sexta-feira, 28 de dezembro de 2012
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY BY JANE AUSTEN - CHAPTERS 0NE AND TWO
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY
BY JANE AUSTEN
CHAPTERS 0NE AND TWO
CHAPTER I
The family of
Dashwood had long been settled in Sussex. Their estate was large, and their
residence was at Norland Park, in the centre of their property, where, for
many generations, they had lived in so respectable a manner as to engage
the general good opinion of their surrounding acquaintance. The
late owner of this estate was a single man, who lived to a very advanced age,
and who for many years of his life, had a constant companion and
housekeeper in his sister. But her death, which happened ten years before his
own, produced a great alteration in his home; for to supply her loss, he
invited and received into his house the family of his nephew Mr. Henry
Dashwood, the legal inheritor of the Norland estate, and the person to whom he
intended to bequeath it. In the society of his nephew and niece, and their
children, the old Gentleman's days were comfortably spent. His attachment
to them all increased. The constant attention of Mr. and Mrs. Henry
Dashwood to his wishes, which proceeded not merely from interest, but from
goodness of heart, gave him every degree of solid comfort which his age
could receive; and the cheerfulness of the children added a relish to his
existence.
By a former marriage,
Mr. Henry Dashwood had one son: by his present lady, three
daughters. The son, a steady respectable young man, was amply provided for by the
fortune of his mother, which had been large, and half of which devolved on him
on his coming of age. By his own marriage, likewise, which happened
soon afterwards, he added to his wealth. To him therefore the
succession to the Norland estate was not so really important as to his sisters; for
their fortune, independent of what might arise to them from their father's
inheriting that property, could be but small. Their mother had nothing, and
their father only seven thousand pounds in his own disposal; for the
remaining moiety of his first wife's fortune was also secured to her child,
and he had only a life-interest in it.
The old gentleman
died: his will was read, and like almost every other will, gave as much
disappointment as pleasure. He was neither so unjust, nor so ungrateful, as to
leave his estate from his nephew; but he left it to him on such terms as
destroyed half the value of the bequest. Mr. Dashwood had wished for it more
for the sake of his wife and daughters than for himself or his son; but to his
son, and his son's son, a child of four years old, it was secured, in such a
way, as to leave to himself no power of providing for those who were most
dear to him, and who most needed a provision by any charge on the estate,
or by any sale of its valuable woods. The whole was tied up for the
benefit of this child, who, in occasional visits with his father and mother at
Norland, had so far gained on the affections of his uncle, by such attractions as
are by no means unusual in children of two or three years old; an
imperfect articulation, an earnest desire of having his own way, many cunning
tricks, and a great deal of noise, as to outweigh all the value of all the
attention which, for years, he had received from his niece and her daughters. He
meant not to be unkind, however, and, as a mark of his affection for the
three girls, he left them a thousand pounds a-piece.
Mr. Dashwood's
disappointment was, at first, severe; but his temper was cheerful and
sanguine; and he might reasonably hope to live many years, and by living
economically, lay by a considerable sum from the produce of an estate already
large, and capable of almost immediate improvement. But the fortune, which
had been so tardy in coming, was his only one twelvemonth. He
survived his uncle no longer; and ten thousand pounds, including the late
legacies, was all that remained for his widow and
daughters.
His son was sent for
as soon as his danger was known, and to him Mr. Dashwood recommended,
with all the strength and urgency which illness could command, the
interest of his mother-in-law and sisters.
Mr. John Dashwood had
not the strong feelings of the rest of the family; but he was affected
by a recommendation of such a nature at such a time, and he promised to do
every thing in his power to make them comfortable.
His father was
rendered easy by such an assurance, and Mr. John Dashwood had then
leisure to consider how much there might prudently be in his power to do for them.
He was not an ill-disposed young man, unless to be rather cold hearted
and rather selfish is to
be ill-disposed: but he was, in general, well respected; for he conducted
himself with propriety in the discharge of his ordinary duties. Had he
married a more amiable woman, he might have been made
still more
respectable than he was: he might even have been made amiable himself; for he was
very young when he married, and very fond of his wife.
But Mrs. John
Dashwood was a strong caricature of himself; more narrow-minded and
selfish. When he gave his
promise to his father, he meditated within himself to increase the fortunes
of his sisters by the present of a thousand pounds a-piece. He then
really thought himself equal to it. The prospect of four thousand a-year, in
addition to his present income, besides the remaining half of his own
mother's fortune, warmed his heart, and made him feel capable of
generosity. "Yes, he would give them three thousand pounds: it would be liberal and
handsome! It would be enough to make them completely easy.
Three thousand pounds! he could spare so considerable a sum with little
inconvenience." He thought of it all day long, and for many days successively,
and he did not repent.
