2. Najděte si na internetu synopsi jeho románu "Kim".
3. Dokážete správně přeložit zpátky do angličtiny název tohoto příspěvku?
4. Zvolna si přečtěte následující ukázku. Vnímejte rytmus a syntaktickou i významovou strukturu, příjemnou pravidelnost textu.
5. Přeložte tučně vyznačený úryvek.
Poznámka: opravené předchozí texty jsou k dispozici na capse.
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Rudyard
Kipling – KIM
‘Was
there ever such a disciple as I?’ cried Kim merrily to the lama. ‘All earth
would have picked thy bones within ten mile of Lahore city if I had not guarded
thee.’
‘I
consider in my own mind whether thou art a spirit, sometimes, or sometimes an
evil imp,’ said the lama, smiling slowly.
‘I
am thy chela.’ Kim dropped into step at his side—that indescribable gait of the
long-distance tramp all the world over.
‘Now
let us walk,’ muttered the lama, and to the click of his rosary they walked in
silence mile upon mile. The lama as usual, was deep in meditation, but Kim’s
bright eyes were open wide. This broad, smiling river of life, he considered,
was a vast improvement on the cramped and crowded Lahore streets. There were
new people and new sights at every stride—castes he knew and castes that were
altogether out of his experience.
They met a troop of long-haired,
strong-scented Sansis with baskets of lizards and other unclean food on their
backs, their lean dogs sniffing at their heels. These people kept their own
side of the road’, moving at a quick, furtive jog-trot, and all other castes
gave them ample room; for the Sansi is deep pollution. Behind them, walking
wide and stiffly across the strong shadows, the memory of his leg-irons still
on him, strode one newly released from the jail; his full stomach and shiny
skin to prove that the Government fed its prisoners better than most honest men
could feed themselves. Kim knew that walk well, and made broad jest of it as
they passed. Then an Akali, a wild-eyed, wildhaired Sikh devotee in the blue-checked
clothes of his faith, with polished-steel quoits glistening on the cone of his
tall blue turban, stalked past, returning from a visit to one of the
independent Sikh States, where he had been singing the ancient glories of the Khalsa
to College-trained princelings in top-boots and whitecord breeches. Kim was
careful not to irritate that man; for the Akali’s temper is short and his arm
quick. Here and there they met or were overtaken by the gaily dressed crowds of
whole villages turning out to some local fair; the women, with their babes on
their hips, walking behind the men, the older boys prancing on sticks of
sugar-cane, dragging rude brass models of locomotives such as they sell for a
halfpenny, or flashing the sun into the eyes of their betters from cheap toy
mirrors.
One could see at a glance what each had bought; and if there were any doubt it needed
only to watch the wives comparing, brown arm against brown arm, the newly
purchased dull glass bracelets that come from the North-West. These
merry-makers stepped slowly, calling one to the other and stopping to haggle
with sweetmeatsellers, or to make a prayer before one of the wayside shrines— sometimes
Hindu, sometimes Mussalman—which the low-caste of both creeds share with beautiful
impartiality. A solid line of blue, rising and falling like the back of a
caterpillar in haste, would swing up through the quivering dust and trot past
to a chorus of quick cackling. That was a gang of changars—the women who have
taken all the embankments of all the Northern railways under their charge—a
flat-footed, big-bosomed, strong-limbed, blue-petticoated clan of
earth-carriers, hurrying north on news of a job, and wasting no time by the
road. They belong to the caste whose men do not count, and they walked with
squared elbows, swinging hips, and heads on high, as suits women who carry heavy
weights. A little later a marriage procession would strike into the Grand Trunk
with music and shoutings, and a smell of marigold and jasmine stronger even
than the reek of the dust. One could see the bride’s litter, a blur of red and
tinsel, staggering through the haze, while the bridegroom’s bewreathed pony turned
aside to snatch a mouthful from a passing fodder-cart. Then Kim would join the
Kentish-fire of good wishes and bad jokes, wishing the couple a hundred sons
and no daughters, as the saying is. Still more interesting and more to be
shouted over it was when a strolling juggler with some half-trained monkeys, or
a panting, feeble bear, or a woman who tied goats’ horns to her feet, and with
these danced on a slack-rope, set the horses to shying and the women to shrill,
long-drawn quavers of amazement.
