-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Джек Лондон
-
- Межзвёздный скиталец
-
- Стр. 134/210
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
It
is
not
strange
that
I
did
not
die
.
I
knew
and
was
upheld
by
two
things
:
the
first
,
the
Lady
Om
by
my
side
;
the
second
,
the
certain
faith
that
the
time
would
come
when
my
thumbs
and
fingers
would
fast-lock
in
the
gullet
of
Chong
Mong-ju
.
Turned
always
away
at
the
city
gates
of
Keijo
,
where
I
sought
Chong
Mong-ju
,
we
wandered
on
,
through
seasons
and
decades
of
seasons
,
across
Cho-Sen
,
whose
every
inch
of
road
was
an
old
story
to
our
sandals
.
Our
history
and
identity
were
wide-scattered
as
the
land
was
wide
.
No
person
breathed
who
did
not
know
us
and
our
punishment
.
There
were
coolies
and
peddlers
who
shouted
insults
at
the
Lady
Om
and
who
felt
the
wrath
of
my
clutch
in
their
topknots
,
the
wrath
of
my
knuckles
in
their
faces
.
There
were
old
women
in
far
mountain
villages
who
looked
on
the
beggar
woman
by
my
side
,
the
lost
Lady
Om
,
and
sighed
and
shook
their
heads
while
their
eyes
dimmed
with
tears
.
And
there
were
young
women
whose
faces
warmed
with
compassion
as
they
gazed
on
the
bulk
of
my
shoulders
,
the
blue
of
my
eyes
,
and
my
long
yellow
hair
--
I
who
had
once
been
a
prince
of
Koryu
and
the
ruler
of
provinces
.
And
there
were
rabbles
of
children
that
tagged
at
our
heels
,
jeering
and
screeching
,
pelting
us
with
filth
of
speech
and
of
the
common
road
.
Beyond
the
Yalu
,
forty
miles
wide
,
was
the
strip
of
waste
that
constituted
the
northern
frontier
and
that
ran
from
sea
to
sea
.
It
was
not
really
waste
land
,
but
land
that
had
been
deliberately
made
waste
in
carrying
out
Cho-Sen
's
policy
of
isolation
.
On
this
forty-mile
strip
all
farms
,
villages
and
cities
had
been
destroyed
.
It
was
no
man
's
land
,
infested
with
wild
animals
and
traversed
by
companies
of
mounted
Tiger
Hunters
whose
business
was
to
kill
any
human
being
they
found
.
That
way
there
was
no
escape
for
us
,
nor
was
there
any
escape
for
us
by
sea
.
As
the
years
passed
my
seven
fellow-cunies
came
more
to
frequent
Fusan
.
It
was
on
the
south-east
coast
where
the
climate
was
milder
.
But
more
than
climate
,
it
lay
nearest
of
all
Cho-Sen
to
Japan
.
Across
the
narrow
straits
,
just
farther
than
the
eye
can
see
,
was
the
one
hope
of
escape
Japan
,
where
doubtless
occasional
ships
of
Europe
came
.
Strong
upon
me
is
the
vision
of
those
seven
ageing
men
on
the
cliffs
of
Fusan
yearning
with
all
their
souls
across
the
sea
they
would
never
sail
again
.
At
times
junks
of
Japan
were
sighted
,
but
never
lifted
a
familiar
topsail
of
old
Europe
above
the
sea-rim
.
Years
came
and
went
,
and
the
seven
cunies
and
myself
and
the
Lady
Om
,
passing
through
middle
life
into
old
age
,
more
and
more
directed
our
footsteps
to
Fusan
.
And
as
the
years
came
and
went
,
now
one
,
now
another
failed
to
gather
at
the
usual
place
.
Hans
Amden
was
the
first
to
die
.
Jacob
Brinker
,
who
was
his
road-mate
,
brought
the
news
.
Jacob
Brinker
was
the
last
of
the
seven
,
and
he
was
nearly
ninety
when
he
died
,
outliving
Tromp
a
scant
two
years
.
I
well
remember
the
pair
of
them
,
toward
the
last
,
worn
and
feeble
,
in
beggars
'
rags
,
with
beggars
'
bowls
,
sunning
themselves
side
by
side
on
the
cliffs
,
telling
old
stories
and
cackling
shrill-voiced
like
children
.
And
Tromp
would
maunder
over
and
over
of
how
Johannes
Maartens
and
the
cunies
robbed
the
kings
on
Tabong
Mountain
,
each
embalmed
in
his
golden
coffin
with
an
embalmed
maid
on
either
side
;
and
of
how
these
ancient
proud
ones
crumbled
to
dust
within
the
hour
while
the
cunies
cursed
and
sweated
at
junking
the
coffins
.
As
sure
as
loot
is
loot
,
old
Johannes
Maartens
would
have
got
away
and
across
the
Yellow
Sea
with
his
booty
had
it
not
been
for
the
fog
next
day
that
lost
him
.
That
cursed
fog
!
A
song
was
made
of
it
,
that
I
heard
and
hated
through
all
Cho-Sen
to
my
dying
day
.
Here
run
two
lines
of
it
:
"
Yanggukeni
chajin
anga
Wheanpong
tora
deunda
,
The
thick
fog
of
the
Westerners
Broods
over
Whean
peak
.
"
For
forty
years
I
was
a
beggar
of
Cho-Sen
.
Of
the
fourteen
of
us
that
were
cast
away
only
I
survived
.
The
Lady
Om
was
of
the
same
indomitable
stuff
,
and
we
aged
together
.
She
was
a
little
,
weazened
,
toothless
old
woman
toward
the
last
;
but
ever
she
was
the
wonder
woman
,
and
she
carried
my
heart
in
hers
to
the
end
.
For
an
old
man
,
three
score
and
ten
,
I
still
retained
great
strength
.
My
face
was
withered
,
my
yellow
hair
turned
white
,
my
broad
shoulders
shrunken
,
and
yet
much
of
the
strength
of
my
sea-cuny
days
resided
in
the
muscles
left
me
.
