Medium
This is an image of dried petals scattered on an old book.
Alice Ruth Moore (1875-1935) was an American poet, journalist, and political activist. In this story, a woman describes memories of an old love.
Yes, Eleanor, I have grown grayer. I am younger than you, you know, but then, what have you to age you? A kind husband, lovely children, while I — I have none of that. Time goes slowly, slowly for me now.
Why did I never marry? Bernard? Oh, that’s a long story. I’ll tell you if you wish; it might pass an hour.
Do you ever think about the old school days? We thought such foolish things then, didn’t we? Every one of us imagined we would have only to knock ever so faintly on the portals of fame and they would fly wide for our entrance into the magic realms. On Commencement Night, we whispered merrily among ourselves on the stage to see our favorite planet, Venus, of course, smiling at us through a high, open window, “bidding adieu1 to her astronomy class,” we said.
Then you went away to plunge into the most brilliant whirl of society, and I stayed in the beautiful old city to work.
Bernard liked you a great deal in those days, because in school-girl parlance2 you were my “chum.” You say — thanks, no tea — you say you know what happiness means — maybe, but I don’t think any living soul could experience the joy I felt in those days; it was absolutely painful at times.
Lord Byron3 and his counterparts are ever dear to the enamoured heart, whether young or old. Such a man was Bernard: gloomy, tired of the world, with a few dozen broken relationships among his varied experiences. Of course, I worshipped him secretly, what romantic, silly girl of my age would not?
One day, he folded me securely in his arms, and said:
“I have nothing to give you in exchange for that priceless love of yours but a heart that has already been at another’s feet, but may I ask for it?"
“It is already yours,” I answered.
Then began some of the happiest hours that ever the jolly old sun beamed upon or the lovesick moon clothed in her rays of silver. Deceived me? No, no. He admitted that the old love for Blanche was still in his heart, but that he had lost all faith and admiration for her, and could nevermore be other than a friend. Well, I was foolish enough to be content with such crumbs.
We had five months of happiness. I tamed down during that time — even consented to adopt his peerless Blanche as a model. I gave up all my most ambitious plans and cherished schemes because he disliked women whose names were constantly in the mouth of the public. In fact, I became quiet, sedate, and renounced some of my best and dearest friends upon his request. Still, for all the suffering I’ve experienced, I’d be willing to go through it all just to experience those five months again. Every day together, at nights on the lake-shore listening to the soft lap of the waters as the silver sheen of the moon spread over the dainty curled waves; sometimes in a hammock swinging among the trees talking of love and reading poetry. Talk about paradise!
But there is an end to all things. His father sent for his wayward4 son after falling ill. I will always believe he loved me, but he was eager to get home to his mother and father, and anxious to view Blanche in the light of their new relationship. We had a whole series of parting scenes — tears and vows and kisses exchanged. We clung to each other and swore never to forget, and to write every day. Then there was a final wrench. I went back to my old life — he, away at home.
For a while, I was content; there were daily letters from him to read, his many little tokens to adore — until there came a change — letters less frequent, more mentions of Blanche and her love for him, less of his love for me, until the truth was forced upon me. Then I grew cold and proud, and with an iron will crushed and stamped all love for him out of my tortured heart and cried for vengeance.
Yes, quite melodramatic, wasn’t it? It is a dramatic tale, though.
So I threw off my habits of seclusion, mingled again with friends, and took up all my long-forgotten plans. It was really wonderful, wasn’t it? It seems as though that fickle goddess, Fortune, showered every blessing on my path. Success followed success, triumph succeeded triumph. I was lionized, honored, exalted by the social and literary world. You often used to wonder how I withstood it all those years. With the heart-sick weariness and the fierce loathing that possessed me, I hardly know myself.
But, mind you, Eleanor, I schemed well. I had everything seemingly that humanity craved for, but I suffered, and by all the gods, I swore that he should suffer too. Blanche turned against him and married his brother. An unfortunate chain of circumstances drove him from his father’s home branded as a fraud. Strange, wasn’t it? But money is a strong weapon, and its long arm reaches over miles and miles of land and water.
