Bank Holiday by Katherine Mansfield
Katherine Mansfield is a New Zealand-born English master of the short story. And although she wrote not only about New Zealand, some details in the text (the accent – ‘fevvers’ for ‘feathers’, a lot of sailors, heat and wind) suggest an idea that the setting is New Zealand.
K. Mansfield once called herself ‘the English Anton Chekhov’. And here we see some traits proving this statement: understanding and knowledge of different people, bright symbolic details.
Время и место действия (Setting)
Размышляя о времени и месте действия, задайте себе вопрос: важны ли они для понимания произведения или история могла произойти в любую эпоху в любой стране (сравните «Золушку», «Ромео и Джульетту», «Преступление и наказание»)? Важно также задуматься о функции деталей, на которые автор делает акцент (пейзаж, обстановка комнаты, звуки, цвета, погода): они могут служить созданию реалистичной атмосферы, создавать у читателя определенное настроение или быть средством непрямой характеристики персонажей.
Следующие фразы могут быть полезны при разборе:
The story (extract) under discussion / under consideration / under review in question was written by… (comes from the book …by…).
The scene is laid / set in (a small town in the South England).
The novel is set in the South during the racial turbulent 1930’s, when blacks were treated unfairly by the courts.
The time of action is (the fifties of the 20th century).
Нужно иметь в виду, что время и место действия могут быть важны в разной степени. Так, в следующем примере более значимо место действия. Выполняя анализ отрывка из романа ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s’, необходимо собрать все детали и имена собственные, доказывающие, что речь идет о Нью-Йорке. При этом важно прокомментировать, какое значение они имеют для характеристики персонажей, создания атмосферы, для проблематики произведения.
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Историческое время довольно расплывчато: главный герой книги «Завтрак у Тиффани» вспоминает, как он впервые приехал в Нью-Йорк в начале войны, в то же время роман вышел в 1958, а известный фильм снят в 1961 и скорее отражает атмосферу 1960-х, а не 40-х, парадоксальным образом напоминающую и о 1920-х, показанных Фитцджеральдом в «Великом Гэтсби». Однако в тексте подчеркнуто время года, что необходимо учесть при анализе.
Breakfast at Tiffany’sby Truman Capote
Outside, the rain had stopped, there was only a mist of it in the air, so I turned the corner and walked along the street where the brownstone stands. It is a street with trees that in the summer makes cool patterns on the pavement; but now the leaves were yellowed and mostly down, and the rain had made them slippery, they skidded underfoot. The brownstone is midway in the block, next to a church where a blue tower-clock tolls the hours. It has been sleeked up since my day; a smart black door has replaced the old frosted glass, and gray elegant shutters frame the windows. No one I remember still lives there except Madame Sapphia Spanella, a husky coloratura who every afternoon went roll-skating in Central Park. I know she’s still there because I went up the steps and looked at the mailboxes. It was one of these mailboxes that had first made me aware of Holly Golightly.
I’d been living in the house about a week when I noticed that the mailbox belonging to Apt. 2 had a name-slot fitted with a curious card. Printed, rather Cartier-formal, it read: Miss Holiday Golightly; and, underneath, in the corner, Traveling. It nagged me like a tune: Miss Holiday Golightly, Traveling.
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One night, it was long past twelve, I woke up at the sound of Mr. Yunoshi calling down the stairs. Since he lived on the top floor, his voice fell through the whole house, exasperated and stern. “Miss Golightly! I must protest!”
The voice that came back, welling up from the bottom of the stairs, was silly-young and self-amused. “Oh, darling, I am sorry. I lost the goddamn key.”
“You cannot go on ringing my bell. You must please, please have yourself a key made.”
“But I lose them all.”
“I work, I have to sleep,” Mr. Younoshi shouted. “But always you are ringing my bell…”
“Oh, don’t be angry, you dear little man: I won’t do it again. And if you promise not to be angry” – her voice was coming nearer, she was climbing the stairs – “I might let you take those pictures we mentioned.”
By now I’d left my bed and opened the door an inch. I could hear Mr. Yunoshi’s silence: hear, because it was accompanied by an audible change of breath.
“When?” he said.
The girl laughed. “Sometime,” she answered, slurring the word.
“Any time,” he said, and closed his door.
I went out into the hall and leaned over the banister, just enough to see without being seen. She was still on the stairs, now she reached the landing, and the ragbag colors of her boy’s hair, tawny streaks, strands of albino-blond and yellow, caught the hall light. It was a warm evening, nearly summer, and she wore a slim cool black dress, black sandals, a pearl choker. For all her chic thinness, she had an almost breakfast-cereal air of health, a soap and lemon cleanness, a rough pink darkening in the cheek. Her mouth was large, her nose upturned. A pair of dark glasses blotted out her eyes. It was a face beyond childhood, yet this side of belonging to a woman. I thought her anywhere between sixteen and thirty; as it turned out, she was shy two months of her nineteenth birthday.
She was not alone. There was a man following behind her. The way his plum hand clutched at her hip seemed somehow improper; not morally, aesthetically. He was short and vast, sun-lamped and pomaded, a man in a buttressed pin-stripe suit with a red carnation withering in the lapel. When they reached her door she rummaged her purse in search of a key, and took no notice of the fact that his thick lips were nuzzling the nape of her neck. At last, though, finding the key and opening her door, she turned to him cordially: “Bless you, darling – you were sweet to see me home.”
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“Hey, baby!” he said, for the door was closing in his face.
