Jack London - sea wolf.

Leisure and recreation

Jack London

Sea Wolf

Chapter first

I really don’t know where to start, although sometimes, as a joke, I put all the blame on Charlie Faraseth. He had a summer house in Mill Valley, in the shadow of Mount Tamalpais, but he lived there only in the winter, when he wanted to relax and read Nietzsche or Schopenhauer in his spare time. With the onset of summer, he preferred to languish in the heat and dust in the city and work tirelessly. If I had not been in the habit of visiting him every Saturday and staying until Monday, I would not have had to cross San Francisco Bay on that memorable January morning.

I remember thinking how good it was that there was a division of labor and I didn’t have to study fogs, winds, tides and all the marine science if I wanted to visit a friend living across the bay. It’s good that there are specialists - the helmsman and the captain, I thought, and their professional knowledge serves thousands of people who are no more knowledgeable about the sea and navigation than I am. But I do not spend my energy studying many subjects, but can concentrate it on some special issues, for example, on the role of Edgar Allan Poe in the history of American literature, which, by the way, was the subject of my article published in the latest issue of The Atlantic. Having boarded the ship and looking into the salon, I noted, not without satisfaction, that the issue of “Atlantic” in the hands of some portly gentleman was opened precisely on my article. Here again was the advantage of the division of labor: the special knowledge of the helmsman and the captain gave the portly gentleman the opportunity, while he was being safely transported on the steamer from Sausalito to San Francisco, to become acquainted with the fruits of my special knowledge of Poe.

The saloon door slammed behind me, and a red-faced man stomped across the deck, interrupting my thoughts. And I just managed to mentally outline the topic of my future article, which I decided to call “The Necessity of Freedom. A word in defense of the artist." Red-face glanced at the wheelhouse, looked at the fog that surrounded us, hobbled back and forth across the deck - apparently he had artificial limbs - and stopped next to me, legs wide apart; Bliss was written on his face. I was not mistaken in assuming that he spent his entire life at sea.

“It won’t take long for you to turn gray from such nasty weather!” – he grumbled, nodding towards the wheelhouse.

– Does this create any special difficulties? – I responded. – After all, the task is as simple as two and two make four. The compass indicates the direction, distance and speed are also known. All that remains is simple arithmetic calculation.

- Special difficulties! – the interlocutor snorted. - It’s as simple as two and two are four! Arithmetic calculation.

Leaning back slightly, he looked me up and down.

– What can you say about the ebb that rushes into the Golden Gate? – he asked, or rather barked. – What is the speed of the current? How does he relate? What is this - listen to it! Bell? We're heading straight for the bell buoy! You see, we are changing course.

A mournful ringing came from the fog, and I saw the helmsman quickly turn the wheel. The bell now sounded not in front, but from the side. The hoarse whistle of our steamer could be heard, and from time to time other whistles responded to it.

- Some other steamboat! – the red-faced man noted, nodding to the right, where the beeps were coming from. - And this! Do you hear? They just blow the horn. That's right, some kind of scow. Hey, you there on the scow, don’t yawn! Well, I knew it. Now someone is going to have a blast!

The invisible steamer sounded whistle after whistle, and the horn echoed it, seemingly in terrible confusion.

“Now they have exchanged pleasantries and are trying to disperse,” the red-faced man continued when the alarming beeps died down.

He explained to me what the sirens and horns were shouting to each other, and his cheeks were burning and his eyes were sparkling.

“There’s a steamship siren on the left, and over there, hear that wheezing sound, it must be a steam schooner; it crawls from the entrance to the bay towards the ebb tide.

A shrill whistle raged like one possessed somewhere very close ahead. At Martinez he was answered by striking the gong. The wheels of our steamer stopped, their pulsating beats on the water died down, and then resumed. A piercing whistle, reminiscent of the chirping of a cricket amid the roar of wild animals, now came from the fog, from somewhere to the side, and sounded weaker and weaker. I looked questioningly at my companion.

“Some kind of desperate boat,” he explained. “We really should have sunk it!” They cause a lot of trouble, but who needs them? Some donkey will climb onto such a vessel and rush around the sea, not knowing why, but whistling like crazy. And everyone should move away, because, you see, he’s walking and he doesn’t know how to move away! Rushing forward, and you keep your eyes peeled! Duty to give way! Basic politeness! Yes, they have no idea about this.

