read and answer questions

Read and answer the questions below for “Genesis and Catastrophe” and “The Monkey’s Paw.”

 The Monkey Paw

Write at least three complete sentences to answer each question.

1. What does the word “fate” mean to you? Do you believe in fate? Explain.
2. What is probably upsetting the sergeant-major about the White family’s lightheartedness toward the paw?
3. What was the first man’s third wish?
4. Why doesn’t Mr. White know what to wish for? What is Mr. White’s first wish?
5. What are the family’s feelings about the wish in the morning?
6. Why does Mrs. White want the monkey’s paw? What is the second wish?
7. What do you suppose was the final wish?

“Genesis and Catastrophe” Questions

1. How do you feel at the beginning of the story when Klara is describing all the children she’s lost? How do your feelings change when you find out the couple’s last name?
2. Write down 3 words to describe the husband, Alois. What similarities does he seem to have with his new born son from what we now know about his son’s adult life?
3. Consider the overall question of whether humans are born good or born evil. What answer does this story seem to suggest?

Genesis and catastrophe: a true story

Roald Dahl

1

96

2

“Everything is normal,” the doctor was saying. “Just lie back and relax.” His
voice was miles away in the distance and he seemed to be shouting at her. “You
have a son.”

“What?”
“You have a Vne son. You understand that, don’t you? A Vne son. Did you hear

him crying?”
“Is he all right, Doctor?”
“Of course he is all right,”
“Please let me see him.”
“You’ll see him in a moment.”
“You are certain he is all right?”
“I am quite certain.”
“Is he still crying?”
“Try to rest. There is nothing to worry about.”
“Why has he stopped crying, Doctor? What happened?”
“Don’t excite yourself, please. Everything is normal.” “I want to see him. Please

let me see him.”
“Dear lady,” the doctor said, patting her hand. “You have a Vne strong healthy

child. Don’t you believe me when I tell you that?”
“What is the woman over there doing to him?”
“Your baby is being made to look pretty for you,” the doctor said. “We are giving

him a little wash, that is all. You must spare us a moment or two for that.”
“You swear he is all right?”
“I swear it. Now lie back and relax. Close your eyes. Go on, close your eyes.

That’s right. That’s better. Good girl. . . ”
“I have prayed and prayed that he will live, Doctor.”
Of course he will live. What are you talking about?”
“The others didn’t.”
“What?”
“None of my other ones lived, Doctor.”

1

2

The doctor stood beside the bed looking down at the pale exhausted face of the
young woman. He had never seen her before today. She and her husband were new
people in the town. The innkeeper’s wife, who had come up to assist in the delivery,
had told him that the husband worked at the local customs-house on the border and
that the two of them had arrived quite suddenly at the inn with one trunk and one
suitcase about three months ago. The husband was a drunkard, the innkeeper’s wife
had said, an arrogant, overbearing, bullying little drunkard, but the young woman
was gentle and religious. And she was very sad. She never smiled. In the few weeks
that she had been here, the innkeeper’s wife had never once seen her smile. Also
there was a rumour that this was the husband’s third marriage, that one wife had
died and that the other had divorced him or unsavoury reasons. But that was only
a rumour.

The doctor bent down and pulled the sheet up a little higher over the patient’s
chest. “You have nothing to worry about,” he said gently. “This is a perfectly normal
baby.”

“That’s exactly what they told me about the others. But I lost them all, Doctor.
In the last eighteen months I have lost all three of my children, so you mustn’t
blame me for being anxious.”

“Three?”
“This is my fourth. . . in four years.”
The doctor shifted his feet uneasily on the bare Woor.
“I don’t think you know what it means, Doctor, to lose them all, all three of

them, slowly, separately, one by one. I keep seeing them. I can see Gustav’s lace
now as clearly as if he were lying here beside me in the bed. Gustav was a lovely
boy, Doctor. But he was always ill. It is terrible when they are always ill and there
is nothing you can do to help them.”

