Мартин Иден

УДК 
372.8
ББК 
81.2 Англ
 
Л 76

ISBN 978-5-9925-0298-5

Лондон Дж.
Л 76 Мартин Иден: Книга для чтения на английском языке. — СПб.: КАРО, 2009. — 512 с. — 
(Серия «Classical Literature»).

ISBN 978-5-9925-0298-5

«Мартин Иден» — один из самых известных романов знаменитого американского писателя Джека Лондона 
(1876–1916). Роман во многом автобиографичен — писатель, как и его герой, вышел из низов общества и до бился 
выдающихся успехов в литературе исключительно собственными усилиями.
В предлагаемой вниманию читателей книге представлен неадаптированный текст романа, снабженный комментариями и словарем.
УДК 372.8
ББК 81.2 Англ

© КАРО, 2009

Джек Лондон

MARTIN EDEN

МАРТИН ИДЕН

Подготовка текста, комментарии и словарь Ю. В. Князькиной

Ответственный редактор О. П. Панайотти
Технический редактор Я. В. Попова
Корректор Е. Г. Тигонен
Иллюстрация на обложке О. В. Маркиной

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197110, Санкт-Петербург, Чкаловский пр., 15.

Джек Лондон и его роман 
«Мартин Иден»: 
краткая справка

Джек Лондон (англ. Jack London, урождённый Джон 
Гриффит Чейни, англ. John Griffith Chaney; 12 января 1876 — 
22 ноября 1916) — американский писатель.

Джек 
Лондон 
родился 
в 
Сан-Франциско 
(штат 
Калифорния, США) в семье обедневшего фермера. С ранней юности, еще учась в школе, пошел работать, чтобы помогать семье: был продавцом газет, фабричным рабочим, 
мойщиком окон, «устричным пиратом», матросом... Столь 
разнообразная жизнь «на дне общества» позднее нашла отражение в его произведениях и, в числе прочего, определила их социальную направленность.
Еще со школьных лет Джек пристрастился к чтению, посещал публичную библиотеку. Первые литературные опыты 
Лондона приходятся на 1893 год: его рассказ «Тайфун у берегов Японии» победил в литературном конкурсе. В 1894 он уходит странствовать с армией безработных, а с ее распадом скитается по Соединенным Штатам, отбывает наказание в тюрьме за бродяжничество и выступления на социалистических 
митингах. В 1895 Джек посещает университет, но из-за отсутствия средств вынужден его бросить. Примерно в то же время 
он вступает в Социалистическую рабочую партию США.
Усвоив взгляды К. Маркса, Г. Спенсера и Ф. Ницше, 
Лондон разрабатывает собственную философию. Уехав в 
1897 году на золотые прииски на Клондайк, он пишет серию рассказов о приключениях на Аляске, благодаря которым его заметили в литературном мире.

JACK LONDON. MARTIN EDEN

Дальнейшая литературная жизнь Лондона складывается 
удачно. Он был плодовитым писателем (рассказы, новеллы, 
романы, статьи, публицистические очерки), а его гонорары 
достигали фантастических по тем временам сумм, что не мешало ему продолжать писать в «социалистическом» духе.
Многие его произведения пронизаны протестом личности против окружающего ее грязного и несправедливого мира. Становление такой личности, физическое и духовное развитие, преодоление социальных барьеров — один из 
лейтмотивов его творчества. Однако наряду с этим в произведениях Лондона, неравноценных по таланту, много идеализации, восхищения силой и предрассудков, свойственных 
его времени.
Роман «Мартин Иден» весьма показателен для всего 
«социального» творчества Джека Лондона. Он автобиографичен и рассказывает о становлении вышедшего из рабочих 
низов писателя, разочаровавшегося потом в ценностях как 
своего круга, так и буржуазного, и не нашедшего себе места 
в жизни как личности.

