Мартин Иден / Martin Eden (+ аудиоприложение LECTA)
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“I am older than you,” she remarked suddenly, “three years older.”
“Hush, you are only a child, and I am forty years older than you, in experience,” was his answer.
Chapter 20
Mrs. Morse read the advertisement in Ruth’s face when she returned home.
“What has happened?” Mrs. Morse asked.
“You know?” Ruth queried, with trembling lips.
“In the name of goodness, child, what happened?” Mrs. Morse was bewildered.
Ruth looked at her mother in surprise.
“I thought you knew. Why, we’re engaged, Martin and I.”
Mrs. Morse laughed.
“No, he didn’t speak,” Ruth explained. “He just loved me, that was all. I was as surprised as you are. He didn’t say a word. He just put his arm around me. And – and I was not myself. And he kissed me, and I kissed him. And then I knew I loved him.”
She paused, but Mrs. Morse was coldly silent.
“It is a dreadful accident, I know. And I don’t know how you will ever forgive me. I did not dream that I loved him until that moment. And you must tell father.”
“Let me see Martin Eden, and talk with him, and explain. He will understand and release you.”
“No! no!” Ruth cried. “I do not want to be released. I love him, and love is very sweet. I am going to marry him – of course, if you will let me.”
“We have other plans for you, Ruth, dear, your father and I – oh, no, no. You must marry a good and honorable gentleman, whom you will select yourself, when you love him.”
“But I love Martin already,” was the protest.
“We would not influence your choice in any way; but you are our daughter. He has nothing but roughness and coarseness to offer you. He could not support you. We have no foolish ideas about wealth, but our daughter should not marry a penniless adventurer, a sailor, a cowboy, a smuggler, and who is irresponsible.”
Ruth was silent. Every word she recognized as true.
“He wastes his time over his writing. As I have said, and I know you agree with me, he is irresponsible. He is a sailor. It is not his fault, of course, but that does not alter his nature.”
“I have thought. And it is terrible. I told you it was a dreadful accident, but I can’t help myself. There is something in me, in him. I never thought to love him, but, you see, I do,” she concluded.
They talked long, and in conclusion they agreed to wait.
Martin told Ruth about his plans. “I put stamps on all my manuscripts. Tomorrow I start to work.”
“To work!” Ruth cried, pressing his hand, and smiling. “And you never told me! What is your work?”
“I am going to write again.” Her face fell, and he went on hastily. “Don’t misjudge me. I shall earn money. I shall leave masterpieces alone and I shall write jokes, humorous verse, and society verse. Income first, masterpieces afterward. Just to show you, I wrote half a dozen jokes last night for the comic magazines. That will give me time to try bigger things.”
“But what good are these bigger-things, these masterpieces?” Ruth demanded. “You can’t sell them.”
“Oh, yes, I can,” he began; but she interrupted.
“You have not sold any of them. We can’t get married on masterpieces that won’t sell.”
“Then we’ll get married on triolets that will sell. Listen to this, it’s not art, but it’s a dollar. Just listen:
He came inWhen I was out,To borrow some tinWas why he came in,And he went without;So I was inAnd he was out.”Ruth was looking at him angrily.
“It may be a dollar,” she said, “but it is a jester’s dollar, the fee of a clown, Martin.”
“Give me time, dear,” he pleaded. “Give me two years. I shall succeed in that time, and the editors will be glad to buy my good work. I know what I am saying; I have faith in myself. I know what I have in me; I know what literature is, now. A ‘best-seller’ will earn anywhere between fifty and a hundred thousand dollars – sometimes more and sometimes less.”
Ruth remained silent; her disappointment was apparent.
“Well?” he asked.
“I had hoped and planned otherwise. I had thought, and I still think, that the best thing for you is to go into father’s office. You have a good mind, and I am confident you would succeed as a lawyer.”
Chapter 21
Martin had discovered that he loved beauty more than fame, and that what desire he had for fame was largely for Ruth’s sake. It was for this reason that his desire for fame was strong. He wanted to be great in the world’s eyes.
As for himself, he loved beauty passionately. And more than beauty he loved Ruth. He considered love the finest thing in the world.
Martin moved and paid two dollars and a half a month rent for the small room he got from his Portuguese landlady, Maria Silva, a hard working widow. There were but four rooms in the little house. Maria had seven little children. It was a miracle to Martin how she succeed to live. Another source of income to Maria were two her cows, which she milked night and morning.
In his own small room Martin lived, slept, studied, and wrote. Martin had a perfect stomach that could digest anything. Pea-soup was a common article in his diet, as well as potatoes and beans. Rice appeared on Martin’s table at least once a day. Dried fruits were less expensive than fresh, and he had usually a pot of them. Coffee, without cream or milk, he had twice a day. There was need for him to be economical.
The weeks passed. All his manuscripts had come back. The Portuguese grocer, to whom he had paid cash, told him one day that Martin’s bill reached three dollars and eighty-five cents.