No sooner was his
father's funeral over, than Mrs. John Dashwood, without sending any notice of
her intention to her mother-in-law, arrived with her child and their
attendants. No one could dispute her right to come; the house was her
husband's from the moment of his father's decease; but the indelicacy of her
conduct was so much the greater, and to a woman in Mrs. Dashwood's situation,
with only common feelings, must have been highly unpleasing. But in her mind there was a
sense of honor so keen, a generosity so
romantic, that any offence of the kind, by whomsoever given or received, was to
her a source of immovable disgust. Mrs. John Dashwood had never
been a favourite with any of her husband's family; but she had had no
opportunity, till the present, of showing them with how little attention to the
comfort of other people she could act when occasion required it.
So acutely did Mrs.
Dashwood feel this ungracious behaviour, and so earnestly did she
despise her daughter-in-law for it, that, on the arrival of the latter, she
would have quitted the house for ever, had not the entreaty of her eldest girl
induced her first to reflect on the propriety of going, and her own tender love for
all her three children determined her afterwards to stay, and for their sakes
avoid a breach with their brother.
Elinor, this eldest
daughter, whose advice was so effectual, possessed a strength of
understanding, and coolness of judgment, which qualified her, though only nineteen,
to be the counsellor of her mother, and enabled her frequently to
counteract, to the advantage of them all, that eagerness of mind in Mrs. Dashwood
which must generally have led to imprudence. She had an excellent
heart; her disposition was affectionate, and her feelings were strong; but she
knew how to govern them: it was a knowledge which her mother had yet to
learn; and which one of her sisters had resolved never to be taught.
Marianne's abilities
were, in many respects, quite equal to Elinor's. She was sensible and clever;
but eager in everything: her sorrows, her joys, could have no moderation.
She was generous, amiable, interesting: she was everything but
prudent. The resemblance between her and her mother was strikingly great.
Elinor saw, with
concern, the excess of her sister's sensibility; but by Mrs. Dashwood it was
valued and cherished. They encouraged each other now in the violence of their
affliction. The agony of grief which overpowered them at first, was
voluntarily renewed, was sought for, was created again and
again. They gave
themselves up wholly to their sorrow, seeking increase of wretchedness in every
reflection that could afford it, and resolved against ever admitting
consolation in future. Elinor, too, was deeply afflicted; but still she could
struggle, she could exert herself. She could consult with her brother, could
receive her sister-in-law on her arrival, and treat her with proper attention; and
could strive to rouse her mother to similar exertion, and encourage her to
similar forbearance.
Margaret, the other
sister, was a good-humored, well-disposed girl; but as she had already
imbibed a good deal of Marianne's romance, without having much of her sense, she did not, at thirteen, bid fair to equal
her sisters at a more advanced period of
life.
CHAPTER II
Mrs. John Dashwood
now installed herself mistress of Norland; and her mother and
sisters-in-law were degraded to the condition of visitors. As such, however, they
were treated by her with quiet civility; and by her husband with as much
kindness as he could feel towards anybody beyond himself, his wife,
and their child. He really pressed them, with some earnestness, to
consider Norland as their home; and, as no plan appeared so eligible to Mrs.
Dashwood as remaining there till she could accommodate herself with a house
in the neighbourhood, his invitation was accepted.
A continuance in a
place where everything reminded her of former delight, was exactly what
suited her mind. In seasons of cheerfulness, no temper could be more
cheerful than hers, or possess, in a greater degree, that sanguine expectation
of happiness which is happiness itself. But in sorrow she must be equally
carried away by her fancy, and as far beyond consolation as in pleasure
she was beyond alloy.
Mrs. John Dashwood
did not at all approve of what her husband intended to do for his sisters.
To take three thousand pounds from the fortune of their dear little boy would
be impoverishing him to the most dreadful degree. She begged him to
think again on the subject. How could he answer it to himself to rob his
child, and his only child too, of so large a sum? And what possible claim could
the Miss Dashwoods, who were related to him only by half blood, which she
considered as no relationship at all, have on his generosity to so
large an amount. It was very well known that no affection was ever supposed to
exist between the children of any man by different marriages; and why
was he to ruin himself, and their poor little Harry, by giving away all his
money to his half sisters?
"It was my
father's last request to me," replied her husband, "that I should assist his widow and
daughters."
"He did not know
what he was talking of, I dare say; ten to one but he was light-headed at the
time. Had he been in his right senses, he could not have thought of such a
thing as begging you to give away half your fortune from your own child."
"He did not
stipulate for any particular sum, my dear Fanny; he only requested me, in
general terms, to assist them, and make their situation more comfortable than
it was in his power to do. Perhaps it would have been as well if he
had left it wholly to myself. He could hardly suppose I should neglect them.
But as he required the promise, I could not do less than give it; at
least I thought so at the time. The promise, therefore, was given, and must be
performed. Something must be done for them whenever they leave Norland
and settle in a new home."
"Well, then, let something be done for
them; but that something need not be three thousand
pounds. Consider," she added, "that when the money is once parted with, it never
can return. Your sisters will marry, and it will be gone for ever. If, indeed,
it could be restored to our poor little boy--" "Why, to be
sure," said her husband, very gravely, "that would make great difference. The time
may come when Harry will regret that so large a sum was parted with. If
he should have a numerous family, for instance, it would be a very
convenient addition."
"To be sure it
would."
