Analyse the comparison between death and sleep in the poem, Death Be Not Proud. How does this metaphor contribute to the overall message of the sonnet? Write your answer in about 200-250 words.

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Long Answer

Solution

John Donne's sonnet "Death Be Not Proud" employs the metaphor of death as sleep to diminish its perceived power and terror, ultimately conveying the message of death's defeat and the promise of eternal life. The poem begins by addressing Death directly, asserting that it should not be proud or fearful, as it is merely a transition, much like sleep. This common comparison is foundational to the poem's argument, as sleep is a temporary state of rest and rejuvenation, suggesting that death, too, is not an end but a temporary phase.

Donne uses specific words and imagery to underscore the similarity between death and sleep. He refers to death as "rest" and "sleep," which are associated with peace and relief from the pains of life. This portrayal minimizes death's frightful connotations, making it seem gentle and benign. The imagery of sleep, a daily and natural occurrence, helps to demystify death and strip it of its dread.

Furthermore, Donne portrays death as weak and susceptible through imagery and word choice. He describes death as a "slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men," highlighting its lack of autonomy and power. Death is also compared to "poppy or charms," suggesting it is no more potent than medicinal sleep aids, further diminishing its strength.

The poem's most powerful argument lies in the concept of eternal life. Donne declares that after death, the soul awakens to eternal life, thus negating death's power entirely. The final lines, "One short sleep past, we wake eternally / And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die," reinforce this idea. The downscaling of death's power and terror is constant throughout the poem, reducing it to a mere momentary pause before eternal awakening.

In conclusion, the metaphor of death as sleep in "Death Be Not Proud" is central to Donne's message that death is neither powerful nor to be feared. By equating death with sleep, employing imagery to show death's weakness, and emphasizing the promise of eternal life, Donne conveys that death can be overcome and defeated, offering a comforting perspective on the afterlife.

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Q 5.iii.a Q 5.ii Q 5.iii.b

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Q 5.iii.a | 10 marks

RELATED QUESTIONS

Here are some words with silent letters. Learn their spelling. Your teacher will dictate these words to you. Write them down and underline the silent letters.

knock	wrestle	walk	wrong
knee	half	honest	daughter
hours	return	hornet	calm
could	sign	island	button

Now rewrite the pair of sentences given below as one sentence.

You have nothing. That makes you very determined.

