The Prisoner of Zenda (Dystopian Novel). Anthony Hope

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      Chapter 1

       The Rassendylls — With a Word on the Elphbergs

       Table of Contents

      “I wonder when in the world you’re going to do anything, Rudolf?” said my brother’s wife.

      “My dear Rose,” I answered, laying down my egg-spoon, “why in the world should I do anything? My position is a comfortable one. I have an income nearly sufficient for my wants (no one’s income is ever quite sufficient, you know), I enjoy an enviable social position: I am brother to Lord Burlesdon, and brother-inlaw to that charming lady, his countess. Behold, it is enough!”

      “You are nine-and-twenty,” she observed, “and you’ve done nothing but —”

      “Knock about? It is true. Our family doesn’t need to do things.”

      This remark of mine rather annoyed Rose, for everybody knows (and therefore there can be no harm in referring to the fact) that, pretty and accomplished as she herself is, her family is hardly of the same standing as the Rassendylls. Besides her attractions, she possessed a large fortune, and my brother Robert was wise enough not to mind about her ancestry. Ancestry is, in fact, a matter concerning which the next observation of Rose’s has some truth.

      “Good families are generally worse than any others,” she said.

      Upon this I stroked my hair: I knew quite well what she meant.

      “I’m so glad Robert’s is black!” she cried.

      At this moment Robert (who rises at seven and works before breakfast) came in. He glanced at his wife: her cheek was slightly flushed; he patted it caressingly.

      “What’s the matter, my dear?” he asked.

      “She objects to my doing nothing and having red hair,” said I, in an injured tone.

      “Oh! of course he can’t help his hair,” admitted Rose.

      “It generally crops out once in a generation,” said my brother. “So does the nose. Rudolf has got them both.”

      “I wish they didn’t crop out,” said Rose, still flushed.

      “I rather like them myself,” said I, and, rising, I bowed to the portrait of Countess Amelia.

      My brother’s wife uttered an exclamation of impatience.

      “I wish you’d take that picture away, Robert,” said she.

      “My dear!” he cried.

      “Good heavens!” I added.

      “Then it might be forgotten,” СКАЧАТЬ