SHORT STORIES & MEANING
INTRODUCTION
Out in the woods stood such a pretty little fir tree. It grew in a good place, where it had plenty of sun and plenty of fresh air. Around it stood many tall comrades, both fir trees and pines.
The little fir tree was in a headlong hurry to grow up. It didn’t care a thing for the warm sunshine, or the fresh air, and it took no interest in the peasant children who ran about chattering when they came to pick strawberries or raspberries. Often when the children had picked their pails full, or had gathered long strings of berries threaded on straws, they would sit down to rest near the little fir. „Oh, isn’t it a nice little tree?“ they would say. „It’s the baby of the woods.“ The little tree didn’t like their remarks at all.
Next year it shot up a long joint of new growth, and the following year another joint, still longer. You can always tell how old a fir tree is by counting the number of joints it has.
„I wish I were a grown-up tree, like my comrades,“ the little tree sighed. „Then I could stretch out my branches and see from my top what the world is like. The birds would make me their nesting place, and when the wind blew I could bow back and forth with all the great trees.“
It took no pleasure in the sunshine, nor in the birds. The glowing clouds, that sailed overhead at sunrise and sunset, meant nothing to it.
In winter, when the snow lay sparkling on the ground, a hare would often come hopping along and jump right over the little tree. Oh, how irritating that was! That happened for two winters, but when the third winter came the tree was so tall that the hare had to turn aside and hop around it.
„Oh, to grow, grow! To get older and taller,“ the little tree thought. „That is the most wonderful thing in this world.“
In the autumn, woodcutters came and cut down a few of the largest trees. This happened every year. The young fir was no longer a baby tree, and it trembled to see how those stately great trees crashed to the ground, how their limbs were lopped off, and how lean they looked as the naked trunks were loaded into carts. It could hardly recognize the trees it had known, when the horses pulled them out of the woods.
Where were they going? What would become of them?
In the springtime, when swallows and storks came back, the tree asked them, „Do you know where the other trees went? Have you met them?“
The swallows knew nothing about it, but the stork looked thoughtful and nodded his head. „Yes, I think I met them,“ he said. „On my way from Egypt I met many new ships, and some had tall, stately masts. They may well have been the trees you mean, for I remember the smell of fir. They wanted to be remembered to you.“
„Oh, I wish I were old enough to travel on the sea. Please tell me what it really is, and how it looks.“
„That would take too long to tell,“ said the stork, and off he strode.
„Rejoice in your youth,“ said the sunbeams. „Take pride in your growing strength and in the stir of life within you.“
And the wind kissed the tree, and the dew wept over it, for the tree was young and without understanding.
When Christmas came near, many young trees were cut down. Some were not even as old or as tall as this fir tree of ours, who was in such a hurry and fret to go traveling. These young trees, which were always the handsomest ones, had their branches left on them when they were loaded on carts and the horses drew them out of the woods.
„Where can they be going?“ the fir tree wondered. „They are no taller than I am. One was really much smaller than I am. And why are they allowed to keep all their branches? „Where can they be going?“
„We know! We know!“ the sparrows chirped. „We have been to town and peeped in the windows. We know where they are going. The greatest splendor and glory you can imagine awaits them. We’ve peeped through windows. We’ve seen them planted right in the middle of a warm room, and decked out with the most splendid things-gold apples, good gingerbread, gay toys, and many hundreds of candles.“
„And then?“ asked the fir tree, trembling in every twig. „And then? What happens then?“
„We saw nothing more. And never have we seen anything that could match it.“
„I wonder if I was created for such a glorious future?“ The fir tree rejoiced. „Why, that is better than to cross the sea. I’m tormented with longing. Oh, if Christmas would only come! I’m just as tall and grown-up as the trees they chose last year. How I wish I were already in the cart, on my way to the warm room where there’s so much splendor and glory. Then-then something even better, something still more important is bound to happen, or why should they deck me so fine? Yes, there must be something still grander! But what? Oh, how I long: I don’t know what’s the matter with me.“
„Enjoy us while you may,“ the air and sunlight told him. „Rejoice in the days of your youth, out here in the open.“
But the tree did not rejoice at all. It just grew. It grew and was green both winter and summer-dark evergreen. People who passed it said, „There’s a beautiful tree!“ And when Christmas time came again they cut it down first. The ax struck deep into its marrow. The tree sighed as it fell to the ground. It felt faint with pain. Instead of the happiness it had expected, the tree was sorry to leave the home where it had grown up. It knew that never again would it see its dear old comrades, the little bushes and the flowers about it-and perhaps not even the birds. The departure was anything but pleasant.
