1) the same kind of art (food); 2) to have a very small chance; 3) I’d rather be here by you; 4) the ties were breaking; 5) one by one; 6) to be helpless with pain; 7) far journey.
III Answer the questions:
1) What were Sue and Johnsy?
2) Why did they live together?
3) What happened to one of the girls?
4) What did the doctor say?
5) When was Johnsy going to die?
6) Who helped the girl?
7) What do you know of the word “masterpiece”?
IV Retell the text on the part of:
1) Sue; 2) Johnsy; 3) the aurthor.
V Grammar Task.
Ask questions about the words in bold type:
1) They had met at a restaurant on Eighth Street.
2) She lay on her bed almost without moving.
3) There was only the side wall of the next house, a short distance away.
4) An old tree grew against the wall.
VI Look through the text and find the sentences with the Subjunctive Mood.
Unit 21
HOW TO AVOID TRAVELLING
(by George Mikes)
'Travel' is the name of a modern disease which became rampant in the mid-fifties and is still spreading. The disease — its scientific name is travelitis furiosus — is carried by a germ called prosperity. Its symptoms are easily recognizable. The patient grows restless in the early spring and starts rushing about from one travel agent to another collecting useless information about places he does not intend to visit; then he, or usually she, will do a round of tailors, summer sales, sports shops and spend three and a half times as much as he or she can afford; finally, in August, the patient will board a plane, train, coach or car and proceed to foreign parts along with thousands of fellow-sufferers not because he is interested in or attracted by the place he is bound for, nor because he can afford to go, but simply because he cannot afford not to. The disease is highly infectious. Nowadays you catch foreign travel rather as you caught influenza in the twenties, only more so.
The result is that in the summer months (and in the last few years also during the winter season) everybody is on the move. In Positano you hear no Italian but only German (for England is not the only victim of the disease); in some French parts you cannot get along unless you speak American; and the official language of the Costa Bravo is English.
What is the aim of all this travelling? Each nationality has its own different one. The Americans want to take photographs of themselves in: (a) Trafalgar Square with the pigeons, (b) in St Mark's Square, Venice, with the pigeons and (c) in front of the Arc de Triomphe, in Paris, without pigeons. The idea is simply to collect documentary proof that they have been there. The German travels to check up on his guide-books: when he sees that the Ponte di Rialto is really at its proper venue, that the Leaning Tower is in its appointed place in Pisa and is leaning at the promised angle — he ticks these things off in his guide-book and returns home with the gratifying feeling that he has not been swindled. But why do the English travel?
First, because their neighbour does and they have caught the bug from him. Secondly, they used to, be taught that travel broadens the mind and although they have by now discovered the sad truth that whatever travel may do to the mind, Swiss or German food certainly broadens other parts of the body, the old notion still lingers on. But lastly — and perhaps mainly — they travel to avoid foreigners. Here, in our cosmopolitan England, one is always exposed to the danger of meeting all sorts of peculiar aliens. Not so on one's journeys in Europe, if one manages things intelligently. I know many English people who travel in groups, stay in hotels where even the staff is English, eat roast beef and Yorkshire pudding on Sundays and Welsh rarebit and steak-and-kidney pudding' on weekdays, all over Europe. The main aim of the Englishman abroad is to meet people; I mean, of course, nice English people from next door or from the next street. Normally one avoids one's neighbour ('It is best to keep yourself to yourself, 'We leave others alone and want to be left alone', etc., etc.). If you meet your next door neighbour in the High Street or at your front door you pretend not to see him or, at best, nod coolly; but if you meet him in Capri or Granada, you embrace him fondly and stand him a drink or two; and you may even discover that he is quite a nice chap after all and both of you might just as well have stayed at home in Chipping Norton.
All this, however, refers to travelling for the general public. If you want to avoid giving the unfortunate impression that you belong to the lower-middle class, you must learn the elementary snobbery of travelling:
1) Avoid any place frequented by others. Declare: all the hotels are full, one cannot get in anywhere. (No one will ever remark: hotels are full of people who actually managed to get in.)
2) Carry this a stage further and try to avoid all places interesting enough to attract other people — or, as others prefer to put it — you must get off the beaten track. In practice this means that in Italy you avoid Venice and Florence but visit a few filthy and poverty-stricken fishing villages no one has ever heard of; and if your misfortune does take you to Florence, you avoid the Uffizi Gallery and refuse to look at Michelangelo's David. You visit, instead, a dirty little pub on the outskirts where Tuscan food is supposed to be divine and where you can listen to a drunken and deaf accordion player.
3)The main problem is, of course, where to go? This is not an easy question. The hoi polloi may go to Paris or Spain, but such an obvious choice will certainly not do for anyone with a little self-respect. There is a small international set that leads the fashion and you must watch them. Some years ago they discovered Capri, but now Capri is teeming with rich German and English businessmen, so you can't go near the place. Majorca was next on the list, but Majorca has become quite ridiculous in the last few years: it is now an odd mixture of Munich and Oxford Street, and has nothing to offer (because, needless to say, beauty and sunshine do not count). At the moment I may recommend Tangier; Rhodes is fairly safe too. The year after that, who knows, Capri may be tried again.
