The Fly

“Y’are very snug in here,” piped old Mr. Woodifield, and he peered out of the great, green-leather armchair by his friend the boss’s desk as a baby peers out of its pram. His talk was over; it was time for him to be off. But he did not want to go. Since he had retired, since his . . . stroke, the wife and the girls kept him boxed up in the house every day of the week except Tuesday. On Tuesday he was dressed and brushed and allowed to cut back to the City for the day. Though what he did there the wife and girls couldn’t imagine. Made a nuisance of himself to his friends, they supposed. . . . Well, perhaps so. All the same, we cling to our last pleasures as the tree clings to its last leaves. So there sat old Woodifield, smoking a cigar and staring almost greedily at the boss, who rolled in his office chair, stout, rosy, five years older than he, and still going strong, still at the helm. It did one good to see him.

Wistfully, admiringly, the old voice added, “It’s snug in here, upon my word!”

“Yes, it’s comfortable enough,” agreed the boss, and he flipped the Financial Times with a paper-knife. As a matter of fact he was proud of his room; he liked to have it admired, especially by old Woodifield. It gave him a feeling of deep, solid satisfaction to be planted there in the midst of it in full view of that frail old figure in the muffler.

“I’ve had it done up lately,” he explained, as he had explained for the past—how many?—weeks. “New carpet,” and he pointed to the bright red carpet with a pattern of large white rings. “New furniture,” and he nodded towards the massive bookcase and the table with legs like twisted treacle. “Electric heating!” He waved almost exultantly towards the five transparent, pearly sausages glowing so softly in the tilted copper pan.

But he did not draw old Woodifield’s attention to the photograph over the table of a grave-looking boy in uniform standing in one of those spectral photographers’ parks with photographers’ storm-clouds behind him. It was not new. It had been there for over six years.

“There was something I wanted to tell you,” said old Woodifield, and his eyes grew dim remembering. “Now what was it? I had it in my mind when I started out this morning.” His hands began to tremble, and patches of red showed above his beard.

Poor old chap, he’s on his last pins, thought the boss. And, feeling kindly, he winked at the old man, and said jokingly, “I tell you what. I’ve got a little drop of something here that’ll do you good before you go out into the cold again. It’s beautiful stuff. It wouldn’t hurt a child.” He took a key off his watch-chain, unlocked a cupboard below his desk, and drew forth a dark, squat bottle. “That’s the medicine,” said he. “And the man from whom I got it told me on the strict Q.T. it came from the cellars at Windsor Castle.”

Old Woodifield’s mouth fell open at the sight. He couldn’t have looked more surprised if the boss had produced a rabbit.

“It’s whisky, ain’t it?” he piped feebly.

The boss turned the bottle and lovingly showed him the label. Whisky it was.

“D’you know,” said he, peering up at the boss wonderingly, “they won’t let me touch it at home.” And he looked as though he was going to cry.

“Ah, that’s where we know a bit more than the ladies,” cried the boss, swooping across for two tumblers that stood on the table with the water-bottle, and pouring a generous finger into each. “Drink it down. It’ll do you good. And don’t put any water with it. It’s sacrilege to tamper with stuff like this. Ah!” He tossed off his, pulled out his handkerchief, hastily wiped his moustaches, and cocked an eye at old Woodifield, who was rolling his in his chaps.

The old man swallowed, was silent a moment, and then said faintly, “It’s nutty!”

But it warmed him; it crept into his chill old brain—he remembered.

“That was it," he said, heaving himself out of his chair. “I thought you’d like to know. The girls were in Belgium last week having a look at poor Reggie’s grave, and they happened to come across your boy’s. They’re quite near each other, it seems.”

Old Woodifield paused, but the boss made no reply. Only a quiver in his eyelids showed that he heard.

“The girls were delighted with the way the place is kept,” piped the old voice. “Beautifully looked after. Couldn’t be better if they were at home. You’ve not been across, have yer?”

“No, no!” For various reasons the boss had not been across.

“There’s miles of it,” quavered old Woodifield, “and it’s all as neat as a garden. Flowers growing on all the graves. Nice broad paths.” It was plain from his voice how much he liked a nice broad path.

The pause came again. Then the old man brightened wonderfully.

“D’you know what the hotel made the girls pay for a pot of jam?” he piped. “Ten francs! Robbery, I call it. It was a little pot, so Gertrude says, no bigger than a half-crown. And she hadn’t taken more than a spoonful when they charged her ten francs. Gertrude brought the pot away with her to teach ’em a lesson. Quite right, too; it’s trading on our feelings. They think because we’re over there having a look round we’re ready to pay anything. That’s what it is.” And he turned towards the door.

