Сценарий вечера, посвященный жизни и творчеству P1 icon

Сценарий вечера, посвященный жизни и творчеству P1



НазваниеСценарий вечера, посвященный жизни и творчеству P1
Дата конвертации13.11.2012
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ТипСценарий


Сценарий вечера,

посвященный жизни и творчеству





P1: Dear friends, I am glad to see you. We have gathered today to talk about Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, the great American poet, some of whose poems are loved by both children and grown-ups all over the world. I’m sure you know lot of them, don’t you?

The Arrow and the Song.

I shot an arrow into the air,

It fell to earth, I knew not where;

For, so swiftly it flew, the sight

Could not follow it in its flight.

I breathed a song into the air,

It fell to earth, I knew not where;

For who has sight so keen and strong

That it can follow the fight of a song?

Long, long afterward, in an oak

I found the arrow still unbroken;

And the song, from beginning to end,

I found again in the heart of a friend.

Стрела и песня.

Из лука взвилась стрела…

Не знаю, где она легла.

И мне, глядящему вперед,

Неведом был ее полет.

И песня в мир моя ушла…

Не знаю, где она легла.

За тьмой лесов, за цепью гор

Не уследил за песней взор.

Прошли года. Стрела нашлась…

В широкий дуб она впилась…

А песнь, с начала до конца,

Моих друзей хранят сердца.

^ Перевод Б. Томашевского.

The Twilight.

The twilight is sad and cloudy,

The wind blows wild and free,

And like the wings of sea-birds

Flash the white caps of sea.

But in the fisherman’s cottage

There shines a ruddier light,

And a little face at the window

Peers out into the night.

Close, close it is pressed to the window,

As if those childish eyes

Were looking into the darkness,

To see some form arise.

And a woman’s waving shadow

Is passing to and fro,

Now rising to the ceiling,

Now bowing and bending low.

What tale to the roaring ocean

And the night-wind, bleak and wild,

As they beat at the crazy casement,

Tell to that little child?

And why do the roaring ocean,

And the night-wind, wild and bleak,

As they beat at the heart of the mother,

Drive the colour from her cheek?

Сумерки.

Печальный и пасмурный вечер,

Стать бурей вечер готов…

Мелькают, как крылья чаек,

Белесые гребни валов.

У моря в рыбачьей избушке

Мерцает в огне огонёк.

И долго на берег смотрит

Пытливый детский глазок.

К стеклу лицо прижато,

Как будто ребёнка взгляд

Хочет сквозь мглу увидеть

Того, кто спешит назад.

А женская тень, колеблясь,

Блуждает, чего – то ждёт…

Взлетит к потолку на мгновенье

И на пол вновь упадёт.

О чём шумящее море

И дикий ночной ураган

Рассказывают ребёнку

Врезаясь в прибрежный туман?

Зачем на бурное море,

Где ходит под ветром волна,

С тревогой женщина смотрит,

Задумчива и бледна?

^ Перевод Б. Томашевског

P2: Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was born in 1807 in Portland. On the map of the USA you can see this city. (Показывает город на карте США.) Grandfather Wadsworth’s house stood on a huge piece of land in Maine, almost in wilderness, where Indians had wandered just a few years before. Grandfather Wadsworth had wonderful tales about his adventures in the Revolution, but his experiences with the Indians were the most exciting for Henry. After listening his stories Henry liked to wander through the forests alone. They were mysterious. The branches whispered, Indian maidens stepped out from behind trees. Five year-old Henry could hear and see imaginary people.

P2: Grandfather Longfellow was as interesting as Grandfather Wadsworth, and sometimes Henry and his brother Stephen could spend part of their summer with him. His farm was near Portland, and there the boys could play in the fresh hay and pick wild strawberries.

P4: But visits to Grandfather Wadsworth and Grandfather Longfellow were only for summer. When the vocation came to an end, Mrs. Longfellow gathered up her children – Stephen, Henry, Betsy and little Anne, - brought them back to Portland and back to school. Imaginative Henry could find just as much adventure in Portland because Portland was on the sea.

P5: As soon as their carriage stopped in front of their house, Henry jumped out and ran down to the harbor to watch the sailors and the sea.

(Henry and his brother Stephen are sitting in the room near a wide window.)

Henry: Shall we learn about ships at public school?

Stephen: Of course not!

Henry: About Indians, then?

Stephen: You will learn to read and to write in the public school.

Henry: Maybe they will teach us about the sea and the ships?

Stephen: You will have to learn spelling, writing and arithmetic.

P8: The public school was even more disappointing than that. The boys in public schools were rough and they played hard. One day Henry came home from school angry and ready to cry.

