Last-Minute
Revision Notes

High above the city, on a tall column, stands a statue called the Happy Prince. The statue is covered in thin leaves of fine gold. In his eyes are two bright sapphires (blue gems), and on the hilt (handle) of his sword is a large red ruby (red gem). Everyone in the city admires the statue for its beauty. People say he is like an angel.

One autumn night, a little Swallow stops to rest at the feet of the statue. The Swallow was supposed to fly to Egypt with his friends for the winter, but he had stayed behind because he was in love with a beautiful Reed (a tall water plant). The Reed did not love him back properly, and his friends left without him. Now, alone and late, he is finally flying to Egypt.

That night, as the Swallow rests near the statue, he feels drops of water falling on him. He looks up and sees that the Happy Prince is crying. The Swallow is surprised — the statue looks so grand and beautiful, why is he crying?

The Prince explains: when he was alive, he lived in a palace called the Palace of Sans-Souci (meaning "without care"). He was sheltered from all sorrow and misery. His courtiers called him "the Happy Prince" because he was always joyful. But now that he is dead and stands on this column as a statue, he can see all the ugliness and poverty of the city below him, and because he has a heart of lead (even though it is sealed inside his gold body), he cannot help but weep.

The Prince tells the Swallow about a poor woman — a seamstress — who sits at her window, sewing passionflowers on a ball gown for one of the Queen's ladies-in-waiting. Her little boy is lying ill in his bed. He has a fever and is crying for oranges, but his mother has nothing to give him — no food, no medicine, only river water.

The Prince asks the Swallow to carry the ruby from his sword to the seamstress. He says: "My sword has a great red ruby. Take it to her. My feet are fixed to this pedestal; I cannot move." The Swallow hesitates — he wants to continue his journey to Egypt. But seeing the sadness in the Prince's eyes, he agrees to stay just one night and help.

The Swallow flies to the seamstress's poor house, places the ruby near her thimble (her sewing tool), fans the boy's forehead with his wings, and the boy begins to feel better. The seamstress is bewildered but grateful. The Swallow flies back to the Prince and reports what he has done. The Prince feels happy, though the night is cold.

The next morning, the Swallow prepares to leave for Egypt. But again, the Prince calls him back. He tells him about a young playwright in an attic room across the city. The young man is trying to finish a play for the theatre director, but he is so cold he cannot write — there is no fire in his room, and he is hungry and exhausted, his pen dry.

The Prince asks the Swallow to pluck out one of the sapphires from his eyes and bring it to the young man. The Swallow is deeply uncomfortable — "It is your eye!" he says. But the Prince insists: "Do as I tell you." The Swallow carries the sapphire to the attic, slips it in the young writer's room, and the young man cries out in delight, thinking his fortune has changed.

Once more the Swallow tries to leave, but the Prince spots another suffering person — a little match girl in the square below. Her matches have fallen into a gutter. She is wet and cold, afraid to go home because if she brings no money, her father will beat her. The Prince asks the Swallow to give her his other sapphire eye. The Swallow weeps — "But then you will be blind!" The Prince says gently: "Do as I tell you." The Swallow takes the sapphire, drops it into the girl's hand. She laughs and runs home.

Now the Prince is completely blind. The Swallow is heartbroken. He decides: "I will stay with you always." The Prince smiles and is glad, but he is worried for the Swallow — winter is here and the Swallow should be in the warm Egyptian sun.

Day after day, the Swallow flies over the city and tells the Prince everything he sees. The Prince, now blind, can no longer see the suffering himself, but he hears about it through the Swallow. Every day, the Prince asks the Swallow to strip pieces of gold leaf from his body and carry them to the poor — the hungry children in the dark lanes, the pale-faced men and women who are starving under bridges.

Piece by piece, the Prince's gleaming gold is given away. The statue begins to look dull, grey, and ugly. But the poor people in the city begin to have food. Children have colour in their cheeks. The city becomes a little more alive.

Winter deepens. Snow falls. Ice forms on the river. The city is bitterly cold. The Swallow — a small bird who belongs in warm Egypt — grows weaker and weaker. He knows he is dying. He flies to the Prince one final time and says he must say goodbye.

