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- Джек Лондон
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- Мартин Иден
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And
yet
,
somehow
,
he
had
a
feeling
that
Brissenden
had
been
right
,
after
all
.
"
The
Shame
of
the
Sun
"
had
been
the
cause
of
his
success
more
than
the
stuff
he
had
written
.
That
stuff
had
been
merely
incidental
.
It
had
been
rejected
right
and
left
by
the
magazines
.
The
publication
of
"
The
Shame
of
the
Sun
"
had
started
a
controversy
and
precipitated
the
landslide
in
his
favor
.
Had
there
been
no
"
Shame
of
the
Sun
"
there
would
have
been
no
landslide
,
and
had
there
been
no
miracle
in
the
go
of
"
The
Shame
of
the
Sun
"
there
would
have
been
no
landslide
.
Singletree
,
Darnley
&
Co
.
attested
that
miracle
.
They
had
brought
out
a
first
edition
of
fifteen
hundred
copies
and
been
dubious
of
selling
it
.
They
were
experienced
publishers
and
no
one
had
been
more
astounded
than
they
at
the
success
which
had
followed
.
To
them
it
had
been
in
truth
a
miracle
.
They
never
got
over
it
,
and
every
letter
they
wrote
him
reflected
their
reverent
awe
of
that
first
mysterious
happening
.
They
did
not
attempt
to
explain
it
.
There
was
no
explaining
it
.
It
had
happened
.
In
the
face
of
all
experience
to
the
contrary
,
it
had
happened
.
So
it
was
,
reasoning
thus
,
that
Martin
questioned
the
validity
of
his
popularity
.
It
was
the
bourgeoisie
that
bought
his
books
and
poured
its
gold
into
his
money
-
sack
,
and
from
what
little
he
knew
of
the
bourgeoisie
it
was
not
clear
to
him
how
it
could
possibly
appreciate
or
comprehend
what
he
had
written
.
His
intrinsic
beauty
and
power
meant
nothing
to
the
hundreds
of
thousands
who
were
acclaiming
him
and
buying
his
books
.
He
was
the
fad
of
the
hour
,
the
adventurer
who
had
stormed
Parnassus
while
the
gods
nodded
.
The
hundreds
of
thousands
read
him
and
acclaimed
him
with
the
same
brute
non
-
understanding
with
which
they
had
flung
themselves
on
Brissenden
’
s
"
Ephemera
"
and
torn
it
to
pieces
—
a
wolf
-
rabble
that
fawned
on
him
instead
of
fanging
him
.
Fawn
or
fang
,
it
was
all
a
matter
of
chance
.
One
thing
he
knew
with
absolute
certitude
:
"
Ephemera
"
was
infinitely
greater
than
anything
he
had
done
.
It
was
infinitely
greater
than
anything
he
had
in
him
.
It
was
a
poem
of
centuries
.
Then
the
tribute
the
mob
paid
him
was
a
sorry
tribute
indeed
,
for
that
same
mob
had
wallowed
"
Ephemera
"
into
the
mire
.
He
sighed
heavily
and
with
satisfaction
.
He
was
glad
the
last
manuscript
was
sold
and
that
he
would
soon
be
done
with
it
all
.
Mr
.
Morse
met
Martin
in
the
office
of
the
Hotel
Metropole
.
Whether
he
had
happened
there
just
casually
,
intent
on
other
affairs
,
or
whether
he
had
come
there
for
the
direct
purpose
of
inviting
him
to
dinner
,
Martin
never
could
quite
make
up
his
mind
,
though
he
inclined
toward
the
second
hypothesis
.
At
any
rate
,
invited
to
dinner
he
was
by
Mr
.
Morse
—
Ruth
’
s
father
,
who
had
forbidden
him
the
house
and
broken
off
the
engagement
.
Martin
was
not
angry
.
He
was
not
even
on
his
dignity
.
He
tolerated
Mr
.
Morse
,
wondering
the
while
how
it
felt
to
eat
such
humble
pie
.
He
did
not
decline
the
invitation
.
Instead
,
he
put
it
off
with
vagueness
and
indefiniteness
and
inquired
after
the
family
,
particularly
after
Mrs
.
Morse
and
Ruth
.
He
spoke
her
name
without
hesitancy
,
naturally
,
though
secretly
surprised
that
he
had
had
no
inward
quiver
,
no
old
,
familiar
increase
of
pulse
and
warm
surge
of
blood
.
He
had
many
invitations
to
dinner
,
some
of
which
he
accepted
.
Persons
got
themselves
introduced
to
him
in
order
to
invite
him
to
dinner
.
And
he
went
on
puzzling
over
the
little
thing
that
was
becoming
a
great
thing
.
Bernard
Higginbotham
invited
him
to
dinner
.
