Columbia College A Man Said to the Universe by Stephen Crane Poem Discussion I Choose the Novella “The Dead” for this essay. I attached the novella and the

Columbia College A Man Said to the Universe by Stephen Crane Poem Discussion I Choose the Novella “The Dead” for this essay. I attached the novella and the grading rubric

One of the themes evident in these two novellas is that of destiny: each person in the worlds these authors have created faces his or her destiny in ways peculiar to the individual.

In 1899, Stephen Crane published a poem: “A Man Said to the Universe”

A man said to the universe:

“Sir, I exist!”

“However,” replied the universe,

“The fact has not created in me

A sense of obligation.”

Crane, Stephen. “A Man Said to the Universe,” The Compact Bedford Introduction to Literature: Reading Thinking, Writing. 8th ed. Bedford, 2009. 711.

Choose one of these novellas, and look at the elements. Select a character and identify the character’s destiny. Does the character accept the destiny or fight it? Does the universe created by the author feel any sense of obligation to that character? Use the elements of fiction that we have discussed as evidence to support your thesis.

This essay will require analysis. Don’t bother retelling the novella: your readers have read it. Instead, take the story apart to see how the pieces interact. Show us cause-and-effect relationships. The causes are the elements, the effects are the readers’ reactions, and the relationships are the means by which the reactions were evoked. Identify the general effect in a thesis statement.

