Poziom B1 – B2
Lubisz czytać dobre powieści a jednocześnie chcesz doskonalić swój angielski?
Mamy dla Ciebie idealne połączenie!
Klasyka literatury światowej w wersji do nauki języka angielskiego.
CZYTAJ – SŁUCHAJ - ĆWICZ
CZYTAJ – dzięki oryginalnemu angielskiemu tekstowi powieści The Secret Garden przyswajasz nowe słówka, uczysz się ich zastosowania w zdaniach i poszerzasz słownictwo. Wciągająca fabuła książki sprawi, że nie będziesz mógł się oderwać od lektury, co zapewni regularność nauki.
Czytanie tekstów po angielsku to najlepsza metoda nauki angielskiego.
SŁUCHAJ – pobierz bezpłatne nagranie oryginalnego tekstu The Secret Garden dostępne na stronie poltext
Czytaj jednocześnie słuchając nagrania i utrwalaj wymowę.
ĆWICZ – do każdego rozdziału powieści przygotowane zostały specjalne dodatki i ćwiczenia
· na marginesach stron znajdziesz minisłownik i objaśnienia trudniejszych wyrazów;
· w części O słowach poszerzysz słownictwo z danej dziedziny, a w części gramatycznej poznasz struktury i zagadnienia językowe;
· dzięki zamieszczonym na końcu rozdziału testom i różnorodnym ćwiczeniom sprawdzisz rozumienie przeczytanego tekstu;
· odpowiedzi do wszystkich zadań zamkniętych znajdziesz w kluczu na końcu książki.
Przekonaj się, że nauka języka obcego może być przyjemnością, której nie sposób się oprzeć.
POSZERZAJ SŁOWNICTWO – UTRWALAJ – UCZ SIĘ WYMOWY
Po śmierci rodziców jedenastoletnia Mary Lennox wprowadza się do domu wuja. Na terenie ogromnej posiadłości dziewczynka odkrywa zaniedbany ogród, któremu chce przywrócić dawny wygląd. Dzięki temu tajemniczemu miejscu, ale przede wszystkim dzięki przyjaźni niezwykłych ludzi uczy się otwierać na drugiego człowieka.
Ebooka przeczytasz w aplikacjach Legimi na:
Liczba stron: 559
Odsłuch ebooka (TTS) dostepny w abonamencie „ebooki+audiobooki bez limitu” w aplikacjach Legimi na:
Amadeusz Targoński, targoński.pl
Ilustracje na okładce
© Elena Schweitzer | shutterstock.com
© Autorstwa Kostenko Maxim | shutterstock.com
© Autorstwa Sebastian Knight | shutterstock.com
© Autorstwa Oliver Denker | shutterstock.com
Skład i łamanie
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Nagranie, dźwięk i opracowanie muzyczne:
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Wszelkie prawa zastrzeżone. Nieautoryzowane rozpowszechnianie całości lub fragmentów niniejszej publikacji w jakiejkolwiek postaci zabronione. Wykonywanie kopii metodą elektroniczną, fotograficzną, a także kopiowanie książki na nośniku filmowym, magnetycznym, optycznym lub innym powoduje naruszenie praw autorskich niniejszej publikacji. Niniejsza publikacja została elektronicznie zabezpieczona przed nieautoryzowanym kopiowaniem, dystrybucją i użytkowaniem. Usuwanie, omijanie lub zmiana zabezpieczeń stanowi naruszenie prawa.
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ISBN 978-83-7561-910-2 (format epub)
ISBN 978-83-7561-911-9 (format mobi)
„Tajemniczy ogród” (The Secret Garden) w formie książkowej został wydany w 1911 roku. Rok wcześniej ukazywał się jako powieść w odcinkach w dwóch czasopismach – w brytyjskim magazynie dla dzieci oraz, co ciekawe, w amerykańskim piśmie skierowanym do dorosłego czytelnika.
Autorka powieści przyszła na świat w 1849 roku w Manchester. Jej rodzina była stosunkowo zamożna – ojciec Frances prowadził sklep z artykułami żelaznymi. Jednak po jego nagłej śmierci warunki materialne rodziny uległy znacznemu pogorszeniu. Aby utrzymać siebie i dzieci, matka przyszłej powieściopisarki była zmuszona doglądać interesów. Dziewczynką i jej rodzeństwem zajęła się babcia, i właśnie dzięki niej Frances Burnett pokochała książki. Jako mała dziewczynka zabawiała rówieśników opowiadaniem historii, a jej pierwsze próby literackie powstały już w dzieciństwie.
Po kilkunastu latach, w związku z nasilającymi się problemami finansowymi, matka Frances podjęła decyzję o emigracji do Stanów Zjednoczonych, co niestety nie zapewniło rodzinie odmiany losu. Do pisania zmusiły siedemnastoletnią Burnett właśnie problemy materialne – dziewczyna zaczęła publikować w różnych czasopismach, aby wkrótce stać się główną żywicielką rodziny.
Frances H. Burnett z pewnością nie miała łatwego życia. Żadne z jej dwóch małżeństw nie przetrwało próby czasu, a najboleśniejszym ciosem była choroba i śmierć starszego syna pisarki, Lionela. Być może doświadczenia bohaterów „Tajemniczego ogrodu” są związane z emocjami pisarki, jakich doświadczyła po utracie dziecka. Niektórzy sądzą, że inspiracją dla postaci jednego z bohaterów „Tajemniczego ogrodu”, chorowitego i osamotnionego Colina, stanowiła długoletnia choroba drugiego syna pisarki.
Dziś o Frances H. Burnet, autorce kilkudziesięciu powieści i innych utworów dla dzieci i dorosłych, pamięta się właśnie dzięki „Tajemniczemu ogrodowi”. Za życia pisarki większą popularnością cieszyły się „Mała księżniczka” (A Little Princess) i „Mały lord” (Little Lord Fauntleroy). „Tajemniczy ogród” doczekał się kilkunastu adaptacji filmowych (pierwszej w 1919 roku) i teatralnych, i nieustannie cieszy się zainteresowaniem czytelników. Nie tylko dlatego, że fabuła książki to wciągająca i wzruszająca opowieść o losach kilkorga zagubionych ludzi. Autorka porusza istotne i dotyczące nas wszystkich problemy, takie jak utrata bliskich, choroba, samotność, siła przyjaźni. Największą jednak zaletą książki są chyba osobowości jej bohaterów – dzieci określanych jako „zepsute”, rozpieszczone, egoistyczne i niewrażliwe. To naprawdę ciekawe postaci, które nie mają nic wspólnego z przesłodzonymi, idealnymi bohaterami, jakich możemy spotkać na kartach utworów z tego samego okresu.
Opracowany przez nas podręcznik oparty na oryginalnym tekście powieści został skonstruowany według przejrzystego schematu.
marginesach tekstu podano objaśnienia trudniejszych wyrazów.
Uwaga! Dialekt, którym posługują się niektórzy bohaterowie powieści, zawiera również niestandardowe formy gramatyczne (np. I’ve knowed).