“Yes, Harry?”
“Harry was the other guy. I’m Sid. Sid Arbuck. You like me.”
“I worship you, Mr. Arbuck. But good night, Mr. Arbuck.”
Mr. Arbuck stared with disbelief as the door shut firmly.
“Hey, baby, let me in, baby. You like me, baby. I’m a liked guy. Didn’t I pick up the check, five people, your friends, I never seen them before? Don’t that give me the right you should like me? You like me, baby.”
He tapped on the door gently, then louder; finally he took several steps back, his body hunched and lowering, as though he meant to charge it, crash it down. Instead, he plunged down the stairs, slamming a fist against the wall. Just as he reached the bottom, the door of the girl’s apartment opened and she poked out her head.
“Oh, Mr. Arbuck…”
He turned back, a smile of relief oiling his face: she’d only been teasing.
“The next time a girl wants a little powder-room change,” she called, not teasing at all, “take my advice, darling: don’t give her twenty-cents!”
NOTES:
Cartier-formal –красивым строгим шрифтом.
ragbag colors of her boy’s hair– пестрота ее волос в мальчишеской стрижке.
pearl choker –жемчужное ожерелье под самую шею.
she had an almost breakfast-cereal air of health –от нее веяло здоровьем, она выглядела как на плакате, рекламирующем полуфабрикат каши на завтрак.
she was shy two months of her nineteenth birthday –ей не хватало двух месяцев до девятнадцати лет.
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sun-lamped –загорелый от света кварцевой лампы.
buttressed pin-stripe suit –костюм в полосочку с подложенными плечами, грудью и т.п.
powder-room change– мелочь, чтобы расплатиться в туалете.
Персонажи (Characters)
Персонажи (characters) произведения могут характеризоваться прямо (directly) или косвенно (indirectly) – через свои поступки, реплики других персонажей, внешность, речевые особенности (speech characteristic), такие как использование диалектной или сниженной лексики, акцент.
В системе персонажей герои могут быть хорошо очерченными (round) – сложными, претерпевающими внутренние изменения – или простыми (flat), построенными вокруг одной черты характера.
Для системы персонажей также характерно наличие протагониста (protagonist), антагониста (antagonist) и персонажа, оттеняющего характеристики главного героя (foil).
Протагонист – обычно главный герой, ему читатель склонен сочувствовать, с ним в какой-то мере себя идентифицирует. Этот герой произведения необязательно «хороший», он может находиться в нравственном поиске, но важно, чтобы именно его метания были читателю интересны, вызывали симпатию.
Антагониста тоже обычно нельзя назвать «хорошим» или «плохим». Но он тем или иным образом противопоставлен протагонисту, что служит источником конфликта произведения.
Введение в повествование персонажа, оттеняющего характеристики главного героя, - выгодный художественный прием, помогающий показать протагониста в нужном свете. Для романов Достоевского, например, характерна целая система таких персонажей - «отражений» главного героя. Самый простой и понятный пример ‘foil’ – некрасивая подружка главной героини.
Следующие фразы могут быть полезны при анализе:
The author resorts to(direct characterization of the characters).
This discloses/ reveals/ lays bare/ brings out/ exposes(some sides/ traits)of the character. The author provides a deep insightinto the psychology of characters.
The story is permeated with(deep sympathy for the characters).
The character embodies / is the embodiment of...
His appearance is suggestive ofhis character.
The author emphasizes / stresses / accentuates / points out...
Watson is a perfect foil for Holmes because his relative obtuseness makes Holmes's deductions seem more brilliant.
The noble, virtuous father Macduff provides an idealfoilfor the villainous Macbeth.
В рассказе ‘Miss Brill’ автор использует различные способы непрямой характеристики главного персонажа. Важным оказывается всё: изменение её настроения, её возраст, профессия и национальность, её одежда (особенно горжетка), синтаксические особенности её внутреннего монолога, истории случайных прохожих, место и время действия. Сочувствуете ли вы героине рассказа? Как автору удается добиться этого эффекта?
Miss Brill by Katherine Mansfield
Although it was so brilliantly fine-the blue sky powdered with gold and great spots of light like white wine splashed over the Jardins Publiques-Miss Brill was glad that she had decided on her fur. The air was motionless, but when you opened your mouth there was just a faint chill, like a chill from a glass of iced water before you sip, and now and again a leaf came drifting-from nowhere, from the sky. Miss Brill put up her hand and touched her fur. Dear little thing! It was nice to feel it again. She had taken it out of its box that afternoon, shaken out the moth powder, given it a good brush, and rubbed the life back into the dim little eyes. "What has been happening to me?” said the sad little eyes. Oh, how' sweet it was to see them snap at her again from the red eiderdown! . . . But the nose, which was of some black composition, wasn't at all firm. It must have had a knock, somehow. Never mind—a little dab of black sealing-wax when the time came—when it was absolutely necessary ... Little rogue! Yes, she really felt like that about it. Little rogue biting its tail just by her left ear. She could have taken it off and laid it on her lap and stroked it. She felt a tingling in her hands and arms, but that came from walking, she supposed. And when she breathed, something light and sad-no, not sad, exactly-something gentle seemed to move in her bosom.
