книги / Striving For Happiness. I Am a Part of All that I Have Met

say precisely why this kind-looking face seemed to him so disgusting, but he made a step back and even in the manager's company he was afraid to look at him again.

"But who is he?" he asked.

"That," said the manager, "is Dr. Bourdette"

Hewson shook his head. "I think I've heard the name," he said, "but I forgot in connec­ tion with what."

The manager smiled.

"You'd remember better if you were a Frenchman," he said. "For a long time this man was the terror of Paris. He did his work of a doctor in daytime and of a murderer at night. He killed for the devilish pleasure it gave him to kill, and always in the same way - with a razor. After his last crime he mysteriously disappeared, and ever since the police of every civilized country have been looking for him."

Hewson shuddered. "I don't like him at all," he confessed. "Ugh! What eyes he’s got!" "Yes, this figure's a little masterpiece. It seems to you that the eyes stare at you? Well, that is excellent realism, for Bourdette practised mesmerism and was supposed to hypnotize

his victims before killing them. Indeed, it explains how such a small man could do his terri­ ble work. There were never any signs of a struggle."

"It seemed to me I saw him move," said Hewson in a whisper. The manager smiled.

"You'll have more than one optical illusion before the end of the night, I expect. I'm sorry I can't give you any more light: we keep this place as gloomy as possible. And now come with me to the office and have a drink of whisky before you return here again."

The night attendant placed an armchair for Hewson and wished him good night. Hewson turned the armchair a little so that its back was toward the figure of Dr. Bourdette. For some reason he liked him much less than his companions. While he was busy with arranging the chair he was almost light-hearted, but when the attendant's footsteps had died away and a deep hush fell over the chamber he realised that he had a difficult night before him.

The dim light fell on the rows of figures which were so like human beings that the silence and the stillness seemed unnatural and even sinister. "It must be like this at the bottom of the sea," he thought and decided to use this phrase in his story on the next morning. He faced the figures boldly enough. They were only waxworks. So long as he let that thought dominate all others he promised himself that all would be well. It did not, however, save him long from the discomfort caused by the waxen stare of Dr. Bourdette, which, he knew, was directed upon him from behind. The eyes of the little Frenchman tormented him, and he with difficulty suppressed the desire to turn and look. At last Hewson turned his chair round a little and looked behind him.

"He's only a waxwork like the rest of you," he said loudly. "You are all only waxworks."

They were only waxworks, yes, but waxworks don't move. Not that he had seen any movement anywhere, but it seemed to him that in the moment or two while he had looked behind him, there had been some change in the group of the figures in front. Crippen, for instance, seemed to have turned a little to the left. Or, thought Hewson, the illusion was due to the fact that he had not fixed his chair back into its exact original position.

He took a notebook from his pocket and wrote quickly: "Remember: Deathly silence. Like being at the bottom of sea. Hypnotic eyes of Dr. Bourdette. Figures seem to move

when not being watched."

He closed the book suddenly and looked round quickly over the right shoulder. He had neither seen nor heard a movement, but it was as if some sixth sense had made him aware of one. He looked straight at Lefroy, which smiled as if to say, "It wasn't 1!"

Of course, it wasn't he, or any of them. It was his own nerves. Or was it? Hadn't Crippen moved during that moment when his attention was directed elsewhere? You couldn't trust that little man. When you took your eyes off him he took advantage of it to change his position. That was what they were all doing. If he had only known it, he would have never come here. He was leaving. He wasn't going to spend the night with a lot of waxworks which moved while he wasn't looking.

Hewson sat down again. This was very cowardly and very absurd. They were only waxworks and they couldn't move; let him hold on to that thought and all would be well. He swung round quickly and stared straight at Crippen. Ha! He'd nearly caught Crippen that time! "You'd better be careful, Crippen - and all the rest of you! If I see one of you move I'll smash you to pieces! Do you hear?"

He must go, he told himself. Already he had experience enough to write his story, or ten stories about it. Then, why not go? Yes, but that night attendant upstairs will laugh at him. And the manager won't give him that five-pound note which he needed so badly. He thought of his wife. She must be asleep now or maybe she is lying awake and thinking of him. She'll laugh when he tells her what he imagined.

