The Wonderful Wizard of Oz
1. The Cyclone
Dorothy lived in the midst of the great Kansas prairies, with Uncle Henry, who was a farmer, and Aunt Em, who was the farmer’s wife. Their house was small, for the lumber to build it had to be carried by wagon many miles. There were four walls, a floor and a roof, which made one room; and this room contained a rusty looking cookstove, a cupboard for the dishes, a table, three or four chairs, and the beds. Uncle Henry and Aunt Em had a big bed in one corner, and Dorothy a little bed in another corner. There was no garret at all, and no cellar—except a small hole dug in the ground, called a cyclone cellar, where the family could go in case one of those great whirlwinds arose, mighty enough to crush any building in its path. It was reached by a trap door in the middle of the floor, from which a ladder led down into the small, dark hole.
When Dorothy stood in the doorway and looked around, she could see nothing but the great gray prairie on every side. Not a tree nor a house broke the broad sweep of flat country that reached to the edge of the sky in all directions. The sun had baked the plowed land into a gray mass, with little cracks running through it. Even the grass was not green, for the sun had burned the tops of the long blades until they were the same gray color to be seen everywhere. Once the house had been painted, but the sun blistered the paint and the rains washed it away, and now the house was as dull and gray as everything else.
When Aunt Em came there to live she was a young, pretty wife. The sun and wind had changed her, too. They had taken the sparkle from her eyes and left them a sober gray; they had taken the red from her cheeks and lips, and they were gray also. She was thin and gaunt, and never smiled now. When Dorothy, who was an orphan, first came to her, Aunt Em had been so startled by the child’s laughter that she would scream and press her hand upon her heart whenever Dorothy’s merry voice reached her ears; and she still looked at the little girl with wonder that she could find anything to laugh at.
Uncle Henry never laughed. He worked hard from morning ’til night and did not know what joy was. He was gray also, from his long beard to his rough boots, and he looked stern and solemn, and rarely spoke.
It was Toto that made Dorothy laugh, and saved her from growing as gray as her other surroundings. Toto was not gray; he was a little black dog, with long silky hair and small black eyes that twinkled merrily on either side of his funny, wee nose. Toto played all day long, and Dorothy played with him, and loved him dearly.
Today, however, they were not playing. Uncle Henry sat upon the doorstep and looked anxiously at the sky, which was even grayer than usual. Dorothy stood in the door with Toto in her arms, and looked at the sky too. Aunt Em was washing the dishes.
From the far north they heard a low wail of the wind, and Uncle Henry and Dorothy could see where the long grass bowed in waves before the coming storm. There now came a sharp whistling in the air from the south, and as they turned their eyes that way they saw ripples in the grass coming from that direction also.
Suddenly Uncle Henry stood up.
“There’s a cyclone coming, Em,” he called to his wife. “I’ll go look after the stock.” Then he ran toward the sheds where the cows and horses were kept.
Aunt Em dropped her work and came to the door. One glance told her of the danger close at hand.
“Quick, Dorothy!” she screamed. “Run for the cellar!”
Toto jumped out of Dorothy’s arms and hid under the bed, and the girl started to get him. Aunt Em, badly frightened, threw open the trap door in the floor and climbed down the ladder into the small, dark hole. Dorothy caught Toto at last and started to follow her aunt. When she was halfway across the room there came a great shriek from the wind, and the house shook so hard that she lost her footing and sat down suddenly upon the floor.
Then a strange thing happened.
The house whirled around two or three times and rose slowly through the air. Dorothy felt as if she were going up in a balloon.
The north and south winds met where the house stood, and made it the exact center of the cyclone. In the middle of a cyclone the air is generally still, but the great pressure of the wind on every side of the house raised it up higher and higher, until it was at the very top of the cyclone; and there it remained and was carried miles and miles away as easily as you could carry a feather.
It was very dark, and the wind howled horribly around her, but Dorothy found she was riding quite easily. After the first few whirls around, and one other time when the house tipped badly, she felt as if she were being rocked gently, like a baby in a cradle.
Toto did not like it. He ran about the room, now here, now there, barking loudly; but Dorothy sat quite still on the floor and waited to see what would happen.