"Perhaps, then,
it would be better for all parties, if the sum were diminished one half. Five
hundred pounds would be a prodigious increase to their fortunes!"
"Oh! beyond
anything great! What brother on earth would do half so much for his sisters, even
if really his sisters! And as
it is--only half blood! But you have such a
generous spirit!"
"I would not
wish to do any thing mean," he replied. "One had rather, on such occasions, do
too much than too little. No one, at least, can think I have not done enough
for them: even themselves, they can hardly expect more."
"There is no knowing what they may expect,"
said the lady, "but we are not to think of their
expectations: the question is, what you can afford to do."
"Certainly; and
I think I may afford to give them five hundred pounds a-piece. As it is,
without any addition of mine, they will each have about three thousand pounds
on their mother's death--a very comfortable fortune for any young
woman."
"To be sure it
is; and, indeed, it strikes me that they can want no addition at all. They will have
ten thousand pounds divided amongst them. If they marry, they will be
sure of doing well, and if they do not, they may all live very comfortably
together on the interest of ten thousand pounds."
"That is very
true, and, therefore, I do not know whether, upon the whole, it would not be more
advisable to do something for their mother while she lives, rather than
for them--something of the annuity kind I mean. My sisters would feel
the good effects of it as well as herself. A hundred a year
would make them all
perfectly comfortable."
His wife hesitated a
little, however, in giving her consent to this plan.
"To be
sure," said she, "it is better than parting with fifteen hundred
pounds at once. But, then,
if Mrs. Dashwood should live fifteen years we shall be completely taken
in."
"Fifteen years!
my dear Fanny; her life cannot be worth half that purchase." "Certainly not;
but if you observe, people always live for ever when there is an annuity to be paid
them; and she is very stout and healthy, and hardly forty. An annuity is
a very serious business; it comes over and over every year, and there is no
getting rid of it. You are not aware of what you are doing. I have known a
great deal of the trouble of annuities; for my mother was clogged with the
payment of three to old superannuated servants by my father's will, and it
is amazing how disagreeable she found it. Twice every year these annuities
were to be paid; and then there was the trouble of getting it to them;
and then one of them was said to have died, and afterwards it turned out to be
no such thing. My mother was quite sick of it.
Her income was not
her own, she said, with such perpetual claims on it; and it was the more
unkind in my father, because, otherwise, the money would have been
entirely at my mother's disposal, without any restriction whatever. It has
given me such an abhorrence of annuities, that I am sure I would not pin myself
down to the payment of one for all the world."
"It is certainly
an unpleasant thing," replied Mr. Dashwood, "to have those kind of yearly drains
on one's income. One's fortune, as your mother justly says, is not one's own. To be tied
down to the regular payment of such a sum, on every rent
day, is by no means desirable: it takes away one's
independence."
"Undoubtedly;
and after all you have no thanks for it. They think themselves secure,
you do no more than what is expected, and it raises no gratitude at all. If
I were you, whatever I did should be done at my own discretion entirely.
I would not bind myself to allow them any thing yearly.
It may be very
inconvenient some years to spare a hundred, or even fifty pounds from our own
expenses."
"I believe you
are right, my love; it will be better that there should be no annuity in the case;
whatever I may give them occasionally will be of far greater assistance
than a yearly allowance, because they would only enlarge their style of living
if they felt sure of a larger income, and would not be sixpence the richer
for it at the end of the year. It will certainly be much the best way. A present
of fifty pounds, now and then, will prevent their ever being distressed for
money, and will, I think, be amply discharging my promise to my
father."
"To be sure it
will. Indeed, to say the truth, I am convinced within myself that your father had
no idea of your giving them any money at all. The assistance he thought
of, I dare say, was only such as might be reasonably expected of you; for
instance, such as looking out for a comfortable small house for them,
helping them to move their things, and sending them presents of fish and
game, and so forth, whenever they are in season. I'll lay my life that he meant
nothing farther; indeed, it would be very strange and unreasonable if he did.
Do but consider, my dear Mr. Dashwood, how excessively
comfortable your mother-in-law and her daughters may live on the interest of seven
thousand pounds, besides the thousand pounds belonging to each of
the girls, which brings them in fifty pounds a year a-piece, and, of
course, they will pay their mother for their board out of it.
Altogether, they will
have five hundred a-year amongst them, and what on earth can four women
want for more than that?--They will live so cheap!
Their housekeeping
will be nothing at all. They will have no carriage, no horses, and hardly
any servants; they will keep no company, and can have no expenses of any
kind! Only conceive how comfortable they will be!
Five hundred a year!
I am sure I cannot imagine how they will spend half of it; and as to your
giving them more, it is quite absurd to think of it. They will be much more
able to give you something."
"Upon my
word," said Mr. Dashwood, "I believe you are perfectly right.
My father certainly
could mean nothing more by his request to me than what you say. I
clearly understand it now, and I will strictly fulfil my engagement by such
acts of assistance and kindness to them as you have described. When my
mother removes into another house my services shall be readily given to
accommodate her as far as I can. Some little present of furniture too may be
acceptable then."
