NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

1804-1864

He is the founder of a morally-psychological trend in the American romanticism.

Hawthorne was born in Salem, Mass. He was a descendant of John Hathorne, a judge at the Salem witch trails. Hawthorne felt guilt for the actions of his Puritan ancestors and added the w to his last name to further distance himself from his heritage. Hawthorne’s boyhood was not especially happy. His father, a sea captain, died when he was four, and Hawthorne grew up under the gloom and seclusion of a grieving widow. Nathaniel was slightly lame as a young child, and subsequently spent a great deal of his time reading the great literary masters.

In 1821, at the age of 17, Hawthorne left Salem to live with his uncle at Sebago Lake, Maine and attend Bowdoin College. After college, Hawthorne dedicated himself to writing and went into isolation for twelve years. During this time, he wrote for long hours every day, hoping to develop his craft. He spent summers traveling around New England and New York, and there met and eventually married Sophia Amelia Peabody, a marriage that provided both happiness and inspiration to Hawthorne. In 1837 he came out of seclusion and published “Twice Told Tales”, a collection of short stories. Because literary fame came late to Hawthorne, he was forced to work for a number of years as the Surveyor of Port at Salem. Not until he published “The Scarlet Letter” in 1850 did he gain international recognition as a writer. In 1851 he completed the romance “The House of the Seven Gables”. Despite his success, Hawthorne had a difficult time supporting his family. During the last years of his life, Hawthorne became increasingly depressed over money, the Civil War, and his inability to write. After his wife's death, Hawthorne was appointed United States Consul to Liverpool, England, and made his first voyage to Europe. Hawthorne spent seven years overseas, taking a number of trips throughout the continent, and wrote almost nothing during his years there. He returned to Salem at the end of his life, and completed a few sketches about his experiences in Europe, and a final novel, “The Marble Faun”. He died in 1864 while visiting New Hampshire with his old friend former President Franklin Pierce.

The collection of “TWICE-TOLD TALES” (1837) deals with America’s past and its legends in a romantic way. The themes of his works are connected with the history of New England, with the mode of life and customs of the first colonists. Appeal to the past helped Hawthorne to understand the present. In the novelettes he showed his mastery in depicting of bright and strong characters, which are capable to the resolute and unexpected deeds.

“THE SCARLET LETTER” (1850), a historical novel of the colonial period, shows the hypocrisy of the American puritan bourgeoisie. The action of the novel is set in the 17^th century in Boston, a gloomy puritan town, “the heart” of which is a square with a pillory and tools of an execution. The book begins with the scene on the town square: a criminal – Hester Prynne, the wife of an old man, accused of adultery is brought out at a pillory. Being married, Ester gave the birth to a child of an unknown person, having refused of revealing his name.

Hester has come to Boston from Amsterdam two years earlier. She is married to a misshapen scholar and physician who is much older than she. He has sent her alone to New England with plans to follow her at some later date. Since two years have passed with no word from him, Hester believes that he has been lost at sea.

As she stands on the scaffold, Hester notices two people in the crowd. The first is Arthur Dimmesdale, the leader of the local Puritan church and Hester's minister. The second man is Roger Chillingworth, her misshapen husband. When he realizes that his young wife is being publicly shamed for committing adultery, his anger knows no bounds. He clearly states that the man responsible for the act should also be punished along with Hester. He vows to find the unnamed father of the baby and have his revenge.

Hester is sentenced to life punishment: she has to bear on her breast a mark of a disgrace - an embroidered scarlet letter “A” (the first letter of the word “adulteress”). The judges exile Hester and her little daughter from the town, and she lives in an absolute loneliness.

The years pass and Hester's daughter Pearl grows into an impetuous little girl. Hester has moved with Pearl into a small cottage on the outskirts of town and makes her living by embroidering and sewing clothing for the townspeople. Roger Chillingworth befriends Hester's Pastor, Arthur Dimmesdale, and the two eventually move in together. Chillingworth has claimed himself as a physician, and therefore able to care for Dimmesdale, who is in very poor health. Chillingworth discovers an open, self-inflicted wound on Dimmesdale's chest.

Dimmesdale's health continues to decline, and Chillingworth's character changes noticeably. He becomes a demon-like presence in Dimmesdale's life. Hester notices this change in Chillingworth and confronts him. It is suddenly clear that Chillingworth has determined that Dimmesdale is Pearl's father, and that Chillingworth intends to make Dimmesdale's life a living hell. Hester understands the situation and decides to tell Dimmesdale who Chillingworth really is.

