Martin Eden , livre ebook

Pub One Info - Jack London

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238 pages

English

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The one opened the door with a latch-key and went in, followed by a young fellow who awkwardly removed his cap. He wore rough clothes that smacked of the sea, and he was manifestly out of place in the spacious hall in which he found himself. He did not know what to do with his cap, and was stuffing it into his coat pocket when the other took it from him. The act was done quietly and naturally, and the awkward young fellow appreciated it. "He understands," was his thought. "He'll see me through all right.

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Publié par	Pub One Info
Date de parution	27 septembre 2010
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9782819920212
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0100€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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CHAPTER I
The one opened the door with a latch–key and went in, followedby a young fellow who awkwardly removed his cap. He wore roughclothes that smacked of the sea, and he was manifestly out of placein the spacious hall in which he found himself. He did not knowwhat to do with his cap, and was stuffing it into his coat pocketwhen the other took it from him. The act was done quietly andnaturally, and the awkward young fellow appreciated it. "Heunderstands," was his thought. "He'll see me through allright."
He walked at the other's heels with a swing to his shoulders,and his legs spread unwittingly, as if the level floors weretilting up and sinking down to the heave and lunge of the sea. Thewide rooms seemed too narrow for his rolling gait, and to himselfhe was in terror lest his broad shoulders should collide with thedoorways or sweep the bric–a–brac from the low mantel. He recoiledfrom side to side between the various objects and multiplied thehazards that in reality lodged only in his mind. Between a grandpiano and a centre–table piled high with books was space for a halfa dozen to walk abreast, yet he essayed it with trepidation. Hisheavy arms hung loosely at his sides. He did not know what to dowith those arms and hands, and when, to his excited vision, one armseemed liable to brush against the books on the table, he lurchedaway like a frightened horse, barely missing the piano stool. Hewatched the easy walk of the other in front of him, and for thefirst time realized that his walk was different from that of othermen. He experienced a momentary pang of shame that he should walkso uncouthly. The sweat burst through the skin of his forehead intiny beads, and he paused and mopped his bronzed face with hishandkerchief.
"Hold on, Arthur, my boy," he said, attempting to mask hisanxiety with facetious utterance. "This is too much all at once foryours truly. Give me a chance to get my nerve. You know I didn'twant to come, an' I guess your fam'ly ain't hankerin' to see meneither."
"That's all right," was the reassuring answer. "You mustn't befrightened at us. We're just homely people—Hello, there's a letterfor me."
He stepped back to the table, tore open the envelope, and beganto read, giving the stranger an opportunity to recover himself. Andthe stranger understood and appreciated. His was the gift ofsympathy, understanding; and beneath his alarmed exterior thatsympathetic process went on. He mopped his forehead dry and glancedabout him with a controlled face, though in the eyes there was anexpression such as wild animals betray when they fear the trap. Hewas surrounded by the unknown, apprehensive of what might happen,ignorant of what he should do, aware that he walked and borehimself awkwardly, fearful that every attribute and power of himwas similarly afflicted. He was keenly sensitive, hopelesslyself–conscious, and the amused glance that the other stole privilyat him over the top of the letter burned into him like adagger–thrust. He saw the glance, but he gave no sign, for amongthe things he had learned was discipline. Also, that dagger–thrustwent to his pride. He cursed himself for having come, and at thesame time resolved that, happen what would, having come, he wouldcarry it through. The lines of his face hardened, and into his eyescame a fighting light. He looked about more unconcernedly, sharplyobservant, every detail of the pretty interior registering itselfon his brain. His eyes were wide apart; nothing in their field ofvision escaped; and as they drank in the beauty before them thefighting light died out and a warm glow took its place. He wasresponsive to beauty, and here was cause to respond.
An oil painting caught and held him. A heavy surf thundered andburst over an outjutting rock; lowering storm–clouds covered thesky; and, outside the line of surf, a pilot–schooner, close–hauled,heeled over till every detail of her deck was visible, was surgingalong against a stormy sunset sky. There was beauty, and it drewhim irresistibly. He forgot his awkward walk and came closer to thepainting, very close. The beauty faded out of the canvas. His faceexpressed his bepuzzlement. He stared at what seemed a carelessdaub of paint, then stepped away. Immediately all the beautyflashed back into the canvas. "A trick picture," was his thought,as he dismissed it, though in the midst of the multitudinousimpressions he was receiving he found time to feel a prod ofindignation that so much beauty should be sacrificed to make atrick. He did not know painting. He had been brought up on chromosand lithographs that were always definite and sharp, near or far.He had seen oil paintings, it was true, in the show windows ofshops, but the glass of the windows had prevented his eager eyesfrom approaching too near.