One day, he found me in a distant city, and he begged for my love again, and for mercy and pity. Blanche was only a mistake, he said, and he loved me alone, and so on. I remembered all his trilling tones and tender glances, but they might have moved granite sooner than me. He knelt at my feet and pleaded. I laughed at him and sneered at his misery, and I told him what he had done to my happiness, and what I, in turn, had done to his.
Eleanor, I shall never forget his face as he rose from his knees, and with one awful, indescribable look of hate, anguish, and scorn, walked from the room. As he neared the door, all the old love rose in me like a flood, drowning the sorrows of past years, and overwhelming me in a deluge of pity. Strive as I did, I could not repress it. I called to him in terror, “Bernard, Bernard!” He did not turn; gave no sign of having heard.
He passed slowly away with bent head, out of the house and out of my life. I’ve never seen him since, never heard of him. Somewhere out there, he wanders outcast, forsaken, loveless. I have my vengeance, but it is like Dead Sea fruit, all bitter ashes to the taste. I am a miserable, heart-weary wreck — a woman with fame, without love.
Vengeance is an arrow that often falls and strikes the hand that sent it.
Text: "A Story of Vengeance" from Violets and Other Tales by Alice Ruth Moore (1895) is in the public domain. This text has been modified.
Image: "Rose petals on an open book" by Debby Hudson is licensed under CC0.
Notes:
“goodbye” in French
a way of speaking
an English Romantic poet
difficult to control
Question 1
Part A:Which statement best describes the main theme of the story
A: As people grow older,they become less forgiving.
B: Revenge is more rewarding than forgiveness.
C: The best revenge is to live a successful life.
D: Revenge may not yeild lasting satisfaction.
11 answers
The statement that best describes the main theme of the story is:
D: Revenge may not yield lasting satisfaction.
The narrator goes through a journey seeking vengeance against Bernard for the pain he caused her, but ultimately finds that achieving that revenge has left her feeling miserable and empty, indicating that it did not provide the satisfaction she hoped for.
A Story of Vengeance
Alice Ruth Moore
1895
Font Size
Medium
This is an image of dried petals scattered on an old book.
Alice Ruth Moore (1875-1935) was an American poet, journalist, and political activist. In this story, a woman describes memories of an old love.
Yes, Eleanor, I have grown grayer. I am younger than you, you know, but then, what have you to age you? A kind husband, lovely children, while I — I have none of that. Time goes slowly, slowly for me now.
Why did I never marry? Bernard? Oh, that’s a long story. I’ll tell you if you wish; it might pass an hour.
Do you ever think about the old school days? We thought such foolish things then, didn’t we? Every one of us imagined we would have only to knock ever so faintly on the portals of fame and they would fly wide for our entrance into the magic realms. On Commencement Night, we whispered merrily among ourselves on the stage to see our favorite planet, Venus, of course, smiling at us through a high, open window, “bidding adieu1 to her astronomy class,” we said.
Then you went away to plunge into the most brilliant whirl of society, and I stayed in the beautiful old city to work.
Bernard liked you a great deal in those days, because in school-girl parlance2 you were my “chum.” You say — thanks, no tea — you say you know what happiness means — maybe, but I don’t think any living soul could experience the joy I felt in those days; it was absolutely painful at times.
Lord Byron3 and his counterparts are ever dear to the enamoured heart, whether young or old. Such a man was Bernard: gloomy, tired of the world, with a few dozen broken relationships among his varied experiences. Of course, I worshipped him secretly, what romantic, silly girl of my age would not?
One day, he folded me securely in his arms, and said:
“I have nothing to give you in exchange for that priceless love of yours but a heart that has already been at another’s feet, but may I ask for it?"
“It is already yours,” I answered.
Then began some of the happiest hours that ever the jolly old sun beamed upon or the lovesick moon clothed in her rays of silver. Deceived me? No, no. He admitted that the old love for Blanche was still in his heart, but that he had lost all faith and admiration for her, and could nevermore be other than a friend. Well, I was foolish enough to be content with such crumbs.
We had five months of happiness. I tamed down during that time — even consented to adopt his peerless Blanche as a model. I gave up all my most ambitious plans and cherished schemes because he disliked women whose names were constantly in the mouth of the public. In fact, I became quiet, sedate, and renounced some of my best and dearest friends upon his request. Still, for all the suffering I’ve experienced, I’d be willing to go through it all just to experience those five months again. Every day together, at nights on the lake-shore listening to the soft lap of the waters as the silver sheen of the moon spread over the dainty curled waves; sometimes in a hammock swinging among the trees talking of love and reading poetry. Talk about paradise!
