Текст книги "Смешные рассказы / The Funny Stories"

The Man Who Went Wrong
Jerome K. Jerome

I first met Jack Burridge[105]105
  Jack Burridge – Джек Барридж


[Закрыть] nearly ten years ago on a North-country race-course[106]106
  race-course – ипподром


[Закрыть]. I was more interested in the crowd than in the race, when a sporting friend seized me by the arm and whispered hoarsely in my ear:–

“Punch Mrs. Waller[107]107
  punch Mrs. Waller – бей по миссис Уоллер!


[Закрыть].”

“Punch–?” I began.

“Punch Mrs. Waller,” he repeated more impressively, and disappeared.

I stared after him in blank amazement. Why is it necessary to punch poor Mrs. Waller? And how about myself?

I was passing the grand stand[108]108
  grand stand – трибуна


[Закрыть], and, glancing up, I saw a bookmaker's board[109]109
  bookmaker's board – табло букмекера


[Закрыть] “Mrs. Waller, twelve to one[110]110
  twelve to one – двенадцать к одному


[Закрыть]”. Then I understood that “Mrs. Waller” was a horse, and my friend's advice, expressed in more usual language, was “Back 'Mrs. Waller'[111]111
  Back 'Mrs. Waller' – Ставь на миссис Уоллер


[Закрыть] for as much as you can possibly afford.”

“No, thank you,” I said to myself, “I shall make the selection by myself. I don't need any advice.”

But my friend's words sounded in my head. The birds over my head were singing, “Back Mrs. Waller, back Mrs. Waller!”

I was on the other side of the course. There was no time to get back. The horses were ready for the start. A few yards[112]112
  yard – ярд, британская и американская единица измерения расстояния, 1 ярд = 91,44 см.


[Закрыть] off, under a white umbrella, a bookmaker was shouting his final prices. He was a big, good-looking man, with an honest red face.

“What price 'Mrs. Waller'?” I asked him.

“Fourteen to one,” he answered, “and good luck to you, sir.”

I gave him half a sovereign[113]113
  sovereign – соверен, британская золотая монета


[Закрыть], and he gave me a ticket. I put it into my waistcoat pocket, and ran to see the race. To my astonishment “Mrs. Waller” won.

I began to search for the man under the white umbrella. I went to where I thought I had left him, but no white umbrella could I find.

Suddenly a voice called me:–

“Here you are, sir[114]114
  Here you are, sir. – Вот и вы, сэр.


[Закрыть]. Do you want Jack Burridge? Over here, sir.”

I looked round, and there was Jack Burridge nearby.

It was pleasant to find that his honest face had not cheated me.

“It is very good of you,” I said; “Please, my seven pounds.”

“Seven pounds ten,” he corrected me; “you're forgetting your own money.”

He gave me the money and went back to his stand.

On my way into the town I met him again. A small crowd was collected: a tramp was beating a miserable-looking woman. Jack took off his coat immediately.

“Now then, my good old English gentleman,” he cried, “come and try to talk to me.”

The tramp was very big and ugly, and I have seen better boxers[115]115
  I have seen better boxers – я видывал боксёров и получше


[Закрыть] than Jack. The tramp hit him, the result was a black eye and a nasty cut over the lip. But Jack did not go away and finished him[116]116
  finished him – доконал его


[Закрыть].

At the end, when Jack was helping the tramp to stand up, he said to the fellow in a kindly whisper:–

“Hey, why are you beating that poor lady? You're too strong, even for me. Easy, easy.”

The fellow interested me. I waited and walked on with him. He told me about his home in London, at Mile End[117]117
  Mile End – Майл-Энд, район в восточном Лондоне


[Закрыть]–about his old father and mother, his little brothers and sisters–and what he was planning to do for them. He was very kind.

Many people knew Jack, and all, when they saw his round, red face, smiled unconsciously. At the corner of the High Street[118]118
  High Street – Хай-стрит


[Закрыть] a pale-faced little girl said “Good-evening, Mr. Burridge.”

He caught her by the shoulder.

“And how is your father?” he asked.

“Oh, Mr. Burridge, he is without job again. All the factories are closed,” answered the child.

“And mother?”

“No better, sir.”

He took a couple of sovereigns from his waistcoat pocket, and closed the child's hand upon them.

