Маленькая хозяйка большого дома

УДК 
372.8
ББК 
81.2 Англ
 
Л 76

ISBN 978-5-9925-0880-2

Лондон Дж.
Л 76 Маленькая хозяйка большого дома: Книга для 
чтения на английском языке. — СПб.: КАРО, 2013. — 
448 с. — (Серия “Classical Literature”)

ISBN 978-5-9925-0880-2.

«Маленькя хозяйка большого дома» — роман знаменитого 
американского писателя Джека Лондона (1876–1916), вышедший в свет в последний год жизни автора.
В предлагаемой вниманию читателей книге представлен 
неадаптированный текст романа, снабженный комментариями 
и словарем.

УДК 372.8
ББК 81.2 Англ

© КАРО, 2013

ОБ АВТОРЕ

Знаменитый американский писатель Джек Лондон 
родился 12 января 1876 года в Сан-Франциско. Родители 
разошлись до рождения мальчика. Позже его мать Флора 
Чейни вышла замуж повторно за овдовевшего фермера 
Джона Лондона. Денег в семье было мало, и Джек, не доучившись в школе, стал с ранних лет зарабатывать себе 
на жизнь. Чем только он не занимался — продавал газеты, трудился на джутовой и консервной фабриках, зарабатывал в качестве «устричного пирата» — нелегального 
сборщика устриц в бухте Сан-Франциско, матроса, позже 
охотился на морских котиков в Тихом океане у берегов 
Японии, побывал на Аляске в качестве золотоискателя, 
был гладильщиком и кочегаром. Весь этот огромный 
жизненный опыт позднее нашел отражение в его литературном творчестве.
Джек Лондон — человек, сделавший себя сам. Не получив систематического образования, он с детства очень 
много читал — как художественную литературу, так и 
философские и социологические труды. Самостоятельно 
подготовился и поступил в Калифорнийский университет, но из-за отсутствия средств вынужден был оставить 
учебу после третьего семестра. Умелец, моряк, впоследствии фермер, познавший тяжесть физического труда, 
Лондон всю жизнь жадно поглощал знания и уже в ранние годы загорелся мечтой стать писателем, благо ему 
было что сказать читателям.

ОБ АВТОРЕ 

Он был очень плодовит, работал по 15–17 часов в день. 
Из-под его пера вышло более 200 рассказов, первый из 
них, «За тех, кто в пути» увидел свет в 1899 году, после 
возвращения Лондона с Клондайка. Сборники рассказов 
«Сын волка», «Бог его отцов», «Дети мороза» и другие, 
героя ми которых стали волевые, мужественные люди, 
осуждающие трусов и предателей, принесли ему широчайшую известность.
Дальнейшая литературная карьера Джека Лондона сложилась удачно, он получал безумные по тем временам гонорары — до пятидесяти тысяч долларов за книгу. Однако 
это не помешало ему продолжать писать в «социалистическом» духе, обличая социальную несправедливость.
Джек Лондон рано ушел из жизни — ему было всего 
сорок лет — отравившись прописанным ему морфием 
(он страдал тяжелым почечным заболеванием). Некоторые исследователи полагают, что это было самоубийство, 
что, впрочем, ничем не подтверждено, так как он не оставил предсмертной записки. Но, безусловно, мысли о самоубийстве у него были — достаточно вспомнить Мартина 
Идена, альтер эго писателя. Его герой сознательно покончил с собой, разочаровавшись в ценностях своего 
собственного круга и буржуазного мира, в котором, даже 
разбогатев и прославившись, он не смог жить.

* * *
Роман «Маленькая хозяйка большого дома», увидевший свет в последний год жизни Д. Лондона, посвящен 
взаимоотношениям неординарных персонажей и является лучшим произведением писателя по силе и глубине 
показа тех неистовых бурь, которые вызывает в душах 
людей любовь.