The Prince asks him to kiss him on the lips as a final act of love. The Swallow kisses the Prince and falls dead at his feet. At that same moment, something strange happens — the Prince's leaden heart cracks in two with grief.

The next morning, the Mayor and Councillors walk past the statue. They see it is now dull and ugly — its gold is gone, its eyes are gone, its ruby is gone. The Mayor says it is no longer beautiful and orders it to be pulled down and melted. A new statue of himself should be built in its place, the Mayor suggests.

Workers break down the statue and melt it in a furnace. But the leaden heart refuses to melt. It is thrown on a dust heap, where the dead Swallow already lies.

Then God speaks to one of his angels: "Bring me the two most precious things in the city." The angel brings the leaden heart and the dead bird. God says: "You have rightly chosen, for in my garden of Paradise this little bird shall sing for evermore, and in my city of gold the Happy Prince shall praise me."

The story ends on this note of redemption — that true goodness and love are not destroyed but are rewarded in a higher place.

The story opens by describing Rosemary Fell: she is young, clever, rich, and fashionable. She is not exactly beautiful, but she has charm and confidence. She and her husband Philip are very wealthy. They can buy anything they want. Rosemary loves going to little antique shops, art galleries, and fashionable parts of London — places that make her feel sophisticated and modern.

One afternoon, Rosemary is in an antique dealer's shop, looking at a small, exquisite enamel box. She loves it immediately but when she learns the price — 28 guineas (a very large amount) — she hesitates. She tells the dealer she will think about it, and leaves the shop.

Outside on the street, just as she is getting into her car, a young girl approaches her. The girl is poorly dressed, pale, and shivering with cold. She politely asks Rosemary: "Please, ma'am, could you give me the price of a cup of tea?"

Rosemary is startled. Normally, she would not even notice such a person. But today, something feels different. Perhaps it is the cold, or the atmosphere, or simply a whim — but Rosemary feels an impulse. Instead of giving her a coin, she does something extraordinary: she invites the girl to come home with her.

This feels thrilling to Rosemary — like something out of a novel. She imagines telling her friends later: "I picked up a girl off the street and gave her tea and warmth." It makes her feel bold, literary, and interesting. The girl — who tells Rosemary her name is Miss Smith — is too cold and hungry to refuse.

Rosemary takes Miss Smith to her lovely home. The contrast is striking: Miss Smith has been cold and hungry on the streets, and now she is in a warm, beautifully decorated house. Rosemary's drawing room has a warm fire, soft furniture, and every luxury.

Rosemary is kind to her — she gives her tea, toast, and tells her to sit by the fire and warm up. Miss Smith is overwhelmed, grateful, and slightly dazed by her surroundings. Rosemary is enjoying the role of benevolent hostess enormously. She feels like a character in a story — generous, powerful, gracious.

She imagines keeping Miss Smith for a while, buying her clothes, taking care of her. She thinks: "Wouldn't it be marvellous?" She sees herself as a special kind of woman — not just a rich socialite, but someone sensitive and caring who truly helps people.

At this point, Rosemary's husband Philip comes home. He enters the drawing room and finds Rosemary with the strange pale girl. He is naturally surprised and asks to see Rosemary alone.

In the next room, he asks Rosemary quietly: "Who is she? What have you done? Where did you find her?" Rosemary explains she found the girl on the street. Philip listens and then — casually, almost without thinking — says: "She's very pretty, you know."

These three words change everything. Rosemary goes still for a moment. Then she says calmly: "Really? I hadn't noticed." But inside, something has shifted completely. Jealousy — sudden, sharp, and irrational — takes over. Rosemary no longer thinks of Miss Smith as a poor girl to be helped. She now sees her as a threat — a young, pretty girl living in her house with her husband.

Rosemary goes back to Miss Smith and, in a tone that is still outwardly polite, gives her a large amount of money — more than she originally intended. But she also tells Miss Smith it's time for her to leave. The gesture of charity is replaced with money, which is impersonal and final.

Miss Smith, who cannot believe her luck at getting so much money, thanks her eagerly and leaves. The whole episode of "kindness" is over — finished by jealousy in just a few minutes.

After Miss Smith has gone, Rosemary goes to Philip and sits on his lap, acting affectionate and sweet. She asks him: "Philip, do you think I'm pretty?"