W objaśnieniach trudniejszych wyrazów użyto następujących skrótów:
l.m. – liczba mnoga
sb – somebody (ktoś)
sth – something (coś)
oneself – się
zakończony krótkim testem sprawdzającym stopień rozumienia tekstu.
po każdym rozdziale dział
poświęcony poszerzeniu słownictwa z danej dziedziny, synonimom, wyrazom kłopotliwym, phrasal verbs oraz wyrażeniom idiomatycznym.
zagadnienia gramatyczne, ilustrowane fragmentami poszczególnych części powieści.
dociekliwych został również opracowany komentarz do wybranych tematów związanych z
kulturą i historią
Różnorodne ćwiczenia pozwolą Czytelnikowi powtórzyć i sprawdzić omówione w podręczniku zagadnienia leksykalne i gramatyczne. Alfabetyczny wykaz wyrazów objaśnianych na marginesie tekstu znajduje się w słowniczku. Odpowiedzi do wszystkich zadań zamkniętych są podane w kluczu na końcu książki.
When Mary Lennox was sent to Misselthwaite Manor to live with her uncle everybody said she was the most disagreeable-looking child ever seen. It was true, too. She had a little thin face and a little thin body, thin light hair and a sourexpression. Her hair was yellow, and her face was yellow because she had been born in India and had always been ill in one way or another. Her father had held a position under the English Government and had always been busy and ill himself, and her mother had been a great beauty who cared only to go to parties and amuse herself with gay people. She had not wanted a little girl at all, and when Mary was born she handed her over to the care of an Ayah, who was made to understand that if she wished to please the Mem Sahib she must keep the child out of sight as much as possible. So when she was a sickly, fretful, ugly little baby she was kept out of the way, and when she became a sickly, fretful, toddling thing she was kept out of the way also. She never remembered seeing familiarly anything but the dark faces of her Ayah and the other nativeservants, and as they always obeyed her and gave her her own way in everything, because the Mem Sahib would be angry if she was disturbed by her crying, by the time she was six years old she was as tyrannical andselfish a little pig as ever lived. The young English governess who came to teach her to read and write disliked her so much that she gave up her place in three months, and when other governesses came to try to fill it they always went away in a shorter time than the first one. So if Mary had not chosen to really want to know how to read books she would never have learned her letters at all.
One frightfully hot morning, when she was about nine years old, she awakened feeling very cross, and she became crosser still when she saw that the servant who stood by her bedside was not her Ayah.
“Why did you come?” she said to the strange woman. “I will not let you stay. Send my Ayah to me.”
The woman looked frightened, but she only stammered that the Ayah could not come and when Mary threw herself into a passion and beat and kicked her, she looked only more frightened and repeated that it was not possible for the Ayah to come to Missie Sahib.
There was something mysterious in the air that morning. Nothing was done in its regular order and several of the native servants seemed missing, while those whom Mary saw slunk or hurried about with ashy and scared faces. But no one would tell her anything and her Ayah did not come. She was actually left alone as the morning went on, and at last she wandered out into the garden and began to play by herself under a tree near the veranda. She pretended that she was making a flower-bed, and she stuck big scarlethibiscusblossoms into little heaps of earth, all the time growing more and more angry and muttering to herself the things she would say and the names she would call Saidie when she returned.
“Pig! Pig! Daughter of Pigs!” she said, because to call a native a pig is the worst insult of all.
She was grinding her teeth and saying this over and over again when she heard her mother come out on the veranda with some one. She was with a fair young man and they stood talking together in low strange voices. Mary knew the fair young man who looked like a boy. She had heard that he was a very young officer who had just come from England. The child stared at him, but she stared most at her mother. She always did this when she had a chance to see her, because the Mem Sahib – Mary used to call her that oftener than anything else – was such a tall, slim, pretty person and wore such lovely clothes. Her hair was like curly silk and she had a delicate little nose which seemed to be disdaining things, and she had large laughing eyes. All her clothes were thin and floating, and Mary said they were “full of lace.” They looked fuller of lace than ever this morning, but her eyes were not laughing at all. They were large and scared and lifted imploringly to the fair boy officer’s face.
“Is it so very bad? Oh, is it?” Mary heard her say.
“Awfully,” the young man answered in a trembling voice. “Awfully, Mrs. Lennox. You ought to have gone to the hills two weeks ago.”
The Mem Sahib wrung her hands.
“Oh, I know I ought!” she cried. “I only stayed to go to that silly dinner party. What a fool I was!”
At that very moment such a loud sound of wailing broke out from the servants’ quarters that she clutched the young man’s arm, and Mary stood shivering from head to foot. The wailing grew wilder and wilder. “What is it? What is it?” Mrs. Lennox gasped.
“Some one has died,” answered the boy officer. “You did not say it had broken out among your servants.”
“I did not know!” the Mem Sahib cried. “Come with me! Come with me!” and she turned and ran into the house.
After that, appalling things happened, and the mysteriousness of the morning was explained to Mary. The cholera had broken out in its most fatal form and people were dying like flies. The Ayah had been taken ill in the night, and it was because she had just died that the servants had wailed in the huts. Before the next day three other servants were dead and others had run away in terror. There was panic on every side, and dying people in all the bungalows.
During the confusion andbewilderment of the second day Mary hid herself in the nursery and was forgotten by everyone. Nobody thought of her, nobody wanted her, and strange things happened of which she knew nothing. Mary alternately cried and slept through the hours. She only knew that people were ill and that she heard mysterious and frightening sounds. Once she crept into the dining-room and found it empty, though a partly finished meal was on the table and chairs and plates looked as if they had been hastily pushed back when the diners rose suddenly for some reason. The child ate some fruit and biscuits, and being thirsty she drank a glass of wine which stood nearly filled. It was sweet, and she did not know how strong it was. Very soon it made her intenselydrowsy, and she went back to her nursery and shut herself in again, frightened by cries she heard in the huts and by the hurrying sound of feet. The wine made her so sleepy that she could scarcely keep her eyes open and she lay down on her bed and knew nothing more for a long time.
Many things happened during the hours in which she slept so heavily, but she was not disturbed by the wails and the sound of things being carried in and out of the bungalow.
When she awakened she lay and stared at the wall. The house was perfectly still. She had never known it to be so silent before. She heard neither voices nor footsteps, andwondered if everybody had got well of the cholera and all the trouble was over. She wondered also who would take care of her now her Ayah was dead. There would be a new Ayah, and perhaps she would know some new stories. Mary had been rather tired of the old ones. She did not cry because her nurse had died. She was not an affectionate child and had never cared much for any one. The noise and hurrying about and wailing over the cholera had frightened her, and she had been angry because no one seemed to remember that she was alive. Everyone was too panic-stricken to think of a little girl no one was fond of. When people had the cholera it seemed that they remembered nothing but themselves. But if everyone had got well again, surely some one would remember and come to look for her.