In a surprise and secret meeting with Arthur Dimmesdale, Hester reveals her secret, and begs a defeated and angry Dimmesdale for forgiveness. He eventually grants forgiveness, and agrees to leave the colony with Hester and Pearl as soon as possible. In the meantime, Dimmesdale prepares for his final sermon, the Election Sermon given on the day the local officials are sworn into office. After the sermon is over, Dimmesdale leaves the church and approaches the town scaffold[21]. As he climbs the steps, he comes upon Hester and Pearl standing in the shadows, and pulls them onto the scaffold with him. The Reverend Arthur Dimmesdale then tells the people that he is also a sinner like Hester, and that he should have assumed his rightful place by her side over seven years earlier. He then rips open his shirt to reveal a scarlet letter on his flesh. Dimmesdale falls to his knees, takes Pearl's hand to confess his fatherhood and dies while on the scaffold.

Chillingworth dies shortly thereafter. Hester and Pearl go to Europe for many years, and Hester eventually returns without her daughter. No one knows where Pearl is, although Hester is seen sewing extravagant baby clothing that no one in the colony would ever use. In addition, Hester continues to receive letters from a man of great means throughout the rest of her life. She lives a long life, and serves as counselor to many troubled women, as well as a giver of charity. She still wears the scarlet letter, even though it is not expected. In fact, when the villagers see the scarlet they think of it as standing for Ability, for Hester has become a friend and counselor to them. When she dies, Hester is buried next to Dimmesdale's sunken grave.

DISCUSSION:

1. Discuss the significance of the title of the book.

2. Who is the main character in “The Scarlet Letter” – Hester Prynne or Arthur Dimmesdale? Explain.

3. Contrast Hester's scarlet letter to Dimmesdale's scarlet letter.

4. Explain the major changes that occur in Hester's life during the novel.

5. What are the reasons behind Dimmesdale's physical deterioration?

6. What is Chillingworth's sin and why is it judged to be the worse sin in the book?

7. Discuss the double life of any leading character in the novel.

8. What picture of Puritan society is gathered from the novel?

You may have heard about Ponce de Leon, the Spanish explorer who traveled throughout Florida searching for a mysterious “fountain of youth”. People thought that this fountain would make old people young again. Although the fountain was a myth, the search for solutions to the problems of aging has gone throughout history. What products or techniques have you seen advertised that promise to make people younger? Brainstorm with your classmates and come up with a list. Discuss what your findings say about our society’s attitudes toward youth and aging. Compare today’s attitudes with those in the story below.

Before you read

An allegory is a work of literature in which people, objects, and events stand for abstract qualities such as evil, compassions, greed etc. Allegories are written not only to entertain but to teach a lesson or moral principle. Identify the quality or idea of the four guests in the story. Draw a chart similar to the one below and complete it as you read the story.

“DR. HEIDEGGER’S EXPERIMENT”

That very singular man, old Dr. Heidegger, once invited four venerable friends to meet him in his study. There were three white-bearded gentlemen, Mr. Medbourne, Colonel Killigrew, and Mr. Gascoigne, and a withered gentlewoman, whose name was the Widow Wycherly. They were all melancholy old creatures, who had been unfortunate in life, and whose greatest misfortune it was that they were not long ago in their graves.

Mr. Medbourne, in the vigor of his age, had been a prosperous merchant, but had lost his all by a frantic speculation, and was now little better than a beggar. Colonel Killigrew had wasted his best years, and his health and substance, in the pursuit of sinful pleasures, which had given birth to a brood of pains, such as the gout, and divers other torments of soul and body. Mr. Gascoigne was a ruined politician, a man of evil fame, or at least had been so till time had buried him from the knowledge of the present generation, and made him obscure instead of infamous. As for the Widow Wycherly, tradition tells us that she was a great beauty in her day; but, for a long while past, she had lived in deep isolation, on account of certain scandalous stories which had prejudiced the gentry of the town against her. It is a circumstance worth mentioning that each of these three old gentlemen, Mr. Medbourne, Colonel Killigrew, and Mr. Gascoigne, were early lovers of the Widow Wycherly, and had once been on the point of cutting each other's throats for her sake. And, before proceeding further, I will merely hint that Dr. Heidegger and all his foul guests were sometimes thought to be a little beside themselves, - as is not infrequently the case with old people, when worried either by present troubles or woeful recollections.

