Джек Лондон: Мартин Иден / Martin Eden

“You’ll find breakfast in the oven,” she said hurriedly.

Martin went into the kitchen. Then he went downstairs and out into the street. He had debated between the Berkeley Library and the Oakland Library, and chose the latter because Ruth lived in Oakland. He wandered through endless rows of books, and did not know what to ask the man at the desk.

“Did you find what you wanted?” the man at the desk asked him as he was leaving.

“Yes, sir,” he answered. “You have a fine library here.”

The man nodded. “We should be glad to see you here often. Are you a sailor?”

“Yes, sir,” he answered. “And I’ll come again.”

Now, how did he know that? he asked himself as he went down the stairs.

Martin Eden was afraid that he might visit Ruth too soon. He spent long hours in the Oakland and Berkeley libraries. He burned the gas late in the servant’s room, and was charged fifty cents a week for it by Mr. Higginbotham.

He read many books; every page of every book was a hole into the realm of knowledge. His hunger increased. He read more of Swinburne than was contained in the volume Ruth had given him. Then he studied Kipling’s poems. Psychology was a new word in Martin’s vocabulary.

He dared not go near Ruth’s house in the daytime, but at night he was lurking like a thief around the Morse home.

He had undergone a moral revolution. Her cleanness and purity made him clean, too. He began to brush his teeth, and used a nail-brush. He found a book in the library on the care of the body, and promptly decided to have a cold-water bath every morning.

The reform went deeper. He still smoked, but he drank no more. He was drunken in new and more profound ways – with Ruth, who had fired him with love and with a glimpse of higher and eternal life; with books, and with the sense of personal cleanliness.

One night he went to the theatre, and from the second balcony he did see her. He saw her with Arthur and a strange young man with eyeglasses.

He left his seat before the curtain went down on the last act. He wanted to see her again. Suddenly two girls appeared. One of them was a slender, dark girl, with black, defiant eyes. They smiled at him, and he smiled back.

“Hello,” he said.

It was automatic. The black-eyed girl smiled, and showed signs of stopping. At the corner where the main stream of people flowed onward, he started to follow the cross street. But the girl with the black eyes caught his arm, and cried:

“Bill! Where are you going?”

He halted with a laugh, and turned back.

“What’s her name?” he asked the giggling girl, nodding at the dark-eyed one.

“You ask her,” was the response.

“Well, what is it?” he demanded, turning on the girl in question.

“You didn’t tell me yours, yet,” she retorted.

“You never asked it,” he smiled. “But, true, it’s Bill, all right, all right.”

“Oh,” she looked him in the eyes. “What is it, honest?”

Oh, he knew those girls, and knew them well, from A to Z. They work hard, they are nervously desirous for some happiness in the desert of existence.

“Bill,” he answered, nodding his head. “Sure, Bill and no other.”

“He isn’t Bill at all,” her friend noticed.

“How do you know?” he demanded. “You never saw me before.”

“No need to, to know you’re lying,” was the retort.

Those girls from the factory… The cheap cloth, the cheap ribbons, and the cheap rings on the fingers. He felt a tug at his arm, and heard a voice saying:

“Wake up, Bill! What’s the matter with you?”

“What were you saying?” he asked. “There’s only one thing wrong with the programme,” he said aloud. “I’ve got a date already.”

The girl’s eyes blazed her disappointment.

“To visit a sick friend, I suppose?” she sneered.

“No, a real, honest date with – ” he faltered, “with a girl. But why can’t we meet some other time? You didn’t tell me your name. And where do you live?”

“Lizzie,” she replied, her hand pressing his arm, while her body leaned against his. “Lizzie Connolly. [32] Lizzie Connolly – Лиззи Конноли ”

He talked on a few minutes before saying good night. He did not go home immediately; and under the tree he looked up at a window and murmured: “That date was with you, Ruth.”

A week of heavy reading had passed since the evening he first met Ruth Morse, and still he dared not call. He did not know the proper time to call, and he was afraid of a blunder. He left his old companions, and has no new companions. Nothing remained for him but to read, and long hours he devoted to it. But his eyes were strong, and they were placed on a strong body.

It seemed to him, by the end of the week, that he had lived centuries, so far behind [33] so far behind – так далеко позади was the old life. He attempted to read books that required years of studying. One day he read a book of philosophy, and the next day one that was ultra-modern. It was the same with the economists. On the one shelf at the library he found Karl Marx, Ricardo, Adam Smith, and Mill. [34] Karl Marx, Ricardo, Adam Smith, and Mill – Карл Маркс, Рикардо, Адам Смит и Милль

Poetry, however, was his solace, and he read much of it, finding his greatest joy in the simpler poets, whom he could understand. He loved beauty, and there he found beauty. Poetry, like music, touched him profoundly. The pages of his mind were blank, so he was soon able to extract great joy from chanting aloud. He enjoyed music and the beauty of the printed words he had read.

The man at the desk in the library had seen Martin there so often that he had become quite cordial, always greeting him with a smile and a nod when he entered. One day Martin asked him:

“Well, there’s something I’d like to ask you.”

The man smiled and paid attention.

“When you meet a young lady and she asks you to come, how soon can you come?”

“Why, any time,” the man answered.

“Yes, but this is different,” Martin objected. “She – I – well, you see, it’s this way: maybe she won’t be there. She goes to the university.”

“Then come again.”

“If I could…,” he said.

“I beg pardon?”

“What is the best time to come? The afternoon? Or the evening? Or Sunday?”

“I’ll tell you,” the librarian said with a brightening face. “You call her up on the telephone [35] call her up on the telephone – позвонить ей по телефону and find out.”

“I’ll do it,” he said, picking up his books and starting away.

He turned back and asked:

“When you’re speaking to a young lady – say, for instance, Miss Lizzie Smith [36] say, for instance, Miss Lizzie Smith – скажем, например, с мисс Лиззи Смит – do you say ‘Miss Lizzie’? or ‘Miss Smith’?”

“Say ‘Miss Smith,’” the librarian stated authoritatively. “Say ‘Miss Smith’ always – until you come to know her better. [37] until you come to know her better – пока не познакомитесь с ней поближе ”

So it was that Martin Eden solved the problem.

“Please, come any time; I’ll be at home all afternoon,” was Ruth’s reply over the telephone to his request as to when he could return the borrowed books.

She met him at the door herself, and her woman’s eyes noticed the certain slight but indefinable change in him for the better. [38] change in him for the better – перемена в нём к лучшему Also, she was struck by his face. She felt the desire to lean toward him for warmth.