Нижегородский государственный лингвистический
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Текст 2 (Katherine Mansfield Je Ne Parle Pas Français) I date myself from the moment that I became the tenant of a small bachelor flat on the fifth floor of a tall, not too shabby house, in a street that might or might not be discreet. Very useful, that . . . There I emerged, came out into the light and put out my two horns with a study and a bedroom and a kitchen on my back. And real furniture planted in the rooms. In the bedroom a wardrobe with a long glass, a big bed covered with a yellow puffed-up quilt, a bed table with a marbled top and a toilet set sprinkled with tiny apples. In my study – English writing-table with drawers, writing-chair with leather cushions, books, armchair, side-table with paper-knife and lamp on it and some nude studies on the walls. I didn’t use the kitchen except to throw old papers into. Ah, I can see myself that first evening, after the furniture men had gone and I’d managed to get rid of my atrocious old concierge – walking about on tiptoe, arranging and standing in front of the glass with my hands in my pockets and saying to that radiant vision: ‘I am a young man who has his own flat. I write for two newspapers. I am going in for serious literature. I am starting a career. The book that I shall bring out will simply stagger the critics. I am going to write about things that have never been touched on before. I am going to make a name for myself as a writer about the submerged world. But not as others have done before me. Oh, no! Very naïvely, with a sort of tender humour and from the inside, as though it were all quite simple, quite natural. I see my way quite perfectly. Nobody has ever done it as I shall do it because none оf the others have lived my experiences. I’m rich – I’m rich.’ I met Dick Harmon at an evening party given by the editor of a new review. It was a very select, very fashionable affair. One or two of the older men were there and the ladies were extremely comme il faut. They sat on cubist sofas in full evening dress and allowed us to hand them thimbles of cherry brandy and to talk to them about their poetry. For, as far as I can remember, they were all poetesses. It was impossible not to notice Dick. He was the only Englishman present, and instead of circulating gracefully round the room as we all did, he stayed in one place leaning against the wall, his hands in his pockets, that dreamy half smile on his lips, and replying in excellent French in his low, soft voice to anybody who spoke to him. ‘Who is he?’ ‘An Englishman. From London. A writer. And he is making a special study of modern French literature.’ That was enough for me. My little book, Fake Coins, had just been published. I was a young, serious writer who was making a special study of modern English literature. But I really had not time to fling my line before he said, giving himself a soft shake, coming right out of the water after the bait, as it were: ‘Won’t you come and see me at my hotel? Come about five o’clock and we can have a talk before going out to dinner.’ ‘Enchanted!’ I was so deeply, deeply flattered that I had to leave him then and there to preen and preen myself before the cubist sofas. What a catch! An Englishman, reserved, serious, making a special study of French literature... That same night a copy of Fake Coins with a carefully cordial inscription was posted off, and a day or two later we did dine together and spent the evening talking. Talking – but not only of literature. I discovered to my relief that it wasn’t necessary to keep to the tendency of the modern novel, the need of a new form, or the reason why our young men appeared to be just missing it. Now and again, as if by accident, I threw in a card that seemed to have nothing to do with the game, just to see how he’d take it. But each time he gathered it into his hands with his dreamy look and smile unchanged. Perhaps he murmured: ‘That’s very curious.’ But not as if it were curious at all. That calm acceptance went to my head at last. It fascinated me. It led me on and on till I threw every card that I possessed at him and sat back and watched him arrange them in his hand. ‘Very curious and interesting...’ By that time we were both fairly drunk, and he began to sing his song very soft, very low, about the man who walked up and down seeking his dinner. But I was quite breathless at the thought of what I had done. I had shown somebody both sides of my life. Told him everything as sincerely and truthfully as I could. Taken immense pains to explain things about my submerged life that really were disgusting and never could possibly sее the light of literary day. On the whole I had made myself out far worse than I was – more boastful, more cynical, more calculating. And there sat the man I had confided in, singing to himself and smiling… It moved me so that real tears came into my eyes. I saw them glittering on my long silky lashes – so charming. Текст 3 (Katherine Mansfield Psychology) When she opened the door and saw him standing there she was more pleased than ever before, and he, too, as he followed her into the studio, seemed very very happy to have come. ‘Not busy?’ ‘No. Just going to have tea.’ ‘And you are not expecting anybody?’ ‘Nobody at all.’ Ah! That’s good.’ He laid aside his coat and hat gently, lingeringly, as though he had time and to spare for everything, or as though he were taking leave of them for ever, and came over to the fire and held out his hands to the quick, leaping flame. Just for a moment both of them stood silent in that leaping light. Still, as it were, they tasted on their smiling lips the sweet shock of their greeting. Their secret selves whispered: ‘Why should we speak? Isn’t this enough?’ ‘More than enough. I never realized until this moment...’ ‘How good it is just to be with you ...’ ‘Like this...’ ‘It’s more than enough.’ But suddenly he turned and looked at her and she moved quickly away. ‘Have a cigarette? I’ll put the kettle on. Are you longing for tea?’ ‘No. Not longing.’ ‘Well, I am.’ ‘Oh, you.’ He thumped the Armenian cushion and flung on to the sommier. ‘You're a perfect little Chinee.’ ‘Yes, I am,’ she laughed. ‘I long for tea as strong men long for wine.’ She lighted the lamp under its broad orange shade, pulled the curtains and drew up the tea table. Two birds sang in the kettle; the fire fluttered. He sat up clasping his knees. It was delightful – this business of having tea – and she always had delicious things to eat – little sharp sandwiches, short sweet almond fingers, and a dark, rich cake tasting of rum – but it was an interruption. He wanted it over, the table pushed away, their two chairs drawn up to the light, and the moment come when he took out his pipe, filled it, and said, pressing the tobacco tight into the bowl: ‘I have been thinking over what you said last time and it seems to me ...’ Yes, that was what he waited for and so did she. Yes, while she shook the teapot hot and dry over the spirit flame she saw those other two, him, leaning back, taking his ease among the cushions, and her, curled up en escargot in the blue shell armchair. The picture was so clear and so minute it might have been painted on the blue teapot lid. And yet she couldn’t hurry. She could almost have cried: ‘Give me time.’ She must have time in which to grow calm. She wanted time in which to free herself from all these familiar things with which she lived so vividly. For all these gay things round her were part of her - her offspring – and they knew it and made the largest, most vehement claims. But now they must go. They must be swept away, shooed away – like children sent up the shadowy stairs, packed into bed and commanded to go to sleep – at once – without a murmur! For the special thrilling quality of their friendship was in their complete surrender. Like two open cities in the midst of some vast plain their two minds lay open to each other. And it wasn’t as if he rode into hers like a conqueror, armed to the eyebrows and seeing nothing but a gay silken flutter – nor did she enter his like a queen walking soft on petals. No, they were eager, serious travellers, absorbed in understanding what was to be seen and discovering what was hidden making the most of this extraordinary absolute chance which made it possible for him to be utterly truthful to her and for her to be utterly sincere with him. And the best of it was they were both of them old enough to enjoy their adventure to the full without any stupid emotional complication Passion would have ruined everything; they quite saw that. Besides, all that sort of thing was over and done with for both of them – he was thirty-one, she was thirty – they had had their experiences, and very rich and varied they had been, but now was the time for harvest – harvest. Carefully she cut the cake into thick little wads and he reached across for a piece. ‘Do realize how good it is,’ she implored. ‘Eat it imaginatively. Roll your eyes if you can and taste it on the breath. It’s not a sandwich from the hatter’s bag – it’s the kind of cake that might have been mentioned in the Book of Genesis ... And God said: “Let there be cake. And there was cake. And God saw that it was good.” ‘You needn’t entreat me,’ said he. ‘Really you needn’t. It’s a queer thing but I always do notice what I eat here and never anywhere else. I suppose it comes of living alone so long and always reading while I feed … my habit of looking upon food as just food . . . something that’s there, at certain times ... to be devoured ... to be ... not there.’ He laughed. ‘That shocks you. Doesn’t it?’ ‘To the bone,’ said she. ‘But – look here.’ He pushed away his cup and began to speak very fast. ‘I simply haven’t got any external life at all. I don’t know the names of things a bit – trees and so on – and I never notice places or furniture or what people look like. One room is just like another to me – a place to sit and read or talk in – except,’ and here he paused, smiled in a strange naïve way, and said, ‘except this studio.’ He looked round him and then at her; he laughed in his astonishment and pleasure. He was like a man who wakes up in a train to find that he has arrived, already, at the journey’s end. ‘Here’s another queer thing. If I shut my eyes I can see this place down to every detail – every detail... Now I come to think of it – I’ve never realized this consciously before. Often when I am away from here, I revisit it in spirit – wander about among your red chairs, stare at the bowl of fruit on the black table – and just touch, very lightly, that marvel of a sleeping boy’s head.’ He looked at it as he spoke. It stood on the corner of the mantelpiece; the head to one side down-drooping, the lips parted, as though in his sleep the little boy listened to some sweet sound ... ‘I love that little boy,’ he murmured. And then they both were silent. Текст 4 (Katherine Mansfield Psychology) А new silence came between them. Nothing in the least like the satisfactory pause that had followed their greetings – the ‘Well, here we are together again, and there’s no reason why we shouldn’t go on from just where we left off last time.’ That silence could be contained in the circle of warm, delightful fire and lamplight. How many times hadn’t they flung something into it just for the fun of watching the ripples break on the easy shores. But into this unfamiliar pool the head of the little boy sleeping his timeless sleep dropped – and the ripples flowed away, away – boundlessly far – into deep glittering darkness. And then both of them broke it. She said: ‘I must make up the fire,’ and he said: ‘I have been trying a new ... ‘ Both of them escaped. She made up the fire and put the table back, the blue chair was wheeled forward, she curled up and he lay back among the cushions. Quickly! Quickly! They must stop it from happening again. ‘Well, I read the book you left last time.’ ‘Oh, what do you think of it?’ They were off and all was as usual. But was it? Weren’t they just a little too quick, too prompt with their replies, too ready to take each other up? Was this really anything more than a wonderfully good imitation of other occasions? His heart beat; her cheek burned and the stupid thing was she could not discover where exactly they were or what exactly was happening. She hadn’t time to glance back. And just as she had got so far it happened again. They faltered, wavered, broke down, were silent. Again they were conscious of the boundless, questioning dark. Again, there they were – two hunters, bending over their fire, but hearing suddenly from the jungle beyond a shake of wine and a loud, questioning cry... She lifted her head. ‘It’s raining,’ she murmured. Well. Why didn’t they just give way to it – yield – and see what would happen then? But no. Vague and troubled though they were, they knew enough to realize their precious friendship was in danger. She was the one who would be destroyed – not they – and they’d be no party to that. He got up, knocked out his pipe, ran his hand through his hair and said: ‘I have been wondering very much lately whether the novel of the future will be a psychological novel or not. How sure are you that psychology qua psychology has got anything to do with literature at all?’ ‘Do you mean you feel there’s quite a chance that the mysterious non-existent creatures – the young writers of today – are trying simply to jump the psychoanalyst’s claim?’ ‘Yes, I do. And I think it’s because this generation is just wise enough to know that it is sick and to realize that its only chance of recovery is by going into its symptoms – making an exhaustive study of them tracking them down - trying to get at the root of the trouble.’ ‘But oh,’ she wailed. ‘What a dreadfully dismal outlook.’ ‘Not at all,’ said he. ‘Look here . . . ‘ On the talk went. And now it seemed they really had succeeded. She turned in her chair to look at him while she answered. Her smile said: ‘We have won.’ And he smiled back, confident: ‘Absolutely.’ But the smile undid them. It lasted too long; it became a grin. They saw themselves as two little grinning puppets jigging away in nothingness. ‘What have we been talking about?’ thought he. He was so utterly bored he almost groaned. ‘What a spectacle we have made of ourselves,’ thought she. And she saw him laboriously – oh, laboriously – laying out the grounds and herself running after, putting here a tree and there a flowery shrub and here a handful of glittering fish in a pool. They were silent this time from sheer dismay. The clock struck six merry little pings and the fire made a soft flutter. What fools they were – heavy, stodgy, elderly – with positively upholstered minds. And now the silence put a spell upon them like solemn music. It was anguish – anguish for her to bear it and he would die – he’d die if it were broken… And yet he longed to break it. Not by speech. At any rate not by their ordinary maddening chatter. There was another way for them to speak to each other, and in the new way he wanted to murmur: ‘Do you feel this too? Do you understand it at all?’... Instead, to his horror, he heard himself say: ‘I must be off; I’m meeting Brand at six.’ What devil made him say that instead of the other? She jumped – simply jumped out of her chair, and he heard her crying: ‘You must rush, then. He’s so punctual. Why didn’t you say so before?’ ‘You’ve hurt me; you’ve hurt me! We’ve failed!’ said her secret self while she handed him his hat and stick, smiling gaily. She wouldn’t give him a moment for another word, but ran along the passage and opened the big outer door. Could they leave each other like this? How could they? He stood on the step and she just inside holding the door. It was not raining now. ‘You’ve hurt me – hurt me,’ said her heart. ‘Why don’t you go? No, don’t go. Stay. No – go!’ And she looked out upon the night… It was too late to do anything now. Was it too late? Yes, it was. A cold snatch of hateful wind blew into the garden. Curse life! He heard her cry ‘au revoir’ and the door slammed. Running back into the studio she behaved so strangely. She ran up and down lifting her arms and crying: ‘Oh! Oh! How stupid! How imbecile! How stupid!’ And then she flung herself down on the sommier thinking of nothing – just lying there in her rage. All was over. What was over? Oh – something was. And she’d never see him again – never. After a long long time (or perhaps ten minutes) had passed in that black gulf her bell rang a sharp quick jingle. It was he, of course. And equally, of course, she oughtn’t to have paid the slightest attention to it but just let it go on ringing and ringing. She flew to answer. |
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