2. Match
Sue 1) was busy (went to sick people).
2) was a painter who lived on the first floor on their house.
3) was looking through the window counting the falling leaves.
Johnsy 4) had always wanted to paint a great picture, a masterpiece.
5) did for sick people all he could.
6) was king to the sick friend.
7) understood, that it was so wrong to want to die.
8) said, that the chances were good.
9) had to paint to buy something to eat to make the friend strong.
Behrman 10) had been drinking.
11) was ill.
12) lay in the room, very thin and very quiet.
13) worked through most of the night.
14) painted his last masterpiece.
Doctor 15) wanted to see the last leaf fall.
16) clothes were wet and as cold as ice.
17) took care of the friend.
18) died of pneumonia in hospital.
3. Answer the following questions (using your active vocabulary).
1. What happened during that winter in New York?
2. How did Sue and Johnsy become friends?
3. How did the doctor assess Johnsys chances of recovery?
4. What was Johnsy doing while lying in bed? What did she have in her mind?
5. How did Sue behave in that situation?
6. Who was Sues model?
7. What kind of life did Behrman lead?
7. What happened one morning after one dreadful night?
8. How did Johnsys behaviour change that morning?
9. Why was Behrman taken ill with pneumonia?
10. What was his masterpiece?
4. Retell the story as if you were a) Sue b) Johnsy c) the doctor d) Mr Behrman
5. Make up a dialogue between a) Sue and the doctor b) Sue and the painter
6. Translate the sentences using the words and expressions from Task 1.
1. , - . 2. , , . 3. , . , . 4. , , . 5. . 6. . 7. , , ? 8. . 9. , , . 10. , ? 11. , , . 12. , . .
HE OVERDID IT (by O. Henry)
Miss Posie Carrington had begun life in the small village of Cranberry Corners. Then her name had been Posie Boggs. At the age of eighteen she had left the place and become an actress at a small theatre in a large city, and here she took the name of Carrington. Now Miss Carrington was at the height of her fame, the critics praised her, and in the next season she was going to star in a new play about country life. Many young actors were eager to partner Miss Posie Carrington in the play, and among them was a clever young actor called Highsmith.
|
|
|
My boy, said Mr Goldstein, the manager of the theatre, when the young man went to him for advice, take the part if you can get it. The trouble is Miss Carrington wont listen to any of my suggestions. As a matter of fact she has turned down a lot of the best imitators of a country fellow already, and she says she wont set foot on the stage unless her partner is the best that can be found. She was brought up in a village, you know, she wont be deceived when a Broadway fellow goes on the stage with a straw in his hair and calls himself a village boy. So, young man, if you want to play the part, youll have to convince Miss Carrington. Would you like to try?
I would with your permission, answered the young man. But I would prefer to keep my plans secret for a while. Next day Highsmith took the train for Cranberry Corners. He stayed three days in that small and distant village. Having found out all he could about the Boggs and their neighbours, Highsmith returned to the city...
Miss Posie Carrington used to spend her evenings at a small restaurant where actors gathered after performances. One night when Miss Posie was enjoying a late supper in the company of her fellow-actors, a shy, awkward young man entered the restaurant. It was clear that the lights and the people made him uncomfortable. He upset one chair, sat in another one, and turned red at the approach of a waiter. You may fetch me a glass of beer, he said, in answer to the waiters question. He looked around the place and then seeing Miss Carrington, rose and went to her table with a shining smile.
Howre you, Miss Posie? he said. Dont you remember me Bill Summers the Summerses that used to live next door to you? Ive grown up since you left Cranberry Corners. They still remember you there. Eliza Perry told me to see you in the city while I was here. You know Eliza married Benny Stanfield, and she says
I say, interrupted Miss Carrington brightly, Eliza Perry married. She used to be so stout and plain. Married in June, smiled the gossip. Old Mrs Blither sold her place to Captain Spooner; the youngest Waters girl ran away with a music teacher. Oh! Miss Carrington cried out. Why, you people, excuse me a while this is an old friend of mine Mr what was it? Yes, Mr Summers Mr Goldstein, Mr Ricketts. Now, Bill, come over here and tell me some more. She took him to a vacant table in a corner. I dont seem to remember any Bill Summers, she said thoughtfully, looking straight into the innocent blue eyes of the young man.
But I know the Summerses all right, and your face seems familiar when I come to think of it. There arent many changes in the old village, are there? Have you seen any of my people?
And then Highsmith decided to show Miss Posie his abilities as a tragic actor. Miss Posie, said Bill Summers, I was at your peoples house just two or three days ago. No, there arent many changes to speak of. And yet it doesnt look the same place that it used to be. Hows Ma? asked Miss Carrington. She was sitting by the front door when I saw her last, said Bill. Shes older than she was, Miss Posie. But everything in the house looked just the same. Your Ma asked me to sit down. William, said she. Posie went away down that road and something tells me shell come back that way again when she gets tired of the world and begins to think about her old mother. Shes always been a sensible girl.
|
|
|
Miss Carrington looked uncomfortable. Well, she said, I am really very glad to have seen you, Bill. Come round and see me at the hotel before you leave the city. After she had left, Highsmith, still in his make-up, went up to Goldstein. An excellent idea, wasnt it? said the smiling actor. The part is mine, dont you think? The little lady never once guessed. I didnt hear your conversation, said Goldstein, but your make-up and acting were perfect. Heres to your success. Youd better visit Miss Carrington early tomorrow and see how she feels about you.
At 11.45 the next morning Highsmith, handsome and dressed in the latest fashion, sent up his card to Miss Carrington at her hotel. He was shown up and received by the actresss French maid. I am sorry, said the maid, but I am to say this to everybody. Miss Carrington has canceled all engagements on the stage and has returned to live in that what do you call that place? Cranberry Corners!
