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- Джек Лондон
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- Мартин Иден
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He
was
a
good
fighter
,
whole
-
souled
and
stubborn
,
and
he
would
have
been
content
to
continue
feeding
the
machine
for
years
;
but
he
was
bleeding
to
death
,
and
not
years
but
weeks
would
determine
the
fight
.
Each
week
his
board
bill
brought
him
nearer
destruction
,
while
the
postage
on
forty
manuscripts
bled
him
almost
as
severely
.
He
no
longer
bought
books
,
and
he
economized
in
petty
ways
and
sought
to
delay
the
inevitable
end
;
though
he
did
not
know
how
to
economize
,
and
brought
the
end
nearer
by
a
week
when
he
gave
his
sister
Marian
five
dollars
for
a
dress
.
He
struggled
in
the
dark
,
without
advice
,
without
encouragement
,
and
in
the
teeth
of
discouragement
.
Even
Gertrude
was
beginning
to
look
askance
.
At
first
she
had
tolerated
with
sisterly
fondness
what
she
conceived
to
be
his
foolishness
;
but
now
,
out
of
sisterly
solicitude
,
she
grew
anxious
.
To
her
it
seemed
that
his
foolishness
was
becoming
a
madness
.
Martin
knew
this
and
suffered
more
keenly
from
it
than
from
the
open
and
nagging
contempt
of
Bernard
Higginbotham
.
Martin
had
faith
in
himself
,
but
he
was
alone
in
this
faith
.
Not
even
Ruth
had
faith
.
She
had
wanted
him
to
devote
himself
to
study
,
and
,
though
she
had
not
openly
disapproved
of
his
writing
,
she
had
never
approved
.
He
had
never
offered
to
show
her
his
work
.
A
fastidious
delicacy
had
prevented
him
.
Besides
,
she
had
been
studying
heavily
at
the
university
,
and
he
felt
averse
to
robbing
her
of
her
time
.
But
when
she
had
taken
her
degree
,
she
asked
him
herself
to
let
her
see
something
of
what
he
had
been
doing
.
Martin
was
elated
and
diffident
.
Here
was
a
judge
.
She
was
a
bachelor
of
arts
.
She
had
studied
literature
under
skilled
instructors
.
Perhaps
the
editors
were
capable
judges
,
too
.
But
she
would
be
different
from
them
.
She
would
not
hand
him
a
stereotyped
rejection
slip
,
nor
would
she
inform
him
that
lack
of
preference
for
his
work
did
not
necessarily
imply
lack
of
merit
in
his
work
.
She
would
talk
,
a
warm
human
being
,
in
her
quick
,
bright
way
,
and
,
most
important
of
all
,
she
would
catch
glimpses
of
the
real
Martin
Eden
.
In
his
work
she
would
discern
what
his
heart
and
soul
were
like
,
and
she
would
come
to
understand
something
,
a
little
something
,
of
the
stuff
of
his
dreams
and
the
strength
of
his
power
.
Martin
gathered
together
a
number
of
carbon
copies
of
his
short
stories
,
hesitated
a
moment
,
then
added
his
"
Sea
Lyrics
.
"
They
mounted
their
wheels
on
a
late
June
afternoon
and
rode
for
the
hills
.
It
was
the
second
time
he
had
been
out
with
her
alone
,
and
as
they
rode
along
through
the
balmy
warmth
,
just
chilled
by
she
sea
-
breeze
to
refreshing
coolness
,
he
was
profoundly
impressed
by
the
fact
that
it
was
a
very
beautiful
and
well
-
ordered
world
and
that
it
was
good
to
be
alive
and
to
love
.
They
left
their
wheels
by
the
roadside
and
climbed
to
the
brown
top
of
an
open
knoll
where
the
sunburnt
grass
breathed
a
harvest
breath
of
dry
sweetness
and
content
.
"
Its
work
is
done
,
"
Martin
said
,
as
they
seated
themselves
,
she
upon
his
coat
,
and
he
sprawling
close
to
the
warm
earth
.
He
sniffed
the
sweetness
of
the
tawny
grass
,
which
entered
his
brain
and
set
his
thoughts
whirling
on
from
the
particular
to
the
universal
.
"
It
has
achieved
its
reason
for
existence
,
"
he
went
on
,
patting
the
dry
grass
affectionately
.
"
It
quickened
with
ambition
under
the
dreary
downpour
of
last
winter
,
fought
the
violent
early
spring
,
flowered
,
and
lured
the
insects
and
the
bees
,
scattered
its
seeds
,
squared
itself
with
its
duty
and
the
world
,
and
—
"
"
Why
do
you
always
look
at
things
with
such
dreadfully
practical
eyes
?
"
she
interrupted
.
"
Because
I
’
ve
been
studying
evolution
,
I
guess
.
It
’
s
only
recently
that
I
got
my
eyesight
,
if
the
truth
were
told
.
"