Now read the story

"Ma!" Mrs. Bramble looked up, beaming with a kind of amiable fat-headedness. A domestic creature, wrapped up in Bill, her husband, and Harold, her son. At the present moment only the latter was with her. He sat on the other side of the table, his lips gravely pursed and his eyes a trifle cloudy behind their spectacles. Before him on the red tablecloth lay an open book. His powerful brain was plainly busy.
"Yes, dearie?"
"Will you hear me?"
Mrs. Bramble took the book.
"Yes, mother will hear you, precious."
A slight frown, marred the smoothness of Harold Bramble's brow. It jarred upon him, this habit of his mother's, of referring to herself in the third person, as if she were addressing a baby, instead of a young man of ten who had taken the spelling and dictation prize last term on his head.
He cleared his throat and fixed his eyes upon the cut-glass hangings of the chandelier.
"Be good, sweet maid," he began, with the toneless rapidity affected by youths of his age when reciting poetry…..
"You do study so hard, dearie, you'll give yourself a headache. Why don't you take a nice walk by the river for half an hour, and come back nice and fresh?"
The spectacled child considered the point for a moment gravely. Then nodding, he arranged his books in readiness for his return and went out. The front door closed with a decorous softness.
It was a constant source of amazement to Mrs. Bramble that she should have brought such a prodigy as Harold into the world. Harold was so different from ordinary children, so devoted to his books, such a model of behaviour, so altogether admirable. The only drawback was, that his very 'perfection' had made necessary a series of evasions and even deliberate falsehoods, on the part of herself and her husband, highly distasteful to both. They were lovers of truth, but they had realized that there are times when truth must be sacrificed. At any cost, the facts concerning Mr. Bramble's profession must be kept from Harold.
While he was a baby it had not mattered so much. But when he began to move about and take notice, Mrs. Bramble said to Mr. Bramble, "Bill, we must keep it from Harold." A little later, when the child had begun to show signs of being about to become a model of goodness and intelligence, and had already taken two prizes at the Sunday-school, the senior curate of the parish, meeting Mr. Bramble one morning, said nervously-for after all, it was a delicate subject to broach, "Er-Bramble, I think, on the whole, it would be as well to-er-keep it from Harold."
And only the other day, Mrs. Bramble's brother, Major Percy Stokes, dropping in for a cup of tea, had said, "I hope you are keeping it from Harold. It is the least you can do", and had gone on to make one or two remarks about men of wrath which, considering that his cheek-bones were glistening with Mr. Bramble's buttered toast, were in poor taste. But Percy was like that. Enemies said that he liked the sound of his own voice.
Certainly he was very persuasive. Mr. Bramble had fallen in with the suggestion without demur. In private life he was the mildest and most obliging of men, and always yielded to everybody. The very naming of Harold had caused a sacrifice on his part.
When it was certain that he was about to become a father, he had expressed a desire that the child should be named John, if a boy, after Mr John L. Sullivan, or, if a girl, Marie, after Miss Marie Lloyd. But Mrs Bramble saying that Harold was such a sweet name, he had withdrawn his suggestions with the utmost goodhumour.
Nobody could help liking this excellent man which made it all the greater pity that his walk in life was of such a nature that it simply had to be kept from Harold.
He was a professional boxer. That was the trouble.
Before the coming of Harold, he had been proud of being a professional boxer. His ability to paste his fellow-man in the eye while apparently meditating an attack on his stomach, and vice versa, had filled him with that genial glow of self-satisfaction which comes to philanthropists and other benefactors of the species. It had seemed to him a thing on which to congratulate himself that of all London's teeming millions there was not a man, weighing eight stone four, whom he could not overcome in a twenty-round contest. He was delighted to be the possessor of a left hook which had won the approval of the newspapers.
And then Harold had come into his life, and changed him into a furtive practitioner of shady deeds. Before, he had gone about the world with a match-box full of press-notices, which he would extract with a pin and read to casual acquaintances. Now, he quailed at the sight of his name in print, so thoroughly had he become imbued with the necessity of keeping it from Harold.
With an ordinary boy it would not have mattered. However, Harold was different. Secretly proud of him as they were, both Bill and his wife were a little afraid of their wonderful child. The fact was, as Bill himself put it, Harold was showing a bit too much class for them. He had formed a corner in brains, as far as the Bramble family was concerned. They had come to regard him as being of a superior order.
Yet Harold, defying the laws of heredity, had run to intellect as his father had run to muscle. He had learned to read and write with amazing quickness. He sang in the choir.
And now, at the age of ten, a pupil at a local private school where they wore mortar boards and generally comported themselves like young dons, he had already won a prize for spelling and dictation. You simply couldn't take a boy like that aside and tell him that the father whom he believed to be a commercial traveller was affectionately known to a large section of the inhabitants of London, as "Young Porky." There were no two ways about it. You had to keep it from him.
So, Harold grew in stature and intelligence, without a suspicion of the real identity of the square-jawed man with the irregularly-shaped nose who came and went mysteriously in their semi-detached, red-brick home. He was a self-centred child, and, accepting the commercial traveller fiction, dismissed the subject from his mind and busied himself with things of more moment. And time slipped by.
Mrs. Bramble, left alone, resumed work on the sock which she was darning. For the first time since Harold had reached years of intelligence she was easy in her mind about the future. A week from tonight would see the end of all her anxieties. On that day Bill would fight his last fight, the twenty-round contest with that American Murphy at the National Sporting Club for which he was now training at the White Hart down the road. He had promised that it would be the last. He was getting on. He was thirty-one, and he said himself that he would have to be chucking the game before it chucked him. His idea was to retire from active work and try for a job as an instructor at one of these big schools or colleges. He had a splendid record for respectability and sobriety and all the other qualities which headmasters demanded in those who taught their young gentlemen to box and several of his friends who had obtained similar posts described the job in question as extremely soft. So that it seemed to Mrs. Bramble, that all might now be considered well. She smiled happily to herself as she darned her sock.
