"Alexander Green - Crimson Sails" - читать интересную книгу автора (Green Alexander)

in the back yards of the castle which had once, in times of yore, been of
strategic use. These vast, empty lots with the remains of deep moats and
moss-covered stone cellars were overgrown with weeds, nettles, briars,
blackthorn and shy bright wildflowers. Gray would spend hours here,
exploring mole burrows, battling weeds, stalking butterflies and building
fortresses of broken bricks, which he then shelled with sticks and stones.
He was going on twelve when all the implications of his soul, all the
separate traits of his spirit and shades of secret impulses were brought
together in a single powerful surge and, having in this way acquired a
harmonious expression, became an indomitable desire. Until then he
seemed to have found but disparate parts of his garden--a sunny spot,
shadow, a flower, a great dark trunk--in the many other gardens and
suddenly saw them clearly, all -- in magnificent, astonishing accord.
This happened in the library. The tall door topped by a murky fanlight
was usually locked, but the latch fit the mortise loosely and when pressed
hard, the door would give, buckle and open. When the spirit of adventure
urged Gray to make his way into the library he was amazed at the dusty
light, whose effect and peculiarity were created by the coloured design of
the leaded fanlight. The stillness of desertion lay upon everything here as
on water in a pond. Here and there dark rows of bookcases adjoined the
windows, blocking them halfway; there were aisles between the bookcases
which were piled high with volumes. Here was an open album from which
the centre pages had slipped out; over there were some scrolls tied with
gold cord, stacks of sombre-looking books, thick layers of manuscripts, a
mound of miniature volumes which cracked like bark if they were opened;
here were charts and tables, rows of new editions, maps; a great variety of
bindings, coarse, fine, black, mottled, blue, grey, thick, thin, rough and
smooth. The bookcases were packed with books. They seemed like walls
which had encompassed life itself within their bulk. The glass of the
bookcases reflected other bookcases covered with colourless, shimmering
spots. On a round table was a huge globe encased by a brass spherical
cross formed by the equator and a meridian.
Turning to the exit, Gray saw a huge painting above the door whose
images immediately filled the rigid silence of the library. The painting was
of a clipper rising upon the crest of a tremendous wave. Foam coursed
down its side. It was depicted at the very last moment of its upward flight.
The ship was sailing straight at the viewer. The rearing bowsprit obscured
the base of the masts. The crest of the great wave, rent by the keel,
resembled the wings of a huge bird. Foam streaked off into the air. The
sails, but vaguely discernible behind the forecastle deck and above the
bowsprit, swollen by the raging force of the storm, were bearing back in
their enormity, in order to, having gained the crest, righten themselves
and then, tilting over the void, speed the vessel on towards new billows.
Low, ragged clouds swirled over the ocean. The dim light struggled vainly
against the approaching darkness of night. However, the most striking
aspect of the painting was the figure of a man standing on the forecastle
deck with his back to the viewer. It fully conveyed the situation and even
the nature of the moment. The man's pose (he had spread his legs far
apart and flung out his arms) did not actually indicate what he was doing,
but led one to assume attention strained to the extreme and directed