Лингвистические средства выражения иронии в романе О. Генри "Короли и капуста"

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Приложение

They will relate further that Dona Isabel, her adventurous bark of fortune shoaled by the simultaneous loss of her distinguished admirer and the souvenir hundred thousand, dropped anchor on this stagnant coast, awaiting a rising tide.

The Senorita Guilbert, you will be told, married Senor Goodwin one month after the president's death, thus, in the very moment when Fortune had ceased to smile, wresting from her a gift greater than the prize withdrawn.

They say, in Coralio, that she found a prompt and prosperous tide in the form of Frank Goodwin, an American resident of the town, an investor who had grown wealthy by dealing in the products of the country - a banana king, a rubber prince, a sarsaparilla, indigo and mahogany baron.

Her spirit was one to chafe under any curb; she was Eve after the fall, but before the bitterness of it was felt. She wore life as a rose in her bosom.

So, there is a little tale to tell of many things. Perhaps to the promiscuous ear of the Walrus it shall come with most avail; for in it there are indeed shoes and ships and sealing-wax and cabbage-palms and presidents instead of kings. Add to these a little love and counterplotting, and scatter everywhere throughout the maze a trail of tropical dollars-dollars warmed no more by the torrid sun than by the hot palms of the scouts of Fortune - and, after all, here seems to be Life, itself, with talk enough to weary the most garrulous of Walruses.

«The time has come», the Walrus said,

«To talk of many things:

Of shoes - and ships - and sealing-wax

Of cabbages - and kings

And why the sea is boiling hot -

And whether pigs have wings».

It would seem that the story is ended, instead of begun; that the close of tragedy and the climax of a romance have covered the ground of interest; but, to the more curious reader it shall be some slight instruction to trace the close threads that underlie the ingenious web of circumstances..

It is characteristic of this buoyant people that they pursue no man beyond the grave. "Let God be his judge!" - Even with the hundred thousand unfound, though they greatly coveted, the hue and cry went no further than that.

Now to cause laughter to echo from those lavish jungles and frowing crags where formerly rang the cries of pirate's victims; to lay aside pike and cutlass and attack with quip and jollity; to draw one saving titter of mirth from the rusty casque of Romance--this were pleasant to do in the shade of the lemon-trees on that coast that is curved like lips set for smiling.

The game still goes on. The guns of the rovers are silenced; but the tintype man, the enlarged photograph brigand, the kodaking tourist and the scouts of the gentle brigade of fakirs have found it out, and carry on the work. The hucksters of Germany, France, and Sicily now bag in small change across their counters.

Felipe Carrera was sent upon earth with but half his wits. Therefore, the people of Coralio called him "El pobrecito loco" the poor little crazed one"--saying that God had sent but half of him to earth, retaining the other half.

The southern races are lacking in that particular kind of humor that finds entertainment in the defects and misfortunes bestowed by Nature. Owing to this defect in their constitution they are not moved to laughter (as are their northern brothers) by the spectacle of the deformed, the feeble-minded or the insane.

He told himself that he had conquered the distress that had sent him, a voluntary exile, to this far land of the lotus». Those old days of life in the States seemed like an irritating dream. He hoped Ida would be as happy as he was. The climate as balmy as that of distant Avalon; the fetterless, idyllic round of enchanted days; the life mong this indolent, romantic people--a life full of music, flowers, and low laughter; the influence of the imminent sea and mountains, and the many shapes of love and magic and beauty that bloomed in the white tropic nights - with all he was more than content.

You don't have much travel here, do you?"

"Travel?" queried the consul. "I suppose you mean passengers on steamers

Frank, did you ever see the 'bundle of muslin' that His Excellency has wrapped up and carried off?"

"Isabel Guilbert?" said Goodwin, laughing. "No, I never did. From what I've heard of her, though, I imagine that she wouldn't stick at anything to carry her point. Don't get romantic, Billy.

"I never saw her either," went on Keogh; "but they say she's got all the ladies of mythology, sculpture, and fiction reduced to chromos. They say she can look at a man once, and he'll turn monkey and climb trees to pick coconuts for her.

"A very ignorant race of people, sir," said the doctor, as he slipped the watch into his pocket. "He seems to have mistaken my directions for taking the physic for the fee. However, it is all right. He owes me an account, anyway. The chances are that he won't bring the other watch. You can't depend on anything they promise you. About that drink, now? How did you come to Coralio, Mr. Smith? I was not aware that any boats except the Karlesfin had arrived for some days.".

