Free Listening English lessons

Short Story: ‘The Lady, or the Tiger?’

November 3rd, 2009 at 03:03pm Under short story

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ANNOUNCER:

Now, the VOA Special English program, AMERICAN STORIES.

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We present the short story “The Lady, or the Tiger?” by Frank R. Stockton.  Here is Barbara Klein with the story.

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STORYTELLER:

Long ago, in the very olden time, there lived a powerful king.  Some of his ideas were progressive.  But others caused people to suffer.

One of the king’s ideas was a public arena as an agent of poetic justice.  Crime was punished, or innocence was decided, by the result of chance.  When a person was accused of a crime, his future would be judged in the public arena.

All the people would gather in this building. The king sat high up on his ceremonial chair. He gave a sign. A door under him opened.  The accused person stepped out into the arena. Directly opposite the king were two doors.  They were side by side, exactly alike. The person on trial had to walk directly to these doors and open one of them. He could open whichever door he pleased.

If the accused man opened one door, out came a hungry tiger, the fiercest in the land.  The tiger immediately jumped on him and tore him to pieces as punishment for his guilt. The case of the suspect was thus decided.

Iron bells rang sadly. Great cries went up from the paid mourners.  And the people, with heads hanging low and sad hearts, slowly made their way home. They mourned greatly that one so young and fair, or so old and respected, should have died this way.

But, if the accused opened the other door, there came forth from it a woman, chosen especially for the person.  To this lady he was immediately married, in honor of his innocence. It was not a problem that he might already have a wife and family, or that he might have chosen to marry another woman. The king permitted nothing to interfere with his great method of punishment and reward.

Another door opened under the king, and a clergyman, singers, dancers and musicians joined the man and the lady. The marriage ceremony was quickly completed. Then the bells made cheerful noises.  The people shouted happily.  And the innocent man led the new wife to his home, following children who threw flowers on their path.

This was the king’s method of carrying out justice. Its fairness appeared perfect. The accused person could not know which door was hiding the lady. He opened either as he pleased, without knowing whether, in the next minute, he was to be killed or married.

Sometimes the fierce animal came out of one door. Sometimes it came out of the other.

This method was a popular one. When the people gathered together on one of the great trial days, they never knew whether they would see a bloody killing or a happy ending. So everyone was always interested.  And the thinking part of the community would bring no charge of unfairness against this plan. Did not the accused person have the whole matter in his own hands?

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The king had a beautiful daughter who was like him in many ways.  He loved her above all humanity.  The princess secretly loved a young man who was the best-looking and bravest in the land.  But he was a commoner, not part of an important family.

One day, the king discovered the relationship between his daughter and the young man. The man was immediately put in prison.  A day was set for his trial in the king’s public arena. This, of course, was an especially important event.  Never before had a common subject been brave enough to love the daughter of the king.

The king knew that the young man would be punished, even if he opened the right door. And the king would take pleasure in watching the series of events, which would judge whether or not the man had done wrong in loving the princess.

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The day of the trial arrived.  From far and near the people gathered in the arena and outside its walls. The king and his advisers were in their places, opposite the two doors.  All was ready. The sign was given. The door under the king opened and the lover of the princess entered the arena.

Tall, beautiful and fair, his appearance was met with a sound of approval and tension.  Half the people had not known so perfect a young man lived among them.  No wonder the princess loved him!  What a terrible thing for him to be there!

As the young man entered the public arena, he turned to bend to the king.  But he did not at all think of the great ruler.  The young man’s eyes instead were fixed on the princess, who sat to the right of her father.

From the day it was decided that the sentence of her lover should be decided in the arena, she had thought of nothing but this event.

The princess had more power, influence and force of character than anyone who had ever before been interested in such a case.  She had done what no other person had done. She had possessed herself of the secret of the doors. She knew behind which door stood the tiger, and behind which waited the lady.  Gold, and the power of a woman’s will, had brought the secret to the princess.

She also knew who the lady was. The lady was one of the loveliest in the kingdom.  Now and then the princess had seen her looking at and talking to the young man.

The princess hated the woman behind that silent door. She hated her with all the intensity of the blood passed to her through long lines of cruel ancestors.

Her lover turned to look at the princess.  His eye met hers as she sat there, paler and whiter than anyone in the large ocean of tense faces around her. He saw that she knew behind which door waited the tiger, and behind which stood the lady. He had expected her to know it.

