Kitabı oxu: «Смешные рассказы / The Funny Stories»

© Матвеев С.А., подготовка текста, комментарии, словарь

© Ганненко В.В., подготовка текста, комментарии, словарь

© Прокофьева О.Н., подготовка текста, комментарии, словарь

© ООО «Издательство АСТ», 2019

Дорогие читатели!

Вы держите в руках сборник юмористических рассказов на английском языке. В него вошли как признанные шедевры, так и произведения, мало знакомые русскому читателю. Несмотря на то что эти тексты были в значительной степени адаптированы, удалось сохранить авторский стиль, живой язык, и, конечно же, искрометный юмор. Смейтесь от души и совершенствуйте свой английский. А в конце книги вы найдете словарь, который облегчит вам понимание текстов.

Приятного чтения!

A Man of Habit
Jerome K. Jerome

1. Smoking and drinking

There were three of us in the smoke-room of the ship – me, my very good friend, and, in the opposite corner, a shy man, the editor, as we knew out later, of a New York Sunday paper.

My friend and I were talking about habits, good and bad.

“After the first few months,” my friend said, “it is as easy to be a saint as to be a sinner; it becomes a habit.”

“I know,” I interrupted, “it is as easy to jump out of bed early in the morning as to say 'All Right,' and turn over for another five minutes of sleep, when you have got the habit. Not to swear is as easy as to swear, if you make a custom of it. A piece of bread and water is as delicious as champagne, when you got used to its taste. It is only a question of making your choice and getting used it.”

He agreed with me.

“Now take one of my cigars,” he said, pushing his open cigar case to me.

“Thank you,” I replied quickly, “I'm not smoking during this trip.”

“Don't be afraid,” he answered, “It was just an argument. One of these cigars would make you ill for a week.”

I agreed.

“Very well,” he continued. “As you know, I smoke them all day long, and enjoy them. Why? Because that is my habit. Many years ago, when I was a young man, I smoked very expensive Havanas. It was necessary for me to buy cheaper tobacco. I was living in Belgium and one friend showed me these. I don't know what they are made of – probably cabbage leaves soaked in guano¹; they tasted to me like that at first – but they were cheap, they cost me three a penny. I decided to like them, and started with one a day. It was terrible work, I admit, but as I said to myself, nothing could be worse than the Havanas themselves in the beginning. Before the end of the month I could think of them without disgust, at the end of second I could smoke them without discomfort. Now I prefer them to any other brand on the market.”

He leant back and puffed great clouds into the air, filled the small room with a terrible smell.

“Then again,” he continued after a pause, “Take my wine. No, you don't like it.” (my face betrayed me.) “Nobody does, no one I have ever met. Three years ago, when I lived in Hammersmith, we caught two thieves with it. They opened the cupboard, and drank five bottles of it. A policeman found them later, sitting on a doorstep a hundred yards from my house. They were too ill and went to the police station like lambs, because he promised to send the doctor to them the moment they were safe in the cells. Since then I leave a bottle on the table every night.

Well, I like that wine. I drink several glasses, and I feel like I'm a new man. I took it for the same reason that I took the cigars – it was cheap. It is sent from Geneva, and it costs me six shillings a dozen of bottles. How they do it I don't know. I don't want to know.

2. Falling asleep

“I knew one man,” my friend continued, “All day long his wife talked to him, or at him, or of him, and at night he fell asleep to the rising and falling rhythm of what she thought about him. At last she died, and his friends congratulated him, they thought that now he would enjoy peace. But it was the peace of the desert, and the man did not enjoy it. For twenty-two years her voice had filled the house, penetrated through the conservatory, and floated into the garden.

The place was no longer home to him. He missed the fresh morning insult, the long winter evening's reproaches beside the fire. At night he could not sleep. For hours he would lie without sleep.

'Ah!' he cried to himself, 'it is the old story, we never know the value of a thing until we lose it.' He grew ill. The doctors gave him tons of sleeping pills, but all in vain. At last they told him that his life depended on finding another wife.

There were plenty of wives of the type he wanted in the neighbourhood, but the unmarried women were not experienced, and his health was so bad that he did not have the time to train them.

Fortunately, a man died nearby, talked to death by his wife. He called her the day after the funeral and in six months he won her heart.

But she was a poor substitute.

From his favourite seat at the bottom of the garden he could not hear her at all, so he brought his chair into the conservatory. It was all right for him there while she continued to abuse him; but every time he got comfortably settled down with his pipe and his newspaper, she suddenly stopped.