“My dear old friends”, said Dr. Heidegger, motioning them to be seated, “I am desirous of your assistance in one of those little experiments with which I amuse myself here in my study.”

If all stories were true, Dr. Heidegger's study must have been a very curious place. It was a dim, old-fashioned chamber, festooned with cobwebs, and besprinkled with antique dust. Around the walls stood several oaken bookcases, the lower shelves of which were filled with rows of gigantic folios and black-letter quartos, and the upper with little parchment-covered duodecimos. Over the central bookcase was a bronze bust of Hippocrates, with which, according to some authorities, Dr. Heidegger was accustomed to hold consultations in all difficult cases of his practice. In the obscurest corner of the room stood a tall and narrow oaken closet, with its door ajar, within which doubtfully appeared a skeleton. Between two of the bookcases hung a looking-glass, presenting its high and dusty plate within a tarnished gilt frame. Among many wonderful stories related of this mirror, it was fabled that the spirits of all the doctor's deceased patients dwelt within its verge, and would stare him in the face whenever he looked toward it. The opposite side of the chamber was ornamented with the full-length portrait of a young lady, arrayed in the faded magnificence of silk, satin, and brocade, and with a visage as faded as her dress. Above half a century ago, Dr. Heidegger had been on the point of marriage with this young lady; but, being affected with some slight disorder, she had swallowed one of her lover's prescriptions, and died on the bridal evening. The greatest curiosity of the study remains to be mentioned; it was a ponderous folio volume, bound in black leather, with massive silver clasps. There were no letters on the back, and nobody could tell the title of the book. But it was well known to be a book of magic; and once, when a chambermaid had lifted it, merely to brush away the dust, the skeleton had rattled in its closet, the picture of the young lady had stepped one foot upon the floor, and several ghastly faces had peeped forth from the mirror; while the brazen head of Hippocrates frowned, and said, - “Forbear!”

Such was Dr. Heidegger's study. On the summer afternoon of our tale a small round table, as black as ebony, stood in the centre of the room, sustaining a cut-glass vase of beautiful form and elaborate workmanship. The sunshine came through the window, between the heavy festoons of two faded damask curtains, and fell directly across this vase; so that a mild splendor was reflected from it on the ashen visages of the five old people who sat around. Four champagne glasses were also on the table.

“My dear old friends,” repeated Dr. Heidegger, “may I reckon on your aid in performing an exceedingly curious experiment?”

Now Dr. Heidegger was a very strange old gentleman, whose eccentricity had become the nucleus for a thousand fantastic stories. Some of these fables, to my shame be it spoken, might possibly be traced back to my own honest self; and if any passages of the present tale should startle the reader's faith, I must be content to bear the stigma of a fiction monger.

When the doctor's four guests heard him talk of his proposed experiment, they anticipated nothing more wonderful than the murder of a mouse in an air pump, or the examination of a cobweb by the microscope, or some similar nonsense, with which he was constantly in the habit of pestering his close friends. But without waiting for a reply, Dr. Heidegger hobbled across the chamber, and returned with the same ponderous folio, bound in black leather, which common report affirmed to be a book of magic. Undoing the silver clasps, he opened the volume, and took from among its black-letter pages a rose, or what was once a rose, though now the green leaves and crimson petals had assumed one brownish hue, and the ancient flower seemed ready to crumble to dust in the doctor's hands.

“This rose,” said Dr. Heidegger, with a sigh, “this same withered and crumbling flower, blossomed five and fifty years ago. It was given me by Sylvia Ward, whose portrait hangs yonder; and I meant to wear it in my bosom at our wedding. Five and fifty years it has been treasured between the leaves of this old volume. Now, would you deem it possible that this rose of half a century could ever bloom again?”

“Nonsense!” said the Widow Wycherly, with an impatient toss of her head. “You might as well ask whether an old woman's wrinkled face could ever bloom again.”

“See!” answered Dr. Heidegger.

He uncovered the vase, and threw the faded rose into the water which it contained. At first, it lay lightly on the surface of the fluid, appearing to absorb none of its moisture. Soon, however, a singular change began to be visible. The crushed and dried petals stirred, and assumed a deepening tinge of crimson, as if the flower were reviving from a deathlike slumber; the slender stalk and twigs of foliage became green; and there was the rose of half a century, looking as fresh as when Sylvia Ward had first given it to her lover. It was scarcely full blown; for some of its delicate red leaves curled modestly around its moist bosom, within which two or three dewdrops were sparkling.