The only hope for the young man was based on the success of the princess in discovering this mystery. When he looked at her, he saw that she had been successful, as he knew she would succeed.

Then his quick and tense look asked the question: “Which?” It was as clear to her as if he shouted it from where he stood. There was not time to be lost.

The princess raised her hand, and made a short, quick movement toward the right.  No one but her lover saw it. Every eye but his was fixed on the man in the arena.

He turned, and with a firm and quick step he walked across the empty space. Every heart stopped beating.  Every breath was held.  Every eye was fixed upon that man. He went to the door on the right and opened it.

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Now, the point of the story is this: Did the tiger come out of that door, or did the lady?

The more we think about this question, the harder it is to answer. It involves a study of the human heart. Think of it not as if the decision of the question depended upon yourself.  But as if it depended upon that hot-blooded princess, her soul at a white heat under the fires of sadness and jealousy.  She had lost him, but who should have him?

How often, in her waking hours and in her dreams, had she started in wild terror, and covered her face with her hands?  She thought of her lover opening the door on the other side of which waited the sharp teeth of the tiger!

But how much oftener had she seen him open the other door? How had she ground her teeth, and torn her hair, when she had seen his happy face as he opened the door of the lady!  How her soul had burned in pain when she had seen him run to meet that woman, with her look of victory. When she had seen the two of them get married.  And when she had seen them walk away together upon their path of flowers, followed by the happy shouts of the crowd, in which her one sad cry was lost!

Would it not be better for him to die quickly, and go to wait for her in that blessed place of the future? And yet, that tiger, those cries, that blood!

Her decision had been shown quickly. But it had been made after days and nights of thought.  She had known she would be asked.  And she had decided what she would answer. And she had moved her hand to the right.

The question of her decision is one not to be lightly considered. And it is not for me to set myself up as the one person able to answer it. And so I leave it with all of you:

Which came out of the open door – the lady, or the tiger?

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ANNOUNCER:

You have heard the American Story “The Lady, or the Tiger?” by Frank R. Stockton. Your storyteller was Barbara Klein. This story was adapted into Special English by Shelley Gollust. It was produced by Lawan Davis.  Listen again next week for another American story in VOA Special English.  I’m Bob Doughty.

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Short Story: ‘The Tell-Tale Heart’

October 29th, 2009 at 02:50pm Under short story

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ANNOUNCER:

Now, the VOA Special English program AMERICAN STORIES.

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Today we present the short story “The Tell-Tale Heart” by Edgar Allan Poe.  Here is Shep O’Neal with the story.

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STORYTELLER:

Edgar Allan Poe

True! Nervous — very, very nervous I had been and am! But why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses — not destroyed them.

Above all was the sense of hearing.  I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth.  I heard many things in the underworld. How, then, am I mad?  Observe how healthily — how calmly I can tell you the whole story.

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain.  I loved the old man.  He had never wronged me.  He had never given me insult.  For his gold I had no desire.  I think it was his eye!  Yes, it was this!  He had the eye of a bird, a vulture — a pale blue eye, with a film over it.  Whenever it fell on me, my blood ran cold; and so — very slowly — I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and free myself of the eye forever.

Now this is the point.  You think that I am mad.  Madmen know nothing.  But you should have seen me.  You should have seen how wisely and carefully I went to work!

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I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him.  And every night, late at night, I turned the lock of his door and opened it – oh, so gently!  And then, when I had made an opening big enough for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed that no light shone out, and then I stuck in my head.  I moved it slowly, very slowly, so that I might not interfere with the old man’s sleep. And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern just so much that a single thin ray of light fell upon the vulture eye.

And this I did for seven long nights — but I found the eye always closed; and so it was impossible to do the work; for it was not the old man who was a problem for me, but his Evil Eye.

On the eighth night, I was more than usually careful in opening the door.  I had my head in and was about to open the lantern, when my finger slid on a piece of metal and made a noise. The old man sat up in bed, crying out “Who’s there?”

I kept still and said nothing.  I did not move a muscle for a whole hour.  During that time, I did not hear him lie down.  He was still sitting up in the bed listening — just as I have done, night after night.

Then I heard a noise, and I knew it was the sound of human terror.  It was the low sound that arises from the bottom of the soul.  I knew the sound well.  Many a night, late at night, when all the world slept, it has welled up from deep within my own chest. I say I knew it well.