“Please write me if things don't get better. You know where to find Jack Burridge.”

I decided, on my return to London, to find him, and one evening I went to the Mile End Road where he lived. When I turned the corner I saw him with an old woman, whom he introduced to me as his mother.

He invited to enter his house. There were many old people in the room. When he entered every face lightened up with pleasure. Jack cooked a wonderful supper, everybody was satisfied.

After supper he made some excellent whisky punch. For the children he prepared a marvellous drink, made from hot lemonade, sugar, oranges, and berries.

I stayed till late[119]119
  I stayed till late – я засиделся допоздна


[Закрыть], I was listening to his wonderful stories. “What I do – I do to please myself. I like to see people comfortable.”

I did not see him again for nearly two years. Then one October evening, walking along the East End, I met him. He was coming out of a little Chapel[120]120
  a little Chapel – маленькая часовенка


[Закрыть] in the Burdett Road[121]121
  Burdett Road – Бардетт-роуд


[Закрыть]. He changed a lot, and I hardly recognized him.

“Good-evening, Mr.Burridge!” I exclaimed. A pair of bushy side-whiskers[122]122
  side-whiskers – бакенбарды


[Закрыть] gave his red face a respectable appearance. He was dressed in a black suit, and carried an umbrella in one hand and a book in the other. He looked both thinner and shorter than before.

His little eyes wandered up and down the street.

“No, sir,” he replied, “not the one as you used to know[123]123
  not the one as you used to know – это не тот, которого вы знали


[Закрыть].”

“And what about your old business?” I asked.

“Oh, sir,” he replied, “that's all over[124]124
  that's all over – с этим покончено


[Закрыть]; I was a vile sinner. But, thank Heaven[125]125
  thank Heaven – слава Богу


[Закрыть], I have changed.”

“Come and have a drink,” I said, “and tell me all about it.”

He objected.

“You know, sir,” he said, “but I have given up the drink[126]126
  I have given up the drink. – Я больше не пью.


[Закрыть].”

I asked about the old people, and if they were still living with him.

“Yes,” he said, “But, of course, everybody tries to use a man just because he is kind enough.”

“And how are you getting on?” I asked.

“Tolerably well, thank you, sir. The Lord does not forget His servants,” he replied with a smile. “I have got a little shop now in the Commercial Road[127]127
  Commercial Road – Коммершл-роуд


[Закрыть].”

“Where?” I persisted. “I want to come and see you.”

He gave me the address reluctantly, and said he would be very glad if I would visit him, which was a lie.

The following afternoon I went to him. He had a pawnbroker's shop[128]128
  pawnbroker's shop – ссудная лавка


[Закрыть], and his business ran well. Jack was attending a meeting, but his old father was behind the counter, and invited me inside. Though it was a chilly day there was no fire in the room, and the two old people were sitting silent and sad. After a while Mrs. Burridge's sighed.

“Your son has changed a lot, Mrs. Burridge,” I remarked.

“Oh, sir,” she assented, “you are right.”

“Was it a sudden change?” I asked. “How did it happen?”

“It was a young woman,” explained the old lady. “She was collecting money for something, and Jack, gave her a five-pounds note. Next week she come again for something else, and talked to him about his soul. She told him that he was going straight to hell, and he had to give up the bookmaking[129]129
  he had to give up the bookmaking – был вынужден бросить букмекерство


[Закрыть] and start a respectable, God-fearing business[130]130
  God-fearing business – богоугодное дело


[Закрыть]. At first he only laughed, but she gave him a lot of awful books; and one day she took him to the priest. He has never been the same Jack since then. He bought this house, but what is the difference? I can't see. My heart aches, when I hear how my Jack cheats the poor people. His new friends told him that if the people are poor, that was their own fault, and it was the will of God.”

An angry discussion in the shop interrupted us. Jack returned, and was threatening an excited woman with the police. She miscalculated the date[131]131
  she miscalculated the date – она перепутала дату


[Закрыть], and returned the money a day too late[132]132
  returned the money a day too late – вернула деньги на день позже


[Закрыть].

Jack came closer with the watch in his hand.

“Just look,” he said, smiling; “the watch is worth ten times what I lent on it[133]133
  the watch is worth ten times what I lent on it – часы стоят в десять раз больше, чем я ссудил под них


[Закрыть].”

