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

towards something on deck invisible to the viewer. The hem of his coat
was whipped back by the wind; his white pigtail and black sword were
swept straight out into the air; the richness of his dress indicated him to
be the captain; his dancing stance -- the sweep of the wave; there was no
hat; he was, apparently, completely absorbed by the dangerous moment
and was shouting--but what? Did he see a man falling overboard, was he
issuing an order to tack about or, shouting above the wind, was he calling
to the boatswain? The shadows of these thoughts, not the thoughts
themselves, took shape in Gray's heart as he gazed at the painting. He
suddenly felt that someone had approached him from the left and now
stood beside him, unknown and unseen; he had only to turn his head to
make the weird sensation disappear without a trace. Gray knew this.
However, he did not snuff out his imagination, but harkened to it. A
soundless voice shouted several curt phrases, as incomprehensible as if
spoken in Malay; there followed the crash of extended avalanches; echoes
and a grim wind filled the library. Gray heard all this within himself. He
looked around; the stillness that was instantly re-established dispelled the
ringing cobweb of his fantasy; his bond with the storm was broken.
Gray returned several times to look at the painting. It became to him
that necessary word in the conversation between the soul and life without
which it is difficult to understand one's self. The great sea was gradually
finding a place within the small boy. He became accustomed to it as he
went through the books in the library, seeking out and avidly reading
those behind whose golden door the blue glitter of the ocean could be seen.
There, sowing spray behind the stern, the ships plied on. Some lost their
sails and masts and, becoming engulfed by the waves, settled into the
deep, where in the darkness gleam the phosphorescent eyes of fishes.
Others, seized by the breakers, were battered against the reefs; the
subsiding swell shook the hull dangerously; the deserted ship with its torn
rigging was in protracted agony until a new storm shattered it to bits. Still
others took on cargo uneventfully in one port and unloaded it in another;
the crew, gathered around a tavern table, would sing the praises of a life at
sea and down their drinks lovingly. There were also pirate ships that flew
the Jolly Roger, manned by terrible, cutlass-swinging crews; there were
phantom ships radiant in a deathly glow of blue illumination; there were
naval ships with soldiers, cannons and brass bands; there were the ships
of scientific expeditions, studying volcanoes, flora and fauna; there were
ships enveloped in grim mystery and mutiny; there were ships of discovery
and ships of adventure.
In this world, most naturally, the figure of the captain towered above all
else. He was the fate, the soul and the brain of the ship. His character
determined the work and the leisure of the crew. He selected his crew
himself and it met his inclinations in many ways. He knew the habits and
family life of each man. He possessed, in the eyes of his subordinates,
magical knowledge, which enabled him to confidently plot a course from,
say, Lisbon to Shanghai across the vast expanses. He repelled a storm by
the counteraction of a system of complex efforts, squelching panic with
curt orders; he sailed and stopped where he would; he was in command of
the sailing and loading, repairs and leisure; it was difficult to imagine a
greater and more sensible authority in a vital enterprise full of constant