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- Джек Лондон
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- Мартин Иден
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Maria
could
stand
it
no
longer
,
and
hurried
away
to
the
stove
,
where
she
filled
a
quart
-
bowl
with
soup
,
putting
into
it
the
lion
’
s
share
of
chopped
meat
and
vegetables
which
her
ladle
scraped
from
the
bottom
of
the
pot
.
Martin
roused
himself
and
sat
up
and
began
to
eat
,
between
spoonfuls
reassuring
Maria
that
he
had
not
been
talking
in
his
sleep
and
that
he
did
not
have
any
fever
.
After
she
left
him
he
sat
drearily
,
with
drooping
shoulders
,
on
the
edge
of
the
bed
,
gazing
about
him
with
lack
-
lustre
eyes
that
saw
nothing
until
the
torn
wrapper
of
a
magazine
,
which
had
come
in
the
morning
’
s
mail
and
which
lay
unopened
,
shot
a
gleam
of
light
into
his
darkened
brain
.
It
is
The
Parthenon
,
he
thought
,
the
August
Parthenon
,
and
it
must
contain
"
Ephemera
.
"
If
only
Brissenden
were
here
to
see
!
He
was
turning
the
pages
of
the
magazine
,
when
suddenly
he
stopped
.
"
Ephemera
"
had
been
featured
,
with
gorgeous
head
-
piece
and
Beardsley
-
like
margin
decorations
.
On
one
side
of
the
head
-
piece
was
Brissenden
’
s
photograph
,
on
the
other
side
was
the
photograph
of
Sir
John
Value
,
the
British
Ambassador
.
A
preliminary
editorial
note
quoted
Sir
John
Value
as
saying
that
there
were
no
poets
in
America
,
and
the
publication
of
"
Ephemera
"
was
The
Parthenon
’
s
.
"
There
,
take
that
,
Sir
John
Value
!
"
Cartwright
Bruce
was
described
as
the
greatest
critic
in
America
,
and
he
was
quoted
as
saying
that
"
Ephemera
"
was
the
greatest
poem
ever
written
in
America
.
And
finally
,
the
editor
’
s
foreword
ended
with
:
"
We
have
not
yet
made
up
our
minds
entirely
as
to
the
merits
of
"
Ephemera
"
;
perhaps
we
shall
never
be
able
to
do
so
.
But
we
have
read
it
often
,
wondering
at
the
words
and
their
arrangement
,
wondering
where
Mr
.
Brissenden
got
them
,
and
how
he
could
fasten
them
together
.
"
Then
followed
the
poem
.
"
Pretty
good
thing
you
died
,
Briss
,
old
man
,
"
Martin
murmured
,
letting
the
magazine
slip
between
his
knees
to
the
floor
.
The
cheapness
and
vulgarity
of
it
was
nauseating
,
and
Martin
noted
apathetically
that
he
was
not
nauseated
very
much
.
He
wished
he
could
get
angry
,
but
did
not
have
energy
enough
to
try
.
He
was
too
numb
.
His
blood
was
too
congealed
to
accelerate
to
the
swift
tidal
flow
of
indignation
.
After
all
,
what
did
it
matter
?
It
was
on
a
par
with
all
the
rest
that
Brissenden
had
condemned
in
bourgeois
society
.
"
Poor
Briss
,
"
Martin
communed
;
"
he
would
never
have
forgiven
me
.
"
Rousing
himself
with
an
effort
,
he
possessed
himself
of
a
box
which
had
once
contained
type
-
writer
paper
.
Going
through
its
contents
,
he
drew
forth
eleven
poems
which
his
friend
had
written
.
These
he
tore
lengthwise
and
crosswise
and
dropped
into
the
waste
basket
.
He
did
it
languidly
,
and
,
when
he
had
finished
,
sat
on
the
edge
of
the
bed
staring
blankly
before
him
.
How
long
he
sat
there
he
did
not
know
,
until
,
suddenly
,
across
his
sightless
vision
he
saw
form
a
long
horizontal
line
of
white
.
It
was
curious
.
But
as
he
watched
it
grow
in
definiteness
he
saw
that
it
was
a
coral
reef
smoking
in
the
white
Pacific
surges
.
Next
,
in
the
line
of
breakers
he
made
out
a
small
canoe
,
an
outrigger
canoe
.
In
the
stern
he
saw
a
young
bronzed
god
in
scarlet
hip
-
cloth
dipping
a
flashing
paddle
.
He
recognized
him
.
He
was
Moti
,
the
youngest
son
of
Tati
,
the
chief
,
and
this
was
Tahiti
,
and
beyond
that
smoking
reef
lay
the
sweet
land
of
Papara
and
the
chief
’
s
grass
house
by
the
river
’
s
mouth
.
It
was
the
end
of
the
day
,
and
Moti
was
coming
home
from
the
fishing
.
He
was
waiting
for
the
rush
of
a
big
breaker
whereon
to
jump
the
reef
.
Then
he
saw
himself
,
sitting
forward
in
the
canoe
as
he
had
often
sat
in
the
past
,
dipping
a
paddle
that
waited
Moti
’
s
word
to
dig
in
like
mad
when
the
turquoise
wall
of
the
great
breaker
rose
behind
them
.
Next
,
he
was
no
longer
an
onlooker
but
was
himself
in
the
canoe
,
Moti
was
crying
out
,
they
were
both
thrusting
hard
with
their
paddles
,
racing
on
the
steep
face
of
the
flying
turquoise
.
Under
the
bow
the
water
was
hissing
as
from
a
steam
jet
,
the
air
was
filled
with
driven
spray
,
there
was
a
rush
and
rumble
and
long
-
echoing
roar
,
and
the
canoe
floated
on
the
placid
water
of
the
lagoon
.
Moti
laughed
and
shook
the
salt
water
from
his
eyes
,
and
together
they
paddled
in
to
the
pounded
-
coral
beach
where
Tati
’
s
grass
walls
through
the
cocoanut
-
palms
showed
golden
in
the
setting
sun
.
