The False Gems PDF

GOOD BOOKS Lesson no. 6 (FRANCE: The False Gems; SPAIN: Don Quixote) LITERATURE OF FRANCE THE FALSE GEMS by Guy de Maupassant Henri René Albert Guy de Maupassant was a 19th-century French author, celebrated as a master of the short story, as w...

GOOD BOOKS Lesson no. 6 (FRANCE: The False Gems; SPAIN: Don Quixote) LITERATURE OF FRANCE THE FALSE GEMS by Guy de Maupassant Henri René Albert Guy de Maupassant was a 19th-century French author, celebrated as a master of the short story, as well as a representative of the naturalist school, depicting human lives, destinies and social forces in disillusioned and often pessimistic terms. Monsieur Lantin had met the young girl at a reception at the house of the second head of his department and had fallen head over heels in love with her. She was the daughter of a provincial tax collector, who had been dead several years. She and her mother came to live in Paris, where the latter made the acquaintance of some of the families in her neighborhood, hoped to find a husband for her daughter. They had very moderate means, and were honorable, gentle and quiet. The young girl was a perfect type of the virtuous woman in whose hands every sensible young man dreams one day entrusting his happiness. Her simple beauty had the charm of angelic modesty, and the imperceptible smile which constantly hovered about the lips seemed to be the reflection of a pure and lovely soul. Her praises resounded on every side. People never tired of repeating: “Happy the man who wins her love! He could not find a better wife.” Monsieur Lantin, then chief clerk in the Department of the Interior, enjoyed a snug little salary of three thousand five hundred francs, and he proposed to this model young girl, and was accepted. He was unspeakably happy with her; she governed his household with such clever economy that they seemed to live in luxury. She lavished the most delicate attentions on her husband, coaxed and fondled him, and so great was her charm that six years after their marriage, Monsieur Lantin discovered that he loved his wife even more than during the first days of their honeymoon. He found fault with only two of her taste: her love for the theater, and her taste for imitation jewelry. Her friends (the wives of some petty officials) frequently procured for her a box at the theater, often for the first representations of the new plays, and her husband was obliged to accompany her, whether he wished to or not, to this entertainment which bored him excessively after his day’s work at the office.  After a time, Monsieur Lantin begged his wife to request some lady of her acquaintance to accompany her, and to bring her home after the theater. She opposed this arrangement first but after much persuasion, finally consented to the infinite delight of her husband. Now, with her love for theater came also the desire for ornaments. Her costumes remained as before, simple, in good taste, and always modest, but she soon began to adorn her ears with huge rhinestones, which glittered and sparkled like real diamonds. Around her neck she wore strings of false pearls, on her arms bracelets of imitation gold, and combs set with glass jewels. Her husband frequently remonstrated her saying: “My dear, as you cannot afford to buy real jewelry, you ought to appear adorned with your beauty and modesty alone, which are the rarest ornaments of your sex.” But she would smile sweetly, and say: “What can I do? I am so fond of jewelry.” “It is my only weakness. We cannot change our nature.” Then she would wind the pearl necklace round her fingers, make the facets of the crystal gems sparkle, and say: “Look! Are they no lovely? One would swear they were real.” Monsieur Lantin wound then answer, smilingly: “You have bohemian tastes, my dear.” Sometimes of an evening when they were enjoying a tete-a-tete by the fireside, she would place on the tea table the morocco leather box containing the “trash” as Monsieur Lantin called it. She would examine the false gems with the passionate attention, as though they imported some deep and secret joy, and she often persisted in passing a necklace around her husband’s neck, and laughing heartily, would exclaim: “How droll you look! Then she would throw herself into his arms, and kiss him affectionately.” One evening in winter, she had been to the opera and returned home chilled through and through. The next morning, she coughed and eight days later she died of inflammation of the lungs. Monsieur Lantin’s despair was so great that his hair became white in one month. He wept unceasingly; his heart was broken as he remembered her smile, her voice, every charm of his dead wife. Time did not assuage