EN 1020 Mohawk Valley Community College What Type of Literature Is the Book the Professors House Essay hello I need help with two reading responses on Boo

EN 1020 Mohawk Valley Community College What Type of Literature Is the Book the Professors House Essay hello

I need help with two reading responses on Book by Willa Cather The Professors House

they both need to have same elements

reading response on chapter three (3) of The Professors House

reading response on chapter seven (7) of The Professors House.

What type of literature is it?
What is the point of view?
Identify the theme(s)
Write a thesis statement
Create a list of words you don’t recognize
Define them through context / dictionary / Web
Finish with a two-line interpretation

Chapter 3

St. Peter awoke the next morning with the wish that he could be transported on his mattress from the new house to the old. But it was Sunday, and on that day his wife always breakfasted with him. There was no way out; they would meet at compt.

When he reached the dining-room Lillian was already at the table, behind the percolator. “Good morning, Godfrey. I hope you had a good night.” Her tone just faintly implied that he hadn’t deserved one.

“Excellent. And you?”

“I had a good conscience.” She smiled ruefully at him. “How can you let yourself be ungracious in your own house?”

“Oh, dear! And I went to sleep happy in the belief that I hadn’t said anything amiss the whole evening.”

“Nor anything aright, that I heard. Your disapproving silence can kill the life of any company.” “It didn’t seem to last night. You’re entirely wrong about Marsellus. He doesn’t notice.”

“He’s too polite to take notice, but he feels it. He’s very sensitive, under a well-schooled impersonal manner.”

St. Peter laughed. “Nonsense, Lillian!” If he were, he couldn’t pick up a dinner party and walk off with it, as he almost always does. I don’t mind when it’s our dinner, but I hate seeing him do it in other people’s houses.”

“Be fair, Godfrey. You know that if you’d once begun to talk about your work in Spain, Louie would have followed it up with enthusiasm. Nobody is prouder of you than he.”

“That’s why I kept quiet. Support can be too able–certainly too fluent.”

“There you are; the dog in the manger! You won’t let him discuss your affairs, and you are annoyed when he talks about his own.”

“I admit I can’t bear it when he talks about Outland as his affair. (I mean Tom, of course, not their confounded place!) This calling it after him passes my comprehension. And Rosamond’s standing for it! It’s brazen impudence.”

Mrs. St. Peter frowned pensively. “I knew you wouldn’t like it, but they were so pleased about it, and their motives are so generous–”

“Hang it, Outland doesn’t need their generosity! They’ve got everything he ought to have had, and the least they can do is to be quiet about it, and not convert his very bones into a personal

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asset. It all comes down to this, my dear: one likes the florid style, or one doesn’t. You yourself used not to like it. And will you give me some more coffee, please?”

She refilled his cup and handed it across the table. “Nice hands,” he murmured, looking critically at them as he took it, “always such nice hands.”

“Thank you. I dislike floridity when it is beaten up to cover the lack of something, to take the place of something. I never disliked it when it came from exuberance. Then it isn’t floridness, it’s merely strong colour.”

“Very well; some people don’t care for strong colour. It fatigues them.” He folded his napkin. “Now I must be off to my desk.”

“Not quite yet. You never have time to talk to me. Just when did it begin, Godfrey, in the history of manners–that convention that if a man were pleased with his wife or his house or his success, he shouldn’t say so, frankly?” Mrs. St. Peter spoke thoughtfully, as if she had considered this matter before.

“Oh, it goes back a long way. I rather think it began in the Age of Chivalry–King Arthur’s knights. Whoever it was lived in that time, some feeling grew up that a man should do fine deeds and not speak of them, and that he shouldn’t speak the name of his lady, but sing of her as a Phyllis or a Nicolette. It’s a nice idea, reserve about one’s deepest feelings: keeps them fresh.”

“The Oriental peoples didn’t have an Age of Chivalry. They didn’t need one,” Lillian observed. “And this reserve–it becomes in itself ostentatious, a vainglorious vanity.”

“Oh, my dear, all is vanity! I don’t dispute that. Now I must really go, and I wish I could play the game as well as you do. I have no enthusiasm for being a father-in-law. It’s you who keep the ball rolling. I fully appreciate that.”

“Perhaps,” mused his wife, as he rose, “it’s because you didn’t get the son-in-law you wanted. And yet he was highly coloured, too.”