Once Toto got too near the open trap door, and fell in; and at first the little girl thought she had lost him. But soon she saw one of his ears sticking up through the hole, for the strong pressure of the air was keeping him up so that he could not fall. She crept to the hole, caught Toto by the ear, and dragged him into the room again, afterward closing the trap door so that no more accidents could happen.
Hour after hour passed away, and slowly Dorothy got over her fright; but she felt quite lonely, and the wind shrieked so loudly all about her that she nearly became deaf. At first she had wondered if she would be dashed to pieces when the house fell again; but as the hours passed and nothing terrible happened, she stopped worrying and resolved to wait calmly and see what the future would bring. At last she crawled over the swaying floor to her bed, and lay down upon it; and Toto followed and lay down beside her.
In spite of the swaying of the house and the wailing of the wind, Dorothy soon closed her eyes and fell fast asleep.
2. The Council with the Munchkins
She was awakened by a shock, so sudden and severe that if Dorothy had not been lying on the soft bed she might have been hurt. As it was, the jar made her catch her breath and wonder what had happened; and Toto put his cold little nose into her face and whined dismally. Dorothy sat up and noticed that the house was not moving; nor was it dark, for the bright sunshine came in at the window, flooding the little room. She sprang from her bed and with Toto at her heels ran and opened the door.
The little girl gave a cry of amazement and looked about her, her eyes growing bigger and bigger at the wonderful sights she saw.
The cyclone had set the house down very gently—for a cyclone—in the midst of a country of marvelous beauty. There were lovely patches of greensward all about, with stately trees bearing rich and luscious fruits. Banks of gorgeous flowers were on every hand, and birds with rare and brilliant plumage sang and fluttered in the trees and bushes. A little way off was a small brook, rushing and sparkling along between green banks, and murmuring in a voice very grateful to a little girl who had lived so long on the dry, gray prairies.
While she stood looking eagerly at the strange and beautiful sights, she noticed coming toward her a group of the queerest people she had ever seen. They were not as big as the grown folk she had always been used to; but neither were they very small. In fact, they seemed about as tall as Dorothy, who was a well-grown child for her age, although they were, so far as looks go, many years older.
Three were men and one a woman, and all were oddly dressed. They wore round hats that rose to a small point a foot above their heads, with little bells around the brims that tinkled sweetly as they moved. The hats of the men were blue; the little woman's hat was white, and she wore a white gown that hung in pleats from her shoulders. Over it were sprinkled little stars that glistened in the sun like diamonds. The men were dressed in blue, of the same shade as their hats, and wore well-polished boots with a deep roll of blue at the tops. The men, Dorothy thought, were about as old as Uncle Henry, for two of them had beards. But the little woman was doubtless much older. Her face was covered with wrinkles, her hair was nearly white, and she walked rather stiffly.
When these people drew near the house where Dorothy was standing in the doorway, they paused and whispered among themselves, as if afraid to come farther. But the little old woman walked up to Dorothy, made a low bow and said, in a sweet voice:
“You are welcome, most noble Sorceress, to the land of the Munchkins. We are so grateful to you for having killed the Wicked Witch of the East, and for setting our people free from bondage.”
Dorothy listened to this speech with wonder. What could the little woman possibly mean by calling her a sorceress, and saying she had killed the Wicked Witch of the East? Dorothy was an innocent, harmless little girl, who had been carried by a cyclone many miles from home; and she had never killed anything in all her life.
But the little woman evidently expected her to answer; so Dorothy said, with hesitation, “You are very kind, but there must be some mistake. I have not killed anything.”
“Your house did, anyway,” replied the little old woman, with a laugh, “and that is the same thing. See!” she continued, pointing to the corner of the house. “There are her two feet, still sticking out from under a block of wood.”
Dorothy looked, and gave a little cry of fright. There, indeed, just under the corner of the great beam the house rested on, two feet were sticking out, shod in silver shoes with pointed toes.
“Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” cried Dorothy, clasping her hands together in dismay. “The house must have fallen on her. Whatever shall we do?”
“There is nothing to be done,” said the little woman calmly.
“But who was she?” asked Dorothy.
