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SURPRISE by J. GalsworthyThere was

SURPRISE by J. Galsworthy
There was a time when geniuses sometimes starved. But there is no reason why a genius must starve in our modern times. The following story of my friend, Bruce, proves that this is true. He was almost sixty when I met him, and he was the author of about fifteen books. The few people who really understood serious realistic literature called him 'a genius'. But Bruce was not interested in what people thought of him or his work. He never read criticism of his books in the newspapers or magazines. He lived alone in his small, dark, dirty room. From time to time he disappeared for several months; and then he appeared again and began to write.
He was a tall, thin man with a face like mark Twain's: black eyebrows, a grey moustache and grey hair. His eyes were dark brown and sad; they seemed not to belong to his face or to the world around him. He had never married, and lived quite alone. He never had much money; and the year I am writing about had been even worse than usual for him. His last book had been a hopeless failure. Besides, he had had an operation, which had cost him much money and left him too weak to work. The day I went to see him, I found him in a gloomy mood, half lying on two chairs, smoking strong cigarettes, which I hated.
"Hello!" he said, and then continued without giving me a chance to ask after his health: "Last night I went into a place that they call a cinema. Have you ever been in once?"
"Ever been? Do you know how long the cinema has existed? Since 1900!"
"Is that so? A terrible place, and terrible people in it. Well, last night they showed a film – what a thing! I've never read such an idiotic story or seen such idiotic characters. How can people look at it? I'm writing a parody on it."
"A parody on an idiotic film?"
"Yes! My heroine is one-quarter black, three quarters white. She is unbelievably beautiful, and all the men run af ter her. Her brother, a man with a heart of stone, wants her to marry a millionaire, who is as bad as he is. All the characters have deep, dark secrets in their lives." He laughed.
"How can you spend your time on such foolishness?" I asked.
"My time!" he answered angrily. "Who needs my time? Nobody buys my books. I'll probably 'starve to death!" He took a page of scenario and laughed again as he read it. "In that film last night they had a race between a train and a car. I've done better: I have a race between a train, a car, an airplane and a horse."
I began to be interested. "May I look at your scenario when you have finished it?" I asked.
"It's already finished. I enjoyed writing it so much that I couldn't sleep until I had come to the end." He gave me the papers. "Take it, you'll have a good laugh, I hope. The heroine's secret is that she isn't black at all. She is part Spanish, part French, and she is a southern aristocrat. And the bad brother isn't really her brother, and the millionaire in reality is a poor man, and the man she loves, who seems to be poor, is really rich." And he laughed until his face was red and his eyes were full of tears.
I went away worried about him, about his health and his penniless condition. How could I help him? How could anybody help him?
After dinner that evening, I began to read the scenario. There were thirty-five pages, and as soon as I had read ten of them, it was clear to me that he had written a masterpiece. I knew that any good film company would be glad to pay whatever he wanted to ask for it. "But," I thought. "if I go to him and tell him what I am planning to do with his scenario, he'll throw it in the fire. He'll never agree to be known as the author of such a thing. I remember how he laughed at it. How can I make him allow me to do whatever I like with the scenario?"
I went to see him again the next day. He was reading.
I interrupted him. "Must I give you back the scenario, or can I keep it?"
"What scenario?"
"The one that you gave me to read yesterday."
"Oh! What do I need it for? Throw it away."
"All right," I said. "I'll throw it away. Excuse me,I see you're busy."
"No, I'm not," he said. "I have nothing to do. It's f oolish to try to write anything: I get less and less for every book I publish. I am dying of poverty."
"It's your own fault," I said. "You refuse to think about what the public wants."
"How can I know what they want?"
"You don't try to. If I tell you how to make some money by writing something that the public wants, you’ll throw me out of the room."
I returned home and did a little work on the scenario. It was very easy; it was a fine scenario. I wanted to write his name on it, but I was afraid to. At last I decided not to write his name, but to say it was written by 'a genius'. That's a wonderful word; everybody respects it and fears it a little. I knew that after they read the scenario, they would feel it really was written by a genius.
I took it to a leading film company the next day with a note saying: "The author, a recognised literary genius, f or his own reasons prefers to remain unknown." The company was silent for two weeks, but I wasn't worried. I knew they would come to me: they had to – the scenario was too good, it couldn't f ail. And when they appeared, I refused their first offers. I made them come three times. At last I gave them an ultimatum. They agreed to all my demands, as I knew they would: they knew how much the scenario was worth.