The Professor made no reply to this. Lillian had been fiercely jealous of Tom Outland. As he left the house, he was reflecting that people who are intensely in love when they marry, and who go on being in love, always meet with something which suddenly or gradually makes a difference. Sometimes it is the children, or the grubbiness of being poor, sometimes a second infatuation. In their own case it had been, curiously enough, his pupil, Tom Outland.

St. Peter had met his wife in Paris, when he was but twenty-four, and studying for his doctorate. She too was studying there. French people thought her an English girl because of her gold hair and fair complexion. With her really radiant charm, she had a very interesting mind–but it was quite wrong to call it mind, the connotation was false. What she had was a richly endowed nature that responded strongly to life and art, and very vehement likes and dislikes which were often quite out of all proportion to the trivial object or person that aroused them. Before his marriage, and for years afterward, Lillian’s prejudices, her divinations about people and art (always

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instinctive and unexplained, but nearly always right), were the most interesting things in St. Peter’s life. When he accepted almost the first position offered him, in order to marry at once, and came to take the chair of European history at Hamilton, he was thrown upon his wife for mental companionship. Most of his colleagues were much older than he, but they were not his equals either in scholarship or in experience of the world. The only other man in the faculty who was carrying on important research work was Doctor Crane, the professor of physics. St. Peter saw a good deal of him, though outside his specialty he was uninteresting–a narrow-minded man, and painfully unattractive. Years ago Crane had begun to suffer from a malady which in time proved incurable, and which now sent him up for an operation periodically. St. Peter had had no friend in Hamilton of whom Lillian could possibly be jealous until Tom Outland came along, so well fitted by nature and early environment to help him with his work on the Spanish Adventurers.

When he had almost reached his old house and his study, the Professor remembered that he really must have an understanding with his landlord, or the place would be rented over his head. He turned and went down into another part of the city, by the car shops, where only workmen lived, and found his landlord’s little toy house, set on a hillside, over a basement faced up with red brick and covered with hop vines. Old Appelhoff was sitting on a bench before his door, making a broom. Raising broom corn was one of his economies. Beside him was his dachshund bitch, Minna.

St. Peter explained that he wanted to stay on in the empty house, and would pay the full rent each month. So irregular a project annoyed Appelhoff. “I like fine to oblige you, Professor, but dey is several parties looking at de house already, an’ I don’t like to lose a year’s rent for maybe a few months.”

“Oh, that’s all right, Fred. I’ll take it for the year, to simplify matters. I want to finish my new book before I move.”

Fred still looked uneasy. “I better see de insurance man, eh? It says for purposes of domestic dwelling.”

“He won’t object. Let’s have a look at your garden. What a fine crop of apples and sickle pears you have!”

“I don’t like dem trees what don’t bear not’ing,” said the old man with sly humour, remembering the Professor’s glistening, barren shrubs and the good ground wasted behind his stucco wall.

“How about your linden-trees?”
“Oh, dem flowers is awful good for de headache!” “You don’t look as if you were subject to it, Fred.” “Not me, but my woman always had.”

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“Pretty lonesome without her, Appelhoff?”

“I miss her, Professor, but I ain’t just lonesome.” The old man rubbed his bristly chin. “My Minna here is most like a person, and den I got so many t’ings to t’ink about.”

“Have you? Pleasant things, I hope?”

“Well, all kinds. When I was young, in de old country, I had it hard to git my wife at all, an’ I never had time to t’ink. When I come to dis country I had to work so turrible hard on dat farm to make crops an’ pay debts, dat I was like a horse. Now I have it easy, an’ I take time to t’ink about all dem t’ings.”

St. Peter laughed. “We all come to it, Applehoff. That’s one thing I’m renting your house for, to have room to think. Good morning.”

Crossing the public park, on his way back to the old house, he espied his professional rival and enemy, Professor Horace Langtry, taking a Sunday morning stroll–very well got up in English clothes he had brought back from his customary summer in London, with a bowler hat of unusual block and a horn-handled walking-stick. In twenty years the two men had scarcely had speech with each other beyond a stiff “good morning.” When Langtry first came to the university he looked hardly more than a boy, with curly brown hair and such a fresh complexion that the students called him Lily Langtry. His round pink cheeks and round eyes and round chin made him look rather like a baby grown big. All these years had made little difference, except that his curls were now quite grey, his rosy cheeks even rosier, and his mouth dropped a little at the corners, so that he looked like a baby suddenly grown old and rather cross about it.