“She was the Wicked Witch of the East, as I said,” answered the little woman. “She has held all the Munchkins in bondage for many years, making them slave for her night and day. Now they are all set free, and are grateful to you for the favor.”
“Who are the Munchkins?” inquired Dorothy.
“They are the people who live in this land of the East where the Wicked Witch ruled.”
“Are you a Munchkin?” asked Dorothy.
“No, but I am their friend, although I live in the land of the North. When they saw the Witch of the East was dead the Munchkins sent a swift messenger to me, and I came at once. I am the Witch of the North.”
“Oh, gracious!” cried Dorothy. “Are you a real witch?”
“Yes, indeed,” answered the little woman. “But I am a good witch, and the people love me. I am not as powerful as the Wicked Witch was who ruled here, or I should have set the people free myself.”
“But I thought all witches were wicked,” said the girl, who was half frightened at facing a real witch. “Oh, no, that is a great mistake. There were only four witches in all the Land of Oz, and two of them, those who live in the North and the South, are good witches. I know this is true, for I am one of them myself, and cannot be mistaken. Those who dwelt in the East and the West were, indeed, wicked witches; but now that you have killed one of them, there is but one Wicked Witch in all the Land of Oz—the one who lives in the West.”
“But,” said Dorothy, after a moment's thought, “Aunt Em has told me that the witches were all dead—years and years ago.”
“Who is Aunt Em?” inquired the little old woman.
“She is my aunt who lives in Kansas, where I came from.”
The Witch of the North seemed to think for a time, with her head bowed and her eyes upon the ground. Then she looked up and said, “I do not know where Kansas is, for I have never heard that country mentioned before. But tell me, is it a civilized country?”
“Oh, yes,” replied Dorothy.
“Then that accounts for it. In the civilized countries I believe there are no witches left, nor wizards, nor sorceresses, nor magicians. But, you see, the Land of Oz has never been civilized, for we are cut off from all the rest of the world. Therefore we still have witches and wizards amongst us.”
“Who are the wizards?” asked Dorothy.
“Oz himself is the Great Wizard,” answered the Witch, sinking her voice to a whisper. “He is more powerful than all the rest of us together. He lives in the City of Emeralds.”
Dorothy was going to ask another question, but just then the Munchkins, who had been standing silently by, gave a loud shout and pointed to the corner of the house where the Wicked Witch had been lying.
“What is it?” asked the little old woman, and looked, and began to laugh. The feet of the dead Witch had disappeared entirely, and nothing was left but the silver shoes.
“She was so old,” explained the Witch of the North, “that she dried up quickly in the sun. That is the end of her. But the silver shoes are yours, and you shall have them to wear.” She reached down and picked up the shoes, and after shaking the dust out of them handed them to Dorothy.
“The Witch of the East was proud of those silver shoes,” said one of the Munchkins, “and there is some charm connected with them; but what it is we never knew.”
Dorothy carried the shoes into the house and placed them on the table. Then she came out again to the Munchkins and said:
“I am anxious to get back to my aunt and uncle, for I am sure they will worry about me. Can you help me find my way?”
The Munchkins and the Witch first looked at one another, and then at Dorothy, and then shook their heads.
“At the East, not far from here,” said one, “there is a great desert, and none could live to cross it.”
“It is the same at the South,” said another, “for I have been there and seen it. The South is the country of the Quadlings.”
“I am told,” said the third man, “that it is the same at the West. And that country, where the Winkies live, is ruled by the Wicked Witch of the West, who would make you her slave if you passed her way.”
“The North is my home,” said the old lady, “and at its edge is the same great desert that surrounds this Land of Oz. I'm afraid, my dear, you will have to live with us.”
Dorothy began to sob at this, for she felt lonely among all these strange people. Her tears seemed to grieve the kind-hearted Munchkins, for they immediately took out their handkerchiefs and began to weep also. As for the little old woman, she took off her cap and balanced the point on the end of her nose, while she counted “One, two, three” in a solemn voice. At once the cap changed to a slate, on which was written in big, white chalk marks:
“LET DOROTHY GO TO THE CITY OF EMERALDS”
The little old woman took the slate from her nose, and having read the words on it, asked, “Is your name Dorothy, my dear?”
“Yes,” answered the child, looking up and drying her tears.
