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Файл:The Legacy and Other Stories (Завещание и другие рассказы). Учебное пособие для студентов бакалавров, изучающих английский язык (второй год обучения),
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shooterandthepoloplayerandtheEverestclimberandthetropical
explorerandtheracingyachtsmanallrolledintoone;darkeyebrows,
steelyeyes,strongwhite teethclampingthestem of apipe.Thesu
percialpleasuresofthislifecometooeasilytothem,andtheyseem
towalktheworldasthoughtheythemselveswerepersonallyrespon
siblefortheir owngoodlooks. Idon’tmind a womanbeing pretty!
That’sdifferent.Butinaman,I’msorry,butsomehoworotherIndit
downrightoffensive.Anyway,herewasthisonesittingrightopposite
meinthecarriage,andIwaslookingathimoverthetopofmyTimes
whensuddenlyheglancedupandoureyesmet.
‘D’youmindthepipe?’heasked,holdingitupinhisngers.That
wasallhesaid.Butthesoundofhisvoicehadasuddenandextraordi
naryeffectuponme.Infact,IthinkIjumped.ThenIsortoffrozeup
andsatstaringathimforatleastaminutebeforeIgotaholdofmyself
andmadeananswer.
‘Thisisasmoker,’Isaid,‘soyoumaydoasyouplease.’
‘IjustthoughtI’dask.’
Thereit was again,that curiously crisp,familiar voice,clipping
itswordsandspittingthemoutveryhardandsmalllikealittlequick
ringgunshootingoutraspberryseeds.WherehadIhearditbefore?
Andwhydideverywordseemtostrikeuponsometinytenderspotfar
backinmymemory.Goodheavens,Ithought.Pullyourselftogether.
Whatsortofnonsenseisthis?
Thestrangerreturnedtohispaper.Ipretendedtodothesame.But
bythistimeIwasproperlyputoutandIcouldn’tconcentrateatall.In
stead,Ikeptstealingglancesathimoverthetopoftheeditorialpage.
Itwasreally anintolerableface, vulgarly,almost lasciviouslyhand
some,withanoilysalacioussheenallovertheskin.ButhadIorhad
Inotseenitbeforesometimeinmylife?IbegantothinkIhad,be
causenow,evenwhenIlookedatitIfeltapeculiarkindofdiscomfort
thatI cannot quite describe — something todo with pain and with
violence,perhapsevenwithfear.
Wespokenomoreduringthejourney,butyoucanwellimagine
thatbythenmywholeroutinehadbeenthoroughlyupset.Mydaywas
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ruined;andmorethanoneofmyclerksattheofcefeltthesharper
edge of my tongue, particularly after luncheon when my digestion
startedactinguponmeaswell.
The next morning, there he was again standing in the middle
oftheplatformwith his caneandhispipe andhissilkscarfand his
nauseatinglyhandsomeface.Iwalkedpasthimandapproachedacer
tainMrGrummitt,astockbroker who hasbeencommutingwithme
forovertwentyeightyears.Ican’tsayI’veeverhadanactualconver
sationwithhimbefore—weareratherareservedlotonourstation
butacrisislikethiswillusuallybreaktheice.
‘Grummitt,’Iwhispered.‘Who’sthisbounder?’
‘Searchme,’Grummittsaid.
‘Prettyunpleasant.’
‘Very.’
‘Notgoingtobearegular,Itrust.’
‘OhGod,’Grummittsaid.
Thenthetraincamein.
This time, to my great relief, the man got into another com
partment.
ButthefollowingmorningIhadhimwithmeagain.
‘Well,’ he said, settling back in the seat directly opposite, ‘It’s
.’ And once again I felt that slow uneasy stirring
ofthememory,strongerthaneverthistime,closertothesurfacebut
notyetquitewithinmyreach.
Then came Friday,the lastday of the week,I remember it had
rainedasIdrovetothestation,butitwasoneofthosewarmsparkling
Aprilshowersthat lastonlyve or sixminutes, and whenIwalked
ontotheplatform,alltheumbrellaswere rolled up and thesunwas
shiningandthere werebigwhite cloudsoatingin thesky.In spite
ofthis,Ifeltdepressed.Therewasnopleasureinthisjourneyforme
anylonger.Iknewthestrangerwouldbethere.Andsureenough,he
was,standingwithhislegsapartjustasthoughheownedtheplace,
andthistimeswinginghiscanecasuallybackandforththroughtheair.