This inexplicable anger amused me a lot; While my interlocutor hobbled back and forth indignantly, I again succumbed to the romantic charm of the fog. Yes, this fog undoubtedly had its own romance. Like a gray ghost full of mystery, he hung over the tiny globe spinning in cosmic space. And people, these sparks or specks of dust, driven by an insatiable thirst for activity, rushed on their wooden and steel horses through the very heart of mystery, groping their way through the Invisible, and made noise and shouted arrogantly, while their souls froze from uncertainty and fear !

- Hey! “Someone is coming towards us,” said the red-faced man. - Do you hear, do you hear? It's coming fast and straight towards us. He must not hear us yet. The wind carries.

A fresh breeze blew in our faces, and I clearly distinguished a whistle to the side and a little in front.

- Also a passenger? – I asked.

Red Face nodded.

- Yes, otherwise he wouldn’t have flown so headlong. Our people there are worried! – he chuckled.

I looked up. The captain leaned out chest-deep from the wheelhouse and peered intensely into the fog, as if trying to penetrate through it by force of will. His face expressed concern. And on the face of my companion, who hobbled to the railing and gazed intently towards the invisible danger, anxiety was also written.

Everything happened with incomprehensible speed. The fog spread out to the sides, as if cut by a knife, and the bow of the steamer appeared in front of us, dragging wisps of fog behind it, like Leviathan - seaweed. I saw the wheelhouse and a white-bearded old man leaning out of it. He was dressed in a blue uniform that fit him very smartly, and I remember being amazed at how calm he was. His calmness under these circumstances seemed terrible. He submitted to fate, walked towards it and waited with complete composure for the blow. He looked at us coldly and thoughtfully, as if calculating where the collision should take place, and did not pay any attention to the furious cry of our helmsman: “We have distinguished ourselves!”

Looking back, I understand that the helmsman’s exclamation did not require an answer.

“Get hold of something and hold on tight,” the red-faced man told me.

All his enthusiasm left him, and he seemed to be infected with the same supernatural calm.

Chapter I

I don't know how or where to start. Sometimes, as a joke, I blame Charlie Faraseth for everything that happened. He had a summer house in Mill Valley, in the shadow of Mount Tamalpai, but he came there only in the winter and relaxed by reading Nietzsche and Schopenhauer. And in the summer he preferred to evaporate in the dusty stuffiness of the city, straining himself from work.

If it had not been for my habit of visiting him every Saturday at noon and staying with him until the following Monday morning, this extraordinary Monday morning in January would not have found me in the waves of San Francisco Bay.

And this did not happen because I boarded a bad ship; no, the Martinez was a new steamboat and was only making its fourth or fifth voyage between Sausalito and San Francisco. The danger lurked in the thick fog that enveloped the bay and about the treachery of which I, as a land dweller, knew little.

I remember the calm joy with which I sat down on the upper deck, near the pilot house, and how the fog captured my imagination with its mystery.

A fresh sea wind was blowing, and for some time I was alone in the damp darkness, however, not entirely alone, since I vaguely felt the presence of the pilot and who I took to be the captain in the glass house above my head.

I remember how I thought then about the convenience of the division of labor, which made it unnecessary for me to study fogs, winds, currents and all marine science if I wanted to visit a friend living on the other side of the bay. “It’s good that people are divided into specialties,” I thought half asleep. The knowledge of the pilot and captain relieved the worries of several thousand people who knew no more about the sea and navigation than I did. On the other hand, instead of expending my energy on studying many things, I could concentrate it on a few and more important ones, for example, on analyzing the question: what place does the writer Poe occupy in American literature? - by the way, the topic of my article in the latest issue of Atlantic magazine.

When, boarding the ship, I passed through the cabin, I was pleased to notice a plump man reading The Atlantic, which was opened right on my article. Here again there was a division of labor: the special knowledge of the pilot and the captain allowed the stout gentleman, while he was being transported from Sausalito to San Francisco, to become acquainted with my special knowledge of the writer Poe.

Some red-faced passenger, loudly slamming the cabin door behind him and going out onto the deck, interrupted my thoughts, and I only managed to note in my brain the topic for a future article entitled: “The need for freedom. A word in defense of the artist."

The red-faced man glanced at the pilot's box, looked intently at the fog, hobbled loudly up and down the deck (he apparently had artificial limbs) and stood next to me, legs spread wide, with an expression of obvious pleasure on his face. face. I was not mistaken when I decided that his whole life was spent at sea.

“This nasty weather inevitably turns people gray before their time,” he said, nodding at the pilot standing in his booth.

“I didn’t think that special tension was required here,” I answered, “it seems that it’s as simple as two and two making four.” They know compass direction, distance and speed. All this is as precise as mathematics.