You will need to make use of frequent references to the novella (and perhaps other information in readings) in order to support your thesis. These references will need to be cited and documented. (See the “Document and Citing Sources” page in the Start Here area). The references themselves will not be sufficient: you have to draw the connections for us. The Dead
1914
LILY, THE CARETAKER’S DAUGHTER, was literally run off her feet. Hardly had she
brought one gentleman into the little pantry behind the office on the ground floor and helped
him off with his overcoat than the wheezy hall-door bell clanged again and she had to
scamper along the bare hallway to let in another guest. It was well for her she had not to
attend to the ladies also. But Miss Kate and Miss Julia had thought of that and had converted
the bathroom upstairs into a ladies’ dressing-room. Miss Kate and Miss Julia were there,
gossiping and laughing and fussing, walking after each other to the head of the stairs, peering
down over the banisters and calling down to Lily to ask her who had come.
It was always a great affair, the Misses Morkan’s annual dance. Everybody who knew
them came to it, members of the family, old friends of the family, the members of Julia’s
choir, any of Kate’s pupils that were grown up enough and even some of Mary Jane’s pupils
too. Never once had it fallen flat. For years and years it had gone off in splendid style as long
as anyone could remember; ever since Kate and Julia, after the death of their brother Pat, had
left the house in Stoney Batter and taken Mary Jane, their only niece, to live with them in the
dark gaunt house on Usher’s Island, the upper part of which they had rented from Mr
Fulham, the corn-factor on the ground floor. That was a good thirty years ago if it was a day.
Mary Jane, who was then a little girl in short clothes, was now the main prop of the
household for she had the organ in Haddington Road. She had been through the Academy
and gave a pupils’ concert every year in the upper room of the Antient Concert Rooms.
Many of her pupils belonged to better-class families on the Kingstown and Dalkey line. Old
as they were, her aunts also did their share. Julia, though she was quite grey, was still the
leading soprano in Adam and Eve’s, and Kate, being too feeble to go about much, gave
music lessons to beginners on the old square piano in the back room. Lily, the caretaker’s
daughter, did housemaid’s work for them. Though their life was modest they believed in
eating well; the best of everything: diamond-bone sirloins, three-shilling tea and the best
bottled stout. But Lily seldom made a mistake in the orders so that she got on well with her
three mistresses. They were fussy, that was all. But the only thing they would not stand was
back answers.
Of course they had good reason to be fussy on such a night. And then it was long after
ten o’clock and yet there was no sign of Gabriel and his wife. Besides they were dreadfully
afraid that Freddy Malins might turn up screwed. They would not wish for worlds that any of
Mary Jane’s pupils should see him under the influence; and when he was like that it was
sometimes very hard to manage him. Freddy Malins always came late but they wondered
what could be keeping Gabriel: and that was what brought them every two minutes to the
banisters to ask Lily had Gabriel or Freddy come.
— O, Mr Conroy, said Lily to Gabriel when she opened the door for him, Miss Kate and
Miss Julia thought you were never coming. Good-night, Mrs Conroy.
— I’ll engage they did, said Gabriel, but they forget that my wife here takes three mortal
hours to dress herself.
He stood on the mat, scraping the snow from his goloshes, while Lily led his wife to the
foot of the stairs and called out:
— Miss Kate, here’s Mrs Conroy.
Kate and Julia came toddling down the dark stairs at once. Both of them kissed Gabriel’s
wife, said she must be perished alive and asked was Gabriel with her.
— Here I am as right as the mail, Aunt Kate! Go on up. I’ll follow, called out Gabriel
from the dark.
He continued scraping his feet vigorously while the three women went upstairs, laughing,
to the ladies’ dressing-room. A light fringe of snow lay like a cape on the shoulders of his
overcoat and like toecaps on the toes of his goloshes; and, as the buttons of his overcoat
slipped with a squeaking noise through the snow-stiffened frieze, a cold fragrant air from
out-of-doors escaped from crevices and folds.
— Is it snowing again, Mr Conroy? asked Lily.
She had preceded him into the pantry to help him off with his overcoat. Gabriel smiled at
the three syllables she had given his surname and glanced at her. She was a slim, growing
girl, pale in complexion and with hay-coloured hair. The gas in the pantry made her look still
paler. Gabriel had known her when she was a child and used to sit on the lowest step nursing
a rag doll.
— Yes, Lily, he answered, and I think we’re in for a night of it.
He looked up at the pantry ceiling, which was shaking with the stamping and shuffling of
