“The romance of a busy broker” by О. Henry
The young lady had been Maxwell's stenographer for a year. She was beautiful in a way that was decidedly unstenographic. She forwent the pomp of the alluring pompadour. She wore no chains, bracelets or lockets. She had not the air of being about to accept an invitation to luncheon. Her dress was grey and plain, but it fitted her figure with fidelity and discretion. In her neat black turban hat was the gold-green wing of a macaw. On this morning she was softly and shyly radiant. Her eyes were dreamily bright, her cheeks genuinely peach blow, her expression a happy one, tinged with reminiscence. Pitcher, still mildly curious, noticed a difference in her ways this morning; instead of going straight into the adjoining room, where her desk was, she lingered, slightly irresolute, in the outer office. Once she moved over by Maxwell's desk, near enough for h i m t o b e a w a r e o f h e r p r e s e n c e . The machine sitting at that desk was no longer a man; it was a busy New York broker, m o v e d b y b u z z i n g w h e e l s a n d u n c o i l i n g s p r i n g s . "Well — what is it? Anything?" asked Maxwell sharply. His opened mail lay like a bank of stage snow on his crowded desk. His keen grey eye, impersonal and brusque, flashed u p o n h e r h a l f i m p a t i e n t l y . "Nothing," answered the stenographer moving away with a little smile. "Mr. Pitcher," she said to the confidential clerk, "did Mr. Maxwell say anything yesterday a b o u t e n g a g i n g a n o t h e r s t e n o g r a p h e r ? " "He did," answered Pitcher. "He told me to get another one. I notified the agency yesterday afternoon to send over a few samples this morning. It's 9.45 o'clock, and not a single picture hat or piece of pineapple chewing gum has showed up yet." "I will do the work as usual, then," said the young lady, "until someone comes to fill the place." And she went to her desk at once and hung the black turban hat with the gold- g r e e n m a c a w w i n g i n i t s a c c u s t o m e d p l a c e . He who has been denied the spectacle of a busy Manhattan broker during a rush of business is handicapped for the profession of anthropology. The poet sings of the "crowded hour of glorious life." The broker's hour is not only crowded, but the minutes
are hanging to all the straps and packing both front and rear platforms. And this day was Harvey Maxwell's busy day. The ticker began to reel out jerkily its fitful coils of tape, the desk telephone had a chronic attack of buzzing. Men began to throng into the office and call at him over the railings, jovially, sharply, viciously, excitedly. Messenger boys ran in and out with messages and telegrams. The clerks in the office jumped about like sailors during a storm. Even Pitcher's face relaxed into s o m e t h i n g r e s e m b l i n g a n i m a t i o n . On the Exchange there were hurricanes and landslides and snowstorms and glaciers and volcanoes, and those elemental disturbances were reproduced in miniature in the broker's offices. Maxwell shoved his chair against the wall and transacted business after the manner of a toe-dancer. He jumped from ticker to phone, from desk to door with the t r a i n e d a g i l i t y o f a h a r l e q u i n . In the midst of this growing and important stress the broker became suddenly aware of a high-rolled fringe of golden hair under a nodding canopy of velvet and ostrich tips, an imitation sealskin sacque and a string of beads as large as hickory nuts, ending near the floor with a silver heart. There was a self-possessed young lady connected with these a c c e s s o r i e s ; a n d P i t c h e r w a s t h e r e t o c o n s t r u e h e r . "Lady from the Stenographer's Agency to see about the position", said Pitcher. Maxwell turned half around, with his hands full of papers and ticker tape. " W h a t p o s i t i o n ? " h e a s k e d , w i t h a f r o w n . "Position of stenographer," said Pitcher. "You told me yesterday to call them up and have o n e s e n t o v e r t h i s m o r n i n g . "You are losing your mind, Pitcher", said Maxwell. "Why should I have given you any such instructions? Miss Leslie has given perfect satisfaction during the year she has been here. The place is hers as long as she chooses to retain it. There's no place open here, madam. Countermand the order with the agency, Pitcher, and don't bring any more of'em i n h e r e . " The silver heart left the office, swinging and banging itself independently against the office furniture as it indignantly departed. Pitcher seized a moment to remark to the bookkeeper that the "old man" seemed to get more absent-minded and forgetful every d a y o f t h e w o r l d .