He dropped his paper and sat listening, with a troubled expression.

'Are you there, dear?' he called out after a while.

'Yes, I'm here. Why do you think I am not, you old fool?' she cried back in a tired voice.

His face brightened at the sound of her words. 'Go on, dear,' he answered. 'I'm listening. I like to hear you talk.'

But the poor woman was too exhausted.

At night did her best, but it was a weak performance. After insulting him for three-quarters of an hour, she laid back on the pillow, and wanted to go to sleep. But he shook her gently by the shoulder.

'Yes, dear,' he said, 'you were speaking about Jane, and the way I looked at her during the lunch.'

“It's very strange,” concluded my friend, lighting a fresh cigar, “what men of habit we are.”

The shy man in the corner said: “I can tell you a true story and I bet a dollar you won't believe it.”

“I haven't got a dollar, but I'll bet you half a sovereign,” replied my friend.

So the shy man told his story.

3. The editor's story

“I'm going to tell you about a man from Jefferson,” he began. “He was born in the town, and for forty-seven years he never slept a night outside it. He was a respectable man – a merchant from nine to four, and a religious man in his free time. He said that a good life meant good habits. He got up at seven, had family prayer at seven-thirty, had breakfast at eight, got to his business at nine, had his horse brought to the office at four, and rode for an hour, reached home at five, had a bath and a cup of tea, played with children and read to them till half-past six, dressed and dined at seven, went to the club and played whist till quarter after ten, returned home to evening prayer at ten-thirty, and went to bed at eleven. For twenty-five years he lived that life without any variations. He was used by the local astronomers to check the sun.

One day his business partner in London, an East Indian merchant and an ex-Lord Mayor died, and our man was his only heir. The business was complicated and needed management. He decided to leave his son, a young man of twenty-four, as a manager of his business at Jefferson, and to go to his second family in England, to look after the East Indian business.

He set out from Jefferson City on October the fourth, and arrived in London on the seventeenth. He was ill during the whole trip. After several days in bed he announced his decision to go into the City to see to his business.

On the Thursday morning he got up at one o'clock. His wife told him she did not disturb him, because she thought that the sleep was good to him. He admitted that perhaps it was. He felt very well, and he got up and dressed himself. He said he did not like the idea of beginning his first day without a prayer, and his wife agreed with him. They assembled the servants and the children in the dining-room, and had family prayer at half-past one. After that he had breakfast and set off. He reached the City about three.

Everyone was surprised by his late arrival. He explained the circumstances to his partners and made appointments for the next day, which he planned to start from nine-thirty.

He remained at the office until late, and then went home. For dinner, usually the chief meal of the day, he could eat only a biscuit and some fruit. He was strangely uncomfortable all the evening. He said he supposed he missed his game of whist, and decided to look for a quiet, respectable club. At eleven he went to bed, but could not sleep. He tossed and turned, and turned and tossed, but grew only more and more energetic. A little after midnight he decided to go and wish the children good-night. The opening of the door awoke them, and he was glad. He wrapped them up in the blanket, sat on the edge of the bed, told them religious stories till one o'clock.

Then he kissed them, told them to be good and to go to sleep; and found himself painfully hungry. He went downstairs, where in the kitchen he made a meal of cold pie and cucumber.

He went to bed feeling more peaceful, but still could not sleep, so he lay thinking about his business affairs till five, when he fell asleep.

At one o'clock to the minute² he awoke. His wife told him she had made everything to wake him earlier, but in vain. The man was  irritated. If he had not been a very good man, I believe he would have sworn. The same repeated as on the Thursday, and again he reached the City at three.

This situation went on for a month. The man fought against himself, but was unable to change himself. Every afternoon at one he awoke. Every night at one he went down into the kitchen for food. Every morning at five he fell asleep.”

4. The end of the editor's story

“He could not understand it, nobody could understand it. His business suffered, and his health grew worse. He seemed to be living upside down³. His days didn't have a beginning or end, only the middle. There was no time for exercise or rest. When he began to feel cheerful and sociable⁴ everybody was asleep.

One day by chance the explanation came. His eldest daughter was preparing her home studies after dinner.

'What time is it now in New York?' she asked.

'New York,' said her father, 'let me see. It's just ten now, and there's a little over four and a half hours' difference. Oh, about half-past five in the afternoon.'

'Then in Jefferson,' said the mother, 'it is earlier, isn't it?'

'Yes,' replied the girl, 'Jefferson is nearly two degrees further west.'