“Then you must go to the City of Emeralds. Perhaps Oz will help you.”
“Where is this city?” asked Dorothy.
“It is exactly in the center of the country, and is ruled by Oz, the Great Wizard I told you of.”
“Is he a good man?” inquired the girl anxiously.
“He is a good Wizard. Whether he is a man or not I cannot tell, for I have never seen him.”
“How can I get there?” asked Dorothy.
“You must walk. It is a long journey, through a country that is sometimes pleasant and sometimes dark and terrible. However, I will use all the magic arts I know of to keep you from harm.”
“Won’t you go with me?” pleaded the girl, who had begun to look upon the little old woman as her only friend.
“No, I cannot do that,” she replied, “but I will give you my kiss, and no one will dare injure a person who has been kissed by the Witch of the North.”
She came close to Dorothy and kissed her gently on the forehead. Where her lips touched the girl they left a round, shining mark, as Dorothy found out soon after.
“The road to the City of Emeralds is paved with yellow brick,” said the Witch, “so you cannot miss it. When you get to Oz do not be afraid of him, but tell your story and ask him to help you. Good-bye, my dear.”
The three Munchkins bowed low to her and wished her a pleasant journey, after which they walked away through the trees. The Witch gave Dorothy a friendly little nod, whirled around on her left heel three times, and straightway disappeared, much to the surprise of little Toto, who barked after her loudly enough when she had gone, because he had been afraid even to growl while she stood by.
But Dorothy, knowing her to be a witch, had expected her to disappear in just that way, and was not surprised in the least.
From The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, by L. Frank Baum. Originally published in 1900 by the George M. Hill Company. Text in the public domain.
Man saß im »Landschaftszimmer«, im ersten Stockwerk des weitläufigen alten Hauses in der Mengstraße, das die Firma Johann Buddenbrook vor einiger Zeit käuflich erworben hatte und das die Familie noch nicht lange bewohnte. Die starken und elastischen Tapeten, die von den Mauern durch einen leeren Raum getrennt waren, zeigten umfangreiche Landschaften, zartfarbig wie der dünne Teppich, der den Fußboden bedeckte, Idylle im Geschmack des 18. Jahrhunderts, mit fröhlichen Winzern, emsigen Ackersleuten, nett bebänderten Schäferinnen, die reinliche Lämmer am Rande spiegelnden Wassers im Schoße hielten oder sich mit zärtlichen Schäfern küßten… Ein gelblicher Sonnenuntergang herrschte meistens auf diesen Bildern, mit dem der gelbe Überzug der weiß lackierten Möbel und die gelbseidenen Gardinen vor den beiden Fenstern übereinstimmten.
German. From Buddenbrooks, by Thomas Mann. Originally published in 1909 by S. Fischer Verlag. Text in the public domain.
—Ésa es natural condición de mujeres—dijo don Quijote—desdeñar a quien las quiere y amar a quien las aborrece. Pasa adelante, Sancho.—«Sucedió—dijo Sancho—que el pastor puso por obra su determinación, y, antecogiendo sus cabras, se encaminó por los campos de Estremadura, para pasarse a los reinos de Portugal. La Torralba, que lo supo, se fue tras él, y seguíale a pie y descalza desde lejos, con un bordón en la mano y con unas alforjas al cuello, donde llevaba, según es fama, un pedazo de espejo y otro de un peine, y no sé qué botecillo de mudas para la cara; mas, llevase lo que llevase, que yo no me quiero meter ahora en averiguallo, sólo diré que dicen que el pastor llegó con su ganado a pasar el río Guadiana, y en aquella sazón iba crecido y casi fuera de madre, y por la parte que llegó no había barca ni barco, ni quien le pasase a él ni a su ganado de la otra parte, de lo que se congojó mucho, porque veía que la Torralba venía ya muy cerca y le había de dar mucha pesadumbre con sus ruegos y lágrimas; mas, tanto anduvo mirando, que vio un pescador que tenía junto a sí un barco, tan pequeño que solamente podían caber en él una persona y una cabra; y, con todo esto, le habló y concertó con él que le pasase a él y a trecientas cabras que llevaba. Entró el pescador en el barco, y pasó una cabra; volvió, y pasó otra; tornó a volver, y tornó a pasar otra.» Tenga vuestra merced cuenta en las cabras que el pescador va pasando, porque si se pierde una de la memoria, se acabará el cuento y no será posible contar más palabra dél. «Sigo, pues, y digo que el desembarcadero de la otra parte estaba lleno de cieno y resbaloso, y tardaba el pescador mucho tiempo en ir y volver. Con todo esto, volvió por otra cabra, y otra, y otra...»
