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Файл:Pronunciation in practice. Year II. Undergraduate course in practical phonetics. Учебное пособие по практической фонетике для студентов II курса
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herabook,Matilda set outallbyherselftowalktothepublic library
inthevillage.Whenshearrived,sheintroducedherselftothelibrarian,
Mrs.Phelps.Sheaskedifshe might sit awhile andreadabook.Mrs.
Phelps,slightlytakenabackbythearrivalofsuchatinygirlunacccompaniedbyaparent,neverthelesstoldhershewasverywelcome.
“Wherearethechildren’sbooksplease?”Matildaasked.
“They’reoverthereonthoselowershelves,”Mrs.Phelpstoldher.
“Wouldyoulikemetohelpyoundaniceonewithlotsofpictures
init?”
“No,thankyou,”Matildasaid.“I’msureIcanmanage”
Fromthenon,everyafternoon,assoonashermotherhadleftfor
bingo,Matildawouldtoddledowntothelibrary.Thewalktookonly
tenminutesandthisallowedhertwoglorioushourssittingquietlyby
herselfinacosycornerdevouringonebookafteranother.Whenshe
hadreadeverysinglechildren’sbookintheplace,shestartedwanderingroundinsearchofsomethingelse.
Mrs.Phelps,whohadbeenwatchingherwithfascinationforthe
pastfewweeksnowgotupfromherdeskandwentovertoher.“Can
Ihelpyou,Matilda?”sheasked.
“I’mwonderingwhattoreadnext,”Matildasaid.“I’venishedall
thechildren’sbooks”.
“Youmeanyou’velookedatthepictures?”
“Yes,butI’vereadthebooksaswell.”
Mrs. Phelps looked down at Matilda from her great height and
Matildalookedrightbackupather.
“Ithoughtsomewereverypoor,”Matildasaid,“Butotherswere
lovely.I liked The Secret Gardenbestofall.Itwasfullof mystery.
Themysteryoftheroombehindthecloseddoorandthemysteryofthe
gardenbehindthebigwall.”
Mrs. Phelps was stunned. “Exactly how old are you, Matilda?”
sheasked.
“Fouryearsandthreemonths,”Matildasaid.
Mrs.Phelps was morestunned than ever,butshe had thesense
nottoshowit.“Whatsortofbookwouldyouliketoreadnext?”she
asked.
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Matildasaid,“Iwouldlikeareallygoodonethatgrown-upsread.
Afamousone.Idon’tknowanynames.”
Mrs.Phelpslookedalongtheshelves,takinghertime.Shedidn’t
quiteknowwhattobringout.How,sheaskedherself,doesonechoose
a famous grown-up book for a four-year-old girl? Her rst thought
wastopickayoungteenager’sromanceofthekindthatiswrittenfor
fteen-year-oldschoolgirls,butforsomereasonshefoundherselfinstinctivelywalkingpastthatparticularshelf.
“Trythis,”shesaidatlast.“It’sveryfamousandverygood.Ifit’s
toolongforyou,justletmeknowandI’llndsomethingshorterand
abiteasier.”
“Great Expectations,” Matilda read, “By Charles Dickens. I’d
lovetotryit.”
Imustbemad,Mrs.Phelpstoldherself,buttoMatildashesaid,
“Ofcourseyoumaytryit.”
OverthenextfewafternoonsMrs.Phelpscouldhardlytakeher
eyesfromthesmallgirlsittingforhourafterhourinthebigarmchair
atthefarendoftheroomwiththebookonherlap.Itwasnecessary
torestitonthelapbecauseitwastooheavyforhertoholdup,which
meantshehadto sit leaningforwardinordertoread.Andastrange
sight it was, this tiny dark-haired person sitting there with her feet
nowhereneartouchingtheoor,totallyabsorbedinthewonderfuladventuresofPipandoldMissHavishamandhercobwebbedhouseand
bythe spell of magic that Dickens the great story-teller had woven
withhiswords.The only movementfrom the reader wasthe lifting
ofthehandeverynowandthentoturnoverapage,andMrs.Phelps
alwaysfeltsadwhenthetimecameforhertocrosstheoorandsay,
“It’stentove,Matilda.”