'Two degrees,' said the father, 'and there's forty minutes to a degree. That would make it now, at the present moment in Jefferson–'

“He jumped up with a cry:

'I've got it!' he shouted, 'I see it.'

'See what?' asked his wife, alarmed.

'It's four o'clock in Jefferson, and just time for my ride. That's what I want!'

There was no doubt about it. For five-and-twenty years he lived by clockwork. But it was by Jefferson clockwork, not London clockwork. He had changed his longitude, but not himself.

He examined the problem and decided that the only solution was for him to return to the order of his old life. He was too formed by habit to adapt himself to circumstances. Circumstances must adapt to him.

He changed his office hours from three till ten. At ten he mounted his horse and went for a canter in the Row, and on very dark nights he carried a lantern. News of it got abroad, and crowds would gather to see him ride past.

He dined at one o'clock in the morning, and after that went to his club. He tried to discover a quiet, respectable club where the members were willing to play whist till four in the morning, but failed and joined a small Soho club, where they taught him poker. The place was occasionally raided by the police, but thanks to his respectable appearance⁵, he managed to escape.

At half-past four he returned home, and woke up the family for evening prayers. At five he went to bed and slept like a top⁶. The only thing that really troubled him was loss of spiritual communion. At five o'clock on Sunday afternoons he felt he wanted to go to church, but had to do without it. At seven he ate his simple midday meal. At eleven he had tea and muffins, and at midnight he began to crave for hymns and sermons. At three he had a bread-and-cheese supper, and retired early at four a.m., feeling sad and unsatisfied.

He was a man of habit.”

* * *

We sat in silence.

My friend stood up, took half-a-sovereign from his pocket, put it on the table and went out.

The Ransom of Red Chief
O. Henry

1. A good idea

It looked like a good idea, but wait till I tell you. We were in Alabama – Bill Driscoll and I – when this kidnapping idea came to us. It was, as Bill expressed it later, “during a moment of temporary mental apparition⁷”; but we didn't find that out until later.

There was a town, as flat as a cake, and called Summit.

We had six hundred dollars, and we needed just two thousand dollars more. We talked about it on the front steps of the hotel. They love children a lot in rural communities; because of this and for other reasons, a kidnapping project is better here than in the place where newspapers can send reporters to talk about such things. We knew that Summit couldn't get after us with anything stronger than constables and maybe some bloodhounds and one or two articles in the “Weekly Farmers' Budget”. So, it looked good.

We selected for our victim the only child of a rich citizen named Ebenezer Dorset. The father was respectable. The kid was a boy of ten, with freckles, and hair the color of the cover of the magazine you buy when you are waiting for a train. Bill and I thought that Ebenezer could give a ransom of two thousand dollars. But wait till I tell you.

About two miles from Summit was a little mountain with a cave. We stored provision there. One evening after sundown, we drove past old Dorset's house. The kid was in the street, throwing rocks at a kitten on the opposite fence.

“Hey, little boy!” said Bill, “would you like to have a bag of candies and a nice ride?”

The boy threw a stone into the Bill's eye.

“That will cost the old man an extra five hundred dollars,” says Bill, climbing over the wheel.

We got him down in the bottom of the carriage and drove away. We took him up to the cave. After dark I drove the carriage to the little village, three miles away, where we hired it, and walked back to the mountain.

Bill was putting plaster over the scratches on his face. The boy was watching a pot of boiling coffee, with two feathers stuck in his red hair. He pointed a stick at me when I came up, and said:

“Ha! Paleface, do you dare to enter the camp of Red Chief?”

“We're playing Indians. I'm Old Hank, Red Chief's captive, and he is going to take my scalp!”, said Bill.

Yes, sir, that boy was having fun. He forgot that he was a captive. He called me Snake-eye, the Spy, and announced that when his men returned from the warpath, they were going to burn me at the stake.

Then we had supper; he filled his mouth with bacon and bread, and began to talk. He said something like this:

“I like this. I never camped before; but I had a pet once, and I was nine last birthday. I hate to go to school. Rats ate up sixteen of Jimmy Talbot's aunt's hen's eggs. Are there any real Indians in these woods? I want some more meat. We had five puppies. What makes your nose so red, Hank? My father has lots of money. Are the stars hot? I whipped Ed Walker twice on Saturday. I don't like girls. Do oxen make any noise? Why are oranges round? Have you got beds to sleep on in this cave? Amos Murray has got six toes. A parrot can talk, but a monkey or a fish can't.”

“Red Chief,” I said to the kid, “would you like to go home?”

“Aw, what for?” said he. “I don't have any fun at home. I hate to go to school. I like to camp. You won't take me back home, Snake-eye?”