Now I had come to the last and greatest difficulty. How could I give the money to Bruce? Many wild ideas came to my mind. At last I decided that I would say I had sold the scenario, because I wanted to make some money f or myself. "He'll be angry with me, but he won't be able to refuse to take the money," I thought.
When I came to his room, I found him lying on two chairs, as usual, smoking his black cigarettes and playing with an old cat that he had found in the street. I asked after his health, and then said: "There's something I must tell you – I'm afraid you may think it rather unpleasant."
"Go on!" he ordered.
"Do you remember that scenario that you wrote and gave me about six weeks ago?"
"Yes, you do. About the beautiful black aristocrat."
"Oh," he laughed. "That foolish thing!"
'-'Well, I sold it."
"What? Who wants to publish a thing like that?"
"It isn't published. They are making a film out of it. A superfilm, they call it."
His eyes opened wide.
"Don't argue," I said. "It's done – I've sold it and here is the money – three thousand pounds. I had to do some work on it, so if you want to pay me ten per cent, I won't refuse."
"My God!" he said.
"Yes, yes," I went on, speaking more quickly. "I know what you are thinking. I know your high ideas about art and literature and culture. But that's all nonsense, Bruce. The story may be vulgar, I agree. But we're vulgar, it's foolish to pretend we are not. vI don't mean you, of course, but people in general. The film will be good entertainment."
I couldn't look at the f ire in his eyes, and I hurried to defend myself.
"You don't live in the world, Bruce. You don't understand what ordinary people want; something to make their grey lives a little brighter. They want blood, excitement of any kind. You haven't hurt them by this film, you have been kind to them. And this is your money, and I want you to take it!"
The cat suddenly jumped down. I waited, expect- ing the storm to begin at any moment. Then I began again. "I know that you hate the cinema and everything connected with it..."
His voice interrupted me. "Nonsense!" he roared. "What are you talking about? Who said I hate the cinema? I go there three times a week!"
This time, I cried, "My God!" I pushed the money into his hand and ran away, followed by the cat.

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SURPRISE by J. GalsworthyThere was a time when geniuses sometimes starved. But there is no reason why a genius must starve in our modern times. The following story of my friend, Bruce, proves that this is true. He was almost sixty when I met him, and he was the author of about fifteen books. The few people who really understood serious realistic literature called him 'a genius'. But Bruce was not interested in what people thought of him or his work. He never read criticism of his books in the newspapers or magazines. He lived alone in his small, dark, dirty room. From time to time he disappeared for several months; and then he appeared again and began to write.He was a tall, thin man with a face like mark Twain's: black eyebrows, a grey moustache and grey hair. His eyes were dark brown and sad; they seemed not to belong to his face or to the world around him. He had never married, and lived quite alone. He never had much money; and the year I am writing about had been even worse than usual for him. His last book had been a hopeless failure. Besides, he had had an operation, which had cost him much money and left him too weak to work. The day I went to see him, I found him in a gloomy mood, half lying on two chairs, smoking strong cigarettes, which I hated."Hello!" he said, and then continued without giving me a chance to ask after his health: "Last night I went into a place that they call a cinema. Have you ever been in once?""Ever been? Do you know how long the cinema has existed? Since 1900!""Is that so? A terrible place, and terrible people in it. Well, last night they showed a film – what a thing! I've never read such an idiotic story or seen such idiotic characters. How can people look at it? I'm writing a parody on it.""A parody on an idiotic film?""Yes! My heroine is one-quarter black, three quarters white. She is unbelievably beautiful, and all the men run af ter her. Her brother, a man with a heart of stone, wants her to marry a millionaire, who is as bad as he is. All the characters have deep, dark secrets in their lives." He laughed."How can you spend your time on such foolishness?" I asked."My time!" he answered angrily. "Who needs my time? Nobody buys my books. I'll probably 'starve to death!" He took a page of scenario and laughed again as he read it. "In that film last night they had a race between a train and a car. I've done better: I have a race between a train, a car, an airplane and a horse."I began to be interested. "May I look at your scenario when you have finished it?" I asked."It's already finished. I enjoyed writing it so much that I couldn't sleep until I had come to the end." He gave me the papers. "Take it, you'll have a good laugh, I hope. The heroine's secret is that she isn't black at all. She is part Spanish, part French, and she is a southern aristocrat. And the bad brother isn't really her brother, and the millionaire in reality is a poor man, and the man she loves, who seems to be poor, is really rich." And he laughed until his face was red and his eyes were full of tears.I went away worried about him, about his health and his penniless condition. How could I help him? How could anybody help him?After dinner that evening, I began to read the scenario. There were thirty-five pages, and as soon as I had read ten of them, it was clear to me that he had written a masterpiece. I knew that any good film company would be glad to pay whatever he wanted to ask for it. "But," I thought. "if I go to him and tell him what I am planning to do with his scenario, he'll throw it in the fire. He'll never agree to be known as the author of such a thing. I remember how he laughed at it. How can I make him allow me to do whatever I like with the scenario?"I went to see him again the next day. He was reading.I interrupted him. "Must I give you back the scenario, or can I keep it?""What scenario?""The one that you gave me to read yesterday.""Oh! What do I need it for? Throw it away.""All right," I said. "I'll throw it away. Excuse me,I see you're busy.""No, I'm not," he said. "I have nothing to do. It's f oolish to try to write anything: I get less and less for every book I publish. I am dying of poverty.""It's your own fault," I said. "You refuse to think about what the public wants.""How can I know what they want?""You don't try to. If I tell you how to make some money by writing something that the public wants, you’ll throw me out of the room."I returned home and did a little work on the scenario. It was very easy; it was a fine scenario. I wanted to write his name on it, but I was afraid to. At last I decided not to write his name, but to say it was written by 'a genius'. That's a wonderful word; everybody respects it and fears it a little. I knew that after they read the scenario, they would feel it really was written by a genius.I took it to a leading film company the next day with a note saying: "The author, a recognised literary genius, f or his own reasons prefers to remain unknown." The company was silent for two weeks, but I wasn't worried. I knew they would come to me: they had to – the scenario was too good, it couldn't f ail. And when they appeared, I refused their first offers. I made them come three times. At last I gave them an ultimatum. They agreed to all my demands, as I knew they would: they knew how much the scenario was worth.Now I had come to the last and greatest difficulty. How could I give the money to Bruce? Many wild ideas came to my mind. At last I decided that I would say I had sold the scenario, because I wanted to make some money f or myself. "He'll be angry with me, but he won't be able to refuse to take the money," I thought.When I came to his room, I found him lying on two chairs, as usual, smoking his black cigarettes and playing with an old cat that he had found in the street. I asked after his health, and then said: "There's something I must tell you – I'm afraid you may think it rather unpleasant." "Go on!" he ordered."Do you remember that scenario that you wrote and gave me about six weeks ago?""Yes, you do. About the beautiful black aristocrat.""Oh," he laughed. "That foolish thing!"'-'Well, I sold it.""What? Who wants to publish a thing like that?""It isn't published. They are making a film out of it. A superfilm, they call it."His eyes opened wide."Don't argue," I said. "It's done – I've sold it and here is the money – three thousand pounds. I had to do some work on it, so if you want to pay me ten per cent, I won't refuse.""My God!" he said."Yes, yes," I went on, speaking more quickly. "I know what you are thinking. I know your high ideas about art and literature and culture. But that's all nonsense, Bruce. The story may be vulgar, I agree. But we're vulgar, it's foolish to pretend we are not. vI don't mean you, of course, but people in general. The film will be good entertainment."I couldn't look at the f ire in his eyes, and I hurried to defend myself.
"You don't live in the world, Bruce. You don't understand what ordinary people want; something to make their grey lives a little brighter. They want blood, excitement of any kind. You haven't hurt them by this film, you have been kind to them. And this is your money, and I want you to take it!"
The cat suddenly jumped down. I waited, expect- ing the storm to begin at any moment. Then I began again. "I know that you hate the cinema and everything connected with it..."
His voice interrupted me. "Nonsense!" he roared. "What are you talking about? Who said I hate the cinema? I go there three times a week!"
This time, I cried, "My God!" I pushed the money into his hand and ran away, followed by the cat.

