Читать книгу 33 лучших юмористических рассказа на английском / 33 Best Humorous Short Stories - Каллум Хопкинс, Коллектив авторов, Сборник рецептов - Страница 10

The crash startled me from my self-control. The housekeeper bent toward me and whispered: —

‘Don’t be excited. It’s Mr. Rawjester, – he prefers to come in sometimes in this way. It’s his playfulness, ha! ha! ha!’

‘I perceive,’ I said calmly. ‘It’s the unfettered impulse of a lofty soul breaking the tyrannizing bonds of custom.’ And I turned toward him.

He had never once looked at me. He stood with his back to the fire, which set off the herculean breadth of his shoulders. His face was dark and expressive; his under jaw squarely formed, and remarkably heavy. was struck with his remarkable likeness to a Gorilla.

As he absently tied the poker into hard knots with his nervous fingers, I watched him with some interest. Suddenly he turned toward me: —

‘Do you think I’m handsome, young woman?’

‘Not classically beautiful,’ I returned calmly; ‘but you have, if I may so express myself, an abstract manliness, – a sincere and wholesome barbarity which, involving as it does the naturalness —’ But I stopped, for he yawned at that moment, – an action which singularly developed the immense breadth of his lower jaw, – and I saw he had forgotten me. Presently he turned to the housekeeper: —

‘Leave us.’

The old woman withdrew with a courtesy.

Mr. Rawjester deliberately turned his back upon me and remained silent for twenty minutes. I drew my shawl the more closely around my shoulders and closed my eyes.

‘You are the governess?’ at length he said.

‘I am, sir.’

‘A creature who teaches geography, arithmetic, and the use of the globes – ha! – a wretched remnant of femininity, – a skimp pattern of girlhood with a premature flavor of tea-leaves and morality. Ugh!’

I bowed my head silently.

‘Listen to me, girl!’ he said sternly; ‘this child you have come to teach – my ward – is not legitimate. She is the offspring of my mistress, – a common harlot. Ah! Miss Mix, what do you think of me now?’

‘I admire,’ I replied calmly, ‘your sincerity. A mawkish regard for delicacy might have kept this disclosure to yourself. I only recognize in your frankness that perfect community of thought and sentiment which should exist between original natures.’

I looked up; he had already forgotten my presence, and was engaged in pulling off his boots and coat. This done, he sank down in an arm-chair before the fire, and ran the poker wearily through his hair.

I could not help pitying him.

The wind howled dismally without, and the rain beat furiously against the windows. I crept toward him and seated myself on a low stool beside his chair.

Presently he turned, without seeing me, and placed his foot absently in my lap. I affected not to notice it. But he started and looked down.

‘You here yet – Carrothead? Ah, I forgot. Do you speak French?’

‘Oui, Monsieur.’

‘Taisez-vous!’ he said sharply, with singular purity of accent. I complied. The wind moaned fearfully in the chimney, and the light burned dimly. I shuddered in spite of myself. ‘Ah, you tremble, girl!’

‘It is a fearful night.’

‘Fearful! Call you this fearful, ha! ha! ha! Look! you wretched little atom, look!’ and he dashed forward, and, leaping out of the window, stood like a statue in the pelting storm, with folded arms. He did not stay long, but in a few minutes returned by way of the hall chimney. I saw from the way that he wiped his feet on my dress that he had again forgotten my presence.

‘You are a governess. What can you teach?’ he asked, suddenly and fiercely thrusting his face in mine.

‘Manners!’ I replied, calmly.

‘Ha! teach ME!’

‘You mistake yourself,’ I said, adjusting my mittens. ‘Your manners require not the artificial restraint of society. You are radically polite; this impetuosity and ferociousness is simply the sincerity which is the basis of a proper deportment. Your instincts are moral; your better nature, I see, is religious. As St. Paul justly remarks – see chap. 6, 8, 9, and 10 —’

He seized a heavy candlestick, and threw it at me. I dodged it submissively but firmly.

‘Excuse me,’ he remarked, as his under jaw slowly relaxed. ‘Excuse me, Miss Mix – but I can’t stand St. Paul! Enough – you are engaged.’