The Luncheon
I met her at the play and sat down beside her.
It was long since I
had last seen her, and I almost didn’t recognize her.
“How time does fly!” she said. “Do you remember the first time I
saw you?
You asked me to luncheon.”
Did I remember?
It was twenty years ago. I was living in Paris and was earning
very little money. She said she would like to have a chat with me;
would I take her to lunch at Foyot’s? Well, Foyot’s was such an
expensive restaurant that I had never thought of going there. But I was
too young to have learned to say no to a woman.
I had eighty francs for
the month, and a simple luncheon should cost fifteen.
If I cut out coffee
for the next two weeks, I could manage.
We met at Foyot’s. She was charming and talkative. I was
surprised when the menu was brought, for the prices were much higher
than I had expected. But she reassured me.
“I never eat anything for luncheon,” she said.
“Oh, don’t say that!” I answered politely.
“I never eat more than one thing. A little fish, perhaps. I wonder
if they have any salmon.”
Well, salmon was not on the menu, but I asked the waiter if there
was any. Yes, a beautiful salmon had just come in.
I ordered it for my
guest. The waiter asked if she wanted anything else.
“No,” she answered. “I never eat more than one thing, unless you
have a little caviare.”
My heart sank a little: I knew I could not afford caviare, but I could
not tell her that. I told the waiter to bring caviare.
For myself I chose
the cheapest dish on the menu, a pork chop.
“I think you’re unwise to eat meat,” she said. “I don’s believe in
overloading my stomach.”
Then came the question of drink.
“I never drink anything for luncheon,” she said.
“Neither do I,” I said quickly.
“Except white wine,” she went on.
“It’s wonderful for the
digestion.”
I ordered half a bottle.
“What are you going to drink?” she asked.
“Water.”
She ate the caviare and the salmon. She talked gaily about
literature and music. But I wondered about the bill. When my pork
chop arrived, she spoke seriously.
“I see you like to eat a heavy luncheon.
my example and just eat one thing?
Why don’t you follow
You’d feel much better.”
The waiter came again. She waved him away.
“No, no, I never eat anything for luncheon.
I couldn’t possibly eat
anything more unless they had some of those giant asparagus.”
My heart sank. I knew they were horribly expensive, but I
ordered some.
“Aren’t you going to have any?”
“No, I never eat asparagus.”
“Oh, the fact is, you ruin your sense of taste by all the meat you
eat.”
We waited for the asparagus. Panic seized me. I did not know
whether I had enough to pay the bill. I decided if it was too much, I
would jump up and say my money had been stolen.
The asparagus looked delicious.
I watched the woman eat them in
large mouthfuls, and I talked politely about literature and drama.
At last
she finished.
“Coffee?” I said.
“Yes, just an ice cream and coffee,” she answered.
I was past caring now, so I ordered coffee for myself as well.
“You know,” she said, as she ate the ice cream.
“I believe one
should always get up from a meal feeling one could eat a little more.”
“Are you still hungry?” I asked weakly.
“Oh, no. You see, I never eat more than one thing for luncheon.
I was speaking for you.”
“Oh, I see!”
Just then, the waiter came by with a basket of huge peaches.
But
surely peaches were not in season then. I knew they must be extremely
expensive. My guest, going on with her conversation, took one.”
“You see, you’ve filled your stomach with a lot of meat and you
can’t eat any more.
But I’ve just had a snack and I shall enjoy a peach.”
The bill came, and I was barely able to pay it. When I left the
restaurant I had the whole month before me and not a penny in my
pocket.
“Follow my example,” she said as we shook hands, “and never eat
more than one thing for luncheon.”
“I’ll do better than that,” I said, “I’ll eat nothing for dinner
tonight.”
“Humorist!” she cried gaily, jumping into a cab. “You’re quite a
humorist!”
But I have had my revenge at last.
I am not a mean person, but I
must say I was pleased when I saw her again. She now weighs three
hundred pounds.
—adapted from “The Luncheon,”
by Samerset Maugham (1874-1965)
The Necklace
She was one of those pretty, charming young ladies, born, as if by
mistakes, into a family of clerks.
She had no hopes, no means of
becoming loved and married to a man either rich or respected; and she
allowed herself to marry a petty clerk in the office of the Board of
Education.
She was unhappy, as one out of her class.
She suffered
continually, feeling herself born for all kinds of luxuries. Yet she had
neither beautiful dresses nor expensive jewels, nothing.
All these things,
which another woman of her position would not have noticed, tortured
and angered her. And she wept for whole days from regret, from despair,
and from disappointment.
*
*
*
One evening her husband returned bearing in his hand a large
envelope.
“Here is something for you,” he said.
She drew out a card on which were printed these words:
The Minister of Education and his wife
ask the honor of Mr. and Mrs. Loisel’s company
Monday evening, January 18,
at the Minister’s home.
Instead of being delighted at this opportunity to join such a
high-class social event, she threw the invitation upon the table murmuring:
“What do you suppose I want with that?”
“But, my dear, I thought it would make you happy.”
at the sight of his wife weeping.
He was upset
“What is the matter?” he asked.