Chapter I

T
he 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.”
He walked at the other’s heels with a swing to his 
shoulders, and his legs spread unwittingly, as if the level 
floors were tilting up and sinking down to the heave 
and lunge of the sea. The wide rooms seemed too narrow for his rolling gait, and to himself he was in terror 
lest his broad shoulders should collide with the doorways 
or sweep the bric-a-brac from the low mantel. He recoiled 
from side to side between the various objects and multiplied the hazards that in reality lodged only in his mind. 
Between a grand piano and a centre-table piled high with 
books was space for a half a dozen to walk abreast, yet he 
essayed it with trepidation. His heavy arms hung loosely 
at his sides. He did not know what to do with those arms 
and hands, and when, to his excited vision, one arm 

JACK LONDON. MARTIN EDEN

seemed liable to brush against the books on the table, he 
lurched away like a frightened horse, barely missing the 
piano stool. He watched the easy walk of the other in front 
of him, and for the first time realized that his walk was 
different from that of other men. He experienced a momentary pang of shame that he should walk so uncouthly. The sweat burst through the skin of his forehead in tiny 
beads, and he paused and mopped his bronzed face with 
his handkerchief.
“Hold on, Arthur, my boy,” he said, attempting to mask 
his anxiety with facetious utterance. “This is too much all 
at once for yours truly1. Give me a chance to get my nerve. 
You know I didn’t want to come, an’ I guess your fam’ly 
ain’t hankerin’2 to see me neither.”
“That’s all right,” was the reassuring answer. “You 
mustn’t be frightened at us. We’re just homely people — 
Hello, there’s a letter for me.”
He stepped back to the table, tore open the envelope, 
and began to read, giving the stranger an opportunity to 
recover himself. And the stranger understood and appreciated. His was the gift of sympathy, understanding; and 
beneath his alarmed exterior that sympathetic process 
went on. He mopped his forehead dry and glanced about 
him with a controlled face, though in the eyes there was 
an expression such as wild animals betray when they fear 
the trap. He was surrounded by the unknown, apprehensive of what might happen, ignorant of what he should do, 

1 yours truly — я, меня
2 Здесь и далее в речи персонажей встречаются ошибки, характерные для речи необразованных людей: два отрицания в 
одном предложении, пропуск g в окончании -ing и других звуков (напр., d в and), использование формы ain’t вместо am not, 
are not, have not и другие

CHAPTER I

aware that he walked and bore himself awkwardly, fearful that every attribute and power of him was similarly afflicted. He was keenly sensitive, hopelessly self-conscious, 
and the amused glance that the other stole privily at him 
over the top of the letter burned into him like a daggerthrust. He saw the glance, but he gave no sign, for among 
the things he had learned was discipline. Also, that dagger-thrust went to his pride. He cursed himself for having 
come, and at the same time resolved that, happen what 
would1, having come, he would carry it through. The lines 
of his face hardened, and into his eyes came a fighting 
light. He looked about more unconcernedly, sharply observant, every detail of the pretty interior registering itself 
on his brain. His eyes were wide apart; nothing in their 
field of vision escaped; and as they drank in the beauty 
before them the fighting light died out and a warm glow 
took its place. He was responsive to beauty, and here was 
cause to respond.
An oil painting caught and held him. A heavy surf 
thundered and burst over an outjutting rock; lowering 
storm-clouds covered the sky; and, outside the line of 
surf, a pilot-schooner, close-hauled, heeled over till every 
detail of her deck was visible, was surging along against 
a stormy sunset sky. There was beauty, and it drew him 
irresistibly. He forgot his awkward walk and came closer 
to the painting, very close. The beauty faded out of the 
canvas. His face expressed his bepuzzlement. He stared at 
what seemed a careless daub of paint, then stepped away. 
Immediately all the beauty flashed back into the canvas. “A trick picture,” was his thought, as he dismissed 

