The Little Lady of the Big House / Маленькая хозяйка большого дома. Книга для чтения на английском языке

The Little Lady of the Big House / Маленькая хозяйка большого дома. Книга для чтения на английском языке
Джек Лондон

Е. Г. Тигонен

Classical literature (Каро)
«Маленькая хозяйка большого дома» – роман знаменитого американского писателя Джека Лондона (1876–1916), вышедший в свет в последний год жизни автора.

В предлагаемой вниманию читателей книге представлен неадаптированный текст романа, снабженный комментариями и словарем.

Джек Лондон

The Little Lady of the Big House / Маленькая хозяйка большого дома. Книга для чтения на английском языке

Комментарии и словарь Е. Г. Тигонен

© КАРО, 2013

Об авторе

Знаменитый американский писатель Джек Лондон родился 12 января 1876 года в Сан-Франциско. Родители разошлись до рождения мальчика. Позже его мать Флора Чейни вышла замуж повторно за овдовевшего фермера Джона Лондона. Денег в семье было мало, и Джек, не доучившись в школе, стал с ранних лет зарабатывать себе на жизнь. Чем только он не занимался – продавал газеты, трудился на джутовой и консервной фабриках, зарабатывал в качестве «устричного пирата» – нелегального сборщика устриц в бухте Сан-Франциско, матроса, позже охотился на морских котиков в Тихом океане у берегов Японии, побывал на Аляске в качестве золотоискателя, был гладильщиком и кочегаром. Весь этот огромный жизненный опыт позднее нашел отражение в его литературном творчестве.

Джек Лондон – человек, сделавший себя сам. Не получив систематического образования, он с детства очень много читал – как художественную литературу, так и философские и социологические труды. Самостоятельно подготовился и поступил в Калифорнийский университет, но из-за отсутствия средств вынужден был оставить учебу после третьего семестра. Умелец, моряк, впоследствии фермер, познавший тяжесть физического труда, Лондон всю жизнь жадно поглощал знания и уже в ранние годы загорелся мечтой стать писателем, благо ему было что сказать читателям.

Он был очень плодовит, работал по 15–17 часов в день. Из-под его пера вышло более 200 рассказов, первый из них, «За тех, кто в пути» увидел свет в 1899 году, после возвращения Лондона с Клондайка. Сборники рассказов «Сын волка», «Бог его отцов», «Дети мороза» и другие, героями которых стали волевые, мужественные люди, осуждающие трусов и предателей, принесли ему широчайшую известность.

Дальнейшая литературная карьера Джека Лондона сложилась удачно, он получал безумные по тем временам гонорары – до пятидесяти тысяч долларов за книгу. Однако это не помешало ему продолжать писать в «социалистическом» духе, обличая социальную несправедливость.

Джек Лондон рано ушел из жизни – ему было всего сорок лет – отравившись прописанным ему морфием (он страдал тяжелым почечным заболеванием). Некоторые исследователи полагают, что это было самоубийство, что, впрочем, ничем не подтверждено, так как он не оставил предсмертной записки. Но, безусловно, мысли о самоубийстве у него были – достаточно вспомнить Мартина Идена, альтер эго писателя. Его герой сознательно покончил с собой, разочаровавшись в ценностях своего собственного круга и буржуазного мира, в котором, даже разбогатев и прославившись, он не смог жить.

* * *

Роман «Маленькая хозяйка большого дома», увидевший свет в последний год жизни Д. Лондона, посвящен взаимоотношениям неординарных персонажей и является лучшим произведением писателя по силе и глубине показа тех неистовых бурь, которые вызывает в душах людей любовь.

Chapter I

He awoke in the dark. His awakening was simple, easy, without movement save for[1 - save for – (разг.) за исключением] the eyes that opened and made him aware of darkness. Unlike most, who must feel and grope and listen to, and contact with, the world about them, he knew himself on the moment of awakening, instantly identifying himself in time and place and personality. After the lapsed hours of sleep he took up, without effort, the interrupted tale of his days. He knew himself to be Dick Forrest, the master of broad acres, who had fallen asleep hours before after drowsily putting a match between the pages of Road Town and pressing off the electric reading lamp.

Near at hand there was the ripple and gurgle of some sleepy fountain. From far off, so faint and far that only a keen ear could catch, he heard a sound that made him smile with pleasure. He knew it for the distant, throaty bawl of King Polo – King Polo, his champion Short Horn bull, thrice Grand Champion also of all bulls at Sacramento at the California State Fairs. The smile was slow in easing from Dick Forrest’s face, for he dwelt a moment on the new triumphs he had destined that year for King Polo on the Eastern livestock circuits. He would show them that a bull, California born and finished, could compete with the cream of bulls corn-fed in Iowa or imported overseas from the immemorial home of Short Horns.

