Chapter Two Character
Definition of Character
The term character applies to any individual in a literary work. Without characters，there would be no plot. Hence，characters in fiction are customarily described by the relationship to plot，by the degree of development they are given by the author.
Classification of Characters
◆ Protagonist
The major or central character in the story with all major events having some importance to it. For instance，in Jack London’s novel，The Call of the Wild，the protagonist is a devoted dog.
◆ Antagonist
The opponent，the character against whom the protagonist struggles or contends is called antagonist，as is the case with the marlin that challenges the courage and endurance of the old fisherman Santiago in Ernest Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea.
◆ Round Characters
They embody many sided traits and qualities，and are complex multidimensional characters with the capacity to grow and change. Major characters in fiction are usually round characters. In Finding Nemo，Marlin is a round character，who starts out very brave，but changes his perspective after an unfortunate incident; later，he changes his perspective again.
◆ Flat Characters
They are also referred to as type characters，or one-dimensional characters，who represent a single trait or a very limited number of qualities，as is the case in Edgar Allan Poe’s successful use of flat characters，for example，Montresor and Fortunato，the protagonist and antagonist，to dramatize the theme of revenge in TheCask of Amontillado. Although they are minor characters，yet they help readers understand the personalities of characters that are fully realized.
◆ Dynamic Characters
Dynamic characters have many sided personalities that change as might be expected，for better or worse，by the end of the story. In some stories，the development is so subtle that it may go almost unnoticed; in others，it is sufficiently dramatic and profound to cause a complete reorganization of the character’s personality. Hence dynamic character is one who experiences or demonstrates significant change or personal transformation during the course of a story as is the case of Nick Garraway in F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby，the narrator，who experienced the deepening and transformation of his perspective and person in the course of the story.
◆ Static Characters
A character who does not change throughout the course of the story; a character who does not “grow” emotionally，whose personality remains the same at the end of the story as it was at the beginning of the story. These are usually minor，flat characters. Take Mr. Collins in Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice for example，he serves as a vital role in the story of how Elizabeth and Darcy get together，and he provides comedy，but his character stays essentially unchanged. In fact，that’s part of what makes him funny.
Definition of Characterization
Characterization refers to a character’s personality or the method by which the writer reveals this personality. That is to say，characterization is the process of creating imaginary characters so that they exist for the reader as lifelike persons.
Methods of Characterization
The author has two basic methods or techniques of presenting and establishing character. One method is telling，which relies on exposition and direct commentary by the author，while the other is showing，indirect dramatic method，involving making the characters reveal themselves directly through their dialogues and actions. Telling and showing are not mutually exclusive. Neither of them is necessarily superior. Most authors tend to combine the two methods when the technique matches their literary purposes.
◆ Characterization by Telling
● Characterization through the use of names
Names are often used to provide readers with important clues or hints that help to reveal characters. Some characters are given names that reinforce their physical appearance. Sometimes names are also used ironically to characterize through inversion.
● Characterization through appearance
In fiction，details of appearance，such as how a character looks and what a character wears，are often used to reveal characters. For instance，details of dress may offer clues to background，occupation，economic status，while details of physical appearance may assist to identify a character’s age，and the general information of his physical and emo-tional health as well as psychological states.
● Characterization through direct comment of the author
The author interrupts the narrative and reveals directly，through a series of editorial comments，the nature and the personality of the characters. Hence the author reveals information about a character and his personality through that character’s thoughts，words，and actions，along with how other characters respond to that character，including what they think and say about him.
◆ Characterization by Showing
● Characterization through dialogue
Dialogues serve to help readers identify a character’s innermost personality，although some characters designed by the author are careful in what they say. Hence readers must grasp some helpful hints of analyzing characters’ inner world. The following ways need to be taken into account: ①the identity of the speaker; ②the occasion; ③ what is being said; ④ the identity of the person the speaker is addressing; ⑤the quality of the exchange; ⑥the speaker’s tone.
● Characterization through the actions or behaviors of the characters
It is widely shared that one’s psychology and personality is revealed from one’s behavior and action. Hence it is helpful to examine the motive or personality of a character，it is necessary to analyze a character’s behavior，and also one needs to identify the common pattern of behavior of which each separate action is a part.
Story One Paul’s Case: A Study in Temperament (1905)
About the Author
Willa Cather (1873—1947) was an American writer who achieved recognition for her novels of frontier life on the Great Plains，including O Pioneers! (1913)，The Song of the Lark (1915)，and My Antonia (1918). In 1923 she was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for One of Ours (1922)，a novel set during World War I. Although Cather began her writing career as a journalist，she made a distinction between journalism which she saw as being primarily informative，and literature which she saw as an art form. Cather’s work is often marked by its nostalgic tone，her subject matter and themes drawn from memories of her early years on the American plains. Some critics have charged Cather with being out of touch with her times and failing to use more experimental techniques，such as stream of consciousness，in her writing. However，it is rather safe to say that Cather could follow no other literary path but her own.
Tips for Reading
“Paul’s Case: A study in Temperament” was first published in McClure’s Magazine in 1905. For many years，“Paul’s Case” was the only one of her stories that Cather allowed to be anthologized. “Paul’s Case” is the story of a sensitive boy with an artistic temperament whose attempt to escape his mundane future ends in tragedy. Paul is a round character under Willa Cather’s pen and the author gives abundant information about the protagonist through his appearance，his impression on others，his relationship with his father，his quest for the different life，and his psychological state and mental problems. Paul is a Pittsburgh high school student，who feels frustrated with his middle-class life. At the start of the story，Paul is suspended from a Pittsburgh high school for a week. He meets with the principal and his teachers，and they complain about his “defiant manner” in class and the“physical aversion” he exhibits toward his teachers. The truth is that Paul grew up without a mother figure in his life and the members of his community referred him as“the motherless boy”. Besides，Paul and his father do not have a good relationship with each other. Later on，he steals money to support a short escapade in New York City，but once he exhausts his funds，he commits suicide rather than allow his father to take him back to Pittsburgh. Some critics have attributed Paul’s suicide to the forces of alienation and stigmatization facing a young homosexual man in early 20th-century America; while others believe that Paul shows signs of some form of psychological problem. It is believed that Paul has suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder and narcissistic personality disorder，both of which alter a person’s train of thought and reasoning.
The Story
Ⅰ
It was Paul’s afternoon to appear before the faculty of the Pittsburgh High School to account for
his various misdemeanors . He had been suspended a week ago，and his father had called at the Principal’s office and confessed his perplexity about his son. Paul entered the faculty room suave and smiling. His clothes were a trifle outgrown，and the tan velvet on the collar of his open overcoat was frayed and worn; but for all that there was something of the dandy about him，and he wore an opal pin in his neatly knotted black four-in-hand，and a red carnation in his buttonhole. This latter adornment the faculty somehow felt was not properly significant of the contrite spirit befitting a boy under the ban of suspension.
Paul was tall for his age and very thin，with high，cramped shoulders and a narrow chest. His eyes were remarkable for a certain hysterical brilliancy，and he continually used them in a conscious，theatrical sort of way，peculiarly offensive in a boy. The pupils were abnormally large，as though he were addicted to belladonna，but there was a glassy glitter about them which that drug does not produce.