“Quite right, quite right!” cried the boss, though what was quite right he hadn’t the least idea. He came round by his desk, followed the shuffling footsteps to the door, and saw the old fellow out. Woodifield was gone.

For a long moment the boss stayed, staring at nothing, while the grey-haired office messenger, watching him, dodged in and out of his cubby-hole like a dog that expects to be taken for a run. Then: “I’ll see nobody for half an hour, Macey," said the boss. “Understand? Nobody at all.”

“Very good, sir.”

The door shut, the firm heavy steps recrossed the bright carpet, the fat body plumped down in the spring chair, and leaning forward, the boss covered his face with his hands. He wanted, he intended, he had arranged to weep. . . . 

It had been a terrible shock to him when old Woodifield sprang that remark upon him about the boy’s grave. It was exactly as though the earth had opened and he had seen the boy lying there with Woodifield’s girls staring down at him. For it was strange. Although over six years had passed away, the boss never thought of the boy except as lying unchanged, unblemished in his uniform, asleep for ever. “My son!” groaned the boss. But no tears came yet. In the past, in the first few months and even years after the boy’s death, he had only to say those words to be overcome by such grief that nothing short of a violent fit of weeping could relieve him. Time, he had declared then, he had told everybody, could make no difference. Other men perhaps might recover, might live their loss down, but not he. How was it possible? His boy was an only son. Ever since his birth the boss had worked at building up this business for him; it had no other meaning if it was not for the boy. Life itself had come to have no other meaning. How on earth could he have slaved, denied himself, kept going all those years without the promise for ever before him of the boy’s stepping into his shoes and carrying on where he left off?

And that promise had been so near being fulfilled. The boy had been in the office learning the ropes for a year before the war. Every morning they had started off together; they had come back by the same train. And what congratulations he had received as the boy’s father! No wonder; he had taken to it marvellously. As to his popularity with the staff, every man jack of them down to old Macey couldn’t make enough of the boy. And he wasn’t the least spoilt. No, he was just his bright natural self, with the right word for everybody, with that boyish look and his habit of saying, “Simply splendid!”

But all that was over and done with as though it never had been. The day had come when Macey had handed him the telegram that brought the whole place crashing about his head. “Deeply regret to inform you . . . ” And he had left the office a broken man, with his life in ruins.

Six years ago, six years. . . . How quickly time passed! It might have happened yesterday. The boss took his hands from his face; he was puzzled. Something seemed to be wrong with him. He wasn’t feeling as he wanted to feel. He decided to get up and have a look at the boy’s photograph. But it wasn’t a favourite photograph of his; the expression was unnatural. It was cold, even stern-looking. The boy had never looked like that.

At that moment the boss noticed that a fly had fallen into his broad inkpot, and was trying feebly but desperately to clamber out again. Help! help! said those struggling legs. But the sides of the inkpot were wet and slippery; it fell back again and began to swim. The boss took up a pen, picked the fly out of the ink, and shook it on to a piece of blotting-paper. For a fraction of a second it lay still on the dark patch that oozed round it. Then the front legs waved, took hold, and, pulling its small, sodden body up, it began the immense task of cleaning the ink from its wings. Over and under, over and under, went a leg along a wing, as the stone goes over and under the scythe. Then there was a pause, while the fly, seeming to stand on the tips of its toes, tried to expand first one wing and then the other. It succeeded at last, and, sitting down, it began, like a minute cat, to clean its face. Now one could imagine that the little front legs rubbed against each other lightly, joyfully. The horrible danger was over; it had escaped; it was ready for life again.

But just then the boss had an idea. He plunged his pen back into the ink, leaned his thick wrist on the blotting-paper, and as the fly tried its wings down came a great heavy blot. What would it make of that? What indeed! The little beggar seemed absolutely cowed, stunned, and afraid to move because of what would happen next. But then, as if painfully, it dragged itself forward. The front legs waved, caught hold, and, more slowly this time, the task began from the beginning.

He’s a plucky little devil, thought the boss, and he felt a real admiration for the fly’s courage. That was the way to tackle things; that was the right spirit. Never say die; it was only a question of . . . But the fly had again finished its laborious task, and the boss had just time to refill his pen, to shake fair and square on the new-cleaned body yet another dark drop. What about it this time? A painful moment of suspense followed. But behold, the front legs were again waving; the boss felt a rush of relief. He leaned over the fly and said to it tenderly, “You artful little b . . . ” And he actually had the brilliant notion of breathing on it to help the drying process. All the same, there was something timid and weak about its efforts now, and the boss decided that this time should be the last, as he dipped the pen deep into the inkpot.

