Энн из Зеленых Мезонинов

УДК 
372.8

ББК 
81.2 Англ-93

 
М77

ISBN 978-5-9925-1195-6

Монтгомери, Люси Мод.

М77 
Энн из Зеленых Мезонинов : книга для чтения 

на английском языке. — Санкт-Петербург : КАРО, 
2017. — 384 с. — (Classical Literature).

ISBN 978-5-9925-1195-6.

Предлагаем вниманию читателей первый и самый извест
ный роман канадской писательницы Люси Монтгомери «Энн из 
Зеленых Мезонинов», вышедший в свет в 1908 году и к середине 
XX века ставший одним из самых популярных произведений англоязычной детской литературы.

УДК 372.8

ББК 81.2 Англ-93

© КАРО, 2017
Все права защищены

Chapter I

Mrs. Rachel Lynde Is Surprised

Mrs. Rachel Lynde lived just where the Avonlea main 

road dipped down into a little hollow, fringed with alders 
and ladies’ eardrops and traversed by a brook that had 
its source away back in the woods of the old Cuthbert 
place; it was reputed to be an intricate, headlong brook in 
its earlier course through those woods, with dark secrets 
of pool and cascade; but by the time it reached Lynde’s 
Hollow it was a quiet, well-conducted little stream, for 
not even a brook could run past Mrs. Rachel Lynde’s door 
without due regard for decency and decorum; it probably 
was conscious that Mrs. Rachel was sitting at her window, 
keeping a sharp eye on everything that passed1, from 
brooks and children up, and that if she noticed anything 
odd or out of place she would never rest until she had 
ferreted out the whys and wherefores thereof.

There are plenty of people in Avonlea and out of it, 

who can attend closely to their neighbor’s business by 
dint of neglecting their own; but Mrs. Rachel Lynde was 
one of those capable creatures who can manage their 
own concerns and those of other folks into the bargain. 
She was a notable housewife; her work was always done 

1 keeping a sharp eye on everything that passed — (разг.)

строго следила за всем, что происходило

and well done; she “ran” the Sewing Circle, helped run the 
Sunday-school, and was the strongest prop of the Church 
Aid Society and Foreign Missions Auxiliary. Yet with all 
this Mrs. Rachel found abundant time to sit for hours at 
her kitchen window, knitting “cotton warp” quilts — she 
had knitted sixteen of them, as Avonlea housekeepers 
were wont to tell in awed voices — and keeping a sharp 
eye on the main road that crossed the hollow and wound 
up the steep red hill beyond. Since Avonlea occupied 
a little triangular peninsula jutting out into the Gulf of 
St. Lawrence with water on two sides of it, anybody who 
went out of it or into it had to pass over that hill road and 
so run the unseen gauntlet of Mrs. Rachel’s all-seeing eye.

She was sitting there one afternoon in early June. 

The sun was coming in at the window warm and bright; 
the orchard on the slope below the house was in a bridal 
flush of pinky-white bloom, hummed over by a myriad of 
bees. Thomas Lynde — a meek little man whom Avonlea 
people called “Rachel Lynde’s husband” — was sowing 
his late turnip seed on the hill field beyond the barn; 
and Matthew Cuthbert ought to have been sowing his 
on the big red brook field away over by Green Gables. 
Mrs. Rachel knew that he ought because she had heard 
him tell Peter Morrison the evening before in William 
J. Blair’s store over at Carmody that he meant to sow his 
turnip seed the next afternoon. Peter had asked him, of 
course, for Matthew Cuthbert had never been known to 
volunteer information about anything in his whole life.

And yet here was Matthew Cuthbert, at half-past three 

on the afternoon of a busy day, placidly driving over 
the hollow and up the hill; moreover, he wore a white 

collar and his best suit of clothes, which was plain proof 
that he was going out of Avonlea; and he had the buggy 
and the sorrel mare, which betokened that he was going a 
considerable distance. Now, where was Matthew Cuthbert 
going and why was he going there?

Had it been any other man in Avonlea, Mrs. Rachel, 

deftly putting this and that together, might have given 
a pretty good guess as to both questions. But Matthew so 
rarely went from home that it must be something pressing and unusual which was taking him; he was the shyest 
man alive and hated to have to go among strangers or 
to any place where he might have to talk. Matthew, 
dressed up with a white collar and driving in a buggy, was 
something that didn’t happen often. Mrs. Rachel, ponder 
as she might, could make nothing of it and her afternoon’s 
enjoyment was spoiled.