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сюрприз, голсуорси, дж.было время, когда гении порой голодали.но нет причин, по которым гений должны голодать в наше время.следующая история моего друга, брюс, доказывает, что это правда.он был почти шестьдесят, когда я встретил его, и он был автором около 15 книг.несколько людей, которые действительно понимает серьезные реалистичной литературы назвал его "гений".но брюс не интересует то, что люди считали его или его работы.он никогда не читаю критику его книги в газетах и журналах.он жил один в своей небольшой, темный, dirty room.время от времени он пропал на несколько месяцев, а потом он снова появился и начал писать.он был высокий, худой мужчина с лицом как у марка твена: черные брови, серый усы и седые волосы.в его глазах было темно - коричневые и грустно, они, как представляется, не принадлежат к его лицу или для окружающих.он не женат, и живет совсем один.он никогда не было много денег, и год, я пишу о было даже хуже, чем обычно, для него.его последняя книга была безнадежно провал.кроме того, он провел операцию, что стоило ему много денег, и оставил его слишком слабы, чтобы работать.в тот день, когда я увидел его, я нашел его в мрачном настроении, половина лежали на двух стульях, курил крепкий сигареты, которые я ненавидел."привет!"он говорит, и тогда продолжение, не дав мне шанс задать после того, как его здоровье: "вчера я ходила в место, которое они называют кино.ты когда - нибудь был в один раз? ""когда - нибудь было?ты знаешь, сколько кино существует?с 1900 года! ""это так?ужасное место, и ужасный человек.ну, прошлой ночью они показали фильм – это вещь!я никогда не читал такой идиотской истории или видел такой идиотизм персонажей.как люди могут смотреть на это?я пишу пародию на это "."пародия на идиотский фильм?""да!моя героиня четверть черный, три четверти белый.она невероятно красивые, и все люди бегут AF - ее.ее брат, человек с каменное сердце, хочет выйти замуж за миллионера, который не так плохо, как он.все герои имеют глубокие, темные тайны своей жизни. - он засмеялся."как ты можешь тратить время на такие глупости?"я спросил."мое время!"он ответил: ".кто нуждается в мое время?никто не покупает мои книги.я, вероятно, "умереть с голоду!"он вырвал страницу из сценария и снова засмеялся, когда он читал ".в этом фильме прошлой ночью они гонка между поездом и машину.я сделал лучше - я гонка между поезд, машине, самолете и лошади ".я начал интересоваться ".могу я взглянуть на твой сценарий, когда вы закончите?я спросил."он уже закончил.мне нравится писать, так что я не могла заснуть до тех пор, пока я не пришел конец ". он дал мне документы".возьмите, вам смешно, я надеюсь.героини, секрет заключается в том, что она не черные, на всех.она является частью испанского, французского, и она является южный аристократа.и плохо, брат не её брат, и, как в действительности является бедным человеком, а человек, она любит, который, как представляется, бедных, очень богатыми. "и он засмеялся, пока его лицо было красным, и его глаза были полны слез.я пошел за него волнуюсь, о его здоровье и состояние его без гроша.как я могла помочь ему?кто может ему помочь?после обеда в тот вечер, я начал читать сценарий.там были 35 страниц, и как только я читал, десять из них, мне стало ясно, что он написал шедевр.я знал, что любой хороший фильм, компания будет рад отдать все, что он хотел спросить за это ".но ", - подумал я."если я пойду с ним и сказать ему, что я планирую сделать с его сценарий, он может бросить в огонь.он никогда не согласны быть известен как автор такую вещь.я вспомнил, как он смеялся над этим.как я могу заставить его дать мне делать то, что мне нравится в сценарий? "я видел его снова на следующий день.он читал.я прервал его. "я должен вернуть тебе сценарий, или я могу это оставить? ""то, что сценарий?""то, что ты дал мне прочитать вчера"."о!а зачем мне это надо?выбрось. ""хорошо", сказал я. "я буду его выбросить.извините, я вижу, что ты занят. ""нет, я не собираюсь", - сказал он.мне нечего делать.это ж oolish попробовать написать что - нибудь: у меня все меньше и меньше за каждую книгу я публикую.я умираю от нищеты "."это все твоя вина", я сказал ".ты не думаешь о том, что хочет общественность "."как я могу знать, что они хотят?""ты не пытаешься.если я скажу тебе, как заработать денег, написав, что - то, что нужно людям, вы можете выбросить меня из комнаты ".я вернулся домой и немного работы по сценарию.это было очень легко, это был прекрасный сценарий.я хотел написать свое имя на ней, но я боялась.наконец, я решил не писать его имя, но сказать, что это была написана "гений".это чудесное слово; все уважают его и опасаются, что его немного.я знал, что после того, как они читали сценарий, они будут чувствовать это, правда, было написано гением.я взял его, чтобы ведущей кинокомпании на следующий день записку со словами: "автор, признанными литературными гений, F или свои причины
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