She was interrupted in her meditations by a knock at the front door. She put down her sock and listened.
Martha, the general, pattered along the passage, and then there came the sound of voices speaking in an undertone. Footsteps made themselves heard in the passage. The door opened. The head and shoulders of Major Percy Stokes insinuated themselves into the room.
The Major cocked a mild blue eye at her.
"Harold anywhere about?"
"He's gone out for a nice walk. Whatever brings you here, Percy, so late? "
Percy made no answer. He withdrew his head.
He then reappeared, this time in his entirety, and remained holding the door open. More footsteps in the passage, and through the doorway in a sideways fashion suggestive of a diffident crab, came a short, sturdy, red-headed man with a broken nose and a propitiatory smile, at the sight of whom Mrs. Bramble, dropping her sock, rose as if propelled by powerful machinery, and exclaimed, "Bill!"
Mr. Bramble - for it was he - scratched his head, grinned feebly, and looked for assistance to the Major.
"The scales have fallen from his eyes."
"What scales?" demanded Mrs. Bramble, a literal-minded woman. "And what are you doing here, Bill, when you ought to be at the White Hart, training?"
"That's just what I'm telling you," said Percy. "I’ve been wrestling with Bill, and I have been vouchsafed the victory."
"You!" said Mrs. Bramble, with uncomplimentary astonishment, letting her gaze wander over her brother's weedy form.
"Jerry Fisher's a hard nut," said Mr. Bramble, apologetically. "He don't like people coming round talking to a man he's training, unless he introduces them or they're newspaper gents."
"After that I kept away. But I wrote the letters and I sent the tracts. Bill, which of the tracts was it that snatched you from the primrose path?"
"It wasn't so much the letters, Perce. It was what you wrote about Harold. You see, Jane---"
"Perhaps you'll kindly allow me to get a word in edgeways, you two," said Mrs.Bramble, her temper for once becoming ruffled. "You can stop talking for half an instant, Percy, if you know how, while Bill tells me what he's doing here when he ought to be at the White Hart with Mr. Fisher, doing his bit of training."
Mr. Bramble met her eye and blinked awkwardly.
" Percy's just been telling you, Jane. He wrote---"
"I haven't made head or tail of a single word that Percy's said, and I don't expect to. All I want is a plain answer to a plain question. What are you doing here, Bill, instead of being at the White Hart? "
"I've come home, Jane."
"Glory!" exclaimed the Major.
"Percy, if you don't keep quiet, I'll forget I'm your sister and let you have one. What
do you mean, Bill, you've come home? Isn't there going to be the fight next week,
after all?"
"The fight's over," said the unsuppressed Major, joyfully, "and Bill's won, with me
seconding him."
"Percy!"
Mr. Bramble pulled himself together with a visible effort.
"I'm not going to fight, Jane," he said, in a small voice.
'' You're not going--!"
"He's seen the error of his ways," cried Percy, the resilient."That's what he's gone
and done. At the eleventh hour."
"Oh! I have waited for this joyful moment. I have watched for it. I---"
"You're not going to fight!"
Mr. Bramble, avoiding his wife's eye, shook his head.
"And how about the money?"
"What's money? " said the Major, scornfully.
"You ought to know," snapped Mrs. Bramble, turning on him. "You've borrowed
enough of it from me in your time."
The Major waved a hand in wounded silence. He considered the remark in poor
taste.
"How about the money?" repeated Mrs. Bramble. "Goodness knows I've never liked your profession, Bill, but there is this to be said for it, that it's earned you good money and made it possible for us to give Harold as good an education as any Duke ever had, I'm sure. And you know, you yourself said that the five hundred pounds you were going to get if you beat this Murphy, and even if you lost it would be a hundred and twenty, was going to be a blessing, because it would let us finish him off proper and give him a better start in life than you or me ever had, and now
you let this Percy come over you with his foolish talk, and now I don't know what will happen."
There was an uncomfortable silence. Even Percy seemed to be at a loss for words. Mrs. Bramble sat down and began to sob. Mr. Bramble shuffled his feet.
"Talking of Harold," said Mr. Bramble at last, " That's , really what I'm driving at. It was him only whom I was thinking of when I hopped it from the White Hart. It would be written up in all the papers, instead of only in the sporting ones. As likely as not there would be a piece about it in the Mail, with a photograph of me. And you know Harold reads his Mail regularly. And then, don't you see, the fat would be in the fire. "That's what Percy pointed out to me, and I seen what he meant, so I hopped it."
"At the eleventh hour," added the Major, rubbing in the point.
"You see, Jane---" Mr. Bramble was beginning, when there was a knock at the door, and a little, ferret-faced man in a woollen sweater and cycling knickerbockers entered, removing as he did so a somewhat battered bowler hat.
"Beg pardon, Mrs. Bramble," he said, " coming in like this. Found the front door ajar, so came in, to ask if you'd happened to have seen-"
He broke off and stood staring wildly at the little group.
"I thought so!" he said, and shot through the air towards Percy.
"Jerry !" said Bill.
"Mr. Fisher!" said Mrs. Bramble,
"Be reasonable," said the Major, diving underneath the table and coming up the other side like a performing seal.
"Let me get at him," begged the intruder, struggling to free himself from Bill's restraining arms.
Mrs. Bramble rapped on the table.
"Kindly remember there's a lady present, Mr. Fisher."
The little man's face became a battlefield on which rage, misery, and a respect for the decencies of social life struggled for mastery.
"It's hard," he said at length, in a choked voice. "I just wanted to break his neck for him, but I suppose it's not to be. I know it's him that's at the bottom of it. And here I find them together, so I know it's him. Well, if you say so, Mrs. B., I suppose I mustn't put a hand on him. But it's hard. Bill, you come back along with me to the White Hart. I'm surprised at you. Ashamed of you, I am. All the time you and me have known each other, I've never known you do such a thing. You are such a pleasure to train as a rule. It all comes of getting with bad companions."
Mr. Bramble looked at his brother-in-law miserably.
"You tell him," he said.
"You tell him, Jane," said the Major.
"I won't," said Mrs. Bramble.
"Tell him what? " asked the puzzled trainer.
"Well?"
"It's only that I'm not going to fight on Monday."
"What!"
"Bill has seen a sudden bright light," said Percy, edging a few inches to the left, so that the table was exactly between the trainer and himself. "At the eleventh hour, he has turned from his wicked ways. You ought to be singing with joy, Mr. Fisher, if you really loved Bill. This ought to be the happiest evening you've ever known. You ought to be singing like a little child."
