Скандинавские заимствования в английском языке

   1978, 124 с.

10. Алёхина А.И. Идиоматика современного английского языка.— М., 1982,       205с.

11. Антрушина Г. Б., Афанасьева О. В., Морозова Н. Н. Лексикология

   английского языка. – М., 2000, 286 с.

12. Аракин В.Д. История английского языка: Учебное пособие для студентов

   педагогических  институтов по специальности  "Иностранные языки". – М.,

   1985, 175 с.

13. Арбекова Т.И.  Лексикология английского языка.— М., 1977, 291 с.

14. Бруннер К.  История английского языка. –  М., 1956, 152 с.

15. Войнова Е.А.  Лексикология современного английского  языка. – М., 1991, 198 с.

16. Гальперин И.Р., Черкасская Е.Б. Лексикология  английского языка. – М.,

   1956, 298 с.

17. Заботкина В.И.  Новая лексика современного английского  языка. – М.,

   1989, 189 с.

18. Ильиш  Б.А. История английского языка.  Учебник для студентов

   педагогических институтов по  специальности "Иностранные языки". – М.,

   1968, 245 с.

19. Маковский  М.М. Английская этимология – М., 1986, 199 с.

20. Секирин  В.П. Заимствования в английском языке. – Киев, 1964, 204 с.

21. Смирницкий  А. И. Лексикология английского языка. – М., 1956, 138 с.

22. Харитончик  З.А. Лексика английского языка.  –  Минск, 1992., 200 с.

23. Амосова Н.Н. Этимологические  основы словарного состава современного английского языка – издательство литературы на иностранных языках, - М, 1956, 216 с.

 

 

СЛОВАРИ

24. Мюллер, В.К./Большой  англо-русский словарь/ В.К. Мюллер, А.Б. Шевнин, М.Ю. Бродский. - Екатеринбург: У-Фактория, 2005. - 1536с.

25. Wikipedia - the free encyclopedia. Mode of access: http://ru.wikipedia.org/wiki. - Date of access: 12.04.2010.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Приложение

When Julia had got her face clean she left it. She neither painted her lips nor rouged her

cheeks. She put on again the brown coat and skirt in which she had come to the theatre and the same hat. It was a felt hat with a brim, and this she pulled down over one eye so that it should hide as much of her face as possible. When she was ready she looked at herself in the glass.

"I look like a working dressmaker whose husband's left her, and who can blame him? I don't believe a soul would recognize me."

Evie had had the telephoning done from the stage-door, and when she came back Julia asked her if there were many people waiting for her there.

"About three 'undred I should say."

"Damn." She had a sudden desire to see nobody and be seen by nobody. She wanted just for one hour to be obscure. "Tell the fireman to let me out at the front and I'll take a taxi, and then as soon as I've got out let the crowd know there's no use in their waiting."

"God only knows what I 'ave to put up with," said Evie darkly.

"You old cow."

She got a batch of them and spent the whole day reading them. Then she was a trifle restless. She walked on the ramparts and looked at the islands that dotted the bay. The grey sky made her sick for the grey sky of England. But by Tuesday morning she had sunk back once more into the calmness of the provincial life. She read a good deal, novels, English and French, that she bought at the local bookshop, and her favourite Verlaine. There was a tender melancholy in his verses that seemed to fit the grey Breton town, the sad old stone houses and the quietness of those steep and tortuous streets.

The peaceful habits of the two old ladies, the routine of their uneventful existence and their quiet gossip, excited her compassion. Nothing had happened to them for years, nothing now would ever happen to them till they died, and then how little would their lives have signified. The strange thing was that they were content. They knew neither malice nor envy. They had achieved the aloofness from the common ties of men that Julia felt in herself when she stood at the footlights bowing to the applause of an enthusiastic audience. Sometimes she had thought that aloofness her most precious possession. In her it was born of pride; in them of humility. In both cases it brought one precious thing, liberty of spirit; but with them it was more secure.

Julia was somewhat nervous when Lady Charles left

her husband. She threatened to bring proceedings for

divorce, and Julia did not at all like the idea of appear-

ing as intervener. For two or three weeks she was very

jittery. She decided to say nothing to Michael till it was

necessary, and she was glad she had not, for in due course

it appeared that the threats had been made only to ex-

tract more substantial alimony from the innocent hus-

band. Julia managed Charles with wonderful skill. It

was understood between them that her great love for

Michael made any close relation between them out of

the question, but so far as the rest was concerned he was

everything to her, her friend, her adviser, her confidant,

the man she could rely on in any emergency or go to for

comfort in any disappointment. It was a little more dif-

ficult when Charles, with his fine sensitiveness, saw that

she was no longer in love with Michael. Then Julia had

to exercise a great deal of tact. It was not that she had

any scruples about being his mistress; if he had been an

actor who loved her so much and had loved her so long

she would not have minded popping into bed with him

out of sheer good nature; but she just did not fancy him.

She was very fond of him, but he was so elegant, so well -

bred, so cultured, she could not think of him as a lover.

