Рассказы современных английских писателей на английском

Если вы давно учите английский, то наверняка читали Сэлинджера и Хемингуэя в оригинале — их рассказы уже стали классикой. Но что, если хочется чего-то более близкого и актуального? Писательница и соосновательница независимого литературного журнала «Незнание» Арина Бойко сделала подборку из современных рассказов на английском, которые еще не перевели на русский. Их стоит прочитать, чтобы расширить словарный запас актуальной лексикой и узнать новых писателей и писательниц.

Где читать: Lithub

Ирландскую писательницу Салли Руни по праву называют Сэлинджером для миллениалов: она, как никто другой в современной литературе, умеет показать приметы времени и сложность человеческих отношений. Будь то дружба, влюбленность или кровное родство — у Руни все это изображено с психологизмом и наблюдательностью. В рассказе «Color and Light» («Цвет и свет») успешная сценаристка Паулина приезжает в небольшой город, где случайно знакомится с работником отеля по имени Айдан. Как часто бывает в историях Руни, между героями лежит социально-классовая пропасть, но это не мешает им сблизиться и даже что-то изменить в жизнях друг друга.

Где читать: people.unica.it

Доналд Бартелми — мастер малой прозы. В его рассказах часто переплетаются реальность и гротеск, искренность и ирония, описания и отсылки. Бартелми относится к постмодернистской традиции. Среди писателей, которые повлияли на его творчество — Гертруда Стайн, Сэмюэль Беккет, Франц Кафка и Габриэль Гарсиа Маркес. По сюжету рассказа «The Balloon» над Нью-Йорком нависает огромный воздушный шар. Жители города в растерянности: они не знают, что делать, но в то же время никто не может перестать обсуждать происходящее. Кажется, только рассказчик знает истинную причину этого сюрреалистического события.

Где читать: Guernica

Рассказ-антиутопия о мире, из которого начало бесследно исчезать все подряд — люди, вещи, концепции и воспоминания. Все по-разному реагируют на замедленный апокалипсис: одни строят теории и прогнозы, другие наслаждаются последними днями, остальные ищут спасение в работе. Главная героиня истории тревожно проверяет, на месте ли важные для нее вещи и воспоминания, но со временем тревогу сменяет смирение. Апокалиптический мир, созданный писательницей Александрой Климан, реалистичен и детален настолько, что местами становится по-настоящему жутко. «You, Disappearing» — короткая, но пронзительная антиутопия, которая вполне могла бы лечь в основу романа или фильма-катастрофы.

Где читать: Electric Literature

Гэри Лутс — американский автор, чей стиль писатель Джордж Сандерс однажды охарактеризовал как «сжатые предложения, выстроенные в сжатые истории». Некоторые рассказы занимают полстраницы — их можно отнести к жанру флеш-фикшн (микро-историй). Но и в них Лутс способен создать напряжение. Миры его историй часто замкнуты и переполнены деталями, а героев можно смело поставить в один ряд с «маленькими людьми» Чехова или Гоголя — они так же не знают, что делать со своей жизнью. «Certain Riddances» рассказывает об одном из таких героев: загадочном и молчаливом офисном клерке, который никогда не называет своих коллег по имени, но испытывает к ним самые разные чувства — от вины до неприязни.

Где читать: The Believer

Самый необычный рассказ подборки — его текст наполовину написан искусственным интеллектом. Писательницу и журналистку Ваухини Вару заинтересовала программа GPT-3 (Generative Pre-Trained Transformer 3), которая может генерировать осмысленный текст на основе конкретных слов и предложений. Она попросила у разработчиков программы доступ к ней и решила провести эксперимент: Вара «скармливала» GPT-3 кусочки текста, на который долго не решалась — о болезни своей сестры, а машина дописывала за нее. Получилось девять разных версий одной истории, в которых стираются границы между реальностью, личной памятью и сгенерированным текстом.

Jack London. To Build a Fire (part 1)

Слова и выражения:

trail — тропа

cover — покрывать

expected to reach — ожидал, что достигнет

to freeze— замерзать

frozen stream— замерзший ручей

snow-covered ice — покрытый снегом лед

underground springs — подземные источники

to break through — провалиться

sharp pain — острая боль

wet — мокрый

dry — сухой

to dry — высушить

branches — ветки

matches — спички

flame — пламя

heavy load — тяжелый груз

tremendous cold — страшный холод

the fear of death — страх смерти

The man walked down the trail on a cold, gray day. Pure white snow and ice covered the Earth for as far as he could see. This was his first winter in Alaska. He was wearing heavy clothes and fur boots. But he still felt cold and uncomfortable.

• as far as he could see — насколько он мог видеть

The man was on his way to a camp near Henderson Creek (ручей Гендерсона). His friends were already there. He expected to reach Henderson Creek by six o’clock that evening. It would be dark by then. His friends would have a fire and hot food ready for him.

• It would be dark by then. — К  тому времени уже стемнеет.
• would have a fire — разожгут костер

A dog walked behind the man. It was a big gray animal, half dog and half wolf. The dog did not like the extreme cold. It knew the weather was too cold to travel.

The man continued to walk down the trail. He came to a frozen stream called Indian Creek. He began to walk on the snow-covered ice. It was a trail that would lead him straight to Henderson Creek and his friends.

As he walked, he looked carefully at the ice in front of him. Once, he stopped suddenly, and then walked around a part of the frozen stream. He saw that an underground spring flowed under the ice at that spot. It made the ice thin. If he stepped there, he might break through the ice into a pool of water. To get his boots wet in such cold weather might kill him. His feet would turn to ice quickly. He could freeze to death.

• If he stepped there, he might … — Если бы он наступил туда, он мог бы …
• would turn — превратиться в
• could freeze — мог бы замерзнуть

At about twelve o’clock, the man decided to stop to eat his lunch. He took off the glove on his right hand. He opened his jacket and shirt, and pulled out his bread and meat. This took less than twenty seconds. Yet, his fingers began to freeze.

He hit his hand against his leg several times until he felt a sharp pain. Then he quickly put his glove on his hand. He made a fire, beginning with small pieces of wood and adding larger ones. He sat on a snow-covered log and ate his lunch. He enjoyed the warm fire for a few minutes. Then he stood up and started walking on the frozen stream again.

A half hour later, it happened. At a place where the snow seemed very solid, the ice broke. The man’s feet sank into the water. It was not deep, but his legs got wet to the knees. The man was angry. The accident would delay his arrival at the camp. He would have to build a fire now to dry his clothes and boots.

