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Book – лат. fagus, рус. буква



ИЕ bh ® герм. b, лат. f 3-й акт первого перебоя согласных (закон Гримма);

ИЕ g ® герм. k 2-й акт закона Гримма;

ИЕ а ® герм. o независимые изменения гласных.

Mind – лат. mentis

ИЕ t ® герм. d закон Вернера;

ИЕ е ® герм. i германское преломление (перед n + согласный).

3. Выпишите пять слов германского происхождения:

little; find; learn; give; like.

Задание 11. Выпишите из текста три слова, иллюстрирующие расхождение между современной английской орфографией и произношением, объясните это расхождение с точки зрения исторического развития, назовите фонетические процессы, вызвавшие эти изменения:

might [mait] – ДА miht [mixt]

Диграф gh введен в СА для обозначения звука [х];

В НА [х] выпал перед t;

Предшествующий краткий гласный удлинился;

Долгий [i: ] перешел в [ai] великий сдвиг гласных.

book [buk] – ДА boc [bo: k]

В СА долгота гласного стала обозначаться удвоенным оо;

Буква с заменена буквой k;

[o: ] ® [u: ] великий сдвиг гласных;

[u: ] ® [u] сокращение гласного перед к.

Задание 12.

1. Выпишите из текста пять исторически сильных глаголов; назовите тип аблаута и класс, к которому относился глагол в древнеанглийском:

bore (прош. от bear) ДА beran, IV класс, качественный аблаут;

2. Выпишите пять исторически слабых глаголов, выделите дентальный суффикс:

told (прош. от tell)

liked

Тексты для анализа

Текст 1 (Katherine Mansfield Je Ne Parle Pas Franç ais)

I do not know why I have such a fancy for this little café. It’s dirty and sad, sad. It’s not as if it had anything to distinguish it from a hundred others – it hasn’t; or as if the same strange types came here every day, whom one could watch from one’s corner and recognize and more or less (with a strong accent on the less) get the hang of.

But pray don’t imagine that those brackets are a confession of my humility before the mystery of the human soul. Not at all; I don’t believe in the human soul. I never have. I believe that people are like portmanteaux - packed with certain things, started going, thrown about, tossed away, dumped down, lost and found, half emptied suddenly, or squeezed fatter than ever, until finally the Ultimate Porter swings them on to the Ultimate Train and away they rattle...

… There are no portmanteaux to be examined here because the clientele of this cafe, ladies and gentlemen, does not sit down. No, it stands at the counter, and it consists of a handful of workmen who come up from the river, all powdered over with white flour, lime or something, and a few soldiers, bringing with them thin, dark girls with silver rings in their ears and market baskets on their arms….

Do you believe that every place has its hour of the day when it really does come alive? That’s not exactly what I mean. It’s more like this. There does seem to be a moment when you realize that, quite by accident, you happen to have come on to the stage at exactly the moment you were expected. Everything is arranged for you - waiting for you. Ah, master of the situation! You fill with important breath. And at the same time you smile, secretly, slyly, because Life seems to be opposed to granting you these entrances, seems indeed to be engaged in snatching them from you and making them impossible, keeping you in the wings until it is too late, in fact... Just for one you’ve beaten the old hag.

Anyhow, the ‘short winter afternoon was drawing to a close’, as they say, and I was drifting along, either going home or not going home, when I found myself in here, walking over to this seat in the corner.

I hung up my English overcoat and grey felt hat on that same peg behind me, and after I had allowed the waiter time for at least twenty photographers to snap their fill of him, I ordered a coffee.

He poured me out a glass of the familiar, purplish stuff with a green wandering light playing over it, and shuffled off, and I sat pressing my hands against the glass because it was bitterly cold outside.

Suddenly I realized that quite apart from myself, I was smiling. Slowly I raised my head and saw myself in the mirror opposite. Yes, there I sat, leaning on the table, smiling my deep, sly smile, the glass of coffee with its vague plume of steam before me and beside it the ring of white saucer with two pieces of sugar.

I opened my eyes very wide. There I had been for all eternity, as it were, and now at last I was coming to life...

It was very quiet in the cafe. Outside, one could just see through the dusk that it had begun to snow. One could just see the shapes of horses and carts and people, soft and white, moving through the feathery air. The waiter disappeared and reappeared with an armful of straw. He strewed it over the floor from the door to the counter and round about the stove with humble, almost adoring gestures. One would not have been surprised if the door had opened and the Virgin Mary had come in, riding upon an ass, her meek hands folded over her big belly...

I reached over to the next table for a writing-pad.

No paper or envelopes, of course. Only a morsel of pink blotting-paper, incredibly soft and limp and almost moist, like the tongue of a little dead kitten, which I’ve never felt.

I sat – but always underneath, in this state of expectation, rolling the little dead kitten’s tongue round my finger and rolling the soft phrase round my mind while my eyes took in the girls’ names and dirty jokes and drawings of bottles and cups that would not sit in the saucers, scattered over the writing-pad.

But then, quite suddenly, at the bottom of the page, written in green ink, I fell on to that stupid, stale little phrase: Je ne parle pas franç ais.

There! it had come – the moment – the geste! And although I was so ready, it caught me, it tumbled me over; I was simply overwhelmed. And the physical feeling was so curious, so particular. It was as if all of me, except my head and arms, all over me that was under the table, had simply dissolved, melted, turned into water. Just my head remained and two sticks of arms pressing on to the table. But, ah! the agony of that moment! How can I describe it? I didn’t think of anything. I didn’t even cry out to myself. Just for one moment I was not. I was Agony, Agony, Agony.

