Пользователь - WORLD'S END
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- Название:WORLD'S END
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WORLD'S END
Upton Sinclair
1940
WORLD'S END
Upton Sinclair
Authors Note
In the course of this novel a number of well-known persons make their appearance, some of them living, some dead; they appear under their own names, and what is said about them is factually correct.
There are other characters which are fictitious, and in these cases the author has gone out of his way to avoid seeming to point at real persons. He has given them unlikely names, and hopes that no persons bearing such names exist. But it is impossible to make sure; therefore the writer states that, if any such coincidence occurs, it is accidental. This is not the customary "hedge clause" which the author of a roman а clef publishes for legal protection; it means what it says and is intended to be so taken.
Various European concerns engaged in the manufacture of munitions have been named in the story, and what has been said about them is also according to the records. There is one American firm, and that, with all its affairs, is imaginary. The writer has done his best to avoid seeming to indicate any actual American firm or family.
Contents
Book One: God's in His Heaven
I. MUSIC MADE VISIBLE
II. CФTE D'AZUR
PLAYGROUND OF EUROPE
CHRISTMAS-CARD CASTLE
V. THE FACTS OF LIFE
VI. ARMS AND THE MAN
Book Two: A Little Cloud
VII. THE ISLES OF GREECE
VIII. THIS REALM, THIS ENGLAND
IX. GREEN AND PLEASANT LAND
X. LA BELLE FRANCE
XI. C’EST LA GUERRE
Book Three: Bella Gerant Alii
xii. loved i not honour more
xiii. women must weep
xiv. the furies of pain
xv. amor inter arma
xvi. business as usual
xvii. a man's world
xviii. away from all that
Book Four: Land of the Pilgrims' Pride
XIX. OLD COLONIAL
XX. THE PIERIAN SPRING
XXI. THE THOUGHTS OF YOUTH
XXII. ABOVE THE BATTLE
MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM
THE WORLD WELL LOST
Book Five: They Have Sown the Wind
XXV. THE BATTLE FLAGS ARE FURLED
XXVI. THE PARLIAMENT OF MAN
XXVII. THE FEDERATION OF THE WORLD
XXVIII. THE RED PERIL
XXIX. A FRIEND IN NEED
XXX. OUT OF THE DEPTHS
XXXI. IN THE ENEMY'S COUNTRY
Book Six: They Shall Reap the Whirlwind
XXXII. I HAVE SEEN THE FUTURE
XXXIII. WOE TO THE CONQUERED
XXXIV. YOUNG LOCHINVAR
XXXV. I CAN NO OTHER
XXXVI. THE CHOICE OF HERCULES
XXXVII. PEACE IN OUR TIME
XXXVIII. BATTLE OF THE STAGS
Book One
God's in His Heaven
I
Music Made Visible
The American boy's name was Lanning Budd; people called him Lanny, an agreeable name, easy to say. He had been born in Switzerland, and spent most of his life on the French Riviera; he had never crossed the ocean, but considered himself American because his mother and father were that. He had traveled a lot, and just now was in a little village in the suburbs of Dresden, his mother having left him while she went off on a yachting trip to the fiords of Norway. Lanny didn't mind, for he was used to being left in places, and knew how to get along with people from other parts of the world. He would eat their foods, pick up a smattering of their languages, and hear stories about strange ways of life.
Lanny was thirteen, and growing fast, but much dancing had kept his figure slender and graceful. His wavy brown hair was worn long, that being the fashion for boys; when it dropped into his eyes, he gave a toss of the head. His eyes also were brown, and looked out with eagerness on whatever part of Europe he was in. Just now he was sure that Hellerau was the most delightful of places, and surely this day of the Festspiel was the most delightful of days.
Upon a high plateau stood a tall white temple with smooth round pillars in front, and to it were drifting throngs of people who had journeyed from places all over the earth where art was loved and cherished; fashionable ones among them, but mostly art people, writers and critics, musicians, actors, producers - celebrities in such numbers that it was impossible to keep track of them. All Lanny's life he had heard their names, and here they were in the flesh. With two friends, a German boy slightly older than himself and an English boy older still, he wandered among the crowd in a state of eager delight.
"There he is!" one would whisper.
"Which?"
"The one with the pink flower."
"Who is he?"
One of the older boys would explain. Perhaps it was a great blond Russian named Stanislavsky; perhaps a carelessly dressed Englishman, Granville Barker. The boys would stare, but not too openly or too long. It was a place of courtesy, and celebrities were worshiped but not disturbed. To ask for an autograph was a crudity undreamed of in the Dalcroze school.
The three were on the alert for the king of celebrities, who had promised to be present. They spied him at some distance, talking with two ladies. Others also had spied him, and were doing as the boys did, walking slowly past, inclining their ears in the hope of catching a stray pearl of wit or wisdom; then stopping a little way off, watching with half-averted gaze.
"His whiskers look like gold," murmured Lanny.
"Whiskers?" queried Kurt, the German boy, who spoke English carefully and precisely. "I thought you say beard."
"Whiskers are beard and mustaches both," ventured Lanny, and then inquired: "Aren't they, Rick?"
"Whiskers stick out," opined the English boy, and added: "His are the color of the soil of Hellerau." It was true, for the ground was reddish yellow, and had glints of sunlight in it. "Hellerau means bright meadow," Kurt explained.
II
The king of celebrities was then in his middle fifties, and the breeze that blew on that elevated spot tossed his whiskers, which stuck out. Tall and erect, he had eyes as gay as the bluebells on the meadow and teeth like the petals of the daisies. He wore an English tweed suit of brown with reddish threads in it, and when he threw his head back and laughed - which he did every time he made a joke - all the flowers on the bright meadow danced.
The trio stared until they thought maybe it wasn't polite any more, and then turned their eyes away. "Do you suppose he'd answer if we spoke to him?" ventured Lanny.
"Oh, no!" exclaimed Kurt, the most strictly brought up of the three.
"What would we say?" demanded Rick.
"We might think up something. You try; you're English."
"English people don't ever speak without being introduced."
"Think of something anyhow," persisted Lanny. "It can't hurt to pretend."
Rick was fifteen, and his father was a baronet who preferred to be known as a designer of stage sets. "Mr. Shaw," he suggested, with Oxford accent and polished manner, "may I take the liberty of telling you how much I have enjoyed the reading of your prefaces?"
"That's what everybody says," declared Lanny. "He's sick of it. You try, Kurt."
Kurt clicked his heels and bowed; he was the son of an official in Silesia, and couldn't even imagine addressing anyone without doing that. "Mr. Shaw, we Germans count ourselves your discoverers, and it does us honor to welcome you to our soil."
"That's better," judged the American. "But maybe the Bьrgermeister has already said it."
"You try it then," said Rick.
Lanny knew from his father and others that Americans said what they wanted to, and without too much ceremony. "Mr. Shaw," he announced, "we three boys are going to dance for you in a few minutes, and we're tickled to death about it."
"He'll know that's American, all right," admitted Rick. "Would you dare to do it?"
"I don't know," said Lanny. "He looks quite kind."
The king of celebrities had started to move toward the tall white temple, and Kurt glanced quickly at his watch. "Herrgott! Three minutes to curtain!"
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