The tree did not get over it until all the trees were unloaded in the yard, and it heard a man say, „That’s a splendid one. That’s the tree for us.“ Then two servants came in fine livery, and carried the fir tree into a big splendid drawing-room. Portraits were hung all around the walls. On either side of the white porcelain stove stood great Chinese vases, with lions on the lids of them. There were easy chairs, silk-covered sofas and long tables strewn with picture books, and with toys that were worth a mint of money, or so the children said.
The fir tree was planted in a large tub filled with sand, but no one could see that it was a tub, because it was wrapped in a gay green cloth and set on a many-colored carpet. How the tree quivered! What would come next? The servants and even the young ladies helped it on with its fine decorations. From its branches they hung little nets cut out of colored paper, and each net was filled with candies. Gilded apples and walnuts hung in clusters as if they grew there, and a hundred little white, blue, and even red, candles were fastened to its twigs. Among its green branches swayed dolls that it took to be real living people, for the tree had never seen their like before. And up at its very top was set a large gold tinsel star. It was splendid, I tell you, splendid beyond all words!
„Tonight,“ they all said, „ah, tonight how the tree will shine!“
„Oh,“ thought the tree, „if tonight would only come! If only the candles were lit! And after that, what happens then? Will the trees come trooping out of the woods to see me? Will the sparrows flock to the windows? Shall I take root here, and stand in fine ornaments all winter and summer long?“
That was how much it knew about it. All its longing had gone to its bark and set it to arching, which is as bad for a tree as a headache is for us.
Now the candles were lighted. What dazzling splendor! What a blaze of light! The tree quivered so in every bough that a candle set one of its twigs ablaze. It hurt terribly.
„Mercy me!“ cried every young lady, and the fire was quickly put out. The tree no longer dared rustle a twig-it was awful! Wouldn’t it be terrible if it were to drop one of its ornaments? Its own brilliance dazzled it.
Suddenly the folding doors were thrown back, and a whole flock of children burst in as if they would overturn the tree completely. Their elders marched in after them, more sedately. For a moment, but only for a moment, the young ones were stricken speechless. Then they shouted till the rafters rang. They danced about the tree and plucked off one present after another.
„What are they up to?“ the tree wondered. „What will happen next?“
As the candles burned down to the bark they were snuffed out, one by one, and then the children had permission to plunder the tree. They went about it in such earnest that the branches crackled and, if the tree had not been tied to the ceiling by the gold star at top, it would have tumbled headlong.
The children danced about with their splendid playthings. No one looked at the tree now, except an old nurse who peered in among the branches, but this was only to make sure that not an apple or fig had been overlooked.
„Tell us a story! Tell us a story!“ the children clamored, as they towed a fat little man to the tree. He sat down beneath it and said, „Here we are in the woods, and it will do the tree a lot of good to listen to our story. Mind you, I’ll tell only one. Which will you have, the story of Ivedy-Avedy, or the one about Humpty-Dumpty who tumbled downstairs, yet ascended the throne and married the Princess?“
„Ivedy-Avedy,“ cried some. „Humpty-Dumpty,“ cried the others. And there was a great hullabaloo. Only the fir tree held its peace, though it thought to itself, „Am I to be left out of this? Isn’t there anything I can do?“ For all the fun of the evening had centered upon it, and it had played its part well.
The fat little man told them all about Humpty-Dumpty, who tumbled downstairs, yet ascended the throne and married the Princess. And the children clapped and shouted, „Tell us another one! Tell us another one!“ For they wanted to hear about Ivedy-Avedy too, but after Humpty-Dumpty the story telling stopped. The fir tree stood very still as it pondered how the birds in the woods had never told it a story to equal this.
„Humpty-Dumpty tumbled downstairs, yet he married the Princess. Imagine! That must be how things happen in the world. You never can tell. Maybe I’ll tumble downstairs and marry a princess too,“ thought the fir tree, who believed every word of the story because such a nice man had told it.
The tree looked forward to the following day, when they would deck it again with fruit and toys, candles and gold. „Tomorrow I shall not quiver,“ it decided. „I’ll enjoy my splendor to the full. Tomorrow I shall hear about Humpty-Dumpty again, and perhaps about Ivedy-Avedy too.“ All night long the tree stood silent as it dreamed its dreams, and next morning the butler and the maid came in with their dusters.
„Now my splendor will be renewed,“ the fir tree thought. But they dragged it upstairs to the garret, and there they left it in a dark corner where no daylight ever came. „What’s the meaning of this?“ the tree wondered. „What am I going to do here? What stories shall I hear?“ It leaned against the wall, lost in dreams. It had plenty of time for dreaming, as the days and the nights went by. Nobody came to the garret. And when at last someone did come, it was only to put many big boxes away in the corner. The tree was quite hidden. One might think it had been entirely forgotten.
