Упражнения

1. Выберите правильный вариант:

1. Thomas Henry was an English Esquire.

2. Thomas Henry was a dog.

3. Thomas Henry was a cat.

4. Thomas Henry was a young boy.

ОТВЕТ: Thomas Henry was a cat.

2. What was Thomas Henry’s price?

1. chicken

2. fish

3. boiled eggs

4. roast duck

ОТВЕТ: Thomas Henry’s price was roast duck.

3. Who was Mrs. Myers?

1. a woman whose cat was killed

2. a wife of the main character

3. a daughter of Thomas Henry

4. a little girl

ОТВЕТ: a woman whose cat was killed

4. Why did the author buy a new kitchen table?

1. Because there was more food.

2. Because the old table was broken.

3. Because he was rich.

4. Because there were too many dead cats.

ОТВЕТ: Because there were too many dead cats.

5. Who is Solomon?

1. a wealthy and wise king of Israel

2. a famous golf player

3. a rich businessman

4. a gardener

ОТВЕТ: a wealthy and wise king of Israel

6. Who is Lord Chesterfield?

1. a British Prime-Minister

2. a French general

3. a British statesman, man of letters, and wit

4. an American writer

ОТВЕТ: a British statesman, man of letters, and wit

7. Выберите правильный вариант:

1. Finally, I paid sixteenpence for the dead cat.

2. Finally, I paid eighteenpence for the dead cat.

3. Finally, I paid seventeenpence for the dead cat.

4. Finally, I paid fifteenpence for the dead cat.

ОТВЕТ: Finally, I paid eighteenpence for the dead cat.

8. What club did the cat come?

1. English club

2. Reform Club

3. Sports Club

4. Dinner’s Club

ОТВЕТ: The cat came from the Reform Club.

9. What words are connected with the term “a massacre”?

1. happy children

2. rich gentlemen

3. many victims

4. dancing women

ОТВЕТ: many victims

10. Выберите нужное существительное:

Do you know any __________ for it?

1. cat

2. cap

3. cart

4. cure

ОТВЕТ: Do you know any cure for it?

11. Выберите нужные глаголы:

I _____ up the animal, and ______ it.

1. take, examined

2. took, examine

3. took, examined

4. will take, examined

ОТВЕТ: I took up the animal, and examined it.

12. Выберите нужный предлог:

Of course, there was a lady __________ the case.

1. in

2. on

3. at

4. from

ОТВЕТ: Of course, there was a lady in the case.

13. Ответьте на вопросы:

1. Why did the cat have the double name?

2. Do you like cats?

3. Do you have pets?

4. What do you like and what don’t you like in pets?

5. What would you do if you were the main character of the story?

6. What is the end of the story?

7. How can you explain the title of the story?

8. Retell the story.

14. Заполните таблицу:

ОТВЕТ:

Portrait of a Lady

My work was waiting for me, but I resisted. The shadow of it darkened all my actions. The thought of it sat beside me at the table, and spoilt my appetite. The memory of it followed me abroad, and stood between me and my friends.

Late in the afternoon we arrived at a village. It lies between three great hills. There is no telegraph here, so the whispers of the world do not come. My friend offered the house of Mistress Cholmondley, a widow, who lived with her daughter in the white cottage.

The tiny house looked very nice, and after a lunch of bread and cheese at the little inn I made my way to it by the path that passes through the churchyard. I pushed the door and entered.

The cottage was interesting, but my hosts disappointed me. My hostess was sleeping in her big chair all day long. She was a woman of between forty and fifty. A narrow, uninteresting woman, she was trying to look much younger.

All other details were, however, most satisfactory; and I tried to work. I wrote for perhaps an hour, and then I threw my pen. I looked about the room. An old book-case stood against the wall. I came nearer. The key was in the lock, I opened glass doors, and examined the shelves. There was a curious collection: novels and poems; whose authors I had never heard of; old magazines, diaries. On the top shelf, however, was a volume of Keats. I tried to take it, a small picture fell down on the floor.

I picked the picture, and took it to the window, and examined it. It was the picture of a young girl, dressed in the fashion of thirty years ago. Her face was beautiful, such as one finds in all miniatures, but with soul behind the soft deep eyes. The sweet lips laughed at me, and there was a sadness in the smile. Even my small knowledge of Art told me that the work was excellent. And it was strangely forgotten in the book-case.

I placed it back, and sat down to my work again. But the face of the miniature did not disappear. It looked out at me from the shadows. I grew angry with myself, and made an effort to fix my mind upon the paper in front of me. But my thoughts refused to return to work. Once, over my shoulder, I saw the girl from the picture – she was sitting in the big chair in the far corner. I closed my eyes and opened them again. There was nobody in the room.

Next morning I forgot the incident, but the light of the lamp awoke the memory of it within me. I took the miniature from its place and looked at it.

And then I understood that I knew the face. Where did I see her, and when? I had met her and spoken to her. The picture smiled at me. I put it back upon its shelf. I tried to recollect my brains. We had met somewhere – in the country – a long time ago, and had talked of usual things. Why had I never seen her again?

My landlady entered to lay my supper, and I questioned her.

“Oh, yes,” answered my landlady. Ladies often lodged with her. Sometimes people stayed the whole summer. They were wandering in the woods. Some of her lodgers were young ladies, but she cannot remember any of them precisely. They came and went away, few people returned.

“Have you offered rooms for a long time?” I asked. “I suppose, fifteen – twenty years, right?”

“Longer than that,” she said quietly. “We came here from the farm when my father died. That is twenty-seven years ago now.”

I hastened to close the conversation. I did not learn much. Who was the girl from the miniature, how the picture came to the dusty book-case were still mysteries. Strangely, I could not put a direct question.