1 happen what would — (устар.) что бы ни было, что бы ни 
случилось

JACK LONDON. MARTIN EDEN

it, though in the midst of the multitudinous impressions 
he was receiving he found time to feel a prod of indignation that so much beauty should be sacrificed to make a 
trick. He did not know painting. He had been brought up 
on chromos and lithographs that were always definite and 
sharp, near or far. He had seen oil paintings, it was true, in 
the show windows of shops, but the glass of the windows 
had prevented his eager eyes from approaching too near.
He glanced around at his friend reading the letter and 
saw the books on the table. Into his eyes leaped a wistfulness and a yearning as promptly as the yearning leaps 
into the eyes of a starving man at sight of food. An impulsive stride, with one lurch to right and left of the 
shoulders, brought him to the table, where he began affectionately handling the books. 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. For the rest, they were strange 
books and strange authors. He chanced upon a volume of 
Swinburne1 and began reading steadily, forgetful of where 
he was, his face glowing. Twice he closed the book on his 
forefinger to look at the name of the author. Swinburne! 
He would remember that name. That fellow had eyes, and 
he had certainly seen color and flashing light. 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 would go to the free library the first thing in the 
morning and try to get hold of some of Swinburne’s stuff. 
He went back to the text and lost himself. He did not no
1 Swinburne — Суинберн Элджернон Чарльз (1837—
1909) — английский поэт

CHAPTER I

tice 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 he was thrilling to the first new impression, which 
was not of the girl, but of her brother’s words. Under that 
muscled body of his he was a mass of quivering sensibilities. At the slightest impact of the outside world upon 
his consciousness, his thoughts, sympathies, and emotions leapt and played like lambent flame. He was extraordinarily receptive and responsive, while his imagination, pitched high, was ever at work establishing relations of likeness and difference. “Mr. Eden,” was what 
he had thrilled to — he who had been called “Eden,” or 
“Martin Eden,” or just “Martin,” all his life. And “Mister”! 
It was certainly going some1, was his internal comment. 
His mind seemed to turn, on the instant, into a vast camera obscura, and he saw arrayed around his consciousness endless pictures from his life, of stoke-holes and 
fore castles, camps and beaches, jails and boozing-kens, 
fever-hospitals and slum streets, wherein the thread of association was the fashion in which he had been addressed 
in those various situations.
And then he turned and saw the girl. The phantasmagoria of his brain vanished at sight of her. 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. 
He likened her to a pale gold flower upon a slender stem. 
No, she was a spirit, a divinity, a goddess; such sublim ated 
beauty was not of the earth. Or perhaps the books were 

1 It was certainly going some — Это уже кое-что значит

JACK LONDON. MARTIN EDEN

right, 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 had somebody like her in mind when he 
painted that girl, Iseult1, in the book there on the table. All 
this plethora of sight, and feeling, and thought occurred 
on the instant. There was no pause of the realities wherein 
he moved. He saw her hand coming out to his, and 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. For that matter, most of them did not 
shake hands at all. A flood of associations, visions of various ways he had made the acquaintance of women, rushed 
into his mind and threatened to swamp it. But he shook 
them aside and looked at her. Never had he seen such a 
woman. The women he had known! Immediately, beside 
her, on either hand, ranged the women he had known. For 
an eternal second he stood in the midst of a portrait gallery, wherein she occupied the central place, while about 
her were limned many women, all to be weighed and measured by a fleeting glance, herself the unit of weight and 
measure. He saw the weak and sickly faces of the girls of 
the factories, and the simpering, boisterous girls from 
the south of Market2. There were women of the cattle 
camps, and swarthy cigarette-smoking women of Old 
Mexico. These, in turn, were crowded out by Japanese 
women, doll-like, stepping mincingly on wooden clogs; 
by Eurasians, delicate featured, stamped with degeneracy; 
by full-bodied South-Sea-Island women, flower-crowned 

1 Iseult (Izolde) — Изольда, легендарный персонаж средневекового рыцарского романа XII века и нового времени, а также 
поэмы Суинберна «Тристран из Лайонесса»
2 Market — Market Street, большая улица в Сан-Франциско