“Not right now, we'll stay here for a while⁸.”

“All right!” said he. “That'll be fine. I never had such fun in all my life.”

We went to bed about eleven o'clock. We lay down on wide blankets and put Red Chief between us. We weren't afraid he'd run away. He kept us awake for three hours, jumping up and screaming. At last, I fell into a troubled sleep, and dreamed that I was kidnapped and chained to a tree by a pirate with red hair.

2. Good morning

In the morning I was awakened by Bill's screams. They weren't yells, or shouts, such as you'd expect from a man – they were simply humiliating screams, such as women make when they see ghosts or caterpillars. It's an awful thing to hear a strong, fat man scream in a cave at daybreak.

I jumped up to see what the matter was. Red Chief was sitting on Bill's chest, with one hand in Bill's hair. In the other he had the sharp knife we used for slicing bacon; and he was really trying to take Bill's scalp.

I got the knife away from the kid and told him to lie down again. But, from that moment, Bill's spirit was broken. I slept for some time, but soon I remembered that Red Chief said he was going to burn me at the stake at the rising of the sun. I wasn't afraid, but I sat up and lit my pipe.

“Why did you get up so early, Sam?” asked Bill.

“Oh, I have got a pain in my shoulder.”

“You're a liar!” says Bill. “You're afraid. He said he will burn you at a stake and you are afraid he'll do it. And he would, if he finds a match. Isn't it awful, Sam? Do you think anybody will pay money to get a little devil like that back home?”

“Sure,” said I. “Now, you and the Chief get up and cook breakfast, and I will go up on the top of this mountain.”

I went up on the peak of the little mountain and looked over the surroundings. I expected to see the dozens of villagers armed with scythes and pitchforks and looking for the kidnappers. But I saw a peaceful landscape with one man ploughing with a mule. “Perhaps,” said I to myself, “they didn't find out that the boy was kidnapped.”

When I got to the cave I found Bill backed up against the side of it, breathing hard, and the boy threatening to smash him with a rock half as big as a coconut.

“He put a hot boiled potato in my pants,” explained Bill, “and then smashed it with his foot; and I boxed his ears⁹. Do you have a gun, Sam?”

I took the rock away from the boy and of calmed them down.

After breakfast the kid takes a piece of leather with strings wrapped around it out of his pocket and goes outside the cave.

“What's he going to do now?” says Bill, anxiously. “You don't think he'll run away, do you, Sam?”

“Do not be afraid,” said I. “He doesn't seem to be a home boy. But we've got to fix up some plan about the ransom. Maybe his father didn't understand that he's gone. His parents may think he's spending the night with Aunt Jane or one of the neighbours. Tonight we must get a message to his father demanding the two thousand dollars ransom for his return.”

Just then we heard a kind of war-cry. It was a sling that Red Chief had pulled out of his pocket, and he was whirling it around his head.

I heard a sigh from Bill, like a horse gives out when you take his saddle off. A rock the size of an egg caught Bill just behind his left ear. He fell in the fire across the frying pan of hot water for washing the dishes. I dragged him out and poured cold water on his head for half an hour.

Bill sits up, touches his ear and says: “Sam, do you know who my favourite Biblical character is?”

“Take it easy¹⁰,” I say.

“King Herod,” says he. “You won't go away and leave me here alone, will you, Sam?”

I went out and caught that boy and shook him until his freckles rattled.

“If you don't behave well,” says I, “I'll take you back home. Now, are you going to be good, or not?”

“I was only kidding,” he says sullenly. “I didn't mean to hurt Old Hank. I'll behave, Snake-eye, if you won't send me home, and if you'll let me play the Black Scout today.”

“I don't know the game,” says I. “That's for you and Mr. Bill to decide. He's your friend for the day. I'm going away on business. Now, you come in and make friends with him and say you are sorry for hurting him, or you will go home.”

I made him and Bill shake hands, and then I took Bill and told him I was going to Poplar Cove, a little village three miles away from the cave.

“I'll be back this afternoon,” said I. “You must keep the boy quiet till I return. And now we'll write the letter to old Dorset.”

3. The letter

Bill and I got a piece of paper and a pencil and wrote the letter this way:

Ebenezer Dorset:

We have your boy in a place far from Summit. It is useless for you or the most skilful detectives to try to find him. The only term on which we will return the boy is this: we want fifteen hundred dollars. If you agree, send your answer in writing tonight at half-past eight. After crossing Owl Creek, on the road to Poplar Cove, there are three large trees, close to the fence of the wheat field¹¹. There you will find a small box. The messenger will place the answer in this box and return immediately to Summit.