When questioned by the Principal as to why he was there Paul stated，politely enough，that he wanted to come back to school. This was a lie，but Paul was quite accustomed to lying; found it，indeed，indispensable for overcoming friction. His teachers were asked to state their respective charges against him，which they did with such a rancor and aggrievedness as evinced that this was not a usual case. Disorder and impertinence were among the offenses named，yet each of his instructors felt that it was scarcely possible to put into words the real cause of the trouble，which lay in a sort of hysterically defiant manner of the boy; in the contempt which they all knew he felt for them，and which he seemingly made not the least effort to conceal. Once，when he had been making a synopsis of a paragraph at the blackboard，his English teacher had stepped to his side and attempted to guide his hand. Paul had started back with a shudder and thrust his hands violently behind him. The astonished woman could scarcely have been more hurt and embarrassed had he struck at her. The insult was so involuntary and definitely personal as to be unforgettable. In one way and another he had made all his teachers，men and women alike，conscious of the same feeling of physical aversion. In one class he habitually sat with his hand shading his eyes; in another he always looked out of the window during the recitation; in another he made a running commentary on the lecture，with humorous intention.
His teachers felt this afternoon that his whole attitude was symbolized by his shrug and his flippantly red carnation flower，and they fell upon him without mercy，his English teacher leading the pack. He stood through it smiling，his pale lips parted over his white teeth. (His lips were continually twitching，and be had a habit of raising his eyebrows that was contemptuous and irritating to the last degree.) Older boys than Paul had broken down and shed tears under that baptism of fire，but his set smile did not once desert him，and his only sign of discomfort was the nervous trembling of the fingers that toyed with the buttons of his overcoat，and an occasional jerking of the other hand that held his hat. Paul was always smiling，always glancing about him，seeming to feel that people might be watching him and trying to detect something. This conscious expression，since it was as far as possible from boyish mirthfulness，was usually attributed to insolence or “smartness.”
As the inquisition proceeded，one of his instructors repeated an impertinent remark of the boy’s，and the Principal asked him whether he thought that a courteous speech to have made a woman. Paul shrugged his shoulders slightly and his eyebrows twitched.
“I don’t know，” he replied. “I didn’t mean to be polite or impolite，either. I guess it’s a sort of way I have of saying things regardless.”
The Principal，who was a sympathetic man，asked him whether he didn’t think that a way it would be well to get rid of. Paul grinned and said he guessed so. When he was told that he could go he bowed gracefully and went out. His bow was but a repetition of the scandalous red carnation.
His teachers were in despair，and his drawing master voiced the feeling of them all when he declared there was something about the boy which none of them understood. He added:“I don’t really believe that smile of his comes altogether from insolence ; there’s something sort of haunted about it. The boy is not strong，for one thing. I happen to know that he was born in Colorado，only a few months before his mother died out there of a long illness. There is something wrong about the fellow.”
The drawing master had come to realize that，in looking at Paul，one saw only his white teeth and the forced animation of his eyes. One warm afternoon the boy had gone to sleep at his drawing board，and his master had noted with amazement what a white，blue-veined face it was; drawn and wrinkled like an old man’s about the eyes，the lips twitching even in his sleep，and stiff with a nervous tension that drew them back from his teeth.
His teachers left the building dissatisfied and unhappy; humiliated to have felt so vindictive toward a mere boy，to have uttered this feeling in cutting terms，and to have set each other on，as it were，in the gruesome game of intemperate reproach. Some of them remembered having seen a miserable street cat set at bay by a ring of tormentors.
As for Paul，he ran down the hill whistling the “Soldiers’ Chorus” from Faust，looking wildly behind him now and then to see whether some of his teachers were not there to writhe under his lightheartedness. As it was now late in the afternoon and Paul was on duty that evening as usher at Carnegie Hall，he decided that he would not go home to supper. When he reached the concert hall the doors were not yet open and，as it was chilly outside，he decided to go up into the picture gallery—always deserted at this hour—where there were some of Raffelli’s gay studies of Paris streets and an airy blue Venetian scene or two that always exhilarated him. He was delighted to find no one in the gallery but the old guard，who sat in one corner，a newspaper on his knee，a black patch over one eye and the other closed. Paul possessed himself of the peace and walked confidently up and down，whistling under his breath. After a while he sat down before a blue Rico and lost himself. When he bethought him to look at his watch，it was after seven o’clock，and he rose with a start and ran downstairs，making a face at Augustus，peering out from the cast room，and an evil gesture at the Venus de Milo as he passed her on the stairway.
When Paul reached the ushers’ dressing room half a dozen boys were there already，and he began excitedly to tumble into his uniform. It was one of the few that at all approached fitting，and Paul thought it very becoming-though he knew that the tight，straight coat accentuated his narrow chest，about which he was exceedingly sensitive. He was always considerably excited while be dressed，twanging all over to the tuning of the strings and the preliminary flourishes of the horns in the music room; but tonight he seemed quite beside himself，and he teased and plagued the boys until，telling him that he was crazy，they put him down on the floor and sat on him.
Somewhat calmed by his suppression，Paul dashed out to the front of the house to seat the early comers. He was a model usher; gracious and smiling he ran up and down the aisles; nothing was too much trouble for him; he carried messages and brought programs as though it were his greatest pleasure in life，and all the people in his section thought him a charming boy，feeling that he remembered and admired them. As the house filled，he grew more and more vivacious and animated，and the color came to his cheeks and lips. It was very much as though this were a great reception and Paul were the host. Just as the musicians came out to take their places，his English teacher arrived with checks for the seats which a prominent manufacturer had taken for the season. She betrayed some embarrassment when she handed Paul the tickets，and a hauteur which subsequently made her feel very foolish. Paul was startled for a moment，and had the feeling of wanting to put her out; what business had she here among all these fine people and gay colors？He looked her over and decided that she was not appropriately dressed and must be a fool to sit downstairs in such togs. The tickets had probably been sent her out of kindness，he reflected as he put down a seat for her，and she had about as much right to sit there as he had.
When the symphony began Paul sank into one of the rear seats with a long sigh of relief，and lost himself as he had done before the Rico. It was not that symphonies，as such，meant anything in particular to Paul，but the first sigh of the instruments seemed to free some hilarious and potent spirit within him; something that struggled there like the genie in the bottle found by the Arab fisherman. He felt a sudden zest of life; the lights danced before his eyes and the concert hall blazed into unimaginable splendor. When the soprano soloist came on Paul forgot even the nastiness of his teacher’s being there and gave himself up to the peculiar stimulus such personages always had for him. The soloist chanced to be a German woman，by no means in her first youth，and the mother of many children; but she wore an elaborate gown and a tiara，and above all she had that indefinable air of achievement，that world-shine upon her，which，in Paul’s eyes，made her a veritable queen of Romance.
After a concert was over，Paul was always irritable and wretched until he got to sleep，and tonight he was even more than usually restless. He had the feeling of not being able to let down，of its being impossible to give up this delicious excitement which was the only thing that could be called living at all. During the last number he withdrew and，after hastily changing his clothes in the dressing room，slipped out to the side door where the soprano’s carriage stood. Here he began pacing rapidly up and down the walk，waiting to see her come out.