his grief. Often, during office hours, while his colleagues were discussing the topics of the lady, his eyes would suddenly fill with tears, and he would give vent to his grief in heartrending sobs. Everything in his wife’s room remained as it was during her lifetime; all her furniture, even clothing, being left as was on the day of her death. Here he secludes himself daily and think of her who had been his treasure – the joy of his existence. But life soon became a struggle. His income, which, in the hands of his wife, covered all household expenses, was now no longer sufficient for his own immediate wants, and he wondered how she could have managed to buy such excellent wine and rare delicacies which he could no longer procure with his modest resources. He incurred some debts and was soon reduced to absolute poverty. One morning, finding himself without a cent in his pocket, he resolved to sell something and immediately, the thought occurred to him of disposing of his wife’s paste jewels, for he cherished in his heart a sort of rancor against these “deceptions,” which had always irritated him in the past. The very sight of them spoiled, somewhat, the memory of his lost darling. To the last days of her life, she had continued to make purchases, bringing home new gems almost every evening, and he turned them over some time before finally deciding to sell the heavy necklace which she seemed to prefer and which, he thought, ought to be worth about six or seven francs for it was of very fine workmanship, though only imitation. He put it in his pocket and started out in search of what seemed a reliable jeweller’s shop. At length, he found one and went in, feeling a little ashamed to expose his misery and also to offer such worthless article for sale. “Sir,” said he to the merchant, “I would like to know what this is worth.” The man took the necklace, examined it, called his clerk, and made some remarks in an undertone; he then put the ornament back on the counter and looked at it from a distance to judge the effect. Monsieur Lantin, annoyed at all these ceremonies was on the point of saying: “Oh! I know well enough it is not worth anything,” when the jeweler said: “Sir, that necklace is worth from twelve to fifteen thousand francs, but I could not buy it unless you can tell me exactly where it came from.” The widower opened her eyes wide and remained gaping, not comprehending the merchant’s meaning. Finally, he stammered: “You say – are you sure?” The other replied dryly: “You can try elsewhere and see it worth fifteen thousand at most. Come back here if you cannot do better.” Monsieur Lantin, beside himself with astonishment, took up the necklace and left the store. He wished time for reflection. Once outside, he felt inclined to laugh, and said to himself: “The fool! Oh! The fool! Had I only taken him at his word! That jeweler cannot distinguish real diamonds from the imitations article.” A few minutes after, he entered another store, in the Rue de la Parix. As soon as the proprietor glanced at the necklace, he cried out. “Ah, parleul I know it well; it was brought here.” Monsieur Lantin, greatly disturbed, asked: “How much is it worth?”  “Well, I sold it for twenty thousand francs. I am willing to take it back for eighteen thousand, when you inform me, according to legal formality, how it came to be in your possession.” This time, Monsieur Lantin was dumbfounded. He replied, “But- but- examine it well. Until this moment, I was under the impression that it was imitation.” The jeweler asked: “What is your name, sir?” “Lantin- I am in the employ of the Minister of the Interior. I live at number sixteen Rue des Martyrs.” The merchant looked through his books, found the entry, and said: “That necklace was sent to Madame Lantin’s address sixteen Rue des Martyrs, July 20, 1876.” The two men looked into each other’s eyes – the widower speechless with astonishment; the jeweler scenting a thief. The latter broke the silence. “Will you leave this necklace here for twenty-four hours?” said he. “I will give you a receipt.” Monsieur Lantin answered hastily: “Yes, certainly.” Then, putting the ticket in his pocket, he left the store. He wandered aimlessly through the streets, his mind in a state of dreadful confusion. He tried to reason, to understand. His wife could not afford to purchase such a costly ornament. Certainly not. But then, it must have been a present! A present! Present, from whom? Why was it given to her? He stopped and remained standing in the middle of the street. A horrible doubt entered his mind – she? Then all the other jewels must have been presents, too! The earth seemed to tremble beneath him – the three before him to be