feet on the floor above, listened for a moment to the piano and then glanced at the girl, who
was folding his overcoat carefully at the end of a shelf.
— Tell me, Lily, he said in a friendly tone, do you still go to school?
— O no, sir, she answered. I’m done schooling this year and more.
— O, then, said Gabriel gaily, I suppose we’ll be going to your wedding one of these fine
days with your young man, eh?
The girl glanced back at him over her shoulder and said with great bitterness:
— The men that is now is only all palaver and what they can get out of you.
Gabriel coloured as if he felt he had made a mistake and, without looking at her, kicked
off his goloshes and flicked actively with his muffler at his patent-leather shoes.
He was a stout tallish young man. The high colour of his cheeks pushed upwards even to
his forehead where it scattered itself in a few formless patches of pale red; and on his hairless
face there scintillated restlessly the polished lenses and the bright gilt rims of the glasses
which screened his delicate and restless eyes. His glossy black hair was parted in the middle
and brushed in a long curve behind his ears where it curled slightly beneath the groove left
by his hat.
When he had flicked lustre into his shoes he stood up and pulled his waistcoat down
more tightly on his plump body. Then he took a coin rapidly from his pocket.
— O Lily, he said, thrusting it into her hands, it’s Christmas-time, isn’t it? Just . . . here’s
a little. . . .
He walked rapidly towards the door.
— O no, sir! cried the girl, following him. Really, sir, I wouldn’t take it.
— Christmas-time! Christmas-time! said Gabriel, almost trotting to the stairs and waving
his hand to her in deprecation.
The girl, seeing that he had gained the stairs, called out after him:
— Well, thank you, sir.
He waited outside the drawing-room door until the waltz should finish, listening to the
skirts that swept against it and to the shuffling of feet. He was still discomposed by the girl’s
bitter and sudden retort. It had cast a gloom over him which he tried to dispel by arranging
his cuffs and the bows of his tie. Then he took from his waistcoat pocket a little paper and
glanced at the headings he had made for his speech. He was undecided about the lines from
Robert Browning for he feared they would be above the heads of his hearers. Some quotation
that they could recognise from Shakespeare or from the Melodies1 would be better. The
indelicate clacking of the men’s heels and the shuffling of their soles reminded him that their
grade of culture differed from his. He would only make himself ridiculous by quoting poetry
to them which they could not understand. They would think that he was airing his superior
education. He would fail with them just as he had failed with the girl in the pantry. He had
taken up a wrong tone. His whole speech was a mistake from first to last, an utter failure.
Just then his aunts and his wife came out of the ladies’ dressing-room. His aunts were
two small plainly dressed old women. Aunt Julia was an inch or so the taller. Her hair, drawn
low over the tops of her ears, was grey; and grey also, with darker shadows, was her large
flaccid face. Though she was stout in build and stood erect her slow eyes and parted lips gave
her the appearance of a woman who did not know where she was or where she was going.
Aunt Kate was more vivacious. Her face, healthier than her sister’s, was all puckers and
creases, like a shrivelled red apple, and her hair, braided in the same old-fashioned way, had
not lost its ripe nut colour.
They both kissed Gabriel frankly. He was their favourite nephew, the son of their dead
elder sister, Ellen, who had married T. J. Conroy of the Port and Docks.
— Gretta tells me you’re not going to take a cab back to Monkstown tonight, Gabriel,
said Aunt Kate.
— No, said Gabriel, turning to his wife, we had quite enough of that last year, hadn’t we?
Don’t you remember, Aunt Kate, what a cold Gretta got out of it? Cab windows rattling all
the way, and the east wind blowing in after we passed Merrion. Very jolly it was. Gretta
caught a dreadful cold.
Aunt Kate frowned severely and nodded her head at every word.
— Quite right, Gabriel, quite right, she said. You can’t be too careful.
— But as for Gretta there, said Gabriel, she’d walk home in the snow if she were let.
Mrs Conroy laughed.
— Don’t mind him, Aunt Kate, she said. He’s really an awful bother, what with green
shades for Tom’s eyes at night and making him do the dumb-bells, and forcing Eva to eat the
stirabout. The poor child! And she simply hates the sight of it! . . . O, but you’ll never guess
what he makes me wear now!
She broke out into a peal of laughter and glanced at her husband, whose admiring and
happy eyes had been wandering from her dress to her face and hair. The two aunts laughed
heartily too, for Gabriel’s solicitude was a standing joke with them.
— Goloshes! said Mrs Conroy. That’s the latest. Whenever it’s wet underfoot I must put