Thecane!Thatdidit!IstoppedlikeI’dbeenshot.
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‘It’sFoxley!’ I cried under my breath. ‘Galloping Foxley!And
stillswinginghiscane!’
Isteppedclosertogetabetterlook.ItellyouI’veneverhadsuch
ashockinallmylife.ItwasFoxleyallright.BruceFoxleyorGallop
ingFoxleyasweusedtocallhim.AndthelasttimeI’dseenhim,let
mesee—itwasatschoolandIwasnomorethantwelveorthirteen
yearsold.
Atthatpointthe train camein,andheaven helpmeifhe didn’t
get into my compartment once again. He put his hat and cane up
ontherack,thenturnedandsatdownandbeganlightinghispipe.He
glancedupatmethroughthesmokewiththoserathersmallcoldeyes
andhesaid,’,isn’tit.Justlikesummer.‘
Therewasnomistaking the voicenow.It hadn’t changed atall.
ExceptthatthethingsIhadbeenusedtohearingitsayweredifferent.
‘Allright,Perkins,’itusedtosay,‘Allright,younastylittleboy.
Iamabouttobeatyouagain.‘
Howlongagowasthat?Itmustbenearlyftyyears.Extraordi
nary,though,how littlethefeatureshadaltered. Still thesamearro
ganttiltofthechin,thearingnostrils,thecontemptuousstaringeyes
thatweretoo smalland a shadetoo close togetherfor comfort;still
thesamehabitofthrustinghisfaceforwardatyou,impingingonyou,
pushing you into a corner; and even the hair I could remember —
coarseandslightlywavy,withjustatraceofoilalloverit,likeawell
tossedsalad.Heusedtokeepabottleofgreenhairmixtureontheside
tableinhisstudy—whenyouhavetodustaroomyougettoknow
andtohatealltheobjectsinit—andthisbottlehadtheroyalcoatof
armsonthelabelandthenameofashopinBondStreet,and under
that,insmall print,itsaid ‘ByAppointment — HairdressersTo His
MajestyKingEdwardVII,’Icanrememberthatparticularlybecause
itseemedsofunnythatashopshouldwanttoboastaboutbeinghair
dressertosomeonewhowaspracticallybald—evenamonarch.
AndnowIwatchedFoxleysettlebackinhisseatandbeginread
ingthepaper.Itwasacurioussensation,sittingonlyayardawayfrom
thismanwhoftyyearsbeforehadmademesomiserablethatIhad
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once contemplated suicide. He hadn’t recognized me; there wasn’t
muchdangerofthatbecauseofmymoustache.IfeltfairlysureIwas
safeandcouldsitthereandwatchhimallIwanted.
Lookingbackon it,thereseems little doubtthatI sufferedvery
badlyatthehandsofBruceFoxleymyrstyearinschool,andstrange
lyenough,theunwittingcauseofitallwasmyfather.Iwastwelveand
ahalfwhenIrstwentofftothisneoldpublicschool.Thatwas,let
mesee,in1907.Myfather,whoworeasilktopperandmorningcoat,
escortedmetothestation,andIcan remember howwewerestand
ing on the platform among piles of wooden tuckboxes and trunks
andwhatseemedlikethousandsofverylargeboysmillingaboutand
talkingand shouting at one another,whensuddenly somebody who
waswantingtogetbyusgavemyfatheragreatpushfrombehindand
nearly.
Myfather,who wasasmall,courteous, dignied person,turned
aroundwithsurprisingspeedandseizedtheculpritbythewrist.
‘Don’t they teach you better manners than that at this school,
youngman?’hesaid.
Theboy,atleastaheadtallerthanmyfather,lookeddownathim
withacold,arrogantlaughingglare,andsaidnothing.
‘Itseemstome,’myfathersaid,staringbackathim,‘thatanapo
logywouldbeinorder.’
But the boy just kept on looking down his nose at my father
withthisfunnylittlearrogantsmileatthecornersofhismouthandhis
chinkeptcomingfurtherandfurtherout.
‘Youstrikemeasbeingan;my
fatherwenton.‘AndIcanonlypraythatyouareanexceptioninyour
school.Iwouldnotwishforanysonofminetopickupsuchhabits.’
