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- Джек Лондон
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- Мартин Иден
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- Стр. 63/241
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He
read
to
her
a
story
,
one
that
he
flattered
himself
was
among
his
very
best
.
He
called
it
"
The
Wine
of
Life
,
"
and
the
wine
of
it
,
that
had
stolen
into
his
brain
when
he
wrote
it
,
stole
into
his
brain
now
as
he
read
it
.
There
was
a
certain
magic
in
the
original
conception
,
and
he
had
adorned
it
with
more
magic
of
phrase
and
touch
.
All
the
old
fire
and
passion
with
which
he
had
written
it
were
reborn
in
him
,
and
he
was
swayed
and
swept
away
so
that
he
was
blind
and
deaf
to
the
faults
of
it
.
But
it
was
not
so
with
Ruth
.
Her
trained
ear
detected
the
weaknesses
and
exaggerations
,
the
overemphasis
of
the
tyro
,
and
she
was
instantly
aware
each
time
the
sentence
-
rhythm
tripped
and
faltered
.
She
scarcely
noted
the
rhythm
otherwise
,
except
when
it
became
too
pompous
,
at
which
moments
she
was
disagreeably
impressed
with
its
amateurishness
.
That
was
her
final
judgment
on
the
story
as
a
whole
—
amateurish
,
though
she
did
not
tell
him
so
.
Instead
,
when
he
had
done
,
she
pointed
out
the
minor
flaws
and
said
that
she
liked
the
story
.
But
he
was
disappointed
.
Her
criticism
was
just
.
He
acknowledged
that
,
but
he
had
a
feeling
that
he
was
not
sharing
his
work
with
her
for
the
purpose
of
schoolroom
correction
.
The
details
did
not
matter
.
They
could
take
care
of
themselves
.
He
could
mend
them
,
he
could
learn
to
mend
them
.
Out
of
life
he
had
captured
something
big
and
attempted
to
imprison
it
in
the
story
.
It
was
the
big
thing
out
of
life
he
had
read
to
her
,
not
sentence
-
structure
and
semicolons
.
He
wanted
her
to
feel
with
him
this
big
thing
that
was
his
,
that
he
had
seen
with
his
own
eyes
,
grappled
with
his
own
brain
,
and
placed
there
on
the
page
with
his
own
hands
in
printed
words
.
Well
,
he
had
failed
,
was
his
secret
decision
.
Perhaps
the
editors
were
right
.
He
had
felt
the
big
thing
,
but
he
had
failed
to
transmute
it
.
He
concealed
his
disappointment
,
and
joined
so
easily
with
her
in
her
criticism
that
she
did
not
realize
that
deep
down
in
him
was
running
a
strong
undercurrent
of
disagreement
.
"
This
next
thing
I
’
ve
called
‘
The
Pot
’
,
"
he
said
,
unfolding
the
manuscript
.
"
It
has
been
refused
by
four
or
five
magazines
now
,
but
still
I
think
it
is
good
.
In
fact
,
I
don
’
t
know
what
to
think
of
it
,
except
that
I
’
ve
caught
something
there
.
Maybe
it
won
’
t
affect
you
as
it
does
me
.
It
’
s
a
short
thing
—
only
two
thousand
words
.
"
"
How
dreadful
!
"
she
cried
,
when
he
had
finished
.
"
It
is
horrible
,
unutterably
horrible
!
"
He
noted
her
pale
face
,
her
eyes
wide
and
tense
,
and
her
clenched
hands
,
with
secret
satisfaction
.
He
had
succeeded
.
He
had
communicated
the
stuff
of
fancy
and
feeling
from
out
of
his
brain
.
It
had
struck
home
.
No
matter
whether
she
liked
it
or
not
,
it
had
gripped
her
and
mastered
her
,
made
her
sit
there
and
listen
and
forget
details
.
"
It
is
life
,
"
he
said
,
"
and
life
is
not
always
beautiful
.
And
yet
,
perhaps
because
I
am
strangely
made
,
I
find
something
beautiful
there
.
It
seems
to
me
that
the
beauty
is
tenfold
enhanced
because
it
is
there
—
"
"
But
why
couldn
’
t
the
poor
woman
—
"
she
broke
in
disconnectedly
.
Then
she
left
the
revolt
of
her
thought
unexpressed
to
cry
out
:
"
Oh
!
It
is
degrading
!
It
is
not
nice
!
It
is
nasty
!
"
For
the
moment
it
seemed
to
him
that
his
heart
stood
still
.
Nasty
!
He
had
never
dreamed
it
.
He
had
not
meant
it
.
The
whole
sketch
stood
before
him
in
letters
of
fire
,
and
in
such
blaze
of
illumination
he
sought
vainly
for
nastiness
.
Then
his
heart
began
to
beat
again
.
He
was
not
guilty
.
"
Why
didn
’
t
you
select
a
nice
subject
?
"
she
was
saying
.
"
We
know
there
are
nasty
things
in
the
world
,
but
that
is
no
reason
—
"