Spanish. From Don Quijote, by Miguel de Cervantes. Originally published in 1705 by Francisco de Robles. Text in the public domain.
Domin: (vstane) V čítankách je placená reklama a ostatně nesmysl. Stojí tam například, že Roboty vynalezl starý pán. Zatím e starý pán hodil na univerzitu, ale o tovární výrobě neměl ponětí. Myslel, že udělá skutečné lidi, tedy snad nějaké nové Indiány, docenty nebo idioty, víte? A teprve mladý Rossum měl nápad udělat z toho živé a inteligentní pracovní stroje. Co je v čítankách o spolupráci obou velikých Rossumů, je povídačka. Ti dva se ukrutně hádali. Starý ateista neměl drobet pochopení pro industrii, a konečně ho mladý zavřel do nějaké laboratoře, aby se tam piplal se svými velikými potraty, a začal to vyprávět sám, po inženýrsku. Starý Rossum ho doslovně proklel a do své smrti usmolil ještě dvě fyziologické obludy, až ho nakonec našli v laboratoři mrtvého. To je celá historie.
Czech. From R.U.R. (Rossum’s Universal Robots), by Karel Čapek. Originally a play published in Prague by Aventinum in 1920 and premiered in that city on January 25, 1921. Text in the public domain.
W lipcu ojciec mój wyjeżdżał do wód i zostawiał mnie z matką i starszym bratem na pastwę białych od żaru i oszołamiających dni letnich. Wertowaliśmy, odurzeni światłem, w tej wielkiej księdze wakacji, której wszystkie karty pałały od blasku i miały na dnie słodki do omdlenia miąższ złotych gruszek. Adela wracała w świetliste poranki, jak Pomona z ognia dnia rozżagwionego, wysypując z koszyka barwną urodę słońca - lśniące, pełne wody pod przejrzystą skórką czereśnie, tajemnicze, czarne wiśnie, których woń przekraczała to, co ziszczało się w smaku; morele, w których miąższu złotym był rdzeń długich popołudni; a obok tej czystej poezji owoców wyładowywała nabrzmiałe siłą i pożywnością płaty mięsa z klawiaturą żeber cielęcych, wodorosty jarzyn, niby zabite głowonogi i meduzy - surowy materiał obiadu o smaku jeszcze nie uformowanym i jałowym, wegetatywne i telluryczne ingrediencje obiadu o zapachu dzikim i polnym. Przez ciemne mieszkanie na pierwszym piętrze kamienicy w rynku przechodziło co dzień na wskroś całe wielkie lato: cisza drgających słojów powietrznych, kwadraty blasku śniące żarliwy swój sen na podłodze; melodia katarynki, dobyta z najgłębszej złotej żyły dnia; dwa, trzy takty refrenu, granego gdzie na fortepianie, wciąż na nowo, mdlejące w słońcu na białych trotuarach, zagubione w ogniu dnia głębokiego. Po sprzątaniu Adela zapuszczała cień na pokoje, zasuwając płócienne story. Wtedy barwy schodziły o oktawę głębiej, pokój napełniał się cieniem, jakby pogrążony w światło głębi morskiej, jeszcze mętniej odbity w zielonych zwierciadłach, a cały upał dnia oddychał na storach, lekko falujących od marzeń południowej godziny. W sobotnie popołudnia wychodziłem z matką na spacer. Z półmroku sieni wstępowało się od razu w słoneczną kąpiel dnia. Przechodnie, brodząc w złocie, mieli oczy zmrużone od żaru, jakby zalepione miodem, a podciągnięta górna warga odsłaniała im dziąsła i zęby. I wszyscy brodzący w tym dniu złocistym mieli ów grymas skwaru, jak gdyby słońce nałożyło swym wyznawcom jedną i tę samą maskę - złotą maskę bractwa słonecznego; i wszyscy, którzy szli dziś ulicami, spotykali się, mijali, starcy i młodzi, dzieci i