Atthispoint,thebigboyinclinedhis head slightlyinmydirec
tion,andapairofsmall,cold,ratherclosetogethereyeslookeddown
intomine.Iwasnotparticularlyfrightenedatthetime;Iknewnothing
aboutthepowerofseniorboysoverjuniorboysatpublicschools;and
Ican remember thatI lookedstraight back athim insupport ofmy
father,whomIadoredandrespected.
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Whenmy fatherstarted tosay somethingmore, theboy simply
turnedawayandsaunteredslowlydowntheplatformintothecrowd.
BruceFoxleyneverforgotthisepisode;andofcoursethereally
unluckythingaboutitformewasthatwhenIarrivedatschoolIfound
myselfinthesame‘house’ashim.Evenworsethanthat—Iwasin
hisstudy.Hewasdoinghislastyear,andhewasaprefect—‘aboa
zer’we calledit — and as such he wasofcially permitted to beat
anyofthe fags inthehouse. Butbeingin his study, I automatically
becamehis own particular,personalslave. Iwas his valetand cook
and maid and errandboy,and it was my duty to see that he never
lifteda nger forhimself unlessabsolutely necessary. In nosociety
thatIknowofintheworldisaservantimposedupontotheextentthat
wewretchedlittlefagswereimposeduponbytheboazersatschool.
InfrostyorsnowyweatherIevenhadtositontheseatofthelavatory
(whichwas inan unheatedouthouse) everymorning afterbreakfast
towarmitbeforeFoxleycamealong.
Icouldrememberhowheusedtosaunteracrosstheroominhis
loosejointed,elegantway,andif a chairwere inhispath hewould
knockitasideandIwouldhavetorunoverandpickitup.Hewore
silkshirtsandalwayshadasilkhandkerchieftuckeduphissleeve,and
hisshoesweremadebysomeonecalledLobb(whoalsohadaroyal
crest).Theywerepointedshoes,anditwasmydutytorubtheleather
withaboneforfteenminuteseachdaytomakeitshine.
Buttheworstmemoriesofallhadtodowiththechangingroom.
Icouldseemyselfnow,asmallpaleshrimpofaboystandingjust
insidethedoorofthishugeroominmypyjamasandbedroomslippers
andbrowncamelhairdressinggown.Asinglebrightelectricbulbwas
hangingonaexfromtheceiling,andallaroundthewallstheblack
andyellowfootballshirtswiththeirsweatysmellllingtheroom,and
thevoice,theclipped,pipspittingvoicewassaying.‘So which is it
tobethistime?Sixwiththedressinggownon—orfourwithitoff?’
Inevercouldbringmyselftoanswerthisquestion.Iwouldsimply
standtherestaringdownatthedirtyoorplanks,dizzywithfearand
unable to think of anything except that this other larger boy would
105
soonstartsmashingawayatmewithhislong,thin,whitestick,slowly,
scientically,skilfully,legally,andwithapparentrelish,andIwould
bleed.Ihadspentmypocketmoneyonaboxofspecialrelightersand
Ihadheldanewspaperacrossthechimneyopeningtomakeadraught
andIhadkneltdowninfrontofitandblownmygutsoutintothebot
tomofthegrate;butthecoalswouldnotburn.
‘If you’re too obstinate to answer,’ the voice was saying, ‘then
I’llhavetodecideforyou.’
I wanted desperately to answer because I knew which one I had
tochoose.It’stherstthingyoulearn whenyouarrive.Always keep
thedressinggownonandtaketheextrastrokes. Otherwise you’real
mostcertaintogetcut.Eventhreewithitonisbetterthanonewithitoff.
‘Takeitoffthenandgetintothefarcornerandtouchyourtoes.
I’mgoingtogiveyoufour.’
‘SlowlyIwouldtakeitoffandlayitontheledgeabovetheboot
lockers.AndslowlyIwouldwalkovertothefarcorner,coldandna
kednowinmycottonpyjamas,treadingsoftlyandseeingeverything
aroundme suddenly verybright andat and faraway,likea magic
lanternpicture,andverybig,andveryunreal,andsortofswimming
throughthewaterinmyeyes.
‘Goonandtouchyourtoes.Tighter—muchtighterthanthat.’
Thenhewouldwalkdowntothefarendofthechangingroomand
Iwouldbewatchinghim upside downbetweenmylegs,and he would
disappearthroughadoorwaythatleddowntwostepsintowhatwecalled
‘thebasinpassage’.Thiswasastoneoored corridor withwashbasins
along one wan, and beyond it was the bathroom. When Foxley disap
pearedIknewhewaswalkingdowntothefarendofthebasinpassage.
