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TEXT. A DAY'S WAIT by Ernest Heming
TEXT. A DAY'S WAIT by Ernest Hemingway
Hemingway, Ernest (1899-1961): a prominent American novelist and short-story writer. He began to write fiction about 1923, his first books being the reflection of his war experience. "The Sun Also Rises" (1926) belongs to this period as well as "A Farewell to Arms" (1929) in which the antiwar protest is particularly powerful.
During the Civil War Hemingway visited Spain as a war correspondent. His impressions of the period and his sympathies with the Republicans found reflection in his famous play "The Fifth Column" (1937), the novel "For Whom the Bell Tolls" (1940) and a number of short stories.
His later works are "Across the River and into the Trees" (1950) and "The Old Man and the Sea" (1952) and the very last novel "Islands in the Stream" (1970) published after the author's death. In 1954 he was awarded a Nobel Prize for literature.
Hemingway's manner is characterized by deep psychological insight into the human nature. He early established himself as the master of a new style: laconic and somewhat dry.
He came into the room to shut the windows while we were still in bed and I saw he looked ill. He was shivering, his face was white, and he walked slowly as though it ached to move. "What's the matter, Schatz?"12
"I've got a headache."
"You'd better go back to bed."
"No, I'm all right."
"You go to bed. I'll see you when I'm dressed."
But when I came downstairs he was dressed, sitting by the fire, looking a very sick and miserable boy of nine years. When I put my hand on his forehead I knew he had a fever.
"You go up to bed," I said, "you're sick."
"I'm all right," he said.
When the doctor came he took the boy's temperature.
"What is it?" I asked him.
"One hundred and two."13
Downstairs, the doctor left three different medicines in different colored capsules with instructions for giving them. One was to bring down the fever, another a purgative, the third to overcome an acid condition. The germs of influenza can only exist in an acid condition, he explained. He seemed to know all about influenza and said there was nothing to worry about if the fever did not go above one hundred and four degrees. This was a light epidemic of flu and there was no danger if you avoided pneumonia.
Back in the room I wrote the boy's temperature down and made a note of the time to give the various capsules.
"Do you want me to read to you?"
"All right, if you want to," said the boy. His face was very white and there were dark areas under his eyes. He lay still in the bed and seemed very detached from what was going on.
I read aloud from Howard Pyle's14 Book of Pirates, but I could see he was not following what I was reading.
"How do you feel, Schatz?" I asked him.
"Just the same, so far," he said.
I sat at the foot of the bed and read to myself while I waited for it to be time to give another capsule. It would have been natural for him to go to sleep, but when I looked up he was looking at the foot of the bed, looking very strangely.
"Why don't you try to go to sleep? I'll wake you up for the medicine."
"I'd rather stay awake."
After a while he said to me, "You don't have to stay in here with me, Papa, if it bothers you."
"It doesn't bother me."
"No, I mean you don't have to stay if it's going to bother you."
I thought perhaps he was a little light-headed and after giving him the prescribed capsules at eleven o'clock I went out for a while.
It was a bright, cold day, the ground covered with a sleet that had frozen so that it seemed as if all the bare trees, the bushes, the cut brush and all the grass and the bare ground had been varnished with ice. I took the young Irish setter for a little walk up the road and along a frozen creek.
At the house they said the boy had refused to let any one come into the room.
"You can't come in," he said. "You mustn't get what I have." I went up to him and found him in exactly the position I had left him, white-faced, but with the tops of his cheeks flushed by the fever, staring still, as he had stared, at the foot of the bed.
I took his temperature.
"What is it?"
"Something like a hundred," I said. It was one hundred and two and four tenths.
"It was a hundred and two," he said.
"Who said so?"
"The doctor."
"Your temperature is all right," I said. "It's nothing to worry about."
"I don't worry," he said, "but I can't keep from thinking."
"Don't think," I said. "Just take it easy."
"I'm taking it easy," he said and looked worried about something.
"Take this with water."
"Do you think it will do any good?"