By a great effort, she controlled herself and responded in a calm
voice: “Nothing. Only I have no dress and therefore I cannot go to this
party. Give your card to some colleague whose wife has nicer clothes
than I.”
Grieved as he was, he answered her patiently: “Let us see, Matilda.
How much would a suitable dress cost?”
She reflected, thinking of a sum she could ask for without bringing
an immediate refusal. Finally, she said: “Four hundred francs ought to
cover it.”
He turned a little pale. Nevertheless, he answered: “Very well.
I will give you four hundred francs.”
*
*
*
The day of the ball approached and Mrs. Loisel seemed sad and
anxious. She said to her husband one evening: “I have no jewelry to
wear. I would prefer not to go to this party.
There is nothing more
humiliating than to look so poor in the midst of rich women.”
Then her husband suggested: “Go to your rich schoolmate, Mrs.
Forestier, and ask her to lend you her jewels.”
“Of course!” she said. “I had not thought
She gave a cry of joy.
of that!”
The next day she went to her friend’s house and told her story.
Mrs. Forestier went to her closet, took out a large jewelry box, opened it,
and said: “Choose, my dear.”
She saw at first some bracelets, then some pearls, then a cross of
gold and jewels. She could not decide what to take. Suddenly she
discovered, in a black box, a superb necklace of diamonds, and her hands
trembled as she took it up.
She asked, in a hesitating voice, full of
anxiety:
“Could you lend me this?”
“Why, yes, certainly.”
She fell upon the neck of her friend, embraced her with passion,
and then went away with her treasure.
*
*
*
The day of the ball arrived. Mrs. Loisel was a great success.
She was the prettiest of all, elegant, gracious, smiling, and full of joy.
All the men noticed her and wanted to waltz with her. Even the Minister
of Education paid her some attention. She danced with enthusiasm, in a
cloud of happiness that came of all this admiration, and of this victory so
complete and sweet to the heart of woman.
She left the party toward four o’clock in the morning. Her
husband threw around her shoulders the coat she had brought for
returning home, and its poverty clashed with the elegant ball costume.
She felt this and wished to hurry away in order not to be noticed by the
other women who were wrapping themselves in rich furs.
Loisel tried to stop her.
“Wait! You will catch cold. I am going
to call a cab.”
But she would not listen and went down the steps rapidly.
they were in the street, they saw no vehicles.
When
They walked along,
shivering, and finally found an old cab by the river. It took them to their
door, and they went wearily up to their apartment.
It was all over for her. She removed the coat from her shoulders
and stood before the mirror, for a final view of herself.
Suddenly she
uttered a cry and turned toward her husband excitedly: “I have—I
have—I no longer have Mrs. Forestier’s necklace.”
Her husband said in dismay: “What! It is not possible.”
They looked in the folds of the dress, in the pockets, everywhere.
They could not find it. Finally, Loisel got up and went out to look for
the necklace. Toward seven o’clock he returned, with nothing, and
declared: “We must do something to repair this jewel.”
Then they went from jeweler to jeweler, until they found a shop
with a necklace that seemed to them exactly like the one they had lost.
It would cost them thirty-six thousand francs.
They borrowed the money, a thousand francs here, five hundred
there, without even knowing whether they could pat it back.
Finally,
they went to get the new necklace, and Mrs. Loisel took it to Mrs.
Forestier, who opened the box as her friend feared she would.
should notice the substitution, what would she think?
If she
Would she take
her for a robber?
*
*
*
Mrs. Loisel now knew the horrible life of necessity. She did her
part, however, without complaining. They sent away the maid and
moved to a smaller apartment. She learned the heavy cares of a home,
the hard work of a kitchen. She washed the greasy pans and the dirty
clothes; she took the garbage to the street each morning and brought up
the water, stopping often on the stairs to breathe.
And, dressed like a
woman of the people, she went to the grocer’s with her basket on her arm,
shopping, bargaining to the last coin of her miserable money.
Her
husband, meantime, worked evenings, and nights, too.
This life lasted for ten years.
At the end of ten years, they had
paid everything back, including the interest.
Mrs. Loisel seemed old now. She had become a strong, hard
woman. Her hair was badly dressed, her hands red, and she spoke in a
loud tone. But sometimes, when her husband was at the office, she
would seat herself before the window and think of that evening, of that
ball where she was so beautiful and so admired.
How would it have been if she had not lost that necklace?
knows?
Who knows?
Who
How strange life is, and how full of changes!
How small a thing will ruin or save one!
*
*
*
One Sunday, as she was taking a walk, trying to forget the cares of
the week, she suddenly noticed a woman walking with a child. Is was
Mrs. Forestier, still young, still pretty.
Should she speak to her?
Yes,
certainly.
She approached her. “Good morning, Jeanne. I am Matilda
Loisel.”
Her friend uttered a cry of surprise.
“Oh! My poor Matilda!
How you have changed—”
“Yes, I have had some miserable days—and all because of you—”
“Because of me?”
“Do you remember the diamond necklace that you loaned me?
Well, I lost it. I returned another to you exactly like it.
