Read Somerset Maugham in English. Dream. William Somerset Maugham - parallel translation

English writer. Born January 25, 1874 in Paris. His father was a co-owner of a law firm there and a legal attaché at the British Embassy. His mother, a famous beauty, ran a salon that attracted many celebrities from the world of art and politics. At the age of ten, the boy was orphaned and was sent to England, to his uncle, a priest. Eighteen-year-old Maugham spent a year in Germany, and a few months after his return he entered the medical school at St. Thomas's Hospital. In 1897 he received a diploma in general medicine and surgery, but never practiced medicine: while still a student, he published his first novel, Liza of Lambeth (1897), which absorbed impressions from his student practice in this area of ​​the London slums. The book was well received, and Maugham decided to become a writer. For ten years his success as a prose writer was very modest, but after 1908 he began to gain fame: four of his plays - Jack Straw, Smith, Nobility, Loaves and Fishes - were staged in London and then in New York. York. Since the beginning of the First World War, Maugham served in the sanitary unit. Later he was transferred to the intelligence service, he visited France, Italy, Russia, as well as America and the islands of the southern part Pacific Ocean. The secret agent's work was vividly reflected in his collection of short stories, Ashenden, or the British Agent (1928). After the war, Maugham continued to travel a lot. Maugham died in Nice (France) on December 16, 1965. A prolific writer, Somerset Maugham created 25 plays, 21 novels and more than 100 stories, but he was not an innovator in any literary genre. His famous comedies, such as The Circle (1921 ), The Constant Wife (1927), do not deviate from the canons of the English “well-made play”. In fictional prose, be it large or small form, he sought to present the plot and strongly disapproved of the sociological or any other orientation of the novel. Maugham's best novels are the largely autobiographical Of Human Bondage and Gingerbread and Ale (Cakes and Ale, 1930); the exotic The Moon and Sixpence, 1919, inspired by the fate of the French artist P. Gauguin; the story of the southern seas The Narrow Corner, 1932; The Razor's Edge, 1944. After 1948, Maugham left drama and fiction, wrote essays, mainly in literary themes. The rapid intrigue, brilliant style and masterful composition of the story brought him the fame of the “English Maupassant”.

THE DREAM

Dream (Trans.
A.
Kudryavitsky)

IT CHANCED that in August 1917 the work upon which I was then engaged obliged me to go from New York to Petrograd, and I was instructed for safety’s sake to travel by way of Vladivostok.

It so happened that in August 1917 I had to go on official business from New York to Petrograd.
I was advised to travel through Vladivostok for safety reasons.

The trans-Siberian train was due to start, so far as I remember, at about nine in the evening.

The Trans-Siberian Express was supposed to leave, as far as I remember, around nine in the evening.

I dined at the station restaurant by myself.

I had lunch at the station restaurant.

It was crowded and I shared a small table with a man whose appearance entertained me.

It was full of people, and I sat down at a small table, at which there was only one person whose face interested me.

He was a Russian, a tall fellow, but amazingly stout, and he had so vast a punch that he was obliged to sit well away from the table.

He was Russian, this tall man; I was struck by his plumpness - he had grown such a belly that he was forced to sit far from the table.

His hands, small for his size, were buried in rolls of fat.

His hands were relatively small, but overhanging them were not forearms, but rather hams.

His hair, long, dark, and thin, was brushed carefully across his crown in order to conceal his baldness, and his huge sallow face, with its enormous double chin, clean-shaven, gave you an impression of indecent nakedness.

The man's long, thin hair was neatly combed across the top of his head to hide his bald spot; his wide, yellowish, clean-shaven face with a massive double chin seemed obscenely naked.

His nose was small, a funny little button upon that mass of flesh, and his black shining eyes were small too.
But he had a large, red, and sensual mouth.

The nose was small and looked like a tiny funny button, lost among the abundance of flesh; The black shiny eyes also did not differ in size, but the mouth was large, sensual, with red lips.

He was dressed neatly enough in a black suit.
It was not worn but shabby; it looked as if it had been neither pressed nor brushed since he had had it.

This man was dressed more or less tolerably: he was wearing a black suit, not worn, but somehow unkempt - it seemed that it had not been touched with a brush or an iron since the moment of purchase.

The service was bad and it was almost impossible to attract the attention of a waiter.

The service in the restaurant was bad - it was almost impossible to attract the waiter's attention.

We soon got into conversation.