There were a number of people out this afternoon, far more than last Sunday. And the band sounded louder and gayer. That was because the Season had begun. For although the band played all the year round on Sundays, out of season it was never the same. It was like some one playing with only the family to listen; it didn’t care how it played if there weren’t any strangers present. Wasn’t the conductor wearing a new coat, too? She was sure it was new. He scraped with his foot and flapped his arms like a rooster about to crow, and the bandsmen sitting in the green rotunda blew out their cheeks and glared at the music. Now there came a little “flutey” bit-very pretty!-a little chain of bright drops. She was sure it would be repeated. It was; she lifted her head and smiled.
Only two people shared her “special” seat: a fine old man in a velvet coat, his hands clasped over a huge carved walking-stick, and a big old woman, sitting upright, with a roll of knitting on her embroidered apron. They did not speak. This was disappointing, for Miss Brill always looked forward to the conversation. She had become really quite expert, she thought, at listening as though she didn’t listen, at sitting in other people’s lives just for a minute while they talked round her.
She glanced, sideways, at the old couple. Perhaps they would go soon. Last Sunday, too, hadn't been as interesting as usual. An Englishman and his wife, he wearing a dreadful Panama hat and she button boots. And she’d gone on the whole time about how she ought to wear spectacles; she knew she needed them; but that it was no good getting any; they’d be sure to break and they’d never keep on. And he’d been so patient. He’d suggested everything - gold rims, the kind that curve round your ears, little pads inside the bridge. No, nothing would please her. ”They’ll always be sliding down my nose!” Miss Brill had wanted to shake her.
The old people sat on a bench, still as statues. Never mind, there was always the crowd to watch. To and fro, in front of the flower beds and the band rotunda, the couples and groups paraded, stopped to talk, to greet, to buy a handful of flowers from the old beggar who had his tray fixed to the railings. Little children ran among them swooping and laughing; little boys with big white silk bows under their chins, little girls, little French dolls, dressed up in velvet and lace. And sometimes a tiny staggerer came suddenly rocking into the open from under the trees, stopped, stared, as suddenly sat down "flop;” until its small high-stepping mother, like a young hen, rushed scolding to its rescue. Other people sat on the benches and green chairs, but they were nearly always the same, Sunday after Sunday, and - Miss Brill had often noticed - there was something funny about nearly all of them. They were odd, silent, nearly all old, and from the way they stared they looked as though they’d just come from dark little rooms or even-even cupboards!
Behind the rotunda the slender trees with yellow leaves down drooping, and through them just a line of sea and beyond the blue sky with gold-veined clouds.
Tum-tum-tum tiddle-um! tiddle-um! turn tiddley-um turn ta! blew the band.
Two young girls in red came by and two young soldiers in blue met them, and they laughed and paired and went off arm-in-arm. Two peasant w omen with funny straw hats passed, gravely, leading beautiful smoke-coloured donkeys. A cold, pale nun hurried by. A beautiful woman came along and dropped her bunch of violets, and a little boy ran after to hand them to her, and she took them and threw them away as if they’d been poisoned. Dear me! Miss Brill didn’t know whether to admire that or not! And now an ermine toque and a gentleman in gray met just in front of her. He was tall, stiff, dignified, and she was wearing the ermine toque she’d bought when her hair was yellow. Now everything, her hair, her face, even her eyes, was the same colour as the shabby ermine, and her hand in its cleaned glove, lifted to dab her lips, was a tiny yellowish paw. Oh, she was so pleased to see him – delighted!
She rather thought they were going to meet that afternoon. She described where she'd been -everywhere, here, there along by the sea. The day was so charming-didn't he agree? And wouldn't he, perhaps? . . . But he shook his head, lighted a cigarette, slowly breathed a great deep puff into her face, and even while she was still talking and laughing, flicked the match away and walked on. The ermine toque was alone; she smiled more brightly than ever. But even the band seemed to know what she was feeling and played more softly, played tenderly, and the drum beat, "The Brute! The Brute!" over and over. What would she do? What was going to happen now? But as Mi: Brill wondered, the ermine toque turned, raised her hand as though she'd seen someone else, much nicer, just over there, and pattered away. And the band changed again and played more quickly, more gayly than ever, and the оld couple on Miss Brill's seat got up and marched away, and such a funny old man with long whiskers hobbled along in time to the music and was nearly knocked over by four girls walking abreast.
Oh, how fascinating it was! How she enjoyed it! How she loved sitting here, watching it all! It was like play. It was exactly like a play. Who could believe the sky at the back wasn't painted? But it wasn't till a little brown dog trotted on solemn and then slowly trotted off, like a little "theatre" dog, a little dog that had been drugged, that Miss Brill discovered what it was that made it so exciting. They were all on stage. They weren't only the audience, not only looking on; they were acting. Even she had a part and came every Sunday. No doubt somebody would have noticed if she hadn't been there; she was part of the performance after all. How strange she'd never thought of it like that before! And yet it explained why she made such point of starting from home at just the same time each week so as not to be late for the performance-and it also explained why she had a queer, shy feeling at telling her English pupils how she spent her Sunday afternoons. No wonder! Miss Brill nearly laughed out loud. She was on the stage. She thought of the old invalid gentleman to whom she read the newspaper four afternoons a week while he slept the garden. She had got quite used to the frail head on the cotton pillow, the hollowed eyes, the open mouth and the high pinched nose. If he’d been dead she mightn't have noticed for weeks; she wouldn't have minded. But suddenly he knew he was having the paper read to him by an actress! "An actress!" The old head lifted; two points of light quivered in the old eyes. "An actress-are ye?" And Miss Brill smoothed the newspaper as though it were the manuscript of her part and said gently; "Yes, I have been an actress for a long time."
