Мартин Иден / Martin Eden (+ аудиоприложение LECTA)

“That’s pretty clear,” he said. “I never thought of it before. I never thought of it before, and I’ll never say it again.”

She was pleased and surprised with the quickness and surety of his mind.

“You’ll find it all in the grammar,” she went on. “There’s something else I noticed in your speech.”

Martin flushed again.

“You say ‘ben’ for ‘been,’” she continued; “‘come’ for ‘came’; and the way you chop your endings is something dreadful.”

“How do you mean?” He leaned forward. “How do I chop?”

“You don’t complete the endings. ‘A-n-d’ spells ‘and.’ You pronounce it ‘an’. ‘I-n-g’ spells ‘ing.’ Sometimes you pronounce it ‘ing’ and sometimes you leave off the ‘g.’ ‘T-h-e-m’ spells ‘them.’ You pronounce it – oh, well, what you need is the grammar. I’ll get one and show you how to begin.”

She arose, and he stood up awkwardly, worrying as to whether he was doing the right thing.

When she returned with the grammar, she sat down beside him. She turned the pages of the grammar, and their heads were inclined toward each other. He could scarcely breathe, and his heart was pounding the blood up into his throat and suffocating him.

Chapter 8

Several weeks went by, during which Martin Eden studied his grammar, and reviewed the books on etiquette. He forgot about his friends. The girls of the Lotus Club wondered what had become of him and worried everybody with questions. Martin made another discovery in the library. He found books that helped him to learn metre and construction and form.

During those several weeks he saw Ruth six times, and each time was an inspiration. She helped him with his English, corrected his pronunciation, and started him on arithmetic. But their intercourse was not all devoted to elementary study. They were talking about the last poetry he had read, the latest poet she had studied. And when she read aloud to him her favorite passages, he delighted a lot. Never, in all the women, had he heard a voice like hers. The least sound of it was a stimulus to his love, and he thrilled and throbbed with every word she uttered.

The situation was obscured to Ruth. She had never had any experiences of the heart. Her knowledge of love was purely theoretical, her idea of love was not clear. She did not dream of the volcanic convulsions of love. She knew neither her own powers, nor the powers of the world; and the deeps of life were to her seas of illusion.

Strength! Strength was what she needed, and he gave it to her in generous measure. To come into the same room with him, or to meet him at the door, was to take heart of life. And when he had gone, she returned to her books with fresh store of energy.

Her interest in Martin increased, and she wanted to rebuild his life.

“There is Mr. Butler,” she said one afternoon, when grammar and arithmetic and poetry had been put aside.

“He had comparatively no advantages at first. His father was a bank cashier, but he died in Arizona, so that when he was dead, Mr. Butler found himself alone in the world. His father had come from Australia, you know, and so he had no relatives in California. He went to work in a printing-office, and he got three dollars a week, at first. His income today is at least thirty thousand a year. How did he do it? He was honest, and faithful, and industrious, and economical. He denied himself the enjoyments that most boys like. He saved some coins every week. Of course, he was soon earning more than three dollars a week, and he saved more and more.

“He worked in the daytime, and at night he went to night school. He always thought about the future. Later on he went to night high school. When he was only seventeen, he had a good salary, but he was ambitious. He wanted a career, not a livelihood. He entered father’s office as an office boy – think of that! – and got only four dollars a week. But he had learned how to be economical.”

She paused for breath, and to note how Martin was receiving it. His face was lighted up with interest in the youthful struggles of Mr. Butler; but there was a frown upon his face as well.

“Poor young fellow,” he remarked. “Four dollars a week! How could he live on it? Like a dog, I guess. The food he ate – ”

“He cooked for himself,” she interrupted, “on a little kerosene stove.”

“The food he ate was very bad, I suppose, worse than what a sailor gets.”

“But think of him now!” she cried enthusiastically. “Think of what his income affords him.”

Martin looked at her sharply.

“There’s one thing I’ll tell you,” he said, “Mr. Butler has had no joy for years, hasn’t he? I think his stomach is not very good now. I’ll bet he’s got dyspepsia right now!”

