-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Джек Лондон
-
- Мартин Иден
-
- Стр. 116/241
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
"
That
I
am
not
trained
in
opera
?
"
he
dashed
in
.
She
nodded
.
"
The
very
thing
,
"
he
agreed
.
"
And
I
consider
I
am
fortunate
in
not
having
been
caught
when
I
was
young
.
If
I
had
,
I
could
have
wept
sentimental
tears
to
-
night
,
and
the
clownish
antics
of
that
precious
pair
would
have
but
enhanced
the
beauty
of
their
voices
and
the
beauty
of
the
accompanying
orchestra
.
You
are
right
.
It
’
s
mostly
a
matter
of
training
.
And
I
am
too
old
,
now
.
I
must
have
the
real
or
nothing
.
An
illusion
that
won
’
t
convince
is
a
palpable
lie
,
and
that
’
s
what
grand
opera
is
to
me
when
little
Barillo
throws
a
fit
,
clutches
mighty
Tetralani
in
his
arms
(
also
in
a
fit
)
,
and
tells
her
how
passionately
he
adores
her
.
"
Again
Ruth
measured
his
thoughts
by
comparison
of
externals
and
in
accordance
with
her
belief
in
the
established
.
Who
was
he
that
he
should
be
right
and
all
the
cultured
world
wrong
?
His
words
and
thoughts
made
no
impression
upon
her
.
She
was
too
firmly
intrenched
in
the
established
to
have
any
sympathy
with
revolutionary
ideas
.
She
had
always
been
used
to
music
,
and
she
had
enjoyed
opera
ever
since
she
was
a
child
,
and
all
her
world
had
enjoyed
it
,
too
.
Then
by
what
right
did
Martin
Eden
emerge
,
as
he
had
so
recently
emerged
,
from
his
rag
-
time
and
working
-
class
songs
,
and
pass
judgment
on
the
world
’
s
music
?
She
was
vexed
with
him
,
and
as
she
walked
beside
him
she
had
a
vague
feeling
of
outrage
.
At
the
best
,
in
her
most
charitable
frame
of
mind
,
she
considered
the
statement
of
his
views
to
be
a
caprice
,
an
erratic
and
uncalled
-
for
prank
.
But
when
he
took
her
in
his
arms
at
the
door
and
kissed
her
good
night
in
tender
lover
-
fashion
,
she
forgot
everything
in
the
outrush
of
her
own
love
to
him
.
And
later
,
on
a
sleepless
pillow
,
she
puzzled
,
as
she
had
often
puzzled
of
late
,
as
to
how
it
was
that
she
loved
so
strange
a
man
,
and
loved
him
despite
the
disapproval
of
her
people
.
And
next
day
Martin
Eden
cast
hack
-
work
aside
,
and
at
white
heat
hammered
out
an
essay
to
which
he
gave
the
title
,
"
The
Philosophy
of
Illusion
.
"
A
stamp
started
it
on
its
travels
,
but
it
was
destined
to
receive
many
stamps
and
to
be
started
on
many
travels
in
the
months
that
followed
.
Maria
Silva
was
poor
,
and
all
the
ways
of
poverty
were
clear
to
her
.
Poverty
,
to
Ruth
,
was
a
word
signifying
a
not
-
nice
condition
of
existence
.
That
was
her
total
knowledge
on
the
subject
.
She
knew
Martin
was
poor
,
and
his
condition
she
associated
in
her
mind
with
the
boyhood
of
Abraham
Lincoln
,
of
Mr
.
Butler
,
and
of
other
men
who
had
become
successes
.
Also
,
while
aware
that
poverty
was
anything
but
delectable
,
she
had
a
comfortable
middle
-
class
feeling
that
poverty
was
salutary
,
that
it
was
a
sharp
spur
that
urged
on
to
success
all
men
who
were
not
degraded
and
hopeless
drudges
.
So
that
her
knowledge
that
Martin
was
so
poor
that
he
had
pawned
his
watch
and
overcoat
did
not
disturb
her
.
She
even
considered
it
the
hopeful
side
of
the
situation
,
believing
that
sooner
or
later
it
would
arouse
him
and
compel
him
to
abandon
his
writing
.
Ruth
never
read
hunger
in
Martin
’
s
face
,
which
had
grown
lean
and
had
enlarged
the
slight
hollows
in
the
cheeks
.
In
fact
,
she
marked
the
change
in
his
face
with
satisfaction
.
It
seemed
to
refine
him
,
to
remove
from
him
much
of
the
dross
of
flesh
and
the
too
animal
-
like
vigor
that
lured
her
while
she
detested
it
.
Sometimes
,
when
with
her
,
she
noted
an
unusual
brightness
in
his
eyes
,
and
she
admired
it
,
for
it
made
him
appear
more
the
poet
and
the
scholar
—
the
things
he
would
have
liked
to
be
and
which
she
would
have
liked
him
to
be
.
But
Maria
Silva
read
a
different
tale
in
the
hollow
cheeks
and
the
burning
eyes
,
and
she
noted
the
changes
in
them
from
day
to
day
,
by
them
following
the
ebb
and
flow
of
his
fortunes
.
She
saw
him
leave
the
house
with
his
overcoat
and
return
without
it
,
though
the
day
was
chill
and
raw
,
and
promptly
she
saw
his
cheeks
fill
out
slightly
and
the
fire
of
hunger
leave
his
eyes
.
In
the
same
way
she
had
seen
his
wheel
and
watch
go
,
and
after
each
event
she
had
seen
his
vigor
bloom
again
.
Likewise
she
watched
his
toils
,
and
knew
the
measure
of
the
midnight
oil
he
burned
.
Work
!
She
knew
that
he
outdid
her
,
though
his
work
was
of
a
different
order
.
And
she
was
surprised
to
behold
that
the
less
food
he
had
,
the
harder
he
worked
.
On
occasion
,
in
a
casual
sort
of
way
,
when
she
thought
hunger
pinched
hardest
,
she
would
send
him
in
a
loaf
of
new
baking
,
awkwardly
covering
the
act
with
banter
to
the
effect
that
it
was
better
than
he
could
bake
.
And
again
,
she
would
send
one
of
her
toddlers
in
to
him
with
a
great
pitcher
of
hot
soup
,
debating
inwardly
the
while
whether
she
was
justified
in
taking
it
from
the
mouths
of
her
own
flesh
and
blood
.
Nor
was
Martin
ungrateful
,
knowing
as
he
did
the
lives
of
the
poor
,
and
that
if
ever
in
the
world
there
was
charity
,
this
was
it
.