The band had been having a rest. Now they started again. And what they played was warm, sunny, yet there was just a faint chill—a something, what was it?-not sadness-no, not sadness - a something that made you want to sing. The tune lifted, lifted, the light shone; and it seemed to Miss Brill that in another moment all of them, all the whole company, would begin singing. The young ones, the laughing ones who were moving together, they would begin and the men's voices, very resolute and brave, would join them. And then she too, she too, and the others on the benches-they would come in with a kind of accompaniment-something low, that scarcely rose or fell something so beautiful-moving. . . . And Miss Brill's eyes filled with tears and she looked smiling at all the other members of the company. Yes, we understand, we understand, she thought-though what they understood she didn’t know.
Just at that moment a boy and girl came and sat down where the old couple had been. They were beautifully dressed; they were in love. The hero and heroine, of course, just arrived from his father's yacht. And still soundlessly singing, still with that trembling smile, Miss Brill prepared to listen.
"No, not now," said the girl. "Not here, I can't."
"But why? Because of that stupid old thing at the end there?" asked the boy. "Why does she come here at all - who wants her? Why doesn't she keep her silly old mug at home?"
"It’s her fu-ur which is so funny," giggled the girl. "It's exactly like a fried whiting.”
"Ah, be off with you!" said the boy in an angry whisper. Then: "Tell me, ma petite chère –
“No, not here,” said the girl. “Not yet."
On her way home she usually bought a slice of honeycake at the baker's, it was her Sunday treat. Sometimes there was an almond in her slice, sometimes not. It made a great difference. If there was an almond it was like carrying home a tiny present - а surprise-something that might very well not have been there. She hurried on the almond Sundays and struck the match for the kettle in quite a dashing way.
But to-day she passed the baker’s by, climbed the stairs, went into the little dark room - her room like a cupboard - and sat down on the red eiderdown. She sat there for a long time. The box that the fur came out of was on the bed. She unclasped the necklet quickly; quickly, without looking, laid it inside. But when she put the lid on she thought she heard something crying.
Точка зрения (Point of view)
Наивный читатель зачастую безоговорочно принимает отношение автора к описываемому в рассказе или же отношение персонажей к происходящему за единственно возможное. Однако в произведении может быть представлено несколько контрастирующих «отношений», истинных в одной проекции и сомнительных в другой. В литературоведении этот прием, дающий возможность показать читателю относительность оценок, получил название «точка зрения» (point of view). «Точка зрения становится ощутимым элементом художественной структуры с того момента, как возникает возможность смены ее в пределах повествования (или проекции текста на другой текст с иной точкой зрения)» [5, 320]. Существуют даже целые романы, построенные на контрасте двух точек зрения, например, «Обратная сторона ветра» Милорада Павича, где одни и те же события представлены в одной части с точки зрения мужчины, а в другой – с точки зрения женщины.
В приведенных здесь текстах смена точки зрения не является основным приемом, однако интересно проявляется через язык и другие средства выразительности.
В рассказе ‘Cyber essay’ противопоставлены две проекции: с одной стороны – мир индейцев с его ценностями через сознание индейца же, с другой – мир нашей цивилизации в недалеком будущем через сознание не принимающего его современника. Обе части сильно отличаются синтаксически (индеец и полицейский из будущего, естественно, не могут выражаться одинаково) и лексически (разные ключевые слова). Два персонажа по-разному оценивают свою жизнь и смерть, своё предназначение, цену своих усилий. Мастерски показано, как для представителей разных культур варьируются норма и отклонение.
Рассказ ‘Back for Christmas’ начинается с показа семейной жизни четы Карпентеров глазами жены, миссис Гермионы, а затем в середине повествование резко переключается, и читателю преподается точка зрения на то же самое мужа. Автором обыгрываются слова ‘arrangement’, ‘business’, ‘to manage’, в устах каждого из супругов актуализирующие разные значения. Интересно, что два главных героя используют в речи разные вспомогательные и модальные глаголы. Жена: «He would be in America…She would have a wonderful time, too. She would see the skyscrapers…», «He must be back by Christmas». Муж: «…finished what he had to do», «He had to drive very carefully». Его мировосприятие – всегда с оглядкой на давление обстоятельств, даже когда он убеждает себя, что уже свободен (в такой момент он осмеливается употребить ‘can’). Гермиона выбирает ‘must’, возможно, даже не в смысле долженствования, а в значении наибольшей степени вероятности. Она легко оперирует временами, притягивая будущее к прошедшему во Future-in-the-Past, потому что она уверена, что знает ход жизни своей семьи на значительное время вперед. С учетом характера развития событий можно говорить о создании эффекта иронии, возникающего за счет добавление третьей точки зрения – того, кто уже знает, чем кончится дело. Это «всезнающий автор» (omniscient author) или читатель, не в первый раз обращающийся к рассказу. Заметим, что с этой точки зрения would в начале читается уже как проявление не Future-in-the-Past, а сослагательного наклонения.
Cyber essayby A. Reivakh
The sun has risen. New day has started for the Mohambwas tribe. This day is promising to be just another fine day.
Hunters have just returned with their prey from the night hunt.
Mohambwa wakes up and goes out from his tepee. He is the only elder in his tribe and everyone honors him. When he was young he was the most courageous hunter and warrior. With the ages the wisdom has come and now everyone asks for his advice, as he asked for elder’s advice in youth.