He walked over to some small trees. They were covered with snow. In their branches were pieces of dry grass and wood left by flood waters earlier in the year. He put several large pieces of wood on the snow, under one of the trees. On top of the wood, he put some grass and dry branches. He pulled off his gloves, took out his matches, and lighted the fire. He fed the young flame with more wood. As the fire grew , he gave it larger pieces of wood.

He worked slowly and carefully. At sixty degrees below zero, a man with wet feet must not fail in his first attempt to build a fire. While he was walking, his blood had kept all parts of his body warm. Now that he had stopped, cold was forcing his blood to withdraw deeper into his body. His wet feet had frozen. He could not feel his fingers. His nose was frozen, too. The skin all over his body felt cold.

Now, however, his fire was beginning to burn more strongly. He was safe. He sat under the tree and thought of the old men in Fairbanks.

The old men had told him that no man should travel alone in the Yukon when the temperature is sixty degrees below zero.  — Старики говорили, что нельзя путешествовать по Юкону при температуре -60 градусов ниже нуля.

Yet here he was. He had had an accident. He was alone. And he had saved himself. He had built a fire.

Those old men were weak, he thought. A real man could travel alone. If a man stayed calm, he would be all right. The man’s boots were covered with ice. The strings on his boots were as hard as steel. He would have to cut them with his knife.

• If a man stayed calm, he would be all right. — Если сохранять спокойствие, то все будет как надо.

He leaned back against the tree to take out his knife. Suddenly, without warning, a heavy mass of snow dropped down. His movement had shaken the young tree only a tiny bit. But it was enough to cause the branches of the tree to drop their heavy load. The man was shocked. He sat and looked at the place where the fire had been.

The old men had been right, he thought. If he had another man with him, he would not be in any danger now. The other man could build the fire. Well, it was up to him to build the fire again. This time, he must not fail.

• If he had another man with him, he would not be in any danger now.— Если бы с ним был еще кто-то, он не был бы сейчас в опасности.

Jack London. To Build a Fire Part 2.

The man collected more wood. He reached into his pocket for the matches. But his fingers were frozen. He could not hold them. He began to hit his hands with all his force against his legs.

After a while, feeling came back to his fingers. The man reached again into his pocket for the matches. But the tremendous cold quickly drove the life out of his fingers. All the matches fell onto the snow. He tried to pick one up, but failed.

The man pulled on his glove and again beat his hand against his leg. Then he took the gloves off both hands and picked up all the matches. He gathered them together. Holding them with both hands, he scratched the matches along his leg. They immediately caught fire.

He held the blazing matches to a piece of wood. After a while, he became aware that he could smell his hands burning. Then he began to feel the pain. He opened his hands, and the blazing matches fell on to the snow. The flame went out in a puff of gray smoke.

The man looked up. The dog was still watching him. The man got an idea. He would kill the dog and bury his hands inside its warm body. When the feeling came back to his fingers, he could build another fire. He called to the dog. The dog heard danger in the man’s voice. It backed away.

• would kill the dog — убьет собаку
• could build — сможет разжечь
  

The man called again. This time the dog came closer. The man reached for his knife. But he had forgotten that he could not bend his fingers. He could not kill the dog, because he could not hold his knife.

• could not kill — не сможет убить
• could not hold — не сможет держать нож

The fear of death came over the man. He jumped up and began to run. The running began to make him feel better. Maybe running would make his feet warm. If he ran far enough, he would reach his friends at Henderson Creek. They would take care of him.

• If he ran far enough, he would reach his friends at Henderson Creek.— Если он будет бежать далеко, он сможет достичь своих товарищей у ручья Гендерсона.
• would take care — позаботяться о нем

It felt strange to run and not feel his feet when they hit the ground. He fell several times. He decided to rest a while. As he lay in the snow, he noticed that he was not shaking. He could not feel his nose or fingers or feet. Yet, he was feeling quite warm and comfortable. He realized he was going to die.

Well, he decided, he might as well take it like a man. There were worse ways to die.

• he might as well take it like a man. — раз уж так случилось, надо принять это как подобает мужчине.

The man closed his eyes and floated into the most comfortable sleep he had ever known.

The dog sat facing him, waiting. Finally, the dog moved closer to the man and caught the smell of death. The animal threw back its head. It let out a long, soft cry to the cold stars in the black sky.

And then it tuned and ran toward Henderson Creek…where it knew there was food and a fire.

O. Henry. The Last Leaf (Part 1)

Слова и выражения:

• shared a studio apartment — делили однокомнатную квартиру
• This disease, pneumonia — Эта болезнь, пневмония
• She has one chance in — let us say ten — У нее один шанс из, скажем, десяти.
• Has she anything on her mind worth thinking? — Есть ли ей о чем стоит думать?
• to count the carriages at her funeral — считать кареты в своей похоронной процессии
• several times repeated — который повторялся несколько раз
• She was …. — counting backward — Она считала в обратном порядке.
• What was there to count? — Что там было считать?
• An old ivy vine — старый плющ
• When the last one falls — Когда последний упадет
• Then I’ll go, too.— Тогда я умру.

Many artists lived in the Greenwich Village area of New York. Two young women named Sue and Johnsy shared a studio apartment at the top of a three-story building. Johnsy’s real name was Joanna.

In November, a cold, unseen stranger came to visit the city. This disease, pneumonia, killed many people. Johnsy lay on her bed, hardly moving. She looked through the small window. She could see the side of the brick house next to her building.

One morning, a doctor examined Johnsy and took her temperature. Then he spoke with Sue in another room.

«She has one chance in — let us say ten,» he said. «And that chance is for her to want to live. Your friend has made up her mind that she is not going to get well. Has she anything on her mind?»

«She — she wanted to paint the Bay of Naples in Italy some day,» said Sue.

«Paint?» said the doctor. «Bosh! Has she anything on her mind worth thinking twice — a man for example?»

«A man?» said Sue. «Is a man worth — but, no, doctor; there is nothing of the kind.»

«I will do all that science can do,» said the doctor. «But whenever my patient begins to count the carriages at her funeral, I take away fifty percent from the curative power of medicines.»

After the doctor had gone, Sue went into the workroom and cried. Then she went to Johnsy’s room with her drawing board, whistling ragtime.

Johnsy lay with her face toward the window. Sue stopped whistling, thinking she was asleep. She began making a pen and ink drawing for a story in a magazine. Young artists must work their way to «Art» by making pictures for magazine stories. Sue heard a low sound, several times repeated. She went quickly to the bedside.