It was. The last blot fell on the soaked blotting-paper, and the draggled fly lay in it and did not stir. The back legs were stuck to the body; the front legs were not to be seen.

“Come on,” said the boss. “Look sharp!” And he stirred it with his pen—in vain. Nothing happened or was likely to happen. The fly was dead.

The boss lifted the corpse on the end of the paper-knife and flung it into the waste-paper basket. But such a grinding feeling of wretchedness seized him that he felt positively frightened. He started forward and pressed the bell for Macey.

“Bring me some fresh blotting-paper,” he said sternly, “and look sharp about it.” And while the old dog padded away he fell to wondering what it was he had been thinking about before. What was it? It was . . . He took out his handkerchief and passed it inside his collar. For the life of him he could not remember.

Footnotes

  1. The story ends with a final, ironic reference to memory. Just as Woodifield had forgotten what he had intended to tell the boss about their sons’ graves in Belgium, the boss has now forgotten about the death of his son, which he had been thinking about moments earlier.

    — Wesley, Owl Eyes Editor
  2. A metaphor is a figure of speech that describes one thing by directly stating or by implying that it is something else. Macey is again described as a dog, this time with an indirect metaphor that implies he is an “old dog.”

    — Wesley, Owl Eyes Editor
  3. “Wretchedness” means a feeling of deep anguish or distress. The boss is frightened by his sudden overwhelming misery, just as he had been puzzled by his inability to weep for his son. His material success, arrogance, and domineering nature have given him the illusion of control, but in reality, he has controlled nothing, except the torture and death of a fly.

    — Wesley, Owl Eyes Editor
  4. The major symbol in the story, the fly can be interpreted as representing the struggle to live and the inevitability of death. Like the transitory nature of memory and grief, the inevitability of death is a major theme that permeates the story; memory, grief, and life itself do not endure.

    — Wesley, Owl Eyes Editor
  5. Although the boss has personified the fly while torturing it, seeing it as courageous and “artful,” meaning clever and skilled, he does not relinquish control over its ultimate fate.

    — Wesley, Owl Eyes Editor
  6. “Plucky” means brave and determined in the face of great difficulties.

    — Wesley, Owl Eyes Editor
  7. The boss’s controlling nature and lack of empathy, which had been demonstrated earlier in his relationship with Woodifield and Macey, his clerk, are now directed at the fly.

    — Wesley, Owl Eyes Editor
  8. In the personification of the fly and in the context of the story’s allusions to World War I, a thematic parallel can be drawn between the fly’s survival and soldiers’ struggling to survive on the battlefield.

    — Wesley, Owl Eyes Editor
  9. “Minute” is an adjective that means very small or tiny.

    — Wesley, Owl Eyes Editor
  10. A “scythe” is a tool with a long curved blade at the end of a pole fitted with handles; it is used for cutting crops or grass in a field. The fly’s leg moving “over and under” a wing is compared with a simile to stones being thrown over and under a scythe clearing a field. The simile suggests the fly’s methodical, unrelenting effort to remove the ink from its wings.

    — Wesley, Owl Eyes Editor
  11. The fly in the boss’s pot of ink is a sudden incongruous element in the story, one that seems unfitting or out of place in the context of the narrative. However, the appearance of the fly further contributes to the development of the boss’s character and major themes in the story.

    — Wesley, Owl Eyes Editor
  12. “Favourite” is the British spelling of “favorite.”

    — Wesley, Owl Eyes Editor
  13. The boss is confused by his inability to weep for his dead son, since he had once been overwhelmed with weeping while remembering him. Grief, like memory, is transitory and does not endure.

    — Wesley, Owl Eyes Editor
  14. The telegram the boss received had delivered the devastating news that his son had been killed.

    — Wesley, Owl Eyes Editor
  15. The phrase “every man jack of them” is an idiom that means everyone without exception.

    — Wesley, Owl Eyes Editor
  16. “Marvellously” is the British spelling of “marvelously." The British spelling of some common words in English often vary from their spelling in the United States.

    — Wesley, Owl Eyes Editor
  17. The image of his son in death that has lived in the boss’s memory has been destroyed by a realistic image of his son in his grave, suggesting the transitory nature of memory, a theme in the story.

    — Wesley, Owl Eyes Editor
  18. Macey, the boss’s elderly messenger, is described with a simile comparing him to “a dog that expects to be taken for a run.” The simile suggests Macey’s subservience in working for his arrogant, overbearing boss.

    — Wesley, Owl Eyes Editor
  19. The boss, who is used to being in charge, is no longer in charge of his conversation with Woodifield; he has withdrawn from it and has paid no attention to what Woodifield has been saying.

