Дейзи Миллер

УДК 372.8
ББК 81.2 Англ-93
Д40

ISBN 978-5-9925-1129-1

 
Джеймс, Генри.
Д40 
Дейзи Миллер : книга для чтения на английском языке. — Санкт-Петербург : КАРО, 2016. — 
192 с. — (Classical literature).

ISBN 978-5-9925-1129-1.

Генри Джеймс (1843–1916) — американский и английский писатель, крупная фигура трансатлантической культуры рубежа XIX–XX вв. В предлагаемую вниманию читателей 
книгу вошли повесть «Дейзи Миллер» и новелла «Ученик».
Книга адресована студентам языковых вузов и всем любителям англоязычной литературы.

УДК 372.8
ББК 81.2 Англ-93

© КАРО, 2016

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DAISY MILLER

I
At the little town of Vevey, in Switzerland, there 
is a particularly comfortable hotel. Th ere are, indeed, 
many hotels; for the entertainment of tourists is the 
business of the place, which, as many travellers will 
remember, is seated upon the edge of a remarkably 
blue lake — a lake that it behoves every tourist to 
visit. Th e shore of the lake presents an unbroken array 
of establishments of this order, of every category, 
from the “grand hotel” of the newest fashion, with a 
chalk-white front, a hundred balconies, and a dozen 
fl ags fl ying from its roof, to the little Swiss pension 
of an elder day, with its name inscribed in Germanlooking lettering upon a pink or yellow wall, and an 
awkward summerhouse in the angle of the garden. 
One of the hotels at Vevey, however, is famous, even 
classical, being distinguished from many of its upstart 
neighbours by an air both of luxury and of maturity. 
In this region, in the month of June, American travellers are extremely numerous; it may be said, indeed, 
that Vevey assumes at this period some of the 

characteristics of an American watering-place. Th ere 
are sights and sounds which evoke a vision, an echo, 
of Newport and Saratoga. Th ere is a fl itting hither and 
thither1 of “stylish” young girls, a rustling of muslin 
fl ounces, a rattle of dance-music in the morning 
hours, a sound of high-pitched voices at all times. You 
receive an impression of these things at the excellent 
inn of the “Trois Couronnes,” and are transported in 
fancy2 to the Ocean House or to Congress Hall. But 
at the “Trois Couronnes,” it must be added, there are 
other features that are much at variance with these 
suggestions: neat German waiters, who look like 
secretaries of legation; Russian princesses sitting in 
the garden; little Polish boys walking about, held by 
the hand, with their governors; a view of the snowy 
crest of the Dent du Midi and the picturesque towers 
of the Castle of Chillon.
I hardly know whether it was the analogies or the 
diff erences that were uppermost in the mind of a 
young American, who, two or three years ago, sat in 
the garden of the “Trois Couronnes,” looking about 
him, rather idly, at some of the graceful objects I have 
mentioned. It was a beautiful summer morning, and 
in whatever fashion the young American looked at 
things, they must have seemed to him charming. 

1 hither and thither — (разг.) туда-сюда
2 are transported in fancy — (разг.) мысленно переноситесь

He had come from Geneva the day before, by the 
little steamer, to see his aunt, who was staying at 
the hotel — Geneva having been for a long time his 
place of residence. But his aunt had a headache — 
his aunt had almost always a headache — and now 
she was shut up in her room, smelling camphor, 
so that he was at liberty to wander about. He was 
some seven-and-twenty years of age; when his 
friends spoke of him, they usually said that he was 
at Geneva, “studying.” When his enemies spoke of 
him they said — but, aft er all, he had no enemies; 
he was an extremely amiable fellow, and universally 
liked. What I should say is, simply, that when certain 
persons spoke of him they affi  rmed that the reason 
of his spending so much time at Geneva was that he 
was extremely devoted to a lady who lived there — 
a foreign lady — a person older than himself. Very 
few Americans — indeed I think none — had ever 
seen this lady, about whom there were some singular 
stories. But Winterbourne had an old attachment for 
the little metropolis of Calvinism; he had been put 
to school there as a boy, and he had aft erwards gone 
to college there — circumstances which had led to 
his forming a great many youthful friendships. Many 
of these he had kept, and they were a source of great 
satisfaction to him.
Aft er knocking at his aunt’s door and learning that 
she was indisposed, he had taken a walk about the 

town, and then he had come in to his breakfast. He 
had now fi nished his breakfast; but he was drinking 
a small cup of coff ee, which had been served to him 
on a little table in the garden by one of the waiters 
who looked like an attaché. At last he fi nished his 
coff ee and lit a cigarette. Presently a small boy came 
walking along the path — an urchin of nine or ten. 
Th e child, who was diminutive for his years, had an 
aged expression of countenance, a pale complexion, 
and sharp little features. He was dressed in knickerbockers, with red stockings, which displayed his 
poor little spindleshanks; he also wore a brilliant 
red cravat. He carried in his hand a long alpenstock, 
the sharp point of which he thrust into everything 
that he approached — the fl ower-beds, the gardenbenches, the trains of the ladies’ dresses. In front of 
Winterbourne he paused, looking at him with a pair 
of bright, penetrating little eyes.
“Will you give me a lump of sugar?” he asked, in a 
sharp, hard little voice — a voice immature, and yet, 
somehow, not young.
Winterbourne glanced at the small table near 
him, on which his coff ee-service rested, and saw that 
several morsels of sugar remained. “Yes, you may take 
one,” he answered; “but I don’t think sugar is good for 
little boys.”
Th is little boy stepped forward and carefully 
select ed three of the coveted fragments, two of 