This was too much! The murderers not only moved but they breathed, too. Because somebody was breathing. Or was it his own breath which sounded to him as if it came from a distance? This won't do! This certainly will not do! He must hold on to something which belonged to the daylight world. He was Raymond Hewson, an unsuccessful journalist, a living and breathing man, and these figures around him were only dummies, made of wax and sawdust who stood there for the entertainment of idle visitors. They could neither move nor whisper.

That was better! Now, what was that funny story which somebody told him yesterday? He recalled a part of it, but not all, for the gaze of Dr. Bourdette burned, challenged

and finally made him turn.

Hewson half turned his chair so as to bring him face to face with the wearer of those dreadful hypnotic eyes. Then he sat quite still staring before him, like a man found frozen in the Arctic snows.

Dr. Bourdette's movements were slow. He stepped off his pedestal with the mincing care of a lady getting out of a bus and sat down on the edge facing Hewson. Then he nodded and smiled and said, "Good evening."

"I hardly have to tell you," he continued in perfect English, "that before I overheard the conversation between you and the manager of this establishment, I did not suspect that I should have the pleasure of a companion here for the night. You cannot move or speak without my command, but you can hear me perfectly well. Something tells me that you are - shall I say nervous? My dear sir, have no illusions. I am not one of these contemptible dummies! I am Dr. Bourdette himself."

He paused, coughed and stroke his legs.

"Pardon me," he went on, "but I am a little stiff. And let me explain. Circumstances which I won't describe here to you, made it desirable that I should live in England. I was close to this building this evening when I saw a policeman watching me too curiously. I guessed that he intended to follow me and perhaps ask me embarrassing questions, so I mixed with the crowd and came in here. An inspiration showed me a way of escape. I shouted "Fire!" and when all the fools had rushed to the stairs I took the coat which you see on me off my dummy, hid my wax figure under the platform and took its place on the pedestal. The manager's description of me, which I had overheard, was biased but not quite wrong. Of course, I am not dead, although the world thinks otherwise. His description of my hobby, which 1 have indulged for years, though through necessity less frequently lately was in the main true, but not quite clearly expressed. You see, the world is divided between collectors and non collectors. With the non collectors we are not concerned. The collectors

collect anything, according to their individual tastes, from money to cigarette packets, from butterflies to match labels. I collect throats."

He paused again and regarded Hewson's throat with interest mixed with disfavour.

"I am obliged to chance which brought us together," he continued, "and perhaps it would be ungrateful to complain. But you have a skinny neck, sir, excuse me. I should have never selected you if I had choice. I like men with thick necks... thick red necks..."

He fumbled in a pocket and took out something which he tested against a wet forefinger and then began to pass against the palm of his left hand.

"This is a little French razor," he said. "They are not much used in England, but perhaps you know them? The blade, you will see, is very narrow. It doesn't cut very deep, see for yourself. I shall ask you the usual question of all polite barbers: 'Does the razor suit you, sir?'

He rose up and approached Hewson with the furtive step of a hunting panther. "Will you be so kind," he said, "as to raise your chin a little? Thank you. A little more, please. Just a little more. Ah, thank you!... Merci, m'sieur... Ah ... merci... merci..."

At one end of the chamber the ceiling was thick frosted glass which by day let in a few rays from the floor above. After sunrise they began to mingle with the dim light from the electric lamps, and this combined illumination added certain horror to a scene which was terrible enough.

The waxwork figures stood apathetically in their places, waiting for the crowds of visitors who would walk among them with cries of admiration or fear. In the middle of them, in the centre of the room, Hewson sat still, leaning back in his armchair. His chin was lifted as if he was waiting to be shaved, and although there was not a scratch on his throat nor anywhere on his body, he was cold and dead. His editors were wrong saying that he had no imagination.

Dr. Bourdette on his pedestal watched the dead man unemotionally. He did not move, nor was he capable of motion. After all, he was only a waxwork.

Answer thefollowing questions.

1.Who is the main character of the story?

2.Why did he come to the museum of waxworks?

3.Describe his appearance and the appearance of the manager of the museum.

4.What was the masterpiece of the museum? Describe this figure.

5.What were the journalist's feelings at first and after some time?

6.Why didn't he go away when he felt discomfort?