- Direction! - he objected. - Simple as two and two; exactly like mathematics! “He stood firmer on his feet and leaned back to look at me point-blank.

– What do you think about this current that is now rushing through the Golden Gate? Are you familiar with the power of low tide? - he asked. - Look how quickly the schooner is moving. You hear the buoy ringing, and we're heading straight for it. Look, they have to change course.

The mournful ringing of bells rushed out of the fog, and I saw the pilot quickly turn the wheel. The bell, which seemed to be somewhere right in front of us, was now ringing from the side. Our own whistle sounded hoarsely, and from time to time the whistles of other steamers reached us through the fog.

“This must be a passenger,” said the newcomer, drawing my attention to the horn that came from the right. - And there, do you hear? This is being said through a bullhorn, probably from a flat-bottomed schooner. Yes, that's what I thought! Hey you, on the schooner! Keep your eyes open! Well, now one of them will crackle.

The invisible ship emitted whistle after whistle, and the speaker sounded as if struck by horror.

“And now they exchange greetings and try to disperse,” the red-faced man continued when the alarmed beeps stopped.

His face shone and his eyes sparkled with excitement as he translated all these signals of horns and sirens into human language.

- And this is the siren of a ship heading to the left. Do you hear this fellow with a frog in his throat? This is a steam schooner, as far as I can judge, crawling against the current.

A shrill, thin whistle, screeching as if it had gone mad, was heard ahead, very close to us. The gongs sounded on Martinez. Our wheels stopped. Their pulsating beats died down and then began again. A screeching whistle, like the chirping of a cricket among the roars of large animals, came from the fog to the side, and then began to sound fainter and fainter.

I looked at my interlocutor, wanting clarification.

“This is one of those devilishly desperate longboats,” he said. “I might even want to drown this shell.” These are the people who cause all sorts of troubles. What's the use of them? Every scoundrel gets on such a longboat and drives it to the tail and the mane. He whistles desperately, wanting to get past others, and beeps to the whole world to avoid him. He himself cannot protect himself. And you have to keep your eyes open. Get out of my way! This is the most basic decency. And they just don’t know this.

I was amused by his incomprehensible anger, and while he hobbled back and forth indignantly, I admired the romantic fog. And it really was romantic, this fog, like a gray ghost of an endless mystery - a fog that enveloped the shores in clouds. And people, these sparks, possessed by a crazy desire for work, rushed through it on their steel and wooden horses, piercing the very heart of its secrets, blindly making their way through the invisible and calling to each other in careless chatter, while their hearts squeezed with uncertainty and fear. My companion's voice and laughter brought me back to reality. I, too, groped and stumbled, believing that with open and clear eyes I was walking through a mystery.

- Hello! “Someone is crossing our path,” he said. - You hear? It's going at full speed. Coming straight at us. He probably doesn't hear us yet. Carried away by the wind.

A fresh breeze blew in our faces, and I could already clearly hear a whistle from the side, somewhat ahead of us.

- Passenger? – I asked.

– I don’t really want to hit him! – He chuckled mockingly. - And we got into trouble.

I looked up. The captain stuck his head and shoulders out of the pilot house and peered into the fog, as if he could pierce it with willpower. His face expressed the same concern as the face of my companion, who approached the railing and looked with intense attention towards the invisible danger.

Then everything happened with incomprehensible speed. The fog suddenly cleared, as if split by a wedge, and the skeleton of a steamship emerged from it, dragging behind it on both sides wisps of fog, like algae on the trunk of Leviathan. I saw a pilot house and a man with a white beard leaning out of it. He was dressed in a blue uniform jacket, and I remember that he seemed handsome and calm to me. His calmness under these circumstances was even scary. He met his fate, walked with it hand in hand, calmly measuring its blow. Leaning over, he looked at us without any anxiety, with an attentive gaze, as if wanting to determine with precision the place where we were supposed to collide, and did not pay absolutely any attention when our pilot, pale with rage, shouted:

- Well, rejoice, you did your job!

Looking back, I see that the remark was so true that one could hardly expect any objections to it.

“Grab onto something and hang,” the red-faced man turned to me. All his ardor disappeared, and he seemed to have become infected with a supernatural calm.

“Listen to the women screaming,” he continued gloomily, almost angrily, and it seemed to me that he had once experienced a similar incident.

