.
halaman 3
"Now I even hate to be with people whom I
used to meet with pleasure; I know them so
well, I can tell just what they are going to say
and what I am going to answer. Each brain is
like a circus, where the same horse keeps
circling around eternally. We must circle round
always, around the same ideas, the same joys,
the same pleasures, the same habits, the same
beliefs, the same sensations of disgust.
"The fog was terrible this evening. It enfolded
the boulevard, where the street lights were
dimmed and looked like smoking candles. A
heavier weight than usual oppressed me.
Perhaps my digestion was bad.
"For good digestion is everything in life. It
gives the inspiration to the artist, amorous
desires to young people, clear ideas to thinkers,
the joy of life to everybody, and it also allows
one to eat heartily (which is one of the greatest
pleasures). A sick stomach induces scepticism
unbelief, nightmares and the desire for death. I
have often noticed this fact. Perhaps I would
not kill myself, if my digestion had been good
this evening.
"When I sat down in the arm-chair where I
have been sitting every day for thirty years, I
glanced around me, and just then I was seized
by such a terrible distress that I thought I must
go mad.
"I tried to think of what I could do to run
away from myself. Every occupation struck me
as being worse even than inaction. Then I
bethought me of putting my papers in order.
"For a long time I have been thinking of
clearing out my drawers; for, for the last thirty
years, I have been throwing my letters and bills
pell-mell into the same desk, and this
confusion has often caused me considerable
trouble. But I feel such moral and physical
laziness at the sole idea of putting anything in
order that I have never had the courage to
begin this tedious business.
"I therefore opened my desk, intending to
choose among my old papers and destroy the
majority of them.
"At first I was bewildered by this array of
documents, yellowed by age, then I chose one.
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"Oh! if you cherish life, never disturb the
burial place of old letters!
"And if, perchance, you should, take the
contents by the handful, close your eyes that
you may not read a word, so that you may not
recognize some forgotten handwriting which
may plunge you suddenly into a sea of
memories; carry these papers to the fire; and
when they are in ashes, crush them to an
invisible powder, or otherwise you are lost--just
as I have been lost for an hour.
"The first letters which I read did not interest
me greatly. They were recent, and came from
living men whom I still meet quite often, and
whose presence does not move me to any great
extent. But all at once one envelope made me
start. My name was traced on it in a large, bold
handwriting; and suddenly tears came to my
eyes. That letter was from my dearest friend,
the companion of my youth, the confidant of
my hopes; and he appeared before me so
clearly, with his pleasant smile and his hand
outstretched, that a cold shiver ran down my
back. Yes, yes, the dead come back, for I saw
him! Our memory is a more perfect world than
the universe: it gives back life to those who no
longer exist.
"With trembling hand and dimmed eyes I
reread everything that he told me, and in my
poor sobbing heart I felt a wound so painful
that I began to groan as a man whose bones
are slowly being crushed.
"Then I travelled over my whole life, just as
one travels along a river. I recognized people,
so long forgotten that I no longer knew their
names. Their faces alone lived in me. In my
mother's letters I saw again the old servants,
the shape of our house and the little
insignificant odds and ends which cling to our
minds.
"Yes, I suddenly saw again all my mother's old
gowns, the different styles which she adopted
and the several ways in which she dressed her
hair. She haunted me especially in a silk dress,
trimmed with old lace; and I remembered
something she said one day when she was
wearing this dress. She said: 'Robert, my child,
if you do not stand up straight you will be
round-shouldered all your life.'
halaman 4
"Then, opening another drawer, I found
myself face to face with memories of tender
passions: a dancing-pump, a torn handkerchief,
even a garter, locks of hair and dried flowers.
Then the sweet romances of my life, whose
living heroines are now white-haired, plunged
me into the deep melancholy of things. Oh,
the young brows where blond locks curl, the
caress of the hands, the glance which speaks,
the hearts which beat, that smile which
promises the lips, those lips which promise the
embrace! And the first kiss-that endless kiss
which makes you close your eyes, which
drowns all thought in the immeasurable joy of
approaching possession!
"Taking these old pledges of former love in
both my hands, I covered them with furious
caresses, and in my soul, torn by these
memories, I saw them each again at the hour
of surrender; and I suffered a torture more
cruel than all the tortures invented in all the
fables about hell.
"One last letter remained. It was written by me
and dictated fifty years ago by my writing
teacher. Here it is:
"'MY DEAR LITTLE MAMMA:
"'I am seven years old to-day. It is the age of
reason. I take advantage of it to thank you for
having brought me into this world.
"'Your little son, who loves you
"'ROBERT.'
"It is all over. I had gone back to the beginning,
and suddenly I turned my glance on what
remained to me of life. I saw hideous and
lonely old age, and approaching infirmities, and
everything over and gone. And nobody near
me!
"My revolver is here, on the table. I am loading
it . . . . Never reread your old letters!"
And that is how many men come to kill
themselves; and we search in vain to discover
some great sorrow in their lives.
06. What is the text about?
07. What is the setting of the story?
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08. What did the story-teller feel at the
beginning about those suicides? Why?
