Смешные рассказы / The Funny Stories

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 was very 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 novelist[19 - some English novelist – некий английский романист] will write a book, showing the evil effects of over-indulgence in sport[20 - over-indulgence in sport – чрезмерное увлечение спортом]: the ruined business, the ruined home, the slow but sure[21 - slow but sure – медленный, но верный] destroying of the brain, which leads to foolishness.

I once heard of a young couple. They went for their honeymoon[22 - They went for their honeymoon – Они отправились на медовый месяц] 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 well[23 - he meant well – у него были лучшие намерения], but the thing had gone too far[24 - the thing had gone too far – дело зашло слишком далеко]. 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, Tammas[25 - give it up, Tammas – брось это, Тэммас].”

A few months later Tammas met his friend again.

“You were right, Jamie[26 - Jamie – Джейми],” 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 Heavens[27 - Great Heavens! – О Боже!], 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 Eton[28 - Eton – Итон] 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 coughing[29 - between paroxysms of coughing – между приступами кашля], 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 for[30 - they don't care for – они безразличны к] 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 Belgium[31 - Belgium – Бельгия]; I shall certainly try to be present at the opening game. I am afraid that the Belgian[32 - Belgian – бельгийский] 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. Petersburg[33 - St. Petersburg – Санкт-Петербург] to Bordeaux[34 - Bordeaux – Бордо]. 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 back[35 - the small of the back – поясница], and has bowled him over[36 - bowled him over – сбил его с ног]. Doherty[37 - Doherty – Догерти] 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.