„It’s still winter outside,“ the tree thought. „The earth is too hard and covered with snow for them to plant me now. I must have been put here for shelter until springtime comes. How thoughtful of them! How good people are! Only, I wish it weren’t so dark here, and so very, very lonely. There’s not even a little hare. It was so friendly out in the woods when the snow was on the ground and the hare came hopping along. Yes, he was friendly even when he jumped right over me, though I did not think so then. Here it’s all so terribly lonely.“
„Squeak, squeak!“ said a little mouse just then. He crept across the floor, and another one followed him. They sniffed the fir tree, and rustled in and out among its branches.
„It is fearfully cold,“ one of them said. „Except for that, it would be very nice here, wouldn’t it, you old fir tree?“
„I’m not at all old,“ said the fir tree. „Many trees are much older than I am.“
„Where did you come from?“ the mice asked him. „And what do you know?“ They were most inquisitive creatures.
„Tell us about the most beautiful place in the world. Have you been there? Were you ever in the larder, where there are cheeses on shelves and hams that hang from the rafters? It’s the place where you can dance upon tallow candles-where you can dart in thin and squeeze out fat.“
„I know nothing of that place,“ said the tree. „But I know the woods where the sun shines and the little birds sing.“ Then it told them about its youth. The little mice had never heard the like of it. They listened very intently, and said, „My! How much you have seen! And how happy it must have made you.“
„I?“ the fir tree thought about it. „Yes, those days were rather amusing.“ And he went on to tell them about Christmas Eve, when it was decked out with candies and candles.
„Oh,“ said the little mice, „how lucky you have been, you old fir tree!“
„I am not at all old,“ it insisted. „I came out of the woods just this winter, and I’m really in the prime of life, though at the moment my growth is suspended.“
„How nicely you tell things,“ said the mice. The next night they came with four other mice to hear what the tree had to say. The more it talked, the more clearly it recalled things, and it thought, „Those were happy times. But they may still come back-they may come back again. Humpty-Dumpty fell downstairs, and yet he married the Princess. Maybe the same thing will happen to me.“ It thought about a charming little birch tree that grew out in the woods. To the fir tree she was a real and lovely Princess.
„Who is Humpty-Dumpty?“ the mice asked it. So the fir tree told them the whole story, for it could remember it word by word. The little mice were ready to jump to the top of the tree for joy. The next night many more mice came to see the fir tree, and on Sunday two rats paid it a call, but they said that the story was not very amusing. This made the little mice to sad that they began to find it not so very interesting either.
„Is that the only story you know?“ the rats asked.
„Only that one,“ the tree answered. „I heard it on the happiest evening of my life, but I did not know then how happy I was.“
„It’s a very silly story. Don’t you know one that tells about bacon and candles? Can’t you tell us a good larder story?“
„No,“ said the tree.
„Then good-by, and we won’t be back,“ the rats said, and went away.
At last the little mice took to staying away too. The tree sighed, „Oh, wasn’t it pleasant when those gay little mice sat around and listened to all that I had to say. Now that, too, is past and gone. But I will take good care to enjoy myself, once they let me out of here.“
When would that be? Well, it came to pass on a morning when people came up to clean out the garret. The boxes were moved, the tree was pulled out and thrown-thrown hard-on the floor. But a servant dragged it at once to the stairway, where there was daylight again.
„Now my life will start all over,“ the tree thought. It felt the fresh air and the first sunbeam strike it as if it came out into the courtyard. This all happened so quickly and there was so much going around it, that the tree forgot to give even a glance at itself. The courtyard adjoined a garden, where flowers were blooming. Great masses of fragrant roses hung over the picket fence. The linden trees were in blossom, and between them the swallows skimmed past, calling, „Tilira-lira-lee, my love’s come back to me.“ But it was not the fir tree of whom they spoke.
„Now I shall live again,“ it rejoiced, and tried to stretch out its branches. Alas, they were withered, and brown, and brittle. It was tossed into a corner, among weeds and nettles. But the gold star that was still tied to its top sparkled bravely in the sunlight.
Several of the merry children, who had danced around the tree and taken such pleasure in it at Christmas, were playing in the courtyard. One of the youngest seized upon it and tore off the tinsel star.
„Look what is still hanging on that ugly old Christmas tree,“ the child said, and stamped upon the branches until they cracked beneath his shoes.
The tree saw the beautiful flowers blooming freshly in the garden. It saw itself, and wished that they had left it in the darkest corner of the garret. It thought of its own young days in the deep woods, and of the merry Christmas Eve, and of the little mice who had been so pleased when it told them the story of Humpty-Dumpty.