Not until the smile faded, which was a matter of seconds, did he reach out in the dark and press the first of a row of buttons. There were three rows of such buttons. The concealed lighting that spilled from the huge bowl under the ceiling revealed a sleeping-porch, three sides of which were fine-meshed copper screen. The fourth side was the house wall, solid concrete, through which French windows[2 - French windows – (разг.) высокие застекленные двери] gave access.

He pressed the second button in the row and the bright light concentered at a particular place on the concrete wall, illuminating, in a row, a clock, a barometer, and centigrade and Fahrenheit thermometers. Almost in a sweep of glance he read the messages of the dials: time 4:30; air pressure, 29:80, which was normal at that altitude and season; and temperature, Fahrenheit, 36°. With another press, the gauges of time and heat and air were sent back into the darkness.

A third button turned on his reading lamp, so arranged that the light fell from above and behind without shining into his eyes. The first button turned off the concealed lighting overhead. He reached a mass of proofsheets from the reading stand, and, pencil in hand, lighting a cigarette, he began to correct.

The place was clearly the sleeping quarters of a man who worked. Efficiency was its key note, though comfort, not altogether Spartan, was also manifest. The bed was of gray enameled iron to tone with the concrete wall. Across the foot of the bed, an extra coverlet, hung a gray robe of wolfskins with every tail a-dangle[3 - with every tail a-dangle – (уст.) с висячими хвостами]. On the floor, where rested a pair of slippers, was spread a thick-coated skin of mountain goat.

Heaped orderly with books, magazines and scribble-pads, there was room on the big reading stand for matches, cigarettes, an ash-tray, and a thermos bottle. A phonograph, for purposes of dictation, stood on a hinged and swinging bracket. On the wall, under the barometer and thermometers, from a round wooden frame laughed the face of a girl. On the wall, between the rows of buttons and a switchboard, from an open holster, loosely projected the butt of a .44 Colt’s automatic.

At six o’clock, sharp, after gray light had begun to filter through the wire netting, Dick Forrest, without raising his eyes from the proofsheets, reached out his right hand and pressed a button in the second row. Five minutes later a soft-slippered Chinese emerged on the sleeping-porch. In his hands he bore a small tray of burnished copper on which rested a cup and saucer, a tiny coffee pot of silver, and a correspondingly tiny silver cream pitcher.

“Good morning, Oh My,” was Dick Forrest’s greeting, and his eyes smiled and his lips smiled as he uttered it.

“Good morning, Master,” Oh My returned, as he busied himself with making room on the reading stand for the tray and with pouring the coffee and cream.

This done, without waiting further orders, noting that his master was already sipping coffee with one hand while he made a correction on the proof with the other, Oh My picked up a rosy, filmy, lacy boudoir cap from the floor and departed. His exit was noiseless. He ebbed away like a shadow through the open French windows.

At six-thirty, sharp to the minute[4 - sharp to the minute – (разг.) минута в минуту; точно], he was back with a larger tray. Dick Forrest put away the proofs, reached for a book entitled Commercial Breeding of Frogs, and prepared to eat. The breakfast was simple yet fairly substantial – more coffee, a half grape-fruit, two soft-boiled eggs made ready in a glass with a dab of butter and piping hot, and a sliver of bacon, not over-cooked, that he knew was of his own raising and curing.

By this time the sunshine was pouring in through the screening and across the bed. On the outside of the wire screen clung a number of house-flies, early-hatched for the season and numb with the night’s cold. As Forrest ate he watched the hunting of the meat-eating yellow-jackets[5 - yellow-jackets – (разг.) желтобрюхие осы]. Sturdy, more frost-resistant than bees, they were already on the wing and preying on the benumbed flies. Despite the rowdy noise of their flight, these yellow hunters of the air, with rarely ever a miss, pounced on their helpless victims and sailed away with them. The last fly was gone ere Forrest had sipped his last sip of coffee, marked Commercial Breeding of Frogs with a match, and taken up his proofsheets.

After a time, the liquid-mellow cry of the meadowlark, first vocal for the day, caused him to desist. He looked at the clock. It marked seven. He set aside the proofs and began a series of conversations by means of the switchboard, which he manipulated with a practiced hand.