But no one came, and as she lay waiting the house seemed to grow more and more silent. She heard something rustling on the matting and when she looked down she saw a little snake gliding along and watching her with eyes like jewels. She was not frightened, because he was a harmless little thing who would not hurt her and he seemed in a hurry to get out of the room. He slipped under the door as she watched him.
“How queer and quiet it is,” she said. “It sounds as if there were no one in the bungalow but me and the snake.”
Almost the next minute she heard footsteps in the compound, and then on the veranda. They were men’s footsteps, and the men entered the bungalow and talked in low voices. No one went to meet or speak to them and they seemed to open doors and look into rooms. “What desolation!” she heard one voice say. “That pretty, pretty woman! I suppose the child, too. I heard there was a child, though no one ever saw her.”
Mary was standing in the middle of the nursery when they opened the door a few minutes later. She looked an ugly, cross little thing and was frowning because she was beginning to be hungry and feel disgracefullyneglected. The first man who came in was a large officer she had once seen talking to her father. He looked tired and troubled, but when he saw her he was so startled that he almost jumped back.
“Barney!” he cried out. “There is a child here! A child alone! In a place like this! Mercy on us, who is she!”
“I am Mary Lennox,” the little girl said, drawing herself upstiffly. She thought the man was very rude to call her father’s bungalow “A place like this!” “I fell asleep when everyone had the cholera and I have only just wakened up. Why does nobody come?”
“It is the child no one ever saw!” exclaimed the man, turning to his companions. “She has actually been forgotten!”
“Why was I forgotten?” Mary said, stamping her foot. “Why does nobody come?”
The young man whose name was Barney looked at her very sadly. Mary even thought she saw him wink his eyes as if to wink tears away.
“Poor little kid!” he said. “There is nobody left to come.”
It was in that strange and sudden way that Mary found out that she had neither father nor mother left; that they had died and been carried away in the night, and that the few native servants who had not died also had left the house as quickly as they could get out of it, none of them even remembering that there was a Missie Sahib. That was why the place was so quiet. It was true that there was no one in the bungalow but herself and the little rustling snake.
Mary had liked to look at her mother from a distance and she had thought her very pretty, but as she knew very little of her she could scarcely have been expected to love her or to miss her very much when she was gone. She did not miss her at all, in fact, and as she was a self-absorbed child she gave her entire thought to herself, as she had always done. If she had been older she would no doubt have been very anxious at being left alone in the world, but she was very young, and as she had always been taken care of, she supposed she always would be. What she thought was that she would like to know if she was going to nice people, who would be polite to her and give her her own way as her Ayah and the other native servants had done.
She knew that she was not going to stay at the English clergyman’s house where she was taken at first. She did not want to stay. The English clergyman was poor and he had five children nearly all the same age and they wore shabby clothes and were always quarreling and snatching toys from each other. Mary hated their untidy bungalow and was so disagreeable to them that after the first day or two nobody would play with her. By the second day they had given her a nickname which made her furious.
It was Basil who thought of it first. Basil was a little boy with impudent blue eyes and a turned-up nose, and Mary hated him. She was playing by herself under a tree, just as she had been playing the day the cholera broke out. She was making heaps of earth and paths for a garden and Basil came and stood near to watch her. Presently he got rather interested and suddenly made a suggestion.
“Why don’t you put a heap of stones there and pretend it is a rockery?” he said. “There in the middle,” and he leaned over her to point.
“Go away!” cried Mary. “I don’t want boys. Go away!”
For a moment Basil looked angry, and then he began to tease. He was always teasing his sisters. He danced round and round her and made faces and sang and laughed.
“Mistress Mary, quite contrary,
How does your garden grow?
Withsilver bells, andcockle shells,
And marigolds all in a row.”
He sang it until the other children heard and laughed, too; and the crosser Mary got, the more they sang “Mistress Mary, quite contrary”; and after that as long as she stayed with them they called her “Mistress Mary Quite Contrary” when they spoke of her to each other, and often when they spoke to her.
“You are going to be sent home,” Basil said to her, “at the end of the week. And we’re glad of it.”
“I am glad of it, too,” answered Mary. “Where is home?”
“She doesn’t know where home is!” said Basil, with seven-year-old scorn. “It’s England, of course. Our grandmama lives there and our sister Mabel was sent to her last year. You are not going to your grandmama. You have none. You are going to your uncle. His name is Mr. Archibald Craven.”
“I don’t know anything about him,” snapped Mary.
“I know you don’t,” Basil answered. “You don’t know anything. Girls never do. I heard father and mother talking about him. He lives in a great, big, desolate old house in the country and no one goes near him. He’s so cross he won’t let them, and they wouldn’t come if he would let them. He’s a hunchback, and he’s horrid.” “I don’t believe you,” said Mary; and she turned her back and stuck her fingers in her ears, because she would not listen any more.
But she thought over it a great deal afterward; and when Mrs. Crawford told her that night that she was going to sail away to England in a few days and go to her uncle, Mr. Archibald Craven, who lived at Misselthwaite Manor, she looked so stony andstubbornly uninterested that they did not know what to think about her. They tried to be kind to her, but she only turned her face away when Mrs. Crawford attempted to kiss her, and held herself stiffly when Mr. Crawford patted her shoulder.
“She is such a plain child,” Mrs. Crawford said pityingly, afterward. “And her mother was such a pretty creature. She had a very pretty manner, too, and Mary has the most unattractive ways I ever saw in a child. The children call her ‘Mistress Mary Quite Contrary,’ and though it’s naughty of them, one can’t help understanding it.”
“Perhaps if her mother had carried her pretty face and her pretty manners oftener into the nursery Mary might have learned some pretty ways too. It is very sad, now the poor beautiful thing is gone, to remember that many people never even knew that she had a child at all.”
“I believe she scarcely ever looked at her,” sighed Mrs. Crawford. “When her Ayah was dead there was no one to give a thought to the little thing. Think of the servants running away and leaving her all alone in that deserted bungalow. Colonel McGrew said he nearly jumped out of his skin when he opened the door and found her standing by herself in the middle of the room.”
Mary made the long voyage to England under the care of an officer’s wife, who was taking her children to leave them in a boarding-school. She was very much absorbed in her own little boy and girl, and was rather glad to hand the child over to the woman Mr. Archibald Craven sent to meet her, in London. The woman was his housekeeper at Misselthwaite Manor, and her name was Mrs. Medlock. She was a stout woman, with very red cheeks and sharp black eyes. She wore a very purple dress, a black silk mantle withjetfringe on it and a black bonnet with purple velvet flowers which stuck up and trembled when she moved her head. Mary did not like her at all, but as she very seldom liked people there was nothing remarkable in that; besides which it was very evident Mrs. Medlock did not think much of her.
“My word! she’s a plain little piece of goods!” she said. “And we’d heard that her mother was a beauty. She hasn’t handed much of it down, has she, ma’am?” “Perhaps she will improve as she grows older,” the officer’s wife said good-naturedly. “If she were not so sallow and had a nicer expression, her features are rather good. Children alter so much.”
