It must have been about three in the morning (должно было быть около трех утра) when he

climbed the stairs to Anna's room (когда он вскарабкался по лестнице к комнате Анны). He

was nearly sober by that time (он был почти трезв к тому времени) and had only one idea in

his head (и имел только одну мысль в голове), that she must know about Harry too (что она

должна знать о Гарри тоже). He felt that somehow this knowledge would pay (он чувствовал

что каким-то образом это знание уплатило бы (налог на)) the mortmain that memory levies

on human beings (неотчуждаемое имущество который воспоминание взимает с

человеческих существ), and he would stand a chance with Harry's girl (и у него был бы шанс

с девушкой Гарри; to stand – (вы)стоять). If one is in love oneself (если человек влюблен,

если ты влюблен: «в любви» сам), it never occurs to one (тебе никогда не приходит в

голову) that the girl doesn't know (что девушка не знает): one believes one has told it plainly

in a tone of voice (веришь (что) ты сказал это ясно в тоне голоса), the touch of a hand ((в)

прикосновении руки). When Anna opened the door to him (когда Анна открыла дверь ему),

with astonishment at the sight of him tousled on the threshold (с удивлением перед видом его

взъерошенного на пороге), he never imagined (он никогда = вовсе (не) воображал) that she

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was opening the door to a stranger (что она была открывающей = открывала дверь

постороннему).

faзade [fə`sa:d], cynicism [`sınısızm], threshold [`θreʃhəuld]

AFTER HE left me, Martins went straight off to drink himself silly. He chose the Oriental to do

it in, the dreary smoky little night club that stands behind a sham Eastern facade. The same semi-

nude photographs on the stairs, the same half-drunk Americans at the bar, the same bad wine and

extraordinary gins—he might have been in any third rate night haunt in any other shabby capital

of a shabby Europe. At one point of the hopeless early hours the International Patrol took a look

at the scene. Martins had drink after drink: he would probably have had a woman too, but the

cabaret performers had all gone home, and there were practically no women left in the place,

except for one beautiful shrewd-looking French journalist who made one remark to her

companion and fell contemptuously asleep.

Martins moved on: at Maxim's a few couples were dancing rather gloomily, and at a place called

Chez Victor the heating had failed and people sat in overcoats drinking cocktails. By this time

the spots were swimming in front of Martins' eyes, and he was oppressed by a sense of

loneliness. His mind reverted to the girl in Dublin, and the one in Amsterdam. That was one

thing that didn't fool you—the straight drink, the simple physical act: one didn't expect fidelity

from a woman. His mind revolved in circles—from sentiment to lust and back again from belief

to cynicism.

The trams had stopped, and he set out obstinately on foot to find Harry's girl. He wanted to make

love to her—just like that: no nonsense, no sentiment. He was in the mood for violence, and the

snowy road heaved like a lake, and set his mind on a new course towards sorrow, eternal love,

renunciation.