"Certainly,"
returned Mrs. John Dashwood. "But, however, one thing must be considered. When
your father and mother moved to Norland, though the furniture of Stanhill
was sold, all the china, plate, and linen was saved, and is now left to your
mother. Her house will therefore be almost completely fitted up as soon as
she takes it."
"That is a
material consideration undoubtedly. A valuable legacy indeed!
And yet some of the
plate would have been a very pleasant addition to our own stock here."
"Yes; and the
set of breakfast china is twice as handsome as what belongs to this house. A
great deal too handsome, in my opinion, for any place they can ever afford to
live in. But, however, so it is. Your father thought only of them And I must say this:
that you owe no particular gratitude to him, nor attention to his wishes; for
we very well know that if he could, he would have left almost
everything in the world to them."
This argument was
irresistible. It gave to his intentions whatever of decision was wanting
before; and he finally resolved, that it would be absolutely
unnecessary, if not highly indecorous, to do more for the widow and children of his
father, than such kind of neighbourly acts as his own wife pointed out.
quinta-feira, 27 de dezembro de 2012
The Appeal By JOHN GRISHAM First Chapter
The Appeal
By JOHN GRISHAM
First
Chapter
The jury was ready.
After forty-two hours of
deliberations that followed seventy-one days of trial that included 530 hours
of testimony from four dozen witnesses, and after a lifetime of sitting
silently as the lawyers haggled and the judge lectured and the spectators
watched like hawks for telltale signs, the jury was ready. Locked away in the
jury room, secluded and secure, ten of them proudly signed their names to the
verdict while the other two pouted in their corners, detached and miserable in
their dissension. There were hugs and smiles and no small measure of
self-congratulation because they had survived this little war and could now
march proudly back into the arena with a decision they had rescued through sheer
determination and the dogged pursuit of compromise. Their ordeal was over;
their civic duty complete. They had served above and beyond. They were ready.
The foreman knocked on the door and
rustled Uncle Joe from his slumbers. Uncle Joe, the ancient bailiff, had
guarded them while he also arranged their meals, heard their complaints, and
quietly slipped their messages to the judge. In his younger years, back when
his hearing was better, Uncle Joe was rumored to also eavesdrop on his juries
through a flimsy pine door he and he alone had selected and installed. But his
listening days were over, and, as he had confided to no one but his wife, after
the ordeal of this particular trial he might just hang up his old pistol once
and for all. The strain of controlling justice was wearing him down.
He smiled and said, "That's
great. I'll get the judge," as if the judge were somewhere in the bowels
of the courthouse just waiting for a call from Uncle Joe. Instead, by custom,
he found a clerk and passed along the wonderful news. It was truly exciting.
The old courthouse had never seen a trial so large and so long. To end it with
no decision at all would have been a shame.
The clerk tapped lightly on the
judge's door, then took a step inside and proudly announced, "We have a
verdict," as if she had personally labored through the negotiations and
now was presenting the result as a gift.
The judge closed his eyes and let
loose a deep, satisfying sigh. He smiled a happy, nervous smile of enormous
relief, almost disbelief, and finally said, "Round up the lawyers."
After almost five days of
deliberations, Judge Harrison had resigned himself to the likelihood of a hung
jury, his worst nightmare. After four years of bare-knuckle litigation and four
months of a hotly contested trial, the prospect of a draw made him ill. He
couldn't begin to imagine the prospect of doing it all again.
He stuck his feet into his old penny
loafers, jumped from the chair grinning like a little boy, and reached for his
robe. It was finally over, the longest trial of his extremely colorful career.
The clerk's first call went to the
firm of Payton & Payton, a local husband-and-wife team now operating out of
an abandoned dime store in a lesser part of town. A paralegal picked up the
phone, listened for a few seconds, hung up, then shouted, "The jury has a
verdict!" His voice echoed through the cavernous maze of small, temporary
workrooms and jolted his colleagues.
He shouted it again as he ran to The
Pit, where the rest of the firm was frantically gathering. Wes Payton was
already there, and when his wife, Mary Grace, rushed in, their eyes met in a
split second of unbridled fear and bewilderment. Two paralegals, two
secretaries, and a bookkeeper gathered at the long, cluttered worktable, where
they suddenly froze and gawked at one another, all waiting for someone else to
speak.
Could it really be over? After they
had waited for an eternity, could it end so suddenly? So abruptly? With just a
phone call?
"How about a moment of silent
prayer," Wes said, and they held hands in a tight circle and prayed as
they had never prayed before. All manner of petitions were lifted up to God
Almighty, but the common plea was for victory. Please, dear Lord, after all
this time and effort and money and fear and doubt, please, oh please, grant us
a divine victory. And deliver us from humiliation, ruin, bankruptcy, and a host
of other evils that a bad verdict will bring.
The clerk's second call was to the
cell phone of Jared Kurtin, the architect of the defense. Mr. Kurtin was
lounging peacefully on a rented leather sofa in his temporary office on Front
Street in downtown Hattiesburg, three blocks from the courthouse. He was
reading a biography and watching the hours pass at $750 per. He listened
calmly, slapped the phone shut, and said, "Let's go. The jury is
ready." His dark-suited soldiers snapped to attention and lined up to
escort him down the street in the direction of another crushing victory. They
marched away without comment, without prayer.
