книги / Striving For Happiness. I Am a Part of All that I Have Met

Whatever the reason, our friendship remains in the context of a group. But the fact that our feeling on seeing each other is always, "I'm so glad she's here" and the fact that we spend halfthe evening talking together says that this too, in its own way, counts as a friendship.

7. Men who are friends. I wanted to write just of women friends, but the women I've talked to won't let me - they say I must mention man-woman friendships too. For these friendships can be just as close and as dear as those that we form with women. Listen

to Lucy's description of one such friendship:

"We've found we have things to talk about that are different from what he talks about with my husband and different from what I talk about with his wife. So sometimes we call on the phone or meet for lunch. There are similar intellectual interests - we always pass on to each other the book that we love - but there's also something tender and caring too."

In a couple of crises. Lucy says, "he offered himself for talking and for helping. And when someone died in his family he wanted me there. The sexual, flirty part of our friendship is very small - but some - just enough to make it fun and different." She thinks - and I agree - that the sexual part, though small, is always some, is always there when a man and a woman are friends.

It's only in the past few years that I've made friends with men, in the sense of a friendship that's mine, not just part of two couples. And achieving with them the ease and the trust I've found with women friends has value indeed. Because we care for each other. Because we're friends.

a medium friend, for example, that yesterday we had a fight with our husband. And wc might tell a pretty good friend that this fight with our husband made us mad. But it's only to our very best friend that we're willing to tell all that is going on in our heart.

The best of friends, I still believe, totally love and support and trust each other, and bare to each other the secrets of their souls, and run - no questions asked - to help each other, and tell harsh truths to each other when they must be told.

But we needn't agree about everything (only 12-year-old girl friends agree about everything) to tolerate each other's point of view. To accept without judgment. To give and to take without ever keeping score. And to be there, as I am for them and as they are for me, to comfort our sorrows, to celebrate our joys.

Answer thefollowing questions.

1.What does friendship mean to you?

2.Do you agree with the author of the essay that friendship serves different

functions?

3. What friends does the author call convenience friends? Do you have such friends?

4. What kind of friends are special interest friends? Do you have such friends? Do you need a shopping friend when you want to buy something?

5.What are historical friends? Do you think that some of the friends you have today will become your historical friends? What is necessary for that?

6.What friends does the author call crossroads friends?

7.Who can we call cross-generation friends? Why is it sometimes very useful

to have such kind of friend?

8.What are part-of-a-couple friends?

9.Do you agree with the author that when a man and a woman are friends there

should be some sexual part in their relationship?

10.Do you accept the author's point of view that there are medium friends, pretty good friends and the best friends?

11.What does the best friend mean to you?

Here is a story written by Katherine Mansfield, a master o f revealing women's psychology. Render the story and be ready to answer the questions after it.

Чашка чая

Розмари Фелл не была красивой. Хорошенькой? Ну, если вы разберете ее на части (to take smb. to pieces)... Она была молода, блестяща, современна, очень хорошо одета и начитанна.

Розмари была замужем два года. У нее был прекрасный сын. И муж обожал ее. Они были богаты, действительно богаты, а не просто обеспечены (to be well-off). Если она хотела сделать покупки, она ехала в Париж. Если она хотела купить цветы, ее машина останавливалась около магазина, и Розмари брала цветы целыми корзинами.

Однажды зимним днем она покупала что-то в маленьком антикварном магазине (an antique shop) на улице Курзон. Это был магазин, который она любила посещать. А человек, который держал его, любил обслуживать Розмари. Он улыбался, когда она входила. Он говорил, что она прекрасная женщина, и он рад видеть ее. Она понимала, что это лесть (flattery), но все равно это было ей приятно.

На этот раз хозяин предложил Розмари маленькую шкатулку. Он знал, что такие вещи нравятся Розмари, и потому никому ее не показывал. Розмари сняла длинные перчатки. Она всегда снимала перчатки, когда брала в руки подобные вещи. Да, это была прекрасная шкатулка. Она должна быть ее.

Но какова была цена? Сначала была пауза, а затем она услышала голос продав­ ца: «Двадцать восемь гиней, мадам».

Розмари поставила шкатулку. 28 гиней. Даже если ты богата... Она не знала, что делать. Затем сказала: «Оставьте ее для меня, пожалуйста. Я...»

