chapter 1
© Hammerl, F./plainpicture/Corbis
Experiencing a Story,
a Poem, a Play
“You can’t depend on your eyes when
your imagination is out of focus.”
—Mark Twain, A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court
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Reading a story, a poem, or a play introduces you to an imaginary
world. You are pulled away from a living, breathing world into one that was created in the
mind of the author. Its situations and experiences may resemble ones you are familiar with;
many of them may even be based in part on real situations, but they are imaginary—shaped
by the imagination of the person who created the story, poem, or play you are reading.
To experience these forms of literature, you must make an intentional decision to turn yourself over to an imaginary realm. How many times have you heard someone say, “I’m having
a hard time getting into this novel or this story”? Maybe you’ve said that yourself. Although
such a comment often suggests that the reader is encountering a difficult writing style, it
may also mean that the reader has not made an intentional connection to the imaginary
world of literature.
As adults, we are grounded by the demands of our everyday lives, preoccupied with responsibilities and endless schedules—not to mention university course assignments! So, opting
for a full connection to a literary world is demanding: It requires letting go of things at hand
and engaging in imaginary things. It actually requires us to believe that an imaginary world
is possible and to engage in what Coleridge (1817) so famously called “the willing suspension of disbelief for the moment.” But once we connect, we find ourselves escaping from the
routine of our ordinary lives, caught up into adventure and entertained.
1.1 Connecting: Entering Into a Literary Experience
W
hen you allow reading to unlock your imagination, your connection sets the stage for
intellectual engagement. It allows the experience of reading literature to include the
pursuit of ideas and knowledge. Your literary experience—as the title of this book suggests—can become a personal journey, a quest for meaning. But connections to literature usually
don’t begin with deep intellectual quests. When you pick up a novel or read poetry, you are likely
to be most aware of feelings and emotions that your reading creates. In fact, from time to time,
you probably deliberately choose particular things to read anticipating that there will be a match
between the content and a mood or interest that you find appealing.
So, this introduction to literature begins by asking you simply to read a short story, a poem, and a
drama. Each represents a separate genre. You may not have encountered the term genre. It comes
from the French language and is used to identify types or categories of literature. It can be used to
make broad distinctions or to identify specific categories within a broad category. The short story
and the novel, for example, are specific literary genres within the broad category of fiction. Fuller
explanations of literary forms will be given in later chapters.
Pleasure and enjoyment are easy to discover in the story, poem, and short play selected for this
opening chapter. Each one feeds human feelings and emotions. In reading them, you do not need
to consider depth of meaning or think about delving into complex criticism. These challenges will
come later. You are asked just to discover enjoyment in observing the humor and little absurdities
in our lives that these pieces of literature reflect. Such a perspective for reading, as writer Anne
Lamott (1995, p. 237) argues, can be both a source of delight and renewal.
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When writers . . . make us laugh about ourselves or life, our buoyancy is
restored. We are given a shot at dancing with, or at least clapping along
with, the absurdity of life, instead of being squashed by it over and over
again. It’s like singing on a boat during a terrible storm at sea. You can’t
stop the raging storm, but singing can change the hearts and spirits of
the people who are together on that ship.
Finding Delight—An Introductory Word About Humor
Humor, which has many forms, produces laughter or amusement when a person encounters something that is ridiculous or comically contradictory. Watching someone “slip on a banana skin” and
fall down unexpectedly is a classic situation in which the observer can’t keep from being amused,
at least initially. Typically, people remain upright and keep their balance. But in this case the person didn’t—creating a visible gap between what was expected and what actually happened.
Satire deals with contradictions. It is the literary art that calls attention to the difference between
what a particular thing should be and what it actually is. Or between the way a particular person
should behave, and how that person is actually behaving. The writer of satire exaggerates or criticizes such conditions, but blends ridicule with gentle humor—intending to encourage change or
improvement.
Of course, not all literature is humorous. But because delight and enjoyment are universally associated with imaginary activities, it is appropriate to begin a study of literature with three selections
intended to be amusing. Each one is satirical; each criticizes human behavior often seen in marriage and romantic relationships.
• “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty”: If you know someone who always seems to be caught
up in daydreams and thoughts that have little to do with day-to-day matters, then you’ll
immediately recognize Walter Mitty in James Thurber’s story; he is a habitual dreamer.
Thurber treats Mitty’s actions humorously, but notice how the humor calls our attention to the need for communication in human relationships—in marriage relationships in
particular
• “A Subaltern’s Love Song”: Gentle teasing is a form of humor. We all like to use it because
it allows us to make statements or observations that are ambiguous: that is, statements
that have more than one meaning or can be interpreted in more than one way. Writers, especially poets, often use ambiguity to raise questions or suggest outcomes. In this
poem, the romantic outcome is clear, but whether it was the soldier’s scheme or Miss
Dunn’s that brought the outcome about remains ambiguous.