And it has
taken us ten years to pay for it. But it is finished and I am now content.”
Mrs. Forestier stopped short. She said:
“You bought a diamond necklace to replace mine?”
“Yes. You did not notice it then?
They were just alike.”
She smiled with a proud and simple joy.
Mrs. Forestier was
touched and took both her hands as she replied:
“Oh! My poor Matilda! Those diamonds were false.
They
were not worth over five hundred francs!”
—adapted from a short story by Guy de Maupassant
Pass A Good Word Along
In a little Rhode Island mill town, years ago, as a young minister
assigned to my first church, I found the congregation split down the
middle by one of those feuds that sometimes start with two stubborn
contestants and wind up with everyone taking sides. The leader of one
faction was an irresistible force named Mrs. Follett.
The head of the
other was an immovable object named Mrs. Lloyd.
Things reached the
point where the two groups sat on opposite sides of the church, glaring
across the aisle.
Drawing on my vast inexperience, I was all for calling on each of
these ladies and pointing out their Christian duty to stop hating each other.
But a member of the congregation, an old mill worker named Rowbottom,
stopped me.
“It won’t work,” he said. “You will just make things
worse. A conductor of goodwill, that’s what the pastor of a church
should be. Goodwill is stronger than ill will.”
“But how does one transmit goodwill,” I objected, “if there isn’t
any in the first place?”
Rowbottom tapped me earnestly on the shoulder. “Create some,
my boy. Create some!” And he walked away.
I knew that hostility provokes hostility, that anger breeds more
anger, and that the church was caught in this vicious circle.
As I
pondered Rowbottom’s words, it occurred to me that the converse might
also be true. If either of these two ladies could be induced to say
something slightly pleasant about the other, perhaps the downward spiral
could be reversed.
In those days, full of zeal, I made a great many parish calls. And
since I weighed only about 130 pounds, the good ladies of the parish were
forever offering me glasses of milk and pieces of pie or cake “to keep
from blowing away.”
So one day, sitting in Mrs. Lloyd’s living room, I
remarked courageously that on the previous afternoon I had had a piece
of pie at Mrs. Follett’s house. I added casually, “She’s a good cook,
isn’t she?”
“Oh!” said Mrs. Lloyd.
“She’s a good cook, all right.
If her
disposition were half as good, we could all be thankful!”
Half an hour later I was in her opponent’s kitchen with a plate of
cookies balanced on my knee.
“Mrs. Follett,” I said, “I heard Mrs.
Lloyd say something nice about you.”
“Who?” cried Mrs. Follett unbelievingly.
“Mrs. Lloyd. She said you were a good…cook. As indeed you
are.”
“Well!” said Mrs. Follett half-unwillingly.
“Well, I never! I
suppose when it comes to that, Peggy Lloyd has a light hand with pastry
herself!”
You can imagine where my parish calls took me the next day and
what I passed along. And feeble though this little flicker of goodwill
was, it was the beginning of the end of that church feud.
Because
Rowbottom was right: love is stronger that hate, affection is more
powerful that enmity, hostility isn’t a natural state of affairs—most people
want to escape it and feel better when they do.
Although everyone benefited from my little experiment, the chief
beneficiary was myself, because it introduced me to my favorite hobby:
being a relay station for the little sparks of goodwill that otherwise might
never jump the gap that separates people.
What’s the method I use?
secondhand compliment.
Why, most of the time it’s simply the
I’ve trained myself to listen for any word of
approval or praise that one individual speaks about another—and to pass
it on.
It’s so easy! It can be done in casual conversation the next time
you meet the person who was complimented.
It can be worked into a
telephone call. It can be part of a letter, or all of a hurried note.
And it’s so rewarding! The originator of the friendly thought
benefits from the gratitude of the person who receives it.
The recipient’s
need for praise—and we all have this need—is met in a happy and
unexpected way.
And you, the man-in-the-middle, have the satisfaction
of knowing that because of your effort a little flash of goodwill had been
released into the environment.
It’s amazing how often these little spirit-lifters seem to reach their
goal at a time when the person on the receiving end is discouraged or
depressed. I once scribbled a note to a young illustrator, relaying what
I’d heard an art editor say about his work. Some weeks later he replied.
Before my note arrived he had given up painting and taken a job in a
department store. “But,” he wrote, “I decided that if your friend
admired something I had done in the past, I could do just as well or better
in the future. So I’m back at what I really want to do, free-lance
painting, and this time I’m going to stay.”
Some people find it difficult to pay a compliment directly; to do so
embarrasses them.
Just the other day I heard a friend tell a group of men
proudly that his wife was the kindest person he had ever known.
Later
on, when I was able to repeat this to her, her face grew radiant. “Oh,
thank you,” she said. “He’d never be able to say that to me!”
I such
cases, a passed-on compliment can be like rain on a drought-dried land.
Often, I think, the relayed friendly word is even more meaningful
than a direct one. After all, when someone says something pleasant to
you directly, it’s easy to discount it as mere politeness, or even flattery.
But is someone praises you behind your back, chances are he means
exactly what he says.
by Norman Vincent Peale