A strange, guttural noise escaped the trainer. It may have been a song, but it did not sound like it.
"It's true, Jerry," said Bill, unhappily. "I have been thinking it over, and I'm not going to fight on Monday."
"Glory!" said the Major, tactlessly.
Jerry Fisher's face was a study in violent emotions. His eyes seemed to protrude from their sockets like a snail's. He clutched the tablecloth.
"I'm sorry, Jerry," said Bill. " I know it's hard on you. But I've got to think of Harold. This fight with Jimmy Murphy being what you might call a kind of national affair, in a way of speaking, will be reported in The Mail as like as not, with a photograph of me, and Harold reads The Mail regular. We've been keeping it from him all these years that I'm in the profession, and we can't let him know now. He would die of shame, Jerry."
Tears appeared in Jerry Fisher's eyes.
"Bill," he cried, " you're off your head. Think of the purse!"
"Ah!" said Mrs. Bramble.
"Think of all the swells that'll be coming to see you. Think of what the papers'll say. Think of me."
"I know, Jerry, it's chronic. But Harold---"
"Think of all the trouble you've taken for the last few weeks getting yourself into condition."
"I know. But Har---"
"You can't not fight on Monday."
"But Harold, Jerry. He'd die of the disgrace of it. He ain't like you and me, Jerry. He's a little gentleman. I got to think of Harold"
"What about me, pa?" said a youthful voice at the door; and Bill's honest blood froze at the sound. His jaw fell, and he goggled dumbly.
There, his spectacles gleaming in the gaslight, his cheeks glowing with the exertion of the nice walk, his eyebrows slightly elevated with surprise, stood Harold himself.
"Halloa, pa! Halloa, Uncle Percy! Somebody's left the front door open. What were you saying about thinking about me, pa? Ma, will you hear me, my piece of poetry again? I think I've forgotten it."
The four adults surveyed the innocent child in silence.
On the faces of three of them consternation was written. In the eyes of the fourth, Mr. Fisher, there glittered that nasty, steely expression of the man, who sees his way to getting a bit of his own back, Mr. Fisher's was not an un-mixedly chivalrous nature. He considered that he had been badly treated, and what he wanted most at the moment was revenge. He had been fond and proud of Bill Bramble, but those emotions belonged to the dead past. Just at present, he felt that he disliked Bill rather more than anyone else in the world, with the possible exception of Major Percy Stokes.
"So you're Harold, are you, Tommy? " he said, in a metallic voice." Then just you listen here a minute."
"Jerry," cried Bill, advancing, "you keep your mouth shut, or I'll dot you one."
Mr. Fisher retreated and, grasping a chair, swung it above his head.
"You better! " he said, curtly.
''Mr. Fisher, do be a gentleman," entreated Mrs. Bramble.
"My dear sir." There was a crooning winningness in Percy's voice. "My dear sir, do nothing hasty. Think before you speak. Don't go and be so silly as to act like a mutton-head. I'd be ashamed to be so spiteful. Respect a father's feelings."
"Tommy," said Mr. Fisher, ignoring them all, "you think your pa's a commercial. He ain't. He's a fighting-man, doing his eight-stone-four ringside, and known to all the heads as ' Young Porky.' "
Bill sank into a chair. He could see Harold's round eyes staring at him.
"I'd never have thought it of you, Jerry," he said, miserably. "If anyone had come to me and told me that you could have acted so raw I'd have dotted him one."
"And if anyone had come to me and told me that I should live to see the day when you broke training a week before a fight at the National, I'd given him one for himself."
"Harold, my lad," said Percy, "you mustn't think none the worse of your pa for having been a man of wrath. He hadn't seen the bright light then. It's all over now. He's given it up for ever, and there's no call for you to feel ashamed."
Bill seized on the point.
"That's right, Harold," he said, reviving, "I've given it up. I was going to fight an American named Murphy at the National next Monday, but I ain't going to now, not if they come to me on their bended knees. Not even if the King of England came to me on his bended knees."
Harold drew a deep breath.
"Oh!" he cried, shrilly. "Oh, aren't you? Then what about my two bob? What about my two bob, I've betted Dicky Saunders that Jimmy Murphy won't last ten rounds?"
He looked round the room wrathfully.
"It's thick," he said in the crisp, gentlemanly, voice of which his parents were so proud. "It's jolly thick. That's what it is. A chap takes the trouble to study form and saves up his pocket-money to have a bet on a good thing, and then he goes and gets let down like this. It may be funny to you, but I call it rotten. And another thing I call rotten is you having kept it from me all this time that you were 'Young Porky,' pa. That's what I call so jolly rotten! There's a fellow at our school who goes about swanking in the most rotten way because he once got Phil Scott's autograph. Fellows look up to him most awfully, and all the time they might have been doing it to me. That's what makes me so jolly sick. How long do you suppose they'd go on calling me, 'Goggles' if they knew that you were my father? They'd chuck it tomorrow, and look up to me like anything, I do call it rotten. And chucking it up like this is the limit. What do you want to do it for? It's the silliest idea, I've ever heard. Why, if you beat Jimmy Murphy they'll have to give you the next chance with Sid
Sampson for the Lonsdale belt. Jimmy beat Ted Richards, and Ted beat the Ginger Nut, and the Ginger Nut only lost on a foul to Sid Sampson, and you beat Ted Richards, so they couldn't help letting you have the next go at Sid."
Mr. Fisher beamed approval.
"If I've told your pa that once, I've told him twenty times," he said. "You certainly know a thing or two, Tommy."
"Well, I've made a study of it since I was a kid, so I jolly well ought to. All the fellows at our place are frightfully keen on it. One chap's got a snapshot of Jimmy Wilde. At least, he says it's Jimmy Wilde, but I believe it's just some ordinary fellow. Anyhow, it's jolly blurred, so it might be anyone. Pa, can't you give me a picture of yourself boxing? I could swank like anything. And you don't know how sick a chap gets of having chaps call him, 'Goggles.' "
"Bill," said Mr. Fisher, "you and me had better be getting back to the White Hart."
Bill rose and followed him without a word.
Harold broke the silence which followed their departure. The animated expression which had been on his face as he discussed the relative merits of Sid Sampson and the Ginger Nut had given place to the abstracted gravity of the student.
"Ma!"
Mrs. Bramble started convulsively.
"Yes, dearie?"
"Will you hear me? "
Mrs. Bramble took the book.
''Yes, mother will hear you, precious," she said, mechanically.
Harold fixed his eyes upon the cut-glass hangings of the chandelier.
"Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever-clever. Do noble things.. "

