перевод текста 1-2

DEDICATION TO P. M. STONE
BEST AND KINDEST OF MY MANY KIND AND GENEROUS AMERICAN FRIENDS
Part IA PLOT IN THE MAKING
Chapter I
The Eavesdropper

Nevertheless, apart fr om the traffic noises, the place was strangely
peaceful and quiet, its silence accentuated by the natural sounds that
pervaded it. Somewh ere in the foliage hard by, a thrush sang joyously,
and on a branch just overhead a chaffinch repeated again and again his
pleasant little monotonous song. And the solitude was as perfect as the
quiet. The rough path seemed to be untrodden by the foot of man, for,
during the two hours that Tom had been at work, not a soul had passed
along it.

At length, as he paused to fill his pipe and take a thoughtful survey of
his picture, the sound of voices was followed by the appearance of two
men walking slowly along the path, conversing earnestly though in low
tones. Tom could not hear what they were saying, though the impression
conveyed to him was that their manner was rather the reverse of amicable.
But in fact he gave them little attention beyond noting the effect of the
dark, sharply defined shapes against the in definite background; and even
this interested him but little as his subject required no figures, and
certainly not one in a bowler hat. So he continued filling his pipe and
appraising his afternoon's work as they walked by without noticing him--
actually, he was almost invisible from the path--and as they passed out
of sight he produced his matchbox and was about to strike a light when a
third figure, that of a woman, made its appearance, moving in the same
direction as the others.

This time Tom's attention was definitely aroused, and he sat motionless
with the unlighted match in his hand, peering out through the chinks in
the bushes which concealed him. The woman's behaviour was very peculiar.
She was advancing rather more quickly than the two men, but with a
silent, stealthy tread; and from her movements she seemed to be listening
and trying to keep the men in sight while keeping out of sight, herself.

Tom watched her disapprovingly. He disliked "snoopers" of all sorts, but
especially those who were eavesdroppers as well. However, this was none
of his business, and, when she had passed out of his field of vision, he
lit his pipe, took up his brush, and straightway forgot all about her.

But he had not finished with her after all. He had been painting but a
few minutes when she reappeared; and now her behaviour was still more
odd. She was returning at a quicker pace but with the same stealthy
movements, listening and looking back over her shoulder with something
like an air of alarm. Suddenly, when she was nearly opposite Tom's pitch,
she slipped into an opening in the bushes and disappeared from his sight.

This was really rather queer. Once more he transferred his brush to the
palette hand, and, as he listened intently, felt in his pocket for the
matchbox; for, of course, his pipe had gone out, as a painter's pipe
continually does. Very soon his ear caught the sound of footsteps; light,
quick footsteps approaching from the direction of the farmyard. Then a
man came into view, walking quickly but with a soft and almost stealthy
tread and looking about him watchfully as he went.

Tom, sitting stock-still in his leafy ambush, followed the retreating
figure with an inquisitive eye, recognizing him as the shorter of the two
men who had passed down the path and wondering what had become of the
other. Then the man disappeared in the direction of the street; and still
Tom sat like a graven image, waiting to see if there were any further
developments.

He had not long to wait. Hardly had the sound of the man's footsteps died
away when the woman stole forth from her hiding-place and stood for a few
seconds listening intently and peering up the path in the direction in
which the man had gone. Then she began slowly and warily to follow; and
presently she, too, passed out of sight among the trees.

Tom thoughtfully lit his pipe and reflected. It was a queer affair. What
was it all about? The woman was obviously spying on the men; apparently
listening to their talk, and mighty anxious to keep out of sight. That
was all there was to it so far as he was concerned; and as he was not
really concerned in it at all, he decided that it was a "dam' rum go" and
dismissed it from his mind.

But the dismissal was not quite effective. The incident had broken the
continuity of his ideas and he found it difficult to start afresh. For a
few minutes he struggled to pick up the threads, adding a touch here and
there; then, once more, he leaned back and surveyed his work, finally
getting up from his stool and stepping back a pace or two to see it
better as a whole. Now, one of the most important things that experience
teaches a painteris when to leave off; and Tom, having considered his
picture critically, decided that the time had come. He had painted
steadily for a full two hours, and he was a rapid worker in spite of his
leisurely manner; rapid because he knew what he wanted to do, made few
mistakes, and painted very directly with a rigid economy of work.

Having decided that his picture was finished, excepting perhaps for a
little work in the studio to "pull it together," he proceeded forthwith
to pack up, closing the folding palette and stowing it in the light
wooden colour box, strapping the painting in the canvas carrier, and
rolling the used brushes in the painting rag. When he had put these
things tidily in his satchel, he folded up the easel and stool, fixed
them in the carrying-strap, slung the satchel on his shoulder, and,
having taken a last look at his subject, pushed his way through the
undergrowth towards the path.
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