"Of course, it will,"
I sat down and opened the Pirate Book and commenced to read but I could see he was not following, so I stopped.
"About what time do you think I'm going to die?" he asked.
"What?"
"About how long will it be before I die?"
"You aren't going to die. What's the matter with you?"
"Oh, yes, I am. I heard him say a hundred and two."
"People don't die with a fever of one hundred and two. That's a silly way to talk!"
"I know they do. At school in France the boys told me you can't live with forty-four degrees. I've got a hundred and two."
He had been waiting to die all day, ever since nine o'clock in the morning.
"You poor Schatz," I said. "Poor old Schatz, it's like miles and kilometers. You aren't going to die. That's a diflerent thermometer. On that thermometer thirty-seven is normal. On this kind it's ninety-eight."
"Are you sure?"
"Absolutely," I said. "It's like miles and kilometers. You know, like how many kilometers we make when we do seventy miles in the car?"
"Oh," he said.
But his gaze at the foot of the bed relaxed slowly. The hold over himself relaxed too, finally, and the next day it was very slack and he cried very easily at little things that were of no importance.
Hemingway, Ernest (1899-1961): a prominent American novelist and short-story writer. He began to write fiction about 1923, his first books being the reflection of his war experience. "The Sun Also Rises" (1926) belongs to this period as well as "A Farewell to Arms" (1929) in which the antiwar protest is particularly powerful.
During the Civil War Hemingway visited Spain as a war correspondent. His impressions of the period and his sympathies with the Republicans found reflection in his famous play "The Fifth Column" (1937), the novel "For Whom the Bell Tolls" (1940) and a number of short stories.
His later works are "Across the River and into the Trees" (1950) and "The Old Man and the Sea" (1952) and the very last novel "Islands in the Stream" (1970) published after the author's death. In 1954 he was awarded a Nobel Prize for literature.
Hemingway's manner is characterized by deep psychological insight into the human nature. He early established himself as the master of a new style: laconic and somewhat dry.
He came into the room to shut the windows while we were still in bed and I saw he looked ill. He was shivering, his face was white, and he walked slowly as though it ached to move. "What's the matter, Schatz?"12
"I've got a headache."
"You'd better go back to bed."
"No, I'm all right."
"You go to bed. I'll see you when I'm dressed."
But when I came downstairs he was dressed, sitting by the fire, looking a very sick and miserable boy of nine years. When I put my hand on his forehead I knew he had a fever.
"You go up to bed," I said, "you're sick."
"I'm all right," he said.
When the doctor came he took the boy's temperature.
"What is it?" I asked him.
"One hundred and two."13
Downstairs, the doctor left three different medicines in different colored capsules with instructions for giving them. One was to bring down the fever, another a purgative, the third to overcome an acid condition. The germs of influenza can only exist in an acid condition, he explained. He seemed to know all about influenza and said there was nothing to worry about if the fever did not go above one hundred and four degrees. This was a light epidemic of flu and there was no danger if you avoided pneumonia.
Back in the room I wrote the boy's temperature down and made a note of the time to give the various capsules.
"Do you want me to read to you?"
"All right, if you want to," said the boy. His face was very white and there were dark areas under his eyes. He lay still in the bed and seemed very detached from what was going on.
I read aloud from Howard Pyle's14 Book of Pirates, but I could see he was not following what I was reading.
"How do you feel, Schatz?" I asked him.
"Just the same, so far," he said.
I sat at the foot of the bed and read to myself while I waited for it to be time to give another capsule. It would have been natural for him to go to sleep, but when I looked up he was looking at the foot of the bed, looking very strangely.
"Why don't you try to go to sleep? I'll wake you up for the medicine."
"I'd rather stay awake."
After a while he said to me, "You don't have to stay in here with me, Papa, if it bothers you."
"It doesn't bother me."
"No, I mean you don't have to stay if it's going to bother you."
I thought perhaps he was a little light-headed and after giving him the prescribed capsules at eleven o'clock I went out for a while.