Remember: travel is supposed to make you sophisticated. When buying your souvenirs and later when most casually — you really must practise how to be casual — you refer to any foreign food, you should speak of these things in the vernacular. Even fried chicken sounds rather romantic when you speak of Backhendl.
It is possible, however, that the mania for travelling is declining. I wonder if a Roman friend of mine was simply an eccentric or the forerunner of a new era in snobbery.
'I no longer travel at all', he told me. 'I stay here because I want to meet my friends from all over the world.'
'What exactly do you mean?' I asked.
'It is simple,' he explained. 'Whenever I go to London, my friend Smith is sure to be in Tokyo and Brown in Sicily. If I go to Paris, Dupont is sure to be in London and Lebrun in Madagascar or Lyons. And so on. But if I stay in Rome, all my friends are absolutely sure to turn up at one time or another. The world means people for me. I stay here because I want to see the world.'
And he added after a short pause:
'Besides, staying at home broadens the mind.'
I Find in the text English equivalents for:
свирепствовать (принимать угрожающие размеры); весьма заразное заболевание; в середине 50-х годов; передаваться возбудителем; проявлять беспокойство; носиться (из одного места в другое); может (не может) себе позволить; путешествовать (переезжать с места на место); жертва заболевания; делать фотоснимки; собирать документальные доказательства; проверить что-л.; поставить галочку; чувство удовлетворения; расширить кругозор; представление о чем-то; избегать; подвергать опасности; иноземец; сосед (2); лучше ни с кем не общаться; холодно кивнуть головой; нежно обнять; славный парень; часто посещать; на этом не останавливайтесь; не пользоваться заезженными маршрутами; грязный; нищий (бедный); на окраине; божественный; то, что явно напрашивается; это не годится; кишеть; странная помесь; в счет не идет; изощренный (утонченный); небрежно (без нажима); предвестник новой эры; появиться
II Retell the text using the following words and phrases:
modern disease; to become rampant; highly infectious; carried by a germ; prosperity; to grow restless; to start rushing about; to collect information; to do a round of; three times as much as; to board a plane (ship); foreign parts; to be bound for; afford; the last few years; on the move; victim; to get along; to take photographs (of); pigeons; the idea is...; to check up on; to tick smth. off; guide-book; gratifying feeling; to be swindled; to catch the bug (from); to broaden the mind; sad truth; to linger on; to avoid; cosmopolitan; to be exposed to the danger (of); peculiar aliens; to manage things intelligently; in groups; staff; all over Europe; from next door; to nod coolly; to embrace fondly; to stand a drink; nice chap; might just as well; to refer (to); general public; unfortunate impression; snobbery; frequented by; carry smth. a stage further; to attract; to get off the beaten track; filthy; poverty-stricken; on the outskirts; divine; obvious choice; will not do; small international set; to lead the fashion; to discover; to teem with; next on the list; odd mixture; to have nothing to offer; needless to say; sophisticated; souvenirs; casually; mania; to decline; eccentric; forerunner; new era; no longer; whenever; is sure to; to turn up
III Answer the following questions:
1. What disease became rampant in the mid-fifties? What germ is it carried by? 2. What are its symptoms? 3. What will the patient finally do? 4. Why will he proceed to foreign parts? 5. Why do Americans travel? 6. Why does the German travel? 7. What makes the English travel? 8. What is one always exposed to in England? 9. How do many English people manage to travel? What is their main aim abroad? 10. In what case must one learn the elementary snobbery of travelling? 11. What sort of places are you supposed to avoid? 12. Where is it advisable to go? 13. Who leads the fashion? 14. What is travel supposed to do to you? 15. What makes the author think that the mania for travelling may be declining? 16. What does he call a Roman friend of his?
IV Topics for discussion:
1. Speak on the advantages of travelling.
2. Speak on the mania for travelling.
3. Speak on historical landmarks in a) England, b) France, c) Italy, d) India.
4. Describe a snob (any variety you know).
5. Speak on snobbery.
6. Describe a great explorer (Christopher Columbus, David Livingstone, Roald Amundsen, etc.).
V Grammar Task
1) Fill in the blanks with prepositions, if necessary:
First thing... the morning Bertram was summoned... the Chief and told briefly to get ready to start... Paris... the following day. It was his first business trip... the Continent and he was ruffled.... coming home he made a list... what was to be done... the few remaining hours he had... his disposal. "When you get an order... short notice it sort... upsets you," he said... loud. Anyway he collected
his wits and carefully checked the shopping
list to make sure he had not left... anything... importance. He was quick to find... that his list was incomplete: he certainly needed a new suit... clothes and a nice rain-coat to look presentable. And he could just as well cross... the umbrella. Paris wasn't London,... all. He had thought... doing a round... shops, but then decided... it. So he went... a shopping centre... the neighbourhood, carefully ticking... the items he bought... the list. He came... home tired, loaded... parcels.... gulping... a glass
... tea, he got..... packing only to realize that he needed
a larger suit-case. So he rushed... to buy a suit-case.... 10 p. m. Bertram gave a sigh... relief. He had packed... and his suit-case and handbag were waiting... him... the hall. He showered, shaved, wound... his alarm clock and went... bed. He was leaving... the 5 a. m. plane.
