Морской волк

УДК 
372.8
ББК 
81.2 Англ
 
Л76

ISBN 978-5-9925-1191-8

 
Лондон, Джек.
Л76 
Морской волк : Книга для чтения на английском языке. — Санкт-Петербург : КАРО, 2017. — 
512 с. — (Classical Literature).

ISBN 978-5-9925-1191-8.

«Морской волк» — роман знаменитого американского 
писателя Джека Лондона (1876–1916), написанный после его 
плавания на промысловой шхуне к берегам Японии.
В предлагаемой вниманию читателей книге представлен 
неадаптированный текст романа с комментариями и словарем.

УДК 372.8
ББК 81.2 Англ

© КАРО, 2017

Chapter I

I scarcely know where to begin, though I sometimes facetiously place the cause of it all to Charley 
Furuseth’s credit. He kept a summer cottage in Mill 
Valley, under the shadow of Mount Tamalpais, and 
never occupied it except when he loafed through the 
winter months and read Nietzsche1 and Schopenhauer2 to rest his brain. When summer came on, 
he elected to sweat out a hot and dusty existence 
in the city and to toil incessantly. Had it not been 
my custom to run up to see him every Saturday 
aft ernoon and to stop over till Monday morning, 
this particular January Monday morning would not 
have found me afl oat on San Francisco Bay.
Not but that I was afl oat in a safe craft , for the Martinez was a new ferry-steamer, making her fourth 

1 Nietzsche — Фридрих Вильгельм Ницше (1844–
1900), немецкий философ
2 Schopenhauer — Артур Шопенгауэр (1788–1860), 
немецкий философ

or fi ft h trip on the run between Sausalito and San 
Francisco. Th e danger lay in the heavy fog which 
blanketed the bay, and of which, as a landsman, 
I had little apprehension. In fact, I remember the 
placid exaltation with which I took up my position 
on the forward upper deck, directly beneath the 
pilot-house, and allowed the mystery of the fog 
to lay hold of my imagination. A fresh breeze was 
blowing, and for a time I was alone in the moist 
obscurity — yet not alone, for I was dimly conscious 
of the presence of the pilot, and of what I took to be 
the captain, in the glass house above my head.
I remember thinking how comfortable it was, 
this division of labour which made it unnecessary 
for me to study fogs, winds, tides, and navigation, in 
order to visit my friend who lived across an arm of 
the sea. It was good that men should be specialists, 
I mused. Th e peculiar knowledge of the pilot and 
captain sufficed for many thousands of people 
who knew no more of the sea and navigation than 
I knew. On the other hand, instead of having to 
devote my energy to the learning of a multitude 
of things, I concentrated it upon a few particular 
things, such as, for instance, the analysis of Poe1’s 
place in American literature — an essay of mine, 

1 Poe — Эдгар Алан По (1809–1849), американский поэт, критик

by the way, in the current Atlantic. Coming aboard, 
as I passed through the cabin, I had noticed with 
greedy eyes a stout gentleman reading the Atlantic, 
which was open at my very essay. And there it was 
again, the division of labour, the special knowledge 
of the pilot and captain which permitted the stout 
gentleman to read my special knowledge on Poe 
while they carried him safely from Sausalito to San 
Francisco.
A red-faced man, slamming the cabin door behind him and stumping out on the deck, interrupted 
my refl ections, though I made a mental note of the 
topic for use in a projected essay which I had thought 
of calling “Th e Necessity for Freedom: A Plea for 
the Artist.” Th e red-faced man shot a glance up at 
the pilot-house, gazed around at the fog, stumped 
across the deck and back (he evidently had artifi cial 
legs), and stood still by my side, legs wide apart, 
and with an expression of keen enjoyment on his 
face. I was not wrong when I decided that his days 
had been spent on the sea.
“It’s nasty weather like this here that turns heads 
grey before their time,” he said, with a nod toward 
the pilot-house.
“I had not thought there was any particular 
strain,” I answered. “It seems as simple as A, B, C1. 

1 as simple as A, B, C — (разг.) просто, элементарно

Th ey know the direction by compass, the distance, 
and the speed. I should not call it anything more 
than mathematical certainty.”
“Strain!” he snorted. “Simple as A, B, C! Mathematical certainty!”
He seemed to brace himself up and lean backward against the air as he stared at me. “How about 
this here tide that’s rushin’ out through the Golden 
Gate1?” he demanded, or bellowed, rather. “How 
fast is she ebbin’? What’s the drift, eh? Listen to 
that, will you? A bell-buoy, and we’re a-top of it! 
See ’em alterin’ the course!”
From out of the fog came the mournful tolling 
of a bell, and I could see the pilot turning the wheel 
with great rapidity. The bell, which had seemed 
straight ahead, was now sounding from the side. 
Our own whistle was blowing hoarsely, and from 
time to time the sound of other whistles came to us 
from out of the fog.
“Th at’s a ferry-boat of some sort,” the new-comer 
said, indicating a whistle off  to the right. “And there! 
D’ye hear that? Blown by mouth. Some scow schooner, 
most likely. Better watch out, Mr. Schoon er-man. Ah, 
I thought so. Now hell’s a poppin’ for somebody!2”

1 the Golden Gate — Золотые Ворота, пролив между Сан-Франциско и Тихим океаном
2 Now hell’s a poppin’ for somebody! — (разг.) Сейчас кому-то здорово достанется!