Johnsy’s eyes were open wide. She was looking out the window and counting — counting backward. «Twelve,» she said, and a little later «eleven»; and then «ten» and «nine;» and then «eight» and «seven,» almost together.

Sue looked out the window. What was there to count? There was only an empty yard and the blank side of the house seven meters away. An old ivy vine, going bad at the roots, climbed half way up the wall. The cold breath of autumn had stricken leaves from the plant until its branches, almost bare, hung on the bricks.

O. Henry. The Last Leaf (Part 2)

Слова и выражения:

• a failure — неудачник
• a work of art — произведение искусства
• a fierce old little man -злобный старикашка
• a blank canvas — чистый холст
• float away like a leaf — улетит как лист
• pulled the shade down — спустила штору

What is it, dear?» asked Sue.

«Six,» said Johnsy, quietly. «They’re falling faster now. Three days ago there were almost a hundred. It made my head hurt to count them. But now it’s easy. There goes another one. There are only five left now.»

«Five what, dear?» asked Sue.

«Leaves. On the plant. When the last one falls I must go, too. I’ve known that for three days. Didn’t the doctor tell you?»

«Oh, I never heard of such a thing,» said Sue. «What have old ivy leaves to do with your getting well? And you used to love that vine. Don’t be silly. Why, the doctor told me this morning that your chances for getting well real soon were — let’s see exactly what he said – he said the chances were ten to one! Try to eat some soup now. And, let me go back to my drawing, so I can sell it to the magazine and buy food and wine for us.»

«You needn’t get any more wine,» said Johnsy, keeping her eyes fixed out the window. «There goes another one. No, I don’t want any soup. That leaves just four. I want to see the last one fall before it gets dark. Then I’ll go, too.»

Old Behrman was a painter who lived on the ground floor of the apartment building. Behrman was a failure in art. For years, he had always been planning to paint a work of art, but had never yet begun it. He earned a little money by serving as a model to artists who could not pay for a professional model. He was a fierce old little man who protected the two young women in the studio apartment above him.

Sue found Behrman in his room. In one area was a blank canvas that had been waiting twenty-five years for the first line of paint. Sue told him about Johnsy and how she feared that her friend would float away like a leaf.

Old Behrman was angered at such an idea. «Are there people in the world with the foolishness to die because leaves drop off a vine? Why do you let that silly business come in her brain?»

«She is very sick and weak,» said Sue, «and the disease has left her mind full of strange ideas.»

«This is not any place in which one so good as Miss Johnsy shall lie sick,» yelled Behrman. «Some day I will paint a masterpiece, and we shall all go away.»

Johnsy was sleeping when they went upstairs. Sue pulled the shade down to cover the window. She and Behrman went into the other room. They looked out a window fearfully at the ivy vine. Then they looked at each other without speaking. A cold rain was falling, mixed with snow. Behrman sat and posed as the miner.

O. Henry. The Last Leaf. Part 3

Слова и выражения:

• pull up the shade — поднять штору
• the beating rain and fierce wind — проливной дождь и сильный ветер
• one ivy leaf — только один лист плюща
• It hung bravely from the branch — он храбро висел на ветке
• It is wrong to want to die.— Нельзя желать себе смерти.
• even chances — шансы равные
• another case — другого больного

The next morning, Sue awoke after an hour’s sleep. She found Johnsy with wide-open eyes staring at the covered window.

«Pull up the shade; I want to see,» she ordered, quietly.

Sue obeyed.

After the beating rain and fierce wind that blew through the night, there yet stood against the wall one ivy leaf. It was the last one on the vine. It was still dark green at the center. But its edges were colored with the yellow. It hung bravely from the branch about seven meters above the ground.

«It is the last one,» said Johnsy. «I thought it would surely fall during the night. I heard the wind. It will fall today and I shall die at the same time.»

«Dear, dear!» said Sue, leaning her worn face down toward the bed. «Think of me, if you won’t think of yourself. What would I do?»

But Johnsy did not answer.

The next morning, when it was light, Johnsy demanded that the window shade be raised. The ivy leaf was still there. Johnsy lay for a long time, looking at it. And then she called to Sue, who was preparing chicken soup.

«I’ve been a bad girl,» said Johnsy. «Something has made that last leaf stay there to show me how bad I was. It is wrong to want to die. You may bring me a little soup now.»

An hour later she said: «Someday I hope to paint the Bay of Naples.»

Later in the day, the doctor came, and Sue talked to him in the hallway.

«Even chances,» said the doctor. «With good care, you’ll win. And now I must see another case I have in your building. Behrman, his name is — some kind of an artist, I believe. Pneumonia, too. He is an old, weak man and his case is severe. There is no hope for him; but he goes to the hospital today to ease his pain.»

The next day, the doctor said to Sue: «She’s out of danger. You won. Nutrition and care now — that’s all.»

Later that day, Sue came to the bed where Johnsy lay, and put one arm around her.

«I have something to tell you, white mouse,» she said. «Mister Behrman died of pneumonia today in the hospital. He was sick only two days. They found him the morning of the first day in his room downstairs helpless with pain. His shoes and clothing were completely wet and icy cold. They could not imagine where he had been on such a terrible night.

And then they found a lantern, still lighted. And they found a ladder that had been moved from its place. And art supplies and a painting board with green and yellow colors mixed on it.

And look out the window, dear, at the last ivy leaf on the wall. Didn’t you wonder why it never moved when the wind blew? Ah, darling, it is Behrman’s masterpiece – he painted it there the night that the last leaf fell.»

O. Henry. No Story. Part 1

Слова и выражения:

• something — нечто
• look forty — выглядел на сорок лет
• miserable — несчастный
• borrow — занимать в долг
• manage — удаваться
• cost — стоить
• the stuff — материал (для рассказа)

I worked in a newspaper. One day Tripp came in and leaned on my table. Tripp was something. He was about twenty-five and looked forty. His face was covered with short, curly red hair. He was pale and unhealthy and miserableand always was borrowing money from twenty-five cents to a dollar. One dollar was his limit. When he leaned on my table he held one hand with the other to keep from shaking. Whisky.

“Well, Tripp,” said I, looking at him rather impatiently, “how is life?” He was looking more miserable than I had ever seen him.

“Have you got a dollar?” asked Tripp looking at me with his dog-like eyes.

That day I had managed to get five dollars for my Sunday story. “I have,” I said; and again I said, “I have,” more loudly, “and four besides. And I had hard work getting them. And I need them all.”

“I don’t want to borrow any,” said Tripp, “I thought you would like to get a good story. I’ve got a really fine one for you. It will probably cost you a dollar or two to get the stuff. I don’t want anything for myself.”

