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- Джек Лондон
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- Мартин Иден
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- Стр. 64/241
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She
talked
on
in
her
indignant
strain
,
but
he
was
not
following
her
.
He
was
smiling
to
himself
as
he
looked
up
into
her
virginal
face
,
so
innocent
,
so
penetratingly
innocent
,
that
its
purity
seemed
always
to
enter
into
him
,
driving
out
of
him
all
dross
and
bathing
him
in
some
ethereal
effulgence
that
was
as
cool
and
soft
and
velvety
as
starshine
.
We
know
there
are
nasty
things
in
the
world
!
He
cuddled
to
him
the
notion
of
her
knowing
,
and
chuckled
over
it
as
a
love
joke
.
The
next
moment
,
in
a
flashing
vision
of
multitudinous
detail
,
he
sighted
the
whole
sea
of
life
’
s
nastiness
that
he
had
known
and
voyaged
over
and
through
,
and
he
forgave
her
for
not
understanding
the
story
.
It
was
through
no
fault
of
hers
that
she
could
not
understand
.
He
thanked
God
that
she
had
been
born
and
sheltered
to
such
innocence
.
But
he
knew
life
,
its
foulness
as
well
as
its
fairness
,
its
greatness
in
spite
of
the
slime
that
infested
it
,
and
by
God
he
was
going
to
have
his
say
on
it
to
the
world
.
Saints
in
heaven
—
how
could
they
be
anything
but
fair
and
pure
?
No
praise
to
them
.
But
saints
in
slime
—
ah
,
that
was
the
everlasting
wonder
!
That
was
what
made
life
worth
while
.
To
see
moral
grandeur
rising
out
of
cesspools
of
iniquity
;
to
rise
himself
and
first
glimpse
beauty
,
faint
and
far
,
through
mud
-
dripping
eyes
;
to
see
out
of
weakness
,
and
frailty
,
and
viciousness
,
and
all
abysmal
brutishness
,
arising
strength
,
and
truth
,
and
high
spiritual
endowment
—
He
caught
a
stray
sequence
of
sentences
she
was
uttering
.
"
The
tone
of
it
all
is
low
.
And
there
is
so
much
that
is
high
.
Take
‘
In
Memoriam
.
’
"
He
was
impelled
to
suggest
"
Locksley
Hall
,
"
and
would
have
done
so
,
had
not
his
vision
gripped
him
again
and
left
him
staring
at
her
,
the
female
of
his
kind
,
who
,
out
of
the
primordial
ferment
,
creeping
and
crawling
up
the
vast
ladder
of
life
for
a
thousand
thousand
centuries
,
had
emerged
on
the
topmost
rung
,
having
become
one
Ruth
,
pure
,
and
fair
,
and
divine
,
and
with
power
to
make
him
know
love
,
and
to
aspire
toward
purity
,
and
to
desire
to
taste
divinity
—
him
,
Martin
Eden
,
who
,
too
,
had
come
up
in
some
amazing
fashion
from
out
of
the
ruck
and
the
mire
and
the
countless
mistakes
and
abortions
of
unending
creation
.
There
was
the
romance
,
and
the
wonder
,
and
the
glory
.
There
was
the
stuff
to
write
,
if
he
could
only
find
speech
.
Saints
in
heaven
!
—
They
were
only
saints
and
could
not
help
themselves
.
But
he
was
a
man
.
"
You
have
strength
,
"
he
could
hear
her
saying
,
"
but
it
is
untutored
strength
.
"
"
Like
a
bull
in
a
china
shop
,
"
he
suggested
,
and
won
a
smile
.
"
And
you
must
develop
discrimination
.
You
must
consult
taste
,
and
fineness
,
and
tone
.
"
"
I
dare
too
much
,
"
he
muttered
.
She
smiled
approbation
,
and
settled
herself
to
listen
to
another
story
.
