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2392.Сборник текстов и упражнений по внеаудиторному чтению.

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Copyright ОАО «ЦКБ «БИБКОМ» & ООО «Aгентство Kнига-Cервис»
Федеральное агентство по образованию
Омский государственный университет им. Ф.М. Достоевского
УДК 20
ББК 81.2Англ.я73
С 232
Рекомендовано к изданию редакционно-издательским советом ОмГУ
С 232
СБОРНИК ТЕКСТОВ И УПРАЖНЕНИЙ
ПО ВНЕАУДИТОРНОМУ ЧТЕНИЮ
для студентов факультета культуры и искусств,
изучающих английский язык
Сборник текстов и упражнений по внеаудиторному чтению для студентов факультета культуры и искусств, изучающих английский язык / сост. Д.Л. Полторак. – Омск:
Омск. гос. ун-т, 2005. – 60 с.
Сборник текстов и упражнений по внеаудиторному чтению содержит небольшие рассказы и отрывки из художественных произведений английских и американских писателей. Тексты сокращены и незначительно адаптированы, снабжены пояснениями. Каждый параграф состоит из текста и ряда упражнений: коррективнофонетических для отработки произношения и чтения трудных слов
и словосочетаний; на закрепление лексического материала; на понимание содержания текста; на развитие навыков устной речи в
рамках данной темы.
Для студентов факультета культуры и искусств, может быть использован студентами факультетов гуманитарного профиля.
УДК 20
ББК 81.2Англ.я73
Изд-во
ОмГУ
Омск
2005
© Омский госуниверситет, 2005
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ПРЕДИСЛОВИЕ
«Внеаудиторное чтение» входит в перечень аспектов, изучаемых студентами факультета культуры и искусств. Преподавателям английского языка, работающим на данном факультете, приходится подбирать материал для этой дисциплины самостоятельно, изучая при этом большое количество литературы. При наличии специального пособия по внеаудиторному чтению, составленного с учетом специфики факультета, работа по подготовке к занятиям и у преподавателя, и у студентов значительно упрощается.
Издававшиеся ранее пособия такого типа носят в основном
узкоспециальный характер (напр. только о музыке или только о
театре и т.д.), в отличие от данного пособия, которое включает в
себя тексты на разные темы и, что особенно важно, отрывки из
художественных произведений на тему искусства. Это позволит
преподавателю использовать пособие на протяжении всего периода обучения студентов английскому языку в данном учебном заведении.
Цель пособия состоит не только в развитии навыков самостоятельного (внеаудиторного) чтения у студентов, но также и в
ознакомлении их с произведениями известных английских и американских писателей. Для этого почти к каждому рассказу прилагается краткий материал о жизни и творчестве автора произведения.
Если рассказ большой по объему, он делится на несколько
частей и к каждой части даются упражнения. Например, из произведения Оскара Уальда «Портрет Дориана Грея» взяты для чтения
две главы, и каждая глава снабжена упражнениями. Таким образом, материал скомпонован для поурочного использования.
Рассказы в пособии расположены по степени возрастания
трудности, но преподаватель может использовать их в произвольном порядке, как считает нужным.
Для того чтобы облегчить студентам работу над пособием,
каждый рассказ (или глава) предваряется списком незнакомых слов
с переводом.
Пособие может быть использовано и на других факультетах
университета.
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THE LAST LEAF
(after O. Henry)
О. Henry
1862–1910
О. Henry (William Sydney Porter) is one of the most widely published modern authors. His works have been translated into nearly
every language. He has been called "the American Maupassant" and is
ranked among the world's outstanding short-story writers.
O. Henry worked as a clerk, a bookkeeper, a draftsman and a
bank teller before turning to writing. He contributed much to the
American short story and was the most popular of the American shortstory writers before World War I. He was the author of about three
hundred short stories. The best of these were published in the books:
"Cabbages and Kings" (1904), "The Four Million" (1906), "Heart of
the West" (1907), "The Trimmed Lamp" (1907), "The Voice of the City"
and others.
Some collections of his short stories were issued after O. Henry's
death: "Sixes and Sevens" (1911), "Rolling Stones" (1913).
Robert H. Davis, one of his biographers, said: "When I get lowspirited, 1 read O. Henry."
Today the desire to read him is as persistent as ever.
Words:
a masterpiece [ma:stэpi:s] – шедевр pneumonia [pnju: ‘mounjэ]
– воспаление легких
a vine – плющ
a model – натурщик
Sue often met Joanna (everybody called her Johnsy) in a little
cafe on the East Side of New York, where the two girls came for lunch
almost every day. Sue was from Maine, on the east coast, Johnsy, from
California, – in the west. Johnsy was small and quiet, with big, blue
eyes and light hair; Sue was dark, and bigger and stronger than Johnsy.
Perhaps because they were so different, or perhaps because they soon
discovered, that they liked the same things in art and music, and the
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same poems and salads, they became friends – very good friends – and
they decided to live together and paint pictures and try to become great
artists. They didn't have much money, but they were young and full of
hope, and life seemed good to them.
That was in May. In November, a cold gentleman that the doctors called Mr. Pneumonia came to New York. He went into a few
houses in the streets and squares where the rich people lived, but on the
East Side he visited almost every family. He didn't go near Sue, but he
put his cold hands on little Johnsy, and now she lay in her bed and
looked out of the window at the grey wall of the next house. She was
not interested in anything; she spoke less every day, and every day
there was less hope in her eyes.
One morning the doctor called Sue into the corridor and closed
the door. "She is worse," he said, "and her life is in danger. She has
only one chance to live. And that chance is that she must want to live.
I'll do everything I can, of course, but I can do nothing without my patient's help. She is seriously ill, and she isn't interested in anything. If
you can make her ask one question: аbout food, or about clothes, or
about her favourite picture, she will have a much better chance to live."
The doctor went away, and Sue stood in the corridor and cried. I
mustn't cry!" she thought at last. "She mustn't know how seriously ill
she is!" And she stopped crying and washed her eyes with cold water
and went back into their room with a smile on her face.
"The doctor says you must have some soup, and you must drink
warm milk and eat fruit," she began, but Johnsy wasn't listening. She
was looking out of the window, and she was counting. Sue could hear
the numbers: "Twelve," then, after a minute, "Eleven," and after another minute, "Ten, nine," together.
Sue looked out of the window, but she could see nothing to count
there. She could see only the dirty yard and the grey wall of the next
house, with an old vine on it. There were only a few leaves on the vine
now, and they were yellow and brown.
"What are you counting, Johnsy dear?" Sue asked.
"Eight," Johnsy said. "Three days ago there were almost a hundred; I couldn't count them all. But now it's easy. There are only eight."
Eight what, dear? Tell me!"
"Leaves. On that vine. When the last leaf falls, I must go too."
"Nonsense!" Sue said angrily. "Those old leaves are only old
leaves; the vine loses all of its leaves every autumn. But you – the doctor says you have a good chance – the doctor is sure you will soon be
well again. Try to rest, Johnsy, and don't think about those old leaves! I
must finish my picture. If I can sell it, I'll buy you some nice fruit."
"Don't buy any fruit, I don't want anything at all," Johnsy said,
and she seemed very tired. "I don't want to think, and I don't want to
wait. I am very tired, and I only want to go down, down, down – where
I can rest, at last."
"Don't be foolish!" Sue said. "These strange ideas come to you
because you are ill. Please, Johnsy, sleep now, if you can. I must run to
Behrman and ask him to be my model. I'll be back in a few minutes."
And she ran out of the room.
When Behrman was a young man, he decided to become a great
artist. For forty years he tried, but he did not even become a good artist.
Now he was more than sixty. Sometimes he sold his paintings, but he
never had any money, because he drank. In the whole world, he loved
only two people – Johnsy and Sue, and he thought he had to take care
of them. "I'll paint a masterpiece," he often told them. "And then we'll
go away from these dirty little rooms!"
When Sue told him about Johnsy, Behrman was very angry.
"Why didn't you take better care of her?" he shouted. "I'll never be a
model for your pictures! Poor, poor Johnsy!"
"She is so ill," Sue said. "And her head is full of strange ideas.
She counts the leaves on that old vine, and she thinks that when the last
leaf falls, she will go too. All right, Mr. Behrman, if you don't want to
be my model..."
"Who said I won't be your model?" Behrman shouted. "Women
are so foolish! Come, quickly! Johnsy is lying ill in bed, and you're
standing here and talkingl"
Johnsy was sleeping when Sue came into the room with Behrman. They went to the window and looked out. For five minutes Behrman was looking at the vine, then he went to the door and went away
without a word.
During the night, a cold rain began to fall, and the wind became
stronger and louder. Sue sat near Johnsy's bed; she did not sleep all
night. Very early in the morning, she saw that Johnsy's eyes were open,
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and she was looking out of the window. When Sue looked, she saw that
there was only one leaf on the vine.
"It is the last," Johnsy said. "I heard the wind all night, and I
can't understand why it didn't fall. I'm sure it will fall today, and I'll die
at the same time." "Oh, Johnsy," Sue said, "think of me! What will I do
without you?" But Johnsy did not answer.
Slowly the day passed. Every minute seemed an hour. At the end
of the day, the north wind came again, and it brought the cold autumn
rain. It rained all night, and in the morning the two girls looked out of
the window together. The leaf was there.
For a long time, Johnsy lay quiet. Then she said, "I heard the
wind during the whole night, but that brave little leaf fought it. I've
been a bad girl, Sue, and now I am sorry. That last leaf has taught me
how to fight for my life, how bad it is to want to die. You may bring
me some bread and butter and tea now, and later, I'll drink a cup of
milk." An hour later, she said, "Sue, I'd like to paint a picture – a picture of a storm on the sea."
The doctor came in the afternoon, and when he went away, he
said to Sue, "Her chances are much better. If you take good care of her,
you'll win. And now, I must go to another patient. His name is Behrman, an artist, I think. Pneumonia, too. We'll take him to the hospital,
but he is old, and his heart isn't strong. There is no hope for him, I'm
afraid."
The next day, the doctor said to Sue, "Johnsy's life is in no danger now. Give her food and let her rest, and she will be all right."
A few days later, Sue came to Johnsy's bed and sat down. "I
have something to tell you, dear," she said. "Mr. Behrman died in the
hospital today. Pneumonia. They found some green and yellow paint in
his room. Do you see that leaf? It isn't on the vine. Behrman painted it
on the wall behind the vine. He painted it that terrible night, when the
last leaf fell. It is his masterpiece."
Exercises
1. Answer the questions:
1. How did the girls become friends?
2. Which of the girls became ill?
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3. How do we know that the girl was very seriously ill?
4. What did Berman want most of his life?
5. What did Jonsy say when she saw only one leaf on the wine?
6. What helped Johnsy not to die?
7. Why did the doctor say that Johnsy’s chances were better?
8. How did Berman save Johnsy’s life?
9. What do you think of the story?
2. Who do these words belong to? When were they said?
1. «She has only one chance to live».
2. «Three days ago there were almost a hundred».
3. «I’ll paint a masterpiece».
4. «I’ve been a bad girl, and now I’ sorry».
5. «I’ll never be a model for your pictures».
6. «There’s no hope for him, I’m afraid».
A SERVICE OF LOVE
(retold from the story by 0. Henry)
Words:
to spill – проливать
iron – утюг
tо iron – гладить
laundry – прачечная
Joe Larrabee dreamed of becoming a great artist. Even when he
was six, people in the little western town where he lived used to say,
"Joe has great talent, he will become a famous artist." At twenty, he left
his home town and went to New York. He had his dreams – but very
little money.
Delia had her dreams too. She played the piano so well in the little southern village where she lived, that her family said, "She must
finish her musical training in New York." With great difficulty they
collected enough money to send her north "to finish".