“What is the story?” I asked.

O. Henry. No Story. Part 2

Слова и выражения:

• set off for New York — отправиться в Нью Йорк
• to make his fortune — разбогатеть
• must have thought — должно быть думала
• has to — придется
• Long Island — Лонг Айлэнд (район Нью Йорка, который находится на острове)
• look disappointed — выглядел разочарованным
• what is known as the sense of duty — то, что называется чувством долга
• swore to myself (swear-swore) — поклясться себе (поклялся себе)

“It’s girl. A beauty. She has lived all her life on Long Island and never saw New York City before. I ran against her on Thirty-fourth Street. She stopped me in the street and asked me where she could find George Brown. She asked me where she could find George Brown in New York City! What do you think of that? I talked to her.It’s like this.

Some years ago George set off for New York to make his fortune. He didn’t come back. Now there is a young farmer named Dodd she is going to marry next week. But Ada — her name is Ada Lowery – couldn’t forget George, so this morning she saddled a horse and rode eight miles to the railway station to catch the 6.45 a.m. train. She came to the city to look for George.

She must have thought the first person she asked would tell her where her George was! You must see her! What could I do? She had paid her last cent for her railroad ticket. I couldn’t leave her in the street, could I? I took her to a cheap hotel. And she has to pay for the room, too. That is the price per day.”

”That’s no story,” said I. “Every ferry-boat brings or takes away girls from Long Island.”

Tripp looked disappointed. “Can’t you see what an amazing story it would make? You will get fifteen dollars for it. And it will cost you only four, so you will make a profit of eleven dollars.”

“How will it cost me four dollars?” I asked suspiciously.

“One dollar for her room and two dollars to pay the girl’s fare back home.”

‘And the fourth?’ I asked.

“ One dollar to me,” said Tripp. “Don’t you see,” he insisted, “That the girl has toget back home today?”

And then I began to feel what is known as the sense of duty. In a kind of cold anger I put on my coat and hat. But I swore to myself that Tripp wouldn’t get the dollar.

O. Henry. No Story. Part 3

Слова и выражения:

• felt ashamed of being introduced — было стыдно, что меня представили
• awkward — неловкий
• can’t help it — не могу справиться c этим
• must have happened — должно быть случилось
• a hammer and a chisel — молоток и зубило

Tripp took me to the hotel. I paid the money.

In a dark hall a girl sat crying quietly and eating sweets out of paper bag. She was a real beauty. Crying only made her eyes brighter.

“My friend, Mr. Chalmers. He is a reporter,” said Tripp “and he will tell you, Miss Lowery, what’s best to do.”

I felt ashamed of being introduced as Tripp’s friend to such a beauty. “Why- er — Miss Lowery,” I began feeling terribly awkward, “will you tell me what has happened?”

“Oh,” said Miss Lowery, ” You see, everything is ready for me to marry Hiram Dodd next Thursday. He’s got one of the best farms on the island. But last night I got to thinking about G – George — ”

“You see, I can’t help it. George and I loved each other since we were children. Four years ago he went to the city. He said he was going to be a policeman, a railroad president or something. And then he would come back for me. But I never heard from him anymore. And I – I – like him.”

“Now, Miss Lowery,” said Tripp, “you like this young man, Dodd, don’t you? He’s all right, and good to you, isn’t he?”

“Of course, I like him. And of course, he is good to me. He’s promised me a automobile and a motor-boat. But somehow I couldn’t stop thinking about George. Something must have happened to him or he would have written. On the day he left, he got a hammer and a chisel and cut a cent into two pieces. I took one piece and he took the other, and we promised to be true to each other and always keep the pieces till we saw each other again. I’ve got mine at home. I guess it was silly of me to come here. I never realized what a big place it is.”

O. Henry. No Story. Part 4

Слова и выражения:

• persuaded — убедили
• ferry — паром
• aboard — на борту
• handkerchief — носовой платок
• disappointment — разочарование
• unbuttoned — расстегнул
• watch-chain — цепочка для часов
• in halves — на половинки
• What’s the use? — А что толку?
• unhesitatingly — без колебаний

Then Tripp spoke with an awkward little laugh. “Oh, the boys from the country forget a lot when they come to the city. May be, he met another girl or something. You come back home, and you’ll be all right.”

In the end we persuaded Miss Lowery to go back home. The three of us hurried to the ferry, and there I found the price for the ticket to be but a dollar and eighty cents. I bought one, and a red, red rose with twenty cents for Miss Lowery. We saw her aboard her ferry-boat and stood watching her wave her handkerchief at us. And then Tripp and I faced each other.

“Can’t you get a story out of it?” he asked. “Some sort of a story?”

“Not a line,” I said.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. Then Tripp unbuttoned his shabby coat to get something that had once been a handkerchief. As he did so I saw something shining on his cheap watch-chain. It has the half of a silver cent that had been cut in halves with a chisel.

“What?!” I exclaimed. «Is that you?!!»

“Oh yes,” he answered. George Brown, or Tripp. What’s the use?

I took a dollar from my pocket and unhesitatingly put it in his hand.

Edgar Poe «The Tell-Tale Heart»

Part 1.

Nervous —very, very nervous I was and I am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease made me very sensitive. All my senses were so sharp and above all was the sense of hearing. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. So, am I mad? Listen and see yourself how calmly I can tell you the whole story.

It is impossible to say how the idea came to my mind; but it started to haunt me day and night. I loved the old man. He had never done me harm. He had never said me a bad word. I didn’t want to have his gold. So, I think it was his eye! Yes, it was this! He had a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so little by little I decided to kill the old man in order not to see the eye ever.

Now this is the point. You think I am mad. But you should see me. You should see how wisely I started to prepare for the work! I had been very kind to the old man during the whole week before. And every night, about midnight, I opened his door— oh, so quietly! And then I put a dark lantern into the opening, all closed, closed, so that no light shone out. And then I put in my head. Oh, you would laugh to see how carefully I put my head in! I moved it slowly —very, very slowly so that I would not disturb the old man’s sleep.

It took me an hour to put my whole head in the opening so that I could see him lying on his bed. And then, when my head was in the room, I opened the door of the lantern carefully — oh, so carefully — I did it just so much that light fell upon the old man’s eye. And this I did for seven long nights —every night just at midnight —but I found the eye always closed; and so it was impossible to do the deed; for it was not the old man who annoyed me, but his Evil Eye. And every morning I went into his room, and spoke to him in a friendly tone, and asked him how he had passed the night. So, you see, he would never suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept.