• I’m Going!: We use the word farce in our day-to-day conversations to refer to something
ludicrous or absurd. A farce is also a comedy, a play, in which both subtle humor and
hilarity are developed through improbable situations, exaggeration, and antics. The married-life conversation between Henri and Jeanne in this farcical drama is exaggerated to a
ridiculous level to create humor—and comment on inflexible human behavior
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James Thurber (1894–1961)
© Bettmann/CORBIS
He was born in Columbus, Ohio. While playing a game in his childhood,
he lost an eye. He spent his early career as a reporter for the Columbus Dispatch and the New York Evening Post. In 1927, he joined the staff of The New
Yorker, then a newsmagazine, and continued in a contributor’s role at The
New Yorker for many years, gaining recognition especially for cartoons,
drawings, and humorous works he contributed to the publication. “The
Secret Life of Walter Mitty” was originally published in The New Yorker in
1939. His memorable humor was chronicled in fiction, children’s books,
essays, and autobiographical sketches. His most enduring books are My
Life and Hard Times (1933) and The Thurber Carnival (1945), collections of
satire and whimsical autobiographical humor for which he is still known
worldwide. In this story Thurber introduces a daydreamer whose distractions cause disruptions in his relationships with his wife and others
that are humorous to observe.
The Secret Life of Walter Mitty
James Thurber (1939)
First daydream:
Mitty thinks he’s
a commander in
an 8-engine Navy
hydroplane.
Awakened by his
wife—they are
driving into the
city.
“We’re going through!” The Commander’s voice was like thin ice breaking. He wore his full-dress uniform, with the heavily braided white cap
pulled down rakishly over one cold gray eye. “We can’t make it, sir. It’s
spoiling for a hurricane, if you ask me.” “I’m not asking you, Lieutenant
Berg,” said the Commander. “Throw on the power lights! Rev her up to
8500! We’re going through!” The pounding of the cylinders increased:
ta-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa.1 The Commander stared
at the ice forming on the pilot window. He walked over and twisted
a row of complicated dials. “Switch on No. 8 auxiliary!” he shouted.
“Switch on No. 8 auxiliary!” repeated Lieutenant Berg. “Full strength in
No. 3 turret!” shouted the Commander. “Full strength in No. 3 turret!”2
The crew, bending to their various tasks in the huge, hurtling eightengined Navy hydroplane, looked at each other and grinned. “The Old
Man’ll get us through,” they said to one another. “The Old Man ain’t
afraid of hell!” . . .
“Not so fast! You’re driving too fast!” said Mrs. Mitty. “What are you
driving so fast for?”
“Hmm?” said Walter Mitty. He looked at his wife, in the seat beside
him, with shocked astonishment. She seemed grossly unfamiliar, like a
strange woman who had yelled at him in a crowd. “You were up to fiftyfive,” she said. “You know I don’t like to go more than forty. You were
1. Watch for other variations of this inventive expression in the story.
2. Mitty is misinformed. He mistakenly thinks that the action of the turrets moves the ship. James Ellis (1965) explains this
misconception by Mitty and other points of humor.
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up to fifty-five.” Walter Mitty drove on toward Waterbury in silence, the
roaring of the SN202 through the worst storm in twenty years of Navy
flying fading in the remote, intimate airways of his mind. “You’re tensed
up again,” said Mrs. Mitty. “It’s one of your days. I wish you’d let Dr. Renshaw look you over.”
Walter Mitty stopped the car in front of the building where his wife went
to have her hair done. “Remember to get those overshoes while I’m
having my hair done,” she said. “I don’t need overshoes,” said Mitty. She
put her mirror back into her bag. “We’ve been all through that,” she said,
getting out of the car. “You’re not a young man any longer.” He raced
the engine a little. “Why don’t you wear your gloves? Have you lost your
gloves?” Walter Mitty reached in a pocket and brought out the gloves.
He put them on, but after she had turned and gone into the building
and he had driven on to a red light, he took them off again. “Pick it up,
brother!” snapped a cop as the light changed, and Mitty hastily pulled on
his gloves and lurched ahead. He drove around the streets aimlessly for a
time, and then he drove past the hospital on his way to the parking lot.
Second daydream:
Mitty thinks he’s
a famous surgeon
asked to help a
rich Englishman,
who is a friend of
President
Roosevelt.
“It’s the millionaire banker, Wellington McMillan,” said the pretty nurse.
“Yes?” said Walter Mitty, removing his gloves slowly. “Who has the
case?” “Dr. Renshaw and Dr. Benbow, but there are two specialists here,
Dr. Remington from New York and Dr. Pritchard-Mitford from London.
He flew over.” A door opened down a long, cool corridor and Dr. Renshaw came out. He looked distraught and haggard. “Hello, Mitty,” he
said. “We’re having the devil’s own time with McMillan, the millionaire
banker and close personal friend of Roosevelt. Obstreosis of the ductal
tract.3 Tertiary. Wish you’d take a look at him.” “Glad to,” said Mitty.
