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

Juliet, who dwells in the inner chamber. It is Gertrude, not the silly Ophelia, who sends Hamlet to his

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madness. The heart of tragedy does not lie in stealing or taking away. Any featherpated girl can steal a
heart. It lies in giving, in putting on, in adding, in smothering without the pillows. Desdemona robbed of
life or honour is nothing to a Mordred, robbed of himselfтАФhis soul stolen, overlaid, wizened, while the
mother-character lives in triumph, superfluously and with stifling love endowed on him, seemingly
innocent of ill-intention. Mordred was the only son of Orkney who never married. He, while his brothers
fled to England, was the one who stayed alone with her for twenty yearsтАФher living larder. Now that
she was dead, he had become her grave. She existed in him like the vampire. When he moved, when he
blew his nose, he did it with her movement. When he acted he became as unreal as she had been,
pretending to be a virgin for the unicorn. He dabbled in the same cruel magic. He had even begun to
keep lap dogs like herтАФalthough he had always hated hers with the same bitter jealousy as that with
which he had hated her lovers.
"Do I feel a coldness in the air this evening?"
"It is bound to be cold in February."
"I was referring to the delicacy of our personal relationship."
"The Protector, whom my husband appointed, is bound to be welcome to the Queen."
"But not the husband's bastard, I suppose?"
She lowered her needle and looked him in the face.
"I don't understand your coming like this, and I don't koow what you want."
She had no wish to be hostile, but he was forcing her. She had never been afraid of anyone.
"I was thinking of a chat about the political situation-just a little chat."
She knew that they had reached a crisis of some sort, and it made her weak. She was too old now to deal
with madmen, although she still had no suspicion of his sanity. Only the cumbrous irony of his tone
made her feel unreal herselfтАФmade her unable to put her own words simply. But she would not give in.
"I shall be glad to hear what you want to say."
"That is extremely generous of you... Jenny."
It was monstrous. He was making her into one of his fantasies, not speaking to a real person at all.
She said indignantly: "Will you be so kind as to address me by my title, Mordred?"
"But certainly. I must apologize if I have been trespassing on Lancelot's preserves."
The sneer acted like a tonic. It raised her stature to the royal lady which she was, to a straight-backed
dowager whose rheumatic lingers flashed with rings, who had ridden the world successfully for fifty


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years.
"I believe," she said at once, "you would find some difficulty in doing that."
"Well! However, I am afraid I asked for it. You were always a bit of a spitfire... Queen Jenny."
"Sir Mordred, if you can't behave like a gentleman, I shall go."
"And where will you go?"
"I should go anywhere: anywhere where a woman old enough to be your mother would be safe from this
extravagance."
"The question is," he observed reflectively, "where you would be safe? The plan seems bound to founder