kobiety, pozdrawiali się w przejściu tą maską, namalowaną grubą, złotą farbą na twarzy, szczerzyli do siebie ten grymas bakchiczny - barbarzyńską maskę kultu pogańskiego. Rynek był pusty i żółty od żaru, wymieciony z kurzu gorącymi wiatrami, jak biblijna pustynia. Cierniste akacje, wyrosłe z pustki żółtego placu, kipiały nad nim jasnym listowiem, bukietami szlachetnie uczłonkowanych filigranów zielonych, jak drzewa na starych gobelinach. Zdawało się, że te drzewa afektują wicher, wzburzając teatralnie swe korony, ażeby w patetycznych przegięciach ukazać wytworność wachlarzy listnych o srebrzystym podbrzuszu, jak futra szlachetnych lisic. Stare domy, polerowane wiatrami wielu dni, zabawiały się refleksami wielkiej atmosfery, echami, wspomnieniami barw, rozproszonymi w głębi kolorowej pogody. Zdawało się, że całe generacje dni letnich (jak cierpliwi sztukatorzy, obijający stare fasady z pleśni tynku) obtłukiwały kłamliwą glazurę, wydobywając z dnia na dzień wyraźniej prawdziwe oblicze domów, fizjonomię losu i życia, które formowało je od wewnątrz. Teraz okna, oślepione blaskiem pustego placu, spały; balkony wyznawały niebu swą pustkę; otwarte sienie pachniały chłodem i winem. Kupka obdartusów, ocalała w kącie rynku przed płomienną miotłą upału, oblegała kawałek muru, doświadczając go wciąż na nowo rzutami guzików i monet, jak gdyby z horoskopu tych metalowych krążków odczytać można było prawdziwą tajemnicę muru, porysowanego hieroglifami rys i pęknięć. Zresztą rynek był pusty. Oczekiwało się, że przed tę sień sklepioną z beczkami winiarza podjedzie w cieniu chwiejących się akacyj osiołek Samarytanina, prowadzony za uzdę, a dwóch pachołków zwlecze troskliwie chorego męża z rozpalonego siodła, ażeby go po chłodnych schodach wnieść ostrożnie na pachnące szabasem piętro. Tak wędrowaliśmy z matką przez dwie słoneczne strony rynku, wodząc nasze załamane cienie po wszystkich domach, jak po klawiszach. Kwadraty bruku mijały powoli pod naszymi miękkimi i płaskimi krokami - jedne bladoróżowe jak skóra ludzka, inne złote i sine, wszystkie płaskie, ciepłe, aksamitne na słońcu, jak jakie twarze słoneczne, zadeptane stopami aż do niepoznaki, do błogiej nicości. Aż wreszcie na rogu ulicy Stryjskiej weszliśmy w cień apteki. Wielka bania z sokiem malinowym w szerokim oknie aptecznym symbolizowała chłód balsamów, którym każde cierpienie mogło się tam ukoić. I po paru jeszcze domach ulica nie mogła już utrzymać nadal decorum miasta, jak chłop, który wracając do wsi rodzimej, rozdziewa się po drodze z miejskiej swej elegancji, zamieniając się powoli, w miarę zbliżania do wsi, w obdartusa wiejskiego. Przedmiejskie domki tonęły wraz z oknami, zapadnięte w bujnym i zagmatwanym kwitnieniu małych ogródków. Zapomniane przez wielki dzień, pleniły się bujnie i cicho wszelkie ziela, kwiaty i chwasty, rade z tej pauzy, którą prześnić mogły za marginesem czasu, na rubieżach nieskończonego dnia. Ogromny słonecznik, wydźwignięty na potężnej łodydze i chory na elephantiasis, czekał w żółtej żałobie ostatnich, smutnych dni żywota, uginając się pod przerostem potwornej korpulencji. Ale naiwne przedmiejskie dzwonki i perkalikowe, niewybredne kwiatuszki stały bezradne w swych nakrochmalonych, różowych i białych koszulkach, bez zrozumienia dla wielkiej tragedii słonecznika.
