In the National Gallery

JA er der nogen der har skrevet den er total confusing pleaseeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

Der er mange gode syn på teksten på: http://britishcouncil.world-communities.org/encompass/discussionboards/FL_Interactive.LassoApp?p=d.viewdiscussion&-session=ml:AC0541043783100FCA71AA56BFE45795&5AB854260785921158MlY442D026&discussionID=3488&boardID=56&sort=chronological&-session=ml:AC0541043783100FCA71AA56BFE45795

Det er verdens mest lortede engelske stil at skrive den der.. blev selv bustet i at snyde ved at bruge studieportalen fordi den var så fucked at lave..

Er der nogen der har stileoplægget til In the national gallery?

Eller bare har selve historien? Så please send den til mig :)

In the National Gallery’
[Short Story]
By Doris Lessing

My intention was simple. I had a free hour. Instead of spending it going from picture to picture until the time ran out, I would find one large enough to be seen well from the middle of the room, and I would sit quietly and look at it. Just one picture, by itself. It should be already known to me. And there it was, the Stubbs chestnut horse, that magnificent beast, all power and potency, and from the central benches I could see it well. There were not many people that afternoon, fewer than with the Impressionists next door. I might almost have been alone with the horse, but then a man sat down, on the other side of the bench’s arm and he leaned forward, elbows on knees, and looked hard at the horse. He was about sixty years old, well dressed, a well-presented man absorbed in his contemplation. A second man sat down next to the first, who raised his hand, imposing silence. The he murmured, “There he is, a beauty, isn’t he?” This second one was younger by a good bit. A son? A younger brother? Certainly a pupil for now the first began talking, telling him about Stubbs the painter, and about the horses he painted. He was talking in a low voice, not wanting to be taken as an official guide, but the people just behind on the bench were turning to listen, and I tried to hear too. How much I would have liked to know as much as he did, and to share this passion for Stubbs and the horse, but only phrases reached me. The second man listened and looked and, as people passed between us and the horse, frowned at he interruption of his view. But he seemed restless, and soon was looking at his watch. The first man smiled at this and said, “Come on, you can spare a few minutes.” The second man did sit on, for a little, then jumped up, smiling, apologetic, a bit rueful, like a pupil chidden by teacher. The first man then flung out his hand, in a gesture of humorous resignation, and the young man snapped, “You can’t make a silk purse out of me, I keep telling you.” In the space of a moment the scene had turned ugly. The handsome young rough, revealed by what he had said and how he had said it, now seemed on the point of apologising, retrieving the situation, but the first man had turned his shoulder on him. The younger one went fast to the exit, which led to the French eighteenth century, though it was unlikely he had meant to find himself there. He turned and sketched a little frivolous wave, as if saying, “Oh, let’s kiss and make up,” but his mentor was still not looking at him but past me to the end of this gallery. The room was suddenly noisy and animated. Its tranquillity had been banished by the advent of some schoolgirls, identified by some smart little scarves, worn just so, expressing individuality, with a uniform of black jeans and black jackets. They were French, ten or so, a group conscious of being one, and they stood together just inside the big doors near Constable’s picture of Salisbury Cathedral. They were not looking at it, or at any of the pictures, but talked loudly and laughed, expecting attention, which they were getting. The man next to me was actually leaning forward, in his pose of elbows on knees, staring at them. He had not so much as glanced at the exit where his friend had vanished. What an attractive little lot they were these girls, glittery and shiny, as if from a fever, excited perhaps from the trip, but more from their being here together, with each other, on show. Any older female watching would look and remember the driving competitiveness in a girls’ group; we would know that this flock of pretty, well-dressed girls was full of rivalries, best friendships, betrayals, a seethe of emotion. One girl stood out. She was “so French” in her way of presenting herself, a package to be admired, in the French way with their girls, with a pert little face which must have smiled a hundred times being told that it was like Audrey Hepburn’s. Well, it was, quite a bit. She was the boss girl in this group, even if not officially a head girl or monitor. She was an original, the “card”, the wit, perhaps even the buffoon.

The man next to me now did glance to see if his delinquent friend was in sight, but did not seem much put out, for he was absorbed by the girls. Everyone was looking at them. How could we not? They were so vivacious, so lively, such a little bonfire of bright sparks. Now they were playing up to us, making of some private disagreement a real drama, a joke perhaps, but voices were rising and the chief girl stood in their midst, ready to arbitrate, or adjudicate. The man next to me was staring hard at her. Yes, she really was something, this little bit of a miss from France with her chic, her dark locks of hair, cut to be crooked, dark eyes, slightly angular eyebrows. She was altogether sharp and challenging, like a spiky female kitten before it becomes a serious cat, with measure and propriety. She stood there while disagreement swirled around her. She yawned. The man stared and seemed to hold his breath. And then, without looking at them, without saying anything to them, she broke away, came towards us, or rather, towards the man, and sat down near him, on the other side of me. She had not looked at him. He did not move. She slid forward on the slippery seat, pulled herself up, and then, as it were, dived, hands between her feet, and she clasped her pretty ankles. She sat herself up again, and yawned and looked at the great horse looming there. Her mouth fell open, from astonishment probably, but that turned into another yawn and she fell asleep. Just like that. She slept.
The girls had scarcely noticed her departure. They were continuing their disagreement. The man near me was very still. A quick glance from showed how he cautiously turned his head to look at the sleeping beauty, so near to him. His face might seem like that if it had been slapped. She was asleep. It was the delightful effrontery of it, as if she was really alone. But she was not, and had been pulled away from that group of schoolgirls because of how he had stared, focused on her, by the sheer force of his attention. And she had not once looked at him.walked down that long avenue towards her admirer, one step after another, and he waited for her, and then she walked past him, nose in the air? Well, she was rehearsing, do you see? She wanted to treat her chap like that. His name was Eric, I seem to remember. Yes, she would walk right past him, just like the girl in the film and he would be torn up with jealous rage.