“That is certainly a very pretty deception,” said the doctor's friends; carelessly, however, for they had witnessed greater miracles at a magician's show; “pray how was it effected?”

“Did you never hear of the ‘Fountain of Youth’?” asked Dr. Heidegger, “which Ponce De Leon, the Spanish adventurer, went in search of two or three centuries ago?”

“But did Ponce De Leon ever find it?” said the Widow Wycherly.

“No,” answered Dr. Heidegger, “for he never sought it in the right place. The famous Fountain of Youth, if I am rightly informed, is situated in the southern part of the Floridian peninsula, not far from Lake Macaco. Its source is overshadowed by several gigantic magnolias, which, though numberless centuries old, have been kept as fresh as violets by the virtues of this wonderful water. An acquaintance of mine, knowing my curiosity in such matters, has sent me what you see in the vase.”

“Ahem!” said Colonel Killigrew, who believed not a word of the doctor's story; “and what may be the effect of this fluid on the human frame?”

“You shall judge for yourself, my dear colonel,” replied Dr. Heidegger; “and all of you, my respected friends, are welcome to so much of this admirable fluid as may restore to you the bloom of youth. For my own part, having had much trouble in growing old, I am in no hurry to grow young again. With your permission, therefore, I will merely watch the progress of the experiment.”

While he spoke, Dr. Heidegger had been filling the four champagne glasses with the water of the Fountain of Youth. It was apparently filled with an effervescent gas, for little bubbles were continually ascending from the depths of the glasses, and bursting in silvery spray at the surface. As the liquor diffused a pleasant perfume, the old people doubted not that it possessed cordial and comfortable properties; and though utter skeptics as to its rejuvenescent power, they were inclined to swallow it at once. But Dr. Heidegger besought them to stay a moment.

“Before you drink, my respectable old friends,” said he, “it would be well that, with the experience of a lifetime to direct you, you should draw up a few general rules for your guidance, in passing a second time through the perils of youth. Think what a sin and shame it would be, if, with your peculiar advantages, you should not become patterns of virtue and wisdom to all the young people of the age!”

The doctor's four venerable friends made him no answer, except by a feeble and tremulous laugh; so very ridiculous was the idea that, knowing how closely repentance treads behind the steps of error, they should ever go astray again.

“Drink, then,” said the doctor, bowing: “I rejoice that I have so well selected the subjects of my experiment.”

With palsied hands, they raised the glasses to their lips. The liquor, if it really possessed such virtues as Dr. Heidegger imputed to it, could not have been bestowed on four human beings who needed it more woefully. They looked as if they had never known what youth or pleasure was, but had been the offspring of Nature's dotage, and always the gray, decrepit, sapless, miserable creatures, who now sat stooping round the doctor's table, without life enough in their souls or bodies to be animated even by the prospect of growing young again. They drank off the water, and replaced their glasses on the table.

Assuredly there was an almost immediate improvement in the aspect of the party, not unlike what might have been produced by a glass of generous wine, together with a sudden glow of cheerful sunshine brightening over all their visages at once. There was a healthful glow on their cheeks, instead of the ashen hue that had made them look so corpse-like. They gazed at one another, and fancied that some magic power had really begun to smooth away the deep and sad inscriptions which Father Time had been so long engraving on their brows. The Widow Wycherly adjusted her cap, for she felt almost like a woman again.

“Give us more of this wondrous water!” cried they, eagerly. “We are younger - but we are still too old! Quick--give us more!”

“Patience, patience!” quoth Dr. Heidegger, who sat watching the experiment with philosophic coolness. “You have been a long time growing old. Surely, you might be content to grow young in half an hour! But the water is at your service.”

Again he filled their glasses with the liquor of youth, enough of which still remained in the vase to turn half the old people in the city to the age of their own grandchildren. While the bubbles were yet sparkling on the brim, the doctor's four guests snatched their glasses from the table, and swallowed the contents at a single gulp. Was it delusion? even while the draught was passing down their throats, it seemed to have wrought a change on their whole systems. Their eyes grew clear and bright; a dark shade deepened among their silvery locks, they sat around the table, three gentlemen of middle age, and a woman, hardly beyond her buxom prime.

“My dear widow, you are charming!” cried Colonel Killigrew, whose eyes had been fixed upon her face, while the shadows of age were flitting from it like darkness from the crimson daybreak.