Joe and Delia got acquainted at a friend's house where some art
and music students had gathered to discuss art, music and the newest
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plays. They fell in love with each other, and in a short time they married.
Mr. and Mrs. Larrabee began their married life in a little room.
But they were happy, for they had their Art, and they had each other.
Joe was painting in the class of the great Magister. Mr. Magister got a
lot of money for his pictures – and he took a lot of money for his lessons. Delia was taking piano lessons from the great Rosenstock, and he
was taking a lot of money from Delia.
The two young dreamers were very, very happy while their
money lasted. But it didn't last very long. Soon, they didn't have
enough to pay for their lessons and eat three times a day. When one
loves one's Art, no service seems too hard. So Delia decided she must
stop taking lessons and give lessons herself. She began to look for pupils. One evening, she came home very excited, with shining eyes.
"Joe, dear," she announced happily, "I've got a pupil. General
Pinkney – I mean – his daughter, Clementina. He's very rich, and they
have a wonderful house. She's so beautiful – she dresses in white; and
she's so nice and pleasant! I'm going to give her three lessons a week;
and just think, Joe! Five dollars a lesson. Now, dear, don't look so worried, and let's have supper. I've bought some very nice fish."
But Joe refused to listen to her. "That's all right for you, Deliie,
but all wrong for me," he protested. "Do you suppose I'm going to let
you work while I continue to study Art? No! Never! I can get a job as a
mechanic or clean windows. I'll get some kind of work."
Delia threw her arms around him. "Joe, dear, you mustn't think
of leaving Mr. Magister and your Art. I am not giving up music. The
lessons won't interfere with my music. While I teach, I learn, and I can
go back to Rosenstock when I get a few more pupils,"
"All right," said Joe. "But giving lessons isn't Art."
"When one loves one's Art, no service seems too hard," said
Delia.
During the next week, Mr. and Mrs. Larrabee had breakfast very
early. Joe was painting some pictures in Central Park, and he needed
the morning light especially, he said. Time flies when you love Art,
and it was usually seven o'clock in the evening when Joe returned
home. At the end of the week, Delia, very proud but a little tired, put
fifteen dollars on the table. "Sometimes," she said, "Clementina is a
very difficult pupil. And she always wears white. I'm tired of seeing the
same colour."
And then Joe, with the manner of Monte Cristo, pulled eighteen
dollars out of his pocket and put it on the table too. "I sold one of my
pictures to a man from Washington," he said. "And now, he wants a
picture of the East River to take with him to Washington."
"I'm so glad you haven't given up your Art, dear," Delia said.
"You are sure to win! Thirty-three dollars! We have never had so much
money to spend."
The next Saturday evening, Joe came home first. He put his
money on the table and then washed what seemed to look like a lot of
paint from his hands. Half an hour later, Delia arrived. There was a big
bandage on her right hand. "Deliie, dear, what has happened? What is
the matter with your hand?" Joe asked.
Delia laughed, but not very happily. "Clementina," she explained, "asked me to have lunch with her and the General after our
lesson. She's not very strong, you know, and when she was giving me
some tea, her hand shook and she spilled a lot of very hot water over
my hand. But General Pinkney bandaged my hand himself. They were
both so sorry. Oh, Joe, did you sell another picture?" She had seen the
money on the table.
"Yes," said Joe. "To the man from Washington. What time this
afternoon did you burn your hand, Dellie?"
"Five o'clock, I think," said Delia. "The iron – the water was
very hot. And Clementina cried, and Genera! Pinkney..."
Joe put his arms round Delia. "Where are you working, Dellie?
Tell me," he asked in a serious voice.
Delia was about to say something, but suddenly tears appeared in
her eyes and she began to cry. "I couldn't get any pupils," she said.
"And I didn't want you to stop taking lessons, so I got a job ironing
shirts in the big laundry on Twenty-Fourth Street. This afternoon, I
burned my hand with a hot iron. Don't be angry with me, Joe. I did it
for your Art. And now, you have painted those pictures for the man
from Washington..."
"He isn't from Washington," said Joe slowly.
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"It makes no difference where he is from," said Delia. "How
clever you are, Joe! How did you guess that I wasn't giving music lessons?"
"I guessed," Joe said, "because about five o'clock this afternoon,
I sent some oil up to the ironing-room. They said a girl had burned her
hand. You see, dear, I work as a mechanic in that same laundry on
Twenty-Fourth Street."
"And the man from Washington...?"
"Yes, dear," Joe said. "The man from Washington and General
Pinkney are both creations of the same art, but you can't call it painting
or music." And they both began to laugh.
"You know, dear," Joe said. "When one loves one's Art, no service seems..."
But Delia stopped him with her hand on his mouth. "No," she
said, "just – 'when one loves."
Exercises
1. Fill in the gaps.
Words: used to; service; to refuse; to interfere with; to give up;
bandage; a laundry; It makes no difference.
1. The food in this hotel is OK, but the ….. is terrible. – 2. I was
invited to the party but I’d already had an appointment on that day, so I
had to ….. . – 3. You look terrible, I think you should ….. smoking. –
4. Yesterday while cooking Joe burnt his hand, he went to the doctor,
there they ….. it. – 5. What coffee would you like: black or white? –
….. . – 6. I hate when my parents ….. my affairs. – 7. When Helen was
a schoolgirl, she ….. wear her hair long. – 7. ….. used to be very popular many years ago, now people prefer to wash their clothes in their
own washing machines.
2. Say whether the following statements are true according to
the story; if not, correct them.
1. Joe and Delia came to New York from the same town.
2. After they married, both of them stopped taking lessons.
3. Delia soon found a pupil, named Clementina.
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4. Joe hadn't enough courage to tell Delia the truth about his job.
5. The moment Joe saw Delia's bandaged hand, he understood
everything.
6. Delia got angry when she learned about Joe's job.
3. Choose an ending to each sentence that is correct according
to the story.
1. Joe was considered to have great ability for
a) acting
b) painting c) dancing.
2. Delia dreamed of a brilliant career as
a) a singer b) an actress c) a musician.
3. Delia and Joe got acquainted
a) at a students' party b) at a concert
4. Their married life was
a) filled with endless quarrels
c) at an art exhibition.
b) unhappy
c) happy.
5. Delia gave up her music lessons, because
a) she was tired of them.
b) she was disappointed in her abilities.
c) she couldn't afford them.
6. When there was no money left Delia decided
a) to return to her parents.
b) to begin to earn money herself.
c) to make her husband look for some kind of a job.
7. When Joe learned that Delia had found a pupil
a) he was glad to be able to continue his studies.
b) he decided to look for a job too.
c) he was angry with her.
8. On week-days Delia and Joe had breakfast early, because
a) they hurried to work.
b) they liked to get up early.
c) they wanted to spend as much time as possible in the open air.
9. Every day they were out
a) for a few hours b) part of the day
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10. When Delia saw Joe's money
a) she wasn't surprised at all.
b) she was disappointed to see so little.
c) she believed he had sold one of his pictures.
THE SPANISH PAINTER
(after William Taine)
Words:
immediately – мгновенно
respectfully – с уважением
to encourage – поощрять
tremendous – огромный
Part I
The clock had just struck ten when Mendoza’s servant came into
the studio and said to his master: «Mrs. Burtenshaw to see you, sir.»
Mendoza said nothing, but his eyes asked a question which the
servant immediately understood. «She is a – a large lady, sir, with fine
clothes and diamonds in her ears. I do not think she has come to buy a
painting."
"Well," said Mendoza, "from your description of her, it's clear
that she has not come to ask me for money either. As I am not working,
I’ll receive her."
The servant opened the door and invited the lady in. Mendoza
asked her to sit down, and stood waiting. As he looked at her and listened to her, Mendoza decided that he didn't like her at all. She smiled
at him, but there was no kindness in her eyes; she spoke respectfully,
but her voice was hard, and there were hard lines round her mouth. "I
am sorry that I had to come to see you so early in the morning," she
said. "But I couldn't wait – I simply couldn't. The idea of asking you to
help me came to me during the night. I didn't sleep at all, Mr. Mendoza,
I couldn't close my eyes. Oh, Mr. Mendoza, I am in such a difficult
situation! You have never been a mother, you cannot know what I feel,
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how frightened I am about my son. But you must help me, I am sure
you are the only man in the world who can."
"It is true," said Mendoza, "that I have never been a mother. But
I know many mothers, and I know that all of them are ready to do anything for their children. Believe me, my dear lady, I’ll help you, if I
can. Perhaps you will tell me how I can be of service to you?"
"Yes, yes!" she cried. "I understand you are busy. But my story
will take only a few minutes. I want to speak to you about my son
Charlie, my only child. He is everything to me – she opened her coat
that had cost, perhaps, a thousand pounds – "he is all that I have in the
world. His dear father died ten years ago, when Charlie was a little boy
of nine. Since then, Charlie has been the main interest of my life, my
whole heart. A wonderful boy, until this idea came to him, the idea of
going in for art —"
"And have you come to ask me to take your son as a pupil?"
Mendoza asked. "Because if that is the purpose of your visit, I am sorry
–"
"No, no, my dear Mr. Mendoza!" she cried. "I don't want that at
all. I want you to let him come and show you his drawings, and then I
want you to tell him that he has no talent. I shall have no rest or peace
as long as that boy continues to dream of becoming an artist. We have
never had such low ideas or such low people in our family. You must
promise to tell him he will never be able to paint."
"I understand," Mendoza said. "Your family is too high and too
proud to have anything to do with painters. But how can I promise you
anything until I have seen your son's work? What if he has a really
great talent? Such a thing is possible, even in your family."
"Oh!" she cried, and now her eyes were full of tears. "If you refuse to help me, what shall I do? You are the only man who can do this
for me, because Charlie admires you more than any other artist. He collects your drawings when they appear in the magazines. He has hundreds of them, if not thousands. One word from you would be more
important to him – I am sure of it – than a whole lecture from any other
artist. If you tell him honestly that his paintings are no good, I am sure
he will not continue his useless study of art. And his mind will be free
to think of the fine, useful career that I want for him."
"And what is that fine career?" asked Mendoza.
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"Politics, of course!" she said. "What else? Like his dear father,"
she explained. "Mr. Burtenshaw was in Parliament three years before
he died. He made wonderful speeches and the most important people
were beginning to notice him. His money helped too, of course. I think
you can understand now, Mr. Mendoza, why I want to see Charles in
politics. It is my duty to the memory of his dear father. And I want him
to marry well, a girl with money and a good name. If he marries such a
girl, it will help him in his career. But if he becomes an artist, what
chance will he have to meet a girl from a good family? He will never
speak to anybody except students and the kind of girls who work in
artists' studios – hardly the kind of people that a mother wants her son
to meet!"
"And if it is impossible to make him go in for any career except
painting, what then?" Mendoza asked.
The pleasant smile on her face disappeared immediately, and her
eyes became small and hard, "If he refuses to change his mind," she
said, "he will have to take care of himself. While I live, he has nothing
except what I give him. If he comes to me for help, I'll close my door in
his face."
As Mendoza listened to her words and looked at her hard eyes
and mouth, he thought to himself: "A man, a gentleman, can't touch a
woman, of course; but how I'd like to push her out of the room and tell
her never to come back!" But he only said: "I understand you, Mrs.
Burtenshaw. I understand that you want to save your son from the terrible life of an artist, to save him for the high and wonderful ideals of
Parliament politics. But how can I tell your boy that he has no talent if I
have never seen his work? Can you bring me one or two examples?"
"I have one of his pictures here with me," she answered. "I knew
you would ask me for it. You will see immediately that it's hopeless.