1. Give Russian equivalents for the following words and expressions from the text. Reproduce the situations in which they are used. Use them in the sentences of your own.
| to praise sb | stout |
| to be eager to do sth | plain |
| to keep sth secret | a gossip |
| awkward | sensible |
| to make sb uncomfortable | make-up |
| used to do sth | to be dressed in the latest fashion |
2. Choose the correct answer
1) Why did Highsmith want to take a part in the play with Miss Posie Carrington?
a) Because she was a brilliant actress
b) Because he liked the play about country life
c) Because he was clever and young
2) Why couldnt the manager of the theater give the part to Highsmith?
a) Because the young actor didnt have any talent
b) Because Miss Carrington chose her partners herself
c) Because Highsmith was from Broadway
3) Highsmith went to Cranberry Corners
a) to see how people in the village lived
b) to learn the local customs
c) to learn everything possible about Miss Carringtons family and neighbours.
4) How did Highsmith manage to awake Miss Carringtons interest in him?
a) He started telling her gossips about her village neighbours
b) He looked very shy and awkward
c) He drank a lot of beer
5) What did Highsmith learn the next morning?
a) That Miss Carrington was busy on the stage
b) That he had received the part of a village boy
c) That Miss Carrington left for the village.
3. True or false?
1) Miss Posie Boggs was brought up in a small village of Cranberry Corners.
2) She changed her last name and became a great actress in a large city.
3) The manager of the theater offered the part of a village boy to a young actor Highsmith.
4) One evening Highsmith introduced himself to Miss Carrington as one of her village neighbours.
5) Highsmith told Miss Carrington that her mother had forgotten her completely.
6) Highsmith and Goldstein were sure that the actor had performed excellently.
7) Miss Carrington gave the part of a village boy to Highsmith.
4. Answer the following questions (using your active vocabulary):
1) What do we learn about Miss Carrington in the beginning of the story?
2) Why did Highsmith appear in the restaurant pretending he was a village boy?
3) What did Highsmith and Miss Carrington talk about?
4) What do you think make Miss Carrington leave the city?
5) Comment on the title of the story.
5. Retell the story on the part of 1) Miss Carrington 2) Highsmith 3) Goldstein 4) one of Miss Carringtons neighbours
6. Act out a dialogue between
1) Highsmith and Goldstein when:
a) when Highsmith wanted to take a part in the play b) after Highsmith talked with Miss Carrington
|
|
|
2) Highsmith and Miss Carrington at the restaurant
7. Translate the sentences using the words and expressions from Task 1
1. . 2. . 3. . 4. . 5. ? 6. , . 7. - . 8. . 9. , . . 10. .
SKIN (by Ronald Dahl)
That winter was a long time going. A freezing wind blew through the streets of the city, and overhead the snow clouds moved across the sky.
The old man who was called Drioli shuffled painfully along the sidewalk of the rue de Rivoli. He was cold and miserable. He moved glancing without any interest at the things in the shop windows perfume, silk ties and shirts, diamonds, furniture, books. Then a picture gallery. He had always liked picture galleries. This one had a single canvas on display in the window. He stopped to look at it. Suddenly, there came to him a slight movement of the memory, a distant recollection of something, somewhere, he had seen before. He looked again. It was a landscape, a group of trees leaning over to one side as if blown by wind. Attached to the frame there was a little plaque, and on this it said: CHAIM SOUTINE (1894-1943).
Drioli stared at the picture, wondering vaguely what there was about it that seemed familiar. Crazy painting, he thought. Very strange and crazy but I like it... Chaim Soutine... Soutine... "By God!" he cried suddenly. "My little friend, with a picture in the finest shop in Paris! Just imagine that!"
The old man pressed his face closer to the window. He could remember the boy yes, quite clearly he could remember him. But when? The rest of it was not so easy to recollect. It was so long ago. How long? Twenty no, more like thirty years, wasn't it? Wait a minute. Yes it was the year before the war, the first war, 1913. That was it. And this Soutine, this ugly little boy whom he had liked almost loved for no reason at all that he could think of except that he could paint. And how he could paint! It was coming back more clearly now. Where was it the boy had lived?
The Cite Falguiere, that was it! Then there was the studio with the single chair in it, and the dirty red sofa that the boy had used for sleeping; the drunken parties, the cheap white wine, the furious quarrels, and always, always the sad face of the boy thinking over his work.
It was odd, Drioli thought, how easily it all came back to him now, how each single small remembered fact seemed instantly to remind him of another.
There was that nonsense with the tattoo, for instance. Now, that was a mad thing if ever there was one. How had it started? Ah, yes he had got rich one day, that was it, and he had bought lots of wine. He could see himself now as he entered the studio with the parcel of bottles under his arm the boy sitting before the easel, and his (Drioli's) own wife standing in the centre of the room, posing for her picture.
"Tonight we shall celebrate," he said. "We shall have a little celebration, us three."
"What is it that we celebrate?" the boy asked, without looking up. "Is it that you have decided to divorce your wife so she can marry me?"
"No," Drioli said. "We celebrate because today I have made a great sum of money with my work."
|
|
|
"And I have made nothing. We can celebrate that also." The girl came across the room to look at the painting. Drioli came over also holding a bottle in one hand, a glass in the other.
"No!" the boy shouted. "Please no!" He snatched the canvas from the easel and stood it against the wall. But Drioli had seen it.
"It's marvelous. I like all the others that you do, it's marvelous. I love them all."
"The trouble is," the boy said, gloomily, "that in themselves they are not nourishing. I cannot eat them."
"But still they are marvelous." Drioli handed him a glass of the pale-yellow wine. "Drink it," he said. "It will make you happy."
Never, he thought, had he known a more unhappy person, or one with a gloomier face.
"Give me some more," the boy said. "If we are to celebrate then let us do it properly."
"Tonight we shall drink as much as we possibly can," Drioli said. "I am exceptionally rich. I think perhaps I should go out now and buy some more bottles. How many shall I get?"
"Six more," the boy said. "Two for each."