The steamers collided before I could follow his advice. We must have received a blow to the very center, because I no longer saw anything: the alien ship disappeared from my circle of vision. The Martinez tilted steeply, and then there was the sound of the hull being torn apart. I was thrown backwards onto the wet deck and barely had time to jump to my feet when I heard the pitiful cries of the women. I am sure that it was these indescribable, blood-curdling sounds that infected me with general panic. I remembered the lifebelt hidden in my cabin, but at the door I was met and thrown back by a wild stream of men and women. What happened over the next few minutes I was completely unable to figure out, although I clearly remember that I was pulling life preservers down from the top railing, and a red-faced passenger was helping put them on to the hysterically screaming women. The memory of this picture remains clearer and more distinct in my mind than anything in my entire life.

This is how the scene played out that I see in front of me to this day.

The jagged edges of a hole formed in the side of the cabin, through which gray fog rushed in in swirling clouds; empty soft seats, on which lay evidence of a sudden flight: bags, hand bags, umbrellas, packages; a plump gentleman who had read my article, and now wrapped in cork and canvas, still with the same magazine in his hands, asking me with monotonous insistence whether I thought there was danger; a red-faced passenger hobbling bravely on his artificial legs and throwing lifebelts on everyone passing by, and, finally, a bedlam of women howling in despair.

The screaming of the women got on my nerves the most. The same thing, apparently, depressed the red-faced passenger, because there is another picture in front of me, which will also never be erased from my memory. The fat gentleman puts the magazine in the pocket of his coat and looks around strangely, as if with curiosity. A huddled crowd of women with distorted pale faces and open mouths screams like a choir of lost souls; and the red-faced passenger, now with a purple face from anger and with his arms raised above his head, as if he were about to throw thunder arrows, shouts:

- Shut up! Stop it, finally!

I remember that this scene made me suddenly laugh, and the next moment I realized that I was becoming hysterical; these women, full of fear of death and not wanting to die, were close to me, like mothers, like sisters.

And I remember that the screams they made suddenly reminded me of pigs under a butcher’s knife, and the similarity, with its brightness, horrified me. Women, capable of the most beautiful feelings and the most tender affections, now stood with their mouths open and screamed at the top of their lungs. They wanted to live, they were helpless, like rats caught in a trap, and they all screamed.

The horror of this scene drove me to the upper deck. I felt sick and sat down on the bench. I vaguely saw and heard people screaming and rushing past me towards the lifeboats, trying to lower them on their own. It was exactly the same as what I had read in books when similar scenes were described. The blocks were torn down. Everything was out of order. We managed to lower one boat, but it was leaking; overloaded with women and children, it filled with water and capsized. The other boat was lowered at one end and the other was stuck on a block. No traces of the alien steamer that had caused the misfortune were visible: I heard them say that, in any case, he should send his boats after us.

I went down to the lower deck. The Martinez was quickly sinking, and it was clear that the end was near. Many passengers began to throw themselves into the sea overboard. Others, in the water, begged to be taken back. Nobody paid any attention to them. We heard screams that we were drowning. Panic began, which gripped me, and I, with a whole stream of other bodies, rushed overboard. How I flew over it, I definitely don’t know, although I understood at that very moment why those who rushed into the water before me wanted so badly to return to the top. The water was painfully cold. When I plunged into it, it was as if I was burned by fire, and at the same time the cold penetrated me to the marrow of my bones. It was like a fight with death. I gasped from the sharp pain in my lungs underwater until the lifebelt carried me back to the surface of the sea. There was a taste of salt in my mouth, and something was squeezing my throat and chest.

But the worst thing was the cold. I felt that I could only live for a few minutes. People were fighting for their lives around me; many went to the bottom. I heard them cry for help and heard the splash of oars. Obviously, someone else's ship nevertheless lowered its boats. Time passed and I was amazed that I was still alive. I had not lost sensation in the lower half of my body, but a chilling numbness enveloped my heart and crept into it.

Small waves with evilly foaming crests rolled over me, flooded my mouth and increasingly caused attacks of suffocation. The sounds around me became indistinct, although I still heard the last, despairing cry of the crowd in the distance: I now knew that the Martinez had gone down. Later—how much later, I don’t know—I came to my senses from the horror that had overwhelmed me. I was alone. I heard no more cries for help. All that could be heard was the sound of the waves, fantastically rising and shimmering in the fog. Panic in a crowd, united by some commonality of interests, is not as terrible as fear in solitude, and this is the fear I now experienced. Where was the current taking me? The red-faced passenger said that the ebb tide was rushing through the Golden Gate. So I was being carried out into the open ocean? And the lifebelt I was wearing? Couldn't it burst and fall apart every minute? I have heard that belts are sometimes made from plain paper and dry reeds; they soon become saturated with water and lose their ability to stick to the surface. And I couldn't swim even one foot without it. And I was alone, rushing somewhere among the gray primeval elements. I admit that I was overcome by madness: I began to scream loudly, as the women had screamed before, and pounded the water with my numb hands.