Seeing St. Peter, the younger man turned abruptly into a side alley, but the Professor overtook him.

“Good morning, Langtry. These elms are becoming real trees at last. They’ve changed a good deal since we first came here.”

Doctor Langtry moved his rosy chin sidewise over his high double collar. “Good morning, Doctor St. Peter. I really don’t remember much about the trees. They seem to be doing well now.”

St. Peter stepped abreast of him. “There have been many changes, Langtry, and not all of them are good. Don’t you notice a great difference in the student body as a whole, in the new crop that comes along every year now–how different they are from the ones of our early years here?”

The smooth chin turned again, and the other professor of European history blinked. “In just what respect?”

“Oh, in the all-embracing respect of quality! We have hosts of students, but they’re a common sort.”

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“Perhaps. I can’t say I’ve noticed it.” The air between the two colleagues was not thawing out any. A church-bell rang. Langtry started hopefully. “You must excuse me, Doctor St. Peter, I am on my way to service.”

The Professor gave it up with a shrug. “All right, all right, Langtry, as you will. Quelle folie!” Langtry half turned back, hesitated on the ball of his suddenly speeding foot, and said with

faultless politeness: “I beg your pardon?”

St. Peter waved his hand with a gesture of negation, and detained the church-goer no longer. He sauntered along slackly through the hot September sunshine, wondering why Langtry didn’t see the absurdity of their long grudge. They had always been directly opposed in matters of university policy, until it had almost become a part of their professional duties to outwit and cramp each other.

When young Langtry first came there, his specialty was supposed to be American history. His uncle was president of the board of regents, and very influential in State politics; the institution had to look to him, indeed, to get its financial appropriations passed by the Legislature. Langtry was a Tory in his point of view, and was considered very English in his tone and manner. His lectures were dull, and the students didn’t like him. Every inducement was offered to make his courses popular. Liberal credits were given for collateral reading. A student could read almost anything that had ever been written in the United States and get credit for it in American history. He could charge up the time spent in perusing “The Scarlet Letter” to Colonial history, and “Tom Sawyer” to the Missouri Compromise, it was said. St. Peter openly criticized these lax methods, both to the faculty and to the regents. Naturally, “Madame Langtry” paid him out. During the Professor’s second Sabbatical year in Spain, Horace and his uncle together very nearly got his department away from him. They worked so quietly that it was only at the eleventh hour that St. Peter’s old students throughout the State got wind of what was going on, dropped their various businesses and professions for a few days, and came up to the capital in dozens and saved his place for him. The opposition had been so formidable that when it came time for his third year away, the Professor had not dared ask for it, but had taken an extension of his summer vacation instead. The fact that he was carrying on another line of work than his lectures, and was publishing books that weren’t strictly text-books, had been used against him by Langtry’s uncle.

As Langtry felt that the unpopularity of his course was due to his subject, a new chair was created for him. There couldn’t be two heads in European history, so the board of regents made for him a chair of Renaissance history, or, as St. Peter said, a Renaissance chair of history. Of late years, for reasons that had not much to do with his lectures, Langtry had prospered better. To the new generations of country and village boys now pouring into the university in such large numbers, Langtry had become, in a curious way, an instructor in manners,–what is called an “influence.” To the football-playing farmer boy who had a good allowance but didn’t know how to dress or what to say, Langtry looked like a short cut. He had several times taken parties of undergraduates to London for the summer, and they had come back wonderfully brushed up. He introduced a very popular fraternity into the university, and its members looked after his interests, as did its affiliated sorority. His standing on the faculty was now quite as good as St. Peter’s own, and the Professor wondered what Langtry still had to be sore about. What was the

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use of keeping up the feud? They had both come there young men, fighting for their places and their lives; now they were not very young any more; they would neither of them, probably, ever hold a better position. Couldn’t Langtry see it was a draw, that they had both been beaten?