7.What terrible scene could be seen after sunrise?

8.What was the reason for the journalist's death?

RENDERING

Render into English.

PSYCHOLOGISTS SAY...

Психологи говорят, что практически все нормальные люди чего-то бояться. Да­ же самые смелые и отважные не свободны от страхов.

Многие дети боятся персонажей страшных сказок. Они боятся темноты, и когда оказываются одни в темной комнате, у них перехватывает дыхание, и они готовы рас­ плакаться. Взрослые тоже боятся многих вещей. Многие боятся болезней и старости, боятся потерять своих друзей и близких.

Но эти страхи можно объяснить и постараться преодолеть. Однако есть и другие страхи, которые нельзя объяснить, которые не поддаются нашему разуму. Это фобии. Очень часто встречается клаустрофобия - боязнь закрытых пространств. Такие люди боятся лифтов, туннелей, маленьких помещений. Встречается и боязнь открытых пространств и большого скопления народа. Например, такой фобией страдала Агата Кристи, знаменитая английская писательница. Она не могла выступать перед боль­ шой аудиторией. Многие люди страдают от арахнофобии. Они боятся пауков. Но ведь человек во много раз больше и сильнее паука! Однако, эти несчастные люди всегда паникуют, когда видят это крошечное существо.

Некоторые боятся высоты, и это огромная проблема для них и для тех, кто на­ ходится рядом. Одна женщина так страдала от редкой фобии - боязни мостов - что была даже вынуждена сменить место работы, чтобы не ездить каждый день по мосту. Есть люди, страдающие аэрофобией. Они боятся летать на самолетах и не пользуются этим самым быстрым и удобным видом транспорта.

С ростом крупных городов возникли так называемые ситуативные фобии: страх одиночества, страх потери работы, страх остаться без денег в старости. Учёные говорят, что с этими фобиями бороться труднее всего, ведь их причиной является са­ ма жизнь.

Если кто-то из ваших знакомых боится чего-то, не смейтесь над ним, а поста­ райтесь помочь. Может быть, они смогут преодолеть свои страхи.

DISCUSSION

1.What were you afraid of as a child? Have you overcome your childish fears?

2.Are you afraid of anything now?

3.Can a person get rid of his/her phobias? If yes, then how?

4.What are the most widespread fears and phobias?

5.How do fears change with the change of time?

A FAIRY-TALE COLUMN

AN AMERICAN INDIAN TALE

The Story Of The Rabbits

The Rabbit nation were very unhappy. All other nations were stronger than they were. The Rabbit nation seemed to be the weakest nation on earth. They were obedient. They obeyed the orders of their Chief right down to the last letter.

One of the orders of their Chief was this, "Whenever you see anyone from another nation approaching, you must follow my example, and run into our burrows in the rocks. You must hide until the strangers have passed by."

The rabbits followed his order exactly. Even the call of a little insect sent them all running to their burrows!

One day, they held a great council. They talked and talked for a long time. Finally, they all said, "The Medicine man must decide what we shall do."

The Medicine man got up and said, "My friends, we are of no use on this earth. No nation fears us. We are so timid that we cannot defend ourselves. The best thing for us to do, is to rid the earth of our nation. We will all go to the big lake and drown ourselves!"

All the rabbits agreed. They set off for the lake to throw themselves in. They were about to jump, when they heard a great splashing. They saw a large number of frogs leaping into the lake.

11. You may take the most gallant sailor, the most intrepid airman, or the most auda­ cious soldier, put them at a table together - what do you get? The sum of their fears.

(Winston Churchill)

12. As for me, I see no such great cause why I should either be fond to live or fear to die. I have had good experience of this world, and I know what it is to be a subject and what to be a sovereign. Good neighbours I have had, and I have met with bad; and in trust I have found treason.

(Queen Elizabeth I)

13. Keep feer for yourself but share courage with others.

(Wilma Shine)

WRITING

Write what you think o f thefollowing:

1.One will never live happily if he suffers from fears.

2.Sometimes fear gives wings to our feet, but sometimes it makes them so heavy that we are unable to move.

Problems OfBig Cities

A great city, a great solitude.

RENDERING

Render into English.