Henry: I won’t go back to school again! I won’t! I won’t!

P6: His parents thought Portland Academy was the best place for their boys. Henry liked Portland Academy very much. He brought home very good reports about his progress.

P4: By the time Henry was 7 and Stephen – 9, there were three other Longfellow children – Betsy, Anne, 4, and Alex, 4 months.

P8: As Henry grew older, he grew quieter. He liked books and reading. He began to keep a notebook of his favorite poems. In the notebook there were verses, rhymes and lines that he made up himself. He was becoming shy, and he kept his notebook secret from almost everyone but his mother and his sister Anne. Henry’s ability to write was winning him honors at school, and his father was glad, but Mr Longfellow didn’t know that his son was dreaming about being a writer. He couldn’t have approved of that. But Mrs Longfellow encouraged Henry, helped him with new words and read with him.

P1: This summer the Longfellow children were at Grandfather Wadsworth’s house. One day Henry asked his Grandfather to tell him the story of Lovell’ Pond again.

Grandfather: You should know it by heart after all this time. Well, not far from this farm there’s a pond called Lovell’s Pond. It’s named for a brave man, Captain John Lovell, who died with his men in a terrible battle with the Indians.

P3: As soon as Henry was alone, he began to try out words on paper. How quiet it was in the forest, now! Could there ever have been a battle here? Henry wrote…

Henry: The war-whoop is still, and the savage’s yell

Has sunk into silence along the wild dell.

P1: That was a poem! That was really a poem! Henry worked hard on the rest of his poem about the Battle of Lovell’s Pond, and when it was finished he kept it hidden in his notebook.

Henry to Anne: Can you keep a secret?

Anne: Oh, Henry! I can always keep your secrets!

Henry: I’ve written a poem, Anne.

Anne: Oh, Henry! Let me see it. Please let me see it.

P2: He showed her his work, and after she had read it, she gazed at her wonderful brother.

Anne: I think it’s good, Henry! I think it’s very good.

P3: The Portland Gazette published this first poem when Henry was 13.

P4: There were many more poems after that. Henry was sure he wanted to be a poet. He found inspiration for new poems all around him, in the forests, in the sea, all over Portland.

P5: When Henry was only 14, his family was talking about sending him to college. That meant more studying and less time for writing poems.

At last the day arrived when the boys, Stephen and Henry, were to leave for Bowdoin College (Боудойнский колледж). There the boys found they would not have as much freedom as at home. They had to get up at 6 o’clock every morning and go to chapel for prayers. Then they had classes all day, and after that they had to stay indoors evenings to study.

P10: Henry didn’t mind. He was doing what he wanted to do. At college he found books and a chance to read and to write. He wrote home…

Henry: Dear parents. I’m very much pleased with college time. Many of the students are very agreeable and thus, I have passed my time very pleasantly.

P11: Henry liked to take long walks among the tall pine-trees and think about Indians that had wandered here once. He was reading books about Indians, books that told how they lived and dressed and thought. He wrote to his mother…

Henry: I’m learning how to understand this persecuted race. American Indians have really beautiful customs and ideas and have been very badly treated by white people.

P12: He was greatly interested in Indian folklore. Even as a student, Henry Longfellow began to collect it. But it was some 30 years after he had graduated from the university that he was able to finally complete his tremendous epic poem «The Song of Hiawatha» – the only epic poem in American literature in which the way of life and beliefs of the Indian people are described.

P10: According to the legend, Hiawatha was born of the daughter of a Star and his father was the wild West Wind. He had magic power and used it to vanquish evil enemies of the people. He was one with nature; he knew the language of all the birds, understood the whispering, wishes and designs of inanimate nature, clouds, the trees, the rivers, the streams.

^ The Song of Hiawatha.

(Extracts)

The Piece-Pipe

On the mountains of the Prairie,

On the great Red Pipe-stone Quarry,

Glitch Manito, the mighty,

He the Master of Life descending

On the red crags of the quarry,

Stood erect, and called the nations,

Called the tribes of men together.

O my children! My poor children!

Listen to the words of wisdom,

Listen to the words of warning,

From the lips of the Great Spirit,

From the Master of Life, who made you!

I have given you lands to hunt in,

I have given you streams to fish in,

I have given you bear and bison,

I have given you roe and reindeer,

I have given you brand and beaver,

Filled the marshes full of wild-bowl,

Filled the rivers full of fishes;

Why then are you not continued?

Why then will you hunt each other?

I am weary of your quarrels,

Weary of your wars and bloodshed,

All your strength is in your union,

All your danger is in discord;

Therefore be at peace henceforward,

And as brothers live together.

Трубка мира.