“I’ll just step over to Green Gables after tea and find 

out from Marilla where he’s gone and why,” the worthy 
woman finally concluded. “He doesn’t generally go to 
town this time of year and he never visits; if he’d run out 
of turnip seed he wouldn’t dress up and take the buggy to 
go for more; he wasn’t driving fast enough to be going for a 
doctor. Yet something must have happened since last night 
to start him off. I’m clean puzzled1, that’s what, and I won’t 
know a minute’s peace of mind or conscience until I know 
what has taken Matthew Cuthbert out of Avonlea today.”

Accordingly after tea Mrs. Rachel set out; she had not 

far to go; the big, rambling, orchard-embowered house 

1 I’m clean puzzled — (разг.) я совершенно ничего 

не понимаю

where the Cuthberts lived was a scant quarter of a mile 
up the road from Lynde’s Hollow. To be sure, the long 
lane made it a good deal further. Matthew Cuthbert’s 
father, as shy and silent as his son after him, had got as far 
away as he possibly could from his fellow men without 
actually retreating into the woods when he founded his 
homestead. Green Gables was built at the furthest edge of 
his cleared land and there it was to this day, barely visible 
from the main road along which all the other Avonlea 
houses were so sociably situated. Mrs. Rachel Lynde did 
not call living in such a place living at all.

“It’s just staying, that’s what,” she said as she stepped 

along the deep-rutted, grassy lane bordered with wild 
rose bushes. “It’s no wonder Matthew and Marilla are both 
a little odd, living away back here by themselves. Trees 
aren’t much company, though dear knows if they were 
there’d be enough of them. I’d ruther look at people. To be 
sure, they seem contented enough; but then, I suppose, 
they’re used to it. A body can get used to anything, even 
to being hanged, as the Irishman said.”

With this Mrs. Rachel stepped out of the lane into the 

backyard of Green Gables. Very green and neat and precise 
was that yard, set about on one side with great patriarchal 
willows and the other with prim Lombardies. Not a stray 
stick nor stone was to be seen, for Mrs. Rachel would have 
seen it if there had been. Privately she was of the opinion 
that Marilla Cuthbert swept that yard over as often as she 
swept her house. One could have eaten a meal off the 
ground without over-brimming the proverbial peck of dirt.

Mrs. Rachel rapped smartly at the kitchen door and 

stepped in when bidden to do so. The kitchen at Green 

Gables was a cheerful apartment — or would have been 
cheerful if it had not been so painfully clean as to give 
it something of the appearance of an unused parlor. Its 
windows looked east and west; through the west one, 
looking out on the back yard, came a flood of mellow 
June sunlight; but the east one, whence you got a glimpse 
of the bloom white cherry-trees in the left orchard and 
nodding, slender birches down in the hollow by the 
brook, was greened over by a tangle of vines. Here sat 
Marilla Cuthbert, when she sat at all, always slightly 
distrustful of sunshine, which seemed to her too dancing 
and irresponsible a thing for a world which was meant 
to be taken seriously; and here she sat now, knitting, and 
the table behind her was laid for supper.

Mrs. Rachel, before she had fairly closed the door, 

had taken a mental note of everything that was on that 
table. There were three plates laid, so that Marilla must 
be expecting some one home with Matthew to tea; but 
the dishes were everyday dishes and there was only crabapple preserves and one kind of cake, so that the expected 
company could not be any particular company. Yet what of 
Matthew’s white collar and the sorrel mare? Mrs. Rachel 
was getting fairly dizzy with this unusual mystery about 
quiet, unmysterious Green Gables.

“Good evening, Rachel,” Marilla said briskly. “This is 

a real fine evening, isn’t it? Won’t you sit down? How are 
all your folks?”

Something that for lack of any other name might be 

called friendship existed and always had existed between 
Marilla Cuthbert and Mrs. Rachel, in spite of — or perhaps because of — their dissimilarity.

