Мартин Иден / Martin Eden (+ аудиоприложение LECTA). Джек Лондон
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finally, the pawnbroker – watch, $5.50; overcoat, $5.50; wheel, $7.75; suit of clothes, $5.50 (60 % interest, but what did it matter?) – grand total, $56.10.
By this time he had opened the envelope. There was no check. He held it to the light, but could not trust his eyes. There was no check. He read the letter. The letter slid from his hand.
Five dollars for “The Ring of Bells” – five dollars for five thousand words! Instead of two cents a word, ten words for a cent!
TRANSCONTINENTAL paid five dollars for five thousand words! Martin would let Ruth know that he was willing to go into her father’s office.
Five dollars for five thousand words, ten words for a cent, the market price for art. Martin’s head ached, the top of it ached, the back of it ached, the brains inside of it ached, the ache over his brows was intolerable.
Chapter 23
Martin Eden did not go out to hunt for a job in the morning. It was late afternoon when he gazed with aching eyes about the room. Maria hurried into the room from the kitchen. She put her hand upon his hot forehead and felt his pulse.
“Do you want to eat?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“I’m sick, Maria,” he said weakly. “What is it? Do you know?”
“Influenza,” she answered. “Two or three days and you are all right. Better not to eat now. Maybe tomorrow you can eat.”
Martin tried to get up and dress. He managed to get out of bed. Maria came in several times to change the cold cloths on his forehead. He murmured to himself, “Maria, you will get your milk ranch, all right, all right.”
“What’s the reason to write a whole library and lose his own life?” he demanded aloud. “This is no place for me. No more literature for me. I want the monthly salary, and the little home with Ruth.”
Two days later he asked for his mail, but his eyes hurt too much to permit him to read.
“You read for me, Maria,” he said. “Throw the big, long letters under the table. Read me the small letters.”
“I can’t,” was the answer. “Teresa, she goes to school, she can.”
So Teresa Silva opened his letters and read them to him. He listened absently. Suddenly he was shocked back to himself.
“‘We offer you forty dollars for all serial rights in your story.’”
“What magazine is that?” Martin shouted. “Here, give it to me!”
It was the WHITE MOUSE that was offering him forty dollars, and the story was “The Whirlpool,” another of his early horror stories. He read the letter through again and again.
Martin lay back and thought. It wasn’t a lie, after all. There were two thousand words in “The Whirlpool.” At forty dollars that would be two cents a word. Two cents a word – the newspapers had told the truth.
Well, there was one thing certain: when he got well, he would not go out looking for a job. There were more stories in his head as good as “The Whirlpool,” and at forty dollars apiece he could earn far more than in any job. Just when he thought the battle lost, it was won. The way was clear.
He found one letter from Ruth. He re-read the letter adoringly, loving each stroke of her pen, and in the end kissing her signature.
And when he answered, he told her that his best clothes were in pawn. He told her that he had been sick.
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