Общительная человеческая натура породила в людях желание жить вместе. Так появлялось чувство безопасности и защищённости. Возникновению городов способ­ ствовали разные причины: развитие промышленности и техники, благоприятные географические и климатические условия, социальная структура общества, рост населения.

Впрошлых столетиях подавляющее число людей жило в сельской местности. Например, в 1300 году единственным городом Англии был Лондон, а его население не достигало 40 000 человек, что составляло около 1 % населения страны. Сегодня менее 9 % населения Великобритании живет в сельской местности. Всё остальное на­ селение живёт в городах. В одной лишь столице, Большом Лондоне (Лондоне с при­ городами), проживает около 9 млн человек.

В1900 году Лондон был единственным городом-миллионером в мире. Сегодня более чем в 200 городах число жителей превышает миллион. Сейчас географы гово­ рят о мегаполисах, цепях сросшихся друг с другом городов, образующих огромные города.

Несмотря на различия между древними и современными городами, у них есть нечто общее - проблемы. И никогда не было такого множества и таких серьёзных проблем, как сегодня.

Большой город - это своего рода «клубок энергии». Житель мегаполиса встре­ чается в день с большим количеством людей, чем житель села за всю свою жизнь. У многих появляется страх перед толпой, и они пытаются спрятаться в своей кварти­ ре, за книгой, компьютером, чтобы избежать лишних контактов. Сумасшедший ритм

жизни делает жителя большого города «человеком бегущим». Надо многое успеть: пробиться в жизни, сделать карьеру. У такого человека нет времени для того, чтобы долго и красиво ухаживать, строить отношения, создавать семью. Это ведёт к прими­ тивизации отношений и чувств. Поэтому в городах так распространены так называе­ мые «гражданские браки», одноразовая любовь. Миллионы людей идут по улицам, но человек чувствует себя одиноким и, придя домой, пытается по Интернету найти себе партнёра или родственную душу, так как искать ему негде и некогда, да он уже и не знает, как это делать иначе. Мегаполис меняет психику людей. В селе все гово­ рят друг другу: «Здравствуйте!»; в городе мы зачастую не знаем своих соседей, в нем царит отчуждение. Круглосуточный шум, автомобильные пробки сводят людей с ума.

Появляются ситуативные фобии - боязнь «не успеть», стать неудачником, поте­ рять работу. В последнее время появились новые фобии - боязнь метро, террористи­ ческих актов.

Психологи говорят, что человек не может жить, если не смотрит на звёзды, во­ ду, лес, линию горизонта. Всего этого лишены жители больших городов.

READING

Read the texts and speek about theproblems ofa big city.

Which Do You Prefer - Life In The City Or In The Country?

When William Evans was 18 he said "Good-bye" to his mother, left his village and went to London. After a few days he found a job in a bank in the city centre, and he also found a small flat in the suburbs to live in.

Every morning he got up at 7 o'clock and left the house at 7.30. He caught the tube to the city and began work at 9 o'clock.

He hated the journey on the tube. There were many people on the train and then he stood there for forty minutes; sometimes he read the newspaper, but he usually just thought about his mother and his village in Wales.

After six months he won some money on the football pools. He went to a pub with some friends and they drank a lot of beer.

He bought a little red car and a street map of London. Then he worked out a quick way to drive to work.

The first day he got up at 8 o'clock and left the house at 8.30. He reached the city cen­ tre at 9 o'clock, but then he drove round and round looking for somewhere to park. At last he found a parking place, but he was late for work. The second day he couldn't find a parking place and put the car into a car park which cost him one pound.

On Wednesday he left the car in the car park again, and he was late for work again. On Thursday he sat for 20 minutes in a traffic jam and was late for work again.

The next day he got up very early. It was a very cold morning and the car did not start. After a quarter of an hour William gave up, ran to the tube station, but he was late again. His boss told him he had to be on time in future. William did not want to lose his job. The next day he got up early and went to work by tube, but he forgot that it was Saturday. When he got to the bank he found that it was closed.

What do you think he did? Yes, he sold his car, took his things from his flat and went

back to his village in Wales.

The population is growing and towns are getting bigger. People are more mobile, and they don't know each other as well as they used to. Personal isolation is a big problem nowadays.