“I know.”
The woman opened her eyes, stared up at the doctor for a few seconds, then

closed them again.
“My little girl was called Ida. She died a few days before Christmas. That is only

four months ago. I just wish you could have seen Ida, Doctor.”
“You have a new one now.”
“But Ida was so beautiful.”
“Yes,” the doctor said. “I know.”
“How can you know?” she cried.
“I am sure that she was a lovely child. But this new one is also like that.” The

doctor turned away from the bed and walked over to the window and stood there
looking out. It was a wet grey April afternoon, and across the street he could see
the red roofs of the houses and the huge raindrops splashing on the tiles.

“Ida was two years old, Doctor. . . and she was so beautiful I was never able to
take my eyes oU her from the time I dressed her in the morning until she was safe

3

in bed again at night. I used to live in holy terror of something happening to that
child. Gustav had gone and my little Otto had also gone and she was all I had left.
Sometimes I used to get up in the night and creep over to the cradle and put my ear
close to her mouth just to make sure that she was breathing.

“Try to rest,” the doctor said, going back to the bed. “Please try to rest.” The
woman’s face was white and bloodless, and there was a slight bluish-grey tinge
around the nostrils and the mouth. A few strands of damp hair hung down over her
forehead, sticking to the skin.

“When she died. . . I was already pregnant again when that happened, Doctor.
This new one was a good four months on its way when Ida died. ‘I don’t want it!’
I shouted after the funeral. ‘I won’t have it! I have buried enough children!’ And
my husband. . . he was strolling among the guests with a big glass of beer in his
hand. . . he turned around quickly and said, ‘I have news for you, Kiara, I have good
news.’ Can you imagine that, Doctor? We have just buried our third child and he
stands there with a glass of beer in his hand and tells me that he has good news,
‘Today I have been posted to Braunau,’ he says, ‘so you can start packing at once.
This will be a new start for you, Kiara,’ he says. ‘It will be a new place and you can
have a new doctor. . . ”’

“Please don’t talk any more.”
“You are the new doctor, aren’t you, Doctor?”
“That’s right.”
“And here we are in Braunau.”
“I am frightened, Doctor.”
“Try not to be frightened.”
“What chance can the fourth one have now?”
“You must stop thinking like that.”
“I can’t help it. I am certain there is something inherited that causes my children

to die in this way. There must be.”
“That is nonsense.”
“Do you know what my husband said to me when Otto was born, Doctor? He

came into the room and he looked into the cradle where Otto was lying and he said,
‘Why do all my children have to be so small and weak?”’

“I am sure he didn’t say that.”
“He put his head right into Otto’s cradle as though he were examining a tiny

insect and he said, ’All I am saying is why can’t they be better specimens? That’s
all I am saying.’ And three days after that, Otto was dead. We baptized him quickly
on the third day and he died the same evening. And then Gustav died. And then
Ida died. All of them died, Doctor. . . and suddenly the whole house was empty.”

“Don’t think about it now.”
“Is this one so very small?”
“He is a normal child.”

4

“But small?”
“He is a little small, perhaps. But the small ones are often a lot tougher than the

big ones. Just imagine, Frau Hitler, this time next year he will be almost learning
how to walk. Isn’t that a lovely thought?”

She didn’t answer this.
“And two years from now he will probably be talking his bead oU and driving

you crazy with his chatter. Have you settled on a name for him yet?”
“A name?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure. I think my husband said that if it was a boy we

were going to call him Adolfus.”
“That means he would be called Adolf.”
“Yes. My husband likes Adolf because it has a certain similarity to Alois. My

husband is called Alois.”
“Excellent.”
“Oh no!” she cried, starting up suddenly from the pillow. “That’s the same ques-

tion they asked me when Otto was born! It means he is going to die! You are going
to baptize him at once!”

“Now, now,” the doctor said, taking her gently by the shoulders. “You are quite
wrong. I promise you you are wrong. I was simply being an inquisitive old man,
that is all. I love talking about names. I think Adolfus is a particularly line name. It
is one of my favourites. And look-here he comes now.”