He sent his father back into the shop, and his mother to the kitchen to make his tea, and for a while we sat together talking. His conversation was a strange mixture of self-laudation and of satisfaction at the conviction that he was “saved,” combined with equally evident satisfaction that most other people weren't. It was boring. I rose to go.

He took a religious paper from his pocket, and pointed to a column:

“You are not interested in the Lord's gardens, I suppose, sir?”

I looked at the paper. There was the name, “Mr. John Burridge, one hundred guineas[134]134
  one hundred guineas – сто гиней


[Закрыть].”

“You subscribe largely[135]135
  You subscribe largely. – Вы много жертвуете.


[Закрыть], Mr. Burridge,” I said, and returned him the paper.

“The Lord will repay a hundredfold[136]136
  will repay a hundredfold – воздаст сторицей


[Закрыть],” he answered.

“And it's necessary to confirm it, eh?” I added.

His little eyes looked sharply at me; but he made no reply. I left him.

The Degeneration of Thomas Henry
Jerome K. Jerome

The most respectable cat was Thomas Henry[137]137
  Thomas Henry – Томас-Генри


[Закрыть]. His original name was Thomas, but it was absurd to call him that. He came to us from the Reform Club[138]138
  Reform Club – Реформ-клуб


[Закрыть], through the butcher. He had atmosphere of solid dignity and conservatism. Why he left the club I do not know, but I think that it happened because of the difference with the new cook, who wanted all the fire to himself. The butcher heard about the quarrel, and he knew that we did not have a cat. So Thomas arrived in our house.

When my wife saw him, she suggested the name “Henry”. It was a more suitable name for this cat. But what to do with the name “Thomas”?

The combination of these two names is more appropriate. So Thomas Henry the cat was called. When we were speaking of him to friends, we generally called him as Thomas Henry, Esquire.

He was quiet. He chose my own favourite chair for himself. What to do? It was his decision. I did not want to get an enemy.

That time a lady was staying with us–she still resides with us, but she is now older, and cleverer. She did not have respect for cats. She was sure that the way to feed a cat was[139]139
  the way to feed a cat was – способ кормления кота заключается в том


[Закрыть] to insert things into its head. I dreaded the first meeting of Thomas Henry with this lady. He will get a false impression of us as a family.

But there was something about Thomas Henry that killed damped familiarity. His attitude towards the lady was friendly but firm. Suddenly she got a respect for cats, she put out her hand[140]140
  she put out her hand – она протянула свою руку


[Закрыть] timidly towards its tail. He gently put it on the other side, and looked at her. It was not an angry look nor an offended look. It was the expression with which Solomon[141]141
  Solomon – Соломон


[Закрыть] received the Queen of Sheba[142]142
  Queen of Sheba – царица Савская; легендарная правительница аравийского царства Шеба (Х в.), чей визит в Иерусалим к израильскому царю Соломону описан в Библии.


[Закрыть].

He was really a gentleman. A friend of mine, who believes in the doctrine of the transmigration of souls[143]143
  the doctrine of the transmigration of souls – доктрина о переселении душ


[Закрыть], was convinced that he was Lord Chesterfield[144]144
  Lord Chesterfield – лорд Честерфилд; английский государственный деятель, дипломат и писатель (1694–1773).


[Закрыть]. He never mewed for food, as other cats do. He was sitting beside me and waiting till he was served[145]145
  till he was served – когда его обслужат


[Закрыть]. A visitor of ours once offered him a piece of gristle[146]146
  a piece of gristle – хрящик


[Закрыть]; he said nothing, but quietly left the room, and we did not see him again until our friend had departed.

But every one has his price, and Thomas Henry's price was roast duck[147]147
  roast duck – жареная утка


[Закрыть]. It showed me at once the lower and more animal side of his nature. In the presence of roast duck Thomas Henry became simply and merely a cat. He clawed for roast duck, he wanted it very much. I am sure he could sell himself to the devil[148]148
  he could sell himself to the devil – он мог продать душу дьяволу


[Закрыть] for roast duck.

We accordingly avoided that dish: it was painful to see a cat's character so completely demoralised. Besides, his manners, when roast duck was on the table, showed a bad example to the children.

Thomas Henry was a shining light among all the cats of our neighbourhood. He made no friends among the other cats. He did not like to fight, I think, he never loved, even in youth; he was absolutely indifferent to female society.