on my goloshes. To-night even he wanted me to put them on, but I wouldn’t. The next thing
he’ll buy me will be a diving suit.
Gabriel laughed nervously and patted his tie reassuringly while Aunt Kate nearly doubled
herself, so heartily did she enjoy the joke. The smile soon faded from Aunt Julia’s face and
her mirthless eyes were directed towards her nephew’s face. After a pause she asked:
— And what are goloshes, Gabriel?
— Goloshes, Julia! exclaimed her sister. Goodness me, don’t you know what goloshes
are? You wear them over your . . . over your boots, Gretta, isn’t it?
— Yes, said Mrs Conroy. Guttapercha things. We both have a pair now. Gabriel says
everyone wears them on the continent.
— O, on the continent, murmured Aunt Julia, nodding her head slowly.
Gabriel knitted his brows and said, as if he were slightly angered:
— It’s nothing very wonderful but Gretta thinks it very funny because she says the word
reminds her of Christy Minstrels.
— But tell me, Gabriel, said Aunt Kate, with brisk tact. Of course, you’ve seen about the
room. Gretta was saying . . .
— O, the room is all right, replied Gabriel. I’ve taken one in the Gresham.
— To be sure, said Aunt Kate, by far the best thing to do. And the children, Gretta,
you’re not anxious about them?
— O, for one night, said Mrs Conroy. Besides, Bessie will look after them.
— To be sure, said Aunt Kate again. What a comfort it is to have a girl like that, one you
can depend on! There’s that Lily, I’m sure I don’t know what has come over her lately. She’s
not the girl she was at all.
Gabriel was about to ask his aunt some questions on this point but she broke off suddenly
to gaze after her sister who had wandered down the stairs and was craning her neck over the
banisters.
— Now, I ask you, she said, almost testily, where is Julia going? Julia! Julia! Where are
you going?
Julia, who had gone halfway down one flight, came back and announced blandly:
— Here’s Freddy.
At the same moment a clapping of hands and a final flourish of the pianist told that the
waltz had ended. The drawing-room door was opened from within and some couples came
out. Aunt Kate drew Gabriel aside hurriedly and whispered into his ear:
— Slip down, Gabriel, like a good fellow and see if he’s all right, and don’t let him up if
he’s screwed. I’m sure he’s screwed. I’m sure he is.
Gabriel went to the stairs and listened over the banisters. He could hear two persons
talking in the pantry. Then he recognised Freddy Malins’ laugh. He went down the stairs
noisily.
— It’s such a relief, said Aunt Kate to Mrs Conroy, that Gabriel is here. I always feel
easier in my mind when he’s here. . . . Julia, there’s Miss Daly and Miss Power will take
some refreshment. Thanks for your beautiful waltz, Miss Daly. It made lovely time.
A tall wizen-faced man, with a stiff grizzled moustache and swarthy skin, who was
passing out with his partner said:
— And may we have some refreshment, too, Miss Morkan?
— Julia, said Aunt Kate summarily, and here’s Mr Browne and Miss Furlong. Take them
in, Julia, with Miss Daly and Miss Power.
— I’m the man for the ladies, said Mr Browne, pursing his lips until his moustache
bristled and smiling in all his wrinkles. You know, Miss Morkan, the reason they are so fond
of me is —
He did not finish his sentence, but, seeing that Aunt Kate was out of earshot, at once led
the three young ladies into the back room. The middle of the room was occupied by two
square tables placed end to end, and on these Aunt Julia and the caretaker were straightening
and smoothing a large cloth. On the sideboard were arrayed dishes and plates, and glasses
and bundles of knives and forks and spoons. The top of the closed square piano served also
as a sideboard for viands and sweets. At a smaller sideboard in one corner two young men
were standing, drinking hop-bitters.
Mr Browne led his charges thither and invited them all, in jest, to some ladies’ punch,
hot, strong and sweet. As they said they never took anything strong he opened three bottles
of lemonade for them. Then he asked one of the young men to move aside, and, taking hold
of the decanter, filled out for himself a goodly measure of whisky. The young men eyed him
respectfully while he took a trial sip.
— God help me, he said, smiling, it’s the doctor’s orders.
His wizened face broke into a broader smile, and the three young ladies laughed in
musical echo to his pleasantry, swaying their bodies to and fro, with nervous jerks of their
shoulders. The boldest said:
— O, now, Mr Browne, I’m sure the doctor never ordered anything of the kind.
Mr Browne took another sip of his whisky and said, with sidling mimicry:
— Well, you see, I’m like the famous Mrs Cassidy, who is reported to have said: Now,
Mary Grimes, if I don’t take it, make me take it, for I feel I want it.
His hot face had leaned forward a little too confidentially and he had assumed a very low
Dublin accent so that the young ladies, with one instinct, received his speech in silence. Miss