Продавец поклонился (to bow). Он готов был исполнить ее просьбу. Дверь за­ крылась. Розмари вышла на улицу. Шел дождь. И вместе с ним спустилась темнота. Воздух был холодным, и фонари на улице выглядели печально. Огни в окнах напро­ тив тоже были печальными. Мимо проходили люди с зонтиками в руках. У Розмари внезапно сжалось сердце. Бывают такие минуты в жизни человека, когда все вокруг кажется печальным. Машина, конечно же, была рядомЕй нужно было только пере­ сечь тротуар. Но Розмари почему-то медлила (to linger)- И в этот самый момент со­ всем молодая тоненькая, почти прозрачная (transparent) девушка возникла около Роз­ мари, и голосом, похожим на вздох (a sigh) или рыдание (a sob) сказала: «Мадам, можно вас на минуточку?»

«Меня?» - удивилась Розмари. Она увидела перед собой маленькое худенькое существо примерно ее же возраста с огромными глазами. Девушка дрожала от холода.

«М-мадам, - сказала девушка заикаясь (to stutter)- - Вы не дадите мне денег на чашечку чая?»

«На чашечку чая? - Что-то в голосе девушки тронуло Розмари. - Что, у тебя со­ всем нет денег?» - спросила Розмари.

«Совсем нет», - последовал ответ.

«Как странно!» - Розмари снова посмотрела на девушку. Ей вдруг показалось, что эта встреча была необыкновенным приключением и чем-то напоминала ей рома­ ны Достоевского, которыми она увлекалась. «А что если я возьму ее домой?» - по­ думала она. Она часто читала о таких вещах в книгах- «Это было бы здорово!» Она подумала, как будут удивлены ее друзья. И Розмари пригласила девушку к себе до­ мой на чай.

Сначала девушка испугалась, думая, что Розмари поведет ее в полицейский уча­ сток. Но бедные люди доверчивы, и, поколебавшись минуту, она согласилась.

Шофер открыл дверь машины, и минуту спустя они ехали к дому Розмари. Роз­ мари была довольна. Она хотела доказать этой бедной девушке, что чудеса в жизни случаются, что среди богатых бывают добрые люди и что все женщины - сестры.

Наконец они подъехали к дому и вошли в холл. Розмари с любопытством на­ блюдала, как девушка воспринимала тепло, свет, приятный запах - все те вещи, к ко­ торым сама Розмари так привыкла, что не обращала на них внимание.

Розмари проводила девушку в свою роскошную спальню, где горел камин, по­ могла ей снять мокрое пальто и бросила его на пол. Она только хотела закурить, как девушка сказала: «Извините, мадам, но я сейчас потеряю сознание (to faint, to go off), если не съем что-нибудь». И расплакалась: «Я больше так не могу. Я этого не вынесу. Я покончу с собой».

Розмари показалось, что наступил момент, когда она должна была проявить свою доброту. Стоя на коленях у кресла, в котором сидела девушка, она достала свой кружевной платок и сказала: «Не плачь, бедняжка. Я позабочусь о тебе. Видишь, как хорошо, что ты встретила меня».

В этот момент принесли чай и бутерброды. Розмари смотрела, как гостья ест бу­ терброд за бутербродом, а сама только курила. Эффект от еды был поразительным. Перед Розмари сидело совершенно новое существо - на щеках появился румянец, глаза заблестели, губы обрели цвет.

Дверь в спальню открылась, и муж Розмари Филипп вошел в комнату. Увидев, что Розмари не одна, он извинился. Розмари представила ему девушку как свою под­ ругу, мисс Смит. Филипп сказал, что хотел бы поговорить с женой, и они прошли

вбиблиотеку. Когда они остались одни, Филипп спросил Розмари, что это за девушка

икак она оказалась в их доме.

Смеясь, Розмари ответила: «Я подобрала ее на улице. Она попросила меня дать ей денег на чашку чая».

Филипп удивился и спросил: «Что ты собираешься делать с ней дальше?» Роз­ мари улыбнулась: «Заботиться о ней. Пока не знаю, как... Мне просто так хочется».

