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Alonzo Fitz, and Other Stories — обложка книги
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Alonzo Fitz, and Other Stories

Автор Марк Твен
12+
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Дата написания1970-01-01
Язык книгиen
Возрастное ограничение12+
Жанры
зарубежная классиказарубежная старинная литература

Описание

Сборник рассказов, в котором автор исследует темы любви, благотворительности, мифов и культурных различий через разнообразные персонажи и события.

Главный конфликт / проблема

Конфликт между любовью Алонзо и Розанны и вмешательством Бёрли, а также критика идеалов благотворительности и их скрытых мотивов

Ключевые идеи

  • Одиночество и поиск общения в холодном обществе
  • Любовь как спасение от скуки и одиночества
  • Влияние лжи и обмана на отношения
  • Технологии (телефон) как средство связи и защиты
  • Чрезмерная благосклонность может обернуться хаосом и трагедией.
  • Идеалы доброты часто скрывают скрытые мотивы и личные выгоды.
  • Абсурд и ирония в человеческих поступках служат критикой романтизированного альтруизма.
  • Показывается, как идеалы благотворительности могут привести к личной изнурённости и разочарованию.
  • Правильный выбор спасает жизнь и благополучие.
  • Символика животных как хранителей судьбы.
  • Роль детей и будущего в обществе.
  • Непредсказуемость погоды и её влияние на жизнь.

Вывод

Книга приводит к выводу, что искренность и честность важнее обмана, а идеалы благотворительности могут обернуться трагедией, если не учитывать скрытые мотивы

Кому полезна

  • Любители художественной литературы
  • Интересующиеся психологией и культурными темами
  • Студенты литературы

Главные темы

  • Любовь и честность
  • Идеалы благотворительности и их последствия
  • Мифология и культурные различия

Персонажи

  • Алонзо Фитц — Любит уют, ищет компанию, влюбляется в Розанну, переживает обман Бёрли
  • Тётя Сьюзен — Помогает Алонзо найти компанию, вводит Розанну
  • Розанна Этельтон — Молодая певица, влюблена в Алонзо, участвует в телефонном браке
  • Мистер Сидни Алгернон Бёрли — Пытается помешать отношениям Алонзо и Розанны
  • Рев. Мелтон Харграв — Обещает защитить музыку от кражи, но его изобретение задерживается
  • Благосклонный врач — Лекарь, который лечит пуделя и становится жертвой цепочки благодарностей.
  • Снодграсс — Помогает молодому автору, но в итоге становится бременем.
  • Снагсби — Ищет признания, получает помощь, но в итоге становится знаменитостью.
  • Молодой герой (William Ferguson) — Спасает мальчика, получает награду, но сталкивается с семейными трагедиями.
  • Butterworth Stavely — Пытается подорвать власть на острове Питкэрн, становится императором, но его правление заканчивается восстанием.
  • Хуберт — Добрый и благородный правитель, чья жизнь спасает певчий зверь.
  • Ночной соловей — Певчий зверь, выбранный королём по пророчеству.

Цитаты

  • «Тот часовой механизм снова ошибается. Он почти всегда знает, что время, и когда знает, он лжет о нем»
  • «Я люблю тебя, и чувствую к тебе. Расскажи мне всё. Доверься мне»
  • Beware of the books. They tell but half of the story.
  • I might as well acknowledge it, I have been fooled by the books; they only tell the pretty part of the story, and then stop.
  • «Up! shouted the king, let all the bells make proclamation to the people, for the choice is made and we have not erred. King, dynasty, and nation are saved. From henceforth let the nightingale be honored throughout the land forever. And publish it among all the people that whosoever shall insult a nightingale, or injure it, shall suffer death. The king hath spoken.»
  • «Waw… he! waw… he! waw-he!-waw he!-waw-he!»

Сводка по автору из Wikidata

1835–1910. Mark Twain. американский писатель, журналист и общественный деятель (1835–1910)

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ROGERS

This Man Rogers happened upon me and introduced himself at the town of ——-, in the South of England, where I stayed awhile. His stepfather had married a distant relative of mine who was afterward hanged; and so he seemed to think a blood relationship existed between us. He came in every day and sat down and talked. Of all the bland, serene human curiosities I ever saw, I think he was the chiefest. He desired to look at my new chimney-pot hat. I was very willing, for I thought he would notice the name of the great Oxford Street hatter in it, and respect me accordingly. But he turned it about with a sort of grave compassion, pointed out two or three blemishes, and said that I, being so recently arrived, could not be expected to know where to supply myself. Said he would send me the address of his hatter. Then he said, "Pardon me," and proceeded to cut a neat circle of red tissue paper; daintily notched the edges of it; took the mucilage and pasted it in my hat so as to cover the manufacturer's name. He said, "No one will know now where you got it. I will send you a hat-tip of my hatter, and you can paste it over this tissue circle." It was the calmest, coolest thing—I never admired a man so much in my life. Mind, he did this while his own hat sat offensively near our noses, on the table—an ancient extinguisher of the "slouch" pattern, limp and shapeless with age, discolored by vicissitudes of the weather, and banded by an equator of bear's grease that had stewed through.