To the stranger or the guest the people of Coralio will relate thestory of the tragic end of their former president; how he strove to escape from the country with the publice funds and also with Dona Isabel Guilbert, the young American opera singer; and how, being apprehended by members of the opposing political party in Coralio, he shot himself through the head rather than give up the funds, and,in consequence, the Senorita Guilbert.

His lady is easily queen of what social life the sober coast affords.

Were you to refer (with your northern prejudices) to the vivacious past of Mrs. Goodwin when her audacious and gleeful abandon in light opera captured the mature president's fancy, or to her share in that statesman's downfall and malfeasance, the Latin shrug of the shoulder would be your only answer and rebuttal.

What prejudices there were in Coralio concerning Senora Goodwin seemed now to be in her favor, whatever they had been in the past.

The headpiece bearing the name of President Miraflores is daily scrubbed with soap-bark and sand.

An old half-breed Indian tends the grave with fidelity and the dawdling minuteness of inherited sloth.

He chops down the weeds and ever-springing grass with his machete, he

plucks ants and scorpions and beetles from it with his horny fingers, and sprinkles its turf with water from the plaza fountain.

There is no grave anywhere so well kept and ordered.

Only by following out the underlying threads will it be made clear why the old Indian, Galves, is secretly paid to keep green the grave of President Miraflores by one who never saw that unfortunate statesman in life or in death, and why that one was wont to walk in the twilight, casting from a distance looks of gentle sadness upon that unhonored mound.

Elsewhere than at Coralio one learns of the impetuous career of Isabel Guilbert.

New Orleans gave her birth and the mingled French and Spanish creole nature that tinctured her life with such turbulence and warmth.

She had little education, but a knowledge of men and motives that seemed to have come by instinct.

Far beyond the common woman was she endowed with intrepid rashness, with a love for the pursuit of adventure to the brink of danger, and with desire for the pleasures of life.

Of the legion of men who had been at her feet it was said that but one was so fortunate as to engage her fancy.

To President Miraflores, the brilliant but unstable ruler of Anchuria, she yielded the key to her resolute heart.

How, then, do we find her (as the Coralians would have told you) the wife of Frank Goodwin, and happily living a life of dull and dreamy inaction?

The underlying threads reach far, stretching across the sea.

Following them out it will be made plain why "Shorty" O'Day, of the

Columbia Detective Agency, resigned his position.

And, for a lighter pastime, it shall be a duty and a pleasing sport to wander with Momus beneath the tropic stars where Melpomene once stalked austere.

For there are yet tales of the Spanish Main. That segment of continent washed by the tempestuous Caribbean, and presenting to the sea a formidable border of tropicle jungle topped by the overweening Cordilleras, is still begirt by mystery and romance. In past times, buccaneers and revolutionists roused the echoes of its cliffs, and the condor wheeled perpetually above where, in the green groves, they made food for him with their matchlocks and toledos.

Taken and retaken by sea rovers, by adverse powers and by sudden uprising of rebellious factions, the historic 300 miles of adventurous coast has scarcely known for hundreds of years whom rightly to call its master.

Pizarro, Balboa, Sir Francis Drake, and Bolivar did what they could to make it a part of Christendom.

Sir John Morgan, Lafitte and other eminent swashbucklers bombarded and pounded it in the name of Abaddon.

The guns of the rovers are silenced; but the tintype man, the enlarged photograph brigand, the kodaking tourist and the scouts of the gentle brigade of fakirs have found it out, and carry on the work.

The hucksters of Germany, France, and Sicily nowbag in small change across their counters.

Gentlemen adventurers throng the waiting-rooms of its rulers with proposals for railways and concessions.

The little ~opera-bouffe~ nations play at government and intrigue until some day a big, silent gunboat glides into the offing and warns them not to break their toys.

And with these changes comes also the small adventurer, with empty pockets to fill, light of heart, busy-brained--the modern fairy prince, bearing an alarm clock with which, more surely than by the sentimental kiss, to awaken the beautiful tropics from their centuries' sleep.

Generally he wears a shamrock, which he matches pridefully against the extravagant palms; and it is he who had driven Melpomene to the wings, and set Comedy to dancing before the footlights of the Southern Cross.

So, there is a little tale to tell of many things. Perhaps to the promiscuous ear of the Walrus it shall come with most avail; for in it there are indeed shoes and ships and sealing-wax and cabbage-palms and presidents instead of kings.

Add to these a little love and counterplotting, and scatter everywhere throughout the maze a trail of tropical dollars--dollars warmed no more by the torrid sun than by the hot palms of the scouts of Fortune--and, after all, here seems to be Life, itself, with talk enough to weary the most garrulous of Walruses.

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