The fair widow knew, of old, that Colonel Killigrew's compliments were not always measured by sober truth; so she started up and ran to the mirror, still dreading that the ugly visage of an old woman would meet her gaze. Meanwhile, the three gentlemen behaved in such a manner as proved that the water of the Fountain of Youth possessed some intoxicating qualities; unless, indeed, their exhilaration of spirits were merely a lightsome dizziness caused by the sudden removal of the weight of years. Mr. Gascoigne's mind seemed to run on political topics, but whether relating to the past, present, or future, could not easily be determined, since the same ideas and phrases have been in vogue these fifty years. Now he rattled forth full-throated sentences about patriotism, national glory, and the people's right; now he muttered some perilous stuff or other, in a sly and doubtful whisper, so cautiously that even his own conscience could scarcely catch the secret; and now, again, he spoke in measured accents, and a deeply deferential tone, as if a royal ear were listening to his wellturned periods. Colonel Killigrew all this time had been trolling forth a jolly bottle song, and ringing his glass in symphony with the chorus, while his eyes wandered toward the buxom figure of the Widow Wycherly. On the other side of the table, Mr. Medbourne was involved in a calculation of dollars and cents, with which was strangely intermingled a project for supplying the East Indies with ice, by harnessing a team of whales to the polar icebergs.

As for the Widow Wycherly, she stood before the mirror courtesying and simpering to her own image, and greeting it as the friend whom she loved better than all the world beside. She thrust her face close to the glass, to see whether some long-remembered wrinkle or crow's foot had indeed vanished. She examined whether the snow had so entirely melted from her hair that the venerable cap could be safely thrown aside. At last, turning briskly away, she came with a sort of dancing step to the table.

“My dear old doctor,” cried she, “pray favor me with another glass!”

“Certainly, my dear madam, certainly!” replied the complaisant doctor; “see! I have already filled the glasses.”

There, in fact, stood the four glasses, brimful of this wonderful water, the delicate spray of which, as it effervesced from the surface, resembled the tremulous glitter of diamonds. It was now so nearly sunset that the chamber had grown duskier than ever; but a mild and moonlike splendor gleamed from within the vase, and rested alike on the four guests and on the doctor's venerable figure. He sat in a high-backed, elaborately-carved, oaken arm-chair, with a gray dignity of aspect that might have well befitted that very Father Time, whose power had never been doubted, save by this fortunate company. Even while drinking the third draught of the Fountain of Youth, they were almost awed by the expression of his mysterious visage.

But, the next moment, the exhilarating gush of young life shot through their veins. They were now in the happy prime of youth. Age, with its miserable train of cares and sorrows and diseases, was remembered only as the trouble of a dream, from which they had joyously awoke. The fresh gloss of the soul, so early lost, and without which the world's successive scenes had been but a gallery of faded pictures, again threw its enchantment over all their prospects. They felt like new-created beings in a new-created universe.

“We are young! We are young!” they cried exultingly.

Youth, like the extremity of age, had effaced the strongly-marked characteristics of middle life, and mutually assimilated them all. They were a group of merry youngsters, almost maddened with the exuberant frolicsomeness of their years. The most singular effect of their gayety was an impulse to mock the infirmity and decrepitude of which they had so lately been the victims. They laughed loudly at their old-fashioned attire, the wide-skirted coats and flapped waistcoats of the young men, and the ancient cap and gown of the blooming girl. One limped across the floor like a gouty grandfather; one set a pair of spectacles astride of his nose, and pretended to pore over the black-letter pages of the book of magic; a third seated himself in an arm-chair, and strove to imitate the venerable dignity of Dr. Heidegger. Then all shouted joyfully, and leaped about the room. The Widow Wycherly - if so fresh a damsel could be called a widow - tripped up to the doctor's chair, with a mischievous merriment in her rosy face.

“Doctor, you dear old soul,” cried she, “get up and dance with me!” And then the four young people laughed louder than ever, to think what a queer figure the poor old doctor would cut.

“Pray excuse me,” answered the doctor quietly. “I am old and rheumatic, and my dancing days were over long ago. But either of these gay young gentlemen will be glad of so pretty a partner.”

“Dance with me, Clara!” cried Colonel Killigrew

“No, no, I will be her partner!” shouted Mr. Gascoigne.

“She promised me her hand, fifty years ago!” exclaimed Mr. Medbourne.

