Задания по Чтению Часть 1
SURPRISE by J. Galsworthy
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Сборник адаптированных рассказов английских и американских писат
Unit 15SURPRISE by J. GalsworthyThere was a time when geniuses sometimes starved. But there is no reason why a genius must starve in our modern times. The following story of my friend, Bruce, proves that this is true. He was almost sixty when I met him, and he was the author of about fifteen books. The few people who really understood serious realistic literature called him 'a genius'. But Bruce was not interested in what people thought of him or his work. He never read criticism of his books in the newspapers or magazines. He lived alone in his small, dark, dirty room. From time to time he disappeared for several months; and then he appeared again and began to write. He was a tall, thin man with a face like mark Twain's: black eyebrows, a grey moustache and grey hair. His eyes were dark brown and sad; they seemed not to belong to his face or to the world around him. He had never married, and lived quite alone. He never had much money; and the year I am writing about had been even worse than usual for him. His last book had been a hopeless failure. Besides, he had had an operation, which had cost him much money and left him too weak to work. The day I went to see him, I found him in a gloomy mood, half lying on two chairs, smoking strong cigarettes, which I hated. "Hello!" he said, and then continued without giving me a chance to ask after his health: "Last night I went into a place that they call a cinema. Have you ever been in once?" "Ever been? Do you know how long the cinema has existed? Since 1900!" "Is that so? A terrible place, and terrible people in it. Well, last night they showed a film – what a thing! I've never read such an idiotic story or seen such idiotic characters. How can people look at it? I'm writing a parody on it." "A parody on an idiotic film?" "Yes! My heroine is one-quarter black, three quarters white. She is unbelievably beautiful, and all the men run af ter her. Her brother, a man with a heart of stone, wants her to marry a millionaire, who is as bad as he is. All the characters have deep, dark secrets in their lives." He laughed. "How can you spend your time on such foolishness?" I asked. "My time!" he answered angrily. "Who needs my time? Nobody buys my books. I'll probably 'starve to death!" He took a page of scenario and laughed again as he read it. "In that film last night they had a race between a train and a car. I've done better: I have a race between a train, a car, an airplane and a horse." I began to be interested. "May I look at your scenario when you have finished it?" I asked. "It's already finished. I enjoyed writing it so much that I couldn't sleep until I had come to the end." He gave me the papers. "Take it, you'll have a good laugh, I hope. The heroine's secret is that she isn't black at all. She is part Spanish, part French, and she is a southern aristocrat. And the bad brother isn't really her brother, and the millionaire in reality is a poor man, and the man she loves, who seems to be poor, is really rich." And he laughed until his face was red and his eyes were full of tears. I went away worried about him, about his health and his penniless condition. How could I help him? How could anybody help him? After dinner that evening, I began to read the scenario. There were thirty-five pages, and as soon as I had read ten of them, it was clear to me that he had written a masterpiece. I knew that any good film company would be glad to pay whatever he wanted to ask for it. "But," I thought. "if I go to him and tell him what I am planning to do with his scenario, he'll throw it in the fire. He'll never agree to be known as the author of such a thing. I remember how he laughed at it. How can I make him allow me to do whatever I like with the scenario?" I went to see him again the next day. He was reading. I interrupted him. "Must I give you back the scenario, or can I keep it?" "What scenario?" "The one that you gave me to read yesterday." "Oh! What do I need it for? Throw it away." "All right," I said. "I'll throw it away. Excuse me,I see you're busy." "No, I'm not," he said. "I have nothing to do. It's f oolish to try to write anything: I get less and less for every book I publish. I am dying of poverty." "It's your own fault," I said. "You refuse to think about what the public wants." "How can I know what they want?" "You don't try to. If I tell you how to make some money by writing something that the public wants, you’ll throw me out of the room." I returned home and did a little work on the scenario. It was very easy; it was a fine scenario. I wanted to write his name on it, but I was afraid to. At last I decided not to write his name, but to say it was written by 'a genius'. That's a wonderful word; everybody respects it and fears it a little. I knew that after they read the scenario, they would feel it really was written by a genius. I took it to a leading film company the next day with a note saying: "The author, a recognised literary genius, f or his own reasons prefers to remain unknown." The company was silent for two weeks, but I wasn't worried. I knew they would come to me: they had to – the scenario was too good, it couldn't f ail. And when they appeared, I refused their first offers. I made them come three times. At last I gave them an ultimatum. They agreed to all my demands, as I knew they would: they knew how much the scenario was worth. Now I had come to the last and greatest difficulty. How could I give the money to Bruce? Many wild ideas came to my mind. At last I decided that I would say I had sold the scenario, because I wanted to make some money f or myself. "He'll be angry with me, but he won't be able to refuse to take the money," I thought. When I came to his room, I found him lying on two chairs, as usual, smoking his black cigarettes and playing with an old cat that he had found in the street. I asked after his health, and then said: "There's something I must tell you – I'm afraid you may think it rather unpleasant." "Go on!" he ordered. "Do you remember that scenario that you wrote and gave me about six weeks ago?" "Yes, you do. About the beautiful black aristocrat." "Oh," he laughed. "That foolish thing!" '-'Well, I sold it." "What? Who wants to publish a thing like that?" "It isn't published. They are making a film out of it. A superfilm, they call it." His eyes opened wide. "Don't argue," I said. "It's done – I've sold it and here is the money – three thousand pounds. I had to do some work on it, so if you want to pay me ten per cent, I won't refuse." "My God!" he said. "Yes, yes," I went on, speaking more quickly. "I know what you are thinking. I know your high ideas about art and literature and culture. But that's all nonsense, Bruce. The story may be vulgar, I agree. But we're vulgar, it's foolish to pretend we are not. vI don't mean you, of course, but people in general. The film will be good entertainment." I couldn't look at the f ire in his eyes, and I hurried to defend myself. "You don't live in the world, Bruce. You don't understand what ordinary people want; something to make their grey lives a little brighter. They want blood, excitement of any kind. You haven't hurt them by this film, you have been kind to them. And this is your money, and I want you to take it!" The cat suddenly jumped down. I waited, expect- ing the storm to begin at any moment. Then I began again. "I know that you hate the cinema and everything connected with it..." His voice interrupted me. "Nonsense!" he roared. "What are you talking about? Who said I hate the cinema? I go there three times a week!" This time, I cried, "My God!" I pushed the money into his hand and ran away, followed by the cat. 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