5
In the operating room there were whispered introductions: “Dr. Remington, Dr. Mitty. Dr. Pritchard-Mitford, Dr. Mitty.” “I’ve read your book
on streptothricosis,” said Pritchard-Mitford, shaking hands. “A brilliant
performance, sir.” “Thank you,” said Walter Mitty. “Didn’t know you
were in the States, Mitty,” grumbled Remington. “Coals to Newcastle,
bringing Mitford and me up here for a tertiary.” “You are very kind,”
said Mitty. A huge, complicated machine, connected to the operating
table, with many tubes and wires, began at this moment to go pocketapocketa-pocketa. “The new anesthetizer is giving away!” shouted an
intern. “There is no one in the East who knows how to fix it!” “Quiet,
man!” said Mitty, in a low, cool voice. He sprang to the machine, which
was now going pocketa-pocketa-queep-pocketa-queep. He began
fingering delicately a row of glistening dials. “Give me a fountain pen!”
he snapped. Someone handed him a fountain pen. He pulled a faulty
piston out of the machine and inserted the pen in its place. “That will
hold for ten minutes,” he said. “Get on with the operation.” A nurse
hurried over and whispered to Renshaw, and Mitty saw the man turn
3. A nonsensical observation: Obstreosis is a disease that affects pigs and cattle (Ellis, 1965).
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pale. “Coreopsis4 has set in,” said Renshaw nervously. “If you would take
over, Mitty?” Mitty looked at him and at the craven figure of Benbow,
who drank, and at the grave, uncertain faces of the two great specialists.
“If you wish,” he said. They slipped a white gown on him, he adjusted a
mask and drew on thin gloves; nurses handed him shining . . .
Awakened by a
city parking lot
attendant, Mitty
becomes a little
testy.
“Back it up, Mac!! Look out for that Buick!” Walter Mitty jammed on the
brakes. “Wrong lane, Mac,” said the parking-lot attendant, looking at
Mitty closely. “Gee. Yeh,” muttered Mitty. He began cautiously to back out
of the lane marked “Exit Only.” “Leave her sit there,” said the attendant.
“I’ll put her away.” Mitty got out of the car. “Hey, better leave the key.”
“Oh,” said Mitty, handing the man the ignition key. The attendant vaulted
into the car, backed it up with insolent skill, and put it where it belonged.
They’re so damn cocky, thought Walter Mitty, walking along Main
Street; they think they know everything. Once he had tried to take his
chains off, outside New Milford, and he had got them wound around the
axles. A man had had to come out in a wrecking car and unwind them,
a young, grinning garageman. Since then Mrs. Mitty always made him
drive to a garage to have the chains taken off. The next time, he thought,
I’ll wear my right arm in a sling; they won’t grin at me then. I’ll have my
right arm in a sling and they’ll see I couldn’t possibly take the chains off
myself. He kicked at the slush on the sidewalk. “Overshoes,” he said to
himself, and he began looking for a shoe store.
When he came out into the street again, with the overshoes in a box
under his arm, Walter Mitty began to wonder what the other thing was
his wife had told him to get. She had told him, twice before they set out
from their house for Waterbury. In a way he hated these weekly trips to
town—he was always getting something wrong. Kleenex, he thought,
Squibb’s, razor blades? No. Toothpaste, toothbrush, bicarbonate,
carborundum, initiative and referendum? He gave it up. But she would
remember it. “Where’s the what’s-its-name?” she would ask. “Don’t tell
me you forgot the what’s-its-name.” A newsboy went by shouting something about the Waterbury trial.
Third daydream
as he walks the
streets of Waterbury: Mitty sees
himself as an
accused witness in
a courtroom trial.
. . . “Perhaps this will refresh your memory.” The District Attorney
suddenly thrust a heavy automatic at the quiet figure on the witness
stand. “Have you ever seen this before?’’ Walter Mitty took the gun
and examined it expertly. “This is my Webley-Vickers 50.80,”5 he said
calmly. An excited buzz ran around the courtroom. The Judge rapped for
order. “You are a crack shot with any sort of firearms, I believe?” said
the District Attorney, insinuatingly. “Objection!” shouted Mitty’s attorney. “We have shown that the defendant could not have fired the shot.
We have shown that he wore his right arm in a sling on the night of the
fourteenth of July.” Walter Mitty raised his hand briefly and the bickering
10
4. Coreopsis is a flower, not a disease (Ellis, 1965).
5. A made-up weapon, with exaggerated capacity: the diameter of such a pistol would be more than four feet (Ellis, 1965).
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attorneys were stilled. “With any known make of gun,” he said evenly,
“I could have killed Gregory Fitzhurst at three hundred feet with my left
hand.” Pandemonium broke loose in the courtroom. A woman’s scream
rose above the bedlam and suddenly a lovely, dark-haired girl was in
Walter Mitty’s arms. The District Attorney struck at her savagely. Without rising from his chair, Mitty let the man have it on the point of the
chin. “You miserable cur!” . . .
Awakened—as
he continues
down the street,
recalling his wife’s
request.