"Good. I shall go now and fetch them."
"And I will help you."
In the nearest cafe Drioli bought six bottles of white wine, and they carried them back to the studio. Then they sat down again and continued to drink.
"It is only the very wealthy, who can afford to celebrate in this manner."
"That is true," the boy said. "Isn't that true, Josie?"
"Of course."
"Beautiful wine," Drioli said. "It is a privilege to drink it."
Slowly, methodically, they set about getting themselves drunk. The process was routine, but all the same there was a certain ceremony to be observed.
"Listen," Drioli said at length. "I have a tremendous idea. I would like to have a picture, a lovely picture. It is this. I want you to paint a picture on my skin, on my back. Then I want you to tattoo over what you have painted so that it will be there always."
"You have crazy ideas," the boy said.
"I will teach you how to use the tattoo. It is easy. A child could do it."
"You are quite mad. What is it you want?"
"I will teach you in two minutes!"
"Impossible!"
"Are you saying I do not know what I am talking about?" "All I am saying," the boy told him, "is that you are drunk and this is a drunken idea."
"We could have my wife for a model. A study of Josie upon my back."
"It is no good idea," the boy said. "And I could not possibly manage the tattoo."
"It is simple. I will undertake to teach you in two minutes. You will see. I shall go now and bring the instruments."
In half an hour Drioli was back. "I have brought everything," he cried, waving a brown suitcase. "All the necessities of the tattooist are here in this bag."
He placed the bag on the table, opened it, and laid out the electric needles and the small bottles of coloured inks. He plugged in the electric needle, then he took the instrument in his hand and pressed a switch. He threw off his jacket and rolled up his left sleeve. "Now look. Watch me and I will show you how easy it is. I will make a design on my arm, here. See how easy it is. See how I draw a picture of a dog here upon my arm."
The boy was intrigued. "Now let me practise a little on your arm."
With the buzzing needle he began to draw blue lines upon Drioli's arm. "It is simple," he said. "It is like drawing with pen and ink. There is no difference except that it is slower."
"There is nothing to it. Are you ready? Shall we begin?"
"At once."
"The model!" cried Drioli. "Come on, Josie!" He was in a bustle of enthusiasm now arranging everything, like a child preparing for some exciting game. "Where will you have her? Where shall she stand?"
"Let her be standing there, by my dressing table. Let her be brushing her hair. I will paint her with her hair down over her shoulders and her brushing it."
"Tremendous. You are a genius."
|
|
|
"First," the boy said, "I shall make an ordinary painting. Then if it pleases me, I shall tattoo over it." With a wide brush he began to paint upon the naked skin of the man's back.
"Be still now! Be still!" His concentration, as soon as he began to paint, was so great that it appeared somehow to neutralize his drunkenness.
"All right. That's all," he said at last to the girl. Far into the small hours of the morning the boy worked. Drioli could remember that when the artist finally stepped back and said, "It is finished," there was daylight outside and the sound of people walking in the street.
"I want to see it," Drioli said. The boy held up a mirror, and Drioli craned his neck to look.
"Good God!" he cried. It was a startling sight. The whole of his back was a blaze of colour gold and green and blue and black and red. The tattoo was applied so heavily it looked almost like an impasto. The portrait was quite alive; it contained so much characteristic of Soutine's other works.
"It's tremendous!"
"I rather like it myself." The boy stood back, examining it critically. "You know," he added, "I think it's good enough for me to sign." And taking up the machine again, he inscribed his name in red ink on the right-hand side, over the place where Drioli's kidney was.
The old man who was called Drioli was standing in a sort of trance, staring at the painting in the window of the picture-dealer's shop. It had been so long ago, all that almost as though it had happened in another life.
And the boy? What had become of him? He could remember now that after returning from the war the first war he had missed him and had questioned Josie.
"Where is my little painter?"
"He is gone," she had answered. "I do not know where."
"Perhaps he will return."
"Perhaps he will. Who knows?"
That was the last time they had mentioned him. Shortly afterwards they had moved to Le Havre where there were more sailors and business was better. Those were the pleasant years, the years between the wars, with the small shop near the docks and the comfortable rooms and always enough work.
Then had come the second war, and Josie being killed, and the Germans arriving, and that was the finish of his business. No one had wanted pictures on their arms any more after that. And by that time he was too old for any other kind of work. In desperation he had made his way back to Paris, hoping vaguely that things would be easier in the big city. But they were not.
And now, after the war was over, he possessed neither the means nor the energy to start up his small business again. It wasn't very easy for an old man to know what to do, especially when one did not like to beg. Yet how else could he keep alive? Well, he thought, still staring at the picture. So that is my little friend. He put his face closer to the window and looked into the gallery. On the walls he could see many other pictures and all seemed to be the work of the same artist. There were a great number of people strolling around. Obviously it was a special exhibition. On a sudden impulse, Drioli turned, pushed open the door of the gallery and went in. It was a long room with a thick wine-coloured carpet, and by God how beautiful and warm it was! There were all these people strolling about looking at the pictures, well-washed dignified people, each of whom held a catalogue in the hand. He heard a voice beside him saying, "What is it you want?" Drioli stood still.
"If you please," the man in a black suit was saying, "take yourself out of my gallery."
"Am I not permitted to look at the pictures?"
"I have asked you to leave."
Drioli stood his ground. He felt suddenly, overwhelmingly outraged.
"Let us not have trouble," the man was saying. "Come on now, this way." He put a fat white hand on Drioli's arm and began to push him firmly to the door.
That did it. "Take your goddam hands off me!" Drioli shouted. His voice rang clear down the long gallery and all the heads turned around as one all the startled faces stared down the length of the room at the person who had made this noise. The people stood still, watching the struggle. Their faces expressed only a mild interest, and seemed to be saying. "It's all right. There's no danger to us. It's being taken care of."
"I, too!" Drioli was shouting. "I, too, have a picture by this painter! He was my friend and I have a picture which he gave me!" "He's mad." "Someone should call the police."