Duringtherstweek ofMatilda’svisits Mrs.Phelpshassaidto
her,“Doesyourmotherwalkyoudownhereeverydayandthentake
youhome?”
“My mother goes toAylesbury every afternoon to play bingo,”
Matildahadsaid.“Shedoesn’tknowIcomehere.”
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“Butthatsurelynotright,”Mrs.Phelpssaid.“Ithinkyou’dbetter
askher.”
“I’d rather not,” Matilda said. “She doesn’t encourage reading
books.Nordoesmyfather.”
“Butwhatdotheyexpectyoutodoeveryafternooninanempty
house?”
“Justmoocharoundandwatchthetelly.”
“Isee.”
“Shedoesn’treallycarewhatIdo,”Matildasaidalittlesadly.
Mrs.Phelpswasconcernedaboutthe child’ssafetyonthewalk
through the fairly busy village High Street and the crossing of the
road,butshedecidednottointerfere.
Withinaweek,MatildahadnishedGreat Expectationswhichin
thateditioncontainedfourhundredandelevenpages.“Ilovedit,”she
saidtoMrs.Phelps.“HasMr.Dickenswrittenanyothers?”
“Agreatnumber,”saidtheastoundedMrs.Phelps.“ShallIchoose
youanother?”
Overthenextsixmonths,underMrs.Phelps’swatchfulandcompassionateeye,Matildareadthefollowingbooks:
Nicholas Nickleby byCharlesDickens
Oliver Twist byCharlesDickens
Jane Eyre byCharlotteBronte
Pride and Prejudice byJaneAusten
Tess of the D’Urbervilles byThomasHardy
Gone to Earth ByMaryWebb
Kim byRudyardKipling
The Invisible Man byH.G.Wells
The Old Man and the Sea byErnestHemingway
The Sound and the Fury byWilliamFaulkner
The Grapes of Wrath byJohnSteinbeck
The Good Companions byJ.B.Priestley
Brighton Rock byGrahamGreene
Animal Farm byGeorgeOrwell
Itwasaformidablelistandby now Mrs. Phelps was lledwith
wonderandexcitement,butitwasprobablyagoodthingthatshedid
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notallowherselftobecompletelycarriedawaybyitall.Almostanyoneelsewitnessingtheachievementsofthissmallchildwould have
been tempted to make a great fuss and shout the news all over the
villageand beyond,but not so Mrs. Phelps. She was someone who
mindedherownbusinessandhadlongsincediscovereditwasseldom
worthwhiletointerferewithotherpeople’schildren.
“Mr.HemingwaysaysalotofthingsIdon’tunderstand,”Matilda
saidtoher.“Especiallyaboutmenandwomen.ButIloveditallthe
same.ThewayhetellsitIfeelIamrightthereonthespotwatching
itallhappen.”
“Anewriterwillalwaysmakeyoufeelthat,”Mrs.Phelpssaid.
“Anddon’tworryaboutthe bits youcan’tunderstand.Sitback and
allowthewordstowasharoundyou,likemusic.”
“Iwill,Iwill.”
“Didyouknow”,Mrs.Phelpssaid,“thatpubliclibrarieslikethis
allowyoutoborrowbooksandtakethemhome?”
“Ididn’tknowthat,”Matildasaid.“CouldIdoit?”
“Ofcourse,”Mrs.Phelpssaid.“Whenyouhavechosenthebook
youwant,bringittomesoIcanmakeanoteofitanditisyoursfor
twoweeks.Youcantakemorethanoneifyouwish.”
Fromthenon,Matildawouldvisitthelibraryonlyonce aweekin
ordertotakeoutnewbooksandreturntheoldones.Herownsmallbedroomnow became herreading-room and there she would sit and read
mostafternoons,oftenwithamugofhotchocolatebesideher.Shewas
notquitetallenoughtoreachthingsaroundthekitchen,butshekepta
smallboxintheouthousewhichshebroughtinandstoodoninorderto
getwhatevershewanted.Mostlyitwashotchocolateshemade,warmingthemilkinasaucepanonthestovebeforemixingit.Occasionallyshe
madeBovrilorOvaltin.Itwaspleasanttotakeahotdrinkuptoherroom
andhaveitbesideherasshesatinhersilentroomreadingintheempty
houseintheafternoons.Thebookstransportedherintonewworldsand
introducedhertoamazingpeoplewholivedexcitinglives.Shewenton
olden-daysailingshipswithJosephConrad.ShewenttoAfricawithErnest Hemingway and to India with Rudyard Kipling. She traveled all
overtheworldwhilesittinginherlittleroominanEnglishvillage.