It's the same with everything he draws; pictures of dirty, vulgar men,
never anything nice or pleasant."
Mendoza took the painting from her and examined it carefully. It
was a picture of a pirate, in a bright blue coat and a tremendous hat,
with a knife in one hand and a gun in the other, and a gold ring in one
ear. It was far from a good picture; the hand that had painted it had
never received teaching in art. But Mendoza's eyes at once saw the author's great talent.
"My dear lady," he said, "this painting is very interesting. There
is humour in it, and it was done with enthusiasm. Enthusiasm and humour are things that we cannot teach. An artist must be born with them,
he is lucky if he has them. Anybody can learn to draw, and if your son
continues to study, he will be a fine artist. I’ll be happy to see more of
his work."
Mrs. Burtenshaw took the painting out of his hand. "You don't
understand, or perhaps you don't want to understand, that I haven't
come here to ask you to encourage my son. I want you to tell my son
that he will never be an artist, that he is hopeless. Isn't that clear?"
"Yes," Mendoza answered, "clear enough. But can you tell me
why I must do anything of the kind? Why must I tell him that he is
hopeless?" A smile slowly appeared on her face. She looked out of the
window and said quietly, "You understand, of course, that I am not
asking you to work for nothing. I shall be only too glad to pay you
whatever you ask. My boy's future cannot be a question of money. But
you can hardly believe that I will pay anything at all if you are going to
help this young idiot to go against his mother!"
Mendoza looked at her without speaking, and now his eyes were
half closed. At last he said, "You say you will pay me well. May I ask
how much you are thinking of paying?"
She looked at him and met his eye at last,
"Is this business?" she asked,
"It is!" he answered shortly.
"Then," she said, "I have in my mind – perhaps – hm – one hundred pounds."
Mendoza stood up and threw his hands wide.
"My dear lady,» he said. "I'm afraid you don't understand who
you are talking business with. I am Mendoza. Perhaps a hundred
pounds means very much to some small artists, but you cannot think it
is of any importance to me. If you want me to lie about anything connected with art: if you want me to tell a young man with talent not to
give his life, his strength, his young mind and enthusiasm to art, you
must pay me not less than a thousand pounds. I won't touch this business for less – not for two hundred pounds, not for three hundred
pounds, not for nine hundred and ninety-nine pounds. Take it or leave
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it – do as you like; but quickly, please. I must begin my own work in
five minutes."
To his surprise, she agreed at once. She had not thought of paying so much, but a thousand pounds meant little to a lady as rich as she
was – and her Charlie's political career was in danger!
"You understand," she said, "you must allow me to be present
when you speak to Charlie about his drawings."
"It is your right," Mendoza answered. "If you pay so much, you
have a right to be sure that I’ll tell him what you ask and nothing else.
But you must allow me to be careful, too. Today is Wednesday. Tomorrow, Thursday, I receive the money. You will come here the day
after tomorrow, Friday, with your son. Friday afternoon at three
o'clock."
He went to the door and opened it. A minute later, he was alone.
He threw open the window. "The air in this room has become bad," he
said. Then he went to the telephone and called the number of Crumpton
and Company, the well-known lawyers in Bedford Street.
"Freddie," he said. "Are you coming to have dinner with me this
evening? Good! Seven-thirty, as usual. I want to speak to you. A small
conspiracy. I'll tell you when you come. Good-bye!"
Exercise
Answer the questions:
1. What did the woman, who came to Mendoza, look like?
2. What impression did she produce on the painter?
3. What was her attitude to painting?
4. What career did she dream of for her son?
5. Did she realize that her son had a talent for painting?
6. Do you think she really loved her son?
7. Did Mendoza agree to help her?
8. What did he think of the boy’s drawing?
9. Why (in your opinion) did he ask so much money for the lie?
10. Think of a possible end of the story.
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Part II
The money came on Thursday, and Mrs. Burtenshaw and her son
arrived on Friday. Меndozа asked the lady to sit down, but then paid
no attention to her: he was interested only in the son. The boy was
about nineteen years old, Mendoza thought. He did not look at all like
an artist, with his round head and round, almost colourless eyes. Even
his nose was round. He was very frightened, and as he came into the
studio, he almost fell over his own feet. Mendoza took the drawings
that the boy held in his hands, put them down on the table and began to
examine them carefully.
The subject of the first drawing was clear; it was a picture of
Gulliver when he opened his eyes the first time in the country of the
Little People. The man-mountain lay on the ground, with a hundred
little people around him, on his arms and legs and one even on his
head, looking into his mouth. Not an easy subject: a subject for an artist, for a real master.
Charlie had thought much about it; he had tried – how he had
tried! But it was too difficult for him. There were mistakes everywhere,
he had lost the battle.
But Mendoza saw something else, besides the bad sky, the
wrong colour of the ground. He saw that in the whole picture there was
the finest and richest imagination. And there was humour in it too, the
same humour that he had seen in the picture of the pirate. The little
men did not look like each other. Their clothes were not the same, they
did not stand the same way and their faces were not the same, as they
pulled and pushed Gulliver. All of them were busy, all of them were
funny. The sky and the ground were not important: the people in the
picture said – no, shouted – that the person who had created them was
an artist with the highest and most powerful talent.
Mendoza examined all the paintings and drawings and then returned them to Charlie. "Mr. Burtenshaw," he said, "I am sorry to say
that your work shows very little talent. Of course, you may continue to
draw for your own entertainment, art can be a very interesting hobby.
But you are hopeless as an artist. The best thing for you is to do as your
mother says, and go in for politics. I have nothing more to say. Goodbye." He went to the door and opened it.
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Charlie jumped up, his eyes full of tears, and without a word ran
out of the studio. His mother followed him more slowly. As she passed
Mendoza, she said, "I'd like to know what you really think of the pictures."
"Madam," said Mendoza, "I have done what we agreed. I didn't
say that I would tell you what I really think."
She laughed and went out. Mendoza opened the window and
raised his hand once, and then again. Then he closed the window and
went back to his work.
…The story now takes us to a bench by the river Thames, where
young Charlie is sitting with his head in his hands. He did not go home
with his mother, because he did not want to hear the sound of her voice
as she laughed at all he had done, and his dreams for the future. He was
only nineteen, he thought, and now, after Mendoza's terrible words…
"No!" he said to himself. "I will continue, I must: there is nothing else
in my life. But what shall I live on? Mother will give me nothing if I
refuse to go in for politics. Oh! If I only had my own money – fifty
pounds a year is enough for me. But I have nothing – nothing!"
His mind was so full of these unhappy thoughts that at first he
didn't notice the man who was standing it front of him. The man spoke
to him, but he didn't hear until his name was repeated. "Are you
Charles Burtenshaw?" the man asked.
"Yes, I am," Charlie answered. "What do you want?"
"I have a letter for you," the man said, "Read it, please."
Charlie took the letter and read: « If Charles Burtenshaw comes
to the office of Crumpton and Company, lawyers, in Bedford Street, he
will hear something that is very important to him."
"I’ve come from Crumpton and Company," the man said, when
Charlie raised his eyes from the letter. "Mr. Crumpton asked me to find
you and bring you to him at once. Come with me, please."
"What is it about?" Charlie asked. Hope suddenly came to his
mind, and his eyes became brighter. "Has somebody left me money?"
"I can't say, sir," the man answered. "Perhaps it will be simpler if
you come with me and hear about it yourself. Bedford Street is not far
from here."
A quarter of an hour later, Charlie was sitting in the office of
Crumpton and Company. Mr. Crumpton was speaking to him. "I can
tell you everything in a very few words," he said. "One of our clients
has put one thousand pounds into our hands. Don't ask who this client
is, or why he or she has done this, because I’ll not tell you. All you
need to know is, that the money is for you. You will come to this office
every Saturday, to receive four pounds, until you have received the
whole one thousand pounds. That means you will have four pounds a
week for almost five years. You may do whatever you like with the
money."
He put four pounds on the table in front of Charlie. "This is your
money for the first week," he said. "That is all, I think. Good-bye!"
"But – but – " Charlie began.
"No buts, Mr. Burtenshaw," Mr. Crumpton said. "Our business is
over. Henry!" he said to the man who had come to Charlie by the
Thames. "Show Mr. Burtenshaw the way out!"
"But – but – "Charlie cried. Henry came to him and took his arm.
"This way, sir," he said. Charlie found himself in the corridor. In one
hand he was holding his drawings, in the other hand were his four
pounds.
"But – but – " he said, and found himself in the street.
…Our story begins again four years later. Mendoza's servant has
just come into the studio and told him that Mr. Charles Burtenshaw had
come and would be glad if Mendoza could receive him. Mendoza went
to the door himself and opened it. He held out his hand to Charlie, who
was waiting there.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Burtenshaw," he said. "I am very glad to
see you. I am afraid I wasn't very friendly to you at our last meeting
four years ago, and I hope you are going to give me a chance to be
more pleasant."
"I hope you will find it possible to be more pleasant," Charlie
answered. "Though I am going to ask you to do the same thing: that is,
I want you to look at some of my drawings and tell me if there is anything good in them." "So you did not go in for a political career?"
"No, I didn't. Let me show you what I went in for." Charlie put a
popular magazine on the table and opened it. Mendoza saw before him
a full-page drawing of Gulliver, lying on the ground with a hundred
little people around him and on him. A wonderful drawing, with the
name "Charles Burtenshaw" in the right-hand corner.
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Mendoza examined it carefully. "Yes," he said at last. "I was
wrong when I said you would never be an artist. I think that is what
you wanted me to say?"
"Yes, it is," said Charles. "So there is something in it?"
"I think," said Mendoza, "that it is a fine piece of work. There is
imagination and humour in every line. And you have become a fine
technician too; you know that art is not only talent. I am very glad that
you didn't allow me to discourage you. The world has a new artist today, perhaps a master. But the next ten years will show what you can
really do."
Charles's eyes shone with happiness. "Thank you," he said. "But
do you know, four years ago, somebody – I don't know who – believed
that I would become an artist, and that person has helped me all this
time."
"That's interesting," said Mendoza. "Tell me how it happened."
Charles told him the whole story. "Of course," he said at the end,
"it was only four pounds a week, but it was enough to pay for a room
and simple food, and I didn't need anything from my mother. I left
home and began studying at Montfort's Art School. I tried very hard,
and when I saw I could get no more from Montfort, I went to Paris. I
have just got back from there. This is my first published drawing, and I
still have two hundred pounds in Crumpton's office. My mother says
she will leave me nothing when she dies, but I am not worried about
that, and I usually don't even think of it. I think more often of the person who helped me. I have asked old Crumpton a thousand times, but
he keeps the secret – I can't get anything out of him."
"Crumpton is a lawyer," Mendoza said. "Lawyers don't tell their
clients' secrets."
"That's true," Charlie said, "but I'd be glad to know. I'd like to
tell that wonderful person what his gift has meant to me."
"I understand," Mendoza told him. "But don't worry about it. It's
clear that the person doesn't want you to thank him. Tell me, when I
said that you were hopeless as an artist, did it hurt you very much?"
"Of course," said Charles, "but it didn't hurt long. I decided that
perhaps you had made a mistake. It didn't matter – I couldn't stop drawing."
"Yes, I see," Mendoza said. "I was sure – no, it doesn't matter
now."
21
Exercises
1. Find facts from the story to prove the following:
1. Charlie was a real painter.
2. Mendoza believed in Charlie.
3. It is sometimes not easy even for a rich young man to choose
his profession.
4. Charlie wasn't afraid of difficulties.
2. Find mistakes in the following sentences and correct them:
1. Mendoza wasn’t impressed by Charlie’s drawings.
2. Mendoza explained Charlie’s mother that her son was really
talented.