“She’ll have to alter a good deal,” answered Mrs. Medlock. “And, there’s nothing likely to improve children at Misselthwaite – if you ask me!” They thought Mary was not listening because she was standing a little apart from them at the window of the private hotel they had gone to. She was watching the passing buses and cabs and people, but she heard quite well and was made very curious about her uncle and the place he lived in. What sort of a place was it, and what would he be like? What was a hunchback? She had never seen one. Perhaps there were none in India.
Since she had been living in other people’s houses and had had no Ayah, she had begun to feel lonely and to think queer thoughts which were new to her. She had begun to wonder why she had never seemed to belong to anyone even when her father and mother had been alive. Other children seemed to belong to their fathers and mothers, but she had never seemed to really be anyone’s little girl. She had had servants, and food and clothes, but no one had taken any notice of her. She did not know that this was because she was a disagreeable child; but then, of course, she did not know she was disagreeable. She often thought that other people were, but she did not know that she was so herself.
She thought Mrs. Medlock the most disagreeable person she had ever seen, with her common, highly colored face and her common fine bonnet. When the next day they set out on their journey to Yorkshire, she walked through the station to the railway carriage with her head up and trying to keep as far away from her as she could, because she did not want to seem to belong to her. It would have made her angry to think people imagined she was her little girl.
But Mrs. Medlock was not in the least disturbed by her and her thoughts. She was the kind of woman who would “stand no nonsense from young ones.” At least, that is what she would have said if she had been asked. She had not wanted to go to London just when her sister Maria’s daughter was going to be married, but she had a comfortable, well paid place as housekeeper at Misselthwaite Manor and the only way in which she could keep it was to do at once what Mr. Archibald Craven told her to do. She never dared even to ask a question.
“Captain Lennox and his wife died of the cholera,” Mr. Craven had said in his short, cold way. “Captain Lennox was my wife’s brother and I am their daughter’s guardian. The child is to be brought here. You must go to London and bring her yourself.”
So she packed her small trunk and made the journey.
Mary sat in her corner of the railway carriage and looked plain andfretful. She had nothing to read or to look at, and she had folded her thin little black-gloved hands in her lap. Her black dress made her look yellower than ever, and her limp light hair straggled from under her black crepe hat.
“A more marred-looking young one I never saw in my life,” Mrs. Medlock thought. (Marred is a Yorkshire word and means spoiled andpettish.) She had never seen a child who sat so still without doing anything; and at last she got tired of watching her and began to talk in a brisk, hard voice.
“I suppose I may as well tell you something about where you are going to,” she said. “Do you know anything about your uncle?”
“No,” said Mary.
“Never heard your father and mother talk about him?”
“No,” said Mary frowning. She frowned because she remembered that her father and mother had never talked to her about anything in particular. Certainly they had never told her things.
“Humph,” muttered Mrs. Medlock, staring at her queer, unresponsive little face. She did not say any more for a few moments and then she began again.
“I suppose you might as well be told something – to prepare you. You are going to a queer place.”
Mary said nothing at all, and Mrs. Medlock looked rather discomfited by her apparentindifference, but, after taking a breath, she went on.
“Not but that it’s a grand big place in a gloomy way, and Mr. Craven’s proud of it in his way – and that’s gloomy enough, too. The house is six hundred years old and it’s on the edge of the moor, and there’s near a hundred rooms in it, though most of them’s shut up and locked. And there’s pictures and fine old furniture and things that’s been there for ages, and there’s a big park round it and gardens and trees with branches trailing to the ground – some of them.” She paused and took another breath. “But there’s nothing else,” she ended suddenly.
Mary had begun to listen in spite of herself. It all sounded so unlike India, and anything new rather attracted her. But she did not intend to look as if she were interested. That was one of her unhappy, disagreeable ways. So she sat still.
“Well,” said Mrs. Medlock. “What do you think of it?”
“Nothing,” she answered. “I know nothing about such places.”
That made Mrs. Medlock laugh a short sort of laugh.
“Eh!” she said, “but you are like an old woman. Don’t you care?”
“It doesn’t matter” said Mary, “whether I care or not.”
“You are right enough there,” said Mrs. Medlock. “It doesn’t. What you’re to be kept at Misselthwaite Manor for I don’t know, unless because it’s the easiest way. He’s not going to trouble himself about you, that’s sure and certain. He never troubles himself about no one.”
She stopped herself as if she had just remembered something in time.
“He’s got a crooked back,” she said. “That set him wrong. He was a sour young man and got no good of all his money and big place till he was married.”
Mary’s eyes turned toward her in spite of her intention not to seem to care. She had never thought of the hunchback’s being married and she was a trifle surprised. Mrs. Medlock saw this, and as she was a talkative woman she continued with more interest. This was one way of passing some of the time, at any rate.
“She was a sweet, pretty thing and he’d have walked the world over to get her a bladeo’ grass she wanted. Nobody thought she’d marry him, but she did, and people said she married him for his money. But she didn’t – she didn’t,” positively. “When she died – “
Mary gave a little involuntary jump.
“Oh! did she die!” she exclaimed, quite without meaning to. She had just remembered a French fairy story she had once read called “Riquet a la Houppe.” It had been about a poor hunchback and a beautiful princess and it had made her suddenly sorry for Mr. Archibald Craven.
“Yes, she died,” Mrs. Medlock answered. “And it made him queerer than ever. He cares about nobody. He won’t see people. Most of the time he goes away, and when he is at Misselthwaite he shuts himself up in the West Wing and won’t let any one but Pitcher see him. Pitcher’s an old fellow, but he took care of him when he was a child and he knows his ways.”
It sounded like something in a book and it did not make Mary feel cheerful. A house with a hundred rooms, nearly all shut up and with their doors locked – a house on the edge of a moor – whatsoever a moor was – sounded dreary. A man with a crooked back who shut himself up also! She stared out of the window with her lips pinched together, and it seemed quite natural that the rain should have begun to pour down in gray slanting lines and splash and stream down the window-panes. If the pretty wife had been alive she might have made things cheerful by being something like her own mother and by running in and out and going to parties as she had done in frocks “full of lace.” But she was not there any more.
“You needn’t expect to see him, because ten to one you won’t,” said Mrs. Medlock. “And you mustn’t expect that there will be people to talk to you. You’ll have to play about and look after yourself. You’ll be told what rooms you can go into and what rooms you’re to keep out of. There’s gardens enough. But when you’re in the house don’t go wandering and poking about. Mr. Craven won’t have it.”
“I shall not want to go poking about,” said sour little Mary and just as suddenly as she had begun to be rather sorry for Mr. Archibald Craven she began to cease to be sorry and to think he was unpleasant enough to deserve all that had happened to him.
And she turned her face toward the streaming panes of the window of the railway carriage and gazed out at the gray rain-storm which looked as if it would go on forever and ever. She watched it so long and steadily that the grayness grew heavier and heavier before her eyes and she fell asleep.