2) Choose the proper word: (unfortunate — unhappy — unlucky)
1. Phil knew Helen didn't love him and never would; this thought made him.... 2. It was a most... remark that might have ruined his chances completely. 3. Shy as he was, he gave the... impression of feeling superior, which was very annoying. 4. Why should he always look so...? There's really nothing wrong with him, is there? 5. The project was safe enough. It's just that the man himself was born...: whatever he undertook turned to ashes. 6. They met under most... circumstances: the war was on and the future uncertain. Yet they never despaired.
(collect — gather)
1. Farming meant hard work in summer; but in the fall they... a rich crop. 2. He has been... stamps since his schooldays. 3. At dawn she would go to the woods to... mushrooms; she enjoyed it. 4. "... your wits and think of a plan," he said, "or else we are lost." 5. Basil got down to... evidence to clear his brother's character. 6. It's essential one should... all the information available before proceeding to foreign parts.
3) Translate the following sentences into English, using a) whatever (whenever, wherever), b) to be sure to, c) might just as well:
a) 1. Ч т о бы вы ни говорили, он настоящий сноб. 2. Мне бы хотелось поехать в какое-нибудь тихое место. Где бы вы ни проводили отпуск, вы обязательно встретите своих соотечественников. 3. Когда бы мы ни встретились, он непременно, как бы мимоходом, упомянет о тех экзотических местах, где он побывал. 4. Что бы вы о нем ни думали, вы ведь не будете отрицать, что он человек одаренный и с широким кругозором. 5. Что бы там ни говорили, путешествия расширяют кругозор.
b) 1. Я не знаю его точный адрес, но он наверняка живет в отеле, где останавливаются англичане. 2 Американец непременно привезет с собой из поездки по Европе кучу фотографий.
с) 1. Если самое главное для вас — это есть йоркширский пудинг и угощать вином соседа, то вы можете с таким же успехом сидеть дома. 2. Если ты можешь себе позволить поездку в США, то можешь с таким же успехом посетить Японию.
Unit 22
MOLLY MORGAN
(by John Steinbeck)
Molly Morgan got off the train in Salinas and waited three quarters of an hour for the bus. The big automobile was empty except for the driver and Molly.
"I've never been to the Pastures of Heaven, you know," she said. "Is it far from the main road?"
"About three miles," said the driver.
"Will there be a car to take me into the valley?"
"No, not unless you are met."
"But how do people get in there?"
"I dunno. Walk, I guess. Most people walk if they ain't met."
When he set her down at the entrance to the dirt sideroad, Molly Morgan grimly picked up her suitcase and marched toward the draw in the hills. An old Ford truck squeaked up beside her.
"Goin' into the valley, ma'am?"
"Oh — yes, yes, I am."
"Well, get in, then. Needn't be scared. I'm Pat Humberg. I got a place in the Pastures."
Molly surveyed the grimy man and acknowledged his introduction. "I'm the new schoolteacher, I mean, I think I am. Do you know where Mr. Whiteside lives?"
"Sure, I go right by there. He's clerk of the board. I'm on the school board myself, you know. We wondered what you'd look like." Then he grew embarrassed at what he had said, and flushed under his coating of dirt. "'Course I mean what you'd be like. Last teacher we had gave a good deal of trouble. She was all right, but she was sick — I mean, sick and nervous. Finally quit because she was sick."
Molly picked at the fingertips of her gloves. "My letter says I'm to call on Mr. Whiteside. Is he all right? I don't mean that. I mean — is he — what kind of a man is he?"
"Oh, you'll get along with him all right. He's a fine old man. Born in that house he lives in. Been to college, too. He's a good man. Been clerk of the board for over twenty years."
When he put her down in front of the big old house of John Whiteside, she was really frightened. "Now it's coming," she said to herself. "But there's nothing to be afraid of. He can't do anything to me." Molly was only nineteen. She felt that this moment of interview for her first job was a tremendous inch in her whole existence.
The walk up to the door did not reassure her, for the path lay between tight little flower beds hedged in with clipped box, seemingly planted with the admonition, "Now grow and multiply, but don't grow too high, nor multiply too greatly, and above all things, keep out of this path." There was a hand on those flowers, a guiding and correcting hand. The large white house was very dignified. Venetian blinds of yellow wood were tilted down to keep out the noon sun. Halfway up the path she came in sight of the entrance. There was a veranda as broad and warm and welcoming as an embrace. Through her mind flew the thought. "Surely you can tell the hospitality of a house by its entrance. Suppose it had a little door and no porch." But in spite of the welcoming of the wide steps and the big doorway, her timidities clung to her when she rang the bell. The big door opened, and a large, comfortable woman stood smiling at Molly.
"I hope you're not selling something," said Mrs. Whiteside. "I never want to buy anything and I always do, and then I'm mad."
Molly laughed. She felt suddenly very happy. Until that moment she hadn't known how frightened she really was. "Oh, no," she cried. "I'm the new schoolteacher. My letter says I'm to interview Mr. Whiteside. Can I see him?"
"Well, it's noon, and he's just finishing his dinner. Did you have dinner?"
"Oh, of course, I mean, no."
Mrs. Whiteside chuckled and stood aside for her to enter. "Well, I'm glad you're sure." She led Molly into a large dining room, lined with mahogany, glass-fronted dish closets. The square table was littered with the dishes of a meal. "Why, John must have finished and gone. Sit down, young woman. I'll bring back the roast."