Other calls went to other lawyers,
then to the reporters, and within minutes the word was on the street and
spreading rapidly.
Somewhere near the top of a tall building in lower Manhattan, a panic-stricken young man barged into a serious meeting and whispered the urgent news to Mr. Carl Trudeau, who immediately lost interest in the issues on the table, stood abruptly, and said, "Looks like the jury has reached a verdict." He marched out of the room and down the hall to a vast corner suite, where he removed his jacket, loosened his tie, walked to a window, and gazed through the early darkness at the Hudson River in the distance. He waited, and as usual asked himself how, exactly, so much of his empire could rest upon the combined wisdom of twelve average people in backwater Mississippi.
For a man who knew so much, that
answer was still elusive.
People were hurrying into the courthouse from all directions when the Paytons parked on the street behind it. They stayed in the car for a moment, still holding hands. For four months they had tried not to touch each other anywhere near the courthouse. Someone was always watching. Maybe a juror or a reporter. It was important to be as professional as possible. The novelty of a married legal team surprised people, and the Paytons tried to treat each other as attorneys and not as spouses.
And, during the trial, there had
been precious little touching away from the courthouse or anywhere else.
"What are you thinking?"
Wes asked without looking at his wife. His heart was racing and his forehead
was wet. He still gripped the wheel with his left hand, and he kept telling
himself to relax.
Relax. What a joke.
"I have never been so
afraid," Mary Grace said.
"Neither have I."
A long pause as they breathed deeply
and watched a television van almost slaughter a pedestrian.
"Can we survive a loss?"
she said. "That's the question."
"We have to survive; we have no
choice. But we're not going to lose."
"Attaboy. Let's go."
They joined the rest of their little
firm and entered the courthouse together. Waiting in her usual spot on the
first floor by the soft drink machines was their client, the plaintiff,
Jeannette Baker, and when she saw her lawyers, she immediately began to cry.
Wes took one arm, Mary Grace the other, and they escorted Jeannette up the
stairs to the main courtroom on the second floor. They could've carried her.
She weighed less than a hundred pounds and had aged five years during the
trial. She was depressed, at times delusional, and though not anorexic, she
simply didn't eat. At thirty-four, she had already buried a child and a husband
and was now at the end of a horrible trial she secretly wished she had never
pursued.
The courtroom was in a state of high
alert, as if bombs were coming and the sirens were wailing. Dozens of people
milled about, or looked for seats, or chatted nervously with their eyes darting
around. When Jared Kurtin and the defense army entered from a side door,
everyone gawked as if he might know something they didn't. Day after day for
the past four months he had proven that he could see around corners, but at
that moment his face revealed nothing. He huddled gravely with his
subordinates.
Across the room, just a few feet
away, the Paytons and Jeannette settled into their chairs at the plaintiff 's
table. Same chairs, same positions, same deliberate strategy to impress upon
the jurors that this poor widow and her two lonely lawyers were taking on a
giant corporation with unlimited resources. Wes Payton glanced at Jared Kurtin,
their eyes met, and each offered a polite nod. The miracle of the trial was
that the two men were still able to treat each other with a modest dose of
civility, even converse when absolutely necessary. It had become a matter of
pride. Regardless of how nasty the situation, and there had been so many nasty
ones, each was determined to rise above the gutter and offer a hand.
Mary Grace did not look over, and if
she had, she would not have nodded or smiled. And it was a good thing that she
did not carry a handgun in her purse, or half of the dark suits on the other
side wouldn't be there. She arranged a clean legal pad on the table before her,
wrote the date, then her name, then could not think of anything else to log in.
In seventy-one days of trial she had filled sixty-six legal pads, all the same
size and color and now filed in perfect order in a secondhand metal cabinet in
The Pit. She handed a tissue to Jeannette. Though she counted virtually
everything, Mary Grace had not kept a running tally on the number of tissue
boxes Jeannette had used during the trial. Several dozen at least.
The woman cried almost nonstop, and
while Mary Grace was profoundly sympathetic, she was also tired of all the
damned crying. She was tired of everything — the exhaustion, the stress, the
sleepless nights, the scrutiny, the time away from her children, their run-down
apartment, the mountain of unpaid bills, the neglected clients, the cold
Chinese food at midnight, the challenge of doing her face and hair every
morning so she could be somewhat attractive in front of the jury. It was
expected of her.
Stepping into a major trial is like
plunging with a weighted belt into a dark and weedy pond. You manage to
scramble up for air, but the rest of the world doesn't matter. And you always
think you're drowning.