Over yonder，the Schenley，in its vacant stretch，loomed big and square through the fine rain，the windows of its twelve stories glowing like those of a lighted cardboard house under a Christmas tree. All the actors and singers of the better class stayed there when they were in the city，and a number of the big manufacturers of the place lived there in the winter. Paul had often hung about the hotel，watching the people go in and out，longing to enter and leave schoolmasters and dull care behind him forever.
At last the singer came out，accompanied by the conductor，who helped her into her carriage and closed the door with a cordial auf wiedersehen which set Paul to wondering whether she were not an old sweetheart of his. Paul followed the carriage over to the hotel，walking so rapidly as not to be far from the entrance when the singer alighted，and disappeared behind the swinging glass doors that were opened by a Negro in a tall hat and a long coat. In the moment that the door was ajar it seemed to Paul that he，too，entered. He seemed to feel himself go after her up the steps，into the warm，lighted building，into an exotic，tropical world of shiny，glistening surfaces and basking ease. He reflected upon the mysterious dishes that were brought into the dining room，the green bottles in buckets of ice，as he had seen them in the supper party pictures of the Sunday World supplement. A quick gust of wind brought the rain down with sudden vehemence，and Paul was startled to find that he was still outside in the slush of the gravel driveway; that his boots were letting in the water and his scanty overcoat was clinging wet about him; that the lights in front of the concert hall were out and that the rain was driving in sheets between him and the orange glow of the windows above him. There it was，what be wanted—tangibly before him，like the fairy world of a Christmas pantomime-but mocking spirits stood guard at the doors，and，as the rain beat in his face，Paul wondered whether he were destined always to shiver in the black night outside，looking up at it.
He turned and walked reluctantly toward the car tracks. The end had to come sometime; his father in his nightclothes at the top of the stairs，explanations that did not explain，hastily improvised fictions that were forever tripping him up，his upstairs room and its horrible yellow wallpaper，the creaking bureau with the greasy plush collar box，and over his painted wooden bed the pictures of George Washington and John Calvin，and the framed motto，“Feed my Lambs，” which had been worked in red worsted by his mother.
Half an hour later Paul alighted from his car and went slowly down one of the side streets off the main thoroughfare. It was a highly respectable street，where all the houses were exactly alike，and where businessmen of moderate means begot and reared large families of children，all of whom went to Sabbath school and learned the shorter catechism，and were interested in arithmetic ; all of whom were as exactly alike as their homes，and of a piece with the monotony in which they lived. Paul never went up Cordelia Street without a shudder of loathing. His home was next to the house of the Cumberland minister. He approached it tonight with the nerveless sense of defeat，the hopeless feeling of sinking back forever into ugliness and commonness that he had always had when he came home. The moment he turned into Cordelia Street he felt the waters close above his head. After each of these orgies of living he experienced all the physical depression which follows a debauch; the loathing of respectable beds，of common food，of a house penetrated by kitchen odors; a shuddering repulsion for the flavorless，colorless mass of everyday existence; a morbid desire for cool things and soft lights and fresh flowers.
The nearer he approached the house，the more absolutely unequal Paul felt to the sight of it all: his ugly sleeping chamber; the cold bathroom with the grimy zinc tub，the cracked mirror，the dripping spigots; his father，at the top of the stairs，his hairy legs sticking out from his nightshirt，his feet thrust into carpet slippers. He was so much later than usual that there would certainly be inquiries and reproaches. Paul stopped short before the door. He felt that he could not be accosted by his father tonight; that he could not toss again on that miserable bed. He would not go in. He would tell his father that he had no carfare and it was raining so hard he had gone home with one of the boys and stayed all night.
Meanwhile，he was wet and cold. He went around to the back of the house and tried one of the basement windows，found it open，raised it cautiously，and scrambled down the cellar wall to the floor. There he stood，holding his breath，terrified by the noise he had made，but the floor above him was silent，and there was no creak on the stairs. He found a soapbox，and carried it over to the soft ring of light that streamed from the furnace door，and sat down. He was horribly afraid of rats，so he did not try to sleep，but sat looking distrustfully at the dark，still terrified lest he might have awakened his father. In such reactions，after one of the experiences which made days and nights out of the dreary blanks of the calendar，when his senses were deadened，Paul’s head was always singularly clear. Suppose his father had heard him getting in at the window and had come down and shot him for a burglar？Then，again，suppose his father had come down，pistol in hand，and he had cried out in time to save himself，and his father had been horrified to think how nearly he had killed him？Then，again，suppose a day should come when his father would remember that night，and wish there had been no warning cry to stay his hand？With this last supposition Paul entertained himself until daybreak.
The following Sunday was fine; the sodden November chill was broken by the last flash of autumnal summer. In the morning Paul had to go to church and Sabbath school，as always. On seasonable Sunday afternoons the burghers of Cordelia Street always sat out on their front stoops and talked to their neighbors on the next stoop，or called to those across the street in neighborly fashion. The men usually sat on gay cushions placed upon the steps that led down to the sidewalk，while the women，in their Sunday “waists，” sat in rockers on the cramped porches，pretending to be greatly at their ease. The children played in the streets; there were so many of them that the place resembled the recreation grounds of a kindergarten. The men on the steps—all in their shirtsleeves，their vests unbuttoned—sat with their legs well apart，their stomachs comfortably protruding，and talked of the prices of things，or told anecdotes of the sagacity of their various chiefs and overlords. They occasionally looked over the multitude of squabbling children，listened affectionately to their high-pitched，nasal voices，smiling to see their own proclivities reproduced in their offspring，and interspersed their legends of the iron kings with remarks about their sons’ progress at school，their grades in arithmetic，and the amounts they had saved in their toy banks.
On this last Sunday of November Paul sat all the afternoon on the lowest step of his stoop，staring into the street，while his sisters，in their rockers，were talking to the minister’s daughters next door about how many shirtwaists they had made in the last week，and bow many waffles someone had eaten at the last church supper. When the weather was warm，and his father was in a particularly jovial frame of mind，the girls made lemonade，which was always brought out in a red-glass pitcher，ornamented with forget-me-nots in blue enamel. This the girls thought very fine，and the neighbors always joked about the suspicious color of the pitcher.
Today Paul’s father sat on the top step，talking to a young man who shifted a restless baby from knee to knee. He happened to be the young man who was daily held up to Paul as a model，and after whom it was his father’s dearest hope that he would pattern. This young man was of a ruddy complexion，with a compressed，red mouth，and faded，nearsighted eyes，over which he wore thick spectacles，with gold bows that curved about his ears. He was clerk to one of the magnates of a great steel corporation，and was looked upon in Cordelia Street as a young man with a future. There was a story that，some five years ago—he was now barely twenty-six—he had been a trifle dissipated，but in order to curb his appetites and save the loss of time and strength that a sowing of wild oats might have entailed，he had taken his chief’s advice，often reiterated to his employees，and at twenty-one had married the first woman whom he could persuade to share his fortunes. She happened to be an angular schoolmistress，much older than he，who also wore thick glasses，and who had now borne him four children，all nearsighted，like herself.
