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Commentary. to hold court –устраивать прием

to hold court – устраивать прием

the bull session (разг.)- откровенный разговор; беседа в мужской компании

you would not see somebody for dust (б рит. разг) – быстро убраться, чтобы избежать неприятностей; смыться

shoes and ships and sealing-wax – “О башмаках и сургуче, капусте, королях…” (цитата из книги “Алиса в стране чудес” Л.Кэрролла, разговор Моржа и Плотника)

stalling (for time) – задержать(ся)

love seat – диванчик (для двоих)

to be nuts – рехнуться, помешаться, сбрендить, сойти с ума, чокнуться

anteroom – прихожая, приемная

Exercise 1. Practise the pronunciation of the following words:

1. invariable [In've(R)rIRb(R)l] 8. oblique [R'blI:k]

2. pursuit [pR'sju:t] 9. forthrightness ['fO:YrQItnes]

3. beau [bou] 10 bulletin ['bulItIn]

4. jolt [dGoult] 11. buoyancy ['bOIRnsI]

5. equanimity [LI:kwR'nImItI] 12. tremulous ['tremjulRs]

6. menace ['menIs] 13. renegade ['renIgeId]

7. anxiety [WN'zQIRtI] 14. genuinely ['dGenjuInlI]

Exercise 2. Read the following extract:

“A yearbook,” Jane wrote, “should be the expression of a school’s personality.”

Was that what she meant? She thought so. But as she sat at her father’s ten-year-old portable typewriter, on which the E invariably stuck, she realized that she’d have to qualify it a bit.

She tapped out another sentence, vaguely disturbed by background music from the bathroom. Belinda, splashing in the tub, was singing a catchy new tune from the Hit Parade.

Linda was deeply involved with life, love, and the pursuit of happiness today. She had a date with Stitch Whitehead – her first – and it would be a feather in the cap of any freshman to be seen with the president of the junior class. For a week or more she had moped because Ken’s dish-washing job had made him practically unavailable, but now she was beginning to play the field.

Jane didn’t know whether Trudy had been informed of Stitch’s roving eye. Trudy considered that she and Stitch were practically going steady, and to discover that her best friend’s kid sister had stolen her beau — even for an evening — would be something of a jolt.

It was natural for Jane to try to imagine how Trudy would react. She was sure of one thing. She wouldn’t accept defeat with equanimity. Trudy was strong-minded. She knew what she wanted and usually managed to get it, in a thoroughly pleasant way. And Trudy, furthermore, was popular –very popular! She was no easy mark.

Oh, dry up, Jane told her thoughts, and get to work. This yearbook effort was due on Tuesday. She didn’t have much more time. But the life of the house, going on beyond the closed door of her room, continued to distract her.

Finally her honest interest in the project triumphed and now, beside the typewriter, stood three pages of manuscript which had been rewritten several times. She still wasn’t satisfied, but she was willing to admit it was the best she could do. Her eyes were growing heavy and her back ached from sitting. Stretching, She yawned and sighed.

* * *

After slipping her yearbook essay into the box outside the principal’s office, Jane went to the school library and asked for the world atlas. She took it over to a table beside the window and turned to Great Britain. For such a little island, there were certainly a lot of towns!

Patiently she began exploring, tracing with her fore-finger an ever-widening circle from London, and finally, below Stratford-on-Avon, she found the town of Broadway in tiny print. So it hadn’t been a joke, after all!

“Planning to take a trip?” asked Jack Preston, at her elbow.

Jane slapped the atlas shut. “I was considering it. But there’s the question of money as well as time.”

Jack sank into a chair opposite. “Don’t talk about money!” he groaned. “Am I ever broke! The only smart lad around here is our friend Kenneth. He’s juggling jobs with both hands.”

“I thought he was merely up to his elbows in soapsuds.”

Jack shook his head. “He’s delivering telegrams from eight to nine in the morning and from six to seven at night.”

“He’ll never be able to keep that up,” Jane predicted. “Not with football practice and everything.”