But there is an end to all things. His father sent for his wayward4 son after falling ill. I will always believe he loved me, but he was eager to get home to his mother and father, and anxious to view Blanche in the light of their new relationship. We had a whole series of parting scenes — tears and vows and kisses exchanged. We clung to each other and swore never to forget, and to write every day. Then there was a final wrench. I went back to my old life — he, away at home.
For a while, I was content; there were daily letters from him to read, his many little tokens to adore — until there came a change — letters less frequent, more mentions of Blanche and her love for him, less of his love for me, until the truth was forced upon me. Then I grew cold and proud, and with an iron will crushed and stamped all love for him out of my tortured heart and cried for vengeance.
Yes, quite melodramatic, wasn’t it? It is a dramatic tale, though.
So I threw off my habits of seclusion, mingled again with friends, and took up all my long-forgotten plans. It was really wonderful, wasn’t it? It seems as though that fickle goddess, Fortune, showered every blessing on my path. Success followed success, triumph succeeded triumph. I was lionized, honored, exalted by the social and literary world. You often used to wonder how I withstood it all those years. With the heart-sick weariness and the fierce loathing that possessed me, I hardly know myself.
But, mind you, Eleanor, I schemed well. I had everything seemingly that humanity craved for, but I suffered, and by all the gods, I swore that he should suffer too. Blanche turned against him and married his brother. An unfortunate chain of circumstances drove him from his father’s home branded as a fraud. Strange, wasn’t it? But money is a strong weapon, and its long arm reaches over miles and miles of land and water.
One day, he found me in a distant city, and he begged for my love again, and for mercy and pity. Blanche was only a mistake, he said, and he loved me alone, and so on. I remembered all his trilling tones and tender glances, but they might have moved granite sooner than me. He knelt at my feet and pleaded. I laughed at him and sneered at his misery, and I told him what he had done to my happiness, and what I, in turn, had done to his.
Eleanor, I shall never forget his face as he rose from his knees, and with one awful, indescribable look of hate, anguish, and scorn, walked from the room. As he neared the door, all the old love rose in me like a flood, drowning the sorrows of past years, and overwhelming me in a deluge of pity. Strive as I did, I could not repress it. I called to him in terror, “Bernard, Bernard!” He did not turn; gave no sign of having heard.
He passed slowly away with bent head, out of the house and out of my life. I’ve never seen him since, never heard of him. Somewhere out there, he wanders outcast, forsaken, loveless. I have my vengeance, but it is like Dead Sea fruit, all bitter ashes to the taste. I am a miserable, heart-weary wreck — a woman with fame, without love.
Vengeance is an arrow that often falls and strikes the hand that sent it.
Text: "A Story of Vengeance" from Violets and Other Tales by Alice Ruth Moore (1895) is in the public domain. This text has been modified.
Image: "Rose petals on an open book" by Debby Hudson is licensed under CC0.
Notes:
“goodbye” in French
a way of speaking
an English Romantic poet
difficult to control
Thank you for sharing the text. "A Story of Vengeance" by Alice Ruth Moore explores themes of love, loss, and the futility of revenge. It delves into the emotional turmoil experienced by a woman named Eleanor as she reflects on her past relationship with a man named Bernard.
Initially, she expresses deep affection and memories of happiness with Bernard but also reveals the pain of betrayal when he chooses to reconnect with his former love, Blanche. This betrayal ignites in Eleanor a desire for vengeance, leading her to achieve social and literary success, while also causing Bernard to face misfortune.
However, the story concludes with a poignant realization that while she may have obtained her revenge, it has left her feeling empty and miserable, devoid of true happiness and love. The final lines highlight that revenge can backfire, ultimately causing more pain to the avenger than to the original target.
If you have specific questions or need an analysis or discussion about certain elements of the text, feel free to ask!
A Story of Vengeance
Alice Ruth Moore
1895
Font Size
Medium
This is an image of dried petals scattered on an old book.