Закуривая сигару, Филипп сказал: «Ты у меня сумасшедшая. Извини, если я груб, но мне кажется, что ты делаешь серьезную ошибку. К тому же она удивитель­ но хороша!»

«Хороша?» - Розмари была так удивлена, что даже покраснела. Она вышла из библиотеки, но направилась не в спальню, а в свой кабинет. Хороша! Красива! Сердце Розмари бешено колотилось. Она достала из стола пять банкнот по одному фунту, посмотрела на них, положила две банкноты назад и с тремя в руке вернулась в спальню.

Через полчаса Розмари подошла к Филиппу, который все еще был в библиотеке. Она сделала красивую прическу, подкрасила глаза и надела свое жемчужное (pearl) ожерелье. Обняв мужа, она сказала, что мисс Смит захотела уйти, и она не стала за­ держивать ее.

«Ты любишь меня?» - спросила она Филиппа. «Я обожаю тебя», - ответил он.

Последовала пауза. Затем Розмари сказала: «Сегодня в антикварном магазине я видела такую восхитительную шкатулку! Она стоит 28 гиней. Можно мне ее ку­ пить?». - «Конечно, моя маленькая транжира (my little waistful one)». Но на самом де­ ле Розмари хотела узнать не это. «Филипп, - прошептала она и, прижавшись к нему, спросила: - А я красивая?».

Answer thefollowing questions.

1.Why did Rosemary pick up the girl in the street?

2.Did Rosemary really believe that all women were sisters? Is there such a thing as

women’s friendship?

3.Why did Rosemary send the girl away?

4.How can you characterize Rosemary?

Render the text into English.

Мужская дружба

Ни для кого не является секретом, что психология мужчины отличается от пси­ хологии женщины. Это различие проявляется во всем: в их отношении к жизни, к ра­ боте, карьере, семье, любви и дружбе. Некоторые женщины считают, что мужчины - это просто другой биологический вид, что их интересует только футбол и пиво, что им не нужны близкие друзья, чтобы делиться тайнами своей души. Но на самом деле это не совсем так.

Просто они другие. Психологические исследования показывают, что эмоцио­ нальная жизнь мужчин так же сложна, как и у женщин. Просто мужчины проявляют свои чувства иначе. Они так же страдают от стресса, депрессии, одиночества. Все психологи, к примеру, утверждают, что мужчины сильнее женщин переживают раз­ вод. Они не знают, что делать, когда рушится привычный для них мир.

И, конечно, мужчины, как и женщины, нуждаются в друзьях. Отношения между мужчинами-друзьями могут казаться не очень близкими и эмоциональными. У них нет необходимости много разговаривать, обсуждать события дня, раскрывать тайны своей души. Они могут быть просто вместе, рядом. Они могут молчать, но при этом чувствовать эмоциональную близость, понимание и поддержку. Зачастую дела для них важнее слов. Мужчине не надо звонить по телефону другу, чтобы рассказать о своих отношениях с начальником, женой, девушкой. Мужчина не считает, что друг должен знать о нём всё. Для мужчины друг - человек хоть и важный, но не часть его самого.

Часто мужчины становятся друзьями, когда переживают сходные жизненные ситуации. Это делает их близкими на долгое время, даже если после этого они встре­ чаются не очень часто. Реже мужчины находят друзей на работе, так как для них ха­ рактерны амбициозность и дух соперничества. А для дружбы необходимо доверие.

Но чаще всего мужская дружба основывается на общем деле и общих интересах. Поэтому большинство мужчин находят друзей, когда они молоды: вместе учатся, вместе занимаются спортом, вместе начинают думать о карьере.

Давно известно, что женатые мужчины живут дольше, чем неженатые. Но не­ давно ученые выяснили, что и те люди, которые имеют верных друзей, тоже, как пра­ вило, живут дольше. Это объясняется тем, что хороший друг может поднять настрое­ ние, помочь бросить курение или другие вредные привычки, повысить самооценку. А, как известно, все это положительно воздействует на здоровье.

Read the stories.

A Dance I'll Never Forget

After Hillary Mauser

A couple of years ago, I received an invitation to an important black-tie gala. I felt honored to be included, for among the guests were world-renowned orchestra conductors, important musicians and various patrons of the arts. 1 knew I'd have to find something appropriate to wear, but I had left this problem until the last minute.