Jack looked at her rather sharply. “Haven’t you heard?”

“Heard what?”

“There’s an ugly rumor floating around that he’s planning to hand in his resignation.”

“Resignation from what?”

“From the football team.”

Jane gasped in astonishment. “Oh, no! He wouldn’t do that.”

Jack shrugged, and lifted himself wearily from the chair. “I’m only passing on the local gossip,” he told her. “Don’t look at me as though I didn’t have good sense.”

Jack’s report nagged Jane all through history class, even though she didn’t believe it. Ken wouldn’t do such a crazy thing — not in his senior year, with the football season just reaching its climax and Brookfield in the midst of a winning streak.

Then something of such importance happened that Jack’s gossip seemed negligible in comparison. Eric Forte had a serious accident in his hopped-up Ford. Riding down Main Street during lunch hour, the car with overloaded schoolmates, he blew a tire and careened into a telephone pole. The crowd spilled out on the sidewalk in front of the bank, and Polly came into math class later with an egg-sized bump on her forehead. But Sue Harvey was the real casualty. Sitting next to Eric, she had been thrown against the wheel with such force that she broke her arm.

Pictures of the accident appeared in the Evening News. “Hot Rod Menace Grows,” read the caption. Mr. Howard came into the house and in grim disapproval tossed the paper to his wife. “Look at that!” he growled. “The little Harvey girl’s in the hospital with a compound fracture. There ought to be a law against teenagers driving these old crates.”

Jane knew that her father’s genuine concern for their safety was the reason for his anger, and she also knew that similar scenes were being enacted in dozens of houses around town. Every time there was another teenage accident reported in the News, anxiety among the adults increased. Sue Harvey’s misfortune was bound to bring a rash of editorials and another lecture from the high school principal. She knew only one grownup who was ready to admit that hot rods were here to stay.

That was Mr. Wright, Bob’s father. Of all the men in their block on Franklin Street, he was the only one who had defended Ken after his costly mistake on the Cadillac. “I was a car bug myself when I was young,” he admitted. “But luckily I had an uncle in the business. When I ran into trouble I used to go down to his Chewy agency and ask the chief mechanic to put me straight. Personally, I learned a lot from my youthful experimenting. I wouldn’t have missed it for any amount of money, and I never had an accident, either.”

“Maybe you had a little common sense,” Mr. Howard grumbled. “All I can say is that I’m not going to have my daughters driving around town with a pack of hoodlums who run their cars up telephone poles.”

“Eric isn’t a hoodlum,” Jane wanted to protest, but she knew better. When her father became as exercised as this over anything, it was wise to let him blow off steam without interruption.

“Just as an example, take Ken Sanderson,” Mr. Howard continued, with a gesture toward the house next door. “Brass chips inside the manifold!” He snorted. “Suppose his mistake had been something dangerous instead of expensive? What then?”

“I know, I know,” said Mr. Wright soothingly. “But a boy learns through his errors, Mike.”

“If he’s bright.”

“Ken’s bright enough. I’ll guarantee that.” Mr. Wright sighed and stood up. “Personally, I think Brookfield’s a little behind the times,” he added, to Jane’s surprise. “What these youngsters need is some organization – a place where they can get together to work on their cars –pool their experience...” He moved toward the door with the sentence unfinished, but Jane looked after him thoughtfully.

Maybe, she thought to herself, he has something there. She wished that, instead of mentioning it in passing to her father, he had suggested the idea to Ken.

* * *

After church on Sunday Jane walked over to Sue Harvey’s with a box of caramels. It was a blowy, unsettled day, with clouds scudding across the sky and a hint of rain in the air.

Sue, her arm in a cast, was holding court. She was surrounded by half a dozen classmates, who were all discussing the chain reaction set up by Eric’s accident.

“The Parent-Teachers Association is really hot under the collar, according to Mother,” Trudy was saying, as Jane entered the room. Mrs. Blake was vice-president of the association, which had held a meeting Friday night.