The unseen ferry-boat was blowing blast after 
blast, and the mouth-blown horn was tooting in 
terror-stricken fashion.
“And now they’re payin’ their respects to each 
other and tryin’ to get clear,” the red-faced man 
went on, as the hurried whistling ceased.
His face was shining, his eyes flashing with 
excitement as he translated into articulate language 
the speech of the horns and sirens. “Th at’s a steamsiren a-goin’ it over there to the left . And you hear 
that fellow with a frog in his throat — a steam 
schooner as near as I can judge, crawlin’ in from 
the Heads against the tide.”
A shrill little whistle, piping as if gone mad, 
came from directly ahead and from very near at 
hand. Gongs sounded on the Martinez. Our paddlewheels stopped, their pulsing beat died away, and 
then they started again. The shrill little whistle, 
like the chirping of a cricket amid the cries of great 
beasts, shot through the fog from more to the side 
and swift ly grew faint and fainter. I looked to my 
companion for enlightenment.
“One of them dare-devil launches,” he said. “I 
almost wish we’d sunk him, the little rip! Th ey’re 
the cause of more trouble. And what good are they? 
Any jackass gets aboard one and runs it from hell 
to breakfast, blowin’ his whistle to beat the band 
and tellin’ the rest of the world to look out for him, 

because he’s comin’ and can’t look out for himself! 
Because he’s comin’! And you’ve got to look out, 
too! Right of way! Common decency! Th ey don’t 
know the meanin’ of it!”
I felt quite amused at his unwarranted choler, 
and while he stumped indignantly up and down 
I fell to dwelling upon the romance of the fog. 
And romantic it certainly was — the fog, like the 
grey shadow of infi nite mystery, brooding over the 
whirling speck of earth; and men, mere motes of 
light and sparkle, cursed with an insane relish for 
work, riding their steeds of wood and steel through 
the heart of the mystery, groping their way blindly 
through the Unseen, and clamouring and clanging 
in confi dent speech the while their hearts are heavy 
with incertitude and fear.
The voice of my companion brought me back 
to myself with a laugh. I too had been groping and 
fl oundering, the while I thought I rode clear-eyed 
through the mystery.
“Hello! somebody comin’ our way,” he was saying. 
“And d’ye hear that? He’s comin’ fast. Walking right 
along. Guess he don’t hear us yet. Wind’s in wrong 
direction.”
Th e fresh breeze was blowing right down upon 
us, and I could hear the whistle plainly, off  to one 
side and a little ahead.

“Ferry-boat?” I asked.
He nodded, then added, “Or he wouldn’t be 
keepin’ up such a clip.1” He gave a short chuckle. 
“Th ey’re gettin’ anxious up there.”
I glanced up. Th e captain had thrust his head and 
shoulders out of the pilot-house, and was staring 
intently into the fog as though by sheer force of will 
he could penetrate it. His face was anxious, as was 
the face of my companion, who had stumped over 
to the rail and was gazing with a like intentness in 
the direction of the invisible danger.
Then everything happened, and with inconceivable rapidity. Th e fog seemed to break away as 
though split by a wedge, and the bow of a steamboat 
emerged, trailing fog-wreaths on either side like 
seaweed on the snout of Leviathan. I could see 
the pilot-house and a white-bearded man leaning 
partly out of it, on his elbows. He was clad in a blue 
uniform, and I remember noting how trim and quiet 
he was. His quietness, under the circumstances, 
was terrible. He accepted Destiny, marched hand 
in hand with it, and coolly measured the stroke. As 
he leaned there, he ran a calm and speculative eye 
over us, as though to determine the precise point 

1 Or he wouldn’t be keepin’ up such a clip. — (разг.) 
Иначе он не летел бы сломя голову.

of the collision, and took no notice whatever when 
our pilot, white with rage, shouted, “Now you’ve 
done it!”
On looking back, I realize that the remark was 
too obvious to make rejoinder necessary.
“Grab hold of something and hang on,” the redfaced man said to me. All his bluster had gone, and 
he seemed to have caught the contagion of preternatural calm. “And listen to the women scream,” he 
said grimly — almost bitterly, I thought, as though 
he had been through the experience before.
Th e vessels came together before I could follow 
his advice. We must have been struck squarely 
amid ships, for I saw nothing, the strange steamboat 
having passed beyond my line of vision. The 
Martinez heeled over, sharply, and there was a 
crashing and rending of timber. I was thrown fl at 
on the wet deck, and before I could scramble to my 
feet I heard the scream of the women. Th is it was, 
I am certain, — the most indescribable of bloodcurdling sounds, — that threw me into a panic. I 
remembered the life-preservers stored in the cabin, 
but was met at the door and swept backward by 
a wild rush of men and women. What happened 
in the next few minutes I do not recollect, though 
I have a clear remembrance of pulling down lifepreservers from the overhead racks, while the red