„My days are over and past,“ said the poor tree. „Why didn’t I enjoy them while I could? Now they are gone-all gone.“
A servant came and chopped the tree into little pieces. These heaped together quite high. The wood blazed beautifully under the big copper kettle, and the fir tree moaned so deeply that each groan sounded like a muffled shot. That’s why the children who were playing near-by ran to make a circle around the flames, staring into the fire and crying, „Pif! Paf!“ But as each groans burst from it, the tree thought of a bright summer day in the woods, or a starlit winter night. It thought of Christmas Eve and thought of Humpty-Dumpty, which was the only story it ever heard and knew how to tell. And so the tree was burned completely away.
The children played on in the courtyard. The youngest child wore on his breast the gold star that had topped the tree on its happiest night of all. But that was no more, and the tree was no more, and there’s no more to my story. No more, nothing more. All stories come to an end.
One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one’s cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty-seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.
There was clearly nothing left to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl. So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.
While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from the first stage to the second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at $8 per week. It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had that word on the look-out for the mendicancy squad.
In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter would go, and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring. Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the name „Mr. James Dillingham Young.“
The „Dillingham“ had been flung to the breeze during a former period of prosperity when its possessor was being paid $30 per week. Now, when the income was shrunk to $20, the letters of „Dillingham“ looked blurred, as though they were thinking seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming D. But whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above he was called „Jim“ and greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young, already introduced to you as Della. Which is all very good.
Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag. She stood by the window and looked out dully at a grey cat walking a grey fence in a grey backyard. To-morrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty dollars a week doesn’t go far. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated. They always are. Only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Something fine and rare and sterling–something just a little bit near to being worthy of the honour of being owned by Jim.
There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a pier-glass in an $8 Bat. A very thin and very agile person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della, being slender, had mastered the art.
Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. Her eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its colour within twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length.
Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim’s gold watch that had been his father’s and his grandfather’s. The other was Della’s hair. Had the Queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the airshaft, Della would have let her hair hang out of the window some day to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty’s jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would have pulled out his watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck at his beard from envy.
So now Della’s beautiful hair fell about her, rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and made itself almost a garment for her. And then she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet.
On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she cluttered out of the door and down the stairs to the street.
Where she stopped the sign read: „Mme Sofronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds.“ One Eight up Della ran, and collected herself, panting. Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the „Sofronie.“
„Will you buy my hair?“ asked Della.
„I buy hair,“ said Madame. „Take yer hat off and let’s have a sight at the looks of it.“
Down rippled the brown cascade.
„Twenty dollars,“ said Madame, lifting the mass with a practised hand.
„Give it to me quick“ said Della.
Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashed metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Jim’s present.
She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain simple and chaste in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by meretricious ornamentation–as all good things should do. It was even worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it she knew that it must be Jim’s. It was like him. Quietness and value–the description applied to both. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the 78 cents. With that chain on his watch Jim might be properly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the old leather strap that he used in place of a chain.
When Della reached home her intoxication gave way a little to prudence and reason. She got out her curling irons and lighted the gas and went to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which is always a tremendous task dear friends–a mammoth task.
Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close-lying curls that made her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. She looked at her reflection in the mirror long, carefully, and critically.
„If Jim doesn’t kill me,“ she said to herself, „before he takes a second look at me, he’ll say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl. But what could I do–oh! what could I do with a dollar and eighty-seven cents?“
At 7 o’clock the coffee was made and the frying-pan was on the back of the stove hot and ready to cook the chops.
Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat on the corner of the table near the door that he always entered. Then she heard his step on the stair away down on the first flight, and she turned white for just a moment. She had a habit of saying little silent prayers about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered: „Please, God, make him think I am still pretty.“
The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two–and to be burdened with a family! He needed a new overcoat and he was with out gloves.
Jim stepped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at the scent of quail. His eyes were fixed upon Della, and there was an expression in them that she could not read, and it terrified her. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments that she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with that peculiar expression on his face.
Della wriggled off the table and went for him.
„Jim, darling,“ she cried, „don’t look at me that way. I had my hair cut off and sold it because I couldn’t have lived through Christmas without giving you a present. It’ll grow out again–you won’t mind, will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say ‚Merry Christmas!‘ Jim, and let’s be happy. You don’t know what a nice-what a beautiful, nice gift I’ve got for you.“
„You’ve cut off your hair?“ asked Jim, laboriously, as if he had not arrived at that patent fact yet, even after the hardest mental labour.