“But why are they getting into it?” Gordon demanded. “After all, they can’t change the state laws. Any boy can drive when he’s seventeen.”

Sue looked around and saw Jane standing in the doorway. “Hi!” she called. “Come on in. Join the bull session.” When Jane thrust forth the caramels, she exclaimed, “My very favorite. Aren’t you a lamb to remember! This is so much fun I think I’ll break the other arm.”

“What they can do,” Trudy continued, in spite of the interruption, “is to get our mothers so upset they’ll forbid us to go riding with anybody at all.”

“Gosh,” Polly said, “it’s a good thing Mr. Sanderson’s out of town. Wouldn’t he be having a fit? You know how he always blows his top when anybody’s in a smash-up. He’d have Ken selling his Caddy so fast you wouldn’t be able to see him for dust.”

“Maybe that would be the answer,” Trudy said thoughtfully, then changed the subject. “Oh, let’s stop being so serious. After all, we came over to cheer Sue up.”

Jane lingered for half an hour, then made a feeble excuse about having to get home. She felt restless and unsettled, like the day. It wasn’t, she told herself, because of Trudy’s remark about Ken, and it certainly wasn’t because she had any intention of keeping the appointment Peter Shakespeare had suggested. This was no weather for climbing that hill behind the golf course. She’d be blown away!

Yet at the corner of Franklin Street and Butternut hill Road she hesitated. Now that she had been out of doors for ten minutes, it didn’t seem half so cold. And there was no reason to bury, really. The family would have lunched by now. She could pick up a glass of milk and a sandwich any time she got home.

Turning, she began to walk rapidly, her head down against the wind, her hair streaming behind her ears. Maybe he wouldn’t be there. Most likely he wouldn’t.

She hesitated, stopped entirely, and was about to turn back when she heard her name, called against the wind.

“Jane!” He was coming toward her at an oblique angle, across the stubble of the field, and his gray eyes had kindled with pleasure. “I didn’t think you’d come,” he said, glancing at the sky. “Not today.”

She flushed, and he said quickly, “I’m terribly glad, you know.”

“I can only stay a minute,” Jane said. “I was on my way home from a friend’s, and since I practically had to pass here anyway...”

It was a flimsy excuse. There wasn’t a house within a quarter of a mile. Yet Peter didn’t tease her. He simply said, “Let me walk back with you part way. That will give us a chance to talk.”

“What do you want to talk about?” asked Jane with such forthrightness that Peter laughed aloud.

“ ‘Shoes and ships and sealing-wax,’ ” he quoted. “Nothing, especially.” Side by side, they started down the hill.

“I looked up Broadway,” Jane said after a minute.

Peter laughed again, amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes and tilting his mouth engagingly. “You didn’t believe me, did you?”

“Not at first,” Jane admitted. “But I do now.”

“Good,” replied Peter. “One hurdle crossed, you know. Are you usually so suspicious, or is it because I’m British? Do I seem so very odd?”

“Well,” said Jane, “you don’t sound like an American, that’s for sure.”

“Why should I? You don’t sound like an English girl.” He glanced at her thoughtfully. “You act rather like one, though.”

This last remark caught Jane by surprise. “Why?” she asked.

Peter looked thoughtful. “I’m not sure that I can explain,” he said. “But most of the American girls I’ve met seem cut to a pattern. They all try to be like one another – in the way they dress, in the way they speak, even in the way they look at a boy.” He walked along in silence for a moment or two, frowning in concentration. “They’re pretty enough, but I think it would be hard to get to know them. You’re different, somehow.”

Jane digested this last remark ruefully. “I don’t like being different,” she said after an interval.

“You don’t?” The lad regarded her with raised eyebrows. “I think individuality is very important. Why should you want to be like everyone else?”

Jane found it hard to answer, but there was something about Peter that was very compelling. He gave her no chance to turn a question aside lightly. He seemed to expect the truth. “Why?” he repeated. “I’m interested.”

“People who are different aren’t usually very popular,” Jane blurted out finally.