Then it passed, and the very second after I was thinking: ‘Good God! Am I capable of feeling as strongly as that? But I was absolutely unconscious! I hadn’t a phrase to meet it with! I was overcome! I was swept off my feet! I didn’t even try, in the dimmest way, to put it down! ’

And up I puffed and puffed, blowing off finally with: ‘After all I must be first-rate. No second-rate mind could have experienced such an intensity of feeling so... purely.’

The waiter has touched a spill at the red stove and lighted a bubble оf gas under a spreading shade. It is no use looking out of the window, madame; it is quite dark now. Your white hands hover over your dark shawl. They are like two birds that have come home to roost. They are restless, restless... You tuck them, finally, under your warm little armpits.

Je ne parle pas franç ais. Je ne parle pas franç ais. All the while I wrote that last page my other self has been chasing up and down out in the dark there. It left me just when I began to analyse my grand moment, dashed off distracted, like a lost dog who thinks at last, at last, he hears the familiar step again.

‘Mouse! Mouse! Where are you? Are you near? Is that you leaning from the high window and stretching out your arms for the wings of the shutters? Are you this soft bundle moving towards me through the feathery snow? Are you this little girl pressing through the swing-doors of the restaurant? Is that your dark shadow bending forward in the cab? Where are you? Where are you? Which way must I turn? Which way shall I run? And every moment I stand here hesitating you are farther away again. Mouse! Mouse! ’

Now the poor dog has come back into the cafe, his tail between his legs, quite exhausted.

‘It was a... false... alarm. She’s nowhere... to... be seen.’

‘Lie down then! Lie down! Lie down! ’

 

Текст 2 (Katherine Mansfield Je Ne Parle Pas Franç ais)

I date myself from the moment that I became the tenant of a small bachelor flat on the fifth floor of a tall, not too shabby house, in a street that might or might not be discreet. Very useful, that... There I emerged, came out into the light and put out my two horns with a study and a bedroom and a kitchen on my back. And real furniture planted in the rooms. In the bedroom a wardrobe with a long glass, a big bed covered with a yellow puffed-up quilt, a bed table with a marbled top and a toilet set sprinkled with tiny apples. In my study – English writing-table with drawers, writing-chair with leather cushions, books, armchair, side-table with paper-knife and lamp on it and some nude studies on the walls. I didn’t use the kitchen except to throw old papers into.

Ah, I can see myself that first evening, after the furniture men had gone and I’d managed to get rid of my atrocious old concierge – walking about on tiptoe, arranging and standing in front of the glass with my hands in my pockets and saying to that radiant vision: ‘I am a young man who has his own flat. I write for two newspapers. I am going in for serious literature. I am starting a career. The book that I shall bring out will simply stagger the critics. I am going to write about things that have never been touched on before. I am going to make a name for myself as a writer about the submerged world. But not as others have done before me. Oh, no! Very naï vely, with a sort of tender humour and from the inside, as though it were all quite simple, quite natural. I see my way quite perfectly. Nobody has ever done it as I shall do it because none оf the others have lived my experiences. I’m rich – I’m rich.’

I met Dick Harmon at an evening party given by the editor of a new review. It was a very select, very fashionable affair. One or two of the older men were there and the ladies were extremely comme il faut. They sat on cubist sofas in full evening dress and allowed us to hand them thimbles of cherry brandy and to talk to them about their poetry. For, as far as I can remember, they were all poetesses.

It was impossible not to notice Dick. He was the only Englishman present, and instead of circulating gracefully round the room as we all did, he stayed in one place leaning against the wall, his hands in his pockets, that dreamy half smile on his lips, and replying in excellent French in his low, soft voice to anybody who spoke to him.

‘Who is he? ’

‘An Englishman. From London. A writer. And he is making a special study of modern French literature.’

That was enough for me. My little book, Fake Coins, had just been published. I was a young, serious writer who was making a special study of modern English literature.

But I really had not time to fling my line before he said, giving himself a soft shake, coming right out of the water after the bait, as it were: ‘Won’t you come and see me at my hotel? Come about five o’clock and we can have a talk before going out to dinner.’

‘Enchanted! ’

I was so deeply, deeply flattered that I had to leave him then and there to preen and preen myself before the cubist sofas. What a catch! An Englishman, reserved, serious, making a special study of French literature...

That same night a copy of Fake Coins with a carefully cordial inscription was posted off, and a day or two later we did dine together and spent the evening talking.

Talking – but not only of literature. I discovered to my relief that it wasn’t necessary to keep to the tendency of the modern novel, the need of a new form, or the reason why our young men appeared to be just missing it. Now and again, as if by accident, I threw in a card that seemed to have nothing to do with the game, just to see how he’d take it. But each time he gathered it into his hands with his dreamy look and smile unchanged. Perhaps he murmured: ‘That’s very curious.’ But not as if it were curious at all.

That calm acceptance went to my head at last. It fascinated me. It led me on and on till I threw every card that I possessed at him and sat back and watched him arrange them in his hand.

‘Very curious and interesting...’

By that time we were both fairly drunk, and he began to sing his song very soft, very low, about the man who walked up and down seeking his dinner.

But I was quite breathless at the thought of what I had done. I had shown somebody both sides of my life. Told him everything as sincerely and truthfully as I could. Taken immense pains to explain things about my submerged life that really were disgusting and never could possibly sее the light of literary day. On the whole I had made myself out far worse than I was – more boastful, more cynical, more calculating.

And there sat the man I had confided in, singing to himself and smiling… It moved me so that real tears came into my eyes. I saw them glittering on my long silky lashes – so charming.

 


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