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- Джек Лондон
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- Мартин Иден
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- Стр. 239/241
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Once
,
he
tried
to
arouse
himself
from
his
lethargy
,
and
went
forward
into
the
forecastle
with
the
sailors
.
But
the
breed
of
sailors
seemed
to
have
changed
since
the
days
he
had
lived
in
the
forecastle
.
He
could
find
no
kinship
with
these
stolid
-
faced
,
ox
-
minded
bestial
creatures
.
He
was
in
despair
.
Up
above
nobody
had
wanted
Martin
Eden
for
his
own
sake
,
and
he
could
not
go
back
to
those
of
his
own
class
who
had
wanted
him
in
the
past
.
He
did
not
want
them
.
He
could
not
stand
them
any
more
than
he
could
stand
the
stupid
first
-
cabin
passengers
and
the
riotous
young
people
.
Life
was
to
him
like
strong
,
white
light
that
hurts
the
tired
eyes
of
a
sick
person
.
During
every
conscious
moment
life
blazed
in
a
raw
glare
around
him
and
upon
him
.
It
hurt
.
It
hurt
intolerably
.
It
was
the
first
time
in
his
life
that
Martin
had
travelled
first
class
.
On
ships
at
sea
he
had
always
been
in
the
forecastle
,
the
steerage
,
or
in
the
black
depths
of
the
coal
-
hold
,
passing
coal
.
In
those
days
,
climbing
up
the
iron
ladders
out
the
pit
of
stifling
heat
,
he
had
often
caught
glimpses
of
the
passengers
,
in
cool
white
,
doing
nothing
but
enjoy
themselves
,
under
awnings
spread
to
keep
the
sun
and
wind
away
from
them
,
with
subservient
stewards
taking
care
of
their
every
want
and
whim
,
and
it
had
seemed
to
him
that
the
realm
in
which
they
moved
and
had
their
being
was
nothing
else
than
paradise
.
Well
,
here
he
was
,
the
great
man
on
board
,
in
the
midmost
centre
of
it
,
sitting
at
the
captain
’
s
right
hand
,
and
yet
vainly
harking
back
to
forecastle
and
stoke
-
hole
in
quest
of
the
Paradise
he
had
lost
.
He
had
found
no
new
one
,
and
now
he
could
not
find
the
old
one
.
He
strove
to
stir
himself
and
find
something
to
interest
him
.
He
ventured
the
petty
officers
’
mess
,
and
was
glad
to
get
away
.
He
talked
with
a
quartermaster
off
duty
,
an
intelligent
man
who
promptly
prodded
him
with
the
socialist
propaganda
and
forced
into
his
hands
a
bunch
of
leaflets
and
pamphlets
.
He
listened
to
the
man
expounding
the
slave
-
morality
,
and
as
he
listened
,
he
thought
languidly
of
his
own
Nietzsche
philosophy
.
But
what
was
it
worth
,
after
all
?
He
remembered
one
of
Nietzsche
’
s
mad
utterances
wherein
that
madman
had
doubted
truth
.
And
who
was
to
say
?
Perhaps
Nietzsche
had
been
right
.
Perhaps
there
was
no
truth
in
anything
,
no
truth
in
truth
—
no
such
thing
as
truth
.
But
his
mind
wearied
quickly
,
and
he
was
content
to
go
back
to
his
chair
and
doze
.
Miserable
as
he
was
on
the
steamer
,
a
new
misery
came
upon
him
.
What
when
the
steamer
reached
Tahiti
?
He
would
have
to
go
ashore
.
He
would
have
to
order
his
trade
-
goods
,
to
find
a
passage
on
a
schooner
to
the
Marquesas
,
to
do
a
thousand
and
one
things
that
were
awful
to
contemplate
.
Whenever
he
steeled
himself
deliberately
to
think
,
he
could
see
the
desperate
peril
in
which
he
stood
.
In
all
truth
,
he
was
in
the
Valley
of
the
Shadow
,
and
his
danger
lay
in
that
he
was
not
afraid
.
If
he
were
only
afraid
,
he
would
make
toward
life
.
Being
unafraid
,
he
was
drifting
deeper
into
the
shadow
.
He
found
no
delight
in
the
old
familiar
things
of
life
.
The
Mariposa
was
now
in
the
northeast
trades
,
and
this
wine
of
wind
,
surging
against
him
,
irritated
him
.
He
had
his
chair
moved
to
escape
the
embrace
of
this
lusty
comrade
of
old
days
and
nights
.
The
day
the
Mariposa
entered
the
doldrums
,
Martin
was
more
miserable
than
ever
.
He
could
no
longer
sleep
.
He
was
soaked
with
sleep
,
and
perforce
he
must
now
stay
awake
and
endure
the
white
glare
of
life
.
He
moved
about
restlessly
.
The
air
was
sticky
and
humid
,
and
the
rain
-
squalls
were
unrefreshing
.
He
ached
with
life
.
He
walked
around
the
deck
until
that
hurt
too
much
,
then
sat
in
his
chair
until
he
was
compelled
to
walk
again
.
He
forced
himself
at
last
to
finish
the
magazine
,
and
from
the
steamer
library
he
culled
several
volumes
of
poetry
.
But
they
could
not
hold
him
,
and
once
more
he
took
to
walking
.
He
stayed
late
on
deck
,
after
dinner
,
but
that
did
not
help
him
,
for
when
he
went
below
,
he
could
not
sleep
.
This
surcease
from
life
had
failed
him
.
It
was
too
much
.
He
turned
on
the
electric
light
and
tried
to
read
.
One
of
the
volumes
was
a
Swinburne
.
He
lay
in
bed
,
glancing
through
its
pages
,
until
suddenly
he
became
aware
that
he
was
reading
with
interest
.
He
finished
the
stanza
,
attempted
to
read
on
,
then
came
back
to
it
.
He
rested
the
book
face
downward
on
his
breast
and
fell
to
thinking
.
That
was
it
.
The
very
thing
.
Strange
that
it
had
never
come
to
him
before
.
That
was
the
meaning
of
it
all
;
he
had
been
drifting
that
way
all
the
time
,
and
now
Swinburne
showed
him
that
it
was
the
happy
way
out
.
He
wanted
rest
,
and
here
was
rest
awaiting
him
.
He
glanced
at
the
open
port
-
hole
.
Yes
,
it
was
large
enough
.
For
the
first
time
in
weeks
he
felt
happy
.
At
last
he
had
discovered
the
cure
of
his
ill
.
He
picked
up
the
book
and
read
the
stanza
slowly
aloud
:
-
"
‘
From
too
much
love
of
living
,