Foxleyalways didthat. Then,in thedistance, butechoing loudamong
thebasinsandthetiles,Iwouldhearthenoiseofhisshoesonthestone
ooras he startedgalloping forward,and throughmy legs Iwould see
himleapingupthetwostepsintothechangingroomandcomebounding
towardsmewithhisfacethrustforwardandthecaneheldhighintheair.
ThiswasthemomentwhenIshutmyeyesandwaitedforthecrackand
toldmyselfthatwhateverhappenedImustnotstraightenup.
106
Anyonewhohasbeenproperlybeatenwilltellyouthatthereal
paindoesnotcomeuntilabouteightortensecondsafterthestroke.
Thestrokeitselfismerelyaloudcrackandasortofbluntthudagainst
yourbackside,numbingyoucompletely(I’mtoldabulletwounddoes
thesame).Butlateron,ohmyheavens,itfeelsasifsomeoneislaying
aredhotpokerrightacrossyournakedbuttocksanditisabsolutely
impossible to prevent yourself from reaching back and clutching it
withyourngers.
Foxleyknewallaboutthistimelag,andtheslowwalkbackover
a distance that must altogether have been fteen yards gave each
strokeplentyoftimetoreachthepeakofitspainbeforethenextone
wasdelivered.
On the fourth stroke I would invariably straighten up. It was
anautomaticdefencereactionfromabodythathadhadasmuchasit
couldstand.
Youinched,’Foxleywouldsay.‘Thatonedoesn’tcount,Goon—
downyouget.’ThenexttimeIwouldremembertogripmyankles.
AfterwardshewouldwatchmeasIwalkedover—verystillnow
andholdingmybackside—toputonmydressinggown,butIwould
alwaystrytokeepturnedawayfromhimsohecouldn’tseemyface.
AndwhenIwentout,itwouldbe,‘Hey,you!Comeback!’
Iwasinthepassagethen,andIwouldstopandturnandstandin
thedoorway,waiting.
‘Comehere.Comeon,comebackhere.Now—haven’tyoufor
gottensomething?
AllIcouldthinkofatthatmomentwasthe
inmybehind.
‘Youstrike meas being animpudent and illmanneredboy,’he
wouldsay,imitatingmy father’svoice.‘Don’ttheyteachyou better
mannersthanthatatthisschool?’
‘Thank…you,’Iwouldstammer,‘Thank…you…forthebeating.’
Andthenbackupthedarkstairstothedormitoryanditbecame
muchbetterthenbecauseitwasalloverandthepainwasgoingand
theotherswereclusteringroundandtreatingmewithacertainrough
107
sympathy born of having gone through the same thing themselves,
manytimes.
‘Hey,Perkins,let’shavealook.’
‘Howmanyd’youget?’
‘Five,wasn’tit?Weheardthemeasilyfromhere.
‘Comeon,man.Let’sseethemarks.‘Iwouldtakedownmypyja
mas and stand there while this group of experts solemnly examined
thedamage.
‘Rather far apart, aren’t they? Not quite up to Foxley’susual
standard.’
‘Twoofthemareclose.Actuallytouching.Look—thesetwoare
beauties!’
‘Thatlowonewasarottenshot.’
‘Didhegorightdownthebasinpassagetostarthisrun?’
‘Yougotanextraoneforinching,didn’tyou?’
‘Bygolly,oldFoxley’sreallygotitinforyou,Perkins.’
‘Bleedingabittoo.Betterwashit,youknow.’
ThenthedoorwouldopenandFoxleywouldbethere,andevery
one would scatter and pretend to be doing his teeth or saying his
prayerswhileI wasleftstanding inthecentre oftheroom withmy
pantsdown.
‘What’s going on here?’Foxleywould say,takinga quick look
athisownhandiwork.‘You—Perkins!Putyourpyjamasonproperly
andgetintobed.’
Andthatwastheendofaday.
Through the week, I never had a moment of time to myself. If
Foxleysawmeinthestudytakingupanovelorperhapsopeningmy
stampalbum,hewouldimmediatelyndsomethingformetodo.One
of his favourites, especially when it was raining outside, was, ‘Oh,
Perkins,Ithinkabunchofwildiriseswouldlookratherniceonmy
desk,don’tyou?’