Now I was in trouble. The day before the event, the stores where I live in Santa Barbara, Calif., were about to close. Hoping I could find what I needed in less than an hour, I was preparing to race out the door when my telephone rang.

"Yo, ho, ho, it's Uncle Weener calling!'1came the familiar greeting. Jim Robinson, a sea urchin diver who was a great friend, always announced himself that way. And though I never knew exactly why, he called himself Uncle Weener.

I explained why I couldn't talk for very long. "Wait!" he said. "I've got something for you to wear. It's perfect. Guaranteed. I'll be right over."

Whenever Uncle Weener gave commands like that, a person listened. That's because he always considered his friends' problems to be his own, and he cared very much about coming up with real solutions.

Twenty minutes later he arrived - a tall, lanky man whose wild, curly blond hair looked as if it had never been touched by a comb. He was holding a brand-new tuxedo he had bought for a small fortune and worn only once. It was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen - a black jacket in the softest of cashmeres, a pair of elegant silk trousers, a crisp white shirt, a bow tie and a belt with an exquisite silver buckle.

"Here!" he commanded. "Try it on."

I am a tall woman, but to be offered this suit of men's clothes was a pretty wild idea. It was also one of the most loving gestures I'd ever received from a friend. I don't know many people who willingly lend their expensive evening clothes to others.

Minutes later I had on Jim's tuxedo. He adjusted the bow tie, then asked me to put on earrings and a pair of high heels. Looking into a mirror, I thought I looked sensational - but still felt uncertain. "You don't think I look like a man?" I asked.

"No!" he insisted. He went to the CD player, put on a recording of Tom Waits singing "Invitation to the Blues" and then invited me to dance. We swayed around the living room until we heard the lyrics "And you feel just like, Cagney, she looks like Rita Hay worth, at the counter of the Schwab's Drug Store." We fell apart laughing, which put the final stamp of approval on the scheme.

I went to the gala, and to this day people still talk about what I wore. Among my fa­ vorite photographs is one of me sitting next to a great orchestra conductor who was wearing the exact same thing as I. The photograph is a reminder of Uncle Weener's generosity and his insistence on how beautiful and sensational I would be at the ball.

I had met uncle Weener by accident. My husband, a sea urchin and abalone diver, was coming back from a fishing trip in 1986, and in the dark he hit something in the channel - perhaps a log. The boat began to take on water through the gaping hole in the stem.

Jim Robinson was on the scene quickly and lowed him to shore. The immediacy of his actions saved my husband's boat and maybe even his life.

From that day forward, Weener became one of our dearest friends. At least once a week he would charge into our house, take a seat at my piano and play his heart out. At

sea, Jim's boat was the center of action —Hotel Ween, the divers called it. At night other boats would tie up to Hotel Ween, and their occupants would bring out the barbecues and share food. Jim was a unifying force, the one who kept up everyone's spirits. An energetic man, he loved the ocean and diving more than anything. Whenever he was forced to stay out of the water because of illness or injury he would become almost desperate: "The ocean is my life!" he would say. "I can't be anywhere but out there".

If I ever ran into rough waters, Weener would call me once or twice a day to see how I was doing. Actually he called all his close friends almost every day. "Yo, ho, ho," the message always began. "How are you? I care. I love you." He always said "I love you."

On December 9, 1994, Jim's roommate, Pam Schrack, came over to visit me. While we were having lunch, another friend called to say she had heard that a sea urchin diver had been bitten by a shark. Pam and I thought oh, no, but we were sure it was no one we knew.

Pam and I finished lunch and then she left. Minutes later she called. "It's Jimmy!" she cried. "He's gone!" Receiving this news was like falling into quicksand, where words sit on the surface, then slowly sink into some ugly quagmire.

I raced down to the harbor to be with Pam and Jim's other friends. We found out that his boat, the Florentia Marie, had anchored off the west end of San Miguel Island. Jim had gone into the water with his dive scooter to survey the area. No one knows how deep he went, but when he came to the surface, he got a hand on the transom and said, "White shark! I got bit by a white shark."

