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- Джек Лондон
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- Мартин Иден
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- Стр. 83/241
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"
I
simply
can
’
t
help
it
,
"
he
explained
.
"
I
got
to
drink
when
Saturday
night
comes
around
.
"
Another
week
passed
,
a
great
battle
that
continued
under
the
electric
lights
each
night
and
that
culminated
on
Saturday
afternoon
at
three
o
’
clock
,
when
Joe
tasted
his
moment
of
wilted
triumph
and
then
drifted
down
to
the
village
to
forget
.
Martin
’
s
Sunday
was
the
same
as
before
.
He
slept
in
the
shade
of
the
trees
,
toiled
aimlessly
through
the
newspaper
,
and
spent
long
hours
lying
on
his
back
,
doing
nothing
,
thinking
nothing
.
He
was
too
dazed
to
think
,
though
he
was
aware
that
he
did
not
like
himself
.
He
was
self
-
repelled
,
as
though
he
had
undergone
some
degradation
or
was
intrinsically
foul
.
All
that
was
god
-
like
in
him
was
blotted
out
.
The
spur
of
ambition
was
blunted
;
he
had
no
vitality
with
which
to
feel
the
prod
of
it
.
He
was
dead
.
His
soul
seemed
dead
.
He
was
a
beast
,
a
work
-
beast
.
He
saw
no
beauty
in
the
sunshine
sifting
down
through
the
green
leaves
,
nor
did
the
azure
vault
of
the
sky
whisper
as
of
old
and
hint
of
cosmic
vastness
and
secrets
trembling
to
disclosure
.
Life
was
intolerably
dull
and
stupid
,
and
its
taste
was
bad
in
his
mouth
.
A
black
screen
was
drawn
across
his
mirror
of
inner
vision
,
and
fancy
lay
in
a
darkened
sick
-
room
where
entered
no
ray
of
light
.
He
envied
Joe
,
down
in
the
village
,
rampant
,
tearing
the
slats
off
the
bar
,
his
brain
gnawing
with
maggots
,
exulting
in
maudlin
ways
over
maudlin
things
,
fantastically
and
gloriously
drunk
and
forgetful
of
Monday
morning
and
the
week
of
deadening
toil
to
come
.
A
third
week
went
by
,
and
Martin
loathed
himself
,
and
loathed
life
.
He
was
oppressed
by
a
sense
of
failure
.
There
was
reason
for
the
editors
refusing
his
stuff
.
He
could
see
that
clearly
now
,
and
laugh
at
himself
and
the
dreams
he
had
dreamed
.
Ruth
returned
his
"
Sea
Lyrics
"
by
mail
.
He
read
her
letter
apathetically
.
She
did
her
best
to
say
how
much
she
liked
them
and
that
they
were
beautiful
.
But
she
could
not
lie
,
and
she
could
not
disguise
the
truth
from
herself
.
She
knew
they
were
failures
,
and
he
read
her
disapproval
in
every
perfunctory
and
unenthusiastic
line
of
her
letter
.
And
she
was
right
.
He
was
firmly
convinced
of
it
as
he
read
the
poems
over
.
Beauty
and
wonder
had
departed
from
him
,
and
as
he
read
the
poems
he
caught
himself
puzzling
as
to
what
he
had
had
in
mind
when
he
wrote
them
.
His
audacities
of
phrase
struck
him
as
grotesque
,
his
felicities
of
expression
were
monstrosities
,
and
everything
was
absurd
,
unreal
,
and
impossible
.
He
would
have
burned
the
"
Sea
Lyrics
"
on
the
spot
,
had
his
will
been
strong
enough
to
set
them
aflame
.
There
was
the
engine
-
room
,
but
the
exertion
of
carrying
them
to
the
furnace
was
not
worth
while
.
All
his
exertion
was
used
in
washing
other
persons
’
clothes
.
He
did
not
have
any
left
for
private
affairs
.
He
resolved
that
when
Sunday
came
he
would
pull
himself
together
and
answer
Ruth
’
s
letter
.
But
Saturday
afternoon
,
after
work
was
finished
and
he
had
taken
a
bath
,
the
desire
to
forget
overpowered
him
.
"
I
guess
I
’
ll
go
down
and
see
how
Joe
’
s
getting
on
,
"
was
the
way
he
put
it
to
himself
;
and
in
the
same
moment
he
knew
that
he
lied
.
But
he
did
not
have
the
energy
to
consider
the
lie
.
If
he
had
had
the
energy
,
he
would
have
refused
to
consider
the
lie
,
because
he
wanted
to
forget
.
He
started
for
the
village
slowly
and
casually
,
increasing
his
pace
in
spite
of
himself
as
he
neared
the
saloon
.
"
I
thought
you
was
on
the
water
-
wagon
,
"
was
Joe
’
s
greeting
.
Martin
did
not
deign
to
offer
excuses
,
but
called
for
whiskey
,
filling
his
own
glass
brimming
before
he
passed
the
bottle
.
"
Don
’
t
take
all
night
about
it
,
"
he
said
roughly
.
The
other
was
dawdling
with
the
bottle
,
and
Martin
refused
to
wait
for
him
,
tossing
the
glass
off
in
a
gulp
and
refilling
it
.
"
Now
,
I
can
wait
for
you
,
"
he
said
grimly
;
"
but
hurry
up
.
"
