That little square box краткое содержание

Обновлено: 05.07.2024

Mr. Hammond is on his way to America when he hears two passengers discussing a suspicious plan that was going to be executed at 10 o'clock in the evening. The two unknown passengers got aboard in the very last minute. Their baggage was not searched. And their plan consisted of some mysterious box. What do you think happened in the evening? Did Mr. Hammond try to warn the rest of the crew or he escaped with a life boat? Can all be a big misunderstanding or the American steamer will be blown up?

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (1859-1930) was born in Scotland and studied medicine at the University of Edinburgh. After his studies, he worked as a ship’s surgeon on various boats. During the Second Boer War, he was an army doctor in South Africa. When he came back to the United Kingdom, he opened his own practice and started writing crime books. He is best known for his thrilling stories about the adventures of Sherlock Holmes. He published four novels and more than 50 short-stories starring the detective and Dr Watson, and they play an important role in the history of crime fiction. Other than the Sherlock Holmes series, Doyle wrote around thirty more books, in genres such as science-fiction, fantasy, historical novels, but also poetry, plays, and non-fiction.

One good result was produced by my adventure, which any censorship must have approved: it cured me of ever again trying rouge-et-noir as an amusement. The sight of a green cloth, with packs of cards and heaps of money on it, will henceforth be forever associated in my mind with the sight of a bed canopy descending to suffocate me in the silence and darkness of the night.

Just as Mr. Faulkner pronounced these words he started in his chair, and resumed his stiff, dignified position in a great hurry. ‘Bless my soul!’ cried he, with a comic look of astonishment and vexation, ‘while I have been telling you what is the real secret of my interest in the sketch you have so kindly given to me, I have altogether forgotten that I came here to sit for my portrait. For the last hour or more I must have been the worst model you ever had to draw from!’

‘On the contrary, you have been the best,’ said I. ‘I have been trying to catch your likeness; and, while telling your story, you have unconsciously shown me the natural expression I wanted to insure my success.’

THE END

Note by Mrs. Kerby

I cannot let this story end without mentioning what the chance saying was which caused it to be told at the farmhouse the other night. Our friend, the young sailor, among his other quaint objections to sleeping on shore, declared that he particularly hated four-post beds, because he never slept in one without doubting whether the top might not come down in the night and suffocate him. I thought this chance reference to the distinguishing feature of William’s narrative curious enough, and my husband agreed with me. But he says it is scarcely worthwhile to mention such a trifle in anything so important as a book. I cannot venture, after this, to do more than slip these lines in modestly at the end of the story. If the printer should notice my few last words, perhaps he may not mind the trouble of putting them into some out-of-the-way corner, in very small type.

That Little Square Box (Arthur Conan Doyle)

‘All aboard!” said the captain

‘All aboard, sir!’ said the mate.

‘Then stand by to let her go.’

It was nine o’clock on a Wednesday morning. The good ship Spartan was lying off Boston Quay with her cargo under hatches, her passengers shipped, and everything prepared for a start. The warning whistle had been sounded twice, the final bell had been rung. Her bowsprit was turned towards England, and the hiss of escaping steam showed that all was ready for her run of three thousand miles. She strained at the warps that held her like a greyhound at its leash.

I have the misfortune to be a very nervous man. A sedentary literary life has helped to increase the morbid love of solitude which, even in my boyhood, was one of my distinguishing characteristics. As I stood upon the quarter-deck of the Transatlantic steamer, I bitterly cursed the necessity which drove me back to the land of my forefathers. The shouts of the sailors, the rattle of the cordage, the farewells of my fellow-passengers, and the cheers of the mob, each and all jarred upon my sensitive nature. I felt sad too. An indescribable feeling, as of some impending calamity, seemed to haunt me. The sea was calm, and the breeze light. There was nothing to disturb the equanimity of the most confirmed of landsmen, yet I felt as if I stood upon the verge of a great though indefinable danger. I have noticed that such presentiments occur often in men of my peculiar temperament, and that they are not uncommonly fulfilled. There is a theory that it arises from a species of second-sight – a subtle spiritual communication with the future. I well remember that Herr Raumer, the eminent spiritualist, remarked on one occasion that I was the most sensitive subject as regards supernatural phenomena that he had ever encountered in the whole of his wide experience. Be that as it may, I certainly felt far from happy as I threaded my way among the weeping, cheering groups which dotted the white decks of the good ship Spartan . Had I known the experience which awaited me in the course of the next twelve hours, I would even then at the last moment have sprung upon the shore, and made my escape from the accursed vessel.