The young man was relating how his chief，now cruising in the Mediterranean，kept in touch with all the details of the business，arranging his office hours on his yacht just as though he were at home，and “knocking off work enough to keep two stenographers busy.” His father told，in turn，the plan his corporation was considering，of putting in an electric railway plant in Cairo. Paul snapped his teeth; he had an awful apprehension that they might spoil it all before he got there. Yet he rather liked to hear these legends of the iron kings that were told and retold on Sundays and holidays; these stories of palaces in Venice，yachts on the Mediterranean，and high play at Monte Carlo appealed to his fancy，and he was interested in the triumphs of these cash boys who had become famous，though he had no mind for the cash-boy stage.
After supper was over and he had helped to dry the dishes，Paul nervously asked his father whether he could go to George’s to get some help in his geometry，and still more nervously asked for carfare. This latter request he had to repeat，as his father，on principle，did not like to hear requests for money，whether much or little. He asked Paul whether he could not go to some boy who lived nearer，and told him that he ought not to leave his schoolwork until Sunday; but he gave him the dime. He was not a poor man，but he had a worthy ambition to come up in the world. His only reason for allowing Paul to usher was that he thought a boy ought to be earning a little.
Paul bounded upstairs，scrubbed the greasy odor of the dishwater from his hands with the ill-smelling soap he hated，and then shook over his fingers a few drops of violet water from the bottle he kept hidden in his drawer. He left the house with his geometry conspicuously under his arm，and the moment he got out of Cordelia Street and boarded a downtown car，he shook off the lethargy of two deadening days and began to live again.
The leading juvenile of the permanent stock company which played at one of the downtown theaters was an acquaintance of Paul’s，and the boy had been invited to drop in at the Sunday-night rehearsals whenever he could. For more than a year Paul had spent every available moment loitering about Charley Edwards’s dressing room. He had won a place among Edwards’s following not only because the young actor，who could not afford to employ a dresser，often found him useful，but because he recognized in Paul something akin to what churchmen term “vocation.”
It was at the theater and at Carnegie Hall that Paul really lived; the rest was but a sleep and a forgetting. This was Paul’s fairy tale，and it had for him all the allurement of a secret love. The moment he inhaled the gassy，painty，dusty odor behind the scenes，he breathed like a prisoner set free，and felt within him the possibility of doing or saying splendid，brilliant，poetic things. The moment the cracked orchestra beat out the overture from Martha，or jerked at the serenade from Rigoletto，all stupid and ugly things slid from him，and his senses were deliciously，yet delicately fired.
Perhaps it was because，in Paul’s world，the natural nearly always wore the guise of ugliness，that a certain element of artificiality seemed to him necessary in beauty. Perhaps it was because his experience of life elsewhere was so full of Sabbath-school picnics，petty economies，wholesome advice as to how to succeed in life，and the inesca-pable odors of cooking，that he found this existence so alluring，these smartly clad men and women so attractive，that he was so moved by these starry apple orchards that bloomed perennially under the limelight.
It would be difficult to put it strongly enough how convincingly the stage entrance of that theater was for Paul the actual portal of Romance. Certainly none of the company ever suspected it，least of all Charley Edwards. It was very like the old stories that used to float about London of fabulously rich Jews，who had subterranean halls there，with palms，and fountains，and soft lamps and richly appareled women who never saw the disenchanting light of London day. So，in the midst of that smoke-palled city，enamored of figures and grimy toil，Paul had his secret temple，his wishing carpet，his bit of blue-and-white Mediterranean shore bathed in perpetual sunshine.
Several of Paul’s teachers had a theory that his imagination had been perverted by garish fiction，but the truth was that he scarcely ever read at all. The books at home were not such as would either tempt or corrupt a youthful mind，and as for reading the novels that some of his friends urged upon him—well，he got what he wanted much more quickly from music; any sort of music，from an orchestra to a barrel organ. He needed only the spark，the indescribable thrill that made his imagination master of his senses，and he could make plots and pictures enough of his own. It was equally true that he was not stage-struck-not，at any rate，in the usual acceptation of that expression. He had no desire to become an actor，any more than he had to become a musician. He felt no necessity to do any of these things; what he wanted was to see，to be in the atmosphere，float on the wave of it，to be carried out，blue league after blue league，away from everything.
After a night behind the scenes Paul found the schoolroom more than ever repulsive ; the bare floors and naked walls; the prosy men who never wore frock coats，or violets in their buttonholes; the women with their dull gowns，shrill voices，and pitiful seriousness about prepositions that govern the dative. He could not bear to have the other pupils think，for a moment，that he took these people seriously; he must convey to them that he considered it all trivial，and was there only by way of a jest，anyway. He had autographed pictures of all the members of the stock company which he showed his classmates，telling them the most incredible stories of his familiarity with these people，of his acquaintance with the soloists who came to Carnegie Hall，his suppers with them and the flowers he sent them. When these stories lost their effect，and his audience grew listless，he became desperate and would bid all the boys good-by，announcing that he was going to travel for a while; going to Naples，to Venice，to Egypt. Then，next Monday，he would slip back，conscious and nervously smiling; his sister was ill，and he should have to defer his voyage until spring.
Matters went steadily worse with Paul at school. In the itch to let his instructors know how heartily he despised them and their homilies，and how thoroughly he was appre-ciated elsewhere，he mentioned once or twice that he had no time to fool with theorems; adding—with a twitch of the eyebrows and a touch of that nervous bravado which so perplexed them—that he was helping the people down at the stock company; they were old friends of his.
The upshot of the matter was that the Principal went to Paul’s father，and Paul was taken out of school and put to work. The manager at Carnegie Hall was told to get another usher in his stead; the doorkeeper at the theater was warned not to admit him to the house; and Charley Edwards remorsefully promised the boy’s father not to see him again.
The members of the stock company were vastly amused when some of Paul’s stories reached them—especially the women. They were hardworking women，most of them supporting indigent husbands or brothers，and they laughed rather bitterly at having stirred the boy to such fervid and florid inventions. They agreed with the faculty and with his father that Paul’s was a bad case.
Ⅱ
The eastbound train was plowing through a January snowstorm; the dull dawn was beginning to show gray when the engine whistled a mile out of Newark. Paul started up from the seat where he had lain curled in uneasy slumber，rubbed the breath-misted window glass with his hand，and peered out. The snow was whirling in curling eddies above the white bottom lands，and the drifts lay already deep in the fields and along the fences，while here and there the long dead grass and dried weed stalks protruded black above it. Lights shone from the scattered houses，and a gang of laborers who stood beside the track waved their lanterns.
Paul had slept very little，and he felt grimy and uncomfortable. He had made the all-night journey in a day coach，partly because he was ashamed，dressed as he was，to go into a Pullman，and partly because he was afraid of being seen there by some Pittsburgh businessman，who might have noticed him in Denny & Carson’s office. When the whistle awoke him，he clutched quickly at his breast pocket，glancing about him with an uncertain smile. But the little，clay-bespattered Italians were still sleeping，the slatternly women across the aisle were in open-mouthed oblivion，and even the crumby，crying babies were for the nonce stilled. Paul settled back to struggle with his impatience as best he could.