Marilla was a tall, thin woman, with angles and 

without curves; her dark hair showed some gray streaks 
and was always twisted up in a hard little knot behind 
with two wire hairpins stuck aggressively through it. 
She looked like a woman of narrow experience and 
rigid conscience, which she was; but there was a saving 
something about her mouth which, if it had been ever so 
slightly developed, might have been considered indicative 
of a sense of humor.

“We’re all pretty well,” said Mrs. Rachel. “I was kind 

of afraid you weren’t, though, when I saw Matthew 
starting off today. I thought maybe he was going to the 
doctor’s.”

Marilla’s lips twitched understandingly. She had 

expected Mrs. Rachel up; she had known that the sight 
of Matthew jaunting off so unaccountably would be too 
much for her neighbor’s curiosity.

“Oh, no, I’m quite well although I had a bad headache 

yesterday,” she said. “Matthew went to Bright River. We’re 
getting a little boy from an orphan asylum in Nova Scotia1

and he’s coming on the train tonight.”

If Marilla had said that Matthew had gone to Bright 

River to meet a kangaroo from Australia Mrs. Rachel 
could not have been more astonished. She was actually 
stricken dumb2 for five seconds. It was unsupposable 
that Marilla was making fun of her, but Mrs. Rachel was 
almost forced to suppose it.

1 Nova Scotia — Новая Шотландия провинция на юго
востоке Канады на берегу Атлантического океана

2 was actually stricken dumb — (разг.) лишилась дара 

речи

“Are you in earnest, Marilla?” she demanded when 

voice returned to her.

“Yes, of course,” said Marilla, as if getting boys from 

orphan asylums in Nova Scotia were part of the usual 
spring work on any well-regulated Avonlea farm instead 
of being an unheard of innovation.

Mrs. Rachel felt that she had received a severe mental 

jolt. She thought in exclamation points. A boy! Marilla 
and Matthew Cuthbert of all people adopting a boy! 
From an orphan asylum! Well, the world was certainly 
turning upside down! She would be surprised at nothing 
after this! Nothing!

“What on earth put such a notion into your head?” 

she demanded disapprovingly.

This had been done without her advice being asked, 

and must perforce be disapproved.

“Well, we’ve been thinking about it for some time — 

all winter in fact,” returned Marilla. “Mrs. Alexander 
Spencer was up here one day before Christmas and she 
said she was going to get a little girl from the asylum 
over in Hopeton in the spring. Her cousin lives there 
and Mrs. Spencer has visited here and knows all about 
it. So Matthew and I have talked it over off and on ever 
since1. We thought we’d get a boy. Matthew is getting up 
in years, you know — he’s sixty — and he isn’t so spry as 
he once was. His heart troubles him a good deal. And you 
know how desperate hard it’s got to be to get hired help. 
There’s never anybody to be had but those stupid, half
1 have talked it over off and on ever since — (разг.) по
стоянно возвращались к этой теме

grown little French boys; and as soon as you do get one 
broke into your ways and taught something he’s up and 
off to the lobster canneries or the States. At first Matthew 
suggested getting a Home boy. But I said ‘no’ flat to that. 
‘They may be all right — I’m not saying they’re not — 
but no London street Arabs for me,’ I said. ‘Give me a 
native-born at least. There’ll be a risk, no matter who 
we get. But I’ll feel easier in my mind and sleep sounder 
at nights if we get a born Canadian.’ So in the end we 
decided to ask Mrs. Spencer to pick us out one when she 
went over to get her little girl. We heard last week she was 
going, so we sent her word by Richard Spencer’s folks 
at Carmody to bring us a smart, likely boy of about ten 
or eleven. We decided that would be the best age — old 
enough to be of some use in doing chores right off and 
young enough to be trained up proper. We mean to give 
him a good home and schooling. We had a telegram from 
Mrs. Alexander Spencer today — the mail-man brought 
it from the station — saying they were coming on the 
five-thirty train tonight. So Matthew went to Bright 
River to meet him. Mrs. Spencer will drop him off there. 
Of course she goes on to White Sands station herself.”

Mrs. Rachel prided herself on always speaking her 

mind1; she proceeded to speak it now, having adjusted 
her mental attitude to this amazing piece of news.

“Well, Marilla, I’ll just tell you plain that I think you’re 

doing a mighty foolish thing — a risky thing, that’s what. 
You don’t know what you’re getting. You’re bringing 

1 always speaking her mind — (разг.) всегда говорила 

то, что думает