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    Tento výstup lze užít v souladu s licenčními podmínkami Creative Commons BY-SA 4.0 International

    (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/legalcode).


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    • Chesterton: Dvoupencová tragédie File
    • Prezentace 5 File

    • Text k překladu:


      An Ideal Husband (O. Wilde)

       

      LADY MARKBY. Good evening, dear Gertrude! So kind of you to let me

      bring my friend, Mrs. Cheveley. Two such charming women should know

      each other!

      LADY CHILTERN. [Advances towards MRS. CHEVELEY with a sweet smile.

      Then suddenly stops, and bows rather distantly.] I think Mrs.

      Cheveley and I have met before. I did not know she had married a

      second time.

      LADY MARKBY. [Genially.] Ah, nowadays people marry as often as they

      can, don't they? It is most fashionable. [To DUCHESS OF

      MARYBOROUGH.] Dear Duchess, and how is the Duke? Brain still weak,

      I suppose? Well, that is only to be expected, is it not? His good

      father was just the same. There is nothing like race, is there?

      MRS. CHEVELEY. [Playing with her fan.] But have we really met

      before, Lady Chiltern? I can't remember where. I have been out of

      England for so long.

      LADY CHILTERN. We were at school together, Mrs. Cheveley.

      MRS. CHEVELEY [Superciliously.] Indeed? I have forgotten all about

      my schooldays. I have a vague impression that they were detestable.

      LADY CHILTERN. [Coldly.] I am not surprised!

      MRS. CHEVELEY. [In her sweetest manner.] Do you know, I am quite

      looking forward to meeting your clever husband, Lady Chiltern. Since

      he has been at the Foreign Office, he has been so much talked of in

      Vienna. They actually succeed in spelling his name right in the

      newspapers. That in itself is fame, on the continent.

      LADY CHILTERN. I hardly think there will be much in common between

      you and my husband, Mrs. Cheveley! [Moves away.]

      VICOMTE DE NANJAC. Ah! chere Madame, queue surprise! I have not

      seen you since Berlin!

      MRS. CHEVELEY. Not since Berlin, Vicomte. Five years ago!

      VICOMTE DE NANJAC. And you are younger and more beautiful than ever.

      How do you manage it?

      MRS. CHEVELEY. By making it a rule only to talk to perfectly

      charming people like yourself.

      VICOMTE DE NANJAC. Ah! you flatter me. You butter me, as they say

      here.

      MRS. CHEVELEY. Do they say that here? How dreadful of them!

      VICOMTE DE NANJAC. Yes, they have a wonderful language. It should

      be more widely known.

      [SIR ROBERT CHILTERN enters. A man of forty, but looking somewhat

      younger. Clean-shaven, with finely-cut features, dark-haired and

      dark-eyed. A personality of mark. Not popular - few personalities

      are. But intensely admired by the few, and deeply respected by the

      many. The note of his manner is that of perfect distinction, with a

      slight touch of pride. One feels that he is conscious of the success

      he has made in life. A nervous temperament, with a tired look. The

      firmly-chiselled mouth and chin contrast strikingly with the romantic

      expression in the deep-set eyes. The variance is suggestive of an

      almost complete separation of passion and intellect, as though

      thought and emotion were each isolated in its own sphere through some

      violence of will-power. There is nervousness in the nostrils, and in

      the pale, thin, pointed hands. It would be inaccurate to call him

      picturesque. Picturesqueness cannot survive the House of Commons.

      But Vandyck would have liked to have painted his head.]

      SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Good evening, Lady Markby! I hope you have

      brought Sir John with you?

      LADY MARKBY. Oh! I have brought a much more charming person than

      Sir John. Sir John's temper since he has taken seriously to politics

      has become quite unbearable. Really, now that the House of Commons

      is trying to become useful, it does a great deal of harm.

      SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I hope not, Lady Markby. At any rate we do our

      best to waste the public time, don't we? But who is this charming

      person you have been kind enough to bring to us?