With a twist of the body Drioli suddenly shook off the man and before anyone could stop him he was running down the gallery shouting, "I'll show you! I'll show you! I'll show you!" He flung off his overcoat, then his jacket and shirt, and he turned so that his naked back was towards the people.
"There!" he cried, breathing quickly. "You see? There it is!" There was a sudden absolute silence in the room, each person arrested in what he was doing, standing motionless in a kind of shocked, uneasy surprise. They were staring at the tattooed picture. It was still there, the colours as bright as ever.
Somebody said, "My God, but it is!"
"His early manner, yes?"
"It is fantastic, fantastic!"
"And look, it is signed!"
"Old one, when was this done?"
"In 1913," Drioli said, without turning around. "In the autumn of 1913."
"Who taught Soutine to tattoo?"
"I taught him."
"And the woman?"
"She was my wife."
The gallery owner was pushing through the crowd towards Drioli. He was calm now, deadly serious, making a smile with his mouth. "Monsieur," he said, "I will buy it. I said I will buy it, Monsieur."
"How can you buy it?" Drioli asked softly.
"I will give two hundred thousand francs for it."
"Don't do it!" someone murmured in the crowd. "It is worth twenty times as much."
Drioli opened his mouth to speak. No words came, so he shut it; then he opened it again and said slowly, "But how can I sell it?" He lifted his hands, let them drop helplessly to his sides. "Monsieur, how can I possibly sell it?" All the sadness in the world was in his voice.
"Yes!" they were saying in the crowd. "How can he sell it? It is part of himself!"
"Listen!" the dealer said, coming up close. "I will help you. I will make you rich. Together we shall make some private arrangement over this picture, no?"
Drioli watched him with worried eyes. "But how can you buy it, Monsieur? What will you do with it when you have bought it? Where will you keep it? Where will you keep it tonight? And where tomorrow?"
"Ah, where will I keep it? Yes, where will I keep it? Well, now. It would seem," he said, "that if I take the picture, I take you also. That is a disadvantage. The picture itself is of no value until you are dead. How old are you, my friend?" "Sixty-one."
"But you are perhaps not very healthy, no?" The dealer looked Drioli up and down, slowly, like a farmer examining an old horse.
"I do not like this," Drioli said moving away. "Quite honestly, Monsieur, I do not
like it." He moved straight into the arms of a tall man who put out his hands and caught him gently by the shoulders.
"Listen, my friend," the stranger said, still smiling. "Do you like to swim and to lie in the sun?"
Drioli looked up at him, rather startled.
"Do you like fine food and red wine from the great chateaux of Bordeaux?" The man was still smiling, showing strong white teeth with a flash of gold among them. He spoke in a soft manner, one gloved hand still resting on Drioli's shoulder. "Do you like such things?"
"Well, yes," Drioli answered, still greatly puzzled. "Of course."
"Have you ever had a shoe made especially for your own foot?" "No." "You would like that?"
"Well."
"And a man who will shave you in the mornings and trim your hair?"
Drioli simply stood and stared.
"And a plump attractive girl to manicure the nails of your fingers?"
Someone in the crowd giggled.
"And a bell beside your bed to call a maid to bring you breakfast in the morning? Would you like these things, my friend? Do they appeal to you?"
Drioli stood still and looked at him.
"You see, I am the owner of the Hotel Bristol in Cannes. I now invite you to come down there and live as my guest for the rest of your life in luxury and comfort." The man paused, allowing his listener time to digest this cheerful prospect.
"Your only duty shall I call it your pleasure will be to spend your time on my beach in bathing trunks, walking among my guests, sunning yourself, swimming, drinking cocktails. You would like that?" There was no answer.
"Don't you see all the guests will thus be able to observe this fascinating picture by Soutine. You will become famous," and men will say, "Look, there is the fellow with ten million francs upon his back. You like this idea, Monsieur? It pleases you?"
Drioli looked up at the tall man in the canary gloves. He said slowly, "But do you really mean it?"
"Of course I mean it."
"Wait," the dealer interrupted. "See here, old one. Here is the answer to our problem. I will buy the picture, and I will arrange with a surgeon to remove the skin from your back, and then you will be able to go off on your own and enjoy the great sum of money I shall give you for it."
"With no skin on my back?"
"No, no, please! You misunderstand. This surgeon will put a new piece of skin in
the place of the old one. It is simple."
"Could he do that?"
"There is nothing to it."
"Impossible!" said the man with the canary gloves. "He's too old for such a major skin-removing operation. It would kill him. It would kill you, my friend."
"It would kill me?"
"Naturally. You would never survive. Only the picture would come through."
"In the name of God!" Drioli cried. He looked around terrified at the faces of the people watching him, and in the silence that followed, another man's voice, speaking quietly from the back of the group, could be heard saying, "Perhaps, if one were to offer this old man enough money, he might consent to kill himself on the spot. Who knows?" A few people laughed. The dealer moved his feet uneasily on the carpet.
"Come on," the tall man said, smiling his broad white smile. "You and I will go and have a good dinner and we, can talk about it some more while we eat. How's that? Are you hungry?"
Drioli watched him, frowning. He didn't like the man's long flexible neck, or the way he craned it forward at you, when he spoke, like a snake.
"Roast duck and Chambertin," the man was saying. "And perhaps a souffle aux marrons, light and frothy."
Drioli's eyes turned up towards the ceiling, his mouth watered.
"How do you like your duck?" the man went on. "Do you like it very brown and crisp outside, or shall it be..."
"I am coming," Dvioli said quickly. Already he had picked up his shirt and was pulling it hurriedly over his head. "Wait for me, Monsieur. I am coming." And within a minute he had disappeared out of the gallery with his new patron.