Two fellow crew members Ward Motyer and Steve Stickney, pulled him up and ap­ plied tourniquets anywhere they could. With their hands they tried to stop the bleeding from his mangled legs. Despite their efforts, he stopped breathing minutes later.

At three the next morning, my husband and I got out of bed, neither of us able to sleep. In the dark we went to the piano and quietly began to sing a Tom Waits ballad called "On the Nickel." When we got to the words "What becomes of all the little boys, who never comb their hair?" we broke down and cried. No one in the Santa Barbara harbor will ever forget Jim's funeral or the line of people outside the church. As the minister read a passage from Ecclesiastes —" a time to be bom, a time to die..." - a phone rang. Many people laughed, and I'm sure we were all thinking, the same thing: it was as if Uncle Weener were calling once again, to say nothing more than, "Yo, ho, ho! How are you? I love you." Then came the spreading of ashes from the Florentia Marie, with 56 boats following Jim's boat out to sea, and the flares and gun salutes that could be seen for miles.

Since then I have learned that my story of the tuxedo is not so unusual. It turns out that many people have a tale to tell about Uncle Weener's unlimited, no-strings-attached friend­ ship. He went to bat for those who had no one else on their side. He was a father figure to divers getting started in the business. He loaned money even when he was low on funds himself. When he did have money, he insisted on giving it away, buying gifts for others and throwing parties for his friends. And he never asked for anything in return.

What is the way to immortality? It is not through naming buildings or amassing fortunes. It is through simple acts of kindness, of putting someone else's needs before your own. When buildings have crumbled and fortunes have been spent, love and selfless acts of caring live on.

When I think of Uncle Weener, I think of a life lived deeply and filled with unconditional loving. But what I cherish the most is the memory of wearing his beautiful tuxedo and swaying around the living room. It's a dance I'll never forget.

The Value Of A Relationship

After M. Lucado

I used to visit George every Thursday when I lived in Miami. At the time I wasn't sure what kept drawing me to his musty little trailer. But looking back on it now, I think I know.

George had an unusual appearance - a patch over one eye ("I lost it in the war") and not a hair on his head. He was Canadian to the core and always kept the "maple leaf' draped in front of his trailer. Though over sixty, he swam and golfed daily and danced nightly. His voice boomed like a cannon when he talked, and he walked with such a pendulum swagger that he could have cleared a path for a bull.

But there was something much more profound about George that made me want to visit him. One summer day I realised what it was.

It was a hot Miami afternoon when I knocked on his door. He invited me in with his customary "'Well, hello, Max! Come on in here!" (He gave every visitor a glass of lemonade and some secretrecipe popcorn.) I stepped into the trailer.

"I've got someone I want you to meet," continued George with his Canadian twang. "My friend, Ralph."

I looked toward the comer. My eyes were still adjusting from the outside sun to the dimly lit trailer. As my vision cleared, I could see Ralph - and I wasn't sure what to think. There was a certain wildness about him - shoulder-length unkempt hair, a chest-length untamed beard. He was at least George's age, probably older. Apparently he didn't know what to think of me, either. His darting eyes sized me up from beneath his salt-and-pepper hair.

My palms began to sweat.

George interrupted the silence. "Sit down, Max. I've got something to show you." I sat on one side of the table while George scooted in next to Ralph, across from me. "My most valued possession is right here."

I looked at his hands and then around the trailer. "Where, George?"

"Right here." George put his big arm around Ralph's bony shoulders. "My most valued possession is my buddy. Ralph."

A new set of wrinkles appeared on Ralph's face as he broke into a toothless grin. Old friends. George and Ralph. Two crusty old travellers on the backcurve of life's circle. They had found life's most precious element - a relationship.

A relationship. The delicate fusion of two human beings. The intricate weaving of two lives; two sets of moods, mentalities, and temperaments. Two intenningling hearts, both seeking solace and security.

Ah, but George said it best. "My most valued possession is my buddy."

What matters most in life is not what ladders we climb or what ownings we accumulate. What matters most is a relationship.

What steps are you taking to protect your "possessions"? What measures are you using to insure that your relationships are strong and healthy? What are you doing to solidify the bridges between you and those in your world?

Do you resolve conflict as soon as possible, or do you "allow the sun to go down on your wrath"? Do you verbalize your love every day to your mate and children? Do you count the lives of your family members and friends more important than your own?

