an analysis
The writer begins her story--as classical authors of this genre--with
an upbeat expression of the motivating power of the whole story in
one sentence. "The discovery of the marvellous world of languages is
the great experience of my life."
This idea runs through the story and motivates the climax of the
story, an attempt to steal the bilingual Bible.
The plot is very simple, the writer (the story is written in the
first person singular) finds a Bible, reads it, becomes attached to
it, wants to steal it--but in the end she resists the temptation.
The story is only the superficial message of the story. The real
message is hidden between the lines. The storyline is less important.
What is important is the frame of mind of the writer, the way she
narrates the story.
One of the characteristic features of the genre of the short story is
that there must be a culminating point. The way to this point of
this story is shown by explaining how important the bilingual Bible
becomes for the writer. Although grandfathers hobbies, memories,
religious childhood, and his love of languages are mirrored in the
story, the description of all this foreshadows the climax.
............
The next three or four pages of this analysis were lost. This loss
too became a mirror. One of my professors at the Teachers Training
College was introduced in this mirror. But I will write about this
event later on!
There was a big family meeting on the second day of Christmas in my
mothers flat in Budapest. I gave my present to my mother, sister,
four brothers, an uncle, my husband, my two daughters and my son.
Some of the reactions:
> My mother, daughter of a theology professor, wife of my minister
father, mother of six children, grandmother of sixteen grandchildren
and two great grandchildren, whose great aim, perhaps whose only task
in her old age is to lead her relatives back to the church, to a
religious life, to God. She organises religious summer camps for her
grandchildren, summons everybody to church on Sunday mornings and
always presents us with Protestant hymn books and psalms. Her
opinion: "I liked your English, the theme was interesting, I liked
meeting my fathers--your grandfathers spirit in it. But if you
confess you havent learned the Bible in your last 30 years, please
read it now and live on the basis of it in your next thirty years."
> Younger brother, a former speed skating trainer, who is now a
businessman, living in Vienna with his third wife and third and
fourth children. He is the small Benjamin of the family, the
youngest child--who likes other brothers and sisters, our mother, his
former wives and children, but does everything for his own good
rather than that of others. Having read my short story very
quickly--(he had not much time, he was running after his next
business!),--he began to laugh at me, "Gee, Ilus (my nickname in the
family), you are a fool, arent you? Why did you leave the Bible
there? I have got about fourteen or sixteen Bibles from different
hotel rooms in the different countries that I visited when I took
part in skating competitions, the Olympics, and the world
championships. Not to read them but to possess them."
> Other brother, husband of a rich business-woman. She is full of
ideas and plans and has got the money for her good deeds. She
promotes a young Russian painter, an infant prodigy and helped to
found an English theatre in Budapest. She has a chain of clothing
shops. My brother asked me: "Dont you need a publisher? We have
just founded a publishing house."
> My elder daughter, a student (her majors are: American Studies and
Physical Education) happily showed everyone her copy with my
dedication in it: "To my schoolmate with love--your mummy".
> A sixty-six year old uncle, a retired lawyer, very religious, who
finished studying Protestant theology two years ago. "Now that you
have met the Bible again wont you think of continuing this
friendship at home in your life?" The same thought as my mothers.
They are cousins and have a common great-grandfather, a bishop and
psalm writer. An inherited way of thinking, perhaps?
Three or four weeks after mailing the forty or fifty bilingual
"Norwegian Bibles" as my Christmas cards this year, my everyday post
has grown. I got two or three letters weekly and a Bible every month.
> I begin with the last one. On the 11th March I got a postcard from
a Japanese penfriend of mine, an otolaryngologist. He has written:
"Thank you for your nice short story. I enjoyed The Norwegian
Bible very much. I now understand you have inherited your
multilingual ability from your ancestors, your grandparents. Please
write another version of this story. Suppose you steal the Bible. I
am sure Christ will be pleased. Anyway, I think you have a great
talent for story telling. Please continue to write!" Nice words,
arent they?
> A librarian colleague in the Hungarian National Library: "Its a
new fresh librarian writer. Dont you want to join our new founded
International Reading Association? Our first meeting will be on
March 29th."
> An old English speaking uncle from the U.S.A. He emigrated there
seventy years ago with his parents. After getting my Christmas card
he posted an English Bible: a copy of the Revised English Bible
(Oxford, 1989) immediately by courier post. I got it in three days
time. I think he thought: "My poor niece, she has no Bible to read,
thats why she has to steal one."
> Perhaps the same idea occurred to one of our Finnish friends, an
otolaryngologist, because he sent me a tri-lingual
(Finnish-Swedish-English) New Testament.
> Another otolaryngologist, an excellent professor, very intelligent,
who has got a good sense of humour, sent a message. I like him very
much. He falls too into the circle with whom I cultivate friendships
through exchanging greeting cards on Feasts of Tabernacles. He
operated on my ear: he did an ear drum transplant on my left ear.