      LADY MARKBY. Her name is Mrs. Cheveley! One of the Dorsetshire

      Cheveleys, I suppose. But I really don't know. Families are so

      mixed nowadays. Indeed, as a rule, everybody turns out to be

      somebody else.

      SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Mrs. Cheveley? I seem to know the name.

      LADY MARKBY. She has just arrived from Vienna.

      SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Ah! yes. I think I know whom you mean.

      LADY MARKBY. Oh! she goes everywhere there, and has such pleasant

      scandals about all her friends. I really must go to Vienna next

      winter. I hope there is a good chef at the Embassy.

      SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. If there is not, the Ambassador will certainly

      have to be recalled. Pray point out Mrs. Cheveley to me. I should

      like to see her.

      LADY MARKBY. Let me introduce you. [To MRS. CHEVELEY.] My dear,

      Sir Robert Chiltern is dying to know you!

      SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [Bowing.] Every one is dying to know the

      brilliant Mrs. Cheveley. Our attaches at Vienna write to us about

      nothing else.

      MRS. CHEVELEY. Thank you, Sir Robert. An acquaintance that begins

      with a compliment is sure to develop into a real friendship. It

      starts in the right manner. And I find that I know Lady Chiltern

      already.

      SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Really?

      MRS. CHEVELEY. Yes. She has just reminded me that we were at school

      together. I remember it perfectly now. She always got the good

      conduct prize. I have a distinct recollection of Lady Chiltern

      always getting the good conduct prize!

      SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [Smiling.] And what prizes did you get, Mrs.

      Cheveley?

      MRS. CHEVELEY. My prizes came a little later on in life. I don't

      think any of them were for good conduct. I forget!

      SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I am sure they were for something charming!

      MRS. CHEVELEY. I don't know that women are always rewarded for being

      charming. I think they are usually punished for it! Certainly, more

      women grow old nowadays through the faithfulness of their admirers

      than through anything else! At least that is the only way I can

      account for the terribly haggard look of most of your pretty women in

      London!

      SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. What an appalling philosophy that sounds! To

      attempt to classify you, Mrs. Cheveley, would be an impertinence.

      But may I ask, at heart, are you an optimist or a pessimist? Those

      seem to be the only two fashionable religions left to us nowadays.

      MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh, I'm neither. Optimism begins in a broad grin,

      and Pessimism ends with blue spectacles. Besides, they are both of

      them merely poses.

      SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. You prefer to be natural?

      MRS. CHEVELEY. Sometimes. But it is such a very difficult pose to

      keep up.

      SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. What would those modern psychological

      novelists, of whom we hear so much, say to such a theory as that?

      MRS. CHEVELEY. Ah! the strength of women comes from the fact that

      psychology cannot explain us. Men can be analysed, women . . .

      merely adored.

      SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. You think science cannot grapple with the

      problem of women?

      MRS. CHEVELEY. Science can never grapple with the irrational. That

      is why it has no future before it, in this world.

      SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. And women represent the irrational.

      MRS. CHEVELEY. Well-dressed women do.

      SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [With a polite bow.] I fear I could hardly

      agree with you there. But do sit down. And now tell me, what makes

      you leave your brilliant Vienna for our gloomy London - or perhaps

      the question is indiscreet?

      MRS. CHEVELEY. Questions are never indiscreet. Answers sometimes

      are.

      SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Well, at any rate, may I know if it is politics

      or pleasure?

      MRS. CHEVELEY. Politics are my only pleasure. You see nowadays it

      is not fashionable to flirt till one is forty, or to be romantic till

      one is forty-five, so we poor women who are under thirty, or say we

      are, have nothing open to us but politics or philanthropy. And

      philanthropy seems to me to have become simply the refuge of people

      who wish to annoy their fellow-creatures. I prefer politics. I

      think they are more . . . becoming!

      SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. A political life is a noble career!

      MRS. CHEVELEY. Sometimes. And sometimes it is a clever game, Sir

      Robert. And sometimes it is a great nuisance.

      SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Which do you find it?

      MRS. CHEVELEY. I? A combination of all three. [Drops her fan.]

      SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [Picks up fan.] Allow me!

      MRS. CHEVELEY. Thanks.

      SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. But you have not told me yet what makes you

      honour London so suddenly. Our season is almost over.

      MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh! I don't care about the London season! It is too

      matrimonial. People are either hunting for husbands, or hiding from

      them. I wanted to meet you. It is quite true. You know what a

      woman's curiosity is. Almost as great as a man's! I wanted

      immensely to meet you, and . . . to ask you to do something for me.

      SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I hope it is not a little thing, Mrs. Cheveley.

      I find that little things are so very difficult to do.


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    • Gay - Žebrácká opera File

    • Text k překladu: Žebrácká opera


      The Beggar’s Opera (J. Gay)

       

      POLLY. I, like a Ship in Storms, was tost;
      Yet afraid to put in to Land:
      For seiz'd in the Port the Vessel's lost,
      Whose Treasure is contreband.
      The Waves are laid,
      My Duty's paid.
      O Joy beyond Expression!
      Thus, safe a-shore,
      I ask no more,
      My All is in my Possession.

      PEACHUM. I hear Customers in t'other Room: Go, talk with 'em, 
      Polly; but come to us again, as soon as they are gone.--But, hark ye, 
      Child, if 'tis the Gentleman who was here Yesterday about the 
      Repeating Watch; say, you believe we can't get Intelligence of it 
      'till to-morrow. For I lent it to Suky Straddle, to make a figure 
      with it to-night at a Tavern in Drury-Lane. If t'other Gentleman 
      calls for the Silver-hilted Sword; you know Beetle-brow'd Jemmy hath 
      it on, and he doth not come from Tunbridge 'till Tuesday Night; so 
      that it cannot be had 'till then.

      [Exit Polly.]

      PEACHUM. Dear Wife, be a little pacified, Don't let your Passion run 
      away with your Senses. Polly, I grant you, hath done a rash thing.

      MRS. PEACHUM. If she had only an Intrigue with the Fellow, why the 
      very best Families have excus'd and huddled up a Frailty of that 
      sort. 'Tis Marriage, Husband, that makes it a Blemish.

      PEACHUM. But Money, Wife, is the true Fuller's Earth for 
      Reputations, there is not a Spot or a Stain but what it can take out. 
      A rich Rogue now-a-days is fit Company for any Gentleman; and the 
      World, my Dear, hath not such a Contempt for Roguery as you imagine. 
      I tell you, Wife, I can make this Match turn to our Advantage.

      MRS. PEACHUM. I am very sensible, Husband, that Captain Macheath is 
      worth Money, but I am in doubt whether he hath not two or three Wives 
      already, and then if he should die in a Session or two, Polly's Dower 
      would come into Dispute.

      PEACHUM. That, indeed, is a Point which ought to be consider'd.

      AIR XI. A Soldier and a Sailor.

      A Fox may steal your Hens, Sir,
      A Whore your Health and Pence, Sir,
      Your Daughter rob your Chest, Sir,
      Your Wife may steal your Rest, Sir.
      A Thief your Goods and Plate.
      But this is all but picking,
      With Rest, Pence, Chest and Chicken;
      It ever was decreed, Sir,
      If Lawyer's Hand is fee'd, Sir,
      He steals your whole Estate.

      The Lawyers are bitter Enemies to those in our Way. They don't care 
      that any body should get a clandestine Livelihood but themselves.

      [Enter Polly.]

      POLLY. 'Twas only Nimming Ned. He brought in a Damask Window-
      Curtain, a Hoop-Petticoat, a pair of Silver Candlesticks, a Periwig, 
      and one Silk Stocking, from the Fire that happen'd last Night.