Peter shrugged. “What’s popularity, really? What does it mean?”

“It means a lot,” Jane retorted with firmness. “At least it does at Brookfield High.”

“Does it make a person happier?” Peter asked.

“I think it does.”

“I doubt it. Popularity implies an artificial standard, you see.”

Jane didn’t see, and again she found the conversation baffling, as she had last Sunday. Peter Shakespeare was certainly peculiar — almost as peculiar as his name. Even his appearance was definitely foreign. He was wearing the same tweed jacket with the leather patches, and his longish hair was wind-tossed. She tried to imagine what Trudy would think of him — or Polly or Sue.

“What are you smiling at?”

“Nothing. Except that sometimes you talk like a professor – or a grownup.”

“Do I bore you?” Peter asked.

“No,” replied Jane, then added with a certain air of discovery, “No, as a matter of fact, not at all.”

“Good.” Peter grinned. “Shall I see you next Sunday?” He seemed to realize that as they came to the outskirts of Brookfield Jane expected him to leave.

“Maybe,” Jane replied, shivering. “If it’s not quite this cold.” She thought, as they stood on a street corner, that she’d like to ask Peter to the house, but the possibility of Belinda’s scorn stopped her. Mother might understand, but Linda never. She’d giggle with amusement at his accent and comment on his strange appearance. No, she couldn’t face it. Peter would have to remain a Sunday-afternoon secret.

Peter Shakespeare – such a funny name!

* * *

At the announcement, made in assembly, a ripple of surprise swept the student body, but Jane became rigid, unbelieving. There must be some mistake!

Trudy, sitting next to her, reached over and squeezed her hand. “I think it’s wonderful!” she whispered. “Aren’t you simply thrilled?”

Jane turned and stared at her, open-mouthed. How had such a thing ever happened? She – Jane Howard – editor in chief. The fact became credible only when she saw the list posted on the bulletin board in the first-floor hall. It streamed through her consciousness like a banner waving. Jane Howard. Jane Howard! JANE HOWARD. Editor in chief.

“Nothing will ever be such a surprise again,” she admitted later to Miss Knauer. “Why me?”

The young teacher smiled. “Because you earned it, Jane. When your paper was read aloud there wasn’t any question that you were the person to take charge. You have a very well-rounded conception of what a year-book should be.”

“But — but I’m not the executive type.”

“How do you know?”

“I’ve never had any big job, never. Frankly, I’m scared.”

“Good,” said Miss Knauer, patting Jane on the shoulder. “Stay frightened for a while. It will help you do better work. And remember, you won’t be alone in the yearbook office. You’ve got a splendid staff.”

The staff was almost as much of a surprise to the juniors as the editor bad been. The next most important position, that of advertising manager, had been given to Gordon Park. Sue was joke-editor, but none of the rest of Jane’s group were included. Trudy was offended until she discovered this fact. Then she decided, with her usual buoyancy, that she didn’t want to work on the book much anyway. Life was really crowded enough as it was.

Jane remained thrilled. She started home in a trance, anxious to tell her mother the good news. It was so much more than she had ever expected. The words kept singing themselves over in her head — editor, editor in chief!

Gordon had been equally astonished. “Well, isn’t it amazing?” he had said, upon meeting her on the school steps, “Who’d ever have thought it?”

“Just about nobody,” Jane admitted frankly. “But I think it’s terribly exciting, anyway.”

The excitement lifted her up, gave her a marvelous, inviolable feeling of self-esteem. For the first time since the night of the football rally the world once more looked inviting.

Shrugging, she dismissed the problem for the moment. The good news she was bringing home became uppermost in her mind. But once inside the house, she grew unexpectedly shy. Her mother was right there in the living room, leafing through a new copy of the Journal, completely available and ready to listen, but Jane just couldn’t seem to get the words out.

“What do you think! The most wonderful thing has happened!” That was what she wanted to say. That was way she felt. But for the moment she was tongue-tied. It was such a big thing to tell. Tremulous with emotion, she couldn’t seem to find words to make the announcement lightly enough.