He approaches the bonfire. Kids are sitting here. When they see him they smile and ask him to tell a story. He smiles in turn and starts.
Later that day he is strolling through the village. Young warriors are preparing for their initial ritual, the tribe’s tanner is making clothes and belts of animal skin. Everyone is busy. Everything is fine.
In the evening everyone came to the bonfire to talk and discuss the recent events, when suddenly the palefaces attacked. Panic started. Warriors were trying to fight them off but they were nothing against the invaders’ rifles and revolvers. Chief’s daughter – Nada – was trying to gather everyone and bring them to safety.
Mohambwa took his tomahawk from his tepee and threw it at the nearest paleface.
Gunshot.
Pain burst in the chest.
Mohambwa fell on the ground.
“McGriefe sends you hello,” – said the paleface.
“Be cursed you,” – Mohambwa said as loudly as he could. – “your world will be rotten.”
“What do you say, boy?” – the paleface was mocking at him. – “Boss wants your scalp as the evidence that you’re dead, Injun. And I’ll bring it for him.”
With that words he took out the knife. It touched the skin.
Dough Jones woke up. This dream again. It was following him for all his life. He stood up and tried to smoke. Cyber prostheses were shaking. It meant they needed synchronization. But Dough really needed a cigarette. Synchronization could wait.
He lit the cigarette and looked at the window: the same “prosperous” American City. Neon signs were promising almost everything – from alcohol to cheap love. Everything, except drugs, but they are from the sort of products that have no need in commercial – everyone knows, where it could be found. Streets were covered with the shadows, people were walking in those shadows.
But Dough wasn’t interested in the scenery. He was thinking about what that old Indian meant by saying: “Your world will be rotten”.
The alarm clock rang. It was time to move out.
9:37 am. Garbage on the streets, night scum hadn’t got home yet.
Dough was walking down the street, to the police station – the place where he worked. It was not his childhood dream, but at least he was trying to make the world a better place.
News station was informing citizens that everything was alright – president was saying his inauguration speech; “brave” troops fighting against “enemies of democracy” at the Middle East, and the cat found in small Australian town. Everything was fine.
And just at front of it – the kid. 10, maybe 11, years old. When Dough looked at his face, he felt shocked. Dough never saw such a terrible mixture of scorn and despair. The boy’s clothes were from one of the orphanages, where wardens were only for teaching kids to hate adults, especially their own parents. Dough forgot how this shit was named.
He passed the kid. This is what Dough was taught – nonchalance.
9:47 am
The same old bureaucracy. From day to day. Dough almost forgot when he had been on combat mission last time. Once he was a SWAT member, risking his life to save hostages, but after severe injury last year, and after the augmentation, he became another Jack in the office.
He looked at the pile of papers at his desk. ‘Damn it!’ He took a break.
10:02 am
Bruce Pitchkroft – the only person who Dough could call him best friend.
Noisy, funny, even comic, but locked-in like a hound. He was the best cop in this city, well, may be sometimes he was a little cruel with criminals, but he always wanted to be sure that they couldn’t make harm to anyone else. Nobody knew why he still had a job and there were different rumors about it. Dough never believed them.
They were walking from the bar, when Bruce felt an urge. They came into the dark street.
“Hey, Doughy boy,” - Bruce suddenly asked. - “do you remember McGriefes case?”
“That case, that I was working voluntary?” – Dough answered. – “Yep, I remember it.”
“What was in it?”
“Lionel McGriefe was in it. On one hand – smuggling of prohibited drugs. On the other – patron saint of orphanages.”
“You haven’t found any evidence, have you?” – Bruce asked.
“No,” – Dough grinned bitterly. – “Have you forgotten WHAT happened when our team went for searching?”
“No. No I haven’t,” – Bruce answered. – “But… Do you know, what is the bad thing in all that case, pal?”
“What?”
“That you have survived.”
Dough rapidly turned around.
Gunshot.
Pain burst in the chest.
Dough fell on the ground.
“McGriefe sends you hello” – Bruce said slowly approaching.
“The old Indian was right,” – Dough whispered. – “our world is rotten…”
“What are you saying, Doughy boy?” – Bruce was mocking at him. – “McGriefe wants to be sure you’re dead. And I’m like to be sure…”
Bruce is taking aim.
Gunshot.
Dough is slowly falling on his knees. His arm wants to close a hole at his neck.
Dough is dead.
Back for Christmas by John Collier
’Doctor’ said Major Sinclair, ‘we certainly must have you with us for Christmas.’ Tea was being poured, and the Carpenters' living-room was filled with friends who had come to say last-minute farewells to the Doctor and his wife.
'He shall be back,' said Mrs. Carpenter. 'I promise you.'
'It's hardly certain,' said Dr. Carpenter. Td like nothing better, of course.'
'After all,' said Mr. Hewitt, 'you've contracted to lecture only for three months.'
'Anything may happen,' said Dr. Carpenter.
'Whatever happens,' said Mrs. Carpenter, beaming at them, 'he shall be back in England for Christmas. You may all believe me.'
They all believed her. The Doctor himself almost believed her. For ten years she had been promising him for dinner parties, garden parties, committees, heaven knows what, and the promises had always been kept.