They all gathered round her. One caught both her hands in his passionate grasp another threw his arm about her waist--the third buried his hand among the glossy curls that clustered beneath the widow's cap. Blushing, panting, struggling, chiding, laughing, her warm breath fanning each of their faces by turns, she strove to disengage herself, yet still remained in their triple embrace. Never was there a livelier picture of youthful rivalship, with bewitching beauty for the prize. Yet, by a strange deception, owing to the duskiness of the chamber, and the antique dresses which they still wore, the tall mirror is said to have reflected the figures of the three old, gray, withered old men, ridiculously contending for the skinny ugliness of a shriveled old woman.

But they were young: their burning passions proved them so. Inflamed to madness by the coquetry of the girl-widow, who neither granted nor quite withheld her favors, the three rivals began to interchange threatening glances. Still keeping hold of the fair prize, they grappled fiercely at one another's throats. As they struggled to and fro, the table was overturned, and the vase dashed into a thousand fragments. The precious Water of Youth flowed in a bright stream across the floor, moistening the wings of a butterfly, which, grown old in the decline of summer, had alighted there to die. The insect fluttered lightly through the chamber, and settled on the snowy head of Dr. Heidegger.

“Come, come, gentlemen! - come, Madam Wycherly,” exclaimed the doctor, “I really must protest against this riot.”

They stood still and shivered; for it seemed as if gray Time were calling them back from their sunny youth, far down into the chill and darksome vale of years. They looked at old Dr. Heidegger, who sat in his carved arm-chair, holding the rose of half a century, which he had rescued from among the fragments of the shattered vase. At the motion of his hand, the four rioters resumed their seats; the more readily, because their violent exertions had wearied them, youthful though they were.

“My poor Sylvia's rose!” ejaculated Dr. Heidegger, holding it in the light of the sunset clouds; “it appears to be fading again.”

And so it was. Even while the party were looking at it, the flower continued to shrivel up, till it became as dry and fragile as when the doctor had first thrown it into the vase. He shook off the few drops of moisture which clung to its petals.

“I love it as well thus as in its dewy freshness,” observed he, pressing the withered rose to his withered lips. While he spoke, the butterfly fluttered down from the doctor's snowy head, and fell upon the floor.

His guests shivered again. A strange chillness, whether of the body or spirit they could not tell, was creeping gradually over them all. They gazed at one another, and fancied that each fleeting moment snatched away a charm, and left a deepening wrinkle where none had been before. Was it an illusion? Had the changes of a lifetime been crowded into so brief a space, and were they now four aged people, sitting with their old friend, Dr. Heidegger?

“Are we grown old again, so soon?” cried they, sadly.

In truth they had. The Water of Youth possessed merely a virtue more transient than that of wine. The delirium which it created had effervesced away. Yes! they were old again. With a shuddering impulse, that showed her a woman still, the widow clasped her skinny hands before her face, and wished that the coffin lid were over it, since it could be no longer beautiful.

“Yes, friends, you are old again,” said Dr. Heidegger, “and lo! the Water of Youth is all lavished on the ground. Well – I bemoan it not; for if the fountain gushed at my very doorstep, I would not stoop to bathe my lips in it – no, though its delirium were for years instead of moments. Such is the lesson you have taught me!”

But the doctor's four friends had taught no such lesson to themselves. They resolved forthwith to make a pilgrimage to Florida, and quaff at morning, noon, and night, from the Fountain of Youth.

VOCABULARY:

singular – here strange

venerable – respectable

vigor – strength, vitality

gout – подагра

obscure – not well-known

infamous – having a bad reputation

gentry – people with high social rank

folios, quartos, duodecimos – different sizes of books

visage – facial appearance

forbear – stop, control yourself

stigma – клеймо позора

fiction monger – liar

Ponce de León – the Spanish explorer who discovered Florida.

effervescent – bubbling

rejuvenescent – making to feel or seem young again

tremulous – trembling

dotage – a feeble state due to old age

decrepit – worn out by old age, weak

aspect – appearance

quoth – said

trolling forth - singing out heartily

deferential – extremely respectful

complaisant - willing to please

exuberant frolicsomeness – high-spirited playfulness

strove to disengage herself – struggled to free herself

bemoan – regret

delirium – uncontrollably wild emotion

COMPREHENSION AND DISCUSSION:

1. What was your mood as the story ended? Why?

2. Why do you think Dr. Heidegger chose these four people for his experiment? Think of qualities the characters present and to what the four guests have in common.