The innkeeper’s wife, carrying the baby high up on her enormous bosom, came
sailing across the room towards the bed, “Here is the little beauty!” she cried, beam-
ing. “Would you like to hold him, my dear? Shall I put him beside you?”

“Is he well wrapped?” the doctor asked. “It is extremely cold in here.”
“Certainly he is well wrapped.”
The baby was tightly swaddled in a white woollen shawl, and only the tiny

pink head protruded. The innkeeper’s wife placed him gently on the bed beside the
mother. “There you are,” she said. “Now you can lie there and look at him to your
heart’s content.”

“I think you will like him,” the doctor said, smiling. “He is a Vne little baby,”
“He has the most lovely hands!” the innkeeper’s wife exclaimed. “Such long

delicate Vngers!”
The mother didn’t move. She didn’t even turn her head to look.
“Go on!” cried the innkeeper’s wife. “He won’t bite you!”
“I am frightened to look. I don’t dare to believe that I have another baby and

that he is all right.”
“Don’t be so stupid.”

5

Slowly, the mother turned her head and looked at the small, incredibly serene
face that lay on the pillow beside her.

“Is this my baby?”
“Of course.”
“Oh. . . , oh. . . but he is beautiful.”
The doctor turned away and went over to the table and began putting his things

into his bag. The mother lay on the bed gazing at the child and smiling and touching
him and making little noises of pleasure. “Hello, Adolfus,” she whispered. “Hello, my
little Adolf.”

“Ssshh!” said the innkeeper’s wife. “Listen! I think your husband is coming.”
The doctor walked over to the door and opened it and looked out into the cor-

ridor.
“Herr Hitler?”
“Yes.”
“Come in, please.”
A small man in a dark-green uniform stepped softly into the room and looked

around him.
“Congratulations,” the doctor said. “You have a son.”
The man had a pair of enormous whiskers meticulously groomed after the man-

ner of the Emperor Franz Josef, and he smelled strongly of beer. “A son?”
“Yes.”
“How is he?”
“He is Vne. So is your wife.”
“Good,” The father turned and walked with a curious little prancing stride over

to the bed where his wife was lying. “Well, Klara,” he said, smiling through his
whiskers. “How did it go?” He bent down to take a look at the baby. Then he bent
lower. In a series of quick jerky movements, he bent lower and lower until his face
was only about twelve inches from the baby’s head. The wife lay sideways on the
pillow, staring up at him with a kind of supplicating look.

“He has the most marvellous pair of lungs,” the innkeeper’s wife announced.
“You should have heard him screaming just after he came into this world.”

“But my God, Klara. . . ”
“What is it, dear?”
“This one is even smaller than Otto was!”
The doctor took a couple of quick paces forward. “There is nothing wrong with

that child,” he said.
Slowly, the husband straightened up and turned away from the bed and looked

at the doctor. He seemed bewildered and stricken. “It’s no good lying, Doctor,” he
said. “I know what it means. It’s going to be the same all over again.”

“Now you listen to me,” the doctor said.

6

“But do you know what happened to the others, Doctor?”
“You must forget about the others, Herr Hitler. Give this one a chance,”
“But so small and weak!”
“My dear sir, he has only just been born.”
“Even so. . . ”
“What are you trying to do?” cried the innkeeper’s wife. “Talk him into his

grave?”
“That’s enough!” the doctor said sharply.
The mother was weeping now. Great sobs were shaking her body.
The doctor walked over to the husband and put a hand on his shoulder. “Be

good to her,” he whispered. “Please. It is very important.” Then he squeezed the
husband’s shoulder hard and began pushing him forward surreptitiously to the edge
of the bed. The husband hesitated. The doctor squeezed harder, signal ling to him
urgently through Vngers and thumb. At last, reluctantly, the husband bent down
and kissed his wife lightly on the cheek.