The farewells began. There was a fluting of compliments on dear Hermione's marvelous arrangements. She and her husband would drive to Southampton that evening. They would embark the following day. No trains, no bustle, no last-minute worries. Certain the Doctor was marvelously looked after. He would be a great success in America. Especially with Hermione to see to everything. She would have a wonderful time, too. She would see the skyscrapers. Nothing like that in Little Godwearing. But she must be very sure to bring him back. 'Yes, I will bring him back. You may rely upon it.' He mustn't be persuaded. No extensions. No wonderful post at some super-American hospital. Our infirmary needs him. And he. must be back by Christmas. 'Yes,' Mrs. Carpenter called to the last departing guest, ‘I shall see to it. He shall be back by Christmas.'
The final arrangements for closing the house were very well managed. The maids soon had the tea things washed up; they came in, said goodbye, and were in time to catch the afternoon bus to Devizes.
Nothing remained but odds and ends, locking doors, seeing that everything was tidy. 'Go upstairs,' said Hermione, 'and change into your brown tweeds. Empty the pockets of that suit before you put it in your bag. I’ll see to everything else. All you have to do is not to get in the way.'
The Doctor went upstairs and took off the suit he was wearing, but instead of the brown tweeds, he put on an old, dirty bath gown, which he took from the back of his wardrobe. Then, after making one or two little arrangements, he leaned over the head of the stairs and called to his wife, 'Hermione! Have you a moment to spare?'
'Of course, dear. I'm just finished.'
'Just come up here for a moment. There’s something rather extraordinary up here.'
Hermione immediately came up. ’Good heavens, my dear man!’ she said when she saw her husband. ’What are you lounging about in that filthy old thing for? I told you to have it burned long ago,'
'Who in the world,' said the Doctor, 'has dropped a gold chain down the bathtub drain?’
’Nobody has, of course,’ said Hermione. ’Nobody wears such a thing.’
’Then what is it doing there?’ said the Doctor. ’Take this flashlight. If you lean right over, you can see it shining, deep down.’
’Some Woolworth’s bangle of one of the maids,’ said Hermione. ’It can be nothing else.’ However, she took the flashlight and leaned over, squinting into the drain. The Doctor, raising a short length of lead pipe, struck two or three times with great force and precision, and tilting the body by the knees, tumbled it into the tub.
He then slipped off the bathrobe and, standing completely naked, unwrapped a towel full of implements and put them into the washbasin. He spread several sheets of newspaper on the floor and turned once more to his victim.
She was dead, of course — horribly doubled up, like a somersaulter, at one end of the tub. He stood looking at her for a very long time, thinking of absolutely nothing at all. Then he saw how much blood there was and his mind began to move again.
First he pushed and pulled until she lay straight in the bath, then he removed her clothing. In a narrow bathtub this was an extremely clumsy business, but he managed it at last and then turned on the taps. The water rushed into the tub, then dwindled, then died away, and the last of it gurgled down the drain.
’Good God!’ he said. ’She turned it off at the main.’
There was only one thing to do: the Doctor hastily wiped his hands on a towel, opened the bathroom door with a clean corner of the towel, threw it back onto the bath stool, and ran downstairs, barefoot, light as a cat. The cellar door was in a comer of the entrance hall, under the stairs. He knew just where the cut-off was. He had reason to: he had been pottering about down there for some time past — trying to scrape out a bin for wine, he had told Hermione. He pushed open the cellar door, went down the steep steps, and just before the closing door plunged the cellar into pitch darkness, he put his hand on the tap and turned it on. Then he felt his way back along the grimy wall till he came to the steps. He was about to ascend them when the bell rang.
The Doctor was scarcely aware of the ringing as a sound. It was like a spike of iron pushed slowly up through his stomach. It went on until it reached his brain. Then something broke. He threw himself down in the coal dust on the floor and said, ’I’m through. I’m through!’
’They’ve got no right to come,’ he said. Then he heard himself panting. ’None of this,’ he said to himself. None of this.’
He began to revive. He got to his feet, and when the bell rang again, the sound passed through him almost painlessly. ’Let them go away,’ he said. Then he heard the front door open. He said, ’I don’t care.’ His shoulder came up, like that of a boxer, to shield his face. ’I give up,’ he said.
He heard people calling. ’Herbert!’ ’Hermione!’ It was the Wallingfords. ’Damn them! They come butting in. People anxious to get off. All naked! And blood and coal dust! I’m done! I’m through! I can’t do it’
’Herbert!’
’Hermione!’
’Where the dickens can they be?’
’The car's there.’
’Maybe they've popped round to Mrs. Liddell's.'
'We must see them.'
'Or to the shops, maybe. Something at the last minute.'
'Not Hermione. I say, listen! Isn’t that someone having a bath? Shall I shout? What about whanging on the door?’
’Sh-h-h! Don't. It might not be tactful."
'No harm in a shout.'
'Look, dear. Let’s come in on our way back. Hermione said they wouldn't be leaving before seven. They're dining on the way, in Salisbury.'
’Think so? All right. Only I want a last drink with old Herbert. He’d be hurt.’
’Let’s hurry. We can be back by halt-past six.’
The Doctor heard them walk out and the front door close quietly behind them. He thought, ’Half-past six. Let’s do it.’
He crossed the hall, sprang the latch of the front door, went upstairs, and taking his instruments from the washbasin, finished what he had to do. He came down again, clad in his bath gown, carrying parcel after parcel of toweling or newspaper neatly secured with safety pins. These he packed carefully into the narrow, deep hole he had made in the corner of the cellar, shoveled in the soil, spread coal dust over all, satisfied himself that everything was in order, and went upstairs again. He then thoroughly cleansed the bath, and himself, and the bath again, dressed, and took his wife's clothing and his bath gown to the incinerator.
