Vic (sige_vic) wrote,

Конкурс художественного перевода. Переводим Вудхауса

Итак, играем :-)
Правила конкурса.
1. От участников требуется художественно перевести отрывок из рассказа П.Г. Вудхауса "Without the Option". В отрывке 605 слов.
2. Все переводы должны быть сделаны до 18 декабря и присланы мне по адресу В теле письма указывайте, пожалуйста, ваш юзернейм в ЖЖ (в дайри и т.д.), чтобы я, собственно говоря, знала, кто участвует :-)
3. Днем 18 декабря я выложу в своем ЖЖ все варианты присланных переводов анонимно и устрою читательское голосование.
4. 30 декабря будут подсчитаны голоса и объявлены результаты
5. Победитель получает от меня приз - диск или книгу на выбор. Если мы живем далеко друг от друга - я пришлю приз вам по почте. Такой же приз получает лучший критик конкурса, которого выбираю я сама :-)
Удачи и вдохновения всем участникам! :-)
Текст, который нужно переводить, под катом.

At lunch that day a curious thing had happened. We had just finished mangling the cutlets and I was sitting back in my chair, taking a bit of an easy before being allotted my slab of boiled pudding, when, happening to look up, I caught the girl Heloise’s eye fixed on me in what seemed to me a rather rummy manner. I didn’t think much about it at the time, because boiled pudding is a thing you have to give your undivided attention to if you want to do yourself justice; but now, recalling the episode in the light of Jeeves’s words, the full sinister meaning of the thing seemed to come home to me.
Even at the moment, something about the look had struck me as oddly familiar, and now I suddenly saw why. It had been the identical look which I had observed in the eye of Honoria Glossop in the days immediately preceded our engagement – the look of a tigress that has marked down its prey.
“Jeeves, do you know what I think?”
I gulped slightly.
“Jeeves,” I said, “listen attentively. I don’t want to give the impression that I consider myself one of those deadly coves who exercise an irresistible fascination over one and all and can’t meet a girl without wrecking her peace of mind in the first half-minute. As a matter of fact, it’s a rather the other way with me, for girls on entering my presence are mostly inclined to give me the raised eyebrow and the twitching upper lip. Nobody, therefore, can say that I am a man who’s likely to take alarm unnecessarily. You admit that, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Nevertheless, Jeeves, it is a known scientific fact that there’s a particular style of female that does seem strangely attracted to the sort of fellow I am.”
“Very true, sir.”
“I mean to say, I know perfectly well that I’ve got, roughly speaking, half the amount of brain a normal bloke ought to possess. And when a girl comes along who has about twice the regular allowance, she too often makes a bee line for me with the love light in her eyes. I don’t know how to account for it, but it is so.”
“It may be Nature’s provision for maintaining the balance of the species, sir.”
“Very possibly. Anyway, it has happened to me over and over again. It was what happened in the case of Honoria Glossop. She was notoriously one of the brainest women of her year at Girton, and she just gathered me in like a bull pup swallowing a piece of steak.”
“Miss Pringle, I am informed, sir, was an even more brilliant scholar than miss Glossop.”
“Well, there you are! Jeeves, she looks at me.”
“Yes, sir?”
“I keep meeting her on the stairs and passages.”
“Indeed, sir?”
“She recommends me books to read, to improve my mind.”
“Highly suggestive, sir.”
“And at breakfast this morning, when I was eating a sausage, she told me I shouldn’t, as modern medical science held that a four-inch sausage contained as many germs as a dead rat. The maternal touch, you understand; fussing over my health.”
“I think we may regard that, sir, as practically conclusive.”
I sank into a chair, thoroughly pipped.
“What’s to be done, Jeeves?”
“We must think, sir.”
“You think. I haven’t the machinery.”
“I will most certainly devote my very best attention to the matter, sir, and will endeavour to give satisfaction.”
Well, that was something. But I was ill at ease. Yer, there in no way getting away from it, Bertram was ill at ease.
Tags: wodehouse, конкурс, перевод
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