“And did that happen?”

“Who knows? That summer went past, the way summers did in those days, slowly, and later she married someone or other. And I did too.” And he laughed again. It was an unscrupulous relishing laugh and he looked at me to share it with him.

“But if the snows of yester-year are you thing – here they are.”

“No, I don’t think they are. I don’t go in for nostalgia.”

“But?” I said

“But she’s just walked in – walked in from the past. And I feel – well, let me choose my words, I don’t want to exaggerate – yes, I would say there is a knife in my heart. You are laughing?”

“Not really, no.”

“No: you shouldn’t. The passions of little kids are just as strong as the grown-ups.”

“But we don’t like to admit that?”

“Exactly. I remember every detail of that summer.” He was thinking of that summer and not at all of her, who was breathing who was breathing away there, at his elbow.

And I was thinking that he had not suggested that his heart might have been even a little discommoded by that nasty little scene earlier.

And then she was awake. Her eyes focused, on the great brilliant horse, so close, towering there on the golden canvas, on his hind legs. Her face did not reveal what she was thinking.

What could she be making of that so dramatic horse, with his discontented eye? Was she thinking, “Is this a circus horse? Horses don’t usually stand on their back legs.” And what was he thinking – the horse? Surely: “What a silly business. I am a serious horse, and why should he paint me standing here with my forelegs in the air?” One thing we could be sure of was that this horse did not know he was the colour of polished copper, and so very beautiful.

The girl waved at her group, and they ran up and were scolding her for going off to sleep there. There was something theatrical about these reproaches, loud and meant to be heard. Now she must reaffirm her rights over them. She stood up and went to stand in front of the horse, and flung out her arm. “Look,” she cried, “A red horse.” “Voila! Un cheval rouge!”

They all looked at the horse. Something had to be done, and in the spirit of their exuberance, their abundant animation, she began to laugh, theatrically. Girls have to laugh, they have to, for elation rises in them like bubbles in liquid and has to find expression. They stood laughing at the horse, led by the girl, and the man, the expert on Stubbs, got up and stood in front of the horse, led by the girl, and the man, the expert on Stubbs, got up and stood in front of the horse, as if defending it. But the girls did not really care about the horse and wandered off, towards the French eighteenth century. The man merely stood there, staring after them. And then she wandered back, not to him, or that didn’t seem to be the case; she stood beside him and stared at the horse, which she must have felt she had affronted by her laughter. At any rate, she and the girls hadn’t really behaved very nicely. Well-behaved girls should not mock and giggles in a public gallery.
He stood staring, yes he stared, and that wasn’t very nice either. He went off towards the exit back to the Impressionists. Her group came back to her and again they stood together, disagreeing. Now I could hear what it was all about. They were tired. They wanted to find a café and sit down and have some coffee. But then, they wouldn’t see the rest of the pictures in this world-famous gallery, and they had been allotted just so long to see the great masterpieces which perhaps they might never see again.
It could have gone one way or the other. Then the girl, his girl, decided for them. “Come. We must have coffee. At once. Or I’ll simply die.”
The man was standing at the entrance, or exit, looking at her.
The girls were going towards him, but as they reached him on the way to departing altogether, she swerved to the left and stood gazing at Salisbury Cathedral. I would swear that this was the first picture, apart from the Stubbs, that any of them had glanced at that afternoon.
Some of her group had gone through to the Impressionists. She stood staring at the Constable, a few paces from him. One girl came back and took her by the arm and turned heraround so now she was face to face with the man who for the third time had drawn her – or his memories had – towards him. She stood just in front of him. And still she did not look at him. Young things do not see elderly or middle-aged or older people. She might be staring straight at him, but she didn’t see him.
Her friend pulled her through the big doors. There she stood and looked back. Her face said that she was wondering if she had mislaid something … forgotten something … missed something?
Then she disappeared, with her group.
Slowly, he followed. Oh no, I was thinking, he simply must not try and talk to her, attract her attention, impose himself. If he did, it was easy to imagine raised voices, ugly laughter, even an “incident” that could reach the newspapers. There was a wildness in the air, unexpressed, and raw, and dangerous.
 

skriver den selv. dumme opgave

Hva symboliserer hesten mht pigen?

desuden - french girl = impressionisme noget man kan sige om det?

Nogen der har nogle gode ting at sige om den man kan tage med?