Furlong, who was one of Mary Jane’s pupils, asked Miss Daly what was the name of the
pretty waltz she had played; and Mr Browne, seeing that he was ignored, turned promptly to
the two young men who were more appreciative.
A red-faced young woman, dressed in pansy, came into the room, excitedly clapping her
hands and crying:
— Quadrilles! Quadrilles!
Close on her heels came Aunt Kate, crying:
— Two gentlemen and three ladies, Mary Jane!
— O, here’s Mr Bergin and Mr Kerrigan, said Mary Jane. Mr Kerrigan, will you take
Miss Power? Miss Furlong, may I get you a partner, Mr Bergin. O, that’ll just do now.
— Three ladies, Mary Jane, said Aunt Kate.
The two young gentlemen asked the ladies if they might have the pleasure, and Mary
Jane turned to Miss Daly.
— O, Miss Daly, you’re really awfully good, after playing for the last two dances, but
really we’re so short of ladies to-night.
— I don’t mind in the least, Miss Morkan.
— But I’ve a nice partner for you, Mr Bartell D’Arcy, the tenor. I’ll get him to sing later
on. All Dublin is raving about him.
— Lovely voice, lovely voice! said Aunt Kate.
As the piano had twice begun the prelude to the first figure Mary Jane led her recruits
quickly from the room. They had hardly gone when Aunt Julia wandered slowly into the
room, looking behind her at something.
— What is the matter, Julia? asked Aunt Kate anxiously. Who is it?
Julia, who was carrying in a column of table-napkins, turned to her sister and said,
simply, as if the question had surprised her:
— It’s only Freddy, Kate, and Gabriel with him.
In fact right behind her Gabriel could be seen piloting Freddy Malins across the landing.
The latter, a young man of about forty, was of Gabriel’s size and build, with very round
shoulders. His face was fleshy and pallid, touched with colour only at the thick hanging lobes
of his ears and at the wide wings of his nose. He had coarse features, a blunt nose, a convex
and receding brow, tumid and protruded lips. His heavy-lidded eyes and the disorder of his
scanty hair made him look sleepy. He was laughing heartily in a high key at a story which he
had been telling Gabriel on the stairs and at the same time rubbing the knuckles of his left fist
backwards and forwards into his left eye.
— Good-evening, Freddy, said Aunt Julia.
Freddy Malins bade the Misses Morkan good-evening in what seemed an offhand fashion
by reason of the habitual catch in his voice and then, seeing that Mr Browne was grinning at
him from the sideboard, crossed the room on rather shaky legs and began to repeat in an
undertone the story he had just told to Gabriel.
— He’s not so bad, is he? said Aunt Kate to Gabriel.
Gabriel’s brows were dark but he raised them quickly and answered:
— O no, hardly noticeable.
— Now, isn’t he a terrible fellow! she said. And his poor mother made him take the
pledge on New Year’s Eve. But come on, Gabriel, into the drawing-room.
Before leaving the room with Gabriel she signalled to Mr Browne by frowning and
shaking her forefinger in warning to and fro. Mr Browne nodded in answer and, when she
had gone, said to Freddy Malins:
— Now, then, Teddy, I’m going to fill you out a good glass of lemonade just to buck you
up.
Freddy Malins, who was nearing the climax of his story, waved the offer aside
impatiently but Mr Browne, having first called Freddy Malins’ attention to a disarray in his
dress, filled out and handed him a full glass of lemonade. Freddy Malins’ left hand accepted
the glass mechanically, his right hand being engaged in the mechanical readjustment of his
dress. Mr Browne, whose face was once more wrinkling with mirth, poured out for himself a
glass of whisky while Freddy Malins exploded, before he had well reached the climax of his
story, in a kink of high-pitched bronchitic laughter and, setting down his untasted and
overflowing glass, began to rub the knuckles of his left fist backwards and forwards into his
left eye, repeating words of his last phrase as well as his fit of laughter would allow him.
Gabriel could not listen while Mary Jane was playing her Academy piece, full of runs
and difficult passages, to the hushed drawing-room. He liked music but the piece she was
playing had no melody for him and he doubted whether it had any melody for the other
listeners, though they had begged Mary Jane to play something. Four young men, who had
come from the refreshment-room to stand in the doorway at the sound of the piano, had gone
away quietly in couples after a few minutes. The only persons who seemed to follow the
music were Mary Jane herself, her hands racing along the key-board or lifted from it at the
pauses like those of a priestess in momentary imprecation, and Aunt Kate standing at her
elbow to turn the page.
Gabriel’s eyes, irritated by the floor, which glittered with beeswax under the heavy
chandelier, wandered to the wall above the piano. A picture of the balcony scene in Romeo
and Juliet hung there and beside it was a picture of t…
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