„Cut it off and sold it,“ said Della. „Don’t you like me just as well, anyhow? I’m me without my hair, ain’t I?“
Jim looked about the room curiously.
„You say your hair is gone?“ he said, with an air almost of idiocy.
„You needn’t look for it,“ said Della. „It’s sold, I tell you–sold and gone, too. It’s Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me, for it went for you. Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered,“ she went on with a sudden serious sweetness, „but nobody could ever count my love for you. Shall I put the chops on, Jim?“
Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to wake. He enfolded his Della. For ten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny some inconsequential object in the other direction. Eight dollars a week or a million a year–what is the difference? A mathematician or a wit would give you the wrong answer. The magi brought valuable gifts, but that was not among them. This dark assertion will be illuminated later on.
Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table.
„Don’t make any mistake, Dell,“ he said, „about me. I don’t think there’s anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that could make me like my girl any less. But if you’ll unwrap that package you may see why you had me going a while at first.“
White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then an ecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! a quick feminine change to hysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employment of all the comforting powers of the lord of the flat.
For there lay The Combs–the set of combs, side and back, that Della had worshipped for long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise-shell, with jewelled rims–just the shade to wear in the beautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had simply craved and yearned over them without the least hope of possession. And now, they were hers, but the tresses that should have adorned the coveted adornments were gone.
But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was able to look up with dim eyes and a smile and say: „My hair grows so fast, Jim!“
And then Della leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, „Oh, oh!“
Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metal seemed to flash with a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit.
„Isn’t it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You’ll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on it.“
Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his head and smiled.
„Dell,“ said he, „let’s put our Christmas presents away and keep ‚em a while. They’re too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs. And now suppose you put the chops on.“
The magi, as you know, were wise men–wonderfully wise men-who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. Of all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi.
https://americanliterature.com/author/o-henry/short-story/the-gift-of-the-magi
He was in the fourth elementary class. He was a graceful Florentine lad of twelve, with black hair and a pale face, the eldest son of an employee on the railway, who, having a large family and but small pay, lived in straitened circumstances. His father loved him and was kind and indulgent to him—indulgent in everything except in what concerned school: on this point he required a great deal, and was severe, because his son was obliged to attain such a rank as would enable him to obtain a place and help his family; and in order to accomplish anything quickly, it was necessary that he should work a great deal in a very short time. So although the lad studied, his father was always exhorting him to study more.
His father was advanced in years, and too much toil had aged him before his time. Nevertheless, in order to provide for the necessities of his family, in addition to the toil which his occupation imposed upon him, he obtained special work here and there as a copyist, and passed a good part of the night at his writing-table. Lately, he had undertaken, in behalf of a house which published journals and books in parts, to write upon the parcels the names and addresses of their subscribers, and he earned three lire for every five hundred of these paper wrappers, written in large and regular characters. But this work wearied him, and he often complained of it to his family at dinner.
“My eyes are giving out,” he said;“ this night work is killing me.” One day his son said to him, “Let me work instead of you, papa; you know that I can write like you, and fairly well.” But the father answered:
“No, my son, you must study; your school is a much more important thing than my wrappers; I would hate to rob you of a single hour; I thank you, but I will not have it; do not mention it to me again.”
The son knew that it was useless to insist on such a matter with his father, and he did not persist; but this is what he did. He knew that exactly at midnight his father stopped writing, and quitted his workroom to go to his bedroom; he had heard him several times: so soon as the twelve strokes of the clock had sounded, he had heard the sound of a chair drawn back, and the slow step of his father. One night he waited until the latter was in bed, then dressed himself very, very softly, and felt his way to the little workroom, lighted the petroleum lamp again, seated himself at the writing-table, where lay a pile of white wrappers and the list of addresses, and began to write, imitating exactly his father’s handwriting. And he wrote with a will, gladly, a little in fear, and the wrappers piled up. From time to time he dropped the pen to rub his hands, and then began again with increased alacrity, listening and smiling. He wrote a hundred and sixty—one lira! Then he stopped, placed the pen where he had found it, put out the light, and went back to bed on tiptoe.
At noon the next day his father sat down to the table in a good humor. He had noticed nothing. He did the work mechanically, measuring it by the hour, and thinking of something else, and only counted the wrappers he had written on the following day. Slapping his son on one shoulder, he said to him:—
“Eh, Giulio! Your father is even a better workman than you thought. In two hours I did a good third more work than usual last night. My hand is still nimble, and my eyes still do their duty.” And Giulio, silent but content, said to himself, “Poor daddy, besides the money, I am giving him such satisfaction in the thought that he has grown young again. Well, courage!”