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Now it’s your turn to demonstrate the skill of artistic reading to
the audience. Before you start reading out loud, look carefully through
the text and try to understand its meaning. Think about the manner
in which to present an artistic reading of the following extracts from
prose. What is happening in each of the episodes? How will you express different emotions with the help of intonation? Choose an appropriate tempo for the presentation and explore the illocutionary effect
of pauses. Make your reading of the texts enjoyable and pleasant to
the audience.
idenTifying The mOsT cOmmOn delivery PrOblems
Themostcommonproblemswithdeliveryofaspoken monologue
are:
1. Makingthetextsoundread ratherthansaid.
2. Insufcientuseofpauses.
3. Speakingtoo fast—rusheddelivery.
4. Speakingtoo softlyandnotprojectingthevoice.
5. Toohighapitch—oftenduetonerves.(Womenareapttosuf-
ferfromthismorethanmen).
6. Lackofclarity.Indistinctandmufedspeech.
7. Problemswithtone —lackofresonance,speakingthroughthe
nose,hoarseness.
8. Lackofproperintonation.Equalemphasisonwords.
9. Speechappendages.Irritatingwordssuchas‘ums’,‘ers’,‘sort
of’and‘like’
Every man, every woman has something to contribute. Perhaps
you can perform, sing, act, dance, play a musical instrument. You
might have the capability to lead people, to manage a company,to
govern a city,astate, a nation. Maybe you can write, speak, teach,
paint,build, invent, and I couldgo on and on.Youraspirations can
cometrue.Youcanexcel!
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Whateveryourchoice,showyourtalentto the world.Whatever
yourstatusinlife,youaresomebodyimportantandyouhavesomethingmeaningfultopassontothetreeofexperienceandknowledge–
tooursocietyandcivilization.Manybrilliant,ingeniouspersonswith
somuchtooffer,somuchtoshow,somuchtogivearereluctanttodo
so;theirintelligencelosttothe world and buriedwiththem.Donot
keepyourabilitiesandtalents from theworldunseenandunknown,
untilitistoolate,untilyourtimehaspassed.
Toloveinsteadofhate,toforgiveinsteadofcondemn,toencourage instead of ridicule, to respect instead of envy is to possess the
beautifulheart.Topossesshumilityandsimplicity,strengthofcharacter,honesty,modesty,patience,exemplarybehaviour,benigngenerosityandreverenceforlifeistopossessthebeautifulheart.
You see, there are no bad children. Yes, there may be children
whodobadthings.Theremay be children who do appalling things.
Buttheyarenotbad.No matter how naughty mychildrenare,they
arenotbad.Theymaymakemeclimbthewallswiththeirbehaviour
attimesbutwhentheyhavegonetosleepandyoupeepatthem,they
areangeliclittlecherubs,utterlygood,utterlyperfect.Yes,whatthey
doduringtheday,togetmydanderup,maybenaughty,maybebad
behaviour,buttheyremainintrinsicallygood.
Theonlyreasonthebehaviourisbadisbecausetheyareexploring
theworldandlearningwheretheboundariesare.Theyhavetomake
mistakesinordertondoutwhat’swhat.Itisonlynaturalandquite
normal.
The same goes for any other behaviour that is out of ordinary.
Thereare no clumsychildren, only clumsybehaviour.Thereareno
stupid children, only stupid conduct. They are no spiteful children,
onlyspitefulacts.Therearenoselshchildren,onlyselshactions.
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Theydon’tknowanybetteranditisyourjobtoteachthem,educatethem,helpthem,encouragethem.Youstartoffonthewrongfoot
ifyoustartoffbelievingtheyarebad.You’realmostboundtofailif
youbelievethemto be faulty.Youcan’tchangeabadchildbutyou
canchangebadbehaviour.Ifyoubelievethechildisgood,you’reon
toawinnerimmediately.Allyou’vegottodoischangethebehaviour
andthatisanattainablegoal.