When he arrived at the Jersey City station he hurried through his breakfast，manifestly ill at ease and keeping a sharp eye about him. After he reached the Twenty-third Street station，he consulted a cabman and had himself driven to a men’s-furnishings establishment that was just opening for the day. He spent upward of two hours there，buying with endless reconsidering and great care. His new street suit he put on in the fitting room; the frock coat and dress clothes he had bundled into the cab with his linen. Then he drove to a hatter’s and a shoe house. His next errand was at Tiffany’s，where he selected his silver and a new scarf pin. He would not wait to have his silver marked，he said. Lastly，he stopped at a trunk shop on Broadway and had his purchases packed into various traveling bags.
It was a little after one o’clock when he drove up to the Waldorf，and after settling with the cabman，went into the office. He registered from Washington，saying that his mother and father had been abroad，and that he had come down to await the arrival of their steamer. He told his story plausibly and had no trouble，since he volunteered to pay for them in advance，in engaging his rooms; a sleeping room，sitting room，and bath.
Not once，but a hundred times，Paul had planned this entry into New York. He had gone over every detail of it with Charley Edwards，and in his scrapbook at home there were pages of description about New York hotels，cut from the Sunday papers. When he was shown to his sitting room on the eighth floor he saw at a glance that everything was as it should be; there was but one detail in his mental picture that the place did not realize，so he rang for the bellboy and sent him down for flowers. He moved about nervously until the boy returned，putting away his new linen and fingering it delightedly as he did so. When the flowers came he put them hastily into water，and then tumbled into a hot bath. Presently he came out of his white bathroom，resplendent in his new silk underwear，and playing with the tassels of his red robe. The snow was whirling so fiercely outside his windows that he could scarcely see across the street，but within the air was deliciously soft and fragrant. He put the violets and jonquils on the taboret beside the couch，and threw himself down，with a long sigh，covering himself with a Roman blanket. He was thoroughly tired; he had been in such haste，he had stood up to such a strain，covered so much ground in the last twenty-four hours，that he wanted to think how it had all come about. Lulled by the sound of the wind，the warm air，and the cool fragrance of the flowers，he sank into deep，drowsy retrospection.
It had been wonderfully simple; when they had shut him out of the theater and concert hall，when they had taken away his bone，the whole thing was virtually determined. The rest was a mere matter of opportunity. The only thing that at all surprised him was his own courage-for he realized well enough that he had always been tormented by fear，a sort of apprehensive dread that，of late years，as the meshes of the lies he had told closed about him，had been pulling the muscles of his body tighter and tighter. Until now he could not remember the time when he had not been dreading something. Even when he was a little boy it was always there—behind him，or before，or on either side. There had always been the shadowed corner，the dark place into which he dared not look，but from which something seemed always to be watching him—and Paul had done things that were not pretty to watch，he knew.
But now he had a curious sense of relief，as though he had at last thrown down the gauntlet to the thing in the corner.
Yet it was but a day since he had been sulking in the traces; but yesterday afternoon that he had been sent to the bank with Denny & Carson’s deposit，as usual—but this time he was instructed to leave the book to be balanced. There was above two thousand dollars in checks，and nearly a thousand in the bank notes which he had taken from the book and quietly transferred to his pocket. At the bank he had made out a new deposit slip. His nerves had been steady enough to permit of his returning to the office，where he had finished his work and asked for a full day’s holiday tomorrow，Saturday，giving a perfectly reasonable pretext. The bankbook，be knew，would not be returned before Monday or Tuesday，and his father would be out of town for the next week. From the time he slipped the bank notes into his pocket until he boarded the night train for New York，he had not known a moment’s hesitation. It was not the first time Paul had steered through treacherous waters.
How astonishingly easy it had all been; here he was，the thing done; and this time there would be no awakening，no figure at the top of the stairs. He watched the snowflakes whirling by his window until he fell asleep.
When he awoke，it was three o’clock in the afternoon. He bounded up with a start; half of one of his precious days gone already! He spent more than an hour in dressing，watching every stage of his toilet carefully in the mirror. Everything was quite perfect; he was exactly the kind of boy he had always wanted to be.
When he went downstairs Paul took a carriage and drove up Fifth Avenue toward the Park. The snow had somewhat abated; carriages and tradesmen’s wagons were hurrying soundlessly to and fro in the winter twilight; boys in woolen mufflers were shoveling off the doorsteps; the avenue stages made fine spots of color against the white street. Here and there on the corners were stands，with whole flower gardens blooming under glass cases，against the sides of which the snowflakes stuck and melted; violets，roses，carnations，lilies of the valley—somehow vastly more lovely and alluring that they blossomed thus unnaturally in the snow. The Park itself was a wonderful stage winter piece.
When he returned，the pause of the twilight had ceased and the tune of the streets had changed. The snow was falling faster，lights streamed from the hotels that reared their dozen stories fearlessly up into the storm，defying the raging Atlantic winds. A long，black stream of carriages poured down the avenue，intersected here and there by other streams，tending horizontally. There were a score of cabs about the entrance of his hotel，and his driver had to wait. Boys in livery were running in and out of the awning stretched across the sidewalk，up and down the red velvet carpet laid from the door to the street. Above，about，within it all was the rumble and roar，the hurry and toss of thousands of human beings as hot for pleasure as himself，and on every side of him towered the glaring affirmation of the omnipotence of wealth.
The boy set his teeth and drew his shoulders together in a spasm of realization; the plot of all dramas，the text of all romances，the nerve-stuff of all sensations was whirling about him like the snowflakes. He burnt like a faggot in a tempest.
When Paul went down to dinner the music of the orchestra came floating up the elevator shaft to greet him. His head whirled as he stepped into the thronged corridor，and he sank back into one of the chairs against the wall to get his breath. The lights，the chatter，the perfumes，the bewildering medley of color—he had，for a moment，the feeling of not being able to stand it. But only for a moment; these were his own people，he told himself. He went slowly about the corridors，through the writing rooms，smoking rooms，reception rooms，as though he were exploring the chambers of an enchanted palace，built and peopled for him alone.
When he reached the dining room he sat down at a table near a window. The flowers，the white linen，the many-colored wineglasses，the gay toilettes of the women，the low popping of corks，the undulating repetitions of the Blue Danube from the orchestra，all flooded Paul’s dream with bewildering radiance. When the roseate tinge of his champagne was added—that cold，precious，bubbling stuff that creamed and foamed in his glass—Paul wondered that there were honest men in the world at all. This was what all the world was fighting for，he reflected; this was what all the struggle was about. He doubted the reality of his past. Had he ever known a place called Cordelia Street，a place where fagged-looking businessmen got on the early car; mere rivets in a machine they seemed to Paul，—sickening men，with combings of children’s hair always hanging to their coats，and the smell of cooking in their clothes. Cordelia Street—Ah，that belonged to another time and country; had he not always been thus，had he not sat here night after night，from as far back as he could remember，looking pensively over just such shimmering textures and slowly twirling the stem of a glass like this one between his thumb and middle finger？He rather thought he had.