He
puzzled
the
harder
.
He
remembered
the
days
of
his
desperate
starvation
when
no
one
invited
him
to
dinner
.
That
was
the
time
he
needed
dinners
,
and
went
weak
and
faint
for
lack
of
them
and
lost
weight
from
sheer
famine
.
That
was
the
paradox
of
it
.
When
he
wanted
dinners
,
no
one
gave
them
to
him
,
and
now
that
he
could
buy
a
hundred
thousand
dinners
and
was
losing
his
appetite
,
dinners
were
thrust
upon
him
right
and
left
.
But
why
?
There
was
no
justice
in
it
,
no
merit
on
his
part
.
He
was
no
different
.
All
the
work
he
had
done
was
even
at
that
time
work
performed
.
Mr
.
and
Mrs
.
Morse
had
condemned
him
for
an
idler
and
a
shirk
and
through
Ruth
had
urged
that
he
take
a
clerk
’
s
position
in
an
office
.
Furthermore
,
they
had
been
aware
of
his
work
performed
.
Manuscript
after
manuscript
of
his
had
been
turned
over
to
them
by
Ruth
.
They
had
read
them
.
It
was
the
very
same
work
that
had
put
his
name
in
all
the
papers
,
and
,
it
was
his
name
being
in
all
the
papers
that
led
them
to
invite
him
.
One
thing
was
certain
:
the
Morses
had
not
cared
to
have
him
for
himself
or
for
his
work
.
Therefore
they
could
not
want
him
now
for
himself
or
for
his
work
,
but
for
the
fame
that
was
his
,
because
he
was
somebody
amongst
men
,
and
—
why
not
?
—
because
he
had
a
hundred
thousand
dollars
or
so
.
That
was
the
way
bourgeois
society
valued
a
man
,
and
who
was
he
to
expect
it
otherwise
?
But
he
was
proud
.
He
disdained
such
valuation
.
He
desired
to
be
valued
for
himself
,
or
for
his
work
,
which
,
after
all
,
was
an
expression
of
himself
.
That
was
the
way
Lizzie
valued
him
.
The
work
,
with
her
,
did
not
even
count
.
She
valued
him
,
himself
.
That
was
the
way
Jimmy
,
the
plumber
,
and
all
the
old
gang
valued
him
.
That
had
been
proved
often
enough
in
the
days
when
he
ran
with
them
;
it
had
been
proved
that
Sunday
at
Shell
Mound
Park
.
His
work
could
go
hang
.
What
they
liked
,
and
were
willing
to
scrap
for
,
was
just
Mart
Eden
,
one
of
the
bunch
and
a
pretty
good
guy
.
Then
there
was
Ruth
.
She
had
liked
him
for
himself
,
that
was
indisputable
.
And
yet
,
much
as
she
had
liked
him
she
had
liked
the
bourgeois
standard
of
valuation
more
.
She
had
opposed
his
writing
,
and
principally
,
it
seemed
to
him
,
because
it
did
not
earn
money
.
That
had
been
her
criticism
of
his
"
Love
-
cycle
.
"
She
,
too
,
had
urged
him
to
get
a
job
.
It
was
true
,
she
refined
it
to
"
position
,
"
but
it
meant
the
same
thing
,
and
in
his
own
mind
the
old
nomenclature
stuck
.
He
had
read
her
all
that
he
wrote
—
poems
,
stories
,
essays
—
"
Wiki
-
Wiki
,
"
"
The
Shame
of
the
Sun
,
"
everything
.
And
she
had
always
and
consistently
urged
him
to
get
a
job
,
to
go
to
work
—
good
God
!
—
as
if
he
hadn
’
t
been
working
,
robbing
sleep
,
exhausting
life
,
in
order
to
be
worthy
of
her
.
So
the
little
thing
grew
bigger
.
He
was
healthy
and
normal
,
ate
regularly
,
slept
long
hours
,
and
yet
the
growing
little
thing
was
becoming
an
obsession
.
Work
performed
.
The
phrase
haunted
his
brain
.
He
sat
opposite
Bernard
Higginbotham
at
a
heavy
Sunday
dinner
over
Higginbotham
’
s
Cash
Store
,
and
it
was
all
he
could
do
to
restrain
himself
from
shouting
out
:
-
"
It
was
work
performed
!
And
now
you
feed
me
,
when
then
you
let
me
starve
,
forbade
me
your
house
,
and
damned
me
because
I
wouldn
’
t
get
a
job
.
And
the
work
was
already
done
,
all
done
.
And
now
,
when
I
speak
,
you
check
the
thought
unuttered
on
your
lips
and
hang
on
my
lips
and
pay
respectful
attention
to
whatever
I
choose
to
say
.