A few rows behind the Paytons, at
the end of a bench that was quickly becoming crowded, the Paytons' banker
chewed his nails while trying to appear calm. His name was Tom Huff, or Huffy
to everyone who knew him. Huffy had dropped in from time to time to watch the
trial and offer a silent prayer of his own. The Paytons owed Huffy's bank
$400,000, and the only collateral was a tract of farmland in Cary County owned
by Mary Grace's father. On a good day it might fetch $100,000, leaving,
obviously, a substantial chunk of unsecured debt. If the Paytons lost the case,
then Huffy's once promising career as a banker would be over. The bank
president had long since stopped yelling at him. Now all the threats were by
e-mail.
What had begun innocently enough
with a simple $90,000 second mortgage loan against their lovely suburban home
had progressed into a gaping hellhole of red ink and foolish spending. Foolish
at least in Huffy's opinion. But the nice home was gone, as was the nice
downtown office, and the imported cars, and everything else. The Paytons were
risking it all, and Huffy had to admire them. A big verdict, and he was a
genius. The wrong verdict, and he'd stand in line behind them at the bankruptcy
court.
The moneymen on the other side of
the courtroom were not chewing their nails and were not particularly worried
about bankruptcy, though it had been discussed. Krane Chemical had plenty of
cash and profits and assets, but it also had hundreds of potential plaintiffs
waiting like vultures to hear what the world was about to hear. A crazy
verdict, and the lawsuits would fly.
But they were a confident bunch at
that moment. Jared Kurtin was the best defense lawyer money could buy. The
company's stock had dipped only slightly. Mr. Trudeau, up in New York, seemed to
be satisfied.
They couldn't wait to get home.
Thank God the markets had closed for
the day.
Uncle Joe yelled, "Keep your
seats," and Judge Harrison entered through the door behind his bench. He
had long since cut out the silly routine of requiring everyone to stand just so
he could assume his throne.
"Good afternoon," he said
quickly. It was almost 5:00 p.m. "I have been informed by the jury that a
verdict has been reached." He was looking around, making sure the players
were present. "I expect decorum at all times. No outbursts. No one leaves
until I dismiss the jury. Any questions? Any additional frivolous motions from
the defense?"
Jared Kurtin never flinched. He did
not acknowledge the judge in any way, but just kept doodling on his legal pad
as if he were painting a masterpiece. If Krane Chemical lost, it would appeal
with a vengeance, and the cornerstone of its appeal would be the obvious bias
of the Honorable Thomas Alsobrook Harrison IV, a former trial lawyer with a
proven dislike for all big corporations in general and, now, Krane Chemical in
particular.
"Mr. Bailiff, bring in the
jury."
The door next to the jury box
opened, and somewhere a giant unseen vacuum sucked every ounce of air from the
courtroom. Hearts froze. Bodies stiffened. Eyes found objects to fixate on. The
only sound was that of the jurors' feet shuffling across well-worn carpet.
Jared Kurtin continued his
methodical scribbling. His routine was to never look at the faces of the jurors
when they returned with a verdict. After a hundred trials he knew they were
impossible to read. And why bother? Their decision would be announced in a
matter of seconds anyway. His team had strict instructions to ignore the jurors
and show no reaction whatsoever to the verdict.
Of course Jared Kurtin wasn't facing
financial and professional ruin. Wes Payton certainly was, and he could not
keep his eyes from the eyes of the jurors as they settled into their seats. The
dairy operator looked away, a bad sign. The schoolteacher stared right through Wes,
another bad sign. As the foreman handed an envelope to the clerk, the
minister's wife glanced at Wes with a look of pity, but then she had been
offering the same sad face since the opening statements.
Mary Grace caught the sign, and she
wasn't even looking for it. As she handed another tissue to Jeannette Baker,
who was practically sobbing now, Mary Grace stole a look at juror number six,
the one closest to her, Dr. Leona Rocha, a retired English professor at the
university. Dr. Rocha, behind red-framed reading glasses, gave the quickest,
prettiest, most sensational wink Mary Grace would ever receive.
"Have you reached a
verdict?" Judge Harrison was asking.
"Yes, Your Honor, we
have," the foreman said.
"Is it unanimous?"
"No, sir, it is not."
"Do at least nine of you agree
on the verdict?"
"Yes, sir. The vote is 10 to
2."
"That's all that matters."
Mary Grace scribbled a note about
the wink, but in the fury of the moment she could not read her own handwriting.
Try to appear calm, she kept telling herself.
Judge Harrison took the envelope
from the clerk, removed a sheet of paper, and began reviewing the verdict —
heavy wrinkles burrowing into his forehead, eyes frowning as he pinched the
bridge of his nose. After an eternity he said, "It appears to be in
order." Not one single twitch or grin or widening of the eyes, nothing to
indicate what was written on the sheet of paper.
He looked down and nodded at his
court reporter and cleared his throat, thoroughly relishing the moment. Then
the wrinkles softened around his eyes, the jaw muscles loosened, the shoulders
sagged a bit, and, to Wes anyway, there was suddenly hope that the jury had
scorched the defendant.
In a slow, loud voice, Judge
Harrison read: "Question number one: 'Do you find, by a preponderance of
the evidence, that the groundwater at issue was contaminated by Krane Chemical
Corporation?'" After a treacherous pause that lasted no more than five
seconds, he continued, "The answer is 'Yes.'"
