-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Джек Лондон
-
- Мартин Иден
-
- Стр. 1/241
Martin Eden
The
one
opened
the
door
with
a
latch
-
key
and
went
in
,
followed
by
a
young
fellow
who
awkwardly
removed
his
cap
.
He
wore
rough
clothes
that
smacked
of
the
sea
,
and
he
was
manifestly
out
of
place
in
the
spacious
hall
in
which
he
found
himself
.
He
did
not
know
what
to
do
with
his
cap
,
and
was
stuffing
it
into
his
coat
pocket
when
the
other
took
it
from
him
.
The
act
was
done
quietly
and
naturally
,
and
the
awkward
young
fellow
appreciated
it
.
"
He
understands
,
"
was
his
thought
.
"
He
’
ll
see
me
through
all
right
.
"
He
walked
at
the
other
’
s
heels
with
a
swing
to
his
shoulders
,
and
his
legs
spread
unwittingly
,
as
if
the
level
floors
were
tilting
up
and
sinking
down
to
the
heave
and
lunge
of
the
sea
.
The
wide
rooms
seemed
too
narrow
for
his
rolling
gait
,
and
to
himself
he
was
in
terror
lest
his
broad
shoulders
should
collide
with
the
doorways
or
sweep
the
bric
-
a
-
brac
from
the
low
mantel
.
He
recoiled
from
side
to
side
between
the
various
objects
and
multiplied
the
hazards
that
in
reality
lodged
only
in
his
mind
.
Between
a
grand
piano
and
a
centre
-
table
piled
high
with
books
was
space
for
a
half
a
dozen
to
walk
abreast
,
yet
he
essayed
it
with
trepidation
.
His
heavy
arms
hung
loosely
at
his
sides
.
He
did
not
know
what
to
do
with
those
arms
and
hands
,
and
when
,
to
his
excited
vision
,
one
arm
seemed
liable
to
brush
against
the
books
on
the
table
,
he
lurched
away
like
a
frightened
horse
,
barely
missing
the
piano
stool
.
He
watched
the
easy
walk
of
the
other
in
front
of
him
,
and
for
the
first
time
realized
that
his
walk
was
different
from
that
of
other
men
.
He
experienced
a
momentary
pang
of
shame
that
he
should
walk
so
uncouthly
.
The
sweat
burst
through
the
skin
of
his
forehead
in
tiny
beads
,
and
he
paused
and
mopped
his
bronzed
face
with
his
handkerchief
.
"
Hold
on
,
Arthur
,
my
boy
,
"
he
said
,
attempting
to
mask
his
anxiety
with
facetious
utterance
.
"
This
is
too
much
all
at
once
for
yours
truly
.
Give
me
a
chance
to
get
my
nerve
.
You
know
I
didn
’
t
want
to
come
,
an
’
I
guess
your
fam
’
ly
ain
’
t
hankerin
’
to
see
me
neither
.
"
"
That
’
s
all
right
,
"
was
the
reassuring
answer
.
"
You
mustn
’
t
be
frightened
at
us
.
We
’
re
just
homely
people
—
Hello
,
there
’
s
a
letter
for
me
.
"
He
stepped
back
to
the
table
,
tore
open
the
envelope
,
and
began
to
read
,
giving
the
stranger
an
opportunity
to
recover
himself
.
And
the
stranger
understood
and
appreciated
.
His
was
the
gift
of
sympathy
,
understanding
;
and
beneath
his
alarmed
exterior
that
sympathetic
process
went
on
.
He
mopped
his
forehead
dry
and
glanced
about
him
with
a
controlled
face
,
though
in
the
eyes
there
was
an
expression
such
as
wild
animals
betray
when
they
fear
the
trap
.
He
was
surrounded
by
the
unknown
,
apprehensive
of
what
might
happen
,
ignorant
of
what
he
should
do
,
aware
that
he
walked
and
bore
himself
awkwardly
,
fearful
that
every
attribute
and
power
of
him
was
similarly
afflicted
.
He
was
keenly
sensitive
,
hopelessly
self
-
conscious
,
and
the
amused
glance
that
the
other
stole
privily
at
him
over
the
top
of
the
letter
burned
into
him
like
a
dagger
-
thrust
.