This question reveals everything. Rosemary's entire act of charity was about her own self-image and ego, not about Miss Smith's need. She did not help Miss Smith because she felt true compassion. She helped her because it made her feel interesting. And the moment a young, pretty girl seemed to compete with her sense of being special, the charity was immediately withdrawn.

The story ends here, with Rosemary seeking Philip's reassurance about her appearance — showing that her final concern is about herself, not about the girl she sent into the cold street.

Mansfield's irony is cutting and perfect: the woman who invited a girl in for a "cup of tea" ends up giving her money to leave because of jealousy. The story is a brilliant, uncomfortable mirror held up to human vanity.

The story opens in a small village in Bengal, where a group of boys are playing near the river. Their leader is Phatik Chakravorti — a fourteen-year-old boy who is full of life, energy, and mischief. He has just thought of a new game: rolling a large log into the river. He orders the boys to pull the log out of the water so they can roll it in again.

His younger brother Makhan is sitting quietly on the log and refuses to move. Phatik, without much thought, pushes the log and Makhan rolls into the mud. All the boys laugh. Makhan gets up, furious and humiliated, and runs home crying to tell their mother.

Their mother comes out and scolds Phatik harshly. She says he is always making trouble, always tormenting his brother, always causing problems. She is the kind of mother who loves her children but expresses it through scolding. Phatik feels unfairly treated — he was just playing.

Soon, Bishamber — the boys' uncle from Calcutta — arrives to visit. He has not seen the family in a long time. He is warm and pleasant. When Phatik learns that his uncle lives in Calcutta — the great city — he is deeply impressed. To a village boy, Calcutta sounds like a magical, exciting place.

Bishamber observes Phatik and suggests to the mother that he take Phatik back to Calcutta with him. He can give the boy a good education and opportunities that the village cannot provide. The mother thinks about it. Phatik is often difficult, and she hopes that discipline and education in the city will help him. She agrees.

Phatik is excited at first — a new adventure, the big city, a change from the boring village routine! But when the time comes to leave, and he sees his little brother Makhan crying on the doorstep, something pulls at his heart. He has mixed feelings — excitement and a deeper sadness he cannot quite name.

Calcutta is nothing like Phatik imagined. Instead of freedom and adventure, he finds tight, crowded rooms, strict schedules, and cold indifference. His uncle's house is orderly and disciplined. His aunt does not want him there — she sees him as an extra burden and is openly hostile and dismissive towards him.

The other children in the house have their own routines and friends. Phatik is an outsider. At school, he cannot keep up with the lessons — the city curriculum is different from what he learned in the village. He falls behind. Teachers scold him. Classmates laugh at him. He has no friends.

At home, his aunt scolds him constantly — he doesn't clean up, he left his books around, he broke something. Phatik tries hard to please everyone, but he always seems to do something wrong. He becomes quiet and withdrawn — a sharp contrast to the loud, energetic boy he was in the village.

The rains come, and Phatik watches the grey sky and the wet streets from a window. He thinks of the river in his village, the open fields, the log by the water, even quarrelsome Makhan. His homesickness grows unbearable. He longs for his mother with every hour.

One day, Phatik disappears from his uncle's house. He cannot bear the city any longer — something inside him has snapped. He wants to go home. He wanders the city trying to find his way back to the village, but of course, a village boy in Calcutta has no idea where to go.

The family searches for him in panic. After a long search, they find Phatik lying in the street, soaked in rain, shivering and delirious with fever. He is carried home, barely conscious. The doctor comes and examines him. The fever is very high. He is seriously ill.

As he lies in bed, burning with fever, Phatik is barely aware of his surroundings. He keeps murmuring in his delirium — asking to go home, calling for his mother. His whole body and spirit are oriented toward home. Even in his illness, he cannot let go of the longing.

Bishamber, realising how serious the situation is, sends a telegram to Phatik's mother. She comes to Calcutta immediately — her face showing both fear and deep love for her son, which she had never shown him properly when he was healthy.

She reaches the bedside and sits beside Phatik. He opens his eyes and, with the last of his strength, looks at her. The doctor's face tells Bishamber what he already fears. Phatik is dying.

