"Alexander Green - Crimson Sails" - читать интересную книгу автора (Green Alexander)

the laws of that society, referring to which they could say "we". The part of
their souls that was centred on the gallery of their ancestors is not really
worth describing, while the other part--an imaginary continuation of the
gallery--began with little Gray, who was preordained to live out his life
and die in such a manner as to have his portrait hung on the wall without
detriment to the family honour. A small error had crept into the plan,
however: Arthur Gray was born with a lively spirit, and was in no way
disposed to continue the line of the family tracing.
This liveliness, this complete unorthodoxy in the boy became most
evident in his eighth year; a knightly type affected by strange impressions,
a seeker and miracle worker, that is, a person who had chosen from
amongst the countless roles in life the most dangerous and touching
one--the role of Providence, became apparent in Gray from the time he
pushed a chair up against the wall to reach a painting of the Crucifixion
and removed the nails from Christ's bloody hands, that is, he simply
covered them over with blue paint he had stolen from a house painter.
Thus altered, he found the painting to be more bearable. Carried away by
this strange occupation, he had begun covering over Christ's feet as well,
but was surprised by his father. The old man jerked the boy off the chair
by his ears and asked:
"Why have you ruined the painting?"
 "I haven't ruined it."
"It is the work of a famous painter."
"I don't care. I can't allow nails to be sticking out of someone's hands,
making them bleed. I don't want it to be."
Hiding his smile in his moustache, Lionel Gray recognized himself in
his son's reply and did not punish him.
Gray diligently went about studying the castle, and his discoveries were
amazing. Thus, in the attic he came upon a knight's steel armour-junk,
books bound in iron and leather, crumbling vestments and flocks of
pigeons. In the cellar, where the wine was kept, he gleaned interesting
information about Laffitte, Madeira and sherry. Here in the murky light of
the lancet windows that were squeezed in between the slanting triangles of
the stone vaults there were large and small casks; the largest, in the shape
of a flat circle, took up all of the shorter wall of the cellar; the
hundred-year-old black oak of the cask gleamed like highly-polished wood.
Paunchy green and dark-blue bottles rested in wicker baskets among the
casks. Grey fungi on spindly stalks grew on the stone sand on the earthen
floor; everywhere--there was mould, moss dampness and a sour, stuffy
smell. A great cobweb glittered like gold in a far corner when, towards
evening, the sun's last ray searched it out. Two casks of the finest Alicant
that existed in the days of Cromwell were sunk into the ground in one
spot, and the cellar-keeper, pointing out a vacant corner to Gray, did not
miss the chance to recount the story of the famous grave in which lay a
dead man more live than a pack of fox terriers. As he began his tale, the
story-teller would never forget to check on the spigot of the large cask and
would walk away from it apparently with an easier heart, since unwonted
tears of too-strong joy glistened in his suddenly merry eyes.
"Now then," Poldichoque would say to Gray, sitting down on an empty
crate and putting a pinch of snuff up his sharp nose, "do you see that