3. Charlie was so upset that he decided to give up paintitng.
4. Mendoza paid his own money for Charlie’s education.
ART FOR HEART’S SAKE
(after Rube Goldberg)
Goldberg, Rube
1883–1970
Reuben Lucius Goldberg, American cartoonist and sculptor,
was born in San Francisco. After drawing cartoons for San Francisco
newspapers, he moved to New York City. There he worked for the New
York Evening Mail until his cartoons became syndicated in 1921.
Goldberg worked as a political cartoonist for the New York Sun and
later for the New York Journal American. After 1964 he concentrated
on sculpture. He is the author of How to Remove the Cotton from a
Bottle of Aspirin (1959) and Rube Goldberg vs. the Machine Age
(1968).
Words:
«Art’s for art’s sake» – искусство ради искусства
«Art’s for heart’s sake» – искусство для души
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a servant – слуга
to insist on – настаивать
to persuade – убеждать
to take a medicine – принять лекарство
calm – хладнокровие
ordinary case – обычный случай
transactions – сделки
failure – неудача, провал
to interfere – вмешиваться
to apologise – извиняться
to punish – наказывать
disobedience – непослушание
suspicion – подозрение
suggestion – предложение
to take up art – начать заниматься живописью
to run the gallery – управлять галереей
astonishment – удивление
to award – награждать
dumb – немой
"Here, take your pineapple juice," said Koppel, Mr. Ellsworth's
servant and nurse.
"No," said Collis P. Ellsworth.
"But it's good for you, sir!"
"No!"
"The doctor insists on it"
"No!"
Koppel heard the front door bell and was glad to leave the room.
He found Doctor Caswell in the hall downstairs.
"I can't do a thing with him," he told the doctor. "He doesn't want
to take his juice. I can't persuade him to take his medicine. He doesn't
want me to read to him. He hates TV. He doesn't like any thing!"
Doctor Caswell took the information with his usual professional
calm. This was not an ordinary case. The old gentleman was in pretty
good health for a man of seventy. But it was necessary to keep him
from buying things. His financial transactions always ended in failure,
which was bad for his health.
23
But the old man hated it when somebody interfered in his affairs
and ordered him to do things.
"How are you this morning? Feeling better?" asked the doctor.
"I hear you haven't been obeying my orders."
"Who is giving me orders at my time of life? Am I to ask for
permission every time I want to do something? Am I to be punished for
disobedience?" The doctor drew up a chair and sat down close to the
old man. He had to do his duty.
"I'd like to make a suggestion," he said quietly. He didn't want to
argue with the old man.
Old Ellsworth looked at him over his glasses. The way Doctor
Caswell said it made him suspicious.
"What is it, more medicine, more automobile rides to keep me
away from the office?" the old man asked with suspicion.
"Not at all," said the doctor. "I've been thinking of something
different. As a matter of fact I'd like to suggest that you should take up
art."
"Nonsense!"
"But still... I don't mean seriously of course," said the doctor,
glad that his suggestion had been taken calmly enough. "Just try. You'll
like it."
Much to his surprise the old man agreed. He only asked who was
going to teach him drawing.
"I've thought of that too," said the doctor. "I can get a student
from an art school who can come round once a week. If you don't like
it, after a little while you can throw him out."
Doctor Caswell went to his friend, Judson Livingstone, head of
the Atlantic Art Institute, and explained the situation. Livingstone had
just the young man – Frank Swain, eighteen years old and a promising
student. Like most students he needed money. How much would he
get? Five dollars a visit. Fine.
Next afternoon young Frank Swain was shown into the big living-room and the lessons began. The old man liked it so much that
when at the end of the first lesson Koppel came in and apologised to
him for interrupting the lesson, as the old man needed a rest, Ellsworth
looked disappointed.
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When the art student came the following week, he saw a drawing
on the table. It was a vase. But something was definitely wrong with it.
"Well, what do you think of it?" asked the old man stepping aside.
"I don't mean to hurt you, sir, but, there is one thing I want to
draw your attention to... ," began Swain. «If you want to draw you will
have to look at what you are drawing, sir.»
"I see," the old man interrupted, "the halves don't match. I can't
say I am good at drawing." He added a few lines with a shaky hand and
painted the vase blue like a child playing with a picture book. Then he
looked towards the door.
"Listen, young man," he whispered. "I want to ask you something before Old Juice comes again. I don't want to speak in his presence."
"Yes, sir," said Swain with respect.
"I've been thinking ... Could you come twice a week or perhaps
three times?"
"Sure, Mr. Ellsworth," the student said respectfully. "When
shall I come?"
They arranged to meet on Monday, Wednesday and Friday.
As the weeks went by, Swain's visits grew more frequent. He
brought the old man a box of water colors and some tubes if oils.The
old man drank his juice obediently. Doctor Caswell hoped that business
had been forgotten forever. The doctor thought it safe to allow Ellsworth to visit the Metropolitan, the Museum of Modern Art and other
exhibitions with Swain. A new world opened up its charming mysteries. The old man was interested about the galleries and the painters
who exhibited in them. How were the galleries run? Who selected the
canvases for the exhibitions? An idea was forming in his brain.
When spring came, Ellsworth painted a picture which he called
Trees Dressed in White. The picture was awful. The trees in the picture
looked like salad thrown up against the wall. Then he announced that
he was going to display it at the Summer Show at the Lathrop Gallery.
Doctor Caswell and Swain didn't believe it. They thought the old man
was joking.
The summer show at the Lathrop Gallery was the biggest exhibition of the year. All outstanding artists in the United States dreamt of
winning a Lathrop prize.
"We've got to stop him. It's our duty," said Koppel. He insisted
that they should do something about it. "No," said the doctor. "We can't
interfere with his plans now and spoil all the good work we've done.
Besides I can't order that he should take the picture back.
To the astonishment of all of the people in the house Trees
Dressed in White was accepted for the Show.
Young Swain went to the exhibition one afternoon and blushed
when he saw Trees Dressed in White hanging on the wall. As two visitors stopped in front of the strange picture, Swain rushed out. He was
ashamed that a picture like that had been accepted for the show. He did
not want to hear what they might say.
However Swain did not give up teaching the old man. Every
time Koppel entered the room he found the old man painting something. Koppel even thought of hiding the brush from him. The old man
seldom mentioned his picture and was unusually cheerful.
Two days before the close of the exhibition Ellsworth received a
letter. Koppel brought it when Swain and the doctor were in the room.
"Read it to me," asked the old man putting aside the brush he was holding in his hand. "My eyes are tired from painting."
The letter said: "It gives the Lathrop Gallery pleasure to announce that Collis P. Ellsworth has been awarded the First Landscape
Prize of ten thousand dollars for his painting Trees Dressed in White.
Swain became dumb with astonishment. Koppel dropped the
glass with juice he was about to give Ellsworth and did not bend to
pick up the fragments. Doctor Caswell managed to keep calm. "Congratulations, Mr. Ellsworth," said the doctor. "Fine, fine ... Frankly, I
didn’t expect that your picture would win the prize…Well…. Anyway
I’ve proved to you that art is more satisfying that business».
“Art is nothing. I bought the Lathrop Gallery last month,» said
the old man.
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Exercises
1. Answer the questions:
1. Why didn’t Koppel like the behaviour of his patient?
2. Why wasn't Ellsworth an ordinary case?
3. Who was Frank Swain?
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4. Why did he agree to teach Ellsworth?
5. Did Frank Swain realise that Ellsworth couldn't draw at all?
6. Did Frank Swain know that Ellsworth was going to send his
picture to the Gallery?
7. Why didn't he keep the old man from sending the picture to
the show?
8. What proves that Ellsworth liked to study painting?
9. What picture did Ellsworth paint?
10. What happened two days before the close of the exhibition?
11. What did the letter received by Ellsworth say?
12. How did everybody react to the news that Ellsworth had got
the prize?
13. Who thought of a plan to keep Ellsworth away from his office?
14. What was Doctor Caswell's plan?
15. Was Doctor Caswell's plan a success?
16. Why was Doctor Caswell's plan a failure?
2. True or false?
1. Mr. Ellsworth was a man of seventy.
2. His passion was buying different things.
3. Doctor wanted Mr. Ellsword to take drawing lessons because
he thought that Ellsworth had a talent.
4. Mr. Ellswotrh liked the lessons.
5. Mr. Ellsworth won the first prise.
6. Mr. Ellsworth bought the Lathrop gallery.
GIGOLO AND GIGOLETTE
(by W.S. Maugham)
William Somerset Maugham
1874–1965
W.S. Maugham, a prominent English writer, was born in Paris.
He was noted as an expert storyteller and a master of fiction technique.
Maugham was orphaned at 10 and sent to live with his uncle, a vicar.
27
Although he later studied medicine and completed his internship, he
never practiced, having decided at an early age to devote himself to
literature. He lived in grand style, spending much of his life on the
French Riviera and traveling widely, particularly to East Asia and the
South Pacific. Maugham wrote with wit and irony. Famous as a
dramatist before he became known for his novels and short stories, he
achieved his first success with the sardonically humorous play Lady
Frederick (1907). This was followed by a series of commercial successes, the best being The Circle (1921), Our Betters (1923), and The
Constant Wife (1927).
Maugham had written eight novels before his breakthrough masterpiece, the partly autobiographical Of Human Bondage (1915), appeared. It is the story of the painful growth to self-realization of a
lonely, sensitive young physician. Maugham’s other famous novels include The Moon and Sixpence (1919), based on the life of the French
painter Paul Gauguin; Cakes and Ale (1930), satirizing Thomas Hardy
and Hugh Walpole; and The Razor’s Edge (1944), dealing with a
young American’s search for spiritual fulfillment. Frequently his writings, notably the short stories «Rain» and «The Letter,» use as background the exotic places he had visited. In his later work Maugham
limited himself primarily to essays.
Words:
Gigolo and Gigolette – наемные партнеры в танцах
nerves – нервы
flame – пламя
to dive – нырять
a tank – водоем
a ladder – лестница
petrol – бензин
to set on fire – поджигать
to keep on – держать дольше
politely – вежливо
expression – выражение
to present [pri'zent] – представлять
to bow [bau] – кланяться
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a dressing-gown – халат
a torch – факел
a streak [stri:k] of lightning – вспышка молнии
a tear – слеза
filthy – гнусный
at twice the money – за двойную плату
a crisis ['kraisis] – (экономический) кризис
expense [jks'pens] – расход
Nice [ni:s] – Ницца
to faint – падать в обморок
apparatus – зд. оборудование
an engagement – договор, контракт
to save – скопить
a rainy day – черный день
to starve – голодать
The bar was crowded. Sandy Westcott had had two cocktails,
and he was beginning to feel hungry. He looked at his watch. He was
asked to dinner at half-past nine and it was nearly ten. Eva Barret was
always late and he knew that he would not get anything to eat before
ten-thirty. At that moment another man came into the bar.
"Hallo, Cotman," said Sandy. "Have a drink?"
"With pleasure, sir."
Cotman was a good-looking man of thirty perhaps, but with so
good a figure that he looked much younger. He had thick, black hair
and large bright eyes.
"How's Stella?" asked Sandy.
"Oh, she's all right. Likes to lie down before the show. 'It's good
for the nerves,' she says."
"I wouldn't do that trick of hers for a thousand pounds."
"Yes, nobody can do it but her, not from that height, and with
only two metres of water."
"It's the most risky thing I've ever seen."
Cotman gave a little laugh. He took this as a compliment. Stella
was his wife. Of course she did the trick and took the risk, but it was he
who had thought of the flames, and it was the flames which the public
liked and which made the show a great success. Stella dived into a tank
from the top of a ladder sixty feet high and there were only two metres
of water in the tank
Just before she dived they poured petrol on the water, he set it on
fire, the flames went up and she dived into them.