It would be like going to bed with an objetd’art. And his

love of art filled her with a faint derision; after all she

was a creator, when all was said and done he was only

the public. He wished her to elope with him. They would

buy a villa at Sorrento on the bay of Naples, with a large

garden, and they would have a schooner so that they

could spend long days on the beautiful wine-coloured

sea. Love and beauty and art; the world well lost.

   “The damned fool,” she thought. “As if I’d give up my

career to bury myself in some hole in Italy!”

   She persuaded him that she had a duty to Michael,

and then there was the baby; she couldn’t let him grow

up with the burden on his young life that his mother was

a bad woman. Orange trees or no orange trees, she would

never have a moment’s peace in that beautiful Italian

villa if she was tortured by the thought of Michael’s

unhappiness and her baby being looked after by stran-

gers. One couldn’t only think of oneself, could one? One

had to think of others too. She was very sweet and wom-

anly. She sometimes asked Charles why he did not ar-

range a divorce with his wife and marry some nice worm-

an. She could not bear the thought of his wasting his life

over her. He told her that she was the only woman he

had ever loved and that he must go on loving her till the

end.

They talked. He seemed shy, much shyer than he had

seemed over the telephone; well, that was not to be won-

dered at, now she was there he must be rather overcome,

and she set herself to put him at his ease. He told her that’

his parents lived at Highgate, his father was a solicitor,

and he had lived there too, but he wanted to be his own

master and now in the last year of his articles he had

broken away and taken this tiny flat. He was working for

his final examination. They talked of the theatre. He had

seen her in every play she had acted in since he was twelve

years old. He told her that once when he was fourteen he

had stood outside the stage door after a matinee and when

she came out had asked her to sign her name in his auto-

graph-book. He was sweet with his blue eyes and pale

brown hair. It was a pity he plastered it down like that.

He had a white skin and rather a high colour; she won-

dered if he was consumptive. Although his clothes were

cheap he wore them well, she liked that, and he looked

incredibly clean.

Julia found the Colonel a much less alarming person than she had expected. He was thin and rather small, with a lined face and close-cropped white hair. His features had a worn distinction. He reminded you of a head on an old coin that had been in circulation too long. He was civil, but reserved. He was neither peppery nor tyrannical as Julia, from her knowledge of the stage, expected a colonel to be. She could not imagine him shouting out words of command in that courteous, rather cold voice. He had in point of fact retired with honorary rank after an entirely undistinguished career, and for many years had been content to work in his garden and play

bridge at his club. He read The Times, went to church on Sunday and accompanied his wife to tea-parties. Mrs. Gosselyn was a tall, stoutish, elderly woman, much taller than her husband, who gave you the impression that

she was always trying to diminish her height. She had the remains of good looks, so that you said to yourself

that when young she must have been beautiful. She wore her hair parted in the middle with a bun on the nape of

her neck. Her classic features and her size made her at first meeting somewhat imposing, but Julia quickly dis-

covered that she was very shy. Her movements were stiff and awkward. She was dressed fussily, with a sort

of old-fashioned richness which did not suit her. Julia, who was entirely without self-consciousness, found the

elder woman’s deprecating attitude rather touching. She had never known an actress to speak to and did not quite

know how to deal with the predicament in which she now found herself. The house was not at all grand, a small detached stucco house in a garden with a laurel hedge, and since the Gosselyns had been for some years in India there were great trays of brass ware and brass bowls, pieces of Indian embroidery and highly-carved Indian tables. It was cheap bazaar stuff, and you wondered how anyone had thought it worth bringing home.

Michael, looking for new talent, often took him to the

play in the evenings, either in London or the suburbs;

they would fetch Julia after the performance, and the

three of them supped together. Now and then Michael

asked Tom to play golf with him on Sundays and then if

there was no party would bring him home to dinner.

   “Nice to have a young fellow like that around,” he

said. “It keeps one from growing rusty.”

   Tom was very pleasant about the house. He would

play backgammon with Michael, or patience with Julia,

and when they turned on the gramophone he was always

there to change the records.

The moment he had gone she turned out the lights and went to the window. She peered cautiously through the curtains. She heard him slam the front door and saw him come out. He looked right and left. She guessed at once that he was looking for a taxi. There was none in sight and he started to walk in the direction of the Park. She knew that he was going to join Avice Crichton at the supper party and tell her the glad news. Julia sank into a chair. She had acted, she had acted marvellously, and now she felt all in. Tears, tears that nobody could see, rolled down her cheeks. She was miserably unhappy.

There was only one thing that enabled her to bear her wretchedness, and that was the icy contempt that she could not but feel for the silly boy who could prefer to her a small-part actress who didn’t even begin to know how to act. It was grotesque. She couldn’t use her hands; why she didn’t even know how to walk across the stage.

“If I had any sense of humour I’d just laugh my head off,” she cried, “It’s the most priceless joke I’ve ever heard.”

She wondered what Tom would do now. The rent of the flat would be falling due on quarter-day. A lot of the things in it belonged to her. He wouldn’t much like going back to his bed-sitting room in Tavistock Square. She thought of the friends he had made through her. He’d been clever with them. They found him useful and he’d keep them. But it wouldn’t be so easy for him to take Avice about.