На горах Большой Равнины,

На вершине Красных Камней,

Там стоял Владыка Жизни,

Гитчи Манито могучий,

И с вершины Красных Камней

Созывал к себе народы,

Созывал людей отовсюду.

……………………………..

Говоря: «О дети, дети!

Слову мудрости внемлите,

Слову краткого совета

От того, кто всех вас создал!

Дал я земли для охоты,

Дал для рыбной ловли воды,

Дал медведя и бизона,

Дал оленя и косулю,

Дал бобра вам и казарку;

Я наполнил реки рыбой,

А болота дикой птицей.

Что ж ходить вас заставляет

На охоту друг за другом?

Я устал от ваших распрей,

Я устал от ваших споров,

От борьбы кровопролитной…

Ваша сила – лишь в согласье,

А бессилие – в разладе.

Примиритеся, о дети!

Будьте братьями друг другу!

^ Перевод И. Бунина

P11: Each time that Henry came home, He planned to talk to his father about his writing and each time he put it off. Many newspapers were publishing his poems. He felt less and less like becoming a lawyer. By this time his father was a member of the United States Congress. Mr Longfellow was such a successful lawyer that he had been elected to high public office. And he wanted his sons to have the same kind of success. Henry wrote to his father…

Henry: I don’t think I’m suited to be a lawyer. After I graduate from Bowdoin, I should like to study for another year in Harvard. I should like to study great writers, and I should like to learn Italian and French so that I can read great writers in other languages. You see, I want to be a writer.

Mr Longfellow to Henry: Nobody earns a living by writing. Please remember that we are not rich people, and you will have to support yourself. Being a lawyer is a very good way to earn a living. As for an extra year college, I don’t think whether I can afford or not.

P13: Eighteen-year-old Henry had done a lot of reading and thinking during his three year of college. He had discovered a lot of exciting and wonderful writers. Among them was an American writer, Washington Irving.

Henry to teacher: Why don’t we have more American writers?

P14: America is a new country. We won our independence from England less than 50 years ago. When America is much older, then we’ll have great American writers.

Henry: I can write. I’m going to be one of those great writers.

P15: Henry Longfellow decided to be one of those great writers.

P13: After he graduated at the age of 18, he accepted a position as the college’s first professor of modern languages. First, however, he agreed to study in Europe.

P1: 19-year-old Henry went aboard a sailing ship. His journey to Europe began. The young man lived in France, Italy, Spain and Germany, where he studied foreign languages and literature.

(^ Показ фотографий с видами Испании, Франции и т. д.)

P2: Being in Germany Henry received a letter from home. He opened it and let it drop from his hands. Betsy, his sister, had died before he could get home.

P1: Henry Longfellow returned to a sorrowful family. His mother and father were very sad and talked very little. Mr Longfellow did have a conversation with Henry about the position of Bowdoin. By the time Henry had been offered a job at the college. He could teach and be a college librarian, too, and that would add to his salary.

P2: He had to create his own textbooks because the study of modern languages was a new field. Longfellow composed almost no poetry for the next 10 years. Instead, he concentrated on scholarly writing, teaching, translation, and prose wring.

P1: But let’s go back to the summer of 1829. Henry spent a rest of the summer in Portland with his family. Everyone in Portland noticed the interesting young Henry Longfellow.

P2: In 1831, Longfellow married Mary Potter. Their happiness did not last long. In 1834, Harvard University offered him a position teaching languages. To prepare himself, Longfellow had to study German literature and language in Europe. The couple traveled to England, Sweden, Denmark and the Netherlands. In the Netherlands, his wife suffered a miscarriage and died shortly afterwards. Henry Longfellow writes in his letter…

Henry: This morning between one and two o’clock, my Mary, my Mary, my beloved Mary died.

P5: After some time, crushed and disappointed, Mr Longfellow had a new kind of sorrow. He fell in love with young and beautiful Fanny Appleton, but she said “no” to the poet. Perhaps she thought he was not important enough. Perhaps her family thought she was too young to marry. She was only 18 years.

P7: By that time Henry wasn’t simply Henry Longfellow, he was Professor Longfellow, well-known all over America as a Writer and poet.

P5: But he was still deeply unhappy about Fanny Appleton. Whenever he went to parties and meetings and listened to praises of his poetry, he thought of Miss Appleton. Other young ladies simply did not interested him.

P7: But he knew what he wanted! And the joyous news was out for their families and friends. Henry and Fanny were engaged! They were to be married in July!

Henry: “We are going to spend many happy years together,” he promised his young wife.

P5: His promise came true. He and Fanny did live a long and happy life. Their circle of friends grew, as people came to know about their hospitality. Sometimes they gave large parties. Fanny’s black eyes, so much beloved by Henry, helped him create. He wrote all the time.