At that moment Eva Barret came in with her other guests. She
was a very rich American and always had guests at her table. After
dinner they usually played cards.
"Got a good table for me, Paco?" said Eva Barret to the headwaiter.
"The best." The waiter's fine dark eyes expressed his admiration
of her. «You've seen Stella?"
"Of course. Three times. It's the most terrible thing I've ever
seen. And I want to be at the death. Of course she will kill herself one
of these nights and I want to see it."
Paco laughed.
"She's been such a success, we want to keep her on another
month. All I ask is that she shouldn't kill herself till the end of August.
After that she can do as she likes."
The casino was full, a dance was played by the orchestra and
many people were dancing. When the music stopped the head-waiter
politely smiling came up to Eva Barret's guests to take them to their
table.
"We shall see Stella very well from this place," she said as she
sat down.
"I like to be quite near to the tank," said Sandy, "so that I can see
her face."
"Is she pretty?" asked one of the women at the table.
"It's not that. It's the expression of her eyes. She's frightened to
death every time she does it,"
"Oh, I don't believe that," said another guest. "It's only a trick.
There's no risk really,"
"You don't know what you're talking about. Diving from that
height in as little water as that, she must turn very quickly the moment
she touches the water. And if she doesn't do it right, she can break her
head against the tank and break her back."
The tank was on the far left of the stage, and behind it, was a
very tall ladder at the top of which was a small platform. After two or
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three dances, when Eva Barret’s guests were eating fruit, the music
stopped and the lights were turned off. A ray of light was turned on the
tank, Cotman was seen in the ray. He went up the ladder so that he was
quite near the tank.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he cried out, in a loud clear voice, "you
are now going to see the most wonderful dive of the century. Madam
Stella, the greatest diver in the world, is going to dive from a height of
twenty metres into a lake of flames two metres deep. This is a trick that
was never done before, and Madam Stella is ready to give one hundred
pounds to anyone who will try to do the same. Ladies and gentlemen, I
have the pleasure to present Madam Stella."
A little figure appeared on the ladder that led on to the stage, ran
quickly up to the tank, and bowed to the applauding people. She wore a
man's silk dressing-gown and on her head a bathing-cap.
Everybody was looking at her very attentively.
"Not pretty," said one of the women at Eva Barret's table.
"Good figure," said Eva Barret. "You'll see."
Stella took off her dressing-gown and gave it to Cotman. He
went down.
She stood for a moment and looked at the crowd. They were in
darkness and she could only see their white faces. She was small, with
a beautiful figure, legs that were long for her body.
Stella began to go up the ladder, and the ray of light followed
her. The height was very great. An attendant began to pour petrol on
the water. Cotman was given a flaming torch. He watched Stella come
to the top of the ladder and stand up on the platform.
"Ready?" he cried.
"Yes."
"Go!» he shouted.
And as he shouted, he put the burning torch into the water. The
flames went up high and were really terrible to look at. At the same
time Stella dived. She came down like a streak of lightning and dived
into the flames, which went out a moment after she had reached the
water. A second later she was on the water again and jumped out to a
storm of applause. Cotman put the dressing-gown round her. She
bowed and bowed. The applause went on. Music began to play. She ran
down the ladder and between the tables to the door. The lights went up
and the waiters began to bring different dishes and the people started
talking.
"Excellent," said the English lord.
"It's a trick," said an old military man, who did not believe anything.
"It's over so quickly," said the English lady, "you don't get
enough for your money really."
After the show Stella and her husband were sitting in the bar
when the head-waiter came up to Cotman.
"Oh, Mr. Cotman, the manager was looking for you. He wants to
see you."
"Oh, where is he?"
"You'll find him around somewhere."
"I'll just finish my beer," said Cotman, "and then I'll go and see
what he wants."
Then addressing Stella he said: "Will you stay here, Stella, or
would you like to go to your dressing-room?"
Stella did not answer. She was crying.
"What's the matter, dear?"
"Syd, I can't do it again tonight," she sobbed.
"Why not?"
"I'm afraid."
"You're the bravest little woman in the world. Have a drink,
that'll make you feel better."
"No, that would only make it worse."
"You can't disappoint your public, you know,"
"That filthy public. Pigs who eat too much and drink too much.
They do not think of the risk I take."
"Of course they pay money to see you," he said slowly, "if you
are afraid and do not do it this evening, it'll be worse tomorrow."
"Nо, it won't. The fact that I must do it twice kills me. You go
and see Mr. Espinel, the manager, and tell him I can't give two shows a
night. It's more than my nerves will stand."
"He'll never agree. It's only to see you that people come here to
supper at all."
"But I can't, I can't go on."
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He was silent for a moment. The tears were still falling down her
pale little face. He thought how much he loved her, then said: "Now I
must go, Espinel wants to see me."
"What about?"
"I don't know. I'll tell him you can't give the show more than
once a night and see what he says. Will you wait here?"
"No, I'll go to the dressing-room."
Ten minutes later he found her there. He looked very happy.
"I've got great news for you, dear. They're keeping us on next month at
twice the money".
He came up to kiss her, but she pushed him away. "Must I do it
again tonight?"
"I'm afraid you must. They pay twice the money."
Again she began to cry.
"I can't, Syd, I can't. I shall kill myself." His own eyes were
filled with tears too. For he loved her.
"You know what it means," he said. "The old life and all."
"Anything is better than this," said she.
The old life. They both remembered it. Syd had been a dancing
gigolo, since he was eighteen. He was very good-looking and old
women and women of middle age were glad to pay to dance with him
and he was never out of work. It wasn't a bad life. There were usually
two or three men living in a room in a cheap hotel. They got up late
and went to the casino at twelve o'clock to dance with fat women who
wanted to get thin.
Then they were free till five, when they went to the casino again.
At night they went to the restaurant and got there quite a good meal.
And again they danced. It was good money. They usually got fifty or a
hundred francs from anyone they danced with. Those were the good
days when everybody had money. Then the crisis came. The hotels
were empty, and the clients did not want to pay money for dancing
with a good-looking man. Often and often Syd passed the whole day
without getting any money.
It was then he met Stella in France. She was a swimming instructress. She was Australian and a beautiful diver. He saw her every morning on the seaside. At night she danced at the hotel. They fell in love
with one another, and at the end of the season got married.
They had gone through hard times. It was not easy to get hotel
jobs for the two of them. All their things were sold. At last they went to
Nice to enter for a dancing competition at one of the casinos. Twentyfour hours a day they danced, resting every hour for fifteen minutes. It
was terrible. On the eleventh day Stella fainted and had to give up. Syd
went on by himself without a partner.
But it was then that Syd had his bright idea. Stella always said
that she could dive in very little water. It was a trick. And then he once
saw burning petrol that was on the road, and his idea was formed. A
dive into flames, that trick the public would like.
He talked it over with Stella and she liked this idea. He wrote to
a friend of his who also liked it and he agreed to give money for the
apparatus. The friend got them an engagement at a circus in Paris and
the show was a success. They were happy. Engagements followed and
one was from a casino on the seaside. They got good money and could
save a little for the rainy day.
And now suddenly at the top of their success Stella wanted to
stop it.
"You know what it means, dear. We shall starve after we spend
our little bit of money. There are no jobs here."
She stopped crying and looked at Syd.
"What is it, dear?"
She stood up and went over to the dressing-table.
"I expect it's time for me to get ready. I mustn't disappoint my
public," she said quietly.
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Exercises
1. Find answers to the following questions:
1. Where was Stella born?
2. What was her profession?
3. What was Cotman's profession?
4. Where did they meet?
5. Where did Cotman and Stella work after they were married?
6. What happened at the Dancing Marathon?
7. What bright idea came to Cotman?
8. Who gave money for the apparatus?
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9. Where did the show take place?
10. Was Stella afraid to dive into the flames?
11. Why did the public like the trick?
12. Why did Eva Barret come to the casino every evening?
13. Did Cotman love his wife?
14. Why did he ask Stella to do the trick twice in the evening?
2. Describe these characters of the story:
1. Stella
2. Syd
3. Eva Barret
4. Paco
3. Put the sentences in the correct order::
1. Syd met Stella in France.
2. The music stopped and the lights went off.
3. «I mustn’t dissapoint my public”.
4. Cotman was a good-looking man of thirty.
5. «Must I do it again tonight?”
THE PICTURE OF DORIAN GRAY
(after Oscar Wilde)
Oscar Wilde
1854–1900
In 1882 he went to America to lecture on the Aesthetic Movement in England. His lecture tours were triumphantly successful.
The next ten years saw the appearance of all his major works.
The most popular of them are The Happy Prince and Other Tales
(1888), The Picture of Dorian Gray (1891) and his comedies: Lady
Windermere's Fan (1892), A Woman of No Importance (1893). An
Ideal Husband (1S95), The Importance of Being Earnest (1895). The
wit and brilliance of these plays helped to keep them on the stage, and
they are still occasionally revived.
At the height of his popularity and success tragedy struck. He
was accused of immorality and sentenced to two years' imprisonment.
When released from prison in 1897 he lived mainly on the Continent
and later in Paris. In 1898 he published his powerful poem, Ballad of
Reading Gaol. He died in Paris in 1900.
Chapter Four
Words:
china – фарфоровый
parrot-tulips – пестрые тюльпаны с рассеченными лепестками
a play-bill – афиша
to drive smb. away – прогонять, заставить уехать
a well – колодец
a passion – страсть
Oscar Wilde was born in Dublin on October 16,1854. His father
was a famous Irish surgeon. His mother was well known in Dublin as a
graceful writer of verse and prose.
At school, and later at Oxford, Oscar displayed a considerable
gift for art and the humanities. The young man received a number of
classical prizes, and graduated with first-class honours.
After graduating from the University, Wilde turned his attention
to writing, travelling and lecturing. The Aesthetic Movement became
popular, and Oscar Wilde earned the reputation of being the leader of
the movement, and an apostle of beauty.
One afternoon, a month later, Dorian Gray was sitting in the little library of Lord Henry's house. It was a very charming room, with
olive walls, cream-coloured ceiling, and silk Persian carpet. On a little
redwood table stood a beautiful statuette. Some large blue china vases
were filled with parrot-tulips, and through the window came the apricot-coloured light of a summer day in London.
Lord Henry had not yet come in. So Dorian was looking through
a book. It lasted for hours. At last he heard a step outside, and the door
opened.
"So sorry I am late. Dorian," said Lady Henry.
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…"Never marry at all, Dorian. Men marry because they are
tired; women, because they are curious: both are disappointed."
"I don't think I will marry sometime. I am too much in love. That
is one of your aphorisms. I am putting it into practice, as I do everything that you say."
"Who are you in love with?" asked Lord Henry after a pause.
"With an actress," said Dorian Gray.
"That is a rather commonplace debut.1"
"You would not say so if you saw her, Harry."
"Who is she?"
"Her name is Sibyl Vane."
"Never heard of her."
"No one has. People will some day, however. She is a genius."
"My dear boy, no woman is a genius. Women are decorative, but
never genius. They never have anything to say, but they say it beautifully."
"Harry, how can you?"
"My dear Dorian, it is quite true. I am analysing women at present, so I ought to know. There are only five women in London who
can give you real conversation. However, tell me about your genius.
How long have you known her?"
"About three weeks."
"And where did you meet her?"
"I will tell you, Harry, if you promise not to laugh. Well, one
evening about seven o'clock, I was walking around. I felt that there was
something special for me in this grey monstrous London. Soon I lost
my way in a labyrinth of dark streets. About half-past eight I saw an
old dirty theatre.