“All right, Klara,” he said. “Now stop crying.”
“I have prayed so hard that he will live, Alois.”
“Yes.”
“Every day for months I have gone to the church and begged on my knees that

this one will be allowed to live.”
“Yes, Klara, I know.”
“Three dead children is all that I can stand, don’t you realize that?”
“Of course.”
“He must live, Alois. He must, he must. . . Oh God, be merciful unto him now. . . ”

THE MONKEY’S PAW

w. w. jacobs

I

Without, the night was cold and wet, but in the small parlour of Laburnam
Villa the blinds were drawn and the fire burned brightly. Father and son
were at chess, the former, who possessed ideas about the game involving
radical changes, putting his king into such sharp and unnecessary perils
that it even provoked comment from the white-haired old lady knitting
placidly by the fire.

“Hark at the wind,” said Mr. White, who, having seen a fatal mistake
after it was too late, was amiably desirous of preventing his son from
seeing it.

“I’m listening,” said the latter, grimly surveying the board as he
stretched out his hand. “Check.”

“I should hardly think that he’d come to-night,” said his father, with
his hand poised over the board.

“Mate,” replied the son.

“That’s the worst of living so far out,” bawled Mr. White, with sudden
and unlooked-for violence; “of all the beastly, slushy, out-of-the-way
places to live in, this is the worst. Pathway’s a bog, and the road’s a
torrent. I don’t know what people are thinking about. I suppose because
only two houses in the road are let, they think it doesn’t matter.”

“Never mind, dear,” said his wife, soothingly; “perhaps you’ll win the

next one.”

Mr. White looked up sharply, just in time to intercept a knowing glance
between mother and son. The words died away on his lips, and he hid a
guilty grin in his thin grey beard.

“There he is,” said Herbert White, as the gate banged to loudly and heavy
footsteps came toward the door.

The old man rose with hospitable haste, and opening the door, was heard
condoling with the new arrival. The new arrival also condoled with
himself, so that Mrs. White said, “Tut, tut!” and coughed gently as her
husband entered the room, followed by a tall, burly man, beady of eye and
rubicund of visage.

“Sergeant-Major Morris,” he said, introducing him.

The sergeant-major shook hands, and taking the proffered seat by the
fire, watched contentedly while his host got out whiskey and tumblers and
stood a small copper kettle on the fire.

At the third glass his eyes got brighter, and he began to talk, the
little family circle regarding with eager interest this visitor from
distant parts, as he squared his broad shoulders in the chair and spoke
of wild scenes and doughty deeds; of wars and plagues and strange
peoples.

“Twenty-one years of it,” said Mr. White, nodding at his wife and son.
“When he went away he was a slip of a youth in the warehouse. Now look
at him.”

“He don’t look to have taken much harm,” said Mrs. White, politely.

“I’d like to go to India myself,” said the old man, “just to look round a
bit, you know.”

“Better where you are,” said the sergeant-major, shaking his head. He
put down the empty glass, and sighing softly, shook it again.

“I should like to see those old temples and fakirs and jugglers,” said

the old man. “What was that you started telling me the other day about a
monkey’s paw or something, Morris?”

“Nothing,” said the soldier, hastily. “Leastways nothing worth hearing.”

“Monkey’s paw?” said Mrs. White, curiously.

“Well, it’s just a bit of what you might call magic, perhaps,” said the
sergeant-major, offhandedly.

His three listeners leaned forward eagerly. The visitor absent-mindedly
put his empty glass to his lips and then set it down again. His host
filled it for him.

“To look at,” said the sergeant-major, fumbling in his pocket, “it’s just
an ordinary little paw, dried to a mummy.”

He took something out of his pocket and proffered it. Mrs. White drew
back with a grimace, but her son, taking it, examined it curiously.

“And what is there special about it?” inquired Mr. White as he took it
from his son, and having examined it, placed it upon the table.

“It had a spell put on it by an old fakir,” said the sergeant-major,
“a very holy man. He wanted to show that fate ruled people’s lives, and
that those who interfered with it did so to their sorrow. He put a spell
on it so that three separate men could each have three wishes from it.”

His manner was so impressive that his hearers were conscious that their
light laughter jarred somewhat.