Edgar Poe «The Tell-Tale Heart»

Part 2

On the eighth night I was more than usually careful in opening the door. I did it so slowly that a clock minute hand moved more quickly than did mine. And I could not hide my feelings of triumph. Just imagine that I was opening the door, little by little, and he didn’t even dream of my secret thoughts. I laughed at the idea; and perhaps he heard me; for he moved on the bed suddenly. You may think that I got out — but no. It was very dark in his room, for the shutters were closed, and so I knew that he could not see me, and I kept opening the door on little by little.

My head had been in the room already and I was going to open the lantern, when my finger slipped and I made a noise. The old man sat up in bed quickly, crying out —«Who’s there?»

I stood quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and at the same time I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed listening; —just as I have done, night after night, listening to the clock on the wall.

Soon I heard a cry, and I knew it was a cry of mortal terror. It was not a cry of pain or of grief —oh, no! —it was the low sound that comes from the soul when it is full of terror. I knew the sound well. Many nights, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has come from my own soul. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt, and pitied him, although I laughed at heart. I knew that he was awake ever since the first slight noise, when he turned in the bed. His fears were growing upon him. He was trying to stop worrying, but could not. He was saying to himself —«It is nothing but the wind in the chimney.» — or «it is only a mouse crossing the floor.» Yes, he was trying to calm himself but he couldn’t. All in vain, Because Death was coming nearer and nearer and already had his black shadow before him. And it was the shadow that made him feel —although he neither saw nor heard —feel the presence of my head in the room.

Then I waited a long time but didn’t hear him lie down. And I decided to open a door of the lantern — very, very little. So I opened it —you cannot imagine how slowly, very very slowly I did it —until some light like the thread of the spider fell full upon the old man’s evil eye. It was open —wide, wide open —and I looked upon it. I saw it very clearly — a dull blue eye, a terrible eye. And I could not see the old man’s face or person for I saw his damned eye only.

Edgar Poe «The Tell-Tale Heart»

Part 3.

I have told you already that I am not mad. It is only a keen sense of hearing — now, I say, there came to my ears a low sound, such as a watch makes when covered by some cloth. I knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the old man’s heart. It increased my anger like the beating of a drum makes the soldier attack.

But even then I tried to keep still. I didn’t breathe. I held the lantern so that it could light the eye. But the sound of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder every moment. The old man’s terror was great! It grew louder, I say, louder every minute! — do you think I was nervous. Yes, I was. And now at that hour of the night in the dead silence of that old house, so strange a noise made me wild. The beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst.

And now a new thought came to my mind — the sound could be heard by a neighbour! The old man’s hour had come! With a loud cry, I threw the lantern and ran into the room. He gave a terrible scream but once — once only. In a moment I put a pillow upon his face and held it for some time. For some minutes the heart beat on with a quiet sound. This, however, did not worry me because I knew it could not be heard through the wall. At last it stopped. The old man was dead. I removed the pillow and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eуe would trouble me no more.

If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe you how careful I was while hiding the body. It was night but I worked quickly, in silence. First of all, I cut off the head and the arms and the legs. I then took up three planks from the floor, and put all there. I then replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye —not even his —could have seen anything wrong. There was nothing to wash out —no stain of any kind —no blood-spot whatever. I had been too careful —ha! ha!

When I had finished, it was four o’clock —still dark as midnight. At about 1 o’clock, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart, —for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who introduced themselves as officers of the police. A scream was heard by a neighbour during the night; information came to the police, and they (the officers) were send to search the house.

Edgar Poe «The Tell-Tale Heart»

Part 4.

I smiled, —for what had I to fear? I welcomed the gentlemen. The scream, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I led them to his room. I showed them his things. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and invited them to rest from their work, while I myself, enjoying my perfect triumph, put my own chair upon the very spot beneath which was the body of the victim.

The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was perfectly at ease. They sat, and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But, soon, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears: but still they sat and still chatted. The ringing continued and became more distinct: I tried to get rid of the feeling: but I couldn’t — and, soon, I found that the noise was not within my ears.

No doubt I now grew very pale; — I talked more loudly. Yet the sound increased —and what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound — like a sound as a watch makes when covered by some cloth. Yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly —more wildly; but the noise grew louder. I stood up, I talked, I gesticulated; but the noise grew louder. Why would they not leave? I went to and fro, as if excited—but the noise grew louder.

Oh God! what could I do? I raved —I swore! I took the chair upon which I was sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise was everywhere. It grew louder —louder —louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God! —no, no! They heard! —they suspected! —they knew! —they were laughing at my horror! — this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! I could stand those smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! and now —again! —hark! louder! louder! louder! louder!

«Villains!» I cried, «I hide no more! I admit the deed! —tear up the planks! here, here! —It is the beating of his hideous heart!»

THE END

The Black Cat. A Horror Story by Edgar Poe

Part 1.

Слова и выражения:

1. be fond of (любить) — love
2. creature (существо) — living thing
3. share (разделить) — have the same feeling
4. playmate (товарищ по играм) — friend who I like to play with
5. decease (заболевание) — here a bad habit
6. evil (злой) — angry
7. treat badly (обращаться плохо) — do harm
8. recover (поправляться) — feel better
9. hatred (ненависть) — strong dislike
1o. escape (спастись) — run away

I was a kind child. I was fond of animals and always had a lot of them. I spent my time with them and felt happy.

When I grew up, I still had my love for the living creatures. I married early and was happy to find a woman who I could share my love for animals. We had a lot of pets: birds, gold-fish, a fine dog, rabbits, a small monkey and a cat.

The cat was a large and beautiful animal, all black. His name was Pluto. It was my favourite pet and a playmate. I fed my cat myself and he followed me everywhere about the house.

But years passed and my character changed because I had a decease. The decease was drinking alcohol! Day by day I became more and more evil. I did not care about the feeling of the others. I became rude with my wife. My pets, of course, felt the change in my character as I treated them badly if they came in my way. But I still had my love for Pluto. But soon Pluto, who was old now,— even Pluto was afraid of me.

One night I came back home drunk. The cat got in my way and I caught him. He was frightened and bit my hand with his teeth. I got very angry. It seemed as if my soul left my body and a demon got there instead. I took a pen-knife, opened it and cut one of his eyes from the socket!

When I got up in the morning and saw the poor thing, I didn’t feel pity. My soul became calm and soon the wine helped me to forget all memory of it.

The cat slowly recovered. Now he was ugly, but he no longer felt any pain. He went about the house as usual but always ran away when he saw me. At first I felt uneasy about the creature which had loved me so much. But soon this feeling changed to dislike and then to hatred. So one morning I put a rope about his neck and hung him on a tree. The tears were in my eyes but I finished the cruel thing.