It wasn't more than a few weeks later that a picture by Soutine, of a woman's head, painted in an unusual manner, nicely framed and heavily varnished, turned up for sale in Buenos Aires. That and the fact that there is no hotel in Cannes called Bristol causes one to wonder a little, and to pray for the old man's health, and to hope strongly that wherever he may be at this moment, there is a plump attractive girl to manicure the nails of his fingers, and a maid to bring him his breakfast in bed in the mornings.
1. Give Russian equivalents for the following words and expressions from the text. Reproduce the situations in which they are used. Use them in the sentences of your own.
| canvas | to examine sth |
| a recollection of sth | to do sth in desperation |
| easel | a special exhibition |
| to celebrate | on impulse |
| to divorce sb | dignified people |
| to fetch sth | to stare at sth |
| to afford sth | to live in luxury |
2. Choose the correct answer
1) The gallery attracted Driolis attention because
a) he had always liked art
b) he saw a familiar portrait in the window
c) the landscape he saw was skillfully painted
2) When did Drioli first meet Chaim Soutine?
a) twenty years before
b) when Drioli was a little boy
c) the year before the war broke out
3) On that day which Drioli remembered he was happy and wanted to celebrate because
a) he had earned a lot of money
b) he decided to divorce his wife
c) someone had sent him a parcel with a lot of wine
4) What did the boy mean when he said I cannot eat them?
a) That he couldnt paint food in a realistic manner
b) That his works didnt bring him any money
c) That he didnt agree with Drioli that his works were marvelous
5) What idea came up to Driolis mind?
a) to have a dog tattooed on his arm
b) to have his wife tattooed on his arm
c) to have his wife tattooed on his back
6) After the second war Drioli
a) ended up a poor and miserable widower
b) decided to start a new business
c) became a begger
7) When old Drioli entered the gallery
a) he was asked to leave it
b) he saw a lot of familiar paintings
c) he saw a lot of beautiful women
8) Why was everybody in the gallery shocked?
a) Because Drioli had behaved aggressively
b) Because they realized it was Soutines work on Driolis back
c) Because the gallery owner wanted to buy Soutines work
9) How was it possible to sell Soutines work?
a) Drioli was supposed to have a skin-removing operation
b) Drioli was supposed to kill himself
c) Drioli could live in luxury showing his back to anyone who wanted to see it
10) Why do you think Drioli agreed to follow the dealer?
a) he was desperately hungry
b) he wanted to have a luxury life
c) he wanted the world to know Soutines work
3. True or false?
1) The main character of the story Drioli was a poor old man.
2) The artists name seemed familiar to the main character.
3) Drioli got to know the artist when Chaim Soutine was a poor and unhappy yet a talented boy.
4) That night they two drank a lot of wine and the boy offered to make a tattoo on Driolis back.
5) The artist was working over the tattoo till early morning.
6) When the tattoo was ready it looked revolting.
7) The artist signed the tattoo with his name.
8) Drioli learnt that the artist was killed during the World War II.
9) In the gallery Drioli claimed he had known the artist.
10) Nobody believed Drioli until he showed his tattoo.
11) The gallery owner promised Drioli a luxury life if he agreed to sell his tattoo.
12) Drioli lived happily and had his nails manicured.
4. Answer the following questions (using your active vocabulary):
1) What do we learn about the main character in the beginning of the story?
2) What memories did the landscape he saw bring to him?
3) How did he get his back tattooed?
4) What happened to the main character after the World War II?
5) Why did he feel uncomfortable in the gallery?
6) What did the owner of the Hotel Bristol offer to him?
7) Why do you think he accepted that strange offer?
8) How does the story end? What do you feel about it?
5. Retell the story on the part of 1) Drioli 2) Chaim Soutine 3) the owner of the gallery 4) the owner of the Hotel Bristol 5) one of the visitors of the gallery
6. Act out a dialogue between 1) Drioli and Chaim Soutine when they were drinking wine 2) Drioli and the dealer
7. Translate the sentences using the words and expressions from Task 1
1. . 2. . 3. . 4. . 5. . J 6. , . . , . 7. . 8. ? 9. , . 10. .
THE CREATIVE IMPULSE (by W. S. Maugham)
When Mrs Forrester's first detective story "The Achilles Statue" was published, she had reached the respectable age of fifty-seven, and the number of her works was considerable. Her great talent, however, remained undiscovered by ordinary readers and this was the reason her books did not sell, though they were highly praised by the critics.
Mrs Forrester was deeply interested in politics and even thought of going into Parliament. Her only difficulty was that she did not know which party to choose.
A lot of people very much wanted to be invited to the parties she gave every Saturday, but only a few were among her guests.
The only person who spoiled these parties was Mr Albert Forrester, her husband. All her friends considered him a bore and often asked one another how she had ever married him. He was known among them as the Philatelist because a young writer had once said that he was collecting stamps.
Albert, I should explain, was an ordinary businessman and not a very rich one. The suits he wore always looked shabby, the expression on his face was gloomy and he never said anything worth listening to. Mrs Forrester, however, was kind to him and always knew how to put to shame anyone who tried to make fun of him in her presence.
The event that had such a great influence on Mrs Forrester's literary activities happened towards the end of one of her most successful parties. The guests sat in a circle of which Mrs Forrester was the centre. She was talking and the rest of the company were listening with great attention, only interrupting her from time to time to ask a question. Suddenly there came a noise as if something heavy had fallen, and then came the sound of voices.
"Well, Carter, what is it?" Mrs Forrester asked the maid. "Is the house falling down?"
"It's the new cook's box, ma'am," answered the maid. "The porter dropped it as he was bringing it in and the cook got all upset about it."
"What do you mean by 'the new cook'?"
"Mrs Bullfinch went away this afternoon, ma'am," said the maid.
"Does Mr Forrester know about it?" Mrs Forrester asked, for matters like that were his responsibility. "The moment Mr Forrester comes in, tell him that I want to speak to him."
"Mr Forrester's gone, ma'am," answered the maid. "He said I was to give you this letter when you asked for him."