3. Say what each of the four characters has lost.

4. Which thoughts and actions reveal that the guests have not learned from the mistakes of their youth?

5. Dr. Heidegger doesn’t want to become young again. What do you think of his reasons?

6. What do you think is the purpose of Dr. Heidegger’s experiment?

7. What does the rose symbolize?

8. Is the effect of the liquid physical or psychological?

9. The guests were recently old, yet they mock old age. Have the guests paid any attention to Dr. Heidegger’s warning?

10. What does the image in the mirror reveal about the characters?

11. What is the lesson that Dr. Heidegger has learned? What lesson does the story attempt to teach?

12. What does the author want to say when telling about the guests’ desire to find the fountain of youth?

13. If people could turn back time, do you think they would make the same mistakes all over again, as Dr. Heidegger suggests? Explain.

EDGAR ALLAN POE

1803-1849

In the history of literature Poe joined as a founder of psychological, science-fiction and detective novelette. He is known as the author of “horror stories”. He had written over 70 stories.

Poe’s tales may be divided into three types: tales of horror, detective stories and science fiction. The tales of horror represent a psychological study of anxiety and terror, of passion, anger, revenge and other emotions suffered by lone men who think they are destined for some strange fate. But whatever happens in the story, the hero always remains rational. All Poe’s stories exhibit some triumph of the mind over the danger to which the hero is, or seems doomed.

As a founder of a detective E. Poe showed himself in the stories“THE MURDER IN THE RUE MORGUE”, “THE MYSTERY OF MARY ROGET”, “THE PURLOINED LETTER”, which are untied by the image of a detective-amateur Auguste Dupin and make a trilogy. Poe proposed a certain model of narration, which was later used by A. Conan Doyle, A. Christie, G. Simenon: a crime, about which is told in the very beginning of the story; evidences of the witnesses; the logic of reasonings and conclusions of a detective; a commentary of the narrator and, as a result, determinance of criminal’s personality.

“The Murders in the Rue Morgue” introduces a new genre of short fiction to American literature: the detective story. The detective story emerged from Poe’s long-standing interest in mind games, puzzles, and secret codes called cryptographs, which Poe regularly published and decoded in the pages of the “Southern Literary Messenger”. “The Murders in the Rue Morgue,” along with the later story “The Purloined Letter,” allows Poe to sustain[22] a longer narrative in which he presents seemingly unsolvable puzzles that his hero, Auguste Dupin, can always master. Poe’s life is also relevant to “The Murders in the Rue Morgue.” The tale’s murders involve two women, and Poe spent his adult life with his wife, Virginia, and his aunt, Maria Clemm. The deaths of women resonate with Poe’s early childhood experience of watching his mother die and Francis Allan suffer. The chaotic and deathly Rue Morgue apartment symbolizes the personal tragedies involving women that afflicted[23] Poe’s life.

"THE PURLOINED LETTER"

Someone is openly, arrogantly blackmailing a royal by threatening to reveal a compromising letter. The success of the scheme rests on being able to produce the letter on a moment's notice. Despite being waylaid several times, and having his apartment ransacked, the blackmailer remains serenely confident. French police even dismantle his furniture and walls with scientific precision, yet are unable to discover the document. Dupin, after assessing the intelligence of the blackmailer, realizes that he must have hidden the letter in plain sight, in the 19^th century equivalent of a modern in-box. Dupin retrieves the letter and presents it to the police for a large reward.

At Paris, just after dark one gusty evening in the autumn of 18 – I was sitting with my friend Auguste Dupin at his house. We were sitting by the fire, smoking after dinner when there was a ring at the door bell. A moment later Dupin brought in his friend Georges Godinot, the head of the Paris Police.

“Sit down, Georges,” Dupin said. “Tell me what you have been doing. I am always interested in your cases.”

“I have come to tell you about a very unusual case,” said Georges. “The case is very simple, but I thought Dupin would like to hear the details of it because it is so odd.”

“Go on,” Dupin said.

“Well, I have received personal information, from a very high quarter, that a certain document of the last importance has been purloined from the royal apartments. The individual who purloined it is known; that beyond a doubt; he was seen to take it. It is known, also, that it still remains in his possession.”

“How is this known?” asked Dupin.

“From the nature of the document and from absence of any signs of using it.”

“Be a little more definite,” I said.