On the night of the next day, I woke up by the cry of fire. The curtains of my bed were in flames. The whole house was on fire. With great difficulty my wife, a servant, and myself escaped from the place. My house was in ruins. Now I was a poor man.

Did the fire happen because of the cruel thing I had done? The next day I visited the ruins. All the walls had fallen in. The only wall left was the wall of my bedroom. I saw people in front of the wall who were looking at something there. I came near. On the wall there was a figure of a gigantic cat with a rope on its neck. I was terrified.

The Black Cat. A Horror Story by Edgar Poe

Part 2.

Слова и выражения:
1. notice (заметить) — see
2. make up my mind (принять решение) – decide
3. wall up (замуровать) – put behind a wall
4. feel guilty (чувствовать вину) – feel sorry as if you have done something bad
5. disappear (исчезнуть) — not to be seen
6. search (обыскивать) — look for
7. hideous (отвратительный) – terrible and ugly

The time passed. One night when I was in a pub, I suddenly saw a black object on a barrel. I came to it and touched it with my hand. It was a black cat—a very large one — as large as Pluto. It was strange but it was one-eyed too but in the dark I didn’t notice it.

When I went home, the animal followed me. I decided to let him live in my house. At once he became a favourite pet of my wife. As for me, I felt some dislike for him. I tried not to meet the creature as he reminded me of the cruel thing I had done with Pluto.

Days passed and I started to hate the cat but he loved me very much. He followed me everywhere about the house. If I sat, he jumped upon my knees. If I wanted to go for walk, he got between my feet trying to stop me. At such times I wanted to hit him hard but the memory of Pluto always stopped me.

The cat never left me alone. When I went to sleep, I felt his large body upon my heart. When I woke up, I felt his whiskers upon my face. My hatred for the cat grew more and more. To tell the truth, at that time I was full of hatred to all the people in the world, even to my poor wife.

One day my wife and me went into the cellar of the old building where we lived. The cat followed us downstairs and got between my feet so I was about to fall down. I got angry, took the axe and aimed a blow at the animal. My wife was in my way and I buried the axe in her brain. She fell dead upon the floor.

After I killed my wife, I started thinking where to hide the body. I knew that I could not take it from the house because my neighbours would see me. At first, I thought to cut the body into parts and destroy them by fire. Then I decided to throw it in the well in the yard. Finally, I made up my mind to wall it up in the cellar.

There was a secret niche behind one of the walls. I could displace the bricks, put the dead body there, and place the bricks as before, so that nobody could see anything unusual.

It was a good idea. I easily displaced the bricks and carefully put the body inside the niche against the inner wall. Then I put the bricks back, the wall was the same as before. When I had finished, I felt glad that all was done. Then I looked for the cat. To tell the truth, at that moment I decided to kill him, too. But the cat disappeared.

The second and the third day passed and still the cat did not come. I felt like a free man. The cat, the monster, had left me forever! My happiness was great! As for my wife, I felt guilty but little.

But on the fourth day the police came into the house and started to search it everywhere. I felt no fear however. They went into the cellar but I was calm. The police found nothing and were going to leave. The happiness at my heart was so great that I could not but say a word of triumph.

«Gentlemen,» I said, «I am happy that you find me not guilty. I wish you all health. By the way, gentlemen, this—this is a very well constructed house. These walls are made of bricks and … Are you going, gentlemen?» and then I didn’t understand why I hit on that part of the wall behind which there was the dead body of my wife.

A terrible cry was heard from behind! It seemed as if it came out of hell!
For a moment the party stood still. In the next, they were working at the wall and soon the body of my wife was seen in the niche. Upon its head sat the hideous one-eyed monster!

THE END

Ray Bradbury. The  Fog Horn (part 1)

Слова и выражения:

• the fog horn — противотуманная сирена
• the Deep — пучина (поэтич. название моря)
• Something made them swim up. — Что-то заставило ее подняться на поверхность.
• It learned you can’t love anything too much in this world. — Он узнал, что в этом мире нельзя любить слишком сильно.

Every night MacDunn and Johnny waited for the fog. When it came, they lit the fog light in the lighthouse. Red, then white, then red again. They sent the light to the ships out in the sea but when the fog was too thick they switched on their Fog Horn!

One cold November evening they were having a quiet talk about their job, about the mysteries of the sea. The great eye of the light was shining into the sea. The Fog Horn was blowing once every fifteen seconds.

‘One night,’ said MacDunn, ‘years ago, I was here alone. Suddenly the fish came up. Something made them swim up. When I saw their funny eyes, I turned cold. They were like a big peacock’s tail in the moonlight.

Then, without a sound, they disappeared. Strange. Think how the lighthouse must look to them. It stands high above the water, the light comes out from it, and the tower speaks in a monster voice…’

Johnny was frightened. He was watching the grey sea going away into nothing and nowhere.

‘Oh, the sea’s full of life,’ he said.

‘Yes, it’s an old world,’ MacDunn smoked his cigar and looked worried. ‘Now, I’ve got something to tell you. The Fog Horn sounds like an animal, doesn’t it? A big lonely animal crying in the night. Calling out to the Deep, ‘I’m here, I’m here.’ Well, you have been here for three months, Johnny, so I’m going to tell you. Something comes to visit the lighthouse.’

‘Do you mean the fish?’

‘No, something else. First it happened three years ago. It usually happens about this time of the year. Let’s wait and watch.’

While they were waiting, MacDunn told some theories about the Fog Horn to Johnny.

‘One day a man walked along the cold shore. Then he stopped and said, «We need a voice to call across the water to the ships. I’ll make one like a voice of the fog. I’ll make a sound that’s so lonely that everybody listens to it. Everyone who hears it will start crying, and their hearts will become warmer.» I made up that story to explain why it keeps coming back to the lighthouse. The Fog Horn calls it, I think, and it comes…’

* * *

The  Fog Horn (part 2)

It was a foggy night and the light was coming and going, and the Fog Horn was calling through the air. In the high tower they watched the sea moving to the dark shore. And then, suddenly from the cold sea came a large dark head, and then a neck. And then more neck and more! The head was high above the water on a beautiful dark neck. Finally came the body, like a little island of black coral.

‘It’s impossible!’ said Johnny.

‘No, Johnny, we’re impossible. It has always been. It hasn’t changed at all!’

The silent monster was swimming slowly in the icy water with the fog around. One of its eyes caught the bright light of the tower, red, white, red, white.