She slept a long time, and when she awakened Mrs. Medlock had bought a lunchbasket at one of the stations and they had some chicken and cold beef and bread and butter and some hot tea. The rain seemed to be streaming down more heavily than ever and everybody in the station wore wet and glisteningwaterproofs. The guard lighted the lamps in the carriage, and Mrs. Medlock cheered up very much over her tea and chicken and beef. She ate a great deal and afterward fell asleep herself, and Mary sat and stared at her and watched her fine bonnet slip on one side until she herself fell asleep once more in the corner of the carriage, lulled by the splashing of the rain against the windows. It was quite dark when she awakened again. The train had stopped at a station and Mrs. Medlock was shaking her.
“You have had a sleep!” she said. “It’s time to open your eyes! We’re at Thwaite Station and we’ve got a long drive before us.”
Mary stood up and tried to keep her eyes open while Mrs. Medlock collected herparcels. The little girl did not offer to help her, because in India native servants always picked up or carried things and it seemed quite proper that other people should wait on one.
The station was a small one and nobody but themselves seemed to be getting out of the train. The station-master spoke to Mrs. Medlock in a rough, good-naturedway, pronouncing his words in a queer broadfashion which Mary found out afterward was Yorkshire.
“I see tha’s got back,” he said. “An’ tha’s browt th’ young‘un withthee.”
“Aye, that’s her,” answered Mrs. Medlock, speaking with a Yorkshire accent herself and jerking her head over her shoulder toward Mary. “How’s thy Missus?”
“Well enow. Th’ carriage is waitin’ outside for thee.”
A brougham stood on the road before the little outside platform. Mary saw that it was a smart carriage and that it was a smart footman who helped her in. His long waterproof coat and the waterproof covering of his hat were shining and dripping with rain as everything was, the burly station-masterincluded.
When he shut the door, mounted the box with the coachman, and they drove off, the little girl found herself seated in a comfortably cushioned corner, but she was not inclined to go to sleep again. She sat and looked out of the window, curious to see something of the road over which she was being driven to the queer place Mrs. Medlock had spoken of. She was not at all a timid child and she was not exactly frightened, but she felt that there was no knowing what might happen in a house with a hundred rooms nearly all shut up – a house standing on the edge of a moor.
“What is a moor?” she said suddenly to Mrs. Medlock.
“Look out of the window in about ten minutes and you’ll see,” the woman answered. “We’ve got to drive five miles across Missel Moor before we get to the Manor. You won’t see much because it’s a dark night, but you can see something.”
Mary asked no more questions but waited in the darkness of her corner, keeping her eyes on the window. The carriage lamps cast rays of light a little distance ahead of them and she caught glimpses of the things they passed. After they had left the station they had driven through a tiny village and she had seen whitewashedcottages and the lights of a public house. Then they had passed a church and a vicarage and a little shop-window or so in a cottage with toys and sweets and odd things set out for sale. Then they were on the highroad and she saw hedges and trees. After that there seemed nothing different for a long time – or at least it seemed a long time to her.
At last the horses began to go more slowly, as if they were climbing up-hill, and presently there seemed to be no more hedges and no more trees. She could see nothing, in fact, but a dense darkness on either side. She leaned forward and pressed her face against the window just as the carriage gave a big jolt.
“Eh! We’re on the moor now sure enough,” said Mrs. Medlock.
The carriage lamps shed a yellow light on a rough-looking road which seemed to be cut through bushes and low-growing things which ended in the great expanse of dark apparentlyspread out before and around them. A wind was rising and making a singular, wild, low, rushing sound.
“It’s – it’s not the sea, is it?” said Mary, looking round at her companion.
“No, not it,” answered Mrs. Medlock. “Nor it isn’t fields nor mountains, it’s just miles and miles and miles of wild land that nothing grows on but heather andgorse andbroom, and nothing lives on but wild ponies and sheep.”
“I feel as if it might be the sea, if there were water on it,” said Mary. “It sounds like the sea just now.”
“That’s the wind blowing through the bushes,” Mrs. Medlock said. “It’s a wild, dreary enough place to my mind, though there’s plenty that likes it – particularly when the heather’s in bloom.”
On and on they drove through the darkness, and though the rain stopped, the wind rushed by and whistled and made strange sounds. The road went up and down, and several times the carriage passed over a little bridge beneath which water rushed very fast with a great deal of noise. Mary felt as if the drive would never come to an end and that the wide, bleak moor was a wide expanse of black ocean through which she was passing on a strip of dry land.
“I don’t like it,” she said to herself. “I don’t like it,” and she pinched her thin lips more tightly together.
The horses were climbing up a hilly piece of road when she first caught sight of a light. Mrs. Medlock saw it as soon as she did and drew a long sigh of relief.
“Eh, I am glad to see that bit o’ light twinkling,” sheexclaimed. “It’s the light in the lodge window. We shall get a good cup of tea after a bit, at all events.”
It was “after a bit,” as she said, for when the carriage passed through the park gates there was still two miles of avenue to drive through and the trees (which nearly met overhead) made it seem as if they were driving through a long dark vault.
They drove out of the vault into a clear space and stopped before an immensely long but low-built house which seemed to ramble round a stone court. At first Mary thought that there were no lights at all in the windows, but as she got out of the carriage she saw that one room in a corner upstairs showed a dullglow.
The entrance door was a huge one made of massive, curiously shaped panels of oakstudded with big ironnails andbound with great iron bars. It opened into an enormous hall, which was so dimly lighted that the faces in the portraits on the walls and the figures in the suits of armor made Mary feel that she did not want to look at them. As she stood on the stone floor she looked a very small, odd little black figure, and she felt as small and lost and odd as she looked.
A neat, thin old man stood near the manservant who opened the door for them.
“You are to take her to her room,” he said in a husky voice. “He doesn’t want to see her. He’s going to London in the morning.”
“Very well, Mr. Pitcher,” Mrs. Medlock answered. “So long as I know what’s expected of me, I can manage.”
“What’s expected of you, Mrs. Medlock,” Mr. Pitcher said, “is that you make sure that he’s not disturbed and that he doesn’t see what he doesn’t want to see.”
And then Mary Lennox was led up a broad staircase and down a long corridor and up a short flight of steps and through another corridor and another, until a door opened in a wall and she found herself in a room with a fire in it and a supper on a table.
Mrs. Medlock said unceremoniously:
“Well, here you are! This room and the next are where you’ll live—and you must keep to them. Don’t you forget that!”
It was in this way Mistress Mary arrived at Misselthwaite Manor and she had perhaps never felt quite so contrary in all her life.
Zaznacz właściwą odpowiedź (A, B lub C).
1. Mary’s mother was
A) beautiful and fond of her daughter.
B) caring and cheerful.
C) popular and good-looking.
2. Mary becomes an orphan
A) because of a terrible disease.
B) and her nurse takes care of her.
C) and nobody takes care of her.
3. When she lives with the clergyman’s family, Mary
A) makes friends with his children.
B) learns about a relative she’s never heard of.
C) learns a lot about gardening, which she enjoys.
4. Mrs. Medlock
A) is sympathetic and caring.
B) tells Mary how nice Misselthwaite Manor is.
C) forbids Mary to explore the mansion.