Another time he examined my coat. I had no terrors, for over my tailor's door was the legend, "By Special Appointment Tailor to H. R. H. the Prince of Wales," etc. I did not know at the time that the most of the tailor shops had the same sign out, and that whereas it takes nine tailors to make an ordinary man, it takes a hundred and fifty to make a prince. He was full of compassion for my coat. Wrote down the address of his tailor for me. Did not tell me to mention my nom de plume and the tailor would put his best work on my garment, as complimentary people sometimes do, but said his tailor would hardly trouble himself for an unknown person (unknown person, when I thought I was so celebrated in England!—that was the cruelest cut), but cautioned me to mention his name, and it would be all right. Thinking to be facetious, I said:—

"But he might sit up all night and injure his health."

"Well, let him," said Rogers; "I've done enough for him, for him to show some appreciation of it."

I might as well have tried to disconcert a mummy with my facetiousness. Said Rogers: "I get all my coats there—they're the only coats fit to be seen in."

I made one more attempt. I said, "I wish you had brought one with you—I would like to look at it."

"Bless your heart, haven't I got one on?—this article is Morgan's make."

I examined it. The coat had been bought ready-made, of a Chatham Street Jew, without any question—about 1848. It probably cost four dollars when it was new. It was ripped, it was frayed, it was napless and greasy. I could not resist showing him where it was ripped. It so affected him that I was almost sorry I had done it. First he seemed plunged into a bottomless abyss of grief. Then he roused himself, made a feint with his hands as if waving off the pity of a nation, and said—with what seemed to me a manufactured emotion—"No matter; no matter; don't mind me; do not bother about it. I can get another."

When he was thoroughly restored, so that he could examine the rip and command his feelings, he said, ah, now he understood it—his servant must have done it while dressing him that morning.

His servant! There was something awe-inspiring in effrontery like this.

Nearly every day he interested himself in some article of my clothing. One would hardly have expected this sort of infatuation in a man who always wore the same suit, and it a suit that seemed coeval with the Conquest.

It was an unworthy ambition, perhaps, but I did wish I could make this man admire something about me or something I did—you would have felt the same way. I saw my opportunity: I was about to return to London, and had "listed" my soiled linen for the wash. It made quite an imposing mountain in the corner of the room—fifty-four pieces. I hoped he would fancy it was the accumulation of a single week. I took up the wash-list, as if to see that it was all right, and then tossed it on the table, with pretended forgetfulness. Sure enough, he took it up and ran his eye along down to the grand total. Then he said, "You get off easy," and laid it down again.

His gloves were the saddest ruin, but he told me where I could get some like them. His shoes would hardly hold walnuts without leaking, but he liked to put his feet up on the mantelpiece and contemplate them. He wore a dim glass breastpin, which he called a "morphylitic diamond"—whatever that may mean—and said only two of them had ever been found—the Emperor of China had the other one.

Afterward, in London, it was a pleasure to me to see this fantastic vagabond come marching into the lobby of the hotel in his grand-ducal way, for he always had some new imaginary grandeur to develop—there was nothing stale about him but his clothes. If he addressed me when strangers were about, he always raised his voice a little and called me "Sir Richard," or "General," or "Your Lordship"—and when people began to stare and look deferential, he would fall to inquiring in a casual way why I disappointed the Duke of Argyll the night before; and then remind me of our engagement at the Duke of Westminster's for the following day. I think that for the time being these things were realities to him. He once came and invited me to go with him and spend the evening with the Earl of Warwick at his town house. I said I had received no formal invitation. He said that that was of no consequence, the Earl had no formalities for him or his friends. I asked if I could go just as I was. He said no, that would hardly do; evening dress was requisite at night in any gentleman's house. He said he would wait while I dressed, and then we would go to his apartments and I could take a bottle of champagne and a cigar while he dressed. I was very willing to see how this enterprise would turn out, so I dressed, and we started to his lodgings. He said if I didn't mind we would walk. So we tramped some four miles through the mud and fog, and finally found his "apartments"; they consisted of a single room over a barber's shop in a back street. Two chairs, a small table, an ancient valise, a wash-basin and pitcher (both on the floor in a corner), an unmade bed, a fragment of a looking-glass, and a flower-pot, with a perishing little rose geranium in it, which he called a century plant, and said it had not bloomed now for upward of two centuries—given to him by the late Lord Palmerston—(been offered a prodigious sum for it)—these were the contents of the room. Also a brass candlestick and a part of a candle. Rogers lit the candle, and told me to sit down and make myself at home. He said he hoped I was thirsty, because he would surprise my palate with an article of champagne that seldom got into a commoner's system; or would I prefer sherry, or port? Said he had port in bottles that were swathed in stratified cobwebs, every stratum representing a generation. And as for his cigars—well, I should judge of them myself. Then he put his head out at the door and called:

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