How long this lasted, I don’t know, because oblivion came to the rescue, from which no more memories remain than from an alarming and painful dream. When I came to my senses, it seemed to me that centuries had passed. Almost above my head, the bow of some ship emerged from the fog, and three triangular sails, one above the other, bulged tightly from the wind. Where the bow cut the water, the sea boiled with foam and gurgled, and it seemed that I was in the very path of the ship. I tried to scream, but from weakness I could not make a single sound. The nose dived down, almost touching me, and splashed me with a stream of water. Then the long black side of the ship began to slide past so close that I could touch it with my hand. I tried to reach it, with mad determination to cling to the wood with my nails, but my hands were heavy and lifeless. Again I tried to scream, but as unsuccessfully as the first time.

Then the stern of the ship rushed past me, now falling and now rising in the depressions between the waves, and I saw a man standing at the helm, and another who seemed to be doing nothing and only smoking a cigar. I saw smoke coming out of his mouth as he slowly turned his head and looked over the water in my direction. It was a careless, aimless look - this is how a person looks in moments of complete peace, when no next thing awaits him, and the thought lives and works on its own.

But in this look there was life and death for me. I saw that the ship was about to sink in the fog, I saw the back of the sailor standing at the helm, and the head of another man slowly turning in my direction, I saw how his gaze fell on the water and accidentally touched me. There was such an absent expression on his face, as if he were busy with some deep thought, and I was afraid that even if his eyes glanced over me, he still wouldn’t see me. But his gaze suddenly stopped straight at me. He looked closely and noticed me, because he immediately jumped up to the helm, pushed the helmsman away and began to turn the wheel with both hands, shouting some command. It seemed to me that the ship changed direction, disappearing into the fog.

I felt myself losing consciousness and tried to exert all my willpower not to succumb to the dark oblivion that enveloped me. A little later I heard the sounds of oars on the water, coming closer and closer, and someone’s exclamations. And then, very close, I heard someone shout: “Why the hell aren’t you responding?” I realized that this applied to me, but oblivion and darkness consumed me.

Chapter II

It seemed to me that I was swaying in the majestic rhythm of cosmic space. Sparkling points of light rushed near me. I knew that these were the stars and a bright comet that accompanied my flight. As I reached the limit of my swing and was preparing to fly back, the sounds of a large gong were heard. For an immeasurable period, in the flow of calm centuries, I enjoyed my terrible flight, trying to comprehend it. But some change happened in my dream - I told myself that this was apparently a dream. The swings became shorter and shorter. I was thrown around with annoying speed. I could hardly catch my breath, I was being tossed so violently through the heavens. The gong rattled more and more loudly. I was already waiting for him with indescribable fear. Then it began to seem to me as if I was being dragged along sand, white, heated by the sun. This caused unbearable agony. My skin burned as if it were being burned on fire. The gong sounded like a death knell. The luminous points flowed in an endless stream, as if the entire star system was pouring into the void. I was gasping for breath, painfully catching air, and suddenly opened my eyes. Two people, kneeling, were doing something to me. The powerful rhythm that rocked me to and fro was the rise and fall of a ship in the sea as it rolled. The gong monster was a frying pan hanging on the wall. She rumbled and strummed with every shake of the ship on the waves. The rough sand that tore through my body turned out to be tough male hands rubbing my naked chest. I screamed in pain and raised my head. My chest was raw and red, and I could see droplets of blood on the inflamed skin.

“Well, okay, Jonson,” said one of the men. “Don’t you see how we skinned this gentleman?”

The man they called Jonson, a heavy Scandinavian type of man, stopped rubbing me and awkwardly rose to his feet. The person speaking to him was obviously a true Londoner, a real Cockney, with pretty, almost feminine features. He, of course, absorbed the sounds of the bells of Bow Church along with his mother's milk. The dirty linen cap on his head and the dirty sack tied to his thin hips instead of an apron indicated that he was a cook in that dirty ship's kitchen where I regained consciousness.

- How do you feel, sir, now? - he asked with a searching smile, which is developed over a number of generations receiving tips.