Personal Isolation

To the best of my knowledge, all my aunts, uncles and grandparents spent most of their lives within 30 miles of Troy, Pennsylvania. They were farmers, horse traders, merchants, mailmen. As a boy I believe I knew everyone living within 4 miles of our farm. We met people as families at suppers on Saturday nights, we met at church festivals, at cattle auctions, at the milk station.

Today a number of my relatives still live near Troy, but several of my cousins, my nieces, my brother and my sister are scattered in many states. My two sons live in Wisconsin and Pennsylvania; my mother-in-law, until her recent death, lived much of the time in Florida.

In recent years almost all the old neighbours have moved and today I wouldn't even recognise half of the people living within five hundred yards of our house. My wife and I feel increasingly isolated.

Personal isolation is becoming a major social fact of our time. A great many people are disturbed by the feeling that they are rootless or increasingly anonymous, that they are living in a continually changing environment where there is little sense of community. The phrase "hometown" may well fade from our language in this century.

A Matter Of Timing

After Charlotte Armstrong

Jane paid for the groceries and looked at the wall clock. Good. She had made it. She put the paper bag on her left hip. She batted through the door and out into the sunshine, her mind running down the list, in case she had forgotten something important.

There was a black thread tied around her right forefinger. Her husband Mike had tied it there, this morning, over the breakfast eggs. Black was for pepper. They had been out of pepper for four days. Mike had tied the black thread around her finger, telling their daughter Sally that old-fashioned methods are sometimes best, especially with an old-fashioned character like Mommy.

Jane pranced round the comer of the building into the parking lot. Her car was over there. She crossed the big lot. It had its usual complement of cars, and a few people were coming in and going out. There was a man standing beside her car - he was tucked in between Jane's and the next one.

She walked into the slot, toward her driver’s seat, saying in her usual friendly fashion, "Excuse me." The man shuffled and let her pass. Then he turned and said to her startled ear, "Don't yell, lady, or I'll give it to you." He was a thin, pale, red-eyed man, with a wicked-looking knife in his hand. "Get in, lady. You drive. And do as I say."

Nobody was noticing. A woman in blue was getting into a car at the far end of the lot. Jane didn't yell. She said, "What do you want me to do?"

"I said do as I say. Drive. I said drive."

Jane was remembering, as clear as bells ringing, everything that was really important. She pushed the bag against the car, lifting her knee under it. She put her right hand down into it. She scrabbed inside, watching him. He looked miserable, but dangerous. The knife was pointed at her stomach.

Jane said, "I'll give you the keys. You want the car, don't you? Take it." "No, no. Get in, lady. I'm not leaving you behind. You'd call the cops." "That’s right," she said "I would."

Jane widened her eyes, holding his gaze. Her thumb had to be strong enough. She felt it scrape past sharp metal "Huh," she grunted in triumph.

She pulled her hand out of the bag and threw pepper out of the now-open can straight into his eyes. The man screamed, lunged, tripped over her body, fell, screamed again. Jane crawled out of the parking lot somehow, anyhow, around him, over him, then out and free.

People had stopped in their tracks, a few on the sidewalk, the few who were getting in or out of cars. Jane cried: "He's got a knife! Call the police!"

People seemed to have come up out of the ground like worms after a rain. None of them went near the man. They had stunned looks - looks of distaste - don't-bother-me looks. The woman in blue slammed her car door and frantically tried to start her engine. People’s feet were nervous but nobody moved.

Jave moved. She ran into the grocery store and called the police. The cops came with a rush.

People said to Jane, "You were so quick. You were so smart. You were so brave. You could have been hurt, maybe killed. Lucky you had just bought some pepper."

"I couldn't go with him, I didn't have time," Jane said.

The woman in blue was having hysterics in the parking lot. The cop said to Jane, "You did okay, Ma'am."

"I'd like to go home now, I must go," said Jane. "You see, my little girl will be home from school in a few minutes. Children shouldn’t come home to an empty house. So, of course, I couldn't go with him, could I?"

Answer thefollowing questions.

1.Is it dangerous to live in big cities? Why?

2.Are people ready to help when someone is in trouble?

3.What dangerous situations do children face in big cities?

4.How can you characterise the heroine of the story?