“Well, why don’t you have three, sir?” said Herbert White, cleverly.

The soldier regarded him in the way that middle age is wont to regard
presumptuous youth. “I have,” he said, quietly, and his blotchy face
whitened.

“And did you really have the three wishes granted?” asked Mrs. White.

“I did,” said the sergeant-major, and his glass tapped against his strong

teeth.

“And has anybody else wished?” persisted the old lady.

“The first man had his three wishes. Yes,” was the reply; “I don’t know
what the first two were, but the third was for death. That’s how I got
the paw.”

His tones were so grave that a hush fell upon the group.

“If you’ve had your three wishes, it’s no good to you now, then, Morris,”
said the old man at last. “What do you keep it for?”

The soldier shook his head. “Fancy, I suppose,” he said, slowly. “I did
have some idea of selling it, but I don’t think I will. It has caused
enough mischief already. Besides, people won’t buy. They think it’s a
fairy tale; some of them, and those who do think anything of it want to
try it first and pay me afterward.”

“If you could have another three wishes,” said the old man, eyeing him
keenly, “would you have them?”

“I don’t know,” said the other. “I don’t know.”

He took the paw, and dangling it between his forefinger and thumb,
suddenly threw it upon the fire. White, with a slight cry, stooped down
and snatched it off.

“Better let it burn,” said the soldier, solemnly.

“If you don’t want it, Morris,” said the other, “give it to me.”

“I won’t,” said his friend, doggedly. “I threw it on the fire. If you
keep it, don’t blame me for what happens. Pitch it on the fire again
like a sensible man.”

The other shook his head and examined his new possession closely. “How
do you do it?” he inquired.

“Hold it up in your right hand and wish aloud,” said the sergeant-major,

“but I warn you of the consequences.”

“Sounds like the Arabian Nights,” said Mrs. White, as she rose and began
to set the supper. “Don’t you think you might wish for four pairs of
hands for me?”

Her husband drew the talisman from pocket, and then all three burst into
laughter as the sergeant-major, with a look of alarm on his face, caught
him by the arm.

“If you must wish,” he said, gruffly, “wish for something sensible.”

Mr. White dropped it back in his pocket, and placing chairs, motioned his
friend to the table. In the business of supper the talisman was partly
forgotten, and afterward the three sat listening in an enthralled fashion
to a second instalment of the soldier’s adventures in India.

“If the tale about the monkey’s paw is not more truthful than those he
has been telling us,” said Herbert, as the door closed behind their
guest, just in time for him to catch the last train, “we sha’nt make much
out of it.”

“Did you give him anything for it, father?” inquired Mrs. White,
regarding her husband closely.

“A trifle,” said he, colouring slightly. “He didn’t want it, but I made
him take it. And he pressed me again to throw it away.”

“Likely,” said Herbert, with pretended horror. “Why, we’re going to be
rich, and famous and happy. Wish to be an emperor, father, to begin
with; then you can’t be henpecked.”

He darted round the table, pursued by the maligned Mrs. White armed with
an antimacassar.

Mr. White took the paw from his pocket and eyed it dubiously. “I don’t
know what to wish for, and that’s a fact,” he said, slowly. “It seems to
me I’ve got all I want.”

“If you only cleared the house, you’d be quite happy, wouldn’t you?”

said Herbert, with his hand on his shoulder. “Well, wish for two hundred
pounds, then; that ‘ll just do it.”

His father, smiling shamefacedly at his own credulity, held up the
talisman, as his son, with a solemn face, somewhat marred by a wink at
his mother, sat down at the piano and struck a few impressive chords.

“I wish for two hundred pounds,” said the old man distinctly.

A fine crash from the piano greeted the words, interrupted by a
shuddering cry from the old man. His wife and son ran toward him.

“It moved,” he cried, with a glance of disgust at the object as it lay on
the floor.

“As I wished, it twisted in my hand like a snake.”

“Well, I don’t see the money,” said his son as he picked it up and placed
it on the table, “and I bet I never shall.”

