Analysis Dill Pickle Essay Example

It was remind Vera to six years ago when the man stopped in the middle of what she was saying. It’s same, nothing changes until they’re met again. The man retell about the sweet memory at Kew Gardens, when he didn’t know the names of any flowers. Finally, he knew it one by one, such as Geranium, Marigold, and Verbena. It was a sweet memory for him.

Different with him, Vera don’t think so. It was a bad memory for her. Why? Because the man made she felt embarrassing in front of many people with his behaviour. How she had suffered. In the warmth, as it were, another memory unfolded. However they were making romantic activities like other couple. The setting moves to the Cafe again. The man offered Vera smoking. Smoking reminded him to Russia. Then, he retell about his journey for six years. He spent time with travelling to Spain, Corsica, Siberia, Russia, Egypt, and China. Vera felt envy to him, because she is really wanted to go to Russia.

She was not reach it yet, but the man has go there. Russia is a special country for the man, because it has changes his sadness become happiness. Before he retells about Russia, he was remind about boatman’s song that Vera often like while playing piano. But, she doesn’t have piano anymore for ages ago. Her piano was sold. The man didn’t care about it. He starts to tell that he even spent some days on a river boat on the Volga. He had imagined the situation on that river. He can join with Russian without necessary knowing the language. The

Russian life is so free.

And the peasants are so splendid. It can see when he offers a dill pickle to the wife of his friends, while they were picnic at the Black Sea. The dill Pickle was terribly sour. The man describes it indirectly. He used poetic expression, but Vera can understand what he saying. Vera is a marvelous listener for the man. She was changes his life. He had never spoken to anybody before. After he met Vera, he has become accustomed to spoken with other people. Suddenly, the situation became unpleasant when the man tells about a letter, how Vera broken their relationship, while laughing.

It made Vera feel offended what he saying. It was so hurt for her and she is crying. Then, Vera stand up and ready to go away. But, the man restrains her with caught up one of her gloves from the table. But, Vera can take her gloves again. Vera is a special woman for the man. So do Vera. She felt regret had broken the man. He is the only man who had ever understood her. But, all is too late for her. She go away from the Cafe without touch the cream or saying goodbye. She leaves him alone. She had gone. He sat there, like a thunder-struck, without any words. And then he asked the waitress for his bill.

But, he don’t want to pay the cream because it has not been touched. So, the plot of this story is flashback. And the writer position in this story is omniscient point of view. It can see trough external narrator who refers

to protagonist in the third person. The protagonist character is Vera and the antagonist character is the man. I think the coda is “chance will never back again”. So, used your chance efficiently, and don’t forget to think before act! • This is a story about a young man and a young woman who had been lovers once and now meet again after six years of separation, and as they eminisce, we begin to know what happened six years ago that finally led to the end of their relationship. In the story, the author artfully points up Vera, the heroine’s sensitivity and the man’s insensitivity to others— their feeling, attitudes and motivations,and the man’s self-involvement. A DILL PICKLE AND then, after six years, she saw him again. He was seated at one of those little bamboo tables decorated with a Japanese vase of paper daffodils. There was a tall plate of fruit in front of him, and very carefully, in a way she recognized immediately as his "special" way, he was peeling an orange.

He must have felt that shock of recognition in her for he looked up and met her eyes. Incredible! He didn't know her! She smiled; he frowned. She came towards him. He closed his eyes an instant, but opening them his face lit up as though he had struck a match in a dark room. He laid down the orange and pushed back his chair, and she took her little warm hand out of her muff and gave it to him. "Vera! " he exclaimed.

"How strange. Really, for a moment I didn't know you. Won't you sit down?

You've had lunch? Won't you have some coffee? " She hesitated, but of course she meant to. "Yes, I'd like some coffee. And she sat down opposite him. "You've changed. You've changed very much," he said, staring at her with that eager, lighted look. "You look so well. I've never seen you look so well before. " "Really? " She raised her veil and unbuttoned her high fur collar. "I don't feel very well. I can't bear this weather, you know. " "Ah, no. You hate the cold" "Loathe it. " She shuddered. "And the worst of it is that the older one grows  " He interrupted her. "Excuse me," and tapped on the table for the waitress. "Please bring some coffee and cream. " To her: "You are sure you won't eat anything? Some fruit, perhaps.