Polish. From Sklepy cynamonowe (published in English as Street of Crocodiles), by Bruno Schulz. Published in 1934. Text in the public domain.
Trời nắng lắm, nên đường vắng. Hắn cứ đi, cứ chửi, cứ dọa giết “nó”, và cứ đi. Bây giờ đến ngõ nhà cụ Bá. Hắn xông xông đi vào. Cả nhà đi làm đồng vắng, chỉ có mình cụ Bá đang nằm nghỉ trưa. Nghe tiếng hắn, cụ thấy sao bực mình quá! Chính thật thì cụ cũng đang bực mình. Bởi vì cụ thấy đầu hơi nhức. Cụ đang muốn có một bàn tay man mát xoa cái đầu. Cũng có lẽ, cụ chỉ muốn bà Tư đừng đi lâu quá thế. Đi lâu thế, không biết rằng đi đâu? Sao bà ấy còn trẻ quá! Gần bốn mươi rồi mà trông còn phây phây. Còn phây phây quá đi nữa! Cụ năm nay đã ngoài sáu mươi. Già yếu quá, nghĩ mà chua xót. Già thế thì bà ấy chỉ cũng già đi cho xong. Bà ấy lại cứ trẻ, cứ phây phây, cứ đẹp như mới ngoài hai mươi tuổi, mà sao đa tình. Nhìn thì thích nhưng tưng tức lạ. Khác gì nhai miếng thịt bò lựt sựt khi rụng gần hết răng. Mắt bà, miệng bà có duyên, nhưng trông đĩ lắm. Hơi một tí là cười toe toét, tít cả mắt lại, cái má thì hây hây. Mà thấy ghét những thằng trai trẻ, giá làm con bà không đáng, mà thấy đâu cũng đùa. Chúng đùa nhạt như nước ốc, chỉ được cái thô tục, mà gặp ai đâu cũng cười! Chẳng nghĩ đến địa vị cả, người đâu mà vô tâm! Tức lạ! Cụ chỉ muốn cho tất cả những thằng trai trẻ đi tù... Những lúc như thế, thì một người dẫu khôn ngoan cũng không bình tĩnh được. Nhất là khi trông thấy một thằng chỉ đến vòi tiền uống rượu như Chí Phèo. Tuy vậy, cụ cũng móc sẵn năm hào. Thà móc sẵn để tống nó đi cho chóng. Nhưng móc rồi, cụ cũng phải quát một câu cho nhẹ người:
- Chí Phèo đấy hở ? Lè bè vừa thôi chứ, tôi không phải là cái kho.
Vietnamese. From Chí Phèo, by Nam Cao (Trần Hữu Tri). Published in 1941. Text status unknown.
I kinohi hana ke Akua i ka lani a me ka honua. He ano ole ka honua, ua olohelohe; a maluna no o ka hohonu ka pouli. Hoopunana iho la ka Uhane o ke Akua maluna o ka wai. I iho la ke Akua, I malamalama; a ua malamalama ae la. Nana ae la ke Akua i ka malamalama, ua maikai: a hookaawale ae la ke Akua mawaena o ka malamalama, a me ka pouli. Kapa mai la ke Akua i ka malamalama, he Ao, a kapa mai hoi ia i ka pouli, he Po. A o ke ahiahi a me ke kakahiaka, o ka la mua ia. I iho la ke Akua, I aouli mawaena o na wai, i mea hookaawale i kekahi wai me kekahi wai. Hana iho la ke Akua i ke aouli; a hookaawale ae la ia i ka wai malalo o ke aouli, me ka wai maluna o ke aouli: a pela io no. Kapa iho la ke Akua i ke aouli, he Lani. A o ke ahiahi a me ke kakahiaka, o ka lua ia o ka la. I iho la ke Akua, E hui pu na wai malalo o ka lani i kahi hookahi, i ikea ai kahi maloo: a pela io no. Kapa iho la ke Akua i kahi maloo, he Aina; a kapa iho la oia i na wai i hui pu iaʻi, o na moana: a nana ae la ke Akua, ua maikai. I iho la ke Akua, E hooulu mai ka honua i ka mauu, a me ka launahele e hua ana i ka hua, a me ka laau hua e hua ana hoi ma kona ano iho, iloko ona iho kona hua maluna o ka honua: a pela io no. A hooulu mai la ka honua i ka mauu, a me