Мартин Иден

Chapter 1

           "Swineburne,"herepeated,withthesamemispronunciation."Thepoet." 

           "Swinburne,"shecorrected. 

           "Yes,that’sthechap,"hestammered,hischeekshotagain."Howlongsincehedied?" 

           "Why,Ihaven’theardthathewasdead."Shelookedathimcuriously. "Wheredidyoumakehisacquaintance?" 

           "Ineverclappedeyesonhim,"wasthereply. "ButIreadsomeofhispoetryoutofthatbookthereonthetablejustbeforeyoucomein. Howdoyoulikehispoetry?" 

           Andthereatshebegantotalkquicklyandeasilyuponthesubjecthehadsuggested. Hefeltbetter,andsettledbackslightlyfromtheedgeofthechair,holdingtightlytoitsarmswithhishands, asifitmightgetawayfromhimandbuckhimtothefloor. Hehadsucceededinmakinghertalkhertalk, andwhilesherattledon,hestrovetofollowher,marvellingatalltheknowledge thatwasstowedawayinthatprettyheadofhers, anddrinkinginthepalebeautyofherface. Followherhedid,thoughbotheredbyunfamiliarwordsthatfellgliblyfromherlips andbycriticalphrasesandthought-processesthatwereforeigntohismind,butthatneverthelessstimulatedhismindandsetittingling. Herewasintellectuallife,hethought,andherewasbeauty,warmandwonderfulashehadneverdreameditcouldbe. Heforgothimselfandstaredatherwithhungryeyes. Herewassomethingtolivefor,towinto,tofightforay,anddiefor. Thebooksweretrue. Thereweresuchwomenintheworld. Shewasoneofthem. 

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