home-Dresses-Henry - Green door. O.Henry

Henry - Green door. O.Henry

Green door

Imagine walking down Broadway after dinner, and during the ten minutes it takes to smoke a cigar, you consider the choice between a funny tragedy or something serious in the vaudeville genre. And suddenly someone’s hand touches your shoulder. You turn around, and before you are the wondrous eyes of a charming beauty in diamonds and Russian sables. She hurriedly thrusts an incredibly hot buttered bun into your hand and, flashing a pair of tiny scissors, snatches off the top button on your coat in an instant. Then he meaningfully pronounces one word: “parallelogram!” - and, fearfully looking around, disappears into the alley.

This is all a real adventure. Would you respond to this? You are not. You would blush with embarrassment, drop the bun in embarrassment and walk on, tentatively fumbling with your hand over the place on your coat where the button had just disappeared. This is exactly what you would do, unless you belong to those lucky few in whom the living thirst for adventure has not yet died.

True adventurers have always been at their best. Those who were immortalized by the printed word were, for the most part, only sober, businesslike people who acted by newly invented methods. They sought what they needed: the Golden Fleece, the Holy Grail, the love of a lady, treasure, a crown or glory. A true adventurer willingly goes towards an unknown fate, without setting any goal, without the slightest calculation. A great example is the Prodigal Son - when he turned back towards home.

Pseudo-adventurers - although bright, brave personalities - crusaders, crowned men, sword-bearers and others - were found in abundance, enriching history, literature and publishers of historical novels. But each of them was waiting for a reward: to receive a prize, to score a goal, to shame an opponent, to win a competition, to create a name for themselves, to settle scores with someone, to make a fortune. So they cannot be classified as true adventurers.

In our big city, the twin spirits - Romance and Adventure - are always at the ready, always in search of their worthy admirers. When we wander down the street, they secretly glance at us, lure us in, hiding behind dozens of different masks. For some unknown reason, we suddenly look up and see in someone else’s window a face that clearly belongs to our portrait gallery of the closest people. In a quiet, sleepy street, from behind the tightly closed shutters of an empty house, we clearly hear a desperate cry of pain and fear. The cabman, instead of taking you to the usual entrance, stops his carriage in front of a door unfamiliar to you, and it opens welcomingly, as if inviting you to enter. From the high lattice window of Chance a piece of paper with writing falls at your feet. In a hurrying street crowd, we exchange glances of instantly flared hatred, sympathy or fear with people completely strangers to us. A sudden downpour - and perhaps your umbrella will cover the daughter of the Full Moon and cousin of the Star System. Dropped handkerchiefs fall at every corner, fingers beckon, eyes implore, and now fragmentary, incomprehensible, mysterious, delightful and dangerous threads are thrust into your hands, pulling you towards adventure. But few of us want to hold them, to go where they lead. Our back, always supported by the iron frame of conventions, has long been ossified. We pass by. And someday, in the decline of our dull, monotonous life, we will think that Romance in it was not particularly bright - one or two marriages, a satin rosette hidden at the bottom of a drawer, and an eternal irreconcilable enmity with a steam heating radiator.

Rudolf Steiner was a true adventurer. It was a rare evening that he did not leave his “room for one” in search of the unexpected, the unusual. It always seemed to him that the most interesting thing that life had to offer was waiting for him, perhaps around the nearest corner. Sometimes the desire to tempt fate led him down strange paths. Twice he spent the night in a police station. Again and again he became a victim of swindlers who lightened his pockets. He had to pay for the flattering ladies' attention with his wallet and watch. But with unflagging ardor he picked up every gauntlet thrown at him in the cheerful arena of Adventure.

One evening Rudolf was walking in the old central part of the city. Streams of people flowed along the sidewalk - some were in a hurry to get home, others were restless people! - left it for the dubious comfort of a thousand-candle table d'hôte.

The young and good-looking adventurer was in a clear mood, but full of expectation. During the day he worked as a salesman in a piano store. He did not fasten the tie with a pin, but passed its ends through a ring with topaz. And one day he wrote to the publisher of a certain magazine that of all the books he had read, the most powerful influence on his life was the novel “Junie's Trials of Love,” an essay by Miss Libby.

The loud clanging of teeth in a glass box displayed on the sidewalk caused him (not without inner trepidation) to turn his attention to the restaurant in front of which the said box was displayed, but the next minute he discovered the electric letters of a dentist's sign above the next door. Standing near the door leading to the dentist, a huge black man in a fantastic outfit - a red tailcoat embroidered with braid, yellow trousers and a military cap - carefully handed some sheets of paper to those passers-by who agreed to accept them.