She took her coat to the hall closet and hung it up very precisely, stalling for time and trying to feel less overwhelmed by good fortune, trying to take it as Trudy or Polly might have done – casually, as though it were a pleasant honor, but nothing to get feverish about. In the end, however, she found it was impossible to sound off-hand.

“Mother, I’m going to be editor of the yearbook,” she blurted out.

Mrs. Howard put down her magazine and looked at Jane with delight. “You are? Why, I think that’s simply wonderful! When did all this happen? Tell me.”

She leaned forward, full of interest, and Jane grinned and relaxed. It was nice to have such a satisfactory mother, someone you could count on. Their old intimacy, shattered by the strain under which Jane had been living, began to mend.

For the first time in months Jane’s eyes actually glowed as she poured out the story, repeating the manner of the announcement, her astonishment, her disbelief. Her cheeks were still hot with excitement, but she was no longer filled with trepidation. The yearbook sounded like a challenge. “If only I can do it!” she cried, with clasped hands. “Oh, Mother, do you think I’m good enough?”

“I know you’re good enough,” said Mrs. Howard confidently. She met her daughter’s eyes and smiled proudly. “I’m so happy for you. And it’s such a marvelous opportunity!” Especially right now, said her eyes, but she didn’t speak the words aloud, and Jane was grateful. They understood one another. Impulsively Jane went and hugged her mother, then ran upstairs with her eyes full of happy, unshed tears.

* * *

Belinda kicked the front door shut behind her. She flung her books on the love seat and cried in a fever of indignation, “It’s true. I didn’t believe it, but it’s true. Ken is resigning from the football team!”

Jane looked up from her book. So Jack’s prediction had been right after all. But in the flush of her own victory she hadn’t heard that the rumor had become a fact.

“This,” said Mrs. Howard, “is quite a day for announcements. Some good, some bad.”

Belinda kicked off her loafers and began to stride up and down the room. “We’ve got to stop him,” she muttered distractedly. “Think how people will talk!”

Mrs. Howard raised an eyebrow and stifled a smile. “It is pretty unconventional, I’ll admit.”

“Unconventional? It’s ridiculous. Nobody does things like that –nobody! Is he crazy, or what?”

“Crazy and what,” offered Jane coolly.

“Stop being melodramatic,” Mrs. Howard said sharply, “and just answer me one question. Why should Kenneth’s decision, foolish or not, affect you?”

“Because he’s been having dates with me, that’s why,” wailed Belinda, her big blue eyes streaming. “I don’t want people to think I’d go around with a boy who’s positively” – she gulped – “nuts.”

Jane sat quite still, a small frown creasing her forehead. It was dawning on her that Belinda was angry at Ken only because his conduct would affect her. She didn’t want him to rain his reputation, because she had enjoyed his position in the limelight. If Ken shone as a football star, she was illuminated in reflected glory. But what if Ken were an outcast, a renegade?

* * *

Two headlines appeared side by side in the school section of the News that evening.

“Jane Howard Named Yearbook Editor.” “Sanderson to Quit Brookfield Eleven.” They seemed equally astonishing to Jane, but the pleasure of seeing her name in print for the first time was dampened by the obvious discredit to Ken implied in the word quit. She stared at the twin announcements, her chest tight, although she tried to tell herself that she didn’t care what Ken did or what they said about him at school or in the newspaper. But too much water had gone over the dam, she realized. The years when they had been inseparable companions, the years when they had been great and good friends, were too many and too long. Linda might storm and cry because she had a personal injury, but for Jane the emotion went deeper. She felt sick at heart.

After dinner, inevitably, the subject was brought up again by Belinda. “What do you think, Daddy? Don’t you think we should try to talk to Ken and persuade him to reconsider? After all, Mr. Sanderson’s away.”

Mr. Howard shook his head. “It’s not our business, Belinda. I don’t like to think the boy’s a quitter, but I’ll admit he picked a pretty poor time to walk out.”