which he buried in the pocket of his knickerbockers, 
depositing the other as promptly in another place. 
He poked his alpenstock, lance-fashion, into 
Winterbourne’s bench, and tried to crack the lump of 
sugar with his teeth.
“Oh, blazes; it’s har-r-d!” he exclaimed, pronouncing the adjective in a peculiar manner.
Winterbourne had immediately perceived that he 
might have the honour of claiming him as a fellowcountryman. “Take care you don’t hurt your teeth,” 
he said, paternally.
“I haven’t got any teeth to hurt. Th ey have all come 
out. I have only got seven teeth. My mother counted 
them last night, and one came out right aft erwards. 
She said she’d slap me if any more came out. I can’t 
help it. It’s this old Europe. It’s the climate that makes 
them come out. In America they didn’t come out. It’s 
these hotels.”
Winterbourne was much amused. “If you eat three 
lumps of sugar, your mother will certainly slap you,” 
he said.
“She’s got to give me some candy, then,” rejoined his 
young interlocutor. “I can’t get any candy here — any 
American candy. American candy’s the best candy.”
“And are American little boys the best little boys?” 
asked Winterbourne.
“I don’t know. I’m an American boy,” said the 
child.

“I see you are one of the best!” laughed Winterbourne.
“Are you an American man?” pursued this vivacious infant. And then, on Winterbourne’s affi  rmative 
reply — “American men are the best,” he declared.
His companion thanked him for the compliment; 
and the child, who had now got astride of his 
alpenstock, stood looking about him, while he 
attacked a second lump of sugar. Winterbourne 
wondered if he himself had been like this in his 
infancy, for he had been brought to Europe at about 
this age.
“Here comes my sister!” cried the child, in a moment. “She’s an American girl.”
Winterbourne looked along the path and saw 
a beautiful young lady advancing. “American girls 
are the best girls,” he said, cheerfully, to his young 
companion.
“My sister ain’t the best!” the child declared. “She’s 
always blowing at me.1”
“I imagine that is your fault, not hers,” said 
Winterbourne. Th e young lady meanwhile had drawn 
near. She was dressed in white muslin, with a hundred 
frills and fl ounces, and knots of pale-coloured ribbon. 
She was bare-headed; but she balanced in her hand a 

1 She’s always blowing at me. — (разг.) Она все время 
бранит меня.

large parasol, with a deep border of embroidery; and 
she was strikingly, admirably pretty. “How pretty they 
are!” thought Winterbourne, straightening himself in 
his seat, as if he were prepared to rise.
Th e young lady paused in front of his bench, near 
the parapet of the garden, which overlooked the lake. 
Th e little boy had now converted his alpenstock into 
a vaulting-pole, by the aid of which he was springing 
about in the gravel, and kicking it up not a little.
“Randolph,” said the young lady, “what are you 
doing?”
“I’m going up the Alps,” replied Randolph. “Th is is 
the way!” And he gave another little jump, scattering 
the pebbles about Winterbourne’s ears.
“Th at’s the way they come down,” said Winterbourne.
“He’s an American man!” cried Randolph, in his 
little hard voice.
Th e young lady gave no heed to this announcement, 
but looked straight at her brother. “Well, I guess you 
had better be quiet,” she simply observed.
It seemed to Winterbourne that he had been in 
a manner presented. He got up and stepped slowly 
towards the young girl, throwing away his cigarette. 
“Th is little boy and I have made acquaintance,” he 
said, with great civility. In Geneva, as he had been 
perfectly aware, a young man was not at liberty to 
speak to a young unmarried lady except under certain 

rarely-occurring conditions; but here at Vevey, what 
conditions could be better than these? — a pretty 
American girl coming and standing in front 
of you in a garden. This pretty American girl, 
however, on hearing Winterbourne’s observation, 
simply glanced at him; she then turned her head 
and looked over the parapet, at the lake and the 
opposite mountains. He wondered whether he had 
gone too far; but he decided that he must advance 
farther, rather than retreat. While he was thinking 
of something else to say, the young lady turned to 
the little boy again.
“I should like to know where you got that pole,” 
she said.
“I bought it!” responded Randolph.
“You don’t mean to say you’re going to take it to 
Italy.”
“Yes, I am going to take it to Italy!” the child 
declared.
Th e young girl glanced over the front of her dress, 
and smoothed out a knot or two of ribbon. Th en 
she rested her eyes upon the prospect again. “Well, 
I guess you had better leave it somewhere,” she said, 
aft er a moment.
“Are you going to Italy?” Winterbourne inquired, 
in a tone of great respect.
Th e young lady glanced at him again. “Yes, sir,” 
she replied. And she said nothing more.