"T. H. White - The Once and Future King" - читать интересную книгу автора (White T.H)

night and winter.
"If you open it, he will go away."
"But we must give him time to go away."
They strove with their voices, feeling thelmselves to be under a black wing.
"Stand near it and speak loudly then, before you open."
"Madam, what shall I say?"
"Say 'Shall I open the door?' Then I will say, "Yes, I think it is time to go to bed."
"I think it is time to go to bed."
"Go on."
"Very good, madam. Shall I begin?"
"Begin, yes, quickly."
"I don't know as I can do it." '
"Oh, Agnes, please be quick!"
"Very well, madam. I think I can do it now."
Facing the door as if it might attack her, Agnes addressed it at the top of her voice.


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"I am going to open the door!"
"It is time to go to bed!"
Nothing happened..
"Now open it," said the Queen.
She lifted the latch and threw it open, and there was Mordred smiling in the frame.
"Good evening, Agnes."
"Oh, sir!"
The wretched woman dropped him a fluttering curtsey, with one hand clutching at her breast, and
scuttled past him for the stairs. He stood aside politely. When she was gone he stepped into the room,
sumptuous in his black velvet, with one cold diamond beaming in the rushlight from his scarlet badge.
Anybody who had not seen him for a month or two would have known at once that he was madтАФ but
his brains had gone so gradually that those who lived with him had failed to see it. He was followed by
his small black pug-dog, flirting its bright eyes and curly tail.
"Our Agnes seems to be in a nervous state," he said. "Good evening, Guenever."
"Good evening, Mordred."
"A little fine embroidery? I thought you would be knitting socks for soldiers."
"Why have you come?"
"Just an evening call. You must forgive the drama."
"Do you always wait outside doors? "
"One has to come through a door somehow, madam. It is more convenient than coming through the
windowтАФ though, I believe, some people have been known to do that."
"I see. Will you sit down?"
He took his seat with an elaborate gesture, the pug jumping into his lap. In a way it was tragic to watch
him, for he was doing what his mother did. He was acting, and had ceased to be real.
People write tragedies in which fatal blondes betray their paramours to ruin, in which Cressidas,
Cleopatras, Delilahs, and sometimes even naughty daughters like Jessica bring their lovers or their
parents to distress: but these are not the heart of tragedy. They are fripperies to the soul of man. What
does it matter if Antony did fall upon his sword? It only killed him. It is the mother's not the lover's lust
that rots the mind. It is that which condemns the tragic character to his walking death. It is Jocasta, not