"Oh, no. Really, thank you, no. I'll just talk to Mr. White-side and then go along."
"Sit down. You'll need nourishment to face John."
"Is — is he very stern, with new teachers, I mean?"
"Well," said Mrs. Whiteside. "That depends. If they haven't had their dinner, he's a regular bear. He shouts at them. But when they've just got up from the table, he's only just fierce."
Molly laughed happily. "You have children," she said. "Oh, you've raised lots of children — and you like them."
Mrs. Whiteside scowled. "One child raised me. Raised me right through the roof. It was too hard on me. He's out raising cows now, poor devils. I don't think I raised him very high."
When Molly had finished eating, Mrs. Whiteside threw open a side door and called, "John, here's some one to see you." She pushed Molly through the doorway into a room that was a kind of a library, for big bookcases were loaded with thick, old, comfortable books, all filigreed in gold. And it was a kind of a sitting room. There was a fireplace of brick with a mantel of little red tile bricks and the most extraordinary vases on the mantel. Big leather chairs with leather tassels hanging to them, stood about the fireplace, all of them patent rocking chairs with the kind of springs that chant when you rock them. And lastly the room was a kind of an office, for there was an old-fashioned roll-top desk, and behind It sat John Whiteside. When he looked up, Molly saw that he had at once the kindest and the sternest eyes she had ever seen, and the whitest hair, too. Real blue-white, silky hair, a great duster of it.
"I am Mary Morgan," she began formally.
"Oh, yes, Miss Morgan, I've been expecting you. Won't you sit down?"
She sat in one of the big rockers, and the springs cried with sweet pain. "I love these chairs," she said. "We used to have one when I was a little girl." Then she felt silly. "I've come to interview you about this position. My letter said to do that."
"Don't be so tense, Miss Morgan. I've interviewed every teacher we've had for years. And," he said, smiling, "I still don't know how to go about it."
"Oh — I'm glad, Mr. Whiteside. I never asked for a job before. I was really afraid of it."
"Well, Miss Mary Morgan, as near as I can figure, the purpose of this interview is to give me a little knowledge of your past and the kind of person you are. I'm supposed to know something about you when you've finished. And now that you know my purpose, I suppose that you'll be self-conscious and anxious to give a good impression. Maybe if you just tell me a little about yourself, everything'll be all right. Just a few words about the kind of girl you are, and where you came from."
Molly nodded quickly. "Yes, I'll try to do that, Mr. Whiteside," and she dropped her mind back into the past.
There was the old, squalid, unpainted house with its wide back porch and the round washtubs leaning against the rails. High in the great willow tree her two brothers, Joe and Tom, crashed about crying, "Now I'm an eagle", "I'm a parrot", "Now I'm an old chicken", "Watch me!"
The screen door on the back porch opened, and their mother leaned tiredly out. Her hair would not lie smoothly no matter how much she combed it. Thick strings of it hung down beside her face. Her eyes were always a little red, and her hands and wrists painfully cracked. "Tom, Joe," she called, "You'll get hurt up there. Don't worry me so, boys. Don't you love your mother at all?" The voices in the tree were hushed. The shrieking spirits of the eagle and the old chicken were drenched in self-reproach. Molly sat in the dust, wrapping a rag around a stick and doing her best to imagine it a tall lady in a dress. "Molly, come in and stay with your mother. I'm so tired today."
Molly stood up the stick in the deep dust. "You, miss," she whispered fiercely, "You'll get whipped on your bare bottom when I come back." Then she obediently went into the house.
Her mother sat in a straight chair in the kitchen. "Draw up, Molly. Just sit with me for a little while. Love me, Molly! Love your mother a little bit. You are mother's good little girl, aren't you?" Molly squirmed on her chair. "Don't you love your mother, Molly?"
The little girl was very miserable. She knew her mother would cry in a moment, and then she would be compelled to stroke the stringy hair. Both she and her brothers knew they should love their mother. She did everything for them. They were ashamed that they hated to be near her, but they couldn't help it. When she called to them and they were not in sight, they pretended not to hear, and crept away, talking in whispers.
"Well, to begin with, we were very poor," Molly said to John Whiteside. "I guess we were really poverty-stricken. I had two brothers a little older than I. My father was a traveling salesman, but even so, my mother had to work. She worked terribly hard for us."
About once in every six months a great event occurred.
In the morning the mother crept silently out of the bedroom. Her hair was brushed as smoothly as it could be; her eyes sparkled, and she looked happy and almost pretty. She whispered, "Quiet, children! Your father's home."
Molly and her brothers sneaked out of the house, but even in the yard they talked in excited whispers. The news traveled quickly about the neighborhood. Soon the yard was filled with whispering children. "They say their father's home." "Is your father really home?" "Where's he been this time?" By noon there were a dozen children in the yard, standing in expectant little groups, cautioning one another to be quiet.
About noon the screen door on the porch sprang open and whacked against the wall. Their father leaped out. "Hi," he yelled. "Hi, kids!" Molly and her brothers flung themselves upon him and hugged his legs, while he plucked them off and hurled them into the air like kittens.