About the Author
Sir Pelham Grenville Wodehouse, KBE (15 October 1881 - 14 February 1975) was a comic writer who enjoyed enormous popular success during his career as an acknowledged master of English prose. Wodehouse has been admired both by his contemporaries such as Hilaire Belloc, Evelyn Waugh and Rudyard Kipling and by modern writers such as Douglas Adams, Salman Rushdie, Zadie Smith and Terry Pratchett.
Best known today for his Jeeves and Blandings Castle novels and short stories, Wodehouse was also a playwright and lyricist who was part author and writer of 15 plays and of 250 lyrics for some 30 musical comedies. He worked with Cole Porter on the musical 'Anything Goes' (1934) and frequently collaborated with Jerome Kern and Guy Bolton. He wrote the lyrics for the hit song "Bill" in Kern's Show Boat (1927), wrote the lyrics for the Gershwin - Romberg’s musical Rosalie (1928) and collaborated with Rudolf Friml on a musical version of The Three Musketeers (1928).

On the basis of your understanding of the poem, answer the following questions
by ticking the correct choice.

The setting of the poem is ___________.

Now, read the play.
List of Characters.

Julliette - The owner of the villa
Maid - Juliette’s maid
Gaston - A shrewd businessman
Jeanne - His young wife
Mrs Al Smith - A rich American lady

Maid: Won't Madame be sorry?
Juliette: Not at all. Mind you, if someone had bought it on the very day I placed it for sale, then I might have felt sorry because I would have wondered if I hadn't been a fool to sell at all. But the sign has been hanging on the gate for over a month now and I am beginning to be afraid that the day I bought it, was when I was the real fool.
Maid: All the same, Madame, when they brought you the 'For Sale' sign, you wouldn't let them put it up. You waited until it was night. Then you went and hung it yourself, Madame.
Juliette: I know! You see, I thought that as they could not read it in the dark, the house would belong to me for one more night. I was so sure that the next day the entire world would be fighting to purchase it. For the first week, I was annoyed every time I passed that 'Villa for Sale' sign. The neighbours seemed to look at me in such a strange kind of way that I began to think the whole thing was going to be much more of a sell than a sale. That was a month ago and now, I have only one thought, that is to get the wretched place off my hands. I would sacrifice it at any price. One hundred thousand francs if necessary and that's only twice what it cost me. I thought, I would get two hundred thousand but I suppose I must cut my loss. Besides, in the past two weeks, four people almost bought it, so I have begun to feel as though it no longer belongs to me. Oh! I'm fed up with the place, because nobody really wants it! What time did those agency people say the lady would call?
Maid: Between four and five, Madame.
Juliette: Then we must wait for her.
Maid: It was a nice little place for you to spend the weekends, Madame.
Juliette: Yes . . . but times are hard and business is as bad as it can be.
Maid: In that case, Madame, is it a good time to sell?
Juliette: No, perhaps not. But still. . . there are moments in life when it's the right time to buy, but it's never the right time to sell. For fifteen years everybody has had money at the same time and nobody wanted to sell. Now nobody has any money and nobody wants to buy. But still. .. even so ... it would be funny if I couldn't manage to sell a place here, a stone's throw from Joinville, the French Hollywood, when all I'm asking is a paltry hundred thousand!

Maid: That reminds me, there is a favour I want to ask you, Madame.
Juliette: Yes, what is it my girl?
Maid: Will you be kind enough to let me off between nine and noon tomorrow morning?
Juliette: From nine till noon?
Maid: They have asked me to play in a film at the Joinville Studio.
Juliette: You are going to act for the cinema?
Maid: Yes, Madame.
Juliette: What kind of part are you going to play?
Maid: A maid, Madame. They prefer the real article. They say maids are born; maids not made maids. They are giving me a hundred francs a morning for doing it.
Juliette: One hundred francs!
Maid: Yes, Madame. And as you only pay me four hundred a month, I can't very well refuse, can I, Madame?
Juliette: A hundred francs! It's unbelievable!
Maid: Will you permit me, Madame, to tell you something I've suddenly thought of?
Juliette: What?
Maid: They want a cook in the film as well. They asked me if I knew of anybody suitable. You said just now, Madame, that times were hard. ... Would you like me to get you the engagement?
Juliette: What?
Maid: Every little helps, Madame. Especially, Madame, as you have such a funny face.
Juliette: Thank you.
Maid (taking no notice). They might take you on for eight days, Madame. That would mean
eight hundred francs. It's really money for nothing. You would only have to peel
potatoes one minute and make an omlette the next, quite easy. I could show you
how to do it, Madame.
Juliette: But how kind of you. ... Thank God I'm not quite so hard up as that yet!
Maid: Oh, Madame, I hope you are not angry with me ?
Juliette: Not in the least.
Maid: You see, Madame, film acting is rather looked up to round here. Everybody wants to do it. Yesterday the butcher didn't open his shop, he was being shot all the morning. Today, nobody could find the four policemen, they were taking part in Monsieur Milton's fight scene in his new film. Nobody thinks about anything else round here now. You see, they pay so well. The manager is offering a thousand francs for a real beggar who has had nothing to eat for two days. Some people have all the luck! Think it over, Madame.
Juliette: Thanks, I will.
Maid: If you would go and see them with your hair slicked back the way you do when you are dressing, Madame, I am sure they would engage you right away. Because really, Madame, you look too comical!
Juliette: Thank you! (The bell rings.) I am going upstairs for a moment. If that is the lady, tell
her I will not be long. It won't do to give her the impression that I am waiting for her.
Maid: Very good, Madame. (Exit JULIETTE, as she runs off to open the front door.) Oh, if I could become a Greta Garbo! Why can't I? Oh! (Voices heard off, a second later, the MAID returns showing in GASTON and JEANNE.)
Maid: If you will be kind enough to sit down, I will tell Madame you are here.
Jeanne: Thank you.
(Exit MAID)
Gaston: And they call that a garden! Why, it's a yard with a patch of grass in the middle!
Jeanne: But the inside of the house seems very nice, Gaston.
Gaston: Twenty-five yards of Cretonne and a dash of paint… you can get that anywhere.
Jeanne: That's not fair. Wait until you've seen the rest of it.
Gaston: Why should I? I don't want to see the kitchen to know that the garden is a myth and that the salon is impossible.
Jeanne: What's the matter with it?
Gaston: Matter? Why, you can't even call it a salon.
Jeanne: Perhaps there is another.
Gaston: Never mind the other. I'm talking about this one.
Jeanne: We could do something very original with it.
Gaston: Yes, make it an annex to the garden.
Jeanne: No, but a kind of study.
Gaston: A study? Good Lord! You're not thinking of going in for studying are you?
Jeanne: Don't be silly! You know perfectly well what a modern study is. Gaston: No, I don't.
Jeanne: Well . .. er.. . it's a place where . .. where one gathers . ..
Gaston: Where one gathers what?
Jeanne: Don't be aggravating, please! If you don't want the house, tell me so at once and we'll say no more about it.
Gaston: I told you before we crossed the road that I didn't want it. As soon as you see a sign 'Villa for Sale', you have to go inside and be shown over it.
Jeanne: But we are buying a villa, aren't we?
Gaston: We are not!
Jeanne: What do you mean, 'We are not'? Then we're not looking for a villa?
Gaston: Certainly not. It's just an idea you've had stuck in your head for the past month.
Jeanne: But we've talked about nothing else....
Gaston: You mean, you've talked about nothing else. I've never talked about it. You see, you've talked about it so much, that you thought that we are talking. . .. You haven't even noticed that I've never joined in the conversation. If you say that you are looking for a villa, then that's different!
Jeanne: Well... at any rate . . . whether I'm looking for it or we're looking for it, the one thingthat matters anyway is that I'm looking for it for us!
Gaston: It's not for us . . . it's for your parents. You are simply trying to make me buy a villa so that you can put your father and your mother in it. You see, I know you. If you got what you want, do you realize what would happen? We would spend the month of August in the villa, but your parents would take possession of it every year from the beginning of April until the end of September. What's more, they would bring the whole tribe of your sister's children with them. No! I am very fond of your family, but not quite so fond as that.
Jeanne: Then why have you been looking over villas for the past week?
Gaston: I have not been looking over them, you have, and it bores me.
Jeanne: Well...
Gaston: Well what?
Jeanne: Then stop being bored and buy one. That will finish it. We won't talk about it any
more.
Gaston: Exactly!
Jeanne: As far as that goes, what of it? Suppose I do want to buy a villa for papa and mamma? What of it?

