Мартин Иден

Chapter 40

           Herememberedthatsomeonehadsaidthataghostwasthespiritofamanwhowasdeadandwhodidnothavesenseenoughtoknowit; andhepausedforthemomenttowonderifhewerereallydeadandunawareofit. 

           Camethedaywhen"Overdue"wasfinished. Theagentofthetype-writerfirmhadcomeforthemachine,andhesatonthebedwhileMartin,ontheonechair,typedthelastpagesofthefinalchapter. "Finis,"hewrote,incapitals,attheend,andtohimitwasindeedfinis. Hewatchedthetype-writercarriedoutthedoorwithafeelingofrelief,thenwentoverandlaydownonthebed. Hewasfaintfromhunger. Foodhadnotpassedhislipsinthirty-sixhours,buthedidnotthinkaboutit. Helayonhisback,withclosedeyes,anddidnotthinkatall,whilethedazeorstuporslowlywelledup,saturatinghisconsciousness. Halfindelirium,hebeganmutteringaloudthelinesofananonymouspoemBrissendenhadbeenfondofquotingtohim. Maria,listeninganxiouslyoutsidehisdoor,wasperturbedbyhismonotonousutterance. Thewordsinthemselveswerenotsignificanttoher,butthefactthathewassayingthemwas. "Ihavedone,"wastheburdenofthepoem. 

           "‘Ihavedone 

           Putbythelute. 

           Songandsingingsoonareover 

           Astheairyshadesthathover 

           Inamongthepurpleclover. 

           Ihavedone 

           Putbythelute. 

           OnceIsangasearlythrushes 

           Singamongthedewybushes; 

           NowI’mmute. 

           Iamlikeawearylinnet, 

           Formythroathasnosonginit; 

           Ihavehadmysingingminute. 

           Ihavedone. 

           Putbythelute.’" 

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