During my operation he sang a Protestant psalm for me that I could
hear through the veil of the partial sedation of the anesthesia. He
cured my ear, so it became waterproof again. I wrote him a grateful
card after finishing the Lake Balaton cross-swimming competition
where I could cover the five kilometer without a swimming cap and
earplugs. His remark on my book was the following: "Why didnt you
steal it? It is not a sin to steal flowers, kisses and books."
> An old country woman, our godsons grandmother. Her name is Pap
Lászlóné Pap Emma. "Pap" means minister in Hungarian and both her
maiden name and husbands name is "Pap". She wrote me: "Dear Iluska,
although I am the daughter of a minister and the wife of a minister
at the same time, I can not write such a nice short story.
Congratulations."
> The last one in this list, another otolaryngologist, the fourth
laryngologist, but the most important among them for me was my
husband, a fifty-four year old marathon runner. He never praises me.
The red bunch of roses, mentioned later, was the only one, the only
time he presented me with flowers in my life. After eating my Sunday
dinner, which I cooked first of all for his taste, he never says: "it
was marvellous", but he says: "it was edible". But he inspires me
with his negative approval. His opinion about the short story:
"Dont believe yourself to be a writer. It is the second novel or
short story which makes the writer a real writer, because the first
book is on his or her life--and everyone has a life. To discover the
second story is the art. So I am waiting for your second short story."
At the end of my essay I would like to write about a lost Norwegian
Bible and one that was never sent.
As I mentioned before, it was our assignment in the second year
Russian teachers retraining course to write a short story then to
write a literary analysis on our own work. It is nice, interesting
homework, isnt it?
All of the students in our group wrote interesting stories, then we
read them aloud during the next lesson. We had to hand in the
stories and the analyses to our professor who promised to correct
them and give us a mark for them at the end of the semester. And
besides all of these to give the stories to a jury consisting of
teachers who were native speakers. The best three would be published
in a library bulletin of the Teachers Training College. At the last
lesson of the semester she gave all of us the best marks and said,
"Good bye". At that time we thought she had not even read our work
and was not interested in our analyses and that nothing would come of
the short-story-writing competition.
In February I found an essay-writing competition in England, so I
thought I needed my analysis because I wanted to collect materials
connected with "The Norwegian Bible". I admit I am very untidy and
disorderly. I found only the first page of my manuscript among my
papers in the drawer. So I went to this professor to ask for my
analysis if she did not need it. She told me that she had needed it
because she gave it to one of the foreign professors but she did not
remember to whom. I asked her to get it back so that I would be able
to copy it. The week after, she said perhaps she had not given my
papers to anybody as they did not remember it. The next week after
that, I asked her again, but she said she was very busy. Suddenly,
it was clear to me that the journey of our short stories and analyses
was very simple. After being collected in the classroom their final
destination was the first waste-basket.
Yes, I could understand her. She was bored with our assignments.
She was busy. But why did she promise? Why did she not tell the
truth? Because it was her character? I believed the reflection I
saw in the mirror.
And now the last story: something about an unposted "The Norwegian
Bible". There was a young man in my life. We were classmates in an
English course many years ago. After each lesson we went out of the
school together and almost every time we met my then
boyfriend--(today he is my husband). He attended a German course in
the same school, just after our lesson. We greeted each other every
time and everyone continued on his or her own way. My future husband
went to his class, and we, my classmate and I walked along the street.
We talked about the English lesson, about my studies, about family,
about childhood, about religion. He was very religious. He was very
curious about my being a daughter of a minister and living without
the daily reading of the Bible. He gave me a Bible with a dedication
note in it. This inscription was a nine line "poem", a clever
introduction to me. The first letters of the lines read vertically
formed my name ILONKÁNAK (to Ilona). The nine letters were written
in different colours, the rest of the text in blue ink. I still have
his present, this Bible. I preserved it in the same way Mrs. Morel
preserved John Fields Bible in D.H. Lawrences novel "Sons and
Lovers". But it is not a relic for me: it is used by my younger
daughter in her everyday life at the convent school she attends.
This classmate once invited me to ski and visit his family in a
mountain village. I hesitated a little bit, but at last I refused
the invitation. I had my boyfriend at that time whom I loved very
much and did not want to give him up for another man. It was a
little unpleasant for my boyfriend to meet me every Monday and
Wednesday while I was chatting with this other man in a very friendly
manner. I did not want to hurt my boyfriend nor did I want to lose
him, so I refused the invitation, although I loved skiing. My
boyfriend felt my hesitation because he knew how much I liked to ski.
One evening he came to me with a big bunch of red roses and asked me
not to go skiing. So I remained with him and we are still together,
in love and in harmony. I thought about sending my former classmate
a copy of "The Norwegian Bible", but I do not want to disturb this
harmony, so I have not sent him one.
So this is the story of the small short story up to now. And it will
be going on I hope. Perhaps the other twenty or thirty friends will
answer my Christmas card as well. I can say "thank you" to my
absent-minded, unreliable professor, who gave us the assignment idea
to write a short story.