Мартин Иден / Martin Eden (+ аудиоприложение LECTA)

He took a volume of Swinburne and began to read. Twice he closed the book on his forefinger to look at the name of the author. Swinburne! he must remember that name. But who was Swinburne? Was he dead a hundred years or so, like most of the poets? Or was he alive still, and writing? He turned to the title-page . . . yes, he had written other books; well, he will go to the library in the morning and try to get some Swinburne’s books. He went back to the text and lost himself. He did not notice that a young woman had entered the room.

Suddenly he heard Arthur’s voice saying:

“Ruth, this is Mr. Eden.”

He closed the book. “Mr. Eden!” Everybody called him just “Eden,” or “Martin Eden,” or just “Martin,” all his life. And “Mister!” It was something!

And then he turned and saw the girl. She was a pale, ethereal creature, with wide, spiritual blue eyes and a wealth of golden hair. He did not know how she was dressed, except that the dress was as wonderful as she. She was like a pale gold flower upon a slender stem.

No, she was a spirit, a divinity, a goddess. She looked him straight in the eyes as she shook hands, frankly, like a man. The women he had known did not shake hands that way. Never had he seen such a woman.

“Will you sit down, Mr. Eden?” the girl was saying. “Arthur told us. It was brave of you – ”

He waved his hand and muttered that he had done nothing at all. He sat down on the edge of the chair, greatly worried by his hands.

“You have such a scar on your neck, Mr. Eden,” the girl was saying.

“How did it happen?”

“A Mexican with a knife, miss,” he answered. “It was just a fight.”

“Oh,” the girl said, in a faint, far voice, and he noticed the shock in her sensitive face.

He felt a shock himself. There was a brief pause in the conversation.

“This man Swineburne,” he began.

“Who?”

“Swineburne,” he repeated, with the same mispronunciation. “The poet.”

“Swinburne,” she corrected.

“Yes, that’s the chap,” he stammered, his cheeks hot again. “How long since he died?”

“Why, I haven’t heard that he was dead.

” She looked at him curiously. “Where did you meet him?”

“I never saw him,” was the reply. “But I read some of his poetry out of that book there on the table just before you come in. How do you like his poetry?”

And she began to talk quickly and easily upon the subject that he had suggested. Here was intellectual life, he thought, and here was beauty. He forgot himself and stared at her with hungry eyes.