Mrs. Morgan fluttered about, clucking with excitement. "Children, children. Don't muss your father's clothes."
The neighbor children threw handsprings and wrestled and shrieked with joy. It was better than any holiday.
"Wait till you see," their father cried. "Wait till you see what I brought you. It's a secret now." And when the hysteria had quieted a little he carried his suitcase out on the porch and opened it. There were presents such as no one had ever seen, mechanical toys unknown before — tin bugs that crawled, dancing wooden niggers and astounding steam shovels that worked in sand. There were superb glass marbles with bears and dogs right in their centres. He had something for everyone, several things for everyone. It was all the great holidays packed into one.
Usually it was midafternoon before the children became calm enough not to shriek occasionally. But eventually George Morgan sat on the steps, and they all gathered about while he told his adventures. This time he had been to Mexico while there was a revolution. Again he had gone to Honolulu, had seen the volcano and himself ridden on a surfboard. Always there were cities and people, strange people; always adventures and a hundred funny incidents, funnier than anything they had ever heard. It couldn't all be told at one time. After school they had to gather to hear more and more. Throughout the world George Morgan tramped, collecting glorious adventures.
"As far as my home life went," Miss Morgan said, "I guess I almost didn't have any father. He was able to get home very seldom from his business trips."
John Whiteside nodded gravely.
Molly looked up at him and saw that he seemed to be studying a piece of paper on his desk. "When I was twelve years old, my father was killed in an accident," she said.
The great visits usually lasted about two weeks. Always there came an afternoon when George Morgan walked out into town and did not come back until late at night. The mother made the children go to bed early, but they could hear him come home, stumbling a little against the furniture, and they could hear his voice through the wall. These were the only times when his voice was sad and discouraged. Lying with held breaths, the children knew what that meant. In the morning he would be gone, and their hearts would be gone with him.
They had endless discussions about what he was doing. Their father was a glad argonaut, a silver knight. Virtue and Courage and Beauty — he wore a coat of them. "Sometime," the boys said, "sometime when we are big, we'll go with him and see all those things."
"I'll go, too," Molly insisted.
"Oh, you're a girl. You couldn't go, you know."
"But he'd let me go, you know he would. Sometime he'll take me with him. You see if he doesn't."
When he was gone their mother grew plaintive again, and her eyes reddened. Querulously she demanded their love, as though it were a package they could put in her hand.
One time their father went away, and he never came back. He had never sent any money, nor had he ever written to them, but this time he just disappeared for good. For two years they waited, and then their mother said he must be dead. The children shuddered at the thought, but they refused to believe it, because no one so beautiful and fine as their father could be dead. Some place in the world he was having adventures. There was some good reason why he couldn't come back to them. Some day when the reason was gone, he would come. Some morning he would be there with finer presents and better stories than ever before. But their mother said he must have had an accident. He must be dead. Their mother was distracted. She read those advertisements which offered to help her make money at home. The children made paper flowers and shamefacedly tried to sell them. The boys tried to develop magazine routes, and the whole family nearly starved. Finally, when they couldn't stand it any longer, the boys ran away and joined the navy. After that Molly saw them as seldom as she had seen her father and they were so changed, so hard and boisterous, that she didn't even care, for her brothers were strangers to her.
"I went through high school, and then I went to San Jose and entered Teachers' College. I worked for my board and room at the home of Mrs. Allen Morit. Before I finished school my mother died, so I guess I'm a kind of an orphan, you see."
"I'm sorry," John Whiteside murmured gently.
Molly flushed. "That wasn't a bid for sympathy, Mr. Whiteside. You said you wanted to know about me. Everyone has to be an orphan some time."
Molly worked for her board and room. She did the work of a full time servant, only she received no pay. Money for clothes had to be accumulated by working in a store during summer vacation. Mrs. Morit trained her girls. "I can take a green girl, not worth a cent," she often said, "and when that girl's worked for me six months, she can get fifty dollars a month. Lots of women know it, and they just snap up my girls. This is the first schoolgirl I've tried, but even she shows a lot of improvement. She reads too much though. I always say a servant should be asleep by ten o'clock, or else she can't do her work right."
Mrs. Morit's method was one of constant criticism and nagging, carried on in a just, firm tone. "Now, Molly; I don't want to find fault but if you don't wipe the silver drier than that, it'll have streaks." "The butter knife goes this way, Molly. Then you can put the tumbler here."
In the evening, after the dishes were washed, Molly sat on her bed and studied, and when the light was off, she lay on her bed and thought of her father. It was ridiculous to do it, she knew. It was a waste of time. Her father came up to the door, wearing a cutaway coat, and striped trousers and a top hat. He carried a huge bouquet of red roses in his hand. "I couldn't come before, Molly. Get on your coat quickly. First we're going down to get that evening dress in the window of Prussia's, but we'll have to hurry. I have tickets for the train to New York tonight. Hurry up, Molly! Don't stand there gawping." It was silly. Her father was dead. No, she didn't really believe he was dead. Somewhere in the world he lived beautifully, and sometime he would come back.
Molly told one of her friends at school, "I don't really believe it, you see, but I don't disbelieve it. If I ever knew he was dead, why it would be awful. I don't know what I'd do then. I don't want to think about knowing he's dead."