“Puppy biscuit,” said Walter Mitty. He stopped walking and the buildings
of Waterbury rose up out of the misty courtroom and surrounded him
again. A woman who was passing laughed. “He said ‘Puppy biscuit,’” she
said to her companion. “That man said ‘Puppy biscuit’ to himself.” Walter Mitty hurried on. He went into an A. & P., not the first one he came
to but a smaller one farther up the street. “I want some biscuit for small,
young dogs,” he said to the clerk. “Any special brand, sir?” The greatest
pistol shot in the world thought a moment. “It says ‘Puppies Bark for It’
on the box,” said Walter Mitty.
His wife would be through at the hairdresser’s in fifteen minutes, Mitty
saw in looking at his watch, unless they had trouble drying it; sometimes
they had trouble drying it. She didn’t like to get to the hotel first, she
would want him to be there waiting for her as usual. He found a big
leather chair in the lobby, facing a window, and he put the overshoes
and the puppy biscuit on the floor beside it. He picked up an old copy of
Liberty and sank down into the chair. “Can Germany Conquer the World
Through the Air?” Walter Mitty looked at the pictures of bombing planes
and of ruined streets.
Fourth daydream:
Mitty thinks he’s
a captain in a
war plane facing
heavy enemy
artillery.
“The cannonading6 has got the wind up in young Raleigh, sir,” said the
sergeant. Captain Mitty looked up at him through tousled hair. “Get
him to bed,” he said wearily, “with the others. I’ll fly alone.” “But you
can’t, sir,” said the sergeant anxiously. “It takes two men to handle that
bomber and the Archies7 are pounding hell out of the air. Von Richtman’s8 circus is between here and Saulier.” “Somebody’s got to get that
ammunition dump,” said Mitty. “I’m going over. Spot of brandy?” He
poured a drink for the sergeant and one for himself. War thundered
and whined around the dugout and battered at the door. There was a
rending of wood and splinters flew through the room. “A bit of a near
thing,” said Captain Mitty carelessly. “The box barrage is closing in,” said
the sergeant. “We only live once, Sergeant,” said Mitty, with his faint,
fleeting smile. “Or do we?” He poured another brandy and tossed it off.
“I never see a man could hold his brandy like you, sir,” said the sergeant.
“Begging your pardon, sir.” Captain Mitty stood up and strapped on his
huge Webley-Vickers automatic. “It’s forty kilometers through hell, sir,”
6. An assault with heavy artillery fire.
7. Archies is British Royal Air Force slang for anti-aircraft guns.
8. Incorrect identification: Reference should be to von Richthofen (Ellis, 1965).
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said the sergeant. Mitty finished one last brandy. “After all,” he said
softly, “what isn’t?” The pounding of the cannon increased; there was
the rat-tat-tatting of machine guns, and from somewhere came the
menacing pocketa-pocketa-pocketa of the new flame-throwers. Walter Mitty walked to the door of the dugout humming “Auprès de Ma
Blonde.”9 He turned and waved to the sergeant. “Cheerio!” he said.
Awakened by his
wife, finding him
in the hotel.
Something struck his shoulder. “I’ve been looking all over this hotel for
you,” said Mrs. Mitty. “Why do you have to hide in this old chair? How
did you expect me to find you?” “Things close in,” said Walter Mitty
vaguely. “What?” Mrs. Mitty said. “Did you get the what’s-its-name? The
puppy biscuit? What’s in that box?” “Overshoes,” said Mitty. “Couldn’t
you have put them on in the store?” “I was thinking,” said Walter Mitty.
“Does it ever occur to you that I am sometimes thinking?” She looked
at him. “I’m going to take your temperature when I get you home,” she
said.
Final daydream:
Mitty imagines
himself facing
a firing squad
bravely.
They went out through the revolving doors that made a faintly derisive whistling sound when you pushed them. It was two blocks to the
parking lot. At the drugstore on the corner she said, “Wait here for me.
I forgot something. I won’t be a minute.” She was more than a minute.
Walter Mitty lighted a cigarette. It began to rain, rain with sleet in it.
He stood up against the wall of the drugstore, smoking. . . . He put his
shoulders back and his heels together. “To hell with the handkerchief,”
said Walter Mitty scornfully. He took one last drag on his cigarette and
snapped it away. Then, with that faint, fleeting smile playing about his
lips, he faced the firing squad; erect and motionless, proud and disdainful, Walter Mitty the Undefeated, inscrutable to the last.
15
“The Secret Life of Walter Mitty” from My World and Welcome to It by James Thurber. Copyright © 1942 by
Rosemary A.Thurber. Reprinted by arrangement with Rosemary A. Thurber and The Barbara Hogenson Agency.
Connecting: Questions about what made your reading worthwhile
Annotations (explanatory notes and comments) are included in the margin in this story—
and will be used in various places in the book—to help you grasp the structure and other
aspects of a literary work.
1. What allowed you to make an imaginary connection to this story? Was it a recollection
of someone you knew? A relationship you’ve observed?
2. At what points in the story does Thurber use humor to gently criticize (satirize) Mrs.
Mitty? Explain why you think these images suggest (or do not suggest) that she is
nagging.