Soon my tablemate and I started talking.

The Russian spoke good and fluent English.

He spoke English quite well and quite fluently.

His accent was marked but not tiresome.

The accent was noticeable, but did not tire the ear.

He asked me many questions about myself and my plans, which-my occupation at the time making caution necessary-I answered with a show of frankness but with dissimulation.

My interlocutor bombarded me with questions about who I am, what are my plans for the future, and so on and so forth.
My occupation in those days forced me to remain on guard, so my answers only seemed frank, but in fact they lacked sincerity.

W.
Somerset Maugham.

Somerset Maugham.

Rain.

Rain.
Per.
- AND.
Gurova.

It was nearly bed-time and when they awoke next morning land would be in sight.

It will soon be time to go to bed, and tomorrow, when they wake up, the ground will already be visible.

Dr.
Macphail lit his pipe and, leaning over the rail, searched the heavens for the Southern Cross.

Doctor MacPhail lit a pipe and, leaning on the railing, began to look for the Southern Cross among the constellations.

After two years at the front and a wound that had taken longer to heal than it should, he was glad to settle down quietly at Apia for twelve months at least, and he felt already better for the journey.

After two years at the front and a wound that took longer to heal than it should have, he was glad to settle for a year in Quiet Apia, and the journey had already brought him noticeable benefits.

Since some of the passengers were leaving the ship next day at Pago-Pago they had had a little dance that evening and in his ears hammered still the harsh notes of the mechanical piano.

As some of the passengers were to disembark at Pago Pago the next morning, a dance was held on the ship in the evening, and the sharp sounds of the pianola still echoed in the doctor's ears.

But the deck was quiet at last.

Now, finally, calm reigned on deck.

A little way off he saw his wife in a long chair talking with the Davidsons, and he strolled over to her.

He saw his wife nearby, busy talking with the Davidsons, and leisurely walked towards her chaise longue.

When he sat down under the light and took off his hat you saw that he had very red hair, with a bald patch on the crown, and the red, freckled skin which accompanies red hair; he was a man of forty, thin, with a pinched face, precise and rather pedantic; and he spoke with a Scots accent in a very low, quiet voice.

When he sat down under the lantern and took off his hat, it turned out that he had fiery red hair, a bald patch on the top of his head and the reddish freckled skin common to red-haired people.
He was a man of about forty, thin, narrow-faced, neat and a bit pedantic.
He spoke with a Scottish accent, always low and calm.

Between the MacPhails and the Davidsons - missionary spouses - a steamship friendship began, which arose not because of the similarity of views and tastes, but due to inevitably frequent meetings.

Their chief tie was the disapproval they shared of the men who spent their days and nights in the smoking-room playing poker or bridge and drinking.

What united them most was the dislike that all four felt for the passengers who spent days and nights in the smoking lounge playing poker, bridge and wine.

Mrs. Macphail was not a little flattered to think that she and her husband were the only people on board with whom the Davidsons were willing to associate, and even the doctor, shy but no fool, half unconsciously acknowledged the compliment.

Mrs. MacPhail was a little proud that she and her husband were the only people on board whom the Davidsons did not shun, and even the doctor himself, a shy man, but not at all stupid, felt deep down in his soul flattered.

It was only because he was of an argumentative mind that in their cabin at night he permitted himself to carp.

And it was only because he had a critical mind that he allowed himself to grumble when they went to their cabin that evening.

"Mrs. Davidson was saying she didn`t know how they`d have got through the journey if it hadn`t been for us," said Mrs. Macphail, as she neatly brushed out her transformation.

Mrs. Davidson told me she didn't know how they would have made it through the trip if it weren't for us,” Mrs. MacPhail said, carefully untangling the hairpiece from her hair.

It so happened that in August 1917 I had to go on official business from New York to Petrograd. I was advised to travel through Vladivostok for safety reasons. I landed there in the morning and spent my free day in the best way I could. The Trans-Siberian Express was supposed to leave, as far as I remember, around nine in the evening.

I had lunch at the station restaurant. It was full of people, and I sat down at a small table, at which there was only one person whose face interested me. He was Russian, this tall man; I was struck by his plumpness - he had grown such a belly that he was forced to sit far from the table. His hands were relatively small, but overhanging them were not forearms, but rather hams. The man's long, thin hair was neatly combed across the top of his head to hide his bald spot; his wide, yellowish, clean-shaven face with a massive double chin seemed obscenely naked. The nose was small and looked like a tiny funny button, lost among the abundance of flesh; The black shiny eyes also did not differ in size, but the mouth was large, sensual, with red lips. This man was dressed more or less tolerably: he was wearing a black suit, not worn, but somehow unkempt - it seemed as if it had not been touched with a brush or an iron since the moment of purchase.