Instead of answering, I sat down with difficulty and, with the help of Ionson, tried to get to my feet. The rattling and banging of the frying pan scratched my nerves. I couldn't collect my thoughts. Leaning against the wooden paneling of the kitchen - I must admit that the layer of lard that covered it made me grit my teeth tightly - I walked past a row of boiling pots, reached the restless frying pan, unhooked it and threw it with pleasure into the coal bin.

The cook grinned at this display of nervousness and thrust a steaming mug into my hands.

“Now, sir,” he said, “this will be to your advantage.”

There was a sickening mixture in the mug - ship's coffee - but its warmth turned out to be life-giving. Swallowing the brew, I looked at my raw and bleeding chest, then turned to the Scandinavian:

“Thank you, Mr. Jonson,” I said, “but don’t you think your measures were a little heroic?”

He understood my reproach more by my movements than by words, and, raising his palm, began to examine it. She was covered in hard calluses all over. I ran my hand over the horny protrusions, and my teeth clenched again as I felt their terrifying hardness.

“My name is Johnson, not Jonson,” he said in very good, although slowly accented, English, with a barely audible accent.

A slight protest flashed in his light blue eyes, and they also shone with frankness and masculinity, which immediately placed me in his favor.

“Thank you, Mr. Johnson,” I corrected myself and extended my hand to shake.

He hesitated, awkward and shy, stepped from one foot to the other and then shook my hand firmly and heartily.

“Do you have any dry clothes that I could wear?” – I turned to the cook.

“It will be found,” he answered with cheerful liveliness. “Now I’ll run downstairs and rummage through my dowry, if you, sir, of course, don’t disdain to put on my things.”

He jumped out of the kitchen door, or rather, slid out of it with the agility and softness of a cat: he slid silently, as if coated with oil. These gentle movements, as I was later to notice, were the most characteristic feature of his person.

- Where I am? - I asked Johnson, whom I correctly took to be a sailor. – What kind of ship is this, and where is it going?

“We have left the Farallon Islands, heading approximately southwest,” he answered slowly and methodically, as if groping for expressions in his best English and trying not to get confused in the order of my questions. – The schooner “Ghost” is following the seals towards Japan.

- Who is the captain? I should see him as soon as I get changed.

Johnson became embarrassed and looked worried. He did not dare answer until he consulted his dictionary and composed a complete answer in his mind.

– Captain – Wolf Larsen, at least that’s what everyone calls him. I've never heard it called anything else. But talk to him more kindly. He's not himself today. His assistant...

But he didn't graduate. The cook slid into the kitchen as if on skates.

“Shouldn’t you get out of here as quickly as possible, Jonson,” he said. “Perhaps the old man will miss you on the deck.” Don't make him angry today.

Johnson obediently headed for the door, encouraging me behind the cook's back with an amusingly solemn and somewhat ominous wink, as if to emphasize his interrupted remark that I needed to behave more gently with the captain.

On the cook’s arm hung a crumpled and worn robe of a rather vile appearance, giving off some kind of sour smell.

“The dress was laid out wet, sir,” he deigned to explain. “But you’ll manage somehow until I dry your clothes on the fire.”

Leaning on the wooden lining, constantly stumbling from the ship's pitching, I, with the help of the cook, put on a rough woolen sweatshirt. At that very moment my body shrank and ached from the prickly touch. The cook noticed my involuntary twitches and grimaces and grinned.

“I hope, sir, that you will never have to wear such clothes again.” You have amazingly soft skin, softer than a lady’s; I have never seen one like yours before. I immediately realized that you are a true gentleman the first minute I saw you here.

From the very beginning I did not like him, and while he helped me dress, my antipathy towards him grew. There was something repulsive about his touch. I shrank under his hands, my body was indignant. And therefore, and especially because of the smells from the various pots that were boiling and gurgling on the stove, I was in a hurry to get out into the fresh air as soon as possible. In addition, I needed to see the captain to discuss with him how to land me on shore.

A cheap paper shirt with a torn collar and a faded chest and with something else that I took to be old traces of blood was put on me amid a stream of apologies and explanations that did not stop for one minute. My feet were in rough work boots, and my trousers were pale blue, faded, and one leg was ten inches shorter than the other. The shortened trouser leg made one think that the devil was trying to grab the cook’s soul through it and caught the shadow instead of the essence.

– Who should I thank for this courtesy? – I asked, putting on all these rags. On my head was a tiny boy's cap, and instead of a jacket I had a dirty striped jacket that ended above the waist, with sleeves reaching to the elbows.

The cook stood up respectfully with a searching smile. I could have sworn he was expecting a tip from me. Subsequently, I became convinced that this pose was unconscious: it was servility inherited from my ancestors.