Alice Ruth Moore (1875-1935) was an American poet, journalist, and political activist. In this story, a woman describes memories of an old love.
Yes, Eleanor, I have grown grayer. I am younger than you, you know, but then, what have you to age you? A kind husband, lovely children, while I — I have none of that. Time goes slowly, slowly for me now.
Why did I never marry? Bernard? Oh, that’s a long story. I’ll tell you if you wish; it might pass an hour.
Do you ever think about the old school days? We thought such foolish things then, didn’t we? Every one of us imagined we would have only to knock ever so faintly on the portals of fame and they would fly wide for our entrance into the magic realms. On Commencement Night, we whispered merrily among ourselves on the stage to see our favorite planet, Venus, of course, smiling at us through a high, open window, “bidding adieu1 to her astronomy class,” we said.
Then you went away to plunge into the most brilliant whirl of society, and I stayed in the beautiful old city to work.
Bernard liked you a great deal in those days, because in school-girl parlance2 you were my “chum.” You say — thanks, no tea — you say you know what happiness means — maybe, but I don’t think any living soul could experience the joy I felt in those days; it was absolutely painful at times.
Lord Byron3 and his counterparts are ever dear to the enamoured heart, whether young or old. Such a man was Bernard: gloomy, tired of the world, with a few dozen broken relationships among his varied experiences. Of course, I worshipped him secretly, what romantic, silly girl of my age would not?
One day, he folded me securely in his arms, and said:
“I have nothing to give you in exchange for that priceless love of yours but a heart that has already been at another’s feet, but may I ask for it?"
“It is already yours,” I answered.
Then began some of the happiest hours that ever the jolly old sun beamed upon or the lovesick moon clothed in her rays of silver. Deceived me? No, no. He admitted that the old love for Blanche was still in his heart, but that he had lost all faith and admiration for her, and could nevermore be other than a friend. Well, I was foolish enough to be content with such crumbs.
We had five months of happiness. I tamed down during that time — even consented to adopt his peerless Blanche as a model. I gave up all my most ambitious plans and cherished schemes because he disliked women whose names were constantly in the mouth of the public. In fact, I became quiet, sedate, and renounced some of my best and dearest friends upon his request. Still, for all the suffering I’ve experienced, I’d be willing to go through it all just to experience those five months again. Every day together, at nights on the lake-shore listening to the soft lap of the waters as the silver sheen of the moon spread over the dainty curled waves; sometimes in a hammock swinging among the trees talking of love and reading poetry. Talk about paradise!
But there is an end to all things. His father sent for his wayward4 son after falling ill. I will always believe he loved me, but he was eager to get home to his mother and father, and anxious to view Blanche in the light of their new relationship. We had a whole series of parting scenes — tears and vows and kisses exchanged. We clung to each other and swore never to forget, and to write every day. Then there was a final wrench. I went back to my old life — he, away at home.
For a while, I was content; there were daily letters from him to read, his many little tokens to adore — until there came a change — letters less frequent, more mentions of Blanche and her love for him, less of his love for me, until the truth was forced upon me. Then I grew cold and proud, and with an iron will crushed and stamped all love for him out of my tortured heart and cried for vengeance.
Yes, quite melodramatic, wasn’t it? It is a dramatic tale, though.
So I threw off my habits of seclusion, mingled again with friends, and took up all my long-forgotten plans. It was really wonderful, wasn’t it? It seems as though that fickle goddess, Fortune, showered every blessing on my path. Success followed success, triumph succeeded triumph. I was lionized, honored, exalted by the social and literary world. You often used to wonder how I withstood it all those years. With the heart-sick weariness and the fierce loathing that possessed me, I hardly know myself.
But, mind you, Eleanor, I schemed well. I had everything seemingly that humanity craved for, but I suffered, and by all the gods, I swore that he should suffer too. Blanche turned against him and married his brother. An unfortunate chain of circumstances drove him from his father’s home branded as a fraud. Strange, wasn’t it? But money is a strong weapon, and its long arm reaches over miles and miles of land and water.
One day, he found me in a distant city, and he begged for my love again, and for mercy and pity. Blanche was only a mistake, he said, and he loved me alone, and so on. I remembered all his trilling tones and tender glances, but they might have moved granite sooner than me. He knelt at my feet and pleaded. I laughed at him and sneered at his misery, and I told him what he had done to my happiness, and what I, in turn, had done to his.