5. On her journey to Misselthwaite, Mary feels
A) curious and excited.
B) lonely and puzzled.
C) curious and tired.
„Other children seemed to belong to their fathers and mothers, but she had never seemed to really be anyone’s little girl.”
Seem (wydawać się, zdawać się, wyglądać na coś, sprawiać wrażenie) to czasownik, którego używa się na kilka sposobów. Seem na ogół nie przyjmuje formy ciągłej (z końcówką ing).
Seem łączy się często z przymiotnikiem, np.:
Luke seems upset these days.
Luke ostatnio wydaje się przygnębiony.
Our new teacher seemed extremely strict at the beginning.
Nasz nowy nauczyciel na początku sprawiał wrażenie okropnie surowego.
Seem łączy się również z rzeczownikiem, np.:
Tony seems a shy and quiet boy.
Tony wygląda na nieśmiałego i cichego chłopca.
It seemed the best choice.
Ten wybór wydawał się najlepszy.
Po konstrukcji it seems/it seemed (wydaje się/wydawało się) może się również pojawić całe zdanie, które wprowadzamy za pomocą that (że), as if (jakby, jak gdyby) lub as though (jakby, jak gdyby), np.:
It seems that everyone’s enjoying the party.
Wydaje się, że wszyscy dobrze się bawią na przyjęciu.
It seemed as though he hated the new job.
Sprawiał wrażenie, jakby nie znosił nowej pracy.
Jeśli chcemy podkreślić, że komu coś się wydaje, wprowadzamy tę osobę za pomocą przyimka to, np.:
It seems to me that Mary has fallen in love.
Wydaje mi się, że Mary się zakochała.
Seem łączy się również z bezokolicznikiem z to, np.:
David seems to worry too much.
Zdaje się, że David za bardzo się martwi.
W tej konstrukcji po seem często występuje to be, np.:
David often seems to be worried.
David często sprawia wrażenie zmartwionego.
“The Secret Garden” seems to be an interesting novel.
„Tajemniczy ogród” wydaje się (być) interesującą powieścią.
„She did not cry because her nurse had died.”
Wyróżniony fragment zdania to przykład zastosowania czasu Past Perfect Simple. Czasu tego używa się do opisu sytuacji, która wydarzyła się jeszcze wcześniej niż inne zdarzenie z przeszłości. Z przytoczonego cytatu dowiadujemy się, że Mary nie płakała po śmierci swojej niani – wiadomo, że niania umarła przed obojętną reakcją naszej bohaterki. Przyjrzyj się poniższym przykładom:
After we had arrived in London, our hosts invited us to a restaurant.
Po tym, jak przybyliśmy do Londynu, nasi gospodarze zaprosili nas do restauracji.
You hadn’t revised before the test and that’s why you failed it.
Nie powtórzyłeś przed testem i dlatego go nie zdałeś.
Czas Past Perfect Simple tworzymy według następującego schematu:
podmiot + had + past participle (trzecia forma czasownika)
Robert had practised a lot.
Robert dużo ćwiczył.
podmiot + had not (hadn’t) + past participle (trzecia forma czasownika)
Josie hadn’t met us.
Josie nie spotkała/poznała nas.
(słówko pytające) +had + podmiot + past participle (trzecia forma czasownika)
Why had they opened the shop?
Dlaczego otworzyli sklep?
Czasu Past Perfect używamy wtedy, gdy zaznaczamy kolejność zdarzeń z przeszłości, np.:
Robert had practised a lot before he took part in the contest.
Robert dużo ćwiczył zanim wziął udział w konkursie.
Josie hadn’t met us before she moved to Paris.
Josie nie poznała nas przed tym, jak przeprowadziła się do Paryża.
Why had they opened the shop before any customers were able to come?
Dlaczego otworzyli sklep zanim klienci byli w stanie przyjść?
Had they ever tried Indian food before we cooked for them?
Czy kiedykolwiek próbowali indyjskiej kuchni zanim ugotowaliśmy coś dla nich?
Past Perfect na ogół nie stosujemy, gdy dwie sytuacje z przeszłości nastąpiły w niewielkim odstępie czasu.
Riquet a la Houppe(„Knyps z Czubkiem”) to francuska baśń, której współczesną wersję zawdzięczamy Charlesowi Perraultowi (1628–1703), najsłynniejszemu bajkopisarzowi epoki baroku. W krajach anglojęzycznych opowieść nosi tytuł Riquet with the Tuft (niekiedy Ricky of the Tuft).
Baśń zaczyna się sceną przyjścia na świat głównego bohatera, księcia Knypsa. Chłopiec, ku wielkiemu utrapieniu królowej matki, urodził się koszmarnie brzydki. Na domiar złego na czubku jego głowy kołysała się pokaźnych rozmiarów kępka włosów – tytułowy „czubek”. Obecna przy narodzinach Knypsa wróżka pocieszyła władczynię zapewnieniem, że mimo niedostatków urody dziecko wyrośnie na mężczyznę nieprzeciętnie mądrego. Dodatkowo obdarzyła malca szczególnym darem – książę otrzymał moc pozwalającą podzielić się inteligencją z osobą, którą pokocha najbardziej na świecie.
Tymczasem w sąsiednim królestwie przyszły na świat dwie księżniczki. Starsza z dziewczynek była skończenie pięknym dzieckiem, rysy młodszej natomiast od początku raziły szpetotą. Wróżka, ta sama która towarzyszyła narodzinom Knypsa, zapowiedziała stropionej matce, że starsza wyrośnie na dziewczynę równie głupią, jak urodziwą, a młodsza – odwrotnie – będzie równie mądra, jak odstręczająca. W ramach prezentu, aby choć trochę zrekompensować starszej siostrze brak inteligencji, czarodziejka obdarzyła ją mocą przekazania urody mężczyźnie, który zdobędzie jej serce.
Mijały lata. Księżniczki rosły i nadeszła w końcu pora, aby myśleć o zamążpójściu. Przy okazji dworskich uczt i balów starsza siostra – piękna i głupia – zwabiała do siebie wszystkich kandydatów, lecz ci uciekali natychmiast, gdy tylko uświadamiali sobie, że nie sposób zamienić z nią choćby kilku zdań ciekawej rozmowy. W efekcie jako pierwsza znalazła męża księżniczka młodsza – brzydka, lecz obdarzona rozumem.
Pewnego dnia zasmucona starsza siostra wybrała się na spacer do lasu, w którym spotkała szkaradnego młodzieńca w eleganckim stroju. Był to książę z sąsiedniego królestwa, Knyps z Czubkiem. Zaczęli rozmawiać i dziewczyna uskarżała się na swój los. Knyps nie był w stanie zrozumieć, dlaczego osoba tak piękna nie jest szczęśliwa. Kiedy o to zapytał, usłyszał w odpowiedzi, że wolałaby stracić urodę, byle tylko zyskać nieco rozumu.