So he lived with us during the whole winter. In the summer we took him into the country. Alas, poor Thomas Henry! The country was his ruin. The first night he did not come till eleven, the second night he did not come home at all, the third night he came home at six o'clock in the morning, without half the fur on the top of his head[149]149
  the top of the head – макушка


[Закрыть]. Of course, there was a lady in the case[150]150
  there was a lady in the case – в деле была замешана женщина


[Закрыть]. Thomas Henry was certainly a beautiful cat, and this was the explanation. But gentleman cats were demanding explanations, too, which Thomas Henry was always ready to give them.

The village boys loitered round all day to watch the fights, and angry women constantly came into our kitchen to fling dead cats upon the table, and appeal to Heaven and myself for justice.

Our kitchen became a cat's morgue, and I purchased a new kitchen table. At first, “justice” was generally satisfied with half a crown[151]151
  half a crown – полукрона


[Закрыть], but the prices rose.

“Look what your beast has done,” said one irate female, who arrived in the middle of dinner.

I looked. Thomas Henry killed a poor animal, that was happier dead than alive. But some people never know what is better for them.

“I will not take even a five-pound note for that cat,” said the lady.

“But,” I replied, “I don't want to give you more than a shilling for it.”

“He was more like a Christian than a cat,” said the lady.

“You can consider him as a Christian,” I answered firmly, “or you can consider him as a cat, but he's not worth more than a shilling in either case[152]152
  in either case – в любом случае


[Закрыть].”

Finally, I paid eighteenpence.

The number of cats that Thomas Henry killed surprised me. It was a massacre of cats!

One evening, going into the kitchen, I found, among others, a curiously marked tortoiseshell cat[153]153
  a curiously marked tortoiseshell cat – кот необычного пёстрого окраса


[Закрыть], lying on the table.

“That cat's worth half a sovereign,” said the owner, who was standing by, drinking beer.

I took up the animal, and examined it.

“Your cat killed him yesterday,” continued the man. “It's a shame.”

“My cat has killed him three times,” I replied. “He was killed on Saturday as Mrs. Hedger's cat[154]154
  Mrs. Hedger's cat – кот миссис Хеджер


[Закрыть]; on Monday he was killed for Mrs. Myers[155]155
  Mrs. Myers – миссис Мейер


[Закрыть]. Now I recognize him. Take my advice, and bury him. I don't care how many lives a cat has got; I only pay for one.”

We gave Thomas Henry every chance to reform; but he only went from bad to worse, and added chicken-killing to his other crimes, and I became tired to pay for his vices.

I consulted the gardener, and the gardener said he knew what to do.

“Do you know any cure for it?” I asked.

“Well, sir,” replied the gardener, “I have heard that a brick and a pond is a good thing for that.”

“We will try it just before bed time,” I answered.

It worked! We had no further trouble with our cat.

Poor Thomas Henry! His story shows to me what temptation can do. I was sorry for Thomas Henry, and I have never believed in the moral influence of the country since that time.

Portrait of a Lady
Jerome K. Jerome

My work was waiting for me, but I resisted. The shadow of it darkened all my actions. The thought of it sat beside me at the table, and spoilt my appetite. The memory of it followed me abroad, and stood between me and my friends.

Late in the afternoon we arrived at a village. It lies between three great hills. There is no telegraph here, so the whispers of the world do not come. My friend offered the house of Mistress Cholmondley[156]156
  Cholmondley – Чолмондли


[Закрыть], a widow, who lived with her daughter in the white cottage.

The tiny house looked very nice, and after a lunch of bread and cheese at the little inn I made my way[157]157
  made my way – направился


[Закрыть] to it by the path that passes through the churchyard. I pushed the door and entered.

The cottage was interesting, but my hosts disappointed me. My hostess was sleeping in her big chair all day long. She was a woman of between forty and fifty. A narrow, uninteresting woman, she was trying to look much younger.

All other details were, however, most satisfactory; and I tried to work. I wrote for perhaps an hour, and then I threw my pen. I looked about the room[158]158
  looked about the room – оглядел комнату


[Закрыть]. An old book-case stood against the wall. I came nearer. The key was in the lock, I opened glass doors, and examined the shelves. There was a curious collection: novels and poems; whose authors I had never heard of; old magazines, diaries. On the top shelf, however, was a volume of Keats[159]159
  Keats – Джон Китс (1795–1821), английский поэт-романтик.