"Not nearly such a good performance as if I'd had the opportunity of rehearsing it a few times," Julia answered tartly. "You see, what you don't understand is that acting isn't nature; it's art, and art is something you create. Real grief is ugly; the business of the actor is to represent it not only with truth but with beauty.

If I were really dying as I've died in half a dozen plays, d'you think I'd care whether my gestures were graceful and my faltering words distinct enough to carry to the last row of the gallery? If it's a sham it's no more a sham than a sonata of Beethoven's, and I'm no more of a sham than the pianist who plays it. It's cruel to say that I'm not fond of you. I'm devoted to you. You've been the only thing in my life."

"No. You were fond of me when I was a kid and you could have me photographed with you. It made a lovely picture and it was fine publicity. But since then you haven't bothered much about me. I've bored you rather than otherwise. You were always glad to see me, but you were thankful that I went my own way and didn't want to take up your time. I don't blame you; you hadn't got time in your life for anyone but yourself."

Julia was beginning to grow a trifle impatient. He was getting too near the truth for her comfort.

"You forget that young things are rather boring."

Gosh, what a performance she could give! She knew why in the spring she had acted so badly that Michael had preferred to close down; it was because she was feeling the emotions she portrayed. That was no good. You had to have had the emotions, but you could only play them when you had got over them. She remembered that Charles had once said to her that the origin of poetry was emotion recollected in tranquillity. She didn't know anything about poetry, but it was certainly true about acting.

"Clever of poor old Charles to get hold of an original idea like that. It shows how wrong it is to judge people hastily. One thinks the aristocracy are a bunch of nitwits, and then one of them suddenly comes out with something like that that's so damned good it takes your breath away."

But Julia had always felt that Racine had made a great mistake in not bringing on his heroine till the third act.

"Of course I wouldn't have any nonsense like that if I played it. Half an act to prepare my entrance if you like, but that's ample."

It seemed to her that none but she knew what it was like to live with a man who was such a monster of vanity.

His complacency when he had beaten an opponent at golf or got the better of someone in a business deal was infuriating. He gloried in his artfulness. He was a bore, a crashing bore. He liked to tell Julia everything he did and every scheme that passed through his head; it had been charming when merely to have him with her was a delight, but for years she had found his prosiness intolerable. He could describe nothing without circumstantial detail. Nor was he only vain of his business acumen; with advancing years he had become outrageously vain of his person. As a youth he had taken his beauty for granted: now he began to pay more attention to it and spared no pains to keep what was left of it. It became an obsession. He devoted anxious care to his figure. He never ate a fattening thing and never forgot his exercises. He consulted hair specialists when he thought his hair was thinning, and Julia was convinced that had it been possible to get the operation done secretly he would have had his face lifted. He had got into the way of sitting with his chin slightly thrust out so that the wrinkles in his neck should not show and he held himself with an arched back to keep his belly from sagging. He could not pass a mirror without looking into it. He hankered for compliments and beamed with delight when he had managed to extract one. They were food and drink to him. Julia laughed bitterly when she remembered that it was she who had accustomed him to them. For years she had told him how beautiful he was and now he could not live without flattery. It was the only chink in his armour. An actress out of a job had only to tell him to his face that he was too handsome to be true for him to think that she might do for a part he had in mind. For years, so far as Julia knew, Michael had not bothered with women, but when he reached the middle forties he began to have little flirtations. Julia suspected that nothing much came of them. He was prudent, and all he wanted was admiration. She had heard that when women became pressing he used her as a pretext to get rid of them.

Either he couldn’t risk doing anything to hurt her, or she was jealous or suspicious and it seemed better that the friendship should cease.

   “God knows what they see in him,” Julia exclaimed to the empty room.

   She took up half a dozen of his photographs at random and looked at them carefully one by one. She shrugged

her shoulders.

   “Well, I suppose I can’t blame them. I fell in love with him too. Of course he was better-looking in those days.”

   It made Julia a little sad to think how much she had loved him. Because her love had died she felt that life had cheated her. She sighed.

   “And my back’s aching,”  she said.

   The day passed exactly as she had hoped. It was true

that she saw little of Tom, but Roger saw less. Tom

made a great hit with the Dennorants; he explained to

them how they could get on I of paying as much income-

tax as they did. He listened respectfully to the Chancel-

lor while he discoursed on the stage and to Archie Dex-

ter while he gave his views on the political situation.

Julia was at the top of her form. Archie Dexter had a

quick wit, a fund of stage stories and a wonderful gift for

telling them; between the two of them they kept the

table during luncheon laughing uproariously; and after

tea, when the tennis players were tired of playing ten-

nis, Julia was persuaded (not much against her will) to

do her imitations of Gladys Cooper, Constance Collier

and Gertie Lawrence. But Julia did not forget that

Charles Tamerley was her devoted, unrewarded lover,

and she took care to have a little stroll alone with him

in the gloaming. With him she sought to be neither gay

nor brilliant, she was tender and wistful. Her heart ached,