One or two more little touches and everything was in order. It was only quarter past six. The Wallingfords were always late, he had only to get into the car and drive off. It was a pity he couldn't wait till after dusk, but he could make a detour to avoid passing through the main street, and even if he was seen driving alone, people would only think Hermione had gone on ahead for some reason and they would forget about it.
Still, he was glad when he had finally got away, entirely unobserved, on the open road, driving into the gathering dusk. He had to drive very carefully; he found himself unable to judge distances, his reactions were abnormally delayed, but that was a detail. When it was quite dark he allowed himself to stop the car on the top of the downs, in order to think.
The stars were superb. He could see the lights of one or two little towns far away on the plain below him. He was exultant. Everything that was to follow was perfectly simple. Marion was waiting in Chicago. She already believed him to be a widower. The lecture people could be put off with a word. He had nothing to do but establish himself in some thriving out-of-the-way town in America and he was safe for ever. There were Hermione's clothes, of course, in the suitcases; they could be disposed of through the porthole. Thank heaven she wrote her letters on the typewriter — a little thing like handwriting might have prevented everything. 'But there you are,' he said. 'She was up-to-date, efficient all along the line. Managed everything. Managed herself to death, damn her!'
'There's no reason to get excited,' he thought. Til write a few letters for her, then fewer and fewer. Write myself — always expecting to get back, never quite able to. Keep the house one year, then another, then another; they'll get used to it. Might even come back alone in a year or two and clear it up properly. Nothing easier. But not for Christmas!' He started up the engine and was off.
In New York he felt free at last, really free. He was safe. He could look back with pleasure — at least after a meal, lighting his cigarette, he could look back with a sort of pleasure — to the minute he had passed in the cellar listening to the bell, the door, and the voices. He could look forward to Marion.
As he strolled through the lobby of his hotel, the clerk, smiling, held up letters for him. It was the first batch from England. Well, what did that matter? It would be fun dashing off the typewritten sheets in Hermione's downright style, signing them with her squiggle, telling everyone what a success his first lecture had been, how thrilled he was with America but how certainly she'd bring him back for Christmas. Doubts could creep in later.
He glanced over the letters. Most were for Hermione. From the Sinclairs, the Wallingfords, the vicar, and a business letter from Holt & Sons, Builders and Decorators.
He stood in the lounge, people brushing by him. He opened the letters with his thumb, reading here and there, smiling. They all seemed very confident he would be back for Christmas. They relied on Hermione. 'That's where they make their big mistake,' said the Doctor, who had taken to American phrases. The builders' letter he kept to the last. Some bill, probably. It was:
Dear Madam,
We are in receipt of your kind acceptance of estimate as below and also of key.
We beg to repeat you may have every confidence in same being ready in ample time for Christmas present as stated. We are setting men to work this week.
We are, Madam,
Yours faithfully,
PAUL HOLT & SONS
To excavating, building up, suitably lining one sunken wine bin in cellar as indicated, using best materials, making good, etc.
£18/0/0
Конфликт (Conflicts)
Конфликт –это борьбамежду противостоящими друг другу силами, которая является катализатором развития сюжета.В развязке произведения конфликт тем или иным способом решается.
Конфликт бываетвнешним (external) - между людьми, человеком и природой, человеком и установившимся общественным порядком – или внутренним (internal) – происходящим внутри героя произведения.
Вот примерные формулировки, затрагивающие особенности конфликта в художественном произведении:
The conflictbetween the Montagues and Capulets causes Romeo and Juliet to behave irrationally once they fall in love.
Jack’s priorities are in conflictwith those of Ralph and Piggy, which causes him to break away from the group.
Man-versus-nature is an important conflictin The Old Man and the Sea.
Говоря о конфликте, необходимо иметь в виду, что это далеко не всегда физическое противостояние. Как правило, конфликт – это несовпадение точек зрения, важное для идейного наполнения данного произведения.
В рассказе ‘Impersonating Elvis’ одной из важных задач, поставленных автором, было воспроизвести мировосприятие психически нездорового человека, воссоздать психопатический дискурс. Повествование идет от первого лица (first-person narration), и потому мотивация поступков главного персонажа выглядит вполне убедительно, хотя дистанцировавшись, читатель начинает понимать нелепость большинства из них. Таким образом, конфликт возникает уже между точками зрения читателя и повествователя (the narrator). Внутри самого произведения наблюдается как внешний конфликт (нападение повествователя на одного из «Элвисов», явившийся квинтэссенцией всей его ненависти к Чаку Уолаху), так и внутренний (между попытками простить и забыть и жаждой мести).
Impersonating Elvis by Polly Nelson
This isn't a story about Elvis Presley. This is a story about Chuckie Walaach and me and Chuck's wife, Carol. Carol should have been my wife but sometimes things don’t work out the way they should and so she became Chuck's wife instead.
Carol got pregnant right after our senior year at Stimson High. It's true that Carol and I hadn't actually had a date since eighth grade but I would have married her anyway, even though I had plans for accounting school and I knew it couldn't really be my baby. Even in junior high I'd been too much of a gentleman for something like that to happen. But not Chuckie Walaach. Carol admitted it was Chuck's baby so he was the one got to marry her.