If you attempt any treachery, you will never see your boy again.

If you pay the money, he will be returned to you safe in three hours. These terms are final, and if you do not accept them, no further communication will be attempted.

TWO DESPERATE MEN.

I addressed this letter to Dorset, and put it in my pocket. As I was about to start¹², the kid comes up to me and says:

“Aw, Snake-eye, you said I could play the Black Scout while you were gone.”

“Play it, of course, Mr. Bill will play with you. What kind of a game is it?”

“I'm the Black Scout,” says Red Chief, “and I have to ride to warn the settlers that the Indians are coming. I'm tired of playing Indian myself. I want to be the Black Scout.”

“All right,” I say. “It sounds nice to me. I guess Mr. Bill will help you.”

“What am I to do?” asks Bill, looking at the kid suspiciously.

“You are the horse,” says Black Scout. “Get down on your hands and knees. How can I ride without a horse?”

Bill gets down on his all fours¹³.

“How far is it, kid?” he asks.

“Ninety miles,” says the Black Scout. “And you have to get there on time. Whoa!”

The Black Scout jumps on Bill's back and digs his heels in his side.

Bill says, “Hurry back, Sam, as soon as you can.”

When I got back to the cave Bill and the boy were not there. So I lighted my pipe and sat down to wait.

In half an hour I heard the noise in the bushes, and Bill came out. Behind him was the kid, stepping softly like a scout, with a broad grin on his face. Bill stopped, took off his hat and wiped his face with a red handkerchief. The kid stopped about eight feet behind him.

“Sam,” says Bill, “The boy is gone. I have sent him home.”

“What's the problem, Bill?” I ask him.

“I was rode,” says Bill, “the ninety miles. Then, when the settlers were saved, the boy gave me some sand to eat. And then, for an hour I had to try to explain him why there is nothin' in holes, how a road can run both ways and what makes the grass green. I took him by the neck and dragged him down the mountain.

“Now he's gone,” – continues Bill – “Gone home. I showed him the road to Summit and kicked him about eight feet nearer there at one kick. I'm sorry we lose the ransom.”

Bill was puffing, but there was a look of peace and content¹⁴ on his rose-pink face.

4. The answer

“Bill,” I say, “Don't you have any heart diseases?”

“No, why¹⁵?”

“Then you should turn around”.

Bill turns and sees the boy, sits down on the ground and begins to pluck at grass and little sticks. For an hour I was afraid for his mind. And then I told him that my plan was to make the whole job immediately and that we would get the ransom by midnight. So Bill agreed to give the kid a smile and a promise to play the Russian in a Japanese war with him as soon as he felt a little better.

Exactly on time, a boy rides up the road on a bicycle, sees the box, puts a piece of paper into it and pedals away back to Summit.

I waited for an hour and then I got down from the tree, got the note and was back at the cave in another half an hour. I opened the note and read it to Bill.

Two Desperate Men.

Gentlemen: I got your letter. I think you ask too much, and I make you my offer, which I believe you will accept. You bring Johnny home and pay me two hundred and fifty dollars, and I agree to take him back. I advise you to come at night, because the neighbours believe he is lost, and I couldn't be responsible for what they would do to anybody who brought him back.

Very respectfully,

EBENEZER DORSET.

“Sam,” said Bill, “what's two hundred and fifty dollars? We've got the money. One more night of this kid will send me in Bedlam. You aren't going to let the chance go¹⁶?”

I wasn't.

We took him home that night. We made him go by telling him that his father bought a silver-mounted gun and a pair of moccasins for him, and we were going to hunt bears the next day.

When the kid found out that we were going to leave him at home, he started to cry and grabbed Bill's leg. His father peeled him away gradually, like a plaster.

“How long can you hold him?” asks Bill.

“I'm not as strong as I used to be,” says old Dorset, “but I think I can promise you ten minutes.”

“Enough,” says Bill. “In ten minutes I can cross the Central, Southern, Middle Western States and get to the Canadian border.”

And, as dark as it was, and as fat as Bill was, and as good a runner as I am, he was a mile and a half out of Summit before I could catch up with him.

Luck
Mark Twain

1. The student

It was at a banquet in London in honor of one of the two or three English military names of this generation. For some reasons I will not tell his real name and titles, and call him Lieutenant-General Lord Arthur Scoresby… What a fascination there is in a famous name!

I looked, and looked, and looked at him, searching, noting: the quietness, the noble gravity; the simple honesty.