"Well, I found myself seated in a terrible little box and looked
around. The gallery and pit were full, but the two rows in the stalls
were quite empty. I think there was not a person in the dress-circle. It
was very depressing. I began to wonder what on earth I should do when
I saw the play-bill. What do you think the play was, Harry? It was Romeo and Juliet. I felt sorry for its great writer. There was a dreadful2
orchestra. The sounds of a cracked piano nearly drove me away, but at
last the curtain went up and the play began.
"Romeo was a fat old man with a terrible voice, and a figure like
a beer-barrel3. Mercutio was almost as bad. But Juliet! Harry, imagine
a girl, about seventeen years of age, with a little, flowerlike face, a
small Greek head with dark-brown hair, eyes that were violet wells of
passion, lips that were like the petals of a rose. She was the loveliest
thing I had ever seen in my life.
"You said to me once that only beauty could fill your eyes with
tears.
I tell you, Harry, I could hardly see this girl because tears came
across me. And her voice – I never heard such a voice. It was like music. Harry, I do love her. She is everything to me in life. Night after
night I go to see her play. I have seen her in every age and in every costume.
"Ordinary women – I am not interested in them. They ride in the
park in the morning, and chatter at tea-parties in the afternoon. They
have their stereotyped smile and their fashionable manner. There is no
mystery in them. But an actress! How different an actress is! Harry!
why didn't you tell me that the only thing worth loving is an actress?"
"Because I have loved many of them, Dorian. But when did you
first speak to Miss Sibyl Vane?"
"The third night. I threw her some flowers, and she looked at me.
"Oh, she was so shy and so gentle4. There is something of a child
about her. Her eyes opened wide when I told her what I thought of her
performance. She didn't know about her power. I think we were both
rather nervous. At last she said to me, «You look like a prince. I must
call you Prince Charming5.”
"Upon my word, Dorian, Miss Sibyl knows how to pay compliments."
"You don't understand her, Harry. She knows nothing of life. She
lives with her mother, a tired woman. Harry, Sibyl is the only thing I
care about. What is it to me where she came from? From her little head
to her little feet, she is beautiful. Every night of my life I go to see her
act, and every night she is more wonderful."
"And what do you want to do?" said Lord Henry at last.
"I want you and Basil to come with me some night and see her
act. You will see her genius. Then we must get her out of that terrible
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theatre. Then I shall take her to a West End theatre. She will make the
world as mad as she has made me."
"That would be impossible, my dear boy."
"Yes, she will."
"Well, what night shall we go?" .
"Let me see. Today is Tuesday. Let us go there tomorrow. She
plays Juliet that day."
"All right. At eight o'clock and I will get Basil."
"Not eight, Harry, please. Half-past six. We must be there before
the curtain rises. You must see her in the first act, where she meets
Romeo."
As he left the room, Lord Henry began to think. He thought of
his friend's young colourful life and wondered how it was all going to
end.
When he arrived home, about half-past twelve o'clock he saw a
telegram lying on the table. He opened it and found it was from Dorian
Gray. It told him that he was going to marry Sibyl Vane.
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1
That is a rather commonplace debut – Довольно банальное
начало.
2
dreadful = terrible, very bad
3
a beer-barrel – пивной бочонок
4
gentle = kind and lovely
5
Prince Charming – Прекрасный Принц; герой сказки «Золушка» французского писателя Шарля Перро
Exercises
1. Complete these sentences:
1. Men marry because .....
2. There are only five women in London who .….
3. I felt that there was ..…
4. The sounds of a cracked piano ..…
5. Harry! Why didn't you tell me that ..…
6. She will make the world as ..…
7. When he arrived home .....
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2. Answer the questions:
1. Read the description of lord Henry’s library again. What can
you say about the owner of this room?
2. What is Lord Henry’s attitude to women?
3. What attracted Dorian in Sibyl?
4. Why wasn’t Dorian interested in ordinary women?
5. Do you think Dorian will marry Sibyl? Why?
3. Who do these words belong to? When were they pronounced?
1. «I don't think I will marry sometime.»
2. «You would not say so if you saw her, Harry.»
3. «I felt sorry for its great writer.»
4. «Miss Sibyl knows how to pay compliments.»
5. «That would be impossible, my dear boy.»
Chapter Six
Words:
huge – огромный
a dahlia – астра
petals – лепестки
a creature – создание, существо
disappointed – разочарован
a failure – провал
dreadful – terrible
indifferent – безразличный
That night the theatre was crowded. The heat was terrible, and
the huge lamp flamed like a monstrous dahlia with petals of yellow
fire. The youths in the gallery had taken off their coats and waistcoats.
They talked to each other across the theatre. Some women were laughing in the pit. Their voices sounded too loud.
A quarter of an hour afterwards, Sibyl Vane appeared on the
stage. Yes, she was certainly lovely to look at – one of the loveliest
creatures, Lord Henry thought, that he had ever seen. She stepped back
and her lips seemed to tremble. Basil Hallward leaped to his feet and
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began to applaud. Motionless, and as one in a dream, sat Dorian Gray,
looking at her. Lord Henry watched through his glasses, saying,
"Charming! Charming!"
But although Sibyl looked beautiful, her voice sounded unnatural. It was lovely but it was absolutely false. It was wrong in colour. It
took away all the life from the great Shakespear's play.
Dorian Gray grew pale as he watched her. Neither of his friends
could say anything to him. They were horribly disappointed. Yet they
knew that the true test of any Juliet is the balcony scene of the second
act. They waited for that. If she failed there, there was nothing in her.
She looked charming as she came out in the moonlight. But her acting
was very poor, and grew worse as she went on. It was simply bad art.
She was a complete failure.
Even the common uneducated audience lost their interest in the
play. They got restless, and began to talk loudly and to whistle. The
only person unmoved was the girl herself.
When the second act was over, Lord Henry got up from his chair
and put on his coat.
"She is quite beautiful, Dorian," he said, "but she can't act. Let us
go."
"I am going to see the play up to the end," answered the lad. "I
am very sorry that I have made you waste an evening, Harry."
"My dear Dorian, I should think Miss Vane was ill," said Hallward. "We will come some other night."
"I wish she were ill," Dorian said. "But she seems to me cold.
She has changed. Last night she was a great actress. This evening she is
a common actress."
"Don't talk like that about any one you love, Dorian. Love is a
more wonderful thing than art."
"But do let us go. Dorian, you must not stay here any longer. It is
not good for one's morals to see bad acting. Besides, I don't suppose
you will want your wife to act, so what does it matter if she plays Juliet
like a wooden doll?" said Lord Henry. "My dear boy, don't look so
tragic!
Come to the club with Basil and myself. We will smoke cigarettes and drink to the beauty of Sibyl Vane. She is beautiful. What
more can you want?"
"Go away, Harry," cried the lad. "I want to be alone. Basil, you
must go. Ah! can't you see that my heart is breaking?" The hot tears
came to his eyes. His lips trembled, and rushing to the back of the box,
he hid his face in his hands.
"Let us go, Basil," said Lord Henry, and the two young men
went away.
A few moments afterwards the curtain rose on the third act.
Dorian Gray went back to his seat. He looked pale and indifferent. The
play went on. Half of the audience went out, laughing. The whole thing
was a failure. The last act was played to almost empty benches. At last
the curtain went down.
As soon as it was over, Dorian Gray went to see Sibyl. The girl
was standing there alone, with a look of triumph on her face. Her eyes
were lit with a fire. Her lips were smiling over some secret of their
own.
When he entered, she looked at him, and an expression of infinite joy came over her. "How badly I acted tonight, Dorian!" she cried.
"Horribly!" he answered. "Horribly! It was dreadful. Are you
ill?"
The girl smiled. "Dorian, you should have understood. But you
understand now, don't you?"
"Understand what?" he asked, angrily.
"Why I was so bad tonight. Why I shall always be bad. Why I
shall never act well again."
"You are ill, I suppose. When you are ill you shouldn't act. You
make yourself ridiculous. My friends were bored. I was bored."
She seemed not to listen to him. "Dorian, Dorian," she cried,
"before I knew you, acting was the one reality of my life. It was only in
the theatre that I lived. I thought that it was all true. I was Rosalind one
night and Portia the other. I believed in everything. The common people who acted with me seemed to me to be godlike. The painted scenes
were my world. I knew nothing but shadows, and I thought them real.
You came – oh, my beautiful love! – and you freed my soul from
prison. You taught me what reality really is. Tonight, for the first time
in my life I saw that the Romeo was ugly, and old, and painted, that the
moonlight in the garden was false, that the scenery was dreadful, and
that the words were unreal. They were not my words, were not the
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words what I wanted to say. You had brought me something higher.
Now I could see that all art is nothing but a reflection. You had made
me understand what love really is. My love! My love! Prince Charming! Prince of life! I have grown sick of shadows. You are more to me
than all art can ever be. When I came on the stage tonight, I could not
understand why everything had gone from me. I thought that I was going to be wonderful. I found that I could do nothing. What could they
know of love such as ours? Take me away, Dorian – take me away
with you, where we can be quite alone. I hate the stage. You have made
me see that."
He sat down on the sofa and turned away his face.
"You have killed my love," he said. She looked at him in wonder
and laughed. He made no answer. She came across to him, knelt down
and pressed his hands to her lips. He drew them away. Then he stood
up and went to the door.
"Yes," he cried, "you have killed my love. I loved you because
you had genius and intellect, because you realized the dreams of great
poets and gave shape and substance to the shadows of art1. You have
thrown it all away. You are empty and stupid. My God! how mad I was
to love you! What a fool I have been! You are nothing to me now. I
will never see you again. I will never think of you. I will never mention
your name. You don't know what you were to me, once. Why, once...
Oh, I wish I had never laid eyes upon you! You have spoiled the romance of my life. Without your art, you are nothing."
The girl grew white, and trembled. "You are not serious,
Dorian?" she murmured. "You are acting."
"Acting! I leave that to you," he answered.
She rose from her knees and, with an expression of pain in her
face, came across the room to him. She put her hand upon his arm and
looked into his eyes.
"Don't touch me!" he cried and pushed her away. She fell on the
floor and lay there like a trampled flower2.
"Dorian, Dorian, don't leave me!" she whispered. "I am so sorry
I didn't act well. I was thinking of you all the time. But I will try – indeed, I will try. It came so suddenly across me, my love for you. Don't
go away from me. I will work so hard and try to improve. I love you
better than anything in the world. After all, it is only once that I have
not pleased you. But you are quite right, Dorian. It was foolish of me,
and yet I couldn't help it. Oh, don't leave me, don't leave me."
But Dorian Gray, with his beautiful eyes, looked down at her,
and left the room. Sibyl Vane seemed to him to be absurdly unnatural.
Her tears annoyed him. In a few moments he was out of the theatre.
___________________
1
gave shape and substance to the shadows of art – облекали
в живую плоть и кровь бесплотные образы искусства
2
a trampled flower – растоптанный цветок
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Exercises
1. Are these sentences true or false:
1. That night the theatre was full of people.
2. Sibyl Vane looked as beautiful as she acted.
3. The audience was following the play with great interest.
4. Everybody was waiting for the balcony scene.
5. Dorian admired Sibyl’s acting.
6. Basil thought that Sybil might be ill.
7. After meeting with Dorian Sibyl loved the theatre even more.
8. Sybil was a good actress because she believed in what she
played.
2. Answer the questions:
1. Why did Dorian fall in love with Sibyl?
2. Why was the theatre crowded that night?
3. Why was the audience leaving the theatre during the performance?
4. Why was Dorian so upset?
5. Why was Sibyl’s acting so poor that night?
6. What do you think the end of this story may be?
7. What kind of person was Dorian Gray?
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PIANO
(after William Saroyan)
"I get excited every time I see a piano," Ben said.