He was not in the least abashed or lonely. He had no especial desire to meet or to know any of these people; all he demanded was the right to look on and conjecture，to watch the pageant. The mere stage properties were all he contended for. Nor was he lonely later in the evening，in his lodge at the Metropolitan. He was now entirely rid of his nervous misgivings，of his forced aggressiveness，of the imperative desire to show himself different from his surroundings. He felt now that his surroundings explained him. Nobody questioned the purple; he had only to wear it passively. He had only to glance down at his attire to reassure himself that here it would be impossible for anyone to humiliate him.
He found it hard to leave his beautiful sitting room to go to bed that night，and sat long watching the raging storm from his turret window. When he went to sleep it was with the lights turned on in his bedroom; partly because of his old timidity，and partly so that，if he should wake in the night，there would be no wretched moment of doubt，no horrible suspicion of yellow wallpaper，or of Washington and Calvin above his bed.
Sunday morning the city was practically snowbound. Paul breakfasted late，and in the afternoon he fell in with a wild San Francisco boy，a freshman at Yale，who said he had run down for a “little flyer” over Sunday. The young man offered to show Paul the night side of the town，and the two boys went out together after dinner，not returning to the hotel until seven o’clock the next morning. They had started out in the confiding warmth of a champagne friendship，but their parting in the elevator was singularly cool. The freshman pulled himself together to make his train，and Paul went to bed. He awoke at two o’clock in the afternoon，very thirsty and dizzy，and rang for ice water，coffee，and the Pittsburgh papers.
On the part of the hotel management，Paul excited no suspicion. There was this to be said for him，that he wore his spoils with dignity and in no way made himself conspicuous. Even under the glow of his wine he was never boisterous，though he found the stuff like a magician’s wand for wonder-building. His chief greediness lay in his ears and eyes，and his excesses were not offensive ones. His dearest pleasures were the gray winter twilights in his sitting room; his quiet enjoyment of his flowers，his clothes，his wide divan，his cigarette，and his sense of power. He could not remember a time when he had felt so at peace with himself. The mere release from the necessity of petty lying，lying every day and every day，restored his self-respect. He had never lied for pleasure，even at school; but to be noticed and admired，to assert his difference from other Cordelia Street boys; and he felt a good deal more manly，more honest，even，now that he had no need for boastful pretensions，now that he could，as his actor friends used to say，“dress the part.” It was characteristic that remorse did not occur to him. His golden days went by without a shadow，and he made each as perfect as he could.
On the eighth day after his arrival in New York he found the whole affair exploited in the Pittsburgh papers，exploited with a wealth of detail which indicated that local news of a sensational nature was at a low ebb. The firm of Denny & Carson announced that the boy’s father had refunded the full amount of the theft and that they had no intention of prosecuting. The Cumberland minister had been interviewed，and expressed his hope of yet reclaiming the motherless lad，and his Sabbath-school teacher declared that she would spare no effort to that end. The rumor had reached Pittsburgh that the boy had been seen in a New York hotel，and his father had gone East to find him and bring him home.
Paul had just come in to dress for dinner; he sank into a chair，weak to the knees，and clasped his head in his hands. It was to be worse than jail，even; the tepid waters of Cordelia Street were to close over him finally and forever. The gray monotony stretched before him in hopeless，unrelieved years; Sabbath school，Young People’s Meeting，the yellow-papered room，the damp dishtowels; it all rushed back upon him with a sickening vividness. He had the old feeling that the orchestra had suddenly stopped，the sinking sensation that the play was over. The sweat broke out on his face，and he sprang to his feet，looked about him with his white，conscious smile，and winked at himself in the mirror，With something of the old childish belief in miracles with which he had so often gone to class，all his lessons unlearned，Paul dressed and dashed whistling down the corridor to the elevator.
He had no sooner entered the dining room and caught the measure of the music than his remembrance was lightened by his old elastic power of claiming the moment，mounting with it，and finding it all-sufficient. The glare and glitter about him，the mere scenic accessories had again，and for the last time，their old potency. He would show himself that he was game，he would finish the thing splendidly. He doubted，more than ever，the existence of Cordelia Street，and for the first time he drank his wine recklessly. Was he not，after all，one of those fortunate beings born to the purple，was he not still himself and in his own place？He drummed a nervous accompaniment to the Pagliacci music and looked about him，telling himself over and over that it had paid.
He reflected drowsily，to the swell of the music and the chill sweetness of his wine，that he might have done it more wisely. He might have caught an outbound steamer and been well out of their clutches before now. But the other side of the world had seemed too far away and too uncertain then; he could not have waited for it; his need had been too sharp. If he had to choose over again，he would do the same thing tomorrow. He looked affectionately about the dining room，now gilded with a soft mist. Ah，it had paid indeed!
Paul was awakened next morning by a painful throbbing in his head and feet. He had thrown himself across the bed without undressing，and had slept with his shoes on. His limbs and hands were lead heavy，and his tongue and throat were parched and burnt. There came upon him one of those fateful attacks of clear headedness that never occurred except when he was physically exhausted and his nerves hung loose. He lay still，closed his eyes，and let the tide of things wash over him.
His father was in New York; “stopping at some joint or other，” he told himself. The memory of successive summers on the front stoop fell upon him like a weight of black water. He had not a hundred dollars left; and he knew now，more than ever，that money was everything，the wall that stood between all he loathed and all he wanted. The thing was winding itself up; he had thought of that on his first glorious day in New York，and had even provided a way to snap the thread. It lay on his dressing table now; he had got it out last night when he came blindly up from dinner，but the shiny metal hurt his eyes，and he disliked the looks of it.
He rose and moved about with a painful effort，succumbing now and again to attacks of nausea. It was the old depression exaggerated; all the world had become Cordelia Street. Yet somehow he was not afraid of anything，was absolutely calm; perhaps because he had looked into the dark corner at last and knew. It was bad enough，what he saw there，but somehow not so bad as his long fear of it had been. He saw everything clearly now. He had a feeling that he had made the best of it，that he had lived the sort of life he was meant to live，and for half an hour he sat staring at the revolver. But he told himself that was not the way，so he went downstairs and took a cab to the ferry.
When Paul arrived in Newark he got off the train and took another cab，directing the driver to follow the Pennsylvania tracks out of the town. The snow lay heavy on the roadways and had drifted deep in the open fields. Only here and there the dead grass or dried weed stalks projected，singularly black，above it. Once well into the country，Paul dismissed the carriage and walked，floundering along the tracks，his mind a medley of irrelevant things. He seemed to hold in his brain an actual picture of everything he had seen that morning. He remembered every feature of both his drivers，of the toothless old woman from whom he had bought the red flowers in his coat，the agent from whom he had got his ticket，and all of his fellow passengers on the ferry. His mind，unable to cope with vital matters near at hand，worked feverishly and deftly at sorting and grouping these images. They made for him a part of the ugliness of the world，of the ache in his head，and the bitter burning on his tongue. He stooped and put a handful of snow into his mouth as he walked，but that，too，seemed hot. When he reached a little hillside，where the tracks ran through a cut some twenty feet below him，he stopped and sat down.