The service in the restaurant was bad - it was almost impossible to attract the waiter's attention. Soon my tablemate and I started talking. He spoke English quite well and quite fluently. The accent was noticeable, but did not tire the ear. My interlocutor bombarded me with questions about who I am, what are my plans for the future, and so on and so forth. My occupation in those days forced me to remain on guard, so my answers only seemed frank, but in fact they lacked sincerity. I told my tablemate that I was a journalist. He asked if I had ever written anything fiction. In response, I admitted that I sometimes indulge in this in my spare time. Then he started talking about modern Russian novelists. He spoke like an intelligent man. There was no doubt that he received a good education.

At this time we asked the waiter to bring us a plate of cabbage soup. My new acquaintance took a small bottle of vodka from his pocket and invited me to drink it with him. I don’t know if it was the vodka or the man’s natural talkativeness that was the reason, but he soon began to open up and told a lot about himself, although I didn’t ask him anything. He came, it seems, from the nobility, was a lawyer by profession, and a radical by conviction. Some troubles with the authorities forced him to live abroad for a long time, but now he was returning home. Business kept him in Vladivostok, but in a week he intended to leave for Moscow; He told me that if I decided to come to this city, he would be glad to see me.

Are you married? - he asked me.

I didn’t quite understand why he cared, but I replied that I was married. He sighed softly:

And I'm a widower. I once married a native of Switzerland; her hometown is Geneva. She was a very developed woman. She spoke excellent English, knew German and Italian just as well, and French, of course, was her native language. She spoke Russian much better than most foreigners - the accent was barely perceptible.

He called out to the waiter, who was walking past our table with a full tray of all sorts of food, and, as far as I understood - after all, I hardly know Russian words - asked him how long we would have to wait. The waiter made a short but apparently encouraging exclamation and quickened his steps. My interlocutor sighed:

After February Revolution The service in the restaurant has become terrible.

He lit another, perhaps the twentieth, cigarette, and I, looking at my watch, wondered where I could have a better meal before getting on the train.

“My wife was an unusual woman,” the Russian continued. - She taught music in the best Petrograd boarding houses for noble maidens. For many years we lived with her in good harmony. However, she was jealous by nature and, unfortunately, she loved me madly.

I barely managed to keep a serious face on my face. My interlocutor was one of the ugliest people I have ever met. Sometimes ruddy and cheerful fat men can be charming, but the obesity of this gloomy man seemed repulsive.

Of course, I do not claim that I have always been faithful to her. She was no longer young when we got married, and our marriage lasted ten whole years. She was small, thin and also poorly built. But her tongue was sharp. She considered me her property and became furious when someone else liked me. She was jealous of me not only of the women I knew, but also of my friends, books, even my cat. Once, in my absence, she gave my favorite coat to someone just because I liked it more than others. But I'm a pretty balanced person. I can’t deny that she irritated me, but I was used to her causticity - this quality was inherent in her by nature - and I was not going to rebel against my wife, just as people don’t rebel against bad weather or a runny nose. I denied her accusations as long as it was possible to deny it, and when it became impossible, I shrugged my shoulders and lit a cigarette.

The constant scenes she made for me had almost no effect on me. I lived my life. Sometimes, however, I wondered whether my wife had passionate love or passionate hatred for me. However, these two things are inextricably linked.

We could have continued to live like this for the rest of our days if one very strange incident had not happened one night. I was awakened by my wife's piercing scream. Startled, I asked her what was the matter. She said that she had a terrible dream: she dreamed that I tried to kill her. We lived on the top floor of a large house; the staircase there had wide flights, and in the center there was a deep well. My wife dreamed that as soon as we reached the top floor, I grabbed her with my arms and tried to throw her over the railing. There was a stone floor below, and such a fall meant certain death.