One side of the courtroom managed to
breathe while the other side began to turn blue.
"Question number two: 'Do you
find, by a preponderance of the evidence, that the contamination was the
proximate cause of the death or deaths of (a) Chad Baker and/or (b) Pete
Baker?' Answer: 'Yes, for both.'"
Mary Grace managed to pluck tissues
from a box and hand them over with her left hand while writing furiously with
her right. Wes managed to steal a glance at juror number four, who happened to
be glancing at him with a humorous grin that seemed to say, "Now for the
good part."
"Question number three: 'For
Chad Baker, what amount of money do you award to his mother, Jeannette Baker,
as damages for his wrongful death?' Answer: 'Five hundred thousand
dollars.'"
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Appeal by John Grisham
Copyright 2008 by John Grisham. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved.
No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in
writing from the publisher. Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely
for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Lady Lazarus, Sylvia Plath - poema
Lady Lazarus
Sylvia Plath
Tentei outra vez.
Um ano em cada dez
Eu dou um jeito –
Um tipo de milagre ambulante, minha pele
Brilha feito abajur nazista,
Meu pé direito
Peso de papel,
Meu rosto inexpressivo, fino
Linho judeu.
Dispa o pano
Oh, meu inimigo.
Eu te aterrorizo? –
O nariz, as covas dos olhos, a dentadura toda?
O hálito amargo
Desaparece num dia.
Em muito em breve a carne
Que a caverna carcomeu vai estar
Em casa, em mim.
http://www.lendo.org/ariel-sylvia-plath/
ELIZABETH BARRET BROWNING - SOME SONNETS
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
English poet, the wife of Robert Browning, the most respected and
successful woman poet of the Victorian period. Elizabeth Browning was
considered seriously for the laureateship that eventually was awarded to Tennyson in 1850. Her greatest work,
Sonnets from the Portuguese (1850), is a sequence of love sonnets addresses to
her husband. Browning's vivid intelligence and ethereal physical appearance
made a lifelong impression to Ruskin, Carlyle, Thackeray, Rossetti, Hawthorne,
and many others.
Elizabeth
Barrett Moulton-Barrett was born at Coxhoe Hall, near Durham. Her father was
Edward Moulton-Barrett, whose wealth was derived from sugar plantations in the
British colony of Jamaica. Mary Graham-Clarke, her mother, came from a family
with similar commercial interests. Elizabeth grew up in the west of England and
was largely educated at home by a tutor, quickly learning French, Latin and
Greek. Both parents supported her early writing and many of her birthday odes
to her parents and siblings still survive. At the age of 14, she wrote her
first collection of verse, The Battle of Marathon. It was followed by An Essay on
Mind (1826), privately printed at her father's expense. Her translation of Prometeus
Bound (1833) with other poems appeared anonymously. Browning's first work to
gain critical attention was The Seraphim, and other Poems (1838).
SOME SONNETS BY ELIZABETH BARRET BROWNING
XLIII.
"How do I love thee? Let
me count the ways..."
How do I love thee? Let me
count the ways.
I love thee to the depth
and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when
feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and
ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of
everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and
candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men
strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they
turn from Praise.
I love thee with a passion
put to use
In my old griefs, and with
my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I
seemed to lose
With my lost saints, --- I
love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my
life! --- and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee
better after death.
XLIV.
"Belovèd, thou hast
brought me many flowers..."
Belovèd, thou hast brought
me many flowers
Plucked in the garden, all
the summer through
And winter, and it seemed
as if they grew
In this close room, nor
missed the sun and showers.
So, in the like name of
that love of ours,
Take back these thoughts
which here unfolded too,
And which on warm and cold
days I withdrew
From my heart's ground.
Indeed, those beds and bowers
Be overgrown with bitter
weeds and rue,
And wait thy weeding; yet
here's eglantine,
Here's ivy!---take them, as
I used to do
Thy flowers, and keep them
where they shall not pine.
Instruct thine eyes to keep
their colours true,
And tell thy soul, their
roots are left in mine.
XLII.
"'My
future will not copy fair my past'..."
'My future will not copy
fair my past'---
I wrote that once; and
thinking at my side
My ministering life-angel
justified
The word by his appealing
look upcast
To the white throne of God,
I turned at last,
And there, instead, saw
thee, not unallied
To angels in thy soul! Then
I, long tried
By natural ills, received
the comfort fast,
While budding, at thy
sight, my pilgrim's staff
Gave out green leaves with
morning dews impearled.
I seek no copy now of
life's first half:
Leave here the pages with
long musing curled,
And write me new my
future's epigraph,
New angel mine, unhoped for
in the world!
XLI.
"I thank
all who have loved me in their hearts..."
I thank all who have loved
me in their hearts,
With thanks and love from
mine. Deep thanks to all
Who paused a little near
the prison-wall
To hear my music in its
louder parts
Ere they went onward, each
one to the mart's
Or temple's occupation,
beyond call.