The carnations in his coat were drooping with the cold，he noticed，their red glory all over. It occurred to him that all the flowers he had seen in the glass cases that first night must have gone the same way，long before this. It was only one splendid breath they had，in spite of their brave mockery at the winter outside the glass; and it was a losing game in the end，it seemed，this revolt against the homilies by which the world is run. Paul took one of the blossoms carefully from his coat and scooped a little hole in the snow，where he covered it up. Then he dozed awhile，from his weak condition，seemingly insensible to the cold.
The sound of an approaching train awoke him，and he started to his feet，remembering only his resolution，and afraid lest he should be too late. He stood watching the approaching locomotive，his teeth chattering，his lips drawn away from them in a frightened smile; once or twice he glanced nervously sidewise，as though he were being watched. When the right moment came，he jumped. As he fell，the folly of his haste occurred to him with merciless clearness，the vastness of what he had left undone. There flashed through his brain，clearer than ever before，the blue of Adriatic water，the yellow of Algerian sands.
He felt something strike his chest，and that his body was being thrown swiftly through the air，on and on，immeasurably far and fast，while his limbs were gently relaxed. Then，because the picture-making mechanism was crushed，the disturbing visions flashed into black，and Paul dropped back into the immense design of things.
Questions for Discussion
1．Try to identify and explain the use of literary terms and techniques in the work.
2．What methods does the author adopt in the characterization of the protagonist“Paul”？
3．Can you analyze the characters’ motivations and apply the themes from the story to their own lives？
4．What’s the significance of the setting of the story？
5．How do you feel about the tragic ending of Paul？And what do you think are the causes of Paul’s suicide？
Internet Resources
1．https://www.willacather.org
2．http://cather.unl.edu
3．http://cather.unl.edu/life.longbio.html
4．http://cather.unl.edu/life.woodress.html
5．http://3y.uu456.com/bp 6my9w5g4k147ty70k2bs 1.html
Story Two A Respectable Woman (1894)
About the Author
Kate Chopin， born Katherine O’Flaherty (1850—1904)，was a U. S. author of short stories and novels，who is now considered to be a forerunner of American 20th-century feminist authors of Southern. Kate Chopin lived in a variety of locations with different economies and societies. These were sources of insights and observations from which she analyzed and expressed her ideas about late 19th-century Southern American society. Living in areas influenced by the Louisiana Creole and Cajun cultures after she joined her husband in Louisiana，she based many of her stories and sketches in her life in Louisiana. They expressed her unusual portrayals of women as individuals with separate wants and needs. Her major works were two short story collections: Bayou Folk (1894) and A Night in Acadie (1897). Her important short stories included “Desiree’s Baby” (1893)，“A Tale of Miscegenation in Antebellum Louisiana”, “The Story of an Hour”，(1894)，and“The Storm” (1898). Chopin also wrote two novels: At Fault (1890) and The Awakening (1899)，which are set in New Orleans and Grand Isle，respectively. The characters in her stories are usually residents of Louisiana. Many of her works are set in Natchitoches in north central Louisiana，a region where she lived. Chopin’s writing style was influenced by her admiration of the contemporary French writer Guy de Maupassant，but Chopin went beyond Maupassant’s technique and style to give her writing its own flavor. She had an ability to perceive life and creatively express it. She concentrated on women’s lives and their continual struggles to create an identity of their own within the Southern society of the late nineteenth century.
Tips for Reading
The story “A Respectable Woman” takes place on Gaston Baroda’s sugar plantation in Louisiana，apparently in the 1880s or early 1890s. Mrs. Baroda has a solid marriage and lives a comfortable life. When her husband invites an old college friend，Gouvernail，to stay for several weeks，she is not pleased，having hoped to spend some quiet time with her spouse，with no need to entertain. Mrs. Baroda has never met Gouvernail，but from hearing all of their college stories she pictured him in her head and did not like him. During the contacts，Mrs. Baroda began to change her impression on Gouvernail. At one night when they conversed under an oak tree，Mrs. Baroda felt attracted by Gouvernail. Mrs. Baroda once planned to tell her husband her feeling but finally decided to try hard to live up to her expectations of being a respectable woman. She left home the next morning and did not return until Gouvernail left. In the end of the story Mrs. Baroda agreed with her husband to invite Gouvernail again and told her husband，also to herself that she had overcome everything.
The Story
Mrs. Baroda was a little provoked to learn that her husband expected his friend，Gouvernail，up to spend a week or two on the plantation.
They had entertained a good deal during the winter; much of the time had also been passed in New Orleans in various forms of mild dissipation . She was looking forward to a period of unbroken rest，now，and undisturbed tete-a-tete with her husband，when he informed her that Gouvernail was coming up to stay a week or two.
This was a man she had heard much of but never seen. He had been her husband’s college friend; He was now a journalist，and in no sense a society man or“a man about town，” which were，perhaps，some of the reasons she had never met him. But she had unconsciously formed an image of him in her mind. She pictured him tall，slim，cynical，with eye-glasses，and his hands in his pockets; and she did not like him. Gouvernail was slim enough，but he wasn’t very tall nor very cynical; neither did he wear eyeglasses nor carry his hands in his pockets. And she rather liked him when he first presented himself.
But why she liked him she could not explain satisfactorily to herself when she partly attempted to do so. She could discover in him none of those brilliant and promising traits which Gaston，her husband，had often assured her that he possessed. On the contrary，he sat rather mute and receptive before her chatty eagerness to make him feel at home and in face of Gaston’s frank and wordy hospitality. His manner was as courteous toward her as the most exacting woman could require; but he made no direct appeal to her approval or even esteem.
Once settled at the plantation he seemed to like to sit upon the wide portico in the shade of one of the big Corinthian pillars，smoking his cigar lazily and listening attentively to Gaston’s experience as a sugar planter.
“This is what I call living，” he would utter with deep satisfaction，as the air that swept across the sugar field caressed him with its warm and scented velvety touch. It pleased him also to get on familiar terms with the big dogs that came about him，rubbing themselves sociably against his legs. He did not care to fish，and displayed no eagerness to go out and kill grosbecs when Gaston proposed doing so.
Gouvernail’s personality puzzled Mrs. Baroda，but she liked him. Indeed，he was a lovable，inoffensive fellow. After a few days，when she could understand him no better than at first，she gave over being puzzled and remained piqued . In this mood she left her husband and her guest，for the most part，alone together. Then finding that Gouvernail took no manner of exception to her action，she imposed her society upon him，accompanying him in his idle strolls to the mill and walks along the batture . She persistently sought to penetrate the reserve in which he had unconsciously enveloped himself.
“When is he going？your friend？” she one day asked her husband. “For my part，he tires me frightfully.”
“Not for a week yet，dear. I can’t understand; he gives you no trouble.”
“No. I should like him better if he did; if he were more like others，and I had to plan somewhat for his comfort and enjoyment.”
Gaston took his wife’s pretty face between his hands and looked tenderly and laughingly into her troubled eyes.
They were making a bit of toilet sociably together in Mrs. Baroda’s dressing-room.
“You are full of surprises，ma belle，” he said to her. “Even I can never count upon how you are going to act under given conditions.” He kissed her and turned to fasten his cravat before the mirror.
“Here you are，” he went on，“taking poor Gouvernail seriously and making a commotion over him，the last thing he would desire or expect.”