The maid left the room, and Mrs Forrester opened the letter. One of her lady friends told me that at the sight of Mrs Forrester reading the letter she thought that Albert, feeling responsible for the cook's departure, and being afraid he would be punished, had thrown himself in the Thames.
Mrs Forrester read the letter and cried out: "Oh, how unfair! How terrible!"
"What is it, Mrs Forrester?" asked Mr Simmons, her agent. "Read it", she said. "Just read it."
The short-sighted Mr Simmons put on his glasses, and holding the letter very close to his eyes read this: 'My Dear, Mrs Bullfinch needs a change and has decided to leave, and as I do not wish to stay on without her I'm going, too. I have had all the literature I can stand and I am sick and tired of art. Mrs Bullfinch does not care about marriage but if you wish to divorce me, she's willing to marry me.
I've hired a new cook instead of Mrs Bullfinch and I hope you will be pleased with her. Mrs Bullfinch and I are living at 411, Kennington Road, S. E. Albert.
The silence that followed was broken by Mr Simmons, who said: "You must get him back."
"I will never see him again as long as I live!" Mrs Forrester cried out. But Mr Simmons continued calmly: "I've been your agent for twenty years, and you can consider me one of your best friends. But if you think you can make your living by writing the sort of books you do, I must tell you that you haven't a chance."
"But I can't fight with my cook for him!" Mrs Forrester cried out. "I was just coming to that," said Mr Simmons coldly. "A dancer or a lady of title wouldn't do you any harm, but a cook would finish you." "He's quite right", said one of her guests. "The Philatelist must come back". "You will go and see him tomorrow, won't you?" asked Mr Simmons. Mrs Forrester didn't answer for some time and finally said: "For my art's sake, not for mine!"
It was rather late in the afternoon of the next day when Mrs Forrester set out on her journey to Kennington Road. Mr Simmons had explained to her by telephone how to get there, and it did not take her long to find the house she wanted. She rang the bell, and when the door opened, she recognized her cook. "Good afternoon, Bullfinch," said Mrs Forrester. "I wish to see your master". Mrs Bullfinch hesitated for a second, then held the door wide open. "Come in, ma'am." She turned her head, "Albert, here's Mrs Forrester to see you." Mrs Forrester went in quickly and there was Albert sitting by the fire, leaning back in an old armchair and reading the evening paper. "How are you, my dear?" said Albert cheerfully, putting aside the paper. "Keeping well, I hope?"
"Won't you sit down, ma'am?" said Mrs Bullfinch, pushing a chair forward.
"Could I see you alone, Albert?" Mrs Forrester asked, sitting down. "I'm afraid not," Albert answered, "because of Mrs Bullfinch. I think she should be present."
"As you wish."
"Well, my dear, what have you to say to me?" Albert asked. Mrs Forrester gave him her best smile. "I don't blame you for anything, Albert, I know it isn't your fault and I'm not angry with you, but a joke's a joke and should not be carried too far. I've come to take you home." "Then I think you're wasting your time, my dear," said Albert. "Nothing will ever make me live with you again."
"Have you not been happy with me, Albert?" asked Mrs Forrester in a deeper tone, trying not to show that her feelings were hurt.
"We have been married for thirty-five years, my dear. It's a very long time, isn't it? You're a good woman in your own way, but not suitable for me. You're literary and I'm not. You're artistic and I'm not."
"But all this time I've been doing everything in my power to interest you in art and literature," said Mrs Forrester.
"That's true, and I can only blame myself if I didn't react properly. But I don't like the books you write. And I don't like the people who surround you. Let me tell you a secret, my dear. At your parties I often very much wanted to take off my clothes just to see what would happen."
"Aren't you ashamed of yourself, Albert?" asked Mrs Bullfinch. "You haven't got the right figure for that at all!"
"Mrs Bullfinch wants me to retire," Albert continued. "I discussed the matter with my partners today, and they agree to settle everything nicely. They will buy me out, and I shall have an income of just under nine hundred pounds. There are three of us, so it gives us nearly three hundred a year each."
"How am I to live on that?" cried Mrs Forrester, using the last argument she could think of.
"You have a wonderful pen, my dear."
"You know very well that my books don't bring me any money. The publishers always say that they lose by them."
And just then Mrs Bullfinch suddenly asked:
"Why don't you write a good detective story?"
Mrs Forrester burst out laughing. "Me?" she exclaimed. "What a wild idea! I could never hope to please the masses and I have never read a detective story in my life."
"It's not a bad idea at all," said Albert.
"I love a detective story," said Mrs Bullfinch, "Give me a lady in evening dress lying dead on the library floor and I know I'm going to enjoy it."
"Personally, I prefer a respectable gentleman with a gold watch chain, lying dead in Hyde Park," said Albert. "There's something particularly interesting to the reader in the murder of a respectable gentleman!"
"I see exactly what you mean," said Mrs Bullfinch. "He knew an important secret, and his murderers had said they would kill him unless he kept his mouth shut. He just didn't manage to run away from them."
"We can give you all the advice you need, my dear," said Albert, smiling kindly at Mrs Forrester. "I've read hundreds of detective stories."
"You!"
"That's what first brought Mrs Bullfinch and me together. I gave them to her when I'd finished them. And I must say you can't find two stories that are alike. There's always a difference when you compare them."
Mrs Forrester rose to her feet. "Now I see what a gulf separates us," she said and her voice shook a little. "You've been surrounded for thirty years with all that was best in English literature and all this time you've been reading detective novels! I came here willing to come to a reasonable agreement and take you back home. Now I wish it no longer."
"Very well, my dear," said Albert. "But you think over the detective story."
Mrs Forrester walked downstairs, and when Mrs Bullfinch opened the door and asked if she would like to hire a taxi, she shook her head. "I shall take the tram."
