Любимые рассказы на английском / Best Short Stories

All the time the Northman was speaking the commanding officer had been aware of an inward voice, a grave murmur in the depth of his very own self, telling another tale, as if on purpose to keep alive in him his indignation and his anger with that baseness of greed or of mere outlook which lies often at the root of simple ideas.

�It was the story that had been already told to the boarding officer an hour or so before. The commanding officer nodded slightly at the Northman from time to time.

The latter came to an end and turned his eyes away. He added, as an afterthought:

�“Wasn’t it enough to drive a man out of his mind with worry? And it’s my first voyage to this part, too. And the ship’s my own. Your officer has seen the papers. She isn’t much, as you can see for yourself. Just an old cargo-boat. Bare living for my family.”

�He raised a big arm to point at a row of photographs plastering the bulkhead. The movement was ponderous, as if the arm had been made of lead.

The commanding officer said, carelessly:

�“You will be making a fortune yet for your family with this old ship.”

�“Yes, if I don’t lose her,” said the Northman, gloomily.

�“I mean – out of this war,” added the commanding officer.

�The Northman stared at him in a curiously unseeing and at the same time interested manner, as only eyes of a particular blue shade can stare.

�“And you wouldn’t be angry at it,” he said, “would you? You are too much of a gentleman.

We didn’t bring this on you. And suppose we sat down and cried. What good would that be? Let those cry who made the trouble,” he concluded, with energy. “Time’s money, you say. Well – this time is money. Oh! isn’t it!”

�The commanding officer tried to keep under the feeling of immense disgust. He said to himself that it was unreasonable. Men were like that – moral cannibals feeding on each other’s misfortunes.

He said aloud:

�“You have made it perfectly plain how it is that you are here. Your log-book confirms you very minutely. Of course, a log-book may be cooked. Nothing easier.”

�The Northman never moved a muscle. He was gazing at the floor; he seemed not to have heard. He raised his head after a while.

�“But you can’t suspect me of anything,” he muttered, negligently.