Gaston: My darling. I quite admit that you want to buy a villa for your father and mother. But
please admit on your side that I don't want to pay for it.
Jeanne: There's my dowry.
Gaston: Your dowry! My poor child, we have spent that long ago.
Jeanne: But since then you have made a fortune.
Gaston: Quite so. I have, but you haven't. Anyway, there's no use discussing it. I will not buy a villa and that ends it.
Jeanne: Then it wasn't worth while coming in.
Gaston: That's exactly what I told you at the door.
Jeanne: In that case, let's go.
Gaston: By all means.
Jeanne: What on earth will the lady think of us.
Gaston: I have never cared much about anybody's opinion. Come along. (He takes his hat and goes towards the door. At this moment JULIETTE enters.)
Juliette: Good afternoon, Madame... Monsieur....
Jeanne: How do you do, Madame?
Gaston: Good day.
Juliette: Won't you sit down? (All three of them sit.) Is your first impression a good one?
Jeanne: Excellent.
Juliette: I am not in the least surprised. It is the most delightful little place. Its appearance is modest, but it has a charm of its own. I can tell by just looking at you that it would suit you admirably, as you suit it, if you will permit me to say so. Coming from me, it may surprise you to hear that you already appear to be at home. The choice of a frame is not so easy when you have such a delightful pastel to place in it. (She naturally indicates JEANNE who is flattered.) The house possesses a great many advantages. Electricity, gas, water, telephone, and drainage. The bathroom is beautifully fitted and the roof was entirely repaired last year.
Jeanne: Oh, that is very important, isn't it, darling?
Gaston: For whom?
Juliette: The garden is not very large . . . it's not long and it's not wide, but…
Gaston: But my word, it is high!

Juliette: That's not exactly what I meant. Your husband is very witty, Madame. As I was saying, the garden is not very large, but you see, it is surrounded by other gardens. . . .
Gaston: On the principle of people who like children and haven't any, can always go and live near a school.
Jeanne: Please don't joke, Gaston. What this lady says is perfectly right. Will you tell me, Madame, what price you are asking for the villa?
Juliette: Well, you see, I must admit, quite frankly, that I don't want to sell it any more.
Gaston : (rising) Then there's nothing further to be said about it.
Juliette: Please, I...
Jeanne: Let Madame finish, my dear.
Juliette: Thank you. I was going to say that for exceptional people like you, I don't mind giving it up. One arranges a house in accordance with one's own tastes - if you understand what I mean - to suit oneself, as it were - so one would not like to think that ordinary people had come to live in it. But to you, I can see with perfect assurance, I agree. Yes, I will sell it to you.
Jeanne: It's extremely kind of you.
Gaston: Extremely. Yes ... but ...er… what's the price, Madame?
Juliette: You will never believe it...
Gaston: I believe in God and so you see ...
Juliette: Entirely furnished with all the fixtures, just as it is, with the exception of that one
little picture signed by Carot. I don't know if you have ever heard of that painter,
have you ?
Gaston: No, never.
Juliette: Neither have I. But I like the colour and I want to keep it, if you don't mind. For the villa itself, just as it stands, two hundred and fifty thousand francs. I repeat, that I would much rather dispose of it at less than its value to people like yourselves, than to give it up, even for more money, to someone whom I didn't like. The price must seem...
Gaston: Decidedly excessive....
Juliette: Oh, no!
Gaston: Oh, yes, Madame.
Juliette: Well, really, I must say I'm.. Quite so, life is full of surprises, isn't it?
Juliette: You think it dear at two hundred and fifty thousand? Very well, I can't be fairer than this, Make me an offer.
Gaston: If I did, it would be much less than that.
Juliette: Make it anyway.
Gaston: It's very awkward ... I... Jeanne. Name some figures, darling .., just to please me.
Gaston: Well I hardly know ... sixty thousand....
Jeanne: Oh!
Juliette: Oh!
Gaston: What do you mean by 'Oh!'? It isn't worth more than that to me.
Juliette: I give you my word of honour, Monsieur, I cannot let it go for less than two hundred thousand.
Gaston: You have perfect right to do as you please, Madame.
Juliette: I tell you what I will do. I will be philanthropic and let you have it for two hundred thousand.
Gaston: And I will be equally good-natured and let you keep it for the same price.
Juliette: In that case, there is nothing more to be said, Monsieur.
Gaston: Good day, Madame.
Jeanne: One minute, darling. Before you definitely decide, I would love you to go over the upper floor with me.
Juliette: I will show it to you with the greatest pleasure. This way, Madame. This way, Monsieur. . .
Gaston: No, thank you . . . really... I have made up my mind and I'm not very fond of
climbing stairs.
Juliette: Just as you wish, Monsieur. (To JEANNE.) Shall I lead the way?
Jeanne: If you please, Madame.
(Exit JULIETTE)
Jeanne (to her husband): You're not over-polite, are you?