"You needn't be afraid that I won't look after Mr Forrester properly, ma'am," said Mrs Bullfinch, seeing Mrs Forrester to the tram stop. "I know how to run a house and I'm not a bad cook, as you know. And of course, he'll have a hobby. He's going to collect postage stamps." Mrs Forrester was about to say something, but just then a tram pulled up at the stop and she got in.
Wondering what time it was, she looked up at the man sitting opposite her to see whether he was the kind of person she could ask and suddenly started; as sitting there was a respectable-looking gentleman wearing a gold watch chain. It was the very man Albert had described lying dead in Hyde Park. He asked the conductor to stop and she saw him go down a small, dark street. Why? Alp, why? At Hyde Park Corner she suddenly made up her mind to get out. She could not sit still any longer. She felt she must walk. As she passed the Achilles Statue she stopped for a minute and looked at it. Her heart was beating fast. After all Edgar Allan Poe had written detective stories...
When she reached her flat at last and opened the door, she saw several hats in the
hall. They were all there. She went into the drawing-room.
"Oh, you poor things, I've kept you waiting so long!" she cried out. "Have you had no tea?"
"Well," they said. "Well? Did you manage to get hold of him?"
"My dears, I've got something quite wonderful to tell you, I'm going to write a detective story."
They looked at her with open mouths.
"I'm going to raise the detective story to the level of art. It came to me suddenly in Hyde Park. It's a murder story and I shall call it 'The Achilles Statue'!"
"But what about Albert?" the young writer asked.
"Albert?" repeated Mrs Forrester. "I knew I went out to do something about Albert, but I've quite forgotten what it was."
"Then you haven't seen Albert?"
"My dear, I say I forgot all about him."
She gave a laugh. "Let Albert keep his cook. I can't bother about Albert now. I'm going to write a detective story."
"My dear, you're too, too wonderful!" the guests cried out.
1. Give Russian equivalents for the following words and expressions from the text. Reproduce the situations in which they are used. Use them in the sentences of your own.
| a bore | to be sbs fault |
| to have a (great) influence on sb/sth | to waste ones time |
| to be sick and tired of sth | a murder |
| to hesitate | to bring sb together |
| to blame sb for sth | to make ones living doing sth |
2. Choose the correct answer
1) What were the relations between Mrs Forrester and her husband?
a) They had very similar personalities and seemed to adore each other.
b) They seemed different people but Mrs Forrester protected her husband from mockery of her friends.
c) They seemed different people and Mrs Forrester seemed to be ashamed of her husband
2) What did she learn from the letter her husband left her?
a) That Albert was afraid of her and decided to throw himself in the Thames.
b) That he was tired of her parties and guests and decided to live by himself.
c) That he was going to live together with the cook.
3) How did Albert behave when his wife came to visit him?
a) He was friendly and in good spirits.
b) He was fearful and worried.
c) He was defensive and intimidated.
4) How did Mrs Forrester perceive the idea of writing a detective story at first?
a) The idea seemed insulting to her.
b) It seemed impossible that she would make any money with it
c) The idea seemed delightful to her.
3. True or false?
1) Mrs Forrester published her first book at the age of 57.
2) Her first book was a real hit with the public.
3) Her husband unexpectedly fell in love with their gardener and left her.
4) Mrs Forresters agent recommended her to try to bring her husband back.
5) Albert set some conditions on which he agreed to return to his wife.
5) The idea that Mrs Forrester should write a detective story belonged to Mrs Bullfinch.
6) Mrs Forrester changed her mind about detective stories when she came across a respectable-looking man on the tram.
4. Answer the following questions (using your active vocabulary):
1) What do we learn about Mrs Forrester and her husband, their way of life?
2) What happened at one of Mrs Forresters parties?
3) What did Mrs. Forrester and her husband talk about? What did either of them feel?
4) What was the result of their conversation?
5) In what mood did Mrs. Forrester leave the house in Kennington Road? What happened then?
6) What do you think is going to happen to Mrs. Forrester then? What about her husband?
7) What examples of irony can you find in the story?
5. Retell the story on the part of a) Mrs. Forrester b) her husband c) the cook d) Mrs. Forresters agent
6. Act out a dialogue between a) Mrs. Forrester and her husband when she came to bring him back home b) Mrs Bullfinch and Albert when they were going to move to Kennington Road
7. Translate the sentences using the words and expressions from Task 1.
1. . 2. , . 3. , . ! 4. . 5. , . . 6. . 7. . 8. . 9. , .
THE SERENADE (by George Bernard Shaw)
I celebrated my fortieth birthday by putting on one of the amateur theatrical performances for which my house at Beckenham is famous. The play, written by myself, was in three acts, and an important feature was the sound of a horn in the second act.
I had engaged a horn player to blow the horn. He was to place himself, not on the stage, but downstairs in the hall so as to make it sound distant.
The best seat was occupied by the beautiful Linda Fitznightingale. The next chair, which I had intended for myself, had been taken by Mr. Porcharlester, a young man of some musical talent.
As Linda loved music, Porsharlester's talent gave him in her eyes an advantage over older and cleverer men. I decided to break up their conversation as soon as I could.
After I had seen that everything was all right for the performance, I hurried to Linda's side with an apology for my long absence. As I approached, Porcharlester rose, saying, "I'm going behind the stage if you don't mind."
"Boys will be boys," I said when he had gone. "But how are your musical studies progressing?"
"I'm full of Schubert now. Oh, Colonel Green, do you know Schubert's serenade?"
"Oh, a lovely thing. It's something like this, I think..." "Yes, it is little like that. Does Mr Porcharlester sing it?" I hated to hear her mention the name, so I said, "He tries to sing it."
"But do you like it?" she asked.
"Hm, well the fact is..." I tried to avoid a straight answer. "Do you like it?"
"I love it. I dream of it. I've lived on it for the last three days."
"I hope to hear you sing it when the play's over." "I sing it! Oh, I'd never dare. Ah, here is Mr Porcharlester, I'll make him promise to sing it to us."