But thou, who, in my
voice's sink and fall
When the sob took it, thy
divinest Art's
Own instrument didst drop
down at thy foot
To hearken what I said
between my tears, . . .
Instruct me how to thank
thee! Oh, to shoot
My soul's full meaning into
future years,
That they should
lend it utterance, and salute
Love that endures, from
Life that disappears!
XL.
"Oh,
yes! they love through all this world of ours..."
Oh, yes! they love through
all this world of ours!
I will not gainsay love,
called love forsooth.
I have heard love talked in
my early youth,
And since, not so long back
but that the flowers
Then gathered, smell still.
Mussulmans and Giaours
Throw kerchiefs at a smile,
and have no ruth
For any weeping. Polypheme's
white tooth
Slips on the nut if, after
frequent showers,
The shell is
over-smooth,---and not so much
Will turn the thing called
love, aside to hate
Or else to oblivion. But
thou art not such
A lover, my Belovèd! thou
canst wait
Through sorrow and
sickness, to bring souls to touch,
And think it soon when
others cry 'Too late.'
XXXIX.
"Because thou hast the power and own'st the grace..."
Because thou hast the power
and own'st the grace
To look through and behind
this mask of me
(Against which years have
beat thus blanchingly
With their rains), and
behold my soul's true face,
The dim and weary witness
of life's race,---
Because thou hast the faith
and love to see,
Through that same soul's
distracting lethargy,
The patient angel waiting
for a place
In the new
Heavens,---because nor sin nor woe,
Nor God's infliction, nor
death's neighbourhood,
Nor all which others
viewing, turn to go,
Nor all which makes me
tired of all, self-viewed,---
Nothing repels thee, . . .
Dearest, teach me so
To pour out gratitude, as
thou dost, good!
XXXVIII.
"First time he kissed me, he but only kissed..."
First time he kissed me, he
but only kissed
The fingers of this hand
wherewith I write;
And ever since, it grew
more clean and white,
Slow to world-greetings,
quick with its 'Oh, list,'
When the angels speak. A
ring of amethyst
I could not wear here,
plainer to my sight,
Than that first kiss. The
second passed in height
The first, and sought the
forehead, and half missed,
Half falling on the hair. O
beyond meed!
That was the chrism of
love, which love's own crown,
With sanctifying sweetness,
did precede.
The third upon my lips was
folded down
In perfect, purple state;
since when, indeed,
I have been proud and said,
'My love, my own.'
XXXVII.
"Pardon, oh, pardon, that my soul should make..."
Pardon, oh, pardon, that my
soul should make
Of all that strong
divineness which I know
For thine and thee, an
image only so
Formed of the sand, and fit
to shift and break.
It is that distant years
which did not take
Thy sovranty, recoiling
with a blow,
Have forced my swimming
brain to undergo
Their doubt and dread, and
blindly to forsake
Thy purity of likeness and
distort
Thy worthiest love to a
worthless counterfeit:
As if a shipwrecked Pagan,
safe in port,
His guardian sea-god to
commemorate,
Should set a sculptured
porpoise, gills a-snort
And vibrant tail, within
the temple gate.
XXXVI.
"When
we met first and loved, I did not build..."
When we met first and
loved, I did not build
Upon the event with marble.
Could it mean
To last, a love set
pendulous between
Sorrow and sorrow? Nay, I
rather thrilled,
Distrusting every light
that seemed to gild
The onward path, and feared
to overlean
A finger even. And, though
I have grown serene
And strong since then, I
think that God has willed
A still renewable fear . .
. O love, O troth . . .
Lest these enclaspèd hands
should never hold,
This mutual kiss drop down
between us both
As an unowned thing, once
the lips being cold,
And Love be false! if he, to keep one oath,
Must lose one joy, by his life's star foretold.
XXXV.
"If I
leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange..."
If I leave all for thee,
wilt thou exchange
And be all to me? Shall I
never miss
Home-talk and blessing and
the common kiss
That comes to each in turn,
nor count it strange,
When I look up, to drop on
a new range
Of walls and floors,
another home than this?
Nay, wilt thou fill that
place by me which is
Filled by dead eyes too
tender to know change?
That's hardest. If to
conquer love, has tried,
To conquer grief, tries
more, as all things prove;
For grief indeed is love
and grief beside.
Alas, I have grieved so I
am hard to love.
Yet love me---wilt thou?
Open thine heart wide,
And fold within, the wet
wings of thy dove.
XXXIV.
"With
the same heart, I said, I'll answer thee..."
With the same heart, I
said, I'll answer thee
As those, when thou shalt
call me by my name---
Lo, the vain promise! is
the same, the same,
Perplexed and ruffled by
life's strategy?
When called before, I told
how hastily
I dropped my flowers or
brake off from a a game,
To run and answer with the
smile that came
At play last moment, and
went on with me
Through my obedience. When
I answer now,
I drop a grave thought,
break from solitude;
Yet still my heart goes to
thee---ponder how---
Not as to a single good,
but all my good!
Lay thy hand on it, best
one, and allow
That no child's foot could
run fast as this blood.
You can find more other poems by Elizabeth Barret Browning at
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