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- Джек Лондон
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- Мартин Иден
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The
erasure
of
summer
was
at
hand
.
Yet
summer
lingered
,
fading
and
fainting
among
her
hills
,
deepening
the
purple
of
her
valleys
,
spinning
a
shroud
of
haze
from
waning
powers
and
sated
raptures
,
dying
with
the
calm
content
of
having
lived
and
lived
well
.
And
among
the
hills
,
on
their
favorite
knoll
,
Martin
and
Ruth
sat
side
by
side
,
their
heads
bent
over
the
same
pages
,
he
reading
aloud
from
the
love
-
sonnets
of
the
woman
who
had
loved
Browning
as
it
is
given
to
few
men
to
be
loved
.
But
the
reading
languished
.
The
spell
of
passing
beauty
all
about
them
was
too
strong
.
The
golden
year
was
dying
as
it
had
lived
,
a
beautiful
and
unrepentant
voluptuary
,
and
reminiscent
rapture
and
content
freighted
heavily
the
air
.
It
entered
into
them
,
dreamy
and
languorous
,
weakening
the
fibres
of
resolution
,
suffusing
the
face
of
morality
,
or
of
judgment
,
with
haze
and
purple
mist
.
Martin
felt
tender
and
melting
,
and
from
time
to
time
warm
glows
passed
over
him
.
His
head
was
very
near
to
hers
,
and
when
wandering
phantoms
of
breeze
stirred
her
hair
so
that
it
touched
his
face
,
the
printed
pages
swam
before
his
eyes
.
"
I
don
’
t
believe
you
know
a
word
of
what
you
are
reading
,
"
she
said
once
when
he
had
lost
his
place
.
He
looked
at
her
with
burning
eyes
,
and
was
on
the
verge
of
becoming
awkward
,
when
a
retort
came
to
his
lips
.
"
I
don
’
t
believe
you
know
either
.
What
was
the
last
sonnet
about
?
"
"
I
don
’
t
know
,
"
she
laughed
frankly
.
"
I
’
ve
already
forgotten
.
Don
’
t
let
us
read
any
more
.
The
day
is
too
beautiful
.
"
"
It
will
be
our
last
in
the
hills
for
some
time
,
"
he
announced
gravely
.
"
There
’
s
a
storm
gathering
out
there
on
the
sea
-
rim
.
"
The
book
slipped
from
his
hands
to
the
ground
,
and
they
sat
idly
and
silently
,
gazing
out
over
the
dreamy
bay
with
eyes
that
dreamed
and
did
not
see
.
Ruth
glanced
sidewise
at
his
neck
.
She
did
not
lean
toward
him
.
She
was
drawn
by
some
force
outside
of
herself
and
stronger
than
gravitation
,
strong
as
destiny
.
It
was
only
an
inch
to
lean
,
and
it
was
accomplished
without
volition
on
her
part
.
Her
shoulder
touched
his
as
lightly
as
a
butterfly
touches
a
flower
,
and
just
as
lightly
was
the
counter
-
pressure
.
She
felt
his
shoulder
press
hers
,
and
a
tremor
run
through
him
.
Then
was
the
time
for
her
to
draw
back
.
But
she
had
become
an
automaton
.
Her
actions
had
passed
beyond
the
control
of
her
will
—
she
never
thought
of
control
or
will
in
the
delicious
madness
that
was
upon
her
.
His
arm
began
to
steal
behind
her
and
around
her
.
She
waited
its
slow
progress
in
a
torment
of
delight
.
She
waited
,
she
knew
not
for
what
,
panting
,
with
dry
,
burning
lips
,
a
leaping
pulse
,
and
a
fever
of
expectancy
in
all
her
blood
.
The
girdling
arm
lifted
higher
and
drew
her
toward
him
,
drew
her
slowly
and
caressingly
.
She
could
wait
no
longer
.
With
a
tired
sigh
,
and
with
an
impulsive
movement
all
her
own
,
unpremeditated
,
spasmodic
,
she
rested
her
head
upon
his
breast
.
His
head
bent
over
swiftly
,
and
,
as
his
lips
approached
,
hers
flew
to
meet
them
.