CHAPTER I

He awoke in the dark. His awakening was simple, easy, 
without movement save for1 the eyes that opened and 
made him aware of darkness. Unlike most, who must feel 
and grope and listen to, and contact with, the world about 
them, he knew himself on the moment of awakening, 
instantly identifying himself in time and place and 
personality. Aft er the lapsed hours of sleep he took up, 
without eff ort, the interrupted tale of his days. He knew 
himself to be Dick Forrest, the master of broad acres, who 
had fallen asleep hours before aft er drowsily putting a 
match between the pages of Road Town and pressing 
off  the electric reading lamp.
Near at hand there was the ripple and gurgle of some 
sleepy fountain. From far off , so faint and far that only a 
keen ear could catch, he heard a sound that made him 
smile with pleasure. He knew it for the distant, throaty 
bawl of King Polo — King Polo, his champion Short Horn 
bull, thrice Grand Champion also of all bulls at Sacramento 
at the California State Fairs. Th e smile was slow in easing 
from Dick Forrest’s face, for he dwelt a moment on the 
new triumphs he had destined that year for King Polo on 
the Eastern livestock circuits. He would show them that 

1 save for — (разг.) за исключением

THE LITTLE LADY OF THE BIG HOUSE

6

a bull, California born and fi nished, could compete with 
the cream of bulls corn-fed in Iowa or imported overseas 
from the immemorial home of Short Horns.
Not until the smile faded, which was a matter of 
seconds, did he reach out in the dark and press the fi rst 
of a row of buttons. Th ere were three rows of such buttons. 
Th e concealed lighting that spilled from the huge bowl 
under the ceiling revealed a sleeping-porch, three sides of 
which were fi ne-meshed copper screen. Th e fourth side 
was the house wall, solid concrete, through which French 
windows1 gave access.
He pressed the second button in the row and the bright 
light concentered at a particular place on the concrete 
wall, illuminating, in a row, a clock, a barometer, and 
centigrade and Fahrenheit thermometers. Almost in a 
sweep of glance he read the messages of the dials: time 
4:30; air pressure, 29:80, which was normal at that altitude and season; and temperature, Fahrenheit, 36°. With 
another press, the gauges of time and heat and air were 
sent back into the darkness.
A third button turned on his reading lamp, so arranged 
that the light fell from above and behind without shining 
into his eyes. Th e fi rst button turned off  the concealed 
lighting overhead. He reached a mass of proofsheets from 
the reading stand, and, pencil in hand, lighting a cigarette, 
he began to correct.
Th e place was clearly the sleeping quarters of a man 
who worked. Effi  ciency was its key note, though comfort, 

1 French windows — (разг.) высокие застекленные двери

CHAPTER I

7

not altogether Spartan, was also manifest. Th e bed was of 
gray enameled iron to tone with the concrete wall. Across 
the foot of the bed, an extra coverlet, hung a gray robe of 
wolfskins with every tail a-dangle1. On the fl oor, where 
rested a pair of slippers, was spread a thick-coated skin of 
mountain goat.
Heaped orderly with books, magazines and scribblepads, there was room on the big reading stand for matches, 
cigarettes, an ash-tray, and a thermos bottle. A phonograph, 
for purposes of dictation, stood on a hinged and swinging bracket. On the wall, under the barometer and thermometers, from a round wooden frame laughed the face of 
a girl. On the wall, between the rows of buttons and a 
switchboard, from an open holster, loosely projected the 
butt of a .44 Colt’s automatic.
At six o’clock, sharp, aft er gray light had begun to fi lter 
through the wire netting, Dick Forrest, without raising his 
eyes from the proofsheets, reached out his right hand and 
pressed a button in the second row. Five minutes later a 
soft -slippered Chinese emerged on the sleeping-porch. In 
his hands he bore a small tray of burnished copper on 
which rested a cup and saucer, a tiny coff ee pot of silver, 
and a correspondingly tiny silver cream pitcher.
“Good morning, Oh My,” was Dick Forrest’s greeting, 
and his eyes smiled and his lips smiled as he uttered it.
“Good morning, Master,” Oh My returned, as he busied 
himself with making room on the reading stand for the 
tray and with pouring the coff ee and cream.