The rush and pace of business grew fiercer and faster. On the floor they were pounding half a dozen stocks in which Maxwell's customers were heavy investors. Orders to buy and sell were coming and going as swift as the flight of swallows. Some of his own holdings were imperilled, and the man was working like some high-geared, delicate, strong machine — going at full speed, accurate, never hesitating, with the proper word and decision and act ready and prompt as clockwork. Stocks and bonds, loans and mortgages, margins and securities — here was a world of finance, and there was no room i n i t f o r t h e h u m a n w o r l d o r t h e w o r l d o f n a t u r e . When the luncheon hour drew near there came a slight lull in the uproar. Maxwell stood by his desk with his hands full of telegrams and memoranda, with a fountain pen over his right ear and his hair hanging in disorderly strings over his forehead. His window was open, and through the window came a wandering — perhaps a lost-odour — a delicate, sweet odour of lilac that fixed the broker for a moment immovable. For this odour belonged to Miss Leslie; it was her own, and hers only. The odour brought her vividly, almost tangibly before him. The world of finance dwindled suddenly to a speck. And she was in the next room — twenty steps away. "By George, I'll do it now," said Maxwell, half aloud. "I'll ask her now. I wonder I didn't d o i t l o n g a g o . " He dashed into the inner office with the haste of a short trying to cover. He charged upon t h e d e s k o f t h e s t e n o g r a p h e r . She looked up at him with a smile. A soft pink crept over her cheek, and her eyes were kind and frank. Maxwell leaned one elbow on her desk. He still clutched fluttering papers w i t h b o t h h a n d s a n d t h e p e n w a s a b o v e h i s e a r . "Miss Leslie," he began hurriedly. "I have but a moment to spare. I want to say something in that moment. Will you be my wife? I haven't had time to make love to you in the ordinary way, but I really do love you. Talk quick, please — those fellows are c l u b b i n g t h e s t u f f i n g o u t o f U n i o n P a c i f i c . " "Oh, what are you talking about?" exclaimed the young lady. She rose to her feet and g a z e d u p o n h i m r o u n d - e y e d . "Don't you understand?" said Maxwell restively. "I want you to marry me. I love you, Miss Leslie. I wanted to tell you, and I snatched a minute when things had slackened up a
bit. They're calling me for the phone now. Tell'em to wait a minute, Pitcher, Won't you, M i s s L e s l i e ? " The stenographer acted very queerly. At first she seemed overcome with amazement; then tears flowed from her wondering eyes; and then she smiled sunnily through them, a n d o n e o f h e r a r m s s l i d t e n d e r l y a b o u t t h e b r o k e r ' s n e c k . "I know now," she said softly. "It's this old business that has driven everything out of your head for the time. I was frightened at first. Don't you remember, Harvey? We were married last evening at eight o'clock in the Little Church Around the Corner".
Stylistic analysis of the passage (“The romance of a busy broker” by О. Henry)
This passage is about Mr. Maxwell who is a New York broker and Miss Leslie, young lady works as stenographer at Maxwell’s office. The author describe Miss Leslie as very modest and calm person. She wears no chains, bracelets or lockets. And one day busy Mr. Maxwell makes a proposal to Miss Leslie. It surprises Miss Leslie very much. She bursts into tears. And says Mr. Maxwell: "It's this old business that has driven everything else out of your head for the time. I had been freighting at first. Don't you remember, Harvey? We had been married the day before at 8 o'clock in the Little Church Around the Corner." The genre of this passage is social, because it described life of characters. The theme of the passage is simple. Hard-working Mr. Maxwell forget about very important event like his wedding. The idea which can be derived from the passage is explicit. The business shouldn’t drive everything else out of smb’s head. As for the composition of the text under analysis, the main compositional form is narration. Besides, the author makes use of dialogue. The central conflict of the passage is physical- man against man. The general tone in which passage is written is cheerful, optimistic, emotional. Speaking about the plot structure, the given passage refers to the closed plot structure since all the components: The beginning- Miss Leslie’s description. The development- Miss Leslie at work.
The climax- Mr. Maxwell says to engage another stenographer. The denoument- Mr. Maxwell makes a proposal to Miss Leslie. The ending- Miss Leslie’s answer. As for the character drawing the author uses the direct method of character drawing. The protagonist of the passage is Miss Leslie. The antagonist are Mr. Maxwell, Pitcher. Principals of text formation is accentuation. It is occasional. Stylistic devises: LSD: On this morning she was softly and shyly radiant.- epithet Her eyes were dreamily bright, her cheeks genuine peachblow, her expression a happy one, tinged with reminiscence. – epithet, metaphor. The machine sitting at that desk was no longer a man; it was a busy New York broker, moved by buzzing wheels and uncoiling springs. – periphrasis His keen grey eye, impersonal and brusque, flashed upon her half impatiently. – epithet, metaphor. His opened mail lay like a bank of stage snow on his crowded desk. – similie I notified the agency yesterday afternoon to send over a few samples this morning. It's 9.45 o'clock, and not a single picture hat or piece of pineapple chewing gum has showed up yet.- periphrasis The clerks in the office jumped about like sailors during a storm.- similie The broker's hour is not only crowded, but the minutes and seconds are hanging to all the straps and packing both front and rear platforms. - metaphor. The silver heart left the office, swinging and banging itself independently against the office furniture as it indignantly departed.- epithet, metaphor. SSD: She wore no chains, bracelets or lockets.- enumeration She was beautiful in a way that was decidedly unstenographic. She forewent the pomp of the alluring pompadour. She wore no chains, bracelets or lockets. She had not the air of being about to accept an invitation to luncheon.- anaphora Her eyes were dreamily bright, her cheeks genuine peachblow, her expression a happy one, tinged with reminiscence. – enumeration "Nothing," answered the stenographer, moving away with a little smile. – elypsis
"He did," answered Pitcher. "He told me to get another one. I notified the agency yesterday afternoon to send over a few samples this morning. It's 9.45 o'clock, and not a single picture hat or piece of pineapple chewing gum has showed up yet." - anaphora Men began to throng into the office and call at him over the railing, jovially, sharply, viciously, excitedly.- enumeration