Gaston: Oh, my darling! For Heaven's sake, stop worrying me about this shanty. Go and
examine the bathroom and come back quickly.
(Exit JEANNE following JULIETTE)
Gaston (to himself): Two hundred thousand for a few yards of land . . . She must be thinking I'm crazy. . . . (The door bell rings and, a moment later, the MAID re-enters showing in Mrs Al Smith)
Maid: If Madame would be kind enough to come in. Mrs Al Smith: See here, now I tell you I'm in a hurry. How much do they want for this house?
Maid: I don't know anything about it, Madame. Mrs Al Smith: To start off with, why isn't the price marked on the signboard? You French people have a cute way of doing business! You go and tell your boss that if he doesn't come right away, I'm going. I haven't any time to waste. Any hold up makes me sick when I want something. (MAID goes out.) Oh, you're the husband, I suppose. Good afternoon. Do you speak American?
Gaston: Sure . . . You betcha. Mrs Al Smith: That goes by me. How much for this house?
Gaston: How much?... Well... Won't you sit down? Mrs Al Smith: I do things standing up.
Gaston: Oh! Do you? Mrs Al Smith: Yes! Where's your wife?
Gaston: My wife? Oh, she's upstairs. Mrs Al Smith: Well, she can stay there. Unless you have to consult her before you make a sale?
Gaston: Me? Not on your life! Mrs Al Smith: You are an exception. Frenchmen usually have to consult about ten people before they get a move on. Listen! Do you or don't you want to sell
this house?
Gaston: I? ... Oh, I'd love to! Mrs Al Smith: Then what about it? I haven't more than five minutes to spare.

Gaston: Sit down for three of them anyway. To begin with, this villa was built by my
grandfather...
Mrs Al Smith: I don't care a darn about your grandfather!
Gaston: Neither do I. ... But I must tell you that... er...

Mrs Al Smith: Listen, just tell me the price.
Gaston: Let me explain that... Mrs Al Smith: No!
Gaston: We have electricity, gas, telephone...
Mrs Al Smith: I don't care! What's the price?
Gaston: But you must go over the house...
Mrs Al Smith: No!... I want to knock it down and build a bungalow here.
Gaston: Oh, I see!
Mrs Al Smith: Yep! It's the land I want. I have to be near Paramount where I'm going to shoot some films.
Gaston: Oh!
Mrs Al Smith: Yep. You see I'm a big star.
Gaston: Not really?
Mrs Al Smith: (amiably): Yes! How do you do? Well now, how much?
Gaston: Now let's see. ... In that case, entirely furnished, with the exception of that little picture by an unknown artist ... it belonged to my grandfather and I want to keep it. ...
Mrs Al Smith: Say! You do love your grandparents in Europe!
Gaston: We have had them for such a long time!
Mrs Al Smith: You folk are queer. You think about the past all the time. We always think about the future.
Gaston: Everybody thinks about what he's got.
Mrs Al Smith: What a pity you don't try and copy us more.
Gaston: Copies are not always good. We could only imitate you and imitations are no better than parodies. We are so different. Think of it.... Europeans go to America to earn money and Americans come to Europe to spend it.

Mrs Al Smith: Just the same, you ought to learn how to do business
Gaston: We are learning now. We are practising...
Mrs Al Smith: Well then, how much?
Gaston: The house! Let me see. ... I should say three hundred thousand francs. . . . The same for everybody, you know. Even though you are an American, I wouldn't dream of raising the price.
Mrs Al Smith: Treat me the same as anybody. Then you say it is three hundred thousand?
Gaston (to himself): Since you are dear bought - I will love you dear.
Mrs Al Smith: Say you, what do you take me for?
Gaston: Sorry. That's Shakespeare. ... I mean cash. . ,
Mrs Al Smith: Now I get you . . . cash down! Say! You're coming on. (She takes her cheque book from her bag.)
Gaston (fumbling in a drawer): Wait... I never know where they put my pen and ink...
Mrs Al Smith: Let me tell you something, you'd better buy yourself a fountain pen with the money you get for the villa. What date is it today?
Gaston: The twenty- fourth.
Mrs Al Smith: You can fill in your name on the cheque yourself. I live at the Ritz Hotel., Place Vendome. My lawyer is...
Gaston: Who ...?
Mrs Al Smith: Exactly!
Gaston: What?
Mrs Al Smith: My lawyer is Mr. Who, 5, Rue Cambon. He will get in touch
with yours about the rest of the transaction. Good-bye.
Gaston: Good-bye.
Mrs. Al Smith: When are you leaving?
Gaston: Well...er ... I don't quite know . . . whenever you like.
Mrs. Al Smith: Make it tomorrow and my architect can come on Thursday. Good-bye. I'm
delighted.