Itisawfully detrimentaltosaytoachild,‘Youareabad child’.
Itsetssomething upintheirmindthatis hardtoshift.Bettertosay,
‘You’vedone anaughtything’,or‘You’vebeennaughty’.Thisthey
cando something about. But if you tell them they are bad, there is
nothingtheycandoaboutthatanditaffectsthem.
Youcan’tchangeabadchildbutyoucanchangebadbehaviour.
(ThreeMen in a Boat tellsthestoryofthreeyoungmenwhogoon
aboatingholidaytogether.)
Weareveryfondofpineapple,allthreeofus,welookedatthe
pictureonthetin;wethoughtofthejuice.Wesmiledatoneanother
andgotaspoonready.
Thenwelookedfortheknifetoopenthetinwith.Weturnedout
everythinginthehamper.Weturnedoutthebags.Wepulledupthe
boardsatthebottomoftheboat.Wetookeverythingoutonthebank
andshookit.Therewasnotinopenertobefound.
ThenHarristriedtoopenthetinwithapocketknife,andbrokehis
knifeandcut himselfbadly;andGeorgetried apairofscissors,and
thescissorsewupandnearlyputhiseyeout.WhileweweredressingtheirwoundsItriedtomakeaholeinthethingwiththespikeend
ofthehitcher,andthehitcherslippedandjerkedmeoutbetweenthe
boatandthebankintotwofeetofmuddywater,andthetinrolledover,
uninjured,andbrokeatea-cup.
Thenweallgotmad.WetookthattinoutonthebankandHarris
wentintoaeld andgotabigsharpstone,and Iwentbackintothe
boatandbroughtoutthemastandpoisedithighup,andgatheredup
allmystrengthandbroughtitdown.
ItwasGeorge’sstrawhatthatsavedhislifethatday.
87
‘Fire!’ cried Mrs Prothero, and she beat the dinner-gong. And
werandownthegarden,withthesnowballsinourarms,towardsthe
house,andsmoke,indeed,was pouring out of thedining-room,and
thegongwasbombilating,andMrsProtherowasannouncingruinlike
atown-crier.ThiswasbetterthanallthecatsinWalesstandingonthe
wallinarow.Weboundedintothehouse,ladenwithsnowballsand
stopped at the open door of the smoke-lled room. Something was
burningallright;perhapsitwasMrProthero,whoalwayssleptthere
aftermiddaydinnerwithanewspaperoverhisface;buthewasstandinginthemiddleoftheroom,saying‘AneChristmas!’andsmackingatthesmokewithaslipper.
‘Callthere-brigade’,criedMrsProtheroasshebeatthegong.
Therewasnoretobeseen,onlycloudsofsmokeandMrProtherostandinginthemiddleofthem,wavinghisslipperasthoughhe
wereconducting.
‘Dosomething,’hesaid.
Andwethrewalloursnowballsintothesmoke–Ithinkwemissed
MrProthero—andranoutofthehousetothetelephone-box.
‘Let’scallthepoliceaswell,’Jimsaid.
‘Andtheambulance.’
‘AndErnieJenkins,helikesres.’
Butweonlycalledtherebrigade,andsoonthere-enginecame
andthreetallmeninhelmets brought a hose into thehouseandMr
Protherogotout justintimebeforetheyturnediton.Nobodycould
havehadanoisierChristmasEve.
from “The Kidnapped” by Robert Louis Stevenson
But now our time of truce came to an end. Those on deck had
waitedformycomingtilltheygrewimpatient;and scarce hadAlan
spoken,whenthecaptainshowedfaceintheopendoor.
“Stand!”criedAlan,and pointed his sword at him. Thecaptain
stood,indeed;butheneitherwincednordrewbackafoot.
“Anakedsword?”saidhe.“Thisisastrangereturnforhospitality.”
88
“Do ye see me?” saidAlan. “ I bear a king’sname. My badge
isthe oak. Doye see my sword? Ithas slashed theheads off many
Whigamoresthanyouhavetoesuponyourfeet.Callupyourvermin
toyourback,sir,andfallon!Thesoonertheclashbegins,thesooner
ye’lltastethissteelthroughoutyourvitals.”