      PEACHUM. There is not a Fellow that is cleverer in his way, and 
      saves more Goods out of the Fire than Ned. But now, Polly, to your 
      Affair; for Matters must not be left as they are. You are married 
      then, it seems?

      POLLY. Yes, Sir.

      PEACHUM. And how do you propose to live, Child?

      POLLY. Like other Women, Sir, upon the Industry of my Husband.

      MRS. PEACHUM. What, is the Wench turn'd Fool? A Highwayman's Wife, 
      like a Soldier's, hath as little of his Pay, as of his Company.

      PEACHUM. And had not you the common Views of a Gentlewoman in your 
      Marriage, Polly?

      POLLY. I don't know what you mean, Sir.

      PEACHUM. Of a Jointure, and of being a Widow.

      POLLY. But I love him, Sir; how then could I have Thoughts of 
      parting with him?

      PEACHUM. Parting with him! Why, this is the whole Scheme and 
      Intention of all Marriage-Articles. The comfortable Estate of Widow-
      hood, is the only Hope that keeps up a Wife's Spirits. Where is the 
      Woman who would scruple to be a Wife, if she had it in her Power to 
      be a Widow, whenever she pleas'd? If you have any Views of this 
      sort, Polly, I shall think the Match not so very unreasonable.

      POLLY. How I dread to hear your Advice! Yet I must beg you to 
      explain yourself.

      PEACHUM. Secure what he hath got, have him peach'd the next 
      Sessions, and then at once you are made a rich Widow.

      POLLY. What, murder the Man I love! The Blood runs cold at my Heart 
      with the very thought of it.

      PEACHUM. Fie, Polly! What hath Murder to do in the Affair? Since 
      the thing sooner or later must happen, I dare say, the Captain 
      himself would like that we should get the Reward for his Death sooner 
      than a Stranger. Why, Polly, the Captain knows, that as 'tis his 
      Employment to rob, so 'tis ours to take Robbers; every Man in his 
      Business. So that there is no Malice in the Case.

      MRS. PEACHUM. Ay, Husband, now you have nick'd the Matter. To have 
      him peach'd is the only thing could ever make me forgive her.


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    • Orwell - Proč píšu File

    • Esej k překladu


      A Hanging (G. Orwell)

      It was in Burma, a sodden morning of the rains. A sickly light, like yellow tinfoil, was slanting over the high walls into the jail yard. We were waiting outside the condemned cells, a row of sheds fronted with double bars, like small animal cages. Each cell measured about ten feet by ten and was quite bare within except for a plank bed and a pot of drinking water. In some of them brown silent men were squatting at the inner bars, with their blankets draped round them. These were the condemned men, due to be hanged within the next week or two.

      One prisoner had been brought out of his cell. He was a Hindu, a puny wisp of a man, with a shaven head and vague liquid eyes. He had a thick, sprouting moustache, absurdly too big for his body, rather like the moustache of a comic man on the films. Six tall Indian warders were guarding him and getting him ready for the gallows. Two of them stood by with rifles and fixed bayonets, while the others handcuffed him, passed a chain through his handcuffs and fixed it to their belts, and lashed his arms tight to his sides. They crowded very close about him, with their hands always on him in a careful, caressing grip, as though all the while feeling him to make sure he was there. It was like men handling a fish which is still alive and may jump back into the water. But he stood quite unresisting, yielding his arms limply to the ropes, as though he hardly noticed what was happening.

      Eight o'clock struck and a bugle call, desolately thin in the wet air, floated from the distant barracks. The superintendent of the jail, who was standing apart from the rest of us, moodily prodding the gravel with his stick, raised his head at the sound. He was an army doctor, with a grey toothbrush moustache and a gruff voice. "For God's sake hurry up, Francis," he said irritably. "The man ought to have been dead by this time. Aren't you ready yet?"