“Commotion!” she hotly resented. “Nonsense! How can you say such a thing？Commotion，indeed! But，you know，you said he was clever.”
“So he is. But the poor fellow is run down by overwork now. That’s why I asked him here to take a rest.”
“You used to say he was a man of ideas，” she retorted，unconciliated . “I expected him to be interesting，at least. I’m going to the city in the morning to have my spring gowns fitted. Let me know when Mr. Gouvernail is gone; I shall be at my Aunt Octavie’s.”
That night she went and sat alone upon a bench that stood beneath a live oak tree at the edge of the gravel walk.
She had never known her thoughts or her intentions to be so confused. She could gather nothing from them but the feeling of a distinct necessity to quit her home in the morning.
Mrs. Baroda heard footsteps crunching the gravel，but could discern in the darkness only the approaching red point of a lighted cigar. She knew it was Gouvernail，for her husband did not smoke. She hoped to remain unnoticed，but her white gown revealed her to him. He threw away his cigar and seated himself upon the bench beside her; without a suspicion that she might object to his presence.
“Your husband told me to bring this to you，Mrs. Baroda，” he said，handing her a filmy，white scarf with which she sometimes enveloped her head and shoulders. She accepted the scarf from him with a murmur of thanks，and let it lie in her lap.
He made some commonplace observation upon the baneful effect of the night air at the season. Then as his gaze reached out into the darkness，he murmured，half to himself:
“‘Night of south winds—night of the large few stars! Still nodding night—’”
She made no reply to this apostrophe to the night，which，indeed，was not addressed to her.
Gouvernail was in no sense a diffident man，for he was not a self-conscious one. His periods of reserve were not constitutional，but the result of moods. Sitting there beside Mrs. Baroda，his silence melted for the time.
He talked freely and intimately in a low，hesitating drawl that was not unpleasant to hear. He talked of the old college days when he and Gaston had been a good deal to each other; of the days of keen and blind ambitions and large intentions. Now there was left with him，at least，a philosophic acquiescence to the existing order？Only a desire to be permitted to exist，with now and then a little whiff of genuine life，such as he was breathing now.
Her mind only vaguely grasped what he was saying. Her physical being was for the moment predominant. She was not thinking of his words，only drinking in the tones of his voice. She wanted to reach out her hand in the darkness and touch him with the sensitive tips of her fingers upon the face or the lips. She wanted to draw close to him and whisper against his cheek—she did not care what—as she might have done if she had not been a respectable woman.
The stronger the impulse grew to bring herself near him，the further，in fact，did she draw away from him. As soon as she could do so without an appearance of too great rudeness，she rose and left him there alone.
Before she reached the house，Gouvernail had lighted a fresh cigar and ended his apostrophe to the night.
Mrs. Baroda was greatly tempted that night to tell her husband—who was also her friend—of this folly that had seized her. But she did not yield to the temptation. Beside being a respectable woman she was a very sensible one; and she knew there are some battles in life which a human being must fight alone.
When Gaston arose in the morning，his wife had already departed. She had taken an early morning train to the city. She did not return till Gouvernail was gone from under her roof.
There was some talk of having him back during the summer that followed. That is，Gaston greatly desired it; but this desire yielded to his wife’s strenuous opposition.
However，before the year ended，she proposed，wholly from herself，to have Gouvernail visit them again. Her husband was surprised and delighted with the suggestion coming from her.
“I am glad，chere amie，to know that you have finally overcome your dislike for him; truly he did not deserve it.”
“Oh，” she told him，laughingly，after pressing a long，tender kiss upon his lips，“I have overcome everything! You will see. This time I shall be very nice to him.”
Questions for Discussion
1．Is Mrs. Baroda a round character or flat character？
2．Make character analysis of the three characters，and point out the methods of characterization used in the story.
3．What are the possible themes of the story？
4．Comment on the ending of the story When Mrs. Baroda says that she has overcome. What do you think she has overcome？
5．Try to write another ending and renew the story.
Internet Resources
1．http://www.everywritersresource.com/shortstories/a-respectable-woman-by-kate-chopin/
2．https://www.katechopin.org/biography/
3．https://www.thoughtco.com/classic-literature-4133245
4．http://www.eastoftheweb.com/short-stories/UBooks/RespWoma861.shtml
5．http://www.bookrags.com/essay-2004/11/2/112349/852/
account for：解释说明。
misdemeanors：轻罪。
perplexity：困惑，混乱。
suave：有礼貌的，老于世故的，常用来指男性。
tan velvet：黄褐色的天鹅绒。
dandy：爱好打扮的男子，油头粉面的。
four-in-hand：打活结的领带。
carnation：康乃馨。
contrite：悔悟的。
hysterical：歇斯底里的。
belladonna：颠茄（一种有毒植物）。
rancor：深仇，积怨。
flippantly：轻率地，没礼貌地。
inquisition：调查，审讯。
impertinent：粗鲁无礼的。
insolence：傲慢，无礼。
vindictive：怀恨在心的。
Rico：里科（美国地名）。
Venus de Milo：米洛的维纳斯。
twanging：鼻音。
vivacious：活泼的，快活的。
veritable：名副其实的，真正的。
soprano：女高音，女高音歌手。
yonder：在那边，在远处。
auf wiedersehen：（德语）再见，再会。
vehemence：强烈，猛烈。
tangibly：清晰可见地。
John Calvin：约翰·加尔文，法国著名的宗教改革家、神学家、基督教新派的加尔文教派的创始人。
Feed my Lambs：《约翰福音》中耶稣对西门彼得说的话。
catechism：基督教的教义问答。
arithmetic：算术。
orgies：狂欢宴会。
accosted：搭讪，攀谈。
squabbling：为琐事争吵，起争执。
proclivities：常指不好的倾向、偏好或嗜好。
curb：限制，抑制。
Monte Carlo：蒙特卡洛，位于摩纳哥。
Martha：（人名）玛莎。（宗）马大，马利亚和拉撒路的姐姐。
serenade：（尤指男子在所爱慕的女子窗外唱的或演奏的）小夜曲。
Rigoletto：威尔第的歌剧《弄臣》。
repulsive：令人厌恶的，可憎的。
clay-bespattered：溅上泥土的。
jonquils：水仙花的一种，盛开在复活节前后，丹麦人用此花庆祝复活节。
taboret：矮凳。
fagged-looking：精疲力尽的神情。
tepid：不冷不热的。
Pagliacci：丑角。
scooped：用铲子或勺子挖洞。
Adriatic：亚得里亚海的。
Algerian：阿尔及利亚的。
dissipation：花天酒地；（物质、感觉或精力逐渐的）消失。
receptive：善于接受的;有接受力的。
portico：有圆柱的门廊。
Corinthian：科林斯式的，是古希腊建筑风格，采用顶部雕刻叶饰的细圆柱，是希腊建筑五种古典柱式中最华丽的一种。
piqued：（常指为小事）生气的，恼怒的，愠怒的。
batture：河滩高地。
commotion：混乱，喧闹。
unconciliated：不和解，不妥协。
baneful：有害的。
apostrophe：撇号。
diffident：羞怯的；缺乏自信的。
drawl：拖长腔调慢吞吞地说。
acquiescence：默许。
strenuous：紧张的。