“It must have been your fancy, father,” said his wife, regarding him
anxiously.

He shook his head. “Never mind, though; there’s no harm done, but it
gave me a shock all the same.”

They sat down by the fire again while the two men finished their pipes.
Outside, the wind was higher than ever, and the old man started nervously
at the sound of a door banging upstairs. A silence unusual and
depressing settled upon all three, which lasted until the old couple rose
to retire for the night.

“I expect you’ll find the cash tied up in a big bag in the middle of your
bed,” said Herbert, as he bade them good-night, “and something horrible
squatting up on top of the wardrobe watching you as you pocket your
ill-gotten gains.”

He sat alone in the darkness, gazing at the dying fire, and seeing faces
in it. The last face was so horrible and so simian that he gazed at it
in amazement.’ It got so vivid that, with a little uneasy laugh, he felt

on the table for a glass containing a little water to throw over it. His
hand grasped the monkey’s paw, and with a little shiver he wiped his hand
on his coat and went up to bed.

II.

In the brightness of the wintry sun next morning as it streamed over the
breakfast table he laughed at his fears. There was an air of prosaic
wholesomeness about the room which it had lacked on the previous night,
and the dirty, shrivelled little paw was pitched on the sideboard with a
carelessness which betokened no great belief in its virtues.

“I suppose all old soldiers are the same,” said Mrs. White. “The idea of
our listening to such nonsense! How could wishes be granted in these
days? And if they could, how could two hundred pounds hurt you, father?”

“Might drop on his head from the sky,” said the frivolous Herbert.

“Morris said the things happened so naturally,” said’ his father, “that
you might if you so wished attribute it to coincidence.”

“Well, don’t break into the money before I come back,” said Herbert as he
rose from the table. “I’m afraid it’ll turn you into a mean, avaricious
man, and we shall have to disown you.”

His mother laughed, and following him to the door, watched him down the
road; and returning to the breakfast table, was very happy at the expense
of her husband’s credulity. All of which did not prevent her from
scurrying to the door at the postman’s knock, nor prevent her from
referring somewhat shortly to retired sergeant-majors of bibulous habits
when she found that the post brought a tailor’s bill.

“Herbert will have some more of his funny remarks, I expect, when he
comes home,” she said, as they sat at dinner.

“I dare say,” said Mr. White, pouring himself out some beer; “but for all
that, the thing moved in my hand; that I’ll swear to.”

“You thought it did,” said the old lady soothingly.

“I say it did,” replied the other. “There was no thought about it; I had
just—- What’s the matter?”

His wife made no reply. She was watching the mysterious movements of a
man outside, who, peering in an undecided fashion at the house, appeared
to be trying to make up his mind to enter. In mental connection with the
two hundred pounds, she noticed that the stranger was well dressed, and
wore a silk hat of glossy newness. Three times he paused at the gate,
and then walked on again. The fourth time he stood with his hand upon
it, and then with sudden resolution flung it open and walked up the path.
Mrs. White at the same moment placed her hands behind her, and hurriedly
unfastening the strings of her apron, put that useful article of apparel
beneath the cushion of her chair.

She brought the stranger, who seemed ill at ease, into the room. He
gazed at her furtively, and listened in a preoccupied fashion as the old
lady apologized for the appearance of the room, and her husband’s coat, a
garment which he usually reserved for the garden. She then waited as
patiently as her sex would permit, for him to broach his business, but he
was at first strangely silent.

“I–was asked to call,” he said at last, and stooped and picked a piece
of cotton from his trousers. “I come from ‘Maw and Meggins.'”

The old lady started. “Is anything the matter?” she asked,
breathlessly. “Has anything happened to Herbert? What is it? What is
it?”

Her husband interposed. “There, there, mother,” he said, hastily. “Sit
down, and don’t jump to conclusions. You’ve not brought bad news, I’m
sure, sir;” and he eyed the other wistfully.

“I’m sorry–” began the visitor.

“Is he hurt?” demanded the mother, wildly.