In his final moments, Phatik's lips move. He says something about going home, about a vacation — "the holidays will be beginning soon" — he says softly. And then he is still.

The story ends with Phatik dead in his mother's arms. His long, painful journey to get home — his homecoming — was only possible in death. Tagore leaves the reader heartbroken. The mother weeps not just for her son, but for all the love she failed to show him when he was alive.

The story begins with a middle-aged man walking into his old school. He is forty years old now and has not been back since he graduated eighteen years ago. He walks into the principal's office with great confidence and makes a startling announcement: he wants the school to refund his school fees.

The Principal is astonished. He has never heard of such a request in his entire career. He asks the man why he wants a refund. The man explains, calmly and logically: he paid money to the school for an education. An education is supposed to teach him skills and knowledge that are useful in life. But everything the school taught him was completely useless in real life. He has learned nothing of value. Therefore, the school has failed to deliver what it promised, and he deserves his money back.

The Principal — not knowing what else to do — says: "Very well. We will put it to the test. The teachers will examine you in each subject. If you pass, it means we DID teach you properly, and there is no refund. If you fail, it means you indeed learned nothing, and..." He doesn't quite know what comes after "and," but the examination is arranged.

The Mathematics teacher — a former tormentor of the student — comes in first. He begins with simple arithmetic: basic addition, multiplication, division. The man gets these right! The teacher is annoyed — the man can do basic sums. He tries harder questions. The man answers some wrong.

But then the student turns the tables. He says that the things the teacher is testing him on are indeed useful — but the teacher also taught him complex algebra, trigonometry, and advanced calculations that he has NEVER used in eighteen years of life. These advanced topics — useless in real life — represent money wasted on bad education. The teacher is flustered but cannot easily argue against this logic.

The examination ends inconclusively for the teacher — the student has made a clever case.

Next comes the language/Latin teacher. He tests the student on grammar and usage. The student makes deliberate errors or gives unusual answers. When the teacher corrects him, the student cheerfully says: "But that proves you taught me the wrong thing!" He points out that in real life, nobody talks in perfect Latin or perfect formal grammar — the language the school insisted on teaching him is dead and useless.

The teacher tries to catch the student with tricky questions, but the student has an answer for everything. For every correction the teacher makes, the student turns it back: "So I was wrong — that means your teaching was wrong." The teacher gets more and more flustered and red-faced. He cannot win this argument.

The Geography teacher steps up confidently. He asks about rivers, mountains, capital cities of countries. The student gives wrong answers. The teacher corrects him. The student says: "I learned it differently. So either you taught me wrong, or these things have changed since I learned them — either way, your teaching was useless."

When the teacher insists that the capital of a country is X, the student either agrees or disagrees in a way that always proves that whatever was taught was not reliably learned. He also points out that political borders change, rivers get new names, countries come and go — so geography lessons are inherently unstable. Whatever he "learned" may now be outdated.

The Geography teacher also fails to prove that the school's teaching was effective.

History, science, and other subjects follow a similar pattern. Each teacher tries to prove the man was properly educated. The man always finds a way to show that either: (a) he was taught wrong, (b) what he was taught was useless, or (c) he never learned it at all despite years of schooling. He is relentlessly clever, calm, and logical.

Some teachers lose their tempers. Some go red with embarrassment. Some try to argue desperately. But none of them can conclusively prove that the school's education was actually valuable. The student always has a counter-argument ready.

After all the examinations, the school's staff hold an emergency meeting. The results are embarrassing: the former student has either answered everything wrong or has successfully argued that the right answers were things the school never taught him properly.

The Principal is left in an impossible position. If he admits the student failed the examination, he must admit the school failed to educate him — and logically, a refund should be given. If he says the student passed the examination, he is saying the student WAS properly educated — but then the student will immediately say: "Good. So I passed. Which proves I know these things. So why am I being tested? Give me my refund anyway — I had to learn all this myself!"

It is a perfect logical trap. The school cannot win.

In the end, rather than face the humiliation of a long legal or public battle — or admit that their education system is useless — the school quietly and embarrassingly refunds the man his money. The man takes it with great satisfaction, thanks them politely, and leaves.

The story ends with the school in confusion and the student triumphant — one clever, determined individual has defeated an entire educational institution through sheer wit and logic.