The priest at my left was my friend – priest now, but he spent the first half of his life in the camp and field, and as an instructor in the military school at Woolwich. Just at the moment I was talking about, a singular light blinked in his eyes, and he leaned down and whispered to me – pointing at the hero of the banquet: 'Privately – his glory is an accident – just a result of luck.'

This was a great surprise to me. If its subject was Napoleon, or Socrates, or Solomon, my shock could not be greater.

Some days later came the explanation of this strange phrase, and this is what my friend told me.

“About forty years ago I was an instructor in the military academy at Woolwich. I was in one of the sections when young Scoresby passed his examination. Other students answered brightly, while he – dear me, he didn't know anything. He was good, and sweet, and lovable; and so it was painful to see him stand there and give stupid answers. I said to myself, that after the next exam he could be excluded; so it will be an act of charity to help him as much as I can.

I found out that he knew a little of Caesar's history; and he didn't know anything else. I trained him like a slave on questions about Caesar, which I knew would be used in test. If you'll believe me, he passed the exam brilliantly! He even got compliments, while others, who knew a thousand times more than he, were criticized. By some strangely lucky accident – an accident that happens once in a century – he was not asked any other questions except from those he prepared.

Well, during his course I helped him, with the feeling which a mother feels for a crippled child; and he always saved himself – just by miracle.

The exam that would kill him was mathematics. I decided to make his death as easy as I could; so trained him, just on the questions which the examiner would certainly use. Well, sir, try to guess the result: to my horror, he took the first prize!

Sleep! There was no more sleep for me for a week. My conscience tortured me day and night. What have I done! I only wanted to ease the poor youth's fall – I never dreamed of such results. I felt as the creator of Frankenstein. Here was a wooden-head and I give him the chance to make a brilliant career.”

2. The soldier

“The Crimean war just started. I waited for the news. It came. And it shocked me. He was a captain now! Better men grow old in the service before they get a rank like that. Who could know that they put such responsibility on his green shoulders! I thought my hair would turn white.

I said to myself that I am responsible for this, and I must go with him and protect the country from him. So I took my poor little capital that I saved up through years of work and economy and bought a place in his regiment.

And there – oh dear, it was awful. Mistakes? All he did was a mistake. But, you see, nobody understood his secret – they took his idiotic mistakes for inspirations of genius; they did! His smallest mistakes could make a normal man cry; and they made me cry. And the strangest thing was the fact that every new mistake he made increased his reputation! I said to myself: he'll get so high that when they finally understand everything, it will be like the sun fell out of the sky.

He still went up, over the dead bodies, until at last, in the hottest moment of the battle our colonel died, and my heart jumped into my mouth, because Scoresby was next in rank!

The battle was awfully hot; the allies were giving way all over the field¹⁷. Our regiment occupied a very important position; one mistake could destroy everything. At this critical moment, our fool orders the regiment to change its place and occupy a neighboring hill. 'This is the end,' I said to myself.

And we went away, and were very close to the hill. And what did we find? An entire Russian army! And what happened? Were we killed? That is what would happen in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred. But no; those Russians thought that a single regiment would not walk around there at such a time. It must be the whole English army; so they turned and ran away, and we after them; and the defeat of the allies turned into a victory! Marshal Canrobert sent for Scoresby, and hugged him, and awarded him on the field in presence of all the armies!

And what was Scoresby's mistake? Just the mistaking his right hand and his left – that was all. An order came to him to support our right; and instead he went to the left. But he won the name as a military genius, and his glory will never end.

He is good and sweet and lovable, but he doesn't know enough to come in home when it rains¹⁸. He was a soldier in all our wars for half a generation; he made all the mistakes he could, but never made a mistake that didn't make him a knight or a baronet or a lord or something. Look at his chest; at his medals. Well, sir, each of them is a proof of a stupidity; and, together, they are proof that the best thing in the world is to be born lucky.

The Open Window
H. H. Munro (Saki)

1

“My aunt will soon be down, Mr. Nuttel,” said a very self-possessed young lady of fifteen; “in the meantime you must try and put up with me.”

Framton Nuttel tried to say some compliments to the niece and not to upset the aunt that was to come. He doubted that these formal visits to total strangers would help his nerve cure.

“I know, you will bury yourself down there and not speak to anybody, and your nerves will be worse than before. I can give you letters of introduction to all the people I know there. Some of them, as I can remember, were quite nice”, his sister said.

Framton wondered if Mrs. Sappleton, the lady to whom he was presenting one of his letters, was one of these nice people.