“The paper gives its holder a certain power. Revealing the document to a third person would bring in question of the honor, and this fact gives the holder of the document power over the famous personage whose honor and peace are under risk.”

“But this power,” I interrupted, “would depend upon the robber's knowledge of the loser's knowledge of the robber. Who would dare…”

“The thief,” said Georges, “is the Minister D… who dares all things, if they are in his interests. The theft was bold. The document – a letter – had been received by the personage robbed while alone in the royal boudoir. She opened it and was just going to read when she suddenly the other personage came in. This woman, a countess is a great talker: she talks to everyone in Paris and tells all the news. The personage robbed did not want the countess to see the letter. So she had to put the letter back in the envelope and lay it on the table. At this moment enters the Minister D... He saw the envelope on the table, with the initial “S”, recognized the handwriting of the address and became interested in the lady’s secret. During the conversation he took a letter from his own pocket and opened it as if to read it. Then he put it down on the table close to the other. After some fifteen minutes of conversation he left taking from the table the letter to which he has no claim. Its rightful owner saw, but, of course, could not say anything in the presence of the third person who stood at her elbow.”

“Have you looked for the letter?” Dupin asked.

“True. We searched the minister’s house, room by room devoting the nights of a whole week to each. My honor is interested, and, to mention a great secret, the reward is enormous. But we did not find the letter.”

“Well, then,” I said, “he may carry it in his pocket.”

“No. My men, pretending to be thieves, have attacked him twice. They took his clothes and money. But he wasn’t carrying the letter with him. And now, Dupin, what would you advise me to do?”

“To make a thorough research of the house.”

“That is absolutely needless,” replied Godinot. “I am not more sure that I breathe than I am that the letter is not in the house.”

“I have no better advice to give you,” said Dupin. “Can you describe the letter?”

“Oh, yes.” And here the Prefect took a little book from his pocket and read a full description of the letter and the envelope. Soon after finishing this description, Georges left us.

In about a month afterward he paid another visit. He took a pipe and a chair and entered into some ordinary conversation. At length I said:

“Well, but Georges, what of the purloined letter? Have you found it yet?”

“No. We searched the house again but with no result.”

“How much was the reward offered, did you say?” asked Dupin.

“I’m ready to pay fifty thousand francs for it to any one who could get me that letter. The fact is, it is becoming of more and more importance every day; and the reward has been lately doubled.”

“Well, then,” Dupin said, “I will give you the letter.”

Neither Georges nor myself could say a word. We sat quite still for a minute looking at Dupin. Without a word, Dupin went to his desk, took a letter from it and gave it to the prefect.

“Here is the letter,” Dupin said.

The Prefect opened it and read what was written on a piece of good white paper. He jumped out of his chair and ran to the door. He left the house without saying a word.

When he had gone, my friend entered into some explanations.

“The Paris Police usually get good results, but they have no imagination. They never try to imagine other people’s thoughts.”

“You mean,” I said, “that they always search in the same way – and in the same places.”

“Yes. And the minister is a man with imagination.”

“Go on,” I said. “Tell me how you found the letter.”

“First I thought about the minister himself. Such a man knows all about the police. He knew where they would look.”

“So what did you do?” I asked.

“One morning I put on a pair of dark glasses and went to the minister’s house and asked if he knew a good eye-doctor. While he was looking in his address book for the address of a doctor he knew, I looked carefully around the room. There were a lot of things which did not interest me very much. At last, I saw the fireplace and…”

“Yes? The fireplace and what?”

“An ordinary letter-holder hanging near the fireplace.”

“Was there anything in the letter-holder?” I asked.

“There were two or three cards and one letter. The envelope looked quite different from the description that Georges gave us. But I said to myself, “That is the letter we search for.”

“Do you mean that D… had changed the envelope?”

“Why not? It is easy to change the envelope. And the letter-holder was the most natural place for the letter in the house!”

“So, D… hadn’t hidden it at all, because he is a man with imagination!”

“From the police,” Dupin said, “he had hidden it very successfully. They never see a thing just in front of their noses.”

COMPREHENSION AND DISCUSSION:

1. Who took the letter from the table?

2. How did the police find out that the thief didn’t carry the letter with him?

3. Why was it important to find the letter?

4. How did Dupin find the letter?

5. Why does Poe choose to reveal the identity of the criminal from the beginning?

6. Why did Poe, an American writer, choose to give his story French characters and a French setting?

Date: 2015-12-11; view: 860