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- Джек Лондон
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- Мартин Иден
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- Стр. 199/241
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"
Friends
!
Gossip
!
Newspaper
misreports
!
Surely
such
things
are
not
stronger
than
love
!
I
can
only
believe
that
you
never
loved
me
.
"
A
blush
drove
the
pallor
from
her
face
.
"
After
what
has
passed
?
"
she
said
faintly
.
"
Martin
,
you
do
not
know
what
you
are
saying
.
I
am
not
common
.
"
"
You
see
,
she
doesn
’
t
want
to
have
anything
to
do
with
you
,
"
Norman
blurted
out
,
starting
on
with
her
.
Martin
stood
aside
and
let
them
pass
,
fumbling
unconsciously
in
his
coat
pocket
for
the
tobacco
and
brown
papers
that
were
not
there
.
It
was
a
long
walk
to
North
Oakland
,
but
it
was
not
until
he
went
up
the
steps
and
entered
his
room
that
he
knew
he
had
walked
it
.
He
found
himself
sitting
on
the
edge
of
the
bed
and
staring
about
him
like
an
awakened
somnambulist
.
He
noticed
"
Overdue
"
lying
on
the
table
and
drew
up
his
chair
and
reached
for
his
pen
.
There
was
in
his
nature
a
logical
compulsion
toward
completeness
.
Here
was
something
undone
.
It
had
been
deferred
against
the
completion
of
something
else
.
Now
that
something
else
had
been
finished
,
and
he
would
apply
himself
to
this
task
until
it
was
finished
.
What
he
would
do
next
he
did
not
know
.
All
that
he
did
know
was
that
a
climacteric
in
his
life
had
been
attained
.
A
period
had
been
reached
,
and
he
was
rounding
it
off
in
workman
-
like
fashion
.
He
was
not
curious
about
the
future
.
He
would
soon
enough
find
out
what
it
held
in
store
for
him
.
Whatever
it
was
,
it
did
not
matter
.
Nothing
seemed
to
matter
.
For
five
days
he
toiled
on
at
"
Overdue
,
"
going
nowhere
,
seeing
nobody
,
and
eating
meagrely
.
On
the
morning
of
the
sixth
day
the
postman
brought
him
a
thin
letter
from
the
editor
of
The
Parthenon
.
A
glance
told
him
that
"
Ephemera
"
was
accepted
.
"
We
have
submitted
the
poem
to
Mr
.
Cartwright
Bruce
,
"
the
editor
went
on
to
say
,
"
and
he
has
reported
so
favorably
upon
it
that
we
cannot
let
it
go
.
As
an
earnest
of
our
pleasure
in
publishing
the
poem
,
let
me
tell
you
that
we
have
set
it
for
the
August
number
,
our
July
number
being
already
made
up
.
Kindly
extend
our
pleasure
and
our
thanks
to
Mr
.
Brissenden
.
Please
send
by
return
mail
his
photograph
and
biographical
data
.
If
our
honorarium
is
unsatisfactory
,
kindly
telegraph
us
at
once
and
state
what
you
consider
a
fair
price
.
"
Since
the
honorarium
they
had
offered
was
three
hundred
and
fifty
dollars
,
Martin
thought
it
not
worth
while
to
telegraph
.
Then
,
too
,
there
was
Brissenden
’
s
consent
to
be
gained
.
Well
,
he
had
been
right
,
after
all
.
Here
was
one
magazine
editor
who
knew
real
poetry
when
he
saw
it
.
And
the
price
was
splendid
,
even
though
it
was
for
the
poem
of
a
century
.
As
for
Cartwright
Bruce
,
Martin
knew
that
he
was
the
one
critic
for
whose
opinions
Brissenden
had
any
respect
.
Martin
rode
down
town
on
an
electric
car
,
and
as
he
watched
the
houses
and
cross
-
streets
slipping
by
he
was
aware
of
a
regret
that
he
was
not
more
elated
over
his
friend
’
s
success
and
over
his
own
signal
victory
.
The
one
critic
in
the
United
States
had
pronounced
favorably
on
the
poem
,
while
his
own
contention
that
good
stuff
could
find
its
way
into
the
magazines
had
proved
correct
.
But
enthusiasm
had
lost
its
spring
in
him
,
and
he
found
that
he
was
more
anxious
to
see
Brissenden
than
he
was
to
carry
the
good
news
.
The
acceptance
of
The
Parthenon
had
recalled
to
him
that
during
his
five
days
’
devotion
to
"
Overdue
"
he
had
not
heard
from
Brissenden
nor
even
thought
about
him
.
For
the
first
time
Martin
realized
the
daze
he
had
been
in
,
and
he
felt
shame
for
having
forgotten
his
friend
.
But
even
the
shame
did
not
burn
very
sharply
.
He
was
numb
to
emotions
of
any
sort
save
the
artistic
ones
concerned
in
the
writing
of
"
Overdue
.
"
So
far
as
other
affairs
were
concerned
,
he
had
been
in
a
trance
.
For
that
matter
,
he
was
still
in
a
trance
.
All
this
life
through
which
the
electric
car
whirred
seemed
remote
and
unreal
,
and
he
would
have
experienced
little
interest
and
less
shock
if
the
great
stone
steeple
of
the
church
he
passed
had
suddenly
crumbled
to
mortar
-
dust
upon
his
head
.