This type of dental advertising was a familiar sight to Rudolph. He usually walked by, ignoring the dentists' business cards. But this time the African slipped the piece of paper into his hands so quickly that Rudolf did not throw it away and even smiled at how cleverly it was done.

After walking a few steps, Rudolph glanced indifferently at the piece of paper. Surprised, he turned it over and then examined it again, this time with interest. One side of the paper was blank, on the other it was written in ink: “Green Door.” And then Rudolf saw that the passerby walking ahead threw away a piece of paper, also handed to him by a black man. Rudolf picked up the piece of paper and looked: the name and address of the dentist with the usual list - “prostheses”, “bridges”, “crowns” and eloquent promises of “painless removal”.

The adept of the Great Spirit of Adventure and the piano seller stopped at the corner and thought. Then he crossed to the opposite side of the street, walked a block in the opposite direction, returned to the original side and merged with the crowd moving towards where the dentist's electric sign was shining. Passing by the black man a second time and pretending not to notice him, Rudolf casually accepted the piece of paper again offered to him. After about ten steps he examined the new piece of paper. In the same handwriting as the first one, it read “Green Door.” Nearby, on the sidewalk, three similar sheets of paper were lying, thrown by those walking in front or behind Rudolf - all the sheets fell with the clean side up. He picked them up and examined them. He read seductive invitations from the dentist's office on all of them.


Green door

Imagine walking down Broadway after dinner, and during the ten minutes it takes to smoke a cigar, you consider the choice between a funny tragedy or something serious in the vaudeville genre. And suddenly someone’s hand touches your shoulder. You turn around, and before you are the wondrous eyes of a charming beauty in diamonds and Russian sables. She hurriedly thrusts an incredibly hot buttered bun into your hand and, flashing a pair of tiny scissors, snatches off the top button on your coat in an instant. Then he meaningfully pronounces one word: “parallelogram!” - and, fearfully looking around, disappears into the alley.

This is all a real adventure. Would you respond to this? You are not. You would blush with embarrassment, drop the bun in embarrassment and walk on, tentatively fumbling with your hand over the place on your coat where the button had just disappeared. This is exactly what you would do, unless you belong to those lucky few in whom the living thirst for adventure has not yet died.

True adventurers have always been at their best. Those who were immortalized by the printed word were, for the most part, only sober, businesslike people who acted by newly invented methods. They sought what they needed: the Golden Fleece, the Holy Grail, the love of a lady, treasure, a crown or glory. A true adventurer willingly goes towards an unknown fate, without setting any goal, without the slightest calculation. A great example is the Prodigal Son - when he turned back towards home.

Pseudo-adventurers - although bright, brave personalities - crusaders, crowned men, sword-bearers and others - were found in abundance, enriching history, literature and publishers of historical novels. But each of them was waiting for a reward: to receive a prize, to score a goal, to shame an opponent, to win a competition, to create a name for themselves, to settle scores with someone, to make a fortune. So they cannot be classified as true adventurers.

In our big city, the twin spirits - Romance and Adventure - are always at the ready, always in search of their worthy admirers. When we wander down the street, they secretly glance at us, lure us in, hiding behind dozens of different masks. For some unknown reason, we suddenly look up and see in someone else’s window a face that clearly belongs to our portrait gallery of the closest people. In a quiet, sleepy street, from behind the tightly closed shutters of an empty house, we clearly hear a desperate cry of pain and fear. The cabman, instead of taking you to the usual entrance, stops his carriage in front of a door unfamiliar to you, and it opens welcomingly, as if inviting you to enter. From the high lattice window of Chance a piece of paper with writing falls at your feet. In a hurrying street crowd, we exchange glances of instantly flared hatred, sympathy or fear with people completely strangers to us. A sudden downpour - and perhaps your umbrella will cover the daughter of the Full Moon and cousin of the Star System. Dropped handkerchiefs fall at every corner, fingers beckon, eyes implore, and now fragmentary, incomprehensible, mysterious, delightful and dangerous threads are thrust into your hands, pulling you towards adventure. But few of us want to hold them, to go where they lead. Our back, always supported by the iron frame of conventions, has long been ossified. We pass by. And someday, in the decline of our dull, monotonous life, we will think that Romance in it was not particularly bright - one or two marriages, a satin rosette hidden at the bottom of a drawer, and an eternal irreconcilable enmity with a steam heating radiator.

Rudolf Steiner was a true adventurer. It was a rare evening that he did not leave his “room for one” in search of the unexpected, the unusual. It always seemed to him that the most interesting thing that life had to offer was waiting for him, perhaps around the nearest corner. Sometimes the desire to tempt fate led him down strange paths. Twice he spent the night in a police station. Again and again he became a victim of swindlers who lightened his pockets. He had to pay for the flattering ladies' attention with his wallet and watch. But with unflagging ardor he picked up every gauntlet thrown at him in the cheerful arena of Adventure.