"Is that so?" Emma said. "Why?"
"I don't know," Ben said. "Do you mind if we go into this store
and try the little one in the corner?"
"Can you play?" Emma said.
"If you call what I do playing," Ben said.
"What do you do?"
"You'll see," Ben said.
They went into the store, to the small piano in the corner. Emma
noticed him smiling and wondered if she'd ever known anything about
him. She'd go along for a while thinking she knew him and then all of a
sudden she'd know she didn't. He stood over the piano, looking down at
it. What she imagined was that he had probably heard good piano playing and loved that kind of music, and every time he saw a keyboard
and the shape of a piano he remembered the music and imagined he
had something to do with it.
"Can you play?" she said.
Ben looked around. The clerks seemed to be busy.
"I can't play," Ben said.
She saw his hands go quietly to the white and black keys, like a
real pianist's, and it seemed very unusual because of what she felt when
that happened. She felt that he was someone who would be a long time
finding out about himself, and someone somebody else would be much
longer finding out about. He should be somebody who could play a
piano.
Ben made a few quiet chords. Nobody came over to try to sell
him anything, so, still standing, he began to do what he'd told her wasn't playing.
Well, all she knew was that it was wonderful.
He played half a minute only. Then he looked at her and said, "It
sounds good,"
"I think" it's wonderful," Emma said.
"I don't mean what I did," Ben said. "I mean the piano. I mean
the piano itself. It has a fine tone, especially for a little piano."
A middle-aged clerk came over and said, "How do you do?"
"Hello." Ben said. "This is a swell one."
"It's a very popular instrument," the clerk said. "Especially fine
for apartments. We sell a good many of them."
"How much is it?" Ben said.
"Two hundred forty-nine fifty," the clerk said. "You can have
terms, of course."
45
46
William Saroyan
1908–1981
W. Saroyan was born in 1908 in Fresno, California, to a poor
family of Armenian immigrants. He started as a postman, and neither
he, nor his parents could have ever imagined that there will be a day,
when this name will be mentioned among the American writers such as
Hemingway, Steinbeck, Faulkner, and Caldwell. William Saroyan
wrote more than 1,500 short stories, 12 plays, and 10 novels. One of
his best works, the novel «The Human Comedy,» is partially autobiographical.Saroyan visited Armenia four times, in 1935, 1960, 1976 and
1978, and even saw his play «My Heart’s in the Highlands» in Yerevan
theatre after G. Sundukyan staged by Vardan Adjemyan. The writer
was deeply moved by the play, the music for which was written by Arno
Babadjanyan.
“Although I write in English, and despite the fact that I’m from
America, I consider myself an Armenian writer. The words I use are in
English, the surroundings I write about are American, but the soul,
which makes me write, is Armenian. This means I am an Armenian
writer and deeply love the honor of being a part of the family of Armenian wrtiters,» said Saroyan of himself, and there are no better words
to describe him, but his own.
When Saroyan died in 1981 he was buried in Fresno – his native
town; but according to his will, a part of his heart was buried in faraway Armenia, at the feet of Ararat, not far from lake Van and town of
Bitlis – the homeland of his parents. Now a part of Willam Saroyan’s
heart rests in peace among other notable Armenians in the Pantheon of
Greats in Yerevan.
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"Where do they make them?" Ben said.
"I'm not sure," the clerk said. "In Philadelphia, I think. I can find
out."
"Don't bother," Ben said. "Do you play?"
"No. I don't." the clerk said.
He noticed Ben wanting to try it out some more.
"Go ahead," he said. "Try it some more."
"I don't play," Ben said.
"I heard you," the clerk said.
"That's not playing," Ben said. "I can't read a note."
"Sounded good to me," the clerk said.
"Me, too," Emma said. "How much is the first payment?"
"Oh," the clerk said. "Forty or fifty dollars. Go ahead," he said,
"I'd like to hear you play some more."
"If this was the right kind of room," Ben said, "I could sit down
at the piano for hours."
"Play some more," the clerk said. "Nobody'll mind."
The clerk pushed up the bench and Ben sat down and began to
do what he said wasn't playing. He fooled around fifteen or twenty seconds and then found something like a melody and stayed with it two
minutes. Before he was through, the music became quiet and sorrowful
and Ben himself became more and more pleased with the piano. While
he was letting the melody grow, he talked to the clerk about the piano.
Then he stopped playing and stood up.
"Thanks," he said. "Wish I could buy it."
"Don't mention it," the clerk said.
Ben and Emma walked out of the store. In the street Emma said,
"I didn't know about that, Ben."
"About what?" Ben said.
"About you."
"What about me?"
"Being that way," Emma said.
"This is my lunch hour," Ben said. "In the evening I like to think
of having a piano."
They went into a little restaurant and sat at the counter and ordered sandwiches and coffee.
"Where did you learn to play?" Emma said.
47
"I've never learned," Ben said. "Any place 1 find a piano, I try it
out. I've been doing that ever since I was a kid. Not having money does
that."
He looked at her and smiled. He smiled the way he did when he
stood over the piano looking down at the keyboard. Emma felt flattered.
"Never having money," Ben said, "keeps a man away from lots
of things he figures he ought to have by rights."
"I guess it does," Emma said.
"In a way," Ben said, "it's a good thing, and then again it's not so
good. In fact, it's terrible."
He looked at her again, the same way, and she smiled back at
him the way he was smiling at her.
She understood.. It was like the piano. He could stay near it for
hours.
They left the restaurant and walked two blocks to the Emporium
where she worked.
"Well, so long," he said.
"So long, Ben," Emma said.
He went on down the street and she went on into the store.
Somehow or other she knew he'd get a piano some day, and everything
else, too.
Exercises
1. Imagine that you are Emma. Speak about Ben and his love
for music. Tell us how you got to know each other. Speak about
your future plans.
2. Discussion.
Answer the following questions and discuss the answers.
1. What do you think of Ben, his childhood and the society in
which he grew up? What do you think Ben did for a living? Was Ben
really talented? What makes you think so? What qualities must a good
musician possess?
2. Do you think Ben will ever buy a piano? Will Emma and Ben
marry? Will they understand each other and be happy?
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3. At the end of the story the author says: "...she (Emma) knew
he'd get a piano some day, and everything else, too." Do you think so
too? Why?
4. Do you like the end of the story? How would you have finished the story if you had been the author?
The Early Days of the Cinema
Words:
a stride – большой шаг
a hole – отверстие
a cylinder – цилиндр
a plate – пластина
to manage – суметь
jerky – отрывистый
When we visit a cinema today and watch a moving picture, we
do not often remember that in fact, nothing on the screen moves at all.
It has been known for a long time that the human eye sees things
for a short time after they have gone. In 1824 Peter Mark Roget, after
much study of this subject, gave to the world the results of his work:
the eye sees an object for about a tenth of a second after the object has
disappeared.
This is what happens at the cinema. Twenty-four pictures are
shown on the screen every second, one after the other. But we see each
of them for about a tenth of a second after it has disappeared, and so
we never notice that there is nothing on the screen between the pictures.
When Roget was at work, a plaything was in use which showed
"moving" pictures. It was a cylinder with pictures on the inside wall.
Each picture was a little different from the one before it, and each picture could be seen from outside through a small hole in the wall of the
cylinder. So the eye of the watcher saw one picture after another as the
cylinder was turned round very quickly, and the people in the pictures
seemed to move.
49
After the first photograph was made by Niepce, an American
called Sellers made a machine which used photographs to show moving pictures. The photographs were fixed on a wheel, which was
turned. They were clearer than the pictures in the cylinder, but even
this machine was little better than a plaything.
In 1872 Edward Muybridge, an English photographer living in
America, made an experiment which became well known.
To find out whether a horse raised all its four feet off the ground
at each stride when it was galloping, Muybridge arranged twenty-four
cameras in a line and took photographs of a horse as it galloped past
the cameras. The result showed that a horse really raises all four feet
off the ground when galloping. But Muybridge did more than this. He
made a machine which showed the photographic plates one after the
other on a screen, thus making the horse move.
About ten years after this many .men were studying moving pictures, but now they were using one camera instead of twenty-four.
An Englishman named William Friese-Green was working on
the cinema at this time. He managed to make a moving picture and was
so pleased that he wanted to show it to someone immediately. He
rushed out into the street and found a policeman. "A policeman must be
ready for anything," he thought.
Friese-Green did a lot of work in developing the cinema, but he
never made any money. Instead of selling the results of his work, as
other inventors did, he was always trying to make something better. He
died a very poor man, and without honour.
One of the first cinema films was made by Edison, but the intervals between his photographic exposures were too short—about fortyeight photographs taken (and shown) to the second. The human eye
could not see them so fast and the movements therefore appeared very
jerky. This made the eyes tired.
When Edison's machine was brought to France to show films, it
was seen there by Auguste and Louis Lumiere. These two brothers
soon made a camera and projector that worked at about 16 photographs
per second. This reduced the jerkiness very much, and in December
1895 the Lumiere brothers gave the world's first real cinematograph
show. Their film was called The Arrival of a Train al a Station. The
film was so good that some of the audience almost expected the train to
rush out at them from the screen.
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The first news picture was shown in 1897; it was a documentary
film about a boxing match. Other events were sometimes shown, too.
In 1903 one of Edison's cameramen made a new long picture. It
was called The Life of an American Fireman. People liked it and asked
for more; and so more films of this kind were made. More cinemas
were built.
These first films had no sound. When it was necessary, printed
words were thrown on the screen to explain what was happening or
what people were saying. Usually music was played during the showing of a film. If the film was showing moonlight on the sea, the music
was gentle and sweet. If there was a fight or a storm, the music was
loud and noisy.
6. The two brothers soon made a camera and projector that
worked at about 16 photographs per minute.
7. In November 1895 the Lumiere brothers gave the world's first
real cinematograph show.
8. The first film had wonderful sound.
Exercises
Mark Twain (Samuel Clemens) was born on November 30,
1835, in a tiny settlement in Missouri not far from the little town of
Hannibal on the banks of the Mississippi River. The family soon moved
to Hannibal and there young Sam spent the first fourteen years of his
life – the years in which the writer's character and outlook on life began to be formed. Much later Twain wrote: "All that goes to make the
me in me was in a Missourian village."
His father died when Sam was not yet twelve years old and the
boy had to work to help the family: he became a printer's apprentice.
All his life Twain was very fond of reading. While he was a
printer he spent his spare time in libraries, and so it came about that
he read the works of Рое, Shakespeare, Goldsmith, Dickens, Cervantes,
Voltaire and Tom Paine in his early youth.
It was also while he was a printer that Twain began to write for
newspapers and other publications, sending travel letters to them as he
journeyed about the country from job to job.
One of Sam Clemens's dreams as a boy had been to pilot a
steamboat on the Mississippi. His boyhood dream came true. In his
"Life on the Mississippi" (1883) Mark Twain, in his humorous manner,
tells how he became a steamboat pilot.
The breaking out of the Civil War brought river traffic on the
Mississippi to a stop, and Clemens found himself out of job. Mark
Twain's career as a journalist began some years later. His material
began to appear in the papers regularly, and on February 2, 1863, the
1. Answer the questions:
1. What kind of research work did Roget carry out?
2. In two sentences say what Muybridge and Friese-Green did in
helping to develop the cinema.
3. Discuss whose contribution was more important – Edison's or
the Lumiere brothers'.
4. Why do you think the first films were documentary?
5. Why were some people frightened while watching the film
about the arrival of the train?