“Do you know many the people round here?” asked the niece.

“No one,” said Framton. “My sister was staying here, at the priest's house, you know, four years ago, and she gave me letters of introduction to some of the people here.”

He made the last statement in a tone of regret.

“Then you know almost nothing about my aunt?” continued the self-possessed young lady.

“Only her name and address,” he admitted. He was wondering if Mrs. Sappleton was in the married or widowed state. Something in the room suggested man's habitation.

“Her great tragedy happened just three years ago,” said the child.

“Her tragedy?” asked Framton.

“You may wonder why we keep that window open on an October afternoon,” said the niece, pointing at a large French window.

“It is quite warm for the time of the year,” said Framton; “but is that window connected with the tragedy?”

“Out through that window, three years ago, her husband and her two young brothers went off for their shooting. They never came back. When they were walking to their favorite shooting place they sank in a treacherous bog. It was a very wet summer, you know, and places that were safe in other years became deadly without warning. Their bodies were never found.” Here the child's voice lost its self-possessed tone and became human. “Poor aunt always thinks that they will come back someday, they and the little brown spaniel that was lost with them, and walk in at that window just as they used to do. That is why the window is open every evening till it is quite dark. Poor aunt, she often told me how they went out, her husband with his white waterproof coat over his arm, and Ronnie, her youngest brother, singing 'Bertie, why do you bound?' as he always did to tease her. Do you know, sometimes on quiet evenings like this, I almost get a creepy feeling that they will all walk in through that window…”

She shivered. It was a relief to Framton when the aunt went down into the room with of apologies for being late.

“I hope Vera was friendly?” she said.

“She was very interesting,” said Framton.

“I hope you don't mind the open window,” said Mrs. Sappleton; “my husband and brothers will be home from shooting, and they always come in this way.”

She spoke cheerfully about the shooting and the birds. To Framton it was all purely horrible.

2

He made an effort to turn the talk on to a less ghastly topic but he saw that the woman was giving him only a part of her attention, and her eyes were looking at the open window. It was certainly an unfortunate coincidence that he should have paid his visit on this tragic anniversary.

“The doctors agree in ordering me complete rest, no excitement, and no physical exercise,” said Framton, who thought that total strangers were interested in the details of one's illnesses. “On the matter of diet they are not in agreement,” he continued.

“No?” said Mrs. Sappleton, in a voice which only replaced a yawn at the last moment. Then she suddenly brightened into alert attention – but not to what Framton was saying.

“Here they are!” she cried. “Just in time for tea, and they look as if they were dirty up to the eyes!”

Framton shivered a little and turned towards the niece with a look expressing sympathetic understanding. But the child was looking through the open window with a horror in her eyes. In a shock of nameless fear Framton looked in the same direction.

In the twilight three figures were walking across the yard towards the window, they all carried guns in their arms, and one of them had a white coat over his shoulders. A tired brown spaniel kept close at their heels. Noiselessly they neared the house, and then a young voice sang out of the dusk: “I said, Bertie, why do you bound?”

Framton grabbed wildly his stick and hat; the hall door and the front gate were stages in his retreat. A bicyclist coming along the road had to run into the hedge to avoid the crash.

“Here we are, my dear,” said the owner of the white mackintosh, coming in through the window, “dirty, but most of it's dry. Who was that who ran out as we came up?”

“A very strange man, Mr. Nuttel,” said Mrs. Sappleton; “he could only talk about his illnesses, and ran off without a word of good bye or apology when you arrived as if you were ghosts.”

“I think it was because of the spaniel,” said the niece calmly; “he told me he had a fear of dogs. He was once hunted into a cemetery somewhere on the banks of the Ganges by a pack of dogs, and had to spend the night in a newly dug grave with the dogs grinning and foaming just above him. Enough to make anyone lose their mind.”

She wasvery romantic.

Should Married Men Play Golf?
Jerome K. Jerome

People know that we Englishmen attach too much importance to sport, it is well-known, indeed. One can wait: some day some English novelist¹⁹ will write a book, showing the evil effects of over-indulgence in sport²⁰: the ruined business, the ruined home, the slow but sure²¹ destroying of the brain, which leads to foolishness.

I once heard of a young couple. They went for their honeymoon²² to Scotland. The poor girl did not know he was a golfer (he won her heart when his shoulder was broken). They decided to make a tour. The second day the man went out for a walk. At dinner-time he noticed that it seemed a pretty place they had found, and suggested to stay there another day. The next morning after breakfast he borrowed a club from the hotel porter, and remarked that he would take a walk. He returned in time for lunch and seemed angry all the afternoon. He said the air was good for him, and urged that they should stay another day.