So two days more passed by. My work took gradually my mind, and the face of the miniature visited me less often. But in the evening of the third day, which was a Sunday, a curious thing happened.

I was returning from a walk, and dusk was falling as I reached the cottage. When I was passing the window of my room, I saw the sweet fair face that became so familiar to me. The girl stood close to the window, the beautiful hands clasped across the breast. Her eyes were looking at the road through the village. I was close to the window, but the hedge hid me. After a minute, I suppose, though it appeared longer, the figure drew back into the darkness of the room and disappeared.

I entered, but the room was empty. I called, but no one answered. Am I crazy? This girl appeared not to my brain but to my senses. I do not believe in ghosts, but I believe in the hallucinations of a weak mind, and this explanation was not very satisfactory to myself.

I tried to forget the incident, but it did not leave me. I took out a book at random to amuse myself, a volume of verses by unknown poet. I found that its sentimental passages were marked.

One poem was particularly interesting for the reader. It was the old, old story of the gallant who rides away, leaving the maiden to weep. The poetry was poor. We laugh at these stories, but they are very important for many people.

I wanted to learn more, and next morning while my landlady was clearing away my breakfast things, I asked her once again.

“By the way,” I said, “if I leave any books or papers here, send them to me at once, please”. And I added, “Your lodgers often leave some of their things, I suppose.”

“Not often,” she answered. “Never that I can remember, except in the case of one poor lady who died here.”

I glanced up quickly.

“In this room?” I asked.

“Well, not exactly in this room. We carried her upstairs, but she died immediately. She was dying when she came here. But I did not know that. So many people don’t like houses where death occurred.”

I did not speak for a while.

“What did she leave here?” I asked then.

“Oh, just a few books and photographs, and small things that people bring with them,” was the reply. “Her relatives promised to send for them, but they never did, and I suppose I forgot them. They were not of any value.”

The woman looked at me.

“I hope, you will not go away, sir,” she said. “It all happened a long time ago.

“Of course not,” I answered. “It interested me, that was all.”

And the woman went out, closing the door behind her.

So here was the explanation, if I am ready to accept it. I sat long that morning. And a day or two afterwards I made a discovery that confirmed all my thoughts.

In this same dusty book-case I found a diary with many letters and flowers. So I read the story I already knew.

This was a very old story. He was an artist… – is there a story of this type where the hero is not an artist? They were children together, they loved each other and did not know about that. One day it was revealed to them. These are the words from the diary:–

“May 18th. – I do not know what to say, or how to begin. Chris loves me. He kissed my hands and clasped them round his neck. He was saying they were beautiful as the hands of a goddess, and he knelt and kissed them again. I am holding them before my eyes and kissing them myself. I am glad they are so beautiful. O God, why are you so good to me? Help me to be a true wife to him. Help me love him better,” – and thus foolish thoughts for many pages, but these foolish thoughts keep this worn old world.

Later, in February, there are other words in the diary:–

“Chris left this morning. He put a little packet into my hands at the last moment, and he said it was the most precious thing he possessed. Of course I guessed what it was, but I did not open it till I was alone in my room. It is the picture of myself, but oh, so beautiful. I wonder if I am really as beautiful as this. I am kissing the little lips. I love them, because he loved to kiss them. Oh, sweetheart! it will be long before you kiss them again. Of course it was right for him to go, and I am glad he was able to do it. He could not study in this country place, and now he will be able to go to Paris and Rome and he will be great. Even the stupid people here see how clever he is. But, oh, it will be so long before I see him again, my love! my king!”

With each letter that comes from him, similar foolish words appeared. But his letters grow colder and fewer.

“March 12th. Six weeks and no letter from Chris, and, oh dear! I am so hungry for one, the last letter I kissed many times. I suppose he will write more often when he comes to London. He is working hard, I know, and I am selfish, but o God, help me, help me, whatever happens! How foolish I am tonight! He was always careless. I will punish him when he comes back, but not very much.”

Letters come from him after that, but apparently they are less and less satisfactory, because the diary becomes angry and bitter. Next words appear at the end of another year:–

“It is all over now. I am glad it is finished. I wrote to him, I left him. Freedom is better for us. It is the best way. He did not ask me to release him, he was always gentle. Now he will be able to marry easily, and he will never know what I suffered. She is better for him than I am. I hope he will be happy. I think I have done the right thing.”

A few blank lines follow.

“Why do I lie to myself? I hate her! I want to kill her. I hope that she will make him unhappy, and that he will hate her as I do, and that she will die! Why did I send him that letter? He will show it to her, and she will laugh at me.

“I need him. I want him. I want his kisses and his arms. He is mine! He loved me once! I left him because I wanted to be the saint. Why do I deceive myself? I want him!”

And in the end. “My God, what am I saying? Have I no shame, no strength? O God, help me!”

* * *

And there the diary closes.

I looked among the letters between the pages of the book. Most of them were signed simply “Chris.” or “Christopher.” But one gave his name in full, and it was a name I know well. He is a famous man, I met him. I remember his handsome wife, and his great place, half house, half museum, in Kensington. And I saw the sweet, sad face of the woman of the miniature, she smiled at me from out of the shadows.

I took the miniature from its shelf. I must know her name. So I stood with it in my hand till later my landlady entered to lay the cloth.

“I found this in your book-case,” I said, “when I was taking some books to read. It is someone I know, someone I have met, but I cannot remember where. Do you know who it is?”

The woman took it from my hand.

“I had lost it,” she answered. “It’s a portrait of myself, painted years ago, by a friend.”

I looked from her to the miniature, as she stood among the shadows, the lamplight was falling on her face, and saw her perhaps for the first time.

“How stupid of me,” I answered. «Yes, I see now.»