      Francis, the head jailer, a fat Dravidian in a white drill suit and gold spectacles, waved his black hand. "Yes sir, yes sir," he bubbled. "All iss satisfactorily prepared. The hangman iss waiting. We shall proceed."

      "Well, quick march, then. The prisoners can't get their breakfast till this job's over."

      We set out for the gallows. Two warders marched on either side of the prisoner, with their rifles at the slope; two others marched close against him, gripping him by arm and shoulder, as though at once pushing and supporting him. The rest of us, magistrates and the like, followed behind. Suddenly, when we had gone ten yards, the procession stopped short without any order or warning. A dreadful thing had happened–a dog, come goodness knows whence, had appeared in the yard. It came bounding among us with a loud volley of barks, and leapt round us wagging its whole body, wild with glee at finding so many human beings together. It was a large woolly dog, half Airedale, half pariah. For a moment it pranced round us, and then, before anyone could stop it, it had made a dash for the prisoner, and jumping up tried to lick his face. Everyone stood aghast, too taken aback even to grab at the dog.

      "Who let that bloody brute in here?" said the superintendent angrily. "Catch it, someone!"

      A warder, detached from the escort, charged clumsily after the dog, but it danced and gambolled just out of his reach, taking everything as part of the game. A young Eurasian jailer picked up a handful of gravel and tried to stone the dog away, but it dodged the stones and came after us again. Its yaps echoed from the jail wails. The prisoner, in the grasp of the two warders, looked on incuriously, as though this was another formality of the hanging. It was several minutes before someone managed to catch the dog. Then we put my handkerchief through its collar and moved off once more, with the dog still straining and whimpering.

      It was about forty yards to the gallows. I watched the bare brown back of the prisoner marching in front of me. He walked clumsily with his bound arms, but quite steadily, with that bobbing gait of the Indian who never straightens his knees. At each step his muscles slid neatly into place, the lock of hair on his scalp danced up and down, his feet printed themselves on the wet gravel. And once, in spite of the men who gripped him by each shoulder, he stepped slightly aside to avoid a puddle on the path.

      It is curious, but till that moment I had never realized what it means to destroy a healthy, conscious man. When I saw the prisoner step aside to avoid the puddle, I saw the mystery, the unspeakable wrongness, of cutting a life short when it is in full tide. This man was not dying, he was alive just as we were alive. All the organs of his body were working–bowels digesting food, skin renewing itself, nails growing, tissues forming–all toiling away in solemn foolery. His nails would still be growing when he stood on the drop, when he was falling through the air with a tenth of a second to live. His eyes saw the yellow gravel and the grey walls, and his brain still remembered, foresaw, reasoned–reasoned even about puddles. He and we were a party of men walking together, seeing, hearing, feeling, understanding the same world; and in two minutes, with a sudden snap, one of us would be gone–one mind less, one world less.

      The gallows stood in a small yard, separate from the main grounds of the prison, and overgrown with tall prickly weeds. It was a brick erection like three sides of a shed, with planking on top, and above that two beams and a crossbar with the rope dangling. The hangman, a grey-haired convict in the white uniform of the prison, was waiting beside his machine. He greeted us with a servile crouch as we entered. At a word from Francis the two warders, gripping the prisoner more closely than ever, half led, half pushed him to the gallows and helped him clumsily up the ladder. Then the hangman climbed up and fixed the rope round the prisoner's neck.

      We stood waiting, five yards away. The warders had formed in a rough circle round the gallows. And then, when the noose was fixed, the prisoner began crying out on his god. It was a high, reiterated cry of "Ram! Ram! Ram! Ram!", not urgent and fearful like a prayer or a cry for help, but steady, rhythmical, almost like the tolling of a bell. The dog answered the sound with a whine. The hangman, still standing on the gallows, produced a small cotton bag like a flour bag and drew it down over the prisoner's face. But the sound, muffled by the cloth, still persisted, over and over again: "Ram! Ram! Ram! Ram! Ram!"