Eleanor, I shall never forget his face as he rose from his knees, and with one awful, indescribable look of hate, anguish, and scorn, walked from the room. As he neared the door, all the old love rose in me like a flood, drowning the sorrows of past years, and overwhelming me in a deluge of pity. Strive as I did, I could not repress it. I called to him in terror, “Bernard, Bernard!” He did not turn; gave no sign of having heard.
He passed slowly away with bent head, out of the house and out of my life. I’ve never seen him since, never heard of him. Somewhere out there, he wanders outcast, forsaken, loveless. I have my vengeance, but it is like Dead Sea fruit, all bitter ashes to the taste. I am a miserable, heart-weary wreck — a woman with fame, without love.
Vengeance is an arrow that often falls and strikes the hand that sent it.
Text: "A Story of Vengeance" from Violets and Other Tales by Alice Ruth Moore (1895) is in the public domain. This text has been modified.
Image: "Rose petals on an open book" by Debby Hudson is licensed under CC0.
Notes:
“goodbye” in French
a way of speaking
an English Romantic poet
difficult to control
Question 2
Part B: Which quotaition from the story bes support the answer to Part A?
A "I grew cold and proud,and with an iron will crushed and stamped all love for him out of my toutured heart and cried for vengeance." (paragraph 13)
B. "Success followed success,triumph succeeded triumph. I was Lionized honored,exalted by the social and litery world."(Paragraph 15)
C." I laughed at him and sneered at his misery,and I told him what he had done to my happiness, and what I, in turn,had done to his" (Paragraph 17)
D."I have my vengence, but it is like Dead Sea fruit, all bitter ashes to the taste. I am miserable, heart weary wreck"(Paragraph 19)
The quotation from the story that best supports the answer to Part A (that revenge may not yield lasting satisfaction) is:
D. "I have my vengeance, but it is like Dead Sea fruit, all bitter ashes to the taste. I am a miserable, heart-weary wreck." (Paragraph 19)
This quote directly conveys the narrator's realization that, despite achieving her revenge, it has left her feeling empty and lingering in a state of misery rather than satisfaction.
Question 3
Which statement best describes the narrative structure of the story?
A. Eleanor tells the narrator about her story of love and loss.
B. The narrator and Eleanor compare their stories of love and loss
C. The narrator recounts her story of a lost love to her freind Eleanor.
D.Eleanor narrates her story of revenge aginst her lost love Bernard.
The statement that best describes the narrative structure of the story is:
C. The narrator recounts her story of a lost love to her friend Eleanor.
In the story, the narrator is sharing her own experiences and feelings about her lost love, Bernard, with her friend Eleanor, reflecting on the events that have shaped her life.
3 out of 34 Answered
Question 4
How is paragraph 3 significant to understanding the narrator's character? Select TWO answers.
A. It reveals that she earlier valued fame.
B. It reveals that she disliked her school friends.
C. It reveals that she would like to pursue astronomy.
D. It reveals that she accomplished all of her dreams.
E. It reveals that she valued education above all else.
F. It reveals that she once had a hopeful outlook on life.
The two answers that are significant to understanding the narrator's character based on paragraph 3 are:
A. It reveals that she earlier valued fame.
F. It reveals that she once had a hopeful outlook on life.
In paragraph 3, the narrator reflects on her school days with a sense of longing and indicates that she and her friends believed they could easily achieve fame, showcasing the hopefulness and ambition they had at a younger age. This contrast with her current state enhances our understanding of her character's journey.
4 out of 34 Answered
Question 5
What are TWO ways in which the narrator changed for Bernard? (Paragraph 11)
A. She became more sincere.
B. She spent more time indoors.
C. She changed her appearance.
D. She abandoned plans for her future.
E. She spent less time with her friends.
F. She spent less time with her family.
The two ways in which the narrator changed for Bernard, as indicated in paragraph 11, are:
D. She abandoned plans for her future.
E. She spent less time with her friends.
In the paragraph, the narrator mentions giving up her ambitious plans and renouncing some of her best and dearest friends at Bernard's request, which reflects the changes she made in her life for him.
1 answer