Ings, thoughts).

e) How do you take Rosemary's behaviour?

f) If you were Rosemary how would you behave in a similar situation?

Ex. 28. Give a free translation of the text.

По рассказу Кэтрин Мэнсфилд "Актриса "

Восемь часов утра. Мисс Ада Мосс лежит на железной кровати и

глядит в потолок. В ее мансарде (garret) окном во двор пахнет копотью

(soot), пудрой и жареным картофелем, который она вчера принесла в

бумажном кульке (paper bag) на ужин.

"Какой адский холод! — думает мисс Мосс. — Почему это теперь,

когда я просыпаюсь по утрам, мне всегда холодно? Колени, ступни и'

поясница (small of the back) — особенно поясница — ну прямо как лед.

А прежде мне всегда было тепло. Это все потому, что я не могу позволить

(afford) горячего сытного обеда..."

Она сняла со спинки (the back) кровати сумку и порылась (rummage

in) в ней.

"Выпью-ка я большую чашку чаю в "Эй-Би-Си", — решила она.—

У меня тут шиллинг и три пенса".

10Л

THE CUP OF TEA

Через десять минут полная дама в синем костюме с букетиком

искусственных фиалок (bouquet of artificial violets) на груди, в черной

шляпе с пурпурными анютиными глазками (purple pansy), в белых

перчатках, в ботинках с белой оторочкой (edging) и с сумочкой, в которой

лежали шиллинг и три пенса, вышла на улицу. Серые существа плескали

(splash) воду на серые ступеньки лестниц. Мальчишка-молочник

(dairyboy) пролил (spill) молоко. Мгновенно неведомо откуда появилась

старая рыжая бесхвостая кошка и стала жадно лакать (gulp). Глядя на

нее, мисс Мосс почувствовала себя как-то странно, словно внутри у

нее все сжалось в комок (her heart was wrung).

Подойдя к кафе "Эй-Би-Си", она увидела, что дверь открыта настежь

(wide). В дверях она столкнулась (run into) с человеком, который нес

поднос с булочками. В кафе никого не было, только официантка

поправляла волосы (smooth one's hair) перед зеркалом, да за перегородкой

(partition) отпирала шкатулку с выручкой (the day's receipts) кассирша.

Мисс Мосс остановилась посреди кафе, но ни одна из женщин не

обратила на нее внимания.

"Нельзя ли мне чашку чаю, мисс," — спросила она, обращаясь

dress) к официантке. Но та продолжала поправлять волосы.

"У нас еще не открыто," — ответила она.

Мисс Мосс вышла на улицу.

"Пойду на Чаринг-кросс, — решила она. — Но чаю пить не буду.

Возьму кофе, он гораздо питательнее."

Она стала переходить улицу.

"Эй, берегись (careful)! Нечего (it's no good) спать на ходу (sleep on

one's feet)!" — заорал на нее шофер такси.

Но она сделала вид (pretend), что не слышит.

"Нет, не пойду на Чаринг-кросс, — передумала она. — пойду прямо

в контору "Киг и Кеджит": они открывают в девять. Если я приду рано,

может быть, у мистера Кеджита что-нибудь и окажется для меня..."

"Я очень рад, что вы так рано пришли, мисс Мосс... Я только что

узнал, что одному антрепренеру (entrepreneur [^Щгэргэ'пэ:] нужна

актриса... Думаю, вы вполне подойдете (suit). Сейчас я вам дам записку

к нему. Три фунта стерлингов в неделю. Будь я на вашем месте, я

полетел бы туда на крыльях (on the wings). Очень хорошо, что вы пришли

так рано..."

Но в конторе "Киг и Кеджит" никого еще не было, кроме уборщицы

(office-cleaner), вытиравшей влажной щеткой пол в коридоре.

281

SUPPLEMENTARY READING

HOW TO WRITE A THRILLER

(abridged) by Ian Fleming

The only difference between me and

perhaps you is that my imagination

earns me money

The craft of writing sophisticated thrillers is almost dead. Writers

seem to be ashamed of inventing heroes who are white, villains who are

black, and heroines who are a delicate shade of pink.