It's a wise man who values people above possessions. Many wealthy men have died paupers because they gave their lives to things and not to people. And many paupers have left this earth in contentment because they loved their neighbours.

"My most valued possession is my buddy."

Answer thefollowing questions.

1. Have you or your parents got such a friend who is ready to help you in any difficult situation?

2. What kind of music matches, do you think, these two stories: rock-n-roll, waltz, folk music, symphony, hymn? Why?

Footprints In The Jungle

After fV.S. Maugham

When I was in Malaya, I was staying with a man called Gaze who was head of the police. One day we were playing bridge in the billiard-room. There Gaze introduced me to the Cartwrights. The Cartwrights were planters and they came to Malaya because it gave their daughter a chance of a little fun. They were very nice people and played a very pleasant game of bridge.

Mrs. Cartwright was a woman somewhere in the fifties. I thought her a very agreeable person. I liked her frankness, her quick wit, her plain face. As for Mr. Cartwright, he looked tired and old. He talked little, but it was plain that he enjoyed his wife's humour. They were evidently very good friends. It was pleasing to see so solid and tolerant affection between two people who were almost elderly and must have lived together for so many years.

When we separated, Gaze and I set out to walk to his house. "What did you think of the Cartwrights?" he asked me.

"I liked them and their daughter who isjust the image of her father."

To my surprise Gaze told me that Cartwright wasn't her father. Mrs. Cartwright was a widow when he married her. Olive was bom after her father's death. And when we came to Gaze's house he told me the Cartwrights' story.

"I've known Mrs. Cartwright for over twenty years," he said slowly. "She was married to a man called Bronson. He was a planter in Selantan. It was a much smaller place than it is now, but they had a jolly little club, and we used to have a very good time. Bronson was a handsome chap. He hadn't much to talk about but tennis, golf and shooting; and I don’t suppose he read a book from year's end to year's end. He was about thirty-five when I first knew him, but he had the mind of a boy of eighteen. But he was no fool. He knew his work from A to Z. He was generous with his money and always ready to do anybody a good turn.

One day Mrs. Bronson told us that she was expecting a friend to stay with them and a few days later they brought Cartwright along. Cartwright was an old friend of Bronson's. He had been out of work for a long time and when he wrote to Bronson asking him whether he could do anything for him, Bronson wrote back inviting him to come and stay till things got better. When Cartwright came Mrs. Bronson told him that he was to look upon the place as his home and stay as long as he liked. Cartwright was very pleasant and unassuming; he fell into our little company very naturally and the Bronsons, like everyone else, liked him."

"Hadn't the Bronsons any children at that time?" I asked Gaze.

"No," Gaze answered. "I don't know why, they could have afforded it. Bronson was murdered," he said suddenly.

"Killed?"

"Yes, murdered. That night we had been playing tennis without Cartwright who had gone shooting to the jungle and without Bronson who had cycled to Kabulong to get the money to pay his coolies their wages and he was to come along to the club when he got

back. Cartwright саше back when we started playing bridge. Suddenly I was called to police sergeant outside. I went out. The sergeant told me that the Malays had come to the police station and said that there was a white man with red hair lying dead on the path that led through the jungle to Kabulong. I understood that it was Bronson.

For a moment I didn't know what to do and how to break the news to Mrs. Bronson. I came up to her and said that there had been an accident and her husband had been wounded. She leapt to her feet and stared at Cartwright who went as pale as death. Then I said that Bronson was dead after which she collapsed into her chair and burst into tears.

When the sergeant, the doctor and I arrived at the scene of the accident we saw that Bronson had been shot through the head and there was no money about him. From the footprints I saw that the poor man had stopped to talk to someone before he was shot. Whoever had murdered Bronson hadn't done it for money. It was obvious that he had stopped to talk with a friend.

Meanwhile Cartwright took up the management of Bronson's estate. He moved in at once. Four months later Olive, the daughter, was bom. And soon Mrs. Bronson and Cartwright were married. The murderer was never found. Suspicion fell on the coolies, of course. We examined them all - pretty carefully - but there was not a scrap of evidence to connect them with the crime. I knew who the murderer was..."

"Who?"

"Don't you guess?"

