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- Джек Лондон
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- Мартин Иден
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"
Yes
,
that
’
s
the
chap
,
"
he
stammered
,
his
cheeks
hot
again
.
"
How
long
since
he
died
?
"
"
Why
,
I
haven
’
t
heard
that
he
was
dead
.
"
She
looked
at
him
curiously
.
"
Where
did
you
make
his
acquaintance
?
"
"
I
never
clapped
eyes
on
him
,
"
was
the
reply
.
"
But
I
read
some
of
his
poetry
out
of
that
book
there
on
the
table
just
before
you
come
in
.
How
do
you
like
his
poetry
?
"
And
thereat
she
began
to
talk
quickly
and
easily
upon
the
subject
he
had
suggested
.
He
felt
better
,
and
settled
back
slightly
from
the
edge
of
the
chair
,
holding
tightly
to
its
arms
with
his
hands
,
as
if
it
might
get
away
from
him
and
buck
him
to
the
floor
.
He
had
succeeded
in
making
her
talk
her
talk
,
and
while
she
rattled
on
,
he
strove
to
follow
her
,
marvelling
at
all
the
knowledge
that
was
stowed
away
in
that
pretty
head
of
hers
,
and
drinking
in
the
pale
beauty
of
her
face
.
Follow
her
he
did
,
though
bothered
by
unfamiliar
words
that
fell
glibly
from
her
lips
and
by
critical
phrases
and
thought
-
processes
that
were
foreign
to
his
mind
,
but
that
nevertheless
stimulated
his
mind
and
set
it
tingling
.
Here
was
intellectual
life
,
he
thought
,
and
here
was
beauty
,
warm
and
wonderful
as
he
had
never
dreamed
it
could
be
.
He
forgot
himself
and
stared
at
her
with
hungry
eyes
.
Here
was
something
to
live
for
,
to
win
to
,
to
fight
for
—
ay
,
and
die
for
.
The
books
were
true
.
There
were
such
women
in
the
world
.
She
was
one
of
them
.
She
lent
wings
to
his
imagination
,
and
great
,
luminous
canvases
spread
themselves
before
him
whereon
loomed
vague
,
gigantic
figures
of
love
and
romance
,
and
of
heroic
deeds
for
woman
’
s
sake
—
for
a
pale
woman
,
a
flower
of
gold
.
And
through
the
swaying
,
palpitant
vision
,
as
through
a
fairy
mirage
,
he
stared
at
the
real
woman
,
sitting
there
and
talking
of
literature
and
art
.
He
listened
as
well
,
but
he
stared
,
unconscious
of
the
fixity
of
his
gaze
or
of
the
fact
that
all
that
was
essentially
masculine
in
his
nature
was
shining
in
his
eyes
.
But
she
,
who
knew
little
of
the
world
of
men
,
being
a
woman
,
was
keenly
aware
of
his
burning
eyes
.
She
had
never
had
men
look
at
her
in
such
fashion
,
and
it
embarrassed
her
.
She
stumbled
and
halted
in
her
utterance
.
The
thread
of
argument
slipped
from
her
.
He
frightened
her
,
and
at
the
same
time
it
was
strangely
pleasant
to
be
so
looked
upon
.
Her
training
warned
her
of
peril
and
of
wrong
,
subtle
,
mysterious
,
luring
;
while
her
instincts
rang
clarion
-
voiced
through
her
being
,
impelling
her
to
hurdle
caste
and
place
and
gain
to
this
traveller
from
another
world
,
to
this
uncouth
young
fellow
with
lacerated
hands
and
a
line
of
raw
red
caused
by
the
unaccustomed
linen
at
his
throat
,
who
,
all
too
evidently
,
was
soiled
and
tainted
by
ungracious
existence
.
She
was
clean
,
and
her
cleanness
revolted
;
but
she
was
woman
,
and
she
was
just
beginning
to
learn
the
paradox
of
woman
"
As
I
was
saying
—
what
was
I
saying
?
"
She
broke
off
abruptly
and
laughed
merrily
at
her
predicament
.
"
You
was
saying
that
this
man
Swinburne
failed
bein
’
a
great
poet
because
—
an
’
that
was
as
far
as
you
got
,
miss
,
"
he
prompted
,
while
to
himself
he
seemed
suddenly
hungry
,
and
delicious
little
thrills
crawled
up
and
down
his
spine
at
the
sound
of
her
laughter
.
Like
silver
,
he
thought
to
himself
,
like
tinkling
silver
bells
;
and
on
the
instant
,
and
for
an
instant
,
he
was
transported
to
a
far
land
,
where
under
pink
cherry
blossoms
,
he
smoked
a
cigarette
and
listened
to
the
bells
of
the
peaked
pagoda
calling
straw
-
sandalled
devotees
to
worship
.
"
Yes
,
thank
you
,
"
she
said
.
"
Swinburne
fails
,
when
all
is
said
,
because
he
is
,
well
,
indelicate
.
There
are
many
of
his
poems
that
should
never
be
read
.
Every
line
of
the
really
great
poets
is
filled
with
beautiful
truth
,
and
calls
to
all
that
is
high
and
noble
in
the
human
.
Not
a
line
of
the
great
poets
can
be
spared
without
impoverishing
the
world
by
that
much
.
"
"
I
thought
it
was
great
,
"
he
said
hesitatingly
,
"
the
little
I
read
.
I
had
no
idea
he
was
such
a
—
a
scoundrel
.
I
guess
that
crops
out
in
his
other
books
.
"