I am not an angry young, or even middle-aged man. My books are

not "engaged". I have no message for suffering humanity and, though

I was bullied at school and lost my virginity like so many of us used to do

in the old days, 1 have never been tempted to foist these and other

harrowing personal experiences on the public. My opuscula do not aim

at changing people or making them go out and do something. They are

written for warm-blooded heterosexuals in railway trains, aeroplanes or

beds.

I have a charming relative who is an angry young literateur of

nown. He is maddened by the fact that more people read my books than

his. Not long ago we had semi-friendly words on the subject and

I tried to cool his boiling ego by saying that his artistic purpose was far,

far higher than mine. The target of his books was the head and, to

some extent at least, the heart. The target of my books, I said, lay

somewhere between the solar plexus and, well, the upper thigh. These

selfdeprecatory remarks did nothing to mollify him and finally, with

some impatience, and perhaps with something of an ironical glint in my

eye, 1 asked him how he described himself on his passport.

bet you call yourself an Author," I said. He agreed, with a shade

of reluctance, perhaps because he scented sarcasm on the way. "Just

so," 1 said, "Well, 1 describe myself as a Writer. There are authors and

artists and then again there are writers and painters."

But the point I wish to make is that if you decide to become a

professional writer, you must, broadly speaking, decide whether you

wish to write for fame, for pleasure or for money. I write,

ashamedly, for pleasure and money.

I also feel that, while thrillers may not be Literature with a

tal L, it is possible to write what I can best describe as "Thrillers

designed to be read as literature", the practitioners of which have

included such as Edgar Allan Рое1, Dashiell Hammett2, Raymond

Chandler5, Eric Ambler4 and Graham Greene5. I see nothing

ful in aiming as high as these.

All right then, so we have decided to write for money and to aim

at certain standards in our writing. These standards will include an

immannered prose style, unexceptional grammar and a certain

tegrity in our narrative.

But these qualities will not make a bestseller. There is only one

recipe for a bestseller and it is a very simple one. If you lookback

on the bestseller you have read, you will find that they all have one

quality — you simply have to turn the page.

Nothing must be allowed to interfere with this essential dynamic

of the thriller. You cannot linger too long over descriptive passages.

There must be no complications in names, relationships, journeys

or geographical settings to confuse or initiate the reader. He must

never have to ask himself "Where am I? Who is this person? What the

hell are they all doing?" Above all, there must never be those

dening recaps where the hero maunders about his happy fate, goes

over in his mind a list of suspects, or reflects on what he might have

done or what he proposes to do next. By all means, set the scene or

enumerate the heroine's measurements as lovingly as you wish, but in

doing so, each word must tell and interest or titillate the reader

before the action hurries on.

I confess that I often sin grievously in this respect. 1 am excited

by the poetry of things and places, and the pace of my stories

times suffers while I take the reader by the throat and stuff him with

great gobbets of what I consider should interest him, at the same

time shaking him furiously and shouting "Like this, damn you!" But

this is a sad lapse, and I must confess that in one of my books,

Goldfinger, three whole chapters were devoted to a single game of

golf.

Well, having achieved a workmanlike style and the all-essential pace

of narratives, what are we to put in the book? Briefly, the in-

283

gradients are anything that will thrill any of the human senses —

lutely anything.

In this department, my contribution to the art of thrillerwritng has

been to attempt the total stimulation of the reader all the way through,

even to his taste buds. For instance, I have never understood why

people in books have to eat such sketchy and indifferent meals. English

heroes seem to live on cups of tea and glasses of beer, and when they

do get a square meal we never hear what it consists of.

Personally, I am not a gourmet and I abhor wine-and-

foodmanship. My favorite food is scrambled eggs. In the original

script of Live and Let Die, James Bond consumed scrambled eggs so

often that a perceptive proofreader suggested that this rigid pattern of

life must be becoming a security risk for Bond. If he was being

lowed, his tail would only have to go into restaurants and say, "Was

there a man here eating scrambled eggs?" to know whether he was on

the right track or not. So I had to go through the book changing the

menus.