falling; he threw up his arms, and fell to the ground, unconscious. He recovered his senses in a pharmacy, into which the passers- by had borne him. He asked to be taken home and when he reached the house, he shut himself up in his room, and wept until nightfall. Finally, overcome with fatigue, he went to bed and fell into a heavy sleep. The sun awoke him next morning, and he began to dress slowly to go to the office. It was hard to work after such shocks. He sent a letter to his employer, requesting to be excused. Then he remembered that he had to return to the jeweller’s. He did not like the idea, but he could not leave the necklace with that man. He dressed and went out. It was a lovely day; clear, blue sky smiled on the busy city below. Men of leisure were strolling about with their hands in their pockets.  Monsieur Lantin, observing them, said to himself: “The rich, indeed, are happy. With money it is possible to forget even the deepest sorrow. One can go where one pleases; it is the surest cure for grief. Oh! If I were only rich!” He perceived that he was hungry but his pocket was empty. He again remembered the necklace. Eighteen thousand francs! Eighteen thousand francs! What a sum! He soon arrived in the Rue de la Paix, opposite of the jeweller’s. Eighteen thousand francs! Twenty time he resolved to go in, butt shame kept him back. He was hungry, however- very hungry- and not a cent in his pocket. He decided quickly, ran across the street, in order not to have time for reflection, and rushed into the store. The proprietor immediately came forward and politely offered him a chair; the clerks glanced at him knowingly. “I have made inquiries, Monsieur Lantin,” said the jeweller, “and if you are still resolved to dispose of the gems, I am ready to pay you the priced I offered.” “Certainly Sir,” stammered Monsieur Lantin. Whereupon the proprietor took from a drawer eighteen large bills, counted, and handed them to Monsieur Lantin, who signed a receipt, and with trembling hand, put the money into his pocket. As he was about to leave the store, he turned toward the merchant, who still wore the same knowing smile, and lowering his eyes, said: “I have – I have other gems which came from the same source. Will you buy them, also?” The merchant bowed, “Certainly sir.” Monsieur Lantin said gravely, “I will bring them to you.” An hour later, he returned with the gems. The large diamond earrings were worth twenty thousand francs; the bracelets, thirty five thousand; the rings, sixteen thousand; a set of emeralds and sapphires, fourteen thousand; a gold chain with solitaire pendant, forty thousand – making the sum of one hundred and forty- three thousand francs. The jeweler remarked, jokingly, “There was a person who invested all her savings in precious stones.” Monsieur Lantin replied seriously, “It is only another way of investing one’s money.”  That day, he lunched at Voisin’s and drank wine worth twenty francs a bottle. The he hired a carriage and made a tour of the Bois. He gazed at the various turnouts with a kind of disdain, and could hardly refrain from crying out to the occupants: “I, too, am rich! - I am worth two hundred thousand francs.” Suddenly he thought of his employer. He drove to the bureau and entered gaily saying: “Sir, I have come to resign my position. I have just inherited three hundred thousand francs.” He shook hands with his former colleagues and confided to them some of his projects for the future; he then went off to dine at the Café Anglais. He seated himself beside a gentleman of aristocratic bearing and during the meal, informed the latter confidentially, that he has just inherited a fortune of hour hundred thousand francs. For the first time in his life, he was not bored at the theater and spent the remainder of the night in a gay folic. Six months afterward, he married again. His second wife was a virtuous woman but has a violent temper. She caused him much sorrow. LITERATURE OF SPAIN DON QUIXOTE by Miguel De Cervantes Saavedra (1547-1616) Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra was a Spanish novelist, poet, and playwright. His magnum opus, Don Quixote, considered the first modern novel by many, is a classic of Western literature and is regularly regarded among the best novels ever written. His work is considered among the most important in all literature. His influence on the Spanish language has been so great that Spanish is often called la lengua de Cervantes (The language of Cervantes). He has been dubbed el Principe de los Ingenuos (The Prince of Wits). In 1585, Cervantes published a partoral novel, La Galatea. In 1597, discrepancies in his accounts of three years landed him in the Crown Jaile of