It was a bright, cold day, the ground covered with a sleet that had frozen so that it seemed as if all the bare trees, the bushes, the cut brush and all the grass and the bare ground had been varnished with ice. I took the young Irish setter for a little walk up the road and along a frozen creek.
At the house they said the boy had refused to let any one come into the room.
"You can't come in," he said. "You mustn't get what I have." I went up to him and found him in exactly the position I had left him, white-faced, but with the tops of his cheeks flushed by the fever, staring still, as he had stared, at the foot of the bed.
I took his temperature.
"What is it?"
"Something like a hundred," I said. It was one hundred and two and four tenths.
"It was a hundred and two," he said.
"Who said so?"
"The doctor."
"Your temperature is all right," I said. "It's nothing to worry about."
"I don't worry," he said, "but I can't keep from thinking."
"Don't think," I said. "Just take it easy."
"I'm taking it easy," he said and looked worried about something.
"Take this with water."
"Do you think it will do any good?"
"Of course, it will,"
I sat down and opened the Pirate Book and commenced to read but I could see he was not following, so I stopped.
"About what time do you think I'm going to die?" he asked.
"What?"
"About how long will it be before I die?"
"You aren't going to die. What's the matter with you?"
"Oh, yes, I am. I heard him say a hundred and two."
"People don't die with a fever of one hundred and two. That's a silly way to talk!"
"I know they do. At school in France the boys told me you can't live with forty-four degrees. I've got a hundred and two."
He had been waiting to die all day, ever since nine o'clock in the morning.
"You poor Schatz," I said. "Poor old Schatz, it's like miles and kilometers. You aren't going to die. That's a diflerent thermometer. On that thermometer thirty-seven is normal. On this kind it's ninety-eight."
"Are you sure?"
"Absolutely," I said. "It's like miles and kilometers. You know, like how many kilometers we make when we do seventy miles in the car?"
"Oh," he said.
But his gaze at the foot of the bed relaxed slowly. The hold over himself relaxed too, finally, and the next day it was very slack and he cried very easily at little things that were of no importance.
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TEXT. A DAY'S WAIT by Ernest Hemingway<br>Hemingway, Ernest (1899-1961): a prominent American novelist and short-story writer. He began to write fiction about 1923, his first books being the reflection of his war experience. "The Sun Also Rises" (1926) belongs to this period as well as "A Farewell to Arms" (1929) in which the antiwar protest is particularly powerful.<br><br>During the Civil War Hemingway visited Spain as a war correspondent. His impressions of the period and his sympathies with the Republicans found reflection in his famous play "The Fifth Column" (1937), the novel "For Whom the Bell Tolls" (1940) and a number of short stories.<br><br>Його пізні роботи «через річку і в дерева» (1950) і «Старий і море» (1952) і самий останній роман «Острови в Потоці» (1970) , опублікованих після смерті автора. У 1954 році він був удостоєний Нобелівської премії з літератури. <br><br>Манера Хемінгуея характеризується глибоким психологічним проникненням в людську природу. Він рано зарекомендував себе як майстер нового стилю: лаконічний і сухуватий. <br><br>Він увійшов до кімнати , щоб закрити вікна в той час як ми були все ще в ліжку , і я побачив , що він виглядав хворим. Він тремтів, його обличчя було білим, і він йшов повільно , наче він прагнув рухатися. «Що сталося, Schatz?» 12 <br><br>«У мене болить голова.» <br><br>«Ви б краще повернутися в ліжко.» <br><br>«Ні, я в порядку.»