The visitor bowed in assent. “Badly hurt,” he said, quietly, “but he is
not in any pain.”

“Oh, thank God!” said the old woman, clasping her hands. “Thank God for
that! Thank–”

She broke off suddenly as the sinister meaning of the assurance dawned
upon her and she saw the awful confirmation of her fears in the other’s
perverted face. She caught her breath, and turning to her slower-witted
husband, laid her trembling old hand upon his. There was a long silence.

“He was caught in the machinery,” said the visitor at length in a low
voice.

“Caught in the machinery,” repeated Mr. White, in a dazed fashion, “yes.”

He sat staring blankly out at the window, and taking his wife’s hand
between his own, pressed it as he had been wont to do in their old
courting-days nearly forty years before.

“He was the only one left to us,” he said, turning gently to the visitor.
“It is hard.”

The other coughed, and rising, walked slowly to the window. “The firm
wished me to convey their sincere sympathy with you in your great loss,”
he said, without looking round. “I beg that you will understand I am
only their servant and merely obeying orders.”

There was no reply; the old woman’s face was white, her eyes staring, and
her breath inaudible; on the husband’s face was a look such as his friend
the sergeant might have carried into his first action.

“I was to say that Maw and Meggins disclaim all responsibility,”
continued the other. “They admit no liability at all, but in
consideration of your son’s services, they wish to present you with
a certain sum as compensation.”

Mr. White dropped his wife’s hand, and rising to his feet, gazed with a
look of horror at his visitor. His dry lips shaped the words, “How
much?”

“Two hundred pounds,” was the answer.

Unconscious of his wife’s shriek, the old man smiled faintly, put out his
hands like a sightless man, and dropped, a senseless heap, to the floor.

III

In the huge new cemetery, some two miles distant, the old people buried
their dead, and came back to a house steeped in shadow and silence. It
was all over so quickly that at first they could hardly realize it, and
remained in a state of expectation as though of something else to happen
–something else which was to lighten this load, too heavy for old hearts
to bear.

But the days passed, and expectation gave place to resignation–the
hopeless resignation of the old, sometimes miscalled, apathy. Sometimes
they hardly exchanged a word, for now they had nothing to talk about, and
their days were long to weariness.

It was about a week after that the old man, waking suddenly in the night,
stretched out his hand and found himself alone. The room was in
darkness, and the sound of subdued weeping came from the window. He
raised himself in bed and listened.

“Come back,” he said, tenderly. “You will be cold.”

“It is colder for my son,” said the old woman, and wept afresh.

The sound of her sobs died away on his ears. The bed was warm, and his
eyes heavy with sleep. He dozed fitfully, and then slept until a sudden
wild cry from his wife awoke him with a start.

“The paw!” she cried wildly. “The monkey’s paw!”

He started up in alarm. “Where? Where is it? What’s the matter?”

She came stumbling across the room toward him. “I want it,” she said,
quietly. “You’ve not destroyed it?”

“It’s in the parlour, on the bracket,” he replied, marvelling. “Why?”

She cried and laughed together, and bending over, kissed his cheek.

“I only just thought of it,” she said, hysterically. “Why didn’t I think
of it before? Why didn’t you think of it?”

“Think of what?” he questioned.

“The other two wishes,” she replied, rapidly.

“We’ve only had one.”

“Was not that enough?” he demanded, fiercely.

“No,” she cried, triumphantly; “we’ll have one more. Go down and get it
quickly, and wish our boy alive again.”

The man sat up in bed and flung the bedclothes from his quaking limbs.
“Good God, you are mad!” he cried, aghast.

“Get it,” she panted; “get it quickly, and wish–Oh, my boy, my boy!”

Her husband struck a match and lit the candle. “Get back to bed,” he
said, unsteadily. “You don’t know what you are saying.”

“We had the first wish granted,” said the old woman, feverishly; “why not
the second?”

“A coincidence,” stammered the old man.

“Go and get it and wish,” cried his wife, quivering with excitement.