Wildirises grewonlyaroundOrange Ponds.OrangePondswas
two miles down the road and half a mile acrossthe elds. I would
getupfrommychair,putonmyraincoatandmystrawhat,takemy
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umbrella — my brolly — and set offon this long and lonely trek.
Thestrawhat hadto be wornat alltimesoutdoors, butitwas easi
ly destroyed by rain; therefore the brolly was necessary to protect
the hat. On the other hand, you can’t keep a brolly over your head
whilescramblingaboutonawoodybanklookingforirises,sotosave
myhatfromruinIwouldputitonthegroundundermybrollywhile
Isearchedforowers.Inthisway,Icaughtmanycolds.
Oh,theagonyofthosedays.ToburnFoxley’stoastwasa‘beatable
offence’.SowasforgettingtotakethemudoffFoxley’sfootballboots.
Sowas failing to hang up Foxley’sfootball clothes. So was rolling
upFoxley’sbrollythewrong wayround. Sowasbanging thestudy
doorwhenFoxleywasworking.SowasllingFoxley’sbathtoohot
forhim.Sowasnot cleaning thebuttonsproperlyonFoxley’sOTC
uniform.Sowasmakingthosebluemetalpolishsmudgesontheuni
formitself.SowasfailingtoshinethesolesofFoxley’sshoes.Sowas
leavingFoxley’sstudyuntidyatanytime.Infact,sofarasFoxleywas
concerned,Iwaspracticallyabeatableoffencemyself.
Iglancedoutofthewindow.Mygoodness,wewerenearlythere.
Foxleywasstillleaningbackinthecornerseatoppositemereadinghis
DailyMail,andthroughacloudofbluesmokefromhispipeIcould
seethetophalfofhisfaceoverthenewspaper,thesmallbrighteyes,
thecorrugatedforehead,thewavy,slightlyoilyhair.
Lookingathimnow,afterallthattime,wasapeculiarandrather
excitingexperience.Iknewhewasnolongerdangerous,buttheold
memorieswerestillthereandIdidn’tfeelaltogethercomfortableinhis
presence.Itwassomethinglikebeinginsidethecagewithatametiger.
Whatnonsenseisthis?Iaskedmyself.Don’tbesostupid.Myhea
vens,ifyouwantedtoyoucouldgoaheadandtellhimexactlywhatyou
thoughtofhimandhecouldn’ttouchyou.Hey—thatwasanidea!
Except that— well — after all, was it worth it? I was too old
forthatsortofthingnow,andIwasn’tsurethatIreallyfeltmuchan
gertowardshimanyway.
SowhatshouldIdo?Icouldn’tsittherestaringathimlikeanidiot.
At that point, a little impish fancy began to take a hold of me.
WhatIwouldliketodo,Itoldmyself,wouldbetoleanacrossand
109
lightlyandtellhimwhoIwas.ThenIwouldwatch
his face.After that, I wouldbegin talking about ourschooldays to
gether,makingitjustloudenoughfortheotherpeopleinthecarriage
tohear.Iwouldremindhimplayfullyofsomeofthethingsheused
todotome,andperhapsevendescribethechangingroombeatingsso
astoembarrasshimatrie.Abitofteasinganddiscomfortwouldn’t
dohimanyharm.Anditwoulddomeanawfullotofgood.
Suddenly he glanced up and caught me staring at him. It was
thesecondtimethishadhappened,andInoticedaickerofirritation
inhiseyes.
Allright,Itoldmyself.Herewego.Butkeepitpleasantandso
ciableandpolite.It’llbemuchmoreeffectivethatway,moreembar
rassingforhim.
SoIsmiledathimandgavehimacourteouslittlenod.Then,rais
ingmyvoice,Isaid,‘Idohopeyou’llexcuseme.I’dliketointroduce
myself.’Iwasleaningforwardwatchinghimcloselysoasnottomiss
the reaction. ‘My name is Perkins — William Perkins — and I was
atReptonin1907.’
Theothersinthecarriageweresittingverystill,andIcouldsense
thattheywerealllisteningandwaitingtoseewhatwouldhappennext.
‘I’m glad to meet you,’ he said, lowering the paper to his lap.
‘Mine’sFortescue—JocelynFortescue,Eton,1916.’
T a s k s a n d e x e r c i s e s
1.Doesittake you longtogettothe university?Areyouready
totravellonger?
2. Commuters (people who travel some distance regularly be
tween their home and their place of work) spend a lot of time and
moneyontravel.Isitworthit?
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