“Hello, Oh Joy,” was his first talk. “Is Mr. Thayer up?… Very well. Don’t disturb him. I don’t think he’ll breakfast in bed, but find out… That’s right, and show him how to work the hot water. Maybe he doesn’t know… Yes, that’s right. Plan for one more boy as soon as you can get him. There’s always a crowd when the good weather comes on… Sure. Use your judgment. Good-bye.

“Mr. Hanley?… Yes,” was his second conversation, over another switch. “I’ve been thinking about the dam on the Buckeye. I want the figures on the gravel-haul and on the rock-crushing… Yes, that’s it. I imagine that the gravel-haul will cost anywhere between six and ten cents a yard more than the crushed rock. That last pitch of hill is what eats up the gravel-teams. Work out the figures. …No, we won’t be able to start for a fortnight. …Yes, yes; the new tractors, if they ever deliver, will release the horses from the plowing, but they’ll have to go back for the checking… No, you’ll have to see Mr. Everan about that. Good-bye.”

And his third call:

“Mr. Dawson? Ha! Ha! Thirty-six on my porch right now. It must be white with frost down on the levels. But it’s most likely the last this year… Yes, they swore the tractors would be delivered two days ago… Call up the station agent. …By the way, you catch Hanley for me. I forgot to tell him to start the ‘rat-catchers’ out with the second instalment of fly-traps… Yes, pronto[6 - pronto – (исп.) быстро; поживее; сейчас же]. There were a couple of dozen roosting on my screen this morning… Yes… Good-bye.”

At this stage, Forrest slid out of bed in his pajamas, slipped his feet into the slippers, and strode through the French windows to the bath, already drawn by Oh My. A dozen minutes afterward, shaved as well, he was back in bed, reading his frog book while Oh My, punctual to the minute, massaged his legs.

They were the well-formed legs of a well-built, five-foot-ten man who weighed a hundred and eighty pounds. Further, they told a tale of the man. The left thigh was marred by a scar ten inches in length. Across the left ankle, from instep to heel, were scattered half a dozen scars the size of half-dollars. When Oh My prodded and pulled the left knee a shade too severely, Forrest was guilty of a wince[7 - was guilty of a wince – (разг.) невольно поморщился]. The right shin was colored with several dark scars, while a big scar, just under the knee, was a positive dent in the bone. Midway between knee and groin was the mark of an ancient three-inch gash, curiously dotted with the minute scars of stitches.

A sudden, joyous nicker from without put the match between the pages of the frog book, and, while Oh My proceeded partly to dress his master in bed, including socks and shoes, the master, twisting partly on his side, stared out in the direction of the nicker. Down the road, through the swaying purple of the early lilacs, ridden by a picturesque cowboy, paced a great horse, glinting ruddy in the morning sun-gold, flinging free the snowy foam of his mighty fetlocks, his noble crest tossing, his eyes roving afield, the trumpet of his love-call echoing through the springing land.

Dick Forrest was smitten at the same instant with joy and anxiety – joy in the glorious beast pacing down between the lilac hedges; anxiety in that the stallion might have awakened the girl who laughed from the round wooden frame on his wall. He glanced quickly across the two-hundred-foot court to the long, shadowy jut of her wing of the house. The shades of her sleeping-porch were down. They did not stir. Again the stallion nickered, and all that moved was a flock of wild canaries, upspringing from the flowers and shrubs of the court, rising like a green-gold spray of light flung from the sunrise.

He watched the stallion out of sight through the lilacs, seeing visions of fair Shire colts mighty of bone and frame and free from blemish[8 - free from blemish – (разг.) безупречный; без малейшего изъяна], then turned, as ever he turned to the immediate thing, and spoke to his body servant.

“How’s that last boy, Oh My? Showing up?”

“Him pretty good boy, I think,” was the answer. “Him young boy. Everything new. Pretty slow. All the same time by him show up good.”

“Why? What makes you think so?”

“I call him three, four morning now. Him sleep like baby. Him wake up smiling just like you. That very good.”

“Do I wake up smiling?” Forrest queried.

Oh My nodded his head violently.

“Many times, many years, I call you. Always your eyes open, your eyes smile, your mouth smile, your face smile, you smile all over, just like that, right away quick. That very good. A man wake up that way got plenty good sense. I know. This new boy like that. Bime by, pretty soon, he make fine boy. You see. His name Chow Gam. What name you call him this place?”

Dick Forrest meditated.

“What names have we already?” he asked.