W.S. Maugham
Date: 2015-10-07; view: 488.
MESSAGE
STYLE
I.Comment on the syntax.
1. What is the stylistic effect of parallel constructions in the 1st and 4th paragraphs.? Do they
- slow down the narration
- speed it up
- give the impression of peace and calm
- give the impression of monotony
- reinforce the atmosphere of leisure
- other?
2. Comment on the syntax of the 5th paragraph.Pick out examples of parallel constructions interacting with enumeration: what is emphasized through the convergence?
3. How does the juxtaposition of long and very short sentences add to the portrait of the Bum in the 6th and 15th paragraphs?
4. Pick out more examples of such juxtaposition of sentences of contrasting length? What is the effect of it on the rhythm? What emotional state is conveyed?
II. Comment on the imagery
a) the amount of stylistic devices creating images
b) their role
1. Maugham saw himself primarily as a pathologist of human feeling. Does this story prove it?
2. What is the message ? Is it a harrowing story of
- the man without talent who persists in devoting his life to art or writing?
- the man with talent who was too arrogant to make any compromise with circumstances?
- the man with talent who was too lazy to achieve any success in art ?
- other__________?
16.
THE MAN WITH THE SCAR.
It was on account of the scar that I first noticed him, for it ran, broad and red, in a great crescent from his temple to his chin. It must have been due to a formidable wound and I wondered whether this had been caused by a sabre or by a fragment of shell. It was unexpected on that round , fat, and good-humoured face. He had small and undistinguished features, and his expression was artless. His face went oddly with his corpulent body. He was a powerful man of more than common height. I never saw him in anything but a very shabby grey suit, a khaki shirt, and a battered sombrero. He was far from clean. He used to come into the Palace Hotel at Guatemala City every day at cocktail time and strolling leisurely round the bar offered lottery tickets for sale. If this was the way he made his living it must have been a poor one for I never saw anyone buy, but now and then I saw him offered a drink. He never refused it. He threaded his way among the tables with a sort of rolling walk as though he were accustomed to traverse long distances on foot, paused at each table, with a little smile mentioned the numbers he had for sale, and then, when no notice was taken of him, with the same smile passed on. I think he was for the most part a trifle the worse for liquour.
I was standing at the bar one evening, my foot on the rail, with an acquaintance – they make a very good dry Martini at the Palace Hotel in Guatemala City – when the man with the scar came up. I shook my head as for the twentieth time since my arrival he held out for my inspection his lottery tickets. But my companion nodded affably.
‘Que tal, general? How is life?'
‘Not so bad. Business is none the good, but it might be worse.'
‘What will you have, general?'
‘A brandy.'
He tossed it down and put the glass back on the bar. He nodded to my acquaintance.
‘Gracias. Hasta luego.'
Then he turned away and offered his tickets to the men who were sitting next to us.
‘Who is your friend?' I asked. ‘That's a terrible scar on his face.'
‘It doesn't add to his beauty, does it? He's an exile from Nicaragua. He's a ruffian of course and a bandit, but not a bad fellow. I give him a few pesos now and then. He was a revolutionary general, and if his ammunition hadn't given out he'd have upset the government and be Minister of War now instead of selling lottery tickets in Guatemala. They captured him, along with his staff, such as it was, and tried him by court-martial. Such things are rather summary in these countries, you know, and he was sentenced to be shot at dawn. I guess he knew what was coming to him when he was caught. He spent the night in gaol and he and the others, there were five of them altogether, passed the time playing poker. They used matches for chips. He told me he'd never had such a run of bad luck in his life; they were playing with a short pack, Jacks to open, but he never held a card; he never improved more than half a dozen times in the whole sitting and no sooner did he buy a new stack than he lost it. When day broke and the soldiers came into the cell to fetch them for execution he had lost more matches than a reasonable man could use in a lifetime.