When her mother died, she felt little besides shame. Her mother had wanted so much to be loved, and she hadn't known how to draw love. Her importunities had bothered the children and driven them away.
"Well, that's about all," Molly finished. "I got my diploma, and then I was sent down here."
"It was about the easiest interview I ever had," John Whiteside said.
"Do you think I'll get the position, then?"
"Yes, I think you'll get the job. I think you have it already. Now, Miss Morgan, where are you going to live? You must find board and room some place."
Before she knew she was going to say it, she had blurted, "I want to live here."
John Whiteside opened his eyes in astonishment. "But we ' never take boarders, Miss Morgan."
"Oh, I'm sorry I said that, I just like it so much here, you see."
He called, "Willa," and when his wife stood in the half-open door, "This young lady wants to board with us. She's the new teacher."
Mrs. Whiteside frowned. "Couldn't think of it. We never take boarders. She's too pretty to be around that fool of a Bill. What would happen to those cows of his? It'd be a lot of trouble. You can sleep in the third bedroom upstairs," she said to Molly. "It doesn't catch much sun anyway."
Life changed its face. All of a sudden Molly found she was a queen. From the first day the children of the school adored her, for she understood them, and what was more, she let them understand her. It took her some time to realize that she had become an important person. If two men got to arguing at the store about a point of history or literature or mathematics, and the argument deadlocked, it ended up, "Take it to the teacher! If she doesn't know, she'll find it." Molly was very proud to be able to decide such questions. At parties she had to help with the decorations and to plan refreshments.
"I think we'll put pine boughs around everywhere. They're pretty, and they smell so good. They smell like a party." She was supposed to know everything and to help with everything, and she loved it.
At the Whiteside home she slaved in the kitchen under the mutterings of Willa. At the end of six months, Mrs. Whiteside grumbled to her husband, "Now if Bill only had any sense. But then," she continued, "If she has any sense —" and there she left it.
At night Molly wrote letters to the few friends she had made in Teachers' College, letters full of little stories about her neighbors, and full of joy. She must attend every party because of the social prestige of her position. On Saturdays she ran about the hills and brought back ferns and wild flowers to plant about the house.
Bill Whiteside took one look at Molly and scuttled back to his cows. It was a long time before he found the courage to talk to her very much. He was a big, simple young man who had neither his father's balance nor his mother's humor. Eventually, however, he trailed after Molly and looked after her from distances.
One evening, with a kind of feeling of thanksgiving for her happiness Molly told Bill about her father. They were sitting in canvas chairs on the wide veranda, waiting for the moon. She told him about the visits, and then about the disappearance. "Do you see what I have, Bill?" she cried. "My lovely father is some place. He's mine. You think he's living, don't you, Bill?"
"Might be," said Bill. "From what you say, he was a kind of an irresponsible cuss, though. Excuse me, Molly. Still, if he's alive, it's funny he never wrote."
Molly felt cold. It was just the kind of reasoning she had successfully avoided for so long. "Of course," she said stiffly, "I know that. I have to do some work now, Bill."
High up in a hill that edged the valley of the Pastures of Heaven, there was an old cabin which commanded a view of the whole country and of all the roads in the vicinity. It was said that the bandit Vasquez had built the cabin and lived in it for a year while the posses went crashing through the country looking for him. It was a landmark. All the people of the valley had been to see it at one time or another. Nearly every one asked Molly whether she had been there yet. "No," she said, "but I will go up some day. I'll go some Saturday. I know where the trail to it is." One morning she dressed in her new hiking boots and corduroy skirt. Bill sidled up and offered to accompany her. "No," she said. "You have work to do. I can't take you away from it."
"Work be hanged!" said Bill.
"Well, I'd rather go alone, I don't want to hurt your feelings, but I just want to go alone, Bill." She was sorry not to let him accompany her, but his remark about her father had frightened her. "I want to have an adventure," she said to herself. "If Bill comes along, it won't be an adventure at all. It'll be just a trip." It took her an hour and a half to climb up the steep trail under the oaks. The leaves on the ground were as slippery as grass, and the sun was hot. The good smell of ferns and dank moss filled the air. When Molly came at last to the ridge crest, she was damp and winded. The cabin stood in a small clearing in the brush, a little square wooden room with no windows. Its doorless entrance was a black shadow. The place was quiet, the kind of humming quiet that flies and bees and crickets make. The whole hillside sang softly in the sun. Molly approached on tiptoe. Her heart was beating violently.
"Now I'm having an adventure," she whispered. "Now I'm right in the middle of an adventure at Vasquez' cabin." She peered in at the doorway and saw a lizard scuttle out of sight. A cobweb fell across her forehead and seemed to try to restrain her. There was nothing at all in the cabin, nothing but the dirt floor and the rotting wooden walls, and the dry, deserted smell of earth that has long been covered from the sun. Molly was filled with excitement. "At night he sat in there. Sometimes when he heard noises like men creeping up on him, he went out of the door like the ghost of a shadow, and just melted into the darkness."
She looked down on the valley. "In the daytime that young Vasquez looked down on the valley just as I'm looking. He stood right here, and looked at the roads down there. Sometimes he saw the posses riding by on the road below. Vasquez laughed, but he was afraid, too. Sometimes he sang. His songs were soft and sad because he knew he couldn't live very long."