The old man turned and regarded her, and his voice shook. “He has been
dead ten days, and besides he–I would not tell you else, but–I could
only recognize him by his clothing. If he was too terrible for you to
see then, how now?”

“Bring him back,” cried the old woman, and dragged him toward the door.
“Do you think I fear the child I have nursed?”

He went down in the darkness, and felt his way to the parlour, and then
to the mantelpiece. The talisman was in its place, and a horrible fear
that the unspoken wish might bring his mutilated son before him ere he
could escape from the room seized upon him, and he caught his breath as
he found that he had lost the direction of the door. His brow cold with
sweat, he felt his way round the table, and groped along the wall until
he found himself in the small passage with the unwholesome thing in his
hand.

Even his wife’s face seemed changed as he entered the room. It was white
and expectant, and to his fears seemed to have an unnatural look upon it.
He was afraid of her.

“Wish!” she cried, in a strong voice.

“It is foolish and wicked,” he faltered.

“Wish!” repeated his wife.

He raised his hand. “I wish my son alive again.”

The talisman fell to the floor, and he regarded it fearfully. Then he
sank trembling into a chair as the old woman, with burning eyes, walked
to the window and raised the blind.

He sat until he was chilled with the cold, glancing occasionally at the
figure of the old woman peering through the window. The candle-end,
which had burned below the rim of the china candlestick, was throwing
pulsating shadows on the ceiling and walls, until, with a flicker larger
than the rest, it expired. The old man, with an unspeakable sense of
relief at the failure of the talisman, crept back to his bed, and a
minute or two afterward the old woman came silently and apathetically
beside him.

Neither spoke, but lay silently listening to the ticking of the clock. A
stair creaked, and a squeaky mouse scurried noisily through the wall.
The darkness was oppressive, and after lying for some time screwing up
his courage, he took the box of matches, and striking one, went
downstairs for a candle.

At the foot of the stairs the match went out, and he paused to strike
another; and at the same moment a knock, so quiet and stealthy as to be
scarcely audible, sounded on the front door.

The matches fell from his hand and spilled in the passage. He stood
motionless, his breath suspended until the knock was repeated. Then he
turned and fled swiftly back to his room, and closed the door behind him.
A third knock sounded through the house.

“What’s that?” cried the old woman, starting up.

“A rat,” said the old man in shaking tones–“a rat. It passed me on the
stairs.”

His wife sat up in bed listening. A loud knock resounded through the
house.

“It’s Herbert!” she screamed. “It’s Herbert!”

She ran to the door, but her husband was before her, and catching her by
the arm, held her tightly.

“What are you going to do?” he whispered hoarsely.

“It’s my boy; it’s Herbert!” she cried, struggling mechanically.
“I forgot it was two miles away. What are you holding me for? Let go.
I must open the door.

“For God’s sake don’t let it in,” cried the old man, trembling.

“You’re afraid of your own son,” she cried, struggling. “Let me go. I’m
coming, Herbert; I’m coming.”

There was another knock, and another. The old woman with a sudden wrench
broke free and ran from the room. Her husband followed to the landing,
and called after her appealingly as she hurried downstairs. He heard the
chain rattle back and the bottom bolt drawn slowly and stiffly from the
socket. Then the old woman’s voice, strained and panting.

“The bolt,” she cried, loudly. “Come down. I can’t reach it.”

But her husband was on his hands and knees groping wildly on the floor in
search of the paw. If he could only find it before the thing outside got
in. A perfect fusillade of knocks reverberated through the house, and he
heard the scraping of a chair as his wife put it down in the passage
against the door. He heard the creaking of the bolt as it came slowly
back, and at the same moment he found the monkey’s paw, and frantically
breathed his third and last wish.

The knocking ceased suddenly, although the echoes of it were still in the
house. He heard the chair drawn back, and the door opened. A cold wind
rushed up the staircase, and a long loud wail of disappointment and
misery from his wife gave him courage to run down to her side, and then
to the gate beyond. The street lamp flickering opposite shone on a quiet
and deserted road.