He
saw
the
glance
,
but
he
gave
no
sign
,
for
among
the
things
he
had
learned
was
discipline
.
Also
,
that
dagger
-
thrust
went
to
his
pride
.
He
cursed
himself
for
having
come
,
and
at
the
same
time
resolved
that
,
happen
what
would
,
having
come
,
he
would
carry
it
through
.
The
lines
of
his
face
hardened
,
and
into
his
eyes
came
a
fighting
light
.
He
looked
about
more
unconcernedly
,
sharply
observant
,
every
detail
of
the
pretty
interior
registering
itself
on
his
brain
.
His
eyes
were
wide
apart
;
nothing
in
their
field
of
vision
escaped
;
and
as
they
drank
in
the
beauty
before
them
the
fighting
light
died
out
and
a
warm
glow
took
its
place
.
He
was
responsive
to
beauty
,
and
here
was
cause
to
respond
.
An
oil
painting
caught
and
held
him
.
A
heavy
surf
thundered
and
burst
over
an
outjutting
rock
;
lowering
storm
-
clouds
covered
the
sky
;
and
,
outside
the
line
of
surf
,
a
pilot
-
schooner
,
close
-
hauled
,
heeled
over
till
every
detail
of
her
deck
was
visible
,
was
surging
along
against
a
stormy
sunset
sky
.
There
was
beauty
,
and
it
drew
him
irresistibly
.
He
forgot
his
awkward
walk
and
came
closer
to
the
painting
,
very
close
.
The
beauty
faded
out
of
the
canvas
.
His
face
expressed
his
bepuzzlement
.
He
stared
at
what
seemed
a
careless
daub
of
paint
,
then
stepped
away
.
Immediately
all
the
beauty
flashed
back
into
the
canvas
.
"
A
trick
picture
,
"
was
his
thought
,
as
he
dismissed
it
,
though
in
the
midst
of
the
multitudinous
impressions
he
was
receiving
he
found
time
to
feel
a
prod
of
indignation
that
so
much
beauty
should
be
sacrificed
to
make
a
trick
.
He
did
not
know
painting
.
He
had
been
brought
up
on
chromos
and
lithographs
that
were
always
definite
and
sharp
,
near
or
far
.
He
had
seen
oil
paintings
,
it
was
true
,
in
the
show
windows
of
shops
,
but
the
glass
of
the
windows
had
prevented
his
eager
eyes
from
approaching
too
near
.
He
glanced
around
at
his
friend
reading
the
letter
and
saw
the
books
on
the
table
.
Into
his
eyes
leaped
a
wistfulness
and
a
yearning
as
promptly
as
the
yearning
leaps
into
the
eyes
of
a
starving
man
at
sight
of
food
.
An
impulsive
stride
,
with
one
lurch
to
right
and
left
of
the
shoulders
,
brought
him
to
the
table
,
where
he
began
affectionately
handling
the
books
.
He
glanced
at
the
titles
and
the
authors
’
names
,
read
fragments
of
text
,
caressing
the
volumes
with
his
eyes
and
hands
,
and
,
once
,
recognized
a
book
he
had
read
.
For
the
rest
,
they
were
strange
books
and
strange
authors
.
He
chanced
upon
a
volume
of
Swinburne
and
began
reading
steadily
,
forgetful
of
where
he
was
,
his
face
glowing
.
Twice
he
closed
the
book
on
his
forefinger
to
look
at
the
name
of
the
author
.
Swinburne
!
he
would
remember
that
name
.
That
fellow
had
eyes
,
and
he
had
certainly
seen
color
and
flashing
light
.
But
who
was
Swinburne
?
Was
he
dead
a
hundred
years
or
so
,
like
most
of
the
poets
?
Or
was
he
alive
still
,
and
writing
?
He
turned
to
the
title
-
page
.
.
.
yes
,
he
had
written
other
books
;
well
,
he
would
go
to
the
free
library
the
first
thing
in
the
morning
and
try
to
get
hold
of
some
of
Swinburne
’
s
stuff
.
He
went
back
to
the
text
and
lost
himself
.
He
did
not
notice
that
a
young
woman
had
entered
the
room
.
The
first
he
knew
was
when
he
heard
Arthur
’
s
voice
saying
:
-
"
Ruth
,
this
is
Mr
.
Eden
.
"