      The hangman climbed down and stood ready, holding the lever. Minutes seemed to pass. The steady, muffled crying from the prisoner went on and on, "Ram! Ram! Ram!" never faltering for an instant. The superintendent, his head on his chest, was slowly poking the ground with his stick; perhaps he was counting the cries, allowing the prisoner a fixed number–fifty, perhaps, or a hundred. Everyone had changed colour. The Indians had gone grey like bad coffee, and one or two of the bayonets were wavering. We looked at the lashed, hooded man on the drop, and listened to his cries–each cry another second of life; the same thought was in all our minds: oh, kill him quickly, get it over, stop that abominable noise!

      Suddenly the superintendent made up his mind. Throwing up his head he made a swift motion with his stick. "Chalo!" he shouted almost fiercely.

      There was a clanking noise, and then dead silence. The prisoner had vanished, and the rope was twisting on itself. I let go of the dog, and it galloped immediately to the back of the gallows; but when it got there it stopped short, barked, and then retreated into a corner of the yard, where it stood among the weeds, looking timorously out at us. We went round the gallows to inspect the prisoner's body. He was dangling with his toes pointed straight downwards, very slowly revolving, as dead as a stone.

      The superintendent reached out with his stick and poked the bare body; it oscillated, slightly. "HE'S all right," said the superintendent. He backed out from under the gallows, and blew out a deep breath. The moody look had gone out of his face quite suddenly. He glanced at his wrist-watch. "Eight minutes past eight. Well, that's all for this morning, thank God."

      The warders unfixed bayonets and marched away. The dog, sobered and conscious of having misbehaved itself, slipped after them. We walked out of the gallows yard, past the condemned cells with their waiting prisoners, into the big central yard of the prison. The convicts, under the command of warders armed with lathis, were already receiving their breakfast. They squatted in long rows, each man holding a tin pannikin, while two warders with buckets marched round ladling out rice; it seemed quite a homely, jolly scene, after the hanging. An enormous relief had come upon us now that the job was done. One felt an impulse to sing, to break into a run, to snigger. All at once everyone began chattering gaily.

      The Eurasian boy walking beside me nodded towards the way we had come, with a knowing smile: "Do you know, sir, our friend (he meant the dead man), when he heard his appeal had been dismissed, he pissed on the floor of his cell. From fright.–Kindly take one of my cigarettes, sir. Do you not admire my new silver case, sir? From the boxwallah, two rupees eight annas. Classy European style."

      Several people laughed–at what, nobody seemed certain.

      Francis was walking by the superintendent, talking garrulously. "Well, sir, all hass passed off with the utmost satisfactoriness. It wass all finished–flick! like that. It iss not always so–oah, no! I have known cases where the doctor wass obliged to go beneath the gallows and pull the prisoner's legs to ensure decease. Most disagreeable!"

      "Wriggling about, eh? That's bad," said the superintendent.

      "Ach, sir, it iss worse when they become refractory! One man, I recall, clung to the bars of hiss cage when we went to take him out. You will scarcely credit, sir, that it took six warders to dislodge him, three pulling at each leg. We reasoned with him. 'My dear fellow,' we said, 'think of all the pain and trouble you are causing to us!' But no, he would not listen! Ach, he wass very troublesome!"

      I found that I was laughing quite loudly. Everyone was laughing. Even the superintendent grinned in a tolerant way. "You'd better all come out and have a drink," he said quite genially. "I've got a bottle of whisky in the car. We could do with it."

      We went through the big double gates of the prison, into the road. "Pulling at his legs!" exclaimed a Burmese magistrate suddenly, and burst into a loud chuckling. We all began laughing again. At that moment Francis's anecdote seemed extraordinarily funny. We all had a drink together, native and European alike, quite amicably. The dead man was a hundred yards away.

       

       

       

       


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