Мартин Иден

Chapter 18

           ButitwasonlyatraremomentsthatMartinwasabletothink. Thehouseofthoughtwasclosed,itswindowsboardedup,andhewasitsshadowycaretaker. Hewasashadow. Joewasright. Theywerebothshadows,andthiswastheunendinglimbooftoil. Orwasitadream? Sometimes,inthesteaming,sizzlingheat,asheswungtheheavyironsbackandforthoverthewhitegarments,itcametohimthatitwasadream. Inashortwhile,ormaybeafterathousandyearsorso,hewouldawake,inhislittleroomwiththeink-stainedtable,andtakeuphiswritingwherehehadleftoffthedaybefore. Ormaybethatwasadream,too,andtheawakeningwouldbethechangingofthewatches,whenhewoulddropdownoutofhisbunkinthelurchingforecastleandgoupondeck,underthetropicstars,andtakethewheelandfeelthecooltradewindblowingthroughhisflesh. 

           CameSaturdayanditshollowvictoryatthreeo’clock. 

           "GuessI’llgodownan’getaglassofbeer,"Joesaid,inthequeer,monotonoustonesthatmarkedhisweek-endcollapse. 

           Martinseemedsuddenlytowakeup. Heopenedthekitbagandoiledhiswheel,puttinggraphiteonthechainandadjustingthebearings. JoewashalfwaydowntothesaloonwhenMartinpassedby,bendinglowoverthehandle-bars,hislegsdrivingtheninety-sixgearwithrhythmicstrength,hisfacesetforseventymilesofroadandgradeanddust. HesleptinOaklandthatnight,andonSundaycoveredtheseventymilesback. AndonMondaymorning,weary,hebeganthenewweek’swork,buthehadkeptsober. 

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