"Лорд Дансени. The Lost Silk Hat (Потерянная шелковая шляпа) (англ.)" - читать интересную книгу автора

your hopeless love.
I shall make legends about your lonely bones, telling
perhaps how some Arabian men, finding them in the
desert by some oasis, memorable in war, wonder who
loved them. And then as I read them to her, she weeps
perhaps a little, and I read instead of the glory of
the soldier, how it overtops our transitory --
:
Look here, I'm not aware that you've ever been
introduced to her.
:
A trifle, a trifle.
:
It seems to me that you're in rather an undue hurry for
me to get a Jubu spear in me; but I'm going to get my
hat first.
:
I appeal to you. I appeal to you in the name of
beautiful battles, high deeds, and lost causes; in the
name of love-tales told to cruel maidens and told in
vain. In the name of stricken hearts broken like
beautiful harp-strings, I appeal to you.
I appeal in the ancient holy name of Romance; *do not
ring that bell.*

{Caller rings the bell.}
: {sits down, abject}
You will marry. You will sometimes take a ticket with
your wife as far as Paris. Perhaps as far as Cannes.
Then the family will come; a large sprawling family as
far as the eye can see (I speak in hyperbole). You'll
earn money and feed it and be like all the rest. No
monument will ever be set up to your memory, but --

{Servant answers bell. Caller says something
inaudible. Exit through door.}
: {rising, lifting hand}
But let there be graven in brass upon this house;
Romance was born again here out of due time and died
young. {He sits down}

{Enter Laborer and Clerk with Policeman. The music
stops.}
:
Anything wrong here?
:
Everything's wrong. They're going to kill Romance.
: {to Laborer}
This gentleman does n't seem quite right somehow.
: