Михаил Назаренко (petro_gulak) wrote,
Михаил Назаренко
petro_gulak

Небо в алмазах

"Лорд Эмсворт напоминал умирающую утку; и брат его понял, что с ним что-то случилось. [...]
- Ну, Кларенс, - воскликнул он, - ты прямо из русского романа!"
(П.Г.Вудхауз. Перелетные свиньи.)

И, конечно, не удержусь, чтобы не процитировать Пратчетта ("Пятый элефант").
Сэм Ваймс, в полуголом виде, убегает по убервальдским снегам от вервольфов и натыкается на...


'How beautiful the snow is, sisters...'
Three women sat at the window of their lonely house, looking out at the white Uberwald winter.
'And how cold the vind is,' said the second sister.
The third sister, who was the youngest, sighed. 'Why do we always talk about the weather?'
'What else is there?'
'Well, it's either freezing cold or baking. I mean, that's it, really.'
'That is how things are in Mother Uberwald,' said the oldest sister, slowly and sternly. 'The vind and the snow and the boiling heat of summer...'
'You know, I bet if we cut down the cherry orchard we could put in a roller-skating rink -'
No.
'How about a conservatory? We could grow pineapples.'
No.
'If we moved to Bonk we could get a big apartment for the cost of this place -'
'This is our home, Irina,' said the oldest sister. 'Ah, a home of lost illusions and thwarted hopes...'
'We could go out dancing and everything.'
'I remember when we lived in Bonk,' said the middle sister dreamily. 'Things vere better then.'
'Things vere alvays better then,' said the oldest sister.
The youngest sister sighed and looked out of the window. She gasped. 'There's a man running through the cherry orchard!'
'A man? Vot could he possibly vant?'
The youngest sister strained to see. 'It looks like he wants... a pair of trousers...'
'Ah,' said the middle sister dreamily. 'Trousers ver better then.'
[...]

Vimes veered away from the farmhouse and sprinted towards the nearby barn. There had to be something in there. Even a couple of sacks would do. The chafing qualities of frozen underwear can be seriously underestimated.
He'd been running for half an hour. Well, for twenty-five minutes, really. The other five had been spent limping, wheezing, clutching at his chest and wondering how you knew if you were having a heart attack.
The inside of the barn was... barn-like. There were stacks of hay, dusty farm implements... and a couple of threadbare sacks hanging on a nail. He snatched one, gratefully.
Behind him the door creaked open. He spun round, clutching the sack to him, and saw three very sombrely dressed women watching him carefully. One of them was holding a kitchen knife in a trembling hand,
'Have you come here to ravish us?' she said.
'Madam! I'm being pursued by werewolves!'
The three looked at one another. To Vimes the sack suddenly seemed far too small.
'Er, vill that take you all day?' said one of the women.
Vimes held the sack more tightly. 'Ladies! Please! I need trousers!'
'Ve can see that.'
'And a weapon, and boots if you've got them! Please?'
They went into another huddle.
'We have the gloomy and purposeless trousers of Uncle Vanya,' said one, doubtfully.
'He seldom wore them,' said another.
'And I have an axe in my linen cupboard,' said the youngest. She looked guiltily at the other two. 'Look, just in case I ever needed it, all right? I wasn't going to chop anything down.'
'I would be so grateful,' said Vimes. He took in the good but old clothes, the faded gentility, and played the only card in his hand. 'I am His Grace the Duke of Ankh, although I appreciate this fact is not evident at the -'
There was a three-fold sigh.
'Ankh-Morpork!'
'You haf a magnificent opera house and many fine galleries.'
'Such vonderful avenues!'
'A veritable heaven of culture and sophistication and unattached men of quality!'
'Er, I said Ankh-Morpork,' said Vimes. 'With an A and an M.'
'Ve have always dreamed of going there.'
'I'll have three coach tickets sent along immediately I get home,' said Vimes, his mind's ear hearing the crunch of speeding paws over snow. 'But, dear ladies, if you could fetch me those things -'
They hurried away, but the youngest lingered by the door.
'Do you have long cold winters in Ankh-Morpork?' she said.
'Just muck and slush, usually.'
'Any cherry orchards?'
'I don't think we have any, I'm afraid.'
She punched the air. 'Yesss!'
A few minutes later Vimes was alone in the barn, wearing a pair of ancient black trousers that he'd tied at the waist with rope, and holding an axe that was surprisingly sharp.

Забавны также комментарии фэнов к этому фрагменту:

+ [p. 226] "'How beautiful the snow is, sisters...'"

This whole section is a riff on Chekhov's 1901 play _Three Sisters_,
complete with Chekhovian misunderstandings and pauses.

+ [p. 227] "'If we moved to Bonk [...]'"

The three provincial sisters in the Chekhov play are always remembering
their past in Moscow, but only the younger sister is the one with the
idea and desire to get out.

+ [p. 228] "'We have the gloomy and purposeless trousers of Uncle Vanya,'
said one, doubtfully."

_Uncle Vanya_ is the other great Chekhov play. "Gloomy and purposeless"
sums up much Chekhovian drama quite accurately. The Russian word is
"toska" -- a sort of weary, faded ennui.

Uncle Vanya's trousers, interestingly enough, are not actually featured
in either of Chekhov's plays. As Terry pointed out on afp: "Well, yes.
Vimes got them."

Что такое "cherry orchard", фэны не знают.
Когда самого Пратчетта спросили, за каким бесом он спародировал Чехова, писатель ответил: "Не Чехова. Расхожие представления о Чехове".
Tags: pratchett
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