1 with every tail a-dangle — (уст.) с висячими хвостами

THE LITTLE LADY OF THE BIG HOUSE

8

Th is done, without waiting further orders, noting that 
his master was already sipping coff ee with one hand while 
he made a correction on the proof with the other, Oh My 
picked up a rosy, fi lmy, lacy boudoir cap from the fl oor 
and departed. His exit was noiseless. He ebbed away like 
a shadow through the open French windows.
At six-thirty, sharp to the minute1, he was back with a 
larger tray. Dick Forrest put away the proofs, reached for 
a book entitled Commercial Breeding of Frogs, and prepared 
to eat. Th e breakfast was simple yet fairly substantial — 
more coff ee, a half grape-fruit, two soft -boiled eggs made 
ready in a glass with a dab of butter and piping hot, and 
a sliver of bacon, not over-cooked, that he knew was of 
his own raising and curing.
By this time the sunshine was pouring in through the 
screening and across the bed. On the outside of the wire 
screen clung a number of house-fl ies, early-hatched for 
the season and numb with the night’s cold. As Forrest ate 
he watched the hunting of the meat-eating yellow-jackets2. 
Sturdy, more frost-resistant than bees, they were already 
on the wing and preying on the benumbed fl ies. Despite 
the rowdy noise of their fl ight, these yellow hunters of the 
air, with rarely ever a miss, pounced on their helpless 
victims and sailed away with them. Th e last fl y was gone 
ere Forrest had sipped his last sip of coffee, marked 
Commercial Breeding of Frogs with a match, and taken up 
his proofsheets.

1 sharp to the minute — (разг.) минута в минуту; точно
2 yellow-jackets — (разг.) желтобрюхие осы

CHAPTER I

9

Aft er a time, the liquid-mellow cry of the meadowlark, fi rst vocal for the day, caused him to desist. He looked 
at the clock. It marked seven. He set aside the proofs and 
began a series of conversations by means of the switchboard, 
which he manipulated with a practiced hand.
“Hello, Oh Joy,” was his fi rst talk. “Is Mr. Th ayer up?… 
Very well. Don’t disturb him. I don’t think he’ll breakfast 
in bed, but fi nd out… Th at’s right, and show him how to 
work the hot water. Maybe he doesn’t know… Yes, that’s 
right. Plan for one more boy as soon as you can get him. 
Th ere’s always a crowd when the good weather comes on… 
Sure. Use your judgment. Good-bye.
“Mr. Hanley?… Yes,” was his second conversation, over 
another switch. “I’ve been thinking about the dam on the 
Buckeye. I want the fi gures on the gravel-haul and on the 
rock-crushing… Yes, that’s it. I imagine that the gravelhaul will cost anywhere between six and ten cents a yard 
more than the crushed rock. Th at last pitch of hill is what 
eats up the gravel-teams. Work out the fi gures. …No, we 
won’t be able to start for a fortnight. …Yes, yes; the new 
tractors, if they ever deliver, will release the horses from 
the plowing, but they’ll have to go back for the checking… 
No, you’ll have to see Mr. Everan about that. Good-bye.”
And his third call:
“Mr. Dawson? Ha! Ha! Th irty-six on my porch right 
now. It must be white with frost down on the levels. But 
it’s most likely the last this year… Yes, they swore the 
tractors would be delivered two days ago… Call up the 
station agent. …By the way, you catch Hanley for me. I 
forgot to tell him to start the ‘rat-catchers’ out with the 

THE LITTLE LADY OF THE BIG HOUSE

10

second instalment of fl y-traps… Yes, pronto1. Th ere were 
a couple of dozen roosting on my screen this morning…. 
Yes… Good-bye.”
At this stage, Forrest slid out of bed in his pajamas, 
slipped his feet into the slippers, and strode through the 
French windows to the bath, already drawn by Oh My. 
A dozen minutes aft erward, shaved as well, he was back 
in bed, reading his frog book while Oh My, punctual to 
the minute, massaged his legs.
Th ey were the well-formed legs of a well-built, fi vefoot-ten man who weighed a hundred and eighty pounds. 
Further, they told a tale of the man. Th e left  thigh was 
marred by a scar ten inches in length. Across the left  ankle, 
from instep to heel, were scattered half a dozen scars the 
size of half-dollars. When Oh My prodded and pulled the 
left  knee a shade too severely, Forrest was guilty of a wince2. 
Th e right shin was colored with several dark scars, while 
a big scar, just under the knee, was a positive dent in the 
bone. Midway between knee and groin was the mark of 
an ancient three-inch gash, curiously dotted with the 
minute scars of stitches.
A sudden, joyous nicker from without put the match 
between the pages of the frog book, and, while Oh My 
proceeded partly to dress his master in bed, including 
socks and shoes, the master, twisting partly on his side, 
stared out in the direction of the nicker. Down the road, 
through the swaying purple of the early lilacs, ridden by 

1 pronto — (исп.) быстро; поживее; сейчас же
2 was guilty of a wince — (разг.) невольно поморщился