3. “I was thinking. Does it ever occur to you that I am sometimes thinking?” (Paragraph
14). Explain what makes this statement of Mitty’s humorous but also serious.
9. Auprès de Ma Blonde is a French folk song composed in the 1600s. Its title can be translated “Near My Fair-Haired Lady”
or “Next to My Dear One.”
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Sir John Betjeman (1906–1984)
© John Garrett/CORBIS
Born into a successful upper-middle-class family in London in 1906, he
began his early schooling at Highgate, where the British poet T. S. Eliot
was one of his teachers. Later, when he entered Oxford, he had C. S.
Lewis—still a young classical scholar at that time—as his tutor. He left
Oxford without graduating, but published his first book of poems while
enrolled there. He wrote guidebooks for locations in England and published several books of poetry, with his Collected Poems (1958) achieving
wide distribution and appreciation for its wry comic verse. During the
last couple of decades of his life, Betjeman was a familiar figure in public
broadcasting in England, exhibiting his lighthearted manner. He became
poet laureate in 1972.
A Subaltern’s Love Song
John Betjeman (1945) Click here to listen: http://www.poetryarchive.org/poetryarchive/singlePoem.do?poemId=1537
Miss J. Hunter Dunn, Miss J. Hunter Dunn,
Furnish’d and burnish’d by Aldershot1 sun,
What strenuous singles we played after tea,
We in the tournament—you against me!
Love-thirty, love-forty, oh! weakness of joy,
The speed of a swallow, the grace of a boy,
With carefullest carelessness, gaily you won,
I am weak from your loveliness, Joan Hunter Dunn.
Miss Joan Hunter Dunn, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn,
How mad I am, sad I am, glad that you won,
The warm-handled racket is back in its press,
But my shock-headed victor, she loves me no less.
Her father’s euonymus2 shines as we walk,
And swing past the summer-house, buried in talk,
And cool the verandah that welcomes us in
To the six-o’clock news and a lime-juice and gin.
The scent of the conifers, sound of the bath,
The view from my bedroom of moss-dappled path,
As I struggle with double-end evening tie,
For we dance at the Golf Club, my victor and I.
5
10
15
20
1. Aldershot, a British army town.
2. Euonymus, a short evergreen shrub.
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On the floor of her bedroom lie blazer and shorts,
And the cream-coloured walls are be-trophied with sports,
And westering, questioning settles the sun,
On your low-leaded window, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn.
The Hillman3 is waiting, the light’s in the hall,
The pictures of Egypt are bright on the wall,
My sweet, I am standing beside the oak stair
And there on the landing’s the light on your hair.
By roads “not adopted,” by woodlanded ways,
She drove to the club in the late summer haze,
Into nine-o’clock Camberley,4 heavy with bells
And mushroomy, pine-woody, evergreen smells.
Miss Joan Hunter Dunn, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn,
I can hear from the car park the dance has begun,
Oh! full Surrey5 twilight! importunate band!
Oh! strongly adorable tennis-girl’s hand!
Around us are Rovers6 and Austins afar,
Above us the intimate roof of the car,
And here on my right is the girl of my choice,
With the tilt of her nose and the chime of her voice.
25
30
35
40
And the scent of her wrap, and the words never said,
And the ominous, ominous dancing ahead.
We sat in the car park till twenty to one
And now I’m engaged to Miss Joan Hunter Dunn.
“A Subaltern’s Love Song,” from Collected Poems, by John Betjeman © The Estate of John Betjeman 1955, 1958,
1962, 1964, 1968, 1970, 1979, 1981, 1982, 2001. Reproduced by permission of John Murray (Publishers).
Connecting: Questions about what made your reading worthwhile
1. What allowed you to make imaginary connection to this poem? In what ways did the
audio presentation by the author help you to connect to “A Subaltern’s Love Song”?
2. What particular characteristic of the woman is exaggerated by her name, “Hunter
Dunn”? Which of her actions reveal this characteristic most clearly?
3. What is your view Miss Dunn? Of the subaltern? Does the author satirize one person’s
actions more than the other’s?
3. Hillman, a British-made car.
4. Camberley, a town in Surrey County, England.
5. Surrey, a county located on the southwest border of Greater London.
6. Rover, an upscale English car.
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Tristan Bernard (1866–1947)
A French dramatist, named Paul Bernard at birth, he adopted the pseudonym Tristan Bernard at age 25 when he began to be popularly known
as a writer. Much of his work exposed the foibles (including political,
economic, and social practices) in the bourgeois society of his time. In
numerous plays and stories, he approached these ordinary human behaviors with delight and humor. Although many of his comedies were farces,
through them he managed to get across fresh, philosophic insights on life
that created wide respect for his work.
© Hulton-Deutsch
Collection/CORBIS
I’m Going! A Comedy in One Act
Tristan Bernard (English translation, 1915)
Persons Represented: Henri, Jeanne, his wife
Scene: A room in the apartment of Henri and Jeanne, in Paris.