She was young and did not know much, and thought, maybe, he had a liver-ache. She had heard much about liver from her father. The next morning he borrowed more clubs, and went out, this time before breakfast, returning late and even more angry than before. That was the end of their honeymoon. He meant well²³, but the thing had gone too far²⁴. The vice had entered into his blood.

Many people, I think, heard about the golfing priest, who was always swearing when he lost.

“Golf and the ministry don't seem to go together,” his friend told him. “Take my advice before it's too late, and give it up, Tammas²⁵.”

A few months later Tammas met his friend again.

“You were right, Jamie²⁶,” cried the priest, “golf and the ministry are not friends, I have followed your advice: I have given it up.”

“Then what are you doing with that sack of clubs?” inquired Jamie.

“What am I doing with them?” repeated the puzzled Tammas. “I am going to play golf with them! Great Heavens²⁷, man!” he continued, “you don't think it was the golf that I'd given up?”

The Englishman does not understand how to play. He makes a life-long labour of his sport, and to it sacrifices mind and body. The health resorts of Europe draw half their profits from the playing fields of Eton²⁸ and everywhere. In Swiss and German resorts enormously fat men come to you and explain to you that once they were the champions or the best sportsmen of their university—men who now cannot go upstairs. Fat men, between paroxysms of coughing²⁹, tell you of the goals they scored when they were extraordinary forwards. Unhappy sportsmen – you can meet them everywhere.

They are pitiable people. They can read only sport news, books are of no use to them. They never trained much their mind, and, apparently, have lost the ability to think. They don't care for³⁰ art, and Nature only suggests to them the things they can no longer do. The mountain reminds them that once they could sleigh; the field makes them sad because they can no longer handle a golf-club; by the riverside they sit down and tell you of the salmon they caught; birds only remind them about guns; music raises visions of the local cricket-match and the local band. We are sorry for them, but their stories are not interesting. The man who has other interests in life beyond sport is deaf to them; while they do not want to talk to one another. They do not believe one another.

The foreigner is taking our sports; we hope he will be warned by our example. Football is gaining favour more and more throughout Europe. But yet the Frenchman prefers to play with his head, not with his legs. He would rather catch the ball upon his head than score a goal. He does not seem to care what happens with the ball. Anybody can have the ball; he has had his game and is happy.

They talk of introducing cricket into Belgium³¹; I shall certainly try to be present at the opening game. I am afraid that the Belgian³² player will stop cricket balls with his heads. That the head is the proper thing with which to play ball appears to be in his blood. My head is round, he thinks, and hard, just like the ball itself; what part of the human body is better to meet and stop a ball?

Tennis is firmly established from St. Petersburg³³ to Bordeaux³⁴. University professors, rising early in the morning, hire boys and practise it. But to the Frenchman, as yet, it is a game. He plays it in a happy, merry fashion, that is shocking to English eyes.

Your partner's game astonishes you. His ball runs outside the field constantly. The joyous laughter of the spectators explain everything. Your partner was trying to hit a man in the next court who was busy with his shoe-lace. With his last ball he has succeeded. He has hit the man in the small of the back³⁵, and has bowled him over³⁶. Doherty³⁷ himself has never won greater applause from the crowd. Even the man who has been hit is pleased.

But the Frenchman forgets his shoe, he forgets his game. He gathers together all the balls that he can find; his balls, your balls, anybody's balls. And then commences the return match. At this point it is better to quit. Most of the players follow this plan; they go to the club-house, and, finding themselves there, order coffee and light up cigarettes. After a while both players appear to be satisfied.

In about half-an-hour or so, when everybody is tired completely, the game—the original game—is resumed. You demand the score; your partner promptly says it is “forty-fifteen.” Both your opponents rush up to the net, and apparently there is going to be a duel. After a while they suggest a compromise. The discussion is concluded by calling it deuce³⁸. As it is rare for a game to proceed without some such incident occurring in the middle of it, the score generally is deuce. Nobody wins and nobody loses.

To the earnest player³⁹, it is also confusing to miss your partner occasionally—to turn round and find that he is talking to a man. Five minutes later he resumes the game. His friend comes with him, also the dog of his friend. The dog is welcomed with enthusiasm; all balls are returned to the dog. Until the dog is tired you cannot play.

But all this will no doubt soon be changed. There are some excellent French and Belgian players. The Frenchman is young in the game. He will also learn to keep the balls lower.