Encouraged by these good results, when night came and twelve o’clock struck, he rose once more, and set to work. And this he did for several nights. And his father noticed nothing; only once, at supper, he remarked, “It is strange how much oil has been used in this house lately!” This was a shock to Giulio; but the conversation ceased there, and the nightly labor went on.
However, on account of breaking his sleep every night, Giulio did not get sufficient rest: he rose in the morning fatigued, and when he was doing his school work in the evening, he had difficulty in keeping his eyes open. One evening, for the first time in his life, he fell asleep over his copy-book.
“Courage! courage!” cried his father, clapping his hands; “to work!”
He shook himself and set to work again. But the next evening, and on the days following, the same thing occurred, and worse: he dozed over his books, he rose later than usual, he studied his lessons in a languid way, he seemed disgusted with study. His father began to observe him, then to reflect seriously, and at last to reprove him. He should never have done it!
“Giulio,” he said to him one morning, “you put me out of patience; you are no longer as you used to be. I don’t like it. Take care; all the hopes of your family rest on you. I am dissatisfied; do you understand?”
At this reproof, the first severe one, in truth, which he had ever received, the boy grew troubled.
“Yes,” he said to himself, “it is true; it cannot go on so; this deceit must come to an end.”
But at dinner, on the evening of that very same day, his father said with much cheerfulness, “Do you know that this month I have earned thirty-two lire more at addressing those wrappers than last month!” and so saying, he drew from under the table a paper package of sweets which he had bought, that he might celebrate with his children this unusual profit, and they all hailed it with clapping of hands.
Giulio took courage again, and said in his heart, “No, poor papa, I shall not cease to deceive you; I shall make greater efforts to work during the day, but I shall continue to work at night for you and for the rest.” And his father added, “Thirty-two lire more! I am satisfied. But that boy there,” pointing at Giulio, “is the one who displeases me.” And Giulio received the reprimand in silence, forcing back two tears which tried to flow; but at the same time he felt a great pleasure in his heart.
And he continued to work by main force; but fatigue added to fatigue rendered it ever more difficult for him to resist. Thus things went on for two months. The father continued to reproach his son, and to gaze at him with eyes which grew constantly more wrathful. One day he went to make inquiries of the teacher, and the teacher said to him: “Yes, he gets along, because he is intelligent; but he no longer has the good will which he had at first. He is drowsy, he yawns, his mind is distracted. He writes short compositions, scribbled down in all haste, and badly. Oh, he could do a great deal, a great deal more.”
That evening the father took the son aside, and spoke to him words which were graver than any the latter had ever heard. “Giulio, you see how I toil, how I am wearing out my life, for the family. You do not second my efforts. You have no heart for me, nor for your brothers, nor for your mother!”
“Ah no!,don’t say that, father!” cried the son, bursting into tears, and opening his mouth to confess all. But his father interrupted him, saying:—
“You are aware of the condition of the family; you know that good will and sacrifices on the part of all are necessary. I myself, as you see, have had to double my work. I counted on a gift of a hundred lire from the railway company this month, and this morning I have learned that I shall receive nothing!”
At the news, Giulio repressed the confession which was on the point of escaping from his soul, and repeated resolutely to himself: “No, papa, I shall tell you nothing; I shall guard my secret for the sake of being able to work for you; I shall recompense you in another way for the sorrow I am causing you; I shall study enough at school to win promotion; the important point is to help you to earn our living, and to relieve you of the fatigue which is killing you.”
And so he went on, and two months more passed, of labor by night and weakness by day, of desperate efforts on the part of the son, and of bitter reproaches on the part of the father. But the worst of it was, that the latter grew gradually colder towards the boy, only spoke to him rarely, as though he had been a recreant son, of whom there was nothing any longer to be expected, and almost avoided meeting his glance. And Giulio perceived this and suffered from it, and when his father’s back was turned, he threw him a furtive kiss, stretching forth his face with a sentiment of sad and dutiful tenderness; and between sorrow and fatigue, he grew thin and pale, and he was forced to neglect his studies still further. He knew full well that there must be an end to it some day, and every evening he said to himself, “I will not get up tonight;” but when the clock struck twelve, at the moment when he should vigorously have reaffirmed his resolution, he felt remorse: it seemed to him, that by remaining in bed he should be failing in a duty, and robbing his father and the family of a lira. He would rise, thinking that some night his father would wake up and discover him, or that he would find the deception by accident, by counting the wrappers twice; and then all would come to a natural end, without any act of his will, which he did not feel the courage to exert. And thus he went on.
But one evening at dinner his father spoke a word which was decisive so far as he was concerned. His mother looked at him, and it seemed to her that he was more ill and weak than usual. She said to him, “Giulio, you are ill.” And then, turning to his father, with anxiety: “Giulio is ill. See how pale he is! Giulio, my dear, how do you feel?”