Seville. In 1605, he was in Valladolid, just when the immediate success of the first part of his Don Quijote, published in Madrid, signaled his return to the literary world. In 1607, he settled in Madrid where he lived and worked until his death. During the last nine years of his life, Cervantes solidified his reputation as a writer; he published the Exemplary Novels (Novelas ejemplares) in 1613, the Journey to Parnassus in 1614, and in 1615, the Ocho comedias y ocho entremeses and the second part of Don Quixote. Excerpt These preparations being made, he found his designs ripe for action, and thought it now a crime to deny himself any longer to injured world, that wanted such a deliverer; the more when he considered what grievances he was to red dress, what wrongs and injuries to remove, what abuses to correct, and what duties to discharge. So one morning before day, in the greatest heat of July, without acquainting anyone with his design, with all the secrecy imaginable, he armed himself cap-a-pie, laced on his ill-contrived helmet, braced on the target, grasped his lance, mounted Rozinante, and at the private door on his backyard sallied out into the fields wonderfully pleased to see with how much ease he had succeeded in the beginning of his enterprise. But he had not gone far ere, a terrible thought alarmed him, a thought that would have made him renounce his great undertaking, for now it came into his mind that the honor of knighthood had not yet been conferred upon him, and therefore, according to the laws of chivalry, he neither could nor ought to appear in arms against any professed knight: nay, he also considered, that though he were already knighted, it would become him to wear white armor, and not to adorn his shield with any device, till he had deserved one by some extraordinary demonstration of his valor. These thoughts staggered his resolution, but his folly prevailing more than any reason, he resolved to be dubbed a knight by the first he should meet, after the example of several others, who, as his distracting romances informed him, had formerly done the like. As for the other difficulty about wearing white armor, he proposed to overcome it by scouring his own at leisure till it should look whiter than ermine. And having thus dismissed these busy scruples, he very calmly rode on, leaving it to his horse’s discretion to go which way he pleased, firmly believing that in this consisted the very being of adventures… Some authors say, that his first adventure what's that of the pass called Puerto Lapice; others, that of the windmills, but all that I could discover of certainty in this matter, is that he traveled all that day, and, toward the evening, he and his horse being heartily tired, and almost vanished, Don Quixote looking about him in hopes to discover some castle, or at least some shepherd’s cottage, there to repose and refresh himself; at last, near the road which he kept, he espied an inn as welcome a sight to his longing eyes, as if he had discovered a star directing him to the gate, nay, to the palace of his redemption. Thereupon hastening towards the inn with all the speech he could, he got thither just at the close of the evening. There stood by chance at the inn-door, two young female adventurers, alias common winches, who were going to Sevil with some carriers, that happened to take up their lodging there that very evening; as whatever our knight errant saw, though, imagined, was all of a romantic cast, and appeared to him altogether after the manner of the books that had perverted his imagination, he no sooner saw the inn, but he fancied it to be a castle fenced with four towers and lofty pinnacles, glittering with silver, together with a deep moat, drawbridge, and all those appurtenances other peculiar to such kind of places. Therefore when he came near it, he stopped awhile at a distance from the gate, expecting that some dwarf would appear on the battlements, and sound his trumpet to give notice of the arrival of a knight, but finding that nobody came, in that Rozinante was making the best of his way to the stable, he advanced to the inn-door, where, spying the two young doxies, they seemed to him two beautiful damselsm or graceful ladies taking the benefit of the fresh air at the gate of the castle. It happened also at the very moment, that as swineherd, getting together his hogs from the stubble-field, winded his horn, and Don Quixote presently imagine this was the wished-for signal which some dwarf gave to notify his approach; therefore, with the greatest joy in the world he rode up to the inn. The wenches, affrighted at the approach of a man cast in iron and armed with the lance and target, were for