I knew what the old man felt, and felt sorry for him, although I laughed to myself.  I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first noise, when he had turned in the bed.  His fears had been ever since growing upon him.

When I had waited a long time, without hearing him lie down, I decided to open a little — a very, very little — crack in the lantern. So I opened it. You cannot imagine how carefully, carefully.  Finally, a single ray of light shot from out and fell full upon the vulture eye.

It was open — wide, wide open — and I grew angry as I looked at it.  I saw it clearly — all a dull blue, with a horrible veil over it that chilled my bones; but I could see nothing else of the old man’s face or person.  For I had directed the light exactly upon the damned spot.

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And have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but a kind of over-sensitivity? Now, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when inside a piece of cotton.  I knew that sound well, too.  It was the beating of the old man’s heart.  It increased my anger.

But even yet I kept still.  I hardly breathed.  I held the lantern motionless.  I attempted to keep the ray of light upon the eye.  But the beating of the heart increased.  It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder every second.  The old man’s terror must have been extreme!  The beating grew louder, I say, louder every moment!

And now at the dead hour of the night, in the horrible silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror.  Yet, for some minutes longer I stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder!  I thought the heart must burst.

And now a new fear seized me — the sound would be heard by a neighbor!  The old man’s hour had come!  With a loud shout, I threw open the lantern and burst into the room.

He cried once — once only.  Without delay, I forced him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him.  I then smiled, to find the action so far done.

But, for many minutes, the heart beat on with a quiet sound.  This, however, did not concern me; it would not be heard through the wall.  At length, it stopped.  The old man was dead.  I removed the bed and examined the body.  I placed my hand over his heart and held it there many minutes.  There was no movement.  He was stone dead.  His eye would trouble me no more.

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If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise steps I took for hiding the body.  I worked quickly, but in silence.  First of all, I took apart the body.  I cut off the head and the arms and the legs.

I then took up three pieces of wood from the flooring, and placed his body parts under the room. I then replaced the wooden boards so well that no human eye — not even his — could have seen anything wrong.

There was nothing to wash out — no mark of any kind — no blood whatever.  I had been too smart for that.  A tub had caught all — ha! ha!

When I had made an end of these labors, it was four o’clock in the morning.  As a clock sounded the hour, there came a noise at the street door.  I went down to open it with a light heart — for what had I now to fear?  There entered three men, who said they were officers of the police.  A cry had been heard by a neighbor during the night; suspicion of a crime had been aroused; information had been given at the police office, and the officers had been sent to search the building.

I smiled — for what had I to fear?  The cry, I said, was my own in a dream.  The old man, I said, was not in the country.  I took my visitors all over the house.  I told them to search — search well.  I led them, at length, to his room.  I brought chairs there, and told them to rest. I placed my own seat upon the very place under which lay the body of the victim.

The officers were satisfied.  I was completely at ease.  They sat, and while I answered happily, they talked of common things.  But, after a while, I felt myself getting weak and wished them gone.  My head hurt, and I had a ringing in my ears; but still they sat and talked.

The ringing became more severe.  I talked more freely to do away with the feeling. But it continued until, at length, I found that the noise was not within my ears.

I talked more and with a heightened voice.  Yet the sound increased — and what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound like a watch makes when inside a piece of cotton.  I had trouble breathing — and yet the officers heard it not.  I talked more quickly — more loudly; but the noise increased.  I stood up and argued about silly things, in a high voice and with violent hand movements. But the noise kept increasing.

Why would they not be gone?  I walked across the floor with heavy steps, as if excited to anger by the observations of the men — but the noise increased.  What could I do?  I swung my chair and moved it upon the floor, but the noise continually increased.  It grew louder — louder — louder!  And still the men talked pleasantly, and smiled.

Was it possible they heard not?  No, no!  They heard!  They suspected!  They knew!  They were making a joke of my horror!  This I thought, and this I think.  But anything was better than this pain!  I could bear those smiles no longer!  I felt that I must scream or die!  And now — again!  Louder!  Louder!  Louder!

“Villains!” I cried, “Pretend no more!  I admit the deed!  Tear up the floor boards!  Here, here!  It is the beating of his hideous heart!”

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ANNOUNCER:

You have heard the story “The Tell-Tale Heart” by Edgar Allan Poe.  Your storyteller was Shep O’Neal.   This story was adapted by Shelley Gollust. It was produced by Lawan Davis.  Listen again next week for another American story in VOA Special English.  I’m Faith Lapidus.

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