In 1854 Longfellow left Harvard University and devoted all his time to literature.

P7: “Evangeline”, the most beautiful poem, “The Building of the Ship”, a story about a boy who liked to watch the ships and the sailors from the docks of Portland, “The Seaside and the Fireside”, a collection of short poems , “The Song of Hiawatha” and many others were written and published in this time.

P14: Tragedy struck Longfellow again on July 9, 1861. His wife, Frances, accidentally set her dress afire and was fatally burned, despite Longfellow’s efforts to smother the fire with his hands and a rug. Frances was buried on the 18th anniversary of her marriage to Longfellow who was too badly burned to attend the funeral.

P15: It was 18 years later and just three years before his own death that Longfellow wrote “The Cross on the Snow, a sonnet about Frances that some critics consider his best work.

The Cross on the Snow.

In the long, sleepless watches of the night,

A gentle face – the face of the long dead –

Looks at me from the wall, where round its head

The night-lamp casts a halo of pale light.

Here in this room she died; and soul more white

Never through martyrdom of fire was led

To its repose; no can in books be read

The legend of a light more benedight.

There is a mountain in the distant West

That, sun-defying, in its deep ravines

Displays a cross of snow upon its side.

Such is the cross I wear upon my breast

These eighteen years, through all the changing scenes

And seasons, changeless since the day she died.


P13: Henry Wadsworth Longfellow died in 1882.

P14: Henry Longfellow was a truly American poet writing about America. Once, many years ago, he said there ought to be important American writers. He had hoped to be one of them, and his dream came true.

Teacher: We’ve talked a lot about Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. It’s very pleasant to see that all of you like him and his poetry. We are finishing now. And I suggest that we just listen to the marvelous melody of his poems.

Rain in Summer

How beautiful is the rain!

After the dust and heat,

In the broad and fiery street,

In the narrow lane,

How beautiful is the rain!

How is a clatter along the roofs,

Like the tramp of hoofs!

How is gushes and struggles out

From the throat of the overflowing spout.

Across the window pane

It pours and pours;

And swift and wide,

With a muddy tide,

Like a river down the gutter roars

The rain, the welcome rain.

Daybreak.

A wind came up out the sea,

And said, “O mists, make room for me”.

It hailed the ships and cried, “Sail on,

Ye mariners, the night is gone”.

And hurried landward far away,

Crying, “Awake! It is the day”.

It said unto the forest, “Shout!

Hang all your leafy banners out!”

It touched the wood bird’s folded wing,

And said, “O bird, awake and sing”.

And o’er the farms, “O chanticleer,

Your clarion blow: the day is near”.

It whispered to the fields of corn,

“Bow down, and hail the coming morn”.

It shouted through the belfry tower,

Awake, O bell! Proclaim the hour.

Рассвет.

Повеял бриз над океаном.

«Рассейтесь!» - он сказал туманам.

Он крикнул морякам: «Вперед!

Глядите, утро настает!»

И поспешил в луга и нивы,

Крича: «Гоните сон ленивый!»

И к лесу он воззвал: «Шуми,

Как знамя, листья подними!»

Сказал пичуге робкой: «Птица!

Проснись, чтоб в поднебесье взвиться!»

И петуху на ферме: «Эй!

Вставай, горнист, буди людей!»

Шепнул колосьям: «Утро близко,

Ему вы поклонитесь низко!»

На башне колокол толкнул:

«Пора! Пусть твой раздастся гул».

^ Перевод В. Шора

The Golden Sunset

The golden sea its mirror spreads

Beneath the golden skies,

And but a narrow strip between

Of land and snadow lies.

The cloud like-rocks, the rocks-like clouds

Dissolved in glory float,

And midway of the radiant flood,

Hangs silently the boat.

The sea is but another sky,

The sky a sea as well,

And which is earth and which is heaven,

The eye can scarcely tell!

Золотой закат

Сверкает море золотое

Под золотом небес,

Меж ними узкой полосою

Лежит тенистый лес.

На облака похожи скалы,

На скалы – облака,

А между ними лодка встала,

Воздушна и легка.

И можно с небом спутать море

И с морем – небосвод,

Как будто отражен во взоре

Весь мир наоборот

Перевод Б. Томашевского


Afternoon in February

The day is ending,

The night is descending;

The march is frozen,

The river dead.

Through clouds like ashes

The red sun flashes

On village windows

That glimmer red.

The snow recommences;

The buried fences

Mark no longer

The road o’er plain.


Christmas Message

I heard the bells on Christmas Day

Their old familiar carols play,

And wild and sweet

The words repeat

Of peace on earth, good will to men.




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