Time: The present
Scene: A small and well-furnished room. As the curtain rises, enter Jeanne, left, followed by Henri.
She sits down on a sofa which is down-stage to the left. Henri goes up to the window at the back,
then comes down-stage, sitting on a chair to the right, near a small table, where there is a coffee
service.
Henri: Weather is always the same: every Sunday it’s superb until noon, then it’s
cloudy and a little rainy—or else there’s a big thunderstorm. It’s always that way
when I want to go to the races!
Jeanne: Are you going this afternoon?
Henri: (A little nervous) Of course, didn’t you know? I told you this morning.
Jeanne: You want to lose more money!
Henri: You know I never bet.
Jeanne: Then you’re going to leave me all alone? Take me with you!
Henri: No, no; that’s not the idea. When I go alone, I take a cab and pay five francs
for it; that’s my total. I know the doorkeeper and I can always find some friend to
drive me around. Now if you go with me, I must get a special carriage, and that
costs twenty francs.
10
Jeanne: We paid only fifteen last week.
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Section 1.1 Connecting: Entering Into a Literary Experience
CHAPTER 1
Henri: Because the weather was bad. In any event, I have to buy a lady’s ticket for
you—ten francs! Personally, I can’t see the use in spending thirty francs—well, say
twenty-five—for something that gives you no pleasure. You’ve told me a hundred
times you don’t like horse-racing. And as for me, when I go with you, I don’t have
a good time.
Jeanne: You are polite!
Henri: No, I have a good time only when I go alone. When you are with me, I
can’t run about, I can’t look at the stables, or the judges’ stands, or anything.
When I’m alone, I can do as I please. And then, if you go I must put on my best
clothes—these are old moth-eaten ones—and I can never have a good time in
new clothes. If you insist on going out with me, let’s go for a walk or a drive, but
not to the races.
20
Jeanne: Yes, up the Champs-Elysées together! And have you looking daggers at
me all the time! Whenever I do go with you, you’re always making disagreeable
remarks.
Henri: Because you are in a bad humor—you’ll never give me your arm.
Jeanne: It looks too foolish for words.
30
Henri: If you’d only walk like a human being! But you seem to take particular
pleasure in walking as fast as your feet will carry you. For instance, I’m walking at
your right, and you want to pass someone in front of us; well, you walk directly in
front of me and don’t leave me an inch of room. Then I’ve got to run fast in order
to catch up to you. Now, it isn’t right that I should have to run to keep up to you,
especially as I should be at your side and not have it look as if you were unaccompanied. Think of the remarks people make to you!
Jeanne: But you allow me to go out unaccompanied!
Henri: I do, but
Jeanne: Yes, because you don’t care what people say to me when you aren’t there
to have to demand an apology!
40
Henri: Anyway, I don’t care to go out with you. And since you don’t like it either
Jeanne: Oh, of course, I don’t beam with pleasure, but I should enjoy it if you only
behaved decently, and weren’t always making disagreeable remarks. I’d as soon
go out with you as with anyone else.
Henri: (After a pause) What time is it?
Jeanne: No time: the little clock over there hasn’t been running for a week.
Henri: I’ll find out in the kitchen.
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Section 1.1 Connecting: Entering Into a Literary Experience
CHAPTER 1
Jeanne: You know very well that the cook never has the right time; she’s always
half an hour fast or half an hour slow, depending on whether dinner is ready or
not.
50
Henri: I’m going now, and I shan’t need a carriage. I’ll take the train at the SaintLazare Station. (He is about to kiss Jeanne)
Jeanne: Then you’re really going to leave me alone? Very well!
Henri: (Seating himself by Jeanne) Come now, dear, what difference does it make
to you if I’m going out for a little innocent amusement? Why, if I stayed you would
only be bored to death!
Jeanne: Nice, isn’t it, for me to stay quietly at home while Monsieur goes out to
amuse himself!
Henri: But this is no kind of weather for a walk or a drive!
60
Jeanne: Is it any better to go to the races?
Henri: Of course it is. They race in all kinds of weather. I can’t deny that it isn’t so
amusing when it rains—why, to-day, for instance I know I’m not going to be wildly
amused.
Jeanne: Then why don’t you take me?
Henri: I’ve told you already—then it’s going to rain and you’d spoil your dress.
Jeanne: I’ll put on an old one.
Henri: But you won’t have a good time. (He rises impatiently) No, I think it’s
absurd to throw away thirty francs a day like this. You would blame me for my
extravagance for a week to come.
70
Jeanne: I know it seems absurd to spend thirty francs to go to the races; I’d rather
go to the theater and have supper after.
Henri: You’re quite right. You are a very reasonable little woman—very practical.
Now I’m going! (He goes to her) Do you want me to go?
Jeanne: Do just as you please.
Henri: Tell me you want me to go.
Jeanne: You are perfectly free.
Henri: I won’t go if you’re going to be sulky.
Jeanne: You really can’t expect me to leap for joy when you leave me all alone and
go off for the day on a pleasure trip?
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Henri: Aren’t you going out?
