Мартин Иден / Martin Eden

He glanced at the titles and the authors’ names, read fragments of text, caressing the volumes with his eyes and hands, and, once, recognized a book he had read. He took a volume of Swinburne[3 - Swinburne – Суинберн (английский поэт XIX века).] and began to read. Twice he closed the book on his forefinger to look at the name of the author. Swinburne! he must remember that name. But who was Swinburne? Was he dead a hundred years or so, like most of the poets? Or was he alive still, and writing? He turned to the title-page… yes, he had written other books; well, he will go to the library in the morning and try to get some Swinburne’s books.

“Ruth,[4 - Ruth – Руфь] this is Mr. Eden.[5 - Mr. Eden – мистер Иден]”

He closed the book. “Mr. Eden!” Everybody called him just “Eden,” or “Martin Eden,[6 - Martin Eden – Мартин Иден]” or just “Martin,” all his life.

And then he turned and saw the girl. She was a pale, ethereal creature, with wide, spiritual blue eyes and a wealth of golden hair. He did not know how she was dressed, except that the dress was as wonderful as she. She was like a pale gold flower upon a slender stem. No, she was a spirit, a divinity, a goddess. She 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.

“Will you sit down, Mr. Eden?” the girl was saying. “Arthur told us. It was brave of you[8 - It was brave of you. – Вы поступили так мужественно.] – ”

He waved his hand and muttered that he had done nothing at all. He sat down on the edge of the chair, greatly worried by his hands.

“You have such a scar on your neck, Mr. Eden,” the girl was saying. “How did it happen?”

“A Mexican with a knife, miss,” he answered.

“Oh,” the girl said, in a faint, far voice, and he noticed the shock in her sensitive face.

He felt a shock himself. There was a brief pause in the conversation.

“This man Swineburne,[9 - Swineburne – Свинберн]” he began,

“Who?”

“Swineburne,” he repeated, with the same mispronunciation. “The poet.”

“Swinburne,” she corrected.

“Yes, that’s the chap,” he stammered, his cheeks hot again.