6. Have you ever seen silent films? What is your impression?
2. Find mistakes in these sentences and correct them:
1. The eye sees an object for about a fifth of a second after the
object has disappeared.
2. It was a cylinder with pictures on the inside wall. Each picture
was similar to the one before it.
3. In 1972 Edward Muybridge, an English photographer living in
America, made an experiment which became well-known.
4. About ten years after this many .men were studying moving
pictures, but now they were using one camera instead of thirty-four.
5. Friese-Green did a lot of work in developing the cinema, and
he made a lot of money.
51
THE CAPITOLINE VENUS
(by Mark Twain, slightly abridged)
Mark Twain
1835–1910
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Enterprise carried an item signed "Mark Twain". This was the first
time the writer's pen-name appeared in print. One of his stories, "The
Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County" (1865), published in
the New York Saturday Press, brought Mark Twain popularity as a
writer throughout the country.
The years 1874 to 1885 were the most productive; among the
books that he published in that period were his greatest works: «The
Gilded Age» (1874; with Charles Dudley Warner), «The Adventures of
Tom Sawyer" (1876), «A Tramp Abroad» (1880). «The Prince and the
Pauper» (1882) and «The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn» (1885).
Mark Twain went abroad several times and visited various parts
of the world. He returned to America for the last time on October 15,
1900, already world famous. In recognition of his contribution to literature three honorary degrees were conferred on Mark Twain by
American universities, and in the spring of 1907, Oxford University in
England announced it would give him an honorary Doctorate of Letters. In the last decade of his life Mark Twain wrote several of his best
political articles and pamphlets.
Mark Twain died on April 12, at the age of 74. One of his friends
called him «The Lincoln of American literature”.
Words:
obdurate – упрямый
to mean well – иметь хорошие
намерения
to starve – голодать
gifted – одаренный
despond – падать духом
a prejudice – предубеждение
hash – зд. смесь
a simpleton – простак
dummy – истукан
insane – безумный
to swear – клясться
to submit – подчиняться
dizzy – головокружительный
bewildered – растерянный
deliberately – специально
to smash – сильно удариться
nightmare – ночной кошмар
to dun – напоминать об уплате
долга
intrusion – вторжение
suite [swi:t] – номер люкс
exquisite [eks’wizit] – утонченная
ravishing – восхитительный
remuneration – вознаграждение
ingenious – изобретательный
bliss – блаженство
53
Chapter I
(Scene – An Artist's Studio in Rome)
"Oh, George, I do love you!"
"Bless your dear heart, Mary, I know that – why is your father so
obdurate?"
"George, he means well, but art is folly to him – he only understands groceries. He thinks you would starve me."
"Why am I not a money-making grocer, instead of a gifted sculptor with nothing to eat?"
"Do not despond, Georgy, dear – all his prejudices will fade
away as soon as you shall have get fifty thousand dol ―
"Fifty thousand demons!”
Chapter II
(Scene – A Dwelling in Rome)
"My dear sir, it is useless to talk. I haven't anything against you,
but I can't let my daughter marry a hash of love, art and starvation – I
believe you have nothing else to offer."
"Sir, I am poor, I grant you. But is fame nothing? My friend from
Arkansas says that my new statue of America is a clever piece of sculpture, and he is sure that my name will one day be famous."
"Bosh! What does that Arkansas ass know about it? Fame's nothing – the market price of your marble scarecrow is the thing to look at.
It took you six months to create it, and you can't sell it for a hundred
dollars. No, sir! Show me fifty thousand dollars and you can have my
daughter – otherwise she marries young Simper. You have just six
months to raise the money in. Good morning, sir.
"Alas! Woe is me!"
Chapter III
(Scene – The Studio)
"Oh, John, friend of my boyhood, I am the unhappiest of men."
"You're a simpleton."
"I have nothing left to love but my poor statue of America – and
see, even she has no sympathy for me so cold and marble – so beautiful
and so heartless!"
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"You're a dummy!"
"Oh, John!"
"Didn't you say you had six months to raise the money in?"
"If I had six centuries what good would it do? How could it help
a poor guy without name, capital or friends?"
"Idiot! Coward! Baby! Six months to raise the money in – and
five will do!"
"Are you insane?"
"Six months is a lot of time. Leave it to me. I'll raise it."
"What do you mean, John? How on earth can you raise such a
monstrous sum for me?"
"Will you let that be my business? Will you leave the thing in my
hands? Will you swear to submit to whatever I do? Will you promise
me to find no fault with my actions?"
"I am dizzy – bewildered – but I swear."
John took up a hammer and deliberately smashed the nose of
America! He made another pass, and two of her fingers fell to the floor
– another, and part of an ear came away – another, and a row of toes
was broken – another, and the left leg, from the knee down, lay a fragmentary ruin!
John put on his hat and left the room.
George gazed speechless upon the grotesque nightmare before
him for thirty seconds, and then fell onto the floor and went into convulsions.
John returned presently with a carriage, got the broken-hearted
artist and the broken-legged statue aboard, and drove off, whistling
merrily.
"Ah, happiness attend your highness! I have brought my lord's
new boots – ah, say nothing about the pay, there is no hurry. Shall be
proud if my noble lord will continue to honor me with his custom – ah,
adieu!"
"Brought the boots himself? Don't want his pay! Is the world
coming to an end? Of all the – come inl"
"Pardon, signor, but I have brought your new suit of clothes for –"
"Come in!!"
"A thousand pardons for this intrusion, your worship! But I have
prepared the beautiful suite of rooms below for you – this room is so
ugly.
"Come in!!!"
"I have called to say your credit at our bank, sometime since unfortunately interrupted, is entirely and most satisfactorily restored, and
we shall be most happy –
"Come in!!!!"
"My noble boy, she is yours! She'll be here in a moment! Take
her – marry her – be happy! God bless you both!”
"COME IN!!!!!"
"Oh, George, my own darling, we are saved!"
"Oh, Mary, my own darling, we are saved – but I'll swear I don't
know why nor how!"
Chapter V
(Scene – A Roman Cafe)
"The six months will be up at two o'clock today! I would wish I
were dead. I had no supper yesterday. I have had no breakfast today.
My bootmaker duns me to death – my tailor duns me – my landlord
haunts me. I am miserable – I haven't seen John since that awful day.
BUT who is knocking at that door? Who is going to kill me? That
bootmaker or the tailor? Come in!"
One of a group of American gentlemen reads and translates from
the weekly edition of Slangwhanger di Roma as follows:
"WONDERFUL DISCOVERY! – Some six months ago Signor
John Smitthe, an American gentleman, bought a small piece of ground
in the Campagna. Mr. Smitthe afterwards went to the Minister of Public Records and had the piece of ground transferred to a poor American artist named George Arnold, explaining that he did it as payment,
and satisfaction for damage accidentally done by him upon property
belonging to Signor Arnold, and further observed that he would make
additional satisfaction by improving the ground for Signor A., at.his
own cost. Four weeks ago, while making some necessary excavations,
55
56
Chapter IV
(Scene – The Studio)
Copyright ОАО «ЦКБ «БИБКОМ» & ООО «Aгентство Kнига-Cервис»
Signor Smitthe unearthed the most remarkable ancient statue that has
ever been added to the art treasures of Rome. It was an exquisite figure
of a woman, and though sadly stained by the soil and the mould of
ages, no eye can look unmoved upon its ravishing beauty. The nose, the
left leg from the knee down, an ear, and also the toes of the right foot
and two fingers of one of the hands, were gone, but otherwise the noble
figure was in a remarkable state of preservation. The government at
once took possession of the statue, and appointed a commission of art
critics and antiquaries to assess its value and determine the remuneration that must go to the owner of the ground in which it was found. The
whole affair was kept a profound secret until last night. In the meantime the commission sat with closed doors, and deliberated. Last night
they decided unanimously that the status is a Venus, and the work of
some unknown but highly gifled artist of the third century before
Christ.
"At midnight they held a final conference and decided that the
Venus was worth the enormous sum of ten million francs. In accordance with Roman law, the government being half owner in all works
of art found in the Campagna, the State has nothing to do but pay five
million francs to Mr. Arnold and take permanent possession of the
beautiful statue. This morning the Venus will be removed to the Capitol, there to remain, and at noon the commission will wait upon Signor
Arnold will get five million francs in gold."
Chapter VI
(Scene – Roman Capitol Ten Years Later)
"Dearest Mary, this is the most celebrated statue in the world.
This is the renowned 'Capitoline Venus' you've heard so much about.
How strange it seems – this place! The day before I last stood
here, ten happy years ago. I hadn't a cent. And yet I had a good deal to
do with making Rome mistress of this grandest work of ancient art the
world contains."
"Oh, Georgy, how beautiful she is!"
"Ah, yes – but nothing to what she was before that blessed John
Smith broke her leg and battered her nose. Ingenious Smith! – gifted
Smith – noble Smith! Author of all our bliss!"
57
Exercises
1. State clearly, in one sentence, what the reader learns from the
first chapter.
2. What is the sculptor's opinion of himself? Quote his words.
3. What is the grocer's opinion of the artist and his sculpture?
Quote the actual words of the grocer.
4. What makes the poor artist exclaim in despair: "Alas! Woe is
me!"?
5. Who is John? What does he promise to do and what does he
make the sculptor pledge before he undertakes to help him?
6. What is described as a "grotesque nightmare"?
7. What is the effect of John's energetic efforts on the artist?
8. Where do you think John took the broken-legged Venus?
9. How is the reader made to understand that the artist is still
penniless when the six months are up?
10. What does the artist expect to happen at any moment?
11. How do you account for the strange behaviour of the bootmaker, the tailor, the landlord and the grocer?
12. Who is the only person who knows nothing of what has happened? Why?
13. What does John Smith actually do after he has carried the
statue away from George's studio? (Explain briefly, in no more than
three sentences.)
14. What is the unanimous decision of the commission appointed
by the government?
15. Why does the State pay the sculptor five million francs?
16. Why is the statue called the Capitoline Venus?
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СПИСОК ИСПОЛЬЗУЕМОЙ ЛИТЕРАТУРЫ
СОДЕРЖАНИЕ
1. Уальд О. Портрет Дориана Грея. Рассказы. – М.: Айрис
пресс, 2003.
2. Геккер М., Волосова Т., Дорошевич А. Английская литература. – М.: Просвещение, 1975.
3. Геккер М., Головенченко А., Колесников Б. Американская
литература. – М.: Просвещение, 1978.
4. Практический курс английского языка. Для 3 курса англ.
фак. пед. вузов / Под ред. В.Д. Аракина. – М.: Высшая школа, 1974.
5. Генри О. Рассказы. – М.: Айрис пресс, 2003.
Предисловие........................................................................................ 3
The Last Leaf (after O. Henry)............................................................. 4
A Service of Love (retold from the story by O. Henry) ...................... 8
The Spanish Painter (after W. Taine). Part 1...................................... 13
The Spanish Painter (after W. Taine). Part 2...................................... 18
Art For Heart’s Sake (after Rube Goldberg) ..................................... 22
Gigolo and Gigolette (by W.S. Maugham) ........................................ 27
The Picture of Dorian Gray (after Oscar Wilde). Chapter Four ........ 36
The Picture of Dorian Gray (after Oscar Wilde). Chapter Six ........... 40
Piano (after W. Saroyan) . .................................................................. 45
The Early Days of the Cinema ........................................................... 49
The Capitoline Venus (by Mark Twain, slightly abridged)................ 52
Список используемой литературы.................................................. 59
Технический редактор Н.В. Москвичёва
Редактор Л.Ф. Платоненко
Дизайн обложки З.Н. Образова
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Печ. л. 3,8. Уч.-изд. л. 3,8. Тираж 100 экз. Заказ 388.
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