"Эрнест Хемингуэй. Big two-hearted river" - читать интересную книгу автора

bent double, the line tightening, coming out of water, tightening, all in a
heavy, dangerous, steady pull. Nick felt the moment when the leader would
break if the strain increased and let the line go.
The reel ratcheted into a mechanical shriek as the line went out in a
rush. Too fast. Nick could not check it, the line rushing out. the reel note
rising as the line ran out.
With the core of the reel showing, his heart feeling stopped with the
excitement, leaning back against the current that mounted icily his thighs,
Nick thumbed the reel hard with his left hand. It was awkward getting his
thumb inside the fly reel frame.
As he put on pressure the line tightened into sudden hardness and
beyond the logs a huge trout went high out of water. As he jumped. Nick
lowered the tip of the rod. But he felt, as he dropped the tip to ease the
strain, the moment when the strain was too great; the hardness too tight. Of
course, the leader had broken. There was no mistaking the feeling when all
spring left the line and it became dry and hard. Then it went slack.
His mouth dry, his heart down. Nick reeled in. He had never seen so big
a trout. There was a heaviness, a power not to be held, and then the bulk of
him, as he jumped. He looked as broad as a salmon.
Nick's hand was shaky. He reeled in slowly. The thrill had been too
much. He felt, vaguely, a little sick, as though it would be better to sit
down.
The leader had broken where the hook was tied to it. Nick took it in
his hand. He thought of the trout somewhere on the bottom, holding himself
steady over the gravel, far down below the light, under the logs, with the
hook in his jaw. Nick knew the trout's teeth would cut through the snell of
the hook. The hook would imbed itself in his jaw. He'd bet the trout was
angry. Anything that size would be angry. That was a trout. He had been
solidly hooked. Solid as a rock. He felt like a rock, too, before he started
off. By God, he was a big one. By God, he was the biggest one I ever heard
of.
Nick climbed out onto the meadow and stood, water running down his
trousers and out of his shoes, his shoes squelchy. He went over and sat on
the logs. He did not want to rush his sensations any.
He wriggled his toes in the water, in his shoes, and got out a
cigarette from his breast pocket. He lit it and tossed the match into the
fast water below the logs. A tiny trout rose at the match, as it swung
around in the fast current. Nick laughed. He would finish the cigarette.
He sat on the logs, smoking, drying in the sun, the sun warm on his
back, the river shallow ahead entering the woods, curving into the woods,
shallows, light glittering, big water-smooth rocks, cedars along the bank
and white birches, the logs warm in the sun, smooth to sit on, without bark,
gray to the touch; slowly the feeling of disappointment left him. It went
away slowly, the feeling of disappointment that came sharply after the
thrill that made his shoulders ache. It was all right now. His rod lying out
on the logs. Nick tied a new hook on the leader, pulling the gut tight until
it grimped into itself in a hard knot.
He baited up, then picked up the rod and walked to the far end of the
logs to get into the water, where it was not too deep. Under and beyond the
logs was a deep pool. Nick walked around the shallow shelf near the swamp