ka launahele e hua ana i ka hua ma kona ano iho, a me ka laau e hua ana i ka hua, iloko ona kona hua ma kona ano iho: nana iho la hoi ke Akua, ua maikai. A o ke ahiahi a me ke kakahiaka, o ke kolu ia o ka la. I iho la ke Akua, I mau malamalama iloko o ke aouli o ka lani, i mea hookaawale i ke ao a me ka po; i mau hoailona lakou no na kau, a no na la, a me na makahiki: I mau kukui hoi lakou iloko o ke aouli o ka lani, e hoomalamalama mai ai i ka honua: a pela io no. Hana iho la ke Akua i na malamalama nui elua: o ka malamalama nui, e alii ai maluna o ke ao, a o ka malamalama uuku iho, e alii ai maluna o ka po, a me na hoku hoi. Kau aku la ke Akua ia mau mea ma ke aouli o ka lani, e hoomalamalama mai ai i ka honua, E hooalii hoi maluna o ke ao a me ka po, a e hookaawale ae i ka malamalama a me ka pouli: a nana iho la ke Akua, ua maikai. A o ke ahiahi a me ke kakahiaka, o ka ha ia o ka la. I iho la ke Akua, E hoohua nui mai na wai i na mea ola e holo ana, a me na manu e lele ae maluna o ka honua, ma ka lewa akea o ka lani. Hana iho la ke Akua i na ia nui, a me na mea ola a pau e holo ana, a ka wai i hoohua nui mai ai ma ko lakou ano iho a me na mea eheu hoi a pau ma ko lakou ano iho: a nana iho la ke Akua, ua maikai. Hoomaikai iho la ke Akua ia mau mea, i iho la, E hoohua ae oukou e hoolaha nui hoi, a e hoopiha i na wai o na moana; a e hoolaha ae na manu maluna o ka honua. O ke kakahiaka a me ke ahiahi, o ka lima ia o ka la. I iho la ke Akua, E hoohua mai ka honua i ka mea ola ma kona ano iho, i ka holoholona laka, me ka mea kolo, a me ka holoholona hihiu ma kona ano iho: a pela io no. Hana iho la ke Akua i ka holoholona hihiu ma kona ano iho, me na holoholona laka ma ko lakou ano iho, a me na mea kolo a pau o ka honua ma ko lakou ano iho: a nana iho la ke Akua, ua maikai. I iho la ke Akua, E hana kakou i ke kanaka e ku ia kakou, ma ka like ana me kakou iho: a e hooalii ia ia maluna o na ia o ke kai, maluna hoi o na manu o ka lewa, maluna hoi o na holoholona laka, a maluna hoi o ka honua a pau, a maluna no hoi o na mea kolo a pau e kolo ana ma ka honua. Hana iho la ke Akua i ke kanaka ma kona ano iho, ma ke ano o ke Akua oia I hanaʻi ia ia; hana mai la ia i kane a i wahine Hoomaikai mai la ke Akua ia laua, i mai la hoi ke Akua ia laua, E hoohua ae olua, e hoolaha hoi, e hoopiha i ka honua, a e lanakila maluna, a e noho alii maluna o na ia o ke kai, a me na manu o ka lewa, a me na mea a pau e kolo ana maluna o ka honua. I mai la ke Akua, Aia hoi, ua haawi aku au na olua i na launahele a pau e hua ana i ka hua maluna o ka honua a pau, a me na laau a pau iloko ona ka hua o ka laau e hua ana i ka hua; he mea ai ia na olua. A na ka poe holoholona a pau o ka honua, me na manu a pau o ka lewa, a me na mea a pau e kolo ana ma ka honua, na mea e ola ana, na lakou ka nahelehele a pau i mea ai: a pela io no. Nana iho la ke Akua i na mea a pau ana i hanaʻi, aia hoi, ua maikai wale no. A o ke ahiahi a me ke kakahiaka, o ke ono ia o ka la.
Hawaiian. From the Hawaiian bible.