ThecaptainsaidnothingtoAlan,buthelookedoveratmewith
anuglylook.“David,”saidhe,“I’llmindthis;”andthesoundofhis
voicewentthroughmewithajar.Nextmomenthewasgone.
“Andnow,”saidAlan,“letyourhandkeepyourhead,forthegrip
iscoming.”
Alandrewadirk,whichheheldinhislefthandincasetheyshould
runinunderhissword.I,onmypart,clamberedupintotheberthwith
anarmfulofpistolsandsomethingofaheavyheart,andsetopenthe
windowwhereIwas towatch.Itwasasmallpart ofthedeckthatI
couldoverlook,butenoughforourpurpose.Theseahadgonedown,
andthewindwassteadyandkeptthesailsquiet;sothattherewasa
greatstillnessintheship,inwhichImadesureIheardthesoundof
mutteringvoices.Alittleafter,andtherecameaclashofsteeluponthe
deck,bywhichIknewtheyweredealingoutthecutlassesandonehad
beenletfall;andafterthat,silenceagain.
IdonotknowifIwaswhatyoucallafraid;butmyheartbeatlike
abird’s,bothquickandlittle;andtherewasadimnessbeforemyeyes
whichIcontinuallyrubbedaway,andwhichcontinuallyreturned.As
forhope,Ihadnone;butonlyadarknessofdespairandasortofanger
againstalltheworldthatmademelongtosellmylifeasdearasIwas
able.Itriedtopray,Iremember,butthatsamehurryofmymind,like
amanrunning,wouldnotsuffermetothinkuponthewords;andmy
chiefwishwastohavethethingbeginandbedonewithit.
Itcameallofasuddenwhenitdid,witharushoffeetandaroar,
andthenashoutfromAlan,andasoundofblowsandsomeonecrying
outasifhurt.Ilookedbackovermyshoulder,andsawMr.Shuanin
thedoorway,crossingbladeswithAlan.
“That’shimthatkilledtheboy!”Icried.
89
from “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland” by Lewis Carroll
ItwastheWhiteRabbit,trottingslowlybackagain,andlooking
anxiouslyaboutasitwent,asifithadlostsomething;andsheheard
itmutteringtoitself,“TheDuchess!TheDuchess!Ohmydearpaws!
Ohmyfurandwhiskers!She’llgetmeexecuted,assureasferretsare
ferrets!WherecanIhavedroppedthem,Iwonder?”
Aliceguessedinamomentthatitwaslookingforthefanandthe
pairofwhitekid-gloves,andsheverygood-naturedlybeganhunting
aboutforthem,buttheywerenowheretobeseen–everythingseemed
tohavechangedsinceherswiminthepool;andthegreathall,withthe
glasstableandthelittledoor,hadvanishedcompletely.
Very soon the Rabbit noticedAlice,as she went hunting about,
andcalledouttoher,inanangrytone,“Why,MaryAnn,whatareyou
doingouthere?Runhomethismoment,andfetchmeapairofgloves
andafan! Quick,now!”AndAlicewassomuchfrightenedthat she
ranoffatonceinthedirectionitpointedto,withouttryingtoexplain
themistakethatithadmade.
“Hetookme for his housemaid,”shesaid to herself asshe ran.
“Howsurprisedhe’llbewhen he nds outwhoIam!ButI’dbetter
takehimhisfanandgloves–thatis,ifIcanndthem.”Asshesaid
this,she came upon aneat little house,on the doorof which wasa
brightbrassplatewiththename“W.RABBIT”engraveduponit.She
wentinwithoutknocking,andhurriedupstairs,ingreatfearlestshe
shouldmeettherealMaryAnn,andbeturnedoutofthehousebefore
shehadfoundthefanandgloves.
“Howqueeritseems,”Alicesaidtoherself,“tobegoingmessages
forarabbit!”
from “Pippi the Longstocking” by Astrid Lindgren
Onthis Sunday evening, the little town seemed a verystill and
peacefulplace.Butsuddenlythepeacewasbrokenbyaloudcry:‘The
Skyscraper’sburning!Fire!Fire!’fromalldirectionspeoplecamerunningwithwideopeneyes.Are-enginedrovethroughthestreetswith
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