<br><br><br><br>Але коли я спустився вниз , він був одягнений, сидячи біля багаття, дивлячись дуже хворий і нещасний хлопчик дев'яти років. Коли я поклав руку йому на чоло , я знав , що у нього був жар. <br><br>«Ви йдете в ліжко,» сказав я, «ти хворий.» <br><br>«Я все в порядку,» сказав він. <br><br>Коли прийшов лікар , він прийняв температуру хлопчика. <br><br>"Що це?" Я запитав його. <br><br>«Сто два.» 13<br><br>На першому поверсі, лікар залишив три різних ліків в різних кольорових капсулах з інструкціями для додання їм. Один з них був збити лихоманку, інше проносне, третє подолати кислотне стан. Збудники грипу може існувати тільки в кислотних умовах, пояснив він. Здавалося, він знає все про грип і сказав , що не було нічого , щоб хвилюватися про те, якщо лихоманка не піднімається вище ста чотирьох градусів. Це була легка епідемія грипу , і не було ніякої небезпеки , якщо ви уникнути пневмонії. <br><br>Повернувшись в кімнату , я написав температуру хлопчика вниз і зробив позначку часу , щоб дати різні капсули. <br><br>«Ви хочете , щоб я прочитаю вам робити?»<br><br>«Добре, якщо ви хочете,» сказав хлопчик. Його обличчя було дуже білим і там були темні області під очима. Він лежав нерухомо в ліжку і , здавалося , дуже стоїть окремо від того, що відбувається. <br><br>Я прочитав вголос Говард Pyle's14 книги піратів, але я міг бачити , що він не був після того, що я читав. <br><br>«Як ви себе почуваєте, Schatz?» Я запитав його. <br><br>«Те ж саме, до сих пір,» сказав він. <br><br>Я сидів в ногах ліжка і читати про себе , поки я чекав , щоб це був час , щоб дати іншу капсулу. Було б природно для нього , щоб піти спати, але коли я подивився він дивився на ногах ліжка, виглядає дуже дивно. <br><br>«Чому б вам не спробувати піти спати? Я тебе розбуджу для медицини.» <br><br>«Я не хотів би спати.»<br><br>Через деякий час він сказав мені, «Ви не повинні залишитися тут зі мною, тато, якщо це турбує вас.» <br><br>«Це не турбує мене.» <br><br>«Ні, я маю в виду ви не повинні залишитися , якщо це буде турбувати вас.» <br><br>Я думав , що, можливо , він був трохи легковажний і після надання йому запропонованих капсул об одинадцятій годині я вийшов на деякий час. <br><br>Це був яскравий, холодний день, земля покрита мокрим снігом , який заморожений , так що здавалося, ніби все голі дерева, кущі, вирізати кисті і вся трава і гола земля була лаковані з льодом. Я взяв молодий ірландський сетер для невеликої прогулянки вгору по дорозі і вздовж замерзлого струмка. <br><br>У будинку вони сказали , що хлопчик відмовився дати якийсь - або один прийшли в кімнату.<br><br>«Ви не можете увійти,» сказав він. «Ви не повинні отримувати те , що у мене є.» Я підійшов до нього і знайшов його в точно положенні , я залишив його, блідого, але з вершини його щоки почервоніли від тифу, дивлячись нерухомо, як він дивився, в ногах ліжка. <br><br>Я взяв його температуру. <br><br>"Що це?" <br><br>«Що - щось на зразок ста,» сказав я. Це був віку ста й два і чотири десятих. <br><br>«Це був віку ста й два,» сказав він. <br><br>«Хто так сказав?» <br><br>"Лікар." <br><br>«Ваша температура все в порядку,» сказав я. « У цьому немає нічого страшного.» <br><br>«Я не хвилююся,» сказав він, «але я не можу втриматися від думок.» <br><br>«Не думаю,» сказав я. «Просто заспокойтеся.<br><br><br><br><br><br>«Як ви думаєте , він буде робити якісь - або блага?» <br><br>«Звичайно, це буде,» <br><br>Я сів і відкрив Піратський книгу і почав читати , але я міг бачити , що він не дотримувався, так що я зупинився. <br><br>«Про те , що час ви думаєте , що я збираюся померти?» запитав він. <br><br>"Що?" <br><br>«Про те , як довго це буде , перш ніж я помру?» <br><br>«Ви не збираєтеся помирати. Що з тобою?» <br><br>«О, так, я. Я чув , як він казав , сто і два.» <br><br>«Люди не вмирають з лихоманкою сто два. Це
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