Gaston: Delighted to hear it, Madame. (She goes and he looks at the cheque.) It's a very good thing in business when everyone is delighted! (At that moment, JEANNE and JULIETTE return)
Gaston: Well?
Jeanne: Well... of course ...it's very charming. ...
Juliette: Of course, as I told you, it's not a large place. I warned you. There are two large bedrooms and one small one.
Gaston: Well now! That's something.
Jeanne : (to her husband). You are quite right, darling. I'm afraid it would not be suitable. Thank you, Madame, we need not keep you any longer.
Juliette: Oh, that's quite alright.
Gaston: Just a moment, just a moment, my dear. You say there are two large bedrooms and a small one....
Juliette: Yes, and two servants' rooms.
Gaston: Oh! There are two servants' rooms in addition, are there?
Juliette: Yes.
Gaston: But that's excellent!
Juliette: Gaston, stop joking!
Gaston: And the bathroom? What's that like?
Juliette: Perfect! There's a bath in it. ...
Gaston: Oh, there's a bath in the bathroom, is there?
Juliette: Of course there is!
Gaston: It's all very important. A bathroom with a bath in it. Bedrooms, two large and one small, two servants' rooms and a garden. It's really possible. While you were upstairs, I have been thinking a lot about your papa and mamma. You see, I am really unselfish, and then the rooms for your sister's children. . . . Also, my dear, I've been thinking . . . and this is serious... about our old age. . . . It's bound to come sooner or later and the natural desire of old age is a quiet country life. . . . (To JULIETTE:) You said two hundred thousand, didn't you?
Jeanne: What on earth are you driving at?
Gaston: Just trying to please you, darling.
Juliette: Yes, two hundred thousand is my lowest. Cash, of course.

Gaston: Well, that's fixed. I won't argue about it. (He takes out his cheque book.)
Juliette: But there are so many things to be discussed before…
Gaston: Not at all. Only one thing. As I am not arguing about the price, as I'm not bargaining with you . . . well, you must be nice to me, you must allow me to keep this little picture which has kept me company while you and my wife went upstairs.
Juliette: It's not a question of value...
Gaston: Certainly not . . . just as a souvenir...
Juliette: Very well, you may keep it.
Gaston: Thank you, Madame. Will you give me a receipt, please? Our lawyers will draw up the details of the sale. Please fill in your name. . . . Let us see, it's the twenty-third, isn't it?
Juliette: No, the twenty-fourth. . . .
Gaston: What does it matter? One day more or less. (She signs the receipt and exchanges it for his cheque.) Splendid!
Juliette: Thank you, Monsieur.
Gaston: Here is my card. Good-bye, Madame. Oh, by the way, you will be kind enough to leave tomorrow morning, won't you.
Juliette: Tomorrow! So soon?
Gaston: Well, say tomorrow evening at the latest.
Juliette: Yes, I can manage that. Good-bye Madame.
Jeanne: Good day, Madame.
Gaston: I'll take my little picture with me, if you don't mind? (He unhooks it.) Just a beautiful souvenir, you know. .
Juliette: Very well. I'll show you the garden, on the way out.
(Exit JULIETTE)
Jeanne: What on earth have you done?
Gaston: I? I made a hundred thousand francs and a Carot!
Jeanne: But how?
Gaston: I'll tell you later.
CURTAIN

About the Author
Sacha Guitry (1885-1957) son of a French actor, was born in St. Petersburg (Later
Leningrad) which accounts for his Russian first name. Given his father's profession,
he became a writer of plays and films. Some of his own experiences with people
engaged in film production may be reflected in Villa for Sale.
Guitry was clever, irrepressible and a constant source of amusement. He claimed that
he staged a 'one-man revolt' against the dismal French theatre of his time. He was
equally successful on screen and stage. Besides being a talented author and actor, he
earned recognition as a highly competent producer and director.

What does he plant who plants a tree? a
He plants a friend of sun and sky;b
He plants the flag of breezes free;
The shaft of beauty, towering high;
He plants a home to heaven anigh;
For song and mother-croon of bird
In hushed and happy twilight heard____
The treble of heaven's harmony_____
These things he plants who plants a tree.

Read the lines given above and answer the question that follow:

For whom is the home to heaven anigh ?

"They say it was a shocking sight
After the field was won;
For many thousand bodies here
Lay rotting in the sun;
But things like that, you know, must be
After a famous victory.
"Great praise the Duke of Marlbro'won,
And our good Prince Eugene."
"Why,'twas a very wicked thing!"
Said little Wilhelmine.

"Nay...nay...my little girl,"quoth he,
"It was a famous victory.
"And everybody praised the Duke
Who this great fight did win."
"But what good came of it at last?"
Quoth little Peterkin.
"Why that I cannot tell,"said he,
"But 'twas a famous victory."

Read the lines given above and answer the question that follow.

How does kasper justify the thousands of death in the war?

He looked at me very blankly and tiredly, and then said, having to share his worry with someone, “The cat will be all right, I am sure. There is no need to be unquiet about the cat. But the others. Now what do you think about the others?”
“Why they’ll probably come through it all right.”
“You think so?”
“Why not,” I said, watching the far bank where now there were no carts.
“But what will they do under the artillery when I was told to leave because of the artillery?”
“Did you leave the dove cage unlocked?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Then they’ll fly.”
“Yes, certainly they’ll fly. But the others. It’s better not to think about the others,” he said.