One evening Rudolf was walking in the old central part of the city. Streams of people flowed along the sidewalk - some were in a hurry to get home, others were restless people! - left it for the dubious comfort of a thousand-candle table d'hôte.

The young and good-looking adventurer was in a clear mood, but full of expectation. During the day he worked as a salesman in a piano store. He did not fasten the tie with a pin, but passed its ends through a ring with topaz. And one day he wrote to the publisher of a certain magazine that of all the books he had read, the most powerful influence on his life was the novel “Juni's Trials of Love,” an essay by Miss Libby.

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Green door

Imagine walking down Broadway after dinner, and during the ten minutes it takes to smoke a cigar, you consider the choice between a funny tragedy or something serious in the vaudeville genre. And suddenly someone’s hand touches your shoulder. You turn around, and before you are the wondrous eyes of a charming beauty in diamonds and Russian sables. She hurriedly thrusts an incredibly hot buttered bun into your hand and, flashing a pair of tiny scissors, snatches off the top button on your coat in an instant. Then he meaningfully pronounces one word: “parallelogram!” - and, fearfully looking around, disappears into the alley.

This is all a real adventure. Would you respond to this? You are not. You would blush with embarrassment, drop the bun in embarrassment and walk on, tentatively fumbling with your hand over the place on your coat where the button had just disappeared. This is exactly what you would do, unless you belong to those lucky few in whom the living thirst for adventure has not yet died.

True adventurers have always been at their best. Those who were immortalized by the printed word were, for the most part, only sober, businesslike people who acted by newly invented methods. They sought what they needed: the Golden Fleece, the Holy Grail, the love of a lady, treasure, a crown or glory. A true adventurer willingly goes towards an unknown fate, without setting any goal, without the slightest calculation. A great example is the Prodigal Son - when he turned back towards home.

Pseudo-adventurers - although bright, brave personalities - crusaders, crowned men, sword-bearers and others - were found in abundance, enriching history, literature and publishers of historical novels. But each of them was waiting for a reward: to receive a prize, to score a goal, to shame an opponent, to win a competition, to create a name for themselves, to settle scores with someone, to make a fortune. So they cannot be classified as true adventurers.

In our big city, the twin spirits - Romance and Adventure - are always at the ready, always in search of their worthy admirers. When we wander down the street, they secretly glance at us, lure us in, hiding behind dozens of different masks. For some unknown reason, we suddenly look up and see in someone else’s window a face that clearly belongs to our portrait gallery of the closest people. In a quiet, sleepy street, from behind the tightly closed shutters of an empty house, we clearly hear a desperate cry of pain and fear. The cabman, instead of taking you to the usual entrance, stops his carriage in front of a door unfamiliar to you, and it opens welcomingly, as if inviting you to enter. From the high lattice window of Chance a piece of paper with writing falls at your feet. In a hurrying street crowd, we exchange glances of instantly flared hatred, sympathy or fear with people completely strangers to us. A sudden downpour - and perhaps your umbrella will cover the daughter of the Full Moon and cousin of the Star System. Dropped handkerchiefs fall at every corner, fingers beckon, eyes implore, and now fragmentary, incomprehensible, mysterious, delightful and dangerous threads are thrust into your hands, pulling you towards adventure. But few of us want to hold them, to go where they lead. Our back, always supported by the iron frame of conventions, has long been ossified. We pass by. And someday, in the decline of our dull, monotonous life, we will think that Romance in it was not particularly bright - one or two marriages, a satin rosette hidden at the bottom of a drawer, and an eternal irreconcilable enmity with a steam heating radiator.

Rudolf Steiner was a true adventurer. It was a rare evening that he did not leave his “room for one” in search of the unexpected, the unusual. It always seemed to him that the most interesting thing that life had to offer was waiting for him, perhaps around the nearest corner. Sometimes the desire to tempt fate led him down strange paths. Twice he spent the night in a police station. Again and again he became a victim of swindlers who lightened his pockets. He had to pay for the flattering ladies' attention with his wallet and watch. But with unflagging ardor he picked up every gauntlet thrown at him in the cheerful arena of Adventure.

One evening Rudolf was walking in the old central part of the city. Streams of people flowed along the sidewalk - some were in a hurry to get home, others were restless people! - left it for the dubious comfort of a thousand-candle table d'hôte.

The young and good-looking adventurer was in a clear mood, but full of expectation. During the day he worked as a salesman in a piano store. He did not fasten the tie with a pin, but passed its ends through a ring with topaz. And one day he wrote to the publisher of a certain magazine that of all the books he had read, the most powerful influence on his life was the novel “Junie's Trials of Love,” an essay by Miss Libby.