She was clearly shocked and I did my best to calm her down. However, the next morning, and the day after, and the next two, she kept talking about it, and no matter how much I ridiculed her fantasies, it was obvious that they were firmly lodged in her head. I couldn’t help but think about it either - her dream revealed something to me that I didn’t even suspect. It seemed to my wife that I hated her, that I would be glad to get rid of her. She obviously understood that she was often unbearable, and at times it must have occurred to her that I was capable of killing her. The ways of human thought are inscrutable; Sometimes we have thoughts that anyone would be ashamed to admit. Sometimes I wanted my wife to take a lover and run away with him, sometimes - so that the sudden and easy death of this woman would give me freedom, but never, not once did the thought occur to me that I could free myself with my own hands from a heavy burden.

This dream made a great impression on both of us. He scared my wife; she began to hold back her tongue and show compliance. But as I walked up the stairs to my apartment, I couldn’t help but lean over the railing and think about how easy it would be to do what my wife saw in her dream. The railings were dangerously low. One quick move and it's done. It was difficult to get rid of this obsessive thought.

Several months passed, and my wife woke me up in the middle of the night. I was very tired and irritated. She turned pale as chalk and was trembling all over. She had the same dream again. She burst into sobs and asked if I really hated her. I swore by all the saints that are mentioned in the calendar that I love her. Finally she fell asleep again. I did everything I could. Then I lay awake. I thought I saw her fall into the well of the stairs, heard her scream and the sound of her body hitting the stone floor. Involuntarily I shuddered.

My interlocutor fell silent, beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. He told his story well and coherently, and I listened with interest. There was still some vodka left in the bottle; the Russian poured the rest into a glass and drank it in one gulp.

So how did your wife die? - I asked after a pause.

My interlocutor took out a dirty handkerchief and wiped his forehead.

By a strange coincidence, she was found one night at the foot of the stairs. She broke her neck.

Who found her?

One of the residents who entered the house shortly after this terrible event.

Where were you?

I cannot describe the sinister and cunning expression that appeared on the Russian's face. A twinkle sparkled in his little eyes.

I spent the evening with a friend. I came home only an hour after it happened.

At this moment, the waiter finally brought the portions of meat we ordered, and my interlocutor began to eat, revealing an excellent appetite. He put food into his mouth in gigantic portions.

I was stunned. Did he really make a thinly veiled admission that he killed his wife? This fat and slow man did not look like a murderer; I found it hard to believe that he dared to do such a thing. Who knows, maybe he decided to play a cruel joke on me?

A few minutes later I had to leave so as not to miss the train. I said goodbye to my interlocutor and from that day I never saw him again. I still can’t understand whether he was joking or speaking seriously.

English writer. Born January 25, 1874 in Paris. His father was co-owner of a law firm there and legal attaché at the British Embassy. His mother, a famous beauty, ran a salon that attracted many celebrities from the world of art and politics. At the age of ten, the boy was orphaned and he was sent to England, to his uncle, a priest. Eighteen-year-old Maugham spent a year in Germany, and a few months after his return he entered the medical school at St. Thomas. In 1897 he received a diploma as a general practitioner and surgeon, but never practiced medicine: while still a student, he published his first novel, Liza of Lambeth (1897), which absorbed impressions from his student practice in this area of ​​London slums. The book was well received, and Maugham decided to become a writer. For ten years his success as a prose writer was very modest, but after 1908 he began to gain fame: four of his plays - Jack Straw, Smith, The Nobility, Loaves and Fishes - were staged in London, and then in New York. Since the beginning of the First World War, Maugham served in the sanitary unit. Later he was transferred to the intelligence service, he visited France, Italy, Russia, as well as America and the islands of the South Pacific. The work of a secret agent was vividly reflected in his collection of short stories, Ashenden, or the British Agent (1928). After the war, Maugham continued to travel widely. Maugham died in Nice (France) on December 16, 1965. A prolific writer, Somerset Maugham created 25 plays, 21 novels and more than 100 stories, but he was not an innovator in any literary genre. His famous comedies, such as The Circle (1921), The Constant Wife (1927), do not deviate from the canons of the English “well-made play.” In fictional prose, be it large or small form, he sought to present the plot and strongly disapproved of the sociological or any other orientation of the novel. Maugham's best novels are the largely autobiographical Of Human Bondage and Cakes and Ale (1930); exotic The Moon and Sixpence (1919), inspired by the fate of the French artist P. Gauguin; the story of the southern seas The Narrow Corner, 1932; The Razor's Edge, 1944. After 1948, Maugham left drama and fiction, writing essays, mainly on literary topics. The rapid intrigue, brilliant style and masterful composition of the story earned him the fame of the “English Maupassant”.