“Mugridge, sir,” he shuffled, his feminine features breaking into an oily smile. - Thomas Mugridge, sir, at your service.

“Okay, Thomas,” I continued, “when my clothes are dry, I won’t forget you.”

A soft light spread across his face, and his eyes sparkled, as if somewhere deep down his ancestors stirred in him vague memories of tips received in previous existences.

“Thank you, sir,” he said respectfully.

The door opened silently, he deftly slid to the side, and I went out onto the deck.

I still felt weak after swimming for a long time. A gust of wind hit me, and I hobbled along the swaying deck to the corner of the cabin, clinging to it so as not to fall. Heeling heavily, the schooner sank and rose on the long Pacific wave. If the schooner was heading, as Johnson said, to the southwest, then the wind, in my opinion, was blowing from the south. The fog disappeared and the sun appeared, sparkling on the wavering surface of the sea. I looked to the east, where I knew California was, but saw nothing but low-lying layers of fog, the same fog that, no doubt, was the cause of the wreck of the Martinez and plunged me into my present state. To the north, not very far from us, a group of bare rocks rose above the sea; on one of them I noticed a lighthouse. In the southwest, almost in the same direction in which we were going, I saw the vague outlines of the triangular sails of some ship.

Having finished scanning the horizon, I turned my eyes to what surrounded me nearby. My first thought was that a man who had suffered a crash and touched death shoulder to shoulder deserved more attention than I was given here. Except for the sailor at the steering wheel, who looked at me with curiosity through the roof of the cabin, no one paid any attention to me.

Everyone seemed interested in what was happening amidships. There, on the hatch, a heavy man was lying on his back. He was dressed, but his shirt was torn in the front. However, his skin was not visible: his chest was almost completely covered with a mass of black hair, similar to the fur of a dog. His face and neck were hidden under a black and gray beard, which would probably have looked coarse and bushy if it had not been stained with something sticky and if water had not been dripping from it. His eyes were closed and he appeared to be unconscious; her mouth was wide open and her chest was heaving heavily, as if she was short of air; breath rushed out noisily. One sailor from time to time, methodically, as if doing the most familiar thing, lowered a canvas bucket on a rope into the ocean, pulled it out, intercepting the rope with his hands, and poured water on the man lying motionless.

Walking up and down the deck, fiercely chewing the end of a cigar, was the same man whose casual glance had saved me from the depths of the sea. His height was apparently five feet ten inches, or half an inch more, but it was not his height that struck you, but the extraordinary strength that you felt the first time you looked at him. Although he had broad shoulders and a high chest, I would not call him massive: he felt the strength of hardened muscles and nerves, which we usually tend to attribute to people who are dry and thin; and in him this strength, thanks to his heavy build, resembled something like the strength of a gorilla. And at the same time, in appearance he did not at all resemble a gorilla. What I'm trying to say is that his strength was something beyond his physical characteristics. This was the power that we attribute to ancient, simplified times, which we are accustomed to connect with the primitive creatures that lived in the trees and were akin to us; it is a free, fierce force, a mighty quintessence of life, a primitive power that gives birth to movement, that primary essence that molds the forms of life - in short, that vitality that makes the body of a snake wriggle when its head is cut off and the snake is dead, or that languishes in the clumsy body of a turtle, causing it to jump and tremble at the slightest touch of a finger.

I felt such strength in this man walking back and forth. He stood firmly on his feet, his feet confidently walking along the deck; every movement of his muscles, no matter what he did - whether he shrugged his shoulders or pressed his lips tightly together while holding a cigar - was decisive and seemed to be born of excessive and overflowing energy. However, this force, which permeated his every movement, was only a hint of another, even greater force that lay dormant in him and only stirred from time to time, but could wake up at any moment and be terrible and swift, like the rage of a lion or a destructive gust of a storm.

The cook stuck his head out of the kitchen doors, grinned encouragingly, and pointed his finger at a man walking up and down the deck. I was given to understand that this was the captain, or, in the cook’s language, “the old man,” exactly the person whom I needed to disturb with a request to put me ashore. I had already stepped forward to put an end to what, according to my assumptions, should have caused a storm for about five minutes, but at that moment a terrible paroxysm of suffocation took possession of the unfortunate man lying on his back. He bent over and writhed in convulsions. The chin with a wet black beard jutted out even more upward, the back arched, and the chest swelled in an instinctive effort to capture as much air as possible. The skin under his beard and all over his body—I knew it, although I couldn’t see it—was turning purple.