He glanced around at his friend reading the letter and saw thebooks on the table. Into his eyes leaped a wistfulness and ayearning as promptly as the yearning leaps into the eyes of astarving man at sight of food. An impulsive stride, with one lurchto right and left of the shoulders, brought him to the table, wherehe began affectionately handling the books. He glanced at thetitles and the authors' names, read fragments of text, caressingthe volumes with his eyes and hands, and, once, recognized a bookhe had read. For the rest, they were strange books and strangeauthors. He chanced upon a volume of Swinburne and began readingsteadily, forgetful of where he was, his face glowing. Twice heclosed the book on his forefinger to look at the name of theauthor. Swinburne! he would remember that name. That fellow hadeyes, and he had certainly seen color and flashing light. But whowas Swinburne? Was he dead a hundred years or so, like most of thepoets? Or was he alive still, and writing? He turned to thetitle–page…yes, he had written other books; well, he would go tothe free library the first thing in the morning and try to get holdof some of Swinburne's stuff. He went back to the text and losthimself. He did not notice that a young woman had entered the room.The first he knew was when he heard Arthur's voice saying:-
"Ruth, this is Mr. Eden."
The book was closed on his forefinger, and before he turned hewas thrilling to the first new impression, which was not of thegirl, but of her brother's words. Under that muscled body of his hewas a mass of quivering sensibilities. At the slightest impact ofthe outside world upon his consciousness, his thoughts, sympathies,and emotions leapt and played like lambent flame. He wasextraordinarily receptive and responsive, while his imagination,pitched high, was ever at work establishing relations of likenessand difference. "Mr. Eden," was what he had thrilled to—he whohad been called "Eden," or "Martin Eden," or just "Martin," all hislife. And " Mister !" It was certainly going some, was hisinternal comment. His mind seemed to turn, on the instant, into avast camera obscura, and he saw arrayed around his consciousnessendless pictures from his life, of stoke–holes and forecastles,camps and beaches, jails and boozing–kens, fever–hospitals and slumstreets, wherein the thread of association was the fashion in whichhe had been addressed in those various situations.
And then he turned and saw the girl. The phantasmagoria of hisbrain vanished at sight of her. She was a pale, ethereal creature,with wide, spiritual blue eyes and a wealth of golden hair. He didnot know how she was dressed, except that the dress was aswonderful as she. He likened her to a pale gold flower upon aslender stem. No, she was a spirit, a divinity, a goddess; suchsublimated beauty was not of the earth. Or perhaps the books wereright, and there were many such as she in the upper walks of life.She might well be sung by that chap, Swinburne. Perhaps he had hadsomebody like her in mind when he painted that girl, Iseult, in thebook there on the table. All this plethora of sight, and feeling,and thought occurred on the instant. There was no pause of therealities wherein he moved. He saw her hand coming out to his, andshe 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.For that matter, most of them did not shake hands at all. A floodof associations, visions of various ways he had made theacquaintance of women, rushed into his mind and threatened to swampit. But he shook them aside and looked at her. Never had he seensuch a woman. The women he had known! Immediately, beside her, oneither hand, ranged the women he had known. For an eternal secondhe stood in the midst of a portrait gallery, wherein she occupiedthe central place, while about her were limned many women, all tobe weighed and measured by a fleeting glance, herself the unit ofweight and measure. He saw the weak and sickly faces of the girlsof the factories, and the simpering, boisterous girls from thesouth of Market. There were women of the cattle camps, and swarthycigarette–smoking women of Old Mexico. These, in turn, were crowdedout by Japanese women, doll–like, stepping mincingly on woodenclogs; by Eurasians, delicate featured, stamped with degeneracy; byfull–bodied South–Sea–Island women, flower–crowned andbrown–skinned. All these were blotted out by a grotesque andterrible nightmare brood—frowsy, shuffling creatures from thepavements of Whitechapel, gin–bloated hags of the stews, and allthe vast hell's following of harpies, vile–mouthed and filthy, thatunder the guise of monstrous female form prey upon sailors, thescrapings of the ports, the scum and slime of the human pit.
"Won't you sit down, Mr. Eden?" the girl was saying. "Ihave been looking forward to meeting you ever since Arthur told us.It was brave of you—"
He waved his hand deprecatingly and muttered that it was nothingat all, what he had done, and that any fellow would have done it.She noticed that the hand he waved was covered with freshabrasions, in the process of healing, and a glance at the otherloose–hanging hand showed it