‘But the dinosaurs died out long ago!’ Johnny cried.

‘No, they hid away in the Deep.’

‘What should we do?’

‘We’ve got our job. We can’t leave it. Besides, we’re safe here.’

‘But here, why does it come here’

The next moment Johnny had his answer. The Fog Horn blew. And the monster answered. A cry so sad and lonely! The Fog Horn blew. The monster cried again. The Fog Horn blew. The monster opened its great toothed mouth and the sound that came from it was the sound of the Fog Horn itself. It was the sound of unhappiness, of a cold night.

‘Imagine, all year long,’ whispered MacDunn, ‘that poor monster waits, deep in the sea. Maybe it’s the last of its kind. Think of it, waiting a million years! One day it hears the Fog Horn in his deep hiding-place. The sound comes and goes, comes and goes. Then the monster starts its way up to have a look at it. He does it very slowly because the heavy ocean is on its shoulders. It goes up and up for three autumn months and it can hear the voice better and better. And there it is, in the night, Johnny! And here’s the lighthouse. The monster can see that the lighthouse has got a neck as long as its neck, and a body like its body, and, most important of all, a voice like its voice. Do you understand now, Johnny?’

The  Fog Horn (part 3)

The Fog Horn blew. The monster answered. It was only a hundred yards off now.

‘That’s how it happens,’ said MacDunn. ‘You love something more than that thing loves you. And one day you want to destroy it, because it hurts you.’

The monster was swimming to the lighthouse. The Fog Horn blew.

‘Let’s see what happens,’ said MacDunn and switched the Fog Horn off.

It was a minute of silence and the men could hear their hearts. The monster’s eyes looked into the dark. Its mouth opened. It sounded like a volcano. It turned its head to the right and then to the left. It looked for the Fog Horn, for its deep sounds. Then its eyes caught fire. It swam towards the tower, its eyes filled with anger.

‘MacDunn!’ Johnny cried. ‘Switch on the horn!’

MacDunn switched the horn on and they saw its fish skin. It hit the tower with its gigantic paws and the tower shook.

MacDunn cried, ‘Downstairs! Quick!’

They ran down and hid in a small room at the bottom of the lighthouse. The next moment they heard the rocks raining down. The lighthouse fell. There was nothing but darkness and the wash of the sea on the stones. And then they heard the monster’s cry. There was no tower and no Fog Horn — the thing that had been calling to the monster for so many years. And the monster was opening its mouth and sending out great sounds. The sounds of a Fog Horn, again and again. And so it went for the rest of that night.

The next morning the people came and helped them to get out of the ruins.

‘It was a terrible storm,’ said Mr. MacDunn. ‘We had some bad knocks from the waves and the tower fell.’

The ocean was quiet and the sky was blue. The light house was in the ruins. The monster? It never came back. It returned back to the Deep. It learned you can’t love anything too much in this world.

THE  END

The Nightingale and the Rose. Part 1

Слова и выражения:

• depends so much on — так сильно зависит
• whispered- прошептал
• suffer from love- страдать от любви
• like a shadow -как тень (like — в данном случае предлог «как», а не глагол «нравится»)
• shook its head — покачало головой
• the storm has broken my branches — буря обломала мои ветки
• Is there no way? — Разве нет способа?
• There is a way! — Есть способ!
• compared to — по сравнению с

«She will dance with me if I bring her a red rose,» cried the young student, «but there is not a red rose in all my garden.»

In the oak-tree the Nightingale heard him, and looked out through the leaves.

«Not a red rose in all my garden!» cried the student, and his beautiful eyes were full of tears. «Happiness depends so much on such little things! I read a lot of books, I know all the secrets of philosophy, but my life is unhappy because I have no red rose.»

«At last here is a true lover,» said the Nightingale. «Night after night I sang about him, and now I see him.»

«The Prince gives a ball tomorrow night,» whispered the young student, «and my love will be there. If I bring her a red rose, I will dance with her and she will put her head on my shoulder. But there is no red rose in my garden, so I will sit alone, and she will go past me, and my heart will break.»

«Indeed he is a true lover,» said the Nightingale. «I sing about love. But hesuffers from love. It is joy to me. But to him it is pain.»

«The musicians will play, and my love will dance,» said the young student. «She will dance but not with me, for I have no red rose to give her,» and he lay on the grass and cried.

«Why is he crying?» asked a little green lizard, as he ran past him.

«He is crying for a red rose,» said the Nightingale.

«For a red rose? How funny.» The little lizard laughed.

But the Nightingale understood the secret of the student’s sorrow, and she sat silent in the oak-tree, and thought about love.

Suddenly she flew up into the air. She flew through the wood like a shadow, and like a shadow she flew over the garden.

In the centre of the garden there was a beautiful rose-tree, and when she saw it, she flew over to it and said, «Give me a red rose and I will sing you my sweetest song.»

But the rose-tree shook its head.»My roses are white,» it answered, «whiter than the snow upon the mountains. But go to my brother who grows near the old house, and perhaps he will give you what you want.»

So the Nightingale flew over to the rose-tree that was growing near the old house.

«Give me a red rose,» she cried, «and I will sing you my sweetest song.»

But the rose-tree shook its head. «My roses are yellow,» it answered. «But go to my brother who grows under the student’s window, and perhaps he will give you what you want.»

So the Nightingale flew over to the rose-tree that was growing under the student’s window.

But the rose-tree shook its head. «My roses are red,» it answered. «But the storm has broken my branches, and I will have no roses at all this year.»

«One red rose is all I want,» cried the Nightingale, «only one red rose! Is there no way how to get it?»

«There is a way,» answered the rose-tree, «but it is so terrible that I am afraid to tell you about it.»

«Tell me,» said the Nightingale, «I am not afraid.»

«If you want a red rose,» said the tree, «You must sing to me with your breast against a thorn. All night you must sing to me, and the thorn must run through your heart and your blood must flow into my branches and become mine.»

«Death is a great price to pay for a red rose,» cried the Nightingale, «Yet Love is better than life, and what is the heart of a bird compared to the heart of a man?»

The Nightingale and the Rose. Part 2

Слова и выражения:

• like a shadow — как тень
• build it out of my song — создать из мелодии своей песни
• crimson — окрасить в темно-красный цвет
• fell asleep — заснул
• appeared — появилась
• I have never seen — Я никогда еще не видел

So she flew into the air. She flew over the garden like a shadow and like a shadow she flew through the wood.

The young student was still lying on the grass where she left him, and his beautiful eyes were still full of tears.