His father gave a hasty glance, and said: “It is his bad conscience that produces his bad health. He was not thus when he was a studious scholar and a loving son.”
“But he is ill!” exclaimed the mother.
“I don’t care anything about him any longer!” replied the father.
This remark was like a stab in the heart to the poor boy. Ah! he cared nothing any more. His father, who once had trembled at the mere sound of a cough from him! He no longer loved him; there was no more doubt about it; he was dead in his father’s heart.
“Ah, no! my father,” said the boy to himself, his heart oppressed with anguish, “now all is over indeed; I cannot live without your affection; I must have it all back. I will tell you all; I will deceive you no longer. I will study as of old, come what may, if you will only love me once more, my poor father! Oh, this time I am quite sure of my resolution!”
Nevertheless he rose that night again, by force of habit more than anything else; and when he was once up, he wanted to go and greet and see once more, for the last time, in the quiet of the night, that little chamber where he had toiled so much in secret with his heart full of satisfaction and tenderness. And when he beheld again that little table with the lamp lighted and those white wrappers on which he was never more to write those names of towns and persons, which he had come to know by heart, he was seized with a great sadness, and with an impetuous movement he grasped the pen to recommence his accustomed toil. But in reaching out his hand he struck a book, and the book fell. The blood rushed to his heart. What if his father had waked! Certainly he would not have discovered him in the commission of a bad deed: he had himself decided to tell him all, and yet—the sound of that step approaching in the darkness,—the discovery at that hour, in that silence,—his mother, who would be awakened and alarmed,—and the thought, which had occurred to him for the first time, that his father might feel humiliated in his presence on thus discovering all;—all this terrified him almost. He bent his ear, with suspended breath. He heard no sound. He laid his ear to the lock of the door behind him—nothing. The whole house was asleep. His father had not heard.
He recovered his composure, and set himself again to his writing, and wrapper was piled on wrapper. He heard the regular tread of the policeman below in the deserted street; then the rumble of a carriage which gradually died away; then, after an interval, the rattle of a file of carts, which passed slowly by; then a profound silence, broken from time to time by the distant barking of a dog.
And he wrote on and on: and meanwhile his father was behind him. He had risen on hearing the fall of the book, and had remained waiting for a long time: the rattle of the carts had drowned the noise of his footsteps and the creaking of the door-casing; and he was there, with his white head bent over Guilio’s little black head, and he had seen the pen flying over the wrappers, and in an instant he had divined all, remembered all, understood all, and a despairing penitence, but at the same time an immense tenderness, had taken possession of his mind and had held him nailed to the spot and choking behind his child. Suddenly Guilio uttered a piercing shriek; two arms had pressed his head convulsively.
“Oh, papa, papa! forgive me, forgive me!” he cried, recognizing his parent by his weeping.
“Do you forgive me!” replied his father, sobbing, and covering his brow with kisses: “I have understood all, I know all; it is I who asked your pardon, my blessed child; come, come with me!” and he pushed or rather carried him to the bedside of his mother, who was awake, and throwing him into her arms, he said:— “ Kiss this little angel of a son, who has not slept for three months, but has been toiling for me, while I was saddening his heart, and he was earning our bread!” The mother pressed him to her breast and held him there, without the power to speak; at last she said: “Go to sleep at once, my baby, go to sleep and rest.—Carry him to bed.”
The father took him from her arms, carried him to his room, and laid him in his bed, still breathing hard and caressing him, and arranged his pillows and coverlets for him.
“Thanks, papa,” the child kept repeating; “thanks; but go to bed yourself now; I am content; go to bed, papa.”
But his father wanted to see him fall asleep: so he sat down beside the bed, took his hand, and said to him, “Sleep, sleep, my little son!” and Giulio, being weak, fell asleep at last, and slumbered many hours, enjoying, for the first time in months, a tranquil sleep, enlivened by pleasant dreams; and as he opened his eyes, when the sun had already been shining for some time, he first felt, and then saw, close to his breast, and resting upon the edge of the little bed, the white head of his father, who had passed the night thus, and who was still asleep, with his brow against his son’s heart.
https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Heart/The_Little_Florentine_Scribe
In the INTRODUCTION you can see a short movie with Clifton Fadiman (Encyclopaedia Britannica Educational Corporation), who presents some basic elements of a good short story. What are they?
Get familiar with the RESEARCH and explain the idea of „meaning“ by Prof. Viktor Frankl.
What meaning do the three project stories, which for some might appear sentimental, convey? How can you interpret them in the context of Fadiman´s proposition and Prof. Frankl´s research?