The fruit here is very good. " "No, thanks. Nothing. " "Then that's settled. " And smiling just a hint too broadly he took up the orange again. "You were saying–the older one grows–" "The colder," she laughed. But she was thinking how well she remembered that trick of his–the trick of interrupting her–and of how it used to exasperate her six years ago. She used to feel then as though he, quite suddenly, in the middle of what she was saying, put his hand over her lips, turned from her, attended to something different, and then took his hand away, and with just the same slightly too broad smile, gave her his attention again.

Now we are ready. That is settled. "The colder! " He echoed her words, laughing too. "Ah, ah. You still say

the same things. And there is another thing about you that is not changed [Page 230] at all–your beautiful voice–your beautiful way of speaking. " Now he was very grave; he leaned towards her, and she smelled the warm, stinging scent of the orange peel. "You have only to say one word and I would know your voice among all other voices. I don't know what it is–I've often wondered–that makes your voice such a–haunting memory. . . . Do you remember that first afternoon we spent together at Kew Gardens?

You were so surprised because I did not know the names of any flowers. I am still just as ignorant for all your telling me. But whenever it is very fine and warm, and I see some bright colours–it's awfully strange–I hear your voice saying: 'Geranium, marigold, and verbena. ' And I feel those three words are all I recall of some forgotten, heavenly language. You remember that afternoon? " "Oh, yes, very well. " She drew a long, soft breath, as though the paper daffodils between them were almost too sweet to bear. Yet, what had remained in her mind of that particular afternoon was an absurd scene over the tea table.

A great many people taking tea in a Chinese pagoda, and he behaving like a maniac about the wasps–waving them away, flapping at them with his straw hat, serious and infuriated out of all proportion to the occasion. How delighted the sniggering tea drinkers had been. And how she had suffered. But now, as he spoke, that memory faded. His was the truer. Yes, it had been a wonderful

[Page 231] afternoon, full of geranium and marigold and verbena, and–warm sunshine. Her thoughts lingered over the last two words as though she sang them. In the warmth, as it were, another memory unfolded. She saw herself sitting on a lawn.

He lay beside her, and suddenly, after a long silence, he rolled over and put his head in her lap. "I wish," he said, in a low, troubled voice, "I wish that I had taken poison and were about to die–here now! " At that moment a little girl in a white dress, holding a long, dripping water lily, dodged from behind a bush, stared at them, and dodged back again. But he did not see. She leaned over him. "Ah, why do you say that? I could not say that. " But he gave a kind of soft moan, and taking her hand he held it to his cheek. "Because I know I am going to love you too much–far too much.

And I shall suffer so terribly, Vera, because you never, never will love me. " He was certainly far better looking now than he had been then. He had lost all that dreamy vagueness and indecision. Now he had the air of a man who has found his place in life, and fills it with a confidence and an assurance which was, to say the least, impressive. He must have made money, too. His clothes were admirable, and at that moment he pulled a Russian cigarette case out of his pocket.  "Won't you smoke? " "Yes, I will. " She hovered over them. "They look very good. " "I

think they are.

I get them made for me by a little man in St. James's Street. I don't smoke very much. I'm not like you–but when I do, they must be delicious, very fresh cigarettes. Smoking isn't a habit with me; it's a luxury–like perfume. Are you still so fond of perfumes? Ah, when I was in Russia  " She broke in: "You've really been to Russia? " "Oh, yes. I was there for over a year. Have you forgotten how we used to talk of going there? " "No, I've not forgotten. " He gave a strange half laugh and leaned back in his chair. "Isn't it curious. I have really carried out all those journeys that we planned.

Yes, I have been to all those places that we talked of, and stayed in them long enough to–as you used to say, 'air oneself' in them. In fact, I have spent the last three years of my life travelling all the time. Spain, Corsica, Siberia, Russia, Egypt. The only country left is China, and I mean to go there, too, when the war is over. " As he spoke, so lightly, tapping the end of his cigarette against the ash-tray, she felt the strange beast that had slumbered so long within her bosom stir, stretch itself, yawn, prick up its ears, and suddenly bound to its feet, and fix its longing, hungry stare upon those far away places.

But all she. said was, smiling gently: "How I envy you. " He accepted that. "It has been," he said, "very wonderful–especially Russia. Russia was all that we had imagined, and far,

far more. I even spent some days on a river boat on the Volga. Do you remember that boatman's song that you used to play? " "Yes. " It began to play in her mind as she spoke.