09. In your opinion why did Mr. Robert
commit suicide?
10. “Our memory is a more perfect world than
the universe: it gives back life to those who
no longer exist.” (last sentence of
paragraph 28)
Did Mr. X emphasize this perfection with a
positive light?
11. Was the suicide letter addressed to t he
finder?
Heart and Hands by O. Henry
At Denver there was an influx of passengers
into the coaches on the eastbound B. & M.
express. In one coach there sat a very pretty
young woman dressed in elegant taste and
surrounded by all the luxurious comforts of an
experienced traveler. Among the newcomers
were two young men, one of handsome
presence with a bold, frank countenance and
manner; the other a ruffled, glum-faced person,
heavily built and roughly dressed. The two
were handcuffed together.
As they passed down the aisle of the coach the
only vacant seat offered was a reversed one
facing the attractive young woman. Here the
linked couple seated themselves. The young
woman's glance fell upon them with a distant,
swift disinterest; then with a lovely smile
brightening her countenance and a tender pink
tingeing her rounded cheeks, she held out a
little gray-gloved hand. When she spoke her
voice, full, sweet, and deliberate, proclaimed
that its owner was accustomed to speak and be
heard.
"Well, Mr. Easton, if you will make me speak
first, I suppose I must. Don't vou ever recognize old friends when you meet them in the
West?"
The younger man roused himself sharply at the
sound of her voice, seemed to struggle with a
slight embarrassment which he threw off
instantly, and then clasped her fingers with his
left hand.
halaman 5
"It's Miss Fairchild," he said, with a smile. "I'll
ask you to excuse the other hand; "it's
otherwise engaged just at present."
He slightly raised his right hand, bound at the
wrist by the shining "bracelet" to the left one
of his companion. The glad look in the girl's
eyes slowly changed to a bewildered horror.
The glow faded from her cheeks. Her lips
parted in a vague, relaxing distress. Easton,
with a little laugh, as if amused, was about to
speak again when the other forestalled him.
The glum-faced man had been watching the
girl's countenance with veiled glances from his
keen, shrewd eyes.
"You'll excuse me for speaking, miss, but, I see
you're acquainted with the marshall here. If
you'll ask him to speak a word for me when we
get to the pen he'll do it, and it'll make things
easier for me there. He's taking me to
Leavenworth prison. It's seven years for
counterfeiting."
"Oh!" said the girl, with a deep breath and
returning color. "So that is what you are doing
out here? A marshal!"
"My dear Miss Fairchild," said Easton, calmly,
"I had to do something. Money has a way of
taking wings unto itself, and you know it takes
money to keep step with our crowd in
Washington. I saw this opening in the West,
and--well, a marshalship isn't quite as high a
position as that of ambassador, but--"
"The ambassador," said the girl, warmly,
"doesn't call any more. He needn't ever have
done so. You ought to know that. And so now
you are one of these dashing Western heroes,
and you ride and shoot and go into all kinds of
dangers. That's different from the Washington
life. You have been missed from the old
crowd."
The girl's eyes, fascinated, went back, widening
a little, to rest upon the glittering handcuffs.
"Don't you worry about them, miss," said the
other man. "All marshals handcuff themselves
to their prisoners to keep them from getting
away. Mr. Easton knows his business."
"Will we see you again soon in Washington?"
asked the girl.
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"Not soon, I think," said Easton. "My butterfly
days are over, I fear."
"I love the West," said the girl irrelevantly. Her
eyes were shining softly. She looked away out
the car window. She began to speak truly and
simply without the gloss of style and manner:
"Mamma and I spent the summer in Denver.
She went home a week ago because father was
slightly ill. I could live and be happy in the
West. I think the air here agrees with me.
Money isn't everything. But people always misunderstand things and remain stupid--"
"Say, Mr. Marshal," growled the glum-faced
man. "This isn't quite fair. I'm needing a drink,
and haven't had a smoke all day. Haven't you
talked long enough? Take me in the smoker
now, won't you? I'm half dead for a pipe."
The bound travelers rose to their feet, Easton
with the same slow smile on his face.
"I can't deny a petition for tobacco," he said,
lightly. "It's the one friend of the unfortunate.
Good-bye, Miss Fairchild. Duty calls, you
know." He held out his hand for a farewell.
"It's too bad you are not going East," she said,
reclothing herself with manner and style. "But
you must go on to Leavenworth, I suppose?"
"Yes," said Easton, "I must go on to
Leavenworth."
The two men sidled down the aisle into the
smoker.
The two passengers in a seat near by had heard
most of the conversation. Said one of them:
"That marshal's a good sort of chap. Some of
these Western fellows are all right."
"Pretty young to hold an office like that, isn't
he?" asked the other.
"Young!" exclaimed the first speaker, "why-Oh! didn't you catch on? Say--did you ever
know an officer to handcuff a prisoner to his
right hand?"
12. What is the story about?
halaman 6
14. What was the young man embarrassed
when the woman recognize him?
15. Why didn’t the young man take interest in
talking to his old friend, the woman?
16. What was the role of the other two
passengers at the end of the story?