According to Prof. Frankl why is self-actualisation not the goal and what is his opinion about self-centredness?
Can you give some more examples of stories which strongly deliver the idea of „meaning“?
In the Western culture the idea of Prof. Frankl is not new. It is visible in good literature, which in this project is represented by three short stories. However, what is new is its scientific confirmation.
The aim of this project is to demonstrate the outcomes of Prof. Frankl´s * work and to encourage the individual search for meaning, which, unfortunately, can be impeded by the modern ideologies of „positive thinking“, consumerism, nihilism, relativism, self- centredness, mainstream trends, etc.
* Viktor E. Frankl, M.D., Ph.D. was Professor of Neurology and Psychiatry at the University of Vienna Medical School and Visiting Professor at Harvard and at universities in Dallas, Pittsburgh, and San Diego. From 1940 to 1942 he was head of the Neurology Department of the Rothschild Hospital, and between 1946 and 1970 he was director of the Vienna Neurological Policlinic. He created the first meaning-oriented school of psychotherapy, „Logotherapy and Existential Analysis“, often called the „Third Viennese School of Psychotherapy“, after Freud’s Psychoanalysis and Adler’s Individual Psychology. Frankl held lectures at 209 universities on all continents. (…)
PROFESSORSHIPS
- Harvard University, Cambridge
- University of Pittsburgh
- University of Dallas, Texas
- U.S. International University, San Diego, California
HONORARY DOCTOR DEGREES
- Loyola University, Chicago (1970)
- Edgecliffe College, Cincinnati (1970)
- Rockford College, Illinois (1972)
- Mount Mary College, Wisconsin (1984)
- Universidade do Rio Grande do Sul, Brazil (1984)
- Universidad Andres Bello, Caracas (1984)
- University of South Africa (1984)
- Universidad del Salvador, Buenos Aires (1985)
- Universidad Catolica Argentina, Buenos Aires (1985)
- Universidad de Buenos Aires (1985)
- Universidad Francisco Marroquin, Guatemala (1985)
- University of Vienna (1986)
- Universidad Nacional de Cuyo, Argentina (1986)
- Universidad Nacional de Entre Rios, Argentina (1986)
- Universidad Nacional de San Luis, Argentina (1986)
- Universidad del Aconcagua, Argentina (1986)
- Universidade de Brasilia (1988)
- University of Haifa, Israel (1988)
- International Academy for Philosophy in Liechtenstein (1989)
- University of Kopenhagen (1989)
- University of Pretoria, South Africa (1990)
- Universidad Gabriela Mistral, Santiago de Chile (1991)
- University of Santa Clara, California (1991)
- University of Ljubljana, Slovenia (1992)
- University of Prague (1994)
- University of Lublin, Poland (1994)
- University of Salzburg (1994)
- Semmelweis-University Budapest (1996)
- Ohio State University, Columbus (1997)
HONORARY MEMBERSHIPS
- Austrian Academy of Sciences
- Societies for Neurology and Psychiatry in Austria, Peru and Guatemala
AWARDS
- John F. Kennedy Star
- Oscar Pfister Award of the American Psychiatric Association
- Theodor Billroth Medal
- Albert Schweitzer Medal
- Cardinal Innitzer Prize
- City of Vienna Prize for Science
- Honorary Ring of the City of Vienna
- Honorary Citizen of the Capital of Texas
- Great Cross of Merit with Star (Germany)
- Lifetime Achievement Award of the Foundation for Hospice and Homecare
- Nomination for the Peace Nobel Prize by the Pontifical University of Porto Alegre (Brazil), a Texan university and the „Evolution of Psychotherapy Foundation“ (Phoenix, Arizona).
- Viktor Frankl Catedra at the University of Caracas (Venezuela)
- Frankl received the highest honor the Republic of Austria can confer on a scientist; it is the membership (since 1981) in the „Curia of the Great Badge of Honour“, an Order restricted to 18 Austrians and 18 citizens of other countries.
- Ehrenpreis des Österreichischen Buchhandels für Toleranz in Denken und Handeln (1991)
- Großes Ehrenzeichen der Österreichischen Ärztekammer (1995)
- Great Cross of Merit with Star of the Republic of Austria (1995)
- Great Badge of Honour of the Austrian Medical Society (1995)
- Maryland Psychological Association Outstanding Lifetime Contribution To Psychology Award
- Honorary Citizenship of Vienna (1995)
- Medicus Magnus Medal and International Golden Star „Merit for Humanism“ (Polish Academy of Medicine, 1997)
https://www.viktorfrankl.org/lifeandwork.html