‘Time’s up!’ said the captain, closing his chronometer with a snap, and replacing it in his pocket. ‘Time’s up!’ said the mate. There was a last wail from the whistle, a rush of friends and relatives upon the land. One warp was loosened, the gangway was being pushed away, when there was a shout from the bridge, and two men appeared running rapidly down the quay. They were waving their hands and making frantic gestures, apparently with the intention of stopping the ship. ‘Look sharp!’ shouted the crowd. ‘Hold hard!’ cried the captain. ‘Ease her! stop her! Up with the gangway!’ and the two men sprang aboard just as the second warp parted, and a convulsive throb of the engine shot us clear of the shore. There was a cheer from the deck, another from the quay, a mighty fluttering of handkerchiefs, and the great vessel ploughed its way out of the harbour, and steamed grandly away across the placid bay.

We were fairly started upon our fortnight’s voyage. There was a general dive among the passengers in quest of berths and luggage, while a popping of corks in the saloon proved that more than one bereaved traveller was adopting artificial means for drowning the pangs of separation. I glanced round the deck and took a running inventory of my compagnons de voyage [157] . They presented the usual types met with upon these occasions. There was no striking face among them. I speak as a connoisseur, for faces are a specialty of mine. I pounce upon a characteristic feature as a botanist does on a flower, and bear it away with me to analyse at my leisure, and classify and label it in my little anthropological museum. There was nothing worthy of me here. Twenty types of young America going to ‘Yurrup,’ a few respectable middle-aged couples as an antidote, a sprinkling’ of clergymen and professional men, young ladies, bagmen, British exclusives, and all the olla podrida [158] of an ocean-going steamer. I turned away from them and gazed back at the receding shores of America, and, as a cloud of remembrances rose before me, my heart warmed towards the land of my adoption. A pile of portmanteaus and luggage chanced to be lying on one side of the deck, awaiting their turn to be taken below. With my usual love for solitude I walked behind these, and sitting on a coil of rope between them and the vessel’s side, I indulged in a melancholy reverie.

I was aroused from this by a whisper behind me. ‘Here’s a quiet place,’ said the voice. ‘Sit down, and we can talk it over in safety.’

Glancing through a chink between two colossal chests, I saw that the passengers who had joined us at the last moment were standing at the other side of the pile. They had evidently failed to see me as I crouched in the shadow of the boxes. The one who had spoken was a tall and very thin man with a blue-black beard and a colourless face. His manner was nervous and excited. His companion was a short, plethoric little fellow, with a brisk and resolute air. He had a cigar in his mouth, and a large ulster slung over his left arm. They both glanced round uneasily, as if to ascertain whether they were alone. ‘This is just the place,’ I heard the other say. They sat down on a bale of goods with their backs turned towards me, and I found myself, much against my will, playing the unpleasant part of eavesdropper to their conversation.

‘Well, Muller,’ said the taller of the two, ‘we’ve got it aboard right enough.’

‘Yes,’ assented the man whom he had addressed as Muller; ‘it’s safe aboard.’

‘It was rather a near go.’

‘It was that, Flannigan.’

‘It wouldn’t have done to have missed the ship.’

‘No; it would have put our plans out.’

‘Ruined them entirely,’ said the little man, and puffed furiously at his cigar for some minutes.

Один из пассажиров парохода, идущего через Атлантику, обнаруживает, что двое его спутников пронесли на борт какой-то небольшой ящик, при этом они ведут странные разговоры и явно стараются скрыть свой груз от остальных. Трудно не заподозрить их в намерении совершить страшное преступление. Но справедливы ли будут эти подозрения?

That Little Square Box [ориг.]; Этот маленький четырёхугольный ящичек; Четырёхугольный ящичек; Квадратный ящик; Небольшой четырёхугольный ящик

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zarya, 13 апреля 2014 г.

Не знаю, существовали ли когда-нибудь на самом деле устройства, аналогичные описанному ящичку, но если они действительно были, то нетрудно представить себе процесс рождения этого рассказа. Стоило писателю увидеть в газете изображение этого странного приспособления, и сюжет должен был появиться в его мозгу целиком и в готовом виде. Концовка производила бы большее впечатление, если бы автор не выставил своего персонажа таким законченным параноиком. Лучший друг, и тот не верит в его подозрения, а следом не верит и читатель.

Тем не менее, учитывая, что это один из первых опубликованных рассказов молодого Дойла, сработан он с впечатляющим мастерством. Картина ночного моря завораживает и отлично создаёт тревожное настроение, а разговор за обедом о терроризме показывает понимание автором проблем этого, тогда ещё только зарождавшегося, явления и заодно обрисовывает характер одного из подозреваемых — умного, отлично владеющего собой и несколько циничного.

slayv86, 26 марта 2013 г.

Очень тонкий с психологической точки зрения рассказ. Завараживающе описаны переживания героя, его внутренний монолог.

Nog, 6 августа 2007 г.

В таких случаях все же лучше излишняя предосторожность, чем равнодушие. Ведь в самом деле все могло произойти и так, как подозревал герой.

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