Мартин Иден / Martin Eden

”

“Now look here, old woman, for the thousandth time I’ve told you to keep your nose out of the business. I won’t tell you again.”

“I don’t care,” she said. “Tom was a good boy.” Her husband glared at her.

“Your brother – ” he began.

“He pays his board,” was the retort. “And he’s my brother, what do you want?”

“I will charge him for gas: he is reading in bed,” her husband answered.

Mrs. Higginbotham made no reply. Her husband was triumphant.

Chapter 4

Martin Eden entered his room, a tiny hole with space for a bed, a wash-stand,[25 - a wash-stand – умывальник] and one chair. Mr. Higginbotham was too greedy to keep a servant when his wife could do the work. Martin placed the Swinburne and Browning on the chair, took off his coat, and sat down on the bed. He murmured, “Ruth.”

“Ruth.” He had not thought a simple sound could be so beautiful. This name delighted his ear.[26 - This name delighted his ear. – Это имя ласкало его слух.] “Ruth.” It was a talisman, a magic word to conjure with. Each time he murmured it, her face shimmered before him. The very thought of her[27 - the very thought of her – сама мысль о ней] ennobled and purified him, made him better. This was new to him. He had never known women who had made him better.

He got up abruptly and tried to see himself in the dirty looking-glass[28 - looking-glass – зеркало] over the wash-stand. It was the first time he had ever really seen himself. He saw the head and face of a young fellow of twenty. The brown sunburn of his face surprised him. He had not dreamed he was so black. His arms were sunburnt, too.

He sat back on the bed with a bitter laugh, and took off his shoes. He took the Browning[29 - Browning – Браунинг] and the Swinburne from the chair and kissed them. She told me to come again, he thought. He looked at himself in the glass, and said aloud:

“Martin Eden, tomorrow you go to the library and read up on etiquette.”

Chapter 5

He awoke next morning in a steamy atmosphere. As he came out of his room he heard the slosh of water, a sharp exclamation. The squall of the child went through him like a knife. How different, he thought, from the atmosphere of beauty and repose of the house wherein Ruth dwelt. There it was all spiritual. Here it was all material.

“Come here, Alfred,[30 - Alfred – Алфред]” he called to the crying child.