Jeanne: Where should I go?
Henri: For a little walk—you need the air. (He once more tries, to say good-by)
Well, then—There you are, sulking! (Irritated) You’re a stubborn little minx!
Jeanne: Why?
Henri: Because you sulk merely to spoil my pleasure. It’s absurd of me to allow
myself to be affected. You know I enjoy the races—Well, I’m going! (He takes his
opera-glasses and hat) How selfish women are! (Returning to his wife) Good-by—
kiss me, won’t you?
Jeanne: No!
90
Henri: Why not? (Sulkily) Now she won’t kiss me!
Jeanne: Why should I kiss a man who calls me a stubborn little minx?
Henri: Oh, very well then! (Laying down his opera-glasses and hat) I see you want
to keep me from going to the races. I hope you are satisfied now? I’m not going!
And I had a twenty-franc ticket. I’m going to tear it up! (He takes the ticket from his
pocket) I’ll tear it! Are you going to let me? It’s worth twenty francs?
Jeanne: It is if you use it. But you can’t sell it, therefore it isn’t worth a sou.1
Henri: (Returning the ticket to his pocket) Now, dearest, let me make a proposal.
(He sits down by her) You know I love you—I’ll stay another fifteen minutes, and I
shan’t take the train at Saint-Lazare; I’ll take a cab at the door.
100
Jeanne: If you’re going you’d better go at once and save the cab-fare.
Henri: You think so? I’m going! Good-by! Kiss me. (He rises and kisses her)
Jeanne: There!
Henri: Now!
Jeanne: Oh, you make me tired! (She rises and goes into her room, left. Henri
then takes up his opera-glasses and hat again and starts to go, then hesitates and
sits down. Re-enter Jeanne a moment later) What, haven’t you gone yet? (Henri
makes no answer) There is nothing to prevent your going. I’m going out myself.
Henri: Where are you going?
1. Sou is French slang for a small coin of little value.
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Section 1.1 Connecting: Entering Into a Literary Experience
CHAPTER 1
Jeanne: To send a telegram to Juliette. She is going to be home all day, and she
said I might come to see her.
110
Henri: Good! I see! (He rises) I’m going! Good-by!
Jeanne: Good-by, dearest. (Henri is at the door) Have a good time.
Henri: (Stopping and looking at her intently) What?
Jeanne: I say have a good time.
Henri: Are you glad I’m going?
Jeanne: Very, because you like the races.
Henri: Then I think I’ll stay. (He lays his opera-glasses and hat on the little table
and then sits down. He is somewhat preoccupied) It’s not natural for you to be so
pleased. Will you kindly show me the telegram you are sending to Juliette?
120
Jeanne: Why so mysterious? Here it is. (She shows him the telegram)
Henri: You let me have it very quickly! You’re not usually so obedient when I ask
you for something. You must have some reason!
Jeanne: My dear, you are stark staring mad!
Henri: Yes—you think me blind, don’t you? This telegram to Juliette—! It’s a signal, that’s what it is ! It’s your revenge! Ha!
Jeanne: How absurd you are! I shan’t answer.
Henri: Wiser for you, eh?—Oh, dear, and I’ll miss the first race! Well, I prefer not
to go under these circumstances. My pleasure is spoiled anyway. I want to stay
with you!
130
Jeanne: This is too absurd!
Henri: Yes, I know. I’ll be in your way. Of course, you and Juliette had it all
arranged—I know you were going to meet someone—but I tell you I’m not the
man to be trifled with! (Angrily) I’ll have a talk with him!
Jeanne: I haven’t the honor of knowing Him!
Henri: Meantime I shall wait here—(He strikes the table with his fist) in peace and
quiet!
Jeanne: (Exasperated, as she thrusts his hat on his head) Listen to me, now: go to
the races. You’ve got on my nerves, and I don’t intend to spend the whole afternoon with a disagreeable creature like you!
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Henri: I am here and I am going to stay here. You can’t move me!
Jeanne: But what are you afraid of?
Henri: (Darkly) I don’t want you to go to Juliette’s—or anywhere else.
Jeanne: You may take me to Juliette’s if you like.
Henri: Do you want me to? (He rises) Very well, put on your hat. (She starts to go
to her room but he takes her by the hand) Really? Look me in the eye. Do you want
me to take you to Juliette’s?
Jeanne: Yes, I do. Well?
Henri: Then I’m going to the races. I see—you mean it. Good-by, dear—(He kisses
her) Now, do you know what would give me a great deal of pleasure? I’d like you
to stay here and not go to Juliette’s.
150
Jeanne: Oh, indeed! You’re not satisfied to leave me all alone and neglected, but
you even insist on my not going out! (Sobbing) Ah right, then, I won’t go out! I’ll
stay here!
Henri: (Moved) There, there, dear! Don’t cry! I’ll stay with you, my dear little girl!
Jeanne: (Tearfully) I see you do love me—in your way!