Answer thefollowing questions.

1. Describe Mrs. Cartwright and her husband. What were the relationships between

them?

2.Who was Mrs.Cartwright's first husband and how did Gaze characterize him?

3.Why did Bronson invite Cartwright to come and stay at their place? Was it wise of him to do it?

4.What kind of person was Cartwright as local society saw him?

5.Why were Bronson and Cartwright absent at the club on the night of the murder?

6.How did Mrs.Bronson behave when she leamt that her husband was wounded?

7.How did she take the news that he was dead?

8.What were Cartwright's actions after Bronson's death?

9.Was the crime disclosed?

10.Have you guessed who the murderer was? What helped you to guess?

11.Why did Mrs. Cartwright prefer Cartwright to Bronson? Do many women prefer such kind of men?

12.Is it a story about real friendship?

A Man With A Conscience

After Somerset Maugham

St. Laurent de Maroni is a pretty little place. It is neat and clean. It exists for the group of prison camps of which it is the centre. My object here is to tell a story. As I am well aware, one can never know everything about human nature. One can be sure only of one thing, and that is that it will never cease to have a surprise in store for you. I should inform the reader that three-quarters of the convicts at St. Laurent de Maroni are there for murder. I spent the better part of one day inquiring into crimes of passion. I wanted to know exactly what was the motive that had made a man kill his wife or his girl.

I spent another day inquiring into the matter of conscience. Moralists persuade us that it is one of the most powerful agents in human behaviour. It is generally accepted that

murder is a shocking crime, and it is the murderer above all other criminals who is supposed to suffer remorse.

But only in one man did I find anything that might be called a conscience, and his story was so remarkable that I think it well worth narrating.

of some official business.

"He's a very decent fellow," he said. "He's an accountant here." "What is he here for? " 1 asked.

"He killed his wife."

I saw him twice more during my stay at St. Laurent. He told me his story, but I will tell it now in my words.

Jean worked as an accountant in a large exporting house. In his childhood and youth, he was friendly with a boy called Henri Renar. Jean and Riri went to school together, played together, worked for their examinations together, spent their holidays together, for the two families were intimate, had their first affairs with girls together, partnered one another in the local tennis tournaments, and did their military service together. They never quarrelled. They were inseparable. When the time came for them to start working they decided that they would go into the same firm; but that was not so easy - Riri remained unemployed.

Riri was a light-hearted youth, and he enjoyed his leisure. He danced, bathed and played tennis. It was thus that he made the acquaintance of a girl who had recently come to live at Le Havre, and first Riri, then Jean, fell in love with her. Perhaps that was inevita­ ble; it was certainly unfortunate. She was a well-brought-up girl, an only child, and her mother, besides her pension, had a little money of her own. It was evident that she could be pursued only with a view to marriage. Of course Riri could not make an offer, as he had no work. The girl knew that both Riri and Jean were in love with her, she liked them both and was pleased by their attentions, but she gave no sign that she was in love with either. It was impossible to tell which she preferred. She was well aware that Riri was not in a position to marry her.

"What did she look like?" I asked Jean Charvin.

"She was small, with a pretty little figure, with large grey eyes, a pale skin and soft, mouse-coloured hair. She was rather like a little mouse. She was not beautiful, but pretty; there was something very appealing about her. She was easy to get on with. You couldn't help feeling that she would make anyone a good wife."

Jean and Riri hid nothing from one another and Jean made no secret of the fact that he was also in love with this girl, Marie-Louise, but Riri had met her first and it was an under­ stood thing between them that Jean should not stand in his way. At last she made her choice. One day Riri told Jean that Marie-Louise had agreed to marry him. They had arranged that as soon as he got a job his father should go to her mother and make the formal offer. Jean was hard hit. It was not easy to listen with sympathy to the plans Riri made for the future. He tried with all his might to accept honestly the sacrifice he made on the altar of friendship.

"Why did she choose him rather than you? " I asked.

"He had great vitality. His high spirits were infectious. You couldn't be dull in his company."

"Was he good-looking?"

"No, not very. I think I can say that I was better-looking than Riri."

But Riri did not get a job. His father wrote to everyone, he could think of, asking them to find something for Riri to do; and at last Riri was offered a job in Cambodia to buy native