"Man-size in marble (1893) by E_ Nesbit" - читать интересную книгу автора (Nesbit Edith)

Man-size in marble
by E. Nesbit
originally from Grim tales (1893)

Although every word of this story is as true as despair, I do not expect
people to believe it. Nowadays a "rational explanation" is required before
belief is possible. Let me then, at once, offer the "rational explanation" which
finds most favour among those who have heard the tale of my life's tragedy. It
is held that we were "under a delusion," Laura and I, on that 31st of October;
and that this supposition places the whole matter on a satisfactory and
believable basis. The reader can judge, when he, too, has heard my story, how
far this is an "explanation," and in what sense it is "rational." There were
three who took part in this: Laura and I and another man. The other man still
lives, and can speak to the truth of the least credible part of my story.
. . . . . .
I never in my life knew what it was to have as much money as I required to
supply the most ordinary needs Ч good colours, books, and cab-fares Ч and when
we were married we knew quite well that we should only be able to live at all by
"strict punctuality and attention to business." I used to paint in those days,
and Laura used to write, and we felt sure we could keep the pot at least
simmering. Living in town was out of the question, so we went to look for a
cottage in the country, which should be at once sanitary and picturesque. So
rarely do these two qualities meet in one cottage that our search was for some
time quite fruitless. We tried advertisements, but most of the desirable rural
residences which we did look at proved to be lacking in both essentials, and
when a cottage chanced to have drains it always had stucco as well and was
shaped like a tea-caddy. And if we found a vine or rose-covered porch,
corruption invariably lurked within. Our minds got so befogged by the eloquence
of house-agents and the rival disadvantages of the fever-traps and outrages to
beauty which we had seen and scorned, that I very much doubt whether either of
us, on our wedding morning, knew the difference between a house and a haystack.
But when we got away from friends and house-agents, on our honeymoon, our wits
grew clear again, and we knew a pretty cottage when at last we saw one. It was
at Brenzett Ч a little village set on a hill over against the southern marshes.
We had gone there, from the seaside village where we were staying, to see the
church, and two fields from the church we found this cottage. It stood quite by
itself, about two miles from the village. It was a long, low building, with
rooms sticking out in unexpected places. There was a bit of stone-work Ч
ivy-covered and moss-grown, just two old rooms, all that was left of a big house
that had once stood there Ч and round this stone-work the house had grown up.
Stripped of its roses and jasmine it would have been hideous. As it stood it was
charming, and after a brief examination we took it. It was absurdly cheap. The
rest of our honeymoon we spent in grubbing about in second-hand shops in the
county town, picking up bits of old oak and Chippendale chairs for our
furnishing. We wound up with a run up to town and a visit to Liberty's, and soon
the low oak-beamed lattice-windowed rooms began to be home. There was a jolly
old-fashioned garden, with grass paths, and no end of hollyhocks and sunflowers,
and big lilies. From the window you could see the marsh-pastures, and beyond
them the blue, thin line of the sea. We were as happy as the summer was