The Story of An Hour by Kate Chopin
Knowing that Mrs. Mallard was afflicted with
a heart trouble, great care was taken to break to
her as gently as possible the news of her
husband’s death.
It was her sister Josephine who told her, in
broken sentences; veiled hints that revealed in
half concealing. Her husband's friend Richards
was there, too, near her. It was he who had
been in the newspaper office when intelligence
of the railroad disaster was received, with
Brently Mallard's name leading the list of
"killed." He had only taken the time to assure
himself of its truth by a second telegram, and
had hastened to forestall any less careful, less
tender friend in bearing the sad message.
She did not hear the story as many women
have heard the same, with a paralyzed inability
to accept its significance. She wept at once,
with sudden, wild abandonment, in her sister's
arms. When the storm of grief had spent itself
she went away to her room alone. She would
have no one follow her.
There stood, facing the open window, a
comfortable, roomy armchair. Into this she
sank, pressed down by a physical exhaustion
that haunted her body and seemed to reach
into her soul.
She could see in the open square before her
house the tops of trees that were all quivered
with the new spring life. The delicious breath
of rain was in the air. In the street below a
peddler was crying his wares. The notes of a
distant song which some one was singing
reached her faintly, and countless sparrows
were twittering in the eaves.
13. What was the reaction of the woman when
she saw the handcuff ?
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There were patches of blue sky showing here
and there through the clouds that had met and
piled one above the other in the west facing her
window.
She sat with her head thrown back upon the
cushion of the chair, quite motionless, except
when a sob came up into her throat and shook
her, as a child who has cried itself to sleep
continues to sob in its dreams.
She was young, with a fair, calm face, whose
lines bespoke repression and even a certain
strength. But now there was a dull stare in her
eyes, whose gaze was fixed away off yonder on
one of those patches of blue sky. It was not a
glance of reflection, but rather indicated a
suspension of intelligent thought.
There was something coming to her and she
was waiting for it, fearfully. What was it? She
did not know; it was too subtle and elusive to
name. But she felt it, creeping out of the sky,
reaching toward her through the sounds, the
scents, the color that filled the air.
Now her bosom rose and fell tumultuously.
She was beginning to recognize this thing that
was approaching to possess her, and she was
striving to beat it back with her will--as
powerless as her two white slender hands
would have been. When she abandoned herself
a little whispered word escaped her slightly
parted lips. She said it over and over under the
breath: "free, free, free!" The vacant stare and
the look of terror that had followed it went
from her eyes. They stayed keen and bright.
Her pulses beat fast, and the coursing blood
warmed and relaxed every inch of her body.
She did not stop to ask if it were or were not a
monstrous joy that held her. A clear and
exalted perception enabled her to dismiss the
suggestion as trivial. She knew that she would
weep again when she saw the kind, tender
hands folded in death; the face that had never
looked save with love upon her, fixed and gray
and dead. But she saw beyond that bitter
moment a long procession of years to come
that would belong to her absolutely. And she
opened and spread her arms out to them in
welcome.
halaman 7
There would be no one to live for during those
coming years; she would live for herself. There
would be no powerful will bending hers in that
blind persistence with which men and women
believe they have a right to impose a private
will upon a fellow-creature. A kind intention or
a cruel intention made the act seem no less a
crime as she looked upon it in that brief
moment of illumination.
And yet she had loved him--sometimes. Often
she had not. What did it matter! What could
love, the unsolved mystery, count for in the
face of this possession of self-assertion which
she suddenly recognized as the strongest
impulse of her being!
"Free! Body and soul free!" she kept
whispering.
Josephine was kneeling before the closed door
with her lips to the keyhole, imploring for
admission. "Louise, open the door! I beg; open
the door--you will make yourself ill. What are
you doing, Louise? For heaven's sake open the
door."
"Go away. I am not making myself ill." No; she
was drinking in a very elixir of life through that
open window.
Her fancy was running riot along those days
ahead of her. Spring days, and summer days,
and all sorts of days that would be her own.
She breathed a quick prayer that life might be
long. It was only yesterday she had thought
with a shudder that life might be long.
She arose at length and opened the door to her
sister's importunities. There was a feverish
triumph in her eyes, and she carried herself
unwittingly like a goddess of Victory. She
clasped her sister's waist, and together they
descended the stairs. Richards stood waiting for
them at the bottom.
Someone was opening the front door with a
latchkey. It was Brently Mallard who entered, a
little travel-stained, composedly carrying his
grip-sack and umbrella. He had been far from
the scene of the accident, and did not even
know there had been one. He stood amazed at
Josephine's piercing cry; at Richards' quick
motion to screen him from the view of his
wife.
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halaman 8
When the doctors came they said she had died
of heart disease--of the joy that kills.
17. What is the story about?
18. From 5-14, what do you think Mrs. Mallard
feel?
19. “It was only yesterday she had thought
with a shudder that life might be
long.” (last sentence, paragraph 17)
What does it mean?
20. Did Mrs. Mallard feel sad about her
husband’s death?
21. What did the family mean by the phrase
“of the joy that kills” in last sentence?
22. What was the cause of Mrs. Mallard’s heart
attack?
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