Chapter 7

Early in November there was a picturesque snow-storm, and that day Kathleen telephoned her father at the university, asking him to stop on his way home in the afternoon and help her to decide upon some new furs. As he approached McGregor’s spick-and-span bungalow at four o’clock, he saw Louie’s Pierce-Arrow standing in front, with Ned, the chauffeur and gardener, in the driver’s seat. Just then Rosamond came out of the bungalow alone, and down the path to the sidewalk, without seeing her father. He noticed a singularly haughty expression on her face; her brows drawn together over her nose. The curl of her lips was handsome, but terrifying. He observed also something he had not seen before–a coat of soft, purple-grey fur, that quite disguised the wide, slightly stooping shoulders he regretted in his truly beautiful daughter. He called to her, very much interested. “Wait a minute, Rosie. I’ve not seen that before. It’s extraordinarily becoming.” He stroked his daughter’s sleeve with evident pleasure. “You know, these things with a kind of lurking purple and lavender in them are splendid for you. They make your colour prettier than ever. It’s only lately you’ve begun to wear them. Louie’s taste, I suppose?”

“Of course. He selects all my things for me,” said Rosamond proudly.

“Well, he does a good job. He knows what’s right for you.” St. Peter continued to look her up and down with satisfaction. “And Kathleen is getting new furs. You were advising her?”

“She didn’t mention it to me,” Rosamond replied in a guarded voice.

“No? And what do you call this, what beast?” he asked ingenuously, again stroking the fur with his bare hand.

“It’s taupe.”
“Oh, moleskin!” He drew back a little. “Couldn’t be better for your complexion. And is it warm?” “Very warm–and so light.”

“I see, I see!” He took Rosamond’s arm and escorted her to her car. “Give Louie my compliments on his choice.” The motor glided away–he wished he could escape as quickly and noiselessly, for he was a coward. But he had a feeling that Kathleen was watching him from behind the sash curtains. He went up to the door and made a long and thorough use of the foot-scraper before he tapped on the glass. Kathleen let him in. She was very pale; even her lips, which were always pink, like the inside of a white shell, were without colour. Neither of them mentioned the just- departed guest.

“Have you been out in the park, Kitty? This is a pretty little storm. Perhaps you’ll walk over to the old house with me presently.” He talked soothingly while he took off his coat and rubbers. “And now for the furs!”

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Kathleen went slowly into her bedroom. She was gone a great while–perhaps ten actual minutes. When she came back, the rims of her eyes were red. She carried four large pasteboard boxes, tied together with twine. St. Peter sprang up, took the parcel, and began untying the string. He opened the first and pulled out a brown stole. “What is it, mink?”

“No, it’s Hudson Bay sable.”

“Very pretty.” He put the collar round her neck and drew back to look at it. But after a sharp struggle Kathleen broke down. She threw off the fur and buried her face in a fresh handkerchief.

“I’m so sorry, Daddy, but it’s no use to-day. I don’t want any furs, really. She spoils everything for me.”

“Oh, my dear, my dear, you hurt me terribly!” St. Peter put his hands tenderly on her soft hazel- coloured hair. “Face it squarely, Kitty; you must not, you cannot, be envious. It’s self- destruction.”

“I can’t help it, Father. I am envious. I don’t think I would be if she let me alone, but she comes here with her magnificence and takes the life out of all our poor little things. Everybody knows she’s rich, why does she have to keep rubbing it in?”

“But, Kitty dear, you wouldn’t have her go home and change her coat before coming to see you?”

“Oh, it’s not that, Father, it’s everything! You know we were never jealous of each other at home. I was always proud of her good looks and good taste. It’s not her clothes, it’s a feeling she has inside her. When she comes toward me, I feel hate coming toward me, like a snake’s hate!”

St. Peter wiped his moist forehead. He was suffering with her, as if she had been in physical anguish. “We can’t, dear, we can’t, in this world, let ourselves think of things–of comparisons– like that. We are all too susceptible to ugly suggestions. If Rosamond has a grievance, it’s because you’ve been untactful about Louie.”

“Even if I have, why should she be so revengeful? Does she think nobody else calls him a Jew? Does she think it’s a secret? I don’t mind being called a Gentile.”

“It’s all in the way it’s done, you know, Kitty. And you’ve shown that you were a little bored with all their new things, now haven’t you?”

“I’ve shown that I don’t like the way she overdresses, I suppose. I would never have believed that Rosie could do anything in such bad taste. While she is here among her old friends, she ought to dress like the rest of us.”

“But doesn’t she? It seems to me her things look about like yours.”