‘They were led into the patio of the gaol and placed against a wall, the five of them side by side, with the firing party facing them. There was a pause and our friend asked the officer in charge of them what the devil they were keepin him waiting for. The officer said that the general comanding the government troops wished to attend the execution and they awaited his arrival.
‘ “Then I have time to smoke another cigarette,” said our friend. “He was always unpunctual.”
But he had barely lit it when the general – it was San Ignacio, by the way: I don't know whether you ever met him – followed by his A.D.C. came into the patio. The usual formalities were performed and San Ignacio asked the codemned men whether there was anything they wished before the execution took place. Four of the five shook their heads, but our friend spoke.
‘ “Yes, I should like to say good-buy to my wife.”
‘ “Bueno,” said the general, “I have no objection to that. Where is she?”
‘ “She is waiting at the prison door.”
‘ “Then it will not cause a delay of more than five minutes.”
‘ “Hardly that, Senor General,” said our friend.
‘ “Have him placed on one side.”
‘Two soldiers advanced and between them the condemned rebel walked to the spot indicated. The officer in command of the firing squad on a nod from the general gave an order, there was a ragged report, and the four men fell. They fell strangely, not together, but one after the other, with movements that were almost grotesque, as though they were puppets in a toy theatre. The officer went up to them and into one who was still alive emptied two barrels of his revolver. Out friend finished his cigarette and threw away the stub.
‘There was a little stir at the gateway. A woman came into the patio, with quick steps, and then, her hand on her heart, stopped suddenly. She gave a cry and with outstretched arms ran forward.
‘ “Caramba,” said the General.
‘She was in black, with a veil over her hair, and her face was dead white. She was hardly more than a girl, a slim creature, with little regular features and enormous eyes. But they were distraught with anguish. Her loveliness was such that as she ran, her mouth slightly open and the agony of her face beautiful, a gasp of surprise was wrung from those indifferent soldiers who looked at her.
‘The rebel advanced a step or two to meet her. She flung herself into his arms and with a hoarse cry of passion: alma de mi corazon, soul of my heart, he pressed his lips to hers. And at the same moment he drew a knife from his ragged shirt – I haven't a notion how he managed to retain possession of it – and stabbed her in the neck. The blood spurted from the cut vein and dyed his shit. Then he flung his arms round her and once more pressed his lips to hers.
‘It happened so quickly that many did not know what had occured, but from the others burst a cry of horror; they sprang forward and seized him. They loosened his grasp and the girl would have fallen if the A.D.C. had not caght her. She was unconscious. They laid her on the ground and with dismay on their faces stood round watching her. The rebel knew where he was striking and it was impossible to staunch the blood. In a moment the A.D.C. who had been kneeling by her side rose.
‘ “She's dead,” he whispered.
‘The rebel crossed himself.
‘ “Why did you do it?” asked the general.
‘ “I loved her.”
‘A sort of sigh passed through those men crowded together and they looked with strange faces at the muderer. The general stared at him for a while in silence.
‘ “It was a noble gesture,” he said at last. “I cannot execute this man. Take my car and have him led to the frontier. Senor, I offer you the homage which is due from one brave man to another.”
‘A murmur of approbation broke from those who listened. The A.D.C. tapped the rebel on the shoulder, and between the two soldiers without a word he marched to the waiting car.'
My friend stopped and for a little I was silent. I must explain that he was a Guatemalecan and spoke to me in Spanish. I have translated what he told me as well as I could, but I have made no attempt to tone down his rather high-flown language. To tell the truth I think it suits the story.
‘But how then did he get the scar?' I asked at length.
‘Oh, that was due to a bottle that burst when I was opening it. A bottle of ginger ale.'
‘I never liked it,' said I.
GLOSSARY
on account of
crescent
temple
formidable
sabre
undistinguished features
an artless expression
corpulent body
battered
to thread one's way
affably
ruffian
to upset the government
court-martial
gaol
distraught with anguish
to loosen the grasp
dismay
to staunch the blood
homage
approbation
high-flown language
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