"Green," said Porcharlester, "I don't wish to bother you, but the man who is to play the horn hasn't turned up."
"Dear me," I said, "I ordered him at exactly half-past seven. If he fails to come in time, the play will be spoilt."
I excused myself to Linda, and hurried to the hall. The horn was there, on the table. But the man was nowhere to be seen.
At the moment I heard the signal for the horn. I waited for him, but he did not come. Had he mixed up the time? I hurried to the dining-room. There at the table he sat, fast asleep. Before him were five bottles, empty. Where he had got them from was beyond me. I shook him, but could not wake him up.
I ran back to the hall promising myself to have him shot for not obeying my orders. The signal came again. They were waiting. I saw but one way to save the play from failure.
I took up the instrument, put the smaller end into my mouth and blew. Not a sound came from the thing. The signal was given a third time. Then I took the horn again, put it to my lips and blew as hard as I could.
The result was terrible. My ears were deafened, the windows shook, the hats of my visitors rained from their pegs, and as I pressed my hands to my head, the horn player came out, shaky on his feet, and looked at the guests, who began to appear on the stairs...
For the next three months I studied horn-blowing. I did not like my teacher and hated to hear him always saying that the horn was more like the human voice than any other instrument. But he was clever, and I worked hard without a word of complaint. At last I asked him if he thought I could play something in private to a friend.
"Well, Colonel," he said, "I'll tell you the truth: it would be beyond your ability. You haven't the lip for it. You blow too hard, and it spoils the impression. What were you thinking of playing to your friend?"
"Something that you must teach me, Schubert's serenade."
He stared at me, and shook his head. "It isn't written for the instrument, sir," he said, "you'll never play it." But I insisted. "The first time I play it through without a mistake, I'll give you five pounds," I said. So the man gave in. I did succeed at last.
"I hate to discourage you, but if I were you, Colonel", my teacher said, as he put the five pounds into his pocket, "I'd keep the tune to myself and play something simpler to my friends."
I didn't take this advice, though I now see that he was right. But at that time I intended to serenade Linda. Her house was situated at the northern end of Park Lane, and I had already bribed a servant to let me into the small garden between the house and the street. Late in June I at last learned that she intended to stay at home for an evening. "I'll make an attempt," I thought, and at nine o'clock I took up my horn and drove to Marble Arch, where I got out and walked to her house. I was stopped by the voice of Porcharlester calling, "Hello, Colonel!"
The meeting was most inconvenient. I did not want him to ask me where I was going, so I thought it best to ask him first.
"I'm going to see Linda," he answered. "She told me last night that she would be all alone this evening. You know how good she is. I love her. If I could be sure that it is myself and not my voice that she likes, I should be the happiest man in England."
"I'm quite sure it can't be your voice," I said. "Thank you," he said. "It's very kind of you to say so. Do you know I've never had the courage to sing that serenade since she told me she loved it?" "Why? Doesn't she like the way you sing it?"
"I never dare sing it before her, but I'm going to surprise her with it tomorrow at Mrs Locksley Hall's. If you meet her, don't say a word of this. It's to be a surprise."
"I have no doubt it will be," I said, happy to know that he would be a day too late.
We parted, and I saw him enter Linda's house. A few minutes later I was in the garden, looking up at them from my place in the shadow of a big tree as they sat near the open window.
I thought he would never go. I almost decided to go home. Had I not heard her
playing the piano, I should never have held out. At eleven o'clock they rose, and I was now able to hear what they were saying.
"Yes," she said, "it's time for you to go. But you might have sung the serenade for
me. I've played it three times for you."
"I have a cold," he said. "Don't be angry with me. You'll hear me sing it sooner
than you think, perhaps."
"Sooner than I think? If you want to give me a surprise, I'll forgive you. I'll see you at Mrs Locksley Hall's tomorrow, I hope."
He said "yes", and hurried away.
When he was gone, she came to the window and looked out at the stars. I took out the horn.
I began. At the first note I saw her start and listen: she recognized the serenade... The instrument was like ice, and my lips were stiff. But in spite of all that, I succeeded fairly well.
When I had finished, I looked up at the window. She was writing now. A minute later the door of the house opened, and the servant whom I had bribed came towards me with a letter in his hand. My heart beat as I saw it.
"Are you there, sir?" I heard him say as I came out of the shadow. "Miss Linda told me to give you this," he held out the letter. "But you are not to open it, if you please, until you get home."
"Then she knew who I was," I said.
"I think so, sir."
I ran all the way to Hamilton Place, where I got into a taxi. Ten minutes later I was in my study opening the letter 714, Park Lane, Eriday. "Dear Mr Porcharlester."
I stopped. Did she think it was he who had serenaded her? The letter continued thus:
"I am sorry that you respect my love for Schubert's serenade so little as to make fun of it. I can tell you that I shall never be able to hear the serenade without a strange mixture of laughter and pain. I did not know that a human throat could produce such sounds. I have only one more word to say: Good-bye. I shall not have the pleasure of meeting you at Mrs Locksley Hall's tomorrow. I don't think I'll be able to receive you again this season.
I am, dear Mr Porcharlester, Yours truly, Linda Fitznightingale."
I felt that to send this letter to Porcharlester would only pain him uselessly. I also felt that my teacher was right, and that I had not the lip for the French horn. So I gave it up.
Linda is now my wife. I sometimes ask her why she will not see Porcharlester, who has given his word he has done her no wrong. She always refuses to tell me.
1. Give Russian equivalents for the following words and expressions from the text. Reproduce the situations in which they are used. Use them in the sentences of your own.
| amateur | to do sth in private |
| a play | to give in |
| to give sb an advantage over sb | colonel |
| to progress | to take sbs advice |
| to avoid a straight answer | to bribe sb |
| to turn up | to make an attempt |
| to be spoilt | to have the courage to do sth |
| to be fast asleep | to give sth up |
2. True or false?
1) The main character is 30 years old.