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“Oh, Father, you’re so simple! And Mother is very careful not to enlighten you. We go to the Guild to sew for the Mission fund, and Rosie comes in in a handmade French frock that cost more than all our dresses put together.”

“But if hers are no prettier, what does it matter how much they cost?” He was watching Kathleen fearfully. Her pale skin had taken on a greenish tinge–there was no doubt about it. He had never happened to see that change occur in a face before, and he had never realized to what an ugly, painful transformation the common phrase “green with envy” referred.

“Oh, foolish, they are prettier, though you may not see it. It’s not just the clothes”–she looked at him intently, and her eyes, in their reddened rims, expanded and cleared. “It’s everything. When we were at home, Rosamond was a kind of ideal to me. What she thought about anything decided it for me. But she’s entirely changed. She’s become Louie. Indeed, she’s worse than Louie. He and all this money have ruined her. Oh, Daddy, why didn’t you and Professor Crane get to work and stop all this before it began? You were to blame. You knew that Tom had left something that was worth a lot, both of you. Why didn’t you do something? You let it lie there in Crane’s laboratory for this–this Marsellus to come along and exploit, until he almost thinks it’s his own idea.”

“Things might have turned out the same, anyway,” her father protested. “Whatever the process earned was Rosamond’s. I wasn’t in the mood to struggle with manufacturers, I know nothing of such things. And Crane needs every ounce of his strength for his own experiments. He doesn’t care anything but the extent of space.”

“He’d better have taken a few days off and saved his friend’s reputation. Tom trusted him with everything. It’s too foolish; that poor man being cut to pieces by surgeons all the time, and picking up the little that’s left of himself and bothering about the limitations of space–much good they’ll do him!”

St. Peter rose, took both of his daughter’s hands and stood laughing at her. “Come now! You have more brains than that, Kitty. It happens you do understand that whatever poor Crane can find out about space is more good to him than all the money the Marselluses will ever have. But are you implying that if Crane and I had developed Tom’s discovery, we might have kept Rosie and her money in the family, for ourselves?”

Kathleen threw up her head. “Oh, I don’t want her money!”

“Exactly; nor do I. And we mustn’t behave as if we did want it. If you permit yourself to be envious of Rosie, you’ll be very foolish, and very unhappy.”

The Professor walked away across the snowy park with a tired step. He was heavy-hearted. For Kathleen he had a special kind of affection. Perhaps it was because he had had to take care of her for one whole summer when she was little. Just as Mrs. St. Peter was ready to start for Colorado with the children, the younger one developed whooping-cough and had to be left at home with her father. He had opportunity to observe all her ways. She was only six, but he found her a square-dealing, dependable little creature. They worked out a satisfactory plan of life together.

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She was to play in the garden all morning, and was not on any account to disturb him in his study. After lunch he would take her to the lake or the woods, or he would read to her at home. She took pride in keeping her part of the contract. One day when he came out of his study at noon, he found her sitting on the third floor stairs, just outside his door, with the arnica bottle in one hand and the fingers of the other puffed up like wee pink sausages. A bee had stung her in the garden, and she had waited half the morning for sympathy. She was very independent, and would tug at her leggings or overshoes a great while before she asked for help.

When they were little girls, Kathleen adored her older sister and liked to wait on her, was always more excited about Rosie’s new dresses and winter coat than about her own. This attachment had lasted even after they were grown. St. Peter had never seen any change in it until Rosamond announced her engagement to Louie Marsellus. Then, all at once, Kathleen seemed to be done with her sister. Her father believed she couldn’t forgive Rosie’s forgetting Tom so quickly.

It was dark when the Professor got back to the old house and sat down at his writing-table. He would have an hour on his notes, he told himself, in spite of families and fortunes. And he had it. But when he looked up from his writing as the Angelus was ringing, two faces at once rose in the shadows outside the yellow circle of his lamp: the handsome face of his older daughter, surrounded by violet-dappled fur, with a cruel upper lip and scornful half-closed eyes, as she had approached her car that afternoon before she saw him; and Kathleen, her square little chin set so fiercely, her white cheeks actually becoming green under her swollen eyes. He couldn’t believe it. He rose quickly and went to his one window, opened it wider, and stood looking at the dark clump of pine-trees that told where the Physics building stood. A sharp pain clutched his heart. Was it for this the light in Outland’s laboratory used to burn so far into the night!

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