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Так получилось, что книга ко мне попала в тяжелый эмоциональный кризис и многое мне дала. Написано актуально, тут многих полезных вещей, никакого злоу...
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The Maid-At-Arms
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"For all those pretty words," she said, "love still lies sleeping."
"Perhaps my arm around your waist–"
"Perhaps."
"So?"
"Yes."
And, after a silence:
"Has love stirred?"
"Love sleeps the sounder."
"And if I touched your lips?"
"Best not."
"Why?"
"I'm sure that love would yawn."
Chilled, for unconsciously I had begun to find in this child-play an interest unexpected, I dropped her unresisting fingers.
"Upon my word," I said, almost irritably, "I can believe you when you say you never mean to wed."
"But I don't say it," she protested.
"What? You have a mind to wed?"
"Nor did I say that, either," she said, laughing.
"Then what the deuce do you say?"
"Nothing, unless I'm entreated politely."
"I entreat you, cousin, most politely," I said.
"Then I may tell you that, though I trouble my head nothing as to wedlock, I am betrothed."
"Betrothed!" I repeated, angrily disappointed, yet I could not think why.
"Yes–pledged."
"To whom?"
"To a man, silly."
"A man!"
"With two legs, two arms, and a head, cousin."
"You … love him?"
"No," she said, serenely. "It's only to wed and settle down some day."
"You don't love him?"
"No," she repeated, a trifle impatiently.
"And you mean to wed him?"
"Listen to the boy!" she exclaimed. "I've told him ten times that I am betrothed, which means a wedding. I am not one of those who break paroles."
"Oh … you are now free on parole."
"Prisoner on parole," she said, lightly. "I'm to name the day o' punishment, and I promise you it will not be soon."
"Dorothy," I said, "suppose in the mean time you fell in love?"
"I'd like to," she said, sincerely.
"But–but what would you do then?"
"Love, silly!"
"And … marry?"
"Marry him whom I have promised."
"But you would be wretched!"
"Why? I can't fancy wedding one I love. I should be ashamed, I think. I–if I loved I should not want the man I loved to touch me–not with gloves."
"You little fool!" I said. "You don't know what you say."
"Yes, I do!" she cried, hotly. "Once there was a captain from Boston; I adored him. And once he kissed my hand and I hated him!"
"I wish I'd been there," I muttered.
She, waving her fan to and fro, continued: "I often think of splendid men, and, dreaming in the sunshine, sometimes I adore them. But always these day-dream heroes keep their distance; and we talk and talk, and plan to do great good in the world, until I fall a-napping.... Heigho! I'm yawning now." She covered her face with her fan and leaned back against a pillar, crossing her feet. "Tell me about London," she said. But I knew no more than she.
"I'd be a belle there," she observed. "I'd have a train o' beaux and macaronis at my heels, I warrant you! The foppier, the more it would please me. Think, cousin–ranks of them all a-simper, ogling me through a hundred quizzing-glasses! Heigho! There's doubtless some deviltry in me, as Sir Lupus says."
She yawned again, looked up at the stars, then fell to twisting her fan with idle fingers.
"I suppose," she said, more to herself than to me, "that Sir John is now close to the table's edge, and Colonel Claus is under it.... Hark to their song, all off the key! But who cares?… so that they quarrel not.... Like those twin brawlers of Glencoe, … brooding on feuds nigh a hundred years old.... I have no patience with a brooder, one who treasures wrongs, … like Walter Butler." She looked up at me.
"Perhaps my arm around your waist–"
"Perhaps."
"So?"
"Yes."
And, after a silence:
"Has love stirred?"
"Love sleeps the sounder."
"And if I touched your lips?"
"Best not."
"Why?"
"I'm sure that love would yawn."
Chilled, for unconsciously I had begun to find in this child-play an interest unexpected, I dropped her unresisting fingers.
"Upon my word," I said, almost irritably, "I can believe you when you say you never mean to wed."
"But I don't say it," she protested.
"What? You have a mind to wed?"
"Nor did I say that, either," she said, laughing.
"Then what the deuce do you say?"
"Nothing, unless I'm entreated politely."
"I entreat you, cousin, most politely," I said.
"Then I may tell you that, though I trouble my head nothing as to wedlock, I am betrothed."
"Betrothed!" I repeated, angrily disappointed, yet I could not think why.
"Yes–pledged."
"To whom?"
"To a man, silly."
"A man!"
"With two legs, two arms, and a head, cousin."
"You … love him?"
"No," she said, serenely. "It's only to wed and settle down some day."
"You don't love him?"
"No," she repeated, a trifle impatiently.
"And you mean to wed him?"
"Listen to the boy!" she exclaimed. "I've told him ten times that I am betrothed, which means a wedding. I am not one of those who break paroles."
"Oh … you are now free on parole."
"Prisoner on parole," she said, lightly. "I'm to name the day o' punishment, and I promise you it will not be soon."
"Dorothy," I said, "suppose in the mean time you fell in love?"
"I'd like to," she said, sincerely.
"But–but what would you do then?"
"Love, silly!"
"And … marry?"
"Marry him whom I have promised."
"But you would be wretched!"
"Why? I can't fancy wedding one I love. I should be ashamed, I think. I–if I loved I should not want the man I loved to touch me–not with gloves."
"You little fool!" I said. "You don't know what you say."
"Yes, I do!" she cried, hotly. "Once there was a captain from Boston; I adored him. And once he kissed my hand and I hated him!"
"I wish I'd been there," I muttered.
She, waving her fan to and fro, continued: "I often think of splendid men, and, dreaming in the sunshine, sometimes I adore them. But always these day-dream heroes keep their distance; and we talk and talk, and plan to do great good in the world, until I fall a-napping.... Heigho! I'm yawning now." She covered her face with her fan and leaned back against a pillar, crossing her feet. "Tell me about London," she said. But I knew no more than she.
"I'd be a belle there," she observed. "I'd have a train o' beaux and macaronis at my heels, I warrant you! The foppier, the more it would please me. Think, cousin–ranks of them all a-simper, ogling me through a hundred quizzing-glasses! Heigho! There's doubtless some deviltry in me, as Sir Lupus says."
She yawned again, looked up at the stars, then fell to twisting her fan with idle fingers.
"I suppose," she said, more to herself than to me, "that Sir John is now close to the table's edge, and Colonel Claus is under it.... Hark to their song, all off the key! But who cares?… so that they quarrel not.... Like those twin brawlers of Glencoe, … brooding on feuds nigh a hundred years old.... I have no patience with a brooder, one who treasures wrongs, … like Walter Butler." She looked up at me.
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Последний отзыв
Так получилось, что книга ко мне попала в тяжелый эмоциональный кризис и многое мне дала. Написано актуально, тут многих полезных вещей, никакого злоу...
Далее