Jack london (1876–1916)

J. London was born in San-Francisco. His father, an astrologer, didn’t want to see his son that’s why a boy was brought up in the family of a farmer John London. Later Jack took his surname.

In 1890 Jack London finished his school and began to work at the factory. Then he would be a newspaper seller, a driver, a sailor and a docker.

In 1896 he entered the California University in Berkley. He wrote his first short stories and notes. At that time he became a member of the Socialist party. In 1897 he went to Alaska and spent there the whole winter. After returning from Alaska his first book of short stories “The son of a wolf” was published. And this book made Jack London a world famous writer. Later he wrote many novels but “Martin Eden” was the most outstanding one.

Jack London died in California in 1916.

“MARTIN EDEN”

Martin left his sister's house and rented a small room in which he lived, slept, studied, wrote and kept house. Before the one window, looking out on the tiny front porch, was the kitchen table that served as desk, library, and typewriting stand. The bed, against the rear wall, occupied two-thirds of the total space of the room. A bureau stood in the corner; and in the opposite corner was the kitchen - the oil-stove on a box inside of which were dishes and cooking utensils, a shelf on the wall for provisions, and a bucket of water on the floor. Over the bed, hoisted to the ceiling, was his bicycle.

Day by day he worked on, and day by day the postman delivered to hirn rejected manuscripts. He had no money for stamps, so the manuscripts accumulated under the table. There came a day when for forty hours he had not tasted food. He could not hope for a meal at Ruth's, for she was away on a two weeks' visit. So he went down into Oakland, and came back without his overcoat, but with five dollars in his pocket.

Later on he pawned his watch, and still later his bicycle, reducing the amount available for food by putting stamps on all his manuscripts and sending them out. He was dissapointed with the work he was doing. Nobody cared to buy. He compared it with what he found in the newspapers, weeklies, and cheap magazines, and decided that his was better, far better, than the average. He reached stages of despair wherein he doubted if editors existed at all.

The hours he spent with Ruth were the only happy ones he had, and they were not all happy, for time was flying, and he was achieving nothing. Again, he was always conscious of the fact that she did not approve of what he was doing. She did not say directly, yet indirectly she let him understand it as clearly and definitely as she could have spoken it. What was great and strong in him she misunderstood.

Martin's landlady Maria Silva was poor. She knew Martin was poor too. She saw him leave the house with his overcoat and return without it, though the day was chill and raw. In the same way she had seen his bicycle and watch go.

Likewise she watched his toils, and knew the measure of the midnight oil he burned. Work! She knew that he outdid her, though his work was of a different order.

Martin toiled on, miserable and hopeless. He began to think he would have to go to work. In doing this he would satisfy everybody - the grocer, his sister, Ruth and even Maria, to whom he owed a month's room rent. It was at this time that the postman brought him one morning a short thin envelope. Martin glanced at the upper left-hand corner and read the name and address of the "Transcontinental Monthly". His heart gave a great leap, and he suddenly felt faint. He staggered into his room and sat down on the bed, the envelope still unopened, and in that moment he understood how people suddenly fall dead upon receiving extraordinary good news. ^r

But when he tore the envelope open he found no cheque. In trembling haste he drew out a typewritten letter and read it. The sheet slid from his hand and he lay back on the pillow.

Five dollars for "The Ring of Bells" - five dollars for five thousand words! Instead of two cents a word, ten words for a cent! And the editor praised it, too. And he would receive the cheque when the story was published.

Five dollars for five thousand words, ten words for a cent, the market price of art! So the other high rewards of writers that he had read about must be lies too. Well, he would never write another line. He would do what Ruth wanted him to do - get a job.

The reaction of nineteen hours a day for many days was-strong upon him. He shivered and was aware of an aching in his bones. The small of his back ached especially. His head ached - the top of it ached, the back of it ached, the brains inside of it ached, and seemed to be swelling, while the ache over his brows was intolerable.

After what seemed a very long time, he heard a knock at the door, and Maria's voice asking if he was sick. He was surprised when he noted the darkness of the night in the room. He had received the letter at two in the afternoon; and he realized that he was sick.

At two in the morning, Maria, having heard his groans through the thin partition, came into his room, to put hot flat-irons against his body and damp cloths upon his aching eyes.

Martin Eden did not go out in the morning. He was not used to sickness, but when he tried to get up and dress, he found himself unable to do so.

It seemed a lifetime since he had received that letter from the "Transcontinental" – a lifetime since it was all over and done with and a new page turned. If he hadn't starved himself, he wouldn't have been caught by the grippe.

Two days later, having eaten an egg and two slices of toast and drunk a cup of tea, he asked for his mail, but found his eyes still hurt too much to permit him to read.

So Teresa Silva, aged nine, opened his letters and read them to him.

"We offer you forty dollars for your story," Teresa slowly spelled out, "provided you allow us to make the alterations suggested."

"What magazine is that?" Martin shouted. "Here, give it to me."

He could see to read now, and he did not feel the pain of the action. It was the "White Mouse" that was offering him forty dollars, and the story was "The Whirlpool!", one of his early stories. He read the letter through again and again. If they could cut the story down one-third, they would take it, and send him forty dollars on receiving his answer.

He called for pen and ink, and told the editor to cut the story down three-thirds if he wanted to, and send the forty dollars right along.

He also wrote to Ruth, and told her that he had been sick, but was now nearly well.

ASSIGNMENTS

1. Answer the questions.

1. What kind of a room did Martin rent?

2. What was his room furnished with?

3. What was Martin Eden?

4. What did he have to do to buy the stamps on all his manuscripts for sending them out?

5. What did Martin think about his manuscripts?

6. When did the postman bring him a short thin envelope?

7. Why didn’t Martin open the envelope immediately?

8. Did he rest satisfied after having read the letter?

9. Why did Martin fall ill?

10. What was the good news that Teresa Silva had read?

11. What magazine offered him forty dollars for one of his early stories?

12. What were the terms of the publishing of that story asked by the editor?

13. Did Martin accept the terms?

2. Make your own sentences with the words and words combinations given below.

1. to pawn smth. 5. tiny

2. to toil on 6. against the rear wall

3. to praise smb. 7. to reject manuscripts

4. to starve oneself 8. to reduce the amount available for

3. Complete the sentences.

1. Martin rented a small room …

2. Day by day he worked …

3. He pawned his watch …

4. … and decided his was better …

5. The postman brought him …

6. He staggered into his room …

7. He was not used to sickness …

8. It seemed a lifetime since …

9. He told the editor …

4. Summarize the text.

5. Tell about your ideas on Martin’s future career of a writer.