Książę zakochał się od pierwszego wejrzenia. Znajomość trwała. Przy okazji jednego z następnych spotkań Knyps wyznał, iż posiada dar, pozwalający mu obdarzyć mądrością osobę, którą pokocha najbardziej na świecie. Dodał, że to właśnie w niej się zakochał i oświadczył się. Księżniczka – zrażona brzydotą kandydata – nie odpowiedziała od razu. Widząc wahanie wybranki, Knyps zapowiedział, że jest w stanie zaczekać na odpowiedź przez okrągły rok. Wtedy dziewczyna uznała, iż rok to bardzo dużo czasu i przyjęła oświadczyny szpetnego księcia.
Dar Knypsa zadziałał. Dziewczyna, od urodzenia piękna jak malowanie, nabrała mądrości, a że rodzice wciąż starali się wydać ją za mąż na dworze, ponownie zaroiło się od chętnych do żeniaczki kawalerów. Tym razem wielu odtrącała sama – wszak nie była już głupia – lecz ostatecznie jeden z kandydatów bardzo przypadł jej do gustu.
Nie chcąc podjąć tak poważnej decyzji pochopnie, wybrała się na spacer po lesie i traf sprawił, że był to las, w którym rok wcześniej spotkała Knypsa. W pewnym momencie usłyszała jakieś hałasy i ujrzała na polanie grupę leśnych skrzatów, uwijających się wokół stołów. Gdy zapytała, co robią, usłyszała, że przygotowują ucztę na jutrzejsze wesele Knypsa z Czubkiem.
Zaraz potem pojawił się sam książę i dziewczyna przypomniała sobie o złożonej rok temu obietnicy. Brzydal powtórzył, że ją kocha i zapytał, czy poza wyglądem cokolwiek jej w nim przeszkadza. Odpowiedziała, że nie, lecz wciąż nie była przekonana. Wtedy Knyps opowiedział dziewczynie o wróżce, która podarowała jej moc obdarzenia ukochanego mężczyzny urodą. Księżniczka nie musiała się już dłużej wahać, a Knyps w jednej chwili stał się najpiękniejszym młodzieńcem świata. Pobrali się i żyli długo i szczęśliwie. Tylko niektórzy do dziś powiadają, że pozostał brzydki dla wszystkich z wyjątkiem żony, oglądającej go zakochanymi oczyma.
Baśń ukazała się w 1697 roku w zbiorze zatytułowanym przez Perraulta „Bajki babci Gąski”, znanym także jako „Bajki pana Perrault”. Nie były to autorskie utwory bajkopisarza, lecz opracowane przez niego ludowe opowieści. Poza „Knypsem z Czubkiem” w wyborze znalazły się również tak znane bajki, jak: „Czerwony kapturek”, „Śpiąca królewna”, „Kopciuszek”, „Kot w butach”, „Ośla skórka”, „Sinobrody”, „Paluszek” i „Wróżki”.
Zanim opublikowane przez Perraulta utwory przeniknęły do masowej świadomości, zyskały sobie znaczną popularność w arystokratycznych salonach literackich Paryża. Bajkopisarz zdołał się wstrzelić w panującą w tamtym okresie modę na poznawanie ludowych tradycji i podań. Dodatkowo Perrault umiejętnie przystosował proste opowiastki do gustów wyrafinowanej publiczności, spisując je pełnym zawiłych ozdobników, wytwornym językiem, a także wprowadzając zmiany w treści, dzięki którym morały pozostawały w zgodzie ze światopoglądem klas rządzących.
Imię tytułowego bohatera bajki brzmi dość tajemniczo także w oryginale. Francuscy badacze literatury Perraulta proponują trzy teorie jego pochodzenia:
1. Riquet wywodzi się po prostu od nazwiska. Perrault mógł znać inżyniera i budowniczego kanałów rzecznych nazwiskiem Pierre-Paul Riquet.
2. Autorka jednej z wcześniejszych wersji bajki, Catherine Bernard, pochodziła z Normandii. W języku normandzkim riquet znaczy „zdeformowany”, „garbaty”.
3. Niektórzy dopatrują się w słowie riquet zdrobnienia od Henriquet, czyli „mały Henri”, Henryczek.
1. Połącz wyrazy (1–10) z ich synonimami i definicjami (A–J).
B) tasting like e.g. lemon
C) to walk unsteadily
D) a person who works in somebody else’s house
E) to do what someone tells you
G) to look at something
H) to breathe quickly or with difficulty
I) strange, weird
J) to try
2. Zaznacz poprawną formę lub wyraz.
a) Lisa is seeming/seems quite cheerful these days.
b) Lucy showed me a precious necklace which had been handed down/in to her from her grandmother.
c) They handed the parcel down/over to the recipient.
d) The boys creeped/crept back into the house.
e) Steve likes nor/neither singing neither/nor dancing.
f) The patient seemed being/to be scared of the operation, but everything went well.
g) George has always been extremely fond about/of his grandchildren.
h) “Don’t disturb me!”, she muttered/snapped angrily.
3. Uzupełnij zdania czasownikami w nawiasie. Zastosuj czasy Past Simple i Past Perfect.
a) My grandmother ……………… long before I ……………… born. (die, be)
b) Why ……………… you ……………… me that you ……………… this film before? Now you’re getting bored. (not tell, see)
c) I ……………… never ……………… paella before I ……………… to Spain. (eat, travel)
d) My parents ……………… a new car after they ……………… the old one. (buy, sell)
e) Karen and I ……………… another essay topic, but later we both ……………… to change it. (choose, decide)
f) Yesterday Rob ……………… a bill which he ……………… to pay a year ago. (find, forget)
4. Mary jest Angielką, ale cała historia zaczyna się w Indiach. Dlaczego? Zgromadź informacje na temat kolonii brytyjskich w tym rejonie i przygotuj prezentację (około 12 slajdów) na jeden z tematów:
a) East India Company,
b) The British Raj.
When she opened her eyes in the morning it was because a young housemaid had come into her room to light the fire and was kneeling on the hearth-rugraking out the cinders noisily. Mary lay and watched her for a few moments and then began to look about the room. She had never seen a room at all like it and thought it curious and gloomy. The walls were covered with tapestry with a forest scene embroidered on it. There were fantastically dressed people under the trees and in the distance there was a glimpse of the turrets of a castle. There were hunters and horses and dogs and ladies. Mary felt as if she were in the forest with them. Out of a deep window she could see a great climbing stretch of land which seemed to have no trees on it, and to look rather like an endless, dull, purplish sea.
“What is that?” she said, pointing out of the window.
Martha, the young housemaid, who had just risen to her feet, looked and pointed also. “That there?” she said.
“That’s th’ moor,” with a good-natured grin. “Does tha’ like it?”
“No,” answered Mary. “I hate it.”
“That’s because tha’rt not used to it,” Martha said, going back to her hearth. “Tha’ thinks it’s too big an’ bare now. But tha’ will like it.”
“Do you?” inquired Mary.