The captain, or Wolf Larsen, as those around him called him, stopped walking and looked at the dying man. This last struggle of life with death was so cruel that the sailor stopped pouring water and stared curiously at the dying man, while the canvas bucket half shrunk and the water poured out of it onto the deck. The dying man, having knocked out the dawn on the hatch with his heels, stretched out his legs and froze in the last great tension; only the head was still moving from side to side. Then the muscles relaxed, the head stopped moving, and a sigh of deep reassurance escaped from his chest. The jaw dropped, the upper lip lifted and revealed two rows of teeth, darkened by tobacco. It seemed that his facial features were frozen in a devilish grin at the world he had abandoned and fooled.

Float made of wood, iron or copper, spheroidal or cylindrical in shape. The buoys enclosing the fairway are equipped with a bell.

Leviathan - in ancient Hebrew and medieval legends, a demonic creature writhing in a ring.

The ancient church of St. Mary-Bow, or simply Bow-church, in the central part of London - City; all who were born in the quarter near this church, where the sound of its bells can be heard, are considered the most authentic Londoners, who in England are mockingly called "Sospeu."

Novel "Sea Wolf"- one of the most famous “sea” works of the American writer Jack London. Behind the external features of adventure romance in the novel "Sea Wolf" hidden is a criticism of the militant individualism of the “strong man”, his contempt for people, based on a blind belief in himself as an exceptional person - a belief that can sometimes cost his life.

Novel "The Sea Wolf" by Jack London was published in 1904. The action of the novel "Sea Wolf" occurs at the end of the 19th - beginning of the 20th century in the Pacific Ocean. Humphrey Van Weyden, a San Francisco resident and famous literary critic, goes to visit his friend on a ferry across Golden Gate Bay and ends up in a shipwreck. He is saved by the sailors of the "Ghost" boat, led by the captain, whom everyone on board calls Wolf Larsen.

According to the plot of the novel "Sea Wolf" main character Wolf Larsen, on a small schooner with a crew of 22 people, goes to harvest fur seal skins in the North Pacific Ocean and takes Van Weyden with him, despite his desperate protests. Ship captain Wolf Larson is a tough, strong, uncompromising person. Having become a simple sailor on a ship, Van Weyden has to do all the grunt work, but he can cope with all the difficult trials, he is helped by love in the person of a girl who was also rescued during a shipwreck. On a ship, subject to physical force and authority Wolf Larsen, the captain immediately punishes him severely for any offense. However, the captain favors Van Weyden, starting with the assistant cook, “Hump” as he nicknamed him Wolf Larsen makes a career up to the position of chief mate, although at first he knows nothing about maritime affairs. Wolf Larsen and Van Weyden find common ground in the fields of literature and philosophy, which are not alien to them, and the captain has a small library on board, where Van Weyden discovered Browning and Swinburne. And in my free time Wolf Lasren optimizes navigation calculations.

The crew of the "Ghost" pursues the Navy SEALs and picks up another company of victims, including a woman - the poet Maude Brewster. At first glance, the hero of the novel "Sea Wolf" Humphrey is attracted to Maud. They decide to escape from the Phantom. Having captured a boat with a small supply of food, they flee, and after several weeks of wandering around the ocean, they find land and land on a small island, which they called the Island of Efforts. Since they have no opportunity to leave the island, they are preparing for a long winter.

The broken schooner "Ghost" is washed up on the island of Efforts, on board of which it turns out Wolf Larsen, blind due to progressive brain disease. According to the story Wolf his crew rebelled against the captain's arbitrariness and fled to another ship to their mortal enemy Wolf Larsen to his brother named Death Larsen, so the “Ghost” with broken masts drifted in the ocean until it washed up on the Island of Effort. By the will of fate, it was on this island that the captain became blind Wolf Larsen discovers the seal rookery he has been looking for all his life. Maude and Humphrey, at the cost of incredible efforts, restore the Phantom in order and take it out to the open sea. Wolf Larsen, who successively loses all his senses along with his vision, is paralyzed and dies. At the moment when Maud and Humphrey finally discover a rescue ship in the ocean, they confess their love to each other.

In the novel "Sea Wolf" Jack London demonstrates a perfect knowledge of seamanship, navigation and sailing rigging, which he gleaned from the days when he worked as a sailor on a fishing vessel in his youth. into a novel "Sea Wolf" Jack London invested all his love for the sea element. His landscapes in the novel "Sea Wolf" amaze the reader with the skill of their description, as well as with their truthfulness and magnificence.