«Be happy,» cried the Nightingale, «be happy. You will have your red rose. I will build it out of my song by moonlight, and crimson it with my own heart’s blood. I only ask you to be a true lover, for love is wiser than philosophy.»

The student looked up and listened, but he could not understand what the Nightingale was saying to him.

But the oak-tree understood, and felt sad, for he was very fond of the little Nightingale who lived in his branches. «Sing me one last song,» he whispered, «I will feel lonely without you.» So the Nightingale sang to the oak-tree.

When she finished her song, the student stood up and went through the wood to the house, lay down on his bed, and began to think of his love: «She is so beautiful,» he said to himself, «but has she got feeling? I must say that sometimes she has some selfish notes in her voice.» And then he fell asleep.

When the moon was in the sky, the Nightingale flew to the rose-tree, and pressed her breast against the thorn. All night long she sang, and the thorn went deeper and deeper into her breast and her blood flowed out.

She sang of the birth of love in the heart of a boy and a girl. And on the top of the rose-tree appeared a beautiful rose. Pale it was at first. But the rose-tree cried to the Nightingale, «Press closer, little Nightingale, or the day will come before the rose is finished.»

So the Nightingale pressed closer and closer against the thorn, and louder and louder grew her song, for she sang of the birth of passion in the soul of a man and a maiden.

The leaves of the rose became faintly pink. But the thorn had not yet reached the Nightingale’s heart, so the rose’s heart was white, for only a Nightingale’s blood can crimson the heart of a rose.

So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and the thorn touched her heart, and she felt a sharp pain. Bitter, bitter was the pain, and wilder and wilder grew her song, for she sang about the love that never dies.

And the beautiful rose became crimson. But the Nightingale’s voice grew weaker and her little wings began to beat. She gave one last burst of music. The red rose heard it and opened to the cold morning air.

«Look, look!» cried the rose-tree. «The rose is finished now!» But the Nightingale did not answer for she was lying dead in the long grass, with the thorn in her heart.

And at noon the student opened his window and looked out. «How wonderful!» he cried. «Here is a red rose! I have never seen any rose like this in all my life. It is so beautiful,» and he picked it with joy in his heart. Then he ran to the Professor’s house with the rose in his hand.

The daughter of the Professor was sitting in the doorway and her little dog was lying at her feet. «Will you dance with me? Because I brought you a red rose,» cried the student. «Here is the reddest rose in all the world. You will wear it on your dress next to your heart. We will dance together and I will tell you how I love you.»

But the girl answered, «I am afraid it will not go with my dress, and, besides, another man sent me some real jewels, and everybody knows that jewels are better than flowers.»

«Well, you are very ungrateful,» said the young student angrily and he threw the rose into the street.

«Ungrateful!» said the girl. «I’ll tell you what, you are rude; and, after all, who are you? Only a poor student!» and she stood up from her chair and went into the house.

«What a silly thing love is,» said the student as he went away. «It is about things that are not true. In fact, it is quite unpractical. In this age to be practical is everything, so I will go back and study philosophy.»

Нe came back to his room, took out a dusty book, and began to read.

The End

William Shakespeare. King Lear

Part One

Once upon a time there lived an old king of Britain. His name was Lear. He had three daughters:  Goneril, Regan and Cordelia.

One day King Lear called his daughters and said to them: «I am very old and tired. I cannot be the king of Britain any more. I want to divide the country into three parts and give one part to each of you. Each of you will be the queen of her part of the country. But first you must tell me how much you love me. Then I shall know which of you must get the better part.»

Goneril and Regan were not good daughters. They did not love their father. But they were very greedy. They wanted to become queens very much. They were glad to hear that their father wanted to divide his country into three parts. They only thought how to get the larger and better part of the country.

So Goneril said: «Dear Father, I love you very much. I love you more than my eyes, more than my beauty, more than my life. No child loves his father more than I  love you.»

Regan said the same, but in different words. King Lear was very glad. Then he asked his youngest daughter Cordelia to speak. She was his favourite daughter.

Cordelia knew that her sisters were bad daughters. She loved her father very much, but she did not want to repeat the words of her sisters. So she said nothing. Only when King Lear told her angrily that she must speak, she said: «I don’t understand why my sisters say that they love you more, than anything else. They are married. Don’t they love their husbands? You are my father, and of course I love you. But when I marry, I shall love my husband, too.»

King Lear did not like Cordelia’s words. He shouted at her and said that he did not want to have such a daughter. He divided the country between Goneril and Regan and gave Cordelia nothing.

 * * *

King Lear. Part Two

Cordelia went to France and married the French king, who loved her very much.

Old King Lear had nothing now. He wanted to rest. So he went to Goneril’s castle to stay there. But he did not stay long there. As we know, Goneril did not really love her father, and soon he understood it.

Goneril did not speak with him and was not kind to him. At last she said she was tired of him.

So King Lear decided to leave his eldest daughter’s castle and go to his other daughter, Regan. He wanted to tell her how bad her sister was, and to stay in her castle.

But Regan was no better than Goneril. King Lear and his followers had to stand at the gates of the castle and wait for a long time. At last he saw Regan, but she was not glad to meet her father. She asked him to return to Goneril’s castle.

The old king did not know what to do. He just stayed at the gates of the castle. Soon Goneril came to Regan’s castle, and the king saw his two elder daughters again. He tried to speak to them, but they did not let him speak. They laughed at him and called him an old fool. Nearly all his knights and his servants left him.

Lear felt very sad. He could not stay there any more and he left Regan’s castle. He was homeless now.

One night there was a terrible storm. The rain beat in the old man’s face. A strong wind was blowing. It was dark and cold, and Lear had no roof over his poor old head. He was all wet and cold. Sad and unhappy, cold and wet, Lear became mad.

A brave knight Kent remained true to the old king and was with him. Kent sent a man to France with a letter for Cordelia. In the letter he told her everything. When Cordelia read the letter, she quickly gathered an army and went to Britain to fight her sisters’ armies and make Lear king of Britain again. When Cordelia found her father, the old king was very happy and soon came to himself again. Now he understood who was his best daughter. But it was too late.

Goneril and Regan sent a great army to fight Cordelia’s soldiers. The French army was beaten. Lear and Cordelia became prisoners.

But Goneril and Regan were not happy. They were so wicked that they simply could not be happy. They had many enemies and were afraid of many people. They hated each other and there was a secret struggle between them. Finally Goneril poisoned Regan. Soon after that she killed herself with a knife.

Cordelia was hanged in prison.

When King Lear saw the death of Cordelia, his heart broke and he died too.