Henri: (Taking her in his arms) Of course I do! See, I’m willing to sacrifice my
whole afternoon for you. I do it willingly, joyfully. (A pause) Joyfully. (Another
pause. He kisses her on the forehead) Now if I were in your place, I know what I
should say to my dear little husband. (He embraces her) I should say: “My dear,
you have proved to me that you love me, and I won’t accept your sacrifice—”
(Jeanne breaks away from him) Jeanne, we aren’t children, we can see and think
clearly like rational human beings. Let us not ruin our happiness by making useless sacrifices.
160
Jeanne: That’s a nice theory, but you only act on it when you want to use it for your
own pleasure. You know how I adore dancing, and you never take me, because
you say you detest it.
Henri: But that isn’t the same thing, dearest! I have to take you to dances, while
you aren’t forced to accompany me to the races.
Jeanne: But that’s what I want to do! Take me!
170
Henri: It’s raining.
Jeanne: It’s not raining.
Henri: It will soon.—What time is it?
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Section 1.1 Connecting: Entering Into a Literary Experience
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Jeanne: (With a sigh) Time for you to go!
Henri: (Effusively) Thank you! Then you don’t care if I do go?
Jeanne: Not in the least.
Henri: And you aren’t going out yourself? Are you going to stay here all alone and
neglected?
Jeanne: Yes, all alone and neglected.
Henri: Dear girl! (He rises) Well, now for the races! (He takes the opera-glasses
and hat and goes to the door at the right as he looks at Jeanne with an air of tenderness) Good-bye, dearest! (He goes out)
180
Jeanne: (Waits for a moment, listens, and hears the outer door close, then rises,
and goes to the door at the back. She speaks to someone off-stage) Marie, don’t
go before you get me a large cup of chocolate. Bring two rolls, too. Oh, and go at
once to my room and bring me my box of ribbons and those old hats. (She comes
down-stage, and says beaming) What fun I’ll have trimming hats!
CURTAIN.
This selection is in the public domain
Connecting: Questions about what made your reading worthwhile
1. Did Henri’s declaration, beginning at line 157, change the imaginative connection you
made through reading the play?
2. What aspects of marriage relationships are treated humorously by the author? Why is
the humor effective?
3. What feelings or emotions are you most aware of when you connect imaginatively to
“The Secret Life of Walter Mitty,” to “A Subaltern’s Love Song,” and to I’m Going!?
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Section 1.2 Summary and Selections
CHAPTER 1
1.2 Summary and Selections
W
hen this section is included at the end of a chapter, it provides a brief summary of the
concepts, explanations, and discussions presented in the chapter. It calls attention to
the essential insights you should have gained. At the same time, it asks you to think
again about the literature you have read in the chapter—and reflect on the reasons each piece of
literature was selected.
Chapter 1 introduces the study of literature by identifying two ideas that every reader must understand: literature exists in the imaginary world of its creator, and it is accessible (experienced)
through intentional imaginary connection to the creator’s world. Because delight and enjoyment
are universally associated with imaginary activities, it is appropriate to begin a study of literature
by reading works in which humor creates these responses—as well as penetrating insights.
The Secret Life of Walter Mitty
Selected to show how humor can be used imaginatively in a story to illustrate the need for communication in human relationships: Mitty’s immersion in extraordinary matters of his dream world
blocks him from sensitivity to his wife’s ordinary life concerns—and from knowing whether her
“making him” do things expresses true caring or just nagging.
A Subaltern’s Love Song
Selected to show how humor can be used imaginatively in a poem to explore the complexity of
romantic relationships: By being nonchalant about losing at tennis and being driven to the dance,
the military man may not have adequately anticipated what his situation would be when his evening “engagement” with Miss J. Hunter Dunn was done!
I’m Going! A Comedy in One Act
Selected to show how humor can be used imaginatively in a short play to expose inflexibility that
sometimes develops in marriage relationships: There’s little doubt from the outset about what
Henri will do; he won’t change his mind; he’s going to the races! And Jeanne’s tantalizing requests
indicate that her Sunday activity preferences are unchanged! It may have been strong once, but
trust is no longer the basis for reconciling their Sunday entertainment dilemma.
Key Literary Terms and Concepts Presented in This Chapter
Ambiguity: Use of language that has more than
one meaning, creating uncertainty about how
to interpret what has been stated.
Farce: A comedy; a short play, in which both subtle humor and hilarity are developed through
improbable situations, exaggeration and (often)
ridiculous antics.
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Genre: A category or type of literature, both
the broadest categories of literature—prose,
poetry, and drama—and specific types of literature within these categories.
Imagination: The human power that shapes
artistic expression; it enables a writer’s work to
become an expression of meaning in our world,
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Section 1.2 Summary and Selections
and allows readers to engage in identifying with
what the writer’s work has to say about things
that matter.
Satire: The literary art that calls attention to
the difference between what a particular thing
should be and what it actually is. Or between
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CHAPTER 1
the way a particular person should behave
and how that person is actually behaving. The
writer of satire exaggerates or criticizes such
conditions but blends ridicule with gentle
humor—often intending to encourage change
or improvement.
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