running into their lodging, but Don Quixote, perceiving their fear by their flight, lifted up the pasteboard beaver of his helmet, and discovering his withered, dusty face, with comely grace and grave delivery accosted them in this manner: “I beseech ye, ladies, do not fly, nor fear the least offense: the order of knighthood, which I profess, does not permit me to countenance or offer injuries to anyone in the universe, and least of all to virgins of such high rank as your presence the denotes.” The wenches looked earnestly upon him, endeavoring to get a glimpse of his face, which his ill-contrived beaver partly hid, but when they heard themselves styled virgins, a thing so out of the way of their profession, they could not forbear laughing out right, which Don Quixote resented as a great affront. “Give me leave to tell ye, ladies,” cried he “that modesty and civility are very becoming in the fair sex, whereas laughter without ground it's the highest price of indiscretion, however” added he, “I do not presume to say this to offend you, or incur your displeasure; no ladies, I assure you I have no other design but to do your service.” This uncommon way of expression, joined to the knight’s scurvy figure, increased their mirth, which incensed him to that degree, that this might have carried things to an extremity, had not the innkeeper luckily appeared at that juncture. He was a man whose burden of fat inclined him to peace and quietness, yet when he had observed such a strange disguise of human shape, in his old armor and equipage, he could hardly forebear keeping the wenches company in their laughter, but having the fear of such a warlike appearance before his eyes, he resolved to give him good words, and therefore accosted him civilly, “Sir Knight,” said he, “if your worship be disposed to alight, you will fail off nothing here but of a bed; as for all other accommodations, you may be supplied to your mind.” With that he went and held Don Quixote’s stirrup, who having not broken his fast that day, dismounted with no small trouble or difficulty. He immediately desired the governor (that is, the innkeeper), to take special care of his steed, assuring him that there was not a better in the universe, upon which the innkeeper viewed him narrowly, but could not think him to be a half so good as Don Quixote said. However, having set him up in the stable, he came back to the Knight to see what he wanted, and found him pulling off his armor by the help of the good- natured wenches, who had already reconciled themselves to him but though they had east him of his corslet and back-plate, they could by no means undo his gorget, nor of his ill-contrived beaver, which he had died so fast with green ribbons that it was impossible to get it off without cutting them; now he would by no means permit that and and so was forced to keep on his helmet all night, which was one of the most pleasant sights in the world. while his armor was being taken off by the two kind lasses, imagining them to be persons of quality and ladies of that castle, he very gratefully made them the following compliment (in imitation of an old romance). “O Rozinante! For that is my horse’s name, ladies and mine Don Quixote de la Mancha; I never thought to have discovered it, till some feats of arms, achieved by me in your service, had made me better known to your ladyships, but the necessity forcing me to apply to present purpose death passage of the ancient romance of Sir Lancelot, which I now repeat, has extorted the secret for me before its time, yet a day will come when you shall command and I obey and then the valor of my arm shall evince the reality of my zeal to serve your ladyships.” The two females, who were not used to such rhetorical speeches, could make no answer to this; they only asked him whether he would eat anything. “that I will with all my heart,” cried Don Quixote, “however it be, for I am of opinion, nothing can come to me more seasonably.” Thereupon they lay the cloth of the inn-door for the benefit of the fresh air, and the landlord brought him a piece of that saltfish, but ill-watered and as ill-dressed, and As for the bread, it was as moldy and brown as the Knight’s armor, but it would have made one laugh to have seen him eat for having his helmet on, with this beaver lifted up, it was impossible for him to feed himself without help so that one of those ladies had that office, but there was no giving him drink that way, and he must have gone without it had not the innkeeper board a cane and setting one end of it to his mouth, pour the wine in at the other, all which the Knight suffered patiently because he would not cut the ribbons that fastened his helmet…