[Закрыть]. I tried to take it, a small picture fell down on the floor.

I picked the picture, and took it to the window, and examined it. It was the picture of a young girl, dressed in the fashion of thirty years ago. Her face was beautiful, such as one finds in all miniatures, but with soul behind the soft deep eyes. The sweet lips laughed at me, and there was a sadness in the smile. Even my small knowledge of Art told me that the work was excellent. And it was strangely forgotten in the book-case.

I placed it back, and sat down to my work again. But the face of the miniature did not disappear. It looked out at me from the shadows. I grew angry with myself, and made an effort to fix my mind[160]160
  made an effort to fix my mind – сделал попытку сосредоточиться


[Закрыть] upon the paper in front of me. But my thoughts refused to return to work. Once, over my shoulder, I saw the girl from the picture – she was sitting in the big chair in the far corner. I closed my eyes and opened them again. There was nobody in the room.

Next morning I forgot the incident, but the light of the lamp awoke the memory of it within me. I took the miniature from its place and looked at it.

And then I understood that I knew the face. Where did I see her, and when? I had met her and spoken to her. The picture smiled at me. I put it back upon its shelf. I tried to recollect my brains[161]161
  tried to recollect my brains – попытался собраться с мыслями


[Закрыть]. We had met somewhere–in the country–a long time ago, and had talked of usual things. Why had I never seen her again?

My landlady entered to lay my supper, and I questioned her.

“Oh, yes,” answered my landlady. Ladies often lodged with her. Sometimes people stayed the whole summer. They were wandering in the woods. Some of her lodgers were young ladies, but she cannot remember any of them precisely. They came and went away, few people returned.

“Have you offered rooms for a long time?” I asked. “I suppose, fifteen–twenty years, right?”

“Longer than that,” she said quietly. “We came here from the farm when my father died. That is twenty-seven years ago now.”

I hastened to close the conversation. I did not learn much. Who was the girl from the miniature, how the picture came to the dusty book-case were still mysteries. Strangely, I could not put a direct question.

So two days more passed by. My work took gradually my mind, and the face of the miniature visited me less often. But in the evening of the third day, which was a Sunday, a curious thing happened.

I was returning from a walk, and dusk was falling as I reached the cottage. When I was passing the window of my room, I saw the sweet fair face that became so familiar to me. The girl stood close to the window, the beautiful hands clasped across the breast. Her eyes were looking at the road through the village. I was close to the window, but the hedge hid me. After a minute, I suppose, though it appeared longer, the figure drew back into the darkness of the room and disappeared.

I entered, but the room was empty. I called, but no one answered. Am I crazy? This girl appeared not to my brain but to my senses. I do not believe in ghosts, but I believe in the hallucinations of a weak mind, and this explanation was not very satisfactory to myself.

I tried to forget the incident, but it did not leave me. I took out a book at random[162]162
  I took out a book at random – я вытащил наугад одну книгу


[Закрыть] to amuse myself, a volume of verses by unknown poet. I found that its sentimental passages were marked.

One poem was particularly interesting for the reader. It was the old, old story of the gallant who rides away, leaving the maiden to weep[163]163
  leaving the maiden to weep – оставляя невесту в слезах


[Закрыть]. The poetry was poor. We laugh at these stories, but they are very important for many people.

I wanted to learn more, and next morning while my landlady was clearing away my breakfast things[164]164
  landlady was clearing away my breakfast things – хозяйка убирала со стола после завтрака


[Закрыть], I asked her once again.

“By the way,” I said, “if I leave any books or papers here, send them to me at once, please”. And I added, “Your lodgers often leave some of their things, I suppose.”

“Not often,” she answered. “Never that I can remember, except in the case of one poor lady who died here.”

I glanced up quickly.

“In this room?” I asked.

“Well, not exactly in this room. We carried her upstairs, but she died immediately. She was dying when she came here. But I did not know that. So many people don't like houses where death occurred.”

I did not speak for a while.

“What did she leave here?” I asked then.