Quitter. That word again. Jane’s heart began to pound. “I don’t think it’s fair to call Ken a quitter until he’s had a chance to explain himself,” she was astounded to find herself saying.

The doorbell rang so unexpectedly that Jane positively started. Then, before anyone could answer it, Ken himself poked his head in the door.

“Come on in!” Mr. Howard invited. “We were just talking about you. What’s all this about your skinning out on the football team?” He thumped the newspaper, which lay across his knees, and Jane whispered to her mother, who was sitting next to her on the love seat, “The tactful type.”

“Oh, you’ve seen it.” Ken, pale-faced, came forward “They didn’t have to make such a thing of it,” he muttered. “After all, it isn’t as if I was as important as Eric Forte or Jack.”

“But why do you want to walk out, boy?”

“I’ve got to earn the money to fix my Caddy,” Ken said.

“They can do without me. I’m not that good. They’ll keep on winning, even if I’m out. Honest — I’ll lay you a bet they will!” Suddenly Ken began talking more rapidly, the words tumbling over one another in his haste. “Don’t you see? Football’s just a game I’ve practically finished with anyway. But the Caddy’s something else again. It’s teaching me things – all kinds of things I never knew before. Mr. Howard, it’s just terribly vital! If I can’t earn the money to get it fixed I’ll lose it – and I can’t lose it. Not now! But I know one thing.” He looked at Mr. Howard squarely. “I’ve got to do what I think is right, even if the whole school — or the whole world — thinks it’s wrong.”

He dug his hands in his jacket pockets. “Hey,” he muttered, shamefaced, as he pulled out a yellow envelope. “I almost forgot what I came for. Here’s a telegram for you, Jane.”

“For me?” Jane held out her hand in astonishment. Who could possibly be sending her a wire, and why? While Ken and the family waited she opened it and read: “Saw newspaper story period congratulations period great work.”

It was signed simply “Peter,” and was addressed Miss Jane Howard, Brookfield, because of course he didn’t know her street address.

First Jane smiled. What a thoughtful thing to do! Then she flushed, realizing she couldn’t explain it to the family. She crumpled the telegram and thrust it into the pocket of her skirt, wondering what tactics to employ.

“Well, aren’t you going to tell us what it’s all about?” asked Belinda.

“No,” said Jane, and an impish twinkle lighted her eyes. “I’m not.”

* * *

The next day, as Linda had predicted, Brookfield High buzzed with gossip. Interest in the yearbook elections, to Jane’s secret disappointment, faded in the bright glare of publicity given to Ken’s default.

The fact that Ken never said a word about her yearbook editorship disturbed Jane. She knew that he must have supported her, and knew also from their brief conversation that day on the way to the athletic field that he had confidence in her ability. But either he was too self-absorbed or too ashamed or too something to mention it. In any event she learned to enjoy the taste of success without the salt of his approval. She learned one other thing – that Belinda had been right. The yearbook was going to be a terrific job.

The office assigned to the staff was an anteroom to the left of the auditorium stage. For her, the little room became almost a second home. The last hockey game of the season would be played next week. Practice was less intensive. And time, which might otherwise have hung heavy on her hands, had a high value for the editor of the yearbook. She planned, organized, prodded her staff into action, and, with Gordon, consulted printers and bargained for the lowest possible contract price. She wanted to have the agreement signed, sealed, and delivered by Thanksgiving if possible, even though the deadline on copy was January 1.

Exercise 3. Find the following words and word combinations in the text you have read. Write out and learn the pronunciation. Give the Russian equivalents:

1. to accept defeat

2. to hand in one’s resignation

3. to run into trouble

4. to have common sense

5. to blow off steam

6. to learn through one’s errors

7. to be cut to a pattern

8. to make an announcement

9. to be credible

10. to take charge

11. to be tongue-tied

12. to affect smb

13. to crease (one’s forehead)

14. to dawn on smb

15. to bring up a subject

16. to bargain for smth

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