The loud clanging of teeth in a glass box displayed on the sidewalk caused him (not without inner trepidation) to turn his attention to the restaurant in front of which the said box was displayed, but the next minute he discovered the electric letters of a dentist's sign above the next door. Standing near the door leading to the dentist, a huge black man in a fantastic outfit - a red tailcoat embroidered with braid, yellow trousers and a military cap - carefully handed some sheets of paper to those passers-by who agreed to accept them.

This type of dental advertising was a familiar sight to Rudolph. He usually walked by, ignoring the dentists' business cards. But this time the African slipped the piece of paper into his hands so quickly that Rudolf did not throw it away and even smiled at how cleverly it was done.

After walking a few steps, Rudolph glanced indifferently at the piece of paper. Surprised, he turned it over and then examined it again, this time with interest. One side of the paper was blank, on the other it was written in ink: “Green Door.” And then Rudolf saw that the passerby walking ahead threw away a piece of paper, also handed to him by a black man. Rudolf picked up the piece of paper and looked: the name and address of the dentist with the usual list - “prostheses”, “bridges”, “crowns” and eloquent promises of “painless removal”.

The adept of the Great Spirit of Adventure and the piano seller stopped at the corner and thought. Then he crossed to the opposite side of the street, walked a block in the opposite direction, returned to the original side and merged with the crowd moving towards where the dentist's electric sign was shining. Passing by the black man a second time and pretending not to notice him, Rudolf casually accepted the piece of paper again offered to him. After about ten steps he examined the new piece of paper. In the same handwriting as the first one, it read “Green Door.” Nearby, on the sidewalk, three similar sheets of paper were lying, thrown by those walking in front or behind Rudolf - all the sheets fell with the clean side up. He picked them up and examined them. He read seductive invitations from the dentist's office on all of them.

The quick, playful Spirit of Adventure rarely had to beckon Rudolf Steiner, his faithful admirer, twice - but this time the call was repeated, and the knight raised his gauntlet.

Rudolph turned back again, slowly walked past a glass box with clanging teeth and a giant black man. But he did not receive the leaflet. Despite the absurd, colorful outfit, the Negro behaved with the dignity inherent in his relatives, politely offering cards to some, leaving others alone. From time to time he shouted something loud and unintelligible, similar to the exclamations of tram conductors announcing stops, or to opera singing. But he not only ignored Rudolph - it even seemed to the young man that the African’s wide, shiny face expressed cold, almost destroying contempt.

The black man's gaze seemed to sting Rudolf. He was considered unworthy! Whatever the mysterious words on the piece of paper meant, the black man chose him twice among the crowd. And now, it seemed, he condemned him as too insignificant in mind and spirit to be attracted by a riddle. Standing away from the crowd, the young man quickly glanced around the building, in which, as he decided, the answer to the mystery was hidden. The house rose to a height of five floors. Its semi-basement floor was occupied by a small restaurant.

On the ground floor, where everything was locked, hats or furs were apparently sold. On the second, judging by the flashing electric letters, there was a dentist. On the next floor there was a Babylonian multilingual display of signs: fortune tellers, dressmakers, musicians and doctors. Even higher drawn curtains on the windows and white milk bottles on the window sills assured that this was an area of ​​domestic hearths.

Having completed his review, Rudolph flew up the steep stone steps leading into the house. He quickly climbed the carpeted stairs to the third floor and stopped. Here the platform was barely illuminated by two pale gas jets. One flickered somewhere far down the corridor to the right; the other, closer, to the left. Rudolph looked to the left and in the faint light of the horn he saw a green door. He hesitated for a moment. But then he remembered the insulting mockery on the face of the African card juggler and, without thinking any more, he stepped straight to the green door and knocked.

Alex Axler

Today is a bright day. Day of solidarity of international workers of all countries with all continents. What does this holiday include? How do workers stand in solidarity with each other? Very simple. In the morning, Russian workers gather all kinds of entourage in the form of flags, posters, banners and slogans, take this matter into their hands and march along Red Square in friendly rows, arousing a fair sense of admiration from the management. It must be said that the posters and banners used by the working masses very accurately reflect the mood in society. Former party leaders carefully blow away the dust from the slogans of deep antiquity and proudly march with philosophical and existential calls: “Peace! Labor! May!” At all times I was very pleased with this profound slogan, because I could not get to the bottom of its dialectical roots. Why exactly "Peace! Labor! May"? Of course, the call "War! Idleness! June!" It would look a little darker. But then why not write “Beer! Vodka! Sausage!”? I guarantee that with such a slogan the working people would be in solidarity much more willingly.



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