“Oh, just a few books and photographs, and small things that people bring with them,” was the reply. “Her relatives promised to send for them, but they never did, and I suppose I forgot them. They were not of any value[165]165
  They were not of any value. – Они не представляли никакой ценности.


[Закрыть].”

The woman looked at me.

“I hope, you will not go away, sir,” she said. “It all happened a long time ago.

“Of course not,” I answered. “It interested me, that was all.”

And the woman went out, closing the door behind her.

So here was the explanation, if I am ready to accept it. I sat long that morning. And a day or two afterwards I made a discovery that confirmed all my thoughts.

In this same dusty book-case I found a diary with many letters and flowers. So I read the story I already knew.

This was a very old story. He was an artist…–is there a story of this type where the hero is not an artist? They were children together, they loved each other and did not know about that. One day it was revealed to them. These are the words from the diary:–

“May 18th.–I do not know what to say, or how to begin. Chris[166]166
  Chris – Крис


[Закрыть] loves me. He kissed my hands and clasped them round his neck. He was saying they were beautiful as the hands of a goddess, and he knelt and kissed them again. I am holding them before my eyes and kissing them myself. I am glad they are so beautiful. O God, why are you so good to me? Help me to be a true wife[167]167
  a true wife – верная жена


[Закрыть] to him. Help me love him better,”–and thus foolish thoughts for many pages, but these foolish thoughts keep this worn old world.

Later, in February, there are other words in the diary:–

“Chris left this morning. He put a little packet into my hands at the last moment, and he said it was the most precious thing he possessed. Of course I guessed what it was, but I did not open it till I was alone in my room. It is the picture of myself, but oh, so beautiful. I wonder if I am really as beautiful as this. I am kissing the little lips. I love them, because he loved to kiss them. Oh, sweetheart! it will be long before you kiss them again. Of course it was right for him to go, and I am glad he was able to do it. He could not study in this country place, and now he will be able to go to Paris and Rome and he will be great. Even the stupid people here see how clever he is. But, oh, it will be so long before I see him again, my love! my king!”

With each letter that comes from him, similar foolish words appeared. But his letters grow colder and fewer.

“March 12th. Six weeks and no letter from Chris, and, oh dear! I am so hungry for one, the last letter I kissed many times. I suppose he will write more often when he comes to London. He is working hard, I know, and I am selfish, but o God, help me, help me, whatever happens! How foolish I am tonight! He was always careless. I will punish him when he comes back, but not very much.”

Letters come from him after that, but apparently they are less and less satisfactory, because the diary becomes angry and bitter. Next words appear at the end of another year:–

“It is all over now[168]168
  It is all over now. – Теперь всё кончено.


[Закрыть]. I am glad it is finished. I wrote to him, I left him. Freedom is better for us. It is the best way. He did not ask me to release him, he was always gentle. Now he will be able to marry easily, and he will never know what I suffered. She is better for him than I am. I hope he will be happy. I think I have done the right thing.”

A few blank lines follow.

“Why do I lie to myself? I hate her! I want to kill her. I hope that she will make him unhappy, and that he will hate her as I do, and that she will die! Why did I send him that letter? He will show it to her, and she will laugh at me.

“I need him. I want him. I want his kisses and his arms. He is mine! He loved me once! I left him because I wanted to be the saint. Why do I deceive myself? I want him!”

And in the end. “My God, what am I saying? Have I no shame, no strength? O God, help me!”

* * *

And there the diary closes.

I looked among the letters between the pages of the book. Most of them were signed simply “Chris.” or “Christopher.” But one gave his name in full, and it was a name I know well. He is a famous man, I met him. I remember his handsome wife, and his great place, half house, half museum, in Kensington[169]169
  Kensington – Кенсингтон


[Закрыть]. And I saw the sweet, sad face of the woman of the miniature, she smiled at me from out of the shadows.

I took the miniature from its shelf. I must know her name. So I stood with it in my hand till later my landlady entered to lay the cloth.

“I found this in your bookcase,” I said, “when I was taking some books to read. It is someone I know, someone I have met, but I cannot remember where. Do you know who it is?”

The woman took it from my hand.

“I had lost it,” she answered. “It's a portrait of myself, painted years ago, by a friend.”

I looked from her to the miniature, as she stood among the shadows, the lamplight was falling on her face, and saw her perhaps for the first time.

“How stupid of me,” I answered. «Yes, I see now.»