Molly sat down on the slope and rested her chin in her cupped hands. Young Vasquez was standing beside her, and Vasquez had her father's gay face, his shining eyes as he came on the porch shouting, "Hi, kids." This was the kind of adventure her father had. Molly shook herself and stood up. "Now I want to go back and think it all over again."
In the late afternoon Mrs. Whiteside sent Bill out to look for Molly. "She might have turned an ankle, you know." But Molly emerged from the trail just as Bill approached it from the road.
"We were beginning to wonder if you'd got lost," he said. "Did you go up to the cabin?"
"Yes."
"Funny old box, isn't it? Just an old woodshed. There are a dozen just like it down here. You'd be surprised, though, how many people go up there to look at it. The funny part is, nobody's sure Vasquez was ever there."
"Oh, I think he must have been there."
"What makes you think that?"
"I don't know."
Bill became serious. "Everybody thinks Vasquez was a kind of a hero, when really he was just a thief. He started in stealing sheep and horses and ended up robbing stages. He had to kill a few people to do it. It seems to me, Molly, we ought to teach people to hate robbers, not to worship them."
"Of course, Bill," she said wearily. "You're perfectly right. Would you mind not talking for a little while, Bill? I guess I'm a little tired and nervous too."
The year wheeled around. Pussywillows had their kittens, and wild flowers covered the hills. Molly found herself wanted and needed in the valley. She even attended school board meetings. There had been a time when those secret and august conferences were held behind closed doors, a mystery and a terror to everyone. Now that Molly was asked to step into John Whiteside's sitting room, she found that the board discussed crops, told stories, and circulated mild gossip.
Bert Munroe had been elected early in the fall, and by the springtime he was the most energetic member. He it was who planned dances at the schoolhouse, who insisted upon having plays and picnics. He even offered prizes for the best report cards in the school. The board was coming to rely pretty much on Bert Munroe.
One evening Molly came down from her room. As always, when the board was meeting, Mrs. Whiteside sat in the dining room. "I don't think I'll go in to the meeting," Molly said. "Let them have one time to themselves. Sometimes I feel that they would tell other kinds of stories if I weren't there."
"You go on in, Molly! They can't hold a board meeting without you. They're so used to you, they'd be lost. Besides, I'm not at all sure I want them to tell those other stories."
Obediently Molly knocked on the door and went into the sitting room. Bert Munroe paused politely in the story he was narrating. "I was just telling about my farm hand, Miss Morgan. I'll start over again, 'cause it's kind of funny. You see, I needed a hay hand, and I picked this fellow up under the Salinas River bridge. He was pretty drunk, but he wanted a job. Now I've got him, I find he isn't worth a cent as a hand, but I can't get rid of him. That son of a gun has been every place. You ought to hear him tell about the places he's been. My kids wouldn't let me get rid of him if I wanted to. Why he can take the littlest thing he's seen and make a fine story out of it. My kids just sit around with their ears spread, listening to him. Well, about twice a month he walks into Salinas and goes on a bust. He's one of those dirty, periodic drunks. The Salinas cops always call me up when they find him in a gutter, and I have to drive in to get him. And you know, when he comes out of it, he's always got some kind of present in his pocket for my kid Manny. There's nothing you can do with a man like that. He disarms you. I don't get a dollar's worth of work a month out of him."
Molly felt a sick dread rising in her. The men were laughing at the story. "You're too soft, Bert. You can't afford to keep an entertainer on the place. I'd sure get rid of him quick."
Molly stood up. She was dreadfully afraid someone would ask the man's name. "I'm not feeling very well tonight," she said. "If you gentlemen will excuse me, I think I'll go to bed." The men stood up while she left the room. In her bed she buried her head in the pillow. "It's crazy," she said to herself. "There isn't a chance in the world. I'm forgetting all about it right now." But she found to her dismay that she was crying.
The next few weeks were agonising to Molly. She was reluctant to leave the house. Walking to and from school she watched the road ahead of her. "If I see any kind of a stranger I'll run away. But that's foolish, I'm being a fool." Only in her own room did she feel safe. Her terror was making her lose color, was taking the glint out of her eyes.
"Molly, you ought to go to bed," Mrs. Whiteside insisted. "Don't be a little idiot. Do I have to smack you the way I do Bill to make you go to bed?" But Molly would not go to bed. She thought too many things when she was in bed.
The next time the board met, Bert Munroe did not appear. Molly felt reassured and almost happy at his absence.
"You're feeling better, aren't you, Miss Morgan?"
"Oh, yes. It was only a little thing, a kind of a cold. If I'd gone to bed I might have been really sick."
The meeting was an hour gone before Bert Munroe came in. "Sorry to be late," he apologised. "The same old thing happened. My so-called hay hand was asleep in the street in Salinas. What a mess! He's out in the car sleeping it off now. I'll have to hose the car out tomorrow."
Molly's throat closed with terror. For a second she thought she was going to faint. "Excuse me, I must go," she cried, and ran out of the room. She walked into the dark hallway and steadied herself against the wall. Then slowly and automatically she marched out of the front door and down the steps. The night was filled with whispers. Out in the road she could see the black mass that was Bert Munroe's car. She was surprised at the way her footsteps plodded down the path of their own volition. "Now I'm killing myself," she said. "Now I'm throwing everything away. I wonder why." The gate was under her hand, and her hand flexed to open it. Then a tiny breeze sprang up and brought to her nose the sharp foulness of vomit. She heard a blubbering, drunken snore. Instantly something whirled in her head. Molly spun around and ran frantically back to the house. In her room she locked the door and sat stiffly down, panting with the effort of her run. It seemed hours before she heard the men go out of the house, calling their good-nights. Then Bert's motor started, and the sound of it died away down the road. Now that she was ready to go she felt paralysed.
John Whiteside was writing at his desk when Molly entered the sitting room. He looked up questioningly at her. "You aren't well, Miss Morgan. You need a doctor."
She planted herself woodenly beside the desk. "Could you get a substitute teacher for me?" she asked.
"Of course I could. You pile right into bed and I'll call a doctor."
"It isn't that, Mr. Whiteside. I want to go away tonight."
"What are you talking about? You aren't well."
"I told you my father was dead. I don't know whether he's dead or not. I'm afraid — I want to go away tonight."
He stared intently at her. "Tell me what you mean," he said softly.
"If I should see that drunken man of Mr. Munroe's —" she paused, suddenly terrified at what she was about to say.
John Whiteside nodded very slowly.
"No," she cried. "I don't think that. I'm sure I don't."
"I'd like to do something, Molly."
"I don't want to go. I love it here — But I'm afraid. It's so important to me."
John Whiteside stood up and came close to her and put his arm about her shoulders. "I don't think I understand, quite," he said. "I don't think I want to understand. That isn't necessary." He seemed to be talking to himself. "It wouldn't be quite courteous — to understand."
"Once I'm away I'll be able not to believe it," Molly whimpered.
He gave her shoulders one quick squeeze with his encircling arm. "You run upstairs and pack your things, Molly," he said. "I'll get out the car and drive you right in to Salinas now."
I Find in the text English equivalents for the following:
a) сойти с поезда; пойти пешком; высадить кого-л. (около); мрачно; не надо бояться; секретарь школьного совета;
быть членом совета; причинить много неприятностей; в письме говорится; поладить с кем-л.; отличный старик; жалюзи; крыльцо; входная дверь; гостеприимный; гостеприимство; тропинка; цветочные клумбы; столовая; стол, заставленный посудой; жаркое; распахнуть дверь; камин; каминная полочка; качалка; письменный стол (бюро); ожидать кого-л.; не присядете ли вы; насколько я понимаю; чувствовать себя скованной; стараться произвести хорошее впечатление; кивнуть
b) нищие; коммивояжер; выйти (выползти) бесшумно из... (2); новость быстро распространялась; говорить взволнованным шепотом; выпрыгнуть; броситься (на кого-л.); обнять; бросать (подбрасывать); суетиться (метаться); запачкать; визжать от радости; в конце концов; приключения; шагать по свету
II Answer the following questions:
1. How did Molly Morgan get to the Pastures of Heaven? 2. Why did Pat Humberg flush? 3. How did Molly feel when she was put down in front of Mr. Whiteside's house? 4. What sort of a house was it? 5. How did Mrs. Whiteside receive the new teacher? 6. What made Molly feel Mrs. Whiteside had raised a lot of children? 7. What did Mr. Whiteside's room look like? 8. How did Mr. Whiteside receive Molly? 9. What did he say about the interview? 10. What family did Molly come from? 11. What was her mother like? 12. What did she remember about her father? 13. How did Molly manage to get an education? 14. What did Molly dream of after she was through with the dishes and had done her lessons? 15. What did she keep thinking about? 16. How did it come about that Molly became a boarder at Mr. Whiteside's house? 17. Why did Molly's life become something quite different from what it used to be? 18. How did she feel about it? 19. What did Mrs. Whiteside grumble to her husband? What did her words imply? 20. What sort of fellow was Bill and how did he feel about Molly? 21. Why did Molly tell Bill about her father? 22. What made her feel cold and disappointed? What sort of landmark was there high up in the hills? Why did the girl not let Bill accompany her? What reason did she give? What was the real reason? 25. What did Molly find up in the hill? What did she think about while examining the cabin? 26. What did Bill say about the cabin? About the man who was supposed to have lived there? 27. Why did his words upset Molly? 28. What sort of story did Bert Munroe tell at the school board meeting? Why was Molly so much upset by what she heard? 29. What did she say and what did she do? 30. Why were the next few weeks so agonising to Molly? 31. What happened the next time the board
met? 32. What did she mean by saying "now I'm killing myself"? 33. What did Molly say to Mr. Whiteside? 34. How did Mr. Whiteside show his sympathy and understanding?
III Retell the story according to the plan below:
1. Molly Morgan arrives at the Pastures of Heaven.
2. Molly is received by Mrs. Whiteside.
3. Molly tells Mr. Whiteside about her childhood and
school days.
4. The young teacher becomes a member of the Whiteside
household.
5. Molly finds she is a queen.
6. Bill fails to share her emotions.
7. A visit to the cabin up in the hills.
8. Bill gives Molly another disappointment.
9. The school board meeting upsets Molly.
10. Molly goes through an agonising time.
11. A hasty departure.