That's pretty much Chuck Walaach in a nutshell. Unfortunate luck, I call it. During sophomore year the senior quarterback pulled a groin muscle coming over the console in Tamara Newsome's father's mustang and knocked himself out of four games. Chuck wound up getting the credit for the whole winning season. When it came time to cast for the year end Stimson High Musical, they needed a beefy type lead and because Petey Boyd Beasley had laryngitis, who do you suppose got the part over yours truly? Chuckie Walaach.
Don't get me wrong, I have to admit that even then he had an unusual voice. Deep, sort of croony and slurred like he'd just had a mouthful of something the rest of us would never be lucky enough to taste. Chuck always got the babes, even Carol. I rest my case. Girls are the reason he got to be class president, too. Brawn for brains should have been his platform. Tight jeans and duck ass hair.
But all that happened about twenty years ago. I'm a mature man, forgive and forget. Except. Because of Carol's indelicacy right out of high school, Chuck's father took him immediately into the family business and made him a junior executive. Meantime, I went off to college where I was doing fine until my father shredded his foot with the wheat combine and my mother took ill with a rare type of swine breeder's syndrome and I had to come home to help out. There's only one place off a farm in Stimson to work: the Walaach School Bus Body Manufacturing Plant.
Now I don't want to come off like I'm some kind of a certified public accountant, because I'm not, but I do have a talent with numbers. Chuck knew about that from my days on the scoreboards at the Stimson High games, plus which I completed better than four community college classes. Walaach Bus moved me right in to head up their inventory department.
The general public would be surprised at all that goes into making a school bus body. It's more than just kid-sized padded metal seats, metaline yellow paint and oversized amber/red flashers, I can tell you. There's an engineering trick to opening that folded front door from the outside that - But this isn't about the inventory, design and construction of school bus bodies, either.
It's about Chuck and his Elvis impersonation. I don't know, maybe it's because Chuck's been here longer than I have, but since he became company president, he doesn't seem to be all that interested in the bus body business anymore. In fact, for this last year I've practically been running the whole shebang for him. Partly that's because I'm better at it than he is but mostly it's because Chuckie Walaach thinks he can be Elvis.
He's grown sideburns and instead of letting the gray come naturally, as I do, he's started dying all his hair black. It's disgusting. I'm not talking just about the puffed up pompadour or the cheap cheek hair. I'm talking about those little tufts that come out through the vee in his shirt front. Oh yes, Chuckie stopped wearing a tie to the office when his father stepped down out of the bus body business two years ago. If Chuck weren't in the driver's seat now, he'd never get away with the stuff he does.
At this year's company picnic, Chuck came in a white and gold lame skin suit with three back-up singers and a full rhythm band. Myself, I think he was assisted by some spandex body support, too. The men who work the line cheered for him. Gave him a standing ovation, in fact, but what does that mean? They gotta work for the guy two hundred sixty-one and a half days of the year (less three weeks vacation if they've been here over five years).
And Carol! Well, she came to that company function in a short flared skirt with some kind of net stuff swirling out the sides that didn’t belong up on a stage above eye level, what with all that open strut-work underneath. She cheered him on, too. But of course she has to, she's gotta live with the guy a full three-hundred sixty-five days of the year, no planned vacation. And she's still a good looking woman. Not every woman over forty could wear a poodle skirt and that flip platinum hair with the class she does. She's got too much style for Chuckie Walaach and when she leaned down under the stage to ask if I’d like to crawl out and eat lunch at her private table, I could tell that she'd finally gotten bored with the shallow excuse for a man that Chuck really is. I also realized how much fulfillment she and I could bring into each other's aching, empty lives.
This induced me to work out a plan. I already knew that come March, Chuck had paid the application fees to perform in an Elvis Look-Alike Contest. Chuckie Walaach is certainly not the only man in the world who thinks he could pass for Elvis. Apparently a hundred and thirty-six other mousse haired fools think the same thing. This was to be a battle of the Elvises. Elvii's? Whatever.
So. Since I've accumulated over eighteen weeks of back vacation time in my years with the company, I asked for two of them at the time of the Elvis contest. I bought myself some temporary black dye and a snub nose Saturday Night Special like the ones Elvis favored towards the end and I booked a room at the Elvis Contest Hotel. I did not, however, give my real name, nor did I enroll myself in the contest proper.
It was a good plan. Almost foolproof, I've got to say. Just picture the police putting out an all points bulletin on an Elvis assassin who looks like Elvis in a town with one hundred-thirty- seven Elvis’s walking around. Who could give a description? I didn't even have to hide, I just walked into the Elvis Grand Ball Room, pulled my gun, shot my Elvis, dropped the gun and walked back out before any of those other Elvii's could swivel a hip.
Then I immediately got on a plane back to Stimson, rinsed out my midnight-blue pomp and reported for work the next morning. And who was there? Chuckie Walaach, third runner up in the Battle of the Elvis Look-Alikes. I needn't have worried that someone would ask me how was my vacation in Kenosha; all eyes were glazed on Chuckie as per usual.
He was full of news about this contest and the killing. Seems that the number two Elvis— the one who was killed—was wanted for serial murders in three entirely different states. The bullet which killed him just grazed lucky Chuckie and now Chuck is being treated like some kind of hero in the whole affair. Pictures in all the papers, national news coverage. Even people who should know better have started treating him like he had superstar status, especially Carol. She even had the nerve to ask me if I'd like to drive them back to the airport. Seems the Elvis Contest Hotel has gotten so much publicity, they've decided to give the hero and his adoring wife a week long vacation in their hearts-bouquet honeymoon suite.
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