“Yes, he has,” she confessed; “but – ”

“And I bet,” Martin continued, “that he isn’t joyful when others have a good time. Am I right?”

She nodded her head in agreement, and hastened to explain:

“But he is not that type of man. By nature he is sober and serious. He always was that.”

“Three dollars a week,” Martin proclaimed. “And four dollars a week, and a young boy cooking for himself and saving money, working all day and studying all night, just working and never playing, never having a good time, and never learning how to have a good time – of course his thirty thousand came along too late.”

“Do you know,” he added, “I feel sorry for Mr. Butler. He was too young to know better, but he robbed himself of life for the sake of thirty thousand a year. Thirty thousand, a great sum, can’t buy for him right now what ten cents could when he was a kid.”

Such points of view were new to Ruth, and contrary to her own beliefs. But she was twenty-four, conservative by nature, and already crystallized into the cranny of life where she had been born and formed. It was true, his bizarre judgments troubled her, but she ascribed them to his novelty of type and strangeness of living, and they were soon forgotten. Nevertheless, Martin’s strength, and the flashing of eyes and earnestness of face thrilled her and drew her toward him.

“But I have not finished my story,” she said. “He worked, so father says, as no other office boy he ever had. Mr. Butler was always eager to work. He never was late, and he was usually at the office a few minutes before his regular time. And yet he saved his time. Every spare moment was devoted to study. He quickly became a clerk, and he made himself invaluable. Father appreciated him, and he went to law college. He became a lawyer. He is a great man.”

“Yes, he is a great man,” Martin said sincerely.

But it seemed to him that thirty thousand a year was all right, but dyspepsia and inability to be humanly happy robbed the value of this great income.

Chapter 9

Martin Eden’s store of money exhausted, and he went to sea. He worked as a sailor for eight months. He earned enough money to stay on land for many weeks, and he did a great deal of studying and reading.

He mastered the grammar and noticed the bad grammar used by his shipmates. He took the dictionary and started to add twenty words a day to his vocabulary. He found that this was not an easy task. He repeated new words in order to accustom his tongue to the language spoken by Ruth.

The captain possessed of a complete Shakespeare, which he never read, and Martin had washed his clothes for him and received the permission to read the precious volumes.

He was touched by the exquisite beauty of the world, and wished that Ruth were there to share it with him. He decided that he would describe to her the South Sea beauty. But soon he understood that he would describe the beauty of the ocean for a wider audience than Ruth. And then came the great idea. He will write! He will write – everything – poetry and prose, fiction and description, and plays like Shakespeare. It is the way to win Ruth. The men of literature were the world’s giants, greater than Mr. Butlers.

To write! This thought was fire in him.

So he entered his old room at Bernard Higginbotham’s and set to work. He did not tell Ruth that he was back. He did not know how long an article he would write, but he counted the words in a article in the SAN FRANCISCO EXAMINER. His writing lasted for three days. Also, he learned that first-class papers paid a minimum of ten dollars a column. So one hundred dollars! and he decided that that was better than seafaring.

He mailed the manuscript in a big envelope, and addressed it to the editor of the SAN FRANCISCO EXAMINER. He had an idea that everything sent to a newspaper was published immediately. Then he decided to write an adventure story for boys and sell it to THE YOUTH’S COMPANION.

He wanted to write about the things he knew. It was easy work, he decided on Saturday evening. He had completed on that day the first instalment of three thousand words.

After breakfast he went on with his story. He often read or re-read a chapter. This was his programme for a week. Each day he did three thousand words, and each evening he studies stories, articles, and poems that editors saw fit to publish. One thing was certain: What these writers did he could do, and only give him time and he would do what they could not do. He was glad to read in BOOK NEWS that Rudyard Kipling received a dollar per word, and that the minimum rate paid by first-class magazines was two cents a word. THE YOUTH’S COMPANION was certainly first class, and at that rate the three thousand words he had written that day would bring him sixty dollars – two months’ wages on the sea!

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