    — Wesley, Owl Eyes Editor
  20. Woodifield is referring to visiting the cemetery in Belgium by crossing the English Channel, the 21-mile stretch of the Atlantic that lies between England and France, which shares a border with Belgium.

    — Wesley, Owl Eyes Editor
  21. Much can be inferred from the passage. Mr. Woodifield’s daughters visited their brother’s, his son Reggie’s, grave in Belgium, implying that his son was a soldier who died in Europe during World War I. The passage also implies that the boss’s son, buried near Reggie, also died in combat. The significance of the picture of the young soldier in the boss’s office, which has been there for six years, is now clear; it is a picture of his son. Both he and Woodifield have lost their sons in the war. For them to have been buried near each other is an example of situational irony, an ironic twist of fate. The passage is the volta or turning point in the story, after which a dramatic change occurs in the boss’s demeanor and behavior.

    — Wesley, Owl Eyes Editor
  22. In context, “nutty” refers to the flavor of the whisky.

    — Wesley, Owl Eyes Editor
  23. “Chaps” refers to the fleshy covering of the jaw or the forepart of the face. Woodifield is rolling his whisky around in the front of his mouth.

    — Wesley, Owl Eyes Editor
  24. “Sacrilege” refers to the violation, misuse, or disrespect of something considered sacred. Saying that adding water to Mr. Woodifield’s drink is “sacrilege” is an example of overstatement stressing the excellence of the boss’s whisky.

    — Wesley, Owl Eyes Editor
  25. The amount of whisky poured into a glass is often measured in “fingers.” One finger of whisky would equal the width of one finger placed against the side of the glass.

    — Wesley, Owl Eyes Editor
  26. Windsor Castle, located in the county of Berkshire, has been a residence for English royalty for more than 900 years. The original castle was constructed in the 11th century following William the Conqueror’s invasion of England.

    — Wesley, Owl Eyes Editor
  27. “On the Q.T.” is an idiom that means in a secret or quiet way. An idiom is an expression with meaning peculiar to itself; its meaning can’t be translated from the words in the expression.

    — Wesley, Owl Eyes Editor
  28. Memory is a motif in the story; a motif is an idea, image, or other element that recurs throughout the text and has symbolic significance in developing a theme or central idea in the story.

    — Wesley, Owl Eyes Editor
  29. The passage describes the artificial background in the picture, which had been taken not in a park but in the photographer’s studio. The “park” appears “spectral,” meaning ghostly or shadowy. The “storm-clouds” painted in the sky behind the young soldier contribute to the ominous mood in the photograph.

    — Wesley, Owl Eyes Editor
  30. The table legs are described with a simile, comparing them to “treacle,” a British term for molasses, a thick, dark syrup. The simile suggests expensive, ornate carvings on the table legs.

    — Wesley, Owl Eyes Editor
  31. The boss’s sense of superiority is evident in the passage. It is ironic that he views Woodifield as old, since he is five years older than Woodifield.

    — Wesley, Owl Eyes Editor
  32. “Paper-knife” is another name for a letter opener.

    — Wesley, Owl Eyes Editor
  33. “Financial Times” refers to a major newspaper in the United Kingdom; founded in 1888 and edited in London, the paper influenced the financial policies of the British government. The boss’s reading the Financial Times suggests that he is a man of means and monitors the financial markets in running his business.

    — Wesley, Owl Eyes Editor
  34. Woodifield’s boss is the main character in the story, but he is never identified by name, only by his position. His being “the boss” plays a central role in his character development as the story continues.

    — Wesley, Owl Eyes Editor
  35. The point of view shifts to the first-person “we,” drawing readers into Woodifield’s personal experience and suggesting that it is a universal experience. The desire to “cling to our last pleasures” is described with a simile, comparing it to a tree’s holding on to “its last leaves.” Within the simile, the tree is personified by giving it a human trait, conscious desire.

    — Wesley, Owl Eyes Editor
  36. “The City” is an allusion to the City of London, the historic center and central business district in the London metropolis.

    — Wesley, Owl Eyes Editor
  37. “Stroke” is a medical term that refers to an interruption of the blood supply to the brain, usually caused by a sudden blockage of arteries leading to the brain.

    — Wesley, Owl Eyes Editor
  38. Two literary devices are employed in the passage. Alliteration is created in the repetition of the initial “G” sound in “great” and “green”; the alliteration draws attention to the appearance of the armchair, especially its large size. Mr. Woodifield is described with a simile, a figure of speech that describes one thing by saying it is “like” or “as” another thing. Mr. Woodifield “peered out” of the large armchair “as a baby peers out of its pram” or baby carriage. The simile suggests that Woodifield is small and weak.

    — Wesley, Owl Eyes Editor