“Aye, that I do,” answered Martha, cheerfullypolishing away at the grate. “I just love it. It’s none bare. It’s coveredwi’ growin’ things as smells sweet. It’s fair lovely in spring an’ summer when th’ gorse an’ broom an’ heather’s in flower. It smells o’ honey an’ there’s such a lot o’ fresh air – an’ th’ sky looks so high an’ th’ bees an’ skylarks makes such a nice noise hummin’ an’ singin’. Eh! I wouldn’t live away from th’ moor for anythin’.”
Mary listened to her with a grave, puzzledexpression. The native servants she had been used to in India were not in the least like this. They were obsequious and servile and did not presume to talk to their masters as if they were their equals. They made salaams and called them “protector of the poor” and names of that sort. Indian servants were commanded to do things, not asked. It was not the custom to say “please” and “thank you” and Mary had always slapped her Ayah in the face when she was angry. She wondered a little what this girl would do if one slapped her in the face. She was a round, rosy, good-natured-looking creature, but she had a sturdy way which made Mistress Mary wonder if she might not even slap back – if the person who slapped her was only a little girl.
“You are a strange servant,” she said from her pillows, rather haughtily.
Martha sat up on her heels, with her blacking-brush in her hand, and laughed, without seeming the least out of temper.
“Eh! I know that,” she said. “If there was a grand Missus at Misselthwaite I should never have been even one of th’ under house-maids. I might have been let to be scullerymaid but I’d never have been let upstairs. I’m too common an’ I talk too much Yorkshire.
But this is a funny house for all it’s so grand. Seems like there’s neither Master nor Mistress except Mr. Pitcher an’ Mrs. Medlock. Mr. Craven, he won’t be troubled about anythin’ when he’s here, an’ he’s nearly always away. Mrs. Medlock gave me th’ place out o’ kindness. She told me she could never have done it if Misselthwaite had been like other big houses.”
“Are you going to be my servant?” Mary asked, still in her imperious little Indian way.
Martha began to rub her grate again.
“I’m Mrs. Medlock’s servant,” she said stoutly. “An’ she’s Mr. Craven’s – but I’m to do the housemaid’s work up here an’ wait on you a bit. But you won’t need much waitin’ on.”
“Who is going to dress me?” demanded Mary.
Martha sat up on her heels again and stared. She spoke in broad Yorkshire in her amazement.
“Canna’ tha’ dress thysen!” she said.
“What do you mean? I don’t understand your language,” said Mary.
“Eh! I forgot,” Martha said. “Mrs. Medlock told me I’d have to be careful or you wouldn’t know what I was sayin’. I mean can’t you put on your own clothes?”
“No,” answered Mary, quite indignantly. “I never did in my life. My Ayah dressed me, of course.”
“Well,” said Martha, evidently not in the least aware that she was impudent, “it’s time tha’ should learn. Tha’ cannot begin younger. It’ll do thee good to wait on thysen a bit. My mother always said she couldn’t see why grand people’s children didn’t turn out fair fools – what with nurses an’ bein’ washed an’ dressed an’ took out to walk as if they was puppies!”
“It is different in India,” said Mistress Mary disdainfully. She could scarcely stand this.
But Martha was not at all crushed.
“Eh! I can see it’s different,” she answered almost sympathetically. “I dare say it’s because there’s such a lot o’ blacks there instead o’respectable white people. When I heard you was comin’ from India I thought you was a black too.”
Mary sat up in bed furious.
“What!” she said. “What! You thought I was a native. You—you daughter of a pig!”
Martha stared and looked hot.
“Who are you callin’ names?” she said. “You needn’t be so vexed. That’s not th’ way for a young lady to talk. I’ve nothin’ against th’ blacks. When you read about ‘em in tracts they’re always very religious. You always read as a black’s a man an’ a brother. I’ve never seen a black an’ I was fair pleased to think I was goin’ to see one close. When I come in to light your fire this mornin’ I crep’ up to your bed an’ pulled th’ cover back careful to look at you. An’ there you was,” disappointedly, “no more black than me – for all you’re so yeller.”
Mary did not even try to control her rage and humiliation. “You thought I was a native! You dared! You don’t know anything about natives! They are not people – they’re servants who must salaam to you. You know nothing about India. You know nothing about anything!”
She was in such a rage and felt so helpless before the girl’s simple stare, and somehow she suddenly felt so horribly lonely and far away from everything she understood and which understood her, that she threw herself face downward on the pillows and burst into passionatesobbing. She sobbed so unrestrainedly that good-natured Yorkshire Martha was a little frightened and quite sorry for her. She went to the bed and bent over her.
“Eh! you mustn’t cry like that there!” she begged. “You mustn’t for sure. I didn’t know you’d be vexed. I don’t know anythin’ about anythin’ – just like you said. I beg your pardon, Miss. Do stop cryin’.”
There was something comforting and really friendly in her queer Yorkshire speech and sturdy way which had a good effect on Mary. She graduallyceased crying and became quiet. Martha looked relieved.
“It’s time for thee to get up now,” she said. “Mrs. Medlock said I was to carry tha’ breakfast an’ tea an’ dinner into th’ room next to this. It’s been made into a nursery for thee. I’ll help thee on with thy clothes if tha’ll get out o’ bed. If th’ buttons are at th’ back tha’ cannot button them up tha’self.”
When Mary at last decided to get up, the clothes Martha took from the wardrobe were not the ones she had worn when she arrived the night before with Mrs. Medlock.
“Those are not mine,” she said. “Mine are black.”
She looked the thick white wool coat and dress over, and added with cool approval:
“Those are nicer than mine.”
“These are th’ ones tha’ must put on,” Martha answered. “Mr. Craven ordered Mrs. Medlock to get ‘em in London. He said ‘I won’t have a child dressed in black wanderin’ about like a lost soul,’ he said. ‘It’d make the place sadder than it is. Put color on her.’ Mother she said she knew what he meant. Mother always knows what a body means. She doesn’t holdwith black hersel’.”
“I hate black things,” said Mary.
The dressing process was one which taught them both something. Martha had “buttoned up” her little sisters and brothers but she had never seen a child who stood still and waited for another person to do things for her as if she had neither hands nor feet of her own.
“Why doesn’t tha’ put on tha’ own shoes?” she said when Mary quietly held out her foot.
“My Ayah did it,” answered Mary, staring. “It was the custom.”
She said that very often – “It was the custom.” The native servants were always saying it. If one told them to do a thing their ancestors had not done for a thousand years they gazed at one mildly and said, “It is not the custom” and one knew that was the end of the matter.
It had not been the custom that Mistress Mary should do anything but stand and allow herself to be dressed like a doll, but before she was ready for breakfast she began to suspect that her life at Misselthwaite Manor would end by teaching her a number of things quite new to her – things such as putting on her own shoes and stockings, and picking up things she let fall. If Martha had been a well-trained fine young lady’s maid she would have been more subservient and respectful and would have known that it was her business to brush hair, and button boots, and pick things up and lay them away. She was, however, only an untrained Yorkshire rustic who had been brought up in a moorland cottage with a